"Dad? Can you hear me?"

Hermione sits on her father's bed and peers at him, searching for a secret written on his ashen skin, as if he still might be capable of communicating with her.

"Draco's in the hospital, Dad." She touches his hand, sliding her fingers under his palm. "He got hurt."

Inside her bag, she has a folder containing her father's life: his will, his investments, his advanced directive. The instructions on what will happen next, but none to tell her when.

None to tell her how.

She's done her own research, searched through textbooks with cracked spines. A transplant won't be like a transaction, with a definitive start and stop–not really. There will be testing done, checklists surveyed, protocols followed. They'll need to ensure he's a match, but even after they validate that, the unknowns stretch out far beyond just a yes or no answer.

"I'm sorry I haven't been here as much." She touches her father's temple, smoothing the permanent groove between his brows. "Are you still in pain?"

Her pulse throbs against her throat, chest tight with panic. The way Pansy had looked at her, the way the doctor's had. An impossible decision Hermione wanted to say. How can you ask that of me? Instead, she left, jerking open the door, gasping in the cold hallway air.

She grips her father's fingers. "Pansy," she begins before pausing. Her father doesn't know Pansy. "The doctors," she tries again, but the words splinter in her mouth. How can she really ask this of her father? It's not a choice; it's a mandate: Draco's life or his.

She wants this to be excruciating, because what does it say of her that the decision came quickly?

"You know I love you, right?"

The machines beep; her father's chest rises and falls with artificial stimulation, the ventilator rattling every few seconds.

A volley of voices flies through the open door, and she moves to close it. Back pressed against the wood, she stares at her father, tracing the wires threaded around him. "I've done a lot of things wrong, haven't I?"

The sharp tap of heels echoes down the hallway before stopping nearby. Hermione feels the metal handle turn behind her back, and she instinctively steps forward, pulling her weight off the door. "Granger," she hears, freezing at the familiar cut of Pansy's voice. "We need to talk."


In the cafeteria, she sits across from Pansy, who frowns down at her cappuccino.

"I have no idea how muggle hospitals get away with serving this poison." She bunches up a napkin, tossing it into her cup.

Hermione watches as the paper shrivels with liquid. She can't bring herself to face Pansy.

"How is your father?" Pansy finally asks, breaking the silence.

This actually makes Hermione want to laugh: Pansy's attempt at compassion, cultivating sympathy before a request. She's not good at it.

"You're asking something impossible of me, Pansy." This isn't what Hermione wants to say, but nothing else comes out. Doesn't Pansy understand that Hermione has already made up her mind?

"You act as if I'm asking solely for my own interest." Pansy grips her cup, the tendons in her fingers jump, betraying her even tone. "He's your husband, after all."

"And this is my father we're talking about."

Perversely, Hermione wants this fight; she needs her father to know it wasn't as easy as it seems. She needs it for her own conscience.

"I don't envy your situation, Granger, but–"

"Envy?" Hermione laughs, the edges sharp with bitterness. "That's your attempt at leveling? My situation? Merlin, Pansy, do you even hear yourself–"

"You have to consider the entire situation. Your father probably won't wake up–"

"Do not speak about my father. You have no right–"

Pansy slams her palm down, upending the cup and sending a stream of milky liquid onto the formica between them. The din of the cafeteria softens as people blink towards them. "I don't have the right?" She rises, leaning over the table, pressing the indent of her hip bones into the edge. "When Draco first started dating you, I didn't understand, but it made him happy, so I said nothing. And then Draco married you, and I still didn't understand, but what right did I have to make a fuss over someone who was never mine? And now, Draco is dying, and you somehow can't see that. Or maybe"–her voice cracked, and she curled her fingers into a first–"you don't care the way I do–"

"That's not–"

"Shut up. You may be his wife, and the love of his life. Maybe one day, you'll even be the mother of his children. But this"–she breathes out, mouth puckered into a rose of anger– "this I won't let you do. You don't have the right to kill him."

