Chapter 5:
It was just after daybreak and Hermione was sipping her morning coffee as she stared out at the Scottish Highlands. Fog had settled in a hazy blanket over the sprawling meadows. After Malfoy's interrogation the day before, it had rained heavily, washing away all of the snow. Out past the far mountains, another storm was looming on the horizon, threatening to fall at any moment.
Molly waltzed in, rollers in her hair and a tatty robe covering her plump figure. "Good morning, Hermione. Did you sleep well?" she asked as she started the fire in the hearth to begin cooking.
The younger witch simply hummed in response. In truth, no, she had not slept a single second the entire night. She had lain awake in bed, rethinking every aspect of Malfoy's interrogation. A chill ran down her back every time his mentioning of her parents made its way into her memory. You've moved your parents. Still, the deadpanned way he had spoken of them did not sit well with her.
Arthur walked in, already dressed for the day and carrying the newspaper. It appeared each morning in the stump of an old yew tree on the property, sent by an outside connection—they were all afraid of receiving owls to headquarters too often. "There's an article here about the Malfoys."
Hermione's interest was piqued and she turned to face him, leaning back against the countertop. "What about them?"
Arthur sighed a long-suffering and exhausted exhale of breath and unfurled the newspaper on the table. He opened it and a large spread directly across the middle of the paper unfurled into plain view. Hermione leaned forward to investigate and clapped a hand over her mouth. There was a large photo of Narcissa and Lucius Malfoy's bodies, tied to a stake in the middle of Diagon Alley. A group of three men in pewter masks circled them, lighting a pile of fodder ablaze beneath their bodies. Hermione noticed the matching scarlet necklaces they wore and could hear Malfoy's weak rasp as he had relayed his parents' fate. Dead. And Astoria. Dark Lord, slit throats. The photo was sickening enough, but the barbaric treatment of their already deceased bodies made her empty stomach flop uncomfortably.
"We should tell him," Hermione reasoned, closing the paper so the offending image disappeared.
"He's been through enough!" Molly said, whipping around with her hands on her hips.
"You can't mollycoddle the boy, sweetheart. He's a grown man and he deserves to know about his parents," Arthur argued gently.
"When he gets his strength back," his wife countered, and Arthur opened his mouth to bicker.
Hermione took the tense moment between the two to nonchalantly roll the paper up tightly and slip it into her robe. Grabbing a couple pieces of toast and a fresh cup of black coffee, she left the room while Molly spit venom. Malfoy had not taken it easy on her the day before—and she wanted to know precisely how the Death Eaters knew of her parents' whereabouts when she had taken such care in hiding them. Perhaps, she could tell him about his, and in turn, receive more information about her own.
The lack of sleep from the night before, coupled with her nerves over seeing Malfoy again had her feeling lightheaded. She padded across the small courtyard and back into the housing quarters, turning left down the men's corridor. It was dark, not enough of the early morning rays lighting her way. His door was the last in the hallway and she lifted her hand to knock.
Hermione knew he could very well be sleeping, so she cracked his door and peered within before disturbing him with a knock. She could only imagine his petulant attitude if she woke him, but found he was already sitting up in his bed, smoking a cigarette with the window next to him open. A hazy cloud filled the room, through which she could just make out his silhouette as he turned to face her.
"Can I help you, Granger?" his deep voice bit out, and she heard the long exhale of him breathing out a fresh cloud.
"You'd better not let Molly catch you smoking," she admonished, putting her hands on her hips as she stepped within.
"Or what? Will she kick me out on my arse because I indulged in the one vice I have in this world? You'll learn—that threat does not affect me as badly as you'd suspect," he replied. Hermione narrowed her eyes as his cloud began to choke the fresh air from her lungs.
"You're here for a reason—you could have killed yourself or stayed behind for him to kill, had you truly wanted to die," Hermione argued, fighting the urge to stomp her foot impatiently as he used the dying end of one cigarette to light the next. "And that is a disgusting habit, by the way."
