Time and Tide

Chapter 7

Chapter 7

Hermione Apparated them to the center of Malfoy Manor's drawing room.

A deathly quiet hung over the manor, its interior dark despite the noontime sun shining outside. A shudder crawled down Hermione's spine, and sweat broke out beneath her arms and across her palms. They shouldn't be here. This place was wrong, and it would bring them nothing but pain.

Draco dropped her hand, though Hermione was uncomfortable enough that she wouldn't have minded holding onto him a little while longer.

"This way."

Draco kept his wand unlit, comfortable with the dark, twisting hallways of his childhood home. Hermione stayed close behind, unreasonably afraid of getting lost. They moved quickly and quietly, the fall of their footsteps prompting whispered questions from some of the portraits. They ignored the comments, hurrying up the curving stairs and turning west.

Light flickered through a partially cracked door at the end of a dark hallway. An iron-rich miasma hung in the air. Draco stopped, his hands curled into fists.

"Draco..."

She wanted to help him, but didn't know what to offer. Her fingers drifted toward his, and the back of their hands brushing prompted him into movement. He strode down the hall like a man approaching the gallows, long since resigned to his fate. Hermione kept a step behind him until they reached the cracked door. Then, he held out a staying hand.

It felt wrong to let him go alone. She took his wrist. He looked back at her, eyes flickering like silver candles in the unsteady light. An understanding beneath words passed between them, and Draco turned away from her. Together, they rounded the threshold.

Scabior had been telling the truth.

The scene defied sense. Hermione's eyes could not rest for too long in one place before instinctively moving to another, lingering only long enough to register the whole of the carnage without letting her identify its component parts. Draco's breathing quickened. When the sound of air wheezing through his throat finally broke through her numbness, he was in the midst of a full blown panic attack.

Hermione dragged him from the room and followed him to the floor. He sank against the wall, folded uncomfortably: knees at his chest, elbows past his knees, head sunk into his hands. She'd had her share of panic attacks and had watched others in the Order dissolve in similar ways. The only way out was through, and there was nothing she could do but be present.

With some effort, she shifted Draco away from the wall and placed herself behind him. She spread her legs and moved close, wrapping her arms around his heaving chest and placing her cheek on the flat space between his shoulder blades. Ginny often got like this, late at night when she lingered too long on how much she had to lose. They would sit together for hours, breathing and crying, trading deep-seated fears and secret dreams that bordered on hopeful.

Hermione closed her eyes and focused on her breathing. Her inhales were deliberate, her exhales purposeful, and the movement of her chest against Draco's back forced him to match her cadence. Once he'd steadied, she lifted her head and dropped her arms. She shifted away from him, breaking all contact. She needed to separate herself from reality, to somehow ignore the fact that she'd been the one holding him together as he threatened to shatter. To forget that she'd fulfilled part of the silent contract that had allowed her access to the manor in the first place.

Draco, however, was unable to achieve the same level of detachment. He couldn't meet her eyes.

"We can't stay here," he said to his shoes.