It burns.
Holy fucking shit, it burns so bad.
Behind the lids of his eyes, Adrian can just barely make out the luminosity of a white light. A white light that's dancing in rickety flickers.
Great. Unsteady lumen is just what he needs to overcome this throbbing headache. The light flashes and taunts him with its instability, unpredictability, impulsivity. It's like a metaphor for his fucking life at this point—holding on for dear life, desperate to grasp onto any sort of permanence left. If it could just be screwed—twisted a little tighter—then maybe that promise of stability would feel more like a possible reality.
But then that burning sensation returns, and it's all over his fucking left forearm.
And there's a sharp ringing in his ears—distant, vague, but audible enough to make his nose crinkle in discomfort. Make his eyes, fingers, and chest contract.
Adrian slowly opens his eyes.
Casts his pupils down, angling them to the left.
And stares at the monstrosity on his left forearm.
Splotched across the white bandage that insulates his forearm are patches of dried blood, but it's a dark color—almost purple, like red wine. The veins that run up and down his arms swell against his skin, so much so that he can make out the way they pulse and push blood through his body. And Adrian smells burning flesh—his own, it has to be his own—and that chilling, burning, charring smell causes him to gag.
When he tries to wipe the sweat from his forehead, he realizes that his hands are shackled to the side rails of the bed, and as he looks even closer, he notices a needle pricked right through the back of his hand, held down by a strip of clear tape where it connects with a small tube.
He follows the path of that tube with his eyes up his wrist and then right off the bed. His eyes trail up until his head tips back and rotates slightly to look at the bag of fluids hanging from a silver pole to the left of his bed. The end of the tube connects to a pipe at the bottom of the clear bag.
His eyesight is blurry—that's unquestionable. And he couldjust be imagining things. But he swears—Adrian fucking swears—that he sees little purple flecks floating in the liquid.
What the hellare those—
Suddenly, the ringing in his ear intensifies.
"Hello, Adrian."
His eyes fight to adjust properly to the new source of light in the room. He squints and recoils in the hospital bed, using every iota of energy he has to shuffle his legs back and glue his back to the sturdy pillows.
A figure with brown hair that runs just past her shoulders, a clipboard held tightly in her hands, and a pristine, white coat draped over her body appears to his left. She stands there for a moment, watching him, tilting her head condescendingly, and then she slowly places the back of her hand on his damp forehead.
"Still have quite the temperature, I see."
Adrian opens his mouth to groan, to cry, to make any sort of fighting sound, but all that comes out is a muffled choke.
"Don't try to talk," the visitor says sweetly. "Just relax. We're taking good care of you."
That cannot possibly be true. With the last bit of sanity that he has within him, Adrian knows her statement to be complete and utter bullshit.
"You must be in a lot of pain."
He doesn't care to nod in agreement. Just frowns and indignantly huffs out of his nostrils.
"Let's make you feel better."
Out of the corner of his eye, Adrian watches as the woman reaches for that IV bag that hangs from the pole. She squeezes it, compelling the liquid within to bubble and ooze down the tube, and after a few seconds of that pressure, Adrian begins to feel an even harsher burning sensation manifest in his left forearm. He grits his teeth, jerks his torso up to the ceiling, and flails his legs.
And when she finally relents, he drops his head onto the pillow and body back onto the bed, heaving in utter depletion.
"Don't worry," the woman whispers, "It's supposed to make you feel better. Eventually."
It's that voice, that stature, and that fucking condescending way of speaking that forces Adrian to become alert and suspicious of the identity of his visitor. He thinks, in that moment, that he knows exactly who it is.
But then she spins on her heels and turns away, ambling towards the door several feet from the foot of the bed.
"Y-you," he starts, sensing just how dry his mouth is from the dehydration, the faulty fluids, and the heat both steaming from his arm yet suffocating his entire body, "you won't g-get away with t-this."
The woman halts. Turns over her shoulder and smiles manically.
"Your childish tenacity is endearing. Very entertaining." She spins fully and stalks towards the bed, and when she reaches it, she wraps her hands around the base rail. "It's why you were chosen, Adrian. Such fire in your eyes and in your heart. All the more sweet to watch you burn and crumble." With a scoff, she pushes off of the bed and walks away. "Your days are numbered, darling. And your strength? It's being eaten away at every second. But don't worry. We really are taking very good care of you. Just like we've always said."
A moment later, she's out the door, and Adrian is alone yet again.
He wishes he could scream. Tear himself from the shackles around his wrists and break free from the metaphorical chains of the bed itself.
Instead, all he is capable of doing is weeping.
He hopes, somehow, that the echo of his tears carries itself to his friends.
At the crack of dawn, the Slytherins and Hermione all convene outside the apartment to wait for Titus.
The energy is somber, the attire is bleak, and the quietness of the group is unsettling.
It's all in their own distinct ways. Pansy, with her eyes swollen and her hair a tossed mess, holds Theo, whose hair is equally as scruffy and whose lips look like they'll stiffen into an eternal, desolate frown. Well, they hold each other—arms cloaked around one another's backs, heads dipped against one another's, and sides glued like they never plan on separating.
And then there's Daphne and Blaise. Hermione thought that no one in the world could ever surpass Draco's look of despair and guilt. Yet Blaise, usually so composed and poised and prepared, looks like he's being suffocated by his memories. Looks entirely guilty for what transpired last night, even though he's the one that was strong enough in the moment to act and save Adrian.
Daphne's sharp features hang sullen on her normally perky face, the bags of her eyes enflamed and her cheeks hanging slack. She doesn't have that strident confidence in her demeanor anymore; instead, she appears completely terrified. Fragile, but not in the normal sense of the word. She's frail and small, yes, but this fragility is one of the mind—like it'll snap at the next calamity—and somehow this mindset has manifested itself in her peculiar stature—arched shoulders, empty, dim eyes, and brittle, pale lips.
It's as if fatigue holds all of them prisoner.
Hermione's one source of comfort in the midst of the somber dereliction of the group is Draco's protective hand, firmly sealed to her back. It slowly snakes to her side, grips her waist, and tugs her towards him. She molds to his figure and dips her head against his shoulder. With an exhale, Draco clenches her waist a little tighter, his fingers settling against the dip of her waist like they belong there. She feels wholeheartedly safe—wishes he'd never let go, especially in this excruciatingly gut-wrenching moment.
When Titus appears out of thin air just a few moments later, the silence between them persists. His eyes reach each and every one of them, harboring this concerned yet optimistic mien. It's like he has all the faith in the world yet no clue what to expect at the same time.
"Are you all ready to go?" he asks.
It takes a moment, but the group silently yet collectively nods.
"Mind the anti-apparition wards. You'll want to aim for just outside of the hospital. Remember, it's right in the center of London, so stealth whilst apparating is of the utmost importance. Land quickly and quietly, and then we'll make our way into the building together. Alright?"
Another silent chorus of nods.
"Hey?" Titus implores, once again ensuring that he takes the time to gaze at each person. "Everything will be alright. We're going to go there together and come out together."
Theo sighs and finds the bravery to speak. "This is just… scary."
That confession leads Titus to take a step forward. Settle his hand on Theo's shoulder and respond placidly, "I know this is frightening. But I need you all to be strong for me. Yeah? Can you do that for me?"
Daphne's hand drops to seize Blaise's. "Yes," she responds, squeezing his hand. "We can."
Titus steps back. "Good. Whenever you're ready."
The air cracks around Titus as he spins into himself and disapparates into a burst of white light.
Pansy and Theo go next, followed quickly by Blaise and Daphne, and then it's just Draco and Hermione left, lingering on the pavement outside of their apartment in the brisk, January air. She cranes her neck to gaze at him and study his features. His cheeks are rosy, the pale of his skin chilled under the brittle, glacial air. But they're beautiful, tinted like roses on the first bloom of spring.
With a snug squeeze of his hand, Hermione pulls Draco with her into the travel spectrum, and then after moments of soaring through time and space, they land just outside of a red, brick department store called Purge and Dowse. A grimy, white sign with that store name is fastened just above the large revolving doors in the center of the structure, in front of which are three lines of durable, yellow, cautionary tape that run diagonally, the words Do Not Cross plastered on the tape in bold, black letters over and over again. The display windows on either side are obscured by cream tapestries, but situated in front of them are several bare mannequins.
