After tea time, Hermione borrowed her dad's sitting room so she could formulate her plan to travel abroad for the day. She laid out a map of the highlands over a marble table and placed heavy figurines on the corners to keep it flat. Inverness was her best bet. It was where she nearly always went. It was a big enough city to get lost in, big enough not to be recognized and to have all the things they'd need, and big enough not to stand out as an outsider. She'd made the trip enough times before with few hiccups, but that didn't make it any easier to prepare to leave. Leaving her folks to their own devices, with little protection, and with a known Dark Wizard to boot (albeit a pretty well worked-over one) made her stomach flutter uncomfortably.

Drat.

She unfolded a piece of parchment and consulted its contents. Inverness would only be part of her journey that day. She would also have to make a stop in a wizarding town; a town big enough for her to poke around in and not be noticed as someone not local. Luckily, Hermione had the presence of mind to pack every last book she owned before she went on the lam, including all of her old schoolbooks. A textbook on magical geography would come in particularly handy.

She consulted a chapter of wizarding England, then touched her wand to the map laid out before her. From its tip flowed a golden light; it followed select roads and illuminated select small towns, and certain parts of select cities.

"There we are," she said aloud.

Her father was behind her, watching. "Will you try Portree, then? It's so close."

"That's precisely why I will not try it," replied Hermione. "If I'm spotted, I don't want anyone poking around anywhere near looking for me or mine. Certainly not now," she added, nodding in the direction of Draco's room.

She glanced down at her watch, which read 2:15. Her bag was ready, she had her coat, Draco was sleeping. She reached up to put her frizzy, brown locks up and swore when she realized, yet again, that she'd lost her only hair tie. Hermione made a mental note to purchase a pack of them. "I suppose I'm ready," she said determinedly.

"Careful, love," her father said. He smiled down at her. "Mum is upstairs with the boy. She sends her well wishes." He leaned down to give her a kiss on the forehead. "You've always been cautious in the past, so I trust you to be so today. Do what you can and be swift."

"Yes, Dad." Hermione took his hands and gave them a reassuring squeeze.

Outside, the sky was cloudy and the air was cool and crisp. She hugged her coat tightly around her and knew it would be chilly in Inverness. Quickly, Hermione cast what few disguising charms she knew upon herself, enlarging her nose and changing her eye color and various other things that would make her unrecognizable to anyone who wasn't looking too closely at her. She pulled a wool hat down to her eyes and, with a deep breath, Disapparated off the old, crumbling porch.

Inverness was the easy part. Buying things at the market, vegetables and canned goods and meats and such, was no problem. She shrank them when no one was looking and placed them gingerly in her bag. Hermione also made it a point to stop in an apothecary for toiletries, making sure to stock up on bandages and medicinal salts for the bath. She even nicked quite a few more rolls of bandages when the coast was clear. That part made her feel rather bad, but her parents' supply of money was limited, even though they were wealthy and had withdrawn quite a bit from the banks before they went on the lam.

The brunette paused on a busy street to purchase a breakfast roll and nibbled on it while she watched the news on a television playing through a shop window. Nothing really jumped out at her. In fact, it seemed relatively pleasant. No war stories, no kidnappings, no deaths. She hadn't expected any less, of course. The current ministry wouldn't have reported anything negative going on., even if the whole country were ablaze.

She strolled down the sidewalk and peered through another shop window at a row of mannequins draped in beautiful dresses. Their scarves and hats were very lovely. It'd been ages and ages since she'd last been shopping for herself, just for fun.

No time for frivolity when you're trying to survive…

There were a lot of storefronts boarded up, many more than were closed the last time she had visited. How long had it been, anyway? Time had a way of getting away from her at that cottage. It seemed to be warped by the very magic that closed them in; it bled together and ran through the cracks of the old bricks like muddied water. And it did seem like there were fewer people about… but perhaps that was just her imagination? She didn't dare allow herself to think that people were fleeing the cities for any dire reason. Any dark reason.

There was a couple standing in the entryway of the next store. They looked very happy, pink-cheeked and sharing a brick of fudge, occasionally kissing and whispering sweet nothings to one another. Hermione watched them. It occurred to her that she was of an age where she should probably be courting a young fellow. Finishing university, thinking of marriage… but first, of course, she'd establish an excellent career working as a Muggle advocate. There was actually a special scrapbook behind her bed at her parent's old house solely devoted to her "dream future," a book she did not bring with her to the Skye cottage, and in it was pasted pictures of her dream flat, her dream car, her dream wedding, her dream job.

