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 Twenty

Hermione had been waiting for Imani to arrive with the thinly veiled hope that she would be able to provide answers and solutions she was unable to source herself. When Imani did finally step into the room with a duffel bag slung over her back and Hestia close behind her, the look on her face swept away any confidence Hermione had been clinging to.

George had helped her to take Draco upstairs after the tense confrontation, while Hestia left to hurry along Imani. Hestia was adamant that no one was to be left alone with Draco from now on, although the eerie stillness that had settled over him made Hermione doubt that he would be attacking anyone else in the near future. Thankfully, George volunteered to go with her. He seemed uncomfortable, shifting uncertainly from foot to foot near the window, watching white-faced as Hermione scurgify'd off the blood drying on Draco's skin. The wound was open wide, blood welling up faster than she could wipe it away, the skin around the edges scorched black. It looked tender, but when she fixed a new patch of gauze over it Draco failed to react. She laid a brief kiss on his knuckles before re-inserting the IV line, pressed her hand over the gauze in an attempt to slow the flow of blood.

"What did Hestia's friend say?"

Hermione glanced up at George. He was watching them with hollow eyes, leaning against the window, his wand held loosely on his lap, his face distinctly unhappy. She wished she had better news. The episode downstairs seemed to have shaken him, and she found herself wondering how he would cope with another death so soon after Fred. He wasn't nearly as close to Draco, of course, but the two had been starting to form some kind of friendship all the same.

"She doesn't think there's much of a chance. But she had some ideas."

Her voice sounded empty to her own ears. She found herself working her fingers through Draco's, hating how unresponsive they were in her grip. She was now convinced that his fever had disappeared completely – his skin was disconcerting cool against hers. She had heaped another blanket on top of him but it didn't seem to be helping. She held her fingers against his wrist and counted his flickering pulse, and George stood in silence until the sound of footsteps on the stairs had her heart leaping. Hermione sat up a little straighter, still holding tight to Draco's hand.

Imani knocked softly before pushing the door open. She saw Hermione first and smiled, exuding the placating, warm, understanding professionalism good doctors learn to perfect. Then her eyes slid over to Draco, and her face changed at once in the way that clouds roll in across the sky. Hermione could see her calculating fiercely as she put down her bag and stepped up to the bed, see her eyebrows pulling together seriously. No placating smile here.

"Apparently I'm a little late," Imani said, her tone still gentle, "Was there a seizure?"

"He had a hallucination," Hermione said haltingly, glancing at Hestia as if for confirmation. "He thought Harry was Voldemort. Then he had a seizure."

She was forced to let go of his hand to allow Imani better access to him, and consented to shifting a little further down the bed. She remained close by. She couldn't shake that protective flare that started burning whenever someone else came close to him, couldn't shake the thought that no one else understood how delicate he was. Imani's movements were firm but temperate as she pressed her fingers against Draco's neck, lifted his upper lip to examine his gums, and then propped his left eyelid open. Retrieving her wand from an inside pocket, she murmured Lumos and waved the light carefully from side to side.

"Pupils are unresponsive, pulse suggests tachycardia, slight gum discolouration indicating low levels of oxygen in the blood," she said softly, as if reciting from a shopping list. "Temperature low… I believe you said he had a fever?"

"He did," Hermione said, aware of her own pulse doubling in pace as Imani spoke. "It seems to have… gone."

Imani nodded. "Any reaction from him so far?"

Hermione shook her head. Imani was feeling the sides of Draco's throat. She had so far ignored the glaring wound on his chest.

"Mr. Malfoy?" she said, speaking clearly. "Draco? Can you hear me?"

Hermione waited, watching his face for any sign of recognition. When she received no response, Imani finally reached for the gauze pad and lifted it. She surveyed the injury for a long moment. Then her lips pinched and she replaced the gauze.

"Verdict?" Hestia prompted her, hovering at Imani's left elbow.

