A/N: Written for The Quidditch League Fanfiction Competition season three round one. I'm Keeper for The Wimbourne Wasps and my prompt was to write about Chaser 1's otp which is Dramione. Enjoy!

With love,

Wren Gebel

It Was a Quiet Night

It was a quiet night. A soft breeze rustled the waves of the nearby ocean and sent a breath of salt swirling through the cracked window of Bill and Fleur Weasley's upper guest bedroom.

The house was squat and stony. It slouched up the beach with a miraculous view of the ocean out the side windows. It was small, but homey, and not one of its occupants would give it up for anything right then.

In fact, there were more residing in the house than there should have been. And more buried in the soft sand just outside it than there should have been.

It was only five hours ago that the little cottage welcomed eight more pale and trembling guests, of which included Ronald Weasley, Hermione Granger, Harry Potter, and a dying Dobby the House Elf.

Six witches and wizards and one House Elf had just escaped the Malfoy Manor with one more than they would have guessed. They had stumbled up the beach with blood on their faces and terror in their eyes. The salt water bit their wounds and, Hermione especially, fought to keep back whimpers of pain as the gritty water raked against her forearm.

The group struggled into the house and all fought to keep standing upright while Fleur buzzed in a panic to make up beds and soup and potions for her sudden guests.

Harry left the room unnoticed and trudged through the rattling grass up the beach with a dead weight in one arm and a shovel in the other.

The Gringotts Goblin, too, vanished from the kitchen without eating and settled himself in a lonely room at the back of the house.

The rest stayed while the soup bubbled on the stove. The smell curled under their noses, making their stomachs growl, but aside from the rumbling of their bellies and the clanking of the ladle against the inside of the pot, the room was silent.

The eighth, and unexpected guest tried his best to escape the room unnoticed. He felt like a burden, unwanted, and hated by all but one he was with. It was because of her that he was there, and it was because of her that he stayed and timidly took a bowl and a scoop of soup.

Draco Malfoy was a dead man walking. He knew that. He had been for a long time. But now it was both sides that wanted his corpse.

He had recognized Harry Potter right away, despite his swollen face. Joy and dread had filled him at the same time. Draco knew Potter showing up could be his escape, but he also knew at the same time that it could mean hell. He'd also recognized her and his heart had fallen miles down in his stomach. He clenched his jaw and battled against tears because he knew Hermione Granger would die there, and yet, he hadn't let that happen.

And so there he was, sitting beside her at a chipped wooden table with a spot of soup under his nose. No one said anything to him. Or her. Not even Ron Weasley. For that he was grateful, so he didn't say anything either and he tried not to scowl into his soup.

After the pot was empty, the chairs scraped against the wood floor and the bowls and spoons clattered as they were thrown into the sink.

Fleur directed Hermione and Luna Lovegood up a crooked staircase to the second level of their home where she showed them the bathroom and a diminutive guest bedroom with two beds on opposite sides of the room.

Luna offered Hermione the shower first and she gratefully took it. She turned it on as hot as she could stand and shivered pleasantly as she stepped in. When was the last time she'd had a proper shower? She couldn't remember, but it didn't matter. The beads of water melted on her skin and washed away the grit and grime from the horrors of that day.

She scrubbed furiously until her skin was bright red, but there was one spot that wouldn't rub away, no matter how hard she tried.

The word Mudblood glared an angry red on the inside of her forearm. It had stopped bleeding a while ago, but the skin was still virgin to the outside world and stung at the slightest brush. Hermione clutched it with her other hand to cover the brand. She couldn't hold back her pain any longer. Pressing her forehead to wall, she let the shower waterfall over her and pour down her face to mix with her tears. The grip on her arm tightened against the filthy word while she prayed it would be gone when she moved her hand.

It wasn't.

Draco claimed the shower downstairs before anyone could tell him differently. He hadn't been dirty or bloody, but he felt like it.

