Interwoven

The snow was thick on the ground, coating the frozen earth in a blanket of white, pristine save for the two sets of footprints interrupting the frosty canvas. Birch trees littered the surrounding area like tall skeletal wraiths, interspaced ever so rarely with spruce and oak. The air was sharp with the scent of ice and pine, so cold it burnt in her lungs. The sun did little to warm Hermione’s frigid bones, nor did the layered warming charms she had wrapped around herself.

She hated the cold; hated when clumps of ice melted through her boots and socks; hated when her cheeks felt burnt from the howling winds that billowed and roared like some sort of winter monster. Autumn had long fled the taiga. Was this how Napoleon felt, storming Russia in the midst of winter? Though Hermione knew this was only the beginning of the cold season, it was a mere eleven degrees compared to the negative temperatures she knew would linger in the months to come.

When she was younger, Hermione’s father would take her sledding at the park near their house. The moment snow coated the landscape, her father would wake her from slumber— begrudgingly on her part— wrap her head to toe in coats and scarves, and carry her on his shoulders down the street. Later Hermione would wonder if this was a way to let her mother have a full day of rest in bed, but she knew her father enjoyed their snow days regardless of the reason.

She hadn’t loved the winter even then, longing instead for a roaring fire or even better, the warmth of spring. But her father was relentless in his pursuit to make her a true winter fan as he himself was.

Their sled was a repurposed sandboard from her parent’s honeymoon in Sydney, complete with handles her father had shoddily crafted himself. They could’ve afforded an actual sled, but her father insisted that when things could be crafted at home, they should be. So they would drag their sandboard-sled to the top of the hill with all of the other children, and then Hermione would beg her father to ride down with her. She was afraid, afraid of the heights and the speed and the inevitable wipeout at the bottom. Her father would smile, set her on the sled, and whisper, “Be brave, darling, and I’ll meet you at the bottom.”

Hermione glared at the snow that came up to her shins, as if the heat from her stare could melt a path.

Mr. Vinnel walked beside her. Marty. He was a weed of a man, tall and lanky as if stretched in a taffy puller. He was only nineteen and still spotted with the acne of youth. Marty had explained half of his life story before their portkey to Moscow and had attempted to stutter through the other half before he realised Hermione was not a receptive audience. No, her mind had been too preoccupied with replaying her encounter with Ginny two days ago. Too busy stumbling over memories thick with grief and laughter intertwined.

Marty had been stupefied when Hermione had arrived early at the ministry for their mission, staring at her like some sort of personified deity. She hated those looks, like not dying in a war as a child made her some sort of celebrity. She had promptly ignored any questions over her role in the war, her friendships with the other two-thirds of the golden trio, or anything to do with her time at Hogwarts. She only responded to enquiries about her work since then— giving short answers about her countercurse creations and training in America.

He wasn’t a bad bloke. Hermione glanced to her left, watching as Marty tripped in the snow— only keeping himself upright by the grace of Merlin. He looked around rapidly, ensuring his bumbling wasn’t seen by some invincible yeti or herself. No, he was just… a little eccentric. He reminded her of the movie Big— as if he were a child stuck in a grown man’s body.

“It’s incredible how I can feel the permafrost underfoot. Imagine what hosts of magical organisms might be lying underneath.” Marty shoved his glasses up, glancing towards her for some sort of acknowledgement or praise.

He also reminded her too much of her younger self— a version of who she might’ve grown to become without a war. She gritted her teeth, biting back the bitterness that soaked her tongue. Hermione kept her gaze forward, breath puffing in voluminous clouds in front of her face. “There’s a theory by muggle scientists that ancient viruses are frozen in permafrost and that global warming will lead to the release of microbes that will destroy humanity.”

Silence lingered for an awkward moment before Marty spoke in a stilted manner. “Oh that’s— well I’m sure the muggles will figure out how to stop global warming.”

“Doubtful.” She mumbled, incensed by his unfailing optimism. She cleared her throat, spying the white and red stone wall of the monastery in the distance. “So, Marty, why did you decide to become a cursebreaker?” Small talk made her stomach roil, but she would make an attempt for his sake.

