Draco sighed as he stared at the parchment in front of him. It had been three weeks since Hermione had written her apology. Three weeks that he had carried the letter folded up in his breast pocket. Three weeks that he had not been able to formulate a reply. Now the letter was battered and creased, the words on the folds slowly fading from their daily abuse. He glowered at the paper, still searching for a reply.

Draco,

My mother once promised me that she would never leave me. On the night she died I thought my heart would split in two. How could she not keep her promise? How could she be gone? The most precious promise that had ever been made was shattered. And then you came along. How could I trust you when someone nearer and dearer to me had already betrayed me? I couldn’t allow it to happen again.

I am sorry that I doubted you, sorry that I didn’t listen to you, more sorry than you can possibly imagine. Yesterday I was not yet strong enough to be broken again, but I think I’ve learned now that it can hurt just as much to try to be safe.

Whether you believe me, or not, I love you Draco Malfoy, but more importantly, I trust you. I don’t know how to prove this to you, so you must take it on faith as just as I must. I don’t want to be ‘of little faith’ anymore. And isn’t it written that even the mustard seed can blossom into the largest of plants? I want to try again.

Please,
Hermione

Merlin knew he wanted her back. He missed her lithe form curled up in his arms at night. He missed her terrible pot roasts and the profuse apologies which followed them. He even missed the waspish, passionate tone in her voice when she railed against every discrimination passed by wizard-kind. But he was terrified of watching her walk out his door again. He called himself the worst kind of coward, but he knew he could not bear to lose her again.

Grabbing a spare sheet of parchment he wrote Hermione with a few vicious slashes of his quill.

Hermione,

I am a fool and what I mean to say is that I
Please come back

Yes.

“Draco?”

Startled he jumped, the tip of his quill leaving a spidery ink blot on the bottom of the page. Elaine d’Aspery leaned against the doorframe absently twirling a strand of her short blond hair. She grinned knowingly as he quickly composed himself, the cool look on his face completely belying his earlier reaction.

“Still haven’t sent that letter yet?” she teased, reaching out to the corner of the parchment.

Quickly Draco nipped it from her, cramming both notes into the pocket of his trousers. “Are we ready to tackle the Short Snout?” he asked, deliberately ignoring her previous question.

“Yes,” Elaine sighed, rolling her eyes. “Moray and Donaghue are meeting us up front.”

Weaving between the clustered desks of the small office, Draco wound his way to a large storage closet. Glancing through the ordered shelves, he grabbed several coils of a bright green rope and looped it over his shoulder. “Are you taking this one or is Moray?”

Pulling a large black bag off another shelf, Elaine riffled through its contents professionally. “That’ll do,” she muttered to herself before continuing, “Moray thought I should handle this one since you may need his muscle on point.”

Draco nodded thoughtfully as they joined Moray and Donaghue by the door. “Who’s our fifth? Trevesant?”

Jack Donaghue reached out a large hand to the clipboard on the wall. “It says Adam Burkley, boss,” he rumbled in his thick Scots brogue.

“Yes, sir?” A lanky boy of perhaps twenty or twenty-two unfolded himself from a small wooden chair. His sandy hair hung around his ears like a shaggy mop while his blue eyes gleamed with earnestness and excitement. “I mean, that’s me, Burkley, sir. Are you Mister Malfoy, sir?”

As the boy stared anxiously up at Donaghue who was shaking his head while his eyes danced merrily with repressed mirth, Draco found himself rolling his eyes in disgust. Snatching the clipboard he stared at the assignments for a moment before bellowing, “John! Why have you given me the rookie?”

A rather harassed looking wizard popped his head up from his desk with a sheepish look. “It’s training, Draco. I know you’ve already done your share of it, but Samson’s been looking after him and now he’s in Bergen to help with that Ridgeback this week…” he trailed off pleadingly.

“Why can’t I have Trevesant?”

“He’s busy with Lansing’s team.”

“Hockman?”

