Chapter 9

A muggle ambulance took them to a local private hospital, somehow gleaning the information of who Hermione was, and managing to contact her mother. Ophelia, miraculously, was unhurt apart from the usual bumps and scrapes, but Hermione was unconscious and her left arm was suspiciously swollen.

Upon waking later that evening, the first thing Hermione saw was a kind looking muggle physician standing over her, shaking his head ruefully.

"Miss Granger," he admonished her gently, "you have not been taking care of herself."

Hermione colored slightly at the reprimand, giving herself a quick once over. She probably had a mild concussion, and the plaster cast on her arm suggested a broken wrist. "I know…" she said softly, allowing the words to trail off. Abruptly, her mind performed the jump to real time. "Ophelia!" She cried, flinging herself forward, gasping, her chest constricting and her pulse rushing.

"Relax!" The doctor placed a hand on each of her shoulders and firmly pushed her back in to a lying position. "Your daughter is fine—much better than you are, in fact, and will be able to visit you soon."

Hearing these kindly, reassuring words, Hermione promptly burst in to tears. "I'm an awful mother," she sobbed, much to the young doctor's bafflement. "I've barely seen her in the past few weeks, I've been so preoccupied with everything else going on—oh, she could have gotten so injured, my god—I can't believe I've neglected her…."

"Your daughter is fine," he repeated, and then looked at her seriously. "You, on the other hand, are not. Have you been getting any sleep or eating anything at all lately?"

"Yes, yes," she said absently, shrugging off his words and wiping her face. "I think I'm fine to walk—may I please visit my daughter?"

"I think it would be better if she were to visit you. Also, you have a very concerned mother and father who are eager to see that you're well."

Hermione groaned. "Oh, Merlin." The doctor looked at her strangely, and she colored at her slip-up. "I mean, they're just sure to overreact… oh, dear…" Raising an eyebrow at her odd behavior, but no doubt attributing it to her concussion, he headed off to get the visitors.

"Hermione!" Her mother threw herself on the bed, grabbing her shoulders and pulling her in to a hug.

"Momma!" Ophelia followed suit, and Steve Granger stood in the doorway, smiling with relief.

"What were you thinking?" Helen cried, still holding her tightly. "What happened?" Ophelia seemed content merely to snuggle against her.

Hermione felt overwhelmed, and checked herself before she burst in to tears yet again. "How did you find me? Where are we, anyways?"

"A private muggle hospital in London," Steve told her. "It's called St. Joseph's, have you heard of it?" Hermione nodded briefly—it was actually quite a posh, expensive place—and Steve continued. "The muggle ambulance just took you to the closest local place. Oh, and the EMTs found your name and address in your wallet, and they also said something about an ID bracelet on you and Ophelia…?"

Hermione blushed and laughed. "Yes, I'm a little paranoid. But I'm a doctor, I couldn't help myself!"

Helen didn't laugh. "I'm glad you did," she said. "If you hadn't had your wallet, they could have been necessary!" Immediately, she switched modes. "But what I want to know, Hermione, is what in the world you were doing speeding around the streets of muggle London all alone while you were feeling unwell!"

"Well, Mum, see…" Hermione trailed off, thinking about Ron. "I decided to take Ophelia to see a film at a local theater, but I don't know. I think I must have run in to a lamppost or something."

"For shame, Hermione, you know better than that," Helen scolded. "You're a doctor, for goodness' sakes! Why weren't you wearing a helmet?"

"You won't even let Ophelia ride a bike because you say it's too dangerous," Steve chimed in. "What are you doing riding one without even a helmet?"

Hermione lay back on the pillows, gathering Ophelia in to her arms, as she felt the pounding ache of a migraine beginning. "I'm sorry," she said softly. "I just…"

Helen leaned forward to continue chastising, but Steve put a hand on her arm. "I think that's enough for now. She looks worn out."

"Who's side are you on?" Helen demanded, but only mock irately. She looked at Hermione with concern. "Dearest?"

"Yes, mum?"

"There are some other visitors out there, who we sort of jumped in front of…"

"Mum!" Hermione cried, enraged, mind immediately racing to Ron. They must have called them all. Ron and Harry were sure to be here by now—Merlin knew how many times she'd visited them in hospital, and since Ophelia was born this was only the second time she'd been on the wrong side of the bed.

