A/N: Hello, again! Please enjoy the final chapter for the month. I'll be back after the holiday with the next installment. For now, I'm going to go build a Lego set with my husband and remind us both that I am not some snuggified phantom who lives alone in the bedroom, hunched over a keyboard while our cats surround my legs.
(The Lego set is the Weasley Burrow from Harry Potter, by the way. I also have the Chamber of Secrets to finish... Oh me, Oh my. So exciting!)
Thank you for the reviews, follows, and favorites! You are appreciated.
-LA91
The wards ripple at the precise moment the cottage door falls off its hinges. Everything that happens next is a blur of chaotic motion, a whirlwind of black robes billowing, detection spells flying, and familiar shouts as three bodies thunder through the bedroom and corridor, securing the perimeter.
Draco is pinned to the wall, frozen with a smartly aimed Petrificus Totalis, a wand jabbed at his throat.
Nymphadora Tonks's wand.
The former auror's hair shimmers with her Metamorphmagus magic before it ripples from a bubblegum pink into a flaming shade of red, brighter than any Weasley's, at the sight of her cousin.
"Stand down," she spits, snatching the hawthorn wand shoved against her very pregnant belly. Her painted pink lips curl with her snarl. "How dare you raise your wand at me, Cousin? At my child? I should kill you for that."
The binding spell quivers as Draco's gaze fixes resoundingly on Tonks. My heart bangs wildly in its cage at the idea that he might actually break loose from her hold and launch for her throat.
"Malfoy, don't," I say, fingers stretching for him across the blankets. "Don't." His eyes snap to mine, unreadable since he can't even blink. All he can do is watch as he's rendered helpless, defenceless, by a member of the Order who is meant to protect us, a member of his family, as estranged as they are.
After all he has proven.
After all he has sacrificed.
"Tonks, listen to me," I say, pushing past my fury for strength. "It looks bad, I know it does, but it was instinct that made him do it. Instinct. Can you blame him for being cautious when you've barged inside the cottage like we are your enemies? Malfoy isn't a threat."
Tonks's low chuckle fills the bedroom as she tilts her head, studying me with the air of someone much wiser and more worldly. It strips me open and flays me bare as if she sees straight through to my soul. As if she knows the exact reason why I am defending her cousin and has already pieced together the complicated nature of our relationship. Meanwhile, I am clueless beyond her appraisal, still grappling to understand how Draco's jagged edges fit with mine after everything that's happened over the past five days.
"My, my, Hermione." Her face melts into a softer, curious expression. "Never thought I'd hear that from the likes of you," she says after a long moment, releasing her spell with a none-too-gentle flick of Draco's nose. "Wanker. Consider yourself lucky that you have such a powerful ally. Also, that you're a right useless knob without a wand."
Draco comes to life with a blink, his lips curling in a sneer as he glares at his cousin first, then at his wand in her grip. With his next blink, his features smooth into a blank canvas, an emotionless mask as he stares down his nose at the witch.
"Most civilised people knock. Leaning into that paternal heritage a little heavy then, Nymphadora?"
"Malfoy—" I gasp at the precise moment that Tonks shoves Draco's shoulders so hard against the wall that he grunts. Impressive, really, considering her spritely size, how she has to rise on her tiptoes and crane her neck just to glare into his eyes. Years of animosity simmer between them as they spit rare insults, brazen obscenities that flame my cheeks. Their voices climb in pitch until Remus Lupin and Seamus Finnigan enter the bedroom, the former laying his palm on his wife's shoulder.
Calm and stoic as ever, Remus dips his chin and whispers in Tonks's ear until she releases Draco with a shove. Remus plucks the hawthorn wand from Tonks's grip, planting a chaste kiss on her cheek before nodding in greeting at Draco and me. Tonks rolls her eyes as Draco smooths the wrinkles from his shirt like an arrogant aristocrat. She swings her rounded tummy with an exaggerated jut of her hip, forcing Draco to flatten against the wall to avoid a collision.
"Right. How are we doing today, Hermione? Chipper?" she asks, stalking towards the bed, belly bouncing with every step. She checks my forehead for fever, frowns at the sticky beads of sweat clinging to her fingers, then barks over her shoulder, "Send in the others, Seamus. Remus, you know what to do."
Once again, bodies are in motion as Seamus flashes a cheery grin before disappearing out the side door. Meanwhile, to my horror, Remus backs into the corner and recites a Prior Incantato at Draco's wand, frowning as spell after spell flickers from the tip.
Occlumency, warming spells, levitation, calming charms… So many calming charms, enough to sedate an elephant… For me? But no, I would have noticed Draco's unique signature wrapping around my body, as familiar now as the fuzzy warmth of my own magic. The colourful barrage continues, those benign reds and blues floating into the room in a swirl of purple, my heart sinking as a disillusionment spell flutters to life in a flash of yellow.
In my bones, I know what's coming next.
Draco has never admitted it outright, though I know the unbreakable vow demanded more from him than what the Order would ever permit in ordinary circumstances.
It starts with an icy streak of pale silver, a powerful obliviation spell. Tonks's hands tighten into fists as her eyes dart to mine, a question in their depths.
