She was aware, only, of the hardness of the stone on her cheek. Against her body. The cool was a comfort.
She was a long time in the dark.
Then - a light - a wand.
No. There were two.
A voice, shouting. She could not remember if she had heard it before. It did not matter.
"They're just stunned." Another voice. Derisive. Familiar. "There's no need to panic."
"Who would have stunned them? There's no one here."
"Whatever you were so foolishly chasing."
"Creatures can't stun, Malfoy. They can poison or maim or shock but they can't stun."
Something prodded her leg. "Granger. Wake up. Potter wants you to tell him what happened to Weasley."
"Shut up, Malfoy." He was leaning over Ginny, black hair falling into his glasses. "Hermione, that's not true. But can you tell us what it was? What it did?"
The light was making the pain in her head worse. She pressed the side of her face into the ground and let the chill seep into her skin. They were talking, but she ignored them. It was easy - she did not care what they were saying, so she did not hear them.
Then, the stone was gone. She was floating - hanging - in the air. Levitating.
She wondered why whoever had come did not leave her where she'd fallen.
She wished they had.
It was later. She had been laying still for a long time and she could feel the pain of it in her bones. She was in some kind of alcove. An alcove in a small room.
They had been in a cave.
They were still in a cave.
Magical torchlight flickered over the stone. There was a man with bright hair. It stood out in the light. He was pacing, shouting. She closed her eyes again.
The same man was asleep on a couch across the room. The torches were still burning.
No, he was not asleep. He was looking at her. But her vision blurred from images of all the ways people in the past had hurt each other.
"Whenever you're ready to wake up and be useful, I welcome it."
He was standing with his back to her, pointing a wand at an open archway. He was casting spells. "Sanctimonia Vincet Semper." She knew what that meant. She had seen variations of the same, throughout history. It pounded through her head. Purity forever conquers. This man - he was the same. As evil and awful as the rest.
"Don't you need to piss?" Long fingers, cool and strong, lifted her wrist and let it fall. "Food? Water?" She heard children, hungry and crying. She felt the agony of prisoners, dying of thirst. "Can you answer me?" She could not.
"This is the worst fucking joke you've ever made, Granger. Of course, you've never been funny, but this just confirms your complete ineptitude at anything resembling humor."
She missed the stone in the dark. She wanted to be alone.
She was somewhere between sleep and awareness. She preferred awareness. Sleep meant dreams.
Voices were shouting from far away. "How long can they go, do you think? Without eating or drinking?"
"Four days without drinking," said the blond man.
"That's what I thought." She knew that sound anywhere - both the voice and the feeling in it. Fear. It haunted her, infected her. But not her own. She had nothing to fear anymore, not for herself. The fears of others were worse.
The man had his hand in her hair, on her neck. She wondered if he would cut her throat.
She did not resist.
But he lifted her head up, poured something in her mouth. Water. She sputtered and coughed. Swallowed no more than a few drops.
He was speaking, but not to her. "It's done, Potter. Only because you said I had to."
She could feel her body weakening. It hurt to move, and never to move. Her unused muscles ached.
S he was distracted by a murmur - her companion was speaking in a low voice. She did not pay attention to the words. It was soothing, in a way. It pulled her from her thoughts. From the unbidden visions.
He was . . . reading. From a book. She recognized the cadence of the sounds. She had read it before.
He also talked to her sometimes as he moved about the small room. He paced, from one end to the other. She opened her eyes every so often and watched him cross in front of her. He spoke about their situation. "I much prefer you as a captive audience," he said.
He asked for her ideas. At that, she sank back into blackness. She had none.
He stood before her, shaking her shoulder. How long had it been? A minute? An hour? A week?
"What would you eat? I'll- We'll have them bring it, whatever it is. The Malfoy elves can make anything."
She was not hungry.
"I would prefer that the Golden Girl War Hero not starve to death on my watch. It might make me look bad." Another shake.
Eventually he went away.
More shouting. Some voices she knew. But she could see no one but the blond man. He was standing at a door that led out of the room. No, it was an archway. Why didn't he walk out of it? He was speaking to others. She could hear them respond to him. She watched the back of his head, his neck, the way his arms gestured. At one point he rested a hand on the stone of the wall beside the archway and leaned against it. He talked for a long time.
She heard someone screaming, as if an echo, "I don't care what it says. Don't you fucking touch her, Malfoy! Ron, stop him!"
