A/N: So against all odds and expectations, I have been accepted into grad school! I'll be moving around the world and starting my studies in the next month. I don't foresee this affecting my ability to finish the story in any way, since it's already written, but my upload schedule may change. I'll let you know in the next few weeks as my timetable takes shape. I'm so glad to have you all along for this ride!
They popped back into existence in the entryway, tumbling onto the rug in a muddy heap. Almost immediately, another crack signalled Kreacher's arrival. Hermione got to her knees, gasping, and found the elf looking at her with curiosity and disgust. "The Mudblood is here," he spat. "And she brings filth into this most noble house! She brings…" He surveyed Draco — such as he was — and suddenly his eyes turned huge. "The Mudblood has brought the last living heir to the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black! And she has KILLED HIM!"
"What? No! Kreacher, I—"
"The Mudblood has killed the heir!" Kreacher screeched, tugging on his ears. Hermione heard the sliding of curtains and then the wails of old Mrs Black joined in.
"Filth! Mudbloods! Desecrating this nest of wizardry!"
On and on they went, until Draco groaned beside her, trying to sit up but wincing and whimpering at the pain.
Hermione had begun to sob. "Kreacher! Kreacher, he's not dead! Please! I want to help him! PLEASE!"
Kreacher halted his cries and looked at her, still holding his ears, and then at Draco's body which was moving mildly with his breaths. "He lives?"
"I didn't hurt him, Kreacher," she pleaded, as the portrait continued screaming. "Is anybody here? I need to help him. Will you help me? Please?"
Kreacher eyed her and Draco, then disappeared. On the floor, Draco moaned, "Please, make her shut up."
The painting went quiet. Kreacher reappeared with an armful of bandages and bottles.
"Kreacher is alone in the house," he told her, and dropped the things in front of where she was kneeling on the carpet. Then, he retreated, eyes cautiously watching Draco as though he wasn't allowed to look.
"Kreacher… these are Muggle things. Don't we have any potions?"
Kreacher shook his head, his ears flopping against his cheeks. "The Order does not keep magic medicines here," he said with distaste.
"I suppose Muggle methods can be just as effective, and not as difficult to procure…"
She looked through the pile. Plasters, alcohol, bandages… It would do. She hoped.
"Draco?" She knelt over to look at him, pale and dirty on the floor. It looked like he wasn't bleeding much anymore, and he was conscious and not screaming, so Hermione allowed herself to hope that he would be okay. That she could deal with this.
He blinked at her slowly and coughed. "Snape," was all he said. For a second, she thought he must be hallucinating, until he added, punctuated by shallow, pained breaths, "Slicing Hex. I think… he did it to… stop me attacking my brothers in arms." He added the last bit with a strained laugh that turned into a wince.
"Can you get up? I need to check your back. Here — I'll help you." She gripped his arm and helped him climb to his feet; he winced and squeezed his eyes shut. The journey to the first-floor bathroom felt like ages and they left muddy footprints in their wake, but Kreacher didn't seem to mind. Once he figured out where they were going, he apparated the medical supplies to the bathroom sink and followed them there, cleaning the carpet as he went.
When they arrived, Draco braced his arms on the sink and groaned. Hermione could now see the line of blood on the back of his shirt, smeared across the linen. There was mud everywhere and the damp from the ground made it stick to his skin in odd places.
"I — I need to take your shirt off."
He made a sound that meant "go ahead" and so she helped him straighten up so she could undo the buttons, one by one, and pull it off one arm at a time. Kreacher appeared by her side to take it, either for the wash or the bin. Draco returned to his position, arms on either side of the sink as he hunched over. His Dark Mark was visible on his forearm. It looked much better than the last time she'd seen it.
The cut on his back was diagonal, from his right shoulder to his left hip. It was not particularly deep, she thought, but it had bled much more than a papercut would, and it was dirty. "I'll — I'll have to clean this with alcohol," she told him reluctantly. "It will probably sting."
"Don't you know any disinfecting charms?"
"I've read about them, but I'm not going to try healing spells on you when I've never done them before!" She sounded hysterical to her own ears and her hands were shaking. She pressed them against his bare back — the un-cut bits — to try and remember where she was. That there weren't Death Eaters firing Unforgivables at their heads.
"Where's Potter?" Draco asked — probably to distract her — his voice still strained by the pain. "And Weasley?"
"I — I don't know. They must've gone somewhere else." But where? Unless they hadn't made it out in time, or they'd been splinched? Neither she nor Ron had ever apparated outside of their test before. What if Hermione and Draco were stuck here, alone, without contact to the outside world until the war was over?
"Hey." He handed her the plastic bottle of clear fluid with an encouraging, pained smile. "Go on, do your worst."
Hermione blinked until the bathroom came back into focus and took a shaking breath. "Thank you."
For the next fifteen minutes, all she allowed herself to think about was tending to his wound. When she dabbed at it with the alcohol-soaked cotton, he sucked air through his teeth and held his breath, so she murmured soothing nonsense and stroked his good shoulder. She found an antibacterial cream next and carefully applied that but was at a loss as to how to bandage it. The cut was huge and a jagged shape, not something that could be easily protected by a single plaster, unless she mummified his entire torso in gauze.
"I think I'm going to have to tape several bandages to your back," she decided aloud, hands on her hip. Draco looked at her in the mirror and shrugged, then winced.
