It took a long time for Hermione to realise her eyes were open. She was awake again, and her environment seemed unchanged. Staring up above her, she recognised the ceiling of her bedroom at Grimmauld Place. The one she'd never slept in.
She blinked several times and inhaled deeply; her body ached, and the expansion of her ribcage only brought on twinges of pain across her torso.
But though she was sore and weak, she felt distinctly better than she had seizing on the floor.
She wasn't willing to risk moving quite yet, so she settled into lower breaths and attempted to reacquaint herself with reality. She was lying in bed, on her back, with her shirt torn open down the front. Someone had severed the middle of her bra with a Slicing Hex, too, though they'd kept as much of her covered as possible. Only the purple-green line of her scar was exposed, but now it was raised and red at the sides, with blood caked along its route to her hip.
Beside her was a body. The slow even breaths suggested he was asleep. Hermione shifted to try and see which one of her sentries was on duty, but the slight movement made him startle awake. Draco sat up, his puffy, tired eyes coming into view as he examined her in shock.
"You're awake!"
She opened her mouth to say something but found her mouth too dry to talk. Draco, half asleep though he was, drew his wand frantically. "Accio glass! Aguamenti! Here — let me help you sit up —"
It was a torturous process — her body was impossibly stiff and sore that even sitting up enough to drink took a gargantuan effort. Draco propped her up with one arm and held the glass in the other until she'd had her fill and she collapsed back against the pillows.
"Are you okay?" he asked anxiously. "I was so worried, I thought —"
"I'm fine," she croaked, voice hoarse from screaming and sleep. Though it wasn't strictly true, the difference between how she'd felt then and now — how long had it been?
Draco pre-empted her question. "You've been asleep for more than a day," he told her. "It's nearly dinnertime. Potter's speaking with the headmistress at the moment, to see if they can get you any more murtlap. I — I should probably let them know you're awake."
He sounded like he wanted to do anything but. Hermione smiled weakly at him, hoping to dispel the worry etched in his features. "I'm sure they can wait a few minutes."
His eyes searched hers wildly, perhaps looking for a sign she was about to go into another fit of seizures or was concealing unbearable pain. But then his eyes closed and he laid down beside her with a trembling sigh. "I thought you were going to die," he confessed brokenly. "I thought it was my fault. I thought it had killed you —"
"Hey, hey…" Hermione slowly reached to her side to pat his hand. He wrapped his fingers through hers and squeezed lightly. "I'm alright," she promised.
Draco shook his head. "I've never seen anyone react to Cruciatus like that before. Not that I've seen many, but — but —"
"I'm alright," she repeated, stroking his hand.
Before either of them could say anything more, raised voices could be heard from upstairs.
"Probably Potter yelling at McGonagall," surmised Draco. The noise was too muffled to make out words, but Hermione recognised the timbres of Harry and Phineas Nigellus. She cringed.
Draco sighed and shifted. "I'll go and get them, I suppose." But before he left the bed, he leaned over and placed a long kiss to her forehead.
Hermione watched him go with longing and suddenly doubted she was quite able to endure the concern of Harry and Ron. Sometimes their Gryffindor-ness could be a bit… much.
She listened to the passage of his footsteps down the hallway as he called, "Weasley? Potter? She's awake!" followed by a great thundering as everyone in the house rushed to her sickbed.
"Hermione?" called Ron excitedly.
They all crashed into her room at once, cheering when they saw her open eyes.
"You're alright!"
Draco lingered by the door as Harry and Ron crowded around her.
"How do you feel?"
"How long have you been awake?"
"Do you need anything?"
She did her best to dispel their concerns, and they quieted when they saw how weak she still was.
"Blimey, Hermione," said Ron, "we were so worried."
Harry nodded. "I just spoke with Minerva. She's going to see what she can do to get you some potions." Grinning, he added, "She's not pleased by what we did."
"The — the Prophet?" asked Hermione.
