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 Nine

Now

Hermione had been staring into her bowl of cereal for the past ten minutes without eating a thing. The more she poked at it with her spoon, the more the clumps of fruit and oats clumped together and became congealed mush. Her appetite was well and truly gone, and she could think of nothing less appealing, but she was supposed to being going to the hearing Hestia had invited her to that day and she wanted to be prepared. Truthfully, her mind couldn't be further from it. She had tried to read up on the case the night before, knowing that Hestia was offering her valuable work experience in the world of magical law, but the words had blurred and danced on the page before her eyes. She couldn't focus. The more she thought about justice, about lawyers, about putting people on trial, the more her mind wandered back to the whole mess she had found herself in the middle of.

"You've known him since you were eleven," Hestia had said to her that day in the park. "Did you ever feel he was dangerous?"

It was hard to ignore the fact that Hestia was currently evaluating Draco's character and the likelihood of his loyalties with the Death Eaters, and yet apparently knew next to nothing about him. For whatever reason, it was obvious that he had not told her about their history, about everything he had done during the war that had violated Voldemort's trust. Hestia seemed convinced that he was hiding something – what she couldn't know was that the 'something' could be far less to do with Death Eaters, and far more to do with the fact that he was now living with his secret ex-girlfriend. And yet, he was being treated as if he was somehow involved in terrorist plots, like he was some kind of sleeper agent waiting for a signal.

For some reason, she couldn't stop thinking about that day at Malfoy Manor. Because even if he had been a Death Eater, even if he had done terrible things, he had still saved her. He had put himself between her and Bellatrix when she had been convinced that their whole campaign had been for nothing. She couldn't accept that he had changed so completely since then that he would be prepared to throw her to the sharks now. That had been their last real encounter before they lost contact, before the war came to its climax. She wondered why he hadn't told Hestia of it – he couldn't have, or she would have come to question Harry, Ron and herself. But then, she could only guess that his reasons were the same as her own – because then everyone would begin to uncover everything they had hidden for the past four years.

Would that be so bad?

If he continued to act as he was doing now, yes. She glanced up from her cereal. The kitchen was busy at this time in the morning – everyone was getting ready, fighting over the kettle, searching for the milk. Her eyes shifted past them to fix on Harry, who was standing at the kitchen sink, scrubbing at a layer of grime on a frying pan. His sleeves were rolled up and his eyes squinted from behind his glasses. She imagined sitting him down and explaining to him that she had spent most of her final years at Hogwarts sneaking into Malfoy's room, and suppressed a wave of despair. How could he ever trust her again after discovering she had lied for so long? But she wanted more than anything to confide in someone, to ask for advice… And she couldn't help but feel that Hestia should know the truth of Draco's actions during the war, should know how much he had done to help them. If it ever came to a trial, the information would have to come out anyway. Maybe if she and Harry could explain together, it wouldn't be so bad.

But they would ask Draco why he did it. And then…

She threw down her spoon and screwed her thumbs into her eye sockets, trying to drive out the thoughts circling in her head like keening seagulls. She was getting absolutely nowhere, and her frustration was unbearable.

"You ok, Hermione?"

She lowered her hands to find Ginny looking at her quizzically, jam dripping steadily from the piece of toast that was halfway to her mouth. Hermione forced herself to smile and nodded.

"Yeah, yeah. Just… Just the trial."

"Oh, yeah," Ginny nodded, speaking through her mouthful of toast. "You're going with Hestia today, right?"

"I don't know if she'll be there herself."

"Yeah, I guess she's pretty busy, huh?"

Hermione sighed, and then stood up and tossed the congealed cereal away, wrinkling her nose in distaste. She could think of nothing less enticing than a long day at the Ministry. Although perhaps it would be good to get out of the house. She was certainly having no luck trying to talk things out with Draco, and having him there meant that she was constantly on edge. Of what, she wasn't sure. But the way he had looked at her in the kitchen the other day… She was certain that something was going on. His cold, sneering tone; the way he tried to leave as soon as she questioned him; his constantly shifting gaze; not to mention how tired and frustrated he had looked. All classic symptoms that something was preying on him. Part of her couldn't help but wonder if Hestia was right, if he really was somehow plotting something with the Death Eaters… A thought which filled her with a grotesque cocktail of crushing guilt and dread.

"What's the case? Hermione?"

"Oh!" she turned around, still clutching her bowl. "Nothing, nothing – just someone who might be trading with the black magic market."

"Ew – zombie heads and dead mermaid hair, that kind of thing?" George said, wincing. "Weird."

"Yeah."

"That's terrible," Harry said, finally setting the frying pan aside to dry and wiping his hands on his jeans. "Is that a regular thing?"

"It got bad while Voldemort was around, but they're getting on top of it again now," Hannah said, concentrating on fixing a smear of eyeliner on her cheek in her pocket mirror.

"Sounds interesting, Hermione."

She barely even heard George speak – she was watching Harry. Having retrieved a small notepad from his back pocket and flicked through it, he tucked his notes away and made for the kitchen door. She snatched for his arm as he went and he paused, glancing over his shoulder. The others were beginning to discuss the black magic market, offering her a few precious seconds to talk to him. She wet her lips.

"Harry – what are you doing today?"

"The usual," he said, checking his watch. "Meeting with the Order first thing. Why?"

"Can we go for a coffee? This afternoon, maybe at four or five?"

"Ah…"

He hesitated, and her heart sank. She knew he was busy, and that she shouldn't have expected him to be available, but she couldn't help but be disappointed. She wanted so much to be able to speak to someone about everything in her head, and she didn't feel like Ginny would be able to help. Harry had been in the Manor too, after all. He already had some idea of what had happened, even if he didn't know the whole story. He must have seen her face fall, as he suddenly nodded and reached out to squeeze her shoulder encouragingly.

"Sure," he said. "Corner Coffee House ok?"

She nodded, finally able to relax a little, and let him go. Relief spread though her like warmth as she rinsed out her bowl in the sink. She wasn't sure what she would tell him, but Harry was good at talking through things. She was sure to come away with a clearer head than when she started. She pushed her hair back, offered the others a nod.

"I'd better go, I don't want to be late."

"Enjoy the dead mermaid hair," Ginny said with a spray of crumbs. Neville, who was sitting beside her, winced and brushed at his jumper.

She managed a laugh and headed up the stairs. She had almost made it to the second floor when a voice echoed up the stairwell after her, and she froze with one hand on the banister.

"Hermione, wait!"

She knew who it was before she turned around, but she looked anyway. Ron was taking the stairs two at a time to catch up with her, and she felt her heart plunge into her stomach. His eyes were bright and hopeful, and his face was dangerously optimistic – god, she knew that look. It was the same look he'd had when he was telling them all about his exploits with Lavender Brown. She tried to smile as he reached her, tried to keep her tone nonchalant.

"You ok?"

"Yeah, yeah," he smiled widely at her. "You have a minute?"

Oh, no.

"Actually, I'm about to leave for this trial, I have to get my things…"

"Come on, Hermione, I've been trying to track you down for ages," he said, taking her arm.

She felt her body stiffen instantly – she hated it when he tried to pull her somewhere – but let him lead her on up the stairs and into the living room. He held the door for her, and she reluctantly made her way inside. He closed it behind them, and her apprehension grew. If what he wanted to say needed to be said in private, it was most definitely going to be something she did not want to hear. She pushed her hands into her pockets as she turned to face him, hovering near the sofa.

