Draco Malfoy was dead. He died seven years ago from injuries sustained during the Battle of Hogwarts.
At least, that is what the headlines said and, subsequently, what everyone believed.
The story was that Malfoy had gone back to the Room of Requirement to save Crabbe and perished in the fiendfyre — identified by the crisp remains of his Dark Mark on the arm pulled from the wreckage.
The story was a load of shit; the Draco Malfoy that held a knife to her throat was anything but dead.
Her mind spun trying to understand how everything happening could be real. Hermione recalled watching the Malfoys grieving their son as the dust of battle settled. Even the tapestry at Grimmauld Place had signified Malfoy's demise. Yet, here he was, alive and well, the wolfish shapeshifter of the Forbidden Forest.
The fact made Hermione feel as though she had been living a lie.
There had been parties when the final Death Eater was Kissed, a damn holiday erected to mark the occasion. Hermione could remember reciting the fact in her gratitude list almost daily for the last several years. It had all been a farce, some misconstrued lie that made Hermione question the validity of her reality.
But more than anything, it made Hermione so very angry.
First, she was angry with herself and how she had been such a fool. The whole Hero of the Wood story had not sat right with her, and neither did the "prophecy" Pyronesia had spewed during their first meeting. Hermione had believed them anyway, ignoring her skepticism that continued to flare. Perhaps if she had listened to her instinct more, she wouldn't have wound up here in the first place.
On the other hand, Malfoy had tricked her. He led her in the chase, and he jumped the chasm she couldn't clear, and he had done it all according to his plan. The goal was to make her vulnerable so he could gain the upper hand or save his cowardly arse from Azkaban. He must have seen her in the forest and acted before she caught on to his ruse. Hermione couldn't blame him, for it seemed she had been right on his tail since the moment she got here.
Not that Hermione knew whom the tail belonged to. If she had known that Malfoy was the wolf, her approach would have been more deadly and less inquisitive. Hell, she might have even killed him on sight. It was cunning of Malfoy to get the upper hand quickly, but Hermione felt determined that he wouldn't retain his advantage for long.
What Malfoy failed to realize was hell hath no fury like Hermione scorned. No person, no blood oath, could stop her from getting what she wanted. And what she wanted now, more than anything, was revenge on Draco Malfoy.
In her semi-seated, petrified state, Hermione studied Malfoy's home while the light of day remained. Instead of imagining a centuries-old being living in such squalor, she was picturing Draco Malfoy, the wealthiest bastard she had ever met, in what must have been his nightmare personified. She did note that some things — his chair and the bedding, for one — were in better condition than they had been previously. Malfoy must have used her wand to fix up the place. The smell was a bit better, the surfaces a bit cleaner, though that could have been her senses acclimating to the underground den.
With nothing else to do until Malfoy returned, Hermione ran through the last seven years of her life, imagining what Malfoy had been doing all that time. Had he been on the run and settled in the Forbidden Forest recently or had this been his home the entire time? Her stomach coiled tightly at the thought of him lurking in the shadows while they buried the dead or watching as the eighth-year students rebuilt the school he had brought under siege.
The last seven years of his life felt stolen and undeserved. The other criminals had paid for their crimes, while Malfoy had yet to face justice for all that he did. He was the black shadow of death that hung over Hogwarts Castle, a shining knight for pureblood supremacy, a literal fucking Death Eater. Hermione's very existence was against everything Malfoy stood for.
So why, why, why had he saved her life?
It went against all sense or logic. She should be dead. It shocked her to no end that he had saved her life. The act seemed wholly selfless. Malfoy, however, was anything but a selfless person, and Hermione worried about his ulterior motives. It made no sense for him to keep her alive unless there was something in it for him.
Though stiff, the weight disparity from her boneless leg began to tip her sideways. She fell then, head falling to the dirt floor, eyes stuck open, and staring at the tree entrance to the den. Tears poured from her eyes as she silently broke down, eventually forming a puddle of mud beneath her.
She cried due to fear, she cried due to loss, and she cried from the trauma her body had endured. Hermione spent the rest of the day, and into the night, waiting for Malfoy to return, wondering what he had to leave so expeditiously, and selfishly hoping that he would be able to heal her leg when he came back.
When becoming the wolf, Draco often didn't feel quite like himself. His inner beast was a rather shadowy figure that allowed him to delve into the darkest parts of his psyche; it was a vast and wild place. Physically the man and the beast felt the same, despite their statuesque differences. This time, however, as Draco entered the Forest, he felt rather out-of-body in the sense that he couldn't feel anything.
