Chapter 29 – Hyperion
A/N: Song Rec: River by Leon Bridges. SEE POST NOTES FOR IMPORTANT UPDATE. As always, my mistakes are my own. - delphicpigeon
The day after she collapsed, Draco didn't sleep. Nor did he sleep the second night. A week later, he had barely left her side. Just watching for any signs of movement. Day after day, she remained motionless. Hour by hour, he waited and held her limp hand in his. If she had been awake, she would have seen the utter shame, guilt, and yearning carved on his face. Draco sat by her side, reliving her last conscious moments over and over. Each hateful word he had spat towards her blared like a klaxon in his head. The derisive sneer Cerridwen had bestowed upon him felt like a stab to the heart each time he recalled it.
How could he have been so reckless? Cerridwen had been right. He didn't deserve her. She had given him a gift and his reaction had been absolutely appalling. He knew, without a shadow of a doubt, his mother would have been properly humiliated by her wretched son's behavior.
He sighed for what felt like the hundredth time and silently begged once again for Hermione's forgiveness. He knew he didn't deserve such a kindness, but he knew no other action or words would be acceptable in her or Cerridwen's eyes. He had let his internalized self-loathing and suppressed emotions boil over in a way that had almost magically destroyed the witch he had earlier sworn secretly to protect. Was he so broken inside that a thoughtful gift, despite its extravagance, would cause such a bitter reaction?
These were the thoughts that haunted him as the days passed by. Each day it was a new glaring question. Would she ever wake up? Would she forgive him? Had he essentially killed Hermione Granger and doomed the magical world by default? Would it have been better for everyone if she hadn't saved him in the woods that day? They ran wild, rattled in every corner of his brain, these thoughts. He thought he might go insane from the voices yelling in his head. But he refused to place them behind his Occlumency shields. He didn't deserve to escape from them.
Another week passed before he finally left her bedside for an extended period of time. The garden had begun to wither under the growing summer sun. Each day he woke at dawn, exhausted from another restless night spent by her side, and tended to the garden. Every hour, he would pause and check on her condition. With each check, he felt a tiny shred of hope peel away. She seemed to fade away as the garden returned to its former flourish. Each morning, Draco glared bitterly at the thriving greens and fruits as if they were directly responsible for her failing health. If they hadn't been necessary to survive, he had half a mind to scorch the entire plot to ashes.
With every hour that was not spent at her side, he poured back into the cottage and surrounding area. He strengthened the wards on the property, added a wooden swing to the gazebo, expanded the greenhouse for cold weather crops, deep cleaned the cottage itself, began canning and preserving early summer harvests, and more. Draco worked himself to the bone and wondered why he had ever thought he'd prefer a leisurely life as an adult. Now, the thought of ever returning to opulent mansions, an army of house elves, and stiff suits made him ill. The calluses on his hands were set, his body adjusted to the hard labor, and the sort of satisfaction of a job well done had taken over. When he wasn't throwing himself through the guilt ringer, he daydreamed that this sort of living could be his future.
As if you could be worthy of such a charming existence, his mind taunted and he promptly dropped back to his decidedly less appealing reality.
Each evening, he washed and fixed a light supper for them both before padding up the stairs to resume his bedside vigil. He had levitated his armchair up to the bedroom, transfiguring it each evening into a small cot. He refused to allow any chance for her to wake in the night alone. After finishing his portion, he gently coaxed nourishing liquids down her throat. The garden had been extremely beneficial in this respect with its many leafy greens, healthy fruits, and holistic herbs. He blended them into a smoothie-like texture and hoped, in some small way, that they didn't taste too terrible. Every couple days or so he would take a warm wash cloth and a bar of soap to her exposed limbs and face while casting a Cleansing Spell afterwards. He wasn't stupid enough to venture anywhere else on her body without expressed consent.
