Disclaimer: I don't own the characters. Just the plot bunny.

Intro: Six months post-war, Malfoy is in serious trouble. He's on the run from the Ministry, Death Eaters, and a deadly curse which is eating him alive. When he hits rock bottom, a change in fortune lands him in 12 Grimmauld Place under the Ministry's custody - and forces Hermione to remember the secrets they've both kept for years. Dramione, Sick!Draco, flashbacks to Hogwarts

Chapter Two

Now

Hermione wasn't sure what she had expected to happen at the end of the war. Part of her believed that she would simply go home for the holidays and come back to Hogwarts the following September, just as she always had before. As if everything would just come back together, like… well, like magic. But, of course, real life was never that simple, and after the dizzying high of their victory came the heavy weight of everything they had lost, everything that had been destroyed. After all, the Ministry was in disarray, Hogwarts itself had been burned to the ground, and both the wizarding and muggle communities had been shattered. There was so much to be done, and what had once been the Order of the Pheonix suddenly became something far more important than the small rebellion it had started out as.

Of course, she would be forced to take a gap year while Hogwarts was rebuilt – the library alone would be a nightmare to restock – and so with a vow to study as much as she could in her free time, she found that she had other work to throw herself in to. After all, Harry was – as usual – at the centre of everything, and therefore so was she. Due to their work during the second wizarding war she, along with other members of Dumbledore's Army, were offered first hand experience shadowing working Aurors. Working in their chosen fields seemed a fair substitute for missing a year of education. Still, she wasn't sure if she fancied much more work out on the frontlines – instead, she was happy to help aid the Order with research from Grimmauld Place, which was quickly becoming a second home for most of Harry's closest friends, as well as remaining the Order's headquarters.

Although, at times like this, it felt an awful lot like being back at school.

"They're fantastically intelligent," Luna was saying airily as they reached the bottom of the stairs. "My father is sure that, with the right training, we may be able to encourage them to speak. Wouldn't that be a thing?"

"Luna…" Hermione bit back the harsh words teetering on her lips. With a deep breath, she shifted the weight of the books under her arm and managed a weary smile. "Please stop talking about Tyrimoots."

Ginny was grinning widely, clearly immensely enjoying the situation, but before Hermione could catch her she had turned on her heel and was pushing open the door to the upstairs drawing room. The hubbub of noise that met them was pleasantly warm and comforting, and Hermione let Luna go on talking dreamily about Tyrimoots as they joined the others. The room was large, and had apparently once been some kind of grand office. Now, it was not, to say the least. The large desk that had once stood in the centre of the room had been pushed back against the wall, and now offered a place for the cage of Ginny's pygmy puff, Arnold. Harry had somehow got hold of a couple of large sofas and armchairs, all mismatching, all different heights. They were angled in a vague circle towards the television, which was currently buzzing and showing nothing but grainy interference. A frustrated Seamus Finnigan crouched in front of it, bashing on it impatiently with his fist, egged on by Neville, Ron, Pavarti, Dean and someone, who were spread across the room. At the desk, near the large window, George was leafing through a book. He looked up as soon as they entered, and his eyes fixed on Hermione.

"Finally, where have you been! Hermione, I need a hand."

She groaned, covering the flicker of pride that someone needed her knowledge. "What, again? I've never even studied business, George."

"No, but you know. I know you know."

She made her way across the room towards him, and he cleared a space for her on the small table which stood beneath the window, covered with mugs and empty glasses.

"Look," he said, pushing a letter towards her and a scroll of parchment. "This is the net profit from last month, but this is the tax I've been charged. That's not right, is it?"

She took the papers from him. He held the book, which she now realised was the pay book, closer so that she could see. She scanned the pages, frowning. In reality, she didn't mind helping him. Although Fred and George had been incredibly successful at setting up the company together, it had become noticeably more difficult in the aftermath of the war when the work usually done by two became work for one. George, to his credit, was managing to keep on top of things, but she knew it was more of a struggle since he'd lost his twin. The shop itself had stood there, windows dark, doors locked, for a good few weeks after the funeral. At one point she'd thought he would sell it and move on, but then one morning when she came downstairs he wasn't there, and he'd come home that night dusty from cleaning it up. A legacy, then, in some way.

"No," she said, eventually. "That is right. Because, look, you imported more of those Spinning Firecrackers from India, and that has a bigger tax than the stuff you import from Europe."

"Yeah, but that much?" he pressed, stabbing a finger at the books. "They're taking all my money!"

"That's how the Ministry works, George," Ron called from the sofa, a handful of crisps halfway to his mouth. "They take your money and they spend it all on fancy features for their offices. They put up a new fountain in the entrance hall just last week, Dad says."

"And St. Mungos, I suppose that's just a fancy feature too, Ron?" Hermione said pointedly.

He waved her words away, distracted by the exclamation from Seamus as he got the television working. The image on screen was flickering and blurry at times, but it was usually good enough for them to get through a movie. The magic-born people in the room perked up, looking with keen interest at the moving colours.

"So what're we watching?" Ginny asked, leaning forwards to see the screen better. "Can we see one of those old films?"

"No, no more old films," Seamus protested, rolling his eyes. "God, they're so boring. No, we're watching a modern classic – like Die Hard!"

Hermione made her way over to one of the sofas as a hubbub of chatter started up. She didn't fail to notice the way Ron tucked his legs in slightly, a wordless invitation for her to sit down with him, but pretended not to see. Instead, she continued over to the other sofa and squeezed in beside Neville, placing her books in a neat pile by her feet. She took the one on the top and flipped it open to one of the pages she had marked earlier, glancing up at the screen. The others had not yet decided on a film, still arguing. She redirected her attention to the pages of the book, frowning as she re-read the series of incantations she had marked out.

"Hermione, you do realise that we're not actually at school anymore?" Ron spoke up, spreading out across the sofa once more. "There's no homework. What could you possibly be doing?"

"There are other reasons to read other than homework," she replied, not lifting her eyes from the page.

"What are you reading?" Neville asked, his voice quiet.