Hermione's eyes veer to the left where Titus stands. He's close to the window, muttering something incoherent to the mannequin—the mannequin that's just moved slightly to address Titus. She watches as the expression on Titus' face shifts from optimistic to perplexed. That's when she takes Draco's hand and walks closer to Titus to heed the conversation.
"Only family members are allowed to visit Mr. Pucey." The voice is like an echo in her ears, even though she's far from the source. It's cold, stern, and uninviting, and it seems to be coming directly from the mannequin's mouth, which at one second is immobile and the next agile with words.
Titus huffs. Scans the area for muggles and then leans closer to the window.
"That boy is like a son to me—"
"But he is not your son. He is under strict surveillance by order of his Healer, who has expressed that only family members are allowed to see him. You are not allowed to enter the premises, as you are not a family member."
"He is over the age of eighteen, why should it matter—"
"You are not a family member, and therefore you cannot see Mr. Pucey. Good day."
With that curt response, the mannequin shifts back to its stagnant position.
Titus bangs his fist against the window. "Now—now wait a damn minute! You come back here!"
But the mannequin remains completely still. And the more Titus throws his fist against the glass and screams into the void about the atrocity of the hospital's policies, the more likely he is to draw attention to the group as they loiter outside this rundown, department store.
Hermione turns to the right—down the quiet street, she sees two muggles standing and watching in bewilderment as Titus yells at the storefront and crashes his fist against the glass over and over. One of them points, and that leads Hermione to charge forward and pull Titus back from the window. Theo is quick to help, too.
"Titus—Titus!" Theo exclaims, dragging him back and holding down his left arm. "You're drawing attention."
Titus is quick to recover. He straightens his shoulders yet furrows his eyebrows in frustration.
"What sort of regulation is that, huh?" he questions. "'Family only'—as if we're not the closest thing he has to one. As if you all don't live with him and love him like he's your own brother. As if he isn't practically my own bloody son. As if his own shite father gave a care in the world about him. As if… as if…"
He loses his train of thought. Has to take several deep breaths before finally reaching a point of composure. Then he turns to the group, and with a dejected and hopeless look on his face, he mutters an apology under his tremulous breath.
"If we can't see Adrian, how are we to know if he's alright?" Pansy asks, gripping Theo's arm.
"We'll figure something out," Titus insists, glaring at the mannequin with a whole new sense to the word ire. He turns back to look at the group, his eyes falling on Hermione when he adds, "But I think we need to get him the hell out of there."
It's a few hours later back in the apartment when Hermione concocts a plan.
Titus had told them to just wait a while—that he'd find a solution to the issue and assemble them when it was finalized. But true to Hermione's impatient nature, meticulous problem-solving, and annoyingly heroic disposition, she managed to devise a plot to break Adrian out of St. Mungo's.
It's one that reminds her too fondly of her memories at Hogwarts with Harry and Ron—those rebellious moments defined her teenage years, after all. Made her into the person she is today. Everything about the nature of this particular scheme makes her reminiscent of those defiant episodes in her otherwise bland life, and she can't help but feel oddly invigorated by the idea of participating in another one, only this time with a cunning, intelligent, and devout group of Slytherins.
But the plan is meticulous. It contains several intricate steps and initiatives, and Hermione fears that it could be far too late to save Adrian by the time everything is in order. She has to hold on to this string of potential success for dear life, even as it is consistently tugged out of her grip. The only person who could make this work—the only one who has immediate access to the things she would need—is Harry.
So, she sends him a Patronus with the following message:
Harry,
I need your help. It's about Adrian. Please come to the apartment as soon as you can—my Patronus will show you the way—and bring some spare Polyjuice Potion and the Invisibility Cloak if you can. This is serious. Please. We need you.
Hermione.
Her luminescent otter soars out of the window and zips through the sky, out of sight.
And then, it's a waiting game. And it happens in the living room, where the Slytherins and Hermione sit in relative silence as they await the return of the Patronus and, hopefully, Harry. Crookshanks purrs and weaves through the plethora of legs occupying his living room space, rubbing his fur against everyone's calves and occasionally meowing when he does not find exactly what he's looking for.
He crosses the room slowly from one couch to the other, his paws tapping against the floor in little pitter patters, until he finally reaches Draco, who sits at the end of the couch. Crookshanks pauses, then begins to plait himself through Draco's spread legs. His tail shoots up and curls around the lower half of Draco's calf. Visibly uncomfortable, but at least not verbally repulsed by the situation, Draco watches intently as Crookshanks laces himself around his feet, drops to a lying position, and rests his oversized head against the top of his black, leather Oxfords.
"Are you sure this will work?" Blaise asks, leaning his elbows against his knees and tapping his foot against the floor.
Hermione nods. "I think so. Harry, Ron, and I once infiltrated the Ministry and Gringotts in the same way."
"And were those endeavors successful?" Theo asks, cocking an eyebrow.
"Erm… for the most part, yes." She gnaws at her lower lip briefly, inspecting the cynical expressions of the others. "We just need to be careful. Now, Titus mentioned something about Adrian being kept on the third floor, right?"
"What if he's not there?" Daphne asks, peering around the room. "I mean… what if they're keeping him somewhere else?"
"They already didn't want us coming in to visit," Pansy interjects. "How much do you want to wager that's a particular Healer's doing?"
"You think Bruiser's behind us not being able to see him?" Blaise reaffirms, sitting up and scratching the back of his neck nervously.
Pansy's eyebrows shoot up and she rolls her eyes. "Wouldn't surprise me. She's always been a bit of an enigma, no? And she works closely with Aberfield. I don't see how she wouldn't be involved here. There's no way another Healer wouldn't let us see him." She nips at her thumb's fingernail and groans when she realizes that she's engaging in her tick. To counter it, she fiddles with her fingers, forcing them to dance around one another. "I hope Potter has access to some Polyjuice Potion."
"It takes a whole month to brew otherwise," Theo adds, shaking his head. "We don't have that kind of time."
"Potter will have some." The voice is Draco's, and it's sincere. "He… always does."
Hermione reaches for Draco's hand. Takes it in hers and sets it on her lap. He inhales at her touch, rotates his head to gaze down at her, and offers a tender smile, so soft and forgiving that she considers the possibility that swimming in melted silver is not as scary as it sounds.
"Depending on how much he is able to bring—if any—only a few of us will need to take the potion," Hermione starts. "The rest can enter under the Invisibility Cloak."
"It shouldn't be too difficult," Blaise says. "As long as we can get one person in who has proper identification, then we should be able to sneak in the others. I almost did an internship at St. Mungo's the summer before sixth year. Toured the facility and spoke with the Healer who ran the program. Obviously… plans changed that summer." He resentfully glances at his left forearm. "But I remember it being relatively easy to get around the hospital once inside and with someone who had the proper verifications. If people have to wander under the cloak, I don't think it will pose much of an issue."
"How well do you know the hospital?" Hermione asks further.
Blaise shrugs. "Well enough. It wasn't an extensive tour or anything. Perhaps if I'd actually worked there, I'd be able to offer more help."
"You've done plenty good already, Blaise," Pansy says.
He looks down and nods, and Daphne reaches over to place a gentle kiss on his cheek. Stroke his arm and remind him with those tender touches just how appreciated he is.
A knock sounds at the door, and all heads spin to meet the source of the sound. Hermione rises to her feet and rushes to the door, and when she pulls it open, she's relieved to see Harry standing next to her Patronus. The white otter vanishes into thin air, leaving Harry alone in the corridor.
"Where is he?"
That's the first thing Harry says, and there's intense trepidation in those three syllables and in his eyes.
"Harry—"
"Hermione, where is he?" he asks again, this time with more indignance, indignance manifested in the creases on his forehead and the harshness of his impatient hand motions.
She takes a deep breath and steps aside, allowing Harry space to enter the apartment.
"He's in St. Mungo's—"
"Why?"
Hermione musters up all the courage she has by looking at the others behind Harry.
"He… had an accident—"
"Hermione, stop beating around the fucking bush and just spit it outfor fuck's sake—"
"Mind your tone, Potter," Draco snarls, rising from the couch and flagging to her side.
Harry spins and scoffs. "Malfoy—"
"Talk to her like that again and you'll regret it."
"I—"
Harry pauses. Composes his tense shoulders and takes a deep breath. And redirects his attention to Hermione.
