Author's Note: Compared to the last few, this one has just flown out my fingers. I had my first day back at work today after a lovely vacation. Good to know they missed me! But even better to know that I can take a vacation and the walls will all still be standing when I get back. I am taking suggestions for a new name for this chapter. This one fits in a roundabout sort of way that may only make sense in my own head.

Chapter 15: Stitches

Draco had decided not to enclose a letter to his mother for Hermione to send out. It was good enough that he knew she was professing to be doing well and that she had word that he was succeeding in this difficult time. There was no sense in risking the wrath of the Ministry in this instance—it could prolong his sentence without magic, extend his mother's exile, and possibly get Hermione in trouble for acting as the courier. Then again, this was Hermione Granger—the Minister would probably pat her on the head and excuse her of any wrongdoing on account of her noble intentions.

Still, it had eased his mind a little for Hermione to have heard from his mother that all was well. She'd come looking for him yesterday afternoon, but he'd already left for work.

"So, what is your brilliant plan for catching Belby's attention that you couldn't wait to tell me about?" he asked, raising both his glass and an eyebrow.

She peeked at the roast in the oven and closed the door again. It would need another ten minutes. "Well, as well intentioned as your advice about poisoning him was, I really don't think that's the best path I could possibly take." She held up a finger as he started to protest. "I'm not saying it wouldn't work; just that the potential negative repercussions outweigh the likelihood of success."

"And so your plan is…?" he drawled.

"And so my plan is brilliant," she beamed.

"Just tell me." He said, following her with his eyes as she moved from the kitchen to the table and back, setting out the silverware and plates. She could be infuriatingly smug sometimes.

"You know some of the things Fred and George have come up with are absolutely brilliant, don't you? Their Patented Daydream Charms are an amazing piece of magic. And then there's their various safety items, as well as the regular pranks."

He tilted his head. "I've never been in their shop, but I may have heard something to that effect."

"For all that they never seemed to take the school curriculum or exams seriously, they do have extremely intelligent minds, and a good business sense." She paused, realizing that she still thought of them as a unit. And they were, in a way. But they were also two individuals, and one of them was gone forever. She hurried her way through the rest of her explanation to cover the pang she felt—Fred was gone. As gone as Ron. "Anyway, Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes has flourished now for several years, and produced a number of remarkable bits of new magic. Not just adaptations of old spells, but some really stunning new work. Anyone can learn existing spells and potions by rote. That's not exactly impressive. Or not particularly anyway. But developing in new directions entirely is something quite different. Don't you see? The best way for me to get Belby's attention is to develop a new potion for the shop and show him that I understand the properties of what I'm learning well enough to develop new things and not just repeat existing information. That's what we need right now—pushing the bounds of what we can do." She looked at him and was surprised to find him sitting there somberly, and not regarding her with the same excitement she felt. She let out an exasperated, "Well?"

"Luna Lovegood's mother killed herself doing that sort of experimentation, you know." Hermione simply looked at him and he felt like the look went straight through him, dragging the words out. "She told me once. Her mother loved to experiment and one day…things just got out of hand."

She arched an eyebrow at him to hide her surprise at his concern. She wouldn't have even thought he'd know something like that about Luna. "You spent months fixing a broken vanishing cabinet, not knowing what might happen with the spell not working right, and are warning me to be careful?"

He shrugged. "I have a talent for fixing botched spells."

"I brewed Polyjuice Potion as a second year. And it worked. I'd say I have a certain talent for potions." After all, accidentally turning herself into a cat was not a mistake in her brewing, just a mistake in choosing the wrong hair off that girl's robe. It was entirely different. Still, she turned and hid her face by getting the roast out of the oven until she could be sure she wasn't blushing over that particular disaster.

He shook his head. "I'm not saying you're not competent. Just…be careful," he finished, sounding lame to his own ears. He had to add something…something Draco. "After all, Gryffindorks do tend to be brash, and rush headlong into things."

She rolled her eyes, setting out the meat and roasted potatoes and taking a seat. "And Slytherins are so careful?"

He smirked. "When it counts. Self-preservation is an instinct for us. Not one some of you seem to possess." He noticed her face fall and an uncharacteristic look over horror crossed his own face. "Damn. That…that wasn't how I meant it."

Hermione drew a shaky breath. How often had she scolded Ron and Harry for doing exactly that? Rushing headlong into something dangerous. And how often had she been right by their side doing the same? Ron was gone. Fred was gone. Colin. Dumbledore. Remus. Sirius. Lily and James Potter. Frank and Alice Longbottom, bodies lingering where the mind had given up. She didn't even realize she was crying until Draco'd put an awkward arm around her. If she had energy for anything but tears, she might have laughed—he looked so awkward. Unused to comforting someone else. He'd put his arm across her shoulders, but it sat there stiffly. She tried to find words. "We're not jumping off a cliff to try and see what it feels like to fly without a broom. We're jumping off a cliff and hoping to save the person trapped on the ledge below." She wasn't sure her analogy made any sense (or whether her words were event understandable through the tears). But it was the best she could manage at the moment. She found herself swearing most uncharacteristically. "Damn. I can go days without crying and then…" She sniffed.

