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 Fifteen

Draco didn't realise he was dozing until a sudden rush of panic had his eyes shooting open again. He was on edge at once, his hand slipping beneath his pillow to snatch hold of his wand before he had even focused on his surroundings. The film of sweat on his skin cooled rapidly in the chill air. He straightened up, sat with his elbows resting on his knees. His eyes ached as if he hadn't slept in days, but he knew trying to rest again now would be pointless. He was on edge again. Since his earlier conversation with Hestia, the tight sense of anxiety in his chest had skyrocketed. It wasn't unfamiliar - the feeling came on every now and then, derailing any attempt at rational thought and crawling insistently over his skin. Visions of his time as a Death Eater, of the Battle of Hogwarts, would force themselves to the surface of his mind in a bid for attention. It was hard to drown them out. In the past, he would have sought out a bottle of firewhiskey from some dingy bar to calm his nerves down. Now, he was going to be forced to simply stay and wait for it to pass. He pushed his fingers through his hair, gripped his skull.

He watched the dawn light on her face and hair. She lay there beside him, one hand closed loosely over his shirt, her lips slightly parted. He took the limp fingers and kissed them carefully, laid them back down as gently as possible. He always loved the peacefulness of her sleep. It was as if she just dropped calmly off into blissful emptiness and then stepped back again when she opened her eyes. He always slept better with her there. Her eyelashes twitched and he felt his lips curving into an automatic smile he couldn't help. Her eyes cracked open and she squinted at him, almost knowingly, as if she was aware of every thought passing through his head.

"Morning."

He lifted his head, pulling in a deep breath, raking his hair back. He felt like his throat was getting tight. The memory had been sudden and unexpected, and the sight of the hazy morning in Hermione's Gryffindor Prefect room was a stark contrast to the cold, dark half-light of the attic room. For a moment he had been lost in the images. Now he was sitting there alone again, and the jarring difference brought a peak in the constant throbbing in his head. His wound began to hurt fiercely, and he screwed his thumbs into his eyes. His body was restless and fidgeting around him, refusing to relax.

He couldn't relax. The small attic room felt like it was crawling with memories, jostling to swim before his eyes. He felt blindly for the bottle of amber liquid on his nightstand and gulped a little down. He clawed his way out of the bed as soon as the pain gave the slightest hint of retreating and felt about for his suitcase, still packed from the couple of days before when he had intended to leave. He got caught up in the IV tube on the way and wrestled with it, eventually pulling it out of his arm with a wince. It took him some time to figure out how to 'close' the strange port Hermione had attached to his hand, long enough that he had to scourgify blood from his skin afterwards. Damn muggle bullshit. Squinting through the pounding headache, he rooted around in the bag until his hand closed around a sweater and pulled it on. He felt like if he spent another moment in that tiny bed in that tiny room he would implode. He needed to do something - to go somewhere. His hand delved into the pocket of his tracksuit trousers and closed around his cigarette box. He needed air.

The journey downstairs had to be slow - he held on to the banister and stopped every now and then until the dizziness stopped. Thankfully he made it to hall without too many close calls. The house was quiet - he wasn't sure what time it was, but guessed it must be somewhere in the early hours of the morning. The place seemed deserted. Which suited him fine. He stopped at the bottom of the stairs, his eyes straying to the door that led to the kitchen. He had been planning to just step out of the front door and sit on the step, but the thought of a cup of tea was enticing. Resolving to open the kitchen window and smoke a cigarette with a cup of tea in hand, he pushed open the door and limped down the final narrow set of stairs. He would probably get a telling off from someone or other about the kitchen smelling like smoke, but he couldn't find the energy to care. As long as he could be somewhere other than the attic for a while, he was satisfied.

And yet, as he shouldered the door ajar, he found the window already open and the kettle steaming beside the fire. He blinked in surprise at the person currently sitting at the kitchen table gripping a cigarette, eyes wide, as caught in the act as anyone could be. Draco stayed there in the doorway, uncertain of how to proceed - it would surely be too strange to turn around and leave, but taking a seat at the table hardly seemed a realistic option. His eyes skimmed over the short ginger hair and long, weary face, the slightly dishevelled rust-coloured jacket. George Weasley. George Weasley, whose ruffled clothes and tired waxy skin suggested he had recently retuned from a highly unsuccessful night out which had deposited him in an empty kitchen to drink alone. Draco glanced again at the smoking white roll between his fingers and laughed tiredly.

