Hermione senses Harry before she sees him, and the awareness makes her pause, stumbling over her words as she reads to Draco. She snaps her notebook shut and looks up, thumb wedged between the pages.
"Are you ready?" Harry crosses his arms. He's angry, but this anger is more palatable than the hard assessing look he gives her sometimes, like he's not sure what to do with her.
"How long have you been standing there?"
"Not long. I tried knocking." Harry eyes the notebook. "But you didn't answer."
She stands, moves to Draco's bedside. "Someone will be here with him?" His palm is cool and dry beneath hers, devoid of its usual heat. If she closes her eyes, she can pretend this isn't Draco, just a body. Her husband is at home: not hurt, not here.
"Pansy's outside. She says the Malfoys are coming soon."
"All right." She squeezes Draco's hand. She wants to lean down and kiss him, but Harry stares at her, and the concentrated exposure slices into her bones.
They pass Pansy, who throws them a cursory nod. She doesn't speak to Hermione, which is unsurprising but painful in an unexpected way.
In the hallway, she follows Harry towards the elevators. She wonders if he'll do that thing she's seen in muggle TV shows, handcuff her while guiding her away: an announcement of the criminal she has become.
But he doesn't do that. He barely looks at her. He hasn't really met her gaze since he found out about Cadric, about what she did.
Penelope had been the one to tell him, but Hermione wonders if it would have been better had she just confessed. Would Harry be less angry? How much of his fury was entangled in her omission?
She imagines Penelope flooing Cadric, the caution woven into her voice: Did Hermione Granger visit you? Shame stabs at Hermione when she thinks about Cadric's answer, the inexplicable gaps in his memory. And then Penelope's dawning realization, her panicked visit to Harry.
"I have to take you in for questioning." Harry had said. "Merlin, Hermione. Do you have any idea what will happen if Cadric chooses to press charges?
"I know you're angry with me–"
"Don't." She watches Harry swallow and rub at the minefield of stubble on his jaw. "I don't want to talk right now."
They're waiting for the ding of their escape, but the elevator doors slide open to reveal a gurney, nurses and doctors pressed against the walls. "Sorry," a white coat says. "This one is occupado." And then everyone laughs, and nausea creeps up Hermione's throat as they're left waiting for another elevator.
She wants to try again, one last time. "Harry," she says, tucking her fingers into her jeans. "I'm sorry, but I just–I did what I thought was right." His silence suffocates the elevator ride and follows them to the apparition point.
When they finally reach the entrance to the ministry, he says, very quietly: "I have no idea who you are anymore, Hermione."
She exhales, her breath fogging the air, like a barrier erected between them. "What would you have done? If it were Ginny? If it were someone you loved? I asked you to help me, Harry–"
"And what do you think I should have done? Burned down the portkey office? Used an imperius on the associate? Merlin, Hermione. Do you have any idea what you've done?"
People turn, blinking at the commotion, and he pulls her into the elevator, stabbing the button for floor five.
"I didn't hurt him. I just–I was always going to reverse the spell." She can feel the panic bubbling up, but her indignation edges it out. "Harry, we did much worse things during the war–"
"Don't-don't talk to me about the things we did in the war." His voice peaks right as the elevator jolts sideways, crashing her into him. He steadies her, and then immediately steps back, like she's contagious. "Listen to yourself. Are you honestly trying to justify what you did to Cadric?"
"I'm trying to make you understand–"
"I don't understand. I can't understand. And yes, Hermione, you're right. I am mad. I'm furious. But, listen to me"–he finally touches her then, ushering her out of the elevator and into an empty conference room–"right now, I'm focused on getting you through the next hour, okay? Cadric is willing to drop the charges, but he's asked to speak to you. I don't know why, and I don't know what he wants, but so help me, Hermione. You do not get to go to Azkaban for this. Because Ginny and I, the people who love you, the people you have left, we deserve the chance to be angry at you. And I can't do that if you're in Azkaban."
She sees Harry–this Harry–for the first time: Head Auror, department lead.
"And what were my options?" Heat crawls up her neck, and her hands curl into fists. "Watch my father die when there might have been a way to fix it?"
