When she's subsequently asked by Aurors if she'd like to return home with the friends that she arrived with, Daphne shakes her head in vehement refusal, and her eyes swell in fear. She swears on her life that she doesn't know the group of people in front of her—insists that her lifelong friends are nothing but total strangers now, faces that resemble clouds in a pitch black sky. Ominous, otherworldly, unsafe.
Aurors have swarmed Kingsley's mangled office and begun the process of removing parent after parent in wake of the gang's victory, if one could even sufficiently call it that. Their wrists and ankles are chained in metal, bound with the consequences of their devious actions, and while some of them are still conscious, with bruises as claims of their role in combat, others are not as lucky.
The corridor outside is full of workers now that Kingsley has terminated the wards which Aberfield regenerated. Hermione swore that she felt a rush of fresh air caress her body when the magical barrier fell, but moments later, that peace of mind was interrupted with the gangling sounds of workers, then onlookers, then reporters. They swarmed that open door, aiming their cameras at the scene and howling dozens of questions at the group of young people inside, but they were brashly ignored; there were far more pressing matters to worry about, anyways.
Aurors have to simultaneously balance those bodies against their arms and shove their way through the crowd of spectators, and the mauled faces and oddly bent limbs of the Death Eaters are photographed over and over. Vivid flickers and sharp clicks from antiquated cameras echo through the room, a reminder of their inevitable moment in the public eye as puppets of Aberfield's gruesome campaign.
It requires three Aurors to restrain Daphne's frightened movements. Two of them hold down her lashing arms, and one has her hands secured around her waist. Daphne twists and shrieks in fear, her blonde hair whipping against her porcelain skin with every fearful thrash.
Pansy begins to approach her, slowly. She's like a puma with unmatched stealth and careful precision, taking slow and calculated steps towards her troubled best friend.
"Daphne," Pansy says ever so quietly, like loud noise would send her into a deeper sense of terror. She hushes her friend as sweetly as possible, in the same way that honey coats yogurt.
Beneath the damp hair that's glued to her balmy skin, Daphne crushes her eyes closed and violently shakes her head, saying, "I want to go home," and she says it over and over and over, each repeat of the phrase quieter than the last, like she's trying to hold onto lost hope—like if she just continues to say it, perhaps it'll just come true, and she won't have to feel so confused anymore, so unrestful.
Pansy has to purse her lips to hold back tears, as does Hermione, whose limbs shake with mourning and whose eyes weep with despair.
She's still cradled in Draco's arms—couldn't bear to leave the warmth of his lap, his chest, his chin that rests on top of her head—just his whole body, homely and tender with his firm embrace. He engulfs her in a cloak of security and affection, though it's apparent that he himself is in a state of shock and lamentation, judging by the delicate whimpers that Hermione hears coming from his mouth.
And yet, despite his grief, his arms remain fastened around Hermione. He does not stir from this position—not when Pansy blubbers a hopeless cry, not when Blaise trembles against Theo's chest, not when Adrian quietly whispers hopeful words to Harry, and not even when Daphne emits another fearful shriek for her life.
No, Draco retains his protective post around Hermione, sacrificing his sanity for hers. Swearing by the moon and the stars that she is more valuable than gold.
"We are your home," Pansy replies, taking a leap of faith. "You're Daphne Greengrass. You're the daughter of Claudius and Penelope Greengrass. Sister of Astoria Greengrass. You're a Slytherin—and a damn loyal one at that. You love to dance, you prefer fruity drinks, and you love experimenting with eyeshadow colors. And you... you're in love with Blaise Zabini."
Pansy turns and gestures to Blaise, seated on the ground beside Theo with his head in his hands. He glances up from his palms at the sound of his name being spoken, tears streaming down his rouge cheeks.
From across the room, Daphne meets those lovely, broken eyes of his, and she stares for what feels like forever. Overtime, her arms become less rigid, her lips unwind into a flat, inquisitive line, and her cries subside into a contemplative silence. She bends her eyebrows in profound reflection, as if the answer is right in front of her.
And then Pansy repeats herself, her voice still quiet and calm: "You're in love with Blaise Zabini. He has protected you all of his life—dedicated every single day to taking care of you. He is your family. Your everything. Your home."
Daphne's eyes remained fixed on Blaise as she breathes in and out, her chest rising and falling in a steady pattern.
"He is the reason that you, me, Adrian—all of us—are alive," Pansy continues. "And you—you're the reason he is still alive."
"I don't understand," Daphne breaks, shaking her head again and letting her erratic trembles overthrow her breathing. "I don't know you. I don't know any of you!"
"You know us, Daph," Theo says, touching Blaise's arm in comfort. "You—"
Theo pauses, his eyes trailing to follow the path of two Aurors as they approach Aberfield's comatose body. Widening his eyes and scrambling to his feet, Theo steps forward and approaches the Aurors.
"Wait!" he exclaims, holding his hand out as they lift Aberfield by his armpits. "In his pocket, there are several vials."
