"Am I allowed to leave yet?" Hermione moved the black knight into the white pawn with the intent to sacrifice it after careful consideration. In the past day and a half, she began asking him this question out of sheer boredom (while simultaneously playing chess with Anne Rice as her audience) on the off chance he actually said yes.
"I'm not keeping you here." Malfoy automatically mumbled into his notes.
"Oh yea?" Hermione used every bit of sarcasm she could muster. "If I were to get up, get dressed, and leave, would you just let me?"
"Granger." Malfoy's shoulders heaved with the force of his sigh. "You have a wand now, your wound has mostly healed – enough that I think you can apparate if you wanted to – but we have no idea what your combat capabilities are or if it's wise for you to return to the field. There are so many factors, and I'm not the person keeping you here."
"Are you done?" Hermione let a few seconds of silence punctuate the end of his rambling which was directed mostly at his desk rather than at her. Malfoy grumbled unidentifiable words. "How do I find out my combat ability?"
"We all went through training." Malfoy shrugged. The persistent scratching of his quill abated. He turned to look at her. "They made us, as part of getting ready to fight. I did the sessions with you and Potter and Weasley. How do you feel about going to Kingsley or McGonagall for training? Not that they may even be available but … you know."
She wasn't sure, but it sounded terrifying. What if she failed? What if she was completely useless? She felt completely useless. She didn't even know how to cook, let alone without a stove. How had she survived in the wilderness for the past three years? Did they spend three years without running water? The gaping hole in her memory felt tight, like a black hole pulling everything into a spiralling centre.
"Does it have to be them? I mean, can't I just practise on my own or something? Is there a guidebook I can follow?" Hermione fought the quickening of her heart beat and focused on her hands. The chess game remained untouched. "And, does that mean I have to get cleared by them to be able to fight or whatever?"
Malfoy surveyed her for a moment. She could see he clocked her mild panic, but he wasn't rushing to her side as he was used to doing in her first two weeks. There was a shift at some point, and he was now keeping his distance in the past two days.
She thought it must be a good sign. She was proving she could be independent.
"The Order has three major sectors as of now. We have Operations, which happen at Headquarters. It's a cafe in the middle of L-"
"London!" Hermione interjected excitedly. "I remember Operations. At least, I remember the cafe."
Malfoy shot her a slightly confused look. He didn't pursue his thought and chose to continue his explanation instead. "Right, London. Cafe. We use the offices there for unit operations. We try to capture Death Eaters, Snatchers, and the rest of the Green Bloods. There's an offsite holding station in case they're raided.
"We have this building which is mainly for refugees and the injured. Whenever someone is severely injured, I can usually handle it on my own because the other side likes to use the same spells. If it's bad, Poppy comes down to help." Malfoy glanced out the window at the darkening sky. Hermione followed his gaze and saw the treetops dancing.
"But, is Madam Pomfrey the only one upstairs?" Hermione's eyes flickered to the basement ceiling like she could see Madam Pomfrey if she thought about it hard enough.
"Yes. Well she had helpers, but it's been slow lately." Malfoy sighed. "Halting operations was a strategic choice." Hermione looked at him again and he felt closer even though the space between them was the same. "We were taking heavy losses." He gazed at her and she understood the look in his eyes. She was a heavy loss, or could have been. "They needed time to come up with more coordinated attacks. Potter and Weasley being redeployed was only allowed because Black said he'd accompany them."
"Oh." Hermione nodded. "What's the last sector?" Malfoy's eyes met hers and held them gently, which bloomed warmth from her collarbone to her cheeks. It felt like a game so she didn't blink. "Of the Order, I mean." Her voice was softer than she intended.
"Recruitment." Malfoy's throat bobbed and his voice had gone gravelly. Like he was sleeping and just woke up. "When people want to join the war, they train them up, or evaluate them, or send them home."
"Has Recruitment also slowed?" Hermione's clothes were too tight. Or she was too hot. Her heart had picked up pace but her mind wasn't spiralling. His usually silver eyes were now slate grey in the dark.
"We think Umbridge found a way to round up more muggle-borns, or even others with one muggle parent or the other. We usually rely on the refugees as word of mouth to get others to join the fight. People who have lost their families tend to want to get the bastards who did the taking." Malfoy blinked. Hermione's body gave an involuntary jerk when her nerves sent electricity through her … and she accidentally knocked over the chessboard.
Malfoy was beside her before she could get her wand to tidy it up.
"Sorry," came her automatic response. His face was close to hers and he smelled spicy and earthy, a little like the forest. And ink and leather. Laundry detergent. He scoffed and she felt his breath on her neck.
"What for?" She let him settle her into bed and clear away the chess set.
"Am I allowed to have my wand while out of your sight?" Hermione was acutely aware of his hand on her neck as he felt her pulse. He straightened and he took his warmth with him. With narrowed eyes, he contemplated her question.
"Are you going to run away?" Malfoy's mouth tugged up on one side.
"No," Hermione admitted. She broke their gaze and tried not to blush. "I wanted to take a bath. And the water's usually cold and the light doesn't work-"
"Shit." Malfoy looked away, embarrassment coloured his cheeks. "I'm a shit Healer."
