Chapter 1
You may not get to live a long life, but I hope that I can at least give you a full one.
August 2006
Let it be known that Hermione Granger detested travel by all forms except her own two feet and occasionally, by bicycle.
Cars would make her sick and woozy unless she was sat in the front seat, a point of contention in which her parents considered that she was just being a spoiled child for many years. Flight (by Muggle aircraft), sent her pulse spiking so wildly that she hadn’t done it in years - lest not mention flight by broom. Portkeys were perhaps one of the worst in terms of nausea, sending her stomach absolutely roiling. Floo was not terrible but was limiting. Apparition was the most sensible, she supposed, but still, she couldn’t help feeling the prickling of her skin moments before dematerialising. Sure of her magic, she might have been, but thoughts of splinching and Ron’s raw flesh would always find their way into her mind all these years later.
Hermione found herself on perhaps her least favourite method of transport of all that day - the dreaded boat. Oh, how the ocean sent her rocking and swaying and she felt herself untethered and salty! For hours after the shortest boat journey, the vertigo would dance her sickeningly until her only option was to sit down for hours until she would slip under and with the waves until it passed.
It was a small island, warded against apparition. The Atlantic waters coupled with the strong Irish weather had not made for a pleasant journey. Although, aside from the dreaded boat, the journey hadn’t been too arduous. At least she had not had to brave it the Muggle way, which, while slightly less nausea inducing, would have prolonged the journey.
The most faff came in obtaining the right to a portkey from the Ministry to Ireland. After that, it was a floo journey from Dublin to the West, followed by an hour’s car journey to the coast (organised by way of the magical Dáil Éireann, and Hermione had a hard time understanding the accent of the older gentleman who drove her, and whether or not he was Muggle or magical, or somewhere in between). The port she arrived at was less of a port than a single moored boat. Said boat was less of a boat, as she had been expecting, than it was a small fishing cabin.
The nausea, notably, was not solely caused by the wax and wane of the treacherous waves, or the rain and the fact that although she was sat in the small cabin with her eyes closed she was still possibly turning green.
The reason for the journey had bile rising in her throat, nerves scattering all over her skin.
The wards on the island she was approaching were strong, nigh suffocating. She was shrinking, getting smaller and smaller and more useless and useless. The island told her she did not belong here, should not be here, should not have come.
She agreed.
“Dia duit, missus…?”
She had known that the small island had been an Irish speaking area, a Gaeltacht , which certainly had made the choice of location curious to Hermione. She had also known, by way of her very limited Irish language skills, that the stumpy older man in front of her was now telling her hello, beady dark eyes wary but not unkind.
“Hello, sir. Hermione.” She shook the man’s hand and couldn’t help but notice he was weathered. Old man, older hands.
“Oh Miss Granger, is it?” Hermione raised her eyebrows at this, and the old man let out a stream of gurgling laughter. “Och, cut off we might be, but news does reach us, Miss Granger. You can call me Fiachra.” She had to repeat it several times before Fiachra told her her pronunciation was close enough. She could tell it was a lie.
They began walking away from the small dock towards an open cabin structure for shelter, the same structure that sheltered an old, rusty car. Hermione felt the tiredness in her limbs already, and the thought of finally getting in the last car of her journey and being able to wallow and wilt in the vertigo whilst seated was nearly bliss.
Fiachra must’ve noticed her wistful eyes whilst looking at the vehicle. “Och, this old thing. Only car on the island. Been busted for near a decade now, so it has. Now, the big house on the hill isn’t that far, mind you. Come, come now, I’ll make you a spot of tea to warm those cold bones.” Hermione nodded unsurely, clutching her yellow rain mac’s hood around her tightly as the wind picked up. Now that he had mentioned that the car didn’t work, Hermione noticed the vines, the moss that covered and decorated the car, inside and out. Reclaimed by nature.
They walked for a few minutes down a winding path into the thick of the trees growing around the shoreline she had been dropped at. Once they had cleared the thick of it, she could then spot a cluster of buildings not so far in the distance. The small town, she supposed.
