Draco's first instinct was to insult Femi's intelligence and demand that he get the fuck out of his office, but he had a suspicion that Femi would be utterly apathetic to this response. Draco was, unfortunately, not one-hundred percent confident that he could refrain from hexing him into oblivion if that were to occur. He was also not optimistic about his chances that the sangoma would refrain from throttling him with wandless magic in such a scenario.

Maybe Femi would even forego magic and just use his giant fucking hands to do it himself.

Draco's lips twisted into a fractious scowl. "Can't you do something?" he snarled. "Surely, if you already know it's blood magic-"

"I would need to know the parameters of the oath," Femi replied, cutting him off. His voice was even and infuriatingly steady. "And who she made it with. I can't reverse it if I don't know what it is, and regardless, the terms may only allow for the one she's bound with to release her from it."

"And what if they won't release her from it?" Draco returned harshly. A flurry of faces came into his mind - Antonin Dolohov, Fenrir Greyback, and, to his surprise, Severus Snape. "What if they refuse, or if they're already dead?"

"Let's hope that's not the case," Femi said patiently, gaze unfaltering despite the sharpness of Draco's tone. "But until we know what she's agreed to, we have no hope of fulfilling it or undoing it, if it's even possible."

"These blood oaths - why are they used? Who uses them?"

"Practically no one, now," Femi admitted. "Blood oaths have been outlawed for several hundred years. The potential for misuse made blood magic incredibly taboo. It is the ultimate binding contract - each party is held to its terms by their own magic. The only guaranteed way to dissolve a blood oath is by having both participants agree to renounce it. Think of how easily a child or naive wizard could face lifelong damnation: lovestruck youth making promises of loyalty to someone they barely know, overeager wizards promising lifelong service to their employers. As our society became more civilised, it became less and less acceptable, and it was only taught in secret. Most of my knowledge comes from legends that were told to me by the sangomas who guided me. I've only seen it firsthand twice. Well," he amended, "three times, now, I suppose."

"An Unbreakable Vow is the ultimate binding contract," Draco said. He knew that he was just arguing for the sake of it, now, but there had to be some other way -

"I suppose," Femi conceded, raising an eyebrow thoughtfully. "But an Unbreakable Vow is a blunt instrument. Blood magic allows you to be much more specific about the conditions of the spell. Choosing your terms is much more palatable than death, is it not?"

What the hell had Granger been doing, using that kind of magic, anyway?

He was positive that she hadn't initiated it. This was dark and ancient magic, not something that she would've picked up herself - insufferable swot tendencies or no. That meant that whoever she made an oath with had to have been a substantially powerful wizard. Dolohov seemed like the most obvious choice - he came from a long line of purebloods, and Draco had seen the breadth of his knowledge. He conjured dark magic with such fluidity that it appeared effortless; there was no pause to think, no hesitation. He produced spells that Draco had never seen before, or since. Sometimes, when Dolohov was trying to extract information, or negotiate his eyes would suddenly come alive, like he was inspired , and he would become creative with the incantations - transforming them and mutilating them into even more pitiless spells.

Against his will, Draco's mind slipped down towards a series of memories that he generally avoided at all costs. In the months leading up to the Battle of Hogwarts, the Dark Lord had fully ensnared the Malfoy manor as his command centre and the Death Eaters - Dolohov included - they all ate, plotted, slept in the rooms of his childhood home. The manor had become unbearably cold, and despite the presence and work of several house elves, the air was fetid with the stale scent of unwashed bodies and the stench of fear.

Draco had given up his bedroom to Bellatrix, but it wasn't because there weren't enough bedrooms to go around. He just couldn't physically bear the dissonance of sleeping in the same place that his mother had read him bedtime stories and sang lullabies as they descended further and further into the hellscape that he himself had helped create. The halls often rang with screams produced by the Cruciatus curse; or, worse still, the manor was entirely silent. At least when there was screaming, he didn't worry about whether he was breathing too audibly. He had trained himself to inhale and exhale quickly and nearly silently, barely allowing the air into his lungs, as much as he could tolerate without becoming lightheaded. He had caught on quickly that the Dark Lord took any sign of being at ease as insubordination; he was only satisfied when each and every person was looking to him for his next command, for his permission.

Draco squeezed his eyes shut and shivered involuntarily. Concentrate. Fucking concentrate, Malfoy.

"Why would you Obliviate someone when you've just gotten them to agree to what you wanted?"

Femi was silent for a moment, raising his eyebrows as he considered this. "Perhaps they were more interested in the consequences of breaking the oath than the oath itself."

Draco made a face. "I don't see Granger entering into something like this if she had even a shred of doubt that they would double-cross her. She's too bloody clever. She never would've allowed for the possibility."

"But you think it is possible that she would agree to use blood magic, under the right circumstances."

