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Chapter Text

Hermione fidgeted with the hem of her school skirt, wishing fiercely that Harry were there. She wasn’t usually a crier, but at the moment, she was having a difficult time keeping the tears in check. At least she wasn’t sobbing, just wiping away at moisture as it pooled with each passing thought that upset her.

Harry had internship responsibilities just as she did, so she couldn’t fault him for not being here. She could absolutely fault Ron for being a prat about this though.

She’d been on medication for an inflammatory illness most of her life. The medication, unfortunately, had to be delivered via weekly injections. And she’d trusted Harry with the procedure since they’d started school.

“Hermione?”

The voice coming from the boys stairwell had startled her and she whipped around to see who had interrupted her silent midnight struggle. “Oh! Hi, Harry,” she greeted, trying to calm her heart rate back down.

“Are you alright?” Harry asked. “I thought I heard crying.”

Hermione sat back down, tucking her things under the table and out of sight. “No, I’m alright, Harry. You can go back to bed,” she tried to reassure him.

“Oh, no. I’m going to stay down here for a bit. I’m having trouble sleeping and I don’t want to wake anyone else up.” He rounded the couch and took a seat in the chair across from her.

“Oh! Oh, I guess that makes sense,” she replied, her shoulders slumping. She knew she was already hours late taking her medicine, but she didn’t think she could do it with Harry in the room. It was hard enough to find the courage to do it in privacy. Her face fell.

Harry eyed her curiously. “What are you hiding, Hermione? I can tell that you’re not alright. You look upset about something.”

She studied him for a moment. Harry seemed kind enough, though his instant friend, fellow Gryffindor Ron Weasley, wasn’t exactly the nicest. So far, she’d even kept this from her own first friend, Neville Longbottom because she didn’t want her illness to become a common knowledge among her classmates. But Harry now had her caught in a corner, so to speak. And she wasn’t sure she could get around sharing the truth, or at least a small part of it.

He waited patiently, didn’t push her, but she could tell he was waiting for an answer of some kind. She sighed. “I’m trying to do something I really don’t want to do and I thought it would be easier in privacy, after everyone else went to bed, but it’s not.”

She wasn’t sure exactly what Harry had interpreted this as, but it couldn’t have been good, as his eyes widened. She quickly tried to explain again, without disclosing the full truth.

“It’s nothing bad, I promise,” she hastened to clarify. “Just.” She took in a shuddering breath, closing her eyes to keep from crying. “It’s something I have to do for myself, and it’s really hard because I’m scared.”

“Is it something I can help you with?”

Hermione opened her eyes in surprise.

“Sometimes scary things are easier to handle with help,” Harry continued.

“I don’t want people to know,” she found herself whispering. “Because it’s an always sort of thing, not something done once and it’s over.”

“Whatever you need help with, it’ll stay between you and me.” He held up his right hand, extending his pinky. “Promise.”

With a small smile, she moved closer to the chair where he was and wrapped her own pinky around his.

“I don’t know if you can help, to be honest. But,” she bent down to pull her things from under the table. “I need to take a medication. Because I have a chronic illness.”

She sat the items on the table, spacing them so Harry could see everything at once: a packaged medical swab, a prefilled syringe, a diagram of instructions, and a small bandage.

Harry studied the items in silence, his gaze thoughtful. “How often do you have to take it?”

“Once a week,” she winced.

“I can give it to you then, if you tell me how.” He looked back to her. “Might be easier if you don’t have to stick yourself.”

“It’s subcutaneous, so it’s not supposed to be difficult to self administer. And I was taught to inject in my belly.” Her words tumbled out, a new anxiety filling her chest at the prospect of letting someone else take over.

“Let me do it, then.” His voice was firm, determined.

She felt stunned by the direction the conversation had taken. He was offering to do it for her. More than just offering even, telling her he would. “I… I guess I could try. To let you do it, that is.”

He nodded with far more confidence than she felt. “That’s settled then. Show me where,” he said with finality, moving to sit next to her.

She hesitated for a few seconds before rolling up the hem of her nightshirt. “Just along here, where it’s most fatty,” she explained in a small voice, brushing against the spot with her fingers. “But Harry? If you’re going to do this, can you just wash your hands first? Please?”

He nodded and stood, disappearing into the common room restroom. He returned a moment later, resuming the seat next to her, an air of confidence about him she hadn’t yet seen from her mostly shy classmate.

He picked up the syringe first and studied it. “I don’t think this will be too hard for me to do. It’s a small needle.” He turned back to her and his features softened. “It will be okay, Hermione. I promise.”

He uncapped the needle, then swapped the syringe for the alcohol swab, tore it open, and removed it from the package. The smell burned her nose and heightened her anxiety. As he held it, he looked over his shoulder at the medication instructions on the table. Nodding to himself, he turned back to face her. “It’s alright if I touch you?”

Hermione smiled. “Of course! How else are you going to help me if I won’t let you touch me?”

Harry shrugged. “I just want to be sure. I don’t want to make it more uncomfortable for you than it has to be.” He pressed the palm of his hand against her belly and began swiping the swab in circles on her skin, in between his thumb and forefinger. His mouth moved, silently counting, just as the instructions had directed.

Without moving his hand from her belly, he reached over to drop the swab on the table and picked up the syringe, holding it like a dart.

His gaze met hers. “Ready?”

She took a deep breath and nodded.

Harry gave her another encouraging smile before dropping his gaze back to the task at hand, the smile falling into an expression of concentration. Her gaze followed his, watching his every move. He swiftly stabbed the needle in and all the way down. Hermione squealed when he pressed down on the plunger, but it was over. She’d done it. Or rather, Harry had.

“All done!” Harry smiled, his tone reassuring. He placed the used syringe back on the table before inspecting his work. “No bleeding either. Do you want the bandage?”

She glanced down at the injection site, but she couldn’t even find the spot where she’d taken it. She shook her head no, letting her shirt fall back to cover her.

“Are you okay? I didn’t hurt you too much?”

She smiled fondly. “No, Harry. You did really well. I barely felt it. Sometimes the medicine just stings. But thank you for helping me. Have you had to help someone with a shot like that before? A family member maybe?”

He blushed. “I’ve never given a shot, no. But I’ve had to figure out a lot of adult work on my own. And like you said, that kind of shot is designed to be done by nonprofessionals. Besides,” he shrugged. “I like helping people.”

“Well,” Hermione whispered, overwhelmed with relief. “Thank you. Really.” Now that the tension of the ordeal had passed, she was feeling tiredness overcome her. “But I guess I should dispose of this properly and try to get some sleep. Uh…I get so stressed over the shot sometimes, when it’s done, I get sleepy.”

“I understand. But, if you ever need help again, just ask, alright? I’m happy to help how I can,” Harry reassured. “Good night, Hermione.”

Harry had given her the shot every week like clockwork since. No longer was he the only one who knew about it; Ron and Neville both did as well. But she found it harder to trust either of them in Harry’s absence. Neville didn’t have a very steady hand when it came to most things and Ron just didn’t seem to take it seriously. When discussing Harry’s scheduled absence the night before, Ron had taken her dilemma far too lightly.

“It’s a little thing, yeah?” He’d asked with a smirk. “Just gotta pretend I’m stabbing you with a quill. No big deal.”

She proceeded to screech at him that it was, in fact, a very big deal, and stormed off to her room in tears. She was mad at him, and rightfully so. He was mad at her, though he had no reason to be, in her opinion. And Harry? Harry was just trying to keep the peace, while still offering what little support he could, knowing how much she relied on him, perhaps unfairly.

So, with self-administering being the only option left, Hermione found herself entering the hospital wing after dinner, the box of medication tucked away in her bag. What she hadn’t expected, was being told to wait. Madame Pomfrey, upon hearing Hermione’s request had explained injections were not something she could do, but she would summon a wizard “more capable” of giving her the medication.

And that’s where she sat now; on a cot, partitions drawn on either side for privacy, waiting for this mysterious ‘more capable’ wizard. She pulled her feet up on the cot, hugging her knees, not caring she was wearing a skirt. That’s what shorts were for after all.

She really wished Harry were here to give the shot as normal, in the comfort of their own common room. She hated that Ron was mad at her for not trusting him with this, and felt he was being completely unreasonable. And she hated to admit it, but her anxiety was no longer just about the routine of the shot; she was truthfully scared of, what was to her, a new medication. Sitting in silence, not knowing who or what to expect was increasing her anxiety twofold.

The voice of Madame Pomfrey cut through her thoughts, so she focused on her words, wiping away the few fresh tears. “It’s about time,” the matron scolded whoever had entered the hospital wing. “You have a patient. And you will be on your best behavior, lest I dock your grade for your internship. I will remind you, you are held to legal obligations, regardless of who you are caring for. Do I make myself clear?”

The stern words shot a new flush of panic through her already racing heart and mind. If she was the patient being referred to, why was it necessary to remind this wizard to be on his best behavior, to remember legal standards? Could she even trust this person? If the other person had answered, Hermione had been too lost in her own panicked thoughts to hear the reply.

She was acutely aware of footsteps crossing the length of the hospital wing, becoming louder as they came nearer. And she recognized the man’s (kid’s?) footwear before he even came around the partition; nobody else in the school wore shoes as expensive as these.

When the shoes came to stop at the foot of the cot, she glanced up to meet the gaze of Draco Malfoy.

“Granger.” It wasn’t exactly a sneer. But it wasn’t a friendly greeting either. A brief look of surprise had crossed his features, as if she weren’t who he had been expecting, but he schooled them quickly.

“Malfoy. What are you doing here?” she asked, trying to control her voice. Weakness wasn’t an option with her arrogant Slytherin rival. Surely, he’d come over to her cot by accident.

“Me? I was summoned to see a patient. And it would seem that you are the patient in question. So, what are you doing here?”

He placed both hands on the bars at the foot of the bed and leaned forward, studying her. No sneer, no goading, just examining her curiously.

“I… I don’t know,” she found herself lying. “I don’t know why I’m here. I… I should go.”

She unfolded herself and stood from the cot, taking a step towards the opening between the two partitions, but he blocked her way.

“You very well know why you’re here, and you being here is why I was summoned. Sit back down.”

His tone of voice left no room for argument, so she fell back on to the cot. Why did Harry have to be at his internship tonight? Why couldn’t Kingsley have picked a different time?

Malfoy’s voice entered her brain. “Granger, calm down. I understand I’m the last person you want to see, but I will not hurt you. Breathe. In, count to eight, then out. You’re panicking.”

She became aware of her breath coming in short gasps and realized he was right. She squinted her eyes shut, focused on identifying the things she could hear, feel, and smell. The sound of quiet breath. The smell of…well, maybe that wasn’t the best thing to focus on. The feeling of the sheets beneath her. The silkiness of her skirt. The weight of her Gryffindor robes. The sound of potion bottles clinking somewhere beyond her makeshift treatment room.

“Hurting me is half of it,” she finally whispered, her eyes still shut tight.

