Enchanted

Enchanted Chapter 8 "Discoveries and Meetings"

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Slowly, Hermione pushed the heavy wooden door open, eyes adjusting to the dark suite and spotted a figure sitting on the edge of the enormous bed, his head in his hands. Malfoy. He had already removed his coat from dinner; his dress shirt was unbuttoned a few notches and slightly wrinkled. His ruffled coiffure had never been in such an unkempt state. His mood fit well with the current state of the room: dark. Fear squeezed her lugs as she fought back the urge to gasp. He's dangerous, she thought fervently to herself, remember? Let's approach with caution, shall we? Or does a repeat episode of arm-twisting sound appealing to you?

Inhaling deeply, she took a few small steps toward the divan.

"Malfoy?" she whispered hesitantly.

The shadow whipped its head toward her, and for a moment she stopped breathing. Even in the darkness, his liquid silver eyes were unmistakable, as were the emotions that quickly flickered across them. Hermione could not decipher these emotions, and perhaps that was what frightened her the most. He arose with grace and dexterity, making his way over to her. Panic flooded Hermione's thoughts and she began to back peddle until she collided with the desk.

"Ouch!"

"Are you alright?" Malfoy inquired, reaching out to help her up.

"Don't you touch me!" Hermione screeched loudly, scrambling away from the desk in an effort to evade contact with Malfoy's hand. "Don't come anywhere near me!"

"Look," he began, sounding disgruntled, "About earlier I--"

"Just stay away!" Hermione's cries blasted through any attempt Malfoy had made at an explanation. Her cinnamon eyes were wild and wide in apprehension as her hand blindly searched through the thick darkness for a doorknob of any kind. Her fingers grasped the desired circular metal object and twisting it, pushed the door open and found herself in the luxurious bathroom. She slammed the door shut behind her and turned the lock, then slid down the door, curling herself into a ball, bringing her knees up to her chin and rocking slightly. Fingertips traced the soft, silky fabric of her dress, the smooth cloth a comfort to rough nerves.

Raising his hands in defeat, Malfoy retreated to the master bed and sunk into the soft mattress. He ran a hand through his blonde locks in frustration.

A few moments of silence permeated the room.

"You can't stay in there forever, Granger," Malfoy drawled tiredly.

Silence resounded in response.

"Come'on, if you fall asleep in there you'll wake with a dreadful crick in your neck."

Yet again, Hermione made no sound.

"Fine, see if I care," I growled and, in a huff, pulled down the bed clothes and climbed under the sheets, rolling over to face away from the desk.

I'd rather wake up with a crick in my neck than to your hands wound 'round it, Hermione thought darkly, shifting around to find a comfortable position against the wooden door. She finally settled, turning her body do that her shoulder pressed against the door, legs curled beside her. Tears dripped down Hermione's face silently, her pride refusing to allow the former Slytherin the satisfaction of listening to her cries. Sleep came swiftly, via the sand-water trails.

Hermione abruptly awoke the next morning to Malfoy banging on the door and his muffled shouting. Groggily, Hermione ventured a rather articulate inquiry while stifling a yawn.

"What the..?"

"Open up now Granger," demanded Malfoy's rich timbre voice.

"I think not," Hermione replied sleepily, slightly agitated with his annoying persistence.

Grumbling, Malfoy muttered a quick "Alohamora" and shoved on the door, propelling himself forward into the cool bathroom and pushing Hermione to the tiled floor. Hermione scrambled to stand, running a hand through her tangled mane attempting in vain to remove the deplorable bed-head. Her eyes narrowed dangerously as she backed away from the blonde wizard, hand grasping the wooden back scrubber from the edge of the bathtub. She gripped the wooden handle like a Beater would a bat at a Quidditch match, ready to swing at a moment's notice.

Malfoy arched an eyebrow.

"Is that necessary?" he drawled, waving a hand carelessly towards the object.

Hermione remained silent, clutching the handle harder.

"Bleeding hell," Malfoy muttered, "Look--about last night, I--"

"Save your breath and spare me the ridiculous fabrication," Hermione spoke quietly and firmly. "I have no need for your pathetic excuses."

Malfoy's face remained blank, unaffected.

"Fine then," he growled, "let's go."

"And what makes you assume I would go anywhere with you?" inquired Hermione in an even voice.

