It was the light streaming through the window that woke him. He reached up to close the ancient curtains, silently cursing the house elves for not doing so before he woke up. But he didn't feel heavy velvet under his fingertips, in fact his fingers seemed to be made of lead. He slowly cracked open his heavy eyes, memories of fear and anxiety coursing through him as he sought to take in his surroundings. He was in a hospital, not his bedroom in his childhood home. How did he get here? Why did moving feel like swimming in concrete? And where was… His eyes shot open.

"Hermione!" He had to find her. He struggled to sit up, rustling came from his right. He was in no condition to fight, but if they had her… if they had hurt her… he was sure he could find the strength. Rustling came from his right and Madam Pomphrey hurried from her office. He was at Hogwarts, yes, he remembered now. There had been the Final Battle … death hugged the walls. Many had died, and he supposed he should find out who had lived. But he only cared about one, the one who should have still been here beside him.

"Lie down, I did not bring you back from the brink of death to have you kill yourself moving too fast now." Madam Pomphrey pushed him back down, which may have been for the best. Black dots had begun to swim in his vision. But he still didn't know…

"Where's Hermione?" Silence met him as the old witch bustled around his bedside, mixing motions and then handing him a glass of what looked like melted troll skin.

"Drink," she ordered.

"Not until you tell me what happened to Hermione!" It was supposed to be a command, but he could hear his voice quiver, pleading. She had been right next to him, he could still feel the ghost of her had in his as the explosion went off. She couldn't be … no. He survived, she had too. She had too. He felt a hand laid gently on his arm, he wouldn't look at her, not wanting to see the pity on her face. He was not weak, never weak.

"You'll do no good to her like this, mate." Through the double doors walked his friend by association. After all, the enemy of your enemy is your friend. No weakness here, there was no love lost between them, not matter how cordial the greeting was. The newcomer shrugged, "But maybe you never really cared for her at all. Maybe you don't have the strength to be strong for her. I always thought you would balk at doing anything truly difficult." He was being goaded and he knew it. And it was working, blast it all. He glared, took the glass, and downed its contents, focusing on keeping it down, knowing it would be twice as horrid on the way up.

"Where is she?" His voice scratched, the potion burned down his throat. His enemy sat on the end of his bed, presumptuous prick. If he didn't tell him where she was he was going to bury him 6 feet under, like he had planned so many times during their years of school.

"She's alive and healthy … but she's…," the man hesitated. Then ran his hands through his hair and down his face. "If I help you can you walk."

"I don't need help from you, Weasley," the venom in is voice could have killed a man. But the ginger just stood and sighed.

"Have it your way, Malfoy," he stood and waited. He was a Malfoy, he could stand on his own, he was not weak. Never weak. He repeated that as a mantra in his mind as he slowly peeled back to covers, and swung his legs out of bed. He felt tiered already, but he wouldn't show it. The potion burning in his veins gave him some strength. It just took much longer to collect. He stood, and gestured for Weasley to take the lead. Instead of following him back out the double doors he had walked in, as Draco expected, he was lead to the back corner of the hospital wing. There was a door he had never seen before, tucked away in the corner, half hidden by privacy screens. Weasley knocked twice and waited, then knocked three times in rapid succession. The door swung inward. The ginger took a step forward, and then hesitated. Turning back to Draco he said gently, "She's healthy, mate, no broken bones, the bruised have healed, and the scars will fade with time. Her health is in perfect order."

"What are you prattling on about now, Weasley, just let me see her." Why couldn't this oaf get out of his way? If she was fine, why the secret room, why the hesitancy? Maybe he could help her. The fear and anxiety returned, people don't reassure unless there is something to fear. He pushed past the Weasel King and strode into the room with as much dignity as he could, which wasn't much when he had to lean on the wall after a few steps. The room looked like it was once an extension of the infirmary. A few beds and privacy screens, empty bottles the once held SkelGro and Sleeping Draught. One corner was out of place, it had been turned into a sort of living area. There was a wardrobe and a desk, and a bed. It was the figure in the bed that drew his attention. She was a slip of a girl, not malnourished per say, but she lacked the lively quality that made one look … well, alive. She was staring at a dozen butterflies that were dancing around her head. She smiled, the smile of someone who takes pleasure in the little things. Those butterflies made her happy.

"Hermione, I brought you a visitor," Weasley called to her from behind Draco. She squinted, Draco slowly walked, limped, closer. The butterflies slowed in their dance, and slowly began to fall. No, not butterflies he realized, moths. They were midnight blue, and as the fell they dissolved into a shower of sparks that twirled in the air around her until they faded. She stared at him blankly.

"Hermione?" His voice came out a whisper. She cocked her head and squinted again. Then she nodded and closed her eyes. Weasley placed a hand on his shoulder and guided him to a chair beside her bed, gratefully Draco sank into it. What was wrong with her. Her lips began to move and she cupped her hands in front of her. Emerald sparks gathered, a new moth formed much large than the last ones. She smiled at it as in perched on her palm. She held it out to Draco. He held out his hand and it daintily crawled over. She looked at him wistfully, and folded her hands into her lap. He didn't want to hold her moth, he wanted to hold her. But something held him back, something wasn't right.

"Hermione, do you know who I am?" The moment the words left his lips he decided he didn't want to know. He would just sit and hold as many moths as she wanted him to. Then tears began to glisten in her eyes, and when his vision began to blur he realized that they had also gather in his own. He blinked hard refusing to let them fall. Not now, not with Weasley here.

"Another one," she whispered. He turned back to her.

"Another one, what?" his voice cracked. He blinked harder.

She shook her head and the tears glided down her face. "Go. Too many. Please." She crawled under the covers and pulled them over her head.

Draco could feel Weasley's hand firmly on his shoulder, but he couldn't move. "Come on, Malfoy. We need to go." Draco stood numbly to his feet, he didn't even notice when Weasley placed an arm around him to help him walk back to his bed. As he lay there, propped by pillows, he stared at the door.

"What…" he couldn't bring himself to say more. Weasley rubbed his face again.

"The Great Hall crumbled. It took two days to move the rubble to see if there were any survivors. We found you and Hermione buried by where the house points once stood, covered in glass." He shook his head. Draco looked down at his hands crisscrossed with scars. He remembers the ceiling falling, he threw himself over her. One scar didn't match the others. "We hauled you both out of there an up here. Hermione responded first. One night she woke up… and she screamed." Draco hadn't noticed how hooded he childhood enemy's eyes. "She just screamed and screamed, a MediWitch gave the Draught and she slept again. When she woke up …" Weasley looked him straight in the eye. A year ago, he would have sneered at him. Now he feared what was coming. "She doesn't remember a thing, mate. She like a child. She walks and eats and sleeps and smiles, but she doesn't remember who she is or why she's here." Draco looked back down at his hands. At the curved silver line, that was too precise to have been from glass or rock. But it shouldn't be silver, it should be red and healing.

"How long?" His voice was a whisper. "How long?" He said more firmly. Weasley sighed and looked away.

"Hermione woke up a week after the Battle ended." Weasley avoided his gaze. Draco gritted his teeth.

"And how long has it been since then?" Draco ground out. Weasley's hooded eyes look back at him.

"It's been 6 months, Malfoy." He sighed and looked out the window at the snow that slowly drifter from the sky. "You've been unconscious for 6 months."