"I'm sorry," he whispers. "I just… I need you to tell me what happened. Please. Because all I could think about on the way here was the worst possible situation and I… I need to know if he's alive. Hermione, that's all I need you to tell me."
She purses her lips, wishing she could tell him something totally sincere. Reassure him that Adrian is, in fact, alright, that the Healers at St. Mungo's are taking perfectly good care of him, that he is just relaxing and recovering in a comfortable hospital bed, and that he'll be back home shortly. He'll be back to his old, fun-loving self.
But she can't.
She doesn't know if any of that is true.
She doesn't even know if he's still breathing.
And she hates having to be the one to tell Harry that terrifying fact.
"We don't know if he's alive or not," Hermione starts. "Harry... he overdosed last night at Amortentia. And when we tried to visit him in the hospital this morning, they wouldn't let us in. They said that since we weren't family, we couldn't see him."
Harry exerts a shaky breath. He rubs the heel of his hand over his eyes, below his glasses, and drags his skin down with the pressure of his fingers
Hermione steps forward and places her hand on his shoulder. "Harry—"
"I need to see him. I need to come with you all."
"Do you have the cloak and the potions?" Hermione asks lightly.
Harry nods, removing a duffel bag from his shoulder and dropping it on the floor. "Everything you asked for is in there," he responds. "There probably isn't enough Polyjuice Potion for all of us, but I suppose that's what the cloak is for."
"It's perfect," Hermione responds. She clears her throat, preparing for the moment of revelation. "Harry, do you remember when you, me, and Ron snuck into the Ministry? And into Gringotts?"
Harry nods, eyes widening and lips curling ever so slightly into a hopeful smile.
Hermione mirrors his mien. "How do you feel about adding St. Mungo's to that list?"
Harry inhales through his nostrils. Gazes at the Slytherins over his shoulder. And smiles.
"I'd say it's unquestionably worth it."
Carefully concealed behind the side of Purge and Dowse and underneath one of Theo's brilliant Disillusionment Charms, the Slytherins, Hermione, and Harry wait for the night shift Healers to arrive at their posts. Wait, watch, and execute—that's what they focus on as they stand outside the abandoned department store.
They decided it'd be best if four people consume the Polyjuice Potion—Hermione, Harry, Draco, and Blaise. The others would sneak through the boundaries beneath the Invisibility Cloak. Harry had brilliantly charmed the fabric to be longer and wider, thus capable of hiding several individuals beneath it at a time.
So, they wait and watch as Healers show up one by one, and Draco grows wholly impatient with their inability to act on the plan.
"We need four of them together to keep the timing consistent," Hermione reminds him, stroking her thumb over the back of his hand while their fingers are interlocked. "Just be patient, Malfoy. Everything will be alright."
Draco squeezes her hand, closes his eyes, takes a deep breath, and nods in compliance.
They have to wait a few minutes more before an opportunity finally presents itself in a pod of four Healers appearing from around the opposite corner. Hermione hears their bellowing laughter echo in the otherwise abandoned street, and that's when she peaks her head around the wall to catch a glimpse of them. The Healers walk jovially with one another, gripping duffel bags in hands and sporting professional yet comfortable work clothes underneath their white coats. They'll do just fine.
Harry approaches Hermione from behind and pokes his head around the building too, watching as they advance closer and closer to the entrance.
"Once they get close enough, I'll stun them," Harry suggests. "We need to move fast after that."
When the Healers are just about to greet the mannequin and bring it to life, Harry valiantly swoops out from behind the building and fires four different stupefies in their direction. The spell hits each of them square in their chests, and they fall over and collapse on the ground like rag dolls, eyes shut and mouths slack in petrification.
The race against time begins, and the group leaps into action.
As Theo draws the Disillusionment Charm further across the atmosphere, the others rush to grab hold of the Healers' shoulders and legs. They work together, collaboratively dragging the stunned bodies around the corner of the building and shoving them against the brick wall. Harry digs into his bag and retrieves four separate flasks of the Polyjuice Potion. While Harry distributes the potions to Hermione, Draco, and Blaise, Pansy, Theo, and Daphne begin to tug off loose strands of hair from the heads of the unlucky Healers. They allocate the pieces of hair to the others.
When each strand of hair is placed in a different canteen, the group listens closely as the liquid sizzles and bubbles.
"Fuck's sake," Draco complains, sniffing his potion and consequently gagging. "That smells like the bloody Quidditch changing rooms."
Blaise snorts. "Perhaps it won't taste as revolting as it smells."
"It probably will," Harry mumbles, sloshing his potion around in the flask. "Every time I've had to drink one of these potions, the taste has been more nauseating than the last."
"Well, that's just fucking wonderful for me, isn't it?" Draco sardonically murmurs, tipping the spout of the flask against his mouth and then parting his lips to knock the liquid back. Hermione can tell when it goes down his throat because his eyes wrinkle, his nose twitches, and his lips curve into a disgusted frown. It's the kind of expression one has when they take a shot of something so sour, so spicy, so red-hot and burning and intense that they can't help but project to the world just how brave they are for taking it in the first place.
Draco swallows the potion, coughs once, and sticks out his tongue. "Merlin's fucking ball sack," he gripes, "that was repulsive—"
Suddenly, his eyes widen, and his hands find his cheeks. His skin appears to bubble and ripple, and he morphs into one of the Healers lying unconscious on the ground. His dirty blonde hair becomes a deep brunette, and his tattoos fade into obscurity.
Hermione glances down at her own potion and bravely knocks it back, cognizant that time is of the utmost importance here. The potion is bitter—like usual—and it stings as it trickles down her throat like a mudslide. It never gets easier to drink this shit—never.
As she watches Blaise and Harry drink their share of the potion, Hermione feels intense vibrations manifest on the outside of her skin. Her hands begin to bubble, her cheeks grow ruby with sweltering heat, and even the tendrils of her hair grow silkier and lighter. She undergoes that feeling of intense déjà vu as she hastily rips the white coat off of her victim, a woman whose tag reads 'Maeve Flanagan,' and she hopes—Hermione prays to the gods and anyone that is listening—that she doesn't have to bank on her abysmal Irish accent in order to pull this off. She's damned if she tries. Perhaps she just won't speak altogether. That might prove too difficult, though.
After Harry and Blaise are metamorphosed into their Healers and slip their white coats on, Theo rises and points his wand at the group of stunned Healers. He meticulously conceals them with a second Disillusionment Charm, hiding any trace of their existence and gluing their bodies up against the brick wall.
"The potion should last for around half an hour," Harry warns as the group rises to their feet.
"So should the charms I've just done," Theo adds.
"Hopefully that's enough time," Daphne whispers, gazing at the others with a trepid expression.
Harry reaches over and places his hand on Daphne's shoulder. "It will be. We'll find him." He turns back to the others. "Right, you three—" he points to Theo, Daphne, and Pansy— "will be under the cloak. Follow closely behind us at all time, alright? If we get separated, just stay as low-profile as possible." Harry turns to the rest of the group, straightening his shoulders and speaking with governance. "We search every room for Adrian. Every room. We have to find him."
"Inspiring message, Potter," Draco mumbles under his breath, reaching for Hermione's waist and tugging her slowly towards him. "But considering that we're quite pressed for time, I'd recommend you bite your tongue and get us into St. Mungo's now, yeah?"
Harry huffs out of his nostrils and roll his eyes, and with a spin of his heels, he storms towards the entrance.
Draco snickers to himself, glancing down at Hermione and subsequently ignoring her thwarted expression as he drags her to the window. They pause before the mannequin, and just like earlier in the day, they request access to the hospital.
The mannequin shifts slightly, eyes their outfits and name tags, and nods once in consent. Once the mannequin reverts to its original position, the window of the store suddenly begins to bubble and sway vertically, like long branches on a tree in a windstorm. It's as if the glass has morphed into a holographic portal of sorts, little specks of rainbow shining through with each undulation.
Blaise steps forward first, followed by Harry, Draco and Hermione, and then the others beneath the cloak. They walk through the portico, their bodies reduced to mushy gelatin for a moment before arriving in the reception room of St. Mungo's. Draco steadies Hermione's hand in his as they pile through and scan the surroundings.
There's a large, semicircle desk on their right with a little old witch seated within the curve of the circle. Directly in front of them is a waiting area, filled with witches and wizards patiently awaiting treatment in rows of wooden chairs. It's a large waiting room—so large that the chorus of sounds festering within it from patients, Healers, and staff members barely reach and reverberate off of the walls, granting it a rather serene atmosphere in what one might consider a usually bustling environment.
