Sting

Escaping her bodyguard had been almost impossible. Harry was reticent to leave her alone, wary of a revenge attack from Zabini. The first opportunity she had to return to Potter's Cottage was the Saturday before the Gryffindor-Ravenclaw fixture. He had insisted on having a full day exercise after noticing Ron's rapidly declining fitness. She waited until she could hear the distant, echoed shouts of practice before heading out of the grounds through the Whomping Willow. She hesitated for a moment, in the room where she had watched her latest confidante die. It was as filthy and shabby as ever, but she could not deny the Shack held a quality to it she hadn't detected before. So much had happened here. A place most didn't know existed. Rapidly dismissing the notion of a new project, she hurried through to Hogsmede and apparated with a crack to the meandering lane that led to the cottage.

Given the absolute silence around the thoroughfare, she could only assume most of the residents were out enjoying the crisp Autumn weekend. It made sense, then, to work on the perimeter wall that was in dire need of repointing. With a furtive glance around, she disillusioned herself and felt the familiar sensation of a raw egg dripping from her head. As close to invisible as was practical, she began taking in the task before her. Years of bitter English weather had softened the mortar amongst the stones, and she conjured a stream of perfectly colour-matched cement between the masonry. A row of vertical capstone topped the wall, and several duplication charms later, she had replaced the missing shingles. She stepped back to admire her work. The wall did indeed look much improved, the repairs sympathetic to the overall character of the home.

Home. Well, she hoped it would be one again. A needle of doubt pressed her mind again. Distraction. The gate. Yes. The wood was soft to the touch, and in dire need of replacement. Even the lock had rotted, and menacing splinters struck out of the catch. She determined that wood, in this weather, was unlikely to fare well over time. She did not intend to pass Harry an ongoing construction site. She took a breath. It was the first time she was going to transfigure something quite so intricate. With a complex clockwise wrist movement, the strain on her arm indicated she needed more practice, but after some significant time passed, she had produced a functional option. Glossy black wrought iron, the new cross-top gate was immaculate. Testing the wards, as the gate clicked into place, she found they had remained strong. A good start, certainly.

Entering the garden, she felt the disillusionment shift away, the wards unwilling to accept any deception within their boundaries. Good. It was safe. She knew there were some aspects of construction that she daren't take charge of herself, and conjured a tape measure. Levitating it toward the windows, she memorised the dimensions of each opening in need of replacement, and flicked the tape measure away once more. She had a few ideas of how to distinguish the cottage for Harry, but first, there was ample hard labour to do. Setting her bag down, she took stock of the enormous task that sat before her. The garden was still overgrown, and given she wasn't quite sure how some plants might respond to being magically eradicated, she knew it was time to embrace her Muggle side. She should have asked Neville. Damn it. Too late now.

An hour later, as she made to pull out another set of the glistening purple berries that had sprouted wildly across the garden, she felt her rumbling headache worsen. She fell into a crouch from her initial squatting position, and closed her eyes for a moment. She wasn't someone who got migraines. Maybe she was hungry? No. The mere thought made her more nauseous than usual. Opening her eyes again, she felt a sudden overwhelming desire to just lie down for a moment. The ground was inviting, almost glistening, inviting her to just rest for a while. No. She wanted to finish this. Harry was unlikely to leave her unsupervised for long enough to do such an amount of work regularly, and they had the trial next week. Merlin, her head was pulsing. Crushing in on itself, almost. She fell forward, struck by the intensity of the pain. Too much.

Hogwarts. Need bed. Hogwarts. She apparated, past caring about any potential splinching, and landed squarely within the Shrieking Shack again. Bed. Sleep. Enough. The grounds were blisteringly sunlit, and she wished more than anything that she had brought a scarf that morning. Anything to tie around her eyes. The shouts from the Quidditch practice were bad enough. Never had Hogwarts felt so close to hell, even in the midst of battle. She dragged herself across the grounds, barely feeling the grazes and cuts on her legs as she navigated with her eyes squeezed shut.

