Complexities

By Bambu

~o0o~

Chapter Three: Unexpected Tenderness

Two hours later, four frustrated wizards occupied the small lab that Professor Snape used for his private research.  Snape had ruled out three classes of Dark potions, and was only left with those that controlled the victim’s free will.  He and Draco were bent over a cauldron, adding the last ingredient, finely diced Jobberknoll claws, which would isolate the specific, active ingredient in the potion Smith had slipped into Hermione’s drink.  The same qualities for which the tiny blue bird’s feathers were prized in Truth Potions rendered their claw parings effective in determining the breakdown of unknown ingredients.

Draco added eight smidgens of parings as Snape stirred nine times anti-clockwise.  Draco then raised the heat under the cauldron, and the Potions Master and Apprentice leaned back from their work.  In exactly fourteen minutes the potion would be done.

Harry and Ron had taken residence in two of the lab’s corners – those closest to the door.  Ron was leaning his broad shoulders against a locked cabinet, and Harry had braced his back against the corner forming an odd sort of triangular position for his body.  Neither looked comfortable, but neither looked as hot and irritated as Draco or Snape.  Their patience was elastic, and had stretched to the point of breakage, but each gamely hung on to their temper.  This was for Hermione, and if saving her meant that they had to share a cramped potions lab with their least favorite wizards on the planet, then share it they would. 

As Snape began to reach for a second cauldron, Draco crossed to the cabinet Ron was leaning against, and with a softly muttered ‘Serpensortia’ the doors unlatched.  He couldn’t resist getting a little of his own back against the redhead who’d irritated him, and threw the right-hand door all the way open.  It smacked Ron in the face and blocked him against the cabinet and the wall.

“Oi, Malfoy!”

“I didn’t see you there, Weasley.”  Draco’s smirk was pronounced and his voice was richly laden with malicious amusement. 

It didn’t matter that Ron couldn’t see his face.  He remembered the tone of voice from seven years’ worth of rivalry. “Git!”

“Wanker!”

Draco retrieved the ingredient he needed and closed the door.  Looking at Ron’s flushed face, he sneered, “Weasel!”

Ron came off the wall, his eyes narrowed.  The hated name from school never ceased to Incendio his temper into full flame. “Ferret!”

Harry burst out laughing, causing the participants to pause, Ron glared at his friend.  Across the lab, Snape had ceased his preparations to watch the juvenile display.

“While I am delighted to be of service in furthering your re-acquaintance, gentlemen, perhaps we could address the rather pressing issue at hand.  Mr. Malfoy, the bezoar.”

Suitably chastened, Draco closed the cabinet and handed the container of bezoar to Snape.  Fresh bezoar was a commonly used antidote for poisons, and would ease the symptoms of the overdose Smith had given to Hermione.

With a reminder of their purpose, silence descended once more on the small lab.  After five minutes, Harry gave Ron a significant look, and eased himself from the wall.  He squared his shoulders and stood to his full height, even with the added inches his unruly hair gave him he was the shortest man in the room.  However, regardless of his size, Harry Potter, had grown up.  Killing a Dark Lord will do that to a young man, and he knew to repay his debts when owed.

“Malfoy…” he waited until Draco turned his head. “Thank you for helping Hermione.  I appreciate it.”

“I didn’t do it for you, Potter.”

“Oh, yeah, well why did you do it?”  Ron asked, bristling.

Draco didn’t respond – the answer was that he didn’t know why he’d helped her or why he was still so driven to continue helping her – but he was saved from having to answer or continuing the baffling line of thought as Snape rescued him. 

“Does it matter, Mr. Weasley?  The fact of the matter is that he did, and I, for one, am grateful that he did it in time to catch Smith in the act.  Of course, if you had delayed your arrival, I think that Mr. Malfoy and I might have had the opportunity to take Smith’s fate in hand… accidentally, of course.”

The last of Snape’ comment was said in a dry tone, and once his underlying meaning sunk in, wicked grins spread on all three faces of the former classmates as each imagined what they would’ve liked to have done to Smith.  For the first time since Draco had crossed the threshold of Hogwarts, the four wizards were in perfect accord.

A small magical chime sounded, and all attention was directed at the potion in the cauldron, it was producing billowing clouds of fluorescent orange smoke.  It was ready.

Draco watched intently as, with great dexterity, Snape added a single drop of the confiscated potion.  Immediately, the orange smoke was sucked back into the confines of the cauldron.  Leaning cautiously forward, Draco could see the smoke writhing within the basin of the cauldron.  As it swirled, the colour of the smoke began to change.  Tendrils of black began to insinuate itself within the wisps of orange.  The smoke began to rise until it floated a foot above the cauldron, a roiling black mass that resolved itself into the shape of a tightly furled egg.  There was a malignant quality to the pulsating black ovoid, and atavistically, Draco shuddered. 

