Come Find Me | Dramione

Chapter 28: Fuck You, Potter

Everything in her body ached.

Hermione shifted painfully where she lay, waking up from what felt like a century of sleep. Her eyelids stuck to one another from her now dry tears. She blinked away the blurriness, remembering what had happened to her just as the teeth-clenching pain in her arm found her again.

Splinched. Fuck.

The gashes to her left upper arm were wrapped with what she assumed to be Dittany soaked cloth. Blood—so much blood—soaked through the makeshift bandages, pooling onto the bed beneath her.

How long had she been asleep?

She tried to sit up, but every movement of her arm felt as if it was being ripped from her body. She took a deep breath, exhaling through her nose. The rest of her body was stiff from her stillness.

Looking around, she realized she was not in St. Mungo's hospital. Though, she wasn't sure why she ever thought he would take her there. But she recognized this place. Knew it all too well from the war.

It was Shell Cottage.

She could hear the distant ocean waves crashing outside the window. Heard the birds singing in harmony with each roar of the water.

Grunting through the pain, she swung her feet off the bed, sitting upright. Empty potion bottles lay scattered on the floor, along with a pile of used, drenched linens.

Bill and Fleur had left the old Order safe house abandoned when they moved to France to be closer to Fleur's family. No one else in the family had wanted to take ownership of it. They said the war had tainted it. She herself had stayed in this room after that horrible day at Malfoy Manor all those years ago—

Malfoy. Draco. And Theo, fuck, was he okay?

Keeping her injured arm tucked in close to her chest, she managed to limp to the window. Her muscles were frail, but when she tried to push open the lock, she found it was magically sealed.

Starting to panic, she turned for the door. Even as she desperately reached for the knob, she knew it would be covered in wards. Could feel the magic thick in the air. Her breathing deepened. She was locked in. "Fuck," she whispered to herself, running one hand through her hair.

Wandless magic was out of the question. She was too weak to manage that type of concentration.

She needed to get herself together. Needed to find her wand and—

The doorknob rattled, creeping open to reveal a ragged-looking Ron. She shrunk away from him on instinct, hating that part of herself that would always fear him. He was carrying a tray of supplies. Potions and more wrappings.

So, it had been him who had tried to heal her.

His eyes shifted up to hers. His skin was ashen, with deep purple rings around his sunken eyes. Like he hadn't slept for days. Or showered, for that matter. His hair clung to his forehead in a matted mess. 

"Thank Merlin," he breathed, looking to where she stood. "Bloody hell, you scared me."

He stepped closer to her, a hand outstretched. She backed away from it, remembering their last conversation.

"We'll discuss this at home, away from prying eyes."

"Don't touch me," she demanded, voice cracking from the lack of use.

"I'm trying to help you. You've been trying to fucking bleed to death for hours."

At the mention of her arm, she remembered the pain, which had been temporarily outshined by her fear. But it ripped back through her with a vengeance, as if it laughed at her for forgetting.