So this is it - with this chapter, 'Crumple' draws to a close, at approx. 90,000 words, twice as long as I originally planned. I presently have no plans for an epilogue, as I feel that with this chapter I have achieved what I originally set out to do.

To recap what I wanted to achieve:

The premise of this fic is to write a realistic story using the trope of Draco being a (not-necessarily loyal) Death Eater who for some reason has to sexually assault/rape Hermione in order to protect her shortly after they first meet in the story, in such a way as to allow for a successful and (mostly) healthy relationship to develop.

I do not like :

- rape scenes written gratuitously, as 'smut'

- Draco doing it unnecessarily because he 'loves' Hermione; when he could reduce the trauma by telling her he's on her side but doesn't; 'making' her enjoy it physically and/or mentally; and when their romantic relationship starts partially thanks to her enjoyment of the rape, or classic Stockholm Syndrome.

I think that with this story, I have managed to write a capture/rape trope fic, that has handled the subject matter realistically, avoided the majority of the common pitfalls, and allows for the development of a successful and (eventually) healthy relationship. No doubt many of you will disagree with me - either because you think there can never be a successful relationship after a (forced on both sides) assault has taken place, which is fully understandable...or just because you just thought I handled and/or wrote it badly. I hope the latter isn't a common opinion! Regardless, I'm personally pretty satisfied with my effort :3

Thank you to everyone who has read, reviewed, and favourited this fic. I really appreciate it so, so much! If you would like a pdf, one will shortly be available here with my other fic pdfs (take out the spaces, and change 'dot' to an actual period): 1drv dot ms /1RADcQP

I hope you enjoy!

Part Eleven

The next morning, after Malfoy is gone, Hermione stands in front of the bathroom mirror and stares at herself, examining her face. She is thinner than she used to be, and her hair has grown a couple of inches and looks bedraggled. There are hollows under her eyes, and her lips are chapped, and she stands there like a frightened animal, she realises. Shoulders hunched forward and slumped a little, head ducked ever-so-slightly, expression uncertain. She looks at herself and sees a beaten dog.

"I'm going home," Hermione says softly, and forces herself to stand straighter - shoulders back and chin up. That helps a little - she looks more plain exhausted now than she does cowed. She doesn't want to go back looking like a broken shell of herself, because she isn't - she survived this, and while she may be damaged and changed, she is not broken. But Harry and Ron and all the others will all look at her and see only her trauma, if she doesn't force them to see otherwise. She knows that from past experience, from seeing the way they looked at people who had been rescued - and looking at them that way herself. With pity. And Hermione doesn't ever want Harry and Ron to look at her that way.

It will be so strange, she thinks as she drags her hair back into a bun, and wets a flannel under hot water. The thought of being in a house filled with noisy, busy, sociable people again seems foreign and unnatural. Hermione has gotten used to the quiet. She scrubs her face with the hot flannel, trying to bring some colour to her cheeks, and then pats her face dry, making faces at herself in the mirror.

"Hi Harry," she practices, pinning an awkward smile on her face. She looks stilted and garish to her own eyes, and she sighs. It's pointless anyway; Hermione doubts there will be any casual greetings like that for some time. Even just thinking about seeing everyone again makes her chin tremble uncontrollably and her eyes well up salty and wet, her arms itch with the need to fling herself at them and hug them half to death. But there is also that part of her that feels overwhelmed at the thought, and wants to retreat to her armchair in the corner of Malfoy's room and half-hide in a rug. It's all too much. She can't even imagine properly how it will feel to see them again.

And to never see Malfoy again? She stares herself directly in the eyes, silently asking her mirror-self: How will that feel? Her mirror-self blinks back at her, and her mouth twists; an ugly little shape all filled with grief, and Hermione covers her mouth with the back of her hand and turns away, leaning back against the vanity and stifling the tears that threaten.

"You're going home tomorrow," Malfoy says in the evening, forcing a smile onto his lips as he straightens from his desk, where he's spent the last few hours furiously scribbling on reams of parchment. He stretches, working the kinks out of his neck and shoulders, and Hermione pauses in turning down the bedclothes and stares at him mutely. Tomorrow. Tomorrow. Tomorrowtomorrowtomorrow - she can't seem to wrap her head around the idea. "Aren't you excited?"