The light filtering through the window was a dim grey, but she could see one half of his face illuminated by it, the other half hidden in shadows. "Lucky for me, I'm not trying to seduce anyone."
"A fat chance you'd find anyone here, anyway. The women of the Order are far more respectable than the women I'm sure you're used to," she spat, crossing her arms in an attempt not to look like Molly.
"Yes. My wife was a real trollop," he deadpanned and before she could respond, Malfoy raised his eyes to meet hers and tossed his head back, letting out a long stream of smoke. His gaze never left hers and she knew he was smoking a second cigarette just to get directly under her skin. The look on his face was one of defiance, just as it had been during all their years at Hogwarts; she fought the urge to roll her eyes. "Is there a reason you're in here before daybreak, riding my wand so aggressively?"
Hermione narrowed her eyes and waved her hand in front of her face, clearing it of the toxic air. She went to stand next to his bed and ran through what exactly she would say to him. In her haste to leave the bickering Weasley parents, Hermione had not thoroughly developed a plan on how to approach him to explain his parents' fate.
Even in the darkness, his silvery gaze was shining bright, and she looked down at him with uncertainty. "Why are you saddling up so close to me? And staring at me with a look of constipation on your face?"
Hermione huffed indignantly. "Do you always have to be such a prick? I have something serious to tell you. And in turn, I would like some information from you."
"You're propositioning me for information by feeding me something you deem important? How very cunning of you," he accused, looking up at her with his face still bathed in darkness.
"It's about your parents," she offered, trying to capture his attention.
Evidently, her attempted worked. She could see Malfoy's brow furrow in the shadows as he studied her intently. "They're dead. What could you possibly have to say with regard to them? Want to rub their cold, corpse noses into the dirt they'll no doubt be buried in soon?"
"The Death Eaters burned their bodies at the stake," she blurted in her rush to get the statement out.
Malfoy recoiled from her as though she had hit him, looking away and out the open window, his face now in the direct path of a cold December breeze. He tucked his injured arm into himself and ran a hand along the bandages.
"Do you—do you want to talk about it?" she asked, anxiety coursing through her at his silence.
He wore a look of icy boredom, but the tense set of his jaw gave away his underlying feelings. "To you? Don't make me laugh, Granger. We aren't friends—we aren't even acquaintances."
His constant barrage of arrogant, cruel remarks was beginning to wear her patience thin. Here she was, trying to make a true effort to share information about his family and he was spitting it back in her face. The bastard. "Malfoy, if you're going to stay here, you would do well to remember that you need an ally."
He glared at her and extinguished his cigarette, waving his new wand awkwardly in his right hand. It took two tries to clear the residue away. "Bloody thing still isn't responding to my commands," he mumbled under his breath, attempting to swing his legs over the side of the bed.
Hermione noted that Malfoy seemed to be gaining strength each day. He was naked, save for a fresh pair of boxer-briefs from his sanctioned, Arthur-assisted bath the night before. When he rose, his back and knees creaked. His posture, always so prim and proper in school, pin-straight even as he had carried a school bag, was now slouched; he looked to be suffering quite spectacularly. Yet, Malfoy said nothing. He said not a single word of complaint as he leaned over and retrieved a hooded jumper and joggers from his bottom drawer.
The muscles in his back moved under the surface of his skin, casting shadows over his ribcage as he stretched to pull the jumper over his head. Hermione looked away, feeling voyeuristic as she watched him moving. The contrast between the strength his body clearly held and the weakness he was displaying in his illness, was striking and worrisome.
"What information did you want?" he questioned gruffly as he pulled a pair of socks onto his feet. Then, with a shiver, he muttered, "It's so bloody cold in here."
Hermione, ever the Healer in the absence of Molly, lifted the inside of her wrist to his forehead and found it to be scorching hot. Her touch on his skin made him jerk away quickly, as if she were the one on fire. "I'll spare you the lecture about leaving the window open in December—"
"Good, thank you. I scarce have enough energy to process your incessant nagging—"
"But, on top of that, you're running a serious fever. You need more potions," she told him with a frown, knowing she would have to brew a new batch of anti-febrile potions soon if his temperature did not level out.
