Harry had had better days.

His hair, never kempt at the best of times, was sticking out in all directions near his ears from where he'd been pulling at it. He was hungry, tired, and surly enough to lash out at whoever crossed him next. The night had been a blur of shouted arguments and flooing from his office to his home, or vice versa. Late in the evening, the Auror's Office had received a sealed envelope, addressed directly to him. His supervisor, Archibald Goldstein, had demanded to watch as Harry opened it, given the status of the Dolohov investigation.

Goldstein had good instincts.

Harry was mildly surprised at the neatness of the writing, but he supposed that Dolohov had been raised in the midst of other pureblood elites, so surely he was well-educated.

Potter,

Many times now, you've taken something very precious from me.

I think it's time I take something back.

AD

Mayhem unleashed in the Auror's office. Harry moved towards the fireplace, Goldstein and Ron were yelling over one another.

"Where do you think you're going?" Goldstein demanded.

"To Ginny," Harry said simply, and he wasn't planning on being stopped. Dennis Creevey had stepped in front of the fireplace. "Don't, Dennis," he warned, his voice low.

"That is exactly what he expects you to do!" Goldstein argued. "You aren't going alone. We need to assemble a team - "

"I'm not waiting while - "

"That's an order, Potter!"

Mercifully, Goldstein was efficient, and it only took the time to produce several Patronuses for a crew of Aurors to crowd together at his home, ready for action. Ginny hadn't been happy, not that she had any choice. "So, you want me to sit in a safehouse until you've captured him?" she demanded, glaring in equal measure at her husband and at her brother. "And do what, knit a thousand jumpers? He's been loose for twelve years !"

Back and forth it went, but eventually, Harry was at least able to get Ginny to agree to round the clock Auror protection at their home - for now.

Ron and Harry had been so frightened for Ginny that they didn't realise that there was someone else they should inform right away; that only came several hours later.

Hermione pushed out a shaky breath and latched the window.

"Lumos minima," she muttered, and a dim light suffused through the sitting room.

She glanced at the clock - 3:13 AM. She could still feel adrenaline blasting through her body, and she knew that trying to go back to sleep was a fanciful goal.

Tea. Tea and telly.

She didn't have many vestiges of muggle life, but she had insisted on a television set when she moved out of Ron's flat and into her own. It was a nostalgic comfort, especially when she wasn't feeling well. She would cocoon herself in her quilts, set a freshly steeped mug of whatever blend she had in the cupboard (usually an herbal lemon or bergamot), and station herself on the sofa with a bland sitcom playing quietly, giving the illusion of company with no obligation to entertain.

She padded back to her bedroom to grab a sweatshirt - she was freezing - when she noticed it: dark flecks stippled and streaked across the bottom of her pyjama top. It was hard to tell what she was looking at in the low lighting, and she couldn't make out the colour of the stain.

Hermione flicked the light switch, and in an instant, she was running in a panicked fury. Once she had reached the loo, she threw the ruined shirt into her hamper and wrenched the taps open to maximum heat. There was blood all over her forearm, evidently from repetitive, vicious scratches over one area in particular.

She stuck her arm under the scalding water, welcomed the painful heat, and inhaled sharply to steady herself.

Soon, the rusty smudges washed away and the scar appeared as clearly as ever, even more so, with all of the inflammation, redness, and fresh cuts stark against her sallow skin.

Mudblood.

"Healer Malfoy - "

"Yes, I know," Draco said quickly to Isabella, cutting her off. "I'm nearly late. I'm sorry. What room?"

His secretary looked uneasy. His brows pulled together in a frown as she shook her head. "I think you should look at this," she said quietly, sliding him a piece of parchment face down. "It arrived sometime in the night."

Confused, he reached for the slip of paper and pulled it from the desk.

His face fell.

Fuck. Fucking hell.

He moved quickly. "Stall my appointments as long as you can. I need to…" What, Malfoy? What exactly are you going to do? "... deal with this."

For once, Isabella didn't protest, she simply nodded and handed him Granger's chart. He opened it quickly, and found what he was looking for on the first page: the address of her flat. He excused himself, hurried to the back of the clinic where the supplies and medicinal potions were kept, and silently Accio'd a selection of things into his Healer's kit.

It took Draco a moment to get his bearings once he had apparated. It was a familiar part of London, but obviously he had never been to Granger's flat. After going the wrong direction for a stretch, he was able to right himself and soon enough, he was standing in front of a block of row houses that looked to have the correct numbers.

