Chapter Text
11:04 pm.
8 hours until the end of her shift.
Draco Malfoy bled out on the floor of St. Mungo’s emergency ward because of Theodore Nott and his expensive scotch collection.
No, that wasn’t quite right.
Draco Malfoy would have bled out on the floor of St. Mungo’s emergency ward because of Theodore Nott and his expensive scotch collection, had it not been for Healer Hermione Granger.
No, that wasn’t quite right either.
There was merely one reason and one reason only, why Draco Malfoy almost bled out at 11:04 pm and it was Hermione Granger’s big mouth.
She had done the unspeakable, the unthinkable, the unforgivable… she had uttered the seven forbidden words to junior healer Rowan Spindle, who had promptly paled enough for his warm, bronze skin to turn into a sickly ash grey and dropped the files he was holding to stare at her in horror before the crack of apparition had disturbed the calm that had reigned the ward until that moment.
‘This seems to be a quiet night.’
In an instant, chaos broke out.
Hermione whirled around, reaching for her wand to undo as much damage as her healing spells could while Rowan flew towards the emergency services tray to grab the box of vials that could take care of the things magic couldn’t.
The first thing Hermione saw - other than the pale, wide-eyed receptionist who had apparated the patient into the emergency ward- was blood. And a lot of it. Then she heard the loud groans of pain.
“Move.” Years of training took over and she brushed the man aside who had accompanied their now patient and dropped to her knees to assess the situation, uncaring of the blood that seeped into the fabric of her thrice-be-damned skirt thanks to wizarding world gender norms and their inability to tolerate a female healer wearing trousers.
But Hermione didn’t have time to rage about dress codes and their impracticality in the face of what clearly was an emergency. Her gaze briefly flickered over the patient’s restlessly moving body, skipping his face entirely to land on his arm again. Or what was left of it.
Male, athletic, tall, good health, early to mid-twenties, caucasian. Pale skin, possible causes: anaemia due to rapid blood loss or shock.
“Heavy laceration on the left forearm.” She called to Rowan and cast a quick vanishing and stasis spell to get a better look at the wound. The wizard made another noise of pain and tried to pull away, but two other healing assistants were already there and held onto him, forcing him to lie still. “Tearing of the carpi radials and the teres. Cephalic vein is severed… and the radial artery too.” That explained the amount of blood. “Radius and ulna both damaged. Marks on the bones and the clean tearing of the flesh hint at a slicing spell.”
The blood began to pour again, but not before Hermione spotted a hint of black on the torn skin, right next to the gaping wound. She leaned a bit closer, tilting the injured limb carefully. The lingering effect of a curse? Poison?
No, it almost looked like a…
Her eyes finally snapped to the man’s face and she merely had time for a sharp intake of breath before Rowan was there with the vial kit. That would explain the pale skin.
“Pain relief potion first,” Hermione ordered but reached for Rowan’s arm before she had finished speaking to stop him “No, Sober-up potion, then the pain relief.” She hadn’t noticed the sharp scent at first as the coppery smell of blood had been too strong, but now she could almost taste the alcohol on their patient.
Nodding, her assistant switched the vials and administered the sobering potion first. It took less than five seconds for the groans of pain to become louder as the haze of alcohol disappeared. But Rowan had the vial of pain relief already on hand and pressed it to pale lips.
Hermione counted in her head the seconds it took for the potion to work and nodded at Rowan to administer a second dose when ten seconds passed and he was still writhing in pain. Another ten seconds and the tall body went lax and his breathing became smooth.
“Calming draught, in case of shock.” She ordered. “Monitor his heartbeat and blood pressure, if it’s stable, administer the aesthetics. Repairing this will take a while and I don’t want him to move around.” Or sneer at her. As professional as she was, it might tempt her to ‘forget’ the smooth skin spell and leave him with a truly ugly scar.
“Anne, get room two ready so we can stitch him up. Merton, you will levitate him.” She glanced at the two assistants and Anne quickly hurried away while Merton got out his wand and waited for her command. “Rowan, you will get two of the potent blood-replenishing potions from the cabinet while we set everything up to repair the arm. And a vial of the intravenous ones, just in case. I don’t want to administer them before I’ve repaired the veins and artery, but we don’t know how much he has lost so we might have to. And…” Hermione craned her head back and found the new assistant healer in training Clarice staring at the spectacle with wide eyes and a shell-shocked expression. Poor thing. “Clarice, please escort this gentleman to the waiting area and inform Healer Wickes. I suspect he only needs a good sober-up potion and a bit of calming draught, but he might go into shock.”
He certainly looked pale enough. His face was vaguely familiar, now that Hermione thought about it, but she couldn’t associate it with any of those imbeciles who had constantly thrown the word ‘mudblood’ at her. Small mercies.
The assistants nodded and Clarice ushered the stranger away, who seemed slightly reluctant but complied, his mouth opening and closing silently while he stared at the blood on the ground, the torn arm and his own, blood-covered hands with wide eyes. Definitely shock.
“And get a muesli bar from the staff room while you’re at it, Clarice. He looks like he’s about to faint and will need something sweet once Wickes gives him the all-clear.” Hermione had seen more than one person accompanying a patient faint at the sight of blood. Usually, something sweet helped. If it was because of the sugar or because they were forced to focus on eating something sticky that required a lot of chewing, who knew. All that mattered was that it worked.
Anne waved from further down the hallway, indicating that the room was ready and Hermione looked at Rowan. “Ready?”
He nodded and cast the monitoring spell.
Heartbeat and blood pressure as steady as could be, breathing slightly elevated but not outside the norm, oxygen levels good. No signs of shock, the calming draught had done its job.
“Administer the anaesthetic now.” Hermione ordered, not taking her eyes off the monitoring spell. Her fingers clenched around her wand as Rowan followed her command. She only needed to count to five before she felt the muscles under her hand go lax and his breathing stopped.
“Casting the life-sustaining spell.” Her magic flowed out of the tip of her wand and settled in her patient’s abdomen, seeping through his once-white shirt that was now covered in splatters of red. His still chest suddenly began to rise again as her magic forced his lungs to resume their work. “Vitals are clear, but we will keep an eye on his blood pressure. Merton, your turn.”
With great care, the eager healing assistant who would acquire his license at the end of the year cast the levitation spell and gently lifted the lax body off the ground. Once he was at hip height, Merton levitated him towards the room Anne had prepared.
