Draco was too well-bred to squirm in his seat like a first year, so instead he brought his leg up to rest his booted ankle on one knee and breathed in heavily through his nose. The dust of the library was making his head and face itch, but he did not scratch. He tried to keep his lips from curling at the edges like a day-old sandwich, but he didn't believe himself to be successful.

"Do you plan to be at it all day?" he asked with exasperation, the second-to-last word stretching like taffy before snapping the ending word up into a question.

Granger blinked up at him, then bent her head back to her book and turned another page.

He studied her for want of something better to do. Hermione Granger sat on her heels on the floor of his library, reading one of his family books. Damned Ministry had sent her. Apparently the Malfoy family library was the last place anyone had seen a certain book that supposedly could save the wizarding world.

Draco didn't bloody care. Let them all rot.

Especially if he had to deal with that stubborn woman in his home. Every day. For the past three months. Now she decided, at one of his lowest ebbs, to make a pathetic stab at dressing like a girl. And he had to behave and not say anything when she looked like that?

She might have thought she looked cute in those ghastly fuchsia robes, but she just looked common. The fabric was cheap, and the cut was no less than 15 years out of style. Granted, wizarding fashions didn't change that quickly, but it was still not very modern. And what the hell had she done to her hair to make it worse than usual? Bloody rat's nest. The colour of the fabric made her skin look grey and accentuated the dark rings under her eyes.

Although he had to admit that it showed off what he had always assumed to be non-existent breasts quite well. Too bad she had them covered up with her mountains of frightful hair. He briefly wondered if he should throw Granger at his mother to give her something to keep her occupied. She'd have the girl shaped up in a flash.

Then what? If Granger actually looked decent, maybe she'd land a bloke and go bother him instead of taking up space and air in his ancestral home. And then the wizarding world would die out from the plague, and he'd be free from house arrest. Or dead.

Draco breathed in again through his nose, this time to speak: "Keen robes, Granger," he drawled. "Did you dig them from the bin behind a charity shop?"

Granger's head shot up. "What?"

"Your robes," he enunciated. "They're dreadful. It's hurting my eyes to look at you."

She frowned. "Why are you looking at me, then?"

Draco shrugged. "What else am I going to do whilst you pillage my family's library looking for a cure to save people I loathe?"

Granger's lips tightened into a line that Draco thought very much resembled the pickled expression worn by his childhood tutor. He knew that look well from school, too. Granger had worn it almost every time she had ever spoken to him. He had it memorised. It was probably the only thing predictable about her other than her love for books.

"I'm looking for a cure to help everyone. That includes you."

He scoffed. "Whatever. You just want to get back into the limelight again. Is it bothering you that much that the Daily Prophet isn't printing your picture every day anymore? Sorry that the plague is taking a bit of attention away?"

Granger raised an eyebrow at him but said nothing for a moment. The silence stretched between them. He knew she wasn't an attention-seeking prat, like Potter. He also didn't think she was poor so the charity bit wasn't spot on either. Draco realised that he was better at insulting Potter and Weasley than Granger. Now that she'd grown into her looks a bit, and they were no longer in school, there wasn't really much to tease her about except perhaps her hair or her blood status. And despite his pride in his heritage, a war over that one thing had soured him on ever thinking seriously about it again.

"You're just scared," she said at last and returned to her book.

Draco sat up straighter. "I'm not scared."

She turned another page.

Why would he be scared of a plague that reduced the unhappy wizards who contracted it into drooling fools that stumbled around pissing themselves and weeping blood until they finally drowned in an emerald green liquid that magically generated in their lungs on the fifth day? No one knew how the liquid got there, or where it came from. Only that it dribbled out of the mouth of the deceased, and it had come to be known as the Green Death. Or just 'the plague' if you didn't care much about specifics. Everyone knew to what you were referring anyway. No point in being dramatic about it.

"Why didn't you just go ask my father?" Draco traced the stitching of his armrest. "He's read every book in this library."

