"We dream and dream of being seen as we really are and then finally someone looks at us and sees us truly and we fail to measure up. Anyway: story received, story included. (...) Sometimes you get so close to someone you end up on the other side of them." - The Long and the Short of It, Richard Siken

When the beginning of a new week hurriedly announced the latter half of October, Hermione woke up with a goal.

The aftermath of her first fight with Draco had been good for her overall spirit. Their crash was painful, but they ended up landing on firmer ground. It didn't elude her that giving up on each other would've spared them heartache in the long run. She had expected Draco to want to.

His certainty had sent stars shifting inside her chest.

Now, with her mind clear, she could focus on a more pressing issue.

The real benefit of her promotion wasn't the shoe-box office Hughman had dangled in front of her like a shiny toy. It was suddenly having plenty of time to do as she pleased. Hughman wasn't uptight about deadlines, and Hermione could get work done as fast as she needed to. So when she arrived at the Center on Monday morning, she didn't linger in her office. Instead, she tried to look inconspicuous as she headed to the building's first floor.

When Hughman had first shown her the archive, Hermione had written it off as more than a bit eccentric. It was located in a small room lodged between the Fireplaces and the Staff Lounge - flawlessly organized, containing a record of every piece of media coverage about the MRC sorted by year. Hanging on the walls was a timeline with major headlines and photos of Hughman with renowned witches and wizards, as well as copies of his multiple professional certificates.

I guess none of the staff's accomplishments were worth a spot here, thought Hermione, releasing a sardonic chuckle as she brushed off a speck of dust from a shelf. The archive served more as a shrine to Hughman than useful records for the center, but at that moment it'd work just fine.

The room had been placed under several anti-stealing charms, but it was too easy to conjure copies of the files, and it didn't seem to set off any of the alarms. "There's something to be said about security in government buildings," she muttered, quickly placing everything inside of her purse. She didn't want to risk having to make an excuse to anyone who caught her there, no matter how unlikely they were to find her suspicious.

When she arrived at her office, Hermione made herself a steaming cup of green tea and mentally prepared herself to begin reading. Hughman had been almost religious in his record keeping, so she had an extensive timeline to work with.

The first articles Hermione examined were the highly-polished, Ministry-approved puff pieces that were par for the course for The Daily Prophet in recent years. Under a variety of bylines, the articles parroted talking points that Hughman, and even Cartwell, had delivered to Hermione since she began working at the Center, not going into substantial detail, or including information that couldn't be found in Ministry-distributed flyers.

But this was the Prophet. Hermione would've given anything to get her hands on some of The Serpent Wire's early pieces.

By the time she finished reading through the first year's archive, she was groaning in frustration while unconsciously ripping the tendrils off her feather quill. Maybe Harry was right, she admitted, maybe I've just been making up conspiracy theories.

But she knew there was something there. Every discrepancy she'd noticed over the past few months was pushing to the front of her mind, begging her to look a little closer. Hermione had the nagging feeling that she was missing something, a puzzle piece right below her nose. She studied the parchment in front of her, smoothing it down with her fingers. But where was it?

She cracked her fingers loudly, then sighed and put the pieces of parchment back into their respective folders. Turning to the other files on the desk, she noted with interest that the files containing recent press clippings were much thicker.

She leaned back in her hard wooden chair, her spine stiffening as she selected the next file and ran her eyes over the first piece of parchment. It was an article from The Daily Prophet, which had run in January; fairly surface-level, but Hermione arched a brow when she realized that its author had treated Robards as the Ministry's spokesperson.

In several interviews, which grew in frequency over the course of the year, Robards raved about the reliability of the rehab program and its success rate. In one glowing statement, he had said that "initially, the plan was for the program to run for three years. But with the way we're going, it's very possible we'll accomplish all of our goals at an unprecedented speed. In under two years, we've already rehabilitated and released over twenty young wizards who just needed a little push in the right direction. It's all thanks to the mastermind behind this program, the incredible Mind Healer, Bart Hughman."

