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 Twenty Four

They were removed from whatever hovel the Death Eaters had been keeping them in and transferred to St. Mungo's at breakneck speed. Which was a rather jarring experience, both for Draco and for the staff there. No matter how much he tried to assure the Aurors who rescued them that there was nothing wrong with his legs, he had been loaded onto a stretcher and subsequently had little control over where he was taken. Their bedraggled group caused some commotion upon arriving at the reception – there were rather a lot of them in an already-crowded lobby, and a Healer materialised almost at once with a scowl of dismay. He strode immediately towards them and Hestia moved to meet him as if riding into battle – what started as a hushed exchange evolved into a fiery argument within seconds. Draco cottoned on as the Healer's eyes slid towards him. He wasn't sure why Hestia had made the decision to bring him there in the first place – St. Mungo's was allowed to refuse aid to individuals considered a danger to other patients.

So he was rather surprised when Hestia drew a piece of parchment from her robes and shoved it into the Healer's chest, and the argument was cut short. The Healer read the notice with a steadily darkening face, and then finally, reluctantly, waved his staff forward.

A group of unfamiliar faces took his stretcher and he was whisked away – Hermione tried to follow but was held back. He caught a glimpse of her protesting to the Healer who had blocked her way, but then the reception was out of sight. Thanks to Hestia, he was bundled away through the maze of stairs and corridors and stuffed into a bed beside a window, the curtain drawn around him in a hurry. The staff didn't look him in the eye and spoke only to one another – it was obvious he was making them nervous. He didn't mind. The events of the past day or so had taken their toll, and he felt drained. It took them a couple of tries to coax his injured arm out of his own stiff fingers, and he watched in muted fascination as they peeled back his sleeve to reveal a mass of blood and flesh. It was perhaps at that point that he was urgently directed to drink two foul-tasting potions.

After that, things became more difficult to focus on. He was aware enough to answer direct questions, and to recognise Hermione when she appeared beside the bed. He held still for the Healers to fix his face, looked with interest at the complicated spells they were performing on his arm, and shot a glance at Hermione to convey how impressed he was. For some reason, that made her laugh.

He only realised he had been asleep when he opened his eyes again, blinking owlishly in the evening light streaming through the window. He felt surprisingly warm and relaxed. He was still in the same bed, although his clothes had been replaced by a gown and fresh, white bandages had been wrapped around his arm. He flexed his fingers experimentally, feeling only a dull twinge. His face didn't hurt either – they must have put him back together. His gaze strayed to the window, where far below the London streets were as busy as ever. Whatever they had given him was good – he felt like he was floating on a soft cloud, the distant noises of the ward a comforting background, not a care in the world.

His ears caught the soft sound of someone clearing their throat, and he squinted towards the foot of his bed. Hestia Jones was there, he realised. Perhaps that was what had woken him up. She looked tired, like she hadn't been sleeping quite as well as he had. He blinked at her, and a flicker of a smile caught at her lips.

"Evening. How're you feeling?"

He nodded. "Mmm. Great. Good."

"I see they gave you some of the good stuff." She moved closer to him, blocking out some of the light from the window. "Are you sober enough to remember this, or do I need to come back later?"

He felt a flicker of irritation. He had been enjoying the view. He looked around, finally taking in his surroundings with a little more effort – a large vial of potion sat beside his bed, half empty, and the curtain was still drawn around him. He was sealed off from the world. He frowned.

"Nah, m'fine. Where's…"

"I told Hermione to go get some coffee," Hestia said before he could finish. "She was tired. She's been sitting with you all day, but you haven't been all that talkative. I thought she could use a break."

He nodded, satisfied. He ought to see if St Mungo's was willing to bottle any of this 'good stuff' they had given him – he felt far more agreeable than normal. A hazy calm mood, the kind that might come about on a warm Sunday afternoon, had descended on him. He peered up at Hestia, confused.

"Are you arresting me?"

She cast her eyes skywards briefly. "No, Malfoy, not yet. The Ministry is still compiling the paperwork from your most recent escapades. Your case is still open."

She hesitated, looking at him carefully. He had the sense she was trying to judge how coherent he was, and made an effort to shift himself further upright in the starched sheets. She didn't usually hold back when she had something to say. She paused for a moment longer, and then seemed to make a decision.

"I understand that you've had an eventful 24 hours and you're probably a little out of it. But unfortunately this couldn't wait. You have a visitor."

"Visitor?"

His mind went at once to Nott, and the pleasant fog disappated slightly. Was she about to usher the Death Eaters to his bedside and ask him to identify them, one by one? Had Nott come up with some kind of evidence against him he needed to refute? But Hestia only nodded.

"We're about to take him in for further questioning, but he requested a short audience with you first. After this we'll take him to the Ministry, where he'll be held until his documentation for Azkaban has been processed."