“It’s her day off.”

“Feldspar?”

“Also with Lansing.”

Draco’s eyes flashed dangerously. “What is the point of being a team leader if I cannot have any control of the composition of my team?”

“Well, it’s…”

“Never mind,” Draco snapped, cutting him off. “Just tell me, is there anyone, anyone at all, anyone besides the rookie, who could possibly work as a point man for me?” He sighed in resignation as John shook his head.

“Adam should be fine,” John asserted. “Samson’s been working with him, he knows it’s not all fun and games. Besides,” he lowered his voice conspiratorially, “I know you won’t admit it, but you are a better teacher to all the trainees than most of the men here. Just give the kid a chance, ok?”

Draco paused, indecision gnawing at his gut. It was his call, he could postpone the whole operation until tomorrow with a single word. Every day lessened the dragon’s chances of recovery, yet he felt responsible for every one of their lives. They would support him either way. Sending a quick, sizing glance at the boy, Draco could feel his shoulders slumping in defeat. Behind him someone snickered.

Draco whirled around in time to see Moray, and Donaghue wiping all traces of amusement from their faces. Elaine, of course, smirked openly. “All right, rookie, you will do exactly as I say at all times. This is not some sort of picnic in the park, understood.”

“Yes, sir!”

The dragon pens were as spacious as the office was cramped. Draco carefully picked his way along the muddy path to the large stone hospital ring, or “the lion pit” as Moray liked to call it. However, today’s lion was no kitten. The early morning sun glinted off the blue-grey scales of the Short-Snout which lay immobilized on the grassy ground.

Walking around the vast bulk of the beast, Draco faced the small group gathered around him. “Figure eight knots,” he said tersely, “we’ll want to keep the lines taut for extra control.” He paused for a moment, considering. “You two had better take the main body and wings,” he said with a grudging nod to Moray and Donaghue. “The rookie and I will keep the head controlled.”

Moray looked concerned. “Do you really want a rookie at the head, boss?”

“Do I have a choice?” Draco asked with a snort. “I need your weight down lower in case things get out of hand. If the wings get loose the healing won’t take. We’ll take it nice and easy, just like we’ve done before.”

Without another word Moray and Donaghue took the coils of rope he offered them and began carefully pulling them over the dragon’s torso and around the vast, widespread wings. Elaine took another, quickly tethering the right wing to the ground before spreading the contents of her bag within easy reach. The wing in front of her was tattered, five long gashes running through the heavy membrane to the jointure at its back.

Draco turned to Adam, watching as the young man stared at the brisk and efficient movements. “You are a point man,” he drawled. “May I safely assume that you know what that is?”

“Yes, sir.”

Draco cocked an eyebrow, waiting patiently.

Adam flushed and continued. “A point man is one of the men, or women,” he amended carefully, “who helps to control a dragon’s movements, often while another witch or wizard is moving in towards the dragon.”

“Then you also know why being a point man is an incredibly important job.”

“Because one wizard’s spell alone can’t subdue a dragon.”

“No,” Draco barked. “Because at every moment you are holding someone else’s life in your hands. Because you are responsible for the safety of every man and woman in the vicinity. And because you are also responsible for the well being of the dragon, a sentient creature which is temporarily in your care, at your mercy, and fantastically dangerous. Now that is a lot of responsibility to live up to, rookie. Any questions?”

Adam paused, unsure if this was a test. As Draco cocked a questioning eyebrow he nervously plowed on. “Why can’t we just keep the dragon stunned?”

To his amazement and surprise, Draco smiled. “That,” he said clapping the young man on the shoulder, “is an intelligent question. It would be safer for all of us to simply heal the dragon as is, retreat a safe distance, and see it on its way. But the goal is to allow the dragon to fly again. Healing is not an easy business, especially in a case like this. Elaine needs to keep the blood flowing through the wing to test proper nerve formation in the membrane. Also several tendons have been cut near the joint. If we want these to restore to the proper length and tension we will need to keep the wing mobile in the socket.”

