Points of Contact
“Hermione…” a voice called.
A heartbeat passed. Maybe two. Her ears strained; her body tensed. Was it real? That voice, could it possibly be real? The number, one thousand two hundred and sixty-two echoed in her mind. Waiting to grow. Waiting until her blood ran cold.
But her body deflated, pressing further into the cold stone ground below her. Of course, it wasn’t. It was never real.
“Hermione,” the voice called again, louder. Deeper. Urgent. But Hermione’s mind raced, collapsed, rebelled. Her body shuddered. It’d been so long since she’d heard anything other than her own breaths.
One thousand two hundred and sixty-two.
But the voice faded, and again, she was sure it was just her imagination. She was bathed in darkness, bathed in sorrow; why wouldn’t she imagine a saviour?
“Hermione?” The voice questioned, and she sobbed, it was real, reaching a hand out. Yes, she wanted to say, exclaim, yell, cry, yes, she was here, she was alive. But her voice was useless, her brain too muddled to make her lips move.
She sensed it before she felt it, a growing tension in the air around her. Her body tensed, buzzed, anticipated, and a hand rested on her shoulder. An explosion rippled through her body, her nerves reacting to a single touch, and reacting. Layers of sensations trickled from the point of contact to the tips of her fingers and toes, and Hermione gasped. Something was touching her shoulder. Someone was touching her shoulder.
She was falling, so fast, so slow, into the barest touch on her shoulder. So long.
One thousand two hundred and sixty-two. Her skin was crawling in on itself, her body throwing an upheaval, needing more contact, more touch, more everything. But her body wouldn’t move, wouldn’t allow herself to hope for more of whatever was on her shoulder.
And it wasn’t a rat, not the things they kept down in the dungeon. She knew what they felt like – she’d had years to learn. This thing was warm, and so very human, and god Hermione craved it. She craved more, so much more, of this human contact.
It had been so long.
But it withdrew.
Half mad, she tried to chase it. She got to her hands and knees and reached but crumpled to her side with a broken sob. The ground was cold and unforgivably hard beneath her, especially after a glimpse of what was out there.
She still couldn’t move, it seemed. Her leg was still broken. Or maybe wrongly healed. She couldn’t tell, but either way, it was painful. Her muscles were failing her, the lack of use finally catching up to her. She was so close to feeling something, to a possible freedom, and all she could do was cry at her failing body.
The air around her buzzed, and arms swept her up into the air, one under her knees and the other around her back. She gasped, instinctively pressing into the foreign body. It was warm, it was soft, it was real. She’d imagined this moment so many times, but all she could focus on was that her body was touching someone else’s. Touch starved was an understatement.
Tears of relief dripped down her cheeks, as her body swayed to the beat of the person’s steps. Assumedly a man. A person was touching her.
She felt so light, so dizzy, so high above the ground. If he ever let go, she would fall so very far, fall to never get up, fall into the depths of despair until the unforgiving hands of death finally swept her into his cold embrace.
“Can you see?” She startled. Voice, sound, noise. Deep, soft as silk, and worried. Careful. Emotions flooded through her, all stemming from the points of contact; the backs of her knees, behind her shoulders, the right side of her body, and her cheek as she pressed it to his chest. It was too much, too soon, but it was not enough. She needed so much more, but her mind was shattering under the weight of it.
At least more than it already was.
Her mind was in pieces. She remembered arriving to this place, four years ago, and parts of since. She did not remember how she got here, nor anything after… after… she searched for the words, an image, anything. She only came up with Manor. Further before that, she could remember faces, a school, a feeling of freedom, but it was all faded like a picture, decades untouched, yellowed and decaying.
“Can you see?” The voice repeated, more urgent, and if she could fall into anything, it would be that sound. Travelling up and down her spine, through the broken branches of her heart.
But she remembered herself, and the question, and she mutely shook her head.
Maybe it was from lack of use, or the constant darkness surrounding her, but all she could see was black fuzz. She couldn’t find it in herself to care about that, though. She’d been without it for a long time, now. All that mattered was him arms touching her and the warmth they spread and the feelings they elicited - at had been too long -
“You’re okay,” the voice murmured, and Hermione vaguely realised she was still crying.
But everything was alright. She was saved from that dreadful place, and her body was tingling, alight with joy and satisfaction. Everything was okay.
For now.
The man had been whispering nothingness into her ear, reassurances and praises, “You did so well,” and “I’ve got you now.”
He’d held her the entire time, on their way from some place to somewhere, and further carried her inside something. Time had no meaning; her body had no compass. Everything was insignificant; only the skin touching hers mattered. He’d tried to let her go, to do something or other - the lack of things she knew was both infuriating and inconsequential - but the loss of touch had sent her into pure panic. She’d reached for him, fear swallowing her whole, agony rearing its ugly head. He’d barely let go of her when she’d lost it, and he was back in seconds, rocking her and apologising, promising her not to leave her again.
He’d barely let go of her for a second, but it took forever for her to calm down.
It was recognising the feeling of rough hands and soft but warm skin, tracing of hers and sending sparks, that finally relaxed her.
Every breath, every touch, was a beautiful gift drowned in sorrow of what was lost. Sometimes, she couldn’t breathe, the weight of it was so heavy. Faded memories of what she’d lost, she remembered only vivid remnants of agony and pain. To be in such calm, such peace and quiet - not only her environment but her mind - he had her now.
He repeated again and again, he “had her now”.
And he might have her now, but for how long?
A wand was tracing over her leg. The broken leg. The leg was numb, she couldn’t feel it, but she could hear it when it clicked into place. She couldn’t feel the pain, but she could feel the relief. Fresh tears ran down her face, but she wasn’t exactly sure if they ever stopped.
