My first few full day in hiding is rotten. Draco left me early on July 31st, shortly after I arrived, and I spent the beginning of the day getting used to the surroundings. All of the furniture, from the sofa, the love seat, the kitchen table to the bookshelf, the dresser and the bed, are all made from transfigured materials. Draco is fine at transfiguration, but the bed isn't comfortable. I suspect it was made from a plank of wood leftover.

The house was clearly in need of being gutted. There are bugs I see crawling over the halls.

"It was built before the war," the woman who Draco has paid to watch over me says. "I mean, the muggle one."

It's some distant cousin of his. A half-blood of the Blacks, disowned a long time ago. She is old enough that I imagine she remembers World War II, if that is the kind of thing a witch like her might have noticed. Terry would know. I haven't thought about him in weeks. Before Dumbledore died, it had been months where he had barely crossed my mind.

"I'll come by twice a week to check and see if you need groceries," the woman explains. "Draco has given me a budget for your expenses. I suppose I can get you things if you like. Books."

She gestures to the bookshelf. I hadn't even unpacked when she came with groceries, shortly before noon. It's empty now, and the books I have won't fill it. I'm not sure how many I could shove onto it. Likely twenty a shelf, by five shelves. A hundred books. I certainly hope I don't have to fill it.

I don't think I've quite yet understood there will be a war. I understand so much, but this seems far away. As if it's been submerged in the black lake, and I can't even properly see its shadow.

It is hard to cook myself lunch. Well, I don't know how to cook all that well, but it is exceptionally hard given the smell of the place.

"It was abandoned in the seventies," Helena, that's the woman's name, explained. "I actually live a town over. This is all very inconvenient."

"Yes," I had agreed. "I'm painfully aware."

Just as I am painfully aware of the putrid smell.

Before dinner, I have put some things in places. The books, mostly. I haven't unpacked my clothes. It's like a vacation. At a hotel, you live out of your suitcase. I don't leave my toothbrush in the bathroom.

Draco told me not to go outside. I don't that night. I wake up early though, thrown off from not sleeping much the night before. Then, I take a walk outside. All of the Death Eaters were probably acting under the cover of darkness. They aren't going to be active in the morning. So, I walk about on August first, acutely aware that the ministry is going to be overthrown, and equally certain that I am not going to do anything about it. I walk and walk until my feet ache terribly. I do not see a body of water no matter where I go. Draco, obviously, didn't leave me a map. I know I am close enough to him that he can apparate to me, and I know that we apparated here from my house. It must be partway between us.

I just would like to look at my own reflection in a pond, rather than the rusted, cracked window above the sink.

Within the first day, I already finish a book. I brought my oil pastels, but I can't make myself draw. This place is terrible. I spray myself with perfume after showering just to hide the other smells. I do magic, practicing my skills. Maybe I'll go back to Hogwarts. If I had offered to join Dumbledore, maybe the war wouldn't be happening at all. I'm not foolish enough to think I could have stopped it. Well, maybe I am.

No one stopped me from my near petrification though. It's cynical, but why would I save a world that couldn't be bothered to save me? If I cannot save myself, how can I expect to be alive? I'm smart enough to know that it is foolhardy to fight in a war and expect to live on the other side.

That night, I have trouble sleeping. Tossing and turning keeps me up all night. Really, it shouldn't be difficult. I didn't sleep much if at all the night Draco came for me. Last night wasn't pleasant either. Three times I woke up from the sound of someone screaming, only to find out it was me. The nightmares are back from when my house was invaded. I dream of being completely aware but entirely limp and unable to sleep. I dream that it is a stormy night, and the hail that hits the ground is obsidian, the colour of the storming sky. The ceiling coming down and compressing me.

So, on the night that I know the ministry is going to fall, I lie in bed, unable to sleep. The night sky is hard to distinguish from dark clouds. It feels like the perfect night for a storm, but the only sign of harsh weather is the cool summer breeze blowing in from a window I promised Draco I wouldn't open.

Then, thunder cracks. Quietly, softly, somewhere that must be very far away from the sound of it. I hear a footstep and realize it was someone apparating without skill. I step out of bed, my feet careful on the creaking floorboards. It has to be Draco. I know it is him. The wards should have told me if it were anyone else.

I peer out the bedroom door. Down the hall, at the front entrance, Draco stands. His shoulders huff beneath his dark black cloak. It's too thick for this summer heat. His blonde hair is slicked back, the way he always had it as a child, but parts are coming apart from the sweat on his head.

"I was hoping I wouldn't wake you," he manages.

"What are you doing here?" I ask, my voice quiet even though the walls are warded from sound.

"I thought..." he trails off. "Well, I thought maybe I should set up the Fidelius Charm."

As I look at him, I know he is lying. We had mutually agreed the Fidelius Charm would not be in my best interest. He is good enough at occlumency to keep his aunt from finding out about us, but I do not know that he is good enough that he'd be able to occlude giant gaps in his memory. The brain is porous like a sponge, but the gaps left by unaltered memories would be dwarfed by the cavernous gap of something as powerful as the Fidelius Charm. It would be difficult not to notice. Even if she'd never get the information out of Draco, it's not worth putting in her mind that he's hiding something.

