I hope our story has a happier ending

we go down together

It's hours before things calm down enough for her to sneak away to the room of requirement.

There's the chaos of realizing Dumbledore's dead, the scramble of what it means for Hogwarts—for all of the wizarding world

Draco's at the fireplace in an oversized hoodie, clutching a crumpled piece of parchment in his fist.

The paper doesn't look old, exactly, but—the folds are worn.

(Like he's been unfolding and refolding it repeatedly for hours, desperately intaking the letter's contents over and over.)

She nearly falls in her haste to get to him, arms tight around his waist. "Thank god you're okay."

His grip on her own skin is even tighter—reassuring himself that she's here.

(That she's alive.)

"Everyone's alright?" he chokes out, face buried in her hair.

Hermione nods, letting him stroke her back as though comforting her when he's the one that needs the solace. "We're all still breathing. Bill and Lavender have some recovery ahead—magical wounds, and all that—but Madam Pomfrey was able to patch everyone else up just fine."

She hesitates before asking, but—best to get it out of the way. "Has—has he said anything about whether you—whether it's enough, or not?"

Flashing the letter in hand, Draco nods. "From my mother. He's displeased that I wasn't the one to dispatch Dumbledore, but—since I was successful in getting the Death Eaters in the castle, and Dumbledore is dead...he's decided he's feeling generous. Willing to overlook my failure, since I've proven my loyalty and diligence, if not my strength." He swallows heavily. "It feels like the worst kind of luck. The most terrible reprieve."

She gently drags her nails back and forth along his scalp. "None of this is your fault, Draco. I promise. You always so you believe in me more than anything, so believe me about this. Voldemort would've found a way somehow even if you weren't in the picture—at least this way you're doing more good than could've been done without your insight."

He's still, and she eventually coaxes him out of his robes and into sweats for pajamas, talks him into drinking some tea she'd slipped a sleeping draught into.

(Knowing he'd never be able to fall asleep, otherwise—never be able to get the image of Dumbledore falling from behind his eyes.)

(She'd had to do the same to Harry just an hour before.)

Once his eyes flutter shut, she sighs tiredly, stroking his cheekbone as he holds her tight even in sleep.

"We'll get through this, somehow." Thinking back to Lily's words to Sirius, she repeats them aloud, whispering to herself, "we haven't made it this far to only make it this far."

/

The last few weeks of term are pure chaos.

They thought they'd seen every side Hogwarts had in years past, after the Chamber was opened, after the tournament and a death on grounds, after Umbridge.

But this...this is like nothing else in the school's history.

Exams are cancelled, which—is obviously for the best, as no one has it in them to pretend to care about something as trivial as a fucking test when the war has been on their very campus.

(When their very lives are at stake.)

The downside is that there's no structure, no rhythm to the days beyond meals and attempts to process their feelings, aimless and hopeless as they stare into the abyss.