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Maybe it’s because he knows her.
Maybe it’s because he’s gone just as mad as his aunt.
Maybe it’s because nothing makes sense anymore, and in a battle where your every move is meant to get you through the night, sides don’t really matter.
Maybe it’s because he never had a chance to choose a side. Really choose.
Or maybe it’s open rebellion, an act of retaliation for all the times he and his family suffered at his hand, doing his bidding, trying to win his favor back.
When all sides seem to hate or loathe you, when they’re waiting for a chance to hurt you, hoping you’ll fall and never have to be dealt with again, maybe you’re not part of either of them. Maybe you’re just there, existing, and you don’t understand what you’re doing anymore, how you got there, or why it would matter if you stopped moving.
Maybe it’s because everything around is dangerous, screaming, deadly.
And maybe it’s something else entirely.
Draco’s been running for what feels like hours. It’s been mere minutes.
People fight around him, shout spells, duck, fall, rise back up and keep going. Students, professors, Death Eaters, they all seem to have a purpose and a reason to be here.
All he has is the sight of Vince falling before his eyes. The hard look on his features turning to surprise, then horror in the split second it takes him to realize he’s falling. Falling, falling until he disappears in the flames.
The smells of night and humid grass don’t reach his nose, only the acrid burning that makes him want to double over and vomit.
They’re all going to die.
He’s lost track of Greg. He’s been making his way back to the Forbidden Forest with only one thought in his head: get to his parents and leave.
Leave this place of death and fire, of darkness and fear. That all this killing is happening in the Hogwarts of his childhood makes him sick.
Maybe that’s how it’s all supposed to end.
He’s been making his way in the dark, running down on a ground he could map with his eyes closed. Lonely figure of black clothes that smell of smoke, flash of white blond hair that fell on his brow, casting nonverbal Protegos and somehow ignored by mostly all.
He’s never run this fast, doesn’t even know how his legs are still moving.
Maybe he’ll never stop running.
And then a peculiar wave of relief hits him as he reaches the first trees of the Forest. Big, large trunks that can conceal him. The cries of battle are growing distant, although he can make out lesser scuffles nearby.
He trips over deceiving roots and reaches to a tree not to fall. He takes a moment to breathe and only then does his heart seem to catch up with him: it collides in his chest, beating furiously in his ribcage. Maybe it’s trying to flee. A coward heart for a coward boy, who’ll probably never get to become the coward man he’d have grown into.
They’re all going to die here.
Seconds go by. Endless, pointless. Until his eyes adjust to the dark and he can see beams of moonlight through the leaves and flashes of light. A lot more of green light and purple light on this side of the battlefield.
Deathlights.
His limbs protest when he stands upright, pushing on the tree, trying to convince his body to keep going. His mother is here somewhere. He’ll find her and they’ll convince his father to run, disappear from the world. Like they should have ages ago.
Voices and movement make him take a large detour. There’s a high-pitched laugh that resembles Bella’s and he can’t help putting as much distance as possible between them.
Another scuffle nearby. Shouts and jets of light. Then silence and darkness. The sharp sound of a twig breaking, followed by a chorus of rough voices and converging lights. A yelp and the thump of a body collapsing.
Disturbing, vicious laughs and through it all, one last attempt at Stupefy.
More laughs. Predators toying with a prey.
And maybe it’s a coincidence or one of life’s punishments that he gets to witness it from above the basin, like a crater in the woods where silhouettes are dueling while he’s just passing by.
And maybe he came closer because he’s recognized her voice, or the shape of her. Her mane of chestnut hair, just as untamable as her. Maybe chance put her on his path again, maybe it’s for a reason. Maybe there’s something in this Merlin’s forsaken world that means something. No matter the odds, he stops to stare.
He almost wishes it wasn’t her, but of course his wishes are never granted.
And so he goes still, barely a few feet from them, needing less than a blink to guess the outcome. Three to one, they’ve got more experience and have eaten more food in the past few days than she’s probably seen in weeks. She’s alone and she’s going to die. They’ll parade her corpse around and he can’t begin to imagine all the ways they’ll degrade it to mark their victory. It’s all part of this endless nightmare, one he’s been desperate to escape, and yet he can’t help coming to a halt, watching it all unfold. Because it’s her.
Of course it’s her.
Granger.
Her Muggle denims are muddied at the knees, her cheek open in a long cut and her lower lip is split. And yet there’s this fire in her eyes, a determination that should be enough to melt them all in place.
And maybe it was always meant to end this way.
Her, alone in the dark, hurt, disheveled and covered in dirt, fighting for her life and tragically losing.
