AN: Thanks for reading thus far! I'm glad folks are enjoying it. Sorry about the slight delay; I'm traveling and had really poor internet.
DeeD59, Amanita Nightshade: I was sad writing that about Dobby too, but it seemed to fit
A glorified nursemaid, for a sodding Mudblood. That is what he'd been reduced to. And the "glorified" part was really a stretch. She needed to be kept warm, spoon-fed broth during the few times she woke up without shaking uncontrollably, cold-compresses held to her forehead… The actions seemed archaic, but apparently using magic to alleviate her symptoms could delay recovery by confusing her body's attempts to use its own magic to re-knit the Cruciatus damage. He had carefully sponged the grime off her face and arms, changed her sheets when she sweated through them in a fever. The house elves helped whenever they were free, but with a manor full of Deatheaters, the Dark Lord, and his own rather high-maintenance parents, some responsibility still fell to Draco. Draco tried not to dwell on the idea that the house elves' time was more prized than his own and rather see it as the first step in his plan; Hermione would wake up to find her devoted fiancee caring for her. He was scheming, not nursemaid-ing. Laying the groundwork for his brilliant plan.
He glared at the pale witch tucked comfortably under the fluffiest comforter the house elves could find. Well, comfortably might have been an overstatement; if she awoke, she screamed and whimpered in pain, mumbling incoherently, so she was probably in pain now too. Draco sighed. At least the Healer thought her prognosis was good. The man came to check on her twice a day, his wand lighting up fewer times each visit. Draco had concluded she was improving, or at very least that her condition wasn't worsening. For the umpteenth time over the last three days, he questioned the merits of fanatical Obliviation. The downside to Obliviating Healers was that every time they saw a patient was the first time, so metrics like "improvement" had to be cobbled together by comparing his comments from the day before. Then again, the upside was forestalled betrayal.
Hermione stirred in her sleep, which Draco interpreted as his cue to settle at the desk and research. Eventually, she would wake up and do more than voice pained screeches. Hopefully. No, definitely; now wasn't the time for doubts! His long fingers flipped through files he'd had pilfered from the Ministry. Hermione's early life, her time at Hogwarts; the records were the bureaucratic imprint of her life in the magical world. It was the scaffolding on which he would construct her "memories" of their relationship.
Half-way through day five, Draco had added several philosophy tomes to his research for Project Mudblood. Originally, his plan had been to construct a quick story about how they'd met at school and fallen in love, and tell her that the Order members had hexed her. Then teach her some Dark Curses, sic her on the Order. So, he had read Hermione's files, learned just how well she had done in the absurd number of classes she'd taken at Hogwarts, chuckled as he learned how she'd manifested her magic in the Muggle world by burning her classmates' fingers if they'd dog-eared books. Charming, but ultimately, unhelpful. With growing trepidation, he realized then that as her fiancee, he'd be expected to know things about her, but probably more mundane things, like her favorite color. He had no idea what her favorite color was. Probably red, with gold as close second?
Which, had raised the question: was a favorite color an intrinsic trait, an immutable fact core to her personality, or, could he just pick one? If he picked the wrong one, would she sense something was wrong? Or, would her belief that she had a different favorite color fundamentally alter her personality? Favorite color probably wasn't that important in the grand scheme of things, but it did make him wonder about how much of this backstory he could tweak towards his end goals and how much he needed to tailor to her underlying… well, he wasn't sure what he needed to tailor it to. Thus, the philosophy books. He also decided to practice calling her "Hermione" in his head so he wouldn't accidentally call her "Granger." Surnames seemed like odd-form for fiancees, although it felt quite unnatural. Oblivious to his hard work, Gra-er, Hermione-slept, awaking fewer times than days previous screaming bloody murder.
On day eight, he added several romantic books to his reading list. Several of them were Muggle, chosen based on Hermione's library check-out list from Hogwarts; he owed Pansy an unconscionable amount of chocolate for filching those. In addition to constructing a new past for Hermione, he had to invent a relationship for both of them, and knowing what sort of romantic hogwash she was interested in seemed like the best way of spinning a tale she'd believe. He had tried to think of a realistic way they'd have fallen for each other, but for him, short of her having been a better groomed, pureblood witch, his mind had been uncharacteristically blank. And, of course, their story had to leave out any mention of their opposite affiliations in this ongoing war, which excluded any stories wherein she adopted him as a poor wayward stray house elf; her rescuing him would not lead her to fight for the Dark Lord. So, he read about Mr. Darcy, to whom he rather related to as a fellow rich, intelligent individual, differences in magical abilities aside. Hermione looked peaceful in her sleep that day, and Draco reckoned she'd be awake and cogent enough soon to start asking questions.
The next morning, when Draco walked into her room, her eyes were open. Draco felt his face go slack with surprise-he'd been both hoping for and dreading this moment, when his plan actually began-before he morphed it into a large smile and rushed over to her. "Darling," he gushed. He should have spent time thinking of a good pet name for her, rather than deciding where they had had their first date; the pet name turned out to have been much more pressing and "darling" felt stilted and antiquated on his tongue.
"I'm so glad you're awake!" His voice was a soft caress, his relief evident in his tone.
Hermione's jaw jutted forward slightly and her eyes tightened in confusion; unlike the expression "eager-anticipation-of-being-called-on"-with which he was all too familiar-"bewilderment" on Hermione's know-it-all mug was a new experience for Draco. He decided he'd treasure this memory, maybe put it in a Pensieve to re-watch later; he deserved some levity after the stress of the last week. He maintained a hopeful, yet worried mask despite his gleeful thoughts.