Draco's brain was working too slowly. He could only nod in response, still trying to work out what was happening. Before he could ask, she was already turning away and moving towards the curtain. She pulled it aside and spoke to someone he couldn't see.

"You've got ten minutes. I'll be right outside."

And then she was gone, and someone else was stepping into his small cubicle in her place. Someone with long, greasy blonde hair and a thin face that seemed to have aged considerably over the past seven months. Someone wearing a long dark cloak with a high collar. The only thing missing was the silver-topped cane – instead his gloved hands flexed anxiously, empty. Draco stared, unable to comprehend what he was seeing.

Lucius Malfoy stood by the curtain for a long few moments before venturing further towards the bed. He looked haggard and nervous – it was as if he had shrunk since Draco had last seen him at the Battle of Hogwarts. He stopped beside the window, his lips parted as if to speak, but no words came. With his long dark cloack and hunched shoulders, he looked like a leering vulture. Eventually, Draco broke the silence first.

"You're not dead."

His father hesitated, meeting his gaze for a second before looking away again.

"No," he said, his voice thin and quiet. "I'm not."

Draco blinked at him slowly. "And you lied because…"

"Our former… colleagues," Lucius stopped for amoment, as if gathering himself. "Were closing in on me. I needed to disappear."

"Fair enough," Draco said softly. "So why write the letter?"

His father's eyes flickered with something that might have been shame. It wasn't an emotion that often showed up on his face, and it didn't sit well. His lip curled slightly.

"I apologise for the letter. It gave me the opportunity to say some things that had gone unsaid. And I thought that…"

"You thought it would make your suicide good and believeable, too."

An uncomfortable, hard pause. "I thought it might be better if I wasn't in your life."

Draco looked past him at the darkening London sky. He thought back to the letter, the scrawled handwriting racing through his head. It had been short. "It's time for me to disappear from your life. I hope one day you will be able to forgive me." It wasn't so different from what he had been considering doing to Hermione at one point, although he didn't think he would have left a misleading letter behind to say goodbye. Vanishing off the face of the earth. Withdrawing from everyone and everything and waiting to just fade away. He thought of those first few days at Grimmauld Place, of how he had tried to leave, and almost managed it. There had been a time not so long ago that he had wanted nothing more than to quietly depart.

Except blind luck had stood in his way. And now… now things were different.

"Why did you come back?"

He didn't have the energy to force emotion into his voice. His father finally looked at him, and Draco gazed back at the same silvery-blue eyes he saw every day in the mirror. His father's stare moved over him, lingering on the bandage on his arm, on the neckline of his hospital shirt – Draco realised that the scars from Nagini and the burns from the still-healing curse must be within sight. They usually made him feel self-conscious, but for once he didn't want to cover them up. He wanted his father to see them.

"It seems there's rather a lot you kept to yourself during the war."

There was a time when the statement would have irked him. Now, he just waited. His earlier question hadn't been answered. After another long pause, Lucius Malfoy finally sighed and continued.

"News of the arrests was in The Prophet this morning. Along with a brief article describing your role in the whole thing."

"Oh, so that's why you're here," Draco said, the corner of his mouth quirking in a humourless smirk. "You've come to kill me for dishonouring the family business."

"It said you had been brought to St. Mungo's. I thought you…"

His father stopped abruptly. It was as if the words turned to stone on his tongue before he could get them out. He took a deep breath and cleared his throat.

"I had to come. In case… In case I was about to lose you."

The words sounded very strange in his father's voice. Draco wanted to say something sarcastic and intelligent, but nothing came to mind. He was, very slowly, catching up with what was going on. He glanced quickly at the curtain surrounding his bed, and was able to make out the shadow of Hestia's feet just below it. She was still there, waiting just outside.

"You turned yourself in?"

His father said nothing. Draco tried to figure out the catch, the trick, the real reason, but he couldn't see one. He suddenly hated that he was lying in a hospital bed, thoroughly unprepared for the conversation that was taking place. He scooched upright, touching his face cautiously as he did so. He couldn't feel any blood, and it didn't hurt anymore. At least he was somewhat presentable. His hand raced through his hair.

"They say that you had close ties with the Ministry and the Order. With… with particular members." Lucius wet his lips. "They say that Bellatrix Lestrange cursed you during the Battle of Hogwarts."

Draco looked back at him steadily. He didn't feel it could be possible that his father had returned from the dead, had handed himself over to the Ministry, just for a shot at giving him a stern telling off. But no, that didn't seem to be what his father was getting at. His gaze was apprehensive and narrow. When he spoke again, his voice was very quiet.

"You should have told me."

"Told you?" An empty laugh left his lips. "Why would I have done that?