"Ron, I really do need to go, I'll be late…"

"You're always half an hour early for everything," Ron said, waving her words away like flies. "I wanted to talk to you."

His voice was soft. He had that tell-tale hesitation in his tone which always preceded a tender proclamation. She swore silently, mentally kicking herself for not thinking up a better excuse. Instead she fumbled for an adequate response.

"Talk?"

"I've barely seen you the past few weeks, and we're supposed to be living in the same house." His tone was light, but she could see the hurt flickering behind his eyes. He shifted his weight from foot to foot, as if physically preparing himself for the conversation. "I know we've both got a lot going on, but… but I was kind of hoping to see more of you now that the war is out of the way."

"Ron, I just… I've just been really busy."

"Too busy to sit next to me on the sofa?"

She almost winced. He was right – she had made so much effort not to go near him, hoping that if she just stayed away for as long as possible they would both quietly move on. But it was becoming more and more evident that he had not, that he still expected something of her. She wanted to say something that would simply and easily change the mood, but there was nothing she could come up with. She never had been good at this kind of thing. He stepped forwards, and she had to steel herself to remain where she was. He reached for her hand. She let him take it, a compromise to excuse the fact that she still couldn't bear to look him in the eye.

"Listen," he said earnestly. "I know that a lot happened in the war, and it's been tough on us all. When Fred… Well, I needed time to get back to normal. But it's all over now, and it's time we took our lives back and got on with them. We should shake all of this off and… And be together."

She stood there in silence, a pillar of stone. She knew that he wouldn't like her response. But she couldn't lie to him, and he was forcing her to say it openly. She tried to think of the best way to put it, but before she could get up the courage to speak he suddenly released her. She looked up quickly to find him smiling at her, almost knowingly.

"Anyway," he said, as if concluding a presentation, "Take as long as you want. But we should be planning on picking up where we left off, don't you think?"

She felt her mouth twist into a polite smile. She knew it was cowardly, but perhaps if she could just remain distant, if she could drop a few more hints, he might be able to get the message without her having to hurt his feelings. He was already turning away and ducking out into the corridor again, offering her one final look over his shoulder before disappearing. She let out a breath she didn't know she had been holding, scrubbing a hand across her forehead wearily. She hated that it all had to happen now, that everything had to come to a head at once. She knew she would have to talk to Ron – it was just that once they had that conversation, everything would be changed forever. She knew him well enough to bet that he wouldn't take the rejection well. Especially when the others just seemed to expect them to end up together.

It was beginning to look like she was destined to lose all her closest friends, one way or another.

She tried to shake the conversation off, telling herself that she would deal with it later. She pushed her way out of the living room and carried on up the stairs, grateful that she would at least be able to be out of the house for the whole day.

~O~

As Draco had expected, a few hours after his last meeting with Hestia his wound had exploded with pain and the attack had hit him. It had been a particularly bad one for some reason – he had regained consciousness on the floor of his room, curled into a tight ball, his lip bleeding from where his teeth had clamped down. He had tried to sleep, but that night sleep had proved impossible. His wound burned every now and again and the periphery of his vision was filled with sudden movements which turned out to be dreams. Eventually, tired of flinching at shadows, he had padded downstairs to the living room and dropped into the chair by the window with a small pile of books, hoping to distract himself. The early hours of the morning found him rifling wearily through books on advanced transfiguration, the history of medical magic and a book on an obscure argument between Russia and China over the possession of a particularly rare species of unicorn.

He only realized he had been drifting off when he flinched awake. Immediately afterwards he understood what had woken him – the door to the living room opening. The light streaming through the window was morning sunlight, explaining gently that he had fallen asleep in the chair and slept until now. And two voices were speaking, instantly familiar and instantly unwelcome. Too late to run, he drew back into the chair, pulled his legs up against himself, and ducked his head. He could only hope that they couldn't see him, thanks to the chair being large and winged, and facing the window, and that they would decide to leave soon. But, just his luck, they seemed to be settling down to talk.

And he heard it all.

Hidden there behind the chair, he felt his body turn slowly to stone around him, observed his gaze drifting out of focus, let their hushed words wash over him like a wave. He felt like he was being forced underwater, miles and miles down, until the pressure made his blood boil and his lungs explode. He heard the floorboards creak as her weight shifted, and for one horrible moment thought that she was coming over. There could only be one thing worse than this feeling, and that would be her discovering him there in the corner, his eyes prickling with heat and his heart stammering in his chest. But, thankfully, her footsteps led away across the room, and the door whispered a creak as she vanished into the corridor.

The silence that ruled now that they were both gone was deafening, and he pressed both hands over his face, a tremulous sigh rattling through his chest. Her silence was all the confirmation he needed. The Weasel had won her. Why would she turn him down? He was beginning a career as an Auror, still revelling in the heroism of his actions in the war, his record squeaky clean. There were no tattooed snakes writhing on his skin and no demons lurking in his head. They would probably get married one day beneath an eggshell blue sky, surrounded by family and friends – they would spend Christmas together at his parents house, joined by Potter and Ginny. Their children would play together by the fireside. Their story was already written out for them. The peaceful beauty of the image drew out a kind of raw, grieving anger he hadn't felt in a long time. He could feel his jaw clenching reflexively, his breathing quickening as if he were about to fight…

Crookshanks' head butted against his knee and punctured the storm brewing in his soul. He had a vague memory of the cat showing up the night before at around 4.00am, and it had apparently stuck around. He let his hands loosen and his fingers trailed through the thick, matted fur rubbing against his leg. He closed his eyes and listened to the cat's ragged purring until his anger subsided, slowly giving way to a heavy, relentless hopelessness.

It wasn't as if the Weasel's confession of love had changed anything, after all. It had long since become clear that he could expect nothing from her, that they would never again be the people they had been when they had first kissed on the edge of the Quidditch pitch. Although hearing that painfully stark conversation had, at least, made one thing crystal clear – there was no way he was going to stay in this godforsaken house a moment longer. He refused to remain there, surrounded by ghosts and half-formed memories, forced to relive it all night after night. He had spent the last six months trying to forget his past, and he wasn't about to stop now.

He uncurled from the chair and returned the books to their shelves one by one, stepping blindly over Crookshanks as the cat wove between his legs. He was already planning his next move. He knew a place – a shed in the outskirts of a forest in Wales, far out of reach of Muggles and wizards alike. There was really nothing there - no shops, no houses, no people for miles - but something told him that he wouldn't need somewhere for long. The attacks were getting worse, and the more time passed, the more he began to accept that there was no cure. No surprise remedy, no quick fix – he had no way out of this.

His chest seared, forcing him to catch his breath. As he closed his eyes and waited for it to pass, a deep, ugly resentment began to build in its wake. Overhearing the conversation had brought home some of the hopelessness of his situation, and the sickeningly bright future lying in wait for Weasel was a sharp contrast. Weasel and Hermione would probably be fucking by the end of the week. Engaged within a year.

By the time he emerged into the corridor, cold, biting rage had set into him like a lead weight. He had been planning to simply return to his room, but instead he found himself turning and heading down the stairs. He could hear voices below, coming from the kitchen, and decided with deadpan certainty that he wanted a coffee. He was fed up of sneaking around the house, as if he was afraid of them. He made it to the kitchen, the chattering voices ringing in his ears, and shoved the door open. The silence that fell in the room brought a satisfied smirk to his face.

"Morning."