Only this is home now, Hermione thinks stupidly, in a daze. Not this whole horrible mansion where people are hurt and killed, and human monsters lurk around every corner, but this small suite, with Malfoy. Gradually, without her even really noticing, this place has become her home - she has been here in the mansion for over three long months. It will be Christmas in just a few weeks, Hermione realises, after some quick, rough mental calculations. Hermione will get to have Christmas with the Order - and Malfoy will get to have Christmas alone, recovering from the no doubt brutal torture Hermione's 'death' will incite Voldemort to inflict on him, even if his framing of Crabbe and Goyle Sr. works.

"Granger?"

He will be here, alone, struggling to survive the aftermath of brutal torture with no one to care for him. And even if - when - he recovers from it, he will still be alone, forced to do horrible things that she knows tear him apart, his life hanging in the balance every moment, and she might never see him alive again, and the thought is unbearable. She loves him. She loves Draco Malfoy in a way she has never loved anyone before - not like the disappointing crush on Ron, or the thrill of Viktor's interest, but a deep pulling tug toward him as though he's driven hooks into her heart, and her escape will wrench them out, leaving holes that won't fill. Hermione tries not to cry. She tries. But the tears start flowing as she stands there at the bedside, and she buries her face in her hands, feeling stupid and sweaty and utterly shaken. Like a blubbering idiot, she can't stop herself from crying.

"Hey...hey, Granger... What's wrong? What's going on? You're going to be home. It's going to be over." Suddenly there is the heat of Malfoy's arms around Hermione, drawing her closer, and she sways into him gladly, her hands clutching at his shirt at the sides and her face burying against his chest. "It's all going to be over. You'll be safe."

Her breath is coming whooping hitches as she tries to speak, voice wobbling and stuffed with tears: "Not without you. Not...not without..." And then the sobs rise up again and Hermione has to stop speaking while she tries to suppress them. Malfoy holds her very gently in the circle of his arms and rubs her back between her shoulder blades, making meaningless soft soothing noises as her shoulders shake and her chest aches with the force of her grief. Malfoy is patient, waiting until she finally contains herself, taking a few shaky breaths, and pulling back just enough to look up at him - his arms slip away as she does, and she finds herself missing the warmth of him immediately.

"Please don't make me go without you, Malfoy. I can't stand the thought of - of you staying here, being hurt because of me, being alone… Please - please come with me." Her voice is rough and nasal - her nose is stuffed and half-running, and her eyes feel puffy from crying; she must look like an absolute mess.

He shakes his head slowly: no. And Hermione's ribs feel like they're cracking under the pressure that seizes her. Her chin trembles, and she sinks her teeth into her lower lip, focusing on the pain.

"I can't, Granger. I have a duty. I have a job to do. And if there is the smallest chance that I can be helpful here, undercover, then I will stay. I helped started this damned war - I'm not going to be a coward and run away to hide in safety. I don't deserve it. I of all people do not deserve safety, or comfort, or -" He stops himself abruptly, cursing under his breath and looking away. "I just can't."

He'd tried to stop himself from saying too much, but he'd let slip plenty before he fell silent, and it confirmed what Hermione had thought for quite some time - this was Malfoy's penance. His punishment, for being on the wrong side. Being here was his way to try to make some kind of twisted amends and find forgiveness…only the problem was that for every bit of help he might lend to the Order, he was definitely taking part in the harm of innocents. He would never be clean - he would never make up for the harm he caused, because the very nature of his duties as spy were to keep dirtying his hands, over and over.

Malfoy would be trapped in perpetual self-loathing and self-sacrifice, as long as the war went on and he remained here; there was no way out. And looking up at him through her tear-swollen eyes, Hermione isn't entirely sure he wants a way out. She swallows hard, feeling the hooks of him in her heart wrench and tear at the meat of it. She may not be able to force Malfoy to come with her, but if he can stay alive long enough - and he's made it this far hasn't he? - then she can talk to the Order about him when she gets back. She will make Kingsley order him back in - make him say Malfoy is needed more on the outside. Malfoy will have to follow orders - he won't have an excuse to stay, and she will get him away from here. To safety, and to her.

It won't stop him from being tortured after her escape, but it is all that she can do unless Malfoy changes his mind by tomorrow night. And the likeliness of that happening is…miniscule.

"Don't sleep in your bed tonight," she tells him very softly, reaching out and taking his hand where it hangs at his side, and curling her fingers through it. "Sleep in with me. Please? This is the last…and then I'll be gone, and -"

"You don't have to beg, Granger," he says, and his voice is low, needy, and it sends hot shivers sparking and forking through her insides. He lifts his free hand, smoothing his thumb across her forehead in an odd caress, and then tugs his other hand free of hers. "I'll just go get changed."

