April 12, 2008
"I'm headed out, all right?" Draco called over his shoulder as he closed his briefcase on the latest iteration of the plans for the expanded curse damage ward at St. Mungo's.
"Have fun tonight!" Greg Goyle responded. Greg had worked for Draco at Malfoy-Zabini Studios for the past four years, during which time MZS had become the premier magical architecture studio, specializing in the restoration and expansion of historic wizarding buildings. Although Greg had not been among the best or brightest students at Hogwarts, he had proven immensely capable at the complex and detail-oriented spellwork required for extension and bracing charms. He had an innate understanding of how a space needed to be supported.
Draco had started MZS in 2002 with his former classmate Blaise Zabini. Although he and his father had evaded Azkaban following the second wizarding war, Draco had spent the first several years following the war at a loss. The Malfoy name, once synonymous with power and influence, was suddenly worth nothing. Although he'd been forced to take the Dark Mark as punishment for Lucius's failure, at the time he'd been eager to prove himself. The ideology that had been drilled into him since birth had proven to bring only fear, only suffering. Having been complicit in the torture and murder of his classmates had eaten at Draco, and he drowned his guilt in firewhiskey and Dreamless Sleep potion for the first year following the final battle, until his mother had announced his betrothal to Astoria Greengrass.
Astoria was a strong, clear wind in his flagging sails. She had been a Ravenclaw, and despite a slight build and delicate features, she had no tolerance for Draco's useless guilt. She'd insisted on premarital sessions with a mind healer for both of them. Once their six sessions as a couple were up, Draco kept seeing the healer on his own for another several years. With the healer's support and direction, Draco had made a small "apology tour" of sorts during the first year of his marriage to Astoria in 2001. He offered what amends he could to those he had wronged at Hogwarts and during the war, particularly to Harry Potter, Ronald Weasley, and Hermione Granger.
He knew didn't deserve their forgiveness, but he was humbled to receive it from both Harry and Hermione. They would never be friends, but a weight was lifted. Weasley had nearly thrown Draco bodily from his porch; Draco had decided to let the thought be the thing that counted with Weasley and didn't dwell on it.
MZS had started as a way to continue the work he'd done with Astoria and his mind healer — to find ways to productively atone for his sins. Ironically, his work on the Vanishing Cabinet in sixth year had made him a deft hand at restoration charms. The repair work required to restore the passage between the two cabinets had given him a deep, terror-fueled crash course in the theory of magical space manipulation. He began reapplying this theory in the summer of 2002, volunteering to continue repairs to Hogwarts while students were off. Hogwarts had reopened in the fall following the final battle, but the accessible parts of the castle were severely limited, and work had consistently been needed to repair and, in some cases, completely redesign and rebuild parts of the castle. At the end of the summer, he'd negotiated with Headmistress McGonagall to continue the work during the school year in a more formal way, at cost to the school. The headmistress had agreed, Draco had brought Blaise on board to help with supply contracts and other connections, and Malfoy-Zabini Studios was born.
Draco picked up a handful of Floo powder and, tossing it into his office fireplace, announced "Malfoy House."
He arrived at the home he shared with Astoria. His parents still retained Malfoy Manor and were perennially displeased that Draco refused to live there, but after playing host to Lord Voldemort for nearly two years, the manor was no longer home. Instead, Draco and Astoria lived in a much smaller home in London (though it was still quite spacious by London standards). Malfoy House was red brick trimmed in white, and a small garden surrounded it. The foyer was a bright, open space with white walls, white marble floors, and a modern iron chandelier. To the left was a formal dining room that could seat twenty. Sconces shaded in matte black lined the walls, and against the white walls, dove gray curtains, plush silver chairs, and walnut tabletop, the effect was understated elegance rather than gothic intensity.
To the right was the receiving parlor, where their Floo was located. Tufted silver leather couches with white and blue velvet pillows sat atop a plush carpet, and a bulbous vase of gardenias rested on a round iron coffee table. This room led into a more formal, but surprisingly warm, sitting room. Two large white sofas framed a glass coffee table, and a dark gray ottoman sat in a corner. The room's showpiece was its fireplace, done in a rich brown marble. Rounding out the bottom floor was the kitchen, all pristine white marble with plush royal blue barstools at a breakfast counter, and a small family eating area in front of large French doors, overlooking the back garden.
The staircase in the foyer was not the type of grand staircase featured at the manor or at Hogwarts. The wrought iron railing wound up to the upper two floors, which housed six bedrooms, two offices, and a small library. Blown glass orbs of light floated gently in the center of the winding staircase and up toward the ceiling, charmed to follow anyone in the halls to light their way in low light.
Draco was met in the receiving parlor by Procyon, the crup Astoria had given him for Christmas the prior year. The small dog followed Draco into the kitchen, where Draco scooped a mix of roasted meats from a bowl under a stasis charm into Pro's dog bowl, then placed it on the floor in front of the brown and white dog. "Eat, Pro." Pro just sat in front of his bowl, wagging his forked tail. He always waited for Astoria to eat. "All right, she'll be home soon," Draco called behind him as he ran up the stairs to shower.
Just as he finished fastening the cuff links on his formal robes, Draco heard the whoosh of the Floo as Astoria arrived home.
"Oh my gods, Draco, I'm so late." Astoria was breathless and still in her mint hospital scrubs as she entered their room, finding Draco laying out her gown on their bed. "Can you tell Pro to eat?" he asked.
"Procyon, eat!" The crup yelped in response and Draco heard his bowl scrape across the floor.
Astoria stripped her shirt off and shimmied out of her pants on her way past Draco to their shower. He lightly pinched her hip, "What took you so long?"
The shower started, already steaming, and Astoria swatted Draco's hand away and climbed in. "I was reviewing the research from the Russia trip, adding it to the proposal to the hospital board to add a research wing to the new ward. I'm still not sure they'll agree, though."
Draco and Astoria had just returned from a month in Moscow, visiting the archives of the Biblioteka Magii for information on blood curses. The Greengrass family had been cursed generations ago, and once in a while the curse awoke to affect a member of the family. Astoria was the current bearer of the curse. It hadn't affected her during school, but as she aged, she could feel her magic beginning to weaken and her body becoming more frail. She had also been unable to conceive a child, a fact that enraged Lucius, who had accused Astoria's father of deliberately hiding this information when their betrothal contract was being drawn up even though, at the time, no one knew that Astoria had been affected.
Since becoming aware that Astoria's health would continue to deteriorate until she died a slow death at too-young an age (none in her family who had been afflicted had lived past 40), she and Draco had been making trips all over the world to consult rare texts, researchers, healers at other hospitals, and anyone they could think of to research the curse that affected her. Although they'd had no luck helping Astoria, the research she had uncovered had led her to want to expand the spell damage ward at St. Mungo's to provide better treatment to sufferers of long-term curses. Most patients wound up in the Janus Thickney ward with little hope of ever leaving or regaining much function, but Astoria was convinced that with adequate resources, the hospital could provide better quality of life, possibly even cures, for several current members of the ward. Astoria was not fully trained as a healer, but served as a consultant to St. Mungo's to try and help those patients that she could. Especially given the devastating creativity of curses used in the war, it was clear that more dedicated resources were needed, however.
Steam fogged up the mirror for a moment as Astoria climbed out of the shower, until she waved it away with her wand and donned her robe.
"Are you ready for your speech?" Draco asked, drying her hair for her with a charm while she applied her makeup with charms to her eyes, cheeks, and lips. She quickly swept up her hair into a chignon and gave him a look. "I don't want to talk about my speech."
Draco chuckled. His wife was so passionate about this new ward, but she hated making speeches. The fundraiser at Elora Zabini's manor this evening required her to overcome this aversion to ask the attendees to part with their precious Galleons. The ministry wouldn't allocate all the funds necessary to achieve Astoria's full vision, so these galas would hopefully make up the difference. If it were up to Draco, he would have just transferred the money from his own vault, but Astoria insisted that the project be funded in a way that would prove sustainable, and that began with buy-in from the public.
He admired her pale skin in her ice blue lace bustier as she slipped on her silver gown, walking up behind her before she could charm her dress closed. His fingertips ghosted on her lower back and he tasted the skin behind her left ear as he whispered, "Don't worry, no one will pay attention to anything you say while you're wearing this dress." She turned in his arms, brought her lips to meet his as her hand grazed the bulge at the front of his pants. "Flatterer," she whispered into his mouth. She kissed him softly, a promise for later that evening, before fastening her gown and sauntering out of their room.
"Are you coming, husband?"
Hermione Granger sat curled up in an overstuffed chair at Number 12 Grimmauld Place, a soft wool blanket draped over her lap and a sleeping James Potter in her arms. Ginny had just put Albus, only a few weeks old, to bed in his crib, and she bent over Hermione to shuffle James off to his bed as well.
As Ginny murmured soft things into James's ear and headed upstairs, Harry turned to Hermione. "So how are you, really?"
Hermione sighed heavily. "About the same. I'm more tired than I was a month ago, but I was still able to go into work this week."
"Don't you think it would help if you took a leave of absence? Got some rest?"