Grunting in response, Malfoy slid back under the thin blanket. He curled his knees toward his chest, creating a tight ball, and tucked his good arm under the pillow. Hermione could tell he felt absolutely wretched and she almost had compassion for him, until she was given a reminder of his poisonous attitude. "Out with it, Granger. My patience is wearing thin and the pain potions are wearing even thinner."
"How did you know?" Hermione asked carefully, looking to her hands instead of at his face.
There was a long moment's pause, wherein she thought perhaps her question was too vague. But she could not bring herself to voice the questions that had haunted her thoughts all the night through. Malfoy made a slight croaking noise—the only indication that he was still suffering immensely. Hermione reached into her pocket and her hand closed around a half-empty bottle of pain potion. Her brain was trying to decide if she should use it as a bargaining chip or give it to him now, when he spoke. "Your contact to bring them nourishment and necessities is a Squib—a distant cousin of Seamus Finnigan, I believe?"
Her eyes rose from a place at the edge of his bed to his face as her mouth dropped open. "How—"
"I have no doubt that you have done some intricate spell work to conceal their whereabouts, Granger—"
"I have! I changed their names and appearances. They are staying in a home that appears to be dilapidated and abandoned in a village so small it is not even on a map of Wales. They never go out anywhere and no one ever comes in, except Seamus' cousin!" she told him indignantly.
"And I have no doubt that your concealment would have continued to work, as it has for the last few years, had you picked a more reliable go-between. The Squib got pissed at a little wizarding pub in the next village over. Started talking about how he was guarding the secret of a very important Muggle-born," Malfoy began.
Hermione could feel her heart seizing within her chest, and she clutched her hand to the front of her robe tightly. "I made him take a Vow of Silence!"
"Well, he didn't exactly give up the secret or the whereabouts, did he? Not to mention—he's a Squib. There's no magic in his veins, so the Vow would not have been as strong as it would if you had found a pureblood, or even a half-blood, to share the spellwork," he told her, his striking grey eyes looking up at her from where he lay.
"So, the Death Eaters just deduced that it was me?" Hermione asked, though she already knew the answer.
"You are the most important Muggle-born in the wizarding world right now. And it did not take a genius to realize what secret he was talking about once a sweep of your parents' home in London was completed," he said, his voice one of detached boredom.
"Do they know exactly where my parents are?" she questioned, genuinely fearing the answer.
He shrugged noncommittally under his bedding, a slight movement that was nearly imperceptible. "As of the time I had left, no. But… Granger, the Death Eaters do regular sweeps of small Muggle villages all the time. It's only a matter of time before they figure it out."
Hermione stared at him; his gaze on her was unwavering, unsettling. The piercing stare sent a shiver through her that had nothing to do with the cold. Still, she pulled her robe tighter around her and bit her bottom lip. There was something about the way he was looking at her—he knew more than he was letting on. She could see it, buried in the depths of his arctic orbs. "You know something more."
Malfoy blinked once and then nodded slowly. "Not specifically regarding your parents."
"What, then? If you have information that could help the Order, you must divulge it! If you've truly defected, you need to tell us everything! Otherwise, how could we ever trust you?" She felt her voice wavering from concerned to screeching harpy.
"Calm yourself, Granger. Don't give yourself a nosebleed," he reprimanded lightly, causing her to grit her teeth against his attitude once more. "The Dark Lord has devised a plan to round up all of the Muggle-borns in Britain and keep them all in one central location." Malfoy spoke slowly, letting each word sink itself deeper into her tissue. "And he views Muggles—specifically the families who spawned the Muggle-borns—as leverage."
"Leverage? Leverage for what?" Hermione asked, her voice a rasping whisper.
Malfoy remained silent and she knew her answer before he even had a chance to say it.
"To draw us out of hiding," she choked out, feeling as though there were a hand wrapping around her throat and closing off her airway.