Fiachra, she realised, upon entering what he said was his cozy little teach , was the town’s only pub landlord. Landlord? She figured a term like that might not go down well here. Despite this being only her second time in Ireland - and the first time she was developed enough to form memories of it - she was anything if not well read. The history pointed her towards this man being the innkeeper as opposed to landlord .
There were a few patrons sitting in the dim pub, despite the fact Hermione was nearly sure, without glancing at her watch, it was before midday. She almost felt the sting of a slap, as if she had walked headfirst into a certified caricature of what she might’ve imagined Ireland to be. The few witches and wizards mulled over their stouts, or their whiskeys, sucking on pipes and allowing the craic to flow over them. Fiachra had ushered her into a seat beside the roaring fire and taken her raincoat to allow it to dry. No floo powder pot on the mantle, notably. Fiachra returned promptly followed by a floating tray containing a teapot, two cups, milk, sugar, biscuits, a plate of scones, and some bread. He told her the bread was fresh soda-bread, and the waft of it hit her. She felt like a character in one of her old Muggle cartoons, drawn in by the scent of it.
“Oh, Faycara , you shouldn’t have. I really should be getting along soon.”
“Well, it’s not every day we get a war hero in our small home now, is it, Miss Granger?” Hermione felt her jaw tighten. She was too drained to be dealing with the turning of heads in her direction; her facial muscles strained with the force of her smile. However, with the other patrons’ reactions, the smile soon turned genuine. There were no gaudy reactions, as she had been expecting, no swamping, only a few laughs and whoops and several people telling Fiachra to ‘ put one behind the bar for Miss Granger, here ’. She allowed herself to relax. The soda-bread was quite delicious.
He gave her a rundown of the small wizarding town, when their market day was, where she could find the shop, how many good potion ingredients she could find foraging, if she were so inclined. She had also received the key to her room on the upper floor of the inn they were currently sitting in, and Fiachra warned her that it was the coziest room in the whole inn with a smile like the waves on the ocean she had ridden earlier. Soon enough, she did in fact feel like she had been warmed to the bone and feared that if she stayed seated for much longer, she, much like some of the older patrons, might have fallen asleep. She let Fiachra know as much, and thus he got himself ready with his big raincoat and boots back on. The stark difference between the cozy pub and the outside weather had her teeth chattering immediately. She cast a warming charm on herself quickly, before continuing to follow Fiachra.
“How long did you say the journey was, Faycara ?”
She followed the man’s finger as he pointed her down the path. “Sure only ten minutes that way and we’ll pick up two horses from Aíne, that’ll cut our journey right down, sure it will.” He seemed to sense her halting scepticism. “Och, sure, it’s not a bother, Aíne likes them to be exercised.”
“Oh, no, sir, it’s not that I’m afraid to impose. I have a few matters that I need to attend to before I reach my destination, that I’m afraid horseback might make difficult.” The lie was so smooth, that she feared butter may never again melt in her mouth. War bred sneaky children, she supposed. “If you could tell me the way, I’m sure I could manage from here.”
Fiachra sighed in response, and she wondered if she had said something wrong before he spurted out that watery laugh again. “Oh well, you’ll find yourself trekking an hour through shite and mud, but it’s an easy enough place to find.” He explained the route to her, and Hermione agreed it seemed easy enough to follow. “Now, you’ll get to the fork in the road. Do not, cailín , and I mean do not, turn to the left. You’ll be wanting to be going left, trust me. But it’s the wrong way and only the fae tryna play tricks with you. Now I don’t mean fairies, like you have over there in England. I mean the fae. You’ll be lost forever, floating away in ecstasy.” He paused, then allowed a laugh to trickle out again. “I suppose that don’t sound too bad, do it? From there, as soon as you take that right path and clear the shrubs, you’ll see the big house on the hill. Can’t miss it.” She couldn’t help but smile, seeing how much the man had amused himself, and also because the mention of something as ludicrous as fae had abruptly made her think of Luna.
She wondered what Luna was doing at this precise moment as she stood in the blistering cold and pissing rain somewhere off the coast of Ireland. What circumstances had led her here, of all places?
Hermione repeated the route and instructions back to Fiachra and he nodded her along with ‘aye’ as she reiterated it perfectly back to the man.
