33

Chapter 33

Tuesday 11 March 2003: PM

Draco…

He almost trips down the first floor stairs as Hermione's voice rings clearly inside his mind; Draco grabs at the banister and manages to right himself just in time, freezing in a panicked jolt.

What the fuck was that? Even though he is certain he is alone in the townhouse, Draco swings his argent head from side to side to look for Hermione as he leaps down the last four steps in a single, joint-jarring hurdle.

"Hermione? Granger?!". Draco gallops through the empty lounge room, wide grey eyes noting the lack of Floo activity and the unmistakable feeling of an otherwise unoccupied house. He loops around the sofa and charges for the kitchen, knocking over one of the tall bench stools as he clatters to a stop by the table. The uneasy, indefinable sensation that has malingered with him all day has ratcheted from 'low-level' to 'critical' in a handful of seconds. He can hear his breakneck heartrate thundering in his ears, and he is puffing and huffing as though he's just run a Muggle marathon. The gut instinct that kept him alive during Sixth and Seventh Years is screaming at him that something is terribly, dangerously wrong.

"HERMIONE!?" Will his Legilimency work – are they somehow mind-linked now? A brief flashback of the wondrous 'mating' of their magical cores flashes through his mind like quicksilver.

Hermione… Hermione… ma petite… Draco closes his eyes and forces his psychic voice to remain calm, concentrating strenuously as he frantically searches for her signature life force – her aura, for want of a better term – in the vastness of time and space.

His telepathic casting uncovers only a dim shadow of her recognizable transcendental 'spoor'; Draco receives a fleeting impression of… unconsciousness? Forced stupor? It is a numb, near-total blackness that buckles his knees.

No – no – NO –

Hysterical dread threatens to engulf him as he stumbles out of the kitchen and back into the living room. A lone logical thought manages to bypass his panic; Draco grips the mantelpiece of the hearth as he screams aloud, "MACDOLAS!".

He waits, his long fingers pressing into the marble so hard that he is surprised he hasn't cracked his phalangeal bones or the veined border's surface.

Nothing. The acid ball of terror burning in his guts becomes a flaming meteor. Though Macdolas is unquestionably a free elf, he has never before failed to answer Draco's summons.

What the fuck has happened? Draco's loathsome Dark Mark begins to sear as every cell in his body rebels at the certainty that Hermione – and possibly Macdolas – are facing the gravest of dangers. He draws on his central reserve of diamond-hard power to suppress his shocked fear and activate his ice-cold, intelligent rationality.

The Bexley flat, or the Ministry? Hesitation vanishes as Draco scoops a pinch of green powder, steps into the Floo and shouts, "The Ministry of Magic!".

His usual reflexive balance is shot to shit: Draco bangs his elbow as he catapults out of one of the Ministry's Floo alcoves and skids along the wide polished floor. The sharp pain barely registers as his wild eyes scan the busy atrium. The noise is incredible; it sounds as though a thousand voices are excitedly babbling in every corner of the bustling hub.

Barrelling toward the nearest elevator, Draco ignores the alarmed looks he is attracting from passers-by. He catches a brief glimpse of his reflection and doesn't wonder that witches and wizards alike are clearing his path without him having to work for the unobstructed passage. His hair is alternately plastered to his skull with flop sweat or sticking up in erratic, matted clumps, and his juniper green chambray shirt sports large damp patches beneath his armpits.

Draco makes a half-arsed effort to swipe at his moist face and hairline with his sleeve once he is safely inside a mostly empty elevator cabin. He stabs at the button for Level Two and uses his height and breadth to block the entrance to a few foolish would-be late boarders.

"Fuck off." His snarl, coupled with the savage glare etched into his grim features, scares off the wannabe riders and the elevator lurches upward. He feels like beating his head against the lift's walls, if only to subdue his brain's propensity to relentlessly supply him of images of every potential horror scenario of Hermione's unknown plight.

