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Hysteria	By : LadyofClunn Category: Harry Potter > Het - Male/Female > Draco/Hermione Views: 42590 -:- Recommendations : 2 -:- Currently Reading : 4
Disclaimer: I do not own anything associated with Harry Potter; I do not earn money by writing this story.

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A/N: A huge thank you to SoftObsidian74 for alpha reading and feedback and to robs55 for the excellent beta!

Another huge thank you to all the faithful readers, who did not forget this story. Thank you so much for all the pm’s and emails! As some of you know, there were a lot of complicated RL reasons for my absence (and the absence of my muse) but if you would like to see a picture of the main reason you can go here:

http:// baby-clunn. livejournal. com/6062.html

Just take out spaces.

Chapter 10

Meditatio

“I’m sorry.”

Hermione did not acknowledge Malfoy’s apology.

“I am so sorry that I didn’t find you earlier.”

Latching on to something inside her that she could pour her anger in to and cover up the other swirling, confusing feelings that threatened to break free, she turned around.

He was his usual perfect self; healer robes pristine white.

“Yes, how come you were never invited to watch the spectacle? I thought they might have been selling tickets by the third day or so!”

He looked away.

“I only have cottage affiliation with St. Mungo’s. I am going in twice or thrice a week for appointments to do them a favour. They have trouble keeping enough experts on staff as they cannot pay as well as a private hospital. In return I always have reserved beds for my patients there, in case I need more extensive facilities than I can provide here. I think de Belleme was very careful not to let anything reach me too quickly. I actually asked him about you in passing one day and he just said that everything was progressing ‘by the plan’. If I would have known which plan he was talking about...”

He trailed off and Hermione turned back to the beautiful view of the gardens slowly melding into the decidedly English countryside.

A middle-aged witch strode along the pebbled walk toward the imposing wrought iron gate protecting Malfoy Manor. Protecting her robes from the falling moisture, she raised the hem a bit to show her black, buttoned ankle boots.

Hermione wiped away the condensation of her breath on the cold window panes.

The witch had stopped and pulled out her wand. With a swift gesture from her neckline to her hips she suddenly stood straighter; looked firmer. Stowing her wand with a satisfied smile she continued toward the gate and finally vanished after crossing the wards.

The witch had just fastened her corset.

“You are seeing patients again?” Hermione now leaned against the window sill, afraid that without its support she would visibly tremble.

“Under very strict security measures. They can only go as far as the treatment room.” His eyes pleaded understanding. “I could not just stop receiving patients. They depend on me.”

“Yes. How very practical.” Her voice was bitter on her tongue. “And profitable. After all, our affliction is chronic. Not curable but treatable. Week after week, month after month, year after year. Tell me, Malfoy, how much do your private patients pay for your services?”

He sighed.

“Granger, this is a specialised, private clinic. No, treatment does not come cheap. But I’ll have you know that I do not exclusively treat Hysteria.”

“Really? What else? Nymphomania? Pathological masturbation?” At his silence she leaned the back of her head against the cool glass and closed her eyes, a maniacal laugh bubbling past her lips. “Oh gods.”

“My patients trust me. I can’t just send them on to some other Healer.”

Like you did with me? She thought scathingly, knowing full well that she had repeatedly insisted on being transferred.

“I bet it helps that you are young and good looking.”

As soon as the words were out of her mouth she tensed, digging her fingernails into the wooden sill behind her. There was no way she could chalk up her words to anything other than jealousy.

He remained silent for a long time and she thought that he might turn and leave the room wordlessly, when he spoke.

“Fuck this.”

What?

He took off his white robes, bunched them up and threw them on the floor.

Hermione watched with wide eyes the abandonment of decorum.

“Malfoy?” Her voice trembled.

“I am taking myself off your case as immediate healer.”

Her eyes grew even larger, thoughts racing. She had angered him! He was sending her away! Was he sending her... back? Fear settled on her shoulders like a cloak of ice.

