Uncoffined

Disclaimer: I do not own anything associated with Harry Potter; I do not earn money by writing this story.

A/N: A huge thanks to nastygrl and dynonugget for the beta work, feedback and hand-holding.

Uncoffined Chapter 10


Unatonable

"Please!" In an instant he was next to her at the window, "I am sorry!"

The declaration was made with such despair and conviction that she nearly caved there and then.

"Don't do this, Draco. I need to leave. You promised."

He hung his head. His instincts told him to raise the wards and keep her here, but deep down he knew that this would only drive her away indefinitely and turn her into his prisoner.

And he could already feel the magic of the contract at work.

"Will you not reconsider? I will do anything!"

Her heart clenched at his desolate voice. Not trusting her own traitorous voice, she shook her head no. He closed his eyes and rested his forehead against hers.

"You know that you mean so much more to me than just a body that I pay to be willing?"

She pressed her lips together and looked away. With a sigh Draco took in the rest of the room. The few items that had made the room look lived-in, that had made it Jeanne's room, were gone, probably stowed away in the small bundle resting on the bed on top of the silvery shimmering throw. His present, the emerald bracelet and earrings lay abandoned on the bedside table. He scooped the bracelet up and fastened it around her wrist before placing the earrings in her soft hand.

"These are yours; please keep them. Will you not take any of your robes?"

Again she shook her head.

"Where I am going, I have no use for them."

She was rejecting him and everything that reminded her of him. A feeling of utter defeat took him over.

"I will floo with you to Blackhearth and take you to the Warren gates."

During the entire journey, first through the manor to his study, then from Blackhearth to the Warren, not a word was spoken. Hermione remained silent because she was afraid to give in and beg him to take her back. Draco, because he wanted to say so much, but could not find the words.

He drew her close and held her tight for several moments, before he Apparated them to the Warren gates. His embrace grew even tighter and he was now not below begging her, speaking into her hair.

"Don't leave me. Come back with me. I am so sorry. Please, please forgive me."
He did not care that people waiting to pass through the gates, the guards and shoppers on their way to Diagon Alley, were staring at the spectacle that the High Reeve and his mistress were creating.

Very gently she pried his hands and arms from her form and stepped back, silent tears streaming down her face. She shook her head when he reached for her to wipe her tears from her cheeks and stepped away even further, into the parting crowd, through the Warren gates.

Away from him.

Out of his life.

He had lost her.


***


Hermione could feel his eyes on her; her heart was breaking. When he had told her that she was more to him than a paid body to take refuge in, she had nearly given in. He also had become much more to her than a source of income and information, so much more than someone who paid her to be willing.

She had seen Draco Malfoy as everyone else had seen him. But in the bundle that was pressed to her chest, a piece of parchment lay hidden, burning a hole into the scarf she had wrapped around it, resting next to the small book with wizarding poems that Draco had gifted her and the soft leather pouch with her last payment.

Draco had insisted on paying her much more than the agreed sum. He had closed her hands around the pouch and looked into her eyes. Without voicing it, he told her that she had given him much more than she had been obligated.

The parchment in her bundle contained a map of England, hastily drawn after retiring from the dining room, marking every planned raid and every weakness they had been so foolish to mention in her presence.

Just as she had done months before after the night that changed her life in so many ways, she knocked on the door of the room that she had occupied what felt like an eternity ago.

Arthur Weasley carefully opened the door and stood frozen at her sight.

“I have to meet the others.”


***


The quill rested upside down on the stack of parchment, the pinfeather broken from pressure, ink bleeding over scrolls and books, but Draco did not see it.

Skirmishes flared up all over the country in places that had been peaceful only hours before. Men had to be repositioned and withdrawn from their assigned posts, increasing already vulnerable spots.

There were not enough Death Eaters to control the entire country.

Most of the hastily engaged local block wardens were simply incompetent, eager to please and cover their deficiencies by denunciating anyone and everyone for looking the wrong way.

The country was slipping, and Voldemort was too far gone in his delusions of grandeur to notice or care.

She had left.

People were dying in the streets. Riots and turmoil seemed to unleash primal, egoistic instincts in the people who were living in the ever crowded villages and wizarding districts of the bigger towns.

Like animals a coming thunderstorm, the population could smell the end, quivering in fearful anticipation, ready to flee or strike in whichever direction necessary.

She had left him.

Witches and wizards still turned away in fear, changed to the other side of the street when a Death Eater crossed their path. Underneath it all hid a silent obstreperousness, simmering.

Underneath their cloaks, hidden from sight, they ball their fists, screaming words of hatred in their minds that they did not dare to voice even in the faintest of whispers.

Left him.

She was out there, somewhere. Crossing the street to evade his kind. Sending hateful glances out of the corner of her eyes.

In this world. All alone.


***


Insanity.

Hermione huddled forgotten in the corner of the safe house, observing the group of agitated members of the resistance. She listened to their argument, their reasoning and wondered if she had known one of them in her other life. The glamour bands around their wrists or necks made them unrecognisable to her.

Squinting, she tried to see through the magic, to make out familiar features. Had any of her friends survived? Did she know the pretty blonde, who was pushing wizarding chess figures back and forth on the now enlarged map Hermione had brought to them?

The plan was insane.