Helen laughed, and Steve opened to door to motion in Harry and Ginny. Surprisingly, Luna was also there.

"Where's Ron?" Hermione frowned at the plaintive note in her voice.

Harry awkwardly combed his fingers through his hair, like he always did when he had to tell you something you didn't want to hear. "He, uh, he couldn't make it, Hermione. I, uh, yeah. I'm sorry."

"We brought you flowers, though!" Ginny chirped, clearly trying to be cheerful. She came around, sitting on the other side of the bed. "How are you, Ophelia?" She asked seriously.

"Good," Ophelia answered. "But Momma has boo-boo."

"Yes, she does. But we'll make her all better soon!"

Ophelia grinned, snuggling into Hermione's stomach. "Mm-hmm."

"Hello Hermione," Luna said, rather dreamily. "This isn't actually a magical hospital, but they're liason contacted St. Mungos. Mungos sent me to make sure you were psychologically intact."

Hermione had always found it rather amusing that the girl they had called Loony Lovegood in school was now the one responsible for counseling insane people in to sanity, and she barely suppressed an ironic snort at this statement. "Mildly concussed, I believe, but still psychologically here," she replied.

"They're worried it was some sort of suicide attempt gone wrong," Luna told her frankly, and Helen Granger blanched.

"Why would they have any reason to think that?"

"I don't know," Hermione said, completely bewildered. "It certainly was nothing of the sort. I'm, uh, I'm very happy with my life." It felt strange to say. Depression had never even been on her radar.

Luna blinked, looking, as usual, rather dreamy. "Oh, I know. I just had to ask—standard procedure, you understand. Really, we just wanted to make sure you were alright." Hermione smiled.

"So, I'm sure you've already told your parents," Harry began, "but what exactly happened."

Hermione blushed a little, recalling the large factor her stupidity had played. "Well, basically, we were bike riding a little too fast, and I wasn't wearing a helmet, and I didn't see this pole, and we had quite a crash, I think, but I hit my head when I fell off, so I actually don't remember much…"

They asked her a multitude of questions, and she was obliged to apologize for her lack of headgear several more times, but she managed to avoid mentioning how deeply Ron's absence had affected her concentration.

Finally, the young doctor came back. Hermione noticed that Ginny turned to her and raised her eyebrows, but she responded with an emphatic head shake. She didn't do muggle men. "Alright, guys, visiting hours are over for tonight," he said apologetically. "They want to keep an eye on her for tonight, make sure the concussion recovers normally, but she should be right as rain and ready to go by tomorrow."

Hermione kissed them all goodbye, holding tightly to Ophelia before allowing her to head off with her grandparents. Harry was the last to hug her and kiss her cheek, but he pulled away before she could grab his sleeve and ask him where Ron had got to.

"Love you," Ginny called, peeping out the door as the doctor shooed them all away. "We're going to have a dinner party to celebrate you getting well once you're out of the hospital."

"Sounds lovely," Hermione said with genuine warmth, and the door clicked shut. Checking her watch, she realized it was almost midnight. Horrified that she had caused everyone the inconvenience of visiting a hospital so late, she dropped off to sleep.

Draco was going crazy. Memos were flying in incessantly, everyone wanted to talk to him, his trainees and employees were running every-which-way, and to top it all off he was starving, because he hadn't eaten enough breakfast in his rush to get out of the house. It was the second day in a row that his mother had questioned him about drinking, and again the damned house elf had harassed him on his way out. It wasn't like his mother was on the verge of collapse! He didn't see what the big problem was.

He was tempted to call down to Erwin for his fifth cup of coffee. "I really need to get a flat of my own," he growled instead, "because if I have to keep living with my mother I'm going to go insane."

"What was that, Mr. Malfoy?"

Draco looked up, surprised, at the younger man entering the room. "Who are you, and who let you in here?" He demanded, angrily.

"I'm from Dr. Grey," the man said carefully, looking at Draco pointedly.

Draco relaxed momentarily at the knowledge of who the man was, but the fact that he had been sent by Dr. Grey immediately put him on the alert. He stood, pushing in his chair, and walking out from behind the desk to grab his coat from the rack. "Let's go," he said tersely.