“So,” Adam mused to himself, “without the risk the dragon won’t ever fly again?”

“A dragon that can’t fly is a dead dragon,” Draco murmured softly, although Adam had the distinct impression that the words were for Draco more than himself. Shaking his platinum head to clear it, Draco jerked back to the present.

Pulling a loop of green rope off his shoulder, Draco thrust it at the younger man. “Unbreakable and fireproof,” he explained, giving a hard tug on one of the loose ends. “Thread it through the loop on the collar, around the neck, and back through the loop.”

Cautiously, Adam approached the still form of the dragon, his fingers skimming over the glossy scales of its neck as he pulled the free end of the rope through an iron loop on the leather collar it wore. Trying to move with confidence, he stretched his arms until he was almost hugging the great blue-grey neck, trading the rope from his right hand to his left. A short, triumphant tug and it was around and threaded again through the iron ring. As he stepped back, Adam winced at the scrapes his knuckles had gained when he rubbed them against the scales the wrong way.

Adam watched as Draco looped his own rope around the dragon’s neck. Long, slender fingers pulled at the leather collar, twitched the iron ring, seeking and probing for a flaw, any flaw, to appear. As Draco stepped back, Adam noticed, to his chagrin, that Draco’s knuckles were uncut. His own hand only seemed to sting more sharply by contrast.

“Not bad,” Draco commented, although the hidden amusement in his eyes belied the way he had guessed at Adam’s thoughts. Offhand he added, “Extract of Murtlap will help with the sting. Left-hand side of the general supplies closet, three shelves up.”

“Thank you,” Adam stammered, a slight flush blossoming on his cheeks. “But I’ll be fine.”

“’Course you will,” Draco commented blandly. “Well, then if you could pick up a jar for me, then, I’d be much obliged.”

“You?”

“Mmm,” Draco grunted, pulling the loose ends of the green rope through a complicated series of pulleys on the ground.

“Yes, sir!”

Smiling to himself, Draco knew that two jars of the stuff would be gone by nightfall. In two weeks he’d sneak his back into the closet and hope Adam wasn’t in charge of inventory for a few days. Hopefully, luck would be with him on that, as it had in the past.

“All right, rookie, here’s where things get complicated.” Draco pointed to one of the loose ends and a short metal pole that stuck out of the ground nearby. “Tie that to the pole with a Wizard’s Hitch, that means…”

“That the side to the dragon will remain rock solid but the knot can be quickly released in emergencies,” Adam finished, as though reciting from a textbook.

Draco smiled. “Good. You’ll be here on the left. I’m taking the right so I can keep an eye on Elaine. Donaghue will check your work.” He began walking around the motionless head. “Get tied down,” he called over his shoulder.

Frowning in concentration for a moment, Adam slipped the rope into the many loops of the Wizard’s Hitch, gently removing any slack between the pole and the pulleys. He didn’t even notice Donaghue’s presence at first until a pair of large hands crept into his vision, quickly and surely tugging on various areas of the rope.

“Looks good, boss,” the Scotsman bellowed.

Across the arena Draco nodded. “Take in the slack.”

Adam grabbed the untied end of the rope, pulling on it until the entire rope stretched taut from collar to ends.

“Brace.”

Around the arena the wizards dug their feet into the ground in grim preparedness.

“Enervate!”

For a moment it seemed as though nothing happened. Then the dragon shuddered, and began to thrash against its restraining bonds.

Draco smiled. There was something about the beast that was so magnificent, even bound. His palms ached where the rope rubbed against them, refusing to give up even a centimeter. As always, he found himself grateful for the wizards who engineered the pulley system that bore the beast’s weight. His muscles screamed as the dragon fought, and he marveled at Elaine’s calm reassurance as she deftly began to heal the wing with potions and complicated wand work. But then again, as he had learned in the past, there was something about being that close to death that made it easy to focus on the details with a calm detachment, as though nothing else really mattered any more anyway.

