Author's Note: Thank you for the lovely response this last chapter. I must admit, I had a very angsty outline detailed for this story for about, I don't know, four or five months or so. Well…I decided I needed to overhaul it completely and make it less angsty and more sweet. I realize there is still angst, obviously, but trust me when I say, not near as much as I had originally planned. Hermione's curiosity will get the better of her sooner than I had planned—trust me on this. All foreshadowing still applies. A huge thank you goes out to Caprubia, yet again, for listening to my insanity time and again.

Chapter 2:

Draco had been pacing the waiting room at St. Mungo's for, what felt like, days. A glance at the floor and he was honestly surprised to find that he had not carved his path out beneath him. His mother had finally returned to France to be with Alya and had argued with him about heading home with her. But he refused—refused to leave his witch until he knew she was completely safe.

Potter stepped off the lift, carrying two take away cups of the strongest coffee he had been able to find in Muggle London. He handed one to Draco, the same pitying grievance on his face that he reserved for the blond alone. "Here, drink this. If you aren't going to sleep, there's only so far a pepper-up can bring you before caffeine is needed."

Draco stopped pacing long enough to take a deep swig, wincing at the way the liquid nearly scalded his throat on the way down. It was vile—he had never been one for coffee—but it was the first thing he had ate or drank besides broth in days. "We've got the entire team out searching and interrogating," the raven-haired wizard mentioned, collapsing into one of the uncomfortable chairs while Draco continued on his path.

"Nothing? Nothing at all? We were attacked, in broad daylight, on a busy street, and there is not one witness?" Draco questioned unnecessarily, knowing that Potter was just as distraught over his best friend's attack.

Potter took a sip of his coffee and shook his head slowly, relaxing back into the chair. "No. It's almost as if there wasn't a soul around you. Do you remember seeing anyone in particular?"

Draco knitted his brow, trying to wrack his brain. No one stood out as any different than the others. He tried to picture himself and Hermione as they left the bookshop and made their way toward the ice cream shop, but he couldn't clearly see a single face in their direct vicinity. He wondered if the street had been deserted. He cursed himself for not being more observant, more vigilant. Potter seemed to sense his mood shifting to a guilty self-deprecation and stood to face Draco and make him stop in his endless quest from one side of the room to the other. "Malfoy, this is not your fault. You cannot blame yourself."

"How can you even say that, Potter? I'm the one who joined the Death Eaters. I'm the one who gave into Hermione's persistent advancements—solely because I was lonely and defeated and she was the most beautiful and brilliant person I had ever met. I was selfish then. I should have paid better attention when we were out, I allowed myself to become too lax!"

There was the sound of a throat clearing next to them, breaking Draco from his tirade. He and Potter both looked over to find a sheepish looking Ron Weasley, standing awkwardly with his hands shoved into the pockets of his jeans. "Malfoy, Hermione would like to speak with you."

Draco felt his heart sputter to a stop and then kickstart into overdrive. The blood began rushing to his face and crashing like the waves of the ocean behind his eardrums. His feet, so active in creating a track across the waiting room, seemed to have planted themselves to the floor now. She wanted to see him. She wanted to see him. He felt a nudge from behind and Potter gave him an encouraging nod. "This is what you've been waiting for, why you're still here, isn't it?" he questioned, looking slightly concerned for Draco's mentality.

The blond seemed to realize in that precise moment that he was not physically moving, though he felt as though he had already been carried away with an invisible current. "Malfoy?" Weasley asked, raising a ginger eyebrow. "Are you going to see her? She's been discharged—"

That was all Draco needed to hear and his feet were carrying him without another hesitance. When he got outside of her door, he drew in a breath so deep it felt as though it singed his lungs and then exhaled as he tapped lightly on the door. "Come in!" Sweet Merlin. To hear that voice again.

His relief at hearing her was short lived. As he entered the room and closed the door behind himself, she eyed the closed door with a frown. She doesn't trust you. Draco wanted nothing more than to rush to her side, to scoop her into his arms and kiss her and tell her how much she meant to him. But the witch—his witch—was eyeing him like the weary gazelle watches steadfast as a lion approaches. "Hey," he finally breathed out, his voice unsteady.

