Guilded in Ruin

Pain.

It was the first thing Draco registered—the deep, pulsing ache in his bones, radiating outward like an old wound torn open. It was dull, blunted at the edges, like someone had wrapped it in layers of something warm, something that softened its sharpest points but didn’t quite erase it.

Magic.

A hum of energy coursed through his skin, foreign yet oddly familiar, wrapping around his frayed nerves like a protective shield. It pulsed in golden-red threads, flickering across his chest and down his arms, tethering him to something—someone.

His eyes fluttered open.

The world was too bright, too sharp at the edges, the white walls of St. Mungo’s sterile and suffocating. For a moment, his vision blurred, shadows stretching and contracting, his mind swimming through a haze of exhaustion and something dangerously close to disorientation.

Then he saw her.

Hermione Granger.

Standing beside him, her wand linked to his body with threads of glowing magic, weaving through the air like strands of molten sunlight. Her brow was furrowed in deep concentration, her lips parted slightly as she murmured spells under her breath.

Her hair—that ridiculous mess of curls—was pulled up haphazardly, strands escaping as if she had been at this for hours. There were dark smudges under her eyes, exhaustion written in the tight line of her mouth, but she didn’t stop.

She hadn’t even noticed he was awake yet.

Draco’s heart stuttered.

Because this was how it always was, wasn’t it?

Her.

Always her.

And now, here she was.

The first thing he saw when he woke up.

Of course she was. 

His voice came out rough, hoarse from disuse.

“Granger. Didn’t know you cared this much.”

She startled, wand faltering for just a second, before she whipped her head toward him, eyes wide. He’d caught her off guard. Good. That almost made the agonizing pain worth it.

“You’re awake.”

Draco tried to smirk—or at least, he attempted to, but Merlin’s bloody beard, it hurt like hell. His lips barely twitched before a sharp pull of pain made him wince.

“Tragically, yes,” he rasped. His throat burned, and it took far too much energy to force the next words out, but he did anyway. “Much to your disappointment, I assume?”

Hermione let out a sharp breath, something caught between relief and exasperation, before rolling her eyes.

“Oh, absolutely,” she deadpanned, her tone as dry as the Sahara. “You know how much I was looking forward to filling out your death certificate.”

Draco chuckled—bad idea. The motion sent sharp pain lancing through his ribs, and he barely managed to suppress a groan.

Immediately, Hermione’s wand twitched, and the golden-red threads of magic brightened, curling around his skin with renewed warmth.

Draco stiffened.

The sensation was… odd.

Her magic was different from any healing spell he had ever felt. It wasn’t just mending him—it was tethering him, like a steadying hand pressed against his spine, keeping him from slipping into the void of unconsciousness again.

Draco’s voice was low. “What… is that?”

Hermione didn’t look up, still focused, her brow furrowed in concentration.

“It’s a stabilization charm,” she said softly. “Keeps your vitals from fluctuating while the deeper curse damage repairs itself.”

Draco’s fingers twitched against the sheets as he tried to make sense of the strange sensation running through him. “It feels… warm.”

Her gaze flickered to his for half a second, something unreadable passing through it before she turned back to her work. 

“Good. That means it’s working.”

Draco’s fingers twitched against the sheets.

Warm.

It lingered inside him, her magic, settling into the cracks of his body like it belonged there. Like it had always been there.

The realization was unsettling.

And for the first time in a long time, Draco felt something close to fear—because if she was always the one keeping him from slipping into darkness…

What happened when she wasn’t there?

Hermione sighed, finally lowering her wand, the glowing threads unraveling as she took a half-step back.

Her hand moved—instinctively, it seemed—as if she meant to reach for him, to steady him, before she caught herself and withdrew.

Something twisted inside Draco’s chest at that.

Draco watched her carefully, his voice rough but measured. “You’ve been here a while.”

Hermione shrugged, her gaze skirting away, avoiding his eyes. “You were unconscious for two days.”

