It wasn't unlike Draco to mull over cases in his personal time. It's not as if he was particularly social. His only hobbies included reading, writing, and brewing potions - all to further his Healing research.

He had found the way to get the Wizengamot to ease off of his family, and maybe - unlikely, but maybe - even begin to clear the tarnish that was now associated with the Malfoy name.

He had no shame in extracting every ounce of benefit Healing would offer him. He was good at it, and even he had to admit that solving a complex medical problem was… satisfying. It tested his logic, his creativity, and his magical skill.

Plus, as far as Healers went, he wasn't even that self-important. The profession attracted swots with big egos. Really, if not for the issue of his criminal record, and his family's well publicised political history, he might have fit in nicely, especially with the specialist Healers. Yes, many of them cared about helping others. But, Draco felt strongly, it was because they cared much more deeply about helping themselves.

Mulling over a case is an entirely different thing than mulling over a patient, a voice in his head said softly.

Draco pushed the thought away.

He had been relieved when he peeked at Granger's chart and saw that she had responded to his secretary and a referral had been sent out to Healer Shaw. He was worried that she was going to slough it off, seeing as she hadn't seemed particularly concerned by the fact that she had collapsed so suddenly in his office.

Which probably means that this has been going on a long, long time.

He reasoned to himself that he had chosen Healer Shaw because she was no-nonsense, efficient, and bright. Really, though, there was a much simpler reason. He couldn't stop poring over Granger's symptoms, trying to make sense of them, trying to find meaning in them.

He had trained Healer Shaw himself, and if he wasn't allowed to get to the bottom of it, it was the best substitute he could come up with.

One Week Later

Thankfully, Harry seemed able to convince Ron not to 'pop by' to Hermione's office or flat. After another day's rest, she was feeling like herself again. Malfoy's secretary had owled, just as he'd said, and she'd dutifully filled out the referral forms and sent them back, just as she'd promised she would. Honestly, though, she felt better than she had in several months, and she wasn't in a rush to be interrogated by a new Healer who, according to Malfoy, probably wouldn't know what to do with her anyway.

In the meantime, she had popped down to the Auror's apothecary to mix up a new batch of pain potion, as the vial she'd used in her office was her last one. She could have used the Ministry's apothecary, but that one was accessible to the public, and it was constantly under-stocked. Technically, working for the Law office granted her access to this one, and she took advantage when she could.

Plus, it was significantly quieter in the Auror's department.

She was titrating Horklump juice into her cauldron when the door opened. She looked up - ever since the appointment with Malfoy, she had this unshakeable feeling that she was going to look up and he'd be there, staring at her.

But it wasn't Malfoy.

She fumbled with the vial she had been holding and it fell against the edge of her cauldron, shattering. Bits of glass and liquid rained into her potion.

"Hermione? What are you doing down here?"

Marvellous, she thought, squeezing her eyes shut.

Breathe in, breathe out.

"Hi, Ron," she said weakly, turning towards him. His eyes were fixed on her ruined pain potion and then the Horklump Juice. He stepped towards her.

"Let me help you - "

"Not necessary," she interrupted airily, vanishing the mess with her wand. She was determined to be polite, and so she regarded him directly and smiled. "What brings you down to the apothecary?"

"Er - " Ron started awkwardly. He seemed to be deciding how much to tell her. "We've been brewing batches of Veritaserum for some ongoing cases."

"That's… interesting," she managed. "I've heard it's exceptionally difficult to brew."

A long, tense silence stretched between them, slowly but steadily choking the air out of the room. Ron looked at her uneasily, but he evidently couldn't dredge up the nerve to say what he wanted to say.

"Well, anyway, I'd best - " Hermione started.

"Is that - " Ron said suddenly, pointing at the cauldron with his index finger. His eyes were raking over her workstation. His eyebrows were furrowed. "Are you brewing pain potions?"

She wanted to melt into the floor, have it swallow her up, and never return above ground. She didn't know how to respond, so then she just… didn't. She started packing her bag, avoiding his eyes.

"'Mione - "

"Please don't call me that," she breathed, her voice barely above a whisper. Why had she come here? In her defence, it was the first time she'd ever seen Ron in the apothecary… but, then again, it was still squarely in the Auror's department of the Ministry, so what was she expecting?

Stupid, Hermione. You were being stupid.

Hermione met his gaze and frowned. "It's none of your business."

"Right," he said grimly, his brows furrowed tightly together. He waited a beat, then said, "Harry says you haven't been well lately."

"Harry has a big mouth," she snarled before she could stop herself. Ron actually smiled at that, apparently amused by her reaction. She, on the other hand, did not find anything to be even remotely amused about. "I'm fine, Ron," she continued, annoyed but deflating somewhat. "I've always brewed my own pain potions. They're exorbitantly overpriced in the shops."

He looked at her for a long time before sighing and rubbing his neck with his hand. "Look, could we - I dunno - could we talk? Mum wants you to come to the Burrow over Christmas, and I think it might be n–"

"I have to go," she said, cutting him off.