This was an argument she and Harry had had before. The cursed blade Bellatrix Lestrange had used on Hermione at Malfoy Manor when they were caught during the war was slowly leeching away her magical core. The potions she'd been on while convalescing at Shell Cottage had helped to stall the curse, but there was no known cure. She hadn't even known she was sick until about a month after the Battle of Hogwarts, when she had collapsed while at dinner at the Burrow. The potion and magiphysical therapy regimen she'd been on since had helped to stall the curse's progress, but about a year ago, her treatment plan had lost its efficacy.
Hermione had never found a problem she couldn't research her way out of. She had even taken a job in the ministry archives so she'd have access to as much research as possible on poisons, cursed metals, and magical cores as possible. It seemed that sustained exposure to the Cruciatus curse, combined with the poison impregnated in the already-cursed blade that Bellatrix had used on her, had set a curse so deep within her that she was slowly losing her magic. A witch cannot survive without her magic, so Hermione felt as if she was slowly evaporating and just drifting away on the wind. Still, giving up was not in her nature and she intended to keep researching as long as she could.
"Harry… please don't do this again."
"I know, I know, I just —"
"I know you do."
Silence fell between them. Harry didn't want to lose her, but his version of saving her involved her doing as little as possible, to save all her strength in an effort to prolong her life.
Hermione was the one to break the quiet. "The hospital said there's someone I can meet with next week who might have some ideas."
"A healer?" Harry asked. "I thought you'd seen all the specialists you and they could track down."
"They're apparently not a healer, exactly. They're some sort of curse consultant, I'm not sure. St. Mungo's didn't give a lot of details."
Harry deflated. "Oh, right. Well maybe…" he trailed off.
Hermione shut her eyes, feeling her chest tighten. Comforting her friends through her own decline wasn't the worst thing about dying, but it was awful. In her darker moments, Hermione resented how Harry cared for her. Not the fact that he cared, but the manner in which he expressed it. He had always been impulsive — insisting on going after Sirius in the Department of Mysteries in fifth year, proposing to Ginny the day she graduated Hogwarts and pushing her to elope with him that same week — and he seemed to want Hermione to dive head-first into whatever current idea he had about how to manage her health. Most recently, he'd wanted her to undergo an experimental treatment he found in America, despite her own research showing that their treatment put patients in excruciating pain and only had a 10% success rate. When she'd finally screamed at him to stop pushing, she'd been bedridden with a migraine for the following three days and still Harry had refused to even speak to her, not understanding why she wouldn't "try harder." But to Harry, death had always been the worst thing that could happen to a person. To Hermione, who had been cursed and tortured and cursed again and was now feeling her power pulled from her every day, death had started to seem inevitable.
No, the worst thing about dying a slow death by magical core deterioration was feeling the thing that finally made her understand herself slip away from her. When she'd received her Hogwarts letter and listened to Professor McGonagall explain to her and her parents about witches and wizards and wands, the odd, ill-fitting pieces of her childhood finally slipped into place. She'd always felt different from the other children at primary school, and when her wand chose her, she had understood that she simply was different. She didn't find friends at Hogwarts at first — it seemed bookish, ambitious preteens had a hard time of it anywhere — but she still felt like she fit. Spells had mostly come easily to her; with few exceptions, she'd never had to practice one more than a couple of times to get it right. Her magic seemed to want to flow through her.
The signs that her magic was leaving her started out small. Her silver otter Patronus got a bit smaller, but she could still produce one. Then she stopped being able to send messages via Patronus. Now, she could summon a silvery vapor, but it had been months since she'd seen her otter. At first, only more advanced spells that required more power were affected. Lately, even her strongest Lumos didn't light the room enough to read by. Her heart ached, physically ached, as her magic left her. Her hair, always so difficult to tame, hung limply about her shoulders; apparently, it had been so unmanageable because of the excess of magic in her blood. Without any spare magic trying to find an escape, her hair stayed in a thin, neat ponytail.
Ginny appeared in the doorway to the sitting room. "Harry, James wants another bedtime story. Can you…?" Harry was up before she could finish her sentence, nodding at Hermione before heading up the stairs. Ginny handed Hermione a small glass of water.
"Harry upsetting you?"
"He's just…. I don't know, I think I'm upsetting him, actually. Gin, I can just go home. I don't have to be here if it's just going to upset him."
Ginny frowned at her. "Just ignore him. You know how he is — he broods, then he lashes out. It's not your fault. So tell me about this consultant." Ginny had clearly been eavesdropping. "Is he hot?"
"Even if he was, I'm not sure he'd be interested in almost-dead witch who's turning into a Squib." Hermione coughed through a small giggle, then started wheezing. Ginny was at her side on their burgundy sofa in the next second.
