Hermione wishes she had met Ginny for dinner. Ginny couldn't and Hermione was stuck by herself instead, overthinking this meeting. She's spent too long alone and in her own head, waiting and analysing things that haven't even happened yet.

Pansy's voice speaks in her head. 'Don't catastrophise.' It's sound advice that she strains to take.

But now they're all gathered here and Hermione's frozen in her chair. Stotch had walked in from St Mungo's with Madam Pomfrey, who was busy chattering away to Elena. Slughorn uses Hermione's labs on occasion to brew the potions and already knows his way around. He's never met Elena, however, and introductions commence. Hermione should probably be facilitating these and forces herself up.

She greets everyone and thanks them for coming, feeling a little like she's a professor addressing a small class. That's absurd, since of everybody here, she's the student. Well, the patient, anyway. Who should lead this? She looks at Elena, suddenly stuck.

Elena rises and withdraws the samples of the curse, setting them down. Stotch snatches one for inspection at once, and Pomfrey lifts another.

"How did you do it?"

Elena gestures for Hermione to come closer and demonstrates, showing the other two Healers how she siphoned some out. She then shows the advanced Dark magic diagnostic, one Stotch is familiar with as it came out of this lab originally. Poppy hadn't seen it yet, though, Hermione realises, and exclaims over the discovery.

Elena runs through what else she knows: the glamour, the odd slowing component of delayed onset she's not sure was intentional, and their rampant speculation about what Dolohov was trying to achieve.

She looks at Stotch. "I agree Hermione has ongoing damage happening from the curse. I disagree with how it'll conclude, however. I believe it will be more of a slow decline into increasing internal damage – eventual multiple organ failure."

Stotch nods thoughtfully and Hermione can't help asking, "How slow?"

Instead of answering, Elena turns to Slughorn. "Horace, I need you to break down these potions for me. The alchemy is beyond my expertise. What are you doing with them and how?"

Slughorn shifts in his seat, looking uncomfortable, and it puts Hermione on edge. The entirety of her experience with Slughorn has been that the man loves to brag. This should be a prime opportunity.

"Hermione, I must apologise to you about something."

Her stomach drops. Why does she always have to be right?

"I've been making the potions stronger for the past two or three years. I was concerned they'd grow less effective over time, and I've been strengthening them proactively. You've been stable, and with what Healer Vasile just detailed, I think it's solid evidence – not a conclusion, mind you, but evidence – that she's correct. The damage is ongoing, and your body is deteriorating. The fact that the stronger potions are keeping you stable means they're necessary."

Hermione tries to absorb this. "But I can also make the potions."

Slughorn winces a little. "But you haven't, in years. You haven't had to. Yes, you can brew components of them but I've still done the alchemy. I'm sorry I didn't tell you. I wasn't sure if I was correct, but the longer it goes, the more certain I feel."

So instead of reducing to every other day, perhaps, she's hearing they're more necessary than ever. She blinks back tears.

"Wait. You say I'm deteriorating? But routine diagnostics don't show anything unusual."

"That's not entirely true, Hermione," Elena steps in gently. "Even you've said there's something that appears off. It's more puzzling than concerning, something general Healers end up dismissing as nothing significant, but I believe that's part of the glamour at work."

Hermione breathes in deep, steadying herself. "We're still only treating the symptoms and consequences. Is there anything we can do to get rid of it altogether?"

Everyone looks around bleakly, face to face. No one speaks.

"Why can't I feel the deterioration?"

"You will," say Elena and Slughorn in unison.

"How long do I have?"

Elena looks at Slughorn. "How strong have you made them? How much more can you do?"

At least he does Hermione the courtesy of looking at her when he says, "I can give her another year. Maybe two, before they stop working entirely."

Hermione hardly hears the rest, their persistent promises that they'll keep trying, keep looking, keep studying. Will she permit them to explore other avenues? She nods blankly. Sure! Why not? As if they haven't been trying for fifteen years. There's nothing anyone can do to reverse the curse, and her only means of holding it at bay won't work much longer.

She knows what she needs to do. She's put it off too long.

Alone once again, she pulls the stack of folders from her desk and opens Draco's. It's still too short. Much too short. She just can't find a way to put her feelings about him into words.