She was on a bed, she assumed. It was soft, fluffy, like a cloud. A cloud. God, she hadn’t seen the sky in ages, and the fact that there was a chance she would again…
In captivity, she never let herself hope. She never let herself think about what she left behind, and maybe that’s why she couldn’t remember so much of before. If she thought of the friends she lost, the love she had, the world when it was bright and worth being in… she would’ve succumbed to her misery much sooner. And she might not have survived the destructive waves of devastation when she eventually succumbed to it.
But here, on the bed like a cloud, the sheets of silk, and the smell of freshly baked something in the air, she felt at home. She felt safe. For the first time in years, and admittedly, possibly the last.
She knew she shouldn’t feel safe – she knew she was naïve to - but she did. Some sort of Stockholm Syndrome, she was sure. The switch between abandonment, loneliness, pain, and company, care and relief had caused her brain to trust this foreign being.
But in this moment, nothing could ever be better. Every imaginary star she had wished upon had come together to give her this.
So, she allowed herself to trust. Even for a minute. Even when it inevitably broke her to realise, she probably wasn’t safe at all.
He said he had to fix her wounds before he could clean her – make sure there was nothing permanent or fatal. Permanent… there were many, but that was unsurprising. Fatal… none, but Hermione wasn’t entirely sure she was thankful. Her death might have saved her from this miserable shell she’d turned into. Memories, of her smile and her laugh and her determination… who was she, now?
As she felt the wave of his wand, again and again, she felt a crack in her heart close up.
Being tended to… being cared for… it really was a beautiful thing.
She clung to him like a bear as he filled what she assumed was a bath. She couldn’t remember when, but she had spelled herself a while back so she wouldn’t smell - something about making everyone’s lives easier in such gruelling conditions. But that didn’t mean her body wasn’t utterly disgusting, coated with dirt and blood and remnants of pain.
But it was the sound - running water. It was the feel of the curling steam. The smell of peach and something she couldn’t name, but it was heavenly. Her body was locked, as if expecting an attack, but her mind was drifting further away, into the care of senses, touch - taste - smell - sound - she couldn’t see yet. But with the rest of her preoccupied, it didn’t matter.
He moved her body gently into a bridal position, and she curled her arms around his neck almost absentmindedly. His body was natural, her home, her saviour. Her mind had already proven he could never let her go - and her body was happy with that.
He lowered her slightly into the warmest of waters and she gasped, instinctively curling up into him.
“Hermione, please,” the voice begged. “Please.” The voice was desperate - but for her. It needed her to be okay. Needed her to be alright.
She paid it no heed.
“You can’t let me go,” she said desperately. Her voice cracked, hoarse from lack of use. It was almost painful, but a dull wave of appreciation rolled through her at the fact that she needed to use it.
She didn’t know this man - or maybe she did.
“You just can’t.”
Her hands were shaking, but she pressed in closer. She needed more, more contact, more love, more body heat. He couldn’t let her go. Not now, not ever.
“But…” he hesitated. “You’ll be naked.”
The only thing that could have made Hermione pause, and it was said. The things she had been through. Her body, her mind, her soul. Would being bare affect her? Worsen her current state?
She tried to gather her thoughts, but they were so scattered and random and destroyed. But still, she tried to explain to the best of her ability.
“One thousand two hundred and sixty-two days,” she said trembling. What was the meaning? She searched her brain and grasped a hold of whatever remained.
“No contact. I need it. Clothes off, it’s okay. Used to it. But don’t let me go.”
Her body had been violated in the worst of ways. This gentle touch, this not-enough-touch… she couldn’t take it if it stopped. Her body was just a shell, a host she inhabited, so now nakedness did not bother her. Absence did.
Loneliness did.
The man hesitated, and Hermione thought she might literally die if he let her go, but he seemingly steeled himself.
She still couldn’t see - maybe she never would again - but she could feel the removal of his clothes, aside undergarments, maybe.
And then she felt hers go too.
They slipped into the water, so deliciously warm, Hermione sighed. Tears of pure, unfiltered joy and content slipped free, and she relaxed into the body behind her. She didn’t notice it tense.
Maybe she couldn’t trust him. Maybe he’d kill her. But for this moment alone, it was worth it.
She was confused, though, when she felt tears that were not her own hit her shoulder and slip down her body.
“Are… are you okay?” She dared to ask. She prayed to the God that had never helped her before, that he wouldn’t punish her for asking.
“Hermione… your body…” his voice broke. Oh. From what she remembered; her body had been destroyed - scarred so completely there was barely any soft skin. Chunks of her abdomen was missing, and the word ‘mudblood’ was permanently scarred to her forearm, stomach and hip. The only part of her untouched was her face, because they liked to beat it black and blue, not red.
She was sure some of her teeth were missing, although not rotted, seventeen-year-old Hermione did a spell way back when - maybe when she did the body odour spell. Even her tongue had scarred from being bitten through so many times from the force of blows. Her face would be clear now, but she remembered the day so clearly when her body was too destroyed to fuck, anymore.
One thousand, two hundred and eighty days ago. Eighteen days before they locked her up and forgot about her.
Whoever this was, he felt sorry for her. The old Hermione wanted to be angry, but this Hermione understood. She tried to be reassuring.
“It’s okay. Just a body. My mind…” she trailed off. But her mind wasn’t intact. Maybe, with time, it could be, but it wasn’t yet.
The unsaid words made the man’s body shake slightly, but she pressed her face against his chest, and he paused.
He was so warm and smooth and perfect, and god, she missed human contact. Even contact with harmful intent, but this - any wish upon any star couldn’t’ve resulted in anything better.
And it was because of him, so she just repeated, “It’s okay. Just a body. It’s okay.”
Moments, deep seconds, passed where Hermione found herself falling into a trance. She was floating, literally and figuratively. Through time and space, through worlds beyond, through everything she was and everything she had wanted to be. The water was warmed, and the smell wasn’t strong, not overdone, helping her readjust to smells other than metal, blood, and rat droppings.
She could feel years of grime sliding from her skin.
