"Hermione!"

The sound of Ginny screaming her name interrupted Hermione's oblivion, and she immediately wished she would pass out again. The pain was indescribable — her neck ached with the effort it took to draw breath, and her throat burned as the air tried to move through her. She felt like she was trying to breathe through one of the red stirring sticks that were handed out at Muggle coffee shops while a mammoth was collapsed on her chest.

She gasped as she felt a rib crack — someone was doing chest compressions on her while a second set of hands forced her mouth open and poured an icy potion down her throat. The potion hit her stomach and cold numbness spread through her torso. She felt some relief from her agony for a moment, but the numb sensation was in some ways worse. She couldn't even feel her lungs anymore, and she wasn't able to open her eyes.

Have I died?

"—old curse wound from the war, magical core deterioration for the past several years, collapsed unable to breathe at a friend's, presented with loss of consciousness—"

Hermione distantly heard someone talking about her in a rushed, slightly panicked voice. She felt a warmth in her chest as a diagnostic spell streamed through her.

"—core is almost entirely depleted — something like this in Russia —"

Hermione heard smatterings of hurried conversation around her. Apparently no one spoke Russian, and that was a problem.

"—requires two casters, shouldn't we—"

"She can't wait any longer," she heard someone resolve.

Hermione felt her throat physically contract and the scar on her arm burned. She didn't have enough breath to scream, but her mouth gaped open of its own accord. Tears burned her eyes and dripped down her temples into her ears. Her earlobes were the only part of her that didn't hurt.

She needed to clench her fists — anything to relieve the tension that had overtaken her body, anything to give her the strength to force in another breath — but she couldn't feel her fingers anymore. Hermione heard a strangled cry, like a drowning animal gurgling to the surface, and realized the sound had come from her.

"Tori, wait for—"

"I can't! She's out of time."

Hermione heard a high-pitched voice forcing out an unfamiliar incantation in rapid Russian, and she felt a wind rise around her. Her hair, so recently hanging limply around her face, whipped around her. She felt a strand scratch past her eye, and another got caught in her mouth. Her teeth clenched together as she tried to brace herself with what little strength she possessed against the force of the storm.

The voice repeating the incantation got louder and faster, and suddenly Hermione felt a burst of intense heat directly behind her heart. It was so hot she felt it must be branding her spine, someone must have lit a fire directly beneath the bed. Her chest rose up off the mattress, and any remaining air was forced from her lungs. This caused her body to take a deep, painful breath that scorched the insides of her lungs and pressed her stomach into her spine. She continued to levitate off the bed, unable to move her arms, unable to open her eyes, only able to scream.

And she did scream. She felt her lips crack and a trickle of blood down the edge of her mouth as she opened her jaw as wide as it could go to try to escape the pain of a hot iron through her heart. Hermione swore she heard another voice shout out, and suddenly she was dropped back onto the bed.

She heard sobbing as she tried to open her eyes, but the sound quickly faded and she was lost to all sensation.

Draco had stayed at the gala for another two hours, determined to coax the donations he could out of the pockets of the partygoers. In Astoria's absence, he tolerated an incredibly long-winded story about some bint's new villa in Tuscany ("You and Tori have to come out sometime!"). He'd had no idea who this woman, in fuschia brocade dress robes with a lengthy train that she hadn't bothered to bustle, was or why she felt it was appropriate to be so familiar with him. She'd kept touching his arm or rubbing against his shoulder, right in front of her much older husband. Astoria would love this story — she always loved it when women hit on him, knowing how much he hated it.

He waited until the first round of guests started making their excuses, then he found Blaise and made his own goodbye.

"You realize that man now expects a life-size portrait of himself in your wife's new ward?"

Draco laughed and patted Blaise on the shoulder.

"I'm sure you can find an artist to do justice to his generosity," he winked.

Blaise gave Draco a withering look. "Yes, but you'll be the one explaining to the hospital board why we have a portrait thanking Declan McLaggen for his generous contributions but overruled their request for a tasteful plaque acknowledging the hospital's own commitment."

"Fine, they can have their little plaque," said Draco. He personally felt their stinginess shouldn't be rewarded, but a plaque was a small price to pay for the enjoyment of making Blaise so uncomfortable this evening. "I'm headed home — see you Monday?"

