"Regulus Black?" Hermione was taken aback, "That can't be true, he died destroying one of Voldemort's horcruxes!"

Malfoy scrunched up his face, "What's a horcrux?"

"Never mind," she sighed. "How do you know it was really him?" Magic provided so many ways to change appearance, how could Malfoy be sure that the man he met in the woods was who he said he was?

"What, you think I don't know my own family, Granger?" He sneered, sitting back in his chair with a cross of his arms.

It was a valid point, except his assertion didn't line up the timeline that she knew to be true in this situation.

"How could you know him?" she asked, shifting herself against the pillows that propped up her half-grow leg. "Regulus died a decade before you were born."

"No, he didn't," Malfoy scoffed." He's my cousin," Malfoy paused and frowned, "was my cousin," he corrected himself, adding, "but more like a brother, really."

"It couldn't have been Regulus," Hermione was adamant, "the tapestry at Grimmauld Place says he's deceased. The family elf, Kreacher, has also confirmed it."

"What's Grimmauld Place?"

Hermione laughed. "You say he was a brother, but you don't know the name of his childhood home?"

The frown Malfoy wore deepened. "We were brothers of the woods, kind of like a pack." He rubbed at the back of his neck, looking down, though Hermione swore she saw the glisten of tears across his cheek. "He treated me like an equal, but that came with a certain level of mutual respect for privacy."

He pawed at his face before finally leveling Hermione with an accusatory stare, "You know, there are some people who don't pry into the lives of others where they are unwanted."

Hermione rolled her eyes, only a hint of remorse for the way she had been treating him. He was… is a Death Eater, she had to remind herself he wasn't entitled to her kindness.

But maybe she wasn't being fair. Ever since Malfoy revealed himself, Hermione had been interrogating him about any part of his past that piqued her interest. As someone who suffered so much at the hands of his family, Hermione felt she had the right to know.

Her approach, however, was callous and demanding. No wonder he'd been responding to her with such hostility. The man had already sworn to tell Hermione whatever she wanted to know; would the blood oath bring forth his secrets without her asking?

Hermione had her own secrets, things that no one knew, that no one could know. Consequences of mistakes made with the best intentions. Away from a world that seemed so distant now, she could be honest with herself by admitting that the things she had done, the atrocities she committed weren't so different from Malfoy's. They had both spilled magical blood, both used magic against muggles and, despite their different paths, they both ended up here.

Yet here, hidden under the oak tree, Malfoy had been good to her. It was quite the dichotomy, so different from any reality she had ever known. He was defensive, sure, but his reverent care for her hadn't gone unnoticed. It shook the foundation of her bias and everything she thought she knew about him. With only two days left before her leg would be done growing, she wanted to learn more.

Malfoy, however, had his own set of curiosities as he interrupted her thoughts. "This tapestry, what's it of?"

"It's the Black family tree." Her throat tightened with implication.

He tensed, leaning forward. "The whole family?"

Hermione averted her eyes, steeling herself for the blow-up she surmised would be coming when she answered him. "Yes. It gives the name, face, and pedigree of each member. Birth dates, death dates, marriages, offspring."

She expected him to shout or to throw things like he had when angry before. What Hermione didn't expect was to witness Draco Malfoy have a panic attack. It should have been no surprise, given how his temper would flare unexpectedly, the variability of his tone and his mood, but the sight placed a grip on Hermione's heart.

It was a feeling she knew all too well, something she had experienced frequently after Australia and during the war — something she had always hated enduring alone. Hermione wondered how often this happened to Malfoy, wondered how he managed to fight off his demons without a friend, without a family, without magic. So when he sat on the edge of the bed, Hermione didn't question why she was compelled to reach out and comfort him, her hand rubbing a small circle into his shoulder.

"Are you okay?"

Her voice was a gentle caress of concern, her words sounded more intimate than she intended them to be. Malfoy glanced back at her, his expression distant, scared. He opened his mouth to speak, but only let out a wheeze instead.

"Breathe, Draco," Hermione took a deep breath, modeling the deep breathing technique she'd learned in therapy. "In for four, hold for six, out for eight."

His eyes were locked on her as he followed suit. They breathed in tandem for several minutes until Malfoy, still unnerved, had regained control and calmed down. The aura between them was warm, comforting, and confusing to experience. Hermione realized she was still holding on to him and her touch against his back faltered, suddenly too aware of their close proximity.

"I usually look for three things I can see, two things I can hear," her tongue felt dry in her mouth, "and one thing I can touch to ground myself after."

Hermione cleared her throat and reached for some water. Malfoy's breathing had slowed, but his body continued to shake in the aftermath of adrenaline. Unconsciously, she offered him the glass that she sipped from. To her surprise, Malfoy took it and drank its contents greedily.

