Hermione landed with a thud on the cold, hard floor of a new setting. Her head was spinning, both literally and figuratively, from what had happened in merely the last hour. She rolled onto her right side with a groan and used her legs in an attempt to scoot to the nearby wall. It took longer than she had anticipated, but eventually she had forced herself into a sitting position against the steel blue wall. Whilst taking in her surroundings she saw that the entirety of the living area was painted this same blue color, contrasted by the all-white furniture. The kitchen, open to the living area but separated by an island, was an herbal green—a bright, light color but also somewhat muted. She noticed that the room she was in also had touches of this color. It was completely unlike anything she would have imagined bearing the Malfoy name.

She tried to keep her mind focused on these things. It seemed to keep the pain somewhat at bay. But a constant stinging sensation in her left arm brought her out of this reverie and so she slowly and gingerly removed her dirty coat, allowing it to bunch up as it fell behind her back, and pulled up the sleeve of her jumper. The instant gasp coincided with the tightening of her chest and again Hermione began to cry. Silently she permitted the tears to fall, some to the floor and some to mix with the blood still oozing from the word carved into her forearm.

A groan from across the room put a stop to her crying and she quickly tried to wipe away any evidence of what she had been doing.

Another groan escaped the pale man lying on the floor. Hermione felt a jump in her chest when she realized that what she was hearing wasn't groans but, in fact, sobs from the youngest Malfoy. At this point, she was still unsure of a multitude of things. It was impossible to trust the man lying across from her—of that, she was certain. But there were still so many unanswered questions, such as why he had stopped his aunt's attack on her. Why had he brought her here? Why was he crying?

Her curious mind unsatisfied, she finally spoke. "Ma—," her voice cracked, "Malfoy, why…?"

She couldn't finish her question as his gray eyes shot up to meet hers, and for a moment confusion clouded his stare as though he had forgotten she was here. But in an instant it was replaced with a blank stare. All emotion had left him, leaving only the look of steadfast determination.

He stood up, his eyes never leaving her person. "Granger. We need to get you to a bed. You need to rest."

She could feel it. Her rebuttal was in the pit of her stomach like a stone and it rose up through her throat to her mouth. Hermione Granger was not going to take orders from Draco Malfoy. Although, she reconsidered, her eyes were stinging with sleeplessness and her body felt limp. But this was Draco Malfoy, known Death Eater and hater of mudbloods, she argued with herself. Though had he meant to kill her, he would have had plenty of opportunity by this point. Her body wanted her to yield to his wishes, yet her mind knew better. Eventually one would become the victor.

It wasn't long before her mind gave in, growing as weary as the rest of her.

"I… I don't think I can stand," she said, her voice barely above a whisper.

He hesitated, shifting nervously from one foot to the other. "Perhaps I could…" he trailed off.

"Yes. Yes, I think you could," she answered with a few quick nods.

It took five strides for him to reach her, she counted. She also noticed a dried substance on his shoes and found herself less surprised than she expected by the filth. Draco's arm slowly wound itself around her body and he tightened his hold when his left hand found its place under her arm. He turned her to their right, towards the kitchen, and after a few steps he stopped them in front of a door. She hadn't detected this door upon her initial visual inspection—though, granted, it wouldn't have done her much good if she had. Opening an unknown door in a Malfoy home would have been an invitation for trouble. But when he did finally manage to open the door (it was a bit difficult to do as he tried to keep her as steady as possible), the scene behind it filled Hermione with relief.

The room was absolutely, wonderfully normal. Simple, even. There wasn't a trace of Slytherin green or dungeon gray to be seen. The walls were a light brown, like the color of sand, with the rest of the furniture white like the living area. The bed linens were a muted turquoise and to its right was a French door that led to a small sitting area with a beautiful view of the ocean. Hermione felt like she had walked into a spa—or she would have, had it not been for the weakness in her bones and her dearest enemy keeping her vertical.

