And so it went, on and on. Sometimes they were together, sometimes they were apart. They were always fighting for their lives.
Food came sporadically. The chance to wash was infrequent and they soon lost their anxiety when it came to one another's bodies. The need to be clean was too important for such paltry concerns. Lucius didn't see her as an object of sexuality, though he was sure many men would, and Hermione simply didn't look - at least at first.
Another tale brought another night huddled around a fire. Hermione watched Lucius as he tried to mend her red sweater with the wand. She had gotten over her initial animosity toward the garment when she realized how warm it was. The nights here were always cold.
She knew his look of irritation well. The wand wasn't cooperating. As time went by the wand seemed to allow him to perform more spells, but it was still extremely limited. It wasn't the spell she was interested in this time around; it was the fact that he was moving his left arm with ease.
"We've been in here a long time."
He glanced up, face angular in the firelight. "Why do you say that?"
"Your arm is healed."
He seemed to notice it for the first time. After making a few movements with it, he nodded. "So it is." He touched the skin, which had lost its vivid bruising. "How long does a bone take to knit without magic?"
She was surprised that he didn't know. But why would he? There had never been a reason to suffer like that before, not in his world.
"A month or two," she replied. "So we've been in here at least that long."
He frowned, but that was all.
"There has to be a better way to do this."
He looked back at her, so tired that he saw three of her swimming before his eyes. "Of course there's a better way!" he snapped. "But we don't have the option of doing it that way, in case you didn't notice."
She was quiet. He had the sneaking suspicion that she had a wounded look on her face, but the rippling quality of his vision kept him from knowing for sure. Lucius didn't feel guilty. He had always hated when people stated the obvious.
"Let me try the wand," she said quietly.
Hermione held her breath. She had not brought up the wand in a very long time. Not since they had embarked upon this fragile alliance, in fact. They both knew that the wand was mostly useless; Lucius sometimes forgot he had it. They had taken to using the knives gained during the first mad adventure in the cake cottage.
Nonetheless, it remained an imbalance between them. Though it had never been turned on her, Hermione knew it was the last thing he held on to that made him better than her. The last vestige of his pureblood superiority. It was, in short, the last thing that remained of the man that had been thrown in here with her.
She didn't know if he was ready to let go of it yet. When it came to Lucius, she didn't know much at all.
The wand. The fucking wand.
It did nothing. It was such a bloody tease, being in his hand, yet unresponsive, impotent, unreliable. He had never realized how much he depended on magic until he had to learn how to defend himself without it.
But this was a different kind of puzzle. There were no demons, no werewolves, no crazed men with axes, no dwarves covered in coal dust, no kings with impossible tasks, and no dragons. Hermione had told him the story as soon as she figured out which one it was. All they were looking for was a pea.
One single pea in a maze made of mattresses constructed so tightly that there wasn't room to sit down, let alone rest. They couldn't stop, couldn't sleep in this world full of beds - not until they found the one bed that contained a pea.
Hermione thought there would be clues. So far there had only been row after row of identical mattresses. Their only choice was to examine each one in the desperate hope that the tiniest imperfection would show itself. So far none had.
Lucius had no watch so he didn't know how much time had passed. He did know that he was tired, hungry, thirsty, and unable to see straight. How Hermione was faring any better was a mystery. Perhaps she just hid it better.
If he had a wand that worked, he would have cast some kind of algorithm spell. Perhaps a distinction charm, which could be altered for this situation, as it was meant to pick out things that were different among a group. Lucius had tried, but the wand wouldn't work.
He was tired. So bloody tired.
What would it matter, anyway? The wand didn't work. The only thing it did with any kind of regularity was cast Unforgivables and a thready Lumos. Occasionally it deigned to give them a spark to start a fire.
He no longer bore any delusions that blood mattered. The only way in which blood mattered in this world was their capacity to retain their own. Lucius was certain that the Dark Lord had never intended for either of them to make it this far. If he had killed Hermione that first day like he wanted to, it was questionable whether Lucius would even have made it past the first level.
But the Dark Lord was meticulous; he would see things through to the end just to be sure. That was why the stories went on and on. Or perhaps there was something more sinister about it; perhaps he intended to use this creation more than once. Perhaps it was meant to be a prison or a place of disposal for those who opposed him, and he and Hermione were the test subjects.
He looked at the rows of white mattresses stretched out before him. Yes, there was definitely something more to all of this. An incredible amount of magic had gone into creating this world. The Dark Lord wouldn't waste it on two people he could not be bothered to kill himself.
Lucius thought once more of Narcissa and Draco. He conjured their images whenever he needed motivation. When he hurt, when he starved, when he froze, and when he needed the willpower to go on in spite of all that, they provided it. Though, as time went by their faces became hazy and the sounds of their voices distorted. But he would never forget the baser things - their smells, and what they meant to him.
It was with that in mind that he turned to his companion and held out the wand. Hermione Granger wouldn't kill him. She wouldn't leave him behind, either. Hell, she had not even been able to do that when he was actively trying to kill her. There was no danger in this. In all likelihood, the wand would prove just as useless for her and they would wander among the mattresses until they became so exhausted that they slept standing up or died. Whichever came first.
