Venom and Its Cure

Chapter 10

Hermione didn't quite remember when she fell asleep. All she could remember was sobbing quietly to herself until she felt sick and digging her nails into her thigh to distract her from the blisters steadily forming along her knuckles. Talking to Malfoy was exhausting enough in and of itself; she could barely keep her eyes open after piling physical pain on top of it.

When she finally awoke, she guessed it was about seven or eight the next morning. The air ran through her hair, cool and fresh; she soaked up as much of it as she could. The weather had been so fickle recently, like it couldn't decide whether it wanted to be an early gray winter or a crisp, cloudless autumn - and in its indecision to be just one it panicked, trying to be all of them at once. The breeze and its corresponding temperature were different every day. So capricious. So unsteady.

Hermione believed she understood it though - she, too, sometimes felt like her moods and opinions were swaying to and fro every other day. She wanted freedom more than anything but she knew now that her best bet to stay alive was to do what Malfoy wanted. But then again, complying with his desires would be her breaking point.

It was like standing before two doors knowing that if she entered one of them she'd kill her mind, and if she entered the other, her body. There were no right answers. No clever tricks that could be made to avoid both doors. No shortcuts. Only an impossible decision and a ticking time-bomb behind her.

Hermione didn't know what to do. The degree of certainty she had once possessed had dwindled after being wrong so many times; it was impossible to be sure of anything after what she had endured these past couple months. In her mind, making any move in either direction would decidedly kill her.

Life had become a trap.

And she had been caught before she even realized she was in danger.

This revelation was emphasized by what she immediately noticed had joined her in the cage overnight.

Medical supplies.

Not much, nothing expensive. A bandage and a small bottle of an orange paste she guessed was for burns. It was the bare minimum; there was nothing that would fully heal her wounds and certainly nothing that would alleviate her pain in any way. No fast-acting potions. Of course, that was to be expected - Malfoy had indirectly caused the pain in the first place.

She didn't want to take it. What good would it do to accept a gift from him? It wasn't an offering of peace. It wasn't charity. It wasn't kindness. It was to lower her guard, make her forget that he could take this away as soon as he wished.

Wasn't it?

Hermione picked the paste up gingerly, turning the bottle over in her distrusting hands. Hm. It looked normal enough, she supposed. Like something she had seen Madame Pomfrey use before in the Hospital Wing or on the battlefield. But she could never truly be sure what was in it until she tested it on her skin.

Risky.

Hermione unscrewed the lid, lifting it up to her face to take a quick sniff. Smelled normal, like the doctor's office when she was eight years old. Like something she had smelled on Harry before. It smelled trustworthy.

She set it down and screwed the lid back on.

"Trustworthy" no longer existed.

She didn't touch it again.

Her scarred arm and burned hand would heal on their own, she decided. Her skin would not knit itself together again on Malfoy's time; her wounds would not close because of his devices. Hermione's body knew how to fix anything she threw at it. He was wholly unnecessary.