I need to get a handle on my schedule. I try to write a little every night but schoolwork is keeping me busy! I'm sorry and I love you for sticking with me!

Thank you for all the support in the reviews! I'm glad to know that you're enjoying what I've written, so THANK YOU for giving me a chance. I like to think my writing's already begun to improve from the first chapter to this one, and I hope to go back with what I've learned and do a little editing, but for now I'm focusing on moving forward!

As always, please review and let me know what you think. I love hearing what I can improve upon, and the complimentary ones fuel my writing :)

Love,

Cherry


When the cries reduced to whimpers, and the tears reduced to sniffles, Hermione unknotted her hands from Draco's shirt and scooted back until she was sitting across from him, her back pressed against the edge of her bed. She wiped her eyes with her sleeve and began swiping at the tears that stained her face and neck with the cuff of her cotton shirt, but Draco had already summoned a box of tissues from her bathroom and handed it to her, leaning back against the wall when she accepted the box. She immediately pulled three from it, drying her skin. They were silent as they sat there, Hermione still processing what she had just done to Ron, Draco trying to determine what the next step in all of this was. She had calmed - at least enough that she was willing to sit by herself instead of clinging to him like a lost child - but it was clear she was teetering on the edge of another breakdown. It was unsettling to Draco; such a state of imbalance was not common in his world (even the house elves knew to reserve their self inflicted punishment until they were back in their quarters, away from judgement and disgust) and if he had his way, Draco would've stood and retreated to his home in that moment, but with the appearance of Ron, Hermione had failed to finish the treatment of Draco's wound, and a Malfoy was nothing if not self-serving.

"You're better off without him." Draco noted firmly, hoping the sentiment would matter enough for Hermione to understand that she really was overreacting to the situation. "Nobody's better off with the Weasel, even the Weasel himself." Draco continued, trying to capitalise on what he hoped would come across as a quip rather than a dig. Hermione laughed in a way that sounded more like a wounded pygmy puff than someone genuinely finding something humorous. She wiped her nose with a clean tissue and looked down at her hands as they fiddled with the box.

"And you're not a biased source, or anything." She responded quietly, but Draco was willing to take it if it meant she didn't burst out crying again.

"Well clearly I'm biased but that doesn't mean I'm incorrect." Draco continued, adjusting his sitting position. "It was well known in school that Weasley's Quidditch career was based on nepotism and his grades inflated by your swotty eagerness and insatiable urge to educate others." Draco nodded his head toward Hermione. "Even his career is based off efforts put in largely by Potter and you." Draco didn't particularly enjoy admitting that the Golden Trio's successes were immense, but he would be blind not to recognise it. They were praised everywhere they went, everything they did was written about in the Daily Prophet, and even children who barely knew of either war idolised them because their parents told them stories of the brave heroes who saved wizarding Britain. There was even a holiday to celebrate the defeat of Voldemort, and the three responsible for making it happen were honoured with a ball. Bloody excessive, if you asked Draco. No one needed that much praise, and in Weasley's case, it had clearly gone to his head that he was part of such an important movement.

"He's not as bad as you make him out to be." Hermione argued weakly, hardly wanting to spend the bulk of her energy defending her once best friend. Would he let her call him that anymore? Would she still want to call him that? "It's insecurity that makes him seem less than. He's smart, and kind, and quite a good keeper when he's confident. His foibles don't define him."

"Please, Granger, don't make puppy eyes at the thought of Weasley while I'm here. I might be sick." Draco lamented, clutching a hand to his stomach. Hermione smiled at this - a genuine smile - and Draco felt a funny feeling tighten in his stomach. Pride, he considered, in having been the one to make Hermione smile so quickly after what had been a clearly devastating interaction. He didn't dwell on it, the reason he was still at her flat working its way to the front of his mind.

"Not that I don't thoroughly enjoy expressing my dislike for Weasley, but I fear that there's a jar of potion out there that hasn't been finished quite yet, and if I heard through your flimsy door clearly, it's rather important that I finish each and every treatment."

Hermione didn't speak at first, having realised that there had been not an ounce of privacy to the conversation she'd had with Ron, and for a moment, Draco wondered if he'd crossed some unspoken line. Had he seemed too narcissistic with his request? Had his effort at providing consolation come across as inauthentic because he needed something out of her?