And then it happened. She jumped at the sound, not used to any at all, but it was a familiar one. A shower head turned on.
“Shhh, it’s okay,” the man whispered. The flow of water started gently on her right leg, tickling and spreading, to wash off all the dirt. It was slow work - years dried blood - and occasionally the man would wave his wand and to clear and warm the water.
“I could use magic,” the man whispered, as water caressed her upper right thigh, “But I think this will feel better. And I think you deserve better.”
Hermione sighed in agreement, eyes firmly shut, as what felt like a cloth dragged along the length of her leg. She shivered, and instantly, the water warmed again.
He moved on to the other leg. Every spot that was cleaned felt so utterly perfect and foreign that Hermione felt herself cry again, if she ever stopped.
He didn’t say anything. He just pulled her closer, tighter, and worked quietly.
She wanted to stay in the moment, to experience this perfectly beautiful moment, the sensations of happiness, but it was too much. She was exhausted, and she drifted, floating, and for the first time, not falling.
When she awoke, hands were brushing along her hair, slowly unknotting the tangled mess.
It took her a couple seconds to wake out of her disorientation, and to snap out of the initial fear of forgetting where she was, but she became aware. Her body was sore, but for the first time in years, in a good way. Like her muscles had been tensed, and finally relaxed, massaged.
As she realised what he was doing, she slowly shook her head. When the hands immediately withdrew, she shook her head more franticly.
They returned, and she gasped, sinking into the feeling. She could see a little more, very fuzzy and discoloured. Like someone just woke up in the middle of the night.
“Cut it off,” she rasped. During captivity, her hair had overgrown into split ends and masses of knots and disgusting clumps. Eventually, they had cut it off completely. Now, it was at her waist. This entirely new head of hair had never been brushed, washed, or seen the light of day. She wanted to throw up just thinking about that.
To his credit, the man didn’t even try to argue. A few seconds went by, and the weight on her head went down considerably. she could feel her hair just barely brushing her shoulder. And then the hands were back to de-knotting what was left, lightly pulling apart the tangled locks.
He poured in shampoo, massaging it into her scalp. Tingles ran down her spine at the sensation. It was as if four years of stress was being slowly released.
Her head was getting too hard to hold up by itself, and she leaned back against his chest. The water was still warm, but her fingers were pruny, to her delight.
It had been too long.
She knew by leaning on him, she was making his job more difficult, but she didn’t quite care. He seemingly didn’t, either.
His nails softly scraped her scalp, and she groaned. Dull sparks travelled down to the base of her spine. It was amazing. The gentleness, the care. She could die happy, and content. As long as he didn’t let her go.
She vaguely noticed that her whole body was scrubbed clean, and with further inspection - by touching - hairless.
She frowned.
She felt a presence near her ear, and she shivered with anticipation. But he didn’t touch.
“There were some unhealed wounds and skin. I had to remove the hair to treat them,” he murmured apologetically, inches away from her ear - she could feel it his breath.
She just shook her head softly. She wanted to tell him not to be sorry; that either the care she was experiencing, he could do anything he liked. But she couldn’t quite form the words, and he let her be.
When she next awoke, she could see even more. She assumed it had something to do with the potions he has given her – invigoration draught, murtlap essence, wiggenweld and wound-cleaning potions, all with the purpose to heal and rejuvenate her, for which she was gently woken and fed before sleep - and she could now see the outlines of things. With every blink, it was getting clearer, but for now, she could tell she was in a bedroom.
She was in the sheets, so beautifully warm and comfortable it was almost uncomfortable. The bed had melded to her frame, the pillow holding and cushioning her head.
It was pure bliss. Moments like these didn’t happen to Hermione anymore; she didn’t get luxuries like these. She didn’t get luxuries at all.
But something was wrong. Her skin felt like it was crawling in on itself.
She couldn’t figure it out, couldn’t gather her thoughts enough to attempt to fix it, and she started to cry.
Quickly, a door (maybe) on the other side of the room opened. She flinched, trying to back away while sobbing, but fumbled herself in the sheets.
A figure hurried into the room, settling onto the bed next to her, and reached for her.
She cried harder until his hand touched her. She hiccupped, hesitating. She knew this touch. And she knew what was wrong.
As the body settled into the bed, she quickly curled into his side. Yes, him.
“I’m sorry,” she heard him murmuring. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.”
She almost wanted to apologise herself, for being so needy, always needing physical, human contact, but she was too overwhelmed to even try.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered again, thumb brushing over her shoulder.
But she didn’t really hear, too focused on her skin pressing against him, the stutter of her heartbeat, the air she could now breathe. She had to get closer, more contact, more pressure, but there was nothing she could do.
But he knew. He pulled her in top of him, legs resting either side of his torso, head buried in the crook of his neck. His arms wrapped around her as hers settled against his chest.
It wasn’t enough. Maybe it would never be enough. But it was good, and it would do, for now.
She fell wistfully into sleep, again.
This time, when she woke up, he was still there. And this time, she could see. She blinked, adjusting to the lights. It was a lot to take in - the blinding whiteness of the walls, the darkness of the bed sheets, the expanse of the room.
But then she saw the man still below her, and with wobbly arms, she pushed herself into a seated position.
He was already looking at her.
And it was almost too much.
His eyes were silvery grey, intense, striking, and more than clearly worried. His hair was platinum blond, messy from the pillow. His cheekbones were sharp, his jawline sharper, and his skin was pale, so pale, like it hadn’t seen the sun in a very long time.
She didn’t want to see what her skin looked like.
But as she took him in, a nagging suspicion rested in her mind. She couldn’t quite pinpoint it, but she had a feeling she knew this man.
A lot older, a lot more grown since she’d last seen him. But she knew him.
She squinted, and his expression turned to light dread. “I… I know you, don’t I?” She asked, fumbling with the sheets next to her legs.
He nodded once. Slowly. Barely at all.