Stumbling through the doors of the castle, she hauled herself up the stairs. Step. One more step Hermione. Yes. Now the other foot. Her legs felt unbearably heavy until she had no choice but to crawl. Her mind felt increasingly fuddled, and her desire for darkness and silence was overwhelming. Even in the gloomy halls of Hogwarts, it was too bright. The echo of her steps, as she put one foot in front of another, was too loud. She would be alright, if only she could lie down and perhaps close her eyes for a few moments. No. Keep going. Need Madam Pomfrey. Something was wrong. As she reached the third floor, or maybe it was the second, she had lost the ability to count a while ago now, the noise became unbearable. She slumped, bringing her heavy arms to cover her ears and pressed her forehead against the cold stone wall. Anything to block out the agony from the crushing racket around her. No more breaths now. Too loud. Too painful.

"Granger?"

She let out an anguished whimper at the booming voice, and instantly regretted it. Too loud. Too much. She couldn't do it anymore. She wanted it to end. All of it. Soon. Now. Senses entirely overwhelmed, she smacked her head hard on the wall in front of her, only to be dragged back by two strong arms. She screamed at the sudden flood of light that invaded her eyes, closed though they were. Too much. She fumbled for her wand, desperate to end the pain, but found herself lifted easily in the air before she could quite locate it. With her face buried into a strong chest, broad enough to block the light, she was free to shut out the noise. She wanted it all to stop. Her mind, she was losing it, surely. It was falling out of her skull, sucked down her spine like a straw. The jagged movement of whoever was holding her quite so intensely was excruciating in itself, but the resounding strides he took up the stairs was unbearable.

A loud knocking stirred more murmuring complaints from the girl, and the man felt her push her head further into his chest. A big step, some loud questions she couldn't quite make out and then she was on something soft. A sudden rip of sunlight tortured her eyes again, only to be replaced by a bang as someone shuttered the windows with a flick of their wand.

"Get Pomfrey. Now, Longbottom."

She vaguely recognised the voice, but the throbbing refused her an answer. Pomfrey. Yes. God yes. She must be on her bed. The man took to eliminating every source of light and noise in the room, silently casting darkening spells until he could barely see beyond the end of his nose. Sound, he thought. He took off his own shoes, and cushioned the floor before casting a silencing spell on the common room. She was still murmuring, and he sat on the edge of the bed to try and understand what she was saying. It was no use, she was unintelligible. Just his luck, to end up in this situation. Stuck with her. She was covered in a thin layer of sweat, but seemed to be shivering. He was spending far too much of his time saving her arse lately. He had not intended to make a habit out of it. To his surprise, she grabbed at his hand and pressed it against her face, covering her eyes. He didn't resist, nor tear it away from her. Instead, he allowed her whatever comfort could be derived from further darkness in an already black room. It seemed it offered her some. She stopped murmuring, and her shallow breathing steadied slightly.

It seemed like an age before Neville returned, ushering an exasperated Madame Pomfrey into the room. She had clearly been instructed to be quiet, and seemed only mildly surprised by the darkness around them. She certainly raised a far higher eyebrow at the presence of Draco Malfoy. Right now, though, he didn't give a damn. After several charms, including a softly beating pulse that had Hermione whimpering in pain, and the reluctant administering of a pain relief potion, she ushered the two boys into the common room.

"She's damaged her dura, and lost spinal fluid. Has she been playing Quidditch? Or hurt her spine in some way?" The mediwitch whispered as quietly as possible. Clearly noise was a problem. Neville and Malfoy looked at one another, completely unsure of what she had been doing. Whatever it was, spinal fluid didn't sound like something one was supposed to lose much of.

"I found her on my way back to Muggle Studies, smashing her head against the wall. It was the light and the sound, I think. No idea where she's been, but she is dirty. My shirt is caked in mud."

Mud. Dirt. Soil. Neville took a step toward the prone Hermione in the completely blackened room, reaching an arm toward her feet. Apparently satisfied with what he felt, he returned to the other room.

"I think she was clearing a garden, at Godric's Hollow. She's, she's been secretly renovating Harry's house there. She asked me for help selecting plants. Godric's Hollow, well, it's the only place Moonseed grows in Britain. She's wearing low shoes. Maybe she's particularly sensitive. What if it got to her ankles?"

