HEALING THE WOUNDS
By SnarkyWench
WARNING: Post-HBP fic… read at your own risk!
DISCLAIMER: Not mine… not even close. Harry Potter and his wizarding world belong to the great JKR. I’m merely playing with them a little… I promise to send them home safe and sound.
A/N: This started as a response to the Quiet Ones Weekly Challenge #27, and I’ve actually got four of the five elements of the challenge in the fic (an animal, scars, a basket and rain) but then it took off on its own before I could catch it and here we are, eighty-seven pages later… oh, well. I do love challenges.
As always, my heartfelt thanks to Bambu, for putting up with all the hand-holding and thumb-sucking and other juvenile neediness that we authors exhibit from time to time. She’s a most indulgent beta, and a most encouraging friend.
For spitfirecrackre…
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Hermione Granger snuggled deeper into the comforting squashy-ness of the overstuffed chair, a hot mug of tea in one hand and a trashy Muggle romance novel spread on her lap. The icy rain beat a steady, staccato rhythm on the roof of her small cottage, sheeting as it pelted the leaded glass of the windows and making her more than pleased that she was securely indoors on a horrid night such as this. Friday evenings usually found her relaxing, enjoying an after-work drink with Harry, Ron or Ginny at the Three Broomsticks, but she’d decided to Apparate straight home tonight, the weather forecast giving her ample reason to decline the standing invitation. She tilted her head to listen to the bone-chilling wind as it assaulted the exterior of her home, trying valiantly to find a crack or crevice to infiltrate. It failed in its attempt, opposed as it was by the strongest and most clever meteorological defense charms available. Smiling a self-satisfied smile, she pulled a quilt down off the back of the chair to drape across her flannel-clad knees and settled in for a night of pleasure reading.
Inherited from a paternal aunt with a penchant for isolation, Hermione’s cottage sat like a solitary sentinel on a bluff overlooking the ragged, surf-ravaged Scottish coastline. In the fall and winter, storms battered the little house, and bitter cold enveloped it in its icy embrace. But in the spring and summer, when the grey pallor of winter finally receded, the bright blooms of wildflowers and blossoms of every kind and color kaleidoscoped across the land as far as the eye could see. The cottage was only a half-mile outside the closest village, and despite the bleakness that others saw, Hermione was content to call this place her home.
The war had ended several years prior, with Harry defeating Voldemort in a rather flashy and extremely daring test of fate that took the combined efforts of quite a few magical folk to pull off. The Order had lost relatively few lives, but the Death Eaters, in their overzealousness, had become careless and lost far more to the wands of Dumbledore’s Army than they would have had they showed wisdom and restraint. The Wizarding War Crimes Tribunal had been convened immediately thereafter, and dozens and dozens of surviving Death Eaters and Voldemort sympathizers had been sentenced to a newly refurbished Azkaban, where they would live out their days paying penance for their misdeeds.
In the flurry of trials that had taken place immediately following the war, the one that had interested Hermione the most was the one involving her former Potions master, Severus Snape, and his Slytherin student, Draco Malfoy. Charged with the death of Albus Dumbledore, Snape and Malfoy had been tried in absentia and almost convicted… but for one testimony that turned the entire Wizengamot on its ear…
Harry Potter’s.
Dumbledore had left instructions with Minerva McGonagall that, upon the defeat of Voldemort, Harry was to inherit Dumbledore’s Pensieve, granting him answers to all his as-yet-unanswered questions, something the venerable old wizard had known plagued Harry since he’d been a reed-thin wisp of a boy living in a cupboard under the stairs. Desperate to understand why his life had never truly been his own, Harry had called Hermione to come sit with him while he’d plunged headlong into Dumbledore’s remembrances. While wading through decades of Pensieved recollections, Harry had discovered a memory of Dumbledore arguing with Snape, less than a month before he died, demanding that Snape take the onus of murder off Malfoy, and assume the mantle himself. Snape had resisted and Dumbledore had called in a very old life-debt, giving Snape no other choice but to agree.
Harry had been so stunned at Dumbledore’s request that, despite his loathing of both Snape and Malfoy, he hadn’t, in all good conscience, seen fit to allow such a gross miscarriage of justice as their conviction to occur. He’d brought both Dumbledore’s memory of the argument with Snape, and his own personal recollection of Malfoy’s dialogue with Dumbledore in the tower, where he’d confessed that he’d been blackmailed into submission, to the attention of the Wizengamot. Snape and Malfoy had been acquitted, based on Harry’s testimony, and the entire Order had breathed a sigh of relief that their confidence in the Potions master-turned-spy hadn’t been misplaced. Unfortunately, the pair had disappeared immediately after Dumbledore’s death and they’d remained untraceable, and therefore believed ignorant of the trial and its outcome. The Daily Prophet had run huge ads for weeks, on the off chance that they might read about their freedom, but nothing was ever heard from them. Many still speculated as to whether they had even survived, hunted down by those who’d once considered them loyal.
Hermione had spent that time immediately after victory at the Burrow, basking in the relief that the war was finally over and trying to decide what it was that she wished to do with the rest of her life. Freedom from fear and the overwhelming burden of responsibility had left the three friends intoxicated with the possibilities. Yet one possibility, the possibility that she and Ron would someday act on their attraction and find happiness in each other’s arms, would never come to fruition. In the heady euphoria following the aftermath of battle, they’d embraced in victory and initiated a kiss in friendship. When the kiss had deepened and become more passionate, they’d given in, allowing themselves the luxury of finally expressing their innermost feelings.
Unfortunately, the heat of the moment had eventually cooled, and weeks of living together under the same roof, with nothing pressing to occupy their time except exploring career choices and fending off meddlesome reporters had left their friendship strained and their romance practically non-existent. Harry had given them wide berth, thinking that they’d wanted some time alone, but his absence had only compounded the problems, for, left to their own devices, Ron and Hermione had descended into constant bickering. Unable to find common ground without Harry as their central stabilizing force, they’d come to the painful realization that it’d be much better for all concerned if they merely remained friends. Harry and Ron had then been called upon to help with the Death Eater problem, and shortly after, Ron had met a pretty little witch named Liza at a charity event whom he’d fallen head-over-heels in love with and had married within a matter of months. They now lived in a huge house not far from the Burrow, with one child and another on the way.
