Chapter 5: Healing
Hermione's afternoon lessons were a bit better than her morning as she was in one-on-one sessions with McGonagall and Flitwick, both of whom told her they were going to help her choose a project that would showcase her skills and essentially act as mentors more so than professors. That was fine with Hermione. She would choose a topic and have bi-monthly progress meetings instead of thrice weekly "classes". That freed up her afternoons 3 days out of the week and gave her the opportunity to do something that might actually interest her and keep her mind busy.
She had a few free hours before dinner and decided that what she really needed was a nap. Nightmares and strange confrontations with "reformed" Slytherins were not conducive to good sleep. Walking into her dorm she stopped short at the sight of Malfoy, said "reformed Slytherin", robes off, shirtsleeves rolled up until a hint of his Mark peeked out, and shoeless, sprawled across the couch, fast asleep with his arm thrown over his face. Embarrassed by what he had no doubt overheard (and why hadn't she thought of casting a muffliato?) and a bit ashamed of herself for flirting with Malfoy, of all people, she tried creeping past him to get to her room. She took one tentative step. Another. She raised her foot and -
"You'd have made a terrible Slytherin, kitten," Malfoy grumbled from underneath his arm. "You might try cushioning charms on your feet and silencing charms on your…everything else, really. I swear I can hear your hair moving."
Malfoy sat up, stretching his arms above his head and yawning so hard his jaw popped. She refused to find it charming. Just like she refused to be charmed by his perfect head of hair sticking up in every direction. Or by the way he called her 'kitten' in a sleep-husky voice. Or by the sliver of pale skin that came into view when his shirt rode up as he stretched his arms just that little bit higher.
"And thank God for that!" she shot back. "Did you forget your password or something, peacock?" she asked, waving her hand haphazardly towards his bedroom.
"I only sat down for a minute. I didn't sleep well last night. I guess it just caught up to me," Malfoy answered, not objecting to her term of not endearment as she had hoped he would, and flopping back onto the couch as if the mere act of sitting up and stretching was more work than his body could handle. "So I guess you and Weaslette are pax again," he probed.
"Don't act like you weren't listening, Malfoy," Hermione snapped. "Go ahead then. What are you going to torment me with today? I'm sure there will be something in there about being too much of a bookworm, falling for empty words meant to get into my knickers, being too boring for Ronald Weasley whose only interests lie in quidditch, chess, and filling his stomach. I'm tired so if we could just get this over with so I can take a nap, I'd appreciate it."
Malfoy just stared at her from under the white crescent of his eyelashes for a long moment. He seemed to be contemplating something, the best insult perhaps. Finally, he sat up slowly, like he had made a decision but wasn't too keen on it. He sighed, slipped his shoes back on, ran his hand through his messy hair and stood up. After a quick stretch in which his back noticeably cracked, he took a few steps towards her, casually rolling his sleeves back down, until he stood close…very close. It was like last night, except this time she met his eyes, chin held high and eyebrow arched.
"Weasley is an idiot. Like I said on the train, you are too good for the ginger git."
"You didn't say that on the train," Hermione argued. "You questioned if I could see myself married to him with children. That isn't the same thing at all."
"It is if you're meant for things bigger and better than changing nappies and stroking his…ego. Like I said, terrible Slytherin. You gotta learn to read between the lines, kitten." And with that, Malfoy stepped to the side, sliding past her and grabbing his robe off a hook by the door. "I've got private tuition until dinner. Enjoy your nap." And he was gone.
Hermione was dumbfounded. Did Malfoy just compliment her? How did they go from hated enemies to practically civil? She conveniently "forgot" about their innuendo-filled lunch conversation, chalking it up to loneliness or an ingrained need to defy expectations or…something. Temporary insanity? Exhaustion? Yeah, exhaustion would work and wasn't a complete lie.
Hermione toed off her shoes, shrugged off her robe and collapsed onto the couch, fitting neatly into the groove left by Malfoy's body, though she refused to think about that. She tucked her hands under her cheek, curled her legs up, and let the residual body heat lull her to sleep.
