Harry stood outside of Hermione's door, about ready to snap his wand in frustration. Damn her and her ridiculously complex wards. He knew she was back from her business trip. He knew that she was in there – he might not have been able to enter, but that hadn't stopped his detection spell from reacting to her presence.
"Damn it, Hermione! Open the door!" He cried for the nth time, as fruitlessly as all the times before. He knew there was something wrong with her, could feel it in his bones. She'd been supposed to return from her trip yesterday. She'd been supposed to meet him for lunch today to talk about his investigations. Hermione was not the type to renege on her promises, nor was she the type to flake completely without sending word. She could be late, but never forget a meeting entirely. "Goddamnit!" Harry cursed again, as he reached into his pocket for yet another one of George Weasley's clever, trouble-making inventions and set it to work unraveling the 5th or 6th layer of Hermione's wards.
He'd already been at this for half an hour already, and it would take him another forty-five minutes before Harry managed to detangle the final level of hexes and open the door. What sort of army had the woman thought she was defending herself from?
"Hermione?" Harry called out cautiously, as he made his way into the dim room. No lights were on, but the waning light of the sunset filtered in through the kitchen windows and stretched out through the small flat. Hermione's bedroom door was ajar, and Harry stepped towards it, to be greeted by the welcoming murr of her cat, -- what was his name again? -- as it appeared to twine around his legs. He was about to open the bedroom door when he was halted by a loud yell behind him.
"Oi! Granger! Why in hell are your wards down!? Anyone could just waltz on in here. . ."
"Malfoy." Recognizing the voice, Harry pivoted to face the other man, his wand held at the ready, "What are you doing here?" He made it sound like an accusation of nefarious intent.
"I could ask the same of you." Draco leaned nonchalantly back against the door frame, spinning his wand idly in his fingers, and pretending to a nonchalance he certainly didn't feel. "I'm not the one who just committed a little breaking and entry."
"I won't ask again." Harry raised his wand threateningly.
"Whatever." Draco laughed, even as the tension in his arm betrayed his readiness to block incoming hexes and retaliate with a few of his own, "You don't dare hex me. I was just stopping by to feed the cat, didn't Granger tell you?"
"You're lying."
"'Fraid not." Draco made a moue of discontent as Marcel sashayed over and headbutted his calves before leaning up against him as if to trip him up. "Bloody Menace! But if you're here, I guess the bitch must be back. Where the hell is she?" Seeing the slight dip in Harry's wand, Draco continued to act as if this meeting were an every day occurrence, and Harry not his nemesis of old.
As Harry continued to posture and splutter and make nonsensical threatening gestures that betrayed just how out of practice he actually was with dueling, Draco weighed the risks, made up his mind, and impatiently pushed past Harry and into Hermione's bedroom. "Bloody hell!"
He didn't believe what he saw there in front of him. Hermione was lying there, in bed, her nude body half-covered by a thin sheet. In the fading light of day, she was pale, so very pale. Her scars stood out in sharp relief against her skin, and Draco couldn't help but trace the scar on her chest that so fascinated him every time he saw her to its end at last, as it curved down her breast and around her nipple to end on the ladder of her all-too visible ribs. From where he stood, at first he thought she might be dead, and the chill that ran through him at that idea came as an unwelcome shock.
"What did you do to her?" Harry was once again pointing his wand at Draco, plainly itching to hex the blond man into oblivion.
"Nothing. More's the pity." Draco muttered, turning a scornful gaze on Harry, "I thought she would have told you." He could only bark a humorless laugh at the blank look on Harry's face, "Wonder what other secrets she's been keeping?" He didn't have to wonder. He already thought he knew. "Granger!" He pointedly ignored Harry and the threat of his quivering wand, and moved to the bedside to poke at Hermione with his own wand, as he cast the few, amateur, medical diagnostic spells he knew.
"Get away from her." Harry's voice was low and dangerous, as he knelt to pull the sheet up to cover Hermione's exposed breasts. The look he cast at Malfoy was cold and vindictive, as if accusing Draco of ogling his friend.
"As if I would want to look at such a scrawny specimen." Draco snorted with a humor he didn't feel as he tried to interpret the information his spells were providing him with.