His father didn't say anything. Draco could feel an odd tightness developing in his chest, could feel his jaw clenching. He felt almost as he had on the night he had pointed his wand at Albus Dumbledore in the Astronomy Tower. As if, despite his best efforts, there could have been a way through this mess so much earlier. A shortcut, held just out of reach, that was now casually being dangled before him.

"You know, you never actually asked me what I wanted," he said suddenly. He knew how petulant it sounded, but he couldn't help it. "It wasn't just your name you were signing away when you took the Mark – it was our whole family. And because of what you did, we never got a chance to walk away."

"You were never supposed to be involved. Not directly."

"What did you think would happen?"

"Not this." A beat. "Is it true? That you had… had alliances?"

Draco knew exactly what his father was asking him. He closed his eyes for a moment.

"Yes."

He didn't know what kind of expression was on his father's face. He had never seen it before. His father gave an odd, curt nod. A moment of silence billowed between them. Draco broke it first.

"Why did you come back? Why come here?"

"Believe it or not, Draco, you and your mother were – are – the most precious things in my life. Despite everything."

His father gazed at him tremulously, and then abruptly turned his face away to look out at the window. The setting sun painted his face with a soft, scarlet glow. After a while, he continued, his voice still low.

"I needed to be sure you were alright. And to let you know that I'm sorry for… for what you've been through. For what part I had in it."

The words fell on Draco like raindrops. He didn't know how to take them in. His realised that he was scratching at the edges of the bandages on his arm and quickly closed his hands into fists. He felt that this was the moment he should say something, perhaps graciously accept this strange apology, congratulate his father on not being dead, welcome some new development in their strange relationship. But he couldn't bring himself to. His voice had shrunk into nothing in his throat. Silence stretched between them once again, and this time neither of them made the effort to break it.

Movement tore his gaze away, and he looked up to see Hestia stepping through the blue curtain. She wasn't alone. He wasn't sure if Hestia had mentioned his 'visitor' to Hermione, but either way her eyes grew huge and round and then darted towards him sharply. She was holding a mug of coffee, dust still smeared across her cheek, and he felt again that well of relief. He had been given her back. The stark contrast between being reunited with his father and being reunited with her was deafening. He could sense his father straightening rigidly, his haughty gaze narrowing.

"Time's up, Malfoy," Hestia said.

Her tone didn't leave room for argument, although for a moment Draco found himself struggling to determine who she was addressing. His father turned away from him and Draco watched him go. Lucius Malfoy left, Hestia holding his arm with a firm grip, and neither of them looked back. Just like that, his father was gone. As if he had never even been there.

Hermione had come over to the bed and was weaving her fingers through his, her eyes trained on the curtain where they had disappeared. She looked about ready to draw her wand to defend him, as if expecting Death Eaters to come crawling out from under the bed. He squeezed her hand back, and she looked down at him at once, ready for action.

"You ok?" she said.

"Yeah," he said softly. "Fine."

"Your father…"

"Yeah."

He looked at her. She was sipping at the coffee, still looking on edge, her eyes narrowed. He became very aware that she was still wearing the same clothes as she had when he was rescued, that she had been sitting with him all day, that she was tired. The glow from the glorious week they had spent in Shell Cottage had been torn away from them, and he longed to bring it back. He shifted away, still holding her hand, and pulled at her.

"Come here."

She frowned. "What?"

"Just get over here."

She set her coffee down on the bedside table and glanced around furtively before eyeing the space he had left on the bed beside him. She shot him an arched eyebrow.

"The Healers will be coming by to check on you soon, we can't just–"

"Just for a second, ok?" he leaned his head back against the pillows, fixing her with the best imploring stare he could manage. "Just lie here with me for a bit."

Her face softened. Her gaze strayed once more to the curtain, and then she seemed to shake something off and climbed carefully onto the bed. Their bodies fit together so naturally – her arms slipped around him and her leg rested over his. The hospital bed was small and cramped, but he didn't care. He enjoyed the gentle weight of her head on his chest, of her hair in his fingers, of her soft breaths on his neck. They watched the sun dipping lower towards the horizion, setting London on fire as it went.

"I'm so glad you're ok," Hermione said softly. "I thought I'd lost you all over again."

"No chance of that." Draco pressed a soft kiss against her forehead. "Not with Hermione Granger on the case. You and Hestia Jones make a pretty intimidating team."

She huffed out a short laugh. He could feel her relaxing into him, her breathing evening out. With any luck they could get a nap in before the Healers came back to poke at him. Although it was nice to be admitted to an actual medical establishment, he found himself yearning to get away from all the people, to go somewhere quiet. Just the two of them. Hermione shifted slightly against him.

"I couldn't believe it when Hestia told me," Hermione said softly. "About your father… What did he say to you?"

Draco watched a pidgeon take off from a nearby rooftop with a clatter of wings, followed quickly by two more. Taking flight in the dusk. He let his fingers tangle in her hair, his gaze straying to the bandages wrapped around his arm.