She turned the book over to show him the cover. "I'm checking on the laws about becoming an Animagus. I mean, it's just about as advanced as transfiguration can get, and they're really strict about who's allowed to practise it, but I just think it would be so interesting..."

"They'd let you do it, Hermione," Ginny said, shooting her a smile. "I think you, Ron and Harry pretty much get a free pass with that kind of thing. The Ministry kind of owes you, right?"

Hermione bristled. "No, not necessarily–"

"Do you get to choose what animal you become?" Seamus asked, looking up from his selection of DVDs. "What if you turned out to be something really crap, like a worm, or a bug or something?"

"Well, no," she pushed her hair back behind her ear, but it sprang back again. She put the book down at last, happy to finally be able to talk about something that interested her. "It's linked to your personality, so whatever animal you were would have to reflect yourself in some way."

"So yeah, a worm Seamus," Ron smirked.

"I heard it's supposed to be the same as your Patronus," George put in as Seamus threw a handful of crisps in Ron's direction. "But I've never been able to make a fully formed one, so I don't know."

"Not necessarily," Hermione shifted forwards, sitting up a little straighter. "Because a Patronus can change, but an Animagus' animal form can't."

"Your Patronus can change?" Pavarti said, arching an eyebrow and looking around at the others as if for confirmation. "How?"

"It's, like, if you go through some kind of personal shock," Ginny replied, frowning as she thought. "Like a big emotional event, or…"

Hermione glanced sideways at George, who had suddenly seemed to become very interested in the piece of paper he was looking at. His mouth was set in a hard line. She cleared her throat, hoping to draw the conversation away from the slightly tender topic – she knew he hadn't been able to produce a Patronus charm at all after Fred's death. He had asked her about it once, suspecting the reason for his lack of success, but she knew he didn't like to dwell on it.

"It's a lot of work though – learning to be an Animagi," she said, interrupting Ginny's train of thought. "One of the things you have to do is a hold a leaf of Mandrake in your mouth for a month… I just don't know when I'd have the time."

"Imagine if you became an ant," Ron said, grinning at Dean and reaching for one of the cans of fizzing juice on the coffee table. "Most useless animal ever."

"No – a sloth," Dean shot back. "A chicken."

"An elephant," Ginny said with a laugh. "Just really inconvenient."

Hermione settled back on the sofa once more, the conversation rolling on into uncharted territory. Neville seemed interested enough, so she angled the book slightly towards him and let him read over her shoulder. The others eventually managed to decide on a movie, after much deliberation, and she glanced up every now and again while she read. They turned off the lights to watch it, and the dimness made it harder for her to read, but she couldn't watch whatever they had settled on for long without getting bored.

Around an hour passed before she finally heard footsteps on the stairs, and straightened up a little just before the door inched open and Harry's messy black hair appeared. The light from the screen reflected off his glasses as he blinked into the dark room.

"You've only just finished?" Ron said blearily from the sofa. "How long was the meeting?"

Harry made his way in, closing the door softly behind him. He leaned against it, scrubbing a hand over the back of his head, looking at the flickering images rushing across the screen. He was frowning, as if he was deep in thought, his lips hovering just open as if turning words over in his head.

"Long," he said at last. "Couple of things came up."

"Everything ok?" Ginny asked, shifting around on the sofa to look at him.

"Yeah, yeah," Harry said. He hesitated, still messing distractedly with his hair.

"Ok, well, come and sit down then," Dean called. "There's still, like, half of this to go…"

"Yeah, I know…"

Harry made his way over to the space Ginny was making for him on the sofa. He sat down, but rather than settling back, placed his elbows on his knees and leaned forwards. Hermione, noting his trepidation, closed her book.

"What's going on, Harry?" she asked.

He looked at her, but still he held back. She frowned at him, trying to silently understand what he was holding back. It didn't seem to be anything too serious – he didn't look particularly worried. It was more a kind of apprehension, or reluctance, as if he were about to give them some disappointing news. But whatever was wrong was not coming through telepathically, and after a couple of seconds he sighed and glanced around.

"Who has the remote? Can we pause it for a sec – sorry, I know, there was just something that… came up, and you guys should probably know."

Amongst the grumbling and mutterings from Ron, George and Dean, Seamus retrieved the remote from beneath one of the sofas and paused the movie. Hermione dug out her wand and waved it at the lights, bringing them back on so that they didn't have to sit there in darkness. The others blinked in the sudden glare, unfolding themselves from their slouched positions across the chairs, sofas and floor.

"Is everything ok?" Ginny asked again, reaching for Harry's hand.

He nodded quickly, finally managing a smile. "Yeah, really, everything's fine, it's just… just some things that were decided during the meeting."

"Did Hestia have any news about the attacks?" Pavarti said, shifting forwards. "Have they arrested anyone?"

"They have a few suspects but they haven't really made any headway, no," Harry said. "But she said she'd be happy to run a few more training days with anyone who's interested – like an opportunity to shadow her and some of the other Aurors."

There were several appreciative noises from around the room. Harry glanced at Ginny, as if looking for backup, and then took a deep breath and looked at the rest of the room.

"So, I've got some news that I don't think you guys are going to be happy to hear, but it's on Hestia's orders."

"What?" Ron pressed. "Do we have to do some kind of exam for the Auror training?"

"Someone's going to be staying here for a little while," Harry said carefully. It felt like he was picking his words cautiously in order to avoid saying whatever he needed to say for as long as possible. "It's become kind of unavoidable, because Hestia wants to keep tabs on him, and apparently there aren't any alternatives."

"Wait," George said sharply, leaning forwards. "Hold on, you don't… is this about him? Is that why he showed up here?"

"Who?" Seamus said, with slightly more interest.

"It'll only be for a little bit," Harry continued earnestly. "And, honestly, I reckon he'll just keep to himself. He wasn't all that keen on the idea either."

"Who?" Seamus repeated.

"Harry?" Hermione cocked her head, trying to unpick his words. She couldn't figure out who could be so bad – was he trying to tell them that someone they communally disliked was going to need to stay with them? And how did George seem to know? She looked quickly at him to find him shaking his head, his eyes hard.