"He wouldn't speak with me," Hermione said crisply. "And we couldn't compel him to tell us anything, either. He's immune to Veritaserum."

"You're clever, Granger," Draco smirked. "I'm sure you could think of something else to motivate him."

She stared at him, horrified.

Draco spluttered. "Not that! I meant a bit of freedom to move around, some luxuries, visits from Mother."

Granger narrowed her eyes. "I'd rather not make deals with Death Eaters."

Draco rolled his pupils toward the wall and scratched his finger down the armrest. "Sure, sure. Play the shining, virtuous maiden. Untainted by intrigue." He scoffed. "You're practically a Slytherin. I remember what happened to Umbridge."

She was gazing at the book again, absently turning pages, but he saw the smirk caressing the corner of her mouth.

It was times like these that he almost enjoyed her . . . intrusions. The Ministry had thrust her into his home. He suspected that they chose her either to irritate him or to force more of their equality tripe down his throat. It certainly wasn't Potter or Weasley who had chosen for her to come. They had both Floo'd him with dire warnings to treat her respectfully 'or else'.

He also couldn't afford the fines that came along these days when venting out words like 'Mudblood'. Only two years since Potter and the Dark Lord had it out and already Draco was wondering if it really was better without the old snake-faced bastard. Everything was so restrictive now and yet again he was a prisoner in his own home. Why was it any better now than it was then?

Draco looked at Granger again and thought that if the Dark Lord had won she'd have possibly still wound up on her knees in his library, but it would have hardly been as innocent as it was now. He frowned at the thought. He never could stomach violence against women. Didn't like drawing blood or hurting people who hadn't done anything wrong. It bothered him. To the Dark Lord, it had made him weak. To the Carrows, his reluctance had been a frequent source of entertainment. But to his mother, well, she thought he was a hero.

He sat up a bit taller in his chair and tried to shove away the memories that always seemed to encroach. Too much time on his hands. He couldn't leave the grounds, and he had already read every book the library contained four months previously. Not that he'd tell Granger that.

"So I heard that Potter and Weasel—"

"I'm not going to discuss them with you, Malfoy," Granger cut him off. "You know I'm not going to play your games so just stop."

And she never even bothered to look up.

Draco gritted his teeth in irritation. "So bloody superior, aren't you, Granger? You think you can come into my house and tear around in my library and ignore me."

She raised her head finally and lifted her delicate eyebrows. Whenever she did this, he had the impression of a butterfly's feelers. It wasn't wholly unattractive, but Granger being Granger . . .

"I didn't know you were supposed to be entertaining me," she said softly. "Go ahead then. I'm watching."

Draco stood from his chair and kicked it away. "You're so bloody—!"

"Wonderful range of vocabulary," Granger said with mock admiration. "Who wrote your lines? They deserve an award."

"Get out!" Draco snarled. "Just get the bloody fu—"

Granger flicked her wand and he fell silent, his hands twitching in impotent rage.

"Enough of that type of language, now. It's vulgar. Surely you know that with all your wonderful pure-blood deportment?"

Draco tried to narrow all of his rage into a wordless spell to make her hair catch fire, but his magical restraints sparked at the attempt, and he kicked a book away instead.

She smiled at him; a seemingly guileless smile that showed off her perfect, straight white teeth.

"Can you behave now or does Nanny have to get cross?"

Draco flicked his pointer and middle up at her in a rude gesture and she pursed her lips. "Prat," she muttered and flicked her wand to release the spell. "Can't you ever be nice?"

Draco gulped a breath to keep from exploding. "Can't you not act like a bloody fu—" He restrained himself with some effort. "You're deliberately provoking me."

Granger shrugged serenely and went back to her book. "Nothing worse than you try with me."

He turned abruptly and flung out his hand to summon the chair back in place before he remembered again that he had no magic. Even after two years he sometimes still forgot about the cuffs and lack of wand. With an uncomfortably warm face, he walked over and picked the chair up and put it back where it was previously.

