This really was his least favorite part of his job. It was bad enough when it was someone he didn't know, but this. No amount of Auror training could have prepared him for this.

Protocol stated he should use the front door, knocking before asking permission to enter the residence, but nothing about this was according to protocol.

He stepped towards the fireplace in his office, wiping tears from his face and steadying his hands as he reached for the black powder that sat on the mantle.

He could do this. This was his job.

Stepping into the green flames and calling out his destination, he had only a moment to collect himself before he collided with the hardwood floor.

He'd been here countless times before - passed out drunk on that leather couch, discovered the world of football on the telly, had many meals at that dining room table. Never had he imagined he'd be here like this.

He stretched, dusting the dirt off his dark gray robes, and it was then that he noticed. His robes were torn, covered in mud and a dark maroon substance, and he suddenly wished he was anywhere but here.

"Malfoy! Ron didn't tell me you were coming for dinner. Roast and vegetables - I hope that's ok. You might want to wash your hands, you're covered in dirt."

She was rambling and hadn't noticed the state of his robes as he stood stock still in the middle of her living room. She crossed the room, stepping up on her tiptoes to lightly place a kiss to his cheek, their usual greeting.

He remained frozen, watching only as she sauntered away towards the kitchen. Merlin, she was gorgeous.

Maybe once, she could have been his. He still praised Potter and the Weasel for not returning to Hogwarts for their 8th year. In their place, he sat next to her in Charms, he stayed up until well after the library closed reworking a Potions essay with her. Their friendship was a post-war friendship, coming together in the ways of forgiveness and moving forward. She'd testified at his trial and he'd apologized for his behavior over the years - the names he had called her, the torture she'd endured at the hands of his aunt. Over bottles of firewhiskey, they'd confessed their nightmares to one another, secrets she'd later tell him not even Potter and Weasley knew of.

She'd lied, said the nightmares had passed, because she'd known they wouldn't have let her return so easily if they'd known. If they'd known the way she couldn't sleep through the night when it stormed if they'd known the way she'd slink down the hall of the 8th year dorm if they'd known the way she'd silently unlock his door. If they'd known the way he'd held her as she cried herself back to sleep, running his fingers through her long, curly brunette locks, they'd never have let her come back.

He'd tell her on the nights that found him in her bed about how inadequate he'd felt growing up, how fearful he was of his father, how the thought of crucio still made his body ache. How broken he'd felt, lying on the ballroom floor of his childhood home, bruised and bloodied as his father stood to the side, too afraid and too disappointed to do anything. Funny how even now, three years later with his father tucked away in Azkaban for the remainder of his life, he still feared being a disappointment to the man.

She opened up to him about the Weasel, telling him about how she'd given him her virginity the night before she'd left to come back to school, how it'd been weeks since she'd gotten an owl from him but the post came every week from Potter. She confessed to him that she'd pined after the redhead for years until he finally noticed her, finally saw her as more than just the brainy friend who finished his homework. Maybe there was hope for him, he'd thought, hope for them. If the Weasel was so quick to ignore her, he'd show her how much he valued her.

And he did. Small things like serving her tea with honey and a dash of sugar, an empty leather-bound diary for her birthday (Horcrux free, they'd joked), a first edition of Moste Potente Potions for Christmas. Months went by, and soon there was no more talk of the Weasel.

He'd kissed her once. Just once. On their last night - down by the lake, the night lit only by the moon. He'd kissed her, telling her again how sorry he was and how thankful he was for her friendship. Butterflies and fireworks could best describe how he felt in that moment, her lips soft as they moved against his. He'd fallen asleep that night with a blissful smile on his face, ideas of how he'd court her properly before asking her to marry him. Thoughts of how he'd buy her any house she wanted so she never had to live at the Manor, thoughts of someday little blonde haired children with unruly curls.

They shared a compartment on the train ride back to London, and she'd sank softly into his side as the hours had rolled by. He spun her curls through his fingers, thinking back over the final school year, and all the ways he'd fallen in love with her. Too soon, he was pulling her trunk down from the overhead compartment, playfully pushing their trolleys into one another as they raced down Platform 9 ¾. She'd stopped suddenly, and he'd rammed his trolley into the back of her knees, but she hadn't budged. Frozen she stood there, her eyes fixed ahead at the red-headed figure leaning against the brick wall. Roses and a gold ring and all was forgiven.

"Malfoy?"

Her voice calling out to him pulled him away from his daydream, back to the horror that was his reality.

"Granger?"

He could hear her in the kitchen, pulling dishes down and setting the table. He stepped towards her, towards the sound, finally feeling his body move again and remembering why he was here.

"I asked you if you knew when Ron would be home."

"Granger."

He stared at her, realizing for the first time that she was wearing only her robe, her hair twisted up into a knot at the top of her head, loose curls falling down to frame her face.

"Why didn't he just come with you?"

"Hermione."

She spun towards him, her eyes connecting with his, and he knew she was taking the sight of him in. Torn, muddy robes, and those dark maroon stains. In the three years since they'd left Hogwarts, all the years that they'd known each other, he'd always taken great care of his personal appearance. But now, he stood before her tracking mud into her kitchen with dirt in his hair and blood on his face.

"Hermione. You need to change, we need to go."

The bottle of elf-made wine she held in her hand shattered on the floor, the dark red splattering the white tiled kitchen. His body moved towards her, arms reaching out as she collapsed to the floor, her knees sliding against the red wine.

"No. No. No. Ron." Her body shook against his as he slid on the floor next to her, pulling her up into his lap.

"Hermione. I am so, so sorry. But right now, you need to get changed. We have to go."

"Harry. I need Harry…" Her voice trailed off as tears overtook her. He had managed to pull her up off of the floor and had started down the hallway to her bedroom to fetch a change of clothes. In his concern over her, he'd forgotten about the other one. He reached for the first pair of pants he found, some dark navy cotton pajamas. They'd have to do, he didn't have any more time to dawdle.

She'd settled onto the edge of the bed, her head falling forward into her hands, still muttering for Ron and Harry.

"Granger. You've got to help me here. Pants. You need to put on pants."

She stuck out a leg towards him. It wasn't much but he'd have to work with it. He pulled one foot into a leg hole and then the other, before he stood her up, leaning her against his body, and pulled the pajamas up to her waist.

"Granger. A shirt." He'd wasted enough time, and he urgently began pulling open dresser drawers again. Finally, he found something that wasn't another pair of pants and tossed her the solid black t-shirt. When he turned back around towards the bed, she'd managed to remember to move and had undone the tie around her robe and was currently sitting there wearing only a pair of pajama bottoms and a bra. A black, lacy bra with her nipples completely exposed and that was one image he was never going to get out of his head.

Focus. The shirt.

He grabbed her hand and tugged her down the hallway, back towards the living room and the floo. He assumed she must have been able to pull the shirt over her head herself because when he turned again she was fully clothed.

Her golden brown eyes darted up to meet his, tears still falling down her face.

"Draco. Ron - is he?" She couldn't say the words any more than he could say them to her, but he knew that she knew. His arms reached out for her, pulling her into his chest and enveloping her small body with his.

"He is, Granger. I am so sorry."

"And Harry? Is Harry…" He could feel her heart racing against his chest, the soft sobs that escaped her mouth and landed on his shoulder.

"Hermione, we need to go." He reached for the black powder that sat in the little golden bowl on the mantle, tossing it into the flames as he pulled her in after him. Together, like a prayer, they whispered the words.

St. Mungos.

A/N- This was previously posted, but I got attacked by trolls and pulled it down. Enjoy!