Her eyes were darting across the floor, her brain moving at lightning speed to process what he was telling her. Voldemort was going to be building an area to house hundreds of Muggle-borns. He would kidnap their families and torture or kill them to bring the witches and wizards around. Malfoy shifted in the bed slightly, putting his white-blond hair in her line of sight. Raising an eyebrow, he asked, "Granger?"
She must look quite frightened, but still his face showed very little reaction to her emotions. He snapped his fingers, pulling her from her troubled reverie. "Remember when I told you, you need to get your parents the fuck away from the United Kingdom? This is why."
"How long do you think I have?" Hermione asked, feeling almost desperate for a reasonable answer.
"I don't know," Malfoy answered truthfully. "The Squib outed you little over a week ago. But since then," he motioned toward his long and lithe frame under the blankets, "my whereabouts have become priority number one."
Hermione was once again reminded of exactly how foolish her actions had been, to bring a Death Eater into the home she shared with her friends and extended family. But looking at him, his face flushed with fever and his eyes so penetrating, she knew that he was true in his words. He would make a valuable asset to the Order. She withdrew the vial from her pocket.
"You withheld pain potion until you got the information out of me?" he asked, his tone almost impressed.
"Not purposefully," she told him, only a half-lie.
Hermione placed a hand under his back, scorching hot to the touch, even through his jumper, and helped lift him into a higher position. She went to place the vial to his lips and he swatted her hand. "I can feed myself now."
He'll be a great asset to the Order if he can learn to shut his bloody mouth.
"Do you think He and the Death Eaters know you've defected?" she inquired, worrying for the millionth time about the increased danger the Order was facing now that he was here.
He gave a snort of derision and laid back against her hand once more. "Please. No one would ever imagine the Interrogator would defect successfully. He probably assumes you all would never take me in after what I've done," he told her, hesitating slightly. "I'm surprised any of you have given me a chance and did not kill me when I was defenseless on the stairs in the snow. No… he likely assumes I've run away completely."
"We aren't savages," Hermione replied, stepping back as Malfoy closed his eyes and relished the feel of the potion coursing through him.
"No. I suppose you wouldn't have killed me right off—though you would have had every reason to," he conceded.
Hermione studied him lying there for a moment longer than she perhaps should have. After hearing his revelation about the Muggle-born collections, she knew she needed to heed his warning and move her parents to a distant location. Fast. The countenance that settled over his features was nearing serene and he looked as though peace were overtaking him as the pain subsided. "Your bandages need changing. I'll be back this evening to assist with that. And I'll brew some anti-febrile potions."
Malfoy hummed at the back of his throat, his eyes still closed and his mouth parting slightly as he began to drift out of consciousness. A gentle sleeping draught was one of the active ingredients in this particular potion. Moving the toast and black coffee she had brought closer to his bed, she placed a stasis charm on it before turning to leave, knowing she had a few hours until she would need to return to check on him.
"Thank you," came the impossibly soft sound of his voice from behind her and Hermione stopped walking for a brief moment, looking over her shoulder. He was now facing completely away from her.
Slipping from his room, Hermione found herself utterly bewildered by the strange sound of his voice when it was not biting with condescension. She also knew precisely with whom she needed to speak about her parents.
The witch stopped in the Commons area between the two corridors of bedrooms and withdrew the newspaper from her pocket. Looking at the photographic evidence of the horrific way the Death Eaters had handled two of their own, she tossed the paper into the fireplace. It curled and hissed as it shrank and was reduced to ash within mere moments. Her chest still throbbing dully, Hermione made her way across the compound once more, through the dining hall and into the kitchen. Molly was brusquely stirring a pot of porridge, actively ignoring her husband behind her. Arthur was seated at the small kitchen table and had a Muggle torch out on the table before him, painstakingly pulling apart a battery, piece by piece.
"Mr. and Mrs. Weasley," she tried, "I need to speak with you both."
