Disclaimer: This is all for fun, I do not claim ownership of the characters or anything recognized from the work of JK Rowling. I am only borrowing them.
Warning: Mature themes, subject to change: mild violence, strong language, substance use or abuse, scenes of a sexual nature as well as general innuendo smattered throughout, adult themes including but not limited to death and disease both mental and physical.
betalove: doctorhodes
[A/N] September 7th, 2016 - Hello! As always, not abandoned just slowly updated. School is back in session and I want to finish my drabble challenge so I cannot promise when the next update will be, but I can assure you that your questions help to add the little details to these scenes. I feel as though this only has at the max ten chapters to go. Thank you to everyone adding this to their watch list and leaving reviews, they make me smile while my days are grey.
Playlist: I Dreamed a Dream - Chase Holfeder | Move Along (Piano) - Richard Kittelstad, cover of All-American Rejects | Come Into My Head - Kimbra
Monday, August 15th, 2005 | 1:45 pm | Office of Dudley Dursley, Orphus & Gamble Industries, London
"It's not that I don't trust you, but I want to make sure she's safe."
Dudley rubbed his eyes, pinched the bridge of his nose, and restrained himself before saying something he would regret. He chewed on the words in his mouth for several moments before replying, softly, "I don't know where she is, Harry. She works in the field a lot so we don't always cross paths."
There was a sigh on the other end of the phone connection, static cutting them off briefly since Harry was not far from the Ministry for Magic and its severe magical interference. "You wouldn't tell me if you did know, would you?"
Dudley bristled, the flush of his neck floating somewhere between red and his father's personal brand of maroon. "Last I was informed, I'm a Muggle and don't understand this stuff anyway."
The night he and Clare visited Grimmauld Place, keeping up appearances as much as possible for Harry's birthday, Ron was bristling for a fight. Ron had taken the longest to forgive Dudley, the same way he took the longest to be civil to Draco, and was afraid. He lashed out towards Dudley as soon as he'd entered Harry's home, his screams of frustration over her disappearance after the warding ceremony, and fear for Hermione's safety, carried up to the top floor of the house where James was sleeping. It didn't help, or count, that the two hadn't known anything about what happened at Hogwarts until after Hermione appeared at their doorstep the following day. A resounding slap by Clare, more heated words, then Dudley and Clare went home without another word exchanged between Harry and Dudley for two weeks. Not even when Albus was born, except a small note through the Floo from Hermione had informed them of his birth.
"Ron was out of line," Harry replied immediately, breaking Dudley from the haze of memory, the gravel in his voice making it apparent to Dudley he was upset and holding his hand over the speaker to block anyone from hearing him.
"Damn right," Dudley muttered, moving the large plastic phone receiver to his other shoulder, mashing it up to his ear for support. "If I hear anything that concerns you, I'll call you, yeah?"
He counted to five before Harry's voice responded. He wasn't holding his hand over the speaker anymore; Dudley could hear a taxi horn on the other end. "Make sure Malfoy keeps her safe. People at work are pulling up the old copies of the Prophet, from when this whole Lautiores Maleficus shit started a few years ago, and there will be mass hysteria if they don't make some statement. Soon. The public will go nuts, because she's not a Death Eater, but got infected anyway."
"So glad you're thinking of Hermione's safety first, Harry," Dudley growled, putting as genuine a smile as he could on his face as he waved to an executive walking by his office.
"This was a bad idea. I've got to go, give my love to Clare."
Harry didn't give Dudley a chance to reply before the line went dead.
Monday, August 15th, 2005 | 2:13 pm | The Lodge, Loch Lomond
Hermione lifted one of her feet out of the bathwater, wiggling her toes a bit. The scalding hot water had cooled to near tepid, and she wasn't sure if she wanted to cast another warming charm on it, or get out and find other means of pain relief. Her hair sat unwashed atop her head, and her arms were not up to the task of combing it out before or after a conditioning treatment.
She pressed her palms onto the smooth lip of the tub and scooted as far back as she could, so instead of lifting herself out and sloshing water all over the floor and risking a fall, she slid up and out of the curved lip. Sitting on the edge of the gigantic bath on the ridged, flat edge where soaps and shampoos typically rested, Hermione brought one foot out, then the other, working to be as quiet as possible.