"No, it's fine-"
"I had you taking cold baths in the dark-"
"Well, I'd have been fine if I had a wand-"
"No wonder you didn't like to go in there-"
"Hey!" Hermione made a half-swat at him. "I don't smell!" Her eyes widened and she clamped her arms down to her sides. "Unless I do smell, and you don't tell me anything because you are an awful healer."
"Just, don't make a run for it." Malfoy walked to the basement door. He was going to leave her alone. He trusted her. "I'm going to get us our dinner."
Hermione waited for the click of the door before she took some clean clothes from the storage bin under the bed. The bathroom was still daunting. She hesitated because sudden awareness overcame her ability to move forward.
She was about to see her body for the first time – in its entirety – in three years. She was always shawled and wrapped, and she always looked away when Malfoy changed the dressing on her wound.
Bathing in the dark felt like the only option. With a groan of frustration directed at herself, she stared at her silhouette in the mirror, backlit by the dim light of the basement. Then, she conjured warm balls of flame and lit every corner of the dismal room. Her face shocked her.
Staring wide eyed and with the look of complete exhaustion, was what appeared to be her in the mirror. She shut the door. Then she returned to her reflection. Her palms gripped the cool edge of the porcelain sink as she leaned in closer until her breath fogged the glass. There was nothing on her face that looked familiar.
Wiping the mirror so she could stare harder, her features finally looked like hers. Her mouth was the same, her nose, her eyes. The obvious differences were her skin was pallid and her hair stood like a wild nest on her head. A lone tear trekked down her cheek, but Hermione swiped it away before it could fall.
Slowly, she undressed. The wound's scar was taught on the surface, like the skin itself hadn't recovered its elasticity. It was shaped like a sharp curve, like a C almost. Splices along the clean looking cut reminded Hermione of healed stitches. She traced the too smooth surface.
That's when she saw it. On her neck. A thin silvery line curving along her neck. She tried to remember getting it. She couldn't.
She had lost weight in the past three years. Her cheeks were slightly sunken as she touched them and then traced the bags under her eyes. Her ribs showed more than she would have liked. Her breasts were bigger and, with a gutpunch, she remembered why.
She stepped out of her trousers and began to fill the tub. She counted many scratches along her legs and arms, like she had run through brambles and thorns. She touched her neck again and wondered if that was what had happened then.
With a flick of her wand the water steamed gently, and she lowered herself into the warm liquid. It felt like a full bodied hug and she sighed, letting her head rest against the back of the tub.
Floral notes rose with the steam as she washed herself and pretended it was like wiping her thoughts clean so she could heal.
Like cleaning a wound from infection so that the healing could begin.
She unplugged the drain hole.
And then she sobbed.
She sobbed until her throat was dry and her tears refused to fall. She heaved for breath as her lungs choked her. She curled onto her side and wrapped her arms over her stomach. The door opened and she didn't care. She didn't care anymore.
"Granger." Malfoy's voice was far away. A soft towel was lowered onto her, and his hands guided her up so he could wrap her in the towel properly. And then, he lifted her from the tub with a grunt. "Hang on, Granger," his voice said soothingly into her ears. She brought her arms around him and continued to sob. "You're alright. You're okay."
She wasn't.
"Why-" she choked, and hiccuped, and gasped for air, "did he- hic- leave me?"
Malfoy lowered her into bed and conjured two more towels. He laid one over her and began wrapping her hair. She was still half clinging to him, his warmth was whole, complete compared to the one dimensionality of warm bath water.
"I don't know, Granger," Malfoy said gently. She touched his neck to feel him swallow as he hovered over her to secure her hair into its towel. He went still for a fraction of a second and then retreated quickly once he was done. "He's a git."
Herrmione laughed wetly despite herself. Then she was crying again. "Why doesn't he love me?" Malfoy stood awkwardly, his feet half stepping toward her as though to comfort her. But he didn't approach. "They just all dumped me on you."
"It's not a problem, Granger." Malfoy's jaw clenched. His eyes had gone steely, but Hermione knew it wasn't directed at her, but at the victim who was inside his head. "You have one more step, and then you can go get the bastards."
She didn't know if he was referring to Harry and Ron, or the Death Eater with the rose and thorn crowned mask.
"But, I can't fight." Hermione hiccuped. "I won't get cleared-"
"Like I said. I was there for the stupid training. I'll teach you." Malfoy rolled his eyes slightly in what Hermione came to realise was his form of affection. What little affection he had to give.
"When can we start?" Hermione sat up and felt the towel slip. She held it up to her chest at the same time Malfoy looked at the ceiling like it was the most interesting thing in the world. She secured the towel and looked for her clothes and wand.
"When you stop feeling sorry for yourself." Malfoy disappeared into the bathroom and retrieved the pile of haphazard cloth topped with her wand.
Hermione's entire body ached as she stood up to relieve him of the burden.
She got dressed as soon as Malfoy disappeared into the bathroom. Where he spent an inordinate amount of time in silence.