Jesus, only one chapter left. As a thank you to all of you for sticking with this for so long, and also as a bribe to stick around a little longer for the last chapter, I'm thinking of posting the commissioned art in the next day or so. I'll have a chat with the artist and we'll work it out, but keep your eye on Tumblr if you follow me. I'm so excited for you all to see it! xoxo
Breath Mints / Battle Scars
XLIX
February 26th, 1999
Dappled light across her eyelids — hazy and gray. It's the first thing she's aware of, and the rest comes slowly.
There's pain. An old sort of pain, though. Lingering aches and throbs, some possibly already half-healed. It's forgettable and easy to push aside. The exhaustion is much more pressing. It feels like it takes ages just to muster the strength to lift her lids.
She knows a hospital ceiling when she sees one.
Not Hogwarts. She'd recognize that weathered flagstone immediately. No, this is much more clinical. White and sterile.
St. Mungo's.
Swallowing around a dry throat, she shifts as much as her lead-like limbs can manage, frantically trying to chase memories — even fragments of memories of how she got here. But there's nothing after—
"Hermione?"
A warm, callused hand clasps around hers, and color spreads out over the whiteness as a figure leans over her. She blinks slowly up at him, forcing him to come into focus.
"…Ron?"
The creases all over his face flatten out at the ragged tone of her voice, and he speaks with a winded smile and a gasp. "Bloody hell, we've been so worried!" The hand not holding hers starts to stroke the hair away from her face. "How are you? How are you feeling? Is there pain? I can get the—"
"Ron." It's less of a croak now. More substance to it. She blinks again to fully clear the fog from the borders of her vision. "Please. What happened?"
"Erm — yeah, uh — one thing at a time, Hermione — okay? I think you should talk to a Healer first. Get some food in you, or—"
She grips his hand tight and speaks over him. "Ron, how did I get here?"
The way the smile falls from his face makes her stomach ache. She swallows again, gathering a steady breath.
"What do you remember?" he asks. Even at the best of times, Ron isn't usually so gentle. It's almost terrifying in a way.
She tries to keep the fear out of her voice. "Pansy…" she murmurs.
Ron's brows meet in the middle, and Hermione watches him search for the right words. A good moment or so.
"I'm…so sorry. I know she was — well, sort of your friend."
Hermione's chest throbs, and her gaze drops away from his as it floods back to her; Pansy and her bloody lips, her pale face and searching eyes.
"She was my friend," she echoes quietly, both a correction and a confirmation.
Ron is right to move off of the subject as quickly as he does. "That's the last thing? Nothing after that?"
She shakes her head, working to keep the fear out of her eyes too. "What day is it?"
The oddest memory surfaces at the question. Of Theo, so many months ago — mocking her for asking something similar. Calling her dramatic.
Christ, Theo…
Ron takes a deep breath. "It's the 26th. You've been out for three days."
She sucks back a gasp. "Three…three days?"
He nods gravely and clears his throat. "Harry — he got your Patronus," he says, shifting in his chair at the bedside. "It sort of exploded in front of all of us at breakfast. Gave him a right scare. Me, as well." His fingers flex and then scramble to squeeze her hand again, a movement sort of desperate and unexpected. "Hermione, you have to believe me. Harry — he's going to beat himself up about it for ages if you don't, and I swear to you — I swear it, he didn't waste any time."
She squints at him, turning a little to face him better despite the pain. "What do you mean?"
"He sent for the Order, like you asked — and then we tried to follow you. No hesitation, I swear. We didn't wait. Me, Harry, Ginny, Neville, Luna — the lot of us. We followed your Patronus to the Grounds."
Her surprise she can't mask. "You…tried to come?"
He gives a sort of nervous scoff. "Yeah, 'Mione. Of course. Can be a git sometimes, but not about things like your life."
She squeezes his hand again, instinctively, but doesn't say more. Needs him to keep going. Needs to line the pieces up.