"It doesn't matter right now," he said.

Then

Fourth Year

It had been a week since they had kissed in the damp fog beside the Quidditch pitch. She had run into him a couple of times in the corridors, and her face had flushed bright red every single time. One glimpse of his grey-blue eyes and sharp face could completely distract her from what she was supposed to be talking about, and have her stammering through excuses to Harry and Ron as to why she had suddenly gone quiet. Luckily, the three of them were busier than ever trying to figure out what the second task would be, and trying to crack the mystery of the golden egg clue. And with Harry and Ron getting on once more, she found it slightly easier to escape into her own thoughts. The frustration of so often being in the line for class together, of being within a few metres of him in the Great Hall or passing him in the corridor, and yet not being able to speak to him or catch his eye, was unbearable. She wanted more than anything to reach out, to make some kind of contact, but it was more difficult than it seemed.

At last, in potions class, they were able to share a word. She had gone to the storage cupboard to find more mandrake root, and it was big enough that she had to step right in to find the correct shelf of ingredients. Almost as soon as she was inside, she became very aware that someone had followed her. The back of her neck prickled with anticipation, and she glanced up sharply to see him standing in the doorway. His lips were twisted into a smirk, which, for the first time was alluring rather than threatening. Almost sexy. His teeth fastened over his bottom lip for a moment before he moved closer, stepping inside the cupboard, and she turned around quickly to face him.

"Pass the banshee ashes, would you Granger?" he said loftily, holding out his hand.

For a moment, she was confused. Were they about to go back to what they had been before? Had he felt so little that night that he could slip back into their usual dynamic without a thought? Trying to hide her disappointment, she felt for the small bottle on the shelf and held it out to him, and it was only then that she noticed the note between his fingers. His smirk widened – clearly he was highly amused by the cocktail of emotions rushing through her.

"Hurry up, I haven't got all day," he said, glancing meaningfully over his shoulder.

She took the hint and exchanged the note for the bottle. At once, he turned on his heel and strode off, back into the classroom. She turned away from the door, unable to resist unfolding the note instantly. His writing was incredibly neat, elegant, slightly curved.

Hiding from me, Granger? We have the next period free. Obviously you're ditching the Golden Trio and meeting me by the lake?

She felt her face split in a huge smile.

"You alright, Hermione?"

She flinched, crumpling the note into her closed fist, and span around. It was Ron, hovering at the entrance of the supply cupboard.

"Yes!" she squeaked. "Just… just can't find the…"

"The mandrake root?"

She nodded. He frowned and pointed at the shelf beside her.

"Isn't that it?"

She pretended to notice it for the first time, and nodded, already feeling the colour rising in her cheeks. He looked like he might question her, but then there was a distant 'boom' and he bolted back into the classroom, swearing under his breath. She had enough time to slip the note into her pocket and take a deep breath before returning to the classroom. She chanced a glance over her shoulder, where Draco was smirking, and smiled. He offered a short nod in response and then returned his attention to Pansy, who was scowling at their textbook.

After the class, she hung back under the pretence of asking Snape a question. After agreeing to meet the others in the common room in a few minutes, she waited a couple of moments and then hurried out into the dungeons. She kept her head down as she made her way out of the castle and down the large stone steps, wishing her bushy hair did not make her quite so conspicuous. The air was cool – although the snow had melted away, the seasons were still in transition between winter and spring. And yet the sun was still able to offer a gentle glow low in the sky, and it lit the surface of the lake. It took her some time to get down there, wary as she was that she might into someone she knew. When she finally reached the lake, she had been so swept up in the anxiety of getting there that she had forgotten to look out for him. She stopped, her feet sinking slightly into the pebbled edge, glancing around.

It was only the flash of white blonde hair at the edge of the forest that drew her attention. Her heart leapt and she glanced around furtively before making her way over. He was waiting just beyond the treeline, hidden in a small clearing, his hands pushed deep in his pockets. She had the impression that he was making an effort to look cool, which in turn made her feel extremely satisfied.

"Took your time. Did you stop off at the library on the way?"

She cast her eyes upwards. "Some of us have friends to shake off."

"Oh, of course. Potty and the Weasel." His head tilted to one side, his smirk flickering for a moment. "Did you… mention anything to them?"

She shook her head. "No. Did you? Tell anyone, I mean."

He shook his head too. They were quiet for a moment, silently understanding one another's position on the whole thing. It was almost awkward, being together once again. She found herself wondering why he had brought her here, whether he simply wanted to check that she had kept quiet or had actually wanted to see her. But he was looking at her with a kind of hunger in his eyes, as if ready to pounce, despite his apparently relaxed pose. She took a step forward, unable to help herself. Maybe it was in her imagination, but she felt like there was a kind of magnetism between them. The memory of his mouth on hers was extremely fresh, and she wanted more than anything to try it again.