“Grand, grand, you’ll be grand.” Hermione couldn’t help but lurch forward with a combination of her vertigo and how hard he managed to clap her back, whilst thanking him, “Off you go then, off you go.”
“What’s he like? The man who lives up there?”, but he had gone. From behind her, he was nowhere to be found. Without the distinct crack of apparition, Hermione was left surveying her surroundings carefully. She gripped the wand in her pocket, noting the familiar crackle that told her the anti-apparition wards were still in place, should she be fool enough to try it. She had finally gathered the courage to ask the question and now it didn’t matter.
The wind whistled all around her and Hermione took in the terrible beauty of it all. The Emerald Isle, indeed. She followed the flight of several ravens in the blistering sky, up snaking past the trees and the green of it all. With a sigh, she started out.
Fiachra had not lied when he said she would be walking through ‘shite and mud’. She supposed that the torrential rain meant that the dirt paths would be turned to sludge, and Hermione realised quickly that no number of scourgifies would leave her trainers fully clean again. The walk was peaceful despite being wet and rainy. She enjoyed the smell of the rain and the nature she was surrounded by. Every direction she turned, she was met with green, with leaves and purity. It was a nice change of pace to the hustle and bustle of back home, of her slogging, quick-whipping shifts at St. Mungos. The walk had also allowed her time to attempt to still her quickening heart, to douse her nerves.
Hermione, for some reason, as she continued on, at some point, began to feel watched. It was an odd enough sensation, made all the more odd by the fork in the road she was suddenly met by. She hadn’t remembered approaching it, she was just there . Which way was it again? What had the old man said? Which old man ?
Left, left, left .
Surely left. Left, the way of lost travellers. Left, the only way. Her feet were guiding her. One at a time, left foot first. Left always first. Left forever, left alwa-
Her trance was interrupted by a shrill squawking. She gasped. Ice was on her skin again, she was wet and damp and cold. It felt like she had been ripped from a soft, warm dream and was now opening her eyes for the first time, like freeing herself from the confines of her mother’s womb.
The raven sat perched on a small stone post that marked the left road, covered in runes and old magics that even Hermione didn’t recognise. She allowed herself a glance down the path, noting that it was dotted with the most beautiful wild flowers she had ever seen. Tempting, indeed.
The raven squawked and squawked and squawked, until Hermione said aloud, “Okay, okay. I understand. Take the right path.” The raven did not move itself, but continued to stare, beady eyed, at her, until she walked away and took herself down the correct path, to the right.
She shook herself back to reality again. The trees had cleared, and just like Fiachra had said, the big house on the hill was clearly visible. Now out of sight of the eerie bird and left path, Hermione desperately wished she could do a post mortem on what had just happened, but just as she thought so, she noticed the shimmer of wards. They were like nothing she had ever seen before, and she found it curious that they were so far away from the house on the hill. The gentle incline up to the house would have her walking for another staunch ten minutes, at least.
Bemused, she reached out her hand gently and felt the shimmer ripple around her fingers. She was able to enter the wards, but that also meant that he now knew she was close, approaching. She couldn’t afford to dilly dally.
At one twist in the path, she realised that the house on the hill was obscured from her. She wasn’t sure why, but feeling oddly self conscious, she had quickly accio’d a small handbag mirror from her beaded bag and gave herself a once over. She looked wind-beaten and like a victim of the elements, but not terrible . She was satisfied with it. She supposed a natural reaction to her situation was to feel slightly self-conscious.
She slowed her pace slightly. She didn’t want to show up to the house out of breath on top of looking barely there. Before her mind went fully into overdrive, she was at the front path proper.
Fiachra had been right to call it the ‘big house on the hill’. It was architecturally a completely different style to the rest of the buildings she had seen so far on the island, with their nature-made wood, wattle and daub, clay and reed thatched roofs. This house was much grander, much more of a modern architecture style compared to the stilled ancientness she had felt in the small village. The house certainly did not look Medieval to her, perhaps Stuart or later. The building was tall and wide, but not as large to be considered a manor. She shook thoughts of another manor from another life away.
She tried not to linger again, drawing herself up the path. Finally, met with what was by all accounts, a very unimposing door - but her task and vertigo had made it loom - she gathered the courage, steeled herself, and knocked.
A moment later, the door opened. He was there.