Come on come on come on come on – finally! Draco doesn't wait for the elevator door to open fully and hears a consequent rip as his one of his sleeves catches on a rough edge. Tearing through the foyer, he turns left for the Wizengamot Administrative Services Division and nearly collides with a sobbing older woman as she stands beside Hermione's cubicle.

He recognizes her at once. "Mrs Sandore! Where's Granger – where's Hermione, Hermione Granger?" Draco implores, as she turns her tear-wet face upon hearing his urgent supplication.

Marilda lays a shaky hand on his arm as he ignores polite etiquette and grabs her other. "Mr Malfoy – oh, I didn't know how to contact you, it's all happened so suddenly–"

"Where is she?!" Draco interrupts, as Marilda starts a fresh bout of tears. He manfully resists the itch to shake information out of the poor witch. "Where is Hermione, Mrs Sandore?" he repeats, gentling his tone and volume.

Hiccoughing, Marilda replies, "St Mungo's – it's the most terrible thing, I can't believe it – Mr Nott went with them– "

But Draco has already swivelled and sprinted away, reversing his route with fleet feet as his teeth clamp together like crocodile jaws.

She's alive… she's injured… but she's alive… Draco cobbles together the dregs of his self-control again as he hurtles into and out of the lift and barges back to the Floos. He is shoulder-checking anyone who doesn't possess the smarts to stay out of his way, and he is positive that he has never moved this fast in his entire life.

And what exactly did Hermione's supervisor mean when she said, 'Mr Nott went with them'?

Draco has to put it from his mind or risk a splinching. Another dash of Floo powder. "St Mungo's Hospital!".

I never thought I'd ever be relieved to see the bedraggled red brick building with the faded banner proclaiming 'Purge and Dowse, Ltd', Draco muses as he quick-steps through the open window of the defunct 'department store'. The persistent rain hasn't abated, adding another layer of gloom to the dreary edifice.

"St Mungo's," Draco impatiently repeats to the mannequin clad in a shabby green dress, who nods slightly as his environs seamlessly shift from an empty derelict shop to a crowded hospital reception area. The harassed receptionist doesn't spare him a sideways glance as she snaps at the disgruntled, pushy crowd.

"One person at a time! Show some respect and find your dignity! Savages," she mutters the last to herself as she points the business end of her wand at a skinny wizard with an unwieldy camera slung around his neck. "No press! Don't make me use this, you snooping scum!". The man prudently chooses to skedaddle as a pair of huge security guards plod in his direction.

Deciding that the no-nonsense Welcome Witch is his best bet, Draco jumps the shoddily-formed queue without a second thought, baring his even white teeth at the few brave souls who voice their displeasure at his antics.

"I need to see Hermione Jean Granger – NOW." Draco's voice is as clear as a bell and as urgent as an emergency bunker klaxon. The aggravating noise of the restless crowd temporarily falls away as his imperious tone garners their mercurial attention.

Sadly, his Big Bad Wolf voice doesn't have the same effect on the pragmatic receptionist; she keeps her eyes trained on the admissions form in front of her as she scrawls down copious notes and sniffs disparagingly.

"Yeah, you and every other sleazebag reporter in this town, pal," the zaftig Welcome Witch scoffs. "Get lost, or I call over Troll One and Troll Two to do their worst," she jerks her head in the direction of the gargantuan security guards. "Next!".

Draco pushes past the piddly rope barrier, effortlessly plucking the form out of her hands and perusing it with lightning speed. There – H.J.G., First Floor, Ward 2B, Private Room 7. He squints as he tries to make out the squiggles beside her name.

"Oi! How ruddy dare you, Blondie!" the receptionist indignantly snatches back the piece of parchment and motions at the guards. "Boys! Toss out this grabby lout, and make sure he feels it for the rest of the week!".

They're not really trolls, surely? Aren't they just a couple of incredibly ugly, alarmingly large blokes? Whatever. Draco prepares to stun them to kingdom come, growling as he whips out his hawthorn wand and backs away from the reception desk.

"Stand down! He's with me!" Every head in the busy entrance foyer swings to find the source of the authoritative command, Draco included.