A year. Maybe two. Half of her brain, the selfish half, says she could spend that year or two with him. That's not such a horrible waste of his time, is it? She knows he'd gladly do it. His unselfishness next to her own is staggering, and she bullies back her tears. She must think this through without sobbing uselessly in her lab – again. Every sodding time.

But making him sit by her side as she deteriorates, as her organs start shutting down and she's lingering on her deathbed? It's a cruelty she wouldn't put on him, not on purpose. In that way, the sudden death might have been better. Stunning and horrible, but not a torturous wasting away. She can spare him that, if nothing else.

She'll rip the bandage off. It's going to hurt them both but better now than even later. She shouldn't have let it get this far to begin with and that's a cross she'll have to bear. She thinks back to her conversation with Pansy: a Hufflepuff wouldn't have started things. A Slytherin would let it get this far, looking for short-term gratification. A Gryffindor would be brave enough to end it, to do the right thing.

She starts with Theo and Blaise, theirs being easier. She's never written them one and it requires a bit more preamble.

Thank you for being such good friends to him. He's going to need you now, more than ever. And thank you for bringing him to me in the first place – my own weakness allowed it to get this far, but I'm so grateful for the time I had with him. I hate to think I made things worse by being with him, but I can't fix it now.

I know he'll be furious with me, and hurt. I can only hope that years from now, he'll look back on it and think it was worth it, in the end. A short time better than none at all.

Thank you for being my friends through this. I wish we'd begun that sooner – all of it. I wish we'd had more time.

Pansy, I'm sorry to leave you with this mess. Look after him for me. You understand him, and he's going to need you.

Her first message to Draco, written weeks ago:

I want you to know I loved every second I spent with you. I wanted so many more. I'm so sorry to do this to you. You deserved so much better and I was so selfish.

On the next sheet:

I wanted to be with you and I stole every second I could get. That wasn't fair of me, because I've known all along that someday I'll leave you. I don't deserve your forgiveness and I'm not asking for it now. I just wanted to let you know that I've loved every minute we had together, so much that I couldn't bear the thought of not having another one.

I think I love you and I'm sorry.

She begins a fresh one to place on top of these two. She begins with the paragraph she'd scratched out before. It's… relevant now. She wishes it wasn't, but it is.

Draco, I want you to know I really tried to find a solution. I'd nearly given up before you came along, but you gave me the drive to keep trying. And Elena really seemed like she could have found a cure. I'll never regret trying again because at least I know now there's nothing else I could have done.

I'm so sorry to leave you like this, but it's better this way. There's nothing I can say to make you understand, but I didn't want you to have to watch me die. I couldn't ask that of you and I know you'd have done it.

You're better off. I know you'll disagree and you'll probably hate me for what I've done, but I know it's true – you're better off. Find someone who loves you and can give you more than a year or two of their life. You deserve a full lifetime of happiness with someone and I know you can find that person. I know it'll take time before you're ready for that, and I'm so sorry that I made it harder.

I love you.

That's still not nearly enough, but she won't be taking these with her. She has to be at peace with the conclusions she's written over the past weeks. Hermione packs what little is left in her lab, takes down the enchantments, and carefully tucks the folders into her bag.

Upon Flooing home, she does something similar. Casting an Extension Charm on her luggage, she packs what she can. A few photos, her clothes, toiletries, and after a moment of debate, her potions.

She briefly considers stopping those altogether: what's the point now? But she decides to bring the inventory along. She has a lot of it left and she'd like to travel a little more before the end.

She shrinks the luggage down to fit in her shoulder bag next to the folders and locates her Gringotts key. It's the last item from her flat she's planning to bring along. It's one of the most important things she owned that made her feel like she belonged here, in the wizarding world. Her wand was the first, but gaining a Gringotts key as an adult after the war was a close second.

She'll need it now.

Hermione's waiting for Draco in his flat when he gets home from work. She's relieved to see that he's alone, not joined by Theo or Blaise. His face lights up when he sees her and she wonders how she's ever going to get this out. Her misery is already threatening to overwhelm her.

"Hey! I know you said tonight, but -"

"Draco."

Her voice makes him stop and he grows wary.

"Draco, I can't do this anymore. I'm sorry."

"…What do you mean? Do what?" His face clearly shows he understands but doesn't want to. She knows he's hoping he's wrong. His eyes, so light blue, begin to show caution and tinges of grey.

