Draco sat hunched on his cot, his face a mask of concentration as he tore strips from the thin, threadbare blanket. His hands moved with practiced efficiency, working quickly despite the trembling in his fingers. The cuts on his arms stood out sharply in the dim light—angry, red lines criss-crossing his pale skin.
Hermione watched him for a moment, then forced herself to her feet, wincing as her knees protested. She mimicked his movements, pulling at her own blanket until the fabric ripped. The strips were uneven and rough, but they would have to do. She glanced at him again, her gaze lingering on his arms.
Why was he doing this? He should be resting, but instead, he was carefully fashioning bandages.
Draco's eyes flicked up to hers briefly. Then, without a word, he reached beneath the flattened excuse for a pillow and withdrew a tiny vial. It was so small that, for a moment, Hermione thought he'd pulled out a piece of glass. But then she recognized the shimmering, pale green liquid inside.
Essence of Dittany.
Hermione's breath caught. It was barely a few drops, but here—trapped in this cell, bleeding and broken—it was a lifeline. The tiny vial could mean the difference between infection and survival.
Draco unscrewed the top and soaked the smallest corner of one of his cloth strips. He pressed it to a deep cut on his arm, gritting his teeth against the pain. The wound didn't close completely—it remained raw and angry—but the bleeding slowed, the edges knitting together just enough to form a thin, temporary scab.
He wasn't healing. He was hiding. Hermione understood now. He was using just enough Dittany to keep the wounds from festering, to prevent infection. But not enough to make it look like he'd been treated at all. They would notice if he healed too quickly.
Smart. Practical. As well as unbelievably tragic.
He wrapped the cloth around his arm carefully, then looked up, meeting her gaze. There was something defiant in his eyes, a challenge, as if daring her to ask why he was doing this.
But Hermione didn't speak. Instead, she held out one of her makeshift bandages.
Draco blinked, then wordlessly dipped it into the vial, just enough to dampen the fabric. He passed it back to her, the movement deliberate.
Hermione took the cloth, her heart pounding. Slowly, she lifted her arm, staring down at the dark, jagged letters carved into her skin. Mudblood. The word was still raw, the cuts deep and inflamed. Her hand shook as she pressed the cloth to the wounds, hissing softly as the Dittany burned, then cooled. The pain receded slightly, the skin knitting just enough to stop the worst of the bleeding.
The letters remained. They would always remain.
Hermione wrapped the cloth around her arm, hiding the hateful word. When she looked up, Draco was watching her, his expression guarded, wary. But beneath that, there was something else. Something almost like…
Understanding.
She nodded once, a silent acknowledgment. Draco hesitated, then dipped his head in the barest of nods, a flicker of something that might have been respect in his gaze.
In this dark, miserable place, surrounded by pain and fear, they had found a fragile, unspoken truce.
It was enough. For now, it was enough.
Without another word, Draco tucked the vial back under his pillow and turned away, curling up on his side, his back to her. Hermione settled onto her own cot, her arm throbbing, but no longer bleeding.
In the silence that followed, they didn't speak. But in that silence, something shifted—something that made the darkness just a little less suffocating.
For a few moments, they were not alone.