Thanks so much for following along so far! It has been so interesting and encouraging to read all your reviews. Also, thanks for your patience with my chapter order mix-up last week.
Hermione lay on the ground, something like a fairy-tale princess among the roses. That was all Draco's mind processed before panic sloshed in like an immense wave and washed out every thought. He stood, as frozen as his unconscious fiancee. The only movement came from a playful breeze that tousled the roses and whispered through the grass.
A pop broke the stillness, as Zibby appeared. She bobbed a curtsy to Draco and explained that she had heard "Master's lady friend" scream. Her eyes flitted away from her Master towards his prone - friend, she had called her. Draco nodded numbly, before his brain finally blossomed into life again. He dropped to his knees at Hermione's side and ran his wand over her to check her breathing and pulse; she was alive.
"Zibby, get the Healer," he gasped, his throat suddenly dry. Another pop indicated she obeyed. Draco stared at his classmate-his friend?-trying to marshal his now numerous, scattered thoughts. His gaze arrested on the ring; he'd put it on her right before she collapsed. He reached down and tugged at it, but it did not budge, bolstering his suspicions of it. He wanted to hit himself. In retrospect, he had given a Mudblood a Malfoy family heirloom, which was a terrible idea, given his family's historical (and current, if he was honest) prejudices. The fact it hadn't attacked him was irrelevant. Self-recrimination and bile lodged in his throat; in retrospect, it was so obvious. He'd placed that ring on her finger, to unknown effect. At least when Aunt Bella had been torturing Hermione her blood wasn't on his hands; he'd only been a bystander. Now, the weight of her life hung solely on his shoulders. He retched into the nearest rosebush.
An eternity later, Zibby re-appeared with the greyed Healer. "I placed a likely-cursed ring on her finger; she screamed, convulsed, and collapsed. She is breathing and has a pulse," Draco offered in lieu of a greeting. The Healer nodded and drew his wand, terribly slowly, in Draco's opinion. He almost growled his frustration as the man moved his wand lackadaisically, as if it were being dragged through molasses.
The Healer continued his ministrations, while Draco summoned a chair for himself. His eyes tracked the Healer's motions, but his mind had turned inward. Monumentally screwed was what he was. He could think of no other description of his situation. Defeat, death, torture loomed like insurmountable walls in every direction. The walls of his self-constructed prison leered down at him. He'd chosen to save Hermione, to take on re-molding her as his project. Thus far, he'd succeeded neither in luring Potter to her rescue or in transforming her into a radicalized weapon for darkness. He hadn't even really succeeded in gaining her affection, if her hesitant acceptance of his ring was any indication. Looking at her prone form, he realized he might not have even succeeded in saving her life.
He ran through the possibilities for his own future. If Hermione died, he would have unconditionally failed at his task. His only way of salvaging that would be if Potter did come-either not knowing she was dead, or in revenge for his fallen friend. He might be better off if he claimed that had been his plan, but it would have been better staged if Potter had been there for her demise... Draco ignored the hot, sloshy feeling in his stomach he'd come to recognize as guilt as he considered her staged murder. He moved on to option two. If Hermione awakened quickly, he needed to have an explanation on hand as to what happened. She was, unfortunately, a bright witch, and would notice that her, err symptoms, had started with the ring. The ring that she had supposedly already worn, thus any excuse he might conjure that shifted blame to his family was out the window. Not to mention the fact that he was trying to convince her his family were the so-called good guys, and admitting their hatred of her would counter that… Draco wished he could shake his brain, make it come up with new ideas. His thoughts kept circling back to "monumentally screwed." Could he blame the Order again? It seemed risky to keep milking her "hex" for everything that went wrong. If Draco, melodramatic as he was, thought it was being over-milked, he ruefully considered, it was a distinct possibility. Then again, if she had been wearing the ring, might it have been able to absorb part of the curse? Especially if there had been a protection spell in it? Stick close to the truth-the hex was keyed to Mud, er, Muggle-borns, but was cast by the Order, not by Malfoys-so Draco's tests of it hadn't revealed anything nefarious, since he was a Pureblood... Not his favorite option, but notably the best he'd come up with so far. Maybe he could even sound out his parents a bit, discreetly, to see if they could improve the plausibility of his tale.
