A/N: Despite the many reasons for my absence there's just no excuse for how long it's taken for me to continue. Thank you to all who were patient with me, all who encouraged me, and all of you who have returned to continue reading. As I promised I won't leave you without an end. I have posted this and another short chapter for your enjoyment, but more are coming. I'm working on them now and I truly think it shall be worth the wait. It may help to go back and read the previous chapter to avoid confusion since has been a while.

Stolen

Part IV: Not Yet Certain

Chapter: A Stillness and a Silence

She really should not have done that. Hermione bit down hard on her lip which was considerably wider than she was accustomed to it being. Understandable considering it was someone else's lip. She playfully twirled someone's else's' loose honey-hued curl by her jaw, avoiding his eyes, his startled, inquisitive eyes. As she stared thoughtfully into her soup, she no longer had any doubt about it: kissing Draco was a bad idea. He looked strange now, distracted but not as sad and bitter as before. She had feared he was in danger of letting his grief claim his life and turn him into a man like, well, like Snape. Not to mention, this new face of his was incredibly handsome. Was it any surprise that quite suddenly she couldn't help herself? She blamed it on the stress, on the fact he looked nothing like himself, on frankly anything but … because the worst thing right now, the absolute worst thing she could do, would be to start liking Draco.

Draco. His hair was so dark now, not like Draco at all. Those falcon sharp grey eyes were nowhere to be seen, taken over by a sweet blue. Too sweet, cloy, but even as she stared he was changing- ye gods! Already- changing. Hair darkened as he ran his fingers through it, then it straightened. His face began to softly push these false features. She try to hint to him as best she could by tugging at his scarf, but he just looked annoyed at her gesture. It only took a few moments for her to witness a great sweeping realization make its way across his face. He'd seen her changing too and immediately got her meaning. He instantly made to cover it.

Heads bent down as if in prayer, they attempted to hurriedly finish their soup before braving the streets. Darting out in a panic would only draw more attention. She tried to think fast, but this time nothing was coming. This must be it then. It had to end eventually. She couldn't expect to be hidden from the world forever. Unless she was mistaken, the man at the counter whose reflection she watched in the glass was calling the police. She judged from his suspicious glances in their general direction and the hush that had fallen at the bar moments after their entrance that they were out of time. Now how to leave quickly and inconspicuously?

There was a quite disagreement going on behind them, one she couldn't make out. She nodded to Draco to rise and head for the door taking advantage of the diversion the conflict at the bar created. Would they have enough money for another train? Could they risk another security check? They could always camp in the woods somewhere or steal someone else's hair. How would they find the woman she had seen on the news, the one that knew the truth? Had the Death Eaters or ministry found her first? Should she even bother her?

Her head swarmed with thoughts of escape as they attempted to duck out silently. Before they could get to the door, however, a hand closed tightly around her elbow. She nearly yelped; her eyes flew open wide. Draco stopped, turning angrily towards the culprit.

An older man had stopped her, his face smiling weakly. "Anna," he said softly and just as she was about to tell him he had the wrong person she bit back her retort along with her fear, smiled, and replied instead, "Hello."

"I'm glad you could make it. Is this him? Your fiancée?" His eyes, though his expression was happy-nay overjoyed to see her-were brimming with tears.

"Yes," she forced herself to grin wider. It hurt. She lovingly took Draco's arm. It felt a little better to know he was clinging to her too and that his palms were sweaty in nervousness as well. "This is Sean." It came naturally.

The man came forward and pulled Draco into a quick hug. She held back the hysterical laugh threatening to jump forth at the look of fear on Draco's face. It probably would have shocked him less if the man had thrown a bat boggey hex at him.

The exchanged a glance and even behind false smiles they agreed: This man was very confused, but they could use it to their advantage for a moment if only to get out of there alive. Their savior turned to address the bar full of suspicious eyes, "This is my Gretta's friend from school. Her and her fiancée are staying with us." Silence met his declaration. "I'll see you all at the wake then?" To this a plethora of solemn murmurs arose. He nodded approval and led them safely out the door saying, "We'll let's go back to the house shall we? Seeing you will brighten Agnes' day. "

Hermione didn't hesitate to follow the stranger out into the street, but pulled her arm free almost immediately. He let it go. The surreal, confused gleam left his eye. He was sad and quite disenchanted.

"I hope I didn't frighten you." His deep voice offered without a hint of its former cheer. "We needed to get you out of there. Let's head to my place."

