Chapter 1

"Hate, it has caused a lot of problems in the world, but has not solved one yet." - Maya Angelou

It was all his fault. His. But George hadn't meant to hurt her. Of course he hadn't. He'd merely been too devastated, too…. undone to pay attention to those nearby. In his mind, there had been only one in the world. The monster. The demon from hell who had risen up from nowhere to kill his brother.

Unfortunately, there had also been Hermione just a few meters away, fighting for her life against an aggressive giant spider, one of Aragog's children.

George hadn't noticed. His emotions had become blinders, giving him tunnel vision and pumping him with a fire that was thrumming, boiling, demanding retribution. Not just an eye for an eye, but more. Vengeance…..nay, worse than that. Punishment. Torture of the most exquisite kind.

That fiend would pay for what he did.

Even with that, George never remembered casting a curse. He supposed he'd been reduced to madness. Later, all he could recall was the raw rage that had powered his wand with purpose and with an overload of unstable magic. He screamed, unknowingly releasing the full force of the savagery he was feeling, too fevered to grasp the outcome of his actions.

A crimson-tinged streak of light zoomed past Dolohov, the cause of George's loss, and tore through Hermione to finally be stopped by the sheer mass of the spider she'd been fighting. The acromantula immediately shrieked and crumpled upon itself, its lifeless limbs twitching even in death. But for the witch, there was no such easy out. Upon impact, she immediately stiffened, her back contorting into a rigid arch, her muscles helpless to counteract the instant agony coursing through her body. A moment later, she collapsed, gracelessly flopping to the floor like a broken doll. Once on the ground, she began to seize violently, her curly hair writhing like a nest of angry snakes as her nervous system found expression for its pain. She began to cry out, a pitiful wail that carried over the courtyard. Like the final keening of a dying puppy, Hermione's voice gave George a memory that would feature in his nightmares for years to come. He crumpled in grief when she hushed; he realized she was in too much distress to continue. An occasional whimper was now the only thing she had strength to utter.

Dolohov began to laugh. "Bravo!" he cheered, relishing the look of dismay on the surviving twin's face. "I could not have done better myself."

Cold fury replaced the sorrow coloring George's features. The wizard before him had snuffed out the life of his brother and was now mocking the suffering of a girl who was as good as a saint. This…..this thing standing among the ruins of Hogwarts did not deserve to draw breath.

"Avada Kedavra!" George roared as he instantly silenced the death eater's merriment. A brief look of surprise flashed across Dolohov's face before he dropped to the ground like a heavy sack of potatoes. George checked to make sure he was truly dead, hexing him one more time with a crucio, his only regret being that the wizard was beyond feeling the cruelty of the spell. Then he ran over and dropped to his knees beside Hermione. He tried every healing spell he knew, even some outlandish ones he and Fred had created in fun, but nothing helped.

He lost all concept of time while he worked on his little brother's girlfriend, the witch he believed would one day join their family. He didn't pay attention to the sounds of battle all around him. He did not hear the roar of victory when Harry defeated Voldemort.

He was just as lost in his misery as Hermione was in hers.

Sometime later, he vaguely noticed that others had arrived and were crouching down beside him. Ron. Harry. That strange Lovegood girl, and beside her, Neville Longbottom. By that time, Hermione's thrashing had stilled. She was lying on the hard, stone pavers, silent. Too silent.

Harry was the first to speak. "What happened?" Then, "'Mione…..'Mione, can you hear me?"

Nothing.

"Oh God….is she…...'Mione!" Ron cried out in a terrified panic, quickly feeling for a pulse. He let out a strangled sob of relief when he detected a faint throbbing underneath his fingers.

Molly finally pushed through to see what was going on. She checked Hermione over, then said to Arthur, "She won't be helped here. We need to get her to St. Mungo's. Quickly."

Hearing that, George broke down and cried like a little child, past caring if anyone saw. "Granger…..I'm so, so sorry…..I….I swear I didn't mean to…..." he babbled on, not knowing if he sought absolution or if he felt he owed Hermione an explanation. His sobs tapered off when he noticed movement. Hermione was shifting in a feeble attempt to rise. Struggling against the pain she fell back down, too weak and too hurt to make any headway. Panting, her eyes fluttered open. George's breath caught; for a heartbeat, there was quiet. Then Luna's scream pierced the silence.

Horror gripped the hearts of those around the fallen witch.

Instead of seeing Hermione's expressive brown eyes, those beloved chocolate orbs that had always showcased so much of her character, her friends now saw only an oily black substance with a consistency much like tar filming over her entire eye area.