The colour reminded him of the web-like tendrils infiltrating Hermione’s bloodstream from the diagnostic image Poppy had conjured earlier.  He’d never been so thankful that Snape was a Potions Master.

With an odd twisting turn of his hand, Snape’ deep baritone commanded, “Show yourself.”   

The smoky black egg unfurled until it resembled nothing more than the shape of a small sea creature comprised of a poison sac and a spout.  Draco recognized it, and by the stiffening posture of Harry and Ron so did they.  It was the Merpeople’s weapon of choice, and the poison was a volatile substance… quite lethal.

“Lobalug,” Draco grated out between clenched teeth. 

Snape was galvanized into action.  “The bezoar, Draco, slice it on the diagonal in uniformly parchment-thin slices.  We will require twelve.”

Snape retreated from the room, passing Harry and Ron, ignoring their presence.  He didn’t have time for pleasantries.  He returned within moments, carrying a small, opaque vial.  Crossing to the worktable, where Draco had summoned a #1 gold cauldron and lit the fire beneath it, Snape emptied the contents of the vial into the embrace of warm, precious metal.   

“Are you ready, Draco?  Once the bezoar is added, we must administer the antidote within fifteen minutes.”  Turning his head, he snapped, “Potter… no, you have to remain with the Imperio Potion,” he barked his orders.  “Weasley, find out where Hermione is.  I don’t want to waste time traversing the halls to find her.”

Seven minutes later saw an unusual procession through the hallowed halls of Hogwarts.  Draco was acting point, stride-for-stride with Ron Weasley, banishing any curious students who were still roaming the halls of the castle between the dungeons and the hospital wing.  The Potions Apprentice was counting off the minutes as they hurried through the halls.  Severus Snape strode closely on their heels, a fierce scowl upon his face.  He was holding a slender platinum chain in his hands, suspending the golden cauldron knee height, the neck of which had been padded with leather before the rigging of the chain was applied.  There would be no magical or environmental taint to hinder the efficacy of this antidote.  Snape’s attention was entirely riveted upon his task, and was unaware of the effect on the students.  Given that he’d terrified most of the school earlier that evening, silence followed his passage.  The final member of the four-wizard group was Harry Potter, who looked grim and resolute, even as he nodded to the students who silently and intermittently lined the halls.

When they reached the entrance to the infirmary, Ron passed through the double doors, holding his side open, but Draco bounced off the wards Poppy Pomfrey had weeks’ earlier cast to keep him out.  All the frustration, anger and unrecognized fear for Hermione exploded in one harsh shout.  “Pomfrey, get out here!”

With a barely acknowledged smirk, Ron, Harry, and Snape sailed through the open half of the entrance – there was no time to waste – and Draco fumed, impotently in the hall.  He paced for what seemed like an eternity, but was in reality about two minutes.  He was ready to hex the first person he saw, wand held tightly in his fist, when the sober countenance of Albus Dumbledore opened the infirmary’s doors and invited him in.

“About time,” Draco seethed.

“I beg your pardon, Draco, if we thought that giving the antidote to Hermione was a priority.”  Dumbledore gently chastised, and he turned to re-enter the hospital.

Biting back a sharp retort, Draco strode into the hospital wing.  He shoved past the Auror witches to stand next to Poppy Pomfrey, at the side of the narrow infirmary bed where a very still Hermione lay.  She remained unconscious.  Harry and Ron were on the other side of the regulation cot.  Identical, worried expressions clouded their faces.  Snape was scribbling something on a parchment atop the small table at the foot of the bed.  It was his methodical movements that lulled Draco into a sense that things would be all right.

Surprisingly, he shared an amicable look with Ron – as if his coming to Hermione’s rescue had altered his status -- and then turned his attention to the witch lying in the bed.  She was paler than the pillowcase, except for the fading red handprint on her cheek, and he could see where her bottom lip was swollen from a Smith-inflicted bite.  Even as strong as his desire was to find Smith and eviscerate him, one of Draco’s hands acted with a will of its own, reaching out to lightly stroke the soft skin of Hermione’s hand where it lay, so still, atop the bedding.

“Miss Granger will need several hours for the antidote to work through her system.  Otherwise, she is unhurt.”

“Unhurt?”  The simultaneous demurral came from both Draco and Ron.  She was far from unhurt.

“Look at her cheek!”  Ron almost shouted.

“Look at her lip!”  Draco’s voice was equally outraged.

