Chapter 88

Wednesday 01 April 2003: AM

Hermione's terror at watching Draco collapse onto the table in front of her is beyond anything she's ever known; it is a bottomless chasm of screaming fear, panic, and helplessness, that renders her mute and frozen for what feels like minutes (though in reality is but a few milliseconds).

Time drips like a slowly-leaking tap, only to suddenly slam back into regular perception with a great whoosh, as the surrounding noisy panic underlines the gravity of their situation.

Draco, hold on– HOLD ON, I WON'T LET YOU LEAVE ME, DRACO… NEVER!

She cradles his limp head, fighting to stay calm and concentrate on what she knows she must do. Her structured brain rapidly assesses and chooses a plan of attack. Yes. YES. This is going to work. It has to work.

Her eyes darken to the colour of bitter chocolate, as she turns her head to authoritatively address the gathered crowd of professors and flocking, curious students.

"Kvothe Flagg, get me a bezoar – NOW. Luna, fetch Madame Pomfrey – tell her Draco's been poisoned with some sort of alkaloid compound. Neville, summon Professor McGonagall. Cecily, Pomona – clear the room, get rid of all the gawkers – except for that one," Hermione snarls, momentarily straightening from her protective crouch over Draco's insensate form to wandlessly pin the ashen-faced, cringing Seventh Year schoolgirl to the stone wall on their left.

"Madame Hooch, grab that little witch – she laced his coffee, and she's going to bloody well explain herself!" Her tenuously-restrained fury internally snaps and writhes. Not now – but soon. Soon.

"Well?! GET MOVING!" she roars, although Luna and Neville have already raced away on their respective orders. Adrenaline gallops through her veins as she magically sweeps clear the dining table, Hagrid and Professor Flitwick helping her to lift Draco and gently roll him onto his side and into the recovery position.

One deep inhale and a quickly issued warning not to disturb her until the bezoar arrives. Hermione slips a hand beneath Draco's head, resting the other on his taut ribcage. His weak, quivering breaths are horribly distressing.

Closing her eyes, she focuses on their soul bond, fortifying his thready magical signature. Hermione pours everything she has into keeping him alive and intact, staving off her regrets that she hasn't done more research into healing magic.

He's going to be OK… he has to be OK… she ruthlessly brushes aside any creeping, contradictory fears; her confidence boosted by every minute sign of improvement in Draco's diminished physical condition. She maintains a steady patter of psychic communication, though there is no response from her unconscious, wheezing wizard. The gold and silver phantasmal lights of their soul-bonded magic swirl erratically in the cavernous space, bathing Draco in a beautiful, eerie light.

Hey, Malfoy – you know there are easier ways than this to get out of those sex ed classes from McGonagall, right? Although, I do have to award you extra points for dramatic effect. Come on, darling… won't you wake up for me? Please, Draco… please, mon coeur. You're going to be just fine, my love. We've got this – no one is going to take you away from me, not ever. I love you, my Draco.

"Hermione– the bezoar–" Kvothe Flagg shoves the shrivelled 'stone' into Hermione's hand. She immediately opens Draco's mouth to insert the antidotal sphere deep into his throat, whispering a quiet apology for any unintentional roughness in her haste to apply the counteragent.

The Great Hall is deathly quiet, all students swiftly and efficiently cleared from the vast chamber by Professors Benson and Sprout during Hermione's silent vigil. Now, the small contingent of teachers still gathered around the table collectively hold their breath, staring down at Draco's insensible body.

The waiting period nearly tips Hermione into screaming hysteria. Sweet Salazar, how damned long is it until the ruddy bezoar takes effect?! I thought Harry said Ron came round almost instantaneously, in Slughorn's office–

Draco lurches upward, weakly coughing a dribble of brown liquid and bile onto the rumpled tablecloth as his torso spasms a few times. His long eyelashes flitter open once, twice, before closing again.

"It's working!" Hermione accidentally elbows Kvothe in the stomach in her haste to check Draco's pulse and respiration. "Draco, darling – can you hear me? Draco?".

