mon étoile

At some point, Hermione found herself at the end of Draco Malfoy’s and Theodore Nott’s cots, waterlogged exhaustion pressing against her skull.

The air in the ward was thick—damp with sweat, potions, and the stale, metallic tinge of spent magic. The remnants of the night before still clung to her skin, still thrummed in her bones.

Healer Gideon Fields waved her off before she could muster an apology. His first shift had been last night, and her memory of their brief interaction was hazy at best. Hardly a shining display of professionalism.

"It was one of those nights, no worries." His voice was breezy, casual, a stark contrast to the sterile grimness of their surroundings.

He greeted Harry and Ron like they’d been mates since school, his laid-back, California-surfer energy like he belonged anywhere but Azkaban. His easy smirk and effortless charm were so at odds with the cold, clinical dread she’d been wading through, she almost didn’t know what to do with it.

But it was refreshing.

Comforting, even.

"They’re stable," Gideon continued, shaking the inky waves out of his face as he flipped through his notes. "Fevers are still high, but no spikes. I upped their potion dosage, and it seems to be holding."

He jerked his chin toward Theo. "Took some convincing to get him to stay in bed, but once he was down, he was out. Malfoy hasn’t moved since you left."

They were improving.

It wasn’t saying much—both of them had barely clawed their way back from the edge—but at least now, their bodies had stopped prioritizing survival long enough to begin real healing.

Hermione exhaled slowly, scanning their vitals.

She dragged a swivel chair between their cots, flipping through Gideon’s notes again.

She’d need to finish the rest of her intakes soon—and based on the trials she’d attended, she had some of the worst of the worst left on her docket.

But first—she allowed herself a moment to watch the scans in front of her.

Stable.

Hermione was too in her head to realize Theo’s eyes were open and watching her.

"Granger, come a little closer if you’re going to gawk." His voice came out a little too loud, vowels slightly elongated, like he was guessing at his own volume. "I’m much better up close."

His eyes flickered to her mouth as she reacted, tracking her movements as much as her words.

She frowned slightly, stepping closer without thinking.

"How are you feeling?" Hermione asked, making sure her lips moved clearly as she spoke.

Theo tilted his head, watching her mouth for a beat too long before responding.

"Well, better than you look." His grin widened, hands moving lazily in the air before settling into a fluid motion before he continued speaking.
"You’re quite fit, Granger, but you look like absolute shite right now. Didn’t get much sleep?"

Hermione blinked at the combination of speech and signing. 

It was seamless—like muscle memory, something so ingrained he didn’t realize he was doing it.

"Me, though?" Theo sighed dramatically, shifting slightly in bed. His voice still didn’t sit quite right, but he didn’t seem to care. "Got some great beauty sleep, can’t you tell?"

His fingers moved absently before he jerked his chin toward Gideon, who was packing up his bag in the office, a wolfish grin spreading across his face.

"Between the closest thing I’ve had to a shower in two years and this feather-soft mattress, I bet I could get that tall glass of water to draw the curtain and crawl under the sheets with me. What do you think?"

"Th-Theo—" she spluttered with a laugh, the sound escaping before she could stop it. The sharp contrast between his wit and the night before sent a strange ache through her ribs. As if some part of her had braced for something else—something heavier.

"How are the tremors? Any aches?" she asked, more deliberately now.

Theo waved her off with an exaggerated eye roll, "Oh, all that? I’m fine."

A beat.

Then— fingers twitching as he added: "—but! Not good enough to go back up to my cell."

He flopped back with a theatrical groan, tossing an arm over his forehead.

"Tragic, really."

Hermione crossed her arms.

"You’re full of shit," she muttered, scanning his diagnostic.

Theo perked up instantly, before gasping dramatically.

"Granger, please. That’s not very lady-like!"

She ignored him.

"I’ll bring you something to eat. You’re going to finish every bite—healer’s orders, you hear?"

Theo grinned, tapping behind his ear.

"Not quite, but I got the gist."

Hermione rolled her eyes, moving to stand. She hadn’t realized she had perched herself on Theo’s cot during their exchange.