Hermione shot Draco a shocked look that he, in turn, matched. They were both cautious, quite aware of the dangers of following a stranger, but they were equally aware of their limited options. They may be being led to their deaths, but they had nowhere else to turn.

The man, who looked about Mr. Weasley's age or perhaps older and who walked with a slight limp, led them to a restaurant down the street. It was a nice place with neat white handkerchiefs and tables lit for two, more than they could afford for sure. She hesitated in the doorway as a couple of waiters passed them, wearing black suits. They were college students or about that age and they were swamped with work by the look of it. The tables were full.

"Come on," the man continued, leading them to a flight of stairs in the back. The staircase behind the door was plain, dark wood, and lighted by a single wall lamp in contrast to the posh interior of his business. It led to a landing equally unexceptional that faced a single shabbily painted door. The man opened it without hesitation to reveal a comfortable, modest flat.

The walls were a light pink and cream and had a soft blue trim. A grandfather clock, lightly dented, sat in the hall that opened into a den on one side and what could only be a kitchen on the opposite side. The den was lined by windows, hung by curtains that were also cream and embroidered with flowers. A quilt and a sewing basket sat by a dark blue arm chair dappled with tiny pink flowers. A matching arm chair sat next to a bookcase and a lamp table, the sofa next to a fire place topped with more flowers, silver candlesticks, and a family portrait. Suddenly things became horribly clear to Hermione, though Draco still looked confused. She nudged him and indicated the painting resting above the mantle. His eyes widened.

"Agnes, I found them." The man called into the kitchen area, but Hermione did not turn to see their host right away. Her eyes were fixed above the mantelpiece.

The woman in the portrait who sat next to a young girl had a familiar face. Granted, when they had seen her she had red puffy eyes, and was older than she was when that picture was painted. There was a certain quality of hollowness to her as of late that was not captured by the oil on canvas emitting a sentimental glow. When she emerged from the right she had a unique, distraught expression that was instantly recognizable. She was the mother they had seen on the telly in the station, the mother whose daughter had been killed in the death eater attack labeled terrorist, the attack for which they had been blamed.

"Well," she sighed, wrapping her arms around herself and examining them. "Well. I imagine you're tired. Come with me."

Hermione was too shocked to move. "I- I saw you, on the telly and I, well, I'm so sorry for your loss."

"We didn't do it." Draco blurted. She mentally damned his self-preserving ass. "It was wizards. And now,"

"And now they are framing you for it," finished the older man for them.

"Yes," both breathed at once in a mix of relief and incredulity.

"You mean that you believe us?" Draco stammered in disbelief.

"I believe what my daughter said." He explained plainly.

"You poor dears, having to run for your lives, left everything and everyone you know behind. How terrible." The woman spoke with sympathetic eyes. If she had any idea how true it was…"Come along, you can sleep in here."

Simply because they could do nothing else, they followed her down a narrow, carpeted hall to a bedroom, a real bed with goose down pillows. A home stitched quilt. Clean sheets. The bed was simple, well worn and nothing remarkable, but they both looked on it as the most inviting thing either of them had ever seen. Hermione wanted nothing more than to sink into it and fall into a deep, emotionless sleep. She could feel Draco longing for the same thing next to her. Had she not been so exhausted she might have protested sleeping in her daughter's room, but as it was she allowed the woman to shut the door on them. They changed in silence, careful not to touch anything, not bothering to hide behind the dresser or slip modestly into the bathroom, only averting their eyes. They were themselves again now and there was no temptation to look. In a single layer of clothes, finally warm, they slipped into the bed not bothering to divide up sides. There was no need. They already had mentally dozens of times.

The bed was small, intended for one person, but as their bodies brushed each other under the cool sheets neither had the energy to shift uncomfortably away. Neither felt like admitting the contact no longer bothered them. Human touch can be a powerful thing. The grief in this home was palpable, contagious, and grief rejects loneliness.

Almost as soon as he eyes were closed, she drifted into a deep sleep one deep enough to dream. In this dream she wandered barefoot through the empty halls of Hogwarts that were draped in black as if in mourning. Stillness and silence pervaded the halls ways and she heard as one might hear underwater. She was not sad as she might be in a funeral. She was content, at peace. She was walking rather quickly as if on her way somewhere. She reached a junction and stopped as if her dream self had forgotten her destination as her real self had questioned just that. To the right she turned swiftly and broke into a dead sprint, but none of this part of the castle she recognized. Still she ran determinedly. As she ran, in the distance she could hear weeping. It was like a sound the wind made at first, but there was no wind. Then it became an echo, then it sounded as if it were up ahead a long ways. She tried to discern whose voice it was, for whom the voice wept. The more she ran, the less she heard it. She grew tired and hot and out of breath and leaned a moment against the wall and as she panted. As she stood, she began to hear murmurs coming through the wall. The wall was speaking. She pressed her ear to it and listened keenly. The voice, the weeping one, was coming from inside of the wall. Closing her eyes, she tried to listen harder until at last she could distinguish its owner through fragmented words. It was her voice and as she listened closely she caught a few words. "Harry. I'm so sorry I had to do it…Harry…so sorry…please, Harry. Harry."