“Gentlemen, if you’d like to remain at Miss Granger’s bedside, then you will have the decency to be quiet.  I must finish my remarks for Miss Tonks.” 

Draco turned to look at his cousin, her hair had changed again, the tips were now a deep sapphire blue and matched her eyes.  Her attention was drawn to a piece of parchment suspended midair so that she could survey the reactions of the witnesses as well as read the mediwitch’s official statement.  At Madam Pomfrey’s comment, the Auror nodded her head, muttered “Continue,” and waited for her dictoquill to hang, point to parchment, poised to inscribe every word the mediwitch spoke.

Seeing that Tonks was ready, Poppy finished her summation of Hermione’s wounds.  “The entirely superficial wound to the left cheek and the bite mark on Miss Granger’s lower lip will be healed by morning.  I’ve treated them with an antiseptic and healing salve.  As to the chastity charm, I’ve nullified it as we discussed earlier.  It would impede the spread of the antidote within her body.  The charm had evidently been activated for some time, and was apparently in full force and effect, preventing Mr. Smith’s attempted penetration with a third-level repellent.  Third-level intent, Miss Tonks, in case you are unaware, is rape.  Otherwise, Miss Granger will be physically recovered by breakfast.”  She nodded her head to indicate that her official remarks were concluded, and turned to look at the Headmaster and Snape who were now conferring over the Potions Master’s notes. 

Tonks ignored the darkened scowls on Draco’s, Ron’s and Harry’s faces, and with a quick “Finite Incantatem,” she retrieved scroll and quill, and moved down the aisle between the beds to join her third colleague at Smith’s bedside.  It wasn’t a pleasant job, interviewing the suspect, but Tonks wasn’t about to leave it to either Harry or Ron.  Their personal involvement could prejudice the case when it came to the Wizengamot trial.  Fortunately, very few of the court was aware that Tonks had known Hermione for several years, but Bulstrode’s testimony would be invaluable.  She was aware of the glares stabbing in her back as she walked down the aisle.

Madam Pomfrey stepped next to Dumbledore and Snape.  “I think, Headmaster, that Miss Granger may be removed to her chambers.  The antidote Severus and Draco have so timely provided will take several hours to work through her system, and she would rest more easily in familiar surroundings.”

Dumbledore had come to attention with her suggestion, and he nodded his agreement.

Harry quietly said, “Thank you, Madam Pomfrey, for your care of my friend.” 

“Go on with you, Mr. Potter.  I would do the same for you all.”  Suddenly, her mouth pinched into a tight line.  “If you will excuse me, however, I have to see to my other patient.”

Four sets of eyes arced to her face, piercing her with their glares. 

With a dignity befitting her years and experience, she answered their unvoiced accusation, “He is my responsibility and has a right to treatment, whether I like it or not.  Why else do you think I suggested that Miss Granger be moved to her quarters?  Would you want to wake up with that… that… monster in a bed across from yours?”

As one, the wizards turned to look at the bed in the corner of the large, airy ward.  There was a white screen shielding the head of the bed, but from the prone position of the patient and the oddly distended draping of the bed linens, it was obvious that Smith had been Ennervated and treated for his injuries, regardless of how undeserving he was.  Millicent Bulstrode stood guard, stolidly, as she conversed with Tonks.

Draco wondered when his old friend had become so imposing.

A scant hour later, Madam Pomfrey’s suggestion to move Hermione to her own quarters had been accepted with gusto.  Draco refused to give up his position as knight errant, and Ron had taken up the challenge.  While Ron and Draco paired off in a seething slur-fest, Snape and Harry engaged in their own silent battle of wills, testing the limits of their Legilimency and Occlumency skills.  As the squabbling between the four wizards determined to remain at Hermione’s side threatened to become a hexing match, Dumbledore took matters into his own hands. 

The aged Headmaster nimbly skirted the embattled foursome and gently Leviosa’d Hermione, wandlessly wrapping her unknowing body in the bed linens.  He then cast a quiet “Mobilicorpus.” 

As Dumbledore maneuvered Hermione’s levitated form past Draco, the blond ceased his creative rant about poverty, mid-word, and immediately fell in behind Hermione’s body.  Impulsively, he splayed one long-fingered hand underneath her head, to stop the potential wobbling as she moved through the infirmary.  The strangled sound of Ron’s outrage added to his smug satisfaction of having been, once again, in the right place, at the right time.  He tried to convince himself that arsing off the Weasel had been the reason he’d so quickly moved to assist the Headmaster, and assiduously ignored the silken texture of Hermione’s curls pressing into his hand or the coiling of some hitherto unidentified emotion in his guts.

