A/N: Surprise! I thought I'd drop an early update for you all since that cliffhanger last week was so mean. I hope you enjoy.
A reminder that elements of this story were inspired by Homeland. If you recognize anything, that's why!
Alpha and Beta love to BiscuitsforPotter and DisenchantedGlow

"Draco."

Pain.

A nauseating potion poured down his throat.

A horrified voice saying his name… crying.

Bright lights above him.

A pair of terrified brown eyes close to his own.

Hushed voices nearby speaking urgently.

"Draco…"

He opened his eyes to a dark room and blinked. Light was streaming in through an open doorway, illuminating a sterile room, medical equipment, and a hospital bed.

Unable to believe his unaccustomed senses, Draco let his eyes wander around the dark room. There were tubes in his arms, pumping thick potions into his veins. A magical diagram of his vitals hovered next to the bed and as soon as he was fully conscious, a bright light zoomed away from it and out of the door.

A moment later, a healer bustled in, his eyes wide and his mouth open in shock. The portly man hurried to Draco's bed and began performing a myriad of spells. "Hello," he greeted kindly. "I'm Healer MacDougall. You're in St. Mungo's hospital. Do you know your name?"

Draco's mouth was dry and his tongue felt thick, but he tried to speak. All that came out was a pathetic choking noise. The Healer hurried to Draco's aid, waving his wand and ridding his tongue of its sandpaper feel. "D-Draco…" he forced out.

"Very good," the Healer praised, though he didn't seem to be paying much attention. His eyes were darting over Draco's vitals and his fingers were pressing into Draco's wrist. "We've alerted the Minister that you've woken up. He should be here shortly."

Draco stared at the Healer's fingers on him. His eyes were telling him that they were there, but he couldn't feel anything. He tried to move his fingers. Nothing.

"W-what hap-happened?" Draco groaned, trying desperately to remember how he had gotten here.

"You were the victim of an attack," MacDougall informed him. "A new, unidentified potion. You are very lucky to be alive, young man."

Lucky… He didn't feel lucky. He felt like shit.

"I'll let the Minister fill you in on the details when he arrives. For now, can you tell me what you feel?"

Draco took stock of his body. It was heavy against the mattress. Each attempt to move had been unsuccessful.

"N-nothing," he stammered miserably.

"No pain?" the healer clarified, glancing at Draco skeptically.

"N-no, nothing at—at all," Draco said slowly, his tongue still feeling foreign in his mouth.

The healer turned away from Draco's vitals at last, eyes blown wide in concern. He pulled the blankets back from Draco's feet and gently prodded his big toe on each foot with a quill. "Can you feel this?"

"N-no."

"It doesn't have to be just pain. Anything at all. Pressure? Tingling?"

Slowly, Draco's head lolled side to side. His heart unclenched slightly. At least he wasn't completely paralyzed.

The healer worked his way up Draco's legs, poking them with his pointy quill until at last Draco flinched. He could feel something! The horrible nothingness ended at his mid thighs on both legs. From there, the Healer used his hands to feel along Draco's hips and lower abdomen.

It wasn't much—certainly not as much as he was supposed to feel—but there was definitely a dull pressure and slight tingle where the Healer's fingers dug into him. The sensations grew stronger as MacDougall reached Draco's ribs and chest. Working down Draco's arms, however, the feelings faded fast and then stopped altogether at his elbows.

Dread filled Draco as MacDougall checked his neck and shoulders, occasionally asking him to try to move this or that. He could shrug his shoulders and move his head fairly easily. Lifting his upper arms was very difficult, but he managed to move them off the mattress a bit. He attempted sitting up using only his abdominal muscles, but they screamed in protest and his head fell back. He coughed and groaned, and though he felt like a failure, MacDougall nodded. "Good," he said.

What was so good about it?

"You have some mobility," continued the Healer. "That's a good sign. We cannot make any promises, of course, but we will do everything you can to help you regain your full range of motion."