"Who, Harry, who?" Seamus said, with increasing frustration. "Come on!"

Harry winced, as if he had just stepped on a splinter. Then, hesitantly, he spoke.

"Draco Malfoy."

A dead, hard silence fell over the room. Hermione stared at him. He was looking at her helplessly, as if silently begging her to back him up. She went over the name again in her head, wondering if she had misheard him, but the wide-eyed glances being exchanged across the room among the others told her that she hadn't. She swallowed hard, suddenly all too aware of her own heartbeat.

"Is this some kind of joke?" Ron said, his voice suddenly unforgivingly cold. "You can't be serious."

"He's on the run," Harry explained, shrugging feebly. "Apparently the remaining Death Eaters aren't thrilled that he quit and have been hunting him down – that's how Hestia found him. And she thinks that he might be able to help them with their investigation, so she needs to keep track of where he is."

"But why does he have to be here?" Neville said in a small, pleading tone. "Isn't there somewhere else…"

"Malfoy?" Ginny said, her eyes narrowing. "The guy who lives in a Manor, whose family fortune is bigger than all of ours put together, suddenly needs somewhere to stay?"

"You're really going to let him stay here?" Dean said darkly. "How do you know he's not here to spy on us? Or get inside information on the Ministry?"

"Draco fucking Malfoy," Seamus muttered.

Hermione let their words wash over her, still reeling from the news. She couldn't quite make herself understand it. He must be here, in the very same building as her, at that very moment. Her eyes drifted upwards towards the ceiling, and she found herself wondering which room he was in. What he was doing. God, she hadn't allowed herself to think of him in months. The last time she had seen him, they had been in the midst of a battle. He had flashed past her once or twice, but she hadn't had the opportunity to find him afterwards. She couldn't count the number of times she had sat and written out a letter to him and then crumpled up the parchment and thrown it away. She had always fallen just short of contacting him, just to see how he was, where he was… She wasn't even sure if he would have responded.

And now, as suddenly as he had gone, he had reappeared in her life.

"… needs somewhere," Harry was saying, and she forced herself to pay attention. "We can't just turn him out on the streets, can we?"

"Yes," Ron said coldly. "What the fuck do we owe Malfoy?"

"Nothing – look," Harry said, appealing to them all, hands held out in surrender. "As soon as we can move him on, we will. It's just for now. And Hestia's got her eye on him."

Hannah Abbot muttered something under her breath. George's eyebrow was cocked in disbelief. Neville looked white in the face, as if he had just seen a large, unpleasant spider.

"Anyway," Harry continued wearily, "He's in the attic room. Didn't think anyone would really want to share with him. If he causes any trouble, if anything happens, just let me know and we'll sort it out. But for now… For now that's just how it has to be."

"Jesus," Seamus smirked. "We've become a rehoming centre for abandoned Death Eaters. When did that happen?"

Dean laughed, and the atmosphere managed to brighten a little. Ron's face remained dark as thunder, and George shook his head once more before reaching for his parchment and returning to his work. Before long, Ginny had put the movie back on and the lights were off and they were distracted.

Hermione sat there for another half hour or so before excusing herself, claiming she was tired, and wanted to concentrate on her reading in her room for a while. She left the room in such a hurry that she almost forgot her books.

She dropped them off at her room on the way past and then took the stairs up to the attic two at a time. She was breathless when she reached the top and her hands were clammy and trembling at her sides. She wiped them on her jeans, trying to steady her breathing. The tiny attic corridor was dark, and the door to the attic room was shut. The lights inside were off. She stood there, listening to the thick silence, almost daring herself to knock. Eventually, her breath catching in her throat, she raised her fist and rapped softly on the wood.

She waited.

After a few moments she knocked again, and then again a minute or so later. She wondered if Harry had said the wrong room, but in truth there were no other single rooms which could have been used. She tried the doorknob, but the door refused to budge. He had locked it. She pulled out her wand and then returned it to her pocket, unable to justify simply letting herself in.

"Hello?" she said at last, trying to keep her voice low. "Draco?"

Her words were met with nothing but the voiceless, unremitting door. She wrung her hands together, wet her lips.

"Draco? Are you there?"

Still, nothing but silence. She stood there in the dark corridor for a few minutes longer, wrestling with herself. Because even though she hadn't spoken to him in months, and even though she had no idea what either of them were supposed to say, she knew beyond all doubt that she wanted to see him. As soon as Harry had said his name, she had known that she had to see him. And yet the room was quiet and dark, and there was no answering voice there to greet her.

She stayed a while longer, until she heard voices below. Only then did she retreat and shut herself back into the room she shared with Ginny, Luna and Hannah, her stomach heavy with disappointment. She climbed into bed before they got back, but she spent the whole night wide awake and staring up at the ceiling. She wondered if he was doing the same.

Then

Fourth Year

"Miss Granger," called McGonagall as the class began to pack up their books. "May I see you, please?"

She hefted her bag onto her shoulder as she slipped out from behind her desk and headed up to the teacher's desk, the other students filing out into the corridor with a gentle buzz of chatter around her. The door swung shut, cutting off the gentle roar, and she slowed to a halt beside the teacher's desk where McGonagall was shuffling papers around. The older woman looked at her student over her glasses, her lips pursed.

"I understand you have a free period before dinner, correct?"

"Yes, Miss."

"Then I wonder if I may ask a favour of you."

Hermione blanched at this. The enquiry was incredibly casual and direct, as if thrown out between two friends over a couple of Butterbeers. She nodded dumbly, watching as McGonagall packed her quill and books away into her bag and swept her wand to usher some textbooks up onto a nearby shelf.

"I have an urgent meeting with Professor Dumbledore regarding the dormitory arrangements for the Durmstrang and Beauxbatons students. Apparently some students have been crossing between the dormitories after hours, and something really must be done about it. I wonder if you could oversee detention for the following hour."

At this, Hermione's mouth fell open. She stuttered a couple of times before McGonagall smiled bemusedly, straightening up from her desk.

