Sang Sacré

Chapter 22

A huff of frustration. Parchment crumpled and thrown aside. The wafting scent of fresh ink.

"Hermione, please come to bed."

"I can't- I still need to look over this and-"

"The sun will be up soon. Just a few hours and you can get back," Draco planted a kiss at the top of her head and peered at the scattered parchment covering the empty spaces on the desk between stacks of books.

Hermione tapped her quill against the sheet at her hands: a list of Harry's symptoms.

Bouts of accidental magic.Inability to perform basic spells with accuracy.Locked out of Gringotts vaultLocked out of Grimmauld PlaceHallucinations ??? Weakness, generalized magical core fatigueHeadacheChronic insomnia

Harry was lying unconscious in their spare bedroom, resting after he ingested the various potions that Hermione shoved down his throat. It had taken a little more convincing for him to return with her, but eventually, he yielded.

Draco wasn't surprised in the least to see the two of them walk in the door together and he'd said nothing as she fussed over Harry and sent him to bed.

That was hours ago now.

Hermione had always had a problem with putting her research down. It started off by allowing herself to read just one more chapter, and then another, and then another. Whether it was because she found the information interesting, or necessary, or potentially helpful in the future, it didn't matter.

The habit only got worse once she entered Hogwarts and evolved into the determined witch that wanted everyone to see her for what she was instead of what everyone thought a muggleborn should be.

When it came to matters revolving around Harry, her research bordered on obsession. She scarcely slept during the Triwizard Tournament, her attention torn between their coursework and keeping Harry alive. She was reluctant to ever put the book down, convinced that the answer to the challenges lay just on the next page if she were clever enough to piece it together.

In preparation for the Horcrux hunt, she'd stayed up for almost a week straight before Harry and Ron had slipped her a Sleeping Draught. Crumbling under the pressure of once again being tasked with keeping them alive, being the brains of their operation, she had to teach herself how to cast wards and healing spells and how to duplicate the rare food they could find.

When she'd figured out the identity of Voldemort's last Horcrux, long before Harry had, she poured through every scrap of information on the slim chance she'd find another way to save him and nibbled her fingers raw.

It was familiar, keeping Harry alive. The insidious voices in her head whispered and guilted her into giving every ounce of herself into the task until they came out on top. She would just live off of caffeine and Pepper-Up until the answer revealed itself to her.

It always did.

"Hermione."

She sighed and the clattering of the quill on the desk broke the heavy silence of the room. She pinched the bridge of her nose in a meager attempt of fighting off the building headache, which made her eyeballs feel as though they were bulging from her skull.

Warm, strong arms wrapped around her from behind and she didn't even realize how quickly her tense muscles relaxed in his hold. Her free hand came up to hold at his forearm, urging him silently to hold her tighter, and Draco complied immediately.

She allowed herself a few moments to sit there just like this, with nothing but his arms and his scent and the steady rhythm of his heart against the back of her head.