Chapter Text
Her lungs burned. Each muscle ached with each pounding footstep on cobblestones. Eyes strained to see through the darkness, her throat coated with the thick air of the sewer. Puddles betrayed her path at every turn, her trainers splashing against the surface alerting the men behind her to exactly where she was. She had only gotten a brief glance at them, not long enough to count them. She had recognized at least three figures before she turned, before she started running. How long had she been running now? It could have been minutes, or it could be hours.
In the dim light filtering through grates above her head, Hermione saw a small opening to another wing of the sewer. She swiftly flicked her wand, sending her splashing, frantic footsteps forward and slipped into the alcove ignoring the burning in her fingers from her wand sparking. Her back pressed against the damp stones, her heart beating in her head like a drum.
“Come on Mudblood!” a Death Eater shouted, a scratchy older man’s voice. “Stop running! We’re only going to torture you!”
A roar of laughter filled the sewer and she saw their cloaked figures walk past her alcove. As they passed beneath the grate, she caught a glimpse at their decorative masks, and their wands raised and ready to fire. Her phantom footsteps were still leading them down the sewer and they followed. She tried to count them as they passed, but stopped once she reached eight.
Seemed like a bit of overkill for a single mudblood.
She slumped against the wall when the last figure passed, letting out the air she had been holding in a long exhale. She was exhausted, filthy, and shaking. Her wand had been hit with a hex in her mad dash through the sewers exposing part of the dragon heartstring that was pulled taunt inside its core. She cursed herself for being careless. She wished the hex had caught a body part instead- she could live without an arm, she could never get out of this place without her wand.
Hermione closed her eyes and tried to channel her magic through her wand anyway. She thought of the Order safe house and attempted to apparate there only for her wand to give a small spark and fizzle out.
Bollocks.
She tried again, and earned a slightly larger spark. She opened her eyes, ready to try something else. Apparation was, evidently, too heavy of a spell for her wand at the moment. She turned and saw a silhouette standing beneath the grate. Evening light caught his shoulders, clothed in black robes. The metal of his mask shined in the light, accentuating all the intricate curves and details carved into the iron skull.
And he was looking right at her.
Hermione’s heart vaulted into her throat. She twisted her wand hand again, begging the piece of wood to work. It sparked and fizzled, searing her fingertips. The Death Eater glanced at her wand, and could guess what she was trying to do. He leaped forward. Hermione cast again, desperately putting every ounce of energy into the spell. The familiar pulling sensation yanked at her navel, and she twisted and vanished from the sewer with a crack just as a black gloved hand caught her wrist.
They stood for a moment, looking at one another inside the living quarters of the Order safehouse. Trunks of supplies lined the walls, and an injured wizard slept on a cot in the corner. Hermione had no time to think of a solution before she was being yanked through space once again. The world twisted around her until it settled into the shape of an enormous fireplace. Black marble stretched out in every direction, the fire in front of her a mere pile of glowing embers. The Death Eaters gloved hand still held her wrist.
Hermione flicked her wand yanking the pair through England again, appearing with a crack at the edge of the Forest of Dean. She collapsed to her knees retching what little was in her stomach onto the dry, brittle grass beneath her. The Death Eater gripped a tree, his black robes swaying as he regained his balance. Weak and struck with a serious case of vertigo, Hermione flicked her wand in an attempt to apparate once and for all out of harm’s way. Her wand spit out a cloud of black smoke with a final weak crack.
The sun leaned onto the tree line, as tired of the day as the witch below it was. There wasn’t much time before it’d be completely dark. Hermione swallowed hard, shoved her useless wand in her back pocket. She glanced at the Death Eater still holding onto a branch for support. The girl took a deep breath and shoved herself to her feet, starting at a sprint into the tree line.
“Wait!” the Death Eater called, his voice muffled by his mask. She, however, did not wait. She continued bounding through the forest, vaulting her tired body through the underbrush. Thin branches reached out, slicing her cheeks and slapping at her arms. She could hear the masked man following her. A spell shot past her, slamming into a tree trunk and exploding into sparks.
The sun gave out on her, passing their shift on to the stars. Crickets chirped, owls hooted, and unknown creatures skittered through fallen leaves. Hermione cut through it all, racing through the dark. Her beat faster than a hummingbird's wings, blood rushing in her ears deafening the world around her.
