Side Effects of Loving You

by vigoddess

Summary:

Draco Malfoy suffers from a rare, progressive curse that no one has been able to break. His magic weakens, his body fails, and the best specialists helplessly throw up their hands. The prognosis is merciless: one year to live, perhaps less.
Hermione Granger, one of the best in her field, a specialist in hopeless cases, is asked for a consultation. Reluctantly, she agrees to take on the assignment, which at first seems like just another difficult case.
But this curse doesn't fit any known classification. Neither does the patient himself—surprisingly likable, intelligent, at times disarmingly normal. The more Hermione asks, the more clearly she sees that the answers she seeks aren't found in medical books—they're in him. And he's not willing to give her all of them.
Over time, what begins to disturb her isn't the curse itself, but how easily everyone has accepted it. How quietly they disappear, those whom no one tries to save.

Notes:

This fic was written without a beta, and English is not my first language — so I apologize in advance for any mistakes you may come across. I hope you’ll still enjoy the story!

Chapter 1

 

"Healer Granger! Operating room, immediately!"

Hermione sprang up from the documents, knocking over her inkwell. The spilled ink smeared her notes, but she paid no attention— the tone of the voice on the magical communicator was too alarming.

She dashed through the corridors of St. Mungo's, weaving past other healers and patients. Her mind was already working at full speed, preparing for the worst. As she burst into the operating room, she took in the situation at a glance—four healers hunched over the table, the air thick with the metallic scent of blood and the characteristic stench of magical burns.

"What do we have?" she asked, quickly putting on protective gloves.

"Alexander Burke, eight years old," Jenkins, the senior healer, replied. "He was experimenting with his father's spells. A combination of Bombarda and some unidentified slashing curse."

Hermione approached the table and gritted her teeth. The boy was in a tragic state—his abdomen torn apart by the explosion, his chest cut with deep wounds oozing dark red blood. His face, typically brimming with childhood joy, was now as white as paper, and his lips were blue.

"Have you given him Blood-Replenishing Potion?" she asked, already reaching for her wand.

"Three doses," Jenkins replied. "It's working too slowly—there's something in that curse that's inhibiting the clotting process."

She cast a series of diagnostic spells. Colorful lines and symbols appeared above the boy's body, forming a complicated pattern that would be incomprehensible to the untrained eye.

"This isn't an ordinary slashing curse," she said, furrowing her brow. "It's been modified. Do you see those dark purple edges of the wounds? Standard treatment won't work."

"Do you know the counter-curse?" a hopeful young intern asked.

"There isn't a universal counter-curse," she replied, already reaching into her special bag. "But I know the ingredients of the original curse. I need dittany, powdered unicorn horn, and—" she hesitated, "—unicorn blood."

Silence fell. Unicorn blood was a strictly controlled substance, used only in the most extreme cases.

"Granger, that's—"

"Non-standard? Risky? I know," she interrupted sharply. "But that curse is consuming him from the inside. We have minutes, not hours."

Jenkins nodded to one of the assistants, who immediately dashed out of the room. Hermione leaned over the boy and began methodically working to stabilize the most critical injuries.

Her wand moved with extraordinary precision, casting spells that most healers had never even heard of. Where Jenkins and the others saw a chaotic array of wounds, she recognized a pattern; the curse had a specific signature, and she knew its weak points.

"Give me more dittany," she ordered, not taking her eyes off her work. "And prepare a potion with mandrake and dragon liver—full dose."

"Dragon liver? That could destroy his liver!" protested one of the younger healers.

"And that curse will surely destroy his heart if we don't act immediately," she retorted. "Prepare the potion. Exactly ten drops of dragon liver per ounce of mandrake extract."

Time flowed as she fought with determination. Sweat dripped down her face as she cast spell after spell, neutralizing the worst effects of the curse.

"The internal bleeding is worsening," Jenkins warned, monitoring the boy's condition. "His pressure is dropping."

"Give me that unicorn blood," Hermione demanded, extending her hand. When she received the vial containing the clear, silvery substance, she hesitated for only a second before applying three drops directly onto the largest wound.

The effect was immediate; the edges of the wound began to glow with a soft, silver light, and the bleeding slowed, but she knew it was only a temporary improvement.

"Now I need the Draught of Living Death," she said, surprising everyone. "I'll put him into a state of stasis to stop the spread of the curse."

"That's too risky," Jenkins protested. "In his state, the potion could kill him."

"And without it, he will definitely die," she replied firmly. "Prepare the correct dose—one third of the standard, diluted with the Strengthening Solution."

This was a technique she had taught herself by experimenting with potion ratios. It had never been described in textbooks, but she had tested it many times during her research. Now it could be the boy's only chance.

As they administered the potion, Alexander's body slackened and his breathing became nearly imperceptible. It gave her the time she needed. For the next several hours, she worked tirelessly, occasionally taking a sip of Calming Draught to maintain her focus.

"I've never seen such a technique," the young intern mumbled, watching as Hermione used a combination of spells and potions to neutralize the curse. "How does she know this?"

"Granger doesn't adhere to standard procedures," Jenkins replied quietly. "She's developed half of the techniques she's using herself."

Indeed, Hermione was in her element. Her mind was racing, analyzing each wound, predicting how the curse would spread, employing precise counter-spells.

Hours passed, and the operating room turned into a battleground. The floor was littered with empty vials, bloodstained bandages, and used equipment. Healers rotated at the table—all except Hermione, who refused to be replaced.

"You need to rest," Jenkins insisted as she worked through her ninth hour without a break.

"I can't," she replied, her voice hoarse from continuously casting spells. "This curse is like a living thing; it will sense a change in the person casting the spells."

Her eyes were bloodshot, and her hands trembled from magical exhaustion. She had to drink the Strengthening Solution three times to keep herself from fainting due to the effort. But she wouldn’t give up.

"His parameters are stabilizing," one of the assistants said in disbelief after the tenth hour. "It’s working!"

Hermione didn't allow herself to feel hope. She had seen too often how a momentary improvement was followed by a sudden collapse. And indeed, an hour later, the boy began to tremble, despite the stasis induced by the Draught.

"The curse is mutating," she said. "It's adapting to our treatment."

It was the worst-case scenario—some of the most sinister curses had an adaptive element, the ability to change in response to attempts to neutralize them. She knew of only one way to combat such magic.

"I need more unicorn blood," she said, aware of how controversial her request was.

"Granger, we've already used more than the regulations allow," Jenkins protested. "The Ministry..."

"To hell with the Ministry!" she snapped, her eyes shining with determination. "That boy is dying! Give me the blood, or I'll find someone who will!"

Her voice echoed through the room, and everyone froze. Hermione Granger, always so composed, was now shouting with a desperation that shook even the veterans of the ward.

Jenkins silently handed her another vial. She applied the precious liquid directly to the boy's chest, whispering spells that combined the power of unicorn blood with her own magic. It was a technique she had learned during a trip to Romania, where she studied under the guidance of an old healing master.

For the next several hours, she fought with a persistence bordering on obsession. Whenever it seemed that the curse relented in one area, it flared up in another. It was a race against time she could not win.

After fourteen hours of continuous work, her magic was nearly drained. Twice she nearly fainted, keeping herself on her feet only through the Strengthening Solutions and sheer force of will.

"The curse has mutated again," Jenkins said quietly, showing her new diagnostic readings. "It's now attacking his nervous system."

Hermione looked at the readings, her mind feverishly searching for a solution. She knew every curse described in literature, every counter-curse, every healing technique. But this curse defied all classifications.

"I have to try something different," she finally said, her voice strangely calm. "Something I’ve never tested on humans."

"Granger, you can't experiment on a dying child," Jenkins protested.

"And what do you propose?" she shot back sharply. "Should we just let him go? Allow this curse to consume him piece by piece?"

Jenkins fell silent, knowing there was no good answer.

She took a deep breath and began one last, desperate attempt. Using a combination of defensive, transmutation, and healing spells, she tried to encapsulate the curse in a magical capsule, isolating it from the rest of the boy's body.

It was an innovative technique she had developed over the years, but she had never had the chance to use it. It required a precision that most healers could not achieve, and a deep understanding of the nature of magic that went beyond standard training.

For a moment, it seemed to work—the curse began to concentrate in one spot, allowing the rest of Alexander's body to heal. But then, sensing the trap, it exploded with renewed force.

The boy's body arched, and all the magical monitors began to blare alarms. She lunged forward, casting spell after spell, desperately trying to halt the wave of destructive magic.

"Dittany! More dittany!" she screamed.

For another hour, she battled with a determination bordering on madness. Her wand was a blur as she cast spells at a speed that no one else could match. Sweat streamed down her face, mixing with tears of frustration.

But sometimes even the greatest determination, the deepest knowledge, and the finest talent are not enough. Sixteen hours into the battle, Alexander Burke’s heart stopped for the final time.

"Time of death: 2:17 AM," Jenkins said quietly.

Hermione stood still, her wand still raised above the boy's body. Sixteen hours. All her skills, all her knowledge, every technique she had learned over the years. And all for nothing.

"You did more than anyone could have," Jenkins said, placing a hand on her shoulder. "No one else would have fought that long."

She didn’t respond. Slowly, she lowered her wand, removed her bloodstained gloves, and made her way to the exit. Her face was a mask, eyes dry, posture rigid.

In the corridor waited the boy's parents—a mother with her face buried in her hands and a father whose eyes pleaded for a miracle.

"Your son is dead," she said in a flat voice. "We did everything we could. I’m sorry."

She didn’t wait for their reaction. She had no strength left for their tears, for their screams, for their disbelief.

She walked down the corridor with a stiff stride, her face devoid of any emotion. Passing healers stepped aside, noticing the look in her eyes—cold, empty, and vacant.

"Granger! Hey, Granger!" A young intern ran up to her, waving some documents. "I have the results from those tests you requested recently, and—"

"Not now," she snapped, not slowing her pace.

"But it's urgent, the patient from the room—"

She stopped abruptly and turned around. The look she gave the intern made him step back a pace.

"I said: not now," she grit out through clenched teeth. "Is that not clear enough?"

Without waiting for a response, she moved on, leaving him with his mouth agape and documents in his hands. She passed by more rooms, more corridors, her steps becoming less certain, as if only her willpower was keeping her upright.

Finally, she reached her office. She stepped inside, closed the door, and cast a locking charm. Only then, when she was sure that no one could see or hear her, did she allow herself to stop and breathe.

For a moment, she stood still, taking deep breaths. Her shoulders slumped, and her face lost the stone mask she had maintained for the last several hours. Now she simply looked exhausted—physically and mentally.

She approached her desk and sank heavily into the chair. For a moment, there was complete silence. She sat still, staring blankly at the wall opposite her.

And then, as if something inside her had broken, she slammed her fist down on the desk.

"Dammit!" she shouted, her voice turning into a choked sob. "Dammit, dammit, DAMMIT!"

She rose from the chair and, with a wide sweep of her arm, knocked everything off the desk—documents, inkwells, potion vials—everything crashed to the floor with a shatter and clang of broken glass.

"Sixteen hours!" she screamed, kicking the overturned chair. "SIXTEEN FUCKING HOURS!"

Her magic, usually so tightly controlled, now exploded around her—books flew off the shelves, the windows rattled, and the air crackled with uncontrolled releases of energy.

"He was NINE YEARS OLD!" she yelled, now unable to hold back the tears streaming down her face. "NINE! And what good was all that knowledge to me? What good were all those studies, experiments, sleepless nights?!"

She grabbed a heavy healing textbook and hurled it with all her strength against the wall.

"What good is the Order of Merlin to me?! What good is recognition and admiration if I can't save one bloody child?!"

Her voice cracked, breaking into a choked sob. She sank to the floor amidst the scattered papers and spilled potions, hugging her knees with her arms and swaying slightly. The uncontrolled magical discharges gradually ceased, leaving behind a ruined office and Hermione—exhausted, shaken, and more alone than ever before.

When she returned to her apartment, she threw her bag on the floor of the hallway and mindlessly took off her shoes. She felt strangely detached from her own body, as if her mind and physicality were functioning on two different planes.

She didn’t even turn on the light. In the dim light, illuminated only by the pale moonlight streaming through the window, she approached the kitchen cupboard and pulled out a bottle of Dreamless Sleep Potion. Hermione rarely had nightmares. Her mind, even in sleep, was too analytical, too ordered. But today… today she knew they would be waiting for her. The pale, blue lips of the boy. His eyes, which would never open again. His parents in the corridor, unaware that their world had just ended.

Without hesitation, she measured out a dose and drank the potion in one gulp. The bitter taste spread across her tongue, but she barely registered it. She shuffled to her bedroom, not bothering to change. She barely had time to collapse onto the bed before the potion began to take effect, drawing her into a deep, mercifully empty darkness without dreams.

The next day, she arrived at work promptly at eight, even though her shift didn’t start until noon. She wore fresh robes, her hair pulled back into a tight bun, and her face carefully devoid of any signs of yesterday's breakdown.

But anyone who looked into her eyes knew better than to cross Hermione Granger today. Her gaze was as cold as ice, her lips pressed into a thin line, and her steps sharp and decisive as she strode through the corridors.

"Good morning, Healer Granger!" one of the younger staff called cheerfully, oblivious to the atmosphere.

She measured him with a look that paled him, causing him to retreat against the wall.

"I said I wanted those results on my desk yesterday," she snapped at another healer who had the misfortune of being in her path. "Where are they?"

"But... you were in the operating room for your entire shift yesterday," he started uncertainly.

"Is that supposed to be an excuse?" she interrupted sharply. "I don't care about your justifications. I want those results. Now."

She reached her office—it had already been cleaned up by the night staff, though a few books, destroyed during her outburst, were still missing. She slammed the door behind her with such force that the glass in the window rattled.

Not even five minutes had passed when there was a knock. Before she could respond, the door opened, and Bertrand Macmillan stepped in.

"I don't recall allowing you to enter," she growled, not lifting her gaze from the documents she was reviewing.

"Good morning, Granger," he said calmly, ignoring her tone. "We need to talk."

"If it's about the boy from yesterday, I've already written up a report. We did everything we—"

"Not about that," he interrupted, closing the door behind him. "It's about your behavior."

Now she looked up, and her eyes narrowed dangerously.

"My behavior? After sixteen hours trying to save a dying child, you’re worried about my behavior?"

Macmillan sighed and sat down opposite her, even though she hadn't invited him to do so.

"I'm concerned about you, Hermione. And the team. Campbell came to me this morning pale as a ghost. He said he’s afraid to approach you."

"Campbell is an incompetent idiot who can't brew even a Pepperup Potion correctly," she huffed, crossing her arms over her chest.

"He's an intern. He's learning. And he's terrified you'll kick him out of the program because you snap at him every time he gets near you."

"Maybe if he'd stop making the same mistakes—"

"Hermione," Macmillan leaned forward, his voice quieter but firm. "I understand you had a tough time yesterday. No one expects you to be overflowing with joy after losing a patient. But you can't take out your frustration on the staff."

She leaned back in her chair, her face a mixture of irritation and fatigue.

"Do you have any other comments about my work?" she asked coldly.

"Yes, I do," he replied without hesitation. "I've noticed that in the last three months, most of your cases have been the most difficult, the most urgent. The ones that others would consider hopeless."

"And what’s wrong with that? Someone has to take them."

"But not just you," he said gently. "We have an entire department of experienced healers. And you take on the most challenging cases, work long hours without breaks, refuse to let others take over, and then wonder why you’re exhausted."

"So what do you suggest?" she snapped. "Should I take it easy? Work less? Let more children die?"

"I suggest you acknowledge that you’re not indestructible," he replied calmly. "That you need rest. That you can’t save everyone."

She scoffed in annoyance, but Macmillan continued:

"I've assigned you too many difficult cases. That's my fault. But now I see that you’re on the brink of exhaustion—physically and emotionally.”

“I’m fine.”

“Really?” He raised an eyebrow. “Yesterday you destroyed half your office in a fit of rage. That doesn’t seem like someone who is ‘fine’.”

She pressed her lips together, remaining silent.

"Listen," he sighed. "You are the best healer we have. But even you have your limits. And you’re approaching them dangerously fast."

"So what do you suggest?" she asked, her tone slightly less hostile. "A vacation? You know I can’t leave the department right now."

"Not a vacation," he replied, reaching into the pocket of his robes. "A change."

He pulled out a thin gray envelope and placed it on the desk in front of Hermione.

"What’s this?" she asked, eyeing the envelope suspiciously.

"A proposal. A private patient, outside the hospital," he explained. "Suffering from an unidentified curse that is slowly ravaging his body. This won’t be an emergency case like yesterday; it’s a long-term research project. Something that requires more of your intellect than reflexes."

She didn't reach for the envelope, staring at it distrustfully.

"So you want to take me away from the department? Because one intern complained?"

"I want to save you from complete burnout," he replied firmly.

"This is my job," she snapped. "Saving people."

"Your job is also taking care of your own health," he said calmly. "You can’t help others if you wear yourself out."

Hermione fell silent, clenching her jaw.

"This case…" Macmillan continued, gesturing to the envelope. "It’s something special. The patient is dying, but slowly. You have time for research, experiments, analyses. No pressure of time, no bleeding that needs to be stopped immediately. It’s a different kind of challenge, more intellectual, less emotional."

“Why me?” she asked, finally reaching for the envelope, though she still didn’t open it.

“First of all, because you’re the best,” Macmillan replied. “Secondly, because the patient specifically requested you. He wasn’t interested in anyone else.”

Hermione raised her eyebrows, genuinely surprised.

“The patient asked for me? Who is it?”

“All the information is in the envelope,” he evaded the direct answer. “But I warn you—you might be… surprised.”

She looked at the envelope with renewed interest.

“How much time do I have to think about it?” she asked, turning the envelope in her hands.

Macmillan shook his head.

“There’s no thinking it over, Granger. This isn’t a proposal; it’s an assignment. You’re getting this task, and you are to complete it.”

“I’m sorry?” She straightened up, and her eyes flashed with anger. “You can't force me to—”

“I can, and that’s exactly what I’m doing,” he interrupted firmly. “This is an administrative decision. The department will manage without you for a few weeks, and you need a change before you completely burn out—or start throwing curses at interns.”

“I wouldn't...” she began indignantly but stopped when she saw his expression. “This is absurd. You can’t just push me away from my patients.”

“Your patients will be transferred to other healers,” he said calmly. “And tomorrow at ten, you will be at the address stated in the envelope. That’s it.”

Macmillan turned and grasped the doorknob.

“Bertrand, you can’t—” she began again.

“I can,” he replied, not turning back. “I’m your superior. And I'm doing this for your own good.”

With those words, he left, leaving her alone with the envelope and her rising anger.

Hermione stared at the door for a moment longer, as if by sheer force of will she could summon Macmillan back and make him change his mind. When that didn’t work, she cursed under her breath and tore the envelope open violently.

She pulled out several sheets of parchment and began to skim through them quickly. The first document contained basic information—the location (Cliff Manor, somewhere on the Cornish coast), schedule (daily visits for the first two weeks, then to be determined), and the fee (definitely higher than the standard rate).

It was the second sheet that caught her attention. It was a detailed description of the symptoms:

Symptoms of the curse cast during the Battle of Hogwarts (noticed about 2 years ago):

1. Gradual loss of control over magic—spells operate irregularly, sometimes too weakly, at other times with excessive force. Frequency: 2-3 incidents per month.
2. Temporal, increasing fatigue, disproportionate to the effort. The patient requires more and more sleep, which, however, does not bring rest.
3. Recurring episodes of high fever (39-40°C) without apparent cause, lasting from a few hours to 2 days. Frequency: initially once a quarter, now once a month.
4. Sporadic loss of sensation in the limbs, particularly in the hands and feet, lasting from a few minutes to several hours.
5. Periodic weakness or complete loss of magic for a short time (1-3 hours), during which the patient is unable to perform the simplest spells.
6. For the last six months—occurrence of severe headaches preceding fever episodes, unresponsive to standard pain relief potions.

Studies conducted by specialists from Europe and America confirmed the presence of an unidentified degenerative charm. Conventional treatment methods have not yielded results. The magical core of the patient shows a gradual destabilization, with a projected total collapse within 12-16 months.

Hermione furrowed her brow, reading this over again. She couldn’t attribute these symptoms to any curse she knew. The combination of symptoms—loss of control over magic, chronic fatigue, fever episodes, and neurological issues—suggested some type of progressive degradation of the magical core, but the mechanism of action remained a mystery.

She set aside the symptom description and reached for the last sheet—and then her eyes widened in shock.

At the top of the page, elegantly calligraphed, was the patient’s name: Draco Malfoy.

She shot up from her chair so abruptly that it toppled over with a crash behind her. Grabbing the documents, she fled her office, passing surprised healers and patients. Her robes billowed behind her as she raced down the corridor straight to Macmillan’s office.

Without knocking, she burst inside, finding him at his desk over some papers. She slammed the door behind her and threw the documents onto his desk.

“Malfoy?!” she exclaimed. “Draco bloody Malfoy?! You’ve got to be joking!”

Macmillan calmly set down his quill and clasped his hands, observing her with stoic calm.

“As I can see, you've reviewed the documentation,” he said, completely unfazed by her outburst.

“I absolutely refuse,” she growled, leaning over his desk with her hands pressed against it. “Find someone else. Anyone else.”

“There is no one else,” he replied firmly. “You’re the best, and his condition is deteriorating.”

“I don’t care!” Hermione nearly shouted. “Do you know who he is? Do you know what he’s done? What he said? For years, he called me a mudblood, he let Death Eaters into Hogwarts, he stood by and watched as his aunt tortured me in his own home!”

“I know,” Macmillan conceded. “And I also know he’s been cleared of all charges. He testified against other Death Eaters. He was a minor when he committed most of his mistakes.”

“That doesn’t change the fact that I refuse,” she said, straightening up and crossing her arms over her chest. “Find someone else.”

Macmillan sighed deeply and stood up as well.

“Hermione, I assigned you this task as your superior. This isn’t a request; it’s an order.”

“You can’t make me,” she replied, tilting her chin defiantly.

“I can,” his voice turned cold. “And if necessary, I will. If you refuse, I will have to terminate your employment.”

She froze, unable to believe her ears.

“Terminated? Me? For refusing to treat a patient with whom I have a personal history of conflict? That violates all ethical principles of healing!”

“And raging at interns and destroying your own office doesn’t?” he shot back. “I’m giving you a chance. Step away from the daily trauma, work on an interesting case, regain your balance.”

“A chance?!” she scoffed in disbelief. “You’re blackmailing me! Either I deal with Malfoy, or I lose my job!”

“Exactly,” he nodded, unexpectedly calm in the face of her fury. “Because I believe you need this as much as he needs you.”

Hermione clenched her fists, so furious that for a moment she couldn’t catch her breath. Blood pulsed in her temples, and magic crackled around her like electric discharges.

“This is absolutely unacceptable,” she finally spat. “I’m going to file a complaint with the hospital administration.”

He sighed, his face softening.

“Hermione, think logically. You’re exhausted. Yesterday you lost a patient after sixteen hours of fighting. Today you’re snapping at everyone around you. You’ve been working twelve-hour days for weeks. It’s taking a toll on you, on your team, on the patients.”

Hermione fell silent, though her eyes still burned with anger.

“Fine,” he said after a moment. “I propose a compromise. You’ll take Malfoy’s case, and in return, you can continue to come in for three shifts a week if you want. No more than that. And only if you’re courteous to the staff.”

She scoffed.

“Three shifts? Are you joking? I have five patients in critical condition!”

“Who will be passed to other healers,” he replied firmly. “Three shifts or none. And Malfoy’s case. That’s my final offer.”

She stared at him, searching for any sign that he was bluffing. She found none.

“Fine,” she finally growled. “I’ll take the case. And three shifts. But don’t expect me to be pleased about it.”

“I don’t expect that,” he replied calmly. “I only expect you to be professional. As always.”

She left, slamming the door so hard that the picture on the wall fell to the floor.

Chapter 2

The next day at 9:50, Hermione stood in her apartment, holding a small silver spoon—a Portkey she had found at the bottom of the envelope when she had angrily returned to her office the day before. The spoon was elegant, engraved with a serpent design on the handle—typically Malfoy taste, she thought with irritation.

She had spent nearly the entire night contemplating. At first, she had even considered quitting—better to lose her job with dignity than to endure Draco Malfoy’s moods. But with each hour spent reviewing his medical documentation, her professional curiosity grew. This curse was fascinating—unknown, progressive, resistant to standard treatment methods. An intellectual challenge she hadn’t encountered in a long time.

Around three in the morning, she formulated a strategy. She would treat this as a purely professional challenge. Like during her training when she was assigned difficult yet interesting cases. The patient was just a body with a curse—it didn’t matter if the body belonged to Malfoy, Potter, or Merlin himself. Just cold professionalism, zero emotions.

Of course, knowing Malfoy, it wouldn’t be easy. As she prepared for the meeting, Hermione anticipated every possible insult he could hurl at her and prepared responses.

For a good hour, she crafted sharp retorts for every conceivable attack regarding her blood status. She was ready to remind him of how many times her “dirty” blood had proven more effective than his pure. She had a whole arsenal of comments about how his prejudices had led him to the losing side in the war. She even prepared a few remarks about the irony of a pureblood aristocrat having to beg for help from someone he had always looked down upon.

In case he attacked her hair, she had mentally rehearsed a dozen responses. From simple remarks that she’d prefer her natural curls over his slicked-back, artificially bleached hairstyle, to more refined comments suggesting that his obsession with appearance stemmed from an inner emptiness. She had a whole lecture prepared about how some wizards—especially those of uncertain worth—compensate for their deficiencies with excessive attention to superficiality.

If he decided to mock her clothing, she was ready to bombard him with remarks about his own style—always expensive, always perfect, always... predictable. She prepared an entire psychological analysis of people who define themselves by their clothing brands, suggesting that without those outward markers of status, he would be nobody.

For any comments about her work, she had a full arsenal of responses highlighting her professional achievements and contrasting them with his... whatever it was he occupied himself with. She was ready to ask what he actually did besides counting inherited Galleons. She had prepared a detailed comparison of her career—built on her own work and talent—with his position, based solely on his name.

She had also composed a catalog of insults she could launch without provocation if she deemed it appropriate—from simple, classic terms like “pompous git” or “aristocratic coward,” to more sophisticated constructions comparing his personality to the ingredients of the simplest potions—basic ones, all toxic. She had prepared remarks about the emptiness of his mind, the shallowness of his character, his cowardice during the war, and how dependent he had always been on others—his father, Crabbe and Goyle, Snape.

For every scenario, every possible confrontation, every attempt to humiliate her—Hermione was ready. She had an answer, a retort, a counterattack. Her mind, always analytical, always strategic, had devised a battle plan—a verbal war she intended to win.

At 9:55, Hermione nervously checked her watch. Five more minutes. She adjusted her clothes—she had chosen the most professional outfit she had, in a muted navy blue. She tied her hair into a tight bun—no loose strands for him to comment on. Her makeup was minimal, her jewelry discreet. Everything to minimize her attack surface.

In her bag were carefully selected diagnostic tools, reference books on rare curses, a notebook for recording observations, and several vials of basic potions. She was armed not only with knowledge and experience but also with a verbal arsenal, ready to use at the slightest provocation.

"It's just a medical case," she repeated in her mind. "A fascinating, rare case."

This time, she had the advantage. He was dying, and she was his only hope. The thought of how much this must have hurt his pureblood pride gave her a certain satisfaction.

The clock showed 9:59. She took a deep breath, tightened her fingers around the silver spoon, and prepared for the Portkey's pull.

10:00 sharp. The world spun around her, and she felt the familiar tug behind her navel. She was ready for anything—for his contempt, his malice, his arrogance.

When the spinning stopped and her feet touched solid ground, she swayed slightly. She hated traveling by Portkey—she always felt like her stomach was left behind. She blinked several times, allowing her eyes to adjust to the new surroundings.

She stood in a spacious, bright living room. High ceilings with wooden beams, cream-colored walls, elegant furniture in subdued colors. But what really caught her attention were the huge windows stretching along the entire wall, offering a breathtaking view of the Celtic Sea. Navy blue waves crashed against steep cliffs, and the morning light danced on the water's surface.

This wasn't what she had expected. No dark, gothic interiors, no silver and green accents, no serpents in the decor. The place was... pleasant. Cozy despite its size.

"Healer Granger?"

Hermione turned abruptly. Before her stood a house-elf dressed in a clean, white garment with delicate embroidery—no torn pillowcase or dirty rag. The elf looked at her with respect but without fear, which was even more surprising.

"Yes, that's me," she replied, still disoriented.

"Fimble welcomes you to Cliff Manor," said the elf, bowing slightly. "Master Malfoy asks your forgiveness that he cannot greet you personally. He is... indisposed this morning. Fimble will escort you to the study, where you may wait. Would you like tea? Coffee?"

"I... tea would be nice, thank you," she responded automatically, surprised by the elf's politeness and the whole situation.

Fimble nodded and led her through the living room to a corridor. She followed, looking around curiously. The walls were adorned with paintings—but not portraits of stern ancestors as she had expected, but landscapes, mostly seascapes. Everything was bright, spacious, completely unlike the gloomy Malfoy residence she remembered from the war.

The elf stopped in front of mahogany doors and opened them for her.

"Master Malfoy's study. Please make yourself comfortable. Fimble will bring tea in a moment."

Hermione entered, and the elf disappeared with a soft crack. The study was furnished in a similar style to the living room—bright, spacious, with a large desk under the window and comfortable armchairs. One of them stood in front of the fireplace, with its back to the door.

She approached the desk, setting her bag on the surface. She looked around, noticing shelves of books—many of which she recognized as rare volumes on potions and healing spells. Neatly arranged documents, quills, and an inkwell lay on the desk.

She touched the smooth surface of the mahogany desktop with her fingertips. This place was so different from the gloomy Malfoy residence she remembered from the war. No dark artifacts, no silvery snakes in the decor, no portraits of stern ancestors looking down with contempt. Just tranquility, light, and a view of the sea.

Behind her, the door opened quietly. She turned sharply, prepared for confrontation.

In the doorway stood Draco Malfoy, and his appearance completely surprised her—she had expected to see someone ravaged by a mysterious curse, a pale ghost of a man on the edge of death. Instead, she saw a man who looked... completely normal.

Malfoy had changed since Hogwarts, of course—he was older, more mature, his face had lost its boyish softness, gaining more defined features. But otherwise, he looked surprisingly healthy. No sunken cheeks, no unnatural paleness, no visible signs of suffering. Only the shadows under his eyes suggested some fatigue, but nothing that would indicate a deadly curse.

His hair, still platinum, was now a bit longer and brushed back in a casual way, without the excess gel she remembered from their school years. He was dressed in a simple, elegant shirt—no extravagance, no ostentatious wealth.

"Granger," he said, entering the study and closing the door behind him. "Punctual as always."

"Malfoy," she replied, not hiding her surprise. "You look... well."

The corner of his mouth lifted in a slight smile.

"Were you expecting someone half-dead?"

"Honestly? Yes," she admitted. "After reading your medical documentation..."

"The curse isn't always visible on the outside," he replied, approaching the desk. "I have my better and worse days. Today is... tolerable."

She still couldn't reconcile how normal he looked. If she had met him on the street, she would never have thought he was terminally ill.

"Thank you for coming," he said, gesturing to the armchair in front of the desk. "I know it wasn't easy, given our... history."

Hermione blinked in surprise. A thank you? From Malfoy? Where were the insults? Where was the contempt? Where were the comments about her hair, her clothes, her heritage?

"I didn't have much choice," she responded cautiously, still waiting for the trap. "Macmillan was quite insistent."

Malfoy nodded as if he understood.

"I'm sorry about that. I didn't ask him to force you. I only said you were the best, and he decided on his own that it would be you."

Another apology? Hermione felt as if she had entered an alternate reality.

"Aren't you going to comment on the fact that they sent you a mud— a Muggle-born to heal you?" she asked directly, too confused to play subtle games.

He looked at her with something that appeared almost like amusement.

"Granger, I'm dying," he said simply. "Do you think I care now who had what parents? You're the best healer in the country. That's all that matters."

She raised her eyebrows, surprised by such honesty.

"Well, it's nice to know that a terminal illness can change even the most deeply rooted prejudices," she replied, her tone more matter-of-fact than malicious. "I assume you have a complete set of medical records for me?"

He nodded, accepting her cool tone without comment.

"Fimble will bring tea shortly," he said, pointing to the armchair opposite. "Please, sit down. I have all the documents prepared. Tests from the last two years, diagnoses, treatment attempts."

She hesitated, then took the indicated seat, pulling a notebook and quill from her bag. She wasn't here to be nice, but to do her job.

"I've already seen some at St. Mungo's," she said, opening the notebook. "But I need details. When did you first notice the symptoms?"

"About two years ago," he replied, taking a thick folder from his desk drawer. "Initially, I thought it was exhaustion, stress, maybe some delayed effects of the war. But the symptoms intensified."

"What were the first symptoms?" she asked, focusing on the professional aspect of the matter.

"Fatigue. Chronic, not relieved by rest. Then came episodes of loss of control over magic—once a Lumos spell nearly burned my sleeve, another time I couldn't use a simple Accio."

Hermione took notes, her brow slightly furrowed in concentration.

"And you've already consulted with other specialists, right? Beyond St. Mungo's?"

"With all possible ones," he nodded. "I've been to clinics in Paris, Vienna, New York. No one has seen anything like it."

The door opened, and Fimble entered, carrying a tray with tea and biscuits. The elf placed it on the table and disappeared with a soft crack, not interrupting the conversation.

"Your elf..." she began.

"Fimble is a free elf," Malfoy anticipated her question. "I pay him, and he has days off. I thought that information would ease your mind, given your... interests from school days."

She refrained from commenting.

"Why do you think I'll find a solution that all these experts couldn't?" she asked pragmatically, reaching for a cup of tea.

Malfoy looked her straight in the eyes.

"Because you always found solutions that no one else saw. Even at school, even when you were a child, you could solve puzzles that stopped adult wizards in their tracks."

Hermione ignored the slight blush she felt on her cheeks. Professionalism first.

"I'll need to conduct my own tests," she said, setting down her cup. "Today, if possible. And I need daily monitoring of your symptoms."

"I'm at your disposal," he replied, handing her the folder. "You can use my library, laboratory, anything that might help you."

She accepted the documents, skimming through them briefly.

"Good," she finally said. "Let's begin these tests."

She took out her wand and adopted a professional expression.

"I'll need you to sit comfortably and relax," she instructed in a matter-of-fact tone. "I'll perform several standard diagnostic spells."

He obediently sat up straight in the armchair, while Hermione stood before him and began making short, precise movements with her wand, muttering incantations under her breath. Gentle light of various colors occasionally surrounded his body, and she carefully observed every change.

"Body temperature normal," she muttered, more to herself than to him. "Although according to the documentation, you experience episodes of high fever."

"Usually once a month," he confirmed. "The last one was ten days ago."

She nodded, making a note in her notebook.

"Now I'll check your magic. Perform a simple Lumos spell."

He pulled out his wand and muttered the formula. The tip of the wand lit up with normal light.

"Now try Wingardium Leviosa on that book," she pointed to a volume lying on the desk.

Malfoy made the proper wand movement, but the book rose only a few centimeters before falling back down.

"Hmm," she murmured, writing something in her notebook. "Try again, but with more emphasis on the second syllable."

This time the book rose smoothly and hung in the air.

"Interesting," she said. "Your magic seems... uneven. As if it sometimes encounters resistance."

She then proceeded to examine his sense of feeling.

"Close your eyes and tell me when you feel a touch," she instructed, touching the tip of her wand to different places on his hands and forearms.

He obediently closed his eyes. In several spots on his left hand, he reacted with a delay or didn't notice the touch at all.

"The loss of sensation is more pronounced on the left side," she observed. "Is it always like this?"

"Yes," he nodded. "It always starts on the left side. Sometimes it encompasses the entire arm, up to the shoulder."

She wrote this down, slightly furrowing her brow. Then she cast a more complex spell that created a luminous, pulsating image above his chest—something like a magical equivalent of a Muggle EKG. Her own spell.

"This shows the flow of your magic," she explained, carefully observing the luminous lines. "Normally, they should be even and stable."

The lines, however, fluctuated unevenly, sometimes fading, sometimes brightening too intensely.

"Your magic is unstable," she said finally. "Especially on the left side. That would explain the loss of sensation and problems with spell control."

She ended the spell and made another note.

"Do you experience headaches?" she asked, tucking away her notebook.

"Yes, especially before the fever attacks," he confirmed. "Lately they've been getting stronger, and standard pain relief potions barely work."

She nodded, writing this down.

"I still need to take a sample of your blood for analysis," she said, pulling out a small, crystal vial. "This will allow me to check if the curse leaves any traces in your bloodstream."

He rolled up his sleeve, revealing his pale forearm. She placed the tip of her wand against his skin and muttered a cutting spell. Dark blood flowed directly into the vial, filling it halfway. She quickly closed the small incision.

"That's enough," she said, corking the vial. "I'll analyze this."

"And what do you think?" he asked as she finished packing her things.

She sighed, closing her notebook.

"For now, it's hard to say anything more than what you already know. Your magic does show signs of destabilization, but the cause isn't obvious. I need time to analyze the results and study your documents."

"I understand," he said, though disappointment lurked in his eyes.

"I'll need regular examinations," she added. "And a journal where you'll note every symptom—even the smallest one. Time, intensity, circumstances."

"I've been doing that already," he replied, pointing to a small leather notebook on the desk. "For a year now. Every episode, every sensation."

She took the notebook, surprised by his systematic approach.

"This will help," she admitted reluctantly. "I'll return tomorrow with the blood analysis results and a plan for further tests."

Malfoy nodded.

"Thank you, Granger. I know this isn't easy for you."

She looked at him seriously.

"I'm doing this because it's my job," she replied.

She paused at the door and turned back, as if remembering something.

"Do you have any suspicions of your own about what kind of curse this might be?" she asked, leaning against the doorframe. "Sometimes patients notice details that healers miss."

Malfoy shook his head.

"If I had any, I wouldn't be seeking help from half the magical world," he replied. "I have no idea what this is."

"And under what circumstances might you have been hit?" she probed. "There must have been a moment when the curse reached you."

Malfoy hesitated, running his hand through his hair.

"During the Battle of Hogwarts," he finally said. "But honestly? I don't remember the specific moment. That night, hundreds of spells were flying around. I could have been hit at any time, by anyone."

"And only after eight years did symptoms start to appear?" she asked skeptically.

"Apparently," he shrugged. "Some curses work with a delay. Or they build up so slowly that initially you don't notice the symptoms."

She bit her lip, analyzing this information.

"All right, I'll review materials on delayed battle curses," she said. "Same time tomorrow?"

"I'll be waiting," he nodded.

Chapter 3

Hermione arrived at St. Mungo's at precisely six in the morning. The corridors were nearly empty—most healers from the day shift hadn't arrived yet, and the night shift was handling their final duties. This gave her access to the laboratory without having to explain what she was working on.

She closed the door behind her and cast a spell that ensured her privacy. The last thing she needed was gossip about her examining Draco Malfoy's blood.

She took the crystal vial of dark blood from her bag and placed it on the table. For a moment, she studied it thoughtfully—it looked completely normal, no different from the blood of a healthy wizard. But she knew the answers lay deeper.

She proceeded with standard tests. First, she prepared several small blood samples in different vials, adding various reagents to each—substances that reacted with specific types of magical residues. One sample was meant to detect the presence of typical wasting curses, another—magical parasites, and a third—remnants of dark spells.

None gave the expected reaction. All samples remained dark, without the characteristic changes in color or structure that would indicate known magical ailments.

She moved on to more advanced tests. She placed a drop of Malfoy's blood on specially prepared parchment that had the ability to reveal hidden traces of magic. However, the parchment remained blank—no patterns, no symbols that could help with diagnosis.

She tried different approaches. She used all known methods of magical blood diagnostics, from simple spells to complex procedures she had learned during her specialization. All yielded vague, inconclusive results.

Around nine, when frustration was beginning to take precedence over professionalism, the laboratory door opened, and Bertrand Macmillan entered.

"How's the research going?" he asked, closing the door behind him.

Hermione looked at him, brushing a strand of hair from her forehead.

"Not very well," she admitted. "Nothing matches known patterns. None of the typical methods detect the curse."

Macmillan came closer, examining the samples arranged on the table.

"I told you it was an unusual case," he said. "That's why I needed someone with your experience."

"And that's why you forced me to take this case?" she asked, raising an eyebrow.

"Partly," he admitted. "But also because you really needed a change. This work was wearing you down, Hermione."

She sighed, knowing he was right, though she'd be reluctant to admit it.

"How's working with Malfoy?" he asked after a moment.

"Surprisingly... trouble-free," she replied. "He's cooperative. Even polite."

"The prospect of death changes people," he observed.

She snorted.

"Or he's so desperate that he's pretending to be nice to get my help."

"Or maybe he's genuinely changed?" Macmillan suggested. "It was ten years ago, Hermione. The war changed all of us. What are you planning next? What tests?"

"For now, I'm trying to identify the nature of the curse," she answered, returning to a professional tone. "But I'll need more time. And perhaps access to the Ministry archives—to the restricted books section."

Macmillan frowned.

"You think it's something that dark?"

"I don't know," she admitted. "But all standard methods are failing. I need to broaden my search."

"I'll try to get you permission," he promised. "But be careful, Hermione. Some spells are better left alone."

"I know," she responded seriously. "But Malfoy is dying. If there's any chance..."

"I understand," he nodded. "Well, I'll leave you to your research. Let me know if you need anything."

After he left, she returned to work. Since standard tests had failed, she had to try something unconventional. She decided to isolate the very essence of the curse—separate it from Malfoy's blood and magic to examine it more closely.

It was tedious, precise work. Drop by drop, she transferred blood into a special vessel filled with a neutralizing solution, and then, using her wand, extracted thin threads of foreign magic that stood out slightly in a different shade.

Hours passed, and her concentration didn't waver. She ignored fatigue, hunger, and thirst, completely focused on the delicate process of isolating the curse's essence. She forgot that she had promised Malfoy a meeting at ten.

Late in the afternoon, she finally managed to separate enough magical substance to conduct an analysis. She placed it in a clean vial and began to examine it.

What she discovered made her freeze in disbelief. She checked again, performing a series of precise tests. Each time, the result was the same. There was no doubt.

She felt fury rising within her. She gripped the vial so tightly she nearly crushed it. With a quick motion, she gathered her notes and ran out of the laboratory.

She rushed to Macmillan's office and burst in without knocking.

"Does Malfoy have an active fireplace?" she asked without preamble, her voice tense with barely suppressed rage.

He looked up from his documents, surprised by her sudden intrusion.

"Yes, he has a connection to the Floo Network," he replied. "Has something happened?"

"I need to speak with him immediately," she said, her fingers tightening around the vial.

"Hermione, what did you find?" Macmillan stood up, looking at her with concern.

But Hermione was already moving toward the fireplace in his office.

"I'll explain later," she threw over her shoulder, taking a handful of Floo powder from the container on the mantelpiece.

She tossed the powder into the flames, which immediately turned emerald green.

"Cliff Manor!" she called clearly, stepping into the fire.

The flames in the fireplace of Cliff Manor's living room blazed emerald green, and a moment later, Hermione tumbled out of them with momentum, clutching the vial and a stack of notes in her hand. Ashes swirled around her, settling on her laboratory robe, but she didn't even notice. Her face was contorted with anger, and her eyes were dangerously bright.

"Malfoy!" she called, and her voice echoed. "MALFOY!"

Silence. Only her own voice returning to her from the walls. She tightened her grip on the vial and moved through the living room toward the corridor, her steps heavy and determined on the marble floor.

"Malfoy, where the hell are you?!" she shouted again, louder this time.

She passed room after room—a smaller sitting room, some room with exotic plants—glancing briefly into each, her irritation growing with each second. Finally, she heard a soft sound from the end of the corridor. She moved in that direction, pushing wide open the doors leading to...

The kitchen.

She stood in the doorway, momentarily surprised by the sight before her. Malfoy was standing at the kitchen counter in ordinary black trousers and a simple white shirt with rolled-up sleeves. In front of him lay chopped vegetables, and he was holding a knife, evidently in the middle of preparing a meal.

"You're cooking?" the words escaped her lips before she could stop them.

He turned, surprised by her sudden appearance. His eyebrows rose slightly, but otherwise he remained calm.

"Granger," he nodded. "I wasn't expecting you today, since you didn't show up at the appointed time. Yes, I'm cooking. Fimble has the day off, and I sometimes like to do something by myself."

Draco Malfoy cooking by himself. It was such an improbable sight, so completely contrary to the image she had of him all these years, that for a moment she almost forgot why she had come.

Almost.

"Do you think I'm a complete idiot?" she growled, stepping closer and waving the vial in front of his face.

Malfoy set down the knife, wiping his hands on a kitchen towel. He looked at the vial, then at her furious face, and a shadow of concern appeared on his own.

"What are you talking about?" he asked, maintaining apparent calm, though Hermione noticed how his fingers tightened on the towel.

"About the fact that you lied to me!" she hissed, striking the counter with her open palm. The vial in her other hand shook dangerously. "Did you think I wouldn't discover the truth? That I'm so incompetent I wouldn't recognize anything?"

Malfoy straightened up, his face suddenly becoming inscrutable, as in the old days when he would put on a mask of pureblood superiority.

"I don't know what you're talking about," he said coldly.

"Oh, please!" she scoffed. "I spent the entire day examining your blood. Every test, every analysis, every diagnostic spell. And then I isolated the very essence of the curse."

She raised the vial to his eye level. Inside, a silvery-green substance swirled, pulsing slightly as if alive.

"And do you know what I discovered?" she continued, her voice trembling with anger. "That everything you told me is a lie! That you lied to my face, looking me in the eyes!"

An expression crossed Malfoy's face that she couldn't interpret—relief? Fear? Resignation? Before she could ponder it, it disappeared, replaced by an indifferent look.

"Not everything I told you was a lie," he replied quietly.

"Oh, how gracious of you!" she mocked. "You only partially lied to me! Should I be grateful?"

She felt her cheeks burning with fury.

"Did you think I wouldn't discover the truth?" she hissed. "That I'm so incompetent? Or is this some sort of game? A test? Because if so, congratulations—I passed it by discovering what a liar you are!"

Malfoy remained silent for a long moment, looking down at her—he was still taller than her, which only intensified her irritation. Finally, he sighed deeply, and his shoulders slumped slightly.

"You're the last person I would consider incompetent, Granger," he said quietly. "Quite the opposite. You're the only person who could have discovered this."

This admission surprised her, but it didn't soften her anger.

"So you deliberately lied to me? Why? To test my skills? Is this some kind of sick test?"

"It's not like that," he denied, shaking his head. "It's... complicated."

"Enlighten me, then," she replied coldly, crossing her arms over her chest. "Because right now, I'm one step away from walking out of here and telling Macmillan that you can find yourself another healer."

Malfoy looked at her for a long moment, as if assessing how much he could tell her. Finally, he sighed again.

"Let's go to the living room," he suggested. "It will be more comfortable to talk there."

"Don't change the subject, Malfoy," she warned him, but nonetheless followed him as he began walking toward the door.

The living room they entered was different from the one with the fireplace—smaller, cozier, with comfortable armchairs and a sofa in front of the fireplace. Draco gestured to one of the armchairs, while he sat opposite.

Hermione didn't sit down immediately. She stood for a moment, staring at him intensely, the vial still clutched tightly in her hand.

"I examined this curse thoroughly, Malfoy," she finally said, her voice somewhat calmer but still tense. "It's eleven years old."

Draco froze. Something that could have been concern appeared on his face, but he quickly replaced it with an expression of indifference.

"Are you sure?" he asked, though there was no genuine disbelief in his voice.

"I'm a healer, not a first-year," she snapped. "Of course I'm sure. The curse is eleven years old, which means you couldn't have received it during the Battle of Hogwarts. That battle was ten years ago."

A heavy silence fell. He studied her for a long moment, as if evaluating how much he could tell her. Finally, he sighed and nodded.

"You're right," he admitted quietly.

"I'm right," she repeated. "I'm right that you lied to me. Why, Malfoy? What's this lie for? Did you think I wouldn't discover the truth?"

"It didn't seem relevant to me," he replied, avoiding her gaze.

"Not relevant?!" she couldn't believe her ears. She sank heavily into the armchair opposite him, still staring at him in disbelief. "You lie to me about when and how you were cursed, and then you say it's not relevant?!"

"I didn't tell other healers either," he added, as if that would explain everything. "It's not like I only lied to you."

"Oh, great!" Hermione laughed without a trace of amusement. "So you lied to everyone equally! Is that supposed to comfort me?"

He rubbed his temple, clearly tired.

"Listen, Granger, I understand your annoyance..."

"Annoyance? ANNOYANCE?!" she nearly jumped in her seat, her voice rising by several tones. "I'm furious, Malfoy! I'm supposed to come here every day, dedicate my time, my energy, trying to heal you, and you're withholding key information from me!"

He winced, tightening his fingers on the armrests of the chair.

"Could you not shout?" he asked quietly. "I have a terrible headache."

"Headache?!" she paid no attention to his request. "You think I care about your headache when I find out you've been lying to me this whole time? Do you even want to get better, Malfoy? Because you're starting to seem like you're sabotaging your own treatment!"

He sighed deeply, closing his eyes for a moment.

"Of course I want to get better," he said softly. "That's why I asked for you. You're the best."

"Then why, by Merlin, are you lying to me about such a fundamental issue?" she leaned toward him, her eyes shining with anger and frustration. "Do you realize how important the full picture is? Every detail could matter! When you received the curse, from whom, under what circumstances—all of this could be key to finding a cure!"

"I really didn't think it mattered," he repeated, but his voice sounded less certain. "A curse is a curse, whether it's ten or eleven years old..."

"Don't tell me what matters in healing and what doesn't!" she interrupted him sharply. "I'm the healer, damn it! If I'm going to help you, I need the whole truth. Everything. Every detail, even those that seem irrelevant to you."

She stood up, unable to sit still. She began pacing around the living room, gesturing wildly.

"Do you know how much time I wasted today looking for curses used during the battle? How many books I reviewed, how many spells I ruled out because they didn't fit the timeframe you gave me?" She stopped suddenly, turning toward him. "Or maybe you lied to me about other things? Maybe your symptoms are made up too? Maybe you're not even sick?"

Malfoy winced more visibly.

"I assure you that dying is not something I'm pretending to do for entertainment," he said bitterly. "And please, Granger, stop shouting. This headache is not a joke. It's part of the curse, and your screaming only makes it worse."

"If you continue to lie to me, a headache will be the least of your worries," she replied, though she lowered her voice somewhat. "Because if I can't trust you, I can't treat you. And then all the symptoms you're feeling now will be nothing compared to what's coming."

He was silent for a long moment, watching her carefully. There was something strange in his eyes—a mixture of fear, fatigue, and something she couldn't name.

"You're right," he finally said. "I'm sorry. I should have told you the truth from the beginning."

She stopped mid-step, surprised by this sudden admission of guilt.

"Yes, you should have," she agreed, still unrelenting. "So maybe now, for a change, you'll tell me the whole truth? When exactly did you get this curse? Under what circumstances? And who cast it on you? And most importantly—why did you lie to me and all the other healers? Do you realize that the older a curse is, the harder it is to break? If you had told the truth from the beginning, maybe you'd be cured by now. Instead, you've allowed this curse to take deeper root, destroying your magic for years!"

He sighed heavily, his face expressing fatigue and what might have been shame—an emotion so foreign to Malfoy's former arrogance that Hermione barely recognized it.

"I didn't tell anyone the truth," he replied quietly, "because I knew no one would believe me. Even you, Granger, especially you—with our history—would have thought it was another lie. It was easier to say it was a random curse from the battle than to explain... the rest."

She stared at him intently, her anger slowly giving way to professional determination. She sat in the armchair and crossed her arms over her chest.

"The whole truth, Malfoy. Now," she demanded firmly. "Who cast this curse?"

He looked away, clearly reluctant to answer. For a long moment, there was silence. Finally, he sighed heavily, defeated.

"Harry Potter," he said quietly, looking her straight in the eyes.

Hermione froze. For a moment, she stared at him wordlessly, her face showing no emotion. And then, as if something inside her had snapped, she burst into laughter.

"Harry?" she finally choked out, wiping tears of amusement. "Harry Potter? Really, Malfoy? Of all the absurd lies you could have made up, you chose that one? Harry Potter, who can't even cast a decent Cruciatus Curse?"

He didn't respond, didn't join in her laughter. He sat motionless, his face tense and serious, waiting for her to finish.

Slowly, she calmed down as she realized he wasn't joking. Her smile froze, and her eyes widened in disbelief.

"You're serious," she said, it wasn't a question but a statement of fact.

"You see? That's exactly my point. Even you, the brightest witch of our generation, burst into laughter at the mere thought. Harry Potter, the Chosen One, Gryffindor's Golden Boy—casting a dark curse on a Death Eater? Who would believe that?"

Hermione opened her mouth to protest, but Malfoy continued:

"Potter is untouchable. The hero of the wizarding world. If I had told healers it was he who cursed me, they would have thought I was trying to shift blame, looking for a scapegoat. Or worse, that I made it up to discredit Potter out of some old school grudge."

"But that's... that's impossible," she finally sputtered. "I know Harry. He would never... he wouldn't be capable..."

"I don't think he did it intentionally," he interrupted her, surprising her with his gentle tone. "Calm down. Your wonderful friend isn't a sadist deep down."

She straightened up in her chair, still unconvinced.

"What's that supposed to mean?"

He rubbed his temple, as if trying to organize his thoughts or alleviate his headache.

"It was in our sixth year. During our duel in the bathroom. The same one where he cast Sectumsempra on me."

Hermione froze. She remembered that incident all too well—Harry returning to the common room, pale and shaken, telling how he had nearly killed Malfoy with a spell found in the Half-Blood Prince's book.

"What does Sectumsempra have to do with your current curse?" she asked, furrowing her brow.

"Not Sectumsempra itself," he explained. "Something earlier. Before Potter sliced me to ribbons, he cast another spell. I don't remember what it was—some strange word I'd never heard before. I was convinced it didn't work at all because I felt nothing. Absolutely nothing."

"And you think that was the curse?" Hermione didn't hide her skepticism. "The one that's killing you now?"

"I think it's possible," he nodded. "For years, I didn't think about it at all. But when I started having the first symptoms two years ago, and no healer could find the cause, I began searching in the past. I analyzed every situation where someone could have cursed me."

"And you concluded it was Harry?"

"It's one possibility," he admitted. "That duel was... intense. We both cast spells we normally wouldn't use. I tried Cruciatus, for Merlin's sake!" He shook his head in disbelief at his own past actions. "Potter might have used something whose meaning he didn't know himself. Just like with Sectumsempra."

She fell into thought. It did indeed sound like something Harry might do—try an unknown spell in a stressful situation, not knowing what the consequences would be. Especially if he found it in Snape's book, alongside other seemingly harmless charms.

"You don't remember what spell it was?" she asked. "You don't recall the incantation?"

He closed his eyes, clearly trying to recall that moment.

"It was something... something with 'mor' at the beginning, maybe? I'm not sure. I was scared, furious, determined. I heard a strange word, nothing happened, and then came Sectumsempra, and everything else disappeared in pain."

"Mor..." she repeated, her mind already searching through the catalog of known spells. It could have been something invented by Snape, some experimental spell that found its way into his old potions textbook. If so, it could be exceptionally difficult to identify and cure.

"So why did you say it was during the Battle of Hogwarts?" she asked, returning to the original lie. "If you suspect it happened in our sixth year?"

He shrugged.

"As I said—who would believe that Potter cast a dark curse on me? It was easier to say it was a random spell from the battle. Hundreds of spells were flying around then, some really nasty ones. No one would question such an explanation."

"But lying to healers could have cost you your life," she reminded him, still irritated by his approach. "If you had given the correct time of the curse from the beginning, maybe they would have found a solution already."

"I doubt it. I consulted with the best curse specialists in the world. They all threw up their hands. You're the first to discover that the curse is eleven, not ten years old. No one else even thought to check that. Besides, I wasn't even sure if it was actually that spell of Potter's. It's just my suspicion, one of many possibilities. I've been in many situations where someone could have cursed me."

"But now you're saying that's the most likely moment?" Hermione probed.

"I think so," he nodded. "Chronologically, it fits."

Hermione pondered intensely. Harry had the Half-Blood Prince's—Snape's—textbook then. The spells he found there were Snape's own inventions. Some quite harmless, like Levicorpus, others deadly dangerous, like Sectumsempra. What else could he have found there? What other spells had Snape created in his dark school years?

"Why did the symptoms only appear after nine years?" she asked, trying to organize the facts. "If you were indeed cursed in sixth year, why did the illness only manifest two years ago?"

"I have no idea," he spread his hands. "Maybe the curse needed time to develop? Maybe it was designed to work slowly, gradually? Or perhaps something activated it after years of dormancy? I could theorize, but the truth is, I don't know."

Hermione nodded, biting her lip. It all made sense—terrifying, but logical sense. Harry using an unknown spell from Snape's book. A spell that seemingly didn't work but actually planted a seed of slow destruction. A curse gradually growing in strength over the years until it finally began showing noticeable symptoms.

"I'll need to talk to Harry," she said finally, carefully observing Malfoy's reaction.

He stiffened, and his face immediately hardened.

"Absolutely not," the tone of his voice left no room for discussion. "Potter cannot find out about this."

"Malfoy, be reasonable," she sighed. "If Harry cast that spell, even unwittingly, he must remember something more."

"I said: no," he repeated, his voice low and firm. "You will not talk to Potter about my illness."

She straightened up, feeling rising frustration.

"Do you realize that without this information, finding a solution could take months? Or years? Maybe I'll never find it. Are you really willing to risk your life just because your pride won't let you ask Harry for help?"

"This has nothing to do with pride," he growled. "It's about practicality. Do you think Potter will admit to casting a dark curse? Even if he did it, even if he remembers, he'll deny it. And then we'll have a scandal, an investigation, and a lot of unnecessary complications."

"Harry wouldn't lie," she protested. "If he actually cast some spell on you, he'll tell the truth."

"Naive as always," he scoffed. "We're adults, Granger. Your friend has a career, a reputation, a family. Do you think he'll happily admit to casting a curse that's been slowly killing someone for eleven years?"

Hermione clenched her fists, trying to stay calm.

"Harry is an Auror. It's his duty to uphold the law. If he unwittingly harmed someone, he'll want to make it right."

"But first, he'll have to admit it. To you, to himself, to the whole world. And that's much harder than you think."

"So what do you suggest?" she asked with frustration. "I should guess? Search through thousands of books on dark magic, hoping I'll stumble upon the right curse?"

"If necessary," he nodded. "Talking to Potter is an absolute last resort."

"You don't understand the gravity of the situation," she shook her head. "Your magical core is deteriorating at an alarming rate. In a few months, you might lose the ability to use magic. And a year later..."

"I know what's happening to me," he interrupted her sharply. "I've been living with it for two years. But I still say: no. Find another solution."

"This is madness. Stubbornness worthy of a better cause."

"Call it what you want," he shrugged. "But if you say even a word to Potter about my illness, I will immediately end our... cooperation."

She measured him with her gaze, looking for any sign that he was bluffing. She found none. Draco Malfoy was absolutely serious—he would rather give up her help than allow Harry to learn about his condition.

"Fine," she finally gave in. "I won't tell Harry. But I'm warning you—if I don't find answers within a month, we'll revisit this conversation."

"If you don't find answers within a month," Draco replied with a bitter smile, "there probably won't be anything left to save."

Draco nodded, but there was no conviction in his eyes—only fatigue and what might have been resignation.

Chapter 4

The next day, Hermione arrived at St. Mungo's precisely at eight in the morning. Despite her short sleep and a mind filled with unanswered questions, she maintained her routine—fresh healer robes, hair tied in a practical bun, identification badge pinned perfectly straight to the pocket on her chest.

She approached the main duty roster, expecting to see her name next to the most difficult cases—that's how it always was on days she worked at the ward. To her surprise, she was assigned only routine checkups and uncomplicated cases—a broken arm after a failed transfiguration spell, an allergic reaction to Pepperup Potion, a child with magical outgrowths after experimenting with an aging potion.

She frowned, reviewing the list of more serious cases on the ward. Dragon poison intoxication, consequences of an improperly cast Obliviate, burns from a cauldron explosion... all assigned to other healers.

"Looking for something specific, Granger?" asked one of her colleagues as he passed by.

"I'm wondering why I haven't been given any serious cases," she replied, still staring at the board.

"Don't complain," the man laughed. "Some of us dream of having such an easy day as yours."

She didn't respond, but suspicion began to grow in her mind. Had Macmillan deliberately assigned all difficult cases to other healers? Was he trying to prove to her that the ward could manage without her? That she wasn't as indispensable as she thought?

For the next eight hours, she attended to her assigned patients—competently, professionally, but without the challenges that usually fueled her workday. It was almost... boring. Broken arm fixed in five minutes, allergic reaction neutralized with a standard spell, child's outgrowths eliminated with a potion that every healing student knew by heart.

None of the cases required her full concentration, which only made matters worse—her mind constantly returned to Malfoy, to the mysterious curse, to the dilemma with Harry. Should she keep her promise and not tell Harry anything? Or was it her duty as a healer—and Harry's friend—to inform him that he might have unwittingly cursed someone?

By the end of her shift, she felt more tired than after the hardest day with emergency cases. It was mental exhaustion, not physical, frustration related to the feeling that she was wasting time on trivialities while a real challenge waited elsewhere.

Before leaving, she decided to stop by Macmillan's office. She knocked on his door, already preparing in her head a carefully selected set of arguments for why she should receive more serious cases on her hospital days.

"Come in!" came the voice from behind the door.

Macmillan sat behind his desk, buried in documents. He looked up and smiled upon seeing Hermione—too innocently for her to believe he had nothing to do with her assignments today.

"Hermione! How was your day?" he asked, as if he was genuinely interested.

"Surprisingly... calm," she replied, sitting down without invitation. "I noticed all the serious cases went to other healers."

"Really?" he raised his eyebrows in feigned surprise. "I must have overlooked that."

"You deliberately assigned me light cases," she stated. "So I could finish earlier and focus on Malfoy."

He sighed, abandoning the pretense.

"I thought you'd appreciate a less demanding day."

"I would have appreciated it if you had discussed it with me, instead of deciding behind my back," she replied coldly.

"If I had asked if you wanted easier cases, what would you have said?" he asked with a slight smile.

She opened her mouth to protest but quickly closed it. He was right—she would have categorically refused.

"Exactly," he nodded, seeing her reaction. "Sometimes as your superior, I have to make decisions that you may not necessarily like, but are for your own good."

"My own good is my business," she retorted, though without real anger. She was too tired to argue.

"And your health and effectiveness as a healer is my business," he replied calmly. "But that's not why you came here, is it? Have you made any progress with Malfoy's case?"

Hermione hesitated. She wasn't sure how much she should tell Macmillan about her discoveries and suspicions.

"I discovered certain... inconsistencies in Malfoy's medical history," she said carefully. "The curse is older than I initially thought."

Macmillan smiled and pulled out an official-looking parchment with the Ministry seal from his desk drawer.

"Permission to enter the archives of the Department of Mysteries, Dark Spells and Curses section," he said, handing her the document. "It also includes access to the Restricted Section in the Ministry library."

She took the parchment, surprised by his foresight.

"How did you manage this?" she asked. "Such permissions usually require weeks of waiting and loads of paperwork."

"I have my connections," he shrugged. "And I emphasized that it's a matter of life and death. Which is true, from what I understand."

She nodded, grateful despite her initial irritation.

"Thank you," she said sincerely. "This will help tremendously."

She left his office, clutching the valuable parchment in her hand. Permission to enter the most guarded archives of the Ministry—this was unexpected help.

Not even returning home to change, she went straight to the Ministry of Magic. The sooner she started her search, the better her chances of finding an answer before it was too late—for Malfoy and for her own peace of mind.

The archives of the Department of Mysteries were located on the lowest level of the Ministry, in a dark corridor that most employees never had the opportunity to enter. Hermione showed her permission to a stern-looking wizard at the entrance, who studied the parchment for a long time before nodding and letting her in.

The interior of the archive resembled a vault more than a library—tall, metal shelves were filled not only with books but also with locked caskets, secured parchments, and ancient scrolls. The air was thick with protective spells, and the silence was so deep that she could hear her own heartbeat.

She quickly oriented herself in the catalog system and began selecting volumes that might contain information about Malfoy's curse. She focused on three categories of books.

The first were rare volumes on degenerative curses—spells that slowly, systematically destroyed the victim's magical core. Some of these books were so old that their leather bindings crumbled under her fingers, and the pages had to be turned using spells to prevent them from disintegrating at a touch.

The second focused on the most dark magical curses invented in the last few centuries—those whose descriptions could not be found in any public library, not even in the Restricted Section of Hogwarts. These books were secured with additional spells, and some pages pulsated with a malevolent energy when she brought her hand near them.

The third category concerned experimental curses—those created by individual wizards, often unregistered and known only to a narrow circle. Here she could find information about Snape's spells or those of other wizards who created their own, unique charms.

After three hours of intensive searching, Hermione left the archive with a magically expanded bag filled with copies of the most important fragments of books.

As she walked through the Ministry corridors toward the exit, she suddenly stopped. The Auror Office was just two floors up. Harry was probably still at work. She could simply drop by, say hello, maybe casually mention her new work with Malfoy...

She wasn't planning to directly ask about spells from their sixth year, but perhaps she could see his reaction to the mere mention of Malfoy? Some trace of concern, guilt, anything that might confirm or refute Draco's theory?

Having made her decision, she headed to the elevators and pressed the button for Level 2. Department of Magical Law Enforcement. Auror Office.

She walked down the corridor of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, passing Aurors hurrying in different directions. Some nodded to her in greeting—through years of cooperation between St. Mungo's and the Auror Office, many had ended up in her ward after field operations.

Harry's office was at the end of the corridor—small, but with a door marked by a plaque reading "Harry Potter, Senior Auror." Hermione knocked lightly and heard the familiar "Come in!"

Harry was sitting behind a desk cluttered with reports, his hair as messy as ever, and his glasses slightly slipped down his nose. He looked up from the documents, and his face immediately brightened with a smile.

"Hermione!" He stood up, approaching to embrace her. "What a surprise! I haven't seen you in... about two weeks?"

"Something like that," she replied, returning the hug. "I've been busy with a new project at work."

"More groundbreaking research?" he asked with a smile, gesturing to the chair opposite his desk. "Last time it was something with lycanthropy, right?"

"This time it's something different," she said, sitting down. "Actually... it's a private patient. Macmillan assigned me to an individual case."

"Oh?" he raised his eyebrows. "Must be someone important if Macmillan sent his best healer."

She hesitated for a moment, carefully observing her friend's face.

"It's Draco Malfoy," she finally said.

Harry froze for a split second, and his smile slightly faded.

"Malfoy?" he repeated. "I didn't know he was sick."

She studied him intensely, looking for any signs of concern, guilt—anything that might suggest Harry had something to do with the curse. But she saw only surprise.

"Yes," she nodded. "He's suffering from a rare curse. Quite serious, actually."

"A rare curse?" Harry frowned. "What does that mean? Is he in danger?"

"I think so," she answered honestly. "It's a kind of degenerative curse, slowly destroying his magical core. If I don't find a cure... well, the prognosis isn't good."

Harry was silent for a moment, as if processing this information. His face now showed clear concern.

"That must be difficult for you," he said finally. "I know you never cared much for Malfoy. Neither did I, of course, but..."

"Yes, no one deserves to die in such agony," she finished for him. "Regardless of our past. I've seen his test results, Harry. It's a slow, painful degradation of magic. I wouldn't wish it on even my worst enemy."

"Of course, you're right. That's terrible. Do you think there's a chance for a cure?"

"I'm working on it. That's why I was in the archives. This curse is... complicated. Unusual. But if anyone can find a solution, it's probably me, right?" She smiled faintly.

"If anyone can, it's definitely you," Harry agreed, smiling warmly at her. "You were always smarter than the rest of us."

"And you were always too modest," she replied, trying to lighten the atmosphere. "So... how are Ginny and the kids? I haven't seen them in a while."

Harry enthusiastically embraced the change of subject, telling her about James's latest exploits and Lily's first bursts of magic. Hermione listened with a smile, but part of her mind was still analyzing Harry's earlier reaction.

She didn't notice anything suspicious—no excessive guilt, no nervous reactions. Harry seemed genuinely surprised by the news of Malfoy's illness and, more importantly, genuinely saddened.

After several minutes of conversation about family and friends, Hermione glanced at her watch.

"I should go," she said, standing up. "I have a ton of materials to review."

"Sure," Harry also stood. "Hey, maybe you could come over for dinner on Sunday? Ginny would be thrilled, and the kids miss you terribly."

"I'd love to."

"Good luck with your research. And... despite everything, give my regards to Malfoy, will you? Tell him... that I wish him a return to health."

She looked at him in surprise.

"Really?"

Harry shrugged.

"The war is over, Hermione. We've all grown up. Even me."

She left the office, her mind full of conflicting thoughts. If Harry had indeed cast this curse, even unwittingly, he had no idea about it.

She spent the rest of the day in her apartment, surrounded by copies of books she had taken from the Ministry archives. She spread them out on the living room floor, creating a sort of personal library, with a cup of strong tea within reach and a notebook ready to record every significant detail.

Hours passed as she methodically went through volume after volume, looking for curses that had symptoms similar to those she observed in Malfoy—gradual loss of control over magic, recurring fever, fatigue, loss of sensation in limbs, periodic disappearance of magic, severe headaches.

Some curses matched one or two symptoms, but none encompassed the entire spectrum. However, three caught her particular attention, enough that she decided to note them in detail.

The first was called the "Magical Exhaustion Curse" and was described in a book titled "Dark Enchantments of the Middle Ages." It caused gradual loss of control over magic and its periodic disappearances—similar to Malfoy's case. But it was also accompanied by symptoms that Draco didn't mention: during each magical effort, dark purple spots would appear on the victim's skin, like bruises, which would then slowly fade. Moreover, the curse was supposed to gradually accelerate, leading to complete exhaustion of the magical core within just a year of the first symptoms. Malfoy had been suffering for two years already, which ruled out this curse—unless he had found a way to slow its progression.

The second curse, "Magical Nervous Deterioration," described in the volume "Forbidden Enchantments of the East," focused on neurological symptoms. It caused loss of sensation in the limbs and severe headaches, exactly like Malfoy's. But additionally, it led to gradual personality changes—increasing paranoia, aggression, and eventually hallucinations. This curse was particularly difficult to detect because its victims often weren't aware of changes in their behavior, attributing them to stress or fatigue. Hermione wondered if Malfoy might be experiencing these symptoms but hiding them from her. It was possible, given his initial reluctance to share complete information.

The third curse, which concerned her most, was called "Magical Core Decay." It caused chronic fatigue and recurring fever, as in Malfoy's case. But its most terrifying feature was that it gradually, irreversibly damaged not only the victim's magical core but also the surrounding tissues, leading to the slow deterioration of the entire body. In the final stage, the victim began to literally "fade"—their skin became semi-transparent, and the body lost mass, despite regular nourishment.

She shuddered, reading about the final effects of this curse. No death should be so slow and painful. If Malfoy was indeed a victim of such an enchantment, his condition was much more serious than she initially thought.

She carefully noted all three curses, along with their symptoms, known counter-spells (of which there were unfortunately few), and diagnostic methods. None of them matched Malfoy's case perfectly, but each could serve as a starting point for further research.

When the clock struck midnight, she put down her quill with a sigh. Her eyes stung from reading texts, and her mind was filled with dark spells and their consequences. She hadn't found the exact answer yet, but she now had several promising leads.

Tomorrow she was to meet with Malfoy again. She needed to learn more—was he experiencing other symptoms he hadn't mentioned? Had he ever noticed signs of paranoia or personality changes? Did his body show any signs of physical "fading" characteristic of Magical Core Decay?

With these questions circling in her head, Hermione finally went to bed.

The next day, at precisely ten o'clock, Hermione appeared again at Cliff Manor. This time she was better prepared—at least mentally. She had her notes from yesterday's research, a list of questions for Malfoy, and far fewer prejudices than during her first visit.

"Healer Granger," the house-elf greeted her. "Master Malfoy is waiting in the library. Fimble will lead."

Hermione followed the elf through the bright corridors of the manor. Fimble stopped in front of tall, wooden doors and opened them for her.

"Library," he announced simply.

She entered and immediately felt a pang of jealousy. The room was enormous, with shelves from floor to ceiling filled with books. Large windows let in plenty of natural light, and comfortable armchairs and sofas were strategically placed in various corners—perfect spots to immerse oneself in reading.

Draco was sitting in one of the armchairs by the fireplace, engrossed in reading. When he heard her footsteps, he looked up from his book.

"Granger," he greeted her, setting aside the volume and standing. "Punctual as always."

"Malfoy," she nodded. "I see you're feeling better today."

"Relatively," he replied, gesturing to the armchair opposite.

She sat down, placing her bag beside her. Malfoy returned to his seat and reached for a crystal decanter standing on a small table between them. It was filled with a golden liquid.

"Would you like a drink?" he asked, raising the decanter.

She raised an eyebrow.

"Alcohol is not recommended during the treatment of curses," she said with professional disapproval. "Especially those affecting the magical core."

To her surprise, Malfoy laughed softly.

"It's apple juice, Granger," he explained, pouring the golden liquid into a glass. "I haven't been drinking alcohol for... well, for quite some time."

She looked at him in disbelief.

"You don't drink alcohol? You were practically inseparable from a bottle of Firewhisky at every Ministry banquet where I saw you."

"That was a long time ago," he shrugged, handing her the glass. "Alcohol doesn't mix well with my pain potions. Besides..." he hesitated, "I prefer to have a clear mind. Especially now."

She accepted the glass, still somewhat surprised. The Malfoy she remembered would rather drown his worries in the most expensive liquors than voluntarily give up the pleasure of drinking.

"Try it," he encouraged her. "Fimble squeezes it from a special variety of apples. It's... different from anything you've tasted."

She cautiously took a sip. The juice was indeed exceptional—sweet but with a note of tartness, deep in flavor, with something that reminded her of... honey? Caramel? She couldn't pinpoint it exactly.

"Quite good," she admitted, setting down the glass.

"Highly rated by Hermione Granger," he smiled. "I'll tell Fimble, he'll be delighted."

For a moment they sat in silence, which, to her surprise, wasn't awkward. Just... peaceful. Finally, she cleared her throat, remembering why she was there.

"I found several potential curses that might match your symptoms," she said, reaching into her bag for her notes. "But I need more information. You need to be completely honest with me—about all symptoms, even those that seem insignificant to you."

Draco nodded, his face taking on a serious expression.

"I'm ready," he said. "Ask whatever you want."

She opened her notebook and prepared her quill. She adopted the professional tone of a healer.

"Let's start with physical symptoms you might not have noticed or considered insignificant," she said, looking through her notes. "Have you ever, especially when using magic, noticed dark purple spots on your skin, similar to bruises, that later disappeared?"

He frowned, thinking.

"No," he replied after a moment. "No spots or bruises. My skin reacts normally, maybe it's paler than before, but that's probably the result of spending most of my time indoors."

She noted his response. One symptom ruled out.

"What about your body? Have you noticed any unusual changes in weight? Loss of mass despite normal nutrition? Or perhaps... strange changes in skin appearance, like excessive transparency?"

"I've lost some weight," he admitted. "But that's more a result of decreased appetite during fever attacks. When I feel better, I eat normally and the weight returns. As for my skin..." he looked at his hands, "it's pale, as always, but definitely not transparent."

She nodded, crossing off another potential symptom.

"Now I'd like to ask about more... subjective feelings," she continued, trying to choose her words carefully. "Have you noticed any changes in your behavior or perception of reality? Increased nervousness, paranoia, unjustified anger? Or perhaps... have you seen or heard things that weren't there?"

He looked at her sharply.

"Are you asking if I have hallucinations?" he asked directly.

"It's a possible symptom of some curses affecting the nervous system," she explained calmly. "Especially those that cause loss of sensation in the limbs, as in your case."

He sighed, running his hand through his hair—a gesture Hermione had noticed before when he was embarrassed or nervous.

"I don't have hallucinations," he finally said. "But... yes, I am more irritable. Sometimes I explode for no reason, even at Fimble, though he doesn't deserve it." He hesitated. "And I have... moments of paranoia. Especially during fever attacks. I feel like someone is watching me, that something bad is about to happen. It's irrational, I know, but in those moments, it seems very real."

She carefully took notes, furrowing her brow. These symptoms matched Magical Nervous Deterioration, which wasn't good news.

"How often do you have these bouts of paranoia?" she asked.

"Rarely, when I'm alert and aware," he replied. "More often during fever or just before an attack. Usually, I can recognize them as unreal, but... they're becoming more intense."

She wrote this down, biting her lip.

"And what about headaches? You described them as severe, but are they accompanied by any other symptoms? Sensitivity to light, sounds, visual disturbances?"

"All of the above," he nodded. "During the worst attacks, I can't even stand a whisper or a candle. And sometimes I see... blurred edges of objects, as if the world were losing its sharpness."

"I understand. And your magic? You mentioned loss of control and periodic disappearance. But have you noticed perhaps that some spells are more problematic than others? For example, are offensive spells harder than defensive ones? Or maybe transfiguration is more problematic than charms?"

He thought for a moment.

"Yes, there is a difference," he finally said. "Spells requiring precision and concentration are the most difficult—transfiguration, advanced charms. Simpler spells, even if powerful, are easier. I can still cast a decent Bombarda, but transfiguring a needle into a match sometimes exceeds my capabilities."

She nodded, analyzing this information. It didn't match any of the three curses she had found—each affected magic as a whole, not specific aspects of it.

"One more question," she said, closing her notebook. "Have you ever, during your illness, experienced something that seemed to improve your condition? Any potions, spells, even daily activities that brought relief?"

He smiled faintly.

"If I had found something like that, I wouldn't need your help, would I?" He shook his head. "But... there is one thing. It might seem strange, but... music. Muggle classical music."

She raised her eyebrows in genuine surprise.

"Muggle classical music?"

"I know, it's absurd," he admitted, looking slightly embarrassed. "But when I listen to Chopin, Bach, Beethoven—the headaches are less intense. They don't disappear completely, but they become... bearable."

She froze with her quill over her notebook, trying to hide her surprise. Draco Malfoy listening to Muggle classical music for pain relief? It was so unexpected that for a moment she didn't know how to interpret it.

"That's... interesting," she finally said, writing down this information. "Music has documented therapeutic properties, even in the Muggle world. This could be a significant clue."

He shrugged.

"Or it simply distracts me from the pain. Either way, it's the only thing that brings any relief."

She closed her notebook, gathering her thoughts. The symptoms Draco described most closely matched Magical Nervous Deterioration, but there were still several inconsistencies. She needed more information, perhaps from other sources.

"Have you found anything specific?" he asked, interrupting her thoughts.

"I have a few theories," she replied cautiously. "But I need to conduct more tests. And I may need to consult with other specialists."

"But not Potter," Draco reminded her firmly.

"As promised," she sighed. "Though I still think it's a mistake."

A moment of silence fell, broken only by the sound of wind outside the library windows.

"So you're saying you spend most of your time here?" she suddenly asked, looking around the library. "At home?"

Draco nodded.

"Mainly here or in the study. Sometimes in the living room when I need a change of scenery," he replied with a slight smile. "Impressive observation, Granger."

"That's not healthy," she stated firmly, closing her notebook and putting it in her bag. "You need to start going for regular walks whenever you feel well enough. Physical activity usually helps in regenerating the magical core."

"Really?" he raised an eyebrow. "That wasn't mentioned in any of the consultations I've had."

"Because most healers focus exclusively on magical methods of treatment," she explained, standing up from the armchair. "But research shows that physical condition has a direct impact on magical strength. It's one of the reasons why Quidditch players rarely have problems with their magical cores."

He looked surprised by this information but didn't protest.

"Actually," she continued, "we should go for a walk right now. The day is beautiful, and I still have a few questions I'd like to ask you. Two birds with one stone."

"Now?" he looked through the window at the blue sky. "I'm not sure..."

"If you want to recover, you need to start following my recommendations," she interrupted him in a tone that brooked no argument. "And I recommend fresh air and light physical exercise. Come on, Malfoy. Surely you're not afraid of a little walk?"

He snorted at this challenge but stood up from his armchair.

"Fine, let it be," he agreed. "But if I faint somewhere on the cliff, you'll have to carry me back."

"I'll manage," she replied with a slight smile. "I am a witch, after all."

A few minutes later, they exited through the rear doors of the manor onto the extensive grounds of the estate. The day was indeed beautiful—the sun shone brightly in a cloudless sky, and the sea breeze tempered its warmth, bringing with it a fresh, salty scent. Cliff Manor, as its name suggested, was situated on the edge of a high cliff, dropping steeply to the Celtic Sea. The path they followed wound along the edge, offering breathtaking views of the endless blue water and rocky coastline.

She walked slowly, adjusting her pace to Malfoy, who initially seemed uncertain but gained confidence with each step. She used the walk to ask him a series of seemingly innocent questions about his daily life. She learned that his diet was surprisingly simple and healthy—plenty of fresh fruits and vegetables from his own garden, fish from a nearby fishing village, little red meat. Fimble, as it turned out, was not only a loyal house-elf but also a talented cook.

He told her about his typical day—morning reading at breakfast, working on business correspondence (he still managed part of the family estate, though remotely), afternoon time for research on his own illness or reading for pleasure. She was surprised when he mentioned that in the evenings he often listened to concerts on a Muggle radio that he had enchanted to work in a magical environment.

With each question and answer, she built in her mind an increasingly complete picture of his life—peaceful, orderly, but also lonely. He made no mention of friends or guests, apart from occasional visits from healers. No one besides Fimble seemed to be a regular part of his daily life.

When they reached a small wooden bench set at the edge of the cliff, with a view of the bay, Hermione suggested a short rest. They sat side by side, allowing the sea breeze to cool their faces.

"I have one more question," she finally said, getting to the heart of the matter. "Do you have any suspicions about what might have activated the curse's symptoms? Did anything particular happen in your life about two years ago, when the first symptoms appeared?"

Draco looked at her in surprise, as if he hadn't expected such a question.

"Why do you ask?" he asked cautiously.

"Some curses can remain dormant for years until something activates them," she explained. "Strong emotions, another spell, even a change of residence. If you were indeed cursed in sixth year, and symptoms only appeared nine years later, there must have been some triggering event."

He looked away, staring at the horizon. His face hardened, and his shoulders stiffened almost imperceptibly. When he finally spoke, his voice was quiet and devoid of emotion.

"Two years ago, I moved here," he said, still not looking at her. "From Malfoy Manor."

She waited, but he didn't continue. Instead, he tightened his grip on the edge of the bench until his knuckles turned white.

"Moving could be a trigger," she admitted cautiously. "But usually it would need to be combined with something more. Severe stress, emotional shock..."

He let out a quiet, bitter laugh.

"Indeed, things happened then that weren't... particularly pleasant," he admitted evasively.

"What things?" she asked, trying to make her voice sound professional rather than nosy. "This could be crucial for understanding the mechanism of the curse."

He turned to her abruptly, his eyes as cold as ice.

"Not everything has to be part of your little investigation," he snapped. "Some matters are private."

"I'm not trying to invade your privacy," she replied calmly. "But if something triggered the curse, I need to know what, so that—"

"So that what?" he interrupted her sharply. "So you can analyze every detail of my life? So you can find out how far I've fallen? Is that what interests you?"

She drew back, surprised by the sudden outburst of anger.

"Of course not," she denied. "I'm trying to help you."

"Help me by curing the curse," he said, standing up abruptly. "The rest of my life is none of your business."

His voice had become cold, reminding her of the old Malfoy from Hogwarts—arrogant, haughty, full of contempt. But in his eyes, she saw something more—pain, so deep and raw that it was almost physically palpable.

"Malfoy, if you won't be honest with me—" she began.

"I have been honest with you about the curse," he cut her off. "What happened in my personal life has no bearing on your diagnosis."

"How can you know that?" she asked, also standing up. "You're not a healer."

"And you're not my confidant," he replied icily. "I'm your patient, not your friend. Find another way to locate the curse."

With those words, he turned and walked quickly toward the manor, leaving her alone at the edge of the cliff. The wind suddenly seemed colder, and the sound of waves louder, as she watched his retreating figure.

She didn't go after him. Instinct told her that would only make matters worse. Whatever happened two years ago was painful enough to provoke such a violent reaction from him—and perhaps even traumatic enough to awaken a dormant curse.

She sighed, sitting back down on the bench. This was supposed to be a simple walk, and instead, she discovered another layer of mystery surrounding Draco Malfoy—a layer he clearly had no intention of revealing to her.

Chapter 5

She was in Cliff Manor, but the interior looked different—the corridors were darker, longer, and the walls seemed to pulse as if alive. She was running, though she didn't know exactly where to, guided by some primal instinct. Something was wrong. Something terrible was happening.

When she finally reached the library doors, she already knew what she would find inside. Malfoy was lying on the floor, motionless, his skin so pale it was almost transparent. She rushed to him, drawing her wand and muttering all the healing spells she knew.

"Malfoy! Draco! Wake up!" she shouted, but her voice sounded strangely distant, as if coming from behind a thick curtain.

His eyes remained closed, and his breathing was so shallow it was barely noticeable. She placed her hand on his chest, feeling a weak but regular heartbeat.

"Don't die," she whispered, casting more spells. "Please, don't die."

But with each spell, each attempt to help, his body became increasingly transparent. She could now see through him to the floor, the carpet pattern showing through his chest, arms, legs. The only thing that remained solid was his heart—pulsing strongly, now visible to the naked eye through the transparent shell of his body.

"No!" she cried as his face began to fade, blurring like an image in the rain. "Stay with me!"

She tried to grab him, hold him, but her fingers passed through him as if he were made of smoke. Finally, he disappeared completely, leaving only his heart—beating, alive, but completely exposed, suspended in the air where he had been lying just moments before.

Boom-boom. Pause. Boom-boom.

The sound was hypnotic, deep, almost tangible. She reached out with trembling hands, as if wanting to protect this last remnant of Malfoy.

Boom-boom. Pause. Boom-boom.

The heart began to beat faster, louder, until the sound filled the entire room, vibrating in the walls, the floor, in her own chest.

Boom-boom. Boom-boom. BOOM-BOOM!

She sat bolt upright, sucking in air with a loud hiss. Her pajamas were soaked with sweat, and her heart was beating so fast that for a moment she feared it would leap out of her chest. The room was dark, illuminated only by the faint glow of moonlight coming through the window.

Boom-boom. Pause. Boom-boom.

She froze. The sound hadn't disappeared with the dream. She could still hear it—rhythmic, dull thuds, like a heartbeat. They weren't coming from her own chest, however, but from...

She turned her head toward the window.

Boom-boom. Pause. Boom-boom.

The sound was muffled but distinct, coming from outside. Someone—or something—was beating steadily on the glass of her bedroom window, which was on the second floor.

She reached with a trembling hand for the wand lying on her bedside table. She cast a quick Lumos and, directing the light ahead of her, slowly got out of bed. She approached the window, feeling as if each step required an enormous effort of will.

Boom-boom. Pause. Boom-boom.

With a pounding heart, she pulled back the curtain and looked into the darkness beyond the window.

For a moment, she stared into the night, expecting to see something terrifying. Instead, she noticed a small, whitish shape beating steadily against the glass. It wasn't a specter or apparition, but... a paper airplane.