He was met with a flurry of exchanged glances and bitter scowls. He looked around. Thomas, Abbot, Longbottom, George Weasley and Ginny were crowded around the table. Longbottom glanced up, and then paled and quickly ducked his head again. Finnigan stood beside the fire, gulping from a large mug of tea. The Weasel was rooting in the cupboards, and emerged with a large box of Frazzle's Popping Oats. He straightened up, shaking the box, and turned. His gaze darkened as soon as he saw Draco. He set the cereal down and folded his arms, his movements measured and decisive. Draco fixed him with a slow, careful smirk.

"What, no pleasantries?"

"What do you want?" Weasel said flatly.

"Nothing, nothing." He stepped forwards, glancing down at the others as he went. "Just fancied a coffee."

He caught sight of a cafetière sitting on the workbench and strolled leisurely over to it, plucked a mug out of the drying rack. Weasel bristled as soon as his fingers brushed the handle.

"Make your own. That's mine."

"Come now, Weasel, at least try to share."

He poured the coffee out, finishing the last of it and returning the cafetière empty. He turned around and made sure to look Weasel in the eye as he sipped it, cocked his head in mock thought.

"Did you make this?"

Weasel's eyes narrowed. Draco swirled the coffee around the mug, letting the pause drag on for a little while.

"Thought so. It tastes like actual shit."

He poured the contents of the mug away into the sink, tilting the mug just enough to let the coffee run out slowly. Weasel's stare burned into him, and he enjoyed the other boy's furious silence. Somewhere behind him, his ginger sister sighed heavily and got up from the table. She strode over, appearing momentarily between them to deposit her plate in the sink.

"Pouring away our coffee - wow, Malfoy, you've really outdone yourself," she muttered.

"Oh, I almost forgot," he said as she pushed past him. "Tell Potter to get better help in this dump. The current staff don't seem to be pulling their weight."

He looked pointedly at Weasel. Ginny Weasley ignored him, moving instead towards the door to the stairs. He heard the creak of its hinges as she slipped out. She never had been one for rising to his insults - apparently she had more sense than her volatile brother, who was still glaring at him.

"Did you want something, Malfoy?" Thomas called from the table.

Draco frowned, pretending to consider the question. "Did I? Oh yes." He nodded at the Frazzle's Popping Oats. "I think I'll have those for breakfast."

He reached for them, and Weasel instantly snatched them away. He pushed the box out of Draco's reach and quickly folded his arms again. He looked as if he was trying to impersonate a bodyguard. Poorly so. Draco raised his eyebrows in a wordless challenge, and Weasel finally spoke up.

"This isn't your house, Malfoy. You're not just going to... to..." Weasel gesticulated as he searched for the words, glancing at the others for support. "... to walk in and demand things."

"Yeah, you know what? It's not yours either." Draco reached instead for an empty glass on the draining board and filled it with water, keeping his tone light and conversational. "I bet Potter's sick to death of you hanging around like a Boggart. Why don't you find something to do with yourself?"

"You're one to talk. No one wants you here."

"Not exactly thrilled to be here myself. But I suppose you'll have to take that up with Potter." Draco downed the glass of water and licked his lips. "Oh, no - you don't really do planning, do you Weasel? Your more of a... follower."

He could practically sense the anger radiating off the other boy, and it was making him feel significantly better about the sour start to the morning. He grinned, let Weasel struggle and fail to come up with a response for a few moments longer. Then he set the glass down on the counter beside the abandoned coffee mug and turned away, satisfied with his work.

"Hey. Hey."

Draco stopped, turned. Weasel's jaw was working furiously, his lips a thin, tight line. He stabbed a finger at the glass and coffee mug.

"Clean that up."

Draco laughed shortly. "I don't think so. Why don't you?"

"Clean it up, now."

Apparently there was a little more fun still to be had. Draco looked at the mess, allowing his grin to grow wider. He knew that the others were watching them, and that this had suddenly become a question of pride for Weasel. He wondered how far he could push him.

"What, are you going to make me, Weasel? Surprised you know anything about being clean at all, seeing as you were born in a bin."

The old school jibe had the same effect now as it did then – Weasley's face turned bright red, his eyes narrowed, and his hand went at once to his wand. He pointed it fiercely at Draco. The ridiculous scale of his response was laughable - Draco had never known someone to draw wands over the washing up before.

"Watch it, Malfoy," Weasel snapped. "This isn't Hogwarts, and there's no one stopping me from cursing that smug look off your face."

"Go on, then."

Draco took a sharp step forwards, squaring up to him. Weasley was a little taller than himself, but only by an inch or so. And Draco was willing to bet that the other boy was no match for him, having spent most of the war apparently huddled in a tent rather than out in Voldemort's world. He didn't bother drawing his wand – simply placed himself directly in front of the other boy, staring him dead in the eye, daring him to back away.

"Now's your chance, Weasel, do it. Teach the nasty Death Eater a lesson."

"Ron, don't bother with him," Thomas called from across the room.

Weasley's lip twitched. The interjection only seemed to spur him on. "Don't push it, or I will."

"I'm terrified," Draco said flatly. "Please, Weasley, go for it."

Weasley's knuckles whitened as he gripped his wand. His jaw worked furiously. He shifted his weight from his left foot to his right. Draco waited a few seconds more, and then smirked and turned away. He headed for the door to the kitchen, glancing around at the others as he went. Abbot was looking at the table, her mouth downturned. George Weasley and Finnigan looked back at him, both looking decidedly pissed off, but apparently unwilling to encourage the fight. Draco allowed himself a couple of final twists of the knife before he left.

"Thought so. Just a big, ginger coward after all, eh, Weasel? You know, one day people are going to start asking what exactly you did during the war – apart from sulk and hide behind Potter, that is. Maybe it's time to go back and live in that pigsty your parents call a house – suits you far better than this Auror joke –"

"Bombardo!"

"Ron, no!"

Thomas' voice had Draco's shoulders stiffening just before the curse hit him. Its impact caught him off guard and he staggered into the wall, managing to grab it before he could fall. Instantly his head swung with sickening dizziness as pain erupted within him. He blinked hard, horribly aware of the sudden tightness of his chest, the way the ground was bucking furiously beneath his feet. Jesus, he couldn't let his injury get the better of him now, not in front of fucking Weasel… He forced himself to gulp in air, and to his relief, his vision began to clear. He glanced over his shoulder, one hand still braced against the wall, to find Weasel struggling to aim his wand again – Thomas had somehow got across the room and was wrestling with him, trying to snatch his wand away. Weasley's furious eyes were trained on him, burning with humiliation and anger.

Draco turned slowly, straightening, feeling his shoulder cautiously with one hand. He suspected the spell must have been cast sloppily and jogged off course by Thomas' intervention to have been so weak. Bombardo was a powerful spell, and not something to be thrown around lightly in duels. If Weasel hadn't fudged it, it could have caused some serious harm. But no damage had been done really – it was his previous ailment that had produced such a strong reaction. Rolling his shoulders carefully, ensuring he was still in one piece, Draco finally let the anger that had been building in him since that morning flood free. He reached for his wand.

"Hey, stop!" George Weasley had lurched up from the table and was approaching them, drawing his own wand. "No duelling in Harry's kitchen – come on. Put the wands down."

"Well, that was brave, Weasel," Draco said, allowing his voice to remain dangerously low. "Care to try again?"

"Fuck you, Malfoy!" Weasley snapped, wrenching free of Thomas. "Stupefy!"

