A/N: Thank you to my faithful pilgrims! I'm so grateful for your reviews, they do make me happy. The plot has taken several twists since I began writing this story, but I'm generally glad with the direction.

Chapter 10

"…just need to see to Ursula, change that dressing."

Hermione's eyes flickered open to be greeted by a pristine, white ceiling. She could smell a faint medicinal odour, and her pillow felt different. This wasn't where she'd fallen asleep last night.

"Good morning, Miss Granger," trilled a voice, and Hermione turned in the direction of it; the voice belonged to a bustling, efficient mediwitch, bearing a characteristic symbol of a crossed wand and bone on her uniform. What was she doing in St Mungo's?

She sat up quickly, and her surroundings swam before her; raising her hand to her head, she flopped back down again. She felt…drunk.

"Now, less of that, young lady," continued the mediwitch, as she took hold of Hermione's wrist to feel for her pulse rate. "You've had quite a turn, let me tell you."

"Why am I here?" she asked, glancing at the mediwitch. The mediwitch glanced around furtively, then yanked the curtain to around the bed.

"You…you appear to have…well, taken an overdose," whispered the mediwitch. "They found a bottle of Dreamless Sleep, smashed on the floor."

Realisation crashed over Hermione like a breaking wave; memories barged rudely into her mind of raising the bottle to her lips, the anguish of wanting Kingsley, the smash and tinkling of broken glass…

Kingsley. Work. She sat up and stared wildly around for a clock. "What time is it?"

"Twelve o'clock, dear. Nearly lunchtime. Are you hungry?"

Panic filled Hermione; she'd never missed a day of education or work, other than the time she'd spent in the hospital wing at Hogwarts. Kingsley wouldn't know where she was, he'd think she was irresponsible, not sending an owl to let him know…

"No," she said, and swung her legs to get out of bed. "I need to get back to work, I've been away for the morning."

The mediwitch laughed and pushed Hermione firmly back onto the bed. "You've missed more than a morning, my dear. You were brought in yesterday. You took quite a dose of that stuff, let me tell you. And there'll be no nonsense of you trying to get up. You rest up and have a few days to recover."

"Yesterday!" Hermione was aghast. "I need to go to work, explain why…"

The mediwitch shushed her. "It's fine. Kingsley knows you're here."

"What!"

"Oh, he came to visit you, yesterday," she said, airily, bustling around Hermione's bed and tucking her in.

Hermione felt her stomach writhe at the mention of his name. "He did? When?"

"About three o'clock," she said. "You were still under the influence, but he stayed a while. Looked like he was saying something to you. Not that I heard," she added, hurriedly.

She bustled off to see to another patient, but Hermione hadn't noticed; she was still thinking about Kingsley. He must care to come and see her. She hoped she hadn't looked too unkempt. She groped instinctively on the bedside cabinet for a mirror, then remembered that she wasn't at home. She'd have to go without.

Are you a witch, or what?

She sighed, shaking her head, and picked up her wand from the cabinet. She'd been in here too long; fancy forgetting the handy spell of accio. Summoning a mirror from the wall opposite, she surveyed herself critically. She looked rough; she grimaced at her appearance. Her hair was tousled and dishevelled, her face pale and eyes lined with dark circles. How could they have let Kingsley see her like this?

It doesn't matter anyway, a nasty voice hissed in her mind. He's got gorgeous Clarissa to entertain his thoughts. You pale into insignificance beside her.

She pressed her lips together firmly and set the mirror down. That was quite enough of that for one morning, thank you very much. Her thoughts wandered to other things; she wondered if Molly Weasley had informed the rest of the family about her dalliance with Ron. She wasn't too worried, however; it would take more than a drunken fumble with Ron to destroy eight years of friendship with Harry, and Ginny knew what an arse Ron could be at times. Percy would be disgusted, of course, but then again, that was no great hardship; they'd never really got on. Charlie was too busy in Romania to worry about things happening at home. Bill might not be too impressed, and by association, Fleur, but perhaps pregnancy would have mellowed her. She could hope. Which left George; they'd been close, but she knew that George was closer to Ron after losing Fred. Arthur would probably not mention it; anything for a quiet life, but Molly would expect him to concur with the majority while in the Weasley home and he would probably blank her too. She groaned and rubbed her nose, as she often did when she was vexed. What a mess.