"I think we would've made it too. Soon enough, anyway, to save…your friend. To stop what happened to you." A shadow crosses his face. A brief, but blinding fury lighting in his eyes before he can stomp it out. Then, "It was the portkey. My guess is Dawlish jinxed it. Stupefied the lot of us and dropped us Merlin knows where." He rubs the back of his neck. "Harry says he thinks it was like the one from Fourth Year. From the Tournament. Jinxed to work every other time. But it took us ages just to get our bearings. By the time we got to you, Parkinson was…" he trails off.
She clutches hard at his fingers, somehow certain he has worse news. Part of her doesn't want to ask, but she can't stop herself.
"The others…" she says, waiting until Ron's eyes meet hers. "Where's Draco? Theo? What happened with—"
"They're alive, Hermione," he says quickly, before she can work herself up. "It's just that—"
"What?"
He winces.
"Ron, tell me."
Twisting, he reaches behind his shoulder for something on the side table. "You need to eat, alright?" There's a plastic cup of tapioca and a spoon in his hand when he turns back around. Somehow the least appealing thing in the world right now. "Let me help you eat this, and then I'll tell you."
"Ron—"
"Please."
She bites her tongue. Thinks about him risking his own life after everything she's put him through this year.
Reluctantly, she lets him feed it to her, finally catching a glimpse of the potion she's being treated with as she sits up to help him with the angle. It looks like Calming Draught, seeping into the veins of her forearm from a charmed drip on her left.
It's probably the only reason she hasn't flown into a blind panic.
She gets the rest of the story around bland spoonfuls of pudding, hanging on Ron's every word.
"The Healers think it was the adrenaline that kept you conscious. When we got to you — swallow the whole bite, Hermione, come on…good. When we got to you, you weren't really…all there, if you know what I mean. Parkinson was there on the floor, and a bunch of the Slytherins you went looking for were kind of scattered around the room. There was no one left to fight — you did a right fine job. I mean it. Those were trained Aurors. Open up, you're going to eat the whole thing."
He feeds her another spoonful, two-thirds of the cup gone. She doesn't have the strength to resist.
"But for a minute there, I thought we might've lost you too. Malfoy and Zabini were trying to keep Nott calm — I didn't really know about the whole situation at the time. I knew he and Parkinson were friends, but — well, now I know. Anyhow, you were there too. But you were sort of staring off at nothing. Sitting on the floor. When Malfoy tried to stand you up, I guess it all caught up with you."
"…All?" she manages.
"You broke three ribs, Hermione. Merlin. That, added to the Cruciatus…" He struggles to get the word out, glancing away for a fraction of a second, then back again. "You burst a lot of blood vessels — suffered at least two seizures in under ten minutes. And one of your ribs punctured your lung. The Healers said you should've been long dead by the time we got you here. And the bruises all over you…bloody hell."
She follows the angle of his gaze, limp arm lifting from her side so she can trace her fingers across the expanse of her throat. Sensitive. It explains the soreness. The difficulty she's having just trying to speak.
Ron's voice cracks around his next words. "I…I can't believe he did that to you."
It's almost a relief — the quick spike of anger she feels at that. "He didn't."
"Hermione, don't defend—"
"What else?" she cuts him off sharply. "I know you're holding something back. What is it? What's the worst of it?"
Ron swallows whatever he planned to say, expression unreadable.
"They…they don't believe them, do they?" she stammers. "The Death Eater robes — the bodies. They think Dawlish's set-up is true." The words come faster and faster. "They're going to arrest them again. God, they already have, haven't th—"
"Hermione." Ron slides his chair forward with a loud, metallic squeak, standing to press her back against the pillows when she tries to sit up and spilling what's left of the tapioca on the sheets. "Breathe. Just breathe." He takes her hand in both of his, then, thumb massaging soothing circles. "They know everything. They used a Pensieve. No one's getting arrested."
"She's awake?"
Hermione's panicked eyes flit to the doorway, and there's Harry. He looks unwashed and sleep-deprived — and from what she can see of Ginny, hidden halfway behind his broad shoulder, she's much the same.
She wants to say their names. Say 'thank you.' But all that comes out is, "Please."