“I need to roll him to the left,” Elaine’s voice, magically amplified, rang over the arena.

“Rookie, Donaghue, take in slack, keep the lines taut. Moray, pacing on my signal,” Draco projected. “One, two, three, four, five, six…”

“Hold!”

“Brace!” Draco commanded at Elaine’s signal.

The dragon shuddered again and Draco heard a sudden cry across the arena. In taking up the slack, Adam had stepped over the quick release end of the rope. A coil had snagged his ankle, and the dragon’s movement had pulled him off his feet and released the restraining knot.

Time slowed down for Draco as he watched the blue-grey head turning towards the small creature pestering its wounded wing. He couldn’t remember locking down his side of the rope with the emergency mechanism, although his hands went through the motions. He couldn’t remember shouting an inarticulate warning as he dashed across the field. He couldn’t remember shoving Elaine out of the way, shoving her so hard she sprawled in the grass several yards away.

All he knew was that when time resumed, he was staring into the face of the dragon as the great mouth began to open. As the flames shot towards him, he found himself falling under the heat, his wand raised and his parched throat shouted, “protego!” Dimly, he thought he heard a second voice joining his for the shielding charm, but then it didn’t matter, for after a moment of exquisite agony everything went dark.

Hermione Granger bowed her head low over the short stake of papers on her immaculate desk, her quill scratching across the parchment as she wrote quick short sentences. Everything in the office gleamed with cleanliness from the small bronze nameplate on the desk to the perfectly filed papers and books which lined the walls. Shuffling through the papers, Hermione sighed, letting her head drop to hit the top of the desk with a hollow thunk.

“Hermione?”

She jerked upright at the voice, a faint flush of embarrassment appearing on her cheeks while Ginny Weasley surveyed her from the doorway. “I’m fine,” she responded automatically, not quite meeting Ginny’s eyes.

Ginny smiled wryly, letting herself into the office. “Of course you are. That’s why your secretary told me you’ve practically been living in your office for the past few weeks.”

“I’ve been busy,” Hermione lied, watching Ginny’s eyes skip over the unnaturally neat room before landing on the papers Hermione had been filling out before her interruption.

“Janitorial staff for the Irish embassy?” Ginny read incredulously. “You really are scraping the bottom of the barrel trying to find work to get done. For pity’s sake, this is why you have a secretary in the first place! Admit it, you aren’t getting anything done and you’re making yourself a nuisance to the staff.”

“I tried cleaning to stay busy,” Hermione said, before dropping her head back onto the desk with a groan. “I think I’m going crazy.”

Ginny snickered. “I think you’ve already passed that point.”

Hermione pulled her head up long enough to give the younger woman a nasty glare. “If Molly sent you to cheer me up, you’re doing a really lousy job.”

“If Mum sent me to cheer you up, I’d have brought cake. Besides, you don’t need cheering up, remember? You’re fine.”

“Shut up,” Hermione muttered half-heartedly.

Ginny grinned again, dropping contentedly in the chair opposite Hermione’s. “That won’t work, either. I do have brothers.” When Hermione’s only response was to droop her head deeper into her hands Ginny plowed on. “And now you’re simply being ridiculous. You may be the smartest witch of your age, but you can’t completely let yourself go over this mess with Draco.”

Hermione flinched visibly at the name.

“Yes, I said it. Draco. That stupid, smart-mouthed, git who you’re still in love with.”

Hermione’s wand flashed up with a speed that would have surprised any who didn’t know her. “Ginevra Molly Weasley, you take that back! I am no such thing.”

Ginny laughed, her hand flapping away the wand which had been pointed at her nose. “There’s the Hermione we know and love,” she gasped between her giggles. A moment later Hermione joined her, feeling that she had behaved rather ridiculously.

“Thank goodness you’ve stopped wallowing,” Ginny said weakly when she finally regained her breath.

“I tried not to wallow in misery too much,” Hermione protested ineffectually.