Her sight had been reduced to darkness. Blindness.

The vision of hate.

3 years later

Draco Malfoy pulled down the glasses from his forehead to check over what had been attached to his clipboard. He hated that he now needed readers, but he guessed that was what happened when one spent years poring over poor copies of obscure texts. He wanted to see what St. Mungo's had scheduled for his orientation, for it was his first day on duty as a fully-trained healer at the facility. He felt a bit of an uncharacteristic nervousness that morning, so much so, he left off his habit of three cups of strong tea to have with his breakfast of scotch eggs. But he knew it had more to do with being back on British soil than anything else.

After the war and his trial, he'd left England to study abroad in France. There, he'd gained an apprenticeship with one of the healers at the wizarding hospital in Paris. He'd thrown himself into his studies, learning as much as he could, all the while doing his best to remove himself from the stain of his past. Although, ironically, it was his past that helped him succeed beyond his peers. At Paris, Draco became the top trainee due to his intimate working knowledge of dark spells. It was why St. Mungo's sought him out immediately after he'd gained his Mastery.

Healer Robbins smiled as he made his way down the hall to greet the young healer. It was not the first time Draco had met the kind colossus of a man. The older wizard's heritage was a poorly kept secret; most knew he had giant blood in him; it would account for why he towered over everyone except Rubeus Hagrid. It was why he trusted his gut feeling to seek Draco out. Having an origin that was partly non-human, he knew firsthand the unreasonableness of prejudice; he'd lived under the weight of stares and whispers. Of fear. He knew why young Malfoy had fled from Britain. He also knew why he'd wanted him to return.

"Good to see you, Mr. Malfoy," he said as he reached out to shake Draco's hand. "I can't tell you how delighted I am to have you on board."

"Thank you. I was honored by your request to have me on your staff," Draco replied, although shocked would have been a better description of his reaction after receiving the owl from the Chief of Staff offering him a position.

Healer Robbins tutted. "Paul Gossain and I go far back. He's kept me apprised of your work in Paris." Then he winked and for a second, Draco was strongly reminded of his former headmaster. "I believe my old friend is quite provoked with me. He accused me of stealing his star student right from under his nose."

Draco blushed at the elder healer's praise even as he chuckled. "Most kind, Sir."

"Not at all. Your research on the treatment of Unforgivables is ground-breaking. And that brings me to why I wanted you in particular."

Draco's smile slipped when he regarded the other man's serious face. "What is it?"

The older wizard sighed. "I probably should let you get settled in first before I show you; then again, it is the primary reason why I sought you out." He struggled with his thoughts for a few seconds before he seemed to make up his mind. Looking at Draco's baffled countenance, he urged, "Come with me."

Laying the clipboard back on the counter, Draco followed Healer Robbins as the man led him through a seemingly endless maze of corridors until they came to a stop before a heavily warded door.

"Allow me to introduce you to St. Mungo's newest permanent resident," he said grimly. "One of our more tragic casualties of the war."

The door swung open to reveal a room that looked bare. Sterile. Cushioned walls had been erected to obviously protect the patient from self-harm.

Institutionalized, thought Draco. Poor soul. Probably rendered mad by the cruciatus curse. Just like Longbottom's parents.

Looking around, he saw that instead of a hospital bed, a nest of ripped linens separated the patient from a thick, carpeted rug where she was now sleeping, twitching every so often as if even in sleep, she could find no rest.

Healer Robbins looked down sadly at the pitiful sight. "Behold England's brave heroine….the Chosen One's best friend….now reduced to this. It breaks my heart."

Draco's jaw dropped. Surely not. It couldn't be. Not…..not…..

"Granger?" he whispered, his voice cracking with an emotion he couldn't name.

Rousing at the sound, the woman lying on the floor opened her sightless eyes. Draco gasped at the black voids trying to see him. She turned this way and that, as if trying to pinpoint where the stranger stood. She knew it wasn't Healer Robbins; she was familiar with the older healer's aroma; it was always heavy with the fragrance of woodsmoke and potions and pipe tobacco. This one smelled different; lighter and faintly familiar. Their scent reminded her of apple tarts and peppermint.

