Disclaimer: Everything belongs to J.K. Rowling and associates. No money is being made from this fanfiction; it is purely for entertainment.

A/N: I'd apologise for how late this is, but I don't think it'd mean much at this point. In any case, sorry for the lateness.

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Chapter 14 – Scars

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For what she hoped would be the last time, Hermione applied her salve in large, sweeping movements over her cheek.

Her scars itched. Itched, prickled, and wept pus.

It had been over a month and they were just as raw and painful as ever.

It's disgusting. The thought swept through her mind before she had the chance to stop it, but she quickly pushed it away. She was not the type of girl to be obsessed with her looks. And yet she couldn't help but anticipate Ron's reaction when he saw her face smooth and clean and whole once more. He'd be pleased, of course. He liked pretty girls. He wouldn't want her with the scars.

It was September 19th. Harry had invited her to celebrate her birthday at the Burrow. She glanced at the open letter on the vanity and had to smile at the thought that Harry insisted on celebrating her birthday when he couldn't even remember his own. Ever the cautious Auror, he had postponed the date for a week and planned it on a random day, just in case their suspected killer anticipated her going there. It was well-known that Hermione Granger was connected to the Weasleys.

Which brought her back to her plans tonight. Her spell was ready. The only thing left was to see whether it worked. A test subject would be ideal, but since she couldn't recreate the spell she'd been hit with and certainly wouldn't have tried it on someone even if she did, she'd just have to try it on herself.

Lucius Malfoy's potions' room was as well stocked as one would expect from a wizard of his standing, but it was conveniently absent of any of the ingredients that might have been helpful to her. It was also the most elegantly furnished potions' room she had ever seen. Artfully designed glass bottles were displayed along mahogany shelves with handwritten labels. A large desk in the same dark mahogany stood close by with a cauldron set out for her use and polished knives laid out beside a cutting board. In the corner were two large armchairs and a coffee table between them.

Draco arrived at midnight as they had planned, bringing the missing ingredients that she hadn't been able to find in the potions room. He'd been surprisingly agreeable, almost eager to assist her when she had asked him, and Lucius' words had echoed in her mind.

She tried to put that from her mind as she laid out the ingredients on the table.

Henbane.

Arnica oil.

And her main ingredient: Solomon's Seal root.

Combined with murtlap essence, powdered moonstone, ginger root and a sprig of thyme. She had gone over and over and over her calculations and was fairly certain it would work. How well was anybody's guess.

She had just prepared her cauldron and lit the fire beneath it, when Draco entered the room. She glanced over her shoulder at him and nodded.

"Where were you?" she asked.

"Taking care of the House Elf."

Her brow furrowed. "Taking care of…?"

"I can't have her going back to tell Father what we've been up to."

She stopped her work and turned to face him. "What did you say to her?"

His face was the picture of innocence, but Hermione was hardly fooled. "To lock herself in a lit oven if she told."

"That's barbaric! Your father's going to find out at some point."

Draco shrugged. "Yeah, well, he doesn't need to know that I was involved."

"You haven't learned a shred of compassion, have you?"

"For a House Elf?" He snorted. "Of course not."

Hermione stared at him incredulously, then resigned herself to chopping ingredients. She could feel Draco's eyes on her, sense the irritated scowl on his face. He must have known she wouldn't approve of his actions, but he'd told her anyway. Arrogant, spoiled brat.

She heard the soft crunch of his footsteps as he stepped up behind her. "I don't understand your fascination with stupid creatures—House Elves, Potter, Weasley…"

"You should be a bit more grateful to Harry," she snapped. "He saved your family from Azkaban."

Draco threw her a bitter look and quieted. He grabbed a knife and began chopping ginger root next to her with an intensity that told her he wasn't at all happy about it. For several long minutes, the quiet scrape of knives on the cutting board and the cauldron bubbling away were the only sounds that accompanied their work. She could almost pretend she was back in Hogwart's, working on a potions assignment. Except this was Draco Malfoy beside her, not one of her friends. There was no professor to tell her if she'd gone wrong, no points to be gained if she succeeded. And she was trapped in a house, whether by choice or necessity, that was owned by someone who would have tried to kill her only a few short months ago, hiding from a murderer who wanted to make a statement with her death—she put an end to that thought before it could overcome her. Her eyes were already stinging with unshed tears and she blinked them back fiercely, silently cursing herself for being so emotional. Next to her, she briefly caught a glimpse of Draco looking away.

