In that maelstrom wash of blinding bliss and sudden, jolting truth, Draco saw Azkaban, dark and bleak on the insides of his eyelids. And he wanted to run away. For the briefest period of time as he went limp on Hermione, face buried in her breast, cock still deep inside her, Draco wanted to take Hermione and run. Damn the war, damn the Order, damn his fucking family, and doing the right thing. Forget it all; go away, somewhere far, far away. Brazil, or New Zealand, or South Africa. Away from war and death and trials, and years in prison without her stretching out in front of him like a fucking prophecy. Except Hermione was a noble bloody Gryffindor, and Draco would follow her anywhere – even if she led him into Azkaban and slammed the door on him herself.