Happy Wednesday lovelies!
This chapter is quite long and quite intense. In my opinion at least. I loved writing this chapter a lot, because I got to play with some aspects of magic that I personally think are really interesting. Hopefully you enjoy reading it as much as I did writing it x I am sorry about the infrequent updates, but RL is busy busy busy!
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Disclaimer: Harry Potter belongs to J.K. Rowling, and only the story line and any OC's belong to me.
Monday, January 2nd, 1978
Potter Manor
Hermione and Draco Potter's Potion Room
The sheer, seafoam coloured curtains twisted in the crisp, winter wind; the large casement window on the exterior wall they belonged to was completely open. Draco and Hermione's desks (lengthwise they were fairly short, but they were deep) were squeezed together against the wall. The desks were littered with parchment, broken quills, jars filled with various coloured liquids or ingredients, and small stacks of books—some laid open, bookmarked for later. On the wall beside Hermione's desk—which was the one on the right—was a corkboard brimming with pinned up sketches, important notes, questions and theories.
The adjacent wall—opposite to the side in which you entered—was lined with floor-to-ceiling cupboards, brimming with meticulously organised ingredients; dry ingredients in one, fresh in another, rare and precious in the only cupboard with a lock, and so on and so forth. Draco took painstaking care when arranging everything.
To the right of the door, lined against the wall were rows of shelves where they kept the following: their collection of cauldrons, their mortar and pestles, their knives of different sizes and lengths, their chopping boards, their ladles, phials and a myriad of bits and bobs needed for potioneering.
In the middle of the room were two rectangular work benches facing each other; they were high enough so one could comfortably stand whilst working. Normally Draco brewed on the one farthest away from the door, closest to the cupboards. Currently Draco's station was a mess of ingredients, the knife he'd used to chop the ingredients finely stuck into the wooden chopping board at the end of the table. On the other side were four burners, all extinguished. One housed Draco's dormant, golden cauldron; it's work for the day finished.
Hermione's workbench was in a similar state. On the ground in front of it, a witch and wizard were fervently thrusting against one another; the pair hadn't been able to keep their hands off of each other. They were celebrating after all.
Hermione's hair was twisted into a frizzy updo—the heat in the room earlier had tormented her curls endlessly. Her hands were thrust above her head, her nails scratching across the hardwoods. There was a pile of clothes beside the lovers; Draco had ripped Hermione's frock in his urgency to free her from its confines.
They'd thrown up silencing and locking charms, but Hermione was still biting her bottom lip to stifle her moans. Draco had no scruples, and was heavily groaning into Hermione's ear. Draco's arms were wrapped tightly around her; their bodies were slick with sweat and flush against one another.
Years, it had taken them years, but they'd finally perfected the potion to heal victims of the Cruciatus Curse.
Hermione and Draco set about this bout of brewing twenty-seven hours ago: they traded off and took small bathroom breaks or stole some treats from the kitchen, but otherwise they'd been working non-stop.
First, the aqueous base with a handful of fire seeds—they'd been ground into a thick paste before Draco folded it into the base—needed to be stirred five times anti-clockwise, every hour on the hour for twenty one hours. It would thin to a smooth, buttery consistency. They left the potion to simmer on low heat for a few hours.
At one point Draco was convinced that Shrivelfig leaves and Asphodel crushed into a thick paste is what they would add to their base, and use to create the foundation of their potion. He'd quickly dismissed that theory as the brewing process became labile and unstable shortly thereafter when the subsequent ingredients were added; toxic fumes wafting off of the soured mixture bubbling in their cauldron.
Draco then readied the fluxweed: he plucked the leaves off whole, finely chopped them and the stems. Swiftly a tiny mountain formed. Hermione examined the potion, and with a wry twist of her lips nodded curtly.
Draco added the healthy heap of fluxweed (it was known for its healing properties and would help balance out their concoction). The potion flared orange after Hermione stirred it thrice anti-clockwise. She tapped the glass stirring rod against the rim of the cauldron, and carefully peered inside. Things had been going swimmingly thus far.
Draco whinged about the heat that had built up in the room, but they didn't dare to crack the window as it would tamper with the brewing process. Technically, the best place to brew was in a cool, dark place as it carried the least variables and the chances of external forces interfering with their experimentation were slim. With enough skill, one could counteract the odds stacked against you, but it was a great deal more effort.
