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 Ten

Now

In the small attic room that had become Draco's, afternoon was turning to evening and the light shafting through the window was greying as the minutes passed. The clouds were too thick for a sunset that night. She watched a dull fog descending over the rooftops of London, and wished that she could be anywhere else. She was not alone - Harry stood nearby, his arms folded, his gaze unreadable. A strange silence had settled over him since the events of that evening, and he had not spoken much since they had returned to the attic room. Ginny and Ron had joined them, too, although they hovered by the door like unwelcome guests as Hermione paced back and forth. She returned to the bed and lifted her hands briefly before letting them fall, unable to bring herself to touch the bloodied bandages wrapped around Draco's body. Time and again she tried to bring herself to examine the wound, but she didn't dare. The injury was too far beyond their limited expertise and they couldn't risk it.

How did it even happen?

She almost didn't want to know. Lying motionless on the bed, Draco looked as if he were already staring death in the face. His pale skin was almost translucent and the mark on his forehead was rapidly darkening to a bruise - a reminder of what had happened in the hallway. His hollowed eyes had not opened and he had not moved. The only indication that he was still alive was the uneven, halting rise and fall of his chest and his quiet, laboured breathing. And that was not much comfort. His condition had not changed since the mysterious attack he had suffered had stopped. It had been some time now - perhaps an hour.

Initially, she had not wanted to move him. But the longer she stayed crouched over him, the louder the voices around them rose. And she could not bear to hear what they were saying.

"It's some kind of Death Eater signal, or he's been possessed or something-"

"What if he's faking it? Have you checked him?"

"We don't know what it is - what if this thing spreads? What if it's a trap?"

With every passing moment the tension grew. At first, she had hoped he would come round within a few minutes after the attack stopped. But as time crawled by, it became more and more apparent that he would not. She tried to revive him a couple of times to no avail. Spells seemed to disappear into nothing as soon as they touched him, having absolutely no effect no matter how many times she tried. And with the others standing around her, she couldn't help but feel horribly exposed. She had given herself away earlier, and she could feel their stares as a result. No one had openly asked her why she had reacted so strongly - or why she had suddenly stared calling him 'Draco' rather than Malfoy, which must have been her biggest mistake - but she knew that Ron at least felt that something was different. His eyes bore into the back of her neck as she knelt there beside Draco's body, praying for some sign of life. Harry had eventually returned with the news that he had contacted Hestia, who had assured him that she was going to find help and come as soon as she could. In the meantime, all they could do was wait.

Thankfully, Ginny took charge of the situation.

"Upstairs," she said, looking from Hermione to Harry. "We should take him back to his room. In case it happens again."

She was right. They all knew that he couldn't stay lying in the corridor for the whole evening. Harry nodded in agreement and rolled up his sleeves. And, as she could have predicted, the others spoke up at once. Hannah pushed her way to the front of the group, her voice rising above the rest.

"What, you're just going to let him stay? This only makes him more dangerous-"

"If you really think you can leave him out in the street right now, unconscious, then go ahead Hannah!" Harry replied coldly. "In fact, any of you! If that's what you want, do it. Because I won't."

The group looked at one another. Thoughts flashed back and forth, eyes broke away and directed at the floor. Draco's attack seemed to have shaken their resolve to get rid of him, and Pavarti and George looked particularly unhappy about Hannah's appeal. Harry waited a few long seconds before speaking again, this time more calmly.

"Look, obviously this is a problem. But if it matters so much, we'll add it to the memo for the next meeting with the Order. Either way, we can't just throw him out to die."

There were mumbled agreements, begrudging nods. But they still kept their distance, unwilling to get too close. Still trembling from the shock of it all, Hermione conjured a stretcher and together with Harry lifted Draco's unconscious body onto it. She was prepared to lift it when, unexpectedly, Ron darted forwards and took her place. She watched in weary surprise as the two boys made their way slowly up the stairs. And then Ginny was there, taking her arm, and together they followed.

"Any change?"

She raised her head, pulled out of her thoughts by Harry's voice. He had crossed the room to stand beside her. She couldn't help but notice that he had drawn his wand after Draco was settled on the bed and still had it to hand. Despite his apparent support, she could tell how much the situation was unnerving him. Clearly he still had reservations about Draco's allegiances. His edginess was contagious, and her skin crawled with it. She shook her head. He frowned, lowering his voice.

"Hermione, if you know anything about this..."

"I don't," she murmured.

That was the other thing that had been plaguing her. Why hadn't he mentioned it? Why had it been a secret? If something was so wrong, how could he not have trusted her to help? And yet, she knew. She knew him. And she knew the distance between them had only grown frostier since his arrival at the house. He was too proud to ask for help even at the best of times - in their current circumstances, he would have considered the idea unthinkable. The guilt was crushing. When she thought of the other day in the kitchen, when he had seemed at the brink of telling her something, when his face had been so wracked with meaning, and yet the wall that had come up between them had just been too thick to breach. She wanted now more than ever to reach for him, to at least be holding his hand, letting him know she was there. But Harry, Ginny and Ron were still there, Ginny leaning against the wall, Ron sitting on the floor beside her. Ron had been silent since helping to lift his proclaimed nemesis onto the bed. She had felt his gaze on her a couple of times, but he hadn't broken the tense stillness in the room. Still, she could only imagine what he was thinking.

The moment had come, no matter how much she had tried to evade it. She would have to tell him. But for now, she needed answers herself.

The three of them jumped to attention as the door opened and Pavarti appeared, her face serious and drawn. To Hermione's surprise - despite her relief - behind her was a familiar face.

"Professor Slughorn!" Harry stepped forwards to meet him, his voice giddy with gratitude.

Slughorn smiled and clasped the hand offered to him. His gaze scanned the room, assessing the faces of Ron, Ginny and Hermione before coming to rest on the source of the call.

"Good evening, my dear boy. I hear there's been some commotion."

"You could say that," Ron muttered.