With her robe barely cinched at her waist, the door to the bathroom opened just an inch, and Astoria's voice carried through the crack to ask if Hermione was dressed.
"Come in, Astoria," Hermione said, her voice soft and echoing in the tiled room as she finished tying the robe around her.
Little natural light shone into this room, and the false magical lighting colored Astoria's normally flaxen hair a color closer to bronze. Gesturing to the dials on the wall nearest her, Astoria asked, "Mind if I turn up the lights a bit?"
Hermione shrugged, slipping her feet into her ratty flip-flops near the bathtub.
"Want me to do your hair?" Astoria asked, pulling the chair out from the vanity on the other side of the room. The alcove held a stone table hewn from the bedrock, where the entire room was hidden. Hermione shuffled over and sat gingerly onto the chair.
Astoria set to work at once, extracting two palms full of elixir from a large black jar nearby. One of the most lucrative products of the overseas Malfoy Industries, the dark green mixture shared both the texture and consistency of lotion and was a more forgiving version of the Sleakeazy's potion. Instead of taming her hair, it only cleaned and moisturized, so she could retain her volume and natural curls rather than adopt a slick look. With Astoria's fingers gently massaging it over her scalp behind her, Hermione closed her eyes and tried to let the sensation push the looming migraine further into the distance.
Music wafted down through the open door from the parlor above. Draco plucked at the piano keys fitfully, playing a stumbling mixture of Mozart and Bach, as if he couldn't make up his mind which he wanted to play.
"He's a disaster," Astoria said bluntly, pausing her task to charm away the stray hairs that were stuck to her lotion-slick fingers. "I don't think he slept last night. I've half a mind to drag him down to the lake after dinner."
"Drag him under," Hermione said. "Bubblehead charms. The merpeople have a celebration to bring in the harvest season and it might start tonight."
Astoria laughed, then bit her lip as she took one more dollop of elixir for the ends of Hermione's hair. "I don't think he wants to go anywhere near merpeople, Hermione. He'll probably just swim laps until he's dead on his feet, which is exactly what he needs."
"How are you two ever going to have children when he's still a child himself?" Hermione teased, reaching behind her to playfully poke at Astoria's thigh, exposed beneath a pair of burgundy shorts.
This time Astoria wasn't able to keep from laughing by just biting her lip, and decided to neither agree nor disagree. The piano playing paused as her laughter crested up the stairs, but continued again after a beat, this time much brighter, unmistakably a popular Muggle song.
"For the love of Merlin, he needs to stop playing that fucking song," Astoria grumbled. Unable to help herself, she began to hum along as she finished massaging the rest of the product into Hermione's hair. "There is more to play than Move Along."
Charming the remaining film from her hands, Astoria sprinted up the stone stairs just outside the door to the cellar washroom, screaming in frustration as she made it to the parlor landing. Hermione smiled at the ceiling as she heard the sounds of Astoria tackling her fiancé onto the carpeted floor. Draco laughed and continued to scream the song, extremely off-key, until he was likely overcome by Astoria's legendary tickling skills.
Hermione stood carfully, feeling immensely better after the soak and Astoria's attention. The lightheadedness that accompanied the beginning of some of her migraines forced her to slowly move from the bath, flicking her wand sharply to dry the room before shutting the door, and make her way to the stairs. She could hear Draco and Astoria's giggles dying down and the low hum of conversation grew clearer the further up she went. Draco was pinned beneath Astoria, her hands on his shoulders and his hands grasping her biceps, and both looked at her as she appeared. The door behind her shut and disappeared back into the woodwork beneath the stairs that led to the floor with the kitchen and bedrooms.
"Feeling better?" Draco asked, his voice breathless from mirth but a bit tainted by concern.
"Much, thanks," Hermione said. "I might be able to sleep now, actually. Has anyone reached out about Albus? Ginny or Harry?"
"I sent a Patronus while you were in the bath," Draco replied. He gently pushed on Astoria so the two could stand. "Ginny could be sleeping, but if we don't hear before another hour's up, I'll send a message to Dudley. Get some rest, Hermione."
Nodding listlessly, Hermione continued walking up the stairs towards the kitchen for a cup of tea before sleeping for as long as her body would allow her to without the aid of potions. She could hear the couple speaking in low voices downstairs and their steps as they moved to the couch before she reached the first floor landing and all soft sounds from the downstairs parlor were blocked.
