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Hooded Man	By : LadyofClunn Category: Harry Potter > Het - Male/Female > Draco/Hermione Views: 5723 -:- Recommendations : 1 -:- Currently Reading : 2
Disclaimer: I do not own anything associated with Harry Potter or Robin Hood. I do not earn money by writing this story.

Chapter List
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Disclaimer: I do not own anything associated with Harry Potter or Robin Hood. I do not earn money by writing this story

Chapter 2

In her mind, she could not help but meep even though she firmly told herself that Malfoy would never touch her. In that way. None of them would, would they? Would they??

He stood, pulling her to her feet by her arm, making her stumble after him. Again.

“Do you need a few minutes behind a bush?”

She struggled and kicked at him. None of them had hurt a hair on her head. So far. “I know that every single one of your tents has bathrooms! Are you trying to humiliate me at every turn?”

He stopped abruptly. “I forgot that you have experience with living on the run.”

“Only I wasn’t a bloody cutthroat!”

“I have never harmed anyone!” He calmed a bit. “Not permanently.”

Hermione snorted.

“Come on. You’ll stay with me.”

“With you? Why?” With him? With him?

“Would you rather stay with Nott? I am sure he would be delighted to Avada you in the back while fleeing.”

“As far as I’m concerned, one is as bad as the other. Just because Nott looks at me like he wants to slit my throat in my sleep does not mean that you won’t do it!” Secretly, she did hope that Malfoy would.

Malfoy stopped walking and pinched the bridge of his nose.

“Don’t give me any ideas, Granger. Now be a good girl and get into the tent. Maybe I’ll even let you have the second bed. I am expecting Potter to answer my owl by tomorrow at the latest. Let’s try and make the two or three days you will be our guest as tolerable as possible, yes?”

He didn’t even wait for a reply as to what she was thinking about his hospitality. Malfoy had let go of her arm and stalked towards a rather unspectacular tent by comparison. It was one of the few that would not have looked out of place in a Muggle camping ground and reminded her painfully of the tent she had inhabited during their hunt for Horcruxes.

When she saw him disappear behind the flap, she made haste to follow. Spending the night outside would be cold and uncomfortable now that the outlaws started to change their sofas and armchairs back into wooden logs. She would simply have to count on Malfoy not risking the ransom by harming her.

The inside of Malfoy’s tent was bathed in warm candlelight. It was much smaller than the Quest tent, obviously an affordable version for a young couple. There was a small seating area with a comfortable-looking two-seater sofa leading to a miniscule table for two and a kitchen that reminded her of the tiny pantry of the sailing boat she had chartered with her parents one summer long ago.

Hermione could see Malfoy through a half-closed curtain, partitioning a sleeping space from the main area. He had his back towards her, showing a broad expanse of pale skin.

Realising that she was ogling Malfoy’s bare back, she cleared her throat to make her presence known. He turned around, his shirt still in his hands.

“Ah. Decided to risk getting your throat slit?”

Hermione ignored him and peered around the curtain into the sleeping area. A French bed nearly filled the small space, leaving hardly any room for the slim wardrobe and dresser.

Hermione bit her lip.

“You said something about a second bed?”

He stared at her for a little while and sighed.

“Well, it’s only for two or three nights.”

Malfoy waved his wand at the bed and it separated into narrow twin beds. The dresser had to hop out of the way and stood, clicking its drawers and managing to look as annoyed as a dresser can.

“Oh shush, you,” he told the piece of furniture and slapped its surface when the top drawer snapped at his hand. Malfoy took a tunic-style shirt from it and held it up; the neatly-folded garment unfurled without as much as a wrinkle. He assessed Hermione looking over the top of the tunic, nodded and threw it on the bed furthest from the curtain doorway.

“I don’t have many clothes but you can wear that at night and I’ll Scourgify your clothes so they can air out before tomorrow morning.”

Hermione scurried along the narrow path between canvas walls and beds and picked up the soft, white tunic.

“Draco?”

Malfoy whipped around, one of his boots in one hand, standing slightly lopsided on one booted foot.

“Is this really necessary? Why don’t you just let me go? It can only get worse for you. Ron and Harry are going to turn over every single stone in the forest until they find you.”

His face betrayed no emotion. “We need the money. Sorry, Granger.”

“Why do you need the money? To expand your wardrobe?” As soon as she had said it, she regretted the teasing tone. Malfoy looked at her with undisguised loathing.

“Yes, Granger. I need a few more pairs of dragon hide boots. Not to mention hair potions.” He turned away from her in an angry motion. “Go to bed. I’d rather not hear or see you until tomorrow morning.” He walked out stiffly and unevenly, ignoring his lack of complete footwear, drawing the curtain shut behind him.

After a moment of hesitation, she shrugged out of her robes and started taking off her blouse and skirt. Even though Malfoy didn’t seem to be coming back into the little alcove, she hurried to slip the tunic over her head. Malfoy was much taller than her and even for him, the tunic must have fallen to just above the knee. For her, it was a mid-calf nightgown.