Her aggravation increased as she read another article. "The Muggle World, to this day, struggles to achieve peace and unity in its even most developed societies," said Robards. Hermione could practically see him shaking his head. "The success of the rehab program shows the Wizarding World's impressive ability to do just that. No wizard is truly lost to the dark, and more than magic, that's what makes us great. That's the beauty of Wizarding Britain."

"Lovely," she huffed. "Nothing more progressive than boasting about the Wizarding World's superiority over Muggles society while uplifting a program that's supposed to rebuke that mentality."

Just a month later, the Prophet had run a follow-up piece on individuals released from the rehab program. Through Draco, Hermione knew that Goyle had been released, but she was surprised to see quotes from wizards like Sullivan Falwey and Marcus Flint, who she remembered vaguely from Hogwarts. All of them sung the praises of the MRC.

About three weeks before Hermione's first day at the Center, the Prophet published a piece whose headline stated boldly that "The Ministry is Successfully Bringing Britain Back to Safety." Hermione scoffed. History had taught her that the Wizarding World hadn't ever been safe for people of her blood status, and even after the war, it wasn't anywhere close.

As she continued to read, Hermione felt equally enraged and unnerved. If she didn't know better, she'd be starry-eyed. With a couple of strategic headlines and comments by rapturous staff members, it was easy to believe that the Ministry had beaten pureblood supremacy. They had sold a beautiful picture of growth and progress. Of outstanding work headed by people Hermione knew better than to trust.

And we've all helped them, she realized. Her, Harry and Ron; they had all been involved with the Ministry, and their names were thrown around like confetti. They didn't need to speak up - it was enough to take a perfectly timed photo, to make a throwaway remark to someone with a barely substantial connection to them, and the Ministry could twist it into a show of support. And if the Golden Trio supported it, people were hard pressed to question it.

You'd think people would have learned from the War. "Where had I been all this time?" she asked herself, something uncomfortable twisting in her gut.

She remembered skimming over articles like these when she'd been busy following McGonagall around the ruins of Hogwarts, feeling like she was inhaling cotton candy rather than air. She remembered reading about the MRC when she returned from Australia, feeling so numb from grief that anything other than sleep felt like too much to handle. She'd been present as it all unfolded. But she hadn't been there.

If she had, maybe Hermione would've thought twice before accepting this job.

By the time Hermione left the MRC, her eyes were stinging with exhaustion and her spine was stiff from being hunched over her desk. She thought back to endless hours in the Hogwarts library, nose buried in books, getting by on three hours of sleep and letting fatigue roll off her back like water. How did I do it?

It made her consider staying home for the night.

She disregarded the idea before letting it take shape. Staying at the flat would mean obsessing over what she had read. A night of rest would become a night of restlessly tossing and turning, knowing the stress-induced nightmares were on their way.

And I can talk to Draco about it. He might know something that I don't, she decided, taking her time showering and getting dressed. Crookshanks was grumpily staring at her from his place on the bed, not appeased by the treats she'd given him to soothe the sting of her frequent absences.

She was sorting her overnight bag when she heard a knock. Her head snapped towards the door, and Crookshanks gracefully leaped from the bed and stalked towards it, scratching his claws against the door as he tried to get to the person on the other side.

It wasn't like she didn't know who it was.

Hermione hid the bag in her closet before approaching the door. Her stomach was beginning to churn with anxiety, so she pulled it open abruptly, afraid she'd lose her courage if she waited too long.

"Hi, Harry."

He offered her a flat smile. "Hi, Hermione. Can I come in?"

She wanted to say no, but she couldn't do it. Not when Harry was voluntarily seeking her out. They had been skirting each other for weeks, both afraid that any sudden move would wind up setting the other off.

It made the flat feel like foreign land.

