Author's note: Thank you so much for your feedback, it has been so heartening! This is a chatty chapter, a bit of lightness before our two favorite dummies get thrown back into the thick of it.

She wasn't sure what she was going to say-it had been several months since she had been able to visit, and this was too much to put on Malfoy right now, but after four nights in Malfoy Manor, just one on her mother's farm sounded perfect. Malfoy stood behind her. Heat radiated at her lower back as he hovered there. She raised her hand to knock.

What was there to say? Hello, mum. We're on the run because a man who looked exactly like this man tried to kidnap me, because I have top secret information that has the power to destroy the ruling body of British witches and wizards. There was a prophecy about it, but I destroyed it by accident. Can we stay the night?

"She's alive." He spoke lowly, and formed the words as if he wasn't sure it was possible.

"Yes."

"In Hungary."

"You remember my meeting with the Hungarian ambassador. Albert connected me with a few doctors here… after my father passed. She's doing well, I think."

His face betrayed nothing. He nodded once. She felt choked with nerves. The woman inside was the most precious thing in her life, the raison d'être for the briefcase full of sensitive papers, for Draco Malfoy coming back into her life, for losing sleep, for Justin and Natalie's deaths. Helen Granger was the point of origin for it all, and she didn't know it. Hermione wound her hair back in a low bun and secured it with her wand. No need to hide that from her mother, at least.

"You look fine," he said, touching her shoulder.

Hermione scoffed. "I am wearing your jumper, and bloody trousers."

"See? Perfect."

"Just so you know, she... knows about magic. I haven't hidden things from her. It's alright to talk about it a bit."

"I'll be sure to give her my famous lecture on magical history."

She couldn't help but smile. He reached over her shoulder and knocked. His other hand remained secured to her shoulder.

"Coming!" The door opened just a crack and Helen peeked her head out. "My darling, you are a sight for sore eyes," she said with a twinkle in her eye. "Who's this?" She threw the door open and put her hands on her hips. She was the spitting image of her daughter-shorter hair, and deeper smile lines, but there was no mistaking where Hermione got her brown eyes and determined gaze.

"Mum, I'm sorry I didn't phone-"

"Nonsense. There's nothing I could be doing more important than hosting my child and her… very tall friend. Hullo-" she held out her hand to the man standing behind Hermione and gave him an unsubtle onceover- "Helen Granger."

"Draco Malfoy." His hand overwhelmed hers, but Helen patted it.

"I've heard that name before…" She narrowed her eyes at Hermione. "Why have I heard that name?"

"Hmm, probably no reason. Can we come in?" Hermione was flushed. Helen tugged on Malfoy's arm, leaving Hermione behind to shut the door. Malfoy had to duck to pass through the doorways. It would be comical, almost, if it didn't make her brain turn to goo to see him led off by her mother. He peered at her over his shoulder; he smirked in a way that made Hermione dread whatever he was about to say.

"Thank you for having us, Helen. I hope we're not intruding." His voice was low and velvety, post-cigarette, which gave him an aristocratic charm that she hadn't seen in a long while. It was a small glimpse of what he could have been, in another world where the family Malfoy was still in the thick of high society Purebloods. Affable, snobby, and a bit of a rake.

Helen clung to his elbow. "Oh, I couldn't be happier! Sit. I was just about to eat supper. You hungry?"

"Surprisingly, no." Hermione's stomach was in her throat and she didn't have much of an appetite after the events of the day. She set the briefcase on the hall table.

"Draco will eat, won't you?"

His eyebrows shot up and he smiled warmly, looping the strap of his pack over the chair. "I'm famished." Hermione watched from the doorway as her mother stroked Malfoy's bicep, which was a blatant excuse to feel the muscle which strained his shirt.

"Good man. So, to what do I owe the pleasure of your company?" Helen ladled a bowl of something from the stove; it smelled like basil and garlic, and it made Hermione's traitorous stomach growl. Malfoy's brow furrowed; she must've been staring at him because his eyes darkened.

Hermione vigorously shook her head and braced her hands on the back of a chair. "Sudden assignment brought us this way," she said quickly. "And I missed you."

