Draco Malfoy had died and gone to heaven. Or so he thought. His pain was gone and a beautiful angel hovered over him. A beautiful angel with pale, smooth skin, pink lips, and wild brown curls. If only he could see her eyes. He knew he would see eternity in them. But he couldn't focus. Everything was blurry. Why couldn't he see her eyes?

Wait—why was he in heaven? Didn't he, if anything, deserve to be in the fiery pits of hell, chumming it up with the devil over a bottle of fire whisky?

And why couldn't he move? His arms and legs felt like lead weights.

What was going on!

He didn't have much more time to ponder this, for he lost consciousness soon after.

"How is he?" asked Harry quietly, entering the room.

Hermione looked up at Harry. She had been sitting in this hard chair beside Malfoy's bed for nearly twelve hours, watching and waiting. He would either live or die, and she wasn't sure which it was going to be. His injuries had been terrible. A broken nose, a dagger wound to his torso that had bled profusely, and several cracked ribs which may or may not have punctured his vital organs. She had done all she knew how to do, and Lupin had helped, but now, with his injuries all mended up magically, it was just a waiting game. Even though the bones and the flesh were healed, there may have been more damage beneath the surface.

And he had lost so much blood. His robes and the bedsheets had been soaked with it, not to mention Hermione's pajamas and bathrobe, which she had changed out of after the initial healing process was over. That had been hours ago. Now she was just sitting here beside the bed of the boy who had called her a mudblood so many times, trying to make sure he wouldn't weaken and die in his sleep.

Why was she doing this again?

"You mean, how am I Harry? Well, I'm quite tired, having been woken abruptly from my sleep in the middle of the night. And my eyes hurt from having been staring at this git for the past…how long has it been?"

Harry smiled tiredly. He walked over and patted Hermione on the back. "I know, Hermione. I'm sorry. But you've done a marvelous job. I mean…well, he's not twitching anymore, right?" he asked, glancing at Malfoy's still form.

"No, he stopped twitching a few hours ago. He opened his eyes for a little while and stirred around a bit…muttering something about angels or…something. I wasn't really listening."

They were quiet for a moment. "Is he going to make it, do you think?" asked Harry.

Hermione looked over at Malfoy. "If he doesn't, I'll be quite surprised. I've never known Malfoy to give up on anything. And, well…I find myself hoping he will live, actually."

Harry raised his eyebrows. "Why's that?"

"Well…" she grinned wickedly, "it would be quite fun having Malfoy under my control. I mean, he wouldn't be able to move for days. And if he called me a…you know…I could just magic his mouth shut."

Harry snorted. "Well, then, I hope he lives too. For your amusement."

This was how she explained it to Harry, but there were other reasons. She felt responsible for Malfoy, having been the one to heal him. She had never put her medical skills to the test in a real situation before, having learned everything from books, so she was extremely nervous about having done something wrong. Malfoy was like a test. If he lived, she got an Outstanding. If he died, she got a big fat Troll, and blood on her hands for letting someone die.

And yet, she knew those weren't the only reasons. There was something fundamental, some subconscious reason for her wanting Malfoy to live. It was something along the lines of Malfoy being a constant in her life. He had always been there, bullying, sneering, and smirking. She had gotten used to this over the past six years, and though she hated him for it, it was a sort of pillar in her life. Malfoy's death would represent the fact that anything could change, anyone could die, and nothing could stay the same forever. And that frightened Hermione.

"Are you ready for me to take over?" asked Harry.

"Merlin, yes," said Hermione, standing and stretching. "I don't remember the last time I was this tired. Just please call me if he wakes up. Or dies. Whichever…"

Harry laughed and sat down in the wooden chair next to Malfoy's bed. "I will. Go get some sleep, you look horrible."

She smiled. "And you look like a million galleons," she said sarcastically.

She walked out of the bedroom, half walking, half stumbling with sleepiness to her own room. Without even taking off her shoes, she dropped into her bed and closed her eyes. She felt half-dead.

This certainly is an odd situation, she thought. When she had initially glimpsed the beaten and bruised Malfoy, she assumed Harry had done the damage. But then he explained to her about Snape and Voldemort. It was a bit of a shock. Malfoy left Voldemort, she mused. Never thought I'd see the day.