“Then I will not hurt you more than is medically necessary,” he insisted. “I’m sure you heard Madame Pomfrey when I came in. Besides not wanting to fail this bloody internship, I’m held under a magical, legally binding agreement to do no harm.” He was silent for a moment and then, “Granger. What do you need?”

“Medication. On the nightstand,” she whispered, barely audible.

She opened her eyes when she heard him shift and watched him come around to her side, examining the contents of the table. He picked up the pamphlet that came with the medication, turned and leaned against the table, crossing his ankles, folding his arms. Too casual, too comfortable with what he had seen in front of him, what he had apparently been summoned to do.

She watched his eyes dart back and forth across the page he held in his hand. “If you don’t self-administer, who typically gives it to you?” he asked without glancing up.

“Harry,” she answered softly. “Harry does. Every week. Since first year.”

He raised an eyebrow but said nothing else. After a moment, he turned back around to face the table, examining each item carefully. “And how does he do it?”

“Um…” she wasn’t exactly sure what he meant.

“It’s a subcutaneous injection. It needs to be administered in fatty tissue. Where does he inject?”

“In my stomach,” she whispered. “That’s… that’s where I was taught to do it.”

He nodded. “Are you comfortable with me administering it in the same way? Or would you rather choose a different injection site? I can also inject in your thigh or the back part of your arm.”

“I…” she could feel panic again. “I can’t do this. I can’t. I’ll just wait until Harry gets back. I—”

“You can’t wait on it until whatever time Potter happens to stroll back into school. Medication of any kind has to be timely. A regularly administered one such as this, absolutely must be timely.”

“But, Malfoy.” She wasn’t sure why, but she felt compelled to tell him exactly what was on her mind right now. “This medication is new, and it hurts. It hurts so much more than the one I used to take, and I can’t do this.”

“You can and you will,” he answered firmly. “Now, I’m giving you a choice. Do you want the shot in your belly, as you would usually take it, or do you want it in your thigh or arm?”

She shook her head no, feeling more tears fall.

“Lay down. Try to make yourself comfortable for a moment,” he directed, making sure the pillow on the cot was flat on the bed.

Carefully, she lowered herself on her back, staring up at the ceiling, which reflected the stars in the night sky, just as the Great Hall did. Seeing the stars in the sky, noticing the few constellations she could recognize, helped to calm her.

“I will not hurt you, even if what I have to do hurts.” He spoke firmly beside her, and she could see in her peripheral vision, he was checking the dosage of the injection pen.

“I’m going to get started and unless you request differently, I’m going to give it to you in your outer thigh. Try to relax and keep breathing. It makes it easier.”

She turned her gaze toward him, watching his every move. She’d always felt more comfortable watching what was happening, so she’d know it, not just feel it. So, it wouldn’t come as a shock when the needle pierced. Now, she was more inclined to watch than usual, seeing as she didn’t quite trust him to have any sort of power over her.

Though she couldn’t understand why or how, he clearly knew what he was doing, his movements just as precise and confident as Harry’s were, with his five years of experience. Before even turning to her, he tore open the swab, uncapped the needle, and opened the bandage. She’d brought along a pair of gloves as well, as they’d been recommended if anyone were to do the shots for her, and so Malfoy slid his slender fingers into the blue latex without question.

He turned to her, moved the leg closest to him so it was bent at the knee, and rested it so her knee was facing away from him. “You’ve been on anti-inflammatories for a while then?” he asked, pushing her school skirt just high enough to bare her lower thigh.

“Since I was about seven,” she answered, watching as he swabbed circles on her outer thigh. He didn’t need to know any more than that. What he did know by being here already felt like too much.

“You’re almost done,” he said, swapping the swab for the injection pen. He lowered his arm toward her leg and with a quick flick of his wrist, the needle was in. She didn’t need to see him push on the plunger to know when it was depressed. The sting was immediate and intense.

She hissed. “Shit, it stings!” She felt the panic rise up in her chest, as it had every time she’d taken the shot so far, the sting of it being overwhelming.

“You’re alright. You’re okay, Granger,” he spoke calmly, kneading and pinching the part of her leg he’d just injected in with his gloved fingers. “It’s done.”

His ministrations were easing the pain faster than she remembered, and so she focused on breathing in and out through her nose. He covered the injection site with the bandage, then gathered up the used supplies and left her alone.

Her mind was reeling and so he startled her when he returned empty handed and gloveless. “Pomfrey said she’ll keep an eye on you if you need to recover for a few minutes. Is there anything else you need before I leave?”

“I don’t. But please, don’t tell anyone about this. I don’t need the entire school knowing.”

“And let the entire school know I’m a know-it-all like you who needs to be ‘challenged?’ That’s the only reason I’m doing this, because of McGonagall and Snape’s brilliant idea to put the top five students through an internship. No worries, Granger. Nobody is going to know I’ve even been here tonight. As far as everyone is concerned, I’m in Snape’s office for a meeting about my potions essay.”

She rolled her eyes, trying to regain what felt like the upper hand. “Thank you.”

He gave her a curt nod and left.

Her mind was reeling. She wasn’t sure what to think or feel regarding the entire ordeal. But at least she knew there was someone else she could trust to take care of her. Even if he happened to be the most unlikely person.

Chapter Text

The next few days passed without event, but Hermione was completely unnerved. Malfoy had continued to be his typical git of a person. But meanwhile, she couldn’t shake her memory of the interaction they shared in the hospital wing. She was bothered by how much it impacted her. And truthfully, by how unbothered he seemed to be.

So, a bit more than a week later, one afternoon after classes had ended for the day, she waited by the door of an unused classroom, knowing Draco Malfoy would come this direction.

As expected, she eyed him a moment later, swaggering through the crowd, thankfully very much alone. Before he could pass her, she grabbed the sleeve of his button-down and yanked him into the empty room, shutting the door tightly behind them.

He glared, straightening the bunched-up cuff of his shirt. “That’s no way to handle your superior, Granger,” he grumbled in annoyance.

She rolled her eyes. “Superior, my arse. Superior only in economic status.”

He seemed to recover from the shock of his abrupt change in location and smirked. “The empty classroom move was nice, but I hate to break it to you; you’re not my type.”

He had managed to sidetrack her. “Not your type? What are you going on about?”

He stopped a laugh in the back of his throat. “I’m aware Potter and Weasley like a woman who takes charge. But I happen to find a touch—perhaps more—of,” he paused thoughtfully. “Deference more endearing in a lady.” His gaze darkened; smirk deepened.

Hermione blanched, shook off the distraction. “I want to know about what happened a few weeks ago,” she demanded.

“Quite a few things happened a few weeks ago, Granger. You’re going to have to be more specific,” he chuckled, leaning smoothly against the wall and crossing his arms in front of his chest.

She huffed. “You know what I’m talking about,” she insisted through gritted teeth.

He shrugged. “Pretend that I don’t.”

She squirmed under his gaze, cursing his existence, wishing she could punch the stupid smirk off his stupid pointy face.

When she didn’t say anything, he spoke up again, his tone a lazy drawl. “Bold of you to assume I’d just give you what you want. I enjoy watching you squirm, Granger.” He laughed again. “But perhaps the deeper meaning behind that goes over that innocent little mind of yours.”

She ignored the crass meaning behind his words, if only because his assumptions were correct. But he’d also given her an out, a way to communicate what she meant without having to say it.

Without meaning for it to, her voice came out soft, reflective almost. “Clearly, that’s not always true. You didn’t when it actually mattered.”

Slowly, his smirk faded to neutral. “You’re going to have to be more specific about what you want to know. There’s a lot to unpack and I’m not divesting everything to you.”

She took a deep breath. What to ask? Now that she had him cornered here, she had so many questions buzzing in her head, and she knew he wasn’t going to give her every answer she wanted. She leant her head back on the door she was blocking, closing her eyes in thought. “Madame Pomfrey only summoned you because when I went to her for help, she explained what I needed is something she’s not qualified to do.”

He stared at her. “That’s not a question.”

She grumbled. “For five minutes, could you not be yourself? For five bloody minutes?” She ran her hands through her hair, tugging on the ends.

He rolled his eyes. “Difference in classification. She’s not a healer. She’s a medi-witch.”

“And you expect me to believe you’re a healer?” she asked, crossing her arms challengingly in front of her chest.

“Believe what you want, but it doesn’t change reality. Thanks to this stupid internship McGonagall has given to her best and brightest, I had to pick something. With my skillset, she and Snape collectively decided healing made the most sense.”

“Okay, so you have, what? Four months of training? Compared to Pomfrey’s how many years?”

He pinched the bridge of his nose. “Length of experience doesn’t matter, Granger. The work is similar, but they’re inherently different careers. Medi-witches and Medi-wizards can do very similar work to healers, but they are limited to mending charms and healing potions. Any work that establishes a new wound is off limits.”

“A new wound?”

“Yes, Granger. A needle prick creates a wound, albeit a small one. But it’s a new wound, nonetheless. As a Healer, or a Healing Apprentice, in my case, I’m legally able to perform such healing.”

Her head was reeling. She had never known there was a limit to what Madame Pomfrey could do for her patients at Hogwarts. And yet, in a way, it made sense. “It’s like differentiating a doctor from a nurse,” she explained to herself.

“In essence.”

“But nurses give shots.”

He rolled his eyes. “It’s not a perfect comparison, Granger. So, if you’re done harassing me with questions—”

“The shot you gave me is a medication from a muggle doctor, not a healer.” Again, she knew this wasn’t a question, but a statement of fact. A fact that he would not have been able to miss. And yet, he didn’t seem perturbed by this; not then and not now, when she was bringing it up again.

“That’s irrelevant. An injection is an injection is an injection. All I needed to know to administer it was the type; subcutaneous, intramuscular, or intravenous. The fact that it’s a routine prescription for you made it even easier because there’s minimal risks for negative reactions.

“I told you then, I’m under a legal obligation to do no harm. And I did for you what is within my legal expectations. I don’t owe you an explanation and I’m certainly not going to share more than necessary, considering you withheld information from me when, arguably it was more important for me to know it. If you happen to need something, you know how to find me. If you don’t, leave me alone. Now, if you’ll excuse me, you’re going to make me late to Mungos.”

He pushed himself off the wall, then nudged her out of the way, surprisingly gentle, pulled the door open and left without a glance back.

Hermione tried desperately to forget the whole bloody thing. Malfoy’s assistance was a one-time thing, so it didn’t matter what his training or experience was. It didn’t matter that he’d done it with such confidence, she could almost forget who he was. It didn’t matter that he’d given it with less pain than Harry often did. It didn’t matter that for the first time in the five years she’d known him, he had shown a side of him that didn’t care about blood status or wealth. It didn’t matter because Harry would take care of it, just as he’d always had.

The familiar crackle of the fire in the Gryffindor common room cast a soothing ambience in the late hour. The crackling sounds, the warmth it radiated, the dim brightness did nothing to sooth Hermione’s nerves though. Harry was serving detention for insisting Voldemort had returned, a stupid reason for detention, really, but had promised he’d help her with the medication when he returned, just like he always did.

