We Are Broken
"Lock the doors.
'Cause I'd like to capture this voice."
Paramore


January 6th, 2002

There was a knock on the door. Three sharp raps that just barely roused Hermione from her sleep in the other room. A most curious thing, for Harry always had a key, and hardly ever knocked upon entering her flat.

She awoke, stepping out of bed for the first time in two days, and immediately fell to her knees, legs too weak to support the rest of her body. "Just a second," she whispered, despite knowing no one would be able to hear her on the other side of the door. Her voice was cracked and scratched by the screams she'd let loose the night before from the nightmares. Painstakingly slow, she crawled past the bedroom door, across the sitting area (which wasn't decaying only by Harry's weekly cleaning spells) and reached up to unlock the door.

Backing away, Hermione looked up to catch a glimpse of her visitor.

"Malfoy," she whispered, her mouth forming a little "O" of surprise when she saw who had come knocking at her door so early that morning. She wasn't sure whether to feel angry or surprised or excited. Either way, she didn't have to decide. Numb had been her only option for some time now.

"Granger!" he exclaimed, taking in her appearance. Her before-creamy-coloured skin was a sickly, ashy shade of grey, emphasized by the dark rings that hung under her eyes from countless hours of nightmare-induced insomnia. The brunette's hair lay limp and matted against her head, not at all like the soft, wild curls he remembered, and her clothes—a jumper and a pair of sleep-shorts—hung off her body and stank of sleep. But most obviously changed were her eyes, which were now blank and dull instead of vibrant and so full of life. "What the hell are you doing on the floor?"

Hermione painstakingly raised her arms in the air. "Help please?" she asked instead of answering, her voice nearly inaudible. It was unnaturally quiet for the before-outspoken young witch, and Draco became lost in the wretchedness of it before he responded, reaching down to take her thing, bony fingers in his hands and pulling her to her feet. She wobbled for a minute, but the former Slytherin quickly righted her, helping her to regain balance.

"Why are you here?" she asked, fingers still gripping his fingers to prevent herself from falling back to the floor.

"Potter sent me," he muttered. It was strange. The only voice she'd heard for days and days, except for Harry's. "He says you should have someone with you. Obviously, he actually knows what he's talking about for once." He didn't meet Hermione's eyes, looking away from the brunette as if her very visage hurt to see.

She nodded, ignoring the jab to Harry, letting go of his hands and stumbling towards the kitchen. She reached for a pitcher of water from the fridge and then two glasses from the cupboard. The effort of it made her arms ache. "Staying all day?" Hermione inquired as she heard the blonde hang up his jacket on the long-neglected coat rack.

Draco shrugged, taking a seat on the stool at the island, ignoring the fine layer of dust that would coat his backside when he stood up, resting his elbows on the cool granite with shoulders hunched thoughtfully.

When he spoke, it sent shivers down Hermione's spine. It was music. It hurt her ears. And made her cry. Deep breaths. "I suppose so. Until Potter can come back, I guess." His eyes scanned the room. "Nice place you've got here."

The former Gryffindor couldn't tell whether he was mocking her or not, knowing that her flat really was bare-border-on-ugly. She sipped her water, letting it brush her tongue before she set the cup back in front of her. She pushed the other glass towards Draco.

He took it in one hand and raised it in a kind of toast before taking a long sip while she stared at him, silently observing. He was wearing a nice white button-down shirt that reminded her of their days at Hogwarts, along with wrinkle-free slacks and expensive yet sensible shoes. His hair was nowhere near that slimy perfection he'd strived for at school, and instead lay tousled dashingly across his head. And even during a bloody war, he still smelled like that expensive cologne that he tried to deny came from muggle stores. It was clean, not too heavy, and settled nicely in her nostrils. She did not comment on any of this, though, choosing to take another sip of her water.

"So, what does a Hermione Granger do on a daily basis?" he asked, lifting his head to meet her eyes. His mouth flickered into a genuine-looking half-smile. She couldn't bring herself to reciprocate. She was afraid it would hurt.

"I sleep. Maybe I'll read, go for a walk with Harry." It was the most she'd said at one time in weeks.

The blonde looked a bit flustered. She didn't exactly give him a lot to work with, and both of them knew it. "Do you want to go for a walk?"

She pointed to her water. Not finished, the gesture said.

"Okay, later then," he said, a trace of arrogance slipped into his tone. "I'll take you to that park I passed on the way here." His suggestion, mundane—his voice, a symphony.

Hermione nodded slowly and reached for her water. She didn't mention the fact that the last time she'd walked outside her flat was weeks ago.

After she drained the glass (which took more than ten minutes), and then washed the cups (even though all they'd had was water), and then got dressed (she was still only wearing the jumper and the sleep shorts), and then found her wand (she hadn't touched it in two and a half weeks), and then locked up the door (the keys seemed to have disappeared), Draco nearly dragged her from the flat, looping a strong, determined arm around her thin, nearly-numb one and led her to the park a few blocks down the street.

"It's cold," she commented, shoulders bunched as if making herself as small as possible would help her to be warm. Her steps were slowly getting steadier as she got used to using her feet again.

"Well, what did you expect?" Draco said, laughing loudly.

"Heat," she replied shortly.

He stared at her, eyebrow cocked. "You know its January, right Granger?"

She looked away.

"How long has it been then?" he asked, voice softer.

"Seven months." And then she stared at the ground, more-than-hinting that she didn't want to say anything else.

Thankfully, he stayed quiet, choosing to gaze out onto the street without commenting. The silence that followed was neither awkward nor quite peaceful. However, this silence was swiftly broken as they entered the park, where they passed less people and were sheltered by tall, broad trees whose leaves painted the sidewalk green.

