Draco slid out of Hermione's mind like water funnelling down a drain: there, filling all of the space and overwhelming it – then, suddenly, leaving a yawning emptiness where it had just been.
Hermione's eyes snapped open. Draco was blinking furiously, brows furrowed, his expression uncomprehending. She felt his fingers stiffen against her cheeks, where he'd been holding her to perform Legilimency. Hermione felt her face crumple; the corners of her mouth pulled uncontrollably downward and her eyebrows pinched together in anguish.
Suddenly, she felt Draco's hands snap into fists, and his expression twisted with indescribable fury.
He was on his feet, turned away from her, every visible muscle straining taut against his skin like it could barely contain him.
"I'll fucking kill him."
"Draco," Hermione choked. "Don't–"
"Wanda, I need you to send in Friedmann," Draco ordered, not turning towards Hermione or even acknowledging that he'd heard her. "Potter, too."
He turned his head just slightly towards Hermione, but he didn't look at her. A muscle in his jaw flickered, and he turned away again. Silently, he transfigured his surgical scrubs and trainers into a set of dark robes and dragonhide boots, complete with black cloak. Stiffly, he unbuttoned the cuffs of his sleeves and rolled them up his forearms, exposing his Dark Mark in the process.
"Draco, please –" Hermione pleaded, at the same time as Wanda asked, "where on earth are you going?"
"You can administer the maximum dose of calming draught," Draco said quietly to Wanda before stepping towards the door.
"Draco!" Hermione cried, scrambling behind him and clumsily pulling the IV stand with her.
Since that day in the manor, pain had become such a commandeering facet of her life that she hadn't even noticed when she could no longer identify where illness ended and she began. Her existence had whittled down to survival and obligation. At some point, the world had become grey, and she had forgotten that it had ever been any different.
If she hadn't had such strong friendships beforehand, she was quite sure she would be alone now. Objectively, she had done well in her career, but she hadn't even come close to the aspirations of her youth. She championed the rights of magical creatures, but all of the other causes she'd fantasized about — education reform, enshrined legislation against blood status discrimination, protection of sacred magical habitats — had all, by necessity, fallen away like a distant pipe dream.
Curiosity had dulled.
Instead of adventure, she sought out solitude, and her home, and her bed - anything to give her a reprieve from the constant betrayal of her body.
She'd become a shadow of her former self.
And yet, somehow, Draco Malfoy had managed to infiltrate her muted life and suffuse it with flashes of colour.
Somehow, Draco Malfoy had been the one to see her fading away from the world and demand to know why.
Draco Malfoy understood her.
In her fog of putting one foot in front of the other, of barely keeping her head above water despite her attempts at treading - he had seen her, and had forcibly pulled her from drowning, despite her attempts to sink him with her.
She wasn't about to let him drag himself back underwater.
Her fingers clamped forcibly around his forearm, smothering the slithering image of the Dark Mark with her palm. "Don't," she begged softly. "You can't throw away twelve years for one moment of revenge."
His eyes flicked up to meet hers. His stare was sharp. "Hermione—"
"Wanda, can I please speak to Draco alone?" Hermione interrupted, not taking her eyes off of his. She smoothed the pad of her thumb over his skin. He frowned down at it, clenching his jaw and swallowing forcefully.
"I'll find Harry," Wanda said in a carefully neutral tone, "give you two a moment."
Draco shot a mutinous look at Wanda, as if she had betrayed him by refusing to let him leave too, but he said nothing.
Wanda shut the door behind her softly.
Draco now stared resolutely at the floor, apparently wrestling with what to say. He kept opening his mouth, then closing it again.
He was afraid of setting off the oath, she realised.
"Draco, please look at me," she whispered. Hearing the note of desperation in her voice, he did, and it seemed to dislodge something in Draco. His expression was one of torment.
His fingers curled slowly into a tightly clenched fist.
Then he was all around her, tugging her forcefully into his chest and caging her with his hands. One moved to encircle her shoulders, and the other spanned the back of her head, pressing her into him.
"I'm sorry," he whispered fiercely. He let her melt into him, which was good, because her muscles suddenly felt weak. "I'm so sorry."
She shook her head. Her voice was dry in her throat. Her tears – whenever those had started – had already created a wet patch on his shirt. She sobbed, and if Draco hadn't been holding her, she might not have been able to stay upright. Draco swept his arms under her legs and curled her into him in a smooth, deft movement. He carried her back to the procedure table and sat, cradling her against him.
