Guilded in Ruin

Harry had been standing at the door, arms crossed, watching as Hermione worked her diagnostic charms on Draco after a well rested night. His usual disheveled mess of hair somehow looked even worse than usual, and there was a tension in his shoulders that hadn’t been there before. He had convinced her to rest but the idea of his former nemesis turned confidant and friend almost dying because of him left him unsettled. 

Draco exhaled, shifting slightly to a more comfortable position. His ribs protested, “You look like you are here to tell me that I am dying.” 

Harry stepped forward now, ignoring the remark and how close it had come to being true. He cleared his throat, looking awkward. “You took a damn curse for me.” 

Draco tilted his head, considering that. Then he shrugged, smirking through the pain. “Yeah, well. Can’t have you dying on me, Potter. Who else would drive me insane?” 

Harry let out a huff, somewhere between a laugh and an exhale, before shaking his head. “Most people wouldn’t have done that.” 

Draco arched a brow. “Good thing I’m not most people.”

 Harry hesitated. Then, quieter, he said, “I owe you one.” 

Draco’s fingers curled slightly against the sheet, something flickering in his mind— 

The Auror office had been chaos, paperwork scattered across every available surface, the scent of burnt parchment still clinging to the air after a particularly nasty incident with an unstable dark artifact. 

Draco had been sitting at his desk, feet propped up, skimming through a report when Potter had slammed a folder onto the wood beside him. 

Draco had barely spared him a glance. “You’re angry. Why?” 

Harry had run a hand through his already-messy hair, looking exhausted. “Because you just saved my arse, and I have no idea how to process that.” 

Draco had smirked. “I have that effect on people.” 

Harry had let out a frustrated exhale, shaking his head. “I owe you one.” 

Draco had considered that, tapping a finger against his desk before shrugging. “I don’t think you should count me saving your ass unless you want to be indebted to me for life,” Draco rolled his eyes before continuing “you’ll just do something equally stupid in the near future, and I’ll have to save you again.”

 Harry had stared at him for a long moment before snorting. “Merlin, I hate that you’re probably right.” 

Current Draco studied Harry for a moment. 

Years ago, he might have sneered, might have thrown some scathing remark about the Boy Who Lived being indebted to a Malfoy. But this wasn’t years ago, and they weren’t those same boys anymore. 

Instead, he rolled his eyes, wincing slightly from the motion. “Yeah, yeah. Just don’t go dying, alright?” 

Harry snorted. “No promises.” 

Hermione sighed, muttering something under her breath about grown children, but Draco barely heard her. 

Because he caught the way she lingered just a moment longer. The way her fingers twitched at her sides, as if resisting the urge to check him over one last time. 

For the first time in a long time, Draco wasn’t entirely sure how he felt about that. 

Before Draco could think about it too much, another voice filled the room. 

“Well, this is a sight I never thought I’d see—Draco in a hospital bed, with Harry looking like someone kicked his puppy.” 

Ron Weasley stood in the doorway, arms crossed, his usual lopsided grin present but not quite covering the concern in his eyes. He stepped inside, gaze sweeping over Draco before he exhaled. 

“You really had to go and throw yourself in front of a bloody curse, didn’t you?” 

Draco snorted. “I know. Tragic, really. I was just getting used to a peaceful life.” 

Ron pulled up a chair, plopping down unceremoniously. “Right, well. Next time, just shove Harry out of the way instead. Might save us all some stress.” 

Harry rolled his eyes. “Thanks for the support, mate.” 

Ron shrugged. “Look, mate, I don’t like owing people favors—especially you—but even I can admit you saved Harry’s arse. So… cheers.” 

Draco shook his head in dramatic exasperation. “You all need to stop acting like I performed a miracle. It was just instinct.” 

Ron smirked, amused. “Yeah? Funny how your instincts led you to take the hit for him.” 

Draco looked away, not replying. He wasn’t sure he had an answer for that. 

Ron clapped his hands against his knees, standing up. “Well, try not to die. Wouldn’t want to deal with a Malfoy ghost haunting the Ministry.” 

Draco rolled his eyes as Ron winked. 

Draco was not only surrounded by the Golden Trio but they were fussing over him, he wondered what his father would have thought about it. 