Snape cast a Disillusionment Charm on the entire party as they made their way to the faculty tower and Hermione’s rooms.  Dumbledore surprised them all when he gave the password “Restante ardore,” and the door swung open.  Draco raised his eyebrows in surprise, both at the fact she’d used Italian and by the meaning of the words.  When he’d still been a student, he’d spent a number of summers with Blaise Zabini’s family in Tuscany, and had picked up passable Italian from Blaise’s ebullient siblings.  As the ungainly procession of wizards and one unconscious witch entered Hermione’s rooms, Draco wondered just who or what the witch had an ‘enduring passion’ for.

Hermione had been prudent in the use of personal wards to her chambers.  As each wizard passed under the lintel of the entrance, his progress was halted for a few seconds while a low-level scanning ward verified their identities before granting access to her private chambers.  Draco was most surprised to find that the wards recognized him instantly.  Dumbledore had been held in stasis for close to a minute before being granted passage. 

Draco had never been in Hermione’s chambers before.  The pretty and comfortable sitting room reflected her personality, open, light and classy.  A subtle floral fragrance lingered in the air.  The plastered walls were painted a very pale yellow, against which the lustre of cherry wood bookcases was enhanced.  There was a conversational arrangement of overstuffed chairs and sofa in front of the ubiquitous faculty fireplace, and a neatly organized desk in the corner adjacent to the casement windows overlooking the Quidditch pitch.  What didn’t surprise Draco in the slightest was the overflowing state of the bookcases, or the numerous stacks of books adorning the occasional tables and the floor.  What did surprise him, however, was the fact that, in accent to the buttercream colour of the walls and the deep cherry of the wood, the upholstery was predominately a deep jade, accented with pillows in burnished gold and rich burgundy. 

The only colour that Draco didn’t see represented in her quarters was the blue of Ravenclaw, until he followed Dumbledore into her bedroom -- his hand still ostensibly supporting Hermione’s head – in which a wide range of blues were used to create a harmony of luxurious comfort.  It was a beautiful room, and for a minute Draco’s imagination ran rampant with the most unseemly images of Hermione and him in various states of undress and a tangle of limbs.  Giving his head a mental shake, he pulled himself from the unprecedented flight of fancy, his pace halting for a second.  Harry practically stepped on his heels he was following Draco so closely.

Dumbledore settled the witch onto her bed, watched her half-kneazle familiar crawl into a protective bundle at her feet, and ushered the expectant wizards into Hermione’s sitting room.  Snape had already crossed to the leather armchair next to the fire as if it were an old friend.  Draco mused that it probably was.  He noticed that Snape seemed quite at home in Hermione’s rooms, and he was unable to quell the sudden tightening in his chest.  Harry and Ron crossed to the settee leaving only the ladder-back chairs and the executive chair at her desk available.  Preferring comfort to limb-numbing straight-backed wood, Draco seated himself at Hermione’s desk, and enjoyed the fact that of all in the room, he had the broadest perspective.  Ron and Harry would have to practically turn around to see him.  The desk was also closest to the door leading to Hermione’s bedroom, and it pleased Draco to know that he was just steps from her side if she needed assistance. 

Again a tendril of thought wanted to intrude in his benumbed mind.  Why was he going out of his way for the witch who’d plagued his thoughts since he was a child? She’d bested him in any number of things: grades, school-wide approval, blatant courage and the gratitude of the wizarding world for her stance beside her best friends in the Final Battle of the Voldemort War.  He shouldn’t be here, in her private domain, invading her space, and, yet, he refused to give these repetitive thoughts any real toe-hold.  Self-recriminations and reflection could come later… after he knew that she would be all right.   

Dumbledore made his stately way to the hearth and scooped a handful of Floo Powder from the urn on the mantle.  He turned to address the Aurors.  “Harry, Ron, thank you for coming to our aid so promptly this evening.  I don’t know how soon duty will call you from your vigil; however, I hope that it awaits Hermione’s return to consciousness.  I must give Miss Tonks and Miss Bulstrode my recollection of the night’s events, and calm the school.  Severus, I understand your desire to remain here, but I think your House could use a brief visit before lights out.” 

Snape nodded once, curtly.  He would see to his duties, as soon as he ascertained for himself that Hermione would awaken.  His students could bear without his interference for another hour or two.

Dumbledore threw the powder into the flames and immediately the fire turned the greenish tint that indicated connection to the internal Hogwarts Floo Network.  Before he stepped into the flames, he turned to look at Draco, approbation clear on his lined face.  “Draco, I am most deeply grateful that you were able to intelligently and effectively recognize the threat to Hermione, and act in a manner that saved her from further injury.  Her loss would have been more than this old wizard wants to face.  Good night, gentlemen.”

