Draco dropped himself into a chair at the head of the table and rested his chin on his palm, the picture of misery while the rest of them pulled out seats beside him. With a crack, Kreacher popped up next to the table and a gigantic pile of toast materialised by Draco's right elbow. Kreacher disappeared, and when he came back, he was carrying several platters of sausages, bacon, baked beans, and a myriad other breakfast foods. He pushed them onto the table with his tiny arms, grunting, and then brought out a pot of coffee, a teapot, and a carafe of pumpkin juice. All of it was crammed around Draco, who still stared woefully into the middle distance, oblivious.
His eyes came into focus when he realised they were all staring at him and the kinglike feast surrounding him and him alone. "What?" he sneered. "Not my fault your elf has appalling manners."
Harry rolled his eyes. "Kreacher?" Pop! "Kreacher, the rest of us would like breakfast, too."
"Yes, master," Kreacher growled before distributing plates to the rest of them. Unlike the china one Draco got, they were left with stained ceramic. Hermione's had a chip in it.
"Mum already fed us a bit," admitted Ron, "but it's the principle of the thing, innit?"
Draco couldn't help move the mountains of food on account of his injury, so the three of them dragged it all across the table to the middle, the wooden surface scraping horribly. Hermione hadn't realised how hungry she'd got since — yesterday's lunch? She hadn't eaten much dinner; she'd been too distracted, and the notion of food hadn't crossed her mind since.
Harry poured himself a goblet of pumpkin juice and immediately began to talk, apparently oblivious to Hermione and Draco's slow, troubled nibbles.
"So, everyone who needs to know where we are, knows. Snape's going to spin some story about how you" — he nodded to Draco — "decided to follow us to, like, keep an eye on us and where we go, or whatever."
Draco frowned, toast suspended halfway to his mouth. "Alright," he conceded.
"Otherwise," Harry shrugged, "we're meant to stay put."
It didn't surprise her, but Hermione still had trouble believing it. The Order really wanted them to hide away until the war was over? How were they meant to find Horcruxes?
"Obviously, we're not going to do that," said Ron.
Draco leaned his head on his hand and squeezed his eyes shut. "You're all bloody insane."
"Cheer up, Malfoy." Ron grinned. "I promise we're way more fun than a load of Death Eaters. Unless you'd rather swap?"
"I'm good, thanks."
"Oh, that reminds me." Harry put down his cutlery, serious once again. "He — You-Know-Who's put a Taboo on his name."
"A 'Taboo'?"
"It's like the Trace," explained Draco softly. "You know, the thing that alerts the Ministry if someone underage does magic outside school? If you say the Dark Lo— You-Know-Who's name, he'll know. And he'll come."
Hermione swallowed; her body had gone cold. It was a brilliant move on his part — no-one but the resistance would dare say his name — and terrifying in a way she couldn't quite verbalise.
"Good to know," she said weakly.
"Yeah." Harry's knife skidded across his plate as he tried to slice a sausage. Hermione cringed. "Anyway, Ron and I want to chat with you later, Hermione, about — about some stuff."
"No need to be coy, Potter," snarked Draco. "You can tell me when I'm not wanted."
"Great. You're not wanted."
"Say no more. Let me finish my tea, if that's not too much to ask, and then I'll retire to my sickbed, shall I?"
Hermione couldn't tell if the heavy sarcasm was masking genuine hurt. The thought pained her, but there wasn't much she could do except meekly say, "Actually, I think I should check your back, first. I think you need fresh bandages, and I just want to make sure it's healing properly…"
God help them if it was infected. She'd have no idea what to do.
Draco shrugged and then winced.
"Is it really that bad?" asked Ron. "I mean, I heard you screaming, and I saw you on the ground, but if it was only a Slicing Hex…"
"A Slicing Hex from Snape," corrected Draco, "that was intended to disable me. Across my whole back."
Ron shrugged. "Still. Could've been worse."
Hermione agreed, but she didn't let it show. Draco looked bitter. "Does it hurt still?" she asked tentatively.
"Yes, but… not as much." He squirmed. "These bandages, though, they're itchy."
"Sorry. Muggle healing methods tend to be slow and uncomfortable. I wish we could use the dittany, but —"
Draco waved his hand in a "don't bother" gesture.
Pop!
Kreacher stood between Draco and Hermione, arm full of bandages and bottles. "The heir requires healing?"
"Oh — erm — thank you, Kreacher, but I don't think we're going to do that here —"
"Why not?" asked Harry. "Get it over with now. Don't think he wants to move much, anyway." Draco was still in the same position he'd been when he sat down, stiff. "Then he can go upstairs, and we can — talk."
Hermione couldn't think fast enough to argue and, even if she had, Kreacher probably would have disregarded her suggestion anyway. Before she could open her mouth, the food disappeared, and the Muggle medical supplies were neatly arranged on the bare table.
"Oh. Erm — alright, then."
To do this with an audience felt wrong, like Harry and Ron were overly keen voyeurs; they watched curiously as she stood and went to stand behind Draco's chair. She could see the snake-like patchwork of bandages through the material of his shirt and the blood that had seeped through it.