Draco blinked.

“Two days?”

She nodded. “The curse wasn’t standard dark magic. It latched onto residual traces of—”

She stopped herself, eyes flicking briefly to his left arm, then quickly back to his face.

Draco felt his stomach drop.

She knew.

Of course, she knew.

She had felt it, the moment it happened. The way the magic had targeted him specifically, wrapping around the place where the Dark Mark used to be.

But she didn’t say it.

Didn’t call attention to it.

Didn’t force him to speak about something neither of them wanted to address.

And Draco—who had spent his whole life expecting judgment, expecting people to recoil at what he used to be—

Didn’t know what to do with the fact that Hermione Granger never had.

Silence stretched between them, heavy but unspoken.

Hermione sighed, rubbing her temples, the exhaustion finally catching up to her.

“I should call the others—let them know you’re awake.”

Draco’s lips twitched faintly. “If you must.”

She narrowed her eyes at him, but there was a small, reluctant curve to her lips.

“Yes, well, I was merely trying to keep you alive,” she said dryly. “I suppose I could have let you suffer instead.”

Draco hummed, pretending to consider it.

“I suppose if I had to wake up to anyone’s magic forcing me back from the brink of death, I’d rather it be yours than Potter’s.”

Hermione snorted. “Flattered, truly.”

He smirked, but it was weak—his body too exhausted, too frayed to keep up with his usual sharpness.

Still, when Hermione turned to leave, something in Draco’s chest tightened unexpectedly.

Before he could stop himself, the word slipped out.

“Granger.”

She paused, glancing back at him, eyebrows raised in question.

Draco opened his mouth, then closed it again.

The words wouldn’t come.

Instead, he swallowed, staring at the golden glow still faintly humming in his veins, the lingering remnants of her magic still wrapped around him.

His voice was quieter this time, the edges softer.

“…Thanks.”

She tilted her head slightly, eyes unreadable, then nodded.

And when she left the room, Draco realized something terrifying.

For the first time in years, he had no idea who he was without her magic keeping him steady.

The next time Draco woke up, the room was silent.

No crackling magic, no murmured spells, no glowing threads binding his body together. The warmth that had wrapped around him before was gone, replaced by something cooler, steadier, familiar in a different way.

He blinked slowly, eyes adjusting to the dim lighting. The sharp brightness of before was gone, replaced by the soft golden hue of enchanted sconces flickering against the walls. The scent in the air was different, too—less sterile, less like St. Mungo’s and more like home.

Jasmine.

And old parchment.

His mother.

Draco shifted slightly, just enough to turn his head. She was there, sitting beside him, back straight, fingers poised elegantly on the bedside table.

She was perfectly composed, as she always was, but Draco had been raised by Narcissa Malfoy—he knew her well enough to notice the subtle signs of tension. The way her fingers curled ever so slightly, betraying the urge to grip something. The faint tightness at the corners of her mouth. The slight crease between her brows that only appeared when she was trying not to let her emotions show.

She had been waiting.

Draco swallowed, his throat dry. His voice was rough when he finally spoke.

“Mother.”

Her blue eyes snapped to his, sharp and assessing, sweeping over his face like she was committing every detail to memory.

Then, something in her expression eased, just slightly, just enough for relief to slip through the cracks of her composure.

“You are awake.”

His mother’s voice was soft, but beneath it was something Draco wasn’t used to hearing from her. Something carefully contained, as if she refused to let it show.

Draco exhaled, shifting slightly against the pillows. The pain was still there, lingering at the edges, but it had dulled significantly.

He let out a quiet, dry remark. “Apparently.”

Narcissa didn’t react to the sarcasm—she never did—but her gaze drifted downward, landing on his hands, where the faintest traces of healing magic still glowed beneath his skin.

“Theo sent word.”

Of course, he did.

Draco huffed a quiet, amused breath. “That sounds like him.”

Her lips pressed together, a shadow of something heavier, deeper crossing her face. “He was… concerned.”

