Author's Note: Oh gosh, I almost felt like not posting a chapter today (but obviously, since the new chapter is right here, I do hope you know I got over myself). I'm feeling rather like a spoiled brat, and I hate that feeling… xD But anyway, in case you're wondering, let me explain to you the silly, stupid reason why I was reluctant to post.

Today, I was looking at the summary for number of reviews that I'd gotten, and for the last few chapters I posted… while they had close to the normal number of hits that I get, they had a lot less reviews than say, the stretch from chapters 41-47. And then I realized that it must be because that when my chapters are posted closer together, most people tend to just keep reading and then review at the end of the latest post (which makes a lot of sense; it's the way I review, too, so please understand that I'm not saying it's wrong to do that).

So part of the reason why I hadn't gotten as many reviews for these latest chapters was because they were all posted so close together (another reason could just be that people are getting tired of the story, but I'd rather not think about that). And that made me want to hold this chapter back a day or so. But then I figured that that wouldn't be fair to the people who did review, and I'd promised to update more regularly, so I got down to editing anyway. So don't worry, I won't let the number of reviews dictate my updating speed. I promise.

I'd like to say that I'm above these numbers, but then I'd just be lying, and that's not a good thing either. So I'll just conclude that I've been spoiled by the larger numbers of reviews in the past, and we'll leave it at that. Oy vey. Did not mean to make this author's note so ridiculously long. Whoops!

Now that I'm done rambling, here's the next chapter!

Chapter 55

I'm alive.

This can't be death. My whole body feels like it's made of lead. I don't have the strength—or the desire, for that matter—to move a muscle. I've never gone to the point when I had literally nothing left. And from the way that life seems to be draining right out of my limbs, I may very well have gone too far.

My left arm appears to have gone completely numb.

But then, the numbness is only in my left arm. If I really were on the way out, my whole body would be losing feeling. Maybe I'm not beyond help yet…

I force my eyes open and am confronted by brightness. My eyes automatically shut, avoiding the light.

I try to flex my left hand, but something other than my sluggishness is obstructing its movement.

Then there's a light squeeze on my hand, and I hear her voice.

"Draco… are you awake?"

I think I've gotten even weaker since I was last conscious. I feel like I can't even speak. I already feel sleep dragging at the edges of my mind, threatening to pull me into the dark.

Her fingers thread through my hair.

If I just fall asleep… will I never wake?

She repeats my name. Her hand brushes briefly against my cheek before being drawn back rapidly. Then her fingertips come into contact with my face again.

"Draco, please wake up—answer me," she says. There's a sense of urgency in her tone.

Oh, but I'm so tired.

Then her shaking fingers press against the side of my neck, and I realize that she's muttering to herself.

"Please don't be dead, please don't be dead…"

I groggily force my eyes open a crack. "Still kicking," I whisper.

I watch as the expression on her face transitions from frantic to relieved in a heartbeat. She pulls me upward in an attempt to sit me up, but I'm dead weight in her arms, and I know it. I try my best to help her, but my mind seems to have detached itself from the rest of me, and my body remains stubbornly unresponsive.

She eventually hauls me up partway and sits behind me so that I'm leaning back on her. My head lolls to the side, my forehead pressing into her neck, and I strain to take some pressure off her, to no avail.

"I must say…" I mutter, "Naree would be… taking… much better care… of me."

"Is it so horrible that I want to repay you for nursing me back to health?" she says, holding up a glass of liquid.

She struggles with the angle—my shoulders are very broad, and reaching around them is difficult for her. It doesn't help that I've put on quite a bit of muscle in the past few years.

"Get Blaise," I murmur. "He'll help."

She doesn't do as I say. Of course. How could I have forgotten how stubborn she was? She presses the edge of the glass against my lips.

"If you don't drink this, I'll force it down your throat."

"Sounds fun."

"Shut up and drink," she says.

I let her pour it into my mouth. The liquid is cool and feels soothing on its way down my throat, but as I finish the glass, I start to feel its effects in my stomach in the form of an acutely painful burning sensation. Soon, it spreads so that all of the nerve endings in my body seem to be on fire.

"Draco?"

She sounds alarmed, and I wonder how much pain is showing on my face. I tense up and clamp my teeth together to avoid biting my lips or tongue. Her arms are squeezing me almost painfully, and despite the pain, having those thin arms wrapped around me brings me much more happiness than I would have expected, makes the ordeal more bearable.

All I can hear is a distinct rushing sound, punctuated by loud beats. It's blood rushing to my head, I realize. Blood is pounding in my ears, blocking out all else.

But I still feel her arms around me, and I take comfort in that fact.

I don't realize that I'm shaking until the pain fades, and I slowly stop. Her words become defined, and I realize that she's chanting repeatedly under her breath: "You're going to be fine."

Then she seems to notice that I've stopped shuddering.

"Draco, are you all right?" she asks tentatively, as though she's afraid of the response.

I nod and am thankful for the ability to move, even if it's as slight a movement as a nod. "Better."

She sighs, relieved. "I thought you were about to die, Draco. Your skin was so, so cold."

"Sorry I scared you," I mumble.

I wish I could see her face, but she's still behind me, cradling my torso, and it would take too much effort for me to even lift my head. I don't ever want to leave this safe haven. But I know that I'm heavy, and I don't want to burden her.

"You can let me go now," I say.

Instead of doing as I say, her arms tighten around me protectively. I try again to lift my head to look at her, but I still feel too weak for that.

"Hermione, what are you doing? Is that Malfoy?"

Ah, the Weaselette.

"Ginny, I'm so sorry I woke you up," Granger says.