Later, he will marvel at the bitter irony of Harry 'Lightning-Strike' Potter saving his bacon… yet again. For now, Draco moves to Potter's side without a second thought. The 'trolls' look disappointed but resigned as they trudge back to their positions.

Harry nods respectfully at the Welcome Witch. "Sorry, Rosedriah – I should have left his name at the desk, there wasn't much time– "

"That's perfectly alright, Harry love. Any friend of yours is tolerated… up to a point." Rosedriah's beaming smile at Harry quickly shifts to a warning sneer at Draco. He ignores it as his panic swells, stronger than ever.

"Potter – don't just fucking stand there, let's go!" Draco snarls as Harry hooks his hand into the back of Draco's perspiration-damp green collar and yanks him back.

"You're headed in the wrong direction, Romeo – come on, it's this way," the Auror tows him through a set of double doors and down the corridor leading to the Artefact Accidents Ward. Candles float around them at varying levels. The hum of the reception area is muted down to hushed voices and the shuffle of purposeful feet; Draco's and Harry's slapping shoe soles on the wooden floors are a stark insult to the subdued atmosphere.

"Potter – how is she? Tell me the truth – I have to know," Draco grits out as they hurry past wards and rooms. He is sweating nervously again, though the air around them is cool and antiseptically clean.

"Hermione is still unconscious – don't freak out, wait for the rest – but the Healers are confident she will make a full recovery. They've run all the diagnostic spells and have determined that she suffered a mild concussion when she was pushed down the stairwell – her right ankle is broken, and she's covered in bruises and some scrapes, but she's going to be OK." Harry imparts the information while they are still racing down the hall; he turns back in puzzlement as Draco shudders to a halt.

Unconscious… concussion… broken… bruised… mon cœur chéri, qu'est-ce qu'ils t'ont fait? The corridor is spinning unpleasantly as Draco careens into the nearest wall, his nerveless fingers scrabbling at the plaster for support. Potter grabs his unresisting shoulder and props him in place before he can collapse.

"Oh, shit – Malfoy, didn't you hear me? I said, 'full recovery' – Hermione is going to be fine." Potter's alarmed voice sounds as though it is coming from the end of a long tunnel.

"Buck up – you're too big for me to carry you the rest of the way – and if you want to see her so desperately, ending up horizontal on a gurney isn't the way to make that happen," Harry shakes him hard enough that Draco's teeth clang together. Ire stiffens his spine.

"Bloody quit rattling me, Potter – I'm alright. What the hell happened? Someone pushed her down a fucking stairwell – at the Ministry?!" Draco's anguished, gravelly query has a couple of startled heads popping out of doorways. Harry pays them no heed, gripping Draco's arm as he propels them down the hallway once more.

"Look, I'm not one hundred percent clear on what happened myself – I'll tell you everything I know once the dust has settled, and we've completed our interviews and interrogations. What I can tell you, is that somehow Hermione summoned your bodyguard house elf straight to where she was huddled at the bottom of the steps, and the clever little bugger blasted Marcus Flint into the wall so hard, the fucker's in a coma."

"Macdolas – Macdolas saved her?" Draco croaks. You absolute, spectacular, shining Scottish star. With a huge effort of will, he sets aside the knowledge of Flint's involvement, for now.

"He certainly did," Harry confirms. They round a corner; two austere-faced Aurors stand either side of a closed door. They nod at Potter and step aside. An ashen Theo Nott is pacing a little further down the hallway.

Draco ignores them all as Potter confirms, "Here we are." Before he completes the action of opening the door handle, Harry warns him, "You've got five minutes, Malfoy. Stay out of the way of the Healers, and if she regains consciousness, leave the questions for later. We're expecting her parents to arrive at any moment, too. Got it?".

"Yes, yes," Draco would donate his left eye if it were required to pass through that door. Harry pushes it open, Draco hot on his heels. The private room is reasonably well-appointed, albeit lacking in any style other than 'sterile and bland'. The strong lights shining down from the ceiling and corner lamps are bright but unflattering in the modest space.

