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_
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.
She'd known—
But walking into it still felt like being gutted.
She dropped her eyes, and forced her expression not to change.