She must love this, he thought. Coming into my home with all the power in her hands; not sniveling and weeping like she did last time. Although, he granted, she had managed to lie to Aunt Bella under torture. He mentally gave her a token of respect, grudging though it was. It still didn't make her less bloody annoying. Stupid damned girl.

Draco paced in front of it for a moment or two, then he pulled out his father's pocket watch and smiled. "Oh, time to go, Granger! Don't want to dawdle or your precious Weasel will be upset."

Her head snapped back toward him. "No it isn't! I only just—"

"Two hours ago," he said.

Granger scowled. "Fine. I'll be back tomorrow, then."

"The deal was only three times a week and this is the third time—"

She hurled the book she'd been reading at his head. He only just managed to dodge it. Her eyes were almost glowing with righteous anger.

"How can you be such a thorough bastard at a time like this!" Granger shrieked and got to her feet, stumbling a bit on the hem of her robes. "Don't you have any feelings? Don't you care about all the sick people out there! A hundred people have already died!"

"Yeah? And what do they have to do with me? I'm stuck in my house, a prisoner, for the next three bloody years—"

"Don't you know any other word?" she snapped.

"No!" He roared in her face. "I don't bloody know any other bloody words!"

Granger compressed her mouth into a line again. "You're so selfish! You don't care about anyone but yourself!"

Draco wanted to pound her head into the wall, and it was only by counting to three that he kept himself from doing so. "You prim little bitch," he snarled. "You think you're so damned clever, but you don't know a bloody thing about me or who I care about."

She was breathing hard, chest heaving, and there was a flush rising up her neck. "Come with me."

"Wha-what?" Draco stuttered. He hated to admit that he was distracted by her all of a sudden. Why was she so damned close? "Come where?"

Granger said nothing but grasped his wrist in her small, warm hand and walked to the fireplace. She threw some of the special Floo powder from a little sack at her waist down and called for St Mungo's.

Hermione wasn't having a great day.

Just that morning, Mrs Weasley had shown up at her tiny flat with a hard smile and a no-nonsense attitude about her. Hermione needed to showcase her assets more, she said. And there was no one more qualified to help. Supposedly.

She remembered watching in horror as Mrs Weasley pulled set after set of truly awful robes from her handbag, along with copious quantities of makeup and hair products.

Hermione had gripped her tea cup tightly in the palm of her hand. "Mrs Weasley, Ron and I—"

"Oh tosh!" she said vigorously. "Just friends my foot! He still fancies you. I know he does. And we're going to make him remember that!" Mrs Weasley cast around for something she had dropped. "Don't have any hairpins do you, love? I think I dropped my last one."

Hermione licked her lip very slowly and glanced at the clock near her bed. Twenty minutes until she had to be in the stacks and then from there, off to Malfoy Manor for more fruitless digging through ancient books for a clue as to what was going on.

"Maybe we can do this another time? I'll be at work all day today—"

"No better time, then, is there!" Mrs Weasley insisted. "You'll see Ron and no doubt he'll think you're ravishing in this!" She held up a maroon set of robes that had obviously seen better days. Hermione cringed away from them.

"Ron's favourite colour! He'll love it. Just a little mending . . . "

Hermione shook her head. "Um, he doesn't really like maroon," she mumbled.

Mrs Weasley wasn't listening. "Hmmn, perhaps too much mending for that one. I think maybe we'll go with the fuchsia."

Hermione winced. "Fuchsia?"

"Fuchsia!" Mrs Weasley crowed. "Oh yes, this is it. And it's still in good condition. Just knock a bit of those cobwebs off it. Maybe lower the neckline. Not too much, don't want to look like a tart . . . "

Mrs Weasley continued to mumble to herself and poke at the robes with her wand. They were obviously quite a few years old. Hermione had the sneaking suspicion that they had once belonged to Mrs Weasley herself.

Hermione opened her mouth to tell her that they were too much for the office when Mrs Weasley stuffed a piece of toast in her mouth.

"You don't eat enough, Hermione dear. You're a bit scrawny. But we'll fix that. Yes!"

