The Gallows Chapter 22

Draco took Hermione one more time in the bed before gathering her into his arms and striding into his bathroom. Not even as he turned the taps on the shower did he let her go, stepping into the stall with her still bundled in his arms. They stood like that, holding each other tight beneath the warm spray until eventually her lips found his throat and he pulsed against her belly. Draco pressed her back gently to the tiles before sheathing himself inside of her. Hermione threaded her fingers through his wet hair as he breathed her name into her ear over and over, mixed with the word she thought he needed more than any other.

Hermione.

Mine.

Hermione.

Mine.

Eventually they left the shower and dried off. It was Hermione who guided them back to bed. She worried perhaps that he would pull away then, dive back into himself where that guilt and pain and darkness lived. But instead, he tucked her beneath his chin, draping her across his chest before Hermione summoned her wand and extinguished the lights.

“Do you want me to retrieve your wand for you?” she asked, voice soft.

His heavy exhale swirled her hair around her temples, arms tightening around her. “No… I don’t think I could stomach holding that wand again. Not after so many years… that wand belonged to a boy I barely know now.”

She nodded against his chest, listening to the uneven rhythm of his heart. They laid like that in the quiet for a long time, as he traced lazy circles down her spine.

“Where would you live if not England?” The question was a careful one, a tentative introduction to the conversation they’d had that evening.

Draco turned his head, lips brushing her brow. He didn’t answer her for so long that tension began to trickle through her veins and she wondered if she had broken the quiet, peaceful moment.

“France, I think,” he said finally and with that answer, her whole body sighed.

“I love France, though I’ve only ever been to Paris,” she said quickly. He was answering, which meant he was considering it — that fantasy future that could be theirs.

Draco hummed, though she could hear his mind whirring with all they’d said that night. And like a shadow, his fear slunk back into the room.

“Do you prefer the countryside or the city?” Another question, another breadcrumb to draw him back to her.

His lips brushed her forehead again. “The country, I suppose… My family owns a chateau in Alsace, though I haven’t been there since I was small. It was a gift from my father to my mother back when they were first courting.”

There it was again, swimming through her mind. An image of them seated on some veranda overlooking the countryside, Draco holding her hand in his as they sipped tea and Hermione read aloud. In the image, Draco’s face was full and healthy, a few freckles splattered across his cheeks from his time in the sun, a smile curled around the corner of his mouth.

Hermione drew back, squinting to make out his features in the dark. “Could we visit?”

She thought he might have frowned and reached out to stroke the furrow between his brows. Catching her hand, he brought it to his lips, pressing a kiss to her palm.

“I’ll need to get in contact with the family solicitor or rather… return his owls,” he mumbled against her skin.

It wouldn’t be easy on him; she wasn’t foolish enough to think that this sort of upheaval wouldn’t send him careening back into himself. But still, the idea was more tantalizing with each passing breath. Leaving England, setting up a new home together, a clean slate and fresh air to breathe—to heal.

Hermione didn’t say anything else and when Draco realized she was allowing the conversation to close, he drew her closer, kissing her softly until that softness turned to passion and they lost themselves again within the rhythm of their bodies.

…

Kingsley arrived on their doorstep the next morning, parchment clenched within a trembling fist. Lottie showed him in with all the courtesy befitting the Minister for Magic, before appearing in the bedroom with a soft pop.

“Lottie begs your pardon, but the Minister for Magic is waiting in the parlor,” she said softly, poking Hermione’s forearm hanging off the bed.

She jumped, the heavy weight of Draco across her back pinning her in place, a flush heating her cheeks at the realization that they’d fallen asleep again with him still deep inside her.

But the little elf only beamed giving her a smug curtsey. “Lottie will tell the Minister that my mistress and master will need a moment, yes she will.”

And before Hermione could even say a word, she disappeared again, the pop this time sounding much too satisfied.

She turned in his hold, Draco slipping out of her as he mumbled softly into the pillow, arms automatically tightening around her waist. Each time they came together the night before, he had been less hesitant than the first, but she still feared what sort of change it would bring in the cold light of morning. Softly, she stroked her knuckle down his cheek, between his brows.

“Draco,” she murmured. “We need to wake up.”

He started, jolting upright with a quiet shout. Hermione shushed him, reaching out a hand to touch his shoulder.

“It’s okay, it’s just me. You’re safe.” At her words, he softened, head hanging with his rapid breaths.

