Disclaimer: I don't own the characters. Just the plot bunny.
Intro: Six months post-war, Malfoy is in serious trouble. He's on the run from the Ministry, Death Eaters, and a deadly curse which is eating him alive. When he hits rock bottom, a change in fortune lands him in 12 Grimmauld Place under the Ministry's custody - and forces Hermione to remember the secrets they've both kept for years. Dramione, Sick!Draco, flashbacks to Hogwarts
Chapter Nineteen
She was up early the next morning, woken by the violent shivers that had taken hold of him. She wasn't sure when, but at some point during the night she had curled up on the edge of the bed beside him. She could try to blame it on tiredness, but she knew it was the brief moment they had shared in the shower that had made her want to get close to him again. She'd forgotten how good it felt to have his body against hers. And even now, despite the fact that she had slept on the very edge of the bed and on top of the blankets, he had rolled towards her and one of his arms was slung around her, his fingers woven into her hair. He was so close that she could almost imagine that they were in her Prefect room at Hogwarts.
But he wasn't peaceful now. His eyes were clenched shut and moving rapidly beneath their lids, and sweat had soaked through his fringe and the bandages on his chest. Which, she saw with a jolt, had several dull red splotches showing through. His breathing came in uneven, sharp gasps, and when she touched his neck his pulse was racing under her fingertips. The white scars on his neck and shoulder stood out starkly against his ashen skin.
"Draco?"
He didn't register her so she inched closer, closing the little space left between them. She leaned her forehead against his, her heart sinking at the blazing heat still coming off him. Apparently the cold shower hadn't done much to keep the temperature down. She glanced over her shoulder, and found the water jug on the bedside table empty. She sighed and sat up, gently removing his arm from her shoulders. He moaned when she rose to her feet, but didn't wake. She took a last moment to check the bandages – they would need changing as soon as possible. She didn't like the look of the blood coming through them at all. She fastened her teeth over her lip and headed downstairs, trying to push the dark thoughts whispering in her head to the back of her mind.
There had to be a way. There had to be something.
She refilled the jug in the kitchen in a daze, the roar of the water filling her ears, the jug steadily growing heavier in her hands. Her brain rifled through everything she had found in the last few days of research, turned the information over, and cast it aside. She had nothing that would save him. But she couldn't bear to just give up and wait – there had to be something else. The Ministry – Hestia had proved unhelpful so far, but surely there must be someone at the Ministry who would be willing to help? As she climbed the stairs again, she mentally ran through the people she knew by name and their respective departments. Most were Aurors, with no real history of magical maladies. She just needed to find someone who could put her in touch with someone in the right department…
She had reached the secondary landing, where she caught sight of the door to the room she usually shared with Ginny and Luna. She could hear low voices and stopped, wondering if the other girls were up, but realised that the voices were in fact coming from the other room. It was the room that Harry and Ron shared, and the door was currently ajar. As she drew nearer, she realised that the voices were more heated than she had first realised. She paused before passing the door, not wishing to involve herself in an argument. But it seemed they hadn't heard her yet. She could hear Ron whispering loudly.
"… the second time you've skipped training with the Aurors – it's because of him, isn't it? You're staying behind to help her."
"She needs someone around."
"How are you ok with this? How are you being so bloody friendly with him?"
"It's complicated," Harry replied. He sounded frustrated, but was attempting to control it – his voice was still quiet. "We have to try to understand."
"Understand what? Only thing I need to understand is how he's got you all on side so easily."
"It's not about sides."
"Just tell me, Harry, why bother? He's dead anyway."
She felt as if the breath had been sucked out of her. Her throat suddenly became tight and her eyes hot. She blinked furiously and stepped past the door without caring if they saw anymore, heading for the stairs to the attic. She couldn't bear to listen to Ron now. But Harry spoke again, and his words stopped her before she could start on the stairs.
"Because I don't want to lose Hermione."
Her stomach turned over. Harry's voice was strange – a light kind of sadness, or nostalgia, or something she couldn't quite pin point. She heard him sigh.
"I don't want to make her choose between him and us, Ron, because it's not fair. We're supposed to trust each other."
"But she didn't trust us. She didn't tell us."
"How would you have reacted?"
Ron huffed, and Harry snorted.
"Exactly. Look, she sees something in him. So I have to trust her that there's more to him than it seems. Plus, we're going back to Hogwarts next year, and I'm not prepared at all for the final exams. I'm going to need Hermione around."
He was making an attempt at humour, and Ron even made a disgruntled sound which could almost have been a reluctant laugh. She clutched the jug, almost tempted to go back – they hadn't had the chance to talk, just the three of them together, and she could sense Ron wavering. But her eyes remained on the stairs, and she hesitated only for a moment before continuing upwards. Ron's attitude would have to wait.
When she got back to the attic room, Draco had stretched one arm across the side of the bed she had been on as if feeling around for her, his body twisted slightly towards the gap. She deposited the jug and sat down on the edge of the bed, reached out to take hold of his hand. His skin was clammy and his fingers closed tightly around hers as soon as she made contact, his forehead wrinkling as if someone had asked him a particularly difficult question. Maybe it was her imagination, but he didn't feel quite as warm as before.
"Draco? Are you awake?"
He mumbled something and she leaned closer to hear – she couldn't make out anything from the slurred moans and noises. He wasn't waking up. Her stomach jerked but she tried to tell herself not to panic. As much as she hated it, it was no longer uncommon for her to have difficulty waking him up. She had to be proactive.
Carefully, she slipped her hand out of his grip and crossed the room to the armchair, which was covered in the notes she had been making over the last few days. She sifted through them until she found a fresh piece of parchment, dusted it off, and picked up her pen. She was fast running out of options – she needed help. Harry had said he had written to McGonagall – it only made sense that she now write to the Ministry and demand that they do something to help.
She spent the morning there on the armchair, legs crossed, leaning on one of the few remaining books she had still been looking at. She had to cross her words out and start again several times before she hit the right tone – she didn't want to be too aggressive, but she refused to be polite, too. She hated that they had so far done nothing to help them other than send Slughorn, who had proved to be utterly useless. She glanced up every now and then at Draco. He seemed to be sleeping, albeit fitfully. His face was constantly tense with one distress or another, and she couldn't tell if it was because he was in pain or fighting with some imagined enemy. His fists jerked every now and again as if he were fending someone off, and no matter what she said he didn't seem to hear her. She had preferred it when he was sleepy and half-conscious – at least then she had been able to comfort him. Now he was inconsolable, carried on peaks and troughs of panic, and she was powerless to help. If it became particularly bad, she would get up and go and sit beside him, but she doubted he really knew she was there.
