That was exactly what she did. She called her mum, explained her need to get away, and found herself with the aforementioned mum drinking a cold pilsner on a boat sailing the River Vlatava. She had never been to Prague and regretted it immensely. On her right she could see a castle jutting into the sky, prominent above houses and other buildings that climbed a long, low hill. On the left she could see a cluster of gothic spires and the long promenade of Charles Bridge. It was noon and she was on her second beer. Her mother was already giggling, tipsy, regaling a German man that had made the mistake of sitting near them with stories of root canals and the relative merits of porcelain veneers. Why had she not come here before?

Right, because Ron didn't like to travel. His wanderlust was nearly nonexistent and displayed itself in bursts every five years or so. The only place she had ever gone with him was Spain. That trip had been wonderful, romantic, everything she could have asked for, but she realized now that it was an aberration. Everything about her relationship with Ron had been a blip in his life, a peculiarity of behavior for six years. He was back to his old self now, back to the friend who cared just a tad too much. As painful as it had been, thank goodness she had gotten away. Remaining any longer would have killed both of them.

Before leaving she had gone to see Ron. He had reacted strongly when she told him about what Skeeter had done. She had told him everything else, too – that the relationship with Lucius was a sham (sort of), that Draco was out gathering evidence against Skeeter, that in the end they would, hopefully, have their revenge. She had conveniently left out that she had passionate sex with Draco and that she seriously thought about doing the same with Lucius. She was still regretting that. Even now, on this ridiculous boat with a microcosm of the world in the tourists around her, she wished she had been gutsy enough to force him to make good on his flirtation.

Ron had solemnly agreed to testify against Skeeter if they managed to gather enough evidence. That might change if and when she actually fell for either of the Malfoys. Ron had proven to be a strong man, one who could withstand much, but her ending up with a Malfoy was a bruise to his ego that might never be healed. She hated to destroy one relationship to promote another, but Ron had done enough destroying on his own.

"Hermione." Her mother jabbed her in the ribs.

"Ow!" she protested. "What?"

"That nice Icelandic boy is looking at you."

In spite of herself she looked, careful to make it seem like she wasn't glancing at anyone in particular. Her mother was trying to be helpful, encouraging a fling to assist her in getting over Ron. She had been doing it from the moment they got on the plane. She had to admit he was cute; medium height, shaggy black hair cut in a fashionable shape, and – oh. Those eyes, blue as an iceberg, not unlike…

No. She was not going to screw some cute Icelandic boy in her tour group because he had eyes like Lucius. She did not need to screw someone that reminded her of him to push him out of her mind. That was something men did in romance novels when they were in denial about loving someone or when they wanted what they couldn't have. She did not fit any of those criteria.

"Hermione?"

"Mum," she said, turning to the woman that had birthed her, "can I tell you something if you promise you won't judge me?"

So there they were, sitting beneath a yellow awning sipping pilsners in the shadow of the Astronomical Clock.

"All right," Lisa Granger said, drumming her fingers on the table. "What is it I'm not supposed to judge you for?"

Hermione took a gulp of the beer for strength and then set the large mug down. She had been drinking entirely too much lately. If things continued as they were, she couldn't foresee that trend diminishing.

"Since I separated from Ron…I've…been seeing someone."

"Hermione, that's wonderful! Why would I judge you for that?"

"Because I've been seeing two someones."

Her mother took it in stride, nodding. "There's no ring on your finger anymore. You're allowed."

Hermione dug herself deeper. If she couldn't talk to her mother about this, she couldn't talk to anyone. "Those two someones…are…father and son."

That did the trick. Lisa Granger's brown eyes went wide. She took a hasty sip of her own beer, processing what her daughter told her and trying not to overreact.

"How old are they?" she managed.

"Twenty-five and…" Hermione grimaced. This was going to sound bad. "Fifty-one."

"Do they know about one another?" her mother demanded, scandalized. Things were snowballing now. Soon she was going to have to remind her mum that she had promised not to judge.

"Yes, they know."

"And they're…they don't…fifty-one!" Lisa sputtered.

"Believe me, mum, he doesn't look it or act it."

"That doesn't change the fact that he's old enough to be your father!"