This was not how today was supposed to go down. It was supposed to be a simple retrieval. Get some wounded witches and wizard back to a safe house, maybe throw a few spells out as a defense. She was supposed to be back with Ron and Harry by lunch.
Her foot caught on a root, sending her sprawling face first into damp earth and leaves. The impact with the forest floor shoved all the air from her lungs, leaving her gasping in the dirt. She lay there, feeling the effects of running half the day, of having fear rule her body for hours and hours. Hermione wanted nothing but to lie down and rest her eyes. However, that was not a luxury she could afford.
She lifted her head, spitting dirt out of her mouth. Leaves rustled beside her head, and her heart dropped. He had caught up to her. Hermione, against every instinct, sat up in the mud and began to raise her hands to show she was unarmed. That she gave up.
Only, it wasn't the Death Eater staring down at her. A massive body loomed over her, framed by the bright light of the full moon.
Hermione stared, open mouthed, at the mountain of fur and teeth standing before her. It huffed hot air into her face, leaning forward to sniff her hair. She was frozen in place, unsure of what to do next. Her wand was out of commission and she had nothing else to defend herself with.
Suddenly the beast cried out in pain, a sparkle of red glitter bursting in the air and illuminating the forest. The monster’s whimper ripped into a howl. An arm was around Hermione’s waist, lifting her out of the dirt and dragging her through the trees.
“Come on, Granger!” the Death Eater snapped. That voice, she knew that voice. Her fingers curled into his black robes as she regained her footing and stumbled along with him down a hill. The beast was at their heels, it’s panting echoing off the trees.
A small hut among the tree trunks. Moonlight danced over its roof, almost pointing them in its direction.
“There!” Hermione pointed, her voice rough from under use. They stumbled towards it, nearly falling down the steep decline. As they neared the door, the hand around her waist moved to her back, shoving her towards the shack. Hermione ran until she hit open doorway. Crossing the threshold was like stepping into cool water. A shiver flickered down her spine as the sensation bled over her skin. She turned in time to see the Death Eater cast a green light at the beast. The rippling mass of fur dodged the attack and swiped a clawed hand at him, knocking against him so hard that his body flew backwards, right through the doorway. Hermione jumped back as black robes and blonde hair crashed into the floor.
A howl reverberated through the building and the creature leaped forward only for the door to slam closed by itself.
Hermione felt the sensation of wards locking into place- a faint sizzling in the air. Someone had warded this hut specifically for hiding from the werewolf outside. She had a creeping suspicion that it was the man inside the beast waiting outside to eat them.
A groan captured her attention. Hermione cautiously took a step towards the man lying on the floor boards. His mask had been knocked off, his pale face marred with a thick red slash across the lower right half of his jaw. She froze, watching him take in the damage and prop up on his elbows.
Draco Malfoy.
She hadn’t seen him in years. The war had been dragging on and they had been, reluctantly, dragged into adulthood with it. He looked so different, yet there was no mistaking those grey eyes and white blonde hair. The softness of his face from school had worn away, leaving only the chiseled features of a man- nearly gaunt. He caught her gaze, silver eyes pinning her in place.
“What?” he asked nonchalantly, as if he caught her staring at him in potions class.
“You… you look different,” she stuttered out. Hermione looked different as well. Her hair was the same unruly mass of curls, but her body had filled out into that of a woman and then quickly nicked down with stress and malnutrition. They both took in the other. Just a few moments earlier she had been running from him and now she was considering him.
“This place is warded,” he said, echoing the knowledge Hermione had already gathered. He pulled himself to his feet, and she was shocked by just how tall he had grown. She hadn’t had time to take in his full height while running and was now staring up at him. He was a couple inches over six feet, and draped in black robes he was quite a sight. However, she could see the outline of his lean frame beneath the bulky robes, betraying his own hardships in the war. He started palming his pockets, tearing off his robe in search of something. “Where’s my wand!?”
He looked up her, his silver eyes burning with accusation.
“I- I-,” she held her hands up, brown eyes flickering to the window set in the wall by the door. Malfoy stepped up to it and Hermione stood on her tiptoes to peer over his shoulder. A small stick, just barely lit by the moon, sat in the leaves outside. The wolfish creature paced over it, as if daring Malfoy to come out and face him for it.
“Shit,” he declared, whirling around on Hermione. “Where’s your wand? Why haven’t you pulled it on me yet?”
Hermione quickly whipped her wand out, pressing the end of it into his throat, so he couldn’t peer down and see the giant hole in the side of it. A bluff, but hopefully it paid off.
