Hermione forgot where she was when she first woke, but it didn't last.

Bright lights, white walls, grey eyes.

Grey eyes.

Draco's gaze was focused and serious, but then he was looking back over his shoulder, uneasy, and retreating away from her.

Friedmann's illuminated wand came up in front of her eyes, and she tried not to squint as he peered at her pupils.

The senior Healer cast a diagnostic charm and took a few moments to survey it. Then he nodded, apparently satisfied, and smiled gently at her.

"How are you feeling, Hermione?"

She felt a bit like she had tried to run a marathon without bothering to prepare; every muscle was wrung out.

"Sore, but alright."

"You did very well." A reassuring nod. "Get as much rest as you need today, but I want you to ensure you eat all of your meals. This treatment takes a lot out of you."

She nodded back. "Did, um, was there—"

Then she recalled Draco's hands holding her head in place as he slipped into her consciousness, the feeling of intrusion and her mind being overfull, it hurt, but she remembered Draco had told her not to resist, and so she had tried to relax. Tried to relax as she felt him there, peering into and winding through her unfiltered thoughts, feeling her raw emotion and exhaustion after collapsing at his clinic.

But he'd withdrawn nearly instantly, just like he'd promised, and gently vanished out of her brain.

Another soft smile from Friedmann; sympathetic. "It generally takes several sessions before the memory is restored."

He told her that he would be back to check on her soon, and he left.

Draco stood several paces back, leaning against the wall with his arms crossed over his chest. He was tugging at one of his scrub sleeves, gripping it and pulling with tightly flexed fingers, though she didn't think he realised he was doing it. He looked like he was making great efforts to keep his expression neutral, but his eyes betrayed him.

He looked troubled.

"How is your pain?" he asked, not stepping towards her.

"Fine. Manageable," she answered. It was only then that she realised there was definitely a warming charm cast on her well tucked-in covers. "You were right. I've been through worse."

He nodded tensely, looking distracted. "You're alright?"

She gave him a challenging look. "No less alright than usual."

He did not look amused. "Mmm."

"Are you alright?"

Her question seemed to take a second to register for him, but when it did, he looked at her sharply. "Yes, Granger. I'm fine." He sighed and pushed himself away from the wall. "Do you need anything?"

She spotted a steaming mug of tea and three blueberry scones on the table. Someone had put her into a pair of buttery soft, fluffy socks, too.

All things considered, she was quite cosy.

"No," she said, though she almost said 'some company.' She could tell that he wanted to leave – badly – and she didn't want him staying out of guilt.

"You should have a bath with Epsom salts, to help with your muscles," he said steadily. "I can let Ginny know, she could help you with it."

She smiled as best she could. "Sure. That sounds nice."

He nodded once. He looked her over, unable to keep the anxiety out of his eyes for a moment, and said, "you're sure you're alright?"

"You didn't break me, Malfoy," she said evenly, trying to smile. "I'm fine."

His expression faltered again, this time a devastating split-second blend of anguish and relief that threatened to rip her heart straight from her chest. He quickly looked away, clearing his throat and shaking his head quickly, as if shaking something off of him. "Right. I need to–" he stopped, hesitating, then his eyes flicked back up to hers. "I'll be back later. Soon."

"Okay."

"I'll let Potter and the ginger brigade know you're awake."

She smiled politely. "Thank you."

He looked like he might say something else, but he seemed to think better of it. He nodded, gave her a crushing, pained smile, and he was gone.


As soon as Hermione attempted to get out of bed, she realised that the Epsom salt bath had to be the first order of business. Each and every muscle in her body screamed in protest at being used, like she had suddenly aged 80 years. A warm soak was a necessity.

Despite the pain, she felt stronger this time round and only needed Ginny to lower herself into the tub. Ginny sat cross-legged on the floor, back against the tub, to give Hermione privacy as they chatted. This time, Harry stuck around, talking to them both through the closed bathroom door despite Ginny's unsubtle suggestions to bugger off.

"What was it like?" Harry called.