Ron came down to sit beside her and she startled. “Jumpy tonight?” he chuckled.

She sighed in frustration. “It might not be a big deal to you, but this medication…” A tear ran down her nose without her permission, so she swiped it away quickly. “It is a big deal for me. Because it’s not something that will just go away.”

“But you’ve been doing this for years. Why is it bothering you like this all of a sudden?” He grumbled and added, “Bothering you enough to tell me off for trying to make light of it.”

“It’s a new medication,” she answered softly. “I take it the same way, but it’s not the same prescription I’ve had the past four years. And I don’t know why, but this one stings more.

“I don’t expect you to understand what that’s like because you’ve never experienced it. But trust me, it’s not pleasant.”

“I’m not trying to ignore your discomfort, ‘Mione. I know it’s a big deal and I understand how important it is.” He sighed. “But watching Harry give it to you, I don’t think I could do it. I’m not oblivious to your hurt. And I feel horrible that I can’t help you with it; that you had to go to the hospital wing when Harry was out before.”

She leaned into him, and he wrapped his arm behind her, pulling her in closer. “I understand. I can’t even give it to myself. I rely on Harry, perhaps unfairly, because I can’t bring myself to administer it myself.”

He cleared his throat. “There’s not a potion that works the same way you could take? Maybe one that doesn’t require needles?”

She shrugged. “I’m not sure, honestly. But that’s going to take a visit with a healer and…” It wasn’t like she could just stroll into the wizarding hospital. She was a minor, she’d need an adult escort, and because both of her parents were muggles, they couldn’t easily go with her.

She ignored the nagging in her brain that she knew of a healer apprentice within the walls of school.

“I get it. That’s easier said than done.” Ron filled her silence. “But. I’m going to figure it out, learn how to give the shot. I want you to be able to trust me to help you. You know, if the need ever arises again. Because it probably will.” Hermione was touched, especially because Ron was often oblivious to the emotional needs of others.

Their conversation was interrupted by the opening of the portrait hole. Hermione turned expectantly, relieved to see Harry step through. Though relief turned instantly to worry.

“Harry, you look like you’re in pain.” It wasn’t a question, but an observation that, knowing Harry, he’d try to shrug off.

“It’s fine. Just uncomfortable,” he tried to reassure through gritted teeth.

But Hermione knew pain; not only what it felt like, but what it looked like in others, and she knew Harry was lying. “Harry, tell me what happened?” she commanded gently as he approached the two of them.

He winced, taking a seat on the floor in front of Hermione as he always did. “Alright but keep your voices down. Nobody can know about this, understand?”

Hermione and Ron both agreed, and so carefully, Harry slipped his robes from his shoulders, allowing them to pool around him. He flexed the fingers of his right hand, as if stretching out an ache, and finally turned the back of his hand in their direction.

Hermione covered her mouth with a hand to stifle a gasp. Carved into his hand, in his own neat penmanship, were the words I must not tell lies.

“Harry!” she whispered breathlessly. “That’s…that’s”

Before she could organize her thoughts into a coherent statement, Ron interjected. “She made you use a blood quill, mate?! I’m pretty sure those are illegal!”

Harry pulled his hand away and shoved it back into his robes. “I really don’t think she cares. She’s cruel, she’s vile,” his eyes twinkled for a moment, “she’s a foul, loathsome, evil little cockroach.”

Though it had lightened Harry’s mood, her stomach twisted into knots. Her words, the ones she’d once screamed at Malfoy, were being used to describe someone else, someone perhaps far viler.

“Harry, you have to tell Dumbledore,” she urged softly, trying to redirect her thoughts.

She could see his eyes flicker with rage. “I can’t tell anybody,” he hissed, eyeing the remaining students who remained in the common room. “That’s what she wants. She wants Dumbledore to make a scene, to give everyone a reason to believe he’s not a competent headmaster and that I’m insane.”

He was losing his temper, his voice starting to rise. “Harry Potter, occlude. Now!” Hermione insisted sharply. “Or at the very least, take a deep breath and count to ten.”

Under her watchful eye, he did as he was told, and yet again, Draco stupid Malfoy popped into her head. I’m aware Potter and Weasley like a woman who takes charge echoed in her brain. She had half a mind to go back to Ginny Weasley and demand that she obliviate that stupid conversation from her head, now that she knew what Malfoy had been implying.

She hadn’t wanted to repeat his words to Ron or Harry, seeing as though they were boys. However, Ginny was fair game. She’d recapped the conversation to Gin for interpretation, careful not to reveal the greater context of the conversation or who the speaker had been.

“Alright, fine. Keep your secrets,” Ginny had said. “But whoever told you this is a kinky little shit. He’s referring to bedroom activities. Sex basically. Implying that you are bossy in sexual experiences. Implying that Harry and my brother like to be bossed around. Which is probably not wrong,” she’d concluded with a shrug and a laugh.

“That much I had gathered. He’s also saying he likes women who are sexually submissive. But no, what did he mean when he said it was bold of me to assume he’d give me what I want without making me squirm?”

Ginny had eyed Hermione thoughtfully. “I forget muggles are such prudes. Though I suppose older brothers have given me more than average knowledge on the topic.” She’d smirked at Hermione playfully before continuing. “The whole statement was a wildly inappropriate innuendo to make in casual conversation. A person could squirm in discomfort, in desperation… Think about it in terms of bedroom activities.”

She had replayed the conversation in her head again, with this new lens and under Gin’s watchful gaze. Her eyes had widened, leaving Ginny in fits of laughs.

Which, in hindsight, Hermione felt shocked that, in Malfoy’s highly inappropriate comments, he’d labeled her as undesirable because of perceived dominance and not because she was muggleborn.

“But enough about me,” Harry said with finality, bringing Hermione’s attention back to the present. “Hermione, you have something due tonight.”

She sighed, wishing the only thing ‘due’ was a homework assignment. She leaned over to grab her bag from the floor.

“Unfortunately.” She had the box tucked into a zipped pouch just inside her bag. Now she felt like she was the one being ordered around as she went through the motions under both Ron’s and Harry’s watchful gaze. She opened the box, pulled out the prefilled syringe and checked it over the way she’d been taught; the dose was correct, there was no discoloration, no air bubbles. And despite how small the dose was, her stomach clenched at the sight of it.

Wordlessly she passed the syringe to Harry, who did his own inspection of the dose. He approved it with a nod of his head, setting it down on the table next to him long enough to put on a pair of gloves. He winced when the latex rubbed against the fresh wound on the back of his hand.

“Harry,” Hermione pleaded regarding his masochistic decision to keep his mouth shut about the very much illegal punishment he was enduring.

“I’m fine,” he deflected. “Fred and George’s salves will heal it right up.” He adjusted his position on the floor to be closer to her, the firelight near them casting a warm glow on his face. She turned herself slightly, positioning her body so that the injection site was easier for Harry to access.

He looked up at her, a small, reassuring smile on his lips. “Ready?” he asked softly.

Hermione marveled at how much his demeanor had changed. He’d gone from quietly seething and raging to a gentle caretaker in the blink of an eye. Perhaps, amid a new war, caring for her was a reprieve from his own terrifying reality. She also considered, maybe he should investigate helping careers rather than the auror profession he’d been enamored with for months.

She returned her focus to the task at hand. "Ready as I'll ever be," she said, managing a weak smile in return. She lifted her shirt enough to expose a small patch of her abdomen, the familiar injection site.

Sitting next to her, Ron offered her his hand and she took it gratefully, though she kept her gaze on Harry’s movements. His expression was firm, a brow furrowed in concentration. His movements were quick, familiar, and precise, as always. Anticipating the stick to come, she squeezed Ron’s hand right before she saw the needle enter, felt the brief pinch of it, the deep sting that followed, and then it was over.

She cursed at the sting, her breath catching in her throat. God, it hurt. Harry kept his hand pressed against the injection site, rubbing firmly for a moment. It was a sweet moment of comfort, and she was always impressed with how well Harry could judge what she was feeling and adjust his care accordingly. Especially, as he had no formal training. Unlike someone else…

She tensed. God, now she was even comparing Harry’s care to Malfoy’s. Harry’s gentle, knowing touch to Malfoy’s deliberate, clinical.

Harry looked up at her. “Hermione? I know this new medicine is more painful but,” he hesitated. “Are you sure you’re alright?”

She lied. “I’m fine. Just a bad spot, I guess. And I’m feeling tired.”

His green eyes held hers, analyzing, searching for something. Finally, he nodded. But something in his eyes told her he wasn’t going to let this go.

He pulled his gaze from her and set his attention on cleaning up the used medical supplies. He gathered the trash in one hand and with a practiced movement, pulled his gloves inside out and off, wadding them up with the waste inside. With a flick of his wand, he replaced the cap on the needle for safe keeping until Hermione could dispose of it properly in the sharps container she kept tucked out of the way beneath her bed.

The fresh wound on Harry’s hand caught the light of the fire. Hermione reached out and took his hand, examining it. He opened his mouth to protest, but she shushed him. “I know why you want to keep it secret. But at the very least, you need to clean it properly. I don’t want it to get infected.” She gave him a soft smile. “And we all know I have plenty of medicinal cleaners out of necessity.”

He sighed. “I will. I promise. But I have to handle this without turning it into a show.” She dropped his hand, feeling a rousing anger in her chest on his behalf. It was no wonder her friend had no trust in adults. It seemed they constantly used him as a pawn in some stupid game. The frightening thing was, the game was rapidly evolving into a war.

Ron shifted on the couch. “I’m going to go find Fred and George. See if they have any salves that can help you, Harry.”

Harry nodded his thanks, and Ron gave Hermione’s hand one more gentle squeeze before he retreated, leaving the common room up the stairs.

Harry moved to the couch in Ron’s absence and looked at Hermione pointedly. “Will you tell me the truth now that Ron is away?”

She sighed, considering her words as her heart hammered in her chest. Telling him the truth, there were only two directions the conversation could go. And one of those directions was very bad.

He nudged her arm. “Hey,” he said with an encouraging smile. “I’ve been doing this with you for ages now. You don’t have to hide anything about it from me.”

“The night you were out with the Aurors…” She took a deep breath. “I tried to do the shot on my own and I—”

“You couldn’t do it,” he supplied without judgement.

She nodded slightly before continuing. “So I took the kit to the hospital wing. I figured Madame Pomfrey could do it for me. But I just learned she’s a medi-witch, not a healer, so she’s limited to what kind of care she can legally provide and, well. She can’t give shots. So she called someone else…”

He eyed her curiously. “Who? Someone from St. Mungos? Or did she send you to someone?”

“No, he came to me. But…” She squeezed her eyes shut. She couldn’t look at Harry while speaking his name and she could only hope he wouldn’t blow up when she came clean.

“Harry,” her voice sounded almost like a plea. “It was Malfoy,” she said, the name a soft exhalation of breath.

She heard Harry’s sharp intake of breath. “Malfoy is a student.”

