(A/N: Just the epilogue to go, after this. That should be up next weekend :o)

00000

Draco rolled over, groaned, and rubbed at his eyes

Bloody awful hospital cot… sleeping on it was about as comfortable as trying to sleep on a racing broom. In fact, Draco was pretty damn sure that some of the costlier, higher-end broomsticks might actually be more accommodating than this… this… wretched contraption.

He struggled into a sitting position, swinging bare feet onto the floor and knuckling grit from his eyes, yawning hugely. Three days he'd been here – three days spent sitting in the chair beside her bed, or staring restlessly out the window, or pacing the length and width of the small hospital room like a caged animal.

Three days that he had not once set foot outside St. Mungo's – he had gone no farther from Hermione's room than the cafeteria on the second floor.

Three days since he'd changed his clothes. Brushed his hair. Had a shower – the closest he'd come had been splashing cold water on his face twice a day in the public restroom down the hall. Which was, by the way, a piss-poor substitute, thank you very much.

Three days since he'd shaved – his stubble was so fair as to be barely noticeable, visually, at least – but his face felt like sandpaper.

Three days he'd spent watching Hermione's pale, unmoving form in the sterile, white hospital bed; three days of agony with the fate of the woman he loved – and his child, sweet Merlin, his child – hanging in the balance.

That had been brought home to him a few hours after he'd arrived, when the senior healer on the case had approached him, confirmed his paternity of the unborn child, and then asked him which one would he prefer they saved – mother or infant – should it come to that?

He had snarled that if she didn't feel herself capable of saving them both, she should tell him right (the fuck) now, so that he could get someone competent on the case. But that didn't stop her question from twisting round and round like a knife in his gut, teasing and tormenting his every waking moment from then on.

Three days of asking himself, Hermione or my child? Which one would I choose? Hermione or my child?

And three hellish nights of sleeping – if you could call it that – on this torture device that passed for a cot.

He stood and stretched. His back hurt like a bastard… every morning it hurt worse. If he had to sleep on that goddamned cot much longer, he was convinced that one of these days he was simply going to wake up paralyzed, damn it all to hell.

Three days and three nights… it felt like three years. And you know what? The thing about it was, that it was okay, actually. Draco understood that this was his penance. And he would stay here for as long as it took.

As long as it took for Hermione to be okay.

He hadn't understood that at first, of course. He had been angry the day he'd arrived. No, scratch angry, he'd been abso-fucking-lutely furious. Furious with Potter and Weasley, furious with the healers, and – once the crisis of her hallway collapse had passed and her condition had stabilized – furious with Hermione. More furious with her than with all the others combined, in fact.

How could she do this to him, how? What the fuck made her think she had the right? Not contacting him as soon as she knew – continuing with a dangerous profession – what in the hell was the matter with her!?

The anger had built in him the first day and night like a fever… and like a fever it had broken, sometime in the dark, pre-dawn hours of the second day.

That was when he had realized, in a sudden, stark flash of clarity as he'd stared at her motionless figure in the bed, illuminated by that dim half-light all hospitals possess in the watches of the night, that the person he was the angriest with was himself.

And that he might never get the opportunity to apologize.

With that final realization, he had dropped his head into his hands and cried like a child – cried until dawn had streaked through the room's sole window. The tears had washed him clean of that awful, festering anger, that anger like sickness… and that was when Draco had first begun to understand that he was doing penance here. And that he would stay here no matter what. He would stay until Hermione woke up.

At least his unrelenting vigil had won him some grudging respect from Harry and Ron.

They spent quite a bit of time in her room as well, but not a whole day at a time, and they never spent the night. They had both returned to work – working overtime, in fact – in their obsession to bring the person responsible for Hermione's condition to justice. He had escaped amid the chaos he'd caused by nearly murdering a pregnant Auror… which was, of course, exactly what he'd intended when he had done it. But Harry and Ron were closing in. Like Draco, they were hardly eating, hardly sleeping, hardly living in any meaningful sense… nor would they resume their ordinary lives until their quest for justice was complete.

That was their mission, and Draco approved of it. Just as staying with Hermione, watching over her every moment of every day, had become his mission. And they seemed to approve of that, too.

At the end of their last visit, Harry had even clasped Draco's shoulder, briefly but hard, just before he'd left the room.

And Draco hadn't minded at all. He'd actually been grateful for that bit of human contact… of warmth. He still had issues, big issues with some of Harry and Ron's decisions and conduct regarding Hermione these past few months, and he understood that they still had similar issues with him. None of them had truly done right by her… and all of them were feeling it keenly. But that could all be worked through later. The only thing that mattered now was Hermione's recovery; the three of them were in complete agreement on that.

And so a fledgling truce had been born.

