Lucius Malfoy doesn’t expect to ever wake again – much less to wake to his son’s worried face and the slightly green tinged ceiling tiles of St. Mungos. The last thing he saw was the surprisingly gentle faced of Granger leaning over him, clothed in the gossamer fabric of a Celtic ritual, and murmuring the words to a spell so dark his own father would have bulked to preform it. Somewhere nearby three people had died to power that spell and he admired her for having the magical stamina to preform it alone. It was normally done by a full coven, at minimum a triad.