"You'll — you'll need to remove your shirt."
Draco obeyed, undoing the buttons with his right hand, then shrugging out of the sleeve. Hermione did the rest, pulling it away from his back and letting it hang from his left elbow, where he'd tactfully left the sleeve on to cover his forearm.
Harry and Ron watched expectantly, unashamed, as Draco sat half naked at the kitchen table.
Worryingly, the bandages were red in most areas. They would definitely need to be changed, and Hermione decided she would clean the wound again, if only to do away with the old blood and the uncomfortable residue from the tape.
He winced as she began to peel it away, plucking out the fine hairs on his back.
"Sorry," she said over and over again. Would using the dittany really be so bad?
But it was very clear that, despite the bleeding, the cut was healing. The potion would be wasted here, even if the edges of it were a little inflamed. Hermione hoped that was irritation from his moving around, and not a sign of something more serious.
Harry whistled low as the bloody bandages were removed; they couldn't see his back, given Draco was seated at the head of the table, but they could see the blood.
"Nice one, Malfoy," said Ron, sounding delighted.
Kreacher appeared to take away the pile of bloody gauze once she'd removed it all. Hermione wondered if he was moved to be holding Black blood. It was a disturbing thought.
"Could you pass me that bottle, please? With the blue label."
Draco handed it to her over his shoulder.
She went about it the same way she had the night before. He winced and held his breath just like he had then, and Hermione resisted the instinct to rub soothing circles into his shoulder. Harry and Ron continued to watch, curious, until she'd taped the last piece near his sacrum and stood back, surveying her work.
"Done?" asked Draco.
"Done." She helped him put his shirt back on all the way, but let him button it himself, however much she wanted to help. She felt flushed and couldn't bring herself to look at Harry and Ron. Had she gone too far? Been too intimate? Is that what they would talk to her about once Draco had gone up?
"Well." Draco pushed himself up to standing. "Have fun, you three."
"Will do," chirped Ron. "Enjoy the rest of the house. You know, I don't think anyone's been here in nearly a year — mum caught Mundungus stealing shit. They had to obliviate him and kick him out. Now nobody wants to use it as headquarters. Merlin, do you think we'll have to clean again?"
Draco ignored him, though he left slowly, his gait uneven, but with his head held high. They watched him go until the door shut behind him, when Harry declared, "Right. Time to work out how to find these Horcruxes."
"Should we go find him?"
Ron snorted. "Do we need to? Can't he find his own lunch?"
"Ron!" Hermione scolded. "Here — you wait here. I'll go find him and let him know." She stood from the table, where they hadn't moved since Draco had left, and went to explore the rest of the house. The discussion of Horcruxes had yielded very little, save for the mutual agreement that they were prepared to leave Grimmauld Place if they had reason to believe they knew where a Horcrux was hidden. Hermione had taken it upon herself to devise a basic scheme for how they might safely do that. Unfortunately, except for heavy use of the Invisibility Cloak, she didn't have much.
"Draco?" She wandered down the long hallway, careful not to call too loudly and wake the portrait. Kreacher's blatant derision was bad enough; she wasn't in the mood for Madame Black's opinions on Hermione's presence in her ancestral home.
"Draco? We're about to have lunch…"
He didn't answer, not even when she stumbled upon him by chance in the tapestry room. His back was to the door, but he must have heard her. He was standing stiffly, staring at the wall, and Hermione approached cautiously, careful not to interrupt whatever it was he was doing.
When she came to stand beside him, she realised he was staring at himself.
Draco Black Malfoy, 1980 –
How had she never noticed him here, in this web of names? Her eyes sought out Tonks, parallel to Draco and threaded together by a short line of women. A few feet away and higher up, the smudge of Sirius looked down on them.
Sirius Black, 1959 – 1996
"You know," said Draco quietly, "technically, this is my house."
"You'll have to take that up with Harry," Hermione said just as softly. "Or, rather, wizarding inheritance laws. Sirius left him everything." Hermione couldn't help but glance at Bellatrix's spot on the tapestry, her death date still blank.
Draco shook his head. "My mother hated this house," he said, as though that explained why he didn't want it. Perhaps it did. She didn't point out that he spoke of his mother in the past tense. "She didn't come here often, but when she did, she hated it."
He shook his head again, finally breaking his empty stare at his own face. "It's just weird. Between this and the manor, I've got nothing anymore."
"What do you mean?" asked Hermione, frowning. "You'll still inherit Malfoy Manor."
Again, a shake of his head. "I don't think so. I think I forfeited that right when I followed you onto the grounds last night. Besides, that's his house now. As is everything in the vault, probably. You can't say 'no' to the Dark Lor— sorry, You-Know-Who. Whatever he asks of you."
Hermione knew this was not just about inheritances and Dark Lords but his father, too, and all of his failures. She didn't know what to say, so she took his hand.
"Let's go have lunch."
Draco finally looked at her, like he'd just noticed her, and smiled. "Alright." He squeezed her hand. "Lunch."
She guided him out of the room, turning their backs on the tapestry and the scowling Draco woven into the wall.