Hermione inhales sharply, immediately sensing Theo's objective—his brilliant, ingenious, kind objective.
"Please—please, we need those," Theo begs, turning his palm up and waiting for the vials to be transferred into his hand.
With a sigh, the Auror on the left reaches his hand into Aberfield's pocket and retrieves several vials. He sets them in Theo's hand, and after briefly swiping his nostrils with the pad of his thumb, Theo turns around and looks at Daphne.
"This," he whispers, briefly searching for the one labeled D.G. and then holding it up in his other hand. "Perhaps this will help you remember something—anything—about us and about yourself."
With a quick pop of the cork, Theo opens the vial and lets the beam of memories seep out slowly, and after reciting the charm to enable the memories, Theo and the others watch in awe as Daphne's life projects before them.
Static fills the images, and for a moment, Hermione panics. Considers that because Daphne's lost her memories in her mind, that maybe they won't convert themselves to the beam anymore. Ignorant of how Aberfield's magic works, Hermione fears the worst as the beam continues to crackle, the feedback sounding like recently lit fireworks.
But then, the blue and white light seems to hiss as the colors merge and then disperse, and the sizzling in the air quiets; a scene appears, and Hermione lets out a sigh of relief.
It's in the apartment, and it's them, sitting in a circle, smoking a blunt, laughing, coughing occasionally, snuggling against one another in sweet bliss. It's authentic and real and beautiful, and as Hermione watches the Slytherins engage in such a genuine moment together, she's forced into smiling through her tears.
Daphne's head tilts to the side, and her pale lips part. She stares and wonders at the scene, attempting to pick apart and decode each action—each puff of the blunt, each jolly laugh, each pinch of Blaise's bicep and wink at Draco and kiss on Pansy's cheek. When it transitions to a moment with her and Blaise in their shared bed, her head resting against his bare chest and her mouth saying something that makes Blaise laugh with a love stronger than anything Cupid could dream of generating, Daphne tacitly gasps. The moment is nothing more than a perfectly pure and unadulterated instant of time between two people living in existential love; it seems to pull at Daphne's heartstrings.
The image in the beam shifts again without warning, placing the Slytherins in a dreadful circle in a room painted an eggshell white. They're in the Ministry now. Hermione is there. Aberfield is there. Bruiser—Rose is there. Daphne looks tired yet optimistic as she smiles across the circle at Draco, whose head hangs low in defeat. He brings his eyes up to meet hers and slightly shrugs, to which she offers a kind wink.
"Do you remember these moments?" Theo asks, gesturing to the beam.
Daphne purses her lips and, much to everyone's sadness, she shakes her head. "No," she whispers, "but—" she looks up at one of the Aurors— "you can let go now, please. I'm okay."
The Aurors tentatively release her arms and waist, and with her freedom, Daphne cautiously steps towards Blaise. He looks up, rises to his feet, and takes a deep breath as Daphne stops a few feet in front of him.
She takes in the sight of his face with curiosity in her eyes, and then whispers, "I think... you and I are... in love."
Blaise closes his eyes and nods. "You jumped in front of a curse for me," he whispers, slowly opening his eyes again. "We are more than in love. We are soulmates."
Daphne flutters a timid breath. Takes another step. Reaches her hand forward to caress his cheek.
But then she pulls back, and a tear drops from Blaise's eye.
"I'm scared," she whimpers, biting down on her lower lip to keep it from shaking. "I see... I see what's in that... light, but I don't... I don't remember anything—"
"We don't have to rush this," Blaise says quietly. "You can take your time coming back to us."
Considering her circumstances, Daphne finds the courage to nod, and it's as if the pressure in the room subsides with that response. Hope seeps back into the minds of the Slytherins, offering the daydream of a life lived normally again.
"I think," she whispers, looking around at everyone before finally reaching Blaise's eyes, "I think I'd like to go home now. With you all. Please."
Immediately, Pansy steps forward, and she slowly places her arm around Daphne's shoulder. Daphne tentatively settles her head in the crest between Pansy's neck and shoulder, another step in the right direction.
"We'll take care of you." Pansy's voice is soft as silk, caressing Daphne's worries away. "We'll always take care of you, okay?"
"Okay," Daphne answers.
"You can have our bedroom to yourself," Blaise offers with a nervous gulp. "If that would make you more comfortable."
That one hurts Hermione, because she knows that Daphne and Blaise love one another unconditionally. She knows that Blaise would never hurt Daphne. She knows that their shared bed is like a haven, a safe place, something more beautiful than heaven itself. So to now see it as something that bears the utmost cautiousness feels like a sting in her chest, a twist in her heart. It's a pain more excruciating than death itself.