She glanced up as the door creaked open, and against her better will, her stomach leapt and her heart thudded against her chest.

Kingsley was striding towards her, in Muggle clothing; the same black suit he'd worn when she'd accompanied him here to interview Lucretia Danvers. He held a brown paper bag in his hand, and smiled at her as his gaze met hers.

"Hermione." He sounded relieved. "You're awake."

She nodded. She didn't know how much Kingsley knew about what had happened; but she didn't feel inclined to lie to him.

"I brought you something," he said, handing her the brown paper bag. "I thought you'd like it."

She blushed, and opened the bag. Inside was a small plant, with dark green leaves, and to her slight puzzlement, small, inky blue flowers. She'd never seen a plant with such dark colouring. Evidently, Kingsley was puzzled too; she could see a slight frown on his face.

"It had purple flowers when I bought it," he said, slowly. He reached his hand out to the plant, allowed his fingers to caress the petals gently. Hermione gasped as the petals twitched beneath his touch and changed colour, to a vibrant amethyst.

"It's a Metamorphosia," she said, in amazement. "It's like a Metamorphmagus, but it's a plant. They're really rare."

Kingsley smiled. "I have to say, I chose it because of the colour. That's my feminine side."

Hermione laughed weakly. She turned the plant around; no sooner had Kingsley let go of the petal, it turned back to its inky indigo colour. Perhaps it was linked to body temperature.

"Thank you," she said, setting the plant down on her bedside table. "It's lovely."

"My pleasure," he said, softly. He touched her fingers gently; she trembled and wished she had more of a hold of herself. "Listen…I just wanted to ask…if you're okay. I mean…in here…"

Hermione bit her lip, and allowed her eyes to meet Kingsley's. Seeing his deep brown, soulful eyes staring intently into hers made her want to grab hold of him and tell him how much she wanted him, how much it hurt when she thought of him with that woman.

"I've had trouble sleeping," she said, softly; it wasn't a complete lie. "I took too much Dreamless Sleep, and woke up in here."

Kingsley's hand covered hers, and his thumb stroked her wrist softly. She closed her eyes; his touch was bliss. "It's her, isn't it?"

"Who?"

"Bellatrix." He sighed. "The nightmares get better, but it takes time. Dreamless Sleep won't touch you for things like that."

Hermione took a deep, steadying breath. "It hurts." She touched her stomach. "It's like somebody's got a knife in my stomach, and they're twisting it slowly."

"Come here," he murmured softly, and she closed her eyes in ecstasy as he enveloped her into his arms, one hand stroking her back softly and his other hand tangling itself into her hair. She couldn't stop the tears from flowing and wished she was more in control of her emotions. "You should have told me."

"I thought the Dreamless Sleep would have solved it," she said, her voice muffled by his shoulder. "Anyway, you shouldn't have to deal with this."

Kingsley laughed softly and pulled back from Hermione, brushing a tear from her cheek; more tears sprang forth as the tenderness of his gesture overwhelmed her. "Maybe I want to deal with it."

She smiled weakly. "I'm not sure your partner would be entirely happy about that."

Kingsley looked puzzled. "Partner?"

"Clarissa." Seeing his blank look, she added "The article in the paper?"

Kingsley started laughing. "I guess I've got Rita Skeeter and her exaggerating quill to thank for that one. Clarissa is just an acquaintance I've met; she wanted to discuss some legislation. I'm definitely not seeing her."

Hermione felt waves of relief coursing through her body. He wasn't with that woman. She laughed, feeling a little silly; was she being too obvious?

"Anyway," said Kingsley, casually, "she's not my type. We'd never get along." He glanced at his watch. "I'd better go otherwise I'll be getting kicked out. When are they letting you out?"

"Oh…I'm not sure," said Hermione.

He smiled. "I'll come and see you tomorrow. If you'd like?"

"That would be nice," replied Hermione, striving for indifference, but her expression betraying her.

Kingsley turned to leave, and instinctively, Hermione called out after him.

"What is your type, then?"

He turned back to her with a wicked grin. "Intelligent, witty brunettes."

The door closed behind him, and Hermione exhaled softly, trying to slow her thumping heart. She turned to look at the plant he had brought her, and gasped as she touched the petals; as her fingertips caressed them, they had turned a bright shade of fuchsia.