"Am I interrupting, Weasley?"

George Weasley's eyes automatically narrowed, but after looking Draco over he simply reached for the glass sitting on the table and took a sip of the dark liquid inside. Draco's eyebrow lifted. He couldn't possibly have stumbled on some firewhiskey.

"Only if you're about to tell me to stop," George muttered eventually.

Draco pulled the cigarette box from his pocket and held it up in response. George still didn't look particularly pleased to see him, but a reluctant smile pulled at his lips at the sight of it. Draco took that as an invitation and entered the kitchen, looking forward to sitting down again. His legs were unsteady. He tapped a cigarette out of the box and reached for his wand. Before he used it he turned his head away from George and tried his old trick of producing a small flicker of flame from his thumb. Nothing. He tried to shake off the growing uneasiness and used his wand. On the second try, it worked. He lifted his head to find George's wary eyes on him, and tried to pull attention away from his magical difficulties.

"Didn't peg you for a smoker."

"I'm not." George caught himself. "Wasn't… since the Battle it's picked up a little."

"Vices work wonders at patching you up," Draco said wryly. "Although I always found that worked better."

He indicated the bottle of firewhiskey with the tip of his cigarette. George followed his gaze and offered a small shrug in response.

"Suppose."

He didn't seem keen on talking, although his attitude was not wholly unfriendly. For one thing, he hadn't told Draco to get lost yet. Of course, that could simply be false comradeship born out of the commonality of sharing a cigarette during the early hours of the morning, but there was something in his face which was quizzical, curious. As if he were turning a question over in his head, trying to decide how to phrase it. The silence stretched for a few moments, and Draco began to regret deciding to remain. He should have simply left when he'd seen the kitchen was occupied – of course they wouldn't be about to sit down together for a friendly chat. He winced as a pang speared through his chest, felt a tremor in his knees, swore under his breath. He was getting extremely fed up with his current state.

"You want to sit down?"

He glanced up in surprise at Weasley's suggestion, wondering if it was simply poorly intended sarcasm. But George stared back at him steadily, and as the deep ache in his chest tugged at his attention once more, Draco decided to take a chance. He pushed away from the counter and swung his leg gingerly over the kitchen bench. The pain retreated a little as soon as he was able to place his elbows on the table and hunch over, and he enjoyed the relief for a couple of seconds before looking up again. George was regarding him quietly, taking a slow drag on his cigarette.

"What, you want a portrait or something?" Draco said, keeping his tone a little lighter than usual. "What are you doing up this late anyway?"

"Couldn't sleep," George replied, unaffected. "You?"

"Ditto."

"Hermione asleep?"

"Think so. I mean…" Draco stopped, cursing himself silently for the slip up. He had been thinking about the dulled pain in his chest, wondering if it was going to develop into anything worse in the next couple of hours. He tried to cover his mistake clumsily. "How would I know, anyway?"

George just shrugged again. His narrowed gaze flicked from Draco's face to the cigarette, his lips twitched, and suddenly an inkling of where the slightly odd question had come from began to dawn. Draco frowned. Why ask? For that matter, why even stay once Draco had sat down? Why bother engaging in small talk?

"Harry said there hasn't been much good news," George said, glancing pointedly at where Draco's fist was pressing against his chest.

Draco hastily lowered his hand. "Why, you eying up the attic room? Don't worry, don't think it'll take too long."

He wasn't sure if he was trying to be funny or cavalier, but neither really worked. George didn't laugh or sneer – he only shrugged for a third time. Which only served to make Draco more suspicious. The older Weasley had never been shy of poking fun and trading quips in the corridors of Hogwarts, and there had even been that disastrous fight on the Quidditch pitch where either he or his twin had come to blows over Draco's comments about their mother. Why he was holding his tongue now was distinctly suspicious.

"Hermione'll find something," George said after another short pause. "Once she set's her mind on something… you know."

And finally, Draco clocked what was happening. He knew. He bloody knew. Hermione had told them. The look on George's face was suddenly abundantly clear – it was a mixture of disbelief, wariness and knowing curiosity. And Draco instantly began to feel extremely uncomfortable. He took a quick breath of smoke, trying to shrug off Weasley's unwavering stare, scrabbling desperately for some way out of the situation without showing his discomfort. He wondered just how much George knew. Surely not everything? Maybe she had only said they were friends? He squirmed helplessly, turning his cigarette over and over between his fingers. He considered denying it – god, he hadn't even been accused yet. Lying had never been this difficult before.