And who knew what else was to come on this strange day? What might happen when Malfoy woke up…

Hermione fell asleep to images of Malfoy trying to strangle her, and having to pull out her wand to curse him. Her dreams were very similar.

When Draco woke up the next time, he had no illusions about being dead. He felt very much alive and very much in pain. He could also see correctly. And what he saw made him very, very angry: Harry Potter, sitting in a chair beside the unfamiliar bed he was lying in. Draco tried to sit up, but found he did not have the strength to move.

"Potter," he said, finding his voice to be not much more than a whisper. "Where the fuck am I? What have you done to me?"

"I didn't do anything to you," said Potter in a patient tone that set Malfoy's blood aflame. "Except save your life, that is. From Snape. Do you remember?"

Malfoy was confused for a second. And then it all came back to him. He tried to pat his body with his hands, remembering the injuries Snape had inflicted. He was too weak though, too tired. He could barely lift his arms. He felt a dull ache all over his chest and torso.

"Hermione healed you," said Potter.

Draco's eyes went wide. The mudblood, he thought.

"I didn't want to be fucking healed," he spat. "I wanted to die! Why did you bring me here!" he yelled, searching the old, ornately furnished room with his eyes. "Where the fuck am I?"

"You're in my house," said Potter.

"Why?" asked Malfoy. "What do you want, information on the Dark Lord? Too fucking bad, Scarhead. You should have just killed me!"

"How long has he been awake?" said a female voice from the doorway. Draco turned his head and saw Hermione Granger entering the room, her eyes still clouded with sleep, her hair disheveled.

"Just a minute or two," said Potter.

Draco felt very suddenly like a rat trapped in a cage. He was injured, barely able to move, stuck in this unfamiliar room with two people who, judging by their expressions, would very much like it if he just keeled over dead. He wanted out. He wanted unconsciousness or escape or anything other than being here right now. He was trapped. Trapped in this room, and trapped in his body, which was almost completely unresponsive. He thrashed about wildly, knowing he looked like a madman, but not caring in the slightest, trying to shake some sense into his muscles.

MOVE! he shouted at himself inwardly.

"Calm down!" yelled Granger.

He's a complete maniac, thought Hermione, watching him struggle around on the bed, obviously not getting anywhere. His face was bright red, his blond hair a wild mess. She knew he needed to calm down quickly, or his face might just explode. She grabbed Harry's arm and pulled him swiftly out the door, into the hallway.

"I need to get him to calm down," she said to Harry.

"I'll conk him over the head, will that work?" asked Harry with a tinge of anger to his voice, obviously not happy with Malfoy's actions.

"No, Harry, stop joking. I need you to leave the room for a while. He hates you more than anything, more than me even. He's threatened by you. I mean, how would you feel if you couldn't move and you didn't have a wand, and it was Malfoy standing over your bed?"

"Look, I don't care, Hermione. I'm not leaving you alone with him," he said.

"Harry, he's never going to calm down with you in the room," said Hermione.

"Oh, and I'm sure the sight of you is very soothing to his nerves. What if he tries to hurt you?" he said, jabbing his finger angrily towards the door.

"Harry. Please. He currently has the strength of a three-year-old girl. And you have his wand. There's really nothing he can do to me."

Harry yanked his hand through his hair, considering the situation. "Okay," he said. "I'll stay out here. But the second he starts acting up, even if he's just—"

"Harry, I can handle it! Now off with you!" she said, swatting at his arm. She opened the door and went back in the room, rolling her eyes as Harry tried to get a glimpse of Malfoy before she shut the door.

Malfoy was currently halfway on and halfway off the bed, breathing very hard, apparently attempting a grand escape. He looked up at Granger with a furious expression.

"Get out," he said. "Leave me the fuck alone."

She narrowed her eyes at him. "You need my help, Malfoy. We both know it. So stop trying to fight me and shut your wretched mouth."

She walked over to him, pushed his legs back onto the bed, and pulled the blankets over his shivering body. There was little Malfoy could do in protest.

"Don't touch me, you filthy mud—"

"DON'T YOU DARE SAY IT, MALFOY," she shouted, pointing her wand very, very close to his chest.

"Mudblood," he spat, his gray eyes blazing. "Going to kill me now? Mudblood?"

