Disclaimer: I don't own the characters. Just the plot bunny.
Intro: Six months post-war, Malfoy is in serious trouble. He's on the run from the Ministry, Death Eaters, and a deadly curse which is eating him alive. When he hits rock bottom, a change in fortune lands him in 12 Grimmauld Place under the Ministry's custody - and forces Hermione to remember the secrets they've both kept for years. Dramione, Sick!Draco, flashbacks to Hogwarts
Chapter Eighteen
Draco could see Hermione's long hair spread over the pillow in front of him. The bedroom was dim, but there was just light enough for him to trace the soft, loose curls inches from his hands. It was strange, because he hadn't remembered them going to bed together the night before, but he was too absorbed in the comfort of being so close to her to concern himself over something as trivial as when and how she had got there. She shifted a little, and he moved himself closer.
"Are you asleep?" he said softly.
"Yes."
He frowned. Her voice sounded wrong. Like she was pissed off. Had he pissed her off? He couldn't remember doing so. She had found out about the battle – was she angry about that? A distant rustling reached his ears, although he didn't see her move. He reached out and let his fingers trail tentatively through her hair.
"You sure?"
"Go to sleep."
Again, her voice was detached and unfeeling. So unlike her. And even as he raked his brain to figure out what he had done wrong, what had provoked this cold distance, he realised suddenly that the voice had not even come from her. It had come from somewhere below them. But that was ridiculous, it had been her voice… hadn't it?
From below came the unmistakable slither of scales against hardwood floorboards.
His brain leapt into overdrive and he froze with sheer terror. He couldn't move. All he could do was grip the pillow, her hair still caught under his fingers. She didn't move at all, eerily still. He noticed that the skin of her neck was discoloured. Bloodless, the faintest hint of black veins. And as his heart began to pound with earnest, he heard something moving beneath the bed, emerging, sliding out from below him. He wanted to dive for his wand, but his panicking mind had rendered him completely immobile. He stared in fascinated terror, waiting for it to come into sight. It was emerging from her side of the bed, and he suddenly knew with absolute certainty that there wasn't just one 'it' – they were everywhere – they were coming out of the floorboards, the drawers, the mattress…
Fuck – Hermione – Fuck –
Something stung sharply in his arm and he flinched, tried to sit up, and found that his vision instantly blanked out. His body crumbled around him in a haze of noise and motion, and it took him a long time to recognise the feeling of a hand on his shoulder. He knew with abrupt certainty that he had just taken a lurch towards consciousness, that waking up beside Hermione a second ago hadn't been real, but the sheer panic that had taken root in his skin refused to recede. He could feel sweat crawling down his back like ants, feel his whole body trembling violently. He couldn't focus on anything for long enough to pull himself together.
"Draco? Draco?"
He swallowed hard, tried to speak, managed a croak. His voice wouldn't work. The hand, surprisingly gentle, squeezed his arm and let go. The pinch came again, this time in his hand, and then dulled to insignificance. He tried unsuccessfully to pull away, froze as his chest exploded with pain in response.
"It's fine, it's ok," the voice said. "You're ok now."
He trusted that voice inherently, even if he couldn't quite name it. Either way, he knew that the person who was currently pushing his sweat-soaked hair out of his face and trailing their fingers across his collarbone was a friend. More than a friend – it was the person he needed. He wished he could get closer to her, sink into the security of having his arms around her, but his body wouldn't respond to his commands. His chest seared as he tried, again, to sit up – the soft, careful hands pushed him back down as firmly as they dared.
"Shh, it's ok, you'll be ok."
"Is he awake?"
"No…" A pause. Her hands moved over him, rested briefly on his forehead. "No, I don't think so."
"Filthy fucking mudblood…"
He jerked violently. The thin, hissing voice had been right in his ear, and instantly he broke out in gooseflesh and terror. It was real, and yet it couldn't be. Voldemort was dead, and yet still he was terrified. But then the hands were back, stroking his face, resting on either side of his neck as if holding him steady, and he had to trust them. They were his only connection with the world.
"Hermione?"
"He's ok. Aren't you, Draco? Just breathe. Please, just breathe…"
Her fingers ran over his chest. He moaned as a violent twinge pulled through his body. He felt as if his soul was about to be dragged out of him. Maybe this was what it felt like to be cornered by a Dementor. He tried to open his eyes and only saw darkness.
"He's burning up."
"What do you want to do?"
"Nothing. Nothing will work." Her voice broke slightly, wobbling with emotion, but when she spoke again she had composed herself. "I'll just stay here with him. He'll be ok."
Her hands vanished for a moment, and then a cool, damp, heavenly feeling came into contact with his forehead. He leaned into it, unutterably grateful. He could almost feel his skin sucking up the cool moisture. The surface he was lying on dipped slightly, and he was acutely aware of her presence. She was giving him the relief, she was offering him the rock to lean against. He wanted more than anything to curl himself around her, but his body wouldn't move. It was shaking around him like a leaf about to be torn from the branch of a tree. With all the strength he had left, he lifted his hand and reached for her. He seemed to be reaching into eternity, into emptiness, but then suddenly her skin came into contact with his. His voice finally returned to being.
"He calls for you like that a lot, huh?"
"Yes."
Her voice was quiet, restrained. There was a pause in which he tried to remember how to breathe properly. Her fingers curled around his – they were definitely her fingers, he was sure of that much – were helping.
"You need me to get you anything?"
"No, thanks, George. I don't know what I can do to help him."
Her voice shook – she sounded upset, more than upset, and he hated that. He wished he could at least just see her but he still couldn't see anything, couldn't even tell if his eyes were open or shut. Despite how much everything fucking hurt, he could feel frustration building at his inability to get to her. He tried to squeeze her hand – his fingers jerked uselessly, but she squeezed him back.
"Hermione, we'll find something. I'll help-"
"We need real help, we're all just students. I just can't…" She trailed off, sighed heavily. "Never mind. Are you ok? Don't listen to Ron, he's just being… you know."
"I'm fine," the other voice said, laden with exasperation. "I grew up with him, remember? He's just throwing a hissy fit."