A knock at the door drew her from her focus, and she stood up quickly, anxious from the long morning of slow progress. She had a letter together, although she wasn't completely happy with it, and the only change with Draco was that he was now curled up on his side. He flinched at the knock and she found herself moving between him and the door as if to defend him, tried to calm her frayed nerves. Harry's face appeared and she softened, particularly at the timid uncertainty behind his glasses.
"Hermione?"
"Hi," she said, relaxing a little. "Sorry, I… Everything ok?"
"Hestia's here."
Hermione broke off. "Hestia?"
"To talk to Draco."
Hermione felt her anxiety turn to anger in the way that boiling water hits snow. Her temper was constantly flickering near the brink these days, but she felt that this particular news was an exception. She folded her arms tightly, glaring back at him with hard eyes.
"No, no more questions – not today – he can't – "
And then, as Harry inched the door open wider, she caught sight of Hestia just behind him. Her anger flared and she strode forwards to meet them at the door, opening it wide. She kept the letter she had been reading over in one hand, crumpling it slightly as her fingers clenched.
"Keep an eye on him," she snapped at Harry. "Just – If anything happens, call me straightaway."
"Got it," Harry said hurriedly, ducking into the room.
Hestia made as if to follow, but Hermione blocked her way and drove her back out into the corridor, shutting the door behind her. For once, she didn't feel nervous about confronting the Auror. Hestia's eyes narrowed, but any exasperation she felt didn't show on her face. Her voice remained, as ever, professional.
"Hermione, I need to speak to Malfoy. I'm afraid I have some news."
"He's in no state for another one of your chats," Hermione hissed back, keeping her voice low. "He's barely conscious – he's told you everything he knows-"
"No, Hermione, this is a different matter," Hestia replied, cutting smoothly across her in a tone that firmly denied arguments.
She drew a folded piece of paper from her robes, stained with watermarks and wrinkled. Hermione blinked at it, and could just make out the word 'Draco' scrawled on it in untidy writing. She felt she recognised the handwriting, and almost at once had a sinking feeling in her stomach. Hestia held it up, allowing her to see it before continuing.
"Lucius Malfoy was found in a river in Romania last night," she said.
"Was… found…?"
"Dead," Hestia clarified clinically. "Suspected suicide. He left a note."
Hermione stared at her, aghast. From the other side of the door her ears caught a ragged moan, and her heart tore. How much more could he take? It had to be some kind of sick joke. Her eyes fell to the note once more. She imagined returning to the room, waking him up, handing it over to him… He had said he didn't want to contact his father, but she doubted he had wanted or expected this.
"He can't know."
"Hermione, I have to inform him-"
"He can't," she ground out. "Didn't you see him? He needs to put all his energy into fighting this thing. If he hears this now it's just going to… to cause more pain."
"I'm obligated to explain the event to him."
"Not now," she insisted. "Please. No."
Hestia's face seemed to grow imperceptibly sharper and she tucked the letter into her robes once more.
"I doubt Mr. Malfoy will appreciate this information being withheld-"
"But you must agree with me, or you would be in there by now," Hermione retorted, glancing warily over her shoulder. The door was still closed. "You can tell him – just wait until he's recovered."
She lifted her own letter and held it out, her chin lifted, ready to fight her corner. Hestia's eyebrow quirked curiously and she took it, unfolded it, and scanned the single page of careful handwriting with critical eyes.
"That's for the Ministry," Hermione said coldly. "It's a formal complaint – and it demands that someone does something to help him. It's-"
"I don't believe this is necessary."
Hermione broke off, and watched in shocked disbelief as Hestia refolded the paper into half twice and put it away in her pocket. Her hand flinched slightly, as if to snatch it back, even as she struggled to speak.
"But-"
"You have helpfully brought me to my second piece of news," Hestia said. "I hope you will receive this part better."
"Hestia – you can't just–"
"I believe I have found an expert in the field of Malfoy's curse."
Hermione, who had still been spluttering desperately, fell silent once more, her eyes growing wide and round. She almost asked Hestia to repeat herself – there had been one too many sharp shocks that morning already for her to believe her ears.
"You mean…"
"It doesn't mean there's a cure," Hestia warned her. "I contacted an old friend of mine a while ago. She works at St. Mungo's, and she has conducted rather extensive research on ancient curses of this kind. She has written back."
"Why didn't you mention her before?"
"Mr. Malfoy's former occupation would have discouraged staff at St. Mungo's from offering medical advice. However, I believe in light of recent information, she will now be able to lend assistance without repercussions."
"Repercussions?"
"We've discussed this, Miss. Granger. St. Mungo's is not obligated to admit patients who could be considered a danger to others."
"Which is completely inhumane."
Hestia's shoulders moved in a small shrug, although her expression did not change. Hermione pushed her hair back, still struggling to understand what Hestia was saying.
"You think she can help?"
"I think she knows more about this thing than anyone," Hestia replied. "I have an appointment with her at 2pm today, should you and Malfoy wish to join me."
Hermione couldn't feel the ground under her feet. Her mind was racing. She wanted to let herself be hopeful, wanted to get excited about the news, but she had to try to keep her head. It didn't mean anything for certain – but it was still the best thing she had heard since this whole thing began. There was only one problem. She looked back at the door, her eyes staring through the old wood at the scene she had been looking at all night.
"I don't know if he can," she said slowly. "He's not… He came down to the living room with me yesterday and his fever spiked straightaway. He's been having hallucinations."
"It may be possible that my contact has no available treatment, even if she does have more information," Hestia said. "It may be better if, seeing as you have taken on the role of caretaker, you come with me and report back to him. Whatever you decide, I will be downstairs in the hall at 1.45pm."
She turned away and made for the stairs. Hermione caught at her sleeve before she could go, her heart jumping in her chest. Hestia paused, waiting, her only reaction to the obstruction a slight flicker of irritation in her stern eyes.
"Hestia – thanks. Thank you," Hermione stuttered.
Hestia's gaze softened a little, and she patted Hermione's hand before firmly untangling it from her sleeve.
"I'll see you downstairs at 1.45."