She puttered in the kitchen, taking her time making tea the muggle way. There was no way in three salt circles any amount of caffeine would disrupt the drooping of her eyelids, so she choose by taste rather than strength. The sliding door to the porch opened and closed while she pointed her wand at one of the tea bins on a high shelf.
"You shouldn't use magic yet," Snape said as he strode up next to her. Before the incantation could leave her mouth he'd reached up to pull the desired tea down for her. "You still look weak."
"Do you compliment everyone this well?" she returned irritably, turning away to finish her task. She missed the flare of his nostrils when her hair moved and released a wave of scent from the elixir.
"What good is a compliment if it isn't true?"
Hermione was too tired to snipe back at him, and poured herself a mug of tea before marching away to let Snape pour his own if he wanted it. As she curled up onto the end of one of the couches, the one facing the windows to the loch beyond, she heard the gurgling pour of another mug. Her feet tucked under her legs to keep her toes warm, and the fluffy robe up to her ears, she was certain she looked like an overgrown couch pillow. Heavy footsteps moved towards her before Snape settled himself on the couch opposite, framing himself with the tableau of the misty loch and rolling hills outside, effectively blocking her view.
"What do you want?" Hermione asked, trying to look past the dark eyes regarding her with inscrutable emotion.
"You've read my notes," Snape began, holding up a hand automatically to forestall her insistence that she hadn't. "You've read both Draco's and my notes from the last administration. We have limited time, Granger."
"You mean that I have limited time."
If she were more accustomed to his subtle facial expressions, she might have thought he'd winced at her comment.
Not one for mollycoddling, Snape continued in a low monotone. "Precisely. Your cells' degeneration is only accelerating, rather than slowing down as it should. Your diabetes is managed but would not be present if your core were strong enough to assist your pancreas, and your recovery after administration is-"
"Please stop talking," Hermione snapped, her breathing shallow and rapid as she stared down the man reading a laundry list of her symptoms as if he'd memorized her medical charts. He likely had, the bastard. "You're not providing solutions, you're only stating the problem."
"Problems you don't act like you give half a damn about."
"Don't fucking lecture me on addressing my problems, Snape."
"You're acting like a child-"
"A child? Who is the one throwing a goddamned temper tantrum?"
"At least act like you care that you're dying!"
A cloud of silence smothered them until there was no air left in the room. At some point during the hushed exchange turned argument, Snape stood with his hands balled into fists at his sides. Part of Hermione's brain was acutely aware of the silence in the room below as Draco and Astoria waited like rabbits hiding in the bushes to see whether they should stay or run.
Shaky legs below her, covered to the knees by the dark bathrobe, Hermione stood and set down her half empty mug of tea more carefully than she thought she could. Her lips did not quiver, her face did not blanch. She stood tall with static running through her hair to lift it from her shoulders in an electric cloud.
"Yes, Snape. I am dying. Quite rapidly, actually. I thought I would die when I was sixteen in the Department of Mysteries, but I lived through efforts I assume you assisted, after Dolohov opened this darling purple cut across my chest. I was certain I would die fighting Death Eaters storming the castle at seventeen the night Dumbledore passed. Don't wince at that, it's unbecoming." Hermione set her jaw and gave Snape a chance to retort, and when he didn't, she continued. "At eighteen I was barely living on wild mushrooms in forests with Harry and Ron searching for pieces of a madman's soul, fighting frostbite on top of everything else. Bellatrix nearly killed me in the Malfoy's parlor that year, only weeks before I robbed Gringotts and fought at Hogwarts. I'm accustomed to the idea of death, especially my own."
By the end of the speech she hadn't known she was holding inside of her, Hermione's hands shook within the pockets of her robe and her eyes burned red from suppressing tears. Snape held her gaze with that inscrutable expression plastered back over his features.
"Dwelling on the fact I am dying will not solve the fact that I am," she continued, much more softly now, as she picked up the remnants of her tea to return the mug back to the kitchen. "It's something I hope you'll respect in the future."
Hermione dragged herself back to her bedroom, leaning on the wall when she was certain no one would observe her doing so. The arguing, the treatment; she was barely able to keep her eyes open before burrowing under her covers. She was so tired, she didn't realize her door was still open as her eyes slipped closed. Arithmantic equations formed a barrier of tangled Occlumency around her brain as she pushed the desire to cry well below the surface.