Hermione watched the woman's pink lipstick smear on her lover's neck and thought 'No, no there were certainly no pictures of old cottages in that book, or of crumbling coastlines, foggy rocks, pale-haired wizards…'

Her watch beeped. "Damn." She tossed her half-finished sweet roll in a bin and yanked her hat down her forehead. She'd lingered far too long in the real world. Well, how could she help it? Staring at her parents' faces and the same four walls for years was making her feel as if she were dangerously close to madness. With one last backward glance to the kissing couple, Hermione Granger disappeared down the street and into the crowds.

Granger Senior Gave his wife a worried look. "He's still bleeding," he said.

Mrs. Granger nodded. "Do you get the feeling that perhaps they disliked one another at school?"

"Yes. I get that feeling."

The mother reached forward to smooth Draco's forehead. His brow furrowed slightly but otherwise he gave no indication that his sleep was disturbed. "I wonder why…"

"Children," her husband merely shrugged.

"I believe he came from money," she continued. Her fingers picked at the tattered hem of his shirt that sat folded in her lap. It was as clean as she could get it, torn and useless as it was. She could tell, though, that before it had been practically destroyed, it had been expertly tailored, and likely very expensive. "Have you felt his hands? They're quite soft. Lad's never worked a day in his life."

Granger Senior frowned and shifted his weight in the seat next to his wife. "I'd hate to see what they would have done to a poor man," he said solemnly.

She grimaced. "We'll have to talk to her, won't we? He's so badly hurt. I don't think there's much more we can do for him." She reached out and took her husband's hand. "He simply has to return to the outside world. He needs real help."

Hermione stopped to rest inside a small alley and leaned against its scummy, brick walls. The wizarding city she'd chosen was large and she'd been lost for over an hour looking for a bookstore that may or may not contain the literature she was looking for. The darker stuff, as she so delicately put it to herself. It wasn't easy. People raised eyebrows to that sort of things, and she wanted no eyebrows tilted in her direction. They just seemed on edge here, and not just because of the cold. Everyone had their heads down, hurrying to their destinations with grim looks on their faces. The brunette rubbed her cold hands together and wished she were back in the warmth of the Skye cottage, suffocating though it was.

How dare Malfoy come and disturb that placidity, unwanted and unneeded as it was? He had put them all in danger. She thought, of course, that she could remedy the situation easily by kicking Malfoy out into the streets on his pretty, pale arse, but the Gryffindor in her just couldn't do it. Not when he was so badly hurt, not when he had come to her, of all people, for help. Two wrongs didn't make a right, after all. Even though Malfoy had been nothing but horrible to her and all of her friends since the first day they'd met, it wouldn't do to exact her revenge by leaving him to die, alone. It would only prove him right; that she was beneath him.

Well, she wouldn't give him that satisfaction, Merlin knew…

She put her face in her hands. What was she going to do? What if he died? Then she'd have a dead dark wizard on her hands. And who, in the width and breadth of the wizarding world, would believe that he'd gone to the house of Hermione Granger, one of his sworn enemies, of his own free will, if they were to find out? No. They'd think she'd conspired to have him brought there and killed. And considering the current administration, no one would be willing to listen to any amount of reason on the subject.

She was simply backed into a corner. Hermione would have to find what she could find and heal him on her own as best she could, number one, and number two, she would have to get out of him how he'd found her. And what he planned to do once he was better. He had no wand, so perhaps she'd be able to keep him where she wanted him, for the time being.

The brunette gave a heavy sigh and emerged from the alley. Two streets over was a book shop, a seedier one than she was used to. It would surely have something she needed. Anything...

Once home, though exhausted, Hermione emptied her bag and enlarged its contents so that her parents to could stow the necessaries away (she waved away their requests for gossip and information) and dashed upstairs to dig up her old cauldron. She knew, somewhere, she had packed a spare potion ingredients kit, for emergencies. She meant to set up shop in father's study, but he whined at her about it ("It's my favorite reading place!"), so she set up her things in the corner of her bedroom. It would do as a temporary laboratory, anyway, since it was so close to his room. She shook her bag and emptied the handful of painlessness potions she'd bought. In her closet, she retrieved her old Potions books. She'd tabbed the pages for the necessary potions and medicines earlier that day.

In the next room, she could hear her mother fussing over Malfoy. Apparently, the boy was reluctant to eat anything served to him by Muggles; especially Muggles who were the parents of one of his old boyhood rivals. Eventually, Hermione had to go in there and threaten to jinx him. "What did I say earlier!?" she'd snapped at him. "Help us help you, you great prat! We're not going to poison you, for Merlin's sake!"

