A/N. Okay, I realized I'd forgotten to explain the (*) in the last chapter. Too lazy to edit that document, so I'll just place it here. Draco, being a wizard, obviously does not know about gel pens and how we Muggles can use them to write on dark-colored paper (or any other paper for that matter).

Thank you so much to those who reviewed. Now, on with the chapter!

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Draco wandered through the streets, his collar turned up against the chill. He didn't really know where he was going, but he couldn't face going back to the apartment just yet. People rushed past him, jostling him and stepping on his feet and cursing at him in that peculiar way Muggles have. He mostly just stepped aside, muttered apologies, ducked his head. He'd learned it was best not to antagonize people in a hurry.

It started to rain and the symphony of umbrellas being opened started to play around him. He didn't have one of his own, but it didn't really matter to him. The drizzle got into his hair and plastered it to his skin, and he could feel it seeping into his clothes, chilling him. It didn't really matter. He weaved through the throng of human flesh and beating hearts; he stepped into puddles and got splashed in turn. But for some reason, it didn't really matter. All he could feel was emptiness. Suddenly, even if it was only five in the afternoon, Draco felt the need for a drink.

He turned on his heel, walked toward the nearest pub, a boisterous, crowded place where there were Muggle games called darts and billiards. The bartender nodded at him when he entered; he'd been here often enough, getting a few drinks with friends or just coming down for a pint on a cold day. When Hermione had been missing, Harry would often find Draco with bottles of Firewhisky at home, mumbling incoherently or simply sobbing. But after Hermione had shown up in her garbled state, Draco had chucked all the remaining bottles in his stash into a nearby bin. He'd sworn he would be strong for her. He hadn't gotten drunk since. But now, well… the emptiness was just too much.

His feet were taking him to the bar. His hand was going to his pocket. The money was coming out, crumpled and slightly tattered. It was changing hands. He didn't know what he asked for, but a shot glass was thrust into his hand. He downed it, the liquid burning his throat. It wasn't beer. Muggle drinks were so much better than Firewhisky. He rapped the glass down on the bar top, demanding another shot. It was poured. He downed it. Rapped the counter again.

His vision began to blur quite nicely. Draco found the emptiness fading –or rather, being filled up with this strange drink. He was feeling much better, maybe even a little cheered up. Delighted at this, he called for a round of the shots for the people around him. The alcoholics and drunkards cheered. They raised their glasses together and toasted to –Draco did not know, but it was bound to be something good. He looked around at the faces of the company: at the man in a football jersey; at the young man trying to act much older than he was; at the girl in the corner with her curly brown hair and warm brown eyes…

Brown eyes. Draco's world started spinning as he slumped down onto the bar, his hand clenched around the shot glass. Brown eyes. He hiccupped, and laughed at himself for the way he was acting. Brown eyes. He was pathetic, a pathetic person who couldn't stop laughing. Brown eyes. Wild, unseeing, hate-filled brown eyes, and a memory…

xxxxx

Draco sat on the couch in his apartment. He hadn't moved in the last two days, not even to eat. He simply sat and looked at the sweater he held in his hands, a red sweater with a small ink stain on the collar. Her sweater.

She'd worn it the night before she disappeared. They'd gone out to dinner, a small Italian place a few blocks over that was getting good reviews. She'd worn it with a scarf, a gray one, to match his eyes. She loved his eyes. They were like mirrors and fog and rainy days and moonlight. Or so she had told him once. They had been in bed, skin to skin; he had laughed. Her hair had smelled of strawberries.

Her scent had long since worn off, but Draco still clutched at the sweater, at the dregs of her essence. Clutched at anything that might remind her of who she was, of her existence. Anything that might keep him hoping for her return.

Where had she gone? Why had she left –without a word, without a note? Not even a goodbye. Draco had simply woken up the day after to find her gone, her sweater on the chair beside their bed, where her wand should have been. He had waited and waited, but she hadn't come back. Finally, he alerted Harry, who racked up the entire Auror office (and a few other Ministry employees) to find her. But they never found a trace. No one remembered seeing her. Magical location tricks failed. It was almost as if she didn't want to be found.

