Unfinished Business
The scent of bergamot and honey lingered in the air as Hermione settled into her usual spot in the tearoom just outside St. Mungo’s. It was a small, tucked-away place that didn’t see much traffic, which is precisely why she liked it. She curled her hands around her mug, the warmth seeping into her fingers as she watched the rain drizzle against the window.
A familiar presence slid into the seat across from her, all effortless confidence and impeccable timing. “You’re predictable, Granger,” came the lazy drawl, tinged with amusement.
Hermione, entirely unbothered, stirred her tea with an idle flick of her spoon. “And yet, you’re here, ordering the same obnoxiously expensive Darjeeling blend.” She finally looked up, smirking. “Who’s predictable now?”
Theo smirked, adjusting the cuffs of his perfectly tailored robes. “Touché. Though I’d argue that mine at least has an air of sophistication. You, meanwhile, drink the same chamomile and honey blend every morning like an old woman.”
Hermione shot him a scandalized look, placing a hand over her heart. “It’s comforting,” she said, as though personally wounded by the mere suggestion that it wasn’t.
Lifting his teacup with practiced elegance, Theo took a sip and exhaled slowly, as if considering his words carefully. “It’s boring,” he finally decided, like an art critic unimpressed by a masterpiece.
Hermione rolled her eyes but smiled despite herself. Their friendship had formed gradually, in the way that things often did after the war—slow and unexpected. When Theo had returned to England after his self-imposed exile in Italy, he had taken over St. Mungo’s board with a quiet efficiency that had impressed even her. Somehow, between meetings and casual debates about healthcare policies, they had found themselves here—meeting for tea, exchanging dry wit, and discussing things they wouldn’t trust many others with.
As Theo swirled his tea lazily, Hermione leaned forward, lowering her voice slightly.
Hermione’s fingers wrapped around her cup, her brow furrowed in deep concentration. “There’s something that’s been bothering me—curse wounds.” Her voice was serious, measured. “Lately, I’ve seen more cases where they aren’t responding to conventional treatment. Spells, potions—nothing is working the way it should.”
Across from her, Theo stilled. His usual easy smirk faded, replaced by something far more thoughtful. He set his teacup down, tapping a finger against the rim in quiet contemplation.
“Residual dark magic?” he asked, his voice lower now, more precise.
Hermione set her teacup down with a soft clink, fingers tightening around the edges of the medical report spread before her. “That’s what I thought at first,” she admitted, “but it’s more than that. It’s almost as if the magic itself is evolving, resisting the very methods designed to counteract it.”
She exhaled sharply, frustration clear in the tight set of her jaw. “And it’s not just in one or two patients. I’ve seen patterns. There’s a consistency to the failure rate, which means this isn’t random. Someone is behind it.”
Across from her, Theo took a slow sip of his tea, his gaze flickering over her face, assessing, thoughtful. He lowered his cup, setting it down with a soft clink, the quiet sound punctuating the growing tension in the room.
“That sounds deliberate,” he said at last. His voice was low, measured. “Which means someone is either testing something or trying to undo the very foundations of magical healing.”
Hermione’s fingers curled slightly where they rested on the parchment. “Exactly,” she murmured. “I need to look into this, but—”
Theo cut in smoothly, already two steps ahead. “But you need resources. And a way to keep the board from throwing a fit over you prioritizing research over your existing workload.”
Hermione huffed out a wry laugh, shaking her head. “You do know me too well.”
Theo leaned back in his chair, studying her for a long moment before a slow, knowing smile curled at the edges of his lips.
“I’ll handle the board.”
Hermione arched a skeptical brow. “That easy?”
Theo grinned, tilting his head. “Granger, please. I practically own St. Mungo’s. If I say a project is worth our investment, they’ll agree.” He paused, tapping a finger against the table. “Besides, I’d be lying if I said this didn’t interest me. You’re onto something, and I want to see where it leads.”
Hermione exhaled, half in relief, half in lingering frustration.
“Then let’s hope I find answers before this gets worse.”
Neither of them knew that before the day was over, those answers would come crashing through the doors—covered in blood and hanging onto life by a thread.
After finishing her tea with Theo, Hermione made her way through the familiar corridors of St. Mungo’s, nodding absently to passing colleagues as her mind lingered on their conversation. A research project. The idea had been simmering in the back of her mind for weeks, but saying it aloud made it feel real—tangible. And now, thanks to Theo’s effortless maneuvering, she might actually have the chance to pursue it. She sighed, tucking a stray curl behind her ear as she stepped into the lift. Just as the doors slid shut, a memo zoomed in, hovering insistently near her shoulder. She plucked it from the air, unfolding the crisp parchment.