"You had options. Legal, moral options. Hermione, why didn't you come to us, your friends? You just shut us out. I could have helped you–"
The absurdity of his sentence makes her laugh. "Help me? Really? When? When you weren't threatening to arrest me for stalking? When you were storming into my house and stealing my wand–"
"That is not how–"
"Or how about when I did ask you for help? What happened with the portkey office, Harry? Did you even–" the words feel gummy in her mouth, and her throat seizes, warning her about the permanence of her questions. He will tell her, and then she will always know this about him, the type of man he became when she needed him most. "Did you even talk to Gregory Doper? Did you even try?"
His mouth snaps shut, jumping into a thin em-dash. She watches the latticework of lines on his lips disappear, suppressing what he wants to say.
"This isn't the time, Hermione," he finally says. He pulls out a chair, gestures for her to sit. "I need to prep you before you see Cadric."
Cadric squints as she sits down. The fluorescent light accentuates the sparsity of his hair, making his scalp appear and disappear like a magic trick.
He studies Hermione without a word. The metal table ices her palm, and she stares at his ragged cuticles to avoid meeting his gaze. "Hello, Cadric."
"Miss Granger." A plastic cup sits on the table, and he takes a sip, droplets clinging to his mustache as his throat bobs.
"Harry mentioned you wanted to, um, speak to me."
He laughs, disbelief coloring the sound. "Yes, you could say that." He folds his fingers together, leans forward onto his elbows. "You're awfully quiet for someone being investigated for criminal activity."
"I–"
His lips pull wide, a caricature of a smile. She understands now: this is a massacre, not a meeting.
"Is there nothing you want to say to me, Miss Granger?"
She takes a deep breath, like she can inhale Harry's command into her body: Just say what you need to say. You can't afford to have pride right now, Hermione.
"I'm sorry, Cadric." Her tongue feels clumsy and limp inside her mouth. "I'm very sorry for what happened."
Another laugh, this time sharper, mouth unfurling as spittle flies out. "Are you? I'm getting the impression that you really aren't."
"I didn't plan for what happened. I just–I was desperate." The clock ticks. Her heart thuds. "I would have come back as soon as possible and restored your memories. The research was always yours–I didn't steal it to publish or–"
"But you did, steal it. You obliviated me and stole my research for…?"
"I thought I could save my father. Fix what I had done."
"And did you?" His face remains impassive.
"No." She pulls at the edge of her sweater. "No, I didn't."
"A shame." He steeples his fingers against his mouth. "All that planning for nothing."
"I didn't plan–"
"Everyone plans, Miss Granger. The question is: how far would you go? What would be your limits?"
Her cheeks flame, shoulders tensing. "And what was your grand plan, your limits? Bring your students to Patagonia and dose them with unknown, magical substances? Is that not inhumane as well?"
He smiles then, like this is what he had been waiting for all along. "How do you define humanity, Miss Granger? One life, or potentially thousands"–he leans forward, and Hermione wants to recoil from his face, from the dark mole consuming his cheek–"millions, maybe. If my potion works, I have the chance to save millions of muggle lives. What are a few compared to that?"
"You can't–" She falters; she is at the edge of a precipice, feet pressed against the overhang.
"I can't what? Play God?" His eyes twinkle, like he has a secret to share. "I can't play God, but you can?"
Panic swivels down her esophagus, curdling in her stomach.
"It's not so simple is it, Miss Granger?"
"What do you want from me?"
"I want my research back, and I want the Astragalus remedium."
"I never went."
He raises a brow. "Was your father not in acute condition? I somehow fail to believe you would have delayed the trip"
"My"–she licks her lips; her throat feels scorched–"husband went instead."
"And was he able to procure the plant?" Cadric leans forward, chair screeching against tile.
"No–"
"No?" He slams his hand on the table, all traces of amusement vanquished. "Don't lie to me."
Her hands shake, and she slides them underneath her thighs. "Draco wasn't able to get the plant. He got hurt. I didn't have a chance to ask what happened...he's comatose."
The cup cracks between his fingers, and the sound of splintered plastic makes her wince. "There was nothing on him?"
"No."
"And when did they say he would wake up? I need to speak to him."
"They don't know...He has extensive internal injuries." She bites down, teeth sinking into her cheek. "It was a gunshot wound."
"That is unfortunate."
The quiet between her and Cadric is filled by the tread of Harry's steps, echoing from outside. Cadric's callousness shouldn't surprise her; his focus lies solely with the plant. Hermione watches him press his fingers into his temple, lips flattened, body almost vibrating with frustration. Finally, he exhales and stands.