Arthur looked up from his torch and furrowed his brow, taking on a concerned-father demeanor. Molly turned from the hearth, carrying a frying pan full of sizzling sausages to the table. Lavender and Ginny walked in, both looking tired and intent on getting caffeine into their bodies as quickly as possible.
"Perhaps in the dining hall?" Hermione suggested and even Molly looked worried now.
"Is everything okay, dear?" she questioned, straightening up and eyeing Hermione.
Hermione led the two of them into the dining hall, watching the door for incoming Order members. "I spoke to Malfoy."
Molly's face darkened, and Arthur's eyebrows raised toward his long-gone hairline. Primly, the elder witch asked, "I thought we agreed to wait?"
"Malfoy has been nothing but straightforward with me—he deserved to know. And I wanted more information about my parents. If I had no leverage, he likely wouldn't have given it to me," Hermione explained, feeling guilt eat at her as she always did when being reprimanded by a superior.
"I wouldn't be so sure about that, Hermione. Draco is—he's disturbed, to say the least," Arthur told her, his face screwed into a grimace, clearly remembering what he had seen in the young wizard's mind during the interrogation. "But I saw no deception in his mind. Only bitter loneliness and a thirst for revenge."
Hermione listened patiently as Arthur spoke, wondering exactly he was envisioning in his mind's eye. "He's creating a holding compound for Muggle-borns. And he's planning to use our families as leverage to draw us out of the shadows."
"A holding compound?" Arthur repeated.
"I don't know what exactly, but an area where they intend to place all Muggle-borns. To what end, I'm not entirely sure—Malfoy was growing weak as we spoke. I need to move my parents. Alroy Finnegan gave them up in a roundabout way and Malfoy believes it is only a matter of time until they are located. The Death Eaters occupy entire villages all over—and I'm sure they aren't very kind in their pillaging and murdering."
"You need us to come with you, dear? Is that what you are asking?" Molly asked, her voice growing tender with compassion.
"Do you think I'm barmy to listen to him?" Hermione voiced her most pressing question.
"No," Arthur said right away. "He came to us as a defector. I don't believe he's here as a spy—he wasn't lying about his parents' deaths, was he? I saw it in his memories—he was only on his side because he wanted to keep his parents alive."
"Then, yes. I would like if the two of you could come with me to—to talk with my parents. Malfoy told me to obliviate them and send them to South Africa or Australia. And if what he said is true, I think perhaps that is the best course of action. I just need help speaking to them—to make them understand, because they were already reluctant to go into hiding. If I propose taking their memories, they won't readily agree."
Arthur and Molly looked at her, Molly's eyes welling with tears on her behalf. "No one should ever have to make such a difficult decision regarding their mother and father."
Hermione thought of Arthur's words—he was only on his side because he wanted to keep his parents alive. A shudder ran through her at the idea that she had anything in common with Malfoy at all. Not for the first time, she wondered exactly who Draco Malfoy was.
"Hermione," Arthur's voice broke through her thoughts, "what are you prepared to do if your parents refuse to accept this plan?"
Mouth falling open, she gaped at him for a moment, her ever-active brain trying to avoid thinking about forcing her parents at the end of her wand. "I don't think they have an easier option. They'll be dead in a month if I don't do this."
"You've made all of these decisions, in the last thirty minutes? Don't you want more time to think about it?" Molly inquired, trying to be sympathetic.
"No. I've been thinking about it since I walked out of his interrogation," she said, pushing a curl behind her ear as her bottom lip trembled. "His… revelation today only cemented it."
"Where will you send them?" Arthur questioned.
"Australia. Sydney. They've always wanted to visit, and they love the warm weather. I think," her voice cracked dangerously, "I think they'd enjoy it."
They were all silent for a moment, the two elder Weasleys staring at her in sympathetic sadness. Finally, Arthur asked, "Hermione, what will you do if, after the War has ended, you cannot bring their memories back?"
"Arthur! Don't put such negative thoughts into her head!" Molly scolded, wringing an oven mitt in her hands.
"I'm only being realistic. She needs to consider all of the consequences before we go and obliviate her only family. She needs to be prepared!" he retorted to his wife, who closed her mouth contritely.