He stumbled, panting and whining, tears leaking from his eyes. For just a moment the choking vice of impending doom that was Hermione Granger felt completely under his control. He had done it. He had subdued the threat…
But now what?
Draco was shaking so hard with joyous disbelief that rendered him practically immobile. The breath he had been holding throughout their entire altercation was finally released, leaving him lightheaded from his efforts. He, as his wolf, slumped against the base of the oak tree, allowing his hammering heart to settle and basking in the aftermath of what was the best possible outcome Draco could have ever hoped for in a face-to-face confrontation with Hermione Granger.
The trees rustled in praise of him and the sun shone brighter, warming his fur. Elation and transient adrenaline coursed through his veins. He had done it. Holy shit, he had outplayed and outwitted the brightest witch of their age. It was an unbelievable thing to experience after mentally preparing for all the worse, and more likely, outcomes there were: the Wizengamot, a Dementor's Kiss, or Granger burning him at the stake.
Well, at least he had some assurance that one of the aforementioned scenarios could no longer occur.
He could kiss Granger for the Gryffindor-esque stupidity that had her jumping off cliffs for a chance to get to him. It was only by some stroke of luck that she had lost hold of her wand during her full frontal assault -- the defining moment, the only opportunity afforded to him that put him in a favorable position. The rest he attributed to sudden inspiration from tales of his ancestors and the insipid kind of contracts purebloods loved to relegate to.
The wolf closed his eyes, snout rising to the angle of the sun. He thanked the Gods, the Universe, whatever powers that be, for causing the series of statistically unlikely events that got him here. While Draco often scoffed at the folklore shoved down his throat by his family, he was willing to believe in certain things that couldn't be explained.
Like how he had lived and continued to live after all these things that should have killed him. Still a fugitive, hiding in plain sight, but he'd dodged the ax of fate this time. Every minute was a gift, for surely the sand of the hourglass was bound to run out. Draco just hoped it wouldn't be anytime soon.
Draco felt safe, if only just for a fleeting moment.
Taking care of the Granger problem might have bought him more time, but Draco still didn't feel completely secure. Granger wasn't his only enemy in the forest. Despite having her under his thumb, he still had to watch his back; if he had learned anything from his school years when one Gryffindor was near, there was another one lurking not far behind.
But first, he needed some air.
Working to pull Granger from the brink of death was exhausting; it required a hefty amount of magic and, even for an experienced healer, it would have been a difficult feat – damn near impossible for a wizard with magical atrophy from years of disuse. It took days of slaving over her body, yet somehow Draco had managed to keep Granger alive.
The swot was lucky that he had stolen her medical supplies for she required three doses of blood replenishing potion, pain relieving elixir every five hours, and dreamless sleep to keep her steady while he worked on her broken bones. Draco had never dreamed of seeing modern potions again, let alone having any on hand in case of emergencies. If he hadn't stolen them from her, Hermione Granger likely would have bled out on the forest floor.
Yes, if it hadn't been for him, the great Hermione Granger would be dead.
Would have been wiser, the cold voice of his father chimed in with a reminder- you'd be better off if the Mudblood had died.
Draco shook the thoughts away, stealing his resolve; he had done the right thing, the smart thing, the clever thing that no one else would have thought of. He had always been good at creative thinking. No one else could think outside the box like him. Well, no one except Granger, who had learned one of the Forbidden Forest's darkest secrets: Draco Malfoy was alive.
Hadn't taken her long to figure it out, either, he thought bitterly.
The surge of joy had crested, and his body shook in the inevitable crash. His body was depleted from all the healing he had done and the blood oath he had just enacted, but having a wand on him was an unexpected source of strength, which Draco used to propel himself down the forest path.
He ran and ran and ran, legs burning with the effort until his mind felt calmer, clearer. With fresh air pumping through his lungs, Draco felt he could think better, but even away from the den, his thoughts were consumed by Hermione Granger.
What was going through her head right now? He imagined she was somewhere between shock, anger, and dejection. It wasn't every day that you found yourself tied up underground, taking a blood oath with your childhood nemesis.
The heroic act of healing the witch warmed him, a foreign sense of pride settling in his chest, but Draco knew that Granger was far from healthy and would require more magical intervention if she ever wanted to walk again. It would take days, if not over a week, to accomplish.
