Draco didn't arrive at his usual time the next morning. Hermione was a little startled that she noticed, but in her own defence, there wasn't much else to do other than wait in anticipation for the next visitor. No one came around that morning; Harry and Ginny were both probably working, and she didn't expect everyone to drop their lives to ensure that she had company all the time.

Still - there was only so much reading a person could do before their already-exhausted brain simply melted. She found herself reading the same passages over and over again, and she couldn't remember any of it. For perhaps the first time in her life, poring through books felt joyless.

When a Medi-wizard asked if she was willing to do some exercises to prevent deconditioning, she practically leapt out of her chair (figuratively, of course; literally, it was much more lurch than leap). She dutifully copied his ankle pumps, and then did several very slow, controlled laps of the room with him hovering beside her for support. A few weeks ago, she would not have categorised that as exercise, but by the time she was finished, her heart was racing.

The medi-wizard deposited her back in the bedside chair. Hermione surveyed her lunch tray - coronation chicken, usually a favourite - with distaste. She didn't consider herself a picky eater most of the time, but the combination of chutney and mayonnaise suddenly felt repulsive. She ignored the dinner roll and butter, too, and reached for the orange that sat near the edge of the tray. She peeled and ate it in complete silence, stretching the task out so long that her tea had gone cold by the time she was finished.

She regretted this quite bitterly, as she couldn't cast a warming spell on it, and she couldn't bring herself to hassle the St. Mungo's staff into casting all of their protective charms just to freshen up her tea.

She sighed.

With nothing else to do, she climbed back into her bed and curled onto her side, hoping that she could fast forward through the day by napping until someone else came by. Maybe she would feel a little more alert when she woke up, and even if no one came, she could get back to reading.

Draco shook Femi's hand in parting, this time putting equal strength in his grip and feeling significantly less annoyance than the last time.

Without knowing the particulars of the blood oath, Femi had admitted that he didn't have much more to offer for the time being. When Draco had rebuffed his request to observe Obliviation therapy, Femi decided that he should return to South Africa until the memory was recovered.

"I'll admit, I was hoping to see your work," the sangoma said regretfully.

Draco fixed him with a challenging look. "'I'm not going to make a spectacle of Hermione's consciousness,'" he quoted with mock seriousness.

Femi chuckled at that. "Not even for teaching purposes?"

"I don't think you're a good fit for the job," Draco replied flatly, thinking back to Femi's expression when he had realised what it took to use Cruciatus as a treatment modality. Femi narrowed his eyes, and Draco added defensively, "You should take that as a compliment."

Femi sighed and his lips twisted into a sad sort of smile. "I think you're right about that." He clapped a hand onto Draco's shoulder and squeezed it. "You're not what I expected, Draco."

Draco shoved down the abrupt urge to knock his hand away and settled on a stiff nod instead. "Thank you for everything. I contacted nearly every specialist in Europe, but you were the only one who actually helped her."

Femi ran his tongue along the inside of his cheek. "She's not saved yet."

No shit. "I'm aware of that."

There was a heavy silence.

"Any parting words of wisdom?" Draco asked lightly, with a sigh.

"Nothing you don't already know," Femi replied. He sounded tired. "Watch for patterns. Pay attention to what sets off the oath. Limit her exposure."

Draco nodded again. "Mmhm."

Femi seemed to hesitate. "Draco," he said a little haltingly. "Take care of yourself."

He turned away, scanning for something to busy himself with. "Right. You as well, Femi."

But Femi was still looking at him. His usually warm expression was gone; only a worried frown remained. "Just remember - we cannot save everyone, no matter how badly we might want it."

Draco spun on his heel to demand what the fuck he meant by that, but somehow, the sangoma was already gone.

Hermione's nap was short-lived. Femi stopped in to announce his departure, and she was surprised by how uneasy it made her feel. The sangoma was the only one, so far, who had approached her sickness without anxiety. Annoying as it was, his brash confidence had been reassuring, especially after so many Healers who seemed happy to throw whatever diagnostic spell they could come up with in her direction.

Now it was just her and Malfoy, foraying into uncharted territory, alone.

She wanted to go home.

She did not want to be brave anymore.

The door opened again and she forced composure on herself, but once again, it wasn't Malfoy. It was a new Healer that she didn't recognize - a gentle-looking, older wizard with a kind expression.

"Niklas Friedmann," he said, offering his hand, which she took with forced enthusiasm. "You're looking much better than the last time I saw you."

