Chapter 10
Hermione slammed her bedroom door in Malfoy’s face. She had not spoken a word to him when they silently apparated back to the castle, nor as she silently marched from the station to her quarters. What was there to say? He had been an arrogant, presumptive arsehole. The same he had been in their school days, only worse. Before, he had called her mean names that she didn’t understand. His words that morning had hurt her. Deeply.
They had struck nerves she did not know she had.
Malfoy did not mind that she was not speaking to him. He had nothing to say to her. After all, she was making a huge mistake pushing her family away. It was selfish to not value the one she had when he himself did not have one to speak of and sorely wished he did.
It had struck nerves he did not know he had.
A week passed by without a single word passed between the pair.
Hermione spent her days adhering to her regimented schedule once again – she split her time between many pursuits. She studied, she wrote letters to scholars, she planned lessons, she exercised and she read. She did not so much as look at Malfoy once.
He, of course, responded in kind. He hovered half a pace behind her and refused to speak to her or even glance in her direction.
Hermione wrote to Harry a few times, mainly to convey her apologies and ask that it be passed onto Molly. Harry had written back, saying all of the right things. He explained how Molly understood even though she wished Hermione could have stayed a little longer. Hermione tried not to notice the guilt that twisted in her stomach.
Instead, Hermione continued to bury herself in work. In research. Until she realised she could go no further without an experimental trial of her potion. She had copious amounts of notes and calculations, correspondence with potions masters, notes scribbled in the margins and piles and piles of books in her office showing all of her efforts.
One thing about Hermione was that she, wherever possible, would collect her own ingredients.
But that meant talking to Malfoy and telling him that they would be going on a field trip.
She mulled it over for a few days until the new academic year was looming overhead, due to start in barely two weeks. There was no good way to break their impasse and she knew he was only going to be odious about it. Eventually, she just blurted it out in the library one Monday morning.
“I’m going to gather potions tomorrow.” There were possibly better ways to go about it than that, but she’d been wracking her brains for days and hadn’t been able to put her finger on any.
“No.” Malfoy’s voice was clipped and short. She narrowed her eyes.
“What do you mean ‘no’?”
“It’s too dangerous. I will not allow you to go traipsing about in the woods looking for potions ingredients that you can buy at the apothecary.” Hermione grunted in frustration, despising the superior tone in his voice.
“I wasn’t asking. I was informing you. I will be leaving tomorrow because it is important to my research. I need rare and expensive items that my funding simply will not allow.”
“The Department of Mysteries will foot the bill if it ensures your protection.” Malfoy still did not look at her, eyes trained out of the window over her left shoulder.
“No!” Hermione tried to stifle the shrillness in her tone but was unsuccessful. She cleared her throat and took a deep breath, trying to hold her temper. “No. I can’t just order Chinese Fireball Dragon claw. You can’t even buy it legally and anyone who says they have it really just has enlarged kneazle claw. I’ll be charged 1400 galleons for the pleasure of being ripped off and then I’ll be back where I started.”
Silence stretched between them. Hermione did not know if this meant she had won or lost, but she couldn’t find it within herself to care. She began to pack up her books as the clock neared 6pm – time for dinner.
“Fine.” Malfoy’s voice was quiet and calculating. Not comforting, but not as cutting as it had just been. “But you aren’t going tomorrow. I need a day to prepare and plan. We can leave on Wednesday.”
“Fine.” Hermione replied through clenched teeth. That would still give her a week and a half at an absolute maximum. She supposed she would only need 6 or 7 days, but if she was quick and efficient she could start brewing before the students returned for the new year.
It was barely after 7am on Wednesday morning when Hermione found herself somewhere deep in the Peak district. She was stood in a two-bedroom tent next to a seething Malfoy, sick satisfaction twisting in her stomach. She had successfully coerced Draco ‘Did-you-really-think-I-was-going-to-stay-in-a-tent-in-a-field-I’m-a-Malfoy-for-Merlin’s-sake’ Malfoy into sleeping in a tent in the woods! He knew staying somewhere fixed would be too dangerous but that did not mean he had to like it. Hermione supposed he wished he had a manor in every corner of the country right about now.
He looked around the tent with his lips curled in disgust while gingerly poking at the fabric walls with his wand, visibly shuddering. Hermione could not help the smirk that plastered itself on her face. Small victories really were the sweetest.