He leaned against the closed door for support, staring at the love of his life as she eyed him with curiosity and reluctance. "Hi," she replied after a long moment, raising one corner of her mouth in an attempt at a smile.

"Weasley says you wanted to speak with me?" Draco felt as though the air passing over his vocal cords and formulating words was not his own voice.

There was a disconnect between what was taking place and what he was saying. He sounded far too calm for the inner turmoil he was feeling. He hadn't dropped to his knees and professed his undying love and dedication to her yet, a miracle in itself. "Ron has been saying a lot to me these last few days," she conceded, drawing her lip between her teeth. "Why don't you come over and sit? You're making me anxious just standing like you can't hold yourself up or like you might be ill."

Draco let out a choked laugh and made his way to the empty chair near her bed. It did not escape his attention, the way her hand tightened around her wand. "Still as bossy as ever," he muttered under his breath.

He sat heavily, leaning forward, if only to be that much closer to her. He could feel her magic all around him, dancing pleasantly with his. The energy, soothing and vibrant, was enough to reduce a man to tears—and it would have, if it weren't for the all-encompassing relief he felt. He braved a glance up from his leather shoes to look at her and found that she was staring at him with thinly veiled awe and befuddlement. "What on earth is that?" she asked him quietly, her hand creeping up to rest over her heart.

Draco felt a smile tugging at his lips. "Our magic frolicking."

Hermione stared at him for a long moment, never losing that look of wonder. She smoothed a hand over her mass of curls, letting out a long exhale of breath he didn't realize she had been holding. "This is dreadfully awkward," she told him, looking over his shoulder to peer out of the window.

He felt his chest tighten slightly at her words but remained outwardly collected. She needed to come around in her own time, after she had truly had enough time to be alone and absorb everything she had learned over the last few days. Draco stared up at her, wishing once more he could wrap her in his arms and take her away, somewhere safe where they could be together. She was wearing a pair of loose fitting khaki trousers and a sensible jumper, a pair of loafers on her feet. Comfortable. Practical. Wrong.

"What?" she asked, running a hand over her khakis self-consciously, furrowing her brow.

"Your clothing," he mentioned slowly.

"What about my clothing?" Hermione's voice was growing indignant, throwing out the defensive tone she had maintained around him in their youth.

"It's all wrong," he explained, leaning forward to tug on the knee of her khakis, desperate for contact.

She scooted her knee away and he dropped his hands and clasped them between his knees as he leaned forward on his thighs. "I haven't seen you dressed so," he waved his hand at her get-up as he tried to find the words, "conservatively in more than a year."

Hermione looked down at what she was wearing and raised an eyebrow in his direction. "I have no idea what you are talking about."

Draco pulled out his wallet—the one she had purchased for him when they moved into Hogsmeade so that he would have one when he went to Paris for his apprenticeship. He opened it and retrieved a photo, one of the two of them that Hermione had insisted they take together they day they cleared their rooms at Hogwarts. He touched her photographic image fondly before handing it to her. Hermione took it and her eyes grew wide. In it, she wore the shorter Slytherin emerald and black plaid skirt she had worn the first of September when they had ridden the Hogwarts Express. Black Converse trainers, black thigh highs and a black, off the shoulder jumper completed the look. It was one of Draco's favorites—he secretly enjoyed that she looked like the rebellious Slytherin version of her former self.

Hermione raised an eyebrow and thrust the photo back toward him. "How peculiar. I used to dress like that in private, or in the Muggle world when I went out alone, but I would never be caught like that in the wizarding world!"

"Oh, my dear, but you have. Over the last year, you've developed this, 'I helped save the wizarding world, so fuck everyone' attitude," he told her, replacing the picture into his wallet with the others.

"Language, Malfoy," Hermione chastised, and Draco smirked.

They fell into another painfully awkward silence. It had been easier when she had first approached him back in September than it was now. Draco again yearned for the answer on how to bring her memories back. "You look healthier," she told him after a few beats of utterly crippling silence.