Hermione nodded, stepping back from the door so he could come in. Maybe he was there to wave a white flag. She'd give anything to end this cold war between them.

She heard the sheets rumple as he sat, then Crookshanks's pleased purrs. She leaned against her dresser, fiddling with a pair of earrings just for something to do. Harry had sat in that same spot countless times - on the edge of her bed, sharing stories about his day as she folded laundry or straightened bookshelves, asking questions and laughing at the right parts.

He had never looked as out of place as he did then.

"Ginny and I went to Mrs. Choi's shop on Saturday. She's really excited for the wedding."

"Ginny and Molly told us all about it over lunch yesterday," he shrugged. "Are you going out?"

"Yes. I'm going to meet a friend."

Harry hummed under his breath. "Which friend?" he asked, sounding forcibly casual.

"Edina Cartwell," said Hermione, turning around to hide her flush. She caught a glimpse of her reflection in the small mirror on top of her dresser. "Why are you asking?"

"On a Monday night?"

Hermione smoothed her expression before turning around. Harry's gaze was intently piercing into her, looking too sober to mean anything good. "It's not a school night, is it?" she said jokingly. He didn't crack a smile, and any idea of waving a white flag flew straight out of her head.

"Are you going to celebrate your promotion?"

Her heart stuttered. "You heard about that?"

"I had lunch with Robards this afternoon," said Harry, still running his hands through Crookshanks's fur. The cat purred loudly. "He asked me if you were enjoying the new position. He said the Ministry truly appreciates the work you've done with the rehab program."

"Why is Robards talking about that with you?" said Hermione. "He doesn't work there anymore."

Harry shot her a look of exasperation. "That's what you're worried about, Hermione?"

"Yes," she snapped. "I don't want someone I don't even know telling people my business."

He laughed humorlessly. "If he hadn't, would you have told me, Hermione? He said you were attacked in that damn program. You didn't think to mention it?"

Hermione pressed her hands to her face, her skin too heated against her palms. Every excuse she thought of felt feeble. And what's the point? Harry would see right through her. "I didn't want you to worry," she said weakly, knowing it was only half a truth. His unwavering gaze made her think that he knew it.

"Too late," he said. "I've been worrying about you for years now."

"You don't need to."

"I clearly do, if you've been willingly putting yourself in a foolish situation," spat Harry, his voice growing louder. Hermione flinched, her heart beginning to pound inside of his chest as he huffed and stood from the bed, ignoring Crookshanks's irritated meows. "Merlin, Hermione, if I left everything that had to with the war behind, how could you not?"

She clenched her jaw. "Harry, we're not fighting a war down there. We're rehabilitating people."

"People that want to hurt you? I told you that I could get some Aurors down there and you told me that you barely saw those bloody Death Eaters. You lied to me about it."

"I did."

He didn't seem to absorb her confession. "And I had to find through someone else that you've been attacked. How do you bloody think that makes me feel?"

A wave of guilt passed over her. "You probably feel awful," she said softly. "I know exactly how you feel, Harry."

He sighed. "Yet you're still working there?"

Hermione faltered, a crease forming between her eyebrows. "Harry, I regret not telling you about the program, but I don't regret working at the MRC," she said. How could she? It had awakened her from a long state of inertia. It had brought purpose back into her life. She didn't regret a second of it, not even the parts she had hated.

"I thought you were supposed to be the smart one, Hermione," snapped Harry. "What are Ron and I supposed to do, wait until one of them corners you after class, hits you with an Unforgivable or two, or maybe that Entrail-Expelling Curse Moody taught us? Then maybe I'll find out from Ginny that you're in St. Mungo's?"

She wondered when Harry first began seeing her as someone who needed protection, less the person who had stood by his side through everything, and more like someone he had to shield.

"You don't need to protect me, Harry," she choked out. "I've always taken care of myself. And of you, and of Ron. Have you forgotten? I made a conscious decision. You don't get to talk to me like I'm stupid for it."

