Chapter Text
The dragon’s eyes—
Well, scratch that, Malfoy’s eyes—she corrects. Although Hermione would very much like to have a proper conversation with the said dragon-slash-animagus to confirm this fact. Call it intuition, paired with the undeniable truth that the dragon eyes—now glowing with savage fire—look far too familiar to be a coincidence.
Either way, those eyes now flicker up and darken—the same way Malfoy’s would sometimes do—when they land on the rope dangling from her neck to the roof.
He opens his enormous mouth, clearly intending to blaze through it. She really hopes he knows how to control his fire, because if that climb down the tower was anything to go by, precision is a skill not yet acquired. Hermione just escaped death; she has no desire to end her day barbecued by an apprentice-dragon.
But his aim is spot-on. Flames burst, and both her and Cho’s ropes disintegrate in a shower of sparks. She may not be entirely certain it’s Malfoy, but the dragon is definitely on their side.
“Do you think the Order sent it?” Cho asks, staring up in awe as they help each other untangle what’s left of the ropes.
Hermione doesn’t have time to answer before she sees Rosier lifting her wand toward the dragon.
And Merlin knows why—maybe it’s her hopeless tendency toward anthropomorphism, though in this case, attributing human characteristics to an animal sounds about right—but she throws herself at Rosier, dragging her down.
The dragon lets out a long, offended roar, and just as Hermione secures Rosier’s wand and pushes herself back up, the four guards far on the platform vanish in a single burst of flame.
Just to be safe, Hermione takes five steps back, right before Isabelle Rosier meets the same end. The dragon spits another jet of fire so powerful Hermione doesn’t even have time to appreciate the look of terror starting to paint her face.
All that’s left of Rosier is a pitiful pile of ash, promptly swept away by the dragon’s tail as it turns toward Hermione and Cho.
Now that they’re no longer in imminent danger of dying by hanging, Hermione pauses to really look at the creature—their apparent saviour.
Calling it impressive doesn’t come close.
It’s not her first encounter with dragons, so she hardly swayed by the usual theatrics: the imposing size, the intimidating claws and teeth, the enormous bat-like wings or the general terrorizing stance. Sure, it’s pretty—all black and now that she squints, she notices that each scale gleams faintly with a silvery shimmer, catching flashes of steel in the dim light. Even the crown of horns shines with the same iridescent silver.
No, she’s not that gullible little girl anymore. The one who spent two summers in Romania fawning over Charlie Weasley’s dragons and memorizing every breed like she’d be quizzed at the end of summer.
What makes this dragon special is that, for all its unmistakably dragon-like traits, it looks eerily human. From its blue-grey eyes, shooting frozen fire, to the subtle way it expresses emotion, everything about it feels too familiar.
Hermione takes a cautious step forward—prompting a panicked intake of breath from Cho—and raises her hand toward his snout.
The dragon lowers its head. She gives it a tentative pat, and that’s all it takes. Its tense frame eases, it closes its eyes, nuzzling softly into her palm.
“I know you, right?” She murmurs, half a laugh in her voice. And if there’d been any doubt left, the trademark eye-roll—yes, somehow even in dragon form—confirms it. “Malfoy?” She whispers, too low for Cho to hear.
Another eye roll.
She’ll take that as a yes.
Having clearly reached his limit for clarifications, the dragon stomps in place and huffs impatiently. Expressing his very understandable desire to get the hell out of this place, he points his snout toward the smashed roof.
“We have to get everyone out,” Hermione says to Cho, then turns to the dragon, hands on hips. “And you’re going to help us. Right?”
The irony of arguing with a creature twenty times her size isn’t lost on her. He, too, seems to find her bold to the point of lunacy, lowering his head to glare at her. As if sheer intimidation might change her mind.
But saving the remaining prisoners is not negotiable, and Hermione can be remarkably stubborn.
In a show of great annoyance, he sighs hard, the gust ruffling her hair. Then, he lowers his long neck to the ground in what can only be described as an invitation to hitch a ride.
“Should we take that as a yes?” Cho wonders out loud.
Another huff.
“I think so.”
Hermione climbs up first, which is easier said than done, and once she’s secured, she reaches down to pull Cho up behind her.
“So, what’s the plan?”
