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 Twelve

Draco woke with a start, the shadow of his nightmare still flickering at the corners of his mind as he came back to awareness. It took a couple of minutes for the events of the past day or so to come trickling back, and he grimaced at the uncomfortable memory of waking up surrounded by Potter, Ginny Weasley, Hestia Jones and Slughorn, of all people. Hermione had been there too, and he had never been more relieved to see her. He wasn't sure exactly what had happened between the sudden attack in the hallway and then, but obviously it was nothing good. His secret was out, and possibly in the most undignified way he could have imagined. And although it was almost a relief to finally stop hiding, the look on Hermione's face had been gut-wrenching. She had looked at him with utter, desolate horror. As if he had just driven a knife through her.

But she had stayed. She had sat there in the corner, reading her books, her head bent, and her company had been so tranquil that he had found himself falling asleep again. It was nice to have her back - even if he was just pretending. And yet when he opened his eyes now, she was gone.

He lifted himself gingerly onto his elbow, hissing through clenched teeth. He was alone now - although the chair she had been sitting on earlier and the pile of books were both still there. His chest and head throbbed steadily and he closed his eyes against the insistent pain. His hand sought out the bottle of new Nightshade Scortia which was waiting on his nightstand. Instead of brushing the bottle, his fingers closed instead around something small and smooth. It grew warm beneath his skin, and his heart lurched. He squinted at it and saw a familiar pebble lying in his palm. Even as he stared, small, golden letters raced across its surface.

Just in case.

He lay back down, still cradling the stone in both hands. She had kept them. He couldn't believe it. After their argument in the tent, after he had thrown the pebble back at her and stormed out, he had been sure she would have simply discarded them somewhere in the forest. But she had kept them. Why?

The look on her face the day before appeared in his head again. He didn't dare presume that he would still hold some place in her heart, but he could just about believe that she must still care about him. Why keep the stone if she was done with him? He forced himself to stop thinking about it, knowing how dangerous it was to indulge in fantasy. Against his better judgement, he pressed his lips fleetingly against the pebble and then slipped it into his pocket. He reached again for the Nightshade and swallowed a little. It burned and made him cough harshly, which in turn brought dark spots swarming before his eyes, but after a few seconds the pain unexpectedly lifted significantly, and he found he could breathe a little easier.

Cautiously testing the potions effects, he heaved himself upright and, millimetre by millimetre, swung his legs out and let his feet touch the floor. The movement left him feeling dizzy and sick, but the stabbing agony had receded to a somewhat bearable level. He enjoyed the sensation of his feet against the floorboards, finally grounded, finally awake.

After some time, he decided to go downstairs. The silence and lack of pain finally gave him the chance to notice the tightness in his bladder and the clamminess of his skin – he had no idea how much time had passed since he had last entered a bathroom, and his body was complaining. He dreaded the thought of walking, but it would at least give him something to do other than lie staring at the ceiling and contemplating the proximity of his inevitable death. And the house sounded remarkably quiet - he was able to hope that the others were out on some mission or other, and that he might be in with a chance of having the house to himself.

Having summoned every ounce of energy he had, he reached for the wall and pulled himself unsteadily up to his feet. The ground instantly bucked rebelliously and his knees shook – he was forced to hang onto the wall, like a drunk trying to stagger home, until the world steadied itself. Then, with small, painful steps, he began to make his way across the room. Breathing and walking at the same time had suddenly become an impossible task.

By the time he reached the door to his room, he had been forced to re-evaluate his plans. There was no way he was going to make it down the stairs on his own in such a state, unless he wanted Hermione to skip back from whatever she had gone to do to find him in a sweaty, mangled heap at the bottom of them. He already desperately wanted to sit down and take a break, but had to settle for leaning heavily against the door, hunched over in an attempt to relieve the pain that had dully flared up again in his chest. His body was rattling around him, like an old car about to give up the fight. He felt his limbs trembling and, forcing himself to breathe evenly, changed his mind. He held out his hand and shakily managed to summon his wand, which wobbled uncertainly through the air towards him, and then a jumper and a pair of black lounge pants from his suitcase in the corner. Then, clutching the lot to him, he screwed his eyes shut, dragged up everything he had, and Disapparated.

He blinked into being just outside the bathroom door two flights down – rather than inside, as he had been aiming – and snatched at the doorframe to avoid toppling over onto the ground. His head span wildly and for a moment he had a very real fear of fainting then and there. But, to his relief, his vision returned and he was able to haul himself into the bathroom on shaky legs and sink down onto the edge of the bath. He closed his eyes, and then instantly regretted it as his body automatically listed sideways. He kicked the door shut, locked it with a hoarse Colloportus, and sat there for a long few minutes until the sickness subsided and his heart stopped thundering in his ears.

Despite the slightly skewed trip, he still considered it a sort of victory. And after the horrific embarrassment of the day before, he would take what he could get. Slughorn and Hestia had seemed intent on explaining to him - in front of Potter and Hermione, no less - that he could expect to be making his funeral plans within the month. Yet, still, he had made it to the bathroom alone. He would have enjoyed proving them wrong – if anyone had been there to see. In any case, he celebrated with a ten minute respite before forcing himself to get up and climb into the shower. He had been looking forwards to the water and the heat and the steam for days, but the moment was spoiled by his irritating dizziness. He could barely afford to take his hand off the wall for more than a couple of seconds. By the time he was done he had to sit down again for a while before drying himself off and pulling on the joggers and jumper he had brought with him. He towelled off his hair, enjoying the lack of sweat and grease, and clawed his hands through it to try to get it to lie flat against his head.