The deep, frozen pause before Imani responded said everything. Hermione wanted to be holding his hand for when she spoke, just in case he was still in there somewhere, just in case he could hear them. She clasped her hands together on her lap, unable to reach for him without getting in Imani's way. The Healer was still hesitating, still picking her words, and her face had arranged itself into sympathetic regret.

"I was hoping we would have a little more time. I think a seizure usually triggers the final stages of the curse."

"So we're in the coma stage," Hestia clarified, as clinical and calm as ever. "How long does our patient have?"

"The final stage is much shorter than the rest. Judging by his heart rate and the discolouration of his skin, he's deteriorating rapidly. This could be over by morning."

Her words rang in Hermione's head in the way that the tolling of a bell reverberates through a cathedral. She knew that she was breathing rapidly through her nose, trying to remain calm, but it wasn't quite working. She fought the rising tide of panic which was making her eyes prickle hotly and her hands shake. She had to be an anchor for him now – she couldn't afford to fall apart. A hesitant touch settled on her shoulder and she leaned into it, immeasurably grateful, George's presence just behind her as powerful as a mountain beneath her feet.

"Our method could still work," Imani was saying earnestly, and Hermione could feel the woman's eyes on her. "Odds of survival might be low, but there are odds all the same."

Hermione nodded, unable to speak – her throat had closed tight like a fist. Hestia moved around Imani to stand before her, her eyes serious and sombre.

"So what's the plan?" Hestia said. "I won't be able to stay long - I'm not comfortable leaving you alone if there's going to be trouble."

"I doubt there'll be trouble," Imani said with an endearing smile. "I don't think he'll be conscious again before the curse reaches its peak. We're at the very end now - we can expect a series of short episodes, one of which will result in death."

Hermione felt like she couldn't breathe. She must be breathing, but she wasn't getting any air. A small voice in the back of her head was explaining to her that the last time he might have seen her was swaying and shaking in the living room, unable to tell if she was real or not - and the last time he had been properly conscious, she had been telling him that nothing would happen while she was gone. So she had lied. And what if she never got to speak to him again? What if he never looked at her again? She didn't realise Imani had crouched down in front of her until the other woman's deep brown eyes were swimming before her own, a sea of placating stillness, a crutch just within reach.

"This is going to be difficult," She was saying gently. She was using her patient voice. "It's no defeat if you don't want to stay."

Hermione almost choked on the sob trembling in her throat. She pulled back slightly, indignant.

"I'm not just leaving him, not now - he needs me - I'm not just going to-"

"Alright, alright." Imani's hand rested on her knee, an unobtrusive dam for Hermione's overflowing words. "But if you are going to stay, I'll need your help. I need you to be steady. Can you do that?"

Hermione nodded fiercely. There was no question. She wasn't going anywhere.

Imani offered her a stabilising nod and reached for the duffel bag, from which she drew a rather heavy oxygen tank and a respiration mask. She placed them carefully down in the space Hestia cleared on the bedside table, and then unpacked two new IV saline solutions and, to Hermione's surprise, a bag of blood which glistened with a frosty, wavering film. Imani rose to her feet to examine the existing IV line.

"How long has this been attached?"

"It's been on and off," George said helpfully, saving Hermione from trying to speak. "He said it itches. But he hasn't eaten for a few days, so..."

"What's..." Hermione croaked, pointing at the blood.

Imani patted it. "In case of survival, we'll want to get him back on track straight away. Our usual methods won't work for a couple of weeks at least, so - blood transfusion."

She returned to the bag, pulling back the edges to reveal a strange, oblong, plastic suitcase. It opened to show two small paddles with plastic handles, attached to a control panel with spiralling wires. Hermione recognised it, but didn't want to hear what it would be used for. Hestia, on the other hand, frowned at it as if expecting it to explode.

"What is that?"

"A defibrillator," Imani replied. "A muggle treatment for heart failure. It's quite simple to use."

She set about fixing the clear plastic mask over Draco's nose and mouth. Hermione watched, tension trembling in her rib cage like a trapped bird. She hated that he didn't even blink, didn't register Imani's clinical, firm hands on him. She felt like he was standing on the other side of a wall to her, well and truly out of sight, touch and earshot. He was elsewhere.