Hermione's hair was a wild, frizzy mess and with a scowl she threw it up into a bun on top of her head. The shorter curls a frazzled halo framing her face.
"Fuck it," Draco whispered, cracking the window open an inch as they needed some fresh air, and it was unbearably hot.
Hermione observed the potion whilst Draco set about finely chopping up the Dittany Hermione'd laid out for him. Hermione hummed under her breath, twirling the stirring rod between her fingers. The witch side-stepped to her right, hazel eyes fixed on the bundle of assorted herbs tied together with a thick string beside where Draco was diligently working away; she plucked it up off of the surface and skipped back over to the potion.
Hermione gnawed on her bottom lip. She discarded the stirring rod for a moment, snatched her wand from behind her ear, and levitated the bundle of herbs into the potion.
"Behind you," Draco said under his breath, wooden board full of chopped Dittany and knife in hand. Hermione moved out of the way. Draco tilted the board, and using the knife's broad blade, he scraped the Dittany into the bubbling mixture.
Draco deposited his tools onto the workbench, and neatly pushed them to the side, freeing his hands. He bent at the middle, eye level with the burner and the gentle orange flame. Draco turned the heat up a few notches and they both held their breath.
A yellow tinged fog rolled out of the cauldron, spilling over the sides and covering their work station. It fell like a waterfall until a thin layer tickled Hermione and Draco's ankles.
"We haven't blown ourselves up yet, so I take that as a good sign," Draco murmured.
"Don't put the cart before the horse," Hermione warned, eyeing the cauldron cautiously. They were trying out a different method today, and she had a good feeling, but one should never be too confident when dealing with such a delicate art.
"What?"
"Muggle saying."
"Ah." Draco faced her, grey eyes roving over her rumpled state. "You should probably go and take a nap, we've been at this for almost twenty-seven hours."
"You've been keeping track?" Hermione asked, a hand pressed against her forehead, the other on her hip. Draco backed up, his upper body twisting as he searched the work bench for his pocket-sized notebook.
Draco held the black, leather bound book up, gesturing to his almost illegible writing (in his haste, he had barely formed the words, but he understood his scrawl perfectly). "I take tons of notes whilst I brew. Observations, all the steps I take, the length of time I'm brewing. All of it. I thought you knew that. Don't you make notes as well?" Draco quirked a brow. Hermione scoffed.
"I generally make mental notes, I make some scribbles on any spare bit of parchment, and jot down everything when I'm finished," Hermione said, her head falling back in exhaustion. She was not in the mood to deal with his brewing peculiarities; she frankly wished to curl up on the floor and sleep. Her bones ached.
"What's next?"
"I don't know, why don't you ask your fancy book?" Hermione mocked, irritation mounting. She rubbed tiredly at her temples, closing her eyes. Of course I know all about your ruddy book, we only refer to it all the time.
"No need to get snippy just because you're disorganised."
"Disorganised?" Hermione's eyes snapped open. Draco brushed past her—nonplussed at her outburst—and peered into the now magenta liquid. He squinted at his notebook, his thumb pressing into one of the pages and keeping it open. He picks up Hermione's abandoned stirring rod and dips it into the thick liquid; he stirred clockwise with a gentle caress, as if attending to a lover.
Hermione wanted to box him on his ears, but she chose to swallow her pride. Tensions were running high as they were wading through unfamiliar territory, so she would permit a snarky comment here and there.
The pair are playing everything by ear, listening to their gut and their base instincts. There is no guidance, no rule books, they are colouring outside the lines and using every bit of knowledge they possess to send them forth into the unknown. It is an intricate dance, and one misstep would send them hurtling off of the ledge to their untimely demise.
"Wait, do you need the mixture now?" Hermione queried. She didn't wait on a response, she turned on her heel and headed toward the ingredient cupboards. Hermione groaned as she halted in front of the furthermost right cupboard and her fingers found the padlock barring her from the precious insides.
"Yea, we need to add fifteen drops…and then we only have one step left." Draco absently told her. He was tapping his bare foot against the hardwood, keeping time as he stirred. "We need to add it soon or this is most likely going to spoil or explode, and I would rather not explore either of those options."
Hermione longingly stared up at her prize through the door's glass panes: a glass mason jar with the lid screwed on tight, the contents within are thick like golden syrup, glowing amber in the sun with threads of fuschia webs swirled through it. The key was buried amongst the litter on her desk, and she did not want to search through all of it. She momentarily forgot she was a witch and in possession of magic.