She continued down the stairs, her robes billowing behind her, and Hermione slowly pushed the door to Draco's room open. As soon as she saw him, still shuddering violently and twisting in the blankets, the watermarked letter in Hestia's hand leapt into her mind. For a moment she wavered in her resolution not to tell him, but the next moment he started muttering from between clenched teeth, and she crossed to the bed.
"Everything ok?"
She jumped – she'd almost forgotten Harry was even there. He was hesitating in the corner of the room, arms folded, glancing uncertainly over at them.
"Yeah – yeah," she said distractedly. "Thanks, Harry."
"'Mione…"
Draco was trying to sit up, squinting at her as if they were underwater. She crouched down, grabbed a bottle of nightshade from the bedside table, pressed it into his hand. He took it but it was a while before he seemed to understand that she wanted him to drink it.
"Not doing great, huh?" Harry said under his breath, moving closer. "Is he-"
"I can fucking hear you, Potter," Draco snapped, his words lacking their usual sting.
"Sorry," Harry said, shooting a look at Hermione.
"Draco, listen," Hermione said, ignoring the look. "Hestia might have found someone who can help – someone who knows about the curse."
"What – she – really?"
It was Harry who spoke, but Draco's gaze snapped up to Hermione's, his bloodless face turning even whiter. She held his stare, her hands still caught around his, her mouth a firm line.
"She's a mediwitch, she's researched it in depth – she'll have information." Draco shook his head jerkily, and she felt her stomach plunge. "She's what we need, if anyone knows what to do-"
"Won't be able to help," Draco muttered haltingly. He drank more of the nightshade before pushing it shakily back onto the bedside table. "Gone too far."
She didn't know if she felt like screaming or crying. She gripped his arm tighter, forcing him to look at her again.
"It's worth a try. Draco, it's the only lead we have."
"She'll only tell us what we already know."
"Draco…"
"Is she coming here?"
"We're going to meet her. At 1.45pm."
Draco's lips twisted into a humourless sneer. She reached out to push her hand through his hair, felt him lean against her slightly. His blue-grey eyes were flickering with uncertainty, and she knew that he must feel as scared as she did. If it turned out to be nothing… He shook his head again, and any hope she had built up was thrashed.
"I can't even walk, Hermione."
"Well, I'm not leaving you here on your own," she retorted. "Not like this."
"I can stay," Harry said. "I'm not working with the Aurors today. Thought I'd stay here anyway."
Hermione looked up at him, hardly able to contain her relief. Harry nodded openly, and she looked quickly at Draco, who had closed his eyes again. He flinched as a spasm rolled through him, suppressed a moan.
"So I'll go to meet her with Hestia, and I'll let you know what she says. Harry can keep an eye on you in the meantime."
Draco shook his head again. Hermione glanced at Harry, who took the hint and quickly retreated. She waited until the door closed behind him before inching closer to Draco. His eyes were slightly glazed when he looked up at her again.
"Draco, I'm not going to let this pass us by. I'm not missing this chance."
"Let Hestia go."
"Hestia doesn't know how you are. If you're not going, I need to explain your condition."
He wove his fingers into hers, his grip tremulous. "Don't go."
"Why not?"
He held onto her hand as if it were a lifeline. "I just… In case."
"You'll have Harry."
"That's not…" he winced. "Just… stay here."
"No – you think this doesn't matter? If there's even the slightest chance that she could help-"
She broke off. He was staring at the blanket, his face lined with tense unhappiness. And something else – and the way he was gripping her hand and the tremulous quality in his eyes suddenly made sense. He was scared that something would happen while she was gone. Something that would mean he wouldn't be there when she got back. A flash of bitter determination hit her and she gripped his hand back.
"I'll be back within an hour. It'll be fine. I promise."
He didn't reply, so she said it again, close enough to feel his heart beating hard and fast beneath her lips. She found his pebble on the bedside table and folded it into his hand, closed both their fingers around it tightly. But he didn't seem comforted, and when 1.45pm came and she kissed him lightly on the cheek, she knew the look in his blue-grey eyes was going to follow her all the way to St. Mungo's.
~O~
His eyes opened suddenly, jerking him out of the daze he had slipped into. He wasn't sure when he had drifted off; he was lying on his back, one leg hanging off the bed, his arm crooked over his face to block out the sun. He knew he was still shaking, although having downed half a bottle of nightshade over the course of the morning it had subsided a decent amount. The world was still an unsettling haze moving in and out of focus, and his head and chest were still muted agony, but he could see enough to figure out that he wasn't dreaming. He didn't have long to wait before the cause of his sudden wake-up call became apparent – there was another hesitant knock on the door, accompanied by a cough.
"Malfoy?"
The voice was muffled through the wood, but he recognised it at once and instantly felt the urge to remain silent. But the knock came again, and he had a suspicion that Saint Potter was not about to go away in a hurry. He acquiesced to a grunt, and the door clicked open. Potter's scruffy black hair appeared, and his glasses flared in the light of the setting sun.
"Just thought I'd pop up," he said, in a strange voice. "How's it going?"
Draco squinted up at him, wondering if he was joking. But the other boy's face was filled with earnest concern, and he sighed heavily.
"Great," he replied flatly. "Having the time of my life."
"You took the IV out?"
Potter's eyes had flickered away to seek out the metal stand and plastic bag. Draco winced, remembering, and glanced down at his arm. The plastic port set into the back of his hand stuck out stubbornly, and he suppressed the urge to rip the horrible thing out.
"It fucking itches, ok?"
Potter raised his hands in surrender. "Hey, don't tell me. Hermione's the one who's going to tell you off."
It seemed they were able to agree on something, after all. He flexed his hand, shuddering at the way the port pulled at his skin. The house seemed quiet. There were no thundering footsteps on the stairs, no voices from below. Potter cleared his throat awkwardly.
"The others are out," he said, as if feeling the same silence. "And I was gonna put the TV on. Hermione said you get bored…"
He trailed off, unable to complete the thought. He didn't have to. Draco tried and failed to hold back a snigger, the jerking movement punished by a rush of pain through his chest. He closed his eyes until it subsided, doing his best to breathe through it.
"Fucking hell, Potter, are you serious?"
"Apparently."