“You did a very noble job of trying not to wallow,” Ginny agreed, “so quite naturally everybody noticed but you.”

The two women sat in a companionable silence for a moment, each waiting for the other to be the first to speak. “You’re going to have to face it sooner or later,” Ginny said at last. “Either you can fight for him or move on.”

“He’s already moved on,” Hermione admitted wretchedly. “At first I thought he would come, but he never did, and then I thought he would write and he never did. Not even to tell me off, or row like we did that night. My heart leapt every time an owl came by for the first two weeks, Ginny, and it never was him. He doesn’t even care enough to tell me it’s over.”

“Do you want it to be over?”

“No,” Hermione whispered. And for a moment it looked as though her heart was shining out through her eyes. But then they clouded once more with doubt and fatigue, and her entire face seemed cast once more into shadow.

Ginny shook her head at the older woman in disbelief. “Then what are you moping around in here for? Fight for him, you dunce! What happened to the Hermione Granger who marched around with Harry Potter and my dimwit brother to conquer all the evils of the world?”

Hermione smiled at Ginny’s forceful words. “I’m sure Ron will be glad to know that he holds such high esteem with you still.”

“As long as he’s my brother, he’ll always be a dimwit to me,” Ginny replied, brushing her off. “And don’t change the subject.”

“All right!” Hermione threw her hands up in mock surrender. “I’m going, I’m going!” She allowed Ginny to hustle her to the door where she promptly ran into a rather frazzled looking young man. “Oh, I’m so sorry,” she gasped as he bent down to retrieve the thin slips of paper he had dropped.

“It’s quite all right,” he replied sourly, looking as though it was anything but. He squinted at her from behind a pair of large horn rim glasses. “You’re Miss Granger,” he stated rather disapprovingly, and Hermione could feel herself blush. “Mail for you.”

Hermione gaped as he pressed a small packet of papers into her hands and turned on his heel, muttering under his breath about “silly chits who can’t even watch where they are going getting cushy Ministry jobs they probably couldn’t even handle.”

“What a charming man,” Ginny muttered wryly in Hermione’s ear, “perhaps if things don’t work out with Draco....”

Hermione swatted Ginny’s arm with the letters. “He might hear you,” she chided.

“And wouldn’t that be fun.”

Hermione tried to frown at Ginny’s wicked look, but the corners of her mouth kept quirking up. “You’re impossible,” she declared at last, “now, hush, so I can read my mail.”

There were two papers, the first was rough and crumpled, the folds nearly worn through at the seams. Delicately, Hermione opened it, recognizing her own handwriting staring back at her. It was the last note she had written Draco. A smaller scrap of paper was folded inside. Her fingers visibly trembling now she turned it over to see his familiar, spiky scrawl. Several lines were crossed out, but Hermione barely noticed them for her heart leapt within her chest at the last word on the page. Yes.

“Hermione? Hermione, what is it?” Ginny pulled at the older witch’s elbow. “You’ve gone as red as a posy. Hermione?”

A look of wordless joy on her face, Hermione passed the opened papers to Ginny.

“Aren’t you going to open that one,” Ginny asked glancing at the large red “Urgent” scrawled on the unopened letter before turning her attention to the ones Hermione had passed her.

Hermione shrugged, but her fingers deftly tore open the paper. She fully intended to skim the contents, then chuck it on her desk, find Draco and beg his forgiveness. But with the first few words her heart went cold and she could feel the blood draining from her face.

Hermione,

I know you and Draco have not been on good terms lately, but I am begging you to listen to me now. We were tending a dragon today which got loose during the healing. Draco saved my life but only at a great cost to his own.

He needs you now. Please come to him.

We are at St, Mungo’s, first floor, critical burns is the third door to the left.