"Yeah, you should've seen it. 'Pandemonium at the Ministry!' Apparently we're anti-democracy now, as well as being generally bad for society as a whole." Harry shrugged. "The Ministry is a mess. We totally destroyed the Atrium, and their security forces are stretched thin with all the new screenings they have to do. It's a good thing we got the Cup; we'd never be able to get back in there, now."
"If only I'd been able to get Nagini, too," mourned Ron. Hermione shivered at the memory of scales against stone, the hissing and flaring of her hood…
"The Order is a bit of a mess," admitted Harry, but before he could go on, Kreacher appeared at her bedside with a tray laden with simple, easily digestible foods. He scooted the tray onto her lap and disappeared.
Hermione surveyed it with trepidation; eating was one of the last things she felt like doing at the moment, but she acknowledged her body was depleted. Perhaps it would help her energy. She picked up a bread roll and tore off a tiny piece.
"Anyway," Harry continued, perching himself on the end of her bed, "the Order's still trying to work out what to do, but they're thinking about bringing us all back to Hogwarts." Ron and Draco perked up at this; apparently it was news to them, too. "Given what we did, and how much we — er — 'exposed ourselves,' Minerva reckons it's not safe for us to be on our own anymore. Especially if you're not well, Hermione."
"But how are we meant to get back?" wondered Ron. "Without being detected, I mean."
"That's what they're trying to work out," explained Harry. "Maybe they can set up a secure Floo connection, or a Portkey, or something. I dunno. They're working on it. But once they figure it out, and Hermione's strong enough to go, we're leaving."
Hermione winced. She didn't want to tell them how frail she felt, or her fear that it would be a long time before she was able to endure something like that, especially without medicinal magic.
Harry mistook her flinch for one of pain and shifted away from her. For a long moment, they watched her nibble the bread roll before Harry suddenly asked, "How much do you remember?"
Hermione chewed thoughtfully. "Most of it, I think." She searched her mind, trying to put together the fragmented pieces of memory floating around. It was all crystal clear until Voldemort's "Crucio" rang through her head…
"H-how did you get us out?"
"Peruvian Instant Darkness Powder." Harry grinned. "After I grabbed the Cup, I was standing right with you the whole time, and I told Malfoy to grab you and run right before I dropped the powder." A distraught expression took over his features. "I'm so sorry, Hermione, I should've done it sooner —"
She held up a hand. It made her chest smart, but she ignored it. "It's alright. I'm… I'll be alright, Harry." She offered him a smile and tried to remind herself it was true: she would be alright.
They stayed with her as she did her best to eat all the food Kreacher had brought until Ron began eyeing the door, impatient for their own dinner. Then, Hermione insisted they leave to feed themselves and let her get some rest. They did so, with strict orders for her to call Kreacher if she needed anything, and Hermione realised it must have been the first time they'd left her alone since coming back from the Ministry. The thought was an odd one and, as the door shut behind them, she took the opportunity to sigh heavily.
Her body hurt. A lot. She was reminded of waking up in the Hospital Wing at Hogwarts at the end of fifth year, of how she'd felt so thoroughly sore and exhausted. The feeling was similar to how she felt now, except this was made a thousand times worse by the lack of proper treatment and the niggling feeling that the Dark Magic — the Cruciatus — was still lingering inside her, somehow.
Hermione winced and tried to sit up harder. It brought on a wave of sharp pain up and down her torso. She sucked air through her teeth and held her breath, determined. She refused to ask for help to use the loo.
Sitting all the way up was an arduous affair. Her scar stung and burned and ached, and Hermione imagined it berating her for being so foolish. Too bad, she told it. She had no interest in letting this thing dictate her life any more than it already had.
When she was seated properly, she paused to take several long, deep breaths before gingerly lifting an arm to push back the duvet. Part of her wondered if she was about to send herself back to St Mungo's — whatever that looked like these days — but she shook the thought away.