"Draco, I..." I trail off, looking at him. He leans slightly, and my stomach sinks. "Are you hurt?"

"Nothing significant," he manages.

I move over to him, against my better judgement. I should not be here with him in the middle of the night. One thing I hadn't considered about letting him hide me would be that he could come as he pleased. Right now, I am supposed to be furious at him.

I help Draco out of his cloak. He winces as I do. Beneath, I can see that his trousers are ripped. Blood is soaked through the fabric. The rip in the middle reveals his pale skin, unmarked.

"The surface wound is gone, but the flesh below wasn't healed properly," Draco explains. "A few others were injured worse, so they did what they could to stop the bleeding."

I help him over to the sofa, don't ask him what happened or what he did, or if Ron is alive, or if they successfully killed Harry and the war wasn't actually a war but a totalitarian coup, a quick takeover. Instead, I sit him down and get on my knees in front of him. I rip open his pants more so I can see better. The faint pink tint of his skin runs down the side. I touch it with my hand. The skin is hot.

"Did the injury feel like a blade?" I ask.

While I'm not a healer, nowhere near it, I'm not sure why he is burning up. Perhaps he was burned, or it could be infected beneath the surface. Maybe the burn could be healing. The fight might not be the reason he is sweating, but the sign of something worse.

Draco winces as I apply pressure, "I don't know. I only realized I was bleeding because my leg was wet."

"The spell didn't give you any pain?" I look up at him.

He shakes his head, "not what I meant. There was a prick, but I felt like my head was rushing even before I was hit."

Adrenaline. I don't know what is happening to him, I couldn't possibly. So, I head into the kitchen. There, I turn the tap on. I grab a cloth and douse it in the cool water. Then, I do another. I bring them over to Draco. It's all I can think to do.

"This for your leg," I tell him. "This for the rest of you. Clean up the sweat than put the cloth on the back of your neck. It'll help you keep cool."

"I don't need muggle remedies."

I plant my hands on my hips, "I don't need you showing up in the middle of the night with a bloody leg. If we are going to argue, I'd rather argue with you about things that actually matter."

He sighs but does as I say. I sit on the floor beside the sofa, aware that the terrible flooring is likely to rip holes in my pajama bottoms. Draco's throat makes a sound and I look over at him. Not quite a groan. He's grimacing to hold back.

I turn my back, resting it on the sofa. For the first time, I am tired. I feel like finally I could sleep. Another body here putting at ease. I know it's because the body is Draco's. Right now, I don't even care.

"You never asked what happened tonight."

When I turn to look up at him, the colour is back in his cheeks a bit. I get back on my knees and lift one of the cloths off his leg to check the skin. It feels cooler now. The pink mark isn't visible anymore. My fingers brush against where the mark was and he still winces.

"I don't need to ask," I tell him. "I'm guessing the ministry has fallen. Did your assault on the Weasley farm go as planned?"

Draco shakes his head, "Potter got away."

"Good," I manage. "Are any of the Weasleys dead?"

"No," Draco answers. "Monsieur Delacour might be. Just about everybody made it out, on both sides."

Since he's distracted, I press down again. He snatches my hand, pulling it off my skin. Our eyes meet again, him looking down at me.

Merlin. This isn't supposed to happen again. The first time I fell in love with him, it had started as a way to prove him wrong. Now, it feels like he's trying to prove me wrong. That I don't actually hate him, that I'm not actually mad about what he's done. Only that I'm mad he didn't share what he knew with me. Not brave, just smart.

Draco pulls at my hand, pulls me up off the ground. I stand before him, looking down at him. His neck cranes up to see me.

"I've missed you, Marty," he says.

He reaches for my other hand. I let him have it. Draco's thumb presses against my knuckles, rubbing them. I'm acutely aware of how cold my hands are now. He's burning up, and I'm so very cold. I can't quite pull away.

I don't miss him. I've longed for him. Desired him. While I missed his body next to mine, I know right now that he's here with me. He always have been. I've always known who he was.

Well, I suppose the thing I miss is the person I thought I was. The person I thought I could become.

"I love you," I tell him.

He tries to stand, but instead I come down. I climb onto him, carefully straddling his legs so I don't put any pressure on the wound. We kiss. My fingers trace the sectumsempra wounds on his chest. He trembles at the touch, whispers my name, recites it, memorizes it, and when he calls me Martina, just once, I don't even hate it. My name only feels like it's mine on his lips. Really, my name is his. My prickling skin, my quiet moans, my desire and love and everything I have, none of it's mine. It's all his.

~~~~~

Okay, I do truly tuly love this. I feel like it's different from most other things I've written. Urgh. Them. Like, as much as Banality is a treatise on how much Draco loves Marty, I feel like this book is about how much Marty loves him. I don't know. How do y'all feel about it?