A Safe Place

London

Hermione slipped out of the parlor before anyone had a chance to notice her presence. She had been sitting against the back wall, nose buried in a book, when they had all come in. Harry, Seamus and Ernie Macmillan were stumbling about, knocking into the furniture and each other, as Neville trailed after them carrying a very large bottle of firewhiskey. Their voices were raised in laughter and Quidditch chants as they collapsed onto the dusty couch. She really didn’t feel up to their boisterous gaiety, not right now.

She quietly made her way up the stairs, passing the first and second floors before emerging onto the top floor landing. The rooms up here were vacant, it being too difficult to heat the upper levels in these cold winter months. She supposed that if they had to, the Order would billet some of them in these more uncomfortable quarters - but thank Merlin it hadn’t come to that. Although she really shouldn’t think that - the fact that there weren’t enough Aurors or junior members of the Order to fill the safe houses was a troubling one.

At the far end of the dark landing was a large picture window looking out over the east London skyline. Hermione climbed up onto the sill and began to unlatch the bottom panes. The icy wind whipped into the space, cutting through her robes and causing them to snap around her. She shivered, but pushed the window wide and stepped out onto the ledge. She stood, nothing between herself and a massive drop to the street below. To her left and right were inclines leading up to the roof, which she climbed carefully.

She had found this refuge last year, the first time she’d been assigned to this safe house. She made it a habit to explore every house she found herself at, trying to search out hidey-holes from which to escape the others. Most of her other refuges were merely abandoned pantries or linen closets, garden sheds or basement rooms. But this - this was her favorite. Although, it had been late summer when she’d found it. She hadn’t thought about how strong and how cold the wind would be this high up.

Wrapping her robes tight around her, she hunkered down beside the chimney stack and stared out at the glittering lights. All this, she thought, all this is what they were fighting for. Sometimes she forgot. Sometimes the Muggle world faded so far into the background and it was merely a fight for her life. On the battlefield it was her and them and which one could cast an Avada Kedavra first.

As it had so many times in the past few weeks, her fingers rose and lightly pressed against her lips. The image of Malfoy’s tear-stained face rose in her conscious. The feel of his body heat against her, the way he had shuddered as his face pressed into her shoulder. Her own hands - on his back, gliding over his hair. It was too surreal.

After their uncharacteristic interaction had played out, after the sobs and spasms had finally faded, Malfoy had pulled away from her. For a moment it looked like he might say something, but then his eyes went blank and he rose. She had lumbered awkwardly to her feet, staring at his back. And then she had left. Turned and walked from the room, shutting the door quietly behind her. He had been gone the next morning.

Her fingers were cold against her mouth, as the wind howled around her. She grimaced slightly, feeling her lips curl under her fingertips. Most days she chalked it up to temporary insanity - post traumatic stress disorder or some such psychological trauma. She was sure that there could be a rational explanation for both of their behavior. The need for comfort in a world gone absolutely insane.

But on nights like tonight, when the exhaustion threatened to send her reeling into unwanted sleep - she wondered.

--

Draco Malfoy was angry. He was always angry, these days. The anger pulsed in his blood, went off like bombs behind his eyes. It was a boon on the battlefield - he was devastating, too quick for the Death Eaters who lumbered within range. Those who fought alongside him went back to their safe houses and dreamt of his pale face illuminated by the green light of his killing curses as they flowed like water from his wand.

Draco went back to his safe house and collapsed, every time. Into a deep, dreamless sleep. It was his only solace, that black void he was able to trip into whenever he laid his head on a pillow. But now - now there was a moment before sleep overtook him when a pair of warm brown eyes looked back at him and the feel of ghostly fingertips slid along his cheek.

Hermione fucking Granger. Of all the people to push into his room. Of all the people to see him in his most vulnerable moment. Merlin, what a joke. And it didn’t end there, of course it didn’t. Now she was haunting his thoughts, interfering in the one comfort he could grasp between the endless assault of battle. When he was on a mission he slept sitting up, against a tree or a wall, his senses on alert and his wand gripped in his fist. But at the safe houses, he looked forward to collapsing into the worn bedclothes and forgetting everything. No thoughts. No dreams.

So why the hell was she there? He supposed it was curiosity. The bitch had punched him only weeks before, had baited him mercilessly and then assaulted him. And then, there she was, a warm body against his, her hands comforting him and her voice whispering into his hair. He had kissed her - don’t remind him. He knew he had. He preferred to forget that part, the way her lips had parted beneath his, the taste of her breath. The intensity of her eyes locked on his as his hand gripped her hair.

If it had been anyone else, Draco would have dismissed it as temporary insanity. But Hermione Granger? There wasn’t anything temporary about this - he must be out of his fucking mind.

--

Hermione was clambering back through the window and onto the landing when she heard the front door three floors below slam shut. She could hear the boys still carousing in the living room, their laughter reverberating up the stairwell. Someone must have just arrived, she thought. Otherwise the rest of them would be looking for her. It usually meant bad news if someone had to leave the safe house this late.

She dusted off her robes and made her way to the stairs. Passing a mirror hanging lopsidedly on the wall she peered at her reflection through the smokey glass and grimaced. Her curls stuck out wildly, riotously around her face. Smudges of dirt graced her cheek and her nose. Not to mention the perpetual shadows under her eyes or the general sunken look of someone who didn’t get enough sleep. Sighing softly to herself, she moved on and down the stairs.

