A light rapping sounded from Draco's office door, disturbing him from completing a medical report he had been attempting to work on for days. Something or another continuously prevents him from doing so, and it would seem today is no different. The wizard sighed, calling out that the door was open, although thinking, even if it is clearly not. A rather plump older witch with black hair came pushing past his door, seemingly on a mission. The medi-witch, Mary stopped at his desk, standing a few feet away so as not to hover over him, he couldn't stand that.
"Yes, Mary," the man inquired, his eyes never flicking from the report.
"You've a notice from Mr. Zabini, sir," the woman responded, taking a step forward and holding out a note in her hand. Draco reached out and accepted it between his fingers, but didn't open it just yet as he continued to write. This seemed to not settle well with the witch for she was urging him to open it. "He says it's very important, sir—something to do with la tua dea being emitted to the hospi—"
"Thank you, Mary," he dismissed her, his fingers dropping his fountain pen, creating a large ink mark across the paper as it did so. Draco paid no mind to the offensive streak as his fingers tore the note open, his greys swiftly reading over the words. The wizard stood, summoning his healer's kit and stepping through his floo to travel to St. Mungos, where his Mistress was surely not receiving the best care. He had been telling the board they needed to focus on securing and upgrading their facility, but they, evidently were very happy with their traditional ways. That was all well and good, but he refused to allow his savior to be left in a hospital that wasn't willing to employ all the knowledge they could.
Draco stepped out of the floo, waving away the dust from his clothing as he stepped towards the receptionist desk. A blonde woman glanced up from behind the desk, her blue eyes double taking before she stood, showing off her bland pea green robes. Draco sighed, even their uniform was outdated. The young witch cleared her throat before speaking, "h-how can I help you, Healer Malfoy?"
"Good evening, Margaret. I'm here to see a client of mine, I'm her personal healer," the healer informed her. Her blonde brows rose at the statement. It was a well known fact that Healer Malfoy was not a personal healer for anyone, no matter who they were or what their status was. The medi-witch cleared her throat, her hands bringing out their severely outdated patient book.
"I-I see," she squeaked out, opening the large tome, "and what is the patient's name, sir?"
"Granger-Weasley, Hermione," he supplied, patiently waiting for her to find her room number. The woman glanced up at the name, quickly looking back down as she skimmed through the book.
"Ahem—I'm sorry, Healer Malfoy," the witch started, nervously clearing her throat, "it doesn't seem you are listed as a care provider for Mrs. Granger-Weasley."
"No, I wouldn't be," Draco sighed out, "I am only meant for dire situations, and am not normally listed. Considering my client has been in St. Mungos' care for about a day, and she is still unconscious, Margaret, I would consider that dire."
"I could very well lose my job if I let you go to her room, Mr. Malfoy," Margaret stated, her eyes averting from him. A hum left the wizard's throat as he summoned a business card, handing it off to the witch between his fingers.
"Easily remedied, Miss Sommers," he informed her, his brow quirking. The healer inclined his head, passing by the witch when a piece of parchment was laid on the upper part of the desk. Draco briskly made his way towards the Luminary Ward, stopping at her door and lightly knocking in case anyone was in visiting with her. He opened the door, peeking inside, and upon finding no one else but the woman lying in her hospital bed, he stepped into the room, quietly closing the door behind him. The wizard paused in his tracks as he got closer, his eyes observing her pale skin, her skin that should be a healthy peach, unmarred—save for the hideous scar that attested to her undeniable strength.
Draco sighed and took a couple strides forward, leaning over Hermione as she quietly inhaled and exhaled through calm breaths. Despite her battered appearance, the little witch beneath him looked quite peaceful. He sanitized his hands and wand before his fingers carefully opened one of her eyes, a silent Lumos casted on his wand so that he could fully determine that she was concussed. The wizard pulled out a pair of gloves, slipping them on while he looked her over, swallowing the lump in his throat. Draco was gently running the sensors of the gloves over her head, examining the space in front of him that was projecting what was going on within the woman's skull.