Hermione's heart throws itself against her ribs, sending vibrations into her throat, closing off her airway. "I would never–"

Pansy throws up a palm, closes her eyes. "Draco almost died for you, or did you temporarily forget? Isn't it astounding how stupid one can be for the person they love?"

Hermione could have ended this. She knew what to say, had the words chosen, but they swam in her mouth, swallowed downstream. How had she never noticed, all these years? Pansy's just a friend now Draco had told her, many times. I doubt she even remembers our schoolyard relationship.

"You love him," Hermione says finally.

"Of course I love him. It's why I tolerate you." She glances around, sneering at the onlookers, but still lowering her voice. "But he loves you, and it would be a pity if that kills him.


Back in her father's hospital room, Hermione opens her mouth, tries to find the right words. Her body feels cold, goosebumps kissing her arms from the cold central air, from the echo of Pansy's words.

She wants to be with Draco right now, but Pansy's there, with the Malfoys. If she thinks about this too much, her chest feels tight. In another life–perhaps the right one–that is how it's meant to be: Pansy Malfoy. Except, in that life, Draco wouldn't be in the hospital at all. There would have been no need.

The nurse comes in to check her father's vitals, and Hermione slips out. She walks down the hall, keeping her head down, and enters the stairwell right as someone exits. She's crossing the landing from the first to second floors when she hears the clipping of a cane. When she inches forward, peering over the railing, she expects to see the alabaster of Lucius' hair; instead, she spies chestnut hair rising above a black cloak.

The man turns, reaching for the handle of the exit, and she catches a flash of profile: Theo. She feels a jolt in her chest, a mixture of confusion and anger. Where had he been the last three days? And where was he going?

She follows him without thinking, barely composed enough to keep a light tread in her steps. Theo holds a piece of paper between gloved fingers, and he looks down every few steps before scanning the rooms lining the hallway.

She's so busy trying to discern what's in his hand, she doesn't register the sudden cessation of his steps.

"Aren't you going to say hello, Granger?"

She looks up and meets Theo's gaze; he's planted under a wooden archway that separates two portions of the first floor. "A little rude to just sneak up on a bloke like that, isn't it?" He smirks and the lines around his eyes grow starker.

Heat scrambles up her neck, twisting behind her ears and compelling her to reflexively pull back her curls as protection.

"Theo." Her mouth runs dry; a schism opens in her mind, dividing the congeries of her thoughts until all she can summon is: "What are you doing?"

"I might ask you the same." His tone remains even, but his fingers flex on the handle of his cane, tensing around the body of a silver-crafted fox. He follows her stare and then arches a brow. "Fox got your tongue?"

Her heart flutters in the concave beneath her jaw. "Draco's room is on the third floor," she finally says.

"Oh, yes," he says. "I'm aware." He crosses the few paces between them, and she wants to step back, but she forces herself to inhale and lift her chin. "I have to take care of some business. Since you're so curious, why don't you accompany me?"

He extends his elbow; the gesture is mocking, but she feels more embarrassed than affronted. People are coming from the opposite end of the hall; to them, this will look like some theatrical flirting, a harmless teasing between budding lovers. It makes her sick to consider what they might think.

She jerks her head in agreement and starts walking, keeping distance from him; his chuckle follows closely behind. She slows at a divergence in the hallway, two corridors branching out like arteries.

"Probably the first time in awhile you'll have to follow instead of lead, hmm?" Theo barely glances at her as he pivots to the right and strides across the linoleum. The spaces for seating in the previous hall give way to the monotony of wooden office doors. He stops in front of one of these, reaching for the handle. Billing Office is etched into the nameplate adjacent to the door.

"Theo," she starts, but he disappears inside.

It takes her a few beats to orient herself. When she walks in, Theo is speaking to a woman behind the front desk, but his profile is turned towards the door, expecting her.

"Claire," he says, addressing the blonde. He nods towards her. "This is Miss Granger. She's Draco's wife and Mr. Granger's daughter. We're here to settle the situation I spoke to you earlier about."