00000

Draco checked his watch; 6:23 in the morning. Harry had said last night that he might stop by between nine and ten with coffee, a scone and today's Prophet. That was something to look forward to, but it was still a ways off… and early as it was, further sleep was out of the question. That cot was gonna kill him.

He stumbled groggily down the hall to the bathroom, splashed water on his face in what had become his morning routine, and stared at himself in the mirror over the sink.

He looked like bloody hell warmed over.

Bloodshot eyes; lank, dirty hair; rumpled, slept-in clothing. For the second time that morning, he groaned. Pressed his eyes shut for a long moment, then splashed his face again. It helped… but not by much.

Back in Hermione's room, he folded up the cot and stood it flat against the wall. Spent half an hour pacing. Fifteen minutes staring out the window. Ten minutes watching the healers give Hermione her morning check-over. Twenty minutes pacing again. Which made it more or less just like every other morning since he'd arrived here. The degree of exhaustion he felt today, though, that was different. He couldn't bear the thought of lying down on that god-awful cot again, but the exhaustion was dragging him down like quicksand, pulling him under. He collapsed into the armchair next to Hermione's bed and closed his eyes. Ten minutes later, in only the vaguest, most distant state of consciousness, he felt himself sliding out of the chair and onto the floor. He didn't fight it.

The floor was more comfortable than the cot was, at any rate.

00000

He woke when a bar of sunlight hit him full in the face, and bolted upright with a startled oath. The sun didn't shine full in Hermione's window until mid-afternoon. Merlin, how long had he been out?

A light, hospital-issue blanket was pooled around his waist, which added to his puzzlement. He was damn sure he hadn't covered himself… shit, he'd basically fallen off his chair onto the floor; he hadn't had the capacity to do anything except maybe cushion his head on an arm.

Then he noticed the nightstand next to Hermione's bed. There was a scone there, and a coffee cup; he didn't need to touch it to know that it was stone-cold. And a copy of the Daily Prophet, on top of which rested a Ministry of Magic business card, face down. Across the back of the card, Harry had scrawled a succinct message:

Malfoy – I didn't wake you. You looked like you needed the rest. –H.P.

"Ugggnnh." He scooted backward until he was sitting against the wall, wadding up the blanket and shoving it off to one side as he did so. A raging thirst gripped him, and he reached for the coffee cup with one hand as he shoved his sleep-tousled hair back out of his eyes with the other. He knew drinking the stale, cold coffee was not the best idea, but was too thirsty to care; he swilled it deeply anyway.

He gagged and almost spat. Cafeteria coffee was sub-par at the best of times, and this was… beyond foul. He managed to swallow it, but sputtered mightily. "Ugh! Merlin, disgus – "

"Draco?"

He choked all over again, head shooting up to take in Hermione on the bed.

She was looking straight back at him, her dark eyes drowsy, but clear.

"Hermione," he croaked. "Oh God, thank you. Thank you."

Her brow furrowed into a tiny frown as she turned onto her side and propped her cheek on her hand, the better to study him.

"You look awful. What are you doing here, Draco?"

He just stared at her for a long moment, drinking her in, too overwhelmed to compose a reply. He was just so swamped with relief – shaking with it, lightheaded; almost in tears.

"Draco?" She struggled up onto her elbows, shaking her hair back, out of her face. Her eyes traveled to the wadded-up blanket, then back to him. "Have you been sleeping on the floor? Why are you here?"

Draco tried to speak – failed – swallowed hard. He was still staring at her the way a hapless desert wanderer might stare at a distant oasis.

"Hermione." His voice, when it came, was hoarse; ragged with emotion. "Potter wrote me you were hurt. You asked him to, do you remember? That letter, it – it almost killed me. And then I got here and… Christ Jesus, woman, why didn't you tell me? Why?!"

"Tell y –" Hermione's perplexed frown deepened for a fraction of a second, then cleared. "Oh." One hand went, absently, to cradle her stomach in that age-old subconscious gesture of pregnant women everywhere. "Oh, right."

Okay, he'd thought he was over the anger, but in that moment it took everything he had not to jump to his feet and start shouting.

"Oh, right?" He echoed her instead, in a surprisingly controlled voice. "That's all you can say? Hermione, that's my child! When were you going to tell me!?"

"I just… it never seemed… like the right time."

"What about when you almost fucking died!?" And now his voice was rising in spite of himself. "That didn't seem like the right time?!"

"No, it didn't!" Her voice was gaining volume now too, and taking on that defiant cast he knew so well. "Least of all then! I didn't think… I didn't want…"

She paused; gulped in a deep breath of air. Her eyes dropped away from him, and her next words came out all in a rush –

"I didn't want that to be the only reason you came back."

Draco just stared at her for a long moment, feeling sick with himself. Then he took a deep breath, pressed his eyes shut, and rubbed one hand slowly down his face from forehead to chin, letting his head fall back against the wall as he did so. When he opened his eyes again he was staring straight up at the ceiling.