Hermione's eyes wedged shut, and in her exasperation she willed the key to her. A sharp stinging in her upper arm from where the key snapped against her flesh caused her to bolt to her right; her finger caught in the padlock's loop, and it twisted painfully. Hermione howled, clutching her hand to her chest and she sank her teeth into her bottom lip as her eyes watered. She was exhausted. She glanced down, and saw the key at her feet.
At least there is that, Hermione thought soberly. She crouched down, and scooped up the key with her good hand. She ignored the sharp needles shooting through her right index finger, or the heat building up in her knuckles. I don't think I broke it, but I may get Draco to look at it later.
Hermione had a bit of trouble navigating with her non-dominant hand, but after a few tries she managed. Hermione tiptoed—it was on a shelf a foot above her head—and firmly grasped the jar. It was cool to the touch. Pleased with her prize, she shut the cupboard back with her shoulder. More force than required was used, and she petulantly stuck her tongue out at the padlock.
Draco waved his wand and the padlock clicked back into place, and the key flew back over to its previous home. Could have helped earlier, Hermione thought with a scowl as she strolled over to him. She halted by his side, holding out their precious mixture.
The day after they returned home for the Christmas Holidays Draco made the preparations for the venture they were determined to finish once and for all. His first task was to grind fluxweed, dried gillyweed and nettle into a fine paste, and sprinkle in three teaspoons of ground unicorn horn—Hermione had haggled with a lady in Diagon Alley for a good price on the expensive, but quality ingredient.
The following morning, Hermione added the paste to a metallic base and stirred in two pairs of fairy wings. She left it to stew for two days on low heat.
The witch subsequently distilled the liquid, and ran it through a fine tooth sieve as to rid it of any impurities. She ladled it into the mason jar—until it was half-full—with steady hands and a shaky heart. The finishing touch was pouring Syrup of Hellebore into the liquid until it threatened to spill over the lip of the jar; on its own the Syrup was poisonous.
(Draco suspected Hermione was on the right train of thought with her Nightshade idea. They needed balance in the potion, but Nightshade was volatile at the best of times, and had tipped the scales too far.)
Hermione carefully balanced their experiment on the ledge of their window and let it bask in the sunlight for four days before she'd stored it in their locked cupboard.
Draco threw his notebook to the side, accepted the jar and screwed off the top. His nose wrinkled as the potent smell leapt out of the jar. Their heightened senses had their downsides sometimes, and if things got any worse Hermione was tempted to put a clothespin on her nose. Despite it all, she loved brewing, and working alongside Draco was extremely rewarding.
I could see myself doing this all the time, Hermione realised. She pictured a future filled with this, with the two of them playfully bickering, bouncing ideas off of each other, brewing side-by-side. Often, it was like they were of one mind as they brewed, in sync as they gracefully moved as if in their own world; in a way this room was exactly that, a private sanctuary just for them.
Hermione and Draco were both well-versed in making Remus's Wolfsbane potion. The werewolf once commented that he knew which one of them took the lead on brewing each batch as Hermione's tasted sweeter (as sweet as the dreadful tasting potion could be), and Draco's had a crisp, peppermint aftertaste.
Hermione handed Draco a dropper, and he took it without looking. He dipped it into the jar, squeezed the top, and waited for the viscous liquid to slide up into the short, slender shoot. Draco distractedly held the jar out to Hermione, and she grabbed it with her good hand.
"Here goes nothing," Draco inhaled deeply, wand in his other hand, ready to throw up a Protego if necessary.
The potion inside of the cauldron was now a blue colour, but it had coagulated into a thicker, gooey substance like a pillow of tinged, melted marshmallows. Draco carefully squeezed, and they both counted aloud as every drop hurtled towards the goo; it sizzled upon impact, crackling, and small craters formed wherever the drops landed.
The potion was baby blue, and steam hissed and billowed upwards. Hermione turned the heat down, and Draco leaned around her to stir it clockwise once more. He was swearing to himself, nervously eyeing it, and praying it didn't explode.
The potion thinned to a liquid once more with a smooth consistency. The concentrated colour dissipated and left behind a translucent, aquamarine liquid.
"Take it off the heat!" Hermione said with wide eyes. Draco obliged, shifting it to another burner, and he switched off the heat.
Draco tripped over himself to grab his notebook, and with a well-placed swear he noticed he was missing his quill. He accio'd it, and the moment it entered his grasp, he eagerly jotted down everything that had occurred. Hermione observed the inside of the golden cauldron. She summoned the phials from her desk.
No words passed between the pair as Hermione ladled the potions into as many phials as she could. She stoppered each one, and lined them up neatly on an empty section of Draco's workbench.
Hermione examined her finger, touching it gingerly with her other hand. She winced at the shot of pain that sliced through her arm and grated across her elbow. She strode to the end of the bench where Draco had chopped Dittany earlier.
Hermione found a few spare leaves, plucked one of the table and shoved it into her mouth. She chewed on the bittersweet, earthy leaf. Hermione wandlessly cast a healing charm on her finger for good measure, the green glow encompassing her appendage and bandaging it up in a thick wrap.
"You alright?" Draco asked, frowning deeply as he dropped his quill onto the bench and tucked his notebook into his back jeans pocket.
"More than alright. I'm bloody brilliant. We did it!" Hermione exclaimed.
Hermione and Draco stared at the phials laid out on Draco's workbench. It had taken a lot of trial and error to get to this point, but Hermione was convinced that this time, they'd finally done it. They quietly considered one another for a charged moment before they flung themselves at each other. All teeth, and eager hands as they tore at their clothes. Shortly, they were nude and joined in a passionate embrace on the floor.
Afterwards, they lay entangled, their minds as busy as a worker bee. Hermione absently stroked Draco's chest, lips pursed. Draco waved his hand and muttered under his breath, and the windows across the room swung open, the wind whistling into the room. The pair shivered and snuggled closer together.
"We're pretty sure that we've done it…but how do we test it and make sure?" Draco asked. Their next obstacle obvious and troublesome.
"You could crucio me, and I could take it and see if the adverse effects are cured immediately?" Hermione suggested casually. Draco sharply pulled away, pushing himself up on his elbows as he stared at her in disbelief. Hermione caught herself before her face slammed into the ground; she glared at him as she righted herself, sitting cross-legged with her arms folded over her chest.
"Are you fucking mental?"
"I am fully in control of my mental faculties—"
"With a suggestion like that, I highly doubt you are."
"What do you suggest then? We can't administer it to Liam without testing it."
Draco pinched the bridge of his nose, closing his eyes. "Anything but that. It wouldn't work anyway." Draco fell onto his back, pressing the heels of his palms into his eye sockets.
"You don't know that."
"You have to mean it when you cast it, Hermione. I could never do that to you," Draco said, dropping his hands, gazing sadly at her. "Never."
Hermione scooted forward, and laid on her side alongside him. She reached out to stroke her fingers against the stubble on his cheek. "We have to figure out something, love."
Hermione exhaled through her nostrils. The gears turned endlessly in her head. "We can't try it directly on him. It may make things worse."
"Hermione, that poor boy is as bad off as it gets. It can't hurt to try." Draco pointed out, twisting so that he faced her, and he swung his leg up and over her hip. She snorted, and stifled the smile that wanted to bloom on her face.
Her expression soured, her lips contorted in a grimace. "Ethically, even considering testing it on him is wrong, on so many levels."
"If it works, it may very well change Liam's life."
"If it works."
Draco adamantly shook his head. "It has to. We've done extensive research, and we made thorough notes on each of our visits with all of our observations."
"We also examined his condition with our magic,"Hermione said. It took a lot of effort and focus, but they'd carefully dissected and mapped his magical core and signature the best they could. There wasn't exactly a handbook to guide them, but they discovered fractures throughout his magical core in addition to the damage done to his brain.
"Which means that this has to work, Hermione. It's the best shot we've got."
Doubt was thickening in her gut, but, she knew he was right. This was the end result of all their preparation and experimentation, and something was whispering in her ear, telling her that this was it. That they'd truly done it.
"Okay, but I'm pouring a couple drops on a plant before we go. We want to make sure it isn't corrosive or something as equally unpleasant."
"Fine. Just try to avoid any of Dad's favourites."
"The entire Orchard you mean? I'm sure I can pour it on a small patch of grass or snow." She wasn't sure if there was an inch of the grounds not covered in the fluffy, white powder.
"Make sure he's not around when you do it, I'd like to avoid a lecture."
"Baby."
"He loves us, Hermione. But he loves that garden."