She hadn’t been met with those intense silver eyes in years and was hard struck by how different yet familiar they looked. How he looked. He was taller, that was the first thing she noticed after the eyes. His hair was still a shock of blonde atop of his head, which had been neatly combed and sat aristocratically still. His expression was neutral, which was definitely a stark difference for Hermione, so accustomed to his usual countenance of disgust. He was filled with a pretty devastation - haughty good looks, having grown into his pointiness. However, despite it all, she noticed that he looked tired .
The silence lapsed. She forced a polite smile, beyond pettiness; if he wanted to allow her the opportunity to be the bigger person and break it first, so be it. “Malfoy.”
He allowed the silence to drag on for a second too long again, surveying her up and down, causing her to shift from foot to foot uncomfortably. His eyes, whilst tired, hadn’t lost any of their intensity.
“Granger. Please, come in.” He finally intoned the first words she had heard from his mouth in over half a decade, as he moved to the side to allow her into the large open hallway of his home. She took the opportunity to look around quickly, then back to him. The differences in their appearances had to appear shocking. She was weather beaten and worn, in her bright yellow rain mac, trainers, and Muggle jeans. He was as annoyingly pristine as he always had been, still in his penchant black with his shoes on inside his home. Strange, she thought.
“I hope your journey was not too unpleasant.” He seemed to gesture to her generally as he spoke, and with that, she shook off her raincoat, and placed it into his waiting hand as he hung it up for her. Surprising.
She had promised herself, when taking on this case, that she was willing to let bygones be bygones. She was more than happy walking into this situation pretending to be nothing more than perfect strangers, patient and healer. It seemed he was content to play along. “It could have been worse,” she replied with a polite laugh.
Not sure what was proper in polite society, she cast a quick scourgify on her trainers, and just as expected, the suede material was still stained a muddy brown, but the majority of dirt was now gone. He pointed her to a small bathroom off of the hallway.
“I’m sure you’re exhausted. I know it’s a long way from home.” Hermione noted his use of the word home. Despite being gone from Britain for so long, Malfoy still chose that word to refer to it. “Please, take the time to freshen up. I’ve set us up in the third room on the left,” he pointed over to the door lying lazily ajar, “I hope it will be to your liking. I’ll prepare some tea.” Hermione wanted to tell him that really, there was no need as she had been fed and watered not but an hour ago, but was, in all honesty, maybe a little too awkward to do so. If he wanted to play nice, so be it. And so she nodded and watched him walk away for a moment before stepping into the bathroom.
Something inside of Hermione told her that of course, Malfoy had been raised in polite society. Generations of aristocratic blood flowed in those veins, so of course he would offer tea and play the host role well. However, it was so jarring, so unlike what she remembered of him as a vicious young man in school, that Hermione questioned if maybe he was playing the part she had assigned to him - perfect, polite stranger - a little too well. There would always be history there, memories and thick air between them, that could not not be cast away unless addressed.
She could say, with real honesty, that she had not thought of the Malfoys in years. Lucius Malfoy had given his life for Harry Potter’s during the final battle, something that had in fact made him hated by the pureblood side of society and had been begrudgingly accepted by the Order. Narcissa Malfoy was said to have died of a broken heart not a year after the war. It seemed that she had never known peace, much like her young son.
To the rest of the world, Draco Malfoy would be remembered as a coward. Someone who had defected and left the final battle with his mother after watching the life leave his father’s eyes for the Order. However, several high-ranking Order members, Hermione herself included, knew that from the night of the Astronomy Tower, Malfoy had played the very dangerous game of double agent, feeding key information back to the Order. He had been an excellent spy. She wasn’t sure if that had made him the perfect Slytherin, or the perfect Gryffindor, but it certainly had not made him the perfect person.
At the end of the war, Kingsley said that he would award him an Order of Merlin, First Class, no questions asked. He would have his name restored, he would be a hero.
Draco Malfoy had begged no, had pleaded. Had disappeared from wizarding Britain after the death of his mother.
The last memory anyone had of him was him forming an unbreakable with Kingsley. That the truth would never get out, because it was his curse to be burdened with, his cross to bear. Hermione had been surprised with his use of the Muggle anecdote, before he had apparated away, not to be seen again. She was the last person he had made eye contact with.
