“What hotel is this?” she asked, sitting up and glancing around the room.
“Ah. What day of the month is it?” he said musingly. “Last week of March — this is the Savoy.”
Hermione drew back slightly to stare at him. “You have multiple hotels you stay at?”
“Too much magical activity could eventually draw attention, even with all the wards. So I cycle between a few of them with an arithmantical randomisation equation. The staff are mildly Confunded; not anything detectable, just enough that if they were asked for my physical description, they'd all offer something different.” He shrugged.
Hermione blinked and tried not to think about how much money Draco was spending by keeping multiple hotel suites constantly at his disposal. Rich wanker.
“So you live in posh Muggle hotel suites when you're not being a General in the Wizarding War,” she said, shaking her head with disbelief.
“You knew I've studied Muggle history; where did you think I did it? I'm fairly good at blending in.” His tone dripped with aristocratic smugness as he said it, and Hermione doubted there was anywhere in the world that he could be described as blending in.
He looked away from her again, twisting his left arm to hide the Dark Mark. “It seemed sensible to do things temporarily, and it was something to do when I had time off.”
Hermione was silent. Of course, he'd spent almost a year waiting for the day when she would sell him out. Temporary. Uncommitted. It was sensible.
She rested her head against his shoulder and wrapped her arms around him. She could feel the scars of his runes under her fingers.
“When — when did you realise that I didn't know you were supposed to die in June?”
He gave a faint laugh. “When you said it. I thought when I pointed out that you should have anticipated my punishment that you'd realise Moody and Shacklebolt set me up. But you didn't. Then I assumed by the next day it would have been explained to you. But it apparently hadn't. So I concluded that Moody and Shacklebolt had decided that my survival was useful in the meanwhile. It was clear, based on how you behaved, they wouldn't inform you of that detail until they decided to make the move. Which made you both amusing and agonising to be around. Sometimes I wanted to just tell you, but — I suppose I enjoyed the way you wanted to save me.”
Hermione pressed her lips together and rested her forehead against him. “I did wonder sometimes, at the beginning, if that was the plan. But I assumed it was years away. I tried not to think about it. And eventually I forgot. After I healed your runes and you stopped coming — I stopped thinking about it then. I was so preoccupied with wondering if I were ever going to see you again.”
Draco was silent.
“When I came Thursday after Christmas — I had just found out. That it had been the plan.”
Draco gave a faint nod. “I thought as much.”
He turned his head slowly and looked down at her. “Since we're talking, I've been meaning to ask, what did you do to me?”
Hermione froze guiltily.
The corner of his mouth twitched as he continued to study her.
“Granger, I had those runes for a month before you got your wand into them. I went to several healers for pain relief. Aside from the general obscurity of treating runic magic at all, whatever you did violated fundamental laws of Magic. So — I have my guesses, but I would appreciate it if you told me.”
Hermione was quiet for a minute, tracing her fingers along the scars, her other hand still entwined with his.
“In Egypt, Isis is the goddess of Healing,” she finally said in a low voice. “Some say she has power over Fate itself. In Egyptian mythology when a person dies, the heart is weighed and only those deemed virtuous are permitted into the afterlife. It's said that Isis gifted the Egyptian Healers with a pouch of stones capable of purifying the heart. The stones are called the Heart of Isis. According to the myths, someone whose heart was corrupted by darkness could be granted a chance at redemption if their actions had been borne from good intent.” She swallowed. “What the stones do is absorb Dark Magic; they purify the poison of it.”
“You have one.”
Hermione studied the sheets on bed. “The Director of the hospital entrusted me with one. It was intended for Harry. He thought if Harry defeated You Know Who, he would need it. That Harry would deserve to be purified to have a chance at the life he wants afterward. But Harry would never — will never use Dark Magic. For him, the opposition to using it is based in a form of principle. It's not because he's afraid to die or be hurt by it. He won't use it because he doesn't want anyone else to use it. The runes — they were poisoning you. You knew they were poisoning you. I was so late I couldn't even slow it. You saved hundreds of people, and we needed you. So I used the stone to heal you. That's — when the Order found out what I had done — that's — that's why I was deemed compromised.”
She abruptly drew away, pulling her knees up to her chest and drawing the coverlet tightly around herself.
Compromised. Unreliable.
Sitting naked in Draco Malfoy's bed.
If Moody and Kingsley knew she was there of her own volition — that she'd gone to him — would it make any difference? Or had they always operated under the assumption she'd end up there?
She stared down at all the scars on her wrist. They were still fresh and pink coloured; if she treated them they'd fade more.
Draco broke the silence after a minute. “So — how does a Heart of Isis work exactly?”
Hermione looked up at him. He was expressionless as he studied her. Her eyes dropped down to her hands again.
“It's not well understood. In some respects they're alchemically similar to a Philosopher's Stone. But — the Egyptian hospital doesn't publicise the fact that the stones are even real. They don't permit research. There isn't much verified information.”
“How does it work?”
“It — well”—she shifted awkwardly—“for minor amounts of Dark Magic just temporary proximity is sufficient. But,” she looked down, “the runes are permanent. Each of them is like a Dark curse, pulling constantly on your magic. You — you chose so many — in order to heal you, I — it's — it's inside your heart. I put it there when you were unconscious.” Hermione glanced up nervously at his reaction.
Draco's eyebrows arched sharply upwards. “You put a stone inside my heart — when I was unconscious?”
“A magical stone,” Hermione said, jutting her chin up, “to save you from being poisoned to death.”
“You put a stone inside my heart without asking permission.” He stared at her, his silver eyes wide with astonishment. “Is it even removable?”
Hermione flushed. “Not — really. I couldn't tell you, I still didn't know if you were planning to become the next Dark Lord at that point. I couldn't very well ask whether you wanted to be made immune to Dark Magic.”
He snorted and sank back against the pillows. “I'm not immune to it. I would have noticed if the cruciatus had stopped working.”
“Not immune to getting cursed. You're immune to the effects of using it. The runes still affect you the way they were intended to. They just can't poison you. You're immune to the corrosion and tainting. It's like — an ongoing purification ritual set inside your magic.”
Draco was silent.
She studied him and hesitantly reached out, touching his chest over his heart. “Can you tell? I don't know what it's like — for you. Nothing shows in diagnostic spells. But you noticed, didn't you? That things were different.”
He gave a slow nod, his expression closed. “It's like — getting sliced open and not bleeding. You know better than I do what happens when Dark Magic is channeled. It makes it simultaneously easier and harder to use the Dark Arts. There's none of the wrenching sensation that I'm pulling up something more powerful. Even the slicing sensation is growing dulled. I suspect — eventually — I won't feel it at all.” He looked away from her.