"Idiot."
"It's your funeral."
Ten minutes later, they were in the middle of the Orchard. Snow was gently falling. Hermione successfully let a few drops splash onto the snow covered ground, and the potion stained the snow blue and was warm enough to melt through it. Hermione peered closely at the ground. She blinked in surprise when the ground glowed white for a moment.
"I'm not convinced," Hermione said.
"I think that's just what happens when you pour a liquid on ice, it melts."
Hermione frowned, scrutinising the small holes in the snow. "You're a prat."
"Established. Let's go, we can test it on whatever plants we encounter on our way, if that'll appease you."
"It would actually," Hermione said, raising her gaze to meet his. Draco crossed his hands over his chest. Flecks of white dusted his unruly dark hair.
"If I had any inclinations that the potion was toxic or hazardous in any way, I would not administer it to Liam."
"I'm going to drop some on my finger," Hermione said, and before Draco could do anything, she did so. The clear blue liquid fell onto the pad of her right index finger. It easily slid off the sides, pooling on the surface of her nail before it dropped onto the snow.
It tingled, her hand warmed a touch, but otherwise, she felt fine.
"Maybe I should drink it," Hermione mused aloud. Draco groaned heavily.
"Witch. It's okay. The potion is safe, he'll be fine."
"Look who is being reckless now. Sorry if I want to be sure that the potion isn't harmful before I toss it down a helpless boy's throat."
"Apology accepted," Draco grinned toothily. Hermione flung a handful of snow at him, it hit him in his chest. He ran backwards, laughing, kicking up white powder as he went.
Hermione rolled her eyes, straightened out, stopped the phial, tucked it inside her coat pocket, and tugged her thick scarf up and over her mouth. The cold was biting at her exposed skin.
Draco jogged back over to her, wrapping his arms around her from the side. He tucked her head under his chin. "It's going to work. I know it."
Hermione melted into his embrace. It was nice walking around their home without worrying about who might see them again; Peter was staying at Sirius's for the rest of the holiday, and Lyall had returned to Wales yesterday evening.
Hermione shifted her scarf enough so she could say, "okay. Let's go."
"It's been a year since we first met him," Hermione said as she stepped into the cramped room.
The room was almost exactly the same as the last time they'd popped round for a visit with Liam. The artificial light from the sole window still far too bright. The main difference was the potted plant on the windowsill: its pot was violent yellow, and its vines were a luscious green with plum coloured veins (the vines streamed wildly down the wall like a waterfall, almost brushing the floor).
"Has it been a year already?" Draco whispered as he joined her. A phial with their concoction held tightly to his chest.
They weren't in disguise this time. They hadn't felt the need; they borrowed James's Invisibility Cloak in order to sneak up here undetected.
Hermione sat on the edge of Liam's bed—her body turned towards him—and she took one of his frail hands in hers. Hermione worried her bottom lip as she gazed upon the fragile wizard.
Liam had grown in the last year, but he looked closer to ten than thirteen; Hermione guessed the trauma and lack of movement had stunted his growth. His chestnut brown hair was shaved close to his scalp.
"Sorry we didn't finish faster, Liam," Draco said, crouching down beside Liam's bed, hands resting on the magenta sheets. The phial glittered and gleamed in his grasp, the translucent blue liquid sloshing about.
"What if it doesn't work? What if it kills him?" Hermione asked in a hushed, horrifed whisper.
Hermione tightened her grip on Liam's hand, her teeth dug into her bottom lip and she tipped her head to the ceiling. She stared unblinkingly upwards, her eyes burning with unshed tears.
"We… we talked about this, Hermione—he—he isn't living now. Not really." Draco trailed off, his forehead falling forward onto his hands. His body was wrought with conflict. In his bones he was confident that they'd finally done it, but spiders of doubt were weaving their mischevious webs.
"Whatever we decide, we have to do it soon. The Healers will be making their rounds shortly," Hermione said. She'd checked the schedule outside of Liam's room quickly before they'd entered.
"So we're doing this then?" Draco inquired, his chin now digging into the tops of his hands, grey eyes locked on Liam's perpetually slumbing figure.
"I—ah—yes…" Hermione said, lowering her gaze. She leaned forward, and stroked Liam's cheek.
If this doesn't work, I am so sorry. You didn't deserve any of this…and I really hope this works so you can live your life. Too much time has been stolen from you already. Hermione thought. Liam should be in his third year at Hogwarts, surrounded by friends and worried about dating and his schoolwork.