Rip off the bandage. She just has to grit her teeth and do it, and she braces herself, grabbing the back of a chair with one hand for physical stability. "I can't see you anymore. I want to end things. I know it seems sudden, but -"

"Yes, it's sudden!" he shouts now, taking her by surprise. She jumps, glad she's holding onto the chair. "What the fuck? What happened, Hermione? We just got home from Amsterdam and everything was fine!"

"I – I know," she struggles, her heart beating too fast and her breath too shallow. "Well, no, it wasn't. I just can't keep doing this. I'm so sorry, but I can't."

How do breakups usually go? She can't think straight. Ron was nothing like this; they'd both mostly been relieved. This is coming out of nowhere, and it's her fault – all her fault. She's given him no indication of anything wrong, this whole time. Everything's been great; better than great. It's been fantastic, the most amazing time she's ever had, and –

The knowledge of what she had and what she's losing hits her like a Bludger to the face.

Draco's expression, the bereft horror on it, is going to give her nightmares. She deserves this, though, for what she's done to him. She knows it and tries to find the resolve to do what needs to be done.

"I should never have agreed to go out with you in the first place. I didn't want anything serious and I've let this go on far too long."

"Hermione, please talk to me. Please. Just tell me what's wrong. I can help, we can work through it, please -" his voice grows thick and she's fighting back tears. "Please don't go. Please."

"I have to. I'm sorry, Draco. I'm so sorry."

"Just tell me what it is. I don't understand. What happened? Please -" he chokes off, one hand over his mouth, the other in his hair. He looks desperate, almost deranged.

She can't stand it. Maybe she's a coward, after all. She throws the handful of Floo powder she's been holding tight in her fist and steps back into the fireplace.

"I'm sorry," she manages through her tears as she spins away.

She knows her home is the first place he'll check. He'll come after her, without a doubt, and so she exits the Floo at the Leaky Cauldron instead. Hurrying out, she wipes her eyes as she scuttles down to Gringotts.

"I need to visit my vault," she whispers miserably to a goblin, who takes her without comment. She cleans out the gold, not that there's a significant amount, but it'll fund her travels for a while until her potions run out. She's decided she won't keep them going after her inventory runs dry.

In place of the money, she leaves the stack of folders and watches the goblin lock it all back up again.

Hermione doesn't know the precise final Apparition point, which complicates things. But she can't do it in one jump anyway, and she steels herself for the first of many.

Her first jump takes her to the coast and she lands on the other side of the English Channel with her second, winded. At a random, nondescript tavern, she eats a basic meal that tastes like sawdust in her mouth, and stares blankly at the grey, lifeless water until she can make a third jump.

Ultimately, she decides to take her time instead. She's in France now and she has a long way to go. She wanted to travel, didn't she? But that feels ridiculous. She couldn't have Apparated a third time anyway, she realises. She doesn't think she's ever felt this emotionally drained. All she feels like doing is crying herself to sleep for a week.

So that's what she does.

Days pass before she finally emerges from the little French inn, an adorable bed and breakfast she can't appreciate in the slightest. But it had provided food (handy, even though she hasn't felt like eating a thing and had to force herself to manage at least one time per day) and a bed (outright crucial, comfort superfluous).

Hermione had tried to convince herself that doing a short little tour of mainland Europe would be a good thing. Something to distract her at first, but maybe something she'd finally come to enjoy. She'd tentatively planned to hop from France to Germany to Poland, and gradually make her way north.

She throws the whole plan out the window. It had seemed a reasonable idea in theory, but in practise, she can't muster the energy.

Draco's devastated face haunts her, the pain in his words an endless refrain.

In the end, she locates a wizarding hotel and Floos into a corresponding property in Helsinki.

From here, she needs only ask for her final destination, but once again, she can't get motivated. The nausea provided by the extended Floo seals it. She checks into the hotel and spends another night wishing she could stop the loop in her mind, that catastrophic final exchange.

She can't. She stuffs her head underneath the pillow and hopes to suffocate in her sleep, but she can't quite manage that either.

In the morning, she asks the hotel proprietor where the Scandinavian Quidditch team practises and gets her final location, at long last. It should probably feel like a relief, like maybe she can finally rest there, but she feels almost nothing at all. She's almost entirely numb.