He had left her rather suddenly and couldn't remember when her last dose of pain elixir had been. Draco was hit suddenly with the worry that he would find her in an even worse state when he returned. Draco's magical strength had been severely depleted by the blood oath — he wasn't sure how much more magic he'd be able to manage today if any at all. And if something bad happened to her that he couldn't fix? Draco shuddered just thinking of the consequences.
The high sun had peaked above him and started its steady march toward the horizon. If he waited to go back until dark, he'd be able to bring her a more rounded meal, the proper sustenance she needed to heal. The wolf slowed his pace as he skirted the northern periphery of the forest, crouching down so he could prowl through the tall grass.
Each step away from home was like a tightening leash around his neck, the constricting of his throat a reminder that he couldn't stay gone long. Granger would need more potions and an examination of her wits to determine if it was safe for him to administer Skelegro. He hoped that it was a solid plan and not one that did more harm than good.
His concerns for her well-being felt strange, causing him to question why he cared at all. There was the obvious fact that the Dark Wood would not accept any more death in the forest — and Draco would do just about anything to survive — but there were no forces of nature dictating proper treatment beyond that.
However, Draco knew the cruelty that was living in the Forbidden Forest firsthand. He had spent years there- starved, cold, and lonely. The hardships had hardened his wolfish exterior, but did nothing but make the fragile man inside him softer…
Weak.
Coming face to face with Hermione Granger left Draco feeling very weak. Her proximity had him thinking and feeling things he hadn't in years. It was so foreign that Draco's emotions waffled between glee and terror at the prospect of what would happen between them when he returned.
Seven years he spent hiding, only to be found within three weeks by a lioness in the woods. Had he been that obvious or was Granger simply more astute than most? No enemy had ever stumbled upon him in the Forest during all his years living there, but that's not to say he had never been found. For he had, but none of his encounters had ever been quite as hostile as his dance with Hermione Granger. No, the last human that found him had known exactly where he was hiding, what he was —
It had been years since he'd been around another person. Draco longed for the comfort he had once found in another's arms, what had been stolen from him when one person's foolish choices had left him more alone than ever. Not that he expected any amount of companionship to be shared between Granger and him, but the feeling of speaking to another human again was invigorating to part of his soul that had been unexercised over the years; the place where he stored his humanity.
Draco felt giddy with the prospect of having a house guest — involuntary as she was. He knew she couldn't stay forever, lest the Ministry — or worse, Potter and Weasley — come looking for her. His hair stood on edge at the thought. No, Draco would need to get rid of Granger as quickly as possible and with no lasting deficit that would lead her nosy friends to ask questions about what exactly happened during her time in the woods.
The grass before him rustled and the predator within him took over, dashing after a mundane animal that hopped its way over the magical barrier. The wolf snapped its neck with a clench of his strong jaws, only tossing the carcass aside to go after another hare that followed in its wake.
Hunting had become somewhat of an outlet for him. It allowed him to work out his aggressions, permissible by the laws of the wood as long as no magical blood spilled. Only hunting put Draco in charge of where the scales between life and death sat — only then did he have any amount of control in his life.
Draco stuffed the hares into his sack, noting with disappointment that the thrill he usually got from a fresh kill was severely lacking. He frowned; must have just been tired or simply unable to enjoy anything with Granger on his mind. What would she think of him out here, killing animals using nothing more than his teeth and claws?
Shame crawled over his skin. Draco gathered the fabric with his teeth and threw the bloodied sack over his shoulder before stalking off toward the Centaur camp. He crept through the shadows as the last stretch of light disappeared, converting the forest into a maze of trees in the darkness. Under the cover of the undergrowth, his shame had transformed into something angrier, fueled by an intense depression.
That was the thing about tapping back into his humanity: his emotions were aplenty and they hit him like rapid fire. He felt happy, confused, frustrated, and nervous. So much was pent up inside him, exacerbated by breaking years of solitude.
A randy thought hit him that would make him feel awkward and uncomfortable for the rest of the evening: back home there was a witch in his bed. A woman, even if Granger, was a lost fantasy Draco had no hope of ever living. Even now the situation was far from what he imagined on his loneliest nights, but the fact gave him a feeling that left him tingling.
He cursed, knowing undoubtedly that the life he had lived made him seriously fucked up in the head. Call him Draco Malfoy, the Unhinged.
The Centaurs never guarded their vegetable patch, or if they did, it wasn't guarded very well. Draco never took much, too fearful of how the Centaurs would react to him, smart enough to know that he couldn't take on the whole herd in a fight. Fur was no match for arrows.
