— MRAAOUUU!
Hermione clung to sleep with all her might. A heavy weight shifted on her chest, and she felt a light touch on her cheek. She was back in Draco's bed, his arms holding her, his head resting on...
— MRAAOUUU!
Or not.
— Oh, Crookshanks, get off! — Hermione groaned. A fluffy face was nuzzling her forehead. Fatigue bound her body, and her mind was sluggish and blurred.
— MRAAOUUU!
She opened her eyes and was relieved to see the embroidered Gryffindor lion on the canopy.
— What is it, Crooks? Do you want breakfast? — Hermione glanced at the gold mantel clock—ten minutes to eight. Thank Merlin, today was Saturday.
Crookshanks jumped off the bed and raced to the door, scratching the wood with his claws. Hermione yawned and stood up as well, smoothing her crumpled hospital shirt. She looked around for her fluffy red robe before remembering it was left in the Slytherin dungeons, in the room where... no, no, no, morning tea first.
Her cat spoke up again, the blood-chilling screech against the wooden door impossible to ignore.
— MRAAOUUU!
— Fine! — Pulling on a Weasley sweater, Hermione hobbled to the door. — There! It's open! Go then!
But Crookshanks didn't leave—he sat in front of the open doorway and looked down. Hermione peered into the corridor and saw a small tabby cat sitting on the stone floor.
The cat's pink nose twitched, then she rose, stretched gracefully, and slipped into the room. Stopping in the center of the rug, she stared at Crookshanks, who let out a soft "meow"—something Hermione had never heard from the half-kneazle before.
— It's wonderful that you're making friends, Crooks, but now isn't the most suitable...
She stopped mid-sentence when the tabby cat (now Hermione noticed suspicious markings around the cat's eyes) stood on its hind legs. Its outline began to change, stretching upward until Director McGonagall stood in the center of the room.
— Close the door, Miss Granger, and stop staring, — McGonagall said.
Hermione hurried to follow both instructions while McGonagall inspected the room—her gaze sliding over Romilda's scattered clothes, the unmade bed, and a pack of cigarettes on the windowsill. Hermione avoided looking at herself in the mirror. Better not to know the truth.
— My apologies for the unexpected visit, — the Director said. — But it is necessary.
— Is Draco all right? Has Tennant woken up?
— Why don't you sit down, Miss Granger?
Hermione flopped onto the bed, suddenly feeling a tremor in her hands. The elderly witch raised her hand, and the sofa in the room turned to face Hermione. McGonagall waited.
— Please, — Hermione croaked, gesturing to the sofa.
The Director settled onto the cushions, not letting go of her staff, and looked intently at Hermione.
— Mr. Malfoy is safe and recovering well.
Hermione exhaled in relief.
— Thank you.
— With Mr. Rowle, the situation is different. It is much more serious.
— Agreed, — Hermione straightened up. — But we can bring many charges against him.
— Miss Granger...
Hermione began to tick them off on her fingers.
— Attempted murder, third-degree sexual harassment, illegal use of magical artifacts, two counts of intentional damage to wands, and lack of Animagus registration. And I very much doubt he took all his required rabies potions.
The Director was clearly making an effort to remain patient.
— Miss Granger, the situation I am speaking of concerns Mr. Rowle's state of health.
Hermione blinked.
— What do you mean?
— During the night, Mr. Rowle suffered a relapse.
— What? What kind of...
— He has fallen into a vegetative state, — McGonagall said coldly. — I visited him this morning. Mr. Rowle apparently shows no signs of consciousness and does not react to stimuli.
— That's... that's... — Hermione didn't know what to call it.
— Precisely, — McGonagall said.
— What does this mean for... for bringing charges...
— Wizarding law does not allow for a person in a vegetative state to be tried, of course. Madam Pomfrey has arranged for Mr. Rowle's transfer to St. Mungo's Hospital.
Hermione didn't know what to think. What about all the charges?
— And what about the Auror Office? — she asked. — Head Auror Robards will want to conduct an investigation.
Her stomach tightened at the thought of the Ministry questioning Draco. McGonagall's lips curled at the mere mention of Sir Gawain Robards.