Malfoy? Yes, it was Malfoy, her old classmate. Her tormentor. She recognized him, tall and lithe and shrouded in black. Pale in the dim lights.
He must have said goodbye to whoever was on the other side of that opening, because he resumed his pacing. It seemed to go on for hours.
She awoke from a dream of extinction, of fighting against a ceaseless and unstoppable current.
Pain, everywhere. Her muscles, her bones. And yet - she had no strength to move, to rise, to fight.
The torches flickered over the walls. Over the man, sitting on the couch. He was not looking at her. He was listening, his hands clasped and his head bowed - to Harry. Yes, she heard Harry Potter's voice. She could not place his tone. But he was not shouting, not anymore.
"So it's some kind of depression curse. But . . . that . . . treatment. From the book. It worked for Ginny. A little." Harry's voice was far away. Where was he?
There was a long pause. "Can I get her to do it to herself?"
"You can try. But - if she's as bad off as you say she is, I don't see it working. You'll - I think you'll have to do it." Silence. "Malfoy? We could try sending in Ron."
"And lose what little assistance Weasley provides on the outside, finding the way to get us out of here? Trap three of us in a room meant for one? Let some ex-boyfriend get his jollies off when she's like this?"
"He wouldn't-"
"Let's ask her, Potter."
It was later, based on her worsening soreness. Much later. She felt as though she would never be able to move again. She had been laying on some kind of mattress - a thin one. For emergencies, not for luxury. But it was a mattress, tucked into an alcove of stone.
"Granger." Malfoy was sitting at her side. He must have pulled up a stool. No, it was a downturned crate. "I'm going to help you to the loo. Potter's orders. It's been five days. Then - we need to talk."
He waited. If he thought she was going to protest, or - care . . . he was wrong. She wasn't. If he did not bother her, perhaps she would die, and that would be fine.
When he must have determined she wasn't going to argue, she felt arms - beneath and over her. Strong arms, lifting her. It hurt. Especially where she'd been on her side on the bed. He moved as if to set her down but stopped, and righted them both.
He carried her. Easily.
It was just a few steps across the small room, opposite of the archway. There was a door. An old wooden door with antique hinges and thick planks, hewn by tools long gone. It swung open. Through it - a bathroom.
It was too much too fast. But Malfoy, ignoring her capabilities, set her on the loo. His heavy footsteps left the room. Why would he do that? She pushed down her pajama pants as if drunk, muscle memory taking over. Her body had lost any sensation of need. But she used the bathroom, righted her pajama pants, and sat, waiting. Then Malfoy was back, helping her to stand. She leaned against the sink. He wiped her face with a cool cloth, roughly pushing back her hair. She was lifted and carried back to the bed.
This time, on her back. Better. She had laid on her side for too long. She expected him to leave her alone again. But -
"I need to tell you something." His voice was flat, matter-of-fact. Neutral. A healer on an upside-down crate delivering bad news. "Actually, a couple of somethings. First, you need to know that we are trapped by some kind of bizarre containment charm in one of those side rooms. In the cave. I brought you in here, after you were attacked, to rest. In hindsight, that was a mistake, because when I stepped through the entryway it triggered the spell. I can't get out. Potter and the Ginger are stuck in a different room, next door. He also cannot get out."
A pause.
"It's been five days since you were attacked. You need to drink, and eat. You must. You need your strength to fight - whatever this is. I know it sounds strange, but apparently - Potter says -"
There was a long pause.
"Listen." His tone was softer. "The second thing I need to tell you is that Ron Weasley and Pansy - Pansy Parkinson - have been doing research on your condition. We negotiated it - asked them to work together so neither side could hide anything. And they found something yesterday. A passage in a text. It suggests there's a - a potential treatment."
He waited as if expecting her to question. She did not, but she did look up at him. His voice compelled it.
"I'm just going to say it because it's rather -" Another long pause. "Unconventional. But Potter and Ginny Weasley are testing it and have had . . . some success. She was able to drink. And eat a few bites this morning."
Her head swam. Those names, she knew. They had been friends. "I can explain more, later. But in short, they suspect that the monster somehow separated your soul from your body. It's - well - there's a sexual connection of some kind." He was speaking slowly, thickly. Disgusted. "Between body and soul. So to bring your soul back - you have to get yourself . . . off."