For her hair, he had merely stared in horror at the tangled, puffy rat's nest that had emerged after an initial wash. Draco knew absolutely nothing about her kind of haircare. Sure, he had maintained his locks with a couple hair care products here and there, but her waist-length tresses were a whole new experience. Brushing, especially when dry, was completely out of the question. Lately, he had taken to keeping the hair slightly damp while carefully twisting the strands around each other and securing them with her many ribbons. He had struggled to emulate her braiding style once, however, his fingers had rapidly become entangled and he had quickly abandoned the effort.
Soon, he settled back into their previous research routine despite the exhaustion that wracked his body. He had neglected his research into the Black Book of Carmarthen and its potential tie-in to the partially translated Gospel of the Witches. They had been able to bypass the book's unwillingness to be personally transcribed by Hermione. Apparently, books had not quite been able to recognize Muggle application of legal loopholes. Rather than attempt to write the words herself, she had spoken her "opinion" of the book's content. This allowed Draco to take detailed notes without the book magically erasing them. They had both been immensely pleased when the words remained on the parchment.
Shifting his focus back to their notes, a particular sentence caught his eye. It was the reference to the magical input required to translate the Gospel of the Witches. He stared hard at the words for a several moments, an idea formulating in his head. Peering up at Hermione, he regarded how pale she looked and was reminded of how wasted away she had become during that period. Cerridwen's words suddenly echoed around him and he knew immediately what he had to do. He took a deep breath and shifted closer to her, once again wrapping his hand around hers.
The days bled into weeks and the routine continued. Draco had decided the only way to restore Hermione had been to drain his magic directly into her. Initially, he had been hesitant to do something some intimate and drastic but knew deep down that it was the only way to proceed. She had poured magic into him to save his life and now it was his turn. However, his magical core, despite its partial bond to her and Cerridwen, was not nearly as powerful and expansive. He had only been able to push his magic for short periods of time before he became breathless and lethargic.
The only comfort he found was the soothing melody of the music box she had gifted him. It had taken him almost two weeks to gain the courage to pull the box from its wrappings. He had inspected it with a critical eye and had glanced at her quiet form in awe. He wondered she had known that her gift had been genuine. Yes, genuine in its intention, but also crafted from genuine materials. The highly archaic magical practice of alchemy had fallen mostly to legend and was only practiced by the most ancient of witches and wizards. All of it was real. The gold had a soft gleam with a malleable quality. Only the purest gold had that particular type of glint. His eyes had bulged slightly at the gemstones. They were virtually flawless and of the highest condition. Stones that his mother would actually consider for her personal collection of jewelry. Malfoys didn't wear jewels they considered beneath them.
The most precious part, however, had been when he discovered the box itself was enchanted to play music. The haunting piece that flowed from the magnificent item had connected directly to his soul. With each magical outpouring, he opened its lovely lid and flipped the player's switch. He found he could focus his magic better as the song floated around them. As his silver river of magic slipped quietly into her chest, he fervently hoped she would subconsciously recognize the sound and wake up. But here they were at the end of July without any indication of revival.
Not to say that improvement hadn't been observed. Color had slowly returned to her face and she didn't look as gaunt as before. But her breathing had remained quiet and even, her brow smooth and unaffected. Without eyes to observe him, he allowed his mask to drop. She would have been able to see how profoundly he needed her and the depth of his devotion to restoring her. Soon, he felt the tell-tale burn of magical depletion as the waltz came to an end. He closed the music box and its accompanying bejeweled miniature of Hugo with a soft click and shifted the comforter back up to cover her. He watched for a twitching movement, a fluttering of eyes, anything that indicated that this particular outpouring had been successful. He sat back disappointed when none came. Sighing bitterly, he transfigured the armchair into a bed once again and muttered a soft apology before extinguishing the bedside candle.
Yet another week later sauntered by without a change in her condition. He had finished the last of the summer harvest and prepped the beds for cool weather planting when he saw it. The rosebud that they had so meticulously cared for was in multiple full, glorious blooms. Draco crouched by the low bush, fascinated by the roses' coloration and quantity. He had only expected a singular rose, but many swayed in the place of one. Gently cupping a blossom, he peered closely. Something in his gut argued that this was no normal rose, but a magically bred specimen. The rose was three colors in a combination he wasn't sure he had ever encountered or even knew existed. The base was a pale green that faded into a creamy white tipped with a faint peach color. The rose gave off a refreshing and floral scent. All the roses were unblemished, seemingly unaffected by any natural pests and shimmered almost pearl-like in the sun.