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Draco arrived at the transfiguration classroom without a second to spare. He wasn't looking forward to this. He didn't have the luxury of escaping the year of the Carrows. His mother thought he would be safer at school than at the manor with him and so he had been here, where the days were literally torture, and he was sure the old tabby wasn't one to forgive and forget.
His not so pleasant breakfast had been followed by a schedule of classes that was odd, to say the least. It seemed the new Headmistress had rewritten the timetable completely and arranged classes that had mixed year-levels, fifth through seventh, according to ability and needs. It made a weird sort of sense, since the last year had been such a clusterfuck. First came Ancient Runes where Professor Babbling had ignored his outstretched hand every time he offered it until he simply stopped offering it. Then came double Charms, the class he hated the most as it came too easily and seemed a bit trite. Flitwick hadn't spoken to him or even looked at him, even when he deliberately pulled a Seamus Finnegan and caused a minor explosion in the vinegar he was meant to turn into wine. And then the fiasco that was the lunch hour and flirting, flirting, with Hermione Granger, his hissing kitten.
His? What the hell are you thinking, Draco?
He reminded himself that he had survived much worse than the stern Scot and knocked resolutely on the door. It clicked open and he strode confidently inside, ready to face whatever McGonagall was going to dish out. She stood at the front of the room, arms crossed behind her back and mouth in a stern, flat line.
"Mr. Malfoy, take a seat," the old bird commanded in lieu of a greeting.
Why, yes, I would like a cup of tea. And how was your summer? Mine? Well, I spent mine sitting in trials for my parents and myself and dealing with aurors raiding my home and burning or confiscating anything and everything that 'dark magic' ever touched, which meant pretty much everything from family heirlooms to the silverware. Oh, and selling off a lot of Malfoy things to pay reparations so I could stay out of Azkaban. Thanks so much for asking.
Draco sat at the table closest to McGonagall's desk and waited. He didn't have to wait long before an assortment of items came floating over to his table, arranging themselves in a specific order. In a straight line across the surface of the table was a match, a beetle in a jar, a teapot, a small hedgehog in a cage, and a dinner plate.
"You might recognize the items in front of you, Mr. Malfoy." McGonagall arched an imperious brow.
"They are all items we had to transfigure each year first through sixth," Draco answered succinctly. Suck on that lemon, you sour old bag.
"Correct," the headmistress responded. "Well…go on then."
Draco sighed, pulled out his wand and began the task of transfiguring matchsticks to needles, beetles to buttons, and so on. His tortoise had an unfortunate pattern of English roses along its shell, but he felt he showed himself well. Until he heard the professor sigh, a sound so full of disappointment he might have mistaken it as coming from the mouth of Lucius Malfoy himself.
He looked up towards the front of the room, expecting to see the Scotswoman, but was surprised to find himself alone. He whipped his head side to side in case he had missed her moving about. And then he glanced under the tables in case she had transfigured into her cat form. She hadn't. He even looked for the telltale shimmer of a disillusionment charm. Nothing.
Great. Now what?
He couldn't leave; he still had nearly forty minutes of tuition time left. He decided to wait it out until either his time was up or the professor turned up. That lasted about ten minutes before he grew bored. His needle turned back into a matchstick. Then he transfigured it into a hat pin and back again. His beetle/button became a bright red ruby, then a marble, which he rolled across the table before transfiguring it and trapping it in the jar once more. He changed the pattern on his tortoise's shell from roses to spots, tiger stripes to paisley. He was just about to transfigure his hedgehog pincushion into a cactus when he heard it. A slow clap.
McGonagall stood beside her desk once more, stern mouth lifted slightly at the corners. "Very good, Mr. Malfoy," she praised. "It seems I might be able to work with you after all."
"Pardon?" Draco asked, a bit confused.
"I won't use my precious time for just anyone who can follow standard curriculum. I require someone who has creativity and a natural talent for transfiguration. I am a busy woman, after all, Mr. Malfoy." She was standing almost directly in front of him now.
"Require someone for what, Professor?" he asked, curious yet wary.