Claire nods at her, polite and distant, before handing Theo a pen. "You'll just need to initial here, and here, and sign below." Her head seesaws up and down like a bobble head as she speaks and gestures towards the pile of papers between them.

"Theo." Hermione's voice sounds strange; the lighting in the room hurts her eyes. "What is going on?"

He leads her to the cafeteria, gripping a rolled up parchment in his palm. Nodding towards a table, he disappears into a throng of white coats, reappearing a few minutes later with tea.

"Drink this," he said. "You look like you're going to be sick."

She takes a sip and inhales a mouthful of loose leaf. He watches as she coughs, disgust marring his features.

"What were you doing back there, Theo?" She hates the tremor in her voice, how fraught her words sound. "What did you sign for?"

"I saw Pansy earlier today." Theo's still holding the rolled up sheath of papers, and he twists his wrist in opposite directions so the paper jostles. "She said you two had a rather unpleasant conversation."

Incredulity pulls her brows together. "Theo, what is going on? Why are you even here if it's not to see Draco–"

"She mentioned that Draco may need something from your father."

Hermione closes her eyes. Her throat burns for a reason separate from her tea. "I don't know what she's told you, but I doubt it was the whole truth, and there are more important matters–"

He laughs then; the paper cone drops from his fingers as he crosses his arms. "I'd actually argue that keeping Draco alive is the most important matter at hand, which makes this topic of conversation extremely relevant–"

"Of course helping Draco is the most important thing–don't twist my words. But right now I want to know what just happened in that office."

His lips thin, the edges turning white with pressure before he continues. "I'm going to tell you something, something I probably shouldn't. I'm going to tell you this mainly because, as Draco's wife, you deserve to know the type of man you married before you make this life-altering choice." Venom drips off his words, flowing onto the formica between them.

She blinks at him, and then down at her hands, clawed around the paper cup. Her heartbeat vibrates against her eardrums as she considers all the things Theo could possibly say. Does she have a breaking point? Is there anything he can tell her that would change her decision?

Theo clears his throat and cards a hand through the curls above his temple. "Draco ran into some financial troubles. Actually, the firm ran into some financial troubles. We couldn't secure the clients we needed. Draco and I each put in 50% of the initial investment, but he had some...outstanding debts to handle. He pulled his investment out, and eventually, asked me for a loan. We closed the firm two months ago"

His tone is even, effortless-like they're discussing the weather, like he's walking her through his morning routine: First I wake up, then I cross to the–

Her mouth parts, but his hand shoots up as he continues. "I don't care about the money. That's not the point. But, Granger, I want you to think: what could Draco have used that money for?"

The world thrums with her vertigo. "I–I don't understand." Where had Draco been disappearing to then? What was he doing in his study?

Theo lays his hands on the table, fingers sprawled. "I don't need you to understand. I need you to think. What would Draco go into debt for. Rather, who would he go into debt for?"

"But I never asked him for money. All our expenses were shared. There would be no need–"

"No"–a muscle twitches in his jaw–"not for you directly, but what about indirectly? Why was I at the hospital billing office, Granger?"

The tea from earlier sloshes inside Hermione, sending shockwaves through her stomach; she grips the edge of the table. "Draco took out a loan to pay for my parents' care?"

Theo's eyes narrow into a squint, but his body remains stock still. "I promised Draco I wouldn't tell you, but look: you've figured it out yourself, haven't you?" He smiles, gruesome and wide, and then it drops away, disappearing into the void of his face. "He sent me an owl in January, explaining his situation further. He's on some sort of muggle payment plan with the hospital. He planned to be here today and pay the next installment, but obviously that didn't work out."

He reaches for the paper, unfurls the edges and slides it over. She tries to smooth out the wrinkles of the billing statement, but the ink blurs in front of her, the bright red numerals shouting across various sections of the page.

"I don't understand. This has been going on for months," she finally says. She looks up. "He's kept this secret for months."

"How much of it was a secret and how much of it was willful ignorance on your part?"

