A woman was standing over his bed.
The sun was blinding, and Draco squinted as he tried to make out his visitor. Light streamed in through the windows behind her, framing her face like a halo as it wove through her hair.
No, not his bed. A bed. A bed he had never been in before. His hand stretched across the sheets without recognition.
As his eyes began to adjust to the brightness, the woman's features came into focus and morphed into those of Hermione Granger. But that was impossible, he thought. I'm still dreaming.
And then he glanced around the room and saw his clothes folded neatly on a chair in the corner, and he knew it was not a dream at all. Memories of the night before came flooding back through the foggy haze in his mind, and he suddenly no longer felt sleepy.
He tried to sit up but was startled by the pain, wincing from his injuries as he lied back down. He had forgotten that part, too.
"Where am I?" he asked.
"In the guest room. Ron sometimes stays here."
He looked around again. The room was small and neatly decorated in light green, and there was a tray of food sitting on the end table beside him.
"Why are you here, Draco?"
His eyes snapped back to hers. Her voice was firm, and he was chilled by the way she was looking at him—calm, serious, knowing. He did not reply.
"Harry told me you used a Portkey. He said he tested it."
Draco nodded.
"Where did you think it was going to take you?"
"I wasn't sure. Maybe to headquarters."
Hermione looked at him shrewdly. "You wanted to go back to headquarters? After all this time?"
"I thought I was going to die." He tried to swallow, but his throat felt very dry.
She was quiet for a moment. Suddenly, a voice called loudly from downstairs, and his head instinctively jerked upright in response.
"It's Harry," she said quickly. "No need to be alarmed."
"Does he live here?"
"No, but he didn't want to leave me alone."
They were silent.
She looked much older than she had when he had seen her last. There was a hardness in her eyes that had not been there before, and yet there was something almost sad behind her penetrating gaze. She stared at him as though there were a mystery etched into his face that she could solve if only she searched long enough.
Finally, she said, "A Portkey can't be made without knowing its destination. And there are only three people in the world who know where this house is—or even that it exists."
He averted his gaze. "I don't know who made it," he said quietly.
Hermione said nothing. She studied him carefully for one last moment, then gestured to a small vial on the tray beside him.
"Before you eat anything, drink that."
"More Veritaserum?" he asked wearily.
"It's a Healing potion."
She turned to go. Just before she could close the door behind her, he whispered, "Thank you."
She paused for only a moment, but he knew she'd heard him.
seventh year
"I don't know why I didn't think of this before," Hermione breathed as she wandered through an aisle in the Room of Requirement, scouring the shelves for anything of note. "There's so much in this room. And who's to say the room's not offering it all up to us, the way it's offered up those books?"
"Most of it's junk," scoffed Malfoy. "I don't think people would leave anything really valuable here."
"I don't know how we'll ever be able to go through it all."
"We don't need to. You'd be surprised how useless most of it is once you start looking. Ironic, really, given the room's name."
She glanced over at Malfoy, who wore a scowl as he went through a pile of wooden boxes, muttering "Specialis Revelio" under his breath repeatedly as he tapped each one with his wand. It was the closest he had come to mentioning his experience with the room from the year before—the very experience that had rendered their current project necessary. She wondered just how much time he had spent in this room, how well he knew its contents.
"I can't figure out what these do," he grumbled.
"Maybe they're just empty boxes."
That idea had clearly not occurred to him previously. Hermione held back a snicker as he threw a box aside in frustration and then resumed ambling down the aisle.
"I don't even know where to start," she continued, still feeling breathless from the excitement of exploring a veritable treasure trove. "Do you think we should go through each item together?" She examined what looked like a giant dragon claw sitting on a shelf nearby before picking it up and watching it crumble to ordinary dust in her fingers.
"It would be impossible to look at everything," said Malfoy, who was now inspecting a vial containing a dark violet potion. "We'll have to be selective." He uncorked the vessel, grimaced at the foul odor, and then gingerly replaced it on its shelf.
"But we should still try to look at as many things as we possibly can, there's so much—" Hermione suddenly broke off, gasping in delight. "Look at this, it's a set of moving figurines that form a tiny theatre troupe!" She eagerly hunched forward to scrutinize them more closely. "I think they're enchanted to put on plays—look, they have all these miniscule scripts—and, oh, I think I've woken them! They're performing some kind of circus act now. I wonder what kind of spellwork this requires—I've never seen anything quite like it before—it would have to be very advanced to—"
"And just how, exactly, are the Death Eaters going to use those against the Order?"