Hermione stared at him. Though he held out the wand like it had been an easy decision, she knew it wasn't. Swallowing, she stepped forward and reached for it.
The sensation when she touched the wand was...
He let go of the wand with a start. The sound she made...Merlin. Its sensuality caught him off guard. Though, for all he knew, he might make the same kind of sound if he had not been able to use magic for months and suddenly found a wand in his hand.
Her arm was shaking. She had used small bits of wandless magic here and there, but had long ago stopped relying on magic. It was her brains that would get her through this, not the magic Voldemort sought to take from her. Would it not be even more of an insult if she got through his traps without any magic at all?
She had forgotten the rush. The feeling of power moving under her skin, congealing, waiting to be funneled for good or ill. It gripped her like a rapture now; she hoped the wand would work.
She spoke the same spells he'd fired off earlier with some subtle variations. Nothing had happened for him. However, when she spoke the words, the wand began to glow. A golden beam shot from the wand and swept through the mattresses all around them, cascading to the end of the row.
Of course. Of course it would work for her. It was only his stubbornness and paranoia that had kept them scrounging up to this point. That, he realized with a jolt, was why he could only cast Unforgivables. Wands were sometimes more attuned to their users than anyone realized, and he had told it exactly what kind of wizard he was from the first spell he cast.
The light stopped and shone up in a bright pillar.
"There!" she shouted, delirious with joy. "It's there!"
It was far away, but not so far that adrenaline couldn't carry them.
When at last they could succumb to sleep, there were no mattresses in evidence. They collapsed in yet another wooded clearing. Its grass was high and soft, fragrant, and small white moths glided among it. The trees were a lush cocoon above them. Hermione thought, before sleep claimed her, that it was the kind of place where one would not be surprised to be approached by talking forest creatures with great big sparkling eyes.
Lucius thought nothing, for he had nothing left in reserve. However, before he fell asleep, he felt her hand against his chest. He had become so used to having the sling there when his arm healed that he now kept the robe tied around him as a kind of bag; it was where he carried their meager provisions. Any food they found along the way, small weapons, trinkets that might be of use - they all went in there. Until now, the wand made its home there, as well.
He felt her move to slip the wand back in. Lucius reached up to catch her hand. She resisted, but only for a moment. In the next breath, they both fell asleep, hands joined about the wand.
Lucius was always awake before her. Always.
Hermione laid still among the grass, too comfortable to move just yet. The view wasn't too shabby, either. Lucius had his back to her as he rummaged through his things. He was shirtless, and his hair hung wet and wavy about his shoulders. It would lay flat when it dried, but when it was wet, it pretended it had more spirit.
There must be a stream nearby. He had gone to bathe while she slept. Hermione frowned; he had left the wand with her. It was still clutched in her hand.
"The water is very cold," he said without turning. "But needs must." He sat and pulled his hair over his shoulder to braid it loosely. He, too, had noticed that the days were growing warmer, and that leaving his hair down was almost unbearable. There were seasons in this godforsaken place.
"I would kill for your hair," she murmured. Hers would never obey the way his did.
"You have the wand. Fix it." There was a trace of a smile in his voice.
"It would take hours."
He turned at last, resting an elbow on his knee. "I am in no hurry for our next brush with death."
She made a valiant attempt, but in the end, there was no salvaging the tangled nest that had formed upon her head. Hermione took the knife to it with something like gusto. She had always wanted to be brave enough to cut all her hair off; it was a nuisance. Her mother and the other women she knew told her not to. They told her she would look too boyish.
She had no one to impress in here. Malfoy did not give a shit about her hair, and to him, she was about as feminine as an ape, so it didn't matter.
"You missed a spot."
Hermione looked up. Lucius gestured to a spot on his own head, just above his ear. She reached up and closed her hand around one last stubborn curl. It fell away with a slash of the knife.
It was like looking at a different person. With her hair cropped closely about her head, all the features that had been overshadowed by her hair were on plain display. Wide brown eyes framed in long lashes, a pert, freckled nose, a heart-shaped face, and a long, graceful neck...she was gamine.
He closed his eyes. That neck...it reminded him of Narcissa, of the way he had been able to walk up behind her when no one was looking and nestle his lips into that slender curve of flesh...of the almost embarrassing intensity of the love he felt for her. Lucius had to turn away.
The last few months had taught him much about how wrong he could be - about life, about people, about himself. Hermione was yet another thing he had been wrong about. She was not a child. She was young, yes, but she was a woman.
He had to be careful. Very, very careful.
"It's that bad?"
Lucius turned back to her, realizing that she had misinterpreted his sudden retreat. He cleared his throat.
"No. Actually...it...quite suits you, I think."
Hermione stared at him. Had Malfoy just given her a compliment? She reached up to touch what was left of her hair. It felt so strange, yet so light. So liberating.
Her eyes fell upon the pile of hair that had fallen into the grass. Merlin. Of course, since she'd had it on her head her entire life, she knew how unruly it was...but seeing it sitting there in a tremendous pile struck her.
She began to laugh.
Oh, Merlin help him. Already, he had not been careful enough, for he was smiling at her mirth. It couldn't be helped. The hair she'd shed looked like a small animal gathered upon the floor.
