The ten year anniversary of the Battle of Hogwarts dawned quietly, insignificantly, the same sunrise that peeked over perilously dark clouds the day before. There was nothing in the weather that spoke to a special day; it had rained yesterday, and it would rain today. But still, Hermione Granger-Weasley watched with an air of reverence.

She tucked her fingers into the handle of her tea cup and sighed. She always woke up early on the anniversary, as if waiting for another shoe to drop. Ever anniversary, she went to bed at the close of the day feeling emotionally exhausted and a little relieved. One day, Harry always reassured her, it wouldn't feel like this.

A river of lightening snaked across the sky, and Hermione gently closed the window, turning back toward her sleeping husband. Ron always handled the day differently than she and Harry did. He always chose to stay in bed, to sleep the day away, so he could, ideally, forget what happened. He would do that today too; Hermione brushed some of the red hair out of his face and studied his countenance for a moment.

He looked peaceful right now; she hoped he'd be able to hold onto that peace when the thunder inevitably woke him. There had been very little peace in their home lately. They always fought more when the anniversary got close, but always fights borne out of nothing, fights that they regretted and forgot the next day. Last night, it had been a fight about visiting his family; she rolled her eyes thinking about it now. She had felt more keenly the absence of her own mother and father and took that out on him – he hadn't understood her feelings and argued harder. It was a typical occurrence; the usual dysfunction that they accepted.

She wished she could be like Ron today; she wished she had the ability to sleep and temporarily forget. Unfortunately, Hermione was not the forgetting kind. Instead, she polished off her tea and got dressed in a sensible pair of jeans and one of Ron's old Quidditch shirts, pulling a raincoat over her clothes so she could begin her yearly trek.

The graveyard was silent when she Apparated just outside the gates. The rain had begun to fall in earnest now, making hollow little thudding noises against the rubber of her jacket. She squinted past the fog and rain, but she could see no one. It didn't surprise her; very few people wanted to go to a cemetery at all, much less early in the morning on the day when their loved ones passed. It would remain empty for hours – just the way she liked it. The Albus Dumbledore Memorial Cemetery was brand new, its grounds specifically built to hold the remains of the victims of the war.

She found Fred's grave first – the headstone was immaculately cleaned from George's weekly visit – and dug a little wind-up toy from her beaded bag. Every year she left a Weasley's Wizard Wheezes toy behind at his headstone, so he'd have something to laugh about. "I miss you, Fred," she said quietly into the mist.

Behind her, a branch snapped. Immediately, her hand was on her wand, her eyes narrowed and staring into the still faint light of early morning. Nothing behind her looked disturbed. Her instincts were unsettled; she felt eyes, a presence, but could find nothing. After a few moments, she released her wand and forced herself to relax. It was probably just another person coming to visit their loved one's grave. Nothing to be tense about, Hermione, relax.

She stopped by Snape's next – it always took a lot of time to clear away the brush and dust – and she never left him anything. He wouldn't have wanted anything from her or anyone. The thought made her smile.

She made her rounds quickly and efficiently, deciding not to linger as the rain started falling harder. She visited Sirius's grave, pausing to pay her respects at the graves of Colin Creevey, Cedric Diggory, Alastor Moody, and Ted Tonks.

She was thoroughly soaked by the time she got to Tonks and Lupin's graves, but despite shivering and the lingering unease of that cracking branch, she found she could not leave without at least talking to them. She liked to tell them about Teddy when she visited so they would feel like he was still connected to them.

"Teddy is already talking about Hogwarts like he's going in a few months as opposed to a year from now," she said wistfully, trying to keep her voice steady even though there was no one around to judge her. "I gave him one of my copies of Hogwarts, A History, and he finished it in a single night –"

The thunder cut her off with a loud clap and she started, glancing up toward the sky for a moment. As the lightening flashed, she caught sight of a familiar walk, a familiar head of blond hair.

"Malfoy?" she asked. He looked like a ghost, pale and almost glowing in the hazy morning, his black cloak turned up at the collar to keep the rain at bay. Still, his hair was soaked, and she didn't have to see him to know who he was visiting – Vincent Crabbe's grave was here, too. Somehow, he heard her; she saw his shoulders go up at the sound of her voice. He turned halfway toward her, more of an acknowledgement than she expected.

She raised her hand to wave –

"Granger, watch out!"

She didn't have time to turn around – whatever, whoever Malfoy had seen lunged, sinking a knife into her side. The pain was white – brighter than any lightening she'd ever seen, and she screamed, the sound foreign to her own ears, and whoever it was wrapped an arm around her and held her fast, a gloved hand over her mouth – pulled the knife free just to sink it into her flesh again, a fresh wave of agonizing pain.