Which is why, when she had received the case file on her desk, early on a warm July day, nearly a month ago, when she had read that ‘ Draco Malfoy is being killed by his dark mark ’, she had almost thought, ‘ironic’ .
This case had been a hard one. Not the medicine or the care necessarily, but the patient. She had mulled over it for weeks . In the end, of course, it was her best friend, Saint Potter, who had convinced her to take it. Even Ron had been opposed. But Harry had talked sense. Malfoy deserved to have a chance, and if a chance could not be found, he deserved to die with dignity.
When she had finally sorted herself out, including attempting to tame her unruly mane and making sure she was fully dry and her hands were clean, she exited the bathroom, making her way to the room Malfoy had pointed out earlier.
She was a little startled to find him already in there, his back to her, facing the window. He stood with his hands behind his back, mulling over the outside world, reminding her of every bit the pureblood he was. She also managed to catch a glimpse out of the window, noting that when the hill was crested, on the other side was the vastness of the ocean. She wondered if it was more rocky coastline, or if there was a beach somewhere on the island. She certainly had walked far.
She cleared her throat to alert him to the fact she was there.
“I apologise for the weather. Ireland wouldn’t be so green without the rain.” His back was to her, and his simple statement had opened up a plethora of wiggly worms, wanting to get free and to be answered . Why Ireland? What is the old magic on this island?
Why did you leave?
Instead, she nodded her head lightly as he turned, and gestured to the sofa. “Don’t apologise for the weather, unless you’re the one making it rain.”
The room really was perfect for what she would need, honestly. There were two sofas that faced each other with a small coffee table between, a nice big fireplace with a fire burning in the hearth (no floo powder in sight), a large desk and chair, and better yet, a massive wooden table in the corner. Hermione could imagine herself bent over it, research and notes spread out and wild. The house was wonderfully decorated, of course. Everything appeared expensive, and probably was. The dark wood was complemented by the accents beautifully, and she found herself hard pressed to actually say that she disliked the darker look.
Malfoy took the seat across from her, politely smiling back at her shoddy joke. There was a sadness in his eyes that Hermione had to tear herself away from. She removed several things from her beaded bag - charts and pen and paper, his case file, some medical tomes - as he poured them both tea. He left hers black, and she then fixed it how she liked it. She was slightly surprised to note that he took his milky, with two sugars.
Hermione was keen to move past pleasantries and onto the real reason she was there. She noticed that Malfoy had perhaps a smile of curiousity, lurking behind his surface, almost as if waiting to appear, whilst looking at her technically illegal beaded bag. She lightly shrugged her shoulders and decided to proceed. “I’d like to get started straight away, if possible. From your case file, it seems like we don’t have much time to spare.” Malfoy had nothing to say to that but stared at Hermione as if urging her to go on.
“I’ve obviously read your case file, but I’d like to first start with a quick chat to hear your symptoms and such from yourself. We’ll then proceed with a bit of diagnosis work and the physical exam. Does that sound okay?” Malfoy parroted back to her that it did indeed sound okay, and she thusly proceeded to enter into healer mode.
This was easy, this was familiar. She was good at this, and suddenly with her Muggle pen in hand (maybe that was what Malfoy had been so amused by), she jotted down notes meticulously as he spoke about the symptoms he had been presented with. He answered articulately and well, seeming to be someone intimately familiar with what was going on with his body and also someone who was obviously educated. That much, she knew.
“And when did these symptoms start? It doesn’t say in your case file and I would like to get an accurate idea of the progression of this disease.”
Malfoy looked hesitant. He broke his polite eye contact, taking this time to sip at his tea. It must’ve been cold by that point. “After the war.”
Hermione looked up from her notes. She set her pen down and pinned him with a hard look. A disappointed teacher or healer’s face. She wasn’t afraid to use it. Especially considering that that look was her schooling herself; her outward reaction was nothing compared to the jump she had felt in her chest at his answer.
“That was nearly eight years ago .” She waited and heard nothing from him, his only reaction was the clearing of his throat and him running his tongue over his teeth. Ridiculous. “Why did you wait so long to seek medical attention?”
