A/N: Thank you to everyone who has shared their comments/reviews 3 Enjoy!


Draco closed his eyes and breathed in.

What the fuck are you even doing, Malfoy?

You're - what?

Going to burst inside, pound on your chest, demand - what, exactly? Assurances? An explanation?

The truth?

He shook his head and grit his teeth. He knew he had to move one foot in front of the other, forward, again and again, and he couldn't let himself stop.

He wanted to let himself stop, though - so badly that his legs felt leaden.

He felt the ground under him and relished in its stability, just for a moment, and then he took a step forward.


"I need to talk to you."

His father didn't even bother to look up from the roll of parchment he was scratching his quill against. "Do you? It must be rather urgent for you to come all the way out here. Unannounced, no less."

Lucius continued his writing, apparently more interested in whatever it was he was doing.

"Please." Draco had to squeeze the word out of his throat, unwillingly, and make it sound calm. He did it, though; he'd had extensive opportunity to practise this particular exercise with his father.

These were the rules of engagement: polite, restrained, no sudden movements.

His father's gaze raised up to Draco's, annoyed, and he sniffed. He motioned towards the leather backed chair opposite his desk. "Sit."

Draco did as commanded.

"Mipsy!" Lucius snarled, and the house elf was there instantly with a crack. He didn't look at the creature as he spoke to it.

"Yes, sir?"

"Fetch some wine." Lucius' tone was clipped.

"I don't—" Draco started.

"I thought we were talking," his father drawled, his voice suddenly reasonable and soft, "wouldn't you rather be comfortable?"

Draco said nothing, avoiding his father's steadfast gaze until Mipsy returned with two goblets, uncorked a dark glass bottle, and gave two generous pours. He recognised the bottle - a Burgundy from the Côte de Nuits.

It tasted like bile and fear.

"It's very good," Draco muttered.

One corner of Lucius' lip curled upwards. "Now. What is it you so badly needed to discuss?"

Breathe in. Breathe out, slow.

Controlled.

Draco pursed his lips together and dragged his eyes to his father's.

Steady.

You don't have to do this, Malfoy. It's not too late–you could still say anything, fucking make something up, it doesn't matter–

Suddenly, the image of Hermione strapped to the procedure table, pulling the restraints taut, the fucking sound that erupted from her against his Cruciatus–

Draco's jaws clenched.

"What do you know about Dolohov being in London?"

His father regarded him with steely eyes. His index and middle fingers rubbed the curve of the chair's armrest slowly, meanwhile, he never broke eye contact with Draco. "I understand he was captured after attacking Miss Granger, and is currently awaiting trial from Azkaban."

"Father," Draco hissed - all of that was common knowledge to the public.

The hint of a smirk. Like prey smelling blood in the water, he caught on the exasperation in Draco's tone and Lucius positioned himself, ready and alert. "I'm afraid you're going to need to be more specific."

"Did you know," Draco clarified, gritting the words out. "Before. Did you know anything about what he'd planned?"

Lucius' eyes narrowed and he smirked, though his eyes were cold. "Why would I?"

His father was a panther, playing with his food before he ate.

"Because you always know, father," he muttered impatiently. "You have … connections."

"Maybe so, Draco, but I can't exactly be seen associating with fugitives, can I?"

Draco let out a short exhale. "Seen," he repeated.

Lucius shrugged– so what? "You know that even the suggestion could have me arrested, don't you?"

"Why did he come? Why now?"

"Good god, Draco," his father snapped, irritated. "Tell me–why is it that my own son is suddenly levelling accusations of treason against me?"

Draco shrugged, mirroring his father. "Oh, I don't know. Timing?"

He uncurled his fingers and let the Quibbler float down onto the polished ebony desk, directly between them.

"What on earth have you been reading?" his father said harshly, arching an eyebrow as he peered down at the newspaper with distaste. "Don't tell me St. Mungo's actually distributes this rubbish."

Draco swallowed. Keeping his eyes trained on his father's, Draco punched at the headline with his middle and index fingers. "This. The House Elves' Bill. Your doing, wasn't it?"