"Right." Herimone finally answered, and with a nod and a final swipe of tissue against her face, she stood and left her bedroom, Draco following behind her cautiously. "If you'll return to the couch, I'll get cleaned up." Hermione said as she walked to the kitchen sink, washing her hands thoroughly. Draco did as he was told and uncovered his side once more, adjusting his position on the sofa when Hermione approached. She sat and stuck the jar of potion between her legs, glad to see there were only a few more scoops left. If she was lucky, she could finish within the half hour.

She worked in silence, Hermione refusing to discuss what had just happened, and Draco refusing to tread into such waters. He'd meant it when he'd said she was better off without him; Ron needed someone who was willing to entertain his ego and follow his lead while Hermione needed someone who would challenge her, someone who was her equal.

Not that Draco had ever given it much thought, of course.

When Hermione finished with the potion, she wiped her hands clean and glanced at Draco before picking up the jar and taking it to the sink. "I'll begin the next potion tomorrow should you promise not to stall me again." She spoke, rinsing the glass bottle of its remnants.

"I think I can manage that." Draco answered as he buttoned up his shirt. He picked up his robes from where they lay under him and shook them out before sliding his arms through the sleeves.

"Why did you postpone in the first place?" Hermione finally asked the question she had been aching to know the answer to since she'd received his first post. She couldn't imagine much that was more important than receiving treatment, let alone postponing it multiple days.

"Some things had to be done." Draco responded cryptically, and Hermione turned to look over her shoulder at him, though his body language didn't give off any answers. He was an expert at that, and the scrunching of Hermione's nose signalled to Draco that he'd done a proper job at putting her off. Good, he thought. They were getting too chummy for his likes anyway, all of this bonding and sharing was better off left in Hermione's bedroom locked away with whatever enjoyment he had gotten out of comforting Hermione in her time of need.

"You'll come to the manor next Tuesday then?" Draco continued, adjusting his collar. "Lest I avoid treatment again and actually die this time." He said it with humour in his voice, but it was clear from Hermione's expression that this was no joking matter.

"I apologise that you had to hear that." She spoke quietly, fiddling with the jar in her hands. "It's not that you're dying, it's just that I don't know enough the hex to say that you won't die without healing it. Not that that's all that much more reassuring, is it?" Hermione chewed her lip, knowing she was only making matters worse. She'd let a patient overhear an overly dramatic interpretation about his health, only to worry him further by stating that the hex would kill him to his face. After going completely mental and having a good cry into his shirt.

Merlin, she needed a smacking around. Or at least a long holiday.

"I assumed as much." Draco shrugged, though the sloppy motion looked formal on him. "That morning at St. Mungo's taught me that this hex wasn't something to be unconcerned with. Your hyperbolic statement didn't affect me."

"Well aren't you just the picture of calm." Hermione said dryly, wondering if his wording was a dig at her. It would've been a distinctly Malfoy characteristic, so she didn't rule it out as she slowly guided him toward the fireplace, encouraging his departure, as there was nothing more she needed in that moment than some time to process her thoughts. Alone.

"Oh!" Draco started, turning away from the fireplace to face Hermione. She sighed quickly before plastering on a smile, waiting for whatever was so important that he must tell her in that moment.

"Yes?" She asked tightly.

"Potter's Floo analyst is brilliant. He found the enchantment that was limiting my ability to adjust the approved list of Floo users, so you've been approved. No more Apparating to the gates and judging my gardening."

"That's...wonderful." Hermione nodded, her mood turning at the topic. "Does that mean they've been able to determine who used it that night?"

"Not yet, no." Draco calmed his enthusiasm, the conversation returning to territory he wasn't particularly interested in discussing. He hadn't talked to Thrump, as Hermione had suggested, he hadn't spoke to anyone about the thoughts that had been racing through his mind since his parents had died. They were mostly surrounding the desperate need to find the murderer and kill him, but then the memory of the six months he spent in Azkaban following the war were a reminder that if he wasn't careful, he would end up back in one of those cells. Then came the nightmarish reminders of what those six months had been like. Draco was lucky, he supposed, that the Dementors weren't under Ministry control during his stint. Not that he believed the Ministry really had them under control now, of course; the statement that the Dementors returned to guarding Azkaban only a year after their shift in loyalty to the Dark Lord seemed strange, given that his mother had been given double that sentence for her participation as a Death Eater, despite the fact that she bore no Mark. It hardly seemed fair, but since when had the Ministry acted in a way that was fair?