“I’m joining the family business.” He said simply. His brown eyes shone as they met hers, staring so deeply she wondered if he could see inside her head. He didn’t elaborate, which surprised her; he had done nothing but prattle on during the entire trip. She looked away, focusing on the rising spires of the church ahead.

“We’re almost there. We’ll need to create anti-muggle wards around the property to begin with since this is a mixed community, and then we can begin diagnostics on the Cup.”

He nodded, his breathing a bit ragged as they trudged along. She should let him take point during the mission, let him make the calls, and decide their course of action. But that would mean sitting back while he fumbled around and likely got them both horribly cursed or killed. Hermione didn’t like to delegate, nor did she enjoy getting her fingers melted off; so Hermione decided that she didn’t really care if this was a training exercise for Marty; he would have to simply comply.

It was a little after two in the afternoon when they reached the wall that encased the monastery. It was nearly ten feet in height, its bleached facade broken up only by the cross-shaped cutouts in the stone. They crossed under the arched entryway, wands stowed lest they be seen by a muggle and thought to be some sort of weird fantasy role players or crazy people with sticks, which to be fair was about the same approximation.

The courtyard stretched before them, a vast expanse of untouched glistening snow. The monastery itself loomed in silent majesty, its white stone walls blending seamlessly with the snow-covered landscape. Ornate archways framed heavy wooden doors, their surfaces carved with faded iconography— Christ upon the cross and various saints— and above them, domes rose into the sky, dusted in frost, their golden tips catching the feeble light of a pale winter sun.

Icicles hung like glass daggers from the eaves, threatening impalement for anyone who dared disturb the peace. A small fountain sat frozen at the centre of the courtyard, its once-flowing water now a solid, crystalline sculpture, trapping leaves and petals from long-forgotten seasons beneath its icy surface.

A bald man with a long black beard entered the courtyard from the church beyond. He wore black robes, robes that could be confused for priestly attire if one didn’t know what to look for. The thick, billowing fabric shimmered slightly in the light— enchanted, likely with some sort of fabric protectant or wrinkle inhibitor. Hermione met the wizard halfway, letting Marty trail behind.

She reached an outstretched hand, “I assume you are Mr. Baladin?”

The man frowned. He took her gloved hand with his bare one, giving a short and perfunctory shake before dropping it. “Da. Moy Angliyskiy nikuda ne goditsya. Russkiy?”

Hermione frowned in return. She didn’t speak a bit of Russian, beyond the few bits and pieces she had reviewed before the trip. Now it seemed silly to know, ‘Where is the bathroom?’ and ‘No, I don’t want any Pastila.’

She let out a sigh, smiling apologetically before reaching into her bag for her Russian Dictionary she had picked up in Moscow. Her fingers brushed the spine when Marty stepped up to her side.

“Nuzhno li stavit' palaty?”

His voice was smooth, running over the thick syllables with little issue. Hermione’s brows rose into her hairline. Marty didn’t glance her way. He looked almost transformed— calm and confident. His posture was straight, eyes trained on their companion. A fumbling child no more.

Mr. Baladin shook his head, gesturing to the walls as he replied in another bout of Russian that she didn’t catch at all. Marty nodded, replying easily, and Hermione clenched her jaw, becoming slightly irked at being on the outside of the conversation. At least Marty was good for something, she supposed.

They continued on for another few minutes—going so far as laughing about some joke she was not included in— until Hermione shifted impatiently on her feet, giving Marty a harsh look.

He stuttered then, clearing his throat as he blushed, and it was as if he metamorphosed once more into the wiry boy-man she arrived with. “Apologies. Um, he said he’s already put up muggle repellent wards around the courtyard and church.”

“That’s all he said?” She deadpanned.

He ducked his head, like a boy chastised by his mother. “Well no— I mean yes about the mission but— um we talked about the history of the church, and then he told me a funny story about—“

“I get it.” She snapped. He flinched back, and Mr. Baladin raised a brow as he watched them. God, what must he think of the pair? She wasn’t giving the best impression of British Cursebreakers. She was usually more concise and collected. But she had been rattled for days now, feeling as out of control as she had in the days after the war. Hermione let out a slow breath, rubbing her gloved fingers over her face. She looked back at Marty, giving him a strained smile. “Can you ask him to show us to the Cup?”