Hermione had no regrets.
After much internal debate, she’d finally settled on a career in healing, as she was inclined to be extremely good with spells and potions, and after having taken so many lives in battle, she wanted to utilize her talents saving them. So, she’d set about learning all that St. Mungo’s had to offer. In the meantime, she’d been given access to Snape’s private lab to work on research, as Minerva hadn’t had the heart to dismantle it. And she’d inherited the cottage, which she’d promptly and eagerly moved into, amid protests from the boys that she shouldn’t be all alone up in the great brutal north, away from friends and family. But truth be told, Hermione liked the seclusion, especially after a long week at work. Over the last several months, she’d managed to expand the cottage to include an underground lab, and she’d ‘borrowed’ Snape’s personal brewing equipment, with Minerva’s blessing, of course, until she could afford to get supplies of her own.
Hermione had never considered herself overly sentimental, or prone to excessive daydreaming, yet she found that, when she was in the cellar lab, she often caught herself wondering whether the duo were in some far-off country, assimilating themselves into local culture so as not to be found, utilizing all of Snape’s espionage skills and all of Malfoy’s assets to maintain their cover.
And she’d realized last week, much to her surprise, that she missed them.
Hermione pulled her gaze from the crackling fire and sighed. She did miss them… both of them. She’d always respected Professor Snape, even though she didn’t agree with his teaching methods, having borne the brunt of his ire in the classroom on far too many occasions. But he was an Order member, and the times he’d saved Harry’s life had been too numerous to just simply ignore. Despite his anti-social tendencies, she’d long ago decided that there was something else… something well hidden and more complex… under that surly exterior, otherwise Dumbledore, and Snape’s Slytherins, wouldn’t have been so fond of him.
Malfoy was another matter altogether.
Loathe to admit that she’d found her arch-nemesis the least bit attractive, Hermione missed him in ways that she never would’ve believed possible if she hadn’t experience them for herself. She missed their battle of wills, for his wit was sharp, even though he’d often failed to use the intelligence that had been gifted him at birth. In truth, he’d been one of the few souls at Hogwarts whom she’d even considered an academic rival, although he’d allowed reliance on his name, and the lazy arrogance and mean-spirited manipulation exhibited by those in his social position, to erode his standing. His had been a constant, steady presence… no matter what, she’d always been able to count on having Malfoy turn up at precisely the wrong moment, spouting his distaste for her parentage for all to hear.
Of course, it was late at night when her dreams would correct the flaws that reality neglected. Deep in slumber, the Malfoy of fantasy would become Draco, who’d dramatically apologize for his lack of consideration, tell her she was smart, and witty, and beautiful, and proceed to do the most incredible things to her body in an effort to prove his repentance. The scenario in those dreams was highly sensual, highly erotic, and highly improbable. Yet it left an indelible impression on her, one that made her think, once she was awake, that perhaps there was still hope for Malfoy. On those occasions, she’d rise the next morning, flushed with arousal, and scan the Prophet for some sign that they’d been found.
It left her torn.
No one knew of her guilty preoccupation with the two Slytherins… despite his testimony, Harry would most likely still consider any preferential treatment to be a betrayal. Ron would rant and rave, and think she was just plain nutters. She had to wonder if Ginny suspected, but she chose not to test that theory, preferring to err on the side of caution so as not to witness any Molly-like tendencies lying dormant in the youngest Weasley, especially given that the red-haired witch considered it her solemn duty to find Hermione a man. And while she appreciated Ginny’s concern, she abhorred being “fixed up” with someone, and did everything she could to dissuade her friend from believing that Hermione’s life was anything less than satisfying because she was alone.
Besides… what flesh-and-blood wizard could compete with her dream Draco?
She had no idea what’d initially triggered the first dream, in the summer following her fifth year of school, while she’d recuperated from Dolohov’s curse at Grimmauld Place. A hint of steel-grey eyes keeping vigil over her had haunted her thoughts, dancing just outside the scope of her conscious recollections and, over time, those eyes had transformed from unnerving to comforting. She’d known that it was merely a fallacy of her imagination that Draco Malfoy would ever prove comforting to her, yet she’d been unable to banish the dreams. Finally, she’d embraced them, molding and shaping her arrogant irritant into the wizard she’d always wished him to be and using him as a means of pleasurable release when the pressures of real life became oppressive.
Sighing again, Hermione forced her mind away from Ginny and Ron, and Snape… and Malfoy. Instead she tried to focus her concentration on her book. She sipped her tea, then sat it on the table beside her before scrunching down even lower into the comforting cushions of the chair. She’d barely read three pages before her eyes began to droop and the words blurred. Toasty warm against the raging storm outside, and lulled by the ticking of the clock and the gentle crackle of the flames, she soon drifted off to sleep.
Moments later, she was roused from slumber as the first layer of the wards protecting her cottage was breached. A telltale, warning her of approaching company, tickled her senses, causing her to stir. Instantly alert, she pushed the book to the floor and crawled out from under the quilt, her wand clutched tightly in her hand. It wasn’t like any of her friends to visit without Flooing her first, as they all had holdover habits from the war, including hexing first, and then asking questions. Both Harry and Ron knew how to lower her wards, yet they’d never done so without seeking her permission first.
When the second layer of wards was dropped from outside, Hermione’s insides clenched in familiar fear.
As the third layer fell, she began to work her way towards the fire, wondering if it was faster to Floo, or try to make her escape out the back.
The fourth layer remained intact.
Several heart-pounding moments passed in which she imagined everyone from an apologetic Neville Longbottom to a resurrected, wrathful Voldemort waiting on the other side of her front door before a knock, loud and rapid, shook her from her frozen stance. Her feet propelled her forward, then retreated back to the fireplace, then marched forward again. Spurred on by the fact that it quite possibly could be one of her friends, and they could be in trouble, Hermione tossed aside all cautionary warnings her logic threw at her. Her decision made, she took a deep breath, then yanked the door open, wand held at the ready. Backlit by the dancing firelight behind her, she caught a flash of white-blond as the visitor rasped, “Granger,” before collapsing in a heap at her feet.