This tent was not the same one she had shared with Ron and Harry 5 years ago, but it was similar enough that it felt something like home. Many conflicting memories surrounded those times. Fear had dominated her days and terror had dominated her nights but, if she was being honest with herself, it was one of the first times she truly felt like she had belonged anywhere. They had needed her. She had needed them.
As a child, Hermione had never fit in with the children at her primary school. She had always been slightly to the side, slightly other. The excitement she had felt when she found out she would be going to Hogwarts – a school with people just like her – had been overwhelming. Almost unbearable! Until she actually got there and realised half of the school looked down on her for her parentage. Harry and Ron had always accepted her for who she was, for who her parents were. Are. Were. Are. Were-
The tent had two sleeping areas separated by a thin curtain, a kitchenette and a living space. It had some seating and an old wooden dining table. It felt cosy even if it did smell a little funny.
Within moments of arriving, Malfoy had warded the place to death in a two-mile radius. He had cast spell after spell until he felt confident that no witch, wizard or muggle could come anywhere near it. Then, he had cast a few more for good measure. Two miles gave Hermione ample safe space to gather the plants she needed. While they would have to venture out to gather fur, blood or saliva from magical creatures, it was markedly safer than Hermione’s initial plans. Which were to simply… get going.
Hermione had watched Malfoy out of the corner of her eye as he cast his wards while she raised the tent. She couldn’t help but feel this was all slightly unnecessary. After all, other than a sole breach of Hogwarts, had anything really happened? How much danger could she really be in?
It all felt a little much. Although, there would be no sense saying anything of the sort to Malfoy. No sense at all.
After sufficiently amusing herself by basking in Malfoy’s disdain for her tent, Hermione decided she would waste no more time. She changed into her foraging clothes (woven with magical properties, of course) and organised the contents of her beaded bag to ensure her vials, pouches, knives and other equipment were easily accessible.
The entire field trip had been meticulously planned – Malfoy had requested a list of all areas she would be visiting, and Hermione had provided just that. She had grouped many ingredients into the same geographical location for the sake of efficiency. For example, the Peak District was home to a large expanse of ancient woodland and a witch that knew the area would be able to find probably half a dozen of the items on her list. They would stay no more than a day in each location – some days they would tick off two or three places – and move around erratically up and down the country using port keys and apparition to ensure there was no pattern to their movements.
Unsurprisingly, Malfoy followed along behind her wherever she went despite the strong wards. Hermione continued to ignore him as she had been since they returned from their trip to the Weasley home.
The only interaction they had that day was when Hermione was trying to extract yolk from the eggs of an abandoned Runespoor nest. The eggs had a thick exterior that was almost impossible to penetrate under usual circumstances. The syringe Hermione was attempting to use had been imbued with dragon’s blood for strength, but it clearly made no difference. The tip of the needle slid off the edge of the eggshell repeatedly, making no marl or scratch whatsoever.
On her fourth try, Malfoy scoffed impatiently behind and pushed her out of the way none too gently. He grabbed the thin syringe from her hand and took his wand in the other. He muttered a spell she did not catch, causing the egg to glow blue for just a second, allowing Malfoy to swiftly insert the needle and extract as much yolk as the syringe would take. He held his hand out for a vial and transferred the yolk without a word. It took him mere seconds before he shoved the full vial and the empty syringe into her hand.
Hermione thought about thanking him but didn’t.
“What are you doing? Step exactly where I step and do not disillusion yourself! It will sense the magic.” Hermione hissed to Draco, stopping just a few paces outside of the dragon’s den. She had no patience for the man named for the dragon constellation. They were attempting to creep up on the Chinese Fireball dragon while it slept in its den. Hermione needed to gently cut off two claws from the brooding mother without it realising they were there. Any concealment magic could tip it off, any sound.
Over the course of 15 minutes, the two edged their way along the deep mouth of the cave and into its belly. Rough rock scratched at their fingertips as they scraped along the wall, which they kept on their left side to keep oriented and steady. The entrance was littered with charred bones – human or not, neither could tell. Burnt flesh wafted out from further in the depths of the cave, and Hermione silently prayed to a God she did not believe in that the dragon would remain asleep. Could she fight off a fully grown mother dragon? Potentially. Did she want to? Absolutely not.
Eventually, they reached the wide cavern in which the dragon had made its den from all manner of things. Hermione could see twigs (trees, really) and huge feathers (Hippogriff, likely) woven together to create a gentle bed for the beast. It was bigger than Hermione remembered. She had seen only one before, and it had faced Viktor Krum in the Triwizard Tournament. It had been vicious. Nothing compared to the Hungarian Horntail Harry had wrangled, but it had been no Puffskein.