— The Auror Office has not been informed. For now, only you and I, Madam Pomfrey, Mr. Potter, and Mr. Malfoy know of last night's events.
Hermione stared at her.
— You want to keep the Ministry in the dark... officially.
— Unless you, as the primary victim, object, Miss Granger, — McGonagall said. — You may insist that a statement be filed anyway, in case Mr. Rowle regains consciousness.
Hermione bit her lip.
— And does he have any chance of recovery?
— Practically zero, — the elderly witch replied. — Madam Pomfrey examined him thoroughly, even applied Legilimency, but found neither coherent thoughts nor self-awareness.
Silence. Only the quiet ticking of the clock on the mantel broke the silence. Hermione looked at McGonagall in horror, desperately resisting the inevitable conclusion. She had been so worried that Tennant would harm Draco that she hadn't even thought of the reverse.
— Think carefully, Miss Granger, — McGonagall said. — If Mr. Rowle's actions are reported, the Ministry will launch an investigation involving you, as well as Mr. Potter and Mr. Malfoy. Madam Pomfrey would likely confirm that the injuries inflicted on Mr. Rowle did not seem irreversible until this morning.
— St. Mungo's Hospital, — Hermione muttered. — Won't the Healers ask how…
— St. Mungo's will only take note of what I deem necessary to inform them. And I shall inform them of exactly nothing, — the Director replied. Her eyes flashed coldly behind her glasses. — There have been precedents.
Hermione swallowed. Gilderoy Lockhart. Dumbledore never told the Healers about the events in the Chamber of Secrets, when Lockhart tried to wipe Harry and Ron's memories but the spell backfired and hit him instead. And now the former professor would forever remain a patient of the psychiatric ward—and at the same time a famous author and an annoying portrait.
She lowered her eyes to her clasped hands resting on her hospital shirt, weighing the consequences if she decided to make the truth about Tennant public. An off-duty Auror witnessing a bloody scene in a bedroom in the middle of the night involving a war heroine and two Slytherins, one of whom was a former Death Eater. Harry's actions would also come under investigation. The room would become a crime scene. Draco would be suspected of aiding Tennant—despite the fact that he himself had opposed him. And the deterioration of Tennant's condition did indeed look suspicious. Everything could lead back to Draco. A brutal and scandalous story—a real gift for the Prophet.
All this raced through Hermione's head in a series of rapid thoughts leading to one decision. The war had taught her to value expediency; Merlin was her witness, she had had to hide things from the Ministry before. And yet Hermione hesitated before speaking.
— Still, a severe head injury is no joke; things can go sideways at any moment, — she finally said.
McGonagall nodded.
— Most certainly.
Silence reigned again. Then the Director spoke:
— Mr. Potter claims that last night the two of you unnoticed delivered Mr. Malfoy and Mr. Rowle to the infirmary.
Hermione nodded.
— In that case, I hope that last night's events will not become public knowledge.
— But Director… — Hermione faltered, then continued firmly. — People should know about Draco's deed. He could have died saving me! Everyone considers him a ruthless Death Eater…
— Not everyone, — McGonagall countered. — I don't. You, Madam Pomfrey, and Mr. Potter don't either. Even some Ravenclaws, I hear, see more in Mr. Malfoy than just his Mark. And that, Miss Granger, may be enough for now. — Something like sympathy flickered in her eyes.
— Fine, — Hermione sighed. — I agree. We won't report this to the Auror Office.
— Hermione… — McGonagall called her by name, and the Gryffindor blinked in surprise. — Make no mistake, if Mr. Rowle had woken up in his right mind this morning, this conversation would be very different. We would have brought all the charges you listed, plus several of my own. No inconvenience would have stopped us on the path to justice. Neither Mr. Potter nor Mr. Malfoy would have allowed the attack on you to be hushed up—if only to protect others from Rowle's future actions.
Hermione nodded, realizing the Director was telling the truth. It seemed Draco had somehow managed to prove his integrity to McGonagall.
The elderly witch rose, returning the sofa to its place with a wave of her hand.
— I won't disturb your rest and recovery. Breakfast will be brought to the room, as will other meals, if you wish.
— Thank you, Director.
McGonagall nodded in return.
— Miss Granger.