Malfoy advanced on her, deftly snatching the scrubber and tossing the stick over his shoulder. His face loomed over hers as she stood silent in surprise. Her heartbeat quickened considerably as she feared what his next action would be. His eyes danced with liquid fire, their steely depths taunting. His fingers wrapped around her upper arms, then jerked Hermione to him, their noses touching.

"Like you're capable of stopping me from forcing you," said Malfoy in a deep, dangerous voice.

Hermione inhaled sharply as he relinquished contact, shoving her away from him. She stumbled backwards and flopped on the cold tile. Controlling her body's involuntary shaking, she lifted her chin and glared. He regarded her for a moment then turned around to leave.

"Since you have protested accompanying me, I have business to attend to. I'm sure you can find something to amuse yourself around here."

Hermione stared in disbelief at the back of his head.

He's leaving? And without anyone to guard me? Thank Merlin! I can--

"Oh, and don't bother entertaining the thought of escape. I've cast a Confining spell. You cannot leave the grounds."

Hermione's throat constricted as she made a sound of protest, but to no avail. Malfoy disappeared from the bathroom; when Hermione scrambled into the bedroom after him, he had left completely.

"Damn!" she cried, slamming her fists on the bed. Angrily, she spun around, looking for an outlet to vent her frustrations at being trapped like a niffler in a cage. Hermione spotted her appearance in the mirror. I look positively filthy! Arg! Decidedly, she ripped open the drawer and scooped up a sweater and slacks. She stormed into the bathroom, slammed the door shut not bothering to lock the door (What was the use? Malfoy had already rendered any sorts of privacy null and void with one simple spell she could perform in her first year at Hogwarts) and proceeded to indulge herself in an hour long bath.

Hermione emerged--true to her word, an hour later--fresh and awake. The white sweater hung down to mid-thigh and the wide neck slipped off one shoulder. The slacks fit snug and comfortably. She pulled her hair back into a low ponytail as she exited the bedroom and began her descent down the stairs.

Upon entering the dining room downstairs she discovered, much to her displeasure, that breakfast had already been served. The maids scuttled around clearing the table. The kind, bubbly maid from the night before stopped her chores momentarily and tilted her head to Hermione.

"Affamé, madame?"

(Hungry, ma'am?")

Hermione nodded (She did know a few words in French), and followed the young maid through the swinging doors and into the kitchens.

The maid presented her with a basket of fruit and croissants, then shooed Hermione out so that the servers could finish their work. ermione asked quickly "Do you have a library?"

The maid peered at her quizzically, and then motioned to a nearby butler. Hermione repeated her inquiry, and the butler's face glowed.

"Oui! If you will follow me mademoiselle, I shall 'ave zee 'onor of showing you zee most magnificent library you 'ave ever laid eyes on!"

The butler led Hermione down a long hall artfully littered with statues and paintings. One rather enormous landscape depicted the grounds of La Masion de Roses with every intricate detail, from the lush green grass to the plethora of rosebushes. The scene appeared so real; Hermione thought she might touch the painting and have her fingertips graze the blades of grass. Another painting caught her attention. Two lovers lay under a full moon, wrapped in each other's arms beneath a weeping willow. A crystal pool of water sat close by, rose petals adrift on the pond's surface. But the two lovers! These intriguing personages themselves captured her gaze. The man's familiar blonde hair, the woman's chestnut locks--the couple painted a startling picture in her mind. She peered closer at their facial features and gasped. Her own face and Malfoy's! And gazing lovingly at each other!

"Preposterous!" Hermione whispered.

"Madame?" the butler called gently.

Hermione ripped her eyes away from the painting, and her countenance startled the butler.

"Are you ill madame?"

"Oh, no," Hermione breathed, returning her attention to the lovers.

"Ah, zis magnifique portrait has you enraptured? It is called 'Amants mystérieux,' 'Mysterious Lovers."

"Mysterious lovers?"

"Oui, for zeir identities are unknown."

Hermione inhaled sharply. Merlin, is that supposed to be Malfoy and me?

"When was this painted?" she asked quietly, wrapping her arms around herself.

"Mid eighteenth century, by a man named Armando Philipe. He once owned La Masion de Roses."

"Really?" Hermione asked, intrigued. "What happened to him?"

"No one knows madame. He disappeared one day."

"Oh my," Hermione whispered.

"Oui, tragic. But, 'ere is zee library," the butler announced, one hand held out towards two gigantic mahogany doors. Hermione stepped up to them, reaching out for the rose-shaped handle.

"Enjoy madame," the butler bowed and left.

