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“I’d call that justice, wouldn’t you?” one of the healers in Hermione’s rotation said, handing her the newspaper so she could see it for herself.
Death Count Rises as Dark Magic Malady Continues to Plague Death Eaters
Hermione felt her stomach roil.
It was no secret that the aftermath of the war had led to countless wizarding families being imprisoned in Azkaban or disgraced from society. Even five years later, anyone remotely connected with the darker side of the war were practically exiled from Wizarding England.
The Dark Magic Malady, which had only started to appear within the last few months, had sparked a resurgence in deep disdain for those who allied with Voldemort.
“If you ask me, I think St. Mungo’s should issue a no-treatment policy. What’s that old saying? ‘You’ve made your bed, now lie in it,’ or something along those lines,” another healer added.
Hermione slammed the paper down onto the counter with a scoff of disgust. “I ought to report you both for language like that. Honestly, we took an oath to care for everyone. You should be ashamed of yourselves.”
The healers only rolled their eyes at her. “We’ll treat them, Hermione. Obviously.”
“Of course we will,” the other added, reassuringly patting Hermione on the shoulder. “They may accidentally fall off my rounds for a shift or two, but I’d treat them eventually.”
They looked at one another and laughed, but Hermione felt ill at their outlook.
She made a mental note to sign up for an Azkaban mediwitch shift on her lunch break. If it kept imprisoned wizards off the shifts of healers like the ones in her rotation, she would sign up for as many as necessary.
The first case of Dark Magic Malady appeared about six months ago. It started with one report of unshakable chills from an inmate at Azkaban. They tried warming spells, blankets, and even placing him directly next to a fire, but nothing seemed to raise his body temperature.
One case then turned into four and then nine.
Within months, every convicted Death Eater in Azkaban had been diagnosed with it at various stages of the disease.
Healers initially determined that it was directly linked to long-term use of the Dark Arts. Those who were more proficient were hit first and hit the hardest. Soon after, though, it was discovered that those on the receiving end were also subject to the harsher side effects of Dark Magic Malady. Despite their infrequent use of spells, lower-ranking Death Eaters had been regularly punished with Unforgiveables, making them just as susceptible to having the dark magic taint their blood.
Just as suddenly as the diagnoses had started, so had the deaths.
When the first Death Eater died in Azkaban, the prison had chalked it up to general deteriorating health. After half a dozen, it was clear that the Malady was claiming its victims.
The survival rate was abysmal at best. To Hermione’s count, she only knew of three Death Eaters who had managed to survive the illness. They never fully recovered, still stricken with the chill that seemed to reach their bones, but at least they were alive.
From the research she had read, there were four stages of Dark Magic Malady:
- Level I: Chills
- Level II: Fatigue
- Level III: Memory Lapse
- Level IV: Death
Patients idled at various stages of the Malady, but almost all succumbed eventually. Hermione regularly looked into the records of those who had been diagnosed, curious to see if they would also meet the same fate as the others.
She may be an optimist to a fault, but the war had already taken so much from their entire community. Regardless of the side they were on, Hermione hoped that they would survive.
“Checking in?” the receptionist said to a man standing at the front desk without looking up.
The man did his best to stifle the trembling in his body before speaking. “Yes, please.”
The receptionist wordlessly started a chart for the man before her. “Name, please?”
“Draco?” Hermione said in surprise.
The familiar frame of her former classmate stood at the front desk of St. Mungo’s just as she started her second set of rounds on her floor. The sight of him caught her off guard.
He looked up and gave her a small nod before answering the receptionist. “Draco Malfoy.”
The receptionist’s eyes grew wide as she looked up at him, recognizing the name. Her eyes darted down to his forearm almost immediately, and Hermione felt a wave of concern pass through her.
Draco was one of the only Death Eaters not to serve time for the Second Wizarding War. Due to his age and Harry's rather moving testimony at his trial, the Wizengamot motioned to dismiss his case.
Despite this, he had already been sentenced in the court of public opinion, making him a free-walking target for society’s grievances.
Hermione reached over the counter and grabbed the clipboard with a small packet of intake forms. “I’ll get him checked in, Margot.”