She glanced up to see Malfoy standing beside her, looking faintly amused at her exuberant enthusiasm. Startled, she stepped sheepishly away from the shelf. "They're not. I was just pointing out how many interesting things there are in this room."
"Merlin, Granger, this is the sort of thing you do for fun, isn't it?" he asked, crossing his arms and appearing greatly entertained by the idea. "In your spare time?"
"I have no idea what you're on about—"
"You're going to come back later to look at this again, aren't you?" he went on, that irritating smirk still plastered on his face. "To try and figure out the enchantment. Is this how you spend your Saturday nights?"
"There's nothing wrong with being interested in charms!"
"My God, if this is your idea of fun—"
"Shut up, Malfoy."
"—while the rest of us have lives—"
"Just because tormenting the helpless is your idea of fun—"
"No wonder you can stand hanging out with Potty and the Weasel."
"Oh, because hanging out with the Moron Twins and bloody Parkinson is so much—"
Hermione froze. Suddenly recalling the conversation she had overheard weeks earlier, she feared that she had hit upon a sensitive spot and felt slightly queasy with regret.
"Sorry," she stammered weakly. "I didn't mean to bring up..." Her voice trailed off, and Malfoy's smile vanished. "I was just…"
"Relax, Granger."
"I shouldn't have said that."
"I said, relax."
She stared uncomfortably at the floor. Malfoy uncrossed his arms and reached out to pick up a tightrope-walking figurine. "Here," he said, holding it out to her. "Now you'll have something to do all weekend."
Hermione looked up to find that his smirk had returned.
"What's the matter? Need the whole set?"
She snatched the tiny figure out of his hand. "I'm taking this because I'm not ashamed of my intellectual curiosity," she sniffed.
"Intellectual curiosity?" he laughed. "Is that what we're calling it?"
"I know big words are hard for you, but try to keep up."
"I know you're used to having friends who are barely literate, but don't worry, that won't be a problem here."
"My friends are barely literate? When was the last time Crabbe or Goyle so much as opened a book?"
"You know, come to think of it, Granger—this project has to be the best thing that's happened to you all year. Being surrounded by idiots all the time—you must have been absolutely starved for some intelligent company."
"You're insufferable."
"Look who's talking."
"We're going to talk about Malfoy at the meeting tonight."
Hermione closed her book. "What did Kingsley think?"
"He said he wasn't sure. The members aren't exactly in agreement over what to do." Harry leaned over her shoulder to look at what she'd been reading. "Legendary Tombs: Ghostly Curses and Hidden Treasure," he read aloud. "Find anything interesting?"
"Not yet. I've only just started the part about Ravenclaw."
"Did you know, I wasn't even aware there were legends about the founders' tombs," murmured Harry. "What would I do without you?"
"You would find less Horcruxes," she replied with a wry smile.
Grinning, he bent down and kissed her on the cheek. "Have you thought of what you'll say at the meeting tonight?"
Hermione folded her fingers together. "I wasn't planning on going, actually."
"Really?" Harry straightened and looked at her. "I think the Order needs your input tonight—until they can see Malfoy for themselves, your word's as good as they'll get on whether they ought to reaccept him or not."
"I know, but I don't want to leave him alone in the house just yet. He's doing much better than I'd expected, but he's still in bad shape."
Harry sat down on the bed next to her with his eyebrows furrowed.
"Hermione," he said quietly, "I know you want to see the good in everyone. It's one of the things I love about you."
"Harry—"
"No, listen. You're kind and compassionate and trusting, but—I worry sometimes that you're too trusting." He reached out to tuck a strand of hair behind her ear. "I love you, and I want you to be careful."
"You don't have to worry about me."
"I can't help it," he said with a smile, but he couldn't disguise the concern in his eyes. "He could be dangerous, Hermione. And he's hiding something. I just know it. Just—just be careful, all right?"
She leaned forward and nestled her head in the crook of his neck. As he took her into his arms, she whispered into his skin, "I'll try."