When the morning light broke through the sheer curtains, Hermione finally woke from what felt like eternal slumber. Though her head no longer pounded in agony, her body ached. Her legs and arms felt heavy with exhaustion despite just waking up, but that ache paled in comparison to the sharp burn that her abdomen held, as if she had done thousands of crunches or taken repeated blows to the belly. The ache of muscle fatigue reminded her of being back on the run: unpleasant, never ending.

One at a time, she slowly opened her eyes, fearful the morning light would induce the sharp stab of the headache she normally felt upon first waking, but it never came. Turning her head on the soft pillow, Hermione looked around the room, cautiously taking in the unfamiliar space. For a moment, she forgot where she was and what had happened, but as she made her canvass of the room, her eyes fell on the sleeping form of her oldest friend, and the need to figure out how she got there vanished.

Harry was slumped forward in a silly looking chair, his torso draped across the bed, and his right hand curled loosely around her left hand. Brown eyes widened, staring at the intimate gesture as her fingers flexed in his hand, the impulse to lace them in his only stopped by a dark memory in the back of her mind that reminded her that Harry was no longer the same boy she once knew. She loved him—as she always would—but she also loathed him. He left her. He had been too busy for nine years. Nine bloody years!

It was only when the intense feelings of her past ten years began to bubble in her chest, did the memories of the past seventy-two hours flood back to her like a stampeding erumpent. Fast and hard with no mercy. Memories of the fever, the retching, the consuming pain that had made every tiny part of her body scream in agony and—worse—the way she begged for death all returned. She could vividly recall crying out and begging for whoever was in the room to end her life, wishing for the strength to do it on her own just so the feeling might stop. Had it been Harry who sat by her bed, stroking her hair, whispering soft words in an attempt to sooth her torment? Had it been Harry who rubbed her back as she retched until blood spilled past her lips? If it had been, how could he ever look at her the same? How could he sit by and hold her hand while she slept? As if he were some sort of devoted friend. She hadn't been around Harry in years, yet suddenly he was here demanding the world from her.

Hermione slowly pulled her hand from Harry's, careful not to wake him as she pushed herself up to sit in the bed. "Oh fuck," she hissed loudly, wincing as the burning in her abs turned into a sharp, stabbing pain and stopped her in her tracks. Brown eyes flickered to Harry, who shifted in his sleep, his hand sliding across the floral quilt until his fingers brushed against her thigh. Biting her bottom lip to prevent herself from crying out again, Hermione pushed herself up and swung her legs out from under the covers. She scooted to the edge of the bed and tested the strength of her legs, wanting to make sure she could hold her own weight and not end up collapsing on the floor.

Bare feet padded lightly against the cold wooden planks as she edged around the bed, warily watching Harry sleep and praying he would not wake while she was fleeing her bed. As she crossed the room, she saw a thick, white cotton robe draped across the dresser by the closet door, and she pulled on the oversized housecoat, the hem hitting her ankles, and she had to roll up the sleeves several times before her hands were visible. It was far from a perfect fit, but it would hide the thin pair of boxers and white tank top in which she found herself from any wandering eyes.

She moved from the bedroom, careful to keep her footfall light as she crept past Harry. She wasn't ready to face him yet. She wasn't ready to face anything, truthfully. For the first time in what felt like years, she could finally see the world without the numbing haze of drug or drink. Everything appeared sharper than before, like she'd finally donned a pair of glasses after a lifetime of struggling to see clearly. She could make out the tarnish around the brass doorknobs and the way the morning sunlight cast rainbow prisms through the glass on the hallway walls. She could feel the grain of the wood beneath her bare feet, and as her fingertips brushed around the inside hem of the housecoat, the soft cotton reminded her of sheep's skin: supple, eternally soft, and comfortable.

But on the opposite spectrum from this newfound wonderland of crystal clear senses was Hermione's realization of the crippling emotional impact sobriety had thrust upon her. She no longer had any means to numb her problems. She knew that any conversation with Harry would result in much deeper anguish than she was prepared to deal with. Everything still felt too raw, even after all these years. She wasn't even sure what he expected of her at this point. did he want her to thank him for caring enough to come back after nine bloody years of silence, like some white knight on his horse to rescue her? She'd never asked for help. She'd never needed rescuing. No, what she needed was for Harry to stop acting like he was doing her a bloody favor and let her get back to the life she had grown accustomed to.

Hermione was so lost in absorbing the new sensations of life not under the influence that she didn't even notice Malfoy sitting in the armchair as she walked into the living room. She was halfway through, eyes lingering on the floral paintings that lined the walls when his crisp voice pulled her back to reality.

"You're finally up." Draco had not even bothered to lift his eyes from the daily copy of The Wizard's Voice as he spoke to her. His hair was already meticulously coiffed, not a single strand out of place, and he was dressed for the day in a pair of dark wash slim cut jeans, a pair of brown boots, and a forest green jumper that Hermione would be remiss to ignore and which did wonders for his pale complexion. She could not help but feel more than a little unnerved by his casual appearance. She had spent years growing up alongside him, and as a boy, he had clung to a jarring professionalism uncanny for a boy his age and wore suits nearly exclusively from third year on. How had he transitioned from wearing something so formal to something so casual? Worse yet was the fact that even now, dressed down in something one might consider Muggle attire, he still appeared arrogant—like the world was his for the taking should he so choose.

Draco took his time, finishing reading the article about his client—Celestra Topps—and how her latest single was considered to be her best yet. Celestra had been one of his first, saving her career after a nasty divorce from a man many considered American Royalty even though the bloody titles didn't exist. He had pulled the middle-aged witch back from the brink of self-destruction and turned her failing singing career into a multi-million Dragot empire. And even though his job with her was long complete, he always felt the need to keep tabs on her just in case warning signs began to appear.

Folding the paper in half, Draco uncrossed his legs and leaned forward to set the paper on the worn coffee table before he picked up his cup of tea by the saucer. "How are you feeling this morning?"

Hermione's tongue darted out to moisten her dry lips as she watched him settle back into the chair, his long legs crossing at the knee as he sipped idly on his tea like everything was right in the world. The impulse to cross the room and upend the cup on his head grew stronger with each tick of the second hand from the grandfather clock beside her. "How am I feeling?"

Draco pulled the teacup from his lips, the smoky flavor from his Earl Grey lingering on his tongue as he set the saucer in his lap. His head cocked to the side, grey eyes examining the way her skin glistened in the light of the room. She looked healthier than before. Thin, yes, but the death-like blue undertones she held three days prior were gone. "Clearly your comprehension skills have not returned." Draco sighed. "I hope the damage isn't lasting—I've always liked to verbally spare with a well-educated opponent."

"I understood you perfectly fine," Hermione replied quickly, her cheeks flaming crimson. "I was just shocked you would bother to ask how I felt. That's all."

The corner of Draco's mouth pulled up in a playful smirk, and he lifted his brows at the witch. "I'm an arsehole, Granger, not inhuman. Seeing as you've been unwell for three days, I think I am well within my rights to inquire about your physical state, especially considering I've helped Potter clean up your sick on more than one occasion."

"I—you—" Hermione stammered over her words, her blush deepening as she pulled her eyes away from his to look at her unpainted toes as shame washed over her. He had helped take care of her? Why the bloody hell would he do that!? He hated her. He—he should have turned down the bloody job! He should have left her alone. "I didn't ask for your bloody help!"

"You wouldn't have been able to ask, even if you wanted to," Draco responded plainly, "Someone else had to do it for you."

His response was simple, succinct, and straight to the fucking point. It left no room for to her argue despite her need to defend what little honour she still held. She knew her life was shit, and deep down she knew there was a problem. But it was her problem, no one else's, and certainly not Malfoy's and Harry's. Her nostrils flared in silent contempt as she bit the inside her bottom lip to keep from lashing out at him again.

"Stop arguing, Granger. It's too early, and quite frankly, I have not ingested enough caffeine to deal with the conundrum that is your psyche." Draco sighed, gesturing to the open couch on his left. When the upset witch finally relented and moved to sit down he pulled his wand from where it lay nestled between his thigh and the armchair. He lifted it towards the kitchen and muttered a soft enchantment. Behind him, a blue floral teacup and saucer floated leisurely toward the sitting area, followed closely by a plain white teapot and matching cream and sugar containers.

The teapot and its accoutrements found a home in the middle of the coffee table, staging itself perfectly in front of Hermione while the teacup and saucer lingered in the air in front of her as if waiting to be taken before the magic that brought them to life would disappear. With an exasperated sigh, Hermione leaned forward and plucked the saucer from the air before she set it on the table a little more forcefully than intended. Seeing him use his wand made her realise that hers was noticeably missing. A creeping unease worked its way up her spine at the realization. Since acquiring her new wand—a twelve inch applewood with a dragon heartstring core that Ollivander personally crafted for her after the war—it rarely left her side. She had experienced what it felt like to lose her wand once before and had no plans of revisiting that time in her life in the future. Normally, she kept it on her nightstand or tucked under her pillow, but she simply couldn't remember setting it down—in fact, she couldn't remember even having her wand before all this mess started. "Malfoy, where is my—"

"Locked away in my trunk." Draco didn't even have to wait for her finish her question. He knew it was coming; how could it not? Not having one's wand felt like losing a hand, and Merlin forbid that you had to use someone else's. His own experience using his mother's was less than thrilling. His magic had felt stifled, like he couldn't use the full force of it to his advantage. But removing her ability to use magic was a necessary part of her treatment, at least while they were in the beginning stages of healing.

"What?" Hermione's voice ticked up an octave with her question, eyes flashing violently at the blond wizard.

Draco's head cocked to the side as he studied Hermione, watching the flicker of flames burn behind her eyes. It was a mere glimpse of the witch he used to know. She had been so full of passion as a girl; her desire to right all the wrong in the world was part of the insufferable personality trait many loved and hated about her. She was the embodiment of what pure-bloods hated—the embodiment of what his family told him to despise. But she had fallen so bloody far. Those pictures he had in the file barely looked like the same girl he had known. She had grown, yet she obviously still had much to learn. "Don't worry, Granger. It's quite safe. You'll get it back soon enough."

"Soon enough?" Hermione scoffed in disbelief. Her brow furrowed in anger and she leaned forward, perched on the edge of the couch now, her body tensed like a wounded panther ready to pounce at any moment. "This isn't a bloody joke, Malfoy. I want my fucking wand. Now!"

"I'm sorry; I never implied I thought this was a joke. Did you think it was?" Draco slowly uncrossed his legs and leaned forward to set his teacup down before steepling his fingers together under his chin.

"I've been paid—quite handsomely, mind you—to help you detox, Hermione. And once that job is done, we have to move onto much harder aspects of your recovery like repairing your public image and securing you gainful employment that doesn't involve sucking cock for a few pills. This is far from a joke, Granger. You will find no one in this cabin is laughing at the thought of dedicating the next several weeks to living life far from our creature comforts just so you can have a chance at life once more."

Hermione jaw worked like she held a mouthful of tacks as his words sunk in.

"I didn't hire you," Hermione snapped, nostrils flaring. "I never asked for this. I don't bloody want this. What I want is for you to give me my fucking wand and remove the wards from this cottage so I can go back to my bloody life in London. Far away from you."

"What you want and what you need are two very distinct things."

"What do I bloody need then?" Hermione challenged, a thin brow lifting. "Since you think you know me so fucking well." She sat silently, watching as Draco took his time assessing her with a morbid curiosity, like she was some sort of challenge or puzzle he had yet to figure out.

"You need to start over. You need to understand that you've relied on outside influences for far too long. You came into the magical world at eleven and immediately found yourself a sidekick to an adolescent with a death wish. You fostered your magical talent out of necessity, not practicality. You used to be a gifted witch with so much promise. 'Brightest of her age' or some drivel like that, but take a moment to think about how much promise you hold now. Magic has not done good things for you, Granger. Quite the opposite, in fact. It's brought you pain. Knowing this—and that it is a requirement in my program—you are no longer using magic until you are released back to London.

"You've relied on your magic, drugs, and drink for far too long. You need to remember 'Muggle Hermione,' the annoying little shit of a girl whose eyes would light up when she would swish her wand and make a feather float. The same girl who corrected everyone in the bloody classroom, including the professor, because she'd read the textbook front to back. You need to find that passion again, and only then can you begin to relearn 'Magic Hermione.'"

"They aren't two different people living inside me," Hermione snapped, arms crossing over her bust. "I'm one bloody person who would very much like her wand and freedom back. These two 'Hermiones' you talk about are both me!"

"Clearly not, Granger," Draco replied crisply, his disbelief evident in his tone.