He tapped his finger against the desk in agitation. It seemed like too much of a risk, and he had trouble seeing Hermione agreeing to use dark magic.

At the same time, Granger was a shrewd (if, at times, reckless) crusader of whatever bollocks she believed to be ' right' , whether it was bloody knit caps for House Elves or ensuring the destruction of the Dark Lord. She didn't strike him as ever being a 'half-in, half-out' type of person.

If blood magic meant she could've gotten her hands on a Horcrux to destroy? To guarantee Potter or Weasley's safety?

Yes, he admitted silently. Yes, he could see it.

"You said that it has to be me," Draco said by way of answering. "It needs to be me that recovers the memory."

"Yes," Femi replied simply.

"Why? Why does it have to be me?"

For the first time since they'd met, the sangoma looked taken aback. "Obliviation reversal is your speciality, is it not?"

Draco scoffed then and looked away. "Tell me - can anyone interpret dreams, if they feel like it?"

Femi's eyes narrowed and he frowned. "No."

Draco smirked cruelly. "Why? Seems simple enough-"

"Interpreting dreams is not simple ," the sangoma hissed, and Draco found himself gratified that he was finally the one getting under his skin. See how he fucking likes it. "Such magic requires the caster to open their mind, to experience the dreams as if they themselves had them - to feel every emotion, even if it was not theirs to begin with. It requires great-"

"Sacrifice," Draco interjected coldly. "Do you have any fucking idea what a wizard has to do to produce an effective Cruciatus curse on an innocent victim?"

Femi regarded Draco like he was seeing him for the very first time. His frown deepened, but he said nothing, waiting for him to continue.

"There's a reason that so few Healers practise Obliviation Therapy. I'm constantly being asked to teach it to new Healers, but there are so few who are even remotely capable of it, it's laughable. Makes sense, though, doesn't it? The profession doesn't tend to attract people who genuinely want to cause pain."

"How?" Femi demanded. " How could you - the first patient you treated was a child ."

"Turns out it doesn't necessarily have to be a desire to hurt the target of the curse," Draco said quietly. His voice was hollow. He was never this candid, not with anyone, but he was fucking spent. The revelation that Hermione had her memories destroyed felt like a final, fatal blow to his resolve and he didn't have the energy to care. "Easy enough for me to want to torment the person who Obliviated a child. Even easier for me to want to torture myself." He smiled bitterly. "Takes its toll on your psyche. Forced me to get very well-acquainted with Mind Healers."

Femi stared at him, incredulous. "Why do you keep doing it, then?"

"Because I fucking deserve it. "

Draco and Femi sat in silence for a long time. They held each other's gaze. Draco certainly wasn't going to look away. He wanted the sangoma to disagree with him and challenge him. He was aching to finally say it out loud: the 'cure' that he'd perfected, the very thing that had earned him a partial pardon for his crimes against the wizarding world, that was his real punishment for everything he'd done. It was a price he would pay for the rest of his paltry 'career'.

It was the least he could fucking do.

It was Femi who finally broke the silence. "Then… shouldn't you want to do this for Hermione?"

Draco buried his face in his hands and rubbed at his skin agitatedly. "It's not difficult to dissociate yourself from what you're doing when you've only met someone for a five-minute consultation before you Crucio them," he said angrily. "It can just be a person on a table. I'm just a person doing a job. Once their memories are recovered, my job is over. With Granger, I-" he stopped himself, deliberately choosing a different word than the one that immediately came to mind - care. "I… know her. It's different."

He felt Femi's hand on his shoulder. He squeezed firmly, a token of understanding, maybe even pity. Ordinarily, that was a transgression that would have provoked a physical altercation from Draco, but all he could muster was a suspicious glance at the sangoma.

"It has to be you, Draco. You've already tried to avoid each other, yet here we are."

"I'd prefer a stronger reason than because I said so, Femi," Draco groaned through clenched teeth.

"I don't control what Divination does or doesn't tell me," he said unapologetically. "But it has to be you. You know that I'm right."

That yawning, sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach suggested that he did know it already, but that didn't stop him from wanting to run as far and as fast as he could.

When Hermione was roused, she immediately felt a heavy sense of dread in the room. Draco and Femi were both already sitting in chairs opposite to her bed with a few feet between them. They each appeared solemn and professional, and - most unnervingly - they appeared completely civil towards each other.

There was a steaming cup of tea placed directly in front of her, the tray having been positioned over her bed.

She felt her heartbeat pick up pace as she looked at Draco in alarm. "What's - what's all this?"

"We have some difficult things to discuss with you," he said gently, his eyebrows drawn together in a frown. "I wasn't sure if you wanted to have Harry join us-"

"No," Hermione replied instantly, and then she felt a pang of guilt for it, because she knew Harry would want to be there. But she just couldn't - she didn't want to manage anyone else right now. "Please tell me what's going on."