"Oh, love." Helen scooted behind Malfoy's chair with two bowls in hand, setting one before her male guest and the other before Hermione. She kissed her temple. "I've missed you too." And then, softer, just in her ear, "you want to tell me why your bully is sitting in my kitchen?"

Hermione's cheeks grew hot. "He's my... partner. Not like that!"

"But, you're not with Ron," Helen persisted. Hermione eye-roll was enough to pacify her. For now. "Draco? When you're finished eating, would you terribly mind chopping some wood for me? My back has been killing me."

He was surprised. "Um. Certainly."

Hermione exchanged a look with her mother that she hoped conveyed her annoyance. She spoke softly to the woman, who was still smiling innocently at her daughter. "Your back, huh? You don't have a fireplace."

"I have a fire pit, now. I'll use it eventually." Helen waggled her eyebrows.

"Mum!"

"Eat, darling." Helen kissed her daughter's cheek again and disappeared down the hall, humming.

Hermione sat, and reluctantly took the spoon Malfoy extended to her. He had been diligently consuming the dish in front of him, but he sat back as she took a tentative bite. "I neglected to feed you supper."

"I didn't think about it."

"It should have occurred to me."

"You were busy."

"I could've picked up… take-away. I was right there."

She shrugged. "It's fine, Draco."

He ran a hand through his hair. "I mean, I bought bloody cigarettes at the shop around the corner from my apparition point, I could've gotten some shawarma, or something-"

She smiled at the thought of Malfoy consuming anything that was served in a styrofoam container. "You know about shawarma?"

"I am not a total toff, you know."

"Aren't you?" Helen reappeared with an armful of fabric, silencing whatever retort he would've had. He snorted anyhow.

"Here, love. If you change, I think I can get the stains out of your trousers." She set the clothing on the back of Hermione's chair and sat beside her.

Hermione's eyes flashed to her companion. The bag Malfoy had gone to her flat and packed for her, which contained all the clothing she owned (except for a strange dearth of jumpers), she had left it without thinking. She was doomed to walk through the world in a borrowed jumper and ruined trousers.

He reached over and clasped her hand. "It's alright."

"It had everything."

"Clothes can be replaced." He squeezed.

Helen nodded in agreement. "I'll loan you a few things, love."

"There you have it." His spoon tinkled against his now-empty bowl. Somehow between sitting down and consoling her over her entire wardrobe being lost for now, he had inhaled the pasta. He pushed back from the table. "Helen, I am at your disposal."

"Oh good! The axe is out front with the wood pile."

"I'll get to it." He didn't release Hermione's hand until he passed her chair, and even then his fingers lingered a moment at her jaw. She could feel her mother's delighted gaze on the side of her face. She peered at him. One side of his mouth quirked up. He knew exactly what he was being asked to do, and he didn't resist it. He was relaxed. Something in his manner was easy. She wrinkled her nose at him and shook her head.

"Go on," she murmured. He winked, and set his wand beside her on the table. She stabbed it into her bun beside her own wand, which made him toss his head back and silently laugh.

The front door opened and shut. Wordlessly, Helen stood and set to washing Malfoy's bowl in the basin. She peered out the window and shook her head as the first thunk! sounded. "He seems... nice."

"Mum…"

"He's gentle with you. He looks at you like you're the ripest apple, ready to be plucked."

"It's sort of his job, you know."

Helen rolled her eyes. "Mmmhm."

"What?"

"His 'job'." She made air quotes out of soap bubbles.

"He's protecting me."

"Does he protect your assets?"

Hermione scoffed. "I can't believe you!"

"That's a 'yes' if I ever heard it."

Hermione's head met the table top and she could swear she was going to perish at any moment from mortification. "Oh my god, we're not having this conversation!"

"Why not? What happened to Ron?"

"We don't work," Hermione shrugged. The pang of admitting it out loud hit her square in the chest, and she stood. It made her skin hurt. Saying it severed the thing inside which still clung to the idea that one day, he might come to his senses. Suddenly, she needed to be close to someone who might hug her without reluctance. Lucky for her, when one's mother was Helen Eliza Granger, one was not without gentle, soothing embraces. She went to her mother's side and followed her gaze, looping her arm through her mother's.