Was that pity in his eyes? Why on earth would Draco Malfoy pity her?

"Father likes to keep his collectibles here."

"Collectibles?" She couldn't quite imagine Lucius Malfoy with stamps or rare baseball cards.

"You've probably seen the room. The one with all the art pieces? He brings things here that he doesn't want to keep in the Manor."

Hermione stifled a chuckle. Only a Malfoy would have an entire house just to store things—

…that he doesn't want to keep in the Manor.

The scrape of her knife against the chopping board was a broken rhythm in her ear. That's stupid, Hermione, her inner voice admonished.

"I'm never allowed to touch any of his possessions," Draco continued. There was bitterness in his voice. "I did once. It was just an old Snitch he'd kept from his Quidditch days, and I just wanted to see it. And when he found out—you'd think I'd broken into the Gringott's vault. I'd never seen him so angry."

Hermione kept her eyes on her work, refusing to acknowledge his words. She didn't like this topic. It was too personal and conversations with Draco were always uncomfortable and awkward—dragging up memories of hateful words and cruel taunts, of feeling insecure and rejected.

She almost snapped at him to shut up, but the more logical side of her brain stopped her. If Draco wanted to talk, it only made sense to take advantage of it.

"Mr Malfoy—your father—he mentioned the Walpurgis Knights," she said, carefully eyeing him to see his reaction.

Draco stopped and blinked at her uncomprehendingly.

"He said that—that he—Marcus Crowley thought of himself as a modern day Walpurgis Knight." Marcus Crowley. The man who wanted to kill her for the good of wizarding kind. "I tried to research them, but I couldn't find anything." That should stroke his ego. "I just thought you might know something."

"You couldn't find anything?" Draco smirked.

She shook her head.

"It's a bit of history that's only known to pure-blood families. The Knights of Walpurgis were a secret society. Only pure-bloods were admitted and only those of the highest standing. Several of the Malfoy ancestors have been knights. It's a point of pride for my family that we've not just existed in the wizarding world for the last thousand years, but that we've also left our mark upon it. I'm sure you've noticed that the Malfoy name has been featured in every significant historical event." Grudgingly, she admitted to herself that she had noticed that. While she could scoff at the Malfoys arrogance and vanity, she couldn't deny a bit of envy that he was part of a family that was a significant contributor to the wizarding world. She wondered at times what it must have been like to grow up surrounded and immersed by magic. How much more might she have accomplished if she'd had the opportunities he did?

"Long before the Statute of Secrecy was enacted, the Knights were responsible for protecting the magical world from the Muggle world. I'm sure your Muggle… friends must have their own stories about us. We have too many to count—Muggles hunting magical creatures, stealing from wizards, murdering them." He emphasized the word as if it was some sort of justification.

Hermione nodded dumbly. It had occurred to her that the fairy tales she'd grown up with had some basis in fact, but she strongly suspected that like all oral traditions, there was a great deal of exaggeration, embellishment, and simple bias. "But wizards weren't always innocent. We have a number of stories of Muggles being tricked by magic or magical creatures that lead them to their death. It's no wonder they were distrustful or retaliated."

"Then maybe it's best for both worlds if they're kept separate."

Hermione stopped chopping. "So which side does that put me on?"

Draco looked uncomfortable. "You're… well, you're a witch."

He seemed unsure, but Hermione supposed it was progress. A little smile of triumph crossed her lips.

Draco seemed pleased with himself. "My father used to tell me that joining the Death Eaters was like a return to wizarding knighthood. I suppose he thought we would be remembered for saving the magical world." He shrugged. "And now, of course, service to the Dark Lord is just the family embarrassment."

He took a deep breath as if weighing something in his mind. And then he looked at her directly. "I never thought it was right, you know, what Aunt Bella did to you. You didn't deserve that. You didn't deserve any of it. I'm sorry."

She was breathless for a moment, blinking at him while her mind tried to process his words. "Thank you. That—that means a lot."

And it did, more than it probably should have. She chided herself mentally for putting so much weight on Draco's opinion, but she couldn't help the lump that swelled into her throat. She didn't care about what some bigoted pure-bloods thought of her, she told herself. She didn't care that the new Ministry of Magic's position had less to do with the belief that trying to eradicate Muggleborns was wrong, and more to do with distancing itself from the ideals of its previous government. She didn't care that in the eyes of many of the pure-bloods of the wizarding world, she was considered less than human. That what happened to her hadn't mattered, because she hadn't been a real witch anyway.