"Yeah. I just wish he would try to-"
A sudden lightning flash of agony roared through him and he heard himself make a violent, hoarse sound, felt his whole body twist in on itself. His throat closed at once, his limbs froze rigidly. He tried to shrink away into the darkest corner of his mind, knowing that whatever was about to happen was going to hurt like hell, but to his dizzy relief the pain receded before it could become a full attack. He came back to himself slowly, recognising the sweat on his skin, the tremors rolling over him, the hands pressing against his face.
"… breathe. Draco, Draco, come on, breathe, please… Please, Draco…"
"Is he…?"
"I think it's stopping. Draco?"
He wanted to reply, but his teeth were clenched too tightly. He couldn't speak, couldn't unlock his jaw. But she seemed to understand, because her fingers were passing gently through his hair and he could feel his body relaxing bit by bit. His neck released, his stomach unknotted, his legs relaxed, and eventually even his jaw seemed to let go a little. His lungs unfroze, and sweet air rushed into him in great, heaving gulps.
"God, Hermione."
The voice held all the weary trepidation he felt himself. He wanted to wholeheartedly agree with it, but he was already slipping away. He couldn't feel his arms and legs anymore. Indeed, the last sensation he was aware of was the soft hands wiping the sweat from his face. Quite suddenly, just as he was dropping off – he admitted it could have been a dream – lips dropped against his cheek. And, before he knew what had happened, he was asleep.
~O~
She had forgotten how horrific the curse was when it took full effect. Almost as soon as they had appeared in the attic room, he was screaming. It had shaken her the first time, and her reaction was no different the second time. She had reached for the nightshade, but it was too late. All she could do was kneel beside him, trying to prevent him from hurting himself as the seizure rolled over him in waves. The wound started bleeding and smoking as it had before, soaking quickly through his sweatshirt – she pushed it up and scrambled to reach for enough bandages to stem the flow. After what seemed like an eternity he finally became limp. Only then she had to wait for him to start breathing again, and somehow that was worse.
She was able to check the wound while he was out, but she wasn't offered much comfort. It seemed to have grown wider, and the black-streaked blood was still leaking out of it at a rate she wasn't happy with. She pulled the blood-stained sweatshirt off and wrapped a fresh bandage around him with some difficulty, his unresponsive body extremely disconcerting. She got him up onto the bed, pulled the blanket up over him, and found herself faced with a heavy, defeated silence.
It was her fault.
She reached blindly for his lifeless hand. It wasn't like last time, though – he began to move as if he was dreaming, or rather having some kind of nightmare. She tried to wake him up to no avail. He didn't seem to be able to hear her. George came up briefly to check on them, but she could tell that he was distracted by the row with Ron, and he didn't stay long. She wasn't sure if his voice had an affect on Draco, but for some reason he seemed to grow still again shortly afterwards, leaving her alone to wait. She felt like all she did now was wait.
She had fallen into a kind of routine now. She would pace the room. She would sit at the window. She would feel for his pulse to reassure herself that he was still breathing when he looked too motionless. And therefore, she sensed the change in his breathing without even realising it – she found herself turning sharply towards him a couple of moments before his head moved on the pillow and his eyebrows twitched. Her heart leapt and she darted forward, crouched down beside the bed. She glanced at her watch. It was 01.48am. His grey-blue eyes flickered open and roved briefly across the ceiling before settling on her. She reached for him, linking her fingers tentatively through his.
"Hey," she murmured. "How're you doing?"
"Mmh." His eyes flinched shut in a brief wince. "Peachy."
"Does it hurt?"
He just offered a tired, humourless smile, which made her heart jerk in her chest. She ran her fingertips across his knuckles. She was trying to formulate the rest of her thoughts. She wanted to talk to him – really talk – but at the same time she was worried about pushing him too far when he was fragile. He closed his eyes again, and she watched, uncertain about whether he had fallen asleep.
"Did we get out'a the kitchen before…?"
It took her a moment to figure out what he was asking. "Yes, yes – no one saw. I Apparated us up here."
"Thanks."
"It's nothing. Hestia should never have forced you to–"
"Hestia's doing her job," he muttered. "She's paid to force things."
"Draco, listen…"
"Don't."
She stopped, the words hovering on the edge of her tongue. He was pinching the bridge of his nose, his brow furrowed.
"I know you're going to ask about the Battle. I didn't want you to find out. I didn't want you to…to feel fucking responsible or guilty or…" he gestured vaguely, sighing through his nose. He let his hand drop. "You don't owe me anything, Hermione, so stop bloody looking at me like that."
"Like what?"
He opened his eyes, squinted up at her. "Like that, obviously."
She frowned back at him. "So, you want me to just pretend I don't know? Pretend nothing happened?"
"Isn't that what we do?"
She wasn't sure if he had meant to speak harshly – perhaps it was just because his voice was hoarse and rough – but it still hurt. She closed her mouth, rose to her feet, and automatically folded her arms. He seemed to recognise her silence as an indication that she did not appreciate his comment, sighed, and screwed his hands into his eyes.
"If it hadn't been Bellatrix, if it hadn't been the curse, it would've been something else," he elaborated wearily. "I was a walking target that day. I was always going to get a death sentence."
"So what, it was just a coincidence that Bellatrix was aiming for me at the time? And don't say death sentence."
"Why not?"
She could feel her temper beginning to prickle. She couldn't understand why he always felt the need to push her. And now was most definitely not a time to get into an argument. She forced herself to remain calm, tried to keep her voice steady as she replied.
"Because we're going to work something out. I told you-"
"Have you found anything yet?"
"Draco…"
"Have you?"
She glared back at him. Even lying there, his skin pale, his jaw taught, he still somehow managed to pour a simmering intensity into his gaze to meet hers.
"Bits and pieces. There'll be something."
"See?" he lifted himself onto his elbows, sucked in a short gasp of pain, squinted at the bedside cabinet. "There's nothing, Hermione. It's fine."
She couldn't help the anger that leapt up like a fire behind her eyes. His commitment to giving up was infuriating. She could only surmise that for some reason he thought he deserved all this. She opened her mouth to challenge him on it, but his attempts at sitting upright were proving extremely unsuccessful. His arms were shaking violently and the pain in his face made her stomach clench. Her angry words died in her throat and she shook her head, reached out for his hand. He took it with an uncertain glance, and she pulled him up, wincing at the muffled, painful sound he made. Careful not to disturb the IV line, she climbed up onto the bed and slipped in behind him, letting him lean against her. He didn't protest, and she retrieved the nightshade from the bedside table and handed it to him.