Malfoy had removed his shirt. He swung the axe over his head and brought it down squarely, bisecting the log. The two sides fell apart with a clatter. He leaned down and repositioned one of the logs, which made his trousers-delicious dark denim-cling tighter to his arse. Not that she had ever inspected it before, but it was a shapely arse. Hermione swallowed hard.

"Darling..." Helen dried off her hands and wound her arm around Hermione's waist. "He hurt you."

"No… we're past all that. Draco's changed."

"Not who I'm referring to."

Hermione tore her eyes away from the feast of muscle, and her heart sank to see the knowing expression on her mother's face. Her vision blurred, and she nodded. "It wasn't deliberate, on his part."

"Doesn't mean it wasn't painful."

"Yeah." She sniffled, and Helen hugged her. "It turns out that loving someone isn't always enough."

"You have a huge capacity for loving, Hermione Jean. You don't want to be with someone who thinks you don't work."

"I'm just so lonely, mum."

"I know, darling. It will be alright." Hermione curled her fingers into Helen's jumper, which was made of a soft, buttery chenille. "When you got here tonight, you were injured, weren't you? I saw you. You couldn't stand." Hermione pulled back enough to look her mother in the eye. She nodded. "That man-" Helen pointed towards the blond lumberjack- "dropped to his knees and held you. If I were you, I would give a little more consideration to a man willing to fall on his knees for you."

"Mum…" Hermione glanced out the window. At that moment, Malfoy looked up, sensing her eyes. She couldn't bring herself to worry that he had caught them watching. The light from the window painted a streak of golden light across his torso. His pupils were electrified. She stared at him, and he straightened, wiping his forehead of sweat. "He smokes," she mumbled, as if that were a reason for her mother to protest, as if that was a deal-breaker, compared to a host of shared trauma.

"I saw," Helen said with a chuckle. She gave Hermione a pointed look.

"That was the only time, I swear."

"There are more important things." Hermione hugged her mother close again and didn't budge from that position when the front door opened.

"That should last you a while," Malfoy said from the kitchen doorway. Helen rubbed Hermione's back and stepped away. Hermione turned, allowing herself to look at him all shirtless and sweaty and staring at her with a look of concern. He raised an eyebrow, and he gestured with his head for her to come out to the living room. Helen gave her a gentle push.

"Talk to him," she whispered. She busied herself with Hermione's untouched bowl.

Hermione followed Malfoy into the other room, and he moved around her to stand with his back to the open doorway. He loomed over her, but his face was painted with concern. "What's wrong?"

"I'm fine," she muttered. "Being around her makes me emotional."

"I felt your pain."

She gulped. "Oh."

"It was sharp, like a stab, and I didn't want to intrude-"

"She asked me about Ron. I explained things." Several emotions crossed his face before it settled into an unruffled politeness. "And she inquired after you."

"And… that was painful?" he asked, stepping closer.

Was it? Since he came back into her life, it seemed to be anything but. Why lie when he could look inside her head and see the truth for himself? She gulped. He wouldn't, though. He hadn't been tip-toeing into her mind since he accidentally projected into her dream. He no longer dipped in without permission to gauge her thoughts. He didn't want to know anything that she didn't tell him out loud, and that was gratifying. Not painful.

"Not anymore."

For the rest of her life, Hermione wanted to remember the way his eyes flashed from dark and concerned to a look akin to… hope. His eyes crinkled, but he didn't let the warmth he was feeling make it to his mouth. Instead, he raised a hand and cupped her neck, letting his thumb rest on her jaw. And now she saw it clearly. He cared about her. She had seen flickers of it when he consoled her after occlumency lessons, hell-in every moment he had reached for her to comfort her. Since the kiss. Somehow, she had convinced herself it was something he did out of duty. She craned her head back to keep his gaze. He laid his shirt over his shoulder and took her face in both hands, eyes searching hers.

"I don't bring you pain," he said. His voice lilted upward in a hopeful question.

She grasped his wrists, leaning into his touch. "No."

He huffed a ragged breath. "You feel this. Tell me I'm not mad." He pressed his forehead to hers. He had to lean down considerably to do it, but it made her feel shielded and held. It was like something cracked open, the delicate shield he used to keep her at arm's length. Hermione chose her words carefully because once she said them, she would not be able to deny it to herself, anymore.