"Look –" He stopped as a sharp pain made itself known in the front of his skull, waited for it to recede. By the time he was happy to speak again he didn't have enough energy to be as sarcastic as he had planned. "You don't need to babysit me, really. Just 'cause you're scared of Hermione–"
"I'm not scared of…" Potter sighed loudly from across the room, but somehow did not rise to the bait as usual. "I'm just saying, it might be better than just sitting up here on your own."
"No, no, let's sit down there instead and make awkward small talk. That would be much more fun."
"Honestly Malfoy, you're hilarious, but are you coming down or not? Because I'm putting a movie on in five minutes."
He smirked again, but he couldn't deny that he wanted out of the room. He felt like all he did was lose time. And if he fell asleep again, he had no doubt he would be hit with more disorientating nightmares. He'd had enough of those. When he had joined them to watch something before, the hubbub of muffled, tinny, meaningless chatter of characters and action in the background made it easier to feel safe. Silence was harder to relax in – it only made Hermione's absence more obvious. He hated lying there alone, trembling steadily, waiting for something to happen to him.
And, strangest of all, the idea of hanging out with Potter did not fill him with contempt.
He opened his eyes and, sucking in as deep a breath as he could, lifted himself up. He had to move slowly, and every twist his body made sent jarring pain through him. His arms shook but he made it, head throbbing dully, struggling to keep his breathing even. He glanced up, squinting back at Potter's surprised gaze.
"It won't be something shit, will it?"
Potter's lips curved into a smile. It was utterly surreal to see it being directed at him. The other boy shook his head.
"I'm sure you'll have something to say, no matter what I choose."
Draco huffed a short laugh. He was still trying to gather his strength to stand up, and wished suddenly that Hermione were there. He didn't feel all that comfortable asking Potter to get as close as she did, and even sitting upright was proving difficult. He realised that he hadn't considered how he would actually get downstairs, and came to the fast conclusion that he wouldn't make it.
"Do you want to Side-Along?"
He looked up, quirking an eyebrow in surprise. Potter was already moving towards him, a hand held out.
"Unless you'd prefer to walk?"
Draco shook his head dazedly. Perhaps he was still asleep and dreaming – he and Potter had never been so amicable. But he didn't have much choice, so he nodded. Summoning everything he had, he pushed off from the bed to rise to his feet. Potter's hand went under his elbow at once before he could lose his balance, and they instantly spiralled through pitch black. They reappeared in the living room with a landing that was a little too sudden for Draco's liking, sending him staggering. Luckily the sofa was just beside him, and he was able to drop onto it heavily. The motion jarred him and he suppressed a whimper at the pain in his chest.
"Sorry – you ok?"
He cracked an eye open. Potter was hovering over him anxiously, uncertain.
"Jesus – no need to be careful, Potter, it's only a fatal curse."
"Better job than you could do, wasn't it?"
"Oh yes, you win. Congratulations."
Potter snorted – something between amusement and exasperation – and headed out of the room. Draco listened to his footsteps thudding down the hall, heard the door to the kitchen open with a squeak. Gingerly, he scooted along the sofa. He lifted first one leg and then the other up onto it and leaned back until his head touched the armrest. It wasn't quite as comfortable as Hermione's lap, but he doubted he could sit up for the whole film. He settled himself as best he could, cocooned in the smell of old, threadbare furniture coverings. The television across the room was a stark burst of technology in the middle of rather antiquated surroundings, and it was strange to see. He was still getting used to the whole concept of it – muggles sitting down to watch the same people perform the same story lines and actions time after time. What was the point? Was it still supposed to be funny the third time through? Why watch a film about the Empire State Building rather than just simply going there? But he couldn't be bothered to question it, so he let it go.
Footsteps announced Potter's return, and the other boy re-appeared with two cups of pumpkin juice and a bowl of something balanced on his arm. He deposited one of the glasses beside Draco, who eyed it witch a mixture of surprise and disdain – he was not particularly fond of pumpkin juice – and then retreated to the other sofa, where he flopped down. He retrieved a rectangular device from the depths of the sofa cushions and flicked on the television, which came to life with a surge of sound and colour. A large cat was prancing across the screen, explaining the benefits of eating a certain type of catfood. Draco watched in bemused alarm until Potter began to flick through a variety of different pictures.
"What do you fancy?"
"Why are you doing this?"
Potter glanced at him briefly. "This is how you look at what's on and decide what to watch."
"No, I mean…" Draco cast his eyes skywards in frustration. "Never mind.
Potter paused, his thumb hovering over the device. "Oh look, The Magnificent Seven is on."
Draco peered at it. A selection of men in ridiculous cowboy hats glared at the camera, and then at each other intermittently. He shrugged. Potter, taking this as an agreement, settled back on the sofa and threw the device away. They watched the red and orange of the desert rush past on screen to the high, wheeling sound of Western music.
"Because maybe we should try for a fresh start." Potter said suddenly, eyes glued to the screen. "That's why."
Draco blinked, trying to decipher quite what Potter meant. But the movie was getting going, and to his surprise he found that he was rather interested. Obviously the whole thing was a ludicrous waste of time, but somehow also rather compelling. But despite his interest, it wasn't long before his eyes grew heavy.
He faded in and out for the rest of the movie. The sofa was comfortable and he was able to sink into it, enjoying the distant, muted babble of the television. Swells and plateaus of music, excited, incredulous chatter. His arms felt so heavy, as if weighted down by rocks. He felt oddly as if he was sinking further and further into the cushions, as if they were about to give way and send him floating away into nothingness. He was aware of Potter commenting on something or another every so often, but could never quite keep up enough to hear what he was saying. Either way, he was content enough to just listen to the sounds of the film and enjoy dozing.
"You failed me, Draco. And you must be punished."
The voice cut through his pleasant daze like a knife through butter. He felt his body flinch automatically, but tried to keep his mind in check. Hermione had told him that his hallucinations were becoming more frequent. That was all they were – just tricks of the mind. None of it was real. He tried to concentrate on the sound of the Western music and the clatter of hooves. Some kind of gunfight was going on in the film, it seemed. Somewhere nearby Potter laughed.
Not Potter. The voice was too high-pitched, too eerily malicious. He clenched in fear, felt the dull pain in his chest spike. And then, unmistakably real, the voice came again. He could almost feel rancid breath against his ear.
"Perhaps a deal, then boy – if you survive, you may be forgiven. If not, Nagini may eat the body."
Fangs filled his vision and any trace of rationality left him in a whirlwind of pure terror. He tried to move and discovered with further dread that he couldn't. All he could know for sure was that there was a skeletal figure across the room in black robes, a figure looking at him with burning red eyes, forked tongue sliding from between its lips.