A cold stone of dread settled in Draco's stomach. No promises…

Would he ever be able to wield a wand again? Or play Quidditch? Or even simply walk?

Suddenly, his nose itched and he couldn't even scratch it.

"Excuse me for a moment. I have to update your other Healers on your condition. Then I'll bring you a few potions to take."

MacDougall disappeared into the corridor for a few minutes. He could hear hushed voices from beyond the door—his Healer and a woman. After a brief conversation, Draco heard heels clicking away down the corridor and MacDougall came back into view, arms laden with multiple phials.

Draco took all of the potions dutifully, opening his mouth so that MacDougall could pour them all down his throat with confident precision. Each one tasted more foul than the last, and he sighed in relief when MacDougall had given him the final dose. The Healer then offered him water so that Draco could relieve his mouth of the horrible taste and the dryness that had set in during his unconsciousness.

"You m-mentioned m-my other—other Healers," Draco prompted.

"Yes," MacDougall confirmed with a nod. He picked up Draco's chart to add a few notes to it. "Your case has been extremely difficult. There are four of us attending to you: myself, Humphreys, Granger, and Browning. There are always at least two of us here at all times to monitor your condition."

So Granger had been assigned to his case. Interesting. He wondered how much she had fought against her superiors about it.

After Draco had taken at least a dozen potions and MacDougall had taken diligent notes, the Healer left, promising to return within the hour to check on him.

Draco was alone again, unable to move or to think about anything besides how much he desperately wanted to move everything… anything. He let his head loll to the side to take in the rest of the room. It looked stark. Bleak. All of it. Well… most of it. A single chair sat by the window at a slight angle. But it wasn't the chair that was remarkable—it was the throw blanket slung over the back of it. Deep crimson colour with flecks of gold, the damn thing simultaneously unearthed comfort and dislike. He imagined someone had put it there with guests in mind.

There was little doubt in his mind that no one had come to see him.

Of course, that brought up the issue of time. How long had he been in this place? Draco immediately wished he had asked MacDougall more questions.

Turning his head in the other direction, another splash of colour caught his eye. Flowers. A vase of them. Daffodils mostly, with some purple tulips as well. Draco wondered who had left them. Perhaps St. Mungo's had people who provided flowers for patients who had no one else.

"Draco."

The voice seemed to come from nowhere, deep and urgent.

Shacklebolt stood in the doorway regarding him with a frown. The Minister walked inside and sank into the visitor's chair, ignoring the throw blanket. "It's good to see you awake," he said solemnly.

"How l-long have I b-been here?" Draco stammered with a grimace, wondering why his tongue wasn't working properly.

"Three weeks," Shacklebolt replied.

Draco blinked. It seemed like just yesterday that he had been speaking with Theo in the dungeon.

"You were found unconscious, nearly dead, by a small team of us three days after you disappeared."

Three days? He had been laying in that glass box for over two days before he was found?

"H-how did th-they—"

"Find you?" finished Shacklebolt gently. Draco nodded. "It seems that the Death Eaters were using you to make some kind of point. The day after you were captured we received a box full of memories of the moment you were poisoned." A shadow crossed the Minister's face, his eyes darkening and the lines on his forehead deepening. Suddenly, Draco felt very glad that he couldn't remember anything after he'd been forced into the glass box. "The team examined the memories and finally noticed the inlaid marble 'S' on the floor. From there it was just a matter of searching homes that we knew might fit. It was the Selwyn home. By the time they arrived, all of the Death Eaters had abandoned the property, but you were left behind."

The news washed over him, and his sluggish brain lagged as he processed it all. Two full days there, in that horrible little box. They'd left him for dead. They'd sent the memories to the Order to taunt them and show off their shiny new weapon.

"Frankly, I'm shocked that you are alive. Perhaps their potion needs more work and is not as deadly as they believe it to be."