Dropping onto his knees, Draco released the rose and looked up towards Hermione's bedroom window. He was immensely grateful for the solitude or else someone would have seen the tears forming in his eyes. He dropped his head into his hands, pressing the heels of his palms hard into his eyes to stem the rising flood threatening to pour out. It was his fault. It had always been his fault. She had been so anxious to see the roses' growth. Now, just as with the harvest, she was missing it all. He felt a bubble of despair well up and he felt as if he was suffocating under the pressure of it all. Pressing his hands deeper into his skull as if it would stop the pain that filled every fiber of his being. He ground his teeth as his chest constricted, squeezing his ribs painfully. Unable to stand the pain any longer, Draco threw back his head as an agonizing scream tore from his throat.
He didn't know how long he sat motionless under the sun, fingers dug into the earth, as cry after cry fell from his lips. He cried for her. He cried for his mother. He cried for his godfather. He cried for all those he had hurt. Merlin, he even cried for those past carefree days at Hogwarts when his only worry had been if he would be selected for the Slytherin Quidditch team. Even after his voice had gone hoarse and the tracks of salt had dried on his cheek, his body still shook with the weight of every sin he had committed. When he was utterly spent and the sun had finished its trek across the sky, did he finally shift from his unintended mourning space. He felt an odd sort of lightness as he stood up shakily. Despite his absolute exhaustion, he realized with some annoyance and a healthy dose of concern that he hadn't checked on Hermione for several hours. Glancing between her window and the rose, he pulled out his wand and cut a single bloom from the bush before heading inside to perform another magical transfer.
Feeling slightly better after a quick but scalding rinse and a filling meal, he entered her bedroom with all his usual trappings plus the brilliant rose in a simple transfigured vase. He set the flower on her nightstand and sat down with a weary sigh. He knew he wouldn't be able to hold the magic for his normal length of time but was determined not to miss a single evening of trying. Giving the rose a final look, he flicked the music box's switch and grasped her hand with a determined breath.
As the silvery mist, clearly reflective of his depleted magical state, floated carelessly into her chest, Draco's head drooped slightly. A wave of pure fatigue rolled through his muscles as the strain of magical depletion persisted. He was about to cut off the connection when a tiny movement caught his attention. The slightest curl of her fingers shot straight through his being.
It couldn't be, he exhaled shakily.
As if to prove him wrong, she gave a slight twitch as a she took a gasping breath.
He kept absolutely still, terrified any movement from him would interrupt whatever miracle was unfolding before him. She gave a small groan as she shifted beneath the covers, her grip tightening on his. He inhaled sharply at the contact. Sweat began to bead on her forehead as her moans intensified. Draco felt fear began to prickle down his spine. She was responding, but her reactions were those of intense distress. Her eyes roved rapidly beneath her eyelids, her lips moving in some unknown pattern. A husky whispering sound escaped her lips.
"No." she breathed, a sad and broken sound that held the weight of the world.
"Hermione," he begged, a desperate edge to his voice, "I am so sorry."
She shivered in response and he gripped her hand harder, reaching to pull a sweat-soaked curl from her forehead.
"I know nothing I say can make any of this okay, but I need you Hermione." He whispered.
He stared hard at her pale form, waiting. He struggled not to dig his fingernails into the tender skin of her hand. Her brow furrowed as his fingers tapped nervously against the edge of the bed. She hissed sharply and suddenly went still. Draco leaned forward, terrified, as his hand cupped the side of her face.
"H-Hermione?" he pleaded.
Without warning, her eyes flew open, and Draco Malfoy was met with a furious gaze that blazed with the intensity of a thousand suns.
I've had several folks recommend moving my chapter updates to Friday. I know this is a odd change, especially as the story is coming to a close, but I defer to more knowledgeable minds. Hopefully this doesn't bother folks! Thanks for you support :D