A/N: Hope you enjoy! Special thanks to my alpha reader: LaDeeDaa and my beta reader: astrangefan
The Quibbler
Hermione was sure she'd never get used to Azkaban. Even without the Dementors, the place was soul crushing. Guards seemed in high enough spirits, though, she couldn't understand how. As she walked through the still dank, still without sense of time or date corridors, she saw that all the inmates had, at the very least, been scourgified.
Bags had led her into the infirmary where Narcissa was already waiting. It struck her exactly how intense a week it had been. One week ago, she sat before the woman - on horrible terms with her son - unclear where to go and what to do next. In just seven days, she felt like she was at least making progress.
"Hello, Narcissa," she said with a smile as she cast the muffiliato. "First, I'd like to ask you about the new healer. Have you had any problems?"
"No."
"Good," Hermione said with a sigh of relief. She'd seen that the new healer was an older, no-nonsense woman but her experience with the older generation was that they were often very unforgiving of people remotely associated with Death Eaters. Hermione didn't need Healer Johnson to like the inmates, she only needed her to treat them professionally.
"I'm going to cast some diagnostic spells, take your vitals, have a chat, and then I'll be done." Narcissa just nodded.
She ran her spells and found that Mrs. Malfoy had gained a few pounds and her heart rate was returning to a more normal zone. "Have you been receiving better food?"
"Not better," Narcissa said. "But more of it."
"Can you tell me what you normally receive in a day?"
Narcissa thought for a moment. "When I wake, there is porridge - no flavour. Several hours after that, I'm given a stew with minimal meat but lots of mouldy potatoes. Some time later, I'm given one apple and a slice of bread with butter."
Her lifeless tone was a harsh juxtaposition when compared to Hermione's memory of the women before the War. She remembered the summer before Third Year when she'd had the misfortune of being at Madam Malkin's at the same time Draco was being fitted for new robes. He was with his mother, her long, beautiful almost silvery hair had made Hermione envious of a mane that was much more manageable and silky smooth.
She was all bright smiles as Draco strutted around like a peacock in his new robes. When his eyes caught Hermione's, she'd prepared herself for the onslaught of names and curses, but he just glared at her and turned back to the mirror to look at himself.
She remembered thinking that if his father had been there, he probably would have called her a Mudblood, and turned the whole store's attention on her - made her feel unworthy or tried to. But with Narcissa he seemed to not want to ruin the moment. His mother was doting on him, loving and proud, and he basked in that light. Hermione saw it then, and she'd remembered it for years.
But Narcissa was no longer proud, though she did try to hold onto her dignity in the face of indignity. Her voice was weak, brittle, and she couldn't imagine seeing this woman before her beam the way that woman so many years ago did at the son she loved. It made Hermione's heart hurt.
"Draco is being well taken care of," she said, unprovoked. Narcissas's eyes met hers. "He's eating well, learning how to cook," she saw Narcissa's lips twitch but the older woman said nothing. "He and Theo Nott are together. They've been in relatively good spirits."
"Miss Granger," the name came out strangled and weak. "Don't bring them back here."
"I don't plan to," Hermione said, knowing that the admission was dangerous. But she also knew that Narcissa wouldn't utter a word to a soul. With a nod of understanding, Narcissa gave her first, very weak smile and Hermione took down her muffiliato and Bags led her out of the room.
"I have business with the Warden," Hermione said as they walked back to the entrance to the offices through the maze of corridors.
"Of course," Bags said with a smirk.
"I assume if I asked you who is speaking to the Press from the Prison you wouldn't tell me if you knew, correct?" she asked, her eyes sliding over to Bags.
"I would not," he confirmed. "But it's all just hurt feelings and ego. I wouldn't bother. Besides, we all know that no one cares what happens to people in here."
Hermione huffed. She really wished these men stopped assuming she'd let people ignore human rights atrocities.
"I care," she said.