“Yes. But so are we. And you’re interning with Kingsley Shacklebolt, I’m doing advanced research for McGonagall. So, it’s not all that farfetched.”

“Malfoy. Thinks muggleborns and muggles are beneath him, Malfoy? Father is a Death Eater Malfoy?”

He was trying to control himself but Hermione could hear the subtle shift in his tone that indicated rising anger. It was enough to break her composure.

“Harry Potter don’t you dare take your anger out on me.” Her voice cracked and she finally opened her eyes, pleading. “You weren’t there. I didn’t have a choice.”

His eyes locked on hers and she could see the fire in his gaze. “You could have asked Ron.”

“Harry, you know why I didn’t!” she shouted, her frustration getting the best of her. Thankfully, the common room had emptied so her outburst went unnoticed. But it was enough to break through Harry’s chilling anger.

His shoulders slumped and eyes softened. “I’m sorry, Hermione. It’s just…” He pinched the bridge of his nose, closed his eyes. “If he would have done anything to hurt you, I would never forgive myself.”

“Honestly, I don’t think he would hurt me. I can’t get the memory of it out of my head. He was so… I mean, I heard Pomfrey warn him his grade was on the line and he was under legal obligations before I even knew who he was. But when he came in, I panicked.” 

“So, what did he do? Why would Pomfrey even let him touch you, knowing how he is?”

Hermione shrugged, leaning back into the sofa. “Legal reasons? I think her hands were tied, too,” Hermione suggested. “But I panicked and tried to walk out. He wouldn’t let me leave but waited until I calmed down before he did anything. Reassured me multiple times that he wasn’t going to hurt me.” She giggled. “I told him hurting me is exactly what he’d been called to do.”

She met his gaze. “It was like he was a different person, Harry. So professional, so competent. He didn’t rush me or give me a hard time about needing help. And he even gave me a choice of injection site so I would be comfortable.”

She took in a deep shuddering breath. “I also have to be realistic. Between your meetings with Kingsley and your occlumency lessons, it’s really not a matter of if I’ll need his help again, but when.”

The reality of her words hung between them like a heavy weight. She’d been holding on to this weight, this fear, all on her own for almost a month now. And she hoped Harry would understand, would help her shoulder the weight rather than adding to it.

He pinched the bridge of his nose in thought, then stood and began pacing in front of her.

“I just don’t trust him. Of all the students in the school, why did it have to be him? The only son of an unapologetic Death Eater, a healer?” he scoffed.

He turned to face her, running his uninjured hand through his already messy black hair. “But I know you’re right. And I also know Ron won’t do it. Or can’t, I’m not sure. Could you ask Ginny to help you?”

Hermione considered this for a moment. “I suppose I could. But then am I just delaying the inevitable? Ginny has her own life, too.”

“Maybe it’s best to not worry about it right now. And we can make a plan for how to face it when it does come up again.”

“I think that’s all we can do. It scares me. But for now, you’ve got my back. And thank you Harry, for being understanding.”

He sat back down next to her and rested his head against her shoulder. “Same to you,” he agreed softly. “Because, I know you’re worried about this,” He gestured with his injured hand, revealing his professor-inflicted injury.

They sat together, the warm glow from the slowly dimming fire easing their shared anxiety, at least for the moment.

Hermione was the first to break the silence. “We should both be getting to bed. And you should see if Ron was able to get you something for your hand.”

He agreed in a hushed voice before standing and stretching his arms above his head. He offered Hermione his good hand to help her stand.

They whispered their good nights, then departed at the stairs for their own beds.

Chapter Text

Regretfully, Hermione was forced to face the reality of Draco Malfoy’s new expertise earlier than she’d thought likely. Only a short three days had passed before Hermione woke up Monday morning feeling the familiar ache in her hands and arms. She readied herself for the day as normal, but pain was forcing her to move with greater sluggishness. She contemplated going to the hospital wing to see if Madame Pomfrey had any potions for pain, but after her slow start to the morning, she finished breakfast much too late to make a detour.

Hermione arrived in the dungeons as Malfoy sauntered from the Slytherin dormitories down the hall, in step surprisingly with Blaise Zabini and Theodore Nott, rather than flanked by Crabbe and Goyle. She quickened her pace, hoping she could get to the potions classroom without encountering the trio of Slytherins. But she had no such luck.

“Granger, what are you in a hurry for?” Zabini teased from down the hall. “Snape’s classroom isn’t going anywhere, love.”

Hermione rolled her eyes. Unlike some of the other Slytherins, Blaise Zabini tended to hold more neutral opinions on those not born of a pureblood status. However, some of his interactions had the occasional tendency of coming off as blatant sexual harassment. Calling her ‘love’ was case in point.

“Some of us don’t need to make a grand entrance everywhere we go,” she grumbled.

“Where’s your entourage of idiots?” Nott asked, looking past her as if Harry and Ron might suddenly appear.

“Not with me. I had other things to worry about this morning.” She gazed pointedly at him. “I could point out that you’re not one of Malfoy’s typical ‘idiots’.”

Nott nodded. “Smooth, Granger. Very smooth.”

Malfoy hadn’t said a word, but she could feel his eyes on her. She refused to meet his gaze as she brushed by him and into the classroom, taking her typical seat next to Neville. Of all the days for double potions, she thought as she settled in, trying to keep her hands as still as possible for as long as she could.

During the first twenty minutes of class, Snape lectured about their collective poor performance on last week’s lesson, insisting they would be repeating the brew until they ‘could get it right’. She sighed. At least this potion was familiar so she could let Neville take the lead.

Only an hour more, Hermione thought as she waited for Neville to return with the ingredients they’d be needing. She could survive for one more hour. Or, at least she hoped she could. Her joints were aching, her right arm especially, rendering her dominant hand almost useless. Which would inevitably be a problem for the need of precision when handling ingredients.

Before Neville returned, Malfoy crossed in front of her workstation. “Potter, must you dominate every space you’re in? This is a walkway,” he sneered, shoving Harry’s empty chair forward.

Hermione sat herself as far back against her seat as she could, pulling her robes more tightly around her. “You look more distressed seeing me today than usual, Granger,” he commented with a smirk, placing his hands on her table and leaning forward. She kept her gaze locked on the tools in front of her. How professional, goading someone in class, she thought sarcastically.

Neville returned with their basket of ingredients, which he plopped unceremoniously on the table in front of Hermione with a soft thud. “I think I’ve got everything. But we should get started before Snape starts making rounds,” Neville told her, pointedly ignoring the boy attempting to have a stand-off with his partner.

Her gaze still on the table, she saw Malfoy’s fingers curl into a clinched fist and then they disappeared from her sight. “You’re right for once, Longbottom. You should get started, Granger.” Hermione shut her eyes and winced as she heard the clicking of Malfoy’s designer shoes walking away. He knew something, that much was obvious.

If Neville thought anything strange about the confrontation he’d just ended, he spoke nothing of it, instead reading the ingredients from the board. “At least this potion doesn’t have too much prep work,” Neville mused. “We just need to crush the moonstone and unicorn horn into a powder.”

Hermione’s fingers twitched and she took a deep breath to ground herself through the flare of pain. “Minimal prep work is nice,” Hermione agreed in a whisper. “Neville, I don’t know how much of this potion I can do today.”

Neville dropped into his seat. “That’s alright,” he said with a hesitant smile. “Might be good for me to practice on my own. You’ll coach me through it though, right?”

She smiled, relieved with the response. “Of course, Neville.”

They agreed to each take one of the ingredients that would need to be crushed to a powder, and each of them set to work. Hermione had taken the unicorn horn. Thankfully, it had a bit more give to it than the moonstone, but it was still difficult to manage in her current state.

Neville leaned over while she was attempting with much struggle to grind up the horn. “Malfoy is staring at you,” he whispered to Hermione.

She whipped her head around to find where he sat next to Blaise Zabini. Sure enough, he was staring at her, and when her gaze met his, he quirked an eyebrow. His gaze was calculating, though not cruel, and her stomach sunk with the realization that she could not hide the truth from him.

She felt the heat in her face and turned away abruptly. “Well, I wish he’d stop,” she grumbled a response to Neville. She tightened her grip around the pestle in her hand and immediately regretted it.

Oblivious to her silent struggle, Neville tipped his own mortar in her direction. “Do you think I’ve ground the moonstone well enough?”

She peered into the bowl, relieved to have a distraction. “Perhaps a bit more? It should be a fine powder. You’ve still got some small chunks.”

They continued to work in silence for a few moments. Hermione gave up on getting her right hand to cooperate with her and swapped the pestle to her left hand. Now she had more strength, but with her left hand, she lacked the stability to work quickly. Her hand fumbled as she haphazardly ground through the larger pieces of the unicorn horn.

Taking a moment to steady her flaring nerves, she glanced over to see how Neville was doing. “That looks much better, Nev,” she praised. “You can start adding it to the base. Small pinches though, and stop when it turns green.”

She set back to work on the prep for her own ingredient, but her unusually slow pace had caught the attention of Professor Snape. He slithered over, robes billowing behind him, and came to an abrupt halt in front of her.

"Miss Granger, how arrogant you must be to believe your mind can compensate for your physical limitations," he whispered in a low, chilling staccato. "Your work is sloppy, your ingredients may as well be ruined, and you are a liability not only to yourself but to your partner and the rest of my class. You will clean your station and proceed directly to the Hospital Wing, and shall you make an unauthorized detour, I will know you failed to follow that order. You will not be permitted to enter this room again until you have been medically cleared,” he finished pointedly, with a glance back to where she knew Malfoy was sitting.

She gazed up at him in panic. “But Professor—”

“Now, Miss Granger.” He glanced over at Neville who cowered in the seat next to her. “Let’s see how Mr. Longbottom performs without you carrying the weight.” He smiled darkly, but before she could protest, he had moved on.

Hermione felt a flush of embarrassment. Sure, the conversation had been in hushed tones that were unlikely to have been overheard by nosy classmates. But leaving the class would be a walk of shame she wasn’t eager to take. Worse, Malfoy would undoubtedly be watching.

She picked up her station in a hurry; trashing the not-really-botched ingredients, fumbling with her tools as she put them away in her bag. The clattering of glass and metal was deafening in the sudden silence. Nobody dared look at her lest they earn Snape’s ire, but the tension was palpable.

She shouldered her bag, leaving Neville with an apology and a sad smile, then made a beeline for the door in the back of the dungeons, feeling the eyes of every other classroom occupant tracking her departure. And of course, Malfoy was watching.

She hastened through the dungeons, not stopping until she arrived at the top of the stairs in the main corridor. Only then did she allow herself to pause, resting her back against the wall, a grounding move that would help steady her nerves.

She was unable to will away the few tears that escaped, which only fueled her frustration. More than ever, she was feeling helpless. War was inevitable at this point, and she worried fiercely about Harry. The adults she thought she could trust before she now felt inclined to view through a skeptical lens. And the people she’d long thought were untrustworthy were somehow becoming secret allies. Add to all this confusion and fear a lifelong illness suddenly growing out of her control?

