She loses time, first in snippets and then in chunks. There's a lot of medical professionals talking to her, murmuring and pointing at different sheets of paper where she has to sign here and then–yes–initial right there. The sun hurts her eyes. The monitors hurt her ears.

A procession line of azalea-pink scrubs blurs into the room, needles glinting, vials of blood held aloft in their fingers.

Vaguely, she hears the words good news, a match. The words constrict around her chest until all she can do is bob her head up and down stupidly.

There are other voices, voices of people she knows. She thinks at one point Pansy touched her hand, but that can't be right. Did she tell Pansy about her decision? If so, when? How many hours have passed, or is it over a day now?

"We'll try to expedite the tests," Dr. Marron had affirmed. Had he kept his promise?

He must have, because she blinks, and she's alone with her father, fingers laced against his.

"It's not going to hurt," she says, but her voice sounds hollow. "They promised me it wouldn't hurt."

She gives a signal, her head nodding of its own accord; the gesture summons a nurse. She closes her eyes, just for a second, but she must have lost time again because she hears the panicked beeping–all those machines trying to signal a problem, an SOS–and she knows she doesn't need to open her eyes to see what's happened.

What does she expect to feel? She wishes she had words for this type of grief, the kind that's also tainted by anticipation. Her father died today. Her husband may wake up soon. What does it say about her that she manages to exist in a liminal space where both these truths hold?

Time takes on a strange shape in the hospital room, stretches out endlessly, smothering her sense of reality. She's in Draco's room now, full time. There is no other hospital room for her to return.

Near midnight, searching for the edge of sleep, she hears the muffled conversation of the Malfoys.

"We need to discuss his convalescence."

"I assumed we were all aware that he would be retiring to Malfoy Manor."

"Lucius, had you not considered he has a wife? Do you really think she would concede so easily?"

A pause, a puff of breath, something between a laugh and a scoff. "Quite honestly, I hadn't considered her at all."

In the morning, she pretends to still be asleep when the Malfoys reappear. She hears the tap of Lucius' shoes on linoleum followed by his drawl. "I'm impressed she's able to rest so peacefully. I almost want to congratulate her."

Hermione's fingers twitch, and she swallows, tries to stay still. She starts counting, arrives at 10 before the door shuts with a soft click. She's thinking about last night, about the ways she's been written out of plans she hadn't considered, when the door opens again and she snaps her eyes shut again. A pair of footsteps pauses in front of her, a clearing of the throat. She tries to will herself away, imagines the heavy drape of Harry's invisibility cloak around her: a disappearance.

"Mione?" It's not the voice she expects, and she opens her eyes to red hair and concerned, blue eyes. Ron kneels down and pauses for a beat before reaching for her hand.

"Ron?" She blinks, sits up. "What are you doing here?"

"How are you?"

She doesn't mean to, but she laughs, and it comes out strange, the edges jagged. "Why are you here, Ronald?"

There's a beat of silence. Is he shocked by her question or by her outburst? He places a palm on the armrest of her chair, fingers almost touching her wrist, and pushes himself up. "Why don't we get some tea? There's probably a canteen, right?"

On the walk down, he keeps a hand on her back, and they pass by some nurses she recognizes. She wants to shrug him off–she wonders what the nurses think when they see her with Ron. Are they building stories in their heads? It makes her skin itch. "Ron," she says, her mouth opening and then closing. She can't bring herself to chastise him. She knows she doesn't have too many people left.

In the cafeteria, she stares at him under the fluorescent light. His hair is long, bangs brushing against his eyelashes. There's a scar on his face, a slash right across his jaw. She wants to ask him about it, but she stares insteads. He grimaces as he sips on the tea he bought them. "Pansy told me it was a match." He avoids eye contact and picks up a sugar packet, rips a neat incision into the corner, spilling granules and rearranging them in the grooves of his palm. "She said they're going to try to prep Draco for surgery tonight."

She nods, circles the rim of her own cup and then digs her nail in, puncturing off a tuft of styrofoam.

Ron licks his thumb, stabs it into his palm and sucks the glittering crystals off. He swallows. "Is there anything I can do?" He wipes his hand on his sleeve. "I'm sorry I didn't come sooner. The ministry had me on a mission in Bulgaria." He trails off, chagrined; she knows he can't tell her.

"It's fine, Ronald...Thank you for asking."

She wants to ask about Harry, about where he went. Has Ron seen him yet? Has Harry told him about the situation? Once, she had two best friends, two parents, and a husband. Now, she might not have anyone.