MALFOY??
Cursing under her breath, Hermione waved her wand, whispering “Mobilicorpus,” and guided the rain-soaked body across the threshold so she could bolt the door against the storm. Once shut, she leaned against it, panting with the strain, and stared at the man sprawled on her floor where she’d lowered him. She blinked several times, finding it hard to believe that the arrogant prat she’d just been contemplating was now here, in her cottage, as if summoned by her very thoughts.
And he was shivering.
Coming to her senses, she knelt beside him. Her hand moved toward him, hesitated, then brushed the long, limp hair off his face. She stilled when the raspy voice croaked, “Miss your cat, Granger, or have you always wanted to pet me?”
She withdrew her hand quickly, her cheeks flaming. “Malfoy, what are you doing here?”
“I came for tea.”
“How did you get through my wards?”
A muffled snort preceded his retort. “Filch could’ve gotten through those wards.”
It was a tired tactic, attacking her abilities, yet it accomplished its task… Hermione’s eyes narrowed in irritation. It was late, she was tired, and she wasn’t in the mood for a game of verbal warfare. “What do you want?”
“The gentle hospitality of a kind soul,” he replied overdramatically.
“And you came to my door for that?”
He didn’t answer, and Hermione pursed her lips as he tried to raise himself up on his elbows, his arms shaking with the strain. Lifting his head, the candlelight revealed the fatigue that darkened the pale skin around his eyes, and he groaned while struggling to his knees. He sat back on his heels, and his hands left trails of red as they scrubbed at his face.
Red?
Blood!
Her irritation forgotten, she clutched at his sleeve. “Are you hurt?”
Malfoy appeared to consider her question for a moment, dazed, until his eyes widened with clarity. His taunting rasp became desperate with panicked pleading. “Severus… I left him… he’s ill… injured… You have to help.”
“Where is he? Why didn’t you just bring him here?”
Malfoy’s face contorted in pain as he shifted to sit, his back leaning against the wall. “Couldn’t. Only his wand… nasty little bit of wood. Didn’t trust myself to Apparate us both.”
Hermione stood and, with a flick of her wrist, changed from her pajamas to jeans and a heavy wool jumper. Turning and grabbing her cloak off the coat rack, she repeated, “Where is he?”
“Barn at this end of the village.”
“Small stone one… one horse?”
Malfoy nodded.
“All right… you stay here. I’ll go get him.”
She didn’t wait for a reply. Dropping the last layer of wards on her cottage, and ignoring the small voice in the back of her mind that chanted, ‘It could be a trap,’ Hermione concentrated on the barn in question and disappeared with a soft pop.
She reappeared seconds later inside the dark barn. Igniting her wand, she gave her eyes a moment to adjust to the dim light, inhaling deeply as the smells of hay and horse filled her nostrils. Hermione glanced nervously around, relieved to note that there appeared to be no squad of Death Eaters awaiting her. Picking her way carefully to the nearest stall, she sidestepped tools and equipment, only to find the stall empty when she peered around the corner. Scanning the interior of the barn, she was about to make her way to the next stall when she heard the ragged breathing and low moan of someone in pain. Turning, she stepped silently in the opposite direction, towards the only occupied stall in the barn. Rory, a beautiful palomino who’d been imported from America and was a legend in the village, whinnied his greeting at her as she stuck her head around the stall door and pointed her wand into the dark corner, made darker by the black-clad shape coiled within its depths.
Snape.
Inhaling sharply in surprise, Hermione placed a gentle hand on his shoulder. “Professor?”
The tall wizard groaned in acknowledgement, then stilled. His breathing was shallow, and Hermione’s hand wandered to his forehead, which was burning with a raging fever.
“Professor Snape?”
Realizing that he was now unconscious, Hermione needed to move quickly. Although Rory was as tame as any horse could be, she wasn’t sure how generous he’d be with sharing his stall indefinitely, and the only way that she was going to be able to determine what was wrong with Snape was to get him back to her cottage and her lab.
Sitting down beside Snape, she lifted his head and shoulders, sliding underneath him until his upper body rested firmly in her lap. It took some effort, as he was a large man, yet she didn’t want to use excess magic on him until she’d discovered the extent and nature of his injuries. Wrapping her arms around his shoulders and pressing her cheek to his, she lifted her wand and Apparated them straight onto the sitting room floor of her home.
“My, don’t you two make a cozy picture?”
Hermione opened her eyes to find Malfoy, still drenched and bedraggled, wrapped up in her quilt, sipping her tea and paging through her book. “How can you read this garbage, Granger? ‘A shiver skittered up her spine when she envisioned them revisiting the pleasures they’d shared that night, only this time by the light of the golden sunrise. How she yearned to feast her eyes on the lean, muscular, sea-hardened body of the pirate captain.’ Puh-leez!” He rolled his eyes as he closed the book and tossed it onto the table.
“I’m not sure that now is a good time to discuss my literary tastes,” she scolded testily as she slid out from underneath the unconscious wizard and shed her cloak. She was a bit taken aback at Malfoy’s casual attitude, yet a second glance at his face revealed red-rimmed eyes and a carefully manufactured façade of indifference, and she had no doubt that the familiar, orchestrated routine was merely protection… he was weary and most likely terrified, something she was sure he’d be uncomfortable admitting, especially to her. “Care to tell me what happened?”
Malfoy leaned his head back against the chair and closed his eyes. “Greyback, that’s what happened.”
Hermione’s eyes widened and she swung her head around to study her pale visitor. “Greyback? I thought he was killed in the battle at Loch Rannoch.” Her voice was clipped, her tone sharp.
“Apparently, you were wrong.” Malfoy lifted his head and leveled his gaze at her. “He was seeking retribution against Severus, for being a traitor to the cause, as he put it. Although, I doubt very much that he ever needed any provocation to seek human flesh.”
“Where is he now?” She made a mental note to herself to reset the wards as soon as she was done examining Snape.
“He’s dead this time.” Malfoy closed his eyes and shuddered, a curl of revulsion to his lip. “I made sure.”
Hermione turned back to Snape and rolled him gently onto his back, then unclasped his cloak and pushed it aside before starting to undo the buttons on his coat. “I’m asking you again… mind telling me what happened?”