The water was cold, but he didn't care. He stepped in, but quickly decided he was too tired to stand so he took a seat under the stream and watched the bubbles swirl around the drain.

There was a bottle of soap on the only shelf he could reach from his position. It pooled in his hand as he poured it, not bothering to figure out if it was shampoo, conditioner, body wash, or all three. He rubbed his hands together, coating them with the silky blue soap, and then slapped them over his face. He spread it around his face, focusing on his eyes and temples, imagining that the soap would wash all he'd heard, seen, and done that day.

When he was finished, he used the yellow towel by the washbasin to swipe away the beads of water. Shivering from the cold shower, he wrapped the towel around himself, but it didn't do much.

He glanced at himself in the mirror and was grateful it was clouded over so he couldn't see himself properly. But at the same time he was suddenly overwhelmed with the realization of what he had done. He'd saved Hermione's life, but he was certain to lose his own. Here he was, in the light, but he could still feel the dark itching the back of his neck as if the Dark Lord was lurking in the shadows right behind him.

Biting back tears, he gently scratched his Dark Mark. Like Hermione and her scar, Draco had fought tooth and nail against the Mark and it had hurt as bad as someone carving a knife in his skin. It was stinging now, just enough to be irritating. Draco recognized it was probably his father telling him he had one last chance to come back.

He could do it. He could walk out of the warm cottage, up the beach, past the rattling grass and the wards to apparition point where he would go back home. Back to the towering walls, endless dark halls, cold rooms, and pressing ceilings. Back to his mother who would be weeping, his father who would be begging for his son's life at the feet of the Dark Lord, his aunt who would teach him to never protect a mudblood again and make sure he learned his lesson.

There were a pair of faded blue and white striped pyjamas hanging over the edge of the toilet. Bill had given them to Draco. Normally, Draco would have rather died than touch anything of the Weasleys', but he hardly thought it mattered any more.

He noted that the hems were frayed as he pulled on the bottoms and that the bottom button on the shirt had decided to go travelling. They certainly were not the expensive clothing he was used to, still, he thought it was perhaps the most comfy thing he'd ever worn. But he'd be damned if he let anyone know that.

The hallway was dark outside the bathroom. He left the door open, afraid it would squeal if he shut it, and walked carefully away. The floorboards were old and they groaned and moaned as he went. Lit only by the moonlight, Draco passed a door that had light and hushed voices spilling out of the cracks. He stopped to listen, pressing his ear to the grain of wood on the door.

"He might need it! There'll be Deatheaters after him everywhere he turns!"

"Giving him his wand is like telling him to murder us all."

"He saved us."

"It could be a trick. A way for the Deatheaters to get on the inside."

The voices continued, but Draco pushed away, scowling. It was Weasley and Potter discussing his wand. Draco had thrown it to Harry during the incident at the manor in a moment of panic. He wanted it back, but not badly enough to barge in on them, or really enough to even ask for it back. They'd give it to him when they were ready to, and Draco didn't think asking for it would get him it any sooner.

Still, in the short time his wand had been absent from him, Draco missed it. He noted it would have come in particularly handy with a Lumos spell right then to help light his way down the dark passage.

He came to the sofa that was supposed to serve as his bed for the night. A fireplace was across from it, popping and sizzling as the glowing embers died with the day. His clothing from earlier tumbled from his arms onto the cushions, but he didn't stay.

Draco walked past the window in the hall which looked away from the sea and toward the grassy pastures. He saw a large stone protruding from the ground a little ways out and knew it must be the marking for one particular Elf's grave. Ice rattled in his chest as he swallowed hard. That had been his Elf once, when he was younger. Draco used to think he was funny, always smacking himself in the head for every little mistake. Draco understood now that the Elf only beat himself in fear of worse punishment. It was a shame he had to die, Draco thought. Dobby had died saving them and Draco couldn't help but wonder if the dagger Bellatrix threw was meant for him instead of the Elf. Guilt tasted sour in the back of his throat.

