Breath Mints / Battle Scars

Chapter 48: XLVIII

February 23rd, 1999

Their eyes barely have the chance to meet before the world catches up with them - a flash, fleeting and wrought with hopelessness - and then hands clasp his shoulders and his gaze jerks aside, quick and gun-shy. The hands are pale, fingers long and elegant. Gentle.

Narcissa.

Hermione's still clutched in his grasp, half-dangling from his shaking arms as she speaks to him.

"Draco. Draco." Her voice is firm, and yet Hermione can somehow find the tenderness in it. "She'll be in shock. Get her to her feet. Give her air. We have very little time."

Hermione's eyes sway back to Draco, and her body gives an instinctive, involuntary jerk in his hold. She has seen him cry before. And yet, this -

"Mother..." he bleats, a stutter of breath through trembling lips, desperate and helpless. "I - h-help. Help - help me." His fingers flex against Hermione's arms, releasing and then gripping again every few seconds. Like he's not so certain she's there. Solid. In his grasp.

"Do as I say," Narcissa commands in a low voice. "Help her up."

A brief choking sound is his only response before he's nodding, tears carving wet tracks down his cheeks. His face doesn't wrinkle, she realizes. He cries flatly. Openly. As though he couldn't stop it if he wanted to.

"Draco," his mother whispers.

He grips firmly, and the backs of her legs lift from the marble, blood rushing down from her head as the soles of her shoes find pressure against the floor. She sways, and both sets of hands are there to steady her.

She manages one full, even blink. Her foot knocks against something stiff. Heavy.

Dawlish.

"Now step back," says Narcissa. "Step back. Let her breathe. Here - here." Hermione sees her stretch her arm out insistently. "Give me that. Go and see to Theo."

In the next moment, familiar, textured wood is pressed against Hermione's limp fingers. Vine. Ten and three-quarter inches. Dragon heartstring.

"Miss Granger," Narcissa says, swimming into focus in front of her. Her gaze is calm and unwavering. "Take your wand."

"I...w-what?" she stutters, tongue like lead in her mouth. Her legs are far from stable.

Narcissa just says it again. "Take your wand. This is not over." She takes Hermione's hand in her cold fingers and forces it to close around the base. "You have been through this before, yes?" No pity in her voice. Only urgency. Certainty. "You know it will pass. You know how to move forward."

The image of Shell Cottage swims behind Hermione's eyelids when she blinks next.

"Force it," Narcissa demands, and she opens her eyes again. "Recover. Now. Make yourself. Dawlish has at least two dozen more men downstairs. They are coming - they'll be here in moments - and even with you, we're outnumbered."

Hermione's thumb slides along the wooden grooves she knows like her own skin.

"Are you ready?"

She swallows, flexing her toes - ensuring her grip on the floor. With her next blink, the fog in her vision clears.

"Are you ready?" Narcissa repeats, taking her other wrist in hand and giving her a jolt.

Hermione clutches her wand tight. Nods once.

"Good."

Narcissa steps back, and she finds she can take in the state of the room for the first time, even with the blood still singing in her veins.