“I will stay healer in charge but your direct therapy will be delegated to another specialist I am planning to bring into the clinic.”

She didn’t know whether the fear or the relief was stronger.

“What-what other specialist?”

“A Mind Healer I know from university. She will be much more able to help you deal with the aftermath of... what happened.”

“O-Okay.” Insane after all.

She found her arms wrapped tightly around herself, erecting the only wall she had to protect against the hostile world around her.

Out of the corner of her eye she saw him edging closer, tentative movements as if approaching a wild horse. Very slowly, giving her time to object at any time, he slid his hands up her arms and drew her close. She could feel his hands on her back, resting there light as birds. His nose in her hair, he inhaled deeply.

“Is this allowed?” he whispered.

Allowed? Allowed?? It’s daytime and you are not wearing Healer’s robes and your thumb is caressing my shoulder blade and this just might make all of this real.

Allowed.

Surely not.

The rigid thing her upper body had become loosened suddenly and fit against Malfoy like a shard of a broken vase that, after trying and turning, had found its perfect place. Seamless.

Who would have thought that my shoulder blade is sensitive at all?

***

“Would you like to come down for dinner? Potter has announced his arrival.”

Malfoy’s voice sounded muffled through the heavy wooden door of her room.

Relieved that the conversation that was hanging over their heads was once more postponed, she called out, asking him to give her a minute.

She stepped backward in front of the full length mirror, glad that she had scrubbed herself under the hot stream of the shower until her skin had glowed pink. The dreaded witch in the park had been elegant in old-fashioned Victorian robes. Hermione had tried very hard to find her old and frumpy but she hadn’t been. The witch had held her head high, curls piled carefully on top of her head. Small pearls had dangled from her earlobes and while her robes would not be found in Witch Weekly’s fashion review, they were clearly of high quality. That witch was refined. She was well off and could probably make small talk about any topic under the sun.

Had Malfoy put his hands on her?

Had he used the crocus oil?

The pain she had felt in her chest earlier that day flared.

Or had it been a disposable wand for her?

Somehow, the thought of the plain piece of wood made the stab of jealousy less sharp.

Her reflection in the leaded window was distorted and incomplete. Each small pane of glass showed a different piece of her, some the same, making her appear to have three eyes and several mouths. But even in the fractioned and warped image of her she could see that she had not taken her time combing her hair this morning. The white t-shirt she was wearing was the same she had slept in and the comfortable grey track suit was out of shape.

Still, it was her Malfoy had pulled into his arms; not the wealthy witch in her taffeta robes.

Would it be alright to call him Draco now?

With a surge of determination she had gone to her room, pulled off the track suit and stuffed it into the laundry basket for the house elves to take care of.

Her shower had taken much longer than anticipated because she felt the sudden need to exfoliate with a soft brush. Now for the first time since she had come to Malfoy Manor, she dressed in actual clothes. Clothes she could wear walking down Diagon Alley should she choose so.

The little cherubs on the golden frame of the mirror smiled and waved at her approvingly as she stood in front of it in soft, dark blue, long-sleeved robes. They were nothing fancy, just comfortable winter robes without so much as a neckline.

Still, pulling back her hair with her favourite clips that she had found among the things Harry had brought her, Hermione felt as if she was getting ready for a rendezvous.

Feeling giddy and restless, she met Malfoy – no, Draco, Draco, she practiced silently – outside her door. He offered her his arm like in an old-fashioned film and led her not to the meeting room where they had breakfast with Harry just a few days ago, but to a long narrow room with floor to ceiling windows overlooking the landscaped gardens in the back of the manor. The black and white tile floor shone warmly where the fire painted it in reddish tones.

Harry was stood in front of the fireplace, flanked on either side by a long row of citrus trees planted along the wall. He unsuccessfully tried to brush soot off his jeans.

“Hermione!” His eyes lit up.

It felt good to snuggle into his arms, like coming home after a long walk in winter weather.