She could feel the tension in him, a trembling stiffness that had taken hold of his whole body. She wrapped an arm around him as he drank a large dose of the nightshade, took it back from him when he lowered it. She was about to get up again, but the intimacy of his body against hers was diffusing her anger, and that had to be a positive thing. So she leaned back against the headboard and let him settle against her, counted his shallow breaths beneath her hands. He had been running a fever since the last attack, and she could feel the heat radiating off him now.
"I think it's getting worse," he said, his voice a little more lethargic from the nightshade. "Did Slughorn… say two weeks?"
"Two to four," she corrected, her voice small.
"Oh, good."
She scowled at his weary sarcasm. "Draco, why did you take that curse for me?"
He shifted against her, and his forehead leaned into the crook of her neck. When he spoke, his voice remained quiet.
"You know why."
"Then you know why I can't just let this go."
He huffed. "Jesus, you're so stubborn."
"Me?"
She ran one hand through his hair, noting worriedly that it was slightly damp with sweat. She let her hand rest briefly on his forehead, trying to gauge how high his temperature was. Hotter than it should be. She wondered if muggle pain relief would have any effect on the curse, but somehow doubted it. The IV line seemed to be working as it was a physical intervention – spells and potions were all based on chemical imbalances, albeit in a more complex manner than muggle remedies, and her research thus far had indicated that the curse would be able to rapidly overcome any such attempts. He was right that she had, so far, completely failed to come up with any kind of solution.
"Draco?"
"Mmh?"
"Does your father know?"
Draco was silent for a moment. "He sent me a letter telling me he was going to Eastern Europe and to contact him. I wasn't interested."
"Maybe we should get in touch with him? You know, considering…"
Draco just shook his head. She thought better of pursuing the subject, but filed it away in her head for later. As much as she hated to imagine it, she thought it only right that he had the chance to reconcile with his father should things become worse. But she couldn't bear to imagine that. His breathing was laboured and shallow beneath her arms, but his hand which had settled over hers was beginning to grow slack. She nuzzled against his head.
"Draco?"
"Mm."
"I'm not going to let anything happen to you. You know that, right?"
"Mm."
He sounded tired, and she doubted he had even heard her. She peered over his shoulder to check the wound, and noted with a flicker of fear that the blood was beginning to spot through the gauze she had secured over it a few hours earlier. It still hadn't stopped bleeding. She managed to manoeuvre so that her hand could apply a light pressure on it. He winced, but he seemed to be asleep. She settled back, resolving to try to rest herself.
~O~
He felt considerably worse after the most recent attack. Maybe it was the fact that his head was pounding constantly, that the migraine throbbing in his temples made it hard to see. Or maybe it was because he couldn't move without getting tired and shaky. Or that the ugly wound on his chest jabbed him with near constant pain. There was a kind of leaden weight in his limbs that made him feel he had taken a very definite step towards however this curse was going to end. The whole world around him was muted, distant, always either too sharp or too dull to understand. Having her close to him helped – which was part of the reason why, when she unfolded herself from the bed behind him and stretched, he did his best to get up too.
"I'm only going down to the living room, I need to put some of these books back and see if I can find anything else. I think there was one more that might be of use, but I can't remember where it is…"
"I'll come with," he said, hating the way his voice trembled as he tried to sit upright.
"No, Draco, you should stay up here-"
"Hermione – I'll come."
She stopped, frowning at him. He wasn't sure if he had spoken too brusquely, but he couldn't help it. The attic room had begun to feel more and more claustrophobic over the last few days, and considering how terrible he was feeling after the last attack, he couldn't shake the feeling that he was going to die in it. And no matter how much he pretended he didn't care, the thought of dying alone in the tiny attic room terrified him.
She must have understood at least part of everything going through his head, because she stopped pushing the subject and simply nodded. She slid the IV needle out of its port and taped a ball of cotton wool over his hand – he shot her an arched eyebrow, but managed to keep his comments to himself. She put her arm around his waist and he leaned on her as they straightened – his chest seared at once, and he bit back a moan. The floor seemed to move beneath him. But he managed to hold onto consciousness, and as soon as they Apparated downstairs and appeared in the living room she deposited him on the sofa. He sank back, finally able to breathe again, and by the time he opened his eyes she had already finished bringing the rest of the books down. She shot him a concerned and pointed look as she set the pile down on the small table in the corner.
"So, one more book to try?"
She scowled. "In this library, but there are other, far more extensive collections."
"What, more extensive than the Black collection?" he scoffed. "Don't know if you heard about them, but they were pretty into their dark magic."
"Do you want to be here or not?"
He shot her a smile, and was pleasantly amused to see her cheeks flush slightly. He watched her move to and fro across the room, putting books back on their shelves from her pile on the table. There was a Prophet slung across the table too, and he found himself wondering what was even happening in the outside world. He felt as if he had been in a bubble for months. He felt in his pocket for his wand and tried to Accio it silently, not really expecting it to work. It didn't. He tried to ignore the failure and pointed his wand again.
"Accio."
The pages did not even flutter. A thrill of panic ran through him like a jolt of static. He lowered his wand quickly, but Hermione had already looked up. She glanced from him to the paper and back.
"What is it?"
He considered lying, but there was little point. He lifted his wand again, this time letting her watch.
"Accio." Again, nothing. He didn't even feel anything. He wet his lips. "Lumos."
His wand remained unlit. He lowered it slowly, set it down on the sofa cushion beside him. A brief, tense silence hung between them. He felt like someone had just sliced one of his arms off. He sniffed, rubbed his eyes, the light from the window doing nothing for his aching head.
"Magic's been on the glitch recently," he explained heavily, his voice flat. "Can't even…"
He trailed off with a shrug, heard footsteps. He lowered his hand to find Hermione crouching in front of him, her hand on his knee. She was looking up at him earnestly, her brown eyes welling with concern. She had brought the Prophet, which she placed next to him gingerly, as if worried that any noise made would send him into a frenzy.
