August 2002
That night she and Malfoy were both subdued. He didn't flinch as she cast the cleansing charm and was quiet while she was applying the analgesic and then the salve.
"Did the Weasley girl survive?" he abruptly asked as he stood up.
Hermione stared up at him startled. She tried to guess why he was asking. Did Lucius want confirmation?
He hadn't pulled his shirt back on, and he was standing so close to her she could almost feel the heat from his body as he looked down at her. His eyes were stormy, and when she stayed silent, his expression flickered briefly.
"I'll assume she did then," he said, stepping away and putting on his shirt.
Hermione blinked. "She did. Although not for a lack of effort on your father's part," she said in a bitter tone.
Draco's expression hardened slightly.
"I'd hope you wouldn't consider me responsible for my father's actions. Surely I've committed sufficient sins on my own," he said in tight voice as he rapidly buttoned his shirt.
"I just don't know why you're asking," she said. She felt too drained to have the current conversation.
"It may surprise you, Granger, but I have no particular wish to see your friends dead."
Hermione said nothing. She had no idea what kind of response to make to the comment.
"My father—," he started and then hesitated; his face became a cold mask. "Nevermind."
Hermione slumped internally. She needed to have this conversation with him. She reached out and caught his wrist. He stilled and looked back toward her, his expression closed.
"I'm sorry. The question caught me off guard. I don't fault you for what your father does. It's just—," her voice broke off briefly and her hold on his wrist tightened. "I know you never had anything but contempt for the Weasleys—but what he's doing to them is horrific."
Malfoy was silent.
"I am sorry," he said. "I doubt you'll believe me, but I don't—there is no reasoning with his vendetta."
"You disagree with him?" Hermione asked, studying his face cautiously.
He used his other hand to take hold of hers and pulled his wrist free. "If I blamed them for my mother's death, I wouldn't have asked about the Weasley girl."
"Thank you for asking," she said, glancing awkwardly around the room. "It must be difficult for you. I know you admired your father."
Draco looked distinctly uncomfortable with the direction the conversation had gone in.
"Right. Well—later, Granger," he said and apparated without another word.
Hermione stood there for several moments, reviewing the conversation before she headed back to Grimmauld Place.
When she got there, she found her room occupied by Harry and Ginny. She fidgeted in the hallway and then started up toward the uppermost floors of the house. As she passed one of the smaller rooms, she caught sight of a shock of red hair bent over a table of maps. She paused and tapped lightly on the door.
"Hey Mione," Ron said distractedly as he moved pieces across the maps and then scratched his head absentmindedly with the tip of his wand. His expression was tense.
"Got a minute?" she asked.
"Sure." He stuffed his wand into his back pocket and looked up at her. "Just reviewing what's been happening since I left. Lot of raids while we were away, you must have been busy."
He was giving her a penetrating look. Hermione dropped her eyes.
"I'm sure you see the strategy," she said quietly.
"Kingsley's using the horcruxes to keep Harry off the field," he said.
Hermione gave a short nod. "You understand why, don't you?"
Ron's expression hardened further as he shrugged and nodded.
"No good risking him in a skirmish when we need him for the final blow. Yeah. I get it. That doesn't mean I like it. And some of these—," he pulled a few scrolls over and glanced down at them. "They're pretty much suicide missions. I hadn't realized how safe Kingsley has been playing it because of Harry. Seeing what he'll do when we're gone for a few weeks—"
He broke off as he stared angrily down at the reports. "What exactly were the casualty rates while we were gone?"
Hermione opened her mouth to answer, and he cut her off.
"I don't need you to tell me. I can see the numbers right here. Fucking—fucking bloody unbelievable. If Kingsley were here, I'd punch him."
His face was growing scarlet with rage.
"Ron, we can't afford to play it safe anymore," Hermione said, her stomach knotting itself as she thought about all the people whose eyes she'd drawn shut during the past several weeks, the new hospice safe house she'd helped Bill ward. "I don't think you realise how depleted our resources are. How many years do you think Harry's vault can feed an army? The hospital ward is running on fumes. Europe is getting locked under Tom's control. The only option we have left is to take risks. And we can't risk Harry."