Draco blocked the spell, but felt the shield he summoned waver slightly – he still felt the residue of Weasel's attack roll over his skin. He swore silently – he'd forgotten about the way his non-verbal magic had been on the glitch recently due to his wound. Still, there was no way he was going to back down now. Weasley was already lifting his wand again, and Draco wasn't about to let him get another free shot in.

"Cantrifus."

Weasley ducked his attack, barely missing it, and Thomas leapt backwards out of the way, apparently deciding that his part in the brawl was over. Draco strode forwards without waiting for Weasley to get back up, and threw another curse at him.

"Fernunculus."

"Tergo!"

He moved smartly aside, felt the heat as the spell flew by his face. Something shattered behind him. He didn't care. For some reason, as he followed Weasley around the table, all he could think of was the bumbling idiot's arms around her. Casually, possessively, arrogantly… The conversation he had heard that morning inserted itself rudely into his head once again and white-hot fury rose up in him like a dragon. Weasley slashed his wand, his face crumpled with anger.

"Musco– "

"Expelliarmus – Levicorpos."

Weasel's wand leapt from his hand seconds before he was flung back against the wall of the kitchen. He hit it hard and Draco took savage delight in the pain that flickered across his face. He closed the short remaining distance between them and grabbed Weasley by the collar, lifting his wand threateningly. Weasley had the decency to glare back at him, pinned to the wall and yet still clearly furious.

"Get the fuck off me."

"Don't start what you can't finish, Weasel."

"Let me down from here, I'm going to blast your fucking head off–"

"Think we've established that's utter bullshit – your head, on the other hand…"

"Hey!"

George Weasely and Finnigan were there, having scrambled over the kitchen table to get to them. Both had their wands drawn, both were eyeing Draco warily as if he were an escaped wolf. George stepped closer and took hold of Draco's wrist firmly, even as he gripped Weasel's collar. His voice was low with warning.

"Let him go. Now, Malfoy."

Draco didn't move his gaze from Weasel, who was staring back at him as if hoping to turn his eyes to lasers. For a moment, Draco considered simply throwing in the towel and taking the brawl up a notch – he could do with letting off some steam – but his chest smarted painfully and the dizziness returned. The hold of his spell began to waver. He wouldn't be able to hold it much longer. Apparently his injury didn't appreciate his current position, or the adrenaline of the last few minutes. He held on a moment longer, enjoying his position of power, and then let the spell go and took three steps back. Weasley dropped from the wall and instantly made as if to throw himself after his opponent, but his brother caught hold of him and held him back with both arms.

"For God's sake, Ron, grow up!"

"Get off!"

"Better listen to your brother, Weasel," Draco muttered. "Obviously you're completely incapable of holding your own."

His voice sounded echoey and distant to his own ears. Not a good sign. It probably wasn't a good idea to remain in the kitchen with Weasley. He turned away, Thomas and Abbot moving quickly out of his way as he strode towards the door. Longbottom, he saw, hadn't even got up from the table, still sitting there and watching them with wide eyes like a rabbit in the headlights. He heard rather than saw Weasel tear free of his brother, but was somewhat relieved to not find himself the victim of another challenge to fight. He could hear Weasel's heavy breathing, could feel the electric anger in the air like heat.

"We haven't forgotten what you are, Malfoy!" Weasel roared suddenly. "You're still the same slimy piece of shit you've always been, and I know you're still a Death Eater too."

Draco paused at the door. "Whatever you say, Weasel," he said. "Maybe just for you."

He ducked out into the corridor. His chest was throbbing violently now – he severely doubted he would make it up the stairs. Instead, he pulled together what little energy he had left and Disapparated. He only just managed it without splinching himself, dropping heavily down onto the bed. He lay there, breathing deeply, trying to pull himself together. Eventually, after what seemed like an age, the violent pain in his chest began to subside. As his breathing evened out and the nauseating swirling in his head stilled, he closed his eyes. A determined resolution took shape.

He would try to sleep for a little while longer. Then he would pack his bag and leave.

~O~

Harry met her in the tiny coffee shop around the corner from Grimmauld Place. She had taken to going there to work when the house was too noisy to concentrate in, and had grown fond of its small wooden tables and odd, abstract decor. It was the kind of place which was either trying extremely hard, or not at all - every mug was mismatching, every teaspoon different as if snatched from the jumble section of a charity shop, and the tables were a combination of old, worn desks and tiny round coffee stands. It reminded her a little of Professor Trelawney's classroom, particularly with the patterned throws and cushions thrown about at random. There were a series of seemingly unrelated paintings of horses and serious-looking people in stiff Victorian clothing dotted over the walls. She waved to Harry as he entered and he offered her a weary smile. As he dropped down into the chair opposite her, she pushed the cup of coffee she had already purchased for him across the table.

"Hermione, you're amazing," he sighed, descending on the cup at once.

"Long day?"

She watched him over the brim over her coffee mug. He looked tired, fed up - ready for a holiday. His hair was even messier than usual and when he took his glasses off to rub his eyes she could see how tired he looked.

"Long month," he corrected her. "I feel like it just keeps heaping on more."

"You've had news?"

"There's been another attack." He glanced around; the cafe was deserted, and the soft strumming of acoustic guitar from the radio protected them from prying ears. "Muggles this time. A family in Bristol - one of the children was killed." His face crumpled suddenly and he scrubbed both hands across it, drawing in a deep breath. "I don't know if I can take this, Hermione," he said heavily. "I thought it was my responsibility to see this out, to make sure there was no way Voldemort could threaten us or our children or our children's children... But now I just... I feel like I want it to be over with. My whole life has been wrapped up in this war."

"No one would think less of you if you decided to leave the Order," she said. "They could still use Grimmauld Place - you could rent to them, use the money to get somewhere further out of the city."

"I felt like I was supposed to see it finished." He turned his teaspoon over and over between his forefingers. "But I think I just want to move on now. I think I need to."

"Well, Ginny would love that," she said, smiling, trying to lighten the mood. "She's been talking about taking a year out to travel for ages. You could both go."

"I know she wouldn't mind." He paused. "It's more explaining to the Order that I've had enough."

The hesitation was understandable. In the rush of high spirits that had followed Voldemort's defeat, they had all pledged to continue to work with the Order. It had just felt like the logical next step at the time, and a suitable way of honouring the members who had died at the Battle. Many were settling into their new lifestyles with renewed vigour - she had never seen Ron so enthusiastic. But she could see the way the strain was beginning to show in Harry's eyes, and she doubted that he was quite as willing to stay as he had been at the start. She reached for his arm and squeezed it sympathetically.

"You know, you've been fighting this since you were eleven," she said. "There's no shame in wanting a life of your own."

He managed a lopsided, half real smile and let out a sigh, leaning over his coffee with a little more ease than before. They didn't get much time like this together now, and it was nice to see him relax a little. She smiled back at him, enjoying the easy companionship.

"Sorry, Hermione - I didn't mean to rant. Everything ok with you?"

"Fine, fine. I just wanted to get out of the house, you know."

She was out of practise at lying, and the glint in his eye told her that she had been caught out at once. He stirred his drink, taking a moment to look at her. She had the urge to pull her hair straight and dust down her jumper - she felt like she was about to be interrogated. But his curiosity was born out of concern, not malice, and she tried to force herself to relax. Apparently he could read her like a book - he smiled and changed the subject.

"How was the trial?"

