Chapter 6
You may not get to live a long life, but I hope that I can at least give you a full one.
December 2006
Like all of her visits before, the skies had deemed it fit to open up at some point, and the rain had been torrential all of that dark day.
“It just doesn’t seem to be easing up.” She had stayed for lunch, and dinner - he actually cooked very well, she was surprised to learn. She supposed that it should have been obvious, given that he had been living here alone for seven years.
She was sure that after dinner, the unholy patter of the rain would have stopped. She couldn’t reconcile it with the fact that the weather had been so close to mild earlier in the day.
He had left her to her work for the majority of the day, bringing her food as if she was the patient and leaving her to it. She was both grateful for that, and not, again.
Malfoy had just come in with some late evening tea when she had made her simple observation. The rain simply was not letting up.
“You’re more than welcome to stay.” She looked up at him abruptly, and she wasn’t sure why but the fact that he was already looking at her made her breath catch in her throat.
“Oh, I wouldn’t want to be a bother, really.” Hermione had been hard pressed to look away from him, hovering over her, hand outstretched with an offering of tea.
“Stop being difficult. I would be a bad host if I allowed you to walk back to town in that rain. Let me go make the room up for you.” He had turned to do so, clearly not taking her no for an answer.
“You’re not my host, Malfoy, you’re my patient.” She had moved without thinking, reaching out for him until she found, suddenly, she had his hands in hers, stopping him from moving. It did not go unnoticed by him. She let go. Her eyes felt wide as she looked up at him. “I can prepare the room. Please, rest. Today’s session was a particular strain on the body.” It wasn’t even half a lie.
Malfoy had stopped responding very well to her potion. It was back to the drawing board for her with her theories.
It happened very suddenly then. Malfoy had still been close, thankfully, from her previous contact, and so when he had fallen, he had fallen into her, and then they had both fallen into a heap on the sofa.
Hermione, dread to admit, was frightened. She had seen everything in her years as a healer up until that point, but nothing had frazzled her quite like seeing Draco, eyes rolling back, body contorting, drifting in and out of consciousness somewhere. Time seemed as if it slowed to a crawl, and she tried to use that adrenaline to work through this. Her heart was pounding, and her fingers shaking so much so that she actually dropped her wand the first time. She firstly applied some muscle relaxing charms, watching the tension slowly fade from him as the world seemed to fade too. She felt powerless, knowing that all she could do in this situation was to be with him as he rode it out. His arm was on fire, and she attempted a cooling charm to prevent the feverish skin from growing any hotter. Her fingers soon found his head, and they seemed to weave themselves of their own volition into his hair to run soothing patterns to accompany her gentle words.
Moments passed by, and when Hermione was finally pinned with Draco’s half-lidded stare, she felt as if her world could have stopped. She registered his heart beat then, underneath her fingers, the flow of his blood slowing back to normal under the skin of his skull.
She became all the more aware then of how she had him, head resting on her stomach, her gripping him desperately. She loosened her hands, pulling back as he did also, lucidity returning to his eyes. The spell was broken.
“Draco…” His name felt heavy on her tongue, and it was out before she could stop it. His register of his given name was shock, then shame. “How are you feeling?” She desperately needed to claw herself back to healer.
“I… I’m feeling better, thank you.” Why the shame?
“How often - how often do you get attacks like that?” Hermione had finally managed to get out, the question seeming to take more effort than it had taken for his name to slip out. Perhaps because she knew the answer and dreaded it anyway.
He looked down and away again, and she felt as if she had to do something to stop him from shutting her out. Her hand found his again. “Often.”
“Why didn’t you tell me this before?”
“I’m dying.”
“Yes, but before you are dead, you are choosing to live, remember?” She couldn’t help the tears that pricked at her eyes, and even knowing how wildly unprofessional this had gotten, she couldn’t stop herself. This was never meant to be her typical healer and patient relationship. “Help me let you live. You have to be honest with me from now on.” He nodded in response to what she had said, and she almost swore she saw his lip tremble.