Slughorn moved over to the bed, his face darkening with each step. Hestia appeared in the doorway, her forever cool and calculating gaze rolling over them. It seemed to pause on Hermione, and she couldn't help but feel a flicker of anxiety in the pit of her stomach. She might have some explaining to do for the others, but Hestia was surely a more dangerous person to have lied to. There was a new intensity in Hestia's face which Hermione hadn't seen directed at herself before, and she felt like an insect being slipped under a microscope. For a moment, she thought Hestia was about to call her out into the corridor for questioning. But there were to be no confrontations today - Hestia crossed the room to stand beside Harry, watching as Slughorn peered down at Draco.

"Luckily, Slughorn here was willing to attend," she said.

"I didn't know you were a trained Healer, Professor," Ginny said.

"Well, my girl, my experience is limited," Slughorn replied. "But Miss. Jones informed me that this might be closer to the Dark Arts than traditional healing."

"Shouldn't we go straight to St. Mungo's?" Hermione cut in, looking pleadingly from Hestia to Slughorn. "I mean, you didn't see, but the... whatever it was, it was really bad..."

"I did contact St. Mungo's," Hestia replied steadily, not looking up. "I believe, due to Mr. Malfoy's history, they are unlikely to jump at the chance to admit him."

Hermione was speechless. Hestia's words ran through her head once more, but she still could not make sense of them. She could see a similar reflection of shock on Harry's face - Ginny and Ron, meanwhile, simply nodded, as if it were the most natural thing in the world. She was about to protest, to ask how on earth a public health service could refuse help to someone in need, when Slughorn looked up at her with a inquisitive frown.

"Yes, I must admit, I was rather surprised when Hestia informed me that you needed help with this particular patient. She said he suffered some kind of magical fit?"

"Yes."

Hermione tried to swallow the instinct to pursue the argument, resolving to focus on the issue at hand and bring the question up with Hestia later. With a worried glance at Harry, she joined Slughorn at the bedside and carefully moved Draco's shirt aside. She had unbuttoned it earlier - to Ron's stony silence - to better show the bandage.

"It's a curse, I'm sure of it," she said as Slughorn leaned closer to see.

His eyes narrowed. He retrieved his wand from his jacket and Hermione found herself reaching nervously for her wand. She felt strangely protective of him, and had to force herself to acknowledge Slughorn's wealth of experience and knowledge. Still, she wasn't sure if he would have been her first choice during a medical emergency, especially after the time Ron had been accidentally poisoned in his very office and only saved by Harry's quick thinking. Slughorn shot her a cautionary glance.

"Wand ready, Miss Granger," he instructed. "We don't know what it might do in defence."

His words were extremely disconcerting - she did not like the way he referred to the injury as an 'it'. As if whatever magical ailment Draco had landed himself with had a consciousness of some kind. She lifted her wand obediently, and out of the corner of her eye noticed Harry and Hestia moving nearer to the end of the bed, wands also raised. Slughorn lifted his wand and the bandages melted away into a couple of wisps of smoke, revealing the wound beneath.

Whatever she had pictured, it was worse. In the centre of his chest lay what looked like a large, raw mouth about the length of a pencil. Rather than a sealed, half-healed wound, which was what she had been expecting, it was gaping open, and inside the flesh was blackened and glistening wetly. Dark tendrils snaked out from it where the blood vessels had risen, and the edges were a mottled, angry red. It was as if it was fresh, but she knew for certain that he couldn't have received it within the past week. He hadn't left the house since arriving, and none of them were capable of producing a curse like this. She looked quickly up at Draco's face, but he did not seem to even register Slughorn's presence. His eyes remained firmly closed. Slughorn moved his wand slowly over the wound in a small circle, and cleared his throat uncomfortably.

"Well. I think we can agree that this curse is a little beyond the everyday."

"None of the spells I tried worked," Hermione said.

"No," Slughorn murmured.

He lowered his wand, his forehead creased in foreboding concern. The pause stretched on. Hermione looked sharply at Harry, knowing that whatever she was about to hear was not going to help calm her fears. He looked back at her with similar resignation, his teeth fastened over his lower lip. Slughorn eventually sighed heavily.

"I don't think I can help."

"What?" Hermione couldn't stop herself. She felt as if the air had just been sucked out of her. "There's... There's nothing you can do?"

"I'm sure I don't have to tell you that this is extremely dark magic. If it can be cured, it will depend on how and why the spell was cast. Usually you'd require the wand of the caster which, when broken, would form part of a remedy potion."

"Who could have cast it?" Harry spoke up. "A Death Eater? I've never seen anything like it."

"Not just any Death Eater could do something like this," Hestia said quietly. "This would have been from the highest ranks."

"Voldemort?"

The room almost shivered. Hermione wasn't sure how many more times her heart could stop in one evening. Slughorn's cheeks bloomed red and he became extremely flustered - even now that the wizard was no longer a threat, his name still instilled fear in some. Hestia, who was one of the few who had not reacted, shook her head.

"Voldemort shoots to kill when he punishes his minions. I don't think he would have bothered with something like this."

Slughorn, loosening his collar in an attempt to calm himself, nodded in agreement. He pulled off his overcoat and held it out, still frowning down at Draco. After a moment's silence, Ginny rolled her eyes and took it from him. She hung it on the back of the door. Slughorn smoothed his tartan suit as he looked around at them all, meeting their expectant glances warily. Hestia cocked her head, one eyebrow arching slowly. Slughorn cleared his throat.

"Well, I'll do what I can. I'll need a potion kit and any medical ingredients you have here."

"There's some supplies in the kitchen," said Pavarti from the doorway. "I'll bring them up."

She darted out of sight, and her footsteps faded away down the creaking stairs. Slughorn glanced at the waiting room.

"I'll try to get him conscious. Then we can start finding out exactly how this happened. And I'm afraid I'll need some space. This room is rather crowded."

Harry looked around helplessly, shrugging at Ginny and Ron. Ginny was the first to move, pulling Ron with her. His face was screwed up, as if fighting to speak, but he left with her without arguing. Slughorn looked expectantly at Hermione and Harry, and she immediately shook her head.

"I'm staying."

"Hermione, maybe..." Harry trailed off with a sigh at the look she gave him. "Alright, fine. Well, I staying too."

As always, his solidarity with her meant the world. But she had to shake her head again, despite her reluctance.

