The department of Law and Wizarding Policy was unmitigated bedlam. Staff were in a hysterical cluster near the bathroom door and Ron had to physically shove a path through them.

"Bombarda!" Harry shouted, pointing his wand at the door once it was finally cleared. It splintered into hundreds of pieces, littering the hallway and its various occupants with debris and dust. He, Ron, and Goldstein ran into the bathroom, wands raised preemptively.

Dolohov was writhing against the floor, only half visible, and Hermione was absolutely motionless about ten feet away.

Hermione looked -

Don't say it, don't even think it, Harry told himself.

Ron froze at the same time Harry lunged forward. As soon as Harry's hand connected with Hermione's face, the air in the room - stopped. For a brief moment, they all felt the walls pulling in towards them. Then, with significantly more force, the stone bricks pushed back out, cracking and bursting violently into the hallway, taking Harry, Ron, and Goldstein with it. Thankfully, none of them seemed grievously hurt, although Ron was sporting an enormous gash on his forehead and Harry was quite sure that his collar bone was broken from landing awkwardly.

Goldstein was on his feet quickly. Dennis Creevey had luckily already managed to get the majority of the onlookers to evacuate the hallway, but there was nevertheless a handful of unconscious or semi-conscious witches and wizards who had been stunned by the sudden discharge of unrestrained magic.

"Harry," Goldstein choked out, staggering forward with a limp, "send a Patronus to St. Mungo's. We need to warn them to get all hands on deck." He glanced back towards Hermione and Dolohov, who were oddly undisturbed and unmoved by the explosion. "Then arm yourself with protective charms. Granger's been cursed."

Draco was irritable the whole day, and Willem seemed to relish pointing it out to him as often as possible, making mocking pouting faces at him whenever he caught his eye. At least he'd had the decency to be serious when he told him his plan for Granger.

"Of course," he'd replied solemnly after Draco had explained the morning's events to him. "You know I'm happy to work with both of you. We will have her fixed up."

Draco wasn't so sure about that. Granger had looked like shit, and nightmares usually weren't a good sign when someone was suffering from a curse. He felt like he was fencing with her, every action a parry to maintain the appropriate balance between coaxing her into treatment without frightening her and managing his own bloody temper when she opened her mouth. He thought that he had done a reasonable job this morning, all things considered.

The image of her mangled skin flashed in his memory and he grimaced. The scratches had been deep, frenetic, and they certainly looked intentional. It was a judgement call not to haul her away right then and hand her over to the Mind Healers, and it was one he wasn't entirely confident in. But, he reasoned, this would be much easier for everyone involved if she was cooperative. Not to mention - selfishly - that he didn't think it would be helpful for his reputation to be dragging Granger to the psychiatric ward kicking and screaming, claiming that the brightest witch of her age was incapable of making her own decisions.

Draco scowled. Harry Potter, the boy who lived. Hermione Granger, the brightest witch of her age.

Draco Malfoy, the one who had to bite his tongue so many times that it finally just fell off.

He was angry. He had been trying - really, honestly, trying - and she still managed to throw it back on him, like he'd committed a terrible transgression by leaving his goddamned clinic to make sure she was alright. He remembered the reproachful look on her face, her eyes skating over the Mudblood scar, and her words, "healing someone like me."

So, he wasn't in good spirits when his secretary had called him to the back in the middle of a consult. "What, Isabella?"

"It's St. Mungo's," she whispered urgently. "There was some sort of explosion at the Ministry and they said there are two quarantine patients."

Draco grabbed at his hair and growled. "Can't Friedmann handle it until I've finished here?"

"Well, I'd imagine he's busy," Isabella replied hotly. "Several Aurors and Ministry staff were injured too."

"Fine," he bit out, even though somewhere in his currently-inaccessible frontal lobe, he knew that it wasn't fair to make her bear the brunt of his ire. Luckily, Isabella seemed to compartmentalise it well enough, because she'd managed to stick around as his secretary for several years, and he also knew he ought to be grateful for her. She somehow permitted his occasional outbursts while keeping him organised and preventing him from taking on a truly untenable number of patients, which he had an unfortunate tendency to do.

"I'll reschedule your patients," she replied evenly, handing him a sachet of floo powder. "I've asked them to make sure there are sandwiches in the Healer's lounge. I can tell you haven't eaten today."

Draco snatched the floo powder and stalked off, muttering an annoyed "thanks."