"No, I woke up on my own," the Weaselette says. "What are you doing?"

"He was really hurt."

"So you are… hugging him until he feels better?"

"No…"

"Then explain."

"Body heat helps for recovery," I fib.

"Yeah. Right."

Well, she's not as dumb as her brother, I'll give her that.

Granger rubs my arms. "You still feel so cold, even through your sleeves," she comments.

"I was on the brink of death," I reply. "What'd you expect?"

She punches my shoulder. "If you knew you were dying, you should've told me before you went to sleep."

"Before I fainted of exhaustion, you mean."

Instead of replying to me, she says, "Ginny, please stop staring."

I glance over and see that that pair of light brown eyes is indeed fixed on us.

"Just put me down," I tell Granger.

"All right," she says.

She slowly shifts away, lowering me carefully. I'm tempted to tell her that I'm not made of glass, but the tender look on her face is so breathtaking that I can't bring myself to make it go away.

I wince—the motion, however slow, still stretches out my extremely sore muscles, and I close my eyes.

"What time is it?" I ask.

"I don't know," she replies. "Morning?"

"Hermione," the Weaselette says, "it's starting to hurt again."

"I'll be right back," Granger says, getting to her feet and leaving the room.

Right, Ginny Weasley was injured. That's part of the reason why she's here in the first place. I wonder what hurt her badly enough that she still hasn't recovered. But then again, it's only been two nights since the attack on the Order. If she'd been attacked by Dolohov, she'd still have a few days left to go in order to make a full recovery. And Dolohov isn't even our very best.

"So, what happened to you?" the Weaselette asks me.

I turn my head to the side just enough so that I can see her. "None of your business."

She scowls. "Why aren't you at the Manor, anyway? It's where you belong, isn't it?"

"Why don't you ask Granger when she gets back?"

At that moment, Granger reenters the room. "Ask me what? And it's just after ten," she says.

Right, I'd asked her about the time.

"I wanted to know why Malfoy isn't at the Manor," the Weaselette says, starting to sit up.

Granger is immediately beside her, supporting her. She gives the Weaselette a goblet to drink from, and the room falls silent. I close my eyes, resting them. I still feel ridiculously weak—I know that it'll take quite some time for me to recover, but I hate feeling helpless.

"He showed up here last night, and he was seriously injured. I told him to stay," Granger says.

There's a silence, and I sense that Weasley doesn't like the fact that Granger asked me to stay. I suppose I could piss her off even more and say that I didn't even want to be here, that I wanted to go back to the Manor instead. But I feel like it would take too much effort.

Merlin, too tired to irritate a Weasley? There really is something terribly wrong with me.

Then the bed dips slightly, and I open my eyes to see that Granger is perched on the side of my bed, watching me. She gives me a small smile, and I feel uneasy. I glance to the side and see that the Weaselette is glaring at me as though I forced Granger to come to me.

"You know, I saw the two of you," the redhead says.

"What do you mean?" Granger asks.

I look back up at her face and see that her eyes are still fixed on me. Why won't she stop staring? It's slightly unnerving to see her watching me—it's making me start to doubt that this is reality. And it makes me feel as though I can't look at her. I don't want her to catch me looking at her.

"The night before last, I saw you."

Was I even here the night before… oh.

"The night before last?" Granger repeats softly. "I thought you were asleep, Ginny."

"What's gotten into you two? You always hated each other. I mean, I thought you were with me on this, Hermione. We never liked Malfoy."

At any other time, I feel like I would have had a snide comment to shoot back at her, but my brain feels extremely sluggish.

"His dad tried to kill me, Hermione. Remember?"

"That was his dad, not him."

"Why are you defending him?"

"He saved my life," Granger says calmly. "More than once."

I'm aching to look at her face, but I can still feel her eyes on me, so I keep my eyes focused on a spot on the ceiling.

"I find that hard to believe. But I guess he did get you and Zabini out of prison."

"That he did."

The two of them fall silent, and I chance a glance at Granger, only to find that she's still watching me.

"How are you feeling?" she asks.

I savor the caring look in her eyes and the slight upward tilt of the corners of her lips, committing her expression to memory so that I'll have it always.

"Exhausted," I reply, settling on the truth.

She lifts a hand and moves it toward me, hesitantly. I watch its progress until it's out of my sight, and then I feel her fingers brushing through my hair.

"Sleep, then," she finally says. "Now that you're not in danger of dying, you need natural sleep to recover."

I want to protest, want to say that I'd much rather stay up and stare at her face all day. Bugger recovery. If being injured will keep her at my bedside, I wouldn't mind letting Voldemort chop one of my legs off. Hell, he could take both of them.

When my eyes don't close at her suggestion, she frowns disapprovingly.

"Sleep, Malfoy. You need it," she urges.

Irritation stirs in me. Of course, now that her friend's awake, I'm not Draco anymore. I'm Malfoy. But even that emotion is too tiring to keep up. Oh, for fuck's sake, I can't wait to get better.

I take one last look at her before shutting my eyes.

"If I don't wake up by evening, you have to wake me. I have somewhere to be tonight," I say.

"Can you really recover enough in one day?" she asks. "I don't think—"

"Don't be so fussy," I say. "It's not something I can control, anyway. I'm required to be there."

"Fine. What time?"

"Nine," I reply.

She sighs. "All right, I'll wake you up at nine, if you're not already up."

"Hermione, I think you've gone mental…" I hear the Weaselette say as I spiral toward unconsciousness.

Well, little weasel, we're all a little mental, aren't we?

Author's Note: Yes, Draco, I agree. We're all a little mental (: