Malfoy stared down at Hermione in bemusement before looking around him. The landscape stretched on for as far as he could see, sand and scraggly bushes shadowed in the bright moonlight. Far off in the distance an animal howled, and a dry breeze ruffled his still-damp, matted hair. He frowned, turning his gaze back to the injured Gryffindor girl.

His first instinct was to take the key back and walk away. He didn't need her. She was an unnecessary burden, and if they made it back to Hogwarts helping her would be all for naught, since the Death Eaters would kill her for being a mudblood.

But even as these thoughts ran through his head, something niggled at the back of his mind. Granger hadn't had to save him back on the island. She could have used the key by herself to get away and avoid injury. It's certainly what he would have done.

But she hadn't. She had thrown herself through the fire and storm to find him, and she had probably saved his life when she pushed him away from the lightning strike. He winced, remembering the terrible crack. He had minor burns on his own arms and legs from it, though nothing like the mess Granger had.

He sneered down at her prone body. Stupid bloody Gryffindors, always trying to be the hero. He turned to walk away, but once again hesitated, that same persistent something becoming even more forceful. He frowned, trying to analyze the strange emotion. All he wanted to do was walk away and leave the worthless girl to die. But at the same time, he couldn't. He growled in frustration, his pale eyes narrowed on the wounded witch. Just because she saved his life didn't mean he had to…

Realization dawned and he paled, cursing dramatically. She saved his life at risk to her own. The bloody girl had earned herself a life debt, a powerful form of magic. It made him practically obligated to help her, whether he liked it or not. He literally wouldn't be able to just walk away, knowing she would die if left here all alone.

Running a hand through his sweaty hair, Malfoy sighed in disgust and resignation. Wincing from the soreness of his own body, he bent down and scooped Hermione up, his nose crinkled in revulsion of having to touch her. She moaned lightly, and he grimaced, looking around.

With a sigh, he began walking, not knowing where he was going or where he was. He trudged across dry sand, listening to the strange sounds around him. Despite the barren appearance of the night-shadowed land, it appeared to be teeming with life. He heard the hoots of birds and the faint mournful howls of wild dogs. He heard rustling and shifting sand. Once, he saw a strange insect, translucent white with a long pointed tail curled up over its back, and he saw what he believed to be the shadow of a snake silently slid across his path.

He walked for hours, the landscape never changing, watching the moon sink lower and lower in the indigo sky. The stars glimmered and faded, and the sky became shot with dusky pinks and vibrant lavender as the orange sun peeked over the distant horizon, casting a glow across the land and turning the sand into molten gold. Malfoy could see now some dark blue mountains in the distance, and he adjusted his course toward them.

The sun continued rising, and so did the heat. By early morning, Malfoy was drenched in sweat and his throat felt dry enough to catch on fire. He paused briefly to set Hermione down and remove his shirt, which he tied around his head in a vague instinctual effort to block the relentless sun. He scooped up the girl again, feeling a faint surge of disgust at holding her sweaty, bloody body against his bare skin. He noted the paleness of her face and worried for a moment that she had not regained consciousness.

Sighing, he resumed walking, every step becoming heavier and heavier. His pale skin, already painfully burned from the tropical island sun, burned even more. Pale white blisters formed on his bright red shoulders, and he began to feel faintly sick. His body was wracked with painful spasms as the need for water ravaged him. He blinked stinging sweat out of his eyes and adjusted the mudblood in his arms. She was light, but his back was aching and his arms were shaking from the strain and dehydration.

He walked and walked and walked, endless miles over a sea of sand. Rabbits darted out in front of him and hawks circled above. Snakes slithered beneath scrubby bushes, and once he saw a vicious-looking prickly grey pig nosing some spiny cactus to retrieve a thorny yellow fruit. Thoughtful, he put Hermione down and wiped his brow with an arm, wincing from the pain of his burnt skin as he surveyed a similar plant to the one the pig had been eating.

It was short and squat, with long needles bristling out in all directions. At the very top were three bright flowers and a couple of yellow fruit-like things. Malfoy cast about and found a long stick. Gingerly, he poked the fruit with it. Nothing happened. Eyes narrowed, he whacked the plant, dodging the spines that flew toward him. Triumphant, he picked up the piece of yellow fruit and stared at it for a long moment before bringing it to his mouth and grimacing.