Lunch. You. Me. No excuses.
Hermione huffed a laugh, already picturing Pansy’s imperious expression as she’d dictated the note. It was hardly a request—more like a royal summons. As the lift dinged and opened onto the administrative floor, she resigned herself to the inevitable. Knowing Pansy, resisting wasn’t worth the effort.
Lunch with Pansy was always an event.
They met at one of Pansy’s favorite spots—a sleek, trendy bistro in Diagon Alley that served overpriced salads and wine in crystal glasses. The kind of place that catered to old money and Ministry officials, where the servers wore tailored uniforms and the water was sparkling by default.
By the time Hermione arrived, Pansy was already at their usual table, scanning a report with mild boredom, a tall glass of water in hand. She barely acknowledged Hermione as she slid into the chair across from her, but the moment the clock hit noon exactly, she folded the parchment with a decisive snap.
Pansy arched a brow. “You’re cutting it close today, Granger.”
Hermione glanced at the time. “I’m five minutes early.”
Pansy waved a hand. “And I was ten minutes earlier than that. It’s all about perspective, darling.”
Hermione rolled her eyes, pulling a menu toward her. “Merlin forbid I actually do my job before rushing off to entertain you.”
Pansy scoffed. “You should be rushing off to see me. I bring culture and refinement to your otherwise dreary existence.”
Hermione snorted, shaking her head as she scanned the menu out of habit. Their friendship had settled into this—an easy rhythm of playful jabs and effortless camaraderie.
It was still something she marveled at sometimes.
She hadn’t expected to like Pansy Parkinson, let alone consider her one of her closest friends. But life had a way of twisting expectations.
A waiter approached, and Pansy barely glanced at the menu before ordering her usual—a roasted vegetable salad and an espresso. Hermione, in contrast, went for her classic choice—a hearty sandwich and a cup of black tea.
Pansy eyed her order disapprovingly.
“You do realize you’re an actual adult with a respectable income, yes? You don’t have to eat like a university student surviving on rations.”
Hermione shrugged. “I like my food simple. Not everything has to be extravagant.”
Pansy looked mock-offended. “Extravagance is the backbone of a civilized society.”
Hermione smirked, stirring her tea.
But before she could reply, Pansy’s expression shifted, her gaze scrutinizing.
“You’re tense,” she observed, leaning forward.
Hermione sighed, setting her spoon down. “It’s nothing. Just… something Theo and I discussed.”
Pansy hummed in interest, tearing a piece of bread from the basket between them.
“Something scandalous, I hope?”
Hermione shot her a look. “Sorry to disappoint. It’s work-related. I’m thinking of starting a research project—studying why some curse wounds aren’t responding to conventional healing.”
Pansy tilted her head, now genuinely intrigued.
“Sounds important. So what’s the problem?”
“Time, resources, bureaucracy.”
Pansy waved a dismissive hand. “Please. You have Theo wrapped around your little academic finger. He’ll handle the logistics, and I can smooth things over with the less cooperative departments.”
Hermione gave her a pointed look. “You are the bureaucracy.”
Pansy grinned. “Exactly. Which means I know how to win against it.”
Hermione chuckled, shaking her head. The strangest part?
Pansy was probably right.
She had a way of maneuvering through red tape like it was a social event, cutting through obstacles with charm and sheer audacity.
Their food arrived, but Hermione hesitated, her mind drifting.
A different meal, a different time.
It had been at one of Theo’s ridiculous “casual dinners”, designed to integrate the odd mix of Gryffindors and Slytherins who had somehow found themselves tangled in the same post-war social circle.
Hermione had been tense, skeptical. Pansy had been sharp-tongued, elegant, and utterly unbothered.
But then, somewhere between Hermione snapping about ethics in potion regulation and Pansy rolling her eyes so dramatically she nearly fell off her chair, something had… shifted.
Theo had made some ridiculous quip, Dean had choked on his drink laughing, and suddenly—Hermione had found herself smiling.
Really smiling.
At Pansy Parkinson.
Of course, it helped that Pansy had apologized.
It had been at another one of Theo’s dinners, but this time, Harry had been there, too.
Hermione had been on edge, uncertain how the night would go. For all her sharp edges, Pansy had made that final year at Hogwarts unbearable for him.