Ron was silent. Hermione could see the muscles of his jaw working as he kept clenching and releasing it.
"We need to find the horcruxes," he finally said. Hermione let out a low, deep breath that she'd been anxiously holding and nodded.
"We do," she said. "Tom and Harry are the linchpins. Ideologically, the Death Eaters are too diverse. It's Tom's power that keeps the army cohesive. If we can kill him, permanently, there should be enough infighting to give the Resistance the upper hand."
"I guess that's the one upside to Tom's delusions of immortality, he isn't bothering to groom a successor," Ron said woodenly as he looked over another mission report. Hermione could see her signature on the bottom, verifying the injured, calculating the losses in neat, impersonal numbers. "Although I don't doubt the Malfoys will think they're first in line now that Bellatrix is dead. Fucking psychopaths."
"You need to convince Harry that the horcruxes are the first priority," she said, staring at Ron intently. "Especially now, after Ginny. I'm worried he just wants to ignore them."
Ron's expression grew strained.
"Yeah," he said quietly.
Hermione hesitantly drew closer.
"Ron, I hope what I said at the meeting last night didn't make you feel like it was your fault. You saved Ginny. I didn't think it would be appropriate to withhold the information but I didn't mean to hurt you by disclosing it."
"It's fine," he said, expression stiff. "You made the right call."
"I'm sorry—"
"Don't. I don't really want to talk about it," he said in a shaking voice that brooked no argument.
Hermione's eyes darted across his face, recognising the tension around his eyes, the scarlet tipping his ears while his face grew so pale his freckles stood out like drops of blood across his face.
If she pushed, he'd explode.
Hermione felt her heart sink.
"Right. Well, I'll leave you to review," she said turning to leave.
She made her way up a flight of stairs slowly.
The number of subjects she avoided with Harry and Ron in order to not fight with them had slowly created a chasm.
Trying to stay focused. Stay on mission. All those personal issues and arguments she'd put off for another day. Assuming the war would end and they'd have a chance to deal with it all without compromising their focus and risking someone's life.
But the war had rolled on for years.
Now they barely knew how to speak to each other at all. There was so much unspoken resentment. So many things they'd waited too long to say. Every disagreement was about a thousand more things than merely the issue at hand.
The notion that they could ever go back and fix it felt impossible.
Maybe there had been a chance before Malfoy. But now—
Hermione felt almost certain that she had crossed a line that they would never allow her to come back from. To them, the magnitude of the betrayal would permanently sever things.
Just thinking about it made it hard to breathe.
She found herself in a practice room. She went over, slotted her feet under a wardrobe used to store equipment and started doing sit-ups until her abdominal muscles felt like they had been injected with acid.
She had discovered that Draco's exercise regime was an excellent way of channeling her stress, frustration and grief. She never intended to tell him, but she wished she had started exercising years ago. The physical symptoms of stress could not be suppressed with occlumency. Funneling it all into exercise was an excellent means to burn it off.
The surge of endorphins afterward was an additional upside.
After doing so many sit-up repetitions that she could barely peel herself off the floor, she rolled over and started doing push ups. She was rubbish at them, but she was also resolved. She was determined to work her way up until she actually did as many in a row as Draco had instructed.
She was slick with sweat and felt as though she'd been struck by a full body jelly-jinx when she finished all the various repetitions. She was only doing a quarter of the quantity, but she had finally managed to work through all of different exercises.
She stumbled down the stairs and fell asleep in the window seat.
When she woke the next morning, her whole body was protesting. Every bit of her ached. She scuttled down the stairs into a bathroom and took a long shower before anyone else was up.
That night she carefully reviewed her mental checklist of what she needed for Draco's procedure. She'd bought a cheap bottle of tequila in case he decided he wanted something. She doubted he'd have ever tasted the muggle alcohol, and she'd decided that he deserved to suffer if he chose to ignore her advice about bringing his own.
While she was packing up several potions, she felt someone breach the wards on her potion closet and turned to find Harry standing awkwardly behind her.