It was warm and sour, tasting vaguely of citrus and grass. The juices filled his mouth, satisfying a very small part of his thirst. He finished the fruit and picked Hermione up, briefly wondering if he should have saved some for her but dismissing the thought quickly. He was the one doing all the work, after all.

He began walking again, trudging on through the sand. His arms burned and protested and he considered just dropping Hermione several times, but couldn't seem to let his arms go. He scowled at the bright sun. Bloody life debt.

The day wore on, the sky blue and cloudless except for a few wispy white swirls. Heat rose of the sand in a shimmering veil, and every muscle in Malfoy's battered body screamed in protest with every step he took. His energy lagged, and his head grew dizzy. He walked and walked and walked, skin burning and eyes drooping. As the sun began its descent behind the mountains and the sky turned golden and purple and violet, he sank to his knees. The hot sand dug into his skin, but he no longer care. His body was on fire, and he could barely keep his eyes open. He laid there, under the dying sun, his body over Hermione's. Life ceased to matter and his surroundings ceased to exist. He closed his eyes, fading into the welcome oblivion. Before surrendering himself entirely, he suddenly heard a voice.

"What do we have here?"

Cracking open an eye blearily, he peered up into a copper-skinned, craggy face. Bright black eyes surveyed him, and long silky black hair tied in a thick braid was tossed over the man's shoulder. Malfoy closed his eye again wearily.

"Not real," he murmured. He heard a low chuckle, and then felt arms around him. He heard a low sound of disapproval at the sight of Hermione, and then he heard more men's voices talking, but the words were a low buzzing in his ears. His brain felt muddled and foggy, and he only briefly registered being lifted up and jolting, jarring movements that were punctuated with muffled hooves beating on the sand.

He couldn't tell how long he was moving, and he couldn't tell when he stopped. He drifted in and out of consciousness, life a slow-moving blur around him. He was laid down on something soft and wetness was forced between his cracked lips, the cool liquid soothing his burning throat. A strange smell filled his nose as something think and cold was rubbed over his tender skin, and a woman's voice floated toward his ears.

He groaned, opening his eyes and blinking. A copper-skinned old woman was kneeling in front of a fire, stirring something in a small pot. At his groan, she turned around, smiling when she saw he was awake. Her thick black hair was shot through with silver and her dark eyes kind.

"You are awake, young one. Very good."

"Where am I?" Malfoy rasped, wincing at the hoarse sound of his voice.

The old woman smiled serenely.

"You are safe," she replied, turning back to the pot. Malfoy blinked, struggling to sit up.

"Who are you?" he asked suspiciously.

"I am Alameda," she said, wringing out a white cloth dabbing it on his forehead.

"Ala…what?"

She smiled. "It means 'grove of cottonwood'. That is where I was born."

Malfoy furrowed his brow. His head hurt. "Are you a muggle?"

The old woman eyed him shrewdly. "I am a Navajo."

Malfoy frowned. "A what?"

"It is the name of my tribe," she explained.

"Right…"

"And what do you call yourself?"

"Draco Malfoy," he said slowly. "Where exactly am I? Am I in Britain?"

Alameda's brows raised to her hairline. "You are in New Mexico. In America."

Malfoy groaned, sinking back. "America?"

The woman cocked her head curiously, staring at him intently. "Yes."

Malfoy struggled to remember what he knew of the magical community in America. "Is…New Mexico….near Salem?"

An odd light came into the woman's eyes. She shook her head carefully. "You are very far from Massachusetts."

"I'm not looking for Massa-whatever. I'm looking for Salem." He cursed his lack of education in the world outside of pureblood magical Britain.

The woman eyed him shrewdly. "I see. An odd destination. Do you have family there?"

"Sure," Malfoy muttered, rubbing his eyes wearily.

"You appear to have journeyed far with your friend."

He blinked. "Friend? Oh, Granger. She's not my friend."

The woman pursed her lips. "You carried her a great distance. It is strange of you to do so if she is not your friend."

He shrugged vaguely, flinching from his burnt skin.

The woman stared at him a moment longer before reaching into a basket and pulling out a small jar. She opened it, exposing a thick green gel. She carefully smoothed some of the gel onto Malfoy's shoulders, bringing forth almost instant cool relief from the pain.

