Persuasive

"Have you seen him yet?" whispered Ron out the side of this mouth as he clambered through the crowds. "He must be a right mess."

"You don't have to sound so pleased about it." Hermione couldn't help doing some clambering of her own, muttering apologies as the number of glares increased. "It must be awful, even for someone like him. I do wonder why we're here. You know we may not be welcome."

"It's a public event, Hermione, and we're the public." Ron scowled at her as a memory floated in. "Anyway, you said we had to come. 'He served the greater good', 'It must be very difficult for him', blah blah. Don't you remember...hey!"

Her pinch silenced Ron just in time.

They were only a few rows behind him. In the milling mass of black garb, his finely tailored mourning coat was prominent. He was taller than most, and so still.

Hermione watched as passersby murmured condolences and gave his hand a perfunctory shake. He spoke to no-one, only nodding acknowledgement. His features seemed even more taut than usual, the hollows of his cheeks more pronounced. Occasionally, matronly sorts kissed his face. He'd lower his eyes. The groups thinned as the autumn dusk cast long shadows across the forecourt.

Ron nudged her and whispered loudly, "Did you want to say something to him or what?"

She swallowed the lump in her throat and berated herself for acting as if she were still at Hogwarts. That was years ago now and she wasn't the same vulnerable preteen. His barbs could not find purchase now. She straightened her shoulders and took a deep breath.

"Granger." He was all at once in front of them, one eyebrow quirked. "Weasley. To what do I owe this pleasure?"

Ron, caught between the sarcastic tone and his rehearsed condolence script, paused far too long.

"We wanted to pay our respects," said Hermione, the words rushing into the silence.

"Pay respects? You hated my father." He said it without rancour, even with slight surprise.

"I didn't hate...hate's such a strong word...what I meant to say was that we wanted to be here for you, um, out of respect for you." She fumbled the phrases uncharacteristically. Ron's stare was disconcerting.

"Indeed?"

"Look, Malfoy, I'm sorry about what happened with your father. Really." Ron extended a hesitant hand, the freckles lost in his flushed complexion. "Wouldn't wish it on my worst enemy."

Draco smiled thinly at the choice of words and ignored Ron's overture. "I can't begin to imagine the perils of being on the wrong side of a Weasley."

Ron checked himself, biting back a retort. "I'm not here to make things harder, mate." He sighed and flicked a glance at Hermione. "I'll wait for you at the Phoenix. See ya round the Ministry, Malfoy."

They both watched in silence as Ron's lanky frame crossed to the bustling pub nearby, and then was lost in the throng.

"There was no need for rudeness," she finally said.

"I saw no need for anything else," he murmured.

She sighed as she turned, a remonstration dying on her lips. He was staring back towards the family crypt, a hank of pale hair obscuring part of his face. The crypt was now full, bar one. She hadn't previously noticed the redness of his eyes, or the fine sheen of stubble across those drawn cheeks. It was at least a month since she'd last seen him and the time hadn't treated him well. Though his heavy dark clothes were beautifully cut, they couldn't mask his diminished frame. He still carried himself with notorious Malfoy grace and this only served to accentuate his slightness.

"So, why did you ask me to come, Draco?"

"Does Weasley know about this?"

"Of course not." Hermione sank back on a low stone wall that surrounded a neglected rockery. "There's a fine line between telling the truth and having quality of life."

"I can understand how conversations with me might damage your quality of life," he said dryly, easing onto the wall a few spaces away, "so I'll be brief."

He paused for a long time, his restless fingers betraying his apprehension. Hermione glanced at him, noticing once again the sweep of his lashes as he kept his gaze fixed on the cobblestones. Those lashes. The envy of so many. "A pity he's such an arrogant git," they'd all said. She felt a pull of nostalgia for that simplicity of judgment. Things these days were much too complex.

"You're not well." She stated the obvious, thinking it might prompt him.

"No. Much worse lately." He lapsed into silence once again.

"Thinking of sharing anytime soon?" She chanced a look at the Phoenix, even though she knew there'd be no way of seeing Ron with the crowds that spilled onto the footpath. He would soon be wondering how a few phrases of condolence could take so long.