Draco Malfoy was going to lose his mind.

He was stuck in this bloody hospital. Hours of being poked, prodded, and fussed over. Hours of potions that tasted like dragon piss and diagnostic spells that never seemed to reveal anything useful. Hours of watching Healers whisper about his condition like he wasn’t sitting right there.

And the worst part? The absolute cherry on this wretched cake?

Hermione Granger was his assigned Healer.

Not by chance, either.

No, Theo had made sure of that.

His so-called best friend—who, by all accounts, should be on his side—had specifically requested that Granger take the case. And Potter had apparently “strongly encouraged” her to do the same.

So now, instead of being left alone to suffer in peace, he had Granger of all people hovering over him, checking his charts, pressing her wand to his cursed arm, and generally making his life miserable.

Currently, she was at his bedside, flipping through notes and completely ignoring the way he was glaring daggers at her.

“You’re still here,” he drawled, crossing his arms despite the tightness in his chest. “I was hoping I’d hallucinated your presence.”

“Nice to see you too, Malfoy,” she said without looking up. “And yes, I’m still here. Because you’re still cursed. Unless, of course, you’ve miraculously healed yourself overnight?”

“I would have, if you and your band of overenthusiastic meddlers had let me leave this damn place.”

“Right. Because I’m sure collapsing again would have done wonders for your recovery.” She finally met his gaze, arms crossed. “You haven’t been released because the curse is still active. We can slow it down, but we haven’t been able to reverse it yet. Meaning you stay here until we do.”

Draco exhaled sharply, pressing a hand over his face. He hated this. Hated the feeling of helplessness, hated the way his body refused to cooperate with him. Most of all, he hated that she was the one monitoring him, with her no-nonsense tone and her unrelenting sense of responsibility.

“I told Theo I didn’t need a babysitter,” he muttered.

“You don’t have a babysitter,” she countered. “You have a Healer. A very skilled, very patient Healer who is this close to hexing you if you don’t stop sulking.”

He let his hand drop, fixing her with a scowl. “If you’re so patient, why do you look like you want to strangle me?”

“Because I do.” She sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose before schooling her expression back into neutrality. “Look, I get it. You hate being stuck here. You hate being fussed over. But Theo asked me to take this case because he trusts me. And Harry asked me because, whether you like it or not, he cares if you live.”

Draco scoffed. “Potter cares because he doesn’t want to do the paperwork if I drop dead.”

She rolled her eyes. “Believe whatever helps you sleep at night, Malfoy. The fact remains that I’m the only one making progress on this curse. So unless you’d rather take your chances with someone else—”

He didn’t answer.

Didn’t want to answer.

Because despite how much he despised this situation, despite how much he wanted to tell her to sod off—he didn’t trust anyone else.

And they both knew it.

Granger’s eyes flickered with something he couldn’t quite place before she straightened and adjusted her robes.

“Good,” she said simply. “Then stop being difficult and let me do my job.”

Draco exhaled, flopping back against the pillows with a scowl. “Fine. But if you make me drink one of those vile potions again—”

“I’ll make sure to brew an extra-strong batch, just for you.”

His glare intensified.

Her lips twitched.

Merlin help him. This was going to be hell.

Hermione had been remarkably patient. Truly.

She had dealt with difficult patients before—some belligerent, some dramatic, some outright insufferable. But none of them compared to Draco bloody Malfoy.

The man was a nightmare.

She had been trying to run another diagnostic spell, one that required at least five minutes of cooperation, but Malfoy, ever the stubborn fool, refused to sit still. He kept shifting, wincing, muttering complaints under his breath, and generally making her job impossible.

After the third failed attempt, she exhaled sharply, pinching the bridge of her nose before glaring at him.

“If you could stop being difficult for five minutes, Malfoy, I might be able to heal you faster.”

Draco, looking entirely unbothered, propped himself up on one elbow and raised an infuriatingly arrogant brow.

“And if you could stop hovering, Granger, I might retain some dignity in this place.”

Hermione let out a short, incredulous laugh. “Dignity? You lost that the moment you started whining about hospital food.”

“I wasn’t whining,” he corrected, sounding deeply offended. “I was rightfully pointing out that whatever was on that plate was not fit for human consumption.”