"Did I say something wrong?" Draco asked, leaning over to look at her.

He almost fell over when she grabbed him and wrapped her arms around his shoulders. If Draco thought her behaviour was bizarre, he had the good sense not to say anything. He accepted the hug graciously, and she felt his arms encircle her and hold her tightly. It took her a moment to realise the absurdity of the idea that she was hugging Draco Malfoy and he was hugging her back. With a nervous laugh, she released him.

"Sorry," she muttered.

"It's OK. I didn't mind," Draco said. She watched him fumble with his ingredients and had to stifle a laugh.

"Any Slytherin pure-blood looking to improve his public image will be trying to weasel his way into your good graces. That includes my son."

The words slithered into her mind, destroying the moment in an instant. Why had she just thought of Lucius Malfoy?She didn't believe his words, but the moment she thought of them, she couldn't suppress the niggling doubts they planted. Draco's apology had felt real. That's why she had hugged him. She could trust her own instincts, couldn't she?

Draco made another attempt at conversation, but after Hermione snapped at him, he kept silent. She couldn't get Lucius out of her mind, the way he smirked at her when he knew something she didn't, the way he easily pointed out her flaws and mistakes, the way he assumed his natural superiority over her. His scathing remarks were enough inspiration to keep her working towards her goal.

It was past one o'clock in the morning when the potion was finally complete. It settled in the bottom of the cauldron, a pale, thick liquid with a scent that made Hermione wrinkle her nose. She stood over her potion, hands trembling with anticipation. All her calculations seemed to have been correct. Everything looked as it should. But would it work? She couldn't recreate the spell to test the solution. All she had were her own scars.

"What now?" Draco asked.

"Now... I try it." She took a deep breath. "And see what happens."

She scooped up a small amount of the potion. Tentatively, she applied a tiny amount to one of the open wounds on her hands. They waited.

She didn't feel anything. The skin on her hand was numb, which was a good sign at the very least. She touched it gingerly with her fingers, feeling the ridges of the scar.

"Does it hurt?" Draco asked.

She shook her head. "There's nothing." Maybe her combination had been wrong? Or the spell words? Crafting a spell was not a straightforward process, there was a degree of trial and error involved. She looked over her ingredients. The henbane would numb her wounds, that would explain the lack of sensation. The Solomon Seal's root… that was the main ingredient. It was slow acting, and could take hours to take effect.

"Did we do something wrong?"

"No, I don't think so. But it may be a while until we see any effect."

"How long?"

"Minutes. Hours. I can't say."

Draco groaned and dropped into a chair.

She almost felt the same way. It was exciting, yet disappointing at the same time. It would be hours before she would know if it had worked. And the potion was only good while fresh. If she didn't apply it to all of her wounds now, she'd have to make a whole new batch, which meant she would have to wait for Draco to gather new ingredients. There was some risk, of course. If her calculations were wrong, she didn't know what it might do to her.

A very small risk, she thought. None of her ingredients were dangerous. At worst, it would probably do nothing. No, it will work, she told herself. She wasn't about to start doubting her abilities with potions, despite what Lucius Malfoy might think. He'd been so sure she couldn't find a solution herself. She couldn't wait to see his reaction when he realised she'd healed herself.

Hermione scooped the paste from the bowl and began applying it to her face.

"Is that a good idea?" Draco asked.

"It won't hurt. At worst, it won't do anything at all."

"You're sure?"

"Of course, I'm sure." She applied the last bit to her hands, covering over every inch of damaged skin with a thick coat of paste. She looked over at Draco, lounging in the chair. "You don't have to stay. The important work is done. I'll be fine on my own."

"No one will notice I'm gone until morning."

Hermione looked at him expectantly.

Draco ran a hand through his hair. "What I mean is, I could stay. For a bit. Until we know if the potion worked."

"Fine." She surprised even herself with her answer. But she had spent so much time alone in the house, she truly did not object to Draco's presence.

Conversation was not something they did well, so they played Wizarding Chess with an old set Draco dug out of the attic. He was a good player, better than she was, she had to admit. And it reminded her of all the games she had played, and usually lost, against Ron.

It was about three o' clock in the morning, while she was half dozing in her armchair and trying to remember if she was winning or losing, when her skin began to tingle.

"It's working," she said quietly. "I can feel it."

Draco sat up in his chair, blinking sleep from his eyes.

The tingling grew, until her skin felt as if it were being pricked by dozens of tiny needles. The sensation was unpleasant, but still bearable.

"Does it hurt?"