Hermione shrunk in her chair. Her mother was becoming loud. People who understood English were starting to stare. She made a shushing motion with her hand. Mercifully her mother understood and reigned in some semblance of composure.

"All right," Lisa Granger breathed. "I'm not judging. I'm trying not to judge."

"Mum…"

"There's more?"

Hermione nodded apologetically. Her mum took three deep breaths and appeared to steel herself.

"All right. Let's hear it."

"I slept with one of them."

It was a good thing that Lisa was not drinking her beer. If she had been, she would have spit it out. "Is that a good idea?" she said weakly. "You're just out of a divorce, you're vulnerable, not thinking straight. I – Jesus Mary and Joseph, which one?!"

"The son."

"The twenty-five year old."

"Yes."

Her mother sighed with relief, appearing to have reconciled herself with the idea of her daughter having sex. "All right. Was he good, at least?"

"Yes." Hermione crossed her legs, beating back the sensual memories.

"So…you're going to pick him, then?"

"I wish it was that simple," she sighed. "That's the problem, Mum. I like them both. I…almost slept with the father the other day. The day I called you and told you I needed to get away. And you know what's worse? I really wish I had. I can't stop thinking about him."

"Hermione, are you depressed? Not sleeping? On some kind of drug?"

She laughed out loud. "No, Mum."

"You don't do things like this. You're an intellectual. You don't care about sex."

"Normally, you're right."

Lisa shook her head. "This can't end well. Never mind that it is strange to be with two men who are related in that way. Brothers I can understand, but father and son? Eventually they'll become jealous of one another. You'll destroy their family."

"I know."

"They'll hate one another and probably hate you."

"I know."

"People will talk about you."

"I know."

"You know all this."

"Yes."

Her mother sighed and rubbed the bridge of her nose. The hour chimed, temporarily distracting them; they both looked up at the clock tower, watching marionettes of the twelve Apostles cycle. It was an amazing piece of ingenuity, really, a fully automated showpiece that was well over five hundred years old. The square stopped and a thousand camera flashes went off. After the minute passed, the crowd resumed its business and Hermione's reprieve was over.

"Hermione, I say this as your friend and not your mother. You are a great woman, and you deserve to have the attention of whatever man you desire. If that man is twice your age, so be it. If that man is more than one man, so be it. You're a modern woman and that's what modern women do, I guess. But no matter how much you like these two, no matter how much you hope they can continue not to be jealous of one another, it won't happen. Three people will get hurt and you'll end up alone and carrying a bad reputation."

Hermione swallowed. "Noted." She drew patterns in the condensation on her mug. "What do you say as a mother, then?"

"Dump them both," her mother responded immediately, "or keep the twenty-five year old."

"The father is rich, Mum. Rich and attractive and has an arse like Adonis." She grinned to show she was kidding – but not entirely.

"Enough, Hermione," Lisa Granger said, reaching her limit. "If you don't stop, I'll start talking about your father's bodily gifts."

"Oh, God, that won't be necessary!" she said a little too quickly.

They both dissolved into giggles, and once again the members of their tour group stared at them. In the four days they had been there, they had easily become the oddest pair in the mix. But that Icelandic boy kept staring – and Hermione kept ignoring him, trying her best to forget any men with pale blue eyes.

Harry did his best to huddle under the umbrella. Hermione really ought to open her fireplace to the floo network again, but he supposed she had been too busy and too upset to get around to it. On a nice day the walk from the apparition point wasn't bad, but today was not nice. It was cool and gloomy and pouring rain, coupled with wind that blew the fat drops horizontally. His cloak was going to be soaked. The umbrella kept inverting in the wind.

He was bringing her a Puddlemere United jersey and tickets to his first match. He had signed with the team yesterday. For once gossip about him ran rampant, temporarily replacing the headlines his other best friends had been making. He didn't miss the overexposure.

There was her flat, thank goodness. The usual cadre of owls was absent; he'd finally gotten around to making it Unplottable. The owls couldn't find her, nor could the reporters. With a slight shiver he edged beneath the overhang that shielded her door. He folded the umbrella and lifted his hand to knock.

Nothing.

"Hermione?" he called out. "It's Harry, I've got something for you."