Draco tilted his head slightly, studying her. “And you weren’t?”

She inhaled, slow and measured, before reaching forward—not quite touching him, but close. “I arrived last night.”

Draco blinked. Last night? That meant she had been here for hours.

Waiting.

The thought settled heavily in his chest.

He swallowed, voice quieter. “…You should have gone home.”

Narcissa arched a brow, her expression something close to offended. “And leave my only son in the hospital alone?”

Her voice was soft, quiet, but there was something unyielding underneath it.

Draco sighed, too tired to argue.

There was a pause, a beat of silence thick with things neither of them knew how to say.

Then, softly, her fingers finally reached forward—brushing lightly through his hair, smoothing it back in the way she used to when he was a child.

“You should not have been there.” His mother’s voice was quiet, but the weight behind it was unmistakable.

Draco exhaled, his eyes fluttering closed for a brief moment, exhaustion settling deep in his bones. “It’s my job, Mother.”

A sharp breath. Barely audible. “Your job should not demand your life.”

His chest tightened at that. Because she wasn’t wrong. Because there had been a moment, back in the warehouse, where he had thought—

This is it. This is where it ends.

And it would have, if not for—

Draco’s thoughts stalled.

He could still feel it, lingering under his skin. The warmth of Granger’s magic, the way it had held him together, the way it had been the first thing he saw when he woke up.

The memory burned, too sharp, too much, and he forced himself back to the present.

His mother was watching him closely, like she could see the shift in his thoughts.

Then, after a long pause—

“Your father would have been proud of the man you’ve become.”

Draco stilled.

His breath caught, just slightly. That was… unexpected.

Lucius Malfoy’s legacy had followed Draco like a shadow his entire life. For years, he had been measured against it, expected to live up to everything his father had built, everything he had believed in. And after the war, that same legacy had nearly drowned him.

Draco swallowed, unsure what to say.

“…Would he?”

Narcissa’s expression didn’t waver, poised as always, but something in her voice shifted—a quiet depth, something far more certain than he expected. 

“He wanted you to survive. To be more than he was allowed to be.”

A pause.

Then—

Her voice softened, something almost hesitant, as if she wasn’t sure she should say it. “And I believe he would have wanted you to be… happy.”

Draco felt something tighten in his chest.

Happiness.

It wasn’t a word often spoken in the Malfoy household. And certainly not in relation to him.

His throat felt tight, his mind struggling to wrap around the idea of it—that Lucius Malfoy, a man who had built his life on legacy and expectations, might have ever considered that for him. 

Draco swallowed, but still, he couldn’t find the words.

So he did what he always did.

He didn’t respond.

He didn’t need to.

Because Narcissa stayed—fingers still gently smoothing through his hair, her presence a steady, quiet anchor in the chaos of everything else.

And for now, that was enough.

The next time Draco woke up, he felt exhausted.

Which was ridiculous, really, considering he’d apparently been unconscious for two bloody days.

His body ached, not the sharp, searing kind of pain from before, but the deep, bone-weary kind that came from overexertion and heavy doses of magic trying to piece him back together. He could still feel the faint hum of Hermione’s healing magic lingering under his skin, a warmth curled into his bones like it had settled there permanently.

He blinked slowly, vision adjusting to the dimly lit hospital room, the flickering glow of enchanted sconces making everything feel softer, hazier.

Then, he noticed the figure in the chair beside his bed.

Theodre Nott.

Lounging like he had all the time in the world, ankles crossed over the armrest, a book in one hand, the other lazily twirling his wand between his fingers.

Typical.

Draco’s throat felt like sandpaper, but that didn’t stop him from muttering dryly—

“Are you actually reading that, or just using it as a prop to seem more insufferable?”

Theo, seated comfortably in the chair beside his bed, didn’t even look up from the book in his hands. “Oh good, you’re alive,” he said blandly. “I was worried I’d have to start attending those ridiculous Ministry charity galas without my emotional support misanthrope.”