Draco peered at her expectantly, and Hermione curtly nodded. Draco stood up, exhaled deeply and unstoppered the phial. The popping sound harsh in the deadly silent room.
Draco sat on the bed beside Liam, and he lifted the boy's head with one hand—cradling it so he was partially upright—and he raised the phial to the boy's cracked lips.
Draco hesitated, worriedly glancing at Hermione. "No turning back."
"Whatever happens, we deal with it together," Hermione swore, her lips pressed in a thin line. With her free hand she fiddled with the necklaces around her neck, not releasing her vice grip on Liam's hand.
"Together." Draco affirmed, and with an audible swallow, he tipped the potion into Liam's parted lips and it slowly slipstreamed from the phial down his throat.
The last few drops sped out of the phial. Draco lowered Liam back onto the bed, and tucked the empty phial into his back jeans pocket.
They waited and waited and waited. Hermione held her breath, fearing they had failed. Her lungs burned and Liam's chest rose sharply once. The boy was still. Hermione gasped in air desperately, clutching at Liam's hand, eyes wide.
"Is he…?" Draco started.
Liam was still. The air was overbearingly tight, and tears pricked the corners of Hermione's eyes. They'd failed.
Hermione tearfully folded Liam's hands over his abdomen, patting them tenderly as fat tears rolled down her cheeks.
"Fuck," Draco rasped, hands balled into fists as he stiffly stood up, backing away from the bed.
"I thought—" Hermione couldn't finish, the emotion swelling up inside of her airway.
A low sound whistled from Liam's nostrils. Hermione frowned, and edged closer, positive it was her imagination. Liam's chest stuttered up and down in quick succession, and Hermione flinched in surprise. His nostrils flared, and his eyes flew open.
His pupils moved about erratically, he winced, and they squeezed into a narrow squint. Liam blearily turned his head from side-to-side before he settled on Hermione.
"Who…" His voice gravelly and uneven, the sound barely audible. Hermione's hands slapped over her mouth, and the tears blurred her vision. Draco flew over to the boy, his hand pressed against Liam's forehead, a couple tears streaming down his face. He was flabbergasted. It worked.
Hermione's magic slithered out of her, she closed her eyes, and with a hand just below Liam's on his stomach she inspected his magical core. She smiled gently. She withdrew her magic, and her eyes snapped open as she stared at Liam. It worked.
"We don't know the long term effects…but it worked…" Draco murmured in awe. Liam shifted to peer at him, his fingers twitching against his abdomen.
"Who…" Liam tried again, his voice a bit stronger. Hermione shook her head firmly. Hands gently covering Liam's.
"No one important, just some friends," Hermione assured him, a watery smile spreading across her face. Hermione sniffled softly.
"We have to go now, but you are in good hands. It's going to be okay now, Liam. You're safe now." The words soothed the boy, and he slumped back against the bed, his tongue darted out to wet his dry, cracked lips.
"Thirsty." The word was drawn-out and not formulated properly, but Hermione understood him perfectly.
"We're going to go get help, okay?"
Liam nodded tiredly, eyes fluttered closed; he was dazed, still coming to his senses and Hermione suspected he would forget all about them within moments.
Hermione and Draco crept out of the room. Groggily, Liam attempted to move, but the majority of his body refused to budge from misuse. The pair backed out into the hallway. Draco placed a hand on Hermione's shoulder, head bowed as he whispered in her ear, "we should go find a Healer, right?"
There was no need, as an old acquaintance strode down the corridor in their direction with intent and purpose. He was staring down at the chart he was carrying, scribbling away with his elegant quill. His wand was tucked behind his ear.
The older man, his hair almost all silver now—the dusting of pale blond hair sequestered to his hairline—looked up moments before he walked right into them. He stuttered to a halt. The deep frown lines across his forehead made their presence known as he pursed his lips.
Hermione and Draco were mere feet away from the mouth of Liam's room, still facing inwards, and they were now gaping at the Healer like goldfish.
"G'day!" Hermione exclaimed nervously, her brain malfunctioning. Draco's fingers dug into her shoulder, and she shot him a dirty glare. A blinding smile burst onto her face as she turned her attention back to the Healer. "Lovely day isn't it?"
