Hermione pulled out the tequila and set it on the table. “Alcohol helps. Assuming you don't get totally smashed, it will help keep the pain manageable without reducing the sensation in your shoulders to a degree that interferes with healing. This is a muggle alcohol called tequila. It was very cheap. I don't have a large alcohol budget.”
She pulled out Draught of Peace. “A double dose of of Calming Draught helps too. Being tense won't help.”
She handed Draco the large vial of Calming Draught and watched him take it.
“Ready?” she said. She hadn't felt so nervous about a healing procedure in a long time.
He straddled the chair, and she began.
She carefully grew a section of scar tissue and then made him fully rotate, extend and stretch his shoulder. It pulled. She cast a spell to help relax the tissue but it still pulled. She had to cut part of it away and grow it again.
Bit by bit.
Blood was streaming from the other runes as the movement continuously agitated them.
She set the scar tissue for four runes before Draco finally broke down and wandlessly conjured a bottle of vintage firewhisky.
She didn't say anything, pausing while he wrenched the cork out with his teeth and then guzzled it for several seconds. Then he set it firmly beside the bottle of tequila and dropped his head down onto the back of the chair.
“Fuck. Fuck. Fuck,” he muttered.
“Sorry,” she said awkwardly, placing her hand lightly on his shoulder as she started to work again.
“Save it, Granger,” he snarled. His face was pale, and he was gripping the back of the chair until his knuckles turned white.
He drank in between every rune after that.
By the time she started on his other shoulder, he was moving steadily beyond buzzed and into the early stages of drunkenness.
“Fucking hell,” he groaned in a low voice. “I always said you were a complete and utter bitch. You don't have to show me.”
Hermione pressed her lips firmly together, torn between offense, amusement, and sympathy.
“The bitch who heals you,” she said.
He chuckled.
“Apparently.”
He didn't speak again except to answer her questions about the scar tissue until she finished. She cleaned all the blood off his back.
She gently applied several analgesics and a final layer of a creamy potion to help the new tissue set properly. The scars were an angry red.
She glanced at her watch. It was well past midnight. It had taken longer than she'd expected.
“Alright,” she said. “I'm finished.”
Malfoy sighed with relief and gulped the last of the firewhisky before shoving the second emptied bottle onto the table beside the first.
He was still for several seconds as though regaining his bearings. Then he cocked his head to the side and eyed the tequila.
“What even is this?” he said grasping it by the neck and inspecting it.
He showed almost no signs of drunkenness. His words were unslurred and his hands remained steady. Hermione had never seen anyone drink so much alcohol and remain so externally unaffected.
It was terrifying how controlled he was.
“Don't drink it. It was so cheap. You've just imbibed a hundred galleons worth of vintage alcohol. Don't top it off with that.”
He wasn't inclined to listen. He unscrewed it, sniffed it and then took an inquiring sip. He spat it immediately on the floor.
“The fuck! This is varnish. Poisoning me now, Granger?”
“I was thinking of it as a punishment if you'd chosen not to believe me and didn't bring your own,” Hermione said wryly. “I'm told it tastes better if consumed with salt and a lime wedge.”
“Told?”
“I don't drink much, especially not out in the Muggle world,” Hermione reminded him.
“You don't even know what you bought.” His mouth was still twisted as though he couldn't get the taste off his tongue.
“I just went for inexpensive and high alcohol content,” she said.
“I shouldn't be surprised. Your idea of getting drunk is drinking port and pretending to be a troll under a bridge,” he said, chuckling faintly.
Hermione made a sour expression as she finished packing up her healing supplies. She rummaged through her bag and cursed inwardly. She'd forgotten to bring sobriety potion. She'd had it on her mental checklist, but it had slipped her mind when Harry appeared.
“Well. I'm done. Are you safe to apparate?” she asked, eying him carefully. She didn't think he possibly could be.
He appeared to be considering the question for several seconds. Tilting his head from side to side and cocking an eyebrow.
“I don't believe it would be a medically advisable,” he said at last.
She sighed with relief. She had no idea what she'd do if he had tried to insist that he was sober. She wondered if she'd be able to stun him if he wasn't letting her.
“Right. Well, do you want me to conjure a bed for you? I'm pretty good at them,” she asked.
“Eager to be off?” he said, standing and giving her a piercing look. He did not appear to be drunk at all. “Got someone waiting for you?”
The question caught her off guard. She blinked and thought of everyone else at a pub without her.
“No,” she said shaking her head.