"I don't know how it happened," she confessed. "It came up so quickly-"

"Not for me."

"No?" she peeped.

"I believe I have felt a pull to you since I was twelve."

She shut her eyes and shivered as he ghosted his lips against her brow. "That explains a lot," she sighed. He puffed against her forehead.

"I've never been accused of subtlety." He tucked fallen strands of hair behind her ears. It was a deliberately intimate gesture and made her nerves rise again. Too much, too intense, too perfect a moment to happen in the midst of mourning the loss of Ron. It wasn't fair to Malfoy. It wasn't honest. But it was a slice of hope.

"Just… since I'm exhausted, and you just chopped wood for my mother so she could ogle you-" He sniffed, which could only be construed as a contained laugh, and his hands fell to her shoulders. "Can we talk about this tomorrow?"

"Fine," he agreed, rubbing her arms. His hands fell away, but he was projecting a heady affection, which otherwise might have been masked by his skills with Occlumency. She had often seen his expression harden behind the walls. Receiving his true emotion without a mask was alarming.

"Gods." She reddened.

"Sorry," he said, though from his tone he most certainly was not, "I'm not occluding at the moment."

"You do that often, around me."

"I've seen what my having an outburst of feeling does to you. It seemed proper."

She looked away. "Anger is not an emotion I can process particularly well."

"Anger is not what I'm feeling, Hermione."

"Then don't hide from me."

He let a gentle smirk fill his face. "Yes, your majesty."

She rolled her eyes. "Such a prat. Can I ask you something?" She trailed her fingers down his arm and laced them with his. "Why now?"

"I thought we were going to talk about this later."

"Don't worry. There's a lot more to say."

"Why tell you, now?" he clarified. "Granger, I cannot go on pretending like watching you suffer doesn't affect me. You are the proverbial bottle of rare, singular scotch." He touched her chin.

"I'm a wreck-"

"You are a pretty compelling reason not to go to Azkaban, and I would rather expose myself to you than let you go on believing that you're alone."

Her cheeks were on fire. "You were listening in!"

"I'm not a saint. You were both staring at me!"

"Does Ron know how you feel?"

"Would it matter?"

She shrugged. "I… guess I wonder what he would think."

"He had ten years. It's my turn."

Her heart leapt. "That's not fair."

"You'll find I'm pretty selfish."

Hermione stood on her tip-toes, grasping the henley and pushing it to the floor. The boundary of touch felt magnetically reversed now that they had acknowledged this thing between them. Not touching him or being touched by him felt wrong. Why not give in to it? She hooked her arms around his neck. His height was just annoying now, when she was trying to have a serious conversation with him. He lifted her automatically, and hugged her to his chest. "I think you would go to Azkaban for the rest of your life if it meant I was safe."

"And that's not selfish?"

"No. It's stupid."

He nosed her cheek. "I don't know that Weasley's testimony will be enough."

"What do you need from him? I can help-"

He huffed in annoyance. "You don't get a say." His grip around her waist tightened, and he pressed his lips to her shoulder as if to say that the topic was over. "Do you think your mum will let me use her bath?"

"I think she might follow you in there if you let her."

He shook with laughter. "Will you?"

"Don't let mum hear you. She will start the water herself and go stay with a friend."

"I don't see the problem."

Hermione smiled into his neck. Every hair on her body was standing on end. Gods, this was so not the place to have this conversation, and yet the fact that it was happening at all, in her mother's living room, somehow made it feel more precious. She might overhear, she might see, and yet Malfoy-Draco didn't mind. A giddy moment felt disingenuous in light of what they were running from, and yet…

"Not in my mother's house," she breathed, though she wasn't entirely convinced, herself.

He set her on her feet again; his arms remained looped around her. "Pardon me for taking a moment to dream after five days of stress."

"I don't think it's going to get easier."

"Not in every regard. But in some."

"Go wash up."

The man had the nerve to kiss the corner of her mouth, but did not give her a chance to reciprocate. He turned and retrieved his shirt from the floor, and walked off in search of a bath. It punctuated the admission they had shared with a controlled finality. He had deep, intense feelings for her, and that was that. She could just deal with it.

