Hermione had built stacks in her backyard as a child, praying many prayers for friends. Heartfelt prayers that had lain unanswered for years until she reached Hogwarts.
Hermione laid down large foundation stones for Harry and Ron.
Let them live, she prayed. Let them survive this war. Please don't let me lose them.
Then she placed a stone for Ginny. Fred. George. Charlie. Bill. Molly and Arthur.
Percy had died during the Ministry takeover.
Let them live, she murmured.
She added stones for Remus and Tonks, Neville, Poppy and Severus and Minerva and the Caithness orphans. She was afraid she'd be too selfish if she included everyone in the Order and the Resistance. The stack was somewhat unstable.
She picked up one last stone and hesitated.
If the pile fell the wishes wouldn't come true.
She stared down at the final stone in her hands, brushing her fingers across it slightly. It was cold but the bite slowly faded as she kept hesitating, turning it over and over in her hands. Holding it out, then drawing it back and holding it longer.
Maybe she shouldn't place it.
Maybe it was selfish.
She almost put it back into the creek.
Then she bit her lip and placed it.
If there's any way, don't make me responsible for Draco's death, she prayed.
The stack wobbled but didn't fall. She let out a sharp sigh of relief and nearly cried.
She washed her hands off in the creek and then stared at the tower she had built.
It was a silly, superstitious ritual. It didn't mean anything.
But she'd given nearly everything for the war, and it had yet to be enough. Superstition felt like all she had left.
She cast a spell to repel muggles around the stones and apparated away.
She kept healing Draco, night after night. The venom combined with the runic magic made the injury one of the cruelest she had ever encountered. No matter what she did, it stayed fresh. He should have been in a hospital or on bed rest, not apparating and spying and whatever it was Voldemort had him doing.
She scoured old healing textbooks, and stayed up late into the night brewing potions she hoped would help heal or at least ease the pain further, but nothing she tried worked. Nagini's venom was essentially a neutralising agent against any type of healing, Magical or nonmagical.
It should have eventually worn off. When Arthur had been bitten by Nagini in the ministry, the venom had faded after a few days of blood replenishing potion. But runic magic interacted with the venom, and kept the venom isolated in the incisions. Hermione couldn't simply flush it from Draco's system.
Packing the cuts with Essence of Dittany and Murtlap and keeping infection at bay was all Hermione could do until the venom wore off on its own.
Draco finally spoke to her first after several weeks.
“Be careful foraging,” he said abruptly as she was pulling his shirt up over his shoulders.
She paused.
“I have been. I send detection spells out every time I apparate somewhere to make sure there are no anti-apparition wards nearby. And all my clothing is shielded.”
“The Dark Lord wants the Order crushed within the year. He is growing confident about his hold in the rest of Europe. He's concentrating his troops and bringing in new resources.”
Hermione felt herself grow cold.
“In related news,” he added, “I've just been given a manticore. I haven't the faintest idea what I'm expected to do with it.”
The casual way in which he announced it made it seem like he had been given an unwanted spaniel and not one of the most deadly, semi-sentient dark creatures in the wizarding world.
“You were given a manticore?” she repeated. She had to force the words out, her chest felt as though it were being constricted.
“It's only half-grown, I'm told. McNair informed me that it has been dropped at my manor,” he said with an aggravated expression as he pulled his shirt closed.
“Are you allowed to kill it?” she said, watching his pale skin vanish beneath the black fabric.
“Well — I doubt that is what was intended, but it didn't come with instructions.”
“Manticore blood is impervious to most magic. You could probably craft some very useful weapons with it.”
He turned to look down at her. “Such as?”
Hermione hesitated, and then reached forward to finish buttoning his shirt and straightening the collar. They were standing so close their bodies were almost touching. She could smell the cedar in his clothes, and she cautiously rested a hand on his chest over his heart, feeling his heartbeat under her fingers. She bit her lip for a moment before looking up at him. His mouth was quirked in faint amusement as he stared down at her, his eyes darkened as she stared up at him.
“I've read that goblin wrought knives or arrowheads infused with manticore venom could cut through shield charms,” she said slowly. “Clothing soaked in the blood would be impervious to almost all magic. Like shielded clothing, but the magic wouldn't ever wear off.”
Draco's eyes narrowed “So what?” he asked, watching her carefully. “You think I should kill my gift from the Dark Lord and then use it to make enchanted objects for the Order?”
“No,” she said, sliding her hand away and looking down. “Even if you wanted to, I wouldn't be able to provide any explanation for obtaining them. And most members wouldn't use them anyway. Manticores are dark creatures after all.” Her tone was bitter at the last words. She drew a sharp breath. “Most of the fighters in the Resistance would get killed if they ran into a manticore on a battlefield. There's probably only a hundred who would even know how to, and are capable of, killing one. So — if you could invent an excuse for disposing of it before your master decides to unleash it, it would be preferable.”
She edged even closer and touched the back of his hand nervously.
She would beg, she would do anything to convince him.
He drew his hand sharply away from her touch, and for a moment she braced herself for his irritation. But then he caught her chin and tilted her head back until her eyes met his. He studied her expression for a moment as she stared back at him.
He leaned toward her until she thought he was going to kiss her. “You are always so pragmatic.” She felt the words brush against her lips.
Then he released her chin abruptly and stepped away. His eyes were glinting as he noted her confusion.
“Don't die, Granger. I might miss you,” Draco said, smirking, before he vanished with a crack.
Chapter End Notes
Illustrations by Avendell, follow her on tumblr and instagram.
Draco's Runes by _knar.m_
Flashback 10
July 2002
Hermione felt paranoid the following Tuesday when she was foraging, but the journey passed again without incident. That morning, when she arrived at the shack, Draco was already there waiting.
“So, dueling,” he said, spinning his wand in his right hand as she walked through the door.
Hermione froze and blanched slightly.
She had braced herself — reminded herself repeatedly that Draco would likely do something incredibly nasty to her as soon as he started feeling better. It was apparently his default method for maintaining distance between them.
She'd healed him considerably more from his punishment than she had after his fight with a werewolf. If he regarded her as overstepping recently in the way she had been touching him — if the space between them really had narrowed — she had reminded herself that eventually he might do something horribly cruel to widen it again.