“Merton, Anne get him ready for surgery, if necessary cast another stasis spell on the wound so he won’t continue to bleed out. I’ll join you in two minutes.” Hermione barely waited until she got quick nods in return before she rushed to the glorified broom closet that had been turned into ‘her’ office. It housed a tiny bunk with a lumpy mattress that had caused more than one healer to wake up with a terribly aching back, a small dresser with just enough space for a change of clothes and a towel, a desk that had seen better days, a bookcase containing medical texts and a sink with a full-sized mirror next to it.
Hermione sighed when she noticed the state of her pencil skirt and her blouse. She only cast a quick cleaning charm, knowing she would undoubtedly get blood on her when patching up that arm before quickly reaching for her enchanted white coat that would spare her from most of the mess and reapplying the charm that pinned up her hair. The last thing she needed was for the magic to disperse halfway through her work.
That one time had been bad enough and she never wanted to stand in her shower and scrub her curls while wishing for someone to obliviate her so she could forget how her hair looked sitting on top of a ruptured appendix.
Although the cleaning spell had taken care of the blood on her hands, she still washed them in the sink and splashed some of the cold water onto her face. Pinning her reflection in the mirror, she forced herself to take a deep, calming breath.
“You can do this. And you will remain professional. You were capable of treating Dolohov when they finally caught him, you can do this too.” Hermione reminded herself and grimaced at the memory.
It had been during her second year covering night shifts. An already hectic night had been made worse when the aurors had burst in and demanded the overworked and understaffed healers present to take care of a dangerous and newly arrested criminal.
All of them had shied away, looking terribly busy with whatever they had been doing and Hermione had taken over, merely freezing for a second when she recognised the dirty, sallow face half hidden behind an unkept beard and dark, lanky hair. She had treated him, saved his life - the irony- and handed the papers clearing him to be discharged to the then head auror, who had gruffly nodded his thanks before taking a still-unconscious Dolohov with him.
Hermione had called out that she would take a ten-minute break, returned to her broom closet and cast a silencing charm so her brief nervous breakdown would go unnoticed. And her hysterical laughter, at the irony of her having saved the life of the man who had tried to kill her on multiple occasions.
The man who had succeeded in killing Remus Lupin.
When the headlines had proclaimed his capture and consequently, his incarceration in Azkaban the next day, it had only been a small comfort in the face of the nightmares that had haunted her for weeks afterwards.
But this wasn’t Antonin Dolohov. This wasn’t a Death Eater fully intent on eradicating every last magic user who had muggle blood in them, this wasn’t a Death Eater convinced that muggles were nothing but animals to be enslaved.
This was Draco Malfoy.
And he was nothing but a former school bully, who, prejudiced and idiotic as he may have been, had spent the past years doing little else than throw outrageous amounts of money on whatever charity project hadn’t already held an event in honour of the Malfoy family and their more than generous donations.
She would restore his arm, fill out the paperwork, let him sleep his anaesthesia off and leave the discharge process to the day shift. The universe owed her for all the horrors she had been subjected to, so the least it could do was make him sleep until she was well on her way home.
Still, her stomach churned slightly when she left her glorified closet and joined her assistants, who were in the middle of undressing Malfoy. His trousers were already in a heap on the ground with his shoes and socks, and Anne was in the middle of cutting off his ruined shirt. Usually, it would be thrown right out, but knowing Malfoy he might just wait for a chance to throw a hissy fit. He would get his shirt back, bloody as it was. They were a hospital, not a laundry service.
“Where’s Rowan?” Hermione asked, just for the assistant to enter the room at that moment, carrying the vials she had asked him to fetch. “You’re taking your exam on muscle fibre reconstruction in two weeks, right? I want you to hold the stasis charm while I work, it will allow you to observe the process.”
Rowan’s dark eyes lit up and his smile revealed deep dimples.
It would make up for her earlier flounder that got them into this situation in the first place.
“I don’t suspect any more trauma, but we will check nonetheless.” She decided, just as Anne removed Malfoy’s pants and with them, the last scrap of fabric hiding his body. Hermione didn’t bat an eye. She had seen hundreds of wizards and witches undressed, Malfoy’s body didn’t faze her any more than any other did.
That didn’t mean she had spontaneously lost her eyesight. She had to admit that - in her professional opinion- he did have a very nice body. Incredibly proportionate with lean, defined muscles, an agile build and smooth, pale skin. A criss-cross of silver lines briefly drew her attention to his chest and she ran a gloved finger over the pattern as professional interest overtook her.
A memory rang at the back of her mind. Sixth year, the spell used by Harry. Sectumsempra. And the counterspell Snape used.
Vulnera Sanentur.
Effective, certainly. But it only worked if it was applied within minutes and lost its ability to repair wounds if one hesitated too long. Not an option for them.
“No other injuries, neither external nor internal.” Merton proclaimed after casting the standard diagnosis spell and Hermione nodded, but not without repeating it, just in case her assistant had missed anything.
He hadn’t, but it allowed her to understand the damage better.
“Cover him up. Rowan, with me. Anne, you’re in charge of the life-sustaining spell. Merton, you will oversee his vitals and administer potions if needed. Are we ready?” She checked with her colleagues, who all nodded once.
“Good.” She waved her wand and they were engulfed in a protective shield each, to protect themselves and Malfoy from any bacteria or viruses. The last thing they needed was to save his life and then have him end up back here with sepsis.
Satisfied that everybody knew what they needed to do, Hermione took her place next to Malfoy’s arm. Goosebumps covered the pale flesh where it was unmarred and she muttered a warming spell under her breath that heated the sheet Rowan pulled over Malfoy’s bare body and up to his chin before he joined her with an eagerness that others might have considered distasteful. But sentiments were different in the medical field, where a certain pragmatism was necessary if one wanted to do their job properly.
“I will now begin repairing the bones and work outwards. Usually, I would start with major blood vessels, but the stasis spell is strong and the bones have only minor lacerations. Would I restore the artery first, I would have to touch it again to get to the bones and I would prefer not to do that.” She explained and adjusted the grip on her wand. Before their eyes, the off-white bone structure bridged the gaps that had been caused by what she presumed had been a slicing spell. Injuries like these did at times require skele-gro, but Malfoy had been lucky.
“Now for the blood vessels.” This required slightly more delicate magic as she gently took the severed ends of the radial artery and watched them mend, before repeating the step with the cephalic vein. “I’ll lift the stasis charm in part to ensure that the veins are properly connected and we have no internal bleeding later on.” She explained and held her breath. But there was no new blood quelling out of the wound. The spells had worked perfectly.