Behind her, George cleared his throat.

"Do you want me to stay and... and help?"

Imani glanced at Hermione. "I think the fewer people the better - this is a small room. There's not much you'll be able to do, to be honest. Although if Hermione needs a break, perhaps you could swap in?"

George nodded earnestly. Hestia's narrowed gaze fixed on him and he moved at once towards the door, taking the hint. Hestia placed her hand on the doorknob, looking at Imani. Her eyes strayed to Hermione as she spoke.

"Contact me if you need me. Good luck."

"Thanks, Hestia."

Imani's voice was pleasant, professional, dismissive. Hestia left. Hermione sat there on the bed, and she prayed.

~O~

He thought he must be dreaming. He knew exactly where he was – he was in his room at the Manor, and he had been woken by raised voices from downstairs. He stood up slowly, and was struck at once by a strong sense of deja-vu. He knew the voices, and he had experienced this moment before. He felt as if he had been dropped suddenly into a Pensive, walking through old memories in a haze. But as he took a step towards the door a loud hissing filled his ears and he caught movement out of the corner of his eye. He looked, unable to turn his head quickly, in time to see a tall figure in black robes move past the doorway of the ensuite bathroom. He knew he should be scared, but his emotions had retreated to somewhere in the back of his head. He was detached from them, as if floating just above his real body. He watched the doorway, but the hissing began to fade away and the figure did not reappear. The voices downstairs, meanwhile, were getting louder.

He emerged from his room. The walls of the corridor seemed to warp before his eyes, the colours of the wallpaper and the carpet twisting together. He had to focus hard on walking towards the stairs. He remembered this very clearly, although he must have been quite young at the time. He felt young now, felt that overwhelming sense of uncertainty that comes with being a child. The walls of the corridor seemed to stretch high above him, and when he reached the stairs the banister came up to his shoulder. He reached for it, peering down into the half-light of the entrance hall. Several figures were there, arguing, some voices raised, some hushed. He recognised his father's voice, and then a moment later the voice of Rodolpho Lestrade. His uncle. He never usually came to their house, much less in the middle of the night. He could sense tension crackling in the air like lightning.

He began to make his way down the stairs, moving slowly, trying to see into the dimness of the hall. Before he could even take the third step, someone appeared and glided rapidly up the stairs, stopping halfway up. His mother's face was serious but calm, her gaze steady. She placed a hand on the banister, barring the way to him, her other hand resting on the pocket in which she kept her wand. Her face was sharp and angular in the light from the hallway, but he still felt her compassion like a soft wave of warmth.

"Go back upstairs, Draco. You shouldn't be down here."

As he looked at her, he thought he could detect something like sadness flickering in her eyes. As if emerging suddenly from a Pensive, he remembered that he knew this memory, that none of this could possibly be real. The feeling of childish youthfulness fell away simultaneously, and he took another step.

"Draco." His mother had not moved, but her tone had grown sterner. "Don't come down here. Go back upstairs."

"What's happening?" he said, his voice a thin whisper.

She just looked at him. He realised that he couldn't hear voices downstairs anymore – the manor was silent, eerily so. The skin on the back of his neck prickled and heat rushed over him, followed by an icy shudder. He glanced back at the corridor, and saw with a jolt that it was pitch black behind him.

~O~

Night crept over them, and Hermione alternated between pacing the room and watching the clouded sky out of the window. Imani was quiet - Hermione had the sense that this wasn't her first time waiting for Death to show up. She had brought a book, and read between checking Draco's vitals every half hour. Hermione had nothing to do but watch and prowl back and forth across the room like a wounded animal. Her mind felt like frayed string, and as she glared at the tiny square of light from a window a few rooftops away from them, she marvelled at how suddenly things had turned. She thought again and again of the first time she had seen him here, of the way he had looked at her in the kitchen with the others standing by, at the cold sneer he had worn. His expression was burned into the corneas of her eyes. She had taken his frustration and rash anger to be directed at her. Maybe it was. Maybe he blamed her - she had caused this. She saw the Battle, raked her memories for some sign of him, of his white blonde hair in the crowd. She saw him dismounting his broomstick on a foggy, cold evening, misted rain slicking his hair to his head, his face flushed with the thrill of flight, his eyes fixed on her like headlights. She saw him lean over her as they lay tangled together in bed to drop an impossibly light kiss against her neck that sent shivers through her whole body.

How did we get here?

She alternated between feeling like screaming and feeling like weeping. The emotions balled, warped and bubbled in her sternum. Panic lurched out of nowhere and caught her off guard for brief flashes of insanity. She questioned constantly if she was dreaming.

As midnight came closer, she caught movement out of the corner of her eye and saw with a jolt that he was shaking slightly. He hadn't really moved, but his limbs had grown rigid and even with the oxygen mask in place she could see that his jaw was clenched. Imani had noticed too and was on her feet, reaching out to feel for his pulse.

"What?" Hermione said, and her voice came out in a strangled rush. "What's - what's-"

"Once we hit the coma stage the seizures are going to be different," Imani said, her voice distant, absorbed in her observations. "They'll be shorter, more frequent. I doubt this is it, though."

It. The dreaded moment when they would need to act, or lose him. Hermione crouched down on the other side of the bed and took hold of his hand, felt his fingers clenched into tight, unyielding fists. She ran her hand up and down his forearm, tried to show somehow that she was there.

"It's ok," she breathed. "It's going to stop soon."

After a minute and a half, it did. He grew still, tremors subsiding to still waters. Imani instantly slipped her fingers between his teeth and peered into his mouth, then glanced into his eyes. Hermione could only see white, and her stomach turned over. She looked away, and when she dared to look up again Imani's gaze had strayed towards them. Not her specifically - she was looking at the arm Hermione was currently stroking, and Hermione realised that her gaze had been drawn not by their intimacy, but the curling snake and skull that stood out in smoky black strokes against Draco's arm. Her protective feeling flared up once more and she moved to position herself over it a little more, covering it with her hand. Caught looking, Imani cleared her throats and stepped back.

"He's stable, more or less." She hesitated, and then seemed to decide to take the gamble and smiled. "This all seems rather complicated, right?"

Hermione looked back at her. Imani squirmed in the silence for a moment before elaborating.

"I mean, Hestia's not really a Death Eater sympathiser. And with you being so prominent in the resistance during the war, I... it seems complicated, anyway."

"Is that how St Mungos see it? Complicated?"

Hermione knew her voice was more aggressive than necessary, but she didn't have the fortitude to hide how she felt anymore. She was still angry that they had refused to treat him, even if there was nothing they could have done. Imani had the decency to wince awkwardly.

"Sometimes," she said, evading the question. "I'm sorry – I was curious. I suppose, if we're successful tonight, there'll be a trial of sorts?"

Hermione hadn't considered that. It was true that Draco was not quite cleared of all charges – the Ministry was still deciding what to do with him. Maybe there would be a trial. She could only hope that Hestia was on their side, and judging by her help it was entirely possible she was. But Hestia's trust was yet another complicated thing, and Hermione didn't expect it to be handed over just because there were shades of grey. The Ministry looked with black and white eyes.

Draco's skin was cold and clammy under her hand. She sat on the edge of the bed, pushed his hair back. It was still damp and his forehead was still littered with pinpricks of sweat, despite the drop in his temperature. His eyebrows might have twitched, or she might have imagined it. It all felt wrong. She ran through the list Imani had made upon her first inspection and then forced herself to think about anything else.

Her head broke through icy water and his arms were around her. She turned to face him and saw his panic, saw the adrenaline shivering in his eyes from their fall. He was still holding onto her. He wasn't going to let her drown.

They crashed together in the lonely tent surrounded by snow, stress and blood swimming beneath the surface, and she had never needed anything more than she needed him in that moment. He held onto her as if she was about to crumble into dust.

