I don't own Harry Potter, ok? Ok!

AN: Whew! This has got to be some kind of fanfic writing record for me. More still to come, though we might slow down the updates a bit. I hope the backstory is really starting to shape up for some of you. Your precious minds ought to be whirring with curiosity and guesswork by now, most definitely. If they aren't, I'm not doing my job. Kisses!

Shout out to manicMAundae, who has followed several of my other stories and never fails to provide interesting reviews and conversation. A bit of a softie, aren't you, babe? But it's alright- the world needs good hearts like yours.

"Ron, you didn't-"

"Shh, Hermione, it's just a little extra I nipped from the kitchens while no one was looking. Here, it's a toast," Ron said as he handed Hermione a small glass after pouring a generous finger of fire whisky.

Hermione took it gingerly, but smiled up at him anyway. "And what exactly are we toasting?" she asked, smacking his arm when he took another swig of the stuff.

"The end of the war. The start of new things," he murmured, his voice dropping an octave and doing that velvety thing it did when he wanted something from her. "You." He waggled his brows and slid an arm about her waist. "Me."

Hermione gasped, stifled her grin, and then clinked her glass with his bottle. Down her throat the burning liquid went, but it wasn't unpleasant. Not when he was holding her that way while it burned its way through her stomach and hit her insides but good.

"Oh, Ron," she breathed and then his mouth was on hers and they were both smiling and laughing softly as he tried to take her robes off and she tried to keep his hands at her waist. It was the happiest memory she had left of him.

Which was of course why seconds later those evil masks filled her vision and she was stunned and couldn't see anything but darkness and Ginny's scared face next to her own.

"Ron!" she cried out. "Ron! Ron!" She yelled until her voice was hoarse, until he answered her.

But it wasn't him. Not really. And then the real nightmare began.

She shook in her bed, making small, jerky movements that were mirrored in her face; in how the sweat began to gather on her brow and she bit her lips until she nearly drew blood; to keep from crying out against the torture inflicted upon her in her dreams. But it never helped- she called out anyway, voice hoarse and frightened; and when she thought she could endure not another second, she came awake with a start as the bile crept up her throat.

She raced for the bathroom, stumbling over her own feet, certain she could see their faces, their posturing in every shadow, in every corner. They haunted her when she was asleep and when she was awake and there was no escaping them, ever.

Hermione emptied her stomach seconds later and then sat on the cool tile, wearily holding her head up with one hand; and her hair back with the other, leaning on the toilet seat as if it was her only friend. She heaved a great, unsteady sigh and then vomited again. Finally, her vision stopped swimming enough for her to reach for her pills. She was just shaking a few out into her palm when something stopped her.

A sixth sense, perhaps? Or just her extremely sensitive hearing? Paranoia was what her therapist called it. Ginny's showed up in the faces of everyone around her. For Hermione, she heard things. All the time, depending on how bad a day she was having, how terrible her nightmares were. It had gotten much better, of course. She was much better at discerning what was real and what was just her psychoses. PTSD, her therapist said, could manifest symptoms for years. Well, it certainly had for her, but she was managing it better, wasn't she?

Except on nights like tonight, of course. When the shadows crept along every wall, ready to carry her back to that hellish time. When she knew she wouldn't sleep again.

She froze as she heard it again- just a whisper of air, a soft shuffling. The sound of someone trying to be very, very quiet.

Or very, very stupid. She turned about from her place on the floor and stared through the bathroom and dimly lit bedroom to her door. It was still closed, locked. All precautions taken. Without actually having a wand in her hands she was as safe as magic and the human mind could make her. But she was still terrified.

The whispering sound came again and she moved suddenly, but instead of shutting the bathroom door, locking herself inside that safe chamber, she crawled out and into her bedroom. Used the doorframe to stand and then stayed there for another long moment, eyes glued to her bedroom door, ears pricked to all sounds now. Then she slowly moved across the space, her logical mind arguing with the half still buried in her nightmares. It could only be one of two people, or even both those people, but neither could hurt her. She was safe. She was in charge, even if she wasn't in control.

Or was it the other way around? One hand slid around her middle, the other traveled up her neck to her face, to her scars. She fingered the soft ridges along her brow, her temple, her cheek, just puckering at the corner of her mouth…control was an illusion. Being in charge wasn't real. All she had was the here and now and even if it was damned terrifying, it was real and she was alive. No one gets to check out, she thought, reminding herself of her words to Lucius earlier in the day. She frowned and her hand fell from her face to her side.