"Come now, Miss Granger, I'm sure we both know that you're a sure candidate for Gryffindor House Prefect next year, so you'll be doing jobs such as this all the time in a matter of months. You're completely responsible and conscientious enough to handle it. Now, if you'd rather I call someone else down…"

"No, no," Hermione managed at last, getting over her initial surprise. "Of course, Professor, I'll do it."

"Thank you," Professor McGonagall said, lifting her bag from the desk. "There's only one student to watch in any case. You can ask him to sharpen the quills in that box – without magic, might I add – and he need only stay until dinner."

Hermione nodded, following her teacher's gesture to a large wooden box on the front desk. McGonagall stepped out from behind the desk and moved towards the classroom door, weaving her way through the smaller student desks.

"You may, of course, sit there," she called over her shoulder, indicating her own desk. "And if he gives you any trouble, please inform me at once."

Hermione nodded dumbly, watching until her teacher had swept out into the corridor with a rustle of fabric. Letting her bag drop to her feet, she gazed down at the padded, curved chair which stood behind McGonagall's desk before dropping into it slowly, running her hands along its smooth, worn arms. From her current seat she could oversee the entire room, and she had an odd sensation of how McGonagall must see the class. She placed her hands on the thick, glossy desk, eyeing the delicate ink well to her right and the stack of books to her left. She had only read two of them – the other two she had not even heard of. Her fingers itched to leaf through them, but she had not been given permission and was not brave enough to delve into her teacher's private collection. Instead, she settled back in the chair. She had often considered becoming a teacher, mainly due to the options it opened up for her to continue her studies and be paid for it. She felt she was being granted a strange little preview of what such a career would entail.

She was still envisioning herself sweeping across the front of the classroom, pointing out various incantations and gestures to an attentive class of round-eyed pupils, when the door swung open and a distinctly familiar figure slouched into the room, hands buried deep in his pockets, a glare ready on his face. At which point her imagination was cut off with a sudden jolt and she was instead filled with despair.

The student standing in the doorway had white blonde hair scraped tightly back against his scalp in a fashion that resembled the head of an otter, or so she had always thought. He had grown several inches from last year and was now obviously taller than her, and more slender and elegant than both Ron and Harry's more awkward, gangly frames. His face was twisted into a sneer that was instantly and horribly familiar. And the last time she had seen him, he had been lurking in the woods around the Quidditch World Cup camp, and a livid green sign of the Death Eaters had been floating in the air above them.

It could only have been Draco Malfoy.

The expression that dawned on his face as he laid eyes on her seemed to sum up exactly the way she felt herself, and he scowled and slammed the door shut behind him.

"You've got to be fucking joking."

She lifted her chin defiantly, feeling somewhat empowered by her position at the front desk. "Apparently not. McGonagall asked me to oversee detention, so you might as well–"

"Oversee detention?" he repeated mockingly, sneering at her. "Oh, I bet you're loving this, aren't you Granger? Swotty fucking Granger, so smart that all the teachers ask her to lead the class."

She felt her face flushing red and straightened her shoulders, trying desperately to appear in control of the situation. All she could rely on was the fact that she was acting on McGonagall's orders, so it wasn't really her fault if Draco left. She wasn't responsible. Still, she tried to appear confident, despite the heat she could feel in her cheeks.

"Sit down, Malfoy," she said coldly. "McGonagall said you had to sharpen those quills. And she said to tell her if you played up, so don't think I won't report you if you try anything."

He shook his head, laughing icily. "As if. Not that I wouldn't just love to spend my free time sitting here with you, but I have better things to do."

"Fine, go!" she said, folding her arms. "Doesn't matter to me. You'll only have to come back later and have it with McGonagall."

He snorted, but he didn't leave. She waited, her arms folded, her heart beating fast in her throat. She wasn't used to speaking to him so directly. In fact, the only time she had reacted to his taunts in any way was when she had punched him on Buckbeak's execution day. But that day seemed very long ago now, and she didn't have the same fury in her, and he was much, much taller than her now. He looked at the door, as if about to leave, and then suddenly, to her surprise, groaned and sauntered over to one of the desks in the front row. He threw his bag onto the floor and sat down heavily, shoving his chair back from the desk.

"Fine," he snapped. "But only because I have Quidditch after dinner."

"Like I care," she retorted, pulling out a couple of scrolls of paper and some books. If she had to remain there for the next hour with him, she might as well get some work done. She set out the parchment and readied her quill, peering down at the assignments they had been set that day. She could feel Draco's eyes on her and glanced up sharply, tilting her elbow towards the quill box.

"Well? Better get on with it, hadn't you?" she said. "And she said no magic."

"Sorry, Professor," he smirked. "Are you going to discipline me?"

She stared fiercely at her homework, furious at the heat in her face. She heard him sniggering at her expense, but he did not take the conversation any further. She heard a soft scratching and sneaked a glance up to find that he was picking at one of the quills with the knife disinterestedly, his lip curled in distaste. Relieved, she flipped open one of her books and trailed her finger down the contents page. She sketched out a quick plan of her essay in her notebook, then hunched over her parchment and began scribbling an introduction. She was a third of the way through when the screech of chair legs on the floor jogged her and left a messy scrawl across her essay. Draco had shoved his chair back and was now lounging back with a wide grin on his face, enjoying her frustration.

"Problem, Granger?"

She scowled and snatched up her wand, waving it over the mistake to erase it.

"Oh, no, did I ruin your precious homework? Oh, the horror."

She pressed harder than necessary as she wrote, doing her best to simply ignore him. It was incredibly difficult. She worked best in quiet conditions, and she wished she could scurry off to her usual corner of the library. Why on earth had McGonagall asked her to watch over this particular detention? Why did it have to be Malfoy? She felt foolish for enjoying the feeling of sitting at her teacher's desk, stupidly thinking she was overseeing some nervous first year. And now she could barely focus on her homework, distinctly aware of Malfoy's laughing eyes on her. He hadn't even started sharpening the quills, simply stripping away the feathers of the first one he had picked up. She wasn't about to challenge him further on it. She wished he had just left and been disciplined properly later by McGonagall.