Hermione eyes two open-outward doors in the far-right corner of the waiting room just behind the welcome desk. She watches as Healers pass through the doors in steady streams, calling out patient names and subsequently guiding them back into the main corridor of the hospital.
"Those are the main doors," Blaise whispers under his breath, just loud enough so that Hermione can hear him. "We need to get through there quickly, and then it's just a matter of scouring the corridors for Adrian." He inhales deeply, summoning as much courage as possible with that breath of oxygen. "Follow me."
The Welcome Witch, as she's known in St. Mungo's, observes from behind the desk as the group begins to wander towards the door. She doesn't speak to them, and for a moment, Hermione considers that they're in the clear. That the white doors in front of her are the gates to heaven, and she's never sinned once in her life. Her promised land becomes closer as they turn the corner of the desk and make their way to the doors.
But suddenly, the doors pull open from the other side, and Hermione swears her once hopeful breath escapes her body as her eyes connect with the woman in front of her.
From behind, Hermione can just faintly hear Theo mutter under the cloak, "Holy fucking shit—"
Healer Bruiser smiles at the group. "Maeve," she says, addressing Hermione, "how are you today?"
Hermione gulps and takes a deep breath. "I'm alright, Cleo, how are you?"
Bruiser smiles and clutches the clipboard in her arms a little tighter. "Very well, thanks."
So, no accent for Maeve, then. Thank gods.
"Just making my rounds now, and then I'll be heading back upstairs to check on the inpatients. It's been quite a busy twenty-four hours here—"
"Cleo?" It's the voice of another Healer, and he approaches her from behind and taps her shoulder. "You're needed at eighteen. Patient is complaining about their head like it's about to explode. Says it's the visions of the Dementors again."
Bruiser sighs and bows her head at Hermione. "You'll have to pardon me. Take care this evening." She turns on her heels and heads back through the door.
The Healer watches as she goes and then turns back to face the group. He looks directly at Draco and smiles brightly. "Malcolm!" he exclaims, opening his arms excitedly. He then turns to Harry and spreads his arms further out, tilting his head and sporting a cheeky grin on his face. "Thomas," he sings in a low voice. "Good to see you two back from your honeymoon!"
Draco freezes in place. Widens his eyes and drops Hermione's hand from his.
Hermione cranes her head to glance at the name on Draco's pin: Malcolm Davies.
And then she looks at Harry's: Thomas Davies.
She has to fight the urge to burst out into laughter, partly because they're here for a very serious reason and don't have time for this distraction, but also because she knows—she's just sure of it—that Draco will kill her if she teases him about this.
So, Hermione bites her tongue and just enjoys the sight of Draco stuttering over his words.
"Well, we… it was… erm… it was fine," Draco responds, half-cringing and half-putting on a rather strong performance. "Yeah, we had a great time. But we've got to run now."
"You alright, Malcolm?" the Healer asks. "You sound a little funny."
Draco clears his throat and reaches over to grab Harry's hand. He begins to drag Harry with him, and the group follows closely behind. "Must've just picked up an accent over the vacation," Draco responds with a nonchalant shrug.
"You're… picking up a French accent?"
"Yeah," Draco answers, pressing his hand against the doors and shoving them right open. "Or, erm, ouais! C'est vrai! C'est ce qui s'est passé!"
At the sound of that gentle French intonation, Hermione's lips curl in an intrigued smile. Will Draco ever stop surprising her? She doubts it but is perfectly fine with that unpredictable reality—feels more real and authentic anyhow.
"Haven't heard that French in quite some time," Blaise mumbles as they push past the doors and step into a long, lively corridor.
"Of course that happens," Draco groans, yanking his hand from Harry's and trudging towards Hermione. "Because the universe just adores screwing with me."
Hermione finally releases that pent up laugh in her chest, lifting her hand to her lips to conceal the sound as best as possible. But it feels nice to laugh, to smile, to feel joy. To hinder that feeling, especially now, would be that final step towards a desolate black hole. She can't fall into that—she needs all the hope and joy she can get.
So, she laughs. Ignores the repercussions of that joyful moment,
And finds comfort when Draco still reaches for her hand.
Blaise steps in front of everyone and turns around to reveal his content smile. "Alright, we've got to be quick now." He peers around everyone in search for the others under the cloak. "Theo? Pans? Daph? You all still there?"
The corners of the Invisibility Cloak become visible in the atmosphere as Theo lifts the fabric and exposes him, Pansy, and Daphne crouched beneath it. "We're right behind you," Theo says, and as quickly as they reveal themselves, they cower back under the cloak.
"Every room needs to be checked," Draco sternly insists. "The third floor might be where they keep poisoned patients, but I guarantee you that Healer bitch has got him held up somewhere else."
"Malfoy's probably right," Blaise adds, rubbing his forehead in a moment of stress. "If Bruiser is behind this, then it's possible he's being kept somewhere private. Out of sight."
Hermione grits her teeth at that possibility. It's wholly probable—that Bruiser is the one behind this. And if she's involved, it must mean that Aberfield is involved, too.
Gods, she hates this.
"We need to navigate smartly, then," Blaise says, leaning into the group and eyeing other Healers as they walk around them. "Perhaps we should consider splitting up in order to cover more ground. Has anyone else been in this hospital before?"
Harry raises his hand. "I have. A few times. And I've got a decent idea of what the hospital looks like."
Blaise nods. "Brilliant. So—" He glances between Draco and Hermione. "I think we need to split up between us. We don't have much longer before we turn back to ourselves, and he really could be anywhere at this point."
"I'll go with Harry," Hermione eventually suggests, and that elicits Draco's hand to squeeze hers even tighter. She cranes her neck and raises her eyebrows at him. He's got this look on his face that she can't quite decipher—it's both longing and rageful. "Malfoy—"
"Be careful," he says in a low voice, tilting his head to the side like he's already predicting her stubborn nature to shine through in one way or another. And then he turns to Harry and flares his nostrils. "If even a centimeter of her is injured on your watch, I will kill you. I don't care that we're a married couple, Potter. I will quite literally burn you in front of every Healer here and then dance on your ashes."
Harry's mouth falls open, and he rolls his eyes. "Always so dramatic, Malfoy—"
"Do you think I'm joking?" Draco snaps, his voice a little louder and his eyebrows slanted. "Don't. Let. Anything. Happen. To. Her."
Harry realizes the severity and sincerity of the statement, and with a deep breath centered in his chest, he parts his lips and nods. "Alright. I won't. You have my word, Malfoy."
With one last squeeze—this time from Hermione—she releases Draco's hand and steps towards Harry. Turning around, Hermione meets his eyes again and offers a reassuring smile.
"When one of us finds Adrian, we send the others a Patronus with a good meeting place," Blaise instructs. "Got it?"
Everyone nods, and Blaise exhales a nervous sigh.
"Alright. Malfoy, the others, and I will take the first two floors. There are several sections, including restricted ones, so we'll need as many people as possible covering these floors." Blaise turns to look at Hermione and Harry. "You two take the third and fourth floor but be careful. It's not as extensive as these first two floors, but there's far more security because of the severe conditions of some of the patients. You've got to be quick and careful."
"There's only about twenty-five minutes left of the Polyjuice," Harry says. "We have to go, right now."
"Go," Blaise insists, gesturing them towards the end of the hallway. "The stairwell is just back there. Be careful. And if you find him, take care of him."
As Hermione nods and takes off with Harry, she glances one more time at Draco over her shoulder. His lips are parted, eyes fixed right on her as she scurries down the hall with Harry. She smiles one more time.
They pass room after room with purpose until they reach those doors. Hermione swings them open and begins her hurried ascent up the tall staircase. It's dim and cold in the stairwell, the walls painted a pale, light blue. There's no source of natural light to illuminate the space—just bright lightbulbs that are etched into the ceiling on each landing and above each set of stairs.
Hermione takes the steps in doubles, Harry following closely behind. She spins at the landing, rushing up another flight of stairs with her hand locked on the rail to help guide and steady her climb. And then after another round of stairs, Harry and Hermione finally arrive at the door marked with a giant '3.'
Hermione shoves it open. And Harry follows closely behind as they enter the corridor.