The Healer wouldn't have recognised them from their prior visits as they'd been polyjuiced on those occasions. However, they looked mighty suspicious hanging around a Hospital ward with no apparent purpose.
The Healer—they'd never gotten his name—stared warily at them, and his eyes darted over to Liam's open door. "What—"
Draco stifled a groan, and wrapped his arm around Hermione's shoulders. They really hadn't planned their departure properly. It wasn't as if he could pull James's Invisibility Cloak from his back pocket with the Healer watching them. Their best option was to sweet talk their way out of here. Draco's lips parted. "You see—"
"Mum?" A strained, frightened voice called from Liam's room. There was too much emphasis on the letters, as if they were foreign to the boy's mouth.
Hermione's gaze darted back to the doorway, and she was grateful that she couldn't see Liam's face from this angle, nor could he see hers. She didn't wish to see the fear held in his eyes as he came to; fully awake and aware.
Hermione thought it unfortunate that she hadn't been able to have a few 'words' with Liam's Mother as the wretched witch was locked up in Azkaban. Although, it wouldn't be much of a conversation. Hermione'd dug up an old Prophet, and discovered that the woman received the Dementor's kiss a month into her stay.
The Healer lost interest in them, and his clipboard and quill clattered sharply onto the floor as his stiff limbs hastily but unevenly carried him into Liam's room.
"That's our cue to leave," Hermione said, patting Draco's arm as she reached around him and pulled the Invisibility Cloak from his back pocket.
"Agreed. We don't want to linger and have to answer questions we can't give the answer to." Draco nodded, checking left and right twice to ensure that no one else was wandering down their corridor. Hermione unfolded the Cloak, and swung it over them. Hermione clambered onto Draco's back and he scowled. He gripped the underside of her thighs.
"A piggyback ride? Now? You cannot be serious, witch."
"Ah, but I am." Hermione replied in hushed tones, she tucked her chin forward, and the underside of it rested on Draco's shoulder.
"I want a long massage when we get home."
"Only if you let me have the rest of the lemon crackle."
"You have your chocolate mountain crumble, why do you insist on stealing my joy?"
"You are so dramatic. Fine, I will give you a massage, and we can share the lemon crackle as a reward for a job well done." Hermione said, pressing her lips gently to the side of his neck, some of his longer hairs tickled her nose, and she scrunched it up in protest.
"Remind me to give you a haircut."
"Is now really the time? We should go before someone hears disembodied voices and raises an alarm."
Hermione nodded against him, indicating her agreement. She cast a silencing charm on Draco's nice, white trainers, and he squeezed her thighs in thanks. Draco had to dodge multiple healers on their way out, their pastel coloured scrubs a blur.
Under the Cloak of Invisibility the pair fled. The news already started to trickle throughout the establishment, spreading quickly until it thickly coated the Hospital. Hermione and Draco left with the whispers of a miracle chasing their coat tails.
Gerald Pembrooke's life had revolved around the misfortune of a young boy for the last few years. The image of him in that Auror's arms on that stormy night burned onto the back of his eyelids. He'd searched for a cure: read numerous books, and asked multiple potion masters and expert healers in Great Britain if they could help him.
All of his efforts had been in vain. His resources were limited: his wages did not allow for him to frivolously sink his money into the pockets of various wix that in the past had promised their assistance for a hefty lump sum. Nor did he have access to many of the revered books that the Pureblood family's libraries held.
Once he had considered asking Albus Dumbledore if he could use the Hogwarts Library, perhaps browse the restricted section, but he realised that he was a small fish in the wizarding world's pond.
So, he tended to Liam, practically on his own. There were others patients on their ward, but the other Healers cared for them. Liam was his responsibility and his co-workers knew it.
Liam's health was of the utmost importance. Gerald tried to move his limbs at least once a day so his muscles wouldn't atrophy. There was always a sliver of hope that the boy would rouse on his own, but every month when they ran their regimented slew of diagnostic tests, the results were the same. Liam's magical core has been damaged, the likes we've never seen before, and we just don't know enough about the cruciatus curse. We wouldn't know where to start working on a cure.
One day, a young couple visited Liam. It was unusual, and gave Gerald pause. They were his first visitors after all. They seemed harmless enough, although there was something in the boy's eyes that piqued Gerald's interest.
For a time, it just was Gerald and Liam again. He was reading 'Jane Eyre' aloud to Liam when the couple visited again. This time they had quills and parchment, and determination swirled about them. He allowed them to examine Liam, keeping a keen eye tracked on them to ensure that no harm befell his ward.