"Right," she said to the empty room. "Here we go." And she brought her legs around to the edge of the mattress and gently slid her weight forward until she was on her feet.
From there, the slow journey to the adjacent bathroom was relatively easy, if extremely painful. Nevertheless, it was worth it to retain her privacy, and she'd almost made it back to her bed when the door opened.
"What are you doing?" demanded Draco as he rushed to her side. He took her elbow to support her and she gratefully gripped his arm, panting, even as she rebuked his efforts.
"I'm fine," she insisted. "Just needed the loo."
"I would have helped you. You should have called —"
"I said I'm fine!"
"But you're in pain — here, come this way —"
Hermione let him guide her back to the bed and settle her back amongst the cushions. Her eyes closed and for a few long seconds, all she could do was breathe. Perhaps that had been a mistake, after all.
"Do you need anything?" asked Draco anxiously.
"Do we have any more murtlap?"
"No. We used it all when we got back."
Hermione sighed. "You said it's been a day? It's probably wearing off then…"
Draco made a noise of frustration. "Well, maybe you shouldn't have helped it by going for a stroll!"
"What are you going to do, Draco, Imperius me to stay in bed?"
It was like she'd slapped him; he stared at her, struck dumb by horror. Hermione heard her own words hanging between them. She hadn't even realised she'd been so upset by it until that very moment. And where had the anger come from? Her scar tingled in delight.
"It would have been to save you," he said quietly. "If the alternative was leaving you there with the Dark Lord or forcing your body to run when you couldn't — you can't be angry with me for that."
Hermione didn't know what to say. The part of her that was still upset bristled irritably, but the rational part of her could not argue his point. Had their positions been reversed, she might have done the same thing.
His eyes searched her shrewdly and she wondered what he was looking for. "You didn't obliviate me," he said finally, an indifferent statement of fact.
"It would have meant leaving you there with the Dark Lord," she echoed. "You can't be angry with me for that, either."
He smiled at her like they were still in the lab and she'd correctly summarised another Principle of Transfiguration. "Then I suppose we can't be angry at all."
"I suppose not."
He shook his head. "I — I'm glad you didn't obliviate me. It's selfish, and you did promise me that you would do it, but…" He shook his head again. "I can't imagine…"
"I couldn't have left you there," she whispered. "I just — couldn't. It would have broken me."
He crawled up the bed to sit beside her. "I'm right here," he promised. "And I'm alright — my Mark doesn't even hurt anymore."
"It what?"
Draco's eyes widened at her sharp reaction and she spotted his left wrist twitch.
"Show me," she demanded.
"It's fine —"
"If it's fine, then show me!" She momentarily forgot her handicap and lunged for his left arm. Pain tore across her chest, and she whimpered, but didn't let go of his wrist. Without bothering to undo the cuffs, she shoved the material up his arm. He made a noise of pain and she realised why: His Dark Mark was inflamed and swollen and writhing viciously on his skin.
"Oh my God," she breathed. "You need murtlap, too, this is — this is awful, this is —"
"I'm fine," he insisted again, gently extracting himself from her grip. It wasn't that difficult; she barely had enough strength to keep herself upright. "You, however, are not. Now lie down or we'll be forced to resort to Sticking Charms."
With a painful huff of indignation, Hermione obeyed and slowly shifted back to a horizontal position. The pain was getting worse, and she was suddenly exhausted. Draco shifted to sit beside her and with slow, careful adjustments, she laid her head against his chest. His arm came around her and toyed with her matted hair. With a pained, long breath, she settled against his warm body and let her eyes slide shut. She'd barely been awake an hour and already her body was persuading her to go back to sleep.
"Rest, Granger. I'll be here."
Heavy fatigue pulled at her, tugging her downwards. She frowned against his shirt — there was something she'd wanted to ask him…
Her words slurred into each other as she mumbled to herself, "You said you loved me."
His fingers halted in her hair then started again. "I did," he said softly. "And I still do. Now go to sleep, Granger."
She did.