Hermione squinted at Femi's hands, alarmed. The sangoma, for his part, appeared totally unbothered.

"Hermione," he said softly, "you've been having dreams, yes?"

She couldn't seem to find her voice. The easy way that he commanded the room was starting to unnerve her. She nodded, and Femi nodded in return.

"Please give us privacy, Healer Malfoy," he said, not turning to face Draco. "I'll explain everything when we're finished."

Malfoy baulked. His voice was steady, but his wide eyes betrayed how ill-at-ease he was. "That wasn't what we agreed."

"You gave me your word that you wouldn't interfere," Femi replied patiently, still staring at her uninterruptedly. "I'm not going to make a spectacle of Hermione's consciousness. I don't entertain audiences when I interpret dreams."

Draco hesitated, nostrils flaring angrily as he took in a breath. Finally, his gaze flicked to hers, and he relented when she gave him a confirming nod. His brows were furrowed, and he had a troubled look on his face. "Fine," he huffed. "I'll be outside."

"Don't wait on our behalf," Femi said lightly, and if Hermione didn't know any better, she might have thought that his tone was intentionally goading. "This may take some time."

She heard the door snap shut. Femi briefly clenched his hands into fists and the glowing light ceased suddenly.

Hermione frowned at him. "I appreciate your concern for my privacy, but-"

"Draco needs to learn that trying to hoard control is not the solution to every problem," Femi said unapologetically. He shrugged without even a trace of concern. "If he truly wants to be a great Healer, he needs to learn to trust others."

Hermione stared at him in amazement. She wouldn't have said so herself, but she couldn't say that she thought he was wrong, either. "I'm sure there's someone he trusts."

One of Femi's eyebrows raised slowly and he smirked. "That man doesn't even trust himself."

"I think you're being unfair," she said a little crossly, which only seemed to amuse Femi. Between him and Malfoy, there was enough ego in St. Mungo's to suffocate all of its inhabitants. They were like foils of each other - Femi, warm and open, and Draco, glacial and imperious. Each exceedingly arrogant.

How lucky that she had to contend with both of them.

Hermione shook her head and then grimaced a bit. "Do we really need to do this?"

He looked at her in a way that was sympathetic without suggesting pity. He one large hand over both of hers and squeezed firmly. His hands were soft and surprisingly warm. "It's important, yes."

She bit the inside of her cheek, hesitating. It wasn't as if she had much of a choice, but that didn't stop her from stalling a little bit longer. Finally, she let out a sigh, figuring that she had already been tested and prodded to hell, anyway. "Tell me how it works."

She became increasingly uncomfortable as Femi explained that he would use Legilimency to enter her mind and experience her dreams alongside her, then he would perform a sort of ritualistic magic to glean 'signals' from it. On a rational level, Hermione knew that a prophecy had technically helped prevent the destruction of the entire wizarding world… but her first reaction to divination of any kind was exasperation. She couldn't help it. It wasn't structured or logical, like every other branch of magic she'd chosen to study; so much of it was built on feeling, intuition, and practices that had no better justification than "tradition." Nevertheless, she accepted that she was in somewhat of a disadvantaged position to be questioning Femi's validity, given that he was the only one who had produced any semblance of an explanation. Assuming that his glowing hands was an explanation, that is.

"What did that mean?" she asked, nodding towards his hands with her head. "The light - what were those spells?"

He studied her for a moment before replying. "I suspect that I'm not the one who should tell you. Not yet, at least. I need to do this first, before I make any decisions."

Disappointed, she bobbed her head up and down. Nodded as if to say, 'get on with it, then.'

He had her sit cross-legged on the bed, and she felt a thrill of embarrassment and surprise when he climbed onto it as well and sat opposite to her.

"After I enter your mind, your first instinct will be to Occlude from me," he explained. Femi's eyes were softer now - patient. "I don't want to cause you any pain. Try to resist closing against me."

She swallowed. "I'll - try," she replied haltingly.

"Are you ready?"

No. Absolutely not ready.

Her stomach felt sour. She felt raw, exposed. "Um, yes. I think so."

Femi tilted his head to the side, just slightly. His expression was solemn. "It's alright to be afraid."