Draco let out a weak, raspy scoff, shifting against the pillows. “Touching. Truly.”

Theo finally glanced over, eyes scanning him critically before he sighed dramatically and flipped a page. “Well, at least you still sound like an arse. That’s promising.”

Draco huffed a weak laugh, shifting slightly, then immediately regretting it when pain flared through his ribs.

Theo sighed, finally setting his book down and leveling him with that unreadable, carefully neutral expression that only someone who knew him well would recognize as concern.

“Try not to move too much,” Theo advised, “Granger will have my head if you undo all her hard work.”

Draco stilled, his body going rigid at the mention of her.

A strange tightness coiled in his chest, something unfamiliar, something he wasn’t ready to name.

His voice came out rougher than he intended. “She’s still here?”

Theo arched a brow, clearly unimpressed. “She hasn’t left.”

Draco frowned. “For two days?”

Theo let out a long-suffering sigh, twirling his wand between his fingers. “Yes, Malfoy, two days. Because unlike the rest of us, who have basic self-preservation instincts, Hermione Granger decided that keeping your ungrateful arse alive was more important than things like eating or sleeping.”

Draco’s fingers tightened slightly against the blanket.

Two days.

She hadn’t left.

He swallowed, but the feeling in his chest didn’t go away.

He remembered her magic, warm and steady, woven into his own like a lifeline. He remembered her voice, quiet but firm, grounding him when everything else had felt like it was slipping away.

He remembered her looking tired before he’d fallen asleep again.

And now Theo was telling him she hadn’t left.

“That’s—”

The door swung open before he could finish.

Pansy stormed in first, looking absolutely furious, her arms crossed, expression promising violence and destruction if Draco so much as thought about dying on her.

Harry followed, looking frustrated and exhausted. And behind them, Hermione.

“You absolute MENACE!”

Draco barely had time to react before Pansy smacked his arm—lightly, but still enough to make a point. He flinched, more from exhaustion than actual pain, as she stood over him, hands on her hips, her expression furious.

“Do you have any idea what you put us through?! Do you?!” she demanded, voice rising with every word. “You almost died, Draco! DIED! And for what? To throw yourself in front of Potter like some bloody martyr?! You’re not a Gryffindor!”

Draco sighed dramatically, sinking further into the pillows, closing his eyes for effect.

“Merlin”

Pansy ignored him entirely, still in full tirade mode.

“You know you’re a nightmare, right? A complete and utter disaster of a person? And don’t even get me started on Narcissa—do you have any idea how hard it is to keep a straight face when your mother looks like she wants to crucify the entire Ministry?!”

From the other side of the room, Theo, who had been watching with mild amusement, stretched lazily, looking utterly unbothered. “She does have a point.”

Draco scowled at him. Traitor.

Pansy, undeterred, continued her rant, pacing slightly as she gestured wildly.

“And THEN I had to deal with Potter pacing like a lunatic and Granger refusing to sleep and Blaise drinking my best wine because apparently that’s how he copes—and do you know what all of this means, Draco?!”

Draco blinked, too exhausted to do more than stare at her blankly. Then, in the flattest, most deadpan voice imaginable, he muttered—

“That you missed me?”

Theo actually chuckled. Draco smirked weakly. Worth it.

Pansy let out an incoherent noise of rage, lifting her hand like she was going to smack him again, before deciding against it with a huff.

Instead, she flopped into the chair Theo had vacated, crossing her arms dramatically.

“I hope it hurts.”

“It does, thanks,” he muttered dryly, shifting slightly against the pillows.

From the corner of the room, Harry—who had remained silent until now—finally stepped forward, arms crossing over his chest in a way that suggested Draco was in for a speech.

“What the hell were you thinking?”

Draco sighed, long-suffering, as if he hadn’t been expecting this exact conversation. “Oh, here we go.”