As she was busy frantically slicing the murtlap tentacles that'd she'd stew for him, her father poked his head into her room. "What's that?"

"It's for his pain," she said distractedly. "After this, I'll make something that I hope will heal his wounds. If they haven't been inflicted by dark magic, it should help." She dumped the tentacles into her cauldron, which was already boiling over with a milky-white substance. "I think his injuries are worse than that, though. He flinches when you move him, and it's not because of the cuts on his arms and chest. I think he'd got something wrong with his insides. I mean, obviously Phoenix Tears would be ideal in a situation like this, but there's no way I could ever afford those, and I don't happen to have any Phoenixes lying around…" She stirred her cauldron and checked the little flame burning beneath it. "I bought some pathocus roots, though… the sap may help, if we mix it with water and have him drink it. That might help…"

Her father was looking at her with a confused expression. Hermione twitched her hand angrily at him. "I'm trying to concentrate, Dad, what is it?"

The man frowned. "He's eaten," he began, "and I think he's trying to sleep now." Hermione nodded absently. "He still hasn't said anything to us. He refuses to tell us why he's here, and what happened to him."

Hermione frowned and finally stepped back from her work. "Not a word?"

"Not a one."

She scoffed, tossing a handful of aloe leaves into the cauldron. "That's not all that surprising. He always was a little snotty, ungrateful toerag. I'll get him to talk later. Maybe, if we find out what happened to him, we can figure out what we need to do to properly heal him."

Her father didn't respond to that last, so after she gave her cauldron a few more stirs, she looked up at him. He was still frowning. "What?" she asked.

"Mione," he began slowly, apparently giving his words careful consideration, "are you sure you shouldn't at least attempt to take him somewhere else?"

She stared at him for a moment. Surely he was joking. "Dad—"

"He's badly hurt, darling. He needs professional help, especially if he has internal injuries. And if his wounds really were cast by dark magic… well, what more could we do for him? He could die."

"No."

"Hermione, be reasonable—"

"I am being reasonable."

"If he's a wanted man, we shouldn't be harboring him."

"You're right, but we have to."

"I'll put him out myself, if I have to!"

Hermione jumped to her feet with her fists clenched at her side. Even though her father was a large bear of a man, she did her best to stand up to him. "No," she said quietly. "I can't kick him out onto the streets for whoever will have him. I just can't do that, not until he's properly healthy. He doesn't even have a wand, Dad—his is shattered."

"But what of the police? If he's a criminal, then he should be given to them!"

"That would be even worse. It'd be Azkaban or execution for him and, while I think he rightly deserves to be in prison for the rest of his life, I don't want to be the one to put him there. And who knows who's truly in charge there nowadays, anyway? We could all find ourselves facing some wizarding tribunal, in Azkaban right alongside Malfoy, or much worse."

He looked at her for a long time, thinking. Perhaps he thought he'd talk some sense into her later, for after a time, he nodded and left the room without saying another word. Well, that wouldn't happen… Hermione would not yield. Whatever had to be done, (and she still wasn't sure what that was yet…) forcing Malfoy out was not viable.

She plopped back down to her cauldron and gave it a furious stir. After adding a bit of powdered bicorn horn, she sat back and watched it bubble and hiss. Soon, it would congeal and she'd have to take it away from the heat. Stewing murtlap was incredibly fiddly, but at least it didn't take long.

Her father had been right, though… Malfoy's presence was dangerous. Maybe, if she properly healed him, he'd then be able to leave. That must have been why he came to her, anyway… she could see no other reason why he would. A nagging little voice in the back of her mind warned that he could still be a Death Eater and may very well take them all hostage once he was well enough. However…

"I've never seen any Death Eater stripped of his Dark Mark," she said aloud to no one.

As she sat back on her heels she mused on Draco Malfoy. If she thought about it, it really was quite brilliant of him to choose her place to apparate to. If he was running away from someone, her house would be the last place in the world they'd search for him. Maybe, in the throes of his agony, her house was the only place he could think of. She wrinkled her nose. But how could he apparate if he'd never been there before? She certainly never recalled having him over for tea in the past (she chuckled at the thought). So, how?

She removed the cauldron from the flame and set it aside. It would cool there for a while and then it would be ready. She threw a spare cauldron on the fire and set water to boil—soon, she would start the dittany.

In the meantime, she'd go right up to him and force him at wandpoint to talk. Oh yes, she'd do it, all right. No way would she slave away to heal him if he wouldn't even pay her the courtesy of explaining why.

