The Gallows Chapter 19

The doors burst open less than a heartbeat later and Malfoy strode into the room with a wild look in his gray eyes. His hair was disheveled from how he’d pulled it back that morning, a few locks framing his face as if he’d been running his hands through it.

“Malfoy,” Harry called, following him in. “You shouldn’t be here.”

But Malfoy only stared at Hermione, hands tremoring at his sides, fisted so tight the knuckles bleached white. Spots of red bloomed high across his cheekbones and his eyes were suspiciously glassy as he looked her over.

Harry looked similarly unkempt, his hair sticking up on end. He wrapped a hand around Malfoy’s elbow only to have him spin. In another breath Malfoy had him pinned to the wall beside the door with a forearm to his throat.

“Touch me again, Potter, I dare you.”

But it was Auror Potter there in Harry’s expression, his hands raised in supplication. “You need to go back to the manor, Malfoy, you shouldn’t be here.”

Malfoy moved closer, their audience seemingly forgotten, barely restrained magic crackling across his shoulders.

“Draco, mate, let him go,” Theo murmured, reaching to put a hand on his shoulder before thinking better of it.

Malfoy’s body trembled and Hermione watched as that small grip he kept on his control cracked before her eyes.

“Malfoy…” she breathed. He stiffened. “Draco.”

And then he was turning, releasing Harry with a shove and crossing the room. She hadn’t known when it was she lifted a tremoring hand toward him, only aware the moment he’d grabbed it, pressing her palm to his cheek and breathing deep.

“What are you doing here?”

Malfoy’s eyes closed and he exhaled slowly, as if he was breathing in her scent, as if it calmed him. Slowly, he lowered into the chair Theo left, ignoring Pansy on the other side of the bed.

“A letter came through the floo, informing me that you were in St. Mungos and—and…” He trailed off, fingertips reaching up to touch the tender skin of her cheek.

She grabbed his wrist, wincing at the movement and the pain it sent threading through her bones. “It’s fine, Draco. I’m fine.”

He shook his head, leaning forward until they were almost nose to nose. “No, you’re not. You’re lying here in a hospital bed when you were meant to be in mine.”

“Let’s give them some space,” Pansy said softly.

The sound of footsteps filled the silence along with the gentle click of the door shutting behind them. But a hurricane could have swept into the room for all the attention Malfoy gave it, Hermione pinned beneath his stare.

“But why are you here?” she asked again.

His brows drew together, thumb stroking her cheek. “I told you they sent me—”

“You haven’t left the manor since you got home,”

Blowing out a breath, he shook his head. “Do you think I wouldn’t have cared? Do you think I would have received that letter and merely waited for you to return?” Malfoy rose, shifting until he was perched before her on the bed, his other hand rising until her face was cradled in his hands. “Have I been so cruel?”

Hermione couldn’t help but lean into his touch, allowing it to chase away the pain skittering through her veins. But when she didn’t answer, he sighed, stroking her hair back from her face while his hand slipped to her shoulder.

“I have, haven’t I?”

“I’m not your wife, I’m not your caretaker,” she muttered, looking down at her hands now resting limply in her lap. “You’ve made that clear.”

Malfoy hummed, nodding. A knuckle touched beneath her chin, gently lifting her face to his.

“I’m not daft enough to deny at this point that you are my caretaker.” The rasp was soft, like his eyes. His index finger stroked her cheek and he dipped his head to keep her gaze. “And you’re my friend.”

A flush spread across her throat as his breath, sweet with the scent of mint and chamomile tea, ghosted across her cheeks. Malfoy leant closer, one hand sliding up to tangle in the back of her hair. “More than my friend.”

“I am?” Her response was breathless as she reached up, pressing a hand over the soft fabric of his sweater right above his heart. There, beneath her palm, was the unsteady rhythm saying aloud what she wasn’t quite sure if he would ever be able to.

“You are,” he answered, and just the barest upward curve of his lips visible, before his mouth pressed lightly to hers.

This kiss was not like the ones she had imagined on the edge of dreams. Those kisses had been fierce, full of unbridled passion and desperation. But this one? This was a sweetness that made her teeth ache. This was the golden light of their marriage bond, warm and comforting across her skin. Draco touched her tenderly, reverently, caressing her cheek, fingers light on the back of her head, threaded through her curls.  

He kissed her like she thought the worshipful might kiss their gods, with wonder and elation and some sort of heartbreaking hope.

And when they broke apart, he did not skitter back, only pressed his lips to the corners of hers. To her cheeks that had somehow become wet. To her forehead, her jaw. Hermione could only breathe, gripping the front of his sweater as if she could hold him here, in this place with her, forever.

But all too soon there was a knock on the door, Hannah’s kind voice slipping through to burst the bubble of peace around them.

“Hermione? May I come in?”

Draco pulled back, but Hermione kept a hold of him. There must have been panic in her face, because he wrapped his hand around her wrist, gently prying it from his shirt.

“Stay,” she pleaded.

He kept her hand in his, nodding and returning to the chair beside the bed. When he was settled, their fingers interlaced and he’d smoothed back his hair, Hermione called to Hannah that she was ready.

The witch, bless her, was all business as she bustled into the room, giving Draco a polite nod before placing three phials onto the small table she conjured to lay across Hermione’s lap. But she found she couldn’t quite pay attention to Hannah’s explanation of the potions, the order to take them in, while Draco’s fingers traced circles across the back of her hand. From the corner of her eye he could see his face, set with concentration as he looked between Hannah and the phials.

“Sound good, Hermione?” Hannah said, frowning.

She blinked, looking between them. “Uh…”

“Yes, thank you, I believe we’ve got it,” Draco rasped quietly. “Muscle relaxing potion first, then pain, then the nerve repair.”

Hannah nodded, her round face a little warmer than when she’d first entered. “Exactly. Two times a day for the next week just to be sure there’s no lasting damage. Lots of liquids and fresh air should help, just don’t let her overdo it.”

Draco huffed and nodded. Hannah gave them a small smile, touched Hermione’s shoulder briefly, and left the room in a swirl of mint robes.

Cold fingers touched her cheek. “You all right?”

She couldn’t help but lean into that touch again, as if she was starved for it. “I’m fine.”

His brows rose, the ghost of a grin playing across his lips. “You didn’t hear a word Abbott said, did you?”

“Of course I did,” Hermione huffed, shifting uncomfortably in the bed.

With pursed lips, he nodded. “So… you’re ready to go home?”

“What?”

Draco reached across her for the first phial. “Take this, it will make you tired but they’ll let us take a private floo home. Apparently, there’s a bit of a crowd in the waiting room and Potter’s concerned about the security risk especially since I’m here.”

With those last words, the amusement faded from his face, leaving behind that shell Hermione hated. But he pressed the phial into her hand, guiding it to her lips when she didn’t move and encouraging her to tip it down her throat. She winced, acrid liquid washing across her tongue, though after a moment her shoulders relaxed — the potion like smooth silk sliding through her veins.

“Now this one,” Draco murmured, handing her the next.

The pain potion was similar, though there was a sickly sweetness she never got used to, followed by the nerve potion that had the consistency of mud. She choked as she tried to swallow, pain shooting up her spine with each convulsion of her stomach.

Draco soothed her with soft sounds, his hand sliding firmly up and down her back until finally she was able to keep them all down. Carefully, he guided to lie back onto the bed, brushing her hair out of her face.

“Give them a minute to work and I’ll call Pansy into help you dress.”

But Hermione shook her head, reaching out a lazy hand. She’d been reaching for his sweater, but it landed instead across his collarbone, fingertips brushing the skin of his throat.

“No…” she said, tongue thick with the potions. “You.”

His lips turned down with a frown. “You don’t want Pansy?”

Shaking her head again, it was a relief to find that the pain was gone and she tapped her finger against his throat in silent answer.

Finally, he nodded, catching her hand and squeezing it softly before rising to grab her clothes. It was a slow process to dress her, though Hermione found she didn’t mind the feeling of Draco untying the gown, sliding it off her shoulders with the barest touch across her skin. He was patient as he helped her step into her denims, knuckles brushing her belly as he fastened the button. If he noticed her shiver, he gave no indication, nor did he acknowledge the way she couldn’t stop touching him. As if they had a mind of their own, her hands continued to find his shoulders, his forearms, even his cheeks once or twice. But Draco would only pause, allowing her a moment to trace the line of his bicep or cheek before moving back to the pile of clothes.

Eventually he directed her to sit on the bed, kneeling to slip the trainers back on her feet, tying the laces into neater bows than she ever bothered with.

“Draco…” she breathed dreamily. She traced the line of his jaw, skin rough with stubble.

He looked up from the floor, a soft vee between his brows.

“Kiss me.”

For a moment, she thought he might refuse her. Past the haze of potions, she could see he’d retreated into himself once more, each breath another brick in the wall he built to protect himself from the outside world. But then he rose to his knees, sliding hers apart and cupped her face gently in his hands.

Yet he didn’t move once he was there, only looked at her face as if burning it into his memory. Each freckle, each curl, each eyelash a pen stroke within his mind. Then he leant forward, brushing his lips across hers slowly, refusing to give in when she pressed hers firmly to his, curling her arms around his neck. He held her back with his hands on her face, keeping the kiss soft and light, as if he couldn’t bear much else.

And somewhere, in the conscious part of her mind, it terrified her what that meant.