Harry's eyes flood with concern, just as Ron rushes to fill them in.
"She doesn't remember much. I've told her about the portkey. Gotten her all the way up to—"
"Please," she interrupts again. "Where are they?"
Harry steps into the room, and she doesn't like the slump of his shoulders. The uncomfortable way he holds himself. He pulls up a chair to her other side, Ginny moving to stand behind him and resting her hand on his shoulder.
"Most of them are back at Hogwarts," he says. "The ones they put in the Malfoy dungeons were unharmed. Just shaken up. From the looks of it, Dawlish was waiting for…well, for you, mostly. Looks like he wanted you there before he staged anything more drastic."
She opens her mouth, but he sets his palm on her knee through the sheets to stop her. Continues on.
"Narcissa Malfoy was beaten badly. She's down the hall, recovering. I checked on her this morning. Zabini's here. Nothing worse than a black eye — he's not a patient. He's here for Nott."
"How is he?" she blurts, shifting. Still trying to sit up, despite Ron's efforts. "How's Theo?"
"He's…" Harry searches for the right word, adjusting his glasses, "…stable. They have a Grief Healer watching over him in the psychiatric ward." His eyes are soft — cautious. "I won't lie and say he's well."
Hermione manages at last to fight free of Ron's grip and sit up. She ignores the way her body throbs at the movement. "I should go see him. I will, after —"
There's a collective wince amongst the three of them, so syncopated it's almost timed. Jarring and obvious.
Her pulse starts to thud in her temples.
"Draco," she prompts, barely a whisper. "Where is he?"
Ginny moves, then — steps out from behind Harry and comes to sit on the cot by her hip, speaking for the first time. "We…don't know," she murmurs, voice so soft and gentle it barely breaks the silence. "I'm sorry, Hermione — but no one does."
It takes a good five or six seconds for the words to sink in, and then she's trying to yank free of the sheets. Trying to thrust her legs aside and stand.
Three sets of hands have to wrestle her back down onto the cot, and all the while she's spluttering, "What — what do you mean no one knows? What are — what you saying? Where is he? What happened?"
"Hermione — Hermione, stop. Listen." Ginny presses a cold hand flat against her collarbone, practically forcing her heaving breaths to slow. "Listen to me. I know. I know you're upset. But we don't know anything more than you." She presses harder, aggressively soothing, even as Hermione's pulse starts to skip every other beat. "Breathe. Breathe. You need to calm down first. Calm down, and we can take you to see Narcissa."
Confusion momentarily blocks out the panic.
"…Narcissa?" She echoes, still weakly struggling to free her wrists as her gaze flits between the three of them. "N— why Narcissa? Does she know where he—"
"No," Harry says, curt and yet gentle. "No, she doesn't know where he is. I already tried. But she was the last person he spoke to." His hand on her arm stops restraining. Just holds her, trying to soothe what can't be soothed.
Hermione shakes her head mutely at him, eyes wide and confused. "I don't unders—"
"She doesn't know where — I just…I think she knows why."
The Healers try to insist on levitation charms, to protect her ribs and lung from further aggravation. But she wants to walk on her own two feet — even if she looks pathetic, the way she hobbles across the threshold of Narcissa Malfoy's room. Harry and Ron hover in the doorway, and part of her wonders if they somehow still think Narcissa poses a threat.
The sight of her is jarring.
She didn't look so worse for wear at the Manor — but then again, maybe that was adrenaline holding her up, too. Or maybe Hermione just wasn't seeing straight.
Narcissa watches her from her cot, eyes like a hawk — completely lucid, despite the paleness of her skin. The black and blue bruises all over her face. And yet even so frail, she looks elegant. Well-bred.
Only someone who knew her well would know she'd been crying.
Hermione's so preoccupied staring at her that she almost doesn't notice the Auror standing guard in the corner.
"Is that completely necessary?" she snaps at him without thinking.
The Auror is one of Shacklebolt's. Not part of Dawlish's inner crowd. She'd recognize him otherwise. Still, though, he says, "She remains under house arrest."
"Even in her condition?"