She let her head thump gently against the wall, eyes gazing up at the lofted ceiling above. She took one more deep breath before pushing herself off the wall and continuing the walk to the hospital wing.

She pushed open the large wooden door of the hospital wing and entered. It closed with a heavy thud behind her and the sound caught the attention of the hospital matron, who was tending to a Hufflepuff first year.

“Miss Granger,” Madame Pomfrey greeted with a nod. “I’m a bit tied up at the moment, dearie. Take a cot and I’ll be with you shortly.”

Hermione nodded her understanding and crossed the room to a cot toward the back of the wing. If she had to be here, she wanted to be as far back as possible, where random visitors were less likely to bother her.

She dropped her bag on the floor, shoved it underneath the cot with her foot and laid back on the too thin mattress. She pulled her left leg up and folded it beneath her right, which she kept dangling over the edge. She flung her right arm up over her head, draped across her eyes.

“Breathe through the pain,” she whispered to herself. And for a few blessed moments, focusing on the air filling her lungs was enough to calm her nerves. So, she ignored the sound of the hospital wing door opening and thumping shut again.  

The clicking of shoes cut through her focused breathing, followed by an unmistakable voice. “What are your current symptoms?”

Hermione glanced up to see Draco Malfoy approaching her, not with his usual casual stride but with a professional, direct purpose. He stopped next to her cot and waved his wand, summoning the partitions to surround them with a clinical screech. His gaze fell on her and before she could say anything, he quirked a brow, and clarified, “besides the obvious ones?”

“Where’s Madame Pomfrey?” she whispered, voice low and hostile. She did not move. She would not just comply with him as long as she had an ounce of dignity left.

He did not answer, instead leaving her in a suffocating silence. She removed her arm from her face and glanced over to gauge his reaction. Her eyes met his briefly and he quirked a brow, taking his robes in his hands and folding them across his chest. His stance reminded her for a brief second of how Snape carried himself. Now Malfoy was doing the same. Attempting to intimidate her?

She pulled her second leg up on to the cot and rolled over on to her side, her back toward him. It was not lost on her how immaturely she was behaving. But she couldn’t bring herself to care.

His voice cut through the silence. “You are not so important that Pomfrey is willing to drop what she is doing to cater to your whining. And even if she had the time to coddle you, undoubtedly, there would only be so much she can do before she’d need to consult a healer, which I will remind you, she is not.” He let this admission hang in the open for a few seconds before adding, “Let’s try again, shall we? What. Are. Your symptoms?”

Still feeling the sting of humiliation, she stubbornly answered with a lie she suspected he’d see right through. “I have none. Just this irritating, nagging headache.” She sat up and turned to face him. “It started nagging me in potions and now it’s followed me to the hospital wing.” She folded her arms across her chest and glared. There was nothing else to look at but him, so instead she simply stared through him, as if he weren’t there.

He had just placed his bag on the table and pulled a small leather-bound book from it when his attention snapped to her. He turned on his heel, book forgotten, and gazed at her challengingly. “I would think it wise to avoid anything that might add to your recent humiliation, if you know what’s best for you, Granger. You’re welcome to sit there, continuing this little tantrum of yours, but I will do what I need to do, regardless of your cooperation. Do not try my patience.”

Between Snape’s belittling lecture and now Malfoy’s cold and distant directions, Hermione could not get her anger in check. She unclenched a fist she didn’t know she’d been holding, and the movement shot fire up her arm, adding to her anger.

“You are not a healer, so stop pretending like you are,” she bit out, meeting his gaze with a seething glare.

His steel grey eyes flickered dangerously. Without breaking his gaze, he pointed his wand in her direction and for one frightening moment, she wondered what curse or hex might be coming her way. But she wasn’t met with a hex or jinx; rather, an invisible force unbuttoned her robes, and they slid off her shoulders, pooling around her, the cold air on her suddenly bare arms and legs. Even though she was still wearing her school skirt and button-down blouse, she suddenly felt exposed.

“Care to continue this show of Gryffindor foolishness?” he asked, folding his arms, his gaze challenging.

She would rather suffer than give him the satisfaction of showing that his actions had gotten under her skin. But pretending to be okay was near impossible now. Holding tension from anger made her joints ache, and when her fingers twitched, she couldn’t hold back the flinch as the burn shot through her arm again.

“Granger, you need help. That much is obvious,” he filled the silence, his tone a touch softer, losing its sharp edge. “I would prefer to address your current problems without removing your autonomy, but that will require your cooperation. My status as an apprentice doesn't negate my ability to treat you as my patient. Further, anything I do for you now will be checked by my Attending Healer at St. Mungos, if that’s your most pressing concern.”

He gave her a moment to consider this in silence. She wanted to point out that her most pressing concern was that he, a person who had outwardly declared his opinions about her status as a muggleborn, was now in a position of power over her. But she bit her tongue.

When she remained silent, he continued. “Are you ready to discuss your symptoms with me or shall I use magic to uncover them myself? This is something you have to do. Whether either of us like it or not.”

She closed her eyes and let out a shuddery breath. “I just…” The battle of her logic against her emotions was hard fought. And the subtle shift from his use of I versus you to ‘us’ seemed to flip a switch in her brain. “I hurt,” she finished softly. It wasn’t a full answer, but she at least hoped he could see she was trying to cooperate.

Silently, he pulled the stool out from under the supply table and lowered himself onto it. He picked up the leather book and flipped it open to the next empty page, which wasn’t too deep into it. A self-inking quill had been holding his place in the book, which he picked up, and began writing.

“Where are you hurting? Your right arm, clearly. Anything else?”

She couldn’t bring herself to speak directly to him so she closed her eyes, focusing on what she was feeling so she could relay it to him. “Most of it is isolated to my top half. My fingers are stiff, my wrists are stiff. Any movements of my fingers and wrist cause this shooting, burning feeling,” she traced her fingers up the top side of her right arm, showing him. “Along here.”

She rolled her shoulders, then her neck. “My neck and shoulders feel stiff, too. But it’s easier to avoid further irritation there,” she finished with a sigh.

The scratch of his quill filled the silence for a moment. “Potter administered the last injection?”

Her voice came out barely a whisper. “Yes.”

He paused to glance up at her. “On time?”

She felt a bubble of irritation, but his question was justified. She’d already given him a reason to question her timeliness the first time she’d met him in this capacity. The bubble of irritation popped.

“Yes.”

“And the thing on your arm?” he asked, gesturing with his quill.

She’d forgotten her early morning attempts to soothe the burn until he’d pointed it out. “Pain patch. It’s adhesive. A blend of lidocaine, menthol and camphor.”

“The first ingredient?”

“Lidocaine. It’s the only actual medication in the patch. But I don’t know the strength.”

He closed the book with an air of finality. “Have you seen a healer before or just a muggle doctor?”

“I have a specialist for this. But she’s muggle.”

He studied her for a moment. “I’m going to tell you what I’m thinking and what my plans are. Everything we are discussing now will be run by my attending before I move forward. Yes?”

She nodded.

He crossed his ankle over the opposite knee and leaned forward, propping himself up on his forearms, which were folded over his notebook.

“I can give you an anti-inflammatory potion for immediate relief; immobilize your right hand, including your fingers.

“The next problem is that the medication you take weekly should prevent what you’re experiencing now. For whatever reason, it’s not. I plan to administer a second dose later today. You may need to contact your doctor about adjusting the dose or the drug.

“Lastly, you need a proper exam, which entails diagnostic spell work, a physical exam which does involve palpations of areas of concern, and taking blood.”

Hermione felt her heart skip a beat at his explanation. She started to voice her protest, but he held up a hand and directed her with a gaze that could have cut steel. “I plan to do the exam. However, if that makes you so uncomfortable you refuse to cooperate, I will arrange for you to meet with my attending. But an appointment with him will be scheduled at St. Mungos, in a more formal visit, and you will have to go with a professor.”

The tension between them was palpable. And the tentative trust that had been built over the past few moments seemed to shatter, at least for her. The most nagging thought, why was he offering this choice? Was it because he actually cared about her comfort? Was it because he didn’t want to touch a muggleborn?

“Think about it for a moment. I’ll be back.” He stood and left her private little corner of the hospital wing, leaving her alone with her thoughts. The thought of going to the hospital sounded terrible. But so did the idea of letting Malfoy touch her. The more terrifying thought was that she had no idea what a typical healer’s exam was like. What happened for routine checkups? How would an exam for an ailment differ?

He reentered the space silently, holding a glass vial filled with a viscous lavender colored liquid. He sat back down on the stool, holding the vial up within her line of vision. “This is Lenimentum. It’s an anti-inflammatory potion that should work to sooth the inflammation, and in turn, your pain. I need you to swallow the entire dose.”

He handed it to her, and she took a hesitant sniff. It wasn’t the worst, so she downed it quickly, pleasantly surprised with the lingering taste of mint. He smirked knowingly. “Menthol is effective, it would seem, across both of our worlds. But if you have questions, I will answer them.”

She sat back, making herself comfortable in the cot, her legs stretched out in front of her. “I don’t,” she began, before pausing. She took in a shuddery breath. “I really don’t want to go to St. Mungos. I’ve sort of been taught to never go into medical situations without someone else there to be an advocate of sorts. So having to go to the hospital alone…as a muggleborn…”

“I understand. But that means you’re agreeing to my terms. You understand that, right? You’re welcome to choose your own advocate, so to speak, when we meet again later today, provided the person you bring is on their best behavior.”

She wasn’t going to agree to his terms just yet. “You knew something was wrong with me before class started.”

“That isn’t a question. But yes. I’m not an idiot. I could see you struggling to move. Further, knowing you’re taking a weekly injection, it’s quite obvious whatever you’re dealing with isn’t a small thing. I can put two and two together, Granger.”

“I’ve been to a pediatrician, a doctor for children and adolescents, and I have a pediatric rheumatologist I see even more regularly. But I’ve never seen a healer for anything. So, I have no idea what to expect.”

“While that’s helpful for me to know, that’s also not a question,” he replied after a moment of silence between them.

“What happens in a healer’s exam? On a good day, if nothing were wrong?”

“Diagnostic spell work. There are a few that each serve different purposes. Spells are used to check vitals, to identify or verify any areas of concern, to assess organ function. Theoretically, the most basic of exams could conclude with spell diagnostics only, but that’s rarely realistic.”

He shifted his body weight forward slightly. “A physical exam, palpating the patient, is very common to assess parts of the body that aren’t visible: muscles, bones, and so on. Medical instruments are used for more thorough assessments, some similar to what you might be used to, or so I’ve been told.

His gaze met hers, some of the steel having returned. “Blood testing is never negotiable.”

“Blood testing?” Her heart hammered in her chest, and she could hear the pounding of her heart in her ears. “You? Testing my blood?”

He smirked. “One of the first things that I learned in professional training is that blood is blood. The next thing I learned is that healers have a sadistic obsession of using needles as often as possible. The healing practice seeks to make your stay at St Mungo’s as miserable, painful, and humiliating as possible.”

