This time he had had no choice of whether to remain by the Head Girl's bedside or not.

And so he had been forced to watch Madame Pomfrey forcibly administer a fever reducing formula to the girl amidst her throes, upon which only receded slowly to be replaced with the most pitiful sobs.

He glanced to the door. He figured the Headmaster must be on his way, he was sure that he would burst upon here and demand that Malfoy explain it all.

And he would and they would find him to be no threat and he could return ignorantly to his room, or perhaps, if it was not too late, he could pursue the journey he had prepared for before his ridiculous idea to try and destroy the door-

For surely dinner with his father, who had not heard from him since before school began, surely seeing him would assure him that the girl was as good as gone from his life as destroying the door could have been.

So really, Malfoy had nothing to worry about. He would wait, impatiently of course, for the arrival and prognosis of his professors and then be dismissed.

But he glanced to her.

And her whimpers, muffled through a closed mouth, an unnaturally tense stiffness to her lithe body- it was as if she was petrified instead of placated.

Before he could truly understand why, he was beside her, watching her closely, as he had done to Ginny what felt like months ago.

His last battle had been victorious, despite the casualty…

He glanced to the door-still stoic, why hadn't anyone arrived? Had this been Potter-then back to Hermione, and his battle gave out.

She was in pain, and it wasn't like she had any good memories of him to lose. Not like last time…

Still, he allowed a minute crease to knit his eyebrows, glancing to the door, to her cold and perspiring body, before she did something that made up his mind just perfectly.

For when he placed his fingers tentatively upon her temple, still unsure of whether he would go on with it, her stiff composure laxed. She let out a breath of a name and smiled, very softly.

Draco's eyes deepened in hurt, though he would not admit this for all the gold in Gringott's. Especially not to himself.

This might be the last action he ever commits, and it would be unrequited. It was not his name she had called.

Placing his wand to her fevered temple, Malfoy grit his teeth.

Potter…

-

The last time he had entered Hermione's subconscious it had been in panic, frustration. He had not known what to look for or, really, what he was doing.

And as he felt himself no longer as a tangible body, Draco focused on the motions of her thoughts, whatever trills of information would have sprouted to conscious thought, had she had the advantage of conscious thought at all.

He felt, inexplicably, that they were moving quickly, without patient consideration. Whatever was making the moves in Hermione's brain was searching for something.

Every thought, from every corner, was being pulled towards some malevolent destructor.

Had he had eyes, Malfoy's would have narrowed.

Had Hermione been there as well, she would have fainted, had she understood with the lightning comprehension of her counterpart.

It was not just a shadow. It was a massive cloud of black, he could tell, and every one of Hermione's golden or tinny memories was permeated with this horrific black.

He could not banish this vulceric ghost without destroying every memory she kept in reserve.

He had not even been aware, last time, that the memories he destroyed were of him, not entirely.

Had it been this same case again, he would not hesitate to use all of his power to end this, once and for all.

Would it be fair? To destroy this girl's character in order to save a void body of potential?

There had to be some over way.

But at the same time he could tell that he himself was being dragged with significant speed into this being.

A moment before the inevitable encounter, Malfoy figured out what to do.

He felt as though a chill had overcome him, and upon reaching freezing point he nearly gave up, for this chill had become a frost so powerful that surely, surely it could keep him there, ironed into her diminished thoughts.

But when he felt he had nearly reached the center of this fog he let every strand of strength he had been gathering into a single action, a burst of fire, speed and light erupting from his very core.

There was an animalistic hiss, a cry, from this fog, suddenly burning without smoke.

Every memory, seemingly flittering shadows, returned to small foggy clouds, golden or copper, or silver with misery.

Malfoy himself felt that his job was over, and in his sudden weakness he decided he would not return to the surface, choosing instead to end it right here, for this was as far as he could progress anyways.

But he was suddenly aware of the presence of a small, insignificant cloud coming upon him, without timidity.

No pensieve could rival this.

He was actually in her memory.

He was actually in his body, in her memory.

And this was surely a memory he could relive a thousand times.

Not for pleasure. That was not why he had yearned for this memory's recovery at all.

No, it was so that he could try to figure out what had occurred within her recount of this particular tale.

He was almost granted his wish.

-

It had been precedent to that last night.

It had followed her reunion with Potty and Weasel and their own bitter fight that had ended with a climactic resolution. That she would give him a bit of her compassion, her forgiveness and ability to withdraw her inhibitions.

They had been silent upon reaching their portrait hole.

After he had uttered the password, he glanced to her to see that she was pouting slightly.

"What?" he asked without hesitation, trying to at least keep his sudden curiosity from breaching his eyes.

She stared at these particular attributes momentarily before shaking herself of a thought and entering the portrait hole.

"I was thinking," she spoke when he was again beside her, not looking to him but glancing around the room that Zeus had decorated, that Ginny recently had been brought into and shamed. "That we might change the password."

He glanced around the room as well, not wanting to wait for eye contact when she so surely would not grant him as much. She continued.

"Because surely things are not as much anymore. At least, it's almost as if McGonagoll defined how we would spend all our time in this room. As simply unpleasant and nothing deeper."