"Hermione," he said, only meeting her eyes for a moment before dropping his gaze.
"Yes?" she said cautiously, slipping a few more vials into the pockets in her satchel.
"I—," he started and then stalled.
She glanced at her watch. She was due to meet Draco in seven minutes.
"Did Ginny send you?" she said with a faint edge to her voice. Even before Ginny and Harry had started shagging, Ginny had made it her business to force Hermione and Harry to try to patch things after they fought.
"Yeah," he said awkwardly, shoving his hands into his pockets. Hermione's jaw tightened.
"Well, you can tell her we talked. It's fine. No hard feelings. I'm sure you were just tired and looking out for your best friend," Hermione said in a dismissive tone, glancing at her watch again.
Harry said nothing, and Hermione started stepping around him to leave. He caught her arm.
"Hermione," he said firmly. "I am sorry. And not just because Gin sent me. I crossed a line. I was angry because of how upset Ron was, and I vented it at you. I questioned how you treated Ginny and Ron, even though I know your first priority is always your patients. I'm sorry for that."
Hermione paused and stared at Harry, her expression closed.
It was a apology for insulting and doubting her as a Healer. It wasn't an apology to her.
He studied her face for several seconds.
"You're—one of my best friends," he added.
Hermione felt something inside of her fade away. As though she carried a flame in her heart and it had abruptly guttered and left her in darkness.
The words were—a second thought. Something to say because he'd said it before. Because it was a thing he was supposed to say to her.
She felt her jaw tremble.
She stared at him. Something showed on her face because Harry abruptly stepped forward and hugged her tightly.
She clung to him for a minute.
"Sorry. I'm really sorry," he spoke into the side of her head, his voice muffled.
She tried to collect herself. She had no time or capacity for emotions right then.
She fisted her hands and shook for a moment as she hugged him back, before forcing her mental walls back into place. There was no room for Harry inside them.
"I'm just tired. It was right for you to look out for Ron. You were right, I wasn't thinking about him when I brought it up." She pushed herself out of Harry's arms. "You're a good friend to him."
Harry stared at her carefully.
"Am I a good friend to you?" he asked.
Hermione met his eyes.
"The best," she said in a steady voice. " Always my best friend."
Harry's face grew relieved.
"Ginny says she wants to test run her face in a Muggle pub so a few of us are going out tonight. Pomfrey said you're not on shift tonight. Do you want to come?"
Hermione's heart rose for a beat and then sank.
"I can't," she said. "I promised one of the hospice houses I'd come tonight for checkups and inventory. I'm already late."
"Oh... Alright. Just wanted to ask," Harry said.
"Have fun."
Harry nodded. "I'll go let Gin know."
She nodded and watched him walk away. When he had gone, she shut the door of her potion closet and stood for a minute trying to rein in everything.
She let out several sharp puffs of breath through her nose and then kicked the baseboard until the pain in her toes grew sharp.
She couldn't cry. She had to perform a complex healing procedure. There was no space in her head for emotions. She had no time to cry about Harry.
She pressed her lips into a hard line and tried to recentre.
After a minute she managed to shove the maelstrom down. Stifling it in the back of her mind. She waited until her breathing was even. Then she walked out of Grimmauld Place, smiling and giving a quick wave to everyone heading into London.
She was four minutes late when she walked into the shack. Draco appeared a minute later.
He stared at her.
"I almost thought you were standing me up," he said wryly.
"Someone wanted to talk. I didn't have an excuse to rush away," she said as she conjured a small table and began pulling supplies out of her satchel.
Malfoy watched her work in silence for a minute.
"You're a walking hospital," he said.
"I have to be."
She arranged everything in the order she would need it and then summoned one of the chairs.
"It'll be easier for you to test dexterity in a chair than on a medical table," she said. "You should remove your shirt entirely."
He began unbuttoning it while Hermione straightened her supplies and ran her eyes over them carefully one last time.