“And you know how to do it? Without digging?”

“Sorry, digging?”

She took in a deep breath. “Lab techs draw blood with a needle in the muggle world. And some of them, that’s all they do. Blood draws and injections. So, if they have a hard time with it, for whatever reason…” She winced. “I guess pride takes over? They don’t…they don’t stop. Even if they see they’re hurting you. Even if they miss the vein, sometimes they’ll just dig the needle around until…”  

His eyes flashed for a second. “I am under oath to do no harm. I intend to keep that.” His voice was dangerously low. “Our over-reliance on needles, if I had to guess, also comes with how easy they are for healers to use. Perhaps it’s different for muggles, but for a healer, a needle is almost like an extension of self, similar to how we use wands, now that I think about it. It’s the first thing you learn and it’s easy to handle. I would damn sure never try to force it somewhere it should not be.”

She tore her gaze away. She could feel a familiar sting in her sinuses and she couldn’t let him see her struggle to fight tears, especially if she were to lose the battle.

“And touching me?” Somehow, the discussion of sharp pointy things had made the prospect of him touching her seem like a minor thing.

“For routine care and for maintenance, the physical is only for problem areas. But unfortunately, I really don’t have a better way to explain it. I don’t have an idea of what you may be familiar with that’s similar.”

“You’ll be doing it by yourself?”

“The full exam? Yes and no. As I already mentioned, you’re welcome to bring someone with you when we meet again later, provided the person you bring doesn’t cause…” he hesitated, seeming to search for the right words. “a Gryffindor show of pride. Also, before I examine you, I’ll be speaking with my Attending and after, he will review everything I did. So, in that sense, I’m not working entirely of my own accord.

“Amari is a brilliant healer, one of Mungos’ best. But he annoys the hell out of me.”

Hearing him refer to anyone as annoying flipped something in her brain, and her guards went up again like a reflex. “You’re easy to annoy, Malfoy.”

He smirked, but it wasn’t accompanied with the sneer she’d come to expect from him. “Think Trelawny with a bit more brains and a lot less perfume.”

“Oh, God.”

He chuckled. “Any more questions?”

She sighed deeply. “I don’t think so.”

“How are you feeling after the potion?”

She tested her joints, moving her fingers slightly. “No burning at least.”

“I’m going to immobilize your arm, then I’ll leave you for now. I don’t expect you to stay here; you’re free to leave as long as you come back on time, say 5:30. I need you to bring your prescription if you can and you can bring along one friend. Clear?”

“As crystal.”

He pulled the stool closer to her and picked up his wand from the table. “Your hand please.”

She held out her right arm and he grasped her forearm from underneath. Pressing the tip of his wand to just below her elbow, he began chanting a spell in a low tenor that sounded almost like singing. “Corpus immobulus, corpus immobulus, corpus immobulus.” As he chanted, he drew the wand down her arm toward her fingers, traced the tips of the digits, and then continued back up the opposite side, stopping just short of her elbow again.

He carefully let go and sat back. “Move your fingers?” she tried, but they were stiff as a board. “And your wrist?” Again, she tried, but the attempts at movement were futile.

Her eyes widened. “This is so weird,” she commented airily.

“Last thing, bend your elbow for me.” This was the only movement he requested that she could actually perform. “Excellent.”

He pocketed his wand, closed the leather notebook and placed it in his school bag, which he shouldered. “Your arm should stay immobilized until I cancel the charm, and it’s immobilized for a reason. Do not attempt to use it. If you need another dose of Lenimentum, you may take another in four hours. Madame Pomfrey can administer it. You are to take nothing else, understood?”

She nodded.

“5:30. Bring your prescription.”

He waved his wand, and the partitions screeched back into the walls. Then he was gone, leaving her alone with her furiously swirling thoughts.

Chapter Text

Hermione’s head was a cacophony of thoughts competing for dominance and it was starting to give her a headache. In fact, she suspected that if it hadn’t been for the potion he’d given her—what had he called it again?—she would have a migraine. To say she’d been overstimulated recently was one hell of an understatement.

Sitting in the hospital wing alone, the most immediate thought was what to do now. She tested her mobility now that she was no longer under Malfoy’s watchful eye. Zilch. She had none. She might as well have a board for an arm, and she found herself giggling at the memory of Harry’s rubber-like arm in second year. God, she was going crazy.

But the confirmation that her right arm was useless up to her elbow had her reconsidering leaving the hospital wing. Sure, her left limb was unaffected, but her fine motor control in her left hand was slim to none and if she tried to go about her day using her non-dominant hand, she’d probably end up with pain in both arms. She couldn’t write, take notes, perform any magic. In a sense, she’d been rendered useless.

Madame Pomfrey bustled over. “How are you, dearie? Mr Malfoy informed me you can return to class, but the choice is yours.”

Hermione sat back against the pillows with a sigh. “I don’t think it’s worth leaving. I can’t write or do magic right now, anyway.”

“I do apologize for leaving you with Mr Malfoy with no warning. Today, and those many nights ago. It’s not lost on me that you two share a great deal of animosity.”

Hermione sighed. “Can you just tell me truthfully? Do you trust him as a healer?”

She offered Hermione a sympathetic smile. “Though his bedside manner is atrocious, he has already proven himself to be highly skilled in the profession. His Attending reports that he’s nearly completed year one training. On that pace, he’ll be able to practice alone before he graduates. Not many students could pull that off, especially at fifteen.”

Hermione considered this. She knew Malfoy was intelligent. He was always battling against her for the top spot academically, always just shy of pulling ahead. But she’d always considered that luck more than intelligence. Having grown up a pureblood, and an aristocrat at that, he had access to the best, including in learning opportunities. But perhaps there was more to his capabilities than status alone.

“It was a rough morning. I think I’ll benefit from staying here to rest. History of Magic I can read up on. Ancient Runes I can’t do without my hand.” She frowned. “And Defense Against the Dark Arts is quite useless.”

Madame Pomfrey scoffed. “I quite agree with you on that, Miss Granger. In fact, if Dolores Umbridge had her way, I’m sure Mr Malfoy would be made my supervisor instead of the other way around.” She sighed. “Well, I’ll be around if you need anything. If you need to take a trip up to your dorm to grab anything, you’re welcome to at any time, just let me know first.”

Hermione nodded. “Thank you, Madame Pomfrey.”

She had just been left to herself again when the hospital door opened. The voices of three rowdy boys echoed through the wing, the door behind them closing with a loud thud. Hermione winced at the brutal interruption, then rolled her eyes as the boys came closer.

“You’re going to get yourselves thrown out before you even get over here,” Hermione chastised her three friends.

“Sorry,” Harry apologized, not looking apologetic in the slightest.

“We’ve been worried ever since the greasy git threw you out of class,” Ron added with an outraged grumble.

“Are you okay, Hermione? Truthfully?” Neville asked in a soft voice.

Harry took a seat on the open stool next to her while Ron and Neville occupied the foot of her bed, one on each side. Harry’s place at the stool was almost poetic, considering he’d played the role of an unofficial nurse for five years. Now here he was occupying the seat a healer, and his rival at that, had vacated less than a half hour before.

“I’m okay for now. But I’m stuck here for the day. How was potions?”

Ron shrugged. “Rather uneventful after you left.”

“It was strange though. Right after you left, uh,” Neville had started but then stopped speaking.

Harry picked up Neville’s line of thinking. “Right after you left, Snape dismissed Malfoy. Gave him a different assignment since he’s apparently ‘mastered’ the Draught of Peace.” He caught her gaze, his expression knowing.

“I ended up working with Zabini. He’s truthfully not the worst, as far as Slytherins go,” Neville admitted. “But I was worried Malfoy was going to follow you down here. Especially after how he was acting at the start of class.”

“Bloody hell, I didn’t think of that,” Ron commented.

Hermione glanced at Harry. He quirked a brow in a silent question. She nodded subtly.

“So, what happened once you got down here? Is Pomfrey making you stay?” Ron asked. He seemed to be oblivious to the silent exchange she’d just shared with Harry.

“Not exactly.” She now had their undivided attention. “I actually could leave. If I wanted to. But there’s no point because I can’t move my hand.”

All three of them gasped near simultaneously. “How the hell did that happen?” Ron asked

At the same time, Harry blurted, “Is your pain that bad?”

What to tell? She hated lying to them; she loved them all dearly and she could tell their concern was genuine. But Neville wasn’t always the best at keeping secrets and Ron’s anger could be explosive. At the very least, she didn’t have time to divulge the entire truth with the delicacy required, not when they would need to be leaving for their next class.

“Pain is tolerable right now. I took a potion to help with the pain and my arm was magically immobilized from my fingers to my elbow. But that’s why I’m staying here. I literally can’t use my hand for anything at the moment.”

“Wish I had an excuse to skip History of Magic,” Ron grumbled. “Which, we need to head that way, or we’ll be late. Can’t be caught by the High Inquisitor.” The sarcasm in his voice was not missed.

She rolled her eyes but smiled. “Petrified limb, thrilling excuse to miss a class,” she snarked back. “But you have to go. Someone has to take notes for me. Between the three of you, I think you can handle an hour-long lecture from Binns.”

Neville was the first to stand. “Guess we best get going then. Ron? Harry?”

Harry waved them off. “You guys go, I’ll catch up. I just want to talk with her and Pomfrey real quick. Make sure this isn’t somehow my fault.”

Neville squeezed past Harry to offer Hermione an awkward hug. “Hope you feel better quickly,” he commented.

Ron nodded with an expression of unsure pain. “See ya later, Hermione. Don’t take too long, Harry. Seriously. Umbridge seems to be out for your blood.”

Harry waved them away. “I’ll be quick. Don’t worry about me. Best not to get yourselves in trouble, at least.”

Hermione and Harry watched as Ron and Neville crossed the hospital wing and left, the doors shutting behind them without slamming this time.

Harry leaned in, a hardened gaze across his features. “I don’t believe for a second Malfoy was sent out because he’s mastered that lesson, not halfway through class. He did follow you here, didn’t he?”

Harry’s tone was commanding in a way she’d never heard before, and she almost suspected he wasn’t completely in his right mind, that his mood was being influenced. He must have picked up on her train of thought though, because he followed up immediately with, “I’m occluding and in control. But I want the truth. Nothing you tell me is going to be worse than knowing Malfoy is involved. And we’ve already unpacked that can of worms.”

She shook her head. “No, you’re right. I’m sure Snape made up an excuse to send Malfoy to trail me. He did say he’d know if I didn’t come straight to the hospital wing, and I have a feeling that’s what he was implying, that Malfoy would tell him.” Her words were tumbling out now. “He arrived here moments after I did. I wasn’t happy about it. But he did what he could.”

Harry’s gaze pierced through her. His bottle green eyes were often a source of comfort for her, but at the moment, they offered nothing but intimidation. He meant business. “And?”

