If Draco never saw the inside of a waiting room at St Mungo's again, it would be too soon. As it was, he had spent altogether too much time ensconced within the tight white walls, seated in the same uncomfortable seafoam green chairs. The same bustle of lime-clad healers with the stinging scent of antiseptic potions in the air.

It was a different waiting room on a different floor of the hospital, but the stone in Draco's chest felt the same.

The coffee from the hospital's cafeteria was still burnt and bitter, and the pre-made sandwich he'd purchased to put something in his stomach sat half-eaten on the seat next to him.

As penance for his role in the situation, Draco hadn't allowed himself a hangover draught that morning after drinking an excess of Firewhisky the night before. A self-righteous action he had come to regret almost instantly under the obnoxiously bright hospital lighting.

After speaking to Healer Huxley briefly that morning―and determining that Hermione hadn't yet come out of whatever state in which he had placed her the evening before―Draco had taken up his position of vigil. He didn't want her to be alone when she woke up. Because she was going to wake up, and he refused to indulge any thoughts otherwise.

Draco slouched in his seat, hair mussed and unwashed, his eyes bloodshot, and absently thumbed through the list of messages from Hermione on his mobile. He had saved each one, even the inconsequential ones, and his heart clenched with each anew.

She somehow managed to infuse her personality into every message.

The thought made every part of him hurt.

Ignoring his surroundings and the others seated in the small room, he tried to focus his thoughts on positivity. But such a thing had never come naturally, and he was far more of a pessimist than anything else.

His eyes lingered on the message she had sent him the weekend after he first attended her yoga class―the one he routinely went back to. In which she had said he made her feel less alone.

"I hope I'm not interrupting," a mild voice said from above, startling Draco from his fixation with a jolt.

Blinking several times, he dragged his stare up from the text on the small screen and gulped. Robards towered above him where he stood, his face austere.

"Auror Robards," Draco muttered, straightening in his seat and wishing he had bothered with a shower. He knew he looked a wreck, but he hadn't wanted to linger in his flat in case Hermione woke up. "How are you, sir?"

Robards sank into the seat beside him―on the opposite side of his sandwich―and released a sigh. "Well enough. Potter told me where I might find you." Draco bit his tongue on a retort. "Is that a Muggle telephone?"

The inquiry was polite, but Draco felt a stinging of colour in his cheeks all the same. "It is." He closed out of the message and jammed the mobile into his satchel. "What can I do for you, sir?"

When the man didn't respond for a long moment, Draco fought the urge to shift in his seat. "As I'm sure you can imagine, this is a bit of a delicate situation," Robards said at last, staring at the opposite wall. "The fact that both Auror Potter and you refrained from alerting anyone to Miss Granger's continued existence for as long as you did is, quite frankly, alarming. And I would be amiss if I didn't give you shite like I did him."

The admonition felt half-hearted, and despite himself, Draco felt a smirk pull at his lips. "You gave Potter shite?"

"I did," Robards said with a nod. "The blatant disregard for protocol, among other things." His chest heaved with another long exhale. "But I can understand the delicacy of the situation, and that neither of you wanted to overwhelm her with what would surely come of it."

Draco ground his jaw in a hard line as he nodded; idly, he wondered what the man had inferred from his presence in the hospital.

"How is she?" Robards asked after another tense pause.

Drumming his fingertips on the arm of his seat, Draco considered his words. "The situation is tense. She's with a cognitive functions specialist who's attempting to sort through her brain and determine what happened. To this point, she simply hasn't remembered anything beyond a few years ago. But now she's had some sort of episode."

He wondered how much of his personal feelings on the matter bled through, but he was so tired he couldn't be arsed to care.

Judging by the way Robards' expression shifted, his bias was evident. "I'm sorry, Mister Malfoy. Your personal life isn't any of my business. But I met Miss Granger myself after the war, and obviously she's widely regarded for her efforts in ending it. I hope that the situation will resolve for the best."

"Thank you, sir," Draco said quietly. He sipped his cold coffee with a grimace.

He wanted to ask about the status of the investigation, and whether or not he would ever get his badge back. But he didn't know how to do so without being petulant, when the man had made his reasons perfectly clear. And Draco suspected that until everything was through, he wouldn't be reinstated.

No matter how unfair the entire situation might feel.

As if reading his thoughts, Robards straightened in his seat and adjusted his glasses. "I imagine you're wondering if I've simply come to berate you and commiserate over Miss Granger."

Draco simply took another dreadful sip of coffee.