Marty turned to Mr. Baladin, murmuring what she assumed was her question in Russian. The man simply nodded, giving them a too-wide smile before turning. They followed the wizard into the church, kicking snow from their boots before entering. The sanctuary was bathed in the flickering glow of candlelight, the golden flames casting shifting patterns across the frescoed walls. Incense hung thick in the air, a heady blend of myrrh and frankincense that clung to Hermione’s clothes, sinking into her skin like a tangible prayer.

The walls and domed ceiling were adorned with elaborate iconography similar to that which she had seen at the door, saints and angels rendered in rich blues, deep reds, and shimmering gold leaf. Their solemn eyes seemed to follow her, their painted faces frozen in divine contemplation, bearing witness to the prayers and confessions that had been uttered here for generations.

The iconostasis stood as a barrier between the nave and the altar, an ornate screen of gilded wood and sacred icons, separating the earthly from the divine. Its doors—embellished with intricate carvings of vines and holy figures—remained closed. The flickering candlelight reflected off the gold, making the entire structure seem almost alive, shifting with every shadow.

The pews were empty; not another soul graced the space beyond the three of them. It was eerily silent, like the angels watching them from the painted walls were holding their breath.

Mr. Baladin walked ahead of them, slipping silently through the iconostasis, leaving the door ajar. Blackness awaited on the other side. Hermione frowned. Nothing was wrong, per se, but the air felt charged— slick with something; like when you’re a young girl walking alone at night and it feels as if the devil himself is watching and waiting. Her gut knotted, and she quickly glanced around, palming her wand. Marty seemed unfazed, jauntily following the older wizard’s path between pews as they reached the front of the room. Hermione gnawed her lower lip; she had been feeling off-kilter for days, and this was likely no different. Simply an echo of wartime emotions that she hadn’t been able to stamp down.

They reached the dividing barrier, and Marty made to pass through the door when Hermione shot out a hand, grabbing his wrist. He startled, looking back at her wildly.

“Ask him to bring the Cup’s casement out here.” She murmured, eyes trained on the doorway. She could see nothing through it even at this proximity. It was like a portal beyond, to some blackened realm. Likely nothing more than a simple barrier charm, and yet—

Hermione cut her eyes to Marty when he remained silent. “Ask him,” she hissed.

His throat bobbed, and he turned back towards the door, clearing his throat. “Ser, ne mogli by vy vynesti artefakt?”

Silence answered him.

The hairs on the back of her neck stood on end, and she quickly stepped in front of Marty, pointing her wand outwards. Marty hesitated for only a moment before gripping his blackthorn wand. She reached a hand backward, shoving at his chest. “Start walking, slowly.”

He did. Hermione straightened, sucking in a deep breath through her nose. Her blood pumped rapidly through her veins, each neuron in her brain sending a flood of adrenaline across the synaptic clefts. All of the thoughts from before faded into nothing, replaced with a clarity she only received before battle.

“Finite.”

The darkness evaporated with her murmur.

Mr. Baladin was nowhere in sight. Beyond the door was a landing with two sets of stairs on either side that led upwards to the altar. She sucked on her teeth, casting a quick diagnostic into the space. Nothing appeared. She spoke in a low whisper, without looking back. “I’m going in further. You should activate the portkey and go to the ministry. This likely is no longer a simple retrieval.”

“I’m not running away.” Marty whispered back from behind her. His voice trembled, wavering slightly. Stupid kid. She shook her head but didn’t argue— trial by fire, she supposed; either he’d man up or quit after this.

Hermione sucked in a breath through her nose, letting the wash of epinephrine bathe her muscles in that twitchy buzz. “Just don’t get in my way.”

She rushed through the door and up the stairs, tucking and rolling once she hit the top landing—

Her wand was pointed outwards, but there was no one on the other end of it. The area above the nave was empty, save for a large display case where usually an altar table would sit. The casement was as tall as she was when standing and had only one item inside: the Khodynka Cup of Sorrows. Otherwise known as The Blood Cup. It was an enamelled metal cup, ordinary in appearance. The cup bore the initials of Tsar Nicholas II and Tsarina Alexandra Feodorovna— rumoured to be a witch— surrounded by a blue and orange geometric pattern. It was no bigger than a coffee mug. Hermione could feel a hum from the object, a resonance that seeped into her bones, calling to her like a siren song.

