Hi! This idea's been floating around in my head for a little while, so I hope you enjoy it.
Disclaimer: I do not own Hermione or Harry or Ron or Draco etc. They are ALL J.K. Rowling's. I suppose Mr Jones is mine, but he's fairly annoying.
BANG! BANG! BANG! Yet again, Hermione was woken by the landlord, Mr Jones. Almost every night this week, he had hammered on her door at unreasonable times, demanding that she allow another half dead witch or wizard into her flat. She had known that it would be like this, when she told the Order that she would take the job, but it didn't mean she appreciated certain aspects of it.
If Hermione was being honest with herself- as she tried to be- she really didn't like being woken up in the small hours of the morning, by Mr Jones with another witch or wizard seeking refuge from the constant rain and the war. However, it was necessary and it wasn't like she had anything else to do other than look after those who needed help- in an annoying twist of fate, both Ron and Harry had decided it would be best for her to stay at home, whilst they went to look for horcruxes. She had tried to understand their reasoning for this, but every time she remembered their departure -and how confident they were that she couldn't manage life on the run- a wave of annoyance passed through her. It felt like she had only just stopped wanting to blast everything in sight to shreds.
Merlin, it hurt. She couldn't believe Ron would leave her so easily, just days after they had finally started a fragile relationship. He had insisted that he loved her- and she didn't doubt that- but she missed him. She was sure that Harry and Ron would cope perfectly well with the hunt without her. However, despite reassuring herself constantly throughout the day, little things worried her. Nothing big, just small things. Like whether they had remembered to put up all the necessary concealing charms, and if they had packed enough warm clothes. It was silly really, she often told herself; even if Ron had issues with those sorts of things, Harry would look make sure that everything was just fine. He always did.
That was why she had opened the flat to refugees- because she couldn't stand the idea, that whilst Harry and Ron were out saving the world; she was sitting around twiddling her thumbs. Instead she spent all day counselling ex- Death Eaters or muggle-borns, who had spent months running from Voldemort. She had repeatedly refused any help the Order had offered, mainly because she was trying to prove to some unknown entity, that she could in fact manage by herself. At times like this, she wished that she wasn't so stubborn and that somebody else would go and open the bloody door before Mr Jones knocked it down.
'All right, I'm here, I'm here!' Hermione muttered, pulling her tatty dressing down tight around her waist and rubbing the remaining sleep from her eyes. Undoubtedly, she would spend the remaining couple of hours before dawn feeding and talking to whomever had escaped from the clutches of the Snatchers, who had been particularly vicious recently. Although she liked helping people, often their stories left her feeling angry at the world- these people just wanted a peaceful life and Voldemort was ruining magic for everybody!
It hadn't escaped her attention that it was more than a little bit dangerous to allow random strangers to stay in her flat. Hermione had spent countless nights making lists of pros and cons, and had concluded that in the end, it was the right thing to do. The Order paid for the flat, and anything that she might need to keep the others- and herself- alive. Molly hadn't been happy- in fact she had tried to stop Hermione leaving, even when all the arrangements had been made. Everybody seemed to be under the impression that Hermione should just stay at the Burrow until the war ended. But she couldn't. Not while people were suffering and she could do something to help. She wasn't looking forward to Ron and Harry finding out what she was doing, but she was counting on the hunt keeping them busy for at least the next couple of months.
Yesterday, the Order had relocated all the other refugees, because despite the enlarging charm placed on the apartment (which all the muggleborns commented made the place seem like the TARDIS) was getting quite crowded. The others hadn't complained once about the lack of space, and Hermione thought that the atmosphere was like that of the Burrow. Even though it was cramped, everybody was doing their best to remain cheerful. Besides, nobody like being alone at times like this. It just made everything seem a million times worse.
There was another loud knock on the door, shaking the walls. Mr Jones was not a man who liked to be kept waiting. Hermione took a deep breath and opened the door, preparing herself for whatever horror her next flat-mate might have experienced. The moment that the door gave way, a wizard collapsed into her hallway. Mr Jones raised an eyebrow at Hermione as she rushed to help the man to his feet and half carried him to the nearest sofa.