Her silhouette suddenly spun and shrank, and the bedroom door opened just enough for a slender tabby cat to slip deftly through the gap. As soon as the door closed, Hermione collapsed onto the bed, no longer able to stay on her feet.
Sideways. Hermione had a clear idea of who had contributed to everything in Tennant's mind going sideways. Did Draco really do it? What kind of person is capable of...
A memory Hermione had been suppressing for months flashed in her mind. Two heads leaned toward each other—one almost bald, the other with unruly curls. Her parents were carefree, watching a documentary about Australia.
And she stood behind them, jaw clenched and wand raised. Concentrating. When you mutilate the minds of those who trust and love you—you have to do it for sure. And she did. Thoroughly. So much so that the best specialists at St. Mungo's Hospital could never untangle her spells. In the end, her parents had to be sent back to Australia and Obliviate applied again...
— I had to, — she muttered aloud. — To protect them. I don't regret it.
Was Draco thinking the same thing? Did he point his wand at Tennant to save her and himself? Or only himself? Or was it just revenge?
Hermione groaned. If she asked Draco directly, he was unlikely to answer. Perhaps even he himself didn't know the answer to that question. This man isn't always aware of his own motives.
Crookshanks, sensing her anxiety, nuzzled her palm. What kind of person is capable of...
She snorted, frustrated by her own naivety. Draco had done far worse things than erasing the memory of one wannabe Death Eater psycho. Who did she think she was dealing with? Ron? Justin? Harry? None of them were capable of such a thing.
But she herself... Would she have done the same?
Hermione closed her eyes, imagining Tennant in the bed—a massive body without movement, closed eyelids. Her own hand with a wand aimed at his forehead. A simple Obliviate wouldn't have been enough—it was easy to see in the victim's mind. She would have had to destroy everything... Or choose an easier path...
A memory surfaced before her: a visit to St. Mungo's Hospital, a haggard woman with an empty gaze handing Neville a flower. Ah... So that's exactly what Draco did. Could she? A rough hand squeezing her breast. — Now say my name.
Yes, she could.
Hermione opened her eyes and stood up abruptly, her mind suddenly clearing. Everything had already happened, and it was pointless to be indignant—especially when the mere thought of Tennant, helpless and motionless in a hospital ward, brought deep relief. It was hypocrisy to condemn Draco. He's a Slytherin. A Malfoy. And a Black. It was necessary.
Hermione jumped off the bed and walked over to the desk. The pale winter sun reflected in a halo in the gold frames with photos of family and friends. A ray of light played on an empty glass jar with holes in the lid. Necessary.
Shaking off dark thoughts, Hermione took an indecently long shower and returned to find a tray on the table, laden with food. "Forced labor of house-elves," she thought sourly, pulling on a green jumper, black jeans, and boots. The witch clumsily braided her curls and put on a silver chain with a failed blue-green planet.
Hermione was already chewing toast, wondering whether to slip a knitted hat under the butter dish, when she heard a quiet knock at the door. Opening it, Hermione saw no one in the corridor—meaning the first-years were fooling around again or...
— Come in, Harry, — she said quietly. A light rustle of magical silk confirmed the guess, as did a flash of a black boot. The door closed—and Harry appeared in the room, pulling off the Invisibility Cloak and folding it into an impossibly small ball, which then vanished into a pocket.
Harry looked terrible—stress always reflected first and foremost on his appearance. His hair stuck out wildly, the collar of his cloak was twisted, and shadows lay under his green eyes.
— Did you even sleep last night? — Hermione asked.
— And you? — he countered.
— Yes, until four-legged McGonagall visited me this morning. Sit down. Eat. — She sat her friend in the corner of the sofa. — Take off your cloak.
Moving the table, Hermione levitated the tray of food. Pushing scrambled eggs and sausages onto Harry, she put eggs and beans on her own plate. Suddenly, she felt how very hungry she was.
While they ate, Hermione kept stealing glances at her friend. Up close, in daylight and in a calm setting, he seemed older—and he looked like a Slytherin. Even without the long cloak, he looked official in a black turtleneck sweater, trousers, and boots.
Harry's green eyes were also studying her, but he remained silent as they finished their portions and drank several cups of tea.