Hermione didn’t lower her weapon; instead, she pushed to her feet, casting a wide range revelio. Ten figures lit up in the choir loft far above her head. She snapped her attention upwards, baring her teeth.

“Apologies, my British friends, but the Cup demands its offering. Your lifeblood might be dirty, but it will…suffice.” Mr. Baladin’s thick accent rang out as he stepped to the edge of the choir loft, flanked on each side by wizards in similar black robes. He was grinning— that too-wide smile— but his companions’ expressions were covered by silver animal masks. Horns adorned the coverings, warped and twisted like antelope.

Her stomach plummeted, mind thrown back in time to enemies in gilded masks, black robes billowing as they gave chase—

She forced herself back to the present, gritting her teeth as she stared them down. She didn’t have time to question their motivations, to wonder if they were connected somehow to Death Eaters, or to guess what their plan was with her life blood. “You do speak English then.” She didn’t waste another moment, twisting her body behind the coverings of the display case as she threw out a Bombarda Maxima towards the cult.

A boom sounded as the spell hit home, shattering the wooden garret into splinters. Men screamed as shards of timber ripped through their bodies, turning those at the epicentre of her blast into meat.

The loft fell, bringing down those unfortunate enough to not apparate away. Those who were fortunate to escape swirled in black smoke around the room, landing in a semicircle around her and the casement. Hermione gritted her teeth. There were six left, including Baladin, who she assumed was their leader. Stillness lasted only a heartbeat before chaos erupted.

Hermione dove out of the way as a barrage of spells lanced towards her: bolts of red and purple and yellow— no green she noticed— they weren’t wanting to kill their prey prematurely. Hermione shoved upwards, barreling towards the closest masked assailant. He hissed a spell, grazing her earlobe, right before she slammed her body into his, sending him sprawling to the ground. She twisted, yanking his body on top of hers right as a jagged red beam of light shot her way. It slammed into the man’s back, and he screamed, howled like he had been lit on fire. She grunted under his weight as he spasmed, pushing her head back into the marble floor to prevent his metal mask from breaking her nose.

Hermione waited only a moment more, catching her breath before shoving her wand through the side of his neck. He’d live— possibly— if he sought medical attention immediately. Additional deaths beyond the initial explosion would be messy and would require interrogations and statements both between herself and her own ministry and the Russian Federation as well. So she would attempt to disable, maim, and possibly torture without ending any more lives.

The man gargled, blood seeping from the mouth hole in the mask. He reached down at her, fumbling to grasp at her face or neck. Hermione wrenched her wand back out of the tissue and shoved the heavy body off of herself. Blood coated her fingers, making the wood of her wand slick. She simply gripped it tighter.

“Incendio.” She hissed, sending a wave of fire towards the two men at her right. They popped shield spells, bouncing her flames away from themselves. The inferno spiraled, licking at the wooden iconography and wool tapestries lining the sanctuary.

Baladin stood to her left, flanked by two other cultists. She turned her attention to him, throwing a shield spell at her back to protect her spine from the attackers she’d abandoned. Wave after wave of magic hit the barrier, shaking it but not shattering her defence. Hermione snarled, feeling nothing but the pounding of blood in her veins and the purring magic under her skin.

The masked man at Baladin’s left reared back, “Immobulus—“

Hermione yanked her wand across her body, and the man gurgling blood from her wand puncture shot across the room towards her. The paralytic hit him in the side of the head, freezing him in a state of agony. Unlucky for him, the blood continued to flow. She spun, dragging his body with her momentum, and flicked her wand towards those in front of her, sending him flying their way.

He crashed into Baladin’s rightmost henchman, flattening him under his heavy and unmoving form.

The shield at her back warmed, alerting her. Hermione spun around just in time to duck as a cultist drove a dagger towards her kidney. She grunted, reaching out and grabbing his outstretched arm. She slammed it downwards right as she drove her knee up into his elbow. Something snapped, and the man yowled like the animal he wore as his mask. She ripped the dagger from his dangling hand, feeling the coolness under her fingertips, the weight of the blade, before she shoved it into his right pectoral. Disabling, not murdering.