Hermione thanked the man and turned the knob, stepping into the vast room. She gasped at the sight. The library was bigger than Hogwarts' and her department's combined! Rows upon rows of thick volumes lined walls that stretched at least ten stories high. The room itself had a wide octagonal shape, with long, shiny wooden tables placed in the center. The ceiling held an enormous skylight, the sun's morning rays breaking through the glass and dancing over the room's details. Beautiful rose carvings traced the table chairs, shelves, and the various torches placed at the corner of two shelves. In one wall, a large fireplace had been cut beneath a multitude of bookshelves, the mantle decorated with not only rose engravings, but also vases of rose bouquets. A few cushions sat near the hearth, perfect for reading by firelight.

Hermione had stumbled upon heaven.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

A group of masked strangers circled inside a dark room, the raging fire pit in the center the only source of light or warmth. They swayed back and forth, chanting a strange mantra. The circle broke as the leader stepped into the center, his red eyes glowing from beneath the hood.

Every cloaked figure fell to his knees, exclaiming "Hail our Lord!"

"Rise," Voldemort hissed.

The circle stood, heads bowed.

"Lucius," the red eyed man called.

Lucius Malfoy stepped into the circle, bowing before the man.

"Yes my Lord?" he asked quietly.

"Imbecile!" the leader cried, striking Lucius with his cane. The snake-like man grabbed the elder Malfoy by the front of his robes and threw him to the edge of the fire pit. Voldemort advanced upon Lucius, leaning over and kicked him closer to the flames. Lucius's eyes widened as the red wisps licked at his robes. Positioning a foot on Lucius's chest, Voldemort stomped on his sternum with a resounding crack. Lucius released a cry etched with excruciating pain.

"Where is the information I desire?" Voldemort hissed, pointing his wand threateningly at Lucius's face.

"The boy...has yet to...extract it..." Lucius gasped out, his breath short.

"That is not what I wanted to hear. Crucio!"

Lucius's body convulsed and writhed, thrashing wildly on the stone floor. Voldemort kicked the body away, rounding on the circle of followers.

"Avery, deal with that," he hissed, leering at the man who scurried over to Lucius.

"Where is my lamb?" Voldemort whispered, slowly surveying the circle. One hooded figure stepped forward and kneeled low.

"My Lord, I have come," the stranger said.

"Excellent," Voldemort hissed, "And what have you to report?"

"No one department employee holds all the information pertaining to the countercurse, my Lord. However, I am carefully extracting the pieces Master and soon, I will have your puzzle complete. It is a matter of days now," said the man.

"Ah, my loyal lamb," the Dark Lord praised, motioning for the figure to retreat, "Such satisfying news. WHY CAN'T YOU MORONS BE LIKE MY LAMB?"

The circle cringed, some dropping to their knees, other's crying "I am sorry Master!"

"Silence fools!" Voldemort hissed, sending a few curses at the whimpering men to his left. They fell dead.

"Clean away the riff-raff," he ordered. A few men hurried forward and dragged away the bodies.

"Avery, bring me Lucius," Voldemort demanded.

Lucius was dumped at the Dark Lord's feet. Voldemort yanked him up by the front, poking his wand into Lucius's sternum. Lucius winced.

"I want that boy to make her scream the counter curse," he ordered in a deadly whisper, "Otherwise death will look appealing in comparison to what I have in store for you."

"Of course Master, I will make certain he carries through."

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Hermione sat, feet propped on another chair, thoroughly engrossed in La Masion de Roses: The History of a Mansion. She scanned the pages, eagerly searching for any mention of Armando Philipe. Mysteries were her forte, and the fact that little was known about the wealthy painter intrigued Hermione. Curiosity fueled her desire to delve further and further into the volume. As of now, she had discovered only the mansions origins.

"The aristocratic Philipe family... built La Masion de Roses in 1714. Alexis Philipe II head of household... wife, Bernardine...five sons and two daughters: René, Frédéric, Charlot, Emmanuel, Ferdinand, Désirée and Giselle..."

"That's curious, no record of any specific family trades," muttered Hermione, flipping another page.

Hermione's eyes widened as she began to read the next page

"Armando Philipe...birth date April 13, 1740... the oldest boy and third of the seven children born to René Philipe and his wife, Isabelle Jean-Baptiste...René had inherited the estate from Alexis... René had allowed his youngest sister, Giselle, to remain. Giselle--who was but twenty when Armando was born--adored Armando and showered him with gifts and attention. She taught him to play the piano and to paint. Armando appeared talented at both, but his passion lie in painting. He excelled at portraits and landscapes, reflecting his natural artistic dexterity.

