Author's Note: This story was written for the Sounds Like Dramione comp over at Dramione Fanfiction Forum on Facebook. My lovely alpha and beta: mcal & Lunamionny are incredible and deserve infinite love for all their support and encouragement as I worked my way through this story. This is a short story - there are two chapters, entirely written. :) The title of this story was taken from the John Green Novel The Fault in Our Stars.

"There's been times, I'm so confused
All my roads, They lead to you
I just can't turn and walk away
It's hard to say what it is I see in you
Wonder if I'll always be with you
But words can't say, And I can't do
Enough to prove,
It's all for you"

All For You - Sister Hazel

June 1999

Saying goodbye felt good.

Hermione's shoulders, typically so tense and knotted from the stress of marks and homework, relaxed as she brought a goblet of elfish wine to her lips. Scanning the crowd, all decorated in various house colors, she watched her friends—and those who'd surprisingly become acquaintances—as they mingled and enjoyed their last night at Hogwarts. Whisky, butterbeer and some sort of pixie dust-enhanced wine passed from person to person, and as the night went on, many of her housemates coupled up or went to bed, eagerly awaiting the next chapter of their lives.

In two weeks time, Hermione would be in France on a mini-holiday with her parents, and then she was off to St. Mungo's as a trainee healer. One day, she'd be the top healer for magical beings, but for now, she was content simply to learn and enjoy the adventure. The past year had taught her that life rarely progressed in the straight line she'd always imagined, and there were surprises around every corner. This was in evidence right at that moment, for instance, as Draco Malfoy slid onto the crimson sofa beside her as if they were old, familiar friends.

Tipping the lip of his bottle in her direction, a teasing smile curled around the corner of Draco's lips. "Lovely to see you without a stick up your arse, Granger."

"How ever did you manage to loosen Astoria's hold long enough to join us, Malfoy?" Hermione raised her brows, her own smile lifting as she sipped from her goblet.

A shadow passed through his eyes, causing her stomach to flip. "Weasley seems rather taken with Pansy—that doesn't bother you?"

She shrugged. "Why would it?"

A long beat of silence sat heavily between them until Draco set his drink down on the nearest table and stood up in one, fluid movement. Hermione took a moment to run her eyes over him, from his loosely knotted tie to the way his sleeves were bunched up around his elbows; he seemed so casual, different to how she'd normally seen him in classes. But some things never changed: the blond hair hanging over his ears, his impeccable posture, and his razor sharp gaze snagging on hers. Merlin, before her eighth year, he'd never been an attractive wizard to her, but this year had changed their dynamic and, indeed, her opinion of Draco dramatically.

He smiled down at her and held out a hand—the emerald in his signet ring caught her eye. Still so obliged to his family, clearly, but not quite the boy she'd known before the war.

Hermione took his hand, rose to her feet and chewed on the corner of her lip as he dragged her away from the party and through the door that opened into a dimly lit corridor. "Where are we—"

Draco's mouth was on hers as he pressed her back against the cold stone wall. Fingers traced her every curve before resting at her throat and caressing the sensitive skin just beneath her jaw. His tongue swept inside her mouth, eliciting a desperate moan from the back of her throat. Kissing Draco Malfoy was always a surprise, no matter how often they'd found themselves panting in abandoned closets the past few months. Something about the way he touched her lit a fire in her soul; he made her feel alive in a way she'd never known before.

"Can we find a bed?" Lips traveled down her jaw, placing open-mouthed kisses where her pulse raced and her skin flushed. "One last time before we go to the Platform tomorrow?"

"We agreed no more after last night," Hermione's voice was husky, and she wasn't entirely sure why she was arguing; it always went this way. They'd say it was the last time, but they always found themselves in bed with one another soon after.

"That never stopped us before," he said, tilting his hips into hers and teasing her with his growing erection. "Come on, Granger. It might be the last time we see each other and there are some things I'd like to try doing with that delicious little body of yours."

She twined their fingers together and led Draco down the corridor to an abandoned classroom, knowing that, in just twenty-four hours' time, they'd likely never see one another again.

She'd have to make tonight count.

July 1999

Parisian summer nights were perfect.

Hermione sat with her legs crossed, sipping a delicious Santenay Rouge and enjoying the spicy berry taste as she watched the nightlife roar around the outdoor courtyard of a local bar. It was the last day of her holiday before the beginning of her training with St. Mungo's, and her parents had left that morning for an extended trip to Tunisia, leaving Hermione alone on her final night abroad. Or, rather, she assumed she'd be alone; that was, until a certain tall, handsome face from her past slid into a seat beside her with a long-stemmed glass of dark, red wine.

"Granger." Draco Malfoy tipped his chin in greeting, his eyes sparkling as they flickered over her stunned face. "Fancy seeing you in Paris, of all places."

Hermione clamped her lips closed and narrowed her eyes as they traveled over his long, relaxed body, silently approving of the tight, grey trousers, the form-fitting shirt, and light stubble lining his sharp jaw. She raised her wine glass in salute and took a sip. "Malfoy," she said in her best perfunctory tone. "Wandering so far from your chateau, and among the densest population of Muggles in France; one might think you were looking for me."