And now for the journey back up.

Although he did feel somewhat hungry. And there was no more water left in his room. He hesitated, listening to the silence of the house, contemplating his options. Eventually, he sent his possessions back up to his case with a flick of his wand and made his way out of the bathroom. Even as he started on the stairs he could feel his legs growing shaky and his head beginning to pound. He clenched his teeth in frustration, stopped to rest against the wall for a moment. He could try to Apparate, but he felt weaker now than before, and the last time he had missed his target. He didn't fancy getting stuck in a wall for the rest of the day. But if he wasn't going to Apparate, that meant he would have to walk, and that didn't feel like much of an option either. A spike of pain in his chest brought darkness flickering across his vision and, accepting defeat, he sank down on the stairs and leaned his forehead against the wall. He could only wait until he felt better and then try to go on, or go back, or go somewhere. Preferably before the whole Order came back.

"Malfoy?"

The voice almost made him cry out in frustration. He peeled his eyes open and squinted at the legs that had come to a halt in front of him. He hadn't even heard them coming. He followed the legs upwards to a t-shirt and then a bright pink headscarf. And, with some relief, he found that the concerned brown eyes frowning down at him in fact belonged not to yet another Weasley, but rather to Pavarti Patil. She crouched down on the stairs in front of him, still looking at him with that worried frown they all seemed to wear these days – never sure if they should kick him while he was down or offer him a cup of tea.

"Are you alright?"

He huffed shortly. "Fine. Just – taking a break."

"Oh," she said, and then glanced over her shoulder uncertainly, as if looking for assistance. She looked back at him. "Do you need help?"

"Don't bother," he said hoarsely, scowling as his chest throbbed again.

"Can you stand?"

He rolled his eyes. He could not fathom why she was still there. He had given her at least two opportunities to leave by now, and yet she insisted on hovering there awkwardly. She seemed to feel his misanthropy and straightened up, folding her arms in a manner that reminded him of Hermione's resilient stubbornness.

"Come on, I owe you one anyway, Malfoy."

He squinted up at her, caught off guard by her suddenly serious tone, and all at once was struck by a vivid memory from the Battle of Hogwarts. Since that horrible day he had done his best not to think about it at all, and yet now that he looked at her he had a sudden, clear memory of the fray, of driving Greyback away from a bloodied, massacred body on the ground. Someone who had once been a pretty young girl, and who was now only a corpse. Patil, for some reason, had been there, had been hurling spells at the feasting werewolf even as they bounced off him like pebbles. And he had drawn himself up to his full height and lunged for her, his bloody grin wide, and Draco had stared at a face that had once belonged to Lavender Brown and now belonged to death, and he had moved before he could think about it.

That moment was the first thing he could remember happening after his world broke down. And at that point, he decided to stop remembering. He didn't want to think about the Battle.

"Well?"

He blinked, returning abruptly to the present. Her hand was outstretched, waiting. After a moment's hesitation, he reached out and took it. He clenched his teeth against the surge of pain that returned as she pulled him up to his feet, took a moment to lean against the wall. She waited uncertainly until he lifted his head.

"Ok?"

God, this was embarrassing. Struggling to retain what little pride he had left, he straightened his shoulders and reached for the wall as she took his arm. He managed a few steps before his body began to crumble once more, and to his horror she pulled his arm across her shoulders and continued without a word. He closed his eyes in despair as they made their way down towards the kitchen, stumbling like contestants in a three-legged race. Apparently the humiliation of being crippled by his injury was not going to let up any time soon.

"You ok?" she asked again.

He grunted. Through his narrowed eyes he could make out the final set of stairs coming into sight – they were almost there. A fact he was inherently grateful for, since his legs were once again beginning to tremble violently. He slipped on one of the stairs and she steadied him without hesitation.

"The others are out helping at Hogwarts," she said, and he had the distinct feeling that she was trying to distract them both from his difficulties, which only made him feel more self-conscious. "I stayed behind to watch the house – they always try to keep at least one person home. Seems like a good idea, you know?"

Another grunt. He honestly could not think of anything to say. His head was beginning to spin, which made walking all the more problematic, and his chest was throbbing steadily. He would dearly like to know why there were so many goddamn stairs in this oversized hovel to begin with.

"I didn't realise you were up," Pavarti was saying, still insisting on filling the awkward silences. "I would have offered you a cup of tea or something… couldn't you have Apparated down? I suppose not, or you would have…"

"Are we there yet?" he ground out, blinking hard in an attempt to force away the dark spots dancing before his eyes.

"Yes, we're there – here–"

She steered him sideways through a door and then directed him downwards, and he dropped heavily into the chair that bumped against his legs. He seemed to make it just in time – his head whirled dizzyingly and he pressed both thumbs into his eyes, desperately trying to force away the roaring in his ears. He couldn't help but feel he had made a mistake in venturing downstairs. His bed now felt like an impossibly distant paradise.