Late in the evening, after her potions had finished distilling, Hermione entered the guest bedroom with a pocket full of painlessness potion vials and her wand in her hand. Her mother had resumed her spot next to Malfoy's side. She was mopping his forehead with a rag again; a cool one this time, for Malfoy was still in great pain and was sweating and heaving on the bed beside her.

Hermione frowned. "Are you about to change his bandages?" She saw her mother and father exchange a significant look. "What?" she said miserably. "What is it now?"

"Mione," her dad began, "I know you're going to stop his bleeding, but we have to do our best as well, right?"

"Some of his wounds look as if they can be stitched," her mother said.

Hermione blinked at them. "You're joking."

"Not at all." Mrs. Granger mopped her sweaty forehead and frowned at her daughter. "We may as well try. What could it hurt? He's losing blood and what you can't heal with magic, stitches may be able to mend. It's been a long time since you were in school, darling."

Hermione's jaw dropped at the suggestion that her magical skills were anything but perfectly honed. "I made top marks in potions, I'll have you know."

Topped only by Draco, said that annoying nagging voice again.

"It's only a few wounds," her father said behind her. She turned and, to her horror, saw that he held a basket filled with plastic thread, syringes, needles, gauze; all the things you'd need to sew a regular person up.

Draco was no ordinary person, though.

The young girl felt panic rising in her throat. "Mum, wait," she stammered, "I've seen this end badly before. Ron's dad—big snake—Please just trust me, wizards react differently to—"

"Wizards have skin, don't they?" asked Mrs. Granger. She and her husband were busying themselves around Draco's still-sleeping form. Granger Senior was pulling a lamp over to the bed, positioning it over Draco's body. Her mother spread a sheet over a table and began laying out various tools.

"But you're dentists," Hermione whispered. She stared with wide eyes at Draco. He was beginning to stir.

Mrs. Granger smiled at her. "Darling, he'll likely need a fair few pain vials, don't you think? He's waking now."

Indeed he was. Hermione could see him licking his dry lips. He still appeared to be in great pain. Still more bleeding.

"It's time," her father said.

Mrs. Granger spoke gently to her ward. "Hello, Mr. Malfoy. We're going to try to stitch you up, is that alright?"

Hermione saw his face contort in displeasure and she rolled her eyes. "Right, I'm sure he's crazy over the idea."

Her mother ignored her. "Time to get set up, Dad."

Granger Senior nodded and immediately busied himself at the foot of the bed with preparing for Draco's "procedure." If you could call it that. Hermione shook her head. She'd seen a wizard get stitches once and it had not ended well.

Over on the bed, Draco's eyes were wide and watery. He looked around the room as if he wasn't sure where he was. "Malfoy," Hermione said quietly, "it's all right, they're just trying to help."

He tried to sit up. "No, son." Granger Senior gently but firmly pushed Draco back down against the pillows. The young Slytherin hissed and his eyes squeezed shut. He looked to be in intense pain again.

"The vials, Mione," said her mother.

The brunette dumped some into her mother's open hand. "I don't know how many of them he's supposed to have," she said. "I'm not sure about the toxic dose."

Draco swallowed the first vial. He grimaced, he spit blood, he retched, but kept it down. "Another," said Mr. Granger. One more disappeared down Draco's trembling throat. Hermione thought she could see cloudiness stealing into his eyes. His grip loosened on her father's arms.

"A third," whispered the mother. Her lips were thin and taut. "Perhaps that will do the trick. Take the edge off for the boy."

"Merlin, I hope we don't kill him," Hermione squeaked.

Granger Senior uncorked the last vial with his teeth and urged Draco to drain its contents. He did, slowly. Hermione watched, fascinated, as his tongue darted out to catch the last few drops. He continued to shake, but his face seemed calmer now. The young boy squeezed his eyes shut and laid himself gingerly against the pillows. He breathed in and out, steeling himself for what was coming.

"Well, then." Mr. Granger threaded a needle and passed it off to his wife, who was pulling on green surgical gloves. "You have the steadiest hands, darling."

"Shall we start on his sternum?" asked she. Hermione could only lower herself into a seat next to the bed, the one nearest Malfoy's head, holding a basin in case he became ill. She had a feeling that she may very well need it as much as he at some point.

She watched her father lay a large, comforting hand on Draco's bare shoulder. "It'll be okay, son," he said softly. Hermione stared at his hand, at how healthy and fleshy it looked against Malfoy's chalky white skin. Gods, Malfoy looked like a corpse.

What are we doing sewing up a corpse?