She was making him uncomfortable, that was plain to see. She wasn’t going to give up easily, though. She let the silence stretch on until there were only so many other places he could choose to divert his eyes. They locked on to hers finally, blue seas crashing into dark shoreline.
“I… It doesn’t matter.” His jaw was clenched tight, and something about his apathy made Hermione’s blood boil.
“Well, Malfoy, I can tell you that in terms of the progression of your disease, it very much matters.” The only reaction she got was the muscle of his jaw flexing once, twice. Any harder and he would’ve shattered teeth.
She sighed, setting down her own notes before clipping a further questionnaire to her clipboard. She stood and then approached him, with the clipboard and a pen, and he tensed like a frightened animal. She laid them in his lap gently when he made no move to take them. He seemed to then look down in confusion as he picked up the Muggle pen.
“Oh, summon your quill if you must,” she pointed to the pen in his hand, “It’s a Muggle quill. And far more efficient. It’s called a pen.” At this, he seemed to scowl for the first time, and she finally was met with a glimpse of the young man she remembered. He placed the pen on the clipboard, and reached into the pocket inside his blazer, from which she was sure he would produce his wand in order to summon a quill. Instead, he pulled out a pair of glasses. It didn’t mention on his file that he wore glasses.
He picked up the pen again, glasses sitting neatly on his delicate nose. “I know what a pen is, Granger.” He then began to read the questions and she took the opportunity to calm herself once more. This was the make or break point. She could either have responded adversarily, slipping back into easy habits, or continued to be the professional and move past his silent reprimand.
“Okay, that’s great. Whilst you answer those, I’ll take the time to cast a few diagnosis charms and the like. Is that okay?” He nodded then, without looking up from his questions.
They continued on for a good ten minutes, Hermione continuing for five more, even after Malfoy had set down his clipboard and pen. She went between the charms and her notes until she had filled an additional 3 pages with notes and notes of her healer’s scrawl. Some of the results there were worrying, but she didn’t mention anything to Malfoy yet.
“Okay, could you please remove your blazer and untuck your shirt?” Hermione walked back across the room, picking her stethoscope out of her beaded bag now. Malfoy looked unsure and hadn’t yet made a move to untuck his shirt. There had been a reason she didn’t pull it out earlier. He eyed the object in her hand, and she looked back, smiling, begging him to say something, anything.
“You’re using a Muggle instrument?” He finally asked, and she wickedly and immaturely felt like she had one upped him. Both at the fact that he looked so unsure and also at the fact that he called it ‘an instrument’. So he didn’t know everything.
“Correct. It’s called a stethoscope and it’s for listening to your insides. The wizarding alternative is for me to put my ear to your bare chest. Would you prefer that?” She spoke in such a no-nonsense way that there was no room for him to even believe that she was teasing or feeling superior in any way. He began then to remove his blazer, standing to untuck his shirt. He left his blazer neatly over the arm of the sofa and sat himself back down. Hermione instructed him then to sit forward a bit so that his bum was on the edge of the sofa, and for him to angle himself slightly. He did so hesitantly, all whilst eyeing her warily.
She sighed before removing the stethoscope from her ears. “Listen, Malfoy. There is no polite way for me to say this. You requested the best. You got the best. I’m here, and I’ve taken your case. I need you to put your faith in me now as your healthcare provider.” Malfoy looked, what Hermione might have considered confused, by her standards. However, this was Malfoy. She considered instead, by his standards, he was likely offended or taken aback by her boldness.
“But I didn’t request-”
“That’s quite enough. You don’t need to finish that sentence. If we are to work together here, Mr. Malfoy, there needs to be a level of mutual respect.” She was quite pleased with her choice of words here. She had effectively distanced him and put him in his place all at once. She did not need to hear him declare that he had not requested a mudblood for a healer. She didn’t want to hear it.
Malfoy shook his head, maybe confused, but probably in scorn. “Will it hurt?” Hermione did not deign it with a response, she just continued to stare down at him. He looked up. “I’m clearly not well versed on Muggle medicine. I was led to believe that it was painful - lacking effective pain control and sanitation.” He took a deep breath, either exhausted and not wanting to argue but more likely to Hermione that it was hard for him to admit he didn’t know something. “I do enjoy learning new things, Granger, so if I’m wrong, I would like you to correct me.”