“I know you,” she repeated. Not angrily, not an accusation, but an acknowledgment.
She examined him more closely, but he stayed strong, stoic, under her investigation.
But it was the platinum hair that jogged her memory. And a more recent one at that. Something clicked.
“Malfoy?” She asked, in a small voice.
The man - Draco - nodded, swallowing hard. His thumbs made circling motions on her hips, but. For the first time since she’d been rescued, she didn’t focus on his touch. She focused on the memory; the memory so clear in the fore front of her mind. Just under four years ago, when her body was being mutilated. She remembered the cruciatus curse so vividly - they had been experimenting ways to make it stronger. Deadlier. But she remembered this face - his face, in the corner of the room. The same stoic, expressionless face.
And Hermione wrenched herself off him.
His eyes widened on panic as she collapsed off the bed, reaching for her, but she backed away. She pressed into the corner of the room, frantically eyeing the exits - the window, the door, the bathroom - and his wand that sat on the bedside table she hadn’t seen before now.
A wand. she hadn’t touched one of those in years. The magical build-up…
Hermione’s entire body twitched with the anticipation, the desperation, the need. But by some miracle, she held herself still as Draco approached as he would a cornered animal. She supposed that she was.
“Hermione,” he said cautiously, hands held out in front of him, bent knees.
She wanted to say, ‘No longer mudblood?’ or ‘Don’t say my name.’ or even ‘Leave me alone!’ but it was ingrained deep within her to never speak back to her captor. It never ended well.
Hermione’s body shook. Her heart raced. Her eyes welled. Not only was she a captive of Draco Malfoy’s, her childhood bully, but her skin felt like it was on fire.
No touch, no touch, no touch, her body yelled at her, onethousandtwohundredandsixtytwoonethousandtwohundredandsixtytwo- but it was Draco Malfoy she couldn’t touch him-
Many moons ago, she had read about this. Someone so touch starved could have a mental break if it was suddenly retracted, but that wasn’t Hermione. Oh, no. not her. She doesn’t break, not for touch, nope.
“I understand your fear, I do, but I’m not going to hurt you,” he said, voice low as he came closer. She could almost feel him, but she couldn’t, and that was the problem. She almost scoffed at his words. She’d heard them so many times, over and over, and after, she wasn’t just hurt, she was destroyed. The fact she had trusted him at all…
She knew exactly why she had trusted him. But she didn’t want to acknowledge that it was a stupid ploy - the gentle caresses, the loving care, all fake in order for her to let her guard down.
“You’re missing time, aren’t you?” Hermione flinched at his voice. “You remember up to the manor, and nothing until four years ago, correct?”
He was correct. She remembered screaming, a searing sensation in her arm, and then she remembered nothing until she was captured again. Again?
“I can explain everything,” Draco said, getting a hair-width closer. “You just need to take a deep breath…”
She had heard enough.
She launched herself across the room, Malfoy stumbling back in surprise, and grasped his wand.
She hadn’t expected the pain, though.
So many years without a proper release of magic came down to this single moment. Her hand wrapped around the wand, and a wall, a dam that was unknowingly inside her, broke.
She screamed.
Pain flooded her, searing across her chest and down her wand arm. The room exploded, sparks flying and walls burning, tearing it down to its very roots. Her skin that had been pale and wrinkled grew healthy and smooth again, although the scars remained, just faded. It was pure energy, wrenched from within her, killing her and healing her at the same time.
She fell to her knees, but she couldn’t get rid of the wand. It kept taking everything from her, her essence, her soul, things she didn’t know how to give, things she never wanted to give. It was dragged from a place that hadn’t seen the light in years, and it was thirsty.
And it was killing her.
She screamed again as heat and white light clouded her vision, the sound hoarse and broken, a half sob. But then hands - hands - wrapped around her own, and the power dispensed.
It was still leaving her body, leaving her behind, but it was like the hands around her own were guiding it. Setting it free, but not letting it take Hermione with it.
Minutes went by, agonisingly slow, as she heaved air into her lungs. It burned, and she cried. She couldn’t remember why she was in such pain, but she regretted it. She just wanted it to stop.
And finally, it did. The final build-up of magic ebbed out of her, flowing from her body to the wand into the world.
And Hermione collapsed into strong, awaiting arms.
She wanted to say something - not thank you, never thank you, but something. She slurred out something intelligible, but he never responded.
Fatigue did instead and swept her away.
Draco sighed heavily. “I was a child. We all were. But when I saw you and Aunt Bella…” he trailed off when Hermione flinched. “I had known for a while that we weren’t right, or the ‘good’ side, but I was stuck. Seeing that, made me realise I’d rather die than be a part of it. I was a natural Occlumens, but with training, Voldemort couldn’t pick up on my change of loyalties.” He met her eyes. “It made me the perfect double agent.”
Hermione hugged her knees tighter. “How?” Was all she managed, but he understood.
He leaned back against the headboard and sighed, the internal conflict and bad memories making this hard to say for him. Hermione didn’t care. She wanted the truth.
“You,” he admitted after a few seconds. At her raised eyebrow, he explained, shifting uncomfortably. “You never escaped Malfoy Manor… I’m assuming that’s where your memory fades?” He questioned. She nodded quickly. He cleared his throat. “You never escaped Malfoy Manor. Harry and Ron-” she burrowed away the shock at the use of their names -“escaped the from the cellar, even got a hold of my wand,” he let out a light chuckle at the thought. It wouldn’t be possible now, with his power. She knew all this but let him continue. “Dobby cut the chandelier, and Bellatrix - who was holding you - was supposed to let you go.” He turned away from her, ever so slightly. “She didn’t.”
Hermione zeroed in at the minimal contact between her foot and his calf, because she knew the next part was what she didn’t know. From where she ended up, she assumed it wouldn’t be good.