Draco meandered through the forest, taking the long way home until he could no longer ignore the magnetic pull he felt toward her. While he felt drained and a bit nervous, the prospect of having dinner with someone reinvigorated his bones. It would likely be a volatile affair, but the wolf marched toward it regardless, wondering what wrath the witch would manage to unleash upon him despite their magical pact.
"Oh shit, Granger," he muttered, moving her petrified body so she laid on her back.
Somehow Hermione must have fallen asleep or lost consciousness whilst petrified, which was a mercy. The day had passed into night and Hermione noticed a few candles had been lit, providing dim lighting to the room. Malfoy was back, still shirtless, but looking more relaxed than he had been hours before.
He stood, gave her wand a swirl, and lifted the curse on her.
Hermione's body went flaccid, fatigued from the hours of rigidity. She cried out in pain. Tears soothed the burning in her eyes caused by being stuck open for hours. She heard a squelching sound before drops of water fell on her eyelids, wrung from a rag he suspended above her.
Malfoy even had the nerve to ask, "Are you alright?"
With all the anger she could muster, Hermione writhed against the leather binds that bit into her skin, leaving rub marks in their wake. Electricity crackled in the air as she took a greedy breath, her voice venomous when she shouted, "Get the hell away from me, Malfoy! You bastard! Blood oath or not, I will end you! You vile, sneaky-"
Her voice was taken from her with a wand's flick. Bleary-eyed, Hermione willed them open to see Malfoy standing over her, his face pinched with annoyance. His frown reeked of condescension and he reminded her of Snape with the way he droned, "That'll be enough of that."
He shook his head and turned back to the entrance, hauling a fabric sack — which looked suspiciously like one of her fitted sheets — up on the wooden table.
"Gosh, Granger," Malfoy sighed as he sat in the newly upholstered chair, "I remember you being annoying in school, but never do I recall you being quite so rude. Self-righteous? Certainly. Overbearing? Of course. But you would think you would have more gratitude toward the person who pulled you back from the brink of death."
Malfoy shook his head and began emptying the linen bag of its contents. Potatoes, carrots, and two plump rabbits fell onto the table with a chorus of thuds. He fished something out of the waistband of his pants and studied it in his lap, shoulder blocking Hermione's sight. She found herself wondering if it was something important he had gone off to fetch on his "errand", but it was only the dagger, which he stuck into the tabletop with one quick motion.
Hermione jumped, pain shooting through her spine at the movement. Every part of her felt wrong. Being wandless alone would have found her feeling incomplete, but adding a missing limb on top of that was enough to make anyone feel not like themselves. The toll on her physical body was obvious, but it was her emotions she found difficult to describe. The rage that coursed through her veins had obscured most rational thought, leaving her vulnerable to the fear she felt in Malfoy's presence. The combination left her feeling hostile and desperate.
She pushed against the leathers that bound her again — if only they would come loose, she could try for her wand and flee… but how far would she get being so weak and legless?
Hermione stilled her efforts when her wand was rounded on her again.
"Stop hurting yourself," Malfoy commanded. "The more harm you do to yourself, the more work you make for me."
Hermione scowled at him: how dare she be such an inconvenience for the Death Eater that paraded around the Forbidden Forest, fooling the creatures into thinking he was their mythical savior. She turned her head and spat on the ground to express her disgust.
"Really?" He deadpanned, vanishing her saliva with a silent wand wave. The wand came upon her once more, "be a good house guest, Granger. Just because I can't harm you," his eyes flitted down to her lack of leg before meeting her gaze again and displaying a wicked grin, "doesn't mean I have to treat you well."
Her mouth fell open in temporary shock before she shut it forcefully, clenching her teeth so hard she thought they might break. He wouldn't dare.
"Tergeo."
The dried blood on her neck, chest, and arm had disappeared. Malfoy turned his attention back to the table, where he set her wand down with an exhausted sigh. He stretched out his neck and arms before picking up the silver blade.
Hermione's brows pinched together as she watched him run a fingertip over the sharp edge of the knife, waiting to see what he would do with it. He grabbed a potato and set to peeling it, muttering all the while.
"Bloody witch, always sticking your nose where it isn't wanted," He slammed the peeled potato on the table, which made Hermione jump. She winced at the bite of the leather ropes against the welts that had formed on her skin.
He grabbed the other potato and set to peeling it with excessive force, the discarded skins slapping against the floor punctuating his words, "Breaking into my home... Conspiring with the centaurs."