Was that a hint of strain in his voice? "You have to touch yourself." It wasn't strain. Malfoy sounded angry. A lecturing professor to a recalcitrant student. "An orgasm, Granger." Not lecturing, no. Authoritative. Commanding.
And his words - well, if she had ever planned to laugh again this would have been the time.
There was no more chance of her touching herself sexually in this moment than there was of her standing up and performing a jig. Hermione's head was already pounding from the trip to the loo and the change in position.
She wished he would shut up, and shook her head. No.
"Look, of course I'll - I'll go in the bathing chamber to give you privacy."
She trusted that if she ignored him long enough he would go away.
"Hello?" An irritated pause. "If you don't eat or drink something you could die."
Yes. From somewhere within herself, she compelled her eyes - for that was all she could muster - to move. And she looked at him. Please, she hoped they said. Let it end.
Malfoy flinched at that, leaning forward. Waiting for her to speak.
"Will you?" he asked. "Handle this?" No. But perhaps he would leave her alone and she would not wake up from her next nap.
"You won't?" The look on his face was a mixture of frustration and rage. He was backlit by the torches, and she was thankful for it. It meant the worst of his ire was hidden in shadow. His glare had no effect but she would prefer to avoid it just the same.
"Or you can't?" At that she shut her eyes tight.
She heard him get up and pace for a bit. It took him eight steps to cross the space. One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, the scrape of his shoe. Pivot. One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, pivot.
There were noises from out of the room, voices. He was still for a time, before she heard him again.
Approaching, slowly. She opened her eyes at the creak of the crate. He was looking her over, deep in thought, his hair falling over his forehead. Weighing something heavy.
When he spoke, his voice was cold. Clipped. "Alright. Here's where we are. You haven't had more than sips of water in days. The only known treatment is - as I described. Reports indicate that Ginny Weasley continues to improve under Potter's care. And - I assume you will need assistance. There's no one else here. So I have to ask. Do you want my help?"
No. She wanted him to let her drift into oblivion. Her eyes looked past him, to the flickering lights that gave her a headache.
"Can you speak?" No. She watched, though, as he lifted a hand - reaching out. It moved slowly, as if repelled by her. But - he took her fingers lightly in his.
It felt strange. Draco Malfoy was holding her hand.
"Granger. Squeeze once." Even that - insurmountable. But his voice compelled a response. Hermione did not realize she had done it until she felt the slightest pressure against her skin and heard him exhale. "Right. Fine. Good."
Malfoy's other hand was in his hair, pushing it aside, twirling the ends at the back of his head. "We're going to use once for no, twice for yes. So I'm - so we're both - on the same page." His fingers were still on hers. "I'm going to ask you a few questions."
"Do you have the strength to do what needs to be done?"
Didn't he get it? Hermione squeezed his fingers, once. Leave me alone.
Malfoy cleared his throat. "Do you -" a long pause - "need my help?"
Two paths unfurled behind her eyes. A fork.
On one side, a road paved with the suffering that had been haunting her for - how long had he said? Five days? No. It had to be longer. It felt like a lifetime. It was a short road that ended, just ahead, in darkness. It would hurt, but not for long.
But there was another way. A path lit by persistent torches and lined with rock. Where familiar voices coaxed her along. A path with a curve ahead, so that she could not see where it went. It would still hurt, this way - perhaps it would be worse. Yet some part of Hermione Granger, deep inside, had to know. What was around the bend?
She squeezed once. And then, again.
Malfoy's fingers twitched around hers at her answer.
"Do you want me to help you?" Did she want this man to touch her intimately? No. But Hermione knew instinctively - if she did not make a choice today there would be no other opportunity. Her weakness was oppressive and hungry. Her suffering wanted her closer; it was practically vibrating as it called to her. Diverting from it was now or never.
It was not that Hermione wanted to feel better, per se. She did not desire anything. But she let her instincts take over and her fingers twitched in his. Once. And then twice. She opened her eyes. He was sitting stiffly, his back ramrod straight. Malfoy nodded. Formal.
"Okay. I - give me a minute."
He stood abruptly from the crate beside her bed and went into the bathing chamber, banging the door behind him. She was exhausted from the conversation, his questions, her effort to grasp his hand. Perhaps he had changed his mind. Probably he would come back and tell her that she had to wait for someone else or die here in the dark. Malfoy had no doubt been daydreaming up a way to kill her for more than ten years - if for no other reason than it would hurt Harry.
