January 23rd, 2005
You wore your best Oxford to the hospital, the collar white and crisp, like you had charmed it to stay that way. Standing next to you, in my ratty old sweater and dark wash jeans, I felt like a child; that's why I snapped at you as we left the house.
When Dad had asked to see you, I stuttered out an answer: I'd check, but I hadn't seen you in a few days. We missed each other for most of the week. You disappeared for long stretches of time that I was too tired to ask about, and I split my day between the hospital and the Ministry library.
At the threshold of his room, I faltered. You laid your hand over mine on the knob, a quick pulse of your fingers encouraging me to turn it. Inside, Dad was sitting up in bed. His face blossomed when he saw you, but I heard the pause in your step, the sharp inhale. I forgot; you hadn't yet seen how much he'd withered.
"Draco," he said. I tried not to wince at the way the syllables scratched my eardrums, dry and brittle. Flecks of shiny, dead skin floated on the crevices of his mouth. "It's so good to see you."
You shook his hand. His fingers trembled against yours, and I could tell how limp you made your own hold.
"How are you?" You shoved a hand into your pocket and shifted your weight, wincing at the groan of your stiff brogues. "I mean, how are you feeling?"
Dad coughed, and your chest froze, the tendons in your neck twitching in solidarity. "Oh, I'm alright. A bit winded, is all."
I twisted my fingers into my sweatshirt and looked at the ceiling. I could feel your gaze, but I didn't know what to do now. Guilt pitted in my stomach; should I have asked you to come earlier? Were there things you would have wanted to talk to him about, back when he had the breath?
"Hermione," Dad shifted, and a flash of pale, skeletal thigh rose from the blanket. "Could you give me and Draco a few minutes?"
I stared at him. Blood rushed to my cheeks, and I bit down on my tongue, incisors sinking into the limp flesh.
"Please?" Dad coughed again, and you moved towards the pitcher of water. He took the flimsy paper cup from you, but kept eye contact with me. "It'll just be a few minutes."
"Hermione," You stood there, hand still wrapped around the pitcher. "I'll–"
I turned and left, shutting the door with a sharp click.
You emerged not long after I'd started counting the seconds ticking away on a nearby clock. You kept your eyes downcast while opening the door. As I turned to face Dad, you wiped a hand down your face, leaving two faint blotches of pink.
"Hermione," Dad said. His cheeks shone. I couldn't tell if it was a refraction of light from the window. "Sorry to keep you waiting."
I felt like I was intruding, unsolicited and useless. A scream pushed against my chest, and I swallowed.
Dad sat with his back against the bed, fingers drawing idle patterns on the scratchy hospital blanket. "I love you," I finally said. I should have stayed longer, but anger brimmed behind my molars. "I'll see you tomorrow."
He nodded, fingers pausing for a half-wave. Outside in the hallway, you fell into step with me, but the words came tumbling out in the elevator.
"Are you going to tell me what you two talked about?"
You exhaled. "It was nothing."
"Are you being serious right now? Draco"–I turned to face you–"he's my dad."
"I know–"
"What could he possibly have said that you can't tell me?"
You stayed quiet, gaze focused on the blinkering numbers announcing each floor. "He's just worried about you."
"Me? He's worried about me? He won't eat, and I'm the one who he–"
"He's worried about what will happen, when he's gone." You faltered, turning to face me, and I crossed my arms. Something sharp pierced my larynx. "He… He asked me to look after you."
The edges of my vision swam, humiliation blooming inside my veins. Is that how everyone in my life saw me? As someone who needed to be taken care of?
"I don't need to be looked after." My tongue tasted of acid. "I'm perfectly capable of looking after myself." The elevator pinged, announcing our arrival, and I walked out before you could answer.
January 26th, 2005
On the computer screen, Cadric's face stared back at me, his full, bland features shimmering beneath the glare of overhead lights. Behind me, the librarian shushed two teenagers who guffawed at something on their screens. My mouse hovered over Cadric's forehead, the little indents at his temples suggesting the beginnings of a receding hairline.
Penelope was right; he was researching at a university. I wanted to laugh at the absurdity. All those hours I'd spent barricaded in the Ministry's library, frustrated over my lack of progress each time the librarian stopped by to chat. And all I had to do was try the muggle way.
