A/N. Sorry for the time lapse between updates. I've been a bit preoccupied with my other fic (Not Like This, also Dramione) and enrolling, and I just haven't been inspired enough for this story yet. Luckily (or not so luckily, from one point of view), the Deathly Hallows book decided to fall on my head a few days ago and gave me an idea (it popped open at a good chapter), and now I finally have the time and the ideas to write.

On to the chapter!

xxxxx

Draco woke with a start, surfacing from a nightmare. For a moment he was still in it, and he clutched wildly at his sheets, eyes wide and panicked. And then slowly, his mind came back to reality and he fell still, chest heaving, sweat dripping down his chest. He pushed away the blanket, feeling suddenly hot and sticky, even if it was nearly Christmas. His head dropped to his hands; his shoulder shook slightly; dry sobs wracked his chest. But even if he was no longer in its clutches, the nightmare was still lurking, in the folds of the sheets, in the shadows beneath his pillow, in the corners of his mind. It hung there, lay there, throbbing.

He'd had this nightmare countless of times before. It was really less of a nightmare and more of a torturous memory. The battle at Hogwarts. Standing in the Death Eater circle, summoned by the Dark Lord to watch his final triumph. Harry Potter, just standing there, in the face of death. Surrendering. The Dark Lord raising his wand and suddenly two voices cried out and his father's hand was closing around his wrist, hurting him, because one voice had been the Dark Lord's and the other had not been Harry's… but his. Crying out not in joy, but in anguish. Pleading. And then a flash of green light and the body was falling and Draco twisted his arm out of his father's grip and raced toward the fallen figure, heart racing. Most nights he had been looking into Harry's dead face and then the Death Eaters would come and take him away and he'd wrestle his way out and run to the castle, the cold laughter of the Dark Lord in his ears. He would run and something would hit the small of his back and his world would go green and the black and he'd wake up, heart pounding. But last night was not like most nights. Last night, when he'd run to the figure in the middle of the clearing and looked into its empty eyes, he found they weren't green. They were brown.

It had been Hermione.

Shuddering at the thought of her lifeless brown eyes, he drew his knees up, rested his forehead against them. She's alive, he told himself. Alive. Insane, but alive. He forced himself to breathe slower, counting the inhales and exhales in his head –a trick she had taught him to calm down. One, two, three… After a while, he felt his heartbeat return to normal. He stretched out and his hand touched paper and startled, he drew back. It was the diary. He picked it up, looked at its careworn pages. Remembered what he had read. He felt vomit rise in his throat and tried to throw the book away but couldn't. His curiosity was getting the better of him. Sighing, he stood up and, taking the book with him, went down for breakfast.

Draco deliberately ignored the diary as he cooked his eggs and made his toast and dug up some spam -a Muggle food he'd developed a liking for ever since Hermione had finally managed to get him to taste it. He'd been very reluctant, especially after she'd told him what it was. And it had looked absolutely revolting when raw. He deliberately ignored it as he sat down on the table with his breakfast, opening the paper so that it obstructed his view of the diary, which sat across the table from him. He deliberately ignored it as he read the news, first Muggle, then wizard, looking for familiar names or particularly strange events. He deliberately ignored it as he washed the dishes, put them away, turned on the television (another Muggle commodity he'd taken a liking to, although he was still confused by how it worked), tidied the living room a bit. But as lunchtime rolled around and he slowly ran out of things to do, his thoughts turned to the diary more and more often. Finally, after channel surfing for perhaps the fiftieth time (an expression he still didn't understand –surfing was what Muggles did on water, what did television have to do with that?), he gave an exasperated sigh and walked over to where he had left it, festering on the dining table. Hesitating, fearful of what he might read next, he brought it to the living room, lay down on the couch, opened it, and began to read.

xxxxx

Draco just left.