"Malfoy?"

"Hmm."

"Do you want some water?"

"Hmm-mm."

She seemed to understand despite his lack of coherent words and moved away towards the sink. He lowered his hands, the kitchen finally taking shape around him. It was significantly messier and rougher than the culinary space he was used to at the Manor. Dishes sat piled on the draining rack, a large vat of something steamed gently on the hob, and a half-eaten packet of Every Flavour Beans was spilling over the counter. The air smelled like potato and something vaguely meaty, and a bag of empty takeaway boxes was slouched on the floor near the bin.

He was still trying to figure out if the smell of day-old curry made him hungry or sick when a glass of water appeared in front of him, and he looked up to find Pavarti sitting down in the chair next to his. She glanced at him, offering a small, shy smile.

"Thanks," he muttered, reaching for the water.

"Do you want some tea? I think we have a few different kinds, not sure what you usually have…"

He had already gulped down half the contents of the glass before she had finished speaking. He hadn't realised how thirsty he was. He tipped back the rest of it and deposited the glass on the table, sucking in a breath. He felt instantly better, even if the pain had not quite retreated yet. He took in Pavarti's concerned stare, feeling more like an insect beneath a microscope with every passing moment. She nodded at the kettle, which sat waiting beside a low-burning fire set into one of the walls.

"Do you want me to get you some?"

"Why are you helping me?" he said at last, unable to ignore his confusion any longer. "You don't have to be so bloody… nice."

Her lips clamped shut and she looked away quickly. His stomach curled into a ball and he silently cursed himself. Well done, Draco, drive away everyone who makes even the slightest effort… She stood up from the table, and he fully expected her to storm out of the room without looking back. But, instead, she retrieved the kettle and filled it with water from the tap before securing it on its hook above the fire. She drew her wand and gave the flames a little boost before turning back towards him, her eyes narrowed seriously.

"Because," she said, as he looked at her with raised eyebrows, "You helped me during the Battle. And I'm sorry for not standing up for you more over the last few days, and for... I can see what happened."

"You see what happened?" he repeated incredulously, sneering at her. "Well, that's more than I can say."

"You didn't have to help me," she pushed on stoically. "You could've run. But you didn't. And so I should at least return the favour." She hesitated. "War isn't always black and white, I guess."

He stared at her for a moment before dropping his head onto his hand. The smell of whatever was bubbling in the vat pulled at him. He wasn't sure what it was, but it smelled incredible. Perhaps it was just because he hadn't eaten for so long. He tried to place his last proper meal, and found that he could not pin one down within the last few weeks. Things certainly were getting dire. He wondered what might have happened if he had managed to reach some dingy rented room somewhere. Perhaps he would be dead by now. Perhaps he would still be hanging on, gazing at the deteriorating roof with nothing but his own thoughts, too weak to move. It didn't sound all that comforting.

"What happened to your neck?"

Pavarti was folding herself into the chair beside him once more, her hands playing idly with a scrap of paper on the table. She was watching him with curious, contemplative eyes. It was strange to look at her and not see her scowling or recoiling from him. She was, apparently, one of the few people other than Hermione who could stand to be in the same room as him these days. Although there was still some trepidation in her face, she was offering him an olive branch. He turned her question over in his head, trying to decide whether to answer her or not. He didn't really enjoy talking about himself. His eyes landed on her bare right arm, and he found something else to fire back at her.

"What happened to your arm?"

She glanced down dismissively at the long scar emerging from her sleeve. "I got hit during the Battle – I think it was called Sectumsempra. It mostly missed me, but they didn't know how to heal it without it scarring… Still, other's have had worse."

He winced. He knew that spell all too well. The memory of its sting was accompanied by a jolting vision of Snape, of a low, sing-song incantation. Snape knew how to heal that curse without leaving a mark. He felt a sudden, deep grief well up inside him. He hadn't really had a chance to think about his old Potion's Master and fellow Death Eater since hearing of his death in the aftermath of the Battle. He'd heard somewhere that Potter had planned on holding a memorial service, but turning up had seemed out of the question.

"Your turn."

He glanced at her. She looked pointedly at his neck and he sighed. She had told him about hers, after all. He lifted one hand to the raised silvery lines. He knew those marks would remain on his body for life. Nagini was not so easy to forget.

"Ever see the snake?"

Her thin, carefully angled eyebrows lifted.

"You-know-who's snake?"

He nodded grimly. "It's not all that friendly. And, once upon a time, I give it a reason to be upset."

She shuddered, and he got the feeling she wished she hadn't asked. Still, the kettle was beginning to whistle piercingly and she got up from the table, allowing them to end the conversation.

He watched her moving around the kitchen, retrieving mugs and teabags and sugar, and to his surprise found himself relaxing somewhat. He had forgotten what it was like to feel at ease in a room. So often in this place he was readying himself for a verbal attack. But Pavarti seemed genuinely kind, and there wasn't anyone else present to disrupt their hesitant companionship.

"Milk? Sugar?"

"No, thanks."