"When Armando reached the age of twelve, hemysterious regal man, whom he referred to as Léonard. When the exact same man called upon René for business matters a week later, Giselle felt stunned when the man introduced himself as Léonard. The man had never visited the house before. Giselle secretly wondered how Armando drew this stranger accurately, down to every detail, without ever laying eyes on the gentleman...Armando continued to turn out portraits of yet to come visitors. Giselle believed he possessed the ability to see the future."

"Merlin! Armando must have been a Seer!" exclaimed Hermione.

"A what my dear?"

Hermione dropped the book and turned to face the elderly gentleman from the night before.

"Mr. Johnston! You startled me!" she cried, hopping out of her chair to greet the gentleman.

"My apologies miss, for that was not my intention. I simply held a curiosity towards that book you seem to be quite immersed in," the gentleman chuckled.

"Oh, it is fascinating sir! A history of La Masion," Hermione informed him.

"Ah, sounds delightful, but...a Seer?"

Hermione blanched. Great wizards, I'm an idiot for talking about Seers in a Muggle place.

"Well, you see, I thought--"

"Oh my dear, no need to explain away. You're among wizard folk here," Mr. Johnston smiled.

"Oh! I had no idea! I thought that everyone here was a Muggle!"

"Majority are my dear. My wife and I, however, are not. I assume you and your husband possess that special quality which sets us apart from the rest of the populace?"

"Yes sir."

"Ah, quite pleasant. I daresay, I've found myself isolated somewhat, being from a wizarding family. My wife seems comfortable though. She's Muggleborn."

"As am I," Hermione smiled.

"How charming! Miss..."

"Oh, how rude of me! I apologize for neglecting my manners. Hermione Gr--um, I mean, Hermione Dantés," said Hermione, holding her hand out.

"It's a pleasure to make your acquaintance," Mr. Johnston nodded, politely kissing her knuckles. "Now, who's a Seer?"

"Oh!" Hermione motioned the old gentleman over to her table and reopened her book. She scanned the page, then finding the passage about Armando's peculiar talent, pointed to the text.

"Right here. Armando Philipe. He painted most of the portraits and landscapes hanging in the hallways. He was master of La Maison during the mid eighteenth century."

"Fascinating. But what sparked your interest in this Armando chap?"

Hermione recounted the startling discovery of the portrait in the outside corridor. Together, armed with a few more record books, Hermione and Mr. Johnston researched and discussed various findings. They found several points of intrigue.

"It says here that once Armando became master of La Masion, the grounds' beauty and vivacity never faded. Even in winter!" Hermione whispered in awe.

"Through the snow and cold? Hmm...and by Merlin, here's another queer account. Says this fellow aged little between his twentieth birthday and his fiftieth," pointed out Mr. Johnston.

"I believe it's safe to assume Armando was a wizard," Hermione stated triumphantly.

"Quite right, my dear...dear lord," the gentleman breathed, "take a gander at this."

Hermione leaned over, eyes widening.

"So it is true..."

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Draco Malfoy lounged, arms crossed, on the doorframe to his father's study. A house elf scurried in, bowing low.

"Ma--master Lucius will return shortly sir," the small creature quaked, gaze trained on the floor.

Waving the elf away, Draco stepped into the study and headed straight for the dark mahogany desk. Sliding the high-backed leather chair out, he ran his fingers underneath the desktop, tapping around, until he reached a small catch in the wood. Popping the piece out of place, Draco opened the small hidden compartment. He spied the small leather book, snatched it, and hid it in his robes. Carefully, he slid the compartment back in, pushed the chair under the desk, and languidly retired to another leather chair. Seconds later, Lucius stormed in, clutching his chest, his face twisted in fury.

He spotted his son, and slammed his black, silver topped cane into Draco's right shoulder. Draco winced for a moment, but made no sound. He slid his detached mask into place and regarded his father coolly with an apathetic glance. Lucius, irate at his son's indifferent manner, yanked Draco out of the leather chair and slammed him into the wall. Draco bit his lip to keep from crying out. He would never give Lucius the satisfaction of witnessing him in pain.

"Do you know what your incompetence cost me?" demanded Lucius in a deadly whisper. "Our Master is angry."

"He's not my master," Draco spat.

Lucius crushed Draco against the wall. Draco's ribs began to throb. That's going to leave a nasty bruise...