When done with the potato, he slammed it down next to the other, but Hermione didn't jump this time. She was too busy trying to piece together Malfoy's thought process, trying to understand why he thought she was out to get him — until a few hours ago she had believed him to be dead.
A few hours ago, Hermione thought that she knew a lot of things, but had been wrong about every single one.
Malfoy began to chop the potatoes into uneven chunks. The carrots he processed next and Hermione found herself suspicious of how routine this all seemed for him. Most of the things he was doing could have been done more quickly with magic, yet he did them manually anyway. The observation was strange enough for any wizard but particularly peculiar for a pureblooded elitist.
Her curiosity followed him when he stood and shuffled to the side of the room, stopping where his belongings were stuffed into piles. Their organization must have made sense to Malfoy, for he grabbed several items in rapid succession: a plastic Tupperware container, a dented cauldron, and a small tin. Hermione watched as he proceeded to use rudimentary magic to fill the cauldron with water and cast a flame to make it boil, splashing himself with hot water as he added ingredients with shaky hands.
A look cast over his shoulder found her caught staring and Hermione averted her gaze. Her body sagged against her entrapments for any small movement was sure to rub and burn.
Malfoy returned to the table and Hermione watched as he skinned the rabbits with the precision of an experienced hunter. Hours ago, she had been inches from death and now here she was, silenced, bound, and unable to do anything but watch as Malfoy butchered wild game, their blood soaking his pants and spraying his bare torso. The sight had her contemplating what, or who, else he had killed and by what means. Her stomach plummeted at the thought and she turned her head to spare her the sight.
She let her eyes close for just a moment, so tired from being stuck open for hours before. She wasn't going to sleep, Hermione was just going to let her eyes rest... thought every person that was about to fall asleep at the wrong time, ever.
She roused when the energy in the room shifted, prompting her to open her burning eyes. They found Malfoy kneeling beside her, bloody dagger in hand. He had the flat side of the metal wedged under the leather restraint that bound her upper arms to her chest, his head bent over the knife, concentrating on his movements.
Hermione's breath caught, causing Malfoy to jump as he turned the blade. The sharp of the knife dug into her skin and she winced, only finding relief when the restraint popped loose, freeing the rest of her right arm and loosening the hold on the left. Malfoy recoiled like a spooked animal. She, too, jerked away from him in a motion that she would deny was cowering.
"Fuck, Granger!" He yelled, his chest heaving as he took deep breaths, "scare the bloody life from me, why don't you?"
Her heart hammered in her ears. When had he gotten so close? Hermione moved her arm, relishing the feeling of being able to stretch. She brought the extremity in front of her face to inspect for the cut Malfoy had just made but was curious to see that no mark remained if one had ever been there at all.
She rolled and pushed herself awkwardly into a sitting position, wincing as her open sores rubbed against the restraints with the movement. When she had mostly settled, a small metal tin came sailing toward her, landing in her lap with a small thud. Her instinctual reaction was to throw it off herself but found herself too intrigued by what Malfoy was giving her.
She looked at him with inquisition.
"Salve," he stated plainly, gesturing toward her general person, "patch up whatever damage you've inflicted upon yourself," he instructed before turning his back to her and tending to the steaming cauldron that emitted a warm, mouth-watering scent.
Her stomach clenched, suddenly starved, and she wondered how long it had been since she had eaten. Or how long she had been down in his den… or if anyone was looking for her.
The salve was a minty paste that cooled her burns on contact. It must have been imbued with dittany or another healing essence, for it worked also as a muscle relaxant. Hermione quickly applied it to the parts of her body she could reach with her right arm. Her skin tingled at the contact and she was finally afforded a moment of reprieve from the pain.
Her eyelids became heavy again and all she wanted to do was rest.
"Ah, ah, ah," Malfoy chided her, appearing before her again suddenly. He awkwardly shouldered her body up before placing the Tupperware container, filled with what looked like a crude rabbit stew, beside her. "You need to eat before you go dozing off anywhere. There's more healing for me to do on you, but none of it will work on an empty stomach."
Hermione curled her free hand tightly into a fist and Malfoy backed away, giving her a look of contempt. He nodded to her bowl.
"Eat," he insisted.
Hermione shook her head, giving him a defiant look, no.
Malfoy sighed, running a hand over his face and up through his hair. "It might not be Le Cordon Bleu, but you need to eat, Granger. Especially if you have any hopes of getting that leg back."