"For an apprentice," she replied not unkindly. "Miss Granger is doing something of a senior project to showcase her skills, already far beyond what we could teach her here. You, however, have the potential but require more attention. I thought an apprenticeship, where you can learn and practice but aren't actually attending classes with your house, might suit."
An apprenticeship? Apprenticed to McGonagall, one of the best in her field, behind only the true greats like Albus Dumbledore? Not sitting in classes memorizing lines and turning toads into tea cozies?
"That sounds acceptable, Professor," he responded, prim and proper and as lacking in emotion as he could muster. He was a Slytherin after all and it never did one well to show too much enthusiasm and give others something to hold over you.
"I thought it might. Now, Professor Slughorn has asked to see you before dinner. When you return Friday, I'll have an apprenticeship contract drawn up and we can discuss your duties and my expectations."
Draco stood, wished McGonagall a good day and walked numbly through the halls towards the dungeons. Someone was going to actually teach him? He stood a chance of actually being able to do something with his life after Hogwarts. Before now, he felt no one would give him the time of day, N.E.W.T's or not, because of his father and the mark on his arm. But as an apprentice, to McGonagall, no less, he might actually have people asking him to work for them. And Merlin knew he would need a job. The Malfoy vault wasn't empty, by any means, but it certainly wasn't full enough to keep him in luxury the rest of his life.
He was so lost in thought that he didn't notice he had gained a shadow. Rather, multiple shadows that stalked along behind him until he passed a dark alcove whereby another shadow reached out and grabbed him and his followers hastily closed in the gap, effectively locking him in the small space and surrounding him on all sides. They wore masks, because of course they wore masks, and they were smart enough not to speak so he couldn't identify them. They were in the dungeons so they were very likely Slytherins but he couldn't rule out a group of Gryffindors having the balls.
Draco did his best to not do his worst, tightening his muscles to absorb the blows, covering his head, ducking and dodging, and using physical instead of magical means of defending himself. His attackers seemed to want to merely beat the hell out of him and so he threw punches, knees, and elbows as best he could in the small space, outnumbered and quickly overcome. They left him there, hanging onto consciousness by a thread. He hobbled to his feet, when he could think straight again, and took stock of his injuries. He was sure his ribs were cracked and he didn't even want to know what his face looked like.
Deciding that old Sluggy could damn well wait, he turned and headed back towards his dorm, where he could apply some bruise paste, swallow a pain potion and assess the damage to the rest of him in peace. Going to the hospital wing didn't even cross his mind, as he was sure the matron would give him the same treatment he could administer himself and not a single spell or potion more. The difference was that he wasn't likely to report back to McGonagall that he had been in a fight, something that was strictly against his probationary rules. He just hoped Granger was napping in her room or already gone, since he couldn't see her not getting on her Gryffindor high horse and insisting he report the attack, never thinking that he might be considered the guilty party and punished accordingly.
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Hermione was not in her room, nor was she gone. She was still asleep on the couch. That is, until Malfoy stumbled into the room, crashing to the floor and groaning rather pitifully. She shot up and scrambled to his side, gasping when she saw his face. It was a mottled mess of purple bruises, red abrasions and black smudges under his eyes, a sure sign of a broken nose. She was pretty sure one of his ridiculously high cheekbones was broken as well. What little skin left of his face that wasn't bruised and swollen was covered in blood. She wasn't too terribly worried, since she knew that head and facial wounds bled disproportionately to their size and she only a few small lacerations here and there and nothing truly serious.
"No…hospital," Draco huffed. "No…hospital…please."
"And why the hell not?" she demanded to know. "I'm not a healer, Malfoy."
"Please," he begged, eyes swimming with pain. "Brightest…witch…of our…age. You can…help. Please."
Reaching a decision, she levitated him to the couch and summoned her beaded bag from her room. Reaching shoulder deep into it, she pulled out a small box, potions nestled lovingly inside. As she leaned over him, bracing her hand on the couch by his side, he moaned deeply in pain and that's when she realized his injuries weren't just to his face. Never hesitating, she magically divested him of his clothing, down to his underwear, and cast a diagnostic charm, matching internal injuries to external bruises.
Episkey for his nose.