— Were you at Draco's this morning? How is he? — she finally asked.
Harry shifted in his seat.
— A bit tense. And, uh, pale.
— How unusual.
Harry was clearly feeling awkward.
— I went around the school grounds under the cloak, made a few circles around the castle. Everyone's talking about Isobel MacDougal—some are blaming Malfoy, but no one mentions Rowle.
— Rowle shouldn't have been here at all, — Hermione put down her cup. — And what did he look like this morn... no, don't you dare! — she pushed Harry's hand away. — Don't touch the blueberry muffin. Take a scone.
Harry didn't argue; he just shoved half a raspberry scone into his mouth.
— So what did Rowle look like? — Hermione repeated.
— He wuz behin de curtn.
— For Godric's sake, Harry! — Hermione took a sip of tea and waited patiently. Sooner or later Harry had to swallow that monstrous—in the best traditions of Ron—bitten-off piece.
— He didn't react, — Harry finally said. — Just lay there, staring blankly at the ceiling, — the corner of his mouth twitched. — Pure Thorfinn.
Hermione suppressed a matching smirk.
— McGonagall said he would be sent to St. Mungo's Hospital.
— Tennant was just transferred there, — Harry finished his tea. — Eventually, everyone will find out he's in the Janus Thickey Ward, but he has no family who could complain.
— I don't like that we're just sweeping all this under the rug, — Hermione frowned. — People should know what Draco did.
— Should they? — Harry looked at her coldly. Despite the scone crumbs on his sweater, he still looked menacing, especially with the embroidered Auror badge on his high collar. — Do you really want everyone to know what Malfoy did, Hermione?
— I don't understand what you mean, — she countered weakly.
— Rowle's mind is completely destroyed, — Harry said sharply. — Only a few hours after Pomfrey predicted a full recovery. Obviously, Malfoy did something after we left.
Hermione gave in.
— I suppose you're right.
— And how do you feel about that? — Harry pressed.
Hermione met his gaze.
— It was necessary.
Silence. Harry slumped in the chair, looking grim and tired beyond his eighteen years.
— It's striking how easily we come to terms with this, — he said. — Malfoy used an Unforgivable.
— Yes.
— If he gets caught, he'll go to Azkaban, — Harry leaned forward. — Hermione, who else knows about... you and Malfoy?
— Luna knows. And Ginny.
Harry literally gawked.
— Ginny knows?
Hermione nodded.
— And Malfoy's still alive?
— For now, — Hermione smirked. — Honestly, Harry, Ginny's getting scarier every day. How did the Auror Office even let her take all of Mad-Eye's things?
— It's Arthur, — Harry replied gloomily. — He's still head of the Misuse of Muggle Artifacts Office. Most of Mad-Eye's artifacts were originally ordinary Muggle items he enchanted. Some bureaucrat packed them up and sent them to Arthur, and Ginny...
They looked at each other. Arthur couldn't refuse Ginny anything.
— Ginny, — Harry shook his head. — Remind me, please, why hasn't Malfoy turned into a giant slug in Hagrid's garden yet?
— She used Legilimency on Draco at the Ravenclaw party, — Hermione cleared her throat awkwardly. — She, uh, saw us dancing.
Harry shook his head in bewilderment.
— What is even going on with Ginny? Why is she lurking around the castle all in black and living in some strange hideout? I would never have found her without the Map.
— Have you talked to her?
— I thought we could make up, but she didn't even want to talk, — Harry turned grim again. — And we could have done without Lockhart.
Hermione barely suppressed a smile, studying her friend closely. He didn't look upset—rather, thoughtful. Apparently, he doesn't know about the detective agency yet.
There was a pause while Harry crunched on cold toast—the only thing left on the tray besides the blueberry muffin. Hermione thought he twitched.
Harry returned to the topic of conversation.
— I can't deny that Malfoy saved you. And what he said...
He stopped abruptly.
— What did he say?
— Nothing. — Harry spoke through gritted teeth, as if afraid something shocking would fly out of his mouth. — But, obviously, he likes you.
— Yes, — she admitted.
Harry leaned forward again, green eyes boring into her.
— This can't last long, Hermione. You realize that?
— Harry, he saved...
Harry's face darkened.