But Harry wasn’t letting it go. “No, seriously, Malfoy. You stepped in front of a curse. What part of that seemed like a good idea?”

Draco rolled his eyes, already exhausted by the interrogation. “You were about to get hit.”

Harry’s brow furrowed. “And?”

Draco blinked, giving him a pointed look. “And I’d rather not be known as the Auror who let the bloody Chosen One get taken out in some dodgy warehouse.”

Harry’s expression twisted in immediate offense. “I’m Harry bloody Potter. I get hit all the time. It’s practically my brand.”

Draco smirked weakly, gesturing vaguely at himself. “And yet, somehow, I’m still the idiot lying in a hospital bed.”

Harry opened his mouth, then promptly shut it, looking deeply irritated by that fact. 

Pansy snorted. Theo, still leaning casually against the wall, smirked.

And then—

Hermione stepped forward.

Draco’s smirk faltered.

Because this was different.

Pansy’s anger was expected. Harry’s frustration was predictable. Theo’s smugness was a given.

But Hermione?

Hermione looked exhausted in a way that had nothing to do with magic.

Her hands were tight in the folds of her robes, her expression carefully neutral, but her eyes—they were sharp, analyzing, intrigued.

Not angry. Not upset.

But watching him.

Like she was seeing something new and wasn’t sure what to do with it.

And Draco?

Draco hated how much he wanted her to look at him like that again.

“Granger—”

She let out a sharp breath, cutting him off.

Then, finally, finally, she met his gaze.

And Draco realized that maybe, just maybe, surviving had been worth it.

Because if he had Hermione Granger’s attention—

Well. He wasn’t about to waste it.

The next time Draco woke up, the room was quiet, save for the murmur of low voices.

His body still ached, though it was duller now, the sharp edges of pain worn down by magic and potions. He could still feel the lingering warmth of healing spells under his skin, woven into him like a second heartbeat.

He blinked, his vision adjusting to the dim glow of the enchanted sconces.

Ron Weasley’s voice drifted toward him, low and vaguely exasperated.

“I still think you’re wasting your time with this one.”

A soft huff of amusement followed.

“Ron.”

Draco didn’t have to see her to know it was Hermione.

Her voice carried that familiar mix of patience and fond irritation, the same tone she had used on Weasley and Potter for years whenever they were being particularly thick-headed.

He turned his head slightly, blinking through the haze of exhaustion, and found them both standing near his bed.

Hermione was focused on her wandwork, delicate threads of gold and red magic weaving between her and him, while Weasley sat slouched in a chair at the foot of the bed, arms crossed, watching her with mild disapproval.

Draco frowned. “If you’re talking about me, Weasley, at least have the decency to wait until I’m unconscious again.”

Ron let out a startled noise, nearly knocking over a stack of medical parchments on the table beside him. “Bloody hell, Malfoy, give a man some warning.”

Draco might have found that amusing if he wasn’t currently feeling like he’d been trampled by a herd of rampaging Hippogriffs.

Hermione, however, didn’t even flinch.

She merely glanced down at him, brown eyes sharp and assessing, before returning to her spellwork.

“You’re awake.”

Draco licked his dry lips, voice still hoarse. “Much to your disappointment, I’m sure.”

Without looking up, Hermione deadpanned—

“Don’t tempt me.”

Draco’s smirk was weak, but it was there.

Ron, pointing a thumb at Hermione, grumbled, “She’s been keeping you from keeling over for the past two days. And before you let that swell your ego—she did the same for Harry once, and she still calls him an idiot every day.”

Draco hummed. “A comforting thought.”

Hermione let out a small sigh, clearly unimpressed with both of them, and finally lowered her wand. The golden-red magic surrounding him flickered and faded, leaving behind only a faint warmth under his skin.

Draco exhaled slowly, trying not to notice the sudden absence of it.

Ron stretched, shifting in his chair. “Anyway, like I was saying before Sleeping Beauty here woke up—I still don’t see why you’re going through all this trouble. Malfoy’s a stubborn git. He probably would’ve survived out of sheer spite.”