He climbed through her window, looking so nervous that he was almost unrecognisable, and looked at her as if she were golden. His fingers on her skin were careful as if he was handling something indescribably precious.

An hour later another seizure rushed at him. She tried to talk him through it, but he was still unreachable. She was a lighthouse searching the seas for his boat, but the night was too dark. He didn't know she was there. Imani returned to them and adjusted the plastic mask, felt for his wrist.

"Temperature's dropping. Pulse a little thready."

Hermione didn't know if she wanted to hear Imani's running commentary or not. Hearing it hurt. Not knowing would be worse.

She resumed her pacing.

~O~

She sensed the change in him like the smell of rain in the air. She was so attuned to him now. It was different this time – it came on more slowly, and his face twisted with conscious pain. She was back beside the bed in an instant, her chest tight, her heart thundering. She had never been good at waiting for the phone to ring. She grabbed his hand as it curled into a fist.

"Draco?"

He made a noise – something between speech and a moan. She looked up to find Imani sitting on the edge of her chair, book still held in front of her, peering over at them with keen eyes.

"It's different," she said with dry lips.

Imani closed her book, and Draco's body jerked violently. She could almost see the curse sinking its teeth into him. She shifted forward immediately, acting on autopilot, all too aware of the deep red stains blossoming through the gauze on his chest. Her brain flew into overdrive. She hated watching it, hated the way his body became alien when the curse took hold. This seizure was more like those she had seen before, a fact which did nothing to comfort her. It grew like smoke billowing from fire, veins standing out against his skin. His eyes were screwed shut, as always. Hermione tried to keep her gaze on his face, pinpointing the exact second when he stopped breathing. His lips hovered just apart, as if about to begin again, but he didn't. A dark droplet suddenly appeared on his upper lip – blood. Her soul seemed to lurch within her.

"Alright."

Hermione flinched – she hadn't noticed Imani come over. The woman had her hand wrapped around his wrist and her eyes were narrowed clinically.

"Pulse is slowing," she announced quietly. "This may be our moment."

Draco's jerking movements were beginning to slow. Imani pulled out her wand and looked sharply at Hermione. Any of her bedside-manner pleasantries had fallen away. They had crossed into business territory. Her eyes were serious and steady, and Hermione could see her counting the beats against her fingers. Countdown. And then, abruptly, she nodded.

"Pulse stopped. We're going to try CPR before resorting to a defibrillator. Are you familiar with it?"

She felt her stomach clench at the thought, but nodded fiercely. Her concerns were not completely alleviated by the brief flash of relief in Imani's eyes.

"Ok, let's get him on the floor – we'll need a hard surface."

Hermione scrambled up onto the bed to take his shaking shoulders while Imani pulled free the IV line with rapid, decisive hands. Draco weight slumped against her, and again she was shocked by how cold he was. She felt like he was changing beneath her grip. Turning to stone. Together they lifted him down onto the bare floorboards. Imani crouched beside him and placed both hands on his chest, one over the other, her arms slightly bent. She glanced up once more, pausing – she seemed to be waiting for something. Seconds fluttered past, and Hermione felt the panic building to a roar in her gut. Quite suddenly, the trembling rolling through his body stopped. It seemed to be the cue Imani had been waiting for.

"You do the breaths, I'll count. Let's go."

She began to count alongside her chest compressions, pushing downwards firmly and rhythmically. When she signalled, Hermione clawed her hair out of her face and bent over. She titled his head back as gently as she could, keeping his mouth open, and fastened her lips over his. His skin felt cold beneath her, and she forced back a sob. She breathed in to him and sat back on her heels, poised to take up the position once more as Imani began again, her face lined with determination. Hermione watched his limp body jerk with each compression, wishing Imani could have angled her arms somewhere else - she was pressing right over his wound. But he didn't seem to feel it, and that sent a chill of fear down her spine

"Hermione, now," Imani said tightly, stopping once more. She looked at her watch, her forehead creasing in a frown, counting the minutes. Hermione didn't want to know.