"I won't keep you from Weasley much longer." Draco's voice was sharp. He stilled his fingers by clasping them together. "As you can tell, I am ill. I asked you here to..."

He stopped again, and shut his eyes momentarily. His sigh was resigned as he continued. "I cannot go home after this, can't depend on the old networks. I need to buy some time to recover. I need your help, Granger."

"But you must go straight to St Mungo's. You shouldn't have left it so long. It'll be harder to manage whatever was cast if the symptoms are entrenched. Still, they'll be able to find what's wrong, whether it's a hex or-" Hermione's voice trailed off and she frowned with concern as he shook his head. "Draco, they'll look after you, no matter what's gone before. You have always had the support of the Ministry."

His short laugh was bitter, and he focused his weary gaze on her, making her uneasy.

"The Ministry." He left the words hanging, his disdain almost tangible. "Let's not bring them into this. That's another place to which I can't return."

"Look, it sounds - and looks - like you're deteriorating pretty quickly. There must be an emergency portkey to St Mungo's in the Phoenix. Let's-"

"Granger, no St Mungo's. I know what has been done."

"But, Draco-," she began.

He held up a hand to stop her and sighed in frustration. "You're not listening, Granger."

Darkness seeped into the forecourt as she listened to him speak. All her instincts warned against aiding him even as the full horror of his predicament sank in. With the remainder of the Death Eaters waging guerilla warfare on the fringes of major cities, he would be symbolic enemy number one. Not only because he was the man who betrayed the cause - he was also the man who betrayed his Blood. It was fully night when she found herself nodding agreement to his requests. He uttered a curt thanks and strode immediately towards the tube station. She watched him lean heavily on the railing before disappearing into the gloom below. She'd only ever felt exasperated irritation with Draco and his airs. Now, there was something else as well. It was sharp and surprised her with its strength.

Pity.

* * *

Cigarette smoke had filled the room in a stinking haze by the time Ron caught sight of Hermione. She almost scuttled into the pub, as if she didn't want him to know she'd been away that long. What did she think he'd been doing besides fixing his gaze on those heavy oak doors every thirty seconds? He nursed the only Guinness he'd ordered that night, a taste for the 'exotic' beer only one of the side-effects of living with Hermione. He knew no-one in this place. They were the Malfoys' crowd for the most part; those who were paying respects against their better judgment, like Hermione and himself, had come and gone quickly. Harry had made an appearance and nodded to him as he swung by on his way out again, staying only about a quarter of an hour.

Ron ran his eyes over the increasingly boisterous groups. He'd never seen so many Slytherins together outside of Hogwarts. They all still gave him the shits.

"Ron!" She elbowed her way to the stool beside him. "Sorry I took so long."

She didn't meet his eyes. He sculled the rest of his now-flat beer. "You had a lot to talk about with Malfoy, obviously." He felt ill. This was how it began last time with Suave Gregor from the Russian Aurors' Council. She had assured him it was a mistake, a passing thing. He'd never believed it.

"He's not in good shape." She signalled the barmen and ordered a soda water with lime. "I was just being considerate."

"He's a Malfoy, remember. They're tough enough."

"Were," she corrected. "He's the last."

And thank Merlin for that! Ron just stopped himself from saying what he knew Harry would've echoed.

The silence between them stretched and he bit his tongue to stop himself asking what conversation had occupied her time out there.

Hermione finished her drink in a few long sips. "We still off to Ginny's for supper then?"

She led the way out the swinging doors.

* * *

That first time, she'd told a lie about a meeting across town. Being in a senior position by this time, no-one questioned her or required details. Still, Hermione breathed a sigh of relief when she stepped onto the train in Muggle clothes, her wand and other equipment stashed in the satchel slung across her shoulders. She tried not to contemplate the mad plan to which she'd acquiesced. All she could remember was Malfoy's intense and desperate appeal. He had asked. She had assented, and promised secrecy. They agreed that travelling through Floo networks was too easily traceable.