A feral-looking smile inched slowly up his face. He leaned closer to her, wine forgotten on the table. "And if I was?"

The balmy heat of Paris was stifling when combined with the heat radiating from Draco's body, and caused a crimson flush to crawl up her chest. Despite the fire he seemed to ignite between them, Hermione's bare arms broke out in goosebumps. A hand rested on her knee where her summer dress had ridden up and exposed her thigh. He was impossibly close, breath fanning against her cheek as she turned her face to capture his gaze.

"If you were following me," she said slowly, enunciating each syllable to buy herself time to settle her tumultuous insides, "I'd say it's a good job you found me. I was just about to leave."

That familiar dark shadow passed through his silver stare and Hermione repressed a shiver. "Were you now? Fancy that—I nearly gave up finding you, and here we are."

"Here we are," she echoed, eyes dipping to the bow of his lips as they moved closer to hers. "I should then… leave, that is."

" We should." Draco's hand slid from her knee to mid-thigh, the silkiness of his fingers sending heat to pool in her abdomen. Breath hot in her ear, he whispered as his fingers found the edge of her knickers, "Come back to mine."

Caressing Hermione's cheek with the tip of his nose, Draco languidly drew a line with it from her ear to her lips. Hovering, seemingly waiting for her consent, which she was eager to give as she closed the gap and felt the satiny pillow of his bottom lip envelop hers. She pulled back slightly and snapped her eyes to his. "I don't know if it's a good idea."

"I've heard that before." A husky laugh followed his words and his fingers tightened over her thigh. "Usually preceding a loud—quite wild—orgasm."

She remembered. Hot, desperate sex at Hogwarts. The fear of being caught, the heightened arousal as voices carried and feet scurried past their hiding place. Draco's hand over her mouth to hush her cries as he drove into her from behind. Tingles shot straight to her core and she groaned, exasperated by her lack of willpower when it came to Draco Malfoy.

"There's an Apparation Point around the corner." Hermione placed her hand over the top of his before it could delve into her knickers. "The last time, Draco—I mean it this time."

"The last time," he agreed, curling his fingers around hers.

August 1999

The most frustrating aspect of training to be a healer was the waiting.

Hermione waited constantly. For orders, for patients, for more information, for healing, for death. There wasn't a moment during her first two weeks at St. Mungo's that she wasn't waiting for something and it was maddening.

On a boring Monday morning, Hermione followed Healer Strout into the Janus Thickey Ward and used a charmed, floating quill to record the patient updates on a hovering piece of parchment paper. Strout, a middle-aged woman with a severe bun and thick hips, moved quickly between the beds, checking vitals and reciting them for Hermione to copy. She was a great instructor who paused frequently to ask Hermione questions, to gauge her understanding, and to ensure that, despite the fast pace and constant stream of information, Hermione was learning whilst they cared for each patient.

Overall, she loved her work at St. Mungo's already, and had a preference for the Janus Thickey Ward and permanent injury. It presented a challenge, and Hermione often found herself daydreaming over finding cures for ails that landed witches and wizards in long-term care. As they moved to check vitals for Frank and Alice Longbottom, a knot formed in Hermione's throat and tears sprang to her eyes.

"You're friends with their son, is that right?" Healer Strout's strict face softened around the eyes as she assessed Hermione with a flick of her gaze. "I'm afraid to say that there's nothing for them now. The least we can do is keep them comfortable."

Her voice trembled only slightly as the quill she controlled with her magic wavered. "I understand. It's just…is anyone actively seeking a cure for their injuries?"

Silence followed, so heavy Hermione thought she'd be told off for her bold question, but then Healer Strout sighed and tucked a thick bed sheet under Alice's chin. "Their wounds are deep, and in areas of the brain where no healer has accessed invasively before. I understand you want to help your friend, but it would do more harm than good to get his hopes up. Do you understand?"

"Yes, I understand." While Hermione nodded her head, a vague image of reuniting Neville with his cured parents flitted through her mind. She understood perfectly that the older staff lacked the imagination necessary to cure ailments which landed magical beings in the long-term ward. It was one of many things on her long list of changes she would seek to make after receiving her healer license.

Just as Hermione and Healer Strout moved onward to the bed she was dreading—his beautiful, straw-colored hair and wide, child-like eyes watching their approach—a shimmering orb zoomed through the ward and came to an abrupt stop in front of them. The familiar voice of Augustus Pye, gravelly and friendly, spoke from the orb.

" Healer Strout, you're needed in the Dai Llewellyn Ward urgently. Healer Strout, you're needed in the Dai Llewellyn Ward urgently."

The orb vanished from sight and it took only a moment for the pair to rush from one ward to the other; their heavy breaths the only sound between them.

When they arrived in the Dai Llewellyn Ward, Hermione froze. Lying in the nearest bed, paler than she'd ever seen him, sweaty and shaking, was Draco Malfoy. He groaned as his hand wound around his stomach, body lurching as he heaved into a bedside bucket.