He hadn’t offered her any toiletries and a half-hearted search of the tiny wet room unearthed a single toothbrush. Used. The dentist-daughter cringed and wailed inside of her but there was nothing for it. Hermione rinsed her mouth and climbed into the bed, teeth unbrushed.

She had not felt herself slipping off into sleep, but startled awake to a much cooler and darker room. The candles extinguished, there was only a faint glow coming from the direction of the kitchen nook.

“Granger?” Malfoy was leaning over her. “I am off to work. Now be a good little pledge and don’t try anything funny. Theo and Slughorn are staying in the camp. I’d not show my face too much outside the tent, if I were you.”

“Work?” her brain felt addled and unfocused. She desperately needed a drink of water.

“Yes, Granger. Work. The things I do to take care of the ones dependant on me.”

Hermione only managed a confused grimace, squinting up at him before he made a half-scornful, half-amused noise and slipped out of the tent.

Groggy, Hermione stumbled into the wet room and greedily drank straight from the tap and then vigorously scrubbed her face with the coldest water the magical tent would provide. Her teeth felt fuzzy and she was sure that ‘morning breath’ didn’t even begin to cover what she smelled like.

She slowly chewed on a crust of bread with cheese from the cold cabinet in the small kitchen, wondering what she should do. She wasn’t afraid, she found. Not really. Yes, of course, it was uncomfortable to be here but she did not fear that any of the men here would do her permanent harm.

To test the waters, Hermione drew the flap of the tent to the side.

Theodore Nott had divested himself of his cloak and tunic, splitting wooden logs with wide movements of his wand. His face was flushed pink and a fine sheen of sweat covered his skin. The frown that was always present on his face when he looked at her was absent.

The pile of fire wood grew quickly and Nott paused to lean back and cast Aguamenti over his face and chest.

“Theo?”

The domed wards shimmered and a thin woman in threadbare robes stepped onto the camp site. Two small children trailed after her, holding tightly to her washed-out skirts.

Hermione was reminded of Remus Lupin and pictures she had seen of Severus Snape as a small boy and student. Rita Skeeter had latched on to the tragic hero’s story after his role in the war had come to light and had written a series of articles about the all too short life of the much-hated Potions Master.

“Euno! You are early!” With haste, he pulled his tunic over his head and hugged the weary-looking woman close. She leaned on him as if soaking up his strength. His hand rested on the little dark blonde head of the little girl, who had her thumb in her mouth and an arm slung around one of his legs. “Mica.” Hermione could hear the smile in his voice. “How is my little morsel?” The little one just held on even tighter than before. “And you, Militus? Are you helping your mother?” The little boy stood very straight and nodded seriously.

Nott gently placed his hands on the woman’s shoulders and pushed her back so he could look at her face.

“You should not take such risks. I love seeing you but I could not endure to see Caput cast upon you and the children!”

Caput? Hermione had no idea what he meant and she found this a bit disconcerting.

Nott led the little family toward the medieval jousting tent and vanished inside.

Hermione withdrew to the sofa in the sitting area of Malfoy’s tent. The woman and her children had looked so worn out, tired and – dare she think it? – hungry.

Who were they? Outlaws? Could children even be outlawed? She hoped not.

Thirsty, she tried to dispel her unsettling thoughts by searching the two kitchen cabinets for tea. She found a tin with loose leaves, about a third full. There was no milk and the sugar basin only had a very thin layer of crystals coating its bottom.

Only after spooning tea leaves into the tea pot did she realise that she had no wand, and the kitchenette did not come with any way to heat water without magic. Her mouth felt dry and sickly sticky. The loss of her wand started to hurt in a dull but insistent way.

Again drinking her fill directly from the kitchen tap, she felt a bit better but she mournfully stroked the empty sleeve of her robe where she kept her wand most of the time. The silent solitude of the little tent made her restless and she started wandering around, making her bed as if she were a guest on her best behaviour rather than a pawn to be exchanged for wergild.

Just as she was staring restlessly at the few cups and plates littering the little porcelain sink in the kitchen, a thunderstorm of apparition descended on the camp.

Still with shock, Hermione stood facing the tent-door, afraid to open the flap only to see that Harry, Ron and their Aurors had come down on the outlaws with all their might.

“Slughorn!”

Malfoy’s voice was hoarse as if from constant screaming, like it was actually gone but he forced it to go on.

“He... he’s had too much mead, Draco.” Only Zabini had dared to speak the truth. In the silence that followed, Hermione could hear a strangled gurgling. A second later, the tent flap flew to the side and a bloodied Draco Malfoy came crashing through the tent. He seized her arm with a grip that hurt and snarled into her face.

“Have you sworn a Healer’s oath?”

