TW: Mentions of blood in this chapter.

Hermione found herself able to flip through a book for several minutes before she managed to turn them over one by one without touching them. It had been the most she had been able to conjure since waking here. Not that she still knew what here was.

She realised when she had been handed the book that it should resonate with her. Which made it even more disheartening because she knew Harry would expect something from her, and she already felt as if she was failing him. She had been able to tell from the way Harry handed it to her; he had anticipated an immediate reaction and his eyes filled with sadness when nothing happened. Her eyes had scanned the pages several times, and each time she attempted to clear her head so she could view it with fresh eyes, but still, nothing was clicking, and frustration had begun to build at the realisation of such.

Her gaze moved over to the window, watching as the leaves on the branches waved in the wind, and she wished she could feel it against her cheeks—feel it dance through her hair. Hermione couldn't remember the last time she felt the rain or the sun, or even the sound of thunder—even if it put her on edge. She also wanted to explore the snow, feel the cold on her skin. Just like it had done all those times when she had trudged to Hagrid's in winter.

Hermione closed her eyes, seeing the blankness and hating that no memories came to the surface, not even a daydream. It had been like this for so long; she slowly worried she never had any, to begin with.

Everything had been feeling wrong.

She also knew, deep down somewhere inside of herself, there was something else going off. She couldn't silence it, even when she willed it too. Wherever she was, it was no accident. It was premeditated, and she needed to escape, to convince Harry that something terrible had happened—although, she wasn't entirely sure he'd believe her.

Hermione wished that she had spent more time on wandless magic when she had been studying; hoping that even being able to move the ridiculous book from the bed would mean she was improving. But she wasn't. She hadn't been.

But it wasn't what troubled her the most, but rather the deep longing Hermione had been feeling for something—for someone even—and she didn't know why.

Her hands moved up to grasp the side of her head, bring her knees up until she curled into a ball. Whatever this was, she needed to wake up. This was not real. The frustration that had been mounting was reaching a new level; something was coursing inside of her, and it was only a matter of time before it erupted out of her, spraying anyone that was in its path. She felt it all, the pulse of power and the emotions tied to it.

There was a pull in her chest as she focused on the bending, twisting anger. Closing her eyes, she tried to focus all of her attention on it, hoping for answers and wishing for peace. She was getting close, her mind travelling through tunnels that her memories were trapped in. Hermione saw occasional flashes of objects and places she should know because she had been there; she knew she had been to them because it hurt to remember them.

"No luck?"

She flicked open her eyes, meeting the composed face that she was already coming to hate, but now that he had interrupted her, she wanted him to vanish in a puff of smoke. She considered various sarcastic responses, wondering why words like 'the boy who wouldn't die' and 'Potter' were being spoken in her head in such a different accent to her own. She moved her eyes from him, setting them on the window once more as she watched a leaf fall from the tree.

"Maybe I'd feel differently if I could go outside," she said, her eyes falling to the window once more, wondering if there was any hope out there for her.

Harry took several steps towards her; she watched as he went to put his hand on her shoulder but stopped himself awkwardly in the air before returning it to his side. The gesture itself irritated her, a flash of Harry in her mind doing something similar, and she wondered if something had come to her or if she was experiencing a twisted version of deja vu.

"Hermione?"

Her eyes moved to meet Harry's but found him replaced with someone else—someone she didn't expect. Someone without a face, but their shape seemed familiar, and the shade of their hair.

"Granger?"

She realised the room had changed, morphed into wallpaper she didn't recognise and she was wearing a dress—and there were gloves on her hands. But the voice, it resonated with her, it called to her deep down in her chest.

"What—What is happening, why are you here?"

The body moved closer; she felt his hand clutch on to hers. "We don't have time to fight right now. We need to go; they're coming!"

"Who?" Hermione asked as the worry began to build. "Tell me; I can handle it."

She felt a hand cup her cheek, the other still gripping her hand tightly. "Just always remember, I love you. I always, always love you, and I'll find you."

She tried to grip onto the memory, using all she could muster to fixate on the face, hoping to unearth it and commit it to memory. If she could get a glimpse, even a feature, she could draw it and pick at it later. She listened to the clangs and banging as the memory began to go dark; she knew that whatever was happening was making her panic. Her forehead was suddenly feeling damp, and her whole body ached; everything inside of her seemed as though it had been electrified, a current still running through her as the pain stopped, as if she had been amid a Crucio.