His view of the hospital bed is blocked by a tall male Healer, who is in the process of shining a small torch into Hermione's eyes. The medico nods in satisfaction before moving away to scribble down some notes on her medical chart.

Draco's vision shrinks; all he can see is the unconscious woman lying on the spartan bed. His heart stops as he perceives her unnatural stillness; the beleaguered organ only bumps back into gear when Hermione's chest rises and falls in a gentle but even pattern of respiration.

His cardiac muscles spasm again as he runs his eyes up and down her insensate form. A large bandage covers her left temple and part of her cheek; there is a fine spiderweb of abrasions marring the tender skin of her jaw and chin. The maroon trousers and light-coloured shirt and jacket Hermione had donned this morning are gone, replaced by a drab blue hospital gown that covers her from neck to knees. Her forearms and shins are dotted with myriad bruises, ranging in size from a freckle to a grapefruit, and her right ankle is splinted carefully in place.

Oh, my poor darling... Draco unfreezes, approaching the bed as Hermione breathes softly again. He trembles as he reaches out to hold her right hand; it is limp, but its warmth gladdens him immensely. Rubbing her scraped knuckles, Draco quietly croons, "Hermione, ma petite – it's Draco, sweetheart. I'm here. You're going to be OK, do you hear me, Granger? You're going to wake up and start sassing the Healers in no time at all, ma douce et courageuse petite lionne."

Stroking a few wild curls off her forehead, Draco kisses her cool brow and whispers, "You're going to be fine, Granger. I won't let anything happen to you – I'd do anything to keep you from harm. Anything. I'm sorry – I'm so sorry I wasn't there for you when you n-needed m-me –" his throat closes, the last few words fading to a stuttered squeak as the horror of what could have happened crashes in on him like an avalanche.

You can fall apart later. Get your shit together. Draco's inner voice stiffens his spine and marginally restores his fragile equilibrium. A sad little voice interrupts his internal monologue.

"Macdolas is sorry, Master – he cannot leave Her Grace Lady Granger when Master Malfoy calls," his chief steward sniffles. The little house elf is perched awkwardly atop a visitor's chair on the far side of the bed; he is standing on it to compensate for his lack of height as his woebegone cabbage green eyes remain fixed on Hermione's wan face.

"Macdolas won't leave her Grace's side until Her Grace is safe." The mannikin's gnarly hands twist ceaselessly around a crumpled black and green velvet oddity that may once have served as a hat.

"Macdolas – look at me, please. You have nothing to be sorry for, little mate. You saved Hermione's life tonight – you saved her." Draco imbues the hoarse words with as much of his heartfelt gratitude and awe as he can muster. He has to pause as his emotions clog his throat again. The tears he is holding at bay by a thin skein are dampening his eyelashes. He tries again.

"I can never thank you enough, Macdolas. If there is ever anything I can do for you, you need only speak the words. Hell, I'll buy you a new outfit every day of the week, if you like… starting with replacing your current Tudor costume – you've gotten some blood on it. Have you been seen to by the Healers yet?" Draco nods at the dark smear marring Macdolas's apple green and black brocade-and-silk fitted tunic and short velvet pantaloons.

"Is not Macdolas's blood, Master Malfoy… Macdolas held Grace Lady Grace's head off the cold stone after he finds her…" the major-domo quavers as his swollen eyes well up. "Her Grace – she will wake, Master Malfoy?" he implores.

"She will wake, Macdolas," Draco fiercely pledges. Seeing Hermione's dried blood on Macdolas's clothing has his gorge rising again. Keeping a firm hold of her little hand, he snaps at the Healer in the corner.

"Healer – why hasn't she come to yet? Can't you administer a potion, or enact the appropriate spell?" He realizes he is being unnecessarily harsh (and rude), but he is sick with worry and trepidation at Hermione's continued stupor.

Harry intervenes as the Healer frowns. "Sorry, Healer Carpathia – this is Hermione's boyfriend, Draco Malfoy. I'd like to tell you he's not usually this haughty and demanding, but that would be a lie."

