AN: I really like the sort of chapter below: poor, wounded male lead, being nursed by smart, strong female lead, so I couldn't keep myself from translating it quickly.

Enjoy!

Beauty and the Beast by Mrs Skinner

Translation by Snapeseraphin

Chapter 6 Wounded

Hermione put the bowl with lukewarm water on the small and rickety bedside table. She threw a scrutinizing look on the motionless figure laying on the makeshift bed, covered in numerous white bandages and slumbering. She pulled the only available chair in the room close to the bed and sat down. Sighing, she rummaged around in her backpack. She had tried to prepare for all eventualities and she was grateful that she had brought a couple of clean towels. Clearly, the man in front of her didn't put much stock in personal hygiene: despite her thorough search she hadn't found anything that met her standards for clean laundry. After some digging she pulled a clean towel from the backpack, wetted it with water and gently smoothed it over Manley's pale face. She put her hand on his forehead: he felt warm to the touch: she hoped he wasn't getting a fever. As well-equipped as she was, she didn't have access to antibiotics without a proper prescription. She couldn't brew the appropriate potion either, since she didn't have any of the ingredients, nor the necessary equipment for potions brewing.

It was one of the few instances where she regretted having cut all ties to the wizarding world so drastically. But maybe he wasn't suffering from fever and he would get back on his feet after a little while. She leaned back in the chair and allowed herself to take in this very unusual man. She was somewhat surprised at the sheer number of disfigurements united in his body: if she hadn't been absolutely sure that she was deep in Muggle territory at the moment, she would have guessed his appearance was the result of some curse or other. An appearance like his could very well be a punishment. She shook her head indignantly. Who would do something like this to another human being and, first and foremost, why? But, one way or the other, his looks were a curse: she couldn't even begin to imagine, how he would stand out among other people and she didn't need a lot of imagination to see how he would have been mocked or how many horrified looks he had met with. Small wonder then, that he had retreated to the loneliness of this derelict house.

Manley appeared to be dreaming. He threw himself from one side to the other and it seemed as if he was fighting with someone. Maybe he was reliving the wolf-attack? Again, a hot surge of guilt went through Hermione: if it hadn't been for her, nothing like that would have happened. She caught hold of the man's fidgeting hands and tried to convey feelings of security and peace through physical contact. She had to really overcome herself, to be able to take the ugly, untended hands in her own. After she had done it, however and felt the slightly hard and very warm palm against her own, her revulsion dwindled abruptly. It wasn't at all unpleasant to touch him. Come to think of it, neither had it been unpleasant when she was cleaning and bandaging his wounds. Hermione had had a weakness for the tormented and the oppressed from the get-go. It wasn't very surprising, therefore, that she felt sorry for this man and his fate, making her fear of touching him disappear completely.

At first he had resisted her: he didn't want to take off his shredded clothing, backing away from her continuously. He didn't attempt to attack her physically, though. Instead, he had viciously insulted her. Hermione had ignored him: the fact that she was responsible for his current condition, allowed her to tune him out. When the much larger and stronger man had been forced into a corner she had briskly taken hold of his jacket and pulled it off of his body in one powerful movement. Unfortunately, it tore in two because of this, earning Hermione another rant from her victim. Hermione's face was getting red from the exertion and her arms were starting to hurt: it wasn't easy to rob the man, who despite his injuries was still very strong, of his clothes against his will AND endure his copious invectives.

At some point – she didn't know exactly how she'd gotten this far– she was down to his undershirt. Her hands seized this as well and she tried to pull it over his head; she failed, because Manley was much taller than she. With triumph in his eyes and a wolfish grin he had looked at her, which annoyed her to no end.

"Mr Manley, if you don't want for me to add a couple of injuries to the multitude of rather bad ones you have already, you'd better take off your shirt right now and let me help you!" She had pulled herself up to her full height and tilted her chin stubbornly as she stood in front of the taller man who was still in the corner of this derelict room.

"What could you hope to do to me?" he snapped at her furiously.

Hermione didn't dither: she had just about had enough of this arrogant, stubborn fellow! She grabbed him and a yelp sounded through the room: her hand was clutched around one of the still-bleeding wounds on Manley's upper arm. She regretted having to do this, but he left her no other choice. Manley, obviously hadn't counted on this particular tactic, as his face, which was contorted with pain, also showed a healthy amount of surprise. After just seconds, she let go of him, pointedly wiping her bloody hand on the undershirt he was still wearing.

Stony-faced she once again told him to let her help him. Contrary to expectations, the man gave in and – still in pain – tore the blood-smeared undershirt from his body. With verve, he threw it on the heap of previously torn clothing in the other corner of the room and turned to face his tormentor. For a while he stared at her shimmering brown eyes as they took in his naked torso with horror.

