Disclaimer: Another update, and I'm terribly sorry for the delay. My cord for my personal laptop is yet to have been fixed, so the family computer is all I have. This chapter may be a little shorter than others, but that's because it's almost midnight and my parental is giving me a time restriction. *singsong voice* Crappy chapteeeeeeeeeeeeeer.

On a much cheerier note, SCHOOOOOOOOOL'S OUT. Yep, I am now unofficially in Year 10. Watch out, world.

Enjoy, people.

Smitty, x.

Blaise jumped slightly when the door opened with a click, and he released Hermione's hand quickly.

"Draco, mate! So Harry owled you, then?"

"Yeah…" Draco drawled, distracted by the girl draped in white sheets, slumbering peacefully.

Blaise shot Harry a worried glance when Draco stumbled shakily over to Hermione's side and took her petite, fragile hand in his large, calloused one.

Harry beckoned Blaise to his side. "We'll leave you two alone for a while."

Blaise looked ready to protest, but Harry conquered all chance of refusal with a stern shake of his head.

When Draco heard the door of Hermione's room click, he spoke softly, almost unsure of what to say. "Uh, hey, Mione… Harry owled me, but I guess that you know that, because I'm here…"

She stirred gently and her hand closed more tightly around his.

Draco continued, staring morosely at their entwined hands. "I know that if you were awake, you would hex me from here to Norway and back, but I was really worried because Harry didn't tell me what happened yet. That probably doesn't mean anything to you, but I still love you, in a way that constitutes nothing romantic. And I guess that's why you hate me… But I could never hate you."

Hermione's brain fuzzed slightly as she became more alert, her senses sharpening as she awoke.

She could feel something tight wrapped around her hand, and hear a faint voice saying something… But what? She tightened her grip on whatever it was, and tried vainly to allow some of her senses to regain strength.

The voice became stronger and louder with each syllable, and she just managed to catch the last part of the person's monologue. "And I guess that's why you hate me… But I could never hate you."

Her eyelids fluttered open gently and she looked at her hand, only to find a much larger, much paler one with its fingers laced with hers.

She followed the hand's contours to the attached arm, and continued until she reached the strikingly handsome face with soft-looking wisps of almost white hair adorning its crown.

Her brow furrowed. How could she hate this man, whoever he was?

"Uh, excuse me?" Her voice was raspy. "Who are you?"

The blond man jumped almost comically and wrenched his hand from hers.

"Hermione, I'm so sorry. I'll leave now if you want me to." He stammered unattractively.

"Hey, wait! How do you know who I am?" Hermione started, just as he reached for the handle of the door.

He turned around, a puzzled expression on his face. "Hermione, what are you talking about?"

She was getting rather miffed now and sat up on the bed, as if preparing to battle the stranger. Loudly, she said, "This! How do you know my name? I have never met you before."

Blaise and Harry heard a rather loud shout come from Hermione's room, and without more than a sideways glances at the other, took off at sprint down the hospital halls, despite the mutterings and indignant cries of those they pushed, shoved or elbowed out of the way.

They flung open the door, revealing a red –faced Hermione and a shocked Draco.

Blaise surveyed the pair before turning to Harry. "You didn't tell him, did you? You didn't tell him the whole story."

Realization dawned on Harry, and he silently reprimanded himself. Hermione decided that this would be a good time to ask what was plaguing her mind. "Can I ask, who is he and why does he know my name? And why, when I woke up, was he holding my hand and telling me that even though I hated him, he could never hate me?"

Stunned silence met her tirade of queries. "Well?"

Blaise and Harry communicated yet another plan through nothing more than a nod and eyebrow raise. Harry dragged Draco outside to explain why Hermione no longer remembered him, and Blaise remained behind to fill in Hermione.

"Mione, Draco is my best friend."

"But I'm your best friend…" she pouted childishly.

"Yes, you are. But he is my other best friend."

"Then why haven't I met him before? And why does he think I hate him?" Damn. Blaise hadn't thought about how to dodge that bullet when it came.

"Um…" he stalled. "He just got back from… France! He just got back from France." He avoided the last question on purpose.

"Oh, wow. So he can speak French?"

"Uh, yeah…?"

"Can you get him in here? I want to hear it, I love a French accent on a man." She said, a sultry tone seeping through on the last part.

No, no, no, no, no. Not happening. "Sure, Mione. Let me get him now."

As Blaise walked through the door, he could hear frantic whispering from around the corner and looked to find Draco gesturing wildly towards Hermione's room and then back towards himself.

"I deserve to know everything, no matter what, Potter."

"You broke her heart, and now she won't remember you." Harry replied calmly, despite the raging lunatic towering over him.

When Draco stooped lower to hiss at Harry, Blaise decided it was time to intervene.

He walked over to them and, clapping Draco on the back, he said merrily, "Draco, my mate. You know French, right? Please, say you know French."

"Uh, yeah, I know French. Mother made me take lessons during school. Why?"

"Great! Right this way." Blaise steered the once again confused blonde to Hermione's room. "She loves a French accent on a man. Now, go. Speak, Frenchie. Be a gentleman. Woo her – wait, no don't. She's incapacitated. That could be dangerous."

Draco nodded. He then pushed open the door, walked to her bedside, kissed her knuckles gently and said with a perfectly fluent French accent, "Bonjour, mademoiselle."

Hermione giggled, and both Harry and Blaise cringed in horror at the love struck look that had taken residence on her face.

Hermione's heart pounded dramatically in her chest.

This man was Perfect. Let me repeat: Perfect. Spelt with a capital P, because he was just that Perfect.

He was gorgeous, an utterly flawless gentleman with utterly flawless manners, had lived overseas for goodness knows how long, and spoke French fluently. Plus, there was something strangely familiar about him, even though she didn't know him from a bar of soap.

"Yes," she thought, as she studied his face, "I can definitely see myself falling in love with this man."

Review, please. I need the help. x