His sullen features contrasted with the eccentricity of his bio, which described him as a "curious academic interloper" with "vested interest" in combining naturopathic and science-based medicine. It listed his lab address right there. Once I found his name, everything else fell into place.
January 27th, 2005
I was standing by the lab door, staring at the row of brightly-colored liquids visible through the window, when I heard the clacking of approaching steps.
"Can I help you, Miss?"
He looked older in person, forehead gleaming under a mild widow's peak. He had his wrapped around the barrel of a silver travel mug. With every step he took, the glasses in his shirt pocket wobbled, precariously close to falling out.
"Penelope sent me. Clearwater." I cleared my throat, walked a step closer. When he didn't respond, I continued. "She...she told me about the grant you applied for. She said you might be able to help me…" I lowered my voice, "with a potential magical illness. I'm–"
"I know who you are." His tone was bland, but his eyes narrowed. "But I'm not quite sure what you would want with me, Miss Granger. And I'm not sure why Ms. Clearwater of all people would have sent you. As you can see, I'm no longer involved in the wizarding research community." He touched the badge dangling around his neck.
"Right." I never got used to being recognized: Hermione Granger, war heroine and smartest witch of her age. How had I gone from that to this?
I looked down the hallway; two students headed towards us. The fluorescent lights made them look ghoulish, fetid with sleep deprivation as they hurried down the hall. "Could we maybe discuss inside?"
He hesitated, and the lines in his forehead deepened. The voices of the students rose, tripping over each other in their frenzy, and Cadric exhaled and moved past me, unlocking the door.
Inside, the air pulsed with chemicals. He sat behind a metal table in the corner and then gestured self-consciously at the phalanx of tables. "Sorry, there's not many places to sit."
"That's fine. I don't mind standing." I leaned against a desk, the cold metal biting into my back. "I don't want to keep you long."
"I'm struggling to understand why Penelope Clearwater sent you here. She is…not my biggest supporter."
"I wouldn't call her my biggest supporter either."
He fiddled with his glasses, the corners of his mouth twitching into a wan smile.
"She mentioned that you might be able to help me. You were researching the effects of magic on muggles, right? To see if you could find a cure for muggle diseases?"
Clearing his throat, he began tapping out a quick beat against the table. "I'm not sure what you're talking about or what Penelope told you, but magic is in no way involved in my current research." The taptaptaptap cut out and he studied me. "How did you even find me?"
"Cadric, please. My parents...they–" I swallowed; the back of my neck prickled as my voice cracked. "I obliviated them during the war, so they would forget me, but I had trouble reversing the spell. I had to try a lot of different...magical methods."
He leaned his elbows against the table, mouth opening, and I rushed to finish. "I thought they were fine, but then small things started happening. Mom would get these"–I gestured towards my head–"migraines. Just awful ones. And then they both started just forgetting things. Dates, names, little events. Until it just...ravaged them." I stepped back, steadying myself on the cold surface of a desk.
"And you think their illnesses were due to the effects of your magic?"
I nodded, watching the haze of overhead lights blur against the linoleum. Penelope's letters unfolded in my mind: insufficient evidence to suggest a magical malady, unusual timing from exposure to symptom onset, lack of resources and care to treat non-magical maladies. She had sounded so sure, so certain. But she hadn't seen mum's body: desiccated, pillaged. The damage couldn't have been organic.
"St. Mungos wouldn't admit them because they didn't believe it was a magically induced disease. Penelope said a muggle hospital would be better equipped to handle their care, but none of the muggle doctors could figure it out..." It felt suddenly hard to breathe, and I slid my hand under my turtleneck, fingers curving into my neck so the serrated edges of my nails studded skin. "Mum died."
"Miss. Granger, I'm very sorry for your loss, but I'm not sure why you're telling me this."
"My father's still alive, but...I'm running out of time." I moved closer, until my fingers skimmed the edge of his desk. "You must know something. I just need a thread of information to go on. A new lead–anything."
He looked away, gaze darting to the far left of the room. "I'm no longer concentrating on that area of research."
"I know your grant was denied." My voice sped up, and he grimaced. "But maybe I could help you. If you let me know what you found, maybe we could work together. I–I'm not interested in any of the prestige or renown. I just want to help my father."
"I'm sorry, but again, I can't help you, and I"–he looked behind me, at the clock–"actually have a few students coming in–"
He stood, coming around the table, and I grabbed his arm before he reached the door. "Is it money? My husband and I–"
"Ms. Granger, please remove your arm–"
"What do you want? Whatever it is, I'm sure we can find a compromise. I'm just asking to see your notes, to see if there's some connection I can help make."