"By Merlin," she sighed with a mixture of relief and irritation, opening the window.

The airplane immediately flew inside, making an elegant arc in the air before landing on her outstretched hand. Under the touch of her fingers, the paper unfolded itself, revealing careful, slanting handwriting that she recognized immediately.

Granger,

I've lost feeling in my entire left arm. I thought you might want to examine this symptom while it's at full intensity.

D.M.

She stared at the note in disbelief, which quickly turned to anger. After how he had behaved on the cliff—after he had practically thrown her out of his home and told her not to interfere in his private matters—he had the audacity to send her a message in the middle of the night as if nothing had happened?

She glanced at the clock standing on her bedside table. It was three in the morning. Three! And he expected her to immediately come at his call like some... house-elf?

Worse yet, how did he even know where she lived? The only person who knew her address from work was Macmillan. Had the head healer shared her private data with Malfoy? This thought only fueled her anger.

She was very tempted to tear the note to shreds, go back to bed, and ignore the whole matter until morning. Or at least until some civilized hour, like eight or nine.

But even as these thoughts flashed through her mind, she already knew she wouldn't do that. No matter how much Malfoy irritated her, he was her patient. A patient with a potentially fatal curse who was currently experiencing one of its most serious symptoms. Her conscience—not to mention her healer's oath—wouldn't allow her to ignore such a situation.

"Damn you, Malfoy," she muttered under her breath, tossing the note onto the bed and heading to her closet.

She dressed hurriedly, pulling on the first pair of trousers and sweater she found, then gathered her hair into a careless bun. She grabbed her healer's bag, always ready for emergency calls, and headed to the living room where her fireplace was located.

With each step, her irritation grew. It wasn't just about the time—though that was also insolent—but about the entire situation. About how Malfoy treated her as a professional from whom he expected immediate help one moment, and as an intruder the next whenever she brought up uncomfortable topics. About how he clearly made her understand that she was merely a tool to cure his curse, not a person with whom he could share his real fears and secrets.

She took a handful of Floo powder from the decorative bowl on the mantelpiece and threw it into the flames, which immediately turned emerald green.

"Cliff Manor," she said clearly, stepping into the fire.

The world swirled around her in a kaleidoscope of green flames, before depositing her in Malfoy's elegant living room. Brushing the ash from her robe, she looked around the room.

He was sitting in an armchair by the fireplace, dressed in a dark dressing gown over his pajamas. His left arm rested limply on the armrest, and his face was paler than usual. Upon seeing her, he straightened slightly but didn't stand.

"You came," he said, and there was a note of relief in his voice.

"I'm a healer," she responded coolly, walking closer. "It's my job, regardless of the hour."

She took her notebook and quill from her bag, avoiding looking him in the eyes.

"You wrote that you lost feeling in your left arm," she said in a tone as if discussing the weather. "When exactly did it start?"

"Around midnight," he replied, watching her carefully. "First my fingers, then my whole hand, and now the entire arm up to the shoulder."

She noted this dispassionately, then set aside her notebook and moved closer to examine his arm. She grasped it by the wrist, lifting it up and turning it at different angles. He didn't even flinch—confirming that he indeed couldn't feel her touch.

"Try to move your fingers," she instructed.

He concentrated, but his fingers barely twitched.

"Hmm. Not just sensation, but motor control is impaired as well," she murmured, noting her observations.

Then she took out her wand and without warning made a complicated movement, casting a diagnostic spell that sent a magical impulse through his entire body. The spell was known to cause a brief but intense discomfort—resembling an electric shock.

He hissed in pain, straightening abruptly in his chair.

"By Merlin, Granger! Warn me before you use Electro Revelio!" he snarled, rubbing his chest with his right hand.

"I didn't think you needed a warning," she replied coldly. "It's a standard diagnostic procedure."

"Standard, but painful," he muttered, grimacing.

"Does it hurt?" she asked, raising an eyebrow. "And here I thought you'd lost feeling."

"In my left arm," he specified, looking at her reproachfully. "The rest of my body still feels pain, as you've just demonstrated."

She continued the examination, her movements precise but lacking the usual care with which she treated patients. She used spells that were more invasive than necessary, and each grimace of pain on Malfoy's face seemed to bring her satisfaction.

The atmosphere was tense, filled with unspoken words. Finally, as she cast another spell that made him clench his teeth, he broke the silence.

"Granger," he began, and when she didn't react, he tried again. "Hermione."

That caught her attention—he had never used her first name before. She looked at him, raising an eyebrow.

"I apologize for my behavior this afternoon," he said quietly. "It was inexcusable."

She froze with her wand in the air, surprised by the sincerity in his voice.

"Yes, it was."

"I shouldn't have reacted that way," he said softly. "Especially since you came to help me."

She looked at him carefully, evaluating his apology.

"Well, I'm glad you understand that," she replied in a professional tone. "Now focus, I need to examine your arm."

After several minutes of intensive diagnostics, she reached into her healer's bag and pulled out a small ceramic jar.

"What's that?" he asked, looking at it curiously.

"A special ointment that I prepare myself," she answered, unscrewing the lid. "A combination of nerve-stimulating potion with mandrake essence and comfrey leaf oil. I use it in cases of nerve injuries on the ward."

The substance in the jar was intensely green and emitted a sharp, herbal scent. Hermione took a generous amount on her hands and began gently rubbing it into his cold fingers.

"It might sting," she warned, methodically massaging each finger, then the wrist, and then the forearm. "That's a good sign—it will mean the nerves are responding."

Malfoy's skin was cool and smooth under her fingers. She worked in silence, concentrating entirely on the task.

After a few minutes, he twitched slightly.

"Do you feel something?" she asked immediately.

"Yes," he replied, sounding surprised. "Tingling. Like... thousands of tiny needles."

"Excellent," she nodded with satisfaction. "That means the ointment is working. The nerves are waking from their dormant state."

She continued the massage, now with even greater precision, paying special attention to places where the main nerve bundles ran. Gradually, under her touch, Malfoy's arm began to regain its normal color.

"Try to move your fingers," she instructed after some time.

He concentrated, and this time his fingers twitched noticeably, bending slightly.

"Amazing," he said quietly. "I can feel them. All of them."

"Good," she smiled. "The ointment neutralizes the effect of the curse, at least temporarily. It's not a cure, but it will help control the symptoms."

She continued working, rubbing the ointment into his entire arm up to the shoulder. With each minute, Draco's movements became more confident, and his face brightened as sensation returned.

"I'll leave you the jar," she said, finishing the treatment and wiping her hands on a towel that Fimble handed her. "Apply it twice a day, morning and evening. And immediately whenever you feel the onset of numbness."

He moved his fingers, bending and straightening them with evident relief.

"Thank you," he said, and his voice carried sincere gratitude. "This... this really helped."

"It's just a temporary solution," she reminded him. "We still need to find a way to remove the curse."

"I know," he nodded. "But even temporary relief is... invaluable."

She packed her things back into her bag. The clock hands showed almost five in the morning—she had spent nearly two hours at Cliff Manor.

"I should go," she said, standing up. "Tomorrow—or rather today—I need to get back to work."

Draco also stood, escorting her to the fireplace.

"Granger," he stopped her as she was reaching for the Floo powder. "I apologize again. For my behavior on the cliff. And for calling you in the middle of the night."

She turned to him.

"It's all right," she replied. "It's part of my job."

"No, it's more than your job," he said, looking directly into her eyes. "And I'm truly grateful to you. Not just for this," he raised the arm in which feeling had returned, "but for all your help. For not giving up, despite me being... a difficult patient."

She looked at him for a moment, surprised by his sincerity.

"Well," she finally said with a slight smile, "I've always liked challenges."

He returned the smile—it was a rare, genuine smile that completely changed his face, making it younger and less marked by suffering.

"I'll come tomorrow evening," she added, throwing the powder into the flames, which immediately turned green. "And try to get some sleep. Regeneration is important."

"I will," he promised. "Good night, Granger. And thank you again."

"Good night, Malfoy," she replied, stepping into the flames.

Over the next few days, Hermione fell into an intensive work rhythm. Every evening, she visited Cliff Manor, examining Malfoy, monitoring the progress of the curse, and applying the ointment that at least temporarily alleviated some symptoms.

She devoted every free moment—early mornings, lunch breaks, late evenings after returning from Malfoy's—to reviewing books borrowed from the Ministry archives. Her apartment had transformed into a miniature library, with volumes arranged in methodical stacks according to topic and potential usefulness.

Despite all this effort, she hadn't found any curse that exactly matched Draco's symptoms. Magical Nervous Deterioration still came closest.

On Sunday, as promised, she went to dinner at Harry and Ginny's. When she apparated in front of their house in Godric's Hollow, she hesitated for a moment before knocking. She had promised Malfoy she wouldn't tell Harry about his illness. But after a week of fruitless searching, she was beginning to doubt the wisdom of that promise. If Harry had indeed cast that spell, even unwittingly, he might be the only key to solving the mystery.

She finally knocked, deciding that she would first spend a normal, family dinner with her friends, and only afterward consider whether to break the promise she had made to Malfoy.

The door opened immediately, revealing Ginny's laughing face.

"Hermione! Finally!" she exclaimed, embracing her friend. "I was starting to think you'd use work as an excuse again!"

"I wouldn't dare," she laughed, returning the hug. "I've missed you all."

"Auntie Mione!" an enthusiastic voice reached her, and a moment later a small, black-haired boy slid into the hallway, gliding on the wooden panels in his socks.

"James!" she crouched down to embrace the boy, who ran straight into her arms. "You've grown so much! What happened to my little godson?"

"I'm not little!" James protested, proudly puffing out his chest. "I'm seven already! And I can fly a broom! Dad says I'm a natural talent, just like him!"

"Of course he says that," Ginny laughed, rolling her eyes. "Come, Hermione. Harry's finishing preparing dinner, and Lily just woke up from her nap."

She followed Ginny into the cozy living room, where a little girl with curly, red hair was playing in a magically enlarged playpen. Upon seeing the newcomers, Lily raised her head and squealed joyfully, extending her chubby little hands.

"Hello, little one," she leaned over the playpen, allowing the tiny fingers to grab her thumb. "You've grown too since last time!"

"And she's started walking," Ginny added proudly. "Well, more like wobbling and falling, but she's determined."

"Like her mother," came Harry's voice, who had just emerged from the kitchen, wiping his hands on a towel. "Hi, Hermione," he smiled broadly, approaching to hug her. "I'm glad you could make it."

Dinner was exactly what she needed after a week of intensive work—a warm, family gathering full of laughter and normalcy. James recounted with excitement all the "super-important" things he had done in the past week—from finding a huge spider in the garden to building a pillow fort in his room. Lily, placed in a high chair, enthusiastically scattered pea puree all over the table, which seemed to amuse her much more than eating it.

"So how's it going with that difficult case?" Ginny asked at one point, helping herself to more potatoes. "Harry mentioned you're dealing with some complicated curse."

She shot Harry a quick glance, but he just shrugged.

"I only said you had a difficult case," he explained. "No details."

"It's... demanding," she admitted. "But I'm making progress. Slowly."

"Who are you treating?" Ginny probed. "Someone famous?"

"I can't disclose that kind of information," she replied evasively. "Healer confidentiality."

"Sure, sure," Ginny waved her hand. "But if it's someone from the Ministry, everyone probably already knows. Nothing stays secret there for more than a day."

"It's not anyone from the Ministry," she assured her, feeling uncomfortable with the direction the conversation was taking.

Fortunately, James came to her unwitting rescue by knocking over a glass of pumpkin juice right onto his pants.

"Oh, James!" Ginny sighed, pulling out her wand to remove the stains. "That's the third time this week!"

"It's not my fault!" the boy protested. "The glass tipped over by itself!"

"Of course," Harry muttered, but winked conspiratorially at his son. "Just like that cake we were saving for Grandma Molly's visit ate itself last time."

Hermione smiled, observing this family scene. Harry was a good father—patient, loving, but firm when necessary. It was hard to believe that this same person could have cast a curse that was slowly killing someone for eleven years.

When, after dessert, the children were sent for an afternoon nap (James protested that he was "too big" for naps, but fell asleep before Ginny returned to the living room), and Ginny went to check something in her study where she wrote sports articles for the "Daily Prophet," Hermione was left alone with Harry at the table.

Her friend watched her carefully, sipping his tea.

"Something's bothering you," he stated, not asking. "And it's not just ordinary work fatigue. It's something serious."

She sighed. Harry had always been able to see through her.

"Yes," she admitted. "I have... a dilemma."

"Related to Malfoy?" he asked quietly.

Hermione nodded.

"If I can help in any way..."

She looked at him, considering her options. She could change the subject, keep the promise she made to Malfoy. But as she looked into Harry's green eyes, full of genuine concern, she felt she had no other choice.

"I have to break a promise," she said quietly. "And I don't know if it's right, but... Harry, I need to ask you about something. Something that might have happened many years ago."

He frowned but nodded, encouraging her to continue.

"What is it?"

She took a deep breath.

"Do you remember our sixth year at Hogwarts? That duel with Malfoy in the bathroom?"

Harry froze with his cup halfway to his lips. A shadow of concern flashed across his face, which he quickly replaced with a forced smile.

"Of course I remember," he replied, setting down his cup. "Hard to forget the moment when I nearly killed someone because of a stupid spell from a book. Why do you ask?"

She hesitated, choosing her words.

"As I mentioned, Malfoy is being killed by a curse. A curse that, according to my research, was cast eleven years ago. Exactly during the time when you had that duel in the bathroom."

Harry frowned, his eyes becoming distant, as if analyzing the memory.

"Sectumsempra," he said after a moment. "That's the only serious spell I used. And Snape healed him right away. I saw it myself."

"It's not about Sectumsempra," she replied. "Malfoy claims you cast another spell before that. Something that initially didn't seem to work, but now turns out to be a slow, degenerative curse."

Her friend's face hardened. His eyes, warm and open a moment ago, became cold and suspicious.

"And you believe that?" he asked, his voice suddenly dry. "That I cast some dark curse that's been quietly killing him for eleven years?"

"I'm not saying you did it intentionally," she explained quickly. "Like with Sectumsempra, you might not have known what the spell did. You found it in the Half-Blood Prince's book, right?"

Harry pushed away from the table, his posture closed and defensive.

"Maybe I did cast some spell before Sectumsempra," he admitted reluctantly. "I don't remember exactly. It was a duel, Hermione. Spells were flying from both sides. But if you're suggesting I used some dark, unknown curse..."

"I'm not suggesting you did it on purpose," she repeated. "But Malfoy is dying, Harry. His magical core is breaking down. I need to know what spell could have caused this if I'm going to save him."

"After eleven years, suddenly I'm to blame?" he scoffed. "Typical Malfoy. Always looking for a scapegoat. I thought maybe he'd grown up a bit, but apparently, he's still the same spoiled brat he was at school."

"Harry..." she began, surprised by his tone.

"No, listen," he interrupted her. "This is absurd. Even if I cast some spell from Snape's book, it certainly wasn't any serious curse. Snape was dark, but he wouldn't put a spell that could kill someone in a school textbook!"

"He put Sectumsempra there," she reminded him quietly.

Harry clenched his jaw.

"That's different," he insisted. "That was immediate. Visible. Not some... insidious curse working years later."

Hermione watched him carefully. He avoided her gaze, his fingers tapping nervously on the table top. This wasn't the reaction of an innocent person surprised by an accusation. It was the reaction of someone desperately trying to convince himself that he wasn't guilty.

"Harry," she said gently. "I'm not accusing you. I just want to know if you remember any spell you might have used. Anything that would help me identify the curse."

"I don't remember," he replied stiffly. "It was eleven years ago, Hermione. In the middle of a war. We had more important things on our minds than remembering every spell from some school duel."

An awkward silence fell. Harry suddenly stood up, collecting the empty cups.

"I'll go make more tea," he said, heading toward the kitchen.

She didn't stop him. She watched his back disappear through the kitchen door, her mind analyzing his reaction. Defensiveness. Changing the subject. Attempting to discredit Malfoy. All the classic signs that Harry was hiding something—or running from something.

When he returned from the kitchen a few minutes later, his face was composed, but she knew him too well not to notice the tension around his eyes and mouth.

"I'm sorry," he said, placing fresh tea in front of her. "I shouldn't have reacted so abruptly. It's just... a difficult topic."

"I understand," she nodded.

"I really would like to help you," he continued, sitting down. "But I don't remember any specific spell from that day other than Sectumsempra. And I honestly doubt I could have unwittingly cast some powerful curse. It just doesn't make sense."

She took a sip of tea, gathering her thoughts.

"All right," she finally said. "Thank you for your honesty."

The rest of the meeting passed in a tense atmosphere, despite their efforts to return to normal topics. When Ginny returned, she immediately sensed the change, but Hermione dismissed her questioning look with a forced smile.

When half an hour later she was saying goodbye to the Potters, she embraced Harry as usual. But for the first time in years, she felt stiffness in his arms and absence in his embrace.

"Let me know if you remember anything," she said quietly, pulling away.

He nodded, not meeting her eyes.

"Of course."

Apparating home, she already knew that her intuition was correct. Harry had indeed cast the curse that was now killing Malfoy. And exactly as Draco had predicted, Harry would never admit it—perhaps not even to himself.

She stood in her apartment, among stacks of books and notes, feeling the weight of this knowledge. She was right, but what did that give her? She still didn't know exactly what spell had been used. She still had no way to save Malfoy.

Chapter 6

The next day, precisely at ten o'clock, Hermione threw a handful of Floo powder into her fireplace, clearly saying "Cliff Manor." She hadn't even had time to dust the ash from her robes after landing in Malfoy's elegant living room when she already knew something was wrong.

Draco stood in the middle of the room, his face contorted with fury, his eyes cold as ice. In his right hand, he clutched a parchment, which he immediately waved in front of her nose.

"Does this," he hissed through clenched teeth, "look like keeping a promise to you?"

She blinked, surprised by the vehemence of his reaction.

"What are you talking about?" she asked, though somewhere deep down she already knew the answer.

"About this!" he practically threw the parchment in her face. "A letter from your wonderful friend Potter! It came this morning—special delivery straight from the Chosen One!"

With hesitation, she took the letter. Harry's handwriting was instantly recognizable—hurried, somewhat chaotic. She began to read, and with each word, she felt the blood draining from her face.

Malfoy,

I found out you're trying to blame me for your illness. Typical. Always looking for a scapegoat, aren't you?

I don't know what you told Hermione, but if you think I'll believe that I unwittingly cast some ancient curse on you, you're sorely mistaken. That's an absurd accusation, even for you.

Hermione is a good healer and wants to help you. She doesn't deserve to be dragged into your manipulations. If you're really sick, I sympathize, but stop looking for culprits among others. Maybe it's time to look in your own ranks? After all, it was your family that collected dark magic artifacts.

1. Potter

She lowered the parchment, feeling a wave of shame and anger—at Harry, but most of all at herself.

"I didn't..." she began, but he interrupted her.

"You didn't tell him?" he growled. "Then how the hell did he know about the curse? About how you're being 'dragged into my manipulations'?" His voice dripped with sarcasm. "Telepathy? Clairvoyance? Or maybe you simply broke your word?"

"Listen," she tried again, but he was too furious to listen.

"One thing!" he shouted, raising a finger. "I asked you for one thing! Not to tell Potter! Was that too much? Was it so hard to keep such a simple promise?"

"I had no choice!" she replied, also raising her voice. "A week of searching through books, and I still have no idea what curse it is! Every day of delay is one day less for you! I thought Harry might remember the spell he cast!"

"And as you can see, it worked brilliantly!" he retorted, pointing to the letter. "Potter confirms everything—with his denial! If he hadn't cast this curse, he would have simply said 'I don't remember such a spell.' But no—he immediately goes on the attack, accuses me of manipulation! That's how someone with a guilty conscience reacts!"

She clenched her hands into fists, feeling her own anger rising.

"Fine, I made a mistake," she said, trying to stay calm. "But at least now we know for sure it was Harry. His reaction—"

"Oh, so now I should be grateful?" he interrupted her. "Thank you, Granger, for breaking the only promise I asked of you! You've done splendidly!"

"Stop it!" she snapped. "I'm trying to help you! Everything I do, I do to find a cure!"

"Helping?" he scoffed. "Potter is probably laughing with his ginger wife right now about how Malfoy is trying to blame him again! They're probably writing to the 'Prophet' so the whole world knows how pathetic I am!"

"Harry would never do that," she defended her friend, though she wasn't so sure herself after reading his letter.

"Of course, Saint Potter," he mocked. "Always impeccable, always proper. Even when he casts deadly curses, it's only because he had good intentions!"

"That was eleven years ago! We were children in the middle of a war!"

"I was a child in the middle of a war too!" he roared, striking the wall with his fist. "And now I'm dying because of his ignorance!"

She stepped back, surprised by the intensity of his outburst. Malfoy was breathing heavily, his eyes burning with anger and frustration.

"I know," she said more quietly. "And I'm really sorry. But we can still fix this. I have a plan—"

"Another brilliant plan from Hermione Granger?" he interrupted her. "Like the one to talk to Potter behind my back? No, thank you."

"Can we put aside your resentment for a moment? Your life is at stake."

"My resentment?" he laughed briefly, without a trace of humor. "For eleven years, I've carried a curse inside me that's eating me from within. And now, when I finally have a chance to find a cure, the only person who can help me turns out to be as untrustworthy as everyone else!"

"That's not fair," she replied, feeling her eyes filling with tears of anger. "I work on this day and night. I'm doing everything in my power."

"Everything except keeping your word," he muttered.

"If I had kept my word, we'd still be at a standstill!"

"And where are we now? What exactly have we gained?" he asked, spreading his arms. "Potter won't tell us what spell it was. He'll deny everything to the very end."

"I can consult with other specialists..."

"And tell them what?" he interrupted her. "That you're looking for a curse cast by Harry Potter? Your best friend, the hero of the wizarding world? No one will believe you! And if they do, it will be the end of your career!"

"You think I care about my career when your life hangs in the balance?" she shouted.

"Yes!" he replied without hesitation. "You do care! Your career, your friends, your principles have always come first! Even now, you're more worried about Potter's reaction than about my life!"

"That's not true and you know it!" she clenched her fists. "If I didn't care about your life, I wouldn't be here! I wouldn't spend every free moment looking for a cure!"

He snorted disdainfully.

"Oh, of course, you must feel so noble helping the poor, dying Death Eater. What a wonderful addition to your perfect resume!"

"How dare you?" she paled with anger. "I've never treated you as a charity project!"

"No?" he stepped closer, his voice cold as ice. "Then why are you here, Granger? Because you actually care? Or maybe you just can't stand failure? Or worse—perhaps it's just guilt because your beloved Potter is responsible for my death?"

"I'm here because I want to help you, you ungrateful jerk!"

"Help?" he laughed bitterly. "Your help is like poison, Granger. You give me hope, then take it away. It would have been better if you'd never appeared here. At least I could have died with dignity, instead of listening to false promises from someone who can't keep one fucking word!"

A dead silence fell. Malfoy froze, clearly horrified by what he had just said. She stepped back as if he had struck her. Her face paled, and her eyes filled with tears.

"Hermione, I didn't—"

"No," she interrupted him quietly. Her voice was calm but icy. "Don't say anything more. Now at least I know what you really think of me."

She turned and approached the fireplace, grabbing a handful of Floo powder from the decorative bowl.

"Wait!" Draco moved after her. "I didn't mean to say that. It was—"

"It doesn't matter," she cut him off, throwing the powder into the flames, which immediately turned emerald green, and saying her address.

"Hermione, please!" he called after her, but it was too late.

She stepped into the green flames, and the last thing she saw was Draco's face—pale, frightened, and full of regret.

* * *

For the next three weeks, Hermione didn't appear at Cliff Manor even once. The first day after the argument, when emotions had somewhat subsided, she felt a pang of guilt—perhaps she had reacted too harshly? Perhaps she shouldn't have left a dying man without help?

But then she remembered his words, which spat from his mouth felt like a slap, and her determination returned. Some boundaries shouldn't be crossed, even in anger. Even when you're dying.

The day after their quarrel, the first owl arrived—an elegant, black bird with a letter sealed with the distinctive Malfoy crest. She looked at it, held it in her hands, and then set it aside unopened on a shelf. The second letter, which arrived the next day, shared the fate of the first. Likewise the third and fourth.

When after a week, an enormous owl appeared on her windowsill carrying a package along with a letter, Hermione didn't even open the window. The bird stood there for an hour, tapping its beak against the glass, until it finally flew away, taking the package with it.

At work, she immersed herself in duties so deeply that her colleagues looked at her with concern. She took extra shifts, volunteered for the most difficult cases, stayed long after hours. Anything to avoid thinking about what had happened. Anything to avoid wondering how Malfoy was doing. Was his condition worsening? Was the curse progressing? Did he have someone applying the ointment to his numbing limbs?

Macmillan tried to talk to her several times, asking about progress in Malfoy's treatment, but each time she dismissed him with cursory answers.

"I'm looking into alternative methods," she would say, avoiding his gaze.

"Is the patient cooperating?" he would inquire.

"There are certain difficulties," she would reply evasively.

After several such conversations, Macmillan clearly understood that something was wrong. When one morning he noticed her reviewing a patient's test results with trembling hands after a practically sleepless night, he took her aside.

"Whatever happened between you and Malfoy," he said quietly, "you need to resolve it. Either as a healer or as a person."

She raised her head, ready for confrontation, but something in his eyes—concern, not judgment—made her anger fade.

"I need time," she answered simply.

"Time is a luxury that Malfoy doesn't have," he reminded her gently. "But I understand. Let me know when you're ready to return to this case."

After this conversation, he left her alone, though sometimes she caught his concerned glances when they passed each other in the hospital corridors.

In the third week of avoiding Malfoy, Hermione began having nightmares. She dreamed she was standing over his grave, holding in her hands a book with the spell that could have saved him—if only she had found it a few days earlier. She would wake up sweating, with guilt so heavy it was hard to breathe.

But each time she considered returning to Cliff Manor, the memory of their argument and his terrible words held her back. As did her pride, which whispered that he should be the one begging for forgiveness, not sending some formal letters that she didn't even want to read.

And yet, the longer this situation continued, the harder it became for her to concentrate on anything else. Malfoy was like a splinter—painful, irritating, but impossible to ignore. Each day she asked herself if her resentment was worth his life.

Evening had fallen, and Hermione was still sitting in her living room surrounded by books. Despite the passage of three weeks, despite her resolution that she would no longer handle Malfoy's case, she couldn't completely abandon the research. Every evening, after an exhausting day at work, she returned to the same volumes, the same notes, looking for an answer she might have missed.

"This is pointless," she muttered to herself, closing another book. "Even if I find a solution, he's probably already found another healer."

But she knew that wasn't true. If Malfoy had found someone else, Macmillan would know. And he was still asking her about progress, which meant Malfoy wasn't seeking help elsewhere.

She sighed, resting her head in her hands. Maybe she should go back to him?

Her thoughts were interrupted by a soft knock at the door. She looked at the clock—it was after ten in the evening. Who could be coming at this hour? She stood up, pulling her wand from her pocket—one could never be too careful, even in peaceful times. She approached the door and looked through the peephole.

What she saw made her step back in astonishment. On the other side stood Draco Malfoy, with an enormous bouquet of flowers in his hands. He looked elegant as always, though somewhat more tense than usual.

She hesitated. Every cell in her body screamed not to open that door, not to let him back into her life. But curiosity and something else—something she didn't want to name—won out.

Finally, she turned the lock and opened the door, but only as wide as the security chain allowed.

"What do you want, Malfoy?" she asked coldly.

"Granger," his voice was calm, though clearly nervous. "May I come in? Please."

There was something so disturbing about that "please" that she felt her determination weakening. She sighed and closed the door to remove the chain, then opened it again, wider.

"You have five minutes," she said, stepping back to let him in.

He entered her apartment with a confident step, though his eyes betrayed uncertainty as he looked around the small hallway.

"Thank you," he said quietly, closing the door behind him.

She led him to the living room, still cluttered with books and notes. He noticed them immediately, and his eyes widened slightly.

"You were still... looking?" he asked in disbelief.

She shrugged, not wanting to admit that despite everything, she couldn't stop thinking about his case.

"What do you want, Malfoy?" she repeated, crossing her arms over her chest.

He looked at her, and then, to her complete surprise, fell to his knees, extending the bouquet—a beautiful arrangement of white lilies and blue irises.

"I'm sorry," he said, and his voice was sincere and full of regret. "I'm sorry for everything I said. For how I behaved. I was... I was furious and said things I didn't mean. Cruel and unforgivable things."

She stared at him in astonishment.

"Stand up, Malfoy," she finally said, feeling awkward. "You don't need to kneel."

"I do," he insisted. "I must, because otherwise you might not understand how much I regret it. How much I need your help. I'm begging you, Granger. Come back to Cliff Manor. Continue the treatment."

She studied him carefully. His eyes were clear and sincere, without a trace of his former arrogance or anger.

"I tried everything," he continued. "Letters, which you ignored. Attempts to contact you through Macmillan. Finally, I understood that the only way was to come in person and beg for forgiveness."

"Why?" she asked simply. "Why do you care so much? You can find another healer."

"I don't want another healer," he replied without hesitation. "I want you. Because only you truly try. Only you treat me like... a person, not like a medical case or a former Death Eater."

She sighed. She wanted to remain unmoved, but his sincerity was disarming.

"You know that what you said... was unforgivable," she finally said.

"I know," he nodded, still kneeling. "And I'm not asking you to forgive me. I'm only asking you to give me a chance to prove I can be better. That I deserve your help."

She took a deep breath. She made her decision—not out of pity or a sense of duty, but because she saw in his eyes something she had never seen in Draco Malfoy before: genuine remorse.

"All right," she said, accepting the bouquet from him. For a moment, she looked at the beautiful flowers—white lilies and blue irises formed an elegant arrangement. "Sit down, I'll find a vase."

With obvious relief, he sank onto the sofa while Hermione went to the kitchen. She returned a moment later with a tall, crystal vase filled with water. She carefully arranged the flowers in it, placing the bouquet on the low table.

"They're beautiful," she admitted quietly. "Thank you."

"It's nothing," he replied, not meeting her eyes.

An awkward silence fell. Hermione sighed lightly.

"I'll make tea," she announced, heading back to the kitchen.

When she returned with two steaming cups, he was sitting in exactly the same position, as if afraid to move. She handed him one of the cups, which he accepted gratefully.

"How are you feeling?" she asked, sitting in the armchair across from him.

He took a sip of tea before answering.

"Not great," he admitted. "The ointment you gave me ran out a week ago. The episodes of numbness are more frequent, the headaches more intense."

She nodded, reaching into her bag for her wand.

"May I?" she asked, pointing her wand toward him.

Draco set down his cup and nodded, straightening up on the sofa.

She performed a series of complicated wand movements, and colorful diagnostic lights appeared around Malfoy—mainly in shades of deep purple and disturbing red.

"The curse is progressing," she stated grimly, observing how the red glow concentrated around his chest and head. "The magical core shows signs of increased destabilization."

"So I have less time than we thought," he said calmly, as if discussing the weather rather than his own death.

"Not necessarily," she replied firmly, continuing the examination. "I can prepare a stronger version of the ointment, which should slow the progression. And I have a few new ideas for therapy."

She performed one more spell, this time focusing on his head. She frowned, seeing the results.

"The headaches are worse, aren't they? Especially on the right side," she observed.

He looked at her with slight amazement.

"How do you know?"

"I can see increased pressure on the trigeminal nerve," she explained.

A moment of silence fell. Hermione began recording the diagnostic results in her notebook when Draco suddenly spoke, his voice quiet and full of nostalgia.

"I'm going to die anyway, aren't I?"

She raised her head, surprised by the directness of the question. Malfoy's face was calm, almost reconciled with fate.

"Don't say that," she replied, putting down her quill.

"Please, don't lie to me," he said, looking straight into her eyes. "I've been sick for two years. I've gone through all the stages of grieving for my own life—from denial, through anger, to acceptance. If you don't find a cure... I just want to know how much time I have left."

She bit her lip, hesitating between professional distance and the honesty her patient was demanding.

"I won't give up," she said firmly. "I'll keep looking. There are curses that were incurable for centuries until someone finally found a solution."

He smiled faintly.

"If it were a known curse, you would have found it by now," he stated simply. "You're the best healer I know. If you can't identify it, no one can."

His words, though meant as a compliment, only increased the weight Hermione felt on her shoulders. She looked at him, making a decision.

"There's something I haven't told you," she admitted, straightening in her chair. "Something that might be the key to the solution."

He raised his eyebrows, waiting for her explanation.

"Regarding that duel and Sectumsempra... Harry found that spell in a certain book," she continued. "In an old potions textbook that once belonged to Severus Snape. Snape called himself the 'Half-Blood Prince' at school and wrote his own spells and potion modifications in the margins."

Malfoy frowned, increasingly interested.

"And you think the spell he cast on me..."

"Could also have come from that book," she finished. "It's the only logical explanation. Harry wasn't the type to invent dark magic spells on his own. But he was known for using what he found in Snape's book without fully understanding the consequences."

"Where is that book now?" he asked with new energy in his voice.

"I have no idea," she admitted with frustration. "Harry hid it somewhere after that incident and didn't tell absolutely anyone where. Not even me or Ron. He claimed it was too dangerous for anyone to know."

"Typical Potter," he muttered. "Always has to be the noble one, protecting everyone from dangerous secrets."

"I tried to question him about it multiple times over the years," Hermione continued. "Especially after I became a healer and understood how valuable some of Snape's potion modifications could be. But Harry always avoided the topic or outright refused to discuss it."

"And you think he'll suddenly change his mind now?" he asked skeptically.

"No," she answered honestly. "Especially after finding out we're looking for the source of the curse. If that book really contains the spell that injured you, Harry will do everything to ensure no one finds it."

Silence fell again. She observed Malfoy, who was staring at his hands, lost in thought. It was a good moment to bring up the topic that had been troubling her since their first meeting.

"I know I've asked this before, but it really could be crucial... What happened two years ago that could have activated the curse? Some strong trauma, a sudden change in your life?"

He looked up, and a shadow of his old hostility appeared in his eyes, but it quickly gave way to fatigue.

"It's really something I don't want to share with the world," he said quietly, but firmly. "It's... personal."

"I understand, but as your healer—"

"This isn't about stubbornness or pride," he interrupted, shaking his head. "I don't want sympathy. I don't want that... that feeling that nothing can be done anymore. That all that remains is acceptance and comforting the dying."

She fell silent, surprised by the sincerity of his words. He continued, looking somewhere over her shoulder.

"If I tell you, it will change the way you look at me. You'll see not a patient who needs to be cured, but... a victim who needs to be comforted. And that will only make me feel worse."

"I don't treat you like a victim," she denied.

"Not now," he agreed. "But that will change when you know the truth. Everyone who knows... they look at me differently. With pity. Or, worse, with feigned optimism—'everything will be fine,' 'it will work out.' I can't stand it."

"But if that information could help find a cure..." she began more gently.

He sighed, weighing his words for a moment.

"Let's do this," he finally said. "Let's give ourselves two months. If we don't make progress in that time, if Snape's book isn't found, if there's no other clue... then I'll tell you. Everything. Regardless of the consequences."

She wanted to protest, but something in his eyes—a mixture of determination and plea—stopped her.

"Two months," she repeated, nodding. "That's fair. But then I expect the complete truth, with no excuses or half-truths."

"You have my word," he promised. "And a Malfoy's word, contrary to what some believe, is not given lightly."

"Good," Hermione agreed. "Then let's focus now on what we can do. I was recently reading about an experimental therapy used in cases similar to yours. It's a method developed by healers from Japan, involving sending controlled magical shocks directly into damaged nerve pathways."

"Sounds... unpleasant," he stated cautiously.

"It's painful," she admitted directly. "Very painful. It involves stimulating the nerves using specially modified electrical spells that are meant to 'wake' them from the paralysis caused by the curse."

"But it can help?" he asked, clearly considering this option despite the concerning description.

"It's not a cure," she cautioned. "It's just neutralizing symptoms. But in a situation where all we can do now is treat symptoms, I think we should try. The method significantly improves patient functioning, at least temporarily. It could give us those two months we need to find a real solution."

He was silent for a moment, considering her words.

"And side effects?" he finally asked.

"Besides pain during therapy?" she bit her lip. "Possible intensification of symptoms for the first 24 hours after the procedure, then gradual improvement. Some patients also experienced increased sensitivity to magic—spells might work more strongly or more weakly than usual."

"But it won't deepen the curse? Won't accelerate its action?"

"According to research—no," she answered. "At worst, the therapy simply won't work. But I must warn you, it really is painful. Patients describe it as a feeling similar to the Cruciatus, though much shorter and more localized."

He laughed bitterly.

"Well, I actually have some experience with the Cruciatus, thanks to Voldemort's courtesy. I think I can handle it."

She looked at him with compassion. Sometimes she forgot what he had gone through as a teenager under Voldemort's rule in his own home.

"So you agree?" she made sure.

"Yes," he answered without hesitation. "Do what you must. I'm ready."

Hermione nodded and stood up.

"Good. I would prepare a bit more, but since you're already here... Take off your shirt and lie down on the couch," she instructed matter-of-factly, fully assuming the role of a professional healer.

Draco raised an eyebrow but without a word of protest removed his outer robe and unbuttoned his shirt, revealing pale skin covered with several scars—souvenirs of Sectumsempra and other injuries from the war years.

"First, I need to precisely locate the damaged nerve pathways," she explained, taking out her wand. "This might sting, but it won't be painful yet."

She moved her wand along his body, performing complicated movements and whispering diagnostic spells. Where she encountered disturbed areas, a golden glow appeared. She methodically marked these places with a magical marker, drawing a complex pattern on his skin.

"Now I'll give you this," she said, transfiguring one of her quills into a rubber mouthpiece. "Clench your teeth on this during therapy. It will help."

He accepted the device with a slight grimace.

"Will it really be that bad?" he asked.

"Really," she confirmed honestly. "But it will only last about fifteen minutes. And the effects should be worth it."

She went to her bag and took out a small vial of potion.

"This won't eliminate the pain—otherwise the therapy wouldn't work—but it will alleviate the shock your body will experience."

He drank the potion in one gulp, winced at the bitter taste, then placed the mouthpiece between his teeth and nodded, signaling he was ready.

She took a deep breath and began the therapy.

The first wave of magic she sent into the marked point on his chest caused Malfoy's entire body to arch. A muffled scream broke through the rubber mouthpiece, and his hands clenched on the edge of the sofa with such force that his knuckles turned completely white.

"I'm sorry," she whispered, but didn't stop. She knew she had to be quick and precise.

For the next half hour, the living room was filled with Malfoy's muffled groans and Hermione's calm, monotonous incantations. Sweat poured down the patient's forehead, his body trembled, sometimes convulsively, but he didn't ask for the therapy to be interrupted.

Finally, she reached the last point—located right at the base of the skull. This one was the most difficult and painful.

"This is the last one," she warned. "But it will be the most intense. Are you ready?"

Draco, pale as a wall and trembling, nodded slightly.

She focused all her magic, precision, and intention, then performed the final spell. The reaction was immediate—Malfoy's entire body tensed like a string, his back arched, and a muffled scream escaped from his throat. For a few seconds, which seemed like an eternity, he remained in this position, then collapsed limply onto the sofa, breathing heavily.

She was immediately at his side, checking his pulse and casting diagnostic spells.

"It's all over," she said quietly, gently removing the mouthpiece from his mouth. "How do you feel?"

For a moment, he couldn't respond, breathing shallowly through clenched teeth. Finally, he opened his eyes, which were glazed with pain.

"Like... like someone poured molten iron into my veins, then set them on fire from the inside," he choked out.

"That's a good sign," she said, giving him a pain-relieving potion. "It means the nerves are responding. Drink this, it will ease the pain."

He obediently drank the potion, then fell back on the pillows, still trembling slightly.

"How long... will this effect last?" he asked quietly.

"The pain will subside within an hour," she explained, covering him with a light blanket. "Afterward, you may feel tingling, especially in places that were previously numb. That's normal. Tomorrow you should notice a significant improvement in motor control and sensation."

He nodded, closing his eyes. He looked completely exhausted.

For the next half hour, she sat beside him, monitoring his condition and applying soothing spells to the most irritated areas. Slowly his breathing evened out, and the tension began to leave his muscles.

"Better?" she asked when he finally opened his eyes.

"Yes," he admitted, trying to sit up.

"That's a good sign," she smiled. "But don't overexert yourself. You need rest for the therapy to fully work."

She helped him sit up, and then stand. He was weak but definitely more stable than before the therapy.

"You should go home and get some sleep," she said, helping him put on his shirt. "Tomorrow morning should be much better."

"Thank you," he said quietly, buttoning his shirt with trembling fingers. "For... everything."

She nodded, leading him toward the fireplace.

"Will you manage with the Floo network?"

"I'll manage," he assured her. "Fimble will be waiting on the other side."

She handed him a handful of powder.

"I'll come tomorrow morning to check how you're feeling," she promised. "And then we'll determine what's next."

He paused before the fireplace and looked at her with a strange expression.

"You know," he said quietly, "I never thought I'd say this, but... I'm glad you're my healer, Granger."

Before she could respond, he stepped into the fireplace, threw the powder into the flames, and clearly said: "Cliff Manor."

The green fire consumed him, leaving her alone in the apartment, with a strange feeling of warmth spreading in her chest.

Chapter 7

The next morning, as promised, she appeared at Malfoy's.

She quickly conducted an examination and was satisfied to find that the therapy had produced the expected effects. He hadn't lost feeling in any part of his body since the previous evening, and his movements were much more stable and controlled. The magical flows in his body, though still disturbed by the curse, showed temporary stabilization.

Since her presence was no longer immediately necessary, she decided she could return to her duties at St. Mungo's. Despite her fatigue after the intense evening, she felt well enough to work her scheduled shift.

She had barely crossed the threshold of her office when the door opened abruptly, and Macmillan stood there.

"Granger," he said, furrowing his brow. "What are you doing here?"

"Good morning, Healer Macmillan," she replied, surprised by his tone. "I came for my shift, of course."

"Shift?" he repeated in disbelief. "After you've practically not left the hospital for the past three weeks? Taking double shifts, handling the most difficult cases? No way."

"But I feel fine," she protested. "I really can work."

He stepped closer, examining her with the critical eye of an experienced healer.

"You have shadows under your eyes the size of Galleons," he stated mercilessly. "Your magical aura is weakened by at least thirty percent. And you're trying to tell me you're in a condition to perform complicated medical procedures?"

"Healer Macmillan, I assure you that—"

"Not an option, Granger," he interrupted firmly. "Go home. Rest. That's an official order."

Reluctantly, she nodded and left the office, still irritated but also with a growing sense of relief. Perhaps she really did need rest. The last few weeks had been intense—first the feverish research on Malfoy's curse, then equally intense avoidance of Malfoy, and finally yesterday's exhausting therapy.

When she returned to her apartment, she quickly realized she had no idea what to do with herself. Her entire life was so filled with work, research, and responsibilities that she had completely forgotten what it was like to have free time. She looked around her apartment, searching for any activity that wasn't related to medicine or curses.

Her gaze fell on a small shelf of recreational books—mostly Muggle novels she once loved to read. The problem was, she had read them all, some even several times. She couldn't remember the last time she had the time to buy something new.

She thought it would be a good opportunity to visit Flourish and Blotts. A walk to Diagon Alley would do her good, and a new book could be a nice way to spend the rest of the day.

As she was getting ready to leave, her eye caught the bouquet from Malfoy, which still stood in the vase on the table. The flowers were beautiful—fresh and fragrant, as if they had just been picked. She moved closer, wondering where he had obtained such an exceptional arrangement.

Curious, she took one of the lilies from the bouquet, wanting to smell it up close. The moment her fingers touched the petals, the flower trembled slightly, and then, to her complete astonishment, began to change. The petals folded, changing shape and color, until after a few seconds, she was holding not a flower, but an elegant, cream-colored card.

On the card, in elegant, calligraphic handwriting, which she immediately recognized as Malfoy's distinctive style, were the words:

"Look in Flourish and Blotts, in the history section, third shelf from the window. You'll find a blue book in a silver binding that might give you a moment's respite from our problems. It's already paid for. D.M."

She stared at the card with her mouth open. Intrigued, she reached for a second flower—this time a blue iris. As she expected, this one also trembled and changed into a card, but with a different message:

"Not so fast, Granger. One flower a day. Even you need to learn patience. D.M."

Despite herself, she smiled. It was so typical of Malfoy—even his gift had to be delivered with a touch of sarcasm. Of course, this rule immediately made her want to check what was hidden in the remaining flowers.

Unable to resist, she pulled out a third flower—another lily. This one also transformed into a card:

"I knew you wouldn't be able to resist. Now you have to wait two days for the next one. Really, do you always have to do everything your own way? D.M."

She laughed out loud. There was something so absurdly... cute about this? He had prepared a magical bouquet for her with hidden messages. And somehow he had predicted that she would immediately try to discover all the secrets, ignoring the instructions.

Looking at the remaining flowers in the bouquet, she wondered what else might be hidden in them. More clues? Messages? Hints about the curse? It was hard to resist the temptation to check them all at once, but she decided this time to obey and wait, discovering one per day.

With a smile, she tucked the first card into her pocket. She was intrigued—what was this book, and why had Malfoy decided to choose it for her? Suddenly, a day of rest didn't seem as bad as she had expected. A walk to Diagon Alley and a mysterious book were the perfect way to recharge her batteries before returning to work on the curse.

An hour later, she was walking down Diagon Alley, enjoying the sunny day. The air was warm and filled with familiar scents—fresh pastries from a nearby bakery, a mixture of herbs from Slug and Jigger's Apothecary, and that characteristic note of magic that was always felt in the wizarding world.

When she reached Flourish and Blotts bookstore, she was greeted by the familiar smell of paper, ink, and leather bindings. No matter how many times she came here, she always felt the same thrill of excitement—as if each visit was the first.

"Good day, Miss Granger!" called the owner from behind the counter. "It's been a long time since we've seen you. The new volumes on magical medicine are in the section..."

"Thank you, but today I'm looking for something from the history section," Hermione interrupted with a smile.

He raised his eyebrows in surprise but nodded.

"Of course, the history section is where it always is."

She headed to the back of the bookstore, passing stacks of books being arranged by magical ladders and several other customers immersed in reading. The history section was located in one of the quietest corners of the shop, illuminated by soft light coming through a large window.

Third shelf from the window... she stood before it, scanning the titles. Most of the books had typical historical bindings—brown, burgundy, dark green. A blue one with silver elements should stand out...

And indeed, after a moment, her eyes fell on an elegant book in cobalt-blue binding, with silver decorations on the spine. She carefully pulled it out from the shelf and turned it over to read the title.

"The Dark Age: The True History of the Dark Wizard Gellert Grindelwald" by Bathilda Bagshot.

She blinked in surprise. It was a special, limited edition—published only a few months ago, with additional chapters containing recently discovered materials from Bagshot's private archives, which had been found after her death.

"A fascinating choice, isn't it?"

Hermione jumped, hearing the owner's voice right behind her.

"It's one of the best historical works we've published in recent years," the bookseller continued. "Bagshot had access to sources other historians could only dream of. Her own cousin's grandson... And these newly discovered materials shed completely new light on the relationship between Grindelwald and Dumbledore."

"Yes, I've heard about it," she replied, looking through the table of contents. "It must be a fascinating read."

"Oh, certainly! And you're in luck—it's the last copy. Someone reserved it for you—Mr. Malfoy, if I remember correctly."

She nodded, still amazed by the choice. Of all the books he could have chosen, he decided on an in-depth historical study of one of the most powerful dark wizards, whose fame was eclipsed only by Voldemort?

But the longer she thought about it, the more she appreciated the choice. It wasn't light entertainment, but something that could really absorb her—a fascinating topic, written by a legendary historian, full of new information that even she didn't yet know. Exactly the kind of reading that could completely distract her from thoughts of the curse and work.

Since she was already in the bookstore, she decided to also check the section devoted to curses and counter-spells. Despite Macmillan's instructions to rest from work, she couldn't help herself. Maybe by some miracle she had overlooked some volume that could help Malfoy? She had read practically everything that Flourish and Blotts had on the subject.

She walked along the shelves, running her fingers along the spines of books. "Undetectable Curses," "21st Century Magical Defense," "Mental Attacks and Their Neutralization"—all these titles were perfectly familiar to her. She sighed with slight disappointment when suddenly she heard a familiar voice behind her.

"Hermione? Did Macmillan not send you on forced rest?"

She turned and saw Terrence Hawkins, one of the healers from the spell damage ward. They had worked together on several difficult cases, and she always enjoyed collaborating with him—he was competent, patient, and had a great approach with patients.

"Hi, Terry," she replied with slight embarrassment at being caught in the medical books section. "Yes, he did. Actually, I came for... for something to read for pleasure." She showed him the book about Grindelwald, hiding the fact that she was still glancing at the shelves of medical literature.

Terry raised his eyebrows, looking at the title.

"What light reading," he joked. "But indeed, I've heard that this new Bagshot edition is remarkable."

"They were out of 'Ten Magical Ways to Relax,'" she replied with an ironic smile.

Terry laughed, his brown eyes flashing with warmth. He was a man her age, of medium height, with a pleasant, open face and an always carefully trimmed beard that added gravity to his appearance. Hermione had always thought he resembled a somewhat younger version of Professor Lupin—he had the same gentle manner, though without the burden their former teacher carried.

"You know," he said, hesitating slightly, "there are other ways to rest besides reading about former dark wizards. For example... a good dinner with company?"

She looked at him, surprised. Was Terry Hawkins actually trying to ask her on a date?

"What do you mean?" she asked cautiously.

Terry blushed slightly, which gave his serious face a somewhat youthful charm.

"Well, I've been wanting to ask you for some time... Maybe we could go out to dinner together? There's a new restaurant, 'The Golden Cauldron'—they supposedly have fantastic dishes combining British cuisine with international influences."

She blinked, surprised by this proposal.

"That's very kind of you, Terry," she replied gently, "but I'm afraid I can't. I'm... in the middle of a very demanding medical project. Even on vacation, my mind is occupied with it."

"Ah, is it about that mysterious patient you're treating? Macmillan mentioned it's a complicated case."

"Exactly," she confirmed, grateful for this excuse. "It requires all my attention."

"I understand," he nodded with a warm smile. "Perhaps another time, when you've solved this medical puzzle?"

"Perhaps," she replied evasively, knowing it would probably never happen. "I should go now. It was nice seeing you, Terry."

"You too, Hermione," he replied sincerely. "And remember—rest is also part of healing. No one can help others if they burn out themselves."

She nodded and headed toward the checkout, feeling a slight pang of guilt. Terry was nice, and she would certainly enjoy spending time with him, but right now she really didn't have the mental space for dates or relationships. Her mind was completely absorbed by the puzzle of Malfoy's curse—a puzzle whose pieces still didn't fit together.

She collected her wrapped book and left the bookstore, inhaling the fresh air of Diagon Alley. Some part of her mind was still working on possible solutions to Malfoy's problem, even when she was ostensibly resting. That was her curse—she couldn't completely turn off her analytical thinking, especially in such a medically intriguing case.

She headed to a nearby café, where she ordered a cappuccino and a cherry pastry. She sat at a table in the corner, enjoying the peace and anonymity, then opened her new book. Perhaps a few hours with Grindelwald and his complicated history would help her rest from Malfoy's curse.

She tried to focus on reading, but from time to time her thoughts returned to the problem. Malfoy certainly had a good education in dark magic—did he himself have no ideas about what spell it could be? And perhaps in the Malfoy library there were rare books that might contain clues?

She shook her head, forcing herself to return to reading. She had promised herself that this day would be free from work. Tomorrow she would return to her search with new energy and a fresh perspective.

Several hours later, with an empty cup and a half-read fascinating book, Hermione felt truly rested. She had to admit that Malfoy had quite good literary taste—this book was exactly what she needed.

She wondered what she would find in the remaining flowers from the bouquet. Would there be more clues about books? Or perhaps something related to treatment? Whatever it was, she felt a strange excitement at the thought of discovering more secrets hidden in the bouquet.

With this thought, she returned to her apartment, planning to spend the evening finishing the book about Grindelwald and getting a good, long sleep.

She couldn't remember when she had last woken up feeling so rested. Before she even had her morning coffee, her gaze wandered to the bouquet standing on the table. Yesterday's discovery had made her extremely curious about what the remaining flowers might hide. With a slight sense of excitement, she approached the vase and gently pulled out one of the irises.

As before, the flower trembled in her hand and then began to transform. After a moment, she was holding not a flower, but a small, delicate card. On it, in the same elegant, calligraphic handwriting of Malfoy's, was a message:

"'Nimue's Magical Spa'—full treatment package, including stone massage, rejuvenating elixir bath, and goblin relaxation ritual. Even the busiest healer needs someone to take care of her from time to time. Valid for one year, so don't make excuses about lack of time. D.M."

Attached to the card was an elegant, pearly voucher with the embossed gold logo of the exclusive spa, which Hermione had heard of but never visited—the prices for their services far exceeded what she usually spent on herself.

She raised her eyebrows in astonishment. Nimue's Magical Spa was the most exclusive establishment of its kind in wizarding London—reservations had to be made months in advance, and the prices of their treatments were astronomical. It was said that even the wives of the wealthiest wizards had to wait a long time for an appointment.

And now she had a voucher for a full package of treatments? This must have cost a fortune. She didn't know whether to feel embarrassed or grateful for such a generous gift.

On one hand, accepting such expensive gifts from a patient seemed unprofessional. On the other... well, Macmillan had indeed ordered her to rest, and this was the perfect way to really relax.

She smiled slightly, feeling a strange warmth at the thought that he had considered something like this. This wasn't a gift from a patient to a healer—it was a gift from someone who genuinely wanted her to rest and take care of herself.

"All right, Malfoy," she muttered to herself. "You win this time. I'll use your gift."

She decided to send a letter to the spa and schedule the earliest possible appointment. To her surprise, the response came almost immediately.

"Of course, Miss Granger. For Mr. Malfoy and his guests, we always have a reserved spot. Would this evening at 7:00 PM be suitable?"

She agreed, still amazed at how many doors the Malfoy name opened, even after the war. With this thought, she headed to the fireplace to go, as usual, to Cliff Manor and conduct a check-up before her evening relaxation.

Fimble, as always, was waiting for her in the living room, bowing low.

"Master Malfoy is in the library, Miss Granger," the elf informed her, leading her through the corridors of the manor.

When she entered the library, Draco was sitting at a desk, reviewing some old documents. Upon seeing her, he stood up, and his face brightened with a slight smile.

"I came to check how you're feeling after the therapy. And thank you for the book," she said, drawing her wand. "It's fascinating. How did you know I would like that particular subject?"

"It wasn't hard to guess," he replied with a slight smirk. "You were always the only person at Hogwarts who read 'Hogwarts: A History' for pleasure. Besides, I thought the history of one dark wizard might give you a break from problems with another."

"Speaking of dark wizard histories," Hermione began casting the first diagnostic spells, "I sent a letter to the spa to reserve a visit. Just mentioning your name suddenly opened up a spot for this evening."

"Family connections," he shrugged. "One of the owners was a friend of my mother's. Do you like the gift?"

"It's very generous," she answered honestly. "Too generous for a standard healer-patient relationship."

"Was our relationship ever standard, Granger?" he asked quietly.

She looked up from her diagnosis, meeting his gaze. For a moment there was silence between them, which she finally broke by returning to her examination.

"How are you feeling after the therapy? Still no numbness in your limbs?" she asked in a professional tone.

"Much better," he admitted. "The tingling in my left arm has completely subsided. The headache is gone too. For the first time in months, I slept through the night without any problems."

"That's a good sign," she replied, moving her wand to the area of his chest. "Now I'll check the condition of your magical core. This is a basic diagnosis, it shouldn't trigger anything."

She made a fluid motion with her wand, uttering the diagnostic spell.

In an instant, his face changed—his eyes widened in an expression of pure pain, his mouth opened in a silent scream. Before Hermione could react, Malfoy collapsed to the floor, and his body began to convulse violently.

"Malfoy!" she cried, immediately rushing toward him.

His body was wracked with strong convulsions, his back arching, and foam mixed with blood began to flow from his mouth. His eyes rolled back, showing only the whites.

She acted instinctively, years of healer training taking control over her terror. With one motion of her wand, she moved the furniture away so he wouldn't injure himself during the seizure. With another, she conjured a pillow, which she gently slid under his head, protecting it from hitting the floor.

"Fimble!" she called, not taking her eyes off Malfoy. "Bring the green potion from my bag! Quickly!"

The house-elf appeared instantly, handing her the requested vial. She tried to pour the potion into his mouth, but with such convulsions, it was impossible.

"Petrificus Partialis!" she cast the spell, which partially immobilized his body, allowing her to control the seizures enough to administer the potion.

Carefully, she poured the liquid between his lips, making sure he wouldn't choke on it. Then she cast a series of spells monitoring vital functions—they appeared above his body in the form of colorful charts, all alarmingly unstable.

"What's happening, Miss Granger?" asked a terrified Fimble, nervously twisting his long fingers.

She cast a few more stabilizing spells but quickly realized that her actions were insufficient. Draco's condition was more serious than she had initially thought.

"I need to take him to St. Mungo's," she decided, rising abruptly. "I don't have the potions with me that could help him. He needs specialized care, immediately."

Fimble froze, his large eyes widening even more.

"No, not to Mungo's!" he protested feverishly. "Master Malfoy doesn't want to go there! He told Fimble many times—no hospitals, no strange healers! Master Malfoy wants only Miss Granger to treat him!"

"Fimble, this is not up for discussion," she replied firmly. "His life depends on it. This attack is very serious; he needs immediate specialist help. If he doesn't get it, he could die."

"But Master Malfoy always said—"

"Right now, Master Malfoy cannot speak," she interrupted, casting Mobilicorpus on Draco's unconscious body. "And I, as his healer, am making a decision that could save his life. Help me or don't interfere."

The elf didn't protest anymore. A few seconds later, they emerged in the crowded hospital hall. Hermione immediately took control of the situation, transfiguring the nearest armchair into a hospital bed, on which she placed Malfoy.

"Make way!" she called, directing the bed with her wand toward the elevators. "Healer Granger, magical collapse emergency!"

Staff and patients parted before her as she traversed the corridor, her wand guiding the bed with precision and firmness. When they reached the elevators, she paused for a moment to check Malfoy's condition—he was still unconscious, his breathing shallow, and his pulse weak.

The elevator opened, and to her relief, she saw Terry Hawkins inside.

"Terry!" she called. "I need your help. Magical core collapse emergency. Patient had severe convulsions and loss of consciousness after a standard diagnostic spell."

He immediately switched to professional mode, approaching the bed and casting his own diagnostic spells.

"Malfoy?" he asked in surprise, recognizing the patient. "What happened?"

"I'll explain later," she replied, pushing the bed into the elevator. "Right now, I need your support. Fourth level, magical intensive care unit."

He nodded, pressing the appropriate button in the elevator.

"What potions have you already administered?" he asked matter-of-factly.

"Neural stabilizer, but that's all I had with me," she answered, not taking her eyes off the monitoring spells hovering above Malfoy. "We need a full magical resuscitation kit, Core Strengthening Potion, and probably Balancing Essence."

"I'll take care of it," he assured her as the elevator stopped on the fourth floor.

They immediately headed toward the intensive care unit. Hermione was grateful for Terry's professionalism—he didn't ask unnecessary questions, he simply helped.

"Room three is free," he said, leading them in the right direction. "It has the best safeguards against secondary magical shocks."

When they reached the room, Terry quickly prepared everything needed—summoning additional equipment and potions they had on hand, while Hermione transferred Malfoy to a special therapeutic bed.

"I'll need a full team," she said, putting on the hospital apron Terry handed her. "And we need to keep this secret. No one but essential personnel can know Malfoy is here."

He looked at her questioningly but nodded.

"Trust me," she added quietly. "It's a complicated situation."

"All right," he agreed. "I'll gather a team and bring the potions. You start the stabilization procedure."

When Terry left, she leaned over the unconscious Malfoy, casting more diagnostic and stabilizing spells. His condition was very serious, but now, with the full support of the hospital, she had a better chance of saving him.

"Hang in there, Malfoy," she whispered, though she knew he couldn't hear her. "I won't let you die. Not now."

For the next few hours, she worked with an intensity and concentration she had never experienced before. The room filled with healers whom Terry had discreetly gathered.

They administered successive potions, cast series of complicated spells, monitored every aspect of Malfoy's magical and physical condition. Hermione directed the entire process, issuing commands in a calm but firm voice, not allowing fear or emotions to affect her professionalism.

After two hours of intensive work, she could finally breathe a sigh of relief. Malfoy was stable. His magical core had stopped fighting itself, and his vital functions had returned to safe levels.

"Thank you, everyone," she said to the tired team. "You've done wonderful work. Now we just need monitoring—I'll stay with the patient."

When the room emptied, only she and Terry remained, who was helping to organize the equipment and potions.

"So this is your mysterious patient," he said quietly, glancing at the unconscious Malfoy. "Draco Malfoy. I'm not surprised you kept it a secret."

She sighed, sinking into a chair beside the bed. Fatigue was starting to make itself felt, but she was still fully alert.

"It's complicated, Terry," she replied. "Malfoy is suffering from an unidentified curse that's slowly killing him. I'm trying to find a cure, but it's... difficult."

"And no one can know he's here?" he asked, not hiding his skepticism.

"Absolutely no one," she confirmed firmly. "That was the condition under which he agreed to treatment. No one except me and Macmillan. And now you and the team who helped."

"Why all the secrecy? It only makes treatment harder."

She was silent for a moment, considering how much she could say.

"Malfoy has his reasons," she finally answered. "And I respect them. Please, Terry—you need to warn everyone who helped today. No mentions, no notes, no gossip. It... could harm not only him but other people as well."

Terry didn't look pleased. He frowned, looking from Malfoy to her.

"I don't like this, Hermione," he admitted honestly. "Secret treatment of a former Death Eater, breaking hospital procedures... It all smells like trouble."

"I know," she nodded. "And I'm not asking you to support it. Just to maintain discretion. For me."

Terry sighed, running his hand through his hair.

"All right," he finally agreed. "I'll talk to the team. I'll make sure everyone understands the gravity of the situation. Let me know if you need anything," he added, pausing at the threshold. "I'm on duty until evening."

When the door closed behind him, she was left alone with the unconscious Malfoy. Now that the crisis had passed, she could only wait for him to wake up. She moved her chair closer to the bed and gently checked his pulse—strong and regular.

For the next half hour, she sat in silence, reviewing the diagnostic results and taking notes. Periodically, she cast monitoring spells, tracking the gradual return of stability in his system.

After about thirty minutes, she noticed slight movements of his eyelids. Malfoy was beginning to wake up. His fingers twitched slightly, and after a moment, he opened his eyes, squinting under the bright light of the hospital room.

"What...?" he croaked, looking around disoriented.

"Easy," she said gently, leaning over him. "You had a severe attack."

He blinked several times, his vision gradually sharpening. Suddenly he froze, his eyes widening in sudden understanding.

"Where am I?" he asked, though the tone of his voice suggested he already knew the answer and didn't like it at all.

"At St. Mungo's," she answered, deciding on complete honesty. "I had to bring you here. The attack was too serious for me to handle alone at the manor."

The effect was immediate. Malfoy abruptly sat up in bed, ignoring the warning beep of the magical monitors.

"Are you insane?!" he hissed, his voice trembling with fury, though still weakened. "You brought me to Mungo's? After everything I said? After I explicitly forbade it?"

"Your life was in danger," she replied firmly, placing her hand on his shoulder, trying to force him to lie back down. "I had no choice."

"There's always a choice," he growled, shaking off her hand. He looked around frantically, searching for his wand and clothes. "I'm leaving here. Immediately."

"You can't," she protested, standing up to block his way. "We've barely stabilized your magical core. If you leave now, you risk another attack, which could be fatal."

Malfoy ignored her, trying to get out of bed. He staggered immediately, his legs not ready to support his weight. Hermione caught him at the last moment, preventing a fall.

"Let go of me," he hissed, but his voice had lost some of its earlier strength.

"Malfoy, please," she said quietly, still supporting him by the shoulders. "No one knows you're here. I made sure of that. Everything was done with complete discretion—only five people know of your presence, including me. They're all trusted healers who have taken a magical oath of confidentiality."

Malfoy froze, looking at her with a mixture of anger and disbelief.

"Five people?" he repeated. "That's five people too many, Granger. Did you even listen when I said that no one—absolutely no one—can know about my illness?"

"I listened," she replied calmly. "But I had to choose between your privacy and your life. And I chose your life."

"Who knows?" he asked, his voice cold and controlled, but she could sense the fury bubbling beneath the surface.

"Four healers. All are professionals. No one will spread word about your condition."

"Easy for you to say," he muttered, but allowed Hermione to help him back to bed. "You're not the one risking everything."

"What exactly are you risking?" she asked quietly, sitting beside him. "Why is this secrecy so important? What would happen if people found out about your illness?"

Malfoy was silent for a long moment, staring at his hands. When he finally answered, his voice was so quiet that she had to lean in to hear him.

"I don't want their pity," he said. "I don't want them to look at me like I'm dying. I don't want anyone to know that I'm... weak."

She suddenly understood that for someone like Draco Malfoy, raised in a tradition where strength and power were everything, admitting to a fatal illness must have been equivalent to admitting defeat.

"You're not weak," she said gently. "You're sick. That's different."

"Not in my world," he replied, looking at her with bitterness. "In my world, illness is weakness. And weakness is unforgivable."

Hermione sighed softly, then Malfoy frowned, as if remembering something.

"What actually happened?" he asked. "I remember you casting some diagnostic spell, and then... nothing."

"You had a serious attack," she answered, switching to professional healer mode. "Your magical core experienced a sudden auto-reactive destabilization, which triggered an energetic stream oscillation, leading to synaptic overload of the neuro-magical system. As a result, there was a cascading reflex reaction manifesting as tonic peripheral convulsions."

Malfoy looked at her with a mixture of irritation and confusion.

"Can you speak like a normal person, Granger? I'm not your colleague."

She smiled slightly.

"I'm sorry. In short—I think it's a side effect of the nerve therapy I conducted. The curse, which previously mainly attacked your nerves, was partially displaced from there by our treatment. But instead of disappearing, it found another target—your magical core. It's like... like a river whose one channel was blocked, so it flooded elsewhere."

"So your therapy made things worse?"

"Not exactly," she answered carefully. "It alleviated some symptoms, but unfortunately, it revealed a deeper problem. The curse is more adaptive than I thought. It changes its attack strategy when it encounters resistance."

Malfoy closed his eyes, rubbing his temples.

"Wonderful. So now I have a choice—either numbness and pain, or an attack that could kill me at any moment."

"Don't give up so easily," she replied with determination. "At least now we know more about the nature of the curse. We can develop a more comprehensive treatment strategy that will work on all levels."

"Sounds great in theory," Malfoy muttered. "But since we don't know what spell it is..."

"We'll find it," she interrupted him firmly. "And now that I better understand its mechanism of action, I'll know what to look for in books."

Malfoy looked at her skeptically but didn't protest further. For a moment they sat in silence, which Hermione finally decided to break.

"You know," she said with a slight smile, "because of you, I missed my visit to the best magical spa in London. And I was looking forward to that moonstone massage."

He looked at her in surprise, then noticed the gleam in her eyes and laughed softly.

"I'm sorry my life-threatening condition interfered with your relaxation plans," he replied with an ironic smile. "I promise to schedule my next attack at a more convenient time."

"I appreciate that," she replied, glad that she had managed to somewhat defuse the tension. "Though I'd prefer there not be a next time at all."

"That we have in common," Malfoy admitted, his smile fading somewhat. "How long do I have to stay here?"

"At least until evening," she answered. "I want to make sure your core is completely stable before I take you back to the manor."

Malfoy nodded in resignation.

"And you?" he asked after a moment. "Will you stay too?"

"Of course," she confirmed without hesitation. "I won't leave you alone. Besides, someone has to make sure you don't escape in the middle of the night."

"I won't escape," he promised quietly. "I think I've finally understood that I won't win against you when it comes to my treatment."

"Wise decision, Malfoy," she smiled. "Very wise decision."

For a moment they sat in silence.

"Malfoy," she finally began, "I need to ask you something. Would you mind if I helped with other patients for a few hours? I promise no one but me will come in here, but... I feel bad sitting idle when the hospital is full of people who need help."

"Always Granger," he finally said with a slight sigh. "Even after hours of saving my life, you're thinking of others."

"It's my job," she replied simply.

"All right. Go, save other lost souls. Just make sure no one comes in here. And... come back every so often."

He spoke the last sentence more quietly, as if reluctantly admitting he would prefer not to be left alone for too long.

stóp.

"Of course," she promised, standing up. "I'll cast additional protective spells on the door. Only I will be able to enter. And I'll check on you regularly."

He nodded, settling more comfortably on the pillows.

Hermione smiled slightly, then left the room, carefully securing the door with a series of complicated spells. When she finished, only she could open them—for everyone else, the room would appear to be an empty ward designated for renovation.

For the next few hours, she immersed herself in the hospital routine she knew so well. She helped in the magical injuries ward, where several patients had been admitted after failed spell experiments. Her mind quickly switched to a different work mode—methodically diagnosing, treating, reassuring patients, and documenting procedures.

Every half hour, however, she returned to Malfoy's room, casting diagnostic spells and checking if everything was in order. On her third visit, she found him reading a book that he must have summoned from the hospital library.

"Bored?" she asked, checking the magical readings hovering above his bed.

"Mortally," he replied, not taking his eyes off the page. "But at least your library has a decent history section."

"I'm glad you found something to occupy yourself with," she smiled, finishing the diagnosis. "Everything looks good. The core is stabilizing, though I still see some anomalies. Can I bring you something to eat?"

"No, thank you," he replied, finally looking up. "But I appreciate the offer."

She nodded and returned to her duties. At her next check, she found him asleep, the book lying open on his chest. She gently took it, marked the page, and placed it on the nightstand next to the bed. For a moment, she studied his face—peaceful, devoid of his typical expression of haughtiness or irritation. In sleep, he looked younger, more vulnerable.

Around seven o'clock, after finishing helping with an emergency case of potion poisoning in the toxicology ward, she returned to Malfoy's room for longer. She was tired, but her mind was still working at high speed. She sat in the armchair next to his bed, summoning her notes about the curse.

"Still working?" she heard a quiet voice.

Malfoy wasn't sleeping, as she had thought. He was lying with open eyes, watching her in the semi-darkness.

"I'm trying to organize my thoughts," she replied. "Today's attack gave us new information about the curse. I want to write it down while it's fresh."

He watched her for a moment, then nodded approvingly.

"You're incredibly stubborn, Granger," he said, but there was no malice in his voice. Rather, something akin to admiration.

"Says someone who is equally stubborn," she replied with a slight smile. "Now sleep. You need rest."

"So do you," he observed.

"Soon," she promised, returning to her notes.

She worked for another hour, while Malfoy fell asleep again. She woke him gently at eight in the evening, when the hospital corridors began to quiet down after the evening rounds.

"Malfoy," she said quietly, lightly touching his shoulder. "Malfoy, wake up."

Draco opened his eyes, momentarily disoriented, then remembered where he was. He immediately tensed.

"What's happening?" he asked, looking around alertly.

"Easy," she reassured him. "I have good news. Everything has stabilized; you can go home. Macmillan gave me a Portkey. No one will see you leaving—no patient, no healer. Your presence here will remain a secret."

Malfoy nodded, accepting this explanation. He slowly sat up in bed, wincing slightly.

"How do you feel?" she asked, watching him carefully.

"Like I've been trampled by a herd of hippogriffs," he admitted honestly. "But I'll survive."

Hermione helped him stand and handed him his clothes, which she had cleaned earlier.

"I'll leave you to get dressed," she said. "The Portkey activates in fifteen minutes. I'll wait outside the door."

Fifteen minutes later, the familiar tug behind the navel swept them into a whirl of colors and sounds. A few seconds later, they landed in the living room of Cliff Manor. Draco staggered dangerously, but Hermione managed to support him.

"Careful," she said, putting her arm around his waist. "Teleportation in your condition isn't the best idea, but it's still better than walking through the entire hospital."

As soon as she stabilized his position, she drew her wand and performed the now-familiar diagnostic spell—this time more carefully and gently than before, avoiding deeper probing of his magical core.

"Stable condition," she stated with relief, observing the results. "But you need rest. Lots of rest."

He nodded and sank onto the nearest sofa, clearly exhausted even by this brief effort. She hesitated for a moment, standing in the elegant living room with a bag of medications in her hand.

"Malfoy," she began, "would you mind if I... stayed a while longer and used your library?"

He raised an eyebrow in surprise.

"Library? Now?"

"While I was watching over your bed, I had plenty of time to think," she explained. "And I'm increasingly convinced that Snape's book—the one with spells that might contain the curse that affected you—must be hidden somewhere in Hogwarts. I thought perhaps in your collection I might find some information about potential hiding places, secret rooms..."

Malfoy studied her for a moment, then nodded.

"Make yourself at home," he said. "Most books about Hogwarts can be found in the history section, third bookcase from the window."

"Thank you."

Upon reaching the library, she immediately headed to the indicated section, scanning titles with the skill of someone who had spent half her life in libraries. After several minutes of searching, she found what she was looking for—a dark green leather-bound volume titled "Hogwarts: Secrets Hidden from Unauthorized Eyes."

With a triumphant smile, she took the book and returned to the living room, where Draco was still resting on the sofa, his head tilted back and eyes closed. Hearing her footsteps, he opened his eyes.

"Found something?" he asked.

"I think so," she replied, holding up the book. "This might contain clues about where Potter could have hidden Snape's book."

Without thinking, she sat on the sofa beside him, opening the volume to the table of contents. Only after a moment did she realize how natural that gesture was—as if sitting next to Draco Malfoy with a book in hand was something she had always done.

She felt a sudden pang of pain in her feet. After a whole day of standing and running around the hospital, after duty at Malfoy's bedside, her feet were protesting in the tight, practical shoes she wore to work. Despite professional cushioning charms, after many hours even the best spells stopped working.

She looked discreetly around the elegant living room. Draco had his eyes closed and was breathing evenly—he looked as if he was dozing. Taking advantage of the opportunity, she leaned down and removed her shoes, trying not to make noise. She sighed with relief as her feet were freed from their tight leather prison.

Fortunately, before leaving the hospital, she had found a moment to cast a cleaning spell—the last thing she wanted was to present sweaty socks in Malfoy's luxury living room. Now she could allow herself a moment of comfort as her toes sank into the soft carpet.

She returned to the book, quickly absorbed in fascinating information about secret passages and hidden locations at Hogwarts. Gradually, unconsciously, she began to change position on the sofa. First, she turned slightly, resting her back against the side arm. Then she pulled up her legs, resting them on the sofa. She was so absorbed in reading about a secret passage behind Merlin's portrait on the fourth floor that she completely forgot about Malfoy's presence beside her.

When she reached a fascinating passage about hidden rooms in the dungeons, she instinctively shifted even more, completely changing position. Her legs, seeking a comfortable arrangement, instead of landing on the sofa ended up on something much warmer and firmer—on Draco Malfoy's lap.

Only when she felt the material of his trousers and the warmth of his thighs under her feet did she freeze. Slowly, she tore her gaze from the book and looked up, meeting Malfoy's surprised gray eyes, who apparently hadn't been dozing at all, as she had thought.

A wave of heat immediately spread across her face. She felt her cheeks burning red, and her heart accelerating to a dangerous pace. For a moment, they both remained motionless—she with her legs on his lap, he with his hands raised in the air, as if he didn't know what to do with them.

"I'm sorry!" she finally choked out, trying violently to withdraw her legs. "I completely forgot that... I didn't mean to... it was..."

To her surprise, he lowered his hands, gently keeping her feet in place. His fingers lightly tightened around her ankles, not enough to cause pain, but firmly enough to stop her escape.

"It's all right, Granger," he said in a calm voice, though a slight blush appeared on his pale cheeks. "You can leave them where they are. You look exhausted."

She blinked, not sure if she had heard correctly.

"I... really am sorry," she repeated, not knowing what else she could say. "I completely forgot you were sitting next to me. I was so absorbed in the book and..."

"That's typical of you," he interrupted with a slight smile, which surprised her even more than his gesture. "I remember how in the Hogwarts library you could fail to notice even when someone tripped over a table next to you if you were sufficiently engrossed in reading."

She raised her eyebrows.

"You observed me in the library?"

Now he looked embarrassed.

"It was hard not to notice you," he muttered. "You always occupied the best spot by the window."

An awkward silence fell. She could still feel his hands on her ankles—warm, surprisingly gentle. She didn't know whether she should insist on removing her feet or allow them to stay where they were. This was one of those situations for which no etiquette handbook prepared you.

"Your feet must be sore," he suddenly said, breaking the silence. "After so many hours at the hospital."

"A bit," she admitted, still embarrassed by the whole situation. "Usually after a shift, I immediately take a hot bath, but..."

"But you had to save my life," he finished for her, and in his voice appeared a note she couldn't identify—something between gratitude and guilt.

Before she could respond, she felt something surprising—his thumbs began to gently massage the arch of her feet through the thin material of her stockings. She froze, holding her breath.

"What are you doing?" she asked quietly.

"Trying to return the favor," he replied, not meeting her eyes, focused on his hands. "For saving my life. It's the least I can do."

His fingers moved with surprising skill, finding tense points on her feet and gently relaxing them. She felt her initial embarrassment giving way to pleasant relaxation.

"You don't have to do this," she said, though without conviction.

"I know," he replied simply. "But I want to."

They looked at each other, and for a moment Hermione saw something in his eyes that she had never seen there before—gentleness, perhaps even something more. Something that made her heart beat faster and her breathing become shallower.

"Thank you," she whispered finally, not knowing whether she was thanking him for the massage or for something entirely different—for that look, for a moment of intimacy that was as unexpected as it was pleasant.

Draco nodded, and then both, as if by silent agreement, returned to their previous activities—she to reading the book, he to gently massaging her feet.

Chapter 8

Hermione woke up slowly, with that characteristic feeling of disorientation that accompanies waking up in an unfamiliar place. For several long seconds, she stared at the strange ceiling, trying to understand where she was. This wasn't her apartment. Nor the hospital. Nor...

She sat up abruptly as memories of the previous evening flooded her mind. Malfoy's living room. The book. Her feet on his lap. The massage.

She looked around frantically. She was alone in the elegant living room of Cliff Manor, covered with a soft, woolen blanket that hadn't been there before. On the small table beside the sofa lay the closed book she had been reading yesterday—someone must have marked the page where she had stopped and set it aside.

Malfoy. It must have been him.

Hermione felt her cheeks burning. She had fallen asleep in his house. On his couch. With her legs on his lap. And he had apparently covered her with a blanket and left her to sleep on.

Outside the windows it was gray—early morning, probably shortly after dawn. The house was quiet and peaceful; she couldn't hear any footsteps or other sounds that might suggest Malfoy was already up.

Her gaze wandered toward the fireplace. It was just a few steps away—she could use the Floo network and be in her apartment before anyone noticed. She would avoid the awkward morning encounter, explanations, apologies...

But then reason prevailed. She was here professionally. Malfoy had suffered a serious attack; he needed medical monitoring. Escaping now, only to return in a few hours with a professional smile as if nothing had happened, would be not only cowardly but absurd.

The best option would be to wait until Malfoy woke up—and surely he didn't sleep late. As a healer, she knew that after an attack like yesterday's, the body needed rest, but she didn't think he would sleep longer than seven, maybe eight in the morning.

But first she needed to find a bathroom. She looked around the ground floor, discreetly peeking into several rooms, but nowhere did she find what she was looking for. There was also no sign of Fimble, who certainly could have helped her.

With a quiet sigh, she decided to go upstairs. She had never been there before—her visits had always been limited to the living room and adjacent rooms on the ground floor. She climbed the elegant marble stairs, watching as the orange rays of the rising sun slowly illuminated the interior through the tall windows.

Upstairs stretched a long corridor with several doors on both sides. Hermione looked around uncertainly, wondering which of them might lead to the bathroom. She didn't want to accidentally intrude into Malfoy's private bedroom.

She moved slowly forward, trying to choose doors that most resembled an entrance to a bathroom. Passing one of them—white, with delicate ornamentation—she suddenly stopped when it unexpectedly opened.

She stepped back instinctively, expecting to see an irritated Malfoy or perhaps Fimble. Instead, she was face to face with a small boy.

The child—about four years old—looked at her with enormous gray eyes, identical to Draco's. He had the same platinum blonde hair, though slightly more tousled, delicate facial features, and pale complexion. He was dressed in light blue pajamas with small dragons that moved lazily across the fabric.

For several long seconds, she and the boy stared at each other—she surprised, he clearly confused by the sight of a stranger. Then his face slowly began to change—his lips curved downward, his eyes filled with tears, and his cheeks reddened.

And then he began to cry—the loud, piercing cry of a child who has suddenly seen someone unfamiliar in his home.

"Daaaaddyyy!" he called through tears, stepping back. "Daddyyyy!"

Hermione stood paralyzed, unable to react in any way. Her mind was trying to process what she had just seen. Malfoy had a child. A little boy who was his almost perfect copy. And she knew nothing about it, despite weeks spent treating him.

Before she could do anything, the door next to her opened violently. Draco Malfoy stood in the doorway—shirtless, wearing only pajama bottoms, with his hair in complete disarray and clear traces of sleep on his face. His gaze immediately jumped between the crying boy and Hermione standing in the middle of the corridor.

For a fraction of a second, an expression of complete shock and something that might have been panic appeared on his face. His eyes widened, and his mouth opened in silent astonishment.

However, instead of explaining or justifying anything, Malfoy immediately moved toward the boy. He bent down and with one fluid motion picked him up, taking him in his arms. The child immediately wrapped his arms around his neck, burying his tearful face in his bare shoulder.

He turned to Hermione, and on his face was an expression she had never seen on him before—a mixture of fear and vulnerability. For a moment, he looked completely helpless, pressing the trembling boy to his chest.

"Granger," he said quietly, his voice tense with emotion. "Please, wait for me downstairs. I'll... explain everything to you. Just give me a moment."

Without waiting for her response, Malfoy retreated to the room from which he had emerged, closing the door behind him. The last thing Hermione saw was the small hands of the boy tightening around his father's shoulders and platinum hair—so similar to Draco's—tickling his chin.

For a long while, she stood motionless in the corridor, feeling as if someone had hit her on the head with a blunt object. Malfoy had a son. A small son who looked exactly like him. And she had no idea about it.

How was this possible? How could she have spent so much time treating him, talking to him, being in his house, and not notice the presence of a child? There were no toys, no traces, no mentions...

In a state of mild bewilderment, she went downstairs to the living room, where just a few minutes ago she had woken up on the sofa. Everything now seemed so surreal—her falling asleep here, the morning, the discovery...

She sat heavily on the sofa, trying to organize her thoughts. Did Macmillan know? Was that why he had assigned her this case—because he knew Malfoy had a child and needed discreet help? Or maybe he had no idea either?

The longer she thought about it, the more questions arose. Where was the boy's mother? Why was Malfoy keeping his existence a secret? And what did all this mean in the context of his illness?

She looked toward the stairs, waiting for Malfoy's return and the explanations he had promised.

After a few minutes, which seemed to stretch into infinity, she heard footsteps on the stairs. Malfoy appeared in the living room—already dressed in black trousers and a gray shirt. His face was tense but composed.

"I'm sorry about that," he said, stopping at the threshold. "I hadn't planned for you to meet Scorpius this way."

She nodded, still too stunned to respond.

"Coffee? Tea?" he offered. "Perhaps we could go to the kitchen?"

"Coffee would be good," she replied quietly, rising from the couch.

She followed Malfoy through the living room to a large, modern kitchen. The room was spacious and bright, with large windows overlooking the garden and cliffs in the distance. A large kitchen counter with high stools occupied the central space. When she was last here, she had been emanating anger, so she hadn't had time to examine the details.

"Please, sit down," he said, indicating one of the stools.

She sat, watching as Draco moved around the kitchen with surprising ease—opening cabinets, taking out cups. He wasn't using his wand for this.

"So," she finally began, unable to bear the tension any longer. "You have a son."

Malfoy turned to her, leaning against the counter opposite.

"Yes," he admitted. "Scorpius is four years old. And yes, he is my son with Astoria."

"Astoria Greengrass," she specified, remembering the tall, elegant witch from a younger Slytherin year.

"Former Astoria Malfoy," he corrected her, his face hardening. "Now she uses Greengrass again."

"What happened? With you and Astoria?" she asked, taking the cup from him.

He sighed, sitting on the stool across from her.

"Remember when I said that about two years ago I went through... a stressful period?"

She nodded.

"That's when Astoria left," he continued, staring into his coffee. "She took Scorpius with her. It was... difficult."

"Why did she leave?" she asked carefully.

Draco was silent for a moment, as if gathering his thoughts. When he finally spoke, his voice was quieter, more tense.

"Astoria... was never happy in our marriage," he began, staring into his coffee. "We married young, mainly because of our families' expectations. She always dreamed of a more exciting life than I could offer her—travel, parties, social life. And I, after the war... wanted peace. Privacy."

He paused, taking a sip of coffee.

"Two years ago, she announced she was leaving. She said our relationship was a mistake, that she felt trapped. She took Scorpius and went to Paris, where her family has an apartment."

"That must have been difficult," she said quietly.

"It was," he admitted. "A few weeks after she left, the first symptoms of the curse began to appear—numbness, strange fatigue, sometimes I lost control of my magic. At first, I thought it was stress related to the separation."

"And then?" she asked, seeing his fingers tighten around the cup.

"Then the symptoms intensified. I had my first serious attack. I went to a private clinic in Switzerland. There, healers confirmed it was a curse, though they couldn't identify it."

"Did Astoria know about your illness?"

"She found out," Draco confirmed. "Despite our problems, we still maintained contact because of Scorpius. I visited him regularly, sometimes took him for weekends."

"What happened when she found out?"

He sighed deeply, and his face hardened.

"One day she brought Scorpius back to the manor, left him with Fimble, and announced she was giving up her parental rights. She said she wanted nothing to do with us. That she was afraid Scorpius might also be 'contaminated' by my curse."

"That's cruel," Hermione whispered, shocked by such behavior. "How could she...?"

"Fear makes people do various things," he replied without anger, only with fatigue. "Astoria was always... a fragile person. Sensitive. And the Greengrasses are obsessive about purity in the family."

"What do you mean?"

"Not in the sense of prejudice against Muggle-borns," he explained quickly, seeing her expression. "But in the sense of caring for the magical health of the lineage. In their family, there's been a fear of blood curses for generations. When Astoria heard I was affected by an unidentified curse, her first thought was that it might affect Scorpius."

Hermione nodded, beginning to understand.

"She hasn't seen her son since then?" she asked.

"Not once," Draco confirmed, and in his voice appeared a note of pain that he didn't try to hide. "She cut all contact. Apparently, she moved to America."

She felt a pang of sympathy. Despite their past, despite everything Malfoy had done in his youth, no one deserved to be abandoned in such a situation—sick, frightened, with a small child in his care.

"Is Scorpius... could he really have been affected by your curse?" she asked carefully.

He looked up, and in his eyes appeared a flash of determination.

"No," he said firmly. "After Astoria left, I took him to the best specialists. He was tested in every possible way. He is completely healthy. He's a normal, happy child."