The physician's wrinkled brow clears at Potter's little 'joke'. "Ah. Understandable, but I won't abide any further insolence – unless you'd rather be indefinitely banished to the reception atrium, Mr Malfoy?". Healer Carpathia raises an eyebrow as Draco sullenly shakes his head.

"I thought not. Well, since you asked so politely: we've determined that Ms Granger received a blow to her cranium that has resulted in a mild concussion. In cases such as these, it's best to allow the patient to return to full consciousness at her own pace, unless the insensibility extends beyond the first thirty minutes to an hour," Carpathia explains. "We will address the broken ankle with Skele-Gro and treat her bruises and abrasions once Hermione is conscious and we've confirmed that our initial diagnosis is accurate."

"But she is going to make a full recovery?" Draco presses, as he and Macdolas simultaneously hold their breath; they exhale heavily as the Healer nods.

"But we will need to monitor her – at least overnight – as there is a small chance she may develop post-concussion syndrome. As it is, Ms Granger is likely to experience some confusion, dizziness, nausea, or an inability to process or retain information, as well as sensitivity to light, and vision distortion. We won't be able to discharge her until we're satisfied her recovery will be fully effected within a few days. She will also need to be competently cared for during her recuperation period," Healer Carpathia explains.

"Hermione's coming home with us – if we can't properly take care of her ourselves, I'll hire as many nurses and caregivers as she needs," Draco vows.

Harry sighs. "Her parents may have other ideas, Malfoy; and they are her next-of-kin."

Draco bristles at Potter's logical but unwelcome reminder. "Hermione is my beloved, and we will be the ones to care for her! Right, Macdolas?" he shamelessly ropes in his vigorously-nodding house elf.

"Macdolas will fight for the honour and privilege of tending to Her Grace the Most Honourable and Esteemed Lady Protector and Patroness of Humble House Elves Mistress Hermione Granger!" he squawks feverishly, his knobbly right hand clasped somewhere in the vicinity of his stalwart little heart as he stands at his full height [three feet two inches tall, not including his headwear] atop the rickety visitor's chair.

"Who the what, now?" Potter asks bemusedly. He holds out a negating hand as Macdolas eagerly rushes to explain. "Never mind – I get the idea. I appreciate that you are both zealous about Hermione's welfare, but you have to understand that the Healers and her parents will have the final say about where and with whom she convalesces," Harry cautions.

Draco's angry rebuttal is forgotten as he feels the tiniest of tugs on his hand.

"Malfoy?" Hermione's husky whisper is the sweetest sound he's ever heard. He spins around, joy bursting through him as he sees her gorgeous cinnamon eyes squinching against the bright overhead lights. "Is Macdolas alright? I called him… I couldn't think what else to do…" Her pained eyes close again. Her slight squeeze on his handhold tightens by the merest fraction.

"Macdolas is fine, ma petite… he's sitting – well, standing – right beside you. You did exactly the right thing, Granger. My brave, clever, wonderful witch… ma belle fille dorée." Draco is unable to resist leaning down to plant the lightest of kisses on her dry lips. Feeling her reciprocate the tiny peck is simply sensational. Draco is giddy with an internal kaleidoscope of emotions: euphoria, relief, pride… guilt and fear.

Before he can give in to the need to kiss and touch her again, Healer Carpathia nudges him out of the way. "Stand aside, please. You can canoodle later, and only with my permission."

Draco reluctantly releases her hand and cedes his place at the head of Hermione's bed, moving down and around to hover beside Macdolas; she smiles gently at his disgruntled visage and turns her attention to the medico. Despite her obvious lingering physical pain, Draco is heartened by the familiar expression of frowning concentration on Hermione's face as she listens intently to the Healer's quiet explanations and instructions.

She is going to be alright. She has to be OK. I won't – I can't accept anything else. Why the fuck didn't I insist on Macdolas accompanying her to the Ministry?! How did this even happen? Draco's thoughts return to Potter's earlier snippets of information as his face darkens with protective rage and burning vengeance.