At her nod, Merton quickly administered the blood-replenishing potions and Anne put her hand on Malfoy’s throat. A whisper of magic forced his limp muscles to swallow and another closed off his stomach to keep him from accidentally vomiting. There was no point in stilling the bleeding if she suffocated on his own sick.
“I will now connect the muscles, Rowan.” She glanced at the junior healer and he leaned a bit closer, careful not to get in the light. Usually, Hermione worked her magic silently, but this time she repeated every spell she used out loud and its effects, which Rowan seemed to absorb eagerly. His eyes were sharp as they observed the muscles knitting themselves together again until there was no sign of injury in the first place.
But Hermione ceased speaking when she reconnected the nerves and none of her assistants dared to make a noise. This was the trickiest part of the procedure. One wrong tick of her wand or a second of not paying enough attention could make him lose the function in his entire hand.
Sweat gathered in the nape of her neck while she worked, making her collar cling to her skin until finally, finally, the last of his nerves were reconnected. A brief electric stimulus to test their connection revealed that everything should be in order, but they would only know after he had woken up and completed a brief motor skills test.
But Hermione had never made a mistake before and tonight wouldn’t be the time to flounder.
“Dittany, please.” She held out her hand and Merton was already there. The gleaming fluid poured over the torn flesh, pooling in the ridges of his muscles and veins, until it began to knit itself together.
“It seems that he’s missing skin.” Rowan noted and indeed, the dark mark was missing the skull and the skin was tight enough that Hermione knew some must have been cut off and left behind. Not enough to warrant a skin transplant, but enough that she nodded at Rowan to get the enchanted thread and bandages.
She would have preferred to just use dittany, but they would need to hold the skin together for a while until the it had adjusted and the essence could be administered again. A day or two, at most. Nothing that Malfoy would need to stay at the hospital for. His general physician could reapply the bandages and apply the tincture once the enchanted threads had dissolved. One way or the other, he would be left with unblemished skin. Except for the now slightly wonky-looking mark.
Oh well, Hermione certainly wasn’t sorry to see it go.
Tying the last knot into the thread, Hermione took a step back and exhaled. “Well done.” She told her team, which made Merton beam broadly. He had just recently transferred from Glasgow and was still eager to prove himself.
“I will administer the potion to counter the anesthetics. He should be able to breathe on his own within two minutes.” Merton waited for her to confirm his decision before he brought the dark green vial to Malfoy’s lips.
“Slowly remove the life-sustaining spells, Anne.” She ordered and felt her shoulders relax when Malfoy’s deep breathing lost its slow rhythm and was slightly uneven. Good, a sign that his lungs were starting to work again. “Excellent. Take care of the blood, bandage his arm and get him dressed. Room fifteen is empty, so transfer him there. Don’t forget to activate the monitoring charm when you leave, just in case he wakes up early. But I suspect that he will sleep until we’re off the clock. And ward the room, he’s a high profile case and the last thing we want is journalists trying to crawl in.”
“Yes, Healer Granger.” Anne and Merton got to work, while Rowan followed her out of the operating room.
“Thanks for letting me watch.” Rowan stretched his arms over his head, pulling up the assistant’s shrubs that junior healers were forced to wear and revealing a sliver of his toned stomach. “The books are all very detailed and have pictures, but it’s different seeing it done in person.”
Hermione smiled. “You’re welcome. I hope you can forgive me for using the q-word.”
“As long as you will never say it again.” He winked at her. “Care for a coffee? I think I’ll stop by the break room on my way to restock the emergency stock.”
“No, thank you. I’ll have to file the paperwork. And can’t wait to get changed.” She tugged on the collar of her blouse. A shower didn’t sound too bad either if only she had the time. A cleaning spell would have to suffice.
“Next time then.” Rowan shrugged. “By the way, did you inform the mind healers already?”
“Hm?” Hermione frowned while she removed her coat. “Why would I?”
Her junior glanced back at room two. “Well, that was a pretty extensive injury. And seemed self-inflicted. Who knows what he might have tried to do…”
Oh.
To be honest, Hermione hadn’t even considered the possibility that Malfoy had tried to take his own life. Somehow she couldn’t imagine him doing it. But that was the thing, wasn’t it? One could never imagine it until it had happened.
“You’re right. I will contact the mind healers. I want them to talk to him when he wakes up, just to check him over. Can you check in on the one who brought him in? He seems to know what happened and the sober-up-potion should have kicked in by now.”
“Will do.” He gave a cheerful little wave and turned left towards the break room while Hermione continued to her broom closet. It wasn’t the first time he had offered her coffee, but Hermione had a habit of declining anything that could be misinterpreted as a date by anyone, especially the press.
Rowan didn’t seem to mind. Maybe because there was no romantic intent behind it or maybe because there were enough pretty healing assistants in the paediatrics ward where he usually worked when he wasn’t covering the night shift with her. He had a soft spot for children and would make a great healer once he sat his remaining exams.
Shutting the door behind her, Hermione threw her coat over the door of her small wardrobe and put her wand aside to change out of her clothes. She stuffed her skirt, blouse and tights into her laundry bag and vanished it to her flat before making use of the spare clothes she kept on hand for nights like these. Another skirt, another blouse, another pair of tights.
She left her heels next to her desk as she sank into the ancient chair that had seen better days and never failed to remind her of that by squeaking pitifully. One day it would give out and she sincerely hoped that fate would befall her successor. If this chair had survived the overladen form of Cornelius Carter for two decades, it would endure two more years with her.
Two more years. At most. Then her monthly nightshifts would come to an end as she would finally get the promotion she had had her eye on ever since she had first read the term ‘nightshift’ in her work contract.
Sighing, Hermione wrestled the crooked drawer open and pulled out the blank paperwork, eager to write her report, fill out the file, sign whatever needed signing and never think about Draco Malfoy again.
If only she hadn’t said the q-word!
12:34 am
6 1/2 hours until the end of her shift.
In an ideal world, Hermione would have finished her paperwork in the blink of an eye, taken a nap on the torture instrument that some higher-up dared to call a bed and spent the rest of her shift doing rounds and chatting with the rest of the staff.
But Hermione’s last day in an ideal world had been before she had displayed any trace of magic and been the normal daughter of two perfectly normal parents in a perfectly normal neighbourhood.
Then there had been strange occurrences, McGonagall visiting them, a trip to Diagon Alley, the train to Hogwarts and she had somehow been roped into a friendship that caused her to end up in a multitude of life-endangering situations that children shouldn’t ever experience. And a war, a short-lived, disastrous relationship that strained her friendship with Ron for two years, a career that diverged from the path she had imagined for herself and-
In short: Hermione didn’t live in an ideal world.
As such her paperwork took half an hour and when she finally signed it and contemplated risking a crick in the neck by laying down on the ‘mattress’, there was a knock on the door and Healer Assistant Anne poked her head in.
“Healer Granger, the patient is awake.” She chirped and at her questioning look clarified: “Patient Malfoy. With the slicing spell.”
As if Hermione could forget the gravest injury she had seen in a while.
“He’s awake already?” Her brows furrowed. It seemed as if she would have to adjust her plans. Shuffling through the paperwork, she pulled out the reference letter to the mind healers’ ward. “Mind Healer Buckthorn should be in. Please deliver this letter to him and ask him if he has the time to establish Mr. Malfoy’s mental condition. Once he’s done, I would like to hear his assessment.”
“Of course, right away.” Anne agreed and took the sheet of parchment before scurrying out of the room.
Hermione cast a quick tempus. Unless there was a crisis in the mental health ward, Buckthorn would assess Malfoy right away, as was standard procedure. Especially since Malfoy could be well on his way home if there were no complications. Something she would have to check once Buckthorn was done.
Unless Malfoy fell asleep again. One could hope.
Sighing, Hermione bid goodbye to the nap she desperately wanted to take, slipped back into her heels, grabbed her coat where it was waiting for her and left her office. The hallway was quiet, which was always a good sign. Walking past the handful of doors behind which patients were slumbering or beds waiting for new emergencies, Hermione scrunched her nose a little at the persistent scent of the disinfectant spells that had been undoubtedly used to clean up the bloody mess Malfoy had caused.
It was a sharp, unpleasant scent, not unlike disinfectant although not as artificial. Hermione had noticed early on that muggle and wizarding hospitals had more in common than either would think. Except for the thrice-be-damned dress code for female healers.
Her heels clicked on the stone, cutting through the silence and only drowned out when she took a left towards the staff room. Or rather rooms. A small space that wasn’t more than an alcove behind which a single stool and small desk stood next to a high shelf filled with drawers that housed the more common potions. The rarer and more dangerous ones were locked away in the potion cabinet in the room behind the alcove, which was barely bigger than her shoebox of an office.
Two sofas with matching armchairs that had been positively antique even a century ago were gathered around a sad-looking coffee table and a shabby table with two equally worn chairs looked dreadfully uninviting next to the cramped kitchenette that housed a sink, a cooling shelf and a muggle coffee machine that had been wrangled into working despite the surrounding magic and was the holy grail of the emergency ward.
Hermione stifled a snort at the carton of UHT milk next to it, sticking out like a sore thumb. It was her fault, in a way. After befalling victim to spoiled milk one too many times during her first month at St. Mungos because of an emergency that had led to someone forgetting to put it back on the cooling shelf, she had resorted to drastic measures. A trip to the nearest muggle supermarket and she had returned with a tin of coffee mate and a carton of UHT milk.
Both were vile compared to proper milk, but better than seeing her coffee flock thanks to milk that was just short of developing sentience.
Ever since, employees with ties to the muggle world -either by being muggleborns or half-bloods with muggle heritage - regularly stocked up the supply of UHT milk and coffee mate and were rewarded with a steady supply of biscuits and sweets by the rest of the staff.
As long as they hadn’t discovered microwaves and instant noodles yet…
Rowan was lounging on one of the sofas, his head buried in a book about muscle restoration and a cup of coffee cradled in his hands while Clarice - overeager as always - was busy checking the inventory of the potion cabinet while glancing longingly at the clock every now and then.
Hermione couldn’t blame her. She was counting the minutes until she could go home and sleep for ten hours straight.
But this wasn’t called the graveyard shift for no reason and the day staff wouldn’t arrive for another six and a half hours, to free them of their suffering. Or at least Hermione. For Rowan, Clarice, Anne and Merton, it would be another night shift in just a few days. But that was the lot of assistants and healers in training.
“Clarice,” Hermione called while she heated water with a flick of her wrist “how is the man accompanying our patient? Was he injured?”
The assistant in training jumped and almost dropped a vial she was holding. “Oh,” She squeaked “No, he was just a bit shocked. And very drunk. I gave him the sober-up potion as you advised and a muesli bar. And…” She gnawed in her bottom lip, wearing off some of her lipstick “I think he fell… asleep.”
Hermione, who had halfway disappeared into the cabinet that housed their sad-looking collection of teabags, poked her head out again. “You think he’s asleep?” She echoed, a little confused and Rowan snorted into his coffee.
“I would say at this point we know. If the way he’s snoring is anything to go by.” He lowered his book just long enough to meet her eyes. “He had already nodded off when I went to check on him. Looked like he needed it too, especially after that shock. I figured there’d be no harm in letting him camp in the waiting room and give him an update that his friend is all healthy and whole again once he wakes up.”
“Hm,” Hermione hummed thoughtfully “maybe a sensitivity to calming draughts too, he should inform whoever is his usual healer so there won’t be any issues in the future. But it sounds like you’re right and it would be best to just let him sleep. The worst he can do is fall off the chair.”
“Got it, boss.” Rowan disappeared behind his book again while Hermione poured herself a cup of tea. Another flick of magic shortened the steeping time and discarded the soggy bag in the waiting bin.
She sighed happily into her cup.
‘At least it seems quiet now, after all that trouble earlier.’ The thought had barely crossed her mind and she already regretted it. Don’t speak the q-word, don’t write it. Don’t think it.
Because in that moment Mind Healer Buckthorn passed by the staff rooms and stopped in his tracks when he noticed her. “Healer Granger!” He bellowed happily and Clarice almost dropped another potion in surprise, so Hermione figured it was safer to leave her staff to themselves and join Buckthorn in the empty hallway.
“Mind Healer Buckthorn, thank you for making it short notice.” She reached for the plate of digestives and swiped it with her as she left and the older wizard eagerly reached for one. It was a small attempt to make up for having had to call him to the emergency ward so suddenly and he did have a preference for them.
Not something one would assume.