"Hermione?..."

The voice had changed; it was different, more panicked.

"HERMIONE?"

Her eyes slowly opened to see green as she felt her body constricting, shaking in the grip that was forcing her together. The memory was gone, real-life having stolen her back, having ripped her from something she wished to cling to. She was torn on whether she was thankful or dejected. It took her a moment, far too long to recognise her friend, the man who was looking after her and helping her find herself. She could feel herself unsure of whether to trust him, and she somehow got the impression that the memory version of her had the same plaguing thoughts.

She took a large breath because for now; he was all she had. The faceless blonde wasn't here; he hadn't come for her even though he had told her that he loved her. Her faith had to go into the man she knew, the man she would die for.

"I remembered something, Harry," she said, tears filling her eyes.

Hermione was falling.

Her eyes were not opening, but she could feel her nightdress flapping around her legs before she made soft contact with a ground that was like nothing she had ever felt in the real world—it could only mean that she was here again.

In the wasteland of hell that had no name.

Her eyes flicked open as if they were controlled by someone else, and she came face to face with him. The joy she felt being reunited with him was like nothing she had ever felt, wanting desperately to tell him of her breakthrough, but he looked different—as if he was in pain or in a hefty amount of discomfort. It distracted her, made her pause for a second, even the buzz in her head continued to grow louder; the desperation to tell him where she was, and what she knew.

With every second, her need to tell him died until none of it remained.

"What is happening?"

She moved closer, but he held his hand up to stop her.

"Draco? What... what is going on?"

Her eyes moved to meet his, reaching to hold him but finding him fading and the burn in her eyes as she blinked back tears that didn't even feel like they were also appearing. Everything was crumbling around her, the vast space with its distorted buildings was beginning to make her fear she would never escape. There were little brains, and intelligence could do when you had no idea what you were dealing with, or where.

Draco, or the one in front of her, didn't seem like hers this time. He seemed broken. She wanted to break through whatever was holding them here, wanted to feel his touch against her skin and feel him push all the cascading pieces back to where they were meant to be. Her chest was so tight she was sure it was going to shatter from the pressure; even her bones were feeling weaker, and she knew it was because he wasn't close to her, not like he usually was, not like she needed him to be.

"Draco..." she whimpered. "Don't leave me. Please."

His hand raised, reaching to touch her, but it passed straight through her.

There wasn't even a sensation, no chill or cold feeling like when the ghosts at Hogwarts passed through her. Just nothing.

Lifting her head, she began to see that his lips were moving, but Hermione could hear no sounds. She moved closer, and watched him disappear because of it and the tears she had been fighting—the ones that stung but didn't even seem real—were now falling like rivers down onto her nightdress, but her cheeks weren't wet. There were no tears leaving track marks down to her chest.

Everything here didn't make sense.

Hermione turned on her heel, looking at him watching her from behind where she had just been. "I... passed through you?"

He spoke again, his forehead scrunched up as Draco looked like he was screaming at her, but he couldn't understand how she couldn't hear him. Hell, neither did she.

Her fists were clenched at her sides as she tried desperately not to fall apart, snap or break down. Then Draco shook his head before she watched him fade, even more, limb by limb disappearing until eventually, it was just her that remained.

She was alone in 'the nothing'.

It was the worst feeling she had ever experienced.

Draco hated Harry Potter more now than he ever did.

Even without magic, he was sure the power he felt surging inside of him and the hatred he felt in the tip of his toes could overthrow him and rip out his heart. The clinical room, with its ridiculously sterile smell, was irking him to, each layer of annoyance lying on top of the last, and it began to mount and mount. Draco suspected, soon enough, it would become more significant than him. His rage so large it could destroy something—he half wished it would ruin someone.

If he thought hard enough, he wondered if he could summon his heart from here. It was a small, satisfying thought that caused him to break the controlled expression he had mastered since Potter had walked in here. His ridiculous green eyes were watching him through the spectacles Draco imagined he had been wearing since birth, the miserable cretin, not even being able to afford new glasses so he could see the startling evidence in front of him that Draco was okay, that there was nothing wrong with him.