"They know," he panted, his hands coming together around the glass, knuckles white as if he were strangling it.

Hermione shook her head, "They don't. If they knew, they would have already come for you."

"You did," he insisted, sounding as if he might crumble under the weight of everything, "you came for me."

"I found you by accident." Her hand found his arm this time. "I didn't know you were here."

He stared at her touch for a moment but didn't pull away, as if something was holding them firmly together. But the moment didn't last, as if Malfoy couldn't tolerate anything good.

"Who else is coming to look for me, or even for you? Don't you have any friends?"

His words were meant to bite but lacked the power his insults usually had. Hermione saw the comment for what it was, a need for reassurance. "I do, but nobody is coming. Everyone knows I'll be out here all summer and that I would contact them when I can, not the other way around."

Hermione leveled him with a meaningful stare and spoke words with such purity of intention that the magic in the room itself began to change, "You're safe, I promise. I swore it, right?"

There was a hint of belief amidst the clouds of doubt in his eyes. "I don't feel safe," he admitted in a whisper.

Malfoy stood and set to pacing his usual path of the den, it was what he did to clear his mind if the worn rut in the floor were any indication. Finally, he asked, "What does the tapestry say about me?"

Hermione had to think back to when she'd helped Harry and Ginny renovate Grimmauld Place. Tasteful redecoration, rehoming a few portraits. Harry, not wanting to dishonor his Godfather who had gifted him the home, had preserved the tapestry, but covered it. Hermione was there when the wallpaper was laid. "It says you died."

Malfoy stopped at the foot of the bed. "Do I look dead to you?"

"Well," Hermione allowed her eyes to rove over his physique unbidden. While seeing him felt like visiting a ghost, he decidedly wasn't. "No. So why does the tapestry say that then? It isn't like magic to be wrong."

He gave a wry laugh, "Does it mean you're dead if no one knows you're alive?"

"Regulus was shown dead on there, too." Hermione offered as if it were any comfort to know.

Malfoy gritted his teeth, "Because he is dead, Granger."

"December 5th, 1979." She recited from memory.

"No, it was," his face screwed up in concentration where it stayed for a moment, reddening by the second, until he screamed, "Fuck! I don't even know what fucking day it was."

"I've seen what a horcrux can do," she muttered to herself, "how did he survive?"

"A son of The Most Ancient and Noble House of Black is programmed to survive."

Hermione narrowed her eyes, thinking of the Blacks she knew and how they all seemed to have a keen knack for survival. Malfoy, though not one of them by name, shared the trait with that side of his family. She wondered if it was coincidental, genetic, or some type of familial magic responsible. Fascinated, she lost herself in thought.

Malfoy sat on the edge of the bed again after a while and snatched A Little Princess from Hermione's side. He opened the book to a page and began reading aloud: "Between the lines of every story there is another story, and that is one that is never heard and can only be guessed at by the people who are good at guessing."

Hermione smirked at the fitting quote.

"How did you know Regulus?" he asked her quietly, in a voice that Hermione had heard before. It was the intonation of someone desperate for information about a loved one that they had lost. She'd heard it from Harry asking Remus and Sirius about his parents, the Weasleys when reminiscing about Fred, and Andromeda mourning the loss of her kin.

So Hermione told him, in no uncertain terms, how she didn't know him, but that she had come to find that Regulus had been a hero hellbent on destroying Voldemort. Sharing how he was the catalyst of Voldemort's downfall, the first one to take away part of the maniac's fail safe. As she spoke she watched Malfoy swell with something that might have been pride.

When she was done, all he said was, "Good," with a tight nod before busying himself with healing notes.

Eventually, he turned to her and his own stories about Regulus fell effortlessly from his lips. It was all a secret, one Hermione found herself enraptured by. It was the unraveling of a real person — or maybe two real people — and not just a figurative Death Eater. Hermione was learning that when it came to Malfoy, there was so much more to him than she could ever understand.

Draco's Third Day Being Imprisoned by the Cousin He Thought was Dead but Was Actually Alive, Somewhere in The Forbidden Forest, March 2000

Regulus Black was a torturous sort of captor. It wasn't that he mistreated Draco – quite the contrary. He was far too nice for Draco's liking. Chatty and hospitable even, if you could overlook the cage that held him.

What was his angle anyway? How did he end up in the forest in the first place and why the hell was he a wolf, just like Draco?

Speaking of his animal counterpart – Draco still couldn't become the wolf. It was an energy-blocking mechanism of sorts he surmised, not that Regulus would tell him anything about it. No, this was all on his terms, with Draco having no say in the matter.