“Everyone got out, except you,” Hermione closed her eyes, an unexpected tear slipping down her cheek. Grief welled up within her, suddenly glad she couldn’t remember. the despair of being left behind; the relief that the others escaped. She knew herself well enough, and she knew what they would have had to done to destroy her mind so utterly.
“Greyback wanted to kill you, but I - I said they’d come back for you.” Shocked laced her body, but she kept her eyes levelled with where they touched. She wouldn’t meet his eyes. “They put you in a cell, settled on him… clawing you… and Bella…” he swallowed. “Torturing you. I was there.” She couldn’t meet his eyes. “I was there, the whole time.”
Her hands clenched and relaxed, and involuntary action. Maybe even a trauma response.
“But you didn’t break,” he went on. “Anyone else would’ve - everyone else did, but not you. I was - I was in charge of keeping you alive. And you talked to me, to maintain your sanity, I think.”
She finally looked at him, but his own eyes were closed, as if lost in the memory. “I remember some of the things you told me, so clearly. Some days it was just, ‘lovely day, isn’t it?’ with a smile. Others it was ‘werewolves and rights; thoughts?’. At the start I wouldn’t reply, and you would talk regardless. But one day, cleaning a wound, I couldn’t catch myself. You were recounting a story about you and Harry’s adventures, and I accidentally said something like, ’that idiot’. And you snapped. You, and your broken bones, latched at me and tried to tear my face off. I managed to get out, because… well, the state you were in. I looked at my bleeding scratches, just outside your cell, and you said - I remember it so clearly. You said, ‘At least he’s not a coward.’ And you looked so hateful, so angry, that I fled. I didn’t come back for days.” He shifted again. “But when I did, you smiled at me like nothing was wrong, and said, ’Triwizard Tournament. Thoughts?’. This time, I answered.”
Hermione was lost between wanting to remember, and never wanting to remember. These conversations, what she’d been through, felt both like a separate entity and a part of her. It had shaped her, but she couldn’t pinpoint how.
“We talked about everything,” he said, still not meeting her eyes. “For months, we talked about everything. And it eventually divulged to the war. And for some reason, I told you my side. I admitted everything - my wants, my fears, my regrets. And you didn’t judge me. Millions of thoughts were behind your eyes, but you only said, ‘we all do things we aren’t proud of. It’s about who we become that matters, not who we were.’ as if it were that simple,” he scoffed, but smiled slightly. “But you were right. And I remember that night, cursing Potter for not getting you out, because all I could hear were your screams, echoing in my head. He had been trying, of course, but without your brains, they weren’t getting in.”
Grey eyes met brown, and Hermione held her breath.
“So, I let them in.” Hermione reached for his hands, and though he’d never admit it, he gratefully took it. “It was framed so it looked like Greyback’s fault. I got away with it, Greyback nearly destroyed with Voldemort’s wrath. But I saw you, as you escaped. You looked right at me. I don’t know how, but you knew. You knew it was me.”
He released a shaky breath. “We can… we can stop if you need…” Hermione said weakly, but Draco shook his head, hair falling into his eyes.
“No. You deserve to know.” But he still paused for a second to gather himself. “The weeks after that, I felt lost. I actually missed talking to you, I missed our strange friendship, but I was glad you were out. I also felt guilty, and fear, and every emotion I could name. But I was on patrol in the woods, one night, and I saw you. I thought you weren’t real at first, of course, and I froze. Thought you were a ghost. But you approached me. And you smiled, so very faintly, and said, ‘I knew you wouldn’t rat me out.’. I hadn’t even realised it, but I could’ve sent word that you were there. But I didn’t. Instead, we talked. And you offered me a job - said that you had vouched on my behalf. That I could be a double agent, but only if I wanted to be better, to become someone I could be proud of. But you also said you understood if I didn’t do it, and that, ‘for my kindness’,” he laughed, bitterly. “What kindness? Cleaning your wounds while you were slowly being killed in my house?” He met her eyes again, holding them with an intensity that shook her to the core. “You always were too good for this world.”
Hermione shifted, unfolding herself until she sat pressed up against him. More points of contact, more relief, and no more eye contact. She settled into his body, and he cleared his throat again.
“You said that, for my kindness, you’d let me go this once if I decided against it. I stared at you for a while, and you looked sad. As if you knew I’d say no. you told me to go, run while I still could, but I grabbed your hand. I said I’d do it. From there on out, it was pretty simple. I fed the Order information through you, and we… never mind.” She stared at him, nudging him slightly, but he shook his head.
“Later… you were at the manor for around seven months, just over a month were we went no contact, and two years before you were taken again, for four years. You’ll be twenty-six in just under a month.” Hermione flinched. She was missing over two and a half years of time. She was missing years of her life. But she didn’t say anything. She just waited.
Draco took a deep breath and continued. “There was a mission you insisted you went on - something to do with Australia and muggles-” Hermione jolted in recognition.
“My parents,” she breathed.
Draco regarded her, conflicted. “We figured it out too late. It was bait, a threat, and you didn’t tell us. By the time we made it there, you were gone. And you were gone for years.”
Unexpectedly, Draco’s face was clouded with emotion, so much so that he moved to sit on the edge of the bed, facing away from her. “You were gone for years,” he repeated, voice breaking.
She quickly moved towards him. “And Harry? Ron? Neville - Ginny - Luna? Are they all-”?
“The war got worse. And with you gone, one of our best, we struggled.” Hermione was open-mouthed, horrified, as she tried to prepare herself for the losses. She touched trembling fingers to her lips.