Draco shook his head. "Th-Theo… gave m-me an anti-anti…" He groaned in frustration. Why weren't words coming like they usually did?

"Antidote?"

He nodded.

"Theodore Nott? Interesting…" The Minister thought for a moment. "The antidote must be unfinished, given how little it helped you."

Draco nodded again. "Yes."

"Do you remember anything else? Anything about the potion that might be helpful? Did anyone say anything to you?"

Draco shook his head, unable to recall much from his time at the Selwyn residence. Brief glimpses flashed through his mind: Pain from Yaxley's Cruciatus Curse, Theo passing him a potion, and the glass box surrounded by an army of delighted Death Eaters.

"The Healers said you can't feel much," Shacklebolt commented, his dark eyes raking over Draco's prone form.

He shook his head and Shacklebolt continued. "Well, we have some of the best people working on figuring out exactly what the potion was that they used against you, as well as developing a proper antidote and cure for its effects."

The Minister stood and his hand came down on Draco's arm reassuringly. Draco stared at the contact, thinking of how strange it was to know he was being touched, but be unable to feel it at all. "Try not to worry too much for now. We are fairly certain that the Death Eaters believe you to be dead, but there is a guard stationed outside your door at all times. If you ever have any concerns or need to contact me, just call for them."

With an encouraging smile, Shacklebolt left the room, turning briefly to speak a few hushed words to the guard on duty before disappearing out of sight.

The next week passed in a blur of physical examinations, potion doses, and the slow and steady return of the feeling in his arms and legs. After seven days of exhausting physical therapy and choking down the most vile potions imaginable, he could finally feel dull sensations down to his wrists and ankles. Movement was returning to him slowly, though he could still not feel or move his hands or feet.

His Healers were thrilled with his progress, praising him after every muscle twitch and even seemed to rejoice when he complained of pain in his lower extremities. They told him that any sensation, even pain was something to be pleased about after what he'd been through. Everyone kept reminding him how lucky he was, but he didn't feel lucky at all.

Not only did he feel condescended to, he felt… vulnerable. Night after night he lay awake in bed, unable to stand, walk, run. Unable to wield his wand. There was only one guard by the door, and if he fell there was nothing Draco could do to defend himself. Even screaming for help was unlikely, as his tongue was just about as useless as his fingers these days.

All of his Healers were extremely attentive, and he had grown very used to MacDougall, Browning, and Humphreys being around day in and day out. But despite the fact that he often heard Granger's name spoken in passing by the Healers, he had yet to see the witch. Sometimes he would hear her voice in the hall as she spoke to her coworkers in urgent tones, but she never entered his room.

Some Order members came to visit him. Ginny and Charlie stopped by two days after he woke up. He learned that Ginny had not been captured. After the Death Eater had stunned her, he had simply left her there to be revived by the Order later. She and Charlie stayed for mere minutes, speaking politely about current events and offering optimistic sentiments about his recovery that Draco couldn't share.

Potter came twice that week, once to get Draco's official statement about what he remembered from his imprisonment, and then again several days later to check in and see if he had recalled anything else.

"G-good of you to vis-visit me, P-Potter," Draco stammered bitterly. "Not many people have. Not even G-Granger, and she's sup-supposedly one of my Healers." He stared at his fingers, trying desperately to move them. "I g-guess she figured she was r-r-rid of me once and for all."

Potter's brow furrowed in confusion. "Didn't Kingsley tell you who found you?"

Draco didn't answer, confusion blooming in his mind.

"It was Hermione," Potter pressed on. "When we got the box of memories, a few of us watched them, but Hermione watched them all. Over and over again. She sobbed the whole time, but I couldn't get her to stop watching them. She was obsessed with finding you. And then, after we brought you here, she didn't leave your side for the entire first week."

Draco's eyes darted around the room, suddenly feeling quite exposed knowing that Granger had sat with him for so long and he hadn't known at all. "W-why hasn't she c-come to see m-me since I w-woke up?"