"You're not stopping in tomorrow?" Blaise asked.

"Gods, no. Tomorrow I'm planning to sleep in with my wife. I'm knackered."

"Yeah, I bet you'll be knackered," said Blaise, winking.

Draco punched him in the shoulder. "And on that note, I should go home and see who's waiting for me."

He waved at Blaise and set his whisky glass on a nearby table, then made his way to the Floo.

When he stepped into his own receiving parlor, he had his jacket off before he noticed a wizard in St. Mungo's scrubs standing in front of his sofa. Sheffield, the house elf who served at Malfoy House, was waiting in the doorway and glaring at the man with suspicion. "Oh, is Astoria going to be late tonight? Someone could have just Patronused," said Draco.

The wizard, in his forties by the look of it, had a tense expression on his face that made Draco's fingertips start to go numb. "Mister Malfoy, please sit down."

Draco stayed next to the fireplace, putting his hand in his pocket to touch his wand, still clutching his jacket in his other hand. "I don't think I will. Where is my wife?"

The healer swallowed. "My name is Ezra Boyden, Mister Malfoy. I worked with your wife at St. Mungo's."

Draco froze, unable to even blink as he stared at this man but no longer seeing him. Worked.

"There was an accident this evening, and your wife died. I am so sorry for your loss."

Sheffield gasped and put his small, wrinkled hand over his mouth.

Draco's throat became very thick. His mouth got dry and his palms tingled. He gripped his wand and his arm seemed to move on its own as suddenly his wand was pointed at the wizard's chest. The healer put his hands up and stammered "Mis — Mister Malfoy —"

"Tell me."

"Mister Malfoy, pl—please—"

"Now," Draco spat, his eyes burning, still holding Boyden at wandpoint.

The healer spoke quickly. "She was consulting on another patient and she — she — she cast a spell, and it got away from her, and I — I don't know. She collapsed. We were — we were unable to revive her."

"What patient?" The man was silent, eyes wide. "Tell me what patient!" Draco snarled.

"I — I — I don't know, sir!"

Draco dropped his wand, all his strength leaving him. He could not argue with this man. It didn't matter. She was still… she was…

"Get out."

Draco stood next to the fireplace for several minutes after he heard the whoosh of the flames carrying the healer away.

A shaking voice called out from the doorway, "Master Malfoy. Sir, I am…" Sheffield's voice shook. "What can… Is there something I can get— Master?"

But Draco's feet were carrying him upstairs, and the elf did not follow him. His heart sank lower and lower in his chest with each step. He couldn't stop walking, he couldn't make a sound, he couldn't blink or else he would break. He reached the doorway to their bedroom, which was open just a sliver.

He heard a small thump as Procyon hopped off Astoria's side of the bed and, wagging his little brown tail, came to circle Draco's feet. He put his feet up on Draco's shins, yelped, then started to walk toward the stairs before turning to look at Draco. Draco sank to the floor, leaning his back against the doorframe and resting his wrists on his knees, his hands hanging lifelessly between his legs. He reached out with his magic, trying to feel a trace of her breezy, sparkling magical signature in the room. Their bedroom had always held a bit of effervescence, but now it was still.

He cleared his throat and croaked, "Pro… Procyon." The crup trotted back over and slipped under Draco's knee to sit between his legs. Draco gently held the little dog's head by his temples, his thumbs coming up to rub the soft ears. He looked into the bright black eyes, which kept darting around, looking for Astoria.

"She's not coming home, Pro." And Draco crumpled. His chin hit his chest and he sobbed, his left hand clutching his right and pressing hard against his sternum. He couldn't hold himself up anymore; he slumped to the floor to lay on his left side facing into the hallway, unable to step into that cold, still room.

July 2008

The first thing Hermione registered when she woke up was the cold. Her arms rested at her sides, uncovered and on top of her sheets, and she was a bit chilled. Her right hand was warm, though. She squeezed that hand, trying to get more of the warmth into her palm, when she heard a gasp.

"Hermione," a familiar male voice whispered, and someone crushed her hand in theirs. "Ginny, I think she's waking up! Can you hear me, Hermione?"