The walls are painted a pale, tan tinge and are lined with posters in the spaces between observational windows into rooms. Blinds are lifted for most of the quarters, and as Harry and Hermione slowly begin to march down the corridor, they peer through each window in search of Adrian. Room numbers in large, bold fonts are plastered on the outside of each wooden door, and the numbers grow as they continue down the corridor.
Other Healers pass by them and nod in a quick greeting, to which they nod right back and then make themselves look as busy as possible.
Once at the end of that corridor, Hermione and Harry turn the right corner and continue down the path, praying and begging that they find Adrian.
"Harry," Hermione whispers as they reach the end of that second corridor, "What if he's not here?"
"He's in this hospital," Harry insists. "I know it."
"No," Hermione responds, shaking her head. "I mean, what if he's not on this floor? Or the next one? What if he's not on the first or second floor either? What if they have him somewhere terrible? What if he's hidden somewhere, all alone, in an inaccessible room? What if they've been lying about having him here?" The questions fall from her mouth like a rolling stream.
Harry stops walking and wraps his hand around Hermione's wrist, effectively calming her trembling limbs. "Please, Hermione. Don't think like that. Don't say things like that,"
She purses her lips. "I just… I can't lose him. From literally the first moment we spoke at the Ministry, I could tell that there was this spirited energy about him. Like he was some sort of glue. Like he held everyone and everything together, even when things were incredibly hard for him. I can't think about life without him—for me, for any of them, even for you."
Harry listens, and after a brief moment of silence, he nods in understanding. "I know what you mean. About his energy. There was something about that first interaction between us at Hogwarts when you came to look in the Pensieve—"
Harry falters. Gnaws at his lower lip.
"He has this innate quality about him that just makes you feel so… important. Valued. Valid."
Hermione notices that the corners of his eyes are beginning to swell with tears.
But Harry pushes through the overwhelming emotions and continues to speak to Adrian's character in this wholly admirable way.
"Adrian's… understanding. He can pinpoint exactly where you're hurting and just say… the right thing. With humor, sincerity, honesty. I don't know how he does it. But it's intoxicating to be around. He makes me feel… heard. Understood. Like I'm not alone." He sighs. Looks down at his feet and takes another deep breath. "So, we're going to find him. Because he means far too much to me and to all of you. I promise."
Reaching for his hand to hold in hers, Hermione slows her breathing and compels Harry to look into her eyes.
"You're right," she whispers, and then she tugs his hand to resume their search.
But much to her fears and anxieties, the third floor proves to be unsuccessful. Adrian is nowhere in sight. He's not in one of the rooms, not wandering the hallways, not jumping out from behind chairs or hallway cots with a merry smile on his face. No—he's lost somewhere in this massive hospital, and with every minute that passes—every footstep that Hermione takes—she feels daggers slide into her worried heart, draining it of hope and confidence and courage and optimism.
She can only imagine how sharp the knives feel piercing Harry's heart, too.
They storm through the door to the opposite stairwell and begin that lengthy ascent, praying with each step they take that Adrian is somewhere nearby.
The infamous fourth floor—for long-term residents and those encumbered by horrific incidents of perpetual spell damage—is groggy and muted, with almost no one wandering among the hallways. Hermione waits for any sort of security to walk by, question them, or even give them a questionable look, just as Blaise insinuated that they might. But the corridors are practically empty. All she hears are sounds coming from the rooms that line the corridor—muffled screams that are still as excruciating as nails on a chalkboard, quiet sobs that roll like waterfalls, and unnerving whimpers of potentially psychotic patients who speak about voices in their heads, apparitions in front of them, visions they're having. It's an orchestra of chilling sounds.
But Harry and Hermione ignore them, intent on scouring the hall in the same way as before to find Adrian. They peer through windows and sigh when they still don't find him.
And then, Harry picks up his walking pace. He becomes audibly more frustrated with each failure—each glimpse into a room that doesn't hold Adrian. In a moment's notice, Harry takes off, speeding down the hall and frantically whipping his head around in search of him. He's around fifteen doors down when his face turns entirely embellished with his anger, cheeks burning red and lips slanted downward in ire. Balling his right fist, Harry throws his hand against a wall, letting out an angry grunt in the moment of contact.
"He's got to be here!" Harry exclaims, and then suddenly he's sprinting down the corridor again and turning the corner in a flash.
Hermione's chest tightens with sorrow as she picks up her pace and scans the rooms. They're full of people lying comfortably in their beds, watching as charmed objects tend to the maintenance of the room and their own well-being. The rooms are full of witches and wizards of all ages and sizes, yet none of them are who she desperately needs to see. She can taste the anticipation of it all on her dry tongue—it's eating her alive not knowing where he is.
Time fleets like the wind, and with each room she passes, Hermione loses a little bit more hope. Wishes she wouldn't, but does. It's draining. Difficult. Practically hopeless. Her feet grow tired under the pressure of her itinerant body and her heart, her aching heart, her heart which feels like it will explode any fucking second, and the only thing that could possibly stop her from combusting would be to have Adrian, Draco, Harry—someone—wrap their arms around her and tell her that everything will be okay—
"Hermione!"
She cringes at her name being called. Fears that someone will uncover their plan.
But the desperation in Harry's voice is quite telling. She runs at full speed and turns the same corner Harry did moments ago, and when she makes that turn, she's shocked to witness Harry ramming his shoulder into a door that's all the way at the very end of the corridor, etched into the wall directly opposite from her. There's no window into it—no sign that Adrian is even in there, from what she can tell—but it's the sight of Harry attempting to barrel down the door like his life depends on it that compels her to believe it's important.
She sprints. Practically flies down the corridor until she's next to Harry. And when she arrives, he points to the folder that hangs from the center of the door.
Pucey.
Hermione heaves a sigh of relief. "Harry," she starts, reaching for his arm, "just use your wand."
Harry steps back. Adrenaline shines through his facial expression and through the veins pumping against his skin, and Hermione suspects that, in that moment, Harry forgot about his magic and was just intent on getting through the door to reunite with Adrian.
He quickly reaches into the pocket of his pants, pulls out his wand, points it at the handle, and whispers the most urgent "Alohomora" that Hermione has ever heard. Of all those times they used that specific spell, this particular intonation screams desperation the most. His hand grips the handle, and he throws the door open.
Somehow, Hermione's world swallows her whole yet thrusts her into the stratosphere at the same time. Because he's there—Adrian. He's there, he's here, right in front of her, and that's all she needed to see. But he's lying in that hospital bed, still as a rock and pale as a cloud, but he's there—gods, he's here.
Unlike Hermione, whose feet are glued to the floor, Harry almost takes off in a sprint to the bed.
"Adrian—"
"Wait," Hermione says, reaching for his arm. "Harry, we're not ourselves."
Harry looks down at himself, focusing on his burly hands, tall legs, and large chest.
"We have to approach him carefully," Hermione warns, shutting the door quickly and taking quiet steps towards Adrian. "Just use your voice to remind him of who you really are, okay?"
Harry nods, following her and then splitting off at the foot of the bed. Hermione approaches the left side of the bed, and Harry flags to the right.
The closer she gets to him, the heavier her heart becomes. The state of his body is nothing short of horrifying. Adrian looks depleted of almost everything in him. His forehead is coated with beads of sweat, his limbs spontaneously shiver, the bags under his eyes are purple and thick, and even his eyelids are droopy and unsteady. An eerie pale color tints the usually vibrant hue of his cheeks, and it spreads to his whole face and neck. For a moment, Hermione thinks Adrian might be just one second away from death.
But no. There's life still there. Systems working and lungs operational. His chest lifts up and down in slow breaths, the colored veins that run across his arms and neck pump with verve, and if she listens quietly, Hermione can just faintly make out little sighs that escape his slightly parted lips.
But then there's the smell. This horrible, nauseating smell. Like burning flesh. And it's coupled with this faint sizzling sound, so quiet and feeble yet so fucking daunting at the same time. And it seems that Harry has sensed the sound too, because in the next moment he's dropping to his knees and staring at Adrian's left arm in abject horror.
"Hermione," Harry croaks, gently placing his fingers on Adrian's bandage. "His arm. It's…"
Hermione's eyes lock on the discolored bandage that wraps around his left forearm. Patches of purple seep through the white gauze, and his forearm practically throbs beneath the tight constriction of the wrapping. She fears—fuck's sake, she knows that it's something to do with his mark. It has to be.
