Night had come again when Draco blinked slowly awake and stared uncomprehendingly at the ceiling of the small room in which he found himself. For several moments he lay perfectly still and did not consciously think at all; he just listened to the sound of his heart beating and to his own rhythmic breathing; it was deep and regular, painless and easy. That surprised him for some reason. But why? And then he remembered…

Oh, shit.

That's right.

Potter stabbed me- right in the chest.

He raised his arms from where they lay atop the blankets- one flung out beside him so that his hand trailed over the edge of the narrow bed, the other crossed casually over his midsection- and brought both hands up to his chest. With his right hand he pulled down and out on the neck of the soft white shirt he was wearing, making room for his left hand to slip underneath. He explored his chest with his fingertips. There was nothing there. No wound, certainly; no scar that he could detect by touch; no discomfort, even, to offer a clue as to where exactly the dagger had pierced him. The skin under his fingers was perfect and smooth. Really, one might almost think-

But no. He shook his head. He had been stabbed all right. He remembered clearly the shock of it, and then the pain. The blinding agony that had gone on and on, and had made him desperate to die…he shuddered at the thought of it.

Speaking of dying…he had been so sure he would. So sure he wanted to. And not just because of the physical pain he had been suffering; there had been other reasons as well. His parents, the Slytherins, the Death Eaters…he was going to have trouble from all of them. A shitload of trouble. He had lost his place in the world. He no longer knew where he belonged. He couldn't go home after this- of that he was certain. Nor was he likely to be welcome, or safe, back in Slytherin house, amongst the sons and daughters of the Death Eaters who would surely now be howling for his blood. So just what the hell was he supposed to do? Death would have been easier. He had known that then, but damned heroic Potter wouldn't listen to him, wouldn't let him slip into the darkness as he lay in Hermione's arms. He knew it now too, but death no longer seemed to be an option- apparently he had been restored to perfect health. He sighed unhappily and his eyes began to wander restlessly over the ceiling again.

He became aware of the distant sounds of celebration- a celebration of massive proportions, he thought, if he could hear it here, in the infirmary wing, which was far removed from the Great Hall and was also surrounded by charms designed specifically to reduce noise from the rest of the school.

Hero-boy must be down there right now, he thought bitterly, basking in his glory. Signing autographs. In response to this thought, his mind flashed him a brief yet vivid image of Potter's arms wrapped around his chest from behind, supporting him as they sped through the night, of Potter's voice in his ear, the panic in his tone as he begged him to hold on.

He rejected this vision instantly. He was just playing the role of Heroic Gryffindor. And satisfying his own conscience besides. Now that we're back and I'm recovered, I won't be seeing him again. Or Weasley. He felt a sudden pang then, as he thought, and what about Hermione? Where is she? Down there dancing with hero-boy?

Sighing again, eyes still fixed on the ceiling, he reached for his wand which, he could tell by the glow emanating from it, lay on the nightstand beside him. He was unsure exactly what he intended to do with it; he just felt on some basic level that it would be comforting to have it in his hand now, when he felt so alone.

What he felt on the nightstand caused him to gasp and yank back his hand in surprise, then turn his head away from the ceiling for the first time and look beside him.

On the nightstand, softly glowing, lay not one, but four wands. I thought my wand seemed brighter than usual, he mused, staring. Then his attention was caught by something not on the nightstand, but leaning against it.

There, asleep in a sitting position on the floor, clad all in white just like Draco himself, with his back against the nightstand and his unruly head bowed forward, chin on his chest and glasses still on, though badly askew, was Potter.

Draco stared in open mouthed amazement, until something even more incredible behind Potter caught his eye. There was another bed beyond the nightstand and any question that might have arisen in Draco's mind as to why Potter should then be on the floor was answered almost instantly as he raised himself on one elbow and squinted over Potter's head…

The second bed was occupied by Hermione. At first he felt a sharp pang of fear at the sight of her in a hospital bed; he had seen enough of that over the past week to last him a lifetime and then some- but it passed quickly enough, because it was quite apparent that she was not injured or unconscious; merely sleeping.

My God, she's gorgeous, Draco thought.

She lay on her side, facing him, one arm cradling her head on the pillow, the other dangling over the side of the bed. Her long, curly hair, released at last from the braids she had worn for the past few days, fanned out across her pillow and tumbled down over the side the bed along with her arm. The thin hospital blankets, pulled up to her waist, served only to accentuate the curve of her hips, and where the blankets ended he could see that she, like he and Harry, wore soft, white nightclothes. He thought her almost painfully beautiful to look at.

