The rest of the day passed in surprising normality. Harry and Ron sat in the kitchen, fuelled by Kreacher's endless supply of snacks and pumpkin juice, discussing Horcruxes and various strategies. Draco wandered the house for a little while, before retreating to what had become his bedroom. Hermione was too restless to join him and spent a lot of time staring at book spines in the library, as though the answer to all this might be found among the faded, embossed leather.
Dinner passed in the same way lunch did, with Draco rigid and quiet, Harry and Ron chatting with deliberate vagueness, and Hermione thoughtfully watching it all. Kreacher continued to show blatant favouritism, making sure Draco had the nicest flatware and got the best cuts of meat whilst Hermione was left to thank him for another chipped plate.
"Why are you so nice to him?" asked Draco. It was the first thing he'd said all evening. "It's not like he deserves it — I mean, he's treating you horribly."
Hermione sniffed, her chin jutting out. "If I was rude to him, I'd just be proving him right, wouldn't I, about Muggle-borns? He can't fault me for being rude."
Ron shook his head. "I dunno how you do it. I can barely stand how he treats me, calling me traitorous scum, and I'm pure-blood. I wouldn't take it if I were you."
"Well," said Hermione diplomatically, turning her attention to her dinner in a hope to end this conversation, "lucky for you, you're not me."
They got the hint and moved on, and when Kreacher brought out pudding and gave Hermione a broken spoon, she made sure to thank him sweetly for the replacement. He growled uncomfortably and popped away.
"You know, he may be a miserable bugger," declared Ron, leaning back in his seat with satisfaction, "but I'm glad we've got him. Could you imagine how awful this would be if we had to cook for ourselves, too?"
Hermione rolled her eyes; it turned into a yawn.
"Bedtime?" asked Harry. "I call the room on the third floor."
"Oi! That was our room. You can't keep it to yourself."
"Just did, mate."
"Fine, then I'm taking the one a few doors down — you know, with the purple curtains? I know for a fact it has the fewest mothballs."
They looked at Hermione, expectant.
"Erm." She felt her cheeks warm and hoped she wasn't blushing. Draco was examining his dessert spoon. "I — I slept in one of the second-floor rooms last night — so I'll stay there, I suppose."
Just then, Kreacher popped back into existence by the corner of the table. "Kreacher has moved master and master's friends' things," he said, his hands curled into tiny fists, "and prepared the bedrooms for sleeping."
"Thanks, Kreacher. That's all for tonight, I think."
Kreacher made a face and snapped his fingers; the table cleared itself. Hermione supposed he would climb into his nest in the cupboard when they'd gone. It was a miserable image.
Everyone stood — Draco, stiffly — and headed for the stairs.
"Good night, Hermione," said Harry warmly.
"Good night."
Ron patted her on the shoulder before passing her up the stairs. Neither of them said anything to Draco and, when she turned around, she realised he'd already gone into his room. The door was closed, just like all the others, except for one three rooms down from Draco's. Feeling self-conscious in her solitude, Hermione crept down the dark hallway and, sure enough, found her possessions unceremoniously dumped just inside the door. The room was dark and, while she was sure Kreacher had done some perfunctory dusting, it felt old and mangey.
She tried the mattress and found it uncomfortably springy. The quilt was an awful orange colour; Hermione wondered if the original occupant had been a Chudley Cannons fan.
It was so quiet, too. Grimmauld Place had always felt empty in that haunted sort of way. Even though she could hear the creaking of Harry and Ron puttering around in their rooms upstairs, the house's unshakeable, heavy silence made her skin prickle.
How had this become their new home? She couldn't see herself living here 'til the end of the war. She'd at least pictured them finishing their seventh year at Hogwarts before they ventured out. The realisation that that possibility was truly gone, that all her half-finished essays and projects were now meaningless, and all her peers and teachers carrying on without them, hit her hard in the chest. She felt breathless and tears were scalding her eyes; she brushed them away. She wasn't in the mood to cry tonight.
For lack of anything better to do, she set about rummaging through her bag. As promised, she found clothes inside, and a single set of pyjamas which she donned gratefully. But after getting ready for bed, despite how tired she was, she found sleeping was the last thing she wanted to do. Not when she could sense him, three doors down. Not now that she knew what it was like to sleep beside him.
This room was so hollow in comparison.
Without quite knowing what she was doing or why, she opened the door as gently as she could and stepped into the hallway. The sounds upstairs had stopped; she felt entirely alone in the big house.
Hermione kept her footsteps light, sticking to the long rug to mask her footfalls, until she stood before the door. It would be rude to just go in, she supposed, so she knocked as softly as she could.
"Come in."
The door opened before she could reach the handle and she found herself facing Draco, clad only in dark pyjama bottoms, his wand up.
"Oh, good," he said softly, lowering his wand. "It's you."
"Who did you think it would be?" She crept over the threshold and lightly closed the door.
Draco shrugged, then winced. "Can't be too careful, can you?"
"I suppose not…" Hermione licked her lips; her mouth had gone suddenly dry. "I — erm — I came — to check your bandages."
He tilted his head, evaluating her. "I suppose you should do that."
"Yes — er —" Hermione fidgeted. "Kreacher?"
Pop! "Yes?"
"Could you bring me the medical supplies, please? I need to tend to Draco's wounds."
He disappeared and came back — arms full of bottles and cotton — without complaint, eyes anxiously flickering to Draco's naked torso. When he'd deposited the things on the bed, he vanished again with a crack that echoed through the silent room.
"Er — do you want to sit down?"
"Yes, actually." Draco went to the edge of the mattress and sat. "I think if I had to do this standing up, I'd fall over. I really don't know how Muggles cope. I've never had an injury last this long."
Hermione climbed onto the bed with a coy smile, sat on her knees behind him, and began to peel off the bandages. "Not even when Buckbeak mauled you?"
Draco went very still. "Perhaps that's the one exception," he said eventually, "but if I'd been stuck with Muggle methods to heal that, I probably would have died."
"Oh, I'm sure." Hermione smiled behind him as she examined the wound traversing his back. The cut had mostly stopped bleeding; the bandages were only soaked through in a few spots. She was optimistic that by tomorrow, the whole thing would have scabbed.
For lack of anywhere else to put them, she tossed the used bandages onto the floor and trusted Kreacher would take care of them.
"Does this ever hurt less?" Draco asked through clenched teeth as she dabbed at the open, bleeding bits with the alcohol-soaked swab.
"No. You know, I'm actually not sure it needs to be cleaned this much. I don't know much about first aid, but I don't want to risk infection…"
"Merlin, you're telling me this might not be necessary?"
Hermione shrugged, though he couldn't see it.
"You're lucky I like you so much," he grumbled.
This felt so much more intimate than last night, when she'd cleaned him up in the bathroom, still half convinced he was about to die; or this morning in the kitchen, in front of Harry and Ron. The room was dark and quiet, save for Draco's winces and their soft voices. Hermione felt the intimacy of it tease her skin, satisfying that need she'd felt standing alone in her own room. She wanted more, couldn't bear the thought of letting it go.
She took her time taping fresh gauze to his back, making sure it was layered as neatly as possible, that the tape was even and flat against his skin. She couldn't stop touching him; he was so smooth and warm. When she'd finished, she ran her hands up and down his back once, ostensibly to check her work. He sighed in pleasure.
"Finished," she whispered.
To her regret, he stood up, and she watched him flex his back and shrug his shoulders to check the bandages were comfortable. She busied herself by sliding off the bed and arranging the bottles and packages she'd used on the dressing table. Behind her, she heard bedclothes rustling and imagined him pulling back the duvet.
"Are you going back to your room now?" he asked in the darkness.
Hermione opened her mouth to answer but found nothing to say; when she turned around, she found him standing by the bed, looking at her, expectant. "I — I suppose I should. Shouldn't I?"
"Perhaps." He shrugged awkwardly, his movement restricted by all the tape. "Or you could stay here. With me."
She was reminded of that first time he'd kissed her, the confidence that he knew what she wanted. But this time, he was right, and he was giving her the option to run if she wanted.
But she really, really didn't.
That tight, anxious knot in her chest uncoiled as she let go of her miserable premonitions of sleeping alone in a cold, dusty room. Fearful.
"Alright. I'll stay."
She approached him, then, and when she was close enough, he reached for her wrists to tug her that much closer, until she was pressed against his bare chest. "Good," was all he said, and then he bent down and kissed her.
It wasn't the kiss she might have expected — the desperate, ravenous kind. It was slow and tender, a mutual reassurance that they were both still alive after all the terror, all the running and bleeding together. His arms slid up hers, holding her in place, and then slid around her back. He was so warm, the heat of his skin permeating her pyjamas so deliciously she considered unbuttoning her shirt just to feel more of him. Instead, her fingers searched his sides, where she was safe from aggravating his wounds but could still savour the smooth leanness of his torso.
Eventually, he pulled away and just held her close, her cheek to his collarbone. One of his hands tangled in her hair, tampering with the plait she'd done. She let him happily; she got the feeling he was more afraid than he let on. Now, the heavy silence of Grimmauld Place felt comfortable, infused with the safety and sweetness of being near him.
He sighed, disturbing the hairs at her temple, and she felt his body shift away. "Come to bed," he whispered.
Like she had before, she climbed onto the mattress, but this time she slid herself beneath the cold duvet. She felt inexplicably small as she curled up there, withholding giggles as Draco struggled to situate himself, lying on his front, leaving his bare back and the bandages there exposed to the night.
His arm sought her out and draped across her waist. It was heavy and warm, and she couldn't breathe for all the best reasons.
"Good night, Draco," she whispered into the darkness.
His fingers slid beneath the hem of her shirt and stroked her hip. "Good night, Granger."