Just as he had decided to simply stub the cigarette out and leave, George suddenly got up from the table. Draco thought for a moment that he was going to walk off up the stairs without another word – instead, he crossed to the draining board and retrieved a second glass, which he carried back to the table. He pulled his wand from his pocket and flicked it at the fireplace with a muttered incantation. Another log lifted out of the basket beside the grate and settled in the flames, which greedily fell on it. George put the glass down on the table and waved his wand once more as he sat down, prompting the bottle of firewhiskey to leap into the air and pour.

"Thirsty?" Draco muttered.

"You looked like you could do with one," George replied.

Draco hesitated, but he'd had his eye on the bottle ever since coming in. And it would help dislodge the nervous, tense feeling in the pit of his stomach. Maybe he'd actually get some sleep after all. He reached for the glass and took a small sip, relishing the familiar taste as it hit the back of his throat.

"Thanks," he said, somewhat awkwardly.

"You know," George said his voice dropping to a more serious level, "You've spend a lot of time pissing people off. But if you screw around with her, you will really, really piss us off."

Draco blinked at him. The other boy didn't seem to be trying to be particularly intimidating, a fact which made Draco appreciate the sentiment far more. Especially since the words seemed like less of a diversion and more of something like a begrudging acceptance. He inclined his head in response.

"Thanks, I'm aware."

"Good."

"She told you?"

"She told Harry and Ginny," George replied. He winced. "And Ron."

That was a surprise. She had told Ron? He had known Potter would be the first to find out, but he had expected her to keep it from Ron for as long as possible. Ron felt almost like the final blockade standing between sneaking around in empty classrooms at Hogwarts and making whatever might be with Hermione possible and tangible. And yet Ron knew. Which must mean something – for her to tell him, it must mean something…

"I mean, how the hell did you even…" George shook his head, lifting his glass to his lips. "I don't understand how you two even… met."

"Me neither," Draco said honestly. "Wasn't exactly planning on it."

"She said you helped them during the war. That true?"

Draco saw at once a blaze of images from the war. He saw Hermione screaming on the floor of his own dining room, saw ash shooting into the air with a roar of green light as the Battle of Hogwarts raged around him.

"Barely. I tried."

"Didn't realise you were such a saint."

Draco scowled, took a sip from his firewhiskey. "Would ruin my reputation."

"Sure – you mean the reputation where you're a violent, racist sociopathic?"

He lowered the glass. "Yeah. That reputation."

"Right."

They sat in silence for a couple of minutes, and Draco enjoyed the smoke spreading through his lungs. Surprisingly, the lack of conversation wasn't all that uncomfortable. Despite the fact that George Weasley was perhaps the last person Draco had expected to find himself sharing a drink with. And yet there was something in the older boy that Draco felt he recognised – something familiar in the way he hung over his drink and clutched at his cigarette. For a while he couldn't see what it was. And then he remembered – of course. The Battle. And, more specifically, the other Weasley twin. He had never seen one without the other at Hogwarts. Seeing George Weasley on his on was odd, like looking in a mirror and not seeing a reflection. Like there was some kind of spectre lingering just out of sight behind him.

"So, you're not a violent, racist sociopathic?" George said, twitching one eyebrow. "I'm actually finding that kind of hard to wrap my head around."

"Yeah, me too," Draco replied. "Would've been much easier to just… let things be less complicated."

"I bet," George said humourlessly. "You batted for both sides until it blew up in your face. I'm sure the Battle was great fun."

His voice had become abruptly hollow, and Draco sensed again that familiarity, that sting. He settled for a simple nod and another gulp of his firewhiskey, George echoing him across the table.

"Probably about as much as it was for you," he replied quietly. "Which, I'm guessing, is why we're both here at – " he checked the clock on the wall, " – three in the morning."

George's ginger eyebrows pulled together slightly, and Draco felt at once that he had crossed a line. He shut his mouth quickly, fixing his gaze on his firewhiskey, but George suddenly let out a soft woosh of air.

"No, I know. You have the same dream every night, and you lie there and think - how the fuck does this still terrify me every time when I know what's going to happen?"

Draco almost choked on the words which presented themselves on his tongue, but George was pouring out another dose of firewhiskey for them both and he felt like he had to simply swallow his pride and just fucking say something decent for once, or he would never get anywhere with these people. He cleared his throat.