The sound came again, followed by a soft sigh. She nearly froze again, then forced herself to move forward the last few steps. The only Death Eaters in my home right now are damaged and wandless, she told herself fervently. And this is probably my biggest breakthrough yet. Actually daring to open my door in the face of an unknown noise? My therapist would be so proud.

But her palm was slick with sweat when she went to turn the doorknob and her heart was pounding high in her throat.

Draco hadn't been expecting the door to fly open, for Hermione to see him standing there, just as he was turning back from the stairs to her door again, hand partly lifted as though he was actually considering knocking. And the look she gave him…he felt like a six year old boy again; on Christmas morning as he raced to his parents' room and burst in on their last precious moments of sleep.

But of course, Hermione hadn't been sleeping, so she wasn't about to make him feel guilty for waking her up, or some rubbish like that. He didn't say a word, too worried about her response to his blatant disregard for her orders earlier. He returned her stare as long as he could and then looked away.

"The hell, Malfoy," she said, her voice hoarse. He looked back up and saw she'd squeezed her eyes shut. They snapped open again as if she could feel him looking at her.

He opened his mouth and tried to speak, he did. But what was he supposed to say? Whoops, you caught me loitering about your door like a puppy worried about his owner. Sorry about that, I'll just lock myself in the laundry room again, shall I? And as for her…she was staring him down like he wasn't even a proper puppy, but just a stray. He opened his mouth again and she scoffed noisily, cutting him off, and started to close the door.

He surprised himself, really. But he shocked her.

His hand shot out and he caught the door with it, held it open. She pushed a little harder. He didn't budge.

"The hell!" she exclaimed, then flung the door open wide and he stumbled some, caught himself on the doorframe. "What in god's bloody name was that, Malfoy?" she hissed, and if there was extra vitriol in her voice, she wasn't surprised. There was adrenaline racing through her system in addition to the leftover effects of the nightmare and she was fucking pissed off at his behavior.

"I-"

"You should be upstairs, in bed," she interrupted. "If you even try to say for one second that you came down here because I woke you up-"

"You didn't!" he hastened to explain. "I wasn't sleeping!"

She stared at him with a look that plainly read, you fucking idiot, how is that any better?

"I just- I can't sleep," he protested and if he sounded like he was begging, that's probably because he was. "Please, it's not- I just couldn't sleep. I tried and I couldn't and so when I heard you I…" He shrugged helplessly and looked at her, his face wary, body language penitent and cautious.

Her heart retreated some, back towards its normal spot in her chest, and she sighed. Her hand crept back up to her face, rubbed the scars there almost thoughtfully. She looked back at Draco and saw he was watching her, a curious expression on his face.

"What?" she asked.

He started to shake his head, to turn away and she practically growled.

"What is it, Malfoy?"

He turned back. "What happened to you, Granger-" He took a deep breath, stepped towards her. "Hermione. What really happened?"

Her hand stopped moving and her heart began pounding frantically once more. She opened her mouth to retort that it wasn't his business, that she didn't have to answer his questions. To tell him to fuck off. Instead, she surprised herself for the third time that night.

"Ron," she began, but stopped, tried again. "Ginny and I-" She stopped again as she felt bile rushing up her throat. "Oh god-" she managed to gasp out before she turned and raced for her bathroom.

Draco hesitated at her door, watching through the dim light as she hunched over her toilet and heaved her innards into the porcelain. What business is it of mine to help her, to go to her, he argued with himself even as he felt his feet moving. She hates me, even if she is trying to help me. She doesn't want my help in return, he told himself, but it was too late and his traitorous feet had carried him through her bedroom and to the bathroom door. He was about to step inside, to ask if he could help, to hold her hair back or hand her a washcloth, when she lifted her head and spoke.

"Take another step and I'll fucking murder you," she bit out before vomiting again.

He gave a shaky laugh. "You're in no position to murder anyone," he told her snarkily and, to his surprise, he heard her laugh softly in response.

"Maybe not, but I can give you stall mucking duty for a month," she retorted. He stayed where he was, but he also didn't turn to go.

"Can I-"

"You can help by getting the fuck out of my room," she said. She lifted her head, turned to look at him from her vulnerable position on the floor. Except she didn't look particularly vulnerable when she was glaring at him that way. "I mean it, Draco. Go back upstairs, get some rest."

He tried to look nonchalant. "I already told you, I can't sleep."

She turned back to the toilet, breathed in and out slowly.

