Hermione had dutifully finished the calming draught and chocolate by the time Draco went back to her room. She looked guilty, but he chose not to acknowledge it.

"How are you feeling?"

She stared down at her hands in her lap and shrugged. "A bit better," she muttered. Draco waited for her to continue, but she didn't.

"I can practically hear the gears turning in your head, Granger."

"If I do what you say, do you think-" she stopped and sniffed, and Draco realised that she was looking away because she was trying not to cry. She was gritting her teeth. "Malfoy, am I going to have any magic after this? Honestly?"

He felt a stab in his chest that was difficult to describe. It didn't quite feel like pity - it was sharper and more jagged than that. He watched her for a moment: her fingers were anxiously fiddling with nothing, her expression looked quietly desperate. She wasn't bold enough to meet his eyes. He had a clawing urge to still her hands with his.

He pushed it down.

"I certainly hope so," he muttered, "how else am I supposed to convince you that I've always been the better spellcaster? I want a clean defeat."

She apparently hadn't been expecting that answer and she let out a surprised laugh. Her smiling eyes caught his - just briefly - before he cleared his throat.

"I don't know yet," he admitted. "We're doing everything we can."

"I know. I know you're trying," Hermione said quietly, and he felt a wave of unexpected reprieve wash over him. After the animosity with the Golden Boys, and her seemingly relentless recalcitrance, the small acknowledgement felt like something unpleasant evaporating off of him. She frowned and looked down again. "I wasn't trying to be difficult. I thought - I was just trying to get through the testing as fast as possible." She sniffed again. "I'm sorry. I'll … be better."

Draco wanted to tell her that she didn't need to be better for him, that he just needed her to survive, to keep giving him more time. Instead, he found himself muttering something snide about how he didn't believe that she wasn't intentionally trying to irritate him. She, at least, had the presence of mind to roll her eyes at him and leave it at that. He looked at her for several moments, trying to ignore a strange stirring feeling in his abdomen.

"You should get some sleep," he said after a tense few seconds. His voice was strained.

She gave him a sad sort of smile and nodded. The look in her eyes wrenched at him. "Alright."

He adjusted the head of the bed so it was flat again and watched as she repositioned herself on her side.

"Night, then."

It was the middle of the afternoon. Draco's mouth twisted into a crooked smile, not that she could see. "Night, Granger."

He hesitated at the door and cast a silent warming charm over her blankets before leaving the room.

—

Willem owled Draco later that day, informing him that a sangoma would be arriving in two days' time. The lack of urgency irritated Draco. He didn't have many connections in Africa, though, so it wasn't as if he could do much about it. In the meantime, Draco insisted that any other consulting Healers refrain from subjecting Hermione to more spells and draughts unless they had solid reasoning to believe it would be useful. After her last magic surge, his focus was minimising damage and maximising recuperation - at least until the sangoma came. He wasn't going to risk having to increase the dose again.

He was finding it increasingly difficult to leave St. Mungo's at the end of his shifts. He came up with more and more outlandish justifications as to why he had to stay for another hour: he had to catch up on his other patient files (not entirely untrue), he needed to do more research about sangomas and traditional healing, he had to ask Friedmann about something that very easily could've been communicated by owl. The real reason - that being, he was obsessively monitoring Hermione for any suggestion of improvement or decline - did not need to be verbalised, in his opinion.

He hated going home. He tried to distract himself through exercise or yet more reading on obscure healing when he was there, but his attention span had become frustratingly short, and his mind always wandered back to worrying if something had gone wrong while he wasn't at the hospital. He was using a dreamless sleep draught every night.

If anyone on Ward Four had noticed his change in behaviour, everyone was tight-lipped about it - all except Wanda.

"Don't you have a standing dinner date on Sundays?" she asked, frowning at him from across the medi-witch station as he flipped through Hermione's hourly observation notes for the third time that evening.