“It was stew, Malfoy.”

“It was an insult to all things edible.”

Hermione shut her eyes for a brief moment, willing herself to be patient. He’s just frustrated. He’s scared, even if he won’t admit it.

With a slow breath, she crossed her arms. “Look. I know you hate being here, but the more you resist, the longer this is going to take.”

His jaw tensed. “And what if it doesn’t work? What if you can’t fix it?”

Ah. There it was.

The real reason he was being especially unbearable right now.

Hermione softened, just slightly. “Then we’ll figure something else out.”

Draco scoffed, flopping back onto the pillows. “You make it sound so simple.”

“It’s not simple. But I’m not giving up on you, Malfoy.”

Something flickered in his expression—something quick and unreadable.

For a moment, there was silence. Then, finally, he sighed, dragging a hand through his hair. “Fine. Do your little spell.”

Hermione smirked. “It’s not little, and it would’ve been done by now if you hadn’t been so dramatic about it.”

Draco muttered something under his breath that sounded suspiciously like bossy menace, but he finally, finally held still.

Progress.

At this rate, she might even cure him before she actually strangled him.

Draco was sulking.

He was sure Granger could tell by the way he kept scowling at the ceiling, arms crossed over his chest like an overgrown child who’d been denied a toy. At least he wasn’t actively fighting her healing spells anymore, which she should consider progress.

Before she could attempt another dramatic diagnostic, the door swung open, and in walked Ron Weasley—blessedly free of a Healer’s uniform but carrying something far more valuable.

Food.

Real food.

Draco sat up immediately, eyes narrowing. “Tell me that’s not from the hospital kitchens.”

Ron snorted. “What, you don’t fancy another round of whatever slop they’re feeding you?” He set the bag down with a dramatic flourish. “Brought you something actually edible.”

Hermione rolled her eyes. “He doesn’t deserve it. He’s been insufferable all morning.”

Ron glanced at Draco, taking in the scowl, the bandaged arm, and the general air of petulance radiating off of him. Then, with a slow shake of his head, he sighed.

“Malfoy, you are a posh, dramatic little princess.”

Draco looked personally offended. “Excuse me?”

“You heard me.” Ron pulled out a wrapped sandwich from the bag, tearing off a bite for himself before tossing another to Draco. “You’re stuck in a hospital, yeah, but you’d think someone had cursed you to eternal suffering the way you’re carrying on.”

Draco, very deliberately, lifted his bandaged arm. “I have been cursed, Weasley.”

Ron waved him off. “Yeah, yeah. And you’re still acting like the hospital food is the real tragedy here.”

Draco glared. “It is a tragedy.”

Hermione covered her mouth, but a laugh still managed to escape.

Ron just shook his head again. “Unbelievable.” He glanced at Hermione. “Is he at least letting you do your job?”

“Barely.” She gave Draco a pointed look. “He fights me every step of the way.”

Draco huffed. “I’m right here, you know.”

Ron took another bite of his sandwich. “Yeah, yeah. Now shut up and eat, princess.”

Draco scowled but took the sandwich anyway.

He wasn’t about to admit it, but it did taste significantly better than whatever abomination St. Mungo’s had been serving.

Draco had endured a great many things in his life.

The Dark Lord’s reign of terror. The destruction of his family name. Azkaban trials. Auror training. The soul-crushing bureaucracy of the Ministry. Even the horror that was St. Mungo’s hospital food.

But nothing—nothing—compared to the sheer torment of being fussed over by Theo and Pansy.

They showed up like clockwork, without fail. As if he were a tragic invalid in need of around-the-clock care. Draco had told them repeatedly that he was fine, that he did not require their attention, and that they had better things to do than hover over his hospital bed.

But his so-called best friends?

They didn’t listen.

No, they took great pleasure in making his suffering exponentially worse.

And today was no different.

The door swung open with an infuriating amount of flair—because of course, Pansy never entered a room without making an entrance—and in she waltzed, wrapped in a deep emerald cloak, her hair sleek and perfect, her sharp eyes immediately zeroing in on him like a hawk surveying its prey.

Theo followed behind her, looking maddeningly at ease, as if this were just another normal social visit rather than a full-scale campaign of harassment.