"Harry, the others will want to talk to you."

He cursed under his breath, pinching the bridge of his nose in frustration. But there was no avoiding it - they both knew that the he had to let the others vent to him after the chaos of that afternoon, and let them know in turn what was going on. After a moment's hesitation he moved towards the door, stowing his wand away in his pocket once more. Hestia went with him, looking back at them as she went. Again she seemed to pause as she studied Hermione, but when she spoke her words were directed at Slughorn.

"If anything happens, I'll be right downstairs. Come down and speak with us when you can."

"We won't have any trouble," Slughorn threw over his shoulder.

He was bending over Draco, holding his wrist to take his pulse while his wand moved from side to side in weaving motions. Hermione leaned forwards as Harry left the room, finally feeling able to speak more freely without Ron's eyes on her back.

"He hasn't moved or spoken in over an hour," she said, watching Slughorn's movements. "And he stopped breathing for a few minutes during the attack, so I'm not sure if..."

He nodded, allowing her to break off. "Not uncommon with something like this. You appear to be one of Mr. Malfoy's few friends."

She looked at her hands. "They don't know him like I do." She hesitated, and then reached into her pocket and drew out the small bottle Draco had dropped. She held it up for Slughorn to see. "He drank this. I think he was trying to use it to stop the attack."

Slughorn took it, running his gaze over the label. He unstoppered it and sniffed cautiously, then set it down on the bedside table.

"That's not Nightshade."

"It's not?"

"No. Nightshade has a distinct aroma, which in this case has been artificially added," he explained, waving his wand in a small arc over the bottle.

He held it out to her to smell. Sure enough, the acrid, perfume smell had vanished. Now, the empty bottle smelled more like old alcohol. Hermione wrinkled her nose at it and turned the bottle over in her hands, examining the label once more. The features there had been perfectly imitated from a legitimate label authorised by the ministry – it even bore the same stamp as medicinal potions handed out by St. Mungos.

"So it's fake medication," she murmured. "Who do you think gave it to him?"

Slughorn shook his head ruefully. "People don't give out fake medication. They sell it."

He bent down and propped open Draco's eyelid, revealing a brief flash of the whites of his eyes, still rolled back in his head. His pause allowed Hermione to think over his words. They painted an even darker picture of what Draco had been suffering - buying fake medicine from an unreliable source while struggling to avoid becoming homeless, hiding his illness, treated like a pariah by his peers... And throughout it all she had hidden herself from him. She hadn't been brave enough to not care what Ron thought, or what the others would say behind her back, or what people would think of her. Shame curled inside her stomach like a worm.

There was a soft knock at the door, and Pavarti appeared with several wooden boxes piled in her arms. She deposited them carefully on the chest of drawers, glancing from Hermione to Slughorn, slightly breathless from the stairs.

"I think that's all we have," she said. "There's a cauldron downstairs, too, if you want...?"

"Yes, yes, we'll need that," Slughorn said brusquely, peering at the boxes. Most had glass lids, and he looked critically at the contents, shifting through them. He tutted and chose one to open, flicking through the vials, bottles and pouches within.

"We'll need a few rarer ingredients for the potion. I'll be back soon."

He Disapparated with a brief rush of air, leaving the two girls alone. Pavarti offered Hermione a hesitant smile, still lingering near the doorway.

"Well, we should probably get the cauldron. Do you think you could give me a hand with it? Only, it's rather large..."

"Oh, of course."

Hermione followed her to the door but stopped with her hand on the knob. She remained standing there, the room suddenly unbearably silent. She hesitated to leave him alone, but the sooner Slughorn was able to begin the potion, the sooner Draco would be alright. But when she peered back at him, lying so unnaturally still in that grey, quiet room, she hated the thought of leaving. He still seemed to be having difficulty breathing, soft rasps accompanying the laboured breaths that moved in and out of his lungs. His face was turned slightly towards the door, and she almost felt that if she stood there just a few seconds longer, his eyes would open and he would look up at her.

"Hermione?"

"Coming, sorry."

With a final glance over him, she tore herself away and followed Pavarti, closing the door softly behind her.

Then

Fourth Year

"You could go to St. Mungo's. 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."

He couldn't help staring at her. She stood there before him, her cheeks slightly flushed, holding out the small, wooden box. Her face was fiercely serious, her eyebrows pulled tightly together. Her brown eyes were almost luminous – he wasn't sure that he had ever looked at someone like this before. She was so solemn, so earnest. Her lips pressed together as the pause drew out. He cleared his throat, trying to retain some semblance of his usual detachment.

"You're telling me to steal McGonagall's Floo Powder, pop over to St. Mungo's, and then come back before Detention is over?"

She said nothing. Her confirmation was burning in her steady gaze.

"Why the fuck would you want me to do that?"

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

He couldn't quite believe what he was hearing. Five minutes ago they had been nothing more than enemies trading insults. Now, somehow, she was suddenly ready to risk severely pissing off Professor McGonagall for him – something she was never willing to do. He doubted Hermione Granger had ever even been told off in class. He reached for the box, and she handed it over at once. He flicked the brass catch and lifted the lid, took a pinch of the glittering green dust. It shimmered enticingly.

"And how do you know I'll come back?" he challenged her. "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?"

His words clearly irritated her, but she didn't take the box back. Instead, she folded her arms and narrowed her gaze, stubborn resolution almost tangible in the air around her. She wasn't going to change her mind about helping him, and that in itself was so strange that he had to do a brief reality check.

"Well, you'd better come back, then," she said.

For the first time, he couldn't come up with something witty and sneering to say. She stared him down, unwavering, her eyes shimmering with intensity. Perhaps he could let her win for once. Holding her gaze, he took a handful of the powder, tossed it into the flames and stepped into the grate. She moved away from the fireplace as green tongues of fire leapt up. She was watching him almost nervously, self-consciously, and looked sharply away. And despite the situation, despite the letter from his father, he found himself grinning.

"St. Mungo's."

Her face vanished in a haze of colour and blurred darkness. In the brief moment before the lobby of St. Mungo's materialised in front of him, he was able to remember the heavy dread that had settled in his stomach upon reading the letter that had just arrived.

