A/N: Due to the amazing feedback from my intensely loved reviewers, and to the fact that Senior Spring (ah, the stuff legends are made of) affords me the leisure of free time (and AP Chemistry exams are, at long last, a thing of the distant past,) chapters will be flowing from my eager fingers once more!
We're almost at 200 reviews! You guys rock! Huge thanks to everyone who reviewed the last chapter and to TwinsConspiracy, who reviewed them all! I think I will try to reply personally to all your reviews this weekend, if you wouldn't be creeped out. And without further blabbering, (I HATE CHEMISTRY, I LOVE DRACO!).
The Travesty of Human Fallibility
Harry apparated to his front door, and burst in to the house, calling frantically for Ginny.
"GIN! GIN? YOU'LL NEVER GUESS WHAT!"
Ginny came flying down the stairs, covered in ink and parchment, hair wild and clothes messy, looking as if he'd just woken her from a work-induced slumber. Which, to be honest, was probably the case. Ginny had a tendency to doze off when she became bored, and the legalities of being an auror were sometimes incredibly dull.
"What?" She cried, rushing to him. "Harry! Is Ron alright?"
Harry frowned, momentarily sidetracked. "Oh, no, Ron's doing great. You should go see him. Actually—"
"Are you sure?" Ginny cut in. "Does he look depressed? Are they feeding him enough?"
"Why didn't you just go see him yourself?"
Ginny backed up, rolling her eyes at him, and muttering something that sounded like "men," under her breath.
"Well, that wasn't what I wanted to tell you," Harry amended. "Actually, Draco Malfoy started talking to me."
"Wait, why was he even around you to begin with?"
"Oh, his mum's in treatment there. So anyways, he came up to me and you'll never guess what he asked me to do."
"What I want to know," Ginny said, eyeing him disparagingly, "is why you spoke to him at all. Weren't you there to see Ron? And instead you're suddenly chums with Malfoy, of all people?"
"Don't be ridiculous!" Harry cried. "He approached me, and wouldn't leave me alone until I agreed to intercede with Hermione on his behalf."
"You agreed to WHAT?" Ginny yelped, eyes bulging. "Harry Potter, tell me you did no such thing!"
Harry's frown deepened. "Stop attacking me," he said grumpily. "You weren't there. He was very persuasive."
"You know how much she hates him, Harry! You're meant to be her best friend—you're supposed to protect her from gits like him. How could you even entertain such a notion?"
"I think he really likes her," Harry protested. "There's something unresolved between the two of them. You know there is, Gin, you've realized it, too. I don't know. Malfoy's not such an awful guy anymore." Seeing his wife's baleful glare, he quickly amended that statement. "Not that he's suddenly my best mate or anything, but he's not Mr. Death Eater."
"This is unbelievable." Ginny said. "Hermione will be distraught if you start trying to convince her to date Malfoy."
"Look, it's not going to be like that—" Harry began to say, but Ginny cut him off again.
"And," she snapped, "for you to bring home this news instead of news of my brother is incredibly selfish of you! I don't understand how you could let someone like Draco Malfoy, who, let me remind you, ruined your best friend's life, dominate over Ron! It's so thoughtless!"
She took a breath, and Harry broke in. "First of all, that's not fair. You know Ron will always be my primary concern. And second, I know he took advantage of her," he shouted, getting angry, "but c'mon, let's be honest, how stupid can she get? What the hell did Hermione think was going to happen if she accepted his drinks and got pissed out of her mind? He's an infamous womanizer!"
Ginny slapped him across the face. "And you call yourself her best friend! You have no idea what that woman has been through!"
"I have a better idea than you do! Since when did you become her staunch defender?"
"Since you relinquished that position in favor of Malfoy!" Ginny yelled, and turned to run up the stairs. "I won't the mistake of relying on you to watch my back! Because clearly you auction off your loyalties to the most persuasive bidder!"