Marcus Flint had better pray to every known god and demon that I don't find a way to get to him before his trial. I will fucking annihilate that vicious piece of shit. Atom by bloody atom. The thought of Flint pushing Hermione – hurting Hermione – with a view to kidnapping and violating her has Draco vibrating with pure, violent wrath. His short nails dig into his calloused palms as his magic inadvertently flickers the lamp nearest him.

Potter glances his way instantly and moves to face him. "Settle down, Malfoy. Keep your focus on Hermione, and trust us to keep her safe and prosecute her attackers. We'll administer Veritaserum to Flint as soon as he comes around; it won't be long until we have the other perpetrator in custody," Harry confidently avers.

"Keep her safe? Hermione was pushed down a stairwell at the Ministry of Magic, Potter. Forgive me if I baulk at trusting your Aurors with anything more important than carting a hard-boiled egg, for fuck's sake." Draco keeps his voice to a low hiss, cognizant of Hermione's worried peripheral glance at their interaction. Macdolas looks between the two arguing wizards in round-eyed fascination, his big ears flittering.

Their heating debate is paused as the door opens, admitting a middle-aged couple: a tall, lanky man and a slender woman of average height. Draco knows immediately that they must be Hermione's parents; the man shares her unusually striated, intelligent brown eyes, while the woman's shoulder-length mop of thick brunette curls gives away their genetic link. He has seen them before – but many years ago, and only their backs, from a distance. With a pang, he remembers squashing his nose to the windows of the Hogwarts train as he'd secretly tried to glimpse Hermione's arrival at the platform every year.

Mr and Mrs Granger rush over to their daughter's bedside, concern wreathing their pallid faces. The Healer smiles at them, clicking off his ocular torch as he steps out of their way and returns to notating the medical chart.

"Hermione? Oh darling, what's happened to you?". Her mother lays a shaking hand on Hermione's crown as her father comes closer, his prominent Adam's apple rapidly convulsing. Their troubled eyes are only for their injured offspring.

"Mum? Dad? I'm sorry – I didn't mean to worry you," Hermione's voice breaks as Draco's heart clenches. Mrs Granger starts crying in earnest as Mr Granger clutches tenderly at Hermione's hand while the young witch sobs.

No one speaks for a little while, until Harry softly clears his throat and steps closer.

"Bernard? Jane? I'm sorry I couldn't give you more information over the phone – thank you for coming so quickly," Harry tensely grips the railed edges of the narrow hospital bed as the Grangers look across at him.

"Hermione was attacked at the Ministry – pushed down the stairwell between Levels Ten and Nine. We have the suspect in custody," Harry hurries on as her parents gasp. "She has a mild concussion and a broken ankle; but Healer Carpathia has assured us that she will make a full recovery."

The tall medic turns back to the group to confirm, "Ms Granger is a little disoriented and dizzy, but that is a normal reaction. We'll mend her ankle, abrasions and haematomas overnight and aim for a discharge at some point tomorrow." He shoots Draco a quelling look. "She will be released to the most appropriate set of guardians – not the most vocal."

"I'll be staying with Draco," Hermione chimes in. Her voice is thready and sore, but her determination is unmistakable. "Assuming… is that OK with you, Malfoy? I don't – I don't mean to impose."

She hasn't finished her final phrase before Draco overrides her diffident question. "You will be staying with us, Granger – you were still insensate when we were contesting the point earlier. I won't brook any further opposition," he speaks calmly as he glares at the Healer and Potter in turn.

"Hold on a minute – your name is Draco? Draco Malfoy?" Mr Granger lets go of Hermione's delicate hand as he straightens and glowers at the young man opposite.

"The Draco Malfoy who called my daughter a succession of filthy slurs throughout her schooling? The Draco Malfoy who didn't miss a single opportunity to publicly ridicule and bully Hermione? The Draco Malfoy who joined the ranks of the filthy Death Eaters and the foulest of the foul, Voldemort? That Draco Malfoy?"