Granger's was not particularly unique, save for a red tin letterbox next to her front door and a squat, ugly cactus visible through her window.

He knocked (pounded would be more accurate) on the door and spoke loudly. "Granger, open up."

At first, he could only hear some muffled sounds - voices? - then the indistinguishable noise suddenly ceased, and there was the unmistakable sound of bare feet on a wooden floor.

She opened the door slowly, squinting into the morning light like she had just woken up. "Malfoy?" she asked, her voice thick with confusion and sleep. "What are you doing here? I sent an owl."

He couldn't stop himself. "I'm sorry," he snapped, the sarcasm in his voice nearly venomous, "was I meant to be reassured by this?"

He shoved the piece of parchment into Granger's hand and she examined it. She went from looking disoriented to looking very regretful in the space of a moment. She rubbed her eyes with the heel of her palm before examining it more carefully: taking in the sloppy facsimile of her usual, neat handwriting, the shakiness of the cursive, and the extraordinarily unsubtle smear of blood dragging over the right half of the note. She looked like she was battling the worst headache of her life. Her eyes were puffy and dark, and her usual lion's mane of curls hung limply around her face.

"I can explain," she said quietly, tiredly. "I'm sorry - it's, really, it's - everything is fine."

"Why is there blood on this note?" he questioned, his tone clinical and harsh. When she didn't answer straight away, he persisted, speaking harshly through grit teeth. " Granger."

Instinctively, she drew her arm in towards her chest, locking her opposite hand over her wrist.

What he did next was not, strictly speaking, the most professional moment of his Healing career. He saw a length of shoddily-wrapped bandage under the sleeve of her robe, and he shouldn't have done anything. He should have asked. He should have let go when she jerked back and protested at his hand gripping her wrist. Instead, Draco held fast on her forearm, holding her in place as he tugged the dressing off as gingerly as possible with her trying to wriggle away.

She tried to twist, to shield him from it, but she was considerably weaker than him.

Draco dropped her arm as if it had burned him, then squeezed his eyes shut like he was willing himself not to see what he had just seen.

Eleven Years Ago

"Out! I want him out!" the patient cried, pointing a shaking finger at Malfoy.

"Of course," Draco said calmly, humiliated but nevertheless determined. "I just need to speak to Healer Diggory - "

"You heard the witch," Diggory replied coldly. "Out."

"But if you use Dittany - "

"Get out, Malfoy," Diggory barked, not bothering to look at Draco directly. He continued pouring the dittany onto stretches of gauze, preparing to lay them across the dozens of Diffindos that had sliced through the patient's skin.

"I'm interested in what Mr. Malfoy has to say," said a curious voice. Draco spun around to find its source: Niklas Friedmann, a usually reserved Healer that he had seen around the Emergency Department. He'd never spoken to him directly. He raised an eyebrow. "Well, Draco? Why shouldn't we use dittany?"

"Well, you should," Draco amended quickly. "But not yet. If you use it now, it will scar - "

"I am far more concerned about her bleeding than her scarring," Diggory snapped, applying the first of the gauze strips to a particularly deep gash on her neck.

" Wait," he pleaded, fighting with every bit of his willpower to keep his temper out of his voice. "If you use a paste of Bubotuber pus and ground Bezoar first, it won't scar. It's -" he paused, licked his lips. "...a trick I learned."

Friedmann watched Draco with interest for a moment before speaking. "Show me how you mix them."

Diggory rolled his eyes incredulously. "We don't just allow Death Eaters to experiment on our patients, Niklas."

"Indeed," Friedmann agreed neutrally. "I would like to see it for myself. The compounds make sense; I don't see why it shouldn't work. Those ingredients wouldn't cause harm to her, at any rate."

Draco was dumbstruck for a moment. He swallowed. "Er - right. I'll show you, then."

"Richard, give her some blood replenishment potion," Friedmann suggested to Diggory. "We'll be back shortly."

Diggory said nothing, but watched Draco with deadly eyes as he walked with Friedmann to the potion stores.

Several days later, Draco saw the witch again as she was leaving St. Mungo's. She frowned, but then gave a stiff nod of acknowledgement towards him.

Her skin was unblemished, save for the long cut across her neck.