She gave Draco a kind smile and nodded towards a nearby hallway to get him triaged privately.
Draco leaned against the wall and pulled his coat tighter around himself as he spoke. “I thought I heard you had taken to healing after the war.”
Hermione nodded and wrote his name down on the form. “I enjoy it. Keeps me busy,” she said with a shrug.
“It suits you.”
Following Draco’s trial, most of their classmates—Hermione included —parted ways with the former Death Eater. She hadn’t done it intentionally; it was more of a healing response to put distance between herself and the war.
Hermione was decidedly neutral on all things Draco. She didn’t hold any ill will toward her childhood intimidator and had come to terms with the wide range of feelings she had experienced for the man over their years of history. She knew how much she had changed in the last five years since the war ended and assumed as much to be true about the shivering man standing before her.
Shivering.
“What brings you in today, Draco?” Hermione scanned Draco’s figure, trying to look for any other symptoms that would indicate he was suffering from a different affliction. She prayed for a cough or the hint of a rash—anything.
“This bloody chill. I can’t seem to beat it, so I figured I should get it checked out to get ahead of it.” He crossed his arms tighter across his body in a failed attempt to corral his warmth over his core.
“And how long have you had this chill?” Hermione could feel her thoughts starting to gain momentum and skew towards spiraling.
Draco shrugged. “Maybe a month or two? It’s hard to remember, truthfully.”
She hoped it was just a simple turn of phrase, an inability to recall the timeline of his ailment solely due to being too busy to keep track, but Draco’s choice of words was cause for concern.
One of the first rules of being a healer was prioritizing the patient’s emotions. Hermione closed her eyes for a moment and slowly built up a wall of Occlumency within her mind to shield Draco from the concern that had begun to flood her own feelings.
She kept it thin, not wanting to lose her bedside manner. Hermione nodded and jotted down a note on his intake form:
Exhibiting symptoms of Dark Magic Malady.
Hermione took in a deep breath and plastered on another kind smile, veiling her concern from Draco’s unaware eyes. “You’re in luck. We have a room open on this floor, so I can get you checked out right away.”
She led him a few doors down the hall to an empty hospital room and gestured inside. “Hospital robes are here for you to change into. Go ahead and get settled and someone will be in soon to get you all sorted out, alright?”
Draco’s teeth were faintly chattering as he nodded. “Thank you.”
Hermione turned to leave but, at the last second, opted to add a bolded warning to his chart after the conversation she’d had with her fellow healers.
Consistent monitoring is required.
Being one of the younger healers in her rotation meant that Hermione often had the largest slate of patients, and today was no exception. She had wrapped up a grueling fourteen-hour shift around three in the morning that had been filled with treatments ranging from mending bones to reversing hex damage. The volume had her ending the day practically asleep on her feet.
Eager to get home and crawl into bed, Hermione decided to take a shortcut through one of the patient wards. The Triage apparition point was the closest to her, meaning she would be that much closer to sleep.
As she made her way down the darkened corridor, Hermione noticed a faint glow of light from under one of the doors. Her brows knitted together in confusion. Curfew for patients had been hours ago. There shouldn’t be anyone still awake at this hour.
Hermione sighed softly and made her way to the door, knowing she wouldn’t be able to sleep that night if she didn’t address whatever concerns had a patient up well into the middle of the night.
She softly knocked on the door and peeked her head in. “Everything alright in here?”
On the bed, a man was curled on his side, facing the wall away from Hermione. With a quiet groan, he rolled over and forced himself to sit up.
Hermione felt her heart drop into her stomach.
Draco looked far worse than he had when she’d seen him at the start of her shift. His pale skin looked greyishly gaunt and the bags under his eyes were unavoidable to look at.
“Hey, Granger.” His voice was strained when he spoke as if it pained him to do so. Judging by his appearance, it was possible it did.
She hurried over to him and placed a hand on the inside of his wrist while the other went to his forehead. Draco’s pulse felt somewhat normal by her standards, but his skin was frigid.