Hermione opened her eyes. They felt impossibly dry, and the light in the room was bright enough to make her squint.

"Oh, here, I can —" she recognized Harry's voice now. The light dimmed and she was able to open her eyes wider. She swallowed, and her mouth filled with saliva. She was so thirsty.

Ginny appeared in the doorway, blurry but recognizable by her hair. She came into focus as she stepped nearer to the bed, and Hermione could see the worried, hopeful expression on her face. Ginny's face relaxed with relief as she met Hemione's eyes.

"Merlin, Hermione! You woke up!" Ginny's eyes shone with tears as she reached across Hermione's body to rest her hand on Harry's arm.

"Gin—" Hermione croaked, and she felt Harry's hand leave hers as he pulled his wand from his pocket. He conjured a small cup with a straw and muttered "Aguamenti" to fill it with water, then held the straw to her lips. She drank, making a small, breathy sound as the cool water rushed into her mouth, banishing the thick, cottony feeling.

"What happened?" Hermione pulled herself into a seated position, still resting her weight on the pillows behind her. Her muscles felt stiff, like she'd overslept by several hours. She took a deep breath, deeper than she could remember having taken in quite a while. She handed the cup back to Harry and reached up to rub her eyes with the first two fingers on each hand. She noticed for the first time that she was wearing a hospital gown, and she could see the yellow glow of the monitoring charms that had been cast over her. She saw Harry and Ginny exchange a look.

Harry asked carefully, "What's the last thing you remember?"

Hermione tilted her head at him, confused, and then she realized she didn't have that information ready. What had she been doing last night? She had gone to Harry's…

"I was at your house. You were trying to talk me into going to that facility in America."

Harry nodded and worried his bottom lip between his teeth, clutching her hand again. "Do you remember what happened next?"

Hermione thought. Something with Ginny. Ginny had been upset.

"Ginny… you were screaming." Hermione turned from Harry to look at Ginny, who was wiping her tears away with the heel of her hand. "And I was… something hurt."

Ginny sniffed. "Yes. You stopped breathing, and I brought you to St. Mungo's. That's where you are now." Hermione nodded; she'd surmised as much by the gown and the industrial bed. Then something occurred to her, and tears pricked her own eyes.

"It's the curse, isn't it? I… I'm not going to make it this time."

Ginny sat down on the bed next to Hermione and folded her into a crushing hug. Harry still held her hand tightly and she heard him say, "No, Hermione. It was the curse, yes, but… but it seems like maybe you'll be okay." She broke away from Ginny and stared at Harry, astonished. Harry looked at Ginny again, and the witch nodded and left the room.

"Hermione," Harry began, a cautious smile spreading across his face, "we think you might be fine now. They said if you woke up, then… then that would mean it worked."

Hermione rolled her shoulders back. She felt like she was gaining strength every minute — it was slow and she felt timid, but she was definitely stronger than she had been a moment ago.

"What worked? What did they do to me?"

Harry looked down, then looked back up at her. His face was pensive.

"They said the deterioration of your magical core had crossed some sort of threshold and they weren't going to be able to save you." He took a steadying breath. "Someone called in a consultant — some healer who'd been researching obscure curses. They tried a counter-curse, a very strong spell. No one had ever tried it before, I don't think anyone in the hospital had even heard of it. The healers aren't sure the spell had ever been cast before, ever."

Hermione was confused. "All this happened last night?"

Harry paused, then looked back at the door. He seemed to be expecting someone.

"No. Hermione," Harry let out a deep sigh. "You've been unconscious for almost three months. We didn't know if you would ever wake up." Harry's voice broke. "And now that you're awake, we —"

The door swung open, and a witch in the red robes of a more senior healer and with long, black braids and a kind, confident face entered the room. Ginny followed behind her.

"Miss Granger!" The healer said brightly. "Welcome back."

"I've been unconscious for three months?"

"Let's start at the beginning. I'm Healer Seacole. What has Mister Potter told you?" Harry jumped in to summarize their conversation. While he spoke, the healer dismissed the monitoring charms and cast new diagnostic charms. Hermione's forehead tingled as she recognized diagnostics to check for brain abnormalities, then her chest tickled as a check on her circulatory and respiratory systems flowed through her. Hermione saw a shimmering, undulating golden mass projected in front of her that seemed to come from behind her heart.