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.

It was typical of his father to offer simply the bare facts and nothing more. Draco could almost hear his unfeeling, lofty voice as he went over the letter. He tried to suppress the anger that flared up in him in response and stepped out of the fire and into St. Mungo's waiting room. It was packed, even now in the middle of the day. Before he had even looked for the front desk he had seen a small child covered in orange pimples, a man reading The Prophet with one arm severed and lying casually across his lap, and an old woman whose face was a mass of fine grey fur. He picked his way through the odd parade of ailments and reached the front desk, where a young witch looked up expectantly. Her gaze strayed quizzically to his Hogwarts uniform, but her suspicion remained unvoiced.

"How may I help?"

"I'm looking for Narcissa Malfoy," he said. "I'm her son."

"Is she expecting you?"

He hesitated. "Yes."

Her eyebrow twitched, but she tapped the log book siting on the desk in front of her with her wand. The pages rushed past and stopped abruptly – she nodded.

"Fourth Floor, Spell Damage. The Felicitas Ward. It's clearly signposted."

He thanked her and left before she could ask about his uniform. He took the stairs two at a time, darting around people coming the other way, glancing at his watch as he went. He didn't have long before his Detention finished and McGonagall came back – he didn't have time to be polite.

Spell damage.

He wondered how much his father had told the Healers about what had happened. Probably nothing, if he could help it. Draco didn't know much himself. He had received a letter from his mother a few days ago explaining some of what was going on – enough to know that she had received a strange letter that turned out to be jinxed. She had tried to tell him that it wasn't serious, but the language she had used told him otherwise. She had been too bright and positive to be convincing. There was no name on the letter, from what she said, but it was obvious that it had been some kind of warning. The question was – from who? He couldn't imagine anyone wanting to send such a thing. And it had been addressed to her specifically, despite the fact that she had no enemies that he knew of.

He reached the fourth floor and stood there, peering at the signs and the maze of corridors. People hurried past him like a river around a stone. The flurry of movement kept him looking for a good few minutes before he caught sight of a sign nearby - the Felicitas Ward. He made for it, his heart hammering in his chest. More people were glancing curiously at him, and with a flash of paranoia he pulled off his tie, balled it up, and thrust it out of sight into his pocket. He still had the Slytherin crest on his jumper, but it was slightly less obvious now. He pushed his way through the double doors leading in to the Ward and slowed to a halt, faced with countless pale blue curtains and beds and more corridors. There was a desk with a Healer sitting at it near the door, but he even as he approached it a curtain around one of the beds pulled aside and a Healer emerged, flicking her wand to send a series of notes flying off down the corridor. And as she stepped out, Draco caught a glimpse of the bed beyond and it's occupant.

His stomach lurched and he moved forwards automatically. The Healer caught his arm as he grabbed the edge of the curtain.

"Excuse me, there are no visitors allow-"

"Draco!"

His mother sat up, her eyes stretched wide in surprise. The Healer hesitated, but then reluctantly let him go - he darted through the curtain and took the hand she held out to him. She squeezed his fingers tightly.

"Draco, what on earth are you - how did you get here?"

"Doesn't matter," he said. "A friend helped."

On any other day he would have been stunned at his own use of the word 'friend' to refer to Granger, but he was too busy assessing his mother's appearance to notice. Narcissa Malfoy was always neat, always conscious of specs of dirt on her clothes or the slightest smudges in her make up. But now her hair was loose and unbrushed, and the hospital bed dwarfed her and made her look thin and ill. The side of her face was marred with a black, glistening burn - which writhed angrily on her skin as if alive. It spread down her neck and he could see it on the back of one of her hands, too. He stared at the marks, his concern growing as they flickered. It looked painful, the skin raw and peeling, but she remained as calm and collected as ever. He reached for her uninjured hand, overcome suddenly with a mixture of protectiveness and fear. Ever since he had grown taller than her their relationship had begun to change, and he had become more aware of her fragility, particularly in contrast to his father's bullish authority. She tried to smile at him.

"The Healers say it is perfectly curable," she said, almost sternly. "No need to worry."

"But how do we know another letter won't come?" His voice had suddenly become very small, like a child lost at a fairground. He swallowed hard before continuing. "How can we be sure? Maybe you should go away for a while, to your cousins in Europe, or..."

His voice trailed off as she shifted uncomfortably, her gaze drifting down to evade him. She always had been much worse at lying than his father. He stared at her, the realisation settling over him.

"You know? You know who sent it?" And then, as her silence stretched on. "Who? Mother, tell me!"

She glanced at the curtain, and then reached for her wand on the bedside table. She flicked it at the curtains, drawing then closed, and held it with both hands as she replied. He did the very same thing when he was anxious. He watched the light flash on the diamond-studded ring on her left hand.

"Do you remember your Aunt Bellatrix?"

He did. He had never met her - she had been incarcerated when he was a baby. All he knew of her was that she had fought for Voldemort during his first war, and that she had been one of his closest allies. And, of course, that she was mad as a hatter. No one spoke about it, but his mother had the newspaper that had reported her arrest folded away in a drawer in her dressing table. He had found it once when he had been sent to fetch her some earrings, and the wild, screaming face had been burned into his memory. He frowned, looking at his mother with renewed concern.

"Her? But why would she... what would she have against you?"

"I believe it was more of a warning. I'm sure you know that your Aunt Bellatrix always cared very much about... the cause. I feel that perhaps she thought I needed some encouragement to... to remain enthusiastic."

His mother's voice was distinctly unhappy. She always packed so much into what she said, and despite the fact that she spoke little, her meaning was never unclear. But now he could tell that she was stepping around something, unwilling to bring him into the light. Her hesitations were like vast pits. Even though she was holding back, he could see the ripples of her words spreading through the air. She seemed to realise that he was staring at her and offered a small, thin smile.

"What has the cause got to do with us?" he said. "Father has friends involved in it, but that's all. Isn't it?"

Her gaze darkened considerably, and she squeezed his hand before withdrawing her own from his grip. The air had suddenly become tense, sharp, and he could sense that he had hit a raw nerve. But when she spoke, her voice was as steady and quiet as ever.

