"Draco."

"Isabella." His tone was a mocking imitation of hers, tentative and questioning. He didn't turn to look at her, but instead continued to scratch notes into the chart he had somehow managed to dismantle all across his desk.

"You're wanted at St. Mungo's."

He stopped and turned to her. "By whom?"

She hesitated. Draco frowned and suddenly became aware of his own pulse.

"Isabella–"

"Wanda flooed," she said uncomfortably. "She said – or, Friedmann did, I think –"

It took significant restraint not to snap at her to spit it out, but he at least had enough composure to know that would only slow her down further.

"Ms. Granger had a … regression, I suppose, but she's stabilised now."

He was on his feet. "When? What happened? Did they have to–"

"Draco," Isabella said sympathetically, her voice quiet. "That's all I know. Wanda just asked that you touch base with her or Friedmann directly before you go storming through the Ward."

He scoffed, clenching his fists, and then he released them.

As if he would ever 'storm'.

He stalked towards the floo, offering Isabella a clipped thank-you for telling him. He could hear his blood rushing in his ears, nearly as loud as the useless, panicked voice begging in his head: please don't please don't please don't

Granger-

"Ward Four, St. Mungo's."

Draco stepped out of the Ward's fireplace and looked around rapidly. A head of shaggy red hair snapped up to look at him. For a moment, Draco's awareness was limited to his own gaze, livid and ruthless, against Ron's red-rimmed and lost-looking eyes. Mind disconnected from body, Draco felt himself turning towards him with a taste for retribution and reckoning, because he knew this had to be bloody Weasley's–

A hand gripped over his wrist and firmly steered Draco towards the Medi-witch station, then behind a set of doors and out of earshot from anyone but staff. Wanda pulled him directly in front of her and pointed her finger at him.

"Calm down," she hissed, jabbing her index finger at his chest. "There's been enough shouting and meltdowns for one evening. Friedmann might take it easy on you when you decide to throw a tantrum, Draco, but I won't. You're the Ward director, so act like it."

Draco rolled his jaw and physically could not speak for a moment, the urge to shout a hex was so strong. He forcefully inhaled through his nostrils, feeling them flare. "Tell me what's happened," he said in a low, nearly dangerous, voice.

"Hermione and the Weasley boy were apparently having a disagreement about something –"

Draco screwed his eyes shut, pinching the bridge of his nose and forcing himself to inhale again.

"- and he said she just collapsed, suddenly. The alarms went off, and Friedmann was there right away –"

"How much did he have to increase the Viva mutatur?"

Wanda hesitated.

"How much, Wanda?"

"He wanted you to know right away," she replied, sighing. "There isn't much more space to increase it before she's at the maximum dose."

He wanted to kill something.

"I leave this bloody hospital for an hour –"

"Don't you dare," Wanda warned, in such a voice that Draco's mouth immediately snapped shut. "This has been horrible for everyone involved, and everyone is doing their best, Draco." His silence wasn't enough to satisfy her, apparently, and she continued: "I know that you grew up learning that stomping your feet and shouting at everyone in earshot will get you your way, but I'd hope you'd learned by now that that isn't how things are accomplished here."

"Please, don't feel as though you need to spare my feelings," he snapped tartly.

"We are a team. We hold each other up when things get difficult. We don't go attacking each other. Friedmann taught you better than that."

He turned away from her, unable to look at her any longer. He dragged his hand over his face, and experienced a twist of humiliation when he felt the wet, hot streak of a tear against his palm.

Lucius' voice rang clearly in his head.

Malfoy men don't cry, Draco. His father's lip had been curled in disgust, and he was looking down at him like he was an ugly, embarrassing stain. He had thrust a handkerchief into Draco's chest with disdain. Get a hold of yourself, for God's sake. He'd been eight years old, and though he hadn't been that far from the ground, he'd fallen off his broom at an awkward angle. Not long after, he would learn that he had broken his wrist and dislocated his elbow - though a Healer had made quick work of that without much fuss.

He covered his eyes with his hand. "I'm sorry, Wanda, I'm just – I'm so fucking tired."

Wanda sighed and shook her head. Then, softly, she wrapped her warm arms around his torso. Despite their size difference, Draco felt quite enveloped. She patted his back soothingly. "I know, lovie. I'm just reminding you not to take it out on everyone who's trying to help."