“Harry’s alive, but he lost hope. I saw a bit of it come back when I said you were alive,” he noted, “But it’s dwindling. Ron’s missing his left arm - a vicious attack two years ago. Ginny’s alive, but she’s pregnant. We have no safe houses left. Neville is one of the reasons we’re getting stronger, again. His knowledge of plants, and my brewing skills - he’s created some of the most powerful potions in the world - arguably dark magic. But we quickly realised that maybe there are no good people. Maybe there couldn’t be in order to survive. Luna’s brilliant - a collector, scavenger. She’s our recourses, bringing in more fighters and food. And she’d stayed as she is. she never lost hope. And she never thought you were dead. She truly is the light in the dark. We gained a lot of younger Slytherin’s over the past few years - Pansy, Blaise, Theo, Gemma - but you wouldn’t know them. All of us have scars- “
“And the dead?”
“And the dead are buried. Either what was left of them or their belongings, if nothing was.”
“The dead?”
“The dead…” his voice caught. “Are many.”
“Tell me! Please,” she begged. “I know this is hard, but I can’t - it’s too - I need - I-” she pressed her hands to her skull, shuddering as she tried to control her emotions, her surging memories, her pain.
Warm arms encased her, pulling her into Draco’s chest as she silently cried.
“Fred. Lupin. Tonks and her kid are alive. Parvati. Padma’s our main healer. Lavender, Astoria, and Dean. It was he and Seamus’ wedding day,” he said quietly. “Susan Bones is still kicking, and loudly, Kingsley got his tongue cut out, but he’s still fighting. We’ve lost many. Hagrid and McGonagall are alive, but Flitwick and Sprout… my dad, last year. Bill was obliviated, but we got his memories back. Charlie brought in fighter dragons - and they made a difference. Only lost one, and Charlie felt so guilty he didn’t talk for weeks. Oliver led a sky team, but he was knocked off his broom. I caught him… but he jumped on a Death Eater, sacrificing himself so we could get away.” He sounded far away, as he told Hermione, “His death was so brutal… I couldn’t look away. Your screams used to haunt me… now his do.”
Instinctively, his grip on Hermione tightened. She was crying, quietly, heavily, but she also felt numb. So many names…
“These aren’t counting the ones you don’t know, and the ones missing or presumed. These are only the certainties. Hannah Abbott, Arthur Weasley, Katie Bell, Reginald Cattermole… all missing. Dennis Creevey, Gabrielle Delacour, Marietta Edgecombe, Mundungus Fletcher, Lee Jordan, McLaggen, presumed dead. You were too,” he added after a moment.
Hermione’s hands scrabbled for some purchase.
“Tell me,” she wheezed out. “More that are alive.”
Draco released a heavy sigh. “There’s a long list that are alive, that you know. Cho Chang, Penelope Clearwater, Fleur, Justin Finch-Fletchley, Anthony Goldstein, Professor Hooch, Angelina, Krum, Ollivander, Pince, Poppy, Demelza, Shunpike, Sinistra, Slughorn, Zacharias Smith… Alicia Spinnet… Romilda Vane… more, that you don’t know.”
Hermione’s chest hurt. Everything ached and pounded, and she sobbed.
This war had taken and taken, as wars do, but it was so much more real. He held her as she cried, she held him as he cried too.
And after many minutes, when emotions were high, but tears were low, she asked. “When can I see them?”
“Soon,” he said immediately, voice low. “They’re going to ask you to fight again, even though… Harry and I…” he stopped. “Just, prepare yourself.”
She didn’t know how, and so she buried her face into his chest, as the fractured fragments of her mind slowly started to heal. She didn’t know it yet, but even though her mind would, she never would. And so, she wept.
It was the moments between heartbeats that felt the longest. The moments she wasn’t sure it would beat again. The moments she wasn’t sure she wanted it to. But she’d take a breath, and it would beat again, and reality was thrust upon her.
She was going to see her friends again.
And maybe, more dauntingly, they were going to see her again.
Her hands were shaking, her legs were quaking, and cold sweat dripped down her back. But there was a hand on hers keeping her mostly grounded. There was a hand that held hers tightly, but not too tight that she couldn’t pull away. There was a thumb, the bushed over the back of her hand in circles, reassuring her. There was a squeeze, of ‘everything will be alright’. And there was a warmth, that Hermione could bask in for years, until her final days – until the moments between heartbeats ended.
They were in a small room; bland, white walls, but with two large brown couches facing each other, sitting very close to each other, just enough room for a small glass coffee table. There were two doors, one Hermione and Draco stood in front of, behind a couch, and the other opposite them.
Draco squeezed her hand again. “Ready?” he murmured in her ear.
She closed her eyes, focussing entirely on his presence – his body heat encasing her, his brushing thumb, his lips near her ear. She focussed on the fact that she was safe, she wasn’t in pain, and they were going to be happy to see her again.
She hoped.
Squeezing her eyes shut and his hand, she nodded quickly. Maybe fearfully. He squeezed back, and she opened her eyes just as the door did.
Her breath caught.
First through the door was Harry, with his familiar green eyes and hesitant smile and messy black hair of God it was Harry.
A sob broke through her lips as he rushed to her, and she fell into his arms.
“I missed you,” she said brokenly, his warmth, his smell, invading her senses. She wanted to say so much, to learn where he had been, what he had done, but all she could do was hold him, love him with her silence.
And he was crying too, quietly. He squeezed her tight, but also gently, as if he was afraid she’d vanish before his eyes but didn’t want to break her.
“I love you so much-”
They pulled away, just to stare at each other. His scar had somehow spread – looking more like a lightning scar then a kid drawing of one. It spread from the initial point in jagged lines, faint purples and whites, down the right side of his face. He looked older, stubble lining his chin, and deep bags under his eyes. He’d grown some muscles, looked lean rather than scrawny, and he’d finally put on all the weight the Dursley’s deprived him of.
She could only imagine what he saw of her.
And then Ron came charging into the room, in a very Ron like manner. His eyes desperately scanned the room, landing on her, and he was suddenly by her side. He grasped her hands in hers – she gasped at the cold metal feel from his left arm – and held her eyes.
“You’re – you’re really alive?” he asked, his voice breaking. His hands kept squeezing, eyes kept scanning, disbelief and pain dancing across his features.