Daphne nods. "Thank you," she whispers to Blaise. Subsequently, she cranes her head to look at Pansy. "Can we go now... I'm sorry, I don't remember your name—"
"It's Pansy," she responds, desperate to keep her emotions intact. "And yes—we can leave. We just need to—"
She turns around and inspects the scene. Harry is now sitting upright, resting against Adrian's broad chest in recovery. Hermione is still in Draco's arms, not wanting to leave. But time calls their names and begs them to leave this terrible place, and so they do. They all rise and begin to their departure, but before they are able to exit, Kingsley steps inside his office and meets Hermione's eyes.
"Hermione," he starts, his voice as low as the depths of the ocean, "we need to talk. Please."
Hermione glares at Kingsley, unwilling to listen as of now. What could she say to him that wouldn't morph into something volatile? If she told him everything that she is feeling right now, then she would unquestionably lose her job, because the words inside of her burn hotter than the sun.
"Tomorrow," she responds brusquely, shaking her head as she rises to her feet and helps Draco up. "I need to be home with them right now."
"Hermione—"
"Clean up this mess, reprioritize your agenda, and then send for me tomorrow. That's when we can talk about the madness that has happened here."
Kingsley eventually nods in concurrence, glancing down in abject shame. "I understand. Take care of Ms. Greengrass."
"We will," Draco snaps, flaring his nostrils.
The shame on Kingsley's face manifests on every feature, and it's the last thing Hermione sees before squeezing Draco's hand and apparating back to their apartment.
The rest of the day is dedicated to keeping Daphne's confusion and fear at bay.
As soon as they land in their apartment, the Slytherins are greeted by Crookshanks. He leaps from his spot on the couch, purrs as he trickles through everyone's legs, and then paws at Daphne's calves.
Daphne recoils into Pansy's arms, staring at the kneazle in trepidation and confusion. Alarmed by her apprehension, Crookshanks darts back a few steps, sheltering himself behind Adrian's legs.
Releasing Hermione's hand, Draco approaches Adrian slowly. He cranes his head to look at Daphne, shaking in Pansy's embrace.
"Daphne, it's okay," he says quietly, shrouded bits of pain present in every word. "It's just... a kneazle." And with a brave inhale, Draco crouches, hooks his hands around Crookshanks' body and lifts him into his arms.
Initially, he has the kneazle held in front of him, but after confirming his safety, Draco brings Crookshanks into his chest and starts to stroke his fingers against his little chin. "See? He's... very sweet. He won't hurt you."
The kneazle confirms that promise of safety when he nuzzles his head against Draco's ribs and twists into his body with comfort and pleasure. His arms stretch up and out as if he could burrow in this position forever, and a small smile crosses Draco's face.
"Don't be afraid," Draco says, looking up at Daphne. "Trust me—" he laughs once to break the tension— "if I can trust this little shit, then I promise you can too. He always liked you better than me."
She's cautious as ever, but Daphne does eventually leave Pansy's arms and approach Draco. And when she arrives at his side, she carefully extends her hand and pets Crookshanks against the crown of his head. Showers him with the first bit of her new love.
Hermione beams, given the grave and terrible circumstances, because there's something touching about watching Daphne open up to a world she doesn't know—a world she's forgotten. It's a new life. It's a promise of growth and peace and absorbing wisdom through one's flesh—the touch of Daphne's hand to Crookshanks' fur. Love oscillates through her fingers into him, and in the opposite direction too, and it's simple, but it's a step forward.
Perhaps, when she returns to his office tomorrow, Hermione could give the same benefit of the doubt to Kingsley—
No. No, she can't. Not when significant, irreversible damage has already been done.
No. Hermione would resemble a wildfire raging through a forest—a fiendfyre setting a building ablaze. She'd be relentless—potentially even untamed. The pads of her fingers grow hot with that vision even now, and she has to take a deep breath and focus on the touching scene in front of her to calm herself.
But the next day, when she receives Kingsley's Patronus and prepares to depart for his office, that heat blazes wildly within her. It's the spirit of an advocate, the pulse of an insistent sponsor. It's the ardent desire to stand up for not only her disenfranchised friends, but also for everyone else who's ever felt like they were not heard or seen.
"I don't know how you're not too tired to speak to him now," Draco had said to her before she departed, tugging her waist in a plea to return to their bed, spend the morning with him, keep him distracted by the unfortunate circumstances they find themselves in now.
"I'll never be too tired to fight for you all," she had whispered, bending over the bed and meeting his lips sweetly before parting, the sight of a sleep-kissed Draco bright in her mind, guiding her on her conquest for justice.
She sits in the chair across from Kingsley and his desk, crossing her legs with her hands placed firmly in her lap. Her posture screams business, but her glare screams war. Watching indignantly as Kingsley fumbles over some papers and his words, Hermione can see the wheels in his brain turn and strain over what sorts of excuses he is going to produce.
"Hermione," Kingsley finally sighs, shaking his head and gathering his bearings, "I am so sorry."
Immediately, her rage spills forth.
"It is not me who you should be extending his apology to," she snaps, gently tilting her head to the right to curb a larger outburst. "It's them."