"Hermione." He said her name like it was a plea for mercy. He reached out to touch her arm - an automatic, instinctual movement - and withdrew it just as quickly when he saw her expression.

The brief contact felt like a flame blasting through every nerve in her body. She squeezed her eyes shut, grit her teeth. Suddenly, she heard Draco Malfoy's voice.

"When was the first time it was functionally disabling? Where you needed to stop doing what you were doing?"

Periods of intense stress.

She breathed, fighting for control of her mind and body. Slow.

In.

Out.

"Sorry," he said, holding his hands up in surrender. "I'm sorry, alright?"

She said nothing, but nodded and briefly met his eyes.

"You haven't been back in years. Hasn't it been long enough, now?" he asked quietly. He shoved his hands into his pockets and shifted uncomfortably. "Could you please just think about it?"

With every exhale, her body felt more under her control. A few more, and she felt like her feet were back on the ground. It would be nice to be at the Burrow.

It would be nicer if Ron wasn't there, she thought automatically, and then she sighed.

"Yes, I'll think about it," she conceded, and Ron looked simultaneously surprised and relieved. "Really, though - I have to go. Harry was right. I'm not feeling well."

Before Ron could respond, she disapparated.

Two Weeks Later

"Hermione Granger?" called the receptionist. Hermione stood and approached the counter. "Room three," the receptionist said, smiling blandly and pointing at a door towards the end of the hall.

The Healer was an American woman who Hermione quickly assessed as intelligent, grouchy, and extremely busy.

"Hermione," she said, quickly scanning through the chart. She stopped suddenly and frowned, flipping between two pages. "Why …" she poked her head into the hallway. "Rosalie!"

"Is something wrong?" Hermione questioned.

"They've made a mistake with your referral," she explained. She sounded frustrated. "Sorry about this. Rosalie will sort you out."

"Um, what kind of mistake?"

"Clerical error, probably," the Healer said, shrugging. "You didn't need to be sent here. The clinic that was seeing you has the specialty you need."

Her stomach dropped. "No, sorry, it's - I asked to be referred to this clinic."

"I trust you have a perfectly logical reason for that decision," she muttered sardonically, regarding Hermione with raised eyebrows. "To be referred to the less-resourced, overrun generalist clinic."

Hermione felt heat rising to her cheeks. "It's personal," she said defensively.

"Let me guess. You personally dislike Healer Malfoy."

Hermione didn't know how to respond to that.

She laughed mirthlessly. "You, and every other person who has had the pleasure of working with him. Can I be honest with you?"

"I have a feeling that you aren't concerned about my answer to that question," Hermione said drily. In the last twelve years, she had barely spared a thought for Malfoy. Now, it felt like she couldn't get away from him.

"Living up to your brilliant reputation," the Healer returned, but she wasn't being unkind. She smiled grimly and regarded Hermione directly. "Look. I can run diagnostics on you, but you're not doing yourself any favours here. If Healer Malfoy recommended admitting you to St. Mungos, I can almost guarantee that I'm going to wind up recommending the same thing. Besides," she said, almost conspiratorially, "you'll barely see him. Draco is quite infamous for being as brief as humanly possible with his patients."

Hermione snorted. That was strangely reassuring.

"Isn't there someone else? Couldn't we try - "

"It's noooooot worth it," the Healer insisted, shaking her head emphatically. "I understand, he's odious. But he is actually quite talented, and since he's London's Premier Healer," she said dramatically, with a very sarcastic British accent, "he has access to other specialists, and he doesn't mind throwing his weight around to get things done quickly." She clapped her hand on Hermione's knee sympathetically. "I've survived him. I had to work with him! For three years! You'll be okay."

"We - " Hermione started, but she didn't know where to go from there.

"We" what? Since when is there a "we"?

She tried again, more carefully this time. "He had some … opinions about me, and about people like me, when we were growing up."

The Healer peered at Hermione over her glasses and sighed. "I don't doubt that. But believe me, he is all too aware that if anyone even gets a whiff of that type of behaviour, they'll hang his career. He made one stupid comment half a decade ago and nearly lost everything. Had to go before the Wizengamot and everything. I think it really got to him."

"Well, that's something," Hermione admitted.

"And if you'll excuse me saying so," she continued, "you are what we'd call a 'high profile' patient. He'd be an idiot to step a toe out of line. And, despite all of his less-than-charming qualities, I think we can both agree that he is not an idiot."

Hermione set her mouth in a firm line. "Alright," she sighed. "Well, now what do I do? Call up his clinic and ask for an appointment, even though I just demanded to be referred elsewhere? He said that his waitlist is - "

The Healer waved Hermione off. "Don't worry about that. I'll send him an owl myself. His secretary always keeps a spot or two for urgent consults. Not to mention, that man owes me a lot of favours."

Hermione couldn't help herself. "Oh? Why is that?"

The Healer smirked. "I already told you. I had to put up with him for three years."