"It's fine," she said emphatically. "It's probably just because you're tired. It'll come back once you're better."
He didn't have the energy to argue with her. Instead he just offered her a short nod and leaned his head back against the sofa, closing his eyes. She squeezed his knee before letting go and moving away across the room. He couldn't shake the sense of fear. He'd never before been unable to produce magic. The curse was taking everything away from him, and now it had even taken his ability to protect himself. He knew she was trying to reassure him, but at this point, 'better' really didn't feel like an option.
But, for some reason, she was doggedly keeping hope. So he held his tongue.
He picked up the Prophet. He flipped through the first few pages, but reading made his headache worse and he couldn't concentrate. Eventually, he just put the newspaper down again and slouched on the sofa, watching her through slitted eyes. She finished putting her books back and began to hunt about for the book she had mentioned earlier, checking under tables and on top of bookcases. She at last found the volume she had been after propping up one of the chairs, which had sustained an injury to one of its legs. She swapped it out for another unlucky tome and headed over to sit beside him on the sofa, already scanning the first few pages with a serious frown.
"You want to go back upstairs?"
He shook his head. "We can stay here for a bit."
She was already reading. He felt a chill run through him and suppressed a shudder. He couldn't tell if he was hot or cold – his skin was breaking out in gooseflesh and shivers ran in constant streams down his back. He wished he'd brought the Nightshade down with him, but he was barely staying awake as it was. He listened to Hermione turn the pages of the book and scribble on her scrap of paper, tried to forget about the dizzying pain rolling through him with every breath.
He couldn't tell if an hour passed or just five minutes, but he opened his eyes to the door opening and blinked hard to bring Potter's scruffy black hair into focus. The other boy caught sight of them and came into the room, his gaze pausing on Draco. His eyes widened slightly and he shot a quick glance at Hermione. Draco took that as an indication of just how crap he must currently look, and lifted a hand to push his hair back in a half-hearted attempt to look more presentable. He tried to concentrate on what Potter was saying, tried to sit up a little straighter.
"… would've been upstairs?"
"Wanted a break from the attic," Hermione said. "I thought everyone was out today?"
"Yeah," Potter said, shrugging. "I came back from Hogwarts early. Wanted to check on you."
"Potter, you're too sweet," Draco muttered.
Potter rolled his eyes. "How're… things?"
Draco got the distinct impression he was trying to ask Hermione how bad it was without letting Draco in on the conversation, and narrowed his eyes at the other boy. He refused to be excluded from a discussion of his own wellbeing.
"Fine," he said flatly. "More to the point, how's Hestia? Caught any Death Eaters yet?"
Potter sat down on a nearby armchair, glancing with interest at Hermione's notes. He looked at Draco again, and his gaze again turned worried. Draco squirmed, hating it. He wasn't exactly sure where he and Potter stood now. He had, after all, done what the Golden boy had asked and answered Hestia's questions the other night – Potter had been there to see for himself. Although he still failed to see how his recollection of the Battle was supposed to help them catch Death Eaters now. He wished he could see a mirror, just get an idea of what was making Potter look at him as if he was about to keel over. In all honesty, he didn't feel far off it, but getting pity stares was still an alien experience for him.
"They've gone into hiding," Potter said. "Hestia's team have tracked down all their suppliers, and no one has heard from them for ages. We think they're waiting for Hestia to relax surveillance on them."
Draco sniggered tiredly. "Don't be ridiculous, Potter, that would suggest common sense."
"Do you know who they are?" Hermione asked suddenly. "Have you talked about it with Hestia?"
Draco hesitated, the smirk wiped off his face. She had never asked him about that before, leaving it to Hestia to interrogate. But he didn't want to lie to her. He wet his lips.
"Don't know exactly who survived. Hestia's right that one of them is Travers – he never was very good at disguising his voice. As for the others…" he shrugged.
"Hestia had a list," Potter pressed. "Of all the Death Eaters not found after the Battle."
"Yeah, and I'd say it's pretty safe to assume that Travers doesn't go far without Selwyn," Draco said humourlessly. "They were kind of a pair."
"They didn't try to get in touch with you? Recruit you?" Hermione asked.
Draco shook his head. "They knew. If they didn't see me kill Greyback, they would've heard about it from other witnesses. Or they saw the Dark Lord kill…"
He broke off sharply, an unexpected lump rising in his throat. He blinked, looked away quickly, furious at the sudden rush of emotion. He had to assume it was just his usual defensiveness being lowered by his condition. It was making it hard for him to focus. By the time he had wrestled himself back under control, he was relieved to find that Hermione had started talking to cover his sudden silence.
"… why they'd even bother," she was saying. "I mean, what do they have to achieve now? Voldemort's dead."
"Revenge, mostly," Draco said. "This is what they lived for, remember? They won't want to accept it's over. So they'll keep trying to assassinate Potter, but they'll never be able to rally enough support to actually do it."
"They haven't tried yet," Potter said. "That's what I don't understand."
"You've got half the Ministry's Aurors dropping in on you every day," Draco said, rolling his eyes. "Of course they haven't tried. They'll just keep making random attacks on muggles or half-bloods, trying to make it seem like they're keeping the dream alive."
Hermione wrinkled her nose. "Hestia will catch them. They can't run forever."
Draco just shrugged wearily. Hermione shuddered, as if shaking the subject off, and asked Potter how Hagrid was. Draco let himself tune out of the conversation, feeling his eyes growing tired. It was good to listen to her lilting voice – something Potter said even made her laugh. Her hand dropped onto his knee and remained there casually. He would have been enjoying himself more if the smell of burning hadn't been steadily filling the air, growing stronger with each passing second. It was obvious that the others hadn't noticed it at all. He cracked his eyes open again, squinting around the room, searching for the source of it. Hermione and Potter went on chatting, their voices slightly distant. And yet it was only when a flicker of fire appeared in the doorway that he realised what was happening. He felt his body stiffen at once, felt his hands clench. If he leaned back on the sofa, he could just see out into the corridor. His stomach lurched as he took in the humanoid figure standing there, just in sight, flames licking over blackened skin. It wasn't moving – it was simply standing there. Even though he couldn't see its eyes, he felt like it was watching him. His skin crawled, and he could feel his heart beginning to pound rapidly. Again, it didn't seem to be threatening, exactly – something about it almost seemed comforting, kind… And yet when it suddenly shifted and began to move forwards into the room, he still felt terrified.