“Painful, lacking sanitation: surely… but you’re about 300 years too late. The stethoscope will not hurt you. It will be a little cold, however.” Hermione couldn’t help the little bit of snark from making its way into her explanation. He nodded in response and turned his head and eyes away from her.
Most patients did not ask, and therefore she didn’t bother telling them what she was doing step by step. However, for the sake of saving awkwardness and any more chastisement, Hermione felt it was in her best interests to do so now. “I’m going to listen to your breathing first of all. Sit up as straight as you can for me. Great. I’m going to need to put this end of the stethoscope on your skin. I’m reaching under your shirt to do so.”
His skin was warm and milky. She had always remembered him as being pale in school, but now, living for years somewhere as cold as this island, he was close to alabaster. He flinched when her hands made contact with his skin. She even noticed that his breath seemed to catch. It surprised her that hers did too. It occurred to her that other than punching him in the third year, this was the only other time she had touched him. For some reason, at that moment he ceased to be just another patient. He was again, Draco Malfoy, boy that she despised for years, teased her for years, and she was Hermione Granger, sworn to oppose him in everything she did.
If he felt this shift, he didn’t make it apparent apart from his first flinch. She was finished listening to his lungs. She now needed to listen to his heart, which was perhaps worse. She took the time then to return to her notebook, jot down some of her findings, and steel herself once more. The fireplace was roaring, and she felt that her face was red and warm.
“I’m now going to listen to your heart. I’m going to reach under your shirt to do so again.” This was definitely worse, and Hermione was grateful that she had taken the moment to calm down. Face to face now, she knelt down between his knees, and Merlin bless him, he was doing his best to turn and avert his eyes away from her. Once more, she reached under his shirt and was met by smooth skin, solid muscle, and the puckered skin of scars marring his abdomen and chest. He choked on his breath slightly, and she found his heart, hammering in his chest rapidly. “Sorry, I know that healer examinations can be stressful. If you relax, it will allow me to get a more accurate reading.”
“Your hands are very cold,” was all he replied with, still not meeting her eye.
“Sorry, feel free to cast a warming charm,” in reality, Hermione was boiling, she wished that the fire could be turned down like Muggle heating. She suspected that her hands were also not cold. He shook his head. “Okay, just try to relax for me then.”
They remained like this for several minutes, and Hermione could almost swear that in that time she saw Malfoy go from red back to his normal colour as his heart slowed back down to normal. She had to shake it; she was being rather schoolgirl about this all - surely he had not been blushing .
A question occurred to her then - living out here by himself all those years… When he had first opened the door, she had realised that it was the first time she had heard his rather posh voice in years. How long had it been since anyone else had heard it? How long had it been since he had been touched ?
She straightened herself then, removing her hand slightly more abruptly than she would have liked. Had he noticed it? She returned to her notes briefly, before sitting back on the sofa beside him. He looked very surprised. The worst part was yet to come. “I need you now to, um, roll up your sleeve. Is it right or left?” Now, now. This was awkwardness, manifest. What other way was there to approach it? It was what she had come this whole way for. ‘ Draco Malfoy is being killed by his dark mark ’.
“Left.” He looked just as uncomfortable, but at least she didn’t have to lean over him, as she was already sitting to his left. He began to roll up his sleeve tenuously.
Seeing it there in the flesh was honestly just as shocking as it had been all those years ago, more shocking than her telling Harry that Malfoy looked sick, or it being claimed in the sixth year that he was a Death Eater. This dark mark she was met with was a culmination, a manifestation, of all the differences between the two of them. Of the stark contrast between their two lives and beings.
She got started straight away. The dark mark had not been privy to much investigating or experimenting, for reasons obvious. She was sure that the Department of Mysteries had managed to get some less than willing volunteers, but that was all hearsay. She could have a field day now.