She tore it out and yanked her body sideways. A lancing purple bolt slammed into her side right as she launched the blade towards the man at Baladin’s left, embedding it in his wand arm.

Pain tore through her ribs, burning like molten lava. Hermione swallowed a scream. She shoved her left hand against the wound, gritting her teeth against the red-hot agony. Blood slid through her fingers, faster than the shallow wound should have bled. The red hot liquid split to the floor, painting the marble like a Jackson Pollock. Or maybe a Van Gogh. She couldn’t quite tell at the moment; art history was one of her weaker subjects.

There was a tug in her chest, a wash of confusion and panic that didn’t belong to her. It didn’t matter; there were still two men standing— Baladin one of them. Hermione kept herself upright, staggering backwards. Flames tore upwards, racing for the gilded dome; the heat licked at her skin, warming the metal buckles of her leathers to an unbearable temperature. Hermione slashed her wand behind her, fending off another onslaught from the remaining man at her six. Baladin raised his wand, grinning through blood-soaked teeth. “A prize you will be indeed.”

She snarled, throwing another jinx behind her as Baladin hissed something dark, tugging up his sleeve before twisting his wand her way— She brought her own wand up, the beginning of something life-ending on her tongue—

A body slammed into her, dislodging a scream from her throat at the impact on her wound. Arms tightened around her midsection before a small object was clasped into her hand, held there tightly by calloused fingers.

There was a tightening behind her navel, and then she was gone—

Her eyes snagged once more on Baladin as she twisted into that in-between space— on the slithering shape tattooed on his forearm.

The squeeze of interdimensional travel tore at her ribs, and once she landed on a hard wooden floor, Hermione released an animalistic cry. Blackness swept into her vision, accompanied by a lurching nausea that forced bile up her throat. She twisted onto her side, expelling her guts with a retch, barely aware of the body now tugging off the top of her to a standing position. Her wand clattered to the floor, out of reach.

The ministry portkey site was empty, leaving only the two of them in the stuffy basement-esque space.

Her body shivered, the epinephrine coursing through her veins stimulating a hormonal response. Hermione groaned, blinking through the black spots. She clutched her ribs, glaring upwards at the wiry boy who’d portkeyed them away. “I— I had him—“

“You’re bleeding—“ Marty blanched, dropping back to his knees beside her. He looked wildly from side to side.

“I had him.” She hissed, tendons in her neck straining as she threw her head back against the floor in agony. Another bout of wild panic flooded through her sternum. “Fuck— my wand, give me—“

Marty scrambled towards the twisted bit of wood, handing it to her with blood soaked fingers. Her own blood, she thought distantly. She was bleeding heavily, the blood thin and runny like water through the trembling hand she clutched against her side. She gripped her wand, forcing her mouth to cooperate. “It’s— an anti-coagulation curse. I-I have to cast the counter— and once I do you have to-to apparate us to St. Mungo’s. Not before, or the travel will burst— burst more blood vessels.”

She didn’t wait for his confirmation before pointing the tip of her wand down to the split in her fighting leathers. The skin underneath was ripped open, muscle and sinew peeking through the flaps of skin. Blood poured out like a broken faucet. She twisted her wand in a slow clockwise motion, steadying her trembling fingers just enough. “Crassis sanguine.”

She mumbled the spell thrice more, vision blurring further with each pump of her heart. Finally, the flow reduced to a trickle. Another two mutters of the counter curse, and the seepage stopped completely. She quickly ran her wand across the opening in her side, hissing out the healing spell specialised for epidermal trauma. The blood loss caused her head to swim— despite the fact that she was no longer bleeding, she was not out of the woods yet. She knew too many in her profession who assumed once the surface damage was healed, they were saved.

The moment the skin began to stitch together, she reached out with bloody fingers and gripped Marty’s arm. He didn’t waste a moment before apparating them away.