His mouth moves in a strained rasp. "Granger… think we… need… to switch… coffee vendors… it's a bit… strong…"

"You're joking– at a time like this– oh, Draco!" Hermione chokes, cuddling him as best she can, given the awkward set-up. A flurry of activity turns her head; Luna and Neville have returned, Headmistress McGonagall and Madame Pomfrey following closely behind them as they run to the table.

Poppy Pomfrey lays a firm hand on Hermione's shoulder. "You used a bezoar? Excellent work, Hermione. Now, we need to take him to the infirmary, and administer the appropriate healing potions once we know exactly what's in his system," she gestures to the stretcher floating beside the table. "Step aside please, dear."

"But I– I have to –" Hermione shakes as her adrenaline high begins to crash. Minerva's kindly arms steer her to the side as Madame Pomfrey oversees Hagrid and Neville carefully loading Draco onto the stretcher.

"Hermione, let Poppy handle things from here, dear girl. Draco's going to recover perfectly, isn't he?" McGonagall looks to the Healer witch for assurance, as delayed tears roll soundlessly down Hermione's flushed cheeks.

"Certainly: thanks in no small part to your quick thinking, of course," Madame Pomfrey nods. "But we do need to run diagnostic spells, and see to it that he receives the best care possible. Do we have a sample of the substance he was poisoned with?".

"His coffee mug – she put it in his go-cup," Hermione points to the toppled stainless steel mug, her spine stiffening as she remembers the likely identity of the culprit. "Where is she? The Seventh Year I told Madame Hooch to detain?! I'm going to tear her into tiny pieces with my bare hands – that wicked, sneaky, homicidal little bitch…!"

"Rolanda escorted Miss Throndson to my office; but if you wish to sit in on my initial investigation, you're going to have to take down your need for bloody vengeance a notch or seven, Hermione," Minerva unequivocally replies. "Your choice, Professor."

Hagrid clears his throat, rumbling, "Yeh've got every righ' ter be wild, Hermione love, but jes' try ter stay calm – fer young Draco's sake, yeh know. Mebbe all's no' as it seems… eh, mebbe I'll be moving along, now." The half-giant shuffles behind the occupied stretcher, abandoning his placatory attempts as Hermione scowls.

"Hermione, Hagrid and Minerva are right; it's best if you take a few moments to process, and regroup," Luna quietly advises, coming to stand beside her. "Draco is going to be fine, and you'll be able to see him shortly; let's find a quiet place, before we go to the Head's Office."

"Luna– she almost– he could have–" Hermione breaks off, angrily mopping at her wet face with her robe sleeve, her head thumping in the aftermath of her stress and terror.

"I know, I know," Luna soothes. "But Draco's looking better already, see?" she points to the stretcher. Draco is struggling to sit up, twitching against Hagrid's steadying huge mitt on his chest. "Say goodbye and come down with me to the kitchens – we'll make a nice pot of poison-free tea together."

"Alright," Hermione gruffly concedes. "I absolutely insist on being there when you question that girl, Headmistress McGonagall – please," she tacks on. "I give you my word I'll behave… appropriately."

Minerva sighs. "Ever the lawyer, hmmm? Very well, provided you remember that I am in charge, Professor Granger. If I have even the slightest doubt of your continued rational behaviour throughout the interview, I will not hesitate to call a halt. Is that understood, Hermione?".

"Yes, Headmistress." Deeming the issue closed, Hermione flies to Draco's stretcher, tenderly holding his hand. "I'll be up to see you soon, mon amour. You do everything Madame Pomfrey tells you to do, you hear?". She kisses his knuckles, one by one. "I love you so much, Draco… I can't even– oh, damn…" her tears restart as she leans over his drawn, pallid face.

Draco turns his head away, "No– sweetheart, please don't kiss my mouth… the poison–" he mumbles, exhaustion slurring his speech. "Rain… raincheck, please? I love you so much… ma petite Hermione. Don't worry… please…" His sweet smile turns her sniffling sobs into all-out wails.

"R-Raincheck," Hermione confirms, once she is sufficiently composed. "Je t'aime, mon âme sœur."