But a few minutes later he was back. "Alright, Granger. Are you ready?" He picked up her hand. She moved her fingers twice. Maybe after this he would leave her alone.
"I don't want there to be any surprises. So I'll, uh, check in with you. If you want me to stop, just squeeze my fingers. Once. For no." She squeezed twice.
"Can you move your legs?" No.
"Of course, I imagine you're feeling rather weak. I'll move you." Yes.
Malfoy released her fingers and leaned up and over her body. He pushed her hips away from him, so that she was on her back, her legs slightly parted. His hands were clinical and efficient. He touched her lightly to avoid excessive contact. Like a healer would touch her, if the healer was repulsed by a patient who hadn't bathed in days. She was still in the pajamas she'd worn to bed the night of the attack. She could feel the grime like a coating on her skin. And didn't care at all.
Apparently satisfied with her position, he pushed his sleeves up, braced himself on his hands and looked over her. Evaluating her as if she was a mandrake in need of repotting or a particularly thorny potions exam. "I'm going to begin now. Think of it as a treatment, Granger. Medicine, yeah? I'll only touch you where I have to. And for the record, so I can say it with a clear conscience when we get out of here and you accuse me of being a fucking pervert, you agreed to this. But I'll ask one more time - are you sure?" He slid one of his hands back over hers so that she could answer him.
Her fingers fluttered in his. Not clearly enough, apparently. "Granger, are you sure?" She squeezed firmly then. Twice.
Thus commenced the most unexpected experience of her life. She felt his free hand - Draco Malfoy's hand - gently adjust her legs again so they were wider apart. She watched him while he moved her. Then he ghosted his fingers over the waistband of her pants, avoiding her skin.
He took a deep breath. Then she felt his hand slip down, over the front of her. A single finger gently hovered over the fabric at the top of her thighs.
Applying soft pressure, he began to stroke her. It felt . . . no different than if he was rubbing her arm.
Malfoy had arranged her so that Hermione's face was tilted toward him, which meant that she could watch his gray eyes, narrowed to slits, flitting between the movement of his hand and her face. He looked like he expected a reaction from her - any reaction.
In that, she could not be helpful. She had none. He pressed his lips together in a hard line.
After a few minutes he cleared his throat. "Shall I stop?" He was controlled, authoritative. No, he didn't need to stop.
So he kept at it, rubbing lightly over her clothes. She tried to control her thoughts, to prevent them from straying to the most horrible places. She tried to focus on the sensation, tried to feel something. Anything.
Hermione zeroed in on it, his hand between her legs. Could she remember ever feeling something good there before? She had, she was sure of it. From deep in the recesses of her memories - her personal memories - she knew she had felt men's hands, and her own. She had experienced pleasure, once. Malfoy pressed more firmly and she chased it. It felt - yes, it felt nice.
"That's it. You can do this." She squeezed his fingers twice. Don't stop. In answer he added another finger.
Her hips jerked involuntarily. She let them. Relaxed as much as she could into her body - released control. Let it narrow in on that singular feeling, on the movement, on meeting his steady pressure. He was not looking at her now - he watched his hand between her legs, ignoring her expressions. He was remote, aloof. A reluctant healer.
He did not matter and she closed her eyes so she couldn't see him.
Pleasure - she'd found it. It built, a slow pile of stones. It flowed within her, a drip, then a trickle, and then a stream. It rushed, faster and faster, down the path she'd chosen. She was moving up a set of stairs, each step easier to climb the closer she got. Her hips moved against him, with him. Her own hand squeezed tightly, involuntarily, in his.
And finally - she was there. The top of the stairs, the fall of the water, the last stone on the pile that sent them all tumbling. She heard herself - a long sigh.
Release.
Hermione did not need to focus or think or not think or choose . . . she simply succumbed, floated, existed.
Her mind was quiet. That was the best part.
The peace lasted for several moments.
When Malfoy pulled his fingers from hers and withdrew his hand from her legs, she finally opened her eyes. He leaned back, stretching, arms flexing behind his back. But he was watching her. His chest rose and fell as if he'd been running.
"Granger?"
She swallowed painfully as he leaned in to hear, his hair falling into his eyes.
"May I please have something to drink?"