Draco’s throat was a little clogged at the unusual display of Dumbledore’s sentimentality.

With the exception of the friendly crackle of the fire, silence descended upon the room.  Each wizard had been reminded of how precipitous the events of the evening had been, and how much they had stood to lose if the witch lying in the other room had been lost, either dead or Imperio’d.  It was fairly obvious as to the depth of despair that Ron and Harry would suffer, and it would be an easy observation to deduce that the Potions Master’s affections were engaged to an almost equal degree.  However, none could estimate the degree of loss that the heir of the Malfoys would suffer if Hermione were to have suffered irreparably.  Indeed, Draco himself had no real comprehension of just what the curly-haired witch meant to him. 

Snape stared at the flames, his chin resting upon his steepled fingers, and Draco fingered the grain of Hermione’s desk while Harry and Ron sat in companionable silence on the couch. 

“I’ll have to write Fred and Pansy a note of thanks,” Ron’s voice broke the room’s quiet. 

“Yeah, tell Pans thanks for me, too.  If it wasn’t for her, we wouldn’t be here now, and ‘Mione’s situation doesn’t bear thinking about.”  Harry briefly turned his head to cast a glance at the partially opened bedroom door, as if he could summon Hermione by the strength of his worry.

Before Draco could ask what the hell Pansy Weasley had to do with Hermione’s safety, Snape beat him to the question.  “If you would be so good as to explain, Mr. Weasley…”

Ron’s red hair gleamed a burnished copper in the firelight as he turned to face his former professor.  “Well, you see, when we started our seventh year, Pansy returned from the summer hols complete with a betrothal and a chastity charm…”

Draco interrupted him.  The redhead could be so pedantic at times.  “Yes, yes, Weasel.  That’s old history, we all know that.  It was common knowledge in Slytherin.”

“Are you also aware that Seventh Year is when Voldemort placed a bounty on my head and Hermione’s virginity?  That he decided raping her would destroy her and demoralize Harry?”  Draco had always had the ability to push Ron’s buttons, and Ron was becoming more than a little exasperated by the blond’s manner.  Ron knew that Draco was unaware of the bounty.  Not being within the inner circles of either the Death Eaters or the Order of the Phoenix, the Slytherin would not have been privy to that information.  As surprise crossed Draco’s face, Ron shot him a scathing look, and continued to tell the story.  “Well, Hermione isn’t one to wait for events to happen.  When she heard about the chastity charm, she sent an owl to Pansy asking if Pansy would meet with her.  Pansy agreed, and the two continued to meet in the Room of Requirement for the remainder of the year.  And the rest, as you say, Malfoy, is old history.”

Actually, it may have been old history, but Draco had been unaware of the fact that Granger and Pansy had ever managed an amicable conversation while they were still in school.  In fact, until Fred and Pansy’s wedding, Draco had believed the Slytherin Princess still hated the bushy-haired know-it-all.  Pansy’s refusal to accede to her parents’ choice of husband had become a rallying cry for the pureblood witches of Slytherin, and then Ravenclaw, and finally Hufflepuff.  More than one potential arranged marriage had fallen through as a result of Pansy’s actions. 

The Parkinsons had refused to end their daughter’s betrothal, believing strongly in the coercive element that the only person who could break the chastity charm was the groom.  That Pansy had found a way to circumvent the charm, flouted her family’s money, and married Fred Weasley, whom she’d fallen deeply and unexpectedly in love with during the winter holidays of her seventh year, had delivered a death-knell to the dwindling practice.

Ron’s information was enough for Draco to flick the last swish of his wand to conjure a completed picture – wizarding of course and fully animated.  He should have put the pieces together before.  If anyone in their seventh year had been able to break a chastity charm, it would have been Granger.  Pansy was far too Slytherin to have turned down the help when it had been offered.  That her life had changed dramatically as a result had been unforeseeable, and that Pansy had changed the fate of pureblood witches had given her recognition in her own right.  It figured that Hermione would have been at the heart of the mini-revolution in the wizarding world, as much as she had been in the defeat of Voldemort.  It stood to reason, then, that Hermione had equally benefited from her meetings with Pansy, using the chastity charm as a defensive layer of protection. 

“That does explain rather a lot, Mr. Weasley.  You have my thanks.”  Snape spoke formally.  Few people knew that the more deeply immersed in his thoughts Snape became, the more formal his syntax.  He’d been raised in a harshly autocratic, old-style, pureblood family, whose outdated formality was enforced with rigid, punitive measures.  When Snape forgot himself, he reverted to the habits of his childhood.

