Out of Time

Chapter 48

I have seen the moment of my greatness flicker,
And I have seen the eternal Footman hold my coat, and snicker,
And in short, I was afraid.

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

The violent push from Draco is so startling that it has the opposite effect. She freezes, stunned and gaping at him.

"Go!" he screams furiously, and that gets her moving. Harry's yanking at her sleeve and that chooses the direction. She has no idea if it's the right one or not, but off they go. After six or seven sprinting strides towards the woods, she turns to check on Draco.

Down the wooded hill, his back is to her. His feet seem to be moving backwards, but he faces his (their?) opponents with his wand drawn. Magic crackles around him, even at this distance, and she feels a chill. How many cracks of apparition had she heard? How many are there? Did she and Harry run the right way? They have no way of knowing, and she puts on a fresh burst of speed to grab Harry's hand. She won't be separated from him.

* * *

Draco sees nothing to his rear, of course. Draco is fully preoccupied with the scene before him, of this quartet of Snatchers slowly advancing through the pine needles and rotted autumn leaves - advancing on them all, although from the sound of it, Hermione and Potter are expanding their lead. Potter had better be doing something useful, Draco seethes. The least that prat can do is look after Hermione while Draco does the heavy lifting.

He hasn't the slightest idea why they're here - what made the Snatchers show up now of all times, and how they knew where to find the three of them. Their apparition was precise. It had to be something specific but he hasn't time to consider it now. Now, his only consideration is stalling them long enough for Hermione to get away.

Why hadn't they had a specific meeting point, if things were to go to hell unexpectedly? Draco's intention would be to head back to Tankerton Beach in Kent, based solely off the catastrophe in Godric's Hollow. It had been the shouted suggestion, and the one they'd eventually used. He'd rely on repetition resonating in Hermione's mind as well, and thinks there's a decent chance she'd feel similarly. It's as good a mock plan as any, but he still curses their complacency to not have one already established.

His own wellbeing is also of concern, of course. Draco has no desire to be dragged in front of the Dark Lord (or his father, for that matter, or his charming aunt) and displayed as a traitor. He can't allow himself to be captured. And he won't allow her to be captured, either. He knows what they'll do to her. He doesn't think she'll begrudge him doing what he has to do. It's not going to be pretty.

But Hermione wouldn't want him captured, either. He knows this as much as he knows his own middle name. Even if she'd wrinkle her cute little nose at his methods, she'd want him to get away cleanly. She wants him to be safe. She wants him with her.

His love for her is so visceral it hurts. Every horrible side of him that she's seen, she's accepted. She's accepted it with a magnanimous evenness to her, a logical assessment of facts. And she loves him all the same. It's more than he deserves; far more.

He'll never give her up, and he'll never let them have her.

To that end, he abandons any mild lingering compunctions he may have held. Pledging to send his godfather a belated 'thank you' note, Draco draws a deep breath and readies his wand, twiddling it between his fingers.

They didn't expect him to stand still. Three of them emerge from the deep shadows of early morning, and Draco doesn't recognise a single one. Good; he'd rather not be tempted to hesitate, even for a second. One is short and squat, not unlike a Carrow in build, and this endears him to Draco's worse impulses. He's pale and sweaty, and looks like he'd rather be anywhere but in the middle of the forest outside Whitby.