Harry was shaking with rage.
As soon as they apparated into the Auror's office, Harry grabbed the nearest object - a decorative set of iron scales, incidentally - and flung it at the wall.
"Take a walk, Potter," Goldstein said firmly. "Tempers aren't going to get us anywhere. Go."
Harry stalked out of the room, not looking at Goldstein or at Ron, who had just collapsed into a chair, looking stunned.
Dolohov's interrogation had not gone well.
He should've known it wouldn't when he saw the look on Dolohov's face. He wasn't frightened, not even nervous. He was amused.
He still put up a fight against taking the Veritaserum. It took all three of them to pry his jaw open and upend the potion into his mouth.
There were reasons that the Ministry rarely allowed the use of Veritaserum. It worked best on those who had never expected to be dosed with it - innocent people. It was less reliable with wizards who anticipated its use against them, and even less reliable with wizards trained in Occlumency.
Dolohov had happily offered some details without hesitation. Somewhat surprisingly, he freely admitted that his curse had backfired on him, and he hadn't struck Hermione with anything, as far as he was aware. Harry wasn't sure why he hadn't Occluded this; perhaps he just recognized that if he didn't have any useful information about Hermione's condition, he was only delaying his inevitable arrest and conviction. He had nothing to negotiate with.
Negotiation had been the other thing Dolohov discussed openly, and he discussed it at length.
His smile was leering as he described how he'd come to choose Hermione as his bargaining chip. She wasn't an Auror and wasn't married to one, he reasoned. She hadn't participated in combat in over a decade (Ron did interject here to remind Dolohov that Hermione had successfully countered him, despite the invisibility cloak). Dolohov sneered, but continued. Hermione lived alone in her flat and led a fairly solitary life that consisted of work that she completed sequestered in an office that was rarely visited by anyone. And, crucially, she was still considered a beloved war hero. She was a public face of peace, stability, and progress. Her and Harry remained very close. Finally, perhaps most importantly, it hadn't escaped Dolohov's notice that Hermione seemed changed after the war. 'Almost sickly', he had described it.
With every justification, Harry grew more enraged at the Auror department but mostly himself for allowing such a glaring weak spot to have developed.
Dolohov told them about how he intended to use Hermione as leverage. How he was going to keep her and send bits of her - her fingers, toes, her teeth - to the Prophet until the desired pardons and immunity were granted. After, of course, he'd had his fill of torturing her. And, after he'd found out "what it was like to take a mudblood from behind."
That was when Goldstein had ended the interview, after peeling Harry off of Dolohov. Harry had him seized by the neck, with his wand digging into the skin of the Death Eater's throat.
When any question pertaining to the who, what, or where of Dolohov's attempted insurrection was asked, Dolohov simply smiled and Harry could practically see the walls of Occlumency erecting in Dolohov's mind. That Dolohov was going to be easily convicted and imprisoned was no consolation to Harry. There was potentially an entire network of others who had the same intentions as he did. And, even though they now knew that Hermione needed to be protected, what was stopping that network from finding and targeting anyone that Harry cared for?
He hadn't felt this exposed and vulnerable since Voldemort had died.
On top of it all, he couldn't stay to see Hermione. Ron had warned him that it probably wasn't wise to go in right then, when he was practically bursting with fury. Then, Goldstein had reminded them that Dolohov's investigation was rather urgent, and they didn't have the time to spare, anyway.
And then he had to watch Malfoy's sneering, caustic expression as he went to attend to Hermione after the fall detection charm sounded. He had nothing better to offer his best friend - who'd been flirting with death for the last week - than the comfort of Draco fucking Malfoy.
Draco often cursed the circumstances of his career, but never so frequently or assiduously as since he'd met Granger in his clinic.
He had learned to cope with the unpleasant odours and sights. He'd developed potions that he dabbed just above his lip to mask offensive smells with more palatable ones, like honeycomb and tobacco. He got used to seeing blood and festering skin and the crazed eyes of individuals ravaged by Dark magic; it didn't bother him anymore. He had even managed to work around his difficulty dredging up believable sympathy for others by choosing instead to look at each case as a complex puzzle that he had to solve in service of restoring his family's standing. He was motivated to dig them out of the crater that they'd created for themselves, so he was motivated to care about the outcomes and wellbeing of his patients.