Still nothing. Was she out of town? At Malfoy's? She had been spending too much time there…

At that moment a flare of terror engulfed him as a strong hand clamped onto his shoulder. He whirled, his wand coming to his hand automatically – and he actually poked Draco Malfoy in the eye.

"Ow! Son of a….ohhhhh," Malfoy moaned, one hand over his eye and the other over his stomach. With his shock controlled, Harry noticed how pale he was. Pale and soaked to the skin. Was that…blood on his shirtfront, diluted into a shocking scarlet mess?

"What's wrong with you?" Harry asked, panic returning.

Malfoy couldn't answer. His legs were not supporting him. Unthinking, Harry grabbed his arms to steady him. The blonde was in serious pain, trembling and speechless with it.

"Malfoy, what happened?" he demanded.

Draco shook his head. He opened his mouth – his lips were grey, unnatural – and a thick stream of blood dripped down his chin. He gestured to his arm. On the inside of his elbow there was a rapidly darkening bruise surrounding a small puncture mark. It looked like someone had forcibly given him an injection of something.

"P-poison," he choked. "Dying…Potter…!"

Right. Right, he was dying. That called for action. Without much thought, Harry wrapped the bleeding Malfoy in a bear hug and apparated.

The apparition to St. Mungo's made it worse. Draco was barely breathing. He was coughing up blood and Harry was forced to press the Puddlemere United jersey to his lips to soak it up. The mediwitches took one look at them and wrenched Draco from his grasp. Harry was left alone in the waiting room, a broad splash of Malfoy's blood across his shirt, disturbed and bewildered.

Lucius was not paying attention to the conference call. Something was nagging at his consciousness. Something was out of place. Sighing, he lifted his eyes to the window and watched the rain drip down the glass, distorting the outside world. It was the first rain since that violent storm after Ginny Weasley's confession. He was beginning to feel as bad as he had then.

A sound startled him. He turned his head, training his ear. Someone was in his flat. He left the phone going; if something happened, they would hear. They could call for help on his behalf. The Ministry monitored his vital signs, too, from afar, and aurors would come if they were disrupted. They had granted him that, since he was essentially defenseless and someone many people would like to see dead.

He stood up but didn't move. He would stay put. He had a pocket knife in the drawer. It would be mostly useless. He had no other weapon except his own wits. They were not to be underestimated, though…

A shadow fell in the doorway. It was him – the mud-haired paparazzo.

"Hello, Mr. Malfoy," he said, his voice cold. He had no camera. He wasn't here to take pictures, then.

"So we meet again."

"So we do."

The voices on the phone had paused, hearing the exchange.

"Hang up the phone, Malfoy. Don't try anything. You'll be sorry if you do."

"Luc?" a distant voice asked. Emma, the muggle client from Leeds - she sounded pretty over the phone, though he'd never seen her to prove it. "Is something wrong?"

"Yes," he said. There's someone in my house trying to kill me. "Goodbye, Emma."

"Wait!" But he had already hit the button, cutting her off. Silence filled the room.

"Well here we are, Malfoy," the paparazzo said. "We haven't been properly introduced. My name is Ethan."

Lucius declined his head slightly. The photographer cum hit man's wand was in his hand, tapping against the side of his leg. It would not be long before he used it. All right, then – it was time for pain or death or both. This Ethan looked like the type who might be stupid enough to play around instead of killing his quarry right away, though. That alone would give him a chance. That, Lucius reflected a bit too serenely, was his only chance.

Hermione thought she was hallucinating. What the hell was Harry doing in her hotel room in Prague?

"Hermione!" he whispered sharply. "Hermione, wake up."

"Harry?" she said blearily, blinking.

"Yes. Hermione, you have to come with me."

"What's wrong?" Her senses were returning, and along with them a strong feeling of dread. Harry would not come all the way to the Czech Republic to find her if something was not terribly wrong. "Is Ginny all right? Ron?"

"They're both fine." Harry frowned, the urgency of the situation making it all right for him to see her in her underwear. There was no air conditioner and it was hot and her mother didn't care. He handed her a shirt and she hurriedly threw it on, along with a pair of capris that were draped over a chair.