She nodded, a watery smile pulling down out her lips as she tried not to cry. He looked the same as she remembered, almost eight years ago, but he – like Harry – had grown into his body. He was tall, muscular, hair falling longer than she remembered. His face was relatively untouched, aside a long scar spreading from the left side of his bottom lift to just under his chin. And then of course, there was the matter of the metal arm.
He noticed her looking and turned it over in her hand. She traced the rune engravings and lines.
“I can feel with it,” he told her, staring down at her finger that traced it. “Differently, of course. Hard to explain. Sort of like touching things through plastic.” He noticed the tears lining her eyes and quickly went on. “But it’s mighty strong. You should see the things I can do with this thing.” He tried for a smile, but it faded with emotion.
“God, Hermione,” was all he managed to say before he was crying into her shoulder, pulling her into a hug.
From no touch to so much of it in a few days was almost overwhelming, but she welcomed it. She welcomed it with a smile she never thought she’d wear again.
He pulled away, holding her shoulders, wiping his eyes.
He addressed Draco. “Does she know everything?” Ron asked, eyes still looking over her body. While better, because of the magic release, bones still jutted out from beneath her skin where she lost significant weight and was ghastly pale and blue because of that. Her scars, while covered in them, not all were new to him. His body was littered in them, too, so she wasn’t entirely conscious of it.
“Not yet,” Draco’s voice came from behind her. She turned to him, questioning. Not everything? “Soon,” was all he said.
A distrustful, nauseous feeling rose within her, but she ignored it. She was with her friends and damn her if she would ignore it.
The door opened again, and Hermione jumped. A figure hesitantly stepped through, and it took Hermione a moment to recognise her. It was the red hair that did it.
“Ginny?” Hermione gasped, hands coming up to cover her mouth.
Ginny, still in the doorway, nodded, tears brimming on her eyes.
Harry stepped over, wrapping an arm around her to help her walk over, because not only was Ginny heavily pregnant, which she somewhat remembered Draco telling her, but the majority of her right thigh was missing, and her right eye was cloudy white.
Despite that, she looked healthy. Her skin was glowing, her red hair still long and luscious and her freckled still many.
“What happened to you?” Hermione blurted as she hobbled over.
Ginny gave her the stink eye. “What happened to you?”
They stared at each other before they both laughed, and Hermione stepped forward to meet her.
She felt the cold feeling of absence as Ron’s hands left her, but she was quickly warms up by Ginny’s.
“Shall we sit?” Harry asked, hovering. The girls both laughed. Something about seeing Harry as a dad, a husband, made Hermione’s eyes water again, with happiness and despair of what she’d missed. They headed to the couches, where they sat across from each other, staring. Taking in.
Ginny crossed her arms above her belly. “I’ll go first, if you like?” she questioned, to which Hermione nodded.
“Well,” she sighed, leaning into Harry on her right. Draco was perched on top of Hermione couch, legs dangling in front, a hand resting comfortably on her shoulder. Ron was standing behind Ginny, arms crossed. “I’m sure you can guess how this happened,” she gestured to her stomach. She shared a look with Harry. “We thought…” she hesitated. “We thought I couldn’t get pregnant. A few years ago, not long after you… I was in a raid,” she explained. “It was all quiet, as if no one was there. We scanned the whole area, but nothing. But I just had a… gut feeling. The others turned to leave, practically dragging me with them, but I looked back. And saw them. It was an ambush. I jumped in front of Gabrielle-” Ginny looked down.
“Missing,” Draco said. “Presumed…”
“Dead,” Ginny continued, clearing her throat. “I should have used my wand, bloody idiot-”
“But you had to be a Gryffindor.” Hermione watched in shock as Draco and Ginny exchanged a smile. She couldn’t remember a time when their interactions weren’t hostile.
“That I did. Anyway, the curse they sent – I don’t know what it was – tore up the entire right side of my body. I’m happy to be alive right now, let alone pregnant. The curse hit my thigh, severing off the rest of my leg. They managed to reattach it with the metal part. They healed most of it, saved by arm, but I have some nasty scars,” she rolled up her sleeve, presenting to Hermione some deep and angry scars, stretching along the length of her arm. She angled her head, showing some more scars along the length of my neck.
“But the curse didn’t tear up my face. It was like the rest of was concentrated to my eye… it turned cloudy white, and I haven’t been able to see out of it since.”
Hermione looked on, desperately trying not to pity her. But it was so devastating. She pitied all of them – everyone lost to the war – everyone affected by the war.
“It’s not all bad, though,” Ginny said, shifting. “I can actually see dark magic with this eye. I can’t explain it at all, but it helped us avoid traps and curses and so much. Actually, kind of lucky to be hit with this curse.”
Hermione couldn’t think of anything worse than victims thinking they were lucky. She knew it was coping – the whole ‘it could’ve been worse’ but they never should have even been in this goddamn situation. But they were. And maybe they were lucky.
“But my stomach got hit,” Ginny said, linking hands with Harry. “A lot of stuff was barely saved, and Padma told me I probably wouldn’t have children.” She glanced down at her belly, glowing with happiness. “But then this miracle came along. Horrible timing, of course, but I think… if this is my only chance, we’re keeping it. Raise a baby in war… but not raise a baby at all. We talked a lot, cried a lot, still fear a lot. But in the end, we want this baby.”
Hermione felt a little numb, but also, strangely, she understood. If she found love during these times, she wouldn’t actively try to get pregnant, but in Gin’s situation… she’d do the same thing.
“Congratulations,” she said softly, reaching out to touch Ginny’s knee. Ginny smiled at her, and so many unsaid words were passed through – maybe never to be said out loud. But it was understood. And it was love.
Hermione prepared herself to explain what she could, but then Neville burst in.
His eyes found Hermione, and the rest was history.