Mind Healer Nicholas Buckthorn was as spindly as he was tall, with frizzy white hair that pointed in every possible direction but wasn’t fully able to hide the thinning patches that slowly wandered from his forehead to the circle on the back of his head. One day they would connect and Hermione hoped it would happen before she got her promotion or Buckthorn finally decided to retire after all. She had witnessed the slow shift of what seemed like continents for years now.
He had been head of the Mind Healing ward and the Janus Thickey ward for decades and adapted some of his patients’ habits over the years. But he was exceedingly kind and empathetic, making it easy for him to assess the mental health of his patients and offer the right treatment. Hermione only admired and respected few of the staff at St. Mungos as she did him.
“Oh, it’s no bother, no bother at all.” He assured her and eagerly snatched three biscuits up. “Although I had hoped for a bit more excitement than merely the fumbling actions of a wizard who had one glass of fire whiskey too many.” His hearty chuckle was somewhat muffled by the digestives.
“So it wasn’t an attempt at suicide or another case of intentional self-harm?” Hermione asked, feeling the same eagerness he did in the face of a sweet treat. Only for her it was the knowledge that Malfoy wouldn’t be a permanent figure at St. Mungos.
“None. Poor lad was just a bit too buzzed. Did the usual checks, had a peek into his mind with his permission and took a look at the memories. T’was quite a fun evening our patient had. If you’re in search of a good pub, I can now recommend the Defiant Dragon.” Buckthorn guffawed. “Although I think he’ll skip on wild nights out for a while. Was quite pale, that boy was, when he realised what had happened. And tired, fell asleep right away. Gave him the good stuff, I s’ppose.”
“Thank you, Buckthorn.” Oh, how wonderful. Less paperwork, no long-term stay for Malfoy and most importantly: he was fast asleep and would hopefully snooze until the day shift took him off her hands and sent sleeping beauty home once he woke up again. Let them serve him breakfast and deal with his demands of silver cutlery and fresh croissants from Paris or whatever else he would undoubtedly want.
“No trouble, no trouble.” Taking the last two digestives to cram them into the pocket of his brown tartan suit, Buckthorn gave her a wide smile. “I shall be on my way. It’s a full moon and that always means works for the mind ward.” Excitement flashed in his pale eyes and Hermione sent a silent prayer of relief that she hadn’t been assigned to the mind ward at least.
“Then I shall not hold you back. And full moon or not, my paperwork is calling for me.” She vanished the empty plate to the sink and waved Buckthorn goodbye, before also vanishing the trail of crumbs he left.
Relishing in the quiet and the knowledge that she wouldn’t have Malfoy on her hands for much longer, she contemplated a sad-looking ficus tree that dropped yet another wilted, yellowed leaf and rummaged through her brain in search of the knowledge from her Herbology NEWTs course. Did it need water or did it have too much water?
Whatever it was, it wasn’t her problem.
Just as Malfoy soon wouldn’t be her problem anymore.
1:26 am
5 1/2 hours until the end of her shift.
Malfoy became her problem less than an hour later.
Hermione had decided against risking permanent spine damage by laying down on her mattress and kept herself busy by checking in on the few patients on the ward. Except for Malfoy, of course.
They were all sound asleep, their vitals stable and she pencilled in their development on the charts hanging on the ends of their bed so the day shift knew how their conditions developed. She felt a pang of empathy at room no. 7, where a little boy -Henry- with black curls was far too small for the large bed.
He was six and had been brought in sometime that evening before her shift had started. A case of Dragon Pox, unusually tricky since he had also caught a mild respiratory infection that had already stressed his immune system. But he was in a stable condition and had been placed under a shielding spell so the red spots on his skin wouldn’t infect other patients. If things continued to go well, he would be well on his way to the paediatrics ward in the morning and back home in two days.
Hermione picked up his little teddy bear that had tumbled off the edge of his mattress and placed it back in his arms before refilling the glass of water on his nightstand. A wave of her wand renewed the charm on the little night light that floated nearby and allowed for just enough light that he wouldn’t wake up and be disoriented.
Hermione closed the door behind her with a soft click as she stepped back into the hallway and cast another tempus. Five and a half hours until she could go home and take a hot shower, or even better a nice, long bath.
When she had searched for a new flat half a year ago, after getting yet another eyebrow-raising pay raise that she had shamelessly accepted despite knowing that it was primarily due to her name and status, a bathtub had been a must and it had only taken a week until she had found a spacious flat in one of the best locations in Wizarding London. Located in a charming 19th-century townhouse it had everything she could want. High ceilings, historic hardwood floors, large windows that allowed a lot of natural light and the overall charm of magic with its very own floo parlour.
Ron had let out an appreciative whistle and vowed to pester George into finally giving him a raise, so he could move out of that matchbox of a flat on Diagon Alley while Ginny had subtly asked Hermione where she had gotten her curtains because she was still trying to convince Harry to renovate Grimmauld Place at least somewhat.
Slipping her wand back into the pocket of her coat, Hermione decided another cup of tea was in order so she would be halfway awake in case of another emergency. But the whole slicing spell debacle should have fulfilled their bad luck quota for the night and she-
Stopped in her tracks when she passed room 15 and noticed that the charm lining the door was no longer subtly glowing blue. She hesitated and considered whether or not her staff would hate her if she called one of them over to take care of Malfoy.
Or if the ministry would investigate her if she administered a sleeping draught to knock him out for the rest of the night.
Hermione tilted her head back and stared at the ceiling, contemplating a spot where the paint was flaking. She was the highest-ranking staff member at the moment and the only Healer. She was also a Gryffindor. And although she wasn’t actually working at St. Mungos and merely fulfilling the extra duties that came with her real job, she had sworn the Wizarding equivalent of a Hippocratic Oath. Do no harm, help those in need and all that.
Sighing, she massaged the back of her neck before she braved the door.
Maybe it was her lucky day and the charm was merely malfunctioning and Malfoy was still asleep.
But that thought quickly dissipated when she entered room 15 and found her patient trying to unravel the bandage wrapped around his arm, which had been attached with a strong sticking charm.
“Please refrain from doing that, Mr. Malfoy.” Hermione took care to make her voice sound professional but not unfriendly. She had had worse patients. Not many, but still.
Malfoy’s head snapped towards her and his long fingers stilled where they had been picking on the white bandages. His eyes widened a little when his gaze met hers before he seemed to catch himself and his expression became neutral. Neutral, if a bit exhausted.
Hermione cleared her throat, steeled her shoulders and forced herself to approach his bed.