Harry tried to hide his shaky hands behind his back, but she had already seen them. Her shame and guilt and anger knit together like a ball of yarn. "You're hurt because I didn't tell you, which is understandable," she said softly. "I'm so sorry, Harry. I can't begin to explain how sorry I am. But trying to make me feel small because I took the job in the first place? And being upset because I didn't ask you to save me from it? That's something else altogether."

"You think it's wrong of me to be worried about you?" he said defensively.

And just like that, her guilt weakened. It was still present, but it seemed to fade against the hurt that flooded her.

"Harry, I'm not made out of glass," pleaded Hermione. "We fought a war together."

She was so tired of feeling two feet tall. She was so tired of self-flagellating for him. Making excuses for him. Forgiving him, again, without him asking first.

"I don't think you're fragile, Hermione," he sighed. "I just worry about you. Ever since the war- Look, I understand that we're dealing with everything differently. But then you stopped coming to the Burrow, and after George's death day-"

"We already talked about this, Harry."

Harry pushed up his glasses. "And we got nowhere, did we? And you still think there isn't a problem? Seriously, Hermione?"

"There are a lot of problems, Harry," said Hermioner, desperately trying to keep herself together. "I'm just not sure that we're talking about the same things."

Maybe Harry expected her to do what she'd done so easily since the war had made a shell out of her. What she'd done for Molly Weasley, and every other person who had badgered into her life with misplaced righteousness. He expected her to let it go.

"Right," he deadpanned. "You know, Hermione, sometimes I feel like you're asking for us to give up on you."

"All of you feel like that?" she said, feeling something crack within her.

"I feel like that," he exclaimed, his voice rising, seemingly against his wishes, because it lowered again when he continued. "It's hard having to try all the time. And I do try. Because you're my sister, but I need something from you too." He exhaled. "Why do you think I stopped talking to you? The reason I didn't tell you about my promotion? About proposing to Ginny? It's because you can't seem to move on from the fact that the war is over. Everything has to have a reason, everything sets you off."

Would he believe her, if she told him what she knew about the Ministry? Her suspicions about Robards? Or would he poke at her insecurities, question her until she couldn't help but doubt herself?

"Harry, you don't have a clue," muttered Hermione. "You think that Voldemort died and that was the end of it? I'm fabricating things, for what? Because I'm stuck in the past?"

"I'm the one who's at the Ministry every day, Hermione," he said dryly. "You don't listen when I tell you there's nothing happening there, you think Robards has second intentions for doing nothing but help me, you keep reading that deluded magazine and questioning everything we do. You're not moving on and you're not letting me, either."

And that was the answer to every question that didn't leave her mouth. She felt a sharp sting of disappointment. He's not going to believe you, she told herself, hating that it left her feeling breathless.

"I'm sorry that I'm somehow stopping you from living in this perfect, welcoming world where nothing bad ever happens," said Hermione, trying to be unyielding, but sounding a little too close to weakness. "You know that the war wasn't about Voldemort's vendetta against you, right, Harry? It didn't end there, either. Why do you think Rookwood attacked me?"

"Oh Merlin," he groaned in frustration. "That's exactly what I'm talking about, Hermione. Of course there are gits. They are always going to be here. But you refuse to let go and I can't- Hermione, I can't handle it anymore. I want us all to be happy, I want you to be happy."

He sounded so urgent that part of Hermione wanted to give it to him. For a moment that lasted far too long, she wanted to wrap all of Harry's wishes in beautiful packaging and drop them right in his lap.

But she couldn't. "You want me to be your version of happy, Harry, because somehow me being who I am is hindering your version of what life is supposed to be," she said. "This has nothing to do with me, this is all about you."

"Don't make me sound like I'm selfish for wanting you to get better."

"I am better, Harry," she exclaimed. Don't you see? How can you not see? "What you want is for me to apologize. You want me to say that I'm sorry for things you think I've done. Is that what's going to take for you to feel better?"

"I don't want-" his voice trailed off, and something inside of her shifted painfully.

"I'm sorry that I haven't been who you want me to be, Harry." Her voice lost its urgency, but her words bled with an anguish she couldn't hold back. "I'm sorry that I'm not in love with Ron anymore. I'm sorry that I'm not following you into the Ministry. I'm sorry if I ask too many questions and that I can't seem to let go and I'm sorry that somehow means that I'm not happy for you. I'm sorry that I'm not letting you be the hero who saves me from myself." She waited for Harry's face to light up with something, anything that could give her an indication of his understanding.

He stared at her blankly for a long stretch of time, then muttered, "I don't want you to apologize, Hermione."

"What did you want then?" she said desperately. "Were you looking for the person that I used to be? Because I tried really hard to be like her, but I couldn't do it."

His expression darkened. The air around them seemed to blow the windows wide open, making her feel paralyzed.

"I think maybe we need some time apart," he said in a steady voice. "So we can talk about things when we can understand each other a little better."

She smiled bitterly. "You didn't understand any of what I said?"

"I did, Hermione, and it makes me think that I've been hurting you. Even when I've just been trying to help you. And you've been hurting me too, so maybe that means that we need some time." She watched as he released a frustrated breath. "I'm going to stay at the Burrow. Ginny is there anyway, just until-"

She shook her head. "I'll go, Harry."

"But I can go to the Burrow."

He looked at her ruefully. And at that moment, Hermione realized Harry felt sorry for her. It dawned on her in a rush of coldness. "You think I don't have anywhere else to go, Harry?" she asked coolly. "I know I'm not the same person, but I can take care of myself. I haven't lost all my marbles yet."

"That's not what I meant," he tried, but it didn't sound anywhere close to sincere.

Hermione swallowed and started to walk towards the door. She grabbed the knob and cracked it open all the way. Harry dragged his hand down his face, opening his mouth to speak, but deciding against it.

Before she could close the door behind him, he turned to face her again. "I do love you, Hermione."

"I love you too, Harry," she whispered back, shutting the door before he could say anything else.

Everything around Hermione was blurred.

She didn't let herself think as she moved her wand in quick motions, magic feeling like a low drumming under her skin. Her hair crackled around her like she'd touched a live wire, and she smoothed it down roughly as she hastily waved her clothes into dusty duffel bags; she shrank books and knick knacks and threw them into her purse with a carelessness that would've embarrassed her on any other occasion.

By the time the room around her was bare, feeling foreign and nothing like the place she'd lived in for the past year, her breath left her mouth in exhausted puffs of air. Her face was flushed, and Crookshanks was meowing loudly in her direction.

She grabbed her bags and her cat and she spun around the room and wondered, for half a second, if this was what goodbye was supposed to feel like.

Draco hummed under his breath as he shrugged off his jacket, throwing it haphazardly on a hanger in the hall closet before taking off his boots. The flat felt static with quiet, but strong gusts of air were coming from the open windows, making the curtains flow and the room feel colder than it was supposed to be.

Granger must be here, he guessed, heading towards the staircase.

He paused.

A large ball of orange fur was perched on the first step, his enormous eyes narrowed menacingly, sharp teeth bared. It hissed at him, and Draco arched a brow, taking in the creature standing guard in his own damn home.

"The audacity," he said a low voice, then bellowed, "Granger, what's your demon cat doing here?" The cat stealthily jumped into the wooden floor, and Draco took a step back, scowling. I'm not scared of a bloody cat, he told himself, folding his arms over his chest and jutting his chin. "Granger!"

The cat stalked forward, and Draco held his ground for five long seconds. When he didn't hear Granger's voice rushing to give him an explanation, a jolt of concern hit his chest.

He groaned inwardly and sidestepped the animal, ignoring the squeaky hisses that got louder as he rose up the stairs. For some reason, the cat didn't follow him. Instead, he was staring him down from the foot of the stairs, if he could make him disappear with the force of his glare.

"Useless little shite," he muttered. If Draco was actually a threat to Granger, that creature would be as effective as scattered-brained Ron Weasley.

Draco tried to force down the uncomfortable feeling beginning to stir inside of him, noting her purse tossed carelessly on top of the bed, a few of its items having rolled out and into the sheets. Two large duffel bags were squashed against the wall, and her shoes had been thrown on opposite sides of the room. If her absence wasn't worrisome enough, this peculiar display of messiness would be.

He walked towards the bathroom. It was the only place Granger could be, but he didn't hear a sound through the door. "Granger, are you there?" he asked, his stomach twisting uncomfortably.

An excruciating moment of silence stretched around him like an elastic band. Draco was about to try the knob, when a small voice said, "I'm here."

A relieved sigh escaped his lips. His forehead hit the door in a thud, and he squeezed his eyes shut. "Got me worried for a second, there," he muttered. "Can I come in?"

Instinct told him to wait. So he held in a breath, his forehead still pressed against the door while his heart rose in his throat.

Her voice sounded uncomfortably fragile when she gave him permission. He didn't wait a second before opening the door with one rough pull of his arm. Granger's body gave a startled jerk, and Draco froze.

She was blinking at him from her place in the tub, her bare arms wrapped around her knees, fat drops of water falling from her curls and splashing onto her shivering skin. The sight of her filled his stomach with a bag of concrete.

It reminded him of how she'd been in their first night in the flat - present, but not really, a dark cloud behind her eyes, making him grasp for anything that could make her feel better. It didn't come close to the absolute despair of seeing her like this. He hadn't loved Hermione Granger back then.

He felt a ringing roar of protectiveness, a helpless whisper of what can I do, how can I make this better for you.

"Can I join you?"

She was still looking at him, hollow but painfully earnest, as if telling him I trust you to not fuck this up. I let you in because I trust you not to fuck this up.

"If you want. The water's already cold."

"I can fix that," murmured Draco, already shedding his clothes off. He used his wand to warm up the water before setting it on the ledge next to the tub. The tub was enough to fit them both, but Granger's posture warned him not to touch.

Draco carefully lowered himself on the opposite side of her, stretching his legs until the soles of his feet hit the edge. He made sure that their skin didn't come into contact, and wondered how long she'd been sitting there, shivering in cold water, too consumed by her own thoughts to notice that the warmth had drained out of the room.

The silence around them lasted several heartbeats. Draco watched Granger's trembling slowly decrease, her fingers aimlessly treading water. He caught every subtle change in her expression - eyes clearing a bit, forehead creasing, chewing her bottom lip. "I must make a sorry sight, don't I?" said Granger, wrapping a hand around his ankle softly.

"Want to tell me why?" he asked. The shaky breath she released was barely audible, but Draco was so in tune with her that it rang loudly in his ears.

Granger sighed, gearing herself up, then visibly losing her nerve. He forced himself to push down his urge to press.

Then all at once, as if the words would get stuck if she didn't let them out, she said, "Harry and I broke up. It's like when you're in a car, and you lose control of the wheel, and the tires graze against the pavement and you're about to hit the lamppost, so you try to hit the brakes but for some reason they've stopped working." Her eyes searched his. "I'm sorry, you didn't understand a thing I just said, right? You've never seen a car."

"I might not know what a car is," he said carefully. "But I know that sometimes things are inevitable."

She nodded. "We both said a lot of inevitable stuff. A lot of it he was right to say, but he made me feel this tall," she whispered, holding her thumb and index finger a inch apart. "Still," she said with a dejected sigh. "I have a confession to make."

"Yeah?"

She swallowed, her eyes gleaming. Her hand around his ankle was a ghost of a touch.

"I'm a liar, Draco. That's another one of my character flaws. I hid so much from Harry, and then I got upset when he did the same to me," she said, sounding miserable. "I'm a hypocrite too, but that's something you've already noticed, isn't it?"