He kissed her hair and tucked her head under his chin.

“You’kay?” he whispered and she shrugged into his hold.

“Can I get you anything? Flowers? Chocolates? An ever-sharpening peacock quill?”

She could feel his steady heartbeat under her ear. Strong and familiar.

“How about a global Obliviate?” she tried to joke.

The steady drum sped up.

“Have you seen the Prophet then?

Tensing, she shook her head no and drew back to look at him.

“Should I have?”

Harry looked worried.

“Probably not. I’ll tell you a little over dinner and you can read the articles afterward.”

Articles.

“Oh dear. Plural.”

“You might not want to read the interview with Ron.” She felt the blood drain from her face in a dizzying rush and pulled back a little.

“Ron?”

Harry ruffled his hair, which immediately afterward settled back into sticking up in all directions.

“He assures me that all quotes have been vastly taken out of context. People have been harassing him left, right and centre, either congratulating him that he was wizard enough to keep your insanity at bay while you two were together or ridiculing him that he didn’t manage to marry you and ‘get you under control for good’. After they tried to pitch him and Trebetarry against each other, he even had to take a week off from work because he was being hounded.”

Hermione struggled to disentangle her from his arms while he tried to hold on.

“Well, sorry to be inconvenient! At least he still has a job to go back to and the last time I checked, nobody was about to subject him to public hand jobs!”

“He’s very sorry. You know he’s not a bad guy,” Harry said sadly.

She deflated.

“I know. The break-up was bad, not him.”

“Nor you.”

He found her gaze and held it in comfortable silence.

Malfoy cleared his throat.

“The house elves have spelled the soup warm for the third time now.” While his voice was polite as always, it held an edge of... something.

Harry did not let her go but simply pulled her over to the round table, set for three in a way that they all could enjoy the view of the darkening landscape. When the silvery cloche spell surrounding the first course dissipated, tiny lights blinked into existence along footpaths and in the sculpted boxwood trees.

Delighted at the pretty sight at first, a sense of dread settled over her after a moment.

“Please tell me they are not real Fairies!” she begged.

Malfoy stopped his spoon half way to his mouth and let it settle back on his plate.

“Of course these are real Fairies. Where else would they spend the winter, if not in boxwood hedges?” He took a spoonful of creamy mushroom soup. “It’s really just Christmas trees they need to be magically tied to; they hate the smell.”

Seeing Hermione´s wide eyed and sickened look, Harry tried to change the subject.

“I brought the Prophet”

“And do you plan to shackle fairies to your Christmas tree?” she asked hotly, ignoring Harry completely. All of a sudden she wanted to lash out. “Is this some sort of pure blood fetish? Tying people up?”

Draco cocked his head to the side.

“It is as much a pure blood fetish as it is a Muggle or mixed blood fetish. And no, I do not plan to have the tree decorated with fairies. We traditionally used enchanted candles. My mother could not bear the fairies’ wailing and was outraged when my father offered to silence them.”

Embarrassed, Hermione turned back to her cooling soup and drew circular patterns with her spoon until the dollop of crème fraiche sat in lumpy blots in the congealed liquid.

Harry cleared his throat in the uneasy silence.

“As I said, I brought the Prophet. I think you should have a look at the articles.”

He produced a folded copy of the dreaded newspaper from an inside pocket of his robes. Hermione pushed her plate away from her and started to skim the articles Harry had marked with a bright yellow Muggle marker pen.

The soup all but ignored by all three of them, the deep plates vanished without being replaced by the next course. The house elves must have sensed that nobody was in the mood for eating.

Hermione furrowed her brow in confusion.

“Why did you mark this article? It has nothing... Oh! An initiative for automatic Ministry guardianship for all Muggle borns until their twenty-first birthday or until they marry?” She looked up. “Can they do that?”

“Maybe. Possibly.” Harry took her hand and squeezed. “I’ll throw all the political weight I have against that, I promise.”

Hermione squeezed back and smiled.