He grimaced. "A meal with my parents is hardly a date," he said dismissively, not tearing his eyes away.

"Malfoy."

He looked up. Wanda only used his surname when he was in some sort of trouble. Her expression was somewhere between reproach and concern.

"Your shift was supposed to be over an hour ago. Go home."

"There's a lot on my plate, Wanda," he said in a clipped voice. "I'm a bit stressed, alright? I'm just trying to get caught up."

Not entirely a lie.

Not quite the truth, either.

"You're not the only competent Healer in this hospital," she said sternly. "You're going to run yourself ragged."

"I used to average over eighty hours a week at St. Mungo's. Your concerns are acknowledged and appreciated, but entirely unnecessary."

"Granger's well-being is on everybody's shoulders," Wanda argued, undeterred as always by his sharp tone. "Not just yours."

Liar.

He glared at her, but then he sighed. Part of the dance of directing a ward was knowing when to pick your battles, and Wanda didn't appear to be in a negotiable sort of mood. "Fine," he said tiredly. "I'm leaving. Satisfied?"

"Immensely," she said flatly, gathering up her healing supplies and clipboard. He could see her face relax slightly, though, and he knew she was probably right, anyway. His meticulous nature was usually to his advantage at St. Mungo's, but sometimes, he became too absorbed and his constant checking and researching bordered on compulsive.

He looked towards Hermione's room, but managed to stop himself from walking over to look at her through the antechamber window.

"She'll be fine, Draco."

Wanda was watching him.

He looked back at her, startled. He nodded, then grabbed his coat and headed to the Floo.

—

The following day, Hermione was able to manage a proper visit with her friends. Neville made sure to let her know that he had taken her Mimbulus mimbletonia from her flat - a gift that she'd been given from Dumbledore's Army over a decade before - and was providing the utmost care for it while she was in hospital. Truth be told, it wouldn't have been the end of the world if it had finally met its demise. She was constantly having to charm it to banish the smell of stinksap. She could never bear to let it wither outside, though. The pot it had come in was what she really treasured, with an inscribed note from all of her Hogwarts friends. All the same, she told Neville that she appreciated his attention to the cactus.

Luna had brought several issues of The Quibbler for Hermione to read, which was an incredible relief. Now that she was starting to feel a little better, she was getting a bit restless. She wasn't allowed to leave the room; she couldn't even try to leave her bed without a medi-witch or -wizard being summoned to come help her walk. Even though the Quibbler could be a bit outlandish at times, it was the only news she could bring herself to read after the Ron debacle was featured in The Prophet.

The mood was quite cheerful, minus Harry. He was putting on a reasonable act - smiling when she spoke, making noises of agreement at the right times. But his dark moods were impossible to feign ignorance against, no matter how much he tried to contain them. It'd been that way since they were teenagers. Harry would insist everything was fine, meanwhile his brooding was quietly infecting everyone in proximity.

She couldn't be certain of what was bothering him so much, but she assumed it had to do with her, since he was offering his help to the point of making her feel smothered. He kept staring at her face, as if trying to suss out what she needed before she needed it. When she had moved to get out of bed, Neville had offered to hold the arm that wasn't gripping the IV pole, and Harry had stuck to her other side like glue, his arm wrapped around her back, providing much more support than she felt was actually necessary.

"Harry," she said, a little exasperated, "you can let go. I'm okay."

He looked at her, frowning, and did not move to release her. "You fell the other day."

She rolled her eyes. "I was barely awake when that happened."

"You're still weak," he said stubbornly as she marched forward with considerable effort.

"Well, I'm not going to get any less weak by having you do my walking for me," she replied pointedly. Harry glared at her for a moment, his mouth set in a hard, thin line, but he relaxed his grip a little. It felt human to move, even if it was less steady than what she was used to. Her bed was starting to feel claustrophobic, and she desperately wanted to have the ability to traverse around the room a little. She would kill for a shower. Even though she knew that they must've done it when she was unconscious, she couldn't bear the embarrassment of having the medi-witches bathe her. They let her wash herself at the edge of the bed as best as she was able with a warm, soapy sponge and basin, and they used Scourgefy to freshen up whatever areas she had difficulty with afterwards. Her hair had become positively bramble-like as a result.