"That wasn't for me," I whisper, stricken at the furious clench in Draco's jaw as he braces himself for what's coming—as I hold my next breath. Our gazes clash for the briefest second, an apology wrapped in his steel irises.
The ghost of an Imperius Curse soars into the bedroom like a blue shooting star, a beacon of terror casting its ethereal, haunting glow on everything it touches. Not a second later, Harry and Ron crash through the door. An unidentified man dressed in hospital scrubs drags at their heels. Harry and Ron's heads whip about as that sickening light bathes their skin, distracting their focus for only a moment. As soon as their eyes land on mine, they break formation and dash for the bed.
"Hermione!"
They chorus together. At once, I am swept into their joint embrace, smooshed between their chests as they stumble over breathless apologies and explanations, that harsh light strobing behind their heads—blue streak after blue streak, followed by a crimson flash of legilimens, more calming spells, occlumency, and disillusionment.
Almost all the magic Draco has cast since we've sheltered on Crail's shore.
Harry speaks first.
"We're so bloody late—"
"So bloody sorry—"
"There were attacks in the city," says Harry.
"Bad ones—" says Ron.
"The muggle press says it was an 'unknown' terrorist organisation," Harry continues, "but it was him. He's moving against the muggles—"
"And fast—"
"And still," Harry seethes, "the International Confederation won't intervene. Not even the Ministry can spin what happened in Edinburgh like this was anything other than pointless murder, but they refuse to cover the truth in the paper. People don't even know—"
"The rail system was down, too," pipes in Ron. "It was part of the attacks. We bummed a ride in the back of one of those… What was it called?"
"A lorry."
"Right, a lorry—"
"Ron sprained his ankle when we jumped off—"
Ron suddenly pauses, grabbing my cheeks in both hands as the fa of Draco's apparition spell dances across his brow.
"Bloody hell. What's going on with your eyes? Why are your pupils all massive?"
"And your face," echoes Harry, squinting as he leans closer. "Why is it all flushed and sweaty?" He motions over his shoulder. "Enough with the interrogation, Remus. I think we have a basic idea of what Malfoy's been up to, yeah?" The lights fizzle and sputter to a stop. "Mr Crawford, can you please come here?"
The man dressed in hospital scrubs steps forward. At first glance, I mistake him for a muggle based on his attire, but in his grip is the telltale sign of magic: a wand. Before I can question why a wizard is wearing such an outfit, he casts a series of complex diagnostic spells and shushes the room with a commanding, "Quiet. This is delicate work."
Deep wrinkles crease his forehead as he examines the map of my nervous system with the scrutinising thoroughness of a seasoned healer, gently tapping at different points along my skull. Foreign spells murmured in Latin leave his lips. Unfamiliar, warm magic courses over my skin, my saliva thick in my mouth as it finally dawns on me that this is it—salvation—wrapped in the form of a middle-aged man wearing wrinkled hospital scrubs, a five o'clock shadow darkening his jaw. Stale coffee breath washes over my nose as my entire body tingles in anticipation.
The healer's wand-light flashes at my pupils.
First, with the left side, followed by the right.
Whatever he finds draws his lips into a tight line.
"Time is short," he says, glancing at Tonks. "We'll have to continue with the second plan. Clear the room, please. And bring in the rat."
"The rat?" I say, scrambling for Harry's hand as Seamus sets a small cage on the bedside table. Seamus flashes another grin, a bit wobbly this time, before saying, "It's good to see you alive, Hermione. All of us were worried sick."
Too many thoughts zip through my mind to form a proper response. I stare at the cage with widened eyes as Tonks orders Remus and Seamus to clear the area.
"What is the rat for?" I ask, breathless with worry.
The healer fires a quick stunning spell inside the cage.
"It's standard procedure," he says. "The curse is like a parasite. When I lift it from your brain, it will need a new host to attach to if there is any hope of destroying it forever. The rat is our host."
Ron looks positively green as the rat's stiff body is levitated from the cage, his arm still wrapped around my waist as I struggle to comprehend that this innocent creature will have to die in order for me to live. Harry wears a guilty expression. The same one he always has whenever he knows I'm seconds away from launching into a debate on animal rights.
"It's the only way," he says. "We fought it. Believe me—we fought it."
"Yes, but—"
A disbelieving laugh sounds from the doorway.
"Damn it all to hell," says Draco, glaring at every Gryffindor around my bed. "Do you fuckwits realise who you're dealing with? Why didn't you stun her before bringing the cage?" He struggles against Lupin's hands as the older man tries to corral him to the other room. "Isn't that healing 101 when caring for a difficult patient?" Lupin locks his arms around Draco's chest, hauling him backwards as Draco grits his teeth and snarls, "Don't overthink it, Granger. Let the bloody healer do his job."
I bristle as the door slams.
"Easy for him to say when he's not the one condemning a poor animal to its death," I mutter. Tonks beckons Seamus, Harry, and Ron to follow in Remus' trail. Seamus files out with a perfunctory "Best of luck!" though Harry and Ron waffle as Tonks tugs them by their collars, refusing to leave the bed.
