Chapter 13: The Healer's Dilemma
The cold wasn’t just on her skin anymore; it had moved in, taken up residence in her bones. Hermione lay perfectly still, trying to conserve every ounce of energy, focusing on the mechanical rise and fall of her chest.Breathe in. Breathe out. Each movement sent a dull ache through her ribs, a reminder of the violent magic tunneling through her veins like a rabid animal looking for a way out.
A soft, insistent beep came from one of the silver instruments. She didn’t need to see the diagnostic chart to know what it meant.The purple lines under her skin, currently iced over and dormant, were learning. Adapting.The aconite was a barrier, not a destroyer.The curse was studying it.
A rustle of fabric to her right.Draco hadn’t left the chair. He’d been silent for so long she thought he might have fallen asleep, but when she turned her head, she found his gaze fixed on her, grey eyes wide and stark in the sterile light. He looked like he’d been hit by a truck, then backed over for good measure. The cut on his temple had been cleaned but not healed, a raw, angry line. There was soot on his collar, blood under his fingernails.“You’re still here,” she whispered. Her voice scratched, dry from the cold and the potions.
“Where else would I be?” The response was flat, devoid of his usual sharpness.It was just a fact.
She wanted to say ‘back to your flat,’ or ‘finding another way,’ but the truth sat between them, heavy and unmovable.The “other way” was a Malfoy blood heir taking the curse voluntarily. It was him.Her mind, sluggish as it was, tried to approach it like a puzzle. “The geas is contractual,” she said, forcing the words out.“It targets intent, not identity. The loophole you mentioned… it’s a substitution clause, isn’t it? One Malfoy can take the place of the target, but only if the original targeting conditions are voided. My intent… remains.”
Draco’s jaw worked. “Your intent is to see my father in Azkaban.It’s not going anywhere. Not even like this.”
“Then the substitution isn’t clean.It would be a contested magical transfer. It could kill us both.”
“Healer Hapgood didn’t seem to think so.”
“Healers think in terms of magical biology, not arithmancy. The risk is exponential.” She tried to shift, and a spike of cold-burn lanced up her arm, stealing her breath. She hissed, eyes squeezing shut.
His hand, which had been hanging in the space between them, finally landed on the blanket, covering her fingers.His skin was shockingly warm.The contrast was so violent it almost hurt. She didn’t pull away.
“You’re freezing,” he murmured, his thumb brushing over her knuckles.“It’s the potion. Working as intended.” She opened her eyes, looked at their hands. His were elegant, long-fingered, but the knuckles were scraped raw from the fight in the vault. “You tried to strangle him.”
A ghost of something fierce flickered in his eyes. “I did more than try.”
“He’ll use that.Assault.Breaking and entering.”
“Let him. It’s the least of what I’d like to do to him.” He leaned forward, his voice dropping, intense. “Granger, listen to me.We’re not beaten.He has the ledger, fine. But you photographed the pages.”
“The photos will have magical residue, but the text… it might be enough for an inquiry, but not for a conviction.He’ll claim forgery, coercion. Without the original, it’s my word against his, and I’m…” She gestured weakly at her own body with her free hand.“I’m compromised.Magically unstable. An unreliable witness.”
“Then we get the original back.”
She stared at him, wondering if the curse had spread to her brain and she was hallucinating this absurdity.“How? Walk up to the front door of Malfoy Manor and ask for it?”
“No.” His gaze was unflinching. “We steal it.Again. Before he can move it or destroy it.”
A hysterical laugh bubbled in her throat, coming out as a weak cough.“You’re mad. I can’t even sit up without seeing stars.”
“You don’t have to. I do it.”
“Alone?Against Lucius and whatever private security he’s summoned? That’s not a plan, Draco, that’s suicide with extra steps. And it doesn’t solve this.” She lifted their joined hands slightly, indicating her iced-over arm.“It solves the source! If the ledger is gone, if he’s exposed, the geas loses its… its purpose.Its teeth. The magic is tied to the secret. No secret, no enforcement.”
“That’s a theory,” she argued, but a spark of her old, relentless curiosity fought through the cold. “An untested one.You can’t dismantle a curse by removing its motive. The curse is the enforcement. It doesn’t care if the secret is out; it cares that the secret was going to be used.My intent triggered it. That action is done.”