"Sorry, by the way, about… ah, your brother," he said haltingly. "Must've been… Sorry, anyway."

George scrutinised him over the top of his glass, as if searching for any sign of a joke. Draco did his best not to fall into his usual self-protective sneer, instead trying to remain sombre. He couldn't hold George's gaze though, and feigned interest in flicking ash from the tip of his cigarette. After a long moment, George spoke.

"You're the last person I'd expect to hear that from, Malfoy. But thanks." He sat up a little straighter, clearly making an effort to smile. "He never did like this kind of serious chat. What I really want to know is who the hell made the first move – you or her?"

Draco blanched at the swift change in subject, but felt obliged to follow it. He'd never spoken to anyone about Hermione. He didn't really want to go into detail about their relationship – especially with how uncertain everything was right now – but he sensed that he was entering some delicate kind of comradeship which would be easily lost at any sign of resistance. So he tried to think, and then attempted to put it in the most delicate way possible. This was, after all, Ron Weasley's brother. If there were sides to be taken, Draco doubted anyone would be standing behind himself.

"Well, she… I…"

Jesus, how was he supposed to explain that first detention, the letter, St. Mungo's, his mother? It was all too complicated. But George was waiting. He tried to streamline the story as much as he could.

"McGonagall asked her to sit in and supervise a detention I had. She… did me a favour. And then things were just a little different afterwards."

"A favour?"

"Yeah." Draco searched for something else to draw George's focus away from that part. "I guess I made the first move. She was wandering about by the Quidditch Pitch one evening and I was practising. Thought it was weird that she'd be there, so I flew down and…"

"And?"

"Ah… Kissed her?"

He wasn't sure why it came out as a question – perhaps because he wasn't sure if he was about to get hit or not. But somehow, George simply let out a loud bark of laughter that actually seemed real, a grin spreading across his face.

"Jesus, you pulled the Quidditch move? I think Fred used to have some success with that. Fly down after a match and grab whoever was there – he was usually aiming for Angelina, though. Bloody hell, I just can't even… can't even picture that."

"Don't get me wrong, Weasley, but I'd rather you didn't."

George smirked, took another gulp of his drink. "I just can't believe nobody knew. No-one, right?"

Draco saw for a fraction of a second his mother's clear-eyed, tearful gaze boring into him across the fray of the Battle. He saw her face twist sharply, her hand fall as she realised what he was doing. Like someone watching an enormous wave descend on a tiny seaside town. Again, it was too much to explain. There would never be enough words.

"No."

George seemed to notice he had struck on something tender and nudged the firewhiskey across the table. "Ever nearly get caught?"

Draco let himself smirk. As he relaxed into recounting the stories, he felt the tense knot of anxiety fading away. Strange that it hadn't taken nearly as much firewhiskey as usual this time. Although he wasn't usually sharing a drink with anyone, much less a Weasley. But as he spoke, and watched George listen and react with alert eyes and an effortless, easy laugh, he had the distinct feeling that for once he was building bridges rather than burning them.

~O~

Hermione woke gradually to the sound of birdsong and the soft glow of morning light through the window of the room she shared with Ginny and Luna. She sat up and rubbed her eyes blearily, took in he familiar piles of clothes on chairs and half-open wardrobes. She stretched, felt her muscles pulling and extending, having forgotten how nice it was to sleep in a real bed and not curled up in a ball on a windowsill. She was really quite content until she caught sight of her watch and the horror of what time it was hit her like a steam train. She leapt up out of bed as if she had been electrified, torn between trying not to wake the others and moving as fast as humanly possible. She all but stumbled into a fresh set of clothes before Disapparating upstairs as fast as she could, certain that she was going to be greeted by blood or dull, lifeless eyes… but, to her surprise, the attic room was empty. She stood there, completely dumbfounded, staring at the empty bed. She raised her watch and blinked owlishly – 5.30am.

Where on earth would Draco have gone at 5.30am?

Her feet carried her unsteadily downstairs. She stumbled every so often, still blinking sleep from her eyes, peering into the living room and bathroom as she passed. No sign of him. She scrubbed furiously at her face, trying to kick her brain into gear. She couldn't believe she had slept for so long. She had meant to be up to sit with Draco again by yesterday evening – she hadn't realised how tired she was. Making a habit of staying up all night had not exactly been a good idea. She reached the entrance hall and was suddenly filled with a heavy sense of dread as she took in the front door – god, he hadn't just… left? And yet that would be him all over – to simply slip out of the house in the early hours of the morning and disappear without a word, thinking he was somehow making things easier for them both. She stared at the door for a while, wondering whether to contact Hestia or not, before the distant sound of laughter reached her ears.

