It had felt like drowning. A suffocating and overwhelming need to breath, air, something, scarring his throat, desperate.
Needing air.
And when he finally realized that there was something seriously wrong. When he finally realized that something was decidedly off, he was already on the floor, several students looking down on him in concern and one student, Gryffindor of all the ironic things, setting off to get Madam Pomfrey.
Before he could gather his breath and tell everyone to bugger off.
But his voice hadn't worked, and nothing came out, even as another onslaught of whatever it was caused a momentary blacking sensation, his vision dimming as shadows slowly made their way across his sight.
Pain.
A lot of pain.
And underneath it knowing, with a twisting of his gut so substantially to leave him doubled over, that there was not only something wrong with him, but something wrong with her.
HermioneA whisper. Warning, panic, her voice, his voice, not entirely sure, knowing though something was very, very wrong.
Visions of red, blood, black, crimson, visions of gray, swirling madly behind his closed eyes. So very madly. Making no sense.
And the pain.
Almost unbearable, hearing the voices of the students, hearing Madam Promfrey arrive, knowing that she was asking him questions and unsure what the words were or what he was supposed to say in response.
Unsure.
Until suddenly the pain was gone.
Magic gone.
Emptiness.
Completely.
And then panic. As he struggled to his feet, as he shoved people away, running through the passageways, out of the castle, off the property and Disapparating immediately to St. Mungo, knowing, knowing as if it was his own body, mind, knowing something was terribly, horribly wrong.
Only somewhat realizing Harry and Minerva coming his way, realizing they are speaking, hearing something about Severus requesting his presence, and something about Hermione being sick.
But knowing it is more than sickness.
Knowing.
With a wrenching pain in his gut, at the base of his spine, somewhere, something, his magic maybe, screaming, in pain, fear.
Not understanding if it is her or him, and not understanding what is taking place.
But knowing. Knowing.
Until he walked into the room.
And saw her. Lying on the bed, curls about her head.
An echo of a memory before.
Wrenching. Because something was very, very wrong.
Something is very, very wrong.
He sits now, next to her, not touching her, watching the slow rise and fall of her chest with each breath, the slow flutter of her pulse at her neck. Seeing, but not seeing, as he slowly and methodically takes down his barriers, down his wards, so he can feel her, feel something of her magic.
All the while wondering what it is he experienced. And why his experience had been so substantial even with his wards in place.
Not understanding.
But knowing, instinctively perhaps, like an itch needing a scratch, or better yet a cool hand against a fevered brow.
Knowing.
Resting his elbows on his knees, cradling his head in his hands as he focuses, methodical, precision, focus, to take down what it took several days to create. Thinking, briefly, oh so very briefly, that he is mad to do this, that there is no reason for him to do this. Wondering, asking, what exactly it will accomplish.
But not caring.
Not really.
Focus. On the knowledge even as the wards start to fall, even as each fine strand of the wards break away the more and more he is aware of her.
Of her magic.
Swirling in a darkness that he has never seen before.
Shadowed.
Sickingly sweet and oiled.
A taste on his tongue that revolts him, that makes him want to gag, even as he continues, head in his hands, eyes closed.
Methodic.
Focus.
Using her breath. The steady sound of her breath in the otherwise silent room binding him to reality even as he delves further and further into his magic.
He feels the presence of the dark wizard before he can hear him and with wards only half fallen he looks up at his former professor standing at the doorway.
Answers.
"What happened?" His voice rigid cold, noticing Harry and Minerva behind Severus, noticing they both flinch at his question.
Severus does not look away from his Godson, seeing the strain on his face, the pallor, the line of his clenched jaw.
"She tried to absorb the younger Potter's magic."
Draco hears the words. Hears and understands and suddenly the worry, the pain, the feeling of loss, of whatever this is, circling about his person, turns to fury.
Cold fury.
Gray eyes turning to steel as he looks beyond Severus to the Minster of Magic.
Green eyes looking at him, guilt, pain, clear in the other man's features.
But Draco sees none of this, none of it. Standing, slowly, easy, elegant, ever so elegant, even though the pain still courses through his system and his magic is behaving strangely.
But still ever so graceful.
Severus knowing instantly that the man in front of him is quickly losing grasp with reality, in response to his feelings for the woman in the hospital bed, or because of the reaction from the binding.
But knowing. Seeing it before. Once before.
"Mr. Potter, Minerva, I believe you both should leave. I will inform Draco of what occurred."
Draco looking at the two of them standing behind his mentor and slowly shakes his head. "No Severus, I believe I want to know from them, I want an explanation from them, because I'm sure they know exactly what it is that happened."
Harry Potter. The Boy-Who-Lived, and the Boy-With-Too-Much-Courage, steps around his former professor.
Severus hisses out a breath even as Draco slowly makes his way around the bed.
"Hermione said that she knew what to do to save Lily." Harry tried, putting his hands out, in submission, in guilt, in apology.
Draco stilling then, suddenly, not moving from where he stands at the foot of the bed. "And you did not think to ask her how she would do that? How she would accomplish that? Did not think to question her actions even though you know that she would do anything to save your child, her Goddaughter."
A pause, thickness, pain. Continuing. "Especially if she felt it was her fault."