"Of course," Bags said, and his amused tone tapped danced on her last nerve. It was that typical attitude of privileged males who thought that it was best just to amuse Hermione and her silly causes. She stopped speaking to him after that.
It wasn't long until they were back in the blinding light of the offices, and she made her way back to the Warden's office.
"Warden Hoganis," she greeted with a nod. "I'm happy to see you've cleaned the prisoners. You have, though, still not addressed the issue of solitary confinement with no access to light, sense of time, or adequate food."
"Rations have increased almost double," he countered quickly. He seemed much more prepared for her this time than he had been last time.
"Yes, rations of food with few nutrients - save an apple - and prepared inadequately. Food served to the prisoners should be safe. It should be seasoned - and not just for their enjoyment. Sodium is a vital mineral. Narcissa is desperately low in sodium levels. Mouldy food could cause an infection or worse."
"Shall I bring in Chef Rodolpho of The Hot Cauldron in London to cater?" Hoganis shot back. Apparently, he'd found some semblance of a backbone in the last week.
"If you think that is what is required to prepare three meals of adequate food for the people you are legally bound to care for, then by all means. Perhaps you can take the money out of your incidentals fund - that is if there is still money there to utilise." The threat was not even thinly veiled.
"I will be here every week until my case is closed. That could be a very long time. And my findings are being directly dictated to the Wizengamot and the Minister of Magic. So, even when I do close my case, we will not simply go back to how things were."
"Look, here…" the Warden began, a bit of spittle flying from his thin mouth.
She ignored him. "I appreciate your replacing the healer you had before. I appreciate the efforts you've put in. But a scourgify will not cure the rot of this prison."
He said nothing but if looks could have killed, Hermione would have been a grease spot on the floor. She pushed on. "Now, I'm assured that you were able to retrieve the memories I require, yes?"
"Yes," he bit out, turning around to the bookshelf behind him. "And I require you to return them next week," he said, feeling it was his turn to give orders. He handed her three vials of memory marked "Lucius Malfoy", "Walden Macnair", and "Antonin Dolohov".
"Of course, Warden," she said replied, mildly. "I'm known for doing my job." Without waiting for a reply, she left the room and walked right out the front door to the Apparation point.
Hermione had time to go to her favourite bookstore before meeting with Luna for their interview. She'd hoped that there would be some new - or newly in stock - books related to curses, will control, and Dark Magic. Her theory was that The Mark was bound to Voldemort. Whatever energy had been left behind; it was calling to The Mark.
If that was true, why Draco, Theo, and the other living - well, now dead - recruit from the Second War more so than those from the First War? She hoped the answer was in the vials she had in her ever-present beaded bag. Also, if that theory proved true, it would explain the pain and sickness seemed to coincide with the appearance of Energy with Voldemort's magical signature at Hogwarts. She had about one-hundred other ends to tie up, but proving this theory correct would be a giant step in the right direction.
Equally important - to her at least - was ridding the Death Eaters of the obligation to Voldemort. That would require her to know exactly what the vow they took meant, what the spell he'd used actually did, and how to reverse it. She had a sinking feeling Dark Arts would be involved.
She pursued the books in the adult section of the store and picked up anything she thought might help. She ended up with twenty or so new books on the Ministry's credit.
This job is a dream.
Around half past twelve, she made her way toward Diagon Alley, enjoying a leisurely walk along the cobbled streets. About a block away, someone grabbed her arm.
She spun around instantly; wand already raised in defence. Her experience with Ron in the cafe left her feeling vulnerable every time she was out, her guard always up. She nearly choked when she saw Pansy Parkinson starting back at her, coal-black eyes glaring at her somewhere between hatred and frustration.
"Pansy," Hermione breathed, lowering her wand. She still kept it at her side in case she needed it.
"Granger," Pansy bit out.
"Did you need something?" Hermione asked impatiently. Grabbing people in the street was hardly polite and grabbing someone you've hated for more than half your life even less so.
