Twenty-One
Blood Traitor
The words were burned across his chest, bright red like they were still giving off heat, seared into his alabaster skin, crude and sloppy wand work.
Ditty grabbed her hand before her fingers touched the letters. She hadn't realised she'd moved a muscle.
"Draco?" Hermione said, watching carefully for any sort of response.
He lay still, eyelashes resting on his colourless cheeks, and breathing hardly noticeable.
Ditty was wringing out a fresh flannel, then dabbing gently at the burns. Hermione watched his face contort with pain and instinctively took his hand in hers.
The elf was moving about again, opening a pot of balm and scooping out a generous amount.
"This may burn, Master," she warned.
Hermione sucked in a sharp breath as Draco's hand nearly crushed hers.
"What is that?" she asked. Whatever was in the salve, it appeared to be burning him all over again.
A moment later he relaxed, and she was stunned to see that the lettering on his skin had healed over to light pink, barely there scars.
"Phoenix tears healing balm," Ditty replied.
Hermione let out a long breath. "Draco? Draco, please, what happened?"
"Miss, Master needs to rest," Ditty was saying, tugging at her free hand.
Hermione couldn't tear her eyes away from him, watching for each breath.
"Miss." Ditty tugged more insistently.
"Stay."