People would die.

Now that her efforts finally bore fruit, she remained mute.

Hermione tried to push the constricting ball of remorse away that had formed in her chest and expanding the longer the core of the resistance discussed their future actions.

She should be planning with them, should be participating and fine tuning the strategy. She closed her eyes and leaned back into the crumbling lime plaster over straw and mud-filled bays of the rotting, timber-framed walls.

They had accepted her reluctantly, had accepted her information but remained wary when she refused to elaborate or convey any details as to how she had come about her information.

The woman who had seen her in Diagon Alley recognised and nearly strangled her on the spot with white-hot magic flying out of her wand. Arthur had been able to convince them to let her speak, but most of the resistance members regarded her warily.

It was made clear that she was to remain in the safe house until her information had been verified and had not led anyone into a trap.

She longed to go home.

And she was not thinking of the semi-detached house of her parents or her dorm at Hogwarts or the dilapidated room in the Warren.


***


Later they would say a Diagon Alley witch had been shoved by a Warren-dweller. Some claimed it had been a Pureblood witch shopping in Knockturn Alley.

Hermione heard the cries, the crashes. It was too early!

They had barely released her, finally, after weeks of confinement to the safe house.

She was not in position. She was not even inside, and rapidly, the shops and doors along the streets closed with resounding thuds.

Anybody still outside had to fend for themselves.

Panicked witches and wizards were washed down the narrow High Street of the Warren in a wave of a shouting and pushing mob.

Glass shattered; people were screaming in fear of being pushed to the ground and trampled by the stampede. She turned to bring as much distance between her and the sheer force of that crashing surge. Hawker’s stalls crumpled and unfortunate beings that had fallen were swallowed; they had no chance to escape the crowd that spilled into the main street. From there, they even pushed into the small alley ways branching out left and right.

A foot stepped on the hem of her robe, bringing her to a sudden halt and jerking her backwards.

Another, closer to her, pulling her down with her robe, forcing her to her knees.

Another, against her back, pushing her over and to the pebbled surface of the street.

Feet all around her, crushing her hand, connecting to her face, pain shooting through her cheekbone.

And then being lifted out of the pile of tumbling, pushing bodies. She was pressed against a hard chest, felt arms around her and the sickening turn of side-along apparition.

Hermione held on for dear life, hoping against hope that they would still be in one piece when arriving at whatever destination he was taking her to. She could feel the magical power fighting against the dampening spell net, ripping through it mercilessly.

They fell to the ground, felled by the imbalanced act of magic. There was a soft Persian silk carpet under her hands.


***


“Draco!”

Blaise had avoided Draco meticulously since it had become apparent that the Warren-girl had left the Manor and was not coming back. He had seen the change in his friend, had seen him withdraw and hide behind his numerous masks as a Malfoy, Death Eater and High Reeve.

He had never seen his friend so sad.

“Draco, do you hear me at all?”

“I hear you, Blaise. I hear you. But I don’t know what to say or do. I know we are spread too thin. Whenever we try to reinforce in one place, a skirmish springs up at the other end of the country. I cannot multiply Death Eaters. Can you?”

“I am sorry, Draco.”

“It is not your fault.”

“No. I am sorry that I suggested sharing her. I knew you were drunk. I was out of line.”

Rubbing his stubbly face, Draco pressed the balls of his hands to his eyes.

“I was not obligated to follow your proposition. It was I who was out of line.” He looked at his friend sombrely. “I should have realised that she was not like the girls in Slytherin who had enjoyed our combined efforts. I made a mistake. And now she is gone.”

“I am sorry.”

Draco never knew just how truthful Blaise was being. He deeply regretted ever listening to Theo.

Blaise was one of the few people Draco allowed to see him in pain. The outside world was showing cracks and crumbled in places, no matter how much he tried to patch things up, to ease the effect of a world out of control on the populous.

Without her as his anchor, his sanity was showing the same cracks. Maybe soon he would stay in the quiet cocoon that sometimes enveloped him.

Soon.

The door sprang open and banged against the stone wall next to the door frame.

Draco already stood when the Death Eater guard had finally caught his breath.

“High Reeve, the Warren!”

Before he could say more, Draco had already summoned his wand and barked an order to Blaise to gather any available men and follow him. Not waiting for an answer, he vanished on the spot to reappear near the gates.

She was in there, somewhere.

The noise was deafening. He could hear glass exploding. Magic wafted back and forth in the maze that was the Warren, the net of dampening spells pushing it down and making it more and more volatile.

Should the cramped ghetto catch on fire, there was nothing that would prevent a fire storm and the demise of hundreds, maybe thousands of witches, wizards and children.

His wand in hand, he spelled his way through the crowd, mercilessly shoving and pushing anybody and anything out of his way.

Was she at home, in relative safety? Where was ‘home’?

The crowd pushed at him from all sides, but he ploughed on, not caring what happened around him.

And then he saw it. Curly brown hair and a burgundy robe. One second she made a desperate effort to flee from the enraged mob, the next she had gone under with a pained cry.

He sent stunners as fast as his magic would allow him. He only had moments before it would be too late for her. Grabbing her already ripped robe, he yanked her to her feet and against him.

Risking and saving both of their lives, he apparated them.

Home.

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