"But you keep him hidden," she observed. "Why?"

"For several reasons," he replied, setting down his cup. "First, the press. If they found out about our marriage breakdown, about Astoria abandoning her own child because of an alleged curse... there would be a scandal. Scorpius doesn't need that in his life."

"And second?"

"Second," he sighed, "I don't want anyone to know about my illness. Especially about the fact that... that I might not be able to raise my own son."

She saw in his eyes what she had never seen before—real, deep fear. Not for himself, but for the child.

"That's why discretion was so important to you," she said quietly. "Not just for your reputation, but..."

"For Scorpius," he finished for her. "If people find out about my curse, they'll start asking questions. The Ministry might become interested in Scorpius's situation. They might decide that a dying father, with no mother nearby, is not a suitable guardian. They might take him away."

"They wouldn't do that," she protested.

"You don't know the Ministry as well as I do, Granger," he said bitterly. "For some there, the name Malfoy is still synonymous with Death Eater. They would gladly find a reason to take my son away."

"Does Scorpius know? About your illness?"

"He knows that sometimes I'm tired and need help from the healer lady," he answered. "But he doesn't know how serious the situation is. He's too young to understand."

"And what about his mother? Does he ask about her?"

A shadow passed over Draco's face.

"At first he asked. Every day. Now... less frequently. I told him that mom had to go far away and can't come back. I didn't want him to think she didn't love him or that it was his fault."

"That's wise," she admitted. "But difficult."

"Like everything in the last two years," he agreed with a hint of a smile.

Silence fell between them, but it was no longer as tense as before.

"Thank you for telling me," she finally said. "It must have been difficult."

"I was planning to tell you," he admitted. "But not like this. Scorpius usually sleeps longer... I didn't expect you to wake up so early and start exploring the house."

"I was looking for the bathroom," she explained, blushing slightly.

"Daddy?" came a shy little voice. "Can I come down for breakfast now?"

Little Scorpius stood in the kitchen doorway, still in his dragon pajamas, though now his hair was neatly combed and his face washed. When he saw Hermione sitting at the counter, he immediately stopped mid-step, and his eyes widened. He tightened his small hand on the plush dragon he was holding under his arm.

For a moment, an awkward silence reigned in the kitchen. Draco looked at his son, then at Hermione, clearly uncertain how to react to this situation.

"Scorpius," he finally said gently. "Remember how I told you about the healer lady who helps me? This is her."

The boy didn't answer, staring at her with a mixture of fear and curiosity. She understood that the initiative was hers. She slowly slid off the stool and crouched down to be at the child's level, though maintaining a safe distance.

"Hello, Scorpius," she said warmly. "It's nice to meet you. I'm Hermione. I help your daddy feel better when he's tired."

The boy stepped back, pressing the plush dragon more firmly to his chest.

"You have a very nice dragon," she continued, pointing to the toy. "Did you know that at Hogwarts, the wizarding school, one of my friends took care of real dragons?"

The boy for a moment looked like he wanted to say something, but instead he hid behind his father's legs, peeking cautiously from behind his thigh.

"He's a bit shy around new people," Draco explained, placing his hand on his son's head. "He needs time to get used to them."

"Of course," she said, standing up. "That's completely understandable."

She noticed how the boy tightened his fingers on his father's trousers, how his eyes, so similar to Draco's, followed her every movement with caution. She couldn't blame him for his distrust—after all, he had never seen her before, and suddenly she appeared in his home, talking to his daddy like an old friend.

"Will you stay for breakfast, Granger?" Draco asked, breaking the silence. "Fimble makes excellent pancakes. That's Scorpius's favorite breakfast, isn't it, son?"

The boy hesitantly nodded, still not taking his eyes off Hermione.

She hesitated. Part of her wanted to stay, to learn more about Scorpius, to see how Draco Malfoy handled the role of father. But seeing the fear in the boy's eyes, she understood that this wouldn't be a good idea. Not now, not so suddenly.

"I think this isn't the best time," she replied gently. "I should go home to change and prepare for another day of work."

She noticed a shadow of relief that passed across his face, though he quickly masked it.

"Of course," he said. "I understand."

She reached for her wand, trying to make slow, calm movements so as not to frighten the boy.

"Before I go, let me cast a quick diagnostic spell," she said. "I'll check how you're feeling after yesterday's attack."

He nodded, standing straight. She made the familiar motion with her wand, and a golden glow appeared around him. After a few seconds it faded, and she noted with relief that his condition was stable.

"Everything looks good," she said. "However, you should rest for the remainder of the day. No magic, if possible."

"Yes, Healer," he replied with a slight smile.

She returned the smile, then looked at Scorpius, who was still peeking from behind his father's leg.

"Goodbye, Scorpius," she said gently. "I hope next time we'll have a chance to get to know each other better."

The boy didn't answer, but nodded almost imperceptibly.

"I'll walk you out," Draco offered.

"No need," she assured him quickly. "Stay with Scorpius. I know the way to the fireplace."

He nodded gratefully, putting his arm around his son's shoulders.

"Thank you, Granger," he said quietly. "For everything."

She knew he wasn't just thanking her for the treatment. It was about understanding, discretion, acceptance of this complicated situation.

"See you tomorrow," she replied, heading toward the exit.

As she was leaving the kitchen, she heard Scorpius's quiet voice:

"Daddy, the lady has very puffy hair."

"Yes, son," he responded with laughter in his voice. "Very puffy."

Hermione smiled to herself as she walked down the corridor to the living room. The situation was much more complicated than she had thought, but at the same time, everything took on new meaning. Now she wasn't just treating Draco Malfoy. She was treating a father.

That changed everything.

When Hermione returned to her apartment, she felt overwhelmed by the flood of new information and emotions. She removed her coat and shoes, automatically heading to the kitchen to brew another coffee. She needed caffeine and time to think through everything she had learned. As she waited for the water to boil, her gaze fell on the vase standing on the windowsill.

The bouquet from Malfoy. She had almost forgotten about the flowers and their mysterious messages. What did the third plant contain?

She approached the vase and gently pulled out another iris. It was perfectly fresh, as if just cut, despite the bouquet having stood for several days. Another proof of how advanced the magic used to create it was.

Holding the flower in her hand, she felt the familiar tingling of magic. The iris trembled, and then began to transform. After a moment, in her hand, instead of a flower, rested an elegant ticket with embossed gold lettering.

Hermione looked at it in disbelief, and then smiled broadly. It was a ticket to the "Rarest Manuscripts of the Wizarding World" exhibition, which was to be held at the exclusive Museum of Magical History in Paris in a month. An exhibition she had read about with envy in the "Daily Prophet," but for which all tickets had sold out within an hour of going on sale several months ago.

Attached to the ticket was a small card, written in Malfoy's elegant handwriting:

"Granger, if there's one place you'd certainly want to be, it's among old, dusty books that Merlin and his contemporaries read. The ticket also includes a tour of the museum's closed section, inaccessible to ordinary visitors. Don't forget to pack a magnifying glass—those parchments are really old. D.M."

She couldn't suppress a wide smile. The ticket was an amazing gift—perfectly chosen, expensive, and most importantly, absolutely impossible to obtain for an ordinary wizard. Of course, Malfoy had his connections—the Malfoy family was probably a long-time donor to the museum.

She read the information on the ticket and noticed that it also entitled her to attend an intimate reception after the exhibition closed, where selected guests could discuss with museum curators over a glass of French wine.

She shook her head in amusement, turning the elegant ticket in her hands. These gifts were becoming increasingly sophisticated and costly.

With a sudden resolution, she approached her writing desk, took out a small piece of parchment and quickly wrote:

"Malfoy,

Thank you for the ticket. However, I wonder what will happen if I pull a few more flowers from the vase. Will I get a private island? Or perhaps you'll buy me subscriptions to all magical scientific journals for life? A few more such gifts, and I'll start suspecting you're trying to buy my silence.

P.S. If your health remains stable, I will indeed use it. You must promise me that you won't plan any dramatic attacks during that time."

Smiling to herself, she tapped the parchment with her wand, whispering an express message spell she had learned while working at St. Mungo's. The note disappeared in a flash of light, to appear directly before the addressee.

She had barely taken her first sip of coffee when a small piece of elegant parchment materialized before her.

"Granger,

Don't be absurd. If I wanted to buy your silence, I would have offered you an entire library, not one ticket.

I'm glad you'll use the ticket. I promise to behave decently and not die on the appointed date.

D.M.

P.S. The island is planned as flower number 10. Were you peeking?"

Hermione snorted with laughter, shaking her head in disbelief. She imagined Malfoy's expression as he wrote these words—that half-smile, raised eyebrow, that irritating self-confidence...

Suddenly she froze, realizing what she was actually doing. With determination, she stood up, went to her study, and approached the bookshelf. She took a deep breath and reached for another volume on rare curses.

She sat at her desk, opened the book, and immersed herself in reading, forcing her mind to focus on potential curses matching Malfoy's symptoms. This was more important than any islands, tickets, or amusing notes.

But somewhere on the edge of her consciousness, against her will, a small question wouldn't leave her alone—what could be in flower number four?

Chapter 9

The next day began for Hermione with new energy, despite having slept very little. She had spent most of the night reviewing books, analyzing notes, and connecting facts in ways that had previously eluded her.

The reaction to the nerve therapy was the key. She found in an old, dusty volume "Adaptive Curses and Their Defense Mechanisms" a passage that shed entirely new light on Malfoy's case:

"When dark magic encounters resistance in one system of the body, it often transfers its action to another. This is particularly evident in multiphase curses that initially attack the nervous system. Attempts to treat the nerves may cause the curse to transfer to the magical core, leading to violent, potentially fatal attacks."

This described exactly what had happened with Malfoy. When she applied therapy to his nervous system, the curse moved to his magical core, causing the attack.

But most important was what she found next:

"In such cases, simultaneous application of magical core stabilization and gentle modulation of the nervous system is effective. The key is finding a balance where the curse cannot root itself firmly enough in either system to cause serious damage."

It was like an epiphany. They couldn't cure the curse directly, but they could make it less dangerous by balancing its effects between different systems in Malfoy's body. It wasn't a final solution, but it could give them more time to find a real cure—and significantly improve his quality of life.

With excitement, she wrote out a detailed therapy plan she intended to propose. She was so absorbed in her work that she even forgot about breakfast.

Only when she finished did she look at the clock and realize that she should soon be heading to Cliff Manor. She stood up, stretching after the long time spent over books, and headed to the bathroom to freshen up.

Passing by the vase of flowers, she remembered Malfoy's bouquet. She had already discovered three flowers, and there were still several in the vase. Curiosity prevailed.

She reached for a lily, wondering what Malfoy had come up with this time. Following the previous pattern, the flower trembled in her hand and began to transform. However, this time it didn't become a ticket, book, or gift voucher. Instead, an elegant gold box with the inscription "Honeydukes - Limited Edition" appeared in her hands.

Hermione opened the box and saw inside a collection of exceptional chocolates, each in the shape of a different magical book. There was a miniature "Hogwarts: A History," "Advanced Potion-Making," "Numerology and Grammatica," and many other titles that she immediately recognized as her favorites. Attached to the box was a small card:

"They say chocolate helps after meeting dementors. Perhaps it will also help after meeting me and my problems. D.M."

She couldn't suppress a smile. Chocolates in the shape of books—it was so perfectly matched to her that it was almost absurd. How did he know? Carefully, she took one—a miniature "Hogwarts: A History"—and tried it. The taste was heavenly—dark chocolate with a hint of orange, her favorite combination.

With renewed energy—both from excitement about the potential breakthrough in treatment and sugar from the chocolate—Hermione prepared for her visit to Cliff Manor. Today would be the first time she would see Malfoy after discovering the truth about Scorpius. And for the first time, she would have truly promising news for him.

It was going to be a good day, she could feel it.

A few minutes later, she was standing in the elegant living room of Cliff Manor, with a folder full of notes and a therapy plan. To her surprise, Malfoy was waiting for her, sitting in an armchair with a book in hand. As soon as she appeared, he closed the volume and stood up.

"Granger," he greeted her with a slight nod. "You look like you haven't slept all night."

"Because I haven't," she replied, too excited about her discovery to bother with small pleasantries. "Malfoy, I found something. Something that might help."

His face immediately became serious, and a flash of hope appeared in his eyes, quickly hidden behind a mask of composure.

"Tell me," he said simply, gesturing toward the sofa.

She sat down, spreading her notes on the table in front of them.

"I analyzed your attack and connected the facts. The problem is that when we treat one system—for example, your nervous system—the curse moves to another, in this case to the magical core, causing an attack."

Malfoy nodded, listening carefully.

"This is precisely the specificity of this curse—it's adaptive. When it encounters resistance in one place, it finds another. We can't simply expel it from one system, because then it will attack another, potentially more dangerous one."

"So what do you propose?" he asked, leaning forward to better see her notes.

"Balance," she replied, showing a diagram she had sketched. "Instead of focusing on one system, we'll gently modulate both—both the nervous system and the magical core. The curse won't be able to fully root itself in either of them, which will significantly reduce its strength and danger."

"This won't cure me completely," he noted soberly.

"No," she admitted honestly. "It's not a cure. But it can significantly improve your quality of life and give us more time to find a real solution. You won't experience either intense numbness or attacks."

"How will this work in practice?" he finally asked.

"A series of gentle spells and potions, applied regularly. Some you'll be able to take yourself, for others I'll be needed. It requires precise balancing between systems—too much pressure on one, and the curse will escape to the other."

Malfoy nodded, understanding the concept.

"When can we start?"

"Today, if you like," she replied, smiling slightly. "I brought everything needed for the first session."

"Good," he agreed without hesitation. "Let's do it."

They spent the next hour working on the first phase of the new therapy. She carefully cast spells stabilizing the magical core while simultaneously giving Malfoy a specially prepared potion modulating the nervous system. The process required precision and concentration.

"This really... works," he said with a note of surprise in his voice. "I feel lighter. As if the weight has been evenly distributed, instead of crushing one place."

"That's exactly the point," she smiled, pleased with the results. "We'll have to repeat the therapy regularly, at least once a week. And you must strictly follow the schedule of potions that I'll prepare for you."

"Of course," he agreed immediately. "Whatever you say."

As she finished packing her instruments, Malfoy looked at her with a slight smirk.

"I see you've discovered the fourth flower as well," he observed.

She raised an eyebrow.

"Yes. How do you know?"

He didn't answer immediately. Instead, he took a step toward her, reducing the distance between them.

"You have..." he began quietly, his voice lower than usual.

Hermione froze as he reached out his hand. Slowly, almost hesitantly, his finger touched the corner of her mouth. A gentle, barely perceptible touch, yet it shot through her like an electric impulse. She felt her breath catch in her throat.

Malfoy's finger moved slightly, wiping something from her skin. Time seemed to slow down. They were so close that she could see every detail of his face—the shadow of stubble along his jawline, a small scar just below his right eye that she had never noticed before, the intense silver color of his irises.

"Chocolate," he finished, showing the dark mark on his fingertip. However, he didn't withdraw his hand, keeping it just a few inches from her face.

She couldn't tear her gaze from his eyes. There was something in them—an intensity she rarely saw in him. Suddenly, she realized how close they were standing, how intimate this simple gesture was.

"Oh," she whispered, unable to say anything more sensible.

Slowly, he lowered his hand, but he didn't move away. They were still standing decidedly closer than a professional healer-patient relationship required.

"I should..." she began, but broke off, not finishing the thought.

"Yes," he agreed, though neither of them moved. "You should."

She knew she should step back, gather her things, end the visit. But something was holding her back—this tension between them, this new, unexplored energy that had appeared from nowhere, yet seemed to have been building for weeks.

"Until tomorrow," she finally said, forcing herself to break the strange spell that had caught them.

He nodded, taking a step back, restoring a safe distance between them.

"Until tomorrow, Granger," he replied, his voice sounding normal, though his eyes still had that intense expression.

As she left, she felt his gaze on her back—as tangible as the touch of his finger on her skin just a few minutes earlier.

Instead of returning home, she transferred directly to St. Mungo's. She needed to occupy her thoughts, distract herself from that strange moment with Malfoy, from the intensity of his gaze, from the warmth of his skin so close to her face.

The hospital was the perfect place to escape these thoughts. The bustle, urgent cases, stacks of documents requiring review—all of this could effectively fill her mind with something other than silver eyes and a gentle touch.

"Granger? Didn't you have the day off?" asked a surprised Hawkins when she bumped into him in the corridor.

"I did, but I decided to catch up on backlog," she replied evasively. "Is there anything for me?"

For the next few hours, she threw herself into work—consulting difficult cases, helping with emergency admission of victims from an accident with an experimental potion, finally tackling paperwork. She worked until her eyes began to close on their own and her mind refused to process any more information.

When she finally returned home, she was so exhausted she barely had the strength to prepare for bed. She fell onto her bed and fell asleep almost immediately, too tired even to dream.

She woke before dawn, when it was still dark outside. Despite several hours of deep sleep, her mind immediately returned to yesterday's events. She closed her eyes, trying to drive away the image of Malfoy standing so close, his finger at her lips, that look...

With frustration, she got out of bed. This was absurd. She was an adult woman, a professional healer. She shouldn't be reacting like a teenager to a simple gesture. Moreover, this was Malfoy—her patient. Nothing more.

She approached the kitchen to make coffee when her eyes fell on the vase with flowers. She had already discovered four flowers, but several still remained.

For almost half an hour, she stood staring at the bouquet, feeling a strange, irrational fear. What if these weren't just gifts? What if each successive flower changed something between them, crossed another boundary? A book, a spa voucher, exhibition tickets, chocolates... what would be next?

Finally, with the determination of a person who knows that delaying the inevitable won't help, she reached for the fifth iris. She gently grasped it by the stem, preparing herself for what might happen.

The flower trembled in her hand, beginning the now-familiar transformation.

After a few seconds, she was holding a small glass sphere, the size of a golf ball. Inside the sphere was a miniature, perfectly reproduced starry sky, with hundreds of tiny, twinkling points of light that slowly swirled, creating a hypnotic pattern.

Attached to the sphere was a small card, written in the familiar, elegant handwriting:

"For viewing before sleep, when you're thinking too much. Stars have that irritating habit of reminding us how small our problems are. D.M."

She turned the sphere in her hands, enchanted by how realistic the stars looked—each one flickered with its own light, and the whole thing rotated slowly, revealing different fragments of the sky. When she squeezed the sphere lightly, the stars shone brighter, and she felt a wave of calm and relaxation, as if she were really looking at the night sky.

It was a simple but truly charming gift. It wasn't excessively expensive or pretentious. Just... nice. Something that could bring a smile after a hard day, a small pleasure that didn't have to mean anything.

Yet it did mean something. Because Malfoy somehow knew that she often had trouble falling asleep, that her mind worked at full capacity even when she should be resting. Was she that predictable?

Over the next week, Hermione developed a new routine. Every morning, she appeared at Cliff Manor to check Malfoy's condition and the stability of the new therapy. Mornings were best for diagnostics—the body was rested, and magic was most stable. She arrived punctually at nine, with a bag full of potions, ready for an hour of intensive work.

Fortunately, all signs indicated that the new method was working. With each day, the readings were more promising—the curse was still present, but its impact on Malfoy's body was much less. The numbness in his limbs had subsided, and the attacks of uncontrolled magic had decreased to sporadic, minor incidents. Most importantly, there had been no serious attack similar to the one from a week ago.

Malfoy himself admitted that he felt better than he had in months. His face was regaining color, his movements became more confident, and a spark of energy appeared in his eyes that had been missing for a long time. He was still far from full health, but the difference was noticeable to the naked eye.

During these visits, she didn't meet Scorpius again. Malfoy apparently deliberately scheduled their meetings during hours when the boy was under Fimble's care in another part of the house. Though they never discussed it directly, she understood his caution. Scorpius was already confused enough by the situation—the sudden appearance of a new person in his life could stress him further.

Nevertheless, knowing about the boy's existence gave her additional motivation. Now she wasn't just fighting for Malfoy's life—she was fighting so that little Scorpius wouldn't lose his father. This thought meant that every evening after returning to her apartment, regardless of fatigue, she reached for more books on rare curses.

She searched through Ministry archives, reviewed old manuscripts from the St. Mungo's library, and even contacted several international experts on dark magic curses. She devoted every free moment to research.

And every morning, before setting out for Cliff Manor, she reached for another flower from the bouquet. It had become almost a ritual—a moment of curiosity and excitement that brightened the start of her day.

The sixth flower turned into a set of herbal teas with calming properties, with an attached note suggesting that even Hermione Granger sometimes needs to slow down. The seventh became a small, pocket calendar with automatically updating appointments, which gently vibrated, reminding her of important meetings. The eighth transformed into an elegant scarf in deep navy blue, perfect for windy days on the cliff. The ninth surprised her, changing into a set of handmade soaps with the scent of vanilla and bergamot.

With each successive gift, she wondered more and more how Draco had so accurately sensed her preferences. None of the gifts were elaborate or excessively expensive—they were all simply... thoughtful. Practical. Matched to her needs and preferences in a way that revealed true attentiveness.

Finally came the day when only one flower remained in the vase—the last iris, standing alone among green leaves. She paused before it, as she did every morning, reaching out her hand... then hesitated. What had Malfoy left for the end? What if it was something excessively expensive, something that would embarrass her? Or—worse—something too intimate, too suggestive? How could she then look him in the eye during the morning therapy session?

After a moment of hesitation, she withdrew her hand. No. Today she wouldn't take the last flower. She would deal with it later, after returning, when she would have time to think everything through calmly, without the pressure of immediately meeting Malfoy.

She packed her bag with potions and, casting a last glance at the solitary iris in the vase, Apparated to Cliff Manor, leaving the final gift for later.

As always, he was waiting for her in the elegant living room, sitting on the sofa with a book in hand. But today something was wrong. Hermione immediately noticed that his face was paler than usual, and he had dark circles under his eyes. Even the way he held the book betrayed fatigue—his hands weren't as steady as usual.

"Good morning, Malfoy," she said, examining him carefully. "Is everything all right?"

He closed the book and looked at her, assuming his usual composed expression.

"Good morning, Granger. Of course everything's all right. Why do you ask?"

She narrowed her eyes, moving closer. Now, from a shorter distance, she could see that his forehead was glistening with sweat, and his eyes were somewhat clouded.

"You look... unwell," she said directly, placing her bag on the table.

"Charmingly honest as always," he replied with a shadow of his usual sarcasm, but without real strength. "I just didn't sleep well."

She didn't wait for further excuses. She reached out and placed her hand on his forehead, ignoring his surprised look.

"Malfoy, you're burning up!" she exclaimed, feeling the heat radiating from his skin. "This isn't ordinary fatigue, you have a high fever."

"It's nothing," he tried to protest, but his voice was weaker than usual. "I'm just a bit cold, that's all."

"Cold? In this living room? With a blazing fireplace?" she shook her head in disbelief. "Stop pretending to be a hero and let me examine you."

Before he could protest, she pulled out her wand and performed a quick diagnostic spell. The numbers that appeared in the air were alarming—39.8 degrees Celsius.

"This is not 'nothing,' Malfoy," she said firmly. "You have a fever of almost forty degrees. You're going to bed immediately."

"There's really no need..." he began, but stopped when he tried to stand and swayed slightly.

She immediately grabbed his arm, stabilizing him.

"See? You can't even stand properly. Stop arguing and let me help you."

For a moment, it looked like he wanted to protest further, but finally he sighed in resignation.

"All right," he conceded. "But this is really unnecessary fuss."

"I'll decide what's necessary," she replied sternly.

They slowly moved toward the stairs, with Hermione discreetly supporting him, though he tried to walk independently. She could feel heat emanating from his body even through his clothes.

"How long has this been going on?" she asked as they climbed the stairs.

"Since yesterday evening," he admitted reluctantly. "But I thought it would pass on its own."

"And of course it didn't occur to you to contact me?" she asked with irritation.

"It's just a fever, Granger. I didn't want to trouble you with something so trivial."

"Trivial?" she repeated in disbelief. "Malfoy, in your condition, any change could be significant. The fever might be a symptom that the curse has found a new way to attack your body."

They reached his bedroom—a spacious room with a large bed, tall windows, and elegant, dark furniture. Hermione guided him to the bed, ignoring his weak protests.

"You need to lie down and rest," she said firmly.

He sat on the edge of the bed, clearly exhausted even from this short journey up the stairs.

"Scorpius," he said suddenly. "I was supposed to..."

"Where is he now?"

"With Fimble, in the playroom," he replied, trying to stand. "I should explain to him..."

"You're not going anywhere," she interrupted, gently but firmly pushing him back onto the bed. "I'll talk to Fimble. You get undressed and lie down. And that's not a suggestion, Malfoy."

To her surprise, he didn't protest further. He must have been feeling really poorly to give in so easily.

"The elf should be in the west wing," he said, lying back on the pillows.

She nodded and quickly left the bedroom, heading in the direction he had indicated. After a few minutes, she found the playroom—a colorful, bright space full of toys, where little Scorpius was building something with blocks under Fimble's watchful eye.

"Miss Granger!" the elf squeaked, jumping up at the sight of her. "Fimble didn't know Miss was coming today!"

"Good morning, Fimble," she greeted him. "Mr. Malfoy is ill. He has a high fever and must stay in bed. I'll be taking care of him, but I need your help."

"Of course! Fimble will do whatever is needed!"

"Could you take care of Scorpius for the rest of the day? And perhaps... explain to him in an appropriate way that his daddy needs rest?"

He nodded energetically, his large ears flapping.

"Fimble will take care of young master. Miss needn't worry! Fimble will also prepare soup, Master Malfoy always wants soup when he's feeling unwell!"

"That's a great idea," she smiled. "Thank you, Fimble."

She returned to Malfoy's bedroom, stopping on the way in the bathroom to soak a clean towel in cold water. When she entered the room, she found him already in bed, with his eyes closed. For a moment she thought he had fallen asleep, but when he heard her footsteps, he opened his eyes.

"Scorpius...?" he asked weakly.

"He's with Fimble. Everything's fine," she assured him, approaching the bed.

She placed the wet towel on his forehead, and he sighed with relief as the cold material touched his feverish skin.

"Thank you," he said quietly.

She cast another diagnostic spell, this time more complex, checking not only temperature but also other parameters of his body. After a moment, colored lines and symbols appeared above his body, which she studied carefully.

"This doesn't look good," she finally said, frowning. "This curse is really nasty."

"What's happening?" he asked, trying to see the symbols hovering above him.

"Exactly what I feared. The curse is adapting," she explained, pointing to the red lines pulsing around his body. "We found a way to prevent it from attacking your nervous system and magical core, so now it's attacking your entire body, causing fever."

From the bag she had brought with her, she took out a vial of potion.

"This is a basic fever-reducing potion," she explained, unscrewing the cork. "It should help."

Malfoy obediently drank the potion, grimacing slightly at its bitter taste.

"Give it a moment to work," she said, setting aside the empty vial.

For the next few minutes, they sat in silence. Hermione changed the wet towel for a fresh one, and Malfoy lay with his eyes closed, breathing shallowly. Finally, she cast another diagnostic spell, but to her disappointment, the temperature had dropped only slightly—to 39.5 degrees.

"This isn't enough," she muttered with frustration. "Let's try something stronger."

From her bag, she took out another vial, this time with a darker liquid.

"This is an enhanced fever potion," she explained. "We use it at St. Mungo's in more difficult cases."

He drank this potion as well, but when she checked his temperature again after another fifteen minutes, it was still at a high level.

"This is strange," she said, more to herself than to him. "None of the potions are working as they should."

"Maybe the curse is blocking their action," he suggested in a weak voice. "You said it could affect how my body responds to magic."

She nodded, biting her lower lip in thought.

"You're right. But we need to bring down this fever somehow," she said with determination. "Too high a temperature for an extended period can be dangerous."

She tried several other spells—simple cooling charms usually used for burns, and even a specialized spell used for magical infections. None of them brought significant improvement.

"This is frustrating," she finally sighed. "Wizards so rarely suffer from fever that we don't have many effective methods of treating it. Most magical diseases manifest differently, and ordinary infections can be cured with a simple Pepper-Up Potion."

"So what now?"

"We'll have to use Muggle methods," she decided. "At least those won't be interfered with by the curse."

"Muggle methods?" he repeated with slight surprise.

"Yes. And don't make that face," she said, seeing his expression. "Muggles were dealing with fever long before wands and potions were invented."

Without waiting for his response, she left the bedroom and headed to the bathroom. She filled a basin with cold water and took several clean towels. When she returned, Malfoy was watching her from under half-closed eyelids.

"What are you planning to do?" he asked when she placed the basin on the bedside table.

"Compresses," she answered, soaking a towel and wringing it out. "On the forehead, neck, armpits, and groin—places where blood vessels are close to the skin's surface. This will help lower the temperature of the entire body."

She gently placed a cold towel on his forehead, then another on his neck. Malfoy shivered slightly but didn't protest.

"You'll need to unbutton your shirt. I need access to your armpits."

Without a word of protest, he began unbuttoning his silk shirt. His fingers trembled slightly, so after a moment of hesitation, she helped him, trying to ignore the intimacy of the situation.

When the shirt was unbuttoned, she carefully placed cold compresses under his armpits. Then she hesitated.

"Um... we'll also need to..." she began awkwardly.

"I understand," he interrupted, sparing them both an embarrassing conversation. "I can handle that part myself, if I could have a moment of privacy."

She nodded gratefully and turned away, handing him the prepared wet towels. After a moment, she heard his voice behind her:

"All right. Ready."

She turned and saw that he had managed to place the compresses under the covers without exposing himself too much.

"Good," she said, sitting again on the edge of the bed. "Now we need to regularly change the compresses to keep them cool. This might take some time, but it should help."

"Thank you," he said quietly. "I know this goes beyond your duties."

"Nonsense," she replied, changing the compress on his forehead. "I'm your healer. This is exactly my duty."

"But you're spending the whole day here, taking care of me like... like..."

"Like a patient?" she finished for him with a slight smile.

"Do you think the Muggle methods will work?" he asked after a moment.

"I hope so," she answered. "But if not, I have a few more ideas up my sleeve."

"What kind?"

"Well, fever is essentially overheating of the body," she explained, changing another compress. "If cooling charms worked on the environment rather than directly on you, they might not be blocked by the curse."

"So...?"

"I could cool the entire room," she said. "Or... well, it's quite drastic, but a bath in cold water would also help."

Malfoy raised his eyebrows.

"A bath?"

"It's an effective method for very high fever," she explained. "But let's leave that as a last resort."

For the next hour, she regularly changed the compresses, checking his temperature every so often. To her relief, the method started working—slowly but steadily, the fever was decreasing.

"It's working," she said with satisfaction when the spell showed 38.9 degrees. "Still too high, but we're moving in the right direction."

"I'm glad," he muttered sleepily. "Because I'm getting tired of being wet."

She laughed softly.

"At least you didn't end up in a bathtub full of ice."

"For that I'm particularly grateful," he replied with a shadow of his usual sarcasm.

At that moment, someone knocked quietly at the bedroom door, and after a moment Fimble appeared on the threshold, holding a tray with a steaming bowl.

"Fimble brought soup for Master Malfoy," the elf announced. "And pumpkin juice for Miss Granger. Fimble thought Miss might be hungry and thirsty."

"Thank you, Fimble, that's very kind of you," she smiled.

When the elf left, she helped Malfoy sit up, propping him with pillows so he could eat the broth.

"I'm not hungry," he protested weakly.

"You need to eat something," she said firmly. "You need strength."

Reluctantly, he began to eat, and she watched him with satisfaction. After a few spoonfuls, he had to admit that the soup was good and he did indeed feel a bit better.

"How long will you have to stay here?" he asked, setting aside the empty bowl.

"Until your fever drops to a safe level," she replied. "Don't worry, I don't have other plans today."

"And if it takes all night?"

She shrugged.

"Then I'll stay the night. It wouldn't be the first time I've watched over a sick patient."

He looked at her for a moment, then said quietly:

"Thank you, Granger. I appreciate it."

"You're welcome," she replied, changing the compress on his forehead once again. "Now try to get some rest. Sleep is the best medicine, as Muggles say."

Malfoy obediently closed his eyes, and Hermione continued her work, regularly changing the compresses and checking his temperature. At some point, she noticed he had fallen asleep—his breathing became deeper and more regular.

She took a notebook and quill from her bag, quickly writing down her observations and ideas. Since fever-reducing spells were blocked by the curse, and wizards rarely suffered from fever, perhaps it would be worth developing a new, more effective spell? Something that would work even with magical interference?

It could be an interesting research project. And at least it would give her something to focus on while sitting by sleeping Malfoy's bed.

After about an hour of such vigilance, she heard soft crying coming from the corridor. The sound was barely audible, but clear enough for Malfoy to stir restlessly in his sleep. Without hesitation, she cast a silencing charm on the room—the last thing he needed was to be awakened. She was certain that if he heard his son crying, he would immediately try to get up, regardless of his condition.

Making sure that Malfoy was sleeping peacefully, she silently left the bedroom and followed the sound of crying. The sound led her to the playroom, where she found a rather chaotic scene. Fimble was jumping around, waving colorful toys, changing their shapes and colors, making funny faces—all in a desperate attempt to cheer up the little boy. Scorpius, however, sat huddled in a corner of the room, his face hidden in his hands, his small shoulders shaking with sobs.

"Fimble tried everything, Miss Granger!" the elf squeaked when he saw her, clearly distraught. "But young master is missing his daddy very much!"

She nodded understandingly and slowly approached the boy.

"Scorpius?" she said gently, crouching beside him. "I'm Hermione. Do you remember me? I help your daddy feel better."

The boy raised his tear-stained face, looking at her through watery eyes. He looked so vulnerable that her heart tightened with sorrow.

"Where's Daddy?" he asked in a trembling voice. "I want Daddy."

"Your daddy is sleeping now," she explained gently. "He's sick and needs lots of rest to get better."

"But I want to see him!" he insisted, and his lower lip began to tremble even more.

"I know, sweetheart," she said, instinctively reaching out to hug him. "But I promise he'll feel better soon and..."

She didn't finish the sentence because as soon as her hands touched Scorpius's shoulders, the boy jumped to his feet, pulling away sharply.

"No!" he cried, his face contorting in a new bout of crying. "I want Mommy! Where's Mommy?"

She froze, not knowing how to react.

"Scorpius..." she began cautiously, trying to find the right words.

But the boy had already fallen into hysterics, his crying turning into a loud, heart-rending scream.

"I want Mommy! I want Mommy!" he repeated, backing away further until his back touched the wall.

She took a step toward him, trying somehow to calm him down.

"Scorpius, listen..."

"Leave me alone!" he screamed, pushing away her hand. "You're not my mommy! You're not my mommy!"

Scorpius slid down the wall, sitting on the floor, his crying changing to quiet, sobbing sighs.

"I want... Daddy..." he gasped between sobs.

She looked helplessly at Fimble, who looked as lost as she was. What should she do? Malfoy needed rest, but his son was in a desperate state. No toys or distractions would help—the boy needed his father.

Suddenly a new idea came to her mind.

"Scorpius," she said, kneeling to be at his eye level, but keeping a safe distance. "You know I'm a healer? That means I treat sick people, like your daddy."

The boy looked at her suspiciously, still sniffling.

"I thought that maybe... you'd like to help me?" she suggested with a slight smile. "We could examine your daddy together and check when he'll get better. What do you think?"

He hesitated, looking at her uncertainly.

"How... examine?" he asked quietly.

"Well, I have special spells that show how a patient is feeling," she explained. "And they check if the medicines are working. I could show you how it works. You would be my little helper."

The boy was silent for a moment, considering the proposal, and then slowly nodded.

"I want to see Daddy," he said quietly.

"Great," she smiled. "But remember, your daddy needs lots of rest, so we have to be very quiet, okay?"

He nodded again, and for the first time, a shadow of interest appeared in his eyes instead of just despair.

They walked down the corridor toward the bedroom. As they walked, she instinctively reached out to take the boy's hand, but he immediately moved away, looking at her suspiciously. She understood the hint and didn't try to make physical contact again.

"Your daddy says you really like books," she said instead, trying to start a conversation. "I love them too. What are your favorites?"

"About dragons," he answered after a moment of hesitation.

"That's a great choice," she smiled. "You know, my friend works with dragons in Romania. Someday I'll tell you about it, if you want."

The boy didn't answer, but he seemed somewhat less tense.

When they reached the bedroom door, she stopped and knelt again at Scorpius's eye level.

"Now we need to be really very quiet," she whispered. "Like a mouse. Your daddy is sleeping, and sleep is the best medicine."

"Like a mouse," he repeated in a whisper, and his little face took on a very serious expression.

She gently opened the door, and they both silently slipped into the bedroom. Malfoy was still asleep, though his breathing was now shallower than before. The compress on his forehead had already dried and warmed up.

"See," she whispered, leading Scorpius closer to the bed. "First we check if the compresses are still cold. This one isn't anymore, so we need to change it."

Dipping the towel in the basin of cold water, she wrung it out and handed it to Scorpius.

"Do you want to help me?" she asked quietly.

The boy uncertainly took the towel, and Hermione gently guided his movement, not touching him, just showing him what to do. Together they changed the compress on Malfoy's forehead.

"Now we'll check if the fever has gone down," she whispered, taking out her wand. "This is a spell. Watch."

She made a fluid motion with her wand, uttering the spell so quietly it was barely audible. Colorful numbers and symbols appeared above Malfoy's body.

"See?" she pointed to one of the numbers. "This is your daddy's temperature. It's already lower than before. That's a good sign."

Scorpius watched the magical symbols with fascination.

"When will he be healthy?" he asked in a whisper.

"He's already better," she assured him. "I think tomorrow he'll be able to get out of bed."

At that moment, Malfoy stirred and slowly opened his eyes. Despite their efforts, he must have heard the whispered conversation.

"Scorpius?" he mumbled sleepily, and then his gaze fell on his son standing by the bed. "What are you doing here?"

"Daddy!" Scorpius immediately forgot about his promise to be quiet. "Daddy, you're sick!"

Without waiting for permission, he climbed onto the bed and hugged his father, being careful of the compresses.

"I was scared," he admitted, burying his face in Malfoy's shoulder.

"I'm fine," Draco replied, embracing his son. However, at the same moment, his face contorted in a painful grimace that he couldn't hide.

"Does something hurt?"

"My head," he admitted reluctantly. "It's nothing."

She frowned, remembering something Malfoy had mentioned during one of their earlier therapeutic sessions. He had said in passing that when headaches were particularly bothersome, the only thing that really helped was Muggle classical music.

Suddenly she also remembered that, passing through the corridor, she had seen a piano in one of the lounges—an elegant, black instrument that looked well-maintained.

"I have an idea," she said, heading for the door. "Stay here, I'll be right back."

"Where are you going?" Malfoy asked, but she had already left the room.

A few minutes later she returned, holding in her hands... a miniature piano, no larger than a matchbox. Malfoy raised his eyebrows in surprise, while Scorpius let out a delighted "Ooooh!"

She placed the diminished instrument in a free corner of the bedroom, and then waved her wand, uttering a spell to restore it to its normal size. The piano returned to its impressive dimensions, fitting perfectly into the space between the window and the chest of drawers.

"What are you doing?" Malfoy asked, watching her with a mixture of surprise and curiosity.

She sat at the piano, opening the lid over the keyboard.

"Quiet," she said, not turning around. "I'm not sure if I still remember how to do this."

She placed her fingers on the keys, taking a deep breath. So many years had passed since she regularly practiced on her parents' piano. Before Hogwarts, she had taken lessons for almost five years, and then she played only during holidays, until finally she stopped completely.

She hesitated for a moment, and then her fingers gently brushed the keys, producing the first sounds of Chopin's nocturne. The melody was slow, melancholic, but full of warmth—perfectly fitting the quiet evening and the cozy atmosphere in the bedroom.

After the first few bars, uncertain and sometimes missed, her muscle memory began to return. The melody flowed more smoothly, the sounds filling the room with delicate, soothing harmony.

Scorpius, still cuddled up to his father, watched her with his mouth open, clearly fascinated. Malfoy closed his eyes, his breathing became deeper, more regular, and the tension on his face began to slowly subside.

She continued playing, losing herself in the music, remembering all the hours spent at the piano in childhood. After the nocturne, she smoothly transitioned to Debussy's gentle, rocking melody, perfect as a lullaby for a tired boy and his sick father.

She didn't know how long she played—it could have been ten minutes or an hour. When she finally finished, gently ending the last piece, a silence fell in the room, interrupted only by steady breathing.

She turned and saw that both Scorpius and Draco had fallen asleep—the boy nestled in his father's arm, and Malfoy with his head tilted back on the pillows, his face calm and relaxed for the first time in many hours.

She smiled to herself, quietly closing the piano lid. Her musical skills might have rusted over the years, but they apparently could still bring comfort where magic had failed.

She spent the rest of the time sitting in a comfortable armchair by the bed, occasionally changing the compresses and checking Malfoy's temperature. Every hour she cast a diagnostic spell, pleased to see the indicators slowly but systematically returning to normal. Despite her fatigue, she couldn't fall asleep—partly out of a sense of duty to her patient, partly out of fascination with the sight of Draco and Scorpius sleeping so peacefully beside each other.

The little boy was nestled against his father's side, his light hair scattered on the pillow, his small hand clutching Draco's shirt even in sleep, as if afraid that Daddy might disappear. Malfoy, in turn, even unconscious, maintained a protective grip around his son, his long fingers resting on the boy's back in a gesture of protection.

This image was so far from everything she had ever associated with Draco Malfoy that she still caught herself looking at them in disbelief. Where had that arrogant, cruel boy she knew in school gone? When had he become this caring, devoted father?

When dawn began to break outside the windows, she cast a final diagnostic spell. To her immense relief, Malfoy's temperature had returned to normal—36.6 degrees. The fever had completely subsided, and the other parameters also looked much better. The curse was still present, of course, but for now it had retreated, as if the Muggle treatment methods and the presence of his son had tamed its aggressiveness.

Neither Draco nor Scorpius woke up as she gathered her things. They slept deeply, exhausted by the emotional and physical stress of the previous day. Hermione left a short note on the bedside table explaining that the fever had passed, but Malfoy should still rest and take the strengthening potions she had left beside it.

She returned home exhausted, but with a sense of duty well fulfilled. Her apartment greeted her with silence and coldness—the temperature outside had dropped significantly during the night, and she had forgotten to cast a heating charm before leaving. Shivering slightly, she lit a fire in the fireplace and made herself a cup of hot tea.

As warmth began to fill the room, her gaze fell on the vase of flowers. A single iris stood there alone.

She hesitated for a moment. She was tired, barely able to stand after a sleepless night. Part of her just wanted to take a hot shower and collapse into bed. But curiosity—the same that had always pushed her to discover new things, to seek answers—was stronger.

She reached for the last flower.

The purple petals unfurled, and then began to shrink and change shape. For a moment, Hermione watched with fascination as magic worked, transforming the living plant into... something completely different.

After a few seconds, she was holding a folded piece of paper in her hand. When she unfolded it, it turned out to be a drawing made with magical crayons—the kind that made drawn pictures move like wizarding photographs, only in a much more childish, simplified way.

The drawing showed three crooked, clumsily drawn figures. The tallest had pale yellow hair and was holding hands with a smaller figure, also with light hair. Beside them stood a third figure—a woman with brown, very curly hair drawn as a large, fluffy cloud around her head. All three figures were waving their arms and smiling with wide, clumsily drawn smiles. Above them shone a bright yellow sun with rays that also moved, blinking cheerfully.

At the bottom of the page, in large, crooked letters, someone had written: "FOR THE HEALER LADY."

She felt something tighten in her throat. This wasn't a gift from Malfoy—it was a drawing by Scorpius.

Hermione looked at the child's drawing, feeling her eyes fill with tears. It was such a simple, sincere gift—much more moving than anything she could have imagined.

Scorpius had drawn her as part of their little family. And although he had never exchanged more than a few perfunctory words with her, though yesterday he had reacted to her with distrust, apparently in his childish mind she already had her place—as the person who helps his daddy.She carefully placed the drawing on the table, touching the moving figures with her fingers. The small figure of Scorpius waved to her energetically, and the drawn sun blinked happily.

 

Chapter 10

Hermione sat at her desk in her apartment, surrounded by stacks of books and notes. Since returning from Cliff Manor, she had devoted every free moment to developing a spell that could effectively combat the fever caused by the curse. Muggle methods had worked, yes, but they were too slow and required the constant presence of a healer—in case of a sudden, high temperature spike, he would need something that would work faster.

Frustrated with her lack of progress, she pushed away a book and rubbed her tired eyes. She had been working on this for five days straight, and she was still no closer to a solution. Malfoy was feeling better, the fever hadn't returned, but she knew it was only a matter of time. The curse was looking for new paths of attack and would strike again sooner or later.

Reaching for another book from the shelf, she accidentally knocked over a thick, leather-bound album. It fell to the floor, opening to a random page.

"My Hogwarts album," she said with surprise, picking it up. "I haven't looked through it in... years."

For a moment she hesitated—she should get back to work, every minute was precious—but fatigue was taking its toll. Maybe a short break would do her good, refresh her mind?

She pulled the album closer and began to look through it from the beginning. The first photos were from her first year—eleven-year-old Hermione with tousled hair and oversized front teeth, smiling nervously at the camera. Next to her stood an equally young, uncertain Harry and a red-haired, freckled Ron, who even then was taller than them.

"We were so small," she whispered nostalgically, running her fingers over the photograph.

The next pages showed them growing up—second year and the terror associated with the Chamber of Secrets, third year with Lupin as the best Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher they ever had. Then the Triwizard Tournament and Harry looking mortally terrified before the first task.

The fifth-year photos showed Dumbledore's Army—group photographs from the Room of Requirement, everyone with determination painted on their faces, practicing spells under Harry's guidance. Hermione lingered longer on one photo that showed the three of them after a particularly successful session.

And then something clicked in her mind. The Room of Requirement. A place that could provide everything they needed... including a place to hide things. Her eyes widened as more thoughts began to form a logical sequence. Hermione jumped up from her chair, suddenly full of energy. If she was right, she might have just stumbled upon a lead that would help her treat Malfoy.

Although it was already afternoon and she had completed her regular morning check-up at Cliff Manor, she decided to share her discovery immediately. This could be groundbreaking—she couldn't wait until tomorrow.

Her feet had barely touched the living room floor when she heard raised voices coming from deep within the house. Shouting—sharp, angry, definitely sounding like an argument. One voice belonged to Malfoy, the other was female, sharp and full of venom.

She hesitated. Her first instinct was to withdraw, to come back later when Malfoy wasn't busy. But the shouting was getting louder, and the words she managed to catch—"Scorpius," "right," "take away"—made her freeze in place.

Whatever was happening, it involved the child.

Driven by a mixture of professional duty and simple human concern, she moved toward the source of the noise. The sounds led her through the living room, down the corridor, to a spacious kitchen.

"...you have no right!" Malfoy's furious voice reached her. "You gave him up! You signed the papers!"

"That was then!" replied the female voice. "Now the situation has changed. I want my son!"

Hermione stopped at the kitchen door, undecided whether she should enter or discreetly withdraw. But before she could make a decision, the scene before her caught her attention.

Malfoy stood by the kitchen island, his face paler and more determined than she had ever seen it. Opposite him stood a tall, slender woman with dark hair arranged in an elegant bun. Even in anger, she looked stunning—perfect features, flawless makeup, expensive robes from the latest collection.

Astoria Greengrass. There was no doubt who this woman was.

"You won't take him, Astoria," Malfoy said in an icy voice that Hermione remembered from Hogwarts. "You abandoned him. You relinquished all parental rights. You said—and I quote—that you 'don't want such a child.'"

"I was young and stupid!" Astoria shouted. "I didn't know what I wanted! Now I know I made a mistake. I want to fix our relationship, I want..."

"You want him now because your new fiancé decided a child would look good in your wedding photos?" Malfoy interrupted her with contempt. "I know very well that Pucey is planning to run for the Wizengamot. A pureblood family with an adorable child will sell well to voters, right?"

Astoria paled.

"How dare you suggest..."

"I know it from Daphne," he interrupted her again. "Your own sister thought I should know about your plans."

At that moment, Astoria noticed Hermione standing in the doorway. Her eyes widened, then narrowed in angry recognition.

"And what's this? You brought Granger as a witness?" she snarled, giving her a contemptuous look. "You think a war heroine will help you keep my son?"

Malfoy turned abruptly. When he saw Hermione, surprise flashed across his face, then something that might have been relief.

"Granger isn't here as a witness," he said more calmly. "She's my healer."

"Healer?" she looked at him with a mixture of surprise and something that looked almost like fear. "So it's gotten worse? That... curse?"

"Why do you suddenly care?" he snapped. "You ran away as soon as you found out I was sick. You left your own son because you were afraid he might have inherited the curse."

"I was terrified!" Astoria cried. "I didn't know what to do! But now... now everything has changed. I think Scorpius should be with me. Especially if your condition is deteriorating."

"Now you're worried?" Malfoy laughed bitterly. "After two years? When I've already managed to create a home for him, stability, despite everything that's happening?"

Astoria ignored his words, now addressing Hermione directly.

"And this is who you brought in? A Mudblood?" she spat the word with such contempt that Hermione felt physical pain, as if she had been struck. "Have you really fallen so low, Draco? Can't afford pureblood healers anymore? Or maybe none of them wanted to risk infection?"

"Enough!" he slammed his fist on the kitchen counter with such force that the cups standing on it jumped. "Don't you dare use that word in my home! Never again!"

"Oh, please," Astoria rolled her eyes. "Suddenly you've become a defender of Mud... Muggle-borns?"

"People change," he said quietly, but firmly. "Some for the better. Others..." he gave her a cold look, "apparently not."

Hermione stood motionless, feeling like an intruder in this intense, personal exchange. The word Astoria had used still echoed in her head—not because it hurt her, she had long learned to ignore such insults, but because Malfoy's reaction was so immediate and full of anger.

"I'm sorry," she finally spoke, interrupting the argument. "I didn't mean to disturb, but..."

"You're not disturbing, Granger," Malfoy interrupted her, his voice suddenly tired. "Astoria was just leaving."

"I wasn't leaving," she growled. "And I won't leave without Scorpius."

"He's not going anywhere with you," he said firmly. "You abandoned him. You said—and I quote—that you 'don't want such a child.' You were afraid he might be like me. And now suddenly you want to return to the role of mother?"

"I made a mistake," she said, and a note of desperation appeared in her voice. "I was young and scared. But now I'm ready. Scorpius deserves a mother."

"He deserves a mother who won't abandon him at the first sign of trouble," Malfoy replied. "And if you try to take him by force, believe me, I will use all the influence of the Malfoys and Blacks to ensure that neither you nor Adrian will even get a cleaning job at the Ministry."

Astoria pressed her lips into a thin line, her eyes shooting daggers.

"This isn't over, Draco," she hissed. "I'll be back with lawyers."

"By all means," he replied coldly. "Mine will be waiting."

Astoria turned to leave but stopped near Hermione.

"Watch out for him, Granger," she said quietly, with a strange smile. "Everything he touches turns to ashes. Even if this curse doesn't kill him, deep down you'll always be just a Mudblood to him. Some things can't be changed."

Before Hermione could respond, Astoria passed by her and disappeared down the corridor. After a moment, they heard the sound of the front door slamming.

A heavy silence fell in the kitchen.

She stood motionless, not knowing what to say after that violent exchange. Malfoy turned away from her, supporting himself with one hand on the kitchen counter. His shoulders were tense, and his breathing uneven.

After a moment, he raised his other hand and pressed it to his eyes, as if wanting to massage tired eyelids. But the gesture lasted too long, and his shoulders began to tremble almost imperceptibly.

At first, she thought it was anger, that he was trying to control the fury that must have been boiling inside him after the confrontation with Astoria. But then she heard a quiet, choked sound, so unlike anything she had ever heard from his lips.

And then she understood.

Draco Malfoy was crying.

Not loudly, not openly—his body fought against each sob, trying to suppress it, stop it. But tears must have been flowing, hidden behind that hand pressed to his eyes, because his breathing was ragged, and his shoulders trembled more and more.

She froze, surprised and moved by this sight. Malfoy—always composed, controlling every aspect of his life and image—now stood before her broken, unable to contain emotions that must have been building up for a long time.

"Malfoy..." she began quietly, taking an uncertain step toward him.

He didn't answer, but his back tensed even more, as if the very sound of her voice reminded him that he wasn't alone, that someone was witnessing his weakness.

Without thinking, she moved closer and gently placed her hand on his shoulder.

"Everything will be all right," she said quietly. "She can't do this. No one will take him from you."

He didn't answer, but his breathing became even more uneven, as if her words had only deepened his emotions. The hand he was pressing to his eyes clenched into a fist, and with the other, he gripped the counter so tightly that his knuckles turned white.

"I'm sorry," he finally choked out, not looking at her. "You shouldn't... see this."

"Don't apologize," she replied gently. "Everyone has a right to tears. Even you."

They stood like that for a moment—he with his head down, fighting to regain control, she with her hand on his shoulder, offering silent support.

Finally, Malfoy took a deep breath, slowly straightening up, and wiped his face with his sleeve.

"Thank you," he said quietly, his voice still somewhat hoarse. "And I apologize for that... scene."

"You have nothing to apologize for," she replied, withdrawing her hand from his shoulder.

He walked a few steps to the kitchen table and fell heavily into one of the chairs.

"She really can take him, you know?" he said after a while, staring into the space in front of him. "If she uses the argument about the worsening curse, if she convinces the Ministry that I'm not able to provide Scorpius with proper care..."

"I'm your healer," she interrupted, sitting across from him. "I can write a certificate stating that you are fully capable of caring for a child despite the curse. My word as a specialist, not to mention my status as a war heroine, will carry significant weight before the Wizengamot."

He looked at her with a mixture of gratitude and resignation.

"Maybe now," he said quietly. "But what about in six months? In a year? We both know that this curse... it doesn't relent, Granger. Every step forward is two steps back. Maybe... maybe Astoria is right."

"Excuse me? After how she treated you? After she abandoned her own son?"

"It's not about her," Malfoy shook his head. "It's about Scorpius. About what's best for him. He needs stability, he needs... normalcy. And I..." he hesitated, "...I don't know how long I'll be able to provide that for him."

"So what, you'll give up?" she asked in disbelief. "Hand him over to a woman who abandoned him? Who called him 'such a child,' as if he were some... defective product?"

"She is his mother," he replied, though without conviction.

"Biologically, perhaps," she nodded. "But a mother is one who raises, who loves, who puts the child's welfare above her own. Has Astoria ever done that?"

Malfoy was silent for a moment, his fingers drumming nervously on the table top.

"No," he finally admitted. "But I'm not a perfect father either. I can't... I can't give him what he needs. A normal childhood. Two parents. The certainty that he won't wake up an orphan tomorrow."

Hermione felt something tighten around her heart. She realized how much he must have been struggling with this—waking up every day with the awareness that any day could be the one when the curse would win.

"Scorpius doesn't need a perfect father," she said gently. "He needs you. Who you are—a father who loves him, who reads to him when he's sick, who creates for him a home full of warmth and safety."

"But for how long?" he looked up, the pain in his eyes no longer hidden. "What will happen to him when I'm gone? Who will take care of him? My parents are dead, I have no siblings, and friends..." he broke off, grimacing slightly.

"We'll find a way," she said firmly. "We're getting closer to understanding this curse. I have a new lead, that's why I came here. But even if... even in the worst case, do you really think it would be better for Scorpius to grow up with a mother who abandoned him, than to spend every possible moment with you?"

Malfoy was silent, considering her words.

"He adores you," she continued. "I've seen how he looks at you. You're his whole world. Do you really want to take that away from him? Replace it with love forced by a Ministry decree?"

"No," he said quietly. "I don't. But I'm afraid, Granger. I'm afraid I'll fail him. That I'll leave him alone, just like... like my father left me."

Those last words were barely audible, as if he had uttered some deeply hidden truth that he didn't want to acknowledge even to himself.

"Your father made his choices," she replied gently. "You're making different ones. You're fighting for your life, for your son. It's not the same."

"But the effect may be the same," he sighed. "Scorpius will be left alone."

"He won't be," she said with sudden determination. "If... if it really comes to the worst, I'll make sure he has support. That he doesn't end up with Astoria."

He looked at her in surprise.

"What do you mean?"

She hesitated. She hadn't planned to say this, the thought had appeared in her mind spontaneously, but now that it had been spoken, she knew it was true.

"I won't let Scorpius go to someone who doesn't love him," she said firmly. "I'll help find him a suitable home, people who will care for him as you would want. That's a promise, Malfoy."

For a long moment, he studied her intently, as if trying to read her thoughts, to make sure she was sincere.

"Why?" he finally asked. "Why do you care about this? About him? About... me?"

It was a good question—one for which she had no simple answer.

"Because I see how much you've changed," she replied after a moment. "I see a father who would do anything for his son. I see a man who is fighting something terrible, yet still finds the strength to read bedtime stories. And I see a child who deserves love and stability."

Malfoy looked at her for a moment, and then the corner of his mouth lifted slightly.

"You were always too good for this world, Granger," he said quietly. "Even for those who don't deserve it."

"You deserve it," she replied simply. "And so does Scorpius."

For a moment, they sat in silence, which was no longer as heavy as before. Finally, Malfoy straightened up, regaining some of his usual composure.

"You mentioned a new lead," he said, changing the subject. "What is it?"

She smiled slightly, grateful for the return to the safer ground of their professional relationship.

"I was looking through an old Hogwarts album today and came across photos from fifth year, from Dumbledore's Army."

Malfoy winced slightly at the mention of that organization but didn't comment.

"And then it hit me," she continued with growing enthusiasm. "The Room of Requirement! I was so stupid not to think of it earlier!"

"The Room of Requirement?" he repeated, frowning. "But it burned down."

"Yes, but it wasn't completely destroyed," she explained quickly. "McGonagall mentioned to me a few years ago that it's slowly regenerating. The castle's magic is more powerful than Fiendfyre. The room is coming back to life, though supposedly it's not as powerful as it once was."

"All right, but what does the Room of Requirement have to do with my curse?" he asked, still not understanding her line of thinking.

"Well," she leaned over the table, her eyes shining in the way they always did when she stumbled upon a fascinating lead, "think about it. The Room of Requirement can turn into absolutely anything the person using it needs."

"Yes, I know," he nodded, "but what does that have to do with what we were discussing earlier? With Snape's textbook?"

"Remember when I told you about my suspicions? That the curse might have come from that very textbook? That Harry might have used a spell without knowing exactly what it did?"

"Yes, I remember," Malfoy nodded. "You said Potter wasn't creative enough to invent his own spell, so he must have gotten it from somewhere. And that you suspect this Half-Blood Prince—Snape."

"Exactly. And I also mentioned that Harry must have hidden the book somewhere in Hogwarts when he realized how dangerous it could be. But he never told me exactly where."

"And what, you suddenly remembered?"

"No, better," she smiled. "I deduced it. Looking at those photos from the Room of Requirement, I realized it must have been there. Harry could have hidden the book in the Room of Requirement, where for centuries students had hidden things they wanted to get rid of."

"Why are you so sure?" he asked, though interest appeared in his voice.

"First, it's a logical place—thousands of objects, a perfect hiding spot," she explained. "Second, Harry needed to hide the book in a hurry, after he... well, after he used Sectumsempra on you. He didn't have time to come up with complicated hiding places."

"And third," she added, leaning even closer, "I remembered what Harry said during questioning after the war. When they asked him about the last Horcrux—Ravenclaw's diadem—he mentioned finding it in the Room of Hidden Things, next to an 'old stained potions textbook.' I didn't pay attention to it then, but now..."

"Now it makes sense," he finished, nodding. "If the book was there before the battle, then..."

"...then perhaps it survived the fire," she completed. "Not everything in the Room was destroyed. The Fiendfyre was terrible, but Hogwarts' magic is powerful. And if the book was lying in the right place, under other objects, shielded..."

"That's quite a stretch," he observed, though his eyes betrayed hope. "You're basing your entire theory on the assumption that the textbook could have survived a fire that devours even metal."

"Yes," Hermione admitted. "But honestly? I've gone through hundreds of books, consulted dozens of specialists. I've checked every conventional lead that came to mind. If this curse really comes from Snape's notes, then the textbook might also contain information on how to reverse it. And even if not directly, Snape was brilliant. His notes, his thoughts on dark magic... they could lead us to the right track."

Malfoy was silent for a moment, considering her words.

"Do you think McGonagall will let us search the Room of Requirement?" he finally asked.

"McGonagall has a soft spot for me," she smiled. "Besides, it's a matter of life and death. She should understand."

"When do you want to go there?"

"As soon as possible," she answered firmly. "Tomorrow? I can send her an owl this evening. Of course, if you're feeling up to it."

"Tomorrow," he nodded. After a moment, he added more quietly: "Thank you, Granger. For... hope."

"Don't thank me yet," she said, though her eyes were warm. "Wait until we actually find something."

Upon returning to her apartment, Hermione immediately got to work. She pulled out an elegant parchment she kept for special occasions and her favorite quill with a phoenix feather tip—a gift from McGonagall after graduation.

For a long while, she pondered the content of the letter. She needed to convince McGonagall to grant them access to the Room of Requirement, but at the same time, she didn't want to mention Harry's involvement in the whole matter.

Dear Professor McGonagall,

I am writing to you regarding an urgent matter concerning a patient I am currently treating. I have reason to believe that an object in the Room of Requirement at Hogwarts may help me diagnose and treat a rare, potentially fatal curse.

I am looking for an old potions textbook containing handwritten notes by Professor Snape, including spells of his creation. I believe one of his notes may contain key information about the nature of the curse afflicting my patient.

In light of this, I kindly request permission to access the Room of Requirement in the near future—preferably tomorrow, if possible. Due to the sensitive nature of the matter and for the patient's well-being, I also request complete discretion.

The patient is Draco Malfoy, who would accompany me during the visit to the castle.

With respect,

Hermione Granger

Senior Healer, Magical Injuries Department

St. Mungo's Hospital

She read the letter twice, making sure she had conveyed all the necessary information without revealing too much, and sent the letter.

For the rest of the evening, she was too restless to focus on anything else. She tried reading, reviewing notes, even began organizing her collection of books on rare curses, but her gaze kept wandering to the window, watching for the returning owl.

The response came late in the evening, when she was almost losing hope that McGonagall would reply the same day.

With trembling hands, she unfolded the letter, recognizing the distinctive, careful handwriting of her former teacher:

Dear Hermione,

Your request, though unusual, has been positively received by me. Hogwarts always offers help to those who need it, especially in matters of life and death.

You and Mr. Malfoy may arrive tomorrow at 11:00. Filch will be waiting at the gate to let you in. I myself will meet you in the Great Hall and lead you to the Room of Requirement, which—I must warn you—has not yet regained full functionality after the war damage.

As for discretion—you can be assured of my complete restraint in this matter.

Sincerely,

Minerva McGonagall

Headmistress of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry

She breathed a sigh of relief, feeling deep gratitude for her former mentor. Without wasting time, she reached for another piece of parchment and quickly scribbled a short note to Malfoy:

Malfoy,

McGonagall has given her consent. Tomorrow at 11:00 at the Hogwarts gate. Filch will let us in.

Don't forget your wand—it may be needed to search the Room of Requirement.

Prepare for potential disappointment—the Room hasn't yet regained full functionality after the battle. But it's worth trying.

H.G.

The response came surprisingly quickly.

Granger,

I'll be there. On time, prepared for anything—even if we find only ashes. But for the first time in a long while, I feel something akin to hope.

Thank you.

D.M.

P.S. Tomorrow Astoria returns to France. At least for now, we have that problem out of the way.

She smiled slightly, feeling a strange relief at the news of Astoria's departure. She put the note on the table and sank onto the couch, allowing herself a moment of hope.

Tomorrow. Tomorrow perhaps they would find the answer they had been so desperately seeking.

Chapter 11

That night Hermione slept restlessly, waking every hour and checking the time. Her mind was filled with thoughts about what they might find at Hogwarts and whether their plan had any chance of success.

As soon as dawn broke outside her window, she got out of bed and began preparations. She paced around her apartment, checking the clock every few minutes. By nine o'clock, she couldn't stand it anymore. She made a spontaneous decision—there was no point in waiting idly until their appointed time.

She approached the fireplace, took a handful of Floo powder, and threw it into the flames, which immediately turned emerald green.

"Cliff Manor!" she said clearly, stepping into the fire.

The world spun around her, and when the flames subsided, she found herself in Malfoy's elegant living room. She looked around, but there was no one in the room.

"Malfoy?" she called, stepping out of the fireplace and dusting off her robes.

"In the library!" a voice reached her from deep within the house.

She walked in the direction of the voice and found him sitting at a desk piled with books and parchments. He looked tired, but when he saw her, he raised his eyebrows in surprise.

"Granger? What are you doing here at this hour?"

"I couldn't sit still in my apartment," she admitted, approaching closer. "I thought you might already be awake and could be ready earlier."

"Good guess," he admitted, setting aside the book he was browsing. "I couldn't wait calmly either."

"How are you feeling?" she asked, examining him carefully.

"Quite well. No new symptoms since the fever."

"In that case, I have a suggestion," she said, sitting in the armchair opposite him. "What do you say we Floo to Hogsmeade and walk from there to Hogwarts? We have plenty of time, and a walk might be... a nice change."

Malfoy looked at her for a moment, as if considering the proposal.

"A walk to Hogwarts..." he repeated slowly. "I haven't been there in a long time. Actually, I haven't visited the castle since the reconstruction."

"Neither have I," she admitted. "I exchange letters with McGonagall sometimes, but the last time I was there was several years ago."

"All right, why not," he agreed, standing up. "I couldn't bear sitting here waiting until eleven anyway. Just give me a few minutes to get ready."

He left, and Hermione began browsing the books spread out on the desk. They were mainly old volumes about rare curses and their counter-spells—similar to those she had been studying for the past few weeks.

After a few minutes, he returned, dressed in elegant yet comfortable attire.

"Ready?"

"Absolutely," she nodded, standing up.

They returned to the main living room, where Malfoy handed her an ornate box with Floo powder.

"The Three Broomsticks?" he asked.

"Yes," she nodded. "That's a good starting point."

She threw the powder into the flames, spoke the name of the pub, and stepped into the green fire. The world spun around her, and when the flames subsided, she was standing in the familiar, cozy interior of The Three Broomsticks.

At this hour, there were few guests in the establishment—a few wizards sipping morning coffee at the bar and Madam Rosmerta, wiping glasses.

"Hermione Granger!" the proprietress greeted her with a smile. "What a pleasant surprise!"

Before she could respond, the flames in the fireplace glowed green again, and Malfoy appeared.

"Good morning, Madam Rosmerta," she said. "We're just passing through. We're going to Hogwarts."

"I understand," she nodded, glancing curiously at Malfoy. "In that case, have a nice day!"

When they stepped out onto the street in Hogsmeade, she took a deep breath of fresh air. It was a beautiful October morning—the leaves on the trees shimmered with shades of gold and red, and in the distance, Hogwarts rose majestically.

"I haven't been here in a long time," he admitted, looking around the village. "It's changed."

"For the better, I think," she replied, heading toward the road leading to the castle. "Let's go. We have a pleasant walk ahead of us."

Malfoy joined her, and their steps naturally adjusted to a common rhythm. Before them stretched the path leading to Hogwarts—a place that was once their home and now, they hoped, concealed the answer they so desperately needed.

"So," he began after a moment of silence, "what's it like to return to Hogwarts as a war heroine? I bet McGonagall rolls out the red carpet as soon as you cross the gate."

She snorted with amusement.

"Oh yes, of course. And Filch stands at attention and salutes," she replied ironically. "Really, Malfoy? After all these years, you still think I like being the center of attention?"

"Maybe you don't like it, but you can't deny you often find yourself there," he observed with a half-smile. "You, Potter, and Weasley—the inseparable trio."

"That was then," she shrugged. "Now each of us has our own life. Harry has a family, Ron runs the shop with George... and I treat irritating patients who ask too many questions."

"Ouch," he placed his hand on his heart in feigned pain. "And here I thought I was your favorite patient."

"You're my only patient, Malfoy," she reminded him. "I've been removed from most duties to focus on your case."

"Really?" he looked at her in surprise. "I didn't know that."

"Well, now you do," she replied, kicking a small stone on the road. "Your curse is... unique. It requires full attention."

For a moment they walked in silence, passing a bend that revealed a view of the lake.

"What about you?" she suddenly asked. "What's it like to return to Hogwarts as... well, as Draco Malfoy?"

"As a former Death Eater, you mean," he completed calmly.

"No, that's not what I meant to say," she protested. "I was thinking more that you were last here during the reconstruction. It must have been... difficult."

"It was... strange," he finally admitted. "Helping rebuild a place that I once helped destroy. But also... right. Like I was repaying a debt."

"The Ministry didn't force you to work on the reconstruction," she noted. "You volunteered."

"How do you know?" he glanced at her sideways.

"Harry told me," she admitted. "He worked there with you for a few weeks."

"Ah yes, Potter and his big heart," he rolled his eyes, but without real malice. "You know he kept trying to guide me onto the right path? It was... awkward."

She laughed loudly.

"I can imagine! Harry can be quite... persistent when he sets his mind to something."

"Like when he decided to follow me in sixth year?"

"Exactly," she nodded. "I tried to dissuade him from that. But well, as it turned out, he was right about you plotting something."

"Unfortunately," Malfoy muttered. "Back then I didn't see other options."

"There are always other options. Though sometimes they're hard to see, especially when you're a teenager."

"Especially when you're a teenager with Voldemort living in your own home," he added dryly.

She looked at him from the side.

"That must have been terrible," she admitted quietly.

"It was," he answered briefly, then changed the subject. "How are your friends? Potter and Weasley? Still inseparable?"

"Harry is head of the Aurors, and Ron runs Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes with George," she answered. "We see each other regularly, though not as often as before. Adult life and all that."

"Adult life," he repeated with a strange smile. "Who would have thought we'd live to see this stage."

"Speak for yourself," she laughed. "I never had any doubts."

"Ah yes, always the confident Granger," he replied, but without malice. "You probably had your whole life plan mapped out by the age of eleven."

"Maybe not all of it," she admitted. "But I certainly didn't foresee walking to Hogwarts with Draco Malfoy, trying to cure him of a mysterious curse."

"And I didn't foresee needing Hermione Granger's help to survive," he replied, looking at her sideways. "Life can be ironic."

For a moment they walked in silence, admiring the view of the castle emerging from behind the hill.

"You know what's strange?" he suddenly spoke. "We never really talked. Through all those years at the same school."

"It's hard to talk to someone who constantly insults you," she observed.

"Touché," he admitted. "I was a horrible kid."

"You were," she agreed bluntly. "But now you're tolerable."

"Tolerable?" he raised an eyebrow. "Wow, Granger, don't hold back with those compliments, or I'll blush."

She laughed.

"All right, maybe a bit more than tolerable," she admitted. "Though still irritating."

"That's part of my charm," he replied with feigned confidence.

They passed a bend in the path and stood on a hill that offered a perfect view of the entire castle. Hogwarts rose majestically, its towers and turrets reflecting the morning light.

"Still just as beautiful," she sighed.

"Yes," Malfoy agreed, his voice becoming somewhat softer. "Despite everything that happened there."

"Do you think we'll find the book?" she asked, changing the subject to the one weighing on both their minds.

"I don't know," he answered honestly. "But we have to try."

"And if we don't find it?"

"Then..." he hesitated. "Then I'll go on your list of incurable cases."

"There is no such list," she protested immediately.

"I know," he smiled slightly. "You're too stubborn to have one."

After a few more minutes of conversation, they were approaching the gates of Hogwarts. The tall, iron portal with the school crest stood closed before them, but as they approached, they saw the familiar, hunched silhouette of Argus Filch, who was already waiting for them.

"Miss Granger," the caretaker greeted her with an expression that was probably meant to be a smile but looked more like a grimace. "And Mr. Malfoy. Headmistress McGonagall instructed me to bring you to her immediately upon your arrival."

"Thank you, Mr. Filch," she said politely. "The castle looks wonderful. The reconstruction must have been an enormous undertaking."

"Many years of hard work," the caretaker muttered, leading them along the gravel path toward the main entrance. "And I still find damage here and there. Not to mention those insufferable ghosts who think they can now do whatever they please because they 'fought in the battle.'"

Hermione and Draco exchanged amused glances behind Filch's back. Some things never changed—the caretaker was still the same as during their school days.

When they entered the castle, she felt a familiar pang of nostalgia. The Great Hall, the marble staircase, the portraits on the walls—everything looked exactly as she remembered. Only the atmosphere was different—calmer, safer than during their last years at school.

Professor McGonagall was already waiting for them in the Great Hall. Despite the passage of years, she still stood straight, her hair neatly pinned up, and her face retained the same stern but kind expression.

"Miss Granger, Mr. Malfoy," she greeted them, rising from the teachers' table. "I'm glad you're here. I specifically suggested this hour, as most students should now be in class. I thought you might prefer to avoid... unnecessary attention."

"Thank you for your thoughtfulness, Headmistress," Hermione replied gratefully.

"The castle looks impressive after the reconstruction," Malfoy observed, looking around the Great Hall.

The headmistress gave him a careful look, then her face softened slightly.

"Mr. Malfoy, I must admit I was surprised when reading Miss Granger's letter," she said, lowering her voice somewhat. "I am very sorry to hear about your illness. Severus always considered you one of the most talented students in Slytherin. It's a pity he cannot assist in this matter."

Malfoy looked surprised by this personal remark.

"Thank you, Headmistress," he replied after a moment. "Professor Snape... taught me a great deal."

"Indeed," she nodded. "Well, let's not waste time. I'll take you to the Room of Requirement. I must warn you, however, that since the battle, it's not the same as it once was. The Fiendfyre caused enormous damage. The room is regenerating slowly, but it still has its... limitations."

They followed her toward the exit from the Great Hall. McGonagall led them through familiar corridors, here and there pointing out restored elements of the castle or implemented improvements.

"Most of the classrooms have been rebuilt exactly as they were," she explained as they climbed the marble staircase. "But we've introduced a few modern conveniences. The library, for example, now has a magical cataloging system that makes finding books much easier. Miss Granger would certainly have appreciated that during her school days."

"Certainly," she smiled. "I spent countless hours there looking for the right volumes."

Suddenly, noise came from the corridor, and a moment later they heard the sound of running feet. Before they could react, a breathless Filch ran around the corner, his face red with exertion.

"Headmistress!" he exclaimed. "Urgent matter! A group of second-year Gryffindors and Slytherins have started a duel on the fourth floor! Peeves is adding fuel to the fire, and Professor Flitwick can't handle it!"

McGonagall sighed heavily, adjusting her glasses on her nose.

"I apologize. I'm afraid I must deal with this. Fourth floor, north wing, you say, Argus?"

"Yes, Headmistress! By the Transfiguration classroom!" he confirmed, clearly pleased at the prospect of punishing the culprits.

McGonagall hesitated, looking at her guests.

"I assume you can find the Room of Requirement on your own?" she asked.

"Of course, Headmistress," Hermione assured her. "We know the way."

"Excellent," the headmistress nodded. "In that case, I'll leave you. If you need anything, you'll find me... well, apparently on the fourth floor, dealing with student insubordination."

With those words, she walked quickly after Filch, her robes billowing behind her as she disappeared around the corner of the corridor.

"Some things don't change," Malfoy muttered with a slight smile. "Gryffindor and Slytherin still at each other's throats."

"Yes," she sighed. "Though I had hoped it would be different after the war."

"Old habits die hard," Malfoy shrugged. "Let's go. The seventh floor awaits."

They headed toward the moving staircases, passing familiar corridors and portraits. Hogwarts was strangely quiet at this time—most students were in class, and their footsteps echoed off the stone walls.

As they turned a corner on the fifth floor, a young girl, perhaps twelve years old, with dark, curly hair, ran out from around the corner. In her hands, she held a stack of books so tall she could barely see where she was going. Clearly late for class, she was running so fast she almost bumped into Hermione.

"Sorry!" she squeaked, balancing precariously, trying to keep the tower of textbooks from falling. "Professor Binns will kill me if I'm late for History of Magic!"

"Take it easy," Hermione smiled, helping her stabilize the stack of books. "Professor Binns probably won't even notice you weren't there. Trust me, I know something about that."

The girl looked at her gratefully and ran on, disappearing around the corner of the corridor.

She watched her for a moment, feeling a sudden pang of nostalgia. That could have been her, many years ago—with the same riot of hair, stack of books, and perpetual fear of being late for class.

They continued climbing the stairs, but Hermione's thoughts drifted far away. She remembered herself, Harry, and Ron traversing these same corridors, solving riddles, breaking rules, saving the world. They were inseparable then—three friends against the whole world.

And now? Harry had Ginny and two children. Ron ran the shop with George and was dating Susan Bones. Both had their own lives, their own families, their own careers. Of course, they still saw each other—Christmas dinners at the Weasleys', occasional meetings at the Three Broomsticks—but it wasn't the same. They didn't need her in the same way anymore. Nobody needed her.

With surprise, she realized how few close people she had in her life. Work at St. Mungo's consumed most of her time, and when she wasn't working... well, then she was usually working too, reading medical journals or conducting research. She didn't even have a real friend she could confide in with her problems.

She liked Ginny, of course, but her friend was now busy raising children. Her life revolved around James and Lily, around Quidditch schedules and family life. Hermione sincerely doubted she would ever have children of her own—she never felt comfortable in the role of a mother. She didn't have that natural ease with children that she saw in Ginny or Molly. So even when they met for coffee, they often lacked topics for conversation.

"Granger? Everything all right?"

Malfoy's voice pulled her from her reverie. He had stopped a few steps higher and was looking at her with a raised eyebrow.

"Yes, sorry," she quickly replied, moving after him. "Just... remembering school days."

"Nostalgia?" he asked, resuming the climb.

"Something like that," she admitted, not wanting to delve into her melancholic thoughts.

The truth was that for months, maybe even years, she hadn't felt so... needed as she did while treating Malfoy. Her work at St. Mungo's was satisfying, of course, but routine. And this task—trying to cure a rare, mysterious curse—gave her purpose, challenge. And though she would never admit it, even to herself, it also gave her something she hadn't had for a long time—a sense that someone was relying on her.

That someone needed her.

"We're almost there," Malfoy said as they reached the seventh floor. "Do you remember how it works?"

"Of course," she replied, bringing her thoughts back to the present. "We walk past the wall three times, thinking about the Room of Hidden Things."

They moved down the corridor, looking for the familiar place where the entrance to the Room of Requirement was hidden.

After a moment, they found themselves opposite a blank wall. It was here, so many years ago, that Dumbledore's Army had met. It was here that Harry had probably hidden the Half-Blood Prince's textbook. And it was here that the Fiendfyre had raged, nearly destroying the magical room.

She looked at Malfoy, who stood motionless, staring at the empty wall. His face was pale, and his hands trembled slightly—whether from nervousness or exhaustion, it was hard to tell.

"Are you all right?" she asked quietly.

He nodded, not taking his eyes off the wall.

"Just... the last time I was here, it didn't end well," he replied just as quietly.

She noticed how tightly he clenched his jaw, how his fingers unconsciously tightened and relaxed. Wanting to diffuse the tension, she decided to joke.

"Want me to hold your hand?" she asked with a slight smile, expecting him to dismiss her offer with a snort.

To her surprise, he looked at her, and then, without a word, reached out and took her hand. His fingers were cool, but his grip was firm. She felt her heart speed up—from surprise, she quickly told herself, nothing more.

"If you tell anyone about this, I'll have to kill you," Malfoy said, but the corner of his mouth twitched in what might have been the beginning of a smile.

"Your secret is safe with me," she replied, squeezing his hand lightly. "Ready?"

He nodded, slowly exhaling.

He didn't let go of her hand as they began walking in front of the wall. Three times they passed back and forth, concentrating on one thought: "We need the Room of Hidden Things. The place where people have hidden their possessions for years."

After the third pass, they stopped, staring at the wall with tension. For several long seconds, nothing happened, and Hermione began to fear that the Room had indeed been too severely damaged. Suddenly, slowly, the outlines of a door began to form on the wall.

"It worked," she whispered with relief.

Malfoy didn't answer, but his grip on her hand tightened slightly. They both took a deep breath, as if mentally preparing for what they might find on the other side, then Hermione pushed the door.

The sight that greeted them was devastating. The Room of Hidden Things—once filled to the ceiling with thousands of objects gathered over centuries—was now a burnt-out shell of itself. Everywhere they looked, they could see black, charred remains of what once filled the room. Piles of ash, remnants of burned furniture, melted metals, shattered glass. The air was heavy with the smell of burning, despite years having passed since the fire.

The Fiendfyre had destroyed everything. Absolutely everything.

Hermione felt the hope she had nurtured beginning to fade. But she immediately tried to revive it.

"We have to check thoroughly," she said, taking a step forward, still holding Malfoy's hand. "Maybe something survived after all. Books can be surprisingly resilient, especially if they were magically protected. Maybe in some corner, under something..."

She broke off as she felt Malfoy suddenly pull his hand from her grip. She turned and saw the expression on his face—a mixture of disappointment, resignation, and something that looked almost like relief, as if part of him had expected failure from the very beginning.

"Malfoy?" she asked quietly.

"It's over, Granger," he said in an empty voice. "Of course everything was destroyed. Fiendfyre devours even metal, let alone paper. There's nothing here. Nothing that could help me."

"We can't be sure until we check thoroughly," she protested, taking a step toward him. "Malfoy, please..."

But he had already turned, heading back to the door.

"This was a bad idea," he said, not looking at her. "I should have known better. There is no cure. There never was."

"Malfoy!" she called after him as he crossed the threshold. "Wait!"

He didn't stop. His footsteps echoed in the corridor as he walked away quickly, leaving her alone in the doorway of the burned-out room.

She stood motionless, feeling her heart tighten with grief—not just for the destroyed book and lost hope, but also for Malfoy, who had just lost another ray of chance for a cure.

She turned slowly, looking at the ruined interior of the Room of Hidden Things. Ash and dust, charred remains and destruction—did she really think they would find anything useful here? Maybe Malfoy was right. Maybe it had been a bad idea from the start.

But something in her, that stubborn part that could never give up, refused to accept defeat. She couldn't go back. She couldn't leave empty-handed.

She hesitated for a moment, looking at the destroyed interior of the room, then made a decision. She stepped back into the corridor and closed the door behind her. She waited patiently for it to disappear completely, dissolving into the wall as if it had never been there.

And then it hit her.

"Of course," she whispered to herself. "How could I be so stupid?"

The Room of Requirement had always been unique, always magical in ways that even she didn't fully understand. It gave exactly what its users needed—sometimes in ways they hadn't even anticipated.

And she didn't need the Room of Hidden Things as it was now—a burnt-out shell, a place destroyed by Fiendfyre. She needed the Room of Hidden Things before the fire, the same one in which Harry Potter had hidden the Half-Blood Prince's textbook.

Was it even possible? Could the Room go back in time, show its earlier incarnation? She didn't know, but she had to try. The book had to be there—there was no other option.

She began pacing in front of the wall, focusing all her thoughts on one specific desire: "I need to see the Room of Hidden Things as it was when Harry Potter hid the Half-Blood Prince's textbook in it. The Room before the fire, with all the hidden objects, with Snape's book."

With each pass, her concentration grew, determination filling every cell of her body. She closed her eyes, imagining that room as vividly as she could—hundreds of rows of hidden objects, stacks of books, and other things.

"I need that book," she whispered, finishing the third pass. "I need it to save Malfoy."

She stopped and opened her eyes, staring at the wall with tension, with hope, with desperation.

For a long moment nothing happened, and her heart began to sink. But then, very slowly, the outlines of a door began to appear on the wall—different from before, more solid, more... real. A golden doorknob gleamed in the torchlight, as if inviting her inside.

She took a deep breath and placed her hand on the knob. The warm metal under her fingers seemed to pulse with magic, as if the room was responding to her determination, to her desperate need.

"Please," she whispered, opening the door. "Please, be there."

When she crossed the threshold, she held her breath. Before her stretched the Room—an enormous room, filled to the ceiling with hundreds, thousands of objects that generations of Hogwarts students had hidden over centuries. A labyrinth of passages between tall stacks of furniture, books, clothes, weapons, brooms, bottles, crowns—everything perfectly preserved, untouched by fire, as if the Fiendfyre had never taken place.

The door closed quietly behind her, as if the room wanted to protect its secrets from the outside world. Hermione stood motionless for a moment, stunned by the success of her attempt. It really worked—the room had gone back in time, showing her its earlier incarnation!

Without further hesitation, she moved forward, drawing her wand.

"Accio Half-Blood Prince's potions textbook!" she called hopefully.

Nothing happened. Of course, it would be too simple—Harry had mentioned once that summoning charms didn't work in the Room of Hidden Things, probably due to some ancient safeguards.

"Great," she muttered to herself. "Looking for a needle in a haystack isn't enough—I'm looking for a specific needle in a warehouse full of needles."

She looked around helplessly. The room was so huge, so cluttered, that searching it completely could take days, if not weeks. She needed some reference point.

What exactly did Harry say about the place where he found Ravenclaw's diadem? He mentioned something about a bust, an old wizard in a wig...

She moved down one of the aisles, trying to remember more details. She made her way through piles of junk, dusty furniture, stacks of books. Somewhere here, that book had to be—it had to.

Suddenly, from somewhere behind her, she heard a crash, as if something had fallen to the floor. She jumped, turning sharply with her wand at the ready.

Silence. Only the echo of her own voice bounced off the high ceiling.

"Probably something fell off a shelf," she muttered to herself, trying to calm her racing heart.

She moved on, more determined than ever. She had to find that book—not just for Malfoy, but also for herself, to confirm that her intuition was right, that she hadn't brought him here in vain.

She squeezed through narrow passages, looked under tables, behind wardrobes, browsed stacks of books. Somewhere here that bust with the wig had to be, somewhere here Snape's textbook was waiting for her—and, perhaps, the answer she was so desperately seeking.

She quickened her pace, delving deeper into the labyrinth of objects. Turn after turn, aisle after aisle—the Room of Hidden Things seemed endless. After a few minutes, she realized she had completely lost her orientation. She had no idea where she had come from or how to return to the door. If not for the fact that she needed to find the textbook, she might have started to panic.

Again she heard some distant sound—this time like a rustle or creaking. She jumped, turning sharply. Despite her rational mind, wandering alone in this huge, shadow-filled room was beginning to affect her nerves.

"It's just old furniture," she told herself firmly. "There's nothing here."

Nevertheless, she quickened her pace, increasingly determined to find what she was looking for as quickly as possible and get out of there. With horror, she thought she could spend countless hours here, searching every nook and cranny of the Room of Hidden Things.

And then—suddenly—she saw it.

In a narrow aisle, at the end of a passage between two high walls of old furniture, stood a small, dusty table. And on it, exactly as Harry had described—a bust of an old wizard in a pompous, silver wig.

"I can't believe it," she whispered, feeling her heart quicken with excitement. "It's really here!"

She approached closer, looking around feverishly. The table stood in a tight alcove, surrounded on three sides by wobbling stacks of old books, furniture, and other objects that towered almost to the ceiling. Above the table, on a teetering cabinet, someone had placed an enormous, heavy desk, which now dangerously hung over the space.

Hermione carefully approached the bust, ignoring the unstable surroundings. When she moved the bust aside, she saw it. A battered copy of "Advanced Potion-Making," with numerous folded pages and stains. This had to be it—the Half-Blood Prince's textbook.