~O~
She hated being away. Sitting in the clinical white spotless waiting room in the reception of St Mungo's felt like a betrayal - especially after their refusal to treat him. She fiddled anxiously with her nails, her worry further amplified by Hestia's calm composure beside her. At another time she might have been interested in the people filtering in and out around them - people with the strangest conditions - there was one man who arrived with a chair embedded cleanly in his back, and was led into a back room by a smiling Healer. But she couldn't focus on any one person for longer than a couple of seconds before her mind was jumping back to Grimmauld Place, like a scratched record. She turned her pebble over and over in her hand, ready to snatch for it the moment it grew warm. She imagined his own held loosely in his upturned palm and felt a slight murmur of comfort.
"Hestia! How are you?"
She almost jumped out of her skin as the warm voice broke through her daydreams. Hestia was rising to hug a Healer who had approached them - a tall, willowy woman with a thick halo of dark hair. They broke apart and the witch held out a hand to Hermione, who scrambled to her feet.
"Hermione Granger?"
"Dr. Sedden," she replied, forcing her mouth into a smile. "Thank you for considering - I mean, seeing us - at short notice - "
"Please, call me Imani," the witch replied, waving her words away and shaking her hand warmly. "It's my pleasure. I know the circumstances are not as pleasant as we'd like, but I've been studying this kind of curse for years. I'm happy to help."
She turned, gesturing for to them to follow, and led them over to a set of gleaming white stairs. As they climbed them they seemed to be covering several at a time, despite keeping a slow pace - doors flashed past on either side until Imani held out a hand to point them towards an office and their speed slowed.
"I'm sorry I wasn't able to see your friend earlier," she said, standing back and holding the door for them. "After all the conflict I'm afraid things were a little tense - a lot of hospitals refuse to take patients who were Death Eaters. It's considered a risk, you know? I didn't actually hear about your friend's case until Hestia called."
The office was a medley of smooth mahogany and black leather chairs, books lining the walls on either side and the wall behind the desk opening into a large window. Sun streamed in, creating a cosy, soft feel. Hermione's eyes strayed to the collection of strange contraptions on the desk - something which looked like a sun dial, lighting up at various points, a circular dish with silvery matter in it, much like a pensive.
"Hestia said you studied this particular curse in depth?" Hermione asked as she was sheparded into a chair.
She knew she was sidestepping Imani's excuses for St. Mungo's lack of aid so far, but she didn't have the time or patience to smile pleasantly and agree. Imani seemed to accept her decision to skip the small talk and headed around the desk to sit behind it. She waved her wand, summoning a steadily steaming teapot from a cabinet across the room, along with a set of teacups. Hestia reached for them eagerly, but Hermione pointedly ignored them.
"Ah, as much as I can," Imani replied eventually, pouring out a cup for herself. "I studied it for several years, but as I'm sure you know it's very difficult to find any information on. It's hundreds of years old. Milk?"
"No, thanks," Hermione said, frowning at the teacup pushed towards her. She didn't want it – she only wanted answers. "I've been trying to research as much as possible, but there are so many conflicting descriptions and myths from so many sources…"
"Most of them will be false," Imani confirmed, leaning back in her chair, her teacup held delicately between her forefingers. "In fact, practically all of the cures listed for this curse are just hearsay, no scientific evidence at all. But there are a few truths we've managed to wrangle out over the years."
"Such as?"
Imani hesitated, sharing a brief look with Hestia. She nudged the teacup forwards a little.
"Do have some tea – "
"I'm fine. Thanks." Hermione caught her lip between her teeth for a moment, trying not to be too impatient. "Such as?"
Imani slowly put her teacup down. She seemed to be revving up for bad news, and Hermione steeled herself for the worst. She waited, her hands clenched tightly in her lap, her eyes fixed on Imani as the Healer carefully chose her words.
"Magic doesn't work on this curse," she said at last, her tone gentle and slow, as if explaining to a small child that their pet rabbit was dead. "And we don't have a cure for it. No one does."
Hermione just looked at her. She had the terrible feeling that if she thought about what Imani had said for too long, her heart would plunge into her gut and never come back. She wished she had brought a notebook and pen. At least then she would have something to do with her hands. Imani paused for a moment longer before continuing.
"It's because it's so rare. It was banned over three hundred years ago, and there have only been six cases since - four of which occurred during this last conflict."
"What happened with them?"
"Three were Muggles - the curse works much faster on them. We couldn't get to two of them in time. The third we got to, but too late to help. The last was a witch – I believe of non-magical lineage - and for a while it seemed like she might have a chance but..."
"But?"
Imani's lips pressed together for a moment and she reached for her teacup once more, idly swirling the contents.
"But the Death Eaters found us and killed her on the spot." She sighed, finally raising her eyes to return Hermione's determined stare. "I don't want to give you false hope, Miss Granger. In all of history only one other wizard has survived this curse, and that was an exceptional case involving complex meditative techniques we still don't understand today."
"I know, I know – but you said you were getting somewhere with the most recent case," Hermione pressed, inching forwards on her seat. Her blood was pumping hard in her neck; but she could not give up, not when she had a chance within reach. "Was it because you were using Muggle remedies?"
Imani's eyebrows quirked and she looked quickly at Hestia, who was currently helping herself to a shortbread biscuit from a nearby plate. "How did you know?"
"We've tried it – a little. He couldn't eat, he kept getting sick, but when I was little my mother went into hospital for a little while, and I remembered the IV she had. So we got one and it worked."
A smile tweaked at Imani's mouth. "Where did you get one?"
Hermione felt her cheeks flushing and returned her gaze to her hands quickly. Imani let out a short laugh, shaking her head.
"No, no, I'm sorry, I'm not accusing you. I'm impressed that you thought of it – you're right. We were using similar methods with our last patient; an IV and an oxygen mask."
Hermione almost smacked herself on the forehead for not thinking of it earlier. Of course, an oxygen mask would have been an obvious solution – he always seemed to have trouble with his breathing when the curse was about to hit. Imani leaned forwards, placing her elbows on the table, and Hermione found herself doing the same.
"Ancient Muggle remedies didn't work, just like magic didn't work. But Muggle medicine has advanced a great deal since this magic was conceived. Not enough to overpower it, but enough to support the body."