Being caged was familiar and Draco could now add a cave to the list of prisons he'd occupied: Hogwarts, The Manor, dungeons, his mind. He took small comfort in noting Azkaban was not one of them. And even now, his keeper was a far cry from those who had pulled his strings before. Where others had wanted something from Draco – a task completed, compliance, crimes against muggles, murder – Regulus wanted nothing but to know him. It was the strangest request, but one Draco was not keen to oblige.

But the man would not stop talking. Apparently he had been alone for a long time; there could be no other explanation as to why he was so pleased with Draco's company. An errant part of him wondered if Regulus would ever let him go.

"So," Regulus had started his daily challenge of trying to get Draco talking. He was relentless in the effort and truth be told it was starting to work with Draco's resolve to not answer him waning day by day. "How was it being a new age Death Eater?"

"Fucking terrible," Draco scoffed before he could stop himself. It was a weight he had never unloaded onto another before. He glanced at his cousin, who beamed eagerness in response to Draco's voice.

Draco straightened against the stone wall, clearing his throat. The idle time spent here was making him soft. While this man claimed to be his long-lost cousin, Regulus Black, Draco was still wary of the stranger. It was a question of his motives and how he had come to be in the Forbidden Forest in the first place.

"Everyone thinks you're dead."

Much to his irritation, Regulus smiled. "Is that so? And how do they say that I died?"

"Mum said the Dark Lord killed you." Draco's eyebrow knitted; that clearly wasn't the case. "She said you were a blood traitor and you stepped out of line, tarnishing the Black family name."

That was the polite version of the stories Draco had heard as a young boy, used as a warning to keep Draco from stepping too far out of line. Perhaps it had all been a ploy to get him to comply, for Draco had learned from a young age to do as he was told, even if it didn't sit right with him.

"Huh," Regulus looked somber, "so that's how she played it off, cunning witch." He gave a bitter laugh and set to pacing in front of Draco's cell, muttering under his breath.

The tone Regulus took when referring to his mother caused Draco's anger to flare. He strode forward and gripped the bars that held him, spitting venom at his cousin. "Watch your tone, Black, or you'll wish the tale she told had come true."

"Ooooo, your father taught you well in the ways of intimidation. I'm so scared of the little wizard without a wand!"

When Regulus started giggling uncontrollably, Draco flinched, retreating to the wall of his cell, where he sank to the ground.

"Oh come on!" Regulus whined, giving Draco a devilish look, "We were just starting to have some fun! Don't go all dark and brooding on me now."

Draco sneered, "I'm not."

"You are," Regulus insisted.

"Maybe I'd be in a better mood if you let me out." It had been days and, while it wasn't the worst place he'd ever endured, Draco was feeling anxious about what the end game looked like here.

Regulus sat himself down in front of the metal lattice that separated them. Without a moment of thought, the man shook his head, "Can't do that, lad. There are some things we have to work through first."

What was this, a first date? "Like?"

"Like, I want to get to know you."

There he was with that sincere bullshite again. Draco wouldn't be so quick to let his guard down, not without something in return.

"Let's make it a sort of game," Regulus offered, "you ask me something first and then I get to ask you something in return."

Simple enough, Draco figured. "And how do I win?"

"When I'm satisfied with how you've answered," Regulus stated simply.

What the fuck does that mean?

"And maybe when that happens," Regulus shrugged, "I'll give you back your freedom."

The game stretched on for hours until it didn't really feel like a game at all. Rather, it was just family getting to know one another after never having met before.

First, Draco had vetted him out, asking things that only a true Black would know. In return, he learned about his family from a different perspective, quite a different version at times from the censored material relayed by his mother. Regulus began hitting uncomfortably close to home with his line of questioning, so Draco diverted him away from things he dreamed of forgetting.

The conversation then drifted to safer topics. Hogwarts, Quidditch, and the like. Once Draco felt like they were more comfortable with each other, he started on the things he was dying to know.

"How are you here and not dead like Mother said you were?" Draco finally asked after an hour of mundane questions.

Regulus winked at him, "Slytherin."

Draco rolled his eyes, "Come on. You want me to trust you, you want me to talk to you, but trust is a two-way street. Do you want to know more about me? Then talk, cousin." He spat.

Regulus gave him a significant look which Draco returned with his coldest sneer.

He shook his head, "You're not gonna like it," Regulus warned him, "Are you sure you want to know?"

Draco cocked an eyebrow. "It's tete-a-tete," he informed him. "So you tell me, do you really want to hear about me?"

"Fine," Regulus sighed. "But brace yourself." He warned, "It's about your mother and involves some pretty devious forms of blackmail and conspiracy against your Lord."

"You're lying," Draco grumbled, "she would never lower herself to consort with a blood traitor like you."