Strout was all business as she approached, hand outstretched to begin assessing her patient. "Trainee Granger, come, come—an excellent learning experience we have here. What's happened, Healer Pye? Doxie poisoning, by the looks of it."

"Oh yes, yes," Pye answered with excitement dancing through his words. "Nasty bit of poisoning, if I do say so myself. The poor boy hasn't been able to stop vomiting since he was brought in. And his pallor has only grown paler the longer he lies there. Won't tell us anything, though. Just keeps gasping and mumbling about 'bloody bastards.'"

"Aye, they are. Nasty little creatures, doxies." Strout began prodding Draco with her wand. Various spells indicated several things: dehydration, low blood pressure, stomach cramps, and a puncture wound on his right buttock. The healer tsked, swiping away the smokey diagnostics. "Pureblood, too. You'd think he'd know the dangers of approaching doxies."

Hermione stared, transfixed at the way Draco's body convulsed as he vomited. "Draco?" she whispered, reaching for his hand before having it swatted away as he recoiled from her touch. "What happened to you? You know better than to get close to doxies."

Draco panted, clutching a hand around the basin he was being sick in. "Bloody Auror boot camp," he hissed as if every word was painful. "They put the doxies in my bunk."

Gasping, Hermione covered her mouth with her fingers. "Someone did this to you on purpose? Who would do this?"

His words were drowned out by the sound of his retching, but it sounded a lot like "no fucking clue."

"What do we do?" Hermione turned towards her mentor, panic clawing at her throat as she watched Draco's body twitch. "He's… he's not going to die , is he?"

A strangled noise left Draco's throat as Strout answered. "He'll be just fine. We've got an antidote for doxy venom, and Mister Malfoy should be on his way once we're able to get him hydrated again."

Relief flooded Hermione, her shoulders loosening and breath slowing. Draco, on the other hand, only seemed more agitated. "Get the bloody antidote then!"

Strout summoned a small vial filled with deep purple liquid and held it out to Draco. "You must drink it all. The trick is keeping it all down. Foul tasting, but should work immediately if you don't vomit it back up." As Draco drank—and pulled a deeply disgusted face—Strout turned to Hermione with a small smile. "I trust you can start his hydration spells. The Aurors will want him back post haste and I'd like to continue with my evaluations. You can catch up when he's discharged."

Something to do, all on her own! It filled Hermione's chest with pride to know that Healer Strout believed her capable of performing healing magic so soon and all on her own. Hermione nodded eagerly. "Oh yes, Healer Strout, no problem at all. I'll have Mister Malfoy hydrated and on his way in no time."

"I trust you'll do well." Strout turned to leave, but before exiting the room she called back to Hermione. "Do ensure you get his wound clean before you release him. Infection is the number one complication from doxy poisoning, after all."

And then they were left alone, with Healer Pye back in his office and Healer Strout on her way back to the Janus Thickey Ward. The color was returning to Draco's face and he'd stopped vomiting, even having the presence of mind to vanish the sick from his bedside basin. Hermione pulled her wand from a loop in her healer robes and began to cast the charms needed to hydrate Draco.

"Being a healer suits you, Granger." Draco's voice was strained, but he appeared much healthier with that teasing smile on his face. "Wouldn't mind having you nurse me back to health any time."

She laughed, shaking her head as she checked his hydration levels. "You've made friends with the Auror trainees, I see. Can't say I'm surprised to find you here after only a fortnight of training."

Draco rested back against the bed and placed his hands behind his head as he crossed his ankles. "Apparently, I've a lot to make up for—past transgressions and all that rubbish. I bet it was that prat Zacharias Smith; he's been a complete arse since training started."

"But he's a Hufflepuff," Hermione said, the disbelief clear in her tone. "He wouldn't do such a thing. Are you sure it wasn't Harry or Ron? They, er…never liked you very much."

Draco's sodden, pale hair fell into his eyes as he shook his head. "Potter's the one who transported me here. Swore the whole time, apologized for whoever did it. Weasley—well, he's got the hots for Pansy, so I don't think he'd lay a finger on her best mate. It's got to be that Smith fellow."

Hermione offered a noncommittal hum, not entirely convinced of Zacharias' guilt. Surely it was someone else? A few moments of silence passed in which Hermione watched Draco's blood pressure rise and his hydration improve. There was only one thing left and heat pooled in her cheeks as she realized what it was she'd have to do.

Biting into her lip, Hermione avoided eye contact as she mumbled. "I'm going to need to see the bite."

"I forgot how much I love it when you blush." His lips twitched and, if her flaming cheeks were anything to go by, she turned redder still. "You've looked at my arse before. Bit it once yourself, if I recall."

"I did not!" Hermione laughed, but at the arch of Draco's eyebrow, she faltered. "Okay, maybe a little bit. It's a nice arse, alright."

"Damn right it is," Draco said, a genuine smile slipping across his cheeks as he pushed himself onto his side to allow Hermione access to said nice arse. "Fucking hurts, so don't try to bite it now."

Rolling her eyes even though he couldn't see her face, Hermione reached out and tugged his trousers and boxers down, revealing an angry red puncture at the top of his right buttock. "Merlin, this is bad. Was it an adult doxy?"

"Yes—ouch, fuck, Granger that hurts." Draco grunted as Hermione prodded her wand around the wound.

"Sorry." She siphoned the poison from the bite mark, watching intently as the wound changed from crimson to yellow. Pulling his trousers up again, Hermione put space between them and busied herself with logging his care for hospital records. "There; your arse is back to its former glory. I'll leave you with some healing paste to apply and you should be good to go once the hydration charm is finished. About an hour."

"Brilliant. Thanks." She turned from him, ready to pursue Healer Strout and complete another day's training in the Janus Thickey Ward, when Draco's hand closed around her wrist. "I think I might need to be nursed back to health a little more," he whispered, his hard chest pressed firmly against her back. His fingers traveled her curves slowly and Hermione melted back against him. "Care to assist, Granger?"

"Draco…" Sighing, Hermione turned to face him. "This can't happen again—as good as it was, we—" Draco stepped towards her, hands moving to her hips, but she took a step backwards and put her hand to his chest. "It won't work between us, Draco. We both have to focus on our training, you have a family obligation to marry a Pureblood witch, and we're too young to get caught up in something so serious. We can't keep—"

His hand held hers firmly over his chest, eyes flickering over her face before finally settling on her eyes. "It doesn't have to be serious," he said, drawing closer again, making it impossible for Hermione to clear her mind from his heady presence. "A little sex between friends. Stress relief."

"We're not friends."

"We are, actually."

She closed her eyes, willing herself to walk away. "Draco…"

"Granger." His lips hovered over her mouth, feet planted on either side of hers. "One more time, at least."

Slipping her hand from beneath his, Hermione found the strength to pull away. Only just. "You'll be fine to leave in an hour. I'll see you around, Draco."

As her heels clicked on the stone floor, she heard the smile in Draco's voice as he said, "See you around, Granger."

September 1999

There just wasn't enough time in the day.

When Hermione wasn't pulling an eighteen hour shift at St. Mungo's, she was researching incurable, magical maladies. It stole her every free moment, the obsessive need to cure the hopeless.

She was halfway through a research session on the fifth floor of the hospital, eyes bruised and bloodshot, as she flipped through page after page of heavy, leather bound tomes. Her shift would start in less than an hour which gave her little time to eat and change into her proper robes. Thank Merlin for charms to pin back her hair, which alone could easily take a quarter of an hour.

As she closed up the books and tidied her workspace, a pink, shimmering orb zoomed into the stacks and halted just shy of her face.

"Trainee Granger to the Janus Thickey Ward. Trainee Granger to the Janus Thickey Ward."

Hermione jumped and rushed from the fifth floor, into the lift, and down to the fourth floor, which housed the Janus Thickey Ward. She applied a simple cleaning spell to her day-old robes, tossed her hair back into a messy bun, and hoped the lunch trolley would arrive early today. When she stumbled through the double doors, bursting through them loudly and out of breath, Hermione found Healer Strout standing with perfect posture by a bed, in which lay a prone body with familiar platinum hair and Trainee Auror robes.

"Draco?" Hermione took long, fast steps to his bedside. "What happened? Is he alright?"

"Mister Malfoy seems to have been on the bad end of an unknown spell," Healer Strout said, tutting as she ran diagnostics over the unconscious body. "Trainee Auror Potter arrived here with him not half an hour ago. His body appears fine; it's the mind that's showing cause for concern."

"His mind?" Hermione watched the smokey diagnostics twist and tangle around themselves as they floated over Draco's head. Instinctively, she whipped her head around, looking for Harry so he could explain exactly what happened; he was nowhere to be found. "Where's Harry? Did no one stay with Draco?"

Healer Strout sighed, placing both hands on her hips before addressing Hermione. Her lips pursed and a notch formed between her brows. "Mister Potter was required to attend interrogation regarding Mister Malfoy's condition. But our focus isn't on the Aurors and their job, Trainee Granger. What can you tell me about the diagnostics over Mister Malfoy's brain?"

"They're incomplete," she whispered, pointing to a large hole appearing in his hippocampus. Outlining the gaping area with her finger, Hermione's breath caught as the realization dawned on her. "The blue lights, those are the areas of his brain that are unaffected, but the portion that's damaged, that's the hippocampus. It means…"

She trailed off, sliding her eyes down to Draco's face. He appeared peaceful, his eyelashes dusting his cheekbones, his lips barely open as breath left him in steady, even beats.

"It means the curse that hit Mister Malfoy has affected his memories," Healer Strout supplemented Hermione's silence. She swished her wand, removing the smokey diagnostics of Draco's brain from the air, and turned to Hermione. "Without knowing the exact spell used, there's little hope of restoring the memories, even if Mister Malfoy awakes we may never know the extent of the long term damage he'll face."

"I'm sorry— if he awakes?" Dread settled like a heavy weight in her stomach; her eyes were wide, shoulders strict, as fear coursed the length of her spine and sent chills cascading along her nerves. Their previous interaction couldn't be the last. "He's got to wake up—he will wake up," she demanded, more to Draco than to her mentor.