"I just wish you didn't have to go through this alone, Hermione," Molly cried once more, pulling her adoptive daughter into a tight grasp.
Molly's coddling and overbearing way of caring warmed her heart and Hermione's thoughts could not help but linger on the blond defector who lay in his bed only a hundred yards from where she stood. Malfoy was truly alone in the world—an enemy to both sides until he proved himself worthy. His parents had been brutally murdered, stripped from him for eternity, and she felt if he could survive that, she could survive the possibility of her parents being irreversibly stripped of their memories. So long as it meant they were alive.
"I'm not alone," she responded, burying her face into Molly's warm shoulder. "I have you all."
o-o-o
As Hermione sat on the edge of her bed, she could hear low, rumbling brontides of thunder sounding in the distance. Lightning flashed, illuminating her room in a macabre light show. It was late—she had no doubt that everyone else would be either sleeping or holed away in their respective bedrooms. Her entire body was vibrating with anxious energy and she wondered if Malfoy had finally woken. She had checked on him twice since leaving him that morning, and both times he had been fast asleep.
Wringing her hands as a particularly violent clap of thunder sounded, closer than any previous, she stood and retrieved the items she needed for his care. Opening the door, she looked down the corridor at the row of closed doors. Softly padding across the hardwood, she tiptoed through the Commons area—mercifully empty—and down the men's hall. She hesitated outside of Malfoy's door, pressing her forehead to the wood to steady her breath.
She knocked softly and listened for the sound of movement behind his door. When her efforts where met with silence, her hand gently opened the door. Her head of voluminous curls peered around the oak door and looked into the dim room. Malfoy was sitting up slightly in his bed. Hermione stepped into the room and went to close the door behind her. It would not do to be caught alone with him—both out of fear of what conclusions the others might draw, particularly Ron, and also for fear that he may train his wand on her. Instead of closing the door, she opened it all the way, though she hoped no one would hover in the corridor to eavesdrop.
The room smelled of stale cigarette smoke again and she wrinkled her nose. Of all the vices he could have, he chose smoking. A foul habit if she had ever seen one. His head dropped back onto the fluffy pillow, where a crater had already formed from his head being pressed into it for days. Her lips parted, a reprimand on the tip of her tongue. Instead, she tried to swallow down the memory of the photograph of the Malfoys burning at the stake and nodded her head once. "Malfoy."
She walked further into the room, placing the bowl of warm water, a cloth, and her potions box on his nightstand. Malfoy appeared to be in a state of strangely peaceful calm as he watched the storm rage outside of his window. A shallow sigh escaped his lips. "Granger."
His tone was sharp and cutting and her anxiety began to eat away at her once more. Her eyes darted to the door before she broke the silence. "I've come to clean your arm and redress the wounds."
She was wholly unprepared to be met with his steely gaze as he looked up at her, storm clouds meeting soil. "Get on with it then."
Hermione ignored the sharpness of his gaze on her as she moved, her eyes flickering occasionally toward the door. She waited for someone to walk by, to question why she was redressing his wounds at nearly midnight and in the dim light. His wand lay beside him, but he made no move to grasp it, showing a measure of trust in her. She wondered how many years he had been looking over his shoulder to make sure his closest friends were not going to murder him from behind.
Her fingers undid the bandages and his mutilated arm came into view. In the blue-grey light of the room, she turned his arm over, searching for further damage. Molly's advanced knowledge of healing potions had worked to his advantage—the bleeding had finally been stymied. However, there were broken tendons and ligaments that needed addressing; the witch gnawed at her lip as she looked at the exposed wound. How on earth would they be able to restore the ability to use his hand once more? "I wish there was a way to cover this. Like a magical skin graft of some kind."
Closing those haunting eyes of his, Malfoy drawled, "I wasn't aware you cared."
Not one to back down from a challenge, she returned his quip with one of her own, her eyes dragging up to meet his once he reopened them. "I don't," Hermione told him, her features steeling. "But if you're going to stay with the rest of us, we shouldn't be forced to look at this. It's hard enough not to gag at the sight of you."