Please hurry,

Elaine

The dragon was hurtling towards him, so large that all he could see was an eye, then a fang, as the gaping maw began to open, spilling flames hotter than the very fires of hell. It was hotter than anything he had ever known, ever felt, reaching for him with hungry tongues that seared so hot he couldn’t bear it, couldn’t even think, and poured inside of him as he opened his mouth to scream…

“He’s coming to again.”

A crisp voice sounded from somewhere far away. Groggily, Draco willed his eyes to slowly open the barest of cracks, flooding his vision with harsh white light. A dark shape shifted, and a blurred face swam in front of his hazy vision.

“Well, Mister Malfoy,” a rather matronly voice emanated from the looming face, “have you decided to come back to us at last?”

Draco tried to answer, to say anything, but his throat felt raw and closed, and only a whispered, strangled noise escaped his lips.

Behind the first figure, a second shape blurred through Draco’s vision, although not nearly as large as the first. A reproving tenor replied, “It looks as though he’s still in shock, Marjorie, and no surprise after all he’s been through. He’s probably still delirious.”

Eyes almost fully opened now, Draco blinked as various sights and sounds continued to swim in and out of his consciousness. Slowly, the room formed around him, the dingy white of the walls blending into the rougher white of the ceiling and the crisp white of the sheets where he lay. The stinging scent of antiseptic and cleaners filled his nose with every breath, and muted voices, beeps, and whirrs hovered just beyond the edges of his vision. It was too much. He snapped his eyes shut again and tried to take stock of his situation.

The last thing he remembered was… the last thing was… Draco frowned. He couldn’t remember. Was he dead, then? Because if this miserable excuse was the afterlife, someone had an awful lot of explaining to do.

Taking a shallow breath, Draco forced his eyes open again. In a rather detached way, Draco realized that he felt fine, as though he was floating along as lightly as a cloud, yet something was off. Something hovered on the edge of his consciousness, a persistent and niggling voice which he couldn’t hear since his head felt like cotton stuffing, and the mere effort of listening to it made his head ache.

He tried to reach up and massage his temples, only his arm wouldn’t listen. It felt as heavy and unresponsive as if it had been strapped to the bed. Slowly, his eyes traced it down from his shoulder, past the pale blue sleeve of his gown, down the reddened crook of his elbow to the heavy white bandages that ensconced the tapered stump of his wrist.

Suddenly the world was roaring in his ears, waves of pain thundering through his veins, the white walls spinning out of focus. It all came rushing back to him as the dancing searing flames filled his vision to the distant cries of someone’s wrenching screams.

~ o ~ o ~ o ~

It took all of Hermione’s will power not to run through the crowded halls at St. Mungo’s. Gritting her teeth she resisted the impulse to kick the shins of the slow moving witches and wizards who stumbled unwittingly into her path. All she could think of was that he was hurt- how badly she could only guess and fear.

“Hermione! You came!”

The slender, colorful form of Elaine barreled into her, catching Hermione in a worried yet grateful embrace. “He’s down here,” Elaine said as she released her, drawing them both down a quieter side corridor.

A small group of Draco’s coworkers kept a vigil outside his door. Moray took refuge in pacing the hall while Donaghue, an older wizard with spectacles, and a dejected and bandaged boy shifted uneasily on their rigid plastic chairs. As they approached, Donaghue stood, offering his chair to Hermione. She accepted it gratefully; her knees felt unusually weak and her hands were trembling as she folded them in her lap. Elaine sank down into the empty chair beside her.

“How is he?” The words escaped Hermione’s throat in a whisper, words that she at once wanted so desperately to hear yet was so afraid of what they might contain.

“We don’t know.” It was the older gentleman, John, Hermione remembered at last. “He is no longer in critical condition. He’ll live. But he is still in shock. No visitors allowed. They haven’t told us anything else.”

Hermione nodded absently in thanks, clinging to the faint words, “he’ll live” through her fog of panic. “What happened?”

With an anguished sob, the boy sitting on the other side of John buried his head in his hands. Moray looked away from him, but Donaghue reached out and rested a large hand on his shoulder. “It was an accident,” his deep voice rumbled gently. “The dragon’s head got loose and Draco was caught in the flame as he tried to get Elaine to safety.”