"Yes, well, there's not much we can do for him until then." It was as if Strout didn't realize how personal this particular case was to Hermione. Her tone was nearly one of boredom. "You'll monitor him closely and if he wakes up, alert me at once."

Hermione stared at her, biting the inside of her cheek to keep her tone in check. "But—can't I just add an alarm charm to his bedside, so when he wakes up we'll both know?"

" If he awakes, someone will need to be at his side. It won't be pretty." Healer Strout gestured towards Gilderoy Lockhart at the far corner of the ward. "Believe me, I've seen the horrors of memory magic, and being left alone will do far more damage to him, I'm afraid."

Strout left Hermione alone with Draco and her spiraling thoughts.

It wasn't possible; Draco had just been starting afresh, with a new lease on life—this couldn't be the end for him, surely. The amends he'd been making were hard, some of the apologies themselves traumatic, and his decision to dedicate his life to catching Dark Wizards was only one of the many forms of penance he'd offered. Hermione was furious on his behalf, furious that everything he'd done could be destroyed—for what? And by whom? Perhaps Draco had been right about the doxy bite; one of his partners at the Academy may have done this. She'd have to speak with Harry as soon as she could get away from the ward long enough to send an owl.

Hermione sat at his bedside for hours. Every so often, she'd perform a diagnostic to check if anything had changed. It hadn't. Night settled over the hospital, torchlight being the only source of light once the sun had set. And still, Hermione stayed with Draco. Once, she'd reached for his hand only to let it go upon remembering the last conversation they'd had, when she'd turned him away rather than enjoy one more night with him.

She spent the night second guessing herself. The last thing she'd said to him was that she'd 'see him around'. Draco had touched her so intimately just before those words, and now she might never know that touch again. She hadn't ever dreamed she would, but that had been her choice before—now, it was as if something had stolen that possibility from her and it caused an ache deep in her chest.

It had been nearly forty-eight hours since she'd last slept when the sun rose again and filled the ward with its buttery light. Hermione yawned, placing a hand over her mouth to stifle the noise, and then began checking Draco's vitals and diagnostics for any change. As she waved her wand over his face to cast the spell, long, slender fingers curled around her wrist and she snapped her eyes to Draco's face.

He stared back at her, his expression blank for only a moment before it morphed into a sneer. "What are you doing?"

A breath of relief poured from Hermione's lungs and she grinned so wide it hurt the back of her head where her hair was pinned in a messy knot. "Oh, thank Merlin, you're awake!"

Draco blinked slowly, shoving her hand away and removing his grip slowly from around her wrist. "Clever, Granger. Was it my open eyes that gave me away, or perhaps you spend every night standing over my bed as I sleep, like a proper stalker?"

"What?" Hermione laughed, waving her wand over his face but unable to cast the charm before Draco swatted the tip of it away. "Of course I don't stand over your bed every night. Except last night, but that's because—"

"Tell me, then," he interrupted her, snarling around each syllable. "How have you managed to get past the entrance? It's my understanding that only the Heads can access all of the dorms, and Perfect Prissy Hermione Granger wasn't made Head Girl this year, was she?"

"Draco, what—" It dawned on Hermione then, the pieces clicking into place. "You think we're at Hogwarts for NEWTs?"

"I'm hardly here for the pleasant company, am I?" Rolling his eyes, Draco pushed himself up to rest on his elbows. "If you're not going to make yourself useful in my bed, I'd ask you to leave. Slytherin play Gryffindor today and I'd rather not miss Weaslebee falling off his broom."

Slytherin and Gryffindor's only match of their eighth year had been early in the year. Hermione's eyes grew round as she stared down at Draco. "Draco, what's the date today?"

"Is that what you're here for?" He laughed, but no humor decorated the sound. In fact, he was downright mocking. "Merlin, and here I was thinking you'd have one of those ridiculous bedside calendars with fluffy cats on it that would tell you the date. Bet you wake up every morning checking off another beautiful day."

Her cheeks flushed; of course she had a calendar, but it wasn't of cats , it was of kneazles. And she checked off each day, but that was just common sense. "I'm not here to ask you what day it is, but I do need to know what day you think it is."

"Sunday, the eighteenth," he said, tone filled with annoyance and a sharp sigh. "Please leave now, as I don't wear clothes to bed and would prefer you not see me naked."

"It's actually Tuesday, the tenth. Of September." Hermione informed him carefully, monitoring his face for its predictable confusion. His brows knitted together and lips tugged down. "Nineteen ninety nine."

"It's what ?" Incredulous, as if he thought her mad, Draco whipped his head around. His eyes widened as he took in his surroundings. He moved quickly, clambering to get out of the bed, but Hermione gently pushed him back down as he struggled against her. "What are you playing at, Granger? Think you're having a laugh? Change my room back and get the fuck out."

