I don't own Harry Potter at all and make no money here, off this fiction. Blergh.

AN: Ok, so it's another chapter. Some of the facts are solidified, and others remain hazy. I've given you clues in previous chapters, and I'll bring out the rest of the story soon-ish, but I trust that your reasoning skills work just fine. As in The Better Claim, I will not give complete details for some of the actual torture they endured- I prefer you to use your imagination, in some cases. Hmm...I hope this author's note makes sense. Anyway, enjoy!

It was a sound that woke her up, but it didn't frighten her; not like she'd been frightened the night before. Instead, it was the signal of life and the dawn and it was carried in to her on the light, early morning breeze.

Hermione turned her head and listened as the birds continued to chirp gently to one another. She felt lazy, relaxed. Like she'd run a marathon the day before and a good night's sleep had been her reward. The sun was just turning the Eastern edges of the sky grey and lavender and she felt at peace for the first morning in a long time. And yet she hadn't spent the remainder of the night in bed, no. She'd spent it in one of her armchairs; her legs curled up beneath her and an afghan about her shoulders; her head propped back against an extra pillow.

Now she could easily tilt her head and look out her front windows to her yard; could see the countryside awakening- a bird hopping across the grass there, a beetle flying lazily against a window screen here. She heaved a sigh and closed her eyes again. She also didn't have to glance about the living room to know that there was a half-empty cup of tea on the end table beside her; and that Draco Malfoy lay in the armchair across from hers, legs curled up in a similar fashion and face as peaceful as she felt inside. Her mind drifted over the events of the night: how she'd awoken and been sick, then found him outside her door. How he'd insisted he couldn't sleep; how she'd suggested tea and proceeded to force copious amounts of an herbal brew upon them both.

How Draco had seemed almost glad to have her sitting beside him, quietly drinking tea and sharing her misery. How she'd definitely been glad of his company- even if he was the last man she'd ever expected to be sitting with, half naked in her kitchen at one in the morning.

How he hadn't said a word about the scars along her shoulders…or her forearms. How he'd been content to not ask any more questions, even when she'd only told him half the story.

How she'd willingly told him the story at all. My therapist will be so pleased, she thought again, a wry expression on her face. All about those hours after the final battle, and that last, sweet second of peace before rogue Death Eaters had captured herself, Ginny and Ron. That they'd been prisoners for five, nearly six, long months. And even when she'd gotten to the part about the torture- not that she'd told him everything, he'd kept that precious mouth shut and drunk more tea and let her cry without comment. It was almost like a therapy session, itself.

She didn't know, of course, that he'd thought he was simply returning the favor. After all, only hours before she had done the same for him. And he owed her far more than a simple listening session. He owed her his life and his father's life. He knew now that she only wanted to help them, even if it was just so she could get them off her property and never deal with them again. She treated his father like a man and himself like…well, if not an equal, she didn't abuse or misuse him, not really. He was more like hired help than a slave. Like one of the family…not that he would ever let her know he felt that way, even if it was only a teensy, tiny bit.

Of course, how could she know that he merely wanted family back; wanted to belong to a close knit, loving community like he'd once had, more than anything else. That it was his best wish, after getting his father back, and that to have her treating him the way she did now stirred up feelings he sometimes wished didn't exist anymore. Since finding a resolution to them was a pure impossibility.

Hermione tilted her head again, swiveled back to glance at Draco briefly. Yes, last night had been interesting. A night for firsts. The first time she'd willingly shared details of her horrific days with someone not Harry or Ginny. The first time she'd admitted that she needed pills to survive. The first time she'd said no to those pills. The first time she'd slept outside her safe haven of a bedroom and gotten through the rest of a night in peaceful slumber, instead of the half restless dreams that would normally plague her.

Maybe that meant she was mending. Or maybe it meant her body was just tired of the status quo. Sometimes change has to happen; sometimes nature forces it upon us, she thought. And then another first occurred.

With the sound of a bluebird's song floating to her ears, her eyes fluttered closed, still heavy with sleep, and she drifted off again to a dreamless, restful slumber.

Lucius' eyes opened slowly on their own, as eyes will do when one has been dreaming and is just waking. As if they must test the surrounding stimuli to differentiate what is dream and what is reality.

It was the worst part of his day, every day. The moment when he woke up and knew consciousness for a brief minute, when everything was real and fresh to him as it had been eight years ago. When the second he'd seen his wife cut down by the killing curse coincided with the moment a cruciatus had hit himself, so that he couldn't reach her, couldn't take her in his arms and say his farewells. When he realized he'd brought all that suffering upon his family, all by himself.

When he knew and yearned for death.

Death never came, of course, and so he retreated into this half life, this shell, and huddled there, waiting for something to release him. Anything, as long as it was not this existence of bitter knowledge and recriminations.

A bird tweeted outside his window and his eyes narrowed in annoyance. That was not the release he was looking for. A short life, singing joyfully about worms and nests and other birds- he rolled over in his bed, closed his eyes, and tried to dive back into that place. Shut his eyes and ears to the dawning day.

It didn't work. Not like it had every other day the last eight years. Not even the pain he felt still coursing through his muscles from that damned untreated curse helped him slip back into oblivion. He rolled back onto his back, flung an arm over his eyes to block the daylight. A breeze tripped through an open window, lifting loose strands of his hair and teasing them across his skin.