"Oh, Dea, what happened to you?" The man muttered as his sensors grazed over the bleeding coming from her parietal and frontal lobes. He slipped his gloves off, stuffing them in his scrub pocket before pulling out a capped pen. Gods, he hated this hospital with a passion, there was a reason the colonies had the best Healer program. His hands were uncovering her feet, and carefully gliding the pen along the sole of them, to his relief earning a twitch just before her door opened, which he paid no mind.
"Malfoy?" Came from behind him, a voice he knew was sure to be accompanied by his mistress' husband. The healer covered her feet back up before moving to uncover her arm and test the receptors in her fingertips.
"Good evening, Potter," he uttered out, retesting the tips once more when he wasn't getting a response. The healer summoned a dulled needle and glanced back at the dark haired wizard, nodding his head towards the sink in the room. "Sanitize your hands, Potter. I need you to do something for me while I examine Mrs. Granger-Weasley's head. Dea, that's a mouthful."
"Why, is something the matter?" The man questioned, a worried inclination in his words. The wizard still did as asked, washing his hands and using a wordless drying spell to dry them, accepting the needle from the healer. "I didn't realize you were a healer here."
"We are testing the nerve endings on her fingertips," Draco explained, breezing over his statement as he pulled his gloves back out and gently glided his hands over her parietal lobe. "Okay, you're going to simply poke her fingertips—you don't have to apply very much pressure to her skin."
"All right, then," the wizard said, picking up the hand that the healer had exposed. He took the needle and proceeded to poke the witch's tips. Draco examined the area, muttering a spell to change the focus of his gloves. The nerves were reading the sensation, it just wasn't very strong.
"Try her other hand now, Potter," Draco instructed, waiting for the man to go around the other side of the bed and remove her non-wand hand. The healer sighed and removed his gloves, shoving them back into his pocket just as Weasley walked in. He was looking fairly haggard, which was understandable—the sod and his Dea may have had a rocky relationship all these years, but they still cared for one another, and this must be weighing heavily on the scarlet haired man. "Good evening, Weasley."
"What the hell are you doing here, Malfoy?" Weasley inquired with a furrow of his brows. "You're not a healer here."
"Wait, what?" Potter chimed in, looking from Weasley to the blond. The mood in the room changed drastically, the air becoming thicker as the two men stared at the man who seemingly had nothing to do with the patient lying in her bed.
"I'm here to take care of my client," the healer merely stated, covering her arms back up. The red head's face screwed up in confusion.
"What are you on about, Malfoy?" Weasley ground out. "She can't have possibly agreed to be your client, she's in a coma!"
"Please, calm your voice, Weasley," Draco quieted him, holding his hand out. "She can still hear the distress in the room, even in a coma. Now, your wife has two brain hemorrhages, one on her frontal, and one on the right parietal lobe. Potter just helped me test her nerve endings to see if she has any paralyzed strands."
"And does she?" Potter quickly asked, putting a hand on his friend's shoulder to stop his next retort.
"As it stands," the healer sighed out, a hand running over the side of his neck, "her wand hand seems to have taken some damage. I'm not sure if it will be permanent or not. For now, we'll focus on what we need to heal immediately, and that's the hemorrhages. While those are healing, we'll work on the contusions on her body, she's quite a few of them."
"You're not even a healer here," Weasley sneered, stepping between Draco and the witch lying unconscious.
"No, I'm not. I am the Director and Founder of the Aceso Medical Center, where I suggest your wife be transferred," the blond stated. "The damage she has taken on could have already been in the healing process had she been taken to my hospital right off. Normally, if she were a muggle, the damage her nerves have taken would be permanent, but with our magic—if we don't wait any longer in healing her, there is a chance they can heal."
"So, you want us to transfer her and put her under your care?" Potter quizzed, his brows rising. It didn't seem like he was planning on being difficult.
"Yes, it is my professional advice," Draco stated, "if you want to be sure she gets the full attention and care that she deserves."
"She's not going to your hospital, Malfoy," the scarlet haired man hissed, glaring at the blond who was setting his jaw to be sure he didn't lash out, being sure he didn't do anything he knew his Dea would be upset over.
