"Prick," Ron muttered as soon as he and Harry had arrived back at the house. Ron's voice was angry, but his skin was a ghastly white-green shade and he looked like he could be sick any moment. Harry was silent, and after a moment, Ron clapped his hand against Harry's back in a gesture of commiseration. "Oh, come on, Harry. Since when have you paid Malfoy's opinion any mind?"
"He wasn't wrong," Harry said bitterly, echoing the words that Malfoy had just used.
"Not exactly helpful, though, is it?" Ron replied testily before rubbing the heels of his hands into his eyes. He let out a long, wide yawn. "What's that muggle saying about not putting salt in open wounds? Malfoy should give that a thought."
Harry said nothing, and didn't meet Ginny's eyes when she rounded the corner.
"Neither of you thought that I might appreciate being told before you snuck off?" she demanded, hands on her hips. It struck Harry that she resembled Molly, with her archetypal indignant impatience and exasperation. She continued the lecture until she fully appreciated Harry's expression, and then her consternation quickly turned into alarm. "Has it ever occurred - what's happened?"
"Nothing," Ron mumbled, steering Harry into the living room and depositing him on the sofa. He pointed his wand at the fireplace, igniting it instantly. "We've just seen Malfoy."
Ginny frowned. She was watching Harry's face carefully. "What did he say?"
"Nothing bloody useful," Ron snapped, "mostly whinging about how the Ministry handled things."
One of Ginny's eyebrows arched up her forehead, but she didn't comment. Harry knew that she hadn't been particularly enamoured with the Ministry's response to Dolohov either, but he appreciated her not saying so now. "Surely you talked about Hermione."
Harry remained silent and laid his head in his hands. When Ginny looked questioningly at Ron, he gave a small shake of his head as if to say 'leave it '.
"Harry," Ginny said, ignoring her brother and grabbing Harry's hand, "Are you alright?"
"I think we should all get some sleep," he said dismissively, standing and heading towards the bedroom.
Ginny's gentle line of questioning ended abruptly and she scowled, her patience apparently expired. "Shall I just tuck in for the night and be content if I'm privileged enough to hear about it in the morning, then? Are either of you going to tell me what's happened? "
"I think she's the same as when we left St. Mungo's," Ron replied tiredly, and now he really did look like he was going to be sick. He shoved his hands in his pockets. "Malfoy was just being his grade-A, git, Malfoy-self about it, but... it does sound bad. He said she's not breathing on her own."
Ginny sighed and tried to meet Harry's eyes, but he avoided her. She took his face in her hands, and he knew that she was desperate for him not to shut down and pull away from her. Unfortunately, it was a song and dance they'd performed many times now, and it was one he had become exceptionally good at, despite her best efforts to thwart him.
"Hermione will be alright," she said seriously. Harry knew that her sole reason for saying so was to make everyone, but especially him, feel better. "Don't do this to yourself, Harry. Dolohov did this to her, not you. Don't let Draco-sodding-Malfoy suggest anything otherwise."
He knew that he should appreciate Ginny's words, and maybe he would come morning. But right now, Harry wanted to crawl into a very dark, very deep hole and lie there until the world had righted itself and Hermione wasn't dangling over the precipice of death because of his inaction. "I'd like to be alone for a bit," Harry replied quietly, changing direction and heading towards the guest bedroom. He closed the door softly behind him.
"Guess I'm sleeping on the couch, then," Ron said sourly.
"Shut up, Ronald," Ginny muttered, angrily fighting back tears as she shoved a pillow and quilt at her brother's chest.
Perhaps unsurprisingly, Draco couldn't manage to sleep. He wasn't sure if it was the adrenaline from exchanging barbs with Weasley and Potter, or if it was the incessant anxious chatter in his mind, but he laid restlessly in his bed for over an hour before finally giving up and heading back into his kitchen. One firewhiskey had gone down so well that he didn't even set the glass down before pouring a second. After the third, he reckoned he ought to have a sleeping draught before going any further. Not the time for a hangover. He intentionally selected a dreamless variety of potion, drained it, and shoved himself under his covers.
He awoke a full twelve hours later, which was entirely unlike him, even when he used a sleeping draught. To his surprise, he felt fully rested and alert, but he felt a surge of panic when he realised so much time had passed. He hadn't received any owls or Patronuses, but that didn't temper the barrage of worst-case scenarios that were playing out in his head. He hastily pulled on a fresh set of clothes, brushed his teeth, and fixed his hair so it didn't look freshly slept-on.