"Hey, Granger."

She stared at her parchment, gripping her quill tightly.

"Granger. Granger. Hey!"

"What?" she snapped, lifting her head.

He was lolling back in his chair, balanced on the two back legs. A jeering smirk had spread over his face. He flicked his hair back out of his face, looked her up and down.

"You know, they'll hold a ball this Christmas. The Yule Ball."

"So?"

"I was just wondering what you were planning on doing for it," he said nonchalantly. "You know, since nobody's going to ask you. Are you still going to go? It would be so brave of you."

She knew her face was burning red, but she bit back any response and focused instead on her homework, the words blurring together on the page. She hated that he knew how to get at her. She hated that she cared.

A sudden tapping made her jump, and she looked up to see an eagle owl hovering just outside the window closest to the desk. She didn't recognise it – perhaps it was McGonagall's. She pushed her chair out and crossed the room to unlatch the window. The owl fluttered inside and landed on her offered arm, clicking its beak loudly, holding its wings out for balance.

The impact of chair legs on the stone floor drew her gaze and made the bird squawk. She looked up to find that Draco had sat bolt upright, no longer tilting back languidly in his chair, and was watching her with a narrowed stare.

"That's my owl," he said, the mockery finally gone from his voice.

She glanced again at the roll of parchment. It had no name on it – only the word 'Urgent' scrawled hastily across it. She turned it over to look for any other indication of the addressee, but found nothing. The owl took off once more, bored of its perch, and completed a lap of the room before settling on a high shelf and taking to preening itself. She returned to the desk, placed the parchment down next to her books.

"That's a letter for me, Granger, give it here."

"No."

His head cocked in disbelief, his eyes narrowing. "Excuse me?"

"You can have it afterwards," she said, savagely enjoying the moment of power. Finally, she felt as if she had regained control.

"Give me my fucking letter, you stupid Mudblood!"

The sting of his words was brief, and she pointedly returned her attention to her books. He let out a hiss of frustration and craned his neck to see, his hands balled into fists on the desk.

"What does it say? What does it say there?"

She didn't look up.

"Granger!"

"It says urgent," she said coolly. "But I'm sure whatever it is can wait until the hour is up."

"Are you fucking joking? Let me read it. Now!"

He suddenly pushed his chair back and rose to his feet, as if about to come over, but Hermione snatched up the parchment and met his gaze with an equally hostile stare.

"I said, you'll have to wait."

He glared at her with so much venom that she was surprised she couldn't feel the sting of it. She held the parchment tightly, refusing to let up. His lips quirked slightly, his hard, pale face seeming a little whiter. He placed both hands on the desk, leaning forwards, lowering his voice.

"Look," he said. "I'm not about to go into details, but I need to see what's in that letter. I need to see now. It says urgent – I have a right to read it."

Her conscience was pulling at her, and she couldn't help but hesitate. He was right, and his tight-lipped face seemed genuine. But to give it to him now would be to give in, and she couldn't bear to do that. Not after he had spent so much time humiliating her. She held his gaze for a moment longer, and then sighed and began to unroll the parchment. He flinched forwards at once, taking a couple of steps towards the front desk.

"Hey, I didn't say you could read that!"

"I'm making an executive decision," she said flatly, stopping him in his tracks halfway there. "It's not addressed to anyone. So I'll read it and see if it's important, and if it is, you can have it. If it isn't, if it's some stupid prank, then you'll have to wait for it until the end of the hour."

He shook his head, his tongue caught between his teeth, his arms lifting to fold tightly across his chest. She was sure he was about to tell her how his father would be hearing about this injustice, but for once he kept quiet. His silvery, cold eyes tracked her hands as she unrolled the parchment and scanned the hastily scribbled words on the page. She read them, and then re-read them.

Draco,

Your mother's condition has worsened. We've had to go to St. Mungo's. I'll write when we have more news.

Lucius.

Several things hit her at once, and strangely, the main thing to draw her attention was the fact that Draco's father signed as 'Lucius' rather than 'Dad' or 'father'. But that curiosity fell by the wayside once she re-read the main body of the letter, and she felt her stomach curl into an uncomfortable ball. She instantly regretted opening the letter, instantly wished she had just handed it over to him.

"What?" he pressed, waiting impatiently a few feet away. "What is it?"

She scrambled for words for a couple of seconds before admitting defeat and simply holding out the letter. He strode forwards and snatched it out of her grip, span away from her to read it. Guilt made blood rise to her face for the millionth time within the last few minutes as she watched his hunched shoulders, his white-knuckled hands. He stood there for a long time with the letter, as if he had been asked to memorise it. Then, with a sudden, heavy sigh, he let his hands drop and his head fell back. His blank gaze was directed somewhere towards the ceiling, but she had the feeling that he wasn't really seeing much. The awkwardness of the situation weighed her down, and eventually she couldn't help but speak.

"Malfoy, listen, I'm sorry– "

"I don't need your pity, Granger," he said, his voice deadpan. "Just fuck off, ok?"

He made his way slowly back across the room to his own desk and sat down, the letter still gripped, now crumpled, in one hand. He sat there, his face strangely distanced and ashen, still staring numbly into the mid-distance. She searched for words, came up with nothing. She screamed at herself for taking the letter, for refusing to give it to him.

"Is it serious?" she found herself asking, and cringed at once.

He blinked, turned his eyes slowly on her. She felt as if a mask had just fallen, revealing something raw and deep she had never seen in his face before. When he spoke his voice was very quiet, as if he were talking more to himself than to her.

"I suppose. He won't give me permission."

"Permission?"

He stared at the crumpled piece of paper, smoothed out one of the corners.