"You'll hand over the research to Auror Potter. I'll speak to him about dropping the charges. Should your husband wake, you will contact me immediately." He pauses on the way out; from her seated position, his ribs are parallel to her shoulder. "And let me be very clear, if I discover you've been lying, if he did retrieve the plant, I will not hesitate"–the sentence hangs, incomplete and foreboding–"Do you understand me?"
"Why are you dropping the charges?"
He pauses before answering, profile facing her. "Have you heard of Frankenstein's Monster, Hermione?" He chuckles then, turning towards her. "Are we really so different?"
Back in the hospital, Hermione sits in the corner of Draco's room. The condemnation of the room's occupants sinks into her skin, branding her: Pansy's stony disregard, the Malfoy's barbed words, Blaise's disbelief.
"Granger." Pansy finally looks at her, eyes lingering on Hermione's unbrushed hair. "Would you kindly explain again why Draco is here instead of St. Mungo's? I thought the healer's outfits were bad, but this is sincerely obscene." She looks out the door, frowning. "Do we honestly expect muggles wearing white dressing gowns to be able to heal Draco?"
"I must agree with Miss Parkinson on this point." A metal serpent slithers along Lucius' cane, its gold tail oscillating each time he speaks. "I fail to see how these"–he sneers, looking around–"resources are conducive to Draco's recovery."
"Muggles doctors are more familiar with this type of injury," Hermione says. "It's not just the extent of Draco's physical injuries. He has"–Hermione swallows and looks down–"lead poisoning from the bullets. He'll need chelation therapy, maybe dialysis." She wonders, briefly, if she should explain what these terms mean, but dread calcifies in her throat every time she tries. "Healers wouldn't have the appropriate treatment."
"And please enlighten us again, Miss Granger." Lucius drags the syllables of her maiden name out until the letters sound obscene. "How exactly did my son receive such an injury?"
Hermione closes her eyes, nails digging into the lacquered armrest. How had she not considered this? She planned it all–packed the dittany, the imperishable food, the waterproof clothing–but she never considered what people did in the jungle. Her grief blinded her.
"He was in the Patagonian jungle. They have a very robust hunting season. I believe he was accidentally shot."
"And could you please reiterate why my son would be in the Patagonian jungle? What exactly was his order of business there?"
"He went to find a plant, Ast–"
"But why did he need such a plant?" Lucius' voice rises; his hand tightens on the cane, knuckles whitening. "Why would he make such a foolish, ridiculous journey? What exactly was he doing it for?"
Hermione swallows. Pansy shifts besides her, mute. Blaise looks out the window.
"Draco went for me. In place of me." She knows this game, what Lucius wants. She's told everyone in this room what happened, but Lucius wants her to confess again, publicly, shamefully.
"And what happens now, Miss Granger? Smartest witch of your age. Please, do tell, what happens to my son now?"
"I don't know."
"And is he in pain?" Lucius stands, and Narcissa grips his sleeve, but he brushes her off.
"I don't know."
"And will he wake up?"
Her voice cracks, and she looks up, focusing on the clock above Draco's head.
"I don't know."
"So," Lucius stops in front of her, looming over her seated form. Slowly, he lifts his cane up, placing the handle under her chin and tilting her head. Their eyes meet, and the metal digs into her throat as he studies her, nostrils flaring. "What exactly do you know, Miss Granger?"
Pansy is the only one left in Draco's room when Hermione returns, holding a cup of tea in her hand, her excuse to escape Lucius. It's grown cold from how long she loitered in the hallway, waiting for the Malfoys to leave.
"They left to change," Pansy says, without looking up. "The Malfoys will be back in an hour."
"Oh," Hermione sits across from Draco's bed, pretends to sip from her early grey. "Have the doctors come back yet?"
"No." Pansy crosses her ankles, leaning away. "Their incompetence remains intact."
They settle into a thick silence. Pansy huffs occasionally, and a small, horrible part of Hermione wishes she would leave; there are still journal entries left to read; she needs to make sure Draco understands the depth of her guilt, the sincerity of her regret.
Reading and writing to him comforts her; Hermione knows exactly what happens in each journal entry, can identify the errors in her judgement, the things she couldn't see then. But here, sitting in the hospital, waiting for his doctors: she has no idea what happens next. Hermione feels unmoored, useless and unwanted. The smartest witch of her age without an answer.