"You've been so ill because your magic is deliberately attacking your body."

Hermione's eyes narrowed. "I have never heard of such a thing. That doesn't make even basic sense, Malfoy. Magical reactivity isn't an attack, anyway. And - it's not deliberate. It's a well-known phenomenon. It happens when-"

"Hermione," Draco said softly, and something in his tone made her voice dry up in her throat. He sighed, his eyes not leaving hers. She swallowed heavily. "I'm not talking about the magic surges. I'm talking about what's been happening to you. Why you came to see me in the first place."

That wasn't why I came to see you, she thought automatically. I came to see you because Harry made me.

I didn't want any of this.

"You used a very obscure form of magic called a blood oath, but we don't know why. You were Obliviated after using it."

She couldn't help herself. Really.

She burst out laughing. She watched as Femi stole a glance at Draco, who didn't react.

His lack of reaction confused her.

"But that's absurd," she said flippantly, as if waiting for his punchline.

"I know this is difficult-"

"Malfoy, I think I would know if I was missing a chunk of my memory," she interjected, and she could hear the pitch of her voice rising. "It's me. If there had been any unaccounted for time, I would have noticed. I'm - I pay attention. I would know."

"Not in my experience," he replied quietly.

Not in his experience.

His experience with all of the Obliviated patients he'd seen.

The ones he'd Crucioed.

Her mind snapped to that horrible moment - the one she'd never forget, not as long as she lived.

'What else did you take, what else? ANSWER ME! CRUCIO!'

Bellatrix Lestrange's clawed fingers. Her soul being ripped apart from the middle, tearing her to shreds, destroying her. Babbling, begging for her mother - who, by then, didn't even know that she had ever existed. Mudblood. Mudblood. Mudblood.

"You're wrong, " she cried.

"No, Hermione," Femi said seriously. "Draco isn't wrong. The ritual I performed with you confirmed that you've engaged in blood magic. Your dreams," he paused, looking at her earnestly, "confirmed to me that someone tried to erase the memory."

"NO!" she screamed.

She couldn't. She couldn't do it again. Hadn't it been enough? She was wandless, barren of her magic, locked away from everyone - wasn't it enough?

"It's alright," Femi soothed, offering the same root he had presented her with before. "It's alright. Just take this."

"I don't want it!" she shrieked, scooting backward and shoving the tray table forward to make space between them. Hot tears burned tracks down her face.

"Femi - give us a minute," Draco said tightly. Femi opened his mouth to speak and Draco snapped, " Now. "

A muscle flickered in Femi's jaw, but he said nothing before he stood and turned on his heel towards the door.

"Granger-"

"No!" she said again, shaking her head frantically and squeezing her eyes closed. She was sobbing, hard. She desperately tried to inhale, but it wasn't enough, she felt like she was suffocating. "I won't. I won't do it. "

"Granger, look at me," he said, his voice simultaneously quiet and undeniably firm. She felt the pad of his thumb press into the crease of her wrist and her eyes snapped open. His gaze was clear and alert. He had moved the tray table out of the way, and he was right up close to her now. "You're having a panic attack. You need to breathe."

She ineffectually sucked in several gasps in a row. He shook his head and shushed her, trapping one of her hands in his. He forced her palm against his chest, over his heart. "No, Granger. Like this. Like me."

She watched as he inhaled slowly, with control, through his nose - and then he exhaled, gradually and deliberately, through pursed lips. She felt his lungs swell and then deflate under her fingers. Felt the cords of muscle across his chest contracting and relaxing.

"Breathe out slowly like you're blowing through a straw. Empty all the way out."

It was interrupted by a couple of stuttering sobs, but eventually, she started to be able to copy his rhythm. She might just have been feeling her own frantic pulse, but she thought that she felt the beat of his heart starting to slow down, too.

"Just like that," he whispered, nodding. He was watching her lips, her mouth. "Just like that."

And she could feel herself coming down, slowly lowering back towards solid ground. She was transfixed on his eyes as he studied her and examined her breaths.

And suddenly, she was buried in his crisp, white dress shirt, between the lapels of his Healer's robe, clutching him, sobbing and raw.

She had clung to him for a few seconds before realising that he was utterly motionless under her. He hadn't pulled away, but his body was stiff beneath her hands and face. She realised what she had done, in horror, and released his shirt - her lungs were burning with shame and fuck

what is wrong with you Hermione what the hell did you just do and

And then she felt his hand on the back of her head, strong and sure, his fingers parting their way through her curls.

Hermione felt like the world had just burst open, and there would be no putting it back. She collapsed back against him and clung to him as he let her cry. He gently rested his chin against the top of her forehead, and he muttered soft nonsense to her until her breaths finally slowed and she had no tears left.