“What are you still doing up? You should be resting, Draco.” Her voice was soft and teeming with concern. She gently guided him back so that he had the incline of the bed to support him. He went without protest.
“I believe you said someone would be in soon to sort me out.”
Damn it all to Merlin.
“Draco, please tell me someone came in after I left.”
He gave her a knowing look.
Of course, nobody had come in to check on him. Even if she hadn’t expressed her concerns about him having the Dark Magic Malady on his chart, any jaded healer would have seen the Malfoy name on the patient list and considered the quality of treatment they offered him.
The realization made her blood boil.
Hermione conjured a diagnostic chart over Draco’s chest to get a gauge of where his progress was.
Patient Name: Draco Lucius Malfoy
Age: 22
Suspected Diagnosis: Dark Magic Malady
Diagnosis Status: Level Three, Developing
Prognosis: Poor
The anger in her system faded immediately and was quickly replaced by a sickening twist of devastation.
Draco glanced up at her, a tired attempt at resignation written across his face. “Don’t beat around the bush, Hermione. You can say it.”
She was too tired to occlude well, but she did her best for his sake.
Hermione shook her head dismissively. “Black Cat Flu, it looks like. Chills, fatigue… You’re in the thick of it, unfortunately.”
He sighed and shook his head. “I read the papers. I know what’s been happening at Azkaban.” Draco looked down at the hospital blanket covering his lap. His eyebrows knitted together, and Hermione watched as a fragment of emotion broke through his generally composed demeanor.
“I have it, too, don’t I.” It wasn’t a question.
Hermione suspected he assumed this to be the case prior to coming in today but had hoped for a different outcome. She glanced at the chart one more time, looking at the glowing Prognosis: Poor at the bottom of it.
She nodded a little. “I’m afraid so.”
Draco’s eyes shut as he let out a shaky breath. “How long do I have?”
Hermione reached over and placed a comforting hand over his. The skin was cool to the touch. She could only imagine how cold he must be from the chill that accompanied his ailment.
“Let’s get you warmed up, and we’ll go from there, alright?”
Several blankets and an enhanced warming charm later, Hermione found herself sitting beside Draco’s hospital bed, trying to recount everything she knew about Dark Magic Malady.
She knew little about Draco’s involvement in the war other than his proximity to Voldemort during the last two years of it. Harry had mentioned in his testimony during Draco’s trial that his minimal use of Unforgivable Curses further supported his innocence, which the jury had agreed with.
If Draco hadn’t been on the dealing end of curses, that could only mean he was on the receiving end. Hermione felt herself grow faint at the thought.
Draco had been so tired during their Sixth Year. The bags under his eyes continued to darken over the course of their schooling. He was irritable, reclusive, and terribly anxious each time she’d see him, to the point that his hands often trembled in class while he worked.
It was easy to assume that it had all been a product of the stress he was under due to Voldemort’s task for him.
With her medical training, Hermione reevaluated those physical and behavioral expressions and felt her heart sink. Every single one of those was a textbook side effect of The Cruciatus Curse.
How many times had Draco been subjected to it for those traits to carry on for the entirety of the school year…?
“You don’t have to stay here, you know. I’ll be fine to be on my own,” Draco said, pulling her from her spiraling thoughts.
“It’s no problem. Besides, if I stay, it guarantees you’ll get treatment. Unfortunately, I can’t promise that if I leave.” She shook her head dismissively, feeling the familiar anger at the inequality of care emerge. Hermione would lodge a formal complaint first thing in the morning against whoever was assigned to Draco’s care.
Draco arched a brow in amusement. “I have to say, I enjoy being on this side of the famed Hermione Granger protection detail.”
She chuckled some and shook her head. “That’s not a thing, and you know it.”
“You’re mad if you think it’s not.” He took a shallow breath and forced himself to sit up. Hermione could see the slight quiver in his muscles from the exertion. “I remember sometime during Fifth Year, you had stormed your way to the dungeons, hell in your eyes, to scold Pansy Parkinson for calling a first year a mud— well, you remember. You practically tore the door off the hinges, demanding to be let into the Common Room to see her.”