With a degree of camaraderie that only years of a fighting a common enemy could create, Harry and Ron began to regale Snape with anecdotes of Hermione sneaking out of Gryffindor Tower to meet with Pansy in the Room of Requirement.  By graduation, the witches had become close friends.  The most difficult thing about Pansy’s marriage to Fred was that the couple was now living in New York and running Weasley’s Wizarding Wheezes newly opened branch.   The close friends only saw one another once or twice a year.  A lively correspondence kept them abreast of new developments, but the two witches were a feisty combination when together.

The anecdotes Harry and Ron were sharing only highlighted the fact that there was so much Draco didn’t know about Hermione.  It intrigued him.  As if he were answering a siren’s call, Draco slipped out of the sitting room and into Hermione’s candlelit bedroom, and crossing the thickly carpeted floor he stood next to her slender, supine form.  Her pet’s yellowish eyes tracked his movements, but didn’t change his position at all.  Draco gazed down at the witch in the bed and thought that her short curls looked like a caramel-coloured halo around her head.  The handprint had almost faded, and she appeared to be sleeping rather than in a state of unconsciousness.  Anger welled within in him, and so lightly as to be hardly felt, Draco traced the outline of Smith’s handprint, marveling at the fact that he would have been willing to kill Smith tonight for his violation of this witch.  Shocked by the vehemence of his emotional response, Draco snatched his hand back from her smooth, warm skin, and swiftly returned to the sitting room.  He was sure none of the others had noted his momentary disappearance.

After two more hours, Draco had checked on Hermione an additional three times.  Just as he was entering her bedroom for the fourth time, Harry spoke, “Malfoy, the antidote is supposed to take another two hours before she will even begin to wake up.  It’s only been three hours.  Haven’t you learned to tell time yet?”

For all the superficial snarkiness of the words, there was an underlying teasing quality to the manner in which Harry had said them, and Draco realized that his childhood nemesis was offering a gesture of friendship.  It rattled him for a moment, his steps arrested mid-stride as he looked at the couch and the tousle-haired wizard, his automatically sneering response died on his lips, only to be replaced with a somewhat milquetoast response as he stepped into her room, “Well, Poppy doesn’t know everything.  What if Granger wakes up sooner than that?” 

Like clockwork Draco continued to return to her bedside every half hour.  At intermittent intervals, Snape, Ron and Harry all checked on Hermione.  Snape even left for a short time for a patrol of the Slytherin Commons, only to return to Hermione’s sitting room and his armchair.  He’d taken the opportunity to stop at his chambers and shrink a bottle of Old Ogden’s Millennium Firewhiskey and four glasses.  In a magnanimous gesture, he poured generous amounts of the fine brew and levitated the drinks to his companions.  The four wizards settled into a comfortable silence, one none of them would ever have believed possible.  For the sake of the witch who was central to all their lives, they were willing to find neutral ground.

A short time after two o’clock, Draco returned to Hermione’s side.  The handprint had faded entirely, leaving her face reflecting the golden glow of the burning candles on her nightstand.  Her breathing was regular, and Draco found himself mesmerized by the even rise and fall of her chest, and the faint pulse thrumming in her neck.  She was still clothed in the pristine white infirmary gown, and a faintly antiseptic smell wafted up from her body.  Poppy Pomfrey had thoroughly cleaned the young witch of any residue from her encounter with Smith.  Draco missed the more normal fragrance of Hermoine’s subtle perfume, and was slightly mystified that he seemed to know her scent well enough to miss it.  He stood by her bed for several minutes until once again, he was compelled to touch her.  Draco lightly fingered a loose curl on her head, murmuring, “If I’d been quicker to recognize the chastity charm – very clever, Hermione, very clever – then maybe I could’ve stopped Smith before he hurt you.”

“Draco…” her voice was hoarse and it surprised him because he’d been certain that she was still asleep.  His cheeks burned in the darkness, and he hoped that she hadn’t heard what he’d been saying.  Even so, he watched, mesmerized, as Hermione’s breathing changed. 

She opened her eyes to the very comforting sight of her bedroom and the anxious gaze of a worried Draco Malfoy.  Without a second’s thought, Hermione smiled at him, a rather beguiling smile of pure delight.  She breathed in deeply and his uniquely masculine scent filled her senses, a hint of pepper and clove.  It was the same fragrance that had been niggling at her awareness each time she’d struggled to awaken before subsiding into a deeper sleep cycle.  The familiarity of his scent was oddly reassuring and she knew that she was… safe, truly safe.  His voice hadn’t been a figment of her imagination. 

The worry lines around Draco’s eyes eased a bit and his mouth softened into an answering sort of smile.  For a distended moment in time, Draco and Hermione were quiet, unmoving, just looking at one another.