"Is it your hands? Are the burns bothering-"

"It's not that," he said, uncomfortable. "I just can't sleep. I tried, I did. But it's no use. Not tonight." He shrugged, looked away from her huddled figure. Even the way she was now, she still managed to make him feel like he was the pathetic one. Or maybe that was his own neurosis. "It's one of those nights," he finally added in a softer voice.

Hermione stiffened, lifted her head again. Her eyes strayed to the bottle of pills on the floor beside her. She could take a few now and be asleep in two more hours.

Or she could suck it up, admit she was addicted to them, and try the old warm tea routine. It would be better for her stomach, anyway.

She turned about, managed to stand and tottered over to the sink where she splashed some cold water on her face. She looked up at her image, moonlit in the mirror. Half her face was dark shadow. But it was still her. She looked at Draco's shadowy reflection and sighed.

"I know what you mean," she finally whispered in reply. Then she turned to him and pointed out the door. "Go on out to the kitchen. I'll be there in a minute."

Draco watched her for a long second while Hermione held her breath. And he turned and went without another word.

Ginny woke up to a dark bedroom and an empty stomach. Someone was knocking softly on her door while someone else was tapping at her window. She answered the owl first, but she didn't read the letter. It was from Harry- she knew it had to be Blaise's file and that could definitely wait. If the knocking on her door was who she knew it must be, he couldn't wait.

"Zabini," she murmured as she opened her door a crack.

"I know it's really late," he said uncomfortably, "but you didn't come out for hours. I was…anyway, I noticed when I saw you didn't touch the food I made for dinner."

He sounded almost civil, which distracted Ginny from what he'd said at first.

"I- wait, you made dinner?"

He didn't say a word, just scowled and looked away. She sighed.

"I'll be out in a minute." Then she closed the door, got changed. She'd managed to take a shower earlier in her awful state, so she felt clean, at least. And her arm was all healed, so she'd managed some decent wandwork. That was good. After a few minutes she made her way from her room and to the kitchen, where she saw Zabini sitting at the small bar. He gestured to the stove.

"Soup in a pan. Cold sandwiches. I'm not…I don't cook a lot," he finished sarcastically. She gave him a curious glance and then wandered to the stove. She poured some of the broth into a mug and took a cautious sip. The spells prevented him from doing anything to it, aside from making it taste awful, but it was fine. Still warm, even.

"Thank you," she murmured and continued to sip at it. She glanced at the clock and noted it was well past midnight.

"What are you doing still up?" she asked.

He didn't answer, just shrugged.

"Worried about a blood traitor like me?" she asked, a wry expression on her face.

He glared at her, but didn't offer a comeback. She shrugged and continued to drink. If he didn't want to talk, that was fine. And if her episode earlier could convince him to stop being an arrogant wanker, more the better. Not that she was happy he'd seen that side of her, but she'd rather have him respecting her this way than be back at where they'd been.

Still, she wondered. Why would he suddenly care, unless he felt guilty? And why would he feel guilty unless he cared? She shook her head, unable to worry it out.

"You should go to bed," she said. "I've got all this." She gestured behind her at the dishes. He stayed where he was for a moment, then finally slid from the chair and walked to the door.

He paused there and, not turning around, said, "I don't like this and I don't want to be here. You're the last person I'd ever want checking me out of that hellish home. But I'll try not to give you more trouble than it's worth. I hate owing you this much, so I'll do my bloody best to make sure I never owe you anything else."

Ginny gaped at him for a split second before her brows drew down in anger. What the hell was he talking about?

"It's the wizarding world you owe something to and not me, Zabini," she said and found it incredibly hard not to sneer at the same time. He made her so fucking angry-

"You think that, do you?" he retorted and turned to look at her. His eyes flicked over her twice, three times and she flushed. His expression fell into one of confusion and finally, wariness. "You do think that. I-" He stopped short and then shoved from the kitchen, shaking his head and muttering to himself.

Ginny let him go, stunned into silence as she was. What the fuck. Shaking her own head, she took another sip of soup, her face thoughtful. Then she took up a sandwich, held it between her teeth; spelled the food away and the kitchen clean; and made her way to her bedroom and the file there.

It was definitely time she read up on her prisoner.

AN: ilenoir, thanks so much for the great compliment. For the rest of you not watching my reviews page obsessively, ilenoir compared my Lucius to Dylan Thomas' "Do not go gentle into that good night." Poetry references for the win! Poor Draco, poor Lucius. So misunderstood. XD