He was back at St. Mungo's in less than ten minutes.
Draco didn't tend to make a habit of sneaking around on his own Ward, but he suspected that if Wanda caught sight of him he'd be verbally flayed for breaking hospital policy. He felt like a character in a children's book, casting Muffilato charms and peeking around corners as he made his way through the unit. It wasn't as if he was actually planning on working, though; he just wanted to check. He'd feel better after seeing Granger with his own eyes.
Then he'd bugger off until he was officially back on shift.
He stepped into the antechamber of Granger's room and peered in through the half-window of the inner door. He saw the back of Friedmann, who appeared to be collecting her vitals and noting them in her chart. Then, with a turn of his stomach, his gaze fell on Hermione. She looked pathetic and fragile in the bed. Oxygen, potions running intravenously, carefully arranged cushions all around her to distribute pressure and position her comfortably.
Draco swallowed heavily.
As if sensing him, Friedmann turned and gave a surprised smile when he saw Draco. He wasn't sure that he had actually intended on entering the room, but having seen Friedmann, it didn't feel right to turn away without going in. He quickly armed himself with protective charms and turned the doorknob.
"You're lucky Wanda is off shift," Friedmann said with faint amusement. "I'm told that you're not supposed to start for another ten hours."
"How are things?" Draco questioned, not feeling the need to obfuscate with Niklas. His mentor's eyebrows drew together in a concerned frown.
"Well," Friedmann said with a sigh, "the same, I think. Although, obviously, the longer she stays this way, the more difficult it will be to reverse without permanent injury."
Permanent. A muscle flickered in Draco's jaw. "Any insights?"
Friedmann shook his head slowly. "Not like anything I've ever seen, although the magic surges are common enough under the right circumstances."
The right circumstances being dire fucking straits, Draco thought bleakly. Unstable magic like this was usually only seen when witches or wizards were near death or had experienced a full break from reality. More often than not, when Draco saw magical surges in patients, it marked the beginning of a swift and fatal decline.
Friedmann shook his head again and shrugged. "As for what's attacking her body, I can't say."
It wasn't what Draco had been hoping to hear, but it was at least reassuring that he hadn't missed anything obvious. He inhaled heavily and asked the question that had been eating at him, the one that he hadn't wanted to discuss with Potter and Weasley the night before and was glad they hadn't asked.
"What now?"
"I think you know what should come next, Draco. I don't expect that she can last the week like this." Friedmann watched Draco's hand curiously, which he suddenly realised he'd unintentionally clenched into a fist. He released it instantly. "I can speak to the next-of-kin, if you'd like."
He shook his head. "As long as there's no deterioration, I think we can afford to delay another day and see if we can come up with an alternative." More accurately: just in case a miracle happens to fall into our laps between now and then, he thought miserably. He took in the quarantine room as if committing it to memory. Granger looked all wrong in a hospital bed, wearing a patient's robe. It was a discomfiting and surreal.
Draco's eyes moved to Hermione's arm, where the bandage he had applied still sat tidily. He tugged it off gingerly, exposing the Mudblood scar and the nearly-healed scratches surrounding it. "Just monitor her until I'm back on shift. I'll take care of it."
Draco didn't have the energy to debate with his mother.
Any time he reneged on weekly family dinners, it was an argument: you're working too much, or I worry about you, Draco, or, her most frequent refrain, but the house elves prepared all of your favourite dishes.
Resigned to his fate, Draco had apparated to the Malfoy Manor and greeted his mother with a stiff and expedient hug and sat down at his usual chair. His father, as always, acknowledged him with an incline of his head and a stern expression. "Father," Draco said deferentially, as always.
Dinner was relatively simple; pork roast, asparagus, crusty bread with thick butter and a selection of fresh cheeses that he knew no one, save himself, would touch. He dutifully arranged his plate, piling on enough so that his mother wouldn't scold him, and proceeded to pick at things. He took small nibbles and chewed much longer than was really necessary before biting again. Narcissa gossiped idly for several minutes before Lucius spoke.
"You're awfully quiet tonight, Draco."
"I expect it's been a busy weekend," Narcissa offered, arching a brow at Draco knowingly, "considering all of the excitement at the Ministry on Friday."