The man looked surprised. "How did you-?"

They were out the door without a second glance, Draco sparing only a moment for Erwin. "I've got to go. Forward my mail."

"But, Mr. Malfoy…"

"You know where to go?" Draco asked the assistant, man, inferior, whatever.

"Yes, but, Mr. Malfoy, how," the man sputtered.

Draco had no time for pleasantries. Heading for the apparition section of the Ministry, he immediately apparated home.

"What is going on!" He roared, upon entering the front door. "How many times do I have to tell you, if she won't eat lunch it just doesn't matter that—"

"Mr. Malfoy?" Their family's oldest friend, Dr. Herbert Grey, turned the corner, exiting the living room. Once a young man, his hair was now graying, and he suited his name. Draco had known him since he was a boy, and many a scrape incurred from excessive tree climbing had been bandaged by the Herb.

"Herb," he said, inclining his head, all anger at being called away from work forgotten. Originally a Swede, and having received a medical and research degree from the prestigious Swedish University of Medicine and Magic, Dr. Grey had befriended Draco's parents upon moving to England. Few people merited Draco Malfoy's good opinion, and even fewer received his respect. Grey was one of the few.

"Draco, there's not time for social niceties. Your mother has just collapsed, and needs medical attention immediately."

Draco blanched, but knew that now was not the time for panic. "Right. I don't want this to be public knowledge in the wizarding world. Does she need magical attention?"

"My god, man, does it matter? She just needs a doctor, and a tube down her throat giving her food!" Grey bellowed. "How long have you been allowing this to go on for!"

"Alright, I know a private muggle place that will suffice," Draco responded coldly. "Get mother—where is she? We can apparate to an alley outside, they'll know what to do."

Grey shook his head, but made no other comment. He motioned to Draco to follow him in to the living room, where Narcissa lay unconscious on the sofa. Draco noticed detachedly how painfully thin she had become, and the large purple bags beneath her eyes. Something very like guilt crept through his stomach.

"Help me lift her. We'll do side-along apparition, you taking both of us." They carefully picked her up, placing her in Draco's arms like a child.

Draco nodded, and a moment later they appeared in an alley outside the hospital, startling a homeless man rooting through the trash.

Shuffling to hold Narcissa, though she weighed next to nothing, they entered the sliding glass doors. Grey looked pointedly at Draco. "Let me do the talking."

"Can I help you?" A nurse, wearing a neat little cap over her blonde hair, looked up from the desk.

"Yes," Grey said, smiling pleasantly. We were actually wondering where the Emergency Room is? My sister just collapsed." He stepped out of the way of Draco, revealing the prone figure of Narcissa.

"Oh! My! Yes, here, let me just get you a stretcher," the nurse cried, springing from her seat and dashing away. She came back moments later pushing a neat white stretcher bed, on to which Draco gently placed Narcissa. They walked behind her to the Emergency Wing of the hospital, where several doctors took over. One began to examine Narcissa, taking her to a room, and a nurse questioned Draco on her recent behavior.

"You mentioned concern about her not eating enough?"

"Yes," he said haughtily. "One of the servants brought it to my attention. I didn't think it was a big problem, until," he gestured.

She sniffed, apparently disagreeing with his approbation of the situation. "Any triggers for this kind of behavior? Has she struggled with an eating disorder in the past? Recently lost a family member?"

"No." To his left, Grey coughed pointedly. Draco let out an irritated sigh. "Although he hasn't been living with her for many years, her husband is recently deceased," he said, shooting the other man a glare.

"I see… Well, that should be all for now. If you two gentlemen don't mind, I'll show you to the waiting room, and we'll send someone for you when there's news."

They followed as she led them to a small, neat room down the hall, where several other people were already sitting. Draco would have scanned them further, profiling them for muggle germs and diseases, but he was too annoyed with Grey to bother.

"What are you playing at, Herb!" He demanded, throwing himself in to a chair. "You know I dislike giving out personal details to people I don't know and trust. And to a muggle, to tell them of an exceptionally intimate family event…!"