I don't know why I wrote that. It seemed significant, for some reason. He's been coming here a lot lately, though I don't know where he comes from when he arrives or where he goes to when he leaves. His presence has been an immense help, however. Many of us can't or don't want to leave this house yet, mostly for safety reasons. Harry especially. Ginny made him swear that until we had a solid plan to go by, he wouldn't set one toe outside Grimmauld Place, and I backed her up. Harry's always trying to act like the hero (and here Draco smiled, because he heartily agreed), and even if he thinks it's for the best his antics only make us worry even more. He keeps trying to shoulder everything on his own, that stubborn boy. But Draco helps. He brings news from the outside, so we're updated with the movement of Voldemort and his followers, as well as other things. They're lying low for now, thank Merlin. Only a few Muggle killings and two razed towns. I know it's nothing to be thankful for, but the damage could be worse. And right now I just need hope to hold on to.

I think that's why Draco's coming and going is so significant to me. He gives us hope. By telling us these things, by keeping us connected, however weakly, to the outside world, he gives us hope. He's our only link to the real world. I can't bear to think of what would happen if we lost him somehow. We've already lost so many people so close to our hearts…

He came up to check on me, after he'd spoken to Harry and Ginny. He'd brought me some soup, which tasted much better than yesterday's. He made a small joke about Harry's improvement in cooking. I actually cracked a smile at that. He'd also brought a few books, bought on the sly. He wouldn't tell me where he got them, or from whom. It was a nice gesture. I actually felt almost happy. He stayed and talked to me a little. I think he was trying to cheer me up. I was grateful. Harry has Ginny, and Mr, and Mrs. Weasely have each other, and Fred and George are always together, and Neville's with Luna and everyone else is off living their own lives and I'm all alone here, with no one. I know everyone's here for me and they've been comforting me as best as they can… but I want someone special. Someone all to myself.

Not that I think of Draco in that way. He's simply a good friend and comrade. But it was nice of him to do that. I don't know if anyone's realized how lonely I've been; I've tried not to show it so much. But without Ron, things just feel so… empty. It's like a large part of me is missing, and I can't remember how it felt to have it there. I feel so… disconnected, from the others, from life. I just spend my days up in this room, occasionally going down for meals, but mostly just up here. Writing. So I really am grateful that Draco's trying to fill that void, even just a little. Even if he doesn't realize it.

He's changed so much, these past months. Ever since Professor Snape finally managed to turn him to our side (I'll never know how he managed, seeing as he's… gone, but we are incredibly and eternally grateful to him for it), he's been so different from the Slytherin boy who used to taunt me about my teeth. He's grown up, physically, emotionally and mentally. He's quieter now, more moody, though he tries to lighten things a little, in his own way. And he's gotten so thin. While talking today I noticed his cheeks were hollow, his expression gaunt, however he tried to smile. His bones stick out. I wonder if he's been eating. I worry that here is the only place he can actually eat. Oh, I wish he'd listened and taken Harry's offer to stay here.

Oh Merlin, what am I saying. He can't stay here. We'd need a link to the outside, somehow. I hate that he's risking his life by living free, like that, but I'm thankful. And… (And here, Draco observed that many words had been written and violently crossed out) if I'm really honest, I'm jealous. I want to be outside, too. To have firsthand knowledge of what's going on and not rely on someone else' story; to be able to stroll down an actual street and not just pace across a room; to be able to really feel the sunshine and the breeze and the rain, not just watch them from a window. To live.

As Draco turned to leave today, I felt the urge to go after him, to grab on to him and beg him to take me with him. But then his hand touched the doorknob and I stayed in my seat and he turned to me and I stayed in my seat and he said goodbye and god, why did I stay in my seat? (Smudged words. She'd been crying.) And then he left and the urge went with him and the hollowness and emptiness came and sat by me. And now I'm just here, in my seat. Writing about it.