"Yes," she replied hoarsely, projecting a polite smile. "I'm very grateful for everyone's help."

The Healer gave her a slightly questioning look, but he didn't comment. "I hear you're quite the voracious researcher. Do you have any questions about the Obliviation therapy?"

Her face fell. She couldn't help it. "Ah - well. Malf - Healer Malfoy didn't really have the chance to, er," she stumbled, "get into the specifics."

What with the hysterical sobbing, and the throwing herself on him.

"It's an extremely effective treatment," he said. "Near one-hundred percent recovery rates in those who complete the full course."

She eyed him carefully. "And how many patients complete the full course?"

He smiled lightly. "Nearly all, but some do choose to discontinue because of the side effects." Before she could ask, he continued, "Pain and anxiety are the most common. Longer treatments have been associated with muscle spasm and weakness, which usually resolves with time and rehabilitation without any issue."

Right.

She glanced down at her hands, her eye instantly catching on the IV attached to the back of her hand. She had grown so accustomed to it, it was practically just an extension of her now.

The Healer followed her gaze and gave her a sympathetic look. "You don't have to read this," he said quietly, handing her a folder with a thick manuscript inside. "It's quite technical and it might be more information than you really want, but this is Draco's dissertation on Obliviation therapy. It has everything you might want to know about it."

Hermione looked up in surprise and accepted the folder carefully in her hands. It felt surreal, somehow - hearing someone say Draco's name in such a gentle but proud way, the thought of Malfoy painstakingly crafting each sentence. Holding what probably amounted to a decade of his life's work felt strangely intimate.

"Thank you," she murmured. "It was very kind of you to think of bringing me this."

Friedmann smiled. "Your curiosity has a bit of a reputation." He inclined his head to her collection of books.

She swallowed heavily and smiled uncomfortably.

"Is-" shutupshutupdontDONTHERMIONE "-is he, um, working today? Draco?"

"No," Friedmann replied with a slight chuckle, and Hermione's heart sank.

What was wrong with her? Gods, she must sound pathetic -

"And yet, he's here anyway. Like always."

Oh.

"I'll send him in," Friedmann replied lightly, standing to leave.

"That's not-"

"It's completely selfish on my part, I'm afraid." He gave her a knowing look. "Draco's interrogations about you can get quite tedious."

He smiled and strode towards the door. Hermione felt her cheeks start to burn furiously.

"Nice to meet you, Miss Granger."

He left.

Despite what Friedmann had said, though, Draco clearly wasn't in a hurry to see her. She dove into the manuscript and was surprised by its cleverness. The draught he'd created to induce the coma was sophisticated. It wasn't a simple draught of the living dead, or just a potion that stunned. Some ingredients were known to stimulate the memory centre of the brain, the hippocampus, while others induced dissociation from emotion and sensation. She read voraciously, impressed by his comprehensive footnotes, and ignoring some of the more harrowing bits (she didn't think she needed to concentrate on the section titled 'restraints to prevent abnormal and harmful Cruciatus- induced posturing').

By the time he arrived, she was so absorbed in the manuscript that she jumped when she heard the door.

He wasn't wearing the usual white Healer's robes and dress shirt. Instead, today he appeared in a navy sweater with dark, well-fitted slacks and those infuriatingly understated dragonhide loafers. He looked a bit harried - his sleeves were pushed up to his forearms, unintentionally exposing the edge of his dark mark, and his hair looked like he had been running his fingers through it. Still, overall he was, as always, impeccably put-together.

And he was glaring at her.

"What?" she asked, defensive.

"What," he demanded, "is it going to take to get you to eat something?"

She started to protest, but he cut her off: "Granger, I swear to Merlin, if you tell me that a single orange is enough - and no, two cups of soup last night doesn't-"

"I'll eat," she assuaged, putting her hands up in surrender, "I promise, after we talk, I'll eat. Although - I'm sorry to ask, but I can't exactly…" She cleared her throat. "Could you warm up my tea, please? It'll help my appetite - but I just can't, you know," she stammered. She sighed, annoyed, shooting him an icy stare. He was making this infinitely harder than it needed to be. "I can't do it myself."

Draco's eyes fell on the cup of tea that had been provided to her that morning, which she hadn't even bothered to remove the bag from, and was so dark that it was nearly opaque.

His face twisted in disgust. "You can't be serious."

