Draco spent the next few days working from home. His superior had been miffed, but Harry had spoken to him. Draco didn't know what Harry said, but it was enough to give him five days to work at home. He was grateful. At least at home, he could break down in peace.

He sorted through the files in front of him, sighing at all the work his superior, McFadden, had given him. Working in Magical Law Enforcement wasn't as exciting as most people thought it was. A lot of it was paperwork –long, tedious paperwork. They didn't go bursting into the homes of criminal wizards, making heroic arrests every other day. Most of the time they were in their offices filing.

He hadn't really wanted to become a Ministry wizard. Back in Hogwarts days, he'd considered playing Quidditch with Puddlemere United, but the war had changed all that. He'd joined the Magical Law Enforcement to show the magical community that he really was a changed man, to atone for the wrongs he and his family had done, and to bring would-be miscreants and criminals to justice. He'd originally tried to be an Auror but he didn't have the credentials. So he became a law enforcer. He subjected himself to mindless, tedious paperwork. He left his broom unused in the trunk in his room, the gleaming Firebolt engraving clouding over with dust.

He shifted a large pile of paper on the case against Bloddick Mandriger, a mildly insane criminal who jinxed Muggle dustbins to vomit up any trash placed in them when opened. He nearly dropped the stack when underneath he found Hermione's diary. He'd avoided thinking about it for the most part, not wanting to get his hopes up. Harry had said arranging for a Pensieve would take a while, Head of Auror office or no. Draco had made him promise to owl as soon as he got hold of one. Until then, they would both just have to wait, wearing out their nerves with their agitation.

He picked up the diary. It had been a while since he'd read any of the pages. The hope they'd found inside it had shaken both of them, and while part of Draco wanted to find out more, part of him was terrified at what he might read. Finally, reluctantly, he picked it up. The dark green ribbon was starting to fray from his fiddling. He opened it, found the most recent entry he'd read, moved on to the next ones. Deciding he needed a break from paperwork (and unwilling to return to the large stack of paperwork he had left to do), he began to read.

xxxxx

It's been maybe a week since Draco showed up at Grimmauld Place, badly scarred and barely conscious. Since then, I haven't left his side. His wounds have mostly healed thanks to the dittany, but he drifts in and out of consciousness. Mrs. Weasely, who emerged from her room for the first time in ages to check on Draco, said it was most likely due to a combination of near-starvation, sleeplessness and fighting. Yesterday he had a fever and I couldn't tear myself away from his side. I ended up sleeping in the armchair next to his bed. Today I woke up to find Harry's old cloak around me and a fresh cup of tea waiting at the bedside table. I felt much lighter than I had since our search for Horcruxes.

Draco's sleeping now. He looks so peaceful. It's a nice change from his usual self, who had eyes full of chaos and a furrow in his brow that seems so wrong for someone as young as he. He always looked so… dark, and pained. I can't count the number of times I've wished that I'd made him stay earlier. But then my heart reminds me that if I hadn't been about to lose him, I may never have realized how much he meant to me. Means, still.

I wonder how he feels about me. I wonder how he felt about that kiss I gave him, out of relief from knowing he would live. I wonder about the intensity I saw in his gray eyes, after I'd pulled away from him, before unconsciousness claimed him. He's never fully conscious long enough for me to ask or talk to him.

I hope he wakes up soon. He needs food and a bath and fresher clothes. Seeing him so vulnerable on the bed makes me want to mother him, so much. Bill guessed he's just been living on his own, somewhere out in those streets. Fending for himself. I'm simultaneously terrified and jealous. Part of me wishes to be out on the streets, making my own way in life. I think all of us in this house now understand how Sirius felt, all those months in our fifth year, cooped up in this old house. Captivity doesn't seem like a fair price for safety. I can feel the recklessness building inside me. Oh, I do hope we can come up with a plan before I do something regrettably rash.

The only problem is, with Draco here, we've lost our constant link to the outside world. Bill, Fleur and Charlie don't drop in often enough to keep us updated with Death Eater activities. I should speak to Harry soon; see if we can't work something out. It's been months; we've had more than enough time to grieve. I want to be able to do something already. I want to be able to avenge the wrongs that have been done –to the magical community, to Muggles and to us. I think of everything that's been lost –our homes, our friends, our school. I think of Ron, Tonks, Lupin, Sirius, my parents. I think of Draco, lying on the bed nearby, still unconscious. I feel weird. It's like something's building up inside me, like there's this itch that I can't quite scratch. It's hot and it's chafing and it makes me clench my fists and want to hex something. And that's when I realize.

I'm angry. For once, since the battle at Hogwarts, I'm feeling something that's not despair or desperation. I am actually angry.

xxxxx

The entry ended rather abruptly. Draco frowned down at the page. Obviously he barely remembered anything of that time, having been barely conscious for the most part. He thought back to those days after he'd shown up, scarred and weak. He remembered flashes of things –a cool hand on his cheek, a wet cloth on his forehead, incoherent voices, shivers caused by his fever. They were all hazy; they'd happened so long ago.

He looked down, saw that she'd started a new entry a few lines below the last one. He squinted at it. It was written in different ink, but it seemed to be from the same day. Before continuing his invasion of Hermione's privacy, he got up and made himself a cup of tea.

While waiting for the kettle to whistle (he could have easily heated the water by magic but he rather enjoyed waiting for that high-pitched noise –he found it quaint and pleasant), he sat on a kitchen stool, stared through the archway at the diary. It looked so innocent. It did not look like it held such immeasurable pain and hope.