Draco groaned. “No. Absolutely not. Get out.”

Pansy ignored him entirely, clicking her tongue as she approached. “Oh, look at you,” she cooed, reaching out to pinch his cheek.

Draco batted her hand away with a scowl. “Parkinson, I swear to Merlin—”

“So frail,” she continued, completely undeterred. “So fragile. I mean, really, darling, are you even eating properly?”

“I’d be eating just fine if you people stopped bringing me absolute garbage—”

Theo, who had made himself comfortable in the chair beside the bed, raised an eyebrow. “Ron brought you food earlier, didn’t he?”

Draco narrowed his eyes. “That’s not the point.”

“Right,” Theo said, tone far too amused. “Because I heard you ate every bite of that sandwich.”

Pansy smirked. “Which is surprising, considering how much you whined about the food here.”

Draco exhaled sharply, pinching the bridge of his nose. “You two are worse than the bloody Healers.”

“Oh, speaking of which,” Theo added, leaning back lazily, “I may have… encouraged them to check in on you more often.”

Draco’s head snapped up. “You what?”

Theo shrugged, the picture of nonchalance. “You know, just a few extra rounds. More attention to your condition.”

Draco turned to Hermione in outrage, who was standing off to the side, arms crossed, watching the scene with thinly veiled amusement.

“Are you actually allowing this?” he demanded.

She grinned. “You do need extra monitoring, Malfoy.”

Draco swore under his breath, rubbing his temples as if he could physically rid himself of the migraine forming from their combined existence.

Then, just when he thought it couldn’t get any worse, Pansy lunged forward, grabbing the pillow behind him and aggressively fluffing it—so violently that his head actually bounced.

He shot her a withering glare. “Will you stop that?”

“Just making sure you’re comfortable, darling,” she said sweetly, giving the pillow a final, unnecessary pat.

Draco could feel his blood pressure rising.

Theo chuckled. “Honestly, Pans, I think he’s more delicate than the pillows at this point.”

The door swung open yet again—because Merlin forbid he get a single moment of peace—and in walked Daphne, her sharp blue eyes scanning him critically as she took a long, exaggerated sip from a disposable coffee cup.

Behind her, Blaise entered at a much more leisurely pace, looking entirely too amused, as if he were simply here for entertainment.

Draco let out a slow, suffering breath. “No. No more visitors. This is officially a no-visit zone.”

Pansy ignored him entirely, continuing to aggressively fluff his pillows, as if doing so might physically beat the irritation out of him.

“I cannot believe how whiny you’ve gotten,” she said, giving the pillow one final, unnecessary pat. “A few days in a hospital and suddenly you’re fragile.”

Draco swatted her hand away. “I will hex you, Parkinson.”

Theo leaned back in his chair, smirking. “Bold of you to assume you can even hold a wand right now.”

Draco’s glare was murderous.

Daphne raised an eyebrow as she perched on the windowsill. “I don’t see the problem, honestly. It’s not like you’re dying.”

Blaise chuckled. “He certainly acts like he is.”

Draco threw his hands up. “Because I am!”

Pansy rolled her eyes. “Oh, please. If you were actually dying, Hermione would’ve figured out a cure already.”

Hermione, who had been watching the entire debacle with her arms crossed, finally spoke. “I am trying to cure him, but it’s hard to make progress when my patient is actively resisting treatment.”

Draco shot her a look. “I am not resisting treatment.”

Hermione simply arched an unimpressed brow.

Theo smirked. “He did spend half the morning arguing about a diagnostic spell.”

Blaise clicked his tongue. “A tragedy, really. Draco Malfoy, brought down not by a powerful dark curse but by his own sheer stubbornness.”

Daphne sighed dramatically. “We should start preparing his obituary. Here lies Draco Malfoy. Pureblood heir, Auror, and world-renowned drama queen.”

Pansy gasped. “Oh, we should absolutely throw him a memorial service in advance!”

Draco stared at them in absolute horror. “You wouldn’t.”

Theo grinned. “You’ve underestimated how much free time we have.”

Draco turned to Blaise, the only one who occasionally had a shred of common sense.

Blaise merely smirked, utterly unhelpful. “I think you deserve it, honestly.”

Draco turned back to him, leveling a glare. “I hate all of you.”