It was so unexpected that she thought for a moment that she must be dreaming. She followed the noise over to the stairwell to the kitchen, and made her way slowly down. As she descended it grew louder, and she recognised Draco's voice. Draco's laugh. She frowned worriedly – was he delirious? And yet, there was another voice there too, also familiar. She pushed open the kitchen door and peered inside.

There at the table were Draco and George, each with a tumbler in one hand, a large bottle of firewhiskey lying on its side on the table top. Only a few centimetres of amber liquid remained in the bottle, sloshing unceremoniously about as George rolled the bottle carelessly back and forth. He was grinning from ear to ear – apparently at Draco, but that couldn't be possible. A small saucer had been commandeered from the cupboard and turned into an ashtray, now home to several small stubs of cigarette butts. And Draco was leaning on the table, one fist pressed against his chest, looking tired and strained as before but for some reason actually laughing – the kind of giddy, breathless laugh she had only heard a handful of times before. He stabbed a finger at George, shaking his head.

"I knew it, I bloody knew it," he was insisting. "You bastards, I was scratching for weeks…"

George finally noticed Hermione and lifted a hand in a wave – his gaze was distinctly hazy. She could deduct that they were both fairly drunk, although how this situation had come about was still beyond her. Draco twisted to see her and smiled widely. She stared at him, lost for words, and was even more shocked when he held out his hand to her, beckoning her over.

"'Mione – God – do you remember in fifth year when I was all itchy after the last match? It was them, Fred and George, they snuck into the Slytherin changing rooms with Itch-up Gas! I told you."

Hermione took his offered hand, looking quizzically at George, who was smirking proudly. The whole scenario was absolutely bizarre. Quite why Draco was so jolly about this discovery – something he had harped on about at Hogwarts scathingly for longer than absolutely necessary – was a mystery. She glanced down at the firewhiskey.

"What's going on?"

"Couldn't sleep," George said. "Drank instead."

Hermione raised her eyebrows, finally beginning to move from shock to bemused intrigue. She clambered onto the kitchen bench, not missing the fact that Draco still had hold of her hand. She studied him carefully. He was still wearing that lopsided smile, completely unconcerned. It was entirely weird to see him so relaxed with George in the room. He swayed slightly as he twisted to face her properly – definitely drunk. Whether that was a good or bad idea considering his current state was uncertain, but it definitely seemed to have improved his mood. She returned his smile slowly, glancing at George.

"So… Up late? Or early?"

"Both," George proclaimed deftly. "Either. Firewhiskey?"

"No, thanks," she said. "Haven't you got to open the shop?"

"Nah, nah," he said, waving her words away. "Rowena's doing it."

Rowena a young witch, who George had only recently been able to take on as an additional pair of hands for the business, was not quite experienced enough to run the shop alone for a whole day in Hermione's opinion. But even as she opened her mouth to say so, she thought better of it. She hadn't seen George let loose like this for a while, and she knew he'd been stressed over the shop. She looked at Draco again, still trying to decipher whatever was going on between them.

"Bloody slacker," he was saying, shaking his head. "I guess work never starts when you're your own boss."

"You don't know the first thing about running a shop, Malfoy," George retorted, leaning across the table. "In fact, I'd bet ten galleons that you've never worked a day in your life."

Draco cocked his head in mock thought. "Come to think of it, no. Must be doing something right. You could learn a bit from me."

Hermione watched the exchange, perplexed. They actually seemed to be trading insults in good humour rather than drawing their wands. She pinched herself beneath the table – no, it was real. She rubbed her thumb across Draco's knuckles, unable to school her features away from anything but speechless disbelief, and he glanced at her with a sideways smile. Knowing, confident – the kind of smile he would sometimes shoot her as they passed in the corridors at Hogwarts. But even as she smiled back, warmth spreading through her, his eyes focussed on something behind her and within the space of a couple of seconds the colour drained from his face.