Malfoy was drawing his wand, as if in slow motion, and before Hermione could say anything, before she could think, she had been shoved forward, onto Lupin's gravestone. She heard more than felt her forehead slam into the marble, and saw no more.

For a horrifying moment, Draco was sure that Hermione wouldn't be breathing when he got to her. Whoever had attacked her was gone – he bolted into the street the moment Draco had pulled his wand, but that didn't matter right now. Hermione was crumpled like a broken doll at the base of a headstone, and Draco didn't have to believe in signs to know that was a bad omen. Instead, he held his fingers under her neck to make sure she was still breathing before he gently checked her neck to make sure it wasn't broken.

When he was satisfied, he lifted her into his arms, struggling more than he'd like to admit with her slick raincoat, and Disapparated.

He landed on unsteady feet in the entry of his flat. He was suddenly struck with the silence; the rain outside had given every moment a steady sound that he did not have anymore; without it, he could clearly hear Hermione's blood dripping onto the carpet.

"Bloody hell," he muttered, carrying the unconscious woman to his dining table. Very gently, he lowered her onto the surface, pulling her legs straight and making sure her neck wasn't bent.

He hated blood; he always had. Living through a war had not made dealing with blood any easier; if anything, it reminded him of moments he'd rather forget. But even moments after lowering her onto the table, Hermione's blood was already pooling under her. Draco clenched his jaw and reached for her raincoat, peeling back the wet fabric.

More blood seeped out of the raincoat, and Draco pressed his hands on the wounds, remembering that he had been told putting pressure on wounds would stop the bleeding. But these wounds were too deep, her skin too pale. It wasn't enough, and every heartbeat that shuddered through her body pushed more blood out from the spaces between his fingers.

He had to peel the shirt away from the two punctures in her abdomen. He struggled to remember the healing spells Snape had taught him in their private lessons. He couldn't remember anything while he was looking at the smears of blood on her skin, the blood that was staining the tips of his fingers. He felt the room tilt and gripped the side of the table, hard enough that his fingers protested. He would not faint – he would not let her die.

She groaned, a sound deep in her throat, and his eyes immediately jumped to her. She was turning her head, just slightly, enough to spur him into speaking. But what would she do when she heard his voice?

"Granger," he said softly, trying not to frighten her. "Granger, don't move."

She didn't seem to hear him, but it didn't matter; whatever consciousness she was trying to achieve slipped away from her, and she went still again.

He breathed a sigh of relief and pulled his wand, trying to ignore the sticky blood that now coated his hand. "Vulnera Sanentur," he said, his hands hovering over the wounds. He had to repeat the incantation several times, like a song, but soon, the deep gashes were knitting themselves closed before his eyes, the blood slowing to almost nothing. It wasn't until the blood stopped that he finally lowered his hands, clenching them against their incessant shaking.

He wasn't sure if it was fear or exhaustion, but he didn't have time for either. Instead, he readied his potion set in the kitchen and set a pot of tea on.

It didn't take him long to brew up a Blood Replenishing Potion, and even less time to brew the Wideye Potion. He bottled them both and poured his tea, his eyes on Hermione as she stayed motionless on the table.

He was suddenly reminded of Voldemort's body, meticulously recovered and laid out on a table. Death Eaters stayed at his side for days, until the body started to smell, waiting for him to come back to life. The shaking in his hands got worse for a moment, sloshing his tea so bad he had to set it down.

He couldn't leave Granger on that table.

Very carefully, he scooped her into his arms again, unwilling to levitate her when he could accidentally hit her head, and carried her into his guest room. She was still damp, and her shirt was still soaked with blood, but it would have to do until she woke up.

He figured he should call someone, tell them what happened to her, but he was fairly certain none of her friends would believe him. No, she'd have to make that call herself, when she woke up.

If she woke up.

Hermione woke like she had been doused with ice water. The moment before, she had been asleep, dreaming of something terrifying, and the next moment, she was upright and coughing, the icy burn of a potion in her throat.

"Easy, Granger," a familiar voice soothed, and though she knew the voice immediately, the tone was still foreign. She wanted to yell, she wanted to pull away, she wanted to run, but her limbs were all heavy, and her abdomen raw.

"What – Malfoy –" she let her hand settle over her abdomen, where the pain was the worst. Even as she thought it, pain ricocheted through her head. "Oh, my head…"

"Lie back," he insisted. "You're going to hurt yourself."