But then—out of nowhere, Pansy had set her glass down and, in front of everyone, turned to Harry with an expression Hermione had never seen before—serious, regretful, almost uncomfortable.
“I was awful to you,” she had said.
Just that.
Simple. Direct.
Harry had blinked, clearly caught off guard.
“Yeah,” he had admitted. “You were.”
But before the tension could build, he had shrugged. “But you’re not now.”
And that had been that.
No grand speeches, no dramatic forgiveness—just an understanding that the past was done, and they had all moved forward.
That was the moment Hermione had truly let her guard down with Pansy.
“Earth to Granger,” Pansy’s voice cut through the memory, snapping Hermione back to the present.
She was waving a hand in front of Hermione’s face, a knowing smirk playing at her lips.
“Are you going to eat that, or are you planning to stare at your sandwich until it withers away?”
Hermione blinked, shaking off the thoughts, and picked up her fork.
“Patience, Parkinson.”
Pansy grinned. “Now, where would be the fun in that?”
As their conversation drifted into the latest St. Mungo’s hiring fiasco and Theo’s recent bout of insufferable matchmaking attempts, Hermione found herself oddly grateful for moments like this.
For the way the world had shifted since Hogwarts.
For the strange, wonderful friendships that had come out of war and survival.
And for the simple fact that, somehow, lunch with Pansy Parkinson had become one of the best parts of her week.
Because years ago, she never would have imagined herself here. And yet, somehow, she wouldn’t have it any other way.
After lunch, Hermione returned to St. Mungo’s, slipping back into the steady rhythm of her work. The hours blurred together—patient evaluations, potion adjustments, and endless rounds of diagnostics. Between meetings and the ever-growing pile of paperwork, she barely had a moment to herself. Still, the conversation with Theo and Pansy lingered in the back of her mind, weaving itself into her thoughts as she moved through the corridors. The idea of the research project sat like an itch she couldn’t quite scratch, a puzzle demanding to be solved. By the time evening fell, most of the hospital had quieted, the rush of the day settling into a lull. Hermione retreated to her office, parchment spread across her desk, charts and notes scattered in controlled chaos as she scribbled down theories on dark magic resistance. She pushed her curls back, exhaling slowly, exhaustion creeping in but not enough to make her stop. This was important. Something was happening, and if there was even the slightest chance she could uncover what was behind it, she had to try. The soft hum of candlelight flickered against the walls as she reached for another book, determined to make sense of the patterns forming before her.
The night had settled into an eerie quiet, the kind that only existed in hospitals after hours—where the ticking of a clock sounded louder, where footsteps echoed down empty halls, where even the air felt heavier. Hermione stretched in her chair, rolling her shoulders as she glanced at the parchment sprawled across her desk. Her notes on dark magic resistance were slowly coming together, but she still needed more data—more proof that what she suspected wasn’t just paranoia.
She rubbed her temples, reaching for her tea when—
BANG.
The heavy wooden doors of St. Mungo’s burst open, the sound ricocheting down the corridors, making the very walls tremble. A frantic, all-too-familiar voice rang out, desperate and raw.
“I NEED A HEALER! NOW!”
The sharp crash of porcelain rang through the air as Hermione’s teacup slipped from her fingers, shattering against the desk.
But she didn’t stop to watch the pieces scatter. Her body moved before her mind could catch up. She ran. As she turned the corner, her breath caught in her throat.
Harry stood in the center of the hall, his Auror robes torn and smeared with dirt, his face set in pure panic.
But that wasn’t what made Hermione’s heart lurch.
It was the man slumped against him, half-draped over his shoulder, bleeding profusely.
Draco Malfoy.
The left side of his body was drenched in blood, his normally pristine features twisted in pain, lips parted in shallow gasps. His arm hung limp at his side, robes burnt through at the forearm, exposing raw, inflamed skin where the Dark Mark once was.
Dark energy pulsed from the wound, tendrils of black smoke curling off his body like dying embers.
For a split second, Hermione hesitated.
Draco Malfoy.
The boy who had tormented her for years, who had called her names, sneered at her, saw her as something less. But also—the man who had stood on the periphery of her life these past few years. The one she saw at Theo’s gatherings, who never spoke much to her but always held himself carefully composed, polite but distant. The man who, whether she liked it or not, had wormed his way into their odd little post-war circle.
And now, he was dying.
She snapped out of it.
“Get him to Treatment Room Three. Now!”
Harry didn’t hesitate. He tightened his grip on Draco, practically dragging him down the hall.