Hermione's father's big hands clamp into menacing fists; his wife clings to one while Hermione rasps, "Dad – no, please –"

"Yes. I'm that Draco Malfoy. I thoroughly deserve your censure; I won't raise my hands or my wand to defend myself. But perhaps we could do this outside?" Draco looks at the Granger women; they are wearing matching expressions of dismay and apprehension.

Before anyone can intervene, Hermione grips the bedrails and manages to shift herself into a semi-upright position. The room erupts in a cacophony of scolding concern.

"NO. STOP. All of you." She points an imperious (if wobbly) forefinger at Bernard Granger. "Dad, I may not have my wand right now – where's my wand? Does anyone have my wand?" she breaks off in a mild panic to fumble ineffectually beside her left arm.

"Macdolas finds Her Grace Lady Granger's wand and guards it for her! He only takes it to keep it secure, he hasn't used it, he promises!". The worried manservant produces the vine wood caduceus from the pocket of his outrageously puffed pantaloons and almost topples off the chair as he attempts to place it into Hermione's grasping hand. Draco clutches at the silly frilled horizontal ruff at the excitable elf's neck, steadying Macdolas as he completes the wand's handover himself.

"Oh, thank you, Mac – you truly are the best," Hermione blows him a tired little kiss as Macdolas blushes and hangs his head.

"As I was saying… Dad – I now have my wand, and I will not hesitate to hex you, if you so much as trim a hair on Draco's head. Don't think I won't do it," Hermione's low, scratchy voice is nevertheless instantly commanding and compelling.

"'And though she be but little, she is fierce'," Draco quotes, overcome with tender admiration for his vehement, spitfire witch.

"'Oh, when she's angry, she is keen and shrewd! She was a vixen when she went to school'," Hermione completes the first half of the Shakespearian classic line.

They stare at each other in reciprocal proud satisfaction until Harry mutters, "Ain't that the truth…"

Healer Carpathia butts in. "I'll take that – and there won't be any further violence or threats of same in this room, ward, or hospital. There are far too many visitors in here, anyway; Ms Granger needs her rest," he deftly palms her wand and hands it to Harry.

"I'm not going anywhere, and neither is my wife," Bernard Granger growls. "We'll pick up this… discussion later, boy," he jerks his dark strawberry-blond head at Draco, who silently accepts the slight, and the postponed reckoning.

"We'll leave you to it, and come back a little later," Harry drags Macdolas off his chair and lengthens the jagged tear in Draco's compromised shirt sleeve as he hustles them out of the room.

Draco resists Potter's machinations, turning back at the portal to seek Hermione's exhausted topaz orbs. "I won't leave you, Granger. Rest up, and listen to your Healer, ma petite. I'll be back as soon as I can, alright?". She nods wearily, head thumping back down onto the pillows as her mother fusses and plumps them.

"Come back soon, Malfoy… please, Draco," she entreats softly. He summons the brightest smile he can manufacture, nodding his accession through blurry eyes. Neither looks away until Harry yanks him outside and Bernard Granger slams the door shut behind them, missing Draco's nose by a whisker.

"I think we can all agree that Hermione probably hadn't told her parents about you yet," Potter quips, as the trio move down the corridor, back toward the staircases and elevator banks. Theo Nott detaches his lean form from the hallway wall and falls in wordlessly behind them.

Ignoring Potter's feeble attempt at levity (and Theo's nod), Draco numbly asks, "Potter – is there somewhere we can talk? I need to know… everything." Now that he is out of the Hermione's hospital room, his hard-fought composure is shredding like an old cobweb in a howling gale.

"There are tearooms on the Fifth Floor – we could all use a hot drink, and perhaps a shabby sandwich or two," Harry agrees.

"Or cake," Macdolas chips in hopefully.

The others laugh quietly, while Draco tries to keep one foot moving in front of the other.

I almost lost her… I'll do anything to keep her safe…

Anything.

French translations:

mon cœur chéri, qu'est-ce qu'ils t'ont fait? – my darling heart, what have they done to you?

ma douce et courageuse petite lionne – my sweet, brave little lioness.

ma belle fille dorée – my beautiful golden girl.