Hermione was overflowing with joy. The amount of people in the room, crying, smiling, so happy to see her. She didn’t even remember having so many friends. Some people – like Padma, Demelza and Alicia, she only became proper friends with after her first escape from the Manor, and didn’t remember them at all – aside from little flashes when she first saw them
They were devastated, but Padma just smiled, and linked arms with her. “It was time to make new memories, anyway.”
And Hermione nearly bawled.
Wherever she was, as more and more people came through, Draco was somewhere near her. She found herself searching helplessly for him, sometimes, but he was never far. Sometimes, people would ask, “So, how’d you take it?”. She’d question what ‘it’ was, their gaze would find Draco’s, and they’d change the subject.
But now, she was sitting on the couch, Ginny across from her, Draco to her right, Padma to her left, Harry next to Ginny and Luna on her other side. Everyone else was crowding other parts of the room. Waiting.
Hermione took a deep breath. “Most of you know my story better than I do – know me better than I do, at the moment. So, I’m just going to fill you in on what I remember.”
Her hand found Draco’s, and she was very aware of all the amused glances that got. “I don’t really remember getting there – there, from what I was told, was the Lestrange Manor. I just was. I remember a lot of pain… uh, abuse. I remember being hopeless, and missing people, and crying. I don’t want to go too much into it, but, uh… at one point, my body was too… destroyed, I guess, to… use anymore.”
She couldn’t meet anyone’s eyes. But she could hear and feel their horror, their gasps, their pity.
“They left me in the cellar. In total darkness and silence. Meals showed up anywhere between twice a day, and once every three. I kept waiting for them to come back, but they never did.”
“How long?” a strangled voice she recognised as Molly’s sounded out from somewhere across the room.
“Until Draco found me.” She ignored the gasps and stared hard at the coffee table. Stared so hard she thought it might break. “One thousand, two hundred and sixty-two.”
“Days?” someone – Alicia, maybe – asked so quietly it was barely heard.
“One thousand, two hundred and sixty-two,” Hermione repeated quietly, confirming.
And the room collapsed into silence.
After a long, heavy minute, with lots of silent tears, Hermione felt the need to add something.
“It’s why I lost my sight, and my memory. It’s why I need to – uh – hold onto something,” she said, lifting Draco’s hand with her own.
“We understand,” Luna said, reaching a hesitant hand forward. Hermione let go of Draco’s to hold it.
“I just… I know a lot of you gave up on finding me. I gave up on me being found.” A lot of eyes turned away. “I just want you to know, that I don’t blame you. I’m glad you did. Because if I had been dead, you never would’ve rested. You never could have found peace. Please, forgive yourselves. Because I hold nothing against you.”
Eventually, everyone left. With lingering glances and crushing hugs, they finally left. Hermione was lost between loneliness and relief. Too much, too soon, gone as quickly as they came.
Her gaze strayed to her right, where Draco still sat.
Not completely alone.
He cleared his throat. “Right,” he said, getting to his feet. Hermione instinctively reached for his hand; he absentmindedly took it. “Ready to head home?”
Home, she realised, was his. Her home was now his. Where was her real home? But that was a matter for another time.
“Draco,” she said, trying to get him to meet her eyes as he pulled her up to her feet. He didn’t. “Draco,” she repeated more forcefully. They stopped. He looked. “You have something to tell me.” she told him.
“Hermione,” he pleaded with her weakly. “I don’t know if you’re ready.”
“I’m ready,” she insisted, knowing she probably wasn’t.
He regarded her. “I don’t know if I’m ready,” he said softly.
Hermione hesitated there. He had taken care of her so well, for about a week. She’d put so much on him, so much of his trust, and he lived up to it.
Maybe she was too selfish, too demanding. So, she waited. She wasn’t going to beg for this one, force this truth. Let it be his choice, no matter how much she wanted to know.
“I fell in love with you,” he said, after a long silence. “Deeply, unconditionally.”
Hermione was sure her heart stopped.
“And for some reason, you fell in love with me too.”
Certain. Absolutely certain.
“We’re…” he swallowed, uncomfortable. She now understood why he took her here - so she couldn’t run. “We’re… married,” he said, forcing the words out. He was prepared, for her to run, scream, cry, deny.
But she froze.
“I understand that that’s not how it is in your mind,” he rushed out, “And I get that. It’s fine. I understand. You have no obligation to uphold a decision you do not remember making-”
“It’s okay,” she said, and he stopped. Stared at her. Scoffed, and shook his head, eyes to the sky.
“I want to kiss you so…” but Hermione didn’t hear, too focussed on her own thoughts.
“It is okay,” she insisted. “I think I understand why I loved you. I - I still do, I think, I can feel it. I don’t quite understand it, ignoring it, almost,” she admitted. “But the missing part of me loves you. We can stay… married, but I’d like to re-get to know you. Do the… dating bit, as normal as possible. But also, after I heal.” Her eyebrows furrowed. “But… I also want you there as I heal. I don’t know. I’m so confused-”
He swept her into his arms, cutting off her surprised laugh with a kiss. it was short, he pulled away quickly.
“I’m sorry,” he said, breathing hard, still holding her to his chest. “I just… it’s been so long and…”
“It’s okay,” she said softly. “If I had my memories, I’m sure I’d feel the same.” She didn’t mention how right it felt; how her lips still tingled, and her body thrummed. Not yet anyway.
“I don’t want you to fight,” he said, face openly vulnerable. “But I will.”
“I know.”
They were quiet.
“I’ll let myself heal,” she compromised, with him, but more herself. “Try to regain some memories. Jumping right back him would be dangerous for me, and everyone else. I think…”
He kissed her again, and Hermione sighed into it.
“I’m sorry,” he said, again.
“No, you’re not,” she smiled, but neither was she.
Draco grinned at her.
The war would end eventually, but until then, all Hermione could focus on was him, the words they spoke, and their points of contact.
All she could feel was safe.