"Is it true that you are investigating something at Azkaban?" Pansy asked, her tone urgent.
Hermione looked around and saw people moving about them on the sidewalk. She moved her hand to where the taller woman gripped her and removed her fingers. Looking around again, she moved into a deserted alley just to the left of them and beckoned Pansy to follow. She did.
"I cannot speak about any open cases, but I am working on a case that involves Azkaban." She knew she could say that much because The Daily Prophet basically spelled it out in their hit piece on her a few days prior.
"Have you seen Theo? Draco?" Hermione was still trying to catch up to the current situation. She had not seen Pansy Parkinson since she saw Theo bust her and the rest of the Slytherins from their Common Room at the Hogwarts more than five years ago.
"I have," she finally answered Pansy.
Pansy shut her eyes and leaned back against the brick of the building behind her. "Are they…" The black-haired woman seemed to struggle with what to ask. "Are they as bad as the papers say? Are they being mistreated?"
"Yes," Hermione said, not feeling the need to sugar-coat it. "The place is a human rights violation," she continued. "But I am not going to let it stay that way."
"Of course," Pansy spat. Hermione felt the woman's desperation slip away, replaced with the hatred she'd been used to. "Mudblood Granger will take on any hopeless cause."
Hermione didn't flinch. "Yes. Mudblood Granger will continue to do the work that no one else bothers to do," she sneered. She didn't have to answer to Pansy fucking Parkinson. Proving that point, she marched directly out of the alley and back down the road toward Diagon Alley leaving a stunned Parkinson behind.
The utter fucking nerve. What had Pansy done to fix anything after the war? Last Hermione heard, Pansy ran off to France for a few years for the dust to settle and had only been back in England just over a year.
She got to Fortescue's five minutes before one and Luna was already there. Putting the jarring encounter with Pansy out of her mind, she greeted her friend and they ordered sundaes before diving into the interview.
Luna mentioned that she'd tried to get a comment from the Warden and was basically told to fuck off. "Not many take The Quibbler seriously," she lamented.
"Their loss," Hermione replied, and she did actually mean it. After Luna took over the periodical from her father, the content got much less unhinged and much more interesting to read. Luna often covered topics ignored by The Daily Prophet. She invested in travel for her reporters and The Quibbler often featured marginalised groups and beings that got little to no coverage elsewhere.
"Why don't you tell me, in your words, what you see as the major problems in Azkaban and then I have a few questions," Luna said. She had her own self-writing quill like Rita Skeeter, but this one didn't editorialise. It just took notes. Hermione had made sure - she trusted Luna but she was sceptical of self-writing quills for good reason.
Wiping her mouth, Hermione focused on how best to word what she wanted to say. She'd gone over the major points in her head many times leading up to the interview, so she had a good idea of what she wanted to say.
"The problem is systemic," she started. "This is not just about Azkaban. This problem is about fear, punitive punishment, and populism." Luna nodded and she continued.
"Azkaban was run by Dementors for decades. Dementors. When you think about that, it's sort of incredible. Dementors have never been loyal or reliable. Moreover, their entire existence is intended to bring misery and cause hurt. Pain. Starting there, that's Wizarding Britain's idea of what prison should be - at least for high level offenders.
"So, if you start there - that prison is supposed to be miserable, it's punishment. Then you go through the Dementors proving they are not loyal, siding with Voldemort, and we decided to take stock of the system and change it. The punitive model was not working. It created criminals even more unhinged, insane, and violent. Reforms were passed. We decided to pass the oversight to humans thinking that would yield more humane results. But it didn't.
"In the wake of the end of the War, we saw quick trials lead to quick verdicts and sentences. We saw people who were Death Eaters go to Azkaban under what we were told were more humane conditions. The rest of the population, then, put them out of their minds and moved on. But Azkaban is not reformed. Every prisoner in that prison is in solitary confinement for twenty-hours a day. If they had no magical blood, most of them would be dead by now. They have no access to natural light; they have no idea how much time has passed or when they will receive meals. They are not given access to basic necessities of hygiene. The female prisoners have no access to feminine hygiene products.