"Harry." She murmured, the tears falling without the pain behind them. "Harry." She woke herself up to hear his name around her. She had said it aloud. Her eyes opened and took in the room again. From the foot of the bed Draco watched her as he pulled on some black pants the rest of the way. He had an odd look on his face that did not waver as he studied her sleepy expression.

"What?" she asked sitting up and rubbing the sleep for her eyes. She felt well rested for the time in what felt like ages.

"Do you always say his name in your sleep?" With that he looked away and left the room. She flopped back down in the bed. As usual he didn't allow her time to explain. She thought about the strange dream as she forced herself from the bed to dress in the clothes laid out for her. She hesitated, uncomfortable. This was almost certainly her daughter's clothes the woman had loaned them. Could she bring herself to wear it? To refuse might be an insult and her clothes were in dire need of a washing. She decided to change.

What did the dream mean, she vaguely pondered, then caught herself. Meaning? In a dream? She was beginning to sound like that batty old Trelawney looking for answers in odd dreams when she very well knew that dreams were nothing more than a subconscious manifestation of innermost thoughts, worries, desires, and hidden perceptions. She should be relieved she wasn't murmuring Draco's name in her sleep and be done with it. There was more than enough in the real world to be getting on with. Something about that stillness and silence, the very real sound her own voice, continued to tug at thoughts.

Her bare feet padded down the carpeted hallway, their sound masked. She caught the sound of voices conversing in the kitchen ahead as she rounded the bend into the den. Curiosity got the better of her and she paused to eavesdrop.

"Thank you again Miss Agnes."

"Not at all dear," Miss Agnes replied. She was rather like Mrs. Weasley, Hermione thought, only with more money, fewer children, and with a heavy weight note of woe in her voice. "Did you sleep well?"

"The best we have had in a long time, thank you." His voice was still stiff, as stiff as one can be with someone who lost their only child, who happened to save your life, and who was arguably the only person in the world to know you were alive and innocent.

"Where are you two headed?"

"I have no idea. It seems we won't be welcome anywhere."

"Your parents?"

"They died," he hesitated, "on the train."

"I'm so sorry. And her parents…?"

"They died a long time ago." He said softly. Not that long ago, Hermione mentally corrected.

"Were you on your honeymoon?" she ventured, her way of asking politely if the couple sharing a bed in her house was married.

"We were about to be married." Well, she supposed that part was true at least. "My parents were on the train with us." He lied.

"You spent Christmas with your family?"

"Yes ma'am. It's when I proposed."

"That's lovely. And do the two of you have anywhere to go?" she cautiously asked.

"We'll find somewhere." Draco's pride was quick to insist.

"Do you have any money?"

"None that we can access; it's all in the bank and I'm certain they'll be watching them."

"Well you'll just have to stay here for a while." She announced with an air of finality.

"We can't." She heard him stand.

"You must." She gently replied her voice logical.

"We couldn't possibly."

Hermione took that as her cue to enter. "Good morning."

"Good afternoon." She corrected.

"Good afternoon," Hermione amended embarrassedly. It was entirely unlike her to sleep in so late. "Sorry."

"I don't blame you one bit. I see you found the clothes I laid out for you. I thought you might be about the same size. Have a spot of tea, won't you dear."

"Thank you."

"You're quite welcome. Far be it from me to deny help to those in trouble."

"I wish we could repay you for your kindness."

"You can and you'll need these." She presented them with a pair of crisp white aprons. Draco eyed them with only the slightest contempt. To him they were chains of slavery, marks of dishonor, and a cloth to cover what was left of his former identity. Hermione was just thankful he did not banish it from the room.

"Thank you," she blurted out and leapt eagerly from her wooden kitchen chair to collect them.

"Dinner will be a rush tonight, what with the travelers passing through on holiday, and we've got to go set up…things."