After about an hour, she felt her energy waning and she asked Ginny if she could speak to her alone. Harry was instantly alert and frowning.

"What's wrong?"

"Nothing, Harry," she said tiredly, "just something I'd prefer to ask Ginny privately."

"I can-"

"Not everything has to involve you," Ginny interrupted him in an even tone. She made a shooing motion with her hands. "I'll catch up with you in a minute."

After an extended round of goodbyes and well wishes, when they were finally alone, Ginny turned to Hermione with a look of grave concern. "What is it?"

"Can you please help me wash my hair?" Hermione asked lamely. "I'm - it's too uncomfortable with the medi-witches, but I don't think I can manage it myself just yet."

Ginny looked immediately relieved and she laughed. "Of course," she said easily, as if it were not a strange or awkward thing to request. Hermione appreciated more than she could articulate, but she hoped her grateful smile did a good enough job. "But why the secrecy? I was worried for a second."

"I was afraid Harry might insist that he help," she admitted. Ginny snorted, then shrugged, as if to say 'fair enough'.

"He doesn't know what to do with himself," Ginny said, sighing. "He feels terrible, Hermione. The guilt is killing him."

She frowned. "It's not like this is his fault."

Ginny gave her a hard look. "Yes, well, good luck trying to convince him that." She sighed again, then stood. "Hold tight. I'll be back."

She returned a few minutes later, her arms loaded with towels, a robe, and several bottles with different coloured liquids in each. "The medi-wizard said that a shower's probably too tricky with the IV. But he said you can have a bath."

Good enough.

Ginny helped her untie the patient gown and slip her arms into the loose sleeves of the fluffy bathrobe without catching the IV. The walk to the ensuite bathroom was slow, but Ginny only helped her as much as she needed - more as a point of balance than anything else. She helped her step over the edge of the tub, then helped her out of the robe, Hermione facing away from her, again taking great care not to disturb the tubing or the needle in the back of her hand. With considerable help from Ginny, she lowered herself to the bottom of the tub.

Ginny instantly filled the tub with warm - perfectly warm - water and dumped the contents of one of the bottles into the bath. She pointed her wand at it, and foaming bubbles began to emerge from the water. Soon, Hermione was immersed and well-shrouded by a veneer of vanilla- and peppermint-smelling bubbles.

She melted down further into the tub, her left hand the only thing left out of the water to protect the Vita mutatur. She let out a soft exhale.

"I wasn't sure if I should say anything," Ginny said seriously, "but I was afraid your hair was going to start falling out if they Scourgefied it again."

Hermione smiled and let herself enjoy the weightless warmth. "Thank you for this, Ginn."

"Of course," she said fiercely, nearly offended. "I know you'd do the same for me."

"I think you could probably tolerate Harry's help."

"No thanks," Ginny replied, making a face. "Knowing him, he'd probably try to use hand soap for shampoo."

Hermione laughed. They stayed in easy silence for several minutes as Ginny wordlessly poured water over her hair and worked the shampoo and conditioner into her roots.

"Hermione?" she asked.

"Hm?"

"Sorry to bring this up," Ginny said, and she did sound regretful. "But I'm sure Harry's going to mention it soon and I just want you to be prepared. Ron's been asking if he's allowed to visit, now that you're awake."

Hermione looked at her, frowning. "Allowed?"

Ginny looked at her for a moment, her expression something between confusion and curiosity. "Malfoy didn't tell you."

Hermione felt a fluttering sort of turn in her stomach. She swallowed. "Tell me what?"