Her mouth settled into a hard line; he made a good point. And even though he was unable to harm Hermione, that didn't mean she trusted her food hadn't been tampered with. Draught of the Living Dead would leave her incapacitated whilst keeping her safe — and she didn't trust a skeevy Snake like Malfoy to not exercise any loopholes of their pact.
On the other hand, she was ravenous, and the stew smelled palatable… good, even. Her stomach rumbled at the thought.
Malfoy had brought the cauldron over to the bed and set it on the ground. He sat at the foot of the bed pad and crossed his arms over his chest.
"It's not poisoned," he stated as if reading her thoughts.
He was met with a hard stare. Stubbornly, Hermione didn't believe him. There was no trusting a Death Eater, especially a Malfoy, and Hermione wouldn't find herself in an even more vulnerable position than she already was.
The two were in a standoff again, each staring the other down, waiting for someone to make a move. Finally, Hermione pointed her free hand at her food before turning her finger to Malfoy.
He raised his eyebrow, sneering, "What?"
Hermione repeated the motion, trying to emphasize her meaning through aggressive head nods and — what she considered — meaningful looks. Malfoy was no idiot as Hermione could recall, but the boy she remembered was a far cry from the man that sat before her now. It was as if the posh bastard was still there somewhere, buried under layers put on during his years spent on the run. And this different, wild version of Malfoy was terrible at non-verbal communication.
After a moment of watching her repeat her motions with no progress made to his understanding of them, Malfoy sighed, reached into his waistband, and withdrew her wand. Hermione stilled, both nervous and joyful at the sight.
"Don't scream this time," he warned her, "I've got a pounding headache and your voice is surely going to contribute to that enough without it needing to be at such an egregious volume."
Much to her surprise, Malfoy unsilenced her, and Hermione thanked him by saying nothing at first. She brought her free hand to her throat and massaged her larynx.
After a moment, Malfoy leered at her with a commanding stare. "Eat, now."
Her voice came out gravelly. "You first," Hermione insisted.
Malfoy plunged his hand into his cauldron, fished out a piece of carrot dripping in broth, and bit into it. Steam curled from the hot vegetable. "Happy?" He asked whilst chewing, specks of broth falling into his beard.
Hermione shook her head. She reached her right arm over her body and carefully slid her portion toward him, instructing, "Now have some of mine."
Malfoy rolled his eyes. "Seriously, Granger?"
"I insist," she sniffed.
Malfoy popped the rest of his carrot into his mouth before he wiped his dirty hands on his trousers. He crawled along the bed next to her, stopping when he hovered over the Tupperware container that sat on the ground. He unceremoniously picked up a bone sticking out of her stew and pulled a chunk of meat from it with his teeth, chewing widely as the hot food appeared to burn him. He swallowed with a wince before handing her the bone with whatever meat remained.
Malfoy returned to his position, muttering, "A bit hot, actually, I do suggest you wait just a moment."
Hermione gave him a quizzical stare. Were they seriously sitting down to a meal as if nothing was wrong? As if this was entirely normal? Just two old classmates, catching up over a lovely dinner of rabbit stew?
No, Hermione was not going to settle into this as if it were the new status quo. She was rather uncomfortable with the current state of things and now that she had her voice back, she was ready to voice her displeasure.
"Can you at least untie me now?" She finally asked, keeping her tone even as she did not want to start another argument that might end with her petrified or silenced once more.
Malfoy considered her with a narrowed stare. "If I do, will you promise to eat something?"
Hermione toiled with the notion before finally acquiescing with a nod; if she had any hope of getting out of here wholly intact, she would need her strength and the ability to move. If she could get up, she could get her wand, find her Ministry badge, and save herself from becoming another victim of Draco Malfoy.
Perhaps she had looked too eager to oblige for Malfoy didn't budge, rather just hardened his gaze. "And you're not going to do something idiotically heroic that will find us both dead?"
Hermione couldn't help but roll her eyes. Of course, she had been considering doing just that but hadn't yet committed to a course of action. Everything was happening too quickly and she was not yet in the physical condition to be doing anything about her predicament. Hermione might have been brave, but she wasn't stupid. There was a time for action, that time just didn't happen to be right now.
"No, I'm not," Hermione assured him through gritted teeth.
Hermione gave Malfoy her best innocent look, feigning despondence as she shook her head. No, now was not the time for great action, all she could do now was try to understand.
Malfoy also seemed to be toiling with their agreement as he hesitated for a long moment before vanishing the ties that bound her arms with a growl.