“And he’s coming back later. But I actually need a favor from you. He gave me permission to have one person with me when he sees me later. I’d appreciate it if you can support me with this tonight because you’ve helped me with this stupid illness for ages. But you have to keep your temper in check. I wouldn’t put it past Malfoy to throw you out if you’re confrontational.”

He let out a huge puff of air, as if he’d been holding it. “Done. Is there anything else you need now?”

She knew she needed to hurry. Unlike her, he didn’t have an excuse to be out of class and she didn’t want to be the cause of any further trouble for him. Ron had been right that Umbridge had a vendetta against Harry. “I need my prescription. I know you can’t get into the girl’s dormitory, but if you see Ginny at lunch, can you ask her to get it? It’s in the top drawer of my nightstand. She can just grab the entire box if that’s easiest.”

He nodded. “I can do that. Take care for now, okay?”

A few tears fell and Harry wiped them away with a swipe of his robes as he leant down to hug her. “I’ll see you later. It will be okay.”

During the lunch hour, Madame Pomfrey had made sure Hermione was fed. It was a simple lunch of small sandwiches and fruit, but it was just about all she felt like eating anyway.

Ginny stopped by after the third block of the day with Hermione’s prescription and the pain patches. “They were sitting together, and Harry didn’t tell me which one was a prescription, so I grabbed them both,” she’d explained. Ginny didn’t stay for long but wished her well before she left.

Hermione tried to busy herself with reading from her textbooks, but she was too anxious to accomplish much. And anxiety aside, she was realizing how much she took having two working hands for granted. Even turning pages in a book was a challenge when one hand couldn’t do anything. It was like wearing a cast with a lack of plaster.

As the afternoon waned on, she gave up on reading and resigned to simply rest. The cot wasn’t as comfortable as her four-poster in her dorm, but it was enough. And in the silence, her mind wandered.

The first thought to materialize in the front of her mind was her conversation with Harry. He’d never been one to be bossy. He was quick witted and sarcastic, and his words could shoot to kill, but she’d never describe him as bossy. Today though had been something else. He said he was occluding, and she hoped he was being truthful. But perhaps, he was finally starting to crack under the pressure.

But whatever it was, she had to admit she wasn’t eager to be on the receiving end of such a mood again. She wasn’t likely to cross him anytime soon. And she could only hope he and Malfoy wouldn’t try to cross each other later.

She sighed. Malfoy. The large clock hanging on the back wall of the wing indicated it was just past four, so she had nearly an hour and a half until he’d return. Part of her wished he’d come sooner, put her out of her misery. The waiting was miserable, especially knowing what would happen. Or at least, having an idea. She had no reason to believe he’d been dishonest when describing what would happen during the exam. But aside from needles and spells, she didn’t have much to go off of. He mentioned instruments, but not a specific kind. And then there was the up close and personal part. He would be putting his hands on her, he’d made that much clear.

The other point he’d made with vicious, perhaps cruel clarity earlier in the day, was that he refused to put up with her defensiveness. He was a powerful wizard, that much she couldn’t deny. And he had the capability to use that power to force her cooperation, as he’d demonstrated earlier in the day.

This thought sent a chill up her spine. He’d disrobed her. He hadn’t actually violated her in any way, but it was still unnerving. And she certainly wouldn’t be telling Harry about that.  

And then her mind wandered to a darker thought, though she considered this thought might have been coming full circle. But when she’d cornered Malfoy all those weeks ago in the abandoned classroom, his comments had shaken her to her core. The comments about taking charge versus willing deference. And it seemed ironic that he’d described her as undesirable for taking charge when she was now in a position that required her deference. Deference specifically towards him. It almost seemed cruel.

“Hermione,” a soft voice cut through the fog in her brain. “It’s 5:20. You need to wake up.”

She looked around groggily to find Harry sitting on the stool next to her, a soft smile gracing his features.

“I was asleep?” she asked.

His grin widened. “You were.” His features softened again. “But you’re going to have a visitor in any minute now.”

She cursed. “Malfoy. I forgot,” she groaned. “Have you seen him at all since potions?”

“Passed him in the hall on the way to DADA, but of course we don’t have that class with the Slytherins. Somehow managed to not earn myself detention today. But also saw him in the Great Hall before I left.”

She sighed. “Harry?” Her voice came out in a whine and she was glad nobody else was around to hear it. “I really don’t want to do this.”

He offered her his hand, the one that wasn’t bearing scabbed over words. “I know, Hermione. But that’s why I’m here.”

His earlier statement sunk in then. “No detention?”

“Figured you needed me more today than I needed to make a point. Honestly, she’s the worst professor ever. And I’m saying that in a universe where Snape and Lockhart exist.”

She smiled at the thought.

The sound of the door caught her attention so she glanced up at the clock above. The time had come. And sure enough, the familiar sound of designer shoes clicked against the stone floor.

When he was close enough, a wave of his wand pulled out the partitions again, but this time, he included a second cot. A second wave of his wand banished the empty cot from the makeshift room.

From the foot of the cot, he caught her gaze. “Granger.” His eyes flitted to Harry. “Potter.” And then he had his eyes on her again. “How are you?”

“I’m okay. I mean, I’m here. So I’m not fine, I guess.”

“I know,” he said, his voice uncharacteristically kind. “I understand this isn’t easy for you. I’ll do my best to keep you comfortable though and I’ll talk you through everything I’m going to do.”

The acknowledgment momentarily took her breath away.  She hadn’t been sure what to expect tonight; if she’d get the sarcastic asshole or the intimidating bossy know-it-all. But tonight, he was something else, something softer. His response to her wasn’t unkind, wasn’t belittling of her anxiety. Even if for just a moment, she felt seen.

If he knew how much his words had impacted her, he didn’t let that show. Instead, he walked around the cot to the opposite side from where he’d been before, pulling out the stool that belonged to the missing bed. He sat down, placing his bag on the table and it was then she realized he was not carrying his typical school bag. This one was different.

“You mentioned previously that your prescription medication is new. How long have you been taking it and do you know why there was a change in the first place?”

He was cutting straight to the chase. But his first question wasn’t what she had expected.

“I started it after the holiday. And my doctor changed it because this medication is newer and it’s supposed to be more effective.”

He nodded his understanding. “It very well could be that this flare up you are experiencing is the result of anxiety and stress. I’m certainly not oblivious to the fact that you’re under a lot of it. But the medication you’re taking is for maintenance. It should be keeping your symptoms controlled. What you’re dealing with now shouldn’t be happening, at least not to this degree. But seeing as it’s a muggle medication, I have to defer any decisions regarding it to your muggle doctor. So you will need to bring it to their attention.”

“I will,” she agreed in a whisper.

“That being said, I’ve been advised to hold off on an additional dose for now. However, I will record the script information before I leave tonight for my own documentation.

“In the meantime,” he sat forward, his tone shifting. “I need blood.”

From her other side, Hermione heard Harry mutter under his breath. “Malfoy a vampire now?”

She cracked a smile, the comment cutting through her nerves.

For a split second, Malfoy lost his professional persona and rolled his eyes. But just as quickly, he steeled his features again. “I advise getting that done first if it’s the part of the exam that is giving you the most anxiety.”

She still hadn’t sat up since waking, so she turned her gaze to the ceiling. “I’m not too thrilled about any of it. So I suppose it doesn’t matter.”

“Then I’m making the decision for you. There’s no need for you to move, it’ll be easier to do if you’re comfortable.”

Harry interjected for the first time since the visit had begun. “What do you mean you need blood?”

“I mean that I need to take her blood,” he replied firmly and without argument. “Blood is one of the best diagnostic tools available and it’s incredibly easy to get.”

Hermione sighed. “Yeah, sure. So easy.”

Malfoy smirked. “It is easy, if you don’t consider patient comfort.”

He pushed the stool under the table and stood, opening his bag as he did so.

Harry grumbled. “I know what it means to take blood,” he scoffed. “I want to know why you’re doing it.”

Malfoy answered the question without turning his attention away from the supplies he was removing from his bag: a locked metal case, and two different short, stout potion bottles. “I’m looking for what’s causing a spike in inflammation and that can’t be done without analyzing the makeup of the blood. Any more explanation than that requires a lesson in physiology which I don’t have the time for.”

He moved to her side and for a moment, his presence felt too close. He took her arm, rubbing his fingers against the skin in various places with firm pressure. But Hermione noticed each place he had touched had a faint blue line visible beneath her skin.

“When you’ve had blood taken before, where is it typically drawn from?”

“My inner elbow.”

“Every time?”

The questioning was making her nervous. Why did he want to know this? “Yes.”

After unlocking the metal case, he pulled a long vial, then unpackaged and twisted a needle on to the top. “That’s stupid, if I’m being quite frank. It works, but it’s rarely the most efficient. So I’m not going for your typical sticking point, I’m going for the one that is the most accessible.” He explained. “And right now, that’s somewhere else. Consequentially, easier for me and less painful for you.”

He placed the vial on the table then opened the two potion bottles. On the first, he placed a small piece of gauze on top and flicked it upside down before setting them back on the table. The strong burning scent of antiseptic wafted through the room. He pulled out the stool once more and took a seat again, moving her arm so it rested in his lap. Without any further conversation, he set to work with the task at hand and Hermione watched with morbid curiosity.

His fingers pressed firmly again against her lower wrist, in a move not completely unfamiliar from one a phlebotomist would have done. He bent her wrist backward just enough to expose the veins, angling her fingers toward the floor and repeated the palpation. Seeming satisfied, he took the wet gauze from a top the bottle and began swabbing her lower forearm, just above her wrist. The gauze felt rough against the sensitive skin but he cleaned it slowly, methodically. He wasn’t rushing anything and she wasn’t sure if she appreciated or hated him for it. Moving with extreme care, there was less risk that he’d make a mistake. Conversely, it was a slow torture, waiting for what was to come. And theoretically (though she had to admit, unlikely), it also could indicate a lack of experience, that he couldn’t do it quickly. Or the third option, he knew his snail’s pace was a slow torture and he enjoyed it. This, at least in her mind, seemed the most likely.

He repeated the process with the second bottle. This liquid he applied much faster and it left a warm tingling sensation in its wake. She met his gaze. “A numbing agent. It won’t remove the sensation fully but rather confuse the nerves.”

She felt Harry move a bit closer, a warm weight suddenly on her shoulder. She glanced over to him and mouthed a silent thank you.

Because next, of course, was the insertion of the needle. Hermione held her breath, hearing a click before Malfoy poised the sharp piece of metal near flush with her skin. He flexed her wrist again so her fingers were pointing down just slightly.

His gaze met hers briefly, a soft, knowing expression, before his eyes dropped back to what his hands were doing. “Breathe, Granger.” It was a gentle command, but she obeyed, the air expelling forcefully from her lungs after being held so long.

She saw blood before her mind had fully registered the prick of the needle. And then she realized she’d barely felt it at all. Malfoy handled it with a calm ease that rivaled some of the phlebotomists she’d seen who were double his age. As he held her arm and the syringe steady, he used the fingers of his free hand to massage around the vein, as if coaxing the blood out. “You’re dehydrated, Granger,” his admonishment cut through the silence. “But you’re almost done.”