Harry, who had turned to glare at Draco, saw the same results he did, and paled suddenly, all his animosity towards his enemy and his unexpected appearance in Hermione's flat forgotten. "We have to get her to St. Mungo's!"
"No." Draco barked. "You can't take her there."
"She's dying!"
"She's not going."
"You don't have a choice in the matter." Harry raised his wand to hex Malfoy, but it was already too late. The other man had already cast a silent incarcerous at Harry, and the invisible ropes were slithering around and binding him down even as he fought to fire off the hex in the correct direction.
"If you value the bitch, she can't go to St. Mungo's." Draco repeated. Much as he would love to have the responsibility off his shoulders, he couldn't let her sins be revealed. Not only because of the terms of the unbreakable she'd sworn him to, but also because he couldn't save the world alone.
"What are you talking about, Malfoy?" If looks could kill, Draco would be dead twenty times over. "You're wasting time here."
"No. You're wasting time." Draco taunted over his shoulder as he went to raid Hermione's potions stores. "If she goes to the hospital." He paused, returning to the bedroom with his hands full of vials, "They will do diagnostic spells. For curse damage, and the taint of dark magic such spells have left behind." Diagnostic spells which, unfortunately, could pick up not only the residue from having been the victim of a curse, but also the soul taint of having cast such a spell. "And when they do that, your friend will be questioned. And given the current administration's policies, it's likely that she will then be locked up for a very long time. Without trial. Is that what you want, Potter? Do you want to see your little friend sent to Azkaban?"
"What have you done to her?" Harry went on the attack, though, he knew, and could not let himself forget, that he had sensed the taint of an unforgivable on Hermione. And she herself had admitted to it, though not the specifics.
"Me?" Draco laughed again, "You still have it wrong, Potter. The question you should be asking, is what did she do to me? Think about it." He couldn't say she'd done an unforgivable on him. Literally, he couldn't say it. But maybe Potter would get a clue. "In the meantime, you saw my diagnostics. You're an apothecary. Which of these potions does she need?"
"I don't like what you're trying to imply, Malfoy."
"Shut it Potter. Which potion?"
"None of those will do any good." Harry shook his head as best he could despite the magical restraints.
"Not even this one?" Malfoy brandished a blue vial, mockingly, as if to test the depths of Harry's knowledge.
"Especially not that." Harry shuddered slightly. "She needs real medical attention. She needs the magical damage ward."
"No."
"Malfoy, Look at her, she's in a coma. She's burnt out her magic. I don't even know if I want to know how. Or what the two of you have been doing. If I ever find out that it was you to drain her power so. . . "
"Potter. I do not have the time for this. You want the truth. You need to fix her. I cannot tell you. Even if I wanted to. So cease your childish threats and do something. Now!"
"Don't you have a private healer?"
"He won't treat Mudbloods." Draco scoffed. Really, he knew Potter was dense, but there had to be limits.
"Fucking asshole."
". . . Potter. We do not have time for this."
"Fine. Alright, fine!" Harry growled, his fear for Hermione finally winning out over his distrust for Malfoy.
"About fucking time." Draco muttered as he released the bind on Harry.
"Shit. Shit. Shit." Harry babbled to himself, while he leant over the bed to run his own tests on his comatose friend. "Jerhovek's bane? Takes too long to brew, Scorpius' revitalizer? No. What about . . . No. no no no." Finally he looked up at the impatient figure of Malfoy. "I don't know a potion that'll work."
"But?" Draco prompted, hearing the unfinished end of the sentence dangling in the air.
"But." Harry admitted reluctantly, "I think there is a way." He grit his teeth and raised his wand. "Accio Hermione's copy of Blodwyn's Lancet."
"Blood magic? Are you out of your fucking mind?" Draco jerked as the book sailed into the room.
"No more so than you, apparently." Harry returned absently. He hadn't actually thought that Hermione would have a copy of the banned book, he'd just been guessing on a hope and a prayer.
"Have you ever done blood magic?" Draco demanded. "That shit is dangerous."