It takes another half hour for the doctors to arrive, striding into the room with coats of varying length. Medical students, Hermione realizes. Indignation snakes through her body; Draco isn't an exhibition.
They do their introductions and begin presenting Draco's case. The words slip past Hermione, lost to the dull roaring infiltrating her mind: extensive abdominal trauma, hypovolemic shock, CT scans.
"What happened here?" One of them asks. Short coat, black hair, tittering with nervous energy. She points at the jagged gash–puckered red and sealed with black thread–bisecting Draco's arm.
Splinched, Hermione wants to say. My husband was splinched.
She counts the tiles on the floor, trying to drown out the steady timbre of voices.
"Mrs. Malfoy?" Trainers cross into her visual field, and she looks up. Long coat, blond hair and shiny white teeth. Dr. Caulder, the doctor she had spoken to when they transferred Draco out of the emergency room. "Could you tell us how the injury happened?"
"I'm not sure," she lies. What could she possibly say? How would she explain anything? "I found him in the entryway of our home, bleeding."
"Have you spoken to the police?"
"I–No, not yet. I took him to the hospital as soon as I found him."
"You didn't call an ambulance?"
She can sense the disbelief in the room. Sweat beads her hairline. They'll have to be confunded, all of them. She'll have to speak to Harry–shame erupts, pressing against her lungs. Is this who she is now? She remembers Cadric's smile, his voice: What would be your limits? Had her magic made her play God? Or is this just her?"
Pansy's voice cuts in. "Shouldn't you be telling us his treatment plan?"
Distrust waves through the chain of doctors, and Dr. Caulder adjusts his glasses before speaking.
"The latest CT showed extensive injury to his intestines. After the bullets were removed, the levels of lead in his body did decrease, but"–he looks up, gaze leaving his chart. His hand is suspended mid-movement, fingers grasping the pages of his clipboard–"The combination of the lead exposure and the physical trauma was too much." He shifts, and the medical students behind him glance at each other. "He'll need a bowel transplant, once we find a suitable donor."
Hermione closes her eyes, tries to even her breaths. A curious sense of detachment settles over her, static humming in her head. She has questions, words and sounds brimming on her tongue, but the only thing released is: "The donor list is long, isn't it? He'll need an exact match."
Logistics, facts: she grounds herself with these, pushes away the panic building inside her.
"Your husband's young and otherwise healthy. He'll be near the top, but yes, it may take some time. After the donor passes, there still needs to be testing done to ensure compatibility and–"
"That's barbaric." Pansy straightens, pointing at Draco. "You're going to put a dead person's organs inside him?"
"Well, it's a bit more complicated–"
"Why can't you grow him some? Don't you have a procedure of some sort to make him some new ones? Why should he get refurbished material?"
"We"–the doctor cuts off, glances at Hermione. She looks away–"we don't currently have the technology for that. Perhaps in the future–"
"So this is your best option?" Pansy's voice pitches into a shriek. "You're going to put rotting organs into him? That's your best fucking idea?"
"Pansy–" Hermione starts to reach for her and stops. She knows what Pansy is thinking: there must be a potion for this, something like skele-gro. Hermione has had the same thought, but organs are different than bones, different than skin. Potion's can't configure vascularity, form arteries, develop veins. When Hermione saw the bullet wound, realized its location and depth, she knew St. Mungo's wouldn't be able to help in the way they needed. Dark magic could, maybe, but nothing Hermione can find and learn quickly enough.
"And if Draco doesn't have his surgery?" Pansy asks. Her voice blends from ferocity into apprehension, like she anticipates the silence following her question.
The students clear their throat, busying themselves with their notes. Dr. Caulder opens his mouth, but his answer is cut off by her next question.
"Where do you find these donors?" Pansy purses her lips, and Hermione realizes this is the first time she's seen her without lipstick.
"They're recently deceased patients who have chosen to be organ donors in their end-of-life preparations. If the donor has a viable organ, it will go to someone on the transplant list."
Pansy freezes, shoulders tensing so the line of her clavicle sticks out like a shelf. "And can someone choose to whom their organs go?"
"Yes, with designated donation." Dr. Caulder shifts his weight, sinking his fingers inside his coat pocket. "But, I have to stress, this is not a living donation. The donor would have to be deceased."
"Hermione." Pansy turns to her; there's an inscrutable look on her face. "Is your father an organ donor?"