"Draco," Grey said in a placating tone, "I don't specialize in psychology—"

"Exactly! You don't specialize in psychology!"

"You're being very rude." Draco snapped his jaw shut, feeling his cheeks burning with anger and humiliation. "Don't be utterly dense. You know that if she has been deliberately, or unconsciously, restricting her food intake, that this is probably related."

"And if she hasn't? If this is just some huge misunderstanding, and the cause is completely unrelated, yet, like house elves, these little muggle doctors harp on this one possible cause for weeks because of the crazy muggle media and their idiotic ideals of female bodies?"

"Then," Grey said calmly, "we'll figure it out from there. But Draco, you know that's not really the problem."

Effectively silenced, Draco did not reply.

After a while, Grey turned to him. "What'd you think of the man I sent for you?"

"That rabbit?" Draco snickered. "He looked about ready to jump out of his pants when I reacted to your name like an emergency signal."

Grey smiled. "You liked Georges, did you? He's a good boy. Attending a top school in France right now, he's my sister's nephew. Yeah, he must have been pretty confused if you jumped right up."

"France, eh? I thought I recognized the accent. Look at you, doing charity work," Draco drawled, unwillingly being drawn out of his sulky temper.

"You still speak French? I'm sure he'd be glad of a reminder of his native land."

"When I can. I've been thinking about picking up Russian, recently. I heard they may need a new ambassador there eventually, and I actually enjoyed my position in America."

"Would the Ministry let you take on another Ambassadorship after the way the last one ended?"

"They do what I want," Draco snapped. "Not the other way around."

"Beg pardon," Grey said sarcastically. "I just remember thinking you were fired from that position, or something…"

Draco turned around in his seat, so that he was face to face with the older man. "Would you cease with these ridiculous attempts at humbling me? I'm a grown man, and I neither need nor want to alter my current character!"

Grey dropped the calm tone that he had been using for their previous conversations. "Draco, you could be eighty-five and I'd still be trying to give you a reality check right now. I've never seen someone as obstinate, pig-headed, arrogant, and blind as you are being right now. You completely and repeatedly ignored the signs that your mother has been suffering from serious depression, even after being alerted by your faithful servants, and allowed her to continue to the point where she stopped eating entirely and induced a collapse. She could have had heart failure!" He stood up, seeming to be on the verge of grabbing Draco's shoulders and shaking them. "She could have died! She could have died, and it would have been your fault!" He cried.

Draco got up and walked out of the room, unspeakably enraged and utterly mortified. He couldn't believe that he had been so in the wrong as to deserve as chastisement from his oldest friend, and to have others have been witness to that conversation…

Out of the room, he wandered idly around the hospital, regaining his temper and analyzing what had just occurred. Begrudgingly, he admitted that he was partially in the wrong, and owed Grey some sort of apology. Probably, he should have been more receptive to the impertinent wisdom of the damn elves.

"But whatever," he muttered childishly, shoving his hands in his pockets and scuffing his heels against the linoleum floors. "She didn't die, and that's what matters, so I don't see what the big deal is about.

Finally, he turned around, starting to head back to the small waiting room. He was pretty sure he wasn't lost, but the corridors of the hospital were awfully windy. He couldn't remember if he'd turned at all, but he didn't think he had, so he started going straight and figured he'd get there in pretty good time.

And there he was, walking along, generally minding his own business (which was fairly unusual, for Draco,) when he saw a couple people who looked odd, or out of place, or somehow vaguely familiar.

The woman and man were both tall, and older, with plain, warm faces that were much too old for the child holding their hands to belong to them. The woman, especially, looked familiar, with long, curling grey hair. Shaking off the sensation, he turned his eyes to the little girl, walking in between the two. They were about ten feet away, walking towards him, when she looked up, and he stopped in his tracks.

Something was very, very, very wrong.

He knew who that woman was. That meant the man had to be—and the kid—"You did ruin my life," Hermione said, suddenly quiet. "Or at least, for a very long time, it felt like you had."

"Mum!" The little girl cried suddenly, and ran up to someone behind him. Draco turned around.

Standing behind him in jeans and a t-shirt, with a large bruise on her forehead and her daughter—his daughter—their daughter—in her arms, was Hermione Granger.

Aw, shit.