Draco cautiously approached his former classmate. He'd seen a lot during the war and even more during the three years he'd studied in France. He'd thought himself immune to shock from a person's condition. But he was powerless to stop the tears that began to form in his eyes. He felt their sting while examining the girl he'd bullied as a child. He never would have recognized her as the bossy swot who had dominated the classrooms at Hogwarts or as the warrior who had endured torture from the hand of his crazed aunt. The patient before him was frail. Hermione's once abundant hair had become thin and brittle and hung lifelessly about her hollow cheeks; he imagined he could break off the limp strands with a mere twist of his fingers. She had always been petite, but now she appeared even smaller. Shrunken, somehow. He noticed the nightgown she had on was hanging on her, several sizes too large.

"Have her measurements been taken since she was admitted?" he asked the healer beside him.

The good doctor nodded. "Oh, yes. Several times. For reasons unknown to us, the curse that hit Miss Granger caused a type of, for lack of a better term, smallness effect."

What Healer Robbins didn't want to say in front of the patient was that the smallness effect continued to this day. He'd seen a pattern in the three years she'd been under his care. Every time one of her visitors worried over her, her nails grew shorter, as well as her teeth. Anytime she overheard one of the medi-witches discussing her health, she would lose a few centimeters in height. It was as if she'd processed every concern as critiques, as insults upon her person. He'd wondered if the emotions George had set loose during the Battle of Hogwarts had somehow warped Hermione's judgment, because since that time, she saw everything as a slight, and her body acted accordingly. It withdrew from what it perceived as hurts. Because of it, Healer Robbins was the only one left authorized to treat her. To even see her. All visitation rights had been suspended until a viable working treatment could be found. The restrictions had been harsh, but the elderly wizard had had no choice. His patient would not survive if the pattern was allowed to continue.

Standing off to the side, he silently watched as Draco carefully examined the muggleborn. He knew he had taken a risk hiring him. Some of his colleagues had argued against it. They said he would cause trouble. Others had been more direct and declared he would be trouble. At first, he'd wondered if they were right. What if Mr. Malfoy made Hermione worse? He knew of their turbulent past. Would the presence of a rival make Miss Granger shrink even further within herself? Would she become even more confused? In the end, he decided to stick to his wands and hire him anyway. The potential benefits would be worth the risk. Now he was glad he'd stuck to his convictions. He could tell already that Draco Malfoy was born to be a healer. He was intelligent, but more than that, he cared. It was obvious in his measured movements and in his thoughtful handling of the patient. The older doctor felt vindicated; in spite of what some of his peers had predicted, he now saw that he had done well bringing the former death eater here.

When Draco looked up to ask him a question, the older healer put his finger to his lips. Then he pointed to the door. Draco immediately understood the doctor didn't want him discussing anything in front of Hermione.

"Miss Granger, we'll be back shortly. I'm just going to show our new healer where he can find the supplies to finish your examination."

"My examination...do you mean my Newts?" Her bottom lip began to tremble. "You…..you think I failed, don't you?"

Draco watched, agast, as she visibly recoiled. But then he remembered Healer Robbins' words and connected the dots. Smallness Effect. Hermione wasn't pulling back…..she was diminishing. The physician in him immediately sought to counteract it.

"Of course I don't think that, Granger," he soothed. He gently touched her shoulder. "When have you ever failed an exam?"

She cocked her head curiously. "You know me?" Then a sudden sob tore from her throat, surprising Draco in its intensity. "Oh God, Harry, is it you?"

Healer Robbins didn't give Draco a chance to reply. "No, my dear, it's not Harry; it's our new healer who's been assigned to your care. Please give us just a moment," he soothed. "We're going to step out to retrieve your potions." Then he took Draco's arm and all but pushed him out the door.

"What was that about?" asked Draco as soon as the door was closed.

Healer Robbins sighed apologetically. "Her symptoms become worse whenever she thinks it's one of her former friends who are in the room."

Her former friends? thought Draco. Out loud he asked, "Are they not still her friends? Potter and Weasley?" And all the other bloody heroes?

He shook his head. "It's a unique case. I'll brief you later, but right now, we need to get back in there, or she'll think we're abandoning her, too."

"Can you tell me why she's so confused?" Draco had never seen Granger be anything but brilliant. The woman they'd left back in the room was anything but.

What a tragedy. Draco felt a profound sadness. Such a dreadful condition for anyone, let alone for the brightest witch of their age.

Hermione Granger didn't deserve this.

"Later," the older healer repeated his promise.

A/N: Many, many thanks to Annamonk, whose ideas and imagination will be shaping much of this story. I don't know anyone else who has such an insight into the healing power of love as does the sister of my heart.

The inspiration for the condition of Hermione's eyes came from a Star Trek Next Gen's episode entitled, The Skin of Evil.