She leaned over him, taking in his hollowed face, the huge dark circles around his eyes. Even his hair seemed lifeless, ruffled beyond repair. She completed a further set of breaths before smoothing it back as best she could. He hated it when his hair was messy. She felt her chest grow suddenly tight with a thick sob, blinked furiously.

"One more," Imani ground out through clenched teeth. She shuffled forwards on her knees for the third set. "Come on…"

Draco's face remained completely, eerily still. Hermione could feel panic building in her chest. God, it was taking too long. Why was it taking so long? Imani drew back and motioned to her to continue and she brushed at her face before leaning down, pushing air into his mouth. She lingered a little longer on the last one, tracing his lips with her own, silently pleading with him to come back to her.

And then, as Imani was on her third compression, he suddenly drew a ragged, hoarse, gasping breath like a reanimated corpse, his hand closing weakly over Hermione's grip. She sprang forwards at once as he began to cough harshly, pulling him into her arms. His eyelids fluttered briefly before his loose hold on her hand went slack and his head rolled to one side - Imani was beside them like a shot once again, feeling for his wrist with renewed urgency, pulling the bloodied gauze up a little to peer at the wound. His breathing hitched dangerously and Hermione felt her intense relief instantly swamped with blind panic. She caught at him, slid a hand beneath his head to turn him back towards her. Her voice rang out before she could stop it, shrill and shaking wildly.

"Don't you dare give up, Draco Malfoy!"

His eyes cracked open. Two glassy, bloodshot blue-grey circles focused on her, and she was convinced that he could see her. She trailed her fingers over his face, trying to encourage him, brushed her thumb over his forehead to wipe away the pinpricks of sweat.

"Please," she said, more softly now. "Please don't... Don't give up."

His eyes remained on her a moment longer, as if he was trying to memorise ever feature on her face. She couldn't tell if he had heard her or not. And then, without warning, they drifted shut and he was gone, as if he had stepped behind a curtain. The only thing left to indicate he was still there were the loud, rasping, shallow gasps moving unevenly in and out of his lungs.

"Hermione?"

She looked up, blinking back tears, her breath catching in her throat. Imani was kneeling down carefully, holding the oxygen mask. Understanding, Hermione let her fasten it over Draco's face and watched as small clouds formed on the clear plastic surface. She was struck by the grim, tight-lipped expression on Imani's face – anger? Frustration? Dissappointment? Imani caught her looking and twitched her mouth into a slight, apologetic smile.

"Heart rate is back," she said. "He's not going anywhere for now."

"What is it?"

Imani glanced down at the wound, lifted the gauze pad on top of it. Hermione followed her gaze and found the edges still raised and back, saw angry spidery veins still snaking out from it like cobwebs. It hadn't changed. If anything, it looked worse.

"As the theory goes, being technically dead would have removed the curse."

"And it hasn't?"

"It wouldn't heal instantly, but we wouldn't see the same discolouration there is now."

Hermione understood. "It didn't work."

Imani's eyes narrowed, and she nodded shortly. Apparently she didn't enjoy failing.

"We will have another chance."

Hermione reached out blindly and adjusted the strap, freeing a tangled strand of white blond hair. She didn't know what to say. She had a bizarre urge to thank Imani for all she had done and show her the door. She felt like she was only just clinging to him by a thread. At any moment he could be gone. She couldn't see past that eventuality. She didn't know what would happen next. Would she have to take care of his things? Would they have a funeral? What would she do with his clothes? None of it would take shape in her head. She forced herself to breathe evenly, tried to remember that there was still a chance. Even though she hated kidding herself.

"Hermione? Let's get him back on the bed, shall we?"

She sniffed, nodded, and lifted him up again with Imani's help. They got him settled and she set about pulling the layers of blankets back over him while Imani carefully re-applied the IV line. When she was finally done, she found herself unable to decide what to do with her hands. She wrung them together, balled them into fists, wiped them shakily on her jeans. The room was stifling and the sight of him there was unbearable. She had no space to breathe, the certainty of their failure staring her down like a boggart. She muttered something under her breath - she wasn't even sure what excuse she was supposed to be coming up with - and headed for the door.