He tried to pull back, but my grip tightened. The muscles in his forearm were taut as he met my eyes, brows pulled together. "Why do you think I never applied for another grant? There are other hospitals in the world. How do you think I ended up here, at a muggle university?"
I dropped my hold, and he straightened, brushing himself off. "Exactly. The research would have been a dead end. I realized that not long after my grant was denied, and now I'm pursuing other options. Are you satisfied now?" He reached for the door handle. "As I've been saying, I can't help–"
And then he dropped forward, mouth rounded in surprise. I lunged, catching him around the torso before he slammed onto the ground. I could feel the petrificius totalus branding my tongue. My wand trembled in my palm, base slick with sweat. I dropped it, watching it clatter and roll underneath his desk. Squeezing my eyes shut, I tried to even my breaths and tamp down the nausea.
"I'm sorry, Cadric." I said, steadying his head with one hand as I tugged him onto the chair. His neck felt damp underneath my hands, sweat beading onto my fingers. "I'm so sorry, but I just don't believe that's true."
Cadric's eyes followed me as I hurried around the room, pulling out drawers and rifling through his desk. A hefty accordion folder sat buried behind a stack of textbooks, charmed into camouflage with a "notice-me-not." I would have missed it if not for the way his eyes bugged when my fingers brushed against the wooden bookshelf.
I made copies of all the documents, felt the burn of his gaze on me. As I straightened the papers, my fingers started to shake. "I'm not going to hurt you, Cadric." I stared at his shoes, counting the watermarks covering the leather. Dread crawled through my veins, settling against my skin. When I looked up, his pupils were dilated and cavernous, like gaping black holes, boring into me. What would I do now?
"I–I'm going to let you go, Cadric. Okay?" I moved towards him slowly, hands held aloft in surrender, like he was a wild animal I didn't want to frighten. "But I need you to stay calm when I do. I…I really need this." I stood in front of him, raising my wand until the tip pointed parallel to his forehead. His eyes tracked the movement of my hand. I could almost taste the counter-spell; it lingered on my tongue, waiting to burst. But as I stared at him, felt the rage and accusation in his stare, my throat seized. I whispered Obliviate instead.
Tendrils of green streamed out, grazing the tips of his ears and wrapping around his head. His eyes darted wildly around and then froze on my face. I watched the spark of realization shimmer and melt, leaving a familiar glossy and unfocused blankness behind.
"I'm so sorry, Cadric," I whispered. I hadn't planned this part, but the way he looked at me, the fury in his eyes. I knew he would never let me leave; I couldn't risk it.
I pressed my forehead against the cold metal of the door, sweat spotting along my neck. "I promise you, as soon as I find what I need, I'll come back and reverse the spell." Then, I turned and arched my wand through the air, reanimating him from the binding curse and disappearing through the door before feet hit the ground.
I waited in the hallway until he emerged, dazed but otherwise fine. He gave me a light smile as he walked by, rubbing the back of his neck. I touched the smooth surface of the documents stuffed into my bag, and as he rounded the corner and disappeared, I exhaled, sagging against the brick wall.
That night, I began trawling through years and years of his research, notes that painstakingly described every path, every dead end he took. It put our work in Australia to shame.
He had a potion in development. That's why he was at the muggle university, to use their labs. He needed one last ingredient: Astragalus remedium. A rare plant found in Patagonia, rumored to be a powerful purifying agent
Sandwiched in between his notes was an itinerary for South America, a research trip he planned to lead for the department. It was perfect, actually, the whole set up. He integrated himself into the muggle community, and in turn, he had a willing group of helpers, and, eventually, test subjects.
I could understand that, at least, the lengths he was willing to go to get what he needed.
January 30th, 2005
I swear to you, I wouldn't have pursued it further if I didn't really think it would work. But the more I researched, the more feasible the idea became. The final recommendation seemed plausible: create a potion that partnered with the body, targeting the immune system to create a tailored approach for fighting chronic afflictions. It didn't need to be a panacea; it only needed to rewire and stimulate a person's existing defenses.
I had spent the afternoon packing, charming the inside of a duffel bag to fit all the necessities, tucking my notes and shrunken map carefully into a waterproofed envelope that I wedged between two sweaters, one of them yours. At one point, I had thought about leaving you a letter instead; I never presumed I had the capacity to be brave around you anymore.