"Probably for the best," he said. "Can't imagine your pals would be best pleased."

"Or yours," she retorted. "How would Crabbe and Goyle take the news?"

He smirked, mirroring her step forward. They were closer now, perhaps one last metre between them. She couldn't look away from him. The cold sunlight was dappling through the trees and leaving a pattern on his face, on his slender neck and pale skin.

"You're right," he said. "Better call the whole thing off, eh?"

"What 'thing' would that be?"

He rolled his eyes. "Exactly."

But neither of them moved. She found herself noticing the way the breeze stirred his hair, his robes. His teeth once again fastened over his bottom lip for the briefest of moments.

"Besides," he said after a pause, "I was thinking of asking out Cho Chang. Maybe you could talk to her for me, put in a good word."

She found herself laughing out loud. "Sure," she said, with a grin. "I'll tell her you're a great kisser."

The words made her blush instantly – she was aware that she had just said something entirely too flirty to ever be said in her voice. And yet the way his eyebrows leapt and the quirk at the corner of his mouth brought a sense of savage victory, and she found that it gave her the confidence to move closer to him. He did not step away, not even when she was close enough to touch him. He took in a slow, steady breath through his nose and brought one hand out of his pocket. His long, slender fingers drew her attention for a moment before he spoke.

"You sure you wouldn't be jealous?"

"Why would I be?"

"Oh, no reason."

His hand moved, and came to rest on her waist. She abruptly found herself caught up in the intensity of his blue-grey eyes. She felt her chest grow small. Whatever it was they were doing was still so new that she didn't quite know what to do or say. But her heart was fluttering in her chest, and as his other hand moved upwards to brush her cheek she felt herself leaning forward, suddenly eager to feel his lips against hers again…

"What was that?"

He spoke just millimetres from her lips, so close that she didn't care what he said, she just wanted to kiss him… but then her ears caught the distant sound of voices and her eyes snapped open. He was suddenly stiff, squinting towards the treeline.

"Is that…"

Hermione's ears caught the voices, which were growing nearer and louder, and her heart jerked. It wasn't just anyone walking the grounds of Hogwarts. It was someone familiar.

"Oh god, it's… come on!"

She snatched up his hand and he bolted after her without question, slipping behind a nearby tree. But it was not a good enough hiding place – they would be seen, surely. They were too close to the edge of the lake, and the trees were too narrow. Hermione looked around in panic, and then spotted a large bush nearby. She dragged at him, and he staggered after her. Her foot caught on a root and they tumbled directly into the bush, the whole whirlwind so disorientating that they simply froze when they hit the ground. She could only hope that the wide leaves obscured them from sight. He had fallen on top of her, bracing himself with his knees and elbows so as not to crush her, and she lay there on her back, her ears pricked for movement. Almost at once the voices became clearer, and she knew that the group must have neared their hiding place.

"… shouldn't listen to them, Neville," Ginny's voice was saying emphatically. "They're just typical Slytherins, not worth the time of day."

"You know, Salazar Slytherin was often troubled by Wrangleworts," Luna Lovegood's dreamy voice said. "They say that's why he was so wicked all the time."

"What's a Wranglewort?" Dean Thomas' voice asked.

"What you need, Neville, is a decent bat-bogey hex," Ginny said, ignoring the others. "It's really easy – look, I'll show you."

Hermione met Draco's gaze as he crouched over her. He looked uncharacteristically frazzled, leaves sticking out of his hair, his collar twisted from the fall. The ground was slightly damp – they had not chosen most comfortable hiding place. She could only imagine with silent horror what would happen if they were discovered, if the others just happened to glance over… She suddenly realised that Draco's white blonde hair was bright enough to catch the sun and be seen through the leaves – and he was holding himself up, clearly afraid to put all his weight on her. As the others laughed nearby, she caught his gaze.

Your hair, she mouthed desperately.

The look of utter panic and confusion on his face was so funny that she had to suppress a giggle that threatened to break free.

Your hair, she repeated.

He seemed to finally get it and his eyes widened. He ducked his head lower, his hair brushing her cheek in the process. She suddenly became very aware that she could feel the whole length of his body pressed against her – his chest, his stomach, his legs, his hips… She felt heat building in her face and pressed her lips together tightly, trying to regain some control. She wasn't used to her body reacting quite so quickly. Ginny's voice floated towards them.

"Come on, Neville, just try it!"

"I don't want to," Neville's voice said sullenly. "Look, I just want my Remembrall back."

"Well, do you remember which one of them took it?" Dean Thomas asked. "We'll go find it."

"Remembralls are just a conspiracy anyway," Luna said warmly. "I wouldn't worry too much."

Draco turned his head, his eyes fixing on hers, and the next second she was lost in them again. She was barely even aware of the others talking. She opened her mouth to speak, sucked in a short breath, and then remained silent. His gaze moved slowly from her eyes to her lips and then back. Then he leaned a little closer, and his breath brushed her earlobe as he spoke.