“Thank you Harry. I am just speechless. Is this happening because of me? Is this my fault?”

Harry opened his mouth but before he could speak, Draco had already cut in.

“No!” he said with conviction. “Never! Never think that you are responsible for the behaviour of a group of reprehensible sticks-in-the-mud. They were just waiting for any sort of justification for their plans. It is a bit too much of a coincidence that they had the proposals for these laws all drawn up in practically no time. This is usually a lengthy and complicated process. I think they are trying to speed things up by inducing a panic in the population.”

Hermione rested her elbows on the table and put her head in her hands. Tipping her head sideways she tried to read a related commentary that was printed down to up.

“Um... Hermione, we have to organise some things. Your landlord has contacted me. He has enacted his right to terminate your lease without due notice,” Harry sighed deeply. “Public disgrace.”

She looked at him. For a moment her mind was blank, utterly unable to make sense of his words.

“Public disgrace.” Would it never stop? Would it just go on and on day after day? “Wait! What about my things? My furniture? My books?”

Harry reached over and covered her hand with his.

“Shrunk and stored in my attic.”

She did not stir. Her fingers on the pristine white damask table cloth turned cold, the warmth seeping out of her hand with every heart beat that never quite reached all the way to her fingertips anymore.

“Hermione?”

“They’re forcing me into the Muggle world. They are exiling me.” Biting the nail of her thumb, she stared at the illuminated gardens beyond the tall windows. “If I am not part of the community anymore, I am not eligible to go before the Wizengamot, am I?”

“You might not be eligible; they could argue that you no longer fall under their jurisdiction.”

The burst of energy that she had felt earlier together with her determination to do something productive drained out of her. Suddenly she was not sure whether she would be able to deal with what lay ahead.

She turned to Malfoy, her voice eerily calm. “They are exiling me and there is nothing I can do about it, is there?”

He didn’t try to smile reassuringly or appease her with empty platitudes promising that everything would be alright, and she was thankful for it.

“You can stay here as long as you want or need. Nobody can exile you from Malfoy Manor but me and I am not going to do that.” He carefully folded the pages of The Daily Prophet that were strewn across the table. “This estate is still part of the wizarding world. And Potter is not the only one who can throw his weight around.”

It took her a while to catch his meaning, answering his raised eyebrow with a genuine smile of her own.

“I think I would like to have my wand back now.”

She was ready to fight.

***

“Potter.” Malfoy’s tone was icy.

Harry’s shoulders shook in quiet amusement.

“Don’t worry, Draco. You were there when she refused my marriage proposal. And a good thing it was, too. In a Granger Potter Weasley love triangle somebody would have been left out in the long term.”

“I am quite sure I have no idea what you are trying to allude to.”

“Sure you don’t. When I was hugging Hermione I could only feel how much you wanted to be in my place all the way from the other side of the room.” Harry filled his hand with sparkling floo powder from a silver box on the mantle. “Just be careful; do not toy with her. I am not above hurting you if you hurt her.” His lips curled in a grim little smile. “I’d much rather team up with you and hurt de Belleme.”

Malfoy blinked. “I see no problem there.”

“As long as we’re on the same page.”

Harry threw the floo powder into the flames. “Grimmauld Place.”

He looked over his shoulder at Malfoy and stepped out of the Manor.

Draco took his time returning to the conservatory; turning the evening’s events over and over in his mind, examining every word from every angle. Maybe there was hope after all.

When he entered the dark room, he found her with her hand resting against the cold glass of the iron-rimmed panes. Hermione stared into the night, the Fairies slowly winking out into slumber one by one.

“First, do no harm,” he whispered.

A/N: “First, do no harm.” Is one of the principal precepts taught in medical school. A similar phrase can be found in the Hyppocratic Oath.

I would love to answer all the lovely reviews, but I am typing with one hand right now, hoping baby won't wake up. So I'll just say thank you again - the reviews mean the world to me!
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Hysteria