Rubbing her back, Ginny murmured calmly, "It's okay, just try to breathe."
Usually, a minute of Ginny rubbing her back calmed Hermione's breathing and she returned to normal — well, normal for her. This time, she could feel the air in her throat, but her lungs wouldn't expand to accept it. Her breaths got quicker and shorter, and she began to panic. She looked at Ginny, her eyes growing wide as tears pricked.
Ginny took Hermione's face in her hands and spoke louder this time, her voice more concerned. "Hermione, look at me. Look at my eyes," she clipped as Hermione's eyes rushed around the room, seeming to look for something to make this stop but finding nothing. "Look at my eyes, Hermione!"
Hermione's caramel eyes met the redhead's chocolate ones, and she tried to move her chest as if she could breathe normally. As if faking being able to breathe would help her actually draw breath. Black spots interrupted Hermione's vision.
"Oh shit, your lips are turning blue," Ginny whispered. "Harry!" she screamed.
Hermione's whole body started to shake. This is it, she thought. I didn't think it would hurt this much. Her chest felt like an erumpet was crushing it, like a basilisk was coiling around her tighter and tighter. Her vision continued to blur, and not being able to see clearly just made her panic more. She was grasping onto anything she could now — Ginny's hands, her own hair, the back of the sofa. Her heart was racing so fast she was sure Ginny must be able to see her pulse clearly in her neck. The muscles in her neck were severely contracted, but Hermione couldn't relax them.
Harry rushed into the room as Hermione started scratching at her own throat, desperate to breathe. Her head was pounding, the basilisk still squeezing her chest and crushing her lungs. Harry froze, too stunned to react. Ginny was screaming at him to take Hermione to St. Mungo's, to come Floo her, to do something, and still Harry didn't move.
"Fuck," Hermione heard Ginny's voice distantly. Hermione heard her instruct Harry to stay here with the kids, that she would send a Patronus, and she felt Ginny's strong arms grab her shoulders and practically throw her into the fireplace. "St. Mungo's!" Ginny said desperately, and as Hermione felt her body contract into the chimney, she lost consciousness.
Draco made his way across the ballroom to his wife as she finished her speech. Before he could reach Astoria, she was waylaid by the elderly Declan McLaggen.
"Draco, m'boy!" Declan called out as Draco approached. "I was just congratulating your lovely wife on her speech."
Draco stooped to kiss Astoria's cheek and hand her a glass of champagne. "Yes, she has much to be proud of tonight," Draco beamed at her.
"I'm sure she told you about the sizeable donation that the Lady McLaggen and I made to the new ward. Strictly anonymous, of course."
Draco tried not to roll his eyes and instead scanned for escape opportunities. Elora Zabini had agreed to host tonight's gala, and her ballroom was matched only by Malfoy Manor's in its opulence. Goblin-wrought crystal chandeliers hung high above the guests' heads. Low tables covered in gold silk were scattered on the edges of the dance floor, and house elves circulated with floating trays of champagne, firewhiskey, and decadent snacks. Draco snagged a goat cheese tart topped with spicy dirigible plum jelly and tried to nibble at it delicately as Astoria poked him in the ribs.
"Yes, of course, we're so grateful for your support," Draco responded after he'd swallowed his canapé. "You should find Blaise, actually, I'm sure he'd love to —"
"We also gave quite a bit to that dragon trick over in Romania. Next thing you know, I was on a proper dragon expedition, Draco!" Declan's hoarse cackle exploded out of him directly onto Draco's nerves. "Can you imagine me with a dragon, my boy? Lady McLaggen was truly alarmed, I tell you." The portly, red-faced man wiped his face with a handkerchief as he attempted to compose himself.
Draco spotted Blaise trying to pass behind Declan McLaggen without being seen. "There you are, Blaise! Lord McLaggen, do you know my partner, Mister Blaise Zabini?" Blaise glared at Draco, plastering on a winning smile just in time as the elder gentleman turned to look at him.
"Young Zabini! I was just telling these two about our anonymous donation."
Blaise raised his eyebrows nearly imperceptibly. "That's very generous of you, sir. Allow me to fetch the chair of the hospital board, I'm sure she would love to —"
"Lord McLaggen, do not let Mr. Zabini leave tonight without telling you his plans for acknowledging your beneficence in the new wing."
"Draco, I don't think—" Zabini tried to interject.
"Mister Zabini thinks a portrait of you would be most appropriate, Lord McLaggen. Centrally featured, of course," Draco drawled.
Declan's eyes shone as he turned to Blaise. "Oh Blaise, young man. You humble me."