And, just as he was settling into the silence of the house, voices reached his ears and the front door clicked open. Pavarti turned, frowning, and he felt his hands clench into fists on the tabletop. He contemplated trying to Apparate – after all, he felt better after sitting down for a while – but before he could even move the kitchen door flew open. He caught sight of a mop of bright red hair and suppressed a groan.

"… isn't even that much," Weasley was saying loudly over his shoulder. "It's not like they could do anything, even if they did regroup."

"Don't underestimate them, Ron," another voice said, and Ginny Weasley appeared behind him. "They might not be on Voldemort's level, but if they joined forces they could still cause us some trouble."

Weasley was opening his mouth to reply, and might have managed it if he hadn't turned around at that moment and met Draco's gaze. They locked eyes and for a few long moments, Draco could not risk breaking the contact. He dug his nails into the table, pulling on that old sneering mask, challenging the bumbling redhead to approach him. Weasley's eyes narrowed coldly and his hand moved towards his coat. Draco instantly reached for his own pocket, slightly comforted by the feel of his wand beneath the material. But then, to his relief, three more faces came into sight as people began to push past Weasley's frozen bulk – George Weasley, the surviving twin of the bunch, Mrs. Weasley, the mother, and, to his immense relief Hermione. The sight of her filled him with thick relief, not least because he knew Weasley couldn't start an argument quite as easily in her presence. She had been speaking to Mrs. Weasley, but as she entered the room her eyes moved towards him as if drawn by a magnet, and she broke off in mid-sentence. He wanted to smile at her, but again something stopped him. When the others were there he always hesitated.

Thomas, Abbott, Longbottom and Finnigan were also filing in - it must have been the end of the day for the Hogwarts goodwill team. Although, as soon as they glanced into the kitchen and saw him, Abott, Longbottom and Finnigan turned and made their way upstairs instead. Pavarti, meanwhile, had leaped up from the table like a criminal. She looked around at them all, then at Draco, and then hastily at her own feet.

"Tea, anyone?"

Her offer was taken up and she hurried away to the kettle, shooting Draco a brief glance. He cupped both hands around the mug she had given him only minutes earlier, enjoyed the heat against his skin. Hermione had broken free of the group – whom were currently hovering in the doorway, as if unnerved by his presence – and hurried over to him. He leaned back gingerly, looking up at her as she tore off her hat, her piercing brown eyes searching his face.

"Dr– Hey, you're up… How're you feeling?"

He didn't miss the fact that she stopped herself from speaking his name. It stung, even if he did understand her reluctance to appear friendly with him in front of the others. He lifted one shoulder in an apathetic shrug, but as she continued to look him over uncertainly a brief, genuine smile raced over his face at her concern.

"Fine. Cleaner. Had a shower."

She cast her eyes skywards at his evasion of her meaning, and to his surprise she suddenly reached for him and let her hand rest between his shoulder blades and his neck. It was like a silent offer of compassion, an effort at making contact even with the others standing awkwardly round. Her touch sent a pleasant tingle over his skin, and he couldn't hep but take some pleasure in the way Weasley's ears instantly turned bright red as if someone had flicked a switch in his head. He grinned a little wider, feeling a little more secure now that it was obvious he had the upper hand.

"Malfoy, isn't it?"

Mrs. Weasley had put down the large rustling bag she had been carrying and was looking at him with an only slightly unconvincing smile. She looked around at her children, as if trying to drum up some support, and then smoothed her coat and removed her hat from her head. Her frizzy, dark ginger hair broke free at once and she made an effort to pat it flat.

"I don't think we've met properly, have we?" she said, looking him up and down.

"No," he said frostily, still keeping one eye on Weasley's red face. He was going to leave it at that, but he could practically feel the waves of anxiety coming off Hermione and he knew very well that he was outnumbered here. He sighed, trying to simply think of her as one of his father's friends he had been ordered to impress.

"I haven't been down much," he elaborated, trying to sound at least indifferent. "Although I think I remember you from the Battle – and you were in the Daily Prophet once, when you visited Egypt, weren't you?"

Mrs. Weasley's smile grew a little more genuine and her shoulders seemed to straighten slightly with a shadow of pride. Weasel, if possible, grew even more frigid and Draco had the vague recollection of mocking the very same photo once at Hogwarts.

"Yes, we were! My son Charlie is a dragon tamer."

"A cousin of mine was a dragon tamer," he responded smoothly, relaxing into the simple small talk. If he could pull it off at his father's parties, he could pull it off here. "She said it was rewarding work. Although last time I saw her, her face had been partially rearranged – they can do a lot more at St. Mungo's with magical creature burns these days, though."

"Yes," Mrs. Weasley cast her eyes skywards witheringly. "I don't know why people are drawn to such dangerous work. Why Charlie couldn't just get something from Percy at the Ministry I'll never know."

He huffed a short laugh. Mrs. Weasley looked around the room and then rolled up her sleeves and placed her hands on her hips.

"Well, then, that has certainly been there for far too long," she announced, looking pointedly at the vat on the hob. "And I'm sure we could all do with a decent dinner. Who's hungry?"

And Draco couldn't help but raise his hand.