They lapsed into silence, the only sound the hum of the machines and the rush of blood in her own ears. He was still holding her hand, his warmth a tiny anchor in the vast, cold ocean of the curse.
“I’m sorry,” he said finally, the words so quiet she almost didn’t hear them. He wasn’t looking at her anymore; he was staring at the wall, his profile sharp with misery.“For what?You didn’t cast this.”
“For all of it. For bringing you into the Sepulchre.For not anticipating the second alarm.For losing the ledger. For my father.For every bloody thing.” He took a shuddering breath. “I thought I could outmaneuver him.Play the game with his pieces. I just gave him better ammunition.”
Her fingers tightened around his, a feeble pressure.“Stop.Just… stop. I chose to go.I knew the risks.This isn’t your fault, it’s his. That’s the point, remember? He’s the villain.”
“And what am I?” The question hung in the air, stark and vulnerable.She didn’t have an easy answer. The hero?No.The redeemed?Not quite.An ally? It felt too thin for the weight of his hand in hers, for the memory of him throwing himself between her and Lucius’s curse. “You’re here,” she said again, because it was the only true thing.
The door slid open with a soft hiss. Mender Hapgood entered, followed by a younger witch with a clipboard. His squint was more pronounced as he examined the diagnostic orbs floating above Hermione’s bed.“The aconite is holding,” he announced, not unkindly. “But the metabolic cost is high.Your core magic is fighting the cold and the curse simultaneously. It’s exhausting you.” He moved to her side, pulling back the blanket to expose her arm. The purple lines had deepened in color, like bruises under ice. They hadn’t advanced, but they looked more… settled.Permanent.“Any pain?”
“A deep ache,” Hermione admitted. “And cold. Unbelievably cold.”
“That’s to be expected.” Hapgood waved his wand, and a new reading shimmered in the air: a complex arithmantic equation that made Hermione’s head swim.“The curse’s adaptation rate is increasing. It’s developing a tolerance. We have perhaps eighteen hours before the next phase.”
“Next phase?” Draco’s voice was tight.“The crawling will resume. It will find new pathways, ones the aconite can’t effectively reach.The central nervous system. The brain.” Hapgood said it with clinical detachment, but his eyes held a shadow of genuine pity.“Miss Granger, Mr. Malfoy… the voluntary transfer is not just the cleanest solution. At this point, it is the only permanent one.The magic is simply too integrated. We can’t cut it out without cutting out most of your own magical lattice.”
“And if he takes it,” Hermione asked, her voice steady despite the dread pooling in her stomach, “what happens to him?”
Hapgood glanced at Draco. “The curse would recognize a Malfoy heir as a valid, even preferable, host.Its virulence would diminish.It would become a chronic condition, manageable with regular potions. Debilitating, certainly.Painful, likely. But not immediately terminal.”
Draco was already nodding, a grim acceptance settling over his features.“Fine. Do it.”
“No.” Hermione’s voice cut through the room, sharper than she felt.
“Granger, don’t be a martyr.”
“I’m not.I’m being logical.Think. If you take this curse, you become magically compromised. You’d be in no state to retrieve the ledger or testify against your father.You’d be exactly what he wants: neutralized.Silenced. And I’d be… what?Cured but purposeless? We lose everything.”
“You’d be alive!” The words exploded from him, and he stood up so fast the chair screeched back. “That’s the only thing that matters!”
“It’s not!” She pushed herself up on her elbows, ignoring the screaming protest from her muscles.“It was never the only thing! This was always about stopping him, about justice.You told me you wanted to burn it all down. Well, you can’t do that from a hospital bed, doped on pain potions. I won’t let you trade one prison for another.”
They were glaring at each other, breath coming in short gasps.Hapgood cleared his throat.“This is a decision that requires… discussion. I will return in one hour. In the meantime, we will administer another dose of aconite stabilizer.” He nodded to the junior witch, who prepared another syringe of the shimmering blue liquid.
Draco turned away, running a hand through his already disheveled hair, his back rigid. Hermione lay back, spent from the outburst, a fresh, deeper chill spreading from the new injection site. The junior witch left silently.Hapgood gave them a last, measuring look, then followed.
When the door shut, the silence was different.Charged.Draco spoke to the wall. “You don’t get to decide this for me.”
“And you don’t get to throw your life away as penance,” she shot back, her teeth beginning to chatter slightly. “I’m not… I’m not your absolution, Draco. You don’t save me and wipe the slate clean. It doesn’t work like that.”