She had, of course, come face to face with a dragon before. The Ukranian Ironbelly that they had freed from Gringotts. It had been battle-hardy and scar-wrought but utterly uninterested for the three young people on its back. It had not cared for them. That experience would fool a lesser intellectual into wondering if dragons really were all they had been made out to be in the stories. But Hermione knew what damage these creatures could do. A mere moment in their flame could scorch limbs off, their strength was unmatched and their speed through the air was terrifying. They sensed magic and hated the feeling of it – their tough hide repelled spells, with so few weak spots to target.
No, Hermione did not want to face this beast.
It conquered the space. Overwhelmed it. Each scale was as big as Hermione’s hand as she could scarcely believe it. She could see three eggs tucked behind the sleeping mother, but that is not what Hermione had her eyes set on. Three jet black claws extended from each of its feet, perhaps 6 inches in length and as thick as Hermione’s wrist. She needed two. She needed not to wake it.
Malfoy tensed behind her, but Hermione forced herself to relax. Panicking would do nothing for her. She forced out deep breaths with each step she took, crouching low and choosing her steps carefully to avoid crunching any bones that littered her path. She held her wand in her right hand and the spell she would need was on the tip of her tongue. Speed and agility would be key here.
“Stop.” The low whisper came from directly next to her ear, a strong hand suddenly clamped on her arm to hold her in place. Hermione felt shivers run down her spine as she became brutally conscious of how close Malfoy was. His front pressed against her back and she could sense his mouth a hair’s width away from her ear. He whispered again in that same low tone. “It’s not sleeping. It’s dozing. This is not safe.” Hermione looked again at the dragon, her stomach flipping. Its eyes fluttered behind its closed lids, and lazy rings of smoke puffed from its nose.
“I have to do this. What do you propose?” She breathed, not moving or turning. If she had turned to face Malfoy, they would be nose to nose. She would feel his cool breath on her face as she was feeling it now on her ear.
“One each. We cut, we run. Fuck being quiet, be quick. If it catches you, it will kill you.” Hermione forced herself to nod mechanically and pointed to the left claw. She would take that one.
“Draco dormiens nunquam titillandus.”
“Indeed. And yet it seems to be a hobby of yours.” Hermione did not miss the layers to that statement but refused to acknowledge them. “Now… go!” He hissed through clenched teeth, pushing her into a sprint with a strong hand.
“Difficilis seperatum!” Hermione cried, pointing her wand just below where the claw met the dragon’s toe. She only hoped Malfoy would do the same, maximising the amount of claw taken but not harming the dragon or causing it pain. She heard him mimic her spell as she grabbed the severed claw, holding it tight in her hand as the dragon reared up onto its hind legs and let loose a deep, rumbling roar.
“Run!” Malfoy screamed, suddenly at her side. A heavy hand placed itself on her lower back and shoved her forward in front of him, propelling her towards the exit as the dragon looked around in confusion and rage. One foot in front of the other, Hermione ran. Her lungs burned, her hands shook but she held onto her wand and her claw steadfastly. The floor in front of her glowed yellow, then red and- “Flamma duratus!” Were the next words Malfoy spoke, and barely a second later Hermione felt a faint tickling sensation trickle down her body. She realised in horror that the yellow and red she saw were flames and Malfoy had just saved her from being burned alive. With no time to process that. Hermione continued to sprint, pushing herself faster and faster towards the mouth of the cave. She could still feel Malfoy’s hand firmly on her back and started pulling up the picture of the tree just outside of their wards. The second they were out of the cave she could-
“Shit, are you okay?” It was now Hermione’s turn to grab Malfoy’s arm, supporting him as his knees buckled and struggled to hold his weight. The second they had exited the mouth of the cave, she had apparated them right next to the wards. Malfoy said nothing, only limped himself over the barrier of the wards and collapsed into a sitting position just inside them, leaning forward to place his head between his knees.
He remained there a moment, saying nothing. Hermione panted braethlessly and knelt in front of him, waiting patiently. Something acrid burned in her nose but she made no mention of it.
“Do- do you have any salve in that blasted bag of yours?” Malfoy finally forced out. Hermione frowned slightly but nodded, even though his head remained firmly between his knees. She fumbled for her bag, pausing for only a moment to collect the two dropped dragon claws from the floor. With a shaking hand, Hermione deposited both claws into a large vial before stowing it away again. She summoned her healing salve and offered it to Malfoy. He grunted and took it from her. “Head back to the tent. I’ll join you later.”