Hermione rushed ahead, her heart pounding as she flicked her wand to prepare the treatment room. The moment Harry lowered Draco onto the hospital bed, she grabbed his wrist, pressing two fingers to the pulse point.
Faint. Weak. Too weak.
Her throat tightened.
“What happened?” she demanded, voice taut.
Harry, still panting, still catching his breath, ran a shaking hand through his hair.
“Curse—dark magic, something ancient. We were ambushed. He took the hit—he pushed me out of the way.”
Hermione’s head snapped up.
“He what?”
Harry’s expression was grim. “He saved my life.”
That shouldn’t have surprised her as much as it did.
But it did.
She turned back to Draco, scanning his injuries. Blood loss, magical degradation, and—Merlin’s beard—his body was rejecting healing magic.
She barely registered Harry pacing at the foot of the bed as she pulled out her wand and cast the first diagnostic spell.
The projection flickered above Draco’s body, glowing lines marking his injuries. Hermione swore under her breath.
“This isn’t just a curse—it’s woven into his magic.”
She tried a basic healing spell first, just to stabilize him.
“Episkey.”
Nothing.
The moment the magic touched his skin, it recoiled, as if the curse itself was repelling her.
She clenched her jaw and pressed harder.
“Vulnera Sanentur.”
A pulse of dark energy lashed out, sending a sharp sting up her wand arm. She bit back a curse.
“Damn it, Malfoy, work with me here,” she muttered, frustration curling in her chest.
She tried again, forcing her magic through the resistance. But it was like trying to mend something that didn’t want to be fixed. Her fingers trembled slightly as she reached for his forearm, hovering just above the raw, inflamed skin.
The Mark. Or what was left of it.
She didn’t realize she was holding her breath.
Her mind took her to a different night, a different mission, a different battlefield.
Harry, bleeding and gasping, dragged into the Auror office by a figure most wouldn’t expect—Draco Malfoy.
Hermione had been there that night, patching up wounds, watching in stunned silence as Malfoy—bruised, limping—practically hauled Harry into the room.
“He took a hex to the chest,” Malfoy had muttered, his voice rough, his hand still clenched in Harry’s torn robes. “Fix him.”
She had never seen Harry look at him like that before—like he was seeing him for the first time.
And maybe he had been.
Maybe that was the moment it all changed.
Now, years later, here they were again—only this time, it was Draco who was bleeding, Draco who had taken the hit.
She refused to let him die.
Hermione grabbed his wrist, pressing her wand against his feverish skin.
“Finite Incantatem.”
The curse fought her, resisting as though it was alive. The lanterns flickered, shadows twisting against the walls as the magic pulsed between them.
She pushed harder. Her voice shook with power.
“Finite Incantatem!”
A sharp, cracking sound filled the air as the dark magic fractured.
Draco’s body jerked violently, arching off the bed before slamming back down. The air around them shimmered, heavy with residual power. When the energy finally settled, Hermione stumbled back, breathless.
The wounds were still there, but they were no longer spreading. The bleeding slowed. His breathing, though shallow, became steady.
It wasn’t a cure.
But it was enough.
She lifted her wand one last time. Her voice was soft, exhausted. “Somnus Medicus.”
A warm, silvery glow enveloped Draco’s body, pulling him into a deep, medical sleep. The tension in his face eased. His body went limp against the sheets. Silence fell over the room.
Hermione let out a slow breath, wiping sweat from her forehead before turning to Harry. He was already watching her, something heavy in his eyes.
“You saved him,” he said quietly.
Hermione swallowed, glancing back at Draco. His chest rose and fell in even rhythms now, his face no longer twisted in pain.
“For now,” she whispered.
But she wasn’t done. Not by a long shot.
The steady rhythm of Draco’s breathing filled the room, soft and even, a stark contrast to the chaos of the last hour.
Hermione stood over him, wand hovering inches above his body, a thin, glowing thread of magic connecting her to the diagnostic projection above. A shimmering outline traced the damage—fractured magic, curse saturation, lingering dark energy woven so deeply into his system that it refused to untangle.
She had never seen anything quite like it.
Her hands ached from spellwork, her body thrummed with exhaustion, but she couldn’t stop now. She adjusted her wand, muttering another diagnostic incantation. The projection shifted, and Hermione frowned. The damage wasn’t spreading anymore, which was good.
But the magic wasn’t healing, either. It was settling, like a predator watching from the shadows, waiting.
Just as she lowered her wand, the door burst open.
“Where is he?” Theo’s voice was sharp, his breath uneven.