"And I won't make the mistake of trying to have a rational conversation with you!" Harry called, but her door had already slammed. "Unbelievable," he sighed, running a hand through his hair and sighing heavily. "My first big fight with Gin, and it's about Draco Malfoy. Un-fucking-believable. Ten years after school ends and he still manages to ruin my day."
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Hermione sat beside Ophelia on the bed, running her fingers through the young girl's curls as she hummed a nonsense tune. "Shhh, shhh," she cooed, pulling up the covers. "Sleep tight, my angel, baby girl."
Ophelia yawned, eyes fluttering, and settled back against the pillows. "'Night," she sighed. "Tomorrow I want to see Nuncle Ron."
"Shh, soon, we'll see him soon," Hermione assured her, smoothing the hair from her forehead to plant a soft kiss. "You just sleep tight."
"And don't let the bedbugs bite," Ophelia murmured sleepily, sinking bonelessly in to the bed. Hermione smiled, enjoying the sight of her deep, regular breathing.
"Don't let the bedbugs bite," she whispered. Easing herself off the bed, she turned out the light and tiptoed out of the room, making sure to leave the door open a crack.
She paused in the living room, feeling an uncharacteristic urge to watch some television. She sat on the couch, fully intending to turn on the boob tube and watch mindlessly for an hour or so, but (of course) started thinking instead.
Draco Malfoy, altogether omnipresent in her mind these days, was once again the subject of her reverie. Only this time, in the privacy of her own mind, with no one around and no one coming, it was a slightly different type of musing. Feeling almost guilty, like a thief stealing glances of his face, Hermione allowed herself to reconstruct it in her mind. The fair hair, roiling eyes, high cheekbones, sharp lips, fedora—a faint blush heated the skin under her eyes.
She lay back against the sofa, running her hands through her hair. "I can't believe this," she muttered to the empty room. "I'm a grown woman and I'm acting like a child."
With a conscious effort, she pulled her mind away from the dangerous foggy memory fragments it was beginning to lean toward. She reminded herself of all the horrible things he'd said, the terrible way he'd blackmailed her in to dating him, how he'd raped her, or at least taken advantage of her, and planned the whole thing.
"Besides," she assured herself. "He's also a total ass, with no conversation skills, and no fun to talk to. We have nothing in common."
The annoying, traitorous voice in the back of her head that was persistently pushing the image of Draco Malfoy, shirtless, to the forefront of her mind, whispered "It's not like you really want to talk to him."
Hermione threw herself off the couch and flicked on the T.V., flipping idly through the channels until she settled on the tail-end of an unsatisfying show. She went to bed, simultaneously grumpy and curious.
The next day was Monday. Hermione woke up before her alarm clock after tossing for the majority of the night, and immediately headed for the coffee maker. Normally, she remembered to fill it and set the timer the night before, so that the coffee was freshly dripping by the time she entered the kitchen. In the emotional turmoil of last night she had forgotten, so while she waited for Ophelia to wake up she emptied the rinds and started a fresh pot brewing.
The heady, sharp scent of the coffee percolating the small, clean apartment seemed to banish the insubstantial fears of the night, leaving her refreshed and ready to attack another day at the office.
"Ophelia!" She called, walking to the girl's bedroom. "Ophelia, time to get up!" She poked her head in the door. The little girl was still fast asleep, and Hermione felt a twinge of guilt. She really hadn't been making sure Ophelia was in bed early enough. "Rise and shine, sleeping beauty!"
Ophelia groaned, more like a teenager than a five year old. "Already?" She sighed, dragging a rumpled head off the pillow.
"You have school and then daycare," Hermione cooed, gathering the tousled child in to her arms. "Go brush your teeth and get dressed, I'll make you some eggs."
Ophelia jutted out her chin. "I hate eggs. I don't wanna go to school. I hate reading."
Hermione sighed. "You would like it more if you practiced occasionally instead of playing with your blocks so much."
"The other kids're stupid."
"Don't say that Ophelia, that's not nice."