Staring intently at the diary, Draco wondered if the idea he'd had would work. He could feel the turmoil inside of him growing. He didn't know if he was more terrified of the fact that it wouldn't work –or the fact that it would. He wanted Hermione back so badly, but how would they both deal with two years of lost time? What if they made her sane but she forgot everything? And what would they see in her memories? What had happened to her to make her lose her mind?

The kettle began whistling, drawing Draco from his frightening thoughts. Seeking relief, he quickly made a cup of tea, wrapping his hands around the cup to warm them, to dispel the chill creeping into his soul. He sipped the tea, relieved as the warmth spread through his body. Walking back to the living room, to the diary, he sat down, trying to ignore the small question pulsing at the back of his mind. He tried to push it to the furthest corners of his mind, tried to bury it beneath other thoughts, but it was stubborn. It murmured itself to Draco as he opened the diary to resume his reading.

Do I really want her to get better?

xxxxx

Draco woke up. Not the hazy, almost-consciousness he's come to the past few days; he was completely awake and aware of his surroundings. The first thing he said was my name. I was reading a book in the corner, trying to calm down, since I didn't want to talk to Harry all riled up. Riled up. I laughed at that. Draco said those words to me, so long ago, on the way to the Great Hall.

At the sound of his voice, I immediately stood up, my heart pounding. The fears I'd had for the first few days of his semi-consciousness resurfaced. What if he didn't remember the kiss? What if he did, but didn't feel the same way? What if he wanted to leave now, go back to wherever he's been staying, not wanting to be cooped up in this house, like the rest of us?

The fears disappeared, though, when he opened his eyes and focused on me, and repeated my name. All the anxiety and panic and sadness I'd had to go through this past week rose up and I ran to him and threw myself down on him and sobbed. "Don't leave," I said. I think I overwhelmed him with the intensity of my actions because for a while he just lay there, probably in shock. But soon an arm wrapped around me hesitantly, and a soothing voice said, "I won't."

I went to tell Molly that he was awake, after that. He was hungry, which was a good thing. Molly actually went down and cooked a meal for the first time in months. It was just some soup and roast beef, but it was heaven in our mouths after the snatches of meals we'd eat, or after tasting Harry's and Ginny's cooking (they stopped after a few weeks since Fred kept vomiting). She even ate with us. We sat in silence, chewing our food. I had to help Draco eat since his arms weren't so steady. He'd laugh the first few times I'd spoon soup into his mouth, and the sound was music to our happiness-deprived ears. Molly left the room after a short time; I think she was starting to cry. Laughter isn't something we've heard in this house for months. It was strange, but not unpleasant. Oh, I'm so glad Draco's here. Wait –that sounds wrong. I'm not happy about the circumstances that landed him here, but I'm happy that he's here. Maybe he'll find a way to lighten this funeral-like atmosphere, even just a little. If he doesn't become as hollow as the rest of us by staying here.

After we'd finished eating, and after I'd cleared away our plates, I sat by Draco's bed. It was strange to see him just lying there, unable to do much. The Draco I knew was either arrogant and scathing, or sullen and silent. In the early post-war days he was brooding, hesitant, or brusque. But I've never seen him weak. Not until now. Hesitantly, I reached over and laid a hand over mine. He didn't move, just looked at our hands. We sat in silence until he drifted off into sleep.

I would give the world right now to know what he was thinking then. How he felt. This isn't like Ron. This isn't an awkward, fragile love born from chaotic circumstances; this isn't me confusing friendship with love. This isn't like Krum either, with my naïve schoolgirl crush on a famous Quidditch player. This is… I don't know what this is. I don't understand what I'm feeling. How can I love him after only so short a time? Why am I so scared that I'll come up to this room and find he's stopped breathing? How can someone mean so much to you when for 7 years of your life they did nothing but cause you pain and misery, when you barely know anything about them?

Merlin, Draco, what are you doing to me?

xxxxx

Draco stopped reading, the thudding in his chest increasing. What are you doing to me? He'd thought that about her, so long ago, when he'd been falling for her. He closed the diary abruptly, his head dropping to his hands. Reading her entries was starting to cause him pain, especially knowing that half the time, she didn't remember any of this. Briefly he wondered if maybe he could give this back to Hermione, so she could read it and remember. His fingers tightened around the little book, his heart already against the very thought of it. He didn't want to give up his one link to the Hermione he loved, and he didn't want to risk her damaging it or herself. Better to keep it with me, he rationalized. He looked back down at the diary.

Do I really want her to get better?

The thought of him giving her the diary brought that question to the front of his mind again. Angrily, he tossed aside the diary and lay down on the couch, pressing a cushion to his head. He hated that question. He hated it for popping up now, when they'd found some hope. And he hated himself for thinking it in the first place. But most of all, he hated the fact that, despite everything he'd gone through for her, every day he'd waited in hopes of a cure, he did not have an answer.

xxxxx

A/N. So… is this chapter any good? Is the line of thought Draco's taking plausible, and for that matter, likeable? Did I just ruin the story forever? Seriously, you guys can tell me if the story's starting to suck. Especially with regard to the memories. Is the romance in them moving too fast?

Sorry for the delay in updating, btw. School's finally kicking in, and Physics is taking up most of my attention right now. I'll try to update at least once a week.

Again, reviews and constructive criticism, much appreciated, please and thank you!