Hermione knew she ought to send a message to Healer Strout, but she tried to placate Draco first as he looked as if he were going to bolt from the bed at any second. "I can't do that," she said soothingly, about to reach for him but thinking better of it. "You've had a bit of a—an accident, I'm afraid. You're in the Janus Thickey Ward at St Mungo's Hospital. It's September the tenth, of ninety nine. You're a trainee at the Auror Academy, the boot camp program and—"

Draco's laugh echoed through the ward, causing other patients within it to join in. Gilderoy Lockhart chuckled and even from a distance Hermione heard him mumble about a good-natured crowd of admirers. As the laughter faded, Draco's gaze found hers; he was livid, skin pulled tight at the corners of his eyes and his lips in a pale, thin line. "Think you're witty, do you? No doubt this is some elaborate Gryffindor prank. Let's all fuck with Malfoy and make him believe he's lost his mind. Give it a rest, Granger, and go back to reading A History of Magic for the twelfth time."

"I'm not joking." Hermione pulled the chair she'd been sitting in all night closer to Draco's bed and perched herself on it. "We finished our NEWTs at the end of June and then we saw one another in Paris not too long afterwards. You don't remember any of that?"

Raking a hand through his hair, Draco let a deep breath out through his lips. He shook his head and averted his gaze down to where his legs were covered by a thick, plain hospital sheet. "I'm in hospital and, what, I have no memory of the last—year—of my life?"

Hermione bit her bottom lip, closed her eyes and forced the words out. "It appears so. Would you allow me to ask you some questions to assess your memory?"

Waving her on, Draco rested back against the bed and squeezed his eyes shut. "Get on with it then."

"Okay." Hermione summoned her parchment and enchanted quill, charming it to take notes as she assessed him. "What is your full name?"

His eyes snapped open, and the look he gave her was absolute annoyance. "Draco Lucius Malfoy."

"Very good. And what's the last thing you remember before waking up?"

"Blaise invited Loony Lovegood to the common room, and she brought some sort of pixie dust-enhanced wine." His body shuddered, lips tugging down before he continued. "I must have had too much to drink, because the next thing I remember is waking up to your face—and that ridiculous hair—hovering over me."

Hermione snorted; she knew how he really felt about her hair. Draco loved to tangle his fingers in the roots, loved to tug at the curls whilst he begged her to scratch her nails down his back. Trying to stifle the inappropriate thoughts, Hermione cleared her throat. "Right. And you remember nothing about...abandoned broom closets or warm Paris nights?"

His eyebrows shot up. "Are you propositioning me, Granger? Have to say, I have a bit of a hangover, but give me some time and—"

"I'm not propositioning you." Leaning forward, she ran her eyes down the length of him. "Are you in any pain?"

"Yes," he said, entirely deadpan.

She jumped up, wand drawn. "Where?"

"Everywhere, because you won't stop bloody talking." Draco flung his head back onto the pillows and squeezed his eyes shut. Hermione clicked her tongue against her cheek and settled back against her chair again.

He was such a twat.

It only got worse.

Healer Strout was livid that Hermione had waited over an hour before alerting her to Draco returning to consciousness. She sent Hermione home to sleep, because clearly the lack of sleep had caused her to become careless. It was a fitful sleep and when she returned to St. Mungo's, she felt worse than when she'd left. So many thoughts plagued her; the fact that Draco couldn't remember the best of himself, that he had no recollection of their trysts or their fondness for one another, hurt on a level Hermione wouldn't ever have expected.

When she entered the ward, Draco was sitting in his bed reading Witch Weekly and flipping through the pages as if he wasn't taking in any information at all.

"These are all old issues with his face on the cover," he said, tossing the magazine to the side as she approached. "Annoying, too. Offered to autograph it for me for five galleons."

Hermione chuckled, tucking a flyaway curl behind her ear as she sat down at his bedside. "Lockhart is harmless. A little egotistical, but nothing more than irritating over long periods of time."

"You still fancy him, don't you?" His voice was teasing, a far cry from the snarl it had been. She shook her head, but he continued on. "I remember in second year, all the girls were falling over themselves to talk to him."

"It was only a crush," Hermione said, cheeks heating up under his gaze. "Besides, don't think that the girls didn't watch how all the boys fawned over the Beauxbaton girls in fourth year."

"They were fit." Draco smiled fondly, gazing off to some far off place Hermione couldn't see. She smacked him on the thigh with her hand, but he caught it as she pulled away. "You were fit that year, too. At the Yule Ball, with that dress. I nearly hexed Krum that night."

She remembered Draco telling her the story once before, locked in a broom closet at Hogwarts just after the Christmas holiday. It was heartwarming then, and had led to their first kiss and, eventually, to their first night together. The blush at her cheeks deepened and she looked down to stare at their joined hands.

"I've told you this before, haven't I?" Draco asked, tugging on her hand and pulling her attention back to him. "What happened the last time I told you about the night of the Yule Ball?"

Unwittingly, tears sprang to her eyes; it was ridiculous, to feel pain over Draco not remembering the night that he'd held her face gently in his hand and pressed his lips to hers so tentatively. Shaking her head, Hermione sniffed back her tears and tried to yank her hand from his. He didn't let go.

"Granger." That hushed tone that had coaxed her so long ago busted the dam of her emotions, and stray tears leaked from her eyes. "Fuck. Did I—I didn't—whatever I did, I didn't mean to hurt you. I vowed to ignore you during our last year."