He flapped his hand to pat her shoulder awkwardly, his arm already getting stiff and sore as he leaned to put it over her shoulders. What were you supposed to do with crying girls? He hadn't meant to be cruel in this instance. It was damn true, but it wasn't how he meant it. Salazar. He hadn't seen her like this in a while. She might spend the next three days in her bathrobe. He was vaguely aware that she'd made some sort of explanation he hadn't understood. It didn't matter. He'd long since learned how to bluff his way through most situations. He rose to his feet and moved closer to her chair to hug her properly. It wasn't something he was particularly accustomed to doing. She let herself bury her face in his shoulder and kept crying for a few more minutes. She found her tears finally managing to slow down and she pulled herself away from him, groping on the table for a napkin for her face.

"Thanks," she said, drying her eyes and looking down at the table.

He shrugged awkwardly, well aware of his now damp shirt. Oh well. He'd been about due for another round of laundry again anyway. He could see her eyes were swollen and red from crying. Really, her whole face was. He looked at the wine on the table and decided maybe it wasn't a good night for wine. "Tea?"

She nodded and remained in her seat while he went about and fixed a cup of tea. He brought it to her and resumed his seat. Dinner had gone a little cool at this point, but they ate it anyway and searched for a new topic of conversation.

"Have you taken any more computer classes at the library?"

Draco shook his head. "The girl who teaches them seems nice, but she really only teaches the beginner class, nothing more advanced. And I'm not really sure what else you can do with one of those machines."

"Oh." She paused for a moment, and sipped her tea. "Well, you can do all sorts of things. Arrange accounts, and spreadsheets, and send messages to people in different places in no time at all. It's much faster than using owls."

"Faster than a phone?"

"About as fast as talking on your phone—but you can send words and pictures, but I think pictures take a little longer. I'm afraid I don't have a whole lot of hands-on experience with them, just a general understanding." She chuckled. "I've never even gotten my driver's license. I suppose I didn't see the need to do it right away before. I probably won't ever need one."

They discussed for a while the process for getting a license, and getting around the countryside versus getting around in London. In London you could really manage without a car—what with the buses and the tube and the trains. With parking what it was, cars were really an inconvenience more than anything else. But out in the suburbs where things were more spread out…well, there a car had it's uses.

The rest of the evening passed peacefully. Draco lingered for a while, but Hermione seemed to show no sign of collapsing into tears again. He thought about not saying anything, but when he was finally on his way to the door, the words found their way out of his mouth. "I know it's your business whether or not you want to risk your neck over at Weasley's shop, but…be careful. I've gotten used to having you around." They sounded gruffer to his ears than he would have expected them, but he hadn't been sure the words were going to come out at all. He wasn't used to admitting that he wanted anyone around for any reason—Malfoys could always take care of themselves.

Hermione looked at him with a hint of a wry smile. Most of the redness and swelling from earlier had dissipated. "I promise to take care of myself. After all, I've gotten rather used to being around. Besides, if I weren't here, who would teach you to do your taxes? Paint your flat?"

He frowned at her. "Paint it? The Muggle way?"

"Only if you ever decide you're sick of those sterile looking walls," she conceded.

"I've been utterly nauseated by them since I moved in."

She smirked at him. "Then I suppose you will need me around just a little while longer. I'll do my best to stay safe."

Draco nodded and showed himself out. Bloody Gryffindors. He fell asleep that night to thoughts of all the Gryffindors he'd known and heard of, all dying for something or someone. What good was dying for someone? Wasn't it better to live for them? Potter's parents had died for him, and it got him a lifetime of hell. Draco's own parents had done whatever was necessary to live for him. He was haunted by the thoughts and wondered, whether given a chance, a choice, they would all make the same call again. He tossed and turned and sweated through the sheets, vaguely aware that tomorrow would have to be laundry day.

He wondered if there was a Muggle equivalent to a Dreamless Sleep draught and fervently hoped there was.

Across the hall, behind her closed door, Hermione put one of Ron's jumpers on and curled up to sleep, bringing the neck of it up to her face and inhaling deeply. Months had passed. It didn't really smell like him anymore. She didn't cry. There weren't anymore tears left for tonight. There was only a long wait in the dark until morning.

There were the muffled sounds of customers at the front of the shop, but Hermione tried to ignore them. She had a mission. She and George needed to create the next great Weasleys' product. If only she had the faintest idea what it might be.

