An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
“I suppose it’s a lot like being a Metamorphmagi,” the healer explained.
Hermione’s brow arched. Her head tilted. “You suppose?”
Seated beside her, she watched Draco tighten his hands around their daughter’s waist. He straightened in his chair, and the veins in his neck protruded beneath his fair skin.
“Yes, suppose. I’m afraid there’s not an exact diagnosis for whatever this is,” the healer continued. “Further testing would be needed. The symptoms here, so to speak, are similar to that of a Metamorphmagus but more-”
“Unpredictable?” Hermione guessed.
“Explosive,” Draco tried, resulting in a harsh glare from his wife.
“I was going to say… peculiar,” the healer concluded.