"Don't tell me what to do, you little –"

"Granger, for the love of Merlin, you're going to faint again, please just lie back and listen to me for once," his usual tone was suddenly back, frosty and rude as ever. Ironically, it soothed her, and she leaned back into pillows that she suddenly realized were much too soft to be her own.

"Where –"

"You're in my flat, in the guest room," Malfoy answered her question before she could finish it. "Would you like me to explain?"

"Why the hell –"

"I'll take that as a yes," he sneered. "Now, if you don't mind, could you try to eat this while I tell the story?"

It was only then that Hermione noticed he was carrying a tray of toast, tea, and a glass of water. Momentarily, she felt guilty for being rude to him when he was obviously trying to care for her in some way…but why she needed caretaking was a nagging question he still had yet to answer. In the wake of her silence, Malfoy carefully placed the tray on her lap and moved out of her space, onto a lounge chair a short distance from the bed.

"Do you remember going to the cemetery?" he asked first.

Hermione, who was considering taking a bite of toast, paused. "The cemetery…" she trailed off. "I – I remember leaving my flat, walking into the cemetery…I remember seeing you."

"Delightful," he replied sardonically. "Do you remember the man that attacked you?"

She hesitated, pulling the piece of toast into smaller chunks instead of eating it. "I…I remember…that branch snapping behind me. I remember – I remember you saying my name, and…and screaming…"

"Alright, alright, don't agitate yourself," Malfoy insisted, leaning forward in the chair. "Would you like me to tell you what I saw?"

Hermione nodded, finally nibbling on a piece of toast.

"I heard you call my name," Malfoy said, his eyes leaving her to focus on something else. "I didn't want to turn around, but I did anyway. You raised your hand to wave, and I saw him."

"Him?"

"A man, I'm assuming. He came out of nowhere, like he had an Invisibility Cloak, or maybe a Disillusionment Charm, I don't know. But he had a knife, and he stabbed you once, here –" he pointed to the right side of his abdomen, just below the ribs, "and here –" he pointed just slightly higher up and closer to the center of her stomach. "And then he shoved you and ran. You hit your head on Lupin's grave –"

"Today is the anniversary –" she was suddenly moving again, a surprise even to herself, moving the tray off her lap, pulling the blankets back.

"Granger, stop." Immediately, Malfoy was on his feet and holding out his hand for her to take. "You cannot just get up and start running."

The pain washed over her in a tidal wave, and she was barely on her feet before Malfoy was completely supporting her again, angling his other arm underneath her knees and gently setting her onto the bed again.

"I gave you a Blood Replenishing Potion and a Wideye Potion, but your body still needs to recover on its own," he said, a sharp edge to his voice. "You cannot Gryffindor your way through this yet."

"Gryffindor?" Hermione replied coolly. "Going back to Houses so quickly, aren't we, Malfoy?"

"It's on your shirt, you obstinate woman," he retorted. "Now drink your damn tea."

There wasn't much she could say to that, so she pulled the tray toward her and picked up the tea cup. She took a tentative sip while she observed Malfoy, who had retreated back to his chair. His hair, usually meticulously styled, was messy and dirty. His hands were stained a familiar red she'd never forget. There was dirt on the knees of his pants, and a darkness to his eyes that she recognized.

"Malfoy," she said tentatively. "Thank you."

"Don't thank me, Granger," Malfoy waved her off. "Just drink the tea."

She obliged him, making sure to maintain eye contact while she did it. "Can I ask a question?"

"If you must."

"Why didn't you take me to St. Mungos?" she asked. "It's not that I'm not grateful…it's just –"

"Common sense would dictate I take you to a hospital, I get it," Malfoy finished for her. "Well…a few years after the war ended, Blaise and I got jumped at The Leaky Cauldron. Beaten within an inch of our lives, we were, but Blaise was a little more messed up than I was, so I tried to take him to St. Mungos. The Healers there were pretty clear that they wouldn't help…my kind."

"Your kind?" she repeated.

"Yes, Granger, I see the irony, you don't have to point it out," Malfoy snapped. "The pureblood elitism comes back to bite us all, I suppose."

"I wasn't going to say that, you prat," she retorted. "I…I just thought Healers took an oath to help everyone."

"Just not Death Eaters," Malfoy said dryly. "Either way, you were bleeding so much that I figured if I wasted the time getting to St. Mungos and they turned me away, you'd be…" he paused, and Hermione was worried he was overcome with some sort of emotion, "I thought if I wasted time, you'd be dead before I could help."

He looked, suddenly, like the child she knew at Hogwarts, sixteen years old and terrified of Voldemort's threats, terrified of the consequences.