Hermione smiled at the memory. Being in Dumbledore’s Army that year had ignited a fierce level of protection for not only her core group of friends but also for those in need of defense. Pansy Parkinson's wrath paled in comparison to Hermione Granger's, and she had been determined to make sure Pansy experienced that firsthand.
“I think had Theodore Nott shown up even two minutes later, I may have throttled her. Hexed her at the very least.” She covered her face with her hands, flushing slightly with embarrassment. “I was a bit of a spitfire that year.”
Draco pinched two fingers together and crinkled an eye. “A smidge.”
He laughed a little, and Hermione noted how frail it sounded. It was missing the distinct aristocratic drawl he’d maintained during their childhood.
“Speaking of Nott, there was also that time the two of you went toe to toe in the Great Hall because he wouldn’t stop pestering Weasley about how terrible of a Keeper he was on the pitch. Now that was a shouting match.”
Hermione’s smile faltered. “What?”
“I think it was Seventh Year after one of the house scrimmages.” Draco thought on it for a moment and then nodded. “Yes, sometime in the winter in one of those oddball pick-up matches.”
She did her best not to grow concerned, but her heart steadily picked up its pace as he provided more fictitious details. “Draco, I wasn’t at Hogwarts during Seventh Year, remember? Do you possibly mean Sixth Year? Or perhaps it’s someone else you’re thinking of?”
Hermione gave him an encouraging nod, trying to coax him into remembering correctly, but Draco remained firm. “No, it was definitely Seventh Year, and it was most certainly you. I’d remember those curls and that fury anywhere.”
He reclined back onto the bed again, letting his eyes fall shut with little effort as if to replay the made-up memory in his mind.
Draco’s diagnostic report had said his Malady progression was already at a Level Three, but seeing the deterioration of his memory to this extent tugged at her heart.
“You’re right. How could I forget?” She reached over and gently squeezed his forearm. Even under the hospital robes, she could feel how much colder his skin had grown since she had arrived at his room.
He nodded, eyes still shut, and pulled the blankets around him a little tighter.
“Why don’t you get some rest, alright?”
Draco stayed quiet for several moments, and Hermione thought he might have already drifted off to sleep. His eyes peeked open lethargically, and he glanced over at her. “Would you stay if I did?”
She agreed without giving it a second thought.
He studied her face for a moment, perhaps trying to gauge her truthfulness, before giving her a curt nod and closing his eyes once more.
Hermione leaned back in the seat beside his bed and made herself comfortable.
She had no intentions of leaving Draco’s side. It was clear that whatever time he had left was ticking by faster than even he was aware, and the idea that he would be alone for any of that felt unacceptable to her. Not when she may be the only person at St. Mungo’s willing to give him the palliative care he so desperately needed.
Draco drifted off almost immediately after they finished talking, giving Hermione some time to drop her Occlumency and be alone with her thoughts.
While she may have been neutral about Draco prior to his arrival at St. Mungo’s, she was no stranger to holding a wide range of emotions about him throughout the years.
He had been one of the first people to unlock some of her more volatile feelings, such as hurt, frustration, and anger. Those early years of knowing one another were littered with emotions on that spectrum.
Somewhere during Fourth Year, she felt a new, enamored emotion burgeon that had been hard to come to terms with at the time. In hindsight, Hermione attributed it to increased hormones and a particularly rose-tinged memory of the way Draco had looked at the Yule Ball.
Since then, it had stretched and morphed into compassion, concern, pity, and a slew of other emotions over the years that seemed to center around care for the Malfoy heir.
Hermione wasn’t sure what to call the feeling she had now. It seemed to be nestled somewhere between regret and melancholy. Twenty-two was so young. Draco had so much life ahead of him, and the thought that it might be cut short due to a mistake he made as a boy felt cruel.
He’d had no time to show the world that he was capable of being more than who he was back then.
She rested her forehead on the side of his bed, frustrated with the hand that Draco had been dealt and all that he had been subjected to from such a young age.
Sometime later, a soft, groaning noise grabbed Hermione’s attention.
She lifted her head from the bed to see Draco stirring restlessly in his sleep. She placed a soothing hand on his shoulder and stroked it softly in an attempt to comfort him while he rested.