She smiled, (SHE SMILED!) brought the wand up to his mouth, and muttered a charm. Draco felt his mouth close of its own accord. His lips sealed shut. He couldn't open his mouth. And more importantly, since his nose was completely blocked off from whatever charm Granger had used to mend it, he couldn't breath. At all. He had never felt this sensation before, of not being able to draw air into his lungs. It was, he knew immediately, the worst feeling in the entire world. He tried to flail his arms and legs, tried to scratch at his mouth, but the charm stayed in place and he couldn't breath. A very tiny portion of his brain thought, this must be what it feels like to drown. But the larger portion of his brain, the only one he could hear at the moment, was screaming, BREATH!

Then everything went black.

"What the…" said Hermione, realizing something was wrong. Why did Malfoy pass out?

"Oh!" she shrieked, realizing his nasal passages had been blocked by her mending charm. He was suffocating. She practically screamed the counter-charm and waited for Malfoy to start breathing again. He didn't.

"Oh no, oh no…" she said, thinking frantically of what she should do.

Her mind was blank. For the first time in her life, Hermione Granger did not know the answer. What charm do you bloody use to get someone to start breathing again?

Nothing came to mind. Well, nothing except every single other charm she knew, all of them completely useless in this situation. And then a brilliant flash of memory popped before her eyes. The CPR classes she had been forced to take as a child, before she became a witch.

She dropped her wand, tilted Malfoy's head back, (or rather, shoved Malfoy's head back) opened his mouth, bent her head down, covered his mouth with hers, and breathed air into his lungs. All she could think of while doing this was the dementor's kiss and how it must feel very similar to giving Draco Malfoy CPR.

Gross, gross, gross, gross, gross, was the mantra in her head as she went about reviving him.

She pumped his chest with her hands, not caring how sore his newly healed ribs would be when he woke up. If he woke up! She bent her mouth to his again and breathed into his lungs.

She pulled back and frantically searched his face with her eyes. "Wake up, you stupid—"

Malfoy started coughing. Hermione nearly collapsed with relief. She wanted to cry. That was one of the most frightening experiences of her life.

Then Malfoy turned on his side, still coughing and gasping, and saw Hermione kneeling next to the bed, staring at him, breathing as if she had just run a marathon.

"You…crazy…bitch!" he half-screamed, half-whispered, still trying to catch his breath through coughing. "You…fucking…tried…to…" then he collapsed onto his back, his whole body racked with coughing.

Hermione grabbed her wand and conjured up a goblet of water.

"You need water," she said to Malfoy, who was still coughing. She held the goblet up to his mouth. He jerked his head away violently. She persisted, tilting the goblet so that water spilled onto his tightly pursed lips. He coughed again and his mouth opened involuntarily, allowing the water to flow in.

He seemed to change his mind about the water immediately upon tasting it, and grabbed the goblet from Hermione's shaking hands with the only bit of strength he had in him. He drank deeply from it for a few very long moments, feeling as if the life was flowing back into him. Then he let the goblet drop from his grip, spilling the rest of its contents on the bed.

Then he turned his attention back to Hermione. With the water, his voice had returned and his anger had strengthened. "You tried to kill me!" he shouted at her. "And then you…you…kissed me! What the fuck—"

Hermione's jaw dropped. "I did not kiss you, you slimy git! I was giving you CPR!"

He tried to sit up and back away from her, but managed very little movement altogether. "What the hell is that, some kind of disease!"

She almost laughed at his ignorance. He thought CPR was a disease. That would have been hilarious at another time. "Cardio-Pulmonary Resuscitation," she said in her best know-it-all voice. "I was saving your life. So you can thank me any time you want. But first, if you'll excuse me, I need to go disinfect my mouth."

With that, she stood up and left the room, slamming and locking the door behind her.

Draco Malfoy was in hell. He was hungry. He was thirsty. He had to use the little wizard's room. Most of his body was throbbing in pain. His throat was sore from coughing. He felt dirty. He didn't have his wand. And to top it all off, he could barely move his body.

Death seemed like a beautiful thing at the moment. He hoped he could piss off the mudblood enough for her to want to murder him. Then maybe she would. And he could die before having to ask her where the bathroom was, the most embarrassing, demeaning thing he could possibly think of at the moment. Yes. He wanted to die.

He had finally managed to hoist himself into a sitting position on the bed, with his back resting against the wall. It only took him about ten minutes of exhausting, concentrated effort. He had never been this weak in his entire life.