"They can track the log for the registered Floo with no issues, but the unregistered one is rather tricky, apparently." Draco finally answered, having realised Hermione was watching him silently, waiting for him to elaborate.

"Hm." Hermione furrowed her brow and folded her arms, trying to rack her brain for some pertinent piece of information. "I read once that dark magic carries traces of its user with it because it requires a bit of the witch or wizard's soul to perform." Hermione thought back to all the books she'd scoured for information about Horcuxes, and all the information she'd found about everything but. "Don't know if that applies to magic that isn't dark, of course. Using a Floo doesn't constitute any harm, but its being untraceable is inherently deceitful."

Draco mulled over the thought and knit his brow. It was an idea, one Quizenberry hadn't mentioned, which made it one worth investigating. He added it to his mental checklist of things to look into.

"Anyway, you should go home." Hermione suggested as they stood there, wishing to only be alone. "Eat something. It'll help with any discomfort due to the potion." She clarified when Draco gave her a dirty look. "No, really. It's trying to heal any flesh that's decaying, and that's done by replacing what's necrotising with healthy, new tissue. The more we treat it, the deeper it goes, which can cause nausea, so a proper solution would be to eat. Does Thrump have food for you?"

"Yes, Thrump has food for me." Draco smiled at her concern. It was Thrump's job, after all, to look after Draco and make sure he was well kept. Narcissa had asked it of the house elf just before she'd left for Azkaban, and even after her return, Thrump refused to take care of any other person until he made certain Draco had what he needed. Draco found it taxing, to be so heavily looked after when no one had done it for him since he had been five - at the demand of Lucius, who indicated that Draco was not to be softened by care and support - but Narcissa took comfort in knowing that someone was there to take care of her son in the event that he was ever left alone.

"Good." Hermione nodded succinctly. "Then let him feed you."

They stood there a moment, both silently trying to work out what came next. Hermione desperately needed to be by herself, she needed far more than just a moment to work out all that had happened with Ron that evening, but she also didn't want to turn Draco away. He seemed lonely, or maybe just alone, but whatever it was, she didn't want to force him away if he was trying to call out to her. Draco, on the other hand, had a similar yet opposite thought process. To him, Hermione seemed alone and perhaps in want of someone to support her through this trying period, but he knew he wasn't the one to do it. Maybe one of her friends would suffice, but not Draco. No, Draco was good for a moment of support when no one else was available, but he wasn't the person to go to if one needed help. He had too many of his own problems to deal with.

"You should eat too." Draco finally broke the silence. "A whole carton of ice cream is the prescribed dose for a breakup, is it not?" Draco wanted to kick himself when he saw Hermione visibly tense up. He had meant his comment as a joke, something to lighten whatever heavy mood was settling on them, but instead, he'd mucked it up by reminding her of what she was currently dealing with.

"It's not a breakup." Hermione stated, more for herself than Draco. "Just a moment to gather our thoughts."

"Right." Draco conceded. "Then perhaps something of more nutritional value than a vat of ice cream." Again, he awkwardly tried to improve the mood, and this time, Hermione accepted.

"Takeaway it is, then." She laughed hollowly, Draco joining in stiffly.

"Then I'll see you next Tuesday."

"Right." Hermione nodded, walking him to the fireplace. "And no cancelling on me this time." She pointed her finger at him and Draco nodded his chin once.

"I would never think of it. At least not twice." He amended when he saw her eyes narrow. "Goodnight, then."

"Night." Hermione responded, becoming all too aware that in only seconds, she would be alone. As Draco tossed a bit of Floo powder into the fireplace, she considered reaching out to stop him, realising that maybe she didn't want to be alone, but she held back and watched Draco step into the green flames, disappearing into the network.