With a nod, Hermione clambers into the bed, sitting with her legs drawn up toward her chest beneath the blankets, arms wrapped loosely around her shins and chin resting on a knee. She's in a pair of his shorts and baggy undershirt - she doesn't need to change for bed; she's already in acceptable pyjamas. So she waits, breathing slowly and carefully, trying to dam her emotion and bottle it down tight, cheeks feeling stiff with the drying remnants of her tears.

When Malfoy slides into the bed he doesn't try to enforce any distance between them. He knows what Hermione wants - what he wants just as badly as she does, despite his insistence that it is wrong. Apparently tonight - their last night - is different. In nothing but his pyjama trousers, Malfoy lies back against the pillows and beckons to her, arms opening, and she shuffles across to him immediately, eagerly. Her head against his naked shoulder and her arm over his torso - warm and smooth - and her other arm crushed up beneath her, hand tucked to her neck. For his part, Malfoy wraps both his arms firm around her, and tangles their legs together, and he is hot and close and real, and Hermione feasts on the feel of him.

She shuts her eyes and breathes deep of his scent - soap and the barest hint of sweat overlaying the natural smell that is him - and traces her fingers over his exposed skin, mapping the landscape of his abdomen, and his chest, and shoulders and arms beneath her fingertips. This could be the last time, for a very long time. 'This could be the last time ever' creeps in at the edges of her mind. But Hermione denies that thought, shoving it back; the possibility is unacceptable. Malfoy will be fine. But she will memorise him, just in case Kingsley can't get him to leave soon, just in case he loses his feelings for her, just in case of... other things.

Despite Hermione's attempts to stay awake clinging to Malfoy, eventually his warmth and his closeness lull her off to sleep, slumped peacefully in his arms, dreamless and unaware. She wakes drowsy in the near-dark sprawled across the bed on her stomach, and knows instinctively it is still the middle of the night. The bed is empty, and pain and hurt spike sharp in her stomach - how could he leave? He knew how much this last night meant to her, even if she didn't tell him aloud exactly how much. She sits up, pushing her hair back off her face, and squints into darkness of the room, trying to make out Malfoy's shape in the bed he keeps made up in the corner for himself. But she can see no shape in it, nothing huddled within the blankets.

Fear leaps, and adrenaline floods Hermione's system, leaving her suddenly, viciously alert, heart thudding quick in her chest. She seizes handfuls of the bedclothes, preparing to fling them off and get up and look for a note from Malfoy to explain his absence, when she hears a sound. A sob. It comes from the bathroom, and her wide eyes swivel toward it, and she sees it then - the dim, barely-there light seeping from beneath the door, the soft blue-white of a lumos charm. A few heartbeats pass, Hermione's blood rushing in her ears like the ocean as she strains to listen to the silence, and then, finally there is another sob. Choked and muffled, it's a broken thing, and Hermione bites her lip as she listens, fingers curling in to her palms so that her nails dig in to the soft flesh, shoulders hunching.

Malfoy is crying because she is going. Because she is going, and he is not.

It hurts. It hurts to know that her safety is going to leave him alone and friendless in this hellhole, and Hermione wants to go to him and try to comfort him…only she knows her attempt wouldn't be welcomed. There are some things that Malfoy doesn't want her to see, and wouldn't thank her for intruding upon. And besides, there is nothing Hermione can say to make it any better. Unless she stays, or he goes. And the idea of staying is unthinkable to her - much as the idea of leaving seems to be to him.

So Hermione lies curled in the dark in bed, a comma beneath the blankets, and listens to Malfoy weep like a punishment; the sound halting and barely audible through the door. When he finally comes back to bed, she is still awake, crescent marks bruised deep into her palms. She shifts when he gets into bed, rolling to face him, blinking her eyes sleepy-open as if she's only just woken up. She probably does a terrible job of acting like she hadn't heard everything, but Malfoy doesn't call her on it. His eyes are red and swollen as he lies down, stretched out and propped up on an elbow.

"You all right, Granger?" His voice is husky as he meets her eyes in the dark, dragging the blankets back up over him. She nods, not trusting her voice.

"Mmhmm," she manages weakly, and Malfoy gives her a searching look, but doesn't probe.

"Go to sleep, Granger," he tells her softly instead. "You've got a long day ahead of you tomorrow." And then he sinks down into the pillows on his side and shuts his eyes, hand loose-curled up beneath his chin. "Good night."