Hermione could feel her breathing picking up speed despite trying to slow it down. She met his gaze and said nothing, but she gave him a single nod of confirmation.

"I'm going to begin now." His voice was low, calm, and smooth. He placed his hands on Hermione's shoulders, bracketing her between them, and slid into her consciousness.

It didn't feel like an invasion, moreso a new, compelling presence in her mind, gathering the reins of her thoughts and pulling them towards him with firm, steady pressure. She couldn't help it - she pulled away, twisting back and fighting against the sudden intrusion.

Distantly, she felt Femi's palm press into her chest, directly over her heart. "It's alright. Just be still, Hermione. Let it be still."

She let out a shaky breath and felt tears erupting from her eyes as she let go. She could feel him deftly manoeuvre into the deeper parts, the ones she didn't want anyone to see.

He was quick. It felt as though he was sifting through in fast-forward. She saw herself, in Malfoy's clinic room, at first reassuring and kind and quickly morphing into something ugly that wanted to hurt her. Absently, she realised that she wasn't aware of any voices - couldn't hear what either her or Draco were saying - but she could feel everything she felt the first time she experienced the dream. Uneasy. Shocked. Terrified.

She watched with detached fascination as ropes materialised over her dream-self, then she spat in Malfoy's face, then he was dragging her up to him and menacing her just inches from his face.

Draco pointed his wand at her neck.

Then it was over.

And she thought that was going to be it - she was sure that was the dream Femi had been alluding to when he asked her. But then, he seamlessly redirected them to another scene, one she didn't recognise immediately.

She hadn't remembered this, not right away. It must have happened when she was unconscious, after Dolohov. But now that it was in front of her again, the memory of it clicked back into place, like it had always been there.

Draco looked gaunt. She didn't look much better, crumpled on the ground with glassy eyes. She had a strange sense of deja-vu - like she should recognise the things that she was seeing, but she had no context to place them.

She watched as Draco's bloody fingers tangled into her hair and seized her onto her feet. She had the desperate sensation that she was trying to hold something in her hands, but it was pulling away too quickly - she couldn't hold onto it.

Then it felt like she was enveloped in warm steam, and Femi was gently extracting himself from her mind. She jolted when she felt him squeeze her shoulders firmly.

"What-" she started, but the words died in her throat. She felt overwhelmed suddenly, like she was backed into a corner without a wand.

"Chew this," Femi instructed, placing a root of some sort into her hand. She obeyed, not caring that it quite literally tasted like dirt, and felt her chest begin to loosen. Femi observed her silently for a few moments before speaking.

"Do you believe in coincidence, Hermione?"

Of course she did. What an inane question.

But - right at that moment, she felt a seed of doubt in the pit of her stomach, threatening to sprout.

"I do not," Femi said quietly, his voice resolute.

She nodded, and suddenly, she felt like she was suspended in cotton - weightless, warm, drifting.

"You need to rest now. I'll come back after I speak with Draco."

She didn't protest as he laid her down. Her eyelids were heavy, and she couldn't bear the effort of keeping them open.

A woman's voice interrupted the frenetic rhythm of Draco's pacing.

"Malfoy? Are you alright?"

Draco's head spun towards the source of the question - Ginny Weasley, walking towards him with a small stack of books tucked against her chest.

"Of course I'm alright," he spat. "Why wouldn't I be alright?"

His voice had that haughty quality that he tended to produce when he was feeling threatened.

Ginny raised her eyebrows at him. "Right."

He clenched his fist. Breathed in. Breathed out. Tried again.

"You can't visit her right now," he said finally, his voice tight. "She's with the sangoma."

"I gathered that," Ginny replied dryly. They stood in uneasy silence for a few moments, but her expression was curious - not hostile.

"Any news on Dolohov's investigation?" he asked, tempering his voice so he sounded interested rather than hopeful.

"Harry doesn't talk to me about active cases," Ginny said. Her eyes were slightly narrowed, appraising him.

Why do you still fucking bother, Malfoy?

He huffed, rolling his eyes. "Fine. Sure he doesn't."

He turned, desperately wanting to be in private so he could destroy something with his hands.