She had no idea. She had spent the whole hearing staring at a blank notebook, pen poised, eyes glazed. Her head had been too full to even listen to what the judge had been saying. She had slipped away as quickly as she could afterwards, unable to force small talk with the lawyers milling about.

"Fine, fine."

She realised her mistake too late - Harry's eyebrows lifted behind his glasses and his face brightened with an amusement.

"Fine? What, no detailed critique of the type of judge, the particulars of the case, the history of the building?"

She let herself laugh. "I don't know, Harry, I guess I've been... distracted."

"I'll say." He cocked his head, trying to catch her eye. "I know I haven't been around much, but you've been quiet these last few days."

She hesitated. "I've been thinking."

"Is anything wrong?"

The enormity of the question baffled her, and it took her a while to pick the right words. For a second she considered simply telling him everything, every gory detail, but he broke in again before the precarious confession could tumble free.

"Is it Ron? I noticed things were a little off with you guys."

She shook her head. Everyone seemed to be convinced that she and Ron were destined to be together, that he was all that occupied her mind. Their conversation earlier nudged at her but she tore her mind away from it. Her time with Harry was valuable, and she couldn't afford to waste it complaining about Ron. She had to try to explain what was really on her mind.

"Is it Malfoy?" Harry said suddenly, his gaze narrowing. "I know it's weird having him stay with us... he hasn't done anything to you, has he?"

"No, no - nothing like that." The question gave her an in, and she propped her elbows on the table and leaned forwards. "Do you remember Malfoy Manor?"

Harry almost winced, as if a bad taste had entered his mouth. "Yeah. Not fondly."

"Did you ever tell anyone about... about how Malfoy helped us that day? Hestia or someone?"

He frowned, thinking hard. "I don't know, it's hard to remember. I mean, it all happened so fast and we never really found out why he did in the first place."

"Why do you think he did it?"

"I don't know." He ran a hand through his hair, frowning into space. "He said he wanted us to owe him something, just in case Voldemort didn't win. But I just thought he felt guilty or something. I mean, he'd always been a twat, but never a murderer. He couldn't kill Dumbledore, and if he'd let us die, Voldemort would have won. Maybe he didn't want the whole war on his conscience."

"But it was a massive risk to take."

"Nah, his parents would have protected him. Maybe he realised he was on the wrong side, but wasn't brave enough to do anything about it." He shrugged, emerging from his memories. "You think we should tell Hestia?"

"Shouldn't she know?"

"I guess. But just because he helped us then, doesn't mean he's still on our side now."

Harry took a sip from his tea, brow furrowed. She bit her lip, trying to contain the words desperate to break free. She wanted more than anything to be free of the awful secret, to just stop hiding and explain. Perhaps he wouldn't even care - he no longer spoke of Malfoy with the same venom as in their school days. Maybe they had all matured. She took a deep breath.

"Harry... There's something I have to tell..."

She trailed off. He was distracted by something beyond the window - a small, ruffled owl, she realised, which had landed there at some point in the last few minutes and was pecking at the glass insistently. After a furtive glance around the cafe he let it in, took the roll of parchment attached to its leg and unravelled it. She forced herself to smother her words, cleared her throat.

"What is it?"

"It's from Ron." His eyes darkened as they skittered across the page. "He wants a house meeting. With everyone."

"When?"

He looked up at her. "Right now."

The acoustic music continued to warble gently around them. Harry laid down the letter on the table and seized his teacup.

"Well," he muttered. "Three guesses what this is about."

"Malfoy." She sighed. "We don't have to go..."

"No, we do," he said. "They live there too - this has to be addressed, or it's just going to be more of a problem."

The green eyes behind his glasses were misted with thought, and she cupped her hands around her coffee mug in an attempt to distract herself from her own building exasperation. She had been so close to finally being able to share everything with him, so close to having someone actually understand... He blinked suddenly, as if returning to the present.

"Sorry, Hermione - were you about to say something...?"

"No, no," she said quickly. "It's fine. We should go. They'll be waiting."

She rose to her feet and pulled on her coat, shaking the conversation off. It wasn't something she could rush – she was too nervous. Harry opened the window to let the owl back outside before following suit, draining the last of his coffee.

"I'll mention it to her. Hestia," he clarified as she blinked at him in confusion. "Maybe you're right – we wouldn't have escaped the Manor if Malfoy hadn't done what he did. Even if it was just to cover his own back."

She nodded, able to feel some relief. Together they shuffled out of the coffee shop and into the chill autumn air, turning their collars up against the cold, preparing themselves for battle.

~O~

As Draco smoothed his only other presentable shirt flat and tucked it into the top of his suitcase – filing it carefully into the cramped wardrobe compartment to the left of the opening – a violent twinge ran from his stomach to his chest and forced him to freeze in position. He fought to draw breath into his lungs, which had automatically frozen in anticipation, and straightened slowly as the pain receded. He stood motionless for a few minutes, waiting, but other than the old, persistent ache he felt nothing. He felt his inside jacket pocket, drew out the bottle of amber liquid that had become his lifeline, and with shaky hands took a large swig.

His last attack had been the night before. The pain never returned again so soon, nor so suddenly. For a moment, he considered staying one more night, just to be sure, but declined idea before it could settle in his head. He could not stay another hour.

He turned slowly, running his eyes over the room in a final check for any misplaced possessions, his hand moving to his right breast pocket to brush against the familiar form of his wand stored there. The bed was made with extreme precision, the window closed, the ashtray on the sill that had become his anchor emptied and packed away. The chest of drawers, the only other furniture, had barely been used in the first place. He no longer had enough possessions to fill them.

All that remained was his reflection in the small mirror beside the window. He gazed at it, feeling oddly detached from the figure staring back at him. He did not know the man in the mirror. The person he saw was skinny rather than lean, hands trembling at his sides, clothes faded rather than jet black. His hair, smoothed back as always, looked grey instead of blonde. His pale skin was lifeless and his eyes, nestled in two heavy, grey circles, could have been made of glass rather than flesh. He tore himself away from the image, taking as deep a breath as he could muster before snatching up his small suitcase and heading for the door. His shoulders straightened, a reflexive habit for encountering the outside world, his chin lifted.

He didn't know exactly where he was going. Part of him longed to seek out Blaise Zabini, who he knew was living somewhere in London. But it was a dream, an idealistic hesitation, and he knew he wouldn't go. Zabini had never been a Death Eater, and Draco couldn't ask him to get involved in this sordid business now. That, and he hadn't spoken to Zabini since Hogwarts. No. He would go to the shed in Wales. It was bare aside from a bed and a sink, constructed only from wooden boards. It was empty, abandoned, and it would be perfect. After all, he was slowly realising that he wasn't looking for somewhere new to live. He was looking for somewhere to give up.

He took the stairs quietly, passing room after room. Most were empty, it seemed. For a moment he was hopeful – everyone must have gone out on some errand, some work must have presented itself. But as he neared the final staircase leading into the hall, his hope dissolved. He could hear voices. Raised voices. And as he drew closer, and the words became clearer, he began to realise what was happening in the dining room.

"... going to put up with him anymore," Weasel's voice was said heatedly. "He's pissed off everyone in this room and we shouldn't have to deal with it."

Abbot's voice was high and tremulous in agreement. "Most of us have come here to feel safe, not to be put in more danger!"

"He is defected," Lovegood's dreamy murmur was a stark contrast. "So, really, he's safer with here than somewhere else."