"You didn't." Hermione's throat was raw, and she swallowed around a dry knot. "You didn't hurt me. But I don't think now's a good time to get into our...past."

"Our past." He finally dropped her hand, smacking his fist against his thigh. "Can't even remember my bloody past. Strout found little flashes of things, but nothing concrete. Your face shows up sometimes, but I can't...reach it."

Perhaps the memories weren't strong enough. Or, maybe he wouldn't want to remember them anyway. Whatever the block was, if he could remember some things but not the times they'd shared, then Hermione wasn't sure what that meant.

"It's fine," she assured him, steadying her voice as she spoke. "We weren't friends. Of course you wouldn't remember me. What have you remembered, then?"

He spent an hour detailing the flashes of memories he had of their last year and even the doxy bite he'd suffered at the Academy. But whenever he came close to a night they shared, it was blank. Throughout the morning, they developed a slow sort of friendship; when he spoke, Hermione listened, and when she recounted some of her favorite memories of the year, he didn't take his eyes off her.

"If I don't take your vitals soon, Healer Strout will have my head," she said after they'd fallen into a comfortable silence with one another. "She's put me on your detail while you're here. You're my sole focus since they think I'll be able to help you remember, because we know one another." A laugh gusted from her lungs. "I think they misunderstood—she thinks we're friends."

"We're not friends, though," Draco said, although it was more of a question than a statement. "You said we aren't friends."

"Right." She nodded her head, stood from her seat and cast a charm over Draco, poking and prodding the smokey diagnostic. Pleased to see that the once large hole was decorated in spots of blue, indicating that memories were returning, Hermione smiled and continued to check over the rest of him. "Everything looks really good, better than how you came to us. Are you feeling any pain?"

"None." Draco scooted himself to the edge of his bed and swung his legs over the side. "Take me for a walk around this place, would you? I'm tired of looking at these walls and his face."

Hermione chuckled, and transfigured gauze into a pair of slippers for Draco to slip his feet into. "Promise you won't go running off at the first sign of a Floo?"

Pushing himself from the bed, Draco stretched his neck until it popped. "Promise. Lead the way, Healer Granger."

"Trainee," she corrected him, unable to remove the small smile from her face. "We'll take one lap around the fourth floor and then we'll get you back here so Healer Strout doesn't send me a Howler for allowing you out of bed."

They walked from the ward together, side by side, and Hermione ignored the way his arm brushed against hers every other step. As they passed a wall of portraits, several of the occupants commented on the familiar Malfoy hair and facial structure, some going so far as to shudder in their portraits or leave their frames completely. The way Draco's face fell tugged at her heartstrings; she knew how he'd changed over the last year, and it enraged her that he'd never gotten the chance to show that to the world before forgetting it happened at all.

Orbs of light zipped by them as they walked, owls fluttered overhead. Otherwise, the corridors were quiet as they strolled along. When they came to the door of a supply cupboard, Draco paused and ran his fingers down the wood. His hand wrapped around the handle and he pried it open, stepping inside.

"What're you doing?" Hermione asked, stepping in after him. It smelled of herbs and magic, heady and dizzying in its potency. "Draco, we can't be in here—it's off limits to anyone except staff of the hospital."

He turned towards her and stepped into her space. "It's a cupboard—there's something about...cupboards. And you." As if reaching for a memory he couldn't quite grasp, Draco's eyes were unfocused as he moved closer to her and shut the door of the cupboard with his hand beside Hermione's head. "Have we…been involved in a cupboard? I think I remember…"

His voice faded away as he tried to capture the memory. With her back pressed against the door, Hermione placed both hands flat against its surface and held her breath. She didn't want to tell him, but then, she wanted him to remember. Watching as his eyes flicked across her face, she drew her lip between her teeth and then squeezed her eyes shut.

Silence filled the dark cupboard, but if she focused Hermione swore she could hear his heart beating loudly against his chest. Or, perhaps it was her own heart racing at his proximity. She thought she might jump out of her skin when she felt his finger graze the side of her face.

"Granger," he breathed, so close to her lips she could feel the pillowy softness of his lower lip against hers. "Tell me what I'm remembering is real and not a figment of my imagination."

Hope raced through her veins, regardless of how hard she tried to temper it. "What do you remember?"

Draco crashed into her with such force that her head snapped back against the door. It didn't stop the noise that ripped itself from her throat at the feel of his lips closing over hers, or the wet tip of his tongue slipping past the seam of her lips, or the way his fingers found the curve of her hip and curled around it and held her close. His breath hitched and it stirred something wild within her. Wrapping her fingers into the silky fine threads of hair at the nape of his neck, Hermione pressed her body into his and melted into his tight hold. Desire lanced through her, pooling deep in her belly and sending wet heat between her thighs.

"You like it when I grab your arse with both hands." To prove it, he reached around and took two handfuls of her arse, hoisting her up and canting his hips into hers. "And you moan when I nibble right here on your neck." So he did, scraping his teeth against the sensitive flesh just below her ear. "And when I—" Draco hissed as she tugged at his hair. "When I call you 'witch', you soak through your knickers."