Draco hadn't looked at The Prophet - when would he have had the time? - but he shouldn't have been surprised. It had all the trappings of a sensational headline - Death Eaters, Saint Potter, grievous peril -
"I understand that Miss Granger was quite badly injured," Lucius replied with what was most likely polite - in any case, mild - interest.
Draco made a noncommittal grunt and speared his steamed asparagus with renewed vigour.
"I can't believe that Antonin Dolohov is alive after all this time," Narcissa said with apparent distaste. "That is, if he's still alive."
"Patient-Healer confidentiality," Draco reminded his parents for what felt like the hundredth time. Between his father's political wheedling and his mother's sharp ear for any trace of a scandal, the pair seemed to be constantly testing him to see if the boundaries had shifted. "You know I can't discuss any of this with you."
"What has the Granger girl been up to all these years?" Narcissa asked thoughtfully. "I had expected she would become an Auror, like the rest of them."
Draco was surprised when Lucius spoke. "No, actually; she's made quite a nuisance of herself in law and policy," he drawled disinterestedly, slowly slicing his meat in the polite, mannered way Draco had been taught to. Draco stared at his father in disbelief. "That bloody wage law of hers seems damn near impenetrable."
Narcissa sighed impatiently at her husband. "It's not such a ridiculous law, Lucius. The house elves negotiated their own salaries and certainly haven't asked for much. It's just the principle of the thing."
Lucius absently rubbed his finger over a scar on his palm and considered this. Prior to the war, Draco couldn't recall ever seeing a scar on his father or his mother, thanks to the healing 'trick' that had been passed down through generations of Malfoys and their allies. Now, Lucius sported dozens of imperfections of varying size on his face, his hands, and, most visibly, his neck. Even Malfoy wealth couldn't conjure an overabundance of bezoars while Voldemort terrorised the wizarding world. They were simply too valuable as cures for poison to be wasted on a cosmetic balm.
"You know," Lucius said wistfully, "back in Salazar's days, families who couldn't afford to purchase house elves would keep muggle-borns for their service? Although," he nodded his head regretfully, "apparently they got what they paid for, in terms of quality."
"Lucius," Narcissa hissed. It was a warning: don't you dare speak that recklessly.
Not after everything they'd been through.
Not even in their own home.
"Of course, darling," Lucius said smoothly, resting his hand affectionately over Narcissa's. His smile didn't reach anywhere near his eyes. "Not something we should have to discuss over a pleasant meal."
His eyes locked with Draco's; a challenge, daring him to disagree with his father's commentary. Draco broke away and quickly excused himself, muttering about being needed at the hospital.
When Draco returned to Ward Four, Potter and Ginny Weasley were sitting at Granger's bedside. Ginny's fingers were entwined with Hermione's and she was rubbing the crook between Granger's thumb and index finger. She looked up when Draco entered with a hopeful smile that, in reality, looked terribly bleak. It was obvious that she had been crying.
"Hi, Draco," she said in a strained voice. Harry's eyes also looked up briefly, but he said nothing. "We can-we'll move, if you need us to."
"That's alright," Draco said with forced neutrality, moving to the opposite side of the bed and placing the ends of his stethoscope into his ears. Ginny nodded gratefully and tore her eyes away to rest back on Granger's face.
After he'd listened to her lungs (wheezing) and her heart (damnably slow), he placed the stethoscope back in his pocket gently. He wasn't looking forward to this conversation.
"About last night-"
"Forget it," Harry cut him off, angrily waving his hand. "It doesn't matter. How is she?"
Draco's eyes narrowed slightly. He tried again. "I was out of line."
Harry met his gaze fully now, but Draco found his expression difficult to read. Wary, maybe. Draco couldn't blame him for failing to accept an apology with open arms - he certainly wouldn't, if the roles were reversed. But, he had now attempted twice. He wasn't going to beg Potter for forgiveness.
Harry seemed to consider his words before he spoke. "It was a long day and I think everyone had reached their limit. Really, Malfoy, forget about it."
Draco nodded once in understanding and didn't press further. There was a more important, much less pleasant task at hand. "I understand that you're her proxy for medical decisions," Draco started, treading cautiously. He could feel the spike in Ginny's anxiety, but Potter seemed strangely collected. "Since her parents are…" What's the appropriate phrasing, here? Blissfully obliviated somewhere in Australia? "... not in contact anymore," he finished awkwardly. "I'd like to talk about the extent of life-saving treatments you'd like to pursue."