He turned then, and the raw pain on his face stole her breath.“I know that,” he whispered fiercely. “Don’t you think I know that?This isn’t about my fucking ledger of sins.This is about you. In a bed.Dying.Because of my family. Because I wasn’t good enough, fast enough, smart enough to protect you from it.” His voice broke. “I can’t… I can’t watch that.I can’t add that to everything else.”
Her eyes burned. She blinked rapidly, staring at the ceiling. The cold was in her throat now, making it hard to swallow.“Then don’t watch me die,” she said, her voice low and urgent. “Help me live.Help me beat him.You said we steal the ledger back.Fine. But we need a better plan than you storming the manor alone.”
He moved back to the chair, sinking into it, all the fight draining out of him replaced by a desperate focus. “He’ll have moved it from the Sepulchre.He knows it’s compromised. He’ll keep it close.Probably in his study.The wards there are… familial. Keyed to my mother and me as well. I can get through them.”
“He’ll be expecting that.”
“Probably.”
Hermione’s mind, fueled by spite and stubbornness, began to churn despite the icy sludge slowing her thoughts.“He expects a direct assault.From you. What he won’t expect… is bureaucracy.”
Draco frowned.“What?”
“The Wizengamot. The Department of Magical Law Enforcement.” A shaky, determined smile touched her lips. “He thinks I’m out of commission.He thinks the evidence is gone.What if it isn’t? What if those photographs are enough to get a warrant? Not for a conviction, but for a search and seizure? Presented by someone with… unassailable authority.”
Understanding dawned in his eyes, followed by skepticism.“Who?Potter? He’s an Auror, but he’s your best friend.He’d be seen as biased. Weasley’s in the Misuse office, that’s not his jurisdiction.”
“Not them,” Hermione said.“Think bigger.Think older. There’s a provision for urgent, multi-departmental review in cases of extreme magical corruption. It requires two department heads to sign off. One from Magical Law, one from… International Magical Cooperation.”
Draco stared. “You want to go over everyone’s heads.”
“I want to use the system he thinks is too slow and too compromised to save me. If we can get Amelia Bones’s successor in Law, and… and someone from International to agree, based on the photographic evidence and my testimony—recorded here, now—they could authorize a team of Unspeakables to execute a warrant.The magic they use bypasses most familial wards. It’s designed for blood-traitor situations, Dark artifact recovery…”
“You’re talking about declaring my father’s home a Dark Arts site,” Draco said, a strange, almost proud glint in his eye. “That would humiliate him more than anything. A public branding.”
“It would get us the ledger.Legally.And if the Unspeakables find it, it’s admissible. No chain of custody issues. It’s over.” She was shaking now, partly from cold, partly from adrenaline.“But I can’t make the calls. I can’t write the memos.You’d have to.”
“Me?” He barked a sharp, humorless laugh. “I’m a person of interest, at best.A former Death Eater. They’ll throw me out of the Ministry before I reach the lobby.”
“Not if you’re acting as my proxy.My magical signature is weak, but it’s unique. We can use a bonded dictation quill.I authorize it, you wield it. It’s highly irregular, but it’s in the emergency statutes. War-time precedent.” She was pulling the threads from the depths of her memory, from long nights studying obscure procedural law. “We need someone to take the proposal to the department heads.Someone they’ll listen to.”
“Potter,” Draco said, resigned.
“And someone from International… I can think of one person who owes me a favor, and who despises Lucius Malfoy on principle.” A name formed on her lips, a gamble. “I need you to find Viktor Krum.He’s a Senior Attaché now. He’s in London for the International Quidditch safety conference. Get him here.”
Draco’s expression darkened imperceptibly at the name, but he didn’t argue. The practicality of the situation overrode whatever old, petty instinct flared.“And if they say no? If they won’t move fast enough?”
“Then,” Hermione said, meeting his gaze squarely, the last of her strength focused into that look, “you and I will revisit your terrible, suicidal plan. But not before.Promise me.”
He held her stare for a long moment, a war raging behind his eyes. The desire to fix this now, violently, personally, wrestled with the dawning, reluctant respect for her strategy.He finally gave a single, curt nod.“Fine. I promise.”
He pulled out his wand, not towards her, but to summon a piece of hospital parchment and a quill from a nearby trolley.“Then we start now.Tell me what to write. Every clause, every citation. Make it bulletproof.”
Hermione began to speak, her voice gaining a sliver of strength as she dictated the formal request. She outlined the evidence, the geas-curse as proof of intent to conceal, the immediate danger to a Ministry official (herself). She named the suspects: Lucius Malfoy.She specified the location: his private study. She requested an Unspeakable extraction team.Her words were precise, legalistic, a dam built of parchment and precedent. Draco’s writing was swift, elegant, capturing every detail. When she finished, he held up the quill.“Your signature.The magical bond.”
She took the quill. It felt impossibly heavy.Focusing all her will, she scratched her name at the bottom of the parchment. A faint, warm gold light rose from the signature—her magical seal, weak but unmistakable. The bond was set.The quill would now only respond to his touch for this specific document.
“Now,” she breathed, sinking back, utterly drained.“Find Harry.Find Viktor.Move quickly. We have less than eighteen hours before this becomes academic.”
Draco stood, folding the parchment with careful reverence.He looked down at her, a new, grim determination hardening his features. The lost, desperate look was gone, replaced by the focused intensity of a man with a mission. “I’ll be back,” he said.It wasn’t a platitude.It was a vow.
He turned and left, the door swishing shut behind him, leaving her alone with the hum of the machines and the relentless, cunning cold crawling beneath her skin. She had just launched a bureaucratic missile at the heart of pure-blood privilege.And she had sent Draco Malfoy to be its delivery system.
She closed her eyes, imagining the uproar in the hallowed halls of the Ministry, the scandal, the furious flurry of memos. For the first time since the ice had entered her veins, she felt a flicker of heat.Hope.It was a desperate, dangerous thing. But it was warmer than the potion. She clung to it, as the instruments beeped softly, counting down the time.
She clung to it, as the instruments beched softly, counting down the time. The hope was a fragile, sputtering thing in her chest, a small flame against the encroaching ice. Each beep from the silver orb above her bed marked another second lost, another increment of the curse's quiet, intelligent siege. She could feel it studying the aconite's chill, probing for weaknesses in the magical dam holding it back from her heart.
A nurse slipped in, her lime-green robes whispering against the floor. She checked the intravenous line feeding blue potion into Hermione's arm. "Another hour, then Mender Hapgood will be back," she said, her voice artificially bright. "You're holding steady." Hermione managed a thin smile that didn't reach her eyes. Steady felt like balancing on a knife's edge over a dark, cold well.
After the nurse left, the silence deepened. Hermione focused on breathing, on the mechanical rise and fall of her lungs. She thought of Draco's hand, warm on hers, and the raw determination in his voice. He was out there now, navigating a world that had always viewed him with suspicion, armed only with her words on parchment. The absurdity of it—Draco Malfoy as her legal proxy—would have been laughable if her life didn't hang in the balance.
Diagon Alley was a blur of noise and color Draco didn't see. He moved through the crowds with a focused intensity, the folded parchment a hard rectangle against his chest inside his coat. The taste of soot and blood still lingered in his mouth from the Sepulchre. He needed Potter, and he needed him fast.
The Ministry atrium's gleaming black floor reflected the chaotic rush of mid-morning traffic. Wizards and witches flowed around him, their conversations a dull roar. He ignored the glances, the subtle shifts in posture as people recognized him—the pale blonde hair, the sharp features that still carried the ghost of arrogance. He went straight to the golden gates, flashed his temporary consultancy pass (a thin thing granted after the war, reviewed monthly), and descended in a packed elevator.
The Auror Office was on level two, a sprawling space of cluttered desks and busy chatter. He spotted Potter immediately, hunched over a report at a corner desk, his dark hair messier than ever. Two other Aurors nearby were laughing about a misbehaving enchanted toilet. The normalcy of it grated against Draco's nerves.
"Potter." The word came out sharper than he intended.
Harry looked up, green eyes widening behind his glasses. Surprise, then immediate wariness settled over his face. "Malfoy." He stood, slowly. "What are you doing here?" His tone wasn't hostile, but it wasn't friendly. It was the voice of a man assessing a potential threat.
"We need to talk. Now. Somewhere private." Draco's gaze swept the room. A few curious stares were already drifting their way.
Harry's jaw tightened. "I'm in the middle of—"
"It's Hermione." Draco cut him off, his voice dropping. "She's in St. Mungo's. Curse-breaking unit. It's bad."
