Draco's first thought when he entered Hermione's room was that she looked so small, curled up in a hospital bed, her hand heavily bandaged where it laid atop the green sheets. Hermione's eyes were open, black and glassy as she watched him from across the room. "Hey," he said softly when he reached her side.
"Hi," she said slowly, clearly still under the effects of the Draught of Living Death.
"How are you feeling?" he asked, sitting on the edge of her bed and running a light fingertip over her bandage, inspecting it.
"I feel—" Hermione began, her voice raspy. "yellow." She rolled her tongue across her front teeth. "'Yellow' tastes like cilantro. Odd."
Draco laughed, playing lightly with the fingers of her injured hand. "Oh, they have you good and drugged, don't they?"
"Yes," Hermione agreed solemnly. "Pear. interesting."
"Are you in any pain?" Draco asked.
"No," she replied slowly. "In fact, I can hardly feel anything. I still have my hand, right?" Hermione asked, suddenly worried.
Draco squeeze the tip of her pointer finger gently. "Yes, you still have your hand. I'm holding it right now."
"Mmm, I can't tell," Hermione said, closing her eyes. "Tired."
"Sleep, love," Draco replied softly. "I'll be here when you wake up."
Hermione drifted into sleep almost instantly, and after several minutes of watching her sleep peacefully, Draco left the room. Potter was still in the waiting area, standing now, as he talked to the Healer, a tense expression on his face. As Draco emerged from Hermione's room, Potter's eyes flitted towards him and he motioned him over with a slight nod of his head. "—She'll need the wound tended to every few hours for the first few days, but it won't scar. I can give her a few pain potions, to take the edge off, and then there is the matter of the artefact—"
Potter nodded to Draco once more, bringing the Healer's attention to him. "It belongs to Malfoy. I'll let him decide what to do with it."
The Healer whirled around, holding the letter opener, swathed in fabric, out to him. Draco took it without another thought, tucking it into the pocket of his coat. He would deal with it later.
"She all right?" Potter asked once he had dismissed Hermione's Healer.
Draco exhaled, already feeling the anxiety leave him. "She's on a lot of pain potions, and she's pretty disoriented. She's asleep right now," he replied. "Listen, will you sit with her for a bit? I want to finish my business at the Manor."
"Right now?" Potter asked, narrowing his eyes.
"Yes," Draco replied resolutely. "It won't take me long. And after today—after this," he said, motioning to Hermione's door, "I need to be done. It's only a matter of days before the Ministry takes it from me anyways. My mother is—gone." Draco swallowed. "Hermione's hurt. I just need my mother's will and then I can be done. For good."
Potter sighed. "What should I tell her if she wakes up and you're not back?"
"I think she'll be out for a few hours. But if she does wake up just—just tell her I'll be right back, and not to worry. And, if you need a bit of entertainment, ask her what certain words taste like. 'Yellow' tastes like cilantro and 'Yes' tastes like pear." Draco grinned to himself.
"Gross," Potter muttered under his breath, even as he headed towards Hermione's door.
Reluctantly, Draco left St. Mungo's and made his way to the familiar apparition spot in the alleyway down the street from Purge and Dowse, Ltd., where he disapparated, returning to his ancestral home.
He was in hurry now, as he strode down the hallway towards his father's office. The room was in a state of disarray, having been abandoned hastily. Papers littered the floor, and there was a puddle of Hermione's blood drying on the desk. Draco sucked in a breath, staring down at the blood. Her blood. The blood he had been taught to hate since birth.
Mudblood. Dirty blood.
It didn't look any different. And really, he hadn't expected it to.
It was just as red as his.
Draco vanished the blood with a wave of his hand. He couldn't stomach to look at it any longer. Here, in this office, in this Manor, another place where the formidable Hermione Granger—his witch—had been injured.
He shook his head. He had a task to complete and then he could return to her and never again come to this place.
Back on his knees, Draco once again found the Malfoy crest at the back of the drawer. Remembering that he needed something sharp, Draco pulled the offending letter opener from his pocket and unwrapped it.
It would be so, so easy
Two cuts and it's over.
Of course it would be the same letter opener. The same letter opener that he had held against his wrist, contemplating suicide. Draco scoffed at the damnable thing before slicing his palm open and slamming the letter opener down onto the desk.
Draco pressed his bleeding palm into the Malfoy crest and false bottom vanished, revealing trinket upon trinket, glittering prettily up at him. He could not have been less interested in them as he pushed them away, revealing his father's will and beneath it, his mother's will. He tucked both into his jacket before he stood and was met with the glint of the offending letter opener lying on the desk. Fuck that letter opener. Pulling out his wand, Draco cast a Bombarda Maxima, blasting the letter opener into shards which flew and struck the wall, the pieces lodging firmly in the wallpaper.