"For you, Draco, yes. That's it."

He was about to ask her to explain, but as he opened his mouth the curtain flew open and his father's stern face and long, white blonde hair came into view. Draco groaned inwardly and prepared himself for a fight as Lucius' cold, grey eyes fixed on him.

"The Healer will be back in an hour with a potion," he said to Narcissa, seemingly unfazed by his son's appearance. "After that they've asked to keep you in for another day for observation."

Draco folded his arms. His father's gaze moved to his collar, noting the lack of a tie, and then back up to his face.

"I told you it was taken care of, Draco, there is absolutely no need for hysteria."

Draco bristled, but his mother spoke first and he caught his tongue.

"There's no harm done, Lucius, I appreciate him coming."

"And I suppose Draco's teachers also appreciate it?"

Draco hesitated, and saw a tense moment flash between his parents. His father's eyes narrowed.

"We could do without further scrutiny at the moment, thank you, Draco."

"What is that supposed to mean? They won't even know I'm gone anyway."

He glanced furtively at his watch as he spoke. Well, another twenty minutes and they might. He couldn't stay much longer. He could feel his parents watching him, and his mother smiled.

"Draco has a friend, who will explain the situation."

He was left wondering who she meant, before he remembered his explanation earlier and Granger's large-toothed face leapt abruptly into his head. He shook himself, trying to shrug the image of her standing there beside the fire off. She was not a friend. He had no idea why he had used such an inane word earlier. His father made a noise in the back of his throat and stepped back, holding the curtain open.

"All the same, now that you have had your visit, perhaps we should see about returning you to school."

He wanted to argue, but his mother caught at his sleeve and shot him a look which told him to be silent. Stifling his fury, he kissed her quickly on the cheek.

"Get better soon. And... and don't answer the door for a while."

"I'm fine, Draco," she said softly. "I think the disagreement is now over."

He stared at her, trying to unpick the truth from the lines in her forehead and her tired eyes. But she simply offered him a smile, her gaze drifting up to his collar.

"Do fix that, won't you Draco? You look terribly scruffy."

He rolled his eyes and pulled his collar straight, more to satisfy her than anything else. He felt her eyes on him as he left, and glanced back once more before allowing his father to shepherd him out into the ward. His last view was of her sitting there, watching him with a strange kind of sadness, her slender hands gripping her wand tightly. Then the curtain had dropped closed, and she was gone. His father took him by the arm, and he wrenched free with a scowl.

"I'm not a prisoner, you don't have to frog march me there," he muttered.

"Draco." His father snatched again for his arm, pulling him to a firm halt. "I don't want to see any more stunts like this. What happens in this family is our business - it is not for the ears of your teachers."

"Why does it matter so much?"

His father looked around. "Don't question it. We've had word that things are... are in motion. And we may be required to lend aid in the near future."

"Aid? What things?"

Lucius' eyes narrowed. He surveyed the Ward, his eyes flickering with an uncertainty which unnerved Draco. He hadn't seen his father look like that before - almost scared, as if losing control. His father was always in control. Lucius straightened slightly, as if drawing himself up to his full height.

"You had better decide if you are mature enough for what is required of you. Otherwise, you may as well stay at school."

Draco blinked at him, but his father was already turning away, fixing his gaze on the wall over Draco's shoulder. The conversation was over, and Draco knew better than to try and argue. He pulled free as Lucius tried again to grab his arm.

"Fine, fine, I'm going. I don't need you to walk me out."

His father glared at him. "Just go back to school. Now."

He turned and strode away, vanishing quickly behind the sterile blue curtain which masked his mother's bed. Draco turned to leave, but something held him back. There were too many unanswered questions, too many cryptic words being thrown around. He glanced around - the Healers in the Ward were otherwise occupied for now. No one was watching him. After a moment's hesitation, he moved silently back towards the curtain. He bent his head to listen, pretending to be examining an invisible mark on his sleeve. He could just about hear his father's lowered voice through the folds of material.

"He will do what he is asked to do and nothing more. He will have a responsibility to-"

"So you will give him our only son?" Her voice was shaking wildly. "Do you even realise what that means?"

"He will not be put in danger."

"Come off it, Lucius. We are all to suffer because of your rash mistakes."

He could imagine the look on his father's face, could almost feel his temper rising. His voice when he spoke was icily calm.

"Might I remind you, Narcissa, that the Blacks brought him into our lives. Not I."

"What you do is your business. Do not bring Draco into it."

"Do you really think he doesn't know? Do you think he hasn't heard of Death Eaters?"

Draco felt a strange rush, as if he had just gone over a hill at high speed or performed a complex loop on a broom. Death Eater. His parents never used the name aloud, had never explicitly explained how they were connected. Of course, from what his father dropped into conversations now and again and from the people he knew, Draco had always assumed that they had some kind of relationship. That his father had been some kind of honorary member, hanging about on the fringes of the movement. But the way his mother was talking implied that Lucius Malfoy had not only been associated with them - he had somehow become directly involved? The 'cause', as they always put it, was far closer to home than Draco had realised. He tried to focus on what his mother was saying, noting the way her voice shook with desperate resolve.

"He doesn't understand what it means. He admires you, he wants to be like you - but I can't let him be a part of that, Lucius. I won't allow it."

"We may not have a choice."

His mother said nothing, but Draco could picture the look on her face. He could almost see them, facing stubbornly away from one another, each simmering with silent anger. He wanted to stay longer, but the Healer from earlier was returning with a potion in hand, and she frowned at him as she approached. He tore himself away from the curtain and headed away towards the exit. His pace quickened as he realised the time - there were only fifteen minutes remaining until McGonagall would be back. If he didn't arrive in time, Granger would be in trouble.

He wasn't sure why he cared, and yet he almost ran down the stairs.

He reached the lobby and hurried across to the Floo network, dragging his tie out of his pocket as he went. As he stood beside the fireplace, looping the tie around his neck, trying to catch his breath, he was struck again by the strange circumstances of his visit. He felt utterly flooded with gratitude for the visit, and yet the person who had orchestrated it was supposed to be the person he most detested at Hogwarts. Behind Potter, at least. He glanced over his shoulder one more time, torn between going back up and telling his parents what he really thought... although he wasn't completely clear on what that was.