Now he was just waiting for Granger to come back, who had apparently gone to "disinfect her mouth." Draco only wished he could do the same. Waking up to the feeling of a mudblood's mouth on your own was possibly the worst feeling imaginable. Well, except for suffocation. That was awful. So, in a grand total of about five minutes, he had felt the two worst feelings in the world, one right after the other, both inflicted by the insufferable Hermione Granger.

Merlin, strike me down, he thought. Put me out of my misery.

He was completely at Granger's mercy and he knew it. The thought was unbearable.

The door creaked open and Draco twisted his head to the side to see who it was. Granger. Of course.

Hermione stepped into the room, closed the door, and walked slowly over to the wooden chair, staring at Malfoy all the while. He was sitting up in bed, glaring at her.

"How do you feel?" she asked, her face looking as though the words had a bad taste to them.

He didn't answer her. He just glared at her.

"I can't help you if you don't talk to me," she said after a while.

"Good," he said. "I'll keep my mouth shut and then maybe I'll die."

She stared at him curiously. "Why do you want to die so badly?"

He narrowed his eyes. "Don't try to have a conversation with me, mudblood. Leave me the fuck alone."

"Do you kiss your mother with that mouth?" asked Hermione without thinking.

Malfoy's eyes went wide and his nostrils flared. Hermione clapped a hand over her mouth; she had forgotten his parents were killed by Voldemort.

"I didn't…I—" she stammered.

"You forgot that my mother was murdered, did you? Good. Forget it again and wipe that look of pity off your face," he said, jerking his head to the side to stare at the wall.

Hermione felt horrible. Sort of. She really hadn't meant it that way. She wasn't jeering at his loss. Not intentionally, anyway. She didn't know what to do. Did she owe him an apology? The thought was repulsive.

He turned his head back to look at her. "Stop staring at me, mudblood."

She narrowed her eyes at him. No, I definitely do not owe him an apology, she thought.

"Stop calling me that," she ordered.

He smirked. "Mudblood," he said emphatically.

"What is wrong with you, Malfoy?" Hermione asked in disbelief. "You are lying in a bed, wandless, unable to move, in Harry Potter's house and you're calling me a…a…"

"Mudblood?" he offered.

She raised her wand. "You really do want to die, don't you," she said.

"Yes," he said, very seriously, in a way that made a chill go up Hermione's spine.

How could anyone want to die? thought Hermione. It was inconceivable to her. Could Malfoy's life really be so horrible, so bleak, that—

"I said stop with the pity, Granger," said Malfoy, noticing the change in her expression.

Hermione hardened her features again. She cleared her throat and stood. "Is there um…anything you need?" she asked, pushing his insults and rudeness to the back of her mind.

He raised his eyebrows. "Well…a wand would be nice. And freedom of movement. Could you get me some of that? And—"

"Stop it, Malfoy," she said. "I'm trying to be civil to you. Are you hungry, I meant. Are there any bodily functions you need to take care of?"

"I am not about to discuss my bodily functions with you, Granger," he said.

She sighed in exasperation. "I'm not trying to embarrass you, Malfoy. You're my patient."

"No, I'm your prisoner," he said angrily.

They stared at each other for a few seconds.

"Have you ever heard of a man named Tycho Brahe?" asked Hermione, breaking the silence.

"No," said Malfoy, narrowing his eyes suspiciously.

"Oh, really?" she asked. "Well, it's a wonderful tale. His death, that is. You see, he was a famous astronomer attending a banquet one night in Prague—this was in the 1600's—and he had to suddenly…relieve himself. But it was considered rude in those days to leave the table in the middle of a meal. So he held it in. And do you know what happened, Malfoy?"

Malfoy was silent, staring at her furiously.

"His bladder burst. And it took him eleven slow, painful days to die from it. You don't want to add that to your list of injuries, do you?"

"You're a bitch, Granger," said Malfoy. His cheeks were a faint pink, not quite a blush, but enough to make Hermione grin.

"You can either let me help you to the bathroom," she said, "or you can let Harry help you to the bathroom. Your choice."

Malfoy's cheeks grew pinker. Hermione could tell this was absolutely killing him. But she knew he would never, ever ask her for help, or admit that he needed help, so she took the initiative and walked over to the bed.

"Let's go, Malfoy," she said, pulling back the covers.