BOOK ONE

Part 4

Fortunately, finding the small stream she remembered from before was not a problem. Getting the water to where she had left Malfoy was a bit trickier, but the pearly shells scattered here and there in the clearing where they had landed—landed? Was that the word?—were strewn about like fallen petals along the semi-subterranean tunnels leading outside. So it was easy, once she knew what she was looking for, to find them.

Also fortunately, the poison didn't seem as lethal as one might have imagined, given the look on Malfoy's face when she had left him. When she returned, his eyes were still closed and he hadn't moved an inch. But he opened them as soon as he heard her approach. They didn't exchange a single word. In fact, they barely made eye contact beyond what was necessary to check that the man seemed to be improving. Hermione had brought with her, in addition to the shell filled with water to clean that mess of a wound, a kind of reed very similar to bamboo but with a slightly reddish hue, like volcanic sand. It wasn't ideal and a lot could go wrong, but it was all she had. She worked in silence, cleaning the wound as best she could with the means and knowledge she had, using the reed to suck out what she hoped was part of the poison, although she certainly didn't know if it would help or if what she was doing made any sense at all—studying so much magic only to end up in a situation like this.

Malfoy let her do it. He could have been a statue or a highly realistic non-magical first aid dummy, if not for the slight convulsions and overly heavy breaths when Hermione did something that must have been particularly painful. But he didn't utter a complaint or a word. No sarcastic comment, no thank you. Not that she expected the latter.

They set off as soon as she finished her makeshift first aid. Again, it wasn't ideal, but it was all they could do. They didn't discuss it, they just did it, and neither objected.

They moved across the barren, sparsely populated terrain for an indefinite amount of time. They avoided getting close to any of those huge scarlet flowers again; in fact, by tacit agreement, they made sure to keep a safe distance from anything suspicious-looking. If one path was clearer than another, that was the one they took. They didn't know which direction to take; they only knew which path seemed less risky in the immediate future. The cold breeze became heavy and oppressive as they walked and walked through that desolate wasteland with no apparent destination, under an equally infinite and eerie sky. At some point, Hermione felt that the pinkish hues had taken on more violet than pink tones, the light a few degrees dimmer, and she wondered if day and night worked similarly in Faerie Lands as in their world.

Her legs couldn't take it anymore. The warm breeze and the exercise were starting to make her feel suffocated, yet she noticed she had started trembling slightly. Additionally, her mouth was drier than a shoe sole; they had been without water for hours.

The worst mistake is that of the intruder who consumes food in the Faerie Lands. Or so the books said. The slave spell. She feared the water might also be a trap for their mortal bodies, but the truth was they couldn't last much longer. Sooner or later, they would have to drink.

She occasionally glanced at Malfoy. The man walked a few steps ahead of her. However, she never managed to glimpse more than the profile darkened by the immense cascade of dishevelled hair, a tangled curtain of ash.

Hermione just wanted to lose sight of the bleak image of that unnatural, bleeding landscape. Any thoughts—of her parents, of Harry, of the war, of Ron, of what the hell she was doing saving a Death Eater's life by Merlin's beard, Hermione Granger—she kept locked away. Nothing mattered except moving forward. One step after another. Ahead.

Hours, days. Although logic told her it couldn't be the latter, she felt so tired… more tired than ever, more tired than she had felt dodging snatchers and Death Eaters —Voldemort— for weeks and weeks. Could it be an effect of these lands? Both the fatigue and the fogginess in her head? The Faerie Lands were not made for mortals, no matter how magical they were. The dry terrain and mud were invaded by small patches of grass scattered every few metres when she started to think she would die without seeing anything other than that dead world drenched in bleeding flowers. These became more and more sparse until they disappeared completely; from the ground, instead, long, sharp cylinders ended in points that rose to different heights, as if someone had taken elephant— or dragon—tusks of various sizes and stuck them into the ground like stakes. The light falling from the sky, a violet ever denser and thicker, cast eerie shadows over the off-white presumed bone stakes.

And up ahead was the forest.

The green manifested like a dream on the horizon. Not even the worry about what might be found there —please no more carnivorous plants— could entirely dampen the relief she felt. She wondered if Malfoy had noticed it too. The man seemed to be using all his strength just to keep standing and moving.

It took them a while to reach the tree line, and before entering, Malfoy had the mental clarity to pick up one of the smaller tusks, about forty centimetres long, that lay on the ground. Hermione picked up another one she saw a little further back. Just in case. If the man thought anything about her actions, he said nothing.