'Listen here, Granger,' Mr Jones began scowling at Hermione as she positioned the body, so that when he woke up he wouldn't be too uncomfortable. 'I normally wouldn't care if you were kidnapping people and storing them here until a ransom was paid. However, the screaming is disturbing the other tenants- I can't have complaints, y'know. If you don't get them to shut the hell up, I'm going to call the police.'
With a final grimace, he marched out of her flat, leaving her alone with the unconscious man in her unlit flat. Hermione sighed; she really despised Mr Jones sometimes. She wasn't sure why he was so difficult. And why, if he was sure she was kidnapping people, he didn't just call the police. It would be the right thing to do. She shook her head to clear all thoughts of the unpleasant landlord and knelt beside the sofa. Quickly realising that she wasn't going to be able to assess the severity of the wizard's condition in the dark, she lit the nearest lamps. It was force of habit that often meant she spent most evenings in the dark. It meant that those sleeping in the living room wouldn't be disturbed by the entrance of a new refugee. Still, she didn't have to now, and since the man was out cold, she doubted he'd be woken by a little light.
Now that Hermione could properly see, she began to try and work out how much damage had been done. Looking at the man's limp form, she felt physically sick. His leg was bent at a strange angle and all the bones in his left arm seemed to be completely gone. His clothes were splattered with mud and blood- of which he had seemed to have lost a lot, judging from how pale his skin was. She cast a quick diagnostic spell which revealed several broken ribs and fingers, and that his right leg was broken in several places. He wasn't the worst case she had seen, but she was still definitely worried about him.
Taking a couple of deep breaths, Hermione ran through the plan of action she had been taught. She had diagnosed his condition, which was number one on the list. Now, she had to try and clean the man up, get him something to ear and make sure that he wasn't concussed, among other things. However, this meant waking him up, and she wasn't sure how well he would react to being in a strange woman's home. Sometimes, people turned up with no recollection of how they got there and were very reluctant to trust anything anyone said. Those cases were always the hardest to treat, because they often didn't want any help and would try and leave before they were ready- hurting themselves more in the process.
Hermione knew that in reality, there was no need to try and figure out who this man was, and where he had come from. But curiosity got the better of her, as it often did. For some odd reason, she had left the wizard's left forearm alone, mainly because even though it was boneless, it would cause some pain if she accidently touched the Dark Mark. Instinct told her, that this man was almost definitely a (former) Death Eater. And this time, her instinct was right. Even though the forearm was completely limp, the mark was still there.
This was the first time a Death Eater had actually found her flat, and consequently she was a bit wary of him. Hermione had been told to expect them to turn up from time to time, but as the months had passed she had stopped wondering when one would actually appear. She had prepared herself to feel a lot more hatred towards the man on the sofa, but in reality anyone who was so damaged really didn't deserve to be hated.
Actually, it made it easier to identify him, Hermione realised. There couldn't be that many Death Eaters that were as young as him. In fact, she didn't think she had ever seen a Death Eater of even a remotely similar age to herself. Hermione wondered if he was an exception, or if they were recruiting teenagers in general now.
Realising that she had been staring at the boy's sleeping form; Hermione summoned a bowl of warm water and a cloth. Just because he was an ex-Death Eater didn't mean he deserved any different treatment- if she treated him any different, she would be a hypocrite. And Hermione couldn't stand hypocrisy. She gently wiped away the dirt which splattered his face, applying essence of Dittany to any cuts she found under the mud. She ran through a list of all the Death Eaters that she had ever heard of and encountered as she worked.
Snape, Crabbe, Goyle, Wormtail, Bellatrix.
As she tried to remove as much blood and filth from his hair as possible, it occurred to her that this man actually wasn't a brunette. His hair was really very blonde and the mud had just been concealing its true colour. Continuing with her mental list, she switched to listing blonde Death Eater who were around her age. There was only one name repeating over and over.
Draco Malfoy.