"I think they're going," he whispered.

A shiver ran down her spine, and she forced herself to focus on what the others were saying.

"… even want to?" Neville was demanding. "I thought it could have been Crabbe, but they were gone so quickly–"

"Alright, alright," Ginny's voice said emphatically. "Let's go find Crabbe. But when we find him, I'm showing you how to cast a bat-bogey hex!"

Their footsteps and laughter died away, and Draco let out a sigh. He lifted himself up on his elbows again, his face hovering directly above hers.

"Close call," he murmured.

"Yeah," she whispered.

For a moment they were quiet. He could easily have climbed off her, and yet he hesitated. She suddenly realised that she didn't care at all that the ground was damp, or that there were leaves in her hair. She was so caught up in being this close to him again. It made her feel giddy, breathing him in like alcohol, like smoke. His tongue raced across his lips. And then she couldn't take it anymore, and reached for him. Her hands fisted lightly in his robes, a silent invitation. He moved down towards her at once, and the next moment his lips had formed a soft, pleasant heat against hers. Her heart began to pound in earnest and she made a small noise in the back of her throat. She realised that her hand had lifted without her even noticing to run through his hair, coming to rest at the back of his neck. He broke away for air, and she found herself slightly breathless too.

"Are you trying to seduce me, Granger?"

She grinned.

It was insane for them to even consider carrying it on. It made no sense at all, and there was a constant and real threat of someone finding out what they were doing. And yet she couldn't help herself. They skipped dinner in the Great Hall to lurk in the back of the library. They invented homework assignments to fob the others off during free periods. They sat by the lake in twilight, just within the trees and just out of sight.

It was that very lake that she clawed her way out of barely two months later, Krum's arm wrapped around her waist. She had not anticipated being involved in the second task, and the lake was a good deal colder than she had been expecting when Dumbledor had first pulled the four hostages out of class that morning. When she broke through the surface, it was to the rather alarming sight of a shark head right beside her. Her initial shock was muffled as it began to transfigure back into a human head, at which point it became apparent that Krum had successfully completed the task. He pulled her from the water, and as towels were wrapped around her shoulders, she found her eyes straying up towards the stands. Draco's white blonde hair was unmistakable, and she thought she could almost make out an expression of grim jealously on his face. She tried to focus on what Krum was saying to her, and her heart sank.

She tried to let him down gently. As she did so, it was not lost on her that during Christmas, if he had made such an offer, she may have responded differently, may have been excited or proud to have been asked. And yet after the Yule Ball, the night she had only attended due to his invitation, she had lost any kind of interest in him. Someone else had stolen the spotlight. Krum took it bravely, promising instead to keep in touch by owl after the tournament.

That night, the Gryffindor common room was alight with celebrations. Fred and George had managed to sneak some butterbeer into the castle, and Harry had barely had time to change before the others were begging to tell the tale of the second task over and over again, Ron adding in more elaborate details at every retelling. Her hair was not yet dry, and she was enjoying the warm comfort of lying on the sofa in front of the fire between Ginny and Luna when Seamus suddenly stood up and put a finger to his lips. The room gradually fell silent, students glancing about anxiously at one another. It was past curfew, not to mention the fact that they were not allowed alcohol inside the school.

"Did you hear that?" Seamus whispered.

"What?" Ron hissed back. "What was it?"

"I thought I heard someone in the corridor," Seamus said, glancing warily at the portrait entrance of the common room.

After a tense pause, Fred unfolded himself from the armchair he had been slouched in and passed George his butterbeer, rolling his eyes theatrically at the hushed atmosphere.

"Probably just McGonagall trying to get a look-in on the party. I'll check."

They waited as he sidled over to the portrait and opened it a crack, peering out into the corridor. After a few long moments of silence, he slowly withdrew and closed the portrait behind him.

"What is it?" Harry whispered. "What's out there?"

Fred turned around, his eyes wide in mock horror. "Nothing… but the Fat Lady has a puddle of drool the size of Europe down the front of her dress."

The group burst out laughing, the fear of being discovered quickly forgotten. And yet, Hermione's eyes strayed to the portrait, her ears pricked. She found herself wondering if the Gryffindor common room might have an unexpected visitor after all. Draco had walked her back there one evening after they had stayed in the library until far past curfew – he knew how to find it, and would have determined that she would be there. She sat up, the cogs in her head spinning, trying to come up with some excuse to check outside. It was perhaps egotistical of her to think that he would spend his evenings waiting for her to emerge, hanging about in case she happened to notice him – and it wasn't behaviour she would normally associate with Malfoy. But then again, he was becoming less and less like 'Malfoy' to her every day.

"Hermione?"

It was Ginny, who was even now following her gaze towards the portrait.