"They're not nice to me," Ophelia said, and then began to cry. "I hate school. I don't have any friends. No one ever has me over to their house. I wanna go to Gwamma's," she wailed, beginning to mispronounce letters as she got more upset.
"Oh, honey, here, come here, come give Momma a hug. Shh, don't cry baby, it's all okay." She rocked Ophelia in her arms for a couple minutes, whispering nonsense words of consolation. "If you want to have some friends over, tell you what, this weekend you can ask a few girls or boys to come play. And we can visit the Weasleys, and I'll help you practice your reading."
Ophelia sniffled, her face still buried in Hermione's sweater. Hermione picked her up, whisking her to the kitchen.
"Here, you just sit tight. You'll feel better after some breakfast. You're just tired, sweetie, we haven't been going to bed on time."
Ophelia frowned, but grudgingly acquiesced. Hermione managed to persuade her to pick at the eggs, and eventually coaxed Ophelia in to her school pinafore. The walk to her primary school wasn't too long, but they were running late, so Hermione grabbed Ophelia's hand and they made a run—which was admittedly more of a jog—for it.
By the time Ophelia was convinced that school wasn't truly that awful, and she should really let go of Hermione's hand, Hermione was nearly late to work, and barely had time to dash in to an alley and quickly apparate to St. Mungos.
She hustled rather frantically in to her office, plastered with papers, owls, and memos after the weekend, still managing to smile at Ida on the way in.
"Hi Healer Granger!"
She had just sat down to attack some leftover paperwork from her surgery on Friday when Ida burst in the door, followed closely by Sarah Wallace. "Healer Granger!" someone was saying, and Hermione practically jumped out of her seat.
"What on earth is the matter?"
"Hermione," Sarah cried, "didn't you get any of my owls this weekend?"
"I—no, I've—" Hermione looked at her blankly, surprised. "I deliberately took this weekend off—family—what is going on?" She practically shouted, as Sarah began to cry weakly.
"The blood—in the transfusions—virus—all the surgery—patients—"
Hermione looked at Ida. "Do you know what she's talking about?" She asked calmly, deliberately ignoring the roaring fear pounding in her temples.
"You had lunch with Healer Wallace about a month ago to discuss a muggle technique of blood transfusions," Ida began.
"Yes, yes, I remember," Hermione said, and was interrupted by Sarah.
"It didn't work! Well, that is, it worked, but the blood donations we got were faulty! No one thought to screen them for muggle diseases, and now all the patients have all sorts of horrible muggle afflictions, and none of our usual medications are working!"
Hermione grabbed her lab coat, pinning up her hair as she walked brusquely to the door. "Follow me," she snapped to the two women. "Ida, I want the detailed records on the attending Healers to all patients who received a blood transfusion using the pioneered technique. Sarah," she paused for breath as Ida ran off, heels clicking. "Hand me my clipboard. Now, while Ida gets those records, I want a description of some of the maladies we've encountered."
They kept walking, towards the Intensive Care Unit, and Hermione paused at reception. The redheaded nurse there was filing papers, but at the look on Hermione's face she dropped the folder.
"I want Healer Ford, and the director, now," she snarled at the woman, who grabbed a memo sheet and began frantically writing.
Sarah began to babble, listing various symptoms and patients. She seemed to have momentarily recovered from her panic. "—won't seem to get better, it's only a sniffle but we're worried it's going to turn in to bronchitis, and then the other girl's liver is failing—"
Hermione nodded, recognizing a few muggle diseases right off. "Right," she said finally. "Here's what I'm thinking. Obviously, we have ways to treat most of these—like syphilis, the one that's giving brain trouble, yes, we have medicine for that—I think we need to contact a muggle drug provider. I could do that. You need to get Healer Ford and start discussing future research projects, and I'll also work on getting you the muggle technique of blood screening. Once the director gets here, we'll put a halt to any further blood transfusions using the contaminated blood."
"Already done," Ida said, reappearing and handing Hermione a sheaf of files. "Here's what I could find on short notice. I'll work on getting the more complete set, but I thought you could start with these."
Hermione smiled at the blonde witch gratefully. "Ida, you're a lifesaver. What would I do without you?"
"This is just what happens when you take time off, Healer Granger," Ida teased. Hermione laughed, then opened the files.
"Hermione?" Jim Ford had arrived.
"Ah, Jim," Hermione sighed. "Sarah, tell Jim what you just told me. I'm going to start looking over these and contact a few people I know in the muggle drug business."
Sarah nodded, drawing Jim away. Hermione surveyed the scene, then promptly turned on her heel, and headed to her office with the files. On the way in, she barked "telephone!" at Ida, who nodded and fetched the strange device from under her desk and brought it in to Hermione's inner office.
Hermione, already engrossed in the first file and frantically taking notes on another piece of parchment, barely spared her a glance as she set up the telephone within her reach and quietly exited. Hermione had ordered it specially for an emergency like today, when she might need to contact her friends in the muggle world.
Hours of phone calls, pages of notes, a missed lunch and three emergency meetings later, Hermione felt herself being shaken awake.
"Healer Granger," Ida said, and Hermione groggily hauled herself off the desk, peeling a drool-encrusted paper off her cheek.
"What time is it?" She muttered hazily, hands fumbling for her coffee mug.
Ida placed a steaming mug in her hands. "Um, it's almost eight," she said apologetically. "I'm sorry I didn't see you before."
Hermione stood up so quickly she almost spilled the coffee. "Goddamnit," she swore. "This day has just been one huge rush! Ida, has anything else come for me while I…wasn't present?"
"A few more memos, no telephone calls…the director left a note and the complete set of files on the patients, and confirmed my cancellation of all scheduled transfusions."
"Alright," Hermione nodded. "I'll take a few of those home with me." She grabbed a handful of the new files and stuffed them in her bag, rushing out the door so quickly that she forgot to change her shoes.
"Healer Granger!" Ida called. "Your shoes!"
"Forget them, I've got a daughter to pick up!" Hermione replied, but then couldn't resist spinning around. "Ida—the patient we think might have received the HIV virus from the contaminated blood—how is he?"
Ida shook her head. "He's got pneumonia. The healers didn't watch him carefully enough, they weren't worried; initially it was just a cold."
Hermione swore under her breath. "That's tomorrow then. I think I can get him on a drug cocktail, hopefully that'll hold him until we research this more extensively. Try and get him isolated and let's see if some regular old Pepper-Up potion will help with it until then."
Ida nodded, scribbling something on the pad. "Gotcha. Don't work too hard tonight!"
Hermione barked a half hysterical, half ironic laugh at that, and promptly disapparated.
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Draco was relaxing on a leather sofa in his personal library, flipping through a tome of variations on the jelly-legs jinx. He was digesting the information that jelly-legs originated in Rome, when Caesar (a phenomenal wizard, naturally) decided to neutralize opposing armies by cursing their legs to quiver uncontrollably. Other generals and men had taken it as mere fear and cowardice, and so it was an effect, and deadly, way of winning a battle. He was smiling and nodding, agreeing, when Grey burst through his fireplace.
"Good god, man!" Draco cried, recoiling in shock. "Next time, ask first."
"I take it you haven't heard yet, then?" Grey said. "Do you even speak to any of your old Slytherin friends anymore?"
Draco looked at him oddly. "I mean, I see Pansy occasionally…and Blaise and I meet biweekly."
"Who says that anymore, Draco, seriously? Biweekly? You meet twice a week, you mean."
"No, actually, biweekly is twice a month. As in, a fortnight."
Grey shook his head. "Sometimes I think you're the most presumptuous bastard on the face of this earth."
"I take offence to that."
"But then I remember your father."
Draco stood. "Look, if you've just come here to insult me and my father, this conversation can finish right now. I have reading to get back to."