"Sometimes, prisoners are beaten by the guards. The guards exist in a culture of power that allows them to believe they have a right to behave however they wish. The Warden has done nothing to stop this. The Wizengamot has turned a blind eye.'
Luna nodded again. "Many would argue that the crimes of Death Eaters, child murderers, rapists, are so heinous that this is what they deserve. That there should be no compassion for such criminals. How do you explain to them why this matters?"
"It matters for a few reasons," Hermione began. "First of all, it matters because with swift trials and swift judgements, it's possible we've gotten things wrong. False confessions, biased judgement, unrealised mitigating evidence - all of these things happen even in the best of judicial systems. Ours is hardly perfect.
"But secondly - and I think this is really important - how we treat those we don't like, that we hate, or who have wronged us speaks directly about us. The corruption and violence against humanity in that prison not only hurts the prisoners, it taints the very soul of the people who run the prison. The longer we justify treating people this way under that guise of them 'deserving' it, the more battered the soul. Punishing Death Eaters becomes punishing Death Eaters' kids. Punishing Death Eaters' kids becomes dehumanising whole groups of people based on association. It's the very thing that Harry, Ron, Neville, you, our whole generation fought against."
"You mentioned that you think some of the trials might not have reached the proper judgement, could you elaborate?" Luna asked. Hermione was impressed with her questions.
"I admit that after the War, I had other concerns. I didn't pay close enough attention to the Death Eater trials. Some of them, I'm sure, were cut and dried. But how can the Wizengamot have given proper consideration to the trickier cases? Some Death Eaters were conscripted under duress. Some under coercion. Some before they were even legally able to make such commitments. There were cases of imperio and cruciatus at play for some of the initiations into the Death Eaters. Masks were worn for most of the criminal activities, so knowing which members did which crimes is a knot so complicated to untangle, it can't have been done in the course of three months for more than forty people.
"Would Severus Snape have avoided Azkaban if he'd lived? Harry would tell you that Snape won the War as much as he did. But with enough popular opinion against him, could even Harry's word have kept him from prison? We don't know because we had fast, unsubstantial trials, and we carted the bad men and women off to Azkaban and forgot about them. We moved on. And while we moved on, they rotted - some of them to death."
Luna nodded again and let her quill finish writing down what Hermione said. "That's excellent," she said with a smile. "I think I can make something of this. I'm going to contact some other sources for background, and I hope to get it into Monday's edition."
"Thank you so much, Luna," Hermione said, wrapping an arm around her friend. "This is a big favour to me."
"I know that I don't officially owe Draco Malfoy a life debt," Luna explained. "He didn't step in and stop me from potentially being killed, but he did make sure that Mr. Ollivander and I were fed, and he even lent me a book once or twice. I'm not saying he was really a great guy, or that he wasn't a blood supremacist who joined a psychotic Death Cult, but I also know that he wasn't Bellatrix. He wasn't Lucius."
"We want our villains to be black to our white," Hermione said. "It's the entire reason Azkaban is in the state it is in. But there are shades of grey, too. I'm not saying Walden Macnair was misunderstood. Some villains are truly bad men. But humans are complex, they even have contradictory motivations sometimes."
"Exactly," Luna said. The two chatted for a while about their friends before they said their goodbyes and Hermione discreetly bought two portions of ice cream for takeaway before Apparating home.
Theo was already in the garden plucking weeds out of one of her mother's old garden boxes when she arrived. "Good afternoon," she said, beaming at him. "I've brought you guys a bit of a treat." She waved the bag from Fortescue's in front of her.
Theo literally licked his lips. "I'd take an oath, right now, to serve you if you asked."