~O~

When Hermione had first quietly detached herself from the relationship she and Ron had once pretended to have, Mrs. Weasley had been one of the most disappointed parties involved. Hermione remembered being taken aside a week or so after the battle in the kitchen of Grimmauld Place. She had foolishly agreed to help Molly with the washing up, and no sooner had they been left alone the words came flooding out.

"Some things take time to work out in a relationship."

"It can be done, it just takes a little effort."

"You know Ron thinks so much of you, I've never seen him so besotted."

"Everyone thought you were just lovely together."

She had no choice but to grit her teeth and bear it until the washing was done and she could forge some excuse to leave. Even so, it had been gruelling. And now, as she stood beside Draco at the table, she could feel Molly's eyes going from her face to his and silently making the connection, silently wondering whether this boy, whom her sons hated with such passion, had been the one to come between the destined romance she had watched blossom between her son and his Hogwarts sweetheart. Not only that, but all of the others had been so sorry for him, so desperately sad for his loss. In her first few weeks in Grimmauld Place she had caught some of them – notably, Luna and Hannah – sharing pitiful, romantic glances whenever she had Ron were forced to sit near each other or do something together. That was the worst of it – the fact that everyone was convinced that the two of them were meant to be. She had destroyed the golden trio, as Draco so scathingly called them, with one cold, unfeeling swoop.

Harry had probably been the only person who had seemed to understand. He never really offered his opinion on the topic – something she was eternally grateful for – and was also the only one who had never turned to her after a couple of butterbeers and say, 'So, you and Ron, what happened there?'

She couldn't help but feel that things would currently be far less awkward if Harry were there. He would be able to diffuse the tension in a moment, draw Ron away with a comment about the latest Quidditch match or something. Instead, Ron sat at the table and glared at Draco with everything he had. Draco barely glanced at him, holding himself with the same aloof pride as always, chatting easily with Molly Weasley as she made up some soup. Hermione sat down beside him and did her best to pretend that she wasn't looking at him constantly, trying to see how he was holding himself, making out if he looked tired or not. From the stiffness in his shoulders she could infer that his chest was still painful, but he was still maintaining his mask. Which meant that he must be feeling better. He glanced at her briefly every now and again, and she felt her heart jerk every time. She felt very aware of Ginny's eyes on her, on both of them.

Molly made up some soup for them, and Hermione felt with some relief that the others seemed to be happy to sit down at the table and eat together, even with Draco amongst them. She wasn't sure how much Dean and George knew about it all, but for now they seemed content to simply shoot Draco the odd suspicious glance. And yet, just as she was beginning to enjoy the soup and relax, Ron spoke up.

"I don't see why you have to stay here anyway," he muttered over his bowl. "Your family's fucking loaded, why don't you go and recuperate in one of your ten summer houses?"

His words were relatively unexpected - they had been talking about Hogwarts and how the repairs were coming along. She felt like he had been waiting to speak for a while, the words building up like lava in a volcano. The others were still talking, although conversation faltered slightly at Ron's outburst. Hermione froze at once, but Draco barely seemed to react. He replied as calmly as ever, arching one eyebrow slowly.

"The war wasn't exactly cheap. My father used the last of it to travel to Eastern Europe."

"Europe?"

"He's going to stay with estranged family. He's not coming back."

Ron's eyes practically lit up. "So your parents ran away. Couldn't handle the guilt, eh?"

Draco stirred his soup slowly. His face remained calm, unaffected. "You could say that."

"Though I suppose they never were ones for the hard life. Can't imagine your mum volunteering at Hogwarts."

Hermione had the horrible feeling that she was watching a storm descend. Draco's hands hand closed into fists on the table and his teeth clenched tightly. His eyes looked as though they were about to set on fire. She was waiting for the explosion, for him to let loose some crude, harsh insult, but instead there were only two, short, cold words that left his mouth.

"She's dead."

Ron's mouth dropped open. He looked at Hermione, as if for proof, but she couldn't speak. She stared at Draco's frozen face, hoping against hope that it was just some kind of sick joke.

"Dead?" Ron repeated shakily, looking around the table for support. "But..."

"The Dark Lo-" Draco bit off the words, smirking humourlessly at the force of habit, "Voldemort -killed her at Hogwarts. Would you like to know why?"

Ron shook his head. His ears were bright red despite his white face, and his hands were fiddling nervously with his spoon. Draco continued, still in that hard, dead tone that sent chills down her spine.

"He killed her," he continued, speaking slowly and clearly, "because she lied and told him Potter was dead. And then, when they came to Hogwarts to finish the fight, he wasn't dead. So he killed her."

Molly Weasley's hand was clapped over her mouth, her eyes wide and tremulous. George's teeth had clamped down on his bottom lip. Ron was still watching his own hands, as if scared to speak, his fork trembling in his grip. Ginny was the first to speak.

"I didn't... We didn't know. I didn't see her body in the Hall-"

"There wasn't a body," Draco cut across her coldly.

He stopped sharply, and something in his face twisted. It was like watching his body trying to mourn, despite the fact his brain was relentlessly holding it in check. And then the struggle was gone from sight and his icy gaze was fixed on Ron once more.

"Now," he said, his voice dangerously soft, "Did you have anything else to add, Weasel?"