"Here we go," said her mother. Hermione couldn't quite watch the needle actually go in. She didn't have a weak stomach; Merlin knew she'd seen her fair share of gory mess. Instead, she watched Draco's face. He was grimacing again, and his lips were just so pale…

A soft pop indicated the needle hitting home, and when it did, Malfoy's silvery eyes flew open. He kicked Granger Senior and hissed through gritted teeth. Bandages ripped—Hermione clutched at her chair and moaned.

"Careful son, it's all right," her father soothed, trying to get Draco under control. There was more blood. The basket of supplies tumbled to the floor and bandages scattered around their feet. Draco would come out of the bed if he didn't stop thrashing.

"Darling, give him another vial," her mother said frantically. Eyes, brown like Hermione's own, were wide and frightened.

"Oh Mum, I can't, we can't, what if it kills him? What if—"

The lamp shattered with a loud POP! and both Hermione and her mother shrieked. Mr. Granger shielded his wife from the broken glass that went flying.

"Damn it, Malfoy! Be careful!" Hermione cried, covering her face.

"Get it off him, get it off!" Mrs. Granger cried. She tried her best to pick hot glass off of Draco's bare torso but was having little success by herself. Hermione quickly came to her aid with several jerky waves of her wand. She sniffled, trying not to let on how frightened she was.

"Give him the damn potion and let's have done with it," her father ordered. He grabbed Malfoy's wrists and did his best to pin them to the boy's sides. They all ignored the blood seeping from the corners of Draco's mouth.

With trembling fingers, Hermione passed her mother the last vial of Painlessness Potion. She prayed to whatever gods were listening that it didn't harm Malfoy any further. From what she understood, that particular potion could act on wizards like morphine could on Muggles; if given enough, one might not come back from being put too far under…

Hermione, her hands frantically wringing a dry rag in her lap, watched the fourth and final potion disappear down Malfoy's throat. Again, she watched him taste the last drops that lingered on his dry and cracked lips. His eyes fluttered closed.

Merlin. Sleep, yes… but just don't die, Malfoy. Please don't die on us.

She screamed when he lashed out suddenly and clutched at her leg. His hand, not nearly as large as her father's, though plenty large enough to reach round her thigh, turned a vice-like grip just above her knee.

"Malfoy!" she cried.

His hands were still white. They looked like claws against the dark fabric of her leggings. His eyes looked into hers, seeing her and not seeing her. Each time the needle pierced his flesh, he flinched.

"Keep going," she heard her father say. "It seems to have dulled the pain for the time being…"

Her hands had crept to her face at some point, though she did not remember when, and she clutched at her cheeks in terror. Draco looked positively rabid. His hair was falling into his eyes and he was shaking, his grip was tightening and loosening on her leg and why in the name of Merlin was he looking at her that way!?

His stormy eyes bored into hers and they brought about memories; long lost, nasty ones of course. It was only ever the nasty things she remembered about Malfoy, then again, did they ever have any pleasant encounters?

"Hadn't you better be hurrying along, now? You wouldn't like her spotted, would you?"

"What's that supposed to mean?" She'd asked waspishly.

She remembered his eyes glittering as he leaned lazily against that tree at the Quidditch World Cup. "They're going after Muggles. If you think they can't spot a Mudblood, by all means, stay where you are…"

The Gryffindor squeezed her eyes shut tight and pressed her hands down against his. Malfoy's hand burned hot against her, like a brand. He had a fever.

"Stop," she breathed. "Stop it–"

His fingers dug into the soft flesh of her thigh and she doubled over.

"Stop, Draco! You're hurting me!"

It must have been her shrill voice that did the trick. Or possibly the sound of his given name. Either way, Malfoy's grip on Hermione's leg slackened. His eyes closed and he appeared to slip into a deep slumber. It finally allowed the Grangers to do the work they needed to do on him. Hermione swore and gave her leg a deep massage with both hands. She glared at Draco's sleeping face. For the first time since he literally dropped onto their doorstep, he actually looked peaceful. Her face softened. Her parents whispering faded into the background as she watched his sleeping face. She just wanted to be sure that he wasn't slipping into some kind of coma. Hermione didn't think he was; his eyes were moving around enough beneath his lids, so she assumed he was dreaming. His cheeks, while sickly pale before, were burning pink with fever now. She reached forward and gingerly tested his temperature. Definitely feverish.

"Mum," she began.

"Why don't you leave this to us, Mione?" her mother interrupted. "We can handle the rest."