She stared at the tube map in front of her, mentally marking off each station as they moved further out of town. The tiled tunnel stations gave way to always-dingy open platforms, the overcast day doing nothing to relieve her apprehension.

He was at the end of the train line, in a small boarding house that she found easily because he'd told her to find the ugliest front garden in the street. "The Merry Myrtles" seemed a lot less good-humoured these days. The broken brick path led to a sagging screen door. Grass long gone to seed waved from cracks in the walls.

Hermione let herself in as the front door unfastened at a single touch.

"My, my, Draco. How far we have come," she muttered as the ubiquitous boarding-house smell of stale oil and old fried onions hung in the stillness of the narrow entry.

His room was on the first floor, end of the corridor. She hesitated, hand poised to knock, not knowing what she'd find on the other side of the flimsy door.

"It's unlocked, Granger." The voice sounded the same.

She locked the door behind her as she came in. Her eyes swept the single room in no time at all and she tried to suppress her shock. Weak light filtered through the curtains and he sat on the edge of his bed in Muggle work attire, complete with a slightly skewed tie. He'd taken a day job with an accountant's firm, shuffling papers and earning a pittance. The flat's space was tiny, with only a bed, small table and chair, kitchenette, and some small shelves. She noted a pile of books near the bed, the top one being a split-spined copy of Charles Darwin's On Natural Selection. He saw her eyes catch the book title. "Never too late to convert, right?" he asked.

He pulled himself up from the bed using the table's edge, and even this small exertion caused sweat to sheen on his forehead. "Were you able to get it?"

She nodded, carefully extracting the therma-bag from her satchel. The temperature of the slushy bags she unwrapped was still nice and low. He helped her set up the equipment, then sat before the table, his pale forearm exposed.

"I think you'll need to lie down for this." Hermione's brow was furrowed as she re-read the instructions she'd downloaded from the web, her hands busy with the needles and tubes.

"Does that line work with Gryffindors?" he asked as he slowly - and gratefully - sank back on the dishevelled bed. His face grimaced as she sank the hollow point into his arm. She didn't see the point of drawing possible attention with a Poena Restare spell when it would only be a short pinch of pain. As for the severe pangs from the rest of his condition...well, he'd made his choice with that by foregoing possible treatment at St Mungo's. Funny thing, that Malfoy pride. It wasn't only that she was shocked at its stubborn consequences, she also found it strangely admirable.

The procedure took longer than expected. Hermione erred on the side of caution, this being the first time she'd ever attempted it and both of them aware of the experimental nature of this 'cure.' He spent much of the time staring at the dark liquid oozing from his veins.

As she was packing up, she left instructions about sterilizing the tools for next time. His discomfort at the procedure was only exceeded by his uneasiness at needing her expertise and discretion. Seeing his pallor and the sparse provisions in the room, she couldn't help asking whether he needed anything else. He slowly rolled down his shirtsleeve and closed his eyes. "Just go, Granger. I'm sure you're smart enough to know how much it pains me to ask you for anything more."

"Churlishness for its own sake must be quite the hobby for you," she said as she carefully disposed of the full jar, trying not to look at the contents as the steady stream of tap water washed them away. "A new life might warrant a new attitude, don't you think? Some humility perhaps."

"I'm sure you're appreciating the irony of this situation to its fullest, Granger. Wouldn't think of letting a potentially redeemable quality on my part interfere with your enjoyment." He was slumped with weariness and his skin was unhealthily mottled.

As she made her way back to the train, she wondered what it would be like to cut yourself loose from all you knew in your life in a single act. Judging from Malfoy's manner, it made you even more difficult to deal with and as socially self-destructive as ever.

* * *

It wasn't working. After three weeks of visits, he was still deteriorating. More slowly, granted, but his increasingly erratic appearances meant he'd lost his job. He was having trouble moving. She'd yelled at him the last time she saw him, about to force him into Apparating with her to St Mungo's.

"Please," he'd said, his voice strained, "please keep trying."