"I was unconscious. I barely even remember the Legilimency bit," she said simply, loud enough for Harry to hear. She turned towards Ginny and groaned. "Is this what you feel like after training for quidditch? Like you've been hit by a train?"

"I doubt it's quite this bad," Ginny said dryly. "Well, maybe after we resume from the winter hiatus. I always think I'm prepared for it, but every year I end up needing a bloody ice bath."

The idea of submerging herself in cold water made Hermione shudder.

"So, what did Malfoy say? I was ready to hex him to fuckery, by the way," Ginny whispered.

"What?" Harry asked loudly, through the door.

"Nothing," Ginny shouted back dismissively. She spoke in a hushed voice, just to Hermione. "Well?"

Hermione relaxed her head to rest on the sloped edge of the tub. She shrugged, even though Ginny couldn't see her. "He just … apologised."

Ginny turned her head towards Hermione so that the profile of her face was visible. Her eyebrow–the one Hermione could see–was raised sceptically.

"What? I could tell he was being sincere."

"Who was being sincere?" came Harry's voice again, sounding a little annoyed.

"Never you mind," Ginny said waspishly. "Don't make me cast a Muffliato."

"I don't know when you think that you suddenly earned first rights to Hermione's secrets, but I have been her friend –"

"Don't be sore just because she prefers me anyway, Harry."

Hermione smiled to herself and let her ears sink under the water as Ginny and Harry continued to bicker at each other through the door.


Draco thought there would be some relief once he'd gotten the first one out of the way.

Eat the frog, face the beast head on, et cetera.

Well.

Draco knew he must have been in poor form when Will didn't even bother scolding him. No lighthearted nagging today; only solemn, infuriatingly sympathetic words. The only advice he offered was solely focused on basic self-care: eat something. Get some rest. Take a walk this evening. He instructed Draco to interact with other people who could offer him support and comfort, knowing full well that he had fuck all to do with anyone outside of work and his family. He could go to the gym and tousle with Barclay or one of the other blokes, he supposed, if that counted as comfort. He was pretty sure that it didn't, though, and he didn't have the energy anyway.

He left Will's office feeling haggard and washed out. He was still wearing his scrubs when he arrived back home and collapsed on the sofa.

Sleep was a refuge, and he hid in it.


Draco wanted nothing less than to go to St. Mungo's. He didn't want to see her, wracked and battered by the Cruciatus–

Your Cruciatus, Malfoy, don't forget. Your weak, wasted Cruciatus.

He owed her keeping his word, at the very least, and not running away–no matter how badly he wanted it.

"You're going to need to do better than that if you want to get her memory back, Draco ."

He tore at his hair with a tightly gripped fist, bursting with impotent rage and exasperation.

It was excruciating, marching himself to the fireplace and picking up the floo powder. He tried to remind himself that there were other people at the hospital, at least. His home felt like a fucking dementor's nest, and the person whose company he wanted the least right now was his own.


"None of this makes any sense, Malfoy."

She looked better than he had expected – nearly cheerful.

Bloody Gryffindors.

He snapped his own book shut and rolled his eyes. "Blame Femi, it's his book."

"I'm being serious."

He sighed and turned fully towards her, raising an eyebrow half-mockingly to signal that he was, in fact, paying attention. "Please, illuminate me."

"I would never agree to anything like this," she said with distaste, her brows wrinkled into a frown. "This is all talking about–" she paused to skim over the page, grimacing. "Authoritarian governmental regimes, or indentured servitude, or–" she swallowed thickly. "Political marriages."

He couldn't help it; a bark of laughter escaped from him. She glared towards him, apparently unimpressed that he wasn't being sufficiently serious for her. "Well, I don't disagree with you there. I can't picture the Brightest Witch of Her Age consenting to something as archaic as an arranged marriage."

She stuck out her tongue at him (it amused him how immature she was when she felt attacked, even when it was clearly teasing) and began to read directly from the text. "'Blood oaths can be used as a means to unite embattled dynasties and family lines. A blood oath of fealty between rival ancestral lines ensures that the marriage brings peace as intended; otherwise, any suffering wrought by either party will be met with equal personal agonies.'"