A legitimate question, and one they probably should have asked before the dragon takes off and plummets straight down. The two witches might not have a plan, but Malfoy apparently does. They land onto the ground floor, and he goes straight for the nearest cell, spitting a jet fire—not to roast its occupant, but a warning to step back.
Hermione’s heart lurches, and she’s just about to yell at him when she realizes what he’s doing. The flames are hot enough to burn through the two-foot-thick wall, leaving the prisoner gaping in stunned disbelief as the stone melts away.
“Bloody brilliant!” Cho exclaims, and though Hermione silently agrees, she wishes she’d toned down the enthusiasm. Because of course the dragon preens, puffing up like he’s the king of the place. She can practically see the smug, Malfoy-shaped smirk.
He struts to the next cell, repeating the same thing, and by the time they reach the upper levels, Rosier’s wand proves handy, allowing Hermione to conjure ladders for the free prisoners to climb down.
In less than five minutes, the remaining captives are assembled on the ground floor, waiting for instructions.
When the dragon lands again, Hermione and Cho slide down his scales, a far easier, although not more graceful, process than mounting the beast.
He glances toward the exit and huffs, clearly inconvenienced. He can’t fit through the corridors to lead them out, and that seems to exasperate him to no end.
“Meet us outside?” Hermione calls, tilting her head toward the open roof, the only way big enough for him.
He doesn’t look thrilled by the suggestion, but a sizzling jet of light from above—barely missing his cheek—cuts short his indecision.
“Macnair!” someone shouts. Hermione looks up just in time to see the man lowering his wand. Bold move, she thinks. Trying to incendio a dragon.
Offended, the dragon roars and unleashes a retaliatory flame, but Macnair’s already gone. Before flying after him, the dragon gives Hermione a firm nudge with his snout, urging her and the others toward the exit.
Hermione glances back just once, before he turns upward, wings unfurling, and she turns forward, leading the crowd through the corridors with Cho. They’re just less than twenty this time, making the escape far easier. She keeps her wand high, scanning every corner for movement.
Behind them, the dragon’s roar rolls through the prison, followed by the crackle of fire and the beat of wings clawing upward.
For the second time today, she feels the satisfying caress of cold wind and salty air, and this time, she dares to hope it’s for good.
She closes her eyes for a single second, breathing in what might finally be freedom, when she’s suddenly crushed into a solid, familiar embrace.
“We said ten minutes.” Ron scolds into her hair.
Her mind spins, unable to process how he’s here. Didn’t he leave with the others? Where are the rest?
“Couldn’t leave you here, Mione. Not again.” He murmurs, answering what she hadn’t asked aloud. He releases her, but only to grab her hand and signal the others to follow.
“I brought the first group back to the harbour in Duncansby Head.” Ron continues as they run toward what she assumes is the dock. Cho’s voice echoes behind them, urging the group to hurry. “Then tied all the boats together and brought them back here.”
They reach Azkaban’s dock, where fifteen or so canoes lined up, each still tied with ropes. At the top of the stairs leading down, Ron’s steps falter, and she nearly tumbles, but he catches her arm and turns to her, eyes searching hers. Around them, the frantic rush people rushing to the canoes fades to background noise.
“I thought—” He starts, then swears under his breath. “When it was time to go and you were not there, I rushed back inside to find you, but heard a skirmish back here.” He gestures toward the dock. “I couldn’t leave them. Half were wandless. You’d have killed me if—”
“Ron—”
“So, I turned back, helped to fight the guards who were trying to push people into the water,”
“Ron.”
“And I then I counted, and—bloody hell—there weren’t enough boats for the group still inside! So I took the first group out, hoping that you’d be there once—”
“Ron!” Hermione cuts in, cupping his face to stop his spiral into guilt. “It’s okay, it’s more than okay. You did amazing. I was—” She lets out a dry laugh, not knowing how to summarize the last few hours.
Let’s see…Dolohov hexed me, dragged me back to a cell, got his dick cut off by Malfoy—yes, Ron, Malfoy—who happens to be a bloody dragon Animagus. Very convenient, since Cho and I were nearly hanged but, surprise, saved by Malfoy-slash-said-dragon. So, you know. The usual.
Best not to dwell on details.