"It will be over quickly," says Harry, brushing off Tonks with a frustrated grumble. He squeezes my hand. "You won't even feel it, and next thing you know—" he snaps his fingers. "You'll be good as new."
"Yeah," says Ron, dodging Tonks as she tries to grab his robe next. "Mr Crawford is excellent. Aren't you, Mr Crawford?"
"I come recommended by Mr Shacklebolt if that is what the young lady needs to hear," says the healer, his brow furrowing as a bead of sweat trickles down my forehead. "All this meandering is wasting time. Say your farewells and depart."
"Farewells?" I squeak, yelping as Harry and Ron squish me in a desperate hug, pressing kisses to my cheeks before Tonks yanks them from the bed with her wand.
"Not a farewell," says Ron, a fierce edge to his tone as Tonks commands him backwards with magic. "We'll see you in three days."
"Three days?!"
Harry fights against Tonks's spell and points his finger at the healer, his voice a growl.
"You'll take care of her like she's one of your own," he says. "Don't you dare hurt her, or I swear to God, I will—"
"Out with you!" Tonks reprimands, shoving the boys and slamming the door at their backs. "Sorry no about that," she says to the healer, shrugging her shoulders before snapping her wand with protection spells, warding the room against intrusion. "Boys will be boys."
To the man's credit, he is nonplussed by Harry's threat and simply tips his wand at my skull. A new set of complicated diagnostic spells shimmer in the air.
"Any questions before we begin?"
"Only a million."
I stare at the glowing web of my nervous system, the blackness creeping along the synapses as the radiant haze of Tonks's magic seals us inside the bedroom.
"Will I be intact?" I ask. Not will I live, not will it hurt, but… "Will I still be 'me' when I wake up? If I wake up?"
A determined frown steals over Mr Crawford's face as he squeezes my shoulder.
"Miss Granger, is it?"
I nod, blinking back tears as he wipes my cheeks with a conjured tissue, his hands and voice steady.
"I promise I will do my best," he says. "But I will not lie to you about the inherent risks involved. Any medical procedure, magical or not, needs your full understanding and consent if you can make such a choice. By my assessment, I believe you are capable of participating in this decision. Do you agree with that statement, Miss Granger?"
"Yes, of course. Please, tell me what I can expect."
He lists every outcome known to man, the words 'permanent disfigurement' and 'death' festering in the air like a gaseous poison. He pats my shoulder as I grimace. "With your prior bill of good health and robust magical constitution, I believe you will recover and have one of the more desirable results. But we cannot delay the curse's removal any longer. To do so is monumentally detrimental. Do you understand the gravity of this situation if we do nothing?"
"Yes…."
"Do you understand the risks of the curse's removal?"
Again, I nod, clenching my fists.
"Have you done this before?" I ask, delaying the inevitable, unable to help myself as nausea fills my gut.
The healer's expression is bland.
"My mastery is in curse-mending."
It doesn't escape my notice that he's avoided a direct answer. The muggle attire steals my attention again, the embroidered stitch on his left breast depicting him for who and what he is: a muggle doctor with a healer's background.
Mr Christopher Crawford, FRCS, Neurosurgeon.
He follows my gaze, his eyebrow arched and expectant.
"Any other burning questions before we begin, Miss Granger? I am compelled to remind you of the sensitive nature of your condition."
Tonks flashes a reassuring smile over his shoulder, her hair dimming from bright red into its characteristic mousy brown.
"Chin up, Hermione. We'll see you on the other side."
There isn't time to question the healer's educational background or competency when every second matters. The curse is boundless, infiltrating and fouling healthy tissue at an alarming rate without pause.
It's a miracle my body has fought it for as long as it has.
Whatever time I have left, I am wasting it with wallowing in this fear, succumbing to this guilt.
All I can manage is another nod, spreading my palm flat on the bed as Tonks casts a protective barrier around herself and the healer: the final ward against the curse.
"On with it, then," I breathe, staring resolutely at the ceiling. Mr Crawford lays the rat on my pillow. Its pungent, ammonia scent stings my nostrils, its coarse fur brushing my cheek. "Wait—"
The healer pauses, his face tense, wand poised in the air.
"Can you make it painless, please? For the rat?" I jerk my chin sideways, so much guilt gnawing at my conscience that I think I'm going to vomit.
Confusion twists Mr Crawford's expression before he nods in understanding.
"Of course."
Soft white bathes the creature, my heart lightening for the briefest moment before the tip of the healer's wand touches my forehead, the world fading into black.
I couldn't tell you for how long I was unconscious, if it was three days or three weeks. Time was without measurement; its beating thrum beyond my comprehension.
But the Lord isn't finished with me yet, and I am blessed into existence as a void lifts from my mind like someone snatching away a weighted blanket. When I open my eyes, everything aches. The blurry bedroom bleeds into focus, a gorgeous burst of yellow blooming into my sight from the nightstand.
The seashell rose in all its glory.
Its glimmering glass stem propped in a makeshift vase, the fragile petals tilted towards the sunlight.
"Welcome back to the land of the living, Little Witch," says a rough voice. I suck in a breath, my heart beating wildly as tears fill my eyes. "It took you long enough."