“It’s right here, Malfoy,” she hissed, standing exceptionally close to hide her wand’s secret. “You see, good witches and wizards are usually taught not to strike someone while they’re down. You must have skipped that lesson.”
“How generous of you,” he said, his voice flat. He didn’t move. He stood, her wand pressing into his throat, with his hands at his sides. Hermione’s brown eyes flickered over the expanse of his shoulders. He was bigger than her, and with her wand in such a state he could overpower her if he wanted to. She had a few wandless spells she might be able to cast, but she was exhausted beyond comprehension and she wasn’t sure she could cast them even if she had a wand in working order. Not to mention most of them were healing spells of some kind, not exactly suited to keep a Death Eater prisoner. Malfoy lifted an eyebrow. “Well, what are you going to do with me?”
Hermione paused. What was she going to do with him?
“You’re not going to drag me back to Potter? Get me to spill all my Death Eater secrets?” he said, a smirk playing on his pale lips.
“I doubt you know much of anything, Malfoy,” Hermione growled, pressing her wand further into the flesh of his throat.
“Are you sure about that?” he dared her. She hadn’t realized it, but her fingers were shaking. “Granger, lower your pitiful excuse for a wand. I’m tired and I’d like to sit down.”
She hesitated before finally lowering her wand. Malfoy quickly reached up, grabbing the tip and turning it over to inspect the damage.
“Ouch, Granger,” he said examining the exposed core. Hermione huffed, yanking her wand back, stuffing it in the back pocket of her jeans. She didn’t like him looking at her wand like that, like her own core was open as well as the dragon’s heartstring. He slowly walked to the far wall, yanking at the middle finger of his black glove, tugging the garment off finger by finger. “It seems we’re going to be spending some time together.”
He turned to her, biting on the tip of his glove and yanking it off with his teeth. Hermione slowed, moving her gaze to the walls around her and began pacing. There was only the one door and single window, without a single piece of furniture. There was absolutely nothing to occupy their time.
“Come on, Granger. We’re old school chums- tell me what you’ve been up to,” Malfoy teased. She shot him a glare over her shoulder. He sat against the wall, his gloves discarded on the floor beside him, and the top button of his black dress shirt undone. Blood dripped off his chin from the gash he had earned from the werewolf.
“You’re bleeding,” she stated, wanting to move closer. Her healer instincts wanted to kneel beside him, mutter the incantation to sew the gash closed. She knew it by heart, it was one of the spells she knew she could do without a wand, but her knowledge isn’t what stopped her- it was the patient. Malfoy was the enemy. Did she have a duty to heal the enemy under the circumstances? She chewed on her bottom lip. Malfoy touched his index and middle finger to the cut on his jaw, coating his fingertips in scarlet.
“So I am,” he said casually, examining the blood on his hand. Hermione sighed, her mind made up. She quickly walked across the shack and kneeled beside him. “What are you doing?”
“Cleaning you up,” she said, her voice betraying her reluctance. “I don’t need any werewolf germs getting in there.”
It had been her deciding factor. While the creature hadn’t gotten his teeth into Malfoy, his claws alone could be enough to curse the man. She thought on Bill Weasley and the long scars that trailed his face and his affinity for raw steaks. However, it did not make her feel at ease being so close to Draco Malfoy. Every cell in her body screamed at her to put more space between them, that he was dangerous and would use any advantage he got to get the best of her- including exploiting her kindness.
She gently placed trembling fingers on the edge of his jaw. A small gasp left his lips, and Hermione took in his expression. Perhaps the injury hurt more than he had been letting on. His skin was warm to the touch, but not feverish which she was thankful for. The witch whispered the incantation, and watched as Malfoy’s pale skin stitched back together.
“There,” she said, her fingers still lingering on his jaw. “It won’t even scar.”
“Pity,” he said, turning his silver eyes on her. “Girls like scars.”
“Don’t worry Malfoy, you’re in the middle of a war. I’m sure you’ll have plenty of opportunities to earn some,” Hermione said, the bitterness of their reality sinking in. She stood and crossed back to her side of the shack, leaning against the wall but refusing to sit down. She wanted to be on her feet, ready in case Malfoy decided to pull anything.
Malfoy leaned his head back against the wall, staring up at the ceiling. He had one leg bent, and the other stretched out in front of him. His black, Death Eater robes fanned out around him as if he was sitting in a dark pool of water.