“There was…a hold-up,” She settles on. “But everything turned out fine. Let’s go.”
She tries to pull Ron down the stairs, but a looming shadow cuts across the sky. Not that she’s surprised. She’s kept one ear tuned throughout their escape, catching every flutter of wings and every roar of fire, unconsciously making sure that he’s alright. Not that she cares. No. It’s just…the amount of guilt she’d have to endure if something happened to him after he saved her, twice, would be unbearable. There. That’s the only reason.
Ron’s mouth falls open, and that is surprising in itself. Did he miss the very distinct sound of a dragon tearing through Azkaban? One would have to be either deaf or terminally unobservant not to notice.
What’s more jarring is his utter lack of self-preservation skills combined with that classic strain of male bravado, when he shoves Hermione behind him, as if that might stop a dragon from roasting them like baby chickens. Said dragon, by the way, who looks very much like he’s considering it, judging by the way his eyes narrow at them. Or more precisely, by the way those eyes linger on Ron’s hands still gripping her arm.
“It’s fine,” She offers, stepping out from behind him. “I know him.”
She approaches the dragon now perched on a turret far too small for his size, yet he manages it with surprising grace, the stone somehow holding beneath his weight.
Ron yanks her back by the arm, but the dragon exhales a short, irritated burst of flame that halts him in his tracks.
“Him?” Ron sputters. “Who is it?”
“I can’t tell you.”
Not yet, anyway. She needs to talk to Malfoy first—to confirm which side he’s truly on. He may have saved her twice today, along with every remaining prisoner, but that doesn’t mean he’s betrayed Voldemort. The Vow wouldn’t let him. And until she knows for sure, she can’t exactly announce to the world that Draco Malfoy is a dragon—an advantage that could tip the entire war—especially when she doubts even Voldemort knows.
“In fact,” She realizes aloud, “I can’t go back with you Ron.”
The end of the war begins to sketch itself with disconcerting clarity in her mind. Her eyes flicker between the dragon and Ron, whose earlier words echo back at her.
“…Just two cakes left, Mione, two!...”
“…maybe the snake could be…”
“…must be, keeps her always so close…”
That’s it. Two horcruxes left, one of which by Voldemort’s side. She never saw Nagini at the Manor, but like Ron said, the snake must be close.
She has to go back. Not just for the snake, but for the last Horcrux. And what better way to do it than alongside Malfoy, returning to his home that shelters their creator.
“I might have a way to find the cakes left,” She says quietly. “But for that, I need to go back with him.”
Ron blinks rapidly, as though he might see something that might explain her words. She can’t blame him: it is rather confusing. She’s still sorting through the logistics herself.
“Hermione, Ron, let’s go!” Cho shouts impatiently from one of the canoes.
“Trust me?” She says, repeating their same old goodbye that, ironically, always ends with him swearing never to trust her again.
A heavy thud sounds behind her, the dragon descending from his perch. Ron shoots him a glare, probably meant to look threatening, though it loses some of its effect as the shadow overhead grows darker and larger.
“Fine,” He snaps, digging into his pockets. He pulls out two Galleons and presses them into her hand. “Can you at least charm these so we can communicate?”
Hermione grins and gives him a quick, wet kiss on the cheek. “Brilliant idea.”
A rumbling growl rolls low behind her, and a disgruntled snort ghosts against the back of her neck.
After casting a Protean Charm on the two Galleons—like she’d done countless times back in 5th year with Dumbledore’s Army—she hands one back to Ron and urges toward the stairs.
“You’d better write as soon as you’re safe, or I swear—”
“Yes, Ron.” She rolls her eyes. “Now go.”
He mumbles something under his breath as he climbs down the steps, and she watches him hop into same canoe as Cho, who shoots Hermione a quizzical look.
“I have my own ride!” Hermione calls down, jerking a thumb toward the dragon behind her.
She finds it hilarious. The dragon does not.
When she turns, his gaze is filled with panic and darts between her and the boats below, wings twitching in agitation. He shuffles forward on his front claws and nudges her urgently with his snout.
“I need to talk to you,” She explains, but it doesn’t calm him. “Can you fly us somewhere safe, where we’re not about to be ambushed by a herd of Death Eaters?”