I hope he comes back soon. I hope he stays with me again, just for a short while. I hope.

xxxxx

Draco looked up from his reading as his fireplace chimed. Someone was trying to Floo in. Shoving the diary under a cushion (he didn't feel much like sharing it with anyone just yet), he got up and peered into the flames. Harry's face peered back at him.

"Think you could let me in, mate?" he said. Draco grinned.

"What if I don't want to?"

"I'll come over there and blast your door open. I have my rights as an Auror, you know." Harry grinned back.

"I don't think those rights include unlawful entry of a Ministry wizard's home. But fine," he chuckled, tapping the figurine on top of the fireplace that allowed him to control who could Floo into his apartment and who couldn't. "Enter."

"Thanks, mate," Harry replied, stepping out of the fireplace and dusting the soot off his robes.

"Cup of tea? While I'm still standing."

"While you're still standing? What's that supposed to mean?" Harry asked, taking off his cloak and hurling it onto a nearby stool.

"Going once, going twice," Draco said, edging closer to the couch.

"Draco, what-"

"Too late." Draco flopped back down on the couch, an evil grin on his face. "You'll have to make your own tea now."

Harry laughed. "Unfair bastard."

"Once a Slytherin, always a Slytherin," Malfoy smirked up at him. Harry just laughed again and made his way to the kitchen. Draco had pulled similar tricks on him in the past. He didn't know why he kept falling for them. He'd have to remedy that, somehow.

Harry's voice carried out to Draco over the sounds of tea being made. "So, have you visited Hermione lately?"

Draco's smile instantly vanished. He bit the inside of his cheek, unwilling to answer. Suddenly, letting Harry in didn't seem like a very good idea. His sullen expression returned, the old one from Hogwarts, from the days after the fight. The expression he wore when he didn't really want to talk to or be around anyone. His father had hated it. So had Snape.

"Draco?" Harry asked again, carrying two cups of tea into the living room. He set one down in front of Draco, sipped from the other one, standing awkwardly over him, expectant. Draco sighed.

"Yeah," he mumbled, looking away, at the couch fibers. Some of the threads were coming loose. Draco picked at them.

"How is she?" Harry pressed, finally settling down in the armchair diagonally across the couch.

Draco took a while to answer. What could he say? And how could he say it? That she hadn't remembered that her best friend of seven years was dead, or that the parents of her godson were as well? That she had been fine and happy until the locket supposedly from Ron had gone around her neck and then she fled to that place, that halfway point between remembering and not, a limbo of memory? That he'd had to watch her convulse in front of him, her eyes going back and the whites showing, and that he'd had to catch her when she'd nearly collapsed? And all this, when just two days ago she hadn't even remembered that she and Draco were married, that they had been through so much together? That he was no longer the "pureblood prat?" Draco had never been good at explaining, never been good at really telling things, not the personal and important things, at least. It was Hermione who had drawn him out, coaxed him to open up a little more. Hermione. It hurt Draco just to think of her name.

"She was… better. She has her good days and her bad days, you know that," he finally responded. It was vague and he knew it. Harry simply raised his eyebrows, but made no further comment. Draco half-smiled, grateful that he hadn't been pressed. For all his faults, Harry at least knew when to keep quiet and let Draco tell him in his own time.

"You haven't visited her lately?" Draco asked, by way of shifting the conversation away from him.

"Couldn't. I've been backed up at the office. Suspicious accidents happening left and right, though half of them turn out to be simple family squabbles. You know, a few days ago a Muggle was found unconscious in her apartment with the place torn apart, but with no signs of forced entry or a struggle? Turns out her next-door neighbors were this big bunch of wizards who'd been staying together and they'd gotten quite drunk and left their door open. When the Muggle opened her door to investigate the noise, several spells shot out of the wizards' place and one caught her in the chest. Stunning spell, we think. The others must have caused the havoc in her living room. And I got called from dinner with Ginny for that!" Harry recounted, laughing. Draco found himself laughing, too. He was always grateful for Harry's company, especially after nights like the last one. Draining his tea, he lay back, his arm over his eyes.

