When they landed, Draco tried to take a cursory glance around, but Shacklebolt was bellowing for them to come quickly, that Granger was hurt. Draco noticed only the vaguest outline of the rolling green hills and several little copses of fruit trees as he and Potter charged toward the stone and stucco Georgian country cottage. He could smell a sea breeze, though, so it was likely not far off somewhere behind him. Now was not the time to take note of the architecture, but it was part of his childhood education that he couldn't shut off. There was a salten circle on the front patio, the dust shifted and smeared by the Minister's kente cloth robes as he circled the prone and bleeding body of one Hermione Granger.

She was as he remembered, in many ways, all crème brûlée skin and chocolate curls, freckled nose, strong shoulders and ample hips. He'd somehow forgotten how petite she was, it seemed more apparent when she was unconscious. The last time he'd seen her had been at Hogwarts, his trial, before that it had been at the Battle of Hogwarts and Malfoy Manor around Easter. In many ways, this was like that. She wasn't awake, gaunt, skin gone ashen and lavender in fear, covered in grime, screaming, or staring at him with terrified eyes, but her body and white cotton shift were splattered with blood and a smattering of deep torn wounds that basic healing spells had clearly failed to seal.

Potter pulled the bereft Minister away, and Draco took only a moment before he cleared his mind and began churning his wand into diagnostic, and then healing spells. When he'd sealed the wounds and felt confident she could be moved, he tried to levitate her into the house, but he couldn't, he'd run himself ragged. He hadn't been using verbal spells, as sometimes his mouth couldn't keep up with his mind, and it wouldn't help if he'd garbled the pronunciation. He looked up at the other two men,

"Bring her into the house. She needs rest." Potter had clearly forgotten his wand in his panic, because he crouched down, pulled her across his chest, and carried her inside. Draco didn't dare cross the threshold without being invited in, so he set himself about cleaning the blood and salt away from the sandstone cobbles. Shacklebolt turned to him, wordlessly spelling her blood from his hands.

"Come inside, Mr. Malfoy. I'm sure you'll need to check on her in a bit, but first we should make sure you don't fall over."

"I was thinking of returning home to get my potions supplies, Minister. Perhaps you could accompany me so I can return after the fact?"

"Nonsense, Mr. Malfoy, I think you'll find either Ms. Granger's finished potions or her workroom are up to snuff. Please come in, young man, you look as though you're about to collapse. You'll splinch yourself if you try to head home right now." Draco sighed, resigned to the man's logic, and followed him into the house.

He could hear Potter pacing in an upstairs room, his footfalls heavy in his haste, occasionally stopping to turn, viciously tap a toe before resuming. It was something he'd only seen Potter do once before, when Ginny had been injured in a game while they were in the field. Potter hadn't been able to head straight to St. Mungos, and it was clear this was how he worked out his apprehension. Draco hung his Trainee Auror robe on one of the wooden pegs in the vestibule and took a moment to look around the front rooms.

The rooms thus far appeared light and airy, a muted sage green in the parlor, robin's egg blue in the dining room, the molding was white-washed. Two walls of the parlor were stuffed with bookshelves, a writing desk facing the bay window overlooking the patio, and three squashy aubergine velvet reading chairs facing the fireplace. There were alchemical treatise plates, astrological charts, botanical diagrams, and ley-line maps in simple dark wood frames crowded onto the walls in the dining room. There was an apothecary cabinet that matched the cherry table, which was covered in neat stacks of parchments, with a jam jar full of Muggle pens and pencils in the center. All in all, in was clean and fresh, comfortable, and oddly stylish. His mother would have approved, despite thinking it rustic, as it fit the milieu of the country cottage.

Shacklebolt had disappeared toward the back of the house, into the kitchen if Draco's ears were to be trusted, the Minister apparently busying himself by putting the kettle on. Potter came downstairs, and quirked an eyebrow at the fact that he was still hesitating in the entry. Potter gestured to the parlor, and Draco settled himself into one of the armchairs. Potter resumed his pacing, and he found himself nearly about to bark at Potter over it when Shacklebolt came in with a tea tray and set in on a cherry side table set next to the door. They each fixed a tea for themselves in turn, fidgeting in near silence for a few minutes. The Minister broke the tense quiet first,

"Potter, you should probably return to the office. Send me your Patronus with word about the others? I will need to be debriefed when she wakes, and Mr. Malfoy will see to any further needs she may have." It was said without volume or malice, but the basso profundo gave the strong implication that he would not accept argument either. Potter stood and asked hesitantly,

"Where does her Anti-Apparition ward end again?"

"I took it down so you could come here. I will re-ward the property in a moment." Draco choked a bit on his tea, as quietly as he could, having figured out that Potter had likely never been here prior to today, and that Shacklebolt was her Secret-Keeper. What had she been working on that even The Boy Who Lived had been barred from her house?! The Minister rose, and spoke to him as Potter shut the door none too quietly behind him,

"Shall we see if the patient is awake? It has been the better part of an hour, and I imagine if she wakes before we can stop her, she'll be coming down the stairs any minute." Draco doubted it very highly, considering she'd over-extended her magic—exhausting and injuring herself—or considering the amount of blood she'd lost. However, he didn't want to underestimate her Gryffindor stubbornness, and the Minister clearly knew her well enough to make such an estimation of her.

"I'd like to bring up a Blood Replenishing potion, first. Can you show me to her workroom?" Shacklebolt nodded. He raked his fingers through his hair as he rose, mentally noting that he should probably get it trimmed, as it was beginning to brush between his shoulder blades and he had failed to charm it in place this morning. It was a fight to keep it from cascading back over his face and eyes. He supposed that it was alright though, no part of him wanted to appear haughty, or frankly look her directly in the eye, if she were awake.

The Minister lead him through the hall, where he saw the kitchen to his left, painted champagne yellow with a smorgasbord of herbs hanging from the ceiling, a small loo ahead, and a closed door to his right. Upon opening, the door seemed to buzz and the air shimmered a bit, the room's warding visible for just a moment. Shacklebolt strode in and Draco listened as he hunted for the correct potion, the sound of delicate glass vials tinkling against one another before he emerged and shut the door behind him.

"The stairs are through the kitchen, follow me."

Draco focused his eyes on the man's back as they crossed the kitchen, feeling suddenly as if he was snooping by peering about and assessing the personal space of a witch he'd barely arrived at civility with, a sum total of three years prior. It was in his nature to do so, to observe, pick apart, to understand as much as possible without being told, but he fought it for the time being. The stairs were narrow, but the walls were lined with daguerreotypes of past occupants, small framed embroideries, the occasional inked silhouette portrait. It was old-fashioned, and none of it appeared to be wizarding in origin, but it still lent itself to the universal comfort of the house.

He would wait in the hall, he decided, not wanting to put the woman on edge right away, if she had indeed, woken up.

...

Everything ached. Her joints felt swollen and red hot, her muscles were fluttering, and her skin felt tight and itchy. It was the itching sensation that finally tipped her out of a dozing dream-state into consciousness.

Kingsley breezed in her bedroom door, observing her attempting to put her feet on the floor. She had things to discuss with him, despite her physical pain, or her questions about how she'd gotten back in the house, as she vaguely remembered being exhausted and passing out.