“Will it get you to be quiet so I can sleep?”
“Probably not, but there’s always a chance.”
“Fine,” he groused. “It was an ambush. We’d returned to England in hopes of finding out what had happened to Mother. She wasn’t included in any of the publicized lists of people jailed for their association with the Dark Lord, and I hadn’t heard anything as to her whereabouts.” He shifted, sinking deeper into the chair and toeing his shoes off, then placing his wet, sock-clad feet up on her footstool. “We’d heard a rumor that she’d been placed under house arrest in the Summer Isles, so we decided to make our way there on foot, hoping not to be noticed.”
“But you were noticed anyway.”
“We got as far as Eilean Donan Castle… he’d been waiting for us… we’d just crossed the bridge and were about ten meters from the bastion when he attacked. Bloody hell,” Malfoy swore, his breathing becoming shallow. “He was all over us. The moon had gone behind the clouds, and it had just started to rain. Severus was in the lead, and he’d turned around to tell me something… what, I don’t know… when Greyback leaped right onto him… sunk his claws into his back. Severus managed to reach back and throw him off, but Greyback was on him again in a split second. I could hear him growling and ranting about getting even, and Severus being a traitor, but I couldn’t get a clear shot at him because they were wrestling around on the ground. Finally, Severus threw him off again and I managed to fire off a few hexes before he came after me. Damn, he was fast. His teeth were centimeters from my neck… laughed that biting me would be the perfect revenge.”
“How did you kill him?” Hermione’s voice was breathless as she was caught up in the tale, all the while struggling to remove Snape’s boots.
“Would you believe I actually paid attention in Transfiguration once in a while?” he scoffed. “I ducked out of his grasp, and managed to change my wand into a silver dagger, which I plunged right between that bastard’s ribs. Unfortunately, the handle broke off as he tried to pull it out… I can still hear his unearthly screams in my ears. I don’t think I’ll ever forget the look on his face… teeth bared… eyes red… fangs dripping…UGH!” Malfoy shuddered again.
Hermione remained silent, contemplating the fact that Malfoy, who hadn’t been able to kill Dumbledore in cold blood, had taken the life of the notorious werewolf, defending himself and Snape, and placing him in the same category as she placed herself – killers by necessity and not by choice. She was wondering whether this had been his first, or only one of many, when suddenly the last thing Malfoy had said registered. “Fangs dripping? With what?” Hermione’s questions were rushed and anxious as she undid Snape’s trousers.
“Saliva… drool… spit… don’t worry, Granger. He didn’t bite either one of us. We aren’t going to transform and chomp on your pretty little neck for dessert.”
“What a relief,” she countered, “I much prefer being an appetizer.”
Malfoy opened one eye and drawled, “I would’ve thought, being a Gryffindor, that you’d insist on being the main course.” He suddenly opened both eyes as he watched her try to pull Snape’s trousers off his legs. “Would you like me to leave you two alone?”
‘No, thanks… I work better with an audience,” she replied distractedly as she slid the contrary fabric down past the unconscious wizard’s hips.
“Humph,” he rolled his eyes. “It’s always the quiet ones with the kinky fetishes. If I may make a suggestion?”
She paused, tilting her head to look at him, not expecting the next words he uttered to come out of his mouth with such misleading ease.
“You’re a witch… why don’t you just charm his clothes off?”
A witch? Since when did he ever consider her higher than pond scum? Reluctantly filing that reference away for enlightenment during a future conversation, she explained, “I don’t want to use magic on him until I determine the extent of his injuries.”
Sighing dramatically, Malfoy threw the quilt off and winced as he rose with great effort, then walked around them and with a grimace, dropped to his knees beside Snape. Together, they made short work of stripping the wet coat from his body and maneuvering his arms out of his shirt sleeves. Once they had him undressed, they rolled him onto his stomach again, giving Hermione an unobstructed view of the damage the vengeful werewolf had done.
As she carefully peeled the shirt, saturated with congealing blood, from Snape’s back, she tried not to let her revulsion show, but her stomach clenched and she couldn’t keep from flinching at the sight of the painfully mangled flesh.
Malfoy ran his hand over his face, which had paled even further as he took in the true extent of his compatriot’s injuries. “Damn it… I didn’t… Merlin, I didn’t know it was this bad.”
“He’s lost a lot of blood.” Hermione slid into her no-nonsense Healer mode, as much to keep from screaming herself silly as to accomplish the task at hand. “I’ll need some Wound Cleaning Potion, and some Blood Replenishing Potion. Some Bruise-Healing Paste wouldn’t be amiss, either. They’re downstairs in my lab, in the closet, all clearly marked. Stairway is through the door in the kitchen. Think you can handle that?”
Malfoy nodded mechanically, then laid a hand gently on Snape’s head and whispered something she couldn’t hear before rising to retrieve the medicines she’d requested.
“Now, we’re finally alone, Professor,” she chatted conspiratorially, trying hard to keep herself focused and keep things light, just in case he could hear and comprehend what was going on around him. “You’d have thought after all these years you’d know better than to play with a stray… see what happens when you don’t follow basic safety rules?”
She pulled out her wand, then placed a circle of enchanted candles around them, bathing them in golden light. “That’s better,” she noted. “Now, let’s just see what kind of scratches you have, shall we?”
Holding her wand aloft over his back, she muttered, “Comperio.” The wand tip began to glow a bright blue, and she passed it over his entire body slowly, bathing him in light the color of a robin’s egg. Malfoy returned, clutching several vials, just as she reached Snape’s feet and extinguished the spell.
“Well, what’s the verdict?” he asked anxiously.
Hermione gave him a half-smile. “Better than I expected. There’s no sign of any poison, or venom, or werewolf toxin. And it appears that his back is the only place that Greyback marked him.”
Malfoy expelled a breath in obvious relief, as he stood beside her. “Are you sure?”
“Yes, Malfoy,” she snapped.
“Good. Why’s he unconscious?”
Hermione raised her eyes to his and gave him her best ‘Are You an Idiot?’ look. “I would imagine the pain of having the skin of one’s entire back stripped from one’s body might cause one to pass out.”