Gently she ran her hand over his back, scooting forward to press a kiss to his nape. His left hand tremored as he reached back for her, curling around her hip.

“Kingsley is here,” she continued after a moment.

All the tension returned in an instant, his grip on the edge of pain before he slowly released her. And then he nodded, blowing out a breath. Hermione kissed his shoulder one last time before sliding from the bed and moving to the connecting door.

“I’ll just get changed and come back in here to meet you.”

As quickly as she could, she threw on some clothes, resolving to ask Lottie to help move some of her things into Draco’s room. She was thankful she caught her reflection in the mirror, taking a moment to glamour the love bites that littered her neck and collarbones. But as she raced back into his bedroom, it was to find him still seated on the bed, staring off at a spot on the floor. His tremoring hands were opening and closing in his lap, that muscle feathering in his jaw.

“Draco…”

Rounding the four poster, she climbed on in front of him, heart clenching painfully. This time she didn’t touch him, instead interlacing her fingers tightly and squeezing them in her lap.

“Would you prefer me see Kingsley alone?” she asked, keeping her voice as soft as possible.

That muscle in his jaw twitched again before he shook his head. “No… just—just give me a moment.”

With a frown, she murmured her understanding, smoothing her face right before he looked at her. Gingerly, she touched his cheek, waiting for the flinch only for him to lean into her fingertips.

“Shall I go downstairs and meet him while you get ready?”

Draco nodded and though every instinct in her said to stay, to gather him up in her arms and never let go, she slid from the bed and made her way out and down the stairs. The sitting room Kingsley waited in was right off the traveling parlor, outfitted in dark purples and silvers. He stood at the window with his hands behind his back, parchment clutched tight, staring out into the grounds and the far off quidditch pitch.

“Hello, Kings.”

He turned, smudges of deep bruises beneath his eyes from a sleepless night. “Hermione, thank the gods. Where is he?”

“He’s upstairs, but he’ll join us shortly.” She gestured towards one of the four chairs gathered around the hearth, a small table before it outfitted with tea service. “Please, have a seat.”

But Kingsley shook his head, crossing to press the parchment into her hand. “Do you have any idea what he’s done?”

She unrolled it, noting the jerky calligraphy that was nothing like the beautiful loops of Draco’s childhood breeding. But she read the letter, swallowing twice and blinking back the burn in her eyes. Of course he had done it, she never doubted for a moment that Draco had truly sent the letter to Kingsley, but to see it, to hold it in her hands…

“He told me last night.”

Kingsley blinked at her. “Does he still want to go through with this?”

Did he still want to go through with it? Hermione frowned, looking back at the letter to buy herself time. Last night in his arms she was sure he didn’t — sure that today would be a day of planning for their departure. And yet his stillness this morning, the blank look in his eye. She opened her mouth to answer, then closed it again before looking up at Kingsley, who’s face reflected a similar panic.

“No… I don’t,” Draco answered from the door, the rasp of his voice a balm for raw edges of her nerves.

He made his way slowly into the room the way a scared dog might, each step calculated, his eyes not fixed on the Minister, but on Hermione. The clothes he wore were another combination of trousers and button down, though she noted that he’d buttoned the sleeves with silver cufflinks rather than roll them up. His hair was pulled back from his face and she noted the life in his eyes with relief.

At his words, Hermione expected Kingsley to visibly relax, but he stiffened further until his body vibrated with tension.

“Sit, Kings, before you give yourself a heart attack,” she urged.

But Kingsley only watched as Draco reached her side, standing close enough that his shoulder brushed hers, though he didn’t reach for her. And then he pivoted ever so slightly, orienting his body in her direction as if she was the sun he might orbit.

“Please, Minister, have a seat,” Draco invited, a flicker of the gentleman he’d been raised to be flashing before them.

Finally, Kingsley nodded, all but falling into one of the chairs. Draco placed a light hand on her low back, guiding her towards another, the tremor more pronounced than it had been that morning. When Hermione took a seat, she was surprised that Draco didn’t, instead choosing to stand beside her chair, a hand on the back and while his gaze flickered between Kingsley and the door.

“I find there is no delicate way to say this,” Kingsley started, leaning forward to rest his elbows on his thighs and looking up at Draco. “If you do not wish to be brought into the Ministry, I think it would be in your best interest—in bothof your best interests—to leave the country. Sooner rather than later. The attack on Hermione has not softened the public towards you but only fanned the flames of those who wish to see all Death Eaters brought to justice, regardless of their true innocence. If they were to catch wind that this letter had been sent to me—”

“What do you mean?” Hermione interrupted.