Hermione nearly cackled. "Unnecessary. Just tell me, mint chip or pistachio? You get first pick."
"Pistachio," Theo said, decisively. "Besides, Draco will pout if he realises I took the mint right out from under him." Hermione laughed.
"Okay, before I hand his royal highness his treat, pain level."
"Five."
"Do you want to try a Muggle medicine? It could help for moderate pain." Hermione was already digging into her bag looking for paracetamol she always kept on hand. Conjuring a plastic cup of water from the kitchen she handed both to Theo, who got up from the ground where he was pulling weeds and took them both looking at them quizzically.
"It's a pill. You have to swallow it," Hermione instructed with no judgement. It was a bit harder not to laugh as she watched him cough up the little pill three times before he finally got it down. She definitely hoped she'd have the opportunity to introduce Draco to pills at some point.
"How do children take those?!" Theo asked, plopping down on the chair at the dining table outside and opening his ice cream.
Hermione cast a cooling charm on Draco's ice cream and sat across from him. "Young kids don't, usually. It's something you learn at some point in the Muggle world. They have many medications made into liquid form - like a potion - for kids. Tastes awful, though."
"Can't be worse than ours," Theo laughed.
"True," Hermione concurred. The Wizarding potions outside Amortentia and Felix Felicis were all dreadful.
"So…" Theo said when the conversation died out. "You and Draco…"
"What?" Hermione screeched defensively.
"No, not that anything has happened but - I mean…" Theo stopped as if trying to think of how to say what he meant to say. "Something's shifted in the last two days. The tension is oppressive. And Draco, he's not saying anything."
"Theo, you are such a gossip," Hermione sidestepped.
"Be that as it may," he pressed on, a smirk on his lips, "I know something is going on."
"Nothing is going on," Hermione assured him. "Even if there was a chance of something, it would be completely inappropriate."
"Because we are your subjects?" Theo said, his tone teasing in a way that indicated that he knew very well that they were more to her than that - both of them.
"Because I hold the power in this arrangement," Hermione clarified. "Anything Draco might feel, it can't be separated from the fact that I literally hold his life in his hands."
Theo scoffed. "You don't actually believe that do you?"
"As a matter of fact…"
"Power," Theo said, seemingly very interested in the topic, "You have political power, yes. You have magical power, yes. Neither of those things remotely touches the real power you have over Draco right now. And that power has nothing to do with who is legally free and who is not."
Hermione didn't understand. She didn't have to ask, though, because Theo filled in the blanks pretty adequately.
"The real power you have over Draco is that if you told him to step in front of an Avada for you, he'd do it without question."
It was Hermione's turn to scoff. "I doubt that. And even if it were true, that's obligation. That's guilt."
Theo was shaking his head. "No. It's not." He left it at that, and Hermione looked at him for a long moment trying to understand why he was so sure. She wanted to ask but wasn't sure she wanted the answers. That kind of intensity - the intensity Theo was claiming Draco felt where she was concerned - terrified her.
"Well, please let me know if the meds have any effect and don't tire yourself out pulling weeds."
"Promise," Theo said with a soft smile.
The post had clearly arrived because it was sitting on the desk in Theo and Draco's room, The Prophet already obviously read. Draco, however, was not there. Assuming he was bathing since she didn't see him in the kitchen when she came through the back door, she plopped down at the desk and began opening the mail.
On top was a note from Harry that promised he'd come over to translate the Parseltongue in the initiation ritual around nine.
Then, there was a note from Neville giving her a rundown of his observations of the Energy from that morning. Apparently, it hadn't been doing much of anything.
She opened the next, Kingsley's letter, quickly.
'Hermione,
The situation with the Rakov brothers is troubling and problematic for numerous reasons, not the least that we have no idea where they are or where and when they might reemerge. Wizengamot is inching close to panic. In that panic, it's been brought to my desk that some of the most conservative members of the body would like to suspend research on The Mark to focus the entire efforts of the Ministry on these escaped Death Eaters and the situation at Hogwarts.