I was already waiting at the table when you came downstairs for dinner, takeout boxes fanned out in front of me: Greek, your favorite.
"How was your day?"
You paused to wipe your lips and swallow. You seemed surprised at my question, or maybe you were just surprised I was talking at all.
"It was fine, busy." You took a sip of wine. "How was yours?"
"It was good. I've, um, had research breakthrough, of sorts."
"What kind of research?"
"For my father." You froze, plastic knife poised over the chicken breast. "I think I found a way to help him."
"Is this something you've been working on with his doctors?" Your tone was cautious as you resumed cutting into the meat, but your knife dragged slowly, carefully, not fully committed to the act.
"Not exactly. Penelope actually introduced me to a researcher who has been looking into a potion that might help Dad."
"You saw Penelope this week? I–didn't she ask you…"
I flushed. "It was different, this time." Straightening, I pushed my toes into the ground and leaned forward. "Anyways, the point is, I think I figured out a way to help Dad, but there's an ingredient missing. I need to go South America–"
"What? What are you talking about?"
"Draco"–I put down the fork and knife–"I need you to just listen to me, okay? I need you to just listen to me and let me finish."
Your lips parted and then leveled, the lines at the edge of your mouth deepening before you nodded.
"Cadric Heatherstone is a researcher who's been working on a potion that could potentially help Dad. There's an ingredient missing, and it's a plant located somewhere in the Patagonian forest. I don't have time to explain all of it, but it's a brilliant idea." I tucked a strand of hair behind my ear. "I need to leave tomorrow to find it. I don't want to waste any more time."
Your jaw tensed, muscles rippling before they fell lax and you turned to me. You took a sip of wine; the red gleamed on your lips like blood. "Have you lost your mind, Hermione?"
Momentarily dumbfounded, I exhaled: "What?"
"No, really"–You scooted back and placed your elbows on the table–"how do you envision this mission of yours going. How do you propose you'll find it? Will you just wander all around Patagonia, digging through the jungle–"
"Do not condescend to me like that. I've done my research on it–"
"Oh! Oh." You laughed, sharp and mocking. "Of course. I wouldn't assume anything less. But let's say you get this plant. Then what? You make the potion? You somehow mix it into the feeding tube? What next?"
"I don't care how I administer it. All that matter is that it helps him–"
"And that's the whole bloody point. How do you know this will help?" You shut your eyes; a vein pulsed against your temple. "Hermione, do you really think this is the best way you can help your father right now?"
"Don't you dare tell me how to help my father."
"Then think a little more. Hermione"–the knife splintered in your grip–"I am trying so hard right now to give you space and to understand how to help you. And now you want to drop everything and run to South America?" You opened your fist, and two jagged pieces of plastic dropped onto the plate, split clean down the middle. "Merlin, Hermione. You're the smartest witch of our age and you're going to go across the bloody world just to check out a stranger's theory? Be fucking logical. "
I froze, every cell in my body congealing with fury. "Be logical? We are out of options. I am being as logical as I can be in an absolutely illogical, insane situation." I slapped my hand down on the table, and your face contorted with shock. "Do you think anything in our lives has been logical? We fought in a fucking war, Draco. When we were just children. I killed my mum." Salt stung my sinuses, and I dug my nails into my palm, focusing on the sting and blinking rapidly until I could speak again. "Does any of that sound logical at all? I am doing the only logical thing I can now: fixing it."
My breathing saturated the silence. You brought two fingers up to your temples, eyes squinted, like you were in pain. "Then I'll come with you. If you really need to do this, I'll come with–"
"Absolutely not."
"What?"
"I won't have time to babysit you while you have temper tantrums." Your eyes widened, but I couldn't stop. "There are more important things for me to focus on right now."
"Right, because everything is more important than our marriage."
"Don't make me choose between you and my dad, Draco." I got up, slamming the chair against the table. "I'm not asking for your permission. I'm already packed, and I'm leaving tomorrow." Shock ruptured across your face, and I gripped the back of the chair, steeling myself. "I'm sorry, but I don't know what else to say."
I felt the bed dip before I opened my eyes. I didn't even look over, just stared up at the ceiling and counted your breaths. The vestiges of anger drew me into the bed, gnarling my fingers into the duvet, but I knew if you spoke I would respond.