His lips were against her temple, reassuring her. Hermione tilted her head up against them.
Her fingers curled, bunching the fabric of his shirt in their grip.
Draco shifted just slightly to the side and his cheek pressed against her forehead. His fingers wrapped loosely around the back of her neck - soft enough to comfort, firm enough to support.
Something inside her broke open. The pieces of her, so painstakingly held in their fragile positions, finally shattered and fell.
Hermione let out a primal sound – an anguished cry that echoed through Ward Four's corridors. Draco planted firm kisses against her forehead between soft shhhs. He rocked his body back and forth slowly, moving her with him.
She let him.
Eventually, she heard the click of the door. Hermione didn't move to extricate herself and her sobs continued to echo out into the quarantine room.
"Hi," came a soft, tentative voice – Harry's.
Draco tilted his head up, but every other part of him remained in place securely over her, cradling her body to his. Harry's eyes raked over her, his expression alarmed.
She couldn't calm herself enough to string a sentence together, and she couldn't bear to look at Harry. Hermione squeezed her eyes shut and burrowed into Draco's chest. His thumb stroked down the back of her neck as his fingers cradled her head.
He was murmuring something directly into Harry's ear, but she couldn't hear it over the sound of her own shuddering breaths.
"Right," Harry said gently. "I'll take care of it."
She felt Harry's lips against the crown of her head and he squeezed her shoulder firmly before leaving. The door latched again, and she her arms fall, winding them around his torso. She wanted to be engulfed by him, to feel his body over hers.
He was very calm.
"Draco," she whispered, her breath finally slow enough to allow her to speak. "I'm so sorry…"
She felt every one of his muscles stiffen and his grip tightened over her. "Don't–" Draco started, then he stopped himself forcefully, biting down hard on his bottom lip. "For fuck's sake, Granger," he muttered. "That's – I'm not important."
"He's your fath–"
"He's a fucking monster," Draco said, shaking his head fervently. "I should never have –"
He made a choked sound and covered his eyes with his hand. "Christ…"
Hermione pulled back just enough to look at him; he was having trouble keeping himself together. She saw flashes of pain as his eyebrows scrunched together, only to shake his head and school his features back into steely neutrality.
The door burst open suddenly and Hermione gasped.
Draco's arm tightened around her and he rolled her behind him on the procedure table and stood with his wand raised. For a moment, he blocked the view of the new entrant.
"You need to leave," Draco warned, his voice distinctly clear and brooking no room for argument, "now."
She moved to see -
"I'm sorry for it, Draco, but we need to interview her," Goldstein said, his tone equally calm and firm as Draco's. "You have my word, we'll make it as brief and noninvasive as we possibly can."
Noninvasive.
She could feel the squeeze in her windpipe, slowly being crushed closed under Lucius' careful pressure.
Feral little thing, aren't you?
Bile rose in her throat.
Draco stepped forward. "Keep moving and I'll acquaint your entrails with these hospital floors," Draco returned, slowly and deliberately digging the tip of his wand into the curve where Goldstein's jaw met his neck.
Calmly, Goldstein raised his hands in surrender – though he still held his own wand in his right hand. "You're upset," he replied slowly. "Understandably so. I'm choosing not to take your threat against the Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement seriously, Malfoy."
"Then you're a bastard and an idiot," Draco replied crisply, evidently unable to stop himself.
"Draco," Hermione warned, moving to reach out to him.
He raised his free hand in a gesture to tell her to stop, though he didn't look away from Goldstein.
"Why aren't you with the other Aurors and raiding the manor?" Draco demanded. "He's not going to go quietly - if he hasn't alreadyfled the country…"
Goldstein's mouth hardened into a firm line as he looked at Draco with something close to pity.
"We arrested your father the night you went to the Manor."
Despite himself, Draco staggered a little at Goldstein's words.
"You – what?"
"I can't discuss the details of the investigation with you," Goldstein replied, "but I cansay that we uncovered enough to be granted a warrant to search the manor. When you... visited, suddenly, you can understand why I thought it necessary to execute that warrant."
Draco stared at him, speechless.
Goldstein continued. "Your father was found in possession of an international portkey, which is a violation of the terms of his probation."
Draco was silent for another moment, apparently processing Goldstein's words. He didn't lower his wand. "You arrested him, and you made sure I wouldn't find out, so I'd finish the Obliviation therapy."
Goldstein gave him an unapologetic look. "My hands were tied."
"Get out," Draco said. "Now."