"Once." Harry retorted tersely, "I'd rather never do it again. But. Without a hospital, the options are severely limited. We've got earth magic, the safe stuff. But she's used up almost all of hers, normal healing spells and potions rely on her innate magic to function, you can't just cast a healing spell and expect it to do all the work. It needs magic to work off of. So that leaves blood magic, and sex magic." He looked pointedly at Malfoy, "Either of which transfers the caster's magic to the recipient. I for one am not going to perform sex magic with Hermione. Even if I weren't married, and she weren't comatose, that's just. No."
"I couldn't agree with you more. Ugh." Draco frowned, though his eyes still kept returning to the shape of her breasts beneath the sheet, the sharp curve of her hip, the delicate lines of her scars...
No. Draco shook himself; he was many things, but he was not desperate or perverse enough to think of Granger in that way.
"There has to be something in the Dark Arts." The Dark Arts had a much more extensive range of capabilities than were allowable by more conventional means.
"You'd be one to know about that." Harry sniped pointedly.
"Yeah? Which of us once went around randomly casting dark hexes without knowing what they do?" Draco unconsciously rubbed his shoulder where he still bore the lingering scars from Harry's sectumsempra.
Harry sniffed, but had nothing to say to that gibe, and went back to his perusal of Hermione's tome. Absently he practiced flicking his wand in the required motions, mouthing the incantation he would have to say. Malfoy's presence at the edge of his vision was not doing a thing to help his concentration, and he couldn't help glancing at the blond man pacing the room, and wondering, with an ever-increasing sense of dread, just what scheme of Hermione's had he got himself into. What could she be involved in that she would have gone to their pureblood nemesis, a convicted felon, and all around arsehole before she would tell her friends? He knew he had to focus on this spell, if it was going to work at all, for blood magic was notoriously sensitive and perilous, but he just couldn't seem to do it.
Finally, Harry put the book down and turned around to see, with great surprise, that Malfoy had covered Hermione with an additional blanket, ceased his pacing, and was now crouched by the edge of her bed, petting the cat with one hand, and idly playing with a strand of her hair with the other, while muttering furiously into her ear. He couldn't catch all the words, but he did make out the occasional "Bitch" and "You can't die," followed by, "at least not yet," and "are you really going to tell me you wasted 14 years of your life to give up when it finally got interesting? Give me a break here." And "Damnit, breathe." Followed by another series of expletives. As if Malfoy could berate Hermione back into health, or at least consciousness.
"What?" Malfoy snapped, finally noticing Harry's stare. "Have you got this shit figured out yet? If you're going to end up killing the both of you, you'd better let me know now, so I can get the hell out of here. I'm not going to take the fall for your stupidity.
"Fuck off Malfoy. No one asked you." Harry sighed wearily, and took a deep calming breath, reminding himself that now was not the time to kill Malfoy. "You're in my way. Stand back. Preferably in the next town over."
"No fucking way." Still, Draco did stand and moved back to lurk in the doorway, while Harry accio'd a knife from the kitchen and tested the blade against his thumb.
"Don't say I didn't warn you." Harry shrugged, the tension in his shoulders belying the casual words, "This could be a bit . . . explosive." He shuddered slightly, remembering all those years ago, a cold winter night, a dingy tent, the smell of Ron's burning cooking, as the three of them had sat on Harry's sleeping bag staring at pages of Hermione's tiny precise script, (one of many spells she'd copied from the restricted section over the years), listening to her detail why they needed to learn this spell, and when it might come in useful. She'd intended that she and Ron use it, if required, to boost Harry's magic, in case of battle, but he'd insisted that he had to learn it as well in case one of them were injured. She'd protested, but in the end, he'd had his way. He remembered the pain, the cold ache of magic being sucked from his body, and also how the backlash from the spell had picked all three of them up and flung them violently across the tent. Blood magic could be a wee bit temperamental. He'd just have to hope for the best.
Draco watched from the safety of the doorway as Harry wincingly sliced a shallow gash down his sternum, then dipped his finger in the welling blood and carefully traced out a series of runes on Hermione's forehead and cheeks, and dripped three drops into her slightly parted lips. Draco could feel the air in the room tingling, as if there were a build-up of static, or maybe ozone, when Harry began chanting. The cat most certainly felt it, for he jumped up and hightailed it into the kitchen as fast as his four legs would carry him. There was a sense of pressure, and the air thickened further, became hard to breathe, when Harry turned the blade, and cut Hermione as he'd cut himself, using her blood to write his own set of runes, and grimacing as he began the final series of syllables, with a series of complex wand motions.