Hermione nearly recoiled at the icy feel of his body beneath her hand. “Oh, Draco,” she said softly to herself, dreading the way his diagnosis was progressing right in front of her eyes.
He whimpered softly, and Hermione felt a surge of pain in her chest at the noise. His distress was palpable, even in his sleep.
“Draco, can you wake up for me? Let me give you something to make you more comfortable.” She kept her voice low as she tried to rouse him awake.
After a few gentle nudges, his eyes finally opened, a grimace on his face.
“Welcome back,” she said, building back up an occluding wall once again and putting on her best Healer Hermione Granger smile.
He groaned and shook his head. “How is it possible to feel even worse than I did before falling asleep?”
“Dark Magic Malady hits every part of your body, I’m afraid, so discomfort is incredibly common.” She reached over to her bag and pulled out a small vial of an enhanced Pepper Up Potion. “This should help some,” she said.
She held it up to Draco, asking permission to administer. He nodded and parted his lips slightly for her. Hermione placed her hand on Draco’s cheek and used the other to bring the vial to his mouth, carefully tipping it back into his mouth for him.
Even after he swallowed it and Hermione pulled the vial away, she found herself frozen in that position, her hand resting on his cheek as she looked down at him. His eyes stayed locked with hers, filled with a vibrancy that was disproportionate to the rest of his body. She allowed herself to swipe her thumb just once along his cheekbone before nodding and taking her seat beside his bed once more.
Draco let out a sigh of relief as the pain-relieving properties started to take effect. “Thank you,” he said, the tension melting out of his voice as he spoke. “Would you also mind casting another warming spell? I think this one has worn off.”
Hermione bit her lip, unsure how to proceed.
Her initial warming spell had been cast with a potent statis charm to ensure it didn’t wane throughout the night. It should have still been in full effect.
“Let’s try a different approach instead. We have these lovely muggle warming blankets that are just as effective.” Hermione summoned one from the closet in Draco’s hospital room and plugged in the electric blanket beside his bed. She carefully draped it over him, doing her best to make sure his core was adequately covered. “How’s that?”
He hummed in appreciation and nodded. “Better.”
Hermione didn’t want to, but she knew she needed to check on his chart again to see how he was progressing. She wanted to believe that there would be some positive momentum with rest and some pain relief, but deep down, she wasn’t so sure. She conjured it anyway and held her breath.
Patient Name: Draco Lucius Malfoy
Age: 22
Suspected Diagnosis: Dark Magic Malady
Diagnosis Status: Level Three, Developing
Prognosis: Grim
Her breath caught in her throat, and Draco noticed immediately. “Would you like to tell me, or would you prefer to pretend it’s not as bad as I know it is?”
Hermione shook her head a little, doing her best to stave off his concern. “You did wait at least a month before coming in. Treatment won’t work overnight.” She looked over at the clock, watching as the hand ticked towards 4:15 in the morning. “We just need time. That’s all.”
Draco turned his attention to the ceiling and huffed out a wry laugh. “This is just bloody perfect, you know that?”
Hermione turned to look at him. She could sense that his comment was mostly rhetorical, but she decided to press anyway. “Why is that?”
He closed his eyes and gave a small, incredulous shake of his head. “I was doing better.”
Draco’s head lolled to the side as he looked at Hermione. “I had forgiven myself for my past and was ready to start making amends.” His expression was pained and tinged with grief. “Gods, I had planned to send you an owl about meeting for tea next week to see if we could talk. Now, I probably won’t even make it that far.”
“Draco,” she chided softly. “Don’t talk like that.”
He gestured feebly towards her. “Alright. You’ve seen my chart, so you tell me: can we have tea together next week?”
If she were honest with herself, she didn’t think she could have tea with him, even if they moved it up to a few days from now.
Hermione shook her head. “No, but only because I don’t particularly want to have tea with you. I’m more of a coffee person.”
A glint of a smirk crossed his face, and she did her best to memorize how it lit up his eyes.
Draco rolled his lips into his mouth as he thought. “Can I apologize to you?”
