Covered in Crimson

Draco barely made it to the tiny bathroom before losing the contents of his stomach in a series of violent heaves. His body shivered with shock and he squeezed his eyes shut, willing this to have all been a terrible nightmare. His wheezing breaths and choking gulps told him otherwise. Wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, he was reviled again to find it still covered in dried blood – Granger’s blood. Blood just as red as his own. He retched once more, but there was nothing left in him.

He started to search his memory. What had happened? How did they come to be here? Had he really done this to her? Where were the rest of their clothes? Where was her wand? Why couldn’t he recall anything of his actions for the past few days? He was stunned to find that he didn’t have answers to any of his questions, and his head started to pound with the apparently futile effort to remember. “First things first,” Draco mumbled to himself. He turned on the tap and quickly rinsed his hands, then scooped water into his mouth to chase away the horrible taste his sickness had left behind. He then stepped back into the bedroom and fell to his knees at the still woman’s side.

“Granger. Granger! Wake up! Come on – wake up!” he pleaded with her, his voice gruff and insistent. When he got no response, he began to ponder their predicament – his predicament. Maybe she wasn’t alive anymore. He just couldn’t bring himself to think “dead.” Maybe he should just wash the blood off his own body, grab his cloak, and get the hell out of here. But where was “here” exactly? He had no clue other than the apparently rural setting he’d seen from the window a few minutes earlier.

Draco growled in frustration. He didn’t know what to do; he didn’t really know what he had done, although some damning evidence was staring him in the face. He had never liked Granger, that much was common knowledge, but he didn’t hate her this much. And violence of this sort was deeply, passionately hateful. As far as he could recall, it had been more than two years since he’d even caught a glimpse of her, in Hogsmeade, just after what would have been the end of their seventh year at Hogwarts if the war had not closed the school and sent them scattering to their own battles. Still naked, and only the blood from his hands removed, Draco knelt on his haunches beside her and once again reached for her wrist to find any signs of life. He was stunned that she whimpered softly in response to his touch. He withdrew his hand as though it had touched open flame, and scrubbed a palm across his face. “What now? She’s alive, but can I keep her that way? Do I want to?” Draco’s conscience was warring with his selfish nature.

Whatever small part of humanity contained in Draco’s soul reared its head and he made a decision. He spoke to her softly, quickly, and as calmly as he could under the circumstances. “Granger, I don’t really know what happened here, but it seems that I may have had something to do with it. I don’t remember. I can’t find my wand or yours, and I don’t know anything about Muggle medicine. I don’t know, I don’t think I can save you, but I’ll try to give you some dignity in your death. That’s all I can promise for now. I’m, uh, sorry that it had to come to this, Granger. ”

With that, he picked up a cloth from the pile he’d gathered from the kitchen and dipped it into the pot of cool water, and ringing it out, he began to clean the blood from her body.