She didn’t scream this time and managed to keep her feet underneath her when they landed in the main waiting room of St. Mungo’s despite the lancing pain that branched through her abdomen. She should’ve told Marty to take them to the trauma level directly— eyes immediately landed on her, whispers spreading through the patients waiting to be seen. A woman leaned over to an older man, pointing directly at Hermione. A child, no older than twelve, gawked wide-eyed in her direction. She gritted her teeth, tearing herself away from Marty. She teetered on her feet, forcing one blood-soaked boot in front of the other to the front desk. The Welcome Witch stared for a moment as Hermione dragged herself forward, mouth open in a sort of dumbstruck way. The red-haired woman blinked twice before surging upwards to summon healers. Hermione hadn’t even needed to open her mouth. She wasn’t sure if it was because of her celebrity status or the state she was in— she surely looked like a bloody banshee.

Arms wrapped around her shoulders, bearing her weight. Then she was levitating, a featherweight charm coating her skin. She didn’t even get a chance to look back at Marty before she was carted off. She mumbled a quiet thank you into the shoulder of a broad healer, despite knowing he wouldn’t hear.

She was vaguely aware of climbing a flight a stairs— or rather floating horizontally up a flight of stairs— surrounded by a team of healers in lime-green robes. They entered the trauma ward, signalled by the sound of wailing and the hurried shouts of healers. It reminded her of the show ER, something she’d binge-watched during her time in New York. The only differences were that the patients here sometimes had two heads and the distinct lack of medicinal equipment. The tang of fear in the air was likely the same.

Hermione landed in an uncomfortable twin bed and was unceremoniously blinded by a floating orb of light above her head. She blinked through the sludge in her brain, forcing her ears to quit ringing so she could answer the slew of questions thrown her way.

“Miss— do you know where you are?”

“Grab the pepper-up, Johnson, just in case—“

“Miss Granger, can you hear me? Can you tell me what you were hit with?”

A diagnostic floated above her abdomen, orbs of green and blue and a distinctly red one near her ribs. “Anti—“ She coughed, tasting copper in her throat, “—Anti coagulation curse. I used the counter, but the damage has likely spread beyond the wound site. I need blood— blood replenishing potions and a thickening agent.”

The three healers surrounding her bed nodded as if she was their charge nurse and quickly sprang into action. Potions were dumped down her throat— tasting of metal and earth and all things horrid— and additional rounds of the counter curse were murmured over her entire body. The potions left her groggy and horribly parched, so much so that she could scarcely swallow. The pain had ceased to a dull throb but she hardly felt anything beyond the consistent tugging in her chest.

There was a harsh yank— hard enough that Hermione choked, pushing upright in the bed. The male healer on her right grabbed her shoulders, pressing her back against the mattress. “No sudden or jerky movements, Miss Granger; the wound is still fresh—“

“Where is she?”

The deep rumbling voice sounded from the hall outside, and Hermione pulled her shoulder out of the healer's grasp, snapping her head towards the sound. Her body protested the violent turn, but she didn’t relent.

“Sir, you can’t go in there right now. Visiting hours will begin in the morning—“

There was a shout beyond the doorway, and then a flash of platinum blond hair burst inside. Storm-grey eyes locked onto her immediately. He didn’t even glance around, as if he’d known exactly where she was before he entered. Malfoy’s face twisted into a furious snarl as he stormed across the ward in her direction. “You idiotic, suicidal witch—”

“Sir—“ The healer from the hall, a mousy-looking man, scrambled after him. “Sir, you cannot just—“ Others stared wide-eyed as Draco Malfoy, convicted Death Eater, strode between beds like wrath incarnate. He was clad head to toe in black, making him look all the more like an angel of death.

Hermione was three deep on pain suppressors and couldn’t manage more than a surprised widening of her eyes as he neared her bed. She had forgotten about the bond during her mad scramble to survive the cultists. Had forgotten that he had felt her adrenaline, her rage, her pain. Had felt her dying as he had when she had been bleeding out in her hotel room.

She hadn’t seen him since she’d stormed out of Nott Manor. She’d chosen this mission simply to get far away from him and her past— which kept bubbling up through the cracks in her mind like a pit of tar she couldn’t escape from. He looked the same, if not angrier and more sleep-deprived. The dark circles under his eyes looked as bad as they had when they’d been forced to consummate the bond.