She barrelled out into the corridor and almost ran headlong into Harry, who had been about to nudge the door open, juggling three mugs of tea. He flinched, the tea slopping out of the cups in small tidal waves, and even as she tried to apologise she found herself crying. She had shrunk back against the wall in an effort to avoid causing more of a mess, but he only deposited the mugs rapidly on the floor and pulled her into a gentle hug. She crumbled instantly, and it was some time before she could pull herself together enough for him to let go. His eyes were wide and his face pale with uncertainty in the face of her outburst, but he remained there all the same, his hand hovering awkwardly near hers.

"Shit, Hermione... Is he...?"

She shook her head, letting out a high, delirious bark of laughter. "Not yet."

He winced. "Not good?"

Another shake. "Really not fucking good," she whispered.

She wrapped her arms around herself and hunched over. All she wanted was to disappear. Even during the war, even when everything had seemed hopeless during the Horcrux hunt, she had managed to hold onto the dream that they could win. She had never felt this kind of inadequacy, this depth of helplessness.

"Hermione..." Harry trailed off, and she felt everything he decided against saying charge the silence that followed. He sighed. "Do you want me to stay?"

She screwed her hands over her eyes. "I don't know what we can do."

"I brought up some tea..."

Her shoulders shook, and she had no idea if she was laughing or crying. She lifted her head and the desperate look on his face as he held out the half-spilt tea actually made her smile.

"Thanks," she said.

He stood with her there in the corridor for a while, trying to talk to her every now and then, but her head was filled with white noise and she couldn't form coherent words to answer him. Her voice had shrivelled. She took a sip of the tea he had brought and felt sick. He took the other mug in to Imani and remained inside while Hermione fought for control in the corridor.

But she couldn't hide forever, and she couldn't bear the thought that something might happen while she was lurking out in the corridor like a coward. She brushed fiercely at her face, sniffed, and returned to the room. Harry had been speaking quietly to Imani, but broke off as she entered and shot her a supportive smile. He offered, again, for them to call him if they needed him and left softly. She wished she had been able to pull herself together enough to thank him properly. Imani smiled at her too - a sad, sympathetic smile that bothered her - and returned her attention to her book.

Which just left him.

Hermione shook off any remaining self-consciousness and climbed onto the bed to lay herself out beside him, interlinking her fingers with his, her head on his cool shoulder. At the very least, perhaps her body heat would help. She could hear his shallow, rasping breathing clearly from her new position, could just about feel his pulse flickering against her cheek. She watched the glow of the candle on the bedside table flicker across his grey skin and traced the scars standing out on his shoulder with her fingertips, keeping up the silent mantra in her head.

Please, please don't leave me...

~O~

She knew she was asleep at once. She was in the house, but it was different – shadowed, everything slightly eerie, as if someone had created the place out of imperfect replicas. She tried for hours to walk up the stairs to the attic, but she could never get to the top. The steps slipped beneath her feet and she clung to the wall, panting, gasping, trying to drag herself upwards. When she finally did, her legs had stopped working properly and she couldn't make it into the room without forcing herself to move, like wading through honey. Draco was inside, sitting on the bed, a steadily smoking cigarette in his hand. She held the door open and reached out her hand for him.

"Draco, help me," she heard her own voice saying. "I can't move – help me."

He turned his head slowly and looked at her. His eyes gazed sightlessly through her. Then he turned his head away again, and became motionless. His face was entirely expressionless. She was filled instantly with indescribable terror. She tried to scream for him, but her voice came out a hoarse whisper.

"Draco – Draco, help…"

Her legs shook and she looked down to find water rushing past her ankles, steadily rising. It swarmed across the wooden floorboards and cascaded down the stairs behind her. She clung to the doorframe as the flood rose to her knees, tried to scream louder but her throat had closed up completely. Draco had not even acknowledged the water, even though it was level with the bed now. It lapped across the cigarette, extinguishing it quickly. The light was disappearing rapidly – he was no more than a silhouette.