His hair. That smell.

That witch. What had she said to him? He rifled through his foggy memories and finally pulled that one from the day before. When Draco's need- no, when her response to Draco's need- had dragged a response from him as well. What had she told him, after?

Ah.

That no one was allowed to check out, as she'd so quaintly put it. That if his son was trapped here, in this hell with herself, then he had damn well better show up, too. But he'd already shown up, didn't she realize that? The last twenty plus years of his life had been hell- trying to raise a family while keeping commitments he'd made to a madman in the folly of his youth. And then in trying to make up for it he'd lost everything.

Didn't she know that? Didn't she realize that if he hadn't stepped into that hell eight years ago she would still be in hers? Or had the sacrifice been in vain? Of course, he knew somewhere in his mind that it must have been in vain; otherwise his son wouldn't be so frightened all the time and they would be left to die in peace, the way they both desired.

Outside the window, more birds sang and their pleasure mocked him. He rolled over again and shut his eyes tight. But it took a great effort this time to deaden himself to the world awaiting him.

People were waking up in London, too. Zabini could hear them moving about in the other flats; could smell food as shops about began their morning baking and the other tenants in the building fried kippers. Could hear the sound of muggle vehicles screeching down a half empty street outside. Maybe a bird or two bravely tried to sing over the coming din, but it didn't make a difference to his mood. He was angry and confused and probably would continue to be that way until he finally left Ginerva Weasley's care. Not that he was really in her care. She seemed to be more in his care, judging by what happened the day before.

But he'd be very careful not to mention that again. He didn't have any desire to form a connection with her, or arrive at an understanding, or any such rubbish. He just wanted to serve his time and leave or die trying. But mostly he wanted to leave…and he would find a way to achieve his ends, one way or another. He would not stay here, under any circumstances, no sir. Not even if he did feel guilt over what he'd done. The Wizengamot didn't know about that and they'd never know, as long as he could be released soon enough. Because he knew if he stayed much longer, something else would happen that'd make him slip like he had last night; Ginny would realize what was going on- she wasn't brain damaged, after all. And then he'd be back at the beginning.

He would not go down for something that was not his fault. He refused.

He refused.

Draco came awake slowly, blinking softly in the face of the daylight coming through the windows; the sun gleaming happily just over the horizon. He stifled a yawn, began to stretch his stiff legs, and realized where he was.

The gentle motion of stretching leisurely was arrested and his senses snapped to life. Oh, shit. He was in Hermione's living room, he'd come downstairs last night and fallen asleep down here. She was going to kill- There was a soft sigh from across the room and he looked over to see Hermione, herself resting in the other armchair, her face peaceful.

Exhaling slowly, he eased back into the chair. That's right, he reminded himself. I came downstairs and she found me. And then we drank tea until we fell asleep. The thought made a rueful smile ghost across his lips and he looked over at Hermione again. Hair tangled about her head, mouth slightly puckered from sleep and dreams, face as eased as he'd seen it yet. He thought back to what she'd told him while he'd nodded sleepily over his tea.

She and Ron Weasley were taken by surprise by Death Eaters hours after the final battle at Hogwarts. Ginny came upon the scene and was kidnapped as well. That much he remembered, when he bothered to dig through his shattered mind. Most of what he remembered after that battle though, was sitting with his parents, wondering what was going to happen. Being taken into custody by the aurors, being sent back to the Manor. And after that they tried to keep to themselves. But he could recall that seconds after being processed and dropped back home, the aurors had been called away suddenly and there had been a report in the paper and on the wireless, begging for people with information on Hermione Granger and Ginny and Ron Weasley to come forward. But what had happened in those intervening months before they'd arrived at the Ministry one day; no one knew except the victims and the council. And no one was certainly telling, though the papers had made up story after story and there had been an incredible amount of speculation.

Draco and his father, though…well, neither had cared for various reasons. His father because he was dead to the world and Draco because he was so busy taking care of his father. Now that he knew some of it though, he wasn't sure what he felt. Guilt for which side he'd started out on? Anger at the people responsible, anger at himself? Why, though? He couldn't have done anything about the torture she'd likely endured week after week. They'd never been friends, never even liked one another, though he'd certainly had a grudging respect for her in their later years. Yet knowing what she'd been through and knowing he'd once believed those doing such things were right…it made his insides flip over, made it hard to breathe.

I deserve to be here, he thought. I deserve so much worse than being here. And the least I can do for her is behave myself, show her the respect and compassion I should have shown her all those years ago. The same things I should have shown all people, no matter what their background. He felt his insides ease somewhat and he looked at her again. She was still asleep and the clock on the wall read seven-thirty. She was going to miss her morning chores.

Then a small smile stole across his face. "No," he murmured to himself, "she won't."

As quietly as possible, he got up and folded the blanket she'd draped over him. Then he left the room and crept up the stairs to change and get started on chores she should be making him take care of, anyway. Hermione Granger can sleep in for once, he told himself. She deserves a peaceful rest far more than I ever will.

AN: By the way, I'm getting yet more interesting theories, especially concerning Blaise. Muahahaha! Keep guessing!