Potter shrugged, his eyes holding something that his mouth wouldn't say. "Maybe it's just too painful for her to see you like this," he suggested.

Draco scoffed. "Alive?"

Potter's mouth twitched slightly. "You're just so… unlike how you were before."

Draco's mind tried to make sense of Potter's words. He supposed he was quite different now. Unable to walk or perform magic. Now that he could not protect her as his job had required, maybe she didn't see much use for him. Perhaps now that he stuttered so horribly, she didn't even see him as a decent subject for casual conversation. Just a medical puzzle for her to solve.

In the month since Draco had woken up in St. Mungo's, the world around him passed in a haze of painfully slow progress. His mind was constantly clouded by the myriad of potions he had to take morning, noon, and night. Though time was passing around him, he hardly took notice. January came to a close three weeks into his recovery. It was around that time that the Healers pulled him from his bed and propped him unsteadily on his feet. He then took his very first shakey steps. He only managed to shuffle his feet forward for three or four little steps before his legs gave way and he had to be lifted back into his bed, but those little steps had felt as blissful as flying.

The days that followed made Draco feel as though he had been run over by the Knight Bus. His physical therapy had become twice as strenuous now that most of the feeling had returned to his legs.

Yet, he was far from cured. There was still only a small amount of prickling in his feet and palms, and virtually no sensation at all in his fingers or toes.

His Healers encouraged him to use a cane when he walked, claiming that it would help him keep his balance and allow him to walk further, thereby building up his strength again more quickly. He had tried once, pressing his useless hand precariously against the cane handle and hobbling carefully across his room to the loo. But once he caught sight of himself in the full mirror he vowed to never pick it up again. Leaning on the wooden cane, with his sallow eyes, waxy skin, and hair grown out from lack of care over the past month, he had never looked more like his father.

He had still not properly seen Granger since before he was captured. Every now and then he would catch a glimpse of unruly brown curls passing his doorway quickly, or hear her voice speaking to MacDougall or Browning in hushed tones from the corridor, but she never entered his room.

When he wasn't working with the Healers on his physical recovery, listening to highly medical updates from MacDougall, or sitting and staring at his fingers trying to make them move, he was sleeping. The potions kept him very drowsy, and while he'd been conditioned in his training to always remain vigilant—even while asleep—they made him sleep like the dead. He would pass out for hours and hours and wake not knowing whether it was morning or evening or even what day it was.

One such time, he awoke abruptly in his darkened room. It must have been quite late judging by the complete lack of light outside his window. Silence penetrated the darkness for the moment, but something had startled him into consciousness. There had to be something. He may have been filled to the brim with potent potions, but instinct and months of training told him one thing:

Someone was in his room.

His door was cracked open, and he could see the guard pacing beyond it. Perhaps one of his Healers was here to check up on him. No need to be alarmed yet.

As his eyes adjusted to the dim light in his room, he saw a figure standing near his bed observing his vitals. He jumped, ready to call for his guard, before a small light erupted from the tip of a wand.

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to frighten you."

"G-granger?" he gasped, willing his heart to return to a normal pace. "What are you d-doing here?"

With a wave of her wand, she illuminated the bedside lamp and her face came into focus. Her cheeks were slightly pink, and her eyes downcast as she pulled the visitor's chair closer to the bed and sank into it. She wrapped the hideous red throw blanket around her shoulders. "I'm your Healer, aren't I?" she said flippantly, her casual tone betrayed by a small waver in her voice. There were dark circles under her eyes and she looked quite pale. Draco wondered how long it had been since she'd had a full night's sleep.

"S-some Healer y-you are," he grumbled. "You haven't even c-come to see me since—since I've been here."

Granger ran a hand through her hair, wiggling her fingers when they got caught in her tangled curls. "I've been in charge of your potions. It's been quite a challenge, seeing as no one has ever been poisoned with that potion before you. I'd been trying to get the antidote ready in time, but—"

"What?" Draco cut her off. In time for what? For his imminent capture and murder?