"But if it can't ultimately overpower it, what's the point?" Hermione swallowed hard. "Does it only… only prolong…"
Imani raised one shoulder in an awkward shrug.
"In a way, yes. But we did come up with a theory – the general consensus is that if the body does legitimately experience death, the curse lifts. Where magic would be ineffectual, muggle techniques have the ability to crudely reinstate life after a small window of inactivity."
"So…" Hermione paused, turning the information over in her head. She didn't much like the sound of it. "So… All we can do is wait until… until he dies, and then resuscitate him with Muggle technology?"
"Well…" Imani sighed, glancing at Hestia. "I know it doesn't sound like an attractive option, but unfortunately that's the only thing we've managed to come up with. Without magic, our options become rather few and far between."
Hermione let herself sit back in her chair, folding her arms slowly across her chest. She knew she should be happy that she had finally found something – a chance, no matter how small – but she could hear a small voice in the back of her head telling her that it wouldn't work. The plan left too much out of her control. She would essentially be waiting, watching him slip away, and then helplessly trying to bring him back with nothing but an oxygen mask and guesswork CPR. Imani spoke again, her voice very soft, placating.
"Miss Granger… Like I said, I don't want to give you false hope. Even if the Muggle approach has worked so far, even if it was a successful treatment, it could still be too late to be effective." She hesitated. "If I was going to talk straight with you, I'd say there's a very small likelihood of him surviving."
Her mouth was dry as a stone. She licked her lips. "I know."
The air suddenly felt very heavy. She wished there was a window open. She looked at Hestia, who had paused in her mission of demolishing the plate of biscuits, and was listening intently, looking from her to Imani and back. Silence roared at her. The Healer cleared her throat politely.
"What do you want to do?"
She took a beat before answering, regaining her composure. "I want to try."
Imani nodded immediately, her face brightening somewhat. Hermione couldn't shake the feeling that she had just signed Draco up to some kind of unauthorised experimental testing, but she was desperate. Imani was rummaging through one of the drawers of her desk, and produced a large notebook which she opened. From where Hermione was sitting, the pages looked completely blank – however, Imani poured over them with interest.
"Excellent. It would help if we could gauge how far along your friend is in terms of the curse. In my experience, there are five distinct stages to this – would you like me to read them aloud?"
Hermione nodded, her hands twisting together on her lap, anxiety gnawing at her. She watched Imani turn the pages, reading words she couldn't see.
"The time between each stage accelerates as the curse progresses – the final few can happen in rather quick succession. The first stage is similar to a bad flu and pain around the site the curse has hit. The second stage is when the seizures begin to occur – other symptoms include general fatigue and changes in the size and colour of the wound. Minor hallucinations may begin at this stage, but don't usually start to become noticeable until the third stage, when a high fever kicks in. The seizures are more frequent here, and hallucinations become more vivid."
"That sounds about right," Hermione said, furious at how small her voice sounded. "He's… been seeing things a lot recently. And he has a fever."
Imani frowned worriedly. "I see. That's a little further along than I was hoping."
"Why? What are the final two?"
"The final two don't take all that long to complete. At the fourth stage, body temperature drops dangerously low, often resulting in confusion, cold sweats and abnormal or violent behaviour."
"And the fifth stage?"
"A kind of light coma, followed by death."
The word reverberated inside her like a bell. She found herself physically shuddering and clenched her fists, trying to pull herself together. She felt as if she had just relived the past couple of weeks as Imani described the symptoms, felt like she was seeing it all again with new eyes. Had his fever started going down that morning? She had thought he seemed cooler, although she couldn't be sure… Imani was speaking and she forced herself to listen through her pounding heart.
"Considering how far along your friend is, I'd like to see him as soon as possible. Would I be able to see him at his current residence? It'll be easier than moving him here."
She nodded. "Yes, that's… fine."
Imani rose from her desk, and Hermione automatically got to her feet too. She took the hand that Imani held out to shake again, and had the bizarre sensation that she was at a job interview.
"Alright," Imani said seriously, holding her hand. "Give me two hours - I'll get cover for my other patients and pick up some equipment. What's the address?"
Hestia told her, finally returning to the conversation. Hermione let her hand drop, feeling for all the world as if she had just stepped into space. Imani walked them to the lobby, and Hermione could even dare to feel hopeful as she and Hestia said their goodbyes and headed off towards the street. Hestia's shoulders were straight and tall with pride, and she even shot Hermione a grin as they left.
"I told you Imani wouldn't let us down," she said, winking. "She's an old friend – we go way back."
"She seems great." Hermione hesitated, catching her bottom lip between her teeth. But she never was good at keeping silent. "But just because she's offered to help, it doesn't mean we'll be able to save him."
Hestia seemed to deflate slightly. "Well, Imani knows everything there is to know about this thing…"
"It's not that simple." Hermione pushed her hair back from her face, unable to stop a sigh of frustration escaping her. "She's the only chance we have, either way."
She wanted so much to believe that Imani would stride in and fix it all, but she wasn't foolish enough to kid herself. Imani herself had expressed her doubts, and Hermione was all too aware of how quickly things could deteriorate. No one, after all, had ever survived before. Even if the last case had been recent, and even if it had been going well, they had no guarantee. She took a moment at the doors of St. Mungo's to pull herself together, pretending to be straightening her coat and looking in her pockets. When she arrived back at the house, she was going to have to be strong. She would have to give him the news. And she had to make him believe what she did not. She glanced at her watch – the others should be arriving back at the house soon, too. She didn't want to see them – she didn't want to explain everything and put on a smile.
"Hermione?"
Hestia was waiting for her, one hand on the doors of St. Mungo's. Hermione forced a smile onto her face and, with a final deep breath, Disapparated. Grimauld Place appeared before her in a rush of wind and lights, and she heard the soft, distinctive crack of Hestia arriving beside her. No sooner hand they appeared, a patronous shot out of the air and darted around them both, Ginny's voice echoing from its ghostly light.
"Hermione, you have to come back right now – something's wrong…
Her stomach lurched with terror. She could feel the blood draining from her face, the rest of Ginny's message lost to her. Even as Hestia called her name and tried to catch her arm, she was sprinting for No.12. The door flew open before she had even reached it, revealing Neville's stricken face.
"That was fast, how-"
"What's happened?" she demanded, her voice high and fast. "Where is he?"