He looked at her and did not let his expression change upon seeing the thought that was racing behind the coronas of her eyes, her cheeks still streaked and her eyes still a pleasant, mossy green as to the vile color they had been before.

He could only raise his eyebrow and a hint of a smirk upon his face. "I don't think she was able to define it that simply. I think we should thank her."

Hermione, abruptly disturbed and shocked by his suggestion, portrayed her lack of comprehension in silence.

He dropped his head, slightly, then inclined it again to her own, watching her through the pale shots of silver hair now fallen in his face, whispering lightly, "I think she jinxed us."

Hermione's face, relaxing, seemed perfectly able to see the mischief in his eyes. He was thankful that she said nothing.

She thought something might've changed if she had done so.

Instead she licked and bit her lip and looked away from him. Surely her smile would traitorously clue Draco in on the fact that his was glowing as well.

Instead, she risked this moment by facing Zeus' door in the far corner and reaching very very quickly, nervously, to hold his hand.

And, she realized, this risk had been worth it, for his hand clasped silent and warm, entwined within her own.

Her hand had rested upon the doorknob, but he had reached with the hand not occupied within her own to twist it and open the door when her own had paused, a scared look etched upon her face.

Before they opened the door all the way, he whispered, softly into her ear, that she need not succumb to fearful tremors.

In less words, he had told her "Shh. I'm here with you."

The room had been empty, predictably. If it was a room at all, for the door they had quickly pushed open opened into a white void, blinding Hermione, who turned into Malfoy's tense chest, the fear she had held down surprising her with a soft cry that was not unlike the cry she had emitted upon seeing her beloved friend unconscious in a hospital bed.

Malfoy closed the door and used this same arm to slowly, slowly encompass her waist against him.

And when she did not tense, only let all of her day's tears fall silently into his shirt, the same he had worn jogging around the lake with her, their childish banter all that had been dramatic- and Malfoy let himself take comfort in her, resting his head into the sensitive crook where her bare head met her shoulder.

He stood this way until her breathing leveled enough for her to take one cathartic breath and slowly begin to remove herself from him, waiting slowly as he caught on and his head rose from her shoulder.

His head was just before hers, his eyes just before her own, and hers soft and brown again, sleepy and peaceful, his smooth, stony, but somehow brightly shining against the shadow their corner was encompassed in, even if his pale skin and hair tried to dull the luster of his eyes.

And yet it was not a kiss they were going to progress into. Neither felt, mutually of course, that they needed to define such a profound moment with something so typical.

Instead he smiled, she smiled, and, hands still entwined, it was only a kiss to this same hand at the door of blushing Hermione's room that ended the moment.

"Thank you," she whispered, soft.

He smiled lightly, slowly as if at a young child. "You don't have to thank me. It purely mutual, I assure you."

There was nothing profound, nothing significant, but it had kept in their minds, actively, until they were nearly about to kiss on the shores of the lake, only a dozen hours later, an action that would immediately precede her collapse and the erasure of profound moments like these.

-

This time, it was not Harry who pulled him out, nor was it the Weasley's doorstop that he landed on.

No. It was Hermione, and it was her soft body that he landed on top of with a barely audible oomph coming from either of them.

Regaining his strength, he looked at her with surprise, wondering if she would be furious, confused, or…

His face was an inch above hers.

He knew, upon looking at her, that he was inside her thoughts for only a moment that had felt like a year.

He knew, upon catching the eyes that captured his quite easily, that she had just relived that moment as well.

Her hands snaked around his neck and her eyes were still blank, shocked, until he relaxed slightly and she felt his body settle upon hers.

Closing her eyes, she reopened them and he could see some kind of sharp trust in her eyes.

Speaking as though she hadn't in a week, she licked her lips and soft in the same soft voice she had last, in their memory, "You've waited."

He blinked as well. "There was nothing worthy in your stead."

When her fingers had fisted into the hair at the nape of his neck, pulling him with arousal, he could hardly think of it.

For she was kissing him, desperately real, as if they had once been lovers separated by condition, and when their lips had softened they opened, slowly, and their tongues pursued each other, pulling her bottom lip through his teeth, still not separating as her arms wound tightly around his neck, pulling him tighter. When her back arched very slightly, her stomach and waist rising to meet his, his arms delved under the cover to wrap them around her waist, running warm hands over and over against the smooth skin of her back.

They were kissing without thought of what was next to do, only that their anguished drama could be solved if they were able to just enjoy this one, simple, primal pleasure, their tongues swirling and dipping into each other's mouths, enjoying the warmth of the other's body through their soft pajamas, but never letting their hands lose the grips that, more important than pleasing the other, were to offer a sense of comforting reality to themselves, that they were finally within reach of each other, not memories.

For Draco, he held onto this girl, encompassing her entirely within his arms, unwilling to let go when, for the past several days, it seemed this much was inevitable.

For Hermione, she kept his breath, his heart, his shoulders close, having spent the past several days as if she had been only semi-conscious, having to keep thoughts at bay in the farthest corner of her mind.

And now here he was, all of hers to have and to hold.

She was within arms' reach, and no longer a memory. Only now could they form new ones.