I felt the pinpricks of your gaze before your voice: "I'm sorry, Hermione." When I didn't respond, you exhaled. "Please. I don't want to fight with you."
I scoffed. "I'm so glad you get to decide–"
The mattress dipped with movement, and then your hand cupped my check, gently turning my face towards you. "I'm sorry I said those things. I just–I don't want you to go out there, alone. What if something happens?"
I swallowed; moonlight slid across the bed, illuminating the earnest expression on your face. I felt the acid of my earlier words, and shame flooded me, sweeping all the anger from my pores."I–"
You twisted, planting a hand underneath your head as you stared at me. "Let me come with you."
"You can't. You have work, responsibilities." My voice shifted, a poor attempt at levity. "Think of what Theo will say." I smiled. You didn't.
"He'll figure it out–"
"Draco," I touched your forearm, sliding my hand down to the crook of your elbow. "I need to do this. I need to fix this, by myself. It's my mess."
Your thumb grazed the line of my jaw. "What if you get hurt? Hermione, I promised to always take care of you."
"You don't need to take care of me." I pillowed my thumb against the dip of your bottom lip. "I know I can do this, Draco. I promise I won't get hurt."
Leaning over, you pressed a kiss to my jaw, and then my chin, feathering tiny kisses along the path.
I drew my hand up, pushing on your shoulder, and you stilled, horrified. "Sorry, I–"
I shook my head, reached for the hem of my shirt. I didn't want to fight either. I was so tired of fighting, of remembering those terrible things I said: Don't make me choose between you and my dad.
I was bare underneath the fabric, and you let out a sharp exhale, trailing a finger up my ribcage, and circling my nipple until I whimpered. Slowly, you leaned over, head dipping, planting a kiss at the hollow of my clavicle as your lips crawled lower. "You're so beautiful."
I shifted, wrapping my thigh around your hip, and your hand moved down, kneading my flesh before it dipped underneath the lace covering my sex. "Take these off," you whispered. A ghost of a smile pulled at your lips as I fumbled to kick off my pajama pants and knickers.
"You too." I pushed at your waistband, helping you tug the fabric down. You pressed against me, and I scooted lower, pressing open-mouthed kisses against the tense valley of your abdomen. When I glanced up, you had the startled look of someone not expecting a gift. I wanted you to see how sorry I was too; I just didn't always have the words.
I had almost forgotten your taste, the tang of salt underneath my tongue. I sketched a vein down the length of you, and you choked, fingers knotted in my hair. The first drops of salt dribbled onto my tongue.
"Stop, stop." You pulled at my forearms. "Not like this." Your hands slid down my back, nudging me until I hovered over you. I sank down; you tilted your head, baring your Adam's apple, mouth rounding: "Oh, fuck."
"Just like that." I guided your hand against my clit, watching your face as you stroked the nerves feverishly.
"So perfect," you muttered, and then your voice dipped unintelligibly. You groaned again, low and pained, gripping my hip and turning us over. Sinking deep inside me, you hit a spot that made us both gasp.
"I love you." You had one hand on my breast, the other curled possessively around my ribcage. "You know I do."
You pressed your face into my neck and snapped your hips against mine. I raked my fingers down your back. The muscles there strained, and then loosened, as you let out a strangled gasp and stilled. My hands drifted through your hair, chest heaving with my breathing. Then, you nipped at my shoulder and your hands scorched down my body, driving out all coherent thought. There were words I wanted to say, but they suffocated in the burst of heat between my legs, captive to its spread; I bit the pillow and screamed, sagging into you.
You cradled me against your side. I could feel you dripping out of me, but my eyelids drooped, head nestled into the space beneath your ear.
"I would do anything to keep you safe." Your hand tightened around my shoulder, words tickling the peach fuzz on the nape of my neck. "Anything. I promised I would always look after you."
Indignation jolted in my chest, but I felt depleted. You draped the duvet tighter around me, and I pressed into your chest, closing my eyes and letting the world tumble into darkness.
January 31st, 2005
Coldness greeted me in the morning. My wand had been moved to the other side of the room, alarm disabled. The bag was gone. A black leather notebook was stacked against your nightstand. Read this said a note affixed to the front cover.
"Draco," I called, voice rising in panic. The notebook dropped from my fingers, bouncing against the bed. The house was empty.
