mon étoile

She couldn’t believe it—she was excited to be heading to Azkaban.

The thought should have unsettled her. Instead, she downed a triple espresso from the Anchorage Café, hoping the caffeine would sharpen her focus for the long day ahead.

Three sips in, she regretted everything.

Her pulse was already on edge, and the espresso pushed her from razor-sharp to jittery disaster.

She was halfway up the stairwell to the third floor when she heard elevated voices overlapping one another.

She picked up her pace, taking the steps two at a time, already bracing herself.

Her first assumption? A prisoner giving the healers a hard time.

But when she stepped into the hospital wing, she found Healer Starling toe to toe with an older man, their voices clipped, tension thick.

Even stranger than an argument at 7:30 AM was the contrast between them.

Starling was formidable. At 5’10”, her posture alone commanded the room—back straight, chin high, and the sharp, authoritative edge to her voice—the kind Hermione had always associated with Professor McGonagall. But where McGonagall’s clipped Scottish vowels carried the weight of academia, Starling’s Nigerian accent shaped each syllable with crisp, surgical precision.

The man in front of her might have matched her height, if not for the permanent hunch and sagging expression. His badge read “Healer Puddlefoot,” and his photo looked like it was taken before Voldemort’s first reign.

“You will refrain from interfering with my patients,” Starling said, voice flat but biting. “While I serve in this establishment, you will not undermine my care.”

Puddlefoot’s thin lips curled. “This is my hospital wing, missy,” he spat. “And if I see you fluffing pillows and handing out pain meds like sweets, I’m sure as Salazar not going to let it happen.”

Hermione’s eyes flicked to Theo’s cot. He and Draco were watching like this was a morning drama.

Starling’s nostrils flared, but her voice remained cool. “I prescribed regulated analgesics after reviewing their bloodwork and ward logs. You’re welcome to examine the charts—assuming you can still read one.”

A beat of silence.

Puddlefoot spluttered. “I’ve been in this wing since before you were born—”

“And believe it or not, medicine’s progressed since the last war.” Starling smiled thinly. “I’ve kept up. I even have a fancy scroll to prove it.”

She stepped forward, just enough to make him blink. “You seem more interested in punishment than care. Perhaps the warden has an opening up in gen-pop.”

Hermione stepped between them quickly—her 5’1” frame doing absolutely nothing to dampen the tension. “Alright,” she said, voice clipped. “Let’s get on with our day.”

Starling didn’t even spare Puddlefoot a final glance. “Ah, Healer Granger. Good.” She turned crisply toward Hermione, already flipping to a parchment on her clipboard. “I wanted your opinion on Nott’s midnight tremors. If they persist through the next cycle, we may need to adjust for resistance.”

She began walking towards their end of the wing, already mid-sentence.

Before following, Hermione turned to the still-sputtering old man.

“We haven’t met,” she said, extending her hand. “Hermione Granger, on Ministry assignment.”

He didn’t so much shake her hand as let it happen.

“Oh, I know who you are,” he sneered. “The one mothering the murderers and—”

“I’m going to stop you right there.”

He squinted at her, affronted.

“We’re providing medical care. What’s required. No more, no less. And I won’t entertain any more of this nonsense, Healer...?”

“Puddlefoot,” he grunted.

“Pleasure,” Hermione said flatly, turning on her heel. She flicked her wand lazily behind her.

A shield charm flashed into place just as Puddlefoot tried to follow.

He walked straight into it.

Hermione didn’t even glance back.

She was so, so over these pompous old wankers.

Hermione refocused as Healer Starling outlined the latest vitals. Her voice was firm and unflinching, her Nigerian accent giving each word a steady rhythm and clipped authority that made it impossible to mistake her meaning. Hermione followed her line of sight to the two wizards on the far side of the room, mentally matching Starling’s notes to what she observed herself.

She had been getting updates from Starling and Gideon all weekend, but she still clung to every word, hoping that hearing the information in real time would spark something—an overlooked detail, a missing connection.

The blue eyes on one cot and the gray eyes on the other stared back at her, everyone waiting quietly as Healer Starling finished her report.

“They’ve taken their nutrition, hydration, and pain medicine already. Breakfast should be up any minute now,” Starling said, then turned her sharp gaze toward Draco. “And Mr. Malfoy will finish his entire breakfast.”

Hermione wasn’t sure she heard correctly, but then Draco—Draco Malfoy—dropped his chin and mumbled, “Yes, ma’am.”

Well. That was interesting.