“Sorry,” he muttered, handing her the vials. Instead of retreating to the chair and her quilt, he stiffly sank down on the opposite side of Snape, crossing his legs and resting his elbows on his knees, chin in his hands.
Hermione remained motionless, watching him resume his place on the floor with her eyes wide and her jaw lax. His apology had rolled off his tongue so easily, as easily as calling her a witch, and he’d seemed completely oblivious to it, but Hermione was fully aware that this was the first time he’d ever, in the whole time she’d known him, apologized to her for anything. She wanted to pinch herself to see if she was awake or dreaming, but a faint moan from Snape brought her back to the task at hand.
As she opened the Wound Cleaning Potion and began to pour it over the exposed muscle, Hermione asked, “Out of curiosity, Malfoy, where have you two been all this time?”
“Why… miss me?”
Hermione focused on her task, willing herself not to blush. “Actually, I missed Professor Snape. He’s brilliant at potions, and I could’ve used his expertise on numerous occasions.”
She almost chuckled at Malfoy’s scowl, knowing he didn’t like being second-best to anyone, even if it was on her list. However, he shrugged and replied, “Severus and I have been exploring the world. Tiny towns, out-of-the-way holes-in-the-wall… you name it, we’ve been there. At the time we left, the Ministry had frozen the assets in both the Malfoy and Black accounts. They didn’t know about the DuPre one, though.” At Hermione’s unspoken question, he added, “Madame Marie DuPre was my paternal great-grandmother, who left all her worldly goods to me. We’ve managed to live off that quite nicely. No lap of luxury or anything, mind you, but we weren’t eating beans from a tin, either.”
As she finished cleaning the wound, she cocked her head and gave him an assessing look. “What?” he asked irritably.
“I’m just trying to picture you eating anything from a tin.”
“You’ve become an expert on my eating habits?”
Hermione pursed her lips and glared. “After six years spent sitting across from you in the Great Hall, there isn’t too much left to the imagination.”
“Believe me, Granger, watching me tuck in over bangers and mash or the occasional lamb chop doesn’t make you an expert on all things Malfoy.”
“I never said it did. I was merely pointing out…”
“You were merely pointing out,” he interrupted, “that you think you know me well enough to surmise that I would never, ever stoop so low as to eat from a tin. Allow me to point out that what you saw in the Great Hall, what you saw in classes, what you saw at Hogwarts and on the train, period, doesn’t even begin to scratch the surface of who I really am.”
“In that case, Malfoy, I’m compelled to ask… were you putting your best face forward then?”
Malfoy left the question hang in the air while he just stared at her, his grey eyes crinkling at the sides, giving her the distinct impression that he was trying not to smirk. Although he forced his expression to remain neutral, she could see an underlying layer of fatigue, which probably accounted for the relative ease of their encounter so far. Malfoy just wasn’t up to snuff right now.
Satisfied that the shredded flesh on Snape’s back was clean and free of all debris, Hermione raised her wand again and began to mend the torn skin. Malfoy watched, mesmerized, as she moved her wand slowly and methodically, occasionally whispering “Curatio,” leaving newly-knitted scar tissue in its wake.
“You’re healing him,” he observed, his voice holding just a hint of awe. “I thought werewolf wounds couldn’t be healed.”
“Usually they can’t,” Hermione agreed, her eyes never leaving Snape’s back as she continued to work. “After Fenrir mauled Bill Weasley, Madame Pomfrey wasn’t able to heal his wounds completely. But Bill had been bitten… Professor Snape was only gouged by Greyback’s claws, and my diagnostic spell revealed that there was no saliva present in any of the open lacerations.”
“Then he’ll be all right?”
“There may be some scarring I can’t completely eliminate, but it certainly won’t be any worse than anything Voldemort inflicted on him.”
After almost an hour, when she’d finally finished, she traced her fingertips gently over the pink trails. “I’ll use some Murtlap Essence tomorrow, once they’re less sensitive.”
“How are you going to get him to drink the Blood Replenishing Potion if he’s unconscious?”
Without answering him directly, Hermione pointed her wand at Snape again and said, “Ennervate.” When the former Potions master began to stir, she lowered her head so that he could see her when he opened his eyes. “Professor?”
“Uhhnnn…” Snape groaned, his deep baritone gravelly from abuse. “Miss Granger… please tell me I haven’t died and this is someone’s idea of hell.”
Hermione chuckled, relief bringing a smile to her lips. “Excellent… good as new.” She waved the vial in front of his face. “I have a nasty potion for you to drink.”
Slowly raising himself up on one elbow, he took the vial from her and downed it in one swallow, his face contorting into a horrible grimace as the aftertaste settled in. “Revenge is sweet, eh, Miss Granger?” he spat, smacking his lips. His eyes scanned his surroundings. “How did I get here? Last thing I remember, some horse was intent on making me his mate.”
Hermione snorted. “Rory’s very friendly, but not that friendly. Besides, I really don’t think you’re his type… and I brought you here. How do you feel?”
“Like I have just been mauled by a werewolf. How do you think I feel?” A look bordering on terror crossed his face. “Did he…?”
She shook her head and laid her hand on his arm reassuringly. “No, he didn’t.”
Snape visibly relaxed. He then looked down at his bare chest and asked, his voice tense, “Where are my clothes?”
Malfoy piped up, “Count yourself lucky that I was here, or she might have had you completely starkers.” Rising, he retrieved Snape’s shirt and held it out to Hermione, who Reparo’d it instantly, then Scourgify’d it and offered it to the wizard glaring balefully at her from his position on the floor.
“Would you like some help getting settled?”
Two sets of hands helped him stand, then assisted him in donning the shirt, although Hermione wouldn’t allow him to button it. When Snape reached for his trousers, she pointed out that it would be better for his back if he slept on his stomach with no restrictive clothing of any kind, such as trousers with a waistband, to interfere with the healing process. Reluctantly agreeing, he stretched out on her sofa, transfigured into an extra-long daybed, and promptly fell asleep.
It was then that Hermione got a good look at an equally exhausted Malfoy.
Extinguishing the candles overhead, she ordered, “Grab the Bruise Healing Paste and come on in the kitchen. I need some tea.”