It walked slowly, and the fire rushing over its body left no mark on the walls. And yet he could feel the heat of it, smell the burning hair. His head was beginning to ache, a steadily building pain which was mirrored in his chest. He tried to keep his breathing even but the fear was like a wave breaking over him. The more he tried to keep it in check, the more it seemed to grow. The flaming figure walked slowly past the other sofa and stopped in the middle of the room. Its head turned towards him. He couldn't help but stare at it, couldn't drag his eyes away. The heat of the flames rushed at him and he forced himself to remain still. It was taking everything he had not to get the hell out of the room as fast as he could.
"Draco?"
Hermione's hand was on top of his. He blinked, glanced at her. He had the feeling she had been trying to get his attention for a while. He tried to figure out what she had said, but again his gaze was drawn towards the burning silhouette standing just a couple of meters away.
"Draco, are you ok?"
He nodded. Any words he might have used to reply had withered into nothing on his tongue. He could hear his own breathing quickening and tried to regain control. Beside him, Hermione shifted forwards a little and moved into his line of sight, reaching out to brush her fingertips across his cheek. He managed to look at her again. Her brown eyes were glittering with quiet concern.
"You sure?"
He could only guess how freaked out he must be looking to make her that worried. He looked back at the thing, which was still standing there quietly, and realised that Potter had risen to his feet and taken a step towards them. He did not want a repeat of his previous hallucination in the kitchen. He closed his eyes tightly, made himself count to four on each inhale and exhale, his heart hammering faster. But when he opened his eyes, the fiery vision was still there.
"Draco?"
Hermione's cool hand was against his forehead, and he felt the panic ease slightly. She was frowning at him.
"Your fever's getting worse," she said softly. "Are you seeing things again?"
He could hear her, could feel Potter staring, but he couldn't look away from the fiery figure, the two bloodied eye sockets boring into him… Hermione's fingers wiped at his cheek again, and he realised with a lurch that his eyes were prickling and watery. He blinked hard. She ran her fingers through his hair until he looked at her. She was steady as a rock, holding onto him, grounding him.
"It's not real, right?" she said. "It's not really there. I promise."
He swallowed, managed a jerky nod. The figure shimmered a little, almost like a reflection in a pool of water. He felt that if he could only keep himself from looking at it again, it would disappear. He stared determinedly at Hermione, concentrated on her brown eyes, her golden skin, her frizzy hair standing apart from her face in an unruly mane… The next time he blinked, the figure had gone. He chanced a hesitant glance over his shoulder, but it was nowhere in sight. He heaved a sigh of relief and Hermione let him go slowly.
"Sorry," he muttered.
"It's fine," she said instantly. "You ok?"
Potter returned slowly to his chair and sat down again, still watching them with concern that made embarrassment curl in Draco's stomach. He cleared his throat, brushed the back of his hand across his face – he could feel hot droplets of sweat. He levered himself to the edge of the sofa and stood up. The world swung violently and Hermione's hands were on him in an instant, holding him steady. He held up his hands, wordlessly indicating he could stand.
"Going t'the toilet," he said, his voice thin.
"Draco-"
"It's across the hall," he protested.
She hesitated, but let him go. He took a deep breath and made his way across the room, his vision swimming violently. He reached for the doorframe, leaned on it for a moment, and then made it out into the corridor, their eyes on the back of his neck.
~O~
"So…"
Hermione tore her gaze away from the ajar door and glanced back at Harry, who was still on his feet. His eyes were wide and uncertain behind his wire-rimmed glasses, and he was picking awkwardly at his nails.
"… how're things, really?" he asked softly.
"You saw him," she muttered, dropping back onto the sofa dejectedly. "It got worse after last night."
"How bad?"
"It won't stop bleeding. His temperature's been getting higher. And I can't find anything, all these books, they're useless."
She slammed the one on her lap shut and tossed it aside. Her hands clenched in her hair. Now that he was out of the room, it seemed her frustration and helplessness finally had an outlet. She felt like screaming. She heard Harry move over to her and felt the sofa dip as he sat down next to her.
"Hermione-"
"It's not getting any better," she whispered. "There's nothing I can do."
"But last night – I mean, Hestia must see him in a better light now, right?"
"She's not doing anything, she just left. And Slughorn hasn't replied to any of my letters since he came the first time." She shook her head. "I just can't stop thinking about how it's all my fault."
"It's not-"
"It is, Harry, don't bother." She wiped furiously at her eyes. "And now I'm going to have to just… just sit and watch him…"
Harry's arm came around her shoulders, and she leaned against him, grateful for the comfort. His hand moved up and down her arm and his voice was steady and reassuring.
"I owled McGonagall last night. She replied this morning – she's going to ask around the academic circles she knows, see if anyone has studied this thing."
"Thanks." She tried to steady herself, tried to remove the wobble from her voice. "What happened last night, anyway? Ron seemed pretty angry."
"He is. Think he's just feeling a bit outnumbered – some people have warmed up to Malfoy a bit, and he feels betrayed."
"This isn't about him."
"No – but we both know that Ron doesn't break grudges easily. Remember how he didn't speak to me for half of fourth year?"
She couldn't help but giggle. Harry let her go, apparently satisfied that her mood had improved. She pushed her hair back out of her face, wiped quickly at her eyes, made sure she pulled herself together before Draco returned.
"It would be good if you two could talk," Harry added hesitantly. "I mean – I know now isn't a good time. Maybe… I don't know."
"No, you're right," she said, sighing. "We should."
"I know he's being an idiot, but he does care about you. You know that, right?"