"I know," he concurs, looking down in abject shame.
Hermione exhales out of her splayed nostrils—a habit of hers when she finds herself in a state of agitation. "What happened over these last few months was—"
"Unacceptable," Kingsley finishes. "I understand. I am ashamed of the role which I played in allowing all of this to happen."
"How could you not have any idea that Aberfield was complicit in these crimes?"
He sighs. "I regretfully did not pay as much attention to this program as I should've." His hand finds his forehead, stroking between his eyebrows, and his elbow leans upon his desk. "Taking on the position of Minister after the war was more difficult than anything I have ever done. Having to navigate putting the world back together forced me to prioritize certain things over others. I could not please everyone. I had to decide what was most important to rebuilding what was lost during those terrible years."
Hermione huffs—partially because she's angry, but also because she knows in a sense that he is right—that politics are not black and white, not simple, not a sunny and bright walk in the park. It's full of difficult and impossible choices, but that does not excuse what happened. It does not mean that one group of people can have it all while another suffers.
She won't accept that reality—not now, not ever again.
"This wasn't supposed to happen," Kingsley sighs with a contemplative expression.
"I just don't understand how Aberfield was able to get away with everything that he did," Hermione continues. "The trackers, the potions, even his connection with Voldemort. I cannot wrap my mind around how he was able to even work here."
"Seeing as he was never technically a part of Voldemort's army..."
Kingsley trails off, regarding the irate expression on Hermione's face, and then he clears his throat and adds, "He was a talented actor, I'm afraid."
"And you were not careful enough," Hermione hisses under her breath.
"You're right," he agrees. "I was not. And I regret it profoundly. It is quite possibly my largest regret to date."
"And where are they now? Aberfield? The remaining Death Eaters?"
"In Azkaban, awaiting their trials," Kingsley explains. "Though, between you and me, I don't see much need for trials at this point. Being complicit in two insurrections is enough to have them all expedited to a permanent cell. Perhaps even receive a Dementor's Kiss."
Hermione wants to scream from the highest rooftops and solidify that destiny for all of them. She wouldn't mind watching Aberfield's tiny, murky, grey soul leave his lips in the final moments of his sorry life. But she keeps that sentiment locked within her. It's dark, and she's trying to look for light in this opaque set of circumstances.
"What about Mrs. Zabini? And the Malfoys? They were not a part of this." Any more damage to Blaise would be catastrophic, and Draco—she'd do anything to protect him.
"We've sent Aurors to their homes to inform them of what's happened and see if they can offer testimony about the situation," Kingsley explains, and Hermione feels a wave of relief rush over her tense body. "As of now, they will not be charged. However, there will be a small investigation into whether they were ever complicit or not. I will not make the same mistakes twice and engage in any oversight on these crimes."
"And what sorts of reparations—" she leans forward— "do you plan to offer to my friends?"
"Perhaps I can make it up to you and them with another initiative—"
"No—" she grunts, shaking her head— "No, Kingsley. They don't need initiative after initiative from the Ministry of Magic, which has little to no understanding of the gravity of their situation. They need actual rehab and then extensive therapy for what they've been through. They need competent muggle doctors—not Healers—and they need trained counselors. And Daphne—she needs her memories back."
Kingsley sighs, and it sounds hopeless. "I don't know if that last part is possible—"
"It has to be," Hermione insists, tightening her folded hands so hard that they turn a chilling white hue. "Someway, somehow, Daphne will get her memories back."
Gnawing at his lower lip in contemplation, Kingsley slowly nods and gulps. "I will speak with Healers at St. Mungo's and see what they know of the process of undoing a memory loss charm, though I would advise you not to hold your breath. It is practically impossible to regain lost memories, and Daphne's already weak state does not help with that process."
"I can have some hope."
"Of course. But I do not want you to be disappointed."
"I already am."
With that last strike of words, Hermione pushes her chair back and rises to leave.
But Kingsley stands as she turns to walk away, and he calls out, "Hermione!"
Halting her departure, Hermione pivots and meets Kingsley's eyes.
He clears his throat. "This might not be much, but perhaps you'd like to be promoted to my second in command for the time being. I have an inkling that people will want me out of this position, but until that time, perhaps it would be valuable and beneficial to have you by my side, steering me in the right and noble direction."
Hermione stares back at Kingsley, astounded that he's asked her this question. His motivations are murky, and that's what troubles her the most. She could do some good for the Slytherins and for others if she were in a position of power, but this has never been about being in command. It's never been about showering in glory and honor. It's always been about helping people who needed someone to believe in them, and so standing next to Kingsley in these circumstances feels... performative. Disingenuous.
Though, perhaps, while the system is in the long, arduous process of being uprooted—while the catalysts for bringing the Slytherins to this moment in time are destroyed under the fiery hammer of justice—Hermione could do some good for people. She could use whatever command she is given to bring about something newer, something better, something more gold. She could, perhaps, bring about peace.