"We all screw up, Hermione."

"I know that, Draco. I swear that I've stopped trying to be perfect ages ago, but I think that's exactly what did us in," she said breathlessly. "I used to just swallow stuff, you know? I swallowed how exhausting it was to have to prove myself. I swallowed all the times I felt lonely over the years. I swallowed my jealousy whenever I felt like Ron and Harry were this team and I was just tagging along beside them. I swallowed all the times Ron made me feel like I was begging for his attention. And I swallowed my grief, and then- I lost my parents and I just couldn't keep swallowing anymore, Draco."

He tentatively lifted his hand out of the water. She glanced at his outstretched palm, and he waited, heart thundering, for her to slide her hand over his.

"I was drowning in it," whispered Granger. "Harry noticed, and he felt responsible for me. But I never really wanted him to take care of me, I just wanted him to understand."

"And he didn't?"

She shook her head. "I think that's what happens when you stop knowing someone."

I don't think I'll ever stop knowing you, he thought, amazed by how much it sounded like the truth. Granger's eyes softened just a bit, and he thought she saw it. "What were you supposed to do, Hermione? Keep choking?"

She didn't answer immediately. Instead, she intertwined their fingers. She rubbed her thumb over the side of his hand in careful motions, and Draco had to grip the side of the tub to stop himself from dragging her into his arms.

Her voice was just above a whisper. "Would I've been able to keep them, if I had?"

"Maybe," conceded Draco. "But, love, you can't set yourself on fire to keep them warm."

"No?"

"I know that sometimes it feels like we're just stars orbiting around them, shining for them." Her eyes didn't waver, and she seemed to take in his words like a lifeline. It made his chest tighten painfully. It made him feel invincible. "But Granger, there's no doubt in my mind that you've always been the sun. Never any of them."

Granger's frown twitched into a half smile, and she tilted her head. "Isn't the sun a star too, Draco?"

"Sure," agreed Draco, his smile matching hers. "But it's the most badass of them all, isn't it?"

And Granger tore her hand away from his and threw her arms around his neck, pulling herself into his lap and hid her face on his shoulder, water rushing over the edge and their clothes.

"It's okay, love," he muttered against her hair, rubbing his hands over the expanse of her back. Her body shook, and Draco held her tightly. "You're not alone."

Nothing in the world would tear her away from him.

When Granger stopped shaking and sagged tiredly against him, Draco gently moved her off his lap and stood up, stepping out of the tub. He dried the floor before reaching back to the water, gathering her into his arms and lifting her out.

She nestled her face against his shoulder. "You can let me go," she said as his feet slapped against the tiles. "I'm not exactly lightweight."

"Are you doubting my strength, Granger?" he grimaced. "You dare to offend me this way?"

"I wouldn't want you to overestimate what your skinny arms are capable of. We'd have a hard time explaining a visit to St. Mungo's."

Draco let out a mock gasp of offense, then dug his fingers lightly under her thighs. Granger squirmed and chuckled under her breath, seeming almost startled by the sound. He kissed her temple, and safely got them into the bedroom.

He made sure to mutter a drying spell before lowering her onto the mattress. Granger closed her eyes for a second, and Draco drank her in - there was so much strength in her. He couldn't wrap his head around anyone thinking she was anything but rock solid.

"Remember when you told me you felt like they killed you?"

She frowned. "I was drunk, Draco."

"I know, but listen... I don't think they killed you. I think they battered you. But the parts that make up you? They're still there," he smiled. "You're rebuilding yourself all over again. And you never stopped being fucking fantastic."

"You think?"

"Of course, Hermione," he intoned. "You might have gotten lost along the way, but that's okay. We all did."

Her eyes shone up at him, and he took a step back to give her a moment of reprieve.