The relief she felt came off her in a shuddering breath as she moved both arms uninhibited for the first time in days. Hermione bent her elbows appreciatively, working through the stiff joints. Her movements were slow, her muscles tight from being stuck in the same position for so long. As she stretched, wincing when it hurt from where her injuries had been, where they still were in the case of her left leg. While she attempted to find a comfortable sitting position — only found once she balled up the corner of the scratchy blanket and stuffed it under the left side of her arse to keep her from falling over — Malfoy went on with his meal, fishing out pieces of meat and potatoes, and slurping from the cauldron between bites.
"And the rest?" She asked impatiently, stretching her arms above her head to pop her spine. Her hip and knee were stiff and begging to be bent. She imagined how sweet the relief would feel, but…
"No," Malfoy growled. Hermione frowned; of course, it couldn't be that easy.
"That's good enough for now," he muttered, turning back to his meal. "Now, eat something. You'll need your strength so we can get you the hell out of here."
"Fine," Hermione relented begrudgingly, feeling suddenly ravenous. She picked up a sliced potato but dropped it when it burned her fingers. Malfoy, on the other hand, had no issue with the temperature of his meal, shoveling handfuls of the steaming hot food into his mouth with gusto.
Hermione wrinkled her nose as Malfoy pulled a loose piece of meat out of his beard and ate it. "Enjoying that?" She asked.
Malfoy wiped his mouth on his arm and in the low light, Hermione noticed faint black marks cuffing under his elbow. Her eyes trailed further down his arm, expecting to find the hate-imbued brand, Voldemort's legacy, but the skin on his forearm was bare, only faint lines that could have been his vasculature trailing beneath his translucent skin, though she was too far to make out what the marks were with certainty.
"Not often I get to have a full meal out here, Granger." He pushed himself up from the floor and took his now-empty cauldron back to the table. Malfoy picked up her wand and weighed it in his palm, a wry smile ghosting his lips, "even rarer to have dinner with a guest."
"So you haven't been alone out here this whole time?"
Malfoy smashed his lips together, fighting the words that clawed their way from his mouth, "I haven't always been," he admitted through gritted teeth.
His face turned red at his omission. Hermione made to ask him to elaborate, but he began nervously babbling anyway. "I am alone now. Unless you count your company, but it's been less than something to brag about thus far."
Malfoy scourgified the cauldron with a flick of her wand. Hermione took a tentative bite of the rabbit Malfoy had bitten from, careful to eat around his teeth marks — God forbid their mouths touch the same thing. She glanced at her stew, which seemed more tepid now that it had sat, but remembered his dirty fingers plunging in it and suddenly lost her appetite. She dropped the rabbit leg back in the container, wriggling the Tupperware away from her, signifying she was done.
Malfoy was watching her.
"Come on," he pestered, "that's really all you're going to eat?"
Hermione crossed her arms, almost pouting. "I'm not hungry," her voice began to quake, her throat tightening as tears threatened from behind her eyes, "I want to go home."
"Trust me," Malfoy interjected as he came to collect her bowl, scowling from above her, "I want nothing more than to have you out of my hair for good."
Hermione's lip curled, "Well that makes two of us, I suppose. And if you're so invested in getting rid of me then why don't you just bring me back to my tent?"
Malfoy shook his head, "And how do you expect me to do that?" He inquired.
"You're a wizard, Malfoy," Hermione stated as if the proud bastard had forgotten the fact, "levitate me there or something. Do whatever you did to get me down here in the first place."
Malfoy tutted, clicking his tongue, "Can't do that, Granger. You've already made me reveal myself above ground once. I won't be doing it again."
"What do you mean?" She gestured pointedly at her lap, "How do you expect me to get out of here then?"
Malfoy's face pinched, again fighting words that wanted to tumble from his mouth. "I have a solution for you," his eyes flashed sympathetically, "But you're not going to like it."
Hermione sat up straighter, pulling the blanket up to cover her chest. What could possibly be worse than the alternative, her current predicament?
"What is it?." She asked tremulously. If it were worse than not having a leg at all, then did she really want to know? In her mind she heard the echo of Pyronesia's voice, whispering sacrifice.
Malfoy turned his back to her and went rummaging in his belongings. He returned, something grasped tightly in his fist. His cheeks were flushed, or perhaps it was just the warm candlelight reflecting on the blood that stained his facial hair. There was something guarded in his expression, almost fearful.
Hermione's fists clenched against the blanket, "Tell me!" She demanded.