Theo gave a lazy salute, fingers twisting into a loose “yes ma’am” motion.

As she stepped away, the sound of a creaking and shifting under sheets pulled her attention to the other cot.

Draco.

Awake. And watching her.

She approached slowly, like one might approach a wild, injured thing.

She had no idea what to expect.

The last time she’d looked him in the eyes, truly looked at him, was years ago—across a battlefield, wands drawn, blood staining the stone beneath their feet.

Before that, it had been Hogwarts hallways, sharp words and sharper glares, a different war fought through hissing insults and brittle silence.

Back then, there had been fire behind his eyes.

A cruel, reckless kind of fire—born of hatred, of pride, of desperation to be something he wasn’t sure he even wanted to be.

But then the war ended.

Then came his trial, where his head stayed bowed, his voice barely above a whisper as sentences were handed down.

Then prison. The sickness. The slow decay.

And now—

Now, for the first time, he was seeing her.

No fire. No hatred.

Just awareness.

Recognition.

As if he was waking up from something, and she was the first thing he understood.

Hermione swallowed, keeping her expression neutral as she scanned his vitals.

Draco didn’t move. Didn’t flinch. But he was still watching her.

She hesitated before holding out a hand.

"Your arm."

His gaze flickered to her outstretched hand, but he didn’t move immediately.

A beat.

Then—he lifted his left arm, but not toward her hand.

A silent warning.

You may look.

But don’t touch.

The faded Dark Mark curled up his forearm, tendrils of black ink remained.

Not pulsing, not burning like before.

Hermione’s gaze flickered back up to meet his, her mind flashing to a few hours earlier—his body convulsing, the fever searing, the unrelenting pulse of magic trying to tear him apart.

Draco was still watching her.

Not scowling. Not sneering.

Just watching.

After a few minutes of tense silence, she began to step away.

That’s when he spoke.

His voice was rough, hoarse, just above a whisper—but it stopped her cold.

"…should have just let me die."

Everything inside her ached.

The words weren’t bitter. Weren’t resentful.

They were just flat. Matter-of-fact.

Like he wasn’t pleading. Like he wasn’t even questioning it.

Just stating it.

Hermione’s grip tightened around her wand.

Her voice, when it came, was steady.

"You will not die on my watch, Draco Malfoy."

He just rolled onto his side, curling inward.

As if she wasn’t even there.

She continued moving her feet into her office but her head was spinning, no idea what to do with what was just said.

She tucked that memory into a mental scrap of paper, folded it as small as it would go, and slid it into a random drawer of her Occlumency filing cabinet.

Hermione shot off a Murmur request for her first patient, then collapsed onto the couch beside Ron, melting into the worn fabric.

"Has it only been four days that we’ve been here?" she muttered, letting her head rest against his shoulder.

"Technically only three, Mione. It’s 9:00 on a Thursday."

Ron patted her hair absently while he read The Prophet.

She sighed. Only 9:00? It was going to be a long day.

She let her eyes drift shut, stealing a moment’s reprieve, but the sound of boots against tile cut her break short. Ron squeezed her hand as she stood, Harry giving her shoulder a firm squeeze before she stepped out into the ward.

CO Hazelcroft was waiting at the entrance, his meaty fist clamped around Barty Crouch Jr.’s arm. The guard didn’t speak, and Hermione didn’t bother wasting breath on him. Her energy was better spent elsewhere.

Crouch Jr. moved without resistance, a vacant puppet, his dull gaze sliding past her without recognition.

At least he had an excuse. The Dementor’s Kiss had taken whatever was left inside him long ago.

She flicked her wand over his brittle frame, watching the sluggish pulse of his vitals appear. Minor symptoms. Just like the others who had been Kissed. They were the easiest to treat.

They were also the most disturbing.

She worked through the next few cases without much trouble—Jugson, the Carrows, Mulciber, the nameless who had followed Voldemort’s orders without question.

Most had only mild symptoms, their conditions nowhere near as dire as Theo or Draco’s. Their insults were dull, predictable.

