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Every bone in his body seemed to mock his inaction. Shivering and shaking; as if taunting his cowardice.
Draco stood in the ballroom of his manor, a place that had always given him a sense of belonging. Possession. Pride. But, not now. Not after the walls had been painted crimson and the shrieks of the captives had been embedded in the foundation of the building. Never again, not after his beloved, his very reason for living this war further, was trembling on the ground in front of him. Her whole body being nothing but a medium for the tremors and twitches to pass through.
His bitch of an aunt was carving her forearm with an obsidian-hilted dagger, writing that word , etching it on her flesh for eternity. Making him grind his teeth and lock his jaw, but stand like a fucking puppet because that’s what he was. A mockery of a wizard. Just existing to fulfil expectations and obey commands and consider his fiancée some kind of magic-robber and hate her and kill-
And he had never known hate the way he hated himself then.
Hermione had never known how stupid frustration could make someone. Not until she had grown angry at Ron for leaving them and gotten angry at Harry for raving about it for hours. Done with their issues, she had taken her wand out of her beaded bag and marched out of their tent in a huff; desperate for some fresh air. Perhaps that is what the Hat had seen in her when it placed her in Gryffindor. Bravery and righteousness, yes, but she had known she was impulsive since the day she had put Professor Snape on fire. Snape. The traitor that killed Professor Dumbledore in cold blood didn’t deserve any honour. When did everything get so complicated?
She should have known her anger and frustration would explode into something fiery at some point. Apparently, the victim was a poor boulder that stubbed her toe. She brandished her wand, eyes flashing, in a blink and fired in quick succession.
“ Confringo! ”
“ Bombarda! ”
“ Bombarda maxima! ”
Panting at her own speed, she let her wand arm fall, wiping a single tear that escaped her eye. All the risk to their lives and sanity, everything that went wrong, all the deaths and destruction, everything came back to the heartless megalomaniac, hellbent in victory over the Wizarding world. Kicking the ashes in a fit, she screamed, “SCREW YOU VOLDEMORT!”
Before the last syllable escaped her mouth, she knew what a grave mistake she had made. They would be coming. In plural. And calling for Harry would only get him captured along with her. Harry was Undesirable No. 1 and the final key to end this war for good. The only one she would ever put her hopes upon. So the only option she had was to run. Opposite to the tent.
Deciding her options within five heartbeats, she ran. The grass clinged to her shoes and the lower branches scratched her arms. She could hear the pops of apparition behind her and there were a minimum of five snatchers. She looked over her shoulder and shit! It wasn’t just a rag-tag group of commoners looking for fame either. She could see two masks in the groups. Two Death Eaters. So with everything in her, with all the determination she had, she turned and apparated.
Draco had almost broken his mask and ran to her the minute he saw her being dragged in by Dolohov and his cohorts. It was agonising beyond comprehension to stand there and witness the people he had looked upto at one point, cruciating her, asking information about Potter, punishing her for daring to have muggle parents. He had moved barely a step towards her, but she had sensed the movement and with as much subtlety a tortured prisoner can retain, she had glared at him and shaken her head once. As his aunt went to get her knives from their anti-summoning chests and his father moved away a few steps to call the Dark Lord, he took his chance and moved ahead a couple of paces, letting the worry show in his eyes. Her face, obscured with her golden-brown mane turned a fraction towards him and he stopped.
Her mouth was barely visible among her matted, thick hair and the blood from the gash on her cheek. But he could still make out the words on the lips that covered his, in deserted corridors in school; moments that appeared to be a lifetime ago. Only two words.
‘You Promised’.
He was sitting with her on the Astronomy Tower on the last day of their Fourth year. The Dark Lord was back. The Minister won’t admit it, but Draco knew. He knew it from the carefully written letter his mother had sent two days before. Even before that, he had gotten his confirmation when he had seen Hermione sitting alone by the lake; dried tear tracks and burning eyes and wild hair and determination. And everything that had always made him move towards her like a moth to the flame. He hadn’t said anything but pulled her into his arms. What could he say? That his father was a sadist and brown-noser who had witnessed her best friend getting tortured and nearly killed him the other day?
He looked at her. The Astronomy Tower was peaceful and silent. She looked serene. Yet he couldn’t stop wondering if he was on the precipice of something.
“Promise me, Draco.” He looked at her. “Promise me that you will do what’s right. I can’t stop your father from pressuring you into joining Him. I can’t ask you to abandon your family, no matter how vile. But I could ask for your word that you would do your best to protect those discreetly, whom you could. That you would heal and protect and help escape anyone you could, that is-” She looked him in the eye, “-without endangering your life unnecessarily. Do what you can, while keeping your cover. Just like in school.” She looked down at their jointed hands.
“And if it ever comes down to the two of us, leave me.” He snapped back. Before he could protest, she continued, “I want you to remember me and learn to be brave. Leave me if it comes to that, for my death makes me a martyr and a point to rally upon. But yours, that would kill me.”
“And it won’t kill me if you die? Why are we talking about death Mia? Things aren’t so drastic yet and se-”
“Cedric died.” He shut his mouth with a snap and looked away. “This is the only thing I have asked of you and I don’t want us to fight Draco. Not on this. Please.”
Bile rose in his throat even as he said those two words, but if she ever asked for something, he would give her. That is what he had promised himself. So he whispered, “I promise.”