He forced his sluggish thoughts to shift to a third possibility-that she remained alive, but cursed. In some ways, this case resembled Case 1: Death, except that there was no way he could pretend it had been planned. If the Healer couldn't remove the curse, there was always a chance his parents or the library could. He'd done a pretty bang-up job researching on his own for the Vanishing Cabinet, so there was a chance he would be able to remove it, given enough time. Failing that? His mind came up blank. Dark Arts practitioners weren't much known for their ability to undo their handiwork, and seeking aid on this would alert the Dark Lord to his inability to accomplish yet another task.
He glanced back at Hermione and the Healer. The man's wand movements were now erratic, as he took long, considering pauses between them. Shite. This did not look good.
Hours later, Draco paced Hermione's room. She was once again ensconced in her bed, although she slept like the dead this time. The Healer had set a number of spells to prevent any deterioration in her health, and to ensure that she remained nourished and hydrated during her spell induced coma, but had been unable to determine anything about the curse, much less to lift it. The man had left to grab more supplies; Draco had broken protocol by allowing him to leave without an Obliviate, but her state seemed so fragile he didn't want to risk the time he'd lose for the Healer to re-learn her condition… He prayed the man didn't betray him as he glanced again at the clock. 2 minutes. The man was a wizard; how long did it take to gather supplies?!
Draco ran his fingers through his hair again, as he reconciled himself to Case 3: Alive but Cursed. It contained the nasty risks of Case 1, with all of the explanations needed from Case 2 if he managed to wake her up. Once. Once he woke her up. One of his childhood tutors had insisted that positive thinking produced positive outcomes. He'd sneered then, but was willing to grasp at straws now, however, silly those straws might be.
The Healer finally bustled back through the fireplace, spilling ash into the room. Draco watched, detached, as the man cast additional spells and poured a few vials into Hermione's mouth.
Research. That had been Solution A for Case 2. After setting a few monitoring spells to ensure the Healer didn't leave and a few nasty traps for anyone daring to enter the room, he Apparated to the library. He felt more in control of the situation as soon as his feet hit the ground. With a flick of his wrist, tomes on Malfoy and Black family heirlooms flew from their perches and stacked themselves on the study table before the fire. Books on curses that could be applied to jewelry came next. He'd need to prune that stack; it was teetering, several feet high. Who knew jewelry was such a popular item to curse? Curse reversals was next; only five books whizzed past to settle on the table. Well, he'd expected as much. He stood, wand poised to cast again, but couldn't think of another category to query at the moment. Instead, he Apparated back to the room, stack of books in tow.
The Healer still stood over Hermione, casting and administering potions. His motions seemed less urgent; Draco hoped that was a good sign. He strode over to the desk and settled himself in the large-wing backed chair.
He picked up the first book, one from the first pile on family heirlooms and Accio-ed some parchment. He inspired slowly and cleared his mind before dangling his wand and carefully tracing a searching rune into the air. He whispered "Accio Verbum" as he mentally imagined words or images pertaining to "ring" or "flower." He'd paid a pretty Knut to a Ravenclaw to teach him the spell last year, but he hadn't used it much since his cabinetry escapades and was relieved when golden light etched the edges of the relevant pages, indicating it had worked. He flipped the book open to the first glowing page and started reading.
Draco awoke suddenly to a polite cough. Zibby held a tray of steaming pancakes, eggs, and sausages and a full carafe of coffee. Stiffly, he uncurled his bent spine that had, apparently, grown rather fond of the awkward position he'd fallen asleep in. He nodded at Zibby, who placed the tray on the table, curtsied, and disappeared.
Draco's thoughts started trickling into his waking brain. Hermione. He spun around, relieved to see the Healer sitting by her bedside, monitoring her progress. He signed. He hadn't meant to fall asleep, but had apparently succumbed at some point after midnight. He'd spent the afternoon, evening, and night reading, scratching down potentially useful curses, diagnostic spells, and counter-curses.
And found nothing.
He started at the bleak scene before him before impulsively calling Zibby. A loud pop announced her arrival.