He frowned at that, because she was right – it didn't feel very plausible. He had been hesitant to say anything, but since she'd brought it up–

"What if the oath was in exchange for someone's safety? Someone in the Order, maybe?"

Her frown deepened and her eyes flicked up to his, and there it was, the thing he should have been avoiding causing at all costs.

Fear.

He opened his mouth to speak, but he was silenced by her voice, soft and cracking though it was.

"I hope not," she whispered. "Gods – I hope I didn't."

"It doesn't matter," he said, too quickly. "Femi will fix it with one of his bloody powders, or roots, or ... something."

"You don't really know that," she said quietly.

He stood suddenly and snatched the decrepit tome from Hermione. He was not entertaining this conversation, not right now. "Granger, you are walking out of this hospital with your wand in hand, or I will burn it down in protest. Do you really want that on your conscience?"

Her mouth fell open just slightly, and for once, she seemed speechless.

"Exactly," he said brusquely, tucking the book away. "I won't accept anything less than a cure, do you understand?"

"Draco–"

"No, Hermione." His tone was firm. "This is going to work. I don't want to hear all of the reasons you think it won't. It will."

"You can't–"

To Draco's relief, they heard the sound of the door knob turning. The feeling didn't last long, however, when he realised who was turning it.

"Oh," Ron said awkwardly, looking between them - at Draco, drawn up and posturing to convince himself that he had any power over the things he said he did, and at Hermione, who looked – there was no denying it - devastated. "Sorry–I can come back."

"No," they both said simultaneously, Hermione in a high-pitched voice, Draco over-emphatic. "I need to get back to the clinic anyway," Draco added unconvincingly.

Ron said nothing, looking extremely uncomfortable.

"I'll, er ... see you tomorrow," Draco said quickly, nodding at Hermione and shoving his hands in the pockets of his Healer's robes. "For – " Treatment. He cringed and shook his head. "I'll see you tomorrow."

Draco didn't look back as he heard her squeak 'bye' from behind him, and he left the quarantine room and its antechamber.

As if on cue, Draco's itch for solitude was thwarted as soon as he stepped into the hallway.

"Oh, wonderful," came a familiar voice. "Just the person I was looking for."

Ginny was smiling brightly at him, apparently having forgotten their last interaction without a thought.

"And – why were you looking for me?" he asked hesitantly, eyeing her warily.

She held up a paper bag. He could see spots of grease soaking through the paper. "Delivery for you."

"Er–"

"From my mother."

"Your – what?" he sputtered.

"My mother," she replied primly, shoving the bag into his hand. "Short woman, goes by Molly? Turned your aunt into charcoal, I believe?"

Draco nearly choked on his own oesophagus and accepted the bag with an uncomprehending look, which seemed to greatly amuse Ginny.

"What – why –"

"Apparently Hermione mentioned something about your exploitation of the hospital's elves." Her eyes were twinkling. "And your boundless culinary prowess." Draco's mouth snapped shut and he could feel heat on his cheeks. Pleased, Ginny continued: "it's just cottage pie. The warming charm will only keep until you open the bag, though, so no peeking until you're actually ready to eat it."

Ginny practically skipped away, calling out to Luna Lovegood, who was apparently headed to the cafeteria.

Draco stared, bewildered, at the warm and pleasant smelling package. He carefully tucked it into his bag, ensuring he did not squash the contents.


"Hi," Ron said in a strained voice.

"Hi."

He ran his tongue over his teeth and shook out his hands. "Okay, so, I think we should talk," Ron said with attempted, but ultimately difficult to believe, confidence. "If that's alright. If – you're alright."

Hermione's stomach dropped. She was able to keep her voice relatively normal, which she was grateful for. "Right."

"Right," Ron agreed, nodding his head nervously and pulling out the bedside chair to sit on it. "Okay."

"Okay."

He couldn't meet her eyes. "I'm sorry," he said bluntly. "I'm sorry about–"

"I know, Ron," she said quickly.

"No," he said emphatically, looking up with a determined expression. "Just let me say what I need to say, alright?"

She swallowed nervously, but nodded.