She sighed and plucked it from between her teeth to take a bite. This was what happened to a woman who goes from seven to zero in too short a span of time. Ron had been the last to move out. Maybe she could convince him to move back to the Burrow. For everyone's peace of mind. And while he was at it, he could conveniently find a new girlfriend and bring her home to meet his mum. Hermione wasn't sure how much more she could—

Mrs Weasley flicked her wand at Hermione and her dressing gown shot off and across the room into the laundry bin, knocking aside toast and teacup in a spray of dark ivory liquid and crumbs. Hermione flung her arms over her chest.

The other woman analysed her critically. "Those're your knickers, Hermione? How are you going to catch a man with those?"

Hermione's eyes widened, and she snatched the robes Mrs Weasley held out to her, struggling to remain polite to the sudden assault. "I don't go around showing them to people!" she spluttered.

Mrs Weasley's smile grew sly. "Well, I'm not saying you should! But if you do show them to someone, they should look nice. Bit of lace—"

"Mrs Weasley!" Hermione cried. She wanted to clap her hands over her ears and hide in the corner. This was too much. "Please stop talking about my knickers!"

The older woman had a glint in her eye. "Embarrassed, eh? Does that mean you've already shown him your knickers or not?"

Hermione felt her face flushing. "None of your—" she cleared her throat. "That's to say—"

Mrs Weasley grabbed the robes and instructed Hermione to hold her arms up. Hermione did, still not quite sure why she was letting herself be steamrolled, but chalked it up to not wanting to burst the woman's false hope just yet. She'd humour her and then transfigure the robes when she got to the Ministry.

Once the robes were fastened, Mrs Weasley waved her wand over them and Hermione felt the waist tighten and the neckline dip a bit more precariously.

"Isn't this a bit much?" Hermione gasped as the waist squeezed her more tightly.

Mrs Weasley tutted. "'s not indecent." She tipped her head and stared critically. "Hair next, then makeup—"

"Oh you know, I don't think I have time for that! I have to be in my office in five—"

"Hair then. We'll do the full treatment tomorrow!"

Hermione stifled a groan and submitted to Mrs Weasley's attempts to make her hair behave. After some unladylike grunting, she decided to just twist it up into a chignon similar to the way Hermione herself would have arranged it.

"It's a start," Mrs Weasley said critically. "Although I daresay this'll catch his attention."

Hermione tried to grin, but her face was in a tight rictus. "I really must go."

"Right! Right!" Mrs Weasley said, bustling her to the fireplace. "Hurry up. Don't want to be late! Tell Ron I said hello!" And she shoved Hermione into the fire, barely remembering the Floo powder.

Hermione had stumbled into the Ministry atrium and immediately found a broom cupboard in which to transfigure her clothes. It was there she had found, to her horror, that Mrs Weasley had charmed the robes against transfiguration and removal. She stamped impotently in the cupboard for a moment before she stopped to think seriously how she would get through the day in the robes she was wearing.

A glance down showed a very generous swell of breast peaking over the neckline and she closed her eyes in exasperation. Hermione flicked her wand up at her hair and let it cascade down around her shoulders. If she arranged it in front of her, it was enough to cover herself. What a mess.

Hermione slipped out of the broom cupboard and Disillusioned herself to avoid detection on her way to her office in the Ministry research department. Once there, she managed to avoid the eyes of her co-workers with some quick repelling charms.

Then it was time to go see Malfoy.

She pursed her lips and dared the prat to say anything to her. She threw a handful of the special powder the Ministry had provided to her for accessing his restricted Floo into the grate and stepped into the fireplace, softly calling for Malfoy Manor.

That was all before noon.

Now it was two hours past that and she was dragging Draco Malfoy through the halls of St Mungo's to the special ward they were keeping people who had contracted the Green Death, hoping she wouldn't be fired for taking him from his house without prior permission. There was no cure, only the slight possibility that they could find one if he helped them.