And then Hermione notices a small needle sticking into the skin of the back of his hand, and she follows the tube connected to it up to a small bag of fluids. And when her eyes behold the contents, she drops her mouth wide open in shock.
Purple flecks.
Like little flower petals.
Floating in the liquid.
They look just like the Nulliwinkle she found in Aberfield's office the day she broke in with Draco.
"Oh gods," she whimpers, covering her mouth with her hand. Her knees buckle, and she grips the side rail of the bed to steady herself. "Harry… take that needle out."
"What?" Harry asks, furrowing his eyebrows. "Why—"
"Harry, just do it," Hermione insists. "Please, he's—oh gods—please, just do it, Harry."
"O-okay," he responds. Harry's hands quiver as they reach for the needle and slowly start to slide it out of his skin. But before he can pull it out fully, Adrian stirs. Opens his eyes. Stares at the two Healers in front of him. And immediately jolts and squirms back in his bed, pressing his back tightly against the pillow and kicking his legs.
"No, no," he fights, shaking his head and tearing up. "No, p-please, I don't want it a-anymore—"
"Adrian," Hermione whispers gently, wrapping her hand around his as it trembles with fear. "Adrian, it's alright. Please relax, please listen to my voice. It's Hermione. I'm here to help—"
"No, no, no," Adrian begs, closing his eyes and violently shaking his head. "Please, no more—"
Harry takes Adrian's hand in his. "Adrian, just listen to our voices. Listen. It's us."
Adrian fights the possibility, squirming in the bed and straining his neck and arms to battle his way out of their grips.
Hermione resorts to memories to draw him back to her.
"Adrian, do you remember on Christmas Day at the Shrieking Shack?"
He slows his griping and tugging and falls relatively still, his eyes closing in on Hermione's.
She continues. "You were so sweet to me. You told me that everyone wanted me there. That I belonged there in that moment with you all. I don't think I've ever felt as welcomed or happy to be somewhere as I did in that moment."
Adrian parts his chapped lips and softens his eyes, exhaling slowly in a state of disbelief.
"And do you remember what you told me at the Pensieve, Adrian?" Harry adds, squeezing his hand. Adrian turns his head to look at Harry. "You talked me through all of my problems with Ginny. You listened to me when I told you that things were looking bleak for her and I. You told me that my honesty and self-awareness was admirable, and that I need to know who I am before I can find someone that truly loves me for me." Harry drags his tongue over his bottom lip, fighting back tears. "You told me to never settle for someone that wouldn't apparate across the world for me."
A switch clicks behind Adrian's eyes. He darts his eyes between Harry and Hermione, and it's as if he sees beneath their disguises and can read their souls like an open book.
"Potter... Granger," Adrian murmurs.
She nods vigorously, reaches her hand out to cup his cheek, stroke her thumb over his tepid skin, and then she glances over at Harry. "Harry, send a Patronus to the others. We have to get him out of here. Hurry."
Harry rises to cast his Patronus, and Hermione squeezes Adrian's hand and dips her forehead against his. She smiles, laughs, presses a soft kiss to his cheek and then meets his eyes with hers.
"We've got you, darling," she whispers. "We're going to get you out of here."
Adrian gulps and nods once. "It hurts."
She returns the nod, folding her lips into one another to counter the tears that are desperate to fall from her eyes. "I know, I know. Here—"
Hermione tentatively reaches over his body and slowly removes the needle from his hand. She's careful—meticulous until the very last moment, the moment that the needle emerges from his skin. She drops it against the floor and sighs in relief when he lets out an alleviated moan. Then she uses her wand to remove the shackles from his wrists.
"That's going to feels so much better now that it's out," she whispers.
"I've sent the Patronus," Harry says, returning to Adrian's side and taking his hand in his. "We've got to get him out of here, though. The Polyjuice is going to wear off soon."
Hermione nods. "Adrian, we're going to get you out of here. But you have to be strong for us, alright? Apparating is hindered here. But we have to get you downstairs and out of this hospital. Can you be strong for us?"
Adrian exhaustibly exhales out of his nostrils. "I—I don't know—"
"You can be," Harry says. "You have to be."
Adrian stares up at Harry's face for a brief moment, and then a beautiful, soft smile forms with the supplest curve of his lips. "Knight in shining a-armor, aren't you, Potter?"
Hermione lets out a succinct giggle, and Harry smiles.
"Just as comical as ever, aren't you, Pucey?"
"Well—" Adrian shifts in the bed— "when the Chosen One c-comes to break you out of St. Mungo's, y-you have to flatter him with some w-wit and charm, wouldn't you say?"
Harry snorts and rolls his eyes. "You're trying to flatter me whilst I break you out of a hospital?"
"Keeps me distracted from the c-crippling pain of whatever the fuck they were injecting me with. N-now, let me see those pretty green eyes up close."
With a cheeky grin, Harry leans closer to Adrian. He smiles a little bigger than before, opening his mouth in the process to expose his most genuine smile.
"Ah, g-good. They're still there." He gulps and lifts one of his hands to streak his fingers through Harry's hair. "I burn, I pine, I perish, P-Potter."
Harry gives him a perplexed look, tilting his head to the side.
"Sh-Shakespeare, Potter. Shakesp—you know what, I'll explain it a-another time." Adrian turns to Hermione. "You—"
Hermione purses her lips and leans in, delicately placing her hand on his shoulder. He does the same thing to Hermione that he did to Harry: reaches for her cheek with his hand and strokes her face with his trembling fingers.
"Don't cry for m-me, Granger. Unless it's from l-laughing too hard."
She shakes her head and laughs, reaching for his wrist and wrapping her hand around it.
"Only you would set aside time to make your rescuers laugh, Adrian," Hermione says.
"Well, the Ministry can take my freedom, my autonomy, and whatever else they want."
Hermione closes her eyes and predicts the direction of that statement—one she's heard before.
"But my sense of humor? That—that comes with me all the way to my grave."
"King of comedy," Hermione concludes.
He nods. "King of comedy."
"Well, king of comedy, as hard as this is going to be, we need to get you out of here. We're going to help you the whole way down, alright? You just lean on us."
Adrian nods in agreement. Harry and Hermione get to work, carefully guiding his back off of the pillows and then his legs over the side of the bed. He lets out several painful, chilling groans in the process, causing Hermione to wince at the thought of dragging him through the entire hospital while he's in this much pain.
"I know, I know," Hermione mutters soothingly, stroking his back. "We've got you, Adrian."
"Everything is s-sore," Adrian mutters, gripping his stomach and lurching over. "I don't know if I can, Granger—"
"You can," she says, sweeping around the bed and joining Harry on the other side. She throws Adrian's right arm around her shoulder—Harry does the same to the left—and then they lift him together from the bed and steady him between them. Once again, Adrian lets out an excruciating wail, but he grits his teeth to counter the pain. Bites his tongue and rolls his neck to fight the aching in his limbs.
They begin to take small steps towards the door. Adrian musters his strength in his legs and drags himself with them.
"I've got it," Adrian determinedly croaks, huffing out of his nose and speeding up his steps. "Just get me the h-hell out of here—"
With a far too determined step forward, Adrian slips out of Hermione and Harry's arms and lands on his knees just in front of the door. He groans—slams his fist against the tiles and almost screams into the floor. But almost immediately, Hermione and Harry reach for Adrian and secure his arms over their shoulders again, whispering affirmations to keep him going:
"We've got you, Adrian. We've got you. Hold on."
They're out the door and pacing down the corridor with staggered steps in seconds. Hermione knows more than anything in the world that it is imperative that they move fast. The corridors are empty, but Blaise's caveat about security rings in her mind like an omen. Any second could change the lucky circumstances which they've found themselves in, and catastrophe could be a footstep away.
And then she feels this familiar sensation in her hands and in her face. It's a mixture between shedding skin and melting. Her skin begins to vibrate, and she realizes that the potion is beginning to wear off. She swears under her breath as she balances Adrian's tall, heavy body under her grasp whilst also managing the beginning of the transformation. The pain of the metamorphosis only heightens when she turns that first corner. Her hands turn to jelly, but she keeps them as strong as possible for Adrian.
After stumbling through the second corridor, they reach the stairwell. Enter it as Maeve Flanagan, Thomas Davies, and Adrian Pucey.
Then, somewhere around the second floor, they become Hermione Granger and Harry Potter once again.