Her gaze was on the floor when she reached the first floor landing so she didn’t notice the other person making their way down the hall until they had collided into each other. An arm shot out to keep her from falling back into the wall and pressed into her waist. She raised a hand and gripped their forearm to steady herself before raising her eyes, an apology on her lips. And froze.

“Watch where you’re going, Granger.”

Malfoy stared down at her, his eyes dark. She was hyper aware of his arm at her waist and the feel of his arm beneath her hand. She thought she should probably say something, a smart quip to keep some appearance of normalcy between them. But the words froze in her throat.

They stood there for what felt like minutes, but Hermione knew it was only heartbeats before Draco removed his arm and she unclenched her fingers. They both moved away. Hermione willed herself to walk at a normal pace towards the stairs and down, even though she wanted to run as fast as she could.

--

Draco couldn’t sleep. Damn that stupid Mudblood bitch. The feel of her against him in the hall, the way she had stared up at him and the smudges of dirt marring her warm skin. He tossed and turned, desperately trying to will himself into the black void of sleep. It escaped him, every time. Finally, in the early hours of the morning, he gave up and levered himself out of bed. Throwing on his robes, he slipped out of his room and headed downstairs towards the kitchen. The parlor was littered with empty firewhiskey bottles - he had heard Potter and his friends getting pretty loud when he had arrived earlier that evening.

As he passed behind the couch, a strangled cry stopped him in his tracks. Frozen in place, he listened as a series of breathy whimpers and sobs emitted from what he thought had been a pile of blankets. Rounding the couch he lit his wand and peered down into the sleeping face of Granger.

Her hair fanned out around her, the curls looping wildly every which way. Her cheeks were flushed and he could see her eyes moving fast beneath the her eyelids. His eyes dropped to her hands as they clenched and unclenched on the blanket. She was twitching, her head moving from side to side. The sounds that she was making froze his blood - she was terrified. Another strangled cry broke out, then a sob. Tears streaked down her face as she whispered something too low to make out.

Draco straightened, prepared to leave her there and continue on to the kitchen. But another cry ripped from her throat, this time so full of fear that his heartbeat increased in sympathy. He dropped to his knees beside the couch and reached towards her.

The moment his hand grasped her shoulder, Hermione shrieked. But she remained asleep, her cries coming faster and real sobs beginning to wrack her too-thin frame.

“Granger! Wake up!”

He shook her gently, and then more forcefully. Finally he sat himself on the couch next to her and hauled her up into his arms. He shook her none-too-gently, until her eyes finally opened and she stared, horrified, into his eyes.

“It’s just a dream.”

She stared, shocked and stiff as a board. And then, as he watched, her face crumpled like a paper bag. Tears filled her eyes and slid unheeded down her flushed cheeks. She didn’t sob, didn’t cry out as she had when asleep, but the soft sound of her breath hitching was bad enough. She leaned into him then, pressing herself against him. She was trembling.

Draco sat rigid for a moment and then, with a mental shrug of his shoulders and a soft “Oh, bloody hell,” he let his arms wrap around her. An eye for an eye, he supposed. She shook against him, her breath hot against his collarbone. He let his palms trace circles on her back as she relaxed into him, her breath quieting and her trembling abating.

“What is this, Malfoy?”

Her voice, quiet and raw, emerged from that great cloud of hair that was currently tickling his face. He grimaced slightly, unsure of how to respond.

“What is what, Granger?”

She pulled away from him slightly, but not too far - as if she didn’t want to lose the contact. She peered up at him, her eyes bright with both tears and curiosity.

“This,” she said, tilting her chin slightly and flapping her hand in a vague motion, encompassing his arms around her and, he supposed, her arms around him all those weeks ago. And the kiss, he thought wryly. Let’s not forget about the kiss.

“I don’t know, Granger. I really don’t know.”

She nodded slightly, shrugging a shoulder as if to say “tell me about it.” But she didn’t move away. After a moment, she blushed slightly and ducked her head.

“Look, I think it has something to do with our...situation. The war, I mean. Spending so much time fighting - we’re so young - not a lot of time to live normally - being in these safe houses - I mean -”

“You mean we need this. Human contact.”

She nodded, avoiding his eyes. Draco sighed.

“I guess I can understand that.”

She glanced up at him, clearly surprised. He smirked. She obviously hadn’t thought about big bad Draco Malfoy needing human contact. Well, it was a persona he had nurtured well.

Neither one of them mentioned the glaring fact that Hermione would probably have been more comfortable having “human contact” with Potter, or Weasel or any of the other young Gryffindor bucks. Draco pushed down the alarm bells ringing in his brain. It felt too good. He had to admit it. After seeing his father - after everything that had happened recently, including the ramping-up of conflict and casualties in the war - he needed this. She was right about that.

He tightened his arms around her, pulled her back against him. She relaxed into him, her head dropping to his shoulder as he lowered them back against the arm of the couch. She stretched her body out beside his, one arm flung over his waist. Her warmth blotted away everything - having her there beside him made thinking about her null and void - and sleep finally, blissfully, overtook him.