"What is it?"

"I thought I heard something, too."

This time, after the first anti-climax, the room did not grow as quiet and concerned. Ginny frowned, looking around at the others.

"Well, who could it be? McGonagall would have stormed straight in and given us all detention by now."

"It's probably Peeves trying to play a prank on us," Hermione said, the words tumbling easily out of her lips. "Or maybe Nearly Headless Nick. He always wants to be invited to this sort of thing."

"Oh god," Ron groaned from across the room. "If it's Nearly Headless Nick, don't let him in. I can't stand to hear another word about how he wasn't invited to the Bloody Baron's stupid headless Christmas party this year."

"I'll go and get rid of him," Hermione said.

She climbed off of the sofa and strode towards the portrait, hoping she had been confident enough to dissuade anyone from arguing with her, or worse, offering to come with her. Luckily, Ron was still bewailing Nearly Headless Nick's recent sour mood, to the amusement of the others. When she looked back, she found Harry's eyes straying to her momentarily before he turned away to listen to Ron, smiling tiredly. Her heart leapt, and she climbed out of the portrait and into the corridor. The stone floor and walls brought a cold bite to the air after the warm haze of the fire in the common room, and she wrapped her arms around herself. The large knit jumper she had pulled on after the second task was the warmest she owned, but spending half the day at the bottom of a lake had a way of chilling the bones. She looked around at the quiet corridor, the darkness lit intermittently with the bobbing light of several floating candles.

As soon as her eyes had swept over the darkness at either end of the corridor and found it empty, she felt extremely silly for presuming that the noise had been Draco. Of course he wouldn't have wanted to spend his evening sitting outside the Gryffindor common room in the hope that she might pop out for a moment. And yet despite chiding herself for thinking such a thing, she couldn't help but feel disappointed. She turned to go back into the common room, noticing as she did so the trickle of dribble that had made its way down the snoring Fat Lady's chin and was pooling on her dress. And then a flicker of movement caught her eye.

She almost flinched out of her skin as a dark shape shifted behind the suit of armour which stood beside the portrait. The panic was there only for a moment before she recognised the glinting blue-grey eyes and sheer white hair, and her heart soared.

"Scared, Granger?"

She tried to look angry, but she was smiling too much. "Of course not. What are you doing here?"

He stepped out from behind the suit of armour, moving slowly and gracefully like a cat, glancing at the Fat Lady as he emerged. She understood his trepidation – the portrait was renowned for her loud, shrill voice, and they would surely be discovered if she woke up. He kept his voice low as he spoke.

"Happened to be passing. I wanted to congratulate you on your performance in the second task." He stopped just in front of her, cocking his head. "When, exactly, did you volunteer to be kidnapped by mermaids?"

She tried to stifle her laughter. "I didn't exactly volunteer. We were pulled out of class and told it would be rather quick and painless."

"Oh, good," he said lightly. His eyes narrowed slightly, and she didn't miss the hard undertone his words skated over. "Krum was quite the hero."

She rolled her eyes, reaching for his hand. He let her fingers interlink with his, shifting a little closer, the smirk still resiliently fixed on his face.

"Is that why you're loitering outside Gryffindor common room?" she asked with a smile. "You're worried I might run away with Krum in the night?"

"Or that he might come sneaking up here," he interjected, scowling. "Self-righteous little wanker, he probably thinks he could just come up here and–"

"Lie in wait for me outside Gryffindor tower like a stalker?"

He broke off, shooting her a petulant glare. "I'm not a stalker. I… I was just checking."

"You're jealous," she declared. And then, as he huffed and pointedly directed his gaze at the ceiling, his lip curling, she leaned closer to him and planted a soft kiss on his cheek. "I kind of like that you're jealous."

He looked at her quickly, and she was able to enjoy the savage delight in his face as he realised what she had said. He moved closer to her, looping his arms around her waist, his lips hovering tortuously close to hers.

"I'm not jealous," he said. "He's a prick. And I'm a catch."

"And I'm a Mudblood."

The words were out of her mouth before she could stop them – she didn't even know where they had come from. He almost physically flinched, freezing as he was about to kiss her. He lifted his head, pulling away from her a little, his face tight with startled unease. He looked around, as if checking that there was no one lurking at the end of the corridor, no one who could see or overhear them. When he turned back to look at her, his eyes were two hard, dark pebbles in his pale skin.

"What's that supposed to mean?"

She wished she hadn't said anything. Sure, the word had been flickering on the outskirts of her mind over the last month or so – the closer they grew, the more she questioned why he was even entertaining the idea. But he hadn't brought it up, and so she had ignored it. But she was not good at keeping her opinion to herself, nor at ignoring large elephants in small rooms. She did, however, regret spoiling the moment they had been about to indulge in. She searched for the right words.