With a pounding heart, she reached out and grabbed the book. The weight of the volume in her hands caused her an almost physical feeling of relief. She hadn't failed—she had found what they were looking for.

She opened the book, immediately noticing the characteristic, small handwriting in the margins. Every page was filled with notes, corrections to recipes, remarks—all written by Severus Snape's hand.

She was so absorbed in her discovery that she didn't notice how moving the bust disturbed the delicate balance of the stack of objects. She didn't see how the heavy desk above her head began to tilt dangerously, how the entire stack of objects began to tremble, ready to collapse.

Only when a shadow fell on the pages of the book did she look up—and froze. The massive desk was sliding straight toward her, and behind it an entire avalanche of heavy objects.

She didn't even have time to scream. In a split second, she felt a strong push from the side, someone crashed into her, shoving her out of the path of the fall. A tremendous crash filled the air as the desk and pile of objects came down on the spot where she had been standing just a second ago.

Now she found herself pressed against a bookshelf several meters away, trapped in a cage of warm arms. The person who had saved her was shielding her with their own body, pressing her against the shelves so tightly she could barely breathe.

She raised her head and looked up, straight into familiar gray eyes.

"Malfoy?" she whispered in disbelief.

His face was so close that she could feel his rapid breathing on her cheek. He still held her tightly pressed against the bookshelf, as if afraid that if he let go, another avalanche of objects would fall on her.

"What do you think you're doing?!" he snarled, his voice trembling with restrained fury. "You could have died! One step further and you would have been a wet spot on the floor!"

"Where did you come from?" she asked, still stunned by his sudden appearance. "I thought you went back to the castle."

"And leave you alone in this accursed room?" His eyes flashed with anger. "What do you take me for, Granger?"

"But... you left," she began to defend herself. "You were angry, you said it was pointless..."

"I was furious, yes," he interrupted. "And disappointed. But I wouldn't leave you here alone. When I saw you had disappeared, and the door had dissolved into the wall... Damn it, Granger, I thought you were trapped in some magical interdimension!"

She blinked, trying to process his words. Malfoy had come back. He hadn't left her. He had worried about her.

"I found it," she said quietly, raising the hand in which she still held the textbook. "I found Snape's book."

He looked at the volume in her hand, and then back at her. His expression changed, softening for a moment, only to harden even more afterward.

"I don't give a damn about that book!" he growled. "You could have died, do you understand? One moment later and you would have been finished!"

"But I didn't die," she replied calmly, looking him straight in the eyes. "Thanks to you. You saved me."

"I shouldn't have had to save you!" His voice was now lower, more intense. "You shouldn't be risking yourself for... for some cursed book!"

"This isn't 'some book,'" she said with determination. "This could be your salvation. Your chance for a cure. Your chance to see Scorpius grow up."

Something flashed across his face—a complicated mixture of emotions that she couldn't fully read.

"Not at the cost of your life," he finally said, so quietly she could barely hear him. "I never wanted you to risk yourself for me."

"That's my decision," she replied just as quietly. "I want to help you. I want you to live."

They looked at each other for a long moment, trapped in this intense moment, in this extraordinary closeness. His arms still surrounded her, his body still pressed her against the bookshelf. She felt the warmth emanating from him, saw every detail of his face.

And then, without warning, Malfoy leaned in and kissed her.

His lips were warm and firm on her own, the kiss as intense as Draco himself—full of contradictions, desperation, and something that might have been hope. She froze for a moment, surprised, but then, as if something in her relaxed, she returned the kiss, grabbing the front of his shirt with her free hand.

Time seemed to stop. There was no Room of Hidden Things anymore, no curse, no past—there was only this moment, only the two of them and this unexpected, impossible connection.

The kiss, which began as an impulsive burst of emotion, transformed into something deeper, more conscious. Malfoy's hand found its way to her hair, sinking into their thickness, holding her head gently but firmly. Hermione felt the book slip from her fingers and fall to the floor with a dull thud, but she couldn't bring herself to care, not now when her entire body seemed to be burning from this contact.

She pressed closer to him, her hands wandering over his back, feeling the tense muscles. His breath—rapid, hot—mingled with her own. Malfoy moved his hand from her hair to her neck, then lower, to her back, pressing her even more firmly against himself, as if trying to erase any space between them.

The kiss was becoming more intense, more fervent. His hands moved even lower, stopping at her hips. He pressed her harder against the bookshelf behind her, his body pushing against her own. Hermione felt warmth spreading through her body, her thoughts becoming increasingly foggy. When his lips left hers to find the sensitive spot just below her ear, she let out a soft moan that surprised even herself.

That sound, like a sudden alarm bell, brought her back to reality.

"Stop," she gasped, suddenly placing her hands flat on his chest and pushing him back slightly. "Malfoy, stop."

He immediately froze, backing away enough to look into her eyes. His pupils were dilated, his breathing uneven.

"What's wrong?" he asked, his voice hoarse.

"We can't," she said, trying to calm her own breathing. "This... this isn't right."

"What do you mean?" he frowned, still standing very close to her.

"This place, this moment..." she shook her head, gathering her thoughts. "But most importantly, you're my patient. It's unethical."

Malfoy stepped back, his face gradually taking on an expression of understanding.

"Healer-patient relationship," he said, nodding. "Of course."

"I'm responsible for your treatment," she continued, trying to make her voice sound professional, though she could still feel the warmth of his lips on hers. "This... what just happened, it's a violation of all healer ethics."

"You're right," he said after a moment, and his face again took on that familiar, closed expression. "It was a mistake. The emotions of the moment... the stress of the situation."

"Exactly," she nodded quickly, ignoring the pang of disappointment she felt at his words. "It was... an impulse. Nothing more."

"It would be best if we simply forget about it," Malfoy said, backing up another step, as if wanting to create as much space between them as possible. "Let's focus on what we came here for."

She bent down, picking up the textbook she had dropped during the kiss.

"Exactly," she confirmed, pressing the book to her chest like a shield. "I found what we were looking for. We should... we should go back and start analyzing it."

"Good idea," he nodded. His voice now sounded normal, as if the last few minutes had never happened. "Do you know how to get out of here?"

"I hope the door is still there," she replied, turning in the direction from which she thought she had come. "We should just... go straight ahead."

They moved toward the exit, maintaining a safe distance between them. The atmosphere was tense, full of unspoken words. Hermione tried to focus on the textbook in her hands, on the potential answers it might contain—on anything but the fact that she could still feel his lips on hers, that her body still remembered the touch of his hands.

It was a mistake, she repeated to herself in her thoughts. A mistake that couldn't be repeated.

Chapter 12

Hermione sat in her apartment, surrounded by books and notes arranged in a seemingly chaotic manner that only she could understand. It was well past midnight, but sleep wouldn't come—not when in her hands was the potions textbook that once belonged to Severus Snape, a priceless source of knowledge that might contain the key to curing Malfoy.

She turned the pages slowly, carefully studying every note in the margin, every correction to the official recipes, every remark written in the Half-Blood Prince's distinctive, small handwriting. Snape was a genius—with each page she read, she became more convinced of this. His innovations in the field of potions were decades, if not centuries, ahead of their time.

But though her eyes followed the words, her thoughts kept wandering elsewhere—to the moment in the Room of Requirement when Malfoy kissed her.

She rubbed her tired eyes, trying to focus. It was a mistake, an impulse of the moment, nothing more. They both agreed on that. They forgot about it. They moved on.

Except she hadn't forgotten. And judging by the awkward silence that accompanied them throughout their journey back from Hogwarts, neither had he.

They hadn't exchanged a word about what happened as they left the Room of Requirement, as they said goodbye to McGonagall, as they Apparated back to Cliff Manor. Their conversation was limited to the bare necessities—about the book, about what they might find in it, about the next steps in treatment. Professional, matter-of-fact, without emotion.

And then, after briefly discussing their plan of action, she simply returned to her apartment. Alone.

"Focus, Hermione," she muttered to herself, turning another page.

Her gaze fell on a bookmark in the book—a section she had marked as potentially significant. Snape described rare curses and counter-spells there, though not directly—rather as references to potions he might brew to neutralize their effects. It was close to what she was looking for, but not exactly it.

She sighed, leaning back in her chair. Looking for a specific spell in this book that Harry might have used against Malfoy was like looking for a needle in a haystack. Snape had written hundreds of notes, formulas, ideas—some developed, others barely sketched. Just browsing through them all would take weeks, and understanding them—months.

Her gaze involuntarily wandered to the ticket lying on her desk. The manuscript exhibition in Paris—this weekend. She had almost forgotten about it in all the commotion surrounding the search for the textbook.

Now, however, looking at the elegant ticket with the embossed gold lettering, she wondered if she should go. It would be an extraordinary opportunity, of course—rare manuscripts, a closed museum section, meeting with curators... but could she afford such a luxury? Now, when she had in her hands a book that might contain the answer to how to save Malfoy?

Or maybe she should go? Perhaps distance, a change of scenery would help her organize her thoughts, look at the problem from a new perspective? Not to mention that meeting with experts on ancient texts might give her new ideas on how to approach the analysis of Snape's notes.

She looked at the clock—it was approaching three in the morning. She should try to sleep if she wanted to be productive the next day. But would sleep come when her mind was still filled with memories of his lips on hers, his hands on her back, the intensity in his eyes as he looked at her just before he kissed her?

"It was a mistake," she said firmly, setting the textbook aside and getting up from her desk.

But as she closed her eyes that night, she wasn't so sure anymore.

The next morning, Hermione stood in front of her fireplace. Usually, her morning visits to Cliff Manor were routine—a quick examination, checking symptoms, adjusting potions. But today she felt her stomach knot at the mere thought of meeting Malfoy.

How would he behave toward her after what happened? Would he be cold, distant? Or quite the opposite—hostile, as if she were to blame for that kiss? Would their professional relationship, which over time had changed into something resembling friendship, now crumble?

"This is ridiculous," she muttered to herself, throwing a handful of Floo powder into the fireplace. "You're an adult woman. He's an adult man. You both agreed it was a mistake. End of subject."

But as the flames turned emerald and she stepped into the fire, saying "Cliff Manor," her heart was beating as fast as if she were about to face an NEWT examination board.

When she stepped out of the fireplace in the main living room, she immediately noticed that things were different than usual. Malfoy wasn't waiting for her, as was his custom, sitting in an armchair with a book or newspaper. The living room was empty and quiet, only the sound of the sea coming through the open window broke the silence.

"Miss Granger!" squeaked a familiar voice, and a moment later Fimble, the Malfoys' house-elf, appeared, bowing low. "Fimble wasn't sure if Miss would come today!"

"Good morning, Fimble," Hermione greeted him, trying to hide her nervousness. "Of course I came. Where is Mr. Malfoy?"

"Miss will wait in the library," replied the elf, nodding energetically. "He told Fimble to take Miss there when Miss arrives. Master Malfoy said he just needs to finish his conversation with Mr. Zabini and will join soon."

"I understand," she nodded, feeling both relief and disappointment. On one hand, she had a few extra minutes to gather her thoughts; on the other—this change in routine suggested that Malfoy might be deliberately avoiding her.

Fimble led her through familiar corridors to the library.

"Please, Miss wait," said Fimble, pointing to comfortable armchairs by the fireplace. "Master Malfoy will come soon."

The elf disappeared with a quiet crack, leaving her alone. She stood motionless for a moment, looking around the room. As always, she approached the table where open books and parchments lay—apparently Malfoy had been working here until late. She began to browse the titles. Most dealt with rare curses and their counter-spells—the same subject matter every time.

When she moved one of the books, a piece of parchment written in Malfoy's elegant, familiar handwriting slid out from under it. At first glance it looked like an ordinary list, but when Hermione read the heading, her heart stopped.

Things to do before death

The list contained many items, some already checked off as completed. Hermione felt the blood drain from her face as she began to read:

1. Arrange Scorpius's legal and financial matters—access to vaults, etc. [✓]
2. Learn to play the piano
3. Teach Scorpius to fly on a broom [✓]
4. Board a Muggle flying death machine
5. Eat ice cream at Fortescue's with Scorpius [✓]
6. Take Scorpius to Diagon Alley and buy him his first wand (even if it's too early)
7. Visit Hogwarts one more time [✓]
8. Renew old friendship with Blaise [✓]
9. Forgive myself
10. Write letters to Scorpius for his future birthdays [✓]
11. Fly on a broom over the cliffs at dawn [✓]
12. Eat dinner at a Muggle restaurant
13. Learn to cook one dish without using magic [✓]
14. Watch the sunrise over the ocean from the beach (not from the cliff)
15. Visit the hidden magical gardens in Kew Gardens during the full moon
16. Dance in the rain without using an anti-rain charm
17. Tell Sco—

The last item was unfinished, as if Malfoy had been interrupted while writing or wasn't yet ready to formulate it.

Hermione felt tears welling in her eyes. This wasn't an ordinary to-do list. It was a farewell. A plan for the last months of life for a man who was preparing for death.

"What are you reading there, Granger?" she suddenly heard Malfoy's cool voice behind her.

She turned abruptly, still holding the parchment in her hand. Malfoy stood in the doorway of the library, his face expressionless, but the tension in his posture betrayed that he wasn't pleased to have caught her reading his private list.

"Malfoy, I..." she began, but broke off, not knowing what to say. How to explain that she was browsing his personal things? "I'm sorry, I shouldn't have..."

"No, you shouldn't have," he interrupted, entering the library. "It's rather... personal."

He approached her and gently but firmly took the parchment from her hand, folding it carefully and putting it in a drawer.

"Why?" he asked after a moment, looking at her intently.

"Why what?"

"Why do you care?" he pointed to the drawer where the list had disappeared. "It's just a list of silly whims. Nothing that should bring you to tears."

She felt a blush creep up her cheeks. Only now did she realize that tears were indeed flowing down her face.

"They're not silly whims," she said quietly, wiping her eyes. "They're... dreams. Things you want to experience. A life you want to live."

"A life I probably won't live," he replied dispassionately, though his eyes betrayed more emotion than he would like to show.

"Don't say that," she protested. "We found the textbook, I'm working on a solution. I'm not giving up, and neither should you."

Malfoy looked at her in silence for a moment, as if analyzing every detail of her face, every emotion she was trying to hide.

"Why do you care so much, Granger?" he finally asked, his voice softer, almost helpless. "Yesterday you made it clear that I'm just your patient. So why are you crying over my list of things to do before I die?"

"I didn't say you were 'just' my patient," she corrected, looking him straight in the eyes. "I said you are my patient and that it's unethical. That's... that's a difference."

"What difference?" he raised an eyebrow.

"The difference that..." she hesitated, searching for the right words. "The difference that throughout all this time we've been working together on your treatment, I think... that a certain thread of... friendship has formed between us."

She spoke the last word quietly, as if uncertain whether it was the right term for their complicated relationship.

"Friendship," he repeated, and in his mouth the word sounded strange, foreign. He looked away, running his hand through his hair. "I haven't had many friends, Granger. Real friends."

"Neither have I," she admitted quietly. "There was always work, responsibilities... It's easier to focus on saving others than on your own life."

Malfoy looked at the drawer where the list had disappeared.

"That list... I started writing it when I was first diagnosed with the curse," he said, changing the subject. "Initially it had only a few items. Then I gradually added more. Silly things I always wanted to do but put off, thinking I had time."

"They're not silly," she protested. "They're... beautiful. Simple, human desires."

"Funny, isn't it?" he smiled bitterly. "Draco Malfoy, who always had everything, suddenly desires the simplest things—drink coffee in a Muggle café, watch the sunrise from the beach..."

"That's what life is," she said gently. "Those small, simple joys. Not mansions, not vaults full of Galleons."

He looked at her thoughtfully.

"You know what's ironic?" he asked after a moment. "I needed to find out I was dying to really start living."

She felt her heart tighten at these words.

"You're not dying," she said firmly. "Not yet. I will fight for your life, Malfoy. I promise."

Silence fell between them. The intensity of her declaration hung in the air, suddenly making the atmosphere heavy and awkward.

"Airplane," she said suddenly, breaking the silence.

"What?"

"That 'Muggle flying death machine' from your list," she explained, the corners of her mouth twitching in a smile. "It's called an airplane."

"Airplane," he repeated, pronouncing the word carefully, as if testing its sound. "Sounds just as dangerous."

"Actually, it's statistically safer than a broom," she replied, raising an eyebrow. "Millions of Muggles fly in them every day."

"Millions of Muggles don't have magic that would save them if they fell from a height of ten thousand feet," he noted sarcastically.

"And yet somehow they manage," she replied with a slight smile.

For a moment silence fell again, but this time less tense. Hermione bit her lip, as if considering something in her thoughts.

"You know," she began uncertainly. "If you can get a second ticket... we could fly to Paris by airplane. To that manuscript exhibition."

He looked at her as if she had just proposed jumping into a volcano.

"You... want me to get into that Muggle contraption?"

"It would be an opportunity to check off another item from your list," she noted, pointing to the drawer where the parchment had disappeared.

Malfoy looked as if he were fighting an internal battle. His face was a mixture of curiosity, uncertainty, and fear.

"How... how does it actually work?" he finally asked. "This... airplane."

"It's rather complicated," she replied, barely suppressing a broad smile at the sight of his genuine interest. "Something about pressure differences and aerodynamics... but the most important thing is that it works. And it's really comfortable, especially in first class."

"First class?" he repeated.

"Of course," she nodded. "There are many levels of comfort, depending on how much you want to pay. First class has the best seats, the most space, the best service."

"Well," he muttered, clearly somewhat more interested. "If I'm going to die in a Muggle machine, at least I'll do it with dignity."

"No one is going to die," she assured him, rolling her eyes. "But if you really want to do this, I can arrange everything."

He looked at her for a moment, as if trying to see through her intentions.

"Why?" he finally asked. "Why would you do this? Help me with this list?"

She shrugged, suddenly embarrassed.

"Because... because I think it's important," she answered honestly. "These things are important to you. And... I want to help you accomplish them before I find a way to cure you."

"And if you don't find it?" he asked quietly.

"I will," she said firmly, then added more gently: "But until then, I think we could try to check off a few items from that list. Starting with the airplane to Paris. What do you say?"

Malfoy was silent for a long moment, staring at her with an unreadable expression. Finally, he sighed deeply.

"All right," he said, as if he were just signing his death warrant. "I'll get into that Muggle contraption. But if I die, it will be on your conscience, Granger."

"Deal," she replied with a smile, extending her hand to him.

After a moment of hesitation, he shook it, and in his eyes flashed something that might have been amusement.

"You know," he said, not letting go of her hand, "I think this might be real friendship. The one you were talking about."

"Yes," she nodded, suddenly very aware of the warmth of his hand. "I think so too."

Chapter 13

"I want to get off. Tell them to stop this... this thing," Malfoy hissed, gripping the armrests of his seat with such force that his knuckles turned white. "Immediately."

Hermione looked at him with a mixture of amusement and sympathy. They were sitting in comfortable first-class seats on a plane flying from London to Paris, and the aircraft was currently rolling down the runway, preparing to take off.

"We can't get off now, Malfoy," she said calmly, placing her hand on his clenched fist. "Everything will be fine. I promise."

"How can you know that?" he said through gritted teeth as the plane began to accelerate. "This machine has no magic. What if the engines stop working? What if..."

"Then I'll use a levitation charm and bring us safely to the ground," she interrupted him, smiling slightly. "But that won't be necessary. These machines are really safe."

Malfoy looked as if he wanted to respond, but at that moment the plane lifted off the ground, and his stomach apparently decided to stay on the runway. He closed his eyes and turned even paler, if that was possible.

"Breathe," she reminded him gently. "Deep breath in and out."

He obeyed, though each breath was shaky. Their plane was climbing higher and higher, cutting through the clouds.

"Never again," he muttered, still not opening his eyes. "I will never get on this thing again."

"You say that now," she replied calmly. "But wait until you see the views from above. It's really spectacular."

"I've seen views from above," he retorted. "I have a broom, remember?"

"It's different," she smiled. "On a broom, you feel the wind, the cold, you're exposed to the elements. Here you can admire the sky from a comfortable seat, with a glass of champagne in your hand."

As if on cue, a flight attendant approached them with a tray filled with glasses of the golden beverage.

"Champagne for you?" she asked with a professional smile.

"Yes, please," Hermione quickly replied, taking two glasses. "Thank you."

The flight attendant nodded and moved on. Hermione pressed a glass into Malfoy's hand, who finally dared to open his eyes.

"Drink," she encouraged him. "It will help you relax."

Malfoy looked at the glass in his hand with hesitation.

"I told you I don't drink," he said, turning the glass in his fingers. "Not since Scorpius was born. Besides, a certain healer told me alcohol doesn't interact well with my curse. Something about destabilizing the magical core and such."

Hermione bit her lip, clearly embarrassed.

"Well, that same healer is now telling you that one glass of champagne at thirty thousand feet won't hurt you," she replied, nudging him with her elbow. "Besides, Scorpius isn't here, and you're experiencing your first airplane flight. I think that qualifies as an exceptional circumstance."

Malfoy raised an eyebrow.

"Is that a professional medical opinion, Miss Granger?"

"Absolutely," she nodded with feigned seriousness. "I would write it on a prescription for you if I had parchment with me."

The corner of Malfoy's mouth twitched in what might have been the beginning of a smile.

"If the healer says so," he muttered, then took a small, cautious sip. "Not bad, for a Muggle drink."

"Right?" she smiled. "It's Dom Pérignon, one of the best champagnes in the world. Muggles can do some things really well."

"That's true," he nodded, looking at her with a crooked smile. "After all, they created you."

Hermione snorted with laughter, almost spilling her champagne.

"That's probably the strangest thing you've ever said," she stated, shaking her head in disbelief.

"Really?" he raised an eyebrow. "What about that time when I announced to McGonagall that my father would hear about classes being held outside during the rain?"

"Oh Merlin, I remember that!" she giggled. "You had a look as if you'd just been sentenced to Azkaban."

Their conversation flowed easily, to the surprise of them both. School memories, work anecdotes, stories about Scorpius—imperceptibly an hour passed, and their glasses were regularly refilled by the courteous flight attendant.

After the third glass of champagne, Hermione started laughing at practically everything. When Malfoy told her about how he once accidentally turned Blaise's hair into octopus tentacles during a failed spell, she was literally doubled over with laughter.

"Granger," Malfoy watched her with amusement, "are you actually getting drunk from three glasses of champagne?"

She tried to assume a serious expression, which only triggered another attack of giggles.

"I'm sorry," she managed between bursts of laughter, covering her mouth with her hand. "I rarely get the chance to drink alcohol. Actually... I can't remember the last time I drank anything stronger than tea."

"The brightest witch of her age defeated by three glasses of champagne. If Voldemort had known about this, the war would have ended much faster."

This elicited an even bigger burst of laughter from her, which was so contagious that after a moment Malfoy was laughing too.

"I can't believe I've never seen you in this state," he said, wiping the corner of his eye. "It's priceless."

"Well, there weren't many opportunities to get drunk in the company of Draco Malfoy," she replied, giggling again. "Besides, you're my patient. It's very un... un-professional."

Her failed attempt to pronounce the word "professional" caused them both to burst into another round of laughter.

"Ladies and gentlemen," suddenly the flight attendant appeared above them with a polite but firm smile. "I must ask you to keep the noise down. Other passengers would like to rest."

"Oh, we're sorry," said Hermione, trying to maintain her composure, which proved extremely difficult. "We'll... we'll be quiet."

"Absolutely," he nodded, his face a mask of seriousness, though his eyes sparkled with amusement. "Quiet as a rabbit under a broom."

The flight attendant looked at them suspiciously but nodded and walked away. As soon as she was out of earshot, Hermione and Malfoy looked at each other and immediately began choking with suppressed laughter.

"Like a rabbit under a broom?" she whispered, shaking with restrained giggles. "What does that even mean?"

"I have no idea," he whispered back, covering his mouth with his hand. "It's the first thing that came to my mind."

This triggered another wave of stifled laughter. They sat, leaning toward each other, hands over their mouths, trying not to burst into full laughter, which only made the situation seem even funnier to them.

"We have to stop," she whispered when she had calmed down a bit. "They'll throw us off the plane soon."

"They can't," Malfoy whispered back with a serious face. "We're thirty thousand feet above the ground."

And again they began choking with laughter, this time trying to be absolutely silent, which of course was impossible and only intensified their amusement.

* * *

The "Rarest Manuscripts of the Wizarding World" exhibition turned out to be everything Hermione had dreamed of, and more. The elegant halls of the Paris Museum of Magical History were filled with priceless volumes, manuscripts, and scrolls, some of which were over a thousand years old.

"This is amazing," she whispered, leaning over a display case containing Merlin's original notes on elemental transfiguration. "Look at these equations. So many of them we still use in today's magic, and he devised them over a thousand years ago."

Malfoy stood right beside her, holding a glass of champagne that was being served to exhibition guests. Unlike many other visitors who moved quickly from exhibit to exhibit, they spent long minutes at each display case, absorbing every detail.

"Fascinating," he nodded, studying the writings. "My father had a copy of this manuscript in his library, but not the original, of course. These symbols on the margin... they're ancient protective runes. They were meant to protect the knowledge from those who weren't worthy of possessing it."

She looked at him with appreciation.

"I didn't know you knew ancient runes at that level."

"There are many things you don't know about me, Granger," he replied with a slight smile that made her heart beat a little faster.

They strolled through the museum halls, their footsteps echoing on the marble floors. Hermione was in her element, her eyes sparkling with excitement each time she discovered another priceless artifact. Malfoy, to her surprise, seemed equally interested, asking intelligent questions and sharing knowledge he possessed.

"You're full of surprises today," she said when he explained to her the intricacies of magical ciphers used by medieval alchemists.

"I was always good at academics, Granger," he shrugged. "I just had... different priorities at school."

"Like tormenting me and my friends?" she asked, but without malice in her voice.

"Among other things," he admitted with a crooked smile. "Though now it seems absurdly childish."

"Because it was," she laughed, lightly tapping her glass against his.

When they reached the end of the main exhibition, an elegant wizard in formal robes approached them.

"Mr. Malfoy? Miss Granger?" he asked with a slight French accent. "I am Pierre Dubois, chief curator of the museum. Your pass entitles you to visit the closed section. Would you like to proceed there now?"

"Of course," Malfoy replied, and Hermione noticed that familiar, aristocratic expression appearing on his face that she knew so well from school.

The curator led them through an inconspicuous door hidden behind one of the columns. Behind it was a much smaller room, where the rarest and most valuable manuscripts of the collection rested in specially illuminated display cases.

"Here are artifacts too delicate or too powerful to be exhibited publicly," the curator explained. "Some of them you are viewing as the first people in centuries."

Hermione held her breath, seeing Rowena Ravenclaw's original journal containing her thoughts on the founding of Hogwarts.

"This is incredible," she whispered, feeling tears of emotion welling in her eyes. "These are pieces of our history. Our identity."

Malfoy stood right beside her, and his hand unexpectedly found its way to her back in a gesture of support. She didn't move away.

After an hour spent in the closed section, the curator led them to an elegant salon where an intimate reception for selected guests was taking place. About twenty wizards and witches—collectors, scholars, and patrons of the museum—conversed to the sounds of delicate music, sipping champagne and enjoying exquisite appetizers.

"Mr. Malfoy, Miss Granger, it's an honor," an older wizard with an impressive silver beard approached them. "I am Henri Flamel, great-grandson of Nicolas. I've heard about your research on rare curses, Miss Granger. Fascinating."

Hermione blushed slightly.

"It's very kind of you to have heard. I'm currently working on a particularly difficult case..."

"Mine," Malfoy interjected with a smile that surprised Flamel.

"Oh," the older wizard looked intrigued. "Then you must be in the best hands, Mr. Malfoy. Miss Granger has a reputation as the most talented healer of her generation."

"I know," he replied, and there was something in his voice that made Hermione blush again.

The evening passed in fascinating conversations with the most brilliant minds of the magical world. Hermione felt like she was in paradise, being able to discuss advanced magic with people who truly understood her passion. Malfoy, to her surprise, kept pace with her, contributing valuable insights to conversations and revealing knowledge she would never have suspected he possessed.

As the reception began to wind down and most guests dispersed to their homes, Hermione and Malfoy found themselves on the elegant sidewalk in front of the museum.

"I'm hungry," she admitted, looking at her watch. "What do you say to dinner? We could find a charming Parisian restaurant. A Muggle one," she added with a slight smile.

He raised an eyebrow.

"Are you trying to check off another item from my list? 'Eat at a Muggle restaurant'?"

"Maybe," she replied mysteriously. "Unless you'd prefer to return to the hotel right away?"

"Since we're already here," he shrugged, but the corners of his mouth lifted slightly. "Lead the way, Granger. I'm at your mercy."

They walked for a while along charming Parisian streets until they found a small restaurant with a cozy outdoor garden, illuminated by tiny lights hanging between trees.

"This looks perfect," she stated, pointing to an empty table in the corner.

As soon as the waiter approached them, Hermione opened her mouth to order a table, but Malfoy beat her to it, speaking to the waiter in fluent French with a perfect accent.

The waiter nodded and led them to the indicated table.

"You didn't mention you speak French," she said when they sat down.

"You didn't ask," he replied with a slight smirk. "Mother always believed that a properly raised wizard should know at least three languages besides his native one. French was the first I was taught."

"Full of surprises," she shook her head in admiration.

Malfoy easily ordered appetizers and main courses for them, consulting with Hermione about her preferences. When the waiter asked about wine, he hesitated for a moment.

"For me, water," he began in French, but Hermione interrupted him.

"Oh, come on, Malfoy. You deserve one day of relaxation," she said, smiling encouragingly. "As long as the curse isn't attacking, one glass of wine really won't hurt you. Besides, we're in Paris! It's almost a sin not to drink French wine in a Parisian restaurant."

He looked at her for a moment, as if weighing her words.

"Healer Granger, is that your professional opinion?" he asked with a note of irony in his voice.

"Absolutely," she nodded with feigned seriousness. "It's my professional opinion that we should order a bottle of that 1987 Bordeaux."

"Well, when you put it that way," he sighed theatrically, then turned to the waiter: " Une bouteille de Bordeaux de 1987, s'il vous plaît ."

The food was exquisite—delicate foie gras, perfectly prepared duck with oranges, fresh baguettes with butter—and the wine perfectly complemented the meal. They talked freely, moving from serious topics to trivial ones, from memories of the past to plans for the future.

They didn't even notice when it got dark, and the first bottle of wine was finished. They ordered a second, then a third, along with dessert—a perfect crème brûlée, whose sweetness contrasted with the dry wine.

"I can't believe we've never done this before," she said as they finished their last glasses.

"What? Drinking wine in Paris?" he asked, his eyes slightly clouded from alcohol, but still intense as he looked at her across the table.

"No," she shook her head, smiling. "A normal conversation. Without prejudices, without history between us, without... everything."

"Maybe we needed time," he replied quietly. "Maybe we weren't ready."

"And now we are?" she asked before she could think about her words.

Silence fell between them, but it wasn't an awkward silence. Rather one full of expectation, possibilities, things unsaid.

"We should head back," he finally said, not directly answering her question. "We have the return journey tomorrow."

He paid the bill, ignoring Hermione's protests that she should contribute to dinner. When they stepped out onto the street, Paris around them was pulsing with nightlife, and the Eiffel Tower shone brightly against the starry sky.

"The hotel is nearby," she noted. "We can walk."

She started with a confident step, but after just a few meters, reality surprised her. The world around her was spinning slightly, and the sidewalk seemed strangely unstable under her feet. She suddenly stumbled, falling right into Malfoy.

"Careful, Granger," he said, catching her by the shoulders to stabilize her. "Are you possibly drunk?"

"I'm not drunk," she protested, straightening up and tossing her hair back with excessive care. "I am... under the influence of three bottles of excellent French wine. That's completely different."

He raised an eyebrow but didn't let go of her arm as they continued walking.

"Of course, my mistake."

She took a few steps, trying to walk perfectly straight, which only emphasized her condition. When they reached an intersection, she didn't notice the changing light and stepped confidently into the street—right in front of an approaching car.

"By Merlin, woman!" Malfoy exclaimed, grabbing her arm and yanking her back onto the sidewalk as the car drove right in front of them, the driver honking angrily. "Are you trying to get yourself killed?"

"Oops," she giggled, leaning against him. "I thought we had a green light."

"You're impossible," he sighed, but now he held her arm firmly, not allowing her to move even a step away. "The brightest witch of our time, and she can't cross a Muggle street without assistance."

"That wine was really strong," she muttered, allowing him to guide her. "And very good. Thank you for dinner."

"My pleasure," he replied, glancing at her with amusement. "Though I didn't expect I'd have to escort you to the hotel like a first-year after their first sip of Firewhisky."

"Hey!" she nudged him with her elbow, but without anger. "I'm not that drunk."

"No?" he raised an eyebrow. "In that case, walk straight, Granger. Straight as a wand."

She straightened up and took a few exaggeratedly stiff steps, then stumbled again, causing Malfoy to burst into laughter.

"All right, maybe I am a little tipsy," she admitted, joining in his laughter. "But it's your fault. You ordered too good a wine."

"Of course it's my fault," he nodded ironically. "Absolutely not yours, for drinking most of the third bottle."

"You helped!" she protested, but started laughing again.

When they reached the hotel, the receptionist gave them an amused look but professionally handed over the keys without comment. In the elevator, Hermione leaned against the wall, still giggling.

"What's so funny?" he asked, pressing the button for their floor.

"I don't know," she replied, covering her mouth with her hand. "Everything just seems... funny."

"You know, you're not the best advertisement for St. Mungo's healers," he observed with amusement. "Getting drunk on three bottles of wine and unable to walk straight down the street."

"It's not three bottles!" she protested, raising a finger. "It's three bottles divided by two people, so technically... one and a half bottles. But you drank less, so maybe... two-thirds? No, that doesn't make sense..."

Her mathematical considerations were interrupted by a sudden jolt of the elevator, which stopped between floors. She lost her balance and fell right into Malfoy, who instinctively caught her in his arms.

"Sorry," she muttered, but didn't immediately move away. His arms were strong and warm, and the scent of his cologne intoxicating. "What happened?"

"The elevator stopped," he replied, also not immediately letting her go. "It'll probably start again soon."

They stood like that for a moment, too close for it to be considered accidental, but neither of them made a move to step back.

The elevator suddenly jerked and continued moving, forcing them to separate. Hermione cleared her throat and fixed her hair with a nervous gesture.

"Muggle technology," Malfoy muttered. "Always unreliable."

"But still working," she replied with a slight smile.

When the elevator doors opened on their floor, Hermione stepped out first, with a somewhat unsteady gait. Malfoy immediately appeared beside her, discreetly supporting her by the elbow.

"I won't fall, you know," she said, though she didn't try to free herself from his hand.

"I prefer not to risk it," he replied. "As your patient, I expect my healer to be in one piece."

When they reached the door to her room, she began searching for the key card in her purse, which in her current state proved to be a challenge.

"Where is it," she muttered, searching through the contents of her purse. "I just had it a moment ago..."

"Maybe here?" he reached out and gently extracted the card that Hermione had been holding in her other hand the entire time.

"Oh," she laughed, taking the card from him. "Thanks."

They stood in front of her room door, smiling at each other.

Slowly, as if in slow motion, their smiles began to fade. The atmosphere between them changed—from light, amused, to something thicker, more tense. Their gazes, previously full of merriment, now became intense, questioning.

Hermione felt her heart quicken. Malfoy stood so close that she could count his eyelashes, see the finest shades of gray in his eyes. He was breathing slightly faster, his chest rising and falling in an accelerated rhythm that matched the beating of her own heart.

Neither of them made a move to step back. Neither broke this moment with a joke or comment. They stood, staring at each other, as if seeing each other for the first time.

Malfoy gently raised his hand and brushed a stray lock of hair from her face, his fingers grazing her skin with such tenderness that she held her breath. His gaze momentarily rested on her lips, only to return to her eyes, as if asking for permission.

She couldn't respond with words. Instead, almost without conscious thought, she moved slightly closer, eliminating that last, minimal space between them.

This was the moment—the boundary beyond which there was no turning back. For a fraction of a second, an unspoken possibility of stopping, stepping back, saying goodnight and each going to their own room hung between them.

And then they crossed that boundary.

It wasn't clear who made the first move—whether Malfoy leaned toward her, or she rose on her tiptoes. Their lips met in a kiss so natural, as if they had done it thousands of times before. His hands found their way to her face, cupping her cheeks with a delicacy that contrasted with the intensity of his kiss. Her fingers tangled in his hair, holding him close, as if she feared he might change his mind.

But he had no intention of pulling away. He pressed her against the hotel room door, kissing with increasing passion, his body pressed against her own, eliminating any space between them. Hermione responded with equal fervor, her mind—usually so logical, so rational—completely fogged by wine and desire.

The kiss deepened, became more desperate, as if they were both trying to make up for all the years they had lost in mutual dislike. His hands moved to her back, pulling her even closer. Her fingers tightened on his shirt, feeling the warmth of his body beneath the material.

Suddenly, somewhere in the corridor, a door slammed. Despite this, they didn't break the kiss, too absorbed in each other to care about their surroundings. A moment later, someone passed them quickly, throwing an irritated French phrase their way: My God, get yourselves a room.

Hermione felt a blush creep up her cheeks, but she didn't pull away from Malfoy. Instead, still kissing him, she began blindly searching for the door lock with the key card she was still clutching in her hand.

Trying to open the door without breaking the kiss proved much more difficult than it might have seemed. The first time, she completely missed the slot. The second time, the card went in but at the wrong angle.

"Damn it," she muttered into his mouth, causing him to laugh softly without breaking the kiss.

His hands moved to her hips, pressing her more firmly against the door, which didn't make her task any easier. On the fifth attempt, the card almost slipped from her fingers.

"Need help?" he whispered, pulling away from her lips for a moment to move his kisses to her neck.

"No," she replied stubbornly, though her knees weakened slightly under the influence of his lips on the sensitive skin of her neck. "Almost... got it..."

But the card still wasn't cooperating, and Malfoy's presence, his scent, the touch of his lips on her skin made it difficult for her to focus on something as mundane as opening a door.

On the next attempt, at the moment when they were both least prepared, the card finally hit correctly. The green light blinked, the lock clicked, and the door—against which they were leaning—suddenly gave way. Hermione lost her balance, pulling Malfoy with her, and they both tumbled backward.

In the last second, he managed to twist them in the air so that he took the brunt of the fall. He landed on his back on the hotel room floor, with Hermione on top of him, and the door slammed shut behind them with a soft click, cutting them off from the outside world.

For a moment they looked at each other in surprise, and then Hermione giggled, which quickly turned into laughter. Malfoy joined her, his body trembling beneath her in amusement.

"Do you always enter hotel rooms so dramatically?" he asked when they had controlled their laughter.

"Only with you," she replied, her eyes sparkling.

She leaned down and kissed him again, this time harder, more confidently. All hesitations, all doubts dissolved in the warm, enveloping darkness of the room. He responded to her kiss with equal intensity, his hands finding their way to her hair.

After a moment, he changed their position, sitting up and pressing her more firmly against himself. His fingers traveled to the buttons of her blouse, undoing the first two. He pulled his lips from hers to move his kisses lower, to her exposed neck and collarbone.

Hermione sighed quietly, sinking her fingers into his hair. Her thoughts were spinning in a chaos of emotions and sensations. She threw her head back, surrendering completely to the moment and feelings she had tried to ignore for so long.

He moved his hands to her back, pressing her more firmly against him. His lips wandered over her neck, leaving burning traces on her skin. Each touch, each kiss made her body respond in ways she couldn't control.

"Hermione," he whispered her name, and the sound on his lips seemed like something completely new, intimate.

She looked at him—his hair disheveled, eyes dark with desire, lips slightly swollen from kisses. She had never seen him like this—without masks, barriers, pretending. Real.

"Are you sure?" he asked quietly, his voice hoarse, but his gaze clear, sober.

She knew what he was asking. Was she sure she wanted to cross this boundary? Was she ready for the consequences? The world outside the door of this room hadn't disappeared—she was still his healer, professional ethics still existed, the history between them, all the complications.

"No," she whispered, but then pressed her lips to his in a kiss that contradicted her words.

He responded immediately, his hands tightening on her hips, pulling her closer. She sighed into his mouth, her body responding to his touch against all the logical arguments her mind was trying to suggest.

Their breathing became heavier as his hands moved from her hips to her waist, then higher, to the remaining buttons of her blouse. His fingers moved skillfully, undoing another button, revealing more skin. Her body burned under his touch, craving more, though her mind desperately tried to break through the fog of desire.

"Malfoy," she gasped, pulling away from his lips for a moment. "We shouldn't..."

"But you want this," he replied, his voice low, hoarse with desire. "I can feel it."

His lips found the sensitive spot just below her ear, and she involuntarily arched in his arms, her body responding to every touch, every kiss.

"I... yes," she admitted, her hands still tightening on his shoulders, pressing him closer, even though her mind commanded the opposite action. "But it's complicated."

He undid another button, his fingers brushing the material of her underwear, and she flinched, pierced by a sudden rush of awareness. A brief moment of clarity broke through her desire-fogged thoughts. She raised her hands and placed them on his, stopping their movement.

"Wait," she said, her voice trembling slightly. "We can't."

Malfoy froze, his eyes—dark, intense—focused on her face. In them was visible the struggle between desire and respect for her decision.

"Please," he whispered, his voice soft, almost pleading. "Let me touch you. Let me show you how much I want you."

His words sent a shiver down her spine. No one had ever spoken to her this way, with such intensity, with such desire.

"I've been so good," he added, and the corner of his mouth lifted in a slight smile that was both seductive and surprisingly innocent. "I sat in a Muggle airplane, though I was convinced we'd crash. I ate in a Muggle restaurant. I survived the manuscript exhibition, even though the most interesting thing at that exhibition was standing next to me."

He leaned in to place a gentle kiss on her exposed collarbone. His lips moved lower, to the skin revealed by the unbuttoned buttons. Hermione sighed involuntarily, her resistance melting with each second.

"Here you're not Healer Granger, and I'm not Patient Malfoy," he continued, his voice vibrating against her skin.

Her hands, which were meant to stop him, now slid to his shoulders, fingers digging into tense muscles. Her body seemed to act independently from her mind, which was still fighting with the last remnants of reason.

"Tomorrow," he whispered, raising his head to look into her eyes. "Tomorrow you can be professional again. You can follow the rules again and tell me what I can and can't do. But today... today just be with me."

His eyes were so intense, so sincere, that she felt her resistance finally crumbling. The truth was that she wanted him—not just today, not just yesterday, she didn't even know since when.

"One evening," he whispered. "Give us this one evening."

She looked at him, feeling her heart beating faster. Reason fought with desire, rules with feeling. But in this moment, in the darkness of a Parisian hotel room, reason was losing.

"Hermione," his voice was now barely audible. "Say yes."

For a long moment, she looked into his eyes, seeing everything in them—desire, hope, fear of rejection. Her own heart was beating so hard she was sure he could hear it.

"Yes," she finally whispered, and that one word released something in both of them.

He looked at her with an intensity that made her hold her breath. Slowly, with almost reverent attention, his fingers returned to the buttons of her blouse. One by one, he undid them, revealing more and more skin. He didn't take his eyes off her, as if wanting to capture every quiver of her face, every reaction.

He undid the last button. She felt a blush spreading across her body. Despite the courage the wine had given her, despite the decision she had just made, she still felt exposed, vulnerable under his gaze.

"Beautiful," he said, and his voice was low, confident. "I always knew you would be beautiful."

His hands, decisive and sure, moved over her shoulders, removing her blouse completely. There was no hesitation in him when he pulled her closer, his fingers tangled in her hair, holding her head in place as his lips found the sensitive spot on her neck.

She sighed, tilting her head back, giving him better access. His kisses were hot, intense, leaving burning traces on her skin. She felt her body responding to every touch—blood pulsing faster, breathing becoming shallower.

He moved his hands to her back, finding the clasp of her bra. With one confident motion, he undid it, but didn't slide the material off right away. Instead, his hands traveled to her hips, pressing her more firmly against himself, letting her feel how much he wanted her.

His lips found hers again, this time in a more passionate, more demanding kiss. His tongue explored her mouth, tasting, dominating. At the same time, his hands moved back to her shoulders, slowly sliding down the straps of her bra.

Hermione felt herself losing control, surrendering to his touch, his lips, his words. For years she had been the strong one, the one in control, the one who knew what to do. Now, under his touch, she was melting, surrendering, wanting more.

The bra slid down, revealing her breasts. Malfoy pulled back for a moment to look at her, and in his eyes burned a fire that made her feel both intimidated and incredibly desired.

"You have no idea how long I've dreamed of this," he said, and his voice was deep, rough with emotion.

His hands moved to her breasts, touching, exploring, making her arch involuntarily. His thumbs moved over her nipples, and she sighed loudly, surprised by the intensity of the sensations.

"Malfoy," she spoke without awareness.

"Yes, say it again," he commanded, his eyes burning as he looked at her.

"Malfoy," she repeated, and he rewarded her with another kiss, deep, intense, that made her knees weaken.

He grabbed her firmly by the hips and lifted her, carrying her to the bed. His body pressed her into the mattress, the weight pleasant, desired. He could feel her heartbeat, fast, irregular, reflecting her excitement.

His lips found hers in a kiss so intense that she felt herself losing breath. Malfoy's hands roamed over her body with a certain, almost predatory precision—there was no hesitation or uncertainty in him. He moved with the confidence of a man who knows exactly what he wants and how to get it.

His hand moved slowly along her side, stopping at the edge of her skirt. Instead of sliding it off right away, he played with the material, his fingers teasing the skin of her thigh just underneath it, making her tremble.

"Malfoy," she sighed, trying to pull him closer.

"Patience, Granger," he smiled with satisfaction, deliberately using her surname. "I've waited too long for this to rush."

His lips moved to her neck, where he found a spot that made her arch involuntarily beneath him. He smiled against her skin, clearly pleased with her reaction.

"You like that, don't you?" he asked, not expecting an answer, repeating the caress, this time with greater intensity.

She couldn't respond, could only sigh, her hands tightening on his back. He continued his sweet torture, his lips exploring every inch of her skin, finding points that evoked the strongest reactions, then focusing on them, driving her to the edge.

His hands finally moved to the zipper of her skirt, but even then he didn't hurry. Slowly, methodically, he unzipped it, and then just as slowly slid the material off her hips, revealing lace underwear that matched her bra.

"Who would have thought," he murmured with admiration, "that Madam Healer wears such things under her robes."

She blushed, but there was no mockery in his voice—only genuine appreciation and growing desire.

"Do you like what you see?" she asked, trying to regain some control over the situation.

"More than you could imagine," he replied, and his eyes were dark with desire.

She sighed, her hands tightening on the bedsheets. Malfoy moved with the confidence of a man who knows exactly how to bring a woman to the edge of pleasure, and then keep her there as long as possible. His tongue traced slow circles around her navel, and his hands moved to her hips, holding her in place as she involuntarily arched under his touch.

"Impatient, Granger?" he asked, raising his head for a moment to look into her eyes. His smile was full of masculine satisfaction. "You were always so... impatient. Always first with the answer, always wanting everything immediately."

"Malfoy," his name was a sigh, a plea.

"But some things are better when you wait for them," he continued, ignoring her pleading tone. His lips returned to her skin, now placing kisses along the line of her underwear. "Some pleasures are deeper when... approached slowly."

His fingers trailed along the inside of her thighs, never touching her where she craved him most. His torment was precise, methodical—driving her to the edge of madness with every passing second.

“Please,” she whispered, her body trembling beneath his touch.

“Please what?” he asked, arching a brow in mock confusion. “You’ll have to be more specific, Granger. You know how important precision is in language.”

His fingers traveled higher along her thighs, still carefully avoiding that one place. His lips pressed kisses to her hips, to her stomach—but never lower, never where she so desperately needed them.

“Touch me,” she gasped, her face flushed with both desire and the faint embarrassment of having to ask.

“But I am touching you,” he replied innocently, dragging his hand along her thigh. “Here... and here... and here…”

Each word was punctuated by a kiss to her skin, each one closer—but never quite there.

“Here?” he asked, feigning innocence as he placed a soft kiss to the inside of her thigh, just at the edge of her lace underwear.

She sighed, her body tensing with anticipation.

“Or maybe... here?” he continued, his mouth moving higher. He kissed her through the delicate fabric exactly where she wanted him most.

She jerked, caught off guard by the sudden contact. A quiet sound escaped her lips—somewhere between a sigh and a moan—as her hands instinctively tangled in his pale hair.

He smiled, clearly pleased by her reaction. When he looked up at her, his eyes were dark with desire.

“I think I’ve found the right spot,” he murmured, his voice low and sensual, vibrating against her skin. “But I need confirmation. Was this where you wanted me to kiss you, Hermione?”

The way he said her name—slowly, with a tenderness she had never heard from him before—sent a shiver racing down her spine.

“Yes,” she breathed, barely more than a whisper. “Right there.”

“Good to know,” he said with a satisfied smirk, then repeated the kiss—this time longer, deeper, more deliberate.

She gasped, her fingers tightening in his hair. Malfoy continued, his mouth and tongue moving against the fabric of her underwear with practiced precision.

“Malfoy,” she moaned, her body arching beneath his touch.

“Do you like that?” he asked, though he already knew the answer. He could see it, feel it in every shiver of her skin.

“Yes,” she replied, no longer caring how exposed she felt. All that mattered was his mouth on her body, his hands gripping her hips, the rising heat building inside her.

Malfoy slid his fingers beneath the waistband of her underwear and slowly—agonizingly—drew it down her legs. Now, fully bare before him, he looked at her with something that made her blush despite everything: admiration.

“You’re beautiful,” he said, and this time, there was no teasing in his voice. No sarcasm. Just honesty—raw and present.

Before she could respond, his mouth returned to her body—this time with no barrier between them. She cried out, her hands clutching the sheets as his lips and tongue moved with the confidence of someone who knew exactly what he was doing, who understood every secret a woman’s body might hold.

His tongue moved with hypnotic precision, each stroke drawing a new wave of pleasure that pulsed through her. And then, just as she was nearing the edge, his fingers—clever and sure—joined the sweet torture. One slid in, then another, moving in perfect rhythm with his mouth.

She felt her body tense even further, something inside her tightening, coiling, building toward a point of no return. Her hips moved instinctively, matching the rhythm he set.

And then, just as she reached the brink, he looked up. Their eyes met—hers clouded with pleasure, his sharp and focused solely on her. In that moment of intimacy, as he held her gaze without breaking the motion of his fingers, something so intense, so personal passed between them it stole the breath from her lungs.

“Look at me,” he whispered, voice low and rich. “I want to see your face when you come for me.”

Those words, spoken in that tone, paired with the intensity of his gaze and the relentless rhythm of his fingers, were everything she needed. The world around her shattered into a million pieces as a wave of pure pleasure surged through her like electricity. She couldn’t tear her eyes away from his as she unraveled beneath his touch—his name first a breath on her lips, then a cry as her pleasure crested.

He didn’t give her even a moment’s reprieve. While the final tremors of release still echoed through her body, he was already moving up her form, predatory grace in every motion. His mouth found hers in a kiss that tasted of her pleasure and something deeper, more primal.

"I want you," he whispered against her lips, his voice low, strained with restrained desire. "Now."

She could only nod, her body still trembling from the intensity of what had come before, but already awakening under his touch, hungry for more.

She felt the weight of him as he positioned himself above her, his gaze never leaving her face. In it was hunger, need, but also a question—an unspoken offer to stop, to walk away.

She had no intention of stopping. She lifted her hips to meet him halfway, and the look on his face—a mix of surprise, pleasure, and awe—was all the answer she needed.

When he finally slid inside her, she let out a soft cry. Malfoy froze for a moment, giving her time to adjust, his eyes still locked on her face, as if trying to memorize every flicker of expression.

"Are you okay?" he asked quietly, and the concern in his voice was something she’d never expected from him.

"Yes," she breathed, her hands sliding up his back to pull him closer. "More than okay."

It was all the encouragement he needed. He began to move—slow at first, measured, each thrust calculated to bring them both the most pleasure. But with each passing second, his movements grew more desperate, more intense, as though his iron self-control was slipping.

She met every motion, her body attuned to his rhythm as though they were made for each other. Her hands roamed over his back, feeling the taut muscles under smooth skin, her mouth finding his neck, his collarbone—every inch of him she could reach.

"Hermione," her name on his lips was part prayer, part curse. "You have no idea how long I’ve dreamed of this."

The words, spoken in that low, strained voice, sent a shiver down her spine. She felt another wave of need building within her, her body responding to every movement of his with increasing urgency.

Then, just as she neared the edge, he pulled back. She looked up at him in surprise and frustration, her breath coming fast, her body taut with need.

"What are you—" she began, but he silenced her with a finger to her lips.

"We have all night, Granger," he said with that signature smirk—familiar, yet now layered with something new: heat, promise. "I don’t intend to finish this in five minutes."

Before she could protest, he flipped her onto her stomach in one fluid motion. His hands immediately found her hips, lifting them gently, and his lips pressed a soft kiss to the nape of her neck.

"Trust me," he whispered, his breath tickling her skin. "I promise it’ll be worth it."

A new wave of desire coursed through her. This position, the way he held her—firm, commanding, leaving no doubt as to who was in control—made her mind spin with emotion and anticipation.

Malfoy leaned over her, his chest against her back, and his mouth found the sensitive spot near her ear.

"Do you know how long I’ve wanted to see you like this?" he murmured, his voice low and sensual. "Vulnerable. Submissive. Completely at my mercy."

His words, so at odds with their old dynamic, sent another shiver down her spine. Hermione had never thought of herself as submissive—she’d always been the strong one, the one in control, the one who knew what to do. But now, under his touch, under his command, she was discovering a new side of herself—one that wanted to yield, to let him lead.

His hands slid to her hips, fingers tightening to hold her in place. She felt him slide into her again, this time from a new angle that made her gasp with surprise and pleasure.

"You like that?" he asked, though he already knew. His movements were slow, deliberate, each one reaching deeper than the last.

"Yes," she breathed, her fingers gripping the sheets. "Malfoy, please..."

"Please what?" he paused, teasing. "What do you want, Hermione? Tell me."

"You," she replied without hesitation. "I want you. All of you."

That was all the invitation he needed. His pace quickened, his thrusts deeper, more decisive. One of his hands moved from her hip to the front, finding that spot that made her see stars. He moved with perfect coordination, bringing her to the brink, holding her there, not letting her fall.

"Malfoy, please, let me—"

"Not yet," he whispered, not breaking rhythm. "I want you to feel it even more. I want you to beg."

She didn’t recognize herself in that moment—she, who was always so independent, so proud—was now begging him to let her come. But she didn’t care. All that mattered was his body against hers, his hands on her skin, the overwhelming sensation building inside her.

"Please," she whispered, her voice trembling with desperation and need. "Don’t stop."

Malfoy let out a low, satisfied growl at her plea. In one smooth motion, he gathered her wild curls in one hand, gently pulling her head back to expose her neck, which he immediately kissed.

"Since you asked so nicely," he whispered against her skin, fingers tightening slightly in her hair.

The combination of that gentle pull and his dominance sent another wave of pleasure through her. She had never let anyone take control like this—but with him, in this moment, it felt completely right.

Holding her hair, he increased his pace, his other arm wrapping around her waist to keep her exactly where he wanted her. Her body responded to him entirely, every nerve, every cell attuned to his touch, his presence, his control.

"More," she managed to whisper, surprising even herself with her boldness. "Please."

"Anything you want," he replied, his voice thick with shared desire.

And he delivered. His movements became deeper, more assertive, and that gentle tug on her hair added a new dimension to her pleasure. Hermione felt herself teetering on the edge again, each second pushing her closer to that moment of total surrender.

He tightened his grip in her hair, pulling her closer, his rhythm intensifying until it bordered on brutal. His other hand gripped her hip with a force that would no doubt leave marks—but she didn’t care. On the contrary, the sudden surge of dominance, the raw, primal energy radiating from him, only made her body burn hotter with need.

Those words, whispered sharply against her ear, his voice rough and strained, were everything she needed. "Is this what you wanted?" he asked. "For me to stop holding back? For me to show you how much I want you?"

"Yes," she moaned, her body meeting every thrust with equal intensity. "Yes, exactly this."

A low growl of satisfaction rumbled in his chest, and without warning, he shifted her so she was kneeling on her forearms, with him right behind her, his body dominating hers completely. This new position let him reach deeper, harder—every movement sent stars bursting behind her closed eyelids.

"You're mine," he whispered, his voice low and primal. "Tonight, you belong to me."

His words, raw and direct, should have embarrassed her, but instead they ignited her body further. In that moment, she wasn’t Hermione Granger—the composed, rational one. She was wild, unbound, ready to take everything he had to give.

He quickened his pace, his thrusts more forceful, his hand, which had once gripped her hair, now pressing her firmly into the mattress. The other clutched her hip, controlling every movement, every shiver.

"Do you know how much I want you?" he asked, his voice uneven with effort and desire. "How long I’ve dreamed of having you like this? Of making you scream?"

"Malfoy," she gasped—the only word she could manage.

"Yes," he growled, his pace intensifying. "Just like that. Say it again."

"Malfoy," she repeated, louder this time, her voice trembling with emotion and want.

Something in the way she said his name shattered the last of his restraint. With a low, almost feral growl, he moved closer, his body completely engulfing hers. His thrusts became almost savage in their power, each one deeper, harder than the last.

She felt herself careening toward the edge, her body tensing as the explosion of pleasure neared. Malfoy must have sensed it, because his movements grew even more determined, and the hand on her back slid to her shoulder, pulling her even closer.

"Come for me," he commanded, his voice thick with emotion and intensity.

It was all she needed. The world around her exploded in a wave of blinding pleasure that crashed over her like a tidal wave. She cried out, his name tangled with broken, wordless sounds, her body trembling, arching, surrendering completely to the climax.

Malfoy didn’t stop. He continued moving, prolonging her pleasure as long as he could. Then, as her body was still shivering with release, she felt his tension peak. His grip on her hips tightened, sure to leave marks, and his entire body seized with the force of his own climax.

"Hermione," her name was a whisper on his lips as he gave in to his release.

When the last wave passed through him, he pulled her into his chest in one fluid motion. His breath was heavy and ragged, his chest heaving beneath her cheek. Their bodies, slick with sweat, fit together perfectly—her smaller frame molded to his like two pieces of the same puzzle.

He held her tightly, as if afraid she might vanish if he loosened his grip. His heart pounded violently, thudding against his ribs right by her ear.

She felt wrapped in his strength, his warmth. She had never experienced such a sense of safety, of wholeness. His larger body surrounded her from all sides, his arms forming a cocoon that shielded her from the world.

She allowed herself that moment of weightless calm, though somewhere at the edge of her thoughts, a troubling question surfaced—what happens tomorrow? They had crossed a line that couldn’t be uncrossed. Patient and Healer. Granger and Malfoy. Two worlds never meant to merge, now tangled in a way neither of them had foreseen.

Her thoughts were interrupted by something unsettling. Several minutes had passed, but Malfoy’s breathing was still fast—too fast, like he had just run a sprint. She lifted her head slightly to look at him and felt a prickle of worry. His face was paler than usual, beads of sweat dotted his brow.

"Malfoy?" she asked softly, shifting slightly. "Are you okay?"

His arms immediately tightened around her, as if fearing she’d vanish.

"I’m fine," he said quickly—too quickly. "Stay. Please, just stay here with me."

She frowned at the desperate note in his voice.

"You don’t look fine," she said, trying to sit up. "Maybe I should—"

"No," he cut her off, then added, more gently, "Really, I’m fine. It’s just... that was intense."

Before she could argue, he pulled her into a kiss—desperate, unexpected. His mouth was almost feverish on hers, like he was trying to say something words couldn’t express.

When he finally pulled back, his breathing was even more labored, and his pallor more alarming. In his eyes, she saw something unfamiliar—fear.

"Don’t go," he whispered, his hands clutching lightly at her arms.

She looked at him in surprise, then—despite the seriousness of the moment—let out a soft laugh.

"Where would I go?" she asked, raising an eyebrow. "This is my room, remember?"

The tension on his face eased slightly, and the corners of his mouth twitched into a faint smile.

"Right," he said, clearly trying to steady his breath. "That... makes sense."

He nodded, his body slowly beginning to relax, though his breathing remained too quick, his face still far too pale. He pulled her back into his chest, wrapping his arms around her like a shield.

She closed her eyes, listening to the unsettled rhythm of his heart. Letting herself drift toward sleep, her body heavy in his arms. But even as exhaustion crept in, her mind kept turning, piecing things together.

That desperation in his voice. The fear in his eyes. That frantic need to have her stay.

And suddenly, it was all crystal clear.

He was afraid. Not of death—she suspected he’d long stopped fearing that. He was afraid she would leave. That once she saw how sick he truly was, how much the curse had weakened him, she would do exactly what Astoria had done—run.

Without a word, she pressed closer against him, as if to reassure him that she wasn’t Astoria. That she wasn’t going anywhere.

Chapter 14

She was awakened by kisses. They weren't passionate, erotic kisses—the kind she might have expected after a night full of intense sensations. They were gentle, almost shy—a brush of lips on her forehead, temple, cheek. Like snowflakes falling on warm skin—barely perceptible, yet leaving a trace.

Slowly she opened her eyes, blinking in the morning light. Malfoy was leaning over her, his light hair shining in the sunbeams coming through the window. He was wearing only pants, his torso was bare, and on his face was an expression she had never seen before—a mixture of tenderness, uncertainty, and something that looked almost like... admiration?

"Good morning," he whispered, as if afraid to destroy the silence of the morning. Another gentle kiss settled on her temple.

"Good morning," she replied, her voice still slightly hoarse from sleep. "How long have you been awake?"

"Long enough to count all the freckles on your nose," he replied with a slight smile. "There are seven, in case you were wondering."

She laughed quietly, surprised by this unexpected tenderness. She had expected awkwardness, maybe even regret—but not this. Not these gentle kisses, not this calm smile, not this gentleness in his eyes.

"I thought I'd wake up alone," she admitted, reaching out to brush a strand of hair from his forehead.

"Disappointed?" he asked, and a note of uncertainty appeared in his voice.

"Quite the opposite," she replied, feeling her heart quicken under the intensity of his gaze. "It's... a nice surprise."

Malfoy leaned down and placed another gentle kiss on her lips—so different from those passionate, desperate kisses from the previous night.

She rose slightly, resting on her elbows, and the blanket that had been covering her body slid down, revealing her bare breasts. Suddenly, in the bright morning light, she felt a wave of shame hitting her like a cold shower.

Memories of last night flooded her mind—things she had done, words she had spoken.

With a quick, nervous movement, she pulled the blanket up to her neck, wrapping herself in it like a cocoon. For a fraction of a second, she saw an expression of hurt on Malfoy's face—as if her sudden movement was a personal rejection.

"Is everything all right?" he asked quietly.

"Y-yes," she replied, not looking him in the eyes. "It's just... it's cold."

He didn't look convinced.

"Granger," he began slowly, "if you regret what happened..."

"No!" she interrupted him quickly, and then, as if surprised by the force of her own reaction, added more quietly: "I don't regret it. Really. It's just..."

She tightened the blanket at her neck, feeling her cheeks burn.

"It's just what?"

"It's just a strange feeling," she finally finished. "Waking up... with someone. After such a long time."

Malfoy raised an eyebrow, clearly intrigued.

"How long?" he asked directly, moving on the bed to sit opposite her.

Hermione sighed, running her fingers through her hair in a nervous gesture.

"Five years," she admitted quietly.

Malfoy blinked, clearly surprised.

"Five years?" he repeated in disbelief. "You mean to say you haven't been with any man for five years?"

"Yes," she replied calmly. "Five years."

Malfoy looked at her for a long moment, his gray eyes focused, almost soft.

"Why?" he finally asked. His voice was quiet, devoid of its usual mockery.

She shrugged, brushing a strand of hair from her face.

"At first it was a choice. After Ron... I needed time. And then it became a habit. Work, research, patients." She smiled slightly. "Not all of us have the luxury of being wealthy heirs with lots of free time."

He smiled too, but it wasn't his typical ironic smirk.

"I think it's more than a lack of time, Granger," he said quietly. "You were waiting."

"Waiting?" she repeated, raising an eyebrow.

"For someone who would be worth it," he answered, gently touching her cheek. "I'm honored that it fell to me."

She felt a slight warmth spreading across her face.

"I wasn't specifically waiting for you, Malfoy."

"Of course not," he agreed, his lips twisting into a slight smile. "But fate has a strange sense of humor, don't you think? Of all the people in the world... us."

She looked into his eyes, seeing in them warmth she had never seen there before.

"Yes," she said quietly. "Of all the people in the world."

He moved closer, his hand gently touching her shoulder.

"I want you to know," he said, his voice a bit lower than usual, "that I don't regret a single second. And I hope you don't either."

"I don't regret it," she replied simply.

She lied to him.

They ate breakfast together, talking about everything and nothing, avoiding the topic of what had happened between them. When it was time to return to London, they used the fireplace and landed in the living room of Cliff Manor. Malfoy insisted they stop at his house first.

He kissed her goodbye, standing in the spacious hall. The kiss was gentle, almost shy—so different from those passionate, desperate ones from the previous night. He promised to contact her later, and she nodded, smiling slightly.

And then she returned to her apartment, closed the door behind her, and slid to the floor, feeling regret slowly filling her chest.

She didn't regret what had happened between them—it wasn't a matter of lack of pleasure or satisfaction. Nor did she regret it because she felt nothing for him—quite the opposite, a spark of feeling had ignited in her that night, something she hadn't experienced for a very long time.

She regretted it because she knew she had crossed a boundary that a healer should never cross. Now she would take the whole curse matter personally, emotionally, and that never boded well. How could she objectively assess his condition, look for solutions, make difficult decisions, when her heart was becoming involved?

Hermione rested her head against the door, closing her eyes. She knew she should withdraw, ask for another healer to be assigned to his case. That would be professional, responsible.

But how could she do that now, knowing how much he feared that everyone would abandon him? Like Astoria. Wouldn't withdrawing confirm his worst fears?

"What have I done?" she whispered into the emptiness of her apartment, but there was no one who could answer her.

However, she didn't allow herself to despair for long. After a few minutes, she got up from the floor, wiped her eyes, and looked at the clock. It was only two in the afternoon—she still had a whole day ahead of her. A day she could spend feeling sorry for herself... or doing something productive.

Snape's book. Yes, that was what she needed—a specific task, something to occupy her mind and not allow thoughts to return to Malfoy, his touch, his lips...

She shook her head, pushing away those images. She still had plenty of pages to analyze, and the answer she was looking for might be hidden there. An answer that could help Malfoy.

Malfoy as a patient, she reminded herself firmly. Not Malfoy as... whatever else he had become to her.

For the next few hours, she immersed herself in work, meticulously checking every note, every formula, every ingredient mentioned by Snape. It was tedious work requiring full concentration—exactly what she needed.

When she finally looked up, it was already dark outside. She rubbed her tired eyes and looked at the clock—nine o'clock. She had spent almost seven hours on the book without even taking a break for a meal.

But the next morning, the awareness that in a few hours she would have to face Malfoy hit her with full force. A routine check-up suddenly seemed like the most difficult task in her career.

How was she supposed to look him in the eyes, knowing what they had shared? How was she supposed to maintain professionalism, examining his body, which just two days ago she had come to know in a completely different way? How was she supposed to pretend that nothing had changed, when everything had?

When she stood in front of the mirror, trying to pin her hair in a neat bun, her hands were shaking so much that she had to start over three times. She had never been this nervous before—not before exams at Hogwarts, not before the first operation she performed independently, not even before her first day as a Healer.

"It's just Malfoy," she said to her reflection. "You'll manage."

But she knew he was no longer "just Malfoy." And that was precisely the source of her fear.

As soon as she stepped out of the fireplace, she didn’t even have time to brush the ash off her clothes. Strong hands grabbed her by the shoulders and pinned her against the wall. Before she could protest, his lips found hers in an intense, almost desperate kiss.

She knew she should push him away, remind him of professionalism, of the healer–patient boundary they had already crossed far too many times. But her body reacted faster than her mind—her hands slid into his hair, pulling him closer.

When he finally broke the kiss, they were both breathing heavily. Malfoy rested his forehead against hers, his grey eyes so close she could see tiny silver flecks within them.

"I missed you," he whispered, his voice rough and raw with emotion.

It had only been two days since they’d last seen each other, yet he acted as though it had been months. That intensity, that desperation—it should have scared her. But instead, she felt something melt inside her, as all her resolutions and professional boundaries dissolved under the weight of the honesty in his voice.

"Malfoy," she began, trying to inject some firmness into her voice—though she didn’t feel it at all—"I’m here as your healer. We should..."

"I know," he cut her off. "I know what we should do. But that doesn’t change what I want."

His lips found hers again, and she stopped fighting what she felt. His hands slid down her back, pulling her even closer. She felt her body respond to his touch, all her resolutions melting in the heat of his closeness.

Malfoy’s kisses moved to her neck, and she tilted her head back, granting him better access. He pressed her against the wall, his body hard and hot against hers.

"Malfoy," she whispered, trying to cling to the last fragments of reason. "Scorpius... he could walk in at any moment."

"Not a chance," he replied, not stopping his caresses. "He’s asleep. And if you stay quiet, you won’t wake him."

His hands slipped under her clothes, finding bare skin. She stifled a moan, biting her lip.

"This is madness," she whispered, though her body clearly disagreed.

"Madness would be holding back," he said, his voice low and almost guttural. "When you’re this close."

What followed was intense, frantic, and utterly overwhelming. Malfoy loved her there against the wall—desperately, as if afraid she might disappear at any moment. And she gave herself to him with the same intensity, forgetting all her doubts, her professionalism, the healer–patient boundary.

When they finally reached release, they stood still for a moment, holding each other, breathless and flushed. Malfoy leaned his forehead against the wall beside her head, his arms still wrapped around her.

She was the first to break the silence, gently pulling away and adjusting her clothes.

"We need to proceed with your examination," she said, trying to sound professional, though the blush still lingered on her cheeks. "That’s why I’m here."

Malfoy sighed but let her go, also fixing his clothes.

"You’re ruthless, Granger. Don’t even let a man enjoy the moment."

"I am your healer," she reminded him, taking out her wand and notebook from her bag. "And your condition requires regular check-ups."

She indicated for him to sit on the couch. She stood before him, assuming her professional stance.

"How often have you had episodes in the last few days?" she asked. She knew well that he hadn't had any, because she had been with him the whole time. She had no idea where this absurd question came from.

"Hmm, let me think," he replied, reaching out and gently tugging at a loose strand of her hair. "I just had a rather intense episode against the wall in the living room."

"Malfoy," she admonished him, pushing his hand away. "I'm being serious. Episodes of fever, loss of control over magic, headaches."

"All right, all right," he gave in, but his hand moved to her knee when she sat beside him. "Low-grade fever - once, last night. Loss of control over magic - twice, also last night."

She wrote down this information, trying to ignore his hand, which was now drawing small circles on her knee.

"Have you noticed any new symptoms?" she asked, moving slightly to increase the distance between them.

"Difficulty concentrating," he replied, moving after her. "Especially when a certain healer is nearby."

"Please," she sighed, though the corners of her mouth twitched slightly. "This is important."

"I am being serious," he replied, but removed his hand. "The periods of magic loss are longer."

She frowned, recording this information.

"What about falling asleep? Do you still have problems?"

"Yes," he admitted, and then leaned in and whispered in her ear: "Though after the other night, I slept like a baby."

She blushed, but didn't let herself be thrown off.

"I need to examine you," she said firmly. "Take off your shirt."

He raised an eyebrow in a playful gesture.

"Again? You're insatiable, Granger."

"For the examination," she replied, rolling her eyes. "I need to check your magical core."

He sighed theatrically, but removed his shirt. She raised her wand, performing a complicated diagnostic movement.

She worked with concentration, ignoring his glances and occasional comments. However, when she leaned in to look at a darker area in the center of his core, he took the opportunity to steal a quick kiss.

"Malfoy!" she admonished him, moving away. "Behave yourself."

"I'm trying," he replied with an innocent expression. "But you're so close, you smell so good, and after what we just did..."

"I'm here on business," she interrupted him, although her voice sounded less firm than she had intended. "And I need to finish the examination."

"And then?" he asked, his voice suddenly becoming more serious. "What happens then, Granger?"

She looked into his eyes, seeing in them not only desire, but something more - a question, uncertainty, perhaps even hope.

"Then..." she began, not knowing how to finish that sentence. "Then we'll see. If you behave."

For the next two weeks, Hermione's life took on an intensity she hadn't experienced in years. Every day she appeared at Malfoy's residence, officially to conduct tests and monitor his condition. Officially - because after finishing the medical part of the visit, they stayed together, spending time in various ways.

Sometimes they talked for hours, sitting in his library by the fireplace, with a glass of wine in their hands. She discovered in him an intelligent conversationalist whose sense of humor - though still sharp - was no longer malicious. Other times they spent time in the living room, listening to classical music. And still other times they gave themselves to each other with an intensity that surprised her each time - on the couch in the living room, on the desk in his office, under the shower in his bathroom.

However, she never stayed the night. Always, no matter how late it got, she returned to her apartment. The reason was Scorpius. The boy who might wake up at night and find her in his father's bed, asking questions that neither of them was ready to answer.

She had no idea how to name what was between her and Malfoy. It wasn't an ordinary patient-healer relationship, that was obvious. But was it more than physical fascination? Than intense but short-lived passion? She didn't want to think about it. She didn't want to name it, define it, analyze it. She just wanted to... feel.

In the evenings, after returning home, she devoted herself to studying Snape's textbook, comparing his notes with other volumes on curses that she had been collecting for weeks. She looked for clues, hints, anything that might help her understand the nature of the curse that was slowly killing Malfoy. She was determined to find a solution, though each day she feared more and more that there wasn't one.

During those two weeks, she met Scorpius only four times. Each time the boy behaved toward her the same way - distrustful, shy, hiding behind his father's legs. She tried to establish a connection with him, asking about his favorite books, showing simple spells that might interest him, but the boy remained distant. Only once, when she brought him a magical miniature dragon that really breathed (tiny) flames, did his eyes light up for a moment. But even then he didn't say a word to her.

Over the last three days, Malfoy's condition had somewhat worsened. He had two episodes of headache so intense that he couldn't bear even the sound of quiet music - something that had never happened before. He lay then in a darkened room, with a cold compress on his forehead, and she sat beside him, holding his hand, feeling more helpless than ever.

Apart from these episodes, his condition was stable, which gave her some comfort. The tests didn't show a significant deterioration of his magical core, and the periods of magic loss, though still occurring, weren't getting longer. This gave her hope that she still had time. Time to find a solution. Time to save him.

But with each day she realized more and more that saving Malfoy meant more than just overcoming the curse. It also meant saving her own heart from the inevitable pain that would come if she failed.

That day, when she transported herself by Floo to Cliff Manor, she immediately sensed that something was wrong. Malfoy greeted her with a smile that didn't reach his eyes. He was strangely subdued, as if mentally absent, answering her questions with a delay, sometimes only with a nod of his head.

"Is everything all right?" she asked when they sat in the living room with a view of the sea.

"Of course," he replied, though his voice sounded flat. "I'm just tired. Scorpius had nightmares last night."

He didn't look convincing, but she didn't push. Instead, she took out her wand, beginning the standard diagnostic procedure. A blue glow surrounded his body, showing that all basic parameters were normal. Only the flow of magic was slightly elevated—nothing that should concern her, but enough to catch her attention.

"The results look good," she said, recording the data in her notebook. "Though the magic flow is higher than usual. Do you feel anything strange? Any tingling in your hands, ringing in your ears?"

"Nothing like that," he replied, moving closer. His hand rested on her knee. "I feel fine. Really."

His touch, as always, sent a wave of warmth through her body, but professionalism required her to finish the examination.

"I need to check a few more things," she said, as his fingers began to trace small circles on her leg. "It won't take long."

"I hope it takes long enough," he replied with a shadow of his former smirk.

Before she could protest, his lips found hers in a kiss that quickly became more intense than she intended to allow. Her rational mind tried to remind her that something was wrong, that she should finish the examination, but her body had other plans.

Somehow they found themselves in his bedroom, her wand still in hand, while his fingers struggled with the lacing of her pants.

"Wait," she said, trying to catch her breath. "I need to finish the diagnostics."

"Do your thing," he replied, not stopping his efforts. "I'll do mine."

Hermione rolled her eyes, but raised her wand, trying to focus on the spell, which was extremely difficult considering that his lips were now placing kisses along her neck.

"Malfoy," she began. "I really should..."

But the rest of her words were lost in a sigh when he finally overcame the fastening of her pants. The diagnostics could wait a few more minutes.

Everything quickly gained intensity. Before she knew it, she was lying on her stomach, feeling the weight of his body on her back. His hands moved over her skin with the certainty of someone who knew exactly what he wanted. Her clothes disappeared in the blink of an eye, scattered haphazardly across the bedroom floor.

"You're beautiful," he whispered in her ear, his voice lower than usual, rougher. "So damn beautiful."

His lips moved along her neck, leaving behind a trail of kisses that sent shivers down her spine.

"Malfoy," she sighed, feeling his weight, his warmth. "We shouldn't... we should finish the examination first..."

"Later," he replied, his hands not stopping their wandering over her body. "Now I want to feel you. Only you."

For a moment she really believed that everything was fine. That his strange behavior earlier was just fatigue, as he claimed. But then she felt his skin becoming sticky with sweat—not from the pleasant kind associated with physical exertion, but cold, sickly.

His breathing accelerated worryingly, became shallow, choppy. She wanted to turn around, ask if everything was all right, but he wouldn't allow it with his weight, and his movements only accelerated, as if he wanted to escape from something she couldn't see.

"Malfoy?" she tried to ask, but he didn't answer, and his breathing became increasingly loud, almost wheezing.

And then, suddenly, the pace of his movements began to weaken, lose energy, until finally they almost completely stopped. He lay on top of her, breathing as fast and loud as if he had just run a marathon. She felt his heart beating violently against her back, uneven, too fast.

With a sudden movement, he rolled to the side, freeing her from his weight. In the next second, he hit the wooden bed frame with his fist with such force that Hermione jumped.

"Damn it!" he growled, hitting again. "Damn, bloody curse!"

She pulled herself up to a sitting position, watching him with concern. His face was contorted with a grimace of anger and humiliation.

"It's not your fault," she began carefully, reaching out toward him.

"No?" he replied bitterly, pushing her hand away. "What kind of man am I, huh? I can't even... even do this properly."

"It's the curse," she said firmly. "This has nothing to do with you as a man."

"Everything has to do with it!" he shouted. "It's slowly taking everything away from me. Magic, strength, and now even... even this."

She looked at him for a moment, seeing in his eyes a mixture of anger, shame, and despair. However, she wasn't going to let him sink into it.

She moved and sat astride him, taking his face in her hands. Before he could protest, she pressed her lips to his in a kiss full of determination.

Initially he stiffened, surprised by her sudden initiative, but after a moment she felt his hands uncertainly resting on her hips.

"What are you doing?" he muttered when she momentarily took her lips from his.

"Showing you," she replied, looking straight into his eyes, "that this curse can't take everything from you. I won't allow it."

She kissed him again, this time more slowly, more deeply, putting into this kiss all the emotions she couldn't express in words. Her hands moved from his face to his shoulders, feeling under her fingers the tense muscles that were slowly beginning to relax.

"Hermione..." he began, but she silenced him with another kiss.

"No excuses," she whispered against his lips. "No feeling sorry for yourself."

Slowly, with each kiss, each gentle touch, she felt the tension leaving his body. His hands, initially uncertain, now rested more confidently on her hips, pulling her closer.

She had never been with him this way before—taking the initiative, controlling the pace, showing him what she wanted, what she desired. It was a new experience for them both, but with each moment she felt the barrier of shame and frustration he had built around himself slowly crumbling.

Their bodies joined again. She looked straight into his eyes, seeing in them a storm of emotions—desire mingled with uncertainty, pleasure with fear.

"You don't have to do this," he said quietly, his hands resting on her hips, moving in a slow, hypnotic rhythm. "You don't have to pretend that..."

"I'm not pretending anything," she interrupted him, not slowing her pace. "Every reaction of my body is real. You can feel that, can't you?"

His eyes darkened as he nodded.

"But don't you think," he began again, "that you deserve a man who is... whole? Who won't fail you in this way?"

She stopped for a moment, looking at him with a mixture of tenderness and frustration.

"Stop," she said firmly. "Stop thinking of yourself that way." She leaned down to place a gentle kiss on his lips. "Just close your eyes and feel."

He hesitated, but obediently closed his eyes. His face gradually relaxed as he surrendered to the sensations she was offering him.

She resumed her rhythm, now a bit faster, more confidently. She observed how his face reflected each sensation—how he furrowed his brow when the intensity increased, how his lips parted when he couldn't suppress his sighs.

Suddenly, as she quickened her movements even more, Malfoy's face contorted in a grimace of intense pleasure. At the same moment, there was a loud crack from the other side of the room—the glass that stood on the bedside table shattered into dozens of fragments.

He immediately opened his eyes, and an expression of shame appeared on his face.

"I'm sorry," he began, trying to get up. "I didn't mean to... my magic..."

"Shh," she silenced him, placing a finger on his lips. "It's nothing. We'll clean up later."

"But I..."

"It's really nothing," she assured him, not interrupting her movements. "It happens. Even to teenagers at Hogwarts."

For a moment he looked as if he wanted to argue further, but then his body took control over his mind, and he surrendered to the pleasure she was giving him.

"Look at me," she asked, and when their eyes met, she added: "You are exactly the kind of man I want. Here, now, exactly as you are."

Something in her words, in the sincerity of her gaze, in the determination of her movements, finally seemed to break through his doubts. His hands tightened on her hips, and his body began to respond to her rhythm with new energy.

Another glass shattered in the room, then a book fell from the shelf. She noticed that despite the intensity of their connection, Malfoy still cast furtive glances toward the damage caused by his uncontrolled magic. His body, though responding to her touch, couldn't completely relax. The tension in his shoulders, in the way he clenched his jaw, revealed that part of his mind was still focused on controlling what seemed impossible to control.

"Malfoy," she said softly, trying to draw his attention back to her.

He looked at her, and in his eyes she saw a strange gleam. His hands tightened on her waist, pulling her closer.

"Say my name," he asked quietly, his voice almost pleading.

She felt her cheeks suddenly grow warm. This wasn't a request she had expected. Not at this moment.

"What?" she asked, slightly confused.

"My name," he repeated, looking straight into her eyes. "You've never in your life called me by my first name. Always 'Malfoy'. Even now, even when we are... so close."

"That's impossible," she denied, furrowing her brow. "I must have... surely... at least once..."

But as she tried to recall such a situation, she realized with surprise that he was right. Through all those years at Hogwarts, through these weeks when she was his healer, even through these last days when they shared the most intimate moments—he had always been "Malfoy" to her.

"No, you haven't," his voice suddenly became hard, and his body tensed even more. "Say my name. Now. Please."

It seemed such a simple request, such a basic thing—to say the name of the man she was so close to. And yet, when she opened her mouth to do it, something blocked her. As if crossing that boundary, moving from "Malfoy" to "Draco," meant admitting that what was happening between them was more than physical attraction, more than momentary forgetfulness.

"I..." she began, but the words stuck in her throat.

She saw his eyes darken, his face harden.

In one moment their positions changed. He turned her onto her back, looming over her, his eyes burning with anger and something that looked almost like desperation.

"Say my name," he demanded, his voice low, tense. "One small word, Granger. That's all."

He quickened his movements, as if wanting to force that word from her lips, as if physical closeness could break the barrier that kept her from saying his name.

"I can't believe," he said, his voice trembling with emotion, "that you let me sleep with you, and still can't say my name."

She felt tears coming to her eyes, not from physical discomfort, but from the truth in his words that hit her with full force.

"Is it so difficult?" he asked, not slowing his pace. "Is it really so hard to admit that I am more to you than just 'Malfoy'? It's just five letters. Come on, Hermione. Say my name."

Tears flowed down her cheeks as she shook her head, unable to find words to explain the internal struggle taking place within her.

"I can't," she finally whispered, her voice breaking. "I'm sorry, but I can't."

Something in her face, in her tears, in her voice must have reached him, because suddenly he stopped completely. For a moment he looked at her with a mixture of disbelief and pain, and then slowly, as if each inch cost him enormous effort, he moved away from her.

He now sat on the edge of the bed, turned away from her, his shoulders tense, hands clenched into fists.

"Malfoy," she began, reaching out toward him.

"No," he interrupted her, not turning around. "Don't say anything more. I think I understand everything now."

The silence that fell between them was heavier than all the words they could speak.

She felt something breaking inside her. With trembling hands, she began to gather her clothes scattered across the floor. Each movement was mechanical, thoughtless—shirt, pants, underwear. She dressed quickly, not looking in his direction, as if every second spent in this room caused her physical pain.

Malfoy didn't turn around, didn't say a word. His silence hurt more than any accusations.

When she was fully dressed, she hesitated for a moment, opening her mouth to say something. But what? What words could repair what she had just destroyed? Instead, she turned and ran out of the bedroom, then straight to the fireplace in the living room. A moment later, green flames engulfed her, transporting her to the safety of her own apartment.

There, in the silence of her home, she slid to the floor. The tears she had been holding back now flowed freely, uncontrolled, like a river breaking through a dam. She felt as if something in her chest was tearing apart, as if each breath required more effort than the previous one.

After some time—minutes, hours?—she got up and dragged herself to the bedroom, where she collapsed onto the bed, curled into a ball, as if trying to protect herself from an invisible attack.

Why couldn't she say his name? Why were those five letters harder to pronounce than all the spells she had learned at Hogwarts?

She knew the answer, though she was afraid to admit it to herself. Saying "Draco" instead of "Malfoy" would mean admitting that their relationship went beyond physical closeness. That what was happening between them was more than just the comfort they both needed in difficult times. It would be an admission that she was beginning to see him as a man she could... love.

And that was impossible. She couldn't allow herself that. Not now, not in this situation.

If she named what she felt, if she admitted to herself that her heart was beginning to beat for him, all her thoughts, all her energy would be directed toward him—toward how he felt, toward the fear of his inevitable death, toward the despair that was already lurking at the edges of her consciousness.

And that would mean she wouldn't be able to devote as much time and focus as needed to find a solution. She wouldn't be able to separate feelings from the task before her. She would become emotionally involved, and that always leads to mistakes, to oversights, to failures.

That's exactly why such relationships between a healer and a patient shouldn't take place. That's why crossing that boundary was so dangerous.

She also knew that she had made exactly the same mistake as Astoria. When reality proved too difficult, too painful, she also ran away. She left him alone at the moment when he needed her most.

But did she have a choice? Could she stay, knowing that every moment spent with him as a woman, not as a healer, reduced his chances of survival? Could she allow herself the luxury of being happy with him for these last months, knowing that this happiness might cost him his life?

No, she couldn't. She didn't want him to die. The very thought of a world without him, of waking up one day knowing he was gone, broke her heart into pieces.

Therefore, she had to be strong. She had to go back to being his healer—professional, focused, determined. She had to put aside what she felt, ignore the longing that was already twisting her insides. She had to let her mind, not her heart, guide her actions.

Because if there was one thing Hermione Granger was good at, it was sacrificing her own happiness for the good of others. And now, more than ever, Draco Malfoy needed her sacrifice.