This didn't feel like that.
Granger made him nervous. Off-balance. There wasn't the same underlying indifference as there was with other patients.
She wasn't a complex puzzle, she was a fucking liability.
She was probably the most high-profile case he'd ever taken. He'd consulted on numerous dignitaries, but never with medical issues this serious. Granger was ubiquitous in the U.K.; in all of Europe, quite frankly. She was a member of the Golden Trio, and the token mascot for why the wizarding world shouldn't discount muggle-borns. Everyone - everyone except Willem, apparently - knew Hermione Granger.
He was out of his depth. He didn't know what he was dealing with. But, more worryingly, Granger's illness frightened him. He was hardly sleeping, and he was irritable. He had given up all of his clinic days in exchange for Willem's hours at St. Mungos. He'd barely left since she arrived.
Even more infuriating, she didn't seem particularly interested in cooperating with him, much less listening to him. Part of him had hoped that the stubbornness would've been sapped out of her and she would just let him do what he needed to without rebelling, but he had to admit, her willfulness was a comforting sign that her condition was actually improving. But he felt like he was on tenterhooks, waiting for her to rip out her IV or doing something equally ill-advised in a show of defiance and independence.
He couldn't stop replaying in his mind how she flinched away from him like a trapped animal. When he'd asked if he should leave, she'd said, "I would like that very much."
Draco exhaled forcefully through his nose. He needed every favour he could call on, every specialist Healer could get his hands on. He needed Granger cured and out of his ward.
Out of his head.
Malfoy hadn't been lying about the Skelegro.
Just minutes after she'd swallowed it, her body quaked with tremors from the aching, tearing pain in her jaw. She fell to her side and slowly curled her knees towards her chest, riding it out silently in the isolation of her room.
It was, at least, a distraction from the very real prospect that she may never produce magic again.
She wasn't sure how much time had passed when she heard muffled words outside the door. Protection charms. She would have the spells memorised soon, she had heard them so many times already. The door latched open and closed. There was a pause before the click, click of what she was sure were outrageously expensive Hebridean Black dragonhide loafers.
Malfoy didn't say anything for a moment after he reached her bed, and she didn't bother unfurling herself to look at him.
"I tried to warn you, Granger," he finally said, quietly.
She didn't reply, but she did manage an icy look in his direction. He was frowning down at her with his hands in the pockets of his Healer's robes. He sighed and pulled the chair to the bedside and sat.
"I can't give you another pain potion for six hours."
"Well, add it to my tally of today's brilliant decisions," Hermione muttered, closing her eyes again.
She heard Malfoy sigh, then she felt a sudden, gradual heat spreading over her. Alarmed, she looked over, and Malfoy had his wand pointed at her quilt.
Warming spell.
"Sorry," he muttered, "it's the best I can do for the time being."
She shook her head a little and nestled a little more deeply into the blanket. "No," she said, "It's - nice. Thank you."
He nodded, then conjured a warm compress. He looked at her jaw and raised his eyebrows, silently asking if he could place it there without actually asking. Hermione swallowed and nodded.
She was grateful that he was watching what he was doing with his hands, and not looking at her eyes. He brought the compress over her jaw and held it with moderate, steady pressure. She winced at first - it was sore - but as the heat penetrated into her mouth and her teeth, she relaxed into it, welcoming the warm relief.
She fell asleep that way, with Malfoy's large hand spanning the side of her face, holding the compress in place.
Over the next few days, the quarantine room was a revolving door of Healers from all over the continent. Draco had described the case history and its perplexing details. Some of the Healers were arrogant, some seemed kind, but all of them had jumped at the opportunity to be the one that fixed Hermione Granger.
Hermione was stoic as they performed increasingly complex and gruelling tests. There were diagnostic charms, potions, and countercurses. Draco repeatedly warned her, and the other Healers, that they needed to tread carefully to avoid causing a surge in her magic.
None of it produced anything remotely useful.
