For a moment, everything was still.

Hermione felt like she was observing Draco Malfoy kiss her from far away, as if she were an outsider watching in quiet fascination as he wound himself around her and engulfed her under the protective frame of his arms. He pressed her against the hard muscles of his chest and stomach, and she could feel the warmth of his skin through his shirt. He held fast, almost like he was afraid she would slip out of reach if he didn't.

It was ludicrous, surely.

But … it didn't feel that way.

His lips pressed firmly against hers without any pretence of tentativeness–it felt insistent, a refusal to be ignored, but without demanding anything back from her. It was the most straightforward communication she'd ever received from Draco, a simple confession exacted from the plaintive tenderness of his touch.

She let herself breathe him in, and his scent was subtle and comforting, like a breeze through the forest. His fingers tangled through her hair, firm and reassuring, and she felt the small muscles of her neck relaxing into him, melting, giving up the fight against gravity.

Safe.

Hermione's hands lifted up to touch him, to frame the solemn, hard lines of his face with her palms–

The movement caused the IV pole to drag towards them, and the sudden sound seemed to jolt Malfoy back into reality. His mouth left hers, but he couldn't seem to bring himself to retreat fully. His hand dropped from the back of her head, and he tipped his forehead so that it rested against hers. She finally opened her eyes and saw that his own were screwed shut.

"Fuck," he said hoarsely.

Indeed.

Hermione persisted anyway, dragging her thumb across the contours of his cheek despite his half