"'Night, Malfoy," Hermione whispers, and with her breath caught in her throat shuffles closer and takes his hand, fumbling her fingers through his. Malfoy's eyes flick wide open at her touch, shocky and wounded silver in the near-dark, but his fingers twine through hers readily enough, squeezing almost painfully tight. Hermione falls asleep with their hands interlocked, tight as a vice, and she doesn't dream of anything.

The next day passes slowly.

As always, Malfoy is gone when Hermione wakes up, and his House Elf has left her some food. She eats mechanically sitting at the table, looking out over the beautifully manicured gardens. It must have snowed again in the night, because this morning white slush is melting on the grass, thanks to the bright winter sunlight streaming down and warming the earth. Hermione eats her porridge and stares out there almost unblinking, thinking that she will be happy to never see this garden ever again.

After breakfast, she bathes, soaking in the tub until her fingers and toes have gone white and prune-wrinkly, killing time until nearly midday. She washes her hair, and shaves her armpits and legs with Malfoy's straight-edge razor very, very carefully before she gets out.

There is a small pile of clothes in Malfoy's top right dresser drawer that are 'hers', and Hermione digs out striped green silk undershorts that Malfoy had transfigured into trousers, and a white undershirt that he'd shrunk to fit her. She imagines wearing a bra again will be both a relief - she does miss the support - and difficult to get used to. Ditto with knickers - she hasn't worn any in months, except the horrors Voldemort sent. She's become accustomed to Malfoy's comfortable tee shirts, pyjamas and under things.

Normally, she would make the bed and then try to read for much the rest of the day, but today Hermione can't be bothered putting in the effort. It's always hard not to just succumb to daydreams, but today is worse. Today she both cannot wait for the time to pass so she can go, and is dreading it more than nearly anything. She feels restless and caged, and seething under her skin with an impatient kind of anger; if only Malfoy would come with her. It was him that left her feeling torn and worried, when she should be frantic with nothing but excitement. Hermione finds herself hating both the Order, and him - resentment burning like a coal in her chest as, dressed, she tosses her wet towel in the hamper.

Her dark hair falls in wet straggles past her breasts, dripping damp patches on her shirt as she slowly paces around the large suite, taking everything in one last time. Her eyes skim over her - Malfoy's - four poster bed, where she has slept and cared for his injuries in nearly equal amount. The hideous lingerie and tools of torture Voldemort sent Malfoy, tucked up in their open box on a high shelf. The corner bed Malfoy used to sleep in when she first came up from the dungeons, and has been again for the past week - excluding last night. The armchair she'd claimed as hers, that had been her only safe haven for so long, when she had still been scared of Malfoy. The liquor cabinet...

The liquor cabinet - her eyes fall on it by chance, but stay locked to it, sharp. Barefoot she paces over, crouching down and pulling at the door. It's locked, and she swears softly in frustration. There is nothing she would like more right now than a drink, to douse the embers of resentment and anger that smoulder in her. It takes her over an hour by the clock to jimmy the door open with a sturdy shoehorn she found in the back of Malfoy's wardrobe. Hermione doesn't mind that it takes so long; she's glad, in fact. It helps her fill in the time instead of sitting and dwelling on the inevitable. And when she achieves success, she has firewhiskey to help distract her further. It's a win/win situation for her.

When Malfoy gets back at 5.30pm on the dot, Hermione is curled up on the floor by the windows, cradling most of a glass of firewhiskey. The bottle she'd opened is a fair bit less than half full now, and she is a fair bit more than half drunk.

"Granger?" Malfoy shuts the door behind him, and looks for Hermione in her usual spot as he pries off his boots, holding a bag in one hand. He looks bone tired - dead on his feet - and the blood splashed over his ashen skin and white shirt don't help him look any better. Worry fills his face and pushes out the weary, numb strain when he doesn't spot her straight away, perched down in her comfortable spot, hidden by the table that sits between them. He tosses the bag onto his desk with a light thump, and she wonders what's inside, but doesn't ask. Sometimes it's better not to know. "Granger?"

"Hi," she mumbles from her spot on the floor, lifting her glass in salute and squinting at him, standing there by the door all bathed in the sunset and blood. She wonders with an idle sort of horror what abhorrent things he's done today to leave him hollow-eyed and drenched in blood, even his hair a blood-streaked mess. "You're home."

"You're drunk," he answers, and he doesn't sound very happy about it. Hermione would care that he is exhausted and disappointed in her, except that she is drunk and doesn't have to summon up the energy needed to feel guilty. She feels pleasantly carefree, in fact - a heady, dizzy kind of feeling that she knows is only an illusion, but which she embraces anyway.