Hermione ignores it at first. Figures that she'll deal with it once they're down the stairs. That the main priority right now is getting Adrian safely down these steps. He moves slowly but surely, and Hermione thinks it might be the surge of adrenaline in him, her, and Harry that forces them to move so quickly. They reach the landing of the ground floor after a few minutes and glue themselves to the wall, scanning the stairwell and praying—gods, they've been so lucky this far—that no one sees them just yet. Hermione just needs a minute to devise a plan.
They could just run. Sprint like their lives depend on it. Just past these doors is that first main corridor, and then it's that first set of doors that lead to the waiting room, and then it's just a matter of reaching that portico and stepping through the glass entrance. Once out and past the anti-apparition wards of the hospital, they could escape.
But Adrian is so weak. He's practically out of breath, leaning on both of them and heaving his chest up and down.
"W-what's the plan, Granger?" Adrian croaks.
She gnaws at her lower lip. "Harry, where did you tell the others to meet us?"
He gestures his head to the door. "The ground floor's main corridor. They should be there any second—"
There's a scream that sounds from the other side of the door. It's shrill and tiny, and then it's followed by bursts of light and clashes of sharp sounds. Hermione can practically feel the floor rumble under whatever cataclysmic event is unfolding beyond the doors.
She leans forward, kicks open the door with her foot, and catches a glimpse of Blaise, un-polyjuiced, hurling a spell at a Healer running towards him. The door swings closed again, but Hermione feels another sudden surge of adrenaline. If she can just get Harry and Adrian across the corridor while the others fight off the Healers, then this could work. This distraction—this battle right in the hallway of St. Mungo's—could be the perfect diversion.
Hermione's heart and feet take off, dragging Adrian and Harry with her.
"Hermione, wait!"
She doesn't listen. Just throws herself against the door and storms out with purpose.
They stumble onto utter pandemonium, bright lights streaking in the air and furniture being hurled from one wall to another. It's disarray, madness, complete anarchy, and it's led by the Slytherins, all revealed now to be their true selves as they fiercely take on several Healers.
Hermione's eyes fall upon Blaise, who hurls a spell at a Healer pursing him across the corridor. It misses, and the Healer launches a spell of his own—a bright red light, which just barely skims past Blaise's head. Blaise swipes his wand in the air and creates some sort of protective shield, but the Healer somehow bypasses the shield with a different spell. The barrier falls, and Blaise dips behind a rolling cot to hide himself.
Hermione pushes Adrian and Harry forward, shouting, "Harry, go!"
The two begin to stumble through the hallway, attempting to avoid the loose spells that bounce off of the walls, the flying objects, and the Healers who would be intent on grabbing Adrian were it not for the Slytherins keeping them active and distracted.
Hermione turns her attention to the Healer engaging with Blaise. He storms to where Blaise hides, wand ready to spew more spells.
She lifts her wand. Aims it at the Healer and yells, "Stupefy!"
The white burst of light strikes the Healer in the back—sends him flying into the wall with a harsh crack.
Blaise emerges from behind the cot and finds Hermione's eyes. He rushes towards her, grabbing her shoulders and widening his eyes in concern.
"Where's Harry? Where's Adrian?"
Hermione points down the corridor, and when they both look over, they see Pansy rushing to Adrian's side and securing her arm around his back to help guide him. Pansy looks over her shoulder in horror, gritting her teeth and stumbling under the weight of Adrian's body. But she pushes forward with Harry, occasionally using the wand in her right arm to fend off more Healers. Harry begins to do the same, and together they create this tandem of protection around Adrian.
A spell shoots just past Hermione's head. She ducks with Blaise, then looks up in horror as a Healer charges towards them. She jumps up, ready to strike him in the chest with any spell she can, when all of a sudden, a stream of red sparks hits the Healer straight in his chest, and he collapses to the ground in a fit of shakes and quivers.
Hermione follows the path of the spell—it came from Theo, his wand still fresh with the remnant of the jinx. He's is quick to turn on his heels and fling spell after spell at three other Healers, all of whom fall victim to the way he so effortlessly expends his magic. There's something unbelievably charming about the way he handles his wand—the way charms and jinxes seem to spiral out of the tip so effortlessly. He commands the room, forces Healers to succumb to his magic, and it's all from the power manifested in his hands, his brain, and his heart.
One Healer almost grabs Daphne from behind as she runs for dear life, but Theo is quicker. He sends a jinx her way, and the burst of white light collides with the Healer's back, rendering her totally unconscious.
All of it happens so fast that Hermione forgets to ask herself something: where is Draco?
A uniformed stomping sound echoes from the corridor that runs perpendicularly to the one they're in, and Hermione swivels her head in unison with Blaise to inspect the source. Reinforcements arrive in an orderly pack, but they're not Healers. No, they're like security guards. A police force, of sorts.
A man she's never seen before leads the crusade. But his silver hair and tall stature bode terrifying thoughts, nonetheless. He casually struts down the hallway, lips flattened, and eyes set right on Hermione. Like he knows her. Like he knows exactly what she's doing.
She gulps.
Blaise reaches for Hermione's hand. "We need to go—"
"Where's Malfoy?" Hermione asks in a panicked state, spinning her head to scan the hallway and find just a flash of that blonde hair to soothe her terrified nerves. But he's not present, he's not here, he must be somewhere—oh, gods, her heart is pounding so bloody fast—
Blaise tugs on her arm again. "He's around here, but we have to go—now!"
"Not without him!" Hermione argues, releasing herself from Blaise's grip and turning around. She holds her ground as the pack of guards approaches her, desperately searching for Draco in the process. But just as she's about to take a step towards the assembly of forces approaching her and hurl spells all on her own to fend them off, there's a ginormous, white light that shines from behind the guards. It spurts and spreads to almost every member until more than half of them fall to the ground in a fit of shakes and groans.
Behind them, Draco emerges like a dragon from the rubble. He rushes around the fallen guards towards Hermione and Blaise, shooting spells at the area around the guards over and over again. He's still Malcolm Davies, but it's during the process of running that he succumbs to the termination of the potion's effects.
He's about to reach them, fully transformed into Draco now, when one of the guards who escaped the spell leaps forward and tackles him to the ground like a rugby player. Draco's wand slips out of his hand as the guard straddles him and struggles to pin his arms to the ground.
On instinct, Hermione points her wand at the perpetrator and blows him right off of Draco with a sonorous "Stupefy!" The man goes flying back several feet in the air, landing a few feet from the pile of comatose guards in the middle of the corridor.
Draco scrambles to his feet, retrieving his wand in the process, and sprints with those long legs towards Blaise and Hermione. Once he arrives, he grabs Hermione's hand and continues running. Full speed. It's faster than she's ever run before. But it doesn't feel fast enough because there is so much corridor to cover. It's so bloody long and narrow that she feels like it'll never end.
Blaise trails right behind them, and Hermione can hear just how heavy his breathing is in the thick of the skirmish. And then she hears the crack of a spell and a body hit the floor with a thud, and her heart wrenches at the sight as she turns around.
She stops and pulls Draco back with her. Blaise flails on the ground, ropes coiling around his body and rendering him incapacitated. A stampede of more security guards begins to charge towards them—must be around half a dozen of them—and then a loud, blaring siren goes off, and it echoes through the whole hospital as a caveat.
Suddenly, Draco grabs Hermione's face and stares her deeply in the eyes.
"Run," he orders, pushing her away and turning to approach Blaise.
"No—" she reaches for Draco's hand— "not without you—"
"Oh, fuck's sake, Granger!" he shouts, shoving her shoulders yet again. "You stubborn little Gryffindor shit! Do what you're told! GO!" He shunts her again, hard.
And before she can scold him, he turns around, rushes to Blaise, drops to his knees, and begins tugging at the ropes, pulling them off of his body as quickly as he can.
And for once in her life, Hermione listens. She turns and rushes towards the others as they gradually make their way to that last set of doors. And as another Healer emerges from one of the rooms beside her to stop her, Hermione stuns her with a blast without even thinking about it. It's intuitive. All about survival.
And then, to her horror, she hears a scuffle ensue behind her. She spins to behold the sight of guards surrounding Draco and Blaise, grabbing their arms, and hauling them to their feet. They hold wands to their throats as they drag them backwards.
