Chapter Twelve
The first sensation Draco became aware of was hunger. A ravaging, gut-gnawing hunger.
Quite unexpectedly, his eyelids – which had seemed bolted shut moments earlier – popped open. He blinked at the ceiling for a few moments, waiting for the world to come back into focus, and realized with a jolt that his eyesight seemed to have changed dramatically since…Well, since whenever his eyes had last been open, which felt like a very, very long time.
Everything looks…brighter. Like it's been white-washed.
What the hell…?
He rolled his eyes to the side, searching for the source of the strangely bright light. He saw only a row of cots to his right; dimly, he recognized that he was in the hospital wing of Hogwarts, yet those words and their associations meant little to him. It was as if he were standing on the wrong side of a mirror looking out at a world he knew and yet did not know – a world that had lost its color, its form, its texture.
A hunger pang shot through his belly, bringing him upright in bed. He gasped at the stiffness in his limbs: How long had he been sleeping here, anyway?
Too long. Must move.
Must eat.
Draco stretched, reveling in the simple freedom of moving his cramped limbs, and marveled at the strength coursing through him. Almost unconsciously he understood that he had been lying still for days on end, that until this moment he had for weeks been plagued by a weakness that made even turning his head to the side an impossibility. But now, his body seemed to be vibrating with power. Had Madam Pomfrey discovered some ultimate healing potion?
Healing potion…Why would I need a healing potion?
Eat.
Hunt.
Eat.
Draco shook his head to clear it. Competing thoughts tore through his mind; on the one hand, he could recall his duel with Potter, could wonder if Madam Pomfrey had treated his injuries, yet on the other, those names and memories held no meaning for him.
A wave of panic overtook him. Was he suffering some kind of amnesia? Did he have brain damage from a head injury? And where was everybody? Surely if he had been badly hurt, Madam Pomfrey wouldn't have left him unattended…
Never one to sit idly by and languish in fear, Draco swung his legs over the edge of the bed and placed his bare feet firmly on the cold stone floor. As soon as he did so, a shockwave rolled through his body: He was staring at a world awash in brilliant blue-white light, a glare he distantly recalled was moonlight.
Then the pain hit.
He screamed as the agony poured through him, like a thousand knives piercing his body from every angle; ice coursed through his veins, atrophying his muscles and snapping his bones, only to be immediately replaced by liquid fire that burned violently enough to send him into convulsions. He was barely aware of crashing to the stone floor, of voices shouting nearby. The world disappeared into a haze of excruciating pain, so intense that Draco hoped death awaited him on the other side.
But it didn't. As swiftly as the pain had come, it vanished, leaving him trembling and gasping. Yet the memory of it faded quickly, like the memory of everything that had come before, of who he was or had been before that moment.
Eat. Hunt.
The newborn werewolf pivoted slowly in the pool of moonlight, glorying in the sinewy gracefulness of its limbs. Power hummed deep within its lithe, silver-furred body, fed by the moonbeams surrounding it; it arched its long neck as it sniffed the air, tasting blood, flesh and fear in the puny creatures hovering close by.
Prey.
It was drawn forward by their scent, their delicious scent. They raised small sticks, muttering words the werewolf could not understand, though it understood the intonation well enough – fear.
Under its breath, the werewolf laughed, a sound that resonated as a growl through the stone-walled room. Let them wave their little sticks and shout; already it could taste their warm, salty blood gushing over its tongue, feel their bones cracking between its teeth, hear their dying heartbeats pounding its ears –
"Draco, Draco, stop!"
The voice halted the werewolf for a fraction of a second. An unfamiliar thought raced across its mind – Hermione – but disappeared instantly. The werewolf backed up a step, sensing a kind of power in the tallest creature, whose voice was calm and void of emotion and who had not moved back with the others as the werewolf approached.
Danger.
With a fierce growl, the werewolf leapt forward at what it assumed was the leader of the enemy pack and, unlike the other creatures, possibly a threat. It knew instinctively that the leader must be taken out first before the real feast could begin.
The creatures all began shouting in unison, their sticks pointed directly at the werewolf. It was stunned in mid-leap by bolts of red light issuing from the sticks; the light exploded around it, burning its fur-slick flesh, knocking it backwards and onto the stone floor. Dazed, the werewolf shook its head and tried to rise, to charge them again. But the creatures kept shouting, and the painful light kept coming, and the brilliant moonlight melted away into darkness.
"Is anyone hurt? Poppy? Miss Granger?"
Cowering against the wall, Hermione managed to shake her head mutely in response to Professor McGonagall's frightened inquiry. Dumbledore, Snape, Healer Fairmont and Poppy were rushing forward to Draco's prone form; he had collapsed beyond the reach of the moonlight, where he had transformed immediately back into a boy.