Ron just shook his head. Hermione reached for Draco's hand where it lay on the tabletop, but it was like trying to comfort a rock. His skin was cold and immobile beneath her grip. After a pause he withdrew it and rose slowly to his feet, leaning heavily on the table. Hermione made to rise with him but he shrugged off her hands, his face dark, his body stiff to her attempts to help.

"Wait, don't..."

He retrieved a pack of cigarettes from the pocket of his joggers and then, after feeling his pockets for his wand, returned her gaze with a hard, unforgiving stare.

"What?"

She hesitated, but then sat down again slowly, unwilling to challenge him further. He turned away without another word. He moved gingerly across the kitchen, sneering at Ron as the other boy ducked his head to avoid eye contact, and then vanished into the hallway. She heard the front door open and shut a moment later.

As she picked up her spoon again, feeling defeated, Molly lowered her hands at last.

"Ronald Weasley!" She hissed.

"How was I supposed to know?" He snapped back. He turned on Hermione, the redness flooding back into his face. "Jesus, why didn't anyone say?"

She shook her head helplessly. "I didn't know."

She watched the door, and the gaping silence left behind him screamed in her ears.

~O~

He made it out of the front door and into the open air before his anger reached breaking point, and he delivered a hard kick to the potted plant which stood beside the door. It tumbled down the steps, smashed loudly, and sent a small explosion of soil across the pavement. He would have stamped on it again out of spite, but the rush upstairs had made his head spin and he was forced to lean against the wall. But his head still hurt and now his chest was beginning to throb, and with a groan of frustration he lowered himself down to sit on the top step. He was feeling noticeably more frail after the most recent attack, and he didn't like it. He fumbled for the pack of cigarettes, drew one out, put it between his teeth and lifted his wand. A short plume of fire burst from its tip – without much encouragement, due to his mood – and the end of his cigarette glowed softly. The first few puffs calmed him. He was forced to focus on his breathing more, and the whole process made him relax a little.

He leaned forwards, his elbows on his knees, scrubbing a hand through his damp hair and over the back of his neck. He was so tired of going over it all. It probably wouldn't be the last time he was expected to explain himself and his family. He managed to feel some kind of savage joy that Weasley had picked that topic to get at him, tried to enjoy the way it had spectacularly backfired, but the conversation had stirred up everything weeks of firewhiskey and dreamless sleep potion had managed to put to rest. That was where most of his own money had gone after the war. He didn't care. It had been worth it just to stop himself from thinking for a few dizzying hours.

"God, fuck this."

He hadn't meant to speak aloud, and his own trembling voice stopped him short. The cigarette shook slightly between his fingers, ash tumbling from the end and landing on his leg – he brushed it off. His eyes fixed on the park across the road, the high black iron fence, the tall trees inside. He had always been filled with tranquillity when looking out of his bedroom window at the Manor, always calmed by the softly rippling leaves. It didn't seem to work now. He felt as if a thin mist had descended over his vision, like watching the world through a plastic sheet. He took another long drag on the cigarette.

"Ron's a prat. And famously incapable of apologies of any kind."

He glanced up in surprise as Hermione sat down on the top step beside him, offering him a wry smile. She pushed her hair back and it sprang up at once, refusing to be tamed and wonderfully familiar.

"But I've got a plan – we'll catch a couple of tarantulas and stick them in his bed. That might make you feel better."

And just like that, the anger was draining away and he could feel a smile rushing over his face. He tried not too look too happy about it and held his cigarette between his lips, arching one eyebrow at her.

"I don't believe you'd go through with that. Not for a second."

"I'd do it," she insisted, lifting her chin definitely. "For me if not for you."

"Selfish."

She smirked and elbowed him gently in the ribs. He flicked the cigarette away, wrapping one arm around his middle. He still felt oddly nauseous. He wasn't quite sure where the feeling had come from, but it was steadily building. He swallowed hard.

"I'm sorry, though," she said, her voice taking on a more serious edge. "I know it's… difficult. I wish I could make them understand. But there's so much to explain and… and they just don't get what happened, or who you are, or…"

She trailed off with a shrug, waving a hand helplessly in an effort to complete the sentence. He nudged her back, happy to have her there beside him, defending him, taking his side against the others. He always felt stronger when she was on his side. When it felt like it was just them in a bubble, shielded from everything else. She suddenly reached for his hand, as she had in the kitchen, and this time she let her fingers close over his.

"And I'm sorry about your mother."

The words sent a strange, reflexive ripple through him, and he realised that no one had said that to him before. He and his father had shared in the grief together in a dysfunctional, silent, lonely way. And when Lucius Malfoy had gone there had been nobody who had even known her left. He remembered standing there on the grounds of Hogwarts, his father at his side, knowing that there was nothing that could ever be said that would fix it.

"Me too," he murmured.

His stomach jerked again. Bad enough to make him realise that it wasn't just the situation that was making him feel ill. He flicked his cigarette away, pinched the bridge of his nose. His pounding head wasn't particularly helping. Her hand squeezed his.

"Did you have a funeral?"

He swallowed through the bile rising in his throat. "Uh… no…"

"Maybe we could do something," she suggested gently. "We could go to Hogwarts – they've made a memorial in the grounds. We could put down some flowers."

"Yeah…" he nodded. "Yeah, that'd be good."

He could see it clearly in his head – walking hand in hand with Hermione across the grounds to the memorial, some huge stone monument, and laying something down. White flowers. Lilies, maybe. Something pure. His mother would never have a gravestone, but maybe the memorial would be some kind of replacement.

A sudden rush of sickness came at him and he shifted away from her a little, wincing as his stomach clenched tightly.

"What is it?"

He shook his head unconvincingly, but another wave came over him and he knew abruptly and completely that he was about to be sick. He forced himself to his feet, swaying unsteadily, hoping he had long enough to reach one of the toilets.

"Draco? Are you alright?"

"Yep." And then a definite, forceful retch lurched through him, and he couldn't pretend anymore. "Ah, fuck…"

There wasn't time to run to one of the toilets. Instead he summoned up everything he had and Apparated, picturing the same bathroom he had showered in that morning. The cold tiles came into contact with his feet and he staggered to the toilet just before the sickness took him over. He dropped to his knees beside the toilet and held onto the rim while everything he had eaten in the last few hours rushed back up through his throat. His throat burned with acid from his stomach and his eyes watered – he screwed them shut and tried to tear himself away from it.

The horrible, wrenching jerks were beginning to subside after a few long moments, and he let his forehead drop against his clammy forearm over the toilet bowl. He didn't really want to think too hard about how dirty this bathroom was, being used by so many people at once, nor what he may be currently sticking his head in. He didn't really have the energy anyway. The taste of bile and coppery blood swam on the surface of his tongue and he spat helplessly into the bowl, the mere texture enough to make him feel like throwing up again. With one last ugly retch it was finally over. His whole body trembled violently, and even though he knew he should get up and flush the toilet, he could not move. The toilet itself was the only thing keeping him upright.

Her hand was still on his back, moving in small circles.

"Draco?"

He managed a small grunt. His voice had shrivelled into nothingness and exhaustion had commandeered his body. He could feel that heavy darkness swarming in on him – if he wasn't careful, he would pass out then and there. Highly undignified, to say the least.

"Draco?" Her breath whispered against his ear, raising a ripple of goosebumps despite the situation.

He couldn't even answer this time. He tried to speak but the cool porcelain of the toilet bowl and the hard floor against his knees were slipping away. He felt as if someone had attached a balloon to his head and it was pulling him up and away into blank space… And then, suddenly, he really was moving. Her hands had moved around his chest and were pulling him away from the toilet, manoeuvring him carefully backwards until he slumped against her. The softness of her hair and clear fragrance of her smell surrounded him and he let his head fall back against her shoulder with a sigh of relief. She moved slightly behind him and he was dimly aware of the toilet flushing before something soft and dry came up against his face.

"It's ok," she whispered, her voice slightly higher than usual. "It's over now."

"Hmm," he managed.

He let her wipe his face, wincing at the indignity of her scraping bile off his chin. But even then she was so careful over him, so gentle, that he could almost enjoy it. It was like she thought she was dabbing at a mark on an ancient oil painting, desperate not to smudge the paint. He couldn't even remember the last time someone had been so tender with him. Maybe the last time they had slept together in his Prefect dorm in Hogwarts, before the summer holidays before his mission. It had never really felt the same after that, forever framed by the war and by fear and mistrust. Those days felt like a lifetime away now. The threat of the war had not even seemed possible then. He felt so much older now, even though only a couple of years had passed. He had done enough in those few years to burn through a thousand lifetimes.

He realised suddenly that his head had rolled to the side on her shoulder and sharply flinched his eyes open. Her arms were wrapped tightly around him, keeping him steady. For a moment he wasn't quite sure what had happened or where they were – his mouth felt furry and dank and his head was throbbing dully like a light in the fog. She leaned forwards slightly, resting her cheek against his.

"How are you feeling?"

He cleared his throat, winced, swallowed. "Better, I think," he said. His throat was raw from the violent hurls and his voice had been reduced to a rasp. "How long was I out?"

"About ten minutes."

He winced – he hadn't even noticed the time go by. It had felt more like ten seconds. He tried to sit up and his head swirled dizzyingly. The floor rushed at him before an arm wrapped around him, held him.

"Draco?"

Her voice was wobbling. He knew he was scaring her. He wished he could sit up and tell her he was fine, but he couldn't form the words. He felt so exhausted, as if he had just run the length of the Forbidden Forest. He felt his eyes close. It was so impossible to communicate anything to her – his tongue was like a lump of lead.

" 'Mione…"

"We'll go back upstairs," she said, in what she seemed to think was an authoritative voice. "Ready?"

He tried to answer, but his voice came out as a croak. He nodded instead, humiliated by his overwhelming inability to move or think. She seemed to understand. She put her arms around him, hugging him to her chest, and they lurched backwards through blackness until the hard wooden floor of his room touched their feet. Darkness was spattering across his vision – even as he tried to take his own weight his knees buckled. She was already holding tightly onto him, and they must have been close to the bed – she pulled him backwards and helped him drop down onto the mattress.

"Draco?"

She pulled the covers back and he felt them settling over him. He was already curled in on himself, his stomach aching violently, but he felt her arms come over him and her legs slot in behind his.