Things seem to keep happening in short scenes, little bursts of activity between her preferred periods of unconsciousness.

Hermione recognises this as almost textbook depression, the sadness and apathy all a big jumble. She begins to second-guess her plan to come here at all, but at this point, she's too tired to come up with anything else.

She took care of Harry for years. Harry can take care of her for a while.

"She ended it," whispers Blaise to Theo when he gets home, still shocked into a lack of his typical dry humour. Draco's prone on the sofa, eyes shut, wishing none of it was real. He still can't figure it. What happened? Why?

Theo swears under his breath – typical in every way, except the lowered volume, and Draco still can't find solace in what's predictable. He hears the Floo fire back up but doesn't bother looking, even when Theo comes back in and says, "Her lab is empty."

"She's gone," Draco croaks miserably, eyes still closed. Why doesn't he live alone? He'd rather be alone. What asinine impulse made him move in with two other wizards? He could easily have afforded to be on his own. Luxuries, luxuries. He shoves his face back into the cushion.

"Well, right," says Theo, sounding uncomfortable, but Draco refuses to visually confirm it. "But it looks as though she's – gone."

"Has anyone checked her house?" Blaise asks the room at large and Draco finally cracks one eye. What do they think he's been doing? Laying here in his own general loathing and anguish the entire time, or just most of it?

"Yes. Of course, I did. It's empty, too. Furniture there, dishes there, but her room's been cleaned out."

"Go get Parks," says Theo to Blaise and Draco smothers a groan. He pushes himself off the sofa, something that requires a comparable level of strength to lifting a full set of Quidditch hoops by himself. And he has an audience; gods.

"I don't care what you do but leave me out of it." He retreats to his room and considers silencing it, but his wand is still in the living room. He finds he can't be bothered and collapses face down on the bed.

How did it go so wrong? He pushed her too far, too fast. He called her his girlfriend, he labelled it when she said she didn't want it serious. He'd thought the sheer fact that she was with him, even knowing how he felt, meant she could see herself someday feeling the same. He'd taken it for granted.

He'd said 'I love you' too soon. Bloody Septimus talking constantly about how Draco needed to make her a Malfoy wife when they'd barely been together two months - as if Draco was going to object! As if he'd have ever objected, but it had been too much too soon. His mental ancestor shoving them towards a finish line she'd never said she wanted to exist, much less wanted to cross.

That could have done it, now that he thinks on it. They were fine in Amsterdam. Only after they got back did she ask for the night to herself, and Monday, too. Something took root in her head and she bolted.

He hears his roommates greet Pansy and he stuffs his head beneath the pillow, wishing he was invisible. If he only had his wand, he'd cast a disillusionment so strong they'd think he'd vanished into thin air, too.

"Draco?"

He grunts and doesn't move, trying not to overhear the conversation drifting in from the living room. Eventually they move past the basics ('She left?' 'She left.') and into guesswork.

"You two were prying in her lab. Did you find anything odd?"

"No. Clean as a whistle. I'd asked around other departments, though, and no one would say anything."

"Well, it was all confidential."

"And now she's just abandoned it? Everything? All her work? Why?"

"She said she'd hit a wall with work. Maybe it's that?"

"Draco says her house is empty, too."

"She hadn't said anything weird to you, Parks? The two of you were closer."

"…Nothing." Pansy hesitates. "She'd said something to me and Draco, at different times, about being worried she couldn't have children. I wonder if -"

Could that really be it? Maybe Vasile gave her bad news and she panicked, preferring to break it off than have Draco tell her he'd need an heir eventually after all. Whoops, sorry darling, forgot to mention it sooner. No, all those times I insisted I didn't care were just lies to make you complacent.

He groans again miserably, pressing the pillow into his face as if it could put him out of his suffering.

"But… even if she couldn't, why leave everything else behind too? She could break up with him without disappearing. Seems extreme."

"Parks, let's go rattle some cages around the Ministry. Somebody has to know something. Zabini, stay here and look after him, will you?"

"I don't need a babysitter," Draco snaps out from his bed, hearing the childish words and tone perfectly clear and not caring in the slightest. A hush falls over the living room. Their voices lower enough that he can't hear, which irritates him all over again, until there's a blissful silence.