"I think I would bloody well know!" Hermione shouted, the air in the room suddenly snapping to life with an electrical current from her magic that threatened to spill over. It had been years since she had an episode of accidental magic, but the vulnerability of him holding onto her wand was clearly too much.

Draco sighed, his head shaking as his eyes rolled to meet the ceiling. "Bloody Gryffindors and their theatrics," he muttered under his breath before scooting to the edge of his chair, his attention turning to the teapot and her empty cup. Setting his own cup down, Draco carefully began to pour them each a steaming cup of the Earl Grey, taking his time to prepare his own to the exact way he liked it—splash of cream, three sugars—before he began to doctor up the witch's. It had been years since he'd shared a meal in the Great Hall with her, but the memory of her morning ritual was still ingrained in him after watching her, the Boy Wonder and King Weasel after all those years: generous cream, one sugar. He could clearly remember remarking to Crabbe and Goyal that it was like she drank tea flavored milk the first time he noticed.

"Enlighten me a bit, Granger," Draco began as he slowly slid the teacup across the coffee table towards her. "How was your life before Hogwarts?"

"What?"

"How was it?" Draco repeated, grey eyes finding brown once more, and his head cocked to the side. "Did you face danger every year in primary school? Did you sneak out of your house to go traipsing around whatever Muggle neighbourhood you grew up in instead of being tucked safely inside your bed? Did you fight for your life while still in nappies?"

"Don't be fucking absurd, of course not." Hermione looked down at the teacup sceptically. It wasn't that she didn't trust the offering of drink from him—he wouldn't very well harm her, not when so much linked her to him and Harry was in the back of the cottage. No,it was the way he prepared it. He didn't so much as bothered to ask how she took her tea , and even though it was prepared according to her preferences, it was the fact that he didn't bloody ask. Like she didn't have a choice in the matter. Reaching out, she pushed the teacup back into the center of the table stubbornly before cocking an eyebrow at him in defiance.

Draco Waved his hand at her as if physically batting away her frustration with him. It would do no good for her to sit there and argue with him when there was still so much to be done. Hermione needed to get past this first hurdle or else the rest of their stay in this cottage would be much longer than he had allotted for. With a small sigh, Draco shook his head before settling back in his chair, his elbows digging into the plush arms. "Just answer the question. How was your life before school?"

"It was—I don't bloody know; it was different. I didn't really have friends, not like at Hogwarts, but I wasn't lonely." Hermione began to explain, her hands sliding across the soft cotton robe on her thighs in a feeble attempt to wick away the sweat lining her palms. "I had my mum and dad. I went to primary school during the day and my parents' office after school before we would go home. It was—I don't know, uh… ordinary."

"So, not dangerous?" Draco confirmed.

"Of course not."

"And after you started at Hogwarts? How was your life then?"

"It was brilliant," Hermione responded plainly, despite the fact that the corners of her mouth pulled up in the tiniest bit of a smile. Memories of her time in the castle lingered at the forefront of her mind like a movie reel of what she would consider the best time in her life. A time when her Mum and Dad were still around, when Harry and Ron still lived with her, and when she was allowed to be whoever she wished.

"I have no doubt that it was marvelous. Walking into a world of magic after years of… well, being a Muggle, but what I am specifically looking for is how it was in comparison to your beginning. You just said it was ordinary. After going to Hogwarts, was your life still ordinary?" Draco pressed.

"You know the answer to that question, Malfoy. Stop beating around the bush."

"Then answer the question. How was your life after you started attending Hogwarts?"

Hermione let out a heavy sigh, lifting her hands in the air. "It was different! Is that what you wanted to hear?" she questioned. "It was still brilliant, but it was different. I had both friends and enemies for the first time! I was on my own, away from everything I knew, and a whole new world was open to me. For the first time I felt like I belonged somewhere. I had Harry and Ron. We had each other's backs, no matter what. We went through a lot as we grew up, yes—"

"Did you fear for your life?" Draco interrupted, lifting up his hand to silence her before she could continue rambling past the point he was trying to make.

"On occasion, yes." Hermione replied. "But again, what does this have to do with me having my wand?"

