Your task - find the pun.
Sorry this took so long - I'm an expert at not writing. Your reward is a longer-ish chapter. And a pun. Love puns. Enjoy!
They kept to themselves, mostly. Well, as much as they could considering the close quarters they shared. It's hard to avoid someone who sleeps ten feet from you, even if that's as far as they can get. When they couldn't avoid each other, contact was curt and cordial, a brief insult slipping in when necessary.
Alright, it was always necessary.
But for heaven's sake, it was Malfoy.
The same Malfoy that had been staring at her excessively for the past ten minutes. The only reason she hadn't confronted him yet was because, frankly, the sight was a little funny. Whenever she would sneak a glance at him, through her for once usefully thick hair, he would be opening and closing his mouth in intervals. He looked a little like an indecisive fish. Which Hermione reckoned he sort of was.
It appeared he was trying to say something but was struggling with how just to say it. She rolled her eyes, finally getting bored of the staring, and muttered, "Something on your mind, Malfoy?"
His mouth, at the time in open-fish mode, closed, and his eyes narrowed. Bringing himself to meet her gaze, only to find she had looked away, he responded curtly, "We need to leave. We've spent far too long in one place. I've no doubt they'll be looking for us, no point in making it easy for them."
Hermione closed her book and set it on the table. Uncrossing her legs, she leaned back and settled her hands into her lap.
"You have somewhere in mind? Hogwarts, maybe, with Snape? Perhaps the haunted house of a recently deceased great uncle? Or can I finally go home?" Her voice dripped with sarcasam, the annoyance nearly tangible in the air between them. But there was still that little bit of hope, that slight emphasis on home.
Across the room, Malfoy snorted slightly and gave her an obviously condesending look. "We've been through this, brainless; you want to try apparation, feel free. Don't blame me when you end up in pieces on the other side."
Oh, right. Point taken.
She paused, then gave a resigned nod. He continued,
"So we travel by foot. North, I reckon - don't want to run into any familiar faces."
She shuddered involuntarily. No, she reckoned they didn't. A thought occured to her, and she felt her nose scrunch in distaste. Travelling by foot. Injured. With Malfoy. In Scotland. And to top it off, more camping.
Oh, joy.
While Granger finished packing inside, Draco left the tent to remove the protective charms surrounding them. Muttering the counterspells lazily, the larger portion of his attention was spent ignoring the sharp tugs in his stomach.
They had been gone three days, now - he hadn't mentioned it to Granger (why bother, really?), but she had been unconcious for nearly a day and a half. He had searched the tent and beaded bag thoroughly, but had found no trace of food. They were just lucky they had apparated somewhere near enough to a stream - without food they would last a while, but without water they both would have been dead by now. And it wasn't like he could exactly create any food - Gamp's third law of elemental transfiguration prevented, or rather explained away, any creation of food through magic.
Through magic. Draco groaned inwardly. He'd realized this as soon as his search had proved fruitless. They would have to make food the muggle way, which meant acquiring ingredients, and following instructions, which meant work.
Suck it up, Draco, it's like brewing a potion. He chanted this like a mantra every time the word 'muggle' came back into thought.
Draco's first attempt at cooking occured, thankfully, while Granger was still unconcious. Mudblood or not, anyone seeing that would have been extraordinarily embarassing. He reminded himself to try again - make something he actually knew how to this time. One of his many recipes.
And by many, of course, he means two.
A slight rustle behind him was the only alert to her presence. He finishes up the counterspells before stowing his wand safely back in his pocket. It clacked slightly - Granger's was in there, too. Draco turned to face her, prepared in a perfected mask of lazy boredom.
The tent was gone, and she was just stowing it back into that bag of hers. A cold wind blew from behind them and they paused a moment to listen. It echoed through the trees, a slight ominous howl.
He glanced over briefly only to catch her wrapping something hastily around her left forearm. He couldn't help but notice she was still pale, a sickly blueish hue, and looked rigid and fragile like glass, as if should the wind get any stronger she would topple over and shatter into a thousand little pieces. Dark purple patches formed on any exposed skin he could see; her neck and right cheek particularly. Her eyes had dark shadows underneath them as though she hadn't been sleeping, despite the fact that she'd slept nearly 24 hours straight. Eyes following hers, he saw what she was wrapping was gauze - must have been an especially nasty cut or bruise there.
His stomach involuntarily clenched and bile rose to the back of his mouth, but not from hunger pains. She finished, and he dropped his gaze. The sky suddenly seemed darker, the wind a little colder.
"Let's go." His voice is dark and low. He stows his hands in his pockets and begins moving forward, not checking to see if she followed. The wind blew stronger, sending a shiver through his spine.
He didn't like her. But he didn't like the bruises much, either.
And Hermione had thought camping difficult before.
Before! Ha! Before, she had her two best friends (mind you very tense, angsty friends) to talk to, wasn't incredibly hungry and tired, and not to mention hadn't been in excruciating pain.
And she was.
Bruises covered her from head to toe. Cuts and scratches decorated her skin as though a child had taken a red pen to a white paper. Judging by her difficulty breathing, she had a few fractured or broken ribs. Her ankle was the worst for walking - every step sent daggers shooting up her leg. But these were nothing, nothing, compared to her arm.