She opened her mouth to reply, but then found herself abruptly interrupted by a muffled crash from beyond the door. She leaped to her feet, Harry rising sharply with her. She barrelled out into the corridor to find Draco curled on his side on the ground. He had taken out a vase on his way down, and soil was spread over the floor, tiny vines wiggling free. She crouched beside him, taking hold of his arm. He was shaking violently, almost like he did during a seizure, and when she pulled him over she saw his eyes squeezed tightly shut. Droplets of sweat were rolling down his face and neck, and she could feel the blazing heat of his skin through his t-shirt. She felt for his pulse desperately, and didn't know whether to be relieved or not at the heavy, rapid beats against her fingertips.
"Draco? Draco, can you hear me?"
His head rolled towards her but he was still shuddering violently, his jaw locked. His flickering eyes roved but didn't see her.
"Draco, it's ok…"
"Is it the curse?"
She shook her head, realising that Harry was beside her for the first time. She felt for his chest to make sure, but the bandages, although damp with sweat, were only spotted lightly with blood.
"No," she murmured. "I think it's the fever. It's climbed really quickly."
She could feel her body panicking around her. It was a strange sensation – like watching an earthquake from within a conservatory. She tried to regain control, tried to focus on Draco. He needed her – she couldn't cave in now.
"Would a potion help? Do you need me to find something?"
"But I don't know if it'll work, I don't…"
But even as her fear began to ramp up, he made a noise in the back of his throat and blinked hard. His body still trembled and shuddered, but she could see him straining to bring her into focus. She leaned forwards and his half-lidded, silvery eyes finally seemed to recognise her.
"M'ok," he mumbled.
"Could've fooled me," she said, trying to lighten the situation. Her claw-like grip on his hand gave her away.
"You broke my vase, Malfoy," Harry spoke up, rescuing her. "You better pay me back, that was an antique. Been in the family for generations. Probably."
Draco squinted at the shards of ceramic on the floor nearby and huffed. "Did you a favour, Potter, that vase was disgusting. N-no… sense of style."
"Right," Harry said, rolling his eyes. "Come on, how about we get you off the floor?"
Hermione tried to pour as much gratitude as she could into the look she shot Harry as he took hold of Draco's arm and pulled him upright. She took his other side, trying to catch his gaze. She could see him trying to take his own weight, but his legs were shaking and unsteady.
"Hermione? I'll take him, yeah?"
She looked quickly at Harry, who had pulled Draco's arm across his shoulders. She hesitated, but she knew he was able to carry Draco better. Reluctantly, she nodded. Harry offered her a brief smile before they both disappeared with a sharp crack. She turned and hurried downstairs to the kitchen, relived not to run into anyone on the way. She rooted through the cupboard until she found a jug, filled it with water, and tapped it with her wand to chill it. She snatched up a fresh glass and then made her way back upstairs. She was breathless by the time she got to the attic. She could hear voices inside.
"Just sit down-"
"Just bloody unhand me, Potter!"
"I have, just-"
She shoved the door open with her shoulder, armed with the jug and glass. Harry's face seemed to visibly clear with relief – he was standing in front of Draco, who was attempting to get up from the bed. His eyes, hollowed in his head, turned on her.
"Sit down, Draco," she said.
She put the jug and glass down on the bedside table, and then crossed the room to the chest of drawers which still had the potions kit on it from the first night. She rooted through it until she found a simple Pepper Up potion – it was worth a go. She turned back to Draco and held it out. He had sat down, doubled over, one arm wrapped tightly around his chest, his face tight with pain. He saw the bottle and shook his head.
"It won't work-"
"Just try it."
He rolled his eyes but took it, his hand shaking violently. She looked up at Harry, who was hovering awkwardly beside them.
"Thanks, Harry."
He shrugged the words off. "I'll be downstairs, if you need anything. You ok?"
She just nodded. His green eyes searched hers for a moment longer before he ducked out of the room. Draco had downed the contents of the bottle and shoved it onto the bedside table – he dropped down onto his side on the bed and curled in on himself. She could see pain in every rigid part of his body, in the trembling tension in his hands as they clenched over the duvet. She counted the minutes.
Three hours passed them by, and even though he seemed to fall asleep the Pepper Up potion didn't appear to do anything else. She stood over him, arms folded, lips pressed into a tight line. Her careful gaze travelled over his flushed face, the huge dark circles under his eyes. His hair stuck to his temples in dark strands, pinned there by the same sweat that was glistening on his whole body. It had dislodged the gauze which was taped over his chest, and the skin around it was a fierce red, prickled with tiny, thin purpled lines. She hated to wake him up, but she couldn't risk letting the fever get any worse. She was starting to panic. She took a deep breath and sat down on the edge of the bed.
"Draco?"
She laid a hand on his shoulder and squeezed gently, still regretting the need to wake him. His brow pulled together in a wince. She waited for a couple of moments, hesitating still, and then placed her other hand against his cheek. His skin was hot under her palm, and she turned her hand over to lay the back of it against him instead, trying to cool him down.
"Draco, come on," she said again. "Please?"
His eyes flickered open. They roved over the ceiling and she had to lean further forwards before he focussed on her. His clear blue gaze was glassy and dull, and he stared up at her blearily, confusion and pain creasing his forehead into a frown. She wondered if he was even looking at her, or whether he was seeing someone else entirely. She tried to smile encouragingly, brushed some of the sweat-soaked hair out of his face.
"Hey," she said. "How about we get you cleaned up?"
He blinked slowly. An involuntary shudder rolled over him and he flinched, his body tensing in pain, his eyes squeezing shut. She reached quickly for his hand, slipping her fingers between his in an effort to comfort him, her stomach twisting at her helplessness. His hand closed over hers.
"You ok?" she murmured.
His eyes cracked open again, settled on her face. His breathing was tight and shallow, but she thought she might have finally got through to him. He offered her a short nod.
"Listen," she said, speaking slowly and calmly, "Your fever's getting really bad. I thought a shower might help cool you down a bit. Do you think you can stand?"
He looked back at her, his answer in every line of his face. No. She forced herself to smile at him, squeezed his lax fingers gently.
"I'll be right next to you," she pressed. "I'll Apparate you down there. You can lean on me the whole time."
He closed his eyes, and her heart sank. But just when she thought he had fallen asleep again, his jaw clenched tightly and he bent his arms, beginning to push himself upright. She shifted forwards hastily to help, putting both hands behind his back to help steady him. She held onto his shoulders as he made it up, distinctly aware of how much he had to lean on her. He had lifted one hand to his chest, holding it tightly. She raked her brains one final time, in a desperate attempt to come up with some other way to help him. But it was no good – the bed needed changing, and he needed a way to cool down. And with potions failing them, the shower was their next best bet.