Hermione bestows a last kiss to the back of his clammy hand, reluctantly releasing it as Madame Pomfrey tells them it's time to go. Her neck cricks to anxiously watch as Draco is transported upstairs to the infirmary. He does the same, waving and trying to blow faint kisses until they round a corner and disappear out of sight.

Minerva wastes no time instructing the rest of the staff to commence cleaning up the mess of felled food, crockery, and cutlery that have resulted from Hermione's makeshift first aid efforts and the hasty evacuation of breakfast at large.

"Ask the elves to help, too; Filius, if you would be so kind as to temporarily reassign classes for the morning? You'll need to sort out substitutes for Professors Malfoy and Granger, of course… and Madame Hooch. Perhaps schedule a supervised double study period for Arithmancy, we'll see how the afternoon progresses. Do look lively, people! We've all had our share of excitement for the week, one hopes," Minerva claps loudly. The jumpy teachers scurry to do her bidding, as Luna leads Hermione out of the Hall.

"Oh no, the elves! Mac and Ruibby must be positively sick with worry – hurry, Luna!" Hermione tries to pick up their pace, surprised at Luna's resistant strength as the shorter woman tugs her to a standstill.

"Hermione, I hope you know that you are my dear, treasured friend – but I will Stun you without warning if you leave me no other option to ensure you achieve some peace and quiet," Luna's clear voice rings out in the corridor. "You handled a dangerous situation utterly brilliantly; now you can stop fretting over everyone and everything for a few minutes and just be, OK? Leave MacRu to me, please. They'll be fine, once they know Draco is safe."

"And they call me bossy," Hermione snipes beneath her breath, eyes goggling as Luna slides her wand into her hand and points it in warning.

"What's that?".

"Uh– um, yes, Luna." She submits with rather bad grace, staying subdued as Luna links their crooked arms.

"Good. Now, about those elvish sex ed classes: I've a few ideas I'd be thrilled to share with you…"

Shit – I hope this works – here goes nothing. Knowing that this is more likely than not her only shot to escape the cruel clutches of the man holding her hostage, Gus lets her wand clatter to the floor, slipping Harry and Sol the tiniest of winks just before she swings into action.

Bringing up her right hand to clasp her plait just above her assailant's grip, Gus drops down and to the right, protecting her face with her left limb, in anticipation of any possible blows. Sure enough, the man immediately whips at her exposed cheek with his heavy wand, landing a glancing slice that sends pain shivering across her face.

Pivoting side-on and widening her stance to control her balance, Gus extends her left arm in a closed fist, striking the man's groin with a savage, direct blow. As she'd hoped for, he crumples in whining pain, releasing both her hair and his wand, his hands moving to belatedly cup his battered loins.

Freed from his brutal grasp, Gus delivers an uppercut to his jaw, following with a vicious punch to his left ear and a kick to his knee, felling the big bastard like a rotted pine. Her vision clouds with a red filter of pure rage as she thinks of the man's nefarious infractions. Snatch me from behind – grab my hair like the worst playground bully – come for me and my team, would you?! You despicable clod of slimy, stinking, rancid dragon shit – !

"Hiiiiii-yah!" she strikes him again and again, relishing his muffled groans of suffering. He makes a clumsy grab for her boot, spurring her to kick him smack-bang in the nose; it breaks it in a couple of places (judging by the multiple snaps). Gus doesn't bother to retrieve her wand, intent as she is in doling out a good, old-fashioned, bone-splintering whipping. His screams dwindle as he finally passes out.

"Gus – it's OK, stand down," Harry nimbly dodges an elbow as a battle-feral Gus reacts to his approach. "You got him, Gilmont… you really got him," his pupils enlarge as he gets a look at the damage she has wreaked upon her now-inert attacker.

"Easy, now," Harry gingerly picks up her wand, holding it out like an olive branch. "Are you alright, Gus? He cut your cheek, it's bleeding," his voice deepens with concern.