Malfoy dutifully followed her, his wet socks squishing as he walked and leaving footprints on her hardwood floor. Hermione had expected him to protest, to rant and rail at her for ordering him about. But he remained silent until she turned around. Standing just inside her kitchen doorway, arms out to the side, he asked, “Do you think you might be able to dry me off before I catch my death?”
With a flick of her wand, he was no longer dripping. “Dry clothes won’t be enough,” she told him, sounding far more confident than she felt. “You’re chilled to the bone. Why don’t you go upstairs and take a hot shower while I make the tea? Have you eaten?”
“No, not since breakfast.”
Nodding, she pointed to the stairs. “Go on. There should be clean clothes in the trunk on the landing that will fit you. I’ll have something ready in ten minutes.” Without another word, she turned to canvass her refrigerator for ingredients.
She smiled to herself as a muttered, “Bossy cow,” drifted down the stairs.
As she set to work making Malfoy an omelet, Hermione tried her very best to forget the fact that he was upstairs, in her bathroom, in her shower… naked. But she was having a hard time of it, seeing that her most recent erotic dream had involved him in that same shower, and her helping to reach the places he couldn’t. Despite his bedraggled condition upon arriving on her doorstep, he’d still looked every bit as handsome as he’d looked in school, still carried himself with that aristocratic bearing and confident step that commanded attention. His hair was longer, his eyes greyer, his…
Enough.
As she cracked the eggs, she gave herself a stern talking to. ‘Really, Granger, lusting after someone who’s done nothing but make your life miserable ever since you met him? Like any good could ever come of it… You’re just lonely, that’s all. Need a good shag and all that. But certainly not with someone who’s wished you ill… even if he is being nice. And him in such a frightful condition, with Professor Snape lying injured in the next room. For shame…’
Over the course of the next ten minutes, she’d almost managed to convince herself of the impropriety of Malfoy as a romantic pursuit, let alone the improbability, when she heard him descend the stairs. Turning, she all but dropped his plate of eggs as the laughter bubbled up inside her and threatened to burst forth.
“If you so much as snicker… PLEASE tell me these are not Potter’s.”
Malfoy stood before her, his angular features decidedly cross, his shoulder-length platinum hair damp and finger-combed back off his face, his feet bare… wearing an oversized Chudley Cannons sweatshirt and a pair of too-tight Quidditch pants that came to just above his ankles.
“Oh, no,” she teased, “the sweatshirt is Ron’s.”
“Bloody fucking wonderful,” he said as he planted his hands on his hips. “If you even think of telling a single, solitary soul about this…”
Unable to contain her laughter any longer, Hermione sputtered, “Where’s Colin Creevey when you need him?” before collapsing against the counter and wiping the tears from her eyes with her sleeve.
Looking extremely put out, Malfoy stalked over and snatched the plate out of her grasp. “Gryffindors,” he muttered before sitting down at the table. “I’ll probably catch some stupid disease that’ll make me…”
“Brave?”
He glared. “Impetuous.” He sounded every bit the little boy she knew from school, yet on the grown man in front of her, it was almost comical.
“You’re not exactly patient by nature, you know,” she pointed out, sobering a little.
“I’m surprised at you, Granger. Patient isn’t the opposite of impetuous… calculating, cautious, measured…”
“When did you become such a literati?”
He stuck a forkful of egg in his mouth. “I’ve always liked words… I just… never mind.”
“I never would’ve guessed that about you.”
“You never bothered to find out, either” he accused, a hint of petulance tainting his tone.
“Would you have let me?” she asked, equally petulant.
“Probably not… then.”
“And now?”
He merely shrugged and continued to eat.
The whistle of the teakettle interrupted them, and Hermione poured them each a cup of tea, then took a seat across the table from her guest. “Tell me something, Malfoy… why me?”
“Why you, what?”
“In all of Britain, why did you come to me for help? I would’ve thought you’d sooner cut off your wand arm than ask me for anything.” She averted her eyes, staring into the cup of swirling Darjeeling, waiting for his answer and wondering what possible excuse he would come up with.
Malfoy placed his fork on his plate with a clank, then pushed the plate away and leaned his forearms on the table. “Two… no, three reasons… first, I’ve learned a great deal while being out on my own in the big, bad world, hiding out in both the Muggle and Wizarding worlds, not the least of which being that prejudices are usually founded on fear more than fact. Take the purebloods’ prejudice about Muggles, for example. I’d been taught, as was befitting family tradition, that Muggles were lowly creatures who were beneath my notice.” He ignored her scowl. “But truth is, centuries ago, my family, like other witches and wizards of their age, grew to fear Muggles because of the divergent paths they’d taken. You’ve read Hogwarts: A History. You know that the reason Hogwarts was founded was so that magical folk could separate themselves from the Muggle world. Salazar Slytherin hated Muggles, but it was fear that forged that hatred.”
He took a long drink of his tea before continuing. “Imagine my surprise when I discovered that the man who’d been my father’s friend since before I was born, who’d dined at our table more times than I could count, who’d been the head of Slytherin and who’d pledged his life to protect me was a half-blood. That little revelation turned my whole world upside down. Did it make me respect him any less? No, actually it made me take a good hard look at what I truly believed and why I believed it.”
“And what did you see?” she whispered, afraid to ask yet unable to hold her tongue.
A hint of a self-deprecating smile tugged at one corner of his mouth. “That I’d been blind, and deaf, and more than a little single-minded.” The blond’s head dropped and he studied his hands. “It’s also very eye-opening to be the object of prejudice. My father made himself the prolocutor of pureblood ideology, and because of the rigid indoctrination I underwent as a child, in addition to the fact that I practically worshipped the ground that he walked on, I saw myself as the next generation of aristocratic demagogues… following in his footsteps. Severus helped me to see how my father wasn’t a very good role model, even though he was a terrific father.”
Malfoy leaned back in his chair. “It’s been within the last few years, while moving about in secret, hiding my identity, that I discovered exactly what being a Malfoy meant.” His expression turned pained. “People didn’t respect us, they feared us. They didn’t envy us, they mistrusted us. I wanted to scream at them, tell them how it really was, how unfair they were being, that they didn’t really know us. How could they judge ME? They didn’t even know me.” He sighed heavily. “Just like I didn’t know anything about Muggles, or Muggle-borns or half-bloods.” His eyes sought hers. “Or you.”