Neither of her parents looked up at her or spoke to her after that. Hermione could sense a dismissal when she'd been issued one. She exited the room and, upon hearing her mother's needle continue to puncture Malfoy's skin, she felt her stomach lurch. Hermione rushed as fast as she could for the bathroom and was violently sick. She gasped and choked and thought 'Never. Never again…'

Dizzy, the young Gryffindor staggered into her own bedroom and collapsed onto her bed. She ignored the potions stewing in the corner and willed herself to sleep.

It only half worked. She still heard most of what went on in the next room. It played as background music to the nightmares that visited her; visions of being tortured on the lush carpets of Malfoy Manor while Draco stood in the shadows and watched. Visions of slapping the blond boy over and over and over again until she drew blood, black blood. She even had one horrific dream that she herself sadistically sliced his Dark Mark out of his arm for him with a small, silver knife while he watched, immobile and helpless. Only he wasn't a grown man in this dream, oh no; he was an eleven-year-old boy, fresh-faced in his brand new Hogwarts school robes.

"After I finish this bit, Draco, why don't I cut a little piece out for every time you ever called me a Mudblood, eh?"

When it was finally over, Hermione's mother entered her room and saw her daughter tossing fitfully on her bed. "Poor darling," she whispered. She kissed her forehead and hushed her gently. "Sleep now. All will be well."

Hermione stilled, then, and dreamed no more.

Meanwhile, in Wiltshire, Malfoy Manor stood a silent sentinel amongst its fading topiaries and overgrown lawns. Brown leaves gathered in drifts over gravel walkways that were once raked meticulously. Fountains were bone dry. Windows were dark. No movement, save for the rustling of trees and the soughing of the wind through naked limbs, could be seen. All was quiet. Even within the Manor, all was quiet. Everything dark. Every corner, dark and dusty. Elaborate candelabras that once blazed bright with melting candles were black and cold. No house elves, no voices murmuring in sitting rooms or next to smoldering fireplaces.

All was silent. And silent. And silent.

The smell of cooking bacon woke her early. Hermione cracked open one eye and saw that it was barely light outside. Her down comforter had been pulled up to her chin for her. "Thanks, Mum," she whispered. The brunette rolled over and considered going back to sleep. What was the point of getting up early, anyway? It's not like she had anywhere to go. Besides, the longer she stayed in bed, the longer she could avoid walked past his room.
Hermione suddenly imagined she could hear needles piercing skin and shuddered. She buried herself deeper beneath her blanket. Urgh. Dreadful.

Merlin's beard. Just what sort of situation were they in, anyway? Three years they were confined to the little prison cottage on the crumbling shore, and when a distraction finally shows up, it's in the form of a Dark Wizard they must work to keep alive? What the hell? And Draco Malfoy, of all insufferable people?

And just what are we to do. If. He. DIES?

Stitches weren't going to do a damn thing for the cursed wounds, for the infection, or for his internal injuries. What was she supposed to do about that? Hermione was no healer, had no formal healer training. Even her advanced classes wouldn't be of much assistance to her.

Her eyes popped open. Speaking of stitches, Hermione suddenly wondered whether they'd taken. Were they still there? Arthur Weasley's had disintegrated, if she recalled correctly. His wounds had been dealt by that big, nasty snake rather than by spells, so that was a bit different, but ultimately cursed wounds were cursed wounds, were they not? She chewed on her fingernail and gave some consideration to sneaking into the next bedroom to check on Malfoy's stitches. In the interest of science, of course.

After about fifteen minutes of deliberation and staring out the window at the sun struggling through the early morning Scotland mist, Hermione finally decided to roll out of bed. She ultimately decided against showering or changing the clothes she'd worn last night. Who cared what Malfoy thought about her appearance? Hermione wrapped herself in an afghan and crept quietly down the hall. She saw, when she peered into his room, that Malfoy was still and sleeping. If she squinted, she couldn't see him well enough to determine if his stitches had held during the night. Blast.

More fingernail chewing. If his stitches didn't take, then she'd have to throw herself ever the harder into brewing very difficult potions today. She may even have to travel abroad once again to search for more literature on dark magic. And that was dangerous, for it drew attention. Oh, Merlin, what she wouldn't give to be at Hogwarts now, with access to the Restricted Section…

The sounds of dishes being washed downstairs reminded her that breakfast was underway. Hermione studied her over-gnawed thumb and decided bacon first, Malfoy second.

She made nary a sound as she descended the stairs, still wrapped in her blanket. When she peered into the kitchen, she would see her mother at the far end, drying dishes and staring distractedly out the window. The kitchen window afforded a lovely view of fields that were sloping and green in the summer. Sheep grazed there, or would if there were any sheep locally. Soon, winter would bring blankets of snow, and everything around as far as the eye could see would be white.