"Is my mum safe to be here alone?"

He nodded. "Leave her a note. I don't know how long this will take."

"Harry, what is wrong?"

Harry bit his lip. "The Malfoys. Someone…got both of them."

"Got? What do you mean, got?" she whispered. She had to hold onto a chair. Please, please don't let him say that they were dead. Please…

"Draco was poisoned. They don't know any more than that. Lucius…"

"Tell me," she pressed. It hurt like hell, but she had to know.

"Someone attacked him. Hexed him badly. Aurors intervened in time. They're both at St. Mungo's, both touch and go right now."

"Oh, sweet Merlin. This has to be…"

Harry took hold of her arm. "Come with me now, speculate later, Hermione." And she was being pulled away in the grip of side-along apparition, Harry guiding her back to her conundrum that was now a hundred times more complicated.

They were in different wards. She didn't know who to go see first. She was about to ask Harry to pick a number when she noticed the brick-colored stain on his sleeve.

"Is that blood?" she asked, aghast.

He nodded. "Malfoy's. Draco's," he clarified.

"You brought him in?"

"He showed up at your flat when I was there to drop something off." Harry gave her a penetrating look. "He didn't have a lot of time. The healers say it was a potent poison. Hermione, he chose you to save his life."

She burst into tears. Harry blanched. Oh, that was not what he had intended. She was thinking that she hadn't been there in his time of need and feeling horribly guilty. Harry had only meant it in the sense that Malfoy's trust spoke volumes. He was surer now than ever that she was actually involved with Draco, if not with both of them. Good Lord.

"I didn't mean it like that," he said softly, pulling her into a hug. "Don't feel guilty. It isn't your fault."

"It is, Harry! This has something to do with Skeeter, I'm telling you!"

"Come on," he said gently, physically moving her. "You should see them now."

When they walked into Draco's room, the mediwizard was there making notes.

"Ah," he said, "Mr. Potter. You'll be pleased to know that Mr. Malfoy is going to pull through."

Harry breathed a sigh of relief. "Thank you."

"No, thank you. Another few minutes and he would have been beyond our abilities to save."

"I'm glad I was in the right place at the right time, then."

The mediwizard nodded and shook Harry's hand. He gave Hermione a sympathetic look and squeezed her shoulder.

"He'll be fine in a week or so, miss."

But Draco didn't look fine. He looked nearly dead in the hospital bed, as pale as the sheets, stained with dried blood. His breathing was shallow. She sat down, trying to center herself. He was going to be all right. There was no reason to fall to pieces. Harry rubbed her shoulder and the slight pressure calmed her.

"I have to go, Hermione. But I wanted to tell you something before I left." He walked around and sat across from her on the edge of Draco's bed, careful not to disturb him or any of the equipment. "After he came out of acute treatment, he was semiconscious, babbling a lot. Most of it was nonsense, but…he did say a few things that were important."

"Like what?" she sniffled.

"He grabbed my arm and asked me to tell you that he loves you."

A stunned moment of silence passed. Then she looked at him incredulously. "And you think that wasn't nonsense?"

"It wasn't, Hermione. He meant it." Harry sighed. He had made a few deathbed confessions of his own, thinking his end was near, and consequently he knew the look of a man who was doing the same. "He wouldn't have said anything if he didn't think he was going to die, but obviously he did. He thought it was his last chance."

Damn Draco and his last chances. Tears prickled in her eyes.

"My gut instinct," Harry went on, "is to warn you away. To tell you not to get involved with him. But I know what he's doing for you. He's really turned things around. And while I barely trust him…" Harry shrugged, "love is hard to deny, and sometimes it's enough to make a person change." He gave her a platonic kiss on the cheek and stood. "The other one is on the third floor, room 319. Floo if you need anything."