"No?" Regulus asked, bemused, "Would she not go to any and all lengths to get what she wants?"

Draco considered himself and how he ended up here. He knew she would do anything for him, but what motivation did she have back then to defy Voldemort? What the hell did Narcissa do?

The words left his mouth in a breath, the last Draco would take before everything he thought he understood about his mother would be altered. "Tell me."

Regulus sighed. "We all follow a master and for a long time, your mother was mine. When I was young, Cissa looked after me often. My mother was," Regulus shivered, "very demanding. So Cissa taught me how to act in proper pureblood fashion so I might please Walburga and save myself the pain that my brother, Sirius, went through. I became an example of what a Black should be thanks to your mother's tutelage.

"But being the picture-perfect son to a family from the Sacred Twenty-Eight carries its own weight and responsibilities." Their eyes locked, each understanding the other without any more words needing to be spoken.

"And only when your mother asked me to, did I ever deviate from the path that had been laid out before me. She was brave, cunning," his eyes darkened, "and smart enough to have someone else do her bidding."

Draco was hanging on every word. "Go on."

"She wanted to stop Voldemort. She was pregnant with you and didn't like what your father had gotten into." Regulus looked down in shame, "What I had gotten into as a result of him."

It was no secret to Draco that Narcissa vehemently opposed the Dark Lord, but it surprised him to learn that her scheming behind Voldemort's back had happened during the first war. Originally Draco had thought things had gotten out of hand only recently, that the Malfoys were blood purists who believed in the eradication of muggles so purebloods could rise to the top, supreme. As it turned out, there were parts to her story that Draco didn't yet know.

"She and Lucius were betrothed. That's how I got on The Dark Lord's radar. Your dad was nothing more than a player in the Dark Lord's game. And with that, he sought to take me." Regulus gulped, "He just didn't know that I had been the sacrificial pawn of a powerful queen waiting to take him off the board."

"So Mum wanted you to kill him?"

"No," Regulus laughed, "Murder wasn't to Cissa's taste. She sent me out to find leverage over the Dark Lord, enough to get Lucius released from his grasp and allow your family to flee to France."

"But that never happened," Draco pointed out.

"No," Regulus frowned, "it didn't." His eyes darkened, "Maybe if I'd had succeeded, things would have been better in your life."

Draco's mind spun with the new information, allowing silence to settle between them, only the water dripping from the ceiling and landing in small pools on the ground daring to disrupt their collective thoughts. After a moment, Regulus resurfaced giving Draco a sincere look when he met his eye.

"I'm sorry if things were fucked up for you."

Draco sighed, considering his words for a long moment. Why should he get up on his soap box and cry about what a woeful experience his life had been? Draco had always been isolated, alone. He kept everyone at a certain distance from him, treating others as less than people who meant something to him and more like tools to be used when necessary. He had been raised to know that there was always some benefit to be gleaned, and in order to do so he had to be constantly analyzing the character of others, guessing at their motivations. It was an exhausting practice but had proven to have been a useful one so far.

It was why he had entertained the conversation with Regulus as long as he had. There was one question Draco needed to be answered: was Regulus a potential ally or enemy? Without the upper hand, Draco would have to play his cards right in order to find his answer. The only thing he could do in that moment was to try and gain the caveman's trust, it was his only hope of getting the hell out of here. But first, he would err on the side of brevity.

He cast his most apathetic look at Regulus, locking eyes for one hard moment, before giving a small, pathetic laugh. "Before The Dark Lord came around, my life was a dream, the best childhood in the world." A smile ghosted Draco's lips, his mind flipping through the happy memories of simple times. "It wasn't until just before Hogwarts that I noticed the shift in Mother, the changes in my Father."

Draco cleared his throat, pushing down the emotion. "For a while, things were fine, but then Father got called on to fight and things became a mess. I got caught up in it too and, well, the whole Death Eater thing didn't quite work out for me, either." His hair covered his face in shadows, but he glanced at his cousin who looked sympathetic, but confused.

"But your arm," Regulus started incredulously, tilting his head to one side, "you don't have a Mark."

Draco turned to face the bars. "Do you?"

Regulus pulled up his sleeve, revealing a gnarled spot on his arm, dark red scar tissue staining the forearm where his Dark Mark would have been. He shook his head, regarding Draco seriously. He spoke with conviction and pride. "Not anymore."

Draco looked down at his own arm, only seeing greenish-blue veins dancing under smooth, unblemished flesh. "Yeah, me either."

There was another pregnant pause, each man retreating back into their own thoughts. This time it was Draco who spoke first.

"How did you do it?"

"I didn't, not by myself," Regulus admitted, but didn't elaborate further. "And you?"