So, she nods. "Okay," she says, considering that old dream of hers—the one she had of being Minister of Magic—and how it is so close at this point. "I would like that opportunity. I would like to help."
Kingsley smiles and nods. "Take the next few days off to be with your friends. I'll deal with the damage control on this end."
With one final nod, Hermione departs, twisting herself into the air and then, moments later, arriving back in hers and Draco's room just before the break of morning into the afternoon.
It's cold. Not the air, but the aura. It bites the bedroom in half—tears it apart with its bitter and merciless chill—with Hermione on one side, and Draco—crouched behind his bed, shaking furiously against the wooden bedframes—on the other.
Her eyes immediately reach him on the floor facing the window beside his bed. The bright pigment of his hair is all that she can see from across the room, but she does hear him shake against the wood and exhale in several consecutive and alarming exhales, like he's hurting. Like there's pain plaguing every inch of his skin and being.
When her eyes dip to her right and behold their nightstand, Hermione sees an unrolled banknote, a card, and several broken and scattered lines of cocaine.
She parts her lips in a terrible realization and attempts to consider how—when just an hour or two ago he was just fine—Draco has reached this hopeless position.
Draco lets out a groan soaked in abject pain, lolling his head backwards and onto his mattress, and that's when Hermione breaks into a sprint—a ten-foot dash to the most important person in her life. Her mind runs wild with questions and concerns as she turns the corner of the bed and comes into contact with his frail and colorless body.
His nose is bleeding, specks of blood dripping from his nostrils onto his shirt, and there's a trace of white powder outlining the curve of his left nostril. Once glowing, silver eyes are now reduced to oblivion, rolled back into his head and whiter than marble. His lips are parted with unsteady breaths serving as the only source of life between them. Every few seconds, Draco's eyelashes flutter, and he knocks his head forward to remain conscious, but that battle becomes sparser as time continues to tread on. His chest pumps in an irregular speed, and his torso lurches forward over and over again, the promise of spilling his guts out too close for comfort. Sweat profusely drips down his forehead and seeps through his shirt, coloring his pale skin in an ominous glimmer. It's not beautiful—he looks nothing like a marble statue yet everything like a piece of despondent art.
Gasping in horror at the sight, Hermione drops to her knees and locks his limp face between her steady hands. She tugs on his skin with her thumbs, pulling his cheeks back and coaxing him to stay conscious for her, keep breathing, keep moving, stay alive, tell her his name, relay one fact about himself. Something—anything—to keep him from falling under the sinister spell of the cocaine.
He mumbles something incoherent in response to one of her questions, and then he coughs and sputters some pooling drool.
Hermione presses forward, desperate to hear what he has to say. "What did... what did you say, Draco?"
"Granger," he groans, and it's quiet, but it's music to her ears, because at least Draco is alive. The bare minimum becomes a saving grace, but what kind of life is that to live? Where a simple confirmation of life is something to celebrate? That cannot be her reality, nor his. They have to strive for better, and perhaps that starts here, with this moment.
For now, Hermione allows herself to sigh in relief. "You need to stay with me, Draco, okay?" Her hands are shaking now, fear coursing through her body as Draco's head dips to the right. Her worried eyes lift and find the door, and she begins to call out Blaise's name, because surely, he knows what to do. He has an antidote—the one he used on Adrian. He—
Hermione hesitates, thinking about how much Blaise already has on his plate. She can't—she won't—put this responsibility on him, too. Not when he's expressed that it has become too difficult to handle recently. Not when the love of his life doesn't even know who he is anymore.
But perhaps Adrian—
No. The sight of this could be traumatic for him.
So, Hermione calls out her next best option—someone who was there to catch her the last time she witnessed an overdose.
"Theo!"
Moments later, her guardian angel rushes through the door, and without even fully comprehending the situation, but solely using her eyes as a window to the severity of it all, Theo sprints to her side and crouches at her level. His fingers streak through Draco's hair in an effort to revitalize him as he stammers over words.
"Shit, Malfoy," he whispers, holding Draco's shoulder up and against the bed.
"He needs to go to the hospital," Hermione says, rotating her head to meet Theo's wide and watery eyes.
"St. Mungo's?" Theo clarifies, furrowing his eyebrows in doubt, fear, and everything in between, like the memories from that place are too palpable in his nightmares. "I don't know if I trust that place after what happened, Hermione."
And there it is: the confession. The lack of trust. The fear in systems that are supposed to work for them, not against them, and Hermione doesn't blame Theo for feeling that way. They've been let down too many times—searching for a trustworthy place is all that matters in this moment. Reaching out to someone—anyone—that can offer their help in an unbiased, untainted manner. Somewhere where patience is given without question, where a kind and understanding person can administer something as sweet as their words and sentiments, something—
Hermione gasps, a miniscule yet significant part of Graham's memories flooding back into her mind like a saving grace.