There. It was visible now.
The energy was gathering, tethered to Harry by some ethereal thread, a thread that was violently severed when Harry smeared his hands down his bleeding chest, scooping the magic away from himself with crimson hands, and forcing it into Hermione, even as he slammed his hands against her naked chest.
There was a sound like thunder, a smell of burning ozone, with overlays of singed flesh, a flash of red, red light, darker than the red of any curse he'd ever seen before. Draco had to look away for a second, but he felt the impact against the wall, as Harry flew into it, only to slump to the floor like a discarded sack of trash. Not that he was paying all that much attention to Harry, not when his gaze was riveted to the sight of Hermione convulsing and arching off the bed as if she were having a seizure, every muscle rigid, her mouth wide, and gasping for breathe, while the magic fought its way inside her, pushing through her weakened defenses, riding on Harry's blood, and making its home in her every cell.
"Merlin's Hairy Balls." Draco gaped, as he took in the sight, only slightly relieved when the red glow encompassing Granger's body faded, and she sagged to the bed. He wasn't sure if he was relieved or not that she had not regained consciousness during the ordeal. Had the spell worked or not? He stepped cautiously towards the bed, his hair prickling at the magical residue tainting the air, and bent down to feel Granger's pulse. He couldn't help but breathe a sigh of relief at the fact that it was there, steady and regular, and maybe slightly faster than it had been. Still, her breathing remained weak and shallow and her color continued to remind him of the pallor of week-dead inferi. Also, he'd thought with blood magic, the wound was supposed to heal during the spell, and Granger's gash was patently still oozing thickly. Gross. And he couldn't even cast a healing spell on it, unless Granger had absorbed enough power for her body to knit itself together under his guidance.
The spell had done something. He'd felt magic, he'd seen magic, and Granger's seizure was plainly the result of magic, as was the force that had slammed Potter into the wall. But whatever it had done, either it was the wrong thing, or it just wasn't enough. Trust Gryffindors to go rushing in and fucking things up. It was Potter after all. At least she wasn't dead, but his meager diagnostic spells showed that her magic level was still barely detectable. Bloody hell.
With a grimace, Draco turned to check on Potter. The boy-wonder was out cold, but he was breathing. "Useless shit." Draco couldn't resist kicking his former nemesis before levitating him out of the room and depositing his body on the couch. Potter could deal with his broken bones, if he had any, himself when he came to.
When he went back into Granger's bedroom, the cat was already there curled up beside his mistress, glaring at Draco in the way that only cats can, as if Draco were responsible for the whole mess. "What? Don't look at me!" Draco scowled right back. "Bloody familiars. She got herself into this mess, why should I have to be the one to get her out of it?" It was getting late, and he would have liked to go back to his apartment and get some sleep, but he knew he wouldn't. Much as she annoyed him, Granger was his partner, his accomplice, and he couldn't just leave her here or consign her to St. Mungos. He would find a cure, if he had to destroy the family library to do so. And if his use of Dark Magic were to show up Potter, then so much the better. In the meantime, he couldn't just leave Granger here, alone, with none but Potter to take care of her. Her condition was far too unstable for that. But Draco was clever and he had a solution, one that a few years ago he never would have considered. He whipped out his muggle cell phone, and dialed emergency services. Muggle medicine could not solve what was really wrong with her, but it could keep her alive until he found a way.
While he waited for the ambulance, Draco moved Potter's unconscious body to the kitchen, disillusioning him for good measure, wiped the runes and blood from Granger's face and chest, and cast a few heavy concealing charms on the gash so that it looked like nothing more than an insignificant cat scratch, which would arouse no undue questions.