Letter opener destroyed, Draco apparated back to the alleyway near St. Mungo's, lengthening his stride as Purge and Dowse, Ltd. came back into view. He was eager to be back with Hermione so he could finally put this life behind him.
And then he could start anew, with Hermione.
Draco found Potter sitting in the chair in Hermione's room, his eyes dark and focused on Hermione's wrapped hand. He startled when Draco entered the room. "Do you get what you needed?" he asked as he locked eyes with Draco.
Draco nodded, pulling the folders out from his coat. "Yes," he confirmed.
"And what did you do with the letter opener?" Potter asked coolly. "The one that did this to her."
Draco blinked, confused by Potter's coldness. Of course, the other man thought he meant to keep it. Of course. Some things never changed, Draco thought bitterly. He narrowed his eyes before producing his palm, the one he had sliced and not bothered to heal before returning to St. Mungo's. The blood coating his palm was just beginning to dry, the edges of the gash just beginning to pucker with crusted blood. "Used it to get into the blood wards before destroying it with a Bombarda. Is that good enough for you, Potter?"
Potter blanched before nodding tightly. "You better heal that before she wakes up and finds you injured. She'll think I tried to maim you."
"You did try to maim me."
"So I threw a punch, you were always so dramatic, Malfoy—"
"Harry, your voice is so loud," Hermione grumbled, burrowing into her covers. "I'm in the hospital for Merlin's sake."
Potter and his own injury forgotten, Draco headed towards Hermione, seating himself on the edge of his bed. "Potter is an arse, I agree," he said, stroking a curl from Hermione's face.
Hermione chuckled, then groaned, her eyes still shut. "Seems the pain potions have worn off," she said tightly.
"I'll go find a Mediwitch," Potter offered, jumping to his feet and looking vaguely uncomfortable. He left the room swiftly, leaving Draco and Hermione alone.
"Is it bad?" Draco asked hurriedly, stroking her jaw. "Can I do anything?"
Hermione clutched her hand into her chest and winced. "It is not good," she replied through her teeth. "Just—" she grappled for his hand, which he gladly offered her, and she squeezed so tightly he was afraid his bones would snap. He didn't say a word. She kept her eyes tightly shut.
Potter returned in short order with a Mediwitch who quickly handed a vial of pain potion to Hermione, who gulped it down so quickly she nearly choked on it. Draco ran a hand across her back, soothing her. "All right?" he asked.
She coughed into the back of her hand but nodded as she wiped her mouth. "When can I go home?" Hermione asked as soon as her coughing ceased.
The Mediwitch smiled. "As soon as the Healer can see you," she replied. "Just a few more hours."
Hermione thanked the Mediwitch, before dropping back down into her pillows, finally relaxing her hold on Draco's hand as the pain potion began to course through her. "What happened to your hand?" she asked, looking down at Draco's other palm, horrified. Her gaze immediately shot to Potter. "Harry, you didn't—"
Potter looked sheepish.
Draco interrupted. "He didn't."
She was fumbling with his palm, attempting to hold it in her bandaged hand. Draco pulled his hand away. "Draco, let me heal you," she said desperately, attempting to pull him back.
"Hermione," he replied comfortingly, "It's fine. I'll heal it later. Your wand hand is hurt right now, don't worry about me."
Hermione looked up at him, her jaw trembling like she was about to cry. "What happened to your hand?" she repeated, colder this time. Her eyes flitted from Draco to Potter, and back again.
Draco sighed. "The blood wards, Hermione. I went back to—" he cut himself off. "I sliced my hand open to get through the blood wards. And I didn't even think to heal it before I came back. I'm okay, Hermione. I promise."
"I didn't hit him, Hermione," Potter said quietly. "But I definitely wanted to."
"It's true," Draco confirmed, smiling down at his witch.
Hermione exhaled, her anger deflating. "I want to go home."
Draco turned to Potter. "Potter, maybe if you throw your name and my money around a bit, we can bust Hermione out of here sooner?" he suggested, wanting desperately to be alone with a lucid Hermione.
"Right," Potter agreed, slipping out the room.
Draco was grateful that for once in his life Potter was able to read the subtext.
As soon as Potter left the room, Draco wrapped his arms around Hermione, gently pulling her into him. "I'm sorry," he whispered into her hair. "I'm sorry."