Draco gave him a glare; tete-a-tete. "You saw the bloody stump I was sporting when you found me out there," he nodded beyond the cave, "I'm sure your imagination can fill in some of the details."

He shivered at the memory while his captor had turned to intrigue. Regulus wouldn't stop staring at him as if he were a puzzle to be solved, a mystery to unfold, and it left Draco feeling vulnerable and exposed. He felt the overwhelming urge to run, to hide, to be just as he'd been the two years prior… alone.

He pulled at his magic, reaching for the wolf inside him, but finding the block held strong. The only protection he had from the truth and reality now was his Occlumency shields, set carefully in place until his emotions were gone, leaving only an impassive mask.

Regulus studied him all the while.

"Will you let me out now?"

"Not yet, little cousin," the man smirked at Draco with a fondness he couldn't understand, "but don't worry, your day will come soon."

Day Six Behind Bars, Somewhere in The Forbidden Forest, March 2000

Days later, they were still talking. Each day more amenities were provided to Draco, rewards for his cooperation. A small part of him was beginning to enjoy his cousin's company. Tales of his youth were fascinating, but Regulus refused to speak more about his adventures after his supposed death. Any mention of the wood, in fact, would find the man tense, looking around as if someone else were listening.

It seemed they both understood not to ask for more than they were willing to give themselves. Regulus had gone away, leaving Draco to wonder more about the similarities between them, the amount of which was becoming staggering.

They were blood. They had both taken the Dark Mark young at the behest of their parents. Both lost their futures to a cause that didn't care about them.

And they had both ended up here, despite all odds, in what was either a completely bizarre or utterly fitting way to meet a long-lost relative you'd thought was dead.

His cousin returned with a blanket and a basket. The men shared a picnic of sorts between the bars of the cage, all the while breaking down the barriers between them.

"Why'd you become an animagus?" Regulus finally asked.

Draco answered honestly, though the concert of truth felt foreign on his tongue. "Mother forced me to."

Regulus smiled, a twinkle in his eye, "It's a lesser known Black family tradition, you know, that the young men find their animal being. It's an ancient sort of rite. One with many benefits."

Draco was gobsmacked. "Is that why everyone in our family turns into a wolf?"

"What do you mean, everyone in our family?" Regulus asked.

"My mother," Draco narrowed his eyes. "She's a wolf, too."

"Curious." Regulus stated before he stood and started whispering to himself, "What does it mean? What does it mean?"

"What does what mean?" Draco stood, too. "You said it was an ancient rite."

"I did," Regulus shook his head, eyes widening with panic, "but that's for the men. A lady, well, it's unwritten."

"What does that mean?" Draco pleaded, hanging on the bars of his cage.

Regulus retreated, strands of dull brown hair obscuring eyes distant as he toiled with his own thoughts. "I don't know," he muttered. "I just don't know."

The tree branch reached down and draped a cloak over Regulus's shoulders. The look on his face was frenzied as he collected items from the shelves, shoving them into pockets and muttering incoherently to himself.

"Where are you going?" Draco called after him, but Regulus ran out of sight and he didn't come back for two bloody nights.

Getting Pretty Sick of this Cage and Where the Hell is Regulus?, Somewhere in The Forbidden Forest, April 2000

When he finally returned, Regulus was soaking wet. The man came sloshing over to the cage, staggering as if he might fall over. He gasped for breath and leaned against the lattice, the look he gave him set Draco on edge.

"Got a question for you, mate." He heaved his robe off with effort, allowing it to hit the ground with a saturated slap.

"Really?" Draco was starved, scared, and livid. "You leave for two whole days and you come back casually saying you have a question for me?!"

Regulus ran his hands over his face, reeking exhaustion, "Yes."

Draco scoffed. "You're out of your fucking mind. I've been here for over a week." He shook the metal lattice, "Let me out!"

Regulus waved a hand and, through one of the holes in the cave ceiling, a piece of fruit came flying into Draco's cell. Despite himself, Draco jumped on it, ravenous.

"What do you think about doing something for someone without their permission?"

He was taken aback, his instinct putting him on edge, "How do you mean?"

"Like, say you signed someone up for a job they didn't agree to take."

Draco gave a bitter laugh, "Sounds like my Father signing me up to be a Death Eater."

Regulus smirked, familiar with the sentiment. "Fair, but what if it's better than being a Death Eater?"

"Anything is better than being a Death Eater," Draco pointed out. Where was Regulus going with this?

"Right you are. So what do you think, what if someone did that for you?"

"I'd be livid. I'm a grown man who can make my own decisions. I'll never be anyone's puppet ever again," Draco spat.

"Say it was your mum, or even me, and you knew that you'd be doing what was best for one of us; would you take away our agency and our right to decide?" His tone was too saccharine, giving way to something else.