A different sort of ache resonated in Hermione’s chest.
She had made her peace with her upbringing and the tribulations of the war. She had been able to separate the actions from the people and could, to an extent, understand that their decisions were informed by beliefs that they thought to be true. People are inherently easy to influence, and unfortunately for some, those who do the influencing are not always the ones who should be in positions to do so.
She had forgiven those who had hurt her to release herself of the painful emotions tied to those years of her life. Draco was one of the very first to receive that pardon.
“There’s nothing to apologize for. I’ve already forgiven you.”
He reached for her hand and weakly squeezed it within his own. “Hermione, please let me do this.” Draco swallowed thickly and looked into her eyes. “I may not get to make amends with the others I have hurt, so please let me be worthy of the forgiveness you’ve given me.”
Hermione pulled her bottom lip into her mouth to prevent any sounds of heartbreak from escaping. She nodded and squeezed his hand in return.
Just before he spoke, Hermione decided to take down her Occlumency walls entirely, wanting to feel his apology for all that it was.
“I wish I had stayed in contact with you after the war. I would have loved to see all the steps you took in your life to become this version of you.” He looked down at their joint hands and then back up to her eyes. “I kept tabs to make sure that the aftermath of the war didn’t force you into the darkness like it did to me. You always had such a brightness about you growing up. It used to drive me mad that you never lost your luster, even as I’d lobby horrible words at you every chance I could.”
Draco took a shallow breath. “I was so fascinated with you. You represented everything I was meant to hate about the world. For a while, I assumed that’s why I was so cruel to you back then. It wasn’t, though.”
Hermione felt her body physically react in confusion. “If that’s not why, then why were you?”
“I was cruel to you because I was so terribly aware that my fascination stemmed from a pining fondness for you, and I knew it went against everything I had been taught. I did it to punish myself for having those feelings. I’d hoped that making you hate me would burn the infatuation right out of me.” Draco made an effort to shrug. “It made sense at the time, but I know now just how daft of a thought process that was. Especially when it caused unspeakable amounts of pain to you.”
Draco took in a wistful breath and looked earnestly into her eyes. “I’m sorry, and I hope you can find it in your heart to forgive me.”
After he finished speaking, Draco’s eyes fluttered shut for a few moments before he fought to open them again. The length of his confession seemed to have tired him beyond measure.
Hermione’s mind reeled at both the apology and the confession he had woven into it.
“I had no idea you felt that way,” was all she managed to say.
He let out a breathy laugh and nodded. “Then I succeeded.”
With her free hand, Hermione covered their joint hands and smoothed his cold skin with her thumb. She could feel a tightness in her throat as she thought of younger Draco struggling with having feelings for a muggleborn witch and being so desperate to rid himself of those thoughts. Behind all of the pain that she had been on the receiving end of was a lost child trying to make sense of what he felt and what he had been taught to believe, never able to reconcile the two halves.
“I forgive you for all of it, Draco.”
She watched as his body noticeably relaxed at her forgiveness. “I can’t tell you how long I’ve waited to hear you say that.”
Hermione felt her eyes start to water at his statement. The fact that he had been holding onto the weight of his transgressions against her up until that moment flooded her with grief. How many other burdens was he bearing in the face of death itself? What unpaid debts would he be taking to the grave with him?
“Hermione,” he said softly after several quiet minutes, barely disrupting the silence of the room.
“Hmm?” she hummed in response.
“I’m so tired.”
She held his hand tighter and nodded despite his inability to see it behind his closed eyes. “Go back to sleep, alright? You need to rest.”
He nodded in agreement and let his breathing slow as he relaxed even further. “Would you humor me just this once with something?”
Hermione was certain she’d find a way to give him anything he asked for if it meant bringing him some comfort. “Anything,” she said earnestly.
Draco was silent for several moments, and she feared he had drifted back to sleep without getting to voice his request.
“Will you lay with me?” Draco finally said. He added, as a justification, “To keep the cold at bay.”
“To keep the cold at bay,” Hermione repeated in agreement.
Neither believed it to be the reason or the solution, but she slid into his bed regardless.