"To visit," he explained dully. "He'll say it's best if…"

He broke off, as if suddenly remembering who he was speaking to, and his face seemed to harden. He pushed a hand back through his hair, straightened his back, and then suddenly shoved the parchment into his pocket and picked up the nearest quill. She watched in silent disbelief as he began to sharpen it with slow, careful strokes, concentration etched in every line of his face. Guilt rose up in her like a tide and she suddenly found herself standing up, the chair skittering backwards away from her. Moving with renewed purpose and determination, she walked across the room to the fireplace, which was built into the very back wall, half obscured by the blackboard. She inspected the various items standing on it, passed by a clock, a couple of piles of books, a candle holder… finally, she came across a small metal box. Her heart leaping, she took it from its place and opened the lid. She was met with a supply of fine green dust, glittering softly in the half-light.

She turned to find Malfoy watching her with a perplexed frown on his face. The expression was so unlike his usual sneer that she almost laughed. She held up the box, jerking her head at the fireplace.

"You could go now, maybe?"

He stood, made his way over to her slowly. His eyes flickered between the box and her face, as if he expected her to suddenly throw the powder to the floor and laugh in his face.

"What the fuck are you talking about?"

"You could go to St. Mungo's," she said, holding out the box. "Just to see what the situation is. That owl must have been flying for a while – there might be news. You could be quick – back before the hour's up…"

She trailed off, suddenly realising how ridiculous the whole thing was. He was looking at her as if she had grown a second head. The offered box remained untouched, and she tried to keep her face resolute as she met his gaze.

"You're telling me to steal McGonagall's Floo Powder, pop over to St. Mungo's, and then come back before Detention is over?" he said, arching an eyebrow. "Why the fuck would you want me to do that?"

"Because I shouldn't have read that letter," she said, her voice wobbling slightly. "And I'm sorry, so… So, I'm making it up to you."

His hand reached for the box, and she handed it over. He opened it, pinched the glittering dust between his thumb and forefinger.

"And how do you know I'll come back?" he said. "I doubt McGonagall will be best pleased at you stealing her Floo Powder. Reckon that precious Prefect badge will be off the table, don't you?"

She forced herself to hold his gaze, folding her arms across her chest. She was, once again, getting the feeling that she was rapidly loosing control.

"Well, you'd better come back, then," she said, after failing to come up with anything better to respond with.

The corners of his mouth quirked into a small, strange smile. Not quite a smirk. She stood there, waiting for him to throw the powder on the floor and stalk off, but instead he suddenly took a handful, replaced the box on the mantelpiece, and threw it into the flames. Green light burst upwards as he stepped into the grate, still holding her gaze. She stepped back, and she found herself noticing the silvery-blue quality of his eyes, the way his face settled into a strange sort of smile when he wasn't sneering. Almost attractive. Butterflies burst in her stomach and she caught herself, pulling her gaze away.

She could have sworn he grinned.

"St. Mungo's."

He disappeared into the green flames, and all at once he was gone.

She returned to the desk and sat down slowly. High on one of the shelves, the eagle owl clicked its beak and hooted, flapped its wings. The way it looked down at her reminded her of Malfoy's cool, detached sneer. She could certainly believe it was his owl. She picked up her quill, attempting to return to her homework, but she couldn't concentrate. Her eyes strayed routinely towards the large clock on the wall, watching seconds turn into minutes, becoming uncomfortably aware that McGonagall would be returning in only half an hour. She couldn't quite believe that she had just placed her trust in Malfoy, of all people – if McGonagall returned before he did, any chance of becoming a Prefect would be down the drain. Not to mention the shame of responding to McGonagall's trust in her by stealing her Floo Powder and helping the very person she was meant to be watching escape detention… Hermione groaned under her breath and sat back in the chair, fiddling anxiously with her quill. She watched the hands of the clock creep, and questioned what on earth she had just done.

And, just as she counted five minutes remaining, her heart beating hard in her throat, there was a sudden flash of green light. She twisted about in her chair, dizzy with relief, to see Draco stepping out of the fire grate. He looked oddly shrunken as he brushed ash from his sleeves, his face whiter than usual, his eyes slightly red. But he walked with the same proud saunter as he crossed the room, striding past her without looking at her, and dropped back into his chair. His lips were pressed tightly together, and he did not make any attempt at conversation. His hands, trembling slightly, moved towards the quills and took up his work once more. She sat there, unable to break the silence, watching as he went about his task. She didn't dare ask how it had gone, couldn't even think to understand why he had even returned. She had been so sure that he wouldn't…

Barely a couple of minutes later, the door to the classroom opened and McGonagall appeared. She offered Hermione a small, friendly smile before her face took on its usual stern appearance. She swept across the room and Hermione hastily evacuated the seat at the front desk, piling her books into her bag. She couldn't bear to look her teacher in the face as she did so, crumpling her parchment in her haste.

"Any trouble, Miss Granger?" McGonagall said lightly, looking pointedly at Malfoy.

He kept his head bent, sharpening the quills in silence, his shoulders hunched. Hermione didn't dare look at him, trying to smile in a relatively carefree manner.

"No, not at all," she said, wincing at how false her voice sounded. "All fine."

McGonagall looked at her curiously for a moment, but seemed to accept it. She shrugged, sitting down at her desk and folding her hands on it.

"Very well. You may go, Granger – thank you for your help."

She ducked her head and withdrew from the room as if she were walking on hot coals. She didn't look back to see if he watched her go, but as she pulled the door closed behind her she heard the flutter of wings and a disgruntled hoot.

"Mr. Malfoy, did you bring your owl to detention?"

She all but ran back to the Gryffindor common room.

~O~

He couldn't understand why she had done it, and to his dismay he couldn't get it out of his head. The way she had looked at him, standing before the fire with the box of Floo powder in her outstretched hand, as if she were about to lead an army into battle. It had stirred something in him he didn't know he could feel, and that terrified him. Her sudden determination and consideration for him, the risk she had taken for him, made him uncertain. He hadn't even been able to look at her as she left, and had never felt more relief. He had walked back to the Slytherin common room that night with his head bent, dreading catching sight of her on some corridor somewhere, dreading her asking how St. Mungo's had gone. Not even Crabbe and Goyle, not even Zabini or Pansy knew about his mother. No one did. And it was extremely unnerving that the only person to know something so personal was a Mudblood he routinely bullied.