Distantly, Draco hears Blaise say, "This really isn't the best time -"

"Move out of my way." Draco sits up as his father's voice rings clear. "I'll see my son when I choose."

He can't process this. What the fuck is his father doing here? They haven't spoken in almost four years. Why would he be here? Why would he be here now?

Lucius appears in his doorway with barely-concealed disdain. Draco isn't sure if it's from the flat, Draco's undoubtedly poor appearance, or that he feels he has to be here at all. The debate hardly registers in Draco's mind; in his opinion, the more uncomfortable his father is, the better. Shame he couldn't have gotten scruffier in the past fourteen seconds.

Blaise is right on his heels. "Mr Malfoy, not now -"

Lucius ignores him entirely, staring at Draco. He does not react to Draco seemingly in bed at this hour of afternoon and Draco isn't even sure it registered. Perhaps escalating his current level of 'scruffy' wouldn't have mattered.

"You idiot boy, end this at once. I don't know what you're playing at with that girl, or why I had to hear about it from my own bloody grandfather, but it's absurd. End it."

Draco's too muddled for this. Septimus told him how amazing Hermione was? He'd said he would. Draco had brushed this off. He'd agreed with the sentiment and doesn't remotely care if Lucius knows. But it's moot now anyway. The realisation of that overcomes him all over again, and he hangs his head in his hands.

"She's dying, Draco. It's a waste of time. End it."

That cuts through, even though it's absurd. "What?"

"I have deep contacts at the Ministry, even now. There have been rumours for years in certain circles. Odd research going on. What I heard today confirms it. People have been asking around more insistently, and word is travelling. Someone approached Unspeakables in the Department of Mysteries."

Knowing that could easily have been either of his roommates, Draco looks at Blaise. He shrugs, embarrassed, his dark brow crinkling.

"Sorry. I kept asking around but I hadn't heard anything back. I did see something strange today, though." He gives Lucius an odd look, who returns it. "Elena Vasile was at St Mungo's. She and Poppy Pomfrey were walking towards where Hermione's lab corridor connects, along with a third Healer I recognise from another floor. Stitch, I think his name is. Maybe Stock."

Vasile… and Pomfrey? From Hogwarts? Draco still can't bring himself to believe his father is telling the truth. Hermione's dying? Ridiculous. It makes no sense. She's the most vividly alive person he's ever met.

"What have you heard?" Draco's voice comes out a croak, aimed at his father for the first time in years.

"Dolohov hit her with a curse -"

That alone makes Draco's head spin. She'd mentioned that to him already, so he knows that part is true. So maybe it was about that after all. His father doesn't provide more detail, which isn't surprising. That battle and its subsequent failure wasn't his finest moment.

Lucius skips to the punchline. "She can't get rid of it. It's killing her and she doesn't have long."

Everything slams home for Draco at once. So many things make sense, except the thing that hurts the worst: why didn't she trust him enough to tell him? Why didn't she say anything? She'd deflected with the fertility angle. All her research, her stalled progress. Nothing left to try.

('Silly swot is stumped, can't figure it out. It's gotten under her skin')

It did a lot more than that. How many years has she been working on it, all by herself? Then he'd introduced her to Vasile, without even understanding the magnitude of it. Those meetings had been productive after all, it seems, but in the wrong direction.

All those times she'd cried, awake or in her sleep. All the times she seemed on the verge of tears.

('It makes me feel alive')

The thrill-seeking. Ending a decade-long relationship with Weasley because she didn't want to have children with him. But she hadn't mentioned that part to Vasile, because why should she bother? There was a much, much larger problem at hand.

She's dying?

Draco wants to be sick.

"She's a waste of your time, Draco. Even if she wasn't actively dying, you know she's not a suitable wife for you. This should make it easier, if anything. And take this."

He picks up a large elaborate fabric sack that had been leaning against the doorframe, holding something rectangular, and shoves it at Draco. It's absurdly floral and reminds Draco of the drapes in the eastern study of the Manor. Maybe Lucius multi-purposed them.

"I won't listen to this depraved lunatic rave about her any longer. It's been nonstop. Take him."

Draco can't move and Blaise relieves Lucius of the sack, looking similarly stunned.