Lucius scowled, reclining into his high-backed chair. "I haven't had the authority to accomplish anything remotely so useful since before the War."

"Not officially, no," Draco agreed carefully.

Lucius rolled his eyes and then surveyed the wine in his goblet, bored. "Interesting, that you'd develop a sudden interest in elf rights," he said crisply. "Unless, of course, there was some other reason. A patient of yours, perhaps?"

Blood was roaring in Draco's ears. He shifted his feet against the floor, confirming it was there underneath him before he showed his hand.

His father cared about him. He was a complicated man; cold, yes, but he cared about him. Why else would he have made sure that Draco had the best of everything growing up? He wanted him to succeed. He wanted him to be… happy.

Didn't he?

Didn't he?

"Please, father," he said quietly.

Lucius tutted dismissively. So world weary. "I can't solve all of your problems for you."

"I'm not asking you to," Draco whispered impatiently, "I'm just asking you to be honest with me. I need your help. Help me by telling me what you know."

He gave Draco a long, strange look–one Draco hadn't seen before, and didn't recognize. "There's nothing to tell, Draco," he said finally, his voice strained. "I'm sorry. Truly. I wish that I—" Lucius shook his head and sighed. "That there was something I could do to help you."

He searched Lucius' eyes, and all he could see was pain and regret, only partially concealed by the usual cool mask of indifference. Draco slammed down his goblet in disgust and ran his hand over his mouth; his father watched him silently.

"She's not going to recover, then." Lucius' voice was solemn, nearly gentle.

Draco felt his foundation quaking beneath him and there was nothing he could do to stop it. He said nothing and closed his eyes.

"It will pass," Lucius murmured. He inclined his head in a gesture of reassurance. "The masses will mourn, but in time, they'll forget. It won't be yours to bear."

His eyes snapped open and he looked directly at his father, uncomprehending for a moment–

Oh. Of course.

This rare show of compassion was not for the destruction of Draco's heart, or his conscience.

It was for the inevitable downfall of his career, when being the Healer that failed to save Hermione Granger became his new Magnum opus.

Draco closed his eyes again, and he let the waves of defeat and hopelessness crash over him and consume him.

He cleared his throat and smiled politely. "Sorry for bothering you," he said, standing.

"If there was anything I could do," Lucius said suddenly, "you know that I would – for you. Don't you?"

"Yes, father," Draco said quietly. "I know."


It was quite late by the time he came back to St. Mungo's, but Draco was a little taken aback that Granger's cheering squad had all taken off. He would've thought that one or two of them might have stayed back, but then again, things had been tense when he'd left. Maybe they all felt it was best for everyone to get a bit of breathing room and space from each other.

He went searching for Friedmann, and felt a strong sense of foreboding when he realised that he wasn't rounding on the ward, nor was he at the medi-witch station.

Draco peered through the glass window of the conference room and saw Friedmann, Wanda, and the older Auror that Harry and Ron had been tagging along behind. They were all seated around a table inside. Wanda looked cross, and Friedmann was leaning against his hand, covering his mouth. He appeared exhausted, and his usual warmth was dampened.

Draco hesitated for a moment, then he knocked on the door.

The Auror waved him in impatiently, and nodded his head towards a vacant chair.

"Healer Malfoy," the man said in acknowledgement, "Archie Goldstein. Take a seat."

The roll of parchment sitting in front of Goldstein did not escape Draco's notice.

"We were just discussing Miss Granger's case."

Draco surveyed the room cautiously. "I see."

"Is there anything you'd like to share, Healer Malfoy?" Goldstein asked with restrained interest.

"Your colleague asked me the same thing," he replied neutrally. "I was hoping to speak to him, actually."

"Potter's been excused from the investigation," Goldstein returned, utterly calm. "You can speak with me."

"What?"

"I should have done it sooner," he said unapologetically. "Harry's never been good at keeping a cool head when his relationships are involved."

Draco looked to Friedmann, who seemed to have aged since he'd seen him last. Friedmann gave him a resigned look.