It did take several bandages and an excessive amount of medical tape. She imagined it would be terribly uncomfortable, but there wasn't much else she could do to protect the wound while it healed. He wouldn't be used to it; this sort of thing could be perfectly healed in a second with dittany. Now, he'd have to spend days moving stiffly until it scabbed, and he'd have a scar to show for it at the end.
She was nearly finished securing the tape by his hip when a silver stag burst into the bathroom.
"Hermione!" it cried in Harry's voice. "We're okay. Kreacher told me you're at Grimmauld Place. We'll come tomorrow, and we'll bring things." Then the stag dissipated into the dusty air of the house.
"Lovely," said Draco, standing properly now but very clearly still in pain. Hermione just stood there, staring at where the stag had been. When Draco took her hand, she jumped. "Come on," he said gently, pulling her out of the bathroom. She heard Kreacher apparate behind them to tidy away the supplies. "Let's find a bed."
Hermione was in no state to argue. It had been — what, an hour? — since they'd finished brewing, and it seemed her brain had waited until precisely now to realise the extent of what had just happened. They'd left Hogwarts behind, and they were not allowed to return. Draco could have died; that spell could have been anything. She could have died. Harry or Ron could have died. The war could have been lost tonight.
She felt her breathing get faster and a sob rise up in her throat, but Draco squeezed her hand tighter and tugged her up the stairs. The second-floor corridor was dark, like the rest of the house. He pushed open the first door he saw and, upon finding a bedroom, brought her inside.
The door closed behind them, leaving them in musty darkness. With grunts of pain, Draco pried off his shoes and undid his trousers before he flopped face-first onto the mattress with a groan of relief.
Hermione copied his lead, taking off her muddy layers until she was left in only her undergarments. Kreacher appeared momentarily to take their clothes; Hermione hoped he would launder them instead of leaving her and Draco to greet Harry and Ron in their underclothes.
Would Harry and Ron bring clothes? What had they meant by "things"?
Draco patted the mattress without looking up. Hermione obediently got into the bed, though Draco didn't move from his position, lying on his stomach on top of the duvet. His breathing seemed easier, now, and he reached out a hand in her direction.
She took it and was surprised by how quickly sleep came.
She was awoken by the simultaneous slam of a door and the wailing of the portrait. "Blood-traitors and Mudbloods disgracing my home!"
"Oh, shut up."
Harry!
Hermione bolted upright in bed. She heard Draco groan; he was still lying on his front. In daylight, the snake of gauze and tape traversing his back looked ridiculous, like a child's papier-mâché creation.
"Hermione?" she heard Ron's voice call up the stairs. "You here?"
She leapt from the bed and spun wildly around the room, searching for clothes. She found them on the dresser, cleaned and folded neatly. She tugged them on without checking herself in the mirror and hurried out the room, flying down the stairs as fast as she could. "Ron! Harry!"
She found them in the entryway, standing by a small pile of bags. She threw herself into their arms and nearly sobbed. They were fine.
"We were at the Burrow," explained Ron as she squeezed him. "Mum says hi, by the way. McGonagall arranged to have some of our things sent over, so I have your bag and some clothes. Dobby got it all."
Hermione could have wept.
"Hermione, I'm so sorry —"
"Shut up," she told Harry sternly, pulling back to look him in the eye. "Just let me be glad you're alive."
"That's fine by me."
"Oi!" Ron exclaimed. There was a creak; Hermione turned to see Draco standing at the top of the stairs, leaning on the banister. He'd managed to put on his trousers, but he'd misaligned the buttons and buttonholes on his shirt. It was only half done up, with one side longer than the other. "You're alive!"
"Astute observation, Weasley."
Ron shrugged. "Figured you must be. McGonagall sent us stuff to bring for you, too."
Draco frowned. "She's not letting us go back to Hogwarts?"
"You know the rules, Malfoy," said Harry dubiously. "No-one's allowed in or out."
"I always got the impression rules never applied to you," Draco grumbled as he cautiously lowered himself down one step.
"Yeah, well, it's not so fun being me, is it?" Harry sounded delighted.
Hermione's attention eagerly turned to the bags they'd brought. "Did you bring any medicinal potions?"
"Er — I think Dobby said something about getting your stuff from the lab pantry? I'm not sure, really."
Hermione was already going through her bag. Harry was right: there was dittany, blood replenisher, murtlap (essence and pickled)… But the collection was pathetically small. She held the tiny dittany bottle in her hand, calculating. It could save a life, if someone got splinched, or horribly wounded. Draco would be fine without it, but he didn't deserve to be taped up for a week…
"I'll be fine, Granger," he told her. He'd nearly made it down the stairs. She put the dittany back in her bag regretfully.
"Yeah? What's wrong with you?" asked Ron like he was about to be given a very nice present.
"Slicing Hex to the back," Hermione explained. "I've bandaged it. He'll be alright, though he might not be able to move much for a few days…"
Before anyone could make any nasty comments, Kreacher appeared. "Breakfast is ready, master." Harry was the wizard Kreacher belonged to, but Draco was the one he looked at, and with more reverence than she'd ever seen from the miserable elf.
"That elf belongs to you, Potter?" Draco asked in disbelief as they moved to the kitchen.
"Sirius left him to me. And the house, too."
"Oh. So this is the Black house."
"Why do you say it like that?"
"My mother was a Black."
"Makes sense," snorted Ron. "Doesn't the madness run in the family?"