At first Draco had been angry. He had railed at Harry, at the Aurors, at Hermione even if she could not hear him. Where was she? Why couldn't they find her? They weren't doing enough, there had to be something more –spells, trackers, anything. He had often been drunk when he yelled. Harry would patiently take the bottle from his hands, force him to sleep and eat. Harry had Disarmed him when he'd gotten violent, had even stunned him once when he'd almost cursed a young Auror who'd been reporting to Harry. He'd always come out of these bursts of rage and break down with guilt and loneliness and drink some more. A vicious cycle, Hermione would call it.

Hermione. Where was she? Draco lay down on the couch, pressing his face to the warm red fabric of the sweater. Why had she left him, without saying anything at all? Was she still alive, was she still out there? Why couldn't they find her?

Draco sobbed into the sweater unabashedly. He had long since given up controlling his tears. How could you control loneliness and terror and hopelessness and anger? How could anyone rein all of that in? How could anyone live like this, knowing that the person they had given their heart to, the person they would die for, was gone… and might never come back?

There was a bottle of Firewhisky by his foot. He got up and grabbed it. Half of it still remained. He quickly brought the bottle to his lips, drank down a mouthful, winced as it seared his throat. The warmth didn't drive away the numbness. He downed another mouthful, dropped the sweater to the floor. Drank again. And again, hoping that somewhere in the bottom of the bottle, there was the saving grace of unconsciousness, or at the very least, an inebriated state.

But as he was about to down the last mouthful, his fireplace chimed. Wobbling slightly, feeling his way through the semi-darkness, he stood up. The fireplace chimed again and he stepped on the sweater, trying to make his way over to the shelf. Wobbling, he finally got there, and (after a few attempts) tapped the figurine. Harry immediately whirled into view, stepped out of the fireplace, looked around. He looked desperate.

"Wha's gottento you, Potter?" Draco asked, his words slurring slightly. Harry turned around and something in his eyes made Draco's heart clench. He knew that if they'd found Hermione alive, Harry would be ecstatic, and if she were dead he would be devastated. But Draco couldn't place the emotion in those green eyes. There was relief, but also a wild sadness and desperation. And confusion. Draco could read through Harry's eyes that he was lost.

"It's…" Harry couldn't seem to get it out. He looked at Draco, then at the floor, running his hands through his hair. "It's Hermione." Draco felt as if his heart had stopped. Suddenly he felt completely sober. "We've found her."

Something caught in Draco's throat and he almost fell. Catching himself on a nearby chair, he looked up at Harry through whisky-tinged eyes, looking for some sign that he wasn't serious. Had they really found her? His heart thudded in his chest and his legs felt weak and for a moment Draco was scared he would die. But he managed to choke out the words "take me to her." Without another word, Harry grabbed Draco's arm and together they stepped into the fireplace.

When they finally stepped out, Draco realized they were in St. Mungo's. Though initially confused, he rationalized that this would be an intelligent place to take her. Perhaps she had been injured while she'd been gone. Draco was so wrapped up in his increasing relief that he didn't notice the somber look of the nurses or the steely look in Harry's eyes. All he could think about was that Hermione, his Hermione, his beloved, was finally back.

They got into the lift. Draco leaned against the back wall, emotions racing through him. What had happened to her? How had they found her? Was she all right? He looked at Harry, hoping his demeanor might provide some idea, but Harry simply stood, rigid as a board, staring at the elevator doors. Draco thought of asking, but something about the way Harry held himself made him think otherwise. Finally, the elevator stopped at the fourth floor. They got out.

Expecting to enter the main ward for spell damage, Draco was confused when Harry walked right past the other wards and made his way to the ward at the end. All the strength seemed to drain from inside Draco. Not that ward… Surely not… He stumbled after Harry, panicking.

"Harry? Mate, what's going on?" All his usual formal tones and eloquence faded at the look on Harry's face. For the first time, Draco saw the anger in those green eyes, a fury he had never witnessed before, not even during their school days. His panic rose.