“I’m Healer Granger and the resident Healer tonight.” It felt foolish to introduce herself, but the more she stuck to her routine, the better. But she hadn’t expected Malfoy to speak to her.
“Did you really think I would forget you, Granger?” His voice was a pleasant murmur that sent a small shiver down her spine. There was a slightly rough edge to the otherwise soft baritone that one most likely only heard in the bedroom. No thinking about bedrooms! “I take it I have you to thank for this.” He held up his arm.
“From the sobering potion I had to administer I rather think you have to thank whatever alcohol supply you got your hands on. Did you empty a brewery?” She snapped back before she could think twice about it and flushed in mortification.
Despite all, this was her patient and Hermione could be professional. And needed to be.
She was all too aware of the outrageous amounts of galleons the Malfoy family donated at any chance they got and that St. Mungos had benefited from their vaults in the past.
Clearing her throat, Hermione approached his bed and grabbed his file. She didn’t need it, but having something to occupy her hands and look at so her attention wouldn’t wander to her patient was good. Her eyes flickered over the report she had written only an hour prior while she desperately tried to ignore the weight of his gaze on her.
“You were rather lucky. The slicing spell severed both the cephalic vein and the radial artery, going deep enough to damage both the ulna and radius. You also sliced through the carpi radials, one of the major muscles in your forearm that flexes and adducts the hand.” She brushed her hand down her forearm to show its position. “We were able to repair all of it and you arrived early enough that we didn’t need to resort to intravenous blood replenishing potions. However, we had to rely on a heavy anaesthetic, which is why you will need to stay for a few hours until we are assured that there’s no negative reaction to it and that your blood supply is sufficient.”
Malfoy nodded slowly. “And the bandage? Usually, dittany takes care of cuts, doesn’t it?”
“Well, yes…” Hermione closed the file again “but you were missing quite a stretch of skin and dittany can only do so much. If there’s not enough skin to repair, it’s useless. So we needed to rely on a more old-fashioned approach. I’ve stitched the wound closed and once the skin has adjusted and stretched, your private healer can apply the dittany to mend it and prevent any scar tissue.”
His eyes flashed with something. “How much skin was removed?”
Her brows furrowed. “I can’t say for certain, but not enough to worry about a transplant.”
When Malfoy didn’t say anything but merely stared at the bandage, Hermione cleared her throat and continued.
“My primary concern is about your severed nerves. I did repair and reconnect them and they responded well to electric stimulation, but I will need to perform a simple exam to ensure that you will have no lasting damage or impairment.”
To her surprise, all colour drained from Malfoy’s face.
“Damage to the nerves?” He asked.
“Well, you severed them.” She repeated cautiously. “Usually the spells used to reverse the damage are quite reliable, but with such an extensive injury, even magic can reach its limits. I prefer to assess the recovery myself, but my assistants are also very qualified if you would like someone else.”
St. Mungos prided itself in accommodating every patient’s needs individually. And knowing Malfoy’s general opinion of muggleborns, Hermione was more than willing to hand him off to someone with a more ‘acceptable’ blood status. He might be worried he would get hives if she touched him.
“Why would I want someone else?” There was a line between his brows as he regarded her. “You’re the most qualified member of staff and administered the spell. So…” He waved his hand as if to say ‘let’s get on with it’.
Hermione bit back a disappointed sigh. The one time she wouldn’t have minded Malfoy being a prejudiced prick… and instead, she was now tasked with enduring his presence.
“Very well.” Hermione was nothing if not professional. She put back his file before she rounded his hospital bed and, after a second of hesitation, took his left hand in hers. His skin was startlingly soft to the touch and not nearly as cold as it looked.
When she had operated on him, he had just been a body in need of help, but now that he was awake and watching her with attentive eyes, it was difficult to see him as a faceless patient.
“I will ensure that the nerves are functioning normally before doing a routine exam.” Hermione explained, in part because she usually explained every step to her patients but also to break the awkward silence trying to settle over them.
“First I will stimulate your palm, then your fingers. You will compare it to the sensation of your right hand, so put it on top of the covers, palm up and within my reach. Please close your eyes and answer my questions.” Turning his hand over, she brushed a finger over the lowest part of his palm. “Did you feel this?”
“Yes.” Malfoy confirmed.
“Does it feel identical to this?” Hermione asked and repeated the touch on his right hand.
“Yes.”
“That’s a good sign.” Her words seemed to affect him because his shoulders eased a bit. Slowly, she tested each section of the palm, before brushing over his long, elegant fingers. Each time, he confirmed that it felt identical.
A final prick test to the tips of his fingers confirmed that everything had been restored as intended and Hermione smiled as she slipped her wand back into her pocket. “Well, it seems as if there will be no lasting nerve damage, Mr. Malfoy. And if the wound closes as I think it will, your arm should be as good as new within a week at most.”
Malfoy’s relief was almost palpable and when Hermione made the mistake of glancing at his face, she found him looking at her with a slightly bemused expression. “Mr. Malfoy? I’m starting to feel like you’re talking to my father. Just Draco is fine.” His head fell back into his pillow, but he kept holding her gaze. “We’ve known each other for ages, after all.”
Hermione’s lips parted in surprise and she blinked at him, stumped for the first time in years. She hadn’t been this surprised since she had come home to a set table and dinner ready with Ron waiting for her, which hadn’t lasted long when she had realised that it had been Molly who had prepared everything and Ron was hoping to reap the benefits.
It had been toward the end of their relationship.
‘Draco’ She rolled the word in her mouth, trying to taste it before she dared to speak it. Did she even want to? Did she want to use his given name? It would make it all the more harder to just view him as another patient.
“I think it’s better if I don’t call you that.” Hermione decided quietly and Malfoy’s expression twitched before it settled in a resigned frown.
“As expected, I suppose.” His hand flexed in hers. “Was that everything?” He nodded at his arm.
“Just a few more tests, but I doubt there will be any complications.” Suddenly there was a flicker of regret, but she silenced it resolutely.
“Alright then.” Malfoy agreed quietly and followed whatever instructions she gave him without another word.
After testing his tendons, muscles and blood flow, Hermione put his hand on his blanket and took a step back. “As expected, no complications. You’ll be discharged after the observation period is over, which should be in a little more than 6 hours. Is there anyone who should be informed about your current whereabouts? Maybe your parents? A girlfriend?” A wife? Was he married?