I've held them off for now. I understand the Department of Mysteries operates a bit outside of Wizengamot jurisdiction, but with enough political capital, they can make life very hard. I'm not sure how you want to handle this. Perhaps Messrs. Malfoy and Nott would be better returned to Azkaban until we establish where the Rakov brothers are. I leave it to your judgement.
Kingsley Shacklebolt
Minister of Magic'
Hermione felt the air sucked out of her lungs immediately.
Breathe.
She couldn't. She tried to gulp in air as felt her lungs squeezed tight.
It's happening again.
She hated her damaged brain and her shaking body as she tried to will herself to get control. Her mind raced. Kingsley was waffling. He'd back her for now. What about if things got worse? What if the population at large found out about the Rakovs? What if the conservative Wizengamot members convinced some of the centrists?
The idea of being forced to send Draco and Theo back to Azkaban was soul crushing, terrifying, and her brain literally could not bring itself to even imagine it. She tried to stand, pulling herself out of the chair and hunching over the desk hoping she could force more air into her lungs as she began panting.
Her trembling hands gripped the back of the chair for a moment, but the weight distribution was off, and she fell forward, the chair tipping back and out of her reach. Catching herself on her hands she got on all fours and sobbed between ragged, panicked attempts at breathing.
She could feel her vision tunnelling as she gripped the carpet with her fingers. Her heart was racing, and she felt faint. She had to breathe. Through no voluntary action of her own she brought her hands up to her neck, scratching at her tender flesh, trying to get air down her throat.
She could hear herself choking and she was sure that if she just ripped away the pressure on her neck, she'd finally be able to breathe.
"Hermione!" she heard her name, nearly screamed from the low voice of a man, but she couldn't see. Her vision was blurry. "Fuck!"
Her hands were wrenched from around her throat, and she protested with a harsh cry. She needed to breathe! The warm, strong hands around her wrists didn't let go, however.
"Can't breathe," she panted out, her lungs burning as she felt her wrists released. She had no chance of reaching her throat again, however, because two strong arms wrapped instantly around her, pinning her arms to her side.
"Breathe, Hermione. Breathe," it was Draco's voice. She could hear him clearly speaking directly into her ear as he modelled the act of breathing, exaggeratedly breathing in through his nose and out through his mouth.
Her trembling lips closed, and she tried to breathe through her nose. It felt as if her nostrils were stuffed with cotton. She squirmed. "Can't!" she cried, tears streaming down her throat.
"You can," Draco cooed into her ear. "Feel me. Just me. Match my breaths. In." He breathed in deeply through his nose and she attempted to match him. She felt the congestion lift slightly and she smelled him - fresh from the bath, his skin still wet. She breathed in a deep ragged breath, and it was like coming up for air after being submerged in water.
"Out" Draco instructed, blowing his own air out against her through his mouth. She followed suit. Her vision began to clear just as he loosened his hold on her enough to push her hair back off her neck as he inspected the damage she'd done herself. She couldn't feel the scratches yet, but she was sure she'd feel the sting when her adrenaline levelled off.
He continued to hold her close, his damp skin against hers as he modelled proper breathing. 'Do you think you can get up?' he finally asked, pulling back to look at her face. Hermione stared back at him trying to decide if she, in fact, could stand up. Her whole body felt as if it were seizing up.
"My legs," she finally said, realising that while her upper body had relaxed with her deep breathing, her legs were feeling the rigour of the after effects of the cruciatus, which sometimes accompanied particularly bad panic attacks.
"Cruciatus?" Draco asked knowingly. Hermione blinked and nodded.
"Here," Draco said, unwrapping his arms from her and moving back to stand before her. It was then she realised he must have heard her panicking while still in the bath. He had a pair of underwear hastily thrown on and nothing else. She swallowed.