Hermione tugged at the sleeves of her jumper, continuing pacing the length of the room. She glanced out the window where the creature stalked outside, its yellows eyes catching her looking at him. He snapped his jaws and she jumped, a small shriek escaping her lips.
“Scared of dogs, Granger?” Malfoy said, still reclining against the wall.
“Malfoy, can you shut up for one minute?” Hermione snapped. She was tired, and scared, and stuck in a room with the worst possible person. The least he could do was stop taunting her every few minutes.
Surprisingly, he listened to her. He closed his eyes and kept his mouth shut. Hermione was truly shocked, but savored the quiet. She paced minute after minute, fidgeting with her jumper and taking her wand out to get another look at it as if had healed itself in her back pocket. She was disappointed each time, returning it to its spot and wondering what the hell she was going to do. She picked leaves from her hair, but probably missed most of them without a mirror to check.
Eventually, her eyes turned on Malfoy.
There were dark bags under his eyes she hadn’t noticed before. She had been so swept up in how much older he looked she was unaware of the damage lying beneath the surface. His skin, while it had always been pale, seemed sallow. His cheekbones sharp not only from genetics, but from a gauntness brought on by stress or hunger or who knows what. His hands fidgeted in his lap, clasping and then unclasping them. When he wasn’t moving them around, she could see his fingers shake.
Again, her healer heart tugged forward once more. She tried to fight it, mentally gluing her trainers to the farthest corner away from Malfoy. He is a Death Eater and fucking Draco Malfoy of all people. She didn’t need to feel any kind of sorry for him.
A thought crept into her mind. She was stuck with Malfoy until dawn, when the werewolf turned and he could get retrieve his wand. Best case scenario: he takes his wand and leaves. Worst case scenario: he grabs his wand and drags her back to the Dark Lord. She chewed her lip, her arms crossed over her chest as she wore a grove into the floor boards with more incessant pacing. She could see pale fingers trembling against black robes in the corner of her eye.
Maybe, just maybe, if she used this time to get on his good side he’d let her go come morning. As a favor for all her help and…
Merlin, what was she thinking.
Finally, she decided scheme or no scheme she couldn’t stand to watch his hands tremor a second longer. She sat down on her knees beside him, taking his hand in hers without so much as a word. He jumped at the contact, apparently lost in his mind.
“Sorry,” Hermione said, instinctively. “I didn’t mean to startle you.”
She kept her hold on his hand, and he didn’t try to pull away. His skin was warm, but terribly thin. She could see veins, more black than blue, beneath the surface. Even with her hand holding onto his palm, his fingers still twitched. Hermione frowned, she had seen the same behavior in a countless number of witches and wizards.
“Does he torture you often?” she asked, keeping her eyes on his fingers. She ran her fingers over his index, massaging the muscles there. Patience and time were needed to reverse the effects of the Cruciatus curse, something she usually didn’t have time for while healing members of the Order of the Phoenix. However, here she had nothing but time and desperately needed something to focus on so that she could forget about what may happen when dawn broke. That’s all this was- a way to occupy her time.
“Yes,” he answered, his face devoid of the smirks he had so happily worn for her earlier. Instead, he was staring off at the opposite wall, silver eyes watching nothing.
She moved on to his middle finger, pressing against the stiff tendons beneath the skin.
“Um, you should try to do this after every… uh session,” she said quietly, stumbling to try to find the right words. She looked up and found Malfoy looking at her, his eyes not following her working hands but staring at her face. She caught his gaze, his silver eyes hard and cold without his façade. “It’ll help the stiffness, and the tremors.”
Suddenly, Malfoy snatched his hand away, hiding it in the thick fabric of his robes.
“I don’t need your help,” he said coldly. Hermione sat for a moment, her hands suddenly chilled without his fingers between them. Then she shook her head.
“You’re an idiot,” she spat, standing and retreating back to her side of the shack. She sat down against the wall, hugging her knees to her chest. She wanted to hate him. To hurt him and pronounce it in the name of the Order. Instead, pity made her chest ache. Pity and something else she couldn’t identify. Even if she had truly wanted to punish him, she couldn’t. She felt completely helpless, trapped by time and a broken wand.
Hermione set her forehead on her knees, taking in a deep breath. The shack smelled like earth and damp wood. She would make it to dawn, and she would fight.
She closed her eyes for a second and was soon weighed down by sleep.