"Well," she said, folding her arms. "It's true, isn't it? I mean… it's what you always used to call me. Doesn't it bother you anymore?"

His eyebrows pulled together. He was looking at her as if she had declared that her parents were Hippogriffs. His lips quivered slightly as he organised his thoughts, tried to force his tongue to articulate them.

"Well, yeah, I know, but… But it's not…"

She waited, letting him fumble through. She realised she was holding her breath, that this question had been bothering her more than she had understood. It wasn't as if she considered what they were doing serious – they still had not even approached the discussion of where on earth their little entanglement was going, if anywhere. But it still mattered. It was still important. She had to know. His hard gaze was wavering, and he took a deep breath.

"Do you remember the Quidditch World Cup? When I saw you and Weasel and Potter in the woods?"

His words caught her off guard. She frowned, the memory barely resurfacing. They had seen him so briefly, right before the drama of discovering the Dark Mark. He had been wandering in the trees alone, while the Death Eaters marched on through the campsite with their captives suspended in the air. She had completely forgotten that she had run into him at all. She wet her lips.

"Yes. In the forest?"

"I was in the forest because I was hiding. Because I was… I was scared that if the Death Eaters saw me, they might try to make me…" he paused, as if he was having difficulty remembering how to speak. His eyes travelled away from her, seeking a distraction on the walls, the floor. "…join in, or something. I don't know."

"You didn't want to?"

He shook his head. "Not really, no. So I headed back to the tent, tried to stay out of sight. And then I ran into you."

His words from that night suddenly leapt back into her head. She could see him there, leaning against the tree, barely visible in the darkness. His eyes and sneering teeth had glittered in the light of her wand.

Hadn't you better be hurrying along now? You wouldn't like her spotted, would you… If you think they can't spot a Mudblood…

"You were trying to warn us," she said, finishing the story for him.

"I don't know," he said uncomfortably. "There was just something… something wrong. When I saw it all in the real world, it didn't feel right."

She remembered seeing the Muggles dangling upside down, suspended in the air above the parade of Death Eaters, and suppressed a shudder. He was right – there was something about that night that had made everything a little more real for all of them, with or without the Dark Mark. She looked up at him and found him returning her gaze, uncertainty flickering in his face and in his hands that picked at an invisible spot on his robes.

"And now?" she prompted.

"Now?" he swallowed hard. "I don't know."

His words were not particularly hurtful – they were honest, and she could feel how hard it was for him to face the subject. She had never seen him like this before, his voice uneven and hesitant, his lips tight. Clearly he was trying to be straight with her. She considered what he had said, turning it over carefully in her mind, trying to figure out where she fit in. As the silence stretched on between them, he suddenly let out a thin, uncomfortable laugh.

"Is this your way of telling me you're not interested?" he said, lifting his hands slightly in mock defence. "Because, really, you could've just owled me or something."

His tone was too forced to carry off the jovial spin he was trying to apply to the conversation. The nervous edge that had settled over him suddenly seemed endearing, and she realised that she had let her own face lapse into a serious, unsmiling frown which must be quite disconcerting. She quickly took a step towards him, closing the gap that had opened up between them over their frigid discussion.

"It's not that," she said. "It's definitely not that."

His fingertips brushed tentatively against hers, and she wove her fingers through his once more. They stood there for a few long moments, each considering what exactly they were getting into.

"This is weird," he said, with a playful smirk. "No denying that."

"No," she agreed, smiling. "But… maybe we could figure it out."

The sentimental weight of what she had just said made her cheeks grow warm with embarrassment, but relief shone briefly in his face before his familiar smirk was back again. His hand moved again to settle on her waist, pulling her towards him. It was strange, the easiness with which everything complicated fell away from them when he was this close to her. She let her hands wander up to settle on his shoulders, and the Yule Ball popped briefly into her head.

"Good idea," he said, his voice low. "Where should we start?"

She was about to reply by suggesting that they meet at the library the following day and research where the term 'Mudblood' had first been coined, and its exact meaning and connotation so that they could more easily understand how it had effected their socio-political conditioning. But then he had leaned forwards, and she realised that the question had been quite rhetorical. She kissed him back, the thrill of it building a pit of heat in her belly and stealing the air from her lungs.

She had to break away eventually, knowing that the others would be wondering where on earth she had gone. He let go of her hand slowly as she made for the portrait, her eyes still trained on him.

"Don't forget to tell Krum to go fuck himself," he called softly. "Wouldn't want him getting any ideas."

"Actually," she said, her hand on the portrait, "I was thinking of keeping him as a pen-pal over the summer."

She climbed back into the common room still grinning from the look of stunned disbelief on his face and, as the others looked up at her, realised that she had forgotten to come up with a story to tell them.

She became rather adept at improvising over the course of that year.

Thanks for reading! Reviews are always welcome.

SUPRNTRAL LVR.