He remembered the last words he had spoken to Voldemort, words he had spoken when he was certain he would soon die, words he had spoken as he gazed at her, standing tall and defiant in the face of the monster who had sought to destroy her body and mind, sought and failed.

It's worth it.

He had made the decision that she was worth dying for, and he stood by that decision. But now….now he had to ask himself a new question; was she worth living for, when his whole world had been turned upside down by his actions, to the extent where death had seemed the easier and more appealing option?

The answer came almost instantly. Anything, his mind whispered as he stared, transfixed by her beauty; She's worth ANYTHING.

Hermione sighed prettily in her sleep, her breath stirring a stray curl that had fallen across her face. Draco smiled then, and the smile held such tenderness that it would have amazed anyone who knew him- not least of all himself.

His eyes wandered, then, back to the wands on the nightstand and he realized that there still remained the question of the last one. There must be someone else in the room as well. He was pretty sure he knew who the final wand belonged to, and a quick scan of the room confirmed it; on the other side of his bed, lying on a cloak spread on the floor, with his back against the wall, was Weasley. Also clad in white, also fast asleep.

Draco fell back onto his pillow and returned to his contemplation of the ceiling. Now amusement showed on his face. I've said it before and I'll say it again, he thought; I will never in a thousand years understand what makes these bloody Gryffindors tick. They're missing their own victory celebration- and why? To sleep in a hospital room- two out of three of them on the floor- with me. I wouldn't do it for them- well, sure, for Hermione- but not for Potter or Weasley…would I?

And now the look of amusement left his face to be replaced by one of confusion, because the answer to that question should have come quickly and easily- should have, but hadn't. His brow knitted in consternation, he repeated the question to himself; I wouldn't, would I? Would I? Still his mind, which had so readily answered his question about Hermione, remained silent and uncooperative. This was really starting to worry him. He tossed restlessly onto his side, intending to calm himself by drinking in the lovely sight of Hermione in the next bed some more, but his eyes were drawn instantly to Potter instead; Potter who was now awake and looking back at him.

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The two boys stared at each other for a long time in silence. Then a slow, sleepy smile spread across Harry's face and he whispered simply, "Malfoy."

Draco was amazed to feel his face split into an answering grin as he replied, "Potter………you stab-happy bastard." But the words were spoken without rancor, to the surprise of both boys. "You're missing your party," he added.

"It's yours as much as any of ours," Harry said. "We didn't want to go without you. Besides, we were all of us pretty tired."

Draco snorted. "Mine…right. I sincerely doubt, Potter, that any of MY housemates are down there celebrating."

Harry gave a slight shrug. "You may be right about the Slytherins, but that doesn't mean you haven't got well-wishers down there. You've achieved hero-status to the rest of the school. They all know that you were instrumental in Voldemort's defeat, and that you were gravely wounded in the battle but still fought on. What Dumbledore neglected to tell them was that you were wounded by…um…(here he dropped his eyes from Draco's and seemed to be intently studying the floor)…me."

"Look, Potter- I already told you if our roles had been reversed- if I had thought YOU were endangering Hermione- I'd have done the same. Only you'd be dead. So there's no hard feelings. About the stabbing thing, anyway. Bringing me back here against my will, now that's another matter." He flopped onto his back once more and sighed up at the ceiling. "I just don't know what the hell I'm supposed to do now," he said hopelessly. "I wasn't kidding when I told you that my parents will disown me, that the Slytherins will ostracize me, that the remaining Death Eaters will be out for my blood. Jesus, Potter, why didn't you listen when I told you I'd rather have just let it end back there? I don't belong anywhere anymore. I feel-" his voice dropped to a hoarse whisper- "I feel so alone."

Suddenly, before Harry even had a chance to react, Draco sat bolt upright in bed, a horrified expression on his face. "Aww, shit. SHIT!" he cried, staring at Harry with wide eyes. "I can't believe I just went and said that- to YOU! What is WRONG with me?" And he threw himself back down, this time on his stomach, burying his face in his pillow.

Harry was so taken aback that he did nothing for a long moment but stare, blinking in astonishment, at Draco lying face down on the bed with his arms criss-crossed over his silvery head. Then he climbed onto his knees, reached out toward Draco, shook his head, pulled his hand back, shook his head again, reached out, hesitated, and finally gripped Draco lightly on the shoulder. "Malfoy…?" He said awkwardly. He thought he heard a groan, muffled by the pillow. Then slowly, Draco turned his head just enough to regard him warily out of one ice blue eye.