All the resistance drained from Harry's posture. He grabbed his cloak from the back of his chair. "Robards' office. It's empty." He led the way without another word, weaving through the desks. Draco followed, feeling the weight of unseen eyes.
Robards' office was small and smelled of old leather and ink. Harry shut the door, casting a quick Muffliato charm. The sounds of the office vanished. "What happened?" Harry demanded, turning on him. "Is she stable?"
"Barely." Draco pulled the parchment from his coat, unfolding it on the desk. "Lucius. He hit her with a blood-crawler geas from the family vault. She has maybe eighteen hours before it adapts past the containment potions."
Harry's face paled. He scanned the document, his eyes darting over the formal language. "This is... this is a request for an Unspeakable raid on Malfoy Manor. Signed by Hermione?"
"Magically bonded signature. She dictated it. I'm her proxy." Draco pointed to the clause. "She needs two department heads to sign off. You know Bones' successor, Gawain Robards. He's head of Magical Law Enforcement. You can get to him."
Harry looked up, his expression hard. "Why should I trust you? This could be a setup. You and your father—"
"Save it," Draco snapped, a flicker of old anger surfacing. "If this was a setup, would I be here? Would she be lying in a hospital bed with her own magic eating her alive? Look at the evidence clause. The photographs from the vault. They show the ledger entries. She risked everything for that, and my father took the ledger back. We need it, or she dies. The only other 'cure' is me taking the curse, and she won't allow it. Says it plays into his hands."
Harry studied him for a long moment, the silence thick. Draco held his gaze, refusing to look away. He could see the calculations behind Potter's eyes—the years of enmity, the war, the uneasy truce, and the fierce, uncompromising loyalty to Hermione.
"Tell me exactly what happened," Harry said, his voice quieter. "From the beginning."
Draco gave him a concise, brutal summary: the Sepulchre, the memory sacrifice, the fight, the curse triggering, the loss of the ledger. He left nothing out, not even his own failure to anticipate the second alarm. When he finished, Harry ran a hand through his hair.
"Merlin's beard," he muttered. He looked back at the parchment. "This is airtight. She's cited wartime emergency statutes I forgot existed. Robards will listen. He respects her, and he loathes Lucius. But International Magical Cooperation... she wants Krum?"
"Apparently. She said he owes her a favor and despises my father."
Harry nodded slowly. "He does. Viktor's been pushing for stricter sanctions on pure-blood families with dark arts ties. He's at the Quidditch conference at the Westminster Grand Hotel. I can contact him, but..." He hesitated. "Malfoy, if we do this, if we launch this raid, it's a declaration of war on your family. There's no going back. You understand that?"
Draco's smile was thin and bitter. "That war started a long time ago, Potter. I just finally picked a side."
Harry exhaled, a decision solidifying in his eyes. "Alright. Let's move. I'll take this to Robards now. You go to the hotel, find Krum. Bring him here or to St. Mungo's. We'll need his signature and his department's seal. Meet me back here in two hours."
"Thank you," Draco said, the words unfamiliar and awkward on his tongue.
"Don't thank me. Do your part." Harry grabbed the parchment, his demeanor shifting into focused, Auror-mode. "And Malfoy? If this goes south, if you're playing some game—"
"You'll Avada me yourself. I know." Draco turned to leave. "Just hurry."
The Westminster Grand Hotel was a monument to polished marble and wizarding opulence, its lobby filled with the murmur of international delegates and the flash of camera bulbs. Draco felt conspicuously out of place, his worn coat and bruised face drawing looks from impeccably dressed diplomats. He asked a concierge for Viktor Krum's location and was directed to a private meeting room on the third floor.
He found Krum emerging from a session on Bludger safety regulations, surrounded by a small group of officials. Krum had aged, his face more lined, his body thicker with muscle, but he still moved with the athletic grace of a seeker. His dark eyes narrowed when he saw Draco approaching.
"Krum," Draco said, blocking his path. "I need a word. It's urgent. About Hermione Granger."
Krum's expression shifted from curiosity to concern. He dismissed his companions with a curt nod in what sounded like Bulgarian. "What has happened?" he asked, his English still accented but fluent.
"She's been cursed. By my father. She needs your help." Draco kept his voice low, conscious of the eavesdroppers around them. "There's a legal maneuver. She needs a department head from International Magical Cooperation to authorize a raid."