Within seconds, the mediwitch had advanced back into the room. Malfoy followed her, while Longbottom retreated to his own room muttering about a book. Whispering her diagnostic charms, dim blue sparkles hovered around Granger's ankle. Apparently, Longbottom might have had a point. Malfoy moved to the top of the bed, where she immediately stole his hand back to her face. He felt the questioning gaze of Madam Pomfrey burn into him, and refused to look up. It wasn't like he had a choice in all of this. Had he left the Gryffindor Princess to die on the stairs, he'd be public enemy number one. Again. Anyway, why wasn't the woman casting non-verbally? The light hisses of magic were clearly disturbing enough.

After sealing the residual damage to her spinal cord, and determining that time would heal the girl best, there was some sort of whispered discussion about antidotes between the Head Boy and the matronly woman. Eventually, Neville and Madam Pomfrey left to talk to Professor Sprout, keen to assess potential routes to speeding her production of cerebrospinal fluid, leaving Hermione to be cared for by Malfoy. Both had hesitated, and offered to get Harry. Even the option of Ron had been raised, though only half-heartedly. Granger needed near silence for a few hours at least.

"Secret. Don't tell where," she murmured, as he had returned to sit beside her.

The silly bitch. Thanks to Potter's inability to manage his own household, she'd almost died and he'd be spending all afternoon in her pitch-black bedroom. He had never thought he'd enter this most private domain; the thought hadn't even occurred to him. He'd missed Muggle Studies, against the terms of his return to Hogwarts. He did not want to return to Malfoy Manor. Not now, maybe not ever. All for Harry Potter's garden. He was going to kill him. After she'd surprised him, fine. But he was going to kill him. What sort of idiot family keeps plants that apparently kill people in their garden anyway?

Over time, his eyes adjusted to the darkness. He could see her room was tidy, a pile of books in the window seat. Clearly her preferred reading spot when the library was closed for the night. Her bed was a slightly wider version of his own four-poster, and had a nightstand on either side. There were items on both tables. He could vaguely make out a book, a photo frame and a perfume bottle on one. The other, closer to his position on the bed, had a lamp and… well, he could've sworn it was that bloody map. Half folded in a careless way he was sure Granger wouldn't be responsible for. On top, was a watch. A watch too large for Granger's wrists. She didn't sleep alone. Granger. He hoped to Merlin he wasn't sitting on anything disgusting, but he couldn't bring himself to move away from her.

Her tiny hands were still holding onto his palm, pressed over her eyes tightly. Eventually, she relaxed her grip slightly, and he lay back next to her. She felt warm to the touch, despite the shivering, and he wasn't sure what to do. So he lay still, body turned slightly toward her so she could keep his hand. Her features were rested, at last. The calming draught had done some good, clearly. She was a lot smaller than he'd noticed in previous years. His legs extended beyond the footboard, whereas her feet hit around his knees. He'd never been so close to her, not for this long. Despite what had apparently been a gruelling day of gardening, he could sense soft waves of spearmint and jasmine, and a hint of aged parchment. What a weird year this was turning out to be. He'd expected a lot of problems, but not this. He'd never even considered that he'd end up in the Head Girl's bed, comforting her. Not Granger.

At some point, he had rested his eyes, and it was only when he heard a rustle from the next room that he stirred. She was still fast asleep, and had lost the perturbing sheen of sweat. She had let go of his hand at some point, and it had drifted down to her back. Merlin. He'd practically been cradling her. At least it was pitch black. And she was asleep. He got up, presumably Longbottom had returned.

"Uh, Malfoy. I have to rub this salve into her ankles. It should stop her losing any more fluid. You can go, if you want. McGonagall knows why you had to leave your class. It's fine. Thanks for finding her, and staying with her… I'll make sure Hermione knows. Harry is on his way back," Neville paused awkwardly, "I don't know if you want to be here when he gets back?"

Without a word, Malfoy walked back into her room and pulled his shoes on. He took a final glance at the sleeping witch, and left her rooms. He needed some air.