St. Michael's. The hospital where Olivia works. Not too far from here.
"St. Michael's," Hermione whispers as Draco emits a dry cough.
"The muggle hospital?" Theo asks, snaking his hand up Draco's shoulder and behind his neck to keep him leveraged and upright.
"It's the closest place," Hermione insists. She leaps into action, spiraling over to sit adjacent to Draco and then subsequently wrapping his arm over her shoulder and steadying him. From her knees, she lifts herself up, and Theo assists in hoisting Draco's light yet limp body to a standing position. "And perhaps muggle doctors will have a better idea of how to treat him."
For a moment, Draco slopes his heavy head against Hermione's, his nose disappearing into her hair, and she has to nudge him back to life and whisper sweet things against his cheek to persuade him to open his eyes again, breathe deeply, stay awake for her, please, please, please, just stay awake a little while longer, Draco. It's all she can think about, all she can say.
For the love of the gods, stay alive.
"Do you need us to come?" Theo asks, panic stricken across his face.
Hermione gulps and purses her lips, stumbling briefly over the weight of Draco against her, but she'd hold him up for the rest of his life if she needed to. She'd bear that weight like a thousand tons of armor on her back if it means that Draco can have some peace in his life.
"No," she responds, shaking her head and adjusting his stance. "No, that's okay. Just take care of everyone else, okay? Let them know that I'm taking him now. Thank you, Theo."
Theo nods and slowly pulls away as Hermione locates her bearings, amending the swing of Draco's arm around her to be even tighter. She looks up at his pale face—kisses his jaw quickly—and then says, "Hold onto me tightly, okay? Draco? Can you hear me?"
He moans in response, and for a moment, she thinks that he won't be able to make it. That this will tear him down. That she can't save him because he's not even fucking moving—
His hand suddenly squeezes around hers, and that grip bears a surge of strength from him to her—his final push.
Hermione doesn't wait one more second. She twists into the air with Draco latched firmly against her, and while they soar through the atmosphere in a burst of silver smoke, she hears Draco rip a terrible scream into the air.
Hermione twisted her ankle the summer before entering her fifth year at Hogwarts. It was nothing serious, nothing too painful, and it did not require any substantial healing methods. But it did require a trip to the muggle hospital, and so she does thank the gods that she's been in this situation before. That she knows the inner workings of a muggle hospital enough to check Draco into the emergency wing.
When she watches them cart him off through those floppy double doors, her heart snaps in half, and she collapses into a chair in the waiting room.
Hours later, after spiraling between tapping her foot against the floor, her fingers against the wooden curve of the arm of the chair, and her head against the pale, pastel pink wall, Hermione receives news of Draco's state.
"He's recovering," a lovely nurse explains to Hermione as she holds her shaking hand. "We gave him some medication to control his anxiety, and we've reduced his body temperature significantly. He's going to be alright and will likely be able to leave by tonight." The nurse strokes Hermione's hand, offering a hopeful smile—one that Hermione hasn't seen in years. "You can see him now if you'd like."
Hermione nods and rises, following the nurse through those main doors and then through several corridors. Her eyes voraciously search for Draco through every window into every room until finally, a minute later, she spots that patch of blonde hair on that beautiful man through some large glass doors, lying on a hospital bed with his eyes closed and his arms hooked up to several machines and an I.V. bag—no purple flecks of Nulliwinkle present in the liquid. She breathes a sigh of relief as the nurse opens the door, but before she runs in, Hermione turns and asks a question:
"Is... erm... is there a nurse named Olivia who works here?" she asks.
The nurse tilts her head in contemplation but ultimately shakes her head in defeat. "No, not to my knowledge. Sorry about that, love."
The hope that she'd find Olivia here dissipates, but Hermione finds the strength to shrug in understanding and then turn and rush to the seat beside Draco. The door closes behind her, leaving them in a pocket of silence, light beeps from a machine serving as the only sounds.
Hermione takes Draco's cold hand in hers, and it feels like he has no life yet all forms of life within him. She can't place the sensation properly—doesn't know whether or not he's faring well beneath the stress of the overdose and the treatment.
So, she calls out to him. Gingerly. So that he and only he can hear her, because he's who her heart beats for, and if her heart can't reach him, then there's absolutely no point in speaking anymore.
"Draco?" Her thumb slides over the back of his palm as she awaits a response, a slight movement, something, anything.
She almost doesn't think he's going to answer, but when his fingers wrap around hers and squeeze ever so slightly, hope gushes through her system like an avalanche.
His eyes open, and the moment they connect with hers, she exhales in respite.
He says one word— "Granger—" and that sound is more comforting and beautiful than anything she's ever heard in her life.
"Thank gods," she whispers, batting her eyelashes to avoid the inevitable tears. "I was so worried."
"I didn't mean to—"
He stops himself in a moment of shame. Closes his eyes and shakes his head to avoid watching Hermione break down.
"I didn't mean to worry you like this."