"Just try to breathe," she said. "Lean on me, ok?"
She waited for him to lift his head before continuing, which he eventually did. He shifted to move his legs over the edge of the bed in slow, painful movements, and they stopped again before attempting standing. He sat there, hunched over himself, and she could tell that he was already exhausted. She couldn't help but feel guilty as she took in his shivering, crumpled form, his head hanging down. She hated to ask him to move, knowing how much it was going to hurt him.
"Just try, Draco," she murmured helplessly, wishing she could offer something more than words. "I'm right here."
His shoulders heaved slightly in a shuddery sigh, and then his head lifted. His eyes met hers and she tried to pour everything she had into the connection, tried to offer him as much strength as she could. His lips quirked slightly, and then he nodded.
"Ok," she said, steeling herself. "Let's go."
She slipped her hands beneath his elbows and lifted gently. She felt his whole body tense up beneath her grip as he pushed himself up onto his feet. The trembling increased at once and as soon as he straightened up, any remaining blood flooded out of his face. She scrambled to wrap both arms around his waist and take some of his weight as he swayed dangerously.
"Okay, okay," she said breathlessly. "I'm going to Apparate now, okay?"
He whimpered, shook, his knees beginning to buckle, and she didn't dare risk making him stand any longer. She lurched them backwards through a brief, twisting darkness, bringing them to rest in the middle of the bathroom. His legs gave out at once as soon as they landed, and she only just managed to slow his fall and direct him down onto the closed toilet seat. He let out a muffled cry as he landed, one arm still folded tightly over his chest, and she dropped down in front of him as soon as he was seated, one hand still holding tightly to his shoulder, the other seeking out his face, desperately pursuing eye contact with him again. Her heart was beating hard and fast in fear as he curled in on himself, his breathing tight and shallow, his body rigid with pain.
"Draco? Draco, please look at me? Hey, hey…"
She worked her fingers through his damp hair, still struck by how hot his skin was against her hand. His forehead was blazing, his body shaking with tremors which went right to the core of him.
"Draco? Draco…"
A sob welled up in her throat, but before it could break free his eyes cracked open and he met her gaze. She could see the pain there – she hardly ever didn't these days – but she could also see a tiny smile twisting at the corner of his lips. She stared at him, wondering if he was delirious.
"Jesus, is there an echo in here?"
His voice was strained and weak, but somehow he was still smirking. She couldn't help but roll her eyes.
"You jerk," she muttered, rising to her feet. "Are you alright?"
He nodded stiffly, leaning against the wall beside the toilet. He didn't look alright. His body curled into the wall, as if about to disintegrate around him, one arm still clutching weakly at his chest. He watched her through slitted eyes as she went about turning on the shower. She kept the temperature low, just warm enough to take off the edge, but cool enough to hopefully help lower his fever. She pulled the curtain half closed, hung a towel off the radiator, positioned it just within reach, and then turned to face him.
"Ready?"
He looked back at her and shook his head.
"I know, I know," he said as she opened her mouth, his voice still tremulous. "But I can't fucking stand, Hermione."
Her heart tore for him. She couldn't remember a time when he had ever admitted not being able to do something. He was too proud. But the sickness had forced him to forget that. She didn't know if it was the fever, the disorientation, or just the amount of pain he was in, but the wall that had stood there between them for the past few months was well and truly gone.
Which was perhaps why she had the nerve to seize the bottom of her hoodie and pull both it and her t-shirt off over her head.
His eyebrows shot upwards despite himself, and he squinted up at her in completely unveiled shock. She felt a slight thrill, even if her cheeks were starting to grow red. She folded her arms, in an effort to look more in command, and shifted her weight from foot to foot uncertainly.
"So, I'll help you."
He huffed out a brief, painful laugh, leaning his forehead against the tiled wall. His eyes skated quickly over her and back to her face. "You're joking."
"Scared?" she challenged.
He moved as if to get up, but dropped back down again almost at once, letting out a weak gasp. Forgetting her dare, she hurried over and wrapped an arm around his waist, caught the other under his elbow. Together, him leaning heavily on her and swaying every so often, they made it upright. He was fidgeting with something, and she could not figure out what he was doing. It was only when he shifted and his pyjama trousers dropped to the ground around his ankles that she realised, and she fixed her eyes resolutely on his face. His lips were twisted in a smirk.
"Are you?"
Their proximity was so close, and it was so much like being thrown back into the past, that she found herself smiling. She wrestled with her expression, began to move carefully towards the bath. He moaned, reaching out for the tiled wall, and she did her best to help as much as she could.
"Called… your bluff… Granger," he ground out as they reached the bath.
She took his hand, encouraging him to use her arm for leverage, and he sighed. She could feel his body tensing in preparation, the muscles of his back tight. Then, with a tremendous effort, he lifted one leg. She supported him into the tub, held fast to his arms as he finally leaned against the wall. He was breathing hard, his eyes screwed shut, his face turned against the tiles. She was afraid to let go, but by now she was convinced that she could not risk letting him stand on his own for the whole time he was in the shower.
"Hang on," she muttered.
He didn't respond, which made her instantly nervous. She pulled the curtain shut, steeling herself, and then put her hands to the waistband of her jeans. She only hesitated for a moment before undoing the button and dragging them down, leaving them behind on the floor. Her shoes and socks followed, along with her bra. Then, before she could ask herself what the hell she was doing, she slipped around the shower curtain and climbed into the tub directly behind him.
It seemed that she only just got there in time – he was listing dangerously to one side, his legs trembling fiercely. The roar of the running water, still just out of reach of the two of them, filled her ears. She snatched for him as his head began to drop downwards, her arms wrapping around his waist, a position she was becoming quickly familiar with. He shifted, turned awkwardly to face her in the small space. His eyes widened at the fact that she had actually climbed in with him, his hands hovering uncertainly inches above her skin. She moved forwards, urging him carefully backwards until he stepped into the steady stream of cool water. He flinched, hissing sharply.