Maybe it’s his punishment to see it; the moment she falls.
But then, there’s this turquoise light that flashes in the night and hits a Death Eater.
And maybe it’s because he knows her, or because he didn’t help her before, when he should have.
Maybe it’s because he’s gone just as mad as his aunt, or because he’s finally stumbled onto a silver of sanity.
Maybe it’s because she was the only one who was never impressed when he would show off the newest, priciest broom his father had just gifted him. The only one who wouldn’t even look up when he’d beat Potter to catching the Snitch.
Or because she always had to be the first one to understand and perform perfectly in class, to answer questions, the first one to collect house points and professors’ approval.
Maybe it’s the annoying superiority she’d display when being right, or the insufferable way she’d laugh at Weasley’s idiotic jokes while she never did for Draco’s. The way her eyes would shine brighter for that moron around fourth year, or the rosy hint to her cheeks when he’d grin back at her.
Maybe it’s because they’re all going to die anyway so he might as well try. Try what exactly, he’s not sure. But try.
And so, there’s this spilt second where nothing happens.
An eternity really.
Then heads turn to him and that’s when he realizes his wand arm shot up without him noticing. He’s the one who cast that spell, making himself known while he was relatively safe.
He’s the one who also casts the next spell.
And maybe it’s because it’s the only motion his body knows anymore, or maybe because gravity somehow always leads him back to her: his feet are taking him forward, maybe to his death, or maybe to his salvation.
Spells fly his way, miss or deviate from him, and he doesn’t stop. He only grabs her wrist and takes her with him, disappearing behind a tree, his mind and heartbeat hell bent on getting her out of harm’s way, just like he’s been wishing he had ever since the night at the Manor.
He placates her against the tree, stepping into her to both cover her and hide, his wand arm fighting and his free one curling near her head to protect her.
She breathes quickly but she’s there against him, real and maybe lost, and that’s when his mind catches up with what he just did. Does this matter? Does it mean he’s chosen a side?
Her hands come up to his ribcage, and he’s not sure whether she’s holding him or trying to break free. Well, at least she’s not pushing him away.
Jets of light graze the tree and he ducks closer to her, wishing he could tune out the screams and the destruction, and maybe get used to the sound of her breathing.
He looks down to assess her, the damage done to her skin, and their eyes lock.
And the way her brown ones search his face makes his stomach churn. Of course, she’s trying to understand, figure out his motive, determine whether he’s trustworthy. But he doesn’t have time to convince her or apologize or think of his actions. He wants to stay here in the dark, pressed to her, be the only one existing in her eyes.
Maybe it’s because she was outraged for the hyppogriff and the half-giant, but not for him. Never for him.
Maybe it’s because she never even looked impressed that he’d made Prefect.
Or maybe it’s because of the way her shirt started to fill at some point during fifth year, not knowing how fascinatedly round she was at the chest. And maybe he did cast a few warming charms during Transfiguration that Spring, because her cheeks and nape would flush, and she’d end up shedding her outer robes, unaware of the bead of sweat that would roll down her neck and disappear beneath the white fabric. Maybe his blood caught fire when he thought of tracing the path between her breasts with his tongue. Maybe he imagined his hands on her, her lips on him, her breath catching, his hips snapping, the pleasure crushing them both. Maybe he let himself have daydreams of it once or twice. Maybe more.
Maybe it’s because there’s a hidden truth, somewhere in his mind. Scattered thoughts of her safely locked behind doors. Wishes and desires that can never be voiced, not even whispered.
Maybe it’s because she’s looking at him with a mix of hope and a plea in her eyes, like she doesn’t dare believe it, like she wants to Legilimens a promise out him.
Draco watches her, searching her face, his body warming up to her proximity. Her eyes drop to his throat when he gulps and maybe… He rises his free hand, slowly, and from the tip of his trembling fingers, brushes a strand of hair away from her face. He brings the tip of his wand to her injured cheek and Episkeys the gash away. Then her split lip.
He didn’t mean for his palm to fit against her cheek, nor for his thumb to caress her cheekbone. Her chest rises with every breath, and this time it’s not because of effort. A tilt of her head, almost nothing. And her cheek presses against his palm.
And maybe it’s not the validation he seeks, maybe it’s just a gesture of trust because he’s helping her. He doesn’t dare hope. Wouldn’t know what to hope for anyway; never really allowed the thought.
He lowers his brow to hers, skin to skin, just a moment, just to take a breath.
‘Can you fight?’ he asks her, lower than a whisper.