Draco walked over to the closet, pulling on a pair of pants and grabbing the first jumper he saw before stepping back into the room. "Let me help you," he said, pulling her into a seating position.

"I'm not a baby," she protested weakly, reaching for the jumper. He snickered and tugged the fabric over her head. Granger's nose was wrinkled, but her cheeks were flushed with pleasure.

He brushed a light kiss against her lips. "Do you want to sleep?"

"I don't think I can, right now," she muttered. "My head is still on overdrive. I always get nightmares, when I'm like this."

"I know what we can do." She narrowed her eyes. "For Merlin's sake, Granger. I'm not a bloody savage. Get your head out of the gutter."

She threw her hands up. "Can you blame me for jumping to conclusions? With the way you are?"

"That's fair, but I have something else in mind right now," said Draco. He grabbed his wand and muttered accio. The book fell in his outstretched hand.

Granger gave him a confused look, but he ignored her, moving to sit with his back against the headboard. She swiftly settled between his legs, and he handed her the book. "The Essential Eye by Kester Rattenbury? Is this what you bought at the bookstore?" He hummed affirmatively. "So you liked the London Eye? You never said."

"Of course I liked it," he said flippantly. "It's been awhile since we've exchanged books. I thought we could read this one together." Granger pressed her lips against his forearm, leaning against him more comfortably as she opened to the first page.

They read in silence for a while. Granger waited for her cue - a light tap on her thigh - before turning the page. When she found something particularly interesting, she would drag the tip of her finger under the line, and he'd recite it slowly in her ears.

She was finally relaxing against him, the tension slowly draining from her body. Draco fought against the sleep trying to drag him under, wanting to prolong the moment, but when they reached the end of the third chapter, Granger put the book away.

"I'm sorry, Draco."

He frowned. "For what?"

"Harry and I agreed that we should spend time apart, and I just-" she faltered. "He offered to go to the Burrow, but I didn't want to be in the flat, so I came here. How selfish is that? I didn't even ask you."

"I don't care, Hermione."

She ignored him. "I even brought Crookshanks here. I know you don't like cats! I could've gotten a room at The Three Broomsticks or something. I'm really sorry that I-"

"Hermione," he tried again.

"I'm going to look for a place of my own after work. You don't have to worry about it. And Crooks won't bother us tonight, he's a good boy." He scoffed. Granger twisted around to give him a look of offense. "What? He is. He's an independent animal. He won't bother you."

The bloody cat was the last thing on his mind. "You can stay, Hermione. Indefinitely. You're here all the time, anyway."

"But I shouldn't," she said firmly.

Draco lifted a hand to caress her cheek. Granger's lashes fluttered, and she leaned against his palm. "I have a confession to make," he said."If you want to hear it."

"Of course I do."

"I was sick and tired of the Manor after I was released from house arrest," Granger's disarming look of trust hadn't vanished, and it helped him talk past the lump in his throat. "It stopped feeling like home, so I bought this place. It was the first one I saw. I really didn't give a shite what it looked like."

"It's a beautiful flat, Draco."

He lifted his shoulders in a shrug. "It didn't matter. I saw it, and it was okay, so I bought it. But then-" He paused. "I never even came here again. I told myself that my mother needed me at the Manor, but to be completely honest, this place didn't feel like home either. And I thought, better the devil you know, right?" He chuckled. "It was too much bloody work to make something out of this."

"What changed?"

He shot her a pointed look. "What do you think, Granger?" Her gaze burned into him, and Draco couldn't help it. He kissed her, and she sighed deeply.

When they broke apart, he said, "You don't have to stay here. I'll help you find somewhere that accepts that diabolical creature of yours. I'll even help you move all your crap. But this place is as much yours as it is mine," he finished. "So give it some thought, yeah? There's no rush."

She rested her forehead against his. "I'll think about it," she finally whispered.

End Notes: thank you for the reviews and favs in the last chapter! hope you like this one. We've completed 50% of the story, only 50% to go.