Chapter 15

The next morning she felt like a wreck. Her eyes were swollen from crying, her head pulsed with a dull ache, and every muscle in her body protested as she forced herself to get out of bed. However, she knew she had to talk to him, explain why she had reacted the way she did. Maybe if he understood her motives, if he saw that it was all for him, he would allow her to return to being his healer.

With that quiet hope, she transported herself by Floo to Cliff Manor. When she emerged from the green flames, instead of Malfoy's familiar silhouette, she saw a small house-elf standing in the middle of the living room with his hands folded in front of him.

"Fimble?" she asked, looking around the empty room. "Where is Malfoy?"

The house-elf bowed low, his long ears touching the floor.

"Master Malfoy instructed Fimble to deliver a message," he said quietly. "Master Malfoy does not wish to see Miss Granger. Master Malfoy kindly requests that Miss Granger no longer appear at Cliff Manor."

Each word was like a dagger plunged straight into her heart. She felt her legs giving way beneath her and had to grab onto the fireplace for support.

"But... I am his healer," she said, her voice sounding foreign even to herself. "I need to examine him, monitor his condition."

Fimble shook his head, his large eyes sad.

"Master Malfoy said he would find another healer. He was very firm." The elf hesitated, and then added more quietly: "Master Malfoy did not look well this morning. Fimble found master on the bedroom floor. He had an attack in the night, a very bad attack. Fimble had to call another healer."

She felt the blood drain from her face. He had an attack, and she wasn't there for him. She had left him alone, exactly when he needed her most.

"Is he... is everything all right with him now?" she asked, her voice barely audible.

"The new healer gave master potions," replied Fimble. "Master is sleeping now. He said to tell you he is grateful for your help, but from now on he will be using the services of another specialist."

Hermione stood paralyzed, feeling each word from the elf stabbing into her like a knife. Grateful for her help. As if she were just some random person who had done him a favor, not someone who... someone who what exactly? She couldn't even define their relationship, couldn't name what had been between them.

"I understand," she finally said, though she understood nothing. "Thank you, Fimble."

With a heart heavy as stone, she returned to the fireplace. She looked at the living room of Cliff Manor one last time, and then the green flames engulfed her, transporting her back to her apartment.

There, in the familiar space that suddenly seemed foreign and empty, she fell to her knees, allowing all the suppressed emotions to finally find release. She cried—loudly, desperately, without the control she always demanded of herself.

The irony of the situation was painful beyond measure. She had hurt him, distanced herself emotionally, all so that she could focus on finding a solution to his problem. To be a better healer, to increase his chances of survival. And now? Now she could be neither his healer nor the woman he desired.

The worst part was that she couldn't even focus on work, on research, on finding a cure. Her mind, usually so sharp, so methodical, was now shattered into thousands of pieces, each filled with the image of his face, the sound of his voice, the feeling of his touch.

Instead of spending the day analyzing Snape's book, comparing symptoms, looking for connections between different curses, she spent it in bed, crying until she had no tears left. Crying for a man whose name she couldn't say, but whose presence in her life had changed everything.

And though she promised herself that it was all to save him, deep down she knew the truth was different—she was afraid. Afraid to admit, even to herself, that Draco Malfoy had become more to her than a patient, more than a former childhood enemy. He had become a man she could love. A man she had already begun to love.

And now, when she was finally ready to admit it, it was too late.

The next day she did what she always did in difficult times, what always helped her bring order to the chaos of her thoughts—she went to work. St. Mungo's Hospital welcomed her with familiar bustle, the smell of potions, and the constant movement of medical staff. She hadn't really been here for a long time. Now the corridors seemed both foreign and strangely comforting.

As soon as she crossed the threshold of the Magical Injuries Ward, Bertrand Macmillan stopped mid-step, looking at her with undisguised surprise.

"Granger? What are you doing here?" he asked, furrowing his thick, gray eyebrows. "I thought the Malfoy case had completely absorbed you."

She forced herself to maintain a neutral tone, ignoring the tightness in her chest at the sound of his name.

"Mr. Malfoy decided to use the services of another healer," she replied, trying to make her voice sound professional. "Apparently I couldn't meet the challenge."

He looked at her more closely, as if trying to read the truth hidden behind her words. For a moment he looked as if he wanted to pursue the topic, but Hermione quickly interrupted him.

"Could I have a list of the most urgent cases? Since I'm here, I'd like to focus on something."

Her supervisor sighed but handed her a parchment with a list of patients.

"We had a series of accidents with failed chameleon spells yesterday. Five wizards are stuck in a state of semi-transparency, and their internal organs are visible. Room three."

She immediately immersed herself in work, throwing herself into it with an intensity she hadn't felt in a long time. Room after room, patient after patient, diagnosis after diagnosis—the rhythm of work was like a balm to her wounded soul. Here there was no room for thinking about Malfoy, about his pain, about her failure. Here there were only problems to solve, people to heal.

She worked so hard that she even forgot to eat lunch. When in the evening a junior healer asked for her name to list her as a consultant in a patient's documentation, for a split second she really had to think. It was strangely satisfying—to be so lost in work that you forget your own identity.

Just before the end of her shift, as she was filling out the last patient charts, she felt someone's presence beside her. She looked up and saw Terrence Hawkins smiling at her in that particular way that always made her feel uncomfortable.

"Granger! Haven't seen you here in a while," he said, leaning against the desk. "How are things?"

"Same as always," she replied, not stopping her writing.

"Well, I'm glad you're back," he continued, undeterred by her cool tone. "Actually... I was wondering if maybe you'd like to go to dinner this weekend?"

She sighed, putting down her quill.

"Thank you, Terrence, but I'm not interested."

"Come on, Granger," he persisted. "One evening. What have you got to lose?"

"I'm already seeing someone," she answered, surprising herself with these words.

Hawkins raised his eyebrows in genuine surprise.

"Really? Who?"

She hesitated, feeling her cheeks flush slightly. She wasn't prepared for this question, though she should have anticipated it.

"It's... complicated," she answered evasively, gathering her parchments. "And rather private."

"Complicated?" Hawkins repeated. "So someone from work? Macmillan? No, definitely too old. One of the junior healers? Or maybe a patient?"

She straightened up, feeling a pang of anxiety. Was she that easy to read?

"Really, Terrence, I don't want to talk about it," she said firmly, rising from her chair. "It's my private business."

"Aha!" Hawkins smiled as if he had discovered a great secret. "So it's someone I know. Otherwise you would have simply said 'it's no one you know' and that would be the end of it."

She sighed with irritation, slinging her bag over her shoulder.

"Think what you want," she replied, heading toward the exit. "I have to go now."

She returned home exhausted, but with her mind strangely quieted. A day spent at work, surrounded by problems she could solve, patients she could help, restored the balance she so desperately needed.

Instead of giving in to the temptation to bury herself in bed and relive every second with Malfoy, she sat at her desk and opened Snape's textbook. Tonight she was a healer, not a woman with a broken heart. And healers don't give up when their patients need them—even if the patients themselves don't know it.

Days passed like this. Morning: hospital, patients, diagnoses, potions. Evening: Snape's textbook, other books on curses, notes, theories. She slept a few hours, ate mechanically, barely noticing the taste. Everything subordinated to one goal—find a solution, find a cure.

On the eighth day after the incident at Cliff Manor, she was sitting at her desk long after midnight, so tired that the words were beginning to blur before her eyes. She mechanically turned the pages in the textbook, barely registering anything she was reading anymore.

Suddenly her mind registered something—some detail, some word that flashed in her field of vision. She went back two pages, staring intensely at the text she had almost overlooked.

In the bottom corner of the page, written in Snape's small, cramped handwriting, were a few lines:

"Strictly not to be used. Curse unidentified. No counter-spell devised. Further research necessary, but risk too high."

Below was a fragment that looked like a spell formula, but the text was smudged, as if someone had deliberately blurred the ink.

Hermione immediately grabbed her wand and uttered a basic ink-removing spell, expecting the smudged text to clear, revealing the original content. However, nothing happened.

"Finite Incantatem," she tried, but to no avail. "Revelio!" Still nothing.

Hermione stared at the smudged text, biting her lip in frustration. Suddenly a thought occurred to her—maybe Harry had crossed out these words, right after he used the spell on Malfoy?

She didn't specialize in spells revealing hidden texts, that was a field more appropriate for curse-breakers or aurors. But she knew someone who might know such spells—Malfoy. As the heir of an old wizarding family, he surely had access to many rare and unusual spells, perhaps even ones that could remove traces of ink without leaving marks.

Without thinking about the late hour, she grabbed the book, threw a handful of Floo powder into the fireplace, and clearly said:

"Cliff Manor!"

The green flames engulfed her, and when she emerged from the fireplace in Malfoy's familiar living room, the first thing she noticed was Fimble standing in the middle of the room. The house-elf looked terribly frightened—his large eyes were even larger than usual, and his ears drooped in an expression of anxiety.

"Miss Granger!" he squeaked, clearly surprised to see her. "Master Malfoy forbade Fimble to let Miss Granger in!"

"Fimble, this is really urgent," she said, clutching Snape's book. "I need to see Malfoy immediately. Please, call him. I think I've found something that could help him."

The elf wrung his hands, shaking his head so energetically that his ears flapped.

"Master Malfoy is not here," he replied, his voice trembling. "Master Malfoy has been at St. Mungo's Hospital for two hours. Master Malfoy's condition has critically deteriorated."

Hermione felt the blood drain from her face. The book almost slipped from her hands.

"What happened?" she asked, her voice barely audible.

"Fimble found Master Malfoy unconscious in the library," replied the elf, his eyes filling with tears. "Master Malfoy had a very high fever and wasn't responding to Fimble. Fimble called the new healer, but he didn't know what to do, so he took Master Malfoy to the hospital."

"And Scorpius?" asked Hermione, suddenly remembering the little boy.

"Young Master Malfoy screamed and cried a lot," replied Fimble, his large eyes filling with tears. "He woke up when the healer was examining Master Malfoy. He wouldn't let go of his father, clutching his hand and crying. The healer said it would be better if young master went to the hospital too. He said there are special rooms for patients' families on the ward."

She nodded, feeling her heart tighten at the thought of the frightened Scorpius. She was about to jump back into the fireplace and transfer to St. Mungo's when her attention was caught by a copy of the "Daily Prophet" spread out on a low table in the living room.

Normally she wouldn't have paid attention to it, but on the front page was a clear picture of Malfoy—an elegant, official photograph, probably taken at some charity gala a few years ago. Instinctively, she grabbed the newspaper, and what she read made her freeze.

"HEIR TO THE MALFOY FORTUNE DYING?" screamed the headline. Below was an article signed by Rita Skeeter.

"From a reliable source, I have learned that Draco Malfoy, the sole heir to the vast Malfoy fortune, is under the influence of a mysterious, deadly curse," wrote Skeeter in her characteristic, sensational style. "According to my informant, whose identity I must protect, the former Death Eater's health is deteriorating with each day, and healers give him at most a year to live. What will happen to the Malfoy fortune? Will it be donated to charity as a form of restitution for the family's deeds during the war? One thing is certain—Draco Malfoy's time is running out."

Hermione felt a wave of fury and terror washing over her simultaneously. Who could have given such information to Skeeter?

But more importantly—she was almost certain that this article had triggered Malfoy's attack. The revelation of his health condition, speculation about his fortune, the reminder of his past as a Death Eater—all this must have been an enormous shock and stress for him. Fortunately, the informant, whoever they were, had no idea about Scorpius.

With the newspaper still clutched in her hand, she jumped into the fireplace, threw a handful of Floo powder, and clearly said:

"St. Mungo's Hospital!"

She had to find him. Now, immediately.

As soon as the green flames of the fireplace spat her onto the floor of St. Mungo's main hall, she began to run. She pushed through the crowd of night patients and staff, searching for Macmillan or anyone who could tell her where Malfoy was.

"Excuse me! Urgent! Excuse me!" she called, bypassing a witch with a child whose hair changed color every few seconds, and an elderly wizard who was levitating a few centimeters above the floor.

She turned sharply into the corridor leading to the Magical Injuries Ward and ran straight into Hawkins, who was coming out of one of the rooms with an armful of vials.

"Granger! What are you doing here at this hour?" he asked, catching his balance and trying to keep the potions in his hands. "You don't have a shift today. Actually, I was wondering if you might drop by tomorrow to..."

"Where is Malfoy?" she interrupted him sharply, having no patience for his advances. "Draco Malfoy. They brought him here about two hours ago."

Hawkins frowned, as if trying to remember.

"Malfoy? Oh yes, there was a lot of activity in Magical Intensive Care. Someone mentioned some aristocrat with a completely destabilized magical core. That must be him. Room 317, but..."

She was already turning, ready to run toward the elevators, when Hawkins suddenly blocked her path.

"Wait," he said, and a flash of understanding appeared in his eyes. "It's him, isn't it? Malfoy is that 'someone' you mentioned earlier? Your mysterious chosen one?"

"Get out of my way, Hawkins," she growled, trying to bypass him.

"Really?" he persisted, still blocking her passage. "Draco Malfoy? The same Malfoy who treated you like dirt for years at Hogwarts? That Malfoy, whose family tortured you during the war? That Malfoy, who was a Death Eater? I suspected, but I couldn't believe it."

She felt fury rising within her.

"Get. Out. Of. My. Way," she hissed, her voice icy. "Or I swear, Hawkins, you'll need a healer for yourself."

"I don't understand," he continued, as if he hadn't heard her warning. "Of all the men you could choose, why him? What does he have that I don't?"

That was one question too many. She pulled her wand from her robe pocket so quickly that Hawkins didn't even notice the movement.

"Fuck off!" she snarled, her wand emitting small, threatening sparks. "I'm asking for the last time."

Hawkins paled, finally realizing he had gone too far. He moved aside, allowing her to pass.

She rushed into the elevator, pressing the third floor button so hard she almost crushed it. As soon as the doors opened, she burst into the corridor, looking for the right room.

315... 316... 317!

She stopped in front of the door, suddenly paralyzed with fear. What if it was already too late? What if he didn't want to see her? What if...

No. She couldn't think about fear now.

She opened the door and went inside.

Her gaze immediately focused on the motionless figure lying on the hospital bed. Malfoy was unconscious, his face as pale as parchment, except for unnatural, feverish flushes on his cheeks. Monitoring spells hovered above his body, creating colorful, pulsating patterns that looked alarming even to an untrained eye.

She ran to the bed, immediately pulling out her wand and casting the first of the diagnostic spells she had used thousands of times before. A bluish glow surrounded his body, and the results were worse than she had suspected.

Fever – almost 41 degrees. Magical core – extremely unstable, nerve endings – burned, as if someone was systematically burning them from the inside.

"Merlin, Draco," she whispered, casting another spell that showed his brain activity – chaotic, uneven, with whole areas almost inactive.

She was so focused on the diagnostic spells, so absorbed in analyzing the results, that she didn't notice the quiet presence in the corner of the room. Only when she felt something warm sliding into her hand did she start in surprise, interrupting the spell.

She looked down and saw a small, pale hand holding her own. Scorpius stood beside her, looking at his father with huge, frightened eyes. His light hair was disheveled, as if he had just gotten out of bed, and his cheeks were wet with tears.

This was the first time he had touched her of his own will. Before, every time she tried to even gently place a hand on his shoulder, he would flinch and move away, as if her touch could burn him. And now he was seeking comfort from her, reaching out to her himself.

"Hello, sweetheart," she said softly, crouching beside him. "Is no one watching you? Where is the healer who transferred you here?"

Scorpius's lower lip began to tremble, and his large, gray eyes—so similar to his father's—filled with new tears.

"I'm scared," he whispered, and then his face contorted and he began to cry.

Hermione hesitated only for a second, not knowing if what she intended to do was right. But the sight of the small, frightened boy, standing alone by his unconscious father's bed, broke through any doubts. She gently picked him up, ready to immediately let him go if he showed any discomfort.

But instead of pushing her away, Scorpius did something she completely didn't expect—he nestled against her, embracing her neck with his tiny hands and hiding his face in her shoulder. His small body trembled with suppressed sobs.

"Shh, it's all right," she whispered, gently stroking his back. "I'm here. You're not alone."

She rocked him gently, allowing him to cry out all his fear and sadness. After a few minutes his sobbing began to subside, until finally it stopped, and his breathing evened out.

"Listen," she said quietly, but firmly. "I promise you that I will do everything in my power to heal your dad. Do you understand? I won't let anything bad happen to him."

The boy pulled back slightly to look at her face, as if assessing the sincerity of her words. After a moment, he nodded slightly.

"And now I need to take care of your dad," she continued, approaching a chair standing by the wall. She gently sat Scorpius on it. "You'll have to be very brave and quiet, okay?"

He nodded again, wiping away tears with the sleeve of his pajamas.

She pulled out her wand and made several complicated movements. In the air before Scorpius appeared a miniature dragon, shiny and semi-transparent, which began to fly in small circles. The dragon released tiny, harmless flames from its nostrils, and its tail moved in a hypnotic rhythm.

"Look," she said with a slight smile. "This dragon will take care of you while I take care of your dad."

Scorpius's eyes widened with delight as the dragon began performing acrobatics in the air.

Having made sure that the boy was momentarily fascinated with the illusion, Hermione raised her wand to her throat and quietly said "Sonorus." When she spoke, her voice was magically amplified, loud enough to be heard throughout the corridor:

"Chief Healer Macmillan urgently requested to room 317. I repeat, Chief Healer Macmillan urgently requested to room 317."

It wasn't even five minutes before the door to the room opened violently and a breathless Macmillan burst inside. His hair was in disarray, and his robes hastily thrown on.

"Granger? What are you..." he began, but was not allowed to finish.

She approached him with quick steps and did something that under normal circumstances would have gotten her immediately fired—she hit him in the shoulder with such force that the older healer staggered backward, hitting the door with his back.

"What the hell is going on?" she hissed, lowering her voice to an angry whisper so as not to frighten Scorpius. "You leave a four-year-old boy in a room with his unconscious father? Alone? Terrified? Without any care? Without support? Without explanation of what's happening?"

Her eyes burned with fury, and her hands clenched into fists, as if she was restraining herself from delivering another blow.

"For Merlin's sake, Macmillan, even for a regular patient this would be scandalous neglect, let alone for a child! How could you?!"

Macmillan looked genuinely surprised, and then ashamed. He ran a hand over his face, glancing over Hermione's shoulder at the small boy sitting by the wall, currently hypnotized by the dragon illusion.

"I had no idea, Granger," he replied, also lowering his voice. "They brought Malfoy to the ward in critical condition. We focused on stabilizing his condition. Hawkins was supposed to check in regularly. I'm... I'm really surprised that he didn't."

"Hawkins," she repeated, with such contempt in her voice that Macmillan flinched. "The same Hawkins who tried to chat me up in the corridor when I was running here to Malfoy? Who acted as if he'd barely heard that Malfoy had been admitted here!?"

Macmillan paled, clearly shaken by this information.

"I... didn't know. I'll deal with this immediately," he said, then quickly left the room, presumably to find and hold Hawkins accountable.

Hermione watched him go, and when the door closed, she looked at Scorpius. The boy was still watching the dragon illusion, but his eyelids were clearly drooping with fatigue. He must have been exhausted.

She approached the chair standing by the opposite wall and pulled out her wand. After a few careful movements and a quiet spell, the chair transformed into a small, comfortable bed with soft pillows and a warm blanket.

"Scorpius," she said gently, approaching the boy. "I've made a bed for you. You can lie down and rest, and I'll take care of your dad."

The boy looked at her uncertainly, his eyes still red from crying.

"I don't want to sleep," he whispered. "I want to be with dad."

"I know, sweetheart," she replied, kneeling in front of him. "But your dad would want you to be rested. The bed is right next to his, so you'll be able to see him all the time. And the dragon will watch over you."

After a moment of hesitation, Scorpius nodded and allowed himself to be led to the prepared bed. She gently covered him with the blanket, and the illusory dragon flew over to circle now above his head.

Having made sure that the boy was relatively comfortably settled, she returned to Malfoy's bed. Her face immediately took on a concentrated, professional expression. She knew what she had to do.

She raised her wand and began casting a series of complicated spells—ones she had used regularly while caring for Malfoy, which were designed to allow the free flow of magic between all components of his magical core. These were spells she had developed specifically for him, after weeks of research and experimentation.

"You probably didn't tell the new healer that you need these spells once a week, did you?" she muttered, though she knew he couldn't hear her. "You were always too stubborn for your own good." After completing the series of spells, she administered the necessary potions.

For several minutes nothing happened, and then—slowly, almost imperceptibly—the monitoring spells began changing colors from alarming red to calmer orange. His breathing became deeper, less shallow, and his pulse slowed to a more normal pace.

When his condition seemed to stabilize enough not to require immediate intervention, Hermione returned to Scorpius's bed. The boy wasn't asleep—he was staring wide-eyed at his father, and the expression on his face pierced her heart.

She had never before seen a child looking so frightened, so lost. His small face was as pale as paper, his eyes huge and full of fear, and his tiny hands clutched the blanket convulsively. He looked as if he was in shock—as if his small mind couldn't process what was happening and had frozen in a state of pure terror.

"Scorpius," she said gently, sitting on the edge of the bed. "Everything will be all right. I'm here to help your dad. I promise I'll do everything in my power."

The boy stared at her with those enormous gray eyes, so similar to his father's. Then his gaze moved back to Malfoy's motionless figure.

"Dad will die," he said suddenly, in a voice so quiet she barely heard it. It wasn't a question, but a statement—spoken with terrifying certainty.

She felt an icy chill run down her spine. She was surprised that a four-year-old child could say such a thing—not just the words themselves, but the way he said it. As if it was inevitable. As if he had already accepted it.

"No, sweetheart," she said firmly, though her heart was aching painfully. "Your dad is very strong. And he loves you very much. He won't leave without a fight."

"Dad said mom loved me," he replied, still in the same quiet, colorless voice. "And then she left."

"Listen to me," she said, gently taking his small hand. "Your dad won't leave if I can prevent it. And you know what? I'm the best healer in the whole hospital. Maybe even in all of England."

For a moment it seemed that her words weren't reaching him. But then—so subtly that she almost missed it—the corners of his mouth lifted slightly.

"Really?"

"Really," she confirmed, squeezing his hand lightly.

Scorpius looked at her for a moment, as if considering something very serious. Then he tilted his head slightly to the side.

"Can you read stories?" he asked quietly. "The ones with pictures?"

She smiled gently.

"Of course I can. With pictures and without. Do you like stories?"

The boy nodded, and then added with some pride: "Dad reads to me every day. He does dragon voices."

"Dragon voices?" she repeated with feigned admiration. "That's very difficult. I don't know if I can do as well as your dad, but I can try."

Scorpius nodded again, this time more enthusiastically.

She pulled out her wand and summoned a book from the children's ward.

After a few seconds, a colorful book slid under the door gap and flew straight into her hands. The cover showed a smiling wizard surrounded by magical creatures.

"'The Extraordinary Adventures of Merlin Junior,'" she read the title. "Do you know this story?"

"No," he replied, moving closer to better see the cover. "Does it have dragons?"

"Let's see," she replied, turning a few pages. "Oh, here's one! See?"

With her finger she pointed to an illustration where a small, cartoon dragon was breathing fire in a loop.

"Big?" he asked hopefully.

"Very big," she assured him. "Would you like me to read from the beginning?"

The boy nodded, moving even closer and making room for her on the narrow bed. She sat beside him, leaning against the wall, and opened the book to the first page. The illustrations immediately came to life, showing a small boy with a long beard, clearly referencing the legendary wizard.

"'Long, long ago, in a small village surrounded by an enchanted forest, lived a boy named Merlin...'" she began to read.

When she reached the part about the dragon, she lowered her voice and added some hoarseness, trying to do a "dragon voice," which elicited a weak but genuine smile on Scorpius's face.

With each page, she felt the tension slowly leaving the boy's body. His eyes, still fixed on the colorful, moving pictures, were becoming heavier. By the third chapter, his head had dropped onto her shoulder, and his breathing became deep and steady.

She didn't stop reading, even when she was sure he had fallen asleep. The quiet words of the story filled the room, mixing with the steady beeping of the monitoring spells by Malfoy's bed.

When she finally finished reading the chapter, she gently closed the book, trying not to wake Scorpius. The small boy was sleeping deeply, his breathing was steady, and his face—for the first time since she had seen him that night—peaceful. She carefully put the book on the bedside table and adjusted the blanket, covering his small shoulders.

For a moment she observed him in silence, surprised at how much he resembled his father—the same platinum hair, the same face shape, even the same slight grimace that appeared on his lips during sleep. She felt a strange pang in her heart, a feeling she couldn't quite name.

She slowly moved the chair closer to Malfoy's bed and sat beside him. The monitoring spells still indicated that his condition was stable, but still critical. Pale face, closed eyes, motionless figure—he looked so peaceful, as if he were simply sleeping. But she knew it was something more, something much more serious.

She hesitated only for a moment before taking his hand. It was cool, too cool. Her fingers tightened around his, as if by sheer willpower she could keep him in this world.

"Draco," she whispered, and his name hung in the air between them—the name she had been unable to say when he needed it, when he asked for it. "Draco, please, come back to me."

Something broke inside her. The tears she had so desperately tried to hold back all night finally found release. They flowed down her cheeks freely, uncontrolled, falling onto their joined hands.

"I'm so sorry," she whispered through tears. "For leaving you. For not being able to say your name. For being afraid. Afraid of what I feel for you. Afraid that if I admitted it, I wouldn't be able to help you. But now I know that's not true. Now I know that it's precisely my feelings that give me the strength to save you."

Her voice broke as another wave of sobbing shook her body. She pressed his hand to her cheek, not caring that she was wetting it with tears.

"Draco, please, fight. Fight for Scorpius. He needs you. He... he said you would die, with such certainty in his voice... you can't do that to him. You can't let him lose another person he loves."

Her words filled the silence of the room, mixing with the steady beeping of the monitoring spells. For long minutes she sat by his bed, holding his hand, whispering words of encouragement, interspersed with quiet sobs. Fatigue was slowly taking over her body—the sleepless night, emotional exhaustion, the stress of the last few hours, all of it draining her strength.

She didn't even notice when her head dropped onto the edge of the bed, still holding his hand in hers. Her breathing slowed, her eyelids became too heavy to keep open. The last thing she registered, before sleep overcame her, was the gentle warmth emanating from his hand—warmth that hadn't been there before.

Chapter 16

"And now this one is a water dragon! Look, it's swimming in your milk!"

The transfigured breakfast cereal took the shape of a miniature opalescent dragon, which was now making small circles on the surface of the milk in Scorpius's bowl. The boy giggled, watching with fascination as the flake-dragon dived and then surfaced, shaking off tiny drops of milk.

They were sitting in the hospital cafeteria, where Hermione had taken Scorpius for breakfast as soon as he woke up. It was a new day, bright sunbeams were coming through the large windows, illuminating the room. Malfoy was stable—still unconscious, but the monitoring spells showed slow but steady improvement. Macmillan had agreed to let her take over his treatment again.

"And this one," she said, pointing her wand at another flake, "is a mountain dragon. A very rare species."

The flake changed shape into a dragon with powerful wings and a long tail, which rose a few centimeters above the bowl before falling back into the milk with a small splash.

Scorpius laughed loudly, and that sound—so unexpected, so pure and joyful—made Hermione feel something warm spreading in her heart. It was the first time she had heard his laughter.

"Another one!" demanded Scorpius, enthusiastically pointing to another flake.

"All right, but you'll eat this one, yes?" she asked, raising an eyebrow in a pretend stern gesture.

The boy nodded energetically, then grabbed the spoon and caught the swimming water dragon, immediately stuffing it into his mouth. His cheeks were now rosy, and his eyes sparkled—so different from the frightened, pale child she had met the previous night.

Hermione wasn't sure what had caused this change. Maybe it was the fact that his father's condition had improved. Maybe it was the transfigured flakes that made him forget about his fear for a moment. Or perhaps—and this thought was both joyful and terrifying—she herself was the source of this calm. The thought that this small boy, who just a week ago had been hiding from her behind his father's legs, now felt safe enough with her to laugh, was both delightful and intimidating.

"Now this one!" Scorpius pointed to another flake, pulling her out of her thoughts.

Hermione smiled and raised her wand, ready to create another flake dragon, when suddenly she heard a magically amplified voice.

"Help needed in room 317! Urgent help to room 317!"

Her heart stopped for a moment. Room 317—Malfoy's room. Without a moment's hesitation, she grabbed Scorpius in her arms, not even giving him time to react.

"Hold on tight," she said, already moving toward the door.

She ran down the corridor as fast as she could with a child in her arms. Scorpius was holding onto her neck.

From far away she could already hear raised voices, shouts coming from room 317. As she got closer, she could make out individual words that made her heart beat even faster.

"Where is my son?!" —she knew that voice perfectly, even though it was hoarse and tense. "Where is Scorpius?! Let me go, immediately!"

She stopped at the door, breathing heavily from running. The scene unfolding before her eyes was chaotic—Draco Malfoy, pale as a wall, but undoubtedly conscious, was sitting on the bed, pushing away three healers who were trying to prevent him from getting up. He was wearing a hospital robe, his hair was disheveled, and his eyes wild, feverish.

"Give me back my son!" he shouted, trying to break free from the healers' hands. "Where is he?!"

"Dad!" shouted the boy, breaking free from Hermione's arms and running toward the bed.

Malfoy froze at the sound of his son's voice. His head turned sharply in their direction, and when he saw Scorpius, all the fight suddenly drained from him. His shoulders dropped, and his face softened.

"Scorpius," he whispered, his voice full of relief. "Come here to me, dragon."

The healers, seeing that the patient had calmed down, moved aside, allowing the small boy to reach the bed. Scorpius climbed onto it and threw himself into his father's arms, who embraced him so tightly as if afraid the boy would disappear if he let go.

Hermione stood at the door, her heart beating so loudly that she was sure everyone in the room could hear it. She looked at Malfoy—at Draco—and couldn't believe that just a few hours ago he had been unconscious, balancing on the edge.

And then, over Scorpius's head, his eyes met hers. For a moment that seemed to stretch into infinity, they simply looked at each other.

She recovered first and turned to the healers, who still stood uncertainly around the bed.

"Thank you for your help," she said in the firm tone of a professional. "You can leave now. I'll take care of the patient."

The healers exchanged glances, but no one dared question her authority. One by one, they left the room, closing the door behind them.

When they were alone—she, Malfoy, and Scorpius nestled against him—the atmosphere in the room suddenly became tense. Malfoy's gaze, moments ago full of relief at the sight of his son, now hardened as he looked at her.

"What are you doing here, Granger?" he asked coldly. "And why was my son with you?"

His tone was accusatory, almost hostile. Scorpius, sensing the tension, lifted his head and looked at his father with surprise.

"Mrs. Miona made dragons from flakes," he said with childlike simplicity. "And she read me a story about dragons."

Malfoy frowned, as if trying to put together puzzle pieces that didn't fit his perception of the situation.

"I don't understand," he said, this time directing his attention back to Hermione. "I asked for another healer. I made it clear that I didn't want you involved in my treatment. And now I find you with my son?"

"Dad, don't be angry," interjected Scorpius, his small face expressing concern. "Mrs. Miona was nice. She made me a bed."

"A bed?" he repeated, even more confused.

"Yes, a magic bed," confirmed the boy, pointing to the other end of the room, where the small bed she had conjured from a chair still stood. "Because I was alone and scared, but she came and said she would heal you."

Malfoy looked at his son, then at Hermione, and his face was a mixture of conflicting emotions—anger, confusion, and something that might have been gratitude, though he was too proud to admit it.

"Why were you alone?" he asked quietly, his voice now charged with anger, though clearly not directed at Scorpius.

"I don't know."

Malfoy shifted his gaze back to Hermione, and his eyes burned with cold anger.

"What does this mean, Granger? My son was alone in the hospital? Without care? Is this St. Mungo's standard procedure?"

"Of course not," she replied, trying to maintain calm. "As soon as I learned you were here, I came immediately. I found Scorpius alone, frightened. I took care of him and you. Macmillan has already held accountable the healer who was supposed to be looking after him."

"How did you even know I was here?" he asked, still suspicious. "How did you know?"

"I was at Cliff Manor," she answered honestly. "Fimble told me you were in the hospital. That your condition had worsened."

"In my manor?" his voice rose an octave. "What for? I explicitly asked you not to appear there anymore. Do my wishes mean nothing to you? Or do you think you can ignore everything I say?"

"Draco," she said quietly, and his name hung between them like a spell.

He froze, as if someone had petrified him. His eyes widened, and his mouth remained open mid-word.

"What did you say?" he asked after a moment, his voice now barely audible.

Hermione approached the bed on shaking legs. She felt as if each step brought her closer to the edge of a precipice—a precipice from which she could fall, or over which she could pass safely, but everything depended on her next words.

She carefully sat on the edge of the bed, maintaining a small distance between herself and Malfoy, who still embraced Scorpius.

"Maybe... maybe we should call Fimble?" she suggested quietly. "To take Scorpius home. He's quite tired already."

Malfoy continued to stare at her, as if seeing her for the first time in his life. His gaze was so intense that she felt a blush creeping onto her cheeks.

"Say it again," he said, ignoring her suggestion. "Repeat exactly what you said earlier."

She took a deep breath. Her heart was beating so fast that she was sure he must hear it. Hesitantly, she reached out and gently placed her hand on his, which rested on the blanket.

"I'm sorry, Draco," she said, and his name, spoken for the second time, sounded more natural, as if it had always belonged in her vocabulary.

He didn't answer. Instead, he closed his eyes and rested his head against the wall behind the bed. His face was unreadable, but Hermione noticed how his throat moved as he swallowed with difficulty. Their fingers remained intertwined, neither of them making a move to change that.

Finally, Malfoy opened his eyes. Without a word, he pulled his wand from the bedside table and made a short movement.

"Fimble," he said quietly, his voice hoarse.

There was a soft crack, and in the blink of an eye, the small house-elf appeared by the bed, his large eyes immediately filling with tears at the sight of his master.

"Master Malfoy!" the elf squeaked, bowing low. "Fimble was so worried! Is Master Malfoy feeling better? Can Fimble help with anything?"

"Fimble," he said. "Please take Scorpius home. Prepare a warm bath for him and something to eat."

The boy immediately began to protest, grabbing his father by the hospital robe.

"I don't want to go! I want to stay with you!"

"Scorpius," he placed his hand on his son's head, gently stroking his light hair. "I'll come home as soon as I can, I promise."

"Really?"

"Really," he confirmed. "And when I return, maybe we'll go flying on a broomstick in the garden? What do you say?"

Scorpius's face lit up at this proposal.

"On a real broomstick? Not a children's one?"

"A real one," he confirmed with a slight smile. "But only if you now obediently return home with Fimble and eat a proper meal. Deal?"

He nodded energetically, then embraced his father's neck in a tight hug.

"I love you, Dad," he whispered.

"I love you too, dragon," he replied, hugging him for a moment before gently pulling away. "Now go with Fimble."

Scorpius jumped off the bed and approached the elf, who extended his wrinkled hand to him. Before they disappeared, the boy turned once more to Hermione.

"Bye bye, Mrs. Miona," he said with a shy smile.

"Goodbye, Scorpius," she replied, feeling a strange tightness in her throat.

A moment later there was a soft crack and they both disappeared, leaving Hermione and Malfoy alone in the hospital room.

The silence that fell was thick with unspoken words and emotions hanging in the air between them.

Hermione sat motionless on the edge of the bed, her hand still resting on his, though now neither of them was tightening their fingers. She felt the warmth of his skin, the pulse beating just beneath the surface—proof of life that could so easily have been lost.

Light coming through the window cast long shadows in the room. Somewhere in the distance, the muffled voices of hospital staff could be heard, the sound of footsteps in the corridor, the clink of metal instruments. But here, in this room, there was only silence and two people who had come such a long way from hatred to... to something neither of them had yet named.

Malfoy was looking out the window, his profile sharp and distinct against the bright light. He was pale, paler than usual, and had dark shadows under his eyes—traces of the battle his body had been waging against the curse. He breathed shallowly, carefully, as if each deeper breath might summon the pain that still lurked beneath the surface.

She couldn't take her eyes off him. She looked at his hand, at the pale scar running along his thumb—a memento of some old accident whose history she didn't know. At his fingers, long and slender, which she knew so well—as a healer examining a patient, as a woman who had felt their touch on her skin. At the line of his jaw, now tense, as if holding back words that wanted to escape.

"I thought you were going to die," she finally said, and her voice, though quiet, seemed too loud in the prevailing silence. "When I saw you, lying here, so pale, so motionless... I thought it was the end."

The words hung between them, heavy with unspoken emotions. Malfoy didn't respond. His gaze was fixed on a point outside the window, where the branches of an old oak swayed in the wind.

"Draco," she whispered, and his name was like a gentle plea. "Please, look at me."

Seconds passed slowly. His jaw tightened, his hand under her fingers twitched almost imperceptibly. And then, slowly, very slowly, he turned his head.

When their eyes met, she saw in his eyes a vulnerability she had never noticed in him before. Gray eyes, usually cool and composed, were now full of unspoken questions, unnamed fears.

"Are you ashamed of me?" he asked quietly, and there was no accusation in his voice, only sad acceptance of fate. "Is that why you couldn't say my name? Because deep inside I'm still just a Death Eater to you? Lucius Malfoy's son?"

She felt something breaking inside her at the sound of these words. How could he think that? How could he not see the truth that was so obvious to her?

"No," she answered, her voice quiet but certain. "It was never about shame, Draco."

His name on her lips still sounded strange, but at the same time so right, as if it had always belonged there.

"I was afraid," she admitted, lowering her gaze to their joined hands. "Not of you. Not of your past. I was afraid of what it would mean if I started thinking of you as 'Draco' instead of 'Malfoy'."

Slowly she raised her gaze, forcing herself to look straight into his eyes.

"When you're 'Malfoy,' you're a patient. A problem to solve. A case to cure. I can be objective, professional, distanced." Her voice trembled slightly, but she continued. "But as 'Draco'... you're a man. A man who makes me laugh, who irritates me, who makes me feel things I shouldn't feel toward a patient."

She swallowed hard, feeling her eyes filling with tears.

"A man I could lose. And I was afraid that if I started thinking of you as 'Draco,' I wouldn't be able to save you. That my feelings would cloud my judgment. That I would be too afraid to take risks that might be necessary."

A single tear rolled down her cheek, but she made no move to wipe it away. He looked at her for a long moment, his eyes full of emotions she had never seen in him before. Slowly, carefully, he shifted on the bed, making room beside himself. He winced slightly when the movement caused a wave of pain, but didn't stop.

"Come to me," he said quietly, his voice soft, almost pleading.

She hesitated, glancing at the monitoring spells hovering above the bed.

"I shouldn't... your condition..."

"Hermione," he interrupted her. "Come to me. Please."

She couldn't resist that tone, that gentle request. Without a word, she moved on the bed, carefully positioning herself beside him. Draco raised his arm, allowing her to nestle against his side. Despite his weakness, his embrace was firm as he wrapped his arm around her.

She rested her head on his chest, listening to the steady rhythm of his heart. That beating—strong, stable—was the most beautiful music she had ever heard. Proof that he was still here. Still fighting.

Neither of them broke the silence. There was no need. In this moment, the warmth of the other's body, shared breath, the closeness they had both denied themselves for so long was enough. His fingers gently stroked her hair, and she felt the tension slowly leaving her body.

The monitoring spells above the bed changed color from orange to a gentle yellow, as if her presence alone had a healing effect. Perhaps that's how it was. Perhaps closeness was the medicine they both needed more than any potions or spells.

Minutes passed, and they remained in this quiet, intimate moment, as if the world beyond this room had ceased to exist. As if time had stopped, giving them this brief moment of peace amid the storm that raged in their lives.

"Do you think you could do something so I can return home as soon as possible?" he finally asked, breaking the silence.

"Yes," she replied, raising her head to look into his eyes. "Your condition is stabilizing. If you want, we can return right now. The worst has passed, at least for now."

Something flitted across his face—relief mixed with something deeper, harder to read.

"Come back with me," he said suddenly, his voice soft but firm. "And don't leave again."

She froze, holding her breath. She wasn't sure if she understood his words correctly, their meaning, what he was really trying to say.

"What does that mean?"

"Move into Cliff Manor," he said. "With me. Not just as my healer. Not just for the duration of treatment."

His words hung between them, heavy with meaning, with possibility, with the promise of a future neither of them had dared to imagine before.

"And Scorpius?" she asked, thinking of the little boy who was just beginning to trust her. "What about him?"

A gentle smile appeared on Draco's face.

"He likes you," he said simply. "I saw it this morning. The way he looked at you. How he felt with you. That's enough for me."

Suddenly his eyes widened, and an expression of concern appeared on his face.

"Not that I'm asking you to be his mother," he added hastily, words pouring out of him like a torrent. "That's not what I mean. Astoria... it's complicated. Scorpius is... I don't want you to think I'm trying to find a replacement for... Merlin, I sound like an idiot."

"Draco," she said gently, placing her hand on his cheek. "Breathe."

He obeyed, taking a deep, trembling breath.

"You don't have to worry," she continued. "I understand. I really do."

The evening at Cliff Manor brought the peace they both so desperately needed. Outside the bedroom windows, the sea murmured, breaking against the cliffs in the eternal rhythm of tides. The soft candlelight cast gentle shadows on the walls, and the crackling fire in the fireplace filled the room with pleasant warmth.

Hermione lay on the bed beside Malfoy, her head resting on his shoulder, and his fingers lazily combing through her hair. Scorpius had long since fallen asleep in his room, exhausted by the day's emotions, but happy that his father had returned home.

She hadn't moved her things yet—this wasn't the right moment for packing trunks and making big decisions. For now, this was enough for them—quiet presence, closeness, the awareness that they had time. Maybe not as much as they would like, but more than they had expected that morning.

"What are you thinking about?" he asked quietly, running his fingers along her arm.

"About how much everything has changed," she replied, staring at the flames dancing in the fireplace. "Just a few days ago, I was convinced you hated me."

"I never hated you," he said, placing a gentle kiss on her forehead. "I was afraid. Just like you."

She smiled, moving closer to his warm body. Their lips met in a slow, tender kiss. There was no rush in it, just gentle exploration, as if they had all eternity before them.

His hands traveled along her back, and then one of them shyly slipped under the edge of her blouse, touching the bare skin at her waist. She immediately grabbed his hand and gently, but firmly, moved it away.

"You're weak," she said, raising an eyebrow. "You just left the hospital. You need to rest."

"You're right," he admitted, a mischievous gleam appearing in his eyes. "I'm weak. Completely helpless. You'll have to take care of your poor, sick patient."

She snorted with laughter, lightly hitting him on the shoulder.

"You're impossible."

"And yet here you are," he replied softly, his smile softening, becoming something more intimate, more genuine. "With me."

"Yes," she confirmed, nestling into his side and listening to the steady beating of his heart. "I am. And I'm not going anywhere."

Chapter 17

Draco slept for a very long time. Hermione had no intention of waking him—his body desperately needed rest after the crisis. The curse had been temporarily stabilized, but the battle his body had fought was exhausting. Sleep was now the best medicine.

Early in the morning, as soon as she heard quiet footsteps in the corridor, she left the bedroom to find Scorpius already dressed, standing uncertainly before his father's door.

"Good morning," she said quietly. "Your dad is still sleeping. He needs a lot of rest to recover."

The boy looked at her with his enormous gray eyes—so similar to his father's—and after a moment nodded with understanding. He didn't back away when she approached, didn't hide behind furniture as he had done before. That was progress.

"Are you hungry? I can make you breakfast," she offered.

"Yes," he answered quietly.

In the kitchen, under the watchful eye of Fimble, who was initially skeptical of her presence in his domain, she prepared breakfast for Scorpius—toast with raspberry jam, cut into the shape of dragons (transfiguration had always been her strong suit), and warm milk with honey.

He ate slowly, methodically, barely raising his eyes from his plate. He wasn't rude—on the contrary, his manners were impeccable—but there was something closed-off about him, as if he had hidden part of himself behind an invisible wall.

After breakfast, she suggested they go to the playroom. Scorpius again just nodded and led her through the corridors of the manor to a bright, spacious room filled with toys.

For the next two hours, she sat quietly in an armchair in the corner of the room, observing as he played alone. He didn't try to engage her, didn't ask for attention or praise. He simply went about his business—releasing miniature, magical dragons that flew around the room, drawing colorful pictures (mainly dragons and the sea), constructing complicated structures with magical blocks. All in almost complete silence.

She couldn't stop thinking about how different he was from other children his age that she knew. All of them were lively, loud, constantly demanding attention, unable to play for more than five minutes without drawing all nearby adults into the game.

Scorpius was different—calm, methodical, withdrawn. Too calm for a four-year-old. Too withdrawn. Too... lonely.

She knew she would have to talk about this with Draco. She didn't want to give him fatherly advice—after all, she had never had children herself, and their relationship had barely begun. But as a healer who had seen many cases of traumatized children, she couldn't ignore the signs she was noticing.

At noon, Scorpius finally grew tired. She laid him on the couch in the playroom, covered him with a soft blanket, and watched as his eyes slowly closed. Even in sleep, his face was serious, as if he was constantly on guard, as if he couldn't fully relax.

Draco was still asleep, so, having nothing else to do, she went to the living room intending to read. However, as soon as she sat in the comfortable armchair by the fireplace, her eyes fell on the copy of the "Daily Prophet" lying on the table—the same one she had seen yesterday at Cliff Manor before rushing to the hospital.

Rita Skeeter's article was still there, on the front page, its sensational title screaming at readers: "HEIR TO THE MALFOY FORTUNE DYING?"

Hermione narrowed her eyes, reading the text again. Who could have been Rita's informant? Who knew about the curse consuming Draco, besides herself, Macmillan, and a few healers?

Suddenly a thought occurred to her—Astoria. Maybe it was an attempt at manipulation, a way to achieve a goal she hadn't been able to achieve directly? Publicly revealing Draco's health condition could lead to questioning his ability to care for a child. If he was dying, who would take care of Scorpius if not his mother?

But the longer she thought about it, the less sense it made. If Astoria's goal was to regain Scorpius, she would have used him as a bargaining chip. She would have mentioned him in the article, emphasized that Draco had a young son who would be orphaned. But in Skeeter's text, there was absolutely no mention of Scorpius.

That could mean only one thing—the person who passed the information to Rita probably didn't know that Draco had a son.

She felt a cold shiver run down her spine as she realized that one more person knew about Draco's curse. A person who knew his history better than anyone else.

Harry. No. Impossible. She couldn't believe Harry would be capable of something so vile. She grabbed the newspaper from the table and quickly made her way to the fireplace in the main living room. She knew she should leave a note for Draco, in case he woke up, but she felt this matter couldn't wait. She had to know. She had to look Harry in the eye and hear the truth from him.

She threw a handful of Floo powder into the fireplace, and when the flames turned green, clearly spoke Potter's address.

The world swirled around her as the Floo network carried her on its magical journey. A moment later she emerged, dusting off her robes, in the cozy living room of Harry and Ginny's home.

"Hermione?" Harry, sitting at the table with a cup of tea and some documents, raised his head, clearly surprised by her sudden appearance. "What a surprise! We haven't seen each other since... I can't even remember when."

She didn't respond to his smile. Instead, she held out the "Daily Prophet," open to Rita Skeeter's article.

"Please, Harry," she said quietly, intensely staring into his eyes. "Tell me this wasn't your doing."

He frowned, rising from the table.

"What? What are you talking about?"

"This," she shook the newspaper. "The leak to Rita about Malfoy's health condition. The information that he's dying because of a mysterious curse."

Harry's expression changed from confusion to indignation in a matter of seconds.

"You think it was me?" he asked in disbelief. "That I went to Skeeter with gossip? Seriously, Hermione? After all these years of friendship, do you really think I'm capable of something like that?"

She lowered her hand with the newspaper, feeling the tension in her shoulders slightly weaken. She knew Harry too well not to recognize genuine indignation.

"Can I trust you, Harry?" she asked quietly. "This is really important. It's not just about Malfoy... it's also about his son."

"Malfoy has a son?" he looked genuinely surprised. "I had no idea."

She nodded, coming closer.

"He has a four-year-old son, Scorpius. The boy's mother, Astoria, left them two years ago." She hesitated, searching for the right words. "This article... could have serious consequences. Astoria might try to use Draco's health condition to gain custody of Scorpius. And believe me, Harry, that would be a tragedy. That woman... she didn't want that child. She left him when he needed her most."

"I swear, I have nothing to do with this," he said firmly. "I wouldn't go to Skeeter, even if I had the most vile information about Malfoy."

Hermione felt relief, but at the same time increasing concern. If not Harry, then who?

"I'm sorry for suspecting you," she said sincerely. "It's just... I have no idea who might know about his condition and pass it to the press. It's not common knowledge."

"I understand your concern," he said carefully. "But really, I had nothing to do with it. Not after... not after what you told me recently."

"Harry," she began quietly, "have you perhaps remembered anything more? Anything that might help me understand how this curse works? How to reverse it?"

Harry's expression immediately changed. His eyes hardened, and his jaw clenched.

"I've already told you everything I know," he replied defensively. "It was a spell from Snape's book. I didn't know its effect when I used it."

"I know, Harry, I know," she said gently, seeing his reaction. "I don't blame you. I just..."

"Why don't you just search Malfoy's mind?" he interrupted her. "Instead of tormenting me with questions, you could go straight to the source of the problem."

"It's too risky," she replied quietly. "In his current state, Legilimency might not interact properly with his magical core. It's extremely invasive, Harry. I could cause him irreversible damage... or worse. But you..."

"Maybe you should go now," he suddenly interrupted, getting up from the table. "Ginny and the kids will be back any moment, and we... I don't think we have anything more to say on this subject."

Hermione stared at him in disbelief.

"Harry," she tried again, "please. If you know anything that might help... This isn't just about Malfoy anymore. It's about a child who might lose his father."

For a moment it seemed her words had reached him. His face softened, and a shadow of uncertainty appeared in his eyes. But a moment later, he once again adopted a defensive posture.

"I'm sorry, I don't remember," he said stiffly. "I really think you should go now."

"All right," she said quietly. "I'll go. But Harry... if you change your mind, if you remember anything that might help..."

"I'll let you know," he finished for her, though there was no conviction in his voice. "Goodbye, Hermione."

With a heavy heart, she returned to the fireplace to take a handful of Floo powder.

The living room was empty. She looked around, wondering if Draco was still asleep. Scorpius was nowhere to be seen either—probably still napping in the playroom where she had left him.

She headed toward the bedroom, wanting to check if he had woken up, when suddenly she heard rapid footsteps in the corridor. Before she could react, Draco appeared in the doorway of the living room. His hair was disheveled, his robe hastily thrown on, and his face pale with tension.

"Hermione," he gasped, and the relief in his voice was almost palpable.

Before she could say anything, he covered the distance between them in a few quick steps and pulled her to him. He embraced her with such force that for a moment she couldn't breathe. His body trembled slightly as he buried his face in her hair, and his breathing was uneven, as if he had just been running.

"I thought you had left," he whispered in her ear. "I woke up, and you were nowhere to be found. Scorpius was sleeping alone. I thought..."

He broke off, unable to finish the sentence, but he didn't have to. She understood perfectly. He thought she had run away from him again. That she had changed her mind. That she had left him, just as Astoria had done.

"I'm here," she said softly, returning his embrace. "I'm sorry I didn't leave a message. I had to urgently check something, but I didn't want to wake you. You needed rest."

"Where were you?" he asked after a while, when they were already sitting together on the couch, still holding hands.

Hermione hesitated. She didn't want to worry him with the leak issue, not now, when he had just returned from the hospital. But she also didn't want to start their relationship with lies and secrets.

"At Harry's," she finally admitted. "I had to talk to him about something important."

Draco raised an eyebrow, and a shadow of concern appeared in his eyes.

"You weren't questioning him about the curse again, were you?"

"No, that's not what it was about," she lied slightly, reaching into her pocket. "It was about this."

She pulled out a crumpled copy of the "Daily Prophet" and handed it to him. Draco unfolded the newspaper, and when his eyes fell on the headline, his face paled.

"Ah, that," he said quietly, running his fingers over the title.

"I was wondering who could have passed information about your illness to her," Hermione explained. "It's not common knowledge. But I'm sure it wasn't Harry."

Suddenly there was a soft crack, and Fimble appeared in the living room. The house-elf looked terrified—his large eyes were even larger than usual, his ears pressed flat against his head, and his whole body trembling.

"M-m-master Malfoy," he stammered, extending toward them with trembling hands a fresh copy of the "Daily Prophet." "T-this just c-came by owl post..."

Draco exchanged a worried look with Hermione, then took the newspaper from the elf. He immediately froze, staring at the front page.

"No," he whispered, and in his voice was pure panic.

She leaned in to see the headline and felt the blood drain from her face.

"SHOCKING NEWS: DYING MALFOY HID SON FROM THE WORLD!"

Draco feverishly turned the pages, finding the continuation of the article. Hermione read along with him, feeling her fury growing with each word.

"According to our sources, the heir to the Malfoy fortune not only concealed from the wizarding world the fact that he is dying of a rare, magical curse, but also the existence of his son! The young boy is reportedly four years old and is under the exclusive care of his father. Who will take care of the child when Draco Malfoy departs this world? Will the little one be condemned to the fate of an orphan? Or is there a mother who has remained in the shadows until now? Rita Skeeter promises her readers that she will get to the truth about the mysterious woman who gave birth to the heir to the Malfoy fortune!"

"Draco," Hermione whispered, feeling her heart tighten with pain. "I'm so sorry."

Draco crumpled the newspaper in his hands, his face contorting in a grimace of fury such as she had never seen in him. Even in the worst moments of their school rivalry, he had never been so angry.

"Who is it?" he growled, clenching his fists so hard that his knuckles turned white. "Who knows about both my curse and Scorpius? Who could have passed this information to Skeeter?"

She quickly analyzed potential suspects in her mind.

"Only a few people know about both matters," she said slowly. "Harry, but I'm sure it's not him. Several healers from St. Mungo's, Macmillan, me..."

She suddenly broke off, and her eyes widened as she remembered words she had heard just a day earlier.

"Draco Malfoy? The same Malfoy who treated you like dirt for years at Hogwarts? That Malfoy, whose family tortured you during the war? That Malfoy, who was a Death Eater?"

And then, with even greater bitterness and jealousy:

"What does he have that I don't?"

"Merlin," she whispered, suddenly paling. "It's Hawkins."

"Hawkins?" he repeated, furrowing his brow. "That healer?"

"Yes," she confirmed, her mind now working at full speed. "When the first article appeared, he already knew about your curse, he was helping me stabilize your core when I had to transfer you to St. Mungo's. And later, during your stay at the hospital, several healers learned about Scorpius's existence, including Hawkins. Remember when I told you Scorpius was alone? Hawkins was supposed to be looking after him, but he didn't."

"Do you think he would have a motive?"

She hesitated, biting her lower lip.

"Well, I'm not sure if it's a strong motive, but..." she sighed, gathering her thoughts. "Hawkins has tried to date me several times. Invited me to dinner, for tea. I rejected him every time."

Draco narrowed his eyes, listening to her carefully.

"And recently he was particularly pushy. I made it clear to him that I was seeing someone else," she continued. "I didn't mention your name, but he deduced it himself. And... he wasn't happy, to put it mildly. He said something like he didn't understand what I saw in you, and that you were a Death Eater."

Malfoy's face hardened. Without a word, he rose from the couch and pulled out his wand. With one fluid motion, he transfigured his clothes—his pajamas changed into an elegant, dark suit, perfectly tailored and undoubtedly expensive. His movements were decisive, precise, but she noticed something more in them—suppressed fury, waiting to explode.

"Draco, what are you planning to...?" she began, but he was already heading toward the fireplace.

"I intend to pay Mr. Hawkins a visit," he replied coldly, grabbing a handful of Floo powder. "And explain to him why he shouldn't have involved my son in his pathetic personal problems."

"Draco, wait!" she called, but it was already too late.

"St. Mungo's Hospital!" he said clearly, throwing the powder into the flames, which immediately turned emerald green. In the next second, he disappeared in a swirl of green flames.

She swore under her breath—something she did extremely rarely. She grabbed her own wand, just in case fixing her clothes with a spell, and ran to the fireplace. If Draco in this state caught up with Hawkins, the consequences could be catastrophic.

"St. Mungo's Hospital!" she called, throwing Floo powder into the flames and jumping after him.

The world swirled around her as the Floo network carried her on its magical journey. She hoped she would manage to stop him before he did something they would both regret.

When she emerged from the fireplace in the main hall of St. Mungo's, she immediately noticed the effects of Draco's passage. People were standing by the walls, whispering among themselves and pointing to the end of the corridor, where she spotted his characteristic platinum head. He moved like a storm—determined, dangerous, and the wizards and witches surrounding him instinctively got out of his way.

"Draco!" she called, running after him.

She reached him just as he grabbed the robes of a young healer—a boy who looked as if he had just finished school. The terrified young man stared at Malfoy with wide-open eyes.

"Where is Hawkins?" Draco growled, pressing the healer against the wall. "Terrence Hawkins. Where can I find him?"

"S-s-second floor," stammered the young healer, trembling under Draco's gaze. "Room 215. H-he's examining a p-patient with a s-swelling leg c-curse."

Draco released him abruptly, so that the boy almost slid to the floor, and headed toward the stairs, not looking back. Hermione gave the healer an apologetic look and ran after Malfoy, barely keeping up with him.

"Draco, wait!" she called, taking two steps at a time. "Think about what you're doing! You can't just..."

But he wasn't listening to her anymore. He had reached the second floor and was walking confidently along the corridor, ignoring the shocked looks of patients and staff. His magic was almost palpable in the air—heavy, electrified, dangerous.

He stopped in front of the door with the number 215. Without hesitation, he pulled out his wand and with one fluid motion threw the door wide open, with such force that it hit the wall.

In the room was an elderly wizard sitting on a couch with legs the size of tree trunks, and Terrence Hawkins, who was just applying some potion to the swelling. Both jumped at the sound of the opening door.

"Please leave," he said to the patient, his voice icy. "Immediately."

"But my legs..." the wizard began to protest.

"IMMEDIATELY!" roared Draco, and his magic exploded around him, causing all the potion bottles on a nearby table to shake dangerously.

The patient, despite his gigantic legs, somehow managed to slide off the couch and, half limping, half rolling, left the room, casting them terrified glances.

Hawkins, to Hermione's surprise, didn't look frightened, however. On the contrary—as soon as the door closed behind the patient, his face took on an expression of ironic amusement. He put the vial of potion on the table and crossed his arms over his chest.

"Well, well, Draco Malfoy himself has honored me with his visit," he said, and his lips twisted in a mocking smile. "Has your condition worsened? I read the article in the Prophet. Poor child, I wouldn't wish such a father on anyone."

Draco's face hardened, his eyes narrowed dangerously. He slowly turned to Hermione, not taking his eyes off Hawkins.

"Leave, darling," he said quietly, but firmly.

"No," she replied immediately. "Draco, it's not worth it."

Draco moved so quickly that she barely registered the movement. A wave of his wand, a flash of a spell, and Hawkins flew into the air, hitting the wall with his back. Before he could collect himself, another spell wrapped magical bonds around his wrists and ankles, pinning him in place.

"Draco!" she shouted, grabbing his arm. "What are you doing?"

"What I should have done long ago," he replied icily, not taking his eyes off the immobilized healer. "Showing the consequences of involving my son in dirty games."

Hawkins, despite the bonds, maintained his confidence. His smile didn't disappear, though his eyes now expressed alertness.

"Typical," he said, trying to shrug despite the magical bonds. "Malfoys always solved problems with force when they lacked arguments."

"You think I lack arguments?" he hissed, approaching him. "You think I don't know who passed information to Rita Skeeter about my health condition? About my son?"

"I don't know what you're talking about, Malfoy. I'm a healer. I took an oath to maintain patient confidentiality."

"You're lying," he growled, raising his wand. "And we both know it."

Hermione instinctively stepped back, then back again. Something in Malfoy's posture, in the tension of his shoulders, in the way he held his wand—confidently, with almost elegant precision—sent a cold shiver down her spine.

For weeks, months, she had been with Draco Malfoy—calm, composed, sometimes sarcastic, often witty. A man who tenderly read stories to his son, who gently kissed her on the forehead when he thought she was asleep.

But the man who stood before her now—with his face contorted in a grimace of cold fury, with eyes gleaming with a dangerous light, with magic crackling around him like electricity—this man was someone else. Someone she didn't know. Someone who reminded her that Draco Malfoy had not always been the man she had fallen in love with.

He had once been a Death Eater.

That thought hit her with the force of a physical blow. Of course, she had always known it, but somehow... she had forgotten. Or rather, she had allowed herself to forget, to push that knowledge into the background as she got to know him anew, as she saw his transformation, his struggle to be a better person.

But now, looking at him, she couldn't help but see that darker side—that part of his soul that had been marked by war, torture, the presence of Voldemort in his own home. A part that had learned magic so dark that most wizards wouldn't speak its name.

"Legilimens," Draco whispered, and his voice was so quiet, so cold, that she barely heard it.

Hawkins let out a muffled cry as the spell hit him with full force. His eyes widened, his body stiffened, and his face contorted in an expression of pain and shock. Draco looked straight into his eyes, his own absent, focused on something Hermione couldn't see—on memories, thoughts, secrets hidden deep in Hawkins's mind.

The room sank into silence, interrupted only by the shallow breathing of the immobilized healer. Hermione stood paralyzed, knowing she was witnessing something that balanced on the edge of legality. Legilimency without consent was a serious violation of privacy, and the way Draco was conducting it—aggressive, merciless—suggested that he didn't care about the delicacy or safety of Hawkins's mind.

After what seemed like an eternity, he backed away abruptly, breaking eye contact. His face, previously pale with anger, now took on a shade of scarlet. He was breathing heavily, and his eyes... his eyes burned with fury so intense, so primal, that Hermione felt fear constricting her throat.

"You..." he seethed, his voice trembling with emotion. "You filthy, disgusting..."

He raised his wand higher, and his lips began to form the words of a spell—a spell she didn't recognize, but whose intentions she instinctively sensed. This wasn't a simple Stupefy or Expelliarmus. This was something darker, more powerful, something that carried within it an echo of the times when Draco served the Dark Lord.

At the last moment, his gaze shifted from Hawkins's face to her. Their eyes met for a second—his full of fury, hers—fear and uncertainty. Something in her eyes must have reached him, because he froze mid-movement. His face contorted in a grimace of struggle with himself, as if part of his mind still wanted to complete the spell, and another—the better, stronger part—was preventing him from crossing a line from which there would be no return.

With visible effort, he lowered his wand. His chest rose and fell in an uneven rhythm, knuckles whitened from the force with which he clenched his fingers around his wand.

"You can say goodbye to your job, Hawkins," he finally said, his voice icy but controlled. "And I promise you won't get a new position anywhere in England. Or in Scotland. Or in Wales. Or in any place where the influence of the Malfoy family reaches."

Without waiting for a response, he turned abruptly and left the room, leaving behind a stunned Hawkins. Hermione immediately went after him, her heart beating fast as she tried to keep up with his long, quick strides.

"Draco!" she called, catching up to him in the corridor. "Where are you going?"

He stopped so suddenly that she almost ran into him. When he turned, his face was still tense, and his eyes full of anger that apparently hadn't had time to subside yet.

"Go home, Hermione," he said firmly. "Go back and watch over Scorpius."

"What about you?" she asked, frowning. "Where are you going?"

"I have matters to attend to," he replied evasively, his jaw clenching even tighter.

"What matters?" she pressed, feeling growing concern. "Draco, after what just happened, surely you're not planning to..."

"GO HOME!" he suddenly roared, his voice echoing down the empty corridor.

She stepped back as if he had struck her. In all the time they had spent together, not once had he raised his voice at her. He had never spoken to her in that tone—a tone that reminded her more of Lucius Malfoy than the man she had come to know in recent months.

Without waiting for her reply, he turned and headed down the corridor, leaving her standing alone in the middle, with a mixture of emotions swirling in her chest—shock, anxiety, and above all, deep, piercing pain.

For a long moment she stood motionless, staring at the spot where he had disappeared around the corner. Several healers passed by her, casting curious glances, but none stopped to ask if everything was all right. Perhaps that was better—she wasn't sure what she would have answered.

Finally, with a heavy heart, she moved toward the main hall and the fireplaces. She didn't know what he planned to do, but his sudden outburst of anger—directed not at Hawkins, but at her—left her with a feeling of emptiness and uncertainty.

Was this the real Draco? Was the man she had known for the last few months—tender, caring, sometimes sarcastic, but always respectful of her—just a mask? Or perhaps today's Draco was the exception, brought on by stress and fear for his son?

She didn't know the answer. And the fact that she didn't know hurt her more than she would be willing to admit.

She threw a handful of Floo powder into one of the fireplaces in the hospital hall.

"Cliff Manor," she said clearly, stepping into the green flames.

When she emerged from the fireplace in the manor's living room, she was greeted by silence. Scorpius must still have been asleep, and Fimble was probably with him, ensuring his safety.

She stood motionless for a long while, staring at the empty fireplace. The initial shock was slowly giving way to fury, which was building in her like a rising tide. She clenched her fists so tightly that her nails dug into the skin of her palms.

She was an adult, independent woman. One of the best healers in the country. She didn't take orders from anyone—not from superiors at the hospital, not from friends, and certainly not from men in her life. Even Harry and Ron, despite years of friendship, knew not to tell her what to do.

So why, by Merlin, had she obeyed his shout? Why had she let him leave her in the corridor like some... obedient child? Why hadn't she simply followed him, forced him to explain himself?

She was angry. At him—for daring to shout at her, for leaving her without explaining where he was going and what he intended to do. But she was even angrier at herself—for giving in so easily, for allowing him to treat her that way, for returning home like an obedient wife from another era.

With energetic steps, she headed to the kitchen. She had to do something to avoid sinking into this anger that was bubbling inside her like a potion over too high a flame. Scorpius wasn't to blame for anything, and since Fimble was watching over him during his nap, he wouldn't have time to prepare a meal for the boy when he woke up.

She began searching through cabinets and the refrigerator, finding ingredients for a simple but nutritious soup—something Scorpius liked and that didn't require too much attention from her. She could cook and process her thoughts at the same time.

With aggressive energy, she began chopping vegetables, and the sound of the knife hitting the cutting board had something strangely satisfying about it. With each cut, she felt some of her anger finding release.

Who did he think he was? Manor owner or not, he had no right to treat her like that. Not after everything they had been through together. Not after she had opened her heart to him, after she had decided to stay with him, despite his illness, despite an uncertain future.

She threw the chopped vegetables into the pot with such force that hot water splashed onto the counter. She didn't care. With a wave of her wand, she increased the heat under the pot and continued preparations, her movements sharp, decisive, full of suppressed energy.

When she heard quiet footsteps at the kitchen threshold, she didn't even look back. She knew it was him. She could recognize his step among a thousand others. But she wasn't ready to look at him. She wasn't ready to see his face, hear his voice, his explanations—or rather, excuses.

Instead, she continued cooking, with a determined expression on her face, ignoring his presence as ostentatiously as she could. Let him know that not everything would be overlooked. That he couldn't treat her like one of his subordinates. Like someone who would blindly follow his orders.

She felt his arms encircling her from behind, and the warmth of his body penetrating through the material of her robe. She didn't react to his touch. She continued rhythmically chopping carrots, each movement of the knife precise and full of suppressed anger.

He tried to gently turn her toward him, his hands on her shoulders gentle, almost pleading.

"I'm cooking," she snapped, not interrupting her work. "Someone has to take care of Scorpius, since his father is too busy playing avenger to think about his own son."

She felt his body stiffen behind her at the sound of these words, but she didn't care. Let him know what she thought.

Draco slowly moved his hand along her arm until his fingers rested on her hand—the one that was gripping the knife. Gently but firmly, he stopped the movement of her hand, immobilizing the blade above the cutting board.

"Hermione," he said quietly, right by her ear. "Look at me. Please."

"I'm busy," she replied coldly, trying to pull her hand from his grip, but he held it firmly.

"The knife can wait," he insisted, and in his voice was something she hadn't noticed before—fatigue, or perhaps even fear. "We need to talk."

"Now you want to talk?" she asked, her voice as sharp as the blade she was holding. "What about talking at the hospital? What about explaining where you're going, instead of shouting and leaving me in the middle of the corridor like some... like some..."

Her voice broke, and with it, part of her anger. She was so furious, but at the same time so hurt. And he was standing so close, so familiarly warm, that it was hard to maintain the wall of anger she had built around herself.

Gently, he took the knife from her hand and placed it on the counter. Then, still standing behind her, he embraced her more tightly, pressing her back to his chest. His face rested in the hollow of her neck.

"I'm sorry," he whispered, his breath tickling her skin. "I shouldn't have shouted at you. I shouldn't have left you. It was... unforgivable."

Hermione pushed him away with her elbow, breaking free from his embrace, and returned to energetically chopping vegetables. Her movements were still sharp, but somewhat less aggressive than before. Something in his voice, in the sincerity of his apology, made part of her anger begin to melt.

"Where were you?" she asked after a moment, not looking at him, focusing her gaze on the cutting board.

He leaned against the kitchen counter beside her, maintaining the safe distance she had established.

"At Macmillan's," he answered. "I had to make sure Hawkins would be immediately fired and get an appropriate note in his records. One that would prevent him from being employed in any other magical hospital."

Hermione glanced at him from the corner of her eye.

"And that's why you had to shout at me? That's why I couldn't go with you?"

"No," he said quietly. "That's not why. When I used Legilimency on Hawkins... I saw things. Things I would rather never have seen."

She stopped the knife mid-motion, suddenly curious and concerned at the same time.

"What things?" she asked.

Draco looked away, staring out the window at the view of the sea beyond.

"Things related to you," he finally confessed, his voice tense. "His... thoughts. Fantasies. Obsessions."

Hermione felt a cold shiver run down her spine. Hawkins had always seemed somewhat pushy in his attempts to ask her out, but she had never suspected that something deeper, something darker lurked behind it.

"I'm sorry," he repeated. "I just... lost control of myself. When I thought about Hawkins, about how he thought of you, what he did to Scorpius, how he put him in danger... something in me snapped. But that doesn't justify my behavior toward you. You didn't deserve to be the target of my anger. And I apologize."

She threw the chopped vegetables into the pot, then reached for the herbs she added to the soup. Her movements were methodical, but the tension in her shoulders began to subside.

"You can't shout at me like that, Draco," she finally said, her voice calm but firm. "Never again. I'm not your house-elf or your subordinate. I'm your partner. And I expect you to treat me as such."

"I know," he replied quietly. "And I promise it won't happen again. It's just... when it comes to Scorpius, sometimes it's hard for me to maintain balance. He is... he is everything."

Finally, she turned to him, stirring the soup with a long wooden spoon.

"I understand that. I really do. But you need to understand that when you push me away, when you exclude me from your life—even for an hour, even with good intentions—you make me feel like I'm not part of it. Like I'm just a guest who can be sent away at any moment."

Draco looked at her with an expression of pain in his eyes.

Without warning, he pulled her to him, embracing her tightly, as if afraid she would disappear if he let her go.

"You are a part of my life, Hermione," he said quietly, his voice intense, full of emotion. "A part just as important as Scorpius. I know all this is happening quickly. I know we're still learning each other. But I can't imagine life without you anymore."

He pulled back slightly to look into her eyes, and in his gaze was something she hadn't seen before—absolute certainty, complete openness.

"I love you," he said simply. "I love you in a way I've never loved anyone."

Hermione froze. This was the first time he had spoken those words. Despite everything they had been through together, despite the tenderness, closeness, intimacy—he had never before named what was between them as love.

"And you?" he asked after a moment, a note of uncertainty appearing in his voice. "Do you love me?"

She looked at him, and a slight smile appeared on her lips. She was still angry with him—for shouting, for leaving her, for trying to protect her without her consent—but that anger was nothing compared to what she truly felt for him.

"No," she answered, however.

She turned back to the soup, stirring it with excessive attention. Draco stood behind her, his hands resting on her shoulders.

"Come on," he said quietly, right into her ear. "Say it."

"If you don't let me finish this soup, I swear I'll stab you with this knife," she threatened, pointing to the tool lying on the counter, but her voice no longer sounded angry.

He laughed softly, and then did something she didn't expect—he turned her to face him, lifted her by the waist, and sat her on the kitchen counter. He now stood between her thighs, and his face was level with hers.

"Say it," he repeated, his voice soft, seductive. "Say that you love me."

"You're impossible," she sighed, but her hands traveled to his shoulders on their own.

"And yet you love me," he pressed, bringing his lips closer to hers.

"Yes," she finally admitted. "I love you. And that's really irritating because I would very much like to be furious with you for a few more hours."

He smiled, and then kissed her—slowly, deeply, with an intensity that made the soup and her anger immediately forgotten. Her hands entwined in his hair, pulling him closer, and his hands moved from her waist to her back, pressing her to his chest.

The kiss became more passionate, more demanding. Hermione no longer remembered why she was angry, why she wanted to keep him at a distance. All that mattered now was the warmth of his body, the taste of his lips, the way his hands wandered over her back, as if trying to memorize every inch of her skin.

Behind them, the soup was boiling more and more intensely, until finally it began to spill over from the pot, flooding half the counter. Neither of them noticed. They were too absorbed in each other—their lips, touch, words of love whispered in the breaks between kisses.

Chapter 18

The evening at Cliff Manor was peaceful. Through the high windows of the living room, one could see the sun slowly hiding behind the horizon, coloring the sea in shades of gold and purple. Draco and Hermione sat side by side on the couch, while Scorpius sprawled on the soft carpet in front of the fireplace, fascinated by a magical story about dragons that moved above him in a three-dimensional projection.

"Look at this," Hermione said quietly, opening the Half-Blood Prince's book. "This page—do you see how this fragment is smudged?"

He leaned in to better see the place she was pointing to.

"This is the spell. This must be it."

He narrowed his eyes, studying the page.

"May I?" he asked, taking out his wand.

She nodded, watching as he performed a series of complicated wand movements over the book, muttering spells she didn't know.

"Nothing," he sighed after several attempts. "Whatever was used to blur this text was hellishly effective. I'll try asking some of my father's old acquaintances. There are people who specialize in revealing hidden texts. Maybe someone will be able to help."

She nodded, but her gaze involuntarily wandered to Scorpius, who was watching with delight as a miniature dragon breathed fire, creating luminous images in the air. The boy was so calm, so focused on the story—completely unaware of the drama unfolding in his father's life.

Draco noticed her look and followed it with his eyes.

"What are you thinking about?" he asked quietly, taking her hand in his.

She hesitated. All day she had been gathering courage to bring up this topic. She had been mentally preparing for a conversation that could be difficult, but which she considered necessary.

"Draco," she began softly, squeezing his hand. "Before I say anything, I want you to know that you are a wonderful father. Really. The way you care for Scorpius, how you protect him, how you talk to him... it all shows how much you love him. And he knows that. You can see in his eyes how much you mean to him. And I want you to know that what I'm about to say is not your fault in any way. It's just something I've noticed, and I thought we should talk about it."

He looked at her carefully, and a shadow of concern appeared in his eyes.

"You sound very serious," he said. "What is it?"

She took a deep breath, glancing at Scorpius, who was still absorbed in the dragon story.

"I've noticed that Scorpius is exceptionally quiet and calm for a four-year-old," she said. "Today, while you were sleeping, I spent several hours with him. During that entire time, he barely spoke. He played by himself, didn't ask for help, didn't ask about you. He just... existed in his small, safe bubble."

He frowned, looking at his son.

"He's always been like that," he replied. "Calm, balanced. That's good, isn't it?"

"Yes, but..." she hesitated, searching for the right words. "Children his age should be curious about the world, asking thousands of questions, sometimes testing boundaries. These are natural stages of development. Scorpius... he's too well-behaved, too quiet. As if he's afraid of doing something wrong."

"Do you think it's my fault?" he asked, a note of defensiveness appearing in his voice. "That I'm too strict with him?"

"No, absolutely not," she denied immediately. "On the contrary—you are patient, loving, caring. That's not what this is about."

"Then what?"

She looked straight into his eyes.

"I think it might be related to what he's been through. To the fact that his mother abandoned him when he was tiny. To the fact that he sees his father struggling with illness. To the fact that he has virtually no contact with peers."

He looked away, and his jaw tightened. For a long moment he was silent, staring at his son, who was now gently touching the holographic dragon, as if trying to check if it was real.

"You think all of this has marked him," he finally said quietly. "That he carries these wounds within him."

"Children are more aware and sensitive than we think," she replied gently. "Even if they don't understand everything, they sense emotions, tension, fear. And they find their own ways of coping with it. And his way is... being perfect. Being so quiet and well-behaved that no one will have a reason to leave him. Like Astoria did. But that's just my theory. I'm not a specialist in child psychology."

"I think you're right," he said, and understanding appeared in his eyes. "Now that you've said it... I see it. The way he always asks if he can take his favorite toy. How he never protests when I say it's time for bed. How sometimes he wakes up from a nightmare, but doesn't always call for me—he comes quietly to my room and stands in the doorway until I notice him."

"Draco..." she placed her hand on his cheek, seeing the pain on his face.

"I should have noticed," he said, his voice full of self-reproach. "I should have known something was wrong."

"Don't blame yourself," she asked. "You're doing everything in your power to be a good father. And you are. But sometimes we all need a fresh perspective, someone who sees what we don't see."

"What can we do?" he asked. "How can we help him?"

She thought for a moment.

"First of all, I think he needs contact with other children," she suggested. "Maybe some activities for preschoolers? I know there are several groups in magical London where children from wizarding families can meet, play, learn basic spells."

"But what about the article? What if other children, other families, read about us in the 'Prophet'? What if they treat him differently? Or worse, ask about his mother?"

"That's a risk," she admitted. "But isolating him isn't the solution. Sooner or later, he'll have to face the outside world. Better if he starts now, slowly, under our care."

"Our?" he asked quietly.

Hermione felt her cheeks flush.

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to assume..."

Before she could finish her sentence, he leaned in and placed a gentle kiss on her lips, interrupting her apology. When he pulled away, warmth and affection that he no longer needed to hide gleamed in his eyes.

"Don't apologize," he said softly, his voice low, meant only for her ears. "You have every right to think that way. To speak that way. If you want, you can be whatever you wish for Scorpius—a friend, an aunt, a guardian..."

He hesitated for a moment, and in his eyes appeared a question he didn't dare voice aloud.

She felt her heart quicken. Something in his look—that depth, that unspoken hope—made her suddenly realize where this conversation was heading. They were talking about Scorpius, about his needs, about being a "family"... and now he was looking at her as if expecting an answer to a question he hadn't even asked.

A wave of panic flooded her mind. She had only just named her feelings for Draco out loud. Only just admitted to herself that she loved him. And now the conversation seemed to be moving toward something much more serious, something more... permanent.

"I..." she began, feeling her throat tighten. "Draco, I... I think those group activities are a good idea," she said quickly, returning to a safe topic. "I could ask around at the hospital. Some healers run such groups for children from wizarding families."

He watched her for a moment, and then his face softened, as if he understood what was happening.

"Yes, that's a good idea," he said calmly, giving her the space she apparently needed. "I think Scorpius would like that."

She breathed a sigh of relief, grateful that he didn't push. That he allowed her to return to safe ground.

"Good," she said, feeling the panic slowly subsiding. "I'll look for information next week."

Hermione kept her word. Just a few days later, she found a playgroup for young wizards, run by an experienced witch, Mrs. Meadows. "Little Wands," as the program was called, offered children from magical families their first experiences with simple spells, but above all, a chance to play with peers.

The first week turned out to be a real nightmare. Every morning, as soon as Draco tried to leave Scorpius in the colorful room full of other children, the boy would fall into desperate hysterics. He cried, screamed, clinging to his father's trouser leg, begging him not to leave him alone. Each goodbye was like having one's heart torn out—both for Scorpius and for Draco, who each time left the activities pale and shaken, with an expression of pure suffering on his face.

She had to constantly convince him that this was normal, that he couldn't just run into the room and take his son away at the first bout of crying. That children need to learn that separations are temporary, that parents always come back. That this was part of healthy development. Draco listened to her advice, though each morning was torture for him.

When they came after an hour to pick up Scorpius, the boy was exhausted from crying, with red eyes and nose. He hugged his father with desperate strength, as if afraid he would soon be left again. At home, he most often fell asleep, tired from the emotional effort.

But Hermione was right—it got better with time. After a week, Scorpius still cried when Draco left, but these were now just short, few-minute episodes. Mrs. Meadows assured them that as soon as the door closed behind them, she could quickly distract the boy with an interesting toy or task.

Over the next few weeks, he became increasingly open to new experiences. Each day he returned from activities with a new drawing, a new story, a new spell he had learned. He began to mention the names of other children, talk about their games together. Slowly, very slowly, he was beginning to emerge from the shadow of silence and closure in which he had lived for so long.

At the same time as Scorpius was making progress in his small community, Draco and Hermione continued their desperate search for a way to stop the curse. Every evening, when the boy was already asleep, they spent hours in the library of Cliff Manor, browsing books on dark magic, studying old texts, trying to discover the secret of the smudged spell.

But despite their efforts, despite trying dozens of different methods, the ink concealing the true nature of the curse remained intact. Hermione read the same volumes for the third, fourth, sometimes fifth time, already knowing some passages by heart. Draco contacted old acquaintances of his family, experts on secret texts, but no one could break through the magical barrier protecting the smudged fragment.

Time passed inexorably. Each day, each week without a breakthrough was another step toward the inevitable. Though neither of them voiced it aloud, both felt how the hourglass of Draco's life was relentlessly emptying, grain by grain.

Hermione consoled herself with the thought that Draco was feeling well. That perhaps the initial time she had given him was indeed much longer. That the temporary methods she was using—strengthening potions, stabilizing spells—were working better than she had predicted. That she had much more time to find a way out. She clung to these thoughts like a drowning person to a razor, allowing them to calm her nerves when late in the evenings she stared at his sleeping face.

But reality proved merciless. On Christmas, Draco didn't wake up. They were supposed to spend this time together—go for a walk in the first snow that had begun falling in the morning, exchange gifts hidden in his office, simply spend a nice time as the family they were slowly becoming. But when Scorpius excitedly ran into their bedroom, Draco lay motionless, not responding to his son's calls.

Nothing had preceded this episode. The day before he had felt fine, even exceptionally well. Only sporadically, over the last few weeks, had he experienced headaches, but Hermione would then play melodies for him, watching as the tension left his body.

And now he simply didn't wake up. When she touched his forehead, she was terrified—he was all wet, his pajamas soaked with sweat, and his skin burned under her fingers. The fever was really high, much higher than during previous episodes. But worse, when she conducted a quick diagnostic with her wand, she knew it was something more serious. His magical core was destabilizing to a dangerous level.

"Draco, please," she whispered, performing complicated wand movements over his body. "Fight this. Stay with me."

The Christmas morning turned into a desperate battle to stabilize his condition. Hermione managed to send Scorpius away with Fimble—the elf was to show the boy how he prepared Christmas breakfast, giving her time to save Draco.

For three hours she didn't leave his bed for even a moment. Her wand moved tirelessly, casting spell after spell, while her other hand changed cold compresses on his burning face every few minutes. Potions she had prepared just in case stood on the bedside table, and emptied vials accumulated on the floor.

Finally, she collapsed into a chair beside the bed, exhausted both physically and magically. She had managed to stabilize him, but he still wasn't waking up. His eyes remained closed, and his body limp. She had no idea how long this state would last—hours, days, weeks?

With a heavy heart, she rose to check on Scorpius. The boy must be disoriented and frightened. This was supposed to be his first Christmas morning in a complete family—and now his father lay unconscious, and she had spent the last three hours trying to save him.

She found Scorpius in the kitchen with Fimble. The house-elf was doing what he could to occupy the boy—they were decorating Christmas cookies together. But at the sight of Hermione, Scorpius immediately looked up, and in his eyes was a question he didn't dare ask.

"Daddy is sleeping," she said gently, approaching him and kneeling to be at his eye level. "He's very tired and needs a lot of rest."

"But today is Christmas," he said quietly, his voice full of disappointment. "Daddy promised we would play in the snow."

"I know, sweetheart," she replied, brushing a light strand from his forehead. "And I know that's very sad. But you know what? I think we should still try to have a nice day today. Maybe not exactly as we planned, but it can still be beautiful."

Scorpius looked at her uncertainly, as if trying to decide whether he could trust her.

"What about the presents?" he finally asked.

Hermione smiled, despite the weight she felt in her chest.

"Of course there are presents," she assured him. "How about we go to the living room and see what you got?"

After a quick breakfast—of which Scorpius ate only half his portion, still too worried to have an appetite—they moved to the main living room. The fireplace was lit, and in front of it stood a small Christmas tree they had decorated together a few days earlier.

"Close your eyes," she requested, when she had seated him on the couch. "And absolutely no peeking! I'll go get your present."

He obediently closed his eyes, covering them with his small hands for certainty. He looked so vulnerable, so trusting, that she had to turn away for a moment to hold back tears.

Draco had hidden the presents in his office—specially secured with spells so Scorpius couldn't accidentally find them. She was just about to head in that direction when loud knocking came at the door.

She stopped mid-step, frowning. They weren't expecting anyone. Who could be knocking at their door on Christmas morning?

The corridor leading to the main entrance seemed longer than usual. Through the tall windows, she could see the falling snow, already covering the gardens of Cliff Manor with a thick layer. Under other circumstances, it would have been a perfect Christmas scene.

The knocking repeated, this time louder, more insistent. Hermione quickened her pace, wondering who could be so determined to interrupt their holiday.

When she finally opened the heavy oak door, for a moment she thought she was hallucinating.

"Astoria," she whispered, unable to hide the shock in her voice.

The woman raised an eyebrow slightly, looking at Hermione with a mixture of surprise and what might have been amusement. Her coat was covered with snowflakes, and in her hands she held a small package wrapped in shiny, green paper.

"Granger," she replied, her voice exactly as Hermione remembered. "Well, this is... unexpected. I was expecting a house-elf."

"What do you want?" she asked, not even trying to hide the hostility in her voice. She instinctively blocked the entrance with her body, as if wanting to physically prevent Astoria from entering the house.

"I came to see my son," Astoria replied calmly, as if it were the most natural wish in the world. "It's Christmas. I brought him a present."

Hermione felt anger washing over her in a hot wave. How dare she? After years of absence, after abandoning her own child, she comes here as if nothing happened, with a present in hand, expecting a Christmas welcome?

"Your son?" she repeated, her voice trembling with restrained fury. "Now you suddenly remember you have a son? After four years? After you told Draco you didn't want such a child?"

Astoria rolled her eyes, as if being reminded of such insignificant details irritated her. Without a word, she pushed past Hermione, entering the house despite not being invited.

"It's cold," she announced, untying the belt of her elegant cashmere coat. With one fluid motion, she removed it from her shoulders and threw it toward Hermione, as if she were a house-elf. "Where is Draco? Tell him I'll be staying for dinner."

She caught the coat reflexively, but when it dawned on her how she'd been treated, her face reddened with anger. She dropped the expensive garment to the floor, allowing it to fall onto the marble tiles with a soft thud.

"I don't recall inviting you to dinner," she said in an icy tone, following Astoria, who was already heading deeper into the house. "In fact, I don't recall inviting you inside at all."

The woman didn't stop, didn't turn around, didn't even give a sign that she had heard her words. She walked ahead with confident steps, her heels clicking on the corridor floor, her hand still holding the Christmas package wrapped in green paper.