He lowers his head, eyes burning, a silent command: go. He looks ready to grab her by the collar and fling her into one of the canoes himself. But when she doesn’t move, he lets out an aggravated sound, his tail lashing behind him.
Resigned, or perhaps realizing the danger of staying out in the open, he bends his neck in deep annoyance. She takes it as an invitation, nonetheless.
Practice makes perfect, but when it comes to mounting a dragon, Hermione’s fairly certain perfection is off the table.
She settles in the hollow of its neck, just below the crown, wedged between two taller scales along his spine for balance. As he launches with no warning (the prick), her hands snap to one of the horns in his crown.
Before the astonished eyes of the prisoners sailing away, led by Ron and Cho, they’re already soaring above the clouds after only a few wingbeats. Ron’s eyes are wide as saucers, probably regretting trusting her, yet again.
The North Sea’s air threatens to turn her into a block of ice before she remembers she can finally use warming charms again, now that she has a wand. She briefly debates casting one on Malfoy, then decides it would be both unnecessary and far too considerate.
She glances back, pleased with the growing distance between them and Azkaban. When the prison shrinks to a dot on the horizon, it blinks out of view, disappearing under the concealment wards, making it unplottable. They must have crossed the border, an even better reason to be relieved.
Ahead, tall sandstone cliffs heave into view, topped with long stretches of lush green. They fly over it, then dive abruptly between two cliffs, revealing a hidden sea cave. It’s large enough for a smooth landing, but secluded enough to remain unseen.
After a somewhat gracious dismount—where she nearly manages to land on both feet—Hermione gets up and rounds on the dragon.
“Can you switch to your oh-so pleasant human for,” She deadpans, “I need to talk with you, and I don’t fancy translating dragon at the moment.”
The dragon shakes his head from side to side, an easy enough international gesture to translate, though it infuriates her all the same.
“Why?”
His eyes dive into hers, and the sea cave morphs into her Occlumency maze, where Malfoy—in the flesh—appears.
He looks properly pissed.
“This was your chance to get out!” He shouts, getting in her face, her eyes blazing. “Why must you be always so self-destructive, you daft martyr!”
“That’s what I wanted to talk to you about!” She fires back. “But your royal highness prefers to stay a creature that makes communication impossible. By the way, when did you become an Animagus? Because I’d have a few pointers on being a dragon. First, your agility sucks, second—”
“Oh please,” He snaps. “Go ahead, humansplain me the error of my ways. Forgive me if my first transformation wasn’t flawless—I didn’t plan for it to be today, I—”
“You never transformed before?”
“No.”
She’d had doubts, but the admission still comes as a surprise. Did something prompt his transformation? Becoming an Animagus doesn’t just happen. It takes a month-long ritual—mandrake leaf, full moon, dew and expert skills in transfiguration and potions, if she remembers correctly.
“And I can’t transform back,” he adds, scuffing his boot against the ground. “Not yet. Somehow, the Vow doesn’t reach me in dragon form, but the minute I switch back and actively help you escape, it’ll kill me. Occlumency won’t be enough to block it.” He exhales, kicking a pebble. “It worked for a few minutes, but when they took you away—I…”
He glances around, unfocused, haunted. “It was too much. Not that I had much of a choice—by then, I’d already gone through all the steps last month. The transformation just…happened.”
“Morphic Non-Continuity.” She supplies automatically, recalling something from a Magical Law textbook.
“What?”
“The principle by which a magical vow can only bind the entities recognized at the time it’s made. Not any of its alternate states, like an animal form.”
He blinks. Her bookwormness tends to have that effect.
“Yes,” He says at last, grinning. “Well, I knew that.”
“Clearly you didn’t, since you didn’t mention it.”
“I didn’t know the name, but I knew the concept.”
“Fine.”
“Fine.”
They glare at each other, but mostly with exhausted amusement.
“So, all that to say, I can’t switch back,” He concludes. “Not if I do anything else that doesn’t include dragging you back to the Dark Lord.”
“One bird, two stones.” She crosses her arms. “I need to go back to your house anyway.”
His face tightens, as if she’s switched to an invented language.
“Hilarious, Granger.” A deep laugh rumbles through him, but the humor doesn’t reach his eyes.