"Aloe," Alameda said. "It is very good for burns. The girl is still alive, you know."

Malfoy breathed in relief, savoring the coolness. "Super. How can I get to Salem?"

She chuckled, bustling around the small dwelling. "You could try a bus or plane, I suppose."

Malfoy frowned. "Plane?"

She gave him an odd look again, but was saved from answering by a young girl entering the dwelling. She bowed her head respectfully.

"The girl is awake."

Alameda's face cracked into a smile. "Very good. Is she alert?"

The girl nodded, her silky black hair rippling in the firelight. She cast a curious look at Malfoy.

"Aiyana, this is Draco Malfoy. Draco, this is Aiyana."

The girl smiled brightly. "Nice to meet you."

Malfoy raised a brow and didn't reply

"Let's go see your friend, shall we?" Alameda said, helping Malfoy stand.

"She's not my friend," he muttered resentfully, but he followed the two females outside. The night air was cool and a large fire was crackling. Several men and women sat around the fire, talking and eating. They all had the same russet skin and dark hair. Many were wearing turquoise jewelry, and Malfoy sneered at their strange clothing.

Alameda and Aiyana led him to another odd, ugly squat dwelling.

"It's called a Hogan," Alameda, said, catching his puzzled and slightly revolted look. "It is a traditional Navajo home."

They entered to find Hermione sitting up, her hair cleaned and braided and her arms and legs wrapped in white gauze.

"Ah," Alameda said, smiling. "How are you feeling, child?"

Hermione smiled back tentatively. "Much better, but still sore."

The old woman nodded. "That is to be expected. You required stitches in your side and your skin is very burned. I am afraid it may scar."

Hermione nodded, but knew that Madam Pomfrey could heal any scarring she had when they returned to Hogwarts.

"Your friend says you are trying to get to Salem."

"I am NOT her friend," Malfoy spat. Hermione looked at him in confusion. His eyes narrowed on the silver key hanging from her neck. She saw his gaze and frowned, sliding the chain under the dark brown shirt she was wearing.

"You're going to Salem?"

He leveled her with a haughty look. "I am going back to my own kind. I have no intention of staying around these primitive muggles…though this is exactly where creatures like you belong."

Hermione groaned, but Aiyana spoke up first.

"Muggles?" she asked curiously.

Malfoy shot her a derisive look. "Non-magical people."

Aiyana looked to Alameda, who merely smiled.

"Why do you say we are not magic? Alameda has the magic within her to heal you. The elders have the magic of wisdom, and we all have the magic of life."

Malfoy rolled his eyes. "Touching," he sneered. "But none of you can do actual magic. I can."

Aiyana thought for a moment. "Can she?" She pointed to Hermione.

Malfoy frowned. "Well, yes. But she shouldn't be able to."

"Why not?"

"Because," Malfoy said, frustrated. "She is a mudblood, and unworthy."

Aiyana narrowed her dark eyes. "Your words do not make sense. I helped in her healing, and I saw her blood. It is not mud."

Malfoy was suddenly assaulted by a memory.

"Funny," Hermione murmured, staring at the glistening scarlet drops of her blood. "It doesn't look like mud."

He shook his head fiercely. "I don't mean actual mud, you stupid girl."

"Malfoy!" Hermione snapped.

He ignored her. "I mean she isn't pure. Her parents are nothing but filthy low-class muggles."

"Then how did she get this magic you speak of?"

Malfoy sneered. "She probably stole it."

Aiyana looked toward Hermione, who was mortified at Malfoy's words.

"I do not believe you are a magic-thief," she said. Hermione smiled weakly.

"Come now," Alameda interjected, looking at Malfoy sternly. "Both of you should rest before anything else. Let us return to my home and we will have some supper before bed. Aiyana, you may stay here with Hermione and eat."

Aiyana flashed her grandmother a smile and then scowled at Malfoy, who sneered back. Alameda took Malfoy's shoulders firmly, and he jerked away from her touch.

"Keep your hands off me, you barbaric muggle!"

The old woman was unfazed. "If you want food, young man, you will follow me." She strode out without looking back, and after one last sneer in Hermione's direction, he reluctantly followed.