Hermione peeked into the kitchen. Her mother wasn't there. She found her way down the hall, following the sound of soft humming, and found Helen sorting a pile of clothes on her bed. When Hermione rounded the doorway, Helen made a satisfied hum of approval. The door to the washroom closed at the opposite end of the hall, so Hermione felt safe to cover her mouth and laugh conspiratorially. "How much did you hear?"

"None," Helen chuckled, "but you look flushed."

Hermione groaned. "Well. All I'll say is, you may have been correct."

"A mother knows these things." Helen winked. "The bed is made up in the spare room for you both. I'd apologize that I got rid of the sofa recently, but I'm not really sorry, and that giant of a man would not have fit on it anyway. Do you need anything?"

"Eight hours of sleep wouldn't be unwelcome. Thanks, mum."

"I put the pyjamas on the bed for you. I'll have a few things for you to take with you in the morning."

"Mum…" Hermione stepped further into the room. "We… we may not see each other for a long time after this."

"You always come back to me."

"I always will."

Helen bid her goodnight and Hermione retreated to the spare room, which shared a wall with the bath. The sound of the shower running was punctuated with droplets hitting the porcelain in an irregular pattern as Draco washed up. She tried not to dwell on the fact that he was completely naked on the other side of the wall, or that he would be sharing this small room with her. She resolved to herself to think of him going forward as Draco. That was his name. Calling him 'Malfoy' felt like an accusation of character, and she knew better.

It was both a relief and panic-inducing that he had opened himself up to her. Now, she had another person to lose.

She changed out of her only clothing items and thoroughly scourgified herself, before changing into her mother's pyjamas. They were quite cozy and printed with tiny, dancing teapots. The legs of her trousers were easy enough to clean; fresh blood didn't stain too badly, even if it was on denim. Hermione laid his jumper reverently over the foot of the bed and sat down. Her muscles ached as she relaxed.

Gods. Five days was not long at all to have one's world flipped on its head. She missed her cottage, her bed with the perfect number of pillows, her owl, her books and how they bowed the shelves. She missed her garden with it's untameable ivy and stubborn rose bushes. Her solitude, but not the loneliness. In other ways, she missed the constant warmth of Draco's room in the Manor with the roaring hearth and the way the light streamed through the great windows in the atrium. The library… that beautiful library which was now a minefield of glass, she missed the plush carpets and the chair in which he had taught her the first lesson on Occlumency. So much had happened to them. Every day spanned a decade of emotions and occurances-they operated in fast-forward. Now, they needed a plan, and she needed to finish her report. Hermione held her and Draco's wands and considered them. They looked well together. Then, she scoffed. She was becoming indulgent.

"Shall I brace myself for ennui, or are you finished?" Draco stood in the doorway in a fresh change of clothing (a soft looking knit jumper and green tartan pyjama pants-curse him for having remembered his own pack), with steaming mug of tea in one hand, and her father's briefcase in the other. She smiled gently and scooted over on the bed. He closed the door and sat beside her, setting the briefcase on the bedside table. "Nice pyjamas."

"Is that for me?"

"No, it isn't."

She gasped in mock-indignation. "Chamomile is my favorite!"

"I know." He sipped his tea and eyed her. "If you're lucky, I might share it."

"Fine."

He paused for a moment. "On second thought, Granger. Why don't you have it? I'm much more of an English breakfast man. This is too flowery." She took the mug from him greedily, and snuggled her hands into her sleeves to guard them from the heat. She handed him his wand in exchange. He leaned over until his shoulder pressed to hers. "Of course I made it for you, woman."

"Mum always keeps a box of chamomile on hand for me."

"She doesn't seem unwell, despite what you said."

Hermione shook her head. "It's been an ordeal to get her healthy again. That's how this whole thing began. I just wanted to bring a few healers from Russia to England, specialists in memory-related ailments, specifically Obliviation patients. Covington blocked their visas, so I moved her here, where they can legally visit. Then, I researched his record out of spite. All because of mum."

He frowned. "She was obliviated?"

"Right before the war broke out."

"Who would have done that?"