"Malfoy banned him from coming into your room," Ginny explained. Her eyes were inquisitive, but cautious at the same time.

She cycled through a tangle of different emotions in the span of a few moments. Surprise that he had even given it a thought. A twinge of annoyance that he hadn't bothered to tell him he'd made a decree on her behalf, without her consent. Most strongly, though, she felt a deep, almost painful gratitude for Malfoy. She didn't want to punish Ron - that wasn't it - but not having him there had made everything much simpler for her. She didn't have the energy to suffer through their awkward interactions right now, to be polite with him.

And she did not want him seeing her while she was this vulnerable and helpless and raw.

"Anyways," Ginny continued, her fingers scrubbing pleasantly at Hermione's scalp, "I don't want you to feel pressured into letting him in before you're ready. He can survive a little while longer. Much as he'd have me believing otherwise, he is a fully grown man who can manage himself just fine when he needs to."

—

Hermione felt like a new person after her bath. Ginny had stayed and braided her hair into a long plait, she had a fresh patient's gown on (they couldn't manage her own pyjamas with the IV), and she finally felt clean for the first time in ages.

She greeted Malfoy with a smile when he finally slipped into her room. He looked startled.

She had a list of demands ready for him.

He appraised her suspiciously. "You look well," he said cautiously after a few moments.

"Ginny helped me to properly wash up," she said airly, wanting to get right down to business. "I have a few questions for you."

Malfoy smirked at that as he looked down at the chart in his hands, muttering, "of course you do."

"First," she said confidently, "do you know what happened to the bag I was carrying when Dolohov tried to attack me?"

He looked at her like she had sprouted an extra head. "I've no idea, Granger. Next."

"Well, could you find out?" she pressed. "It had some sensitive case files in it, and I'm sure the opposition is gearing up to - "

Malfoy cut her off. "If you think I am going to allow you to work while you're still in this room, I'll make good on that threat of having you seen by a Mind Healer."

She scoffed, but nevertheless persisted. "Either way, I'd like to know what happened to it. Like I said, there was quite a bit of confidential material in that bag."

Malfoy looked annoyed. "Fine. I'll ask the medi-witches about it. I'm not making any promises."

Good enough. "Next," she continued, "I'd like to get out of these hospital gowns and start wearing my own clothes, but I can't get them over the IV. Can I change into my clothes when they swap out the pouch and tubing?"

He glared at her. "I don't want to interrupt the infusion any longer than absolutely necessary."

"I'll be quick," she insisted. "I just want to slip on a shirt."

"No long sleeves," he countered. "I don't want anything pulling on it."

"I only have long sleeves," she snapped, and she didn't miss the brief glance he stole at her exposed Mudblood scar. "Use a sticking charm or something."

"I don't think a sticking charm will work," he said uneasily. "Given what the potion does."

"Please," she begged. "I'll be careful, I promise."

"You don't have anything with shorter sleeves?" he demanded, then he sighed. "Alright - fine. If you let me shorten them a bit."

She glared back at him and tugged at the cuff of his shirt. She knew that he kept his Dark Mark covered whenever possible. "Hypocrite," she said in an accusatory tone.

He ignored her.

"And - " she drew up her bravery, pushed it into her voice. "I want you to tell the medi-wizards to stop running here every time I'm out of bed. I'm going batty not being allowed to walk around the room by myself."

Malfoy let out a single, unimpressed laugh at that. He quirked an eyebrow at her indignant expression. "Sorry, Granger, but you're going to have to convince me that you're not going to crack your head open again before I do anything of the sort."

She frowned at him, although she felt heat rising to her cheeks. It wasn't an unreasonable request, but something about demonstrating her deer fawn-like gait in front of him felt humiliating. "Fine," she breathed, determined to negotiate whatever freedom she could.

He watched with faint amusement as she twisted herself over to the edge of the bed. She planted her feet, took a deep inhale, and then held her breath as she pushed herself somewhat clumsily to stand. She gripped the IV pole for balance.

"See?" she said, panting.

He narrowed his eyes, smirking a little. "Show me a lap around the room. If you can."

She let out a small sound of frustration, but did as he said. She was clutching the wheeled stand with both hands, and things were going okay, all things considered, but then one of her feet caught against the floor as she was taking a step, and the pole shot forward as she went down.

One of Malfoy's arms caught her about the waist while the other easily grabbed the pole to keep it from wheeling away.

Needing the support to stay upright, she wrapped her hands around his forearm and tried to steady herself. His grip was firm but not crushing as he pulled her up slightly to get her on her feet.

Safe, said a small voice, deep in the bowels of her conscious thought.

"Perhaps," he said to her in a low voice, slightly teasing, "if you'd bothered to eat any of the food the elves have so painstakingly cooked for you, you'd have a bit more strength."

She could smell him; more earthy than she might have expected. Her heart was hammering in her chest. She swallowed heavily and she let him walk her back to the bed, feeling a bit dazed.

"I - haven't been hungry," she finally said, her voice halting.

"Evidently," Malfoy deadpanned, looking bored. "I'll reconsider it after a few days of decent intake. For now, the medi-wizards stay on."

"But - "

"I know you think this is a negotiation," he interrupted with a flat voice, eyebrows raised challengingly. "It isn't."

She nodded.

He looked satisfied. He surveyed her for a few moments. When he spoke, his tone was dripping with sarcasm. "Now. Before I examine you, is there anything else I can do to satisfy the wishes of her majesty?"

She swallowed thickly again and shook her head. He reached for his stethoscope.

"Good."

"Wait," she said suddenly. "Ginny told me you haven't let Ron visit me."

He rolled his eyes, looking properly annoyed now. "If you're expecting an apology - "

"I'm not," she said quickly. "I wanted to - well, thank you. I don't know what I would've done if Ron's was the first face I saw when I woke up. That made it… easier, I guess."

Malfoy looked at her for several moments with a strange expression, apparently unable to come up with something to say.

"So… thank you."

"Forget it," he replied dismissively, tearing his eyes away from her and distracting himself by looking at her chart again. "It wasn't anything. Weasley is a bloody nuisance."

She glared at him. "Social norms would suggest that the appropriate response when being thanked is 'you're welcome'," she huffed.

"Weasley isn't a patient," he snapped, "I'm not about to sacrifice your privacy and comfort to make room for whatever internalised moral conflict he's managed to bring on himself."

Hermione grimaced, both at his use of the word patient and the implication that Malfoy was just as aware as the rest of the public of what had happened between her and Ron.

"Right," she said slowly. "Well, my gratitude stands."

Malfoy said nothing as he cast diagnostic spells over her and listened to her chest. He avoided her eyes.

—

When the sangoma finally arrived, Draco was taken aback by his appearance. He wasn't sure exactly what he'd expected - someone old and wrinkled, wearing ultra-traditional African garb, probably - but that was not the wizard who stood in front of him, holding his hand out in greeting.

Draco was not a small man. In fact, he quite enjoyed towering over most people, and he had grown out of his lithe build of young adulthood. He was even quite fit, in his professional opinion. But when the sangoma came towards him, he realised with slight irritation that they were directly at eye level with one another.

The sangoma was dressed in rich purple robes, not quite the same style that were on trend in Europe, but certainly more modern than what he had expected. He was a few years older than him, but not more than that. Draco took his hand to shake it, and was instantly put off by the way that the sangoma clapped his other hand over Draco's elbow, enclosing his forearm with easy strength.

He might have been Draco's height, but he was considerably more broad. His limbs were like tree trunks, thick and sturdy. The sangoma smiled at Draco, relaxed and inviting, flashing his white teeth.

Willem had been correct. Draco disliked him instantly.

"Healer Malfoy," came the man's voice, rich and smooth. "A pleasure to collaborate with you. I have to say, I'll be the envy of my colleagues."