"Regulus, what did you do?"

"Just answer me, Draco." Regulus cried, "Answer me and I'll give you your freedom!"

What in the hell had happened that got him in such a state? It was unnerving to witness and filled him with a nervous energy. "Well," Draco stuttered, "It depends upon the job and what the benefits are."

Regulus looked down and Draco swore he saw a tear run down the man's cheek, "What if it's the right thing to do, but it comes at a price? What do you do if what needs to be done will make that person very angry?"

His temperature was rising, a humming of anger in his magical core. Draco tensed, hands gripping the cage that separated them. "Regulus," he demanded, "what have you done?"

"Some people don't know what's best for them." Regulus's voice was ragged. "We can't begin to understand the full picture or some other perspective because of bias. Some people do know what is best for us.

"Can't you see!?" Regulus cried, exasperated and Draco never felt more confused in his life until the next words hit him and left ice in his veins. "Don't you know we are the same! Don't you know this is your path?"

"No! What are you talking about?"

"It's why you're here, Draco!" Regulus cried, "it's why you're here!"

"I'm here because Mum told me to come, she told me to wait!"

At that, Regulus started sobbing and laughing in an alternate form of hysterics, pacing the length in front of the cell whilst pulling on his hair. "A hero's time has come to pass," he cried softly, over and over again, "a hero's time has come to pass."

Draco's hands were beginning to burn from the bite of the metal into his skin, his magic buzzing at his fingertips. If Regulus wasn't going to let him out, he was going to use every ounce of magic within him to get out himself. "What did you do?!"

Regulus glanced over at Draco, who stood still at the man's expression, tears tracked down his face. "Thanks for letting me get to know you, Draco."

The metal lattice raised at last. Draco clambered back. Finally, there was no barrier between them. He waited tensely, Regulus gave him a sympathetic look and waived his hand. At the gesture, the pit in Draco's stomach dissolved, and his inner core of magic unlocked once more.

Untethered, his wolf sprung forth. He shook out his fur, coming face to face with the black wolf: the alpha of the woods. They leveled each other with a stare: Draco's spoke of apprehension, Regulus's spoke of pain.

Get out of here, Regulus's voice echoed in Draco's mind as if he were a Legilimens, you have much to learn with so little time.

Draco was frightened and confused but was sure of one thing, he wanted to run far away. He bolted out of the tunnel, afraid to look back, fearful that anyone else could be hiding in the woods.

The sight of the mighty oak tree was relieving. Draco skittered past a pile of fallen leaves at the trunk and darted into his den. He lay there panting, legs and paws aching from their exertion.

The voice of Regulus reverberated in his thoughts, bidding him goodnight with a promise, almost ominous.

I'll see you soon.

"Ow, Fuck!" Hermione cried out, hands shooting to cover her knee which felt like it had just suffered an internal explosion.

Malfoy was hovering over her in an instant, ready with her wand and eyes rapidly assessing her person. "What's happening?"

Hermione rubbed gingerly at the bend in her leg, "My kneecap, it just grew back in one pop!"

They held a collective breath, waiting for the tibial growth to kick off, but there was no immediate action. Hermione was beginning to worry that there was something wrong with the Skelegro she'd taken. She thought things would have been moving faster than this.

He may have been worried too, for Malfoy started pacing. Eventually, he retreated to a distant corner, shuffling through his possessions before emerging with a fresh set of clothes. "Don't look," he requested, to which Hermione obliged.

After a moment, "Done." And there he was in a pair of tan trousers, cut off at the knee, and a crisp gray shirt with white buttons that closed it at the center.

It was strange to see him looking like he did – a far cry from the posh pureblood she'd known at school, but also more civilized than the woodsman she'd met days — a week? — prior. At first, he'd been dirty with his clothes shredded into tattered despair, but over the last few days, he'd begun to look cleaner, closer to his old self, though Hermione doubted he would ever look like the boy she once knew.

He looked like a man now, as is what happens to teenage boys over time. However, no time or circumstance would heal the scars that littered his body or soften the hardened calluses on his hands. His only hope for looking any more civilized would be a haircut and a shave.

In his hand, he held a clean white button-up. He nodded to Hermione, "Do you want to change?"

Hermione's face flushed at the thought of getting naked in Malfoy's den. A part of her knew that when he initially treated her, that some of her garments would have had to have been removed. It struck her that he would have had the opportunity then to do whatever he wanted with her – leave her for dead, take advantage of her, harm her otherwise – but, other than the threats, he had only ever done anything to heal her and make sure she was going out walk out of the forest alive and in one piece..

She looked down and saw the blood stains that marked her garment, the blotches of sick from the times she'd thrown up. The fabric was stiff with sweat. Suddenly she felt like a walking biohazard and wished so desperately to be clean. Hermione made eye contact with him and nodded. He tossed the shirt over to her.