Draco blinked. “Finally, some recognition.”

Ron rolled his eyes. “Don’t make me take it back.”

Hermione shot Ron a warning look before tucking her wand away and grabbing a parchment from the bedside table, scanning over it.

“Malfoy’s injuries weren’t just from the curse itself—the residual dark magic was trying to latch onto his system. If I hadn’t been monitoring him, his vitals could’ve dropped again.”

Draco arched a tired brow, voice low but dry. “So you were monitoring me constantly?”

Hermione’s eyes snapped up to his, narrowing slightly. “That’s not what I meant.”

Ron smirked, looking far too amused. “Oh no, please, Malfoy, let her explain. This is fun.”

Draco huffed a quiet chuckle, but it was cut short as a sharp discomfort flared in his ribs. Hermione noticed immediately, her gaze flickering back to him, expression shifting slightly.

“Pain?” she asked, her voice softer now.

Draco swallowed, hesitating for half a second too long. “Nothing I can’t handle.”

Hermione gave him a pointed look, unimpressed with that answer, but didn’t push it. Instead, she flicked her wand again, adjusting something he couldn’t see but could definitely feel, and the pressure eased slightly.

Draco exhaled slowly.

It was the first time in days that he felt a little less like he had been dragged through hell and back.

Ron watched the exchange with mild curiosity, then snorted, shaking his head.

“Unbelievable.”

Draco arched a brow. “What?”

Ron gestured vaguely between them. “I’ve had this exact conversation with her before. It’s the same ‘shut up, let me fix you’ tone she uses on me and Harry. Congratulations mate, you’re officially one of her lost causes.”

Hermione let out a huff, shoving the parchment onto the bedside table with a little more force than necessary. “I don’t collect lost causes.”

Ron grinned.

“You definitely do.”

Hermione muttered something under her breath that sounded suspiciously like “insufferable”, but Draco noticed the way her shoulders tensed slightly, like she had no real rebuttal.

He opened his mouth, about to comment on it, when the door swung open again.

Theo entered first, looking as calm as ever, followed closely by Pansy and Harry, both of whom looked equally relieved and exasperated.

Pansy took one look at Draco awake and speaking and immediately scowled. “Oh, fantastic. He’s talking again. I was really hoping for a few more hours of peace.”

Draco smirked weakly.

“Missed you too, Parkinson.”

Pansy marched to his bedside, arms crossed, tapping her foot like an irritated professor.

“No, actually, I did not miss this. Because you, Malfoy, are an absolute menace, and if you ever—ever—pull a stunt like that again, I will let Potter handle your funeral arrangements, and we all know how tragic that would be.”

Harry tilted his head thoughtfully. “I’d do a good job.”

Pansy snorted. “You’d pick the worst flowers.”

Harry looked deeply offended.

“I have excellent taste in flowers.”

Ron grinned, stretching out in his chair. “No, you don’t, mate.”

Draco sighed dramatically, resting his head back against the pillows. “I feel so loved.”

Pansy narrowed her eyes at him before exhaling sharply.

Theo, who had been watching the entire exchange with mild amusement, finally spoke up from where he was leaning against the doorframe.

“You really are collecting injuries at an alarming rate, Draco. If you keep this up, Hermione here is going to have to start charging you a personal healing fee.”

Hermione shot him a look. “I do not charge people for saving their lives.”

Theo smirked. “That’s a shame. You’d be rich.”

Pansy snorted, and even Harry looked mildly entertained.

Draco, for the first time in days, felt something like normalcy settle over the room.

They were all annoying, infuriating, and yet—

For the first time since the warehouse, he felt steady again.

The next time Draco woke up, it was to the sound of low, familiar voices and the distinct scent of antiseptic potions lingering in the air.

His body felt heavier than before, like he was still tethered to sleep, but there was a noticeable difference—the pain had dulled. Not gone, but contained, like it was lurking just beneath the surface, waiting.