Robards narrowed his eyes slightly as he looked around the sparsely populated room, and cast a Muffliato over them both. Even so, he lowered his voice. "Between you and me, we've discovered who delivered the contraband weapons into the prison―a connection of Lestrange's."

Brows lifting in surprise, Draco glanced sidelong at the man. "So it wasn't me, then," he drawled, unable to keep some of the sarcastic bite from the words.

Robards scowled and pursed his lips. "I never suggested it was you, Malfoy."

Draco fell silent once more, sobering.

"Of course, the matter remains that I can't have you anywhere near the case while your father's on trial. The Wizengamot are up in arms over the whole situation, especially the fact that we haven't gone to trial on such a high profile case yet." Robards rolled his eyes, as if the trivialities of dealing with such things gave him a migraine. "But I wanted you to know I haven't forgotten about this matter, and I hope you don't think I've left you out to dry."

Although he didn't know how to respond without appearing ungrateful for the man's efforts―and for the fact that he still had a job―the fact remained that Draco longed desperately to return to work. Without his position in the Auror's office, he had felt lost at sea without any sense of direction. And now more than ever, he needed a diversion from everything else.

"Thank you, sir," he said at last, offering a stiff nod. "I appreciate you saying so."

"I know it isn't what you hoped for."

"Honestly, sir," he said, releasing a breath. "No, it isn't. I would be happy to carry on with my training, and I wouldn't go near the investigation. I'm not even qualified enough to work on it yet anyway. But I'm aware of the fact that..." He swallowed, a tight lump of emotion in his chest that he attempted to drive back. "I dug a lot of holes for myself when I was younger. And I know it's going to take a while before I can count myself on level ground."

Robards' gaze lingered on him for a moment―long enough that Draco began to grow uncomfortable under his penetrating stare―and he glanced away.

Finally, after the silence carried on far too long, the man nodded. "I know, Malfoy. It's why you're going to make one hell of an Auror one day."

Draco's eyes stung.

"Keep up with your duelling practice. I'd hate for you to be rusty when you return," Robards said quietly.

Draco drew in a long breath. "Thank you, sir." Shame and horror swelled within himself as he felt the warmth of moisture at the corners of his eyes, and counted it as an extension of the emotional onslaught under which he'd been caught.

Rarely did Draco see Robards express any sort of vulnerability; as the Head Auror it was his job to remain cool in any situation. But his expression faltered for a moment―just long enough for Draco to see a fraction of distress―before he nodded. They both glanced away, as if equally uncomfortable with the moment.

Just then, Draco noticed Healer Huxley conferring with another healer at the desk, and his gaze swivelled to land on Draco. He tilted his head as if to indicate the corridor from which he'd come, and Draco tensed in his seat.

Auror Robards followed his distraction, staring for a moment at Healer Huxley. "That was all I had to say for now," he said, folding his hands in his lap. "Go."

Trepidation mingled with the fear, implicit and deep within every nerve, as Draco's eyes widened. "Thank you, sir." Clearing his throat, he rose from his seat and raked a hand through his hair as he strode towards Healer Huxley.

Huxley's face was grim, and without a word, he turned back down the corridor. Shoving his hands into his pockets, Draco paced at his side. "Any news?"

"She's awake," Huxley said, his voice impassive. The words jolted through Draco like a sting of adrenaline. "But we haven't resolved the deeper matter yet. From what I can tell, the spell did a number on her mind, and after so many years of her new reality, the neural pathways in her brain have established themselves too firmly. It's going to take time to determine if we can restore her old memories, and to what extent."

As the man spoke, most of the words didn't make sense, but Draco eyed him all the same. Huxley looked exhausted, deep circles under his eyes, and he wondered whether the man had even slept.

"Thank you," Draco said, blowing out a breath. "For all your help."

Huxley remained stoic. "Thank me if we succeed." He carried on at such a rapid clip that Draco had to rush to keep up with his steps. "I've already spoken with Miss Granger about this, but I'll tell you as well. I'm going to discharge her for now while we study the results of our testing, but she'll need to come by for treatment sessions twice weekly. This is a very tentative and volatile time in her potential recovery, Mister Malfoy, and I need you to be very cautious with what she sees and hears lest she overloads again."

Draco nodded, cataloguing everything the man said. Only one thought continued to resonate through his mind: she was awake. "No magic?"