"Don't look," she mimicked his words with an almost teasing lilt to her voice. Malfoy turned around abruptly, but Hermione swore she caught him smirking as he did.

It was easier to move with half her leg grown back, but it still came with an aching amount of pain. She managed to remove the hospital gown, wishing Malfoy had also given her a clean pair of knickers, and quickly shoved her arms through the sleeves of the white shirt, buttoning them up hastily. It was a men's shirt, long enough to cover her lap, but with the right movement of her body, it would ride up and show her arse.

Her hands reached for the quilt despite the balmy temperatures in the den. Malfoy must have sensed her concern, as the hem of the shirt suddenly lengthened, coming down to mid-thigh. A tingling sensation danced over her limbs, leaving Hermione feeling refreshed as the result of the cleansing charm.

She let out a huff and closed her eyes, wincing as she asked the question she had been toying with: "when you moved me and healed me… you didn't see anything, did you?"

Malfoy cocked his head to the side, eyebrows knit together, "what do you mean?"

"I mean…" she gestured down her body, blushing, "you, uh, didn't see me naked or anything… did you?"

Malfoy's eyes blew wide and he shook his head vigorously. "No, Granger! Gods, no."

For some reason Hermione felt offended by his reaction. Her body wasn't terrible to look at, why would he be so repulsed… was he simply rebuffed at the accusation or did it have something to do with her 'dirty' blood?

"I may be a wild man now, just another wolf in the woods, but I'm still a gentleman and far from a heathen or savage."

Hermione fought the urge to roll her eyes or jab him with a 'could have fooled me.' Would a gentleman force another person into a blood oath? Tie them up like an animal and force potions on them against their will?

She supposed, all things considered, he really was acting as gentlemanly as he could. It was rather chivalrous of him to have not left her to die, alone, on the forest floor.

The past aside, Hermione had noticed something she needed to question.

"Was that wordless magic?" Hermione balked, impressed. She had only ever managed a few simple spells without saying them, accio and the like, but it seemed as though Malfoy had an entire repertoire up his sleeve.

"What?" He settled into the chair next to the bed, "No, I said the spell, didn't I?"

Hermione shook her head. Malfoy's face pinched with confusion before he waved her wand in the direction of the kitchen and two steaming cups of tea floated over to them.

"See! No words, all magic!"

Malfoy shrugged nonchalantly but looked a bit smug. "Maybe it's pent up from all the years without using it."

He handed her a teacup and cleared his throat. "There's more coming," he nodded to her leg, "you should save your strength for now. I'll make you some food."

She nodded, settling back into the pillows and sipping her tea until she was served the most beautiful salad.

"You garden?" She asked between crunching bites of vegetables.

Her question brought forth from him a smirk, "No, but the Centaurs do."

"Have you stolen everything you own?" Hermione shot at him.

Malfoy looked as though he were punched by her words.

"Yes, Granger. I'm a good-for-nothing thief. I've stolen food, clothes, books, more time, my freedom… Utter piece of shite, scum of the Earth personified," his fingers waved in a circle, "and so on and so forth, I know. Can you please shut the fuck up about it?"

At his self-deprecation, Hermione was taken aback. "Well, excuse me for thinking you'd act exactly like the boy I went to school with and need constant reminding that you aren't an immortal amongst men."

To her surprise, Malfoy laughed, "I was an absolute dickhead back then. Probably still am."

He looked to her for confirmation. Hermione shrugged. Malfoy frowned.

He let out a huffed breath and left the bedside. When he returned he offered Hermione a mint tin, "The Draco Malfoy you knew is dead. I'm still him, but different now. I hope you can see that."

Hermione took the proffered item, curiosity spinning as the contents clacked against the metal, too heavy to be spearmints. She cracked open the case, all air leaving her lungs as she stared down at her mother's pearls. Her eyes closed, relishing the necklace she thought she'd lost, but it had merely been stolen.

Stolen, but now returned.

"Thank you," Hermione whispered, "they belonged to my Mum and-" she didn't have the right words. It wasn't like a thief to return something that wasn't theirs; he didn't have to give it back to her. "I'm just happy to see them again."

Malfoy's bottom lip quivered and his eyes swam with emotion. Hermione fought the urge to reach for him, to comfort a man who was clearly grieving a great loss that she also understood. She shouldn't have cared about his feelings, and shouldn't have wanted to soothe the hurt he felt. It was a chance to connect with this new person she was discovering, but he only grabbed her dish instead and retreated to the kitchen area — an opportunity missed.