"I'm fine, I'll deal with that later," Gus dismisses it as a trifling niggle. "Dammit, I knew– I knew something was wrong; I should have trusted my instincts, I didn't want you to think I was some kind of kook… I felt we'd missed something, sir– Harry," Gus heaves, her fury now directed inward. "I'm sorry– I should have spoken up–"

"Auror Gilmont, you have nothing – NOTHING – to apologize for – I'm the one who failed the team – this is on me," Harry vehemently argues, as Gus's trembling fingers wrap around her wand. "No, it's true – I thought we knew everything there was to know about Ainbertach… Merlin, I'm so sorry, Gus."

"If you two have finished playing the blame game, could you do us all a favour and slap a set of handcuffs on that bastard snoozing on the floor?" Soledad grunts as she finishes securing Amon's leg shackles. "For the record, all our intel pointed to a lone scumbag, so you're both off the hook." She puffs up her fringe of thick dark hair as they both shrug diffidently. "Guys – cuffs? Please!".

Gus digs out a pair of manacles as Harry kneels to assess the prisoner, flipping the big man onto his back. Rocking back on his haunches, he quietly speaks. "I can't be one hundred percent certain – there's a lot of blood on his face – but I think this guy used to work for the Ministry… he had a job in the Department of International Magical Cooperation." He clicks his fingers. "Seth Loughty – that's him. He left a couple of years ago; there was some conjecture that he'd been caught sampling and selling some of the contraband we didn't allow to enter the UK, as I recall."

Harry's face hardens as he glares down at the unconscious wizard. "I reckon this prick is likely the last missing piece of the puzzle, in terms of how easily Flint and McLaggen were able to group together their gang of like-minded deviants, and infiltrate the Ministry. Isn't that right, Amon?" Harry stands to face the glowering Irishman as Gus rapidly binds and fetters Loughty.

Ainbertach's stony stare is hot enough to burn. He contemptuously spits at his downed partner in crime. "Póg mo thóin, Potter."

"Charming," Harry drolly replies. "Same to you, enfoiré." He reaches up to rake through his black hair, before sheepishly sticking his restless hands back in his pockets. "Well, I think the sooner we can turn over these lowlifes to the Dutch authorities, the better. Ah, Gus?".

"Yes?".

"Did I hear you go full 'Miss Piggy' with your karate chop, back there?" Harry grins as he mimics the Muppet pig's signature move and screech, while a bemused Sol looks on.

"No! I used a taekwondo defensive technique, not karate – maybe my yell sounded a little similar, but I wasn't – it wasn't –" Gus sputters, as Harry starts laughing. "Shut up, Harry."

"Look, no judgement – the Miss Piggy move worked; but could you maybe give my blood pressure a break and lay off the risky stunts, please? Winking at us just before you launch into a crazy defensive manoeuvre isn't Auror protocol, Gus," he chides.

"Listen, my iffy psychic skills don't extend to telecommunication – and I had it under control," she shrugs. "I did learn two important lessons from it, though. In future, I'm going to always act on my intuition, regardless of how weirdly it comes across."

"And the second lesson?" Soledad curiously pipes up.

Gus smirks. "I'm glad you asked, Sol. This braid has to go, pronto," she picks up the dirty-blonde plait, pulling a grumpy face at how many loose strands of hair fall, thanks to the abusive treatment of Seth Loughty. "I won't ever again have it used against me in a fight… and I've seen Harry's handwriting; it doesn't give me much faith in his ability to cut straight.'

"So – as soon as we get back to our accommodation tonight, I'm going to source a pair of scissors and find out whether you have any latent skills as a hairdresser… partner."

"There, there," Luna somehow manages to be heard over the incredible racket the wailing MacRu are generating in a corner of the castle's kitchen. She strokes their hair as they huddle into her side, crying piteously. "I promise you, Master Draco is already healing, and will be back on his feet in no time," she soothes.

"Who would do such a fiendish, dastardly thing?!" Ruibby bawls. "What a– a– varlet! Poor Master Malfoy!"

Macdolas pauses his rowdy howling long enough to chokingly declare, "Macdolas offers himself as tribute to claim the right to taste-test ALL of Master Malfoy's comestibles, from this moment forward! The prospect of expiring in agonizing pain to save Master's life is truly an honour and a privilege!". He lets go of Ruibby long enough to nimbly jump onto a nearby bench, clamping together his long, capable fingers in a classic gesture of beseechment as he addresses the high stone ceiling.