"At least, he doesn't until he has some sort of working theory," Ginny continued cautiously from behind him. "Doesn't want me fretting about every little threat to wizardkind. So… I assume he doesn't have anything solid."

Draco's head snapped back so that he could read her expression. They were in a stalemate, he realised, neither of them sure if they were about to duel with one another or if they could let their defences down.

Against his better judgement, he took the first step.

"Should we speak in my office?" he asked quietly, and he was relieved when she nodded, and moved to follow him without another word.

The tense silence continued as they snaked through the halls, shuffled into his cramped office, and after they sat in seats opposite to each other. They weren't comfortable chairs - he rarely spent any time in this miserable room. He didn't see a point in paying to personally upgrade the cheap shit that St. Mungo's had provided him, but he was regretting it now. Ginny gently placed the books she'd been holding on the desk between them.

He flicked his wand at a kettle sitting on the edge of his age-worn desk, and it floated into the air, two cups and saucers joining it from the overhead cupboard, narrowly missing both of their heads.

"Cozy," Ginny said with a wry smile.

"St. Mungo's finest," he replied humorlessly. Neither of them said anything as the kettle heated up, then poured two cups of steaming tea.

"Is black alright?" he asked, and he was grateful when she nodded, because he didn't have milk or sugar to offer, even if she wanted it. He pushed the cup and saucer towards her and wrapped his hands around his own. She only glanced at it for a moment before taking it up in her hands, resting her elbows on his desk as he sank back into his chair.

"He really hasn't told you anything?" Draco said finally, raising an eyebrow at her. She frowned a little and sipped at her tea.

"He's told me some things," she replied with a bit of a huff. "They'll take Dolohov straight to Azkaban once he's cleared to leave St. Mungo's. He's not worried about getting a conviction against him. But…" she trailed off, staring absently at the wall with a somewhat annoyed expression. "He's been tight-lipped about the bigger picture."

Draco scratched his chin and ran his tongue across the inside of his lower lip. "The bigger picture?"

She glanced at him warily. "Even if Dolohov's the ringleader, there have to be others. This wasn't really about Hermione. She just happens to be very attractive to use for ransom."

Draco frowned, letting the words absorb. He didn't want to fuck this up, to run his mouth and his temper and immediately sabotage this tentative bit of communication they were establishing. "And what do you think?"

Ginny bit at her thumbnail, her gaze a thousand miles away again. "I'm not sure."

"But you have theories," he replied evenly, and her eyes snapped back to him.

"I don't believe that thousands of wizards suddenly changed their minds about wanting power just because Voldemort was killed," she said slowly. His breath hitched a little when she said the name - he couldn't help it. It still elicited a visceral reaction. She looked uneasy, saying her thoughts out loud to him.

"I agree with you," he said, and she looked surprised. "But which wizards are we talking about?"

She shook her head. "I've no idea. Anyone who switched sides before the war was over was more or less pardoned. Not," she looked startled and apologetic, apparently suddenly remembering who she was talking to, "not that I necessarily disagree with that, but-"

"There are hundreds of us turncoats to choose from," he said tightly, ignoring the sudden roar of his quickening pulse in his ears.

"We're not going to get anywhere if you're going to get defensive every time I disparage an attempted genocide," she snapped.

It was a fair point, he had to admit.

He unclenched his jaw and moved on. "There were plenty of people who weren't pardoned, including yours truly. Doesn't it follow that it's someone from that group?"

"Aside from Dolohov, nearly all of them were brought to trial. If they didn't end up in Azkaban, they were all pretty closely watched. Wand checks. Communication monitoring." She shrugged meekly. "As you know."

Draco said nothing.

"But most of the supporters," she continued slowly, "they weren't considered true followers. They weren't monitored so much. There were too many of them."

"You're doing a stellar job of narrowing things down," Draco commented, and Ginny shot him a dirty look.

"Even if Hermione is watched all of the time, even if she's protected, what's to stop the next choice from being targeted?" she demanded. "Harry's warded the house to hell and back again. He's barely letting me go anywhere. Ron's more or less put the family on house arrest. I know that Harry's put a tracking charm on Neville and Luna, even if we won't admit it to me."

Draco took a deep breath, considering this information. "I don't think it's a coincidence that Granger's health took a nosedive leading up to Dolohov's attack."

"But what would that even mean?" Ginny asked, her voice sounding desperate for the first time. "Someone she's been in contact with has been cursing her all this time?"

"I don't know," he admitted. Ginny growled in frustration, slamming her cup back down on the saucer, slopping tea on the desk.

"Sorry," she muttered, pointing her wand at the spill and vanishing it.

They looked away from each other for a beat.

"She's been having these episodes for a long time, yeah?" Draco said after a moment.

"Years," Ginny said with a bitterness that surprised him.

"When?" he asked. "What triggered it?"

She looked at him suspiciously. "Shouldn't you ask her?"

"I have," he snapped, defensive. "But she's so fucking obsessed with getting the correct analysis on her own that it feels like I only get an editorialised version of it."

Ginny grinned, even let out a small laugh. "Yes, well, that's Hermione for you."

"Indeed," Draco huffed.

"I started noticing it right after the war." Ginny tapped her finger against her teacup, evidently trying to piece together what she remembered. "It might've started before that, but I dunno, there was a lot happening then. But I especially noticed it when we saw her and Ron together. They were always bickering about something. By the time the Prophet article dropped…" she hesitated and made an expression of distaste. "Well, she looked haggard, quite frankly. She was constantly cancelling plans and knocking back pain potions like pumpkin juice. I think that she was only barely holding it together. But it did seem to get better once she moved out, at least for a little while."

Draco ignored the shrieking desire to make a snide remark about her brother and tried to focus. "For a little while?"

She nodded. "She wasn't better, not totally. Any time there was another case brought forward from the war, especially if she agreed to testify, she would get sick again. I don't know if it was the stress of participating in the trials, or that she was just bloody overworking herself like always, but it seemed to get bad then, too."

Draco didn't know what to make of that. "Times of high stress."

"I dunno," Ginny said again. "I know that's a bit odd, but that's just what I saw."

There was a soft knock at the door, and they both spun towards it.

"Who is it?" Draco demanded.

"It's me," came Femi's distinctive voice. "I need to speak with you."

Ginny looked inquiringly at Draco, who nodded in irritation, and she opened the door. She looked taken aback by the sangoma, and Draco was satisfied that he wasn't the only one who had imagined him differently.

Femi's eyes moved to Ginny's, and he gave a warm smile. "Sorry to interrupt."

"It's fine," Draco said shortly. "Wea-Ginny. Thank you for the … information," he managed awkwardly. "I'll be in touch."

Ginny gave him a nod of acknowledgement and excused herself. "Bye, Draco."

He watched her leave, feeling thoroughly addled. Femi sat heavily in the chair Ginny had just occupied. The warmth from his expression had evaporated, and he now looked very serious.

"Care to share with the class?" Draco drawled.

"What do you know about blood magic?" Femi questioned, foregoing any preamble.

He felt a dropping sensation in his abdomen. Truthfully, he didn't know anything about blood magic, didn't think he'd ever heard that phrase other than perhaps in passing - maybe in a fairy tale of some foreboding parable. Nothing of substance, anyway.

"I presume that blood is somehow involved," he said without humour, glaring at Femi.

The sangoma ignored his tone. "What is happening to Hermione is because she is bound by some sort of blood magic."

He felt his heartbeat picking up speed, his muscles tensing. "And what does that mean?"

"It means that she's made an oath in blood," he explained with a careful expression. "When she violates that oath, she is punished by her own magic."

"What the fuck are you on about?" Draco snapped, unable to stop himself. "I think Granger would've bloody mentioned it if she'd sworn an oath to decimate her own organs."

Femi exhaled, meeting Draco's eyes carefully. His expression was solemn and unwavering. "Yes, Draco. Exactly."

The realisation hit him like a crack of lightning.

He was going to be sick. He was sure of it.

"As Hermione doesn't appear to have a death wish," Femi started, more lightly than Draco would have if they had swapped places. He didn't want to hear it.

Don't make me fucking do this was his only thought.

"The only reasonable explanation that Hermione hasn't disclosed the blood oath is that she doesn't remember it," he continued. His voice, his expression - they were infuriatingly gentle. "Someone took the memory from her, and you're the one who needs to help her get it back."