Bone mending potion for the fractured cheek bone and cracked ribs.
Dittany, ingested, for the tear in his spleen, and Merlin knows what caused that, and the lacerations to his face.
Bruise paste…obviously…for pretty much everywhere.
Pain potion. Again, obviously.
Plan in place, Hermione got to work, pouring pain potion and dittany down his throat, glad he was still semi-conscious and able to swallow on his own. An episkey and bone mending came next. And then there was nothing left to do except spread bruise paste on him. On his body. On his lean, toned body with the alabaster skin that was nearly translucent and the corded muscles and the little trail of curly golden hair leading from his navel down into the waistband of his underwear. His black, silk underwear which clung lovingly to his…
Hermione, get a grip. And not on his dick! What is wrong with you, ogling a man who is in such a state? Ogling Malfoy of all people!
Hermione cleared her throat, shook out her shoulders and grabbed the jar. Reminding herself to remain professional, she gathered a glob of paste on her fingers and started with his face, tracing his forehead where a laceration over his left eye was healing, but leaving a ghastly yellow-green bruise behind. His cheekbones and the bridge of his nose were next and then she gathered a bit more paste for a swollen purple patch along his jaw line before smoothing her fingertips along his pillowy lips, a red abrasion marring one side and a split perfectly down the center.
He moaned and her eyes shot to his. They were heavy lidded, almost like he was barely hanging on to consciousness but the blown pupils and the fire behind them showed that he was very much awake. He blinked and the moment passed. She gathered more paste and moved on to the large bruise along his ribcage. It took quite a bit of her small jar to cover all the bruises along his torso, especially as she had to roll him to his side so she could lean over him and get a few bruises along his back. She wished she had thought to roll him towards the back of the couch instead of towards herself as she had to determinedly pretend that she couldn't feel his warm breath traveling down the opening of her blouse as she leaned over his chest to get to a bruise along his shoulder blade.
She also tried valiantly to ignore the scars she felt there. They all had scars and unless he wanted to talk to her about his, she wouldn't bring them up. It was a bit harder to stay impassive when she got to a particularly nasty looking bruise along his lower back, between two dimples and just above his very firm, very nicely rounded ass.
Good lord, when did he get such a tight…Hermione, focus!
She rolled him to his back once more and took stock of the damage to his lower body. He had a good sized bruise along the top of his right thigh, as if he had been kicked by a horse, but otherwise his legs seemed to be undamaged. She tried to ignore the way the sparse, coarse hair on his leg felt on her fingertips, and the way the muscles of his thigh bunched and rolled, like waves on a choppy sea. When she got to the outside edge of the bruise, slightly towards the inside of his thigh, where the coarse hair gave way to soft, smooth skin, he moaned again. She determinedly did not look into his eyes. Instead, she capped the jar of paste, cleansed her hands with a spell, and made quite the production of putting her potions away in their little box, easily stowed back inside her bag.
"Hermione," Malfoy called softly as Hermione stood to retreat into her room.
She stopped in her tracks, a little lost as to what to think of him calling her by her name. She didn't turn towards him, however, not wanting to see him lying resplendent and practically naked on the couch. She made an inquisitive sound in the back of her throat and fiddled with her bag, as if distracted by something inside it.
"Please don't tell anyone about this. They won't believe I had nothing to do with it. My probation…" he trailed off, as if he didn't have the words to say or didn't want to say the words he had.
"Who did it?" she asked, still so damned distracted by her bag she couldn't possibly turn and look at him, see the vulnerability on his face that she could clearly hear in his voice.
"I don't know," he answered. "They wore masks and hoods. Didn't speak."
"Well, I know what that feels like," Hermione retorted. "I won't say anything, Draco. Rest now; you need it. I'll bring you something from the Great Hall."
"Thank you. Really. I don't know how I can repay you."
"Don't worry about it. I'm not a Slytherin. I don't need to be repaid for basic human decency. Anyone would have done the same," Hermione insisted.
She gathered up her own clothing, discarded before her nap, and headed for the door. As she was passing through the portrait hole she was sure she heard him say, "No, kitten, not for me they wouldn't have."