"Astoria!" Hermione raised her voice, catching up to her. "Stop immediately! You have no right to enter this house without—"

She stopped so suddenly that she almost ran into her. They now stood before the entrance to the main living room. Through the half-open door, one could see a fragment of the Christmas tree and Scorpius, who was still sitting obediently on the couch with tightly closed eyelids, his hands covering his eyes, waiting for the surprise Hermione had promised to bring him.

Suddenly, a terrifying thought struck her. If Scorpius opened his eyes and saw Astoria, he might think that she was the present. That his mother—the woman he had probably thought about more than he ever admitted—had returned to him on Christmas morning. That his unspoken dream of a complete family had come true.

"No," she whispered, grabbing Astoria by the arm and stopping her before she could enter the living room. "You won't do this. You won't destroy this child a second time."

Astoria turned to her, and a flash of anger appeared in her eyes.

"Let go of me," she hissed. "He's my son. I have the right to see him."

"Right? What right does abandoning your own child give you? What right does coming here after years of absence give you to disturb his peace? To destroy everything Draco has built trying to give him a stable, loving life?"

Her voice was becoming louder, despite her efforts to speak quietly. Scorpius could hear them at any moment.

"And what exactly are you doing here?" Astoria suddenly asked, giving her a cold look. "Where is Draco? Why are you taking care of my son?"

Before she could answer, a quiet, uncertain little voice came from the living room.

"Can I open my eyes now?"

"Yes, darling!" Astoria called immediately, her voice suddenly becoming soft, sweet, completely different from the one she had just used with Hermione. "Of course you can open your eyes. Mommy has a surprise for you!"

Hermione felt the blood drain from her face. She wanted to shout, to stop what was happening, but it was already too late. They entered the living room just as Scorpius uncovered his eyes.

The boy sat on the couch, his small hands now resting on his knees. He looked at the two women standing before him with an expression of confusion on his face. His eyes moved from Hermione to the strange woman and back, as if trying to understand what was happening.

"Scorpius," she said, trying to make her voice sound calm, though inside she was boiling with anger and fear. "Sweetheart, could you go to your room for a moment? I'll come to you with your present soon, I promise."

But Astoria was already crouching down, extending her hands to him, still holding the package wrapped in green paper.

"Come to me, darling," she said. "Do you know who I am? I'm your mother. Mommy has returned and brought you a Christmas present."

Hermione froze, unable to move, to breathe, to think. She watched as Scorpius slowly got off the couch, his movements uncertain, hesitant. The boy stood for a moment as if paralyzed, staring at Astoria with large, wide-open eyes.

And then, to Hermione's horror and painful heartbreak, he took a step forward. Then another. And another. Slowly, with each step as if more certain, he approached Astoria's outstretched arms.

She felt her heart breaking. Of course he was walking toward her. This was his mother. The woman whose photographs he had seen, even if rarely. The woman he had probably thought about every day, wondering why she had left him, why she didn't want him in her life. And now she was here, reaching out to him, calling him "darling," offering him a present and, most importantly, her presence.

Suddenly Scorpius quickened his pace. His little legs moved faster, more decisively, but to her astonishment, he didn't head toward Astoria's outstretched arms. Instead, he ran straight to Hermione, hiding behind her legs. His small hands clutched the material of her pants, and his body pressed against her legs, seeking protection. Only his head timidly peeked out to observe the strange woman who claimed to be his mother.

Hermione felt a wave of relief flooding her body, so strong that her knees almost buckled. Instinctively, she placed her hand on the boy's head, feeling the silky softness of his hair under her fingers.

Astoria froze with outstretched hands, her face frozen in an expression of absolute shock. For a split second, she seemed completely lost, as if unable to understand what had just happened. And then her hands slowly dropped, and the mask of cool control returned to her face, though her eyes betrayed deep hurt.

"Scorpius," she said, trying to stay calm, though her voice trembled slightly. "It's me, your mother. Don't you recognize me?"

The boy tightened his grip on her pants, peeking out just a little more.

"I don't have a mother," he said quietly, but clearly. "Daddy says my mother had to go very far away when I was little."

Astoria paled, and her eyes widened in silent shock.

"But I've come back," she said, trying to smile. "I've come back to you, darling. And I brought you a present. Wouldn't you like to open it?"

Scorpius shook his head.

"I don't want a present," he said, his voice, though quiet, was decisive. "I want Daddy to wake up."

Astoria froze. Slowly, she shifted her gaze from the boy to Hermione, and a flash of understanding appeared in her eyes.

"Ah," she said quietly, her lips twisting into a cold smile. "So the curse is progressing. Draco is dying, isn't he?"

Hermione instinctively pulled Scorpius closer to herself, placing her hand on his shoulder in a protective gesture.

"This is not a conversation we should be having in front of a child," she said firmly.

Astoria ignored her words, taking a step toward them. Her face was different now—determined, almost predatory.

"Give me my son, Granger," she demanded, extending her hand. "He will soon lose his father and only I will remain. I am his mother. His real family. The only family he will have left."

Hermione felt fear tightening her throat. Without hesitation, she picked up the boy, stepping back.

"That's not an option," she replied, her voice cool and firm. "I won't let you destroy his life a second time."

Scorpius wrapped his arms around her neck, burying his face in her shoulder.

"You have no choice," Astoria snarled, following them. "I am his mother. I have rights. And you? Who exactly are you? A nanny? A nurse to a dying man? Do you think anyone will let you keep a child that isn't yours?"

"She's the family he chose himself."

The voice came from behind them—deep, calm, though with perceptible fatigue. All three heads turned simultaneously toward the door.

Draco stood on the stairs.

He was pale, paler than usual, and dark shadows were visible under his eyes. But otherwise he looked normal—he was dressed in elegant pants and a shirt, his hair was neatly combed, and he held a wand in his hand. Only the slight trembling of his hand and the way he leaned on the stair railing betrayed that he wasn't at full strength.

"Daddy!" exclaimed Scorpius, breaking free from her arms. She carefully set him on the floor, and the boy immediately ran to his father.

Draco descended the last few steps and crouched down, opening his arms, into which his son fell with all his might, almost knocking him to the ground. He embraced him tightly, closing his eyes for a moment, as if absorbing his presence with all his senses.

"Daddy," he whispered into his shoulder. "You woke up. I said you would wake up."

"Of course I woke up," he replied, pulling back slightly to look his son in the eyes. "I promised you we would celebrate together today, didn't I?"

The boy nodded, and the first genuine smile since morning appeared on his face.

"What's going on here?" he asked, looking up and shifting his gaze from Hermione to Astoria.

"This Mudblood won't give me my son," Astoria snarled, crossing her arms over her chest. "She's acting as if she had any rights to him."

Hermione flinched at the sound of the slur.

Draco slowly stood up, holding Scorpius in his arms. His face expressed nothing, it was like a mask carved from ice. Only his eyes betrayed his emotions—cold fury that burned in their depths like frozen fire.

Without a word, he walked over to Hermione, and then put his arm around her, pulling her close.

"Your son?" he asked quietly, looking at Astoria. "Interesting. I don't recall you ever considering him your son."

Astoria paled, but her eyes remained hard, unyielding.

"You can't deny me the right to my own child," she said. "I am his mother. I carried him under my heart. I gave birth to him."

"And then you abandoned him," he finished mercilessly. "You said you didn't want such a child. That he didn't fit your plans. That you weren't ready to be a mother. And you know what? I believed you then. I accepted your choice, let you go, didn't look for you, didn't ask you to come back."

Astoria stood before them, her face now a mask of shock and disbelief. She looked as if she couldn't comprehend how Draco—the man who had once been her husband, who came from a family with such strong pureblood traditions—could choose a Mudblood over her, the heiress of one of the oldest wizarding families.

"Don't think this is the end," she finally said, her voice quiet but full of venom. "I'll be back. And next time I won't come alone."

She turned on her heel and headed toward the exit door, leaving Scorpius's present on the table by the entrance. Her steps were quick, determined, full of suppressed fury.

As soon as the door slammed behind Astoria, the tension that had kept Draco on his feet suddenly disappeared. He gently set Scorpius on the ground, then paled even more, his face taking on the color of fresh snow. He swayed and sank to his knees, resting his trembling hands on the floor, trying to catch his breath.

Hermione was immediately by his side, putting her arm around him, trying not to show Scorpius how afraid she was. The boy stood nearby, his eyes wide open with terror.

The summoned Fimble helped them lead him back to bed. The wizard was too weak to take steps on his own—he had used all his strength to come down the stairs and confront Astoria. Strength he didn't really have.

Hermione already knew that Draco wouldn't get up that day. His body needed rest, and his magical core was once again dangerously unstable. Despite the numerous potions she gave him, he could only lie in bed, fighting for each breath.

Christmas plans had to be changed. There was no question of walking in the snow, sledding, or a ceremonial dinner at a beautifully set table. Instead, she brought the presents to Draco's bedroom, and Fimble prepared a tray with a Christmas meal they could eat together in bed.

Scorpius, despite his initial disappointment, didn't complain. He quietly climbed onto his father's high bed, cuddling up to him on one side, while Hermione sat on the other. They unwrapped presents among soft pillows and warm blankets, and though the room filled with colorful papers and ribbons, it lacked true Christmas joy.

Chapter 19

January brought with it long, gray days and even longer nights. Draco still wasn't getting out of bed, which worried Hermione immensely. Although his magical core was now stable, and he himself insisted that apart from fatigue he really felt fine, she could see how he was becoming weaker with each day. His skin had taken on an almost transparent, paper-like texture, and the shadows under his eyes had deepened, creating deep hollows in his face.

She spent every free moment with him, dividing her time between researching the curse and caring for him and Scorpius. The boy was surprisingly understanding—he brought his father drawings from his activities, sat quietly beside him, looking through picture books, or listened as Hermione read to them both.

One evening, when he was already asleep and she was sitting on the edge of Draco's bed, browsing another book on dark magic, she made a decision she had been considering for several days.

"Draco," she began, putting the book on the bedside table. "I wanted to talk to you about Scorpius."

Draco, who had been dozing until then, opened his eyes, focusing a tired gaze on her.

"Has something happened?" he asked, his voice quiet but alert.

"No, nothing bad," she quickly assured him. "Quite the opposite. It seems to me that he's doing very well in 'Little Wands.' Mrs. Meadows says he's one of the brightest children in the group."

Malfoy smiled weakly, and pride appeared in his eyes.

"Of course he is," he said. "After all, he's my son."

She rolled her eyes, but her lips twitched in a smile.

"That's exactly why I thought..." she hesitated for a moment. "Since he feels so good in this group, maybe he should start staying there a bit longer? You know, two days ago he turned five, and from the age of five, children from wizarding families usually start basic education."

Draco frowned, and his eyes suddenly became more alert.

"In my time, there was no such thing," he said with slight disbelief. "We learned at home, with private tutors or from our parents, until it was time to go to Hogwarts."

"Yes, but the world is changing. After the war, several small schools for younger children were established. They teach the basics of magic, history, simple arithmetic... It helps them better prepare for Hogwarts. And gives them a chance to socialize with peers."

He looked at her for a long while, his face expressing an internal struggle.

"I don't know," he finally said. "Scorpius is still so small. And... I don't feel my best. I don't know if this is a good time for such changes."

She gently placed her hand on his.

"That's exactly why I think it's a good idea," she said softly. "You're not feeling well, and I spend most of the day reading books and looking for a cure. Scorpius surely feels lonely then, even if he doesn't show it. Fimble does what he can, but..."

"But it's not the same," he finished with a sigh.

"Exactly," she admitted. "At school, he would be surrounded by other children, learning new things. It would be good for him."

Draco looked away, staring out the window where snow was falling. When he looked at her again, tears glistened in his eyes, which he stubbornly tried to hold back.

"I want to spend as much time with him as possible," he said quietly, his voice trembling slightly. "Every minute is... precious."

She felt her own eyes filling with tears. She moved closer, taking his face in her hands.

"I know," she whispered. "And he will still spend plenty of time with you. But think how many new things he'll have to tell you when he returns from school. How proud you'll be when he shows you the first spell he learned to cast by himself."

"It will probably be Lumos," he said. "Or Wingardium Leviosa. He was always fascinated when I levitated his toys in the air."

"Exactly," she confirmed. "And think how quickly he learns. Soon he'll be reading you bedtime stories, instead of you reading to him."

Draco laughed quietly, and then became serious.

"What about Astoria?" he asked. "What if she tries to find him? If she shows up at the school?"

"I've already thought about that," she replied. "I spoke with Mrs. Meadows. The school has very strict security rules. Only people authorized by parents can pick up children. And it's protected by spells that don't allow anyone who hasn't been invited to enter."

"Good," he finally said. "I think you're right. It will be good for him. But... can we start slowly? Maybe just a few hours longer each day at first?"

"Of course," she replied with a smile. "All at his pace. And yours too."

Draco reached out to touch her cheek.

"What would I do without you, Granger?" he asked quietly.

"Fortunately, you don't have to find out," she replied, leaning in to kiss him. "I'm here. And I'm not going anywhere."

Before she knew it, he grabbed her by the shoulders and pulled her down with surprising strength. She landed on him with a soft moan, which quickly turned into a sigh as his lips attacked her neck—hot, hungry, much more aggressive than she expected.

"Draco," she gasped, feeling his teeth lightly grazing the sensitive skin of her neck. "You're so weak, you should be resting..."

His hands slipped under her blouse, fingers tightening on her hips.

"For some things," he murmured, his voice becoming lower, more hoarse, "I still have a hell of a lot of strength."

He moved one hand higher, confidently unfastening her bra, while with the other he gripped her buttock, pressing her harder against his body. Hermione felt his hardness through the material of his pants, which sent a spark of desire through her entire body.

"I've been a very good patient," he said, looking at her with that typical arrogant half-smile of his. "I drank all your nasty potions. I endured those painful spells. I think I deserve a little compensation."

Before she could respond, his hand slipped under the elastic of her pants, confidently finding its way between her thighs. She drew in a sharp breath as his fingers found that sensitive spot that made her knees weak.

"Draco," she sighed, but this time it wasn't a warning, but a plea.

"I've missed your touch," he murmured, his eyes darkening with desire as he watched her react to his touch. "Your scent. The sounds you make when I make you lose control."

She was now rocking on his hand, her breathing becoming increasingly shallow.

"Let me have you," he whispered, his hot breath by her ear sending a shiver down her spine. "I need you. Now."

With one fluid motion, surprisingly strong for his condition, he turned them both so that now she was lying under him. For a moment, she saw in his eyes the old Draco—confident, dominant, almost predatory. That look always made her lose her breath.

His lips found hers, kissing her with an intensity that immediately ignited her body. His hands weren't idle—he skillfully unbuttoned her blouse, exposing skin that he immediately covered with kisses. Each touch of his lips on her body was like fire, igniting a heat she hadn't felt for weeks.

"I've missed your taste," he murmured against her skin, marking a path of kisses down her body.

She threaded her fingers through his hair, unable to suppress quiet sighs as his lips and hands explored her body with the determination of someone who knows exactly what he wants and how to get it. With each second, she felt herself losing control over herself, over the situation, over everything except the desire that was building between them.

He looked down at her, his eyes dark with desire, when he finally rid them of the rest of their clothes. He leaned down, resting his forehead against hers, looking straight into her eyes as he slowly but firmly entered her.

"I love you," he whispered, not breaking the intense eye contact. "I love you more than I ever thought I could love."

He began to move—slowly at first, then faster, more decisively. Each movement was confident, strong, just like before, before the illness began to take away his strength. She surrendered to these sensations, embracing him, pulling him closer, deeper, feeling the familiar but long-absent pleasure building in her body.

For a few blessed minutes, she could almost forget. Forget about the curse, the daily research, the potions, the diagnostics, the slow, inevitable countdown. She could forget that time was running out for them. She could forget that the man she loved was dying.

But reality intruded into their intimate bubble uninvited. She couldn't help but notice the unnatural flushing on his cheeks, the drops of sweat that appeared on his forehead too quickly. The accelerated breath that sounded more like the panting of someone exhausted than someone immersed in passion. The trembling of his arms as he tried to hold himself above her.

He was dying. He was dying and no amount of denial, no amount of hope, no amount of love could change that.

Tears came to her eyes, first single ones, then more and more, until finally they flowed down her cheeks, mixing with sweat.

"Please, Draco," she whispered, before she could stop herself. "Please, don't die."

Draco froze. A silence so deep fell in the room that she could hear only the rush of her own blood in her ears and his ragged breath. He looked at her with an expression she had never seen before—as if her words had pierced the last barrier he kept around himself.

"Fuck," he whispered finally, his voice sounding rough. He moved away from her, sitting on the edge of the bed, his back to her. His shoulders trembled. "Fuck."

She raised herself on her elbow, tears still flowing down her cheeks. This wasn't what she expected. Not anger, not distance.

"Draco..."

"Do you think I want this?" he asked, not turning around. "That I chose this? That I don't fight every day with this damn feeling of life slipping away from me?"

She reached out to touch his back, but stopped mid-gesture, uncertain.

He turned to her, and the expression on his face made her freeze. There was anger in it, yes, but above all fear. Raw, primal fear, which he had never shown.

"Every night, when you fall asleep, I lie and look at you," he said quietly. "And I think about how you'll look in ten years. In twenty. Will your hair start to gray at the temples? Will you have small wrinkles around your eyes when you smile? And I know I'll never see that."

He swallowed hard, and his voice became even quieter, as if he were speaking more to himself than to her.

"I'll never see Scorpius go to Hogwarts. I'll never know which house he'll be sorted into. Whether he'll play Quidditch. Whether he'll find friends like you, Potter, and Weasley. Whether he'll fall in love, start a family."

She opened her mouth to respond, to say something—anything—that might bring even a shadow of comfort. But for the first time in a very, very long time, words failed her. She felt something breaking inside her, as the last dam holding her emotions in check collapsed.

She couldn't utter a single word. There were no words that could fix what was broken. There was no spell that could reverse what was happening. There was no potion that could stop the inevitable.

Slowly, she lay down on the bed, turning away from him, and covered her face with her hands. Her shoulders began to tremble as a wave of despair passed through her body. Tears flowed between her fingers, wetting the pillow. She didn't try to stop them, didn't try to be strong. Not now. Not after what he had said.

Through her tears, she heard the soft rustle of bedding as he got up from the bed, and then the sound of a window being opened and the sudden impact of cold air on her exposed back. She was now trembling not only from emotion, but also from cold.

"Hermione," she heard his voice after a long moment of silence. "Look at me."

Slowly she turned, wiping tears from her cheeks. He stood by the bed, partially dressed, holding something small in his hand.

"I was going to do this differently," he said, sitting on the edge of the bed. "With all that romantic setting. But maybe this is better. Honestly. Without embellishments."

He opened his hand, revealing a silver ring with a black stone that reflected light like the surface of a night lake.

"This belonged to my grandmother," he explained, turning the ring in his fingers.

She looked at the ring, feeling her heart beating faster, despite the pain she still felt.

"These aren't typical marriage proposal circumstances," he continued, his voice now quieter, more intimate. "I can't promise you fifty years of life together. I can't promise you growing old together, grandchildren, all those things a man should promise to the woman he loves."

He placed the ring on the blanket between them.

"But I can promise you that every day I have left will belong to you."

Hermione felt a new wave of tears coming to her eyes. It was so surreal, so absurd. For months she had worked day and night to find a cure, to save him. She hadn't allowed herself to think that she might fail. And he... he was already planning his death. Already organizing life after himself. As if it was certain. As if he had given up.

"Stop," she finally said, her voice hoarse from crying, but firm. "Just stop."

She picked up the ring, turning it in her fingers. She felt its coolness, its weight, its history.

"I won't make promises at your deathbed," she added, looking at him intensely. "I won't plan a life without you while you're still breathing, still here, still..."

She broke off, staring at the ring. She didn't know what she meant. Still... what? Still dying? Still loving her? Still having time?

She looked at him, at his pale face, at his body—still strong, but already marked by illness. At the man he was—proud, stubborn, irritating, fascinating. At the man she had fallen in love with against all logic, against their entire history.

"I hate this," she said quietly. "I hate that you're so calm. So... resigned. As if you've already given up."

She put the ring back on the bedside table, wrapping herself tighter in the blanket.

"Have you ever wondered," she asked, looking at him carefully, "whether that's why the curse is progressing so quickly? Because you're letting it? Because part of you... part of you still believes you deserve this?"

Draco froze. For a long moment, he looked at her with wide eyes, as if he had seen a ghost. Then, without a word, he lay down beside her and pulled her to him with a strength that surprised them both.

"Put it on," he whispered feverishly, his lips at her temple. "Please, Hermione. Put on that ring."

His voice trembled, and his arms tightened around her more and more, as if he were afraid she would disappear if he let go.

"No," she replied, trying to pull away to look at his face. "No, Draco. I won't do that."

"Please," he repeated, and desperation appeared in his voice. Fear. "Do it for me. Now."

"I'll put on that damn ring only when you recover!" she suddenly shouted, breaking free from his embrace. She sat up on the bed, wrapping herself in the blanket like a shield. "When you can do it properly!"

"What is that supposed to mean?" he growled, also sitting up.

"You're a fucking Malfoy!" she exploded, her eyes shining with anger and tears. "You could take me to the top of the highest mountain in the world! Rent the entire Louvre to propose among masterpieces! Order an orchestra on the damn Eiffel Tower!"

He looked at her, shocked.

"And instead," she continued, her voice rising with each word, "you do it in bed! In pajamas! Throwing me a ring like... like some duty to fulfill!"

She didn't really care about that. She didn't care about all those luxuries, those empty gestures. She didn't care about his money, name, status. She just wanted him to live. To fight. To stay with her and Scorpius.

"It's not like that," Draco tried to interject, but she wouldn't let him speak.

"That's exactly how it is!" she shouted, hitting the mattress with her fist. "You've given up! You've surrendered to this curse, surrendered to death! And now you're trying to force me to accept this ring, as if it were some kind of farewell!"

Before she could say anything more, he pulled her to him. His arms wrapped around her like iron bands, drawing her to his chest with the determination of someone who doesn't intend to let go. She felt her face pressing into the hollow of his neck, his heart beating right next to her own—fast, feverishly.

"Let me go!" she exclaimed, trying to break free, but his grip only tightened. "Do you hear?! Let me go right now!"

She struggled in his arms, pushing him, hitting his shoulders, back, chest with her fists. All the emotions she had suppressed for months—fear, anger, helplessness—now exploded in her with a force she couldn't control.

"You can't just die!" she screamed, her words merging with tears. "You can't leave me! You can't leave Scorpius! You're not allowed to! Do you hear?! You're not allowed to!"

With each word, her blows became weaker, less accurate, and her voice broke at the edges. Draco held her steadfastly, his body like an anchor in the sea of her despair.

"I hate you!" she threw out, though her body contradicted these words, nestling into him despite her protests. "I hate that you're giving up! That you're planning... that you're thinking... that we without you..."

Her words lost meaning, turning into incoherent fragments, pieces of thoughts too painful to form. The warmth of his body, the smell of his skin, the strength of his arms—all this only fueled her anger, her despair, her unspoken love.

"I don't need your name!" she shouted, though her lips were so close to his skin that she almost kissed him. "I don't need your ring! I don't need... I don't need... I don't..."

Tears flooded her face, wet his neck, flowed onto their intertwined bodies. Draco only tightened his grip, allowing her to expel everything—every accusation, every fear, every hope too fragile to name.

Finally, her shouts turned into sobs, and the sobs into quiet, spasmodic sighs. Her body, exhausted by emotions, stopped fighting. She collapsed in his arms, allowing him to hold her, to be the one thing that prevented her from falling to pieces.

He gently stroked her hair, his fingers combing through tangled curls with a tenderness he showed to almost no one. He leaned down, pressing his lips to her forehead in a long, trembling kiss. His hand moved along her back, making soothing circles, as if trying to convey through touch everything he couldn't express in words.

"I'll go to Potter," she suddenly whispered. "I'll do it. I'll go to him tomorrow."

Draco froze, but didn't stop caressing her.

"I'll extract the name of this curse from him," she continued, her voice gaining intensity with each word. "If necessary, I'll torture him. I'll pour Veritaserum into him. I'll learn Legilimency in a week if I have to. I'll get it out of him," she repeated, her voice like a vow. "I'll find a way. Even if I have to break all the rules. All the laws. I swear, Draco. I swear."

First thing in the morning she wanted to do it—get up, get dressed, apparate straight to Harry's office and not leave until she got an answer. But when the first rays of sunlight came through the gaps in the curtains, she discovered she couldn't move. Draco was pressing her to the bed with his arm—heavy, hot, surrounding her with such force as if even in sleep he was afraid she would disappear.

She didn't want to move. She didn't want to interrupt this moment, this peace that existed between them after a night full of emotions. So she lay motionless, listening to his breathing—deep, steady, and perhaps even... more certain? More regular than in recent weeks? Was it just her imagination, her desperate hope looking for signs of improvement where there were none?

She closed her eyes, absorbing the warmth of his body, the scent of his skin, the simple, pure joy of being so close to him. For a moment, she allowed herself to forget everything else—the curse, Scorpius, Astoria, promises she couldn't make, and hopes she was afraid to name.

Suddenly, the morning silence was broken by a characteristic sound—the dull, muffled thud their fireplace made when someone arrived through the Floo network. Hermione froze, listening. Who could be coming at such an early hour? Without notice?

Astoria. That thought hit her with the force of a spell. Astoria had returned, as she had threatened. Maybe with lawyers. Maybe with Aurors. Maybe for Scorpius.

She felt the blood drain from her face. Quickly, but carefully, so as not to wake Draco, she slipped out from under his arm. She threw on a silk robe that hung on a chair next to the bed—his robe, she noticed in passing, too long, too wide, but filled with his scent.

Not having time for anything more, she ran out of the bedroom and hurried downstairs, her bare feet silently treading on the cold, marble stairs. Her heart was pounding in her chest like mad as she approached the main living room, from where a voice was now coming.

A male voice. Low, familiar, definitely not belonging to Astoria.

Hermione stopped dead in her tracks at the threshold of the living room, her hand clutching the doorframe. For a moment she thought her eyes were playing tricks on her—that it was a product of her imagination, her yesterday's promises, her desperation.

"Harry?" she whispered, not believing her own eyes.

Because indeed, in the living room of Cliff Manor, dusting ash from his Auror robes, stood Harry Potter in person.

Harry looked up, and his eyes widened comically behind his glasses. The wand with which he was just cleaning his robe hung in the air, forgotten.

"Hermione?" he choked out, blinking violently, as if not believing his own eyes. His gaze moved from her tousled hair, through the definitely too large, masculine robe, to her bare feet. "What are you... how are you... why..."

She felt a hot blush creeping up her neck and cheeks. Reflexively, she tightened the robe around herself, though it was fastened and revealed nothing.

"Harry," she repeated, trying to regain her balance. "What are you doing here at this hour?"

He was still staring at her, his mouth opening and closing like a fish pulled out of water.

"What am I doing here?" he finally asked, his voice rising an octave. "I think rather what are YOU doing here? In... in... in Malfoy's robe?!"

"How do you know it's his robe?" she asked, raising an eyebrow and trying to take control of the situation.

"Because it has 'DM' embroidered on the pocket," he replied, pointing accusingly at the monogram whose existence Hermione had completely forgotten. "And it's green. And... and... Merlin, Hermione, that's really not the point! Are you... are you two... is he and you..."

"Yes," she interrupted him firmly, straightening her shoulders. "Yes, Harry. Me and Draco. Is that a problem?"

"No, of course not," he replied, his voice softening. "I'm just... surprised. But I think now I understand everything."

She nodded, feeling the tension in her shoulders relax a bit. She hadn't expected Harry to accept it so easily.

"Why did you come here, Harry?" she asked. "At this hour?"

He didn't answer right away. He wasn't looking at her challengingly as during their recent meetings when she tried to question him about the curse. He looked rather embarrassed, almost ashamed. His gaze went down, fixed on the expensive carpet under his feet.

"I came to... apologize," he finally said, his voice quiet, almost inaudible.

"Apologize?" she repeated, frowning. "For what?"

Harry finally looked up, and in his green eyes she saw something she hadn't expected—a deep sense of guilt.

"For the curse," he replied, and the words seemed to cost him enormous effort. "For the curse I cast."

"He's sleeping now," she said. "I only recently managed to stabilize him. He had a serious attack during Christmas."

"How is he holding up?" he asked, and genuine concern sounded in his voice. "Is there... is there any hope?"

Hermione hesitated, not knowing how much she could tell him.

"He's fighting," she finally answered. "But with each week he gets weaker. He had an episode where he almost lost all his magic. His core is becoming unstable."

Harry closed his eyes, as if her words caused him physical pain.

"I've been thinking about it a lot," he said after a moment, opening his eyes. "I tried to lie to myself. That it couldn't have been my curse. That it was impossible for me to curse someone even by accident. I was the Chosen One, damn it, I fought on the side of light, I only used disarming spells... But guilt wouldn't leave me alone."

She approached him so close that she almost felt the warmth of his body.

"Harry," she said quietly, taking his hands in hers. "He's dying. Draco is dying. Each day he gets weaker. The curse is slowly destroying his magical core, and I... I can't do anything because I don't know what I'm fighting against."

Harry looked at her with pain etched on his face.

"For the sake of all those years of friendship," she continued, squeezing his hands tighter. "For the sake of everything we've been through together. I won't judge you, Harry. It was war. We all did things we regret. All of us. But please, tell me what curse it was. Help me save him."

Harry closed his eyes, his face contorting in a grimace of concentration. When he looked at Hermione again, desperation was painted in his eyes.

"I really don't remember," he said, and his voice was full of sincerity. "I swear, Hermione."

He pressed his hands to his temples, as if trying to squeeze out of his mind a memory that was hiding there.

"You can search my mind," he suddenly suggested. "Use Legilimency. Maybe you'll find something there. Something I don't consciously remember."

She bit her lip, considering his proposal. Then suddenly another thought came to her.

"If you really allow it, then... I'll do it," she said quietly. "Maybe that really is the only way out. But I don't like doing it. It won't be comfortable for either of us. Before we decide on this... Do you at least know why the ink with which you blacked out that spell in Snape's book can't be removed by anything? I've tried everything—spells, potions, even Muggle methods."

Harry looked at her with incomprehension, and then enlightenment appeared on his face.

"Oh," he said simply. "That's because I used Weasleys' Indelible Ink."

"What?" she blinked, not believing her own ears.

"Weasleys' Indelible Ink," he repeated, shrugging. "Fred and George developed it. They gave me a sample. It was supposed to be absolutely impossible to remove—even by magic. I used it to make notes in the Prince's book."

She froze for a split second, her mind working at full speed, analyzing this new information. And then, without any warning, she squealed with excitement and threw herself at Harry, embracing him tightly.

"Thank you!" she exclaimed, squeezing him so hard he almost lost his breath. "Thank you, thank you, thank you! You have no idea how important this is!"

Harry, initially surprised by her reaction, after a moment returned the embrace, hugging her shyly. His body relaxed somewhat, as if part of the burden he had been carrying had been lifted from his shoulders.

"Tell him I'm sorry," he said by her ear, still holding her in his arms. "Tell him I really am sorry. That if I had known..."

Hermione, still hugging Harry, looked up and froze. On the stairs, holding onto the railing, stood Malfoy. He was pale, emaciated, dressed only in pajama bottoms, and his hair was disheveled. But his eyes—his eyes were alert, intense, focused on the two of them.

"I'll tell him," she responded loudly, not taking her eyes off Draco. "I'm sure he'll appreciate it."

Harry nodded, not turning around, unaware that the object of his apology was standing just a few meters away from them.

"I have to go now," he said, moving away from her. "I apologize again. For everything. And I'm glad I could... help a little."

He moved toward the fireplace, still not looking behind him.

"Drop by for coffee sometime," he added, reaching for the Floo powder. "The kids miss you. Especially James. He keeps asking when Aunt Hermione will visit again."

Before Hermione could respond, Harry threw the powder into the fireplace, muttered an address, and disappeared in green flames—never once noticing Draco, who had been observing the entire scene from the stairs.

As soon as her friend disappeared, Draco began slowly descending, each step seeming to require enormous effort. His hand was clutching the railing, as if without its support he might fall.

She moved toward him, her face brightened with excitement.

"Draco! You won't believe what I just found out! It's about the ink! The ink that was used to obscure the spell in Snape's book! It's..."

She stopped mid-step, noticing the expression on his face. He was looking at her with a strangely empty gaze, his lips pressed into a thin line.

"Draco?" she asked uncertainly. "Is everything all right?"

He reached the last step and stopped, leaning against the railing. He looked as if he was short of breath.

"Someone like that is who you should be with," he said quietly, his voice strangely flat.

"What?"

"Potter," he explained. "Or someone like him. Healthy. Whole. Capable of hugging you without fear of losing consciousness. Someone who doesn't throw a ring at you in bed because he doesn't have the strength to kneel."

She looked at him in disbelief, the enthusiasm in her eyes dimming.

"What are you saying?"

"I saw you," he replied, nodding toward the place where she had stood with Harry. "You looked like... a matching couple. Like people who have a future ahead of them."

"That was a friendly hug," she said firmly. "Harry is my friend. And he's married, in case you forgot."

"I know," he replied, shrugging slightly, which cost him visible effort. "That's not the point. The point is... I looked at you and thought how well you fit into his world. The world of the living. Not mine—full of stabilizing spells and pain potions."

Hermione felt anger rising in her again—the same anger that had exploded last night.

"Stop," she said sharply. "Stop talking like that. I'm not with you out of pity. And I don't want to be with someone like Harry. I want to be with you."

"Even if it means taking care of a dying man?" he asked, a note of bitterness appearing in his voice. "Wasting the best years of your life on someone who can't give you any future?"

Hermione raised her hand so quickly that he didn't have time to react. The sound of the slap echoed through the hall like the crack of a whip. Draco instinctively grabbed his cheek, looking at her with complete disbelief in his eyes. The red mark of her hand was already beginning to show on his pale skin.

"There," she said, breathing heavily, "at least you've finally come to your senses. Maybe now you'll listen to what I'm saying."

Draco still stood as if petrified, his eyes not leaving her face.

"Who do you think I am?" she asked, her voice trembling with emotion. "Some weepy miss who doesn't know what she wants? Some naive girl who lets herself be beguiled by the first handsome wizard that comes along?"

She took a step forward, entering his personal space, forcing him to retreat half a step.

"Do you think you're the first one who's tried to tell me what's best for me? Do you think I haven't heard this from my parents when I decided on Hogwarts? From McGonagall when I used the Time-Turner? From Ron, Harry, and half the wizarding world when I fought for house-elf rights?"

Draco was silent, but his eyes didn't leave her face, as if he was seeing her for the first time.

"I survived a war," she continued, jabbing him in the chest with her finger. "I was tortured in your own drawing room. I broke into Gringotts bank. I defeated a dragon. I fought Death Eaters. So don't you dare, Draco Malfoy, don't you dare suggest that I don't know who I've gotten involved with!"

She was breathing heavily, her cheeks burning with a blush, her eyes gleaming with intensity.

"Do you think I would have chosen you if I wasn't absolutely sure? Do you think I would have stayed here if I didn't know exactly what I was signing up for? Do you think I'm so stupid that I don't understand what it means to love someone who's ill? I love you, you hopeless idiot. I love you by choice. Not out of pity. Not out of duty. By choice. And if you think you'll get rid of me so easily by throwing around some dramatic lines about wasted life, then you don't know me as well as you thought."

Draco stared at her wordlessly, his eyes wide open, and on his face was something between shock and fascination. He didn't move, didn't answer, just stood and looked, as if seeing her for the first time in his life.

Hermione sighed, shaking her head. Her anger gave way to tenderness as she gently raised her hand and lightly patted the same cheek she had just slapped. The mark of her fingers was still visible on his pale skin.

"Well, get dressed," she said, her voice now gentle, almost everyday, as if the last few minutes hadn't happened at all. "We'll drop Scorpius off at school, and then visit Diagon Alley. I need to urgently talk to George Weasley about a certain ink."

She turned and headed toward the stairs, leaving him standing in the hall, still dumbfounded, still holding his cheek.

When she was already halfway up the stairs, she heard his voice—quiet, but clear in the morning silence of the house.

"If I didn't already love you," he said, his words filling the space between them like a spell, "I would fall in love with you right now, Hermione Granger."

Chapter 20

Two hours later, they were walking down Diagon Alley, the frosty air nipping at their cheeks. Draco, dressed in an elegant beige coat, looked even paler than usual, but there was something different about him—some energy he hadn't had for weeks. He squinted against the intense sunlight, which he hadn't seen for a long time, but he wasn't sweating and looked surprisingly well. His movements were still careful, but more confident, as if the morning confrontation had breathed new strength into him.

Hermione kept glancing at him, checking if he was too tired, but he seemed to be flourishing in the fresh air, among people, outside the four walls of the bedroom where he had spent the last few weeks.

The bell jingled cheerfully as they entered "Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes." The shop was full of colors, sounds, and magical scents—the complete opposite of the quiet, elegant Cliff Manor. Behind the counter stood a tall redhead, bent over some magical device that was making soft popping sounds.

"Just a moment," he said, without turning around. "Just finishing the calibration of this infernal invention."

Hermione smiled involuntarily. Ron hadn't changed at all—the same tone of voice, the same posture, the same slightly too-long hair falling on his neck. She had last seen him almost a year ago, during a Christmas dinner at the Burrow.

"Take your time, we're not in a hurry," she replied, watching as Draco looked around the shop with a mixture of fascination and slight disapproval.

Ron froze, then slowly turned around, his eyes widening at the sight of his old friend.

"Hermione?" he said in disbelief. "What are you doing here?"

"We came to talk to George," she explained.

Ron frowned, a look of confusion appearing on his face.

"We?" he repeated, his gaze only now truly focusing on the second visitor.

Hermione watched as his eyes widened in shock, and his mouth opened slightly as he fully registered Malfoy's presence in his shop.

From the corner of her eye, she noticed the change that came over Draco. That particular expression—one she knew perfectly well by now. An expression of shame, as if someone might associate her with him, as if his presence by her side could somehow taint her. His face paled even more, and his hands began to tremble so much that he quickly hid them in his coat pockets.

She saw how he wanted to take a step back, how he tried to move away from her, as if he didn't want to burden her with admitting they were together. As if giving her a chance to deny him, to present him as a patient, a client, anyone—just not as the man she loved.

But she didn't give him that chance. Before he could move away, she slipped under his arm, embracing him at the waist and smiling at Ron.

"Yes," she confirmed firmly. "We came. Me and Draco."

Ron blinked several times, as if trying to process this information. His gaze moved from Hermione to Draco, stopping at his pale face, sunken cheeks, and the shadows under his eyes.

"By Merlin's underwear, Malfoy," he finally said, shaking his head in disbelief. "You look like you've got one foot in the grave. I always knew if Hermione found someone, she'd finish him off before he turned thirty."

To everyone's surprise, Draco laughed—briefly, but genuinely.

"Well, at least I'm dying with class, Weasley," he replied with a faint smile. "That's more than can be said for your fashion sense. That sweater matches your hair perfectly—both are screaming for help."

Ron blinked, completely surprised, then burst out laughing.

"Merlin, even half-dead you're still the same jerk," he said, but there was no venom in his voice. "Come to the back room. George is sitting there, working on something that will probably blow us all up."

He led them through the shop, between shelves full of colorful inventions that seemed to have a life of their own.

The back room was utter chaos—tables bending under the weight of bizarre instruments, walls covered with notes and diagrams, and the air filled with a scent that was simultaneously sweet, sour, and slightly explosive.

George Weasley, bent over something that looked like a cross between a watch and a small cauldron, raised his head as they entered. His eyes widened comically at the sight of Hermione accompanied by Draco Malfoy.

"Did someone put something in my morning coffee?" he asked, removing his protective goggles. "Because I'm hallucinating that Hermione Granger just walked into my back room with Malfoy."

Before she could answer, a loud bell rang from the front of the shop, followed by the sound of something that sounded like small explosions.

"Damn," muttered Ron, peering through the door. "That's probably Fletcher's kid. He knocked over an entire rack of Toffee Tongues last time. I'll be right back."

He ran outside, leaving them with George, who was still looking at the couple with a mixture of amusement and disbelief.

"So," George began, leaning against the laboratory table. "To what do I owe this unusual visit? I doubt you came just to chat about old times."

Hermione nodded, getting straight to the point.

"It's about Weasleys' Indelible Ink," she said. "The one you and Fred developed back at Hogwarts."

George raised his eyebrows in surprise.

"Good old IndIcy? Interesting," he muttered, walking over to one of the cabinets. "What do you want to know about it?"

"I found a book," she explained, carefully choosing her words. "In which someone blacked out a passage with this ink. A passage that I really need to read."

She didn't add that it was a fragment of a spell that could save Draco's life. Nor that the book once belonged to Snape. The fewer details, the better.

"And you've already tried all the standard revealing spells, I presume?" he asked, searching through the cabinet.

"All of them," she confirmed. "Along with a few you probably haven't even heard of."

George laughed, pulling out a small vial with a light purple liquid.

"Here's your solution," he said, handing her the vial. "IndIcy Reverser. A basic product in our office line."

She looked at the unassuming vial in disbelief.

"You have an antidote to your own indelible ink?" she asked, not hiding her surprise.

"Of course," he replied, shrugging. "How many customers do you think we'd have if they couldn't reverse the jokes once they've enjoyed them? Besides, the production of the antidote is almost as profitable as the ink itself."

She turned the vial in her fingers, unable to believe that the solution was so simple. That all this time, while Draco was weakening, while his life was slowly slipping from her hands, the answer had been within reach—in a joke shop.

"How much do I owe you?" she asked, reaching for her purse.

George waved his hand dismissively.

"For family friends—on the house," he said, winking at her. "Besides, I'm curious what someone blacked out in that book that has Hermione Granger and Draco Malfoy coming for help together."

Draco, who had been standing somewhat to the side the whole time, stepped closer, pulling out a pouch.

"I insist," he said, extracting ten galleons from it. "For the trouble."

George looked at the coins, then at Draco, and back at the coins. A gleam appeared in his eyes that strongly resembled Fred.

"You know what, Malfoy? I'll take it," he said, pocketing the coins. "But not for the vial. For the opportunity to tell everyone that Draco Malfoy voluntarily gave a Weasley money."

Draco smiled crookedly, but nodded.

"Seems fair," he replied.

Half an hour later, they were back at Cliff Manor. The winter sun reflected off the ocean waves, casting flickering reflections on the walls of the living room. Hermione held the vial up to the light, watching as the purple liquid flowed inside.

"Can it really be this simple?" she asked quietly, more to herself than to Draco. "That after all these months, all the research, all the sleepless nights... the solution costs two sickles and can be bought in a joke shop?"

Before she could say anything more, Draco abruptly turned her toward him and pressed her against the wall. His eyes burned with an intensity she hadn't seen for months—a fire that had almost faded under the weight of the curse. Without a word, he leaned in and kissed her, long and deep, as if wanting to pour into that kiss everything he couldn't express in words.

"I love you," he whispered against her lips when he finally pulled away. "I love you, Hermione Granger."

His hands cupped her face, thumbs gently stroking her cheeks.

"I love you," he repeated, kissing her forehead. "I love you," he added, brushing his lips against her temple. "I love you," he whispered by her ear.

With each declaration, his voice became stronger, more confident, as if each word restored the life that was slowly escaping him.

Suddenly he wrapped his arms around her waist and lifted her, spinning her in the air. Hermione squealed in surprise, her hands instinctively encircling his neck.

"Draco!" she laughed. "Put me down before you kill us both!"

But it was too late. Weakened by months of illness, he swayed under her weight. For a moment he tried to maintain balance, but his legs gave way and they both tumbled onto a nearby couch in a tangle of limbs and laughter.

"Merlin," she gasped, lying on top of him and still laughing. "Have you completely lost your mind?"

He looked up at her, his eyes shining with pure joy.

"Probably," he admitted, brushing her hair from her face. "But can you blame me? You just gave me hope that I might not die within the next few months."

His smile softened, and a tenderness appeared in his eyes that made Hermione's heart beat faster.

"And that perhaps," he added more quietly, "I'll have a chance to love you longer than I dared to dream."

After a few minutes full of tenderness and laughter, Hermione finally got up from the couch and extended her hand to Draco.

"Come on," she said, determination in her voice. "We have a spell to discover."

They went to the library, where the Half-Blood Prince's book lay on the desk, open to the page Hermione had examined hundreds of times. The page on which there was once written a spell that could be the key to saving Draco.

They sat side by side, their shoulders touching as she carefully unscrewed the vial with George's potion.

"I hope this works," she whispered, her hand trembling slightly.

"It will," Draco replied, placing his hand over hers. "I'm sure of it."

She nodded and carefully poured a drop of the purple liquid onto the black ink stain. For a moment nothing happened, and her heart stopped with fear that she was wrong, that it wasn't the right ink, that they had hit another dead end.

But then, slowly, the black ink began to fade at the edges, as if dissolving from the inside. Squeezing Draco's hand, she watched as the stain gradually became transparent, revealing what was underneath.

Second by second, letter by letter, the spell revealed itself to their eyes.

" Anima Mortiferus ," she read in a whisper, as the last traces of ink disappeared.

They looked at each other, the same question painted in their eyes.

"Do you know this spell?" asked Draco.

She slowly shook her head.

"No," she admitted. "I've never heard of it."

She saw the spark of hope in his eyes dim slightly, saw his shoulders drop in a barely perceptible gesture of disappointment. She immediately grabbed his hand, squeezing it tightly.

"But that doesn't mean we're at a dead end," she said firmly. "Quite the opposite. Now we have a specific name. Now I know what to look for. As I suspected, it's probably a combination of several curses," she continued, her mind already working at full speed, analyzing possibilities. "Now that I have the incantation, I won't be wandering blindly anymore. I can find the exact combination of curses that make up this spell. And when I know the ingredients, I can create a counter-spell."

Hermione had planned to devote the entire day to research—she already had books laid out, lists prepared for specialists, and in her head she was formulating a plan for a visit to the Department of Mysteries. However, Scorpius's afternoon return from school completely changed their plans. The boy burst into the house with flushed cheeks and an enthusiastic request to bake a pumpkin pie together. Of course, she couldn't refuse him—especially when she saw how much Draco was enjoying the idea.

The kitchen of Cliff Manor soon filled with the scent of spices and laughter as the three of them mixed ingredients, spilled flour, and tasted the raw dough. Fimble, who initially tried to take control of the baking, eventually gave up and resignedly watched as his kitchen turned into a battlefield.

To Hermione's surprise, Draco had surprisingly much energy today. His movements were more confident, his eyes brighter, his laughter deeper. As if the mere discovery of the spell, the mere hope that the curse could be broken, had already begun to reverse its effects. When the pie was in the oven, he suggested a walk on the cliffs. Initially she hesitated, fearing it was too much for his weakened body, but she couldn't resist Scorpius's pleading looks and Draco's newly found vitality.

The wind on the cliffs was sharp and salty, carrying a promise of the coming spring, although winter still held strong. Scorpius ran ahead of them, collecting colorful pebbles and shells, while Draco held Hermione's hand, his grip stronger than at any time in recent weeks. Standing on the edge of the cliff, looking at the turbulent sea crashing against the rocks, she felt hope filling her completely, just as the winter air filled her lungs.

In the evening, when Scorpius was already asleep, tired from emotions and fresh air, Draco and Hermione returned to their bedroom. They made love that night with an intensity they hadn't experienced for a long time. Each touch, each kiss, each sigh was like a prayer of thanksgiving for a new chance, for hope, for the possibility of a future they had both almost stopped believing in. Draco was stronger, more passionate, more present than he had been for months, and Hermione gave him every part of herself, every sigh, every shudder of pleasure.

When the morning sun began to break through the curtains, she tried to get out of bed and immediately felt the effects of the night's passions. Her legs were trembling, every muscle protested, and between her thighs she felt a sweet, pulsing fatigue. With difficulty she made it to the bathroom, smiling at her reflection in the mirror—at a woman with tousled hair, raspberry marks on her neck and shoulders, and eyes full of absolute happiness.

When she came out of the shower, she smelled freshly brewed coffee and toast. Instead of heading straight to the library, as she had planned, she followed the aroma to the kitchen, where she found Draco preparing breakfast. He stood by the stove, skillfully levitating ingredients for omelets, his movements confident, his face brightened.

"You know we have a house-elf, right?" she asked, leaning against the doorframe.

He turned, smiling at the sight of her.

"Fimble would be offended if I let him work today," he replied. "I convinced him that this is a special occasion and I want to prepare breakfast for my... for you myself."

Hermione noticed his hesitation but didn't comment on it. She sat at the table, watching as he placed perfectly prepared omelets on a plate.

"How are you feeling?" she asked when he set the plate in front of her.

"Better than I have in months," he replied, sitting across from her. "As if just knowing what's afflicting me has lifted part of the burden."

They ate in pleasant silence for a few minutes, until she put down her fork and looked at Draco seriously.

"I think it's high time you stopped paying me for treatment."

He raised his eyebrows in surprise.

"I'm not your healer anymore," she continued. "I haven't even been to St. Mungo's for weeks. I need to talk to Macmillan, explain everything to him."

"Everything?"

She blushed slightly.

"Not all the details," she explained. "But the truth—that our relationship went beyond what it was supposed to be long ago."

Draco put down his cup, looking at her carefully.

"Until I cure you, I'll use my savings. And then I'll simply return to work at the hospital."

"If you want, I can transfer my entire fortune to your vault," he said, as if offering her another cup of tea.

She almost choked on her coffee.

"What?" she sputtered, staring at him in disbelief.

He shrugged, his face still composed.

"I want you to know that I never thought of you as an employee," he explained. "And that I don't care whether you work or not. Everything I have is just as much yours."

"Draco," she replied, shaking her head. "I don't want your fortune. That's never what this was about for me."

"I know," he replied, his face softening. "And that's exactly why I want to give it to you."

She sighed, resting her head on her hand.

"Is this again one of those conversations where you're trying to prepare me for your death?" she asked, a note of irritation in her voice. "Because if so, please stop. You're not going to die. I'll find a way to cure you."

He smiled, a spark of amusement appearing in his eyes.

"Not this time," he said. "This time it's more of an awkward attempt to change your mind about the proposal."

She blinked, unsure if she heard correctly.

"Proposal?" she repeated.

"Well, since you rejected my ring," he continued, his smile widening, "I thought perhaps I could tempt you with the rest of the package. You know, the manor, Gringotts vault, collection of rare books..."

She didn't know whether to laugh or cry. Instead, she reached across the table and took his hand.

"I don't need your fortune, Draco," she said quietly. "I only need you. Alive and healthy."

"And you'll have me," he replied, absolute certainty shining in his eyes. "I promise."

An hour later, Hermione was already sitting in the library of Cliff Manor, surrounded by stacks of books on dark magic. In the middle of the table lay the open book of the Half-Blood Prince, and next to it a parchment with the letters " Anima Mortiferus " precisely written out. She methodically compared each curse whose description she found with this mysterious formula from Snape's textbook, noting similarities and differences, even though she had done this before. Now, however, she wanted to have everything fresh.

Draco sat on the other side of the table, browsing through some books she had passed to him. Every few minutes, however, he would look up from the text and simply observe her—how she bit her lower lip in concentration, how she tucked unruly curls behind her ear, how her eyes sparkled when she came across something interesting.

"Found anything?" he asked, leaning back in his chair.

"Mmm," she murmured, not taking her eyes off the book.

"That sounds promising," he noted with a smile.

"Mmm," she repeated, turning the page.

"You know, you look really sexy when you concentrate like that," he said, leaning over the table.

This time she looked up, raising an eyebrow.

"Are you really trying to seduce me now?" she asked, though the corners of her mouth twitched in a suppressed smile.

"Trying? I thought I already did," he replied, winking at her. "Judging by your morning walk."

She felt a blush creeping up her cheeks.

"You're impossible," she said, shaking her head. "And you're completely distracting me."

"That's my charm," he replied, running his finger along the spine of one of the books. "Some have intelligence, others beauty. I have the ability to distract Hermione Granger."

She sighed, but couldn't suppress a smile.

"I appreciate your company, really," she said more gently. "But if I'm going to discover anything, I need to focus. And I can't focus when..."

"When what?" he asked innocently.

"When you're sitting here, looking so... so..." she gestured helplessly in his direction.

"So what?" he pressed, clearly amused by her embarrassment.

"So handsome, okay?" she finally admitted, rolling her eyes. "Now please, go somewhere else. You've had your fun, and I have work to do."

He laughed, getting up from his chair.

"All right, I'll leave you alone," he said, walking around the table. He stopped by her, bending down to place a light kiss on her forehead. "But remember to take a break for lunch. Even geniuses need to eat."

"Yes, yes," she muttered, already immersing herself back in her reading.

When the library door closed behind Draco, she could finally concentrate fully. Hours passed as she systematically searched every source she could access—from ancient texts in the Malfoy collection to modern theoretical works on magical core manipulation.

As dusk fell, and Fimble brought her another cup of tea, she still didn't have a complete solution. But she was certain of one thing—one part of the curse that was slowly killing Draco was Cruciatus. That characteristic pattern of magical core degradation, those periodic bouts of pain, the loss of feeling in the extremities—everything pointed to a modified version of the Unforgivable Curse. She had suspected this for a long time.

This was the beginning. The first piece of the puzzle. Now she just had to find the rest.

For the next two days, she barely left the library of Cliff Manor. Fimble brought her meals, which often grew cold, forgotten among stacks of books and scrolls of parchment. Draco checked on her regularly, bringing fresh tea and forcing her to take short breaks, though most of the time he allowed her to work undisturbed, understanding the importance of her research.

On the second day, as morning light began to break through the library windows, she was already so tired that the letters were blurring before her eyes. She leaned back in her chair, massaging her temples, when her gaze fell on an ancient tome she had earlier set aside. " Mortis Artes: Forgotten Rituals of the Soul "—a book so dark that even in the Malfoy library it had been hidden behind a magical barrier, which Draco had to remove for her.

With a sudden intuition, she reached for the volume, opening it to the chapter on spells manipulating the soul. And there, in the half-shadow of dawn, she found the second piece of the puzzle— Anima Captivus , an ancient spell used by dark wizards to imprison the soul of the victim, preventing it from naturally fighting off magical attack.

" Anima ..." she whispered, touching the word in the book with her finger, then moving it to her notes on Anima Mortiferus . "This can't be coincidence."

This explained why Draco's body couldn't deal with the curse on its own, why all attempts at treatment ended in failure—his very soul was imprisoned, incapable of the natural regeneration that a magical core would normally possess.

But this still didn't explain the progressive degradation of his magic. Hermione knew there had to be a third component, something that would explain the second part of the name— Mortifera . A curse that was slowly killing his magic, like a parasite feeding on life energy.

She spent the next hours in feverish searches, sending owls to fellow healers, and even risking contact with several experts in dark magic of dubious reputation. Finally, just before midnight on the second day, when her eyes were burning from reading, and her fingers were covered in ink from taking notes, she came across a mention of a curse so rare that most wizards considered it a legend.

Vitae Mortifera —a spell developed by ancient necromancers who were obsessively desiring to control the boundary between life and death. The curse slowly, systematically transformed the victim's life energy into its opposite—death energy, which gradually poisoned the magical core. The victim experienced progressive weakening, periods of sudden magic loss, and eventually died when their core was completely poisoned.

" Mortifera ..." she repeated, feeling a shiver run down her spine. "That's the final element."

She looked at the pages describing the curse, her heart beating wildly. This was it—the third and final piece of the puzzle. Anima Mortiferus was a terrifying hybrid of three spells: Cruciatus, which caused pain and weakened the victim's will; Anima Captivus , which imprisoned the soul, preventing natural healing processes; and Vitae Mortifera , which slowly, inexorably poisoned the magical essence.

That evening, when Scorpius was already asleep, Hermione presented Draco with the results of her research. They sat in a small living room, fire crackling in the fireplace, and on the table between them stood two cups of tea, almost untouched.

"That's why no standard treatment worked," she explained, running her finger along her notes. "Each component of the curse strengthens the others, creating a closed circle of destruction."

Draco listened attentively, his face serious but calm. When she finished, he nodded, as if something in her words confirmed his own intuitions.

"Yes, I felt that the pain was familiar," he said quietly. "Especially during the attacks. It reminded me of... that time in the manor. When Aunt Bellatrix..."

He didn't finish, but he didn't have to. She remembered perfectly the feeling of Cruciatus on her own skin. Despite the passing years, sometimes she would wake up screaming, still feeling the echo of that pain.

"What is the counter-spell?" he asked, interrupting her grim memories.

She hesitated, her hands tightening on the parchment.

"I don't know it yet," she admitted. "This isn't a standard curse, so there isn't a standard counter-spell. I'll have to devote a lot of time to research, experiment with different combinations..."

"But you'll find it?" he interrupted her, and in his voice was a note of uncertainty she rarely heard from him.

She looked him straight in the eyes.

"I will," she replied with absolute certainty. "I promise."

That night, as she lay in bed beside Draco, she couldn't sleep. Her mind was still working, analyzing possible combinations of spells that could counteract the curse. She was so lost in thought that she almost didn't notice the quiet creak of the door.

Only when she felt a strange warmth at her side did she snap out of her contemplation. Scorpius, in pajamas with little dragons, was slipping under the blanket, his small body trembling, and his eyes wide open in the darkness.

She was surprised. Since she had moved in with Draco, not once had Scorpius come to his father's bed at night. He was always so independent, so trying to be grown up and not cause trouble.

But most surprising was that instead of cuddling up to his father, who was sleeping on the other side of the bed, he moved closer to her, nestling his small form against her side.

"Scorpius?" she whispered, carefully putting her arm around him. "Is everything all right?"

He shook his head, and his body trembled even more.

"I had a bad dream," he whispered so quietly she could barely hear him.

"Do you want to tell me about it?" she asked, stroking his light hair, so similar to Draco's.

He was silent for a moment, then pressed his face against her arm.

"I dreamed that Daddy died," he whispered, his voice breaking on the last word. "That he went to sleep and never woke up. And then my mother came and took me far away from here, and I never saw you again."

She felt her heart constrict painfully. She hugged the boy tighter, not knowing what to say. How could she promise him that his father wouldn't die, when she wasn't sure herself? How could she assure him that she would never leave him, when legally she had no rights to him?

"It was just a dream," she finally said, kissing the top of his head. "Your daddy is strong, and I'm doing everything to cure him."

The boy nodded, and his trembling slowly subsided. Soon his breathing became even and deep, and his small body relaxed in her arms.

She lay motionless, listening to the breathing of the child who had become so important to her in such a short time. And then she felt Draco embrace them both, his arm resting on her waist, and his hand gently touching Scorpius's head.

"Thank you," he whispered into the darkness.

Chapter 21

For the next month, Hermione worked day and night, searching for a solution that could save Draco. The library of Cliff Manor, once elegant and orderly, now resembled a battlefield—books were stacked on every surface, scrolls of parchment covered the floor, and the walls were plastered with spell schemas and diagrams. At one of the tables stood a small cauldron, in which she tested various combinations of potions, trying to find something that could strengthen the counter-spell she was working on.

Owls came and went almost without pause, bringing responses from healers around the world, rare manuscripts borrowed from magical libraries, and even notes from former Death Eaters who—in exchange for reduced sentences—shared their knowledge of dark magic. She read everything, analyzed every clue, experimented with every promising formula.

But the answer continued to elude her.

Sometimes, late at night, when fatigue dulled her mind and her eyes burned from reading, she caught herself thinking that perhaps an answer didn't exist. That some curses are simply irreversible. That Anima Mortiferus was created precisely so it couldn't be undone. She fought these thoughts, pushed them away, but they returned—quieter than a whisper, but persistent as a shadow.

During this month, Draco had two serious episodes. The first came after a day that seemed almost normal—dinner with Scorpius, a walk in the garden, even a game of chess in the evening. And then, in the middle of the night, his body arched, and from his mouth came a scream so terrifying that Scorpius woke up in his room and ran in, frightened. She had to give him three different potions before the pain subsided, and then for three days he didn't leave his bed, too weak to even lift his head.

The second attack was quieter, but somehow worse. He simply collapsed on the bathroom floor, and when Hermione found him, he lay motionless, his eyes open but unseeing, and a trickle of blood flowed from his nose. His magic, usually perceptible as a subtle aura around him, had almost completely disappeared. It took her five hours to bring him back—five hours of spells, potions, and pure, raw determination. When he finally regained consciousness, the first thing he said was Scorpius's name.

For a week he had been losing feeling in his left arm. Their temporary therapy, which had kept him alive for the past months, was beginning to fail. Hermione adjusted the doses of potions, modified stabilizing spells, but the effects were increasingly weaker, and periods of improvement increasingly shorter.

The worst part was that she could see Draco slowly fading—not just physically, but spiritually. The spark of hope that had ignited in him when they discovered the name of the curse was slowly dimming. Of course, he never let her feel this. When he was with her, he always had a smile for her, always asked about progress in her research with enthusiasm, as if he didn't doubt she would find an answer. For Scorpius, he was the perfect father—patient, present, engaged, even when it cost him his last reserves of strength.

But she knew the truth. When he thought she wasn't looking—when she bent over a book, but from the corner of her eye observed his reflection in the window; when she quietly returned to the bedroom after night research and found him sitting on the bed, staring at his trembling hands; when she caught his gaze directed at Scorpius, full of quiet despair and farewell. In these unnoticed moments, his face betrayed everything—the pain he tried to hide, and the growing conviction that their time was running out.

And yet, every morning, when she returned to the library, he told her he believed in her completely. And perhaps that was the hardest part—that despite his own doubts, he never doubted her.

She sat in a deep armchair in the library, staring at an ancient text written in a language she barely understood. She realized she was reading the same line for the fifth time and still didn't know what she was actually reading. The letters danced before her eyes, merging into blots that no longer had any meaning. With a sigh, she put the heavy book down on the table beside her.

Then she felt hands on her shoulders—long, elegant fingers that began to gently massage her tense muscles. She knew that touch, would recognize it anywhere. She didn't need to turn around to know it was Draco standing behind her.

"You've lost weight," he said simply, and in that one word lay an enormous self-reproach.

She covered his hand with hers, squeezing it lightly.

"It's nothing," she replied. "I just sometimes forget to eat when I'm focused."

He walked around the armchair and crouched in front of her, his gray eyes gazing at her face with concern.

"It's unhealthy," he said quietly, but firmly. "You don't eat, you don't sleep, you don't leave this house for weeks. You can't live like this, Hermione."

"I can and I will, until I cure you," she replied stubbornly.

He shook his head, his expression softening.

"You should go out," he insisted. "Meet friends, get some fresh air, see something other than these walls and my increasingly pathetic face."

"Draco..."

"Listen," he interrupted her, taking her hands in his. "The fact that I'm trapped in this house, in this dying body, doesn't mean you have to be too. I don't want you to waste your life sitting here with me and Scorpius day after day."

"I don't have real friends anymore," she said more sharply than she intended. "My real friends disappeared somewhere between the war and starting their own families. Harry has Ginny and two children, Ron has the shop and his new love, Luna travels the world, Neville teaches at Hogwarts..." Her voice softened. "I haven't had a real friend for a long time, Draco. Until I met you."

She moved closer to the edge of the armchair, so that their faces were only centimeters apart.

"I'll have plenty of time to go out with friends," she said. "But you don't have time. And I'm not going to give up, do you understand? I'm not going to let you die just because I need to sleep or eat a proper meal."

He closed his eyes, and his forehead rested against hers.

"I hate watching you destroy yourself because of me," he whispered.

"And I hate watching you die," she replied just as quietly. "So we have to do something about it, right?"

"Can I help you somehow?"

"Come with me," she replied, getting up from the armchair. "I'll take a break."

Draco rose from his knees, and Hermione took his hand and headed toward the stairs leading to the upper floor.

When they passed Scorpius's room and headed toward their bedroom, Draco tensed slightly.

"Darling," he began uncertainly, as they crossed the threshold. "I'd really like to, really, but I'm not sure I can manage today... I mean, after the last attack..."

She stopped and turned to him, a playful smile appearing on her face.

"You really only think about one thing," she interrupted him jokingly, shaking her head. "That's not what I meant. Though your enthusiasm is charming."

She pulled him further, passing the bed and leading to the corner of the bedroom, where an elegant piano stood. She sat on the bench and patted the spot beside her, encouraging him to join.

"What are you doing?" he asked, sitting beside her, his arm warmly pressing against hers.

"Have you forgotten about your list?" she answered with a question, opening the piano lid and revealing the gleaming, black and white keys.

Draco froze, and his face suddenly became closed, defensive.

"So that's it," he said quietly, a cold note appearing in his voice. "You're starting to accept the fact that I'm going to die. You're helping me check off items from my list of things to do before death."

She turned abruptly, grabbing him by the shoulders and forcing him to look at her.

"Absolutely not," she said firmly. "Don't you dare think that. I'm not giving up, Draco. Not one bit."

Her expression softened, and her fingers gently stroked his shoulders.

"The point is that since these things were on your list, it means they're important to you," she explained more gently. "And you should do them all—not because you're dying, but because you want to do them. Because they're part of the life you want to live."

He looked at her for a long moment, and the tension slowly left his body.

"Sorry," he finally said. "I'm... oversensitive."

"Don't apologize," she replied, kissing him lightly on the cheek. "It's understandable."

She turned back to the piano, placing her fingers on the keys.

"So," she began, playing a simple scale. "Point two: learn to play the piano. Why is this on your list?"

He hesitated, then shrugged with slight embarrassment.

"My mother played," he answered. "When I was little, I often sat beside her and listened. I always wanted to learn, but my father... my father thought it was a waste of time. That I should focus on things more appropriate for the heir of the Malfoy family."

She nodded with understanding.

"What did she play?" she asked.

"Mostly Chopin," he replied, his face brightening at the memory. "Especially his nocturnes. She loved their melancholy."

Hermione smiled and began to play the first bars of a Chopin nocturne. She moved over slightly, making more room for him on the bench.

"Let's start with the basics," she said. "Place your fingers on the keys, like this..."

She gently arranged his long, elegant fingers on the white keys, showing him the correct position.

"This is C," she explained, pressing the key under his finger. "And then D, E, F, G, A, B, and C again. This is the basic C major scale."

He tried to repeat the scale, his movements uncertain but determined. She watched as his face expressed complete concentration.

"Good," she praised him, when he managed to play the entire scale without a mistake. "Now let's try a simple melody."

Slowly, patiently, she showed him how to play Beethoven's "Für Elise," the simplest version, with just the right hand. He learned quickly, despite his left hand sometimes trembling and refusing to obey. Each time this happened, he clenched his jaw in frustration, but didn't give up.

After an hour, he was able to play the first few bars of the melody, slowly and with a few mistakes, but recognizably. When he finished, he looked at Hermione with a pride she hadn't seen in him for a long time.

"This is just the beginning," she said, resting her head on his shoulder. "But you're a good student."

"I have a good teacher," he replied, kissing the top of her head.

They sat like that for a moment in pleasant silence, listening to the distant sound of waves breaking against the cliffs outside the window. She gently moved her fingers over the keys, not pressing them enough to make a sound.

"How are you feeling?" she finally asked, looking at him carefully. "Really?"

He hesitated, as if considering whether to tell her the truth or present a more optimistic version. Ultimately, he decided on honesty.

"Actually, better," he replied, with slight surprise in his voice. "Most of the symptoms are gradually subsiding. I've regained some feeling in my left arm."

"That's good," she said, her face brightening. "That's very good."

"It's thanks to you," he added, putting his arm around her. "Thanks to your potions and stabilizing spells."

"You know," she began, turning to him, "all that studying of books has been useful for something. Not just for deciphering the curse."

"What do you mean?" he asked, intrigued.

"I've come up with an idea for making a stronger version of the potions I've been giving you," she explained excitedly. "A combination of the old recipe with a few modifications I read about in those ancient texts. Theoretically, they could work longer—instead of twelve hours, even up to three days."

He raised his eyebrows, clearly surprised.

"Three days?" he repeated. "That... that would change everything."

"Exactly," she nodded, squeezing his hand. "You wouldn't have to be tied to the house anymore, dependent on regular doses every few hours. We could..."

She broke off, as if hesitating whether to say more.

"We could what?" Draco encouraged her.

She smiled shyly.

"We could accomplish more items from your list," she finished. "For example... visit the hidden magical gardens in Kew Gardens during the full moon."

He moved closer and kissed her gently.

"When is the next full moon?" he asked when they parted.

"In a week," she replied. "If I start working on the new potion tonight, it should be ready in time."

"So," he said, and in his eyes sparkled bits of excitement she hadn't seen for a long time, "we have a date?"

"We have a date," she confirmed, smiling broadly. "In the most beautiful magical gardens in Great Britain, under the full moon."

A week later, as the moon rose over London, they were preparing to go out. They didn't decide on a full-day trip, despite the new potion working surprisingly well. They didn't want to leave Scorpius alone for too long, especially now that the boy had started to open up more, and his nightmares had become more frequent.

They left him in Fimble's care, promising they would return before dawn. Scorpius pretended he was already grown up enough not to worry about their absence, but Hermione saw the concern in his eyes as they said goodbye to him by the fireplace.

"If you need us, Fimble will contact us immediately," she assured him, kissing the top of his head. "I promise."

They apparated to Kew Gardens shortly before midnight, landing in a remote corner of the park, away from Muggle paths. Draco looked elegant as always in his dark coat, and the moonlight gave his hair a silver sheen. Hermione wore a simple but elegant dress in a deep navy blue—a gift from Draco, who insisted she dress exceptionally for the occasion.

The entrance to the magical part of the gardens was hidden from Muggle view behind an illusion of a dense hedge. Draco took out his wand and performed a complicated pattern, which she recognized as an advanced version of Alohomora, reserved for places of special significance to the wizarding world.

The hedge parted, revealing a stone gate that wasn't there a second earlier. On the other side spread a view so beautiful that she involuntarily held her breath.

The magical gardens of Kew were a secret even to many wizards. Access to them was strictly controlled, and tickets had to be reserved months in advance. But Draco, as always, had his connections—in this case, it was an old family friend who served as the chief botanist.

Beyond the gate stretched an enchanted world of plants whose existence most people were unaware of. Narrow paths of white stone wound between beds filled with flowers that seemed to pulse with their own light. Tall trees with silver leaves rustled gently, though there was no wind, and in the air hung a scent so intense and sweet that it could almost be seen.

"Beautiful, isn't it?" he asked, watching her reaction with satisfaction.

"Amazing," she replied, looking around in delight.

They weren't the only guests—quite a few wizards and witches were walking the paths, admiring the magical plants. Some were dressed as elegantly as they were, others more casually, but all moved with quiet reverence, as if afraid to disturb the magic of this place with a louder word or gesture.

"Come," he said, taking her hand. "The best is yet to come."

He led her deeper into the gardens, passing a fountain in which, instead of water, flowed a silvery liquid resembling liquid moonlight. They also passed a group of young witches who were quietly giggling, pointing at a particularly impressive specimen of an orchid shimmering in all colors.

Finally, they reached a small clearing surrounded by tall trees. In its center was a round pond, and around it grew flowers Hermione had never seen before—with petals so dark they seemed to absorb light, curled into tight buds.

"This is it," he said, stopping. "We're just in time."

She looked at her watch—it was exactly a minute before midnight. Around the pond had already gathered about a dozen people, all staring at the dark flowers with anticipation.

When the clock's hand pointed to midnight, something magical happened. The flower buds slowly began to open, and as their petals spread, a delicate, silvery light emerged from them. Each petal revealed another, and each layer was brighter than the previous one. Finally, the flowers bloomed fully, releasing a cascade of luminous pollen, which floated in the air like tiny stars.

"Luminis Nocturnae," Draco whispered by her ear. "They bloom only once a month, exactly at midnight during the full moon. Their pollen has healing properties—particularly effective in treating diseases of the soul and mind."

She watched in amazement as the luminous pollen swirled in the air, reflecting in the surface of the pond and creating the illusion that they were standing among stars.

"This is one of the most beautiful things I've ever seen," she said quietly, squeezing his hand.

They strolled through the gardens long after midnight, discovering ever new wonders—fountains changing colors depending on the emotions of the viewers, trees whose fruits whispered when one walked past them, bushes whose leaves arranged themselves in various patterns, responding to the proximity of wizards. Draco knew surprisingly many of these plants and told their stories and properties.

They were heading toward a greenhouse with rare tropical plants when, at one of the path forks, they came across two witches. They were roughly their age, dressed in elegant robes that emphasized every asset of their figures. One had long, perfectly straight black hair, the other—honey-colored curls, carefully arranged in an elaborate hairstyle.

"Draco?" called the brunette, her face brightening with a wide smile. "Draco Malfoy? I can't believe it! What a meeting!"

Draco stopped, an expression of polite recognition appearing on his face.

"Olivia," he nodded toward the brunette. "And Clarissa. It's been a long time."

"Definitely too long," replied Clarissa, her voice soft and melodious. "I almost didn't recognize you—you look... different."

Her gaze moved across his face, lingering a moment longer than necessary, and then traveled lower, assessing every inch of his silhouette with barely concealed interest.

"We heard you're still living in England," added Olivia, coming closer—definitely closer than a normal conversation required. "But it's so hard to meet you. Where have you been hiding?"

Her hand touched his arm in a seemingly innocent gesture, but the way her fingers tightened on the material of his coat was anything but innocent.

Only then did both women seem to notice Hermione. Their gazes moved over her quickly, assessingly, and then returned to Draco, as if they had decided she didn't constitute competition worth noting.

Hermione suddenly became painfully aware of her appearance. She wore a simple dress and flat, comfortable shoes—perfect for a long walk in the garden, but completely lacking the sex appeal of the heels in which both witches balanced with grace. Her hair, as always, was a riot of unruly curls, which she hadn't even tried to tame—unlike the perfectly smoothed or carefully arranged hairstyles of those women. And her décolletage... well, she was slender, always had been, and her bust was never abundant enough to create that sexy "cleavage" that was clearly visible in the deep necklines of both witches.

"I'm not hiding," he replied, his tone cool but polite. "I simply choose my company carefully."

Olivia laughed melodiously, moving even closer.

"You were always so picky," she said, her voice lowering to a seductive whisper. "That's one of your most attractive qualities. Remember that night in Venice? On the embassy balcony?"

Clarissa giggled, and Hermione felt her cheeks burning with a blush.

"Indeed, Venice," he replied, his voice surprisingly cold. "I remember it too. Especially the moment when you tried to convince me to invest in that 'exciting' magical creature breeding scheme, which turned out to be a scam that cost five wizards their fortunes."

Olivia's smile faded somewhat, but she quickly restored it to her face.

"Business is business," she replied lightly. "Besides, I had good intentions. And I still do..." Her hand moved higher up his arm.

She felt something inside her freeze. Looking at these two elegant witches, so comfortable in their seductive behavior, so confident in their attractiveness, she suddenly felt completely out of place. Flat and colorless—like an ordinary bookworm standing next to two exotic birds.

Her hands began to tremble, so she quickly hid them in the folds of her dress. She wanted to take a step back, then another, and then simply disappear from view. Retreat among the bushes, dissolve into the shadows, so no one could compare her to these dazzling women who fit so perfectly into Draco Malfoy's elegant world.

Because that's what suddenly hit her with full force—that this was his world. The world of pureblood wizards, exclusive parties, political connections, and impeccable manners. A world to which she never really belonged and probably never would—regardless of how many books she read or how many spells she mastered.

She watched as Olivia flirtatiously tossed her perfect hair, as Clarissa tilted her head at that perfect angle that emphasized her slender neck and delicate outline of her collarbone. Every gesture, every look, every word was perfectly calculated to seduce and attract attention.

And her? She had untamed hair that lived its own life, plain nails instead of a perfect manicure, and zero idea about the art of flirting. She was Hermione Granger—practical, rational, and completely unattractive compared to these sophisticated beauties.

She felt a wave of heat flooding her cheeks. The awareness of her own imperfections, her ordinariness, hit her with such force that for a moment she felt she couldn't breathe. She felt like an impostor—like someone who accidentally found themselves at an elegant gala, dressed in a swimsuit.

Draco could have any of them—these beautiful, sophisticated witches who fit so perfectly into his world. And yet he chose her—simple, untamed, lacking elegance Hermione Granger. This fact, which usually filled her with pride, now seemed almost absurd.

She stepped back half a step, allowing the shadow of a nearby tree to partially hide her. Maybe if she became less visible, these women would stop judging her with that penetrating, diminishing gaze. Maybe if she disappeared from their field of vision, Draco would remember what world he really belonged to—a world she only visited as a guest.

"So who is your... charming friend, Draco?" asked Olivia, her voice dripping with sweetness, while her eyes remained cold.

"Hermione Granger," he repeated, his tone becoming somewhat sharper. "I'm sure you've heard that name."

The two witches exchanged glances, and then Clarissa tilted her head, pretending to ponder.

"Granger... Granger..." she repeated, as if searching her memory. "No, I don't recall such a family among the old houses. Could it be some... new branch? From the continent, perhaps?"

Hermione perfectly understood what was behind those words. They didn't need to use the word "Mudblood"—their contempt for her background was obvious in every syllable, in every look. In their world, even after the war, after Voldemort's fall, blood status still defined a person more than their achievements or character.

Before she could respond, Draco pulled her to him with one fluid motion, embracing her with an arm in a way that was both protective and unambiguously possessive.

"I guess you haven't been reading the Daily Prophet for the last few years," he said, his voice cold. "Hermione Granger is the best healer in all of England. She's won the Order of Merlin twice—first for heroic deeds during the war, when she fought the Dark Lord alongside Potter, second for breakthrough discoveries in the field of healing."

Both witches exchanged glances in which disbelief mingled with something akin to irritation. It was clear they hadn't expected such a reaction.

"Well, that's... fascinating," Olivia finally said, though her tone suggested something completely different. "But isn't it a bit... awkward? Given all those... differences?"

Draco raised an eyebrow in a gesture that Hermione knew all too well—it was an expression of pure aristocratic disdain, which in recent months he had used mainly in jest.

"The only awkward thing at this moment," he replied coolly, "is your persistent attempt to ignore the fact that you're standing before a woman who helped save our world, while you were probably hiding in some luxurious hideout on the continent."

Clarissa gasped indignantly, her cheeks covered with scarlet patches.

"It wasn't a hideout," she protested. "My family had important business in France that required our presence."

"Of course," he agreed with a smile that didn't reach his eyes. "Business. It's always about business. It was nice seeing you, but I'm afraid we must go now."

Without waiting for a response, he led Hermione deeper into the garden, his hand still resting lightly on her back.

"I'm sorry about that," he said quietly, when they were out of earshot of the witches. "I didn't expect to meet anyone from my old... acquaintances here."

She didn't respond. Instead, she tried to straighten up slightly, involuntarily raising her hand to smooth down the unruly lock that fell on her forehead. The same gesture she always made when feeling insecure—fixing her hair, as if that could somehow make her more acceptable, more... appropriate.

Draco, still walking, unexpectedly grabbed her by the buttock and pulled her closer to himself. The move was so sudden and intimate that she squeaked in surprise.

"Don't you dare," he said, his voice low and intense. "Don't you dare even for a second compare yourself to those women."

His hand moved from her buttock to her waist, but he didn't loosen his grip.

"You know what I saw when looking at them?" he continued, leading her along a narrow path between flowering bushes. "Two empty witches who most likely haven't read a single book for pleasure in their entire lives. Who never had the courage to stand up for anything that would require sacrifice."

He leaned down and kissed her on the temple, exactly where unruly curls escaped from her makeshift updo.

"Your hair," he whispered by her ear, "drives me crazy. In the best possible way."

He led her further, turning from the main path onto a narrower, less frequented trail. They passed between tall hedges until they found themselves in a small, secluded grove, where the silver moonlight barely penetrated through the dense tree crowns. It was a place so shaded and isolated that they could be the only people in the entire garden—or perhaps even in all of London.

Without a word, he pinned her against the trunk of the nearest tree, his hands resting on either side of her head. For a moment he looked at her intensely, his eyes gleaming in the half-darkness like mercury, and then he kissed her—deeply, passionately, with a desperation that took her breath away.

When he finally pulled his lips from hers, they were both breathing heavily. His lips moved to her neck, planting a series of hot kisses there.

"You work day and night," he said between kisses, his voice low and hoarse. "You read books that most of the magical society doesn't understand even after translation. You research curses so complicated that experienced curse-breakers give up after the first attempt."

His hands left the tree and moved to her waist, pulling her even closer.

"You invent new potions, new spells, new diagnostic methods," he continued, his lips traveling along her collarbone. "You do things that most wizards wouldn't dare even dream of."

He pulled back slightly to look into her eyes, his face so close she could feel his breath on her lips.

"And yet you worry whether your hair is properly arranged?" he asked in disbelief. "Whether your dress is elegant enough? Whether you fit some standard of beauty set by people who don't have even a fraction of your intellect or courage? Don't you see how absurd that is? You, who change the world with your mind, worry whether your neckline is deep enough?"

She looked to the side, avoiding his intense gaze. For a moment she struggled with the words she felt she had to speak, though they seemed so very uncharacteristic of her usual, rational way of thinking.

"I just..." she began quietly, her voice barely audible. "I'd like to be beautiful for you. Not just... useful. Not just smart. But... beautiful in the way they are."

Draco froze for a moment, then gently turned her face back toward him.

"Don't you understand," he whispered, "that to me you're the most beautiful woman in the world?"

Not giving her a chance to respond, he kissed her again, his hands cupping her face with surprising gentleness. He pulled away from her lips to look at her in the half-light, his thumbs stroking her cheeks.

"Your eyes have always been so expressive. I remember them from school—how they sparkled when you answered a question. How they shot lightning when I spoke to you."

He brushed his lips against her closed eyelids, then ran his finger along the line of her nose.

"This nose," he continued, a note of amusement in his voice. "You always wrinkle it slightly when you're thinking about something. It's the best way to know that Hermione Granger is solving another problem."

His lips moved to her cheeks, covering them with tiny kisses.

"Your cheeks," he murmured. "Especially when you blush—like now. That shade of pink is my favorite color."

With his finger he traced the shape of her lips.

"And these lips," he said, his voice becoming deeper. "Damn distracting when I'm trying to focus on anything else. And when you smile... Merlin be my witness, I would do anything for that smile."

Without waiting for her response, he kissed her again, this time more fervently, pulling her closer to him. His hand moved higher under her dress, his fingers finding the warm, soft skin of her thigh.

"We really should..." she tried again, but her words turned into a soft moan as his lips found a particularly sensitive spot on her neck.

"Should what?" he asked, not stopping kissing her skin. "Stop? Go back home?"

Before she could answer, his hands grabbed the lower edge of her dress and with a decisive movement pulled it up, exposing her thighs and lace underwear. She held her breath, feeling the cool night breeze on her heated skin.

He didn't give her time for further protests. With one fluid motion, he lifted her, his hands gripping her under her thighs, and her back pressed against the rough tree bark. Instinctively, she wrapped her legs around his waist, feeling his hardness pressing against her through the fabric of their clothes.

"Draco, really," she whispered, though her body betrayed her words, pressing more firmly against him. "This is a public place. Someone might walk by... hear..."

He interrupted her with a kiss, while his hands skillfully dealt with the obstacles of clothing. When he finally entered her, she had to press her face against his shoulder to muffle her moan of pleasure.

"Too bad," he murmured, moving inside her slowly but deeply. "At worst, we'll end up on the front page of the Prophet tomorrow."

With one hand he held her firmly under her thigh, and with the other he slid into her hair, tilting her head so he could look into her eyes.

"At least you'll be able to see," he continued, increasing the tempo, "how damn beautiful you are when I'm making love to you."

His words, combined with the intensity of his gaze and the rhythm of his body, sent a wave of heat through her. She tried to protest, but every word turned into a stifled moan as he moved in her faster.

The tree bark dug into her back through the thin material of her dress, but this slight discomfort only enhanced every sensation. Her fingers tangled in his hair, pulling him closer, as her fears of being caught completely gave way to a wave of intense pleasure.

He held her tightly, his movements becoming more irregular as they approached the edge. He rested his forehead against hers, their breaths mingling, and their gazes not leaving each other for a moment.

"I love you," he whispered, and in his eyes, even in the half-light, she could see absolute sincerity.

This declaration, combined with the rising wave of pleasure, was enough to push her over the edge. She pressed her lips to his shoulder, muffling a cry as her body trembled in ecstasy. He joined her a moment later, his body tensing and then shuddering in her embrace.

For a long moment they stood motionless, intertwined, leaning against the tree, their bodies covered with a thin layer of sweat despite the cool night air. Only when their breathing calmed did he carefully lower her to the ground, still supporting her, as her legs seemed too weak to hold her up on their own.

"You're amazing," he whispered, kissing her lightly on the forehead and helping her fix her clothes.

Still dazed by the intensity of the experience, she couldn't suppress the broad smile that lit up her face.

"And you," she replied, "are absolutely crazy."

"Only for you," he replied, pulling her into another kiss.

When they returned to Cliff Manor, it was almost dawn. Fimble greeted them in the hall, assuring them that young Master Scorpius had slept peacefully all evening and had no nightmares. They thanked the elf, and as soon as he disappeared with a quiet crack, Draco turned to Hermione with an expression she knew all too well.

"Let's check on Scorpius first," she whispered, though her body was already responding to his look.

They entered the boy's room silently. Scorpius was sleeping deeply, his light hair scattered on the pillow, one arm hugging the plush dragon Hermione had bought him for his birthday. Draco looked at his son for a moment with a mixture of tenderness and sadness, then gently adjusted the blanket, and they left, closing the door behind them.

As soon as they were in the hallway, he pressed her against the wall, kissing her with such intensity that it made her dizzy. His hands immediately found their way under her dress, while she unbuttoned his shirt with fingers trembling in haste.

Stumbling and not breaking their kisses, they moved toward the bedroom. She almost tripped over the carpet when he lifted her and set her on a dresser in the hallway, knocking over some silver object that rolled across the floor with a clang. Neither of them even looked back.

They tugged at clothes as if they were unbearable obstacles. Buttons popped, material creaked, and their breathing became increasingly frantic. By the time they reached the bedroom, they were already half undressed, their clothes marking a path from Scorpius's door.

Draco kicked the door shut and threw her onto the bed with a force that in any other circumstances might have surprised her, but now only fueled the fire burning in both of them. His lips on her skin were voracious, as if he wanted to devour her, and she responded with equal intensity, her nails leaving marks on his back.

He was more dominant than usual, holding her wrists above her head with one hand, the other exploring her body with such familiarity that each touch sent a wave of shivers. She surrendered to him completely, her body arching toward him, demanding more.

When they finally joined, the pace was intense from the start. There was no gentleness or patience in it—just raw need and desperate desire to forget everything beyond this moment. The bed creaked beneath them, and muffled moans and broken words of love mingled with the sound of their bodies.

And then, at the moment when she felt she was approaching the edge, Draco suddenly froze. For a split second, she thought it was part of the game—that he wanted to prolong her anticipation, as he sometimes did. But then his body suddenly became heavy, lifeless, and he slumped to the side, falling from the bed onto the hard, wooden floor.

"Draco?" she asked, disoriented, rising on her elbows.

Spasmodic convulsions answered her. Draco lay on the floor, his body arched, and every muscle tensed in an unnatural way. His head tilted back, hitting the floor with a dull thud, and from his mouth came a sound she had never heard before—something between a groan and a stifled scream.