Draco looked up toward her once more. He knew he actually looked fucking haggard—he hadn't slept properly, or for more than a few stolen minutes here or there—in the week since their attack; there were dark, vampiric circles under his eyes; his shoulders were slouched, and he was drawn in on himself and exerting far too much effort to keep himself vertical. "I look healthier? Than when?"

Hermione studied his features as though she were only seeing him for the first time, and he supposed, it was the first time they had sat civilly in her mind. He could appreciate how queer the situation was for her, sitting across from someone who, in her mind, was last a Death Eater and a completely bigoted prat. Whom she just recently found out she is engaged to and madly in love with. Draco reached forward to clasp her hand in his, a familiar gesture but stopped short when she tucked her fingertips under her thighs. "I suppose sixth year. Last time I saw you…last time I remember seeing you," she corrected, shaking her head slowly, "you were so sullen and forlorn. You looked on the verge of a catastrophic crisis."

"I feel worse now, to be honest," he admitted, feeling a melancholy overtake him as he realized for the millionth time that she wasn't his for the keeping anymore. "I miss you so fiercely, Hermione. This is killing me, it really is."

Hermione shifted slightly, and he longed for her touch, wished she would reach out and stroke her fingers through his hair, muss it about how she always did when she teased him. "I'm sorry, Mal—Draco. I woke up and suddenly, I'm two years older, I've fought in a War I can't remember, I'm grieving the deaths of people I loved for what feels like the first time, and on top of it all…Ron and Harry tell me that I am madly in love with you. None of this makes sense to me right now."

Draco had not even thought of the fact that she had to begin the grieving process all over again, a fact that pulled at his heartstrings in the most vicious of ways. The Weasley twin, his cousin and the werewolf—only the tip of the iceberg. "I'm so sorry you have to go through this again. I wish, every second of every day, that it was me instead of you. If I could use a time-turner and go back I would."

"That's dangerous to even think that way," she chided lightly, her voice cracking with emotion as she listened to him put his heart on his sleeve.

"I mean it, Hermione. I would do anything if it meant I could go back and take this—this pain and confusion and hurt from you," he told her, his voice pleading for her to understand his unspoken words. "I love you. I know that must sound foreign or strange or even false coming from me, but it's the truth. I have loved you since I saw you dancing to the Honeybunches song in your room."

"Honeybunches?" she questioned, wiping at her eyes with a small laugh.

"I don't know. Something about pies," he shrugged, laughing at how utterly absurd he sounded as he tried to swipe a tear from his eye before she realized he was crying.

"The Four Tops? I was dancing to The Four Tops?" she laughed along with him at the absurdity of that statement.

"Yes. And I danced with you…though, as you pointed out—so eloquently I might add—I'm a terrible dancer," he told her with a grin, feeling hope blossoming in his chest once more.

She looked at him curiously, raising one eyebrow even as her mouth curved downward in a frown. "You? Draco Malfoy? You're a terrible dancer? I thought that was engrained in purebloods from the time they could walk—all those galas and balls your parents must throw."

Along with not remembering him, Draco was forced in that moment to realize that she also did not remember making peace with his mother, how much the Malfoy matriarch loved her, or even little Alya. "There's so much to help you remember. I can't help you with most of the year you spent with Potter, searching for Horcruxes. You only told me bits and pieces of that. But, the last year, from September to now, I have so much to help you remember. My mother absolutely adores you. And my sister," he told her slowly.

"Sister? I thought you were an only child," Hermione argued, her face falling as she realized there was one more piece missing for her.

"It's a long story," he mentioned, moving cautiously to sit next to her on the bed.

She angled away from him but did not move to leave his side, a huge triumph in his mind. "Hermione," her face softened at his use of her given name, "I have ways of helping you remember. Quite a few actually. If you would only give me the chance to show you."

Hermione was pondering his words, he could nearly hear the cogs clicking and turning in her brain. If she would only agree to his offer, he could teach her to scry, show her the memories they had collected, let her read all of their exchanged letters. Draco could bring her back to him. Her face gave away her every thought, so expressive his witch. Hermione had never been good at masking her feelings and now was no different. The hope within him was being dashed as he watched her defensive walls go back up into place, building a mighty fortress around her mind. "I have a lot to come to terms with, Draco. I—I just need time. I'm not even out of the hospital just yet, but I wanted to speak with you—see you for myself. I thought Ron and Harry were crazy when they told me about us."

