The Gallows Chapter 20

By day three of recovery, Hermione was restless.

The first day she’d found she quite enjoyed staying in bed, though it confused her that Draco settled her in the white and blue bedroom rather than his own. But he’d slept beside her that first night, their fingers loosely tangled beneath her pillow and though she stayed quiet, in those moments that sleep evaded her she felt his fingertips tracing the planes of her face, heard the soft hum of that lullaby slither through the room.

By the second day she felt exponentially better and though Draco had conceded to her spending a little time in the rose garden, the moment she’d shown any sign of fatigue he’d ushered her back to the bedroom.

Ginny had stopped by for a visit, her voice too loud within the strange peaceful bubble of the manor as she asked again and again what happened. And though Hermione knew Draco was in the sunroom with Theo and Blaise, she winced each time Ginny mentioned the cruciatus and the marriage bond in the same sentence.

On day three Hermione woke with her skin itching and ready to do more than laze about, though that had been exactly what the morning had been. Draco, though present, barely spoke, and she’d noted that his silences had grown longer as the days passed. The sweet, gentle kisses he’d given her on Saturday gave way to merely lingering touches and then to nothing at all.

They were seated in the sunroom, the afternoon light fading from the sky, when Hermione took his hand, only to have him stiffen.

“What is it…” She hated the desperation in her voice, the dread that had caused the blood in her veins to turn to tar.

He pulled his hand into his lap, staring out at Narcissa’s roses, that godsdamned muscle working in his jaw. Hermione shivered, wrapping her arms around her middle, wishing she wore more than an oversized t-shirt and leggings to protect her from the chill that emanated from him.

“You were cursed because of me.” The words were soft, but that rasp was heavy in his throat, as if he’d been screaming but she’d been unable to hear.

Hermione shook her head, thankful that the haze of her morning potions had passed. “No, I was cursed because people cannot look past their prejudices.”

The last of the sun broke across the sky, painting it in pinks, purples, and a deep velvet blue. Its light warmed Draco’s face, a contrast to the ice chipping away within him, the firm set of his mouth, the heaviness in his eyes.

“To them you’re no longer war heroine Hermione Granger, one third of the golden trio,” Draco said slowly, almost mechanically. “Now you are disgraced wife of Draco Malfoy. All your accomplishments just… gone.”

He waved a hand to accentuate the point. She tried to catch his eye, but he turned away until she could see only his profile. But the pain was still there, beneath the layers of ice — Hermione knew him well enough now to see the signs: the tremor in his hands, the wince as he said her name.

Draco closed his eyes, hair burnished gold in the dying light. “I thought I had known torture. All those years in Azkaban with guards all too willing to turn a blind eye to those who wished to dole out punishment. I know the pain of the cruciatus better than I know peace. But seeing you there, lying in that hospital bed?”

He blew out a breath, pressing his hand tight across his heart. Hermione could only stare, trying to absorb the knowledge that he had been tortured by the cruciatus and Merlin knows what else for years. That explained the tremors, it explained the wince at the sound of an unexpected voice, and though she abhorred crying at this point with how many tears she’d shed, heat still glazed across her eyes.

“That was torture, Hermione, knowing that I put you there by merely breathing.”

“People will forget,” she murmured, reaching out to touch him only to have him draw away again.

“Our memories are as long as our lives,” he answered, his voice sliding into a monotone. “There’s no amount of time that can heal the sort of wounds my father inflicted — that I inflicted. Five years or fifty, it doesn’t matter. The Malfoy name will never be anything but a curse.”

“So what would you have us do?” her voice was careful, as if she were walking slowly across a field of landmines.

He folded his hands in his lap, gazing down at the small scars that marred the pale skin. “I’ve already sent a letter to Kingsley—”

“Draco.”

“—asking him to revoke the Gallows Law so I can be brought to justice.”

She shook her head. “That isn’t justice, it’s murder.”

Lifting his chin, his gaze flicked back and forth across the sunset, and she wondered if he was cataloging this the way he’d done with her face.

“If you hadn’t been in that courtroom, I would already be ashes in the wind and you would have a life somewhere, happy and whole.”

Hermione couldn’t imagine a life like that anymore. The last month had changed something inside of her and she wasn’t sure if it was the marriage bond, or watching him slowly drag himself beneath the weight of such horror—or perhaps a little of both.

“It wouldn’t be a life…” her voice was small but color bled across Draco’s cheekbones as if she’d shouted.

“And this is?” he snapped. “You’ve spent the last month in captivity and I your jailer. You deserve to have someone who doesn’t flinch at the sound of a door opening or hide at the first sign of trouble. Someone who doesn’t have this… monster living inside of them, waiting for the slightest weakness in order to break free.”