She only arches an eyebrow, silently declaring that no, she isn’t joking, that this is a real and serious plan. A reckless plan formed barely an hour ago, but genius all the same.
This is how this war ends.
Realization stretches on his face into a mask of horror.
“The Dark Lord will kill you once he sees you.” Malfoy breathes. “Or worse. Rage doesn’t begin to cover what happened when he thought you’d escaped. He wanted your head in a glass box…to send it to Potter for refusing to surrender.”
He steps closer, almost threateningly, if she were the sort to be afraid. Which she isn’t.
“Or at least, what would be left of it.” He tips her chin up, one thumb brushing against her eyebrow. “First, he said he’d send your left eye. Then, the right. He’d cut out your tongue, and your lips, parceling them off one by one, keeping you alive—”
His hand wraps around her neck, surprisingly gentle compared to the crudeness of his words.
“—until he slit your throat.”
Hermione ignores the shiver that skitters up her spine. She needs a way to get closer to Voldemort, preferably one that keeps her face intact…
“Which side are you on?”
Enough with guessing his loyalties. One minute he’s assisting Voldemort in Slovenia for Merlin-knows-what reason, and the next he’s helping her flee. She’s done feeling confused. If she has to go back to his ancestral home, she could really use Malfoy as an ally.
There’s calculation in the stillness of his eyes. She knows that look: it’s the same one that Ron gets over a chessboard, stuck between two moves.
He lowers his hand, and she curses herself for already missing its warmth.
“The side that favours my interest…” His eyes snap shut, then open, suddenly clear with something she could describe as thrust. “And my family’s.”
“And by interests, you mean…”
“Safety.”
“Great,” She says, a quiet rush of relief threading through her voice. If he’d said power, or money, or influence, she’d have nothing to bargain with. But safety? That, she can do. The Order will help her make sure of it.
“So, if I had a way to end the war while keeping you and your parents safe, you wouldn’t care what happens to the Republic and its leader?” She tips her chin in defiance, just to see what he’ll do. “Your master?”
One eyelid twitched, subtle but revealing.
“You know how to get rid of him?” He asks, almost with childlike wonder. “I thought…” He frowns. “He’s immortal.”
“I do, and no, he isn’t.” Her smile stretches into something maniacal. “I just have to get closer to him, and that implies you bringing me back to your house.”
He can’t hide the exhilaration in his eyes. He takes a step back, thumb snapping to his lower lip as if deep in thought. He starts pacing around the small garden of her maze, the gravel crunching softly under his boots. Every few steps, he stops, calculating, like he’s testing the edges of an idea.
She forces her arms to stay crossed, pretending indifference, even if she’s dying to know what he’s thinking about.
“I might have a way.” He says. “To bring you back to the Manor, and keep you safe from him.”
“Yes?” She squeals, despite herself.
“But it’s risky.”
“Tell me.”
“I don’t even know if it’ll work. If it doesn’t—I don’t know what I’ll—” He stops short, jaw tightening. “You won’t like it.”
“Malfoy, spit it out.”
“I just need to check something with my parents, if it’s even doable.”
“Malfoy—” She groans with impatience.
“I never told you the second part of the Vow,” he says suddenly, and she has to pinch herself not to slap him for dancing around the point. “The one that the Dark Lord swore, in exchange of our loyalty.”
She tries to recall Theo’s explanations. “Something about not harming you or your parents.”
“Almost.” He works his jaw like it itches. He’s nervous. “He swore that no harm, by his hand or his order, shall ever befall on our family.”
Family.
Clearly, there’s something she doesn’t get, because that’s the end of his explanation. The colour rises in his face, like he’s almost ashamed of what he’s suggesting.
Family.
The Vow protects his family. And Hermione needs protection from Voldemort.
A primitive warning sounds in the back of her mind as she tries to reconcile these two facts.
Until—
It clicks.
She gasps, hand flying to her mouth. “Are you suggesting that we…”
She can’t even finish this crazy sentence. It’s too absurd. Surely, Draco Malfoy, pureblood royalty, isn’t proposing she become part of his family?
“You’d be safe,” he carefully says. Still anxious, but something close to hope gleams into his wide eyes. “If you’d agree to be my wife.”