Everyone had methods for handling pain. Harry got very quiet, while Ron would become what Fred and George had termed “bitchy.” Seamus and Charlie swore in such volume and length that they had to be silenced.
Pain clearly made Malfoy even more sarcastic than he already was.
At least that meant he was talking to her again.
Hermione rolled her eyes. “Yes. Nothing gets me going like the sight of an abdomen mottled with purple and green bruising.”
“I always knew you were a sadistic bitch.”
The comment caught Hermione so off-guard she burst out laughing.
Malfoy appeared astonished by the success as he began unbuttoning his shirt and awkwardly trying to shrug it off.
He had a shoulder injury too.
She reached out slowly like she were approaching a defensive animal. He didn't flinch away, so she set to pulling his shirt off of him gently and taking in the damage.
He appeared to have been flung, extremely violently, into — something.
His shoulder had been dislocated, but he must have popped it back in place. His entire right side was completely covered in bruises. It was remarkable that his arm wasn't shattered.
“What happened?” she inquired with sincere curiosity.
“New pack of werewolves,” he answered shortly. “There were leadership issues.”
“So, what? You fought a werewolf alpha?” she asked skeptically as she started repairing his ribs.
“Well, he was strictly forbidden from biting or clawing, and I wasn't allowed to kill him. But — when you've got beasts with a pack hierarchy and you try to run them without beating them into submission first, you're just waiting for an insurrection,” Malfoy explained as though such things were common knowledge.
“Is all this from winning or losing?” she asked as she repaired the fracture on another rib.
He glared at her. “Winning, obviously. I wouldn't have been apparating anywhere if I'd lost. Fucking animal didn't even think to use his wand. They all go feral once they start running in packs.”
He rolled his eyes as he said it and then added “Now I'm ostensibly the alpha of a werewolf pack. Adds to my natural charm, I think. ”
“The alpha is sure to try to kill you,” Hermione pointed out.
Malfoy snorted. “He's welcome to try. It will take me less than a minute to take him down once I'm allowed to kill him.” He sneered.
Hermione didn't reply. With a nonverbal spell she summoned her satchel and pulled out the emergency kit she always kept with her.
“Sit down and drink this,” she instructed as she handed him a potion. “It'll deal with the concussion you have.”
While he was downing it, she rubbed her hands together to warm them and then dipped her fingers into a small jar of paste.
She eyed him thoughtfully for a moment before lightly setting her hand on his bare shoulder.
He nearly jumped out of his skin.
“Relax,” she said, feeling the muscles in his shoulders grow taut beneath her fingers. “It won't sink in well if you're tense.”
Malfoy didn't relax at all.
She rolled her eyes.
She drew her fingers lightly over his shoulder, spreading the paste and letting him get used to the contact. The muscles in his shoulders flinched and twinged slightly. It reminded Hermione of petting a skittish horse.
Of all the contexts in which she had imagined Malfoy eventually half-naked in her presence, healing him had surprisingly not been one of them. But — she could use this to patch things and continue working on her initial strategy.
He was assuredly lonely. He seemed unsettled by physical contact that wasn't either violent or sexual.
She supposed that wasn't surprising. Who was there to be kind to him? By his account his brutal training with Bellatrix had been unimpeded by anyone, even his mother. The thought made her shiver slightly.
Crucioing a sixteen year old to teach him occlumency and then leaving him to pass out from it.
She could use that emptiness. That loneliness. The need for comfort was written into the human psyche. Malfoy might not even be conscious enough of the absence to be defensive. If she awakened that need—
— she'd be in.
Non-sexual physical contact was something she was comfortable with. Touching bodies. Being soothing and comforting. It was, she realised, an unexpected advantage she held over Malfoy. He liked clear lines. She would blur them and then slip through the gaps.
She leaned forward, just slightly, so that her mouth was close to his ear. His skin smelled faintly of salt, along with subtle, biting undertones of oakmoss and the sharp green scent of papyrus.
“This will hurt a bit,” she said softly.
Then she began to knead the muscle in order to force the healing paste deep into the tissue and restore the stretched tendons. If she didn't get it to sink in fully, the damage could become permanent and Malfoy might become prone to getting his shoulder dislocated.
“Fuck,” he groaned. “You are a bitch.”
Her hands stilled for a moment before she resumed.
“The claim has been made before,” she noted quietly.