He had always thought of his father as an impressive man. His vague connection with the darker side of the wizarding world had always added to his gravitas and esteem in Draco's eyes, but it had always remained at a distance. And yet now that the possibility of becoming involved was more tangible, it was beginning to feel rather unwelcome. Of course it was fun to boast about his father's influence and associations at school in front of the other Slytherins, but... He thought of the Quidditch World Cup, and of the Muggles dangling upside down in the air, of the horde of hooded people. He remembered how Nott had been only too happy to join in, and how he had felt sick at the thought of doing so. He thought of how, for all their 'connections' with the hooded people marching over the campsite, his parents had spent the evening holed up in their tent. He thought of the jinx currently spreading over his mother's face. A warning, she had said. Encouragement.

We may not have a choice.

He realised that he had just been standing aimlessly beside the Floo network for the last five minutes, and shook himself into action. He stepped into the grate, snatching a handful of Floo powder from the bowl beside the fireplace.

"McGonagall's Office, Hogwarts."

When McGonagall's classroom came into view before him, the first thing he saw was a bushy head bent forwards over a stack of books. She looked up as he stepped out of the grate, and her face cleared with relief at the sight of him. She must have thought he was not going to come back. Their conversation in front of the fireplace felt like it had taken place years ago now. He tried to pull himself together, but couldn't find the right words to mock her as he usually would. She seemed to understand that he was not in the mood to talk, and instead watched him in silence as he returned to the desk to begin sharpening the quills once more. He felt the heat of her eyes on him, and had the wild urge to look back at her and tell her everything he had just overheard. Watch her eyes widen in horror. She would probably try to tell him what he should be doing about it. Know it all. He bent his head over his desk, deafening silence pressing in around him.

After a moment, he heard her pick up her pen and begin to scratch away at her essay once more.

Now

The cool moonlight painted thin, slanting rectangles across the wooden floorboards, and from her perch on the windowsill Hermione could smell the faint traces of cigarette smoke. She trailed her fingers absently along the window frame and dusted off the fragments of ash that collected on her skin, feeling an odd sense of familiarity with the tiny grey particles crushed against her thumb and forefinger. She had grown to associate that smell with him, learned to look for him whenever it brushed across her nose. She tried to picture him sitting where she was now, looking out at the night, tried to translate his thoughts.

The house creaked softly around her. She wasn't sure what time it was, but the others had long since gone to bed. She had barely left the room in the last few hours, and now she listened as the last footsteps downstairs died away into silence and the last bedroom door clicked shut. She didn't need to look at her watch to know that she was staying up far into the early hours. Slughorn, true to his word, had stayed and helped as much as he could. Together they had brewed a complex potion even she had struggled to keep up with and mixed together a thick poultice. With some effort, they had managed to get Draco's unconscious body to swallow the first few doses of the potion and applied the poultice to a gauze square, which now hid the ugly wound from her sight. But Slughorn was obviously uncomfortable with remaining there for long. He had claimed he had other responsibilities, and before long he had left, promising to return in the morning. Hermione had volunteered to remain, only too happy to have some time alone with her thoughts. Which was how she had ended up sitting in the dark attic room with nothing to pierce the silence but Draco's unsteady, rasping breaths.

Her eyes had adjusted to the darkness as the evening light died, and now even with only the moonlight she could pick out his pale skin against the quilt covering the bed. Even from her distance she could see the dark circles around his eyes and the shuddering rise and fall of his chest. Inevitably, her eyes ran down to where the blanket covered him and she forcibly turned back towards the clouded night sky once again. She had developed a bad habit of staring at him, and it was making her heart thump hard in her chest.

Atop the chest of drawers a paper bird she had made to act as an alarm suddenly straightened up and cheeped softly. She waved her wand to silence it and rose to her feet, feeling her tired muscles protest at the hard surface she had been perched on for so long. Another two hours had passed, and it was time to check on him once again.

She approached the bed cautiously, as if expecting to be caught. Earlier, after the meeting with the rest of the house had finished, Harry and Ginny had dropped in briefly to see her. Apparently Hestia had taken charge of the situation, and her authority had overridden the complaints of the others for now. It had been decided that Draco would remain in the house at least until they learned more about his condition and what could be done. They hadn't stayed long, seemingly uncomfortable, and itching to get away. With a flick of her wand she lit the candle standing on his bedside table, which had so far been ignored. She reached the bed and looked down at him, allowing herself a few moments to drink in the sight of him. All of the tiny things she had barely noticed over the past few weeks had suddenly become all too visible, as if someone had taken a blindfold away. He had always been pale, but now his skin was tinged grey and seemed faded, like a smudged painting. It reddened considerably around the area covered by the gauze, and she could make out several dark veins snaking out from the bandage. The dark, purpled blood had spotted through slightly, but when she tentatively reached out a hand the bandage was still dry. He was thinner, too, she realised. In the days when she had run her hands over him and felt him curling around her in response, she had been distinctly aware of his strength, of the lean muscles in his arms and back. Now he was skinnier.

The same could be said for his face. Again, he had always had delicate features – now, they had been viciously hollowed out by the effects of the curse. His lips were pale and dry and his face seemed to be lined with tense pain, even in sleep. His hair had lost some of its glossiness, now dishevelled from their administrations and the fit. Before she could stop herself, she sat down on the edge of the bed and reached out. Her hand hovered in the air for a few seconds, and then pushed the stray locks back into place before retreating, only to settle lightly on top of his cool, clammy fingers. To touch him, to be close enough to do so, felt like breathing a sigh of relief. She couldn't remember the last time she had been able to feel his skin against hers, to do something as intimate as fixing his hair. His fingers twitched slightly and she curled her hand around them. Strange how something as simple as holding someone's hand could make her heart ache.