"Draco!" she screamed, jumping off the bed and kneeling beside him.

That's when she saw the blood—thin streams flowing from his nose, the corners of his mouth, and even, most terrifyingly, from under his eyelids. His eyes were open but unseeing, the eyeballs rolled back, showing only the whites with a network of burst blood vessels.

"No, no, no," she muttered, frantically reaching for her wand, which lay on the bedside table. "Draco, please, not now, not like this."

His entire body was shaking in uncontrolled convulsions, and the blood began to flow more profusely, staining the light carpet by the bed. Hermione cast a stabilizing spell, and then another, trying to stop the attack. But each spell seemed to have less and less effect.

The curse, which had been slowly consuming his magical core for the past months, now erupted with new force, as if aware they were trying to defeat it and determined to finish its work of destruction before they could find a cure.

She cast another stabilizing spell, but the convulsions only intensified. Blood was now seeping in a thin stream from his ears, and his breathing became shallow and irregular, interrupted by terrifying moments of complete breathlessness.

"Stay with me," she pleaded, holding his head to prevent it from hitting the floor. "Draco, fight this. You can't leave now, do you hear me?"

With a desperate movement, she summoned potions from the cabinet in the bathroom. The vials flew to her, and with trembling hands she uncorked the first one, trying to pour the liquid between his clenched jaws. Most of it ran down his chin, mixing with blood and sweat. She needed help, knew she couldn't handle this alone. With a quick wave of her wand, she dressed them both.

"Fimble!" she shouted, not taking her eyes off Draco. "FIMBLE!"

The house-elf appeared immediately, his large eyes widening in terror at the sight of Draco writhing on the floor.

"Bring Bertrand Macmillan from St. Mungo's. Immediately! Tell him it's a matter of life and death!"

Fimble disappeared with a crack, and she returned to the desperate fight for Draco's life. From a magical pouch, she summoned more vials, the strongest ones she kept for the darkest hour. She tried various combinations of spells and potions, but nothing worked for longer than a few seconds.

"Don't do this to me," she whispered, her voice breaking. "Not now. Not when we were so close. Not after everything we've been through."

Her words were interrupted by a terrible sound—a rattle emerging from Draco's throat as his body arched so extremely that for a moment he rested only on his heels and the back of his head. Dark, almost black blood flowed from his mouth.

"Daddy?"

A thin, frightened voice came from the door. She turned her head to see Scorpius standing at the threshold of the bedroom, his eyes wide with terror, his face white as chalk.

"Scorpius, go back to your room," she said, trying to make her voice sound calm.

"What's happening to Daddy?" the boy asked, taking a step forward instead of retreating. He flinched when another spasm shook Draco's body. "Why is Daddy bleeding?"

"Scorpius, please..." she began, but was interrupted by a sudden, terrifying scream from Draco.

His body suddenly went still, and his eyes opened wide, empty and unseeing. For a moment there was complete silence, broken only by Scorpius's sobbing. And then Draco took a deep, wheezing breath, as if emerging from water after a long dive.

"Hermione," he whispered, his voice barely audible. "Scorpius..."

"I'm here," she replied, squeezing his hand. "We're both here. Hold on. I'll help you."

His eyes momentarily regained focus, concentrating on her face.

"I'm sorry," he said more clearly. "I thought... we had more time."

"And we do," she replied firmly, ignoring the tears that flowed down her cheeks. "This is just another attack. We'll get through this. We always do."

But he slowly shook his head, and in his eyes appeared an expression of resignation that terrified her more than all the physical symptoms.

"Not this time," he whispered. "I can feel it."

Scorpius, who had stood frozen at the threshold, suddenly moved forward and fell to his knees beside his father.

"Daddy, don't die," he sobbed, his small hands clutching his father's arm. "Please, don't leave us."

Draco with effort raised his hand to touch his son's face.

"Dragon," he said, his voice suddenly becoming stronger, as if drawing on his last reserves of energy. "Remember what I told you. Be brave. Be good. And always... always know that I love you."

Draco's eyes lost focus again, and his hand fell limply. Another spasm shook his body, this time stronger than before. Blood began to flow more intensely, forming a dark pool on the light floor.

"No!" she shouted, casting another stabilizing spell. "Draco, fight! Don't you dare leave us!"

Scorpius backed away terrified, his small body trembling uncontrollably. After a moment, he lunged forward, his little hands clutching his father's arm.

"Daddy, Daddy, wake up!" he cried through tears. "You promised you'd take me to Hogwarts! You promised we'd fly together on a broom!"

Hermione, with one hand still casting spells, pulled Scorpius to her with the other, moving him slightly away from Draco.

"Do something," the boy begged, his voice breaking from crying. "You always know how to fix everything."

These words were like a knife thrust straight into her heart. Because this time, she didn't know how to fix it. All her research, all her potions, all her spells—nothing worked. The curse was consuming Draco from within, and she could only watch.

Suddenly there was a crack of apparition, and Bertrand Macmillan and two other healers appeared in the bedroom. Without even asking questions, they immediately went into action. Macmillan began a complex sequence of diagnostic spells, while the other two prepared potions and healing amulets.

"How long has the attack been going on?" he asked sharply, not interrupting his work.

"About fifteen minutes," she replied, surprised at how calm her voice sounded. "Initially just convulsions, then bleeding from the nose and eyes, now... now everything."

"Get the child out of here," said one of the healers, looking at the child who was still clutching her robes tightly.

"No!" the boy protested. "I want to stay with Daddy!"

"Scorpius," Hermione knelt before him, taking his face in her hands. "You need to be very brave now. Go with Fimble to your room. I promise I'll come to you as soon as I can."

"But Daddy..."

"Your daddy is very strong," she said, forcing herself to smile through tears. "And these gentlemen are the best healers in all of England. They'll help him. But they need space to work."

Scorpius suddenly burst into hysterical crying, his small body shaking from sobs so violent that he struggled to breathe. He buried his face in her shoulder, his fingers clutching the material of her clothes with desperate force.

"I don't want to go!" he wailed, his voice breaking after each word. "Daddy needs me! I don't want him to die! Please!"

Hermione felt her heart breaking into thousands of pieces. She held him tightly, trying to hold back her own tears, which were flowing down her cheeks anyway. She knew she had to be strong for him, but she had never felt more helpless.

"Scorpius, darling," she whispered, stroking his trembling back. "I know you're scared. I'm scared too. But now I need to help your daddy, and I can't do that if I'm worried about you."

Behind her, the healers were working feverishly, and she knew they needed her. She knew the nature of this curse best.

"I don't want to be alone," he sobbed.

She gently moved him away from herself to look into his eyes. His face was red and swollen from crying, and his silver eyes—so similar to his father's—glistened with tears.

"Listen to me," she said, cupping his face in her hands. "I promise you that I'll come back to you with Daddy. I promise. And then we'll all go for the biggest ice cream that ever existed. The kind you won't even be able to finish."

She stroked his cheek, wet with tears, trying to put into this gesture all her certainty, which she didn't really feel.

"But now you need to be brave," she added. "For Daddy. And for me."

He looked at her for a long moment, his breathing still uneven from crying. Finally, he nodded, although his lower lip was still trembling.

"Do you promise?" he asked quietly. "Do you really promise that Daddy will live?"

"I promise that I'll do everything in my power," she replied, kissing him on the forehead. "Everything."

Fimble approached them quietly, his large eyes full of sadness and understanding.

"Fimble will take care of young master," he said, extending his hand to the boy. "Fimble will prepare hot chocolate and stay with young master as long as needed."

After one more tight hug, Scorpius finally let the elf lead him out of the room, looking back every few steps, as if wanting to engrave the image of his father in his memory. When the door closed behind them, she took a deep breath and turned to the healers, ready to do anything, absolutely anything, to keep her promise.

Chapter 22

The next hours merged into one long, painful stretch of fighting for Draco's life. Before dawn, they transferred him to St. Mungo's, to a special ward for the most severe curse cases. Hermione followed the levitating stretcher as if in a dream, her mind working at full speed, yet part of her consciousness seemed detached from reality, observing everything from a distance.

The morning at St. Mungo's brought the first diagnoses that made her knees buckle beneath her. The curse, instead of gradually weakening under the influence of their therapy, had gained new strength. It was attacking everything—his magical core, nervous system, and even basic life functions. His heart had already stopped twice, each time restored to work by resuscitation spells. The cause of his condition turned out to be her new, strengthened potion.

"Don't blame yourself," Macmillan told her. "This curse is complicated even for specialists."

It wasn't until late evening, when the last rays of the setting sun were streaming through the tall windows of the hospital corridor, that they managed to stabilize him.

Hermione now sat by his bed, alone in the room where only magical monitors and diagnostic spells broke the silence. Draco lay motionless, his skin so pale it was almost transparent. The veins on his temples and neck stood out clearly, in a deep indigo color, as if the curse had even changed the color of his blood. He breathed shallowly and unevenly, each breath seeming an effort.

He looked like a corpse. If not for the slight movements of his chest and the magical monitor showing weak but regular heartbeats, she might have thought she had already lost him.

She knew she should return to Scorpius. She had promised him that. The child was waiting at home, terrified and lost, needing comfort that only she could provide. But how was she to return to him in this state? Swollen from crying, trembling, completely broken. How was she to look into those trusting, silver eyes and not break down completely?

Tears, which she thought were finished, again flowed down her cheeks. She hugged herself, as if trying to prevent herself from falling to pieces. Quiet sobs shook her body as she leaned over Draco's bed, her forehead resting on his motionless hand.

"I'm sorry," she whispered through tears. "This is all my fault. That potion... I thought it would help... I only wanted you to be able to live normally... and I almost killed you."

No one answered her.

After an hour, the tears finally dried up, leaving only emptiness and burning eyes. She wiped her face with her sleeve, took a few deep breaths, and looked at herself in a small mirror she conjured. She looked terrible—pale, with dark circles under her eyes and disheveled hair. She cast a few simple spells to make herself presentable. Not for herself—for Scorpius. She couldn't return to him looking like a specter, the sight of which would only frighten the child even more.

When she apparated to Cliff Manor, Fimble was waiting for her in the hall. One look at the elf was enough to know the night had been difficult.

"Young master finally fell asleep at dawn," he said quietly. "But he wakes up every hour screaming. Fimble did everything he could..."

"Thank you, Fimble," she interrupted him gently. "You've been wonderful. I'll take care of Scorpius now."

She went up the stairs and gently opened the door to the boy's room. He lay curled up on the bed, clutching a photograph in his hands—a picture of Draco holding him when he was younger. Even in sleep, his face was tense, and his cheeks wet with tears.

She sat on the edge of the bed and gently stroked his light hair. He opened his eyes immediately, as if he hadn't been sleeping, just waiting.

"Daddy?" he asked with one word, rising abruptly.

She forced herself to a calm smile.

"Daddy is alive," she answered, choosing the most important information. "He's very sick, but the healers are doing everything they can."

He looked at her intensely, as if trying to read the whole truth from her face.

"I want to see him," he said firmly.

She hesitated. She wasn't sure if this was a good idea—Draco looked frightening, and Scorpius was only five years old. On the other hand... what if this was the last time the boy could see his father? No, she couldn't think like that. She had to believe they would find a way to cure him.

"All right," she finally agreed. "But I must warn you that Daddy is connected to various magical devices and looks different than usual. It might be a bit scary."

"I'm not afraid," he replied, though his voice trembled slightly. "I want to be with Daddy."

Half an hour later, they were already at St. Mungo's. Scorpius stayed close to her as she led him through the hospital corridors. Despite his assurances, he squeezed her hand tighter with each step.

When they entered Draco's room, he stopped at the threshold, his eyes widening at the sight of his father. She felt his small hand trembling in her grip. For a moment she thought the boy would withdraw, but instead he straightened up and approached the bed, pulling her along.

Now they both sat by Draco's bed—Hermione on the chair, Scorpius on her lap. The boy stared at his father's pale face with a mixture of fear and determination.

"Can Daddy hear me?" he asked quietly.

"I think so," Hermione replied, though she wasn't sure. "They say that people in this state often hear what's said to them, even if they can't respond."

Scorpius nodded, and then leaned forward.

"Daddy," he said in a trembling voice. "It's me, Scorpius. I came... I came to tell you that I'm doing everything you told me. I'm being brave. And... and I'm waiting for you to get better, so we can fly on a broom over the cliffs, like you promised."

Hermione felt tears coming to her eyes again, but this time she held them back. She had to be strong for Scorpius. She wrapped her arm around him, pulling him closer to herself.

"You know what?" she said, trying to make her voice sound light. "I think your daddy would be very proud, seeing how brave you are."

A gentle knock on the door interrupted their conversation. Hermione turned her head, expecting to see Macmillan with the latest test results. Instead, Harry, Ginny, and James stood at the threshold.

She opened her mouth, but no sound came out. She simply stared at them, surprised by their presence in a place where she least expected to see them.

Scorpius immediately tensed, nestling deeper into her arms. His natural shyness, combined with the emotional exhaustion of the last few hours, made him look at the strangers with a mixture of curiosity and anxiety.

"Hermione," Ginny said quietly, entering the room. "I only learned about the whole situation from Harry a few days ago. I was going to visit you, but I was at work... And then Macmillan sent us a letter saying it would be good if we came here."

Harry came closer, his green eyes full of concern moving from Hermione to Draco's motionless figure on the bed.

"How is he?" he asked quietly.

"Stable," she replied, her voice sounding more hoarse than she expected. "But it's still... uncertain."

James looked curiously at Scorpius. Instead of approaching the bed like his parents, he moved closer to the boy still sitting on Hermione's lap.

"Hey," he said with a smile. "I'm James."

Scorpius looked at him uncertainly.

"You know what?" James continued, leaning slightly. "They have a real training broom in the children's ward. One you can fly on in the corridor. I know because when I had dragon pox last year, I was there for a week and I saw it."

Scorpius's eyes widened slightly.

"Really?" he asked quietly, showing interest in something other than his father for the first time since entering the hospital.

"Really," James confirmed solemnly. "And they also have these beanbags that change shape depending on who sits on them. Mine turned into a dragon."

James extended his hand to Scorpius.

"Want to see?" he asked.

To Hermione's surprise, the boy hesitated only for a moment, then slid off her lap. He stopped, however, looking back at his father's motionless figure with concern.

"Everything will be all right, darling," she assured him, forcing herself to smile. "I'll sit with Daddy until you come back. And James will surely take good care of you, right James?"

"Sure," the boy replied enthusiastically. "I know this hospital like the back of my hand."

Scorpius looked once more at Hermione, and then at Harry and Ginny, as if assessing whether he could trust them. Finally, he took James's outstretched hand.

"Just for a little while," he said quietly.

Harry approached the boys.

"I'll go with them," he said, exchanging glances with Ginny. "And maybe I'll bring us all something to drink from the cafeteria. You look like you could use some coffee, Hermione."

As soon as the door closed behind the boys, Ginny went straight to Hermione and wordlessly hugged her tightly. This unexpected gesture of affection completely broke the fragile barriers she had so laboriously built over the last few hours.

"I yelled at Harry all night," she said, still embracing her. "When he finally told me about this curse business and about... about you and Malfoy. I couldn't believe he kept it secret for so long."

She pulled back slightly to look into her eyes, but didn't let go of her hand.

"Why didn't you tell me?" she asked, and there was no accusation in her voice, only genuine concern. "We're friends, after all. I know we see each other less often lately, but... Hermione, you didn't have to go through all this alone."

Hermione opened her mouth, wanting to respond, explain, justify herself, but instead a quiet sob escaped her throat. The tears she had so desperately tried to hold back in front of Scorpius now flowed freely.

"I... I..." she tried, but the words stuck in her throat.

Ginny pulled her back into an embrace, stroking her back in a soothing gesture.

"Shh, it's okay," she whispered. "You don't have to explain anything. Just allow yourself to cry. You deserve it."

She surrendered to the tears, allowing all the accumulated tension, fear, and exhaustion to find release. She cried in her friend's arms as she hadn't cried in years—openly, without inhibitions, without trying to maintain dignity or strength. She felt something break within her—some final dam behind which she had kept her emotions. She realized how much she had missed having someone close besides Draco. Someone with whom she could be herself, with all her weaknesses and doubts. Despite assurances that she needed only him, that their small, closed world was all she desired, she now understood how much she had missed friendship.

When she finally cried herself out, she wiped her eyes with her sleeve and took a few deep breaths, trying to regain control of herself. Ginny handed her a glass, and she accepted it gratefully, feeling the cool liquid soothe her throat, raw from crying.

Meanwhile, Ginny moved closer to the bed, leaning over Draco to better assess his condition. Her red hair fell forward, creating a fiery curtain by Malfoy's pale face.

"What exactly is wrong with him?" she asked, examining the network of magical monitors above the bed. "Harry mentioned something about a curse, but I don't know the details."

Hermione opened her mouth to answer, but before she could utter a word, something unexpected caught her attention. Draco moved slightly—the first voluntary movement in many hours. His pale hand rose slowly, uncertainly, and then wove itself into Ginny's fiery hair hanging just above his face.

His eyelids opened slightly, revealing a hazy, absent gaze.

"Hermione," he mumbled indistinctly, his voice hoarse and barely audible. "That color doesn't suit you at all. You look like you have more freckles than usual."

His hand fell limply onto the bedding, and his eyes closed again. His breathing evened out, indicating he had fallen back into a deep sleep.

For a moment, absolute silence reigned in the room. Ginny and Hermione looked at each other in astonishment. And then, quite unexpectedly, Ginny burst out laughing, and Hermione joined her a second later.

"Well," said Ginny, still laughing and tucking her red hair behind her ear. "At least now I know what Malfoy really thinks of my hairstyle."

"I'm sorry," Hermione replied, her laughter mixing with the remnants of tears. "They've given him quite a lot of pain potions. He has no idea what he's saying."

When the laughter finally subsided, Hermione felt somewhat lighter at heart. As if the burden she had been carrying had been divided among several pairs of shoulders. She looked at Ginny with gratitude.

"He always knew how to make me laugh," she said quietly, looking at Draco's sleeping face. "Even when everything seems hopeless."

Ginny squeezed her hand.

"Let's hold onto that hope then," she said. "That he'll come back to you and make you laugh again. Consciously this time."

For a moment both were silent.

"Hermione, I've been thinking about something," she began carefully. "You know James loves new friends. If you want... we could take him for a few days to our place. It would give you some space to focus on your research and on Draco."

Harry, who had just entered the room, nodded, standing behind his wife.

"We have room, and the kids would be thrilled," he added.

Hermione hesitated, considering the offer. Part of her knew it was a sensible solution. Scorpius deserved a bit of normalcy, moments where he wouldn't have to watch his father suffer and worry about the future. But on the other hand...

"I don't know if that's a good idea," she replied slowly. "Scorpius is... really shy. He's never been away from me and Draco for that long. Even at home, he sometimes locks himself in his room for hours when he feels too overwhelmed."

She bit her lip, looking at Draco's motionless figure.

"And I'm not sure if I can take away his moments with his father," she added more quietly. "Even if it would be for his own good. What if..." she hesitated, not wanting to voice her greatest fear aloud. "What if they don't have much time left together?"

Ginny squeezed her hand.

"I understand," she said gently. "Maybe something else then? We could take him for one day. Or even a few hours. James could show him his toys, they could fly on brooms in the garden. And you would have a moment to rest or focus on your research without worrying whether Scorpius is well taken care of."

"I'll think about it," Hermione replied, grateful for the understanding. "Maybe I'll ask Scorpius first what he thinks. I don't know if I'm doing the right thing, but I'm trying... I'm trying to give him a sense that he has some control over what's happening. Draco always emphasized how important it is to treat him seriously."

Harry smiled slightly.

"He's a good father, isn't he?" he asked, nodding toward Draco.

She felt tears coming to her eyes again.

"The best," she answered simply. "Better than anyone could have expected."

The door to the room opened abruptly, interrupting their conversation. James burst in, pulling Scorpius along. Both boys were laughing, and Scorpius's cheeks were slightly flushed with excitement—a sight so rare in recent weeks that Hermione's heart momentarily stopped. Scorpius ran straight to her.

"James showed me how to change the nurse's hair color! It was all blue!"

"And then we ran from the head doctor," James added proudly. "But he didn't catch us because I know a secret corridor behind the portrait of that witch with the cauldron."

Hermione caught the boy and pulled him onto her lap, tickling him lightly.

"I see you had a good time," she said, enjoying the sound of his laughter. "Does that mean James is a bad influence on you?"

Scorpius giggled, trying to escape her grasp, but suddenly his gaze fell on the bed. His laughter cut off immediately, and the smile disappeared from his face, replaced by an expression of concern.

"Is Daddy still sleeping?" he asked quietly.

She stroked his hair, hugging him tighter.

"Yes, darling," she answered gently. "But everything is all right. Daddy needs a lot of rest to get better."

Scorpius nodded, but didn't look convinced. His silver eyes stared intensely at Draco's pale face, as if trying to wake him by sheer force of will.

"You know what?" she asked, exchanging a quick glance with Ginny. "James would probably like to go for ice cream at Fortescue's. Maybe you'd like to go with them? Just for a little while?"

Scorpius hesitated, his gaze moving between her and Draco.

"What if Daddy wakes up when I'm not here?" he asked.

"I promise that as soon as Daddy wakes up, I'll let you know right away and you'll come back here," she assured him.

Scorpius still looked unconvinced. James came closer, standing next to them.

"They have pumpkin flavor," he said in a conspiratorial whisper. "And one that changes your tongue's color. And you can get sprinkles that move. Or ones that bounce."

Scorpius's eyes widened slightly, interest battling concern in them.

"And then we'll go to my uncle George's!" James encouraged him. "He has things there they don't show to children, but he always lets me into the back room."

This apparently tipped the scales. Scorpius looked at Hermione questioningly.

"Can I?" he asked quietly.

"Of course, darling," she replied, feeling a mixture of relief and sadness. "Just bring back something funny for Daddy, okay? Something that will make him laugh when he wakes up."

"I know!" he said with sudden enthusiasm. "Those candies that change your voice? Daddy always laughs when I pretend to be a dragon."

"That's an excellent idea," she agreed, kissing the top of his head.

Before he left, he went to his father's bed and gently touched his hand.

"I'll be back soon, Daddy," he said quietly. "And I'll bring you a surprise."

Harry placed a hand on Hermione's shoulder.

"We'll take care of him," he said. "Don't worry. And let us know if there's any... progress."

Ginny nodded, giving her an encouraging smile.

"Get some rest," she added. "You look like you haven't slept in a week."

A moment later, the door closed behind them, and Hermione was left alone with Draco. The silence that fell was almost tangible—interrupted only by the steady beeping of magical monitors and distant sounds from the hospital corridor.

Despite the exhaustion that weighed on her shoulders like a physical burden, she drew her wand and cast a diagnostic spell. Above Draco's body appeared a complex network of light lines—some pulsing with a golden glow, others having a worrying reddish tint. She analyzed them carefully, looking for any changes. When she found nothing alarming—neither improvement nor deterioration—she put away her wand and allowed herself a moment of weakness.

Carefully, so as not to disturb any of the magical monitors, she moved closer and laid her head on his shoulder. She felt the warmth of his body against her cheek—one of the few signs that life was still in him. With her free hand, she took his hand, intertwining their fingers, as if this connection could somehow transfer her strength to him.

"You have to come back to us," she whispered, her voice barely audible even in the quiet of the room. "Scorpius needs you more than ever. I need you more than ever."

She closed her eyes, feeling fatigue enveloping her completely. She hadn't slept for almost two days, and every muscle in her body begged for rest. But she couldn't sleep, couldn't leave him.

"You can't leave us now," she continued quietly, moving her thumb over the back of his hand. "We still have so much to do, so much to experience together."

A tear ran down her cheek and soaked into the bedding.

"Scorpius is trying so hard to be brave. He reminds me of you, you know? He has that same determination in his eyes. That same pride."

She felt her eyelids growing heavier. Fatigue was washing over her in waves, becoming increasingly difficult to resist. She fought against drowsiness, trying to focus on the warmth of his body, on the sound of his breathing, on everything that confirmed he was still with her.

"I won't give up," she whispered, her voice becoming increasingly sleepy. "I won't give up until I find a way to heal you. I promise."

Her eyes closed involuntarily, and her breathing evened out as she fell into a restless sleep, still clutching his hand as if it were the only thing keeping him alive.

She was awakened by a gentle touch on her hair. She jerked up abruptly, disoriented and frightened. She looked around the room and saw that night had fallen outside the windows—magical lamps in the room had lit automatically, casting a warm, subdued light on the walls.

She looked at Draco and her heart beat faster. His hand, the same one she had been holding earlier, now rested on her hair. His fingers moved slightly, stroking her in his sleep. His eyes remained closed, and his breathing was still even and deep, but something had changed—as if part of his consciousness had returned, even if he wasn't yet fully awake.

Suddenly panicked, she looked at the clock on the wall. It was almost midnight.

Only then did she notice the envelope lying on the bedside table. Her name was written in Ginny's familiar, rounded handwriting. She opened it hastily, pulling out a sheet of parchment.

"Hermione,

Don't worry about Scorpius—the boys ate so many ice creams and magical chocolates at George's shop that they barely made it home. James showed Scorpius his collection of miniature dragons, and then they both fell asleep on the living room sofa, surrounded by candy boxes and toys. They look so sweet that I don't have the heart to wake them.

Hang in there, Hermione. You're not alone.

Ginny"

She put down the letter, feeling some of the tension leave her. At least Scorpius was safe and, more importantly, having a good time.

She looked again at Draco, whose fingers still rested in her hair. She gently took his hand and pressed it to her cheek.

"Can you hear me?" she whispered. "Do you somehow know I'm here?"

As she spoke these words, she noticed a subtle movement. His eyelids, which had remained motionless for so long, began to tremble. She held her breath, afraid to move, afraid to even hope.

Slowly, so slowly that she was almost unsure if it was really happening, his eyelids began to part. At first just a little, revealing a narrow strip of silver-gray irises. Then a bit wider, though it was evident that it cost him enormous effort.

She leaned over him, her heart beating so hard that she was sure he must hear it.

"Draco?" she whispered, her voice trembling with suppressed emotions.

His eyes opened wider, though he was clearly struggling with exhaustion. For a moment he seemed disoriented, his gaze wandering around the room, not focusing on anything specific. Then his gaze stopped on her face, and suddenly there was awareness in it—so clear that Hermione felt tears coming to her eyes.

"Hermione," he whispered, his voice hoarse and weak from disuse. "What..."

He broke off, wincing slightly, as if speaking caused him pain. She immediately reached for the glass of water standing on the bedside table. Carefully, she lifted his head and brought the glass to his parched lips. He drank slowly, with visible effort.

"You're in St. Mungo's," she said quietly when he finished drinking. "You had... an attack. The curse. Do you remember anything?"

"We were in... in the garden," he finally said, his voice somewhat stronger. "And then... at home. Scorpius..."

Suddenly concern appeared in his eyes, and he tried to sit up.

"Scorpius? Where is he? Did he see..."

"Shh, easy," she gently placed her hand on his chest, preventing him from making a sudden movement. "Scorpius is safe. He's with Harry and Ginny."

He fell back onto the pillows, clearly exhausted even by this brief effort. His breathing became shallower, and his forehead was covered with beads of sweat. He opened his mouth as if to say something, but instead of words, a dry, broken cough emerged from his throat.

She immediately reached for the glass of water, but he turned his head away, his body shaken by spasms of coughing. He covered his mouth with his hand, and when he removed it after another attack, crimson streaks of fresh blood were visible on his pale skin.

She quickly assessed the situation, her healer's mind immediately switching to professional mode.

"Easy," she said. "Those are just remnants from yesterday's attack. Don't wipe it off."

She reached for her wand and conjured a small crystal vial. She carefully collected a few drops of blood from his hand.

"I need a sample," she explained, seeing his questioning look. "I want to check if anything has changed."

She put the vial down and reached into her bag, which she always kept with her. She pulled out a small bottle with a dark blue potion.

"This will help with the cough," she said, measuring a dose. "And ease the pain in your chest. But first..."

She made a complicated motion with her wand, casting a diagnostic spell much more complex than those she had used earlier. Above Draco's body appeared a three-dimensional projection of his respiratory system. Hermione studied the image carefully, her eyes narrowed in concentration.

"Better than I expected," she said after a moment. "The potions you've been receiving while unconscious have helped repair most of the damage. But we still need to be careful."

She gave him the potion, helping him lift his head. He drank it obediently, wincing slightly at the bitter taste.

"Better?" she asked when his breathing became deeper and less painful.

"Yes," he replied, his voice still weak but clearer. "Thank you."

Suddenly she became serious, and a shadow of guilt appeared in her eyes. She sat on the edge of the bed, squeezing his hand.

"Draco," she began, her voice trembling slightly. "All this... this attack... it's my fault."

He frowned, looking at her questioningly.

"That new, strengthened potion I gave you," she continued, the words flowing from her like a torrent. "We believe it's what caused the deterioration. That some ingredients might have reacted with the curse and strengthened it, right after temporarily weakening it. I'm sorry, so very sorry. I shouldn't have experimented, shouldn't have taken risks. I thought it would help, that you could function normally for longer, and instead I almost killed you."

He looked at her for a long moment, his eyes tired but full of understanding.

"Darling," he said quietly, his voice still hoarse. "We both know I'm dying anyway."

These words, spoken so simply and without emotion, made her freeze.

"Don't say that," she whispered.

"It's true," he continued. "Every potion, every spell just delays the inevitable. At least you tried. At least... at least you gave me hope."

He raised his hand, though it cost him visible effort, and touched her cheek.

"And thanks to you, I had that one evening in the garden," he added with a slight smile. "A beautiful evening I'll remember forever. Or at least as long as I have left."

Chapter 23

Draco had to spend a whole week in St. Mungo's before he was even able to get out of bed without help. Each day brought small progress—first he could sit up, then stand, finally walk a few steps around the room, leaning heavily on her shoulder. Hermione was with him almost without interruption, returning to Cliff Manor only for a few hours to spend time with Scorpius, who, despite his new friendship with James, missed normal life.

When they could finally return home, another two weeks of intensive care began. She balanced between caring for Draco, looking after Scorpius, and feverishly studying every book, every treatise on rare curses she could obtain. She slept three or four hours a day, often falling asleep over books in the study, only to jerk awake in the middle of the night to check if Draco was breathing normally.

She felt less and less of herself remaining with each day. As if she were being stretched between too many needs, too many duties, and her own essence was dissolving, thinning, until at times she wasn't sure if she even existed beyond the roles she played—healer, caretaker, researcher.

Most painful, however, was realizing how wrong she had been all these years. She had been so convinced that it was her friends who had distanced themselves from her—busy with their families, careers, lives that were happening elsewhere, without her. Now, however, when she finally let them back into her world, she saw the truth: she had cut herself off from them.

She had built walls—first out of grief, then out of pride and jealousy, and finally out of a desperate need to control a situation that was slipping from her grasp with each day of the curse's progress. She had isolated herself, believing she would be stronger that way. Meanwhile, the truth turned out to be completely different—it was closeness that gave strength, it was sharing the burden with others that allowed one to survive.

Ginny, as if sensing this inner transformation, showed up at Cliff Manor every day, always with a warm lunch or dinner, despite Hermione's constant assurances that Fimble was perfectly capable in the kitchen and there was no such need.

"We have a house-elf, really," she repeated, as Ginny pulled out more containers full of fragrant food from her bag.

Sometimes she came with James, who immediately disappeared into the depths of the house, looking for Scorpius. To everyone's surprise, the boys, so different at first glance, had become inseparable friends. James pulled Scorpius out of his shell of shyness, and Scorpius introduced a bit of prudence to James's crazy ideas.

Just like today—Hermione and Ginny sat on the couch in the living room of Cliff Manor, sipping tea, while from Scorpius's room upstairs came bursts of laughter and mysterious whispers, which definitely didn't bode well for order in the house.

"How is he feeling today?" asked Ginny, nodding toward upstairs.

"Better," she replied, turning the teacup in her hands. "He ate a whole meal and even tried to play chess with Scorpius. But he tires quickly."

"And you? How are you feeling?"

From above came a particularly loud burst of laughter, and then something that sounded suspiciously like an explosion.

"It's not our fault!" Scorpius called out. "It just exploded!"

Hermione sighed, but a shadow of a smile appeared on her lips.

"At least someone in this house is having a good time," she said, shaking her head.

That night, long after Ginny and James had gone home, and Scorpius had finally fallen asleep, Hermione fell into a light, restless sleep beside Draco in their shared bed. Though she was exhausted after the whole day, her sleep was vigilant—part of her mind still listening to his breathing, ready to jump up at the slightest sign of trouble.

She was pulled from this sleep by a gentle touch. She opened her eyes, instantly alert, and discovered that Draco had moved closer to her, embracing her with his arm. His lips brushed her temple, then her cheek, seeking her lips.

"Draco?" she whispered, confused by this sudden display of affection in the middle of the night.

He kissed her—gently, but with intensity. More surprisingly, she didn't hear that terrible, wheezing breath that had accompanied him constantly since the attack, and to which, though reluctantly, she had already grown accustomed.

"It's such a beautiful night," he said, when he finally broke the kiss. His eyes sparkled in the half-darkness of the bedroom, lit only by moonlight coming through the tall windows. "We should go to the beach."

She looked at him as if he had lost his mind.

"You must be crazy," she replied, shaking her head. "It's the middle of the night. And probably freezing. You need to rest, not wander on beaches."

"Please," he insisted, and in his voice was a strange, almost desperate note. "I need this. I need... to feel alive again."

These words, spoken with such sincerity, made it impossible for her to refuse. Despite all the rational arguments, despite the fatigue and concerns about his condition, she knew he was right. He needed this—not as medicine for the body, but for the soul.

"All right," she finally agreed. "But we'll dress warmly. And if you feel worse at all, we're coming back immediately."

They dressed in warm coats and scarves. Hermione cast a warming spell on both of them, and then an additional one on their boots so they wouldn't get wet in the damp sand. Before they left, she checked on Scorpius's room, making sure the boy was sleeping peacefully.

The path to the beach led through the garden, and then down a narrow path down the cliff. Normally it would take maybe ten minutes, but now they walked much more slowly. Draco, despite his initial enthusiasm, quickly began to tire. Hermione put her arm around his waist, allowing him to lean on her.

"Are you sure you can make it?" she asked when he stopped to catch his breath.

"Yes," he replied firmly. "I want to do this. I must."

The night air was indeed freezing. The sea murmured dully below, and the moon, almost full, illuminated their path with a silver glow.

When they finally reached the beach, Draco seemed exhausted, but on his face was an expression of strange satisfaction, almost triumph. Hermione helped him sit on a large, flat rock right by the water's edge. She sat beside him, still supporting him with her arm.

Waves broke against the shore with a hypnotic rhythm, and the moon reflected in the water, creating a silver path leading to infinity. Draco was silent for a long moment, staring at the horizon, before finally embracing her and pulling her closer to himself.

"The last few weeks have given me a lot of time to think," he said quietly, his voice barely audible above the sound of the sea. "Especially since that attack."

She looked at him, seeing in his eyes an intensity she hadn't seen in a long time.

"Draco, if you're going to talk about giving up, then—"

"No," he interrupted her gently. "I want to talk about us. About you. About how much I love you and how much I regret that I can't show you that the way I would want to. I look at you every day," he continued, stroking her cheek. "I see how you sacrifice yourself for me. How you fight for every breath I take. And I..." his voice broke slightly, "...I can't even climb the stairs without help."

"That doesn't matter at all," she began, but he gently put his finger to her lips.

"It matters to me," he said. "I can't give you what you deserve. I can't promise you a future. I can't even promise tomorrow. You deserve someone who will be with you for decades, who will be able to love you with all their strength, not with the remnants left after a curse."

Hermione felt tears coming to her eyes.

"I don't want anyone else," she replied firmly. "I never have."

Draco looked at her for a long moment, his silver eyes shining in the moonlight. Slowly, he reached into the inner pocket of his coat and pulled out a single rose. It was perfectly red, its petals velvety, and the stem without thorns.

"When I was in St. Mungo's," he said quietly, "I thought about all the things I hadn't managed to tell you. About all the gestures for which there wasn't enough time."

He handed her the rose, and she accepted it with trembling fingers.

"In China, the number five hundred and twenty—five-two-zero—has a special meaning," he continued. "It's pronounced 'wǔ èr líng,' which sounds similar to 'wǒ ài nǐ'... 'I love you.' That's why May twentieth is the day for lovers there."

He moved closer.

"I would like to give you five hundred and twenty roses," he said, embracing her more tightly. "One for each 'I love you' that I should have said but didn't. For every moment when you were by my side, and I couldn't express how much it meant to me. I don't know how much time I have left, Hermione. But I promise you that if I can, you will receive all five hundred and twenty roses from me. Maybe not all at once, maybe one a day... but each one will say what I sometimes can't express in words."

Tears now flowed freely down her cheeks. She pressed the rose to her chest as if it were the most precious treasure.

"Draco..." she began, but the words caught in her throat.

"Even if this curse defeats me," he added more quietly, "I'll find a way for these flowers to reach you. All five hundred and twenty. That's my promise to you."

He raised her hand to his lips and kissed it gently.

They sat in each other's arms, listening to the rhythm of the waves and their own breathing. Draco, despite his fatigue, seemed calmer than he had been for weeks—as if the night air, the sound of the ocean, and her presence worked better for him than all the potions and spells.

"We should go back," she said at one point, feeling his arms trembling slightly from the cold. "You need to rest."

"Not yet," he replied, tightening his embrace. "I want to see the sunrise. With you."

She looked at him, ready to protest, but something in his eyes—that quiet determination she knew so well—made her just nod.

"In that case, we need a stronger warming spell," she said, pulling out her wand.

She conjured a blue flame, the same kind she used to create in her school days, and placed it in a glass jar that she transmuted from a stone. Warmth spread around them, creating a protective bubble against the cool November air.

Time flowed slowly, measured by the rhythmic beating of waves against the shore. They talked quietly—about Scorpius, about memories, about small, everyday things that suddenly seemed incredibly precious. Sometimes they were silent, simply enjoying each other's presence.

The sky over the horizon gradually began to change color—from deep navy blue to dark indigo, then to violet with pink streaks. The first rays of the sun broke through from behind the ocean line, illuminating the water with thousands of tiny sparks.

"Watch a sunrise over the ocean from a beach," Draco said, looking with a smile at the brightening sky. "I can cross another item off my list."

She looked at him in surprise.

"So that's why..." she began.

"Yes," he nodded. "But that wasn't the only reason. I wanted to spend this time with you. Just with you."

The sun had now emerged completely from behind the horizon, flooding the beach with golden light. The rays fell on their faces, giving Draco's skin a warmer hue, masking the paleness that had become his constant companion in recent weeks.

"Beautiful," she whispered, looking at the boundary of sky and water.

"Yes," he replied, but he wasn't looking at the sun. His eyes were focused on her face, on the way the light illuminated her hair, giving it a honey shade. "The most beautiful view in the world."

Finally, when the sun had completely detached from the horizon line, they slowly stood up. Draco was clearly exhausted, but his face showed peace and satisfaction. Leaning on her shoulder, he headed toward the cliff. He refused to apparate.

The return journey took them much longer than the descent. He had to rest every dozen steps, and the steep path up the cliff was quite a challenge for him. However, Hermione was patient, stopping with him, supporting him both physically and with her presence.

When they finally reached home, the sun was already high in the sky.

A week after their night trip to the beach, she began to notice subtle changes in Draco's behavior. He was leaving the bed more and more often—initially just for an hour or two, sitting in an armchair by the window, later for longer. Although he was still weak and worryingly pale, and every effort cost him more energy than ever before, he stubbornly got up every day, as if wanting to assure her that he hadn't given up and was still fighting.

Sometimes she found him in the study, bent over books—the same ones she studied at night, looking for a cure. Other times he sat trying to play the piano, though his fingers trembled too much to produce more than a few individual notes. But it was these small gestures, these quiet acts of resistance against the advancing curse, that gave her the hope she so desperately needed.

And every morning she woke up and found a new rose on her bedside table—fresh, perfect in its simplicity, lying where she could see it right after opening her eyes. Currently, she had eight of them, each exactly the same as the first one he had given her on the beach. She arranged them in a bouquet and put them in the wardrobe in the bedroom, adding a new one each day. She never asked how he managed to obtain them—whether he ordered them by owl, or perhaps Fimble brought them from a nearby town. She only knew that this daily, silent promise meant more to her than any words.

That afternoon, as she was working on a new potion in the makeshift laboratory she had set up in one of the rooms, she heard the characteristic crack of apparition, and then Scorpius's joyful voice coming from the hall. She wiped her hands on a towel and went out to meet him, smiling at the sight of the child jumping with excitement.

"Look!" he called out, extending his hand in front of him as soon as he saw her. Fimble stood beside him, clearly worried, his large ears drooping. "Lily bit me!"

Indeed, on his small hand was a red bite mark—nothing serious, but clear enough to raise her concern.

"Scorpius! What happened? Does it hurt? We need to disinfect it..."

"No, no!" he interrupted her, clearly proud of his "trophy." "It was awesome! We were playing dragons, and I was a Hungarian Horntail, and Lily wanted to catch me, I went RAAAAR! And then she bit me!"

She looked at Fimble, who immediately began to explain himself.

"Fimble is very, very sad! Fimble turned away only for a moment to help Mrs. Potter with the cake, and then the young masters and the young miss..."

"It's all right," she reassured him. "Children sometimes... well, bite each other."

"Where's Daddy?" Scorpius suddenly asked, looking around.

"In the study," she replied, taking his hand. "Come, we'll go to him together. But first let's clean that bite, okay?"

"But not with a spell!" the boy quickly stipulated. "James said that real warriors wear their scars with pride."

She sighed, but couldn't suppress a smile. A few weeks of friendship with James Potter and her quiet, shy Scorpius suddenly wanted to be a "real warrior."

"All right, no spell," she agreed. "But soap and water are mandatory."

When they entered the study, Draco was sitting at the desk, looking through some old books. At the sight of his son, his face lit up with a smile—that sincere, almost boyish smile he showed only to Scorpius.

"Daddy! Look!" he immediately ran to him, extending his hand. "Lily bit me! And now I'll have a scar like Uncle Harry!"

Draco raised his eyebrows, exchanging an amused look with Hermione.

"Should I be worried that your life plan is to collect scars like Potter?" he asked, pulling his son closer.

"Only cool scars," the boy replied seriously. "The ones from adventures."

Draco laughed, then looked at the bite.

"Lily Potter definitely has too many of her mother's traits," he stated, winking at Hermione. "But at least she didn't throw a Bat-Bogey Hex at you."

"A Bat-Bogey Hex?!" Scorpius's eyes widened with excitement.

"It's a long story," she replied, shaking her head. "But maybe your dad will tell it to you over dinner. Now, how about helping Fimble prepare the table? I think we can eat in the dining room today, not in your dad's bedroom. What do you think, Draco?"

"Actually," he replied, straightening slightly in his chair, "I have other plans for today."

She looked at him in surprise.

"What plans?" she asked cautiously.

"I promised Scorpius a trip to Diagon Alley."

"Diagon Alley?" she repeated in disbelief. "Draco, are you... do you feel well enough to go out? It's a big effort, and you've only just started getting out of bed."

Scorpius, who was already by the door, turned abruptly, his face brightened by a wide smile.

"Really, Daddy? We're really going to Diagon Alley? Today?"

He nodded, not taking his eyes off Hermione.

"Yes, I feel well enough," he said firmly. "It's something I have to do. Something I promised."

"In that case, I'll go with you," she replied, no longer trying to protest. She knew how important this was for him—not just fulfilling a promise to his son, but also completing his own list, proving to himself that he could still do this, could still be the father Scorpius needed.

An hour later, the three of them were standing on Diagon Alley. Draco wore an elegant black coat that masked his emaciated figure, and his hair was carefully styled. If not for the unhealthy paleness of his skin and the shadows under his eyes, no one would have guessed how seriously ill he was. Scorpius was jumping with excitement, holding both their hands and looking around in wonder.

"Where are we going first?" he asked, pulling them first one way, then another. "To the broom shop? Or to James's uncle?"

"We have a special destination today," Draco replied, leading them with a sure step through the crowded street.

Hermione noticed that he was walking more slowly than usual, conserving his strength, but still with the same aristocratic grace that had always characterized him. Occasionally he leaned a bit more heavily on her arm, but he did it so discreetly that no casual observer would have noticed.

To her surprise, he stopped in front of a narrow, unassuming shop with a faded sign: "Ollivanders – Makers of Fine Wands since 382 B.C."

"Ollivander?" she asked quietly, not wanting Scorpius to hear her surprise. "Draco, he's only five years old."

"I know," he replied just as quietly. "But I still want him to experience this. With me."

She understood. This wasn't about the practical need for a wand—Scorpius wouldn't be able to use it for years. It was about the memory. About a moment that should be part of every father and son's experience in the wizarding world. A moment that Draco might not live to see if they waited until Scorpius's eleventh birthday.

The boy looked at the sign with confusion.

"What is this place, Daddy?" he asked, moving closer.

"This, Dragon," he replied seriously, "is the most important shop for every wizard. This is where you'll get your first wand."

The boy's eyes widened like saucers.

"My wand? Really? But... but I'm not going to Hogwarts yet."

"It's a special wand," he explained, crouching to look his son in the eyes, even though this effort cost him visible pain. "For now, you'll just have it, learn to take care of it. And you'll start using it when you're older."

They entered the shop, and a small bell above the door rang softly, announcing their arrival. The interior looked exactly as Hermione remembered it from her eleventh birthday—narrow, dusty, with thousands of long, thin boxes stacked up to the ceiling. The air was thick with magic, which seemed to vibrate in every corner of the room.

From the shadows at the end of the shop emerged the figure of the old wandmaker. Ollivander was even more wrinkled than when she had last seen him, but his silver eyes remained just as penetrating.

"Ah," he said quietly, looking at them with interest. "Mr. Malfoy. Hawthorn and unicorn hair, ten inches, reasonably pliant, if I remember correctly."

Draco nodded.

"Exactly so, Mr. Ollivander."

The old wandmaker shifted his gaze to Hermione.

"And Miss Granger. Vine and dragon heartstring, ten and three-quarter inches." His gaze slid to Scorpius, who stood between them, clutching their hands. "I didn't expect to see you with a son so soon, Miss Granger. Time flows faster than we think."

Hermione opened her mouth, instinctively wanting to explain that Scorpius wasn't her biological son, that he was Draco and Astoria's son, that she was just... but the words caught in her throat. She looked at the boy, at his light hair and gray eyes, so similar to Draco's, at his small face that brightened when he smiled.

"These are... special circumstances," she finally replied with a smile, not correcting the old man's mistake.

Draco looked at her with something that could only be gratitude and deep emotion.

"Indeed, special," Ollivander agreed, examining them carefully. "You've come for a wand for the boy?"

"Yes," he confirmed. "I know he's still very young, but I'd like him to learn respect for magic now. The wand will be kept safely until he's ready to use it."

Ollivander nodded, though something flashed in his eyes suggesting he understood more than had been said.

"I understand," he said quietly. "Some things cannot wait."

Scorpius watched the exchange with a mixture of fascination and impatience, clearly excited about the prospect of his own wand.

"How do you know which wand will be good?" he finally asked, unable to contain himself.

The old wandmaker smiled, and his face brightened for a moment.

"It is not I who choose, young man," he replied. "The wand chooses the wizard. Always."

When they left Ollivander's shop an hour later, Scorpius was clutching in his hands a long, narrow box with his first wand. Larch and unicorn tail hair, nine and a half inches, unusually pliant—as Ollivander stated, a wand perfect for a pure soul with great potential. The boy was beaming with pride, and his eyes sparkled as he kept glancing at the box, as if he couldn't believe it really belonged to him.

"Be careful, it's not a toy," Draco reminded him, though there was no sternness in his voice, only warm concern.

"I know, Daddy," Scorpius replied seriously. "I'll take good care of it."

"And now," said Draco, exchanging glances with Hermione, "how about a small celebration? The day of your first wand is an important event."

Scorpius jumped with joy, and Draco, though clearly tired after an hour spent in the shop, smiled at the sight.

They headed to the Leaky Cauldron, which had undergone a thorough renovation after the war and had become a cozier, though still somewhat shabby establishment. When they entered, several heads turned in their direction—Draco Malfoy, Hermione Granger, and a small boy between them were still an unusual sight—but they quickly returned to their conversations and drinks.

They found a table in the corner, partially shielded from the rest of the room. Draco sank into a chair with barely concealed relief, but his face betrayed neither pain nor fatigue as he watched his son, who was excitedly recounting all the wands he had tried before finding the right one, even though they had stood beside him and seen everything.

"...and then that first one went BOOM! And all the boxes fell down! And then the second one just smoked a little, but Mr. Ollivander took it away anyway. And only the third one, my one, when I took it, I felt such warmth and such light, as if someone had lit a candle in my heart!"

They ordered two butterbeers for themselves and hot chocolate with whipped cream for Scorpius, who immediately had a foam mustache after his first sip.

Hermione looked at them—at Draco, whose face, despite its paleness and fatigue, brightened when he looked at his son; at Scorpius, who was gesturing animatedly, talking about his new wand; at the other patrons in the pub, who were eating, drinking, laughing, not worrying about tomorrow. And for the first time in a very long time, she felt... normal.

She wasn't a healer desperately searching for a cure for an incurable curse. She wasn't a caretaker balancing between caring for a dying partner and a child's needs. She was simply a woman on a family outing, enjoying the moment with the people she loved.

Draco must have noticed something in her expression, because he reached across the table and squeezed her hand.

"What are you thinking about?" he asked quietly, while Scorpius was busy watching a group of goblins sitting at a nearby table.

"About how much I needed this," she replied honestly. "This normal day. This feeling that we're just a family going out for butterbeer after shopping."

His fingers tightened on her hand.

"Me too," he admitted, and something that could only be longing flashed in his eyes. "I wish there could be more days like this."

He didn't say it aloud, but they both knew what he meant: he wished there could be more days like this, but he didn't know how many he had left.

"There will be," she replied with determination that she only partially felt. "I'll find a way, Draco. I promise."

He didn't have time to respond because suddenly a man appeared at their table. He staggered slightly, grabbing the edge of the table for balance. He looked terribly unkempt—wrinkled robes, several days' growth of beard, bloodshot eyes. The stench of whiskey surrounded him like an aura. The man blinked several times, as if trying to focus his vision, and then pointed a trembling finger straight at Draco.

"Malfoy," he spat out, his voice hoarse and full of venom.

Hermione looked at him more carefully and only then recognized him. Terrence Hawkins. In his eyes lurked anger that made her instinctively move closer to Scorpius.

"You... you..." Terrence slurred, still pointing his finger at Draco, who sat upright, his face expressionless. "You fucking Death Eater. You think... that you can just live like this? After everything? After... after what your family did? What you did to me?"

Scorpius pressed deeper into his chair, his eyes widening with fear. Hermione placed her hand on his shoulder in a protective gesture.

"Mr. Hawkins," she said calmly, though her heart was beating fast. "You're drunk. Please leave."

The man shifted his bleary gaze to her.

"And you..." he hissed. "You with him... after everything... with the bloody Malfoy!"

"I advise you to leave," said Draco, his voice cold and controlled, but Hermione could see the tension in his jaw, in the way his hand rested on the table, ready to reach for his wand. "My son doesn't need to hear this."

"Son?" Terrence laughed hoarsely. "More like a little Death Eater in training! Let me tell you something, kid, your father is—"

"ENOUGH!" Tom's voice, the owner of the Leaky Cauldron, cut across the room. He approached their table with quick steps. "Hawkins, get out of here. Now. We no longer serve drunk customers who harass other guests."

"You'll regret this, Malfoy," Terrence hissed as Tom grabbed his arm and began dragging him toward the exit. "Everyone will hear about this... everyone! I'll destroy you, I swear!"

His shouts gradually faded as the owner led him out of the pub. An awkward silence fell in the room for a moment, and then conversations slowly returned to their normal level, though several people still glanced in their direction.

"Who was that, Daddy?" Scorpius asked quietly, his voice trembling slightly, and his eyes glistening with tears that he stubbornly refused to shed.

Draco looked at his son, and his face softened.

"No one important," he replied calmly. "Just a madman."

Chapter 24

The trip to Diagon Alley turned out to be a turning point—but not in the way Hermione had hoped. From that day on, Draco's condition deteriorated rapidly, as if that last demonstration of strength, that last act of normalcy had completely exhausted his magical and physical reserves.

The potions that had previously allowed him to function for most of the day now lasted barely an hour. She brewed them increasingly stronger, but the effect remained the same—brief improvement, then a sharp decline. The rest of the time she had to rely on spells—pain-relieving, reducing numbness, stabilizing his magical core. But magic could only mask the symptoms, not stop the progression of the curse.

Draco now spent entire days in bed. Even sitting in an armchair had become too exhausting. His limbs would go numb in turns—sometimes his left arm, sometimes his right leg, and sometimes all at once, as if his body was gradually shutting down, system by system. She could see the panic in his eyes when he lost feeling in his fingers, not knowing whether it would return this time or if this was the end.

Worst were the headaches—piercing, unbearable. During these attacks, he would scream, curl up into a ball, and she could only hold his hand, casting spell after spell, trying to bring even a little relief.

Nights were even worse. Sometimes he would wake up disoriented, calling for his mother. "Mother? Mother, are you here?" His voice in these moments was that of a small boy, lost and frightened. She would sit with him then, stroking his hair, whispering soothing words, not having the heart to remind him that Narcissa had been dead for years. In the morning, he usually didn't remember these episodes, and she didn't mention them, sparing him the humiliation.

Scorpius sensed the change—of course he did. He became quieter, more serious. He stopped bringing James over, as if instinctively feeling that the house was now filled with something too heavy, too personal to share with anyone outside the family. He spent hours by his father's bedside, showing him pictures in books about dragons and magical creatures, or simply sitting beside him, drawing in his sketchbook. Draco tried for him—he smiled, listened, asked questions, though sometimes in the middle of a sentence he would lose his train of thought, and his eyes would become vacant.

Hermione knew he was dying. She knew it on an intellectual, scientific level—every symptom, every test, every diagnostic confirmed what she feared most. But emotionally? She couldn't accept it. She couldn't accept that the man she loved, whom she had promised to protect and heal, was slipping through her fingers like water.

So she worked even more intensively. She spent whole nights in her laboratory, reading old texts, experimenting with new combinations of ingredients, consulting with every healer, mediwizard, and potions master who would speak with her. But after the incident with the stronger potion that had nearly killed Draco, she was afraid to experiment directly on him. Every dose, every drop could bring relief—or hasten his end. It was a responsibility whose weight robbed her of sleep, appetite, and any hope for normalcy.

She therefore stuck to proven methods, which worked increasingly poorly, and continued research that was perhaps already too late. And Draco grew weaker with each day, with each hour, with each breath that seemed to cost him more and more effort.

The only constant in all this were the roses. Despite Draco no longer being able to get out of bed, despite his hands sometimes trembling too much to hold a wand—every morning, a new, fresh rose appeared. She didn't ask how he managed it. Maybe Fimble helped, maybe he used the last remnants of his magic to fulfill his promise. She counted them quietly, arranging them in vases around the room—thirty-seven, thirty-eight, thirty-nine... Each was a promise of love whose time was increasingly running out.

That evening, after Scorpius had fallen asleep, she lay beside Draco in their shared bed. She wasn't reading, wasn't reviewing notes—she was simply with him, listening to his breathing, to the beating of his heart. Her fingers gently combed through his hair, now thinner and duller than ever before. She moved her lips over his temple, then his cheek, inhaling his scent, which despite his illness was still so familiar, so soothing.

His skin was pale, almost transparent, as if light were shining through it from within. He had deep shadows under his eyes, and his cheekbones stood out more prominently than ever. And yet to her he was still handsome—his features noble, his profile aristocratic, and his eyes, when he opened them, full of intelligence and that special, particular tenderness he had only for her.

"What are you thinking about?" she asked quietly, tracing the shape of his eyebrow with her finger.

He opened his eyes, and a slight smile appeared on his lips.

"That I never took you on a spontaneous date," he replied, his voice quiet but clear.

Hermione raised her eyebrows in surprise.

"What do you mean? We went on a date. Two, if you count the night of the exhibition at the Museum."

"No," he shook his head slightly. "We went on dates, but they were always planned. It was always... practical. Logistics. Schedule. There was never that... spontaneity. That feeling that the whole evening exists just to enchant you."

Hermione wanted to protest, but she knew he was right. Their relationship had developed so quickly, moving from cautious friendship straight to deep, intense closeness, that the stage of romantic courtship, flowers and candles, flirtatious glances and butterflies in the stomach, had been almost completely skipped.

"Let's go now," he said suddenly, with a sudden energy that completely surprised her. "Now, at this moment."

"Now?" she looked at him, not hiding her astonishment. "Draco, it's almost midnight."

"So what?" He smiled, and in his eyes appeared that old spark, that shadow of the former Malfoy, whose arrogance and confidence had always simultaneously irritated and fascinated her. "We're wizards, Granger. The world is ours."

"Draco, we can stay home, prepare something special here," she tried to argue, though she knew the tone of her voice already betrayed resignation.

"No," he shook his head stubbornly. "I want to take you on a date. Outside these walls. Even if it's the last thing I do."

She looked at him, seeing both determination in his eyes and the trembling of his hands, the paleness of his skin, the sweat on his forehead from the mere effort of sitting up. He was so weak that even walking to the bathroom was a challenge for him. And yet... that spark in his eyes, that shadow of the former Draco whom she loved so much—how could she refuse him?

"All right," she finally agreed. "But only for a short while. And if you feel worse, we come back immediately."

With difficulty, he rose from the bed, leaning heavily on her shoulder. Getting dressed took them almost half an hour—every button, every spell on his coat was a struggle. But he didn't complain, didn't give up. When they finally stood at the door, he in a black coat that now hung loosely on his emaciated figure, she in a warm sweater and autumn coat, she felt both pride in his willpower and terrifying fear that this effort might cost him too much.

"Ready?" he asked, extending his hand to her.

"Are you sure you want to do this?" she asked one last time.

"More than anything else," he replied with that half-smile she loved so much.

She opened the door, and the spring, but still cool air hit their faces. The sky was dark, cloudy, and the wind carried the scent of an approaching storm. They carefully descended the stairs—Draco leaned heavily on her arm, and each step clearly cost him much effort.

They had taken only a dozen steps along the path toward the garden when the first drops of rain began to fall from the sky. Initially, these were just individual, cold touches on the skin, but within seconds they developed into a real downpour.

"Let's go back," she said, feeling her sweater beginning to soak through.

Draco didn't answer. He stood motionless, his face raised toward the sky, allowing the raindrops to flow down his cheeks, mixing with tears he didn't even try to hide.

"I can't..." he finally whispered, his voice barely audible through the sound of the rain. "I have no more strength."

She felt her heart tighten in her chest. She embraced him more firmly, supporting him as his legs began to tremble.

"Come, we'll go back to the house," she said gently.

"No," he shook his head, water flowing from his hair, turning it into dark strands clinging to his skin. "Just a moment longer. Please."

And so they stood together in the rain—she supporting him, he with his face raised to the sky, both soaked to the skin. The rain fell harder, and the wind intensified, bringing from the sea the smell of salt and freedom.

She looked at his face—at his closed eyes, at the raindrops flowing down his pale cheeks, at the gentle smile that appeared on his lips. He looked different than he had for the past few weeks—as if each raindrop washed away part of the pain, part of the fear he carried within himself. For that brief moment, he seemed almost free.

"I always liked the rain," he said quietly, not opening his eyes. "At Hogwarts, I sometimes sneaked out to the grounds during storms. No one looked for me outside then."

She moved closer, embracing him more tightly when his body trembled—she wasn't sure if from cold or emotion.

"You never told me that," she replied, allowing the rain to flow down her face, over her hair, which now clung to her skin in wet spirals.

"There are many things I haven't told you," he replied, opening his eyes and looking at her with an intensity that took her breath away. "I always thought we had time."

These words hung between them—heavy with meaning, with unspoken regrets and promises that might never be fulfilled. The wind intensified, bringing with it another wave of rain, but neither of them moved to return to the house.

Instead, Draco extended his hand to her in an inviting gesture.

"Will you dance with me?" he asked, and in his voice was that old confidence that she had missed so much.

"Here? Now?" she asked in disbelief, looking at his trembling legs, at the effort with which he kept himself upright.

"Right here. Right now," he confirmed. "Without music. Without an audience. Without magic. Just you and me."

She took his hand, and he pulled her closer, placing his other hand on her waist. It wasn't real dancing—they barely swayed in place, she supporting most of his weight, he fighting with his own body to remain upright. But his eyes never left her face, and in his touch was a tenderness that made nothing else matter.

The rain hit the ground around them rhythmically, creating its own music—music of passing, of change, of life that flows regardless of our plans and hopes. Hermione moved closer, resting her head on his shoulder, and his hand moved to her back, pressing her more firmly to his body.

Suddenly she felt him begin to shake. At first she thought it was from the cold—they were, after all, soaked to the skin. But it was something more, something deeper. The trembling grew until his entire body was shaking in her arms.

"Draco?" she asked with concern, moving back slightly to look at his face.

His eyes were wide open, full of pain that wasn't physical. Before she could react, his legs gave way beneath him. He fell to his knees in the wet earth, pulling her with him.

"Draco!" she cried, trying to support him, but it was too late.

He knelt in the mud, his head lowered, and his shoulders trembled with suppressed sobs. The rain flowed down his face, mixing with tears that now flowed freely.

"I don't want to die," he whispered, and his voice was so broken, so raw in its honesty, that Hermione felt her own heart breaking into a thousand pieces. "Merlin, I so much don't want to die."

She knelt beside him, embracing him with her arms, pressing his head to her chest.

"I know," she whispered, stroking his wet hair. "I know, darling."

"But I understand," he continued, his voice breaking with every word. "I understand that this is my punishment. For everything I did. For everyone who lost their lives because of me."

"No," she shook her head, hugging him tighter. "It's not punishment, it's just..."

"It is punishment," he interrupted her bitterly. "And I deserved it. But now..." he raised his face, looking at her with eyes full of pain and desperation, "now, when I have something worth living for, when I have you and Scorpius... now I have to leave."

His hands tightened on her shoulders, as if he were holding onto her like the last anchor in a world that was slowly taking him away.

"Don't take me yet," he whispered, though they both knew these words weren't directed at her. "Please, give me a little more time with them."

She didn't try to hold back her own tears, which now flowed freely, mixing with the rain. She hugged him tighter, rocking him gently in her arms, like a child who needs comfort after a nightmare.

"We're here," she whispered, kissing his forehead, his temples, his cheeks wet from rain and tears. "We're here and we love you. And you're not alone, do you hear? You're not alone."

They knelt like that in the rain—a man breaking under the weight of fear and grief, a woman holding him in her arms, as if by the sheer force of her love she could keep him in this world. Around them, the rain slowly subsided, and in the gaps between the clouds, the first stars began to break through, indifferent to the human dramas unfolding beneath their cold light.

After that night, Draco didn't leave his bed again. For the next two weeks, his condition deteriorated systematically—increasingly frequent attacks of pain, longer periods of disorientation, moments when he didn't even recognize Hermione. Potions stopped working almost completely, and spells brought relief for increasingly shorter periods.

He spent most of his lucid moments with Scorpius. He told him stories about Hogwarts, about Quidditch, about childhood adventures—stories full of magic and devoid of the dark aspects that had filled his youth. Sometimes he taught him simple spells, though he could no longer demonstrate them himself, or the basics of potions that the boy might someday brew. Scorpius listened to him attentively, his small hands often holding his father's hand, as if instinctively feeling that these moments were precious, that they should be preserved as long as possible.

Hermione worked almost without interruption, shutting herself in her laboratory for long hours. She had the germ of an idea. It was a dangerous, experimental type of magic, on the border of what the Ministry considered permissible, but she didn't care. Not now, when time was running out so quickly.

However, she didn't mention it to Draco. She didn't want to give him false hope, not when she wasn't sure if she would manage to refine her research in time. Was it even possible to create something that could outsmart a curse at such an advanced stage? And even if so—was Draco's body still strong enough to survive the process?

That afternoon, when James Potter returned home after spending a few hours with Scorpius, Hermione was cleaning the living room, which resembled a battlefield after their play. Miniature dragons, blocks, books, chocolate frog boxes, and other sweets—absolute chaos was everywhere. Scorpius, like a child, unconcerned with the mess, immediately ran upstairs to his father, wanting to show him a new trick James had taught him.

Hermione didn't have the heart to stop him. Instead, she mechanically collected toys, arranged books on shelves, ordered what she could order, while the world around her fell to pieces. There was something therapeutic in it—controlling at least this small section of reality, when the rest was slipping through her fingers.

She was just picking up a miniature Hungarian Horntail that had gotten tangled in the carpet fringe when she heard a knock at the door. She froze, listening. The knocking repeated—firm, impatient.

It couldn't be any of the Potters—they always came through the fireplace, sometimes even without warning, with such ease as if they were in their own home.

It could only be one person. Someone who never used the Floo network, who always observed the rules of etiquette, even when the world was falling apart.

Astoria.

The knocking sounded for the third time, even more insistent.

Hermione put down the dragon and slowly moved toward the door, her heart beating so hard that she could almost hear its pounding in her ears.

With her hand on the handle, she hesitated for a moment. Should she let her in?

The knocking became even more insistent, almost aggressive. Whoever stood on the other side had no intention of leaving. Hermione took a deep breath and opened the door, prepared for a confrontation with Draco's ex-wife.

What she saw made her freeze. Astoria wasn't alone. She was accompanied by two men—one in an elegant, dark suit, with a briefcase under his arm and a cold, appraising look; the other in official robes with the emblem of the Ministry of Magic, with the unpleasant expression of someone performing an unpleasant duty.

"Miss Granger," Astoria nodded with forced politeness. "I hope we're not disturbing."

"Astoria," she replied, not moving from the threshold. "I wasn't expecting you. Or your... company."

"This is Mr. Matthews, my lawyer," Astoria indicated the man in the suit, "and Mr. Higgins from the Ministry of Magic's Child Welfare Department."

Hermione felt the blood drain from her face. Child Welfare Department. A lawyer. This was not a social visit.

"What do you want?" she asked directly, her voice sharper than she had intended.

"We would like to see Mr. Malfoy," the lawyer answered for Astoria, taking a step forward. "We have information that his health has deteriorated rapidly. In connection with this, my client wishes to assess whether he is able to properly care for his son."

"Excuse me?" she couldn't believe what she was hearing.

"You don't have to let me in," Astoria replied with icy calm. "Mr. Higgins has authorization from the Ministry. He can enter without your consent and assess the situation. If he determines that Draco is unable to fulfill his parental duties due to illness, Scorpius will be temporarily placed in my care, as his mother."

"This is absurd," she shook her head, feeling rising panic. "Draco takes excellent care of Scorpius. Besides, I'm here too."

"But you're not his mother, are you?" Astoria raised an eyebrow. "You have no rights to this child. You're simply... a temporary caretaker."

These words hit Hermione like a slap. True, she wasn't Scorpius's biological mother. She had no legal rights. But she loved him like her own child, and he loved her. Didn't that matter?

"Mr. Malfoy is ill," the Ministry official spoke for the first time. "We have official reports from St. Mungo's. His condition is critical. In the best interest of the child, it is—"

"In the best interest of the child is to remain with the father who loves him," she interrupted. "Not with someone who abandoned him."

"That decision is not yours to make," the lawyer replied. "Now, may we see Mr. Malfoy?"

Hermione stood motionless for a moment, her mind working feverishly. She couldn't not let them in—they had Ministry authorization. But letting them in meant opening the door to potential disaster. Draco was too weak to face such a situation.

"I'll let you in," she finally said, opening the door wider. "But I warn you—any disturbance to Draco's peace could have serious consequences for his health."

She nervously adjusted her hair and led them through the hallway and up the stairs, her heart beating wildly. She stopped before the bedroom door and knocked softly.

"Draco? You have... visitors," she said, opening the door.

Draco lay in bed, his skin so pale it was almost transparent. His eyes were closed, and his breathing shallow and uneven. Beside him sat Scorpius, showing him something in a book about dragons. At the sight of strangers, the boy froze, instinctively moving closer to his father.

Draco opened his eyes with effort. For a moment he seemed disoriented, his gaze wandering over the faces in the room before stopping on Astoria. Something flashed across his face—recognition, surprise, and then a shadow of pain that had nothing to do with his physical suffering.

"Astoria," he whispered, his voice so weak they barely heard him.

"Draco," she replied coldly, moving closer to the bed. "You look... worse than I expected."

"Mr. Malfoy," the Ministry official spoke, pulling out an official-looking parchment. "I am here to assess whether you are able to care for your son in light of your deteriorating health condition."

Draco tried to sit up, but he was too weak. Instead, he extended a trembling hand toward Scorpius.

"He stays... with me," he said with effort, beads of sweat appearing on his forehead.

"I'm afraid that's impossible," the official replied, making notes on the parchment. "You are clearly incapable of caring for a child. Your ex-wife has filed a petition to restore her parental rights, which were temporarily suspended at her request several years ago."

"No," he shook his head, his eyes glittering feverishly. "Scorpius... Hermione..."

"Miss Granger has no rights to the child," the lawyer interjected. "She is neither the mother nor even a legal guardian. She has no legal connection to Mr. Malfoy."

"The Ministry rules that it is in the best interest of the child to return to his mother's care," the official continued, signing his signature on the document. "With immediate effect."

Astoria took a step toward Scorpius, who immediately jumped off the bed and ran to Hermione, grabbing her legs and pressing his face into her sweater.

"No!" he cried, his voice muffled by the material. "I don't want to go!"

Hermione felt her heart breaking and simultaneously filling with determination. She bent down and picked up Scorpius, despite him being almost too big to carry. His weight meant she had to exert herself, but she held him tightly, allowing him to bury his face in her neck.

"He's not going anywhere," she said firmly, looking straight into Astoria's eyes. "From what I know, you relinquished your parental rights. You signed documents clearly stating you didn't want this child. That you didn't want your son ."

"That's true," the lawyer admitted. "However, in a situation where the child has no other guardian, these rights can be restored. Mr. Malfoy is clearly incapable of care, and there is no one else who has legal rights to the child."

"There is someone else," she replied, her voice trembling with emotion but strong and certain. "Me."

She pressed Scorpius closer to herself, feeling his small body shaking with tears.

"I'll sign any document that's needed," she continued, tears streaming down her cheeks. "I'll submit to any inspection, any test. I'll do whatever is necessary. But Scorpius stays here, with me, with his father, in the only home he knows and loves."

"Hermione is right," suddenly came Draco's weak but determined voice. Everyone turned toward him. He was now sitting up in bed, supporting himself on trembling arms, his face drawn with pain, but his eyes burning with determination. "I've made Hermione the legal guardian of Scorpius in case of my death. The documents are with my lawyer, Blaise Zabini."

She tried not to show by her expression that she had no idea about this.

"Even if that's true," Astoria's lawyer replied, "it still doesn't give her rights while you're still alive."

"And what gives rights to a woman who abandoned her own child? What gives her the right, after years of absence, after years when she didn't care whether her son was alive, breathing, happy—to suddenly step in and take him away from the only people he loves?"

Scorpius tightened his arms around her neck, and she felt his tears soaking her collar. He was heavy, but she held him firmly, as if by the strength of her embrace alone she could ensure his safety.

"The legal issue is clear," Astoria's lawyer sounded almost bored. "Blood ties take precedence."

"Blood ties?" she laughed bitterly. "Are these the same blood ties that made her leave her child because she was afraid of a family curse? The same blood ties that meant she didn't send even one owl, one birthday present, one letter?"

Hermione took a step toward Astoria, still holding Scorpius tightly to herself.

"Let me make something clear," she said quietly, but each of her words was sharp as a knife. "If you take Scorpius from this home, today, when his father is fighting for his life, I swear on everything that's dear to me that I will devote every free moment, every breath, and every ounce of my intelligence to scrutinize your life, Astoria."

Draco's ex-wife froze, her eyes widening slightly.

"I will examine every document, every transaction, every relationship," Hermione continued, her voice becoming cooler, more methodical. "I will check every corner of your life until I find something that will make the Wizengamot declare you unfit to care for a child. And believe me, I will find it. I always find what I'm looking for."

Astoria's lawyer shifted uncomfortably, his confidence seeming to melt with every word from Hermione.

"And I won't be alone in this," she added, smiling slightly, but without a trace of cheerfulness. "Half the Auror Office owes me favors, including Harry Potter."

The lawyer swallowed loudly, looking nervously at his client.

"Mrs. Greengrass," he said quietly. "Perhaps we should consider a more... gradual approach. Suddenly removing the child from his environment could be traumatic, and that would certainly be used against us."

"No way," Astoria replied, though her voice no longer sounded so confident. "I have the right..."

"Of course you have the right," her lawyer interrupted, now clearly concerned. "But instead of escalating the situation, perhaps we could propose a transition period? Regular visits, gradually getting to know your son... Besides," the lawyer continued, even more quietly, "Miss Granger has... influence. The Ministry wouldn't necessarily want to stand against a war heroine in a case that could cause a media scandal. That could complicate matters."

Astoria looked at him in disbelief, and then shifted her gaze to Scorpius, who was still clinging to Hermione, and to Draco, who was watching the entire scene with an expression of exhaustion and pain on his face.

"I suggest," the lawyer cleared his throat, "that for today we refrain from immediately transferring the child. We can file a request to establish a visitation schedule that will allow Mrs. Greengrass to gradually build a relationship with her son, while respecting his emotional well-being."

"That sounds reasonable," the Ministry official agreed, clearly pleased with the possibility of finding a compromise. "That would be consistent with the latest Child Welfare Department guidelines, which emphasize the importance of emotional stability."

Astoria stood motionless, her face a mask of cold indifference, but Hermione noticed hesitation in her eyes. Whatever had brought her here after all these years—guilt, a sudden need for contact with her child, or perhaps just cold calculation—she was now clearly weighing her options.

"Fine," she said finally. "But I want a formal agreement. And regular reports on Draco's condition."

"Of course," her lawyer replied, not hiding his relief. "I'll prepare the documents."

The woman turned angrily and headed toward the door. Her lawyer and the Ministry official followed her, clearly pleased they had managed to avoid a confrontation.

When the door closed behind them, Hermione felt her legs give way with relief and exhaustion. She carefully sat on the edge of Draco's bed, still holding Scorpius, who now raised his head and looked at her with wide eyes.

"Will she take me away from you?" he asked quietly, his voice trembling.

"No," she replied firmly, kissing his forehead. "I will never allow that. I promise."

Draco looked at them with an expression of deep gratitude in his eyes. He extended a trembling hand to Hermione in a gesture of thanks, but before he could touch her, his body suddenly went still. His eyes closed, and his head fell limply onto the pillow. It was the beginning of the end.

For the next week, he did not regain consciousness. He lay in bed, his breathing becoming shallower, and his skin paler. Hermione was with him constantly, monitoring his condition, administering potions that no longer helped, casting spells that brought less and less relief. Scorpius came every day, sat beside his father, told him about his day. And Hermione watched them with her heart breaking into a thousand pieces, knowing it was only a matter of time before she lost the man she loved, and Scorpius lost the father who was his entire world.

Chapter 25

Hermione was convinced she would have more time. This thought she couldn't forgive herself for. She was the best healer in England, her achievements were known far beyond the country's borders, she had an Order of Merlin for breakthrough research on projectile curses—and yet she couldn't save the person she loved most in the world. This helplessness ate her from within, filling every minute of her vigil at his bedside with bitterness. At night, when Scorpius was already asleep, she allowed herself to cry quietly, blaming herself for every day wasted on research that proved useless, for every hour she could have spent with Draco instead of poring over books.

And when after a week, in the middle of the night, Draco suddenly opened his eyes and looked at her with full awareness for the first time in seven days, she hated herself even more. Because she wasted those precious ten minutes—ten minutes of his last moments of consciousness—sitting by his bed and crying. Instead of telling him everything she wanted to, instead of assuring him of her love, instead of promising to take care of Scorpius—she allowed tears to rob her of speech, sobs to shake her body, until he slipped back into unconsciousness.

He regained consciousness again after another week. She opened her eyes in the early morning, after a short nap in the armchair by his bed, and saw that he was looking at her—aware, present. She jumped up immediately, unable to hold back the tears that came to her eyes.

"Scorpius," she whispered, moving toward the door. "I need to bring Scorpius."

"Wait," his voice was barely audible, thin and weak like an old man's.

She stopped, torn between the need to bring his son, who so desperately wanted to say goodbye to his father, and Draco's desire to speak with her first. Finally, she returned to the bed, sitting on its edge and taking his hand in hers.

"I'm here," she said, trying to control the trembling in her voice.

"Hermione," he began, and each word cost him visible effort. "I need to tell you..."

"Save your strength," she interrupted him, stroking his hand. "Scorpius wants to see you so badly. I should call him before..."

"No," he shook his head slightly. "You first. Please."

She swallowed her tears and nodded, leaning closer to hear him better.

"Thank you," he said quietly. "For everything. For being... with me. For loving... Scorpius. For showing me what it's like... to be loved. Truly loved."

"Draco," her voice broke as she spoke his name.

"Don't cry," he asked, raising a trembling hand to wipe away her tear. "You've already... cried enough because of me."

"I'm sorry," she whispered. "I'm sorry I couldn't save you. I'm sorry I didn't find a cure. I'm sorry... If I had a little more time..."

"Shh," he interrupted her, placing his finger on her lips. "Don't apologize. You gave me more... than I could dream of. These last months... with you... were the best of my life."

She could no longer hold back the sob that shook her body. She pressed his hand to her cheek, feeling how cold it was compared to her skin, heated from crying.

"Promise me," he said, and in his eyes appeared a shadow of his former intensity. "Promise that you'll live... not just for Scorpius. For yourself too."

"How can I?" she asked through tears. "How can I, when you're taking... such a large part of me with you?"

"You must," he insisted. "You're... stronger than you think. You always were. And Scorpius... needs you. All of you. Not just... a shadow."

She nodded, not trusting her voice.

"And tell him," he continued, his breathing becoming increasingly uneven, "that I love him. More... than everything. Tell him that I'll always... be... with him. And with you."

"You'll tell him yourself," she replied, wiping away tears. "I'll get him now. He's waiting for you."

He nodded, closing his eyes for a moment, as if gathering his last remnants of strength.

"I love you," he said when he looked at her again. "I love you... so much that I can't... express it."

"I love you too," she whispered, leaning down to kiss him gently. "I always will."

She rose slowly, not wanting to leave him even for a moment, but knowing she had to bring Scorpius. At the door, she turned once more to look at him one last time.

"We'll be right back," she promised.

But when she returned with Scorpius just a few minutes later, Draco was unconscious again. His breathing was shallow, and his skin cold. Scorpius climbed onto the bed, cuddling up to his father, whispering in his ear all the things he wanted to tell him. And Hermione stood beside them, her heart heavy as stone, knowing that this had been their last conversation. That those words they had exchanged would have to last for all eternity.

For the next week, Draco did not wake up again.

She knew that the state he was in now was just prolonging the inevitable, that her spells and potions were merely keeping his body suspended between life and death. But she couldn't give up. She worked tirelessly, trying to perfect a combination of spells, potions, and rituals that might be safe for him, that might redirect the curse. She herself knew how desperate these attempts were—even under normal conditions, she would need at least a year for such research, hundreds of trials, consultations with other specialists. And now she had only these last, fleeting hours.

Ginny and Harry visited her several times, trying gently to convince her that she must let him go, that prolonging his suffering wasn't what he would want. They offered help with Scorpius, wanted to take him to their home for a few days, give him some normalcy, take him away from the atmosphere of a house permeated with death. But the boy categorically refused—he didn't even want to see James, didn't want to leave the house, as if afraid that if he left, his father would pass away during his absence.

Instead, he followed Hermione like a shadow, slept in her bed, cuddled against her back, and when she worked in her laboratory, he lay quietly in an armchair, drawing pictures for Daddy, which he then arranged in a neat stack on his bedside table. Hermione watched him from the corner of her eye, his focused face, the way he bit his lip while drawing—exactly like Draco when he was thinking—and felt her heart breaking anew. Because she knew, deep in her soul, that she wouldn't manage to do this in time. That no magic in the world could defeat a curse that had embedded itself so deeply in Draco's magical core. That soon she would have to tell Scorpius that his daddy, whom he loved so much, would never wake up again.

Looking for her old notes on degenerative curses, Hermione opened a drawer in the library desk. She was sorting through yellowed parchments, old potion recipes, and conference notes when her fingers encountered a piece of paper that was different from the others. She pulled it out and immediately recognized Draco's elegant, sharp handwriting.

The list.

The same list she had found months ago.

With a trembling heart, she began to read:

Things to do before I die

1. Arrange Scorpius's legal and financial matters—access to vaults, etc. [✓]
2. Learn to play the piano [✓]
3. Teach Scorpius to fly on a broom [✓]
4. Board a Muggle flying death machine [✓]
5. Eat ice cream at Fortescue's with Scorpius [✓]
6. Take Scorpius to Diagon Alley and buy him his first wand (even if it's too early) [✓]
7. Visit Hogwarts one more time [✓]
8. Renew old friendship with Blaise [✓]
9. Forgive myself [✓]
10. Write letters to Scorpius for his future birthdays [✓]
11. Fly on a broom over the cliffs at dawn [✓]
12. Eat dinner at a Muggle restaurant [✓]
13. Learn to cook one dish without using magic [✓]
14. Watch the sunrise over the ocean from the beach (not from the cliff) [✓]
15. Visit the hidden magical gardens in Kew Gardens during the full moon [✓]
16. Dance in the rain without using an anti-rain charm [✓]
17. Tell Scorpius one last time that I love him 

With surprise, she noticed that the item "forgive myself" had at some point been marked as completed. She didn't remember seeing a checkmark there before. This meant that Draco must have returned to this list, that he had found the strength to forgive himself for his past—something he had struggled with his entire life.

But what most caught her attention was that the last item, which had previously been cut off halfway, was now written in full. "Tell Scorpius one last time that I love him." She stared at the empty space where the checkmark should be indicating the task had been completed. But it wasn't there. This one, most important point on Draco's list remained unfulfilled.

Her mind immediately conjured the image of Scorpius, now sitting by his father's bed, telling him about his newest drawing, even though he couldn't hear him. The image of Draco, who wanted to tell his son that he loved him, one last time, but lost consciousness before Scorpius could come to him.

She pressed the list to her chest, as if she could stop the pain spreading inside her this way. This was his last, unfulfilled goal—a goal that meant more to a father than all the others combined. And suddenly, with piercing clarity, she knew what she had to do. Even if it cost her all her remaining strength, all her remaining magical resources—she had to find a way for Draco to tell Scorpius, one last time, that he loved him.

She rushed to her laboratory and started work anew, this time with a completely different approach. She was no longer looking for a cure, no longer trying to redirect the curse, no longer aiming for safety. She needed only stability—short, temporary stability. Because what harm was there in trying, since Draco was dying anyway? What worse could happen in case of failure? At most, it would accelerate what was inevitable anyway.

She worked through the night, mixing ingredients she would normally never combine, ignoring standard safety protocols, breaking rules she herself had taught younger healers. Her hands trembled with fatigue, her eyes stung from the steam rising from the cauldrons, but she didn't stop for a moment.

By dawn, physically and magically exhausted, she held in her hands three different potions in dark glass vials and a ready schedule for performing the ritual. She knew she couldn't do this alone—she needed another healer, someone who knew about such curses, who could stabilize Draco while she tried to restore his consciousness.

She wrote a letter to MacMillan, begging him to come immediately. She didn't explain the details, knowing that if she did, he would refuse right away. When he appeared at Cliff Manor an hour later, she was already on the verge of a nervous breakdown—tired, desperate, with dark circles under her eyes and trembling hands.

"You have to help me," she said instead of greeting, leading him to her laboratory. "I can't do this alone."

MacMillan looked at her in confusion, and then at the vials standing on the table and the spread-out notes.

"What is this?" he asked cautiously.

"A way to wake Draco," she replied, looking him straight in the eyes. "For a moment. Just for a brief moment."

The older healer frowned, holding one of the vials up to the light.

"Hermione, what exactly do you want to do?"

She feverishly told him about her plan.

"This is madness," he said quietly, reviewing her notes. "It's dangerous, it's against the rules, it's even illegal because it's completely untested. This potion," he pointed to the vial with dark purple liquid, "could kill him immediately."

"He's dying anyway," she replied, her voice breaking on the last word. "I know it's dangerous. I know it breaks all the rules. But he... he has one more thing to do. One last thing."

MacMillan looked at her for a long time, his eyes full of compassion and concern.

"What thing?" he finally asked.

"He needs to tell Scorpius that he loves him," she replied simply. "One last time."

The silence that fell after these words was thick with emotion. MacMillan closed his eyes, his face expressing an inner struggle between professional duty and human compassion.

"Bertrand, please," she whispered, using his first name, which she did extremely rarely. "If it were your son... wouldn't you want the chance to tell him that one last time?"

MacMillan sighed deeply, and then straightened up, making a decision.

"All right," he finally said. "I'll help you. But I want you to know—this might hasten his end. It might take away these last days he would have had."

"I know," she replied quietly. "But what kind of days? Days in unconsciousness, without awareness, without the possibility of contact with his son? Is that even life?"

MacMillan didn't answer, instead starting to review her notes in more detail, making minor corrections, suggesting changes in ingredient proportions. And Hermione allowed herself the first ray of hope in many days—not hope for a miracle, not hope for healing, but hope that Draco would be able to fulfill the last item on his list.

They prepared the laboratory for the procedure with the precision and attention usually reserved only for the most complicated rituals. In the center, they set up a bed, to which they transferred Draco. They worked in silence, aware of the gravity of the situation and the risk they were taking.

When everything was ready, they also prepared themselves. They drank strengthening potions, one after another—for endurance, for concentration, for magical resistance. She knew this would be a long journey, requiring not just knowledge and skill, but also physical endurance. The last vial contained the potion.

There was only one element left—Scorpius had to leave the house during this time. Not only for safety reasons, but also because if something went wrong, if Draco passed away during the attempt, she didn't want the boy to witness it.

She found him in his room, packing a small bag for the night at the Potters'. He worked methodically, carefully folding his pajamas as she had taught him, making sure he had his toothbrush and favorite book.

"Scorpius," she said quietly, sitting on the edge of his bed. "Come here for a moment."

He approached her without a word, his face serious, too serious for a five-year-old boy. Hermione pulled him to her, embracing him tightly, inhaling the scent of his hair, his child's skin.

"You know I love you, right?" she asked, moving him back slightly to look into his eyes.

He nodded, his gray eyes, so similar to Draco's, looking at her with trust that broke her heart.

"I'll do everything in my power to bring Daddy back," she said, stroking his cheek. "I can't promise it will work, but I promise I'll try. With all my strength."

Scorpius looked at her for a long moment, as if processing her words, and then suddenly hugged her tightly, pressing his face to her shoulder.

"Okay, Mommy," he said quietly, his voice muffled by the material of her sweater.

Mommy. He called her that for the first time. Not "Hermione," not "auntie," but "Mommy." Those two syllables hit her with the force of a spell, filling her eyes with tears. She hugged him tighter, unable to speak, afraid that if she opened her mouth, she would burst into tears.

"I love you," she finally whispered, kissing the top of his head. "And I'll always be with you. Whatever happens."