Draco shifted uncomfortably and crossed his arms over his chest. Granger's pallor had started to take on a grey hue. She had been silent while she endured a particularly intense bit of spellwork from a Bulgarian Healer, but Draco saw her clutching the bedrail like her life depended on it.
Her knuckles were white.
"Stop," he said suddenly, "that's enough for today."
The Healer released his wand in mild surprise, but nodded. Draco thanked him and told him he'd speak with him in the Healer's lounge in a few minutes.
Once they were alone, Hermione barely had time to grab the basin from the table tray to vomit in it.
"Granger," Draco admonished fiercely, "stop with whatever Gryffindor rubbish this is. I need you to tell me when you're not alright."
Hermione coughed, still clutching the basin. "I'm fine," she croaked.
Then she gasped and she shut her eyes tightly.
The magic surge alarms went off.
Draco refrained from swearing before casting a diagnostic spell. Scanning it quickly, he realised that he needed to act quickly, before she decompensated again. He immediately pointed his wand at the Vita mutatur, once again incrementally increasing the flow of the potion into the IV.
The alarms subsided after several seconds.
"That, " he snapped, "is why I need you to stop trying to force your way through this. You cannot handle this level of distress when your magic is unstable. Every time your powers flare, I have to increase the dose of the Vita mutatur, and the risk of permanent damage increases along with it."
Hermione stared at him with wide eyes, shocked into silence.
He didn't relent. "Do you understand, Granger? Stop with this bloody stubbornness. Work with me and just tell me when you've reached the limit, for God's sake. Let me help you."
Hermione nodded. She looked close to tears. Draco summoned chocolate and a calming draught. He tossed the chocolate onto her lap and forced the potion into her hand. "I want you to finish both of these. I'll be back in a few minutes."
She didn't argue.
"Good," he said shortly, and he strode out of the room. When he reached the lounge, the Healer from Bulgaria was frowning and tapping his finger thoughtfully on the table in front of him.
"Knut for your thoughts?" Draco said dryly.
"I think this is old magic," the Healer offered. "I don't recognise it."
Draco tried not to show his irritation. "I've already asked the Division of Rare, Confounding and Obscure Cases, and they were extraordinarily unhelpful."
"Which division? This one?"
Obviously . "Yes," he said tersely, "this one. In England. Is there another division I should be referring to?"
The Healer snorted. "Great Britain is hardly a mecca of knowledge for ancient magic."
Draco deeply disagreed with that to the point of taking offence, but this was sounding like the most productive conversation he'd had in days, so he let it go. "Do you have an alternate suggestion?"
"Look south," he replied. "Africa. Find a sangoma."
Draco felt his heartbeat pick up speed. He hadn't considered that as an option.
He actually laughed. Perhaps Willem would be useful to him, for a change.
"Thank you," Draco said quickly, leaving to find a floo. He summoned the clinic for Willem. A minute later, his face appeared in the fire, looking confused.
"Everything alright?" Willem asked.
"I need a sangoma," Draco said bluntly. "A good one. Surely you've come across them in your training."
Willem looked annoyed, which was a delightful reversal in Draco's opinion. "Right. Very funny. Ha-ha."
"Wasn't a joke," Draco replied in a mocking, sing-song tone. "I need one as soon as possible, Willem."
Willem narrowed his eyes. "What do you want a sangoma for? Surely you don't actually believe that divination and herbal rituals belong in the realm of Healing. Why do you think I left South Africa?" he asked angrily. "Witch doctors. That's what some muggles call them - witch doctors."
"If divination is what is required, I would be happy to take my baths with tea leaves," Draco said coldly. "Do you know one or not?"
Willem was silent for several moments. "You're not going to like him."
He rolled his eyes. "I didn't ask for an incompetent sangoma," he snapped.
"I didn't say he was incompetent," Willem said evenly, "I said you're not going to like him. And, believe me, you're not going to."
"If he can get this case resolved and off of my hands, I will personally volunteer to be his best friend. Get him here, Willem. As soon as possible."
Willem raised his eyebrows and shrugged in acquiescence. "Don't say I didn't warn you."