Blaise glared at Draco and said, "Of course, the hospital board must clear any kind of —"
"I'm sure that won't be a problem, Blaise," Draco interrupted again as Astoria sipped her champagne and desperately tried to hold back a giggle. "Lord McLaggen, Mister Zabini plans to feature your portrait at the entrance to the new wing for patients with long-term cognitive damage." Astoria choked on her champagne.
Declan McLaggen was completely overcome. "I'm truly touched, Blaise."
Blaise spoke through gritted teeth, burning holes into Draco's skull with his gaze. "Mister Malfoy may have overstated—"
Draco interrupted again. "If you will both pardon me, I promised my wife we'd dance tonight." He lightly touched Astoria's lower back to lead her away. Her face was bright red with the effort expended to contain herself. As they drifted toward the dance floor, Draco heard Declan say, "Have you considered a mural?"
As Draco guided Astoria into his arms, she slapped his chest. "Draco, you are completely incorrigible," she said as she finally exploded into giggles.
They waltzed easily together, Astoria's silver gown fluttering softly behind her. Draco gazed down at her, marveling once again this evening that she was on his arm, that she was so motivated and intense and unrelenting, and still so kind and generous. She angled her head to kiss him softly. She always tasted like summer rain to him — clear and cool and refreshing. As they parted, she smiled at him, but her smile held some tightness.
"What's wrong, love?"
Astoria looked away. "We just haven't raised as much tonight as I'd hoped."
"Astoria, you know I'll—"
Astoria stopped him with another soft kiss. "I know, dearest. I just… I just wish that others could see the value in this. The lives that could be affected."
Draco sighed deeply. Although she never mentioned her own blood curse in relation to fundraising, he knew it was hard for her not to take it personally when the generosity of those in high society did not extend to this hospital expansion. Raising money for children orphaned in the war, or the restoration of Hogwarts, or another war memorial, was easy. It was never any trouble to raise money for a sympathetic cause, especially in the years directly following the war when so many purebloods were trying desperately to repair their public images. On top of their extensive war reparations levied by the Wizamgamot, Lucius had seen to it that the Malfoy family alone had funded over half of the repairs to Diagon Alley.
But almost ten years after the final battle, any reputations that were ever going to be rehabilitated had already done so. The kinds of patients that would be helped by an improved spell damage ward with a special focus on research and development of counter-spells and experimental potions tended to make people uncomfortable. Astoria did not bring up her blood curse on her own often, but it was well-known in pureblood society that she was affected. Others under similar curses tended to keep the fact to themselves, lest it negatively affect their professional or marital prospects. Many hospitalized patients could not speak, some could not move at all. In "polite society" (Draco scoffed internally as he thought this) people preferred to not think of such things. Most in their circle would donate out of respect for Astoria, or in hopes of a professional relationship with Draco and Blaise's company, but the level of generosity that the new ward needed had yet to materialize. The board of St. Mungo's had begun pressuring Astoria and MZS (who had the contract for the expansion) to scale back the project, forgoing the research arm and focusing instead on increased bed space.
Suddenly, Draco stopped to pull Astoria into a deep, playful dip and kissed the tip of her nose. "Aren't you upset for me?" she laughed at him.
"Of course I am. But tonight, we have done all we can and I hate to see you disappointed. Laugh with me tonight, and tomorrow we'll solve everything."
"Everything?" She looked at him skeptically.
"Absolutely everything," Draco promised, picking up speed as the waltz gave way to a faster song.
She smiled at him, and this time the smile reached her eyes. "I love you, dearest."
"And I love you, love. Dance with me."
They danced the next four dances together, three more than was proper even for a married couple. Draco flirted with his wife, grazing the side of her breast until she slapped his hand away playfully. He whispered dirty things in her ear until she blushed, telling her all the things he wanted to do to her when they could finally go home. She responded with light touches on his shoulder, by darting her tongue out to quickly lick his lips when he kissed her, and coming up with increasingly terrible puns about the hardness of his cock to whisper in his ear. This was how they'd spent society events for seven years — presenting the image of a polished, devoted couple while working their way up to an eager snog in an alcove or behind a tapestry or in a coatroom.
Draco was trying to talk Astoria into skipping one more round of glad-handing and heading straight for the open study he knew was just a short hallway away. His fingers were running along the inside of her elbow in that way he knew she couldn't resist when a silver ground squirrel soared into the room and stopped in front of them.
"Astoria, come to St. Mungo's now. Right now," a desperate voice pleaded.
Author's note: This fic heavily borrows from the movie Return to Me (2001). This chapter's dialogue is drawn from the film in some places.