Minverva wincing.
Draco's voice, smooth, precise, silk chilled to ice. Dropping. "You didn't take into consideration she would do anything to protect your daughter and never think once about herself."
A smirk. Fury, hatred, in the steel eyes. "Are you really that big of a fool?" A step. "Or perhaps, you don't care?"
Harry paling at Draco's words, until the last ones, until the last statement and then the temper is there, the temper only slightly softened by the years and the responsibilities. "You don't understand anything." Anger behind his words, anger fueled by a guilt.
Draco's smirk turning into something more, something manic, his magic swirling about his person, swirling, swirling.
"No? Or perhaps I understand too much. Perhaps I understand that you have always depended on her to get you out of messes, always depended on her to come up with solutions, even if those solutions cost her life in the end."
And suddenly Harry's fury is as great as Draco's as the words revolve around the room, as the two wizards face, their magic, one brilliant in its righteous colors, the other dark and menacing, colors, for anyone who knows how to look.
"And you are no better Malfoy." Harry, stepping forward again, past Severus who looks on the two other wizards with a blank expression though suddenly, just then, his wand in his hand.
Harry continuing. "You, who voluntarily bound yourself to her with the full knowledge that you were taking her magic, you were sucking her dry, like a bloody vampire, killing her, wasn't that what you were going to do if everything had worked out. Killed her?"
And Draco pales, and then a flush, just slightly, barely any colour at all, gracing the tops of his cheekbones. Hand curling into a fist, at his side, control, even as he gathers his magic about him. "For you Potter, so you could survive, always fucking you."
And Harry knows it's the truth but he doesn't care, the hurt, the betrayal that he has felt since Hermione told him of what she did coming to the forefront of his thought, directed towards the man in front of him. Once an enemy, then an ally, and if he is truthful with himself, the man who has taken his Hermione, now, then, it doesn't matter, but it infuriates him.
Harry's wand in his hand now, though he doesn't raise it. Years of experience, he doesn't need to raise his wand, he can use words, words to hurt, attack.
And he does. "What about now Malfoy? What about now? You're hurting her now, and I don't know how or what you are doing, but I see it, in her face, in the way she moves. Those shadows under her eyes, they weren't there before, a month ago, not until you came into her life. Hermione is hurting, and it's because of you. Whatever it is going on between you, it's hurting her worse than I ever have or ever could."
A moment of silence.
Then.
Harry. "You have always hurt her."
Grey eyes and green locked. The words attached, the words that Draco knows are true even though they are not said.
You will always hurt her.
Words not said. Not needed.
The implications clear.
Grey eyes dropping to the floor.
And the fight is gone, the fury gone, coldness seeping in through the tiles of the hospital floor, up through his feet, legs, torso, neck, circling about his mind.
Circling, circling.
The entrance of the mediwitch followed by a mediwizard breaking the silence of the room, the thickness of it, the plump woman bustling in with the thin short man behind her.
The two of them stopping to look at the four people standing in the room.
Then the mediwizard speaks. "Excuse me, I don't know what is going on here, but I want to examine Miss Granger and I need all non family to leave the room."
The mediwizard is somewhat surprised when all four leave the room.
But Draco has no fight. And he knows what is wrong, at least, he can feel it echoing and throbbing and does not need to have the mediwizard's confirmation.
Though he does not go far and stops just outside her door. Not looking at the other three, though he hears Harry say something about checking on Lily, and Minerva saying she will go with him, and then knowing it is just him and Severus.
A moment.
Then a soft voice, strange in its gentleness.
"The words were spoken because Mr. Potter was upset."
Draco does not look over at his mentor, does not look away from the spot on the wall that he is staring at.
Silence.
Then a sharp. "Draco."
He looks then, away from the spot at the wall to the taller wizard staring down at him, something distant, something detached, surprised that Severus is only slightly taller then him, just a small amount.
The ex-professor continuing. "Mr. Potter does not know of what he speaks."
A twisted smirk, one side of Draco's face, not reaching his eyes, not reaching the coldness there, blankness there. "Potter has always known what he is talking about."
Standing there, staring at Severus, meeting the dark black eyes of the man, not caring if his mind is broached. Not caring.
Because he has always hurt her.
And always will.
The words, the implications, the meaning, circling, circling.
Vaguely realizing that the mediwitch and mediwizard leave then, talking between themselves.
Vaguely realizing he should probably ask what it is they found through their diagnostics.
But knowing. Knowing all ready, because he can feel her even through his still established wards, feels her, feels her magic.
And he has always hurt her.
Turning from Severus standing at the door, turning, placing his back to him.
Slowly he goes back into the room, still elegant, still graceful, but no longer predatory, no longer out for blood.
Because blood has been spilt. All ready. Too much.
Mind. Body.
Coming to her bed, looking down at her, at the witch that means definitions, thoughts, that means many things.
Tiredness.
So much.
And cold.
Brutal.
Through his entire body.
He walks around her bed to the chair next to it, sitting, leaning forward until his forehead comes to rest on cold unresponsive hand of Hermione.
And there he stays. Eyes closed.
Slowly focusing, gathering himself, and with the methodical nature of a weaver begins to unravel his wards once more.
