He knows she likes to think she's seen him at his worst. Those times where she'd find him staring absently at the wall, or watching his wand as it lay stagnant in the palm of his hand. Those moments could last for hours, yet he was so caught up with his own thoughts and dreadful wishing that nothing could pull him from his moods. They weren't as frequent as they used to be, but he knew she still worried when she caught him in the act.
But she hadn't seen him at his worst, because those docile moments of quiet nothingness hardly compared. She had not been there when he'd woken up in St Mungo's and been told he'd had an accident that had fractured one of his cervical vertebrae and bruised his spinal cord. An 'accident' they said, but there were still wizards out there that resented him for his choices in the war, after all. They had told him he was lucky not to have come out of the incident a quadriplegic, as even magic could do nothing to repair severed nerves. But she had not been there to watch the life leave his eyes when they put his wand in his hand and requested he perform a few simple spells, only for nothing to happen, hard as he tried. She had not been there when the healers tried to fill him with false hope, that it was only a side effect of the bruising.
She had not been there in those first few weeks, when he pulled out clumps of his flaxen hair, nor had she been there to watch as he tore at his nails until they bled and felt raw to the touch. She had not been there when he had scratched and bruised his skin, searching for that lost sensation of magic travelling through his limbs, searching for the sleeping source deep inside his body. If she thought that the days where nothing could coax him from those long periods of blankness were him at his worst, then she really didn't know anything at all.
His eyes drifted away from the lifeless twig on the table to the clock on the wall. She'd be home soon.
She didn't really know anything, but she didn't need to. Draco got up from his seat at the kitchen table to walk the distance to the kettle. He knew he would spend the rest of his life repaying her kindness and perseverance by having one of his hand made cups of tea ready for her as she arrived home without feeling an inch of regret.
He could spend the rest of his life repaying Hermione Granger with his quiet displays of his love, because she loved him back. Magic or no magic, esteemed pureblood or estranged squib, it didn't matter.
As he pressed his finger down on the button of the electric kettle, he heard the front door open, and he let himself smile.
A/N: Haven't written for a while, and never for Harry Potter before. This is just little vignette that could have been part of a larger story. Maybe one day. Hope you enjoyed it, as it felt lovely to get back into writing.