Grey eyed his text disparagingly. "The Origins of the Jelly-Legs Jinx in Roman Warfare?"
"It's fascinating. Not that you'd know, as you apparently lost all desire to better your mind long ago."
"I came here in an attempt to better yours."
"By 'taking me down a peg?'" Draco snorted.
"No—I got sidetracked. When was the last time you saw Blaise?"
"Blaise Zabini?"
"Yes, Blaise Zabini, what other fucking Blaise do you know!"
"I—"
"Draco," Grey snapped, "Cease being a prat for just a minute and listen to what I am trying to tell you! Your friend, if you can call your biweekly tea partner that—"
"We meet for lunch," Draco interrupted. Grey ignored him.
"—Was recently hospitalized for a terrible splinch, lots of blood loss, and they tried out a new experimental technique on him and gave him some dreadful muggle disease. He's extremely ill, and one of my contacts in St. Mungos isn't sure if he's going to make it through the night."
"What!" Draco practically flew from the room. "Hinky!" He bellowed. "My coat, and a box of sweets for Zabini!" He rushed back in to the library, dragging Grey with him in to the foyer. "Merlin, man, what took you so long to tell me?"
"If you hadn't kept interrupt—"
"Nevermind, less talking more moving! HINKY! MY COAT!"
The house-elf rushed in to the room, carrying Draco's black trench-coat, and a plate of cookies that spelled "FEL BETER." Draco looked at them like he was about to start roaring again, then shook his head and latched on to Grey's arm.
"Side-along?" He asked, but didn't wait for a response. The familiar tube sensation enveloped them both, and they reappeared in the apparition alley beside St. Mungos.
"Now that we're here," Draco said, as they entered through the traditional glass door, "you can tell me exactly who is responsible for this idiotic idea of 'pioneering' a new treatment on him. Did he have to sign some kind of release form?"
"I'm not clear on the details. I doubt he signed anything; from what I gleaned he wasn't conscious. I'm sure there was a reason, Draco," he cautioned. "It would have actually been very successful, but the blood they used was contaminated."
Draco huffed, showing what he thought about people who used contaminated blood. "When I see Zabini," he growled, "I'm going to wring his neck for being such a goddamn idiot. I know what this is about. What the hell kind of wizard splinches themselves? And so poorly that there's actual blood loss?"
They had reached the waiting room, which was fairly deserted. Unsurprisingly, considering it was past nine at night. Draco smiled at the red-haired witch behind the desk.
"Blaise Zabini?"
"Second floor, room 247. I'll let an apprentice know he's got visitors," she replied, smiling at Draco. He was about to smile back when Grey slapped him along the back of his head.
"Ow—what the—?"
"Your friend is dying," Grey hissed as they walked to the stairs. "Try and act with a little more propriety."
"Surely you're being a little overdramatic," Draco said, looking at him optimistically. "They'll figure something out."
Grey shook his head. "Let's just see the kid, then we can make judgements. I wish there were a Healer around here somewhere that I could talk to. It's been awhile since I practiced but I could still provide an expert opinion…" He trailed off, slightly out of breath, as they reached the second floor.
Draco leaned over and chucked him the stomach. "Getting a bit of a gut, aren't we?" He teased. "Got to keep in shape."
"Try to be serious about this, Draco."
They walked along the corridor, and the promised apprentice Healer materialized from a room farther down.
"Visitors for room 247?" She called, and they nodded. "This way!"
They followed her gesture, finally reaching a door with a small window, showing a bed and a couple strange looking machines.
"Why isn't he in a ward?" Draco wondered aloud, and abruptly corrected himself. "Ah, the experimental treatment."
"Actually," the apprentice said softly, "he's also in solitary confinement because his condition is so serious. Technically, Healer Granger ordered he should be in isolation, but we're allowing close friends and family to visit because he seems relatively lucid, and we're just not sure right now if he's going to pull through."
Draco's ears had perked up at the mention of Hermione, but the end of the sentence deflated him, and he let out a breath. "So it's really that serious?"