She nearly cried when she saw it. But she couldn't, not with Malfoy so nearby and within earshot. She didn't remember when it had happened, but clearly, it did. Bellatrix left her a little reminder of exactly who, or more importantly what Hermione was to the wizarding purists. She had covered it quickly with gauze, hoping to institute the old 'out of sight, out of mind' trick, but so far to no avail. Thinking back to Harry's scar, not the famous one but the words on his hand, carved there by Umbridge's cruel quill, Hermione relates it to her own wound. The old saying comes back to her from as a kid, sticks and stones may break my bones but words will never hurt me.
Hermione would like to kick whoever said that. Clearly, they knew nothing of magic.
"Hurry up, Granger. God, it's like walking with a lame tortoise. An old lame tortoise."
She'd like to kick him as well, while she's at it. Hermione flushes at the taunt and strains to move forward faster. Her body, particularly her ankle, protests violently, but she presses on. Not to be defeated by a few flesh wounds and a bloody Malfoy.
She hobbles forward until she's only feet behind him. That's all she's seen of him today - the back of a head. Not that she minded, really. Better than looking at his face.
They walk through the rest of the day and well into the evening. The wind only gets colder with every step, nearly painfully so. Thankfully, Hermione had grabbed a jumper from inside the tent before they'd left. Or three. It was only Malfoy, she didn't exactly have to worry about looking pretty, now, did she?
Finally, at a point where Hermione was almost willing to ask, plead, to stop, they did. Before she had to say anything. She nearly collapses right there on the rock, but has got just that last bit of will-power left not to.
"Here will do, for tonight. I'll get the charms, set up the tent."
Bossy and comanding like always, the git. But she's so exhausted she takes his tone and orders silently, accio-ing the tent from the depths of her beaded bag. She hears his lowered voice murmur around her protective spells, and is inexplicably relieved. She pushes the feeling off as relief of getting off her ankle.
Once the tent is up, she disappears into a cot, curling in around the blankets. She falls to sleep instantly. The last sound she hears is Malfoy's quiet murmur of spells keeping them safe.
Her first thought waking up was that the tent had caught fire. Smoke entered her nostrils and flooded her senses. Hermione gagged and coughed, bolting upright in bed, her mind already racing through an escape plan.
She hears the cluttered sound of pots and pans clanging together, accompanied by a deep cough and a muffled curse or two.
Finally, Hermione opens her eyes and takes in her surroundings. Through the not-so-bad-really haze of smoke, she sees Malfoy fanning his hand over a tray with a shrunken black lump in the middle of it.
"What are you doing?"
His head snaps up to meet hers, and she's careful to hold no animosity in her eyes. She has no bone to pick with him yet, at least not this early in the morning. He eyes her warily before returning to the lump.
"Cooking." He grunts.
Silence. She just sort of stares at him. Then she repeats slowly,
"Cooking."
Still silence. She continues, "You understand the basis of cooking is to produce food that is mildly edible?"
He glares at her silently before gesturing towards the kitchen table with his free hand. On it laid three perfectly baked loaves of bread, slightly brown and golden, the emmited warmth still hovering visibly above them.
"This was the exception." He nods to the vague dark lump on the tray before him quickly before chucking it out the side of the tent. Hermione rises from the bed and wanders in a daze, still staring, awe-struck, to the table. She can feel her mouth watering, her stomach growling, and is seriously considering abandoning all her lady-like manners and just diving headlong towards the scent and devouring it with her bare hands.
But she comes to her senses before that could happen. "You.. cook?"
Malfoy pauses, then nods once. "My skilled repetoire consists of two recipes. Thankfully I found ingredients for one."
Hermione is almost tempted to ask what the other was, but restrained herself. What did it matter, really? As she reached the table, pulling out a chair, she doesn't immediately grab a loaf from in front of her. To her own surprise, she waits for Malfoy to finish throwing out the bread attempt and come to join her.
That didn't go well. Draco still feels the last reminants of smoke stick to his lungs from the last loaf he'd been baking. If only that silly girl hadn't started talking in her sleep, he wouldn't have gotten distracted and burnt the loaf -
Speaking of Granger, why hadn't she eaten yet? He had, reluctantly, made this for her as well as himself - perhaps it wasn't as appealing to her as it was to him? But he saw how her mouth watered and her gaze never wavered from the food.
Draco discarded the thought and finished tossing the reminants of the Last Loaf, as he'd dubbed the charred piece of burnt flakes, outside. He turned to walk towards the table and met Granger's expectant glance. It clicked - she was waiting for him. How odd.
He hurried over to the table, quite hungry himself, and pulled out a chair. Sitting, he brings himself to look at her before going in for the food. She's staring back as well. He cuts a loaf into slices with a kitchen knife and his tastebuds scream as they watch the heat rise out of the fresh bread. He and Granger seem to agree telepathically and simultaniously reach forward for a piece each.
Draco takes a bite, and never in his life did he think bread could taste so good. He sees Granger close her eyes and relax, clearly enjoying it as well.
They each devour three pieces before forcing to a stop - Draco knows you can't force food into a shrunken stomach without repercussions. He'll be able to eat more soon, and so will she.
He sighs, (dammit!) and rises to leave. Maybe do some more reading, or look around where they've camped -
Draco suddenly glances back towards Granger at the sound. Her head is still bowed low, not meeting his eyes. But he's sure. He's very nearly sure he heard a small 'thank you'.
So he very nearly smiled.