"It's okay," she whispers, caressing his hand and slinking her fingers through his. "I'm just so glad you're okay."
Draco gulps, bringing his free hand to drag the skin of his face down. His fingers stop at his chin, and they rest upon his lips as his mind conjures an explanation, a justification, a reason.
"I just... I couldn't handle what happened to Daphne." He looks back at Hermione, water pooling around the brims of his eyes. "I spiraled."
They sit in silence for a full minute, though it feels like hours. Time creeps around them, moving the pieces of the world slower than tectonic plates.
And then, Hermione breaks time's vicious cycle—she cries.
"No," Draco pleads, shaking his head and using every remaining bit of strength he has left to squeeze her hand. "Granger—"
"I'm sorry," she whimpers, her cheeks red-hot beneath her tears. "I just... the thought of losing you now is... too much. Not when we're so close to being happy. Not when the idea of peace isn't actually that far away anymore. Not when... not when I can't live without you, Draco."
Draco doesn't say anything in response, until—
"Maybe it's time."
He says it gingerly, like speaking it into existence is the scariest part of whatever it is he's preparing for.
"Time?" Hermione asks, brushing several tears from her cheeks and eyes.
Draco nods, and then his chest heaves up in a long inhale. He releases, dragging his tongue over his lip to mask his fear.
"The doctor left a pamphlet with... rehabilitation options. And I... I think I ought to take a look at it."
Hermione gasps, but it's more of a staggered exhale. It's lodged in her throat, and she has to push that breath out with her chest—force it with sheer determination—so that she can process what Draco has just suggested: rehab. Actual rehab. A medically supervised detox for days—weeks. Being clean. Finding peace.
"Are you sure?"
Draco nods, clenching his jaw. "I will not be the reason you cry anymore."
Hermione lowers her head, setting her forehead against his hand.
"I will not be the reason you lose hope in this world."
She whimpers, barely finding the strength to breathe under the weight of Draco's words.
"I will protect you the way you have always protected me."
There's no point in trying to fight it—the love she has for him. It bursts forth when she leans forward and kisses Draco sweetly. She can taste redemption on his lips—physically feels the bravery he bears in his words and in his imminent actions—and it's like honey, sweet and smooth and compatible with the hint of her vanilla lip balm.
As she pulls away, Draco finds the back of her head with his hand, and he tows her back to him, deepening their kiss; suddenly, the flavors explode against her tongue as it breaks the barrier of his lips, but instead of honey and vanilla, it's like fire and... more fire. There's an incomparable energy surging between the two of them, and Hermione has to lift herself off of the chair in order to keep up with Draco's passionate kiss. It's heavier than lead yet softer than a feather, their lips breeding life against one another with every pulse, every subtle movement, every nip and every damn beat. They unquestionably revitalize one another.
Draco suddenly pulls away, but with his lips still ghosting across hers, he whispers, "For them, and for you."
"You should do it for yourself too," she responds, leaning her forehead against his.
He nods. "Yeah. For myself, too."
They hold one another tight, Hermione seating herself on the edge of the side of Draco's hospital bed, until he eventually lifts his finger and summons the pamphlet through the air and into his hand. And then they read through the information together, plotting a life beyond what almost tore them apart.
"A Place for Growth." That's what the sign above the glass doors reads. It sits right with Hermione—perhaps it'd be even better if it read "A Place for Peace," but she won't linger on that miniscule detail. It's the sentiment of the sign that counts.
She's holding Draco's hand, but they're both shaking. Trembling. Because it's all foreign to them—rehab, that is. Hermione never knew whether this moment would actuallycome—where she'd be standing outside of a rehabilitation center, Draco's fingers wound through hers, about to check himself in and begin his journey to recovery. It was always a distant possibility—a shot in the dark—but now, it's real, raw, and happening, and she can't find it in her heart to just breathe, relax, and calm herself down.
She asks him first, because it's only fair. "Are you alright?"
Draco cranes his neck down and sighs, gazing into her eyes. "No... maybe... I don't know. This is... not something I ever thought I'd actually end up doing."
"Plans change," Hermione sighs, considering the trajectory of her own life and how she also never considered this to be her reality.
Draco squeezes her hand. "Yes. They do."
"Often for the better."
He nods in agreement. "Yes. You have been for the better."
She gets butterflies.
She turns to face him, cupping his face with her hands and stroking her thumbs over his cheekbones, and Draco's hands drop to secure around her waist. He pulls her close and presses his forehead against hers. They breathe the same air.
"I'm... scared." He clears his throat. "It feels like I won't be able to do this unless I have someone else."
Hermione sighs, knowing that walking into a situation like this without anyone else must be so fucking hard, so fucking scary. Because to trek through the valley of death alone is like walking with a target on one's back, but to do it with a friend, a family member—even a lover—makes all the difference.
But it also leaves room for relapse, for worsening behaviors, for returning to the same painful routine which they have found themselves in for far too long.