"Why are you here?" he asked carefully.

"Just reminding you all that you're bound to confidentiality, and anyone discovered to be distributing any information to anyone about Miss Granger's case will be brought before the Wizengamot." Goldstein looked directly at Draco. "That includes family members, Draco."

All of the muscles in his body seemed to tense at once.

"I take patient confidentiality very seriously, Archie. That includes family members."

Goldstein shrugged again. "Seemed quite sudden – you deciding you needed to visit Malfoy Manor."

"I think I have a right to visit my childhood home."

They were following him. How bloody long had they been following him?

Goldstein hummed in agreement. "And was there something you felt you needed to tell your family? A warning, perhaps?"

Draco shook his head in disbelief and ran his tongue over his lips. "Right."

"You can understand why I might be curious about it."

Draco laughed bitterly, just once. "Fuck you."

Short fingers wrapped over the back of his hand and squeezed. His gaze darted to Wanda, who gave a barely perceptible shake of her head.

He closed his eyes and inhaled. "Don't worry, Goldstein, I didn't tell my family anything. I do have something to tell you, though."

"Oh?"

"Just a theory," Draco muttered, letting his head hang down. "Nothing solid."

Goldstein swished his wand. A notepad and quill floated up from his coat pocket and suspended mid-air. The quill readied itself to write. "Well," he said in a low voice, "no use keeping us all in suspense."


"Granger."

She stirred and turned towards the voice, blearily rubbing her eyes. "You're back," she said, surprised. He hadn't turned on the light. The light filtering in from the hall backlit him, and she could only really see his outline.

"I am." His voice was subdued, tired.

She shifted stiffly to sit herself up. "You know something."

There was a beat of silence. "Maybe. I don't know."

"Do we have to talk in the dark?"

"It's late," he said with a frustrated sigh, but he put on dim lighting anyway.

She noticed that he did not sit down next to her bed, nor did he move any closer to her. His arms were crossed over his chest.

"Purebloods," he said after a moment.

She felt her stomach drop, and panic squeezed at her lungs. "I'm sorry – what?"

"It's what we all have in common," Draco said quietly. "Me, Ron, Dolohov. All purebloods."

"That's not–" she choked, but she couldn't say it, couldn't finish–

"The trials you testified at," he continued. "Did you always get sick when you testified? Or just … sometimes?"

She swung her legs off the bed and stood, shaking her head vehemently.

"Don't," he said softly, raising his hand in a gesture to stop. "Just – stay there, Granger."

It wasn't hard to comply; her head was spinning. Her hands flew to cover her mouth, and she couldn't stop shaking her head. "But… b-but…"

"I've let the Aurors know," he said. His voice was strangely flat. "And the team here. I'm sorry, but we need to keep you away from anyone who might… who might set off the blood oath."

"Draco," she said desperately, "that doesn't–why would I have made a blood oath specific to purebloods? What could I possibly have promised? Why? "

"I have no idea," he admitted. "But with the dose you're at, we can't afford to take any chances now. You can still see Harry, and Luna, and Neville. But we're asking the Weasley's–"

"And you?" Hermione demanded. "What about you?"

"I'll get your memories back," he whispered, a bit stubbornly. "But, outside of that–"

His voice seemed to die away.

"This is you saying goodbye?"

There was a wretched, raw silence. She heard him swallow. "For now, Granger."

She closed her eyes, feeling the tears running across her bottom lashes, and she shook her head.

"Remember," he said, attempting to keep his tone light. He failed. "You're going to walk out of this hospital with your wand in your hand."

"Right," she said thickly, adjusting the oxygen mask to wipe tears away from the edges. "Lest I be indirectly responsible for the arson of the only wizard's hospital in the country."

She could barely see his small smile in the dim light. "Exactly."

She didn't know what else to say, so she nodded and turned away and back into the bed. She twisted herself into the blankets and clutched them close to her chest.

It was only after she heard the door close softly that she realised, once again, Draco had cast a silent warming charm over her quilt before leaving her alone in the dark.