"Draco, it's not your fault," she said quietly. "I reached for the stupid thing."
"You shouldn't have even been there," Draco argued, tightening his hold on her. "I should've known better than to let you into my father's office. You asked me, and I—I should've known."
"Draco," she said gently. "You didn't know. You thought it was safe."
He felt the tears well in the corners of his eyes and he hurriedly blinked them away so Hermione couldn't see them. Why was he such an emotional-fucking-disaster?
His mother's blank eyes.
Hermione's blood, drying on the desk.
Draco shuddered and held tightly to Hermione, comforting himself just as much as he was comforting her.
"Did you get it?" Hermione asked after a moment. Despite the fact that she was currently lying in a hospital bed, she was pushing aside her own needs, determinedly focusing back on Draco.
He shook his head, willing himself to remain ground, as he pulled the two manila envelopes from his coat. "Hers and Lucius'."
"Oh, good," she said, looking relieved. "Once I get out of here I'll start making arrangements.
Draco nodded, averting his eyes from her.
Hermione sighed, touching his shoulder gently. "I'm sorry. I know this is hard for you. I just—want it to be done so you don't have to worry about it. So you can start to heal."
He didn't look back at her, but instead to the fingers of her injured hand. Reaching out, he brushed his own fingers lightly over her the tops of her fingers. He swallowed back a sob. "Yes. It is hard," he agreed, his fingers coming to rest gently atop her bandages. "All of it."
"Draco, stop," Hermione said quietly. "I'm fine. It won't even leave a scar. Stop worrying about me."
Draco shook his head faintly—noncommittedly, because he simply did not have the mental fortitude to explain to her that he wasn't just concerned about her, or how much pain she was in. Of course he was worried about her—he loved her. But it wasn't just that.
No. It was the guilt.
The overwhelming guilt. Draco swallowed again.
The guilt that he had ignored his mother's condition over the past few years. The guilt that he had put in her St. Mungo's and just left her there with an incompetent Healer. The guilt that she had died. She had died, and it was his fault.
And Hermione. Hermione was hurt, and that was his fault, too.
All of it was his fault. Wasn't that what the island of Azkaban had tried to tell him?
"Draco, look at me," Hermione said softly. "Come back to me." Her bandaged hand rose to touch his cheek, stroking gently his jaw. "What's wrong?"
Draco closed his eyes, leaning into her hand. "I—" he began.
The door swung open and Potter entered, looking triumphant, a Healer in tow. "Ms. Granger," she greeted. "I've heard that you are rather anxious to get home?" The Healer smiled kindly. "So let's take a look at that hand."
Hermione's hand dropped from Draco's face cheek, and he instantly missed the contact.
Potter eyed him from across the room, watching them intently.
Hermione thrust her bandaged hand towards the Healer, clearly excited at the prospect of leaving St. Mungo's. The Healer carefully unwrapped Hermione's hand and examined it for several minutes, casting a series of diagnostic spells over it before applying several potions to the wound before wrapping it back up with a clean bandage. "Make sure to keep the wound clean and to change the bandage at least once a day. We'll be sending you home with a salve that will accelerate the healing process and stave off infection. You'll need to apply it twice a day for at least a week, and then as needed. We doused you Skele-Gro at the very end of your procedure, so you don't have to worry about that. We will be sending you home with a vial of pain potion, for you to take as needed."
Hermione nodded vigorously, then her eyes shot to Draco. He nodded back, confirming that he had been listening to the Healer's instructions. As if on cue, a Mediwitch walked into the room, holding a small paper bag which was clearly full of potions. Immediately, she went to hand the bag to Potter, but Draco stepped forward and snatched the bag from the Mediwitch. "I'll take those," he said coolly. "So, is she ready to go home?"
The Healer nodded and smiled. "Yes. Feel free to owl us with any questions."
Hermione didn't need to be told twice. She shot out of bed and to her feet, before wavering and paling slightly, gripping the edge of the bed. Draco was by her side in an instant, gripping her arm. Hermione laughed faintly. "I just got up too quickly," she said, looking up at Draco. "Pain potions."
Draco nodded, but did not relax his hold on her arm.
After a moment, Hermione straightened, her strength visibly returning to her. "Let's go home," she said to Draco, ignoring everyone else.
"Do you have a Floo connection?" asked the Mediwitch. "It's not advisable for her to walk all the way to the apparition point with such a quantity of pain potions in her system."
"I have a Floo," Hermione confirmed, twining her fingers with Draco's. She still looked a bit pale, and Draco fought the urge to gather her up in his arms.