“No, it’s fine. It took me ages to convince my parents that I’ll be fine on my own, I’d rather not have them come back to Britain in hysterics.”
Hermione’s lips twitched with amusement against her will. “I suppose then it’s better if they don’t find out you almost sliced your arm off.”
Malfoy chuckled, rough and tired. “I suppose.” He hummed and rubbed his right hand across his eyes. “‘m tired.”
“That’s to be expected. The anaesthetic potion lingers a bit and the healing magic is still doing its work. You’ll be here for a few hours anyway.” Hermione recast the warming spell on his blanket.
Malfoy hummed again as his eyes fluttered shut. Then, he suddenly raised his head a bit again. “Theo?”
“In the waiting room. Do you want me to inform him that you’re fine?” She asked and he nodded before sinking in his pillow. Hermione waited a moment to watch the surveilling charms to ensure that his heart rate and blood pressure were stable before she quietly exited the room.
Hermione lingered in the hallway for a moment while she tried to analyse the weird mix of sensations inside of her. There was apprehension as the shadow of the past loomed over them, but also surprise, pity and something she’d rather not think about too much.
Perhaps even someone like Malfoy was capable of growing up and more importantly: change.
Straightening the collar of her coat, she pushed all thoughts of Malfoy out of her mind that weren’t strictly professional and turned towards the room Clarice had steered who she presumed to be Theodore Nott. It would explain why his face had looked vaguely familiar.
Since they were an emergency ward, they didn’t have a real ‘waiting room’ as most people accompanying emergencies were usually held back by the receptionist. But there were a few exceptions, who were all being ushered into a ridiculously small patient room that barely fit more than a bed and a few chairs.
Last Clarice had described, Theodore Nott had been snoring away on the bed, but when Hermione entered he was wide awake and sitting on the edge of the thin mattress. His dark curls were dishevelled and he blinked blearily while rubbing his eyes.
So, he had just woken up then.
“Mr. Nott.” Hermione stated and instinctively reached out when he startled bad enough to almost slip off the mattress.
“Granger.” The fact that he recognised her was a surprise. He had been on the outskirts of Malfoy’s gang and they had maybe spoken once in their entire time at Hogwarts. If she hadn’t known who he was, she wouldn’t have been able to put a name to the -unfairly handsome- face. Merlin, she had noticed that some Slytherins, despite their nasty character, had been unfairly good-looking. And adulthood had clearly been kind to both Nott and Malfoy.
“Yes, I’m Healer Granger, in charge of the emergency ward tonight. Do you remember what happened? You were a little inebriated when you arrived.” What an understatement, he had been positively sloshed and contained more alcohol than blood, it seemed.
Almost on command, Nott paled. “Draco.” He blurted out and jumped to his feet.
“Is fine.” Hermione held up her hands and took a few steps closer, just in case he fainted or fell. “You arrived in time and we were able to repair his arm. But with the anaesthetics, he’ll be kept overnight to ensure that he won’t have a negative reaction. He’s asleep at the moment and will be so for a while, so I recommend you head home.”
“But what if he needs me?” Nott’s earnestness reminded her a little of Harry.
“Whatever Mr. Malfoy needs, our staff is more than equipped to handle it. But I can pen you down as his emergency contact, so if anything happens you will be informed right away.” The offer was mostly for his comfort as Hermione doubted that Malfoy would have any adverse reaction or cause any kind of trouble. “Most likely Mr. Malfoy will spend the rest of the night sleeping.”
And complaining about the quality of our pillows
“I would appreciate that, thanks, Granger.” The wizard smiled a little. “And thanks for the sober-up potion and this.” He held up his half-eaten muesli bar.
“You’re welcome.” Hermione said, for lack of anything else to say. How was one to deal with downright polite and thankful Slytherins? “There’s a floo connected to the public network around the corner. I can walk you there.”
“Only if it’s no bother.”
Well, considering his manners it wasn’t. She had certainly had worse patients and even worse relatives.
2:48 pm.
A little more than 4 hours until the end of her shift.
Checking in on Malfoy was - regrettably- part of her routine as she ensured that her patients were still alive and breathing. After braving the mattress in her office after all and sorely regretting it as her spine had now an inoperable kink and would make her walk around like the Hunchback of Notre Dame for the rest of her life, Hermione hobbled down the corridors feeling very much like Filch.
How was she ever supposed to find a boyfriend if she walked around like the school’s unpleasant janitor? Almost every wizard in Britain and most certainly everyone in her dating range had attended Hogwarts and would instantly associate her with the cantankerous squib.
And if even Umbridge hadn’t glanced at him twice, who would at Hermione?
She wallowed silently over his relationship status as she peeked into each room and analysed the diagnostic charms. But all was quiet on the western front, or rather the emergency ward front and Hermione decided that she might as well join her assistants for a little chat after she had concluded her rounds as to give them the impression that her matchbox of an office hadn’t given her a big head yet.
Last on her list was Malfoy, who was breathing softly when she entered his room. She grabbed his file, noted down his vitals and put it back in its rightful place, about to leave again, when Malfoy made a small noise and shuffled in his sleep.
Was he in pain? Perhaps the stitches on his arm had opened up?
Carefully, Hermione took his injured arm and checked the bandages. They were dry, except for the contact layer, which had absorbed some of the blood oozing from the wound. But the amount was normal and Hermione carefully replaced the gauze before reapplying the middle and outer layer.
After she placed his arm back on the duvet and waved her wand to reapply the heating charm, she allowed it to disappear into her pocket and turned to leave again. But before she could, soft fingers closed around her wrist.
“Don’t leave.” A rough voice whispered and Hermione startled and instinctively tugged her hand away. “Please, don’t leave.” Malfoy murmured again, only half awake if the way his eyes fluttered was anything to go by.
“Malfoy, it’s me, Granger.” She tried to reason, but he didn’t seem to understand her because he made a pitiful noise and reached for her again. “Hermione Granger. You don’t want me to stay, I can assure you.”
“Stay.” His mutter was slurred. “Don’ like dark. Scary.”
Oh.
A flare of misplaced sympathy made her soften. If there was one thing Hermione could relate to, it was trauma, especially connected to war. They had their own piece of baggage.
Be it Harry who paced the endlessly dark hallways of Grimmauld Place whenever Ginny was gone overnight or Ron, who still remembered the weeks and months of rationing while hunting Horcruxes, which had altered his relationship with food and was visible through the continuous but subtle growth of his middle.