Hermione raked her hands over his scalp and delighted as Draco groaned "witch" like an exaltation against her throat. It was true, the endearment had the uncanny ability to turn her entire brain to mush. More than that, he remembered , and it was all Hermione could have asked for. She never wanted him to forget, and that scared the hell out of her.

Worse, she was in direct violation of the Healer Code of Ethics, and though she said as much to Draco, it didn't stop them from having a proper shag against the door of the cupboard.

Memories were a fickle thing.

She practically skipped into the Janus Thickey Ward the next day, excited to see the progress Draco would have made overnight. Instead, what greeted her was a disheartening and familiar sneer on Draco's otherwise handsome face.

"I don't understand," Hermione whispered furiously to Healer Strout when they were out of earshot of an irritable Draco Malfoy. "He remembered me yesterday, our history, things that were so small and idiosyncratic—how could he just forget overnight?"

"As I've said, Trainee Granger," Strout said with little patience and hands on her hips, "the hippocampus is a sensitive little bugger. Mister Malfoy's memories can come and go; he may never fully remember everything, or he may only retain certain things for a small period of time. As it stands, there's more damage today than there was when I left him yesterday. You'll need to work with him again, perform diagnostics as he recalls memories, and perhaps try a Memory Potion to stimulate the hippocampus."

"But—"

"Would you prefer me to assign another trainee to his case?" Healer Strout's firm voice cut straight through Hermione's arguments, brokering no room for discourse. "Given your relationship with the patient, I feel that it's in his best interest to retain you. Do you agree?"

Chewing on the inside of her cheek, mostly to keep herself from spewing something unprofessional at her mentor, Hermione nodded and dropped her gaze to the floor between them. "Yes, ma'am. I'll work with his memory this morning, try to gauge what he remembers of yesterday."

"Very well." The healer turned on her heel and exited the ward, leaving Hermione alone with Draco.

She approached him cautiously, summoning her parchment and enchanted quill, and doing her best to follow the same steps she'd followed before. Lifting her wand, she began to cast diagnostics over Draco until his fingers closed over her wrist.

"What are you doing, Granger?" A notch formed between his brows as his eyes opened, landing directly on her gaze.

"Do you know where you are?" she asked, adopting a clinical tone for fear that her voice would tremble.

"The infirmary. Madam Pomfrey just left for a potion—hurt myself at quidditch today." Draco stretched out his body as if proving his statement. "Why are you here? Pity project, I suspect? Perfect marks aren't enough for the Perfect Prissy Granger?"

Her breath catching, Hermione lowered her wand and examined the smokey, blue diagnostic over Draco's head. She noted the changes on her parchment with quiet murmurs to her quill and then addressed Draco directly. "No. You're in St. Mungo's due to a brain injury—a curse on your memory. You don't remember the past year or so of your life."

A single, huffed laugh met her words, but it was soon followed by the familiar rant about Hermione pulling a prank and demanding she leave him alone. It took her an hour to calm him, and another hour to allow her to ask more questions relating to his memories.

"Can you silence Lockhart?" Draco asked after some time, as Lockhart began to sing in his bed, claiming that his many fans were eager to hear his most recent performance. "He's a nightmare, honestly."

"Wait until he asks if you'd like his autograph." Hermione crossed her legs and leaned against the back of her chair, remembering how annoyed he'd been with Lockhart's ego.

"He's already done that twice," Draco assured her, rolling his eyes as he settled back against his pillows. A smile played at the corner of his lips. "You still fancy him, don't you? I remember in second year, all the girls were falling over themselves to talk to him."

Hermione startled; it was the exact same conversation they'd had the day before. Tentatively, she responded, leaning forward. "It was only a crush." She monitored his facial reactions for any sign that he remembered their previous conversation; there was no sign of recollection on his face, so she continued. "Besides, don't think that the girls didn't watch you boys fawn over the Beauxbaton girls in fourth year."

"They were fit." Draco smiled and just as he had the day before, gazed off to some far off place Hermione couldn't see. It took her a moment to remember what came next, but then the memory flashed through her mind and she smacked him on the thigh with her hand. He caught it as she pulled away. "You were fit that year, too. At the Yule Ball, with that dress. I nearly hexed Krum that night."

If this were to go the same way as the day before, they'd end up having sex in the supply cupboard. She really couldn't do that—that was definitely against their code of ethics.

"I have to take your vitals now, okay?"

"Don't really have much of a say, seeing as I'm the one in the bed." He shrugged his shoulders and placed his hands behind his head, the perfect picture of ease, as she cast charms over him and recorded the numbers and observations. "So, you're a healer now. That's not what I would have expected for you."

She forced a smile as she swept her wand over the length of him. "I'm a trainee, not a healer yet."

"Still. I figured you'd become an Auror like Potter and Weasel." Draco kicked one ankle over the other, the heat of his stare making it hard for her to concentrate on the spells she was performing. "Guess I'm the lucky sod today—with your brilliant mind, I'm sure you'll figure this out and have me out of here in no time."

Hermione didn't have the heart to tell him she had no bloody idea how to fix him.