Hermione couldn't help cringing when she saw him not long after that day: he'd opened the window a crack to let in some fresh air but it was obvious he hadn't been able to get out of bed for a few days. She quickly uttered some low-level cleaning spells, hoping these wouldn't draw anyone's attention, and thought of heating the single can of soup she found on the floor. His colour was even worse, with large bruised areas marking his pale skin. His breathing was laboured and he hardly stirred.

When he realised she was there, all he could do was shut his eyes in shame.

She needed help. He was dying.

* * *

Hermione had weathered the worst of the dressing down by staring at the beautiful letterhead stationery in the neat setting before her. Creamy pages with the Ministry's insignia. A name that lent itself to the embossed flowing cursive. Severus Snape. She hadn't wanted to approach Snape at all but, after she'd paid a frantic visit to Harry, he'd led her straight to Snape's offices. Straight up to the 42nd floor of the Executive Ministry and into his hushed personal rooms without so much as a glance at the querulous staffers in the foyer offices. Snape was now a higher-up in the Aurors Division, and Harry his second-in-charge.

"Ms Granger? Anytime now would be appropriate."

Harry nudged her and whispered loudly, "Where is he?"

"I can take you there," she said, flicking an evaluative glance at her ex-Potions teacher. "Just you and Harry, though. No-one else."

"Ms Granger." Snape leaned forward, his tone carrying its usual load of disdain. "If Malfoy is indeed at death's door, can we afford to play this game?"

"I promised him, Sir. No-one was to know he was this ill." She could never call him anything but Sir. Harry managed 'Severus' at official functions but she was, thankfully, never required to attend those.

"And I've just spent a quarter hour telling you what I think of that promise." Snape was already up and donning his cloak. "Lead the way. Now, Granger, now. While we're still interested."

Harry kept asking her concerned questions on the way out. She deflected him as much as she could. The assumption that Draco's condition was a result of the fatal encounter with Lucius was correct but she couldn't reveal its extent, not when he had chosen a more dangerous, painful alternative just to keep it private.

As they fronted the boarding house, Harry turned and asked her softly, "Does Ron know about all this?"

She shook her head and led the way into the unkempt building.

* * *

The three of them crowded into the tiny space. He hadn't moved. In fact, he wasn't moving at all.

Snape bent over him, gently shaking his shoulder. "Malfoy?"

Hermione was taken aback by his tone. It was concerned and kind.

"We need to get him to St Mungo's straight away, as he should have been there weeks ago." Snape's glare flooded her with the ever-present guilt. The professor pulled the covers around the still figure and turned to them with an unreadable expression. "Potter, meet us there. I'm Apparating to the Emergency Room."

And they were gone.

Harry looked around with curiosity, his face lean with age but his thick brush of hair still awry. "Malfoy lived here? He must have come straight here after his father's funeral. Who can blame him when there'd be so many out to avenge dear Lucius. We offered him protection, you know. He could've been someone else, somewhere else, by now."

He picked up a battered notebook and started skimming it. "Is this his diary?"

Hermione almost snatched it from him. "I don't think you need to look through his things."

Masking his shock, he held her gaze until she looked away.

"What's going on, Hermione?"

"I can't tell you, Harry. I'm sorry. It's not for me to tell."

He frowned and drew his wand. "I'd better go. Snape'll be waiting. Would you like to come with me?"

Harry held out his hand.

Snape had deliberately not asked her to go.

Hermione took Harry's hand and they Apparated from the terrible room.

* * *

The waiting rooms at St Mungo's had much in common with those in Muggle hospitals. Ancient copies of Wizard Weekly and Druid's Digest jostled with empty chocolate frog wrappings. There was only one old wizard in the room, waiting for his wife to be treated for an imp infestation.

Harry had left Hermione here when they Apparated in hours ago. She had tried to find out what was happening several times, only to be rebuffed at Intensive Cures by a particularly snooty ward-witch.

Hermione slumped down in the uncomfortable seats, after playing with the idea of transfiguring the rubbish bin into a chaise-lounge. Something sharp jabbed into her leg and she drew the battered notebook from her pocket. Its leather cover was covered in a map of creases and the stitching was worn but beautifully done. A diary, Harry had said. She ran her fingers over the marked surface, itching to open it. She flipped through the pages quickly, fast enough so that she couldn't read anything. Sure enough, it was full of Draco's small, sharp penmanship. Real writing, using a real Muggle pen. No obfuscation wards. Maybe if she just read the most recent entry? She had been helping save his life after all.

