A/N: Double post tonight as I'll be away from my computer for a week now. Please enjoy and do remember to drop me a review! I so love to hear your thoughts.

CHAPTER VIII

Hermione didn't open her eyes this time. What was the point, after all? She knew what she would see.

She lay on the floor, listening to the distant sounds of her friends, all alive again, as they went about their early morning business—Molly clattering in the kitchen; a laugh, possibly George, in the dining room—and her heart ached.

It hurt even more when somewhere above, a door closed, and someone started down the stairs.

She knew who it was. She could picture him: hair damp and tousled as if she'd just been running her fingers through it; lean, hard chest clad in the exact same jumper—green, soft, a little bit fuzzy around the edges—that she'd bunched in her hands only moments ago.

She supposed it had been inevitable, really. Her and Malfoy. They rubbed each other up the wrong way half the time, but the months they'd spent together had revealed to her his intelligence, his dry humour, his resilience—all in all, a strength of character she'd have sworn, once upon a time, he could never have.

And really, how could she not fall for the man who threw himself between her and a Killing Curse without even the barest moment's hesitation?

Tears burned beneath her eyelids. She'd been so convinced they'd done it, so convinced she'd saved him. And yet here she was, flat on the library floorboards, her day beginning just as it had done for the more than twenty times she'd lived it.

Heaven forbid Voldemort get hold of that damn clock. It was just as effective at sending a person insane as any other form of torture.

The footsteps stopped just outside the door. It was ajar, and she heard it creak quietly as he pushed it open.

"Granger?" His voice was hushed.

She didn't move. Simply lay there, eyes closed, chest rising and falling as steadily as she could manage to get it, here, on the brink of tears. She hoped he'd think she was still asleep and leave her alone—especially since whenever she met him at the door, he'd told her off for not getting enough of it.

No such luck. The boards shifted as he moved tentatively into the room. She heard him reach the sofa, then a faint rasp of fabric. There was a flutter of cool air, then something warm and soft settled over her.

A blanket. He'd covered her with a blanket.

Her throat grew tight, and the tears seemed on the very verge of leaking out from beneath her lashes. Afraid he'd see, afraid she'd have to explain, she feigned a sleepy murmur and rolled away from him, hiding her face.

There was a moment of complete stillness, as Draco evidently worried that he'd woken her. But then he released a breath and crouched beside her.

A warm hand traced the edge of her hairline then tucked a wayward curl behind her ear.

"Oh, Granger," he said softly. "What am I going to do with you?"

Her breath hitched as emotion, thick and intense, threatened to choke her. He was right there, he cared for her, maybe even—Merlin, did she dare hope it—more than that, but never in all her twenty-four years had she ever felt so very alone.

He hovered over her for a moment more, but then he was gone. Footsteps leading him away. Door swinging gently shut behind him.

Lonely and tired and utterly heartbroken, Hermione buried her face in the blanket and sobbed.

...

By the time she walked into the dining room a little over ten minutes later, eyes red and a little swollen but thankfully tear-free, Hestia and Sturgis were at the table, Arthur Weasley was stacking his plate high and little Teddy Lupin was tucked up on his dad's lap.

She had missed her chance to get Draco on side again—at least early enough to make a difference.

Maybe that was the problem. Maybe it could never be early enough to save everyone.

"Merlin, what's wrong with you?" Tonks asked, taking in her mad hair and sour expression.

Hermione felt her mouth twitch with a sudden and unexpected flash of dark humour. What would they say if she told them the truth? Where would she even begin?

"Nothing," she said, slipping into the seat beside Draco. "Just didn't get much sleep last night."

"Oh?" Remus glanced over the top of his newspaper. His eyes veered towards Draco, eyebrow cocked, and Hermione couldn't even find it in herself to be indignant.

"Granger decided to spend the night in the library," Malfoy said mildly as he spread butter on his toast.

"I did," Hermione said. Her gaze slid to Draco's. "Thanks for the blanket, whomever it was."

He gave an almost imperceptible shrug, but there was, she noted, a light flush staining his cheekbones. She remembered what he'd said after she'd kissed him.

This morning's me loved you too.

The memory of the look in his liquid silver eyes when he'd said it sent another wave of emotion rushing through her. She concentrated on filling her plate to hide it, although she wasn't at all hungry. Fortunately, Angelina had started an in-depth conversation with Arthur and Remus, so Hermione could nibble listlessly on her hash browns without being the centre of attention.

As she ate, she let her gaze traverse the length of the table. She watched Hestia tuck Sturgis more snugly beneath a colourful woven blanket. She watched Molly sneak Teddy off his father's lap and fuss over him. She watched Kingsley throw back his head and laugh as George made some joke—no doubt highly offensive—about the older man's chess skills.

Someone here would betray them today. Perhaps someone already had. If asked, she'd have said she trusted every single person in this room with her life, but that didn't mean a thing if one of them was under the influence of an Imperius curse.

And it had to be an Imperius curse. It just had to be. They'd fought side by side, they'd fought too long, too hard, to throw it all away now. Not by choice. Not without a fight.

The problem was, with the exception of Hermione herself, no one at the breakfast table appeared to be waging any sort of internal battle. She assumed it wasn't Draco—he wouldn't have let her destroy the clock again if it was. And she figured, with the morning they were to have, it would be difficult for either Arthur or Remus to make any sort of contact with the Death Eaters. No, from the moment they returned with Ndidi's address, to the moment they were attacked deep below the store, they were never out of Hermione's sight long enough to pass the necessary information on.

But everyone else in the house knew where they had gone. Most of the others had gathered in the hallway to see them off. She could only presume one of them had been watching, waiting for the right opportunity to hand them over to the Death Eaters. And what could be better than a relaxed weekday morning when four of the most competent fighters in the house were away on a mission?

Not that the others were, by any means, an easy target. The attack must have been fast and brutal to have taken them all so completely by surprise.

She would need a plan, she realised, as breakfast broke up and the others spread out about the house.

A plan to get Draco, Remus and Arthur on side; a plan to extract Ndidi, her research and the clock; a plan to find and expose the mole before they could contact Bellatrix.

Simple, she thought ironically. Then, alone in the dining room, she dropped her head to the table with a groan.

...

Reluctantly, she let the day run its course. She'd have given anything—anything—not to see Draco take another Killing Curse, but she needed time to gather her thoughts and form a strategy, and for that, the clock had to be destroyed. She couldn't risk it surviving and her day not restarting itself one final time.

By the time Draco fell in a blaze of green light and Remus dragged her back, glass skittering out from beneath her feet, she knew what she had to do.

Just one more, she told herself as the clock wrenched her brutally away. Just one more and she'd be done.