She sat with Draco for a long time, until a nurse chased her out so he could finally wash the dried blood from his torso. Time, then, to face Lucius. Her albatross…

His room was cool and dark. She knew instantly that someone was already there with him. She wasn't sure who it could be. Whoever it was, they were crying. She had thought that only Draco would shed a tear for him, Draco and herself, so who was this, sniffling and sobbing quietly? She edged into the room cautiously. Oh. It was Narcissa…

The pretty witch hadn't aged much. Whether that was because of good genes or cosmetic spells, she'd never know. Right now her sculpted cheeks were flushed, her eyes red and swollen, a handkerchief held to her narrow nose. Hermione saw why; Lucius looked terrible. Where Draco had been pale, white as a ghost, Lucius's face was a vibrant smear of blood and bruises, his lip split and puffy. And if Narcissa was crying like this, his prognosis couldn't be good.

Hermione felt tears pool in her own eyes. It must have been terrible for him, completely defenseless, not even able to call for help. The things they could have done to him, might have done to him…and she was sure he had taken it all in resigned quietude, stoic even in his own death. And it was her fault. She had been the one to suck him – them­ – into this. No matter how willing they had been, this was her plot. Her foolish quest for ill-defined vengeance. She should have gotten to know her enemy a little better. Never had she thought that Rita Skeeter was capable of this. Had her impromptu trip with her mother saved her from a similar fate?

Her sniffle gave her away. Narcissa's head jerked up. Her watery blue eyes took Hermione in and she stood up abruptly.

"I guess…he doesn't need…his silly ex-wife…for company…now that you're here," she gasped out, her breath unsteady from the crying. She evidently believed what the papers had been saying – that Hermione and Lucius were a couple.

"Don't go," Hermione replied. "Please, stay."

Narcissa sat back down warily, unsure what to make of her. Hermione noticed the substantial ring on her left hand; she had remarried, then. It said a lot that she was here, though, sobbing over the man she had left.

They were quiet for a long time. Though their coexistence was strained, it was still comforting. Narcissa's tears tapered off, as did Hermione's, and they sat in exhausted catharsis as the moon rose outside.

"Why would anyone do this to him?" Narcissa said at last. "He's been perfect since the end of the war, absolutely perfect."

"Sometimes perfect isn't good enough," Hermione offered.

"Don't I know it," the other woman murmured, folding her handkerchief. Narcissa Black offered her a fragile smile. "I should go see Draco."

Hermione nodded. "They'll be all right," she felt compelled to say.

Narcissa turned back at the door, scanning the curly-haired witch at her ex-husband's bedside. "Yes," she said softly, "I think they will."

Harry lay in bed, Ginny pillowed against his chest. They were silent, listening intently to the Wizard Wireless. Once again the Malfoys were eclipsing his own headlines, but for a good reason.

He never would have thought that wizards and witches would be in a righteous uproar about a former Death Eater and his son. Most people should have turned up their nose at his misfortune, thinking that he deserved it and not sparing a moment's pity for him. But the people wiring in to Kalafut and Icarus's radio show were anything but apathetic.

"It's an outrage," a male listener was ranting. "A wizard should have the right to defend himself. Malfoy's done six years without tripping up. Giving him his wand back is not going to suddenly turn him into a monster."

The next person, a woman, said, "He's reformed, there's no doubt about it. It isn't right that we continue to punish him when the punishment has obviously done its job."

"I think the Ministry is lucky that this didn't happen before now," Icarus chimed in. "It's ludicrous to leave any wizard with his past utterly defenseless. If he dies, it's on their head. A lot of people won't be happy about it."

"He could die?" Ginny said, her finger idly tracing a circle on Harry's chest. "It's that bad?"

Harry nodded.

"And one has to wonder if Draco Malfoy's poisoning is related," Kalafut added. "St. Mungo's has stated that young Mr. Malfoy will be all right, but he was very close to death."

"It must be. Same day. How could it not be related?" Icarus said. "This was an attempt to erase the Malfoys."

"That leads us back to the question, who would do this, and why now? Who would target both of them? Draco Malfoy is in possession of his wand, so who is dangerous enough to attempt murder on a fully armed, well-trained wizard and nearly get away with it?"

"There are no answers just yet, but folks, if you have any information, please contact the Ministry. Let's catch these madmen before they hurt anyone else."

Harry flicked his wand and the wireless turned off. The lights were next. Both of them were curiously exhausted.

"The dog," Ginny said sleepily, shifting against him. "His other dog. No one will be there to feed it or walk it."

"It can last the night," Harry replied. "We'll take care of it in the morning."