Draco blinked sluggishly, his vision adjusting to the dim glow of the sconces.

Theo was perched in the chair closest to his bed, leaning back like he had all the time in the world, ankles crossed, absently flipping through his medical chart, as if it was a lighthearted newspaper article rather than evidence that Draco had nearly died.

Pansy was sitting at the foot of the bed, arms crossed, her sharp gaze flicking over him critically, like she was evaluating just how much she should scold him.

Blaise, ever the picture of nonchalance, was leaning against the wall, dressed in impeccable robes despite it being past midnight, his smirk firmly in place.

And standing beside him, Daphne Greengrass, looking irritated but relieved, hair swept back into a tight bun, sleeves rolled up as if she had been working for hours.

Draco let out a slow exhale.

Draco’s throat burned with the effort, but the words still came—hoarse but laced with familiar sarcasm. 

“Let me guess—missed me terribly?”

Pansy rolled her eyes, arms still crossed in obvious disapproval. “Miss you? No. Want to strangle you? Absolutely.”

Theo, who hadn’t even bothered to look up from the chart in his hands, sighed dramatically. “Malfoy, I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but it seems you’re still alive.”

Draco managed a weak smirk, shifting slightly against the pillows. “Devastating. I’m sure you were all planning the after-party already.”

From the corner of the room, Blaise—grinning like he was enjoying this far too much—chimed in smoothly. “Pansy was picking out your coffin.”

Pansy flipped her hair, looking entirely unbothered. “I have exquisite taste. You would’ve been buried in something elegant.”

Draco snorted, then winced sharply as the movement pulled at his injured side.

That was a mistake.

The conversation paused briefly, and before anyone else could speak, Daphne finally took over, stepping forward with her usual composed efficiency.

Her gaze was stern, no-nonsense as she pressed her wand lightly to his wrist, monitoring his vitals.

“How do you feel?” she asked, clipped, direct.

Draco arched a tired brow, as if the answer wasn’t painfully obvious.

“Like I got hit by a particularly violent brick wall.”

Daphne sighed, unimpressed. “You’re insufferable.”

Draco smirked—weak, tired, but still there. “So I’ve been told.”

Draco let his gaze drift around the room, taking in the familiar faces surrounding him.

His fellow Slytherins.

If one looked closely enough, you could see the concern—not in obvious displays, not in loud declarations, but in the small, telltale signs only they would notice.

Pansy’s hands fidgeting, busy smoothing the already wrinkle-free sheets, pressing out creases that weren’t there. Theo’s eyes drifting between the pages of the medical chart and back to him, as if willing the wrongs to right themselves with nothing but his stare. Blaise’s gaze roaming over his bandaged chest, taking silent inventory of every breath, his eyes flickering slightly every time Draco shifted. Daphne her wand hovering steadily, casting quiet, precise spells, her lips pressed into a thin line as she worked.

They were all here for him.

And for the first time since waking up, Draco truly let himself believe it.

“I’d ask if you were here out of concern, but I know better.”

Theo, still not looking up from the chart, sighed dramatically. “Oh, we’re deeply concerned, Draco. Mostly about how much longer you plan to inconvenience us with your near-death experiences.”

Draco smirked—or at least, he tried to, but the effort felt weak. “I’ll do my best to be more considerate next time.”

Pansy let out an indignant noise, throwing her hands up.

“Are you kidding me?! Next time?” she practically screeched. “Next time?! I swear to Merlin, Draco, if you even think about putting me through this again, I will personally hex you into next week.”

“Merlin, take me now.”

Pansy leaned forward, eyes narrowing dangerously.

“I will take you if you don’t stop being an idiot.”

Draco let out a weak chuckle, voice still scratchy.

“Always so violent, Pans.”

“Always so stupid, Draco.”

Daphne, ignoring them entirely, ran her wand over his chest, muttering a diagnostic spell under her breath. The soft glow of blue-green magic flickered over his skin, mapping out his vitals before fading.