"The Humble Elf Macdolas (formerly of the Clan Fhionnlaigh, now of The Townhouse of Granger-Malfoy and The Caledonian Castle of Hogwarts), does abjectly beseech the Great Goddesses of Sorcery, Hecate and Circe – who may or may not be related – to please protect our beloved Master Professor Lord Draco Lucius Malfoy against all future vindictively-infused poisons and potions in his hot and cold beverages, meals, and snacks; Macdolas doth offer himself as willing sacrifice, should Your Eminences require a mere mortal oblation," he hollers, as Ruibby flings her arms around his lower legs and somehow intensifies the volume of her sobs.

Hermione prudently leans back in her chair and sips at her hot tea, suddenly very grateful that Luna insisted on breaking the unpleasant news herself. She intervenes only to cluck warningly at Mac as he meaningfully eyes a sturdy block of knives.

"Mac, dear: while I do understand the depths of your angst, Madame Pomfrey won't let you visit Draco if you're overly emotional," Luna amazingly retains her poise in the midst of their raucous histrionics. "Hermione and I would be happy to relay your messages of support, though."

Their dolorous cacophony miraculously dies down to sniffles at Luna's pronouncement. Hermione rolls her eyes into her near-empty cup, while Mac skips off the bench and staunchly hugs Ruibby to his side.

"The Laudable, Luminescent Lady Luna need not fear; MacRu would not dream of missing the opportunity to personally reassure themselves of Master Malfoy's recuperative progression." Mac's ears eagerly flicker; Hermione stops his headlong caper for the stairs with a firm hand to his wiry upper arm.

"Draco's not ready for visitors, yet, Mac. We'll come collect you both after we're finished in Headmistress McGonagall's office – and no, you can't sit in on that meeting, I've only been granted conditional attendance myself," she imparts. "Trust me when I say that I will see to it that the perpetrator of this crime will not go unpunished."

Hermione isn't aware that her lips have peeled back in a vicious sneer until Ruibby reaches for a silver platter, holding it up as a makeshift mirror. "Your Grace Lady Granger means business," she states in awe. "Darlingest Macdolas, our ferocious vengeance shall indubitably be enacted upon this dark day!".

Luna gently sighs. "Peace, lovelies; remember that what we put out in the world will always come back to us, like a karmic boomerang."

"But boomerangs are weapons, Lady Luna," Mac earnestly contends. "Therefore, Macdolas – as the Newly Appointed Official Granger-Malfoy Taste-Tester – should be now armed with a blunt but effective weapon, such as a hammer, club, or mace? No blades, of course. Macdolas knows his boundaries." He nods importantly, though he casts another longing glance at the wooden knife block.

"Absolutely no weapons: Mac, you know as well as I that Luna was speaking metaphorically – and she's right, I suppose," Hermione's bloodthirst eases as she uncomfortably realizes she shares more of her natural emotional reactivity with Macdolas than she had hitherto suspected. "Believe me, I understand your driving desire for vengeance… but we do need to settle down, and trust in Headmistress McGonagall to see justice is served."

Even Ruibby looks disappointed at that; the two elves mutter grumbles in each other's ears as Hermione and Luna rise to depart.

"Mac, I need you to promise me you won't plot or enact any revenge schemes; that goes for you, too, Ruibby," Hermione stares them down until they deign to tip the slightest of acceding nods. "Good. We'll send for you when Madame Pomfrey says Draco is well enough for visitors. Maybe… you could think of baking Draco his favourite treat, in the meantime?" she improvises.

"Apple fritter breakfast cake – no, apple rose puffed pastries!" Macdolas cries.

"No, mon chéri – Master Malfoy prefers apple oatmeal whoopie pies with peanut butter icing, and salted caramel apple streusel mini cheesecakes!" Ruibby disputes, dashing for the pantry.

"We'll make all of them, sweetest, cleverest Ruibby!" Macdolas is hot on her heels, the humans forgotten.