Seconds later, he was in fluid motion again. He pulled a clean piece of gauze from the table, held it against her arm just above the hole from the needle, and then removed the steel in a swift motion. He sat the now full syringe to the side to focus his attention on the wound. He held firm pressure, but not so much that it hurt. “Can’t spill any of this precious Granger blood. I reckon Dumbledore would have my head for it.”

Harry spoke up from behind her. “So would I.”

“With an expertly placed disarming charm, I’m sure,” Malfoy answered with a scoff as he tied a long strip of gauze in place over the wound he’d made.

He stood again, returning his attention to the vial of her blood. Similar to what Harry did with her needles, Malfoy used his magic to replace the safety guard on it before casting a charm on the vial of blood. He explained as he worked. “I cannot analyze the sample because those tools aren’t available to me. The sample will be sent to Mungos to someone who can and I’ll get the results.”

Hermione dared to speak up. “I’m not complaining or questioning your judgement, just…”

Malfoy turned to face her and caught her gaze before she quickly averted it. He didn’t seem angry, at least. “You only took one vial, albeit a larger one. I’m used to there being more than one.”

He considered this before answering. “My hypothesis is that magic negates the need for different vials. Truthfully, I’m not sure. I would have to ask.”

She nodded her understanding but said nothing further.

Malfoy made quick work of putting his materials away, pulling out the same leather notebook he’d used earlier in the day. The quill he pulled out was different though. With a tap of his wand, it sprung to life and Hermione’s heart dropped.

Harry beat her to the punch. “What are you doing with that blasted quill?”

“Taking notes?” Malfoy replied, as if the question were stupid. “So, my attention is on my patient and not a book of parchment.”

“I’ve seen those quills used. Unethically,” Harry accused.

Hermione nudged him with her elbow, since she still couldn’t use her hand. She figured it was better to get straight to the point, rather than doing the dance of accusations and insults Harry’s approach was headed towards. “Rita Skeeter used that type of quill to publish smear pieces for the Daily Prophet. If you’re using one to take notes…” Her voice shook. “Will it be truthful? It’s not going to make up stuff about me?”

To Hermione’s surprise, he tapped the quill again and it fell to the table. He then picked it up and passed it to her. It felt strange in the wrong hand, but there was nothing intimidating about it. “Think of it in terms of a wand. A wand is a tool for honing magic; it responds to the user’s intentions by meeting their needs.” He gestured to the quill. “Same deal. I need to it be precise, detailed, and accurate, and so it shall be.”  

He held his hand out. “May I?”

She passed it back to him. He placed it on the notebook, tapped it with his wand, and it sprung to life. “Ask about differences in blood work. Specifically, one vial versus multiple.” The quill scratched away, then paused, waiting for more. He deactivated the quill, then held the notebook within her line of vision.

Her eyes scanned the page. The top of the page appeared to be notes taken of a conversation with his attending. But just below it was the neatly scrawled question he’d posed, in his own neat penmanship, though she knew he hadn’t written it, at least not with his own hand. The only change the quill had made to the question he’d verbalized and what had been written down was the use of shorthand phrases and abbreviations.

“I’ve been through interviews with Skeeter, so I get it. The other notable difference, it will only record what I say. So, don’t be surprised if I repeat something you tell me. I’m simply dictating.”

“Okay,” she agreed softly.

He set up the quill again, finally returning his attention full to her. “Diagnostics first. And you’re not here for a full exam so I won’t be focusing attention on anything but what is identified in diagnostic scans. You won’t feel anything from it.”

He pointed his wand toward her, aiming toward her heart. “Egritudos Viscera. Pulse 68, BP 119 over 79, Oxygenation 100. Egritudos Inflatio.” Hermione’s eyes widened as parts of her body began to glow. Her right arm, with its proximity, was nearly blinding. The fingers of her left hand glowed faintly, as did both of her knees.

His eyes shifted in slight surprise, but he spoke aloud again, precise, firm. “Inflammation indicated in both knees, trapezius muscles, and left fingers. Severe inflammation indicated in the right arm, fingers to elbow.”

“Yeah, that’s problematic,” she sighed, shifting her gaze to the ceiling above her.

Malfoy chuckled, though it wasn’t cruel. “Expertly stated, Granger.” He tucked his wand into a pocket of his robes. “I’m going to be touching you now, where I just indicated. I need you to tell me if anything I’m doing is hurting or if it’s relieving. Clear?”

“Yes.”

Because he was situated on her left side, he began the physical exam there, starting with the arm he’d drawn blood from moments before. He separated her fingers, bent them and straightened them. Grasped her hand and rotated it clockwise, then counterclockwise. Pressed his fingers against the joints in her wrist. The entire time he spoke in a low whisper, almost incoherent to her, but the scratching of the quill filled the otherwise silent room.

He let her hand fall and moved a little farther down to her legs. She’d been covered with the blankets this entire time, so he tucked the edge underneath her thigh and flipped the lower corner up, exposing only her knee down. He took her foot in one hand, knee in the other, bent it, then extended it before placing it back down on the bed how she’d had it. “Draw a circle in the air with your toes for me?” She followed the instruction, and he nodded, tucking the blanket back around her.

He crossed in front of the foot of the bed and repeated the same exam on her right side. She found herself touched by his regard for her modesty, being careful to not uncover more of her body than necessary by tucking the blankets in around her.

“Potter, trade spaces with me for a moment.” Thankfully, there was no protest, Harry simply stood and moved to the end of the bed, offering Hermione a small smile from his new perspective.

Malfoy sat down on the stool Harry had just vacated.

“Too serious to stand, I guess,” Hermione whispered, attempting to lighten the mood.

Malfoy’s lips pulled up into a small smirk, but his eyes indicated he’d taken her comment in good faith. “Just a bit, yeah.”

He started with her fingers, and she gasped. “You can move them?”

He chuckled. “I can move them. Potter could move them, if he wanted. You can’t move them. For lack of a better explanation, your arm is temporarily like an intricate mannequin.” He did the same thing with her fingers as he had with her left, spreading them, bending them, straightening them. The joints cracked. When he took her hand in his and rotated it at the wrist, she hissed. “Uncomfortable or painful?”

“Uncomfortable.”

He rolled it the opposite direction. “Same, better, worse?”

“Same.”

He pressed his fingers against the joints of her wrist. “Feels like they might be grinding.” He adjusted his grip and gave her hand a swift, firm tug.

“Shit. Ow!” she exclaimed, unfiltered.

He repeated the assessment of the wrist joint. It moved more smoothly this time. And now that he was sitting so close to her, she could hear what he was dictating to the quill across the bed. “Slight adjustment to the joints in the wrist. Could be contributing to pain but isn’t the source of the inflammation.”

What he did next was more than he’d done with her left side. He moved his fingers up her forearm, pressing firmly against the top of it, where she’d indicated pain to him earlier in the day. She sighed.

“You have to tell me what that means, Granger. The cursing is quite obvious. This, less so.”

“That feels nice, actually.”

He flipped her arm over and repeated the motion to the underside of her arm. “Same, better, worse?”

“It doesn’t help, but it doesn’t hurt.”

“Palpations of the tendons provides some level of relief,” he dictated.

The last thing he did was horrible. He began moving her fingers and wrists into various positions, almost as if he were posing her.

She hissed and pulled away, massaging at the top of her arm.

“Clearly, that hurts,” Malfoy commented without expression.

“It feels like it’s burning. It’s terrible.”

“Does the burning sensation extend into your hand at all?”

“A bit, yeah,” she answered through gritted teeth.

He readjusted her hand, leaving fingers and wrist in a neutral bend, not curled, not fully extended.

“Last thing I need to check is your upper back. Would you prefer to sit up or have the cot pulled out from the wall?”

She didn’t answer but instead unfolded herself from the blankets and turned her back towards him.

He stood once more and pushed her hair to the side as best as he could and began pressing his fingers against the muscles in her neck and upper back, but this he finished quickly. “Muscle tension, no inflammation.”

His exam complete, he walked back around the bed to the other side and glanced over his notes. Satisfied, he deactivated the quill and sat down, holding the open notebook in his lap, one ankle crossed over the opposite knee.

“You are having some pretty significant swelling in the tendons of your right arm. I can feel it through a physical exam and what I felt aligns with the burning sensation you pointed out before. Most of your pain right now is tension related. Stress exacerbates tension and tension causes pain. The other problem, which I mentioned earlier, is that you’re dehydrated. Water or hydration in general gives your body the ability to heal itself. So, what we need to do now, well, you’re probably not going to like it.”

The use of the word “we” instead of “you” gave her a push of confidence. But the mention that she wouldn’t like it gave her a jolt of panic.

He smirked. “The reason you’re not going to like it Granger, is because you can’t do anything. That’s the recommendation. You need to rest.”

She groaned. “Malfoy, I already missed almost an entire day of school today.”

“See, I told you, you wouldn’t like it. But you’ll stay here tonight and all day tomorrow. You need to be drinking; If you can’t do that, I’ll put you on intravenous fluids. Lastly, I’m going to ask Madame Pomfrey to give you a dose of Lenimentum every four hours, including overnight. Consistently taking the anti-inflammatory potion will get the swelling back down and ideally relieve any muscle tension as well.”

“Why can’t I just go to my dorm for the night? I can come back in the morning,” she grumbled. “Honestly, rest?”

“I’m not sending you to prison, Granger,” he said with another roll of his eyes. Formality was slipping again. “You can still read to your heart’s content. Gossip in between classes with your entourage. Whatever. But you need consistent treatment and you can’t be using your right arm. And because I don’t trust you to follow that directive, I’m leaving it immobilized.

“Lastly, while the Lenimentum will work just fine as an oral dose every four hours, I strongly suggest starting tonight with a stronger dose. I would like to give you an injection into your muscle because a straight shot goes to your blood stream quicker, doesn’t have to survive stomach acid, and can be safely given as a stronger dose. I won’t force it on you though, at least not today. For now, it’s an option.”

Harry spoke up from behind her. “An option for now?”

Malfoy glanced back at him before returning his gaze to Hermione. “Correct. Whatever is found in your blood test could change that.”

“I don’t want a shot,” she declared firmly, crossing her arms across her chest. “You’ve put me through enough hell today as it is.” Against her mind’s better judgement, her heart was feeling angry at everything she’d just been told. She didn’t want to be stuck in the hospital wing. She didn’t want to miss class. She didn’t want to be used as a human pin cushion.  

His gaze hardened. “It is your choice, and I will honor that. But that being said, if you want to avoid it in the future, you need to follow the rest of the directions I’ve given you.”

“Fine,” she snapped.

Harry squeezed her shoulder gently.

“Do you have any questions?” Malfoy asked.

She answered him with hostility. “No.”

He picked up his bag which he’d swiftly repacked. “Then I’ll leave you alone. I’m not going to sit here and try to appease you; that’s not my job. Rest. Drink water. I’ll check in sometime tomorrow.”

He left the hospital wing without a glance back.