—

The emergency ward was packed with witches and wizards. There were patients, medi-witches, Healers, Aurors, and it seemed that the latter two groups were intent on establishing themselves as the ones in charge. Draco openly rolled his eyes and grabbed a passing medi-witch.

"Where are the quarantine patients?"

She indicated to the back corner of the ward, which was curtained off. Draco strode forward, pulling on his Healer's robe and draping his stethoscope over his shoulders. Draco stopped dead when he heard Diggory's voice: "we should prioritise moving Granger, but we need to stabilise her first."

Draco tore the curtain open.

"Healer Malfoy," Diggory called sternly, looking disapprovingly at Draco's outstretched hand that was reaching for Hermione. That's it, Draco thought furiously. He was going to throttle Diggory, in the middle of St. Mungo's, with half of London's wizarding population watching. Draco turned, his face a portrait of frightened anger, when he saw an infinitesimal softening in Diggory's eyes.

"Don't forget your protective charms," Diggory continued evenly, watching Draco carefully. Draco tore his eyes away from the gurney and nodded shakily in return, quickly muttering the necessary incantations. He squeezed his eyes shut.

Tubes everywhere. Oxygen being pumped by magic into a mask over her face. Granger's eyes, barely open.

"What happened?" Draco asked quickly, turning back and forcing his emotions aside. In the span of a few seconds, he had run through several scenarios: she collapsed at the Ministry, she'd had a reaction to the ointment he'd applied -

"Ask him," Diggory replied, pointing with his head towards the other gurney, where a purplish-black body was tensed against the restraints buckled over him.

"Is that - " Draco faltered. "Antonin Dolohov?"

Diggory raised his eyebrows in silent agreement and looked back towards Hermione. "She's still severely bradycardic. I think we should get her onto Ward Four as soon as possible. There's too many people down here. Her magic is reactive."

Draco nodded quickly and caught the eye of a medi-wizard. He instructed him to have two quarantine rooms prepared immediately.

Steady, Malfoy. Keep your head on.

He looked back at Hermione. She was shockingly still. She looked -

You should have insisted. Dragged her, if it came to it. You knew she wasn't well.

You knew.

He pressed his stethoscope into the cold, clammy skin over her ribs. Slow, weak, but steady.

He looked up at Diggory. "Let's move."

36 Hours Later

"Healer Diggory tells me that you are legally required to go home and rest for at least twelve hours," Wanda, Ward Four's head medi-witch, called loudly across the Healer's lounge.

Draco's head snapped up. The exertion of the simple motion made him feel light-headed; he was exhausted. Twelve hours had turned into twenty-four, and then thirty-six. If he took another pepper-up potion, he risked seeing hallucinations.

"Who's taking over?" he asked tiredly, rubbing his hands over his face.

"Friedmann."

"Good."

The day of the attack, Hermione, Dolohov and several Auror and ministry staff had been admitted. Weasley had been hospitalised briefly for a head injury, the rest (except Dolohov) had simply been stunned and had gone home straight from the emergency ward. Only Hermione and Dolohov had needed to come up to Ward Four. Draco realised, with acute bitterness, that he had been throwing around the word 'understaffed' too casually throughout his career. Now he knew what it really meant. Now, there wasn't enough of him to go around—they wanted him on Dolohov, since he at least had a diagnosis and he knew the most about Veloces Diruam, but he was always called back to the most critically ill patient, who seemed to be deteriorating by the minute.

Fucking Granger.

If he never saw her cursed face again, it'd be too soon. She'd been nothing but trouble for him—nothing's changed there, has it?—and now she had the bloody nerve to try and die on his ward. Meanwhile, he was uselessly employing each countercurse, potion, and diagnostic spell in his arsenal. He watched as whatever little life was left in her continued to flicker and fade every time he stepped into the quarantine room; every time he held his fingers against her neck while he counted the seconds on his watch, every time he barked new healing orders to try and keep afloat a ship that was clearly, rapidly sinking.

Every time he compulsively readjusted her pillow, because she looked so awkward and small lying there amidst all of the equipment.

Draco was terrified. A sixth-year schoolboy, trying to plot Dumbledore's murder, stupid level of terror. "Wanda," he asked quietly against his hand, which was currently propping up his head, "you'll let me know if there are any changes?"

She raised an eyebrow at him. "My instructions were to make sure you sleep," she replied, but the tone of her voice told him that she would, which he figured was as much as he could expect to get for the time being.