Neville pressed himself against the wall to let her past, stammering uncertainly. "Up-Upstairs – living room – he-"
She couldn't wait for him to get the words out – she ran for the stairs. She could see people on the landing ahead of her, crowded around the door to the living room – she barely even registered their faces. She pelted up the stairs as fast as she could, and almost ran headfirst into Ginny, who was hurrying down to meet her. The other girl seized her arms and she gripped her back tightly, still trying to push through the others, desperately searching her face for clues as to what was happening.
"Hermione, wait-"
"Where is he, what happ-"
"Calm down," Ginny said sharply, and her tone cut through Hermione's building hysteria. "You need to be calm, right now."
Hermione fell silent, her eyes darting around at the others. She was beginning to realise that everyone was hushed, as if in a church, as if at a funeral. She met Ginny's gaze with renewed urgency, the hair on the back of her neck standing up, heard Hestia arriving behind her.
"He's had hallucinations before, right?" Ginny said, her voice fast and quiet. "He's having one now, Hermione. You need to snap him out of it."
Ginny waited for her to nod, showing she understood, before taking her by the wrist and pushing through the clutch of onlookers around the door. Hermione's chest felt tight and uncomfortable as she went, her heart thundering like horse hooves. She craned her neck – the first thing she saw as she reached the doorway was George, then Ron, both with wands raised and pointed, both rigid with tension, standing just inside the door – and then, as she followed the trajectory of their wands, she saw Draco.
He looked so wrong, like a grotesque caricature of the person she knew. His skin was horribly pale – the curse seemed to have worsened since she had been away, an observation that filled her with dread. The gauze that had been taped over his chest must have come loose; thick blood had spread over the front of his t-shirt, and she felt she could see the material distorting around the site of the wound, in the same way that air wavers in heat. Heavy, rasping breaths fluttered in and out of his lips, but he was standing upright, his eyes burning pits in his thin face, his wand drawn. He was pointing it across the room, coiled like a cornered animal, ready to attack at any moment. And his gaze was fixed on… on Harry. Who stood on the opposite side of the room, his hands raised in surrender, his eyes wide behind his glasses. Hermione caught his panicked stare and a flash of understanding rushed between them.
Not good. Really not good.
Out of the corner of her eye she could see George and Ron shifting closer, and now that she could see Draco she could sense fear mounting in the air around them. She heard the floorboards creak and knew without needing to look that Hestia had entered the room and drawn her wand. If she didn't do something soon, the situation would be unsalvageable. She could feel the seconds trickling away from them as if watching an hourglass. Without sparing another second to think, she took a swift, decisive step forwards.
"Draco-"
His head flinched sharply towards her, and from the corner of her eye caught a glimpse of Ron stepping up beside her. She flung out a hand to stop him, freezing in place, watching Draco's wild eyes rove over them. There was no hint of recognition in his face – just a glazed, hunted sheen. His shoulders were heaving in ragged gasps and the blood had made a thick path down his pant leg, rapidly growing wider as it continued to flow. She could feel the desperation of the situation increasing with every passing second and searched for the right words, the right thing to say. In the end, he spoke first.
"Don't – fucking – move."
His voice was shaking, but she didn't doubt the threat his words carried. He might have been having trouble with magic over the past few days, but he had let out a hex during his previous hallucination without any hesitation – she somehow knew the curse wouldn't be affecting his ability now. Ron hissed her name, but she couldn't risk looking back at him. Instead, she took another slow step forwards.
"It's ok," she said, doing her best to keep her voice light and calm. "It's me."
Instantly, Draco's wand swung away from Harry and pointed at her head. He glanced warily at the floor a short distance away and his wand arm wavered slightly, as if he was trying to choose between two targets, but then his resolve returned and he fixed on her.
"You're dead," he said emphatically. "I don't know how – doesn't matter how long it takes – you're supposed to be dead."
He wasn't making any sense, but she could at least understand that he didn't recognise her. She lifted her hands, palms upright, trying to appear as unconfrontational as possible.
"Draco, who do you think I am?"
He stared at her, his lips parted, blinking hard as if expecting her to disappear. Then, abruptly, his face contorted and he sent a sudden, wild jinx at Harry. It was so unexpected – it was only because he fired as he moved that he missed. Draco never usually missed. Harry ducked, flinching back against the window, and the jinx left a scorch mark on the wallpaper instead. Hestia darted forwards at once, Ron driving in alongside her, and with a dizzy rush of panic Hermione lurched forwards to place herself between Draco and Harry. She held out a hand to the others, shooting them a furious glare.
"Stop, stop! It's fine," she said forcefully, doing her best to take control of the situation. "Don't hurt him, he's ok-"
"Shut up!" he snarled, and red sparks flew from the tip of his wand. He stared at her with so much venom that she almost felt the sting of it, felt her lips quirk. "You take one more step and… and I'll fucking–"
"Draco, please," she broke in, eyeing his wand warily. "Look around. Don't you know where you are?"
His gaze flew around the room before landing back on her as she took a minute step towards him. A muffled groan left his lips and he doubled over for a brief moment – then he was drawing himself up again, still a little hunched, his wand trembling. He blinked furiously at her, still aiming over her shoulder at Harry. She moved a little closer, but his wand fizzed once again, forcing her to halt. She could feel tears pricking at her eyes at the sight of him. There was a wild fear in his face directed straight at her, and it was so unnerving, so unlike him, that it made her feel like a monster.
"Don't you know me?" she whispered helplessly.
He shook his head violently. "You're – not – fucking – real," he spat.
"I am. I promise you, I am," she pleaded, moving nearer. There was less than a metre between them now. "Please, just think for a second. Look around. You know these people. You know me."
To his credit, he did look. But there was no recognition on his face, no dawning understanding. There was only terror. He fixed on Harry again and his face hardened. His skin was paper-white now, and she was horribly aware of just how much blood there was flooding out of him. His teeth bared in a snarl.
"You're lying. You fucking lying. I see him."
"I never lie to you."
"If you take one more step I'm going to kill you."
The words dropped from his lips like stones and she froze, her weight shifted forwards, about to move. She held his gaze, even as she felt the others drawing in around them. She couldn't think about them. She looked at him and, for one heady moment, she was hit with the vivid memory of dancing with him at the Yule Ball. His hands had been on her waist and his silvery blue eyes had filled her vision, and he had been so achingly close that everything had stopped. Despite herself she found a smile spreading over her face.