"Don't worry we know how to handle it. Really, we can't thank you enough. If there's anything we can do to help, anything at all,"

"I'm sure we can manage. We're having the wake at the funeral parlor because we can't fit everyone up here, but we can't afford to close down for the night it being one of the busiest of the year." She was rambling, busing her voice as she busied her hands with random things in the kitchen, a coat, a kettle.

"I understand. Please don't worry about a thing; we'll take care of it. And we're both so sorry for your loss."

She smiled in that sad, endearing way. "So am I. For you I mean. This should be a time of joy marriage, and graduation, and Christmas and here we are grieving. At least I get to go to the funeral."

Draco's fork clanged to his plate. Miss Agnes offered a hasty apology and went downstairs to attend to tea time, telling Hermione she had taken the liberty of acquiring a few things for them that might be helpful. Hermione wasn't listening. She had never seen Draco so pale, so ashen. He looked like a corpse.

Cautiously, she moved to place a tentative arm on his shoulder. His head was bowed, face covered, but his shoulders were steady. He was not crying. He must not have thought of that before. He hadn't had time to worry about missing the formalities, about saying goodbye to his mother properly, but now… Poor thing, she could not help but think. It would be quite a ceremony too, she was sure. The Malfoys did everything big, even death, she thought bitterly. Hermione could just picture lady Malfoy, pale with that blonde hair, eyes closed peacefully in a satin lined coffin carried down into that crypt. She shivered. That dark, dank place had brought her closer to death than she'd like to recall.

"Are you alright?" she asked dumbly. He nodded soundlessly. She knew how he felt, but knew that telling him so would not make him feel any better. So, after looking hopelessly around, she threw caution to the winds and gave into her instincts, she did what she would have done for Harry or Ron. She wrapped her arms around him and, thoroughly enveloping the last person she ever expected to hug, placed her lips to his hair. It was strange, they had kissed before, shared a bed, run for their lives together, but it seemed all frivolous and impersonal in comparison to a first legitimate embrace. She blushed though there was no one to see, then felt him stiffen and expected him to push her away. He tried to, but for some reason mysterious even to her, she held on and then, like a spell had been cast upon him, he went limp, leaned backwards into her, and even clutched her arms. Both were desperate for some physical comfort, some reassurance that they were not still alone in the dark. She wondered, somewhere in the back of her mind, if they would ever really emerge from the catacombs they had fled or if that stale, cold air would always hang about them in clouds only they could see and that haunted darkness would always pursue them even if they fled to the ends of the earth.

They stayed that way a long while, so long indeed that it began to feel, not awkward as it might have, but too natural and it became difficult to feel whose arms were whose -though that was also perhaps due to their limbs growing increasingly numb. Numb was good though to both of them and neither complained until the clock caught Hermione's eye. She withdrew and tied on her apron. Draco, to her great relief, resisted protest and followed her lead. It felt colder in the room than it had been.

"Ready to learn the restaurant business?" she asked in attempt at cheerfulness.

"Not looking like this," was his level reply.

"Oh! We did just climb out of bed." She recalled a hand flying to her frizzy hair.

"No I mean we look like ourselves. People will recognize us and call the muggle police won't they?"

"Oh yes of course. Well we'll just have to disguise ourselves. Here, I'll make your hair longer," she said pointing her wand at him. He backed away uneasily. "Trust me." She urged. He closed his eyes in dread. She lengthened his beautiful locks and gave them a lustrous look. Regretfully she also darkened the shade, weaving in some straw color along with the white blonde and even adding a hint of soft brown. It was still handsome though she was almost positive he would detest it. At least she had fought back the temptation to turn it red and infuriate him. She had never tried but concentrated hard to add the same color to his eyebrows so it would not look like he'd dyed his hair. She was shocked at the changed she observed. If she were really good she could get the eyelashes to. Now to carefully alter a facial feature of two, she went with the nose, only strengthening its aristocratic air by making it longer. Then she tried slightly puffing his cheeks giving him a boyish look. Quickly she got rid of that.

"Okay," she shrugged. "That's all I've got."

"Well what about you?" he asked, feeling his new hair with a bemused expression.

"I suppose I should change my hair. Black would be too much of a shock. Red?"

"No!" he was quick to reject. She let herself laugh weakly. He joined, but it was forced. He was trying to find it funny.

"Blonde. I like you as a blonde." He added thoughtfully, taking her of guard. She almost didn't do it. Almost. Blonde hair wasn't going to be enough to keep people from recognizing her face. But what could she do with it? It was surprisingly hard to go about changing her own face when she'd seen it that way everyday all her life.