"I heard about your father–"

"Please don't." She twists the napkin in her palm. "Just, please, not right now."

"Right, sorry."

Vivaldi's Winter floats through the cafeteria speakers, and Hermione watches a young woman push an older gentleman in a wheelchair, navigating through the buffet line.

"Ron," Hermione says. "Could you stay with me? For the surgery? Could you stay and wait with me?" She hates this, her voice, the request, how her fingers tremble against her cup. "I understand if you need to go though, so–"

"'Mione." Ron clears his throat. "I can definitely do that."

When had she and Ron lost touch? Not exactly a rupture, a stop in communication, but rather a gradual loosening. There was her sabbatical to Australia, and then her romance with Draco, and then her marriage, all of which she knew Ron opposed. But still, he floo-ed. He owled. The conversations were stitched together by codas of silence, but he was there. Until he wasn't. So maybe it wasn't him. Maybe it was her. Maybe it had always been her.

If she tries to revisit last year, the walls of the hospital close in on her. The ventilators. The doctor. The nurses. There are other memories, she's sure of this, but she can't remember them. She remembers her mother; she remembers watching her mother die. She remembers her father; she remembers forcing her father to die. But the people that she lost along the way. Those instances blur together: Harry, Ron, Ginny, Molly, Arthur, Fred, Bill, Luna, Hannah, Seamus, Dean. She stopped responding to owls. She didn't always show up for events. She hid, often. But there was supposed to be more time. The human brain can only process one cognitive task at a time; Her approach was logical: fix her parents, and then she'd have all the time in the world to fix everything else.

By the time Ron and her have finished their drinks, they've stopped trying to fill the silence. He waits for her to lead the way to Draco's room, puts a hand on her shoulder as he opens the hallway doors. The Malfoys aren't there when they enter. Instead, Pansy sits on Draco's bed, Theo and Blaise seated in the two nearby chairs.

"Oh, Granger. Seems like you brought a guest." Theo pauses and slowly rises from the chair, grinning a too-wide smile. "Please"–he gestures towards his vacated seat–"make yourself at home, Weasley."

The edges of Theo's lips twitch. Hermione feels Ron stiffen beside her, his arm dropping from her shoulder as Pansy stares.

"Lovely scar, Weasley." Pansy shifts, but stays seated, her hand resting on Draco's. "Misfired spell?"

"Ministry business."

She laughs, tips her chin up. "Another Weasley in the ministry. Shocking. No wonder they can't ever seem to get anything done there."

"Pans." Blaise presses his pointer and middle finger into his forehead, shuts his eyes. "Let's not, shall we? Our patient is resting." He glances at Ron and then looks away.

Silence. Hermione's skin prickles. Theo rocks forward on his feet. He's still smiling at Ron, lips pulled up just shy of a smirk, eyes narrowed. Ron stares back and she hears his breath quicken. She wants to touch his arm, to signal, but she knows it'll be misconstrued.

Blaise leans forward and pulls on Theo's sleeve. "Let's grab some coffee, mate. Give Granger and Weasley a chance to sit and rest."

"Right, right. Of course." Theo gestures towards his seat again. His nostrils flare with his exhale. "I wouldn't dream of ruining such a beautiful reunion." He glances back. "Pans?"

"I'll stay. Bring me back a cappuccino, please."

The door clicks shut. Pansy barely looks at them, focuses on Draco instead, stroking her fingers across the back of his hand. Hermione waits for the spark of jealousy, the kindling of possessiveness. Instead, she feels misplaced, an intruder on such an intimate scene. She sees this clearly now, this other future Draco could have had, this other wife.

"Have the doctors said anything?" she finally asks.

"Oh, you mean, did you miss anything important while you and Weasley were fraternizing?"

Ron leans forward, like he's about to interject, but Hermione touches his arm. Her pulse hammers, but she licks her lips and says. "About the surgery. Have there been any updates?"

The other woman huffs. "If you cared so much, why didn't you ask the doctor yourself?"

"Pansy," Hermione says. "Please." Hermione blinks, tries to meet Pansy's stare, but she looks away. A flicker of a memory nudges Hermione: Pansy's palm on her shoulder, the gentle squeeze of fingers while Hermione held her father's cooling hand. She knows she's lost the other woman's respect with Ron's appearance. But how can she explain this phenomenon? That sometimes things happen to her and she has no control over the timing–that's always been her problem, a lack of control.

"They'll operate tonight," the other woman finally says. "The Malfoys went back to the manor to prepare Draco's room.

"Draco's room?" A pit lodges in Hermione's throat. Her voice springs out, high and panicky. She knows this information, but she didn't really think– "They're bringing him back to Malfoy Manor?"

Pansy rolls her eyes. "You sound surprised, Granger. What, exactly, did you think would happen? You'd take him home to your little hovel. Play nursemaid? Are you even emotionally capable of thinking about anyone other than yourself?"

"That's enough, Pans–" Ron clears his throat.

"I mean, honestly. What makes you think you have the authority–let alone the expertise–to care for Draco?"

"I'm his wife–"

At this, Pansy finally turns towards Hermione. Her voice is thin and vicious, teeth peeking out under the curl of her lip. "And I'm his best friend. And they are his parents. And we are the ones who have loved him, who have taken care of him since he was a little boy. So, who are you, really? What have you done for him?" She leans forward and drops her voice lower. "What have you done to him?"

"You are way out of line, Pansy. You have no right–"

"Not only am I not speaking to you, Weaslebee, not only do I have no desire to ever speak to you, but I'm going to kindly ask you to shut the fuck–"

"Stop." Hermione's voice comes out loud and harsh, cutting through the room. Pansy's mouth shuts with force, and her eyebrows furrow, like she's surprised by her own reaction.

Hermione inhales. "Please. I don't want Draco to hear this." Is it ridiculous for her to think like this? Is he listening? Does he agree with Pansy? "I don't want to disturb Draco."

Laughter from outside punctures the silence. There's the rise and fall of footsteps, the screech of wheels on the linoleum.

"Pansy, I want him to get better just as much as you do," Hermione says.

She tries to steel herself for another outburst, but the other woman stays quiet, brushes her hair behind her eyes and turns her attention back to Draco. Her voice is softed when she speaks, the malice diluted. "It'll be better if he's there. They'll have around-the-clock care." She runs her fingers along the creases in his bedsheet. "They're even asking that healer to come."

"What healer?"

Pansy stills, her hand rests on the ledge of the bed. "You don't know?"

"What are you talking about, Pansy?" Panic climbs the ladder of Hermione's ribs. "What healer?"

Something like a laugh forces itself through Pansy's lips. "They didn't tell you?" She shakes her head, her mouth puckering into a grimace. "You haven't figured it out?"

Hermione's head hurts. Claws dig into the side of her scalp, forcing out her words. "Pansy, please."

"You know, sometimes I look at you, and I think our biggest mistake was that we overestimated you. Everyone just assumed you could handle all of it." Pansy crosses her ankles and places her hands in her lap. "It's your curse, isn't it? People only look at you and see the smartest witch of her age. They don't see you for who you are."

Hermione's skin hurts. The blood in her head roars, and she feels panicky. She tries to think, but she feels the drill of a migraine behind her eye, short-circuiting her thoughts.

Pansy stands up and moves past her, and Hermione wants to reach out and grab the other woman, but she's not sure what to say anymore. Before she leaves the room, Pansy turns towards her: "Ask Theo. Ask him about the healer."

Draco's surgery happens that evening, at 8 PM. When the surgical team wheeled Draco away, Hermione felt separate from her body. She had read once, in one of her father's books, about Cartesian dualism.

Argument:

If it is impossible to distinguish, with absolute certainty, whether I am awake or asleep based on my perceptions, then I have reason to doubt my perceptions.

It is impossible to distinguish, with absolute certainty, whether I am awake, or asleep based on my perceptions; therefore, I have reason to doubt my perceptions.

She likes this because it means there is a world, perhaps unreachable and unknowable to her, where all the people she loves are safe, where she no longer has to trust her senses or experiences.

She also likes the later divide Descartes draws: mind over matter. I can be certain that my mind exists but I cannot be certain that my body exists. Therefore, the mind and body must be different things. She imagines her brain in a jar, floating, reviewing the wreckage of her life, highlighting her mistakes so she can learn from them. Meanwhile, her body glides through the world and goes through the motions. Her body cries, her body moves, her body submits to all its barbaric needs.

Eight hours have already passed. People flit in and out of the room. They're waiting for an update, a flash of azalea-pink scrubs to tell them good news. Narcissa and Lucius sneer as orderlies and other patients pass Draco's room. Blaise, Theo, and Pansy pace in the hallway. Ron sits next to her as she stares at the empty hospital bed. Ron hasn't moved, nor has he tried to speak. For this, she feels grateful. Pansy's directive pushes into her abdomen, like a sandbag, stealing her air. Ask Theo. He's right outside the room, but she can't bring herself to move. Her limbs are cemented into the seat.