Scourgify cleaned the dishes but did nothing to wash away the emotions gnawing at his heart. The last week of raw humanity had him drained. The adrenaline of the chase and being caught, every interaction with Granger ending in an argument, memories he'd buried now resurfaced and on full display. It was enough to make him reach for the wolf inside him, but something stopped him from doing so.

With a wand now, he was beginning to feel more like himself, a human. It relieved him to feel in control of his power once more, to exercise it in a way he hadn't been able to for years. Magic had brought him better furnishings, tools, clothes, state of being. He feared what he would feel like without it again.

Draco went to the table and summoned his healing texts. He made notes on a parchment with a quill, an updated timeline of Granger's bone growth progression. She was due up for another exam and he hoped she was feeling up for it.

Draco approached the bed and rolled up the sleeves of his shirt to his elbows, cuffing them in place. He gestured to the brace that constrained her leg, "May I?"

She gave him a meek nod. Carefully, Draco undid the twines to grant himself access. Granger tensed at his initial touch, but relaxed, only grimacing slightly as he began his palpation.

Her femur had grown appropriately into the hip and had a satisfactory range of motion for a sore, bedridden witch. The patella appeared to be at an ideal location, though without the tibia it was hard to tell if the alignment was ideal. His stomach still clenched when looking at her calf hanging limply from the knee and her foot flopping to the side without the support of the brace.

Draco took a steadying breath, running hands over the limp skin to check for continued circulation: warm and soft under his touch. He even ran a finger up and down her foot to check for sensation, her toes curled in response.

Granger wiggled and blushed. "Sorry, that tickles." She mused.

Draco had to walk away to hide the color that had crept on his cheeks. He made some final notes and returned to the bedside when the heat had left his face.

"Why hasn't the next part started yet?" Granger asked.

"I dunno, I thought more would've been done by now."

"Same," she sighed.

"I bet you're eager to get back to your life out there." He shouldn't have said it, shouldn't have mentioned what he'd been thinking about for days, the thought that filled him with dread. Draco knew that by bringing it up it would only confirm what he knew to be true, that Granger couldn't wait to be rid of him.

She let out a long breath, likely thinking of the world out there and what was waiting for her. "Of course I am," she said, "I've got about a million things to do out there. Hopefully someone hasn't ransacked my camp while I've been away."

Draco worked silently to reassemble the brace, making minor adjustments to how her leg and foot were propped up for when the rest of her leg finally grew back. He gulped, if it grew back. Only time would tell, for things weren't quite going according to plan. Nothing ever did.

"I'm sorry," she murmured.

This caught him off guard. "For what?"

"You seem upset." She muttered awkwardly. "I'm not sure if it was something I said or what, but clearly something has upset you."

Draco let out a tired breath, "It's fine, Granger. I suffer as the world spins without me."

He settled into his chair, resting against the arm. "Don't worry," he brooded, "soon your leg will be healed and I'll be out of your hair for good, which could really use a wash and detangle, by the way."

"You're one to talk," Granger rolled her eyes but patted at her unruly mane anyway. Her hands drifted down to her leg.

Draco noticed. "Does it hurt?"

She shook her head. "It feels weird, I guess. Uncomfortable and strange, but it doesn't hurt, really."

He watched her worry her lip, clearly perturbed by the state of her leg, as was he. It wouldn't do well for Draco to feed her concerns, so he tried to be the voice of reason instead.

"Let's give it the night and see what happens," Draco suggested, mind whirling with a differential diagnosis. "If things haven't progressed, we will figure something out in the morning."

Granger nodded before picking up her book and winding down for bed. Draco was too anxious to sit near her, so he transformed into the wolf instead. He paced the floor until he found a comfortable spot to lay, away from Granger. Try as he might, he couldn't sleep so he just lay there, watching her and thinking.

His thoughts swirled with worry and anxiety as to what would come next. Draco let out a whimper after Granger had finally gone to bed, his body shaking with the emotions he had contained all day. On one hand, he wanted Granger to heal so she could leave him, so he'd be away from the outside world once more. On the other, he didn't want to be alone anymore — inevitably she would leave, but would she ever come back?

A cluster of tears fell down his furry face, carrying with them wishes from a desperate place inside him.

Draco wished for Granger to heal, without pain or lasting injury. Draco wished for things to get better, for them both to be stronger in will, kinder in word. He closed his eyes and wished that things would be okay in the morning.

And then a part of him, selfish and wanting, wished with all his might that Hermione Granger would come back to him, even if she couldn't stay forever.

His tears soaked into the dirt floor, sinking deeply until they hit root. A warm feeling caressed Draco and carried him off to sleep. For once they both slept soundly without disruption, for magic had settled over them, thus soothing their minds.

Roots of change shook below them, awake after a long nap.

Your wishes will be granted.