“Why? What’s wrong?” Immediately, Hermione felt herself tense up. Malfoy had not let her out of his sight once this whole trip, so what had changed?
“Nothing, I just need some privacy.” That only confused Hermione even more.
“What? Did you burn your ass? I wouldn’t flatter yourself so much Malfoy, I don’t-” Hermione stopped herself, seeing Malfoy’s hard and piercing eyes. His eyes said not now and she listened. Her voice trailed off and her features fell into a mask of determination. “Let me see.”
“No.” He grunted, pointing in the direction of the tent. “Go.”
“No.” Hermione copied his tone, folding her arms. “I can literally just cast a diagnostics charm. So just show me.”
“I literally don’t care. Go now, before you piss me off even more.” Hermione drew her wand in response, and Malfoy huffed. “I’ve got some burns on my back. I got the shield up maybe a moment after it shot that blasted flame at us, so I took a gentle hit. The burns are not that bad, I just need to take my robe off to apply the salve and nobody needs to see that.” Narrowing her eyes, Hermione did not relent and snatched the salve from him.
“And exactly how are you going to apply salve to your own back? Get up and come back to the tent. I’ll do it.” Malfoy did not move. “I’m not arguing with you. How are you meant to keep me safe if you’re all burnt and crispy? Now, move.” Her tone left no room for argument, and Malfoy knew it. Lips pressed in a thin line, he pushed himself up from the floor and set off stiffly towards the tent, falling in step just in front of Hermione.
Her eyes widened in horror and her mouth ran dry. These were not some burns. His robe had been melted in the flame, and his skin had peeled away. She was staring at bone in places, flesh melded together with robe. Blisters already littered the boundaries of the burn. About half of his upper back had been burned away.
He had cast the protection charm in time for her, but not for himself.
Dragon flame burned fast and deep.
“Draco- I- I don’t think I can- this is not…” Hermione stuttered when she found the ability to speak again. “I’m not a healer. You need St. Mungo’s and you need it now.”
“I’ve had worse.” He muttered, reaching the entrance to the tent.
“No, you haven’t. This is- I’ve never seen-”
“I have had worse.” Malfoy repeated himself, fixing Hermione with a firm look. With no time to unpack the horror of those four words, Hermione nodded sheepishly. She gestured to the dining room table, vanishing the few effects that littered it.
“Lay on the table. I need to cut your robe off. Then… I don’t know what I’m going to do then, I’ll be honest. I can’t put salve on… on that.” Malfoy pushed out a forced breath as he lowered himself onto the table, carefully and slowly stretching his arms above his head.
“You’re a quick study. I know the spells, I’ll tell you what to do.” Hermione pushed her sleeves up and closed her eyes.
“How are you even still awake? Talking? I can smell-” She could smell his burning flesh, but she thought better of voicing that particular thought.
“Like I said, I’ve had worse. I certainly wouldn’t turn down any pain reduction spells or potions, but the cruciatus curse hurts far worse than this.” Malfoy’s voice was smaller now, muffled slightly by the table even as he turned his head to the side. Hermione drew in several deep breaths through her mouth and worked to push away her emotions. She needed to be present, able and sharp-minded. With small circular motions, she cast a numbing spell down Malfoy’s back, seeing the way he sighed and relaxed as she worked.
“Tell me what to do.”
Four hours later, the night had truly fallen and wrapped itself around their tent. Hermione was sagged in one of the chairs, feeling drained and spent. If that was how she felt, she struggled to imagine how Malfoy must feel. They had worked together in tandem, Malfoy explaining the charms and summoning the potions while Hermione got to work.
She hadn’t had to regrow or mend any bones, luckily. However, regrowing flesh was no easy feat. It wasn’t painless either. Malfoy had taken it well, gritted his teeth, bitten into his robe and powered through, but his gagged screams would never leave Hermione’s mind now. She had pretended not to see the tears stream down his face as she poked and prodded and cast charms she was not adept at. The work was rudimentary at best, but much better than she had expected.
Malfoy now had skin on every inch of his back – red and raw though it was. The blisters had been drained and healed as she had applied so much dittany that she had lost mental count of how much it would have cost. He lay now in his bed on his front, not daring to don any clothes at risk of tearing his fresh skin. His breaths were shallow and even, and Hermione knew he was asleep.