As she continued to work, she noted at some point that Malfoy’s candles had been charmed to light themselves - unless it was an impressive bit of wandless magic. The sun had long since dipped behind the horizon and glancing up at the clock on the mantelpiece, she realised she had been there for nearly five hours, three of which she had spent with his arm in her lap. Malfoy at first had been stiff, sat up ramrod straight. As the hours had drawn on, however, he had relaxed and leaned back in the chair. Hermione had asked him about 30 minutes in if he would like to get a book for himself to read, and he had agreed that would be nice, coming back moments later with a Muggle history book on Thomas Becket, which she was very intrigued by. He was nearly finished with it by the time Hermione had stood.
She stretched out for a bit, before gathering her notebook and plopping herself down opposite him.
“Sorry, you can tuck your shirt, if you like, I’m done for now.” She gestured to him as she continued to write, crossing one leg over the other. She was only just briefly aware of Malfoy tucking his shirt in, hands down his trousers, across the room.
He waited for her to begin speaking. “So, based on my findings just today - obviously I need to collate my findings and further research things - this is appearing like a combination of a few things. On the surface, yes, the dark mark is acting like a curse. But it’s not like any curse I’ve seen before. Your symptoms aren’t really consistent with anything I’ve seen, but I won’t be sure until I go back and compare it to my other notes and read through some more texts in the library. What I am sure of, Malfoy, is that this is dark. Of course, no one should be shocked that Voldemort was willing to use dark magic on his followers. However, I am going to be honest with you, as I always will be as your healthcare provider. This is not just dark, but it appears to me to be ancient. Ancient, and frankly, wicked.” She spoke in a very matter of fact way, taking in all of his reactions to her - how he had reeled when she said ‘Voldemort’, and how resigned he looked, how cordial, when she had said ancient. “Did you know about the ancient magic on this island?” He nodded to her question. “I’m sure that it’s actually affecting you positively. I’m sure the disease actually would have been far more aggressive without it.” She then allowed him the opportunity to speak. He was looking at the floor, nodding, as if taking it all in. It took him a long moment to meet her eye.
“I’m dying.” Was all he said. Her face creased. He had massively taken her aback with such a short sentence.
“No… I never said that. I will be honest, again, that your symptoms do not look good, especially given how long you’ve left it. But I will do everything in my power to research your disease and try to slow its progression. You may not get to live a long life, but I hope that I can at least give you a full one.”
“I see.” She waited again, and out of the corner of her eye could feel the clock’s watchful hand ticking on.
“What I propose is that we start some healing sessions tomorrow. These will be used to treat the root as opposed to symptoms. I have a few potions also that I can start you on today - for those nastier symptoms - as well as ingredients enough to brew something more suited to you for tomorrow, or perhaps the next day. I’ll monitor how you go and return within two weeks to see if there has been any improvement.” As she spoke, she noted all of this down for him, as well as the schedule and which potions he should take this evening and the next morning. She ripped out the page from her book and handed it to him across the table.
“Thank you.” He looked at a loss for words. He cleared his throat again, “There is a room upstairs that I can prepare for you, to save you from trekking through the rain back to town.”
“Oh no, that’s quite alright. I’ve rented a room from Faycara , and I’d like to spend the evening mulling over some additional thoughts, as well as brewing. I would only get in your way.” She shook her head at him as if to solidify what she had said and began packing her things away and setting out the potions he would need. He didn’t look like he wanted to insist, thankfully; instead, he stood with her and followed her to the door.
“Well, it’s there if you ever change your mind. Thank you again, Granger.” He handed her her coat and then it seemed like she was plunged into an awkward limbo. They were obviously something more than strangers, despite what they had pretended that day. It couldn’t have been enough for a hug, but a handshake felt too formal. Instead, she waved and gestured to the door awkwardly. He opened it for her as she stepped out into the relative darkness of the night and drizzling rain.
“It was nice to see you again, Malfoy.” She turned to him with a soft, albeit awkward smile. It was definitely softer than she thought she could manage in his presence.
“You don’t need to lie for the sake of pleasantries,” for a moment, she was offended, and ready to quip back, mostly because it had not been a lie, until he continued, “But for what it’s worth, it was nice to see you too, Granger. Despite the circumstances.” Something in her warmed at that, and her urge to bite back at him melted away, as she saw the real image of the man before her. Lonely, and a little broken.
She smiled sadly at him before finally turning away, and it wasn't until she was at the end of the long garden path that she noticed the light from the doorway fade.