"Probably."

"You shouldn't be drinking." Malfoy walks over, gait slow and tired, shoulders slumped and steps dragging, and bends and swipes up the bottle. He stinks of sweat and urine, and metallic blood, and Hermione feels suddenly less drunk, something inside her shrinking down into a terrified ball. "You need to sober up for tonight," he says as he straightens, and then rather hypocritically takes a long drink from the bottle himself. He stumbles back a step and sinks into the chair at the table, and worry sparks up in her. He hasn't looked this bad in a while.

"What happened?" Hermione asks him, climbing to her feet a little unsteadily, holding onto the window frame for balance. Between sitting in the same position for an hour or so and the alcohol, she is stiff and wobbly. "Are you hurt?"

Malfoy takes another long swig from the bottle before he answers.

"I'm not hurt, Granger. I had interrogations today. Voldemort's orders." He stares at nothingness for a long, silent moment, and then takes another drink, eyes just as dull. Finally he elaborates. "I showed three half-blood traitors what their intestines looked like," he says in a monotone, and Hermione winces. There's some small mercy to the fact that the people he'd tortured were not total innocents, but once on Voldemort's side...but it is a very small mercy. She doubts it makes him feel any less guilty - it certainly doesn't make her feel any less sick. Her desire to leave - and take him with her - intensifies, as she gulps at her drink, before finding her voice.

"I'm sorry," she whispers, unable to tear her eyes from his blood sodden shirt. Malfoy looks up at her, grey eyes flat and distant.

"I'm not the one who needs your sympathy, Granger," he says wearily, and then gets up, leaving the bottle on the table as he heads into the bathroom, unbuttoning his shirt as he goes. She bites her lip, not speaking because yes he is, only he refuses it. Draining her glass, Hermione turns her gaze to the bottle he's left on the small table; the paper label is brightly blood-streaked from his hand, as is most of the rest of the bottle. She wrinkles her nose and decides against topping up her glass - and wonders idly if that was Malfoy's plan all along. He's right though, she knows - she needs to sober up.

First though - no point in wasting drink. She tips the dregs of her drink down her throat and shudders at the burn, making a face. It's honestly awful.

They eat dinner in a silence that fills the room, hanging thick and ripe with anticipation. Hermione has to force herself to eat, too nervous to be hungry, and Malfoy picks at his food, pushing it around the plate and barely touching it. Hermione nearly speaks a dozen times, throughout the meal, but she doesn't know what to say, only that she wants to say something. To thank Malfoy, perhaps, except that seems stupid - she feels so much more than simple gratitude toward him, and thanks...it wouldn't be enough. It wouldn't communicate everything she wants to. Hermione doesn't think there is anything Malfoy would allow her to do that would do justice to how she feels, right now.

She sighs and puts her knife and fork down in surrender with half the roast dinner still on the plate, in ruins now from her ineffective picking at it. Malfoy lifts his eyes - still dull and hollow, and very, very distant, like he has shut himself away.

"You should get dressed," he says matter-of-factly, pointing over his shoulder with the fork at his desk, before stabbing a small chunk of roast pumpkin. "There are clothes in the bag. I got things that should be basically one size fits all, but just let me know if you need the sizing adjusted."

"...Thanks." Hermione nibbles at her lip, feeling oddly set off balance by his flat tone, but gets up, and takes the bag through to the bathroom without another word. She tips the contents out onto the bathroom floor, sifting through them. He's clearly gone shopping at a wizarding store, she thinks, because while the clothes are basically Muggle in appearance, there are no brand tags. Soft, thick woollen leggings, a warm undervest, a long chambray button-down shirt that ended past her bum and only need the cuffs folded back once, a woolly jersey that fits quite well, a crocheted hat, wool gloves, and thick wool socks.

Between the clothes Malfoy had picked, a cloak, and a warming charm, Hermione will be toasty warm outside tonight even if it snows. She leaves the hat, gloves, and jersey off for now, staring at herself in the bathroom mirror. It feels so weird to be in clothes other than Malfoy's. She drags her fingers through her hair, and then twists the length around and around, making a precarious bun that she fixes in place by knotting through itself, and then pinches her cheeks until they go pink, and smiles into the mirror. Does she look normal? It's hard to tell. Hermione doesn't know what normal is even supposed to look like anymore. She leaves Malfoy's clothes in the hamper, and for some reason it feels like a loss, letting them go.