Shaking his head, he found the crooked staircase, leading to the upper level of the cottage. The steps creaked in annoyance as he climbed.

It was even darker upstairs. There was no firelight flowing from the sitting area that reached where Draco stood. He let his eyes adjust in the hall and then continued to a door halfway down the hall. The whole house seemed to breathe and creak at once like a rocking ship and it kept Draco on his toes.

Inside the door he was aimed at was the small guest bedroom of Luna and Hermione. Draco peered inside. The right bed was empty. The distant sound of flowing water told him its occupant was doing as he had done, cleaning off the day. But the left bed was alive.

Hermione lay in the dark. She could feel a heavy weight in her head and chest that told her she was tired, yet she could not fall asleep. Her arm stung, her head throbbed, her throat ached. Light bounced off her glassy eyes as she stared absentmindedly at the ceiling. A light breeze wove its fingers through her still damp hair, making her shiver. She should get up and close the window, but she didn't want to move.

Movement in the doorway caught her eye. A silhouette stood inside the door frame, looking very much like a picture on a wall.

She sat up quickly, her heart pounding from the sudden scare.

"Draco?" she called, her voice sounding like sandpaper.

The silhouette took a step toward her and Draco's face passed from the shadows into the cold moonlight. She held out her hand to him, biting her lips to ward off tears.

He took her hand while she pulled back the covers on the bed and laid down. He lowered himself next to her, already starting to feel warmer, and pulled the blankets up around them.

Neither of them said anything aloud. Draco found Hermione's eyes and held on tight. Her hand came up to touch his cheek and he saw light glistening off the cuts on her arm. Hot embers burnt his chest.

He wrapped his fingers gently around her tiny wrist and peeled her hand from his face. Her brow furrowed as she watched him trace the horrid word with his eyes. It had been so long since he'd last called her the obscenity, but she feared that him seeing the word branded on her now would trigger his past self. But his eyes didn't change when he looked at it, neither did his face. When he looked back to the windows of her soul the only difference was the dilation of his pupils.

He let go of her hand, cupped her face instead, and kissed her. Her arms wrapped around his head and she breathed him in while he touched her jaw and held his lips delicately to hers.

Ronald Weasley came up the creaky stairs, his hair looking like a candle in the dark. He padded down the hall in bare feet to the room he knew Hermione would reside. There were things he wanted to talk to her about. He wanted to comfort her and ask her if it hurt.

When he reached the door he stopped. There were two hills in the blankets of Hermione's bed instead of one. The unmistakeable mop of curls splayed out like a halo next to an easily recognizable tuft of white hair.

Ron didn't know how to feel seeing Hermione lie so peacefully next to Malfoy. It roused something in his chest, but he didn't know what.

The window across the room was slightly open. A cool breeze drifted in around the pair on the bed. The lump that was Hermione shivered and a pale arm weaved around her midsection, pulling her closer.

Ron swallowed a growl and dug his nails into the wooden beams around the door frame.

"It's beautiful isn't it," lulled a quiet voice to his right.

The sweeping golden hair of Luna Lovegood tumbled down her shoulders where she floated next to Ron. A simple white nightgown hung from her shoulders, a pair of purple speckled tennis shoes dangling from her hands. Her half-lidded eyes were pointed past Ron toward the bedroom.

"Beautiful?" he grumbled.

She smiled. "How they can go from hating each other to loving each other so much."

Ron's lip twitched as he turned back to look at Hermione sleeping soundly.

"I think I'd like some tea," said Luna, setting down her shoes against the wall. "I haven't had any all day."

Ron turned back to her, frown in his brow.

"Care to join me?" she asked.

He regarded her for a moment then sighed and shrugged.

She skipped ahead and he followed her toward a simple distraction from everything.

Draco pulled Hermione closer still as a soft breeze rustled the waves of the nearby ocean and sent a breath of salt swirling through the cracked window of Bill and Fleur Weasley's upper guest bedroom. It was a quiet night.