It didn't occur to them that they wouldn't be able to get in until Ginny had led them almost all the way there.

"An alohomora would work, don't you think?" Harry asked.

"If you were Malfoy, would you leave your flat unwarded?" Ginny asked.

"Good point."

Ginny sighed. "I feel awful. That poor dog."

"Hermione can probably get in. We'll pay her a visit at St. Mungo's." They stood outside Malfoy's flat now, staring up at it.

"Excuse me?" a female voice sounded from behind them. "Excuse me, are you friends of Luc Malfoy?"

They turned. A woman was standing on the sidewalk. She was a willowy thirtysomething, with dark brown curls and blue eyes. A pair of glasses that suited her face was perched on her nose, and she was dressed in a deep blue blouse and a slate-colored pencil skirt. Harry was careful not to let his glance linger too long; Ginny would smack him. She was pretty, though, towering in heels that made her almost as tall as him.

"Yes," Ginny answered slowly, as unaccustomed to that admission as Harry was.

"Oh, thank goodness. Is he all right?"

Harry and Ginny exchanged a glance. How would this muggle woman know he'd been attacked?

Her fingers twined nervously. "I was on the phone with him when someone came in. Told him hang up and not to try anything or he'd regret it. I asked him if something was wrong and he said yes and then he hung up. I called the police, of course, but I never heard anything back. No one seemed to know what I was talking about when I called."

That was about right. The aurors would get there before the police even got in their cars and records of a call to muggle authorities would be erased.

"He's…" Harry started.

"He's a little worse for the wear," Ginny took over. "They're not sure if he's going to make it."

"Oh," the woman said, her hand going to her mouth. "Oh, that's awful."

"I'm Ginny, by the way," the redhead said, holding out a hand. "This is my boyfriend Harry."

"Emma," she said, visibly upset. "I'm one of his clients. I came down from Leeds when I couldn't get any answers…"

"He's under the best care he can get," Harry said. "And he's strong."

She nodded. "Any chance I could see him?" She sighed. "It's silly, we've never even met face to face, but I was so worried."

"It's perfectly understandable," Ginny sympathized. "You must have been frightened." She looked at Harry briefly before turning back to Emma. "Right now only family is allowed to be with him, but why don't you give me your phone number? We can call you when that changes."

"Oh, thank you so much. That would be great." The brunette scrawled a number on the back of her card. "The number on the front is my office. The back is my mobile."

"You'll hear from us," Ginny smiled, taking the card. Emma nodded and began to walk down the block, a set of car keys in her hand.

"What was that all about?" Harry asked when she was out of earshot.

"For one thing, if she heard the attacker's voice she could potentially identify him or testify against him," Ginny said. Harry felt stupid for not thinking of that, but that was why he had Ginny. "And for another, she's gorgeous."

"What does that have to do with anything?"

Ginny just smiled. "Let's go to St. Mungo's."

Four days later

Hermione sat with Narcissa and Ginny. By now it had become a comfortable vigil; she and Narcissa alternated between Draco and Lucius, and Ginny stopped by every now and then to keep them company. She could see that Ginny and Narcissa genuinely liked one another, something no one would have expected. The two of them chattered like old girlfriends, most of the time about things she had never heard of, but that was all right.

They were chattering about just such a thing now. Hermione had tuned them out, mostly, her eyes fixed on Lucius's face. She had stared into him for hours, willing him to wake, praying that he would come out of it, and only the bruised, comatose mask met her. But today…

"Look!" she nearly shouted, hoping she wasn't hallucinating. Ginny and Narcissa stopped mid-sentence and cast their eyes eagerly upon him.

He was stirring. His eyes flickered. Then, with what appeared to be a very great effort, his lashes rose and the reassuring blue of his irises were revealed. His eyes were focused, coherent – he was back.

"Lucius!" Narcissa gasped, moving forward to encircle his hand with her smaller ones.

"Ah, look," he said hoarsely, his eyes scanning. "It's my…favorite women, all waiting melodramatically at my bedside." Ginny did not bat an eye at her inclusion; she figured she was in the group because she was there and he was half-delirious. Hermione, however, couldn't find a trace of a polite lie in his speech.