Finally alone, Hermione lit her fireplace and sat in front of it, the warmth of the flames not seeming to reach her. It's a moment to gather our thoughts, she repeated in her head, it's not permanent. But what if it was? What if this betrayal of trust - of love and support - was enough to tear them apart for good? Did she want that? Did she want to live her life separately from Ron's forever? Scarily enough, the idea didn't petrify her; she merely thought of it as a feasible option. She might not have a choice if Ron continued to behave as a child. He might decide for the both of them that enough was enough. If that was the case, there would be nothing she could do to change anything, and like the possibility of breaking up forever, Hermione regarded the idea with little concern. If that was what Ronald chose, then that was what would happen. Nothing would change that. Still, deep down inside, she worried what all of this would do to their friendship. Her words to him, her thoughts about the situation now, would they ever get over it? If they didn't get back together, could they still be friends? Merlin, Hermione hoped so. Ron was one of her best friends, and Hermione couldn't bear the thought of having him cut her out of his life.

Hermione sighed shakily and ran a hand through her hair. When had things gotten so confusing? Only months ago, she would have said she and Ron were well enough and she wouldn't have given Draco Malfoy a second thought. Now - as she sat her on her rug, terribly alone - she mourned the likely loss of one of her dearest friends, yet her mind returned to the ex-Death Eater every so often. How his health was, where he was emotionally, and the newest thought: where had he gone that was so important he had cancelled their treatment? Hermione could tell Draco didn't want her to know where he'd been, that secrecy was nothing new to her, but like the curious creature she was, it made her want to know even more. She'd get him to answer, most likely in six months' time, the way he communicated, but it would be worth it, she could tell. They were more alike than she'd thought as a child, but maybe that was the product of growing up. Ron could learn a lesson from him, Hermione thought bitterly, wondering if things would be different had she seen him grow as they aged.

There was a tapping at the window and Hermione turned and looked, unable to see who it was in the darkness, so she stood and walked to the kitchen, opening the window above the sink. A familiar eagle owl popped inside, shaking itself of the raindrops that had hit it during its flight. Attached to its foot was a miniature basket and a note, which Hermione untied from the bird, who eagerly flew over to the fireplace, settling itself on the ground just before the mantle. It shuddered and adjusted its position until it had sunken into its body, warming itself lazily.

Opening the note first, Hermione read through Draco's note inquisitively.

Granger,

Had a funny feeling you weren't really going to eat tonight and since you so demanded my eating, I took the liberty of having Thrump prepare a second dish for you. As the brightest witch of our age, I'm sure you've already noticed that I've used a shrinking charm on the food, so you'll have to return it to its rightful state before consuming it. It shouldn't affect the flavor too much.

Draco Malfoy.

P.S. Spes, my owl, isn't particularly fond of travelling at night. If it isn't too much of a burden, please let her stay at your home until sunrise. She's quite independent and doesn't require much care.

Hermione refolded the note and set it to her right, taking the wand from her hip and engorged the basket to its normal size, opening the lid. Inside sat a jar of what appeared to be some type of squash soup, a roll of brown bread, and a lemon and herb chicken. She chuckled at the assortment and poured herself a glass of water, taking the basket, along with the proper silverware from her drawer, to her place by the fire. She sat next to Spes, who eyed her tiredly.

"Your owner knows me too well." She said, though the bird only stared at her in response. "Am I that predictable or is he just in tune with me?" She asked and again, Spes gave no sign of a response. Hermione tore a bit of chicken from the dish and placed it in front of Spes, who glanced at the meat with little enthusiasm.

"You know, I'm talking to a bloody owl, the least you could do is show some interest so I don't look completely barmy." She muttered, snatching up the chicken before Spes had time to change her mind. As the owl continued to watch Hermione silently, almost appearing to be waiting for something, Hermione exhaled deeply, placing the plate of chicken on the floor and transfigured her glass of water into a saucer, setting that down too. She stood and took the basket back to the kitchen, placing the jar of soup in the fridge.

"Goodnight, Spes." Hermione spoke to the bird that still refused to look at the food before her, and went into her bedroom, stripping herself of her jeans before crawling into bed, though she wasn't the least bit tired. Her thoughts raced and kept her awake for hours, and it was only the pattering of rain against the glass of her window that finally put her to sleep.


"He's got it all twisted around, Hermione!" Harry argued. "If you two were on the same page, I'd have no issues letting it work itself out, but how will you even get to a point where you can if he's under the impression you're shagging Malfoy?"

Hermione's words caught in her throat and she pointed sharply at Harry. "Harry, even if that were the case, never put it into words." She shook her head much like Molly Weasley did she was disappointed in one of her children. It made Harry grin.