"No one in this room actually believes that!" Now it was someone else speaking up, Finnigan, perhaps. "We have no proof that he isn't a double agent."

"Do you really think I'd let him in here for one second if I didn't trust Hestia's story? Do you really think I'd risk all your lives like that? You lot – all of you – you're all I have left in the world."

He came to the bottom of the stairs and paused, oddly struck. Out of all of them, Potter was the one coming to his rescue. He had preferred it when the two of them were simple enemies. He didn't know how to navigate this weird, awkward place they had found themselves in now. The more Potter tried to help, the more Draco's self-hatred grew. The dining room door was ajar – he would have to pass it to get to the front door. He took a step forwards, moving as quietly as possible. Perhaps he could make it past without being noticed.

"How can you be sure he's not lying though, Harry?" Now came Longbottom's voice. As usual, he sounded anxious. "How can anyone be sure?"

"We have a right to feel safe!" Abbot said tightly. "Neville can't even go into the kitchen because he's scared that snake will be there! How are any of us supposed to live and breathe with him here, he's like a… like a disgusting ghost, following us around!"

Draco resisted the urge to snort at that. Ever since arriving all he had done was try to keep to himself – unfortunately, life had a funny way of unravelling his plans to go unnoticed by the house's other occupants. He reached the door and peered through the gap, hoping the room would be too engaged in their debate to notice him.

The group of friends were stood in a rough circle. He could see several of the usual suspects – Abbot, Thomas, Longbottom, Finnigan, Pavarti and of course the Weasleys, Ginny, George and Ron. Directly beside the door, just in front of him, stood Potter and… he groaned inwardly. Of course Hermione would be the person standing closest to him. He had not heard her voice in the fray, neither speaking for him nor against him, and now he could see her standing silently, worrying at her lower lip, her arms folded tightly across her chest. Her brow was furrowed as she watched the argument. She was a wall, stiffly holding back anything that might indicate what she thought of the subject. The subject, of course, being himself. He stayed, taking a few moments to watch her. With the two of them trying so hard to avoid each other, he had not been able to take her in for a long time. Now, once more, he could see the gentle curve of her nose, the soft frame of her face, the wave of her bushy, wild hair. His heart ached abruptly, in a way that had nothing to do with his affliction, and he pulled himself away forcefully. He couldn't bear to think of what had been. Not when it was so obviously never to return.

He was about to slip past, glancing around the room to ensure he was still hidden, when Longbottom suddenly turned away and made as if to leave the room, apparently uncomfortable with the subject. Indeed, Draco doubted the little, fat fool had ever faced so much confrontation in his life. And, as he turned, his small eyes fell upon Draco's. He froze at once, sweat pooled on his forehead, and his upper lip twitched violently. Draco would have found it funny if his cover hadn't just been blown. Now he had no choice – his pride would not let him be seen sneaking away. He stepped fully into the doorway, straightening his neck, fixing the quivering figure across the room with a glare. Next to Longbottom Thomas was speaking, eyeing Harry with an almost pleading look.

"… gotta admit, mate, that things have been rocky since he's been here. We need to be unified now, and he's just making everyone unhappy. He needs to find some other place to hide. It's not like he'd ever be there for us if we needed him."

"He's a fucking creep," Weasel muttered. "Slimy fucking traitor."

"Weasel, you're making me blush."

Despite the situation, Draco was able to enjoy the way the whole room flinched in surprise at his voice. Weasel's eyes widened, but he quickly gathered his composure and narrowed his gaze.

"Been lurking around the house again, Malfoy? Welcome to yet another conversation you weren't invited to."

Draco simply quirked an eyebrow. He had no interest in trying to change their minds. Really, he couldn't care less. But Hermione and Potter, just in front of him, had turned and were looking at him with a mixture of surprise, disappointment and uncertainty that was harder to shrug off. He avoided their gazes, ignored Potter's attempt to catch his eye, instead taking the opportunity to sneer at Weasel.

"This is exactly what we're saying!" Abbot burst out, appealing to Potter, who was apparently fumbling for words. "Who knows what he's up to, being here? He's always listening, always watching."

"We can't turn him out on the streets," Ginny said, finally offering Potter some vocal support. "If he's causing that much of an issue, why don't we just lock him into his room for a while, until you're convinced?"

"Not that the thought of being your prisoner doesn't fill me with joy," Draco broke in smoothly, "But there's really no need. I'm leaving, so you can all stop wetting yourselves over it."

He heard a sharp intake of breath from Hermione, but he couldn't look at her. Couldn't risk it. He didn't want to find out if her expression was one of relief. He could feel nausea building, a slight headache beginning to pound in his temples. He was sick of this, of pretending constantly that nothing they said mattered, that it didn't hurt to be so close to her and yet have nothing. Of tiptoeing around a house where everyone was convinced he was the devil incarnate. He glanced at Potter, whose face was scrunched in frustration.

"No one is leaving," he was saying angrily, shoving his glasses back up his nose. "For god's sake, this is ridiculous! Why isn't my word – our word – enough? We've told you again and again that Malfoy isn't dangerous-"

"Potter, you're too sweet."

"This is supposed to be a safehouse!" Potter continued, shooting him an irritated glare at his quip. "Who are we if we turn away people who need help?"

"That's my point!" Abbot muttered. "We're supposed to feel safe."

"Don't you worry, girls," Draco spoke before Potter could. "I wasn't planning on sneaking into your rooms in the night to violate you. Honesty, I wouldn't bother if you were the last shag I'd ever have."

"Malfoy." Potter gripped his arm, pulling him aside as the room flared up in response. "Where are you going to go?"

"I don't see why it should concern you," Draco shook him off, smoothed his sleeve. He was still trying desperately not to look at Hermione, even though he could feel her eyes on him. "I wouldn't want any assassins coming after me–" he tilted his head towards the room, " –and anyway, I'm sick of this place. It stinks of fucking Mudblood."

As soon as he had spoken, the room erupted into furious shouting. Potter's face fell and he turned towards the multitude of voices beating against him, doing his best to calm them. Draco wasn't quite allowed to enjoy the chaos he had just set off. As a red-faced Abbot stabbed her finger and Finnigan flung out an arm to hold back the Weasel, who had made as if to get up, that stinging feeling re-ignited in his stomach. And he suddenly realised what his building headache meant, what the sickness in his gut was, and cursed himself for not heeding his body's warning only a few minutes earlier in his room.

Fuck. He wanted to scream. Why did it have to happen now? Please, not now. If he was quick enough, he could leave and Apparate to somewhere secluded, get it over with in private. The attacks weren't usually so close together - he would normally have a couple of days between each one. This was too soon... He turned sharply and headed for the door, but as soon as he emerged into the corridor a dizzying wave hit him and he was forced to reach for the wall. Darkness descended on his vision. He managed to stay upright despite the spinning ground. He would not, could not, faint in front of them.

A voice filtered through the beating pain in his head. His chest was beginning to burn, bearable but heralding the approaching storm, and he latched onto the voice in an effort to ignore it. Because it was the voice that always calmed him. And, somehow, it was speaking now.

"… don't understand!" it cried, almost drowned in the roar of voices from the room. "You don't know him like… You don't know, and it'll probably never make sense to you, but there's another side to all this. He's faced as much danger as we have during the war. You just don't… don't get it."