Present

Hermione's heart was hammering in her chest. She slowly drew her arm back towards her, cradling it protectively in her other hand. She stepped back from Malfoy.

"Alright, Hermione," he said, his voice quiet with defeat. "Come on. Gather up what you need. I'll apparate us."

"Apparate?" she demanded. "Apparate where?"

"St. Mungo's," he replied slowly, as if the answer was obvious. He was frowning, but his eyes were unreadable as they drew back to her mutilated skin, which was now pressed out of sight against the fabric of her robe. "To see a Mind Healer. I have a legal obligation to make sure you're seen." At her sound of protest, he admonished her. "I'm a mandated reporter for self-harm. You know that, Granger."

"What? I didn't do this myself!" she insisted, then immediately back-pedalled when she saw the look of genuine alarm on Malfoy's face. "I mean," she corrected, "I didn't do it on purpose. I was… having nightmares. I didn't realise that I was doing it."

Malfoy's expression was wary, like he couldn't decide whether he should believe her or not.

"Can you…" she started, then she closed her eyes, steeling herself. She swallowed heavily. "Can you just come in, please?"

"I think that'd be best," he replied coolly, moving through the doorway and past her.

Wordlessly, she turned and headed towards the sitting room. She offered him an overstuffed loveseat to sit on with a gesture of her hand, but he rebuffed her, saying that no, he'd prefer to stand, thanks. She didn't meet his eyes.

"Tea?" she asked nervously, walking towards the kitchen.

"You're stalling, Granger," Malfoy said flatly. "I have patients to see."

Of course.

She nodded mutely, chewing the inside of her cheek. Finally, she sat stiffly on a kitchen chair and looked at her feet, unable to make herself speak.

"I'm waiting," he said impatiently.

"I'm finding this rather difficult, alright?" she snapped, more harshly than she'd meant to. "I'm… trying ."

He waited for her to continue, but when she didn't, he spoke instead. He met her gaze directly. He looked... cautious. "This isn't exactly easy for me, either."

"No, I suppose it wouldn't be," she muttered bitterly, her thumb absently running across the Mudblood scar. "Healing someone like me."

The shock and hurt were so brief that Hermione might have thought she'd imagined it, if not for the redness that rose to Malfoy's cheeks as he put on an expression of haughty indifference.

"That's exactly right, Granger," he scowled, folding his arms over his chest. She looked back at him in incredulous awe. His Healing kit was still hanging from his right hand. "Because no matter what I do, no matter how well I treat you, no matter how hard I try - if anything bad happens to you, I'll be crucified ."

A stab of guilt ran through her heart, and a familiar pulse of pain started at the base of her skull.

She ignored it.

"I'm sorry. That … maybe wasn't called for."

"No, it bloody wasn't."

They were both silent for several moments.

"I understand," Malfoy said finally, leaning against her kitchen counter and pushing his fingers through his hair in resignation. "This is a fucking mess."

Hermione exhaled a bitter imitation of a laugh. "Indeed."

Hesitantly, he stepped towards her and sat at the chair opposite to her, the table between them. He placed his kit on the table and held out his hand to her. "Can I take a look at it?"

"Go ahead," she replied tightly, turning over her arm. He held her wrist loosely and leaned in to examine it more closely. Every time she saw it, she thought it looked worse. The scratches were red and angry.

He indicated to his kit with his head. "May I?"

She nodded.

He worked with practised efficiency. Scourgefy, gloves, unscrewing the lid of a jar that contained thick, foul-smelling paste. Delicately dabbing his fingers against the cuts with the salve.

He was gentle.

"I expected you to be better at dressing wounds," he muttered smugly, the ghost of a smile whispering on his lips. With a silent tap of his wand, he secured a fresh bandage neatly over her forearm. "Should heal up fine in a few days."

"Will it scar?" she asked, then she grimaced. "... more?"

He shook his head.

Neither of them said anything for a while. Malfoy was staring at her arm, apparently trying to work something out in his head.

"I have an idea," he started, but his tone was tentative. "That might make this… easier."

"I'm open to suggestions," she said tiredly. "I'm sick of feeling this way."

"Has it gotten worse?"

She shrugged. She wasn't sure, really. Some days were better than others. He nodded and looked away from her before continuing.

"Healer Willem is completing a fellowship in curse management under my supervision," Malfoy explained. "I could oversee your case, but he would be the one meeting with you. I'd give him direction." He shrugged. "Supervise."