She would have sat like that for longer if she had not remembered the point of her presence in the first place. Reluctantly, she let go of his hand and checked his breathing, heart rate and temperature. Then she reached for the vial that stood waiting on the bedside cabinet and popped out the stopper. She was leaning forwards, just about to try to coax him to have some, when his eyes opened and stared straight at her. A thrill of shock rushed through her and she froze, still gripping the vial. His grey eyes were bloodshot and glassy, but they were locked onto her own, and just like back at the Yule Ball they had snatched away her voice. Her parted lips trembled as she tried desperately to think of something to say. He blinked slowly, his eyebrows pulling together slightly.

"Did… Did you fly thr' the window?"

Her stomach dropped away. It took her a few long moments to compose herself, wet her lips and speak. Her voice sounded odd to her own ears.

"Yes," she said at last, not knowing what else to say. "Can you drink this?"

His gaze slid to the vial she was offering him. He moved his head in a small nod and she shuffled closer on the bed. He lifted his arm to take it but his hand was shaking violently, and she quickly wrapped her fingers around his own to hold the little glass vessel steady. She helped him to knock it back and he swallowed it with some difficulty, letting his head fall back as soon as he could. She felt his eyes on her as she placed the vial down on the bedside cabinet. She glanced at him uncertainly. His eyes still had that glassy, faraway sheen, but they were fixed on her as if she were a lifeline.

" 'Mione…"

He moved as if to sit upright but stopped with a moan, lifting his hand to his chest. She shifted forwards quickly, catching hold of his fingers before he could dislodge the gauze patch sitting there, and then, against her better judgement, let her other hand settle on his cheek. He leaned into her, settling back again, still staring at her with a strange mixture of emotion. She managed to smile at him, trying to provide some reassurance.

"Do you know where we are?"

He just looked at her. His silence was enough to tell her that he wasn't sure. She ran her fingers through his hair and down over his neck, in a strange imitation of what she had used to do when they were together. That intimacy flickered just out of reach, tauntingly close... She stood, broke the contact, stepped away.

"You're cold," she said. "I'll be right back."

She turned on the spot and Apparated downstairs, unexpected tears suddenly springing into her eyes. The room she shared with Ginny and Luna was quiet – the two girls were in bed asleep. The candle on Ginny's bedside table was still burning and a book was open on her lap where she lay propped up in bed, head to one side and mouth wide open. She usually crept away to Harry's room when it got late. Hermione had a sneaking suspicion that the other girl had been waiting up for her. Not eager to be seen in her present state of mind, she brushed her tears away quickly, picked up the duvet from her own bed, and Apparated back into Draco's room.

He was unconscious again when she reappeared. She wasn't sure if she was relieved or disappointed. She spread the extra duvet over him, pulling it up to cover his chest and shoulders, and then retreated quickly to the windowsill. The feel of his skin lingered on her hands and she hugged herself tightly in an attempt to replace him.

"Did you fly thr' the window?"

Those words had sent a chill through her. She was brought back sharply to Hogwarts on a chilly day in January, when there had been no space between them at all. During those days she had craned her neck to seek out a glimpse of him every breakfast, lunch, and dinner, usually able to catch his eye for a moment across the Great Hall. On that particular day he had arrived at breakfast late, looking to be in a particularly bad mood. His face had remained tight and absent throughout breakfast – during which he had not eaten anything – and he had not returned her glances once. She had put his behaviour down to waking up on the wrong side of the bed for some reason or another, and had tried to concentrate on what Ron was saying about pygmy puffs. She had planned to meet with him later. Only he hadn't shown up for Potions, or Charms, and then when she, Harry and Ron returned to the Great Hall at lunch, he had not been there either. And then she had begun to grow worried. She thumbed the little stone in her pocket but it had not grown warm, and whenever she checked it for a new message it had been blank. Any messages she sent to him were ignored. After lunch she tried to focus on Transfiguration and Muggle Studies, but she couldn't concentrate. And, finally, when their free period before dinner came, she could not wait any longer. She pretended she had work to do in the library – something Harry and Ron did not question her about – and left her friends to return to the common room without her.

She was halfway to the Slytherin common room when she realised that she could not enter without him, and without some form of disguise. She slowed to a halt as she approached the dungeons, raking her brains desperately for some excuse, some reason for turning up at the rival house's common room… But, of course, it was hopeless. She would never be let in, and even if she was, the place would be full of students and she would never reach his room undetected. Perhaps he had taken an unexpected visit home? But no, he would have sent her a message. She chewed on her lip anxiously, contemplating going to Professor Snape in the hopes that he would check on Draco instead, but hastily dismissed the idea. She had just turned and begun to make her way back up the stairs towards Gryffindor, crestfallen, when she passed the seventh floor and was struck with hope.

She hurried to the tapestry showing Barnabas the Barmy and stood in front of the blank patch of wall, panting slightly. It was a long shot, but she could not think of any other solution. In truth, it was doubtful that there would be any magical room in the castle that would allow students to access one another's dormitories, but... She pushed the strap of her bag higher onto her shoulder and began to walk back and forth.

I need a way to see him. I need a way to get to him. I need a way to see him.

It felt stupid. Her requirement didn't seem to be delivered in clear enough terms for the Room to oblige, but when she opened her eyes and turned around, sure enough, the door had appeared. She headed for it, trying to imagine what possible solution the Room had come up with, and slipped inside.

She was met with an empty room.

She stood looking around for a while, trying to figure out what exactly had happened. Perhaps this was what happened when the request was too much for the Room to offer. She stepped forwards, examining every inch of the room in complete detail. It was just a simple, stone-walled rectangular room with a window at one end. A deep red rug covered the stone floor. Hermione crossed the room slowly, picking out the view beyond the window. It looked out onto the lake in the grounds, which made no sense as the lake was definitely nowhere near a seventh floor window. And yet, here, the rippling surface of the lake was just below the windowsill. The window itself was ajar, and Hermione pushed it fully open as she reached it. The lake lapped coolly at her feet, and she leaned out to look across it. The sun was always low in winter, and now it was dipping towards the horizon, setting the water on fire with glowing red and orange.

To her left was another windowsill. And it was only then that she remembered that the Slytherin common rooms were right beside the lake.