The Mediwitch smiled again. "Follow me. I'll take you to the Floo parlor reserved for patient use."
They followed the Mediwitch down the hallway, Potter taking his place on Hermione's other side as he absently twirled his wand with his fingers. When they reached the Floo parlor, the Mediwitch left them alone. Hermione sighed tiredly before wrapping her free arm around Potter's shoulders in an awkward hug, keeping her injured hand protected. "Thank you, Harry," she said softly. "For helping us."
Potter's wrapped his own arms around Hermione's waist. "Of course," he replied. "I'm so glad you're okay, 'Mione."
Hermione smiled at him. "I'm okay. Thank you. I'll Floo you in a few days? Tell Ginny I say 'hello.'"
Potter grinned back. "Sounds good, 'Mione," he replied before taking a step forward and planting a light kiss on her forehead. "I'll see you guys."
Draco tucked the bag containing Hermione's potions under his arm and grabbed a bit of Floo powder before calling out the address of their flat.
Crookshanks was waiting for them when they walked through the Floo. He let out a loud, angry meow, baring his teeth as soon as he saw Draco. Draco looked away from the cat. Crooks thought it was his fault, too.
"Crooks," Hermione admonished, flicking his tail in annoyance.
Draco's eyes immediately flashed to the kitchen, and then to the cupboard where the firewhiskey was hidden, before he focused on his shoes. He stood awkwardly next to the fireplace while Hermione headed for the couch, where she dropped down into the cushions inelegantly.
A long silence stretched before them before Hermione spoke, "Draco, come here," she said.
"I—" he began again, shuffling his feet.
"Don't make me drag you to this couch," she warned. "I've had a bit of blood loss, and I'm very tired, but I'll do it."
Draco looked up, meeting her gaze. Hermione was watching him warily. "Hermione," he said weakly, his voice breaking.
"Draco Malfoy, get your stubborn arse over here." It was an order, but there was an overt tone of affection in her voice.
He obeyed, sitting several feet away from Hermione. Suddenly, he was afraid to touch her. Afraid to get too close to her.
Hermione sighed and scooted closer to him, so that their fingers brushed against each other. "You'd barely let me out of your sight while I was lying in that bed, and now you won't even look at me. What is going on in that torture chamber inside your skull?" she asked, her fingers tracing up his forearm.
Draco gulped. "This is the second time you've been hurt in my house," he said quietly, still not looking her in the eye.
"Yes. And neither time was your fault," she replied easily.
"I just—" he cut himself off, shaking his head. "I destroy everything I touch."
"That's not true and you know it," Hermione countered, climbing into his lap and wrapping her arms around his neck, preventing him from escaping. She pressed her forehead to his, peering into his eyes even as he looked away. "What exactly is it that you think you've destroyed?"
He tried to shift away from her, but she kept him locked in place. "Granger—"
"Don't. Don't you dare," she interrupted, her voice fierce.
Draco swallowed and remained silent.
"Look at me," Hermione said, her voice shaking faintly.
Finally, he allowed his eyes to meet hers. "All right," he said quietly.
"Tell me what's wrong," she begged.
Draco sighed. "My mother is—gone, you're hurt, and I suppose I'm just—I'm blaming myself for all of it, I suppose," he finally replied.
Hermione pressed a kiss to his forehead. "Neither of those things are your fault, Draco. You are not responsible for everything that goes wrong," she said softly. "Not all of it rests on your shoulders. Do you hear me?"
Draco nodded against her. "Yes," he agreed, mostly to placate Hermione.
He could tell instantly that she didn't believe him, but she seemed to let it go, her arms pulling him in tighter. "I love you," she whispered. "I love you, Draco."
His arms rose of their own accord, wrapping themselves around her waist and pulling her into him. "I'm sorry," he said quietly, dropping his head down to her shoulder, planting soft kisses along her collarbone. "I'm sorry," he whispered against her skin.
"Don't," she said breathily. "It's not your fault."
Draco rested his head against her shoulder, somewhat comforted. "How's your hand?" he asked after several moments.
"It hurts a bit. Throbbing, mostly. The potions they gave me are rather rudimentary." Hermione wrinkled her nose.
Draco's head snapped up. "Potion no. 502. The one you invented. Would that work on a stab wound like this?" he asked.
Hermione seemed to think before she nodded, slowly. "Yes, I think it should."
Immediately, Draco pulled away from her and Hermione looked stunned for a brief moment. "I'm going to the shop, to get you a vial," Draco explained. "I don't like you hurt."