Hermione's shoes clip-clopped determinedly over the stone tiles. Malfoy wasn't even protesting. She thought he must be so glad to leave Malfoy Manor for any reason that he wasn't going to put up a fight with her on this.

She held up her Ministry research badge to the Healer standing near the plague room and she nodded to them. Hermione tugged on Malfoy to make him move and pushed on the double doors to swing them inward.

The sight that met them caused Malfoy to stumble and hang back near the door. She pulled him forward and marched him up and down the aisles to see for himself what the Green Death looked like. He couldn't keep hiding from it. Men, women, children, elderly. It struck without warning, without connection to others, without contagion. There didn't seem to be a common bacterium or virus to fight. They were currently exploring the idea that it was a type of fungus, but the International Academy of Magical Fungi were debating it so fiercely that they would probably never get a real answer about the root cause. Meanwhile, people were dying. None of the healers had caught it, even when there had been an accidental needle poke from one of the patients. It was almost as if an outside force was choosing these people to die.

Hermione gripped his wrist even tighter, digging her nails into his flesh. "Do you see?" she asked.

They came to stop before the bed of a young child. Her face was drawn and withered, her lips dry as if she had no moisture in her body. Her eyes were huge inside of sunken eye sockets. A thin stream of green dribbled from the side of her mouth.

Hermione had to turn away for a moment to collect herself, then turn back to the girl with a smile. "Hello, sweetheart. Feeling better today?"

The little girl nodded and tried to push herself up in bed, but a nurse put a gentle hand on her.

"Don't get up, Agnes," Hermione said softly. "I'm here. I see you."

Agnes smiled at her, and she moved her eyes to Malfoy and offered him a shy smile as well.

When Hermione glanced up at him, he was staring at her with a strange expression on his face. As if he had never seen her before.

"What?" she asked.

He shook his head and slid his gaze back to the girl in bed. Malfoy stood up straighter and smiled at Agnes. His mouth was closed, but the corners of his eyes crinkled. He was a better actor than she was, for sure.

"Bye, Aggie. Do what the nurses say!"

The little girl nodded and sank back into the bed. Hermione turned quickly to hide the tears in her eyes. She saw these people every day. Forced herself to visit them so she wouldn't forget what she was working for. It wasn't all down to her, and to the research team at the Ministry she was barely acknowledged. Her work was seen to be not as important as theirs in this search for a cure, but she felt it necessary to do her part well.

"Was this really necessary, Granger?" Malfoy asked quietly.

"Yes!" Hermione hissed. "You're a selfish berk and you don't care—"

"Don't presume!" Malfoy fired back, his voice just as low as hers as they walked back to the Floo in the main lobby. "You don't bloody know me."

"I know you well enough to know that you won't do anything unless it somehow benefits—"

"That's ridiculous!" He barked, louder now that they were out of the sick ward. "Malfoys always stand up to their obligations. We give to charity and perform charitable services as often as any other wizard in—"

"Throwing Galleons at this won't fix the problem!" she snapped. "You have it in your ability to help me. I know you've read all those books in the Malfoy library. I know you could convince your father to give us more information or tell us where we can find some. Lucius knows something, and he knows that we know it. It's like a sport for him."

Malfoy snorted. "Do you really expect him to freely give information to you?"

Hermione stood very still, her back ramrod straight. "I don't expect anything from him. But I do expect a drop of human feeling swimming around under all that fake noblesse oblige you're wallowing in."

He pursed his lips and turned his head away slightly. "Why should I help you?"

"You idiot," Granger uttered softly, causing Draco to swing his head back to her. "You aren't helping me, you're helping all these people who didn't do anything to you. I don't have anything to do with it. Don't you care at all?"

Draco tried not to look her in the eyes, but they plucked at him anyway; two huge pools of dark brown accusation stabbing him in the heart.

"Don't you want to make up for your crimes during the war?" she asked even more quietly, which was really the straw that broke him.

Draco shoved her away with a sweep of his arm and stomped toward the Floo. She was too close. He needed to get out of the manor more often if bloody Granger was affecting him like this.