"Fuck, fuck…"
"Are you ok?" She caught at him, tried to lean forwards to see his wound.
"It's fucking cold!"
She let out a short laugh, but she knew the water would be much colder for him than for her. He was already shivering violently, struggling to hold back groans of pain as the movement jolted his injury. She reached for the temperature gauge and turned it up a little, just as far as she dared, picked up a bottle of shower gel as she straightened again.
"We'd better get going, then."
His eyes lifted to meet hers. They flickered, as if to look down at her, and then quickly snapped shut. Water streamed over his face, plastering his hair to his head.
"Fucking hell, Hermione, what're you trying to do to me?"
She allowed herself a small grin, juggling the shower gel and trying to keep him upright at the same time. She managed to squeeze some out and spread it across his shoulders and back, working it up into a lather. His eyes squeezed shut, he dropped his head to lean against her shoulder. Her hands ran over his skin, his familiar lines and structure, the unfamiliar scars and marks.
"Draco?"
"Mmph."
She shifted. "Don't fall asleep, ok?"
"Mm not," he muttered. "I'm too fucking horny."
"Isn't it too cold to be horny?"
"Yeah, well, it's been a while."
He faltered with a whimper and she hurriedly reached for his arms, pulled them up to rest on her own shoulders.
"Just a little longer," she promised, reaching for the shampoo. "Can you lift your head?"
He did, eyes still closed. She worked the shampoo into his hair as gently and quickly as she could, let the rush of the shower wash it away as quickly as the bubbles formed. She pushed it back out of his face, flat against his head, much like his usual slicked-back style. As she did so his eyes opened and came into contact with her own. He was still trembling, still unsteady, and she knew she should get him out of the tub and back into the bed upstairs. But even as she opened her mouth to suggest moving, he had ducked his head and his lips were against hers.
Something inside her released, even though she hadn't realised she had been tense. She delved into the kiss, felt one of his hands moving gently through her damp hair. Her stomach fluttered and she found herself clutching at him, relishing the feel of his flesh beneath her hands and the heat of his lips. She knew her heart had begun to beat a million miles a minute, and that her head was spinning wildly, and all she could think was how much she had missed him, how much she had missed being this close to him. She moved closer, needing to feel his whole body against her, her skin singing with electricity as his hands trailed over her back, further down… She closed her teeth gently over his bottom lip, felt his hand close over her left butt cheek…
His leg abruptly shook and he dropped hard against the tiled wall, gasping as he made impact. She snatched at him desperately, shocked out of her daze, only just managing to keep him upright. He leaned on her, one arm looped around her shoulders, his jaw clenched tightly.
"Draco? Oh god, sorry, come on…"
He made a noise, as if about to speak, but he broke off in a rough moan. His legs were barely holding him up any longer. Terrified of hurting him further, she span awkwardly around and brought him carefully down into the tub. Soon enough he was settled against the bath, knees bent in the small space, both arms crossed tightly over his chest. As she scrambled to turn off the water his eyes cracked open and fixed on her. She crouched down, only just able to kneel opposite him, looking anxiously at his chest.
"Let me see - is it bleeding?"
He reached for her, seized her arm, and pulled her sharply forwards. She almost lost her balance, only just managing to avoid tumbling on top of him by grabbing the edge of the bath. She pulled back, shooting him a raised eyebrow, and he groaned and fell back.
"Ah, come on, we were about to fuck…"
She rolled her eyes, fighting down a flicker of disappointment herself. "I don't think you're up to it. Let me see."
She tugged at the arm that was still held against his wound, and he reluctantly let her pull it away. The gaping, ugly gash blazed an angry red against his white chest, the skin around it still discoloured. A small trickle of blood was ebbing out of it, and she pursed her lips worriedly. He covered it again, sighing heavily.
"Ignore it, 'Mione," he muttered, reaching for her once more.
She put the back of her hand against his cheek, searched his eyes. He looked a less glazed than before, but his skin was still too warm. She stood up before he could catch hold of her again, stepping out of the tub. She snagged a towel from the back of the bathroom door and hung it over the side of the tub, within reach, before catching up another one and hurriedly drying herself off. She could feel his gaze on her, but when she looked up he glanced down at his lap, looking distinctly miserable. Still a little damp, she snatched up her jeans from the bathroom floor and pulled them on before dragging on her t-shirt, foregoing the bra and hoodie.
"Hey," she said, allowing him to look up again. "What is it?"
He stared back at her, his blue eyes clouded with frustration and defeat. He scrubbed a hand over his face and through his hair.
"I'm sick of this," he muttered.
She crouched beside the tub, her folded arms resting on its side. She had to reach out and touch his chin to turn his face towards her, and still he didn't look her in the eye. She leaned forwards and touched her lips lightly against his, let her hand ghost up through his wet hair. His forehead moved to lean against hers when she broke away.
"Don't," she murmured. "It'll be ok."
He said nothing. She rose to her feet, forcing herself to keep her gaze from straying downwards. Despite his condition, he still somehow managed to look incredibly sexy lying in the bath, his hair damp, his skin glittering with droplets of water.
"I'll be right back – stay here."
He shivered, pulled the towel towards himself, leaned his head back against the side of the tub. "Funny."
She seized the rest of the clothes strewn around on the floor and Apparated upstairs. Tossing them in the far corner, she retrieved her wand from the folds of her hoodie and jabbed it at the bed. The sheets flew off it, the duvet twisting and spiralling in the air, and the fresh ones piled on the floor nearby shot onto it in their place. The old sheets were sent to join the clothes on the floor. She opened the drawers one at a time until she found something he could wear – black silk pyjama trousers. She smirked at the sight of them – only Draco Malfoy could be rendered homeless and yet still own something so lavish.
When she re-appeared in the bathroom, Draco hadn't moved. He was pinching the bridge of his nose, his eyes screwed shut. She wondered if he had a headache. She was pretty sure he always had a headache now. He dropped his hand and squinted up at her as she stepped up to the tub, the towel thrown carelessly in his lap. She held out her hand.
"Ready?"
He shook his head, and took her hand.
Thanks for reading! Reviews are always welcome.
SUPRNTRAL LVR.