“I will.”
“Good, you bloody idiot.” She had to chuckle then, because she realised it actually was one of those rare moments in her life that if she did not laugh, she would cry. “Now, can I leave you here whilst I go and sort upstairs? Can I go upstairs? I promise not to snoop.”
Malfoy told her that she could, of course she could, and Hermione could almost feel the unsaid apology in those words for his outburst months ago last time she ventured up those stairs.
January 2007
Hermione had ended up extending her visit, monitoring him for five days in total to assure that he did not flare up and have one of his attacks again. During that dark December month, they had fallen into a routine of sorts with one another. Malfoy no longer left her alone during their meals, and she was finally able to get a compliment out, through only slightly gritted teeth, that he cooked well. He had laughed at that.
They had chatted for hours, debating and discussing different aspects of wizarding life, Muggle life, and books. He was an avid reader, not that she was surprised to learn. She had always known him to be intelligent, and the large library upstairs left little to be desired. Having access to his mind now, though, was a newfound, and admittedly, enjoyable experience. It was pleasant to be able to have long conversations with someone that could also hold his own.
Surprising still, was the fact that they usually turned out to be just that - conversations. They agreed on most things, and where they didn’t, he shaped up to be a tasteful debating partner.
What she had enjoyed the most, however, was their long silent moments together. Reading in each other's presence for hours, the only thing breaking her concentration was when he would suddenly appear, hand her tea, hand her biscuits, or leave for another book.
On that final night in December, nearing so close to Christmas, they had even ended up not on their separate sofas, but side by side. Their healing session, in which she would always sit on his left for easy access to his Dark Mark, had quickly turned into one of their long winded conversations, which had then shifted gradually throughout the day to them reading, side by side.
Where before, when she had gotten close to him physically, she had felt his tense energy, she felt that day, very much at peace with the man beside her. His silhouette, sturdy like the trees outside, was somehow comforting. It had felt natural, like she had been born to somehow end up here, as if the earth itself had orchestrated their union.
She had found, at some point, that she was being gently jostled awake. Her head was warm, feeling soft and filled as she opened her eyes. Hermione. Gentle.
Her first instinct had been to sharply pull herself away - how embarrassing that she had fallen asleep on his shoulder! Instead, she stilled herself, and flowed gently as if ushered by the breeze, until she was sat up straight, and the electricity of their eyes meeting could have lit a city. It felt like seeing for the first time.
She wasn’t sure what these newfound feelings meant. She had nursed them and mulled for the weeks that had followed. For some reason, she found herself counting down the days until the next month, hurrying in the New Year so that she could once again see Draco Malfoy.
It hadn’t helped, of course, that a lot of her time had been taken up by studying his case. Even if she wanted to, she couldn’t have stopped thinking about the enigma that he was. Those thoughts led inevitably to who he once had been. Despite the calm that had settled around them, she was drawn into thoughts of days past. The first time she had ever heard the slur now marred into her skin. The hollow, gauntness around his eyes as he had stood by in the manor. She wondered if he might have been as haunted by that day as she was.
At one point during the interim, she must have gotten so bad, so listless, that Ginny had picked up on it.
“What’s on your mind?” Ginny was nursing the child at her bosom, and Hermione felt the nurturing spirit of the mother. She felt coaxed into being honest.
“Nothing, nothing. It’s just a case I’ve been working on. It’s been playing on my mind.”
“Draco Malfoy?” Hermione had nodded then to tell her the affirmative. She didn’t make the distinction between the man and the case.
“He’s deteriorating. I’m stumped by it honestly. It’s like nothing I’ve ever seen. I’ve spent so long researching, contacted so many specialists, and still turned up very little.” She had sighed then, the exhaustion of the whirring of her mind flowing over her.
“You’re attached.” Ginny had concluded, after looking Hermione deep in the eyes. She wasn’t being unkind either, wasn’t trying to trick or cajole Hermione.
“It’s hard not to be.”