"Potter?" Draco said, mimicking Harry's uncertain tone.

"I, um…you…ah…oh bloody, bloody hell." Harry raked both hands distractedly through his hair, trying to collect his thoughts. "I don't expect you to remember anything about the flight back here," he said finally, "but I um, I told you that if you pulled through I wanted another chance to shake hands in friendship and….and I meant it, so…uh…yeah." And he extended his right hand toward Draco.

Draco stared motionlessly from Harry's face to the outstretched hand and back for a long moment. Then slowly, he uncrossed his arms from atop his head and pushed himself up into a kneeling position, never breaking eye contact with Harry, who continued to hold his hand out steadily. "I remember you saying that," he said finally, slowly, "but I thought I was delirious."

Harry smiled. "So you said at the time. To which I replied, you heard me perfectly, Malfoy."

Still Draco did not reach for the proffered hand. He kept his eyes locked on Harry's for a long, long time- until the smile faded from Harry's face, until the green eyes flickered sadly and then lowered from his as Harry began to drop his hand, muttering "all right then, Malfoy….can't say I really bl-"

And only then, at the last possible second, did Draco's right hand shoot out, with a Seeker's speed and precision, and firmly clasp Harry's.

Harry's eyes flew back up to meet his, and Draco was astonished at the depth of emotion he saw in them. How can he let himself be so unguarded? He wondered. God preserve ME from ever wearing my heart on my sleeve like that- bad enough that little outburst a minute ago-

So he kept his pale eyes carefully neutral as he drawled out, "Well, Potter, if we're to be hero-worshipped together as you say, then I suppose we ought to make an effort to get along. For the sake of our public." And he pumped Harry's hand briskly before letting go. It was only after both boys had withdrawn their hands that he added, turning his eyes back up to the ceiling as he did so, "and I could really use someone to, er, watch my back around the Slytherins for a while."

Harry, who had returned to studying the floor as intently as Draco was studying the ceiling, replied quietly, "consider it watched, Malfoy. I know I speak for Ron and Hermione too. We're all gonna look out for you."

Draco's only response was an indifferent sounding grunt; it wouldn't do for Potter to know that at his words, Draco had felt an enormous weight lifted off his chest. This meant that he would be safe, at least in the corridors and other public areas of the school. Though he had been perfectly ready to die in Hermione's arms back at the ruins, he did not particularly wish to die at the hands of the Slytherins. He knew them- they were his own kind, after all- and he knew that death at their hands, now he was undoubtedly branded a traitor, would not be pretty. Of course, they would have to make it look like an accident- but considering that this was Hogwarts, where trolls were known to occasionally lurk in the bathrooms and each start-of-term feast was accompanied by a warning from Dumbledore of some new life-threatening horror on school grounds, it would not be difficult for his cunning housemates to concoct an "accident" that was both believable and…messy. He shuddered.

And then it dawned on him that for all that he was relieved by Potter's promise of vigilance, there was still the question of what the hell he was supposed to do to protect himself at night, when he would have to return to his dorm in the dungeons. Potter couldn't help him there. No one could. There was no way around it, he thought, shaking his head- he had brought this on himself and now he was well and truly f-

His train of thought was abruptly cut off by a sound of distress- halfway between a whimper and a sob- from the next bed. Whipping his head toward the sound, he saw that Hermione had twisted onto her back and was once again doing battle with her blankets. His own problems were wiped from his mind as, swearing under his breath, he launched himself out of his bed (clear over Harry, who was scrambling to his feet) and onto hers, inwardly cursing Voldemort for still being able to hurt her by haunting her dreams.

Her face was scrunched up and her eyes squeezed tightly shut as he gripped her by the shoulders and pulled her into a sitting position. She cried out and pounded both her fists once onto his chest before he pulled her tightly against him, his arms encircling her protectively and stilling her struggles. She stiffened for a moment, then went utterly limp, seeming to melt against him, and commenced crying as if her heart would break.

It took a long moment for him to realize that there were words mingled with her sobs, and longer still for him to begin to comprehend what those words were. Listening hard, he managed to make out a few breathless, tear-choked phrases; "…dead, isn't he…all my fault…have to see him…Harry, let me GO…DRACO!... want to see, want to see…Harry, please…"

She thinks I'm Harry again, he realized. Or actually no- to be more accurate, what she thinks is that I'm DEAD and Harry's holding her. Are we really built THAT much alike?