Hermione gingerly rested her head against his shoulder and let her arm curl against his side. He shifted slightly, allowing himself to lean into her presence in his hospital bed.
Despite his need for warmth, Draco pulled an arm out from under his heated blanket and draped it across himself and some of Hermione. She shivered at the icy-cold touch of his skin but allowed him to rest his hand on her side.
They stayed in comfortable silence as the clock ticked on, providing a faint thrumming in the sterilized hospital room. Hermione’s hand shifted from being tucked into his side to splaying out across his chest so she could feel the steady rise and fall of his breathing.
“I used to imagine what this would feel like,” he confessed softly.
Hermione nodded and felt herself lean further into him. “I did, too.”
Draco’s head shifted to look down at her with a trace of surprise on his sleep-worn face. “Did you?”
She felt her cheeks flush at the school-age confession but nodded all the same. “Quite a bit during Fourth Year... And a few times during Fifth.”
A surprised laugh made its way out of Draco, and Hermione rubbed his chest softly as the rumbles echoed through it. “If only I’d known then what I know now.”
Hermione nodded in agreement but tried not to let herself think of how different their lives could have been if they’d been braver and confronted their childhood crushes instead of suppressing them. How different would the choices they made be if they’d had one another?
In a different life, they might be lying side by side in a bed they shared within a home they owned instead of clinging to what-ifs beside each other in a hospital bed.
“I know I’m dying, Granger.”
She tensed and shook her head. “You aren’t.”
“Please just tell me how long.” His quiet pleas were almost enough to make Hermione build an Occlumency wall as strong as goblin-wrought silver to avoid feeling the impending grief that threatened to overtake her.
Her hand moved up his chest to his neck and then his cheek. “You have plenty of time. When I go home today, I’m going to put a date on my calendar to meet you for tea next Friday, alright?”
He could see right through her words. She knew that, but watched as he nodded anyway. “Whatever you say, Granger.”
Hermione waited for him to close his eyes and settle into his pillow once more before casting another diagnostic charm to check his progress.
Patient Name: Draco Lucius Malfoy
Age: 22
Suspected Diagnosis: Dark Magic Malady
Diagnosis Status: Level Four, Developing
Prognosis: Terminal
Hermione returned her hand to Draco’s face and smoothed her thumb along his cheek, feeling the cold practically radiating out of him. “I’ll be here when you wake up.”
Without her defenses, Hermione was left to the mercy of her emotions. She was losing Draco when he wasn’t hers to lose. He’d been through so much, and just as he was on the verge of turning things around, time was being stolen from him in horrifying amounts.
“Thank you, Hermione,” he murmured softly, lips barely moving as he spoke. Had she not been resting so close to him, she was certain she would not have heard it. “Thank you for being kind when you didn’t need to be.”
The tears threatened to fall from Hermione’s eyes, but she wouldn’t let them. Not now.
Instead, she angled her head up and pressed a gentle kiss to his temple. “You deserved so much more, Draco.” Her forehead stilled against the side of his head briefly. “So much more.”
She could just make out the slightest upturn of his lips, smiling at her words as he let sleep take him once again.
Hermione didn’t leave his side, just as she promised.
She listened to him breathe as he slept, studying the way his chest rose and fell into the early hours of the morning. Her hand rubbed his chest soothingly, trying to encourage heat to generate, even as his temperature dropped further with each passing hour.
Hermione knew the exact time that Draco died.
Her eyes went to the clock when he let out a breath that never returned. 7:19 AM.
Draco’s body was still beside her, cold and unmoving, but she allowed herself to shift closer to his temple once again.
Her hand reached for the one that sat limp on her waist and pulled it into her chest as she whispered as many fond words as she could think of to make Draco feel more appreciated in death than he ever did in life.
If she stayed there, beside him in bed and tucked into his side, she could pretend that he was still with her.
So she did exactly that.
Hermione closed her eyes and allowed herself to imagine that they were in a bed in a house that they shared somewhere far away from St. Mungo’s.
Their alarms would go off soon, but for now, they could stay in bed and sleep a little longer.