He nodded and made his way towards the fireplace. He was too tired to risk apparating. Draco had only just put on the lights in his house when he heard banging from the front door. Annoyed, but cognisant that with Hermione being as touch-and-go as she was, he wasn't going to damn well ignore it. He wrenched the door open, and no sooner had he done so were Potter and fucking Weasley pushing through, Weasley even having the nerve to say "thanks, mate," as he crossed into Draco's home.

Draco was genuinely speechless. Surely, this was a hallucination from the pepper-up potions.

"They wouldn't let us speak to you until you were off shift," Harry explained by way of explanation. He folded his arms expectantly. "So? What's happened? How is she?"

"Can I ask what the fuck you're doing trespassing in my home?" Draco demanded, nearly apoplectic.

Weasley had the audacity to laugh. "It's not trespassing if you invite us in."

Draco was about to shout back that he had done no such fucking thing, but stopped short when he sensed the fear in the room. He realised that perhaps - perhaps - they weren't intentionally trying to boil his blood, and maybe they were just being panicked idiots.

He knew the feeling.

"I haven't slept in 48 hours," he said in a measured voice. "You have five minutes to ask what you need to ask, then you are going to leave, and I am going to bed."

"Right," Harry said quickly, running his tongue over his lips and placing his hands on his hips, shifting back and forth on his feet restlessly. "Okay. Tell us what you know. Do you know what Dolohov did to her? Is she going to be okay?"

"Granger is in critical condition, we have no idea what Antonin's done, and I don't know," Draco replied tiredly. Keep it reigned in for a few more minutes. He looked solemnly at Weasley, then at Potter. "We're doing everything we can. Niklas Friedmann is with her until I'm back. He's…" Draco frowned, sighed. "Niklas is excellent."

"But what's wrong with her?"

"I don't know, Potter," Draco insisted, frustration rising in his voice. "Her magic is unstable and reactive. Her organs are failing. She's not breathing on her own. She is very ill."

"Her magic," Ron said slowly, "is that why she was taken up to quarantine?"

"Yes. Her magic is surging unpredictably any time someone goes near her. We had to contain it, for her safety and everyone else's."

"And Dolohov? Him as well?"

"As a precaution," Draco replied dismissively, waving his hand. "I'm not convinced he needs to be in quarantine. But it's just as well, considering I'd expect you want the strongest wards available on him while he's at St. Mungo's."

Weasley shifted uncomfortably. "If she's on quarantine, can we…" he stopped, rubbed his neck. "Can we visit?"

"Immediate friends and family can, yes," Draco drawled, looking pointedly at Harry and then not-so-subtly dragging his eyes back to rest on Weasley's.

"What is that supposed to mean?" Ron demanded, glowering. "I am immediate -"

"Last I heard about you and Granger, you were waxing poetic to Rita Skeeter about how happy you'd be to be rid of her," he said harshly. "And I seem to recall a photograph-"

"Fuck you," Ron snarled, starting towards him, but Harry forcibly put his arm in the way.

"Am I wrong?" Draco shot back, feeling petulant.

"Malfoy," Harry warned, his voice a low growl. "Both of you need to get a hold of yourselves. We're all tired. Just - please try to take care of her, Malfoy."

Well, if Weasley hadn't already sent him over the edge, that did. Whatever semblance of self-control he had managed to hold onto evaporated in an instant, and he was nose-to-nose with Potter, shouting.

"Me?" Draco snapped, incredulous. "I have been doing everything in my power to keep her from circling the drain for the last two days, Potter! Which would have been a sight easier if someone hadn't neglected to tell her that ANTONIN FUCKING DOLOHOV HAD ANNOUNCED HE WAS GOING TO HUNT HER DOWN!"

Harry's face went crimson. His nostrils flared as he sucked in a breath, clearly furious. "That's classified information," he said in a low voice, "who told you that?"

"As if any of you Aurors could bear to shut it while you're clogging up the bloody emergency ward!" Draco spat, and he jabbed a finger into Harry's chest. "Don't use me to ease your conscience, Potter. I've already done twelve fucking years of penance for my 'sins.' What about yours?"

This time, it was Ron who intervened. He placed a gentle hand on Harry's shoulder. "Okay. We're leaving now, and everyone's going to cool down, and then we'll talk again soon."

"Marvellous," Draco snapped, pointing his wand at the door without looking. It flew open with a bang against the entryway wall.

"An Auror will be by Ward Four to ask about timelines," Harry muttered, but the fight was gone from his voice, and he sounded hollow.

"Fine."

Ron gave Draco a final, uneasy glance, then disapparated both of them on the spot. Draco stalked towards the door and slammed it shut himself, satisfied by the noise it produced.