A goodbye that she isn't ready for.

"You look - those look like they fit," Malfoy says, correcting himself with a wince as he taps the dinner tray with his wand, and it pops out of existence. He turns away quickly, but not before Hermione sees the blush from his near-slip on his cheeks. He is dressed in warm clothes now - a thick jersey, and his boots on, and there is a cloak draped over the back of his chair.

"They do." She tosses the bag on the bed. There is a great gulf of separation and politeness between them, and it makes her want to scream in frustration. Last night they slept curled together, and now? She has never felt so far apart. She wants to kiss him, to cling to him, to cry and rage and beg him to come with her. To tell him she loves him, like some stupid, emotional idiot. Hermione does none of these things, instead brushing her hands awkwardly over the front of her chambray shirt to try to smooth out the wrinkles, and perching on the edge of the bed by the bag. "Thanks. I hadn't thought about...clothes."

Malfoy lifts a corner of his mouth up into a pained, forced smirk as he retrieves a bottle from the liquor cabinet and pours himself a drink. "I wasn't about to send you back to the Order in my fucking shorts and undershirt, Granger. Wouldn't want them thinking..."

"The truth?" she interrupts, sounding half-angry because the Order is going to find out everything that happened and how she feels about him during debriefing, and there is no point in trying to hide it. She has told him that she cares, and that she wants him, and that she will wait, and she will, and she isn't going to hide it either. She shouldn't be ashamed of any of the things that have happened here. Not any of them. And neither should he.

And then she realises how her frustration must sound to Malfoy, who stands stock still and ashen with guilt and self-loathing as he thinks only of the bad. Her cheeks go hot as her blood runs cold, and she cringes at herself, and at the memories.

"Sorry. I didn't mean...not really. I mostly meant..." She chews on her lip, and then tries: "...the good things?" Malfoy unfreezes enough to tip the contents of his glass down his throat, wheezing a little at the burn, and then eyes her cautiously.

"I know," he says but he's clearly lying, his hand shaking as he pours himself another drink, the hypocrite. And then he turns away from her abruptly, dropping his glass to the table with a clunk and going to his desk. He sits and pulls out a fresh sheet of parchment, dipping his quill.

"We'll go once I'm finished with this," he tells her. "With Voldemort gone, there's no point in waiting."

"Okay." She nods obediently, voice small and hands folded together in her lap. She isn't ready. She isn't ready to leave him. To leave here? Hermione cannot wait. But to leave Malfoy? She feels numb as she slides her jersey on over her head, and fetches her boots, lacing them on tightly before she puts on her gloves and hat, and then sits back down on the edge of the bed. Malfoy's quill scratches quick over the parchment, his eyes terribly cold and empty as he finishes the letter with a flourish and then folds it up, sealing it with a blob of wax and the signet ring on his desk, before flinging his window open and whistling out it into the night.

An owl appears out of the dark moments later, and Hermione strains to listen as he murmurs to it, and she can just barely make out the words: "Narcissa Malfoy, Tweel. Now."

A letter for his mother? Hermione furrows her brow as she stands, ready to leave. In case everything goes wrong tonight, she supposes, and can't suppress the shudder of fear that takes her, her palms sweaty inside her gloves, and her whole body rigid with nerves and anticipation.

Despite things not going as planned - as always - they make it out of the mansion without incident, thanks to Malfoy's quick thinking, and the lack of brains in the snatchers they come across, but Hermione can't help but think that Malfoy's behaviour will count as deeply suspicious in retrospect, when her escape comes to light. She worries silently as she hurries along beside Malfoy - her hand in his so that he can guide her over the uneven ground in the moonless night, without even a lumos charm. The snow shifts beneath her boots, and her nose feels numb with cold. Due to the warning wards, they are unable to use any magic in the stretch of land between the mansion and the forest they are making for.

What if Malfoy's plan to frame Crabbe and Goyle Sr. is flawed? What if it isn't enough to convince Voldemort? What if Voldemort discovers the truth? She squeezes Malfoy's hand tighter, struggling to keep up with his longer strides as he tows her along. She wants to ask him about the details of his plan, but it will have to wait until they are safely within the forest's bounds, beyond the wards. Her breath makes clouds in the near dark - the night clear and starry, lending them just enough light to barely see their way by as they hurry away from danger, toward the forest edge. The land they cross is exposed, and any patrol flying above will spot them, and Hermione's heart is in her throat.