That was what they had done to him in Azkaban. They convinced him that he truly bore the sins of Lucius and his fellows. And Draco, like a strange dementor, had sucked up those negative emotions and turned them into a shield against the world and against her.

“It will get better. It is already getting better.” She was shaking now, her voice rising higher in pitch, faster as if it might make more of an impact.

“Every time I close my eyes, I see you in St. Mungos and I cannot live with myself knowing that I am the cause.”

“You are not,” Hermione snapped, rising to her feet. “You are not the one who lifted that wand, Draco. You are not the one who cast it with hate in your heart. Don’t… don’t take on their crimes too.”

But he shook his head sadly. “With me gone you’ll be free. You’ve already sacrificed so much. This stain on your life is the last thing you need.”

She rounded the table until she stood before him, but he wouldn’t meet her eyes.

“What I need is you,” she all but shouted, and the truth of the words hit her. Draco had somehow wormed his way so deep within her chest that there was no removing him. And if he left this world…

Would he be free? Was she once again only thinking of herself, her guilt, her needs?

“I understand that I have taken your choices away,” she started, tears threatening with each word. “And…” Slowly, she lowered to her knees before him, reaching out to place her hands over his and this time he did not pull away. She stroked the scars across his skin, mouth working with the effort to form the words.

“If this is what you want, Draco, I won’t stand in your way again. I will grieve you with each breath I take, with each cup of tea I drink, with each page I read. And if you’re right, that our memories are as long as our lives, then that means that I am right in saying that I will never be free of this or be free of you.”

Finally, she looked up, the cool breeze catching on her wet cheeks, swirling through her hair. But she could only watch as the ice cracked behind his eyes, as his brows drew together, mouth tensing into a thin line.

“Tell me you want to do this and I won’t stop you,” she continued. “But you have to say the words. Tell me you don’t want me, that you would rather die, and I promise I will step aside. I’ll hate it every moment until it’s done and after I think I’ll know just a small sliver of what it is you’ve felt over the last five years.”

Draco’s mouth opened but only a soft catch in his throat was audible before it shut again and he closed his eyes. One tear slipped out and she caught it before it could fall, running her thumb across his cheek. And they stayed like that, Hermione brushing the tears from his face as he gave way to silent sobs, until the last of the light died and darkness fell completely.

 “I don’t want to leave you,” he rasped finally, each word its own struggle. “But I will if it means that you won’t be subjected to this pain.”

And though she had only minutes ago chastised herself for being so selfish, she couldn’t stop the words from bubbling to her lips. “And what about what I want? If you would sacrifice yourself for my happiness, don’t I get a say?”

The candles in the sconces around the sunroom burst into life in time for her to witness the war raging inside him. And then he raised one hand to wrap around her wrist and she knew that he would push her away. That it was already done and perhaps even tomorrow she would wake to him gone. But instead, he turned his face towards her palm, lips brushing the sensitive skin. Fingers slid across her waist, just the barest caress and she leant closer until her belly hit his knees.

 “What would you want… if you lived?” she asked carefully.

Draco thought for a long moment, lips brushing back and forth across the heel of her hand. “I would want to be free of the reminders of our past. To take you somewhere safe, where the world wouldn’t turn you into yet another symbol for their gain. Where we weren’t Death Eater Draco Malfoy and Golden Girl Hermione Granger but just… Draco and Hermione.”

She nodded, a watery smile pulling at her cheeks. “That sounds lovely.”

“But you have a life, Hermione. Friends, a job—”

“I have no desire to work for an institution that would kill you as a symbol of peace,” she interrupted. “And most of our friends don’t seem to have jobs anyways.”

There it was, the smallest of smiles, only for a heartbeat but it was there.

“What else?” she pressed.

The hand at her waist tightened. “I would want to free myself from the chains I can still feel wrapped around my wrists. Maybe see a mind healer if one would agree to it.” Hermione gave a soft sound of encouragement and Draco’s cheeks flushed. “I would want to court you, I think. To one day feel worthy enough to present you with a ring and really make you mine.”

Her laugh was more of a hiccup, but there was joy there in the sound. The image in her mind so beautiful it made her want to reach out and grab it with both hands.

A quiet life somewhere without all this pain.

“That’s what you want?” she clarified.

Draco nodded, slowly lowering her hand from his face. “Yes, if I lived, that’s what I would want. But… but what about you? What do you want?”

It was a relief to smile at him, to study his face as he had hers, and to finally see clearly the desperate need there in his gaze, the desire that terrified him. All the pieces slid into place, the careful touches, the restrained way he’d taken her, his withdrawal after, the gentle kisses—controlled enough not to get carried away. Not to allow himself to get lost in the fantasy now shining between them.

A fantasy that Hermione knew she would do her damndest to make into a reality.

“I want you to kiss me, Draco.”