Chapter 8
Deciding it was time to see if Theo and Draco could fill in any gaps, Hermione moved to exit her office—only to pause just before opening the door.
Beyond the glass, both men were awake. Propped up in their cots, engaged in what could only be described as a heated argument.
She’d never seen Draco this animated before. Certainly not in years, and certainly not since he’d been on death’s door barely twenty-four hours ago.
His hands moved sharply, slicing through the air in a precise, practiced rhythm. Theo, in contrast, was all dramatic flourishes and exaggerated expressions, his signs coming fast, his face shifting to match the emotions behind each motion.
They were fluent.
Not struggling, not fumbling through unfamiliar gestures—just two people in the middle of an argument they’d had a hundred times before.
Hermione didn’t mean to linger, but she couldn’t help it.
She had never seen anyone in the magical world use sign language before.
Her staring must have been obvious, because Draco cut off mid-sign, eyes flicking sharply in her direction. He pointed.
Theo followed his gaze and turned, smirking the moment he saw her watching.
Busted.
Hermione straightened, clearing her throat as if she hadn’t just been caught eavesdropping. With a flick of her wand, she summoned two muffins from the still-ridiculous pile of snacks on the nearby cot, offering one to each man as she stepped forward.
Theo took his immediately, biting into it without hesitation.
Draco… did not.
Hermione ignored the glare he sent her way and instead lifted her wand to cast a diagnostic over them both.
Their vitals were far from ideal, but vastly improved. Fever low and dropping. Hydration and nutrition levels were finally stabilizing. Theo’s ribs were fully healed, and all lingering abrasions had disappeared.
Still too thin, too pale, but they were moving in the right direction.
Theo was first to break the silence.
“Where are your bodyguards, Granger?” His words were rounded and slightly nasal, his voice unfamiliar to her ears but not unpleasant. He signed as he spoke, the movements more for emphasis than necessity.
She bristled, “I don’t need anyone to take care of me, thank you very much Theodore.”
He was teasing her but he unknowingly poked at one of her spots.
Theo’s hands went up, showing her his palms, the smile not falling from his face.
Recognizing she overreacted she tried to change the subject, she articulated her words clearly.
“When I return next week, I should have an auricle disk for you. Okay?”
Theo nodded once, the movement more restrained than his usual theatrics.
For the first time since she arrived, his expression softened. His smirk fell into a softer, more shy smile—small, but genuine.
She wasn’t sure what to make of it.
Hermione flicked her wand, transfiguring two reclining chairs at the foot of their cots.
“Let’s get you two out of bed. Even just for a little bit.”
Theo immediately reached for her outstretched hands. She helped him swing his legs over the side of the cot, waiting as he steadied himself before standing fully.
He moved gingerly, posture stiff as he shuffled over to the chair. Once seated, he huffed dramatically, flashing a cheeky smile before throwing his head back like he’d run a marathon.
Hermione huffed a quiet laugh.
When she turned to Draco, she was relieved to see something behind those gray eyes.
Still weak, still withdrawn, still miles from the person she once knew—but there was recognition at least.
“Ready, Draco?”
His gaze narrowed slightly, but he didn’t look away.
She offered her hands just as she had for Theo.
A mistake.
Draco glanced down at them, then back up at her face.
His expression didn’t shift—but one look was all it took.
Twelve-year-old Hermione in the Hogwarts corridors.
Twelve-year-old Malfoy sneering at her across the Potions classroom.
She fought the urge to drop her hands.
“Come,” she said, voice carefully even. “Let’s change the scenery.”
Draco moved slowly, insisting to avoid her touch, still too stiffly for the former seeker, but he didn’t fight her insistence that he move.
Eventually, he settled into the chair, shooting a withering look toward Theo when he snickered at the process.
She angled her rolling chair between them, ensuring Theo had a clear line of sight to her face.
“I’d like to analyze your magical signatures,” she explained, lifting her wand. “Specifically, your Marks.”
Draco immediately stiffened. Theo arched an eyebrow.
“I’m conducting a more advanced analysis than usual, so it will take some time,” she continued. “I figured while we wait, I can ask a few questions.”
Theo waved away the notepad she offered, insinuating that he could answer aloud.
“Let’s start simple,” Hermione said. “Pain scale, one to ten?”
Theo pressed a hand to his chest, sighing dramatically.
“Where would ‘Pissing Off A Nundu Before Its Morning Coffee’ land?”
Hermione stared, unamused.
“Eight,” he offered, winking.
Still too high.
She examined the lingering diagnostic, watching the stabilized vitals confirm he was nowhere near where he’d been when he arrived.
“Well,” Theo sighed, “I was hovering at a solid forty-two when I got here.”
Hermione scowled. “What’s causing the most pain?”
Theo flexed his fingers, wincing slightly. “Tremors. The tension is brutal.”
Draco, surprisingly, nodded in agreement.
Hermione made a note. “I’ll make a salve.”
She turned to Draco. “Same question. Pain level?”
A pause.
“…Four.”
Liar.
She squinted. “Last night… what was it then?”
“…Six.”
She folded her arms. “And ten would be?”
Draco’s gaze flickered.
Down.
To his left forearm.
Then to hers.
Gotcha.
She didn’t press further.
Instead, she continued.
“What does a typical day look like for you both?”
Theo leaned back, glancing toward Draco before answering.
“I stare at the cracks in the ceiling.”
Hermione blinked. “That’s it?”
“…Yes,” Draco admitted, voice barely above a whisper.
Theo gave a two-finger wave. “Same.”
“No routines? No books? Writing? Exercise?”
Draco shook his head. Theo did the same.
Merlin.
She glanced at the magical signature scans hovering overhead still processing, all blurry shapes and shadows.
“Where was the last place you traveled before the war ended?
Draco’s posture remained rigid but glanced to Theo quickly.
Theo answered for him.
“Romania.”
Hermione nodded, jotting down the information.
Of course, they had been active in the war. She never thought otherwise.
She wasn’t naive enough to believe they had been Death Eaters in name only—but hearing it confirmed was different than assuming.
Theo exhaled.
“We were shadowing Selwyn and Travers,” he said slowly.
“Why Romania” Hermione asked, keeping her voice level.
“The Dragon Sanctuary, a dragon heartstring.” Theo rolled his shoulders, the movement tight. “We were being trained for real missions after Hogwarts.”
Nothing unexpected. Just one more thing to file away.
“Have you noticed any changes in your magic before coming here? Any strange fluctuations—spells not working as expected?”
Theo paused—no quick joke, no flippant remark. His eyes remained on Draco, searching, but Draco’s gaze stayed fixed on the floor. Neither spoke immediately.
After a beat, Draco shifted. “Monitoring charms messed it,” he muttered. “From house arrest.”
“Yeah,” Theo added, voice rough from disuse. “But sometimes… it wasn’t that.” His hands twitched, and before he could find the words, he signed a sharp, fluid motion—like pulling something through resistance.
Draco glanced up, watching the motion with a slight crease between his brows. “It snagged,” he translated quietly. “The spell started but got… stuck.”
“Not like it was weak,” Theo added, speaking as he signed. “More like—like someone grabbed it mid-cast and wouldn’t let go.”
Hermione’s quill scratched across parchment. “Did it feel like your suppression cuffs, slowing down your magic?”
Theo shook his head. “No. Those siphon it right out of you. This was different.” His fingers flicked through quick, uneven signs as he searched for the right words. “It was still there—just wrong. Pulled the wrong way.”
Draco watched, then filled in the gaps when Theo faltered. “Like casting through resistance. Like something inside… redirecting it.” His voice was clipped, like each word cost him something.
“And it felt familiar,” Theo added, signing the word twice, as if reinforcing the thought.
Hermione glanced up. “Familiar how?”
Theo scratched the back of his neck, signing slowly as he spoke. “Like—like when we…” His hands moved faster, then stilled. His throat bobbed.
Draco's jaw tightened. His fingers curled against his thigh. “Like when we used magic for Him,” he muttered without looking up.
Silence tightened the air. Hermione’s pulse thrummed in her ears. She forced herself to write, though the quill trembled faintly in her hand.
“Dark magic?” she asked, her voice measured.
Theo shook his head immediately. “Not dark—just… not ours. Like the magic wanted something else.” His fingers signed the last part with more certainty than his voice carried.
Hermione frowned, her quill stilling above the parchment. “And now?”
Draco turned his wrist, the metal cuff glinting against pale skin—the reminder that whatever magic they had, it wasn’t theirs to use now.
“Now there’s nothing,” he said.
Theo exhaled sharply, hands curling into fists on his blanket. “Empty,” he signed, then forced the word out loud. “Like a dead wand.”