"Magic is fine," Huxley murmured, "especially since she knows so much already. I'd simply advise you to avoid any topics that might be considered controversial. In fact, simple bits of magic may help. Basic first and second year spells―maybe some rudimentary brewing―enough to keep her mind engaged but not overwhelmed."

At last, they arrived outside of her room, Draco's mind whirring and heart pounding.

"She's had a rough night," was the last thing the healer said before he gestured forward with one hand; without waiting for any further direction, Draco walked into the room, his chest painfully tight in his urgency to see her awake again.

Several healers mingled around the room, preparing potions and conferring with one another, but Draco sank into the seat at her bedside, eyes locked on Hermione. Her face was pale, dark circles bruised the skin below her eyes, and she blinked at him several times before offering a thin smile. Sadness furrowed her brow.

"Hermione," he breathed, reaching for her hand on instinct. Her fingers felt small and weak within his. "How are you feeling?"

Her eyelids fluttered for a moment, but she whispered, "Fantastic." Her voice was hoarse as though she'd been screaming, and nausea swelled within him. Her eyes opened again, her smile inching a little wider. "It's nice to see you."

The relief that came from so much tension releasing all at once nearly depleted him in his chair. "Hermione, I am so sorry―"

"You didn't do anything wrong," she said quietly, bringing the back of his hand to her mouth. "If anything, Healer Huxley says you saved me."

"I shouldn't have taken you to the manor," he huffed, dragging a hand through his hair. In his periphery, he saw the healers file from the room, leaving them a measure of privacy. "I should have realised―"

Hermione shushed him, that same soft smile lingering on her lips. "According to Healer Huxley, there was so much going on in my brain it was only a matter of time. Being at the manor may have triggered something within me, but he thinks it was bound to happen. And if you hadn't been with me, the end results may not have been so positive."

The words froze Draco's heart in his chest, and he shook his head slowly. He leaned forward, memorising the curve of her cheekbone with his fingertips; her skin was cool to the touch. "I'm still sorry," he said, "that you have to deal with any of this at all."

Her eyes grew watery as she stared at him. "Healer Huxley's going to help me, Draco," she whispered, the words choking off towards the end. "He's going to try to restore my memories."

Even if he didn't know well enough how much it meant to her, he could hear the blatant emotion in her voice, and he squeezed her hand a little tighter. "He told me; therapy twice a week." He pressed a kiss to her temple, another bright surge of relief swelling within his chest. "I'm just so grateful you're alright."

Hermione yawned widely, rubbing at her eyes. "I feel like I've been hit by a truck."

"Get some rest," he urged. "Huxley said he was going to discharge you?"

"I think so," she said through the tail end of another yawn. "I don't know when. The healers keep giving me potions for various things and half of them knock me out. I should like to learn how to brew potions myself."

Draco snickered even as he shook his head. "Of course you do. Conveniently, I don't have anywhere to be these days, so I can teach you the basics." He ducked his chin, reticence stealing through him. "And I'm afraid to say so, but you caused a bit of a stir yesterday when we arrived. I suspect you might be receiving more than a few owls in the coming days."

"I can imagine," she hummed, her eyes drifting to the ceiling. "I don't suppose I could stay with you tonight? I'm not crazy about the idea of being alone just now."

He smiled, just as the door opened again and the healers returned, organising several vials once more. "Of course. You can stay over as long as you like." Giving her hand another squeeze, he rose from his seat. "I'll wait for you."

"Okay," she breathed, that same weak smile overtaking her face. "I'll see you soon."

A long exhalation fell from his lips as he slipped from the room.


Draco had scarcely fallen asleep for more than twenty minutes all night. Each time he began to drift off, the continuous fear would dart through him that Hermione might not wake, but every time, she was in bed beside him, her breathing deep and even.

She had been given a potent cocktail of potions to ensure she slept well that night, and Draco might have taken a sleeping draught of his own if he hadn't been so paranoid.

He rose early, put the kettle on, donned a pair of designer frames, and settled in with two issues of the Prophet; he had left the flat in such a rush the morning before that he hadn't even allowed himself a glance at the cover. But he wasn't surprised to see a feature on her in the paper: Lauded War Hero Returns to London.

As expected, the article included mentions of him―along with a healthy dose of speculation―but it focused on her and her deeds during the war, as well as her subsequent vanishing from the wizarding world. Thankfully, the reporter hadn't known the full story about her memory loss, or why she had been at St Mungo's in the first place. He was glad to learn the healers had been discreet.

It would be one more thing for her to worry about, but Draco would do his best to help her navigate the swarm of attention that would surely come as a result.