She reluctantly turned to Draco, surely her greatest critic, with a dreadful sigh to match his earlier look. Not sure she was ready to see herself as he saw her she asked, "What about my face?"

"What about it?"

She sighed again. "What do I change? I figure if anyone can tell me that you would be pleased to do so."

He looked at her hard for a minute, squinted, thought and finally sighed resignedly. "Nothing," he said, taking her off guard. She did exactly that. She went to the bathroom to take a shower and have a go at trimming her hair while it was still wet. The shower was most refreshing, but fifteen minutes later her good mood had worn off. As she stood at the sink, starring angrily in the mirror and ripping at her tangled locks impatiently, Draco walked in through the open door of the bathroom munching on something in his hand, too curious or impatient to stay away any longer. He snorted with laughter at her, though he scowled at the same time.

"Do you mind?" she snapped.

He raised his eyebrows. "You're breaking your hair you know?" clearly he disapproved. She whirled around to face him, her wet hair slapping against her face as she did so.

"If you know so much about it, or it bothers you, you do a better job with this, this mop!" Her hair really grated her nerves. Why did it have to be so unruly? Why must she die it as well? She made to spin angrily back around but he caught her wrist and made her gawk as he set down his food and took the brush from her hand. Again, he raised his eyebrows slightly, as if to say 'I will then.' Slowly, she turned back around. She expected it to hurt, a hard yank on the stubborn mess, and she actually closed her eyes in anticipation.

Was it more surprising that it didn't nearly snap her neck or that it felt, well, good? She kept her eyes closed, her face impassive, but now for a totally different reason. She didn't want him to know she was enjoying this. His fingers divided the locks, ran easily through, and caressed the scalp to loosen the roots. They held the hair steadily at the base of the head as the other hand worked out the knot so she felt no uncomfortable jerking. When the knots were out he didn't stop there. He brushed it, smoothly, in all directions until each strand was falling gently where it chose, then back into place, then elsewhere again. The way the hair moved from her skin felt so…nice. The repetitiveness of the teeth against the wet scalp was comforting, the brush of his hands, the pull that was strong but never painful, was so pleasant she realized that she was clenching the sink tightly to maintain her composure only when he noticed her white knuckles and asked if he was hurting her. "No." she managed. Could he hear how much she enjoying this contact? Was he smirking behind her? She couldn't bring herself to peek in the mirror. She seemed only able to breathe along with each stroke. In out. Touch nothing. In out. Touch nothing. She anticipated each touch. She felt a small sort of need for it and each time she held her breath in a tiny gear that it would not come again. It vaguely occurred to her that Draco had done this once before, in the hotel only nights ago, thought it felt like ages, on Christmas Eve. He had been trying to seduce her then, trying to make her fall in love with him, but he couldn't be doing that now. He had no reason to, no tricks to pull, no games to play, no twisted promises to keep, and no one to protect. They were on the same team now.

The touch was probably as much comfort for him as it was for her. People needed to be close to people. It was instinct; it was a need like water, food, shelter, like sex. Even someone like Draco couldn't live entirely without intimate contact. He took it leisurely time as she counted each stroke with a thankfulness that would have astounded either f them had either of them acknowledged its existence. As it was both were utterly oblivious to the fact they were involved in an strangely intimate moment in complete strangers bathroom while the world outside was out for their blood.

Hermione told herself that if she'd like, since her eyes were closed, she could picture anyone behind that her she wanted. Anyone at all. But oddly all she could picture was Draco. She sighed.

That seemed to be enough for him. She heard him put the brush on the sink, felt the wind off his arm as he picked back up whatever he had been eating, felt his clothes against her back as he squeezed out from behind her, and heard him leave. She opened her eyes and her reflection shocked her. Something was drastically different. Her hair didn't look different yet, simply brushed and still wet, maybe a few shades lighter. Her face was white and makeupless, plain and ordinary as ever, but something was startlingly different. Was it her eyes? She concentrated hard on her eyes, stared herself down in the mirror. Something was there, glimmeringly lightly behind somewhere, but what? She closed them again and recalled exactly the feel of the brush she'd felt a moment ago, the peace it brought. She absentmindedly leaned into the imaginary tug, his absent touch. Then she flung her eyelids open again, hoping to catch whatever was there before it had time to hide again. This she time she spotted the cause right away and gave a little jolt of astonishment. That was it. She hardly recognized herself. She was smiling.

A/N: Thanks for reading! I hope you enjoyed it. Please review!