Pansy beamed. “We know.”

Theo clapped him on the shoulder, ignoring the way Draco winced. “That’s what makes this so much fun.”

Daphne smirked. “Now, let’s talk about the color scheme for your memorial—”

Draco buried his face in his pillow with a long, suffering groan.

When he heard Hermione laugh at the circus he called his friends, Draco closed his eyes, inhaling deeply through his nose. He was going to hex them all into next week the moment he got out of here.

If he ever got out of here.

At this rate, his so-called friends were going to kill him with their relentless affection before the curse ever got the chance.

Hermione Granger had barely slept, but her mind was sharper than it had been in days.

The patient wing had finally quieted — no more footsteps echoing down the corridors, no more concerned friends demanding updates. Just her, the soft hum of magical monitoring charms, and the low, steady rise and fall of Draco Malfoy's breathing behind the privacy curtain.

She sat cross-legged on the floor of the diagnostics lab, surrounded by crumpled notes, empty ink bottles, and three open spellbooks. Her eyes burned, her limbs ached, but she didn’t stop.

Because she’d finally found a pattern.

The curse wasn’t just resisting healing — it was rejecting external magic altogether. Defensive, ancient, and smart. But during one of the earlier stabilizations, her magic hadn’t been fully rejected. In fact, it had held. Not easily. Not cleanly. But it had held. The spell had recognized her.

That had to mean something.

She reached for the nearest parchment, scrawling down a new theory, half-formed and desperate. What if she couldn’t reverse the curse entirely yet — but could at least localize it? Anchor it somewhere. Stabilize it in a way that didn’t require her constantly being at his bedside, wand drawn and heart racing.

Containment. Drainage. Magical compatibility.

Her fingers moved automatically, flipping pages, sketching sigils, muttering counter-curses under her breath. Ancient curse-breaking techniques meshed with St. Mungo’s stabilization protocols. If she was right — if the curse had embedded itself in Draco’s magic, feeding off his core — then maybe she could trick it into settling somewhere safer. Somewhere more… familiar.

She hesitated.

Her eyes drifted to a sketch she’d drawn of the Dark Mark’s faded remnant. The skin there was still marked, not visibly, but magically. Residual dark magic. Traces of old spells.

An anchor.

A horrifying, perfect anchor.

She exhaled shakily.

It made sense. The curse recognized the signature of the Dark Mark — not just as something to attack, but as something to cling to. Made of the same type of magic. It wouldn’t resist settling there. In fact, it would be more stable. Predictable. Easier to drain.

“So the damn thing is good for something after all,” she muttered to herself, then paused, realizing that sounded uncomfortably like something Draco might say. She rolled her eyes and pressed on.

She found the thick band of charmed cloth in her satchel — a spellweave wrap she had originally designed for magical burn victims. It would do. She began to lace it with curse-absorbing sigils, her wandwork meticulous and quiet. A delicate runic sequence to channel the siphoned energy. A binding spell to ensure it didn’t wander. A reset node that would require a magical recharge — from her, and only her.

By the time the sun began creeping through the frosted hospital windows, the wrap pulsed with quiet light, humming in tune with her signature.

She sat back, exhausted and covered in ink smudges, but for the first time in days, she smiled.

It wasn’t a cure.

But it was a beginning.

Draco Malfoy had never been particularly good at taking orders.

Especially not when those orders came from concerned friends, frustrated healers, or one particularly bossy war heroine currently trying to block the door to his recovery room with all the force of a very determined brick wall.

Which was precisely why, despite the lingering burn of residual magic twisting through his veins and the sharp pull of bruised ribs, he was getting out of this damn hospital bed, whether Healer Granger liked it or not.

“I’m going back to work,” Draco said flatly, arms crossed over his chest. He wasn’t even wearing a shirt — just bandages, sheer audacity, and the kind of stubbornness that only came from being raised a Malfoy.

Hermione Granger, wearing her hair in a messy bun and her patience in shreds, did not budge.

“No,” she said, equally flat.

Behind her, Theo leaned against the wall, arms folded, sipping his third espresso of the morning. “This is better than telly.”

“Shut up,” both Draco and Hermione snapped at the same time.