She darted a look at Theo, whose mouth twitched like he was dying to laugh.

This woman had whupped Draco Lucius Malfoy into shape in less than a week. Hermione was impressed.

“I will be sure of it, Healer Starling,” she said, nodding. “Thank you for all your hard work.”

Starling returned the nod, shot one last warning look at Draco, then turned to Theo. The glare melted ever so slightly, and in return, Theo beamed at her with an absolutely devastating grin.

Huh. So even Healer Starling was not immune to Theodore Nott’s charms.

“Have a wonderful day. I will see you on Friday evening,” she said, before exiting the ward without so much as a glance at the old healer glaring at her from the other side of the hospital ward.

“Hermione, love,” Theo swooned the moment the door shut. “You have been missed.”

Hermione arched a brow at him. “That’s very kind, Theodore. Though from what I hear, you’ve been in good company.”

Theo winked, and Draco let out an exhausted sigh from his cot.

She huffed a quiet laugh and reached into her beaded bag. “I’ve been quite busy. But—I have something for you.”

She pulled out the sleek, circular disk and held it out in her palm.

Theo’s eyes widened, breath hitching slightly. Across the room, Draco leaned forward, his sharp gaze locking onto the object immediately.

Theo took it from her gingerly, like he couldn’t quite believe it was real.

“But how…? There are so few goblins who still…” His voice trailed off as he turned it over in his hands. His fingers trembled slightly, and when he looked up at her, his blue eyes were undeniably wet. “Granger, how did you—?”

“It was really no big deal, Theo.” She waved a hand, but that was a complete lie. This had been a massive deal. The hoops she had to jump through to get it were ridiculous. “You needed it, and I got it. It’s not the highest quality—it’ll need a charm update every week—but I’ll work on something longer-lasting before I leave for good.”

The second the words left her mouth, it hit her. The Heart Stabbies™.

That awful, ridiculous, chest-tightening feeling Ginny had so lovingly named.

Hermione had made the grave mistake of asking if anyone else ever felt like their heart was being impaled by a Hungarian Horntail’s claw when they read something painfully sweet in a novel. Ginny had, naturally, given it the most obnoxious name possible.

Hermione was not supposed to get attached to her patients. To her case.

She cleared her throat. “May I?”

Theo nodded, eyes steady on hers as she stepped closer.

She placed a hand under his chin, tilting his face toward the light. He didn’t flinch, didn’t joke—just let her move him. The sharp line of his cheekbone met her fingers, no longer obscured by grime and exhaustion.

She cast a quick Muffliato around their section of the ward, then murmured the enchantments she’d tailored for the disk.

Reaching up, she tucked it carefully into place behind his ear, her fingertips brushing the edge of his curls.

The moment it locked into place, she stepped back. “Well?”

For a second, Theo just sat there, completely still.

Then his face split into an absolutely breathtaking grin.

The Heart Stabbies™ nearly took her out.

“I could kiss you, witch!” Theo declared.

“There will be none of that, thank you.” She crossed her arms, but her lips twitched in spite of herself. “Let me know if you need me to adjust the spellwork.”

Theo wasn’t listening. He was already turning his head from side to side, snapping his fingers near his ear like a child with a new toy.

“Drakey!” he called suddenly.

Draco groaned from his cot. “Fuck off, Nott.”

“Oh, how I’ve missed your sultry voice!”

Hermione snorted. Draco let his head fall back against the pillows, staring at the ceiling, but she caught the telltale twitch at the corner of his mouth.

Not quite a smile, but close.

Shaking her head, she excused herself, leaving Theo to his giddy experiments with his returned hearing. 

Hermione stepped into her office, flicking her wand towards the modified boom box in the corner to start playing the cassette. The deep baseline of The Chain’s deep, rhythmic strumming filled the room and she pressed the heel of her palm against her chest as she tried to will away the lingering ache of the Heart Stabbies™ that Theo had left in his wake.

She could not- no wouldnot get attached.

She repeated it in her head like a mantra, willing it to be true.

She cleared a section of her desk, sweeping a stack of books aside, and pulled her notes from the library at the Ministry. Theories, half-sketched diagrams, spell modifications—none of it was a breakthrough yet, but it was enough to give her a starting point.

She was going to need to put her theories to practical results, but put off making her way back to the hospital ward where she saw the two wizards chatting at differing levels of enthusiasm. So she focused on perfecting the Siphonem Tenebris spell to extract the dark matter spreading from the dark marks.