After a moment, Draco released his hands from his face and wound them loosely around Wanda's shoulders, allowing his head to hang in defeat. "If we have to give the full the dose –"

"Then Hermione will lose her magic, yes, but she'll live, Draco."

"But we're so close," he said, his voice a pathetic growl, "I just need a little more time with the Obliviation – "

She shushed him. "You're doing everything you can. Time isn't something we get to control." More pats, more shushing. He let her do it. "Go on, catch your breath. You're alright."

After a couple of minutes, she said softly, "now. Can you manage going into her room without murdering anyone?"

He laughed a little, sniffed, and pulled away from Wanda. He smoothed his hair with his fingers and straightened out his sleeves. "I'm not making any promises."

She raised her eyebrows at him, unimpressed. "Don't think I can't get you banned from your own Ward."

When Draco entered her room, Hermione could tell he was trying to mute his emotions – dampen them, at the very least. Nevertheless, his eyes widened just slightly as they raked over her. He paused for a moment, frowning, to register the oxygen mask back on her face, then the IV stand and bag. His gaze finally landed on hers, but he said nothing, still frowning.

"Hello," she said pleasantly, but her voice was unfortunately quite breathy in a not-pleasant way.

"How are you?"

His tone was serious, clinical.

"You know," she replied with mock gravity, raising an eyebrow at him, "I think I'm starting to dislike this whole 'life-threatening blood curse' thing."

"Ha-ha," he muttered flatly. He kept stealing glances at her IV, like he was measuring and calculating something in his head. The more he looked, the deeper his scowl became.

"Friedmann already told me he had to jump the dose quite a bit," she said, in case he felt like he was going to need to break the news to her.

He huffed. "Then colour me perplexed."

"About what?"

"Your chipper fucking attitude."

"I'm not chipper. I think I'm entitled to some –"

"You're not exactly taking this seriously, either."

She scoffed at him – how dare he? "What do you want me to do, Draco? Surely, I've done enough crying – shall I ask for a funeral procession up and down the halls, too?"

"Not funny, Granger."

"Then what ?"

He looked away, jaw clenched. "I just want you to be more careful, alright?"

She threw her hands in the air, causing Draco to jerk forward and catch her left wrist in his hand so she didn't accidentally tug out the IV. They locked eyes for a moment, then he dropped her hand and pulled away in a quick, stiff movement.

He stared at the floor, and he said nothing.

"Draco, I've tried to do everything, every single thing, that you and all of the other staff have told me to do since the last time you increased my dose. I haven't seen anything other than the inside of this room for weeks. For Christ's sake, I'm trying."

His eyes flicked up to hers, and it was like watching him deflate before her eyes.

Guilty.

"I'm sorry," he muttered. "I didn't mean – this wasn't your fault."

"It wasn't anyone's fault," she corrected. He looked like he wanted to argue, but he kept silent. "Ron didn't mean to hurt me."

"That seems to be his chosen narrative, yeah," Draco agreed acerbically.

She rolled her eyes and sat back into her pillow rather hard, resigned. "I don't have the energy to argue with you right now, Malfoy."

He softened. "Sorry," he repeated quietly. "I just don't want it happening again, if there's anything to be done about it." He sighed. "You didn't answer me. How are you feeling?"

"Dull," she answered truthfully. "Exhausted. Sore."

"Can I get you anything?"

"My memories would be a start," she said darkly, shimmying herself onto her side and resting her head against the pillow again. Her eyelids were so heavy.

"I wanted to discuss that with you. I think that we should still do another round of treatment tomorrow, if you think you can tolerate it."

She shrugged and nodded, yawning into her oxygen mask. "Better sooner than later." She closed her eyes. Neither of them said anything for a few minutes, and she was nearly asleep –

"Granger," he said seriously.

"Malfoy," she teased, doing her best Malfoy impression. She didn't open her eyes.

"I believe you that you don't think Weasley meant to do it," he said cautiously. "I still think that you should consider… not seeing him until this is over. Whether he meant to or not, he set off the blood oath. Besides, I don't think that the stress is good for you."

She smiled at that, eyes still closed. "Consider it considered. The answer's no."

"Can I ask why?"

"Because," she said matter-of-factly, "by that logic, I shouldn't see you until this is over, either. Just because it happened when Ron was here doesn't mean that Ron actually set it off."

When he didn't reply for several seconds, she finally peered at him, and felt her stomach drop at his expression. His skin had paled considerably, and he looked like he had just realised something terrible.