Malfoy didn’t slow until he was right beside her bed, his gloved hands clenching into fists at his sides. His breath came fast, chest rising and falling as he took in the sight of her—wrapped in bandages, propped up against pillows, a sheen of sweat still clinging to her brow. His snarl deepened, something wild in his eyes flickering.

“Tell me what happened,” he demanded, voice a razor-sharp edge. The mousy healer behind him hesitated, shifting from foot to foot. The others nearby cast uneasy glances at one another and at the Azkaban runes peeking out of his collar.

Hermione gritted her teeth, forcing sound out of her dry throat, “Malfoy, what the f—”

“Not. You.” His voice cracked like a whip. He was staring at her, through her, to her very core. His fingers flexed at his sides. “I want to hear it from them.”

The healer who had held her down swallowed hard. Then, with a wary glance at Malfoy’s rigid stance, he cleared his throat. “Miss Granger arrived at St. Mungo’s under the effects of a blood-thinning curse. Her levels were critically low, despite the application of the counter curse. Another few minutes and—”

“She almost bled out,” Malfoy interrupted, voice low and furious. He turned his glare to her. “You almost died. Again.”

She could kick him out. Have security drag him through the front doors and into the streets. Hermione sighed, sinking into the mattress. The pain potions dulled her irritation. She had already fought once today, and she was so very tired. She could pretend the fatigue was from the blood loss, but she knew the truth. This was a bone-deep exhaustion that had plagued her since the end of the war, dampened for so long until the floodgates had shattered once more. “I survived.”

Malfoy exhaled sharply, his nostrils flaring. His hands twitched, like he wanted to grab something—her, the bedframe, the useless healers still hovering nearby. Instead, he turned his glare on them.

“Out.”

The mousy healer startled. “Sir, we still need to—”

“Is she stabilised?”

The female healer on her right shifted on her feet, glancing down at Hermione. Permission. Hermione rolled her eyes, looking away. The blonde-haired woman cleared her throat. “Well, yes—“

“Then get out.” The words were ice-cold, laced with enough barely leashed fury that no one dared argue again. Her healers exchanged glances, but one by one, they retreated. The last one hesitated in the doorway before scurrying after the rest. Cowards.

Hermione let her head rest against the pillows, studying him. He looked furious, yes. But there was something else: something in the furrow of his brow and the way he worried his jaw. His eyes, sharp as cut steel, flicked over her face, the blood-stained bandage at her side, the rise and fall of her chest.

He looked afraid.

“The threat level was supposed to be near zero. Simple retrieval. It was an ambush,” she murmured. She didn’t know why she was explaining anything to him. Maybe it was the delirium setting in from the lack of sleep and excessive potions in her system. Or maybe it was the twitch of his fingers towards her water glass when she spoke, voice thick and dry.

She didn’t mention what she’d seen. The masks. The tattoo. She hadn’t even had a moment to digest it herself. Wasn’t even sure she saw what she thought she saw. That would be a problem for later when her body didn’t ache.

Malfoy let out a bitter huff, interrupting her thoughts. His lip curled. “Of course it was.” He paced a short, tense line beside her bed, running a hand through his hair. She wasn’t sure the last time she’d ever seen him so frayed at the edges. Never, she wagered. When he was eighteen and on trial for murder and terrorism, he hadn’t even blinked an eye. “You didn’t mean to almost die. Again. You didn’t mean for me to wake up choking on your bloody panic. You didn’t mean to walk into a fucking death trap like you seem to do every other fucking week.”

She clenched her jaw, turning her head away. “No.”

“No,” he echoed, his voice mocking. He stopped pacing, planting his hands on the foot of the bed. “Tell me, Granger, do you ever use that big brain of yours these days, or do you simply want to die? Why else would you pick such an idiotic, asinine line of work? Are you some sort of adrenaline junkie? Is it a roundabout way to send me back to Azkaban when your death is pinned on me?”

Hermione was too tired for the fight he wanted to pick. She closed her eyes. “It’s the only way I feel useful anymore.”

Silence.