"…do you think she'll ever get better?" Draco lifted his arm and saw Harry, both hands wrapped around his tea cup, staring intently at the edge of the small coffee table in front of him. He ran his eyes over the furrowed brow, the long bangs hiding the expression in his eyes. Harry looked up suddenly and Draco looked away, not wanting to see what those green eyes held. Not wanting to see the hopelessness that already raged inside his own heart.

"The healers… they said it could be possible. If they just knew what spell was used…"

"So they still haven't figured it out," Harry said quietly.

Draco didn't understand his reaction, but for some reason, Harry's remark snapped something inside him. Maybe it was just the stress from the past week, from seeing Hermione both mental and lucid, from work and from worrying and from reliving painful memories through her diary. Maybe. But whatever the reason, Draco suddenly felt the anger boil in his veins and saw the red flash in his eyes and he rounded on Harry, feeling ready to punch him.

"Of course they haven't figured out the bloody spell yet, you Gryffindor prat!" Draco shouted, shaking. He felt so out of control; he couldn't hold himself back. "If they'd found it she'd be okay by now, she'd be home, wouldn't that be obvious? If they'd found the cure, Harry, she'd be here, with us! Since she obviously isn't, obviously, she's not better. Obviously they haven't figured it out. Or are you too stupid to figure that out, Potter?" He kicked the couch in frustration.

"I'm sorry, Malfoy, I'm just trying to console myself here! In case you haven't noticed, the rest of us here care as much for Hermione as you do! We all want to see her get better, so excuse me for being a little disappointed that we're no closer to figuring this out than we ever have been, you Slytherin git!" Harry shouted back, getting up from his seat. His tea cup fell to the floor and shattered.

"She's my wife, Potter! Do you think I like seeing her like this, when half the time she can't even remember who I am?" They were both on their feet, staring at each other across the coffee table, eyes flashing. Draco hadn't realized it, but his hand had gone instinctively to his wand.

"And she's my best friend, and she has been longer than she's been friends with you. Look, Draco, I know you're upset. We all are," Harry said, trying to calm down. To calm both of them down. Fighting wouldn't do anything. "We all just want to see her better. It hurts us too."

Draco kicked the couch again, but this time more to be stubborn than to relieve his frustration. He knew Harry was right. He didn't have a monopoly on Hermione. With a long sigh, he sat back down. "Sorry. I'm just… I'm worried. About her."

"I know," Harry replied. He looked down at the broken cup. "Sorry about that, mate."

"It's all right. I can fix it."

"I've got it." Harry drew his wand and gave it a wave, muttering "Reparo." Instantly the cup pieced itself back together and flew to the tabletop. For a few moments, the two men just stood there, looking awkwardly at the ground. Draco didn't know what to do. He was glad Harry had come to check on him, but he didn't really feel up to entertaining company anymore.

"Well," he said, unsure of what to say.

"I think I'd better go. The office might need me. I just wanted to check up on you, anyway." Harry went and picked up his coat. Turning to Draco, he frowned. "You gonna be all right, mate?"

"Yeah." Draco rubbed his forehead and forced a smile. "Yeah, I'm good." Harry nodded, and with a wave, stepped into the fireplace and whooshed out of sight.

Draco stood for a long moment, calming himself down. Heading over to the fireplace, he tapped the figurine again. He leaned against the shelf above the fireplace, sighing. The apartment suddenly felt so small. He walked back to the couch, picked up his own coat. He glanced down at the cushion and after a second's hesitation, pulled out the diary and pocketed it. Then he stepped out of the apartment. He needed to go somewhere to think, and he knew just where to do it.

xxxxx

A/N. There we go! Hopefully this chapter isn't too lacking. Tell me what you think (aka review me)! I'll try to update this again soon, but no guarantees. School's already started so I won't have as much time to write. But I'll try my best!