"Is that my magic?" Hermione asked, her voice filled with wonder.

The healer's face broke into a wide grin. "Yes, Miss Granger, that is your magical core."

Hermione had seen the results of this particular diagnostic many times before – each time she'd come in for her treatments, as a matter of fact. The last time she'd seen the health of her magic evaluated, the mass had been barely the size of her fist and it seemed to almost be drifting, as if it were struggling not to be blown away. It had been dim in places. It felt despondent.

But this magic in front of her — she had never seen anything like it. Was this how it was before I got sick? Or is this because of the spell? she wondered. This cloud of energy that pulsed and glowed came from deep within her. It was the color of sunlight on a bright spring day, warm like a blanket that had been laying in front of an open window, and she knew if it had taken the shape of a ball, she wouldn't have been able to get her arms around it. It was magnificent, and Hermione stared at it, transfixed.

The healer waved the projection away, and Hermione felt a pang of disappointment.

"Some wonderful news, Miss Granger. It seems that your magic has fully recovered, and that is what has allowed your brain to finally wake. You probably remember this from when you were ill, but the curse worked by siphoning away your magic bit by bit. Eventually, it started leeching away at your magical core itself, so you were not able to regenerate magic to replace what was lost. Magical beings cannot live without magic — it's just like a heart for a Muggle — so when your magical core was damaged to that point, and your magic was allowed to deplete itself almost fully, you collapsed."

Healer Seacole held Hermione's gaze for a long moment before she continued. "The spell that was used on you was incredibly powerful. We weren't sure what it did or why it worked for several weeks, but we think that the caster drew on their own magical core to essentially infuse you with their magic. This flush of magical energy allowed your core to begin healing itself."

"But… why didn't you know how it worked? Didn't the healer know what spell they were using? Is this even my magic?" Hermione felt panic swell at the thought that some strange magic that no one even understood was coursing through her.

"Your magical signature is unchanged, Miss Granger. But only time will tell how this infusion affects how you wield your magic. This is a new area for all of us," Healer Seacole said.

"I want to speak to the healer," Hermione demanded, her voice trembling.

No one spoke for a long moment. Ginny broke the silence. "The healer… isn't available to answer questions."

Harry squeezed Hermione's hand.

Healer Seacole took over. "The caster was not a formal healer at this hospital, though they had been trained as one. They were called due to their unique expertise in curses. It seems the spell was intended to have more than one caster, due to the level of energy required to cast it. But the caster determined that you would not last for the amount of time it would take to teach the spell to a second caster." She paused.

"Unfortunately, the caster did not survive after the spell took effect."

Hermione's stomach fell. She had killed someone. Someone had died for her. Someone had used up all their magic on her. Someone was dead, because she was alive.

Tears welled up in her eyes. "I—" she started. She looked at Ginny, who was giving her a pitying smile. Harry brought her hand to his lips and kissed her knuckles firmly, a single tear escaping down his cheek.

"Who?" Hermione whispered.

Healer Seacole shook her head. "I'm sorry, we can't give out that information. I can tell you that they likely knew the risks when they chose to use that spell."

Hermione was silent. She looked at Harry and Ginny, and she thought of her parents in Australia who didn't know any of this had even happened. She thought of Crookshanks, and for some reason, the memory of her ginger cat who had died some years ago was what pushed her over the edge. Tears streamed down her cheeks. "Did they have a family?" she asked softly.

"Miss Granger," Healer Seacole started, "situations like this don't happen often, but they have happened before. It's best for you to move on, as best you can. As I said, they knew the risks and made their choice."

"But I have to — I should — I need to—" Hermione wasn't sure what she was asking for, but Healer Seacole seemed to understand something.

"If at some point you would find it helpful, the hospital can pass along a letter to the healer's family."

Hermione nodded. The healer patted Hermione on the shoulder and said she'd be back to check on her soon.

As the door swung closed, Hermione sniffed and met Harry's eyes.

"So what happens now?"

"Sir, would you prefer dinner on the veranda or shall I bring it to you here?"