Goldstein sighed, starting to betray his own impatience. "We need Hermione's testimony to keep holding Lucius in custody."
Hermione jumped as she heard a bang beside her; the cabinet door had flung open and a glass flask sailed out from it and directly into Draco's free hand.
He had summoned it silently and wandlessly.
For the first time, Hermione saw wariness flicker across Goldstein's features.
Staring directly at Goldstein with murder in his eyes, Draco brought the flask to his lips and spat in it. Hermione instantly recognised the luminescent blue; he had infused it with a memory. Hers, presumably.
"There's your fucking testimony," Draco spat, shoving the flask into Goldstein's chest. "Get," he snarled, "out."
Goldstein wrapped his fingers around the proffered container and swallowed heavily. He only hesitated a moment before backing out of the room.
In the transition, Wanda and Friedmann filed back inside.
"Are you alright?" Friedmann demanded, and it seemed to take Draco a moment to realise that the Healer was asking him, not Hermione.
"I'm fine," Draco lied automatically. He turned towards her, his eyes raking over her. He looked guilty. "But I shouldn't stay here."
"But–"
"Look after her, yeah?" Draco muttered to Friedmann. The look he was giving her was almost wistful. His eyes skated over her lips and his gaze softened, just slightly. "Everything's going to alright, Granger."
"Be careful," she whispered, "don't do anything stupid, Draco."
The corner of his lip curled into a smirk. He looked directly at her, simultaneously dangerous but still soft somehow. "No promises."
True to his word, Femi arrived less than half an hour after he'd been notified that Hermione's memory was recovered. He met Draco in one of the Ward's conference rooms.
Draco cast a Muffliato, though he was sure it wouldn't be necessary. He couldn't afford to be shouting; anger wouldn't get him what he needed. His father was too slippery - too cunning.
The only way to trap a panther was to outsmart it.
Femi's demeanour was solemn as he sat opposite to Draco. He waited for Draco to speak.
"What do I need to know about the blood oath my father used?"
Femi surveyed him thoughtfully.
"The variation he used was designed specifically for indentured servants," he said after a moment. "It was made to bond a slave to their captor's will, usually in exchange for food and shelter. It was common when–" he hesitated, wincing. "When muggle-borns were persecuted by their people for witchcraft, but ostracised by the wizarding world for their blood status."
Draco exhaled forcefully through his nostrils, frowning. "And when they disobeyed commands, they were tortured by their magic."
Femi sighed, but he nodded. "Slaves were considered valuable, even if they were less prized than house elves. As I understand it, the spell was designed to inflict suffering, but not actual damage, unless they intentionally brought harm on the ones who 'owned' them."
"Harm could mean almost anything," Draco replied, shaking his head in frustration. "Obviously, it was triggered when she deflected Dolohov's curse back onto him, and that was what caused her magic to become unstable. But testifying at the trials seemed to do it too – I can't see her 'disobeying' a direct order as a witness on the stand."
Femi sighed. "I'm not certain. Even my knowledge of blood oaths is still very limited, Draco. It's dark, ancient magic. I doubt that your father understood the full implications of it when he used it, either."
Draco chose not to directly acknowledge the mention of his father. Draco had no doubt Lucius was fully aware of what he was doing, no matter what Femi thought.
"You knew more than you let on," Draco said quietly. "Is that why? Because you knew it was him?"
Femi's look of repulsion seemed to answer the question. "No, Draco. As I've said, it was obvious to me that you had to help Hermione, but I didn't know why. Although — it does make sense, now."
Draco frowned. "Does it? I fail to see how, outside of the poetic irony. My father answers to no one. Certainly not to me."
Femi gave him a hard, meaningful look. "To undo a blood oath," he said carefully, "if translations and oral tradition have not muddled the meaning through the centuries, that is – my understanding is that it requires the blood of the oath takers, willingly given."
Draco's heartbeat quickened. "Say… say that again?"
"The blood of the oath takers," Femi repeated, eyes boring into Draco's, "willingly given."
Blood of the oath takers.
Draco stood suddenly. "Do you have what you need to perform the ceremony to break the bond?"
Femi nodded, but he regarded Draco warily. "Shouldn't you stay here?"
"I need to take care of a few things first."
Femi nodded again and gave Draco a grim sort of smile. "Don't get yourself killed."
"I don't plan on it."
Clear and alert, Draco trailed back towards the floo.
Though Lucius did not deserve it, Draco would offer his father one final opportunity to be treated with mercy.