She had walked the halls of Hogwarts when the Heir of Slytherin was hunting Muggleborns. Had endured the whispers and gossip that came from Rita Skeeter’s twisted lies. Had stood her ground when the Inquisitorial Squad hunted for anyone draped in red, yellow, or blue.

She could handle a little name-calling from some Death Eaters.

Some other patients required a little more effort.

Dolohov smirked the entire time. From the moment Hazelcroft shoved him into the room to the instant she dismissed him, that smug, knowing expression never wavered.

He recognized her. That much was clear.

She didn’t acknowledge it. Didn’t return his gaze. Just moved through the motions of recording his vitals, her quill scratching against parchment in steady, measured strokes.

That night in the Department of Mysteries was a recurring nightmare, and as if the curse recognized its originator nearby, a familiar heat bloomed beneath her ribs—sharp, searing, and impossible to ignore. It clawed its way to the surface, her fingers pressing against the spot as if she could will the phantom ache away.

Dolohov’s eyes flicked to the movement. And then—his smirk widened.

Of course he knew. Of course he remembered.

Hermione exhaled through her nose, forcing her hand back to her side.

His symptoms were minor. A blessing.

She sent off a Murmur for his removal without another glance. Ready to move on.

Hazelcroft responded quickly, trading him out for the next patient.

The universe, apparently, had no intention of giving her a break.

Lucius Malfoy.

She took a steadying breath as she motioned him to the cot. Just another patient. Just another intake.

He was gaunt but not dying, his sharp aristocratic features hollowed out but still unmistakably Malfoy. His sneer was intact—a mirror image of the one she had seen so many times before.

"How charming," he drawled, voice like silk laced with venom. "Mudblood charity work. How truly noble of you."

Hermione didn’t react.

She simply lifted her wand, muttered a diagnostic charm, and let the vitals flicker to life.

Elevated heart rate. Malnourishment. The slow creep of magical degradation.

Lucius chuckled, tilting his head.

"Tell me, Miss Granger—" his voice dipped just above a whisper, thick with mock intimacy.

"Do you ever wonder what would have happened if the Snatchers had delivered you to me first?"

A slow, methodical strike.

Her heart faltered—just for a second, a stuttering misstep.

And Lucius saw it.

His smile wasn’t mocking.

It was worse.

It was knowing. It was enjoying it.

Her fingers tightened around her wand, knuckles white. She flicked her wrist, vanishing the diagnostics, then stepped forward—close enough that he had to tip his chin to look at her.

"Do you ever wonder what might have happened if you hadn’t been outmatched by a handful of teenagers?" she whispered. "Again. And again. Maybe then, your precious Dark Lord would still be alive for you to cower behind."

Lucius went still.

She didn’t smile. Didn’t gloat. Just turned and walked away, ignoring the way his fingers curled into fists beneath the sheets.

She didn’t return to her office.

Harry and Ron would see straight through her, and she needed a moment—needed to breathe before she had to lie and say she was fine.

So she busied herself. Absently rearranged the materials on the counter, counting the seconds until Hazelcroft came back for the next patient.

The door opened.

Nott Sr.

Lucius was cold, calculating—a snake waiting for an opportunity.
Dolohov was vicious, mocking—a man who delighted in cruelty.

But Nott Sr. was something else entirely.

She had never interacted with him. Only seen glimpses—a looming figure with salt-and-pepper hair, moving with an unsettling grace for a man his size.

The rumors surrounding him were monstrous. The kind of stories meant to scare children. The Boogeyman.

He sat on the cot, fingers curling into the thin sheets, breath sharp and measured, but his eyes—his eyes burned.

Hatred.

Unfiltered. Unrelenting.

"You shouldn’t be here."

Hermione’s feet stopped in her approach. She played it off, casting the first diagnostic spell.

"A filthy little thing like you, walking into a den of snakes. Thinking you’ll come out whole."

She ignored him. Watched his vitals flicker above him. Stable.

He moved.

A sudden, violent twitch forward—like a cobra striking, only to stop inches away, just past the threshold. Not an attack. A test. Waiting.