Rolling his eyes, the wizard winced as she began dabbing rose water into his open wound with slightly more pressure than necessary for the task. Her relishing of his discomfort was short lived as a flash of particularly bright white lightning and a deafening crash of thunder sounded. Her stony façade, false in the face of her foe, crumpled slightly as her fingers tightened around his wrist.
She could feel him analyzing her as she blatantly avoided his stare. Ever so slightly amused, he questioned, "Are you afraid of thunderstorms?"
"I've hated them since I was a child," she recalled, unsure why she was revealing such a pathetic weakness to him. "Booming shakes that rattle the entire house and cracks of lightning that could set a house ablaze in a matter of seconds. It's unnerving and unsettling."
Hermione dragged a dropped of Dittany over his wound, trying to swallow down the smell and the sizzling noise the liquid made when it came into contact with flesh. Always needing to be contrary, he opened his mouth to argue, though his tone was lighter than before. "Yes, but thunderstorms are predictable if you know what to look for."
Her eyes flickered to the door once more and she wondered what the others would think if they heard her conversing cordially with Malfoy about the weather. "How so?"
His face became guarded and he worked his jaw for a moment, as though contemplating speaking his next thought at all. She waited and was nearly convinced he would stay silent until his voice, soft and uncertain, broke through the night. "A storm begins in the distance, looming and just out of reach. The lightning is a display of raw power, the thunder a soft drumming melody—like a heartbeat. As it grows nearer, the magnitude of the storm becomes apparent as it opens and unleashes its wrath, encompassing everything in its wake. Then it leaves, sometimes after only a short while, sometimes after a prolonged stay."
The observation was incredibly perceptive, but Hermione got the impression that he was speaking of more than just distant thunder on the horizon. "Like War," she suggested, believing this to be the underlying meaning behind his words.
"Or love," he said in a breathy whisper, turning his face toward the cool breeze that filtered in from the December storm.
Hermione was so startled by such a tender thought coming from Draco Malfoy that she nearly forgot she was holding onto his arm. Her ministrations in wrapping his wound stilled briefly as her body sputtered, trying to process such a foreign concept. He looked exhausted once more and she hoped he would begin to feel better with another dose of anti-febrile potions. Quickly wrapping up her work, she gently placed his arm back on his abdomen where it had rested before. "All done."
He muttered his thanks for the second time that day and Hermione pulled the anti-febrile potion from her box and placed the glass vial on his nightstand. She was free of the suffocating and queer situation, when his voice stopped her. "Mermaid scales."
Mermaid scales? What in Merlin's grey beard was he talking about? Whipping around to face him, she asked, "I beg your pardon?"
"Mermaid scales could act as a makeshift skin graft. The biological and cellular structure is closer to human skin than actual fish scales," he finished, a turn of his head a clear dismissal of her.
Hermione nodded once, though he never saw the gesture. She left his room swiftly after that, running over the strange conversation they had just shared. Malfoy had seemed almost human. He had gone from scathing arsehole to nearly cordial.
Mermaid scales. Of course—how had she never thought of that before? If she could devise a salve to plaster the scales to his skin and keep it bound tightly, the skin would grow back around the scales. Even the arteries, tendons and muscle could easily repair and flourish under such nutrient-dense tissue. But where to get enough scales? Supposing she could ask their Healer contact, she made a mental note to Floo call her in the morning. No doubt they would be rare and expensive.
Hermione made her way to her room and flopped back into her bed. The following day, by cover of darkness, she and the Weasley parents would slip to her parents' hideaway and strip them of their only child, effectively rendering her an orphan. Though Harry Potter was her oldest friend and had never known his parents, it was another orphan's haunted silver gaze that taunted her late into the night.
o-o-o
A/N: This last bit was Hermione's POV of my one shot Like A Heartbeat. A special thank you to HeartOfAspen, who took the time to edit this chapter.