Granger's mouth snapped shut as if she'd said too much. She glanced over her shoulder toward the door before casting a quick Muffliato. "It's meant to be classified," she began, her tone serious. "But in light of recent events, I suppose you have a right to know."

Draco waited patiently for her to continue, eager to have some of his questions answered at last.

"A few months ago, I witnessed a break-in here at St. Mungo's. I arrived very early in the morning to find someone rummaging around in our potion supply room. It was a Death Eater. I'm not sure which one—Macnair maybe. We dueled a bit, but it was clear that he wasn't there to attack anyone. He must have had an emergency Portkey because he took what he could carry and disappeared before I could apprehend him."

Macnair…

Draco's mind reeled. The day he'd left the Manor—the day he'd been assigned to kill Granger—Macnair had gone on a mission. Something had gone wrong enough for Dolohov to fly into a rage, and mere moments later Draco had been dispatched to do what he did best.

Granger pressed on. "I reported the break-in to Kingsley and made a list of the stolen ingredients. He tasked me with trying to find out what the Death Eaters were brewing. That's what I've been working on all these months."

It was so simple. Mcnair had been caught stealing ingredients for this awful potion, and Dolohov had ordered Draco to kill Granger before she could discover what they were plotting. He cursed himself for not realizing it sooner.

"I'm sorry that I…" she trailed off and cleared her throat. "I'm sorry that the antidote wasn't ready in time. I didn't know all the ingredients, you see. I still don't, which is why your recovery has taken so long. We took blood samples when you came in, but that only told us so much about what you were exposed to."

Draco suddenly felt quite guilty. She had obviously been working herself ragged for the sake of finding the antidote to whatever Yaxley had used. He wasn't sure why, but he felt the need to reassure her that she hadn't failed… that she was doing a good job. "It—it's alright. I'm alive, aren't I?" he intoned.

Evidently, it was the wrong thing to say. A strangled sob immediately bubbled out of Granger's mouth and she descended into tears. "Yes," she sniffed. "But you… you…"

Draco blinked at her sudden display of emotion. He didn't think he had ever seen Granger like this. Angry, yes, many times, but this was obviously something else. Sadness wasn't quite the right word. It seemed much deeper than that.

"I'm sorry…" she warbled, wiping her eyes and sitting up. "I must just be tired."

"You sh-should sleep," Draco remarked.

Granger just nodded. "I know. I just have too many things on my mind. I'm glad you've been sleeping well. Sleep is imperative to your recovery."

Draco froze. "How d-did you know…?" he stammered.

A deep flush crept up Granger's neck. "I… I've checked in on you from time to time."

"When?" he asked. Was his memory as unreliable as his hands and tongue? Perhaps she had visited him many times and he simply could not remember.

"I work odd hours, so it's normally the middle of the night," she said as if it were the most normal thing in the world to sit in a patient's room at two in the morning. Her watery eyes wouldn't meet his and he got the distinct impression that there was something he was missing.

There were fresh flowers on his bedside table. Different ones than the wilting ones that had been there last night. Fresh flowers had been placed in his room every week since he had woken up. And now he knew—they were from her. His eyes drifted to the blanket again. Had she brought it to this room for herself? Had she huddled in that visitor's chair like this night after night? Lost sleep by his side? Draco's mind felt sluggish when he considered the possibility, as though something wasn't quite clicking.

"I…" she began hesitantly, her cheeks tinged pink again. "I got you something."

She reached into her pocket and withdrew a small box. Tapping it with her wand, she restored it to its normal size. "You missed Christmas."

Christmas? Draco hadn't even realized. The thought that the holiday had still occurred in his comatose state had escaped him entirely.

And Granger had gotten him a gift.

He stared at the box. "F-for me?"

Granger smiled and nodded. "It's not much. I wasn't allowed to leave the house for shopping, you know."