Draco cleared his throat. "Er, yes. Thank you for coming." He raised his eyebrows, realising he didn't even know this man's name.

"Olufemi," the sangoma supplied, dark eyes holding his, "but you can just call me Femi."

"Yes, fine, nice to meet you, Femi," he replied curtly. "Now. I asked Willem to send the case notes, but if you have any questions, I'm happy to answer them before we get started."

"Just one," Femi said with an easy confidence that Draco found extraordinarily vexatious. "I read that she expelled a balancing charm, is that correct?"

Draco frowned. That bit of information had come so long ago, and so much had happened since then, he'd barely remembered it. "Yes."

Femi smirked and began walking. "I don't foresee any problems, then. Shall we get started?"

Draco goggled at him. He expected any visiting Healer to be deferential in foreign territory, but the sangoma seemed utterly relaxed and self-assured. Draco moved quickly to catch up with him. He wanted to sound just as certain of himself when he spoke.

He did not.

"What exactly are you planning to do?" he asked hurriedly.

"I intend to perform a short ritual to confirm what I suspect," he replied, not interrupting his quick stride, "and then I will use whatever methods are called for to get as much information as possible."

"That's not terribly specific," Draco pointed out coldly, and Femi stopped then, apprising him quickly.

"Healer Malfoy," he said calmly, "I understand that my methods will probably appear strange to you, but I need your word that you won't interfere with my work once I've started."

Draco hesitated.

"Your word," Femi repeated, and against his instincts, he nodded.

They entered the antechamber and Femi pulled a small pouch from his pocket.

"If you get out your wand, I'll show you the protective charms," he said.

Femi grinned. "I have no need for a wand, Draco." He stretched and then flexed his fingers slowly, and Draco watched a blue haze erupt from his hand and cover Femi's body. Despite himself, he was shocked by the casual way he produced wandless, silent magic.

Draco was quite sure that he would throw an aneurysm if he had to spend much more time with this man.

Draco was silent as Femi introduced himself to Hermione. Draco couldn't tear his eyes off of her, and she couldn't tear her eyes off of the sangoma, who stared back at her with warm, inviting eyes and an absolutely undaunted smile.

Draco made a mental note to take Willem a little more seriously in the future.

Femi emptied the contents of the satchel into his hand. A dark, glittering powder sat in a pile in his palm. He rubbed his hands together, spreading the fine mixture over his palms and fingers, all the way up to his forearms.

"Just be still," Femi commanded gently. "It will hurt for a moment, but only a moment."

Hermione nodded mutely, stealing a worried glance at Draco before fixing her eyes forward again.

The sangoma placed both his hands on the sides of Hermione's face, leaving smudges of the ebony powder on her cheeks as he trailed down to place both hands on her chest.

Draco's fists clenched. His teeth were surely going to shatter with the pressure from his jaw.

"Your hand, please, Hermione."

She lifted it obediently and Draco nearly lunged when Femi, in a quick, simple motion, sliced her palm with a small blade. Femi immediately held both of his hands over hers, cradling it, reassuring her as she sucked in a shocked breath of pain.

"Only a moment," he whispered, smiling encouragingly when she nodded back at him.

When he drew his hands away, Draco was surprised to see that the incision was already gone from Hermione's hand. Her blood, though, was all over Femi's hands. He closed his eyes and began muttering spells that Draco did not even vaguely recognise. He held his arms out, palms up, and as he kept speaking, Draco could see the ripples of magic folding the blood and the powder into each other.

Then he was silent, hands still raised.

Nothing happened.

Several moments passed.

Draco was about to make a sarcastic comment about the efficacy of Femi's "methods" when a foggy, gold light began to brighten over Femi's hands until the room was nearly blinding with its warm glow.

Femi locked eyes with Draco and the sangoma let his face split into a mischievous, triumphant smile.