She narrowed her eyes at him, even as the butterflies in her stomach began to flutter their wings. “Are you saying you want to get to know me better?”
His delighted smirk made the wings flutter more rapidly. “Like you, Miss Granger, I’ve made some observations over the years… observations which mean I’m not completely without insight into what makes you tick.”
“Re-e-ally?” she asked coyly. “So I’m all books and studying, am I?”
His eyes drifted to the stack of books on the corner of the table and she blushed. Capturing her gaze again, he teased, “Well, I wouldn’t say all books… I’m sure there’s much more under that bookworm façade than meets the eye.”
“Bookworm?” she challenged indignantly.
“Well-read, then.”
The heat in her cheeks dissipated and Hermione felt something very much akin to hope swelling in her chest. “Does this mean you’re not going to call me a Mudblood anymore?”
Malfoy’s head dipped as he composed his answer, and he stared at his hands for a moment before lifting his eyes to hers. “For what it’s worth, Granger, I’m sorry.” His voice was low and soft, and even though she’d never considered using ‘Malfoy’ and ‘sincere’ in the same sentence before, she instinctively knew that, in this, he was completely honest.
Completely caught off guard by his apology, Hermione couldn’t help smiling in acceptance, and she laughed outright when he said, “Just don’t expect me to go all sugary, all right? I’m not going to ring up Potter and ask him to the cinema or anything.”
“The thought never crossed my mind.” She drained the last of her tea, not even bothering to ask how Malfoy knew about the cinema. “What was the second reason?”
He shifted uncomfortably in his chair. “Because of who you are.”
“A Muggle-born?”
Malfoy shook his head. “Not what you are, who you are, Granger. You annoyed the hell out of me for years… that was common knowledge. What no one else knew was how much you fascinated me.”
Hermione’s eyebrows shot up in surprise. “Me? Fascinate YOU?”
“Of course, you did. You were everything a Muggle-born wasn’t supposed to be, and everything I should’ve been. Top of the class, magically talented, pretty, popular with the teachers, best friend of the most famous wizard alive. I may have had money and a pedigree as long as your arm, but you had influence I could only salivate over. And somehow I knew you wouldn’t turn us… me… away.”
Hermione leaned back in her chair, stunned at Malfoy’s revelation. That he would find her fascinating was mind-bending enough, but to be told that he coveted her influence was almost too much for her to wrap her thoughts around.
Wait… he thought she was pretty?
“I have a confession to make,” he continued sheepishly. “You remember the night my father was arrested in the Department of Mysteries? Of course, you do… you were there. After I’d learned of my father’s incarceration, I went to the infirmary… to see you… I was angry and resentful, and I don’t think I hated you more than I did that moment when I stood outside those infirmary doors and pushed them open.”
Hermione’s stomach clenched at the bitter tone in Malfoy’s voice and she squared her shoulders defensively. Before she could comment however, his voice dropped in volume and timber, and she had to remain still in order to catch everything he said.
“And then I walked through those doors and everything changed. You lay in that bed, so pale, with your hair spread out on the pillow. I wasn’t sure what was wrong with you at first. I knew you’d been cursed and I’d come to gloat, to laugh at what Dolohov had done to you, and in my anger over my father, I thought to maybe even finish the job he’d started.”
The blood in Hermione’s veins chilled and she stared at a point past Malfoy’s shoulder, unable to look at him, yet unwilling to halt his confession, either.
“No one was around… your parents had left with Dumbledore, and Weasel’s parents had forced Potter to go with them to get something to eat. I… I lifted the sheet.” A flush colored his cheeks but he pressed on. “When I saw what he’d done to you… He’d really cursed you. He’d intended to kill you. Suddenly it wasn’t a game anymore. It wasn’t what I’d thought it was at all. To know that you were home on holiday, or in some other part of the country and unable to annoy me was one thing… to imagine you gone forever, killed…” He stopped and shook his head. “It was a defining moment for me, Granger. I was fifteen years old, and it was the first time I’d ever second guessed my father… the first time I’d ever given any thought to exactly why I hated you. So, instead of yelling at you or jinxing you, I sat beside you, just watching you, until I heard Potter coming back.”
Sudden comprehension dawned as Hermione remembered the steel-grey eyes keeping vigil over her in her dreams.
Malfoy ran a hand over his eyes. “When I stood at the top of the Astronomy Tower, my wand pointing right at Dumbledore’s chest, all I could see was you, lying in that infirmary bed, and I knew that no matter what the Dark Lord held over my head, I’d never be able to kill… not like that.” His eyes finally lifted to meet hers. “So, I guess, in a way, you saved me almost as much as Severus did.”
“Then Dolohov’s curse was worth it,” she whispered softly.
Malfoy visibly swallowed as silence settled between them, heavy and emotion-laden, and Hermione felt tears welling up in her eyes. Reluctant to give vent to her roiling feelings, she instead chose to lighten the mood. “You said there were three reasons.”
“Yes, the third being Severus’s request.”
“Professor Snape asked for me?” she asked incredulously.
Malfoy nodded. “After Greyback’s attack, he asked that I find you, said that you were a Healer, that you lived near Gairloch, and that you were the best and the only one who could help him.”
Hermione’s mind reeled… in all her days at Hogwarts, she’d never once heard anything complimentary from Snape. To find out that he considered her the best in her field left her speechless. “How did he know I was a Healer?”
Malfoy shrugged. “Don’t know. He was constantly reading the newspapers, though, no matter where we went. I’m sure he must have seen an announcement somewhere.”
“If he read the papers, then he knew… you knew that you were both exonerated of the crimes you were charged with.”
“Yeah, we knew.”
“Then why did you continue to hide? Why not come forward and reclaim your lives?”
Malfoy jerked his thumb over his shoulder towards the sitting room. “That’s why. It didn’t matter if the Wizengamot said we were innocent. There were enough people on both sides who wanted to see us dead, and Severus wanted to wait until the furor died down, then come back to England secretly and assess the situation before announcing our presence. Unfortunately, Greyback found us, and… well… you saw the result.” Malfoy shrugged again, wincing as he did so.