Luna and Hermione wait until they are out of earshot of the huge kitchens before they share an indulgent, stress-relieving laugh.

"Thanks, Luna; I appreciate you dealing with their dramatics," Hermione wipes her eyes before they start up the staircase. "Hopefully, their grandiose baking plans will help work off their excessive energy and fierce yen for retribution… a little bit, at least."

"Probably not; but at least we'll have some yummy treats to eat," Luna smiles. "Ready to see Minerva?".

"Let's do this, Luna." Squaring her shoulders, Hermione resolutely sets aside her simmering rage to give herself a stoic pep talk.

Remember you're a trained lawyer; a professor; and slapping a minor fair across the face is NOT a good look, Hermione Jean Granger. Neither is manually strangling anyone – but I trust Luna would stop me from committing either of those sins.

Right.

"Miss Throndson, are you certain you do not wish to have a parent or guardian present during this interview?" Headmistress McGonagall repeats the question to the slight, sobbing schoolgirl huddled in one of the visitor's chairs in her office, garnering only another jerky head shake in response.

"Perhaps I should wait for your parents anyway," Minerva muses. "You don't appear to be in a fit state to provide any answers, Selina."

Before Hermione can loudly object, Luna lays a cautionary finger upon her friend's jittering knee, her quelling expression not needing supplementary words.

Holding one's tongue sucks. Hermione contents herself with a lasered glare at Selina Throndson (not that the distraught girl notices at all).

The sorrel-haired student ceases her quiet sobbing long enough to declaim, "No! P-Please, Headmistress – they'll be so angry… and disappointed. I didn't know– I thought– he said it was only a mild laxative!" she cries, her quaking shoulders bowing further inward. "It was meant to be an April Fool's joke – to make Professor Malfoy, you know… um, soil himself in class!".

"Who said, Selina? Come, you know we'll have the truth of it, child. No sense in making this harder on yourself." Minerva passes a box of tissues to the weeping girl. "Dry your eyes; Professor Malfoy is expected to make a full recovery, thank Godric."

"Really? Is he really going to be alright?" Selina's swollen, light green orbs blink frantically. "He's not going to…"

"Die? No– no thanks to you– what kind of person sneaks an unknown substance into someone's drink?! You're incredibly lucky, petite vache pourrie!" Hermione switches into insulting French at the last moment. "I'm sorry – I'll be quiet." She claps her hand over her mouth as McGonagall briefly glares in their direction.

"Yes, Selina; fortunately, Madame Pomfrey tells me Professor Malfoy is now in a stable condition. They have confirmed his coffee was laced with enough belladonna to incapacitate an adult Hippogriff, apparently. It's one of the oldest known poisons – and has historically resulted in many human fatalities," the Headmistress explains. "Now – who gave you the drug, and why?"

Selina's expression of confusion is quickly replaced by mounting horror. "My– my cousin, Stuart Mulciber – he sent me the potion, and the skull and snake toys, and told me how to set them going – he hates Professor Malfoy, but he said he just wanted to scare him out of teaching at Hogwarts– please, you have to believe me! I didn't want to put the stuff in his coffee, but Stuart said he'd hurt my little brother if I didn't! Blair's only seven, he's not at Hogwarts yet– he's so small–"

Well… hell. How am I meant to maintain my rage when my pity is swallowing it whole? Hermione slumps resignedly in her chair.

"Stuart Mulciber? The Third? I had no idea… I believe he was schooled at Durmstrang, in accordance with his father's… ideology…" Minerva rummages through the thick file before her, her high brows creasing as she reads over the parchment. "Your mother's maiden name was Graham, Selina? I cannot see the connection, I'm afraid."

"Stuart's mother and my mine are – were – sisters," Selina dully answers. "Aunt Kathleen died before I was born… Mum doesn't talk about her much, but I think she's just as scared of Cousin Stuart as I am. She told me never to let him in the house when they're not home, anyway."

Lifting her tear-wet, desolate face, Selina whispers, "Can I please warn them… about how angry Stuart's going to be, when he learns I've failed? I know I'm going to Azkaban, but– my family– please, it's not their fault, it's mine."