In the midst of the violent shaking that was creeping into his limbs and his clenching lungs, those words almost brought him happiness. She had spoken up for him, and suddenly it didn't matter that his head was about to explode. At least he could leave knowing that she didn't hate him, that she might even still care about him, a possibility, however small, but enough to make the dark dots recede from his vision for a moment, allow him to see. He realised was hunched over, leaning heavily against the wall, still a few steps from the door. He was too weak to Apparate now, but if he could just get outside, into the night, perhaps no one would see… He took another step and his legs crumbled. He dropped hard to his knees, struggling desperately to pull in a breath, squeezing his eyes closed. He was shaking harder now, not only from the effects of the curse, but also with fear. Because he knew how much it was going to fucking hurt. Every time, it took more from him. And he didn't know how much he had left to give.

"… wrong? Dr- Malfoy! Malfoy!"

Two small hands came down on his shoulders and he knew who it was. He knew those hands better than his own, and he knew that there was only one person in this godforsaken house who would, even if by accident, almost call him by his first name.

He opened his eyes to see her crouching over him, and the wall that had stood around her features was suddenly gone. For what felt like the first time in an age, her face was unguarded. And he could see panic in her eyes, see how worried she was, see a great feeling there directed at him… Bizarrely, he could feel himself smiling. The burning in his chest was rising to a horrible level, sending shards of agony through his veins with every heartbeat. He lifted a hand to his shirt, felt a slight wetness. It was bleeding, he realised dazedly. Not good. Fuck.

"Malfoy!"

She had been trying to get him to respond, and it seemed she was through with waiting. She shook him violently by the shoulders, eliciting a gasp of pain, her face screwed tightly with fear.

"What's happening to you? What's wrong, what…"

"It's fine…" He cringed at the sound of his own voice. It was trembling, thin, muffled by his clenched jaw. He did his best to relax but another wave of pain had his whole body stiffening. "S'nothing you can do."

"What do you mean?"

"Hermione, what's going on?"

Draco winced – Potter had, apparently, noticed. Which meant that, before long, the whole house would be pouring over him. In a last, desperate attempt to save face, he forced his hand into his inside pocket, grasping for the bottle of amber liquid. If he took enough, perhaps it would put him out before the attack hit. He managed to grip it, lifted it to his face with all his energy and tipped it back. There was barely a mouthful left, and rather than dulling his nerves the pain instead seemed to spike. He was unable to hold back a moan. As his arm fell, Hermione's hands snatched the bottle from his grip.

"What is this? Why are you taking Nightshade Scorita…" her voice trailed off and she looked at him sharply. When she spoke again her voice was quieter. "Draco, is… something's happened to you."

Before he could respond his head caved in on itself and the darkness swarmed back in on him. To his horror he let out a rough exclamation of pain as waves of heat and ice ran through his body, as his nerves began to sear with agony. The world dropped away from him and the curse clamped over his throat, cutting off his air. The storm was descending on him and he felt as if he were shrinking into the blackness at the back of his mind. He didn't want to feel anymore, he couldn't bear to feel it again. A wave of fiery, stinging pain rolled over him and, when it had passed, he realised he could feel the cold floor against his cheek. By some kind miracle, those small hands were still with him, flying over his body, pressing against his face. As if in another world, he could hear her screaming for him.

"Draco! Draco, don't, please! Stop! Draco!"

There were other voices, but they meant nothing. They weren't her. He wanted to hold onto her for as long as possible, hold her against him for one last time. His final breath in paradise before hell hit. He tried to lift his hand – he must have been able to, because he suddenly found her hand coming into contact with his, and tried to link their fingers. She clutched at him.

"Jesus, Hermione, is he breathing? Is he having a fit?"

"I don't know, I don't know! Draco!"

And then, quite suddenly, his body was tearing in two and he could hear himself screaming. The storm had hit. And no matter how hard he tried, it was some time before he was able to hand his body over to it and disappear into unconsciousness.

~O~

He was screaming, and Hermione had never heard him scream before. It terrified her, shook her to her very core. It had all happened so fast – one moment he had been standing there, as proud and haughty and cruel as ever, his icy eyes glaring daggers at the others. The next he had not. The frenzy of the argument had filled her with anxiety - she felt as if she was being pushed towards a precipice, forced to speak up. She had tried, but the others were too angry, and his comments hadn't helped. As Harry tried to reason with them, she turned to look for Draco, only to find him gone. She had emerged into the corridor to look for him, and found him sinking to the ground, his face ashen, his body trembling wildly, his eyes glazed. She had lurched towards him, the argument still raging behind her forgotten in an instant.

"What's wrong? Dr-" She had to catch herself, glancing furtively over her shoulder. But the others were still shouting in the living room, oblivious. "Malfoy! Malfoy!"

His eyes had clamped shut but they opened as her hands came down on his shoulders and snapped up to meet her gaze. Tiny pin-pricks of sweat were standing out on his forehead and he was breathing hard and shallow through his nose, but more alarming was the naked stare boring into her. He was scared. Worse – he was in pain. She could see it in his shuddering, tense body, and suddenly all the secrecy and questions from the past few weeks were falling into place. His sickened complexion, his long hours in bed, his reluctance to explain anything about what had brought him there… She stared at him with a terrible, building horror, and to her disbelief the corners of his mouth twitched upwards in a smile. His hand was lifting to press against his chest, and as she followed its trajectory she began to notice the dampness spreading there, originally masked by the black fabric. Her hands scrabbled for his buttons, knocking his shaking fingers away, and she pulled the shirt open far enough to see bandages, once white, now stained with an ugly, sick, purpling mass of blood.

For a moment, she could only sit frozen as it assaulted her eyes. It couldn't be real, and yet it was. She couldn't possibly have missed such an injury, and yet she had.

"Draco…" his name fell from her lips before she could stop it this time. He was still gazing at her with that terrible faded smile, but it was as if he could not hear her. He wasn't replying, and his silence was severely unnerving. He abruptly slumped further down the wall and she shifted closer on her knees, trying to catch hold of him. Her hand came down on the blood as if to try to apply pressure, but then jerked away again just as fast. She didn't know what to do, didn't even know what it was.

"How did this happen? Malfoy? Malfoy!"

He was just lying there, and she was desperate. She gripped him tightly by the shoulders and shook him violently. He sucked in a sharp breath, his body rigid with the agony of the movement, and she relaxed her grip at once.

"What's happening to you?" she repeated, her voice trembling. "What's wrong, what…"

"It's fine… S'nothing you can do…"

If he had meant to reassure her, he had not. His shaking voice was laden with a kind of heaviness she had never heard before, and fear settled over her like a shroud.

"What do you mean?" she hissed.

He looked up, his silvery eyes filled with regret, with something like grief. Before either of them could speak, a voice behind her interrupted them.

"Hermione, what's going on?"

Relief hit her at the sound of Harry's voice. She twisted around to see him standing just outside the living room door, his face blank with shock. He looked at Malfoy and at her, a slow frown deepening on his forehead. A rush of understanding flashed between them.

"Harry, something's wrong," she breathed, suddenly terrified of being joined by the others.

He offered her a short nod. "I'll call for help."

He ducked back into the room, shutting the door fast behind him. Hermione turned back to see Draco swallowing the last few drops of amber liquid from a small bottle. He made a noise of frustration as he let his shaking arm fall, and then a low moan. His eyes were screwed tightly shut again, his breathing growing shallower, his whole body clenching stiffly. She snatched the bottle from him, her only indicator of what was going on, and scanned the label quickly. She read the it several times, convincing herself that it was correct.