"You are lucky I am such a wonderful father who watches out for his son," growled Lucius. "The Dark lord is the most powerful being in the world; you'll do well to remember that."

Draco narrowed his eyes.

"Powerful? A baby kicked his sorry arse, and the brat was Potter nonetheless!" Draco laughed.

Lucius threw Draco to the ground, whipped out his wand, and aimed the tip at Draco's forehead. A malicious glint flashed in his eyes, the same eyes he glared at below him.

"Fathers must punish their disobedient sons," he growled. "Diffindo!"

A large gash appeared across Draco's cheek. Crimson sprayed his face and robes. Draco struggled to sit up, but Lucius held him fast to the floor with the heel of his dragon hide boot.

"I'm not finished," Lucius spat, pointing the wand at his son's chest. Another long gash appeared, tearing through his robes and soaking them in blood.

"Now," Lucius growled squatting down, his mouth next to Draco's ear, "Listen to every word. You. Will. Make. That. Mudblood. Talk." With each word, Lucius drove the tip of his wand deeper into Draco's chest wound.

Draco hissed in agony. Glaring defiantly at his father, Draco spat at Lucius's face. The elder Malfoy's face twisted in rage, and he jammed the wand completely inside Draco's chest cavity.

"Bastard," Draco howled.

"Did that hurt?" laughed Lucius. "Now, do I need to repeat myself?"

Draco shook his head, sweat and blood mingling on his cheek. His chest hurt like hell. Lucius had managed to wedge the wand between two ribs, and Draco felt certain his father punctured his lung.

"Excellent," hissed Lucius, slowly dragging the wand out of Draco. Lucius stood up and walked to the doorway.

"Now go." He growled, vanishing down the hallway, leaving Draco lie bleeding on the study floor.

Clutching his chest, Draco staggered to the window and gripped his wand propped against the ledge. He nudged the window open, and cursing, mounted the broom and exited out the window.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Sirius wearily eyed Harry, Ron and Elizabeth. He held out his hand as Harry handed him the piece of cloth. Ron wrapped a comforting arm around Elizabeth's shoulder as she pressed her face into his chest.

"There's not much I can do with this," said Sirius, turning the blue piece over then shoving it in his pocket. "It's best you lot head home."

"But Sirius!" Harry protested.

Sirius sighed. "Go home. There's nothing you can do Harry. Go home and get some rest. We've been at this for days."

Ron placed a hand on Harry's shoulder. Hugging Elizabeth in the other arm, he gently pulled Harry in the direction of home. Harry protested, but Ron did not relent.

"Come'on mate," he said tiredly. "Bye Sirius."

With a wave, Sirius stepped inside the red phone booth, and disappeared to the Ministry. The three walked in silence down the Muggle street, turning into and alleyway to apparate home.

As Ron and Elizabeth held out their wands, Harry interrupted them.

"I think I'll just walk."

"Are you sure Harry?" Elizabeth asked carefully.

Harry nodded and left the alleyway. Ron just shrugged then reached for Elizabeth's hand, giving it a gentle squeeze.

"He just needs his space for a bit."

Elizabeth nodded, and they apparated away to 73 Godric's Hollow.

Harry impetuously trudged down the crowded streets of London. Anger washed off him in waves--irritation at being rendered useless.

I'm the Boy Who Lived dammit! I do NOT sit around and wait for things to happen. God, Hermione could be anywhere...I know those damn Death Eater's have her. Why can't Voldemort and his stupid cohorts just shrivel up and die already!

Harry spied a stone on the sidewalk and gave the rock a good kick.

"Ow! You stupid son of a--"

Harry looked up, emerald meeting brown. He couldn't believe his eyes.

"Ginny?"

"Harry! What the bloody hell was that for?" she cried, rubbing the sore spot on her shin.

"Sorry Gin," he mumbled.

"I'll live," she grumbled.

To say Ginny Weasley was no longer a little girl sufficed to be the understatement of the century. The woman had curves to kill and an attitude reflecting that self-assurance. Her red hair tumbled down in fiery curls, reaching just past her shoulders. Soft brown eyes drew any man in, and got her any information she wanted--as a reporter for Witch Weekly that aspect came in very handy. Silky creamy skin, long, sultry eyelashes, and a small, pink mouth completed her flawless face. Harry diverted his gaze; he realized he had been staring.

"So, how are things Harry? What's that git of a brother of mine been up to? How's Hermione doing?" Ginny inquired conversationally, smoothing out her cream business suit.