The black smokey webbing that emanated from his Dark Mark was stark against the alabaster skin of his torso. His wet hair dripped down his neck and onto his collarbones, down his chest and Hermione almost actually licked her lips.
She didn't have long to contemplate him because he quickly leaned down and hooked his arms under her, one behind her upper back and the other behind her knees. He lifted her easily enough and moved her the three steps to his bed, laying her down on top of it.
Her knees remained bent just as she'd knelt on the ground as her muscles had turned to stone. Draco avoided her eyes as he focused attention on her legs. "Where does it start?" he asked.
Hermione swallowed. "Here" she said, taking his hand in hers and placing it at the top of her thighs. Everything about it was intimate, but she was determined not to immediately turn around and have another panic attack.
His hands started up her thighs, making deep tissue circular motions with both hands around her right leg first. "Yesss," Hermione hissed as the muscles began to give way. Her nerves were so raw she didn't have it in her to self-sensor.
His eyes moved up to hers and they locked on each other. His gaze was intense, dark, and conflicted. He definitely was warring with himself about something - though she didn't know what. She bit her lip instinctively as his hands moved down her leg unlocking the muscles of her right leg. She extended it, finally, and he moved to her left leg, but his eyes never left hers.
She felt a new kind of excitement grow in the pit of her stomach as one of his hands ever so gently brushed against the apex of her thighs before moving down and around her upper thigh with the other. Her breath hitched and the look in his eyes indicated that he knew exactly what he was doing, and he'd very much wanted to see her reaction to his having done it.
Her heart hammered in her chest. Her head was light from the panic attack and from the way a nearly naked Draco Malfoy was literally rubbing her muscles into goo. She felt her knickers grow wet and her stomach flip over as she moaned again when she felt her left leg finally unlock.
She knew her feelings were wrong. She was this close to having the Minister end this entire project all together. The absolute last thing she needed was to fall for her subject and put their safety and security in her care in deeper jeopardy, but at the moment she was having trouble remembering just how wrong it was in the face of this dark, intense gaze of Draco Malfoy.
"Better?" he asked, his voice so husky she wouldn't have been able to hear him if she weren't inches from him. His eyes moved over her face and stopped on her lips, which she licked again anxiously.
"Yes," she replied softly. "Thank you." She went to reach for her neck, wondering what damage she'd done, but his hand reached up and stopped hers from its ascent.
"Don't touch," he admonished. "Stay. I'll be back." She just nodded. He moved off the bed and behind her to where she kept the potions and medical supplies. She heard him rummage around there for a moment while she tried to regain some sense of control.
He returned quickly and climbed on the bed next to her. "Can I have your wand?" he asked. The question surprised her, but she nodded, pulling it out of its sheath at her side.
He pointed her wand at her own neck, and she looked down, only just realising she'd bled quite badly on her jumper. She lifted her hands and saw blood embedded in her nails. Her breath hitched.
"I've got it," Draco calmly assured. He cast a few cleansing charms and a disinfecting charm before handing her wand back to her. Then he opened the first of two items he'd taken from the medicine cabinet. It was a vial of topical pain serum. She had only just begun to feel the sting of the cuts, but they immediately dissipated as he massaged her neck with several drops of it.
Next, he opened a tub of anti-scarring balm. With his index and third fingers he dipped into the tub taking a liberal amount of the balm and rubbing it between the same two fingers on his other hand. He massaged that into her neck quickly before returning both items to the cabinet and sitting next to her on the bed.
"Thank you, Draco," Hermione replied, beginning to feel sleepy.
"The pain potion will make you tired," Draco said. "Sleep."
"I've got to work…" she protested.
"Later. I'll wake you in an hour," Draco replied, and she didn't really feel like arguing with him anyway.
Half asleep, she remembered something, "Draco," she called, "don't forget your ice cream." She pointed to the Fortescue's sack on the desk and watched as his questioning eyes lit up before closing her eyes again and falling asleep.