She looked back at him then. His mouth was pressed into a tight line, but the mask had cracked. Just a little. Just enough. There was something pained that showed through, that echoed along the bond. He opened his mouth and closed it again, shaking his head.

She wanted to ask him why he came. Why when his vile words still bounced around her skull.

“Poor little Hermione.”

“Everyone leaves her, she has no place to call home, but that’s the world’s fault.”

She wanted to ask why he looked at her as if she was the one who had hurt him instead. Wanted to know why he was hellbent on her hating him as much as possible— why he wanted her to punish him every time they spoke— why he wrapped himself in more self-loathing than even she did.

She didn’t voice those questions, not when she wasn’t sure if they were brought on by her own curiosity or the bond’s intervention. Instead she croaked out through dry lips, “Tell Theodore to stop sending me books.”

Malfoy snorted, the tension in his jaw easing just a fraction. Yet, his eyes still held a guarded edge as he looked at her. “If I’d figured out how to make Theo listen, I’d have patented it by now and made a fortune.”

“Maybe you should work on that, get that Malfoy fortune back.”

It was his turn to roll his eyes, but he didn’t snarl and bite like she’d expected he might with the tease. Instead, the corner of his mouth lifted ever so slightly. “New money is so gauche.”

“Says the impoverished.” She coughed, her tongue sticking to the roof of her mouth.

His fingers twitched once more before he grabbed the cup beside her bed. He leaned forward, resting a hand behind her on the bed frame. She tensed. Malfoy was so large up close; she had forgotten how dwarfed she felt in size. The scent of bergamot filled her nose. She stared upward, gaze drifting between his quicksilver eyes and the pale scar across his cheek. He tilted the glass against her lips and she parted them, eyes wide in surprise. The cool water slid down her throat, and she greedily tipped her head back further. Malfoy’s gaze dropped to her mouth as he followed her movement with the cup, giving her what she needed.

The bond purred, sending a lick of warmth through her chest and down to her lower abdomen. Her eyelids fluttered, and she swore something ragged flashed across his face.

He pulled the cup away with her final swallow but didn’t move from his close proximity. She opened her mouth, for what she didn’t know, her own gaze dipping traitorously—

A flash from beyond her periphery.

Bright, blinding, from the hall beyond the door.

A sharp click.

Hermione’s stomach turned to ice. Malfoy’s head snapped toward the source just as she did, just in time to see a figure ducking back behind the doorway, a camera clutched tightly in their hands.

Her pulse roared in her ears.

Someone had alerted the press to her presence.

She yanked herself back against the headboard, panic clawing at her throat. Old panic— memories of cameras flashing, imprinting the shape in her corneas— drunk and stumbling out of a bar, the press shoving questions down her throat as tears leaked from her eyes— public outcry at the fall of the Golden Girl from grace—

Her stomach twisted violently. The whispers would start before morning, the ink drying on speculation before she could even begin to contain it.

Malfoy stiffened above her, his entire frame going rigid. His gaze snapped to her face, reading the panic written there, and something in his expression flickered— unreadable, before a shadow crossed his face.

Then, without a word, he wrenched himself away.

The sudden loss of warmth barely registered. Hermione’s mind was spinning too fast, her pulse hammering in her throat. They had a photo. By morning, the world would know exactly where she was—and who she was with. There would be questions— headlines—

The sudden change in her heart rate triggered the diagnostic charm floating above her bed, sending a high-pitched alarm wailing through the ward. Hermione’s hands shot up, covering her ears; she pulled her legs up, folding in on herself. She couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think beyond the screaming in her head.

Healers rushed back in, surrounding her bed in a flurry of robes and wands. She couldn’t see beyond the caps of her knees until someone tugged her backwards. She fought— wildly thrashing— body and mind locked in the past—

There was no blond hair beside her anymore— Where had he gone? When did he leave?

A potion that tasted of honeydew and spearmint was forced into her mouth with far less care than the water that was so delicately tipped against her lips. She coughed, spluttering. Hands held her down, murmuring softly despite the pressure against her limbs. She swallowed the liquid when she could hold it no longer, and Hermione’s consciousness faded into black.

Only the bond remained in the darkness, caressing her with its golden light. And for once she didn’t fight.