"Malfoy," she said quietly, and he clenched his jaw tight and looked up at her. "I'm not dead."

"You almost were," he said.

"But I'm not," she insisted. "And that's because of you."

For a moment, she was sure that he smiled; she saw what was almost a smirk lingering at the edge of his mouth. Just the hint of it transformed his face, and she let herself smile back before he cleared his throat and stood, brushing off his dirty pants.

"I didn't write to your husband yet," he said, his eyes on the carpet. "I figured he'd try to hex me the moment he stepped through the door. Now that you're awake, maybe you can persuade him into behaving. I can give you parchment and ink to write him; I should write Theo at the MLE to let him know what happened –"

"Malfoy," Hermione interrupted. "Not that I don't agree, but could I perhaps have a shower first?"

"Granger, you can't stand," Malfoy pointed out.

"A bath, then?" she asked.

"Granger –"

"Just draw it for me, I can figure out the rest," she insisted.

He stared at her like he was going to contradict her again but thought better of it and stalked into the bathroom, an adjoining door, and soon, Hermione could hear the sound of running water. A few moments later, he was back, offering her his arm to help her out of bed.

She figured that she would at least be able to walk to the bathroom by herself, but she underestimated how out of sorts the bump on her head made her feel, and the pain in her abdomen, previously a dull ache, flared every time she took a step.

"Granger, you can't do this," Malfoy said as she whimpered. "Let…let me help you."

"Malfoy –"

"Do you want to be saved by a lunatic in a graveyard just to die in my bath?" Malfoy snapped, tightening his hold on her arm as she slipped. "Just let me help you."

She managed to unbutton her jeans by herself, but she had to have him pull them off her legs, especially where the blood had run onto the denim and made it stick to her skin. She wanted to be embarrassed; truthfully, she should be mortified at the idea of Malfoy helping her undress, but they worked in silence, and if she tried really hard, she could forget it was him.

"Granger, can you try to lift your arms?" he asked cautiously. "I think I can pull this shirt off without jostling you that way."

"If Ron could see me now –"

"If you ever do anything to repay me for saving your life, let it be not telling Ron about this," Malfoy said, but there was a laugh in his voice that made Hermione chuckle. He easily peeled the shirt off of her, leaving her sitting on the edge of the tub in nothing but her bra and knickers.

"I think I can handle the rest," Hermione said, feeling a blush taking over her face. Malfoy, if he noticed, didn't say anything.

"I trust your determination little, Granger," Malfoy said. "I'm going to close my eyes, but I want you to keep hold of my arm at least."

"Malfoy –"

"Granger, everything in this bathroom could harm you if you hit your head on it, stop being stubborn," he snapped, his eyes already closed.

Slowly, Hermione took off her knickers, leaving them in the same pile as her jeans and shirt, covered in blood, dirty, and smelling like rain water. Her bra, on the other hand, had a problematic hook she couldn't quite reach without causing herself incredible pain. She struggled with it for a few minutes, trying to turn her shoulders a particular way that would give her more reach, but it was hopeless. The rain had soaked into the padding, making the material stuck to her skin.

"Malfoy," she said quietly. "I need your help."

"Do I need to keep my eyes –"

"Yes," she exclaimed. "Keep your eyes closed."

"What do you need, Granger?" he asked flatly.

"Unhook my bra," she said it in a rush, so fast she was sure that it was unintelligible. But Malfoy heard her; his face flushed bright pink, an amusing color on his pale skin. He cleared his throat.

"You're sure you can't do it?" he asked.

"Positive."

He turned toward her, his eyes still closed, his chin angled upward, his arm still tight in her grip. "Okay, just…just don't move, okay?" he asked.

Before she could respond, his other arm was around her bare torso, his fingers very gently touching her skin, searching for the hook in question. She kept her eyes on his face, watching his eyes for any sign that he was peeking. But no, he kept his eyes shut tight even when the tips of his fingers brushed against her long hair, even when they found the hooks. Deftly, and with a skill Hermione didn't want to think about, he unhooked the bra with two of his fingers.

"There," he said, his voice a little less steady than it usually was.

"T-thank you," she said, blushing again. "I'm…I'm going to step into the bath now," she said, turning away from Malfoy's face and toward the tub. Very gently, she stepped into the warm water and lowered herself in. It wasn't until she was positive that her body was completely concealed in the bubbles that she told Malfoy he could open his eyes.

"As you can see, I've been safely put in the bath," she said. "You can go now."

He gave her a pinched sort of nod and practically fled into the other room.