Harry's eyes darkened. Ginny looked taken aback. "Was it something I said?"

"Hermione's missing."

Ginny gasped, clasping a hand over her mouth. "Merlin! Do you have any leads?"

"No," Harry growled, kicking another rock.

Ginny surveyed the handsome young man's stature. His normally lively demeanor had morphed into the emotionally unstable teenager she remembered all too well from his fifth and sixth years at Hogwarts, when the return of Voldemort had struck hard. But Harry had theoretically dealt with the bastard in seventh year...Ginny suspected the Dark Lord must have resurrected himself yet again.

"Death Eaters, wasn't it?"

Harry glanced up, eyes flashing.

"What'd a given you that thought?" he bit out sarcastically.

"No need for your famous temper Potter."

Harry regarded her quietly for a moment. He opened his mouth to speak, but quickly shut it.

Ginny personally thought he looked sexy angry, but that was just her bad boy infatuation surfacing at the inopportune moment. The tousled hair, wild-eyes, and scruffy appearance did wonders for the Boy Wonder. But now was not the time for that. Hermione was missing. There would be ample opportunity later.

"I've got a few contacts who keep their ears low to the ground. Feel like roughing up a few scumbags?"

A twisted grin spread across Harry's face.

"Love to."

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

"Wow," Hermione breathed, gently taking the book from Mr. Johnston's hands and falling back into her chair. Her eyes hungrily devoured the page, excitement bubbling inside her. She had solved her mystery.

The book outlined Armando Philipe's life accomplishments, which had not been an easy task. The number of accolades reached godlike proportions. Married wealthy, spawned several children, three who became successful business men, all daughters married wealthy, and four other boys fought in the French Revolution, restoring France to order. Armando's work had earned him numerous recognitions, and a few of his paintings hung at Versailles. Many world leaders and wealthy nobles had purchased his paintings to display in their estates and palaces.

The remarkable fact, however, was that there was no record of his death; as if the gifted painter had been immortal. Hermione felt assured Armando was dead by now, but her suspicion about his wizarding blood grew. She felt sure of it. As a wizard, his chance of being a Seer increased as well...But then that meant...The painting in the hallway...It was...

No. She simply could not allow herself to ponder that thought a moment longer.

"What do you reckon?" the gentleman inquired.

Hermione shut the book and handed it over. A queasy feeling settled in her stomach as she felt her insides slosh around. Hermione slowly stood up, one arm hugging her middle.

"I don't feel very well. I think I'd better go lie down."

The gentleman rose out of concern.

"Dratted morning sickness I bet," he said gently.

Hermione nodded, silently thanking God that she had that fabrication to fall back upon.

"Would you like me to escort you back to your quarters?"

"No thank you, I'll be fine," Hermione smiled weakly, and bid Mr. Johnston goodbye.

Once she closed the door, Hermione made a dash for her room. She raced down the hallway, took the steps in twos, and released a cry of relief when she reached the suite. Hermione wrenched open the door, slammed it behind her, and dove on the wide divan. She stretched out her limbs and closed her eyes, believing a nap would do the trick. Her thoughts could wait to later.

CRASH!

Hermione started from the bed, sitting up and glancing wildly around the room. The French doors swung open, and Malfoy lay in a heap of broom and bloody robes on the floor, unconscious. Hermione leaped of the divan and over to the blonde wizards side. She gently turned him over. She let out a horrified gasp. Blood marred his face, trails leading down his neck. Hermione stared at his chest. Crimson soaked through his shirt and robes. Hermione quickly checked his pulse, discovering the beat to be dangerously slow. Searching through the folds of his robes, Hermione withdrew his wand. Waving the wand over his chest as she muttered a few spells, Hermione discovered the lung puncture. Whispering a few healing spells, Hermione slipped the soiled robes and shirt off Malfoy. Using a sewing charm, she stitched up Malfoy's cheek and chest. Hermione also found some bandages in the bathroom cabinet and wrapped them securely around his torso.

"Mobilicorpus," she murmured, levitating Malfoy over to the bed. She pulled the sheets up over his still body as she checked his pulse. Slow, but steady. Hermione curled up on a nearby chair, and watched the shallow rise and fall of Malfoy's chest.

"What did you do to yourself Malfoy?" she whispered.

THE END OF CHAPTER 8

Again, I apologize for the long delay. I hope you enjoyed this chapter! Let me know what you thought and review! Thanks for reading!

CheerPrincess