Sheffield was in the doorway of Draco's office, where Draco was hunched over the plans for the hospital. Procyon slept on a tufted velvet cushion in a corner.

"I won't need dinner this evening. Sorry to have troubled you, Sheffield."

The elf furrowed his brows, the wrinkles on his forehead scrunching together. "Pardon my saying so, sir, but one must nourish oneself occasionally."

Draco looked up and glared icily at Sheffield. "I said I'm not hungry. You may go." He looked back down at the plans.

Sheffield didn't move. He wasn't a free elf – the very idea affronted him, having been the caretaker of Malfoy House for so long – but Draco insisted on paying him nonetheless. Malfoy House had been unoccupied for so long that for the better part of two decades, Sheffield had run the household himself and felt a strong ownership over the home and its inhabitants. Receiving payment for his services seemed to have only increased his sense of protectiveness over those under his charge, and Draco's moods would not quail him.

"Sir, I must insist. Perhaps a bit of –"

"Leave me. That is an order," Draco spat without looking up from his desk. He heard a heavy sigh and a pop as Sheffield disappeared.

Draco brought his fingertips to his forehead and pressed them firmly against his skull. He felt as if knives were being driven into his temples. His jaw was tight as he clenched his teeth and stared at the plans. Astoria's dream that she would never see realized, that was being chipped away.

He stood and crossed the room to pour himself several fingers of an independent bottling of Bunnahabhain from the eighties, a gift from Blaise for Draco's birthday. He tossed it back as if it were a cheap glass of firewhisky, then set the tumbler down firmly on his desk. For several moments, he just stood over the desk, staring at the long, unrolled pages of parchment. They were marked up with the most recent changes that the hospital board had insisted on. Most of these changes involved removing things – scaling down the number of beds, getting rid a dedicated potions laboratory, reducing the size of the staff room. Apparently fewer staff would be needed in the hospital's new vision of this ward.

Draco exploded, using both hands to swipe the plans off the desk, sending the whisky tumbler to the floor. "Incendio!" Draco screamed, setting the parchment aflame. Procyon yelped and fled the room. The smoke burned Draco's throat and his eyes teared. He stared at the flames for a long moment, feeling the heat on his face, then cast a small aguamenti to put out the fire.

The floor was a mess. Wet ash covered the rug, broken glass shards littered the floor, and an inkpot lay on its side next to a broken quill, the ink spreading onto the white feather. At his feet was a small silver frame with a photo of Astoria, her arms wrapping Draco in a hug and kissing him on his cheek on their trip to Prague last summer. She'd spent a week in their magical hospital's spell damage ward, talking with their healers and reading their case studies about curses. They'd gone to a new restaurant each evening, and awoke early enough most days to stroll together along the Vltava and watch the sun rise. The glass in the frame had cracked, and some water now stained the picture's corner.

Draco fell to his knees and gingerly picked up the frame. He whispered the charms to siphon off the water and repair the glass, and brought the frame to his face. He rested his forehead against hers. If he was still enough, if he didn't breathe, he might be able to feel her. He couldn't remember anymore exactly how her skin felt against his. The precise shade of her blonde hair when the sunlight danced upon in the mornings. It shamed him, how quickly so many little things had slipped from his memory.

Most days, he tried not to think of her. He woke and immediately went for a run, driving himself forward until his chest felt like it would give out, until his throat burned and his calves ached. He downed a strong coffee while he showered, then went into the office. He worked relentless hours and sniped at his colleagues. He ignored Greg when he had offered to have Draco over to his and Millie's house for dinner. Blaise sometimes tried to cajole Draco to go out for a drink with him, and Draco would just grit his teeth and shake his head. He took his meals from Muggle takeaway shops, places where no one would recognize him or try to make conversation.

Draco did everything he could to just be left alone.

He was alone.

He shut his eyes tight, then stood and gently placed the photo back on his desk. With a shaking arm, he carefully vanished the mess. Procyon appeared again in the doorway. Draco took a deep breath and nodded to the crup, who trotted to Draco's side and scurried under his desk to turn in two circles, then collapse back into his nap. Draco summoned a new set of parchments along with an eagle feather quill and a new inkpot, and sat back down to work.