"I'm sorry that I made light of what you were going through," he murmured. "What they put in the Prophet – Hermione, I never meant for any of that. I never would have–"

"I know, Ron."

His lips pursed into a thin line and he frowned. "Do you, though? Because you've barely said two words to me since then, even though I've tried."

She met his eyes with a steady gaze, nearly a glare. "You didn't know that witch was working for the Prophet. You thought she was some anonymous woman you could have your fun with and forget about. I was never meant to find out."

Ron sighed and rubbed his hands over his eyes. "It sounds a lot worse when you're in charge of the phrasing."

She said nothing.

"Look," he muttered, "it was inexcusable, I know that. But I just—I wasn't trying to belittle you, or make a joke out of it. You were… you were different, Hermione, and I couldn't reach you, and I was so fucking lonely."

She felt her throat catch, because as much as she wanted to be angry, as much as she wanted to rage at his behaviour and what had transpired, she knew that he was telling the truth.

"After the war," he continued, "I knew you weren't well, but it felt like the more I tried to help you, the more you iced me out. You stopped leaving the flat. You stopped leaving your bed," he said, his voice wobbling with the pain of it. "'Mione–eventually you didn't even acknowledge when I'd said something to you."

She closed her eyes, unable to look at him. Tears squeezed out and down her cheeks.

It was not something that she was proud of. But, when she'd heard about the Prophet article, hadn't her thought – her first thought – been, 'well, can you really blame him?'

They were always fighting, and after they fought, she was always hurting. She wanted to stop hurting, so… she stopped fighting.

"I'm sorry," she said quietly. "That wasn't right. I just... I couldn't cope anymore."

"I didn't know how sick you were then," Ron replied, shaking his head. "I thought it was just how you felt about me. And it wasn't right, but I couldn't watch you self-destruct from the sidelines anymore. But I regret it, I regret it every day. Not that we didn't work out – I made my peace with that. But I was a shite friend to you, even though I never stopped caring about you."

"I was hurt," she admitted, "and angry. But after all this," she said, gesturing to the room around them, "it doesn't matter, Ron. We – we can be friends. I want to be friends again."

He smiled sadly. To her surprise, he hugged her fiercely. "Just needed a near death experience to get it sorted, is all."

"Apparently."

Ron blew out air and slapped his hands against his knees. "Well. Now that's out of the way–"

"What now?" Hermione demanded, exasperated.

"Well," he started, hesitant. "I know you want to move forward with this… treatment of Malfoy's."

She felt her teeth clench together involuntarily. "And…?"

"'Mione," he said softly, "you were never the same after what happened with Bellatrix."

"We were in a war, Ron," Hermione said fiercely. "Of course I wasn't the same."

"This was different." His voice was tentative, but his eyes never left her. "The Cruciatus – it changed you. That was when the nightmares started, when you stopped laughing."

"Ron, if you're comparing that to Obliviation therapy–"

"It's the same curse," he insisted. "The Aurors are nearly finished interviewing your department, if you'd just wait a–"

"What?" she demanded. "You've been interviewing my colleagues?"

"Of course we have," Ron replied flippantly. "We're going to figure this out. I'm not saying throw out the treatment completely, but what would it hurt to wait a few weeks? We're so close."

"Ron, I can't just halt my entire life on faith that someone is going to be able to solve this without my memories," she argued. "I can't just stay in here and do nothing."

"Why would you put yourself through that again?" he demanded, now sounding angry for the first time since he'd started speaking. "Don't you trust us? It's me and Harry."

Hermione could feel her pulse quickening and pressure building in her head. "It's not about that."

"I'm just asking you to wait a little longer," he said plaintively. "I just think you should avoid that fucking curse at all costs – even a week, 'Mione, that's all I'm asking."

She shook her head. "No, Ron."

Ron frowned and suddenly, everything was in slow motion. Ron's disappointed, hurt expression; the slice of pain through her spine; the breath escaping from her lungs.

The blare of an alarm as her body slumped, lifeless and deadweight.

The last thing she would remember was Ron's face, horrified and shocked, as everything went dark.