— It doesn't matter that he saved you. No one will know about it. Everyone has already turned away from him. I'm not saying it's right... But if you make your relationship public... — He sighed. — They'll turn away from you too.
Hermione snorted.
— You're acting as if we're going to walk into the Great Hall arm-in-arm. It's only been two weeks, for Merlin's sake, we haven't even... — She stopped abruptly, seeing Harry's shocked face, and was horrified by her own frankness.
Harry made a mournful face, but the hard line of his cheekbones betrayed his determination to continue the conversation.
— Hermione, he won't...
— I am well aware of Draco's reputation regarding women, — she cut him off. — No doubt he will soon lose interest in me, and...
— No, no, that's not it, — Harry groaned and ran his hands through his hair, ruffling it even more. Now he looked more like himself, and not a stern Auror. — I'm not afraid that Malfoy will dump you, — he finally said. — It's not him who's being prudent in this situation.
— What are you trying to say, Harry?
Her friend opened his mouth, closed it, then opened it again.
— Harry?
He jumped to his feet.
— I have to go. The Head Auror will have my head if I'm not back for the lunch briefing.
— What? — Hermione also stood up. — Harry James Potter, you can't drop a phrase like that and just leave!
— I can't talk about it anymore, — he said, grabbing his cloak. — You're playing with Fiendfyre, and you absolutely don't care.
She followed him to the door.
— I don't understand. What are you talking about?
Harry, holding the door handle, looked down at Hermione, his lightning bolt scar all crinkled up.
— All I want to say, Hermione, is that when you dump Malfoy...
— Dump him? You seem to have it all mixed up. He'll lose interest in me, and that will be the end of it.
He sighed.
— You're so thick. I can't believe I'm saying this.
— Saying what?
Harry pointed a finger down.
— Hermione, that ferret in the infirmary won't lose interest in you. Ever. And when you dump him—because, oh gods, you won't be able to hide forever—he'll take it extremely badly.
Hermione stared at her friend, speechless.
— Just be careful, — Harry let go of the handle to ruffle his hair again. — Merlin. I can't just leave you alone to deal with all this, can I? I'm still doubting—maybe I really should return to Hogwarts.
She beamed.
— You could attend Divination with us. We're studying Omens of Death. Including in the form of Grimms.
Harry turned pale at the mere thought of it.
— And Potions, — Hermione continued. — Slughorn will be delighted to see you at his Christmas reception.
— Well, I suppose you're capable of looking after yourself, — Harry said loudly.
— Coward, — Hermione teased him. — Haven't you forgotten something?
— Oh, yes, of course, — Harry stepped forward and pulled her into one of his rare awkward hugs, catching her nose with his elbow. Not for the first time, Hermione wondered how they ever managed to successfully have sex.
She laughed and let him go.
— Thanks, Harry, but I meant the Map.
— Oh, yes, exactly, — the Auror searched all his pockets, pulling out quills, crumpled stickers, and a bag of Bertie Bott's, before finally pulling out the worn parchment.
Before going out, Harry cautiously looked into the corridor.
— Send an owl if you need anything, okay? Bye.
— Of course, Harry, — Hermione also went out into the corridor, but it was already empty—Harry had hastily wrapped himself in the Invisibility Cloak, hurrying to disappear.
She lingered in the doorway, thinking about Harry's words about Draco. Before, he was so sure that the Slytherin was using her, playing with her, maybe even getting revenge that way. Now, her friend seems more worried about Draco himself.
Shaking her head, Hermione returned to the room, fed Crookshanks, and began packing her beaded bag for the visit to the infirmary. Knitted socks, extra pillows, a thick blanket... where was that book on animal attacks? After all, Tennant in his wolf form had foam at the mouth, and sometimes fangs or claws remain in the victim's body...
With these thoughts, Hermione sat at the table and drew up a detailed plan for caring for the patient, including additional procedures using silver and dittany, as Animagus physiology was still poorly understood. She was looking forward to the opportunity to share her findings with Madam Pomfrey—she would certainly appreciate her recommendations.
Finally, Hermione stood up, rolled up the scroll, and put it in her bag.
— Let's go, Crooks, — she said. — Time to visit Draco.