"Forget it," she scoffed, slamming down the manuscript on her bedside table and moving to stand. "Why did you even come in here? You're clearly-"

"Serious about allowing you to drink that," Draco clarified incredulously. "You can't reheat tea. That's disgusting."

"I always reheat my tea," she snapped. "What am I supposed to do, waste it?"

"You're supposed to drink it while it's hot."

"I get distracted when I'm working-"

"Big surprise-"

"Are you going to help me or not?" she demanded, standing up fully now and glaring in equal measure back at him.

He rolled his eyes and snatched the cup in his hand. He emptied it unceremoniously into the sink. "I'm not warming up this poison. You'll get a fresh cup because unlike you, I am civilised."

"Very funny, Malfoy."

"For the record, your proclivities with tea are absolutely appalling, Granger."

Keen on showing him exactly how civilised she was, she made a rude hand gesture in response, and then something strange happened - Malfoy grinned.

It was an automatic, unintentional response. For a moment, his eyes glinted mischievously - still pale and grey, but for once, they were bright.

She had never seen him look like that, and it must have shown in her face. Instantly, his expression clouded with impassivity and he cleared his throat uncomfortably. "What did you need to discuss with me?"

"What? Oh," she replied, flustered. "The other - Healer Friedmann gave me a copy of your manuscript, but I still have some questions about the treatment, if that's alright."

His eyes were unreadable as he looked briefly at the folder, then back at her. "Of course."

"It says that you have to use Legilimency to check for the presence of a restored memory-"

"I know what it says, Granger, I wrote it."

"Right." She frowned. "I just don't understand - why would you have to use Legilimency? Surely, I could just tell you if the memory is coming back," she said reasonably. "Once you're finished."

He shook his head. "You're going to be groggy when you wake up. Once the memory starts to return, I have to finish the retrieval right away, otherwise we'd risk losing parts of it. Legilimency is the safest, most reliable way to gauge if it's working."

She shifted uncomfortably, but didn't look away from him. "But - what if it isn't working? What if the memory hasn't come back?"

"What do you mean?"

"Well," she said, struggling to keep her voice even, "if the lost memory hasn't come back, wouldn't you see other memories instead?"

Malfoy's body seemed to slacken a little. He searched her eyes for a moment, then he sighed. "It's very obvious if it's the right memory. If it isn't, I'll withdraw immediately. No more than a second."

Hermione's brows creased together. "You promise?"

"I promise, Granger."

She pressed her lips together in a firm line and nodded sharply. "Okay."

"Okay."

He watched her for a moment before speaking again, like he was trying to piece together something in his mind. "Anything else?"

Her thoughts went to a particular paragraph that had stuck out to her.

Due to the known effects of repeatedly casting the Cruciatus curse, all Healers providing Obliviation therapy are required to obtain supervision from a Mind Healer while practising this technique.

She knew it wasn't her business, but it bothered her. "The bit about being seen by a Mind Healer," she started, but she stopped herself when Malfoy's eyes flashed dangerously at her.

"Granger," he said, his voice a low warning.

She couldn't help it. "This therapy - it can't be healthy for you, Malfoy."

"Right," he said, snatching the folder away. He was clearly furious, though she honestly couldn't understand why. "That's enough research for you, then."

"I'm just trying to help you-"

"Which is not your job, nor is it any of your business."

"That hardly seems fair," she breathed angrily, "when you're monitoring everything I do and you're about to go rooting through my mind -"

"Correct, Granger, it's not fair," Draco said harshly, "because this is not an equal relationship. I'm your Healer. It's my job to help you."

She didn't back down. "You might be able to pretend that we don't have two decades of-"

"You know what I find interesting?" Draco cut in, his tone biting and cruel. "That Hermione Granger, world's most infamous swot, somehow failed to do even a cursory glance at the research for curing Obliviation, despite having Obliviated her own parents. Strange, isn't it?"

Hermione gasped, feeling like she'd just been slapped.

She couldn't speak.

Images of her mum and dad floated into her mind, almost hazy now, as if from a different lifetime.

"I'm not your friend, Granger," Draco said in a low voice.

"No," she agreed, her voice hollow, "you're not."

"I'll have tea and supper sent up," he said coldly. "I expect you to finish all of it."

"Get out, Malfoy," she whispered, turning away from him.

She heard him hesitate for a moment, but then there was the sound of his shoes against the tile, and the door slammed shut.