Hermione was still a little dazed, and while she came fully awake, she took the opportunity to look at the usually caustic wizard at her bedside.  He’d grown tall over the years that she’d known him, and was now most likely taller than his father by two or three inches, and Hermione thought he moved with more grace than a wizard had the right to have.  Another similarity to his father was his hair, yet it was so different.  Draco’s hair was a true, natural blond.  It flowed in a silken cascade to his shoulders, and shone palely in the dim light of her room.  He only tied it back in the lab or in the Potions classroom.  His face, which had been so pointed and sharp when he’d been a boy, had broadened with time into the more angular features of a man, and a handsome one at that.  Hermione’s eyes settled on Draco’s mouth.  His lips were full when they weren’t pressed in a thin line of disapproval or a sneer of disgust.  Hermione had seen him laugh only on rare occasions, never with her, and not for a number of years.  Her heart twisted a little when she realized that he, like she and so many others, hadn’t had much reason to laugh in the past few years. 

While Hermione seemed preoccupied, Draco leaned back, releasing the lock of her hair, and traced her cheek with his fingers.  Her eyes focused on his, and when he spoke, his voice was devoid of all sarcasm and snarl, indeed, it was very gentle, “Honestly, Hermione, haven’t you learned yet that not everyone is as nice as you?”

In the space of a single heartbeat, a wealth of information was communicated between the pureblood heir to generations of wizarding heritage and the daughter of Muggle dentists.  The moment was incapable of articulation and remained unvoiced, however potentially life-altering. 

Hermione raised her hand to cover Draco’s fingers where they still cupped her cheek.  It was at once both an unprecedented and yet entirely welcome gesture.  “Thank you for my life, Draco.”

The nebulous beginning of… something… was broken at that moment.  

Millicent Bulstrode entered Hermione’s bedroom, followed by Nymphadora Tonks.  The Aurors took in the tender display between witch and wizard, and shared a look of comprehension.  They’d seen every reaction imaginable during the sixteen months they’d worked together so the sight of Draco Malfoy hovering over Hermione Granger in a gesture of comfort and solidarity wasn’t terribly shocking. 

“Wotcher, Draco.  If you’ll give us some time, cousin.  We need to interview Hermione now that she’s awake.”

“She just opened her eyes, not three bloody minutes ago.”  Draco didn’t take his eyes from Hermione’s and his aggrieved tone roused Harry, Ron and Snape who dashed through the door like a searching of nifflers scenting gold.  

“’Mione!” was the glad cry of Ron and Harry in choral accompaniment to Snape’s deep baritone, “Hermione, do you require assistance?”

With an almost physical pain, Hermione tore her eyes from Draco’s to see the faces of her dearest friends.  Their presence, and even the stolid form of Millicent Bulstrode, edging Draco from his position, calmed her.  They had come to her aid, and were there, at her bedside.  Hermione’s eyes swam with sudden tears, as she attempted to assimilate the events of the evening and the fact that she was obviously healthy and could think for herself.  A massive shudder shook her slender frame, and instantly Draco was at her side, almost knocking his former Housemate to the floor.  “What do you need, Granger?”

Hermione smiled at him through her tears and said shakily.  “I seem to have everything I need in this room, thank you.  Perhaps some water, please.”

Ron bounded across the room, almost tripping over his own large feet in his efforts to deliver a carafe of water from her dresser.  “Here, ‘Mione.”  He watched her drink the water. “You know this isn’t how I’d planned to celebrate my birthday… I’d thought a butterbeer at Madam Rosmerta’s would have been brill.  This was a bit over-the-top, don’t you know?  Ow!  ‘arry!”

His outburst was in response to his best friend’s punch in the bicep, and an affectionate growl, “Prat!”

Hermione smiled at them.  It was weak, but it was a fond smile nonetheless.  After a moment, she took in the relief on Snape’s usually impassive face, and gave him the smile reserved especially for him.  He quirked his lips in response, and then she turned to meet the steady, grey gaze of the wizard whose presence puzzled her the most.  As had happened earlier, they became lost in each other’s regard, awareness of their surroundings insignificant minutia in relation to the momentous upheaval of hearts pounding, breath catching, throats tightening.  Neither paid attention to the good-natured banter between Harry and Ron, which had drawn the biting commentary of the Potions Master who was, even then, commenting on the Aurors’ lack of maturity.

Tonks broke the tableau.  She cleared her throat, “Gentlemen, I must ask you all to leave now.  Harry and Ron, say your goodbyes, you have an assignment.  Severus and Draco, you may see her in the morning.  We’ll be here for a couple of hours, and then remain overnight.  Millicent would like to interview you both after breakfast.  Is that suitable?”