She shook her head, but then felt a sharp, painful jolt through her hand which prompted a sharp intake of breath. It was becoming more intense. The wound was turning red and inflamed, and the pricking sensation had now changed into a slow burn that grew and grew until she felt as if her entire hand had been thrust into a fire.

"It's burning!" she gasped out. She gripped her wand and pointed at her inflamed hand. "Finite Incantatem." Her skin was beginning to bubble where the potion touched it.

"It's too late for that! Scourgify!" Draco's spell scraped bits of the paste from her skin, but it continued to burn.

The pain was so intense now her eyes began to sting with tears. "We need something to-to neutralize the potion."

"Like what?" Draco asked. He was already searching through the potions on the shelves, turning over the bottles to check labels and looking exasperated.

Her mind reeled. An antidote, a cure… what neutralized Solomon Seal's root? She couldn't think. Pain muddled her thoughts. Her tears were like trails of lava down her face. "Malfoy—"

"Oh. Fuck." The look on his face made her heart freeze.

He grabbed her arm, and the pain made her scream aloud, but the next moment she was being dragged into that tiny space that was Apparition. When she felt the cold marble against her legs, she knew instantly where they were.

"Father!" Draco screamed, his voice echoing in the empty hall of Malfoy Manor. "Father!"

A door opened, she couldn't tell where. "Draco, what are you screaming about at this hour?" It was Narcissa. The sharp clip of her footsteps stopped suddenly. "What is this? Why did you bring her here? What—"

"Narcissa, go back to bed. This doesn't concern you." Lucius' voice cut through like steel. Hermione raised her head. Through the blur of tears, she could see him standing on the staircase, wearing a brocade dressing gown, his silvery blond hair loose about his shoulders.

Choked sobs were bubbling from her mouth. He could help her—he'd offered to fix her scars before. Even with the mess she'd made of things, surely he'd know what to do. But she was afraid to face him, afraid of what he would think of her botched attempt to heal herself. Would he think her a useless Muggle-born, incapable of performing real magic? Would he consider this proof that she wasn't a real witch?

"Draco, bring Miss Granger to my room."

And then she was being pulled to her feet and pushed forward. Her feet stumbled on each step. She fell on the stairs and Draco half carried and half dragged her up the rest of the way. It seemed an eternity before they reached Lucius' room, though she was sure only a few seconds had passed. She would swear her skin was melting and it was all she could do to keep herself from screaming and trying to rake the potion from her face.

Draco pushed her into a chair, trying to restrain her hands from rubbing at her skin.

"The potion you crafted, what did you put in it?" Lucius asked.

"What?" Hermione gasped.

"Quickly," Lucius snapped. "What did you use?"

"It was powdered moonstone and—and Solomon Seal's root, henbane, murtlap—"

Lucius cursed under his breath. "Henbane should never be used with this kind of magic. It turns poisonous." Bottles clattered on a shelf as Lucius pushed them aside. There was a sharp crash as one hit the floor.

"But it didn't-it didn't say anywhere—"

"It wouldn't. Dark Magic is not something that is learned out of textbooks. It's assumed that you would know this."

Hermione sobbed aloud, overwhelmed by the pain of her wounds and her own failure. She had been out of her depth and foolish enough to believe she could cure herself when even the mediwitches at St Mungo's had been unable to.

"Draco, go to your room. I think you've done enough damage for tonight."

She looked up in time to catch Draco's eyes before he walked out the door. Was that it? Was there nothing else he could do for her? She gasped when she felt Lucius' hands on her face. His fingers were like coals over her damaged skin and she cried out, trying to pull away, but he held her still and continued. It was several more moments before she realised that the intense burning sensation had begun to recede. And then she felt the smooth wood of his wand against her cheek. Lucius was whispering something, but she couldn't make out what. And at that moment, she didn't particularly care. Her eyes drifted close and she revelled in the cooling sensation that swept over her.

Hermione breathed a sigh of relief when he was done. Her hands went immediately to her face, but Lucius grabbed her wrists and kept them away.

"It will take a few hours to heal completely. I'd tell you not to move, but I know how well you like following my orders." The last was said with a smirk, and she flushed in embarrassment. How many times now had she ignored his advice to her own detriment?

Lucius' demeanour suddenly changed. "You stupid girl. You could have melted your skin off. You're lucky Draco had the sense to bring you here before any permanent damage was done." He sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose between thumb and forefinger. "Why in Merlin's name did you put the potion all over your face?"