"Fetch my mother here," he commanded. He wasn't sure if he needed her re-assuring presence or her advice, but at this moment the weight of the last few months was too much to bear alone.
Narcissa Malfoy strode through a flash of green flames out of the fireplace.
"Draco, dear. What's wrong?"
Her face matched his in pallor, her usually serene face knotted with worry. Draco's eyes flitted around her, as if he could avoid her question the same way he could avoid her eyes. He looked at Hermione. She hadn't moved a centimeter from the last he'd seen her, but her face was still rosy albeit pale, not the waxy grey of death. Her chest delicately rose and fell. She was still alive at least.
"What happened, Draco?" his mother whispered, eyes trained on the girl and the Healer.
And like that, at the sound of his mother's gentle voice, the voice which had read to him as a child, congratulated him and fawned over him when he came home from school, his intentions were decimated like cupcakes before Crabbe and Goyle. He hiccupped a sob and threw himself into her arms.
She stood firm, despite the fact that he now dwarfed her by several handspans, and wrapped her arms around her child. She squeezed him gently, and he responded by caving in on himself, sobbing harder. Narcissa muttered a spell, elongating one of the chairs by the fire into a sofa and guided her son to it. She settled both of them, flicking the door shut, and warding the sofa from prying eyes and ears with a few elegant chops of her wand.
"Draco, dearest, what happened?" she inquired again.
Draco leaned against her shoulder, feeling suddenly so empty and so tired. He was too weary, too weak to bear it after wrestling with his struggles for so long.
"I gave her a ring I found in the attic. I-I tested it. Put it on myself, ran diagnostic spells." The words poured out of him in a rush, dragging that awful guilty sludge up from his core as he did. "She smiled, Mother, at me. For giving it to her. She was happy in the sunshine amongst the beautiful flowers, because I gave her a ring. And then she screamed and she fell, and it's all my fault." Another hacking sob fought free. "It's all my fault and it's all for naught. I'll still fail the Dark Lord and she'll still be dead. We'll all be dead."
His mother's arms never wavered in their firm hold around his shoulders. "What have you learned so far?" she asked. He felt an incongruous flare of pride; his brilliant mother had followed his mangled explanation and was moving to solutions.
"It's a Malfoy family heirloom, given to Lyra Malfoy by her husband Armand II. Apparently she was 'as lovely as a rose in bloom, but her temper would give their thorns cause to learn.'" He spat the quote, bitterness coating his mouth. "Apparently, by 'temper' they meant that Armand had fancied a Mudblood witch at school before he married Lyra, or at least she was convinced he had, and she subsequently cursed all her jewelry, in case he ever got it into his head to give her precious baubles to 'the filth.'" Draco's throat was still raw, but his shuddering sobs had ceased, as the concrete task of filling his mother in on his research distracted him. "Beyond that, I can't figure out what the curse is. It isn't a great number of things, I made a list somewhere…" He sighed. "I only picked it because I thought she'd like the rose," he finished. Both Malfoys looked over to Hermione's still form.
Mother and son sat in silence for many long moments. "I think you should contact your godfather," Narcissa finally offered. "I know," she quipped, before her son could interrupt, "that you may be loathe to do so after the events of last spring, but I do trust him, and I think he will be able to help. Experimental curses are..." she paused for a long moment. "... an interest of his, let's say."
Draco nodded his head, to indicate he'd heard her.
A long while later, she kissed his hair and stood. "For what it's worth Draco, I'm very proud of you." He swore tears sparkled in her eyes, although when she blinked they were dry. As she strode from the room, Draco wondered what she was proud of him for.
He contemplated her words for a moment before attending to the more urgent matter at hand-writing his godfather. Every movement of his quill felt like a noose tightening around his neck; in debt to the greasy man, again, for failing at his appointed tasks. Snape's actions always seemed to indicate that Draco could trust him, but there was something, something he couldn't quite define that made him suspicious of the older Death Eater. Made him leery of fully trusting him. Draco's quill danced on, despite his misgivings. In the end, his parchment read:
"Professor Snape, Hermione's been cursed, badly. I need help; the Dark Lord can't know. -DM"