"Sometimes I feel crazy, when I think of how naturally and quickly we fell together. Some days, I feel as though I'll awaken, and it will all have been a dream and I'll be facing the Dark Lord once more," he acquiesced, feeling the awkward tension building between them as he spilled his heart forth and she attempted to understand the words he was saying to her.

"That's exactly how I feel right now. Like I've just woke from a long slumber. I know Voldemort is gone, but in my mind and in my racing heart, I feel as though I'm getting ready to leave with my best friends to find Horcruxes. This is the most peculiar feeling I have ever had the misfortune to experience," Hermione told him sadly, smoothing her hands over her trousers once more and kicking her loafered foot idly.

"I can't pretend to imagine what you're going through," Draco told her, and truly, he could not imagine experiencing this predicament from her perspective.

"Nor I you. To me, I've never been in love with you, but you—you're experiencing the loss of someone you love, I've been told, more than life itself," she replied, her voice tender and understanding in the usual Hermione way.

"I'm going to make you fall in love with me again, I hope you know this," he vowed solemnly, fighting the urge to smooth his palm over her curls, to kiss her lips. "And I will stop at nothing to try."

Hermione looked worn and exhausted as she let his words settle over her. "You've obviously changed quite a bit, but you're still the same in some ways. Still persistent and spoiled enough to think you should get whatever you want," she commented, rolling her eyes as she rose from her bed.

"You're all I want. And I would die if it meant the chance to hold you even one more night," Draco stated simply, rising as well and walking to stand next to her.

Hermione stepped back a pace, away from where he was crowding her personal space and took a deep breath. "I need some time. Please. And please…don't talk like that."

"Like what?" he questioned, feeling affronted.

"Like you are wand-over-broom in love with me," she stated, wringing her hands.

Draco wanted to step into her, to touch her arm, to push a curl behind her ear. Instead, he took a step back, giving her more space. "I am, and more."

"It—It makes me uncomfortable," she admitted, once again biting her bottom lip with a look of guilt splashed across her features.

Hearing that anything he did now made her uncomfortable shattered his very core. His heart began to race unexpectedly, and Draco suspected that there was a full-blown panic attack beginning to well within him. Hermione had asked for time and space, told him that he was making her uncomfortable. Her face scrunched in confusion and her hand went into the pocket of her trousers. From it, she pulled out the spherical charm he had given her, imbued with his heartbeat. "What is this?" she asked him, running her thumb over the glass bauble as she stared at it.

"I gave it to you on our first muggle date. So that you could feel how my heart beats only for you," he told her, his throat closing with laden emotion.

For the first time since he entered her room, Draco knew he could not hold back the tears that had threatened to fall. A sob managed to choke out of his throat and Hermione looked up at him, bewildered. "Why don't you take it—it obviously means something more to you right now," she suggested, unwittingly tearing the tattered remains of his heart into miniscule pieces.

Draco clamped a hand tightly over his mouth, trying to contain the sounds of his pathetic breakdown and held the other hand up, shaking his head slightly. "I gave it to you. Just hold onto it until you're ready to feel it."

She nodded, giving the item one last glance before she put it in her pocket. "I gave Harry the ring. He put it into a bag and said he gave the bag to you."

Draco nodded, vaguely recalling tossing that bag behind his couch. He had no desire to see that engagement ring again, not until it was adorning her finger. There was a soft knock at the door. "Hermione, we need to head—"

Her father's voice was cut off as her mother pushed past him and stormed into the room, her finger raised and pointed at Draco's face. "You! You have no right to be in here! You. Stay. Away. From. Our. Daughter!" each word was punctuated with a harsh jab of her finger into Draco's chest, causing him to step back.

"Mother!" Hermione screeched and then all Draco could hear was his rage, blinding white and red hot simultaneously, humming like a Victrola needle on vinyl and licking beneath the surface of his skin like a raging inferno.

o-o-o

A/N: Please review!