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Hermione wrung her hands together, anxiety tearing through her. This was not how it was supposed to go, and definitely not inside Flourish and Blotts. She would never experience the warmth of comfort and safety in the store henceforth. Instead, she’d be plagued with memories of today.
Draco stood before her, his eyes downcast, as though it pained him to raise them to hers. Well, she supposed, she did not much feel like facing him either. She wanted to run away and hide, hide from the world and what it entailed. She wanted to hide away with him, just the two of them alone cocooned against everything that stood against them.
But she couldn't, they both couldn't and so she cleared her throat - once, twice, a third time - before she could form the words that were rebelling, unwilling to flow past her lips.
Slender fingers curled around her trembling hands, smoothing over the backs of her palms, pressing into her. It was meant to be comforting, but her heart sank deeper into the pits of her stomach. She hated this. She did not ask for any of it. She had fought against it all but for nought. They were marionettes, the ministry was the puppeteer.
She fell forward into Draco’s warm embrace, which was contradicted by his stiff posture. She could feel his mind ripping through all the possibilities, exhausting all the avenues he could explore, scavenging for a single loophole that they could exploit. But she knew it way too late. The ink had dried. They were both present to witness Kingsley speak, his tone brusque with finality after the Wizengamot had cast their vote.
Draco shuddered, his hands tightening their hold around her, squeezing her into his chest as though he wanted her to meld with him. She wanted to cry out loud, but unfortunately, it would attract a crowd, which they were actively avoiding surrounding themselves with the lesser frequented shelves at the bookstore in Diagon Alley.
“Granger, maybe in another life, another time, we will triumph over all this.” his usually regal voice was quavering with hurt, and Hermione wished it was something she never had to hear.
She quaked, still unable to string together a coherent sentence. Her mind kept drifting back to the damp chamber and their names being called out, paired with others, instead of together. They had been unable to amend the legislation to accommodate their situation.
“I'm sorry.” it was all that she could manage, as they clung to each other, delaying their return to the surface of the hellhole they found themselves in for as long as they could. They might walk out physically, but she wasn't sure they'd be able to completely disengage from their nightmare.
She let the seconds give way to minutes, praying they would become hours and days before they were forced to part ways. She'd rather have her cold body pried off his, but she couldn't bear the thought of him not being alive whether or not she was without him.
She memorised every last detail - the rasp of his voice, the heat of his breath, the subtle movement of muscles beneath his woollen cloak, his hand flexing before reaching up to hold her chin, guiding her face to his.
She closed her eyes, losing herself completely to him, trying to circumvent the sobering reminder that this inevitably might be the last time she would indulge in the slide of his lips against hers. Hermione decided to shut off her mind, and reached for his face, cupping it in her hands, letting her soul pour into this kiss.