"Everything. The fact that you can't make the connection simply proves that you need this help—regardless of if you want it or not," Draco began, leaning forward in his chair so he could lean his elbows against his knees, clasped hands resting under his chin as he looked at her. "Granger, when you were introduced to magic, your entire bloody world changed. It wasn't just 'look at these neat little spells I can cast.' It was much more. Your friendships, your safety nets, every bloody thing in your life was uprooted. It's not like that for pure-bloods or even half-bloods. We grow up knowing magic, watching our parents use it from birth to make work around the house easy, or even using it to make us happy by animating an object. It was never a societal norm for you. You never got a slow introduction of magic. Instead, you got handed a wand and told this is how the world truly is."

"Are you really going to sit there and say this is all my fault because I'm muggleborn?!" Hermione snapped in disbelief, eyes wide. Surely he was past the blood prejudice at this point, wasn't he? He saw firsthand how that line of thinking could literally rip families apart.

"Oh, bloody hell." Draco sighed, pressing his index finger into the center of his forehead, eyes closing as he dug into the pressure point. "No, Granger. I am not saying you are any less capable of handling magic because of your parentage. I am simply trying to point out that while I had an integration of magic in my life from the very beginning, you were thrust into the world in the middle of your childhood and everything changed for you from that moment forward. I am saying it is no bloody wonder you turned to alcohol and Dragon's Breath to cope with the shit hand life dealt you."

"I've been dealing just fine, thank you very much," Hermione defended, "I've been in this world for over eighteen years—which is over half my bloody life, I'd like to point out. Taking away my wand is going to have no bearing on this bullshit you're trying to pull. All you're doing is making me defenseless."

"Defenseless? Against who? Hermione, there is no bloody war going on."

Draco's use of her given name was jarring, a bucket of cold water on her psyche rendering her temporarily speechless. Her mouth opened and closed several time as her mind swirled to explain who she needed to defend herself from. There were no more Death Eaters—at least none who admitted to being so publically. The closest anyone got to the level of destruction that Voldemort had wreaked was within the world of wizarding politics. She had no more demons left to face anymore, with the exception of the one who appeared every time she looked in the mirror.

"Since you began using magic at eleven, bad things have happened to you, Hermione. You've fought for your life more times than most people ever face mortal danger. You were publically hunted. A price tag was literally on your head—dead or alive. You had to Obliviate your parents, for fuck's sake. You cannot sit there and tell me that magic had zero negative impact on your life. You are subconsciously tying these negative memories to the use of magic—something you do every day. You are reliving your pain with each spell or enchantment, and I—we—cannot just sit by and act like that isn't the case. "

Draco lifted his hand to smooth back his hair, grey eyes storming with his own repressed emotions. Even years after his own detox, it was hard to sit there and talk about the war so candidly. They had all faced unspeakable horrors then—even those who were under the "privilege" of working for Lord Voldemort. "If it makes it easier for you, everyone in this cottage will refrain from using magic while you recover. However, this stipulation is non-negotiable."

Despite the fact that she wanted nothing more than to sit there and scream and demand her wand back, she could sense there was no arguing her way out of this. Malfoy had made up his mind—clearly—and was not going to back down. Harry had sided with the enemy, all in hopes of making her better. And as fucking noble as Harry's cause was, Hermione found it a bitter pill to swallow, because there was no saving her. He was nine bloody years and countless bottles too late.

"No, this is bloody stupid." Hermione pushed up from the couch, her knee knocking the coffee table and sending the tea sloshing over the rims of the cups as she moved to return to her room. She might be forced to stay in this house, but she would be damned if she was going to spend any more time with Malfoy than was necessary.

"It's rather inconvenient, I agree, but I think we will manage just fine," Draco called out to Hermione, watching as she moved briskly across the room towards the hallway, her bare feet thudding loudly on the wooden floor as she stormed off. "Oh, Granger, before you go," he called out, rising from the armchair and slipping his wand in his back pocket casually.

"What? What else do you fucking want?" Hermione looked over her shoulder, pausing with her hand on the archway into the hallway, brown eyes narrowing.

"You'll need to come put your teacup away. Remember, no magic." His voice took on almost a singsong quality as he gestured to the coffee table, snagging the tea pot and his own cup from the now dirty surface before turning his back on the witch, narrowly catching the two finger salute she sent his way. With his face finally hidden from Hermione's view, Draco allowed a satisfied smirk to wash over his features. For as much as the curly hair swot drove him insane as a boy, he found her defiant charm almost appealing in adulthood. Working with Hermione Granger over the next few weeks was going to be anything but boring.

Author's Note:

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