Hermione turned sharply, startled, just as Theo stormed into the room. His usually impeccable appearance was a mess—robes slightly disheveled, his chest rising and falling like he had run here.
Theodore Nott did not run.
His gaze flickered from Hermione to Draco on the bed, and in an instant, his face hardened.
“Tell me he’s alive.” His voice was urgent, low, but beneath it was something Hermione rarely heard in him—fear.
She swallowed. “He’s alive.”
Theo exhaled roughly, his fists still clenched as he took a slow step forward, staring down at Draco.
Harry, who had been sitting stiffly in the chair beside the bed, let out a heavy breath. “It was close,” he muttered.
Theo dragged a hand through his hair, looking exhausted, his usual smooth exterior cracked. He muttered under his breath, voice rough with tension.
“That bastard. Only he would get himself half-dead on a bloody Tuesday night.”
Hermione let out a tired huff, rubbing her temples. “You’re telling me.”
Theo pulled up a chair on the other side of the bed, his sharp blue eyes flicking to Hermione. “What are we dealing with?”
Hermione glanced at Harry before turning back to the diagnostic projection above Draco’s body. The lines of magic were still shifting, unstable, refusing to be categorized.
She sighed, voice quieter now. “The curse is unlike anything I’ve ever seen.”
Theo’s expression sharpened. “How?”
Hermione hesitated, flexing her fingers slightly before answering. “None of the other curses actively repelled my magic. This one fought me.”
Harry frowned. “You mean, it pushed back?”
Hermione nodded. “Every time I tried to cast a healing spell, the curse resisted me. Like it didn’t want to be undone.”
Theo swore under his breath. “That’s not a natural curse, then. That’s something designed to be irreversible.”
Hermione nodded grimly. “Exactly. And if it was designed, then someone created it. Which means this wasn’t an accident.”
A heavy silence settled over the room.
Harry’s voice was grim. “That’s exactly what I was afraid of.”
Theo let out a slow breath, rubbing his temple. “So, we have a dark magic attack, an experimental curse, and no leads.”
Harry shook his head. “Not exactly.”
Hermione and Theo both turned to him, eyes narrowing. Harry sighed, leaning forward, elbows resting on his knees.
“We weren’t just patrolling. We had a suspicion that there was a smuggling ring operating out of Knockturn Alley—dangerous, illegal artifacts, possible connections to dark magic. Draco and I, along with two other Aurors, were sent in to break it up. We thought we had the upper hand. We were wrong.”
Hermione felt something cold settle in her stomach. “It was an ambush.”
Harry nodded grimly.
“They were waiting for us. The moment we stepped into the alley, the wards locked down. We couldn’t Apparate, couldn’t send a Patronus. And then—” He exhaled sharply. “They didn’t even hesitate. They went straight for the kill. I’ve fought Death Eaters before, but this wasn’t the same. This wasn’t fanatics flinging Unforgivables—it was organized. Precise.”
Theo’s expression darkened. “So, not just criminals. Strategists.”
Harry nodded. “One of them fired the curse directly at me. Draco saw it first.” His jaw clenched. “He shoved me out of the way. Took the full force of it instead.”
Hermione felt something tighten in her chest.
Draco had saved Harry.
Again.
Theo leaned back in his chair, rubbing a hand over his face. “So, we have a dark magic attack, an experimental curse, and no real way to undo it.”
Silence fell over them again, thick with unspoken concern. Then, Theo straightened, fixing Hermione with an intense look.
“You need to take his case.”
Hermione blinked. “Theo—”
Harry cut her off, firmly. “He’s right, Hermione.”
She turned to look at Harry, who was watching her with something serious—trust.
“You’re the only one who can do this. If anyone else tries, they’ll fail. You know that.”
Hermione bit her lip. She did know that. She’d fought the magic, felt its resistance. If she left this to another Healer, Draco wouldn’t make it.
Theo’s voice softened, but there was no less urgency in it. “You were already investigating similar cases. This is the missing piece, isn’t it?”
Hermione swallowed. It was.
She exhaled slowly, looking at Draco’s unconscious form. His breathing was steady now, his face relaxed under the medical sleep, but she knew better.
The battle wasn’t over.
Finally, she nodded.
“Alright. I’ll do it.”
Harry let out a relieved breath. Theo simply nodded, as though he had known all along she would say yes.
As Hermione looked at Draco again, a strange feeling settled in her chest.
This wasn’t just about healing anymore.
This was the start of something bigger.