“I wish he’d left me to roast,” Elaine muttered guiltily.

Hermione opened her mouth to ask more when a young, nervous looking healer stepped out of Draco’s room. In an instant Hermione was at his side. “How is he?” she demanded.

“Mostly unconscious, he’s still in shock. No visitors,” the healer said officially in a trembling baritone.

“No,” Hermione said, her eyes flashing dangerously and grasping his arm as he tried to edge away. “I don’t want the official bullshit. How is he?”

The young man’s eyes darted nervously around the room as he tried to pull the sleeve of his white robe out of her grip. “I can’t say if you’re not family,” he insisted in a strangled voice. “Hospital policy.”

“I’m family,” an imperious voice rang out from behind them. Narcissa Malfoy dropped her traveling cloak and gloves on Hermione’s abandoned chair. Raising her golden head high, she commanded, “Tell me about my son.”

The healer began one more feeble protest about identification policy, but quailed under Narcissa’s steely gaze. “There was a tertiary level of damage to pressing through the lower layers of the epidermis with a high concentration…”

Narcissa raised one eyebrow and the healer quickly simplified his statements. “He’s been fairly badly burned,” he gave in at last. “He’s quite lucky to be alive. From what we have been able to put together, he fell and was only caught in the outer layers of fire. The central flame would have killed him instantly. Not much would have been left.”

Narcissa paled at that, and Hermione reached out to steady the older woman. With a deep breath she pulled herself together, and the healer continued, looking concerned.

“Draco and,” he quickly checked the notes on his clipboard, “Elaine both cast shielding charms which helped to protect him from the flame to a degree. However, because of that action his wand arm remained up as he fell.” The healer paused again as though uncertain of how best to go on. “His right arm, and particularly his hand, was caught in a much hotter, inner flame than the rest of his body.”

“But he’s all right,” Narcissa insisted. “He’ll be all right?”

The healer winced at her words. “The flame cauterized the wound,” he said carefully, “but we need to be careful to keep infection out.” Gently, he added, “but I’m afraid he has permanently lost…”

At that moment screams began to issue form Draco’s room and all heads snapped to the door. Frantic voices within were shouting to be heard over the noise.

“He’s snapping out of it!”

“Delirious again!”

“Someone get a calming draught!”

“Help hold him down!”

Hermione started for the door, but the young healer grabbed her by the shoulder, frantically yelling, “you can’t go in there,” over Draco’s screams.

Furious at this small man who was blocking her way, Hermione snarled, “watch me,” and stomped on his foot with all her might. He immediately let her go and she pushed past him, Narcissa on her heels.

Draco lay in the bed in the middle of the room, flailing against some imaginary foe as the healers tried to hold him down and pour a calming draught down his throat.

“Get out!” one of the healers bellowed at them as Draco knocked away the potion again.

Hermione ignored him. “Draco,” she snapped, using her most irritated voice, as though he was a child throwing a tantrum.

Slowly, wondrously, he dropped his waving limbs and raised his head. “Hermione?” his hoarse voice whispered incredulously, as though he could not believe she was standing at the foot of his bed.

The slightest of smiles touched he worried, frowning face. “Stop being an ass and drink the potion,” she commanded, and obediently Draco opened his mouth and swallowed the draught the healers poured in.

As the potion began to take effect his eyelids fluttered heavily and his breathing slowed. Gently, Hermione bent down and planted a light kiss upon his brow. As she pulled away, Draco drowsily raised his right arm to brush his fingertips across her cheek.

Behind them, Narcissa gasped as the bandaged stump moved through the air. Hermione kept her tear-filled eyes locked on Draco’s, stubbornly refusing to be bothered by the empty space where his long, elegant hand had once been.

“I love you,” she whispered as the potion was bearing him off to sleep. “No matter what, I love you.”