Or Hermione, who felt the need to move as if someone had injected fizzy whizzbees into her bloodstream and clawed at her walls if she wasn’t outside and moving regularly. Her daily runs helped, as had her muggle therapist who didn’t know about everything but just enough to take off the edge that had seemingly loomed over her life. And yet there were days where she couldn’t focus on anything else until she had run to the point of exhaustion that left her lying on her kitchen floor, gnawing on a whole cucumber -or whatever else she had grabbed - to try and get her blood sugar up again.
It was understandable that Malfoy had his own demons to haunt him.
“It’s alright, Malfoy. You’re safe here.” Hermione promised and whispered the same spell she had applied in Henry’s room. A softly glowing orb formed and gently levitated over Malfoy’s nightstand. It had a warm yellow hue, enough to chase the shadows away and radiate a hint of warmth.
The furrow of Malfoy’s brows almost instantly disappeared as his face smoothened again.
Hermione’s healer heart swelled a little at her patient’s comfort and she pocketed her wand again.
This was Draco Malfoy… but in the grand scheme of things, there were certainly worse people and those who deserved nightmare after nightmare for all the horrors they had committed during the war.
Ugh, she should get rid of her incessant urge to help creatures in need. But it was so very difficult to refrain from having sympathy for Malfoy when he looked startlingly vulnerable. Perhaps it would have been easier if he hadn’t been as unfairly handsome as he was. His jawline was sharper than some of their surgical tools and his hair should look unkept after everything, but was artfully dishevelled instead and fell charmingly into his forehead. It roused the urge to brush it aside and-
Decisively, Hermione took two steps away from the bed and decided that enough was enough. She needed to get a grip on herself. And a cup of coffee. And perhaps a date.
One that wasn’t Malfoy, wouldn’t date her for her name, had a healthy enough ego to cope with a witch earning more than them and enough brain matter to hold a conversation about things that went beyond the current Quidditch season. And if he was able to navigate his way around female genitalia and didn’t mistake shaving bumps for the clit, then Hermione might propose on the stop.
Granted that he was open to directions in bed and didn’t rub the left or right flap as if trying to summon a genie while asking if she liked it.
Hermione realised with a start that her dating history was a tragedy in itself and -at this point- could only get better. Shaking her head, she decided that the first step to making better decisions was most definitely a cup of coffee.
Leaving Malfoy on the bed looking like a sleeping prince waiting for his princess to kiss him awake, she closed the door behind her and hobbled down the corridor while rubbing her aching back and mulling not for the first time if anyone would notice if she would switch her mattress with one from the emergency rooms. Would that be ethical? Or would it count as battery and earn her a hearing before the Wizengamot?
Could she call the aurors on the hospital management as they were responsible for her misery? Or maybe on behalf of her staff because as she entered the staff room, she found Rowan stretched out on one of the antique sofas, his head at an angle that made her own twinge in sympathy.
He was quietly snoring away, his face hidden behind his textbook and seemingly uncaring of Clarice, Anne and Merton, who were crowded around the kitchen table and talking in hushed tones.
“No, I’m telling you, it’s true.” Merton insisted, but Anne and Clarice exchanged a sceptical look.
“I don’t know. From what my older cousin told me, they were very close. He even helped her during the war. And she heard rumours that he wanted to ask her to accompany her to the Yule Ball, but she had already agreed to go with Krum, so he didn’t.” Clarice pursed her lips.
Merton, meanwhile, looked baffled. “There is no way! Draco Malfoy did not think about asking Healer Granger to the Yule Ball. I saw how he was at Hogwarts and he was the most prejudiced-“
He was interrupted by the choked noise of protest that escaped her when Hermione realised that they were talking about her. And her past with Malfoy. And that someone had gotten it into her head that there had been more to their dynamic than disdain and disgust.
There was not a world in which Draco sodding Malfoy, would have asked her out to the Yule Ball or even thought of it. Whatever Clarice’s cousin had witnessed, she must have misinterpreted every last word and glance Hermione had exchanged with Malfoy during their time at Hogwarts.
Or read too many enemies-to-lovers novels. They had become incredibly popular following the far for some reason and after walking past the displays at Flourish and Blotts too many times, Hermione had finally been tempted to dip into the trope as well.
Not even another encounter with the cruciatus would be enough to get her to confess to the growing collection of books catering to this specific genre.
“Healer Granger.” Clarice turned a bright pink as she spotted Hermione. “We didn’t hear you come in.”
“Clearly.” Her voice was tight and feeble. “I would prefer if you could refrain from speculations about my dating life. Past or present.”
“Of course, sorry.” The youngest member of her team squeaked, while Merton was trying to drown himself in his coffee cup. Merely the bright red tips of his ears were visible through his brown curls.
Anne, meanwhile, looked contemplative. Hermione had long since realised that the witch felt no shame and had somehow gotten rid of that dreadful habit called ‘blushing’.
“So you two aren’t…” She wiggled her finger in what could only be described as a suggestive manner “you know… dating? Lovers?”
Hermione wanted to scream. Instead, she tilted her chin up and said with as much composure as she could: “Mr. Malfoy and I were in the same year at Hogwarts. We were neither friends nor lovers and I can assure you that the reason he supported Harry Potter during the war was for the simple reason of having chosen to fight for the side of light and help save this country and our magical community. He is a former classmate to me, whom I have no closer acquaintance with than any other Slytherin of my year.”
“Huh.” Anne blinked slowly. “Well, if you say so.”
Why did she sound sceptical? Whatever, Hermione didn’t need to prove herself to some… some youngster - when had she begun to sound so old, she was only twenty-five - who had only been out of Hogwarts for two years!
Deciding it would be childish if she replied ‘yes, I say so!’ and knowing that any further denial would just seem suspicious, Hermione concluded that her staff thinking she had cut herself off from the rest of the world in her ivory tower that was her matchbox office, was the lesser evil. Most certainly compared to having to listen to them speculate about her past with a patient.
Abandoning her quest for coffee, she met Merton and Clarice’s eyes, knowing that if she couldn’t stop Anne from gossiping, she might as well silence her previously receptive audience, before she left the staff room again.
The moment she was out of the door she heard Merton gasp a scandalised: “I can’t believe she overheard us. This is so embarrassing! And I told you that there was nothing going on between those two.” followed by Anne’s sceptical hum.
Sighing, Hermione opened the potion cabinet and snatched a mild headache potion. She would most definitely need it.