All four wizards acquiesced, and one by one, stepped up to the bed to bid Hermione a good night.  Ron and Harry hugged her tightly.  Harry buried his face in her neck for a moment, his emerald eyes glittered with his relief, “I’ll owl you in the morning, and we’ll be here on Sunday to check on you.”

Hermione just nodded her head, overcome with feeling, and unable to articulate a response for once in her life. 

Ron scrubbed at his cheeks as if he were waking up, or rubbing tears from his face.  “See ya’, ‘Mione.”  His hug was rough, but conveyed his relief nonetheless.

Hermione whispered into his ear, ‘Happy birthday, Ronald.”

When it was Snape’s turn, he held her hand for a long moment, squeezing her fingers tightly, “I will see you tomorrow, Hermione.  You can always ask for me during the night if you feel the need.”  He nodded to her, gave Tonks a piercing look and swept from the room.  The senior Auror shared a look of astonishment with Bulstrode.

Draco leaned over Hermione, the last to leave.  “If you need anything, ask.”  He didn’t touch her this time.  His eyes were shimmering, liquid silver, and Hermione wished she could read him better.  Instead, she thanked him once more, and watched until he’d left the room before giving her attention to the two witches.

She felt a little shaky and wasn’t quite sure that she remembered clearly what had happened tonight.  It was going to be a long interview.

In the sitting room, Ron and Harry were preparing to return to the infirmary to retrieve Smith for transport to the medical ward at Azkaban.  For some reason, unwilling to simply end the odd camaraderie that had sprung up between the four wizards, Snape and Draco offered to accompany the Aurors to the infirmary. 

They discussed the probable length of the prison sentence that Smith was sure to receive as they traversed the quite halls of the castle.  Draco loudly lamented the absence of the Dementors, while Snape and Harry manfully suppressed shudders.  Ron was all for Draco’s plan, and decided that a life sentence in Azkaban wasn’t as satisfying as the Dementors’ Kiss, but on the whole more likely.  After all, in addition to the sexual assault, Smith had used an Unforgivable Potion in order to entrap a witch.

It was with a decidedly more cheerful demeanor than the first time the four wizards had broached the infirmary’s doors that they arrived in Poppy Pomfrey’s domain to take possession of the prisoner.  His wounds had been treated, and he was ready to be taken.  With sparkling eyes, Harry and Ron received the mediwitch’s professional opinion that the prisoner would have to be Mobilicorpus’d off the school’s grounds before they could Apparate with him to Azkaban.  She handed Ron a tightly furled parchment detailing the course of treatment she’d administered to the now-former DADA Professor, including the Draught of Dreamless Sleep she’d dosed him with only an hour prior. 

Harry cast the spell, and he and Ron towed their friend’s assailant from the infirmary.  Snape and Draco followed behind, not altogether comfortable with the repressed hilarity the Aurors were exhibiting.  The answers to their unasked questions were forthcoming when, at the top of the long flight of stairs leading to the entrance hall, Harry and Ron executed an odd sort of vaudeville.

“You first,” Harry offered.

“No.  You, mate.”  Ron demurred.

“No, no.  It should be your privilege, it is your birthday.”  Harry tried once more.

“Too bad we can’t both do it.  All right, seeing as it is my birthday, I’ll take the first flight, and then you can have the second.  Right, mate?”

“Right, Ron.”

Turning to their escorts Ron and Harry offered their hands without hesitation.  Draco and Snape participated in the ritual, and then, with a twinkle, Ron levitated Smith’s body just enough to clear the floor.  The two Aurors preceded the floating prisoner down the stairs, but laughed at the thump… thump… bump… that Zacharias Smith’s head made as it hit the riser of each step on the way down. 

Draco snorted as he realized what they were doing.  They couldn’t injure their prisoner, and a Prior Incantato on their wands would prove that they’d inflicted no wounds on Smith.  Further, they could truthfully say, even under Veritaserum, that they hadn’t touched the accused.  “Rather Slytherin of them don’t you think, Severus?” 

“Indeed.”

The Boy Who Lived and his sidekick had found a method to inflict a little rough justice on the wizard who’d hurt their Hermione. 

Draco and Snape watched as Ron and Harry switched places at the first floor landing.  Harry taking over the ‘leash’ on Smith.  With a cheery salute to the watching wizards, the former Gryffindors continued down the next flight of stairs, across the great Entrance Hall and into the night… thump… thump… thumping all the way. 

With identical, malicious smirks, the Potions Master and his Apprentice retired to the dungeons for a nightcap after checking in with Bulstrode, one last time, to confirm that the DADA Apprentice was soundly asleep.

~o0o~

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