Carefully unwrapping his arms from around her, he took her by the shoulders and pushed her back to arms' length, intending for her to look up and realize that all was well, but instead she dropped her face into her hands and continued to sob pitifully. He exchanged a look with Harry, who by now was perched on the edge of the bed, rubbing her back in gentle circles.

In her extreme distress, she appeared not to have noticed that there were, in fact, two separate people comforting her.

Harry leaned close to her and whispered in her ear, "Hermione, look up. It's all right- just- Hermione, love, look up." Slowly she raised her tear streaked face to Harry, who cupped her chin in his palm and turned her face toward Draco.

Her eyes flew wide, she sucked in a deep, hitching breath- and went utterly still, staring, just taking him in. Draco dropped his arms to his sides and gave her a small, uncertain smile. "I'm okay," he said simply.

Still she stared, one hand rising shakily to cover her mouth. Draco didn't quite know what to do. "Hermione-" he said, but was cut off because at that point the she threw herself at him with such force that the two of them toppled off the foot of the bed, landing on the floor in a tangle of blankets and white-clad limbs.

"Ooph," said Draco, who had landed on his back with Hermione squarely on top of him.

For her part, Hermione, straddling him, was alternately caressing and pummeling him, out of her mind with relief and needing to alleviate some of the fear and stress she had been under since first watching in horror as Harry's dagger had buried itself in his chest.

This rough treatment went on for quite some time, but Draco, sensing that she needed this on some deep level, neither said nor did anything to stop her. He simply lay there on the cold, hard floor beneath her and bore both the caresses and the slaps in silence until she wore herself out and collapsed on his chest, gasping for breath.

Only then did his hand come up and begin stroking through her now tangled hair. "Hermione," he murmured, and that was all, but he said it with such reverence in his tone; as if that one word, that name, embodied all that was good and wholesome and beautiful and pure in the world. All that was worth dying OR living for.

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Harry had watched all this from his perch on the edge of Hermione's bed, but now he turned his head away, feeling that he was intruding on a deeply intimate moment, and stared intently at the wall instead, trying to get a grip on his emotions in the wake of that scene on the floor.

He remembered telling Dumbledore, I think- I'm not sure- but I think he's in love with Hermione. Well, he was sure now. There was no longer the smallest sliver of doubt. The only question that remained was, did she love him back? And judging by her actions of the past few minutes, he had little doubt of the answer.

He chewed his lip, pensive. It had been over a year since he had realized that his feelings for Hermione extended beyond mere friendship- or rather, COULD extend beyond mere friendship if he should choose to allow them to. He had not chosen to allow them to. Instead, he had suppressed them out or respect for Ron; he knew, even if Ron refused to admit it, that his best friend was crazy in love with Hermione, and he absolutely refused to enter into a competition with him; it would tear the three-way friendship apart. Besides which, he had always felt that the two of them would be great together; that they were each other's missing halves and that, united, they would form a perfect whole; Ron's easygoing, fun-loving nature balanced out by Hermione's down-to-earth practicality, and vice-versa.

So the idea of his own feelings for Hermione going unrequited was nothing new to Harry, as he had long ago resigned himself to losing her to Ron whenever his best friend got around to finally declaring his love. But this- this was something else altogether. Hermione…and Malfoy? He shook his head slowly. The world had gone topsy-turvy; this was never supposed to happen! And how was Ron going to take it?

Oh, hell.

Ron.

Suddenly remembering his best friend's presence in the room, Harry jerked his head toward where Ron had been sleeping against the opposite wall. Ron was, of course, awake, sitting on the floor with his back against the wall, staring back at Harry over Draco's empty bed.

Even though he had known that Ron would take this hard, Harry was unprepared for the depth of misery he saw in his friend's dark blue eyes. It nearly took his breath away; the silent suffering, the acute agony in Ron's expression.

Harry's eyes flicked to Draco who, with both hands now wound through Hermione's thick hair, was drawing her tear-streaked face gently toward his, then back to Ron, who had now drawn up his knees and dropped his head forward onto them. Harry was frozen; he had no idea what to do. He opened his mouth to speak, to try to find some means of consoling his oldest friend, though he couldn't imagine what one should say under such circumstances.

And as it turned out, he was spared the awkward task of finding words of comfort that would suit the moment, because something happened then that none of them had expected, and that demanded the immediate and undivided attention of everyone in the room.

The door burst open and Lucius Malfoy strode in, his gray eyes glinting like cold steel.