Krum's brow furrowed. "Why does she not come herself? Or Potter?"
"She's in St. Mungo's. Can't move. Potter is handling the other side. Look, she dictated this." Draco handed him a copy of the request Hermione had prepared. "She said you owe her a favor. And that you despise Lucius Malfoy."
Krum took the parchment, his eyes scanning the text quickly. A grim smile touched his lips. "She remembers the Bulgaria incident. I do owe her. And yes, I despise your father. He tried to block our import of healing potions after the war." He looked up, his gaze sharp. "This is legitimate? This curse, it is serious?"
"Her magical core is being consumed. We have hours, Krum. Not days."
Krum folded the parchment, tucking it into his own robes. "I will sign. But not here. At the Ministry, with proper witnesses. And I wish to see her first. To verify her condition."
Draco felt a rush of impatience. "Every minute—"
"Is crucial, I know. But procedure must be followed, or the raid is invalid. Take me to St. Mungo's. Now."
The return to the curse-breaking unit felt like stepping back into a cold, silent nightmare. Hermione was awake, her eyes glassy with pain and potions. Mender Hapgood was at her bedside, adjusting a dial on a humming silver apparatus.
"Viktor," Hermione whispered, attempting a smile when she saw them enter. "You came."
Krum strode to her bedside, ignoring Draco. He took her hand, his large, calloused fingers gentle. "Hermione. What have they done to you?" His voice was thick with emotion.
"It's a long story. Did Draco explain?"
"He did. The document is in order. I will sign. But you look..." He trailed off, his eyes taking in the frost on her skin, the dark lines beneath.
"Like hell, I know." She tried to laugh, but it turned into a cough. Hapgood stepped forward.
"Another hour until the next adaptation phase," he said, his tone professional but edged with worry. "The curse is learning faster than we predicted. Fourteen hours now, not eighteen."
Krum's jaw set. "Then we have no time to waste." He released her hand and turned to Draco. "Ministry. Now."
Hermione nodded, her eyes finding Draco's. "Go. Make it happen."
Draco wanted to say something, anything, but words failed him. He gave a short, sharp nod and followed Krum out.
The next two hours were a blur of bureaucratic friction. At the Ministry, Harry had already secured Gawain Robards' tentative agreement, pending Krum's concurrence. Robards was a grizzled, no-nonsense wizard with a scar across his chin. He eyed Draco with open suspicion but deferred to Harry's insistence and the clarity of Hermione's document.
In a secure conference room, Robards, Krum, and a legal scribe from the Department of Magical Law Enforcement pored over the request. Arguments were made about jurisdiction, about the precedent of using Unspeakables for domestic raids, about the political fallout. Draco waited outside, pacing the narrow corridor, every minute stretching into an eternity.
Finally, the door opened. Harry emerged, looking exhausted but triumphant. "It's done. They've both signed. The Unspeakable team is mobilizing. They'll move on the manor in one hour."
Draco let out a breath he didn't realize he'd been holding. "What's the plan?"
"Standard extraction protocol. They'll breach the wards using harmonic dissolution—magic that unravels blood-based protections. They'll secure the ledger and any other dark artifacts. Aurors will be on standby for perimeter control, but the Unspeakables lead. Robards insisted you be kept out of it. No surprise there."
"I need to be there," Draco said immediately.
"Absolutely not," Harry countered. "You're too close. You're a conflict of interest. You'll stay here or at St. Mungo's."
"I can help. I know the ward schematics. I know where he'll hide it."
"And you might also trigger a family loyalty charm or do something stupid. No, Malfoy. This is how it has to be." Harry's tone brooked no argument. "Go back to Hermione. Wait. I'll send word as soon as it's over."
Draco wanted to argue, to fight, but he saw the sense in it. His presence could jeopardize everything. He nodded, reluctantly. "Fine. But the second you know something—"
"You'll know." Harry clapped him on the shoulder, a gesture so unexpected it stunned them both."Go. Be with her."
The air in the curse-breaking unit had grown colder. Hermione was shivering visibly now, despite the heated blankets. The purple lines had spread to her neck, creeping towards her jawline. Hapgood was preparing another dose of aconite, but his movements were tense.
"Back so soon?" Hermione asked as Draco entered. Her voice was a thread of sound.
"It's done. The raid is in motion. One hour." He pulled the chair close, sitting beside her. "How are you holding up?"
"Cold," she admitted. "And tired. So tired." She reached for his hand, and he took it, enveloping her icy fingers in his warmth. "Tell me something. Something not about curses or ledgers or my father."
Draco thought for a moment. "When I was seven, I tried to breed a hybrid of a Fwooper and a Jobberknoll. I thought it would sing prophecies. It escaped and muted the entire east wing of the manor for a week. My mother was furious."
A faint, genuine smile touched Hermione's lips. "What did it sound like?"
"Like someone screaming through a pillow. While drowning." He smiled back, a rare, unguarded expression. "It was horrifying. I loved it."
"I would have read every book on magical crossbreeding to help you," she said, her eyes closing for a second. "I probably did, later."
"I know." He squeezed her hand. "You always did the reading."
They sat in silence for a while, the beeps of the machines marking the slow passage of time. Draco watched her face, the way her eyebrows furrowed slightly even in rest, the flutter of her eyelids as she fought sleep. He remembered the memory he'd sacrificed in the Sepulchre—the lullaby, now just a hollow fact. He wished he could give her something equally pure to hold onto now.
"What happens after?" she asked suddenly, her eyes still closed. "If this works. If we get the ledger, and I don't... you know."
"Then we build a case that will send him to Azkaban for the rest of his miserable life," Draco said, his voice low and fierce. "And you take a long holiday somewhere warm. And I... I figure out what comes next."
"Stay," she whispered, so quietly he almost missed it. "Help me. With the case. With the holiday. With the next part."
He felt something crack open in his chest, a warmth that had nothing to do with magic. "Alright," he said, his own voice rough. "I'll stay."
An alarm chimed softly on one of the instruments. Hapgood hurried over, his face grim. "The curse is advancing again. Ahead of schedule." He pointed to the diagnostic chart. The purple lines were now branching towards Hermione's temple, probing at the pathways to her brain. "I need to administer a stronger dose. It will put you into a magical stasis. You'll be unconscious, but it might buy a few more hours."
Hermione's eyes flew open, panic flashing in them. "No. I need to be awake. I need to know if it works."
"Miss Granger, if this reaches your cerebral cortex, the damage could be permanent. Even if the curse is lifted."
"Do it," Draco said to Hapgood, his decision instant. "Put her under."
Hermione turned her head to look at him, betrayal sharp in her gaze. "Draco, don't—"
"It's not a debate," he said, his tone leaving no room for argument. He leaned close, his face inches from hers. "You trusted me with the bureaucracy. Trust me with this.Sleep. I'll be here when you wake up. I'll tell you everything."
She searched his eyes, and whatever she saw there made her resistance fade. She gave a tiny, resigned nod. "You better be."
Hapgood prepared a new syringe, this one filled with a viscous, silver liquid. "This will feel very cold, then very warm. Then you'll sleep." He injected it into her IV line.
Hermione's body went rigid for a second, a gasp catching in her throat. Then her muscles relaxed all at once, her hand going limp in Draco's. Her breathing deepened, the shivering stopped. The purple lines halted their advance, frozen in place once more. But her face was pale, too still, like a statue carved from ice.
Hapgood checked the readings. "Stasis is holding. She has maybe ten hours now, if we're lucky. The Unspeakables had better be quick."
Draco didn't let go of her hand. He sat there, watching her, as the room seemed to grow quieter, the hum of the machines fading into background noise. He thought of the raid, of Harry and the Unspeakables descending on the manor. He thought of his father, waiting, probably already anticipating their move.
An hour passed. Then another. No word.
Draco's leg bounced with nervous energy. He considered leaving, going to the manor himself, but he'd promised. He stayed.
Finally, just as the third hour began, the door burst open. Harry stood there, his robes disheveled, a cut on his cheek bleeding freely. In his hand, he held a black, leather-bound ledger.
But his expression was not victorious. It was shattered.
"We got it," Harry said, his voice hollow. "But Lucius... he was ready. He had a failsafe. The moment the Unspeakables breached the study, he triggered a legacy curse. The whole wing is sealed in a time-lock. We have the ledger, but he's trapped inside, and he's... he's not alone."
Draco stood slowly, a cold dread seeping into his veins that had nothing to do with the hospital room. "What do you mean?"
Harry's eyes were anguished. "He has your mother, Draco. Narcissa is in there with him."