"Hermione?"

She jumped and snapped the notebook shut.

Harry couldn't help chuckling when he saw what she had in her hands. "You can come in now if you want. Just for a little while, they say."

"Will he be ok?" She was already halfway down the corridor.

Harry shrugged and gestured her into the room.

Snape was no longer there. When she whispered a query about the professor, Harry mimed eating, then saluted. It appeared that Snape was off at an official function.

The room was muffled in subdued lights. The starchy bedding matched Draco's complexion well, which was strange considering the deterioration in his condition, thought Hermione as she drew nearer. He was breathing much easier and his colour...well, it was almost normal. For a Malfoy.

"They had to do a complete transfusion. It's still a bit iffy. He was in such bad shape." Harry spoke softly and leaned on the wall near Draco's bed. "There was something wrong with his blood. It was - what did that Healer say? - corrupted. Breaking down."

"I know." Hermione touched one of Draco's hands. It was cold. She felt an errant tear roll down one cheek and she wiped it away impatiently. "That's what we were trying to fix."

"You knew?" Harry asked, much louder now. "How could you not bring him here if you knew it was that serious?"

"I tried." She sighed and sat back. "I tried so many times, Harry. Do you think I'm witless? He wouldn't let me. He was desperate for people not to know."

"I don't understand! He was locked in a battle with his own father, who then cursed him with this," Harry waved his hand about, searching for words, "rotting blood curse. Why didn't he just come here and get fixed up? It's not like everyone doesn't owe him big time for taking out Malfoy Senior."

"Volume, Potter. Mind the volume." Snape was back. He was in dress robes and had clearly rushed from the function back to the hospital.

His attitude towards Hermione was significantly milder when he next spoke. "Ms Granger, did Mr Malfoy share the origin of his condition?"

"Yes, Sir, he did. And swore me to secrecy."

Snape almost rolled his eyes. "My dear girl, do you think it might be about time to divulge? Malfoy has been ushered ever so slightly off death's doorstep but he's still in its threshold."

"I can't tell you, Sir. It was very important to him that no-one knew."

"Granger, listen well: did Lucius levy Mortis Sanguineus on his own son?" Snape's voice was deadly serious and pitched so low she almost didn't recognise it.

She stared at him without speaking for a few long moments, then had to drop her gaze. "I'm sorry."

"Lucius did, Sir." It was Malfoy, weak but articulate. He'd only just managed to drag himself up on one elbow and was watching Snape through heavy-lidded eyes. "Did you doubt that he would?"

"I would put nothing beyond your father, Draco, of that you can be assured."

"You've had a full transfusion, Draco. What you and Hermione were doing, I think, but on a much bigger scale. This means this Mortis, er, whatever, is fixed, right?" Harry said. "Right, Sir?"

Snape remained silent. Malfoy dragged his gaze to meet Hermione's as he answered Harry's question. "Perhaps. It depends on whether my father meant 'sanguineus' with a capital 'S'. One would imagine he did, given the circumstances."

"What does that mean, Malfoy? Could you spell it out for us not-so-smarts, please?" Harry's usual irritation with him returned.

Draco's weak chuckle left him flat on his back once more. "What I mean, and for the Potters in this room I'll speak slowly, is that they won't know whether it was a one-off cursing of my blood or a cursing of my Blood."

"What?!"

"Oh for Merlin's sake. Granger, could you please take Potter outside and get him up to speed? I need to talk to Malfoy before he loses consciousness."

* * *

They kept him alive for a few months with continuous transfusions. Muggle blood seemed more effective and they were hopeful for a while but the mottled deterioration always returned.

"His father's malice can work powerful magic, even after death," Harry had muttered after seeing Malfoy's features more deeply etched with pain each time.

"They suspect it wouldn't linger if Draco did not believe in it too," Snape said softly beside him.