"Potter said you were getting better," Draco murmured, the sarcastic edge gone from his voice. "That you don't have as many nightmares. That you don't wake up… distressed as much anymore."

Hermione didn't answer him.

"That's good, isn't it?" He glanced at her sideways, checking her reaction. "Learning to let go… not to forget, but to stop…" he trailed off as he realized the brunette wasn't listening.

"Things are looking good, at the Order, too," he continued, latching onto the top of the Order of the Phoenix when he noticed that her wellbeing would get him nowhere. "They caught Carrow last week. Alecto, I think—I wasn't there at the time, though I wish I was. Potter insisted sending me… elsewhere. Bloody wanker. Anyway, Carrow's back in Azkaban now, though she's not guarded by dementors. We have Order members there, who don't mind the gloom, and who are good with the Patronus charm. I haven't quite gotten it yet," Draco admitted, looking sheepish. "All I can get are little wisps. Potter once told me that you had trouble with it, too. But you managed to get a corporeal one a few times, right?"

She blinked, and Draco took it for a "yes". "Maybe we could practice every once in a while. You know, work together, get better at it, enough to fight dementors for the Order or something… I'm curious to see what mine would be."

Meanwhile, Hermione's steps slowed. Her leg muscles seemed to have refused to continue working. Draco didn't see her fall, only heard the thud as she slid to the ground in a heap of bones and clothes.

"Granger? Granger?" he said, whirling around to look down at her, now curled in a foetal-position on the sidewalk. He immediately dove to the ground, crouching beside her and peering into her face to check she was conscious. She was, but barely.

"Are you okay?" he demanded, pulling her head off the ground and checking for blood.

"Fine…" Hermione mumbled. "Elbows…"

Draco reached for her arms, carefully pushing up her jumper sleeves. A thin layer of skin hung from her right elbow, an already dark-purple bruise criss-crossed by little scraps on the other. Without hesitation, the blonde pulled out his wand and gently tapped each elbow, the little injuries disappearing with a slow, comforting wave of heat. Then, without being asked, he scooped her up, holding her as if she were five and not twenty one, and looped her arms around his neck, latching them together so she held on.

With a quick flick of his wand, they apparated back to the hallway outside her flat. "The key, Granger," he said.

"Jacket pocket," she replied into his shoulder, and after much squirming he emerged from her pocket with the key, twisting it in the lock and kicking the door open.

"Don't move," Draco said as he set her gently on the couch. As if I could anyway. "Do you have any food in the fridge?"

"Maybe…" she murmured vaguely.

The blonde made his way to the kitchen, pulling open the door and finding nothing but spoilt milk, an apple, and what almost looked like ham but could quite possibly have been a hunk of moss from the Forbidden Forest.

He went to the cupboards next, rifling through the near-empty shelves until he found a pot, the lid, and a small little can of tomato soup. "'Soup sound good, Granger?" he called into the sitting area.

He took the muffled grunt as an affirmation of approval.

Hermione couldn't help but feel a tiny bit surprised when, ten minutes later, Draco set down a steaming mug of tomato soup on the coffee table in front of her. Who knew he actually knew how to use a stove without burning down the entire building? She supposed it probably would have been safer if she watched him, just to make sure nothing would happen, and then wondered who had taught him.

"Sit up slowly, else you'll get dizzy," he warned, taking the seat opposite her with his own, marginally smaller mug.

Hermione ignored him, immediately regretting it as black spots danced in her vision and the room spun around her. Draco snickered. "Told you so." She ignored him again, reaching to cup the mug in both hands. She stared at the thick, ruddy soup inside, not sure if she wanted to take a sip or not. Finally, she lifted it to her lips and took a long, hard draught, scalding her tongue in the process.

"Merlin," the blonde commented. "You're going to incinerate all your tongue. When was the last time you ate something?"

"What day is it?"

"Wednesday."

"…two and a half days, then."

He stared at her, dumbfounded. "No wonder you collapsed! You're practically starving yourself."

Hermione shrugged.

"That's the last thing I need; I can just imagine the headline in the Prophet: 'War Hero dies of Starvation under Care of Deatheater's Son.' Oh, yeah, that'll go over well. You're going to have to eat now, or Potter—and the rest of the world—will kill me. Promise me you'll eat at least twice a day, whether anyone's here or not."

"I promise," she mumbled.

"Good."

They finished the soup in silence, and Hermione curled up on the couch, eyes drifting close to the sound of running water and Draco washing their dishes. She was lulled to sleep by the feeling of a warm blanket being curled around her body.

' ' '

June 16th, 2001

Who's left to wait for?

Just one, Seamus.

Let me guess—

Yep.

I still can't believe—

Shhh. She doesn't know yet.

How?

I haven't really gotten to telling her.

What do you mean?

"I haven't really gotten to telling her."

Honestly, Harry, how do you think she's going to react?

She's been in a quiet mood for the past few days. Not too much screaming. I think she can handle it.

Why haven't you told her?

She didn't need to know.

Yeah, okay. What happened to Gryffindor bravery?

It's better this way.

You're an awful liar.

I know, Seamus.


A/N:

Tada! Hope that'll hold you over if I'm late...

Thanks for reading and hope you've enjoyed so far! Oh, and if you are so kind as to review, please don't comment on Draco's OOC-ness. I've been working with that, and trust me, it wasn't nearly as bad as it was in the first draft. But there is a cause for it! All shall be revealed in due time, my lovelies... :)

Thanks for reading (again) and reviews make my day! ~Gen