"Draco? Draco, can you hear me?"

God, his head hurt. He wanted nothing more than to just fall into the emptiness of sleep and never get up. But he could tell from her voice and her shaking hand on his that she was worried about him. He couldn't go to sleep yet.

"Draco?"

"Y'h," he grunted.

"You ok?"

"Mm."

Her fingertips skated over his forehead. "This is really bad, isn't it?"

He tried to laugh and ended up whimpering instead, jolts of pain coming at him from all angles. His head hurt; his stomach hurt; his chest always fucking hurt. He didn't even want to breathe because it would hurt. He huffed slightly instead.

"S'not great."

"It's ok. You can go to sleep."

He was already halfway there. He couldn't feel the bed or the pillow. He was aware of her hand, of her touch on his cheek, his neck, his arm. The fact that she was there made it easier for him to drop away into the place where everything stopped hurting. He fell asleep with the soft heat of her breath on his shoulder.

~O~

A quiet knock at the door jolted her out of the daze she had slipped in to. She was still holding onto him, and for the last hour or so she had done nothing but listen to his soft, shallow breaths as he slept. They lay there in an odd sense of anticipation, somewhere on the borderline between calm and fear, her body moulded around his. Sitting around the table downstairs it had been easy to pretend that there was nothing wrong with him. But flushing blood-streaked vomit away down the toilet whilst holding his limp body upright with her other arm made it harder to think that. She disentangled herself carefully from him and slid off the bed. The knock came again as she crossed the room and she cast a glance over her shoulder before opening it, making sure he was undisturbed. His eyes were still closed. She opened the door, just wide enough to look out.

Harry was waiting in the corridor outside, his hand lifted, about to knock again. He offered her a smile as she peered out.

"Hey. The others said you might be up here. Your soup's still downstairs – Molly's keeping it warm for you." His green eyes flitted over her face searchingly, and then looked past her into the room. "Ron was asking where you'd gone. Just thought I'd see how you guys are…"

She put a finger to her lips and opened the door to step out. Before closing it she pulled out her wand and waved it at the stack of books standing on the windowsill she had been sifting through. One jumped free of the pile and flew into her hand, and she waited a moment to make sure the precariously wobbling tower wasn't about to tumble before closing the door softly. Harry leaned back against the opposite wall in the small, dusty corridor, watching her with a small, concerned smile as she flicked through the book.

"What happened?"

"He was sick," she explained quietly, still rifling through the old pages. "Like, really sick. Right after he ate. And I was thinking just now – I should've realised, but I read so much last night, and you can't even really tell what's reliable and what's not…"

"Thinking what?"

She reached the page and drank in the cramped words, a dawning sense of dread curling in her stomach. She could almost feel herself deflate. She had been so desperate to be wrong. She turned the book around so Harry could see, and he frowned at it through his glasses.

"What?"

"A common side effect of curses like this is an inability to eat. It's supposed to be another reason why they're so effective."

"So what, he can't eat anything? We could get some kind of potion, I'm sure there'll be something–"

She fought to speak through the rising lump in her throat. "Spells and potions won't work on this. We've tried before."

Harry fell silent. She closed the book with a snap and dropped her hand. Harry folded his arms with a sigh, the hopelessness growing in the silence between them.

"He hasn't eaten properly for god knows how long," she muttered. "If he goes on like this he's not going to be able to fight it. I just…"

She knew he was trying to think of something encouraging to say, but he wasn't naïve enough to try to comfort her with clichés and empty positivity. Instead, after scrambling for a while, he pushed away from the wall and came to stand beside her instead, stretching out an arm to wrap around her shoulders. She leaned her head on his shoulder.

"Do you think Slughorn would know how to help?"

"He said himself – there's no cure in the magical world. And he doesn't want us to contact him, he made that clear," she said bitterly. "And St. Mungo's is as good as closed to us. There's nothing that can…"

She stopped suddenly as a light flickered on in her head. The magical world was giving them nothing, that was true. But in all the stress she had neglected the other side of the coin, the world she herself came from. Because Muggles went into hospitals all the time, went into controlled comas and onto life support machines, and were somehow kept alive. As long as it wasn't a machine – there was always the danger that the electronics would stop working when magic was thrown into the mix. Harry squeezed her shoulder.

"I know that face. You're plotting something, aren't you?"

"It might not…" she hesitated, wet her lips. "Can I borrow your invisibility cloak?"

"Borrow the cloak?" his eyebrows leapt upwards. "What makes you think I'd let you go off alone?"

She felt a smile finally crossing her face. "I thought you'd have work to do here?"

That old mischievous grin came into view, and for a moment they could have been back at Hogwarts, sneaking out after hours for some reason or another. He shrugged, casting a quick glance down the stairs. "Yeah, I do. So we should probably get going now, before anyone spots us."

"So... So does that mean you're ok with this?"

Harry's smile widened and his shoulders lifted in a heavy sigh. "I have no idea, Hermione. This is the weirdest thing that could have ever happened. But... But I trust you. And you're my friend. So let's go get the cloak."

And, as she followed him downstairs, she had never felt so grateful.

Thanks for reading! Reviews are always welcome.

SUPRNTRAL LVR.