"You're not going to Azkaban," Hermione butts in, unable to watch the girl sink further into hopeless misery. "You were clearly blackmailed and coerced, Miss Throndson. Stop crying, please. I assume your cousin sent you letters of instruction, with regard to the enspelled toys and the 'laxative' potion? Did you keep them?".

Everyone present visibly relaxes as Selina hesitantly nods. "Stuart told me to be sure to burn all his letters – but I didn't! They're at the bottom of my school trunk, wrapped in an old Slytherin scarf. I can go fetch them right away," she jumps up.

"Stay put, dear; Madame Hooch will collect them." Minerva nods at the spiky-haired witch, who immediately leaves the office.

"Now, I do need to notify the Ministry: your family is likely to be taken into protective custody while the DMLE round up this scurrilous cousin and build a case against him. Don't be frightened about talking with the Aurors, I shall stay with you the entire time, and I will personally deliver you to your parents and explain the situation, Selina."

"I won't– they won't put me in Azkaban?! I can deal with being expelled from Hogwarts, if I don't have to face prison," Selina breathes, her low voice quavering from relief and regret.

"Considering the circumstances (and assuming your story is verified), I think expulsion is out of the question, though a period of suspension and a negotiated punishment will certainly be in order," Minerva discloses. "The suspension would coincide and commence with your family's protective custody period, Selina."

"Oh– Headmistress! I know I don't deserve a second chance… th– thank you," the schoolgirl huskily says. She turns to face Hermione, nervously tucking her sweat-damp hair behind her ears as best she can.

"I'm so sorry, Professor Granger – I didn't want to hurt anyone, especially not Professor Malfoy, he's not at all stuck-up and horrid, like Stuart said he was… he's been really helpful in Potions… I'm sorry," Selina gulps. "I didn't know what else to do – I haven't been sleeping, and Stuart wrote he'd break all Blair's fingers if I refused to help him… Blair loves the violin, Dad thinks he could be a professional violinist, one day…" Her stilted words dwindle to hiccoughing sobs.

"Save your apology for Draco; I think you might be surprised to find he understands exactly the predicament you've been in, Miss Throndson," Hermione slowly divulges. "I'd counsel you to straightaway take your troubles to a teacher, in future… but I think Professor McGonagall would be the first to agree that I didn't always follow my own advice, when I was a student here."

"Humph," is Minerva's sole reply. "Hermione, Luna; would you mind leaving us, please? I'd appreciate you keeping the details of this interview to yourselves, although of course you may inform Draco of these developments, if he should ask. I'll contact the Ministry now. Thank you for your assistance," she imperatively waves toward the door.

"Dismissed," Luna softly giggles, as they bow and retreat. "I know we're teachers here now, but being in the Head's office always makes me feel like I've been called in for being naughty, Hermione."

"Same – but you never did anything naughty anyway, Luna!" Hermione snorts.

"No – but I really wish I had, you guys always seemed to enjoy it," she solemnly rounds her eyes. "You know, notwithstanding that whole 'fighting for your lives' heroic-quest thing."

Affectionately squeezing her friend's hand, Hermione grins broadly. "Hey – later today, let's swing by the library and research some obscure castle rules we can break! There must be something daft we haven't yet done… like maybe flying a kite in the Great Hall, or– or handling a whole salmon whilst looking mildly suspicious?".

"Ooh, yes – but could it be a live salmon, Hermione? If we both hold the ends of a fish tank, I think that's achievable," Luna happily concedes. "Also, it's far more suspicious than handling a deceased salmon, if you think about it."

"Done. Race you to the infirmary? Go!" Hermione recklessly pumps her legs, elation suffusing her system as she thinks about the boundless joy of seeing Draco again.

Look at me, actually running – voluntarily – to my precious, beloved wizard. Not that I needed the reminder, but at least this dreadful day has reminded me exactly how much he means to me… i.e., the whole world.

Gaelic translation:

Póg mo thóin – kiss my arse

French translations:

Je t'aime, mon âme sœur – I love you, my soul mate.

enfoiré – fuckface.

petite vache pourrie – you rotten little cow.