Out of Time

Chapter 38

And I have known the eyes already, known them all—
The eyes that fix you in a formulated phrase,
And when I am formulated, sprawling on a pin,
When I am pinned and wriggling on the wall,
Then how should I begin?

- The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock, T.S. Eliot

A solid ball of momentum hits Draco in the midsection, a cloak falling to the sand at their feet. Potter's left standing exposed in the middle of the beach, looking as stunned as Draco feels, but Draco doesn't have eyes for Potter.

His earlier indignities with sand are shoved aside and he collapses to the ground beneath her hurtling enthusiasm.

"Are you real?"

She says it but it could have been him. They're both nodding and saying, "Yes," like either of them said it. Hermione's tiny hands are on his cheeks, her thumbs brushing his cheekbones, and tears are on her face. How did those get there? How long have they been there? Draco rests his forehead against hers, clutching her to his chest. His arse is squashing a pile of sand that could have been some child's creation yesterday, and his girl is crying, but they're good tears.

He hopes so, anyway. His tears are good ones. He hadn't even realised they were on his cheeks until one drops down and he feels the landing. That shouldn't even be possible but he's aware of himself - and of her - in ways he never could have anticipated. She's living and breathing and tucked under his chin. Her hair is back in his face and he's encased in lilac. How does she still smell like lilac, after all this time in the woods? Draco can't inhale deeply enough. His fingers clutch her opposite shoulders, wrapped so tightly around her that he can feel every inhale.

He's forgotten about Potter entirely, who clears his throat.

"Sorry, mate, but... how are you here?"

He's not Potter's mate and probably never will be, but this does break through to some necessary discussion - and probably some eventual deflection from the obvious degradation Draco experienced at Hogwarts, where the Carrows had ensured Draco's damnification and -

Fucking Salazar, can't he think normally? He reverts back to the obvious offence, looking up from Hermione at last to glare daggers at Potter. "I'm not your 'mate.'"

"How about you tell us how you got here, anyway?"

It requires an obnoxious amount of shifting around for his hand to retrieve the Deluminator from his bag. This process is complicated by Hermione, who's solidly set on his lap and clutching his shirt in her fists, her head still tucked beneath his chin. Her breathing pattern indicates tears, something Draco would like to address, but Potter still has his wand out.

"I'll tell you up front, I can't explain how. But Dumbledore left me this. It didn't come with directions, but Snape told me he invented it. And a few hours ago, from that thing - whatever it is - I heard Hermione's voice say my name."

She looks up at last. "You heard... me?"

Draco presses his lips to her hairline, squeezing her to him. "Your voice, coming from that. It was faint and you didn't say much. But you'd say my name and I knew if I apparated, I'd come out where you were. I don't know how, like I said -"

Potter looks ready to contest the whole thing, and Draco tries to forestall it. "- but Dumbledore gave it to me. I guess you'd say he left it to me, because it arrived - over the summer," he finishes lamely, trying to avoid the phrase, 'after he died.' He's not sure why because he doesn't give a toss about Potter's feelings on the matter, but it might upset Hermione and that won't do. She's upset enough and it seems disproportionate to his arrival here, though he can't explain why. He'd love to believe she'd be this overwhelmed by Draco showing up, but this seems like more.