It was peculiar to say the least. They jotted down various observations, speaking to one another in hushed voices, until they threw up a Muffliato. Gerald decided to grab himself some coffee from the cafeteria whilst they conducted their business. He trusted them, for some unknown reason. Liam was safe in their hands.
Gerald came back to find the room empty, aside from a crystal vase on Liam's bedside table filled with pure white calla lilies. Gerald touched one of the smooth, silky petals and gazed over his shoulder out into the vacant hallway. Liam slumbered peacefully on his bed, his sheets tucked around him, his hands resting on his abdomen.
"Odd," Gerald muttered to himself.
Discussion about mercifully allowing Liam to pass on from this world was brought up during a meeting by his department in the Fall of '77. Gerald was a flick away from sending a nasty hex at the meek, but well-meaning healer who had suggested it. His thick glasses trembled on his nose, and his body shook as he mentioned that Liam had no quality of life anymore. They were all hoping for a miracle, and one was never going to arrive.
The healer had wisely given Gerald a wide berth since then.
It was a cold day, but a busy one. A nasty mishap in the Department of Mysteries meant all hands on deck. Of course no one was allowed to ask what happened, so it made their jobs more difficult, but the wix that worked for the DoM were secretive, and tight-lipped.
The DoM also had one of the highest rates of injury in the Ministry, their only true rival was the Aurors. Usually, they were small cuts, scrapes and burns that required a few healing spells and potions, and the injured parties were out of the door in a flash.
Unfortunately, today had not been one of those days. There were second and third degree burns on sale, and clearly the DoM had purchased them in bulk. There were over thirty Unspeakables in their emergency department all morning.
The more serious cases were treated, and when things finally settled down—sometime in the late afternoon—Gerald snuck away. He hadn't checked on Liam since he arrived that morning, having missed his rounds around midday. The man's hands were shaking from lack of food, and his throat was dry, but something spurned him forth. He needed to get to Liam.
They were back. They looked different with their raven hair and they were at least a decade younger, but it was them. The girl smiled at him, and the depths of his stomach churned in fear.
"Mum?" It was one of the sweetest sounds he'd ever heard, and he dropped everything as he flew into Liam's room. His bones ached, and his chest was tight, but he moved with the speed of an adolescent.
Liam was awake. He was awake. His deep brown eyes darted about frantically as he tried to move, his limbs weakly lifting off of the mattress only to fall back down with a thud.
"Who…are…you?" Liam asked, his words garbled and faint, but they were music to Gerald's ears. Everything in the world fell into place.
Gerald held his hands up in front of him, and calmly, in the oddly soothing tone he had, he said, "I'm a friend, Liam."
"Mum…?" Liam rasped fearfully.
"No."
The boy sagged in relief and halted his flailing. His chest rose and fell in quick, panicked succession as he stared at Gerald.
"She's not here, Liam. She's never going to hurt you ever again."
A tear rolled down Gerald's cheek, and silently he thanked the young couple. They'd caused a ruckus a couple years back, and despite the gravity of the situation, he'd found it a tad funny that Tottle—the overbearing prick—was thwarted, and bested by a group of sixteen year olds.
The Potter twins clearly didn't wish anyone to know about what they'd done. Gerald desperately wished to ask them how they did it, but he found himself not caring as he stared into Liam's brown eyes. He was just happy that they did.
Gerald was going to raise Liam like he was his own flesh and blood. Too much time had been stolen from the youth already, and he wasn't going to waste any more of it.
"You're safe, Liam," Gerald promised as he knelt down on his creaky knees beside Liam's bed. Liam stilled, nodding; he was trembling like a leaf, clearly still afraid. "You're safe."
Gerald was thankful for the pair that had cured Liam, doing what he could not. He wondered vaguely what had driven them to such lengths in the first place. Gerald carefully hovered a hand over Liam's abdomen.
"If it's okay with you, I'm just going to run some preliminary tests and make sure you're alright." Gerald, waiting for Liam's permission. Liam nodded jerkily.
Liam's magical core was whole again. Gerald choked on his emotion, and held fast to the boy's hand.
The last few years of Gerald's life revolved around the misfortunate of a young boy, but the forseeable future was bright. Not without its own unique challenges and obstacles, but, as bright as a radiant star.