There was no wrapping on the box. She seemed to know that his fingers would be unable to untie bows or rip at packaging. And when he didn't reach for it, Granger took it upon herself to open the box for him.

Within was a lumpy, knitted blanket. Green, with silver flecks. A matching set to the red and gold one currently wrapped around her shoulders.

"I made it," Granger explained as she pulled it from the box. "I'm not the best knitter, I'm afraid. But I've improved a lot in the past couple of years." She spread the blanket across his legs. He moved his hands across it, unable to feel the material against his palms. It was soft against his arms though and warm over his legs. The weave was uneven and the entire blanket was rather misshapen, but despite the hideousness of the throw, Draco couldn't stop himself from being touched by the gesture.

She had brought him fresh flowers, knitted him a blanket of Slytherin green and silver, and sat at his bedside night after night. And he had assumed that she would have rejoiced in his death.

"Th-thank you," he muttered.

"Don't mention it," Granger smiled. "I'm just sorry you missed Christmas. Charlie was on my guard duty that day. I'm sorry to say it wasn't a very festive occasion for us either. He mostly sat next to me while I tried about a million different possible antidotes."

She had spent Christmas day here, trying to save his life. Draco felt something akin to guilt twist in his stomach. He chose to change the subject. "I heard th-that you're the one who—who f-found me," he prompted.

"Oh," Granger breathed. "Yes… I—It was nothing."

"P-Potter said they sent mem-memories of what happened to me."

Fresh tears swam in her honey eyes. "Yes," she whispered.

"C-can I see?" he asked.

Granger's mouth fell open. "You want to… I don't think that's a good idea."

"P-please. I don't remember m-much. I n-need to see it."

She glanced over her shoulder at the door. "I really don't think I should…"

"Please."

Brown eyes met silver and he saw her battle between her duty as a Healer and what she knew he needed. At last she nodded. "I'll be right back," she announced, rising from her chair and disappearing into the corridor.

A moment later she returned, a phial in one hand and a pensieve under her arm.

Draco sat up as she approached the bed. His heart was pounding as she set the pensieve to float before him and unstoppered the phial. Before she tipped it into the basin she paused, her eyes capturing his sternly. "I'll be monitoring your vitals," she warned. "If your heart rate gets too high or you appear to be in too much distress, I'll pull you out immediately."

He nodded, realizing that he would agree to any of her conditions as long as she sated his morbid curiosity.

"Based on our research, we believe this is Yaxley's memory," Granger explained as the silver liquid filled the basin. "It's not like a typical pensieve memory, I'm afraid. You won't be able to move around or see anything that he didn't see. It will be just like you are looking at the scene from his eyes. That's one of the reasons why it took us so long to find you. We couldn't find any helpful details until we went through all of the memories a few times."

She must have been nervous. Granger always rambled like this when she was feeling anxious. With one final glance at her apprehensive features, Draco leaned forward and dipped his face into the pensieve.

With a blink, he found himself back in the Selwyn ballroom watching himself being forced through a thick door in a glass box. He remembered the box.

The shimmering black potion stood waiting for Draco there, bubbling and swirling aggressively against its confines, desperate to choke the life out of someone.

Draco watched himself struggle against the door to no avail.

"Draco Malfoy," came a cool voice—Yaxley's voice—speaking as if from Draco's own throat. Memory Draco turned, his horrified silver eyes falling upon the speaker. "You stand accused of treason against the High Minister and his regime. The sentence for this crime is death. Do you have anything to say?"

Memory Draco skirted around the potion and moved to stand at the front of the enclosure. He looked around at the Death Eaters for a moment as if seeking the right words to say. At last he opened his mouth and said, "Here's to all you fuckers. Mindless followers to the very end."

Before Draco could feel at all proud of his final words, the glass containing the potion exploded, sending the potion bubbling across the floor. It sizzled and released a thick black smoke, which partially obscured Yaxley's view. The Death Eater moved closer, carrying Draco's consciousness with him until he was standing just on the other side of the glass.