She took several deep sips of the tea and let the flowery liquid coat her tongue. "...I did."

Draco set his hand on her knee and rubbed it in reassurance, which gave her courage to elaborate. "It took a while for me to convince her to move here after my father died. It's hard to visit more than a few times a year. I filed an immigration request with Ambassador Dolman so I can move her somewhere I don't need permission to apparate, like Wales, but he's overwhelmed with the refugee crisis. I probably shouldn't have brought us here, but it was the only place I could think of where nobody of consequence knows what it means to me, even Ron."

"Except me."

"Right."

"How did your father die?"

She smiled at him sadly. "You saw what happened." Hermione turned away from him and dragged her mass of hair over her shoulder, balancing her nearly empty mug on her knee. She plaited her thick locks, choosing what she might say to explain what had really happened. Somehow, Draco had become the only person to whom the truth wasn't met with automatic judgment, so the best thing to share would be the truth, right?

"If I told you that I killed him, what would you do?"

She felt his weight shift on the bed as he sat on his knees behind her. "Did you?"

"Would it matter if I did?" She secured the braid with her hair-tie and finished off the rest of her tea. It was bitter, or maybe tasteless when up against the admissions in her mouth.

"It does to you. And frankly, I'm the last person who should weigh in on that particular topic." Draco touched her elbow and eased the empty mug out of her hands. Hermione yawned, despite feeling ready to cry. He held up the quilt and gestured for her to slide beneath the covers. He flicked his wand and dimmed the light by half. Hermione pillowed her hands under her head, facing him as he pulled back his side of the covers and mirrored her posture. "Is this alright?" he asked.

"Fine. You don't mind being on that side, do you?"

"It's a bed, not a quidditch pitch." He considered her for a moment, before gesturing for her to raise her head. He slipped a small decorative pillow, a little velvet thing, beneath her cheek. When she settled down again, Hermione felt overwhelmed by the comfort of the position. For extra measure, Draco tugged the quilt up to her chin.

He waited, watching her with a patient intensity in his stare. Like he had all the time in the world.

Hermione held out her hand. He took it. "I obliviated them both, back when Muggle-born parents were being targeted. I tried to reverse it once the war was over, but… he wasn't the same. He became angry, vicious-he hit her. That day… the memory I showed you… as he choked me, I closed my eyes, and… there was a big explosion, all the lights went out. He was unconscious when I came to. When the paramedics arrived, they said he had a heart attack. He died on the way to hospital. I don't know if I did it, or if his heart truly gave out. That is why I panicked when you told me what you had done."

He stroked her knuckles. "You gave your mother a new life."

"I don't want to be a killer."

"You get used to it." His expression was sad and resigned, like he felt guilty. She squeezed his hand.

"I don't mean it like that-"

"I'm not upset with you." Draco rolled onto his back and laid her hand flat on his chest. "It's animalistic, it's instinctual."

"Don't you think about the person after? Feel guilt?"

He glanced at her out of the corner of his eye. "Every time, save one."

"You don't feel the least amount of… pity, for your father?"

He shook his head slowly. "I can't spare one ounce of it. He took my mother from me, my childhood… There are countless unspeakable things for which I do not forgive him. No, I think he deserved to die."

"I pity him."

"Why in Godric's name would you do that?"

"Because he never got to know you."

Draco's eyes closed and his face hardened. "Don't do that."

"What am I doing?" Hermione sat up on her elbow and frowned.

"You can't will me goodness."

"I don't have to imagine what I see." She traced his brow with one finger, which made him open his eyes. He let his wards fall again, let his brow furrow in pain he didn't seem able or ready to speak of.

"You're tired."

"I'm right."

"Go to sleep." He turned away from her, and held her hand hostage, so she was forced to snuggle against his back.

"Tomorrow," she breathed against his neck, inserting herself into the space on pillow, "we must visit Hannah Finch-Fletchley."

"Whatever you want." His voice was muffled against the pillowcase.

Oh. Well, if that was how they were going to operate, Hermione had a few more requests. "I'd like you to kiss me, again." She spoke the words into his back. His shoulder softened a bit, and he drew her palm to his lips.

"I will when you're ready."

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