"She won't get the care she needs here, Weasley," the healer insisted, gesturing towards the witch, the beautiful being who didn't deserve to be lying there in the first place.
"We'll take our chances," Weasley bit out, taking a step towards him. The troll really got under his skin with that statement. How dare he gamble his Dea's life over his fucking pride? Did he not care for the witch lying unconscious right next to him—his own bloody wife!
"Put your fucking pride aside, Weasley," Draco growled out, his voice lowering as his hand snatched at his collar and jerked him forward despite the man having resituated his feet so as not to move forward—it was a useless attempt. "Mungos doesn't have the medical knowledge to help her. Do not gamble her health with your stubbornness, because if something happens to her, I will end you—do you understand me?"
"What?" Granger's two halfwits echoed one another, both giving him mixed looks of confusion and apprehension. A long silence settled in the room, none of the three men speaking, merely staring at one another.
"How much are your services there?" Potter inquired, a hint of suspicion showing in voice. He must be thinking this is about money, charging such a high status patient a nice shiny coin.
"It's paid for," Draco informed them, a bite in his tone. They really didn't have time for this, his Dea was at risk the longer she laid there not being tended to.
"By who? You?" Weasley asked, a near laugh dripping from his throat.
"An anonymous donation came through my hospital today, prompting me to come tend to Hermione Granger-Weasley," he falsely reported. "Now, are you going to let my hospital take her under our care?"
"Ron?" Potter looked over to the weasel, having a silent conversation with him it would seem. The towering man grumbled, waving his hand in his friend's direction. "When can she be moved?"
"As soon as I notify one of the healers," Draco replied, summoning a piece of parchment and fountain pen to scribble out a message and charming it to fly off to where he knew the break room to be. The man pulled out a device that resembled a phone, dialing a number and putting it to his ear. "Mary, have a transfer team jump over to Mungos immediately—the Luminary Ward, room 305, we have a new patient coming in who has cranial trauma and can't be Apparated. Prep the O.R., I'll be operating as soon as we're in."
"Hello, everyone, a healer was requested for Granger-Weasley?" A man asked after knocking and stepping into the room. He took in the room and sighed, his shoulders slouching as his hand went to his face. "Healer Malfoy."
"Cole, I'll be transferring my client to Aceso now," Draco informed the man with a nod.
"You have permission from the family?" Healer Cole questioned, the irritation in his voice clear as polished crystal. If Mungos would get their shite together, the healer wouldn't end up poaching patients from them.
"Yes, if you will be kind enough to get the discharge papers for them," he requested, nodding towards the two men. The man gave an aggravated huff before summoning a set of forms for Weasley to take care of. While he took care of the papers, Draco's team was coming into the room.
"Evening, sir," one of the men greeted when they entered the room. Draco gave a nod and allowed them to set their gear up. A stretcher was set up next to the bed and the team was carefully lifting her, being mindful of her head and gently laying her down. They fixed on a sticking charm, so that she didn't shift about during transit. Draco covered her up with the blanket out of their pack, tucking the hems in, resisting the urge to brush her locks out of her face.
"All right, get her to the O.R.," he told them, watching as they pushed her out of the room before turning to the rest of the Trio. "We'll floo on over. Cole, if any of her damage ends up being permanent, I'm coming after this joke of a hospital—just an earworm you may want to pass along to the board."
"A pleasure seeing you, too, Healer Malfoy," Healer Cole called after the man who had already stormed out of the room.
Draco led the way, swiftly retreating to Mungos' floo. The blonde receptionist was, coincidentally, no longer there when he walked back into the lobby, tossing in a handful of powder, calling out his own lobby, and stepping through. Simply stepping into Aceso's—anything felt revitalizing, it didn't have the usually dreary deep coloured woods and décor, but more lighter schemes with whites, light greys, and bright coloured accents. The wizard put a lot of time and effort into researching and establishing his own welcoming medical center, making it the opposite of St Mungos'. As he appeared in his lobby, waving the soot away once again, he found Mary was waiting at the receptionist desk for him, idly working on a new patient file, doing anything to keep busy and not stand around.