Lucius turns to go and Draco's brain whirls into action. "Wait! What do you mean, 'she doesn't have long'? How long?"

The exasperation is plain on his father's face. "Does it matter? Move on."

In the background, Draco hears Septimus's confused expletives as Blaise pulls him free of the sack. "Where am I? Who are you?"

"I'm Blaise, sir. I'm a Zabini, if that rings any bells. You're in mine and Draco's flat."

"Marvellous!" Septimus booms, recovering admirably. "That good-for-nothing grandson of mine did something right. I'd much rather be here with young Master Malfoy and his lovely betrothed-to-be!"

"…well, sir, actually -"

Draco turns back to Lucius, who looks aggrieved, his eyes rolling and jaw slack. "Find a way to let him down, won't you? He's maddeningly insistent."

"Oh, just go," Draco snaps. "I'll figure it out on my own."

Lucius throws his hands up in irritation. "Don't 'figure out' anything. Just end it. She's dying. Let it go and find another witch. According to people at the Ministry, you've barely been seeing her for two months. Move on."

"- she doesn't live here? It would have been uncouth in my day, to put it mildly, but I'm very much in favour of exploring the waters before making berth in only one port, and -"

"No, sir, in fact -"

"- didn't ask her soon enough, did he? Pity, but I told him to get a move on. A girl like that, someone's going to ask her, and -"

His father snaps, shouting in the direction of the portrait, "I told you, old man, he's not marrying that girl! The only thing you're right about is that it's past time he married someone, stop wasting his time and settle down with a family! Living here with two other wizards like they're still away at school; ridiculous. Dating mu -Muggle-born witches that are beneath him, even if they manage to live -"

Draco's heard enough. Blaise is aghast, goggling at Lucius, and he can see Septimus raring up for a rebuttal.

"Enough!" he bellows proactively, hoping he lands it in time. "Father, get the hell out of my flat. I'll take your advice and propose to a dead pureblood next week. Would that do?"

Lucius stops in his tracks, studying him. Draco thinks this might bode ill and tries to regroup before his father speaks. "I'll go. But I'll make you an offer. I'll fund additional research and testing for her – if you leave her."

Draco considers, and the two men size one another up in cold silence. That Lucius even thinks this is a possibility shows part of his hand. He knows about the curse, yes, but he also must know Hermione's lab has been idle. He suspects the issue is funding, not that Hermione must have reached a conclusion that there was nothing else to be done.

Another factor is Lucius offering at all. He must suspect it wouldn't be that easy to convince Draco to give her up. Whatever he's heard has likely been more serious than irritating rumours around the Ministry. He came prepared to negotiate for it.

"Done," Draco says, hoping he didn't respond too quickly. If Hermione is determined to leave him – and Draco is still going to fight that as hard as he can – at least the research can continue for the time being, fully funded again. He can't see any harm in letting Lucius think he's won a round. But there's a problem: Hermione's reached a dead end. The research needs new inspiration for there to be anything to fund at all.

"Done," he repeats. "if you also throw your weight behind it at the Ministry. Involve other departments. Give the Department of Mysteries something to do. I'd – I'd rather she lived, even if it's without me."

This is entirely true, even though he's still hoping to have both. And if Lucius realises he's been had and pulls the money, Draco will continue it on his own. Until then, he's considering it an arsehole tax. Let Lucius foot the bill.

He notices a distinct lack of input from Septimus and finds that Blaise must have taken him in the other room.

His father gives a curt nod, both men thinking they've come out better in the negotiations and aim back for the living room.

"Small sort of Manor, isn't it?" Septimus is busy saying, assessing his new surroundings and Lucius is forced to step back as Theo steps out of the Floo.

"Not you, too," Lucius snaps, and Theo lifts an eyebrow, still dusting off his suit. Draco knows Theo doesn't give a toss about his father's opinion of his attire, and said dusting off is merely to clean his custom-cut trousers before it invites snide comments from Blaise.

"I do live here. I should be more surprised at you being here."

"Three of you in one small Manor? All wizards?" Septimus crows, blonde eyebrows lost in his hairline. "Now that would have been a scandal in my day, but maybe things have changed. It really will be crowded once we move in young Master Malfoy's beautiful Shakespearean queen, won't it?"

"He's not marrying her!" Draco's annoyed father shouts, rounding on his ancestor. "If nothing else, they've been together for weeks."