After picking at her lunch of leftover chinese food and reheating her coffee twice she rolled out her neck as the cassette tape had run out. The timer she had set for herself indicating she could go collect the sample.

Back in the ward, Theo was still grinning ear to ear, rambling on about something, while Draco remained reclined in his cot—pointedly ignoring Theo’s antics.

As she approached, she was surprised to hear Draco’s voice, low and dry:

“Tell me you're here to sedate him. I’ll weep with gratitude.”

Theo gasped, hand to chest like he’d been mortally wounded. “Tell me you don’t mean it, my sweet!”

Draco flicked his fingers without turning his head. ‘Shut up.’

Hermione smothered a laugh behind her hand. “No, but the offer's tempting. I’m just here for the sample collection.”

Theo perked up immediately. “Ooh, are we bleeding again? Love a bit of gore with my breakfast.”

Hermione ignored him, reaching for his left forearm and focusing on the faded Dark Mark. He extended it without hesitation, still smirking—until Draco sat up straighter, his gaze sharpening.

She murmured the incantation.

The tendrils reacted instantly—writhing, recoiling, slithering deeper into Theo’s skin like they were trying to escape.

Shit.

She adjusted her wand angle. No improvement. Increased the strength of the pull—

Theo jerked his arm back with a hiss. “Merlin’s tits, Granger! Bit of finesse next time—some of us don’t have a pain kink”

His hand gripped his forearm, tremors flaring briefly. Still, he signed to Draco without looking up. I’m okay.

Draco didn’t acknowledge the sign. He was already on his feet, posture rigid, eyes fixed on Theo’s forearm.

“That’s enough,” he said, voice low but steady. “You’ll take the sample from me.”

Hermione looked between them. Theo gave a sheepish shrug. Draco didn’t blink.

She didn’t like being ordered around. Especially not here, in her own domain. But something in Draco’s expression—tight, unyielding, protective—made her pause. She’d seen that look before. On Harry, right before he did something reckless in someone else’s name.

Fine.

She nodded once and moved to Draco’s cot. He sat at the edge, arm extended. She took it, her fingers brushing against skin that was warmer than she expected.

The incantation passed her lips again.

And again, the tendrils recoiled—then surged. Draco let out a long exhale but didn’t flinch.

Hermione watched as the tendrils began to spread, crawling past the Mark, creeping higher up his bicep like ink bleeding into clean parchment.

She released him immediately, turning back to her notes, heart racing.

It wasn’t just resisting.

It was retaliating.

And then a thought came to her.

Ginny and Riddle’s diary. The way it drained her. Used her.

She could still hear Mr. Weasley’s warning from second year.
"Never trust anything that can think for itself if you can’t see where it keeps its brain."

The diary had gained strength the more Ginny interacted with it. The more she wrote, the more she poured herself into it.

What if the Dark Marks weren’t just branding? What if they were feeding off of the Death Eaters?

The horcruxes all fought back when it realized it was in danger like this dark matter moving beneath their skin.

Her pulse hammered. She couldn’t exactly stab them with a basilisk fang—though she did still carry a few in her beaded bag, just in case.

But she didn’t feel the tug on her soul like she had when she wore the locket or approached the The Horcruxes had all fought back when they were in danger. The diary, the locket, the cup—each one had a defense mechanism, a way to protect itself.

And this magic was doing the same.

Hermione’s breath hitched.

She glanced at Draco.

He was still watching her. Unblinking. Guarded.

Could he be…?

Her mind rejected it immediately. No. He was a prat, but there was no way he was unknowingly harboring a fragment of Voldemort’s soul.

Then she turned to Theo—his permanent cheeky grin, his lighthearted quips hiding the weight he carried beneath the surface.

There was no chance any part of Voldemort would ever survive in Theo Nott. She remembered Harry’s explanation of how Riddle had tried to possess him after the battle at the Department of Mysteries—only to be repelled by the goodness in his heart.

She crossed out ‘horcruxes?’ in her notebook, but it seemed equally as dark and complex.

She needed a countermeasure. A way to pull the magic without fighting it.

A way to trap it before it had the chance to regenerate.

Something that would bind it before it could retaliate.

She tapped her fingers against her lips, thinking.

Adrenaline to force circulation. Silver as a conductor. Something to trap the magic before it had the chance to fight back.

A plan began forming at breakneck speed.

She grabbed her notes, quill scratching furiously.

From across the room, she could hear the grin in Theo’s voice. “We’ve lost her to SWOT mode, Drake.”