Earlier, Harry and Ginny dropped by, for two hours, before they got called away again. The room had felt like a battleground then, the Slytherins on one side and the Gryffndors on another. Another version of Hermione might even have been amused.

"I can't stand this," Narcissa says. She rubs a hand across her forehead before dropping her arms. "I'm going to go for a walk."

"I'll join you, darling." Lucius glances at her and Ron. "The air in this room is quite...stifling."

There's the soft murmur of voices as the Malfoys depart, stopping to speak to the others in the hallway. Hermione watches the latticework of moonlight on the linoleum. How much longer? She's read 8-10 hours for an operation like this. She knows there's still time, that no news may be good news, but she feels dread rush through her veins at every set of footsteps that passes the room without stopping in.

"'Mione"–Ron yawns, shakes his head–"do you mind if I go grab us some coffee?"

"No, of course not." She rubs her thumb across her knuckles. "Ron, you don't have to stay. You can go home."

He shakes his head. "I'll just be a few minutes. Tea? Or coffee?"

A rush of tenderness slams into her, forcing her to look away. She has so much affection for the man that Ron has become, the friend she always had but couldn't always see. "Tea, please. Earl Grey."

He taps her shoulder and walks off.

When she hears the sound of footsteps again, she wonders if he's left something, but it's Theo's voices that she hears. "Sitting alone, are we?"

"Theo," she says. Her voice is low and hoarse. "Where are the others?"

"Shockingly, they decided to accompany Weasley for provisions."

She nods. Her chest aches. Ice courses through her veins. They're alone. She could ask now, but she starts to wonder if she even wants to know.

He takes a seat next to her, and a part of her wants to recoil. He is Pandora's box.

"I presume they've told you about Draco's convalescence? At the manor?"

She nods. There are things she wants to say, arguments she has stored up, but her tongue stays limp.

"No righteous tirade, Granger?"

She lets the silence drag on a beat. She stares at his hands, sees how they fidget on his knees. She knows this is an act, at least some of it. He's worried as well. She holds onto this thought as she opens her mouth and says, "Pansy mentioned a nurse. She said I should ask you."

Theo's hands still, and then he digs his fingernails into his slacks, twisting the material. "Gossiping with Pansy? You're full of surprises today, Granger."

"Theo"–she swallows around the lump in her throat–"no more games. Tell me what's going on."

"Do you remember that conversation we had in the hallway? What did I say to you again? Think, Hermione–"

"–Why are you doing this–

"–Have you not been paying any attention–

"–You may not see this, but I love, Draco–

"'Then why"–and now, he looks murderous. His hands are gripping his knees with force, and a vein jumps in his jaw–"does Draco not believe that?"

She inhales, feeling the force of his words crash into her. She stares, stunned.

"If you love him so much, Hermione, why didn't Draco believe that?"

She looks up, digs her fingers into her palms and blinks, willing the light to stop streaking in her vision. "Theo, I'm trying my best here. I care–" her voice cracks–"just as much as you do" if not more she thinks, but she can't bring herself to say it. I made a sacrifice today too. She doesn't want this fight.

He doesn't answer, and she looks up to find he's staring at the bed. He taps out a rhythm of his kneecaps before smoothing down the creases there. He seems resigned.

"Draco hired a healer," he finally says, catching her off-guard. She scrambles to re-orient herself to the conversation. "After your parents' were hospitalized , he hired a healer from St. Mungos to pose here as a nurse–"

A high-pitched buzzing starts in her ears, and Theo's voice comes through as if filtered underwater.

"–Her name is Tabitha. She kept an eye on your parents, continued to work on potential magical causes to their malady."

Her brain hurts, aches with the effort of trying to connect his words with her memories. A nurse. Which nurse?

"I'm told she's a very renowned healer. I've met her a few times. I can't say I hold the same regard for her that Draco apparently did."

There had been so many nurses. Which one? They all blurred into the same face. Were there any that seemed somehow different? Think, Hermione.

"Tabitha was, obviously, unsuccessful, but she was useful in other ways. She alerted Potter to your father's worsening condition, in early February, before he got..." he trails off.

Oh–there was one. The nurse who stared. The one who looked frightened, like she was hiding a secret. Concrete fills her lungs. Hermione places her palm against her chest and rubs her sternum, tries to force air in. "Why didn't Draco ever say anything? Why didn't–"

"Because he didn't want to set any expectations." Theo finally looks at her. "He worried that Tabitha wouldn't be able to identify the problem."