"Two months," Draco comments blandly to the room at large, trying to ignore the stab that two months might be all he got.

"You unimaginative lump, time is nothing but a construct," Septimus dismisses Lucius, who can't decide whether he cares for the treatment – at least whether to argue the point. "Spend four or five times your lifespan wandering around a portrait and see if you disagree."

Lucius finally leaves, still muttering under his breath in disgust, and Draco breathes a sigh of relief. Now, for the more pressing issue: Hermione. It's time to pay a visit to Elena Vasile.

"Draco, you know I can't tell you anything!" Vasile cries, exasperated. They've been round and round this since Draco stepped out of her Floo, both tempers short. Salvatore hisses and Draco considers hissing back.

"What did you say to her?"

"I can't tell you."

"Well, no one knows where she's gone. She's gone off to die somewhere alone. Does that break through any of your Healer vows?"

Vasile does look disturbed at this and Draco tries to batten down a fierce vindication. "She's giving up?"

Draco's stunned. "Should she not be?" Wild hope blooms in his chest. Maybe it's all a misunderstanding, maybe –

"I – well, we aren't giving up," Vasile clarifies. "We're going to continue to look. She gave us permission to try some less orthodox routes, speak to other people about it."

"But not me?" He's stung by this, the pain of her secret a horrible salt in his open wound.

"Draco, you didn't come up," she says shortly. "We were discussing treatment possibilities among other professionals: Healers, potions masters. Not her boyfriend."

"Well, let's say I'm an alternative, unorthodox option, then." He crosses his arms and stares at her. "I have resources, Vasile. My father and I both do. I happen to know my father is about to put pressure on the Department of Mysteries about this already, and fund whatever comes next."

Vasile looks impressed despite herself. "I never saw your father as the type of person who would help with something like this."

"He has conditions," Draco grumbles, "but I'll burn that bridge when we get to it."

She cracks a smile and scrutinises him again. Draco thinks he senses an opening – or at the very least, a softening.

"Let me help. It can't possibly hurt, and she's abandoned everything and everyone. If she stays where she is, she'll never know we spoke, anyway. So, please tell me. How long does she have if things stay as they are?"

"A year. Maybe two. The potions she takes for it aren't strong enough any longer. She's going to start deteriorating soon."

His heart stops. It's real, then. "Define 'soon'."

Vasile shrugs hopelessly. "It depends on when the potions stop being effective. She already takes them every day."

('vitamins')

"What was it? What did Dolohov do? Can you tell me?"

"In for a sickle, in for a galleon," she mutters, her gaze fixed on her cat. "It was experimental. She doesn't think Dolohov came up with it; she feels it's more likely that another Death Eater, someone much more skilled and innovative, invented it. Dolohov likely miscast it and the combination was devastating."

That sparks something deep in Draco's memory. Rookwood. Augustus Rookwood had worked in the Department of Mysteries. It could easily have been something he was experimenting with. There could be documents left, files or records.

"Do you know where she's gone? Where would she go?"

Vasile looks sad. "I asked her once, about who else knew. She told me no one except her original Healer Stotch, Poppy Pomfrey and Horace Slughorn to a point, and your Minister Shacklebolt."

That one throws Draco, but he supposes she did need authorisation for the lab. He wonders now if she was ever doing anything for the Ministry in it at all, or if it was all research to find a cure. Had Shacklebolt called it 'classified' for her privacy alone?

"That made me feel awful for her, that she had no one to talk to. Or felt that she had no one – it amounts to the same thing."

Doesn't it, though? Draco thinks bitterly. Why didn't she tell him? Why?

"I told her she could come talk to me if she ever needed to. I wish she had. I have no idea where she'd go now."

"You there!" Septimus calls as Draco straightens up out of the fireplace. Draco closes his eyes. He can't decide if he's dismayed by his ancestor's new home above the mantle. Prime position, that. Front row seat to everything. But where else? In Draco's bedroom? He shudders.

"Yes, Septimus?"

"How did you bollocks it up?"

Theo or Blaise must have filled him in at last. That's the question, isn't it? Draco can't stop wondering what he could have done differently to make Hermione trust him enough to confide in him.

"I don't know. But I'm going to fix it. I just have to find her, first."