Hermione heaved a frustrated sigh, wincing at the movement.
"I don't remember," she finally whispered, voice sounding raw and weak, "anything except hurting. So much."
Her breath had hitched on anything, and the pace of her breathing had steadily increased. Draco realized she was moments away from crying. He shifted his weight onto the bed and gingerly put an arm around her shoulders.
"Don't worry, love. It'll come back."
She sagged into his chest, sobbing brokenly as each movement caused a new burst of pain to radiate throughout her chest. He continued to murmur quiet comfort to her, until Hermione sank back into sleep.
"Disconcerted" was not a state in which Draco often found himself. He considered himself well-versed in the ways of assigning happenings that might flummox others into his vast set of preconceived opinions. But, thinking back to Hermione's actions the day before, he found himself utterly at a loss. His presence and his words had clearly comforted her; she had moved closer to him, eventually falling asleep because of his actions. It filled him with a warm, fiery pride akin only to the joy he felt at flying. She'd sought his comfort, because in her hazy, pain filled memories of the last week, it had been his tender ministrations that had greeted her when she awoke; or at least, he assumed. He didn't think he had a naturally comforting demeanor otherwise. But layered over those warm thoughts, a patina of grime, was the knowledge that her trust was misbegotten, an exploitation of her memoryless state. She had curled up to him, needing him, while his papers across the room served as a testament to the less than noble plans he had for her.
It was a strange feeling indeed, so Draco shoved and kicked it into the back of his mind, away from his conscious thoughts.
When Hermione awoke later that afternoon, Draco was armed with porridge and a tisane to numb the pain; the Healer had deemed her well-enough to receive some magical aid in his midday check-in. Draco hovered the tray above her lap as he settled himself next to her.
"Hey, my sweet," he whispered.
He was rewarded with a wan smile. "Fancy some porridge? Zibby ground some vegetables especially for you to try to get your strength up, but she flavored it with cinnamon."
Draco rolled his eyes dramatically, eliciting a small quirk of her lips, and continued, "I know, I thought it sounded foul too, but I tasted it, and really, it's quite good."
The last bit was more of a request than a statement, made more so by the spoonful of said porridge that he now proffered to her. Hermione attempted to lift her arm to grab the spoon, screeched as the movement sent fiery pain through her body, and then met Draco's eyes helplessly, jutting her lower lip out slightly like a petulant child. He ladled the porridge into her mouth, promising while he did that she could have her revenge once she was better by babying him back. She had looked rather too pleased at that concession, but she ate most of her porridge and she drank the tisane before drifting back to sleep.
With magical remedies aiding her convalescence, Hermione made markedly better progress. She spent several hours awake each subsequent day, during which Draco read to her, fed her, and sometimes held her. She asked remarkably, almost suspiciously, few questions, and Draco wondered if she were afraid the answers would shatter her fragile recovery. She asked his name-Draco Malfoy. How he knew her-school. How well he knew her-fiancee. Her expression had vacillated between panicked and morose at the last answer, and told him she didn't remember. He supposed not remembering someone you loved enough to marry would make you sad, and felt a pang of guilt. Fortunately, she had asked him to read again instead of continuing her queries.
It was a calm idyll, drudgery of nursing aside, and part of Draco was loathe to see it end. His intentions weren't necessarily wholly pure, but at the moment, in caring for her, he wasn't actively lying and manipulating her, his words and actions attempting to mould her into a weapon. He was almost dreading when that started.
On day thirteen, Hermione demanded a bath. Her voice was still raspy with disuse, but somehow had lost none of its bossiness for all it lacked volume.
"I'm grimy, sweaty, and disgusting. A bath sounds cozy and cleansing," she argued.
Draco feigned offense, "I am glad you think so little of my slaving to sponge you clean."
He harrumphed dramatically. In truth, he was glad she'd be able to wash. He'd only sponged off the visible bits, like her face and hands, not willing to jostle her or to touch her more intimately in those early days, and Scourgifies and Tergeos only did so much once magic could be safely used on her. In short, her odor was not the best, despite his judicious use of a nose-plugging charm.
Then, her words registered: Bath. Naked Hermione. Fiancee Draco probably would be expected to have seen her naked; fiancee Draco also would respect that Hermione didn't remember him, and would not likely be comfortable with him there. Real Draco-he sneered at himself internally for referencing himself as such-was both disgustingly intrigued and utterly repulsed by the possibility. What should he do? His discomfort was short lived, as a blushing Hermione, already at work leveraging herself out of the bed asked if Zibby or one of the other house elves might help her.
"It's not that I don't trust you," she whispered, looking both mortified and worried she might crush him, "it's, ah, I just don't remember you and uh, if we?"
Her sentence ended in a garbled "ugh," her face even redder, if that was possible. Draco put his arm around her to help her up, calling for Zibby, who appeared with a crack.
"Of course, love. I wouldn't want strange men to see me naked either." He gave lie to his relief, assuming a worried fiancee would have some mixed feelings about the situation, by sketching a forced smile. Hermione had laughed at his joke though, which softened his smile into something more genuine almost immediately.
Draco listened to the soft splashing noises, obsequious prattle from Zibby, and polite answers from Hermione with a rapidly sinking heart. What had he gotten himself into?