He managed to avoid her relatively easily over the next couple of weeks. They only had a couple of classes together, and the distraction of the Durmstrang and Florits students meant that there were more students milling around, and less of a chance that he would run into her. But his luck couldn't last forever, and sure enough he found himself faced with her rather abruptly outside Potions. He hadn't expected her – he had been showing Potter the badges Pansy had spent the previous evening putting together. He held his robes out for a better view, and Potter scowled down at the glowing, flashing plastic.

"Like them, Potter?" he smirked, enjoying the sniggers of the other students around him.

"Oh, very funny. Really witty."

He hadn't even noticed her; she had been blocked by Weasley. Only now did she emerge, her bushy hair electric around her face, her lips in a hard line. He only faltered for a second before pulling himself together, all too aware of the eyes of the other Slytherin students around him. His lip curled automatically and he pulled another from his pocket, lifting his chin. He had to find some way to assert his dominance over them, to show that her little stunt in detention hadn't affected him.

"Want one, Granger?" he said lightly. "I've got loads. But don't touch my hand now, I've just washed it, you see, don't want a Mudblood sliming it up."

The hurt showed instantly in her eyes, and for the first time a stab of guilt hit him. Luckily he didn't have to concentrate on it for too long – Potter was already pulling his wand free, his face red with anger. He shook off Granger as she tried to grab his arm, took a step forwards. Draco let out a short laugh, shoving the badge back into his pocket.

"Go on then, Potter," he smirked. "Moody's not here to look after you now – do it, if you've got the guts."

He drew his own wand, all too happy to repair his damaged reputation. Potter glared at him from behind his wiry spectacles. Draco glanced quickly around, making sure that the other Slytherins could see him smirking. It was about time he got his own back after that bloody ferret farce. Potter lifted his wand, and without missing a beat Draco reacted instantly.

"Fernunculus!"

"Densaugeo!"

The spells hit each other and ricocheted off in a medley of crackling light. Draco flinched backwards to avoid the jet of purple light, but it spiralled straight past him and hit Goyle instead. Goyle's wail was unfortunately comical, and Draco couldn't help but snigger as a mass of ugly boils sprung up on his face. A pathetic jinx anyway – as if that was the best Potter had been able to come up with. He turned back towards his opponent, grinning widely, and then froze as he took in the commotion on the other side of the corridor. Weasley and Potter were both fussing over Granger, whose eyes were wide with horror and whose hands were clapped over her mouth. She was shaking her head fervently as Weasley tried to pull her hands away, and Draco felt his gut twist.

"What is all of this noise about?"

The hubbub of chatter and noise in the corridor broke off sharply as Professor Snape appeared in the doorway to the dungeon, his head held high, his haughty gaze trailing over the group of students. It stopped on Draco. He pointed a long finger.

"Explain."

He glanced at Granger. She still looked utterly horrified, still had her hands clamped tightly over her mouth. He returned his wand to his pocket and folded his arms, trying to remain nonchalant.

"Potter attacked me, Sir," he said.

"We attacked each other at the same time!" Harry said hotly, glaring at him. He appealed to Snape, furious at the injustice of it. "Goyle got hit – look!"

Snape took in Goyle's copious boils and his lips quirked slightly. "Hospital wing, Goyle."

As Goyle lumbered off towards the stairs, Ron seized Granger's arm and pulled her forwards. She shrank back, as if disintegrating under Snape's gaze, but Ron wouldn't let go.

"Malfoy got Hermione!" he announced. "Look!"

He dragged at her hands, and at last she was forced to reveal her mouth. Her front teeth had grown, already too huge for her mouth, and were continuing to expand. She looked like some kind of beaver. Draco felt a hot rush of shame as she directed her gaze at the floor, her face red. Snape looked at her for a long moment.

"I see no difference."

Behind him, Pansy erupted into a cascade of laughter. Granger's eyes filled with tears and without a word she turned on her heel and ran, disappearing up the corridor and out of sight. Draco watched her go with a strange, unfamiliar sense of dread. Pansy dragged at his arm, and he turned away as her footsteps died away into the castle, trying to smirk. He couldn't quite get his face to work properly.

Snape was shepherding them into the classroom, ignoring the incredulous complaints of the Gryffindor students. Potter shot him a venomous look before throwing his bag onto his desk and slumping into a chair – alone, Draco noticed. Apparently he and the Weasel were no longer as inseparable as before. He took his usual seat beside Pansy, but she didn't seem to be able to stop laughing. And, for some reason, it was getting on his nerves.

The lesson was on brewing a Draught of Living Death – an extremely advanced potion which usually would have greatly interested him. But rather than getting stuck in to his work, he found himself pushing dead beetles around on his desk or splitting strands of lemongrass. Once or twice, Pansy leaned over to touch his arm. Normally, he enjoyed the attention. Now, he felt as if his skin was crawling. He shook her off irritably, looked at his potion properly for the first time in the last half hour. It was a ruddy brown rather than the cool blue it was supposed to be. He blinked at it, confused as to how he could have produced such a bad effort.

"Draco?"

Pansy was pawing at his arm again. She frowned at his potion, then raised her plucked eyebrows. He felt distinctly uncomfortable under her stare and threw down the handful of komodo dragon claws he had been fiddling with. Pansy watched in confusion.

"What's up with you?"

"I don't know," he said honestly.

And then, because that seemed to shock her even more, he schooled his face into a scowl and sat back from his cauldron.

"I'm just fucking bored of this crap," he muttered.

The approaching rustle of material alerted him of his teacher's approach just before Snape's billowing black robes appeared in the corner of his vision. He looked up, and found himself the focus of Snape's thin-lipped, cold stare. He stared back.

"Problem, Mr. Malfoy?"

It never ceased to amaze him that Snape seemed to be able to speak without moving his lips. He was about to shrug the question off, but the words froze on his lips. He had just been offered an out, and he found a different response slipping over his tongue instead.

"I have a headache," he said lazily, glancing at his potion. "It's affected my work, I think."