It's why the other Slytherins all found separate rehabilitation centers. It's why Adrian is in one location, Blaise in another, Theo in another, and then Pansy and Daphne in one together.
That was the only exception—Daphne had no idea why she was being asked to relocate all of a sudden when her bed in their apartment was justbecoming something that brought her comfort. She couldn't comprehend her urges for drugs and similarly could not understand why she was being dragged away from everyone just as she was beginning to trust them. It all felt cruel—to her and to the others.
Hermione sighs. "I know, but this is your journey. No one else's but yours."
"Sixty days," he whispers, shaking his head in disbelief. "I don't... that's a long time, Granger."
"It'll be worth it," Hermione says reassuringly. "While you're there, just..." She takes the collar of his shirt in her hands and tugs him a little closer. "Just remember this. Remember everything that we have. When things feel impossible—when you want to give up—remember what you told me about wanting to find peace. About wanting that Golden Age. About wanting to be happy. Remember all the good that we have. Remember—"
She pauses, then leaps onto her toes and settles her lips against his. Kisses him softer than a light snowfall but more passionate than a raging fire.
Draco's hands curl around her waist, molding into her curves and pressing her against him one last time.
Finally, she pulls away. Whispers, "Remember this feeling."
"I will," he says back, the trace of his words trailing over her lips. And then he tugs her into his chest for a hug, setting his chin on top of her head, and he whispers the same response: "I will."
His arms always feel so safe to her, and so Hermione once again wishes that she could rest forever within the confines of his embrace. But she knows in her heart—damnher heart—that he should be heading inside soon. That his journey should start. That she can't hold him back any longer from departing and embarking on this expedition of self-discovery and healing.
But as she begins to pull away, Hermione feels Draco's grip tighten around her.
"Granger—"
"It's time," she whispers into his neck, followed by a brief kiss against his pulse. "Draco—"
"I know, I know," he relents, taking one last squeeze to imprint Hermione's body on his and then pulling away, gingerly groaning at the loss of her touch.
"Just remember this when things seem impossible," she repeats, stroking his arm.
Draco nods, meeting her eyes and leaning down one last time to kiss her. Their hands interlock, and when he disconnects the kiss, he lifts her hands up and kisses her knuckles.
And then the moment comes when he begins to walk away, but their hands hold one another for as long as they can, tightly, until finally their fingers slip from one another, and he turns his back to her and walks towards the entrance.
Hermione wants to run after him, stop him, call out to him and say that she is proud of the man he has become. From that first day of meetings to this moment, Draco Malfoy has blossomed into someone to admire. She wants to tell him that he's everything in the world to her—that she loves him. Unconditionally. Without fault and without question.
But perhaps that'd be too hard for him to hear, and it'd be harder for her to say. Because to spill those powerful sentiments and then not see him for two months would be a torture beyond the Cruciatus. It would tear her heart in two. She can't say those words and then not be with him—she just can't.
So, she lets him go.
Eventually, Draco disappears through those doors, but Hermione can still feel him—can still feel that invisible string tug between their parted bodies.
He's there—in the rehabilitation center now—but he's also here—right beside her heart.
And she'll wait for him, because this string between them is dipped in immortality.
As soon as Draco enters the facility, he notices that there is someone waiting for him.
She's beautiful. She has raven hair that falls onto her navy scrubs in the most perfect fashion, and she has a smile that could end wars. Her delicate face is consoling to say the least—Draco considers the possibility that he's seen her in a past life. It's like he knows her.
He halts in his tracks when he meets her eyes—they're undeniable, belonging to the one and only person on this earth that could bring him a sense of concord.
"Hi," she says, her smile glowing in the warm lights of the facility. "You must be Draco."
Slowly, and in shock, he nods. And then his eyes wander to the nametag secured on her scrubs, and his breath hitches in his throat as he confirms her identity.
Olivia, it reads, and suddenly everything clicks.
He looks back up at her, dumbfounded but careful not to show it too openly.
Olivia smiles, and Draco automatically knows why Graham felt so strongly about her. Her lips are infectious, her smile like a bright and effervescent meadow. She harbors such serenity in those eyes and in that smile of hers.
"Are you ready?" she asks, raising her eyebrows in contentment.
It takes a moment for Draco to center himself, but eventually, he nods.
"Yes," he says, and he thanks the gods that his voice does not come out all shaky and tense, but rather with a newfound sense of purpose and strength. "I'm ready."
He steps into his future, side by side with the girl who shaped and defined the catalyst to this all—one of the reasons he's even made it to this point today.
And with Hermione's words fresh in his mind and Olivia's kind smile guiding him to amity, Draco finally sees the promise of peace glowing across his horizon.
A/N: and that my friends was the last chapter, omg. we have 3 epilogues coming up so we're not totally done yet (there are 41 chapters total, 38 chapters + 3 epilogues) but I want to say that I'm so grateful to you all for reading 3 thank you thank you thank you