Malfoy slunk toward her, silver eyes burning in the flickering light that seemed to burn brighter as he approached. Hermione's breath caught at the sight. He took a knee at the foot of the bed and proffered her a green velvet bag.
Her hand reached out before her mind knew what she was doing. The bag was light, yet solid in her hand. Hermione undid the ties of the bag and dumped the contents onto her lap. A single, dusty vial tumbled forth, barely any liquid in the bottom of the bottle. She eyed it warily but didn't dare undo the stopper.
"It's — what is it exactly?" Hermione asked after studying it for a moment.
"Skelegro."
Hermione's nose wrinkled, but she made to unstopper the cork anyway, jumping at any chance to grow her leg back. She had dug a part of the brittle cork with her nail and was about to bring it to her mouth so she might grasp the material with her teeth, but Malfoy plucked the vials from her fingers before she had the chance.
"Hey!" Hermione exclaimed, "I was going to use that!"
"Not tonight you're not." He stated simply, returning to the table.
Hermione crossed her arms, "Really? And why not?"
Malfoy sighed, running a hand over his face with a groan, "Because I'm fucking exhausted, Granger, that's why. I haven't slept in days and I don't feel much like babysitting you tonight."
"Oh please, I don't need to be babysat." Hermione pouted, much like a child.
Malfoy chuckled, "Right, because without me you would have been just fine on your own, right?"
Hermione glowered, "If it weren't for you, I wouldn't be in this position in the first place!"
Malfoy sat in the upholstered chair, pinching the bridge of his nose and muttering to himself. Hermione, quite irritated with the whole situation, gave him a dirty look. "Care to share with the class?"
He sighed, dropping his hands. It was when Hermione first noticed how truly exhausted he looked. His skin was sallow, and the bags under his eyes spoke of the hours he had — or, more fittingly, hadn't — slept. Hermione almost felt guilty, knowing she was the cause of his fatigue — keyword, almost. But then she reminded himself that it was Malfoy — a stain on the wizarding world — and didn't feel so bad anymore.
"Look, Granger, if something bad happens to you, that's on me—"
She cut him off, "I am not your responsibility."
He scoffed, "Too late, you are now."
She frowned, "According to whom?"
Malfoy rolled his eyes, "Would be awfully suspicious if you were found in the forest without your leg. Or even worse, if you were missing in perpetuity because you're dead."
Hermione winced, he did have a fair point, but that didn't stop her from advocating for what she wanted. "Ok, but I can heal from the Moon-Gazer Clearing, you just have to take me back there."
Malfoy started his pacing again, "Surely you're familiar with the risks of regrowing a bone; now multiply that by all the bones you're missing. Now imagine them growing back crooked, with no one there to stop their growth in case of a potion overdose. You might also consider—"
Malfoy droned on and on, listing the risk factors of Skelegro like an experienced Healer. How could he possibly know all this? Hermione was starting to get a headache, finding herself also in need of some rest.
"Alright, alright," she finally acquiesced, sliding herself down into a lying position. She gave him a pleading look, "could you at least unbind my legs?"
"So you can try some heroic bullshit in the middle of the night?" Malfoy chuckled, "I think not."
Tears fell from the corners of her eyes and she squeezed them shut, feeling utterly hopeless. A small object landed on the bed pad next to her. It was a small vial filled with purple liquid. Hermione recognized it immediately as the Dreamless Sleep from her potions stash.
"Get some sleep," Malfoy instructed as he leaned back comfortably in his upholstered chair, setting his bare, dirty feet atop the dining table. "We'll start growing that leg back in the morning. Once you're all healed, you'll be free to go and we will never have to see each other again."
Hermione set the vial down next to her, too fearful of what else Malfoy might have planned for when she was sleeping to take it. Would she wake up without an arm next?
After ten minutes of silence, Hermione poked up her head, finding that Malfoy had his eyes closed and appeared to be asleep. She examined the vial once more.
"Just take it," Malfoy gave a low groan, sitting up, "nothing bad is going to come from it."
"No," Hermione choked out against the threat of her tears, "all the bad things have already happened."
Malfoy sighed, burying his head in his arms and resting them against the table, murmuring guilt-laden words not meant for her ears, "I know."
She studied the vial again, all thoughts of the bad things jumping to the forefront of her mind. They were cruel and taunting, much more than she could currently bear. So she unstoppered the vial against better judgment and chugged it, traveling to the land of Dreamless Sleep.