"So Muggle blood could have saved him?" Harry blurted out.

"Indeed, Potter. I think that's called irony."

Snape gleaned as much information from Malfoy as possible about the remaining pockets of Death Eater activity, particularly those funded by the last of the Malfoy galleons. It sounded like it was only a matter of time before the superior finances and numbers of the Ministry prevailed.

Into the third month, Harry owled Hermione to let her know that Draco was refusing treatment. She stood at her desk for a few moments, staring out at the sun setting behind St Paul's. She and Ron had broken up soon after the drama of Draco's hospitalisation. Harry had tried hard not to take sides but, truth be told, he didn't understand why she'd kept it from Ron all that time either. Ron had also told Harry about the Gregor episodes. That hadn't helped. She couldn't talk to Harry about her extreme loneliness.

"It's not like I think there's anything going on with you and Draco-," Harry had started, then stared at the floor as his voice tapered off. It was a few weeks after she'd moved out of their flat and Harry wanted to drop by her office to show he wasn't taking sides.

"But?" She wished he hadn't come.

"Well, you do visit him just about every day."

"He's dying, Harry. He has no family. He has no friends."

"I know, I know!" He ran his hand through his hair in frustration. "It's just hard seeing Ron, you know. He's- "

"We're not having this conversation, Harry. He left me."

He sighed, but had left it alone after that.

Dragging herself from the spectacular view, she threw some things in her satchel and took a deep breath before grabbing a handful of Floo powder. End of an era if he dies, they'd all whispered just the other day as they changed his blood yet again. End of an era.

* * *

She stopped just behind the doorframe. He was awake and alone. She had seen Snape leaving only a few minutes before she'd arrived. He'd swept out in a formal cloak and looked even more out of sorts than usual.

"You going to perve on me from out there all night?"

Close up, he didn't look too bad. Considering.

"Have you come to talk me into having another cycle, like our dear Professor?" His face was hollow and his eyes set in deep bruises. He pushed himself higher in the bed, grimacing at the effort. "I'm not going to change my mind."

She shook her head, not trusting speech for the moment. Out of her satchel, she handed him a small bagged object.

After raising an eyebrow, he used still-deft fingers to draw out the notebook. "Ah. You had it all this time. What did you think?"

"I never read it."

"Come, come, Granger. Don't lie to a dying man."

"I never read it, Draco."

"Well. Bugger me. I would have read yours given half a chance."

She couldn't quite muster a smile. "I heard you were refusing treatment."

He gestured to the hospital room. "Even for me, this is no life."

She tried to think of ways to contradict him but found none. Hermione indicated the diary. "I was going to destroy it after, um, for you. In a fireplace. A dependable Muggle way."

He nodded. For a long moment, they heard nothing but the murmur of voices from other wards.

"Snape told me that you and Weasel broke up after your involvement in my situation came to light."

She started. He'd never mentioned this before. "I would've thought gossip beneath you."

"You don't know me very well." Draco gave a short laugh.

"Obviously. And, till now, deliberately." She took a seat on the edge of his bed and bit back a sigh.

He quirked a brow but said nothing. Hermione felt tears welling and looked away before he could notice.

Draco spoke as if he hadn't noticed her distress, his voice steady and soft. "I'm glad you came today. I will be asking them for the entire range of Soporifer spells from tomorrow. The pain is getting somewhat tedious. It means, however, that this is the last time I'll be coherent."

He had her full attention now.

"I wanted to thank you, Granger. For trying. No matter what Snape says, it was the right thing to do." His lips lifted briefly in a familiar smirk. "By me, at any rate."

They were close at that moment. He touched a cool hand to her cheek. Her eyes closed. It was almost a caress. "Don't mistake gratitude for anything else," he murmured, unable to look at her afterwards. "I've told them not to allow visitors after today."

He handed back his diary and she gathered her things. "One last favour, Granger?"

She turned at the door, tears checked for the moment, confusion still marked on her face.

"Read it. Think of it as our last conversation." He nodded at the notebook in her hand. "With me finally getting the last word."

- END -