Hermione smiled then. "Okay," she said softly.
He kissed her forehead. "I'll be back soon," he said, before he Floo'd to the shop.
Elixir was dark, and a fine layer of dust covered the shelves. It was clear that it had been several days since anyone had been inside. Several letters were stuck to the front door, and there were several owl feathers lying outside, evidence of owls preening impatiently, waiting for an absent Hermione to appear. There were also several copies of The Prophet, stacked neatly to one side.
Draco ignored all of it, making his way to the far corner of the shop. His eyes immediately landed on the dark blue vial of potion. Potion no. 502. High quantities of Murtlap essence and bubotuber pus. a highly specialized potion for healing wounds. One that would heal deep layers of tissue and wouldn't leave a scar. Draco pocketed it without a second thought, then returned to the flat.
Hermione was curled up on the couch, determinedly reading a thick document. She smiled when he stepped through the Floo and placed the document down on the coffee table, face down. Her hand laid against her chest in a loose fist. Draco pulled the vial of potion from his pocket. "Can I see it?" he asked quietly, dreading seeing the wound on Hermione's hand.
She seemed to sense his hesitation, and with a small smirk, she climbed into his lap again and held her arm out in front of her. Hermione undid the fastening of the bandage and began to unwrap it before Draco covered her hand, stopping her. Without another word, he slowly unraveled the rest of the bandage, baring her injured hand, pale and her fingertips wrinkled from being wrapped. He sighed when he saw the wound: A single, clean line, about an inch long, in the very center of her hand. A letter opener, driven through the top of her hand, straight through to the other side. Both sides were crusted with a fair bit of dried blood.
He stared at her hand for a long moment before he brought it to his lips, determined to kiss every inch of her hand that was not injured. Hermione shivered. "Draco," she gasped.
"Am I hurting you?" he asked, concerned.
"No," she replied quietly. "It's just sensitive. From the Skele-Gro."
Draco nodded, gently pulling her hand down into his lap. With his free hand, he brought the vial to his mouth, unstopping the vial with his teeth and spitting the cork onto the floor. He poured a small amount of the potion onto the top of her hand, where it sizzled. She gasped again. "Hermione?" he asked.
"It's cold—I'd forgotten." She gave him a forced smile. "Do a few drops on the other side, too. And then the salve they gave me. I didn't make 502 to fight infections."
He gently turned her palm over and placed a few more drops on the wound on her palm. Hermione gasped again, shivering violently against his shoulder. "Are you sure you're all right?"
She nodded. "Yes. It's okay. Just—very cold. I promise, you aren't hurting me."
When Hermione stopped shivering, he pulled the salve from the bag from St. Mungo's and poured a generous amount into his hand. He took Hermione's hand and gently massaged the salve all over her hand, making sure to get it as close to her wound without touching it. Hermione briefly tensed, then relaxed against his shoulder. He kissed the top of her head as he continued to massage the salve into her hand.
"It itches," she said quietly. "Means it's healing. Do you think you can rewrap it?"
Draco nodded, rewrapping her hand quickly. "Okay?" he asked when he had finished.
"Yes. You did a good job," she replied, flexing her hand.
He shrugged. "Former Quidditch Player. Attacked by a Hippogriff. I learned how to bandage a wound."
Death Eater, he did not say.
"You were rude to Buckbeak," Hermione said quietly.
"I was rude to everyone," he replied, making sure Hermione's bandage was secure.
"True," she agreed, laughing. Her lids were heavy—she was tired.
"Come on, let's get you back to bed," Draco said as Hermione tucked her injured hand back into her chest.
"No," she attempted to argue, thought her words were slow and slightly slurred. "I have too much to do."
"Tomorrow," Draco countered soundly, already standing with her in his arms.
"You don't have to carry me everywhere," she replied, even as she buried her against the skin of his neck. "I can walk."
"I am aware," Draco said, walking steadily towards the bedroom.
Hermione's eyes were already shut when Draco laid her carefully down on the bed. He hastily pulled off his shirt and laid down next to her, pulling her into his arms. Hermione relaxed against him, resting her head on his shoulder. "Thank you," she said quietly.
"For what?"
"For taking care of me," she said softly, her voice growing quiet.
Draco hummed noncommittedly, watching for the tell-tale signs that Hermione had drifted off into sleep. It did not take long—she was asleep within minutes, her breathing soft and even. Draco stared at Hermione's bandaged hand for a long time before he was assured that she sleeping peacefully.
When he was certain that Hermione was asleep, Draco rolled away from her and turned to face the wall.