"I could have died last night. So could you, for that matter. Why are you worrying about going to Azkaban? First we have to survive past the war, not to mention win it. Draco, if you insist on being pessimistic, then you should acknowledge that the possibility of us having any future at all, together or apart post-war is low enough that there’s no reason for you to worry about what will happen to you when it’s over." She tried to get through to him, but Draco’s eyes slid away from hers, his fingers flexing around her wrists, his body hard and warm and distracting on hers. He was silent and smelt like soap, sweat, and burn cream; Hermione wanted to bury her face against Draco’s chest and kiss where she’d bitten him. Breathe him in. His eyes were sunk in those shadows of exhaustion and strain the war imposed on nearly everyone, and Hermione just wanted him to be reasonable.