"There are two ways to heal incisions as deep as yours," she said, looking up at him. "Painlessly, but the scarring of the muscle tissue can result in long term limitations to your shoulders' mobility. Or painfully, in order to ensure the scar tissue doesn't bind in ways that will interfere with your dexterity. I assumed you would choose the latter."
He nodded. Watching her carefully.
"I can use pain relief charms on the incisions that I'm not healing, but I can't use any potions that will reduce your sensations or you won't be able to tell me if the scar tissue is forming properly. This is going to hurt."
"I am aware," he said in a hard voice.
Hermione pulled out the tequila and set it on the table. "Alcohol helps. Assuming you don't get totally smashed, it will help keep the pain manageable without reducing the sensation in your shoulders to a degree that interferes with healing. This is a muggle alcohol called tequila. It was very cheap. I don't have a large alcohol budget."
She pulled out Draught of Peace. "A double dose of of Calming Draught helps too. Being tense won't help."
She handed Draco the large vial of Calming Draught and watched him take it.
"Ready?" she said. She hadn't felt so nervous about a healing procedure in a long time.
He straddled the chair, and she began.
She carefully grew a section of scar tissue and then made him fully rotate, extend and stretch his shoulder. It pulled. She cast a spell to help relax the tissue but it still pulled. She had to cut part of it away and grow it again.
Bit by bit.
Blood was streaming from the other runes as the movement continuously agitated them.
She set the scar tissue for four runes before Draco finally broke down and wandlessly conjured a bottle of vintage firewhisky.
She didn't say anything, pausing while he wrenched the cork out with his teeth and then guzzled it for several seconds. Then he set it firmly beside the bottle of tequila and dropped his head down onto the back of the chair.
"Fuck. Fuck. Fuck," he muttered.
"Sorry," she said awkwardly, placing her hand lightly on his shoulder as she started to work again.
"Save it, Granger," he snarled. His face was pale, and he was gripping the back of the chair until his knuckles turned white.
He drank in between every rune after that.
By the time she started on his other shoulder, he was moving steadily beyond buzzed and into the early stages of drunkenness.
"Fucking hell," he groaned in a low voice. "I always said you were a complete and utter bitch. You don't have to show me."
Hermione pressed her lips firmly together, torn between offense, amusement, and sympathy.
"The bitch who heals you," she said.
He chuckled.
"Apparently."
He didn't speak again except to answer her questions about the scar tissue until she finished. She cleaned all the blood off his back.
She gently applied several analgesics and a final layer of a creamy potion to help the new tissue set properly. The scars were an angry red.
She glanced at her watch. It was well past midnight. It had taken longer than she'd expected.
"Alright," she said. "I'm finished."
Malfoy sighed with relief and gulped the last of the firewhisky before shoving the second emptied bottle onto the table beside the first.
He was still for several seconds as though regaining his bearings. Then he cocked his head to the side and eyed the tequila.
"What even is this?" he said grasping it by the neck and inspecting it.
He showed almost no signs of drunkenness. His words were unslurred and his hands remained steady. Hermione had never seen anyone drink so much alcohol and remain so externally unaffected.
It was terrifying how controlled he was.
"Don't drink it. It was so cheap. You've just imbibed a hundred galleons worth of vintage alcohol. Don't top it off with that."
He wasn't inclined to listen. He unscrewed it, sniffed it and then took an inquiring sip. He spat it immediately on the floor.
"The fuck! This is varnish. Poisoning me now, Granger?"
"I was thinking of it as a punishment if you'd chosen not to believe me and didn't bring your own," Hermione said wryly. "I'm told it tastes better if consumed with salt and a lime wedge."
"Told?"
"I don't drink much, especially not out in the Muggle world," Hermione reminded him.
"You don't even know what you bought." His mouth was still twisted as though he couldn't get the taste off his tongue.
"I just went for inexpensive and high alcohol content," she said.
"I shouldn't be surprised. Your idea of getting drunk is drinking port and pretending to be a troll under a bridge," he said, chuckling faintly.
Hermione made a sour expression as she finished packing up her healing supplies. She rummaged through her bag and cursed inwardly. She'd forgotten to bring sobriety potion. She'd had it on her mental checklist, but it had slipped her mind when Harry appeared.