"No, you won't."
Something between a sob and a gasp tore out of him. He shuddered, lifted his free hand to his chest. His fingers came away coated with blood and she felt her stomach twist. She moved on towards him, and, even though his wand was only inches from her now, still he did not act.
"You won't," she repeated, more confident now. "Do you know why? Because I trust you, Draco. I trust you more than anyone in the world. And I know you're someone who would never, ever hurt me."
She closed the distance between them, and with a rush of hope found that he moved his wand to avoid touching her, still trying to point it over her shoulder at Harry, but forced off target. She stood before him, not even daring to blink, watching his gaze skate over her face. His eyes were welling with tears and his face was screwed tightly up. He drew in a shallow, ragged breath. She hesitated, but she could not afford to wait any longer. He could not bear much longer. Steeling herself, she reached out and slowly took hold of his wrist, pushing his wand down a little. He stared at her hand, and his eyes slid half-closed.
"You're not real."
"Draco, please, you have to listen to me."
On a sudden impulse, desperate to get through, she lifted her other hand. With a thrill of terror, she found the skin on his neck far colder than she had been expecting, although his hair when she ran her fingers through it was damp with sweat. He stiffened beneath her touch and closed his eyes tightly, a soft whimper escaping his clenched jaw.
"You're sick," she murmured, leaning her forehead against his. "I know you can feel it. You have to trust me. I'm not going to let anything happen to you. Just hear me… Draco, please."
He swayed, let out a rough sob, and then abruptly dropped his wand. She let out a breath she hadn't realised she had been holding as it clattered against the floor and his hands came around her waist, just as they had at the Yule Ball all those years ago. She felt his breath against her face, saw wetness on his cheeks as he rested his forehead against hers. He mumbled something.
"What?" she asked softly.
"I… I fucking see him, Hermione," he muttered tremulously. "He's… I can't tell… what's real …"
"It's ok," she replied, her own voice thick with tears. "I can."
They stood there for a moment longer, and at last she heard the others relaxing around them. Harry let out a sigh of relief from somewhere nearby. People began to speak quietly, as if scared of disturbing the peace.
"God, that was close," George muttered.
"Are you alright, Harry?" said Hestia, her voice still guarded.
"I'm fine. For a second I thought… I'm fine."
As the voices washed over them she felt a deep tremor roll through Draco's shaking body, and instantly she was on high alert. She looked up at him carefully and found his face twisted with pain. The tremor came again and she took hold of his arms as he swayed unsteadily.
"Draco? Do you want to sit down?"
He didn't seem to hear her. His breath caught in his throat and he doubled over once more, clutching at his chest, a moan jerking free. She whipped her head to the side and found Ginny standing nearby, ready for her call, her eyes narrowed.
"Get the nightshade, quickly!" she hissed.
Ginny nodded and darted away towards the door. Even as she went a muffled cry reached her ears and Draco dropped towards the floor. She tried to stabilise him but she wasn't strong enough – all she really managed to do was slow his fall, the two of them landing hard on the ground. She wrapped her arms around him as the merciless seizure took hold of him. His eyes clenched shut and his body stiffened, and then it was happening and there was nothing she could do. She only realised she was crying when Harry appeared, kneeling in front of her, reaching for her shoulders.
"No, no, no, Draco…"
"Hermione–"
"He can't take this now!" she cried hoarsely, tears rushing freely down her face. "He's too weak, it's going to kill him…"
Harry's eyebrows pulled together in sympathy and despair. "Ginny's coming," he said. "It'll be alright."
She could only shake her head, her lips pressed tightly together.
The attack was significantly shorter and quieter than usual, and yet she found no comfort in it. All she could really do was tear her scarf off and press it against his blazing wound, trying to slow the bleeding. By the time Ginny got back he was already limp in her arms, his eyes rolling beneath half-open lids, and yet again he had stopped breathing. She took the nightshade from Ginny with a shaking hand and poured a couple of drops between his lips before pushing his damp hair out of his face, leaning in as close as she could.
"Come on," she whispered. "Come on, Draco, please…"
Nothing. Her nerves were jittering like frightened bats and her mind was racing – what if this was the final stage, and Imani wasn't there to talk them through what to do? How was she supposed to know? She needed him to hold on for a little longer, just until Imani arrived, until there was a chance. The moment dragged on and she shook him slightly, desperation enveloping her patience. He was a dead weight in her lap, disturbingly unresponsive, and she found herself begging for even a flicker of consciousness.
"Draco."
His mouth opened in a shallow gasp and she felt a sob surge through her, hung on to him as if she expected him to be snatched away from her, returning her other hand to the bloodied scarf on his chest. She let her forehead rest briefly against his, reassuring herself with the breaths fluttering against her cheek. She let go of the scarf again and felt for his hand, still lying on the floor covered with blood, clasped it tightly. Breathing meant he was still alive.
As she straightened, another hand moved into her periphery and she watched it lift the bloodied scarf before pressing down again
"Fuck, that's a lot of blood."
She looked up. George was there, looking distinctly shaken, his lips pressed tightly together. Although it was Harry who had reached for the scarf, still kneeling opposite her. Her eyes moved to Hestia, who was in the doorway, murmuring quietly to a silvery patronus hovering by her hand. Her eyes met Hermione's for a moment.
"Will a blood-replenishing potion work?" Harry said.
She knew the question was directed at her, but she was still trying to make her thoughts coherent. She looked down again at Draco. His fingers bent pliantly beneath her grip. For once, she didn't care who saw her holding him. She realised Harry was still waiting for her to reply and swallowed hard.
"I don't think so," she said.
"I could make one," Ginny volunteered from behind Harry.
"There's no point."
She could almost feel the look that passed between her friends at her bleak statement, and with a deep breath tried to pull herself out of it.
"Thanks," she said. "Someone's coming from St. Mungo's to help."
She tore her gaze away from him. Harry and Ginny bore identical wrinkled frowns, and George's arms were folded tightly. She could see how concerned they were, and how much they questioned what kind of 'help' could change what seemed inevitable. She wanted to explain, but she knew how Imani's plan would sound to them. She didn't like the sound of it all that much herself. So she settled for focusing on Draco, holding his lifeless body tighter.
"You'll be ok," she murmured. "You're too stubborn not to be, right?"
Her only answer was silence.
Thanks for reading! Reviews are always welcome.
SUPRNTRAL LVR.