George sat on his stool, rather morose. He wanted to find a reason to laugh, but nothing seemed funny anymore. And if he did crack a smile, it felt wrong, because there was no echoing smile on Fred's face.

"Come on, George, just two days ago you wanted me here. Let's make something that will make Fred proud," she wheedled. She wondered if this was all a terrible idea. George probably still needed time to himself. If she had wanted to deal with someone's grief other than her own, she would have sought Harry out weeks ago. She just couldn't right now. Still, Lee had looked grateful on seeing her come in this morning and confided to her that it was all he could do to keep his demeanor up, let alone trying to bring a smile to George's face. She'd promised to do what she could. Tired of fidgeting, she got off her stool to check out the half-finished projects around the workshop.

There were flowers that would stain your hands and face blue if you triggered the right thorn. There was some sort of thing that fit over your front teeth and turned all of the words you tried to say into animal sounds. There was a small set of mirrors. A pastry crust accompanied by three sheets of parchment paper filled with notes. There was an extremely sticky bowl with what may have been ice cream in a former life.

"None of it's any good," George said, noticing her studying his half-hearted attempts to make something. He'd tried, honest he had. None of it was any good.

Hermione frowned. "What about something like my bewitched parchment, but…less permanent?"

"Like what you did to that girl a few years back? Mar…Marietta whatever-her-name?"

"Yes, like that. But less permanent. If it hadn't been so serious, I wouldn't have used such a strong enchantment on those boils. And these mirrors, what are you trying to do with those?"

He eased himself up and went to look at the small pile of hand mirrors. "Seeing the future. Or at least a version of it. Something good for a laugh at parties, or maybe reunions."

And slowly, they started to sort out a few ideas.

"The ice cream is actually a good idea," Hermione said at one point. "And Frozen Terror isn't a bad name for it. I just think it might have been better not to leave the sample product sitting in here for the last month."

"Month and a half," George corrected.

She wrinkled her nose. "I'm surprised there aren't ants."

"Oh, we've got a spell for that."

She sighed. "Of course you do." To some extent, household spells were a little bit of a missing patch of knowledge with her. Except for the ones that she'd used with Ron and Harry last year on the run, household cleaning spells hadn't been part of her upbringing. She'd been vaguely aware that Mrs. Weasley did most things by magic that her mother had done by hand or with major appliances, but she hadn't been of age to do the spells herself most summers that she'd been there.

By the time Hermione left that afternoon, they had nixed some ideas and agreed to go forward with others. There were the beginnings of a plan. It might just possibly all come together.

Hermione opened the letter she received. She recognized Mrs. Weasley's handwriting across the front. She'd written to her yesterday and was surprised to have received a response back so rapidly. It wasn't long.

8-14-98

Hermione,

Thank you for thinking of me. I think your instinct is best. Give them all where they will be best needed.

The door is always open, anytime you want to stop by.

Molly

She let out a breath she wasn't aware she'd been holding. The flat was still, except for the sound of Athena helping herself to some breakfast. She stood there for a while, reading it over again.

Finally, she got herself together and moved back into her bedroom. She opened the closet and began to look through the clothes there, taking articles out one by one and folding them carefully on the bed. She pulled the corners straight, and smoothed any wrinkles out. She conjured several sturdy bags for them. She opened one of the drawers of her dresser that hadn't been opened in some time and added socks and underpants to the top of the bags.

She gathered them all up and brought them as far as the door. She needed to do this now or she simply wasn't going to. But it was a long way to carry these on her own, and the bags felt heavier than the weight warranted. She carried them across the hall and knocked on Draco's door, juggling the bags until the one in her left hand had moved into the crook of her elbow and she had a free hand to knock.

It was only a moment before he opened the door, still in his pajamas, despite the morning being well on its way toward noon. "Hermione."

"Will you come with me? I'm going to drop Ron's clothes off to some people who need them," she explained, the words falling out of her mouth in not quite the right order.

He blinked at her, taking in Hermione standing there, and the heavy bags in her arms. He stifled a yawn. There really ought to be some sort of Muggle equivalent to a dreamless sleep potion. He nodded. "I'll come. Sit down for a minute while I get dressed."

Hermione smiled gratefully at the back of his head and brought her bags inside. It was going to be a difficult enough experience as it was; at least she wasn't going to have to do it alone. They weren't just clothes—they were the shirt he'd worn the first time he'd asked her out, or a thousand other days together. They were memories. She'd still have to find somewhere to donate his robes, but at least she wouldn't see all of his Muggle clothes every time she went to get dressed. She'd just kept the one sweater she'd slept in for the last two nights. It was one Mrs. Weasley had made two years ago. Life went on. The clothes would be much better one someone else's back than haunting her closet.