She nodded solemnly, neat bun bobbing. "I'm afraid so."
He hesitated, hand on the door. "Go on in," Grey urged. "We'll wait outside."
"Blaise?" Draco asked softly, slipping inside. His friend lay on the bed, looking pale and wan. His face was thinner than Draco remembered it, and he had some sort of tube down his nose. Steam was wafting continuously out of his ears, and when he coughed Draco shuddered. It was an ugly, hacking sound. The room reeked of illness. "Zabini, what is this?"
Blaise tried to laugh, but all that came out was a wheezy cough. "Malfoy, what the fuck are you doing here?"
"Zabini, how the fuck'd you get yourself in a mess like this?"
"Your tenderness touches me. I always knew you were a softie, Malfoy."
Draco moved closer to the bed, putting the cookies on the bedside table. "Blaise, this looks bad."
"Don't Blaise me, Draco," the other man snapped. "Take your pansy-ass cookies home, I'm not going to die anytime soon." He stopped to cough. "Granger'll find a cure."
"Granger!" Malfoy exploded, drawing a breath. "Granger's the one responsible for this whole bloody mess!"
"No, s'not her fault," Blaise mumbled. "The other damn healer—Walters, Wally, right idiot. Didn't clean the blood. Granger's smart."
Malfoy scowled. "How the hell did you splinch yourself so badly in the first place?" He demanded, changing the subject.
"That's a good story…" Blaise began, and abruptly eyed Draco tiredly. "Look. I know you came to like say goodbye or some shit. Get it over with and leave me alone."
Draco smiled at his friend's characteristic crudeness, knowing that he hated appearing so helpless in front of another. "Good to know you're doing okay," he said, touching Blaise briefly on the shoulder. "I'll talk to the receptionist, make sure she assigns you some hot nurses."
Blaise cackled. "The redheaded receptionist? I like her. Tell her to come visit me." Draco shook his head.
"You're hopeless. See you in a few weeks when you're recovered." Opening the door, he turned. "Oh—and Zabini? Try not to jump off any more buildings in the near future. Trust me, winning a bet is just not worth it."
"Fucker," Blaise laughed as the door slammed shut. "He knew all along."
Grey was waiting in the hall. The healer had left them to find their own way out. "How is he?"
"He's okay. He's afraid, but I think he's going to make it. Zabinis are a hard lot to kill."
"Speaking from personal experience?" Grey wanted to know.
"Well…there were those few attempts in school…" Draco joked, and then smiled. "I have faith in his tenacity. Oh! That reminds me. I have to ask around. Do you know a Healer Walters, or Wally or something? Blaise wasn't clear, but he seemed to think this whole business was their fault."
"I'll look in to it," Grey assured him as they walked down the stairs. "The medical world is a close-knit one."
"Alright, sounds good. In the meantime, I will hopefully have the opportunity to speak with Granger soon, so I can ensure she's giving Blaise the proper care."
Grey nodded. "Granger, eh?"
Draco ignored his tone. "Technically speaking, I'm her boss."
"Technically speaking, she's not speaking to you," the other man reminded him.
"It doesn't matter," Draco said from between clenched teeth. "How do you even know that, anyways?"
Grey tapped his nose. "I have my ways."
"Are you reading my mail?"
"Why, sending her your lovesick poetry?"
"I don't write lovesick poetry," Draco archly replied.
"Oh, that's right, all of your poetry is of the strictly sappy variety."
"Sappy and lovesick mean practically the same thing. For your information, I don't do anything so girly as writing poetry."
They had reached the street. "You just read really masculine books on the origins of jinxes," Grey rejoined.
"It might do you some good to try it, instead of harassing people like myself, in the innocent endeavor to improve and expand my already scintillating conversational repertoire."
"And with that, we should both be going. It's nearly eleven, and I know you, at least, have work tomorrow."
"No more jelly-legs tonight," Draco said wistfully, and disapparated.