He spread his arms mockingly and turned for her.

"Do you like what you see?" he sneered, unable to mask the undertone of hurt in his voice. Without a doubt she was shocked by the mere sight of his one-time well-groomed, nicely proportioned upper body. His skin now was wrinkled and ashen and at the back the hideous deformation of his shoulder took centre stage. Added to that were the new, in some cases still bleeding wounds the wolves had caused him. He was scarcely something a young female would like to look at. Mortified, Manley turned away from her and leaned against the wall briefly. That look she gave him just now, he knew only too well: it held pity and fright. He hated these looks, which were generally his due, with a passion. Never had anyone looked at him like that before his sentence and for the thousandth time he cursed an old wizard named Dumbledore.

Hermione actually was a little shaken by this new display of Manley's ugliness. What horrified her more however, were the deep wounds the wolves' claws and their fangs respectively had caused: he would carry the scars of this encounter for the rest of his life. Not that it mattered much: with all the deformities, a couple of scars more or less didn't make much of a difference. Hermione scolded herself to show some compassion: he didn't deserve for her to think about him that way. So she answered his question with: "It doesn't matter whether or not I like what I see. I am here to help you, not to enter you into a beauty contest." Immediately she bit her lip: that hadn't been a particularly compassionate response. Manley's regard darkened accordingly. His normally ice grey eyes turned a considerably darker colour: a sea of dark grey whirled through them and annoyed Hermione anew. He closed his mouth, pressing his lips together firmly, shoved her aside as he passed and sat down on his makeshift bed with a suppressed moan. Without looking at her, he murmured.

"Then I suggest you get to it, already! Help me. And then get the hell out of here!"

From then on, he stopped resisting her, but every once in a while a hate-filled gaze struck her face. She tried to ignore them and concentrated on taking care of his wounds. When it was finally done, he sighed once more and turned his back towards her.

"You can go now. You have done your duty," it sounded loftily from the pillow.

"I'm not going to allow you to decide when my task here is completed," Hermione answered quietly but with conviction and pulled the thin blanket over his bandaged body. He would be in need of assistance for some time and in that moment, Hermione decided to make it her personal mission to make sure he got it.

Manley appeared to acquiesce. Or at least he didn't reply and after a while his deep breaths told her that he must have fallen asleep.

Again, Hermione wiped the wet towel over the burning forehead of her patient. She was worried and she was thinking. His unwillingness to accept help was disturbing. How despairing did a person have to be, to simply refuse help in his condition? When he started to move restlessly about in his sleep, she talked to him reassuringly. It was unimportant what she was saying exactly, the soothing tone of her voice should calm him down. Gently, she brushed the gray, tousled hair away from his forehead, trying to avoid his wounds and above all his hideousness. After a while she succeeded and she only saw a human being in need of help, which she could provide.

Shortly after, Manley's attempts to repel her left off. Hermione's soft voice and even softer hands hadn't missed their effect on his tormented mind and her tranquillity transferred to him. One last time he sighed, then he fell into a state between waking and fevered dreaming, in which nothing seemed to matter. There was no pain. Deeper and deeper he slid into the darkness; he wanted to find his peace – no longer thinking and feeling anything – and his mind joined forces with his body, gifting him with unconsciousness; sliding away from unpleasant feelings, ideas and dreams. The problems that had plagued the ostracised wizard and had perpetually determined his life were null and void here. There was nothing...just darkness.

Time passed quickly, but Hermione was hardly aware of it. Attentively she watched over the injured man as she sat next to his bed for hours. Every once in a while she placed her hand on Manley's chest to make sure he was still breathing properly. Yes, he was sleeping deeply, was running a fever without a doubt, but he was clearly alive. She guessed it would take quite some time before he was completely healed.

A look at her watch told her that she had to leave now, if she wanted to be home before it got dark. One more time she checked on her patient, wiping his forehead and adjusting his blanket. Quietly, she got up from her chair and after some deliberation balled up all of the clothes she had taken off of him and stuffed them into her backpack. She would either give them a good wash or, the more probable option, she would throw them into the garbage and make sure he got some new ones. On top of that, by making it impossible for him to cover himself, she was pretty sure she could ensure that he wouldn't leave his bed. He probably wouldn't do that anyway, she thought as she was making her way outside; he would be weakened and still have a fever. She had briefly considered leaving him a note at least, to tell him that she would be coming back, but in light of his obvious unwillingness to accept help, she decided against it. He would find out soon enough that he wouldn't get rid of her so easily.

At the same time Hermione left the manor, in a locked room, hidden away in the depth of the estate, another petal fell from the magical rose and floated, as if carried there by a ghostly hand, to the floor.