It took seven steps to get to the bed, where he carefully sat her down before lifting her feet onto the soft surface. She wasted no time in getting comfortable. It was a nice bed, something she had lacked for months.

"Wait," she started when Malfoy turned to exit, "Why? Why did you help me?"

She wasn't happy with the question she had asked. It didn't ask nearly enough to appease her because, being Hermione Granger, she needed answers to everything. At one time she had felt self-conscious about this trait—after all, it had been used as an insult against her for years—but she had grown comfortable with being a know-it-all. In a war, knowing was all important. Knowing, as it were, truly was half the battle. And right now she wanted to know everything/

"I have my reasons, Granger," he answered sharply.

His voice was so lifeless, so unlike the voice laced with arrogance that she had grown used to (and comfortable) with. It made her feel uneasy and, unexplainably, had sent a strange sensation through her chest. Perhaps it was fear, plain and simple. She knew what Draco was like, or so she thought. But after all that had happened, she wasn't so sure. This change in his demeanor, accompanied by his earlier actions, wasn't predictable. It wasn't anything she had ever expected to happen. It had, somewhat, thrown a great deal of what she thought she knew into the rubbish bin.

"Which are?" she pressed on.

"Which are nothing you need to be concerned about," he retorted, his back still to her.

Quickly she sat up in the bed, instantly regretting the decision but refusing to let it show. "Nothing I need to be concerned about? Malfoy, do you realize everything that has happened in the last hour? This isn't just some game. This isn't a secret to be kept. This is my life and that is something I am quite concerned about!"

Hermione didn't know what she expected. She should have known better than to expect anything. Truthfully she wasn't even aware of what answers she was hoping for, but she was hoping for some answers, any answers. Any intelligence was better than pure ignorance (contrary to what was often said in the Muggle world, it was certainly not bliss) and she was searching for anything to ease that gnawing ache of curiosity in her gut.

No, Hermione didn't know what she expected. What she got was the figure of Draco Malfoy retreating from the room and shutting the door behind him, without so much as a single word muttered in response to her.

He didn't know what to tell her, mainly because he didn't have the answers himself. Nothing he was feeling or thinking could be put into words that could form a coherent sentence.

He walked over to the couch on the wall opposite the bedroom door and sat down, resting his head in his hands for a moment before running them through his hair. His emotions were running wild. He had done the right thing in saving Granger, he knew that. And somewhere deeply hidden inside of him he was proud of what he had done. Unfortunately that pride was masked by the thoughts of what other sorts of danger he may have placed her in by his actions. Less important was the thought of what danger he had put himself in. Oh, what he had done was beyond stupid. Most would even call his actions suicidal.

In a way, they were. There wasn't much that Draco lived for anymore, he had decided long ago. He hadn't really ever lived for himself, either. Everything in his life—every action, every goal, and, until recently, every thought—had been something expected of him. The man he had become was molded by a platoon of people. He scoffed. They weren't people. He wasn't sure what they were, but they weren't people. People had souls, or some idea of right and wrong, good and bad, guilt or innocence. Death Eaters were decidedly not people.

But how he had hoped his father would turn out to be different, to be more than just a mindless cog in the machine. He had witnessed the change in his mother—had there really ever been anything to change?, he sometimes wondered—and wished that Lucius would soon yield to his wife's wishes and quit following Voldemort into whatever hell they were creating. Wishing did nothing, however, and Draco was all too aware of that. It had already been too late for him, as well, as he had taken the Dark Mark over a year ago his self. He had done it for his family, he often told himself. He had done it to save his mother's life. And it would take a miracle to get out.

That miracle had arrived. He was going to seize it.

a/n: It took a bit longer than expected to get this chapter out, but I hope you enjoy it. Please feel free to leave any suggestions in a review (is the story going too slow?, would you like to see more interaction?, etc.). And I have also written a Dramione oneshot titled As the World Falls Down, so please go check it out!