Harry nodded, as if expecting this. He stood and crossed his arms over his chest. "Whatever needs to be done to get her through this," he said simply. "I want everything done."
Draco's gaze on Harry was steady. "We need to discuss it before you make any decisions."
"I trust you to do whatever is best," Harry replied firmly, but he didn't manage to fully veil the hostility in his voice.
Draco considered for several moments, frowning, before he sighed. He had a feeling that this wasn't going to go well. "We need to consider using Vivo mutato."
Harry looked like he had been slapped. Ginny's eyes bounced between the two of them in alarm, but Draco continued, knowing there was no point in trying to hold back the flood now that he'd broken the dam. "We have to buy more time so that we can figure out what's happened and come up with a reasonable counterspell. Dolohov needs to recover enough that we can get the truth out of him. We're contacting expert Healers abroad for their expertise, but Hermione can't hold on like this for very long."
"How is Vivo mutato the best option when you've no idea what's wrong with her?" Harry argued. "What if it doesn't even help, Malfoy?"
Draco had anticipated this. "We know it will help with the magic surges, and it may help to temper whatever's attacking her body. Considering it's almost certainly dark magic, it should work."
"I imagine it would help with the magic surges," Harry replied bitterly, "by snuffing them out." Ginny opened her mouth to ask what he meant by that, but he preempted her. "Vivo mutato is colloquially known as essence of squib, Ginny."
Ginny's mouth snapped shut and she stole a glance at her friend, the brightest witch of her age, who had shown no signs of vitality in over two days.
"We wouldn't be providing a full dose," Draco said calmly, though inwardly, his guts were roiling. "The potion would suppress her magic but it would not extinguish it. We'll see the effects just as soon as we start an infusion. We'll start at an extremely low dose and stop increasing as soon as she starts to show improvement."
"And then what?" Harry demanded. "Once she's taken off the infusion, her magic will just go back to normal?"
By the way he'd asked the question, Draco suspected that Harry already knew the answer. "Hence why I wanted to discuss it. But - yes, there is a high risk of complications."
"How high?" Ginny asked.
"Eighty percent of patients had significant impairment to their magic at one year after Vivo mutato treatment."
The room was silent except for the sucking and pushing noises of the breathing equipment.
"You don't think she'll survive without this?" Harry said quietly, watching Malfoy with a hard gaze.
"Potter, I would never recommend this otherwise," Draco replied emphatically.
"Then you have my permission," Harry said simply, grabbing his coat from the back of the chair he'd been sitting on. He took Ginny's hand and made for the door. He didn't look at Draco. "Whatever needs to be done."
Everything was upside-down.
The wind was whipping harshly against her face. Bits of parchment tore through the air and ancient tomes were strewn across the blackened ground, the pages flipping wildly with the gusts. Hermione realised that she was sprawled across the floor on her back, her neck bent awkwardly so that she was looking up at Malfoy—hence the world appearing to be inverted.
"Well, well, Granger, what have we here?"
Draco Malfoy was clad in Healer's robes, but he looked younger—much younger. His frame was rail-thin, which served to accentuate the angularity of his features. But his eyes were the most different. Their usual pale grey glinted obsidian in the diffuse light.
She wanted to move and she begged her body to respond. For several moments, everything felt too heavy and broken, but then… she saw it, shimmering softly and just within reach.
A beautiful, curved dagger, with intricate etchings standing out against the gleaming silver handle. Feeling a sudden burst of energy, Hermione snatched the knife and flipped onto her stomach. She raised it and went to plunge the blade into his foot -
Her arm stopped as if caught in a spider's web, suspended and vulnerable.
"Oh, come now, Hermione," Draco chided, with mock hurt. He smirked down at her. "Play nicely, won't you?"
And then his hand was in her hair. Seized with pain, the dagger fell from her hand and clattered onto the floor. Draco dragged her up by the roots of her curls and smiled as he watched her feet scrabble for purchase below her. When he released her, she felt something sticky left behind on her scalp, and she recognised with horror that Malfoy's hands were dripping in blood.
"Why are you doing this?" she tried, but her voice was nothing more than a pitiful, hoarse croak. Her throat was tightening painfully, but she needed to know, she knew this was important.
"Why?" he repeated, eyes cruel and glittering. He grinned. "Isn't this what you wanted, mudblood?"
Hermione knew that she wasn't dreaming, not really.