"Draco," she said hastily, scrambling to sit up. "I was just teasing. I didn't mean that. Obviously I don't think it has anything to do with either of you –"

His smile was tight. Empty. He put a hand over hers and squeezed gently. "Get some rest, Granger."

He was gone.

"Malfoy, a word?"

Oh, good.

Marvellous.

Fan-fucking-tastic.

"I'd rather not, Potter."

"It's important."

"Forgive me, but you seem to think everything involving you or your bloody squad is important."

"Are you refusing to speak to me personally or professionally?"

"Harry?" Ginny asked sharply from behind, but Potter paid his wife no attention.

"I'm not her primary Healer. Any questions have to go through Friedmann," Draco said dismissively, pushing past the gaggle of Weasleys and other fucking well wishers.

"By professionally," he clarified loudly, "I'm talking about the DMLE."

"Harry," Ginny snapped, stepping towards him. "Is this really necess–"

"Ginny, I would appreciate it if you kept out of this, please," Harry said tightly, eyes fixed on Draco's. Potter didn't look openly hostile, but he was definitely observing Draco's response. "Is there anything relevant to the investigation that you haven't had a chance to report yet, Draco?"

"You know there bloody isn't," Draco spat. "Your office works at a glacial pace as it is–"

Friedmann cleared his throat loudly, and both men stopped and turned to face him. "A simple 'no' would suffice, Draco," he said calmly, then he turned his attention to Harry. "Mr. Potter, I am happy to answer any questions you have as Ms. Granger's next of kin, but I would kindly remind you that Healers have first authority in this hospital, and I'd ask you not to pursue any DMLE matters inside St. Mungo's unless it is absolutely necessary and you have a warrant in hand."

Harry swallowed, a muscle in his jaw ticking, and he nodded. He looked slightly embarrassed, and he took a step away from Draco.

Draco stole a glance at Friedmann, nodding his head just slightly. Friedmann nodded once in return, gave both men a pointed look, and turned towards the Medi-Witch station.

"That wasn't meant as an accusation," Harry said tensely, after a moment. "I'm… sorry. I'm – we're all tired."

Ginny shook her head in disbelief and stalked away. Longbottom trailed after her, calling her name softly.

"Yeah, well, join the fucking club, Potter," Malfoy muttered quietly enough that Friedmann wouldn't overhear. He rolled his eyes, then – "what is that ?" he demanded, pointing at the newspaper the Lovegood woman was reading (upside-down, inexplicably).

She turned towards him. "It's the Quibbler, of course," she said serenely.

"No, not – " he rolled his eyes again, his fingers curling into fists. "The headline."

"Oh," Luna said, put out. "Yes, I brought it in to show Hermione, but Healer Friedmann's asked that I don't give it to her today, given the circumstances."

On the cover was a photo of several Wizengamot members looking sternly at the camera. The headline read "House Elves' Wage Law to be brought before Wizengamot's Highest Court in Consideration for Repeal." The subheader: "Challenge comes amidst Hermione Granger's extended absence from court."

Draco blinked, thinking furiously. "Can I… have this?"

"I brought multiple copies, just in case," Luna said, beaming, and she pulled a fresh one from her satchel. "You can keep it."

He took it, trying to scan the text as quickly as he possibly could. "Thank you," he said distractedly. He looked up at the group of Gryffindors (and Lovegood), who were all watching him expectantly – Harry and Ron especially. He turned away from all of them, and he was happy to fucking do it, too. "I have to go."

"Malfoy," Ron said suddenly. "I'm – I'm sorry for upsetting her, or whatever it was I did. I swear, I didn't mean to."

"I don't know why you think I care what you meant to do," Draco replied caustically. "Save it for someone who does."

Ron gave him a hard look and rolled his shoulders back, as if trying to peel himself out of the tension that was suffocating the room. "I was just trying to help."

"Yeah, well, I'll make sure to tell her that if we have to give her a full dose of the Viva mutatur, right after I explain that she'll never cast another spell again."

Draco took a greasy sort of satisfaction from the shocked look on Weasley's face.

He disapparated; he had more important things to do.

Draco materialised on the familiar grounds of Malfoy manor. The peacocks had all long since perished – no one ever bothered to replace them – but otherwise, really, very little had changed since the war.

They wouldn't be expecting him; it wasn't Sunday, and he hadn't been at a Sunday dinner in weeks, anyway.

Nevertheless, he had business.

He felt the Quibbler crinkle in the grip of his fist as he marched towards his childhood home.