She stepped out onto the stone ledge, holding tight to the wall, horribly aware of how slippery the stone surface was. She was also knew exactly what inhabited that lake, and she had no wish to end up spending the evening with the grindylows and mermaids and, least of all, the giant squid. She glanced over at the windowsill beside her, the only other window close enough to reach. Her shoes skidded slightly and she pressed herself against the wall, holding her breath.

She almost turned back. Only…

She forced herself to breathe deeply and evenly. And then, closing her eyes tightly, she threw herself off the windowsill.

She scrabbled for her footing as she landed, snatching wildly at the window frame she found herself in front of. Adrenaline and euphoria rolled through her at her victory, and she was even able to let out a bark of heady laughter before looking in through the window. She found herself peering at a small room dressed in Slytherin colours. Luckily, like herself, Draco was a Prefect, which meant she didn't need to navigate any roommates. From her position perched on the window, she could make out a chest of drawers, a wardrobe, a desk just in front of her, and a black marble fireplace. The room was clean, papers stacked neatly on the desk and clothes folded away in drawers. The only things out of place were the shoes and discarded bag which lay near the door, thrown absently there. There was also a four-poster bed, on which she could make out a familiar form curled on its side.

"Alohamora."

The window clicked open and she clambered inside over the desk. The figure on the bed jerked upright at the sound of her entrance, and she was able to enjoy his wide-eyed gaze as he looked from her to the lake and back again.

"Did… Did you fly through the window?"

She grinned widely. "Yes," she replied, climbing down off the desk and straightening her bag. "I did."

Her pride over her short victory was short-lived. Now that she was inside, she was able to make out Draco's pale complexion and red nose. She crossed to the bed and climbed up to kneel on it. He rolled towards her, hastily pushing his hair back into place.

"What's wrong? Where have you been?"

"M'sorry," he muttered. His voice was thick with snot. "Bloody Goyle came back from Magical Creatures after that Grindylow practise soaked. Coughing all over everyone. I'm gonna fucking kill him."

"You've got a cold?" she smiled, unable to help herself. "Don't you know how to cook up a simple Pepper-Up Potion?"

He scowled at her. "Of course I do! I was just… taking a nap."

He sniffed, coughed, heaved himself off the bed and straightened slowly. His mouth was turned downwards in almost comical despair, his forehead wrinkled. She watched as he staggered over to his desk and began to rifle through his top drawer, retrieving a small cauldron. He paused halfway through to sneeze once, twice and then a third time, groaning between each one. She couldn't help but take pity on him. She clambered off the bed, reaching out to take his arm as he rifled through his ingredients.

"Here, I'll do it. Why don't you lie down?"

"I've got it," he muttered, spluttering through another cough.

It never failed to amuse her how easily his pride could be hurt. It was one of the reasons any encounters between he and Harry and Ron always exploded so quickly – he was extremely good at dishing out the sarcasm, but pathetically bad at being on the receiving end of it. His temper was so quick to rouse that she was constantly surprised that the two of them managed to get on at all. And yet now, she found herself smiling as he shoved his supplies across the desk, dragged his sleeve across his nose and glanced with disgust at the mucus left behind.

"Ok, fine," she said coolly, planting herself back down on the bed. "I'll just do some reading."

She retrieved her bag from the floor and began to look through what homework they had been given so far. It took some effort to resist looking up at him, but she could hear him pushing things around, fumbling with the instruments, sniffing, wheezing. After a minute or so there was a quiet crash and he swore loudly – she looked up to find that he had dropped one of his vials, beetles scurrying away across the floor, and now had his head in his hands. He sighed heavily, and then finally spoke.

"Hermione?"

She met his gaze as he lifted his head. He muffled a sneeze and pushed himself away from his desk, admitting defeat.

"I've got a really bad fucking headache. And my throat hurts. And I feel like shit. And… Would you please help me?"

She felt a grin spread over her face. In a few seconds her books were back in her bag and she was beside the desk, reaching out to take his hand and pull him up to his feet.

"I have some more beetles in my kit. I'll be done in a few minutes."

He caught at her as she turned away, his arm moving around her waist. She could feel the heat radiating off him, and she held the back of her hand against his forehead.

"You're really hot."

"That's why I get so much attention," he said, with a hint of his usual smirk. "Thank you… I'd kiss you, but I don't know if I'm still contagious-"

She cut him off by lifting up onto her tip-toes and pressing her lips against his. Pleasant tingles flooded her body and she felt his other hand move through her bushy hair, cradling her head closer. For a moment, the world seemed to fall away and the only thing mattered was the two of them… and then she opened her eyes, dropped back down onto her feet.

"Go on," she said softly, giving him a gentle push towards the bed. "Won't be long."

He obediently flopped down on the bed again. After a few moments she heard him start to hum absent-mindedly under his breath, and she couldn't help but smile widely.

After she had finished the potion she had laid on the bed beside him as he sipped at it, idly picking through her homework assignments. Hours had rushed over them until she was disentangling herself from him, realising that she was fifteen minutes late for her extra class in Arthimatics and had completely missed dinner. She had climbed out through the window again, calling over her shoulder that she would contact him later. Of course, two days later she had come down with the worst flu she had ever had, and she had looked up from the nest of blankets she had made for herself in bed to see a figure crouched on her windowsill, a stack of papers under his arm.

"Got your homework, nerd."

She had smiled through her bunged up nose and coughed. "Did you fly through the window?"

"Did you fly thr' the window?"

Now those days seemed a world away. She couldn't remember what it felt like to be able to smile so easily, so flippantly, to just reach for him and kiss him as if nothing could stop them. As if they would always be at Hogwarts, and the worst problems they would ever face was the potential of Harry and Ron finding out about them. Now, instead of curling up beside him on the bed to read and smile through kisses, she was perching on a cold windowsill with her knees drawn up to her chest, watching his unsteady breathing, watching his eyes move erratically beneath his lids. She wasn't sure if she preferred this or that death-still state he had been in so far. At least now it was easier to tell that he was still alive. The only problem was that it was harder to pretend everything was going to be all right.

She waved her hand, resetting the paper bird to chirp in another two hours. Then she put her head on her knees and closed her eyes.

Thanks for reading! Reviews are always welcome.

SUPRNTRAL LVR.