Her breasts push against his chest when she takes a deep breath, and he wishes it would last a thousand years. But the determination is back in her eyes.
And here she is; the Granger he knows, ready to fight.
They nod to each other and bring an end to the handful of seconds they just shared. Granger turns around between him and that tree, rising her wand arm under his and casting spell after spell. She sticks to red lights and it’s a relief for him to do the same. Because right here against her, he realizes he really, really doesn’t want to kill anyone.
A couple more Death Eaters join their adversaries but they’re not the best fighters. Those are closer to the castle, making their way to important Order members, searching for Potter. These ones they can deal with.
His free hand is at her hip, holding her, until her own hand covers it. And somehow their fingers weave, holding tight, and maybe she’s just seeking support or comfort or thinking of someone else.
And it’s only him and her on this side, fighting off death every time it grazes their hiding spot, and yet he wouldn’t trade this moment for the world.
And finally, the spells cease to come their way and their corner of the forest quiets. They don’t move for a moment, listening hard for a trick, but it’s all silent around them.
They’ve done it. They could Disapparate right then, and no one would ever know. Get somewhere safe and never look back. Maybe he should suggest it.
She turns around but doesn’t step away, and he fists the fabric of her jumper, not wanting to let her go.
She doesn’t push him away.
‘Where are you heading?’ she asks.
He wets his lips and her eyes follow the move. Maybe…
‘To find my parents. You?’
‘I need to find the snake.’
He holds her tighter against the tree, not wanting anything to separate them.
‘We need to get out of here,’ he corrects.
And maybe she hears it, the way he includes her when he says ‘we’. She has a tired smile but it doesn’t matter that it’s not her brightest, because she’s never smiled to him before.
‘We need to stay here and fight.’
‘We’re not staying here, Granger, we’re running.’ He infuses all the authority he has in this one statement. Her smile turns sad, and maybe he’s going to stay and give her all the battles she wants.
‘I can’t–’
‘Granger, listen to me. They won’t just kill you, they’ll hurt you–‘
‘You think I don’t know that?’ she snaps. A silence loaded with the memories of her screams and her pleas for the pain to stop. And maybe he’s supposed to do everything in order to never hear those screams again. Definitely.
‘We’ll go somewhere safe.’ It’s so strange to say we to someone who isn’t his mother or his father these days. ‘We’ll leave the country and get as far away from here as possible–’
‘I can’t–’
‘I’ll protect you. I promise I’ll protect you this time– ’
‘Draco, I can’t.’
Her eyes are longing and his are stinging. He brushes her cheek again, her shoulders, her arms. Maybe she’d listen if he told her about not even hearing anything Slughorn said that day when they brewed Amortentia; about drowning in the scent of her during the class, his cheeks pink and his whole body hot and restless. Maybe he should tell her how it ate him alive to see McLaggen leer at her at that Christmas party. Maybe she’d come with him if he could find the words to make her listen.
‘Come back with me,’ she whispers.
‘I’m not going back there–’
‘We’ll protect you–’
‘They won’t. I’m one of them now.’
‘You’re not.’ She’s so sure of it he almost believes her. He wants to. ‘You’re one of us, always have been.’
‘It’s too late for me, Granger.’
‘It’s not too late. I’ll stay with you, I’ll protect you.’
His brows knit together. He doesn’t want to be indebted to her. He doesn’t want to be her new charity case, like the House Elves she was trying the free. He doesn’t want her pity, he wants–
Her hand brushes his hair behind his ear, tentative, careful. His brain shuts down and fires up all at the same time. Maybe she doesn’t realize what it does to him, how he wants to interpret it.
‘Your place is not with them. Your place is inside that castle, with us.’ She swallows, and he could swear her cheeks flush. ‘With me.’
‘With you.’
She nods, her hand caressing its way down to his heart. And that’s when he realizes he’s not pinning her against that tree anymore. They’re standing a step away from it. She’s free, and yet she’s still in his arms, holding onto him, letting him hold her.
And maybe there’s a chance he can take, maybe she knows exactly why his heart is drumming, maybe hers is racing for the same reas–
‘Retreat!’
Dolohov’s voice makes them jump.
The Forbidden Forest is still Death Eaters’ territory. They need to take cover and then, maybe, decide on a next step. Maybe the two of them, together.
Draco looks back at her and she’s already in motion, taking his hand and walking backwards so she can hold his eyes. And he follows, lets her yank him back to the castle without a hint of reluctance. He’ll stay with her then. Because this possibility in her gaze, he wants it to last for more than a moment. He wants it forever. And maybe he can have it.
Maybe.