"Oh, sir, excellent," she softly exclaimed, keeping her voice lowered so as not to startle anyone, "I've started the paperwork for the family to go over and sign—we'll go over the financials after e—"
"Forgo the financials with them," he ordered, lowering his voice just as he heard the flames roar to life and they stepped through.
"Very well, sir. The O.R. is prepped and ready whenever your patient gets here. I'll show them to a private room to go over their paperwork," Mary said after Draco handed the file back to her. He added a quick briefing of what her immediate diagnosis were and how they were going to treat them. The witch wandered off to greet the two men while Draco went to their transit area.
"Evening, my name is Mary," the witch reached out for one of their hands.
"Evening, Harry, and this is Ron—Hermione's husband," Harry greeted, shaking the witch's hand and gesturing to his brother-in-law, who was eyeing the medical center with scrutiny.
"I will be Hermione's case worker. If you will, please, follow me. We're going to get you two working on some paperwork while your wife is emitted and taken care of," Mary informed them, ushering the two wizards down a corridor and into a brightly lit room. She sat the patient file onto the table and motioned for them to have a seat. "Could I offer you gentlemen a cup of tea or coffee—the hospital's Café is open 24/7."
"Yes, thank you, a tea would be great," Harry accepted, his fingers picking the papers up to go over them. Despite the witch having asked, she didn't leave the room. "So, how old is this hospital again?"
"Oh, let's see—what year is it now?" Mary asked offhandedly, searching her brain. "Aceso was established nearly four years ago in 2004. We're new, but we provide the very best care that is available, both in the wizarding and muggle community."
"What do you mean the muggle community?" Ron inquired, furrowing his brows. Mary beamed at the question, her pride shining through freely.
"Aceso offers its services to both communities readily, and all the staff are trained in both magical and non-magical skill sets," the witch proudly explained just as two cups of tea appeared in front of the two.
"Everyone?" Harry asked, his brows raising in surprise. "Even your Director?"
"Oh, of course! Healer Malfoy is the one who founded the hospital after St. Mungos decided this route wasn't the direction they wanted to go." The witch gave an enthusiastic nod.
"Huh, interesting," the black haired wizard muttered, taking a sip of his tea.
"Malfoy hates muggles, and muggle-borns," Ron stated, his brows furrowing. A rather neutral expression crossed over the witch's features.
"I assure that is entirely inaccurate," Mary replied tersely. "Your wife is muggle-born, yes?"
"Yes, she is, someone he personally created hell for while we were younger," Ron bluntly explained.
"Healer Malfoy is a very professional doctor, and he takes pride in the work he does," she calmly informed him, "your wife being muggle-born will not affect his work, she will be provided the best care possible while within Aceso, I assure you, Mr. Weasley. Now, if you just flip to this page here, it explains what Healer Malfoy will be doing during her procedure."
"This sounds like he'll be doing surgery," Harry noted aloud. "Will magic not work to cure her?"
"Matters having to do with the brain are very sensitive," the medi-witch countered. "Healer Malfoy prefers to use both magical and non-magical procedures to be thorough."
"Okay, and he's going to heal her bruises, he said," he recalled, watching the woman nod in confirmation. The Auror began filling the paperwork out.
Draco met the transit team with a couple other staff members who were going to prepare her for surgery. They levitated the stretcher out the back of the ambulance, carefully ushering it into the building. Aceso's vehicles were designed very much like the Knight Bus, however, far less chaotic. The team moved her to the prep room, lifting her onto a sterile bed and shaving her hair where he indicated he would be operating, saving the hair to donate for wigs—that's what his mistress would prefer. The healer sighed, it seemed this witch was always getting hurt one way or another.
He slipped his gloves on after sanitizing his hands and wand and examined through different settings to be sure there were no hidden maladies. His hands stopped over her abdomen, his fingers instinctively flexing and resting over her stomach. The wizard sighed and shook his head. She had to be difficult with everything. He pulled his gloves off and shoved them in his pocket to leave the room and head to the conference room Mary was guiding his Mistress' two boys in, stepping into the room and closing the door behind him.