She inhales, feels the tendons in her throat seize. "I asked him how the firm–"

"He took a trip earlier this year, didn't he? To France? Why do you think he did that?"

Spit gathers in her mouth, and she swallows, and then again. She has this terrible image in her mind: her in the bathroom, nose stuffed into the cotton of his shirt, searching for something she's ashamed to admit.

"Tell me, have you ever met Lucius' mother? She's quite a wealthy woman, one with a soft spot for her grandson." Theo crosses his arms and stares at her down the line of his nose. "This hospital happens to be one of the most private facilities money can buy.

Her thoughts short-circuit; she should feel outraged by his tone and its implications, but the only words she can grasp are: "We'll pay you back, of course." We feels strange on her tongue, like her mouth wants to ward against overpromising. Will it still be a collective we or will it devolve into a singular I?

Theo's laugh soars out of him, clipping her against the soft convex of her cheek, like a slap. "The money is the least of your worries. I doubt you'd be able to pay me back if you tried. But I'm telling you this because I needed to see for myself if Pansy was correct."

"Correct?"

"I'm not going to sit here and convince you to save your husband." Theo leans back, arms still crossed, a picture of repose save for the way his fingers dig into the fabric near his elbows. "But you'll make your choice. You'll decide if your husband is worth saving, and then I'll know exactly the type of person you are."


The monitor continues to beep. The ventilator pumps. Her father's chest rises and falls. The rhythm inside this hospital room doesn't change. If Hermione lets it, it could go on indefinitely, until one day it stops, short circuits: entirely, but organically.

Or, she can sign some forms. She can hold her father's hand one last time. She can signal to the nurses and doctors and step away, watch the breath evaporate from his frame.

Four floors below, her husband lies in acute care. It's eight in the evening; the nurses must be taking his vitals. With each inhale, she can see the paleness of his skin, the cracks in his lips, the tremor beneath his closed eyelids.

"How long do you think it'll take before we know whether he's a match?" Hermione glances at Dr. Marron. His hands are clasped in front of him, eyes trained on the monitor adjacent to her father.

"I'm not sure, Hermione. It could take a little while."

"Draco doesn't have much time."

The doctor closes his eyes, adjust his glasses. "We'll definitely take that into consideration, but there are certain protocols–"

"I understand." But she doesn't. Not really. Nothing much makes sense to her anymore. The tissue inside her feels electrified, zinging with apprehension.

She doesn't want to ask this question, but her mouth becomes a traitor. "Will it hurt? When he's taken off life support?"

"We administer certain medications to prevent that type of pain," he says. "I can talk you through the process–"

"No," she says. "That's fine." She doesn't know how to say: It won't matter anyways. I've made up my mind already.

The soundtrack of medical equipment around them continues, ebbing and flowing. "Do you think I'm making a mistake?" She finally asks. Sweat drips down her neck even though her body feels cold, her bones tender. "Do you think he still wants to live?"

She closes her eyes. She doesn't want to see that look he gives her, the pitying, soft one, edges laced with compassion. She wants to bury all of this–this exact moment–deep into the bookshelves of her mind. Tear it from her hippocampus.

"Hermione," he says, and then he pauses, waiting for her to open her eyes. "When you father was handling his end-of-life affairs, I asked him if he would like to sign a DNR–"

She feels the sting of salt in her nostrils, the growing lump in her throat. You have to try, he had said. You have to try and let me go.

"–but he never signed one."

Can she kill her father? Really, does she have it in her? After everything, after all she'd done. Can she do more? What lengths would she go to?

"Hermione"–he reaches out, fingers almost touching her shoulder before he pulls back–"your father said he wanted to give you the chance to say goodbye."

There's a strange sound coming from somewhere in the room; high-pitched and nasally. Her eyes dart across the room, scavenging for what's happening. That awful, awful sound. It sounds like– she looks down; the collar of her shirt is wet and heavy against her skin. Oh. It's her. The sound is coming from her own throat.