Her frown deepened.

“Your body should be stabilizing by now, but the curse residue is still clinging to your system. It shouldn’t be.”

From where he had been watching the exchange with mild amusement, Blaise let out a slow, considering hum. “So, what you’re saying is—Malfoy is still cursed.”

Theo, still not looking up from the chart, deadpanned—

“What a shocking revelation. Who could have predicted that?”

Draco rolled his eyes, but Daphne’s expression remained serious, her fingers twitching slightly against her wand. “Granger’s stabilization work was perfect. Her magic should have kept it from spreading. But something is—off.”

Draco stilled slightly at that.

Granger.

Her magic had been the only thing keeping him together. He could still feel the ghost of it, lingering faintly under his skin, golden-red warmth that had held him steady when everything else had collapsed.

He exhaled slowly, but before he could respond, Blaise grinned, shifting the conversation.

“So. What’s it like being the only person in our friend group to have been literally saved by Hermione Granger? How does it feel, Malfoy?”

Draco arched a brow, unimpressed. “I don’t recall asking for her help.”

Pansy snorted, folding her arms. “Oh yes, because you were in such a great position to refuse while bleeding out in a warehouse.”

Draco scowled.

“I meant—”

Theo, still reading the chart with infuriating nonchalance, cut in mildly, “He meant his ego is wounded.”

Blaise chuckled, lounging comfortably in his chair. “Tragic, really. A Malfoy, owing his life to a Muggle-born. I think your ancestors are rolling in their graves.”

Draco’s head snapped toward him, glare sharp and immediate.

“Don’t.”

Blaise raised a brow, but the smirk faded slightly, like he recognized the line Draco wasn’t willing to cross.

For a moment, the room settled into an odd silence, until Theo, ever the diplomat, cleared his throat, shifting the conversation smoothly.

“Regardless, I’d say Hermione is our best shot at figuring this out, considering she’s the only one who has managed to keep you alive thus far.”

Draco let out a huff, exasperated. “Yes, well, tell her to take a bloody break. She looks worse than I do.”

Pansy and Blaise exchanged a glance.

Draco narrowed his eyes. He knew that look. He hated that look.

Pansy sighed, tilting her head. “She’s not leaving until she’s certain you’re out of danger.”

Draco frowned at that. He wasn’t sure what to do with that information.

Or the way it settled oddly in his chest—heavy, unfamiliar.

Daphne, who had remained quiet, suddenly stiffened.

Her brows furrowed, and she pressed her wand to his chest again, her magic flaring brighter this time.

Draco felt it immediately.

A sudden pull, like something was coiling inside him, tightening like a vice.

His breath hitched.

Then—

Pain.

A sharp, searing agony ripped through his chest, burning from the inside out.

His vision blurred, his entire body arching off the bed involuntarily, as if something had gripped him from the inside and was trying to tear him apart.

A guttural, ragged sound tore from his throat—

“FUCK-”

Everything snapped.

His hands fisted into the sheets, his back bowing off the mattress, the pain flaring so intensely that he barely registered the chaos unfolding around him.

Someone was grabbing him, steadying him, but he couldn’t focus—couldn’t breathe—

His head felt like it was splitting open, his chest like it was caving in. 

Dimly, through the blinding agony, he heard shouting.

Pansy’s voice, sharp and panicked. “WHAT’S HAPPENING?!”

Theo, his tone low and urgent, “Daphne—DO SOMETHING—”

Blaise, who almost never sounded rattled, letting out a curse under his breath, “This is not normal.”

And then—

Daphne’s voice, frantic but steady, “He’s rejecting the magic—I need to counteract it NOW—”

A surge of something cold flooded his veins, but the pain didn’t stop.

It worsened.

Draco gasped, his vision darkening at the edges.

The last thing he saw was Pansy reaching for him, eyes wide with something close to terror.

And then—

Nothing.

Everything went black.