Snape inspected the potion. His expression did not change, but Draco knew that he wasn't fooled for a second. Still, it didn't really matter. As always, Snape simply nodded, stirring the potion slowly and critically.

"Clearly. You're exempt from this test. Go to the hospital wing."

Draco leapt down from his stool and packed his potions kit away into his bag, pleasantly aware of the furious mutterings from the Gryffindors. Pansy's hand was again snatching at his arm as he turned to leave, her eyes wide with overbearing sympathy.

"Are you alright, Draco?"

He pretended to be straightening the strap on his bag so that he could pull away from her without having to deal with any rebuffs. He threw a smirk across the room at Weasel, who had noticed his early dismissal and looked fuming. His potion looked even worse than Draco's, and he had probably actually been trying.

"Something die in there, Weasel?" he muttered as he passed by.

He continued on out of the dungeon before Weasley had a chance to respond, satisfied with his exit.

Once he had actually emerged out into the corridor, his pace slowed. He realised that he hadn't actually planned beyond getting out of the room, and yet as he took in the empty stone corridor he knew exactly where he had been thinking of going. It just didn't make any sense. He stopped at the top of the stairs, glancing around at the silent hallways, enjoying the lack of people. After all, there wouldn't be many people in the corridors to see where he was going at this time…

He let his feet carry him up a few more flights of stairs, telling himself he was just wandering with no real purpose, until the large, arched doors of the hospital wing came into sight. Even as he approached the doors cracked open, and for one horrible moment he suddenly remembered that Goyle, too, had been sent up to the hospital wing and would be there to witness him, could be emerging from there at that very moment – but, to his surprise and relief, a familiar mass of long, bushy hair appeared. He stopped short of reaching the doors. She hadn't noticed him – she was touching her mouth carefully, thoughtfully, as if deep in thought. He was relieved to see that the giant teeth had disappeared, and that she was no longer crying.

As the doors fell shut behind her, she raised her head. And she saw him.

Her hand went instantly to her hair, pushing it back out of her face, and her eyes seemed to widen. Her lips parted slightly, and he felt his stomach do a strange, alien movement which made him wonder if he was about to throw up. He gripped the strap of his school bag tightly, his mind mercilessly blank.

Christ, say something, anything…

"Fix your face, Granger?"

He almost groaned aloud at the poor choice of greeting, but somehow she seemed to find his remark funny. She smiled, almost mischievously, and he was struck instantly by it. She looked slightly different – he couldn't quite put his finger on how, but she did.

"I have. Is it your turn?"

He was so busy scrutinising what was different about her that he almost missed the jibe, and by the time he processed what she had said it was too late to retaliate. She grinned and waved a hand at the hospital wing.

"Goyle's still in there. The boils won't come off."

Draco chuckled. "Yeah?"

"They've multiplied, actually."

A full laugh left his lips, and before he knew it he found that it was she looking at him with a hesitant kind of curiosity. He didn't have to think for long to figure out what she was interested in – he had just laughed, a real laugh, and he was pretty sure she had never seen that before. Mainly because the only person who was any good at actually making him laugh was Zabini, and even then only when they sat up late in the Common room together alone. Embarrassment crept up his spine and he cleared his throat, about to cough up the words he suddenly realised he had come there to say.

"Sorry. About the teeth," he muttered. "I didn't mean to… Sorry."

A bemused smile had formed on her surprised face. It widened as she took in his awkwardness, and again he noticed the difference.

"Draco Malfoy, apologising?" she said. "What, were they cooking up some kind of reality reverser in Potions?"

"Wait, your teeth…"

She cocked her head in a wordless question, but the glint in her eye told him that he was right. He had finally landed on what was different about her. Her front teeth had always been large, but now they were slightly smaller. The subtle alteration had changed her – before, she had always looked away when she smiled, or hidden her face behind her hair. Now her face was uplifted, her smile wider, more unapologetic. He couldn't understand how such a tiny change could have such an affect.

"When Madam Pomfrey was fixing them, she held up a mirror and told me to stop when they were back to normal," she was saying, her voice laughingly nonchalant. "And I just… kept going a little longer."

He became aware that he was staring and hastily averted his gaze, trying to think of some joke to make, some sly insult, but the words wouldn't come. Her smile seemed to be etched into his mind's eye. He huffed a short laugh instead, dragged a hand through his hair. When he glanced back towards her, her smile had faded slightly. She looked around furtively, as if about to share a secret, and then closed some of the distance between them. Her gaze had grown more serious.

"How's your mother?"

He was completely blindsided by the question. He hadn't expected it. And yet he didn't feel angry – almost the opposite. Her question hung there in front of him in the air. He knew he could shrug it off, tell her to mind her own business. But instead he found himself replying, keeping his own voice low.

"She'll be ok."

Relief spread across her face. "That's great. Was she sick?"

He watched her face light up at his response, considered the impossibility of explaining it all to her. She was so far away from everything in his own life that even speaking to her felt laughable. It was as if she was standing on the opposite bank of a river, and she was trying to build a bridge out of sand, holding out a hand to him. And all he could do was look, rooted as he was in the mud. Her question had too many answers, and he couldn't fathom how to approach them.

"Kind of."

She seemed to get the message. She nodded, shooting another quick smile at him.

"Well, I'm glad she's feeling better."

Silence settled over them, and he found himself fidgeting uncomfortably. He still couldn't quite get used to the fact that she could ask about something so personal, that she even knew. No one else knew, not even Zabini. His father would never have let the truth of what was happening in their family get out. And yet there she was, and she was still smiling at him. Almost as if she cared.

And then she was ducking her head, in that self-conscious, shy way he was beginning to recognise, and continuing past him. He glanced over his shoulder, just enough to watch her go. Her bushy hair bobbed behind her in time to her footsteps, and he could have sworn she looked back too before turning the corner. He stood there for a few moments, listening, just in case she came back. Then, his stomach still fluttering sickeningly, he perched on the edge of the windowsill and settled down to wait for Goyle.

Thanks for reading! Reviews are always welcome.

SUPRNTRAL LVR.