"Don't joke," she said.

"I'm tired," he murmured, his eyes closing briefly before he forced them open again. "Find the phone."

"What?"

"The phone. The cell phone, mobile, whatever."

"Why?"

"It was in my pocket. I got him to talk. It was recording the entire thing. But I think it fell out, onto the floor…" he paused, his face contorting slightly as some unknown pain washed over him. His voice was more labored when he continued. "He implicated Skeeter, the idiot."

"I knew it!" Hermione exploded. "I knew this was related to that…that…!"

"Cunt?" Narcissa supplied, perfectly proper and angelic in spite of the vulgar declaration. Hermione blinked, mildly shocked, but then nodded. Ginny smiled, and Lucius let out a brief laugh before he thought better of it, wincing.

"Still…sharp, I see," he said. Then he frowned. "Where is Draco?"

Hermione shared an apprehensive glance with the other women. Draco was not doing as well as they thought he would, but he was in no danger of dying. Still, Lucius didn't know he was ill at all and he wouldn't take it well.

"Downstairs," Narcissa said craftily. It wasn't a lie. He was downstairs. It just conveniently left out the fact that he, too, was laid up in a hospital bed. "He'll be back in a while."

Lucius nodded, too tired to have caught the mild current of deception. "Phone," he said, his eyes slipping shut. "And…dog. Oberon."

"Oberon's fine. Harry and I have him," Ginny said.

Lucius nodded again, and a mere second later he was asleep.

Draco's grey eyes opened, tired but aware, and he gave Hermione a weak smile. "Hi."

"Hi," she responded, shutting the door behind her. "Your father is awake."

"Finally," he said, closing his eyes in relief. He didn't need to say how worried he had been; it showed on his face. He was still ashen, still exhausted, but he no longer looked like a corpse.

"Now you can stop worrying and focus on getting yourself better."

Draco's chapped lips curved into another smile. "You sound just like my mum."

"Well, your mum is a smart witch."

"I'm glad you two get along." His fingers fidgeted with the hem of the sheet that covered him. "I didn't think you'd like her much."

"Why?" she asked curiously.

"Well, when we were talking about the divorce, back when all of this started, you had this silent accusation in your eyes. Like…how could she leave him?"

Hermione was taken aback. She knew that sometimes her thoughts displayed on her face a little too readily, but Draco's interpretation was spot-on. Narcissa Black had occupied a strange compartment in the back of her mind from the beginning, tormenting her with ambiguity. Was it Narcissa who was the cruel one, or had Lucius really deserved to be left? She still didn't know, but Narcissa was not at all like she thought she would be.

"I'm sure she had her reasons," Hermione said at last. "It isn't my right to pry."

Draco nodded and breathed a sigh that turned into a yawn. He was relaxing, but there was one more bomb that she had to drop on him before he got to sleep.

"Your father said that it was someone associated with Skeeter that attacked him."

Draco's eyes flew open. "Really?"

"Yes. He also said that he recorded the whole thing on his mobile, so there is concrete evidence."

"I never thought I'd say this, but thank goodness for muggle technology," Draco shook his head. Hermione smiled.

"With that recording and what she did to Ron, we ought to be able to put her away." She sat on the edge of his bed, thoughtful. "And if we can connect the poisoning to her, also…"

"I told you, I didn't see who stuck me. I was in a crowd. Someone just walked by, jabbed me, and faded away. I couldn't waste time looking around."

"It had to be someone she hired," Hermione insisted. "People don't just go around randomly poisoning one another."

"I don't doubt for a minute that she had something to do with it. I was sticking my nose into things I shouldn't have. Evidently she got wind of it, and…"

"She's insane," Hermione said, rubbing her temples. "I didn't think she'd go this far."

"Now we know better." His arm wrapped around her, innocuous but meaningful, and it occurred to her how little she knew about Draco. He had walked back into her life suddenly and explosively, said and done things she never thought he would, propelled her to say and do things she never thought she would – and she had barely scratched the surface. It made her terrifically uneasy, but she couldn't deny that his arm around her felt good…and safe.

"Yes," she said softly, resting a hand on the cool skin of his forearm, "now we know better."