Professor Flitwick was hurriedly closing the drapes, which had been purposefully opened to facilitate Draco's first, unavoidable transformation. For the first time in weeks, Hermione stood back, too numb to assist as Draco was placed back onto his cot and his naked body covered with a sheet.
"Is he…?" Snape looked up at Fairmont. His pale face was a shade lighter than usual, and his lips looked thin around the question Hermione most feared.
Fairmont pressed his fingers to Draco's neck. Hermione's world ground to a horrifying halt until the healer shook his head and declared, "No, he's alive."
The breath left her in a rush. If McGonagall hadn't been watching her closely, she might have collapsed, but the older woman's arm shot securely around her waist and guided her onto a cot. "Poppy, some help over here, please," McGonagall called sharply.
"Are you all right?" Poppy demanded. She felt Hermione's forehead, which was cool and clammy, and sighed. "It's probably shock and exhaustion, Minerva. You have no idea what she's been through this past month."
"In point of fact, I was the one who strongly objected to Miss Granger witnessing all of this," McGonagall answered imperiously. She motioned the Headmaster over. "Albus, Miss Granger is on the point of physical collapse here. Don't you agree she needs to return to her dormitory and to her normal schedule at once?"
Normal. Like anything could be normal now.
At last, Hermione found her voice. "I'm all right," she managed, though she realized she hardly sounded it – her voice was weak, thin, raspy. "I just…It was so awful, seeing him…change."
She shuddered and closed her eyes. The image of Draco stepping off the bed, screaming, twisting around on the floor and emerging as a werewolf would, she suspected, haunt her forever.
But his eyes were the same cold, cold blue – I would have known him anywhere by those eyes. And he heard me, I know he did, he stopped for a moment, just a moment, when I said his name…
Don't be stupid, her inner voice piped up sternly. You've done your homework, you know werewolves lose all vestiges of humanity when they transform. What did Snape tell you? The werewolf responds only to the call of its own kind.
Not to its human name. To the howl of another werewolf.
"Nevertheless, Miss Granger, I do believe it is time for you to resume life with your fellow Gryffindors," Dumbledore declared. McGonagall nodded approvingly. Before Hermione could protest, he continued, "Mr. Malfoy has survived the worst of his injuries, and Healer Fairmont assures me that he is now in almost no danger of dying. He will be weak for some time, and his body will need to adjust to the potions Professor Snape will prepare for him, but he will be leaving the hospital wing himself tomorrow morning."
Hermione's heart stumbled in her chest. "B-but Headmaster, please, you can't send him back to the Slytherins! They're a bunch of bigoted morons – do you have any idea what they would do to a werewolf?"
"While I'm not convinced all members of Slytherin house would be prejudiced against Mr. Malfoy," Dumbledore replied smoothly, arching a bemused eyebrow at her description of the Slytherins, "I don't intend to send him back to the student body just yet. I'm afraid prejudice against werewolves extends beyond the Slytherin house. Mr. Malfoy is likely to be the target of vicious attacks, physical and verbal, from many corners of Hogwarts – perhaps even from some members of our own staff."
"So where do you mean to keep him?" Flitwick squeaked from Dumbledore's elbow. Hermione noted with sympathy that the tiny professor looked as shaken as she felt.
"A special room, in the West Tower," Dumbledore replied. "Dobby the House-Elf has already volunteered to bring his meals there. And I'm hoping Miss Granger will bring him his lessons."
Recovering from her surprise that Dobby would want to help Draco (after all, the Malfoys had treated poor Dobby terribly while he was theirs), Hermione hastily accepted her new duty. "Of course, Professor. I'd be happy to."
"Fine," McGonagall agreed, as if hers were the final word on the subject. "But Miss Granger, I must insist that you return to your dormitory tonight and get some rest. You look dreadful."
Gee, thanks, Hermione thought wryly. She looked to Poppy, who seemed quite put out at losing her assistant. "Do you think he'll sleep tonight without me?"
"With all the potions Healer Fairmont gave him? We'll be lucky if he wakes up this week," Poppy responded dryly. She reached out and squeezed Hermione's hand. "No, dear, you go rest. I'll watch over him. And don't worry – if anything changes, I'll send for you straight away."
With that reassurance, Hermione found she had no arguments left. She drug her feet as she followed McGonagall to the door; she wanted to tell Draco good-bye, to let him know she would see him in the morning, but she was too shy to ask permission. Even after all she'd been through these last few weeks, she still wasn't ready to announce to the world that she had was absolutely, positively, no-holds-barred, one-hundred-percent in love with her former arch nemesis.