"There was nothing, at first. And I… I thought it was safe. I didn't—" She shook her head, her voice breaking off into sobs. She fixed her gaze on her hands, too embarrassed to look up at him. For a moment the room was silent except for the sound of her cries.

"I suppose I should be grateful. For once, you're not trying to run away from me."

Hermione's head snapped up. Lucius was actually chuckling to himself.

"I've half a mind to tie you to that chair." He smirked mischievously and her eyes widened.

"Lucius, you shouldn't tease her so." Narcissa was standing in the doorway and Hermione's heart leapt into her throat wondering how long she'd been there. "She won't understand your humour."

Lucius turned to look at his wife. "Ah, but Miss Granger and I understand each other very well."

Narcissa was glaring at her and Hermione silently cursed Lucius for putting her in the middle of this. She certainly didn't want his wife thinking she was making a play for her husband, but his comment was so vague she wasn't even sure what she should be protesting.

"I—I'm feeling much better now. I should go," she said, starting to rise from the chair.

Lucius pushed her back down with a firm hand. "No, you'll stay here until your wounds are healed." He turned towards his wife. "Go to bed, Narcissa. Now."

Narcissa raised her head indignantly, her pride obviously stung. Hermione could see she was seething with anger as she swept from the room and listened to the sharp click of her heels down the hall. A quick wave of Lucius' wand, and the door slammed shut.

And once again she was locked in a room with Lucius Malfoy. But he was already moving about the room and didn't seem to notice her discomfort at all. He filled a jar with dark, muddy-coloured liquid, capped it tightly and placed it on the table. "You'll need to apply this every thirty minutes for the next three hours." He glanced at her, silvery brows furrowing. "Or perhaps I'll have the House-Elf do it."

"You think I'm an idiot," she blurted out.

"No, I think you're incredibly stubborn and far too intelligent for your own good. Of course, you would have to try this."

She looked up at him, realisation dawning. "You knew?"

"What you were doing? My son was disappearing at night and several books were missing from the library. Of course, I knew. I miss nothing that goes on in my house, Miss Granger."

She felt incredibly stupid. She thought they'd been so clever getting around him and all the time he'd known. He must have been laughing at her pathetic attempts at hiding from him.

"I am an idiot."

Lucius regarded her with one of his knowing smirks.

"Don't look at me like that," she snapped. "I feel horrible enough as it is."

There was a knock at the door and Hermione jumped.

"Master," a timid voice called from outside. "Auror Potter is here and wanting to see Master."

"Harry?" Hermione gasped. "Why is Harry here?"

"The wards on the manor were placed to alert the Auror Department of any visitors. So your dear friend, Mr Potter, may be wondering who was calling on me in the middle of the night."

"Can you send him away?" It was an odd request coming from her, she knew, but she didn't want to have to explain to Harry the embarrassing mistakes she'd made tonight.

Lucius closed his eyes in exasperation. "Miss Granger, you've put me in a difficult position. I will have to explain your presence here and Potter will want to see you to confirm I'm telling the truth."

He left the room and after a long moment, she took a deep breath and followed. Her legs shook as she walked, trembling from exhaustion. Now that the adrenaline rush had passed, her body was demanding rest.

Harry was standing in the foyer, and even from this distance she could see concern plainly on his face. Lucius met him at the bottom of the stairs, his brocade robe sweeping the steps.

"I'm sorry to have alerted you, Mr Potter," Lucius said. "Miss Granger suffered a small accident and required my assistance. Luckily, Draco was able to bring her here before any lasting damage was done."

"Hermione..." Harry started. He seemed at a loss for words.

She nodded quietly. "I'm fine now, Harry."

"I can stay," he offered. "If you want me too."

She shook her head.

"Good night, Mr Potter. I'm sorry to have awakened you at such an ungodly hour. The Elf can see you out." And with that casual dismissal, Lucius turned and walked back up the stairs.

Hermione stood and watched Harry go, feeling horribly guilty for not offering him an explanation. As she started back to the room, she caught a glimpse of a darkened form on the wall—her reflection—and couldn't help but stop to examine her face. Her instincts hadn't been wrong. It seemed her skin actually had been melting from her face. Her breath hitched in her throat. Her scars had been ugly, but this—she was hideous, a disgusting mess of ruptured, mashed flesh that looked as if it had been put through a blender. Her reflection was so grotesque, she couldn't pull her eyes away. A desperate scream was bubbling from her chest.

"Dormite!" She scarcely heard the word before darkness claimed her.