Unable to process his question, Hermione stammered, her brain suddenly incompetent.

“I... Yes. I mean, no... Not yet. But I am expected to adhere to the principles...”

“Adhere to the principles.” His eyes and voice were so cold and for the first time, Hermione was truly frightened by Draco Malfoy. “Then see that you do, not-quite-yet-Healer. You are needed.”

He dragged her out of the tent to the campfire. The ground was sodden with dark fluids. The clearing stank of blood. The blond man-Dick? Doncaster? Dick Doncaster?- was kneeling over an uncontrollably shaking figure in a patch of dark mud, pressing a bunched-up cloth to the figure’s chest.

Malfoy pushed her toward them and placed a hand behind her neck, his grip painful and unrelenting.

“You have ten seconds to look, Granger. Then I’ll take you to Slughorn’s tent and you’ll have thirty seconds to take from his stores what is necessary.”

Hermione stared at the prone figure. Goyle. So much blood. The skin was sweaty and sallow, the lips hardly darker than the rest of the face. His breath was shallow and uneven.

Oh, Circe! She was not that kind of a Healer! Instead of interning at the A&E of St. Mungo’s, she had been part of the potions development department. There were first aid rules that they had all learned and there had been that one, singular day that she had spent setting bones and mending gashes, but this was not the type of injury attended to by a Healer with an emphasis on potions research.

Now, her mind felt as blank as if she had never in her life learned a thing about healing.

“Time’s up. Move!”

Malfoy herded her to the elaborate dark green tent and shoved her inside. The interior was a Victorian nightmare of the Celtic variety. Dozens of little tables and armchairs crowded the living space, every wooden surface sporting winding Celtic carvings. The kitchen tried to take over the lab, or vice versa, it was not easy to distinguish potions ingredients from tinned or pickled delicacies.

From behind a gauzy, embroidered curtain, loud snores drifted through the tent. Hermione stumbled her way to the wide table that was covered in phials and minute bottles.

Finally, finally, the blankness in her mind lifted. Potions she knew about. Slughorn had kept to the standard colour coding of the phials. Green glass signalled healing potions. Picking up one green phial, one green bottle after the other, she found blood replenishing potions, pepper up, suturatio, organ-protecting potion and anti-infective potions containing silver.

Hermione held out part of her robe, gathering everything into it. When she turned to run to the entrance, Malfoy held her back. Confused, she looked into his face that was contorted in pain and fury.

“Be careful, Granger. If he dies, so do you, and I will not give a shit about the ransom.”

With that, he released her with a violent movement toward the tent flap and ran outside.

Hermione ran after him and shouldered past the other men standing in a circle around Goyle and Doncaster.

“Out of my way!” Doncaster looked up, tears and fear on his face. “Your name is Dick, right?” He nodded. “You will help me, Dick. I need you to lift the cloth for a little bit and press it back down when I say so.” Draco grasped Doncaster’s tunic by the shoulder and lifted him away. He knelt and pressed down on the makeshift compress. “I will do that. Tell me when.”

Hermione tipped a first phial of blood replenisher into Goyle’s mouth. “Now.”

Draco lifted the cloth from Goyle’s chest and bared the wound to Hermione’s eyes. Something had cut through several layers of clothes, at least one of which seemed to be leather, and then deeply into muscle, bone and underlying organs. The curse had missed his heart but the gash was deep and long and he was losing blood too fast.

“I need a wand.” She held out her hand palm up toward Malfoy. He hesitated for a moment but after a look into her determined eyes, he slipped her wand out of his sleeve and placed it in her hand.

“Try something and I will cripple you.”

She ignored him, banishing torn clothes and dirt, and set to chanting intricate knitting and suturing charms to seal layer after layer of tissue. It was work she was not used to, had never had to perform under stress or in a real life situation at all. Still, these charms had been drilled into her brain during the core courses of her studies, and came almost without thinking if not without a certain amount of effort.

“Wipe my forehead.”

“What?” Malfoy sounded startled.

“I am sweating and I need to keep going. Wipe my forehead or something will fall into the wound.”

Draco produced an only slightly soiled handkerchief and wiped her forehead. After a few minutes he repeated the action, watching her carefully for any signs of discomfort.

It took a long time. Minutes could feel like hours when every second is precious, when every moment could be the last, when every heart beat of hesitation could mean that a heart would cease beating.

Hermione’s hands were shaking as she tipped the last potions into Goyle’s mouth and helped him swallow by massaging his throat. His breath came a bit easier now and although he was still pale, his colour seemed to be returning to his cheeks.

Zabini conjured a stretcher and Nott helped him to levitate Goyle to his tent. Hermione followed them with her eyes until they had disappeared into the pink, turreted wedding cake tent. Black spots crowded her vision and she felt the ground under her knees tilt and lean. Before she could slide off the world and slipped into darkness, strong hands caught and steadied her.
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Hooded Man