Hermione rose and moved over to Malfoy’s side. “C’mon… it’s your turn.”
“It’s nothing.”
“If it was nothing, you wouldn’t be making those awful faces when you move. Here.” She grabbed the Bruise Healing Paste off the table and scooped a small bit onto the tip of her finger. “Hold still,” she admonished before she dabbed the paste around his left eye, gently rubbing it in. She then took another dollop and rubbed it into the purple spot on his chin. “You’re lucky he didn’t scratch you.” She paused. “He didn’t, did he?”
Malfoy didn’t answer her, and in that moment she felt sorry for him – she surmised that he’d rather not know the truth than have to deal with the pain of reality. She’d always thought that his was a charmed life, yet after what he’d just shared with her, she had to wonder how many disappointments he’d suffered to make him so very afraid of what fate had in store. Deciding that she needed to be brave for him, she tugged on his sleeve. “Let’s go… off with this.”
“Think you can handle it, Granger? After all, I’m not unconscious,” he teased, but she could sense his hesitation, so she chose to play along.
“Honestly, Malfoy… it’s not like you have anything I haven’t seen before.”
“Yes, but when you’re dealing with nature’s perfect specimen… OW! No need to pinch!”
He stood, legs straddling the seat of the chair, and pulled the sweatshirt over his head, favoring his right side and ruffling his not-quite-dry hair. Hermione had to force herself not to whistle. Months and months on the run had done him no damage from what she could see. She’d always thought him pinched and scrawny, but in the days since Hogwarts and Quidditch, his lean Seeker’s body had taken on a more mature line, his shoulders having broadened and his chest and upper arm muscles having developed beyond that of a broom rider. Her eyes traveled downward, confirming beyond a doubt that Malfoy did not bear the inky stain of servitude on his left forearm that their former professor did. The only flaw she could see was the widening dark purple bruise wrapping around his ribs on the right side.
“You are hurt!”
“Eh, he got a good kick in, that’s all. I told you, it’s nothing.” He hissed in pain as Hermione’s fingers probed the discolored area. “Watch it! That smarts!”
“Big baby!” she teased as she ran her wand over the injury to diagnose the problem. “You’re lucky… no broken ribs, but he did bruise them.” She scooped out more of the Bruise Healing Paste and applied it to his side, taking her time rubbing it in. Hermione could feel Malfoy’s eyes on her, boring into the top of her head, but she ignored him, concentrating solely on her medical ministrations. As the salve slowly disappeared, her touch lightened, resembling more of a caress than anything, and as she released his arm, which she’d been holding out of the way, she stepped around behind him, running her hand over the muscles of his back under the guise of checking to make sure there were no other injuries.
His skin was smooth and soft, and unmarred by the scars that criss-crossed the back of her other patient -- two opposites in so many ways, bound by magic and something beyond duty to help each other survive. She was amused as the goosebumps rose under her fingertips, and mesmerized at the play of muscle under the supple skin.
“Find anything?” he asked, his voice oddly husky.
“You were right… he didn’t bite you or claw you.”
Malfoy swung his leg over so he no longer straddled the chair, then turned to face her. “Say that first part again… I don’t think I’ve ever heard that come out of your mouth before.”
“Prat,” she mumbled.
Malfoy’s laugh was muffled as he pulled the sweatshirt back on over his head. “So, Healer Granger, will I live?”
“Unfortunately.” A huge yawn caught Hermione unawares, and she failed to stifle it.
“Am I boring you?”
“On the contrary… this is the most fun I’ve had in years,” she retorted dryly.
“Given that you hang out with Potty and Weasel, I can understand why.”
Hermione sighed. “It’s time for bed, Malfoy.”
“Are you propositioning me?”
“You wish.” She rolled her eyes, trying not to appear as if she actually was propositioning him.
“I have a very long wish list.”
“Which probably reads like the inventory from one of those shops in Soho.”
“Oooh… Slinky’s!” He waggled his eyebrows. “Now you wish!”
She didn’t even blink at his understanding of the Muggle reference this time. “You’re impossible. C’mon… you can have my bed.” She turned and walked back into the sitting room, with Malfoy following behind her.
His brow furrowed. “Where will you sleep?”
She stopped beside the transfigured sofa where Snape was sleeping, bending over to feel his forehead. It was cool to the touch, and she smiled in relief that he was healing properly. “I can sleep down here, on the chair. It might be best if I’m near him during the night, in case there are any complications.”
“Well, if you’re sure… I won’t turn down a good night’s sleep in a comfortable bed.”
“I’m sure,” she replied as she flicked her wand, changing back into her pajamas. She then settled herself under her abandoned quilt and retrieved her discarded romance novel, the pirate captain on the cover still leering at the buxom wench in his arms.
“You know,” Malfoy drawled, “you really need to reevaluate the quality of your reading material.” He leaned over the back of the chair and snatched the book out of her grasp. “Shall I read you a bedtime story?”
“Malfoy… give me that back!” she demanded in a loud whisper.
He opened the book and held it aloft above her, lifting and swooping it evasively as he read aloud, his voice hushed so as not to wake Snape. “The stench of not having bathed for weeks clung to the burly pirate like an inexpensive parfum and it stung her eyes as he leaned close, causing them to tear. The man’s leer was firmly fixed on her heaving bosom as he pulled the ropes taut, and he whispered in his sing-song brogue, ‘Don’ cry, m’ pretty lass. Th’ Cap’n ‘ll take goo’ care o’ ya’!” Her tears became real as the body of her dead companion was dropped unceremoniously to the deck in front of her. ‘You’ll never get away with this!’ she cried. ‘When my father finds me missing…”
Both of them were laughing --Hermione at his imitation of the voices he read, and Malfoy over her futile attempts to grab the paperback -- by the time she managed to capture the book, preventing him from reading any further. “That’s quite enough, thanks.”
“Spoilsport.”
She bit her lip as he turned and headed for the stairs. “Oh, and Malfoy,” she called to his retreating back, “keep your hands out of my underwear drawer!”
“Good night, Granger!”
Suddenly overcome by the weight of exhaustion after the events of the evening, Hermione succumbed to sleep before he even reached the top of the stairs, the sound of his voice still echoing pleasantly in her head.