I Swear It

When Hermione Jean Granger had first watched Draco Malfoy light a cigarette, she'd stood frozen in front of him for what felt like several hours.

Because dammit if she'd ever seen someone look so incredibly attractive with their arms crossed, leaning back against a wall with smoke trailing from their lips. And dammit if she didn't want to throw all caution to the wind and pin him against the bricks with the most desperate kiss she'd ever given him.

It was right about then that she'd decided to banish her previous objections to the practice as a whole, just for the sake of watching him while he did it.

Draco, to his credit, didn't seem to notice the way she stared. Only once or twice did she ever think he'd finally caught her, only to meet her eyes for a moment and smile innocently before looking away again. If he knew about her particular obsession, he never brought it up. And if he noticed how increasingly eager she was to shag him after he was finished, he also kept it to himself.

And so, the two of them—even after two years of dating and five of marriage—never actually discussed the role his habit played in keeping Hermione on her toes.

But when Draco began to cough when reading in bed at night, or grow winded after one trip up the stairs, or choke up spots of blood over the toilet, the novelty of it all quickly wore off.

He told her it was nothing. That he'd probably picked up some strange sickness from Theo. Of course, she would nod, and say she wasn't concerned. But Hermione Granger was a horrible liar, especially when she tried to lie to herself, and when a month of coughing up blood became four, she could no longer sit idly by and let it happen.

So she scheduled a doctor's appointment. Just to ease her mind, she told him. Just to make sure nothing was wrong, which he insisted it wasn't.

But when the two of them were seated in cold, metal-backed hospital chairs at St. Mungo's, with the healer's sympathetic eyes on them like he'd already given the diagnosis, Hermione felt her stomach drop through the floor.

"Mr. Malfoy," he began, "I prefer to be blunt in these types of situations, because I believe it's cruel to instill any kind of false hope."

The world was slowing to a stop around her. Hermione was sure of it. Because this wasn't happening, this wasn't happening, this wasn't happening...

"I am sorry to tell you that your diagnostic spells have revealed several spots on your lungs. Cancerous spots—a muggle term—that are unfortunately past the point of successful treatment, even with magical healing."

She could hear her own heartbeat. She could feel Draco's through his fingertips, woven between hers like ivy vines. She closed her eyes, imagining them creeping up the wall of their manor, growing into a thicket of leaves and stalks that guarded her heart from whatever else the healer had to say.

"The best plan now would be for you to return home with your wife, and spend whatever time you have left together in a place where you're comfortable..."

Maybe he kept talking.

Maybe he didn't.

But Hermione didn't hear anything else before she closed her eyes, took in a sharp breath, and promptly passed out against the back of her chair.

Draco Malfoy was not afraid of dying.

Not anymore, at least.

He used to be, back when he was younger, and the most terrifying thing in his life was having to face the Dark Lord, or watching his parents tremble and beg before the same man as they were punished for disappointing him.