Even with Voldemort on the way and his Death Eaters surrounding her broken body, with the littlest Black sister carving out the words that had determined her destiny the day she had arrived in the Wizarding world, she felt at peace. She won’t betray any of their secrets or let Voldemort have any clue what Harry was doing. She had learned enough Occulumency to withhold a basic attack and if He tried using force, she would self district her own mind. Her memories, her emotions, her identity, everything. She was going to die anyway. A vegetable mind would only make it painless. And Draco, thanks to her promise, would stay put and continue living and maybe even see the end of the war. Her arm hurt like ten crucios were focused on her hand, and she was bellowing in agony, but she felt at peace.
She did so until she felt the wards around her practically quiver in excitement. Voldemort, it appeared, was here.
He watched Bellatrix and Lucius walk briskly towards the entrance to receive their Lord. Well, Lucius walked. Bellatrix was almost skipping ahead in glee. Draco could stand still and let that promise wash over him. Drowning him in his own guilt. He would have, had he not been a Slytherin. So he had spent the past few minutes, waiting for the right moment to move and the perfect loophole in his promise that won’t get his magic to act up against them both. And, now he would get her the fuck out of this hellhole he once called home.
He walked to her as fast and as silently as he could, and kneeled down beside her. She was giving him the best glare of her life and pushing him away from her. He bent down amidst their tangled limbs and kissed her temple with the lightest of touches. Her eyes flashed to his and she stilled.
The Obsidian Athame was one of the most coveted Black heirlooms. One that was wielded by generations of blood thirsty Blacks. It was a well known fact that only a Black blooded wixen with a cruel streak a mile wide could use the cursed daggers and only a Black blooded wixen with the utter desire to heal could remove the traces of the blood curse that prevented the blood flow from clotting. His mother had often told him the story, hoping he would turn out to be the latter. And right then, he would have died to save her. And as his mother had always said-
Shit.
His mother.
He looked over his shoulder and there she stood. Icy face, regal clothes, expensive jewels and yet, a frail, worried body. A wraith of what she used to be before his father had allowed the madman into his manor. He let his eyes travel up to her face. She looked into his eyes intently for a long moment. Then she smiled the barest of smiles and turned away.
Her breathing was getting shallower and her eyesight had started getting weaker as the blood flow continued. Until she felt her wounded arm being lifted. Hermione blinked her eyes wearily at the chest her hand was propped against and felt wetness; more than what had seeped out of her hand. It somehow felt warmer. She tried to move her fingers along the planes of flesh. It was nostalgia wrapped up in a cruel package. It was Draco’s chest. It was Draco’s blood. She focused her eyes on him and saw the long gash on his chest and the familiar hand holding a plain knife. She couldn’t get the words out yet, so she asked into his eyes questioningly.
He brought his other hand to her face and gently moved her hair away, Sweat beads clung to her lashes as she tried to take as much of his gentle visage as she could. It had been ages since he had looked at her like that.
“It’s a Black heirloom. Only Black blood with an intent to heal, could close these wounds. It’s blood magic. I need to cut myself for our blood to mingle. And the closer to the heart it is, the faster it works. Don’t worry. You would be well enough to apparate before they come back. Entrance hall is almost ten minutes away. Call for Dobby. You told me he still listens to you, right? You-”
“But what about you?” She tried getting up, “And Draco! You promised me! What if they come up! Let’s both run away!” She pleaded into his eyes.
“I-I can’t Mia. My mother, if I leave, they will kill her. I can’t live without you, but I can’t let her die either. She is only living for me. But you need to apparate. Call for Dobby at the right moment. The curse has almost been negated by now. You just need basic healing charms. Take care, alright?”
“You promised me Draco!” she whisper-shouted, “You promised me!” Tears were pouring freely from her eyes by now.
“I did. But I also promised that I would heal and help escape anyone I could. When both of my promises were contradictory, how could magic keep me back when you were getting tortured?”He gave her a painful smile. “I love you, Mia.”
She tried to protest a couple of times soundlessly, before slumping back. Knowing that she couldn't ask him to leave his mother behind, she nodded once and looked him in the eye. “I love you, Draco. Take care and come out alive.” He smiled.
He heard his mother’s warning a second before he was blasted to the other side of the room. His chest, fortunately, while still bleeding, didn’t have to bear the brunt of the spell. He could recount what happened in snatches, but not the details. Everything happened so fast. Before He could cast the Last Green spell on him, Hermione had stood up on shaky legs and aimed her wand at Bellatrix, killing her in one straight Diffindio to the neck. Her bleeding stump had been reflected in her eyes like the Light of Vengeance. Voldemort, angry and chaotic, had aimed her wand upon her. Draco, bereft of his wand, had tried crawling towards her. But she was too far. Way too far.
Instead, right in front of him, her hair escaping her careful styling, tears glistening on pale skin and yet with her spine as straight as it always had been, Narcissa Malfoy nee Black had stood tall and proud and protective. He had never felt this helpless, crawling towards them, the two women that were his hope and heart, who stood guard over him the way Merlin had over the wizardkind. A part of his mind had always known that one of the three of them won't make it out alive. He had hoped that pretending it didn't exist would make it go away.
And he would always remember this night long after. When he had escaped with Hermione. When they had found Potter and explained the rollercoaster the past five years had been. When they had re-explained everything to the Weasleys, to the rest of the Order and after the war, to the Wizengamot. Even after sixteen years, when their five-year old daughter, Cissa had asked him why she was named so, he had always remembered the night his mother had stood in front of the Killing curse. She had given her blessings to them to run away from the pits of hell and build a new life and sacrificed her own life for that. Till the day they died, both of them had remembered the pale blond hair and the straight spine, illuminated in green light. Almost etheral. Regal. Like a Goddess.