The empty look in her mother's eyes would have bothered Hermione if the young brunette hadn't had the very same look in her own eyes so many times in the past few years. They were all three of them prisoners in that place, comfortable and safe as they were…

The plate of bacon was mostly empty. Three pieces were left. Hermione took two and disappeared back up the stairs without saying a word to her mother.

Unbeknownst to Hermione, her father had been sitting in the corner of his study, watching her watching his wife. He frowned at the pair of him over his newspaper. His eyes followed her up the stairs, and he wondered how soft her face would be as she looked again upon the boy she knew when they were young.

He glanced at the kitchen and saw his wife leaning against the doorframe. She still held a dish and a dry cloth. The shadow of a smile played on her lips. She, too, eyed the empty stairwell.

"Who blacked your eye, Granger? I want to send them flowers."

The blanket was pulled up to his chin, no doubt the work of her mother. The nice blanket too, which rather surprised Hermione. She nibbled pensively on her bacon.

"You're not telling me someone's asked thatto the ball? Not the long-molared Mudblood?"

How wrong would it have been to punch a sick and possibly dying person? Who would he tell, anyway?

She was stalling, that's what she was doing. The young Gryffindor didn't want to look beneath the blanket. She didn't want to see his wounds again, didn't want to be disappointed to see them open and oozing and bleeding again. She was almost certain her parents' stitching had not worked. She pulled back the blanket.

"My god."

The stitches held! The morning sun reflected off the cleanest ones. The largest wounds, of course, were still open, but at least were packed with gauze and looked cleaner than before. Someone, probably her mother, had even combed and tied back his hair for him. He looked much more like the Draco she remembered.

Merlin's beard, they'd done it!

"Oh Malfoy, you're on your way, aren't you?" she said, almost delighted. She looked at him, smiling, she was shocked to see that his eyes were open and that he was looking at her. He looked tired, but alert. Further words failed her.

His eyebrow had been expertly stitched back together. It would leave a scar that he'd likely carry for the rest of his life, but didn't men normally not care about that sort of thing? Then again, Malfoy was vain. Hermione stared at his face. He stared back at her, blinking sleepily. He said nothing, so she answered him with silence.

She remembered the way his arm had been slashed to bits in Third Year, how Hagrid had cradled him while he moaned and wailed like an infant, and she held the gate open for them, feeling a strange sort of desperation welling in her chest and not knowing why

His cheeks blazed pink. She touched her fingers to his forehead, which was quite warm. He turned away from her hand as if offended that she'd touched him. "Don't be a prat," she said quietly. A mental note was filed away to mention to her mother that the boy was still feverish. She wrung out a cloth from the basin beside his bed and slapped it, not very gently, over his forehead.

"Does it hurt terribly, Draco?" said that complete cow, Pansy Parkinson. How she'd fawned over Malfoy and his stupid arm in that stupid sling. And how Malfoy had just drunk up that attention, simpering away at the Slytherin table, looking every bit the poor, helpless victim of some wild creature that had assaulted him viciously, when in reality he was nothing but a spoiled brat who'd gotten what he'd deserved in Hagrid's class that day. She remembered fuming silently from her spot at the Gryffindor table, unable to eat anything, just watching him act the fool.

But this couldn't be any different. There was no false pretense, no simpering, no whinging. Malfoy really was dying. Maybe.

"He still hasn't said anything?" said her mother from the open doorway. She was wiping her hands on a dingy old apron. "I suppose I don't blame him, the poor thing… all he's been through…"

Hermione frowned, thinking that the last thing she'd ever refer to Malfoy as was a 'poor thing.' When she looked back at him, she saw that he'd fallen asleep again.

"Oh, marvelous!" her mother cried. She'd inspected Draco's wounds and was proud to see that they'd held overnight. "How wonderful, Mione! They'll heal much more efficiently, now, won't they? Splendid news! Your father should hear!"

The overjoyed matron dashed out of the bedroom to share the good news with her husband while Hermione remained behind. Still anxious. She found herself, once again, standing beside Draco's bed. Her finger positively itched to trace the edges of one of his cleanly stitched wounds, just to feel its Muggle perfection on his wizard skin.

The larger wounds that still wept black blood disturbed Hermione. They'd been expertly packed with gauze and bandaged but would soon need changing. Frequent, unending changing. And Hermione wasn't positive, but she was almost positive that they'd been dealt by the Sectumsempra curse, and she was unfamiliar with its countercurse.