They stopped by the riverbank and a waterfall, near some rock formations that offered some refuge from any danger that might lurk around. Night was undoubtedly approaching, or at least the light was waning. Malfoy had leaned against the stone wall and had his eyes half-closed. He didn't look well: his cheeks were sunken, his skin dry, and he seemed to have aged ten years in an instant.

Fine.

Water, thought Hermione, worried, holding the tusk in one hand and the shell in the other while studying the clear and apparently harmless liquid. We have to drink sooner or later, Faerie water or not; otherwise, we won't last much longer, and I have no idea if we'll manage to find our way back to our world soon, but the prognosis isn't good.

She crouched by the water's edge. There were tiny silver-coloured fish, and among the submerged rocks, she could also spot tiny crabs with legs twice as long as their bodies. In that place, the water took on the greenish hue of the treetops as well as the purplish and greyish strokes of the night sky. She filled the shell with water, stood up, and approached Malfoy with it before offering it to him.

"Drink," she said.

The man blinked slowly. Then a flicker of what might have been mockery or disdain crossed his tired features.

"You can't think I'm that gullible," he said, his voice little more than air, rough as sandpaper.

"You'll die if you don't drink. We both will."

Malfoy bared his teeth, feral.

"Ladies first."

Unbelievable. Hermione wrestled with feeling outraged by such distrust coming from him and snapping back about when he started considering her a lady. Convenience was everything for his kind.

Instead, she clenched her jaw and did neither. She studied him coldly for a moment.

"This is very simple, Malfoy. Either you drink, or you stay behind and end up dying of dehydration or any other evil that finds you in this place," she said at last, looking him in the eyes. "I may only be a disgusting Mudblood, and far below your life's hierarchy standards, not that it matters to me. But right now, I'm in better condition to survive, and if you want to…"

A sound that could have been a laugh or a snort, but sounded more like something broken that ended in a hacking cough, made her stop.

"Play with fire, filthy creature," he hissed. "You could have perfectly let me die, but you didn't because you need me."

"Someone has to drink first. And, need you or not, that need will never take precedence over my own well-being, don't you think? Drink."

She offered the makeshift bowl once more. All the while, she kept her tusk firmly in one hand. She wasn't going to underestimate him, no matter how deplorable his state seemed. Malfoy glanced down at the liquid for a moment before looking back up. The night wasn't as dark as a night in their world. The light was dimmer, but you could see without a problem. It was like looking through a haze of semi-darkness. And through that haze, the shadows on the man's face were most curious and disturbing at the same time; they created hollows where there shouldn't have been any, and his eyes, grey, looked almost black. A heartbeat, weak and distant, startled her. Because she was so close and had been studying him, she thought she saw Malfoy startle too. Pupum, pupum. It sounded like a frightened, startled animal.

Hermione shook her head. She stopped listening.

Malfoy had an odd expression on his face.

"There are no rivers of blood," she blurted suddenly, abruptly. With an intake of breath, she forced himself to continue, "I mean… When we arrived, I thought we had ended up in the Unseelie realm, but now I'm not so sure… The books talk about scarlet streams, a red so intense it almost looks black, but we haven't seen anything like that; hopefully, we're in the Seelie realm. They should be more benevolent towards us, the wizards."

"Like your… friend from before."

Hermione blushed at the jab. No. She wasn't going to be intimidated because she had made a mistake. Besides, for all they knew, the fairy hadn't done anything… Liar, a voice said, but she ignored it.

"You want to see your family again, right? At least you care about them," she sounded more like a question. So what. She wasn't sure, but the desperation in his voice when he had asked for help before… "If it were up to you, I'd never see my family or any of my loved ones again. But we have a truce. I saved your life a while ago. Now, drink."

Malfoy smiled. If that could be called a smile. And he reached out a hand to take the shell with the water. It wasn't like he had many options, but Hermione felt relieved when his lips finally touched the nacreous edge. He seemed to struggle a bit to hold the shell.

She made no move to help him. She was ashamed to admit that despite having the upper hand, the other man still scared her. In fact, he terrified her. She watched the movement of his throat as he swallowed. A trickle of liquid ran down his chin.

When he finished drinking, he placed the shell next to a rock on the ground. For the next few minutes, no one said anything; the tension was so real it could be cut with a first-year student's Diffindo.

Nothing happened. Did something have to happen? Or would they notice nothing and simply find themselves trapped by some unknown and malevolent law?

"You'll pay for this."