“No owl is ever secure and Draco did not place a privacy ward on the letter. Anyone could have read it before it got to my desk.”

Her blood ran cold and above her, Draco stiffened, a small bit frost creeping into the corners of his eyes. Hermione reached up, gently slipping her hand through his icy one and squeezed.

“Then I think you’re correct, Kings. In fact, just last night we were discussing that perhaps it might be time for us to visit Malfoy’s home in France.”  

Kingsley let out a sigh of relief before leaning back into the chair. “Where in France, Paris?”

Draco cleared his throat and Hermione stroked her thumb across the back of his palm. “N—no, it’s in Alsace. My family has a chateau on the outskirts.”

“The wizarding community in that region is quite small,” Kingsley offered with a nod. “Though from my understanding our French counterparts are much more forgiving. In fact, I have received quite a few missives over the years from a Céline Durand, one of their advocates within their law enforcement offices, demanding that you be released.”

Then it was possible that they would be welcomed in France, that perhaps even the government would protect them from whatever the Wizengamot might dream up to bring Draco back onto British soil.

But that meant they would be unable to risk visiting for long periods, that perhaps it would be unwise to ever return to England again. Hermione tried not to think of what it might be like to never see London again, to miss milestones in their friends’ lives. And then she thought of Draco alone in that cell for five years, counting down the days to his death.

“Draco?” she asked softly, squeezing his hand again.

He was gazing down at her, some of the panic from yesterday flattening his mouth and she could see his pulse fluttering in his throat.

“Is she in danger, if she stays?” he asked slowly, not bothering to look at Kingsley.

The Minister frowned, considering it. “I believe you both are, yes.”

Draco’s eyes squeezed shut, his hand shaking harder in hers. “And if I was to turn myself in?”

“I believe she would be in danger regardless, Draco,” Kingsley answered carefully. “A life is an awfully big thing to give up in fear.”

Hermione swallowed, throat clicking in the silence of the room. How long would he continue to consider that perhaps it would be better if he was gone? Weeks? Months? Years? Lifting their joined hands, she pressed a kiss to his knuckles, smoothing over the scarred skin with her free hand.

“I can arrange a portkey within the next day or so,” Kingsley continued, now looking at Hermione. “And I’ll send an owl to Céline before I leave here, perhaps there are resources she can offer you as well.”

She nodded at Kingsley, though her attention continued to wander back to Draco who still stood with his eyes shut, rigid as stone.

“Breathe, love,” she murmured. Draco’s nostrils flared with his first breath, shoulders relaxing just a fraction with the exhale. “Would you give us a moment, Kings?”

Kingsley stood, nodding and running a hand over the front of his robes. “Of course.”

“Lottie,” Hermione called softly, nodding towards the Minister as she appeared. “Would you be so kind as to show the Minster of Magic to the study so he might write a letter?”

The little elf nodded enthusiastically, guiding Kingsley out the door with an imperious wave of her hand, chattering about the history of the manor as they walked. When the door shut, Hermione rose, taking his face in her hands.

“Draco, look at me.”

Slowly, he blinked, gray eyes glassy. His hands rose to encircle her wrists, tugging her a step closer to him. She went willingly, sliding her grip from his face to around his neck, pressing her heart against his. The warmth of his sigh ghosted across her throat as he buried his face in her hair.

“I have been spending so much time speaking for you, making your choices. I want to make sure you have a say in this, too.”

Draco’s hand’s tightened on her hips, before he wrapped his arms around her waist, pulling her tight against him. It wasn’t an act of desire or lust, but comfort. She rose to her tiptoes, slipping a hand through the loose hair left out of his bun.

“Do you want this? To move to France with me and start a new life?”

The silence didn’t surprise her, not anymore. Not when she’d lived within that silence now for over a month. She only stroked his hair softly, brushing her lips against his temple, patient for once in her life to wait for him to speak. But that did not mean that with each moment that passed, her fear didn’t grow. That she didn’t wonder if he might send the feeble foundations of that fantasy in her mind crumbling around her.

And her whole body—whole soul—sighed with relief, as Draco swayed into her, the word both a plead and a prayer:

“Yes.”