Harry, who had been pacing the room with the kind of exhausted energy only an Auror who hadn’t slept in thirty-six hours could muster, paused long enough to look between them. “Malfoy, you nearly bled out on me three days ago.”

“Keyword: nearly.”

Hermione’s eyes narrowed. “You’re still cursed, you absolute menace.”

“And you,” Draco snapped, “are not the bloody Curse Authority.”

Hermione stepped forward, dangerously close, jabbing a finger at the bandage wrapped around his left arm. “That curse tried to eat you from the inside out. You think one good night’s sleep and a couple of potions mean you’re ready to waltz back into the field like nothing happened?”

Draco arched a brow. “I’m not waltzing. I’m striding. There’s a difference.”

Theo snorted. “You’re barely hobbling.”

“Would you all please get out of my recovery plan?” Draco muttered.

Harry raised a hand. “Just for the record, I’m with Hermione. You need more time.”

“Another day here and I’ll go insane. I’ll curse someone on principle.”

“Please don’t,” Theo said, without looking up. “The paperwork is already a nightmare.”

Hermione didn’t answer at first. She just stared at him — and not the usual kind of exasperated stare she reserved for paperwork errors or Theo’s casual sarcasm, but something deeper. Tighter. More afraid than she’d ever admit.

Her voice dropped. “You’re not ready, Draco.”

The use of his name startled him. He blinked, caught completely off guard. She rarely called him that — always “Malfoy” or some version of  "you idiot," like it was safer. Distant. Professional.

But now—

His throat went dry.

Something about the way she’d said it — gentle, frayed, real — cut straight through the bravado. He didn’t know how to deflect that. 

Theo straightened a little, raising an eyebrow at the scene in front of him with new found interest.

Even Harry who had stopped moving, looked suspiciously like he was trying not to smirk

Draco recovered with what he felt like was an admirable speed considering his heart was beating at a rate that had nothing to do with the curse but more to do with the witch in front of him. “If I sit here any longer, I’ll go mad. I need to move. I need to do something.”

“You need to stay alive,” Hermione said softly.

Silence.

Theo cleared his throat awkwardly. “Well, on that cheerful note…”

“Out,” Hermione snapped at both him and Harry. “I need to speak to him. Alone.”

“Right.” Harry was already halfway to the door. “Have fun yelling.”

Theo saluted. “Try not to kill each other.Or do. Just aim away from the medical equipment.”

The moment the door shut behind them, the room felt louder. Quieter. Closer.

Hermione crossed her arms. “You’re reckless.”

Draco gave her a faint smirk. “You’re controlling.”

“I’m trying to keep you alive.”

“And I’m trying not to rot in this bed like a decorative corpse.”

The sterile scent of antiseptic potions clung to the air, mixing with the faint hum of diagnostic spells still whispering from the enchanted monitors around him. He hated it. He hated the stillness, the confinement. The way his body felt too weak, like he wasn’t entirely his own anymore.

Swinging his legs over the side of the bed, he clenched his jaw as a sharp ache shot up his spine, warning him that this was, objectively, a terrible idea. He ignored the protest his body gave at the sudden movement. His muscles ached, the residual effects of the curse still clinging to him like a second skin, but he refused to stay another minute in this sterile prison.

He pressed his feet to the cold floor, straightened his back, and—

The world tilted. His knees gave out before he could even take a proper step, the cursed remnants still woven into his system sapping his strength faster than he anticipated.

Shit—

And then she was there with a firm grip latched onto his arms before he could crash to the floor.

He barely had time to register the warmth of steady hands catching him, grounding him, before he was pulled back upright with surprising strength. His breath stuttered, his vision swimming slightly, and suddenly Hermione Granger’s face was far too close.

“Merlin,” Hermione sighed, exasperated but not surprised. “For once in your life, can you stop being so bloody difficult?”

Her voice was sharp, but it wasn’t scolding. It was exasperated, irritated—but worried.

Draco swallowed, momentarily thrown off. His body felt wrong, his magic frayed at the edges, but it wasn’t the pain making his breath hitch—it was the look in her eyes.

Not the usual clinical assessment, not detached professionalism. Just genuine concern.

Concerned, but not pitying.

It was so much worse than pity.