Potter was not as smart as everyone thought he was if he couldn't tell that. Draco bet he wasn't even that powerful. He had just been lucky.

"Something amusing you, Malfoy?"

Draco opened his mouth to reply but chose to close it after a sharp inhale.

Instead, Draco opted for a demonstration. If Potter wanted to know, Draco could at least show him what he had been so happy about.

Raising his hand, Draco twirled his wrist as his fingers pulsated in the air; he felt himself summon the magic from within, it growing at the tips of his fingers before spreading from him with ease.

Draco watched, with gleeful eyes, as the clipboard covered in parchment zoomed into his grip, as Healer Harry looked dumbstruck. Draco didn't know where time had gone, when Potter had found the time to practise to be a Healer, but Draco hadn't forgotten how joyful the sight of an idiotic Potter.

He moved his eyes to the paperwork, scanning them for anything that could help him when he heard the scuffle of shoes and thrust his hand out into the air pinning the scar-headed man to the chair, the sound of him attempting to fight him grew like music to his ears. He felt powerful, strong. Draco felt like he was in control for the first time in years, since You-Know-Who stepped into his house and held his family prisoner. Since the day his father sold him to do the 'Lords' bidding.

No memories. Unable to remember the last event. Hermione Granger found beside him.

"Granger?" he whispered into the air.

His magic failed as Harry gasped for air and Draco dropped the clipboard, letting it clatter to the ground. He went to speak her name again, but this time it froze in his throat, the name turning on him and instead beginning to choke him. He stared out, pleading for help as his own hands gripped his neck; Draco busy attempting to free his throat from whatever constraints were in effect, watching as Potter stared, no emotion on his face. Potter was looking on at him, unsure of what was happening, and for once Draco didn't think he had anything to do with it.

It was then the light in the room began flickering. Draco could feel his gasps for air weakening; he could hear screams in his head, and they were soul splitting, heart-wrenching, pleading cries that didn't seize. He saw hair, masses of curls as they fought whatever was ahead of him, unable to get to whoever they belonged too—a need to save whoever was screaming.

Then he heard his name.

It was being screamed as if whoever was crying it was experiencing torture beyond his wildest dreams. The darkness was closing on him, swarming all around him, wrapping around him and binding him, as if the darkness was made of blackbirds and they were coming to feast on him, and the screams were their beaks, picking and peeling his entire being from his bones. He could feel the pain of the person being tortured as if it was himself as if he was connected to that person by more than just coincidence.

Granger. Granger. Granger. Hermione.

His eyes widened at the acknowledgement of her name as if it was the very key to unlocking all of this and whatever had begun choking him suddenly released its grip. Draco's chest began filling with the sweet air breath after breath, thanking the heavens and the stars for another chance. He could see the ceiling, his back lying on the cold stone and it was then he realised he had fallen, and Potter hadn't moved, staring in shock.

Only then did Draco feel cold against his wrist, feeling liquid, and seeing it was red. He watched, for a second, at how ran from his skin; how his wrist had split as though he had been cut.

"Hold on, Malfoy."

It was like the bathroom, but worse.

Potter was on his knees then, finally moving and looking alive. Draco wanted to curse him for letting him bleed for as long as he had, but he noticed the sweat on Potter's brow, and how warm Potter's magic was against his wrist.

Draco's vision was still failing him even as his skin began to knit together. He chose to move from the red, fixing his attention purposefully on the blue glow at the end of the wand until he glanced at the floor seeing blood. His blood.

Clearing his throat, the scratchiness of it making it painful, Draco met his eyes. "Why am I bleeding, Potter?"

Potter looked at him for the first time since he had woken up, and he could see the fear in those green eyes like never before, and this man had faced far stronger forces than him. Draco could hear both his and Potter's heartbeat thumping in his ears, his cheeks suddenly feeling hot as Harry moved to his other wrist, only noticing at his touch how painful his skin felt.

"I don't know..." Potter mumbled. "You just suddenly fell and then..."

Lifting his head from the ground, Draco turned to gain a better look at his other wrist and saw how much of himself he lost—how much had sprayed on the floor and against Potter's coat.

It was then the heartbeat became louder, but this time instead of just a beat, it sounded like a name, and it was a name he knew was familiar on his lips.

Hermione. Hermione. Hermione.