"So, I have her prepped for her procedure—ahem, but I have discovered something that changes things a bit," Draco started out, holding a hand up to quiet the two men. "It turns out, Weasley, that your wife is three months pregnant."
"Can you still operate?" Potter asked with peaked brows.
"Yes, it won't be a problem. However, sometimes a surgery can run risk on the mother or child, or both. I wanted to be sure you still wanted to continue," the healer reported.
"What do you think?" Harry asked Ron. The man covered his face, taking in a shaky breath. He shook his head, clearly unsure what to do.
"The vitals for the fetus are fine," he offered, "making it more than likely it will go smoothly."
"Do it," the redhead whimpered, his hands fisting his locks.
"Very well," Draco responded, turning on his heel to leave before he could change his mind. He didn't like the idea of a child dying, but he hated even more the very idea of a world without her in it. The healer would do absolutely everything he could to prevent either from happening, Hermione would be devastated to find she was pregnant and miscarried. Draco prepped himself for his work. If everything went according to plan, it would only take a couple hours.
With one glove on, muttering a spell to switch to the proper setting, Draco cast Incisura, an incision spell, onto the tip of a sterilized scalpel to cut out the proper size of bone over her frontal lobe, taking his time to carefully remove it and set it aside. There was quite a bit of bleeding underneath. He thoroughly cleaned the blood up before accepting a small vial with three drops of Grade eight topical dittany and pouring it over the hemorrhaged area. It took about fifteen minutes for it to heal, the healer keeping an eye on both sets of vitals as he worked on her contusions. His hands swiftly slipped back her portion of removed skull and poured into the crevices a Grade ten topical Skele-Gro.
While her skull began to thread together with collagen and calcium phosphate, Draco worked more on healing her bruises, every so often glancing at her abdomen. He knew she had another child, about the same age as Scorpius. She was adorable—Rose, if he recalled correctly. He'd seen them together while he was out shopping at the market in Diagon about a year ago. The healer examined the healed area after twenty minutes and started on the second area, the parietal lobe—where he'd need to use a cell regenerative potion before any of the others.
"Okay, that's all we can do," Draco sighed out after the skull over the second area finished healing. He looked down at the woman on his table, his hand landing on her stomach. "The rest is up to the two of you, Dea. Go ahead and get them in her room to rest. Thank you, for your excellent work, everyone."
The healer scrubbed up, changing before going to report back to the rest of the Trio, blood was difficult to get out whether magic was used or not. Draco was in a rather good mood, having successfully taken care of his savior, and having, healed her damaged cells, or at least that's what it looked like when he tested her nerves. When the blond man stepped into the conference room, he was greeted by a few different faces, majority of them familiar—they were Weasleys. Mary seemed to have left the family to visit with one another and was no where in sight. Draco cleared his throat and nodded to a few people.
"Good evening, everyone," he greeted the room, his eyes landing on a woman who looked like a photocopy of the woman he'd just operated on. A rather lean man was holding her, calming her by petting her hair. Draco stepped over to the couple, extending his hand out to the woman. "Hello, I am Healer Malfoy, you must be Mr. and Mrs. Granger—you have a very strong daughter, Hermione did wonderfully."
"Yes, she always has been," the woman agreed through a short hiccup. The man grabbed up the information packet Mary left behind for them and flipped to a page.
"It said her parietal lobe was damaged, and that there was very little response to a pen test," her father stated, expectation laced in his voice. Draco nodded.
"Yes, this is true. It healed perfectly, I was able to regenerate the cells in time. Hermione will be able to still use her right hand," he assured the man with a small smile.
"Remarkable," her mother awed, nearly sobbing as she peaked her hands in front of her lips. "You have studied cellular regrowth?"
"Yes, over in the colonies, I attended a muggle medical school that offered courses on the subject for awhile." Draco simply nodded before glancing at the weasel. "Her caseworker will show you her room when she is settled in. It may take her some time to wake up, the potions I use cause fatigue as they heal. Have a good night."
"Healer Malfoy," Hermione's father called out. "Thank you, so very much, for helping my little girl."
"You are welcome, sir," the healer replied, "I very well couldn't do nothing."