"I–"

"You can surmise, I assume, that Tabitha's fees are another reason Draco needed a loan… Privatized medicine is indeed as expensive as one would imagine."

Her cheeks are wet, and she lets the water drip down her neck, staining her shirt. "I didn't know–"

"Well"–Theo smiles, but it's not as mocking as she expected. He pities her, she realizes–"now you do."

"Can I–"

"Mrs. Malfoy?"

They both turn towards the source of the sound. A nurse stands in the doorway, frowning. She points at Hermione. "Are you the wife of Draco Malfoy?"

She stands, wipes her hand across her face. "Yes, yes, that's me."

"We just finished operating. The surgeon will be out to speak to you soon, but I came to let you know as soon as possible."

"Is he alright?" Theo says. He's standing as well.

"I'll let the surgeon do most of the talking, but yes, I would say the surgery was successful."

She feels faint with the possibilities. Theo's shoulders lower with his exhalation. The nurse looks at each of them, waiting for something, but when only silence greets her she nods and turns to leave.

"Can we see him?" Theo steps forward.

"Not yet, but soon."

She's imagined this moment, many times, over the last few days. She has a journal entry where she's drafted out what she wants to say, but all of it feels inadequate as soon as she walks into the recovery room and sees Draco's pale face, his tired grey eyes.

They're alone. They've let her have the first visit. She knows she has only a few minutes of this privacy before the intrusion of other voices.

"Draco," she says. Her eyes brim with tears and she hates the tremble in her voice. She touches his hand, waits to see if he'll pull back. He gives her a smile that doesn't fully meet his eyes.

"How are you?" she asks, and she wants to swallow her stupidity.

He chuckles; the sound is strained and throws him into a coughing fit. She rushes to hand him the cup of water nearby and dabs at the edges of his lips where the water has escaped. At this, he does pull back. "I'm fine," he says, and he doesn't look at her.

She has things she wants to say, things she needs to stay, but she can't stop staring at him. He seems uncomfortable under her scrutiny. His fingers twitch beneath hers.

"Are you in pain?" she finally settles on. "I can get a doctor."

"I'm all right."

"I missed you." The words come out in a rush. She's not sure what reaction she wants, exactly. She hopes he can read between the lines and see what she means: I'm sorry. Please don't leave me. She feels very tired and very small.

"I'm here now."

She lets out a breath that sounds suspiciously like a sob. He squeezes her hand, once, twice. A part of her wishes he would yell at her, like it means he still cared enough to yell.

"Are my parents here?"

She nods, wipes her nose on the back of her sleeve. "Yes, I can get them if you want. They've been here the whole time. Blaise, Theo, and Pansy as well."

He exhales. "Thank you for calling them."

This formality, like they barely know each other. She wants to shake herself out of this moment, but all she can do is grasp his hand harder and then let go with a jerky movement. Has she hurt him? Was her hold too strong?

There's a beat of silence.

"I hope they release me soon," he says. He turns to look out the window. "I've always hated hospitals."

"I think the surgeon said you won't have to be here too long." She swallows, licks her lips. "Your parents have suggested you move into the manor. I heard they've set up a room for you, contacted a healer."

He stares at her, searching her face, waiting for her next move. It's too soon for this conversation, about Tabitha, the money, the ways in which they've deluded one another. They can talk about all of it later. She continues, "If you wanted, we could also just go...home." She's cautious about using that word, in case that's no longer what he thinks of their life together as.

The machine beside him beeps, and she counts the bursts of sound.

"Maybe it's for the best, if I spend a few days at the manor, just in the beginning."

"Right," she nods, her chin jerking up and down. "Of course. Anything you want."

She hears Pansy's voice drift in from outside How much longer will this take, honestly? She can't just hog him like–

She's scared to ask the next question. It rises, like a wave, growing in momentum until it crashes through. "I could also, come with you, to the manor?" The ending pitches up into a question, devoid of the assuredness she wanted to infuse within the suggestion. "But only if that's what you want."

He inhales, the corner of his lips lifting. When he looks at her, there's an inscrutable expression on his face. She bites down on her lips as she waits for his answer. Dawn starts to break through the clouds, and she squints as the light washes over him, illuminating the purple shadows under his eyes. He looks tired, but not unhappy.

"Yes," he finally says, and he touches her wrist, slides his fingers over her pulse point. "I'd like that."