"I've been an incredible bastard," he said softly, "haven't I."

It wasn't a question.

She smiled wanly. He caught it, just barely, out of the corner of his eye.

"I don't suppose I'm blameless either," she said.

"I'm sorry, Granger." He was still looking steadfastly at the place where the wall and ceiling met. "I only ever wanted to protect you."

"I know that," she rejoined. "I knew it then. I just didn't think I needed protecting."

Some deeply ingrained Slytherin need to goad and provoke made him ask, "And how about now?"

"Now I still don't think I need protecting," she said with characteristic (Gryffindor) stubbornness, "but that doesn't change the fact that I'm glad you're here… even if you do look like hell."

Draco snorted. "You think I look bad now? You should have seen me when I got Potter's owl. Bloody cryptic message took years off my life. I was like a madman. Apparated in front of twenty Muggles, at least."

"You didn't!"

There it was again, her prefect voice, so prim and affronted that he couldn't help himself – for the first time in he couldn't remember how long, he cracked a genuine smile.

He tilted his head so as to meet her eyes fully again. "Maybe closer to thirty," he said.

"Oh Draco, no!" Hermione's eyes were wide. "Thirty Muggles to track down and Obliviate!? Have you any idea the kind of chaos you must have caused the Ministry? I'm surprised they didn't revoke your Apparition license! And… oh, Merlin… the fines!"

In one fluid motion he was up off the floor and sinking down beside her on the edge of the bed. "Granger," he said quietly, and very deliberately, his pale eyes now positively blazing into hers, "BUGGER. The. Fines. I was scared for your life. And with reason. You have got to promise not to do that to me again. Ever. Please."

She smiled a little ruefully. "I'll do what I can. I still don't appreciate anyone trying to make my decisions for me, and that includes you, Draco Malfoy. But this experience has… forced me to re-evaluate some things, and… I've reached the conclusion that even if I don't need your protection, well maybe… she does."

"She…?" Draco's pale eyes widened as the full impact of what Hermione had just said hit him. He had, all at once, taken on that quintessential dazed expression that is synonymous with expectant fatherhood.

"Yes," Hermione confirmed with devastating simplicity, "we're having a girl." And then, in a voice suddenly tinged with concern, "Draco, are you all right? You look ill."

"I'm not ill," he managed, albeit with some difficulty, "I – " he swallowed hard – "I'm adjusting."

There was silence for a long moment.

"Draco?" Hermione's voice was still tentative.

"Uhm?" He actually had to bring his eyes back into focus a bit.

"Are you all right with this? Really?"

"This this?" he asked, still dazedly, gesturing toward her stomach.

She huffed an exasperated sigh. "Honestly, what do you think I'm talking about, the weather? Yes, this this. You're not regretting… I mean… are you…" her dark eyes were troubled, unsure. "Do you wish you'd just stayed away?"

"Merlin, no! Granger, what are you thinking!? I don't wish I'd stayed away longer; I wish I'd never gone!" He looked away again, staring off into a corner of the room. "It wasn't the answer," he said, speaking almost more to himself than to her. "It was one of the biggest mistakes I've ever made."

"Draco, I forgive you," she said quietly.

Still staring into the middle distance, his lips twisted suddenly and violently downward. "You've no idea what I've been doing all this while."

"Nor do I want to," she replied with calm authority. "It's water under the bridge, in any case. You're here now. You came when I needed you. That tells me everything I need to know. I want you back in my life… in our lives. And for whatever it's worth, Kingsley's offered me the opportunity to develop a new Ministerial branch strictly devoted to non-human rights, and I'm taking him up on it. An opportunity like this comes along only once in a lifetime, after all. It will make history. So… no more field assignments, effective immediately."

"Yeah?" Draco asked, trying – and failing – to disguise the immense relief in his voice. "So then… erm… what happens now?"

"I don't know," she said honestly. "I suppose we could just… start over."

"Huh." Draco's voice was meditative; his pale eyes still averted, and pensive. Then, abruptly, he turned back to face her.

"I'm Draco Malfoy," he said. "I'm twenty-five years old, I graduated fifth in my class from Hogwarts Academy, Slytherin House; and I do occasional free-lance work for the Ministry. Mainly, though – " and here just a hint of his trademark smirk shone through – "I'm a man of leisure. Also, I've recently learned that I'm expecting the birth of a daughter."

A smile tugged the corners of her lips. "Pleased to meet you, Mr. Malfoy," she said. "May I call you Draco? My name is Hermione Granger. I'm twenty-six years old, graduated first in my class from Hogwarts Academy, Gryffindor House; I'm currently spearheading a new department at the Ministry. And as it happens, I'm expecting a daughter too. What a lovely coincidence, wouldn't you say?"

She offered him her hand.

He shook it.