Sipping his tea, he glanced up at the scratching of talons on the window, and he rose to let in yet another owl. He untied the scroll and added it to the pile that had already arrived since he woke up.

For the best, then, that she had decided to stay at his flat for a couple of days.

As the morning shifted on towards midday, Hermione finally rose from bed, her face a little sheepish when she emerged into the kitchen in her sleep clothes.

Draco glanced up from a briefing Potter had sent him to keep him updated on the goings on in the department. Warmth spread through him to see she looked infinitely better than she had in the hospital room. Most of the colour had returned to her face, and she looked well rested; some of the sparkle had even returned to her eyes as she slipped into the seat next to him at the table.

"Good morning," he teased, nudging her side. "How did you sleep?"

"Very well," she said with emphasis. "I don't remember waking up once."

"That's unsurprising, given all the potions you were on." He snickered, glancing up to find her staring at him with an odd look on her face, and he cocked a brow. "What is it?"

"Nothing," she rushed, her cheeks growing pink. "It's just―I like your glasses."

Draco hesitated, blinking at her, and smirked. "Thank you," he drawled, making a careful note of the fact. She glanced away with a bit of a titter, thinning her lips, and his grin widened. Taking pity on her, however, he gestured towards the stack of letters she'd received. "You've been discovered, and have received mail."

Hermione gaped at the pile, her mouth falling open in surprise, and she reached for one that was tied in an orange ribbon. "These are all letters for me?"

"Like I told you," Draco said, setting his report aside, "famous. Tea?" She looked a little overwhelmed, and he took the scroll from her hands. "You don't need to read them all right now―or ever, if you don't care to."

"Yes please, tea," she said quietly, reaching once more for the same scroll. "I want to read them; I just fear I won't know who any of them are from."

As Draco put the kettle on to brew a fresh pot of tea, he leaned against the counter and folded his arms. "Some of them you might have never known. The wizarding world is small, and people like to involve themselves in others' business. But I can help you out with all of that."

She slipped the ribbon from the first scroll, almost idly, as she watched him prepare the tea with several waves of his wand. Then she glanced down. "Who's Ron Weasley?"

Draco couldn't help the snort that broke free. "Yours and Potter's friend. As far as I know, you and him had a thing once that ended before our eighth year began."

"Oh." She fell silent, consternation knitting her brow as she read the letter. "It seems Harry's already informed him about my memory. So there's that, I suppose." Although she eyed the pile with uncertainty evident on her face, she reached for the next. "Neville Longbottom?"

"Another friend of yours." Draco fixed her a cup of tea and retook his seat. "A Gryffindor classmate from Hogwarts."

"Goodness," she breathed. "Do you suppose I should reply to all of these?"

Draco clicked his tongue and stared at her over his glasses before slipping them off. He carefully folded in the arms and set them aside as he measured his words. "You don't have to do anything you don't want to. You don't even have to read them―or you could ask Potter to reach out and explain the situation to a few close friends. But the rest of them? You don't owe them anything. The most important part of this scenario is for you to recover in peace."

She released a rattling breath and took a sip of her tea. "You've been so supportive."

His face softened as he held her gaze a moment longer. "I just can't be arsed over what everyone else thinks anymore. I can help you sort your friends from everyone else―because I can assure you there are some reporters looking to make a name for themselves off your story in that pile. Maybe even some with darker motives. Then you can decide whether you want to respond or not."

Although she had only just risen from sleep, her face already displayed the strain he had been hoping to negate; maybe he ought to have set the letters aside until she were better equipped to deal with them.

Hermione reached for his hand, threading their fingers, and he visibly watched as her face relaxed. "I don't want to worry about any of it just yet." She leaned in, her lips brushing his own, and breathed, "Thank you for looking out for me. I love you."

Draco swallowed. He would never grow used to those words from her lips, and Merlin willing, he would never stop hearing them. "I love you," he returned, his voice thick with emotion, "and you scared the shit out of me two days ago."

She kissed him again, deeper, and every part of him flared with awareness of her as his heart began to race.

"Fuck the letters," he breathed, meeting her eyes. "We're just spending the day together. Forget about all the rest of it."

Her eyes shone. "That sounds perfect."


Author's Note: Thanks as always for reading! Your kind comments always make my day, and I love to hear what you all think of the updates. I hope you're all doing well and keeping safe xo

Credit goes to my lovely team on this fic, Kyonomiko and FaeOrabel.

PS - can you believe this fic is 100k already?