She checked quickly over her shoulder, certain that she was about to see Ron standing in the doorway, wand pointed at them, his face red with fury. But no – the kitchen was empty but for them. She frowned, glanced back at Draco, but the expression of sudden and complete fear was still there. His jaw had tightened and his eyes widened slightly. She squeezed his hand, trying to catch his attention, but he simply continued to stare. George was still talking, apparently not noticing the change in atmosphere. She watched Draco swallow hard – it was as if he was wrestling desperately with the urge to get up and run.

"Draco?" she said under her breath.

He looked at her sharply, and then behind her again. She looked once more, squinting at the patch on the wall beside the fire he seemed to be riveted on, but still couldn't see anything out of the ordinary. She inched a little closer to him, moving into his line of sight.

"Draco?"

"You see anything?" he muttered, his lips barely moving. "Right there – you don't see it?"

"See what?"

"It's on fire…"

"What?"

He didn't reply. He dropped his head into his hand, hunched over the table, rubbing his eyes forcefully with his thumb and forefinger. George had finally trailed off, apparently realising that he had missed something, and was looking questioningly at Hermione. She shook her head at him wordlessly.

"You've been up all night?" she said, trying to return to the conversation. "You must be exhausted."

"Wasn't before, but now you mention it," George said, glancing at his watch. "Didn't realise the time. Malfoy's been telling me all about your escapades at Hogwarts."

Hermione felt her stomach plunge into her feet. "He what?"

"No, I haven't," Draco said. "He's screwing with you, 'Mione."

She could tell from the tone of his voice that he was trying very hard to sound light-hearted, although he was not quite succeeding in pulling it off. George seemed to have had too much whiskey to figure out that something was wrong – he was yawning tiredly, pushing his glass away.

"Oh, don't worry, Hermione," he said. "Your secrets are quite safe with me. Your boyfriend isn't as much of a shit as he makes out to be."

She spluttered helplessly over the word 'boyfriend', aware that her face was flushing bright red. George looked extremely pleased with himself.

"Shame, you're still as much of a ginger twerp as before," Draco shot back, lowering his hand.

She rolled her eyes and stabbed a finger at the cigarette butts. "You're not supposed to smoke in here – clean that up."

For some reason, they both seemed to find that incredibly funny. George clambered to his feet, pulling his jacket straight with clumsy tugs, still smiling giddily. As he picked up the ashy saucer and carried it off to the sink, Draco's eyes strayed again the corner behind Hermione's head and that hunted fear chased across his face once more. She reached out to touch his shoulder.

"Hey – you should probably go to bed."

He blinked slowly. "You really don't see it?"

She wanted to push him on what he even meant, but she was pretty sure she was not going to get a response. Instead, she simply shook her head. He squeezed his eyes shut, the heel of one hand rubbing against his chest. Taking hold of the situation, she stood up and pulled gently on his hand.

"Come on, I'll Apparate you up."

He pushed himself upright obediently, unsteady from the copious amounts of firewhiskey the two had consumed. After a slight hesitation she slipped an arm around his waist to help. Her thumb grazed the skin of his hip, the smallest sliver of skin emerging as his sweatshirt pulled upwards, and her stomach fluttered. She tried to concentrate on getting him off the kitchen bench until he was eventually standing upright beside her. She had always liked the fact that he was taller than her, enough for his lips to be level with her forehead. She tried to force her mind away from the thought, peering instead at George who was leaning against the kitchen sink.

"Can you manage?"

George laughed. "Why, you going to carry me up to bed too?"

"You wish, Weasley," Draco mumbled lethargically.

Hermione could feel her face going from red to scarlet. She ducked her head as heat rushed into her cheeks, stuttered out a goodbye of sorts. Draco lifted his hand in something between a salute and a wave, which George returned, and Hermione took the opportunity to Apparate them upstairs before anything else could be said to put her on the spot.

They were greeted by the cold yellow light of the rising sun and the shrill sounds of birdsong in the attic room. She still couldn't quite wrap her head around how early it was. From Draco's room, she could see the dark shapes of birds flitting back and forth across the window, the curving streets far below completely empty of people. She turned him towards the bed and was about to deposit him there when he turned suddenly around and put both hands on her face, one moving to trail absently through her hair. She froze at once, her heart stumbling with a great thwump in her chest. His eyes were unfocussed, but still as mesmerising as she'd always found them, a deep medley of greys and blues, even if they were half shut right now. His thumb moved gently over her cheek. She knew she should probably let go of his waist, but she had been aching for this intimacy, this physical contact for so long now. Since he had first arrived in the house, if she was honest with herself. He ducked his head slightly, and she knew with complete certainty what was about to happen. She told herself she should move out of the way. She didn't.