Pity, he could handle. He had spent years swallowing down the judgment, the whispered conversations, the sidelong glances filled with barely veiled disdain or reluctant sympathy. This wasn’t that.

This was genuine concern. Real. Unfiltered. Too close.

“I was fine,” he muttered, attempting to straighten, only to have her grip tighten slightly, grounding him before he could fall over again.

She raised a brow. “Oh, yes. Of course. The perfect image of stability.”

Draco rolled his shoulders, forcing out a smirk to cover the disquiet stirring inside him. 

She scoffed, but she was already easing him carefully back onto the bed, guiding him down with careful, steady hands. “Sit down, Draco.”

There it was again.

Draco.

Not Malfoy.

His name, soft and firm and hers.

He stared at her, heart thudding a little harder than he liked. It didn’t mean anything. It couldn’t mean anything.

And yet.

He obeyed — not because she told him to, but because his legs gave him no other choice.

She let out a slow breath and turned away — only to reach into her satchel and pull out a tightly wound bundle of enchanted cloth, shimmering faintly with runes. She held it up without looking at him.

Draco blinked. “That better not be what I think it is.”

“It’s not a straightjacket,” Hermione said dryly, unfolding the wrap. “Though don’t tempt me.”

“What is it?”

“A magical siphon wrap,” she said, voice slipping into Healer Mode — sharp, quick, precise. “Woven with absorption runes, curse-repelling sigils, and a stabilizing sequence of intent-binding threads.”

Draco stared at her. “In English, Granger.”

“It’s going to bind the curse to a fixed location — your forearm — and prevent it from spreading to your core. Think of it as a magical drain valve. It’ll siphon off the worst of the backlash.”

He glanced at it warily. “Why the arm?”

Hermione hesitated. Then, carefully, she sat on the edge of the bed, her voice quieter now. “The remnants of the Dark Mark — or whatever’s left of it — still contain residual dark magic. It acts like an anchor. When I tested containment options, your arm reacted differently. The curse recognized it.”

Draco stared at her.

She continued, calmly. “The new curse was designed using similar dark foundations. So when it senses something familiar — something it identifies with — it stabilizes. It’s like... the mark is speaking the same language.”

Draco blinked.

Then muttered, “So the damn thing is good for something.”

Hermione’s lips quirked. “Don’t get sentimental on me now.”

Draco rolled his eyes, but his voice was softer when he asked, “What’s the catch?”

Hermione hesitated, then looked at him.

“It has to be drained weekly. By me.”

His brows rose. “You’re serious.”

“The magic is keyed to my signature,” she said simply. “The compatibility is accidental — but it works. If someone else tries, it’ll destabilize.”

Draco blinked. “So… you’ve cursed me with weekly checkups.”

Hermione smirked faintly. “Essentially.”

He studied the cloth again. “And this will let me go back to work?”

“Carefully. Monitored. No field missions without Harry. No overexertion. No triggering wards or dealing with volatile artifacts. And if you so much as twitch suspiciously, I will drag you back to St. Mungo’s by your stupidly expensive collar.”

Draco tilted his head. “You’re very bossy.”

“Someone has to be.”

“So I’m stuck with you.”

“Like a very determined magical babysitter.”

Draco didn’t reply right away.

Then, slowly, he held out his arm.

Hermione moved closer, wrapping the cloth around the forearm where the curse had left the skin raw and tight. The moment her wand tapped the final rune, the wrap pulsed — a low, golden glow — and Draco hissed.

“It’s warm.”

“That’s the magic responding,” she murmured, tightening it gently. “It’s recognizing you.”

“It feels like…” He trailed off, frowning. “You.”

Hermione blinked.

The silence stretched, too long.

Her fingers lingered just a second too long on his wrist before she pulled back.

“There,” she said briskly, stepping away. “All done.”

Draco flexed his arm. The magic shimmered. Stabilized. And something in him — the tightness, the ache — eased.

He looked at her.

“You’re saving me. Again.”

Hermione rolled her eyes. “Don’t get used to it.”

But her smile was softer than her voice.

And when Draco finally left the room — arm wrapped, magic humming, soul still tethered by something golden and stubborn and hers — he didn’t feel like he was dying anymore.

He felt like he was finally coming back to life.