Hermione's heart splits. It's the way Draco struggles in the arms of the guards, the way his teeth grit and his arms flail, but most of all, it's the way he speaks to her with those eyes when they finally reach hers.
With those glimmering irises, he begs her to keep running, save the others, save herself.
But she can't. And she curses herself for her nature—truly, she does—but she can't help it. She can't leave them like that. And she certainly can't fathom losing Draco. Not now, not after everything, not when they are so fucking close to that state of grace and peace.
Draco sees that she's frozen. Knows that she's going to do something rash.
And she does. She runs towards them.
"GRANGER!" Draco bellows, his throat constricted beneath the grip of one of the guards' forearms. "NO! YOU IDIOT—GO!"
"Screw it, Hermione!"
It's Theo's voice. She can hear it grow closer behind her. It's like he's read her mind—knows that she just can't leave the others like that. It's almost like he's giving her permission to be a Gryffindor—throw herself into more turmoil to save her friends.
Suddenly, Theo's at her side, and then he's in front of her, and then he's stunning two guards that are approaching them with total ease. He charges further, and with intense precision, he stuns the guards holding Draco and Blaise right against their foreheads. They drop to the floor, and that frees Draco and Blaise. They begin to sprint again.
Theo grabs Hermione's hand and runs with her down the corridor. The others have already made it to that final door that leads to the waiting room. Pansy heaves it wide open with her hand, and they storm through the doors and disappear on the other side.
Once Hermione and Theo make it through the door, they throw a cascade of spells through the waiting room as a means of creating diversions. It's already in shambles from when the others passed through. By the time she looks up, the four of them are already crashing through the glass and successfully escaping. Theo and Hermione make a beeline for the entrance, but right before they pass through, Hermione turns her head to make sure that Draco and Blaise are with them.
Just as Theo pulls her through the portico, Hermione catches a glimpse of Draco and Blaise throwing opens the doors and stumbling through.
And then Hermione collapses on the pavement outside of St. Mungo's.
She's absolutely lost her breath from the sheer amount of running she's done mixed with the pumping adrenaline in her body. Hustling to her feet as quickly as possible, Hermione swivels her head and watches as the others stumble down the block, back to where they were hiding before entering the hospital. Hermione rips off the white coat, tosses it to the side, and turns around to wait for Blaise and Draco to make their way through the portal.
She obeyed Draco before. She ran when she was told to. But now, Hermione intends to wait for him. Run with him. Hold his hand and leave here with him.
But several seconds pass, and they don't come through the gateway.
Hermione begins to panic as she notices the rippling glass turn solid. It isn't malleable anymore—no, it's rock hard now. And she doesn't exactly know what that means for them. Are they stuck? Can they not get through? What if they've been caught?
Theo grabs her hand and tries to drag her away from the window.
"They're coming, Hermione. They're right behind us, okay?" he says in a reassuring yet firm voice.
"Why aren't they out yet?" Hermione panics, her hands shaking. "They were right behind us."
"Hermione!" Harry calls out. She turns over her shoulder and watches as he, Pansy, and Daphne struggle to hold Adrian up. They stroke his face, kiss his head, whisper soothing words to him, but his knees continue to buckle under some intravenous pressure.
She turns to Theo, desperation in her eyes. "Please, I need him—"
"Pansy and I will wait here, okay?" he says, stroking her shoulder. "We'll wait for them and figure something out. But you need to go with Adrian back to the apartment, okay? Everything's going to be okay."
Hermione shuts her eyes. She wants to scream and beg him to let her stay and help, but there's something that's tugging her to Adrian too. An amicable force that craves her company.
And so, she relents. Hates it, but does it anyway.
She rushes towards Adrian, cupping his cheeks with her hands and lifting his head so that he can look her in the eyes. He looks utterly exhausted, fatigued, and half-dead. The color of his skin is just as haunting as the first moment she saw him in the hospital bed, and his nose is now bleeding as well.
That nosebleed. She remembers him talking about his chronic nosebleeds. She thinks about how much pain he must be in, coupled with the lack of cocaine in his system, and how that must be festering such a disruptive storm within his body.
"Granger?" Adrian groans.
"Yes?" she whispers sweetly. "I'm here. What do you need?"
Adrian sniffles. "A bed… please… somewhere to… lie down..."
Hermione purses her lips and nods. "Okay, yes. We're going to get you there now. Just one more big push of energy to apparate, okay? And then you can rest—"
"No, I can't—"
"You can," Hermione asserts. "You absolutely can. You're Adrian Pucey. You are one of the strongest people I know. This is nothing, yeah? You can do this. You have to do this."
She glances towards the window—still no sign of Draco or Blaise. To distract herself, she looks back at Adrian and resists letting exhausted tears fall from her eyes.
"You are strong enough for this and for anything else that comes your way. Do you understand?"
He scrunches his eyes closed, but eventually nods.
Daphne emerges from the group and scans the area. "W-where's Blaise?"
Theo and Pansy are already waiting by the window. They look at one another and struggle to speak candidly as their eyes dart between the window and Daphne.
"Blaise is coming," Pansy says, nodding her head. "And so is Draco. Any second now."
Daphne turns back to Hermione. "I can't leave him—"
"I know," Hermione says, nodding. "Trust me, I know. You stay. Harry and I can do this."
Daphne nods, and before scurrying off, she rushes back to Hermione and grabs her hand.
"Draco is coming too," she says. "We'll make sure of it. You helped bring Adrian back to us, and we promise to bring Draco back to you."
Hermione's teeth chatter as she fights the urge to cry. She nods instead, squeezing Daphne's hand and then letting go.
And as painful as it is to leave them all behind, Hermione takes a deep breath, nods in unison with Harry, and disapparates.
She can hear Adrian scream in pain in the process, but she holds onto him for dear life as their bodies twist and coil around one another. The pressure of the air is almost too much to handle, but once they land in the living room and stumble onto the couch, Hermione finds it in her to inhale deeply and feed her lungs the oxygen it needs.
Immediately, Harry and Hermione maneuver Adrian's body onto the couch, stretching him horizontally. There are tears in his hospital gown, but Hermione doesn't find any bodily injuries from the apparating. She sighs in relief and watches as Harry collapses on the ground, completely out of breath.
Hermione does the same. Drops to her back and covers her eyes with her arms in total enervation.
A soft purr disrupts the somber ambiance, and Hermione feels Crookshanks' presence tread around her body. His furry head nestles against her waist, and she finds the strength to lower her arm and stroke the top of Crookshanks' head. He continues forward and meets Harry, sliding and dragging his body against his legs.
And then, Crookshanks finds Adrian's arm hanging off of the couch. He tentatively sniffs his fingers, and once he realizes who it is, Crookshanks lets out a sharp meow and nudges his head against Adrian's lifeless fingers. When Adrian doesn't respond, Crookshanks plops down onto the floor, curls his tail around his body, and just lies right below where Adrian is. It seems to be comforting enough for the kneazle.
Hermione croaks at the thought of Draco still in St. Mungo's. She imagines him being dragged away yet again by guards, tossed in some room, arrested for potential crimes. All of those possibilities induce inescapable tears. She cries—after holding it in for what felt like forever, she finally breaks down and cries.
Adrian's voice calls to her. "No, no," he says sweetly. "N-not my brave, Golden Girl crying again."
"I'm sorry," she whimpers, hiding her face with her hand and shaking her head.
"N-nothing to apologize for, Granger." Adrian shifts on the couch slightly. "You saved me. All of us. Again. Time and time again."
"But now the others—" She stops herself. Can't even begin to think about whether the others are going to be alright.
"They're coming," Adrian says. "I know it."
They wait. Silently. Five minutes turns into ten, then fifteen, then twenty, but time feels like it's moving slower than the speed it takes for the earth to revolve around the sun. It's laborious and toilsome—the way the earth spins on its axis and passes the time. Every minute that they don't return home to her feels like a million years in her very own purgatory.
On the twenty-third minute of waiting, hope comes in the form of a Patronus.
Hermione jumps to her feet at the sight of a white, incandescent dragon hurling itself through the window and into the center of the living room. His wings flap, and he hovers just above the floorboard. He's as tall as Adrian, and as valiant as all of them put together.
Hermione breathes a sigh of relief and awe when she realizes whose Patronus it is. It relays a message more beautiful than anything she's ever heard, and it's in his silky, soothing, perfect voice.
We're all alright. I'll see you soon.