Draco watched with rapt horror as the boy beyond the glass began to succumb to the potion's effects. He looked like a caged animal, clawing at the walls desperately in an attempt to get away… to survive. He swayed where he stood, clearly losing his bearings as the vapours attacked his body. The boy fell to his knees, convulsing violently as he retched onto the marble. At last he slipped sideways onto the floor, the convulsions growing more severe and drool oozing from his lips.

This was horrible. How many times had Granger watched this? How many times had she forced herself to watch him die before she found the clue that had located him? His heart clenched at the thought of her diving into the pensieve time and time again, unable to look away from this wretched scene, unable to help the boy in the box.

At last Draco lay still and pale, grey eyes open and unseeing.

Yaxley kneeled down, his face separated from Draco's by mere inches of glass. "And you… a worthless traitor to the very end," he sneered. His eyes raked over Draco's prone form as if waiting for signs of life. At last he stood and turned to Dolohov. "A successful trial, wouldn't you say?"

The High Minister nodded. "Tell the team to prepare it en masse. When the time is right, we'll release it upon the world."

With a jolt, Draco was pulled back from Yaxley's body and found himself once again in the sterile hospital room. Granger was perched on the side of his bed now, her eyes watching his vital signs carefully. When she turned to look at him, he could clearly see tears in her eyes. She wiped them away quickly before taking the pensieve from him and placing it on his bedside table next to the fresh flowers she had brought for him.

"Did you find what you were looking for?" she asked, her voice struggling to remain level.

Already his memory of the attack seemed clearer… more complete. Less like a badly constructed dream. It was a horrible thing to remember, but he was glad to recall it a bit better. "Y-yes," he said thickly, his mouth dry.

As if sensing his discomfort, Granger reached out and picked up his cup from the bedside table and held it to his lips so that he could take a drink of water.

"Thank you," he murmured as she replaced the cup.

"As you may have noticed, Yaxley was careful not to include any clues as to your whereabouts. He also made sure we knew their intentions for the potion," Granger remarked, her tone very professional.

"How m-many times d-did you watch?" he breathed, watching her tortured, tired eyes fill with tears once more.

Her eyes snapped to his, a pale flush rising to her cheeks. "I lost count," she whispered. And then her hand reached out and grabbed hold of his.

And he felt it.

Nothing more than a bit of pressure and a slight tingle, but he could feel her fingers wrapped around him. And before he knew it—perhaps just because he could—he was closing his fingers around her tiny hand and squeezing. His heart was pounding in his chest as her eyes met his and her other palm came to meet their joined hands.

"You s-saved me," he confirmed quietly, unsure of what else to say or how to thank her for putting herself through hell for him.

A little sob bubbled over her lips and she nodded. "Yes." She squeezed her eyes shut against her tears.

Draco blinked, trying to imagine her reasons for doing so. Perhaps it was just a quality of Healers, to sacrifice their own wellbeing for someone else's. A few nights of lost sleep was a small price to pay for someone's life, he supposed. But looking at her now and how...broken she seemed by it all, he couldn't imagine that his life had been worth this.

"Why?" he asked.

Her eyes snapped to his, fresh tears and confusion growing in them by the second. "Why?" she parroted incredulously. Honey eyes darted rapidly between his as if his question had the most obvious answer in the world. If that were true, he certainly could not see it. "Why?" she repeated emphatically.

Draco blinked, not knowing what to do or say as she descended into sobs before him. She covered her face with one hand, still clutching his hand with the other. After a moment she pulled away from him altogether and stood. "I'm sorry," she sniffled before picking up the pensieve and leaving his room.

Left alone once more following her sudden departure, Draco leaned back onto his pillows. Though the room around him remained the same, it felt different, somehow. He contemplated this and many other questions as his one cold hand sat exposed on top of the green blanket.

A/N: Updates on Mondays. Next chapter posts May 11th
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