"Why wasn't that an option from the start?" she questioned, forcing herself not to sound irritated.

"He's inexperienced," Malfoy said without hesitation. "And, if I'm honest, lazy. But… I think it would be the best option going forward. He takes direction well. I could… just be in the background."

Just in the background.

To her surprise (and horror), Hermione felt the beginnings of tears rising up to the corners of her eyes. She looked away from him, embarrassed. "I would really appreciate that."

He stood quite suddenly. "Good. Now. Get yourself sorted, then I want you to see him in the clinic today ." He put significant emphasis on the last word. "Enough faffing about. I don't like the way you look, Granger."

She forcibly restrained herself from taking offence to his choice of wording, then thought of something. "Wait. Malfoy. What if he wants to admit me to St. Mungo's?"

Malfoy's eyes moved over her, briefly scanning her face, her fingers. "I think that you should consider that as a strong possibility. And -" he said, raising a silencing hand as she started to speak over him. "I would advise you to do what he tells you to."

"Then I need to go to the Ministry first," she said, not sure if she was asking him or telling him.

He looked amused. "Planning on working while you're in hospital, are you?"

"The opposition is trying to challenge the House Elves' Wage Law - "

"Spare me the details." He waved his hand. "Fine. But directly to the clinic after that."

Hermione nodded eagerly. Satisfied, Malfoy asked if he could use her floo, which she quickly directed him to.

Then, as quickly as he had appeared, he was gone.

Hermione stopped in the loo before leaving the Ministry. The case files were safely stowed in her magically extended bag, along with several texts, comfortable clothing, and her toothbrush.

If she was going to St. Mungo's, she would make it as comfortable and productive as possible.

She was just thinking that it was strangely quiet in the women's loo for a Friday morning when she heard the lock on the door slide shut. She squinted at it, confused. She pointed her wand and silently thought Alohamora, which produced no results. "Hello? There's someone in here!"

"I thought I'd missed you, Hermione," came a voice from the stalls. She froze. "You weren't at work this morning. Where were you?"

She knew who that voice belonged to.

She spun, scanning the stalls. Many of the doors were shut, but she could see no feet peeking out from under any of the doors. "What do you want?" she demanded, wand raised - though she had no idea what direction she should be pointing.

"No need to be hostile." She could hear the smile in Antonin Dolohov's words. "I thought we were just having a pleasant conversation."

"Afraid to come out, Dolohov?" she countered loudly, trying to plan as quickly as she could. Her mind was racing. She felt disadvantaged. She was disadvantaged, and she wasn't thinking as sharply as usual. Why was he here?

"Nothing wrong with a bit of hide and seek," he murmured, and it almost felt like he whispered it into her ear. She stumbled backward and flattened herself against the wall of the bathroom, wand still raised.

He's throwing his voice. He might not even be in the room , she thought urgently. "You didn't answer my question. What do you want ?"

"Well," he replied, and now his voice was everywhere, coming from every direction, suffocating her. "Over the years, I've managed to collect a faction of some like minded individuals. We'd like very much to negotiate our return home and it seems I'm in need of some, ah - " he chuckled softly. " Leverage ."

Don't strike too early, she thought. He's fast. You might only have one chance. She barely moved her wand and thought clearly, Revelio.

Whatever he had used to hide himself had been strong, but she saw the split-second flicker of change, a strange shift in the texture of one of the stall doors. Like looking through water.

He must have sensed it, too, because in an instant he bellowed, " VELOCES DIRUAM!"

She was just quick enough. She strangled out "P rotego " in return, and she heard him collide solidly against the stall. Suddenly, Dolohov's head and shoulders became visible as he slid heavily to the floor. The rest of his body appeared to still be under an invisibility cloak.

His veins bloomed black against his tanned, dirty skin, and he grunted but did not move further.

She moved toward him and -

Hermione felt her organs crushing inward. Air stole out of her lungs. She staggered to the floor, her hands on her neck. It was painful, so painful -

Couldn't breathe -

Everything was still.

Harry and Goldstein were arguing about the relative merits of alerting the public to the now very real threats of Antonin Dolohov when an announcement rang out through the Ministry.

All available Aurors, to the Department of Law and Wizarding Policy, second floor, immediately. All available Aurors, to the Department of Law and Wizarding Policy, second floor, immediately.

Ron and Harry were on their feet and running before the announcement finished.