But despite that - "Wait," she whispers as they reach the forest edge, pulling at Malfoy's hand. She can just barely see the glare on his features as he stops and looks down at her.

"What?"

"I just want to - to see," she whispers, and turns like Lot's wife, to face the place that had been her prison for over a quarter of a year. Malfoy seems to understand because he doesn't try to drag her onward, just puts his hands on her shoulders and walks her back a way, into the reaching shadows of the trees. And then he stays there behind her, his gloved hands warm on her shoulders, his body a wall that she sways back into, eliciting a small, surprised sound from him. But he doesn't move away, his hands tightening on her shoulders instead, as if to keep her there.

The mansion is stunning from the outside, lit as the grounds and exterior walls are, by magical means - a grand Muggle country estate, with sprawling gardens. Hermione stares at it, and all she can see is evil.

"Okay. I - let's go," she murmurs in a rush, voice choked, turning on her heel to face Malfoy before he can move, and then she is face to chest with him, her hand reaching up to grab at his shoulder as she unbalances on the jut of a tree root. The air quivers with their sharp intakes of breath as their bodies bump together, Malfoy's hand sliding to Hermione's upper back, steadying her as she lifts her eyes to his. She licks suddenly dry lips, staring up at him - hair shining faintly in the starlight, eyes dark and needy and full lips parting in anticipation - and then he hisses under his breath and turns away fast enough to nearly topple her.

"Come on." Malfoy finds her hand in the dark, their gloved fingers interlocking, and Hermione wants so badly to kiss him. She isn't sure what is making her heart pound faster - the fear, or the way Malfoy had looked at her before he'd shut his features down, and locked all expression away. "Every minute we waste out here is another in which they could find us."

It takes them nearly forty minutes of stumbling through the dark before Malfoy stops them - Hermione is flushed hot despite the cold and panting, her legs aching. She is unused to so much exercise after all the months locked up in Malfoy's suite. She lets go of Malfoy's hand, bending over and putting her hands on her knees, trying to catch her breath as he moves away from her.

"We're outside the bounds." Malfoy flicks a lumos charm to life, his face bleak in the blue-white light, gesturing at a nearby tree, larger than most of the others nearby. "We used that as the drop-off point for information and instructions."

The drop-off point.

"if I write to you," Hermione says as the idea suddenly occurs to her, taking a step closer to him. "Will you write me back?" It is not him leaving with her, but it is something. It is a least some form of communication until Hermione can convince Kingsley to order Malfoy to leave, and join the Order's base of operations, and she will take it. It's better than nothing. Malfoy's drawn features seem to grow even more bleak, and he looks away.

"Yes," he says shortly, and...and Hermione doesn't believe him. She stares at him questioningly, emotion choking up in her throat.

"You're lying to me," she says disbelievingly and too-loud, taking another step toward him, so that only one more pace separates her from reaching out a hand, and sliding her gloved fingers over the lines of his cheek and jaw. He keeps his face turned away from her, all contrasts of shadow and light, jaw clenching and unclenching, and Hermione's pulse races quicker. "Why are you lying to me, Malfoy?"

"This is the portkey that will take you to an Order safehouse," he says, lifting his eyes to hers then, ignoring her demands as he pulls a small cloth-wrapped object out of his inside cloak pocket. He takes her wrist and lifts her hand, pressing the wrapped portkey into it, and pressing her lax fingers closed around it. "As soon as you arrive the Order will be alerted, and send someone to investigate. It may not be someone who knows you, so make sure to keep your hands up so they can see you aren't a threat. All right?"

"Malfoy..." A horrible suspicion starts to stir in the back of Hermione's mind. "Malfoy, why are you lying to me?" She grabs his sleeve, demanding, because no, he wouldn't do that to her. He couldn't. Malfoy detaches her grip on him gently but firmly, and then cups her face between his hands, his eyes fixed to her face, and her lips tremble. "Malfoy? Answer me."

"I love you," he says then like a confession, staring into her eyes with his own desperate and grief-filled, his thumbs stroking over her cheekbones. "I love you, Hermione."

Hermione's stomach drops, the breath rushing out of her - and then his mouth covers hers, and he is kissing her hard and insistent, like it is his last, and her heart wrenches and breaks.

Malfoy's lips, soft, greedy, pushing and moving with hers, and her stomach twists and need clutches at he as she pushes back into him. The portkey is forgotten in her grip as she grabs handfuls of Malfoy's jersey at the shoulders, breathless, her tongue at the seam of his lips, and then he parts them and his tongue teases hot over hers, demanding. Her hat falls off to be lost on the snowy ground, her hair tumbling from its precarious bun as Malfoy fists his hand in it, holding her and licking into her mouth so that her knees go weak and her clit throbs. He is holding her up with one arm in the dark, and she feels like she is coming apart.