His lips, warm and unbearably tender, brushed against hers. She tasted the sharp punch of firewhiskey on his tongue, the mist of cigarettes, and then below that other, deeper taste that was unmistakably him. Even as he was now, he still surrounded her with his arms. Before she knew it her mind was soaring and she was pressing herself unconsciously into him, slipping her hands beneath his sweatshirt to feel the warm, smooth skin of his back. She didn't want to take a breath, scared of breaking contact and ruining it – the soft pressure against her lips was building a tight heat in her belly…

He lifted his head, and she struggled to keep herself in check, wrestling with the urge to pull him back against her. His eyes were closed tightly and he was shaking his head, inching backwards away from her until the back of his legs hit the bed and he sat down hard.

"Sorry… Urgh," he said with a guilty half-smile. "Forgot for a minute."

"It's ok," she said breathlessly. "It's fine."

He didn't look up at her, and she reminded herself hastily that he was drunk, that he would certainly have never made a move like that whilst sober, that things were too infinitely complicated to be fixed that easily. She shifted her weight awkwardly from foot to foot, trying to think of something to say to break the silence.

"Do you want a cup of tea? I might…"

He shook his head, already pulling his legs up onto the bed and curling on his side. He kept one arm crossed protectively across his chest. After a moment's hesitation, she sat down on the edge of the bed and watched his eyes crack open and focus on her. She knew he didn't need her anymore – she should just go back downstairs. But it felt too cold to simply walk out after what had just happened. She took in his distant, slightly blood-shot eyes, and wondered if he'd even remember the next day.

"You told them?"

She wet her lips. "I had to. They already knew, really."

"What did Potter say?"

She huffed a short, uncertain laugh. "Nothing, really. He said he'd have to think. But he helped me get the IV, so we must still be… be ok."

"And Weasel?"

She clamped her lips shut. She really didn't want to discuss Ron with him. He would have nothing constructive or helpful to say – only scathing quips at Ron's expense. And as much as she hated the way Ron had reacted, she still felt unbearably guilty for how it had come out. For her part in the deception. She didn't want to hear Draco tearing him down. She hadn't noticed his coat in the hall earlier – he and Hestia must still be out on their mission. She wondered when he would be back, and was suddenly relieved that he hadn't come back to find George and Draco getting on so well. That would only seem like another betrayal to him.

"That well, huh?"

"We'll have to talk about it properly," she said, swerving his questions. "How are you feeling?"

"Great," he said, turning his face into the pillow. "Numb." And then, after a short pause, slurring a little, "Why did you tell them?"

She pinned her gaze on her hands, suddenly anxious. Telling Harry and Ginny had been a huge step towards something she still wasn't quite able to face up to – admitting that she still had feelings for him. She was still trying to gauge how he felt about her, and how well he was reading her. He seemed to want her too on some level, but whether he would ever actually act on that was another matter. The gulf that had opened up between them was still very much present, although it seemed like they were beginning to tentatively breach it. She felt suddenly angry – why couldn't he have kissed her sober, so that she didn't have to second guess everything he did? And George had called him her 'boyfriend' – was that just a joke at her expense, or a reflection on how the others viewed them? She had no idea, and if there was one thing she hated, it was being left in the dark.

"Because I had to," she said eventually, almost to herself. "Because you're still part of me."

She waited, unsure how her leap of faith would be received. He didn't say anything, and her skin began to prickle with uncomfortable self-consciousness. He didn't want her. The kiss had been a mistake – she had been foolish to think that they could just wipe the slate clean and return to what they had been before. And just as she was about to jump up and leave, unable to bear the shame of being rejected, she realised that his eyes were closed and his shoulder rising and falling rhythmically. She reached out to touch his arm.

"Draco?"

He was asleep. She let out a groan of frustration and rubbed both hands over her face. It seemed they wouldn't be able to get anywhere for a while yet. She stood up, shoving her hair back, and crossed to the armchair which had become her new home. Her pile of books sat waiting, and she flicked her wand to bring the topmost one soaring into her hand. After all, the curse was still hanging over her head like a storm cloud. She had work to do.

With a final glance up at him, at his eyes flickering behind their lids, she sighed and began to read.

Thanks for reading! Reviews are always welcome.

SUPRNTRAL LVR.