~O~

She woke up when his breathing hitched.

She had been dozing against him but flinched awake as soon as she heard the stutter, her eyes fixed on his face. His eyelids were flickering slightly without opening, and his lips were empty of colour. The hitch in his breathing came again and she snatched for his wrist, her heart leaping into her mouth. It took her a while to feel his pulse, and even when she did it was erratic and weak. She blinked back tears and glanced up – Imani was slouched in the armchair, her eyes closed.

"Imani. Imani."

Imani opened her eyes and sat upright, blinking owlishly, disorientated. Hermione didn't have time to explain – she could feel the pulse beneath her fingertips ebbing away. She scrambled up to her knees, placing her other hand against his cheek, her stomach clenching into a ball of fear. Imani was beside her in a matter of seconds, feeling for Draco's neck. Even as she did so, Hermione felt the beating under her fingers flutter and then, abruptly, stop. She realised with a jerk that he wasn't breathing.

"Imani-"

"It's ok, Hermione," Imani said steadily. "Just like before, alright? Let's get him on the floor."

Hermione forced herself into movement. Imani had already slipped her hands under Draco's shoulders and was pulling him out of the bed – Hermione scrambled to catch his knees. They tumbled onto the floor and Imani began working to make sure his airway was clear, pulled the gauze away. The wound was yawning wide, and Hermione felt a rush of nausea as she looked at it. She reached for his hand, felt a sob catching in her throat. No matter how much she had tried to prepare herself for the moment, she still wasn't ready. Her eyes remained glued to the blackened blood weeping from the edges of the curse site, and she felt with a shudder that sense of wavering energy she had known when she had witnessed that first attack. She felt like the curse itself was gearing up for a fight, and everything they had tried so far had failed to defeat it. Imani looked up quickly, pulling her out of her daze.

"That's it."

Hermione's heart jerked in her chest. She stared at him, still clinging to his hand – just like that, he could be pronounced clinically dead. Even his hand felt different in hers. His skin was cold, and she was convinced that his fingers were stiffening already. Imani was pulling him into position and placing her hands over his chest to begin CPR - again, she paused before beginning.

"We're going to wait a little longer this time," she said, almost as if to herself. "We need to be sure..."

Waiting was torture. Every moment that passed made him less like him and more like... something other. She hovered, her hands resting on his face, waiting to breathe into him, watching Imani. Her terror climbed higher with every passing second, her lip beginning to tremble no matter how hard she bit down on it.

"Alright," Imani said suddenly. "Now."

They began. Hermione counted the minutes and breathed into his cold lips when Imani gave her cues. Time passed - too much time. Nothing was happening. Hermione could feel her blood beating in her temples, felt like she was being dragged into a void at the bottom of the sea. She couldn't bear to imagine what would happen in the next five minutes - it felt like everything was hanging there, every future she had imagined simultaneously possible until they all were suddenly not. Imani raised her head, her cheeks flushed, her eyes bright with determination.

"Defibrillator," she barked.

Hermione scrambled across the room and fumbled for the plastic suitcase Imani had placed beside the bed earlier. She dragged it back across the room, dropped it, watched her shaking hands stutter on the latches. Imani was there in an instant, pushing her numb fingers out of the way and flipping the suitcase open. Hermione watched in silent terror as Imani charged the defibrillator and prepared the metal pads, heard the crackling whir of electricity. She almost reached out to stop Imani as the Healer applied the metal pads, had an insane fear that it would hurt him - she thought she must have been hit with the shock too as her lungs burned and her heart trembled. His body twisted rigidly with the blast of electricity, and she could have sworn that her soul twisted too.

Silence. Imani pressed her fingers against Draco's skin, leaned in close to listen. His eyes were dark hollows in his dull skin - Hermione closed her eyes. She wanted to ask what Imani was listening for, ask what they could do, but only one word would leave her mouth.

"Draco?"

Thanks for reading! Reviews are always welcome.

SUPRNTRAL LVR.