Hermione held back the shiver, took the bowl with the remaining water—Malfoy had moderated his drinking—and drank in small sips despite the abominable thirst she felt. The least they could do was wait a prudent amount of time—how long was that?—before drinking more.

After the crucial matter of water had been dealt with, for better or worse, it was tacitly agreed they needed to rest sooner or later, and that moment of reduced visibility was a good opportunity to do so. The only move Malfoy had made was to close his eyes, while Hermione had settled on the opposite side of the rocky wall beside the small waterfall, without saying a word. That was how they made decisions. Silently and with enviable nonverbal communication.

Hermione preferred to have her metres of distance when the other decided to signal to bite.

With extreme fatigue weighing down every inch of her body, even in her thoughts, Hermione allowed herself to be lulled by the almost total silence and the strangely comforting murmur of the river and the splash of the falling water. There was a constant sound reminiscent of a cat's purr, coming from the treetops —Hello, Cheshire— she just hoped it wasn't anything dangerous. The temperature was pleasant there too. The darkness only deepened a little more as the minutes passed, enough to be able to relax in a potentially hostile environment with a potentially hostile companion. She knew she needed those hours of sleep to be fresh and alert when they continued the way home; she had to have the mental clarity to be able to use her limited knowledge of Annwn and be able to discern the real paths… She knew this, and yet… Yet she found herself unable to avoid her mind's wanderings. Suddenly, she found herself thinking about the allusion the man lying a few metres from her had made about his own family: "…but Draco and Cissy… I can't leave them. Please." At that moment, a wave of incandescent fury had struck her, but now that she was calmer, she couldn't help but feel a certain fascination that someone like Malfoy, whom she had until then believed to be a pathological narcissist, could feel something akin to love and concern for other people. She had never had the impression that he cared about his son. But what did she know? I suppose you're so selfish you can't see beyond your own nose, she thought, disgusted, scolding herself for even wasting time thinking about the workings of such a person's mind. A Death Eater.

"Beyond what your kind could ever understand. No one asked you to get involved in our world, no one asked you to give us reasons to start this war."

She couldn't help but jump, startled, when the voice reached her, hoarse and deep from the distance. Malfoy had just spoken to her, but what…

"What?" she stammered, caught so off guard that it took her a few extra seconds to process his words.

Malfoy made a sound, like clicking his tongue. Hermione looked to her right. She could easily see the outline of his figure, wrapped in that greyish mist that covered everything and made his hair look like a curtain of smoke falling over his shoulders. She thought he was touching his left elbow. That was where the worst damage had been done. His voice reached her again.

"It is not us, the wizards, who invade your colourless world. Always hiding, always running despite our more than evident superiority."

Hermione didn't say she wasn't referring to that, but to what brought on this impromptu attempt at conversation, if that was what it was. Why did it seemed as if…

"That's precisely your problem: you believe yourselves superior to everyone who isn't like you. Better than Muggles, better than Muggle-borns, better than centaurs, better than werewolves, better than…"

"Of course," he muttered; whether without strength or interest, Hermione wasn't sure. "It's just an irrevocable reality."

"No, it's just delusions of grandeur."

"In any case, no one asked you to taint the magic of our world with your impure…"

"I didn't ask to be a witch!" Hermione snapped. She didn't have to listen to such nonsense. Malfoy's voice might be weak, barely a murmur, but the venom he spewed burned just as always. "I know very well what people like you and your family think, and I couldn't care less. You're mean and despicable. But maybe you should consider why I'm less of a witch than you when I'm better than many of you."

"Oh, do you pretend to deny your fascination when you discovered you were a witch? When you discovered you could be part of our world, despite being a fraud? Could you let it go?"

No, she couldn't. But fortunately, she didn't have to give it up either. She was who she was. She wasn't going to give up what she was. Not for backward, fascist people.

"I suppose our opinions are irreconcilable," she concluded coldly. "It's impossible to reason with a stone."

Silence stretched between them again, deeper and hollower than the one that had preceded that brief conversation. She refused to look at the other man, but something, maybe something in the air or the density of that silence, told her he was furious with her. Well, it was mutual.

She forced herself to let it go.

She couldn't believe that at this point those kinds of opinions about her, about her blood, still stung. That the wound still remained open for people like the Malfoys to keep driving the knife in.

She forced herself to rest.

Her eyes weren't wet, nor did her chest hurt.

It took her a while to fall into a fitful sleep, and in her last thought before consciousness left her, she thought she didn't believe there was a word to describe a person mad enough to rescue a Death Eater so he could continue being one.