"But I'll bet you know it," she said quietly to the sleeping Draco. "I'll bet you know the song. What was it called again?" Hermione looked thoughtfully up to the ceiling as she finished her last bit of bacon. Her other hand lingered on the bandage covering Draco's former Dark Mark. "Ah, yes. The Vulnera Sanentur."

"The what?" said her mother, returning from downstairs. "Best leave him to sleep, darling. Rest is his best medicine now. Until your potions are done, that is."

Hermione stared down at the bandages that covered Draco's larger wounds, particularly the ones weeping black blood. "Did those not take?"

Her mother shook her head. "We didn't even attempt to stitch those, Mione. Too big. We were hoping you'd be able to fix them."

"They're likely cursed wounds."

Mrs. Granger nodded slowly and leaned down to smooth Draco's hair. Hermione could see that she'd even stitched the small wounds behind his ears. They were clean now and practically invisible; dry and only a little red. What an impressive surgeon her mother had proven to be! Soon, her father joined them in the recovery room, coffee mug in hand. He was smiling, too. "I never doubted your abilities, darling." He kissed his wife. Hermione found herself picturing the romantic couple in Inverness; she could see the pink lipstick smeared on the young man's neck, and she turned away from her parent's display of affection in distaste.

'All right then,' she said to herself. 'This is a good sign. A step in some sort of direction. We can make some positive headway now. He can be healed. Maybe he can be saved. And then maybe... and then...'

And then?

While her mother and father talked quietly about Draco's condition and checked his bandages, Hermione circled the bed to study his stitching more closely. She watched his face carefully. However awake he'd appeared when she'd first stepped into the room, he seemed to be deep under again. Perhaps those painlessness potions were still affecting him, which rather troubled Hermione. Potions weren't really supposed to affect one's system for too long… well, she'd give him another day. Very likely, he was just weary and healing. He needed the rest, anyway. She sat down beside him and looked closely at the larger wounds that her mother had been unable to mend. The edges of them were still quite ugly and green. Bruised, blackened, almost gangrenous-looking. Hermione couldn't quite bring herself to smell them to see if they were, in fact, infected. Obviously, she would never be cut out to be a Healer.

She glanced over at her father, who had produced his battered old medicine bag and was rummaging around in it for supplies. When he found what he'd been looking for, a stethoscope, he passed it off to his wife, who slung it around her neck.

"That's about as Muggle as Muggle gets," Hermione said quietly to herself. A smile tugged at the corner of her lips. She wondered if Draco, in his privileged wizarding life, had ever seen such a contraption.

She watched her mother lean over the boy with the stethoscope pressed to his sweat-slicked neck. Mrs. Granger was frowning slightly. "What?" said Hermione.

"Nothing really," replied her mother. "His heartbeat isn't as erratic as before, but…" She sat up and motioned for her husband to come to the side of the bed. "Have a listen, darling. Do you think he may have a heart murmur?"

Granger Senior sat down heavily and plugged the device to his ear and listened. He mirrored his wife's vague frown. "Possibly. Rather quiet; hard to tell. You're right, though. It sounds much better than it did." He moved the device down to Draco's chest. "Yes. Much better."

Hermione kept her eyes on the steady rise and fall of Draco's chest and said suddenly "Mum, his breathing—Did you heal something within him? It was so, so jerky before. What was wrong?"

"He had two dislocated ribs," said her mother calmly. "Dad set him straight. It's a relatively easy fix; though I'm willing to bet he'll be quite sore for a good long while."

The young brunette grimaced and looked away, chest aching just thinking about it.

"Bring me your potions and I'll ready his new bandages, darling," said her mother. "You get to your reading. We can only soothe these wounds, not heal them entirely. That'll be up to you."

Hermione nodded. "I'll do my best, Mum."

In a daze, she helped her mother with the potions and the bandages. Draco slept on. He still seemed pale, still seemed a bit feverish. She watched her parents fuss over him with little interest.

His clothes, laundered and folded, were sitting in the corner. His shattered wand had been tucked neatly into the pocket of his dress shirt. Hermione pulled it out, examining its shattered length. Its unicorn hair core held it together, looking pitiful. It glimmered a little in the weak sunlight that filtered through the windows. She imagined all the horrid curses it had been forced to produce through Draco's hands. A few odds and ends had fallen out of his pocket and now lay on the floor at her feet. Gingerly, she picked up a small piece of paper that had symbols etched on it in ink that she suspected may have been blood and—

Merlin…

A little red and white striped hair tie, dingy and stained with blood, lay on the floor where the paper had fallen.