Her breath caught.

She flinched.

And he saw it.

His lips curled into something cruel.

"I should rip your throat out," he murmured, voice inches from her skin.

She didn’t move. Didn’t step back. But she felt it. The electric charge of him, the sheer force of his loathing pressing into the air between them.

His gaze dragged down, lingering at the pulse in her throat before snapping back to her face.

Then—he laughed. A rasping, guttural sound.

"You can dress a hag in wizard’s robes, girl," he whispered, voice thick with contempt. "But at the end of the day, it still belongs in the swamp."

Hermione let the last diagnostic flicker out, marked down his vitals, then turned on her heel and walked away.

Furious.

Her heart was racing. There was the slightest dampness at her hairline, a subtle sheen of sweat on the back of her neck. Letting him get to her. She was out of practice. Three predators, back to back—it was harder to keep her mask in place now than it had been during the war.

She took a long lunch after that.

She deserved it.

By the time she returned, Theo and Draco were still asleep.

She stood by Theo’s cot, watching the steady rise and fall of his chest. The boyish grin, the sharp wit, the effortless charm—his armor, his defense.

He was a mess.

But he was alive.

His father?

There was nothing left worth saving.

Then there were the Malfoy boys. Enigmas, both of them.

But even from a distance, she could see through the smoke and mirrors. Beneath it all—beneath the sneers and the silence and the bitter defiance—

They were afraid.

—------------------------------------

By the time she reached her final patient, Hermione felt like her bones had been replaced with lead.

Blaise Zabini.

It wasn’t that he was forgettable.

No one that beautiful could be forgettable.

But he had never screamed Death Eater to her. Not like the others. She could admit, even to herself, that she hadn’t expected to see him among the monsters she had just sent back to their cells.

He sat on the cot, silent, watching. Not with hostility or desperation. No, Blaise studied her—cool, unreadable, like he was the one doing the evaluation.

"You’re actually going to help us?" His voice was smooth, amused, the ghost of a smirk tugging at his mouth.

Hermione’s fingers twitched. "That is my assignment."

"Right." His smirk sharpened slightly.

She flicked her wand, scanning his vitals.

His blood pressure was the highest she’d seen all day.
Fever elevated but not critical.
His mark—lighter than the others, but still unnervingly defined.

Blaise leaned forward slightly. Not menacing, just expectant.

"And what do you get out of this, Granger?"

There was no malice in his tone, no baiting cruelty like Dolohov or Lucius. Just curiosity, quiet and persistent.

But she didn’t have an answer.

She didn’t need to get anything out of this. She was to complete the mission and return to her regular life.

Sans Death Eaters.

In the end, she handed him the three vials, the pain potion slightly stronger than the others she had distributed today. He accepted them without comment, still watching her as she turned back to her notes.

His exam had thrown a bludger through what little remained of her working theories.

The outliers across the ward were making less and less sense.

The hypothesis that this was genetic—something buried in bloodlines—had already been flimsy at best, but now? After today? It had unraveled completely.

If it were hereditary, Nott Sr. should be wracked with tremors—yet he barely ran a fever. Lucius, for all his gaunt, hollowed-out misery, had walked himself back to his cell. But Draco? Draco had been limp on the shower floor, burning alive just 24 hours ago.

Then there was the generational theory. Maybe the process for the Dark Mark had changed between Voldemort’s first reign and his return. But even that theory had shattered when she stood in front of Gregory Goyle—same age, same trial, same sentence. And yet, Goyle’s symptoms were progressing like the older men, slow and creeping.

And now Blaise Zabini.

Somewhere in between. Not dying, but not untouched.

She had spent the entire day looking for a pattern. But all she had were contradictions.

By the time Blaise was picked up, the weight pressing against her ribs finally eased.

Every prisoner had been accounted for.
The ones stable enough to return to their cells were escorted out.
The ones too far gone for simple pain potions remained.

And Hermione?

She was exhausted.

But worse than that—she was no closer to understanding this than she had been that morning.