Draco glanced sideways at him. His fingers twitched like he might add something, but he stopped himself.
She flipped a page in her notebook.
“Last question,” she said quietly as she glanced up at the scans as their signatures started to sharpen around the edges—
She felt all the blood drained from her face.
That isn’t possible.
Hermione’s mind scrambled to make sense of what she was seeing.
“Granger?” Draco asked, his voice rough but clearer than it had been in days.
Theo signed, ‘What?’, his fingers halting mid-motion.
Hermione stood and wavered, her thoughts spiraling.
What the fuck?
She didn’t answer them. She couldn’t.
Her body moved before her brain caught up, striding swiftly toward the other side of the hospital wing. She barely acknowledged Healer Aldercrest before speaking.
"Would you mind terribly if I did a quick analysis of your patient’s magical signature?" she asked, already lifting her wand.
The young healer blinked at her abruptness. "Uhm… sure?"
Hermione cast the diagnostic before the answer had fully left her mouth.
As the spell built, she grabbed the patient file from the foot of the bed and flipped it open.
ISADORA VIPERHART
Age: 42
Inmate Number: 65768
Crime: Capital Murder (Killed an Auror while smuggling illegal potions)
Symptoms: Minor magical affliction (Black Cat Disease)
Perfect.
She looked up at Isadora properly for the first time.
The woman was disheveled, hollow-cheeked, and sharp-eyed, with black hair matted from neglect. A jagged scar ran across her right eye, angry and unhealed—a wound from a cursed weapon, most likely. She stared at Hermione with a mixture of irritation and vague disinterest, the same expression Hermione had received from nearly every inmate in gen pop, guard, and prison official she’d encountered.
It took minutes for the scan to fully develop.
Hermione didn’t need to wait.
The answer was obvious before it even finished forming.
Thick, black bands of dark magic curled through the woman’s signature, twisting through her core like poisoned vines. Smaller dark marks dotted her signature—fragments of minor curses, spell residue.
Exactly what she had expected.
Exactly what should have shown up in Theo and Draco’s scans.
And hadn’t.
Hermione snapped her wand down, dismissing the spell.
Without another word, she spun on her heel and strode straight back to her patients.
Draco shifted in his chair as she re-entered the space, watching her intently.
“Well?” Theo prompted aloud, but his hands moved as he spoke, “What the hell is going on?”
Hermione held up a finger, silently telling him to wait as she yanked out her notebook and scribbled a series of quick notes while it was still fresh in her mind.
Theo let out a sharp huff. He turned to Draco and signed something quick.
Draco sighed, rubbing his temple. “He says it’s not extremely reassuring that the ‘brightest witch of our age’ is standing there looking like she just had a stroke.”
Hermione finished her final note, then exhaled sharply, eyes snapping to both of them.
“None of you have any dark magic in your systems.”
Silence.
Theo’s head tipped slightly, his lips parting slightly as he processed.
Draco’s expression was the more dramatic shift. His brow knit, his mouth opened—then closed—then opened again. He turned toward Theo as if confirming he had understood her correctly, before whipping his head back toward Hermione.
She summoned their files from her office.
She found the entry logs, scanned through their recorded sentencing evaluations—
There it was.
Theo Nott: Moderate Dark Magic Saturation
Draco Malfoy: High Dark Magic Saturation
Yet here they were, completely clean.
“What?”
Hermione didn’t soften the blow.
“When you were convicted, the amount of dark magic in your system was documented, measured, and confirmed. It was used to determine the severity of your sentence. And now—” she gestured at the diagnostic floating in front of them, her voice steady despite the way her heart was hammering—“it’s gone.”
Theo looked at Draco, signing what she guessed was; ‘How?’ or maybe a choice expletive.
Draco shook his head once. “I don’t—” He stopped himself, exhaling sharply. He looked up at the glowing diagnostic readings again, his fingers twitching at his sides. “That doesn’t—” Another pause. Then, softly, “That doesn’t make sense.”
“But…” Theo said aloud, his voice slower now, his words drawn out as he focused intently on forming them properly, “how could it just disappear?
Draco’s jaw flexed, his eyes flicking over the hovering results again, before slowly dragging his gaze back to Hermione.
Theo rubbed his face. “Okay. And what does that mean for us, exactly?”
Hermione hesitated.
“I don’t know yet,” she admitted.
But this was at least a very promising direction to look into further.