"What is this? Why are you taking Nightshade Scorita…"

And then it came to her, like a clear image appearing out of a crystal ball. She looked at him sharply, found his eyes cracked open. She'd read about Nightshade Scorita briefly. To her knowledge, it was usually prescribed to remedy the effects of dark magic… She swallowed hard, fighting her dry throat, trying to remain calm.

"Draco, is…" she had to start again. "Something's happened to you."

She had intended to ask him, but it came out as a statement instead. His lips parted as if to speak – and then, like an avalanche hitting, everything disintegrated. With a rough half gasp, half shout of pain, a huge spasm rolled over him and his body jerked and flinched in response. She dove forwards, the bottle forgotten, managed to ease his fall as he dropped to his side on the floor. He curled in on himself at once, his face distorted with pain.

"Draco! Harry!"

She whipped out her wand and aimed it with a shaking hand.

"Protego. Seloma. Balmix. Episkey. Please!"

Her spells bounced off him like stones, having no effect. She tried to feel for his pulse but he was moving too much for her to count it. It was only as she was trying to catch hold of his jerking limbs that she realised he had stopped breathing.

"Draco!" her voice had risen several octaves in panic now, her desperation mounting with every further second he failed to respond to her cries. "Draco, don't, please! Stop! Draco!"

She barely knew what she was saying. She was simply pleading. Because he was leaving her, he was falling away into a place she would not be able to follow him to, and despite all of her silence and all of the distance she had kept since he had returned, she suddenly knew beyond a doubt that she was not over him. She could not let him go. Not like this, with so much left unsaid.

Abruptly, Harry and Ginny were appearing beside her, Hannah towed along with them. Of course – she had been training to be a Medi-Witch over the past few months, although she was barely even beginning to practise. She tried the spells Hermione had already cast, and then more, but to no effect.

"What happened?" Harry demanded.

"I don't know! He just… Look…"

She could barely direct them to the wound. Draco's body was still stiff and jerking – the spasms were growing more frequent. He still hadn't drawn a breath and she pressed her hands against his face, willing him to release his tightly clenched jaw.

"Draco! Draco!"

"What's happening, Hannah?" Ginny said as the other girl sat back on her heels. "Why can't you stop it?"

"I don't know what it is," Hannah replied shakily, glancing up at them all with round eyes. "I can't do anything."

"I sent word to the Order, someone should be coming." Harry was speaking fast, his words tumbling over one another. "Or maybe we should go to St. Mungos…"

Draco's arm abruptly lifted. For a moment, she thought he was going to cast a spell. But then his hand came down on hers, and his fingers wove between hers in a touch so achingly familiar that she felt a sob coil in her throat. It was is if he was trying to comfort her… She clutched at his hand, as if she thought she could drag him back to reality. His arm dropped but she held it tightly, her nails digging into him, begging with flesh.

"Jesus, Hermione." Harry seemed to be struggling to maintain control over the rapidly unravelling situation. He stood but did not leave, as if only for something to do. "Is he breathing? Is he having a fit? Like epilepsy or something…"

"I don't know, I don't know!" Her mind, the thing she usually relied on for answers, was blank. "Draco!"

His eyes opened. And then, before she was allowed any sense of relief, they rolled back in his head and a scream like nothing she had ever heard tore from his throat. Ginny, Harry and Hannah flinched back and she was dimly aware of the door to the living room bursting open, but she didn't dare look away. It was like watching the Cruciatus Curse descend, and yet she knew he had suffered that before and survived. This was different – somehow vicious, somehow violent. His body jerked and twisted as if pulled by an unseen hand, and she tried again to grab hold of him, tried to hold him down before he hurt himself.

"Hannah, do something!"

She heard Harry shouting over the screams, but she knew it was no use. Hannah could do nothing. None of them could. She was watching him slowly dying – she knew it as clearly as if it had been written in blood on the wall. His hand ripped out of her grip and she snatched for it again blindly. Before she could find it, an arm wrapped around her waist and pulled her up and away. She fought but it would not let go, and a voice hissed into her ear.

"Don't touch him, 'Mione, it could be anything!"

Ron. She drove her elbow into his gut and his grip loosened, but he still held tight to her shirt as she tried to run back. On the ground no more than a metre away, Draco was still flinching, still jerking, occasional half-formed cries of pain breaking free. She could almost feel the air shimmering with it. She was aware of the others murmuring behind her, of the tight grip Ron kept around her. As if he was trying to silently ask her what was happening - not with Draco, but rather with her reaction. Which, of course, to them would seem insane. But she couldn't answer him now. Draco's screams were finally beginning to stutter, heaving into stunted shouts and moans, and for the life of her she didn't know if it was because the fit was finishing or because he was... She didn't let herself finish the thought.

"Hermione, stop!"

"Get off me!"

With a final twist she pulled free and in a moment was back at Draco's side. There wasn't time to stop and apologise for how harshly the words had come out, how aggressive she had just sounded. Her hand went at once to the bandages beneath his shirt, now sodden with the dark, purple blood, and instantly pulled away at the unexpected surge of heat she felt there. Desperate to help somehow, in any way, she slipped her arm beneath his shoulders and lifted his head from the ground. There was a spot of blood on his temple where the spasms had driven his skull against the floor and his fluttering eyelids revealed only white, rolling eyes. She held onto him as the shudders rolling mercilessly over his body began to subside and the cries faltered to small, painful noises. It was like watching the tide roll out. And then, with a last jerking shiver, he was a dead weight in her arms and his eyes were shut. Silence hit them like a detonated grenade.

"Fucking... What the fuck," George whispered into it.

Hermione bent her head, pressed her trembling fingers against his neck. It took a few moments for her to find the weak, fluttering pulse, which was still by some miracle ticking away. Enough time for her to realise that he still wasn't breathing.

"No... No, no, Draco, breathe," she muttered, almost to herself. "Breathe now, for god's sake..."

"Hermione?" Harry had come back, kneeling beside her once more.

"Not breathing," she said blindly.

How long since he had stopped breathing? It had been just before the thing, whatever it was, had got bad. Two minutes? Four? She didn't know exactly how long before the lack of oxygen to the brain started to cause damage. Not long. But he must have drawn breath to scream... It was her only hope. But still, his lips had a bluish tinge and his face was even more ashen than before. She snatched up her wand. People were speaking, maybe to one another, maybe to her, but she couldn't waste time listening or answering. She aimed, raking her brain.

"Salvo. Musilacum. Respirto. Respirto!"

Nothing. She threw her wand down, her fear rushing at her like a freight train. Her blood was roaring in her ears. She couldn't let him just die there in the corridor, couldn't bear for that to just be the end of whatever they'd had... And then, just as she was about to descend into full-blown hysteria, he breathed. Air rushed into him and flew out again in a hoarse, rasping cough. It was the most beautiful sound she had ever heard, and tears welled up in her eyes. He was limp again in her arms within moments, but he was breathing, no matter how shallow, no matter how weak, he was alive. She clung onto him, searching his face for some sign of life or consciousness, but he gave no indication that he was waking. His eyes remained firmly closed.

"Jesus, Hermione," Ginny said.

She looked up, and found herself looking into a dozen piercing stares. Her friends formed a wall around her. Their expressions were a medley of confusion, shock, fear, disbelief... There was nothing she could do to explain. All she could do was kneel there, unable to let him go.

Thanks for reading! Reviews are always welcome.

SUPRNTRAL LVR.