"Well. I'm done. Are you safe to apparate?" she asked, eying him carefully. She didn't think he possibly could be.
He appeared to be considering the question for several seconds. Tilting his head from side to side and cocking an eyebrow.
"I don't believe it would be a medically advisable," he said at last.
She sighed with relief. She had no idea what she'd do if he had tried to insist that he was sober. She wondered if she'd be able to stun him if he wasn't letting her.
"Right. Well, do you want me to conjure a bed for you? I'm pretty good at them," she asked.
"Eager to be off?" he said, standing and giving her a piercing look. He did not appear to be drunk at all. "Got someone waiting for you?"
The question caught her off guard. She blinked and thought of everyone else at a pub without her.
"No," she said shaking her head.
"Neither do I," he announced. Then with a wandless, nonverbal wave of his hand, another bottle of Ogden's Reserved appeared. "Let's drink."
She stared at him. She hadn't anticipated the evening going in this direction.
He had to be just ridiculously drunk. With the amount of firewhiskey he had imbibed, he should have been insensate.
"I don't think that's a very good idea," she said, sidling toward the door.
"Come on, Granger," he said cajolingly and stalked forward, closing in on her, bottle in hand. He was still shirtless. "The Order's lonely little healer. Try drinking somewhere that isn't a creekbed."
Hermione bumped into the wall as she backed away from him. He loomed over her, and she tilted her head back in order to maintain eye contact. He smirked down at her.
"You should feel privileged. I hardly drink with anyone. I never get drunk around anyone. It's such a terrible idea. Occlumency's shoddy. Slowed reflexes. Terrible idea."
"You said that," Hermione pointed out, sliding her hand behind her back and trying to find the door knob.
"Did I...?" He blinked. "See? Somehow—when it comes to you—," he sighed and rested his forehead on the top of her head. Hermione stood frozen in astonishment.
His empty hand came up and he grazed her cheek lightly with his fingertips. Gliding his thumb along her cheekbone. Hermione's breath caught in her throat.
"You inspire terrible decisions. Something about you. I can't understand it." He lifted his head and leaned back just enough to stare at her. "What makes you so special?"
Hermione found the doorknob and turned it, trying to pull the door open. It wouldn't budge. She glanced down and found the toe of Draco's shoe lodged against it.
She looked up at him, and he smirked.
"Come on, Granger. Where's your Gryffindor courage?" he said, his voice low, coming from the back of his throat so that it sounded husky. "Have a drink with me. I'll even call you Hermione."
She shivered at the sound of her name dripping off his lips. The clipped, to-the-point manner in which he usually spoke was gone. He was terrifyingly playful. Like a kneazle with a gnome in its claws.
She tried the door again. He seemed to be getting closer. There was barely any space between them. She could feel the heat of his bare chest on her face. His eyes were hooded but glittering as he stared down at her.
Her heart rate started to steadily spike. She was on the verge of asking him to let her leave. Of telling him that he was scaring her.
She opened her mouth to say it. Then she caught herself.
She should stay.
Draco Malfoy was handing himself to her on a drunk platter.
If she had ever hoped for an in, this was it. The opportunity would never repeat itself. Even he was admitting he was making a mistake. That it was a risk.
Staying was a risk for her, a corner of her mind whispered. She shook slightly and ignored it.
She had to stay.
She tried not to be overt about her change of mind.
"I'm not afraid," she said, jutting her chin out and pulling her hand off the doorknob.
He smirked. "Really?"
"Really," she said taking a minuscule step toward him. There was barely space to move.
She grabbed the bottle of Ogden's from him and appraised it. It was an eighty year old reserve label. She pulled out the cork and sniffed it.
She was a lightweight, but she doubted she could fake drinking. Draco would notice.
And she needed the courage. She had no idea what a Draco Malfoy with lowered inhibitions might do. The thought made her feel cold with terror.
She met his amused gaze as she took a swig.
One of them was on a platter. The question was merely whom.