He adjusts his stance, awkward and yet steadfast. "Even then."
Hermione can't hold in a scoff of distaste, shuffling the last few steps until she reaches the side of the bed. She winces as she takes a seat in the chair next to it.
"Miss Granger," Narcissa appraises her calmly.
Hermione gives a curt nod. "Mrs. Malfoy."
A polite girl might ask how she's faring. If she's in any pain. Might make small talk or try to take her mind off things. But she is not a polite girl. Not anymore. She cuts through the excess like she's got a sharp knife.
"Where is he?"
To her credit, Narcissa doesn't play any games. Doesn't feign confusion or ignorance. Instead, she twists delicately against the pillows propped behind her back, thin fingers plucking a folded sheet off parchment off the bedside table.
Hermione's stomach lurches, mind racing at the possibilities — a letter? A legal document? Something — something worse?
But Narcissa hesitates before handing it over.
"You should know," she says, tone unreadable. "It's what's best."
Hermione feels her limbs lock up, heart thudding. "What is?"
She almost rips the parchment taking it out of Narcissa's hand, and then again just trying to unfold it. Draco's handwriting — so unmistakeable at this point — makes the breath catch in her throat.
She doesn't want to read it. Risks a glance up at Narcissa before allowing herself to start, and the look she finds in her eyes is the first she can truly riddle out.
Pity.
And oh, how she hates pity.
Squaring her jaw, she jerks her eyes down again and yanks the parchment flat.
Hermione,
I didn't want this to be the first thing you saw when you woke up. I hope Weasley made you eat something. Hope you're taking your medicine like you're supposed to be. But, then again, it's you.
If I know you as well as I think I do, you're probably reading this earlier than you should be. There's nothing for it.
So before you know anything else, know that you can't change my mind. I've made my decision. This is what I need to do. It's already worked out, and it's for the best. For both of us.
I've spoken with the Minister, and with McGonagall, and as of this morning I've surrendered my wand to the Ministry. I've signed a binding contract that states I'll never engage in wandless magic, brew potions or attempt to apparate. In exchange, I won't have to return to Hogwarts, and I won't stand trial for my actions yesterday.
From this moment on, I am no longer a Malfoy. And I am no longer a wizard.
I am a Muggle.
I hope to Merlin — well, to God, now — that you of all people will understand. You reach a point where you know the therapy won't work anymore. Certain wounds don't heal. You, Hermione — you're not going to heal.
If I don't do this, I'm never going to spend another second of my life at peace. There's never going to be a moment I don't see you lying there — fucking bloodless — with my hands around your neck. With that look in your eyes. I can't live like that. Please, don't ask me to live like that.
The terms of this — well, I guess it's a bit like a plea deal. If I let this part of my life go, I have to let everything else go too. Shacklebolt says Muggles call it Witness Protection.
To sum it up, I am leaving my name and my identity behind. I forfeit my inheritance, save a small portion that will be converted to Muggle currency — for a fresh start. I am to leave the country. I will never see my mother or my father again.
And I will never see you again.
I know — somewhere — a part of you can understand. I know you can. You will. Because it means I can wake up without wanting to kill myself. And it means you'll never be at risk again — not from me.
I don't know what's left to say. You already know I love you. I promise not to say it again.
But I can say thank you.
For a little while there, I had you. I had something to look forward to. To want. To chase. I had those curls wrapped around my fingers and those lips between my teeth. I had someone to worry about, other than myself. I had someone that gave as good as she got. That withstood me. Wanted me regardless. And Merlin, that felt fucking good.
Thank you. I'm glad to have had that, for a little while.
But I have things to look forward to now too, I suppose. I have to learn how to drive. How to cook and boil water. I get to ride in an airplane. Please don't tell anyone, but I've always secretly wanted to do that. And there's that flimsy hot chocolate, as well. I have that to look forward to.
And you, Hermione — you have the whole world at your feet.
This life is yours for the taking. Find what you want and take it for the both of us.
I'll be rooting for you.
Draco
The letter slips from her numb fingers and floats to the hospital floor.