"I know," he simply replied, with the same certainty with which his father once expressed his opinions.

These words, this faith, were simultaneously the most beautiful gift and the heaviest burden. Because what if she failed? What if she couldn't bring Draco back even for this one, last conversation with his son?

But she couldn't give in to doubts now. She had to be strong—for Scorpius, for Draco, for herself. So she surreptitiously wiped away her tears, helped the boy finish packing, and led him to the fireplace to send him to the Potters', where he was to spend the night.

When the green flames took him away, leaving her alone in the living room, Hermione took a deep breath, gathering all her courage and determination. Then she turned and headed back to the laboratory, where MacMillan was waiting by Draco's bed, ready to begin the ritual that could give them the last chance to say goodbye.

The procedure was complicated, dangerous, and on the border of illegal medical magic. They started with simple stabilizing potions, administering them to Draco carefully, drop by drop. Hermione massaged his throat, forcing his body to swallow the life-giving fluids. Then MacMillan cast the first diagnostic spell, and above Draco's body formed a luminous map—a three-dimensional image of his internal organs, nervous system, and magical core. What they saw terrified them both—the curse was visible as a dense network of dark purple, pulsing threads that entwined every inch of his body, particularly concentrating around the magical core.

Hermione's original plan was simple—gather the curse into several larger clusters, surround them with a magical barrier, and close, immobilize them. Leave it in the body, but isolate it from the tissues. Now, however, seeing the scale of the infection, she wasn't sure if that would be enough.

MacMillan suggested modifying the plan, and Hermione agreed without hesitation. They began administering the main potion to Draco—the dark purple liquid that was supposed to start the process of separating the curse from his tissues. It was a potion of her own creation, experimental and uncertain, but their last hope.

Initially nothing happened, but after a few minutes, the pulsing threads of the curse began to tremble, as if fighting an invisible force. They immediately proceeded to the second phase—synchronously casting spells aimed at forcing the curse to move, directing it to selected points in Draco's body.

This was the most delicate stage. Too much pressure could cause a defensive reaction from the curse, accelerating its action. Too little—and the curse would remain unmoved. They worked with the utmost precision, directing their wands to different parts of the body, murmuring incantations that sounded more like singing than spells.

Sweat ran down their foreheads, their arms trembled with effort, but they didn't stop. The dark purple threads began to move, slowly concentrating at designated points. Initially, Hermione had planned to create five or six large clusters—one in each limb and one at the magical core. But to her amazement, the potion was working better than expected—the curse was separating more easily, as if it had lost some of its adhesion to the tissues.

They exchanged quick glances with MacMillan and decided to try creating more smaller clusters. Instead of five large nodes of the curse, which could still cause significant local damage, they would create dozens, perhaps hundreds of microscopic clusters, scattered throughout the body. Each so small as to be almost harmless, each tightly sealed with a magical barrier.

It was like performing a thousand microscopic operations simultaneously. Their wands moved with extraordinary precision, dividing larger clusters into smaller ones, directing them to safe places, away from critical organs and major blood vessels. Time ceased to matter—they could have been working for an hour or five, they couldn't tell.

Finally, MacMillan swayed slightly, his face pale with exhaustion.

"Just a bit more," Hermione muttered, not interrupting the spell. "We're close."

And indeed they were. On the magical map hovering above Draco, the dark purple threads were now concentrated in dozens of small points, each no larger than a peppercorn. Hermione felt growing hope—maybe this would work, maybe they could give him those few moments of consciousness he so desperately needed. Maybe more than a few moments. Maybe a few days.

They moved to the final phase—closing the clusters. Now each point of the curse had to be surrounded by a tight magical barrier that would prevent it from spreading back. This was the longest and most exhausting part of the procedure. Hermione felt her own magic weakening, her hands trembling more and more, but she didn't stop. She thought of Scorpius, of Draco and his unfulfilled promise.

When the last cluster was closed, they both collapsed into chairs, physically and magically exhausted. The diagnostic map above Draco's body now showed his body dotted with small, dark purple points, each surrounded by a blue barrier. The curse was still present, but imprisoned, immobilized.

"Do you think it worked?" MacMillan asked quietly, wiping sweat from his forehead.

Hermione looked at Draco's calm face, at his chest rising and falling in a steady rhythm.

"There's only one way to find out," she replied, reaching for the last vial—the awakening potion.

This was the worst stage of the entire procedure. After administering this potion, only two things could happen—either Draco would wake up, or all the clusters of the curse, so carefully isolated and closed, would become unstable and explode simultaneously, killing him within seconds. There was no intermediate result, no safe emergency exit. One drop of this potion could either give him the last chance to say goodbye, or immediately end his life.

She looked at MacMillan, seeking confirmation in his eyes that they were doing the right thing. The healer nodded slowly, though his face was tense with concern. They both knew they had already crossed the boundary of what was permissible in healing—now they could only move forward and hope that their magic, their knowledge, and a bit of luck would be enough.

She leaned over Draco, looking at his calm, pale face, at the eyelashes casting shadows on his cheeks, at his lips slightly parted in breath. She stroked his cheek, and then leaned down and kissed his forehead, long, gently, as if wanting to transmit all her love and hope in that kiss.

"I love you," she whispered, and then opened the vial and carefully, drop by drop, poured the potion into his mouth.

At that moment, Draco's body arched, tensing like a string. His back rose above the bed, and a quiet, stifled moan escaped from his throat. Hermione took a step back, the vial falling from her trembling hands, shattering on the floor. A dull sob escaped her lips—she was certain that the worse option had occurred, that all the clusters of the curse had just exploded, killing him before her eyes.

MacMillan grabbed her arm, as if wanting to pull her away from the bed, to protect her from the sight of the end, but she couldn't tear her eyes away from Draco. For a few terrible seconds his body remained tense, and then, slowly, it began to relax. He fell back onto the pillows, his breath, previously cut off, now returned—deeper, stronger than it had been for weeks.

And then, as if in slow motion, his eyelids trembled and lifted. Gray eyes, the same eyes she loved, which had remained closed for the past weeks, now looked at her—clear, conscious, full of amazement.

Draco sat up abruptly, his movements unexpectedly strong and sure. He looked at his hands, turning them in front of him, examining them from every angle, as if he couldn't believe what he was seeing. He ran his hands over his face, his chest, touching his body with a mixture of amazement and disbelief.

He looked at Hermione as if seeing her for the first time in his life—his eyes wide open, full of intense light she hadn't seen for weeks.

"It doesn't hurt," he said in disbelief, and his voice, hoarse from disuse, broke slightly. "Nothing hurts."

He began to laugh—a sound so unexpected, so full of joy that Hermione felt her own heart breaking and reforming. The laughter quickly turned to tears, tears flowing down his cheeks, but he was still smiling, as if he couldn't decide which emotion was stronger.

She couldn't help herself—she threw herself into his arms, pressing her face to his neck, inhaling his scent, feeling the warmth of his body, the beating of his heart. His arms immediately embraced her, strong and sure, not trembling and weak as they had been for the past months.

MacMillan discreetly left the room, leaving them alone in this intimate moment, though his face, as he departed, expressed a mixture of relief and sadness.

She pulled away after a moment, looking into his eyes. For a second she allowed herself to enjoy the miracle of his awakening, but quickly remembered why they had done all this. They knew they might not have much time—the barrier around the curse clusters might last hours, maybe days, but not longer.

"Fimble!" she called, and the elf appeared immediately with a quiet crack. "Bring Scorpius. Quickly."

He disappeared without a word, and Draco looked at her with a mixture of joy and disbelief.

"You did it," he said with admiration. "You saved me."

She felt her heart constrict painfully. She had to tell him the truth, she couldn't give him false hope.

"Draco," she began quietly, her voice trembling slightly. "I'm sorry, but... this isn't permanent. I didn't manage to save you. It's only a temporary solution."

His smile faded a bit, but didn't disappear completely.

"How long?" he asked calmly.

"I don't know exactly," she replied honestly. "At most a few hours. Maybe, if your body handles it well, a few days. But the curse is still in you, we just... imprisoned it for a moment."

Before he could answer, the door opened abruptly, and Scorpius stood in the doorway. The boy froze for a moment, his eyes widening at the sight of his father sitting on the bed, conscious, smiling.

"DADDY!" Scorpius's cry broke the silence, and in the next second Draco leapt from the bed with energy he hadn't had for months. He ran to his son, swept him into his arms, and lifted him high, spinning around with him, laughing and crying at the same time. It was such a simple, ordinary gesture—a father lifting his son—but also something he hadn't been able to do for a very, very long time.

Scorpius wrapped his legs around his father's waist, his arms around his neck, pressing his face to his shoulder, as if afraid that if he let go, Daddy would disappear again. Draco held him tightly, stroking his light hair with one hand, holding him safely against himself with the other.

"I knew you'd come back," Scorpius whispered. "I knew it."

Draco reached out to Hermione, who stood a few steps away, allowing father and son their moment. He pulled her into their embrace, drawing her close, creating a circle with their three bodies. They stood like that, entwined in an embrace that none of them wanted to break.

They spent the next few hours together, sitting in the living room in front of the fireplace, mostly hugging and talking. Draco held Scorpius on his lap, not letting him out of his arms even for a moment, as if trying to make up for all the lost embraces. Hermione sat beside them, her hand intertwined with Draco's, occasionally stroking Scorpius's hair.

At one point, when Scorpius went to the kitchen with Fimble for hot chocolate, she tried to explain to him that this might be his last goodbye with his father. But to her surprise, the boy seemed to understand—he looked at her with those wise, gray eyes, so similar to Draco's, and nodded.

"I know," he said quietly. "That's why we need to hug a lot now."

She couldn't help but marvel at how wise he was, how maturely he was handling a situation that would break many an adult's heart. Looking at him, at his serious face and gentle smile, she knew he had a bright future ahead. That he would grow into someone special, regardless of whether his father would be with him physically or only in his heart.

In the evening, when Scorpius started falling asleep, they decided they would all sleep together. Draco lay in the middle of the bed, Scorpius curled up against his side, and Hermione took her place on the other side. They lay there, listening to each other's breathing, feeling the warmth of each other's bodies, aware of how fragile this moment was, how precious.

She couldn't sleep. She was certain she would wake up next to a dead body, that as soon as she closed her eyes, Draco would pass away. She woke up every hour, casting diagnostic spells, checking how the clusters of the curse they had imprisoned in his body were holding up. But to her amazement, they were stable—small, dark purple points, each surrounded by a blue magical barrier, remained in their places, showing no signs of spreading.

When the first rays of sun entered the bedroom, Draco opened his eyes and smiled at her—the same radiant smile she loved so much and hadn't seen for so long.

"Good morning," he said quietly, so as not to wake Scorpius. "I'm still here."

"How do you feel?" she asked, her heart beating quickly with a mixture of hope and fear.

"Good," he replied in disbelief. "Nothing hurts. At all."

She couldn't believe it. She immediately cast another diagnostic spell, more detailed than those she had cast during the night. The image that appeared above Draco's body made her hold her breath.

The barriers surrounding the curse clusters now shone with a much stronger light than yesterday—not pale blue, but an intense, almost white glow. It appeared that Draco's magic, finally completely freed from the influence of the curse, had begun to cooperate with her spells, strengthening them, sealing them, creating a stronger barrier between the curse and the rest of his body.

"This is impossible," she whispered, looking at the diagnostic with disbelief.

"What's happening?"

"The barriers... are stronger," she replied, still analyzing the image. "Your own magic is helping to strengthen them. It's as if your magical core, freed from the constant attack of the curse, has begun to regenerate and is now working with our spells to keep the curse isolated."

"Which means...?" he didn't finish the question, but in his eyes appeared a spark of hope, so fragile that she was afraid to nurture it.

"I don't know," she answered honestly. "This shouldn't be possible. Theoretically, the barriers should have started weakening after a few hours, and then collapsed completely. But instead, they're becoming stronger."

He looked at her in silence, and in his eyes hope and fear battled—fear of that hope, of the possibility that this wasn't just a temporary solution, that maybe, just maybe, they had found a way to keep the curse in check for longer.

"I need to run more tests," she said, sitting up on the bed. "And contact MacMillan. He needs to see this."

But before she could get up, he caught her hand and pulled her back.

"First," he said quietly, indicating the sleeping Scorpius, "I want a little more time with you both. Just in case this is our last morning."

She hesitated for only a second, and then lay back down, nestling against his side, placing her head on his shoulder. If this was truly going to be their last morning together, she wanted to remember every second, every breath, every beat of his heart.

In the afternoon, when Scorpius went to the garden with Fimble to feed the peacocks, Hermione summoned MacMillan. The healer appeared almost immediately, his face expressing a mixture of professional interest and personal concern. When he saw Draco sitting in an armchair—conscious, strong, smiling—he stopped mid-step, and his eyes widened in astonishment.

"Impossible," he whispered, coming closer and pulling out his wand to cast a diagnostic spell.

The image that appeared above Draco was even more amazing than the one Hermione had seen in the morning. The barriers around the curse clusters now shone with an intense, almost blinding white light, and the clusters themselves seemed even smaller, more condensed.

"Remarkable," muttered the healer, leaning in to examine the image more closely. "Your own magic is actively strengthening the barriers. It's as if your magical core, freed from the constant attack of the curse, has begun to regenerate and is now working with our spells."

MacMillan straightened up, and a broad smile appeared on his face. He approached Draco and patted him on the back, like an old friend.

"It looks like you're going to live, Malfoy," he said with genuine joy. "And it's a good thing I assigned Granger as your healer. Any other healer would have given up long ago."

They conducted a detailed consultation, analyzing every aspect of Draco's condition and concluded that with a daily dose of stabilizing potion, the curse could be kept in isolation for months, perhaps even years.

"This isn't a complete cure," MacMillan warned, although Hermione knew this perfectly well. "The curse is still in your body. But it's imprisoned, immobilized. And if we regularly strengthen the barriers, it shouldn't be able to harm you."

"How long?"

MacMillan hesitated.

"Hard to say," he answered honestly. "This is an unprecedented case. But with good care, regular check-ups, and a daily dose of potion... I think years. Maybe even decades."

When MacMillan finally left, they looked at each other in silence for a long moment, as if neither of them could believe what they had just heard. And then Draco grabbed Hermione by the shoulders, turned her around several times, and hugged her tightly, laughing loudly with pure, uninhibited joy.

"I'm alive," he said, as if he had to say these words himself to believe them. "I'm alive, Hermione."

He pulled away from her, holding her by the shoulders, and his face suddenly became serious. He looked at her with such intensity that she felt her heart speed up.

"You impossible, stubborn, brilliant witch," he said, and there was so much emotion in his voice that it almost broke on the last word. "You saved me. Again. As always."

"Draco, I just..."

"No," he interrupted her, placing his finger on her lips. "Don't diminish what you did. You broke all the rules, risked your career, your reputation, perhaps even your magic, to save me. I wouldn't have had such courage."

He leaned in and kissed her—slowly, deeply, with a tenderness that made her knees weaken. His hands, sure and strong, pulled her closer, and she surrendered to this embrace, this kiss, this moment that only yesterday had seemed impossible.

When he finally pulled away, his eyes were shining—with tears, with joy, with love.

"At last I can take care of you properly," he said quietly, stroking her cheek. "Finally, I'm not weak and fragile. I can be a real man, the kind you deserve."

"You've always been a real man," she replied, placing her hand on his heart. "Even when you were sick. Especially then. Your strength was never in your body, Draco. It was here," she touched his heart, "and here," she touched his temple.

"Nevertheless," he smiled, kissing her forehead, "it's good to be able to lift you again. It's good not to be a burden."

"You were never a burden," she protested.

"Maybe not to you," he replied, and his smile became somewhat sad. "But to myself I was. Every day when I couldn't get out of bed, when I couldn't play with Scorpius, when you had to take care of me instead of living your own life... I felt like a burden, like an obstacle. And now... now I can be a partner for you. I can be a father to Scorpius. I can be myself."

"I love you," she said simply, because that was the only truth that mattered.

"And I love you," he replied, pulling her into another kiss. "And we have time to show it. We have a lifetime."

A lifetime. These words, which only yesterday had seemed unattainable, were now a promise—of shared mornings, shared evenings, shared years. They didn't know exactly how much time they had been given, but each day was a gift they didn't intend to waste.

When Scorpius returned from the garden, he found them still embracing, lost in each other, in their love, in the miracle that had occurred. And although he was too young to fully understand what had happened, he saw the joy on their faces and knew, instinctively, that his world was whole again.

Chapter 26

Hermione woke up, and the first sight, as every morning, was a fresh rose on her nightstand. Red, with drops of dew still glistening on its velvety petals. The one hundred and tenth. She smiled, reaching out to gently touch the flower, feeling its silky texture under her fingers.

After a moment, she felt a warm arm encircling her waist, pulling her closer to an equally warm body behind her. Draco. She sighed contentedly, nestling into his embrace, allowing herself for a moment to simply enjoy this closeness, this morning calm that once seemed impossible.

As she did every day since they had managed to imprison the curse, she reached for the wand lying right next to the rose. With a beating heart, still with that same fear that never fully disappeared, she turned to her side and cast a diagnostic spell. For a moment she held her breath, waiting for the result.

Above Draco's sleeping silhouette appeared the familiar map—his body dotted with tiny, dark purple points, each tightly surrounded by an intense, white-blue barrier. The clusters of the curse were still there, exactly where they had imprisoned them, but the barriers remained as strong, as stable as on the first day. He wasn't dying. He was with her.

She sighed with relief, putting down her wand and nestling back into his embrace. Even after so many morning diagnoses showing the same thing, she still felt that same twinge of fear, that same trembling of her heart before casting the spell.

"I'm still here," he murmured in her ear, his voice warm and slightly hoarse from sleep. "I'm not going anywhere."

She turned to look at his face—his hair in morning disarray, his eyes still half-closed, that gentle smile that was reserved only for her.

"I know," she replied, running her fingers over his cheek. "I just like to make sure."

"And you'll do that every morning for the next hundred years," he said, pulling her closer and kissing her forehead. "And I intend to be here so you can."

In the afternoon, leaving Scorpius in James's care at Cliff Manor, Hermione allowed herself to be dragged by Ginny for "essential shopping"—as her friend put it. Their contact, which had weakened in recent years, had now been renewed to such an extent that they met at least once a week—for coffee, lunch, or indeed shopping. But this time Ginny was particularly mysterious.

"Where exactly are we going?" Hermione asked when they apparated to Diagon Alley, which was bustling with life on a warm June afternoon.

"You'll see," her friend replied with a mysterious smile, pulling her toward a less frequented branch of the main street. "First, we need to find the right dress."

"A dress? For what?"

"For wearing, of course," Ginny rolled her eyes. "Stop asking questions and just trust me."

For the next two hours, she dragged her through the most exclusive boutiques of wizarding London, forcing her to try on successive dresses—from classic black ones, through flowery summer ones, to elegant evening gowns that Hermione could only wear to the most official Ministry receptions.

"This one is perfect," Ginny finally declared when Hermione emerged from the fitting room in a simple but extremely elegant dress in deep navy blue. The material softly hugged her silhouette, emphasizing her waist and falling freely to her knees. The V-shaped neckline was deep enough to be seductive but still appropriate for any occasion.

"It's beautiful," she admitted, turning in front of the mirror. "But I really don't need another dress. And you still haven't told me what I need it for."

"To look beautiful, of course," Ginny replied, examining her critically. "Now we need the right shoes. And jewelry. And maybe a new hairstyle."

Hermione sighed, surrendering to the inevitable. When, several hours later, she sat in an exclusive hair salon, allowing a stylist to arrange her unruly curls into an elegant but casual bun with a few curls falling around her face, her patience was exhausted.

"Ginny," she said firmly. "Either you tell me what this is about right now, or I'm getting up and going home. In jeans."

Ginny, who was browsing a fashion magazine while sitting next to her, sighed dramatically.

"All right, all right," she surrendered. "But it was supposed to be a surprise. Draco will kill me."

"Draco?" she raised her eyebrows. "What does he have to do with this?"

"Everything," Ginny smiled broadly. "He asked me to take you shopping and help you get ready. He's taking you on a date tonight."

"A date? Where is he taking me?"

"He didn't say," she replied, returning to browsing the magazine. "That's part of the surprise. But he said it would be a special evening. And he told me to make sure you look absolutely stunning. Not that it's difficult," she added with a smile.

Hermione surrendered with a sigh, allowing the hairdresser to finish his work. When they left the salon, with a new hairstyle, makeup, and bags full of shopping, Ginny suddenly stopped and looked at her seriously.

"You know, I'm really glad everything worked out this way," she said, squeezing her hand. "You and Draco. Scorpius. That you're happy again."

"Me too," she replied quietly, thinking about everything they had been through, how close they had been to losing it all. "Every day I thank fate that it didn't take him away. That we have this time."

"And you'll have much more of it," Ginny said with a smile. "Now let's go. I need to get you home and make sure you're ready for this big surprise, whatever it is."

As they returned to Diagon Alley, Hermione couldn't suppress a smile. What had Draco planned? And why now? There was no special occasion, no anniversary they should be celebrating. But that was what was most charming about him—the way he could make an ordinary day special, just because he wanted to show her how much he loved her.

As soon as she crossed the threshold of Cliff Manor, she knew something was happening. The air was filled with the scent of fresh flowers, and levitating candles burned in the corridor. Before she could call for Draco, he appeared before her—elegant in a dark suit, with his hair combed back, smiling that special smile that always quickened her heartbeat.

"You look stunning," he said, taking her hand and turning her slowly to get a better look at her. "Ginny did an excellent job."

"Draco, what's going on? Ginny told me that—"

She didn't finish because he pulled her to him and kissed her, effectively interrupting her question. When he pulled away, his eyes sparkled with excitement.

"Don't ask questions," he said, embracing her waist. "Just trust me."

Before she could respond, she felt the familiar tug of apparition. The world around them swirled, and when she could focus her gaze again, they were standing in a small, cobbled courtyard, surrounded by tall, elegant townhouses. It was a place she had never seen before, though she recognized the distant sounds of Diagon Alley coming from nearby.

"Where are we?" she asked, looking around curiously.

"This is Morgana's Courtyard," he replied, leading her toward one of the townhouses. "A private branch of Diagon Alley, accessible only to... well, let's say my family has some influence here."

The door they stopped in front of opened by itself before he could knock. An elegant man in robes resembling Victorian-era attire stood in the doorway.

"Mr. Malfoy, Miss Granger," he bowed deeply. "Everything is ready, as you wished."

She looked at Draco with raised eyebrows, but he just smiled, leading her inside. They passed through a richly decorated corridor, and then through another door—and Hermione had to suppress a gasp of delight.

They found themselves in a circular room whose walls were completely glazed, revealing a panoramic view of London—both wizarding and Muggle. Stars and city lights twinkled in the distance, and the ceiling was enchanted to show a starry sky, even though it was still light outside. In the middle of the room stood a single table, covered with a white tablecloth, with lit candles and a bouquet of fresh flowers.

"Draco," she whispered, unable to tear her eyes away from the view. "This is... amazing."

"This is 'Celestia,'" he explained, leading her to the table. "The most exclusive restaurant in wizarding London. Usually, you have to book months in advance, but..."

"But your family has some influence here," she finished for him, smiling. "Of course."

He laughed, pulling out a chair for her. When they sat down, a waiter immediately appeared with champagne. He poured the sparkling liquid into crystal flutes and discreetly withdrew, leaving them alone.

"To us," said Draco, raising his glass. "To the time we've been given. To every day we spend together."

"To us," she repeated, clinking her glass against his.

As they sipped champagne, she couldn't stop smiling. After everything they had been through, after they had come so close to loss, each such moment—each date, each kiss, each ordinary moment spent together—was a gift they didn't take for granted.

"So," she began, resting her chin on her hand. "Are you going to tell me what the occasion is? It's not our birthday, or anniversary. Is this another item from that list of yours?"

"The list has been fulfilled," he replied with a mysterious smile. "All the points. But I think it's time for a new one. For what I want to do with the rest of the life I've been given."

Before she could ask what he meant, the waiter returned with appetizers—works of art on plates, too beautiful to eat. But the aroma was so tempting that she couldn't resist.

For the next hour, they talked, laughed, and ate dishes that waiters brought at perfectly planned intervals.

When they finished dessert—a chocolate soufflé that melted in the mouth—she noticed that Draco had become somewhat nervous. His fingers drummed lightly on the table, and his eyes wandered around the room as if looking for something.

"Is everything all right?" she asked, placing her hand on his.

"Yes," he replied quickly, and then took a deep breath. "No. I mean... it's better than all right. It's just..."

He broke off, suddenly standing up and extending his hand to her.

"Come with me," he said. "I want to show you something."

Hermione took his hand, allowing him to lead her across the room toward glass doors she hadn't noticed before. When Draco opened them, the cool evening air caressed her face. They stepped onto a private terrace, a platform suspended in the air that seemed to float above London.

Her breath caught. The terrace had been completely transformed into a miniature garden. Hundreds of floating candles created a soft, golden glow. Flowers—white roses, lilies, and jasmine—seemed to grow straight out of the air, forming arches and spirals around them. Above them stretched a cloudless sky, starry and perfect, as if specially for this occasion.

"Draco," she whispered, turning slowly to take in the entire scene with her eyes. "This is beautiful."

"Not as beautiful as you," he replied, leading her to the center of the terrace, where a small fountain stood, murmuring quietly. The water in it shimmered with all colors, as if someone had poured liquid jewels into it.

"Do you remember our conversation?" he asked quietly, standing in front of her and taking her hands in his. "That night, when you said you would wear my ring when I recovered?"

She remembered. She couldn't forget.

"I thought that day would never come," he said, his eyes shining in the candlelight. "That it would just be another unfulfilled dream, another thing denied to me. But then you... saved me. You gave me a second life, a second chance."

He took a deep breath and, to her amazement, knelt before her on one knee. Her heart beat faster when she realized what was happening.

"I've recovered, Hermione," he said, pulling a small, velvet box from his jacket pocket. "Maybe not completely, maybe the curse is still inside me, locked away and dormant. But I feel better than ever. And I want to fulfill that promise we made to each other that night."

He opened the box, revealing a ring—silver, with an elegant black stone in the center, surrounded by tiny diamonds that sparkled in the candlelight like miniature stars.

"Hermione Jean Granger, woman who has saved me in more ways than I can count—would you do me the honor of becoming my wife? Will you let me love you every day I have left, regardless of how many there are?"

She felt tears coming to her eyes. This moment, this request—everything was perfect. Perfect because it was real, because it was theirs, because it was the fulfillment of a promise she once feared to believe in.

"Yes," she answered without hesitation, her voice certain despite the tears. "Yes, Draco. Nothing in the world would make me happier."

Draco slid the ring onto her finger—it fit perfectly, as if it had been waiting for her all these years. Then he stood and pulled her to him, kissing her with such tenderness, with such love, that she felt her heart melting in her chest.

Around them, the flowers seemed to smell stronger, the candles burn with a brighter glow, and the water in the fountain murmur a more joyful melody. But Hermione paid no attention to these magical wonders—all that mattered were Draco's arms around her, his heart beating against her heart, his lips on her lips.

"Don't cry," he whispered, wiping away her tears with his thumb.

"These are tears of joy," she replied, resting her hand on his cheek. "I thought I would lose you. And now you'll be mine. Forever."

"Forever," he repeated, pressing his forehead to hers. "No matter how long that lasts."

A few hours later, they were walking down Diagon Alley, holding hands, still dazed by the emotions of the evening. The silver ring with the black stone gleamed on Hermione's finger in the lamplight, attracting the glances of the few passersby at this hour. But they were too absorbed in each other to notice—they laughed, planned, dreamed of a future that had seemed impossible until recently.

"Do you think Scorpius would like siblings?" Draco suddenly asked as they passed Flourish and Blotts, already closed at this hour.

She looked at him in surprise, and then smiled warmly.

"He's asked me about that a few times," she admitted. "Especially when he sees James with little Lily. I think he would be very happy."

"And you?" he asked, stopping and turning her to face him. "Would you like to have a child? With me?"

In his eyes, she saw a mixture of hope and uncertainty. She knew what he was thinking about—the curse that was still present within him, though dormant. The risk that might be associated with it.

"Yes," she answered without hesitation, squeezing his hands. "If there's a chance, I would very much like that. To have our child, to watch it grow up alongside Scorpius, to create a real family."

Draco smiled broadly, and in his eyes appeared that spark she loved so much.

"Actually," he said, moving closer and lowering his voice to a seductive whisper, "we can start working on that project right now."

They were just passing the Leaky Cauldron, whose muted lights and sounds were coming through the windows. Draco looked around quickly, and then, with a mischievous smile, pulled her toward a narrow alley behind the pub.

"Draco!" she laughed when they found themselves in a shadowy nook, sheltered from the main street. "What are you doing?"

"What I've been dreaming about all evening," he replied, pulling her to him and pressing her against the wall.

His lips found hers in a passionate kiss that immediately ignited fire in her veins. His hands wandered over her body, exploring every inch through the material of her dress, and she slid her fingers into his hair, pulling him even closer.

The world around them ceased to exist—there was no Diagon Alley, no passersby, nothing except his lips on her lips, his hands now moving along her thighs, slightly lifting the material of her dress, her body responding to his touch with an intensity that surprised even her. She pressed against him more firmly, feeling his heart beating as wildly as her own.

"Hermione," he whispered in her ear, and his voice was low, hoarse with desire. "I want you. Here. Now."

She knew it was madness—they were in a public place, just a few meters from the entrance to the Leaky Cauldron, from which someone could come out at any moment. But this awareness only fueled the heat that had ignited within her. His lips found hers again, and she felt herself losing ground, her entire world narrowing to this one man, to his touch, to his body pressed against hers.

"Draco," she sighed as his lips moved to her neck, leaving a trail of hot kisses behind. "We should..."

But she didn't finish because his hands slid under the material of her dress, finding the sensitive skin above her knees, and all rational thoughts left her mind.

"Malfoy!"

A sharp, angry voice tore through the night, and a second later a flash of light cut through the air.

"Expelliarmus!"

The wands tore themselves from Draco's pocket and Hermione's purse, flying away into the darkness. Draco immediately shielded her with his own body, turning toward the attacker.

In the pale lamplight stood the swaying figure of a man. They needed a moment to recognize Terrence Hawkins in this unkempt, ragged silhouette. He looked much worse than when they had last seen him—his face was sunken, his hair greasy and disheveled, his robes tattered and stained. In one hand he held a wand, which he pointed straight at Draco, in the other—a half-empty bottle of Firewhisky.

"Hawkins," said Draco. "Put down the wand. You're drunk."

"Don't tell me what to do!" Hawkins snarled, staggering slightly. His voice was slurred, the words running together. "You... Death Eater scum. Son of a Death Eater... your whole family... always thought you were better..."

"Terrence," she tried, looking out from behind Draco's shoulder. "Please, calm down. We can talk."

"You!" he directed the wand at her, his eyes glowing unhealthily. "He stole you... from under my nose. I invited you... and you preferred him. That... that murderer. That monster."

"Nobody stole anyone," she said calmly, trying to buy time. She looked around discreetly, searching for their wands. "I was never yours."

"You could have been!" Hawkins shouted. "You could have... everything would be different. But no... you preferred... him." He spat the last word with such hatred that she felt a shiver run down her spine.

"Because of you... I lost everything," he continued, directing the wand back at Draco. "I can't find work anywhere... nobody wants... drowning in debt... and you... you're rich... you have everything..."

Draco slowly, very slowly moved to the side, trying to move Hermione away from the direct line of fire.

And then time stopped.

"Crucio!" Terrence roared, and the word seemed to stretch in the air, each syllable lasting an eternity.

A red beam shot from the wand, cutting through the air as if in slow motion. Hermione saw every shade of red in that light—from crimson to scarlet, every particle of magic vibrating in the air. She wanted to scream, to warn, to jump, to shield Draco, but her body wouldn't respond, as if it too had been trapped in this strange temporal snare.

She watched as the beam hit Draco's chest. For a moment his face showed surprise, then disbelief, and then—pure, unbridled pain. His body arched so violently that she heard his bones crack. His knees slowly gave way beneath him, and then he crashed onto the cobblestones.

No. No. No. This can't be happening. Not now.

The sound that tore from Draco's throat pierced her like a knife—it wasn't a scream, it wasn't a moan, it was the sound of pure, raw suffering, a sound that no human being should be able to make.

Someone was screaming. A piercing, tearing sound cutting through the night like a blade. Hermione felt this scream vibrating in her own throat, filling her lungs, tearing at her vocal cords—it was her own voice, but it sounded foreign, as if it belonged to someone else.

Save him. Do something. DO SOMETHING. You can't lose him. Not now. Not like this.

Draco was writhing on the cobblestones, his body twitching in spasmodic convulsions. His fingers clenched and relaxed, as if trying to grasp something that wasn't there, as if seeking relief that didn't exist. His head hit the stones, his hair was disheveled, his eyes rolled back so that only the whites were visible. His back arched, only his heels and the top of his head touching the ground, and another inhuman moan escaped from his throat.

She had to help him.

The world around her dissolved into a hazy fog. Sounds reached her as if through water—muffled, distant, irrelevant. Colors lost their intensity, as if someone had thrown a gray filter over reality. She no longer saw Terrence, didn't hear the shouts of other people, didn't feel the cool air on her skin. Her senses narrowed to a single point—to the man writhing in pain on the cobblestones.

Every movement seemed to require enormous effort, as if she were moving through thick syrup. Her legs refused to obey, each step was a struggle. She fell beside him, not feeling the pain when her knees hit the hard cobblestones. Her hands, trembling so violently that they seemed blurred, touched his face. It was hot, wet with tears and sweat, contorted in a grimace she couldn't bear to see.

She heard fragments of sounds breaking through the fog of shock—the clinking of broken glass, curses, the impact of body against body. Someone was fighting with Terrence, someone had come to help, but it didn't matter, nothing mattered except the man in her arms.

"Call a healer!" she screamed, though the words seemed to stick in her throat. "Please, call someone! He's dying!"

A healer. They needed a Healer.

And then, as through a fog, as through layers of thick, misty glass, it dawned on her—she was a healer. She could help him. She had to help him.

She looked around frantically, her gaze jumping chaotically from point to point, searching for the thin piece of wood that could save her beloved's life. She saw it a few meters away, lying in a puddle. It seemed miles away.

She forced her body to move, crawling across the wet, cold cobblestones. Her fingers slipped on the stones, her nails breaking as she desperately tried to move. The dress—the beautiful, navy blue dress she had chosen with Ginny for this evening—was soaking up water, dirty and stinking, but it didn't matter, nothing mattered.

When at last her fingers closed around the wand, she felt a surge of hope so violent it almost overpowered her. She turned and saw that Draco's convulsions had stopped—his body now lay motionless, only his chest rising and falling in an uneven, shallow rhythm.

She crawled back to him, her knees bleeding, torn from the sharp stones, but she felt no pain. She felt nothing but overwhelming, all-encompassing fear.

Draco's eyes were open, but vacant, hazy. His pupils were so dilated that the gray iris was almost invisible. His skin was gray, covered with a thin layer of sweat that glistened in the lamplight.

She raised her wand, which trembled in her hand like a leaf in the wind, and cast a diagnostic spell. The image that appeared above Draco's body made her heart stop and her breath catch in her throat.

The barriers she had so carefully created around the clusters of the curse were beginning to dissolve—like ice under the influence of fire, like sugar in hot tea. The Cruciatus, striking his nervous system, had also attacked his magical core, which had been helping to maintain those barriers. Now they were breaking, one after another, releasing tiny particles of the curse, which immediately began to spread throughout his body—visible as dark purple, pulsing threads, similar to those she had seen when she first diagnosed him, months ago.

"No, no, no," she whispered like a mantra, her wand dancing over his body as she tried to repair, rebuild, stop what was happening. "Please, no. Not now. Not when everything was good. Not when we were happy. Not when we were going to get married. Not when we were going to have a child. Not when Scorpius was going to have a father. Please, please, please."

Each word, each movement of the wand required absolute precision that her trembling hands could not provide. Time after time she had to repeat incantations, time after time she saw her magic slip off the barriers without repairing them.

Finally, after what seemed like hours but might have been minutes, she managed to halt the breakdown of the barriers halfway—some were still holding, protecting part of the curse clusters, but others were already destroyed, allowing the curse to slowly spread throughout his body.

She tried to rebuild the barriers, casting the same spells she had used earlier with MacMillan, but without another healer, without proper preparation, without potions—it was like trying to stop a flood with bare hands.

"Draco," she whispered, her voice breaking from tears she didn't even feel. Tears were flowing down her face, but she wasn't aware of them. "Draco, stay with me. Fight. Please, fight. Don't give up. Don't leave me. Don't leave Scorpius. You promised. You promised you would be with us. You promised you wouldn't leave me. Please, please, please."

Suddenly someone grabbed her by the shoulders and pulled her back. She flew as if in slow motion, her body seeming weightless, limp. She saw Draco moving away from her, his silhouette becoming smaller, other people surrounding him, blocking him from her view. Her hands reached out toward him, but grasped only air.

Everything around her blurred into a kaleidoscope of colors and sounds she couldn't distinguish. Voices reached her as if through a thick layer of water—distorted, unclear, distant. Faces moved before her eyes, but she couldn't recognize them. She didn't know where she was, what was happening, how long it was taking.

And then someone grabbed her by the shoulders and shook her violently. The world stopped, clarity returned, and she saw MacMillan's face before her—tense, tired, concerned.

"Hermione!" he was shouting, but his voice still sounded as if it came from far away. "Hermione, you need to calm down!"

"Save him!" she cried, only now realizing they were in St. Mungo's. White walls, the characteristic smell of potions, people in lime-green healer robes—all of this suddenly appeared in her consciousness. She didn't remember how they got there, who had transferred them, how much time had passed. "Save him! Do what we did last time! Isolate the curse! Close it in barriers! I beg you!"

Her screams echoed off the walls, piercing the air like blades. Tears flooded her face, her breath caught in spasmodic sobs. She felt panic gripping her throat, fear paralyzing her body.

"I can't," said MacMillan, and in his eyes she saw something that made her heart stop—helplessness. "Hermione, listen to me. It won't work."

"It has to work!" she screamed, struggling in his grip. "It has to! We did it once, we'll do it again! We have to try!"

"Hermione," MacMillan's voice was firm but gentle, as if speaking to a frightened child. "The curse... is different than before. The Cruciatus activated it, but in a different way. Now it has wrapped itself around his magical core too tightly. Not as extensively as before, but much more intensely, at key points. If we try to separate it as we did before, we'll simply kill him. Right away. On the spot."

"No," she shook her head, not wanting to accept this. "No, there must be a way. There's always a way. We can't give up. We can't..."

The world suddenly whirled around her, colors blurred into an indistinct stain, sounds became distant, muffled. She felt her legs giving way beneath her, her body becoming heavy, unresponsive to her commands. The last thing she registered was MacMillan's voice calling her name, and then darkness consumed everything.

Chapter 27

When she opened her eyes, she didn't know where she was or how much time had passed. Reality returned to her slowly, in fragments—the smell of healing potions, the soft light of lamps, the quiet beeping of magical monitors. She blinked several times, trying to focus her vision.

She was sitting in a chair next to a bed, her body numb and stiff, as if she hadn't moved for hours. On the bed lay Draco—pale, motionless, with his eyes closed, but his chest rising and falling in a shallow, uneven rhythm. He was alive. For now.

On the other side of the bed sat Ginny, holding Scorpius's hand, who was staring at his father with a face wet from tears. The boy was wearing the same dragon pajamas he had worn when he came to their bedroom that morning. It seemed ages had passed since that moment, since that ordinary, happy morning.

As soon as he noticed she was awake, he pulled his hand from Ginny's and ran to her. Without a word, he climbed onto her lap, hugging her with all his strength, as if afraid that she too would disappear if he let go. His small body trembled from the crying he was trying to suppress, trying to be strong, to be brave—like his father.

It was too much. Something inside Hermione broke—the dam that had been holding back all the emotions, all the tears, all the pain she had been trying to control. She wrapped her arms around Scorpius and simply began to cry—not quietly, not with dignity, but loudly, desperately, with all the force of the pain that was tearing her heart apart.

Scorpius cried with her, his face pressed into her shoulder, his small hands clutching the material of her dress, as if she were his last lifeline in the sea of despair that was engulfing them.

The next days were one long stretch of grief and endless torment. Time lost meaning, hours blended into days, days into nights, everything covered by a fog of despair that seemed to dim every sound, every image, every thought.

Ginny forced her to return home, arguing that she needed real sleep, that Scorpius needed at least a semblance of normalcy. Hermione relented only because the boy was physically and emotionally exhausted.

When she crossed the threshold of Cliff Manor, it seemed foreign—like a museum of a life that no longer existed. Every object, every corner, every shadow reminded her of Draco, of the happiness that just a few days ago had seemed so certain, so lasting.

And then she saw the rose—a fresh, red rose on the table in the hallway, next to a vase with water, prepared to join it as the one hundred and eleventh in their daily ritual. Draco must have left it before their evening outing, planning to place it on her bedside table the next morning. The next morning that never came.

Her knees gave way beneath her and she sank to the floor, holding the rose in hands that trembled so violently that the petals began to fall, forming a circle of scarlet tears around her. She couldn't breathe, couldn't think, could only feel—pure, raw pain that tore her apart from the inside, making each breath a struggle.

Scorpius, who stood beside her, also began to cry—quietly, with that particular restraint that broke her heart. He sat on the floor beside her and embraced her with his small arms, trying to comfort her, even though he himself was so lost, so frightened.

"Cry, darling," she whispered, pulling him closer. "You don't have to be strong. Not now."

And so they sat, woman and boy, hugging on the floor in the hallway, crying together—she for the man she loved, he for the father he was losing. Somehow this shared crying gave them a semblance of comfort, as if by sharing the pain, they made it somewhat lighter to bear.

Then she remembered, as through a fog, sitting again in St. Mungo's, in an office filled with healers whose faces blurred into one indistinct stain. Though she was a healer, the best in all of England, possessing knowledge and experience that exceeded most of her colleagues, she didn't understand a single word of what they were saying to her. Only fragments reached her, scraps of sentences, breaking through the dense fog of shock and grief.

"...suspended in time..."

"...between life and death..."

"...mind inactive..."

"...only delaying the inevitable..."

"...his body won't die..."

"...it's your decision..."

"...you can keep him alive as long as you want..."

The words bounced off the walls of her mind, not finding a place where they could stop, where they could make sense. She knew what they were saying—on an intellectual, professional level, she understood the medical implications of what had happened. She knew that the curse had attacked his magical core, cutting off the connection between mind and body. She knew they could keep his body alive for weeks, months, even years—but that wouldn't be life, just its shadow, an empty shell without the consciousness, without the soul that made Draco who he was.

She knew all this. But she couldn't accept it. She couldn't reconcile herself to the thought that she had to make a decision—whether to let him go, or to keep him in this suspension, in this empty existence that was neither life nor death.

How could she decide? How could she choose the moment when she would stop fighting? How could she say "enough," when every particle of her being screamed not to give up, to keep searching, to find a way to save him?

But deep inside, in that part of herself that was still a healer, she knew there was no rescue. That this time magic wasn't enough. That this time they had lost.

Despite this, she decided to keep him alive for now. She couldn't yet say "goodbye," wasn't ready to let go of that last, thin thread of hope that kept her sane. Maybe, by some miracle, it would turn out that this curse could be reversed. Maybe somewhere in the world there was a healer who had seen something similar and found a solution. Maybe in some forgotten library lay a dusty book with an ancient spell that could help.

She knew these hopes were irrational, that she was clutching at straws like a drowning person. But without them, she wouldn't be able to get out of bed each morning, wouldn't be able to function, wouldn't be able to breathe.

She had to pull herself together because she had a child to raise. Scorpius needed her now more than ever—he was lost in a world that had suddenly lost its foundation, terrified by the possibility of losing not only his father but her as well. Though she was a healer, an expert in healing the body, she didn't know how to deal with the depression of a boy who had stopped smiling, stopped talking, stopped playing with his favorite toys. Let alone with her own despair, which lurked just below the surface, ready to consume her entirely the moment she lowered her guard.

Ginny and Harry came to them every day, sometimes bringing James, who was the only one who could pull Scorpius a little out of the abyss of despair. The boys sat together in the room, sometimes talking quietly, sometimes just being next to each other. It was a drop in the ocean of needs, but even this small relief was precious.

"You need to think about therapy," Ginny told her one afternoon as they sat in the kitchen, drinking tea whose taste Hermione couldn't feel. "For both of you. There are several good wizarding therapists who specialize in grief and trauma."

She nodded, knowing her friend was right, but not having the strength to do anything about it. Each day was a struggle for survival—to get up, get dressed, feed Scorpius, respond to letters from MacMillan informing her of Draco's condition (always the same—stable, no change, suspended between life and death). All this exhausted her resources, leaving no energy for anything else.

And every morning, as if in a cruel joke of fate, she found another rose by her bedside table. It appeared that Draco had instructed Fimble to continue their tradition, even if he himself couldn't do it. Or perhaps the elf was doing it on his own initiative, not knowing how else to help his mistress. Regardless of the cause, each rose was like a knife stabbed into her heart—a reminder of what she had, what she had lost, what could have been.

She lay in their bed, which now seemed too large, too empty, too cold, and cried quietly, trying not to wake Scorpius, who often came to her room in the middle of the night and crawled under the covers, seeking the closeness he so desperately needed. Her tears soaked into the pillow that still carried Draco's scent—a mixture of expensive cologne, mint, and something that was only his, which she couldn't name but which immediately evoked his face, his smile, the touch of his hand on her skin.

Sometimes, in those darkest hours of the night, when even crying brought no relief, she allowed herself to think about the alternative—about letting him go, about ending this suspension that was neither life nor death. Maybe it would be easier—for him, for Scorpius, maybe even for her. Maybe then they could begin the healing process, instead of remaining in this state where hope and despair fought for dominance in her heart.

But then dawn came, and with it a new rose, a new day, a new struggle. And she couldn't give up. Not yet. Not when there existed even one chance in a million that by some miracle she would get back the man she loved.

She spent hours at St. Mungo's, sitting by Draco's bed, staring at his motionless face, at his hand resting on the white sheet—so close to her own, yet unreachable. Her mind, starved for hope, repeatedly offered her illusions—moving fingers, twitching eyelids, his chest rising in a deeper breath. But it was never real. Each time she blinked, reality returned with redoubled force—Draco lay just as motionless, just as absent, as when they had brought him here.

She would then return home with even greater despair, feeling how each such visit took away another particle of her strength, another fragment of hope. Scorpius looked at her with those gray eyes of his, so similar to his father's, and waited—for news, for change, for a miracle in which they both were ceasing to believe.

She didn't notice when her body began to rebel. That fatigue, which she attributed to sleepless nights. That weight in her limbs, which seemed to increase with each day. Those dizzy spells, appearing suddenly, especially in the morning. She ignored all the signals her body was sending, too focused on Draco, on Scorpius, on the daily struggle for survival.

Until one morning, as she stood in the kitchen preparing breakfast for Scorpius, suddenly everything around her began to spin. The last thing she remembered was the sound of breaking glass as the plate fell from her hands, and Scorpius's terrified voice, which sounded as if it were coming from very far away.

She woke up in one of the wards at St. Mungo's, connected to a magical monitor that tracked her vital functions. Through a small window, afternoon sun was streaming in, casting warm streaks on the sterile, white bedding. She didn't remember how she got here, didn't remember anything beyond the darkness that had engulfed her.

She lay motionless, allowing her mind to slowly return to reality. She heard muffled voices in the corridor, the rustle of healers' robes passing by her room, the quiet beeping of the magical monitor. She had the impression that her body didn't belong to her—it was heavy, alien, disobedient.

The young healer who came in to check her condition had a gentle smile and delicate hands. She must have been new; Hermione didn't remember her working here before. Maybe she had taken her place? Her lips moved, forming words that Hermione registered only fragmentarily—exhaustion, malnutrition, stress, rest, tests, results, changes, body, condition. Condition. Some condition. The healer left, leaving her with these disjointed thoughts.

She could go home the same day, though not without firm recommendations and prescriptions for strengthening potions. This time, unlike the past two months, she decided to take the healer's advice to heart. She began eating regularly, nutritious meals, even if each bite was a struggle with a throat constricted by tears. She took the very mild calming potions prescribed to her, being careful not to become addicted—she measured doses with the precision she had learned as a healer, never exceeding the recommended amount, even on those worst nights when despair seemed unbearable. She wasn't doing it for herself.

Slowly, almost imperceptibly, Scorpius began to cope with the situation. The smile that had been such a rare guest on his face during these two months now appeared more often—first shyly, as if testing whether it was all right to be even a little happy in a world that had taken his father away, then more confidently, especially when they were alone together, reading books in the evening or walking along the cliffs.

Now only Ginny visited her. Harry had left on some secret Auror mission and was not expected back for several months, maybe longer—the details were classified by the Ministry. So they had both become single mothers, each in her own way—Hermione with an unconscious Draco suspended between life and death, Ginny with a husband who could be somewhere on the other side of the world, risking his life. This shared situation brought them closer than ever before. They spent as much time together as they could—the children played together, and they talked over tea, supported each other, shared the burden of single parenthood.

At some point, which she couldn't precisely determine, the roses stopped bringing quite so much pain. They still appeared every morning on her bedside table—fresh, red, perfectly bloomed, as if Draco still placed them there with his own hands. Initially, she was certain it was Fimble, their house-elf, continuing his master's tradition. But when she asked him about it one evening, he denied it with tears in his eyes. No one knew where the roses came from, how they appeared in her bedroom every morning. It was another mystery, another miracle or curse, depending on the day and mood.

She eventually had to enlarge the wardrobe to fit them all. She couldn't throw them away—each was a fragment of Draco, each a reminder of their love, each a promise that had been interrupted that night. She kept them in a magically preserved state, still fresh, still fragrant, still perfect—like her memories of him, which she cherished, fearing that with time they would fade, that she would forget the exact shade of his eyes, the sound of his laughter, the warmth of his skin under her fingers.

This morning she picked up the four hundred and ninety-sixth rose from her bedside table. She turned it slowly in her fingers, feeling the delicate velvet of the petals. So many days without him. So many mornings waking up in an empty bed. So many roses that appeared from nowhere, like a spiritual reminder of a promise that never had a chance to be fulfilled.

She decided that this time she would go to St. Mungo's without Scorpius. She left him in Ginny's care, who looked at her with understanding—they didn't need words to convey that sometimes a person needs to be alone with their pain, with their thoughts, with their secrets.

As soon as she appeared at St. Mungo's, healers rushed to help her—after so many months of regular visits, they all knew her no longer as the best healer. They knew who she was and why she came. But she refused, saying there was no need. She needed to walk this path on her own strength, just as she had walked through each day since that night—step by step, breath by breath, despite the weight she carried.

Finally, she reached his room. It was the same as always—quiet, sterile, filled with the soft beeping of magical monitors tracking his vital functions. And he—still just as motionless, just as pale, just as absent. His hair, which had once been his pride, now lay lifelessly on the pillow. The hands that had once held her with such strength and tenderness now rested limply on the white sheet.

She sat carefully on the chair beside the bed, trying to find a comfortable position, which wasn't easy. She cast a diagnostic spell, though she knew what she would see—the same dark purple threads of the curse wrapping around his magical core, the same destroyed barriers, the same image she had seen every day for the past months. Nothing had changed. Still the same. Neither better nor worse. Suspended between life and death, in a void from which there was no return.

She sighed, putting away her wand. Then, as always when she was alone, she began to talk to him. She told him about Scorpius, about how he was growing, how he increasingly resembled him, not just in appearance but also in character—the same stubbornness, the same pride, the same sensitivity hidden under a mask of self-confidence. She told him about Ginny and Harry, about how much they were helping her, how James had become Scorpius's best friend. She told him about the roses that still appeared every morning, though she had no idea how he had managed it.

She spoke for a long time, letting the words flow freely, just like the tears that quietly flowed down her cheeks. And then, when she ran out of daily stories, when she had exhausted all the topics she usually told him about, she fell silent. For a long moment there was silence, interrupted only by the soft beeping of the monitors.

Finally, she gently took his limp hand—cool, motionless, but still so familiar—and placed it on her large, rounded belly.

"It's a girl," she whispered, her voice breaking slightly. "Your daughter, Draco. Our daughter."

Holding his hand on her belly, she began listing all the female names she knew. She started with traditional wizarding names from the Black family—constellations and stars, as tradition dictated.

"Lyra?" she asked quietly, watching his face. "Cassiopeia? Andromeda?"

No reaction. His face remained motionless, his breathing even, deep, mechanical. So she moved on to other wizarding names.

"Rowena? Helga? Morgana? Nimue? Circe?"

With each name, she stared intently at his hand, at his face, at the smallest fragment of his body, looking for any sign that he heard her, that he understood, that he was somewhere in there, trapped in his own head. Sometimes, when the light fell at the right angle, it seemed to her that his fingers twitched, that the corner of his mouth lifted in the slightest smile, that his eyelids trembled.

But after so many months of false hope, after so many moments when she was sure she saw movement, heard a whisper, felt a squeeze, only to soon remind herself that these were just muscle reflexes, random impulses, nothing significant—she no longer let herself be carried away by these illusions. She had learned not to let that spark of hope burn too brightly, because each time it went out, it left behind an even greater darkness.

"Alice? Evelyn? Katherine? Elizabeth?"

She listed names one after another, letting them flow in a quiet rhythm, like a prayer, like a spell that might break through the void in which he was trapped. Muggle names mixed with wizarding ones, ancient with modern, common with rare. And he lay just as motionless, just as distant, and her voice became quieter, more tired.

"Rose? Lily? Violet? Daisy?"

Her hand, the one holding his hand on her belly, began to tremble. She felt the baby moving under their intertwined fingers—alive, energetic, unaware that her father lay so close, yet impossibly far away.

It was a moment so intimate, so painful in its sweetness—the three of them, together, yet separated by a barrier they couldn't break through. A child who would never know her father, a father who would never hold his daughter in his arms, and she—suspended between them, trying to maintain a bond that with each day became more and more ephemeral.

"She moves so much," she whispered, stroking his motionless fingers with hers. "I think she'll have your temperament. Or maybe it's just the magic in her. She's strong, Draco. So strong."

The baby kicked hard, right under his hand, as if trying to communicate with him, as if knowing that this was her father. Hermione smiled through tears.

"She feels you," she said quietly. "I think she knows you're here. That she knows who you are."

She sat like that for a long time, holding his hand on her belly, allowing their unborn daughter to know her father's touch, though he himself couldn't reciprocate it. She didn't know if Draco, somewhere in the depths of his mind, was aware of what was happening, if he could feel the movements of their child, if he knew that he would soon become a father for the second time. But she wanted to believe he did. She had to believe it.

"I'll tell her about you," she promised, her voice quiet but certain. "Every day. She'll know every story, every memory. She'll know how brave you were, how much you loved Scorpius, how you fought for each day. She'll know your smile from my memories, your voice from my stories. I promise you, she will know you, Draco. She will love you, just as we love you."

The pregnancy, which at first had seemed an additional burden in her already overwhelming life, now became a source of strange strength. This child growing beneath her heart was proof that their love had survived, that a part of Draco still lived and would continue to live, even if he himself never woke up.

She didn't know how long she sat there, lost in these thoughts, in this one moment of closeness they could share as three. But finally, she felt fatigue overtaking her body. She carefully placed his hand back on the bed, stood up with effort, and leaned down to kiss his forehead.

"Until tomorrow, darling," she whispered, as always, as every day for the past nine months. "I love you."

Chapter 28

She woke up in the morning, as always, with the first rays of sunlight coming through the uncurtained windows. And as always, the first thing she saw was a rose on her bedside table—fresh, red, perfect. The five hundred and twentieth. The last one.

She didn't know where this certainty came from, but she felt that this rose closed a chapter, that with it ended a stage in her life that had begun on that terrible night. She picked up the flower carefully; its scent seemed more intense than usual, and its color deeper, more saturated.

The bedroom door opened slowly, and Scorpius entered, carrying a tray with food. His face expressed absolute concentration as he balanced it carefully, trying not to spill the orange juice, which dangerously approached the edge of the glass.

"I made breakfast," he announced proudly when he reached the bed without any disaster. "I mean, Fimble helped a little. But the toast is mine."

She smiled, putting down the rose and helping him place the tray on the bed. There was toast—slightly burnt around the edges, exactly how Draco liked it—a bowl of fruit, a glass of juice, and a cup of tea. A small vase with wildflowers, which Scorpius must have gathered in the garden, completed the composition.

"It's beautiful," she said, feeling her heart constrict with love for this little boy who tried so hard to take care of her, to be brave, to be supportive, despite having suffered so much himself.

They ate together in bed, not worrying about crumbs or mess, laughing and talking about everything and nothing. Scorpius told her about the spellbook he was reading with James, about the new trick he had taught his miniature toy dragon, about plans. In moments like this, when his eyes sparkled with excitement and his hands gestured energetically to emphasize the story, he was so much like Draco that it hurt just to look at him.

After breakfast, Scorpius put the tray on the table and returned to the bed, settling beside her. She took the book they read in the evenings—an illustrated history of Hogwarts for children—and began reading aloud, her voice soft and soothing in the morning quiet.

After a few pages, Scorpius, as always, moved lower and pressed his ear to her belly, trying to hear his sister. He did this every day, conducting one-sided conversations with her, telling her about everything she should know before coming into the world—about Hogwarts, about Quidditch, about which ice cream flavors were the best.

"Do you think she can hear me?" he asked, as always.

"I'm sure she can," she replied with a smile, stroking his light hair.

And then she felt it—a sudden, sharp contraction that pierced her body, completely different from those that had accompanied her for the past few weeks. She took a deep breath, trying not to show Scorpius that something was happening, not wanting to frighten him.

The thought that came to her mind was so absurd that she almost laughed—their daughter had decided to come into the world on the day when the five hundred and twentieth rose appeared on her bedside table. The last rose. As if she knew that one chapter had to end for another to begin.

Time blurred in a misty whirl of pain, sweat, and determination. Contractions, breaths, healers' voices, Ginny squeezing her hand—all of it merged into one endless moment that simultaneously lasted an eternity and passed in the blink of an eye.

And then, suddenly, silence. And after it—the first cry. Strong, piercing, full of life and determination. A sound that broke through all layers of pain and fatigue, reaching straight to her heart.

"It's a girl," said the healer, and there was warmth and joy in her voice. "A healthy, strong girl."

Hermione fell back on the pillows, exhausted, but her eyes never left the small bundle that the healers were washing and examining at the other end of the room. A few moments later, which seemed to last an eternity, a small, warm body wrapped in a soft blanket was placed on her chest.

She looked down and felt her heart stop for a moment, and then begin to beat in a new rhythm—a rhythm that would now set the pace of her life.

The girl was beautiful. Not in that typical, general way that all newborns are beautiful to their mothers, but in a way that made it hard to look away. She had thick, dark hair—so different from Scorpius's platinum curls—and when she opened her eyes, Hermione saw they were chocolate brown, exactly like her own. But the expression in those eyes, the intensity of the gaze, the shape of the lips—all of that was Draco.

The girl looked at her with those dark eyes, so serious, so wise, as if understanding every word. And perhaps she did understand—perhaps during all those months when Hermione told Draco about her existence, about her movements, about their future, she was listening, learning, getting to know the world through her mother's voice.

"What will you name her?" asked Ginny, who now stood by the bed, looking at the girl with tenderness.

Hermione hesitated. For many months she had considered various names, tested them on her tongue, imagined how they would sound when Draco pronounced them. But now, looking at that small face, she knew there was only one name that fit perfectly.

"Lyra," she said quietly, but firmly. "Lyra Malfoy."

Lyra—a constellation whose brightest star, Vega, shines in the sky on summer evenings. Lyra—a musical instrument whose sound was so beautiful that, according to legends, it could move even stones. Lyra—a name that combined the tradition of Draco's family with something new, something that was just theirs.

"It's a beautiful name," said Ginny with a smile. "It suits her."

"Draco would have approved," added Hermione, her voice trembling slightly on his name. "I think he would want her name to be like music."

The next five months were the most difficult period in her life. Taking care of two children—a newborn requiring constant attention and a six-year-old boy who, despite all his maturity, was still a child needing a mother—proved to be a challenge beyond her imagination. Sleepless nights when Lyra woke up every hour, demanding feeding. Days filled with attempts to maintain any rhythm, to provide Scorpius with a sense of normalcy, even though their life was anything but normal.

Ginny came almost every day, bringing food, taking care of Scorpius when Hermione was too exhausted to get out of bed, holding Lyra when she needed a moment to herself. But she tried not to overuse her friend's help—she knew it wasn't easy for Ginny either, raising three children alone while Harry was somewhere far away, on a mission whose details she couldn't reveal.

"How is he doing?" she often asked, seeing the fatigue in Ginny's eyes, the shadows under her eyes that seemed to deepen with each week. "Is he all right?"

"I can't tell you," Ginny answered each time, and in her voice was a mixture of frustration and understanding. "You know the rules. Secrecy. Security. But I received a letter last week. He's safe. That's all I can say."

Lyra grew quickly, changing from a fragile newborn to a plump baby with penetrating brown eyes and dark hair that became thicker and curlier with each day. Scorpius was delighted with his sister—he spent hours lying beside her on a blanket spread out in the living room, showing her pictures in books, telling stories, teaching her how to smile. These moments, when she saw them together—his light-haired head bent over her dark one—gave her the strength to survive another day, another night, another morning without Draco.

During those entire five months, Hermione hadn't been to St. Mungo's once. She hadn't seen Draco since the day she went there, carrying Lyra inside her, to tell him about the approaching birth. Scorpius visited him regularly—sometimes Fimble took him there when Hermione was too busy with Lyra, sometimes James, who proved to be an invaluable friend despite his young age. But she herself couldn't force herself to go there.

She was afraid. Afraid that the sight of Draco, still just as motionless, still just as absent, would crumble the wall she had so painstakingly built around her heart. That wall that allowed her to get up every morning, feed the children, read them books, live on, even though part of her soul was imprisoned in that hospital room, with him.

But when Lyra turned five months old, Hermione realized the time had come. That she could no longer postpone this visit. That Draco, wherever his consciousness was, deserved to meet his daughter. That Lyra deserved to meet her father, even if only in this incomplete, painful way.

One morning, without any prior planning, she simply got up, dressed Lyra in a green dress she had received from Ginny, and apparated to St. Mungo's. She didn't allow herself to think too much—she knew that if she started analyzing what she was doing, she would find a thousand reasons to postpone the visit again.

She walked slowly through the hospital corridors, holding her daughter close to her chest, as if her warmth could protect her from the pain that waited at the end of this path. Lyra looked around curiously, her dark eyes absorbing the new surroundings with fascination that would be charming under any other circumstances.

She was mentally preparing herself for this meeting, for the sight of Draco, for all those emotions that would surely flood her when she stood by his bed with their daughter in her arms—the love of her life, who would never know the child they had created together.

She was so absorbed in these thoughts that she almost missed the familiar silhouette in the crowd of healers and patients filling the corridor. But that black, disheveled hair was unmistakable for any other.

"Harry?" she called out in surprise, pushing through a group of visitors to catch up with him. "Harry, is that you?"

He turned around, and indeed—it was Harry Potter, with the same round glasses, the same scar on his forehead, though now his face seemed paler, more tired than usual.

"Hermione," he said, and a smile appeared on his face, though his eyes remained serious. "I didn't expect to see you here."

"Did you just get back?" she asked, examining him carefully. "Ginny said the mission might take longer."

"Yes, I came back today," he confirmed, glancing nervously at his watch.

"Are you injured?" she asked immediately. "Is that why you're at St. Mungo's?"

"No, I'm not injured," he denied quickly, and then hugged her briefly with one arm, being careful of Lyra, who was looking at him with curiosity. "I just have something to take care of here. Official business."

He stroked Lyra's dark hair, and a gentler smile appeared on his face.

"So this is little Malfoy," he said warmly. "Ginny wrote to me about her. What's her name?"

"Lyra," she replied, lifting her daughter a bit higher so Harry could see her better. "Lyra Malfoy."

"Beautiful name," he said, and a strange smile appeared on his lips that she couldn't interpret. "I have to go now. Ginny's probably waiting."

Before she could reply, he squeezed her arm and walked away quickly, disappearing around the corner of the corridor. She looked after him for a moment, wondering about that peculiar smile, but quickly decided it was simply excitement at the thought of seeing his family again after such a long absence. If she had been separated from her children for so many months, she too would be impatient to return home.

She shrugged and continued down the corridor, toward the ward where Draco lay. Each step brought her closer to the confrontation she had avoided for so long, to the reality she had been fleeing from for the past months.

Lyra, as if sensing her mother's tension, began to squirm in her arms, making quiet, impatient sounds. She hugged her more tightly, finding comfort in her warmth, in her scent, in that innocent presence that was such a beautiful combination of her and Draco.

"It's all right, darling," she whispered, kissing her daughter on the top of her head. "You're about to meet your daddy."

The first sign that something was wrong was the half-open door to his room. For fourteen months that had passed since that terrible night, she had never found it open. It had always been tightly closed, separating Draco from the rest of the world, protecting his stillness and silence from the hospital commotion.

The second sign was the voices coming from the room. Quiet, muffled, but distinctly male. Two, maybe three different voices, talking in hushed tones. Draco almost never had other visitors—except for her, Scorpius, and sometimes, supposedly, Blaise, though Hermione had never personally met him there.

For a moment she stood motionless before the door, not knowing what to do. Maybe she should wait until the guests left? Maybe she should come back later? But something about this situation—the open door, the voices, it was all so unusual, so disturbing—made her push the door slightly, looking inside.

What she saw made her freeze in the doorway, unable to take even one step. Unable to produce a sound from her constricted throat. Unable to draw breath.

By the bed stood MacMillan and another man she didn't recognize—slim, with Asian features, in a white coat indicating a specialist. Both were leaning over the bed, but not in the way they had for the past almost two years—not to check readings or cast routine diagnostic spells.

They were helping Draco sit up.

Draco, who for fourteen months had lain motionless, like the dead. Draco, whom the curse had imprisoned in his own body, cutting him off from the world. Draco, whom she had lost that night behind the Leaky Cauldron.

This Draco was now sitting on the bed, supported by the healers, pale and emaciated, but undoubtedly conscious. His eyes—those same gray eyes that so often haunted her dreams—were open and focused, not empty and unseeing, as they had been for all those months.

Lyra, sensing her mother's sudden tension, began to cry, and that sound made all three men turn their heads in her direction. For a long, impossibly long moment, Hermione looked into Draco's eyes, and he looked at her—and at the child in her arms—with an expression of such intense amazement that she felt her legs weakening beneath her.

No one moved. No one spoke. As if the whole world held its breath, enclosed in this single moment that had no right to exist.

Hermione took a step back. Then another one. Her mind refused to accept what her eyes were seeing. This couldn't be real. This had to be a dream. One of those cruel, sweet dreams that had haunted her through all these months, only for her to wake up crying in an empty bed, with the echo of his voice still ringing in her ears.

"No," she whispered, pressing Lyra more tightly to her chest, as if the child could protect her from this illusion, from this hope that was too painful to bear. "This is impossible."

Draco—if it really was him, if this was really happening—was looking at her with an expression of such amazement, such disbelief, as if she were the apparition, not the other way around. His lips moved, forming her name, but no sound came out of them.

"Granger," MacMillan spoke quietly, taking a careful step toward her, with his hands raised in a calming gesture. "I understand this is a shock, but please believe me—"

"No," she interrupted him, and her voice was sharper than she intended. "No, this is impossible. You said... you said that the curse... that there was no chance... that it was only a matter of time..."

She felt panic constricting her throat, fear mixing with hope into a mixture so toxic she could barely breathe. For fourteen months she had lived with his loss. For fourteen months she had visited his motionless body, talked to him, held his limp hand. For fourteen months she had been learning to live with pain that never went away.

Then Draco—or his illusion—moved abruptly. He pushed away MacMillan's supporting arm, ignored the warning cry of the second healer. His emaciated legs slid off the bed, his feet touched the cold floor. He swayed dangerously, his body, unused for such a long time, protested against the sudden effort.

"Malfoy, please!" MacMillan tried to stop him, grabbing his arm. "You're not ready yet to—"

Draco shook off his hand with irritation, as if swatting away an annoying fly. His eyes, reddened but full of determination, did not leave Hermione's face.

"Let me go," he growled, and his voice, despite its weakness, sounded like steel. "I need to..."

He took one shaky step, then another. His legs bent under him like twigs in the wind. He swayed and almost fell, grabbing the edge of the bed at the last moment. The second healer moved to support him, but Draco pushed him away with surprising force.

"I told you to let me go!"

Hermione stood like a statue. Not blinking. Not breathing. Not responding. The world around her blurred, sounds reached her as if through a thick layer of water. Lyra's crying—piercing, desperate—didn't break through the wall of shock surrounding her.

Draco fought with the healers, his emaciated body tensing in an effort that, after fourteen months of immobility, must have been agony. MacMillan tried to hold him back, saying something that Hermione wasn't registering. The second healer was reaching for his wand, probably to cast some calming spell.

But he was like a force of nature—physically weak, but driven by a desperation stronger than their reason. He pushed MacMillan away with surprising strength, ignored the second healer.

He fell to his knees, but even that didn't stop him. He got up and continued walking, each inch requiring effort that painted his face with a grimace of pain.

She wanted to move. She wanted to go to him, help him, catch him before he fell. But her body wouldn't respond to her mind's commands. She stood like a statue, with eyes wide open, with breath trapped in her lungs, with a heart that seemed to have forgotten how to beat.

He was almost to her now. He reached out his hand—the same hand she had held so many times as he lay motionless, the same hand that now trembled with effort—as if wanting to touch her face, to make sure she was real.

His fingers were just centimeters from her face. She felt his breath—warm, alive, real—on her skin. She saw every eyelash, every wrinkle, every shadow on his face, which was paler and thinner than she remembered, but still—oh, still—it was the face she loved above all else.

"Hermione," he whispered, and his voice, that voice whose sound she had almost forgotten, broke through the layers of shock, through the walls of disbelief, through the armor of fear surrounding her.

"It's really you," she whispered, and her voice was barely audible, broken, trembling with emotions that were too great to contain.

Draco nodded, unable to speak, his eyes filling with tears that glistened in the light of the hospital lamps. Then his gaze moved to Lyra, who had stopped crying and was now staring at him with that special, intense curiosity that only infants can bestow on a new face.

"Is that..." he began, but couldn't finish, his voice breaking, unable to formulate the question that was too enormous, too impossible to express.

"Yes," she replied, feeling the first tears flowing down her cheeks. "This is our daughter, Draco. Your daughter. Lyra."

The expression on his face—that absolute amazement, that pure, unspoiled joy mixed with disbelief and sadness for all that he had lost—was like a knife thrust straight into her heart. For a moment they stood like that, looking at each other across the abyss of fourteen months, across the chasm of pain, despair and grief that separated them, yet connected them in a way that no one else could understand.

And then Lyra, as if sensing the weight of the moment, stretched out her little hand toward Draco. This simple gesture—this innocent curiosity, this instinctive recognition—caused the last barriers to collapse. Hermione felt her knees weakening, her body refusing to obey under the weight of emotions too great to bear.

Draco was beside her in the blink of an eye, his own weakness forgotten in the face of her need. His arms—those same arms that for so long had been limp, motionless—now embraced her and Lyra, pulling them to him with a strength that defied his emaciated silhouette.

"I waited for you," he whispered, his lips at her temple, his breath warm on her skin. "In the darkness. I heard your voice. I held onto it. I followed it. Until I found my way back."

She couldn't speak. All the words, all the thoughts, all the feelings she had accumulated over those fourteen months, all the things she wanted to tell him if she ever got such a chance—all of it disappeared, leaving only pure, raw emotion that expressed itself in quiet, spasmodic sobs emerging from her throat.

"I thought you would never..." she began, but couldn't finish, her voice breaking under the weight of words that were too painful to speak.

"I know," he replied, and the same pain, the same despair sounded in his voice. "I know, darling. But I'm here. I'm here and I'm not going anywhere."

He held her as she cried—cried for all the days they had lost, for all the nights she had spent alone, for every moment when she thought she would never see him, hear him, touch him again. She cried until she had no more tears, until her body stopped trembling, until her breathing evened out, calmed by his closeness, his warmth, the fact that he was real, that he was alive, that he had come back to her.

A gentle throat-clearing interrupted their moment. The healer with Asian features, whom Hermione had noticed earlier, approached them, his face expressing a mixture of professional distance and unspoken compassion.

"Mr. Malfoy," he spoke in English, but with an accent so peculiar that she couldn't place it—as if each syllable was carefully formed, too precisely to sound natural. "We must return to the bed. For further examinations. Now."

There was something firm in his voice, something that left no room for discussion, despite the polite tone. His eyes, dark and inscrutable, rested for a moment on Lyra, and then moved to Hermione.

"You should rest too," he added, and a note appeared in his voice that she couldn't interpret. "It was... an emotional shock. For everyone."

Draco, not letting go of Lyra from his arms, looked at the healer with a mixture of irritation and resignation.

"Just a moment," he said, his voice quiet but firm. "I just..."

The healer shook his head, and his lips tightened into a thin line.

"Now," he repeated with emphasis. "Procedures must be followed. For your safety."

MacMillan, who stood to the side, nodded.

"Healer Wei is right, Malfoy," he said gently. "We need to conduct comprehensive tests. Make sure everything is functioning properly. The sooner we do this, the sooner you can return to your family."

Suddenly, before she could realize what was happening, she felt strong hands on her back. She was pushed out of the room so abruptly that she barely kept her balance, instinctively pressing Lyra more tightly to her chest. The door closed behind her with a dull thud, and in its place appeared a pale, greenish flash—a locking spell.

Something inside her broke. A new fracture, fresh and painful, in a heart that had just started to heal. She rushed to the door, hitting it with her free hand, trying unsuccessfully to press the handle.

"Draco!" she cried, her voice breaking halfway through the name. "Open up! Please, open up!"

Lyra, frightened by the sudden noise and violent movements, began to cry—a piercing, desperate sound that only fueled Hermione's panic. But she couldn't stop. She couldn't move away. Every cell in her body screamed that if she just walked away from this door, if she lost sight of Draco even for a moment, it would all turn out to be an illusion. That when she returned, she would find him again plunged into that void from which he had just emerged.

"Please!" she cried again, hitting the door with a force that left red marks on her hand. "Let me stay with him! I can't... I can't lose him again!"

She suddenly felt someone gently pulling Lyra from her arms. She turned around abruptly, ready to fight anyone who would try to take her child away, but saw only red hair and a familiar, freckled face.

"Ginny?"

At the same moment, she felt someone's strong hands grabbing her by the shoulders, pulling her away from the door. She tried to break free, but the grip was firm, though not painful.

"Hermione, calm down," she heard a familiar voice right by her ear. "It's me. Harry."

She turned around, meeting worried green eyes behind round glasses. Harry held her firmly, as if afraid she would fall without his support. Ginny stood nearby, rocking Lyra, who was slowly calming down.

"What are you...?" she began, but the words stuck in her throat. Suddenly she understood. Harry at St. Mungo's. His strange behavior when she met him earlier. That mysterious smile. "You knew," she whispered, disbelief mixing with accusation in her voice. "You knew he had woken up."

Harry looked at Ginny, then back at Hermione. His eyes were full of mixed emotions—remorse, joy, uncertainty.

"Not exactly," he said quietly. "It's not like that."

"How then?" she asked, feeling a new wave of tears coming to her eyes. "How is this possible? What's happening? Why did they throw me out of there? What are they doing to him?"

Harry sighed, leading her to a row of chairs against the wall of the corridor. Gently but firmly, he made her sit down.

"I was on a mission," he began, his voice quiet but certain. "An Auror mission. My own. Strictly secret. I was looking... I was looking for a cure for Malfoy."

Hermione stared at him, not understanding. "A cure? But... but there was no cure. The curse is irreversible."

"There was no cure," Harry nodded. "Not in Europe. But I found a lead... in old documents we seized during a raid on one of the last Death Eater hideouts. Documents concerning degenerative curses, experiments that Voldemort conducted on extending life."

"And there was something about Draco's curse?" she asked, her voice trembling with emotions too great to contain.

"Not exactly. But there was a trail. A lead pointing to Asia. To ancient magical practices that existed there long before our system of spells was created."

"Wei," she whispered, suddenly understanding. "That healer. He's not from here."

"Master Wei Jun," Harry confirmed. "The best specialist in degenerative curses in Southeast Asia. He works in a hidden magical sanctuary in the mountains of China. It took us months to find him. And more months to convince him to come to London."

"Why didn't you tell me?" she asked, her voice now sharper, full of pain and accusation. "Why did you let me believe there was no hope? That Draco would die?"

Ginny, who had been standing nearby, rocking Lyra, now sat down beside Hermione, placing her hand on her shoulder.

"Because there was no certainty," she said quietly. "Harry didn't want to give you false hope. He said it would be crueler than letting you come to terms with the loss."

Hermione looked at Harry, who now had an expression as if he himself wasn't sure whether he had made the right decision.

"The chances were... minimal," he said quietly. "One in a thousand. Maybe less. Even Wei wasn't sure if he would be able to do anything. He said it depended on many factors—the strength of the curse, the time it had been active, and most of all, on Draco's own willpower."

"And it worked," she whispered, as new tears flowed down her cheeks. "It worked. He came back."

Hermione looked at the door behind which Draco had disappeared. Now she understood why she had been thrown out—it wasn't about routine examinations, but about some complicated, perhaps even dangerous procedure that Wei had to perform to ensure the curse had been completely defeated.

"Will he..." she began, but the words stuck in her throat. "Will he live? Really live? Can the curse return?"

Harry looked at Ginny, then back at Hermione.

"Wei claims the curse has been broken," he said carefully. "But it will take time to make sure no traces remain. He'll need to undergo long rehabilitation. His body and magic were inactive for fourteen months. It won't be easy. But... yes. Everything indicates he will live. A full life."

She closed her eyes, allowing these words to penetrate her, to heal all the cracks, all the wounds she had carried within herself for those fourteen months. Draco was alive. He had returned to her. He had returned to them.

"Why?" she suddenly asked, looking at Harry. "Why did you leave your family for so many months? You risked so much, searching for a cure that might not have existed..."

"I felt guilty," he admitted quietly. "After all, I was the one who used that curse. If it hadn't been for that..." he broke off, looking at the closed door behind which Draco was. "Besides, I wanted to do something for you. After all those years when you did so much for me."

She looked at him, feeling a new wave of emotions rising in her throat.

"You were always there for me, Hermione," Harry continued. "In every situation. Even when everyone else turned away from me. Even when I doubted myself. You were my anchor, my conscience... I couldn't watch you suffer, knowing there was even a shadow of a chance to fix it."

Without a word, Hermione approached him and hugged him tightly.

"Thank you," she whispered, her voice muffled by the material of his robe. "Thank you for giving him back to me."

She pulled away, looking at Ginny, who was watching them with a gentle smile.

"I need to get Scorpius," she said, nodding toward Lyra. "Will you look after her?"

"Of course," she replied. "Go. He's been waiting for this for fourteen months."

Hermione apparated directly to the hall of Cliff Manor, her heart beating so hard she could almost hear its echo in the empty house. For a moment she stood motionless, trying to organize her thoughts, to find the right words to convey to Scorpius the news that would forever change their lives.

"Scorpius?" she called, moving toward the stairs. "Darling, where are you?"

She heard quick footsteps upstairs, and after a moment Scorpius appeared at the top of the stairs. His light hair was disheveled, and curiosity was painted on his face.

"You're back early," he noted, running down the stairs.

"Would you like to visit Daddy today?"

To her surprise, the boy shook his head, and his eyes darkened.

"Not today," he said quietly. "I'm always sad when I visit him. And I don't like being sad."

Hermione felt her heart constricting at these words. For fourteen months she had tried to make these visits non-traumatic for him, to preserve good memories of his father, to not let him lose hope. But how could he not be sad, seeing his father lying motionless, without reaction, month after month?

"I understand," she said gently, stroking his cheek. "In that case, I have a surprise for you."

Scorpius's eyes immediately lit up with curiosity.

"A surprise? What kind?"

"It's a very, very special surprise," she said. "But you have to close your eyes. And promise not to peek until I tell you that you can."

Scorpius looked at her suspiciously, furrowing his brows in a way that so much resembled his father that Hermione had to swallow tears.

"It's not my birthday today," he noted.

"This has nothing to do with birthdays," she replied with a smile. "It's something much, much better. I promise."

The boy hesitated for a moment, as if trying to guess what it could be about, but finally closed his eyes and additionally covered them with his hands.

"Okay," he said. "I'm not peeking. I promise."

Hermione looked at him for a moment—at this little boy who for fourteen months had been so brave, so strong, so similar to the father he had just regained. She knew that the moment that would come shortly would be one of those they would remember forever. A moment that would change their lives.

"Hold my hand," she said, taking his hand. "And remember—eyes closed until I say you can open them."

They apparated directly to the corridor of St. Mungo's. Scorpius, accustomed to this type of travel, only tightened his eyelids and hands over his eyes, keeping his promise. She guided him carefully through the corridor, her heart beating so loudly she was certain everyone around must hear it.

"Is it much further?" he asked in a whisper, as if suspecting that a louder sound might spoil the surprise.

"We're almost there," she replied, squeezing his hand gently.

As they approached the room's door, she noticed Harry and Ginny sitting in the corridor. Ginny was holding Lyra, who was sleeping peacefully in her arms. She put her finger to her lips, signaling them not to say anything.

She noticed that the door to the room was ajar—not as she had left it earlier, closed and secured with a spell. Someone had opened it, inviting them inside. Her heart jumped to her throat.

She gently pushed the door, entering with Scorpius.

"Don't peek yet," she whispered, leading him deeper into the room.

Draco was sitting on the bed—not lying, as he had for all those months, but sitting, propped up by pillows. He looked better than before—as if the tests and whatever Wei had done with him had restored some of his strength. His eyes were focused on the door, on the small silhouette of the boy.

She saw how his face changed at the sight of his son—how his eyes filled with tears, how his lips trembled, how his hands tightened on the bedding, as if he had to restrain himself from jumping out of bed and running to the boy.

She led Scorpius to the bed, so close that he almost touched its edge. She stood behind him, placing her hands on his shoulders, feeling her own body trembling from emotions that were too great to contain.

"Can I open my eyes now?" he asked, his voice excited, unaware of the weight of the moment that was about to change his life forever.

"You can, dragon," Draco replied, his voice quiet, hoarse with emotion and long disuse, but undeniably his.

Scorpius's hands dropped immediately, his eyes opened wide, and his entire small figure froze in absolute stillness. For a long moment he simply stood, staring at his father, as if he couldn't believe what he was seeing—as if afraid that if he blinked, if he moved, it would all turn out to be a dream.

"Daddy?" he whispered finally, his voice so quiet, so full of disbelief, it could barely be heard.

Draco nodded, and the tears he had been holding back until now flowed freely down his cheeks.

"It's me," he said, extending trembling arms to him. "I've come back to you."

The boy still stood motionless, his small body tense as a string, his eyes fixed on his father's face with an intensity that broke the heart. And then, as if something inside him broke, he made a sound—half scream, half sob—and rushed forward, falling into Draco's arms with such force that he almost knocked him over on the bed.

"Daddy! Daddy! Daddy!" he repeated, pressing his face to his chest, his small arms embracing his father so tightly as if afraid that if he let go, he would disappear again.

Draco held him, rocking him gently, his face hidden in his son's light hair, his arms trembling from emotions too powerful to contain. For a long moment they simply held each other, father and son, separated by fourteen months of darkness, connected by love that survived everything.

Hermione stood nearby, tears flowing down her face, but she made no move to wipe them away. This moment—this sacred, extraordinary moment—belonged to the two of them. She was only a viewer, a witness to the miracle that had occurred.

"I knew you would come back," Scorpius finally said, pulling back slightly to look at his father's face. "I told Mummy you would come back. That it was just a dream. That you would wake up."

Draco smiled through tears, touching his son's cheek with such tenderness as if he were the most precious treasure in the universe.

"You were right," he said quietly. "You were right all along. It was just a very, very long dream."

Scorpius nodded, his small face serious, focused, as if trying to understand something that exceeded his childish comprehension.

"I talked to you," he said. "Every day. I told you about school, and about dragons, and about everything. Did you hear me?"

"I heard," he replied, and his voice broke on this simple word. "I heard every word. It was your voice that led me home."

The boy smiled.

"You'll never have to sleep that long again?" Scorpius asked, and in his voice rang that special mixture of hope and fear that only children can express.

"Never," he promised, embracing his son more tightly. "Never again, dragon. I promise."

The door opened quietly, and Ginny entered the room, carrying Lyra, who had just woken up.

"Someone else would like to say hello," Ginny said softly, approaching the bed.

Scorpius moved a little, making room, but not letting go of his father, as if afraid that if he released him even for a moment, he would disappear again.

Ginny gently placed Lyra on Draco's lap. The girl looked at him with wide brown eyes, which reflected the same shade of shock and amazement that was still painted on the faces of all the adults.

For a long moment Draco looked at his daughter, as if he couldn't believe she was real, that she was his, that she existed at all. And then Lyra raised her little hand, trying to reach his face. Her uncoordinated little fingers stretched out, seeking contact, but instead of a gentle touch, they hit him straight in the nose, with a force no one would expect from such a small being.

Draco laughed—a sound so long unheard in this room, in their lives—and then suddenly his laughter turned into a sob, deep, cleansing, releasing everything he had carried within himself through those fourteen months of darkness.

Hermione sat beside them, embracing all three with her arms, and her own tears mingled with his, with Scorpius's tears, with the quiet, astonished cry of Lyra, who didn't understand why everyone was crying, but joined them instinctively, in solidarity.

These were tears different from all the previous ones—not tears of despair, not tears of loss, not tears of mourning, which she had shed for fourteen months. These were tears that cleansed, that healed, that closed one story and opened another. Tears that contained a promise that they would never again be needed, because whatever the future might bring, they would face it together. As a family.

And so they sat, entwined in one embrace—the man who had returned from darkness, the woman who had never lost faith, the boy whose love was a beacon in the darkest night, and the girl who was proof that life always finds a way to break through, to endure, to flourish, even when everything seems lost.

They cried together, and their tears washed away all the pain, all the despair, all the fear. They cried so that they would never have to cry again.

THE END

Notes:

Thank you so much for reading, and for all the love, kudos, and comments! Honestly, I wasn’t expecting this fic to get such a warm response. I was never fully satisfied with it myself, so knowing that people actually enjoyed it means more to me than I can say 🥺
When I first wrote this story, I was convinced I had calculated all the roses and Hermione's pregnancy timeline correctly, everything seemed to make perfect sense at the time. But now, after going back and rereading the chapters… I’m not so sure anymore😅 So if anything doesn’t quite add up, please just ignore it and pretend it’s all accurate!
This fic (along with All the Sins We Commit After Dark) was actually one of the first two fanfics I ever wrote and finished a long time ago. That’s why I was able to post the chapters so quickly, they were already done, but I kept them to myself for a long time because I wasn’t sure if they were good enough, or if I should share them at all.
Now I’m working on something new, but this time I’m writing it as I go, and it’s not finished yet. Since I’m still pretty new to AO3, I’m unsure what readers prefer. Should I start posting chapter by chapter even if it’s not done yet, or wait until it’s complete and then upload it with daily updates? I’d love to hear what you think.

Again, thank you so much for giving this little fic a chance 💖