Scattered Pieces (Drarry Fanfic)

Chapter Twelve: The Space Between

We're strange allies
With warring hearts.
What wild-eyed beast you be?
The Space Between...
The wicked lies we tell
And hope to keep safe from the pain.

— Dave Matthews Band

~oOo~

"Physically, I see nothing wrong..." Hermione frowns, eyeing the flashing green light of her Diagnostic Spell. "Your injuries have healed very well. And..." She pauses, looking down at a piece of parchment Harry had given her earlier. "You don't even need to keep taking the Potions you've been prescribed—" She looks up, pursing her lips; her frown deepening. She looks worried.

"But...?" Harry prompts; unease blooming in his chest. There aren't many things that could stump Hermione, but if there ever is one, it can't be anything good.

Draco watches Hermione intently, nervous; his fingers clenched into fists so tight, his knuckles have turned bone-white.

"Something isn't right." Hermione tilts her head; her expression turning pensive. "Draco is weakening." She moves her wrist; her wand dancing in a complicated motion. The Diagnostic Spell changes color. It flashes a pale-green hue; the edges turning yellow. "But I can't pinpoint what's causing it. The Diagnostic Results are vague. It's as if there's an interference and my Magic can't get through to see it clearly."

Draco looks away, inwardly relieved yet his face remains carefully blank. Hermione levels a piercing stare at him, eyes narrowing, before she shifts her gaze at Harry.

"I need you both to tell me exactly what happened." She says imperiously.

Draco blinks, throwing a surprised glance at Harry. "I thought you told her."

"I haven't. I only told her that the case involves someone she knows personally." Harry shrugs, tugging at the mess of hair at his nape. "—and about the name thing." He adds softly, face shadowed with guilt.

"The name thing..." Draco huffs, mildly indignant.

"What did you do, Draco?" Hermione asks pointedly, seating herself on an armchair.

Harry grimaces, shooting a sympathetic glance at the blond. Hermione isn't one to beat around the bush. He leans against the wall, chewing the inside of his cheek as he waits for Draco to speak.

Draco sits up straighter; his face a mask of haughty indifference. "What makes you think I did this to myself?"

Harry can't help but roll his eyes. "Stubbs talked, you prat. He mentioned some spell or ritual that day I brought you to Mungo's."

Hermione raises an eyebrow and waits patiently, quietly studying Draco; her eyes giving nothing away.

Draco sighs, annoyed, silently cursing Old Stubbs and his own terrible luck. He's been hoping that the Healer Harry brought with him would miss the barely noticeable sign that he's steadily weakening, despite the fact that he's physically fine. However, fate just had to throw him another curve ball and now he's faced with none other than Hermione Jean Granger, the Brightest Witch of Her Age. And in a span of a few minutes, she has already sussed out Draco's situation. He has no choice but to come clean about the Potion he'd brewed and taken so long ago. He's failing rather spectacularly at being a Slytherin.

Draco casts an apprehensive glance at Harry, biting his lip. The last thing he wants is for Harry to find out that by speaking the Malfoy name, Harry had inadvertently triggered the curse meant to bleed Draco's Magic dry. He doesn't want Harry to blame himself. This was Draco's own choice—his penance for all the wrong he and his family had committed during the War. The loss of his Magic is the price Draco is willing to pay, turning the last Malfoy into a Squib. Poetic Justice.