Then Malfoy rips himself away, stumbling back a pace or two, staring at her shocked and flushed by the light of his lumos, shoulders rising and falling jagged and fast as he pants for breath. "You need to go. Now."

She sways there, horror creeping cold into every part of her, sinking into her very bones as she stares at him with damp lips and tousled hair, knowing with a chilling certainty that he has no plan. He was going to help her escape and then die. He has no intention, no hope of ever living past tonight.

"Hermione..." he begs her, but she shakes her head. No.

"You - you didn't frame Crabbe and Goyle Sr. at all, did you?" she says to him, the words coming out slow and dull. It feels like she's been numbed. Malfoy looks away, silent, and that is enough confirmation for her. Anger kindles hot in her chest, beginning to burn out the cold, and she clenches her fists at her sides.

'You planned to take the blame?" she asks him, quick now, tight and angry, and horrified. "That was your fucking plan all along, wasn't it? To take the blame and - and be tortured and murdered?" Her voice lifts in angry disbelief toward the end, because why? Except that she already knows why. Malfoy thinks it would be justice, he thinks that he deserves it. He thinks that after the atrocities he has committed there can be no coming back, and he's wrong. He's a fucking idiot. It won't be easy, but he doesn't need to let what he did as a spy dictate who he is for the rest of his life. Especially if letting it dictate who he is means he commits suicide after telling her he loves her. Does he not realise how cruel that is?

"How could you do this to me?" she demands of him, her breath coming in ragged gasps, tension radiating through her. "And - and how did you plan on doing it, Malfoy? Were you going to go back in there and let him find out, and torture you to death? Or - or were you just going to - to turn the Killing Curse on yourself, here, once I was gone?"

"Hermione..."

"I know you think you deserve to die, but doesn't my opinion mean anything? I don't think you deserve to die. You saved my life. You - you were tortured and you risked your own life to save mine! You - you may have done awful things, but they were for the right reasons. Sanctioned by the Order. You're not an evil person." She stares at him helplessly, begging him to believe her, to listen to reason. His eyes are hollow.

"I'm a monster, Granger," he tells her, his tone calm and even, and his words all the more dreadful because of it. "After everything I have done...how can I not be? I don't deserve to leave here. Not ever. Not after what I've done."

"Yes you do! You do deserve it, Malfoy," she denies, insistent and desperate.

"Why?" he asks her, one word that breaks his expressionless calm apart leaving him trembling there in the cold dark, his jaw clenched and horror bleeding from his eyes.

"Because you did it all for the right reasons. Because you had to do it. Because you are a good person, or - or you wouldn't feel this way now. And - and anyway, I love you," she adds softly, stepping toward him, and he swallows hard, looks away.

"You - you can't know how you feel. Not with everything that's -"

"Oh shut the fuck up," Hermione snaps, the port key a fragile lump cradled in her gloved hand. "I can know how I feel, and what I feel is that I love you, Draco. I love you, and I am not going to let you kill yourself." And then she opens her hand and drops the portkey, crushing it beneath her boot.

"No!" Draco cries the word desperately as he lurches forward toward her, his hand reaching out, horror printed on his pale, blue-light washed features. Without the portkey, Hermione knows he will have to disapparate with her, and once she has a hold on him, Hermione is not letting go and they both know it. She refuses to let him do this to himself. To let him give up, like a coward. He is better than that - he deserves better than that. He turns his furious, horrified gaze on Hermione, lips parting, but she speaks before he can find the words.

"If you want to save me, Draco Malfoy -" Hermione tells him very quietly and clearly, taking his hand and crossing the distance between them with a single step "- then you're going to have to save yourself too." She pauses, then, calmly: "Take me home now, Draco."

And she lets go of his hand, wrapping an arm around him and resting her cheek against his chest, heart in her throat as she waits for him do something. Anything. She waits. Malfoy is still as a statue, not even seeming to draw breath. The seconds tick by and Hermione's heart is slowly sinking, leaden - and then suddenly his arms close hard around her as his breath shudders out like a spell broken, his head dropping so that his lips press hard and brief against the crown of her head in a desperate kiss. And then the world twists and spins sickeningly around them, as he disapparates with her, held in the circle of his arms.