Chapter Text
Hermione Granger was having an exceptionally awful day. From the moment the light crept in through her bedroom window, not one single blasted thing had gone right. Crookshanks, in his infinite reign of terror, had exacted his revenge on her beloved couch for her late shift, delaying his dinner to an unacceptable hour. She was fresh out of coffee and forced to drink the chalky swill that passed for a cuppa at the hospital. A patient had immediately thrown up on her during her examination of his Throat-Itching Hex from an overzealous sibling. Her interns had lost not one, not two, but three sets of charts in their haste.
And unequivocally, worst of all, Hermione’s ward had lost a patient that day. When the woman had arrived, it had already been beyond what anyone could do, but her haunted screams would eat Hermione and the entire Emergency Healer Department of St. Mungo’s alive until they died.
Her hair was only growing in size with her distress, chocolate waves and curls springing haphazardly to the side as she lay her head on her hands. Deep breath in. Deep breath out. Don’t cry. Deep breath in. Deep breath out. “Alright, there, Hermione?” a gentle, deep voice inquired. She groaned, looking up into his bright blue eyes as his hand settled comfortingly on her shoulder. He towered over her, a look of concern painted on his features. Head Healer Granger was not a woman often seen in distress, and Theodore Nott knew her better than almost anyone.
Theo’s friendship had been incontrovertibly forced on her. His good-natured, flirtatious, devil-may-care personality was too damn charming to resist, and there was the tiny little detail that he was now disgustingly happily married to her best mate, Harry. There really was no choice in the matter—they’d been thrown together between their ties to Harry and their endless time at the hospital. Five years later, they were thick as thieves.
“Granger, you’re going to have to use your words,” he chuckled kindly, the sound warming her a little as it floated down to her ears, momentarily drowning the tragic echo of the woman’s wails. “It’s been a bloody rough day. Do you want me to take over so you can go on home, love?” Theo offered. He was her loyal second-in-command, and, over the years, he had slowly morphed into a proper partner in crime as they savvily schemed to outwit the bureaucracy at every turn to take the best possible care of their patients.
Hermione sighed audibly. “I’m fine, Theo. It’s just been a rough one. I can get through the rest of the shift, and then I swear I will sleep for an entire day.”
“You’re running on fumes. You need to take better care of yourself. I know things have been hard since…” He trailed off, doing her the courtesy of not mentioning more details about her messy breakup. “But you have to know you’re going to burn out. You have to take a step back at some point and put yourself first for once in your life.”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” she muttered, sharing a tired grin with her friend.
“I have a gift that will help you survive the shift, though, darling.” Her eyes lit up knowingly.
“Is it hot and delicious?” Her words sounded salacious as she bounced to her feet.
“Oh, nothing could be as tempting.” With a flick of his wand, a steaming drink floated toward them, perfectly level. “Dark chocolate mocha from Beelzebuzzed. Don’t say I don’t love you.” Hermione’s smile could light up the night sky in gratitude as she greedily stole a sip of her own personal crack. She literally did a happy dance, wiggling in a circle as she slurped down her drink.
“Nott, you’re a lifesaver.”
“Nott-Potter,” he corrected with a teasing grin. Suddenly, as if summoned, the silvery form of a massive stag appeared before them, and Hermione’s stomach dropped in dread. Harry’s familiar voice tumbled out.
“Hermione, Theo—Malfoy is incoming. He is in really bad shape. He was hit with some kind of curse during the raid on Dolohov’s hideout. Be ready. Help him. Please.” Hermione snapped to full attention in an instant as she watched all the color drain from Theo’s face. She guided him gently to the couch, setting her chocolatey bounty aside.
“I’ve got him, Theo,” she said confidently, knowing he simply could not handle his best friend’s care effectively. Panic shook through her at the prospect of failing him and Harry, but with steady hands, she flicked her wand, her hair folding into a plait as she straightened her robes. With one last worried glance at her friend, she took off at a sprint towards the entrance for emergency arrivals.
“Locke! Vasquez! Get yourselves ready. Incoming Auror trauma patient. He’s mine. I want full diagnostic charms rearing to go the second he’s in eyesight. Price, I want a full suite of potions at my disposal right now. Give me antidotes to poisons, blood replenishers, heart-rate stabilizers, anti-convulsants, and anything else you can think of. Go.” Everyone rushed into action as she steeled herself for whatever was coming her way.
She had no love for Draco Lucius Malfoy. Not a single drop. He was Harry’s colleague and partner at the Auror Department, and he remained Theo’s closest and oldest friend—but to her, he was nothing. Their dynamic had not thawed over the years, but they’d learned to tolerate each other’s existence in the barest sense for the sake of their friends’ marriage and careers. His cutting remarks and snobbish demeanor still irked her to no end, even at 30 years of age, and she was certain he still found her to be a despicable, swotty, know-it-all that was nothing if not beneath him. Bastard.
But even without good relations between them, she’d be fucking damned if she let anything happen to someone Harry and Theo cherished so much. It simply wouldn’t do. Come what may, Hermione was ready. Healing was in her veins, and she would use every drop of her considerable power to keep her friends from suffering this loss.
The doors burst open, and what she saw turned her insides to ash. Crimson blood coated his writhing body in a disturbing quantity as his throat tore open in a yell of distress. His massive limbs twisted and contorted horribly as black sigils crawled slowly up his body, marring his milky white skin. A groan fell from his lips, his eyes screwed up in evident agony. Sweat slicked his face and hair, mixing with the blood that dripped from him. His veins were distended and turning a sickening shade of deathly gray. The diagnostic charms from Vasquez and Locke blared alarming shades of red as Hermione raced to interpret them, to figure out what she was facing as the Auror Emergency Mediwitch Team brought him fully inside the ward. The second he crossed the threshold, Hermione was on him.
She threw herself on top of the bed, casting diagnostic charms of her own creation to better identify what was wrong. But the color she saw flare made her stomach drop out from inside her—vibrant purple.
Something was happening to Malfoy's very soul.
She’d never once seen it, but here he was, screaming in anguish beneath her, demanding every ounce of knowledge she’d ever stuffed in her head.
That knowledge all said one thing: he was going to die.