"Draco…" Harry pursed his lips, obviously thinking of a good way to tell him… whatever it was that he needed to know. "Something's… happened, to Hermione. We're all still trying to figure it out. The Minister didn't want you seeing her until we'd gotten some headway into… whatever this is, but I told him you'd need to see her." His gaze dropped to the floor, the steely posture dropping away. He slouched, shaking slightly. "She's… she's not well, mate. They just found her in the lobby maybe half an hour ago. The staff alerted me right away and I came here and well…" Without another word, he opened the door.

The first thing Draco heard was her voice, screaming. The first thing he saw was a whirlwind of brown curls and tattered robes. There she was, on the hospital bed, thrashing. Her eyes were wild, spinning around, unfocused. She was shrieking incoherently, syllables that didn't make any sense. She was clawing at the sheets, scrabbling at the pillows. She looked utterly, utterly mad.

Draco couldn't move, couldn't tear his eyes away from the sight of his demented wife. Was this really his Hermione? This crazed waif fighting off the Healers, her bony hands clawed, her back hunched, her face like a skull? But then he saw the ring on her finger. It had only been for a brief moment, but there was no doubt. The solitaire diamond surrounded by tiny emeralds. It was her. What had happened to her?

Suddenly, as if sensing his thoughts, she turned and for the first time her eyes seemed to focus. She stopped screaming, abruptly, though her mouth continued to open and close. Draco followed her gaze and found she was staring at Harry's hand. Or, specifically, Harry's hand gripping his upper arm, not in anger, but in comfort and protectiveness.

"Why is he here, Harry?" she demanded, her coherence catching all of us (including the Healers in the room) off guard. Harry pulled Draco behind him, an action Draco would have found insulting if he were capable of sparing a thought to anyone but Hermione. "Why are you protecting him?" She slid off the bed and immediately the Healers raised their wands. "What are you doing with him?" Suddenly her eyes moved to Draco and the rancor in them made his heart stop. "Draco Malfoy, you twisted, evil ferret, what have you done to Harry?"

xxxxx

"Draco? Draco? Mate, wake up! Wake up, you stupid bastard!"

Draco felt someone shaking his shoulder, causing his head to hit the table a few times. Wincing in pain (from both the banging and something else), he tried to open his eyes. Light seared into them and he moaned, squeezing them shut. His right hand was touching something cold and wet, and he could smell something… alcohol. The smell of booze. Woozily, he tried lifting his head without opening his eyes. It took a while, but he got it. The voice calling his name sounded incredibly familiar. His head cleared a bit from sitting up, so he tried opening his eyes again. Green. Green with something glassy over them. A shock of black hair.

"Potter?" Draco mumbled, his head still spinning slightly.

"Merlin." He heard Harry sigh. "Come on, mate, you're piss drunk. We've got to get you home."

"No," Draco moaned, trying to push Harry's hands away as they gripped his arms. "I don't want to go back."

"Draco. You stink of tequila and cigarettes and your clothes are a mess and you've got drool on your face. You need to go home, take a shower, and go to bed." Draco felt a tug on his arms.

"I don't want to go back." He pulled back, felt the grip loosen from his arms, fell to the floor. Pain shot through his hip. He curled up a little, stubbornly.

"Draco…" He felt a hand shake his shoulder again. "Mate, you've got to go home."

"I said no." Draco burst into sobs, his body shaking. He reached out and found Harry's arm, and gripped it tightly. "I can't go back. It just reminds me of her. That whole place. It just reminds me of her. I can't take it." Draco felt a hand grip his arm and his sobs intensified. He couldn't see it, but Harry was crying too, silently. Draco continued to sob unrestrainedly, both hands gripping Harry's arms now. He gasped, feeling his chest constrict. "I want her back. It feels so empty without her. It feels wrong. I want her back."

Harry could only tighten his grip and whisper, "I know."

xxxxx

A/N. So… did you like how I portrayed the night Hermione was found? Was this chapter convincing? R&R, much appreciated!