---
"I don't know." Draco repeated for the tenth time, "I thought she was out of town, I just stopped by to feed the cat. I don't know when she got in, or how long she was there for, all I know is, I heard this noise from the bedroom, I thought maybe there was a burglar or something, so I went in, and she was twitching and gasping, and when it stopped, she wouldn't wake up. Can't you help her?" He was in the emergency room of a muggle hospital, and he was getting sick of all these different doctors asking him the same fucking questions. "No, I'm not aware that she has a history or seizures, as far as I know she's healthy. No, I don't think she takes any medication. Was she depressed? How should I know? We weren't exactly close. What? Hell No, I'm not her boyfriend. We just work together sometimes. Family? I doubt it. I think her parents are dead. Friends? She's a loner. I don't know. . . Look, I have to go, I really can't help you. I don't know anything!" So many lies, but he was a Slytherin, its what he was good at, clever little lies that tumbled smoothly from his lips. Was he going to tell a bunch of bloody idiotic muggles about her abuse of poisonous potions and the black depression that came with that? The fact that it was depletion of magic that was killing her? Or that there was a 6 cm slice running down her sternum from a failed spell to revive her? Hell no, he was not. At least they'd stuck a needle in her and started pumping her full of fluids, and would check her vitals on a regular basis. They'd also dumped on some Muggle anticonvulsants, which he would just have to hope would not interfere with any potions she might have taken recently.
Finally, what seemed like hours later, they'd admitted her and he was free to go. Thank Merlin they hadn't decided that he'd assaulted her or anything. That would not have helped. He didn't think he could obliviate or confound that many people in order to make his getaway.
Draco sighed, walked out into the dreary night, and apparated away. He was exhausted and yet his work had only just begun.
---
"Draco! What are you doing home? Not that I'm not glad to see you, but. . ." Narcissa Malfoy was somewhat alarmed by the unannounced and precipitous arrival of her son. It wasn't like Draco to just stop by, much less in the middle of the night, in the middle of the week even, "Did something happen?" She was a mother who'd witnessed her family nearly destroyed by war. She had a right to be concerned. And if she wanted to overreact once in a while, who was really going to tell her she was in the wrong? No one. Draco's appearance wasn't exactly reassuring either. His clothes were rumpled and disheveled, and she could swear there was blood on his collar. Not to mention the not-quite-a-smell that clung to him, as if he'd gotten a little too near to some severely potent magics.
"I'm fine mother." Draco tried his best to sound reassuring, but he could tell that his mother simply wasn't buying it. "I just need to find something in the library."
"In the middle of the night? Surely it can wait until morning?"
"Probably," Draco shrugged as nonchalantly as he could, "But I'd really rather just get this over and done with."
"What are you looking for?" She knew when her boy was being evasive. He wasn't as clever as he thought, and she'd been a Slytherin long before he was born, not to mention, having lived with Lucius for all these years.
"Not quite sure." Draco ran a frustrated hand through his hair, "But I'll know it when I see it." To stave off further conversation he turned and headed for the library, ignoring his mother's frustrated grimace. He figured he'd best get started before Father found out he was here. The old man was already getting too suspicious and nosy as it was.
---
"Son."
Draco had locked and warded the library doors behind him, but he was not surprised at how little time it had taken Lucius to unravel the wards. After all, he was lord of the Manor, the house wanted to cooperate with him.
"Father." Draco didn't look up. He knew what was coming, but he wasn't about to stop his frantic search. Sometimes he wished there was a magical equivalent of the internet, or even a simple indexing system to tell what was in these books without having to open each one. Would a table of contents hurt so much to write? Not to mention the fact that some of the more potent Dark books were cursed or warded and took precious extra time to safely open.
Lucius coldly surveyed the disaster area that his library had become. There were stacks of books on the floor, piles of open books covering the desk and the coffee table and the end table, even on the settee and some of the other chairs scattered around. Draco was hunched over the desk, flipping feverishly through the pages of one of the family's ancient spell books.
"Your mother told me I'd find you in here. She didn't say that you'd come to destroy generations of work and meticulous archiving."
"Such was not my intent."
"Look at me when I'm speaking to you."
"Can't. Sorry. I'm busy." If he hadn't been so intent on his reading, Draco would have rolled his eyes at his father's authoritarian tone.
*Crack!* Draco jumped as Lucius slammed his cane down on the desk in front of Draco's nose.
"You will listen to me." Lucius hissed. "What trouble are you in? And what have you done?"
"I'm not in any trouble." Finally, Draco met his sire's stormy gaze. "And I could care less whether or not you believe me. But there is some one else that is, and if I don't find what I need, they will probably die."
"You're a businessman. Not a Medic, Nor an Auror. What business of yours is it who lives and who dies? Have you not learned to leave such things to the proper authorities?"
"It's never that simple. And you know it." Isn't that what Lucius had raised him to believe in the first place?
"But it can be. Unless there is something else you are not telling me."
"Of course there's something else I'm not telling you!" Draco cried out in exasperation. "Because it doesn't concern you! I'm not involved in mad schemes to take over the world! I'm not embroiled in any kind of terrorist organization, and I am not in any kind of trouble. Nor, would what I need to do tonight lead to harm coming to any one, or benefit anyone with malicious intent. So if you're satisfied, can you please leave me to get on with it." The implication was clear, I am not you.
"No, son. I am Not satisfied. Not in the least." Lucius murmured. "Tell me, what will you do if I forbid you the use of this library?"
"There are other libraries. Other books."
"Do you even know what you look for?"
"I know what I need."
"But not the spell? Dangerous son, very dangerous."
"Oh, I know. But the alternatives are worse."
"Are they now? Curious. . . Tell me, son, how does this relate to that memory you showed me the other week?"
"Wouldn't you like to know?"
"Are you trying to provoke me?"
"I don't have to try." Draco slammed shut the book he was skimming and with a flick of his wand sent it flying onto one of the piles covering the coffeetable. "Don't you have anything better to do with your time than harass me with your paranoid fantasies? Old Man."
Lucius went still with rage, his features hardening as if made of stone. How Dare Draco address him with such disrespect after all he'd done?
Draco looked up, and sighed. He knew he'd gone too far, "Look, all I'm trying to find is a simple healing spell." He offered up the trifle like an apology.
"In Books of the Dark Arts?" Lucius arched a skeptical eyebrow, his frown unbending only slightly.
"Why not? Dark, Light. It's all an arbitrary distinction. It's how you use the magic that counts." Draco mused distractedly, only spending half of his attention on his father. "Ah-Ha! Accio Splintering Spells Both Large and Small and The Union of the Raven and the Fox: a History of Norman Magical Alliances and their failures" The books came sailing to his hand from across the room and Draco smiled thinly, "Where in Creation did the family actually acquire these books? And how did these get classified as dark magic? Honestly!"
Lucius paled as much as his already wan skin could allow. He had no idea what Draco was searching for, but those books were far more potent than their titles would imply. His worry only increased when Draco paused and added a few additional titles to his list, "Accio Morgana's mesmerizing magics, Sphinx feathers and foxfire: potions and poisons you don't want to mess with," and, with a long-suffering sigh, almost as an afterthought, "I hope it doesn't come to this, Sex magic through the ages: a compendium for the advanced practitioner."
"Draco. . ." Lucius tried to maintain a sternly patrician tone, but couldn't help the quaver of apprehension that infused his voice at his son's choice in books. The Dark Lord, Azkaban, and now this. He was simply too old for all this drama.
"I'm sorry, Father." And really, truly, he was. Sorry to have to keep his father in the dark, to lie to his mother, to take all these burdens upon himself. "It's just something I have to do." No Doubt about that.
Draco winced as his father reached out a hand to him, and, rising quickly, headed for the door. He couldn't afford to waste any more time. Wisely, Lucius forbear to say more, knowing as he did, through years of experience, when to withdraw, regroup, and do some serious scheming of his own. Fortunately, Draco was so preoccupied he failed to remember that several of these more . . . volatile . . . tomes were protected by a tracking spell to prevent them from falling into the wrong hands, at least for very long. Finally something today was working in Lucius' favor.
---
Ginny sighed and buried her face in her arms as she slumped at the kitchen table. It was one AM, and Harry wasn't home. Hadn't owled, hadn't flooed. She'd checked the shop, she'd flooed Ron, her parents, even Luna and Neville, and no one seemed to know where he was. She'd also owled Hermione (why Hermione wasn't connected to the floo network, Ginny would never understand), but the owl hadn't come back yet. How hard could it be to find her? Usually when she had to owl Hermione, the bird was been back within an hour. This time it had been three. (Ginny had no way of knowing that the poor owl had spent its night flapping around a remote muggle hospital, stymied by the lack of owl-friendly doors or windows.)Visions of Harry struck dead by neo-death eaters, or run down by one of those insane muggle automobiles ran through her mind, followed by darker images of her husband with another woman, someone younger, without the stretchmarks of pregnancy. Or worse, perhaps with Hermione; Ginny had always wondered about something going on between Harry and her – They never did talk about those months they spent sharing a tent after Ron ran off and left them during the year of Voldemort's reign. . . .
Ginny shook her head. No. there had to be a reasonable explanation for Harry's disappearance, his failure to come home for dinner, family time, for her! Right now, however, she'd be damned if she could think what that might be. She stifled a sob, wishing she could call the Aurors, but not daring to, afraid of what possible scandal could result, imagining the headlines now. "Man who lived, leaves wife." "Savior of the wizarding world slips away to secret sex partner" "Harry Potter, killed in freak potions accident." How could she ever live it down?
For now, she resigned herself to wait, and worry, alone with her suspicions and her fears.
---
"What happened?" Harry groaned and winced at the light as he opened his eyes.
"You fucked up." Draco didn't even look up from the book he was poring over.
"What do you mean? Where's Hermione?" Harry began to panic as he registered the fact that he was lying sprawled across Hermione's tattered couch where Draco had carelessly dumped him.
"I mean, Potter. That your spell didn't do much good. Big flash, big power surge, big bang. Threw you across the room. Granger's still out. I took her to the hospital."
"You took her to the hospital? What happened to dire threats of bad shit happening if St. Mungo's got their hands on her?" Harry didn't need to ask about the backlash of the spell. After all, he'd been expecting to be thrown across the room. He'd just hoped his suffering would do his friend some good.
"No, you moron. Not St. Mungo's. The Hospital. The muggle hospital."
"A Malfoy? Using muggle things? Whatever happened to pureblood supremacy?"
"Oh grow up, Potter." Draco scoffed. "Look at the world around you. Surely you remember the war? Oh wait, I forgot, you still think it's going on. Get over yourself and move on like the rest of us did. Muggles have many useful things. I'd be a fool to neglect them." After all, a Malfoy always landed on his feet. He'd bet Potter had so thoroughly put his muggle past behind him that he didn't even use a cell phone. So who was the idiot with their head in the sand then?
"Fuck you Malfoy." Harry spat and tried to sit up, only to realize that the dull ache in his arm that he'd been assuming was a bruise, was in fact just a warning sign that he'd broken his arm. "Ow! Fucker, you couldn't even heal this? What are you doing? So you just dumped Hermione and now you're swanning around her apartment as if nothing was wrong? Don't you even care?"
"What do you know?" Draco was seriously too tired to take this dumb shit. "While you've been napping the night away, I've been trying to find an effective cure. Which is more than you can say. So shut the fuck up and bugger off. You're not wanted here.
"And this is not your house to kick me out of. Nor your place to tell me what to do."
"Get over yourself." Draco sighed, and with that, turned back to his research and pointedly ignored Potter, until the other man finally noticed the time, flipped out, and hastily left, already dreading the confrontation with his wife that was sure to greet his arrival home.
---
"Hmmm. . . ." Lucius Malfoy surveyed the unprepossessing brick building. His tracking spells had led him here, but there apparently were some strong wards inside that were preventing him from pinpointing the exact location of his books. Ah well, nothing for it but to start checking the name plates at the buzzers, and hope he found one he recognized. Buzzers! A Muggle design, allowing this wizarding complex to visibly exist next to its muggle neighbors. What was the world coming to? Witches and Wizards ditching their robes, hiding in plain sight from sheep who, if they knew of their existence, would not hesitate to destroy them. It made Lucius long for the good old days.
Still, the Muggle way had its uses, as Lucius was to discover a few short minutes later.
"Granger, H.J." An eyebrow shot up in consternation. "Oh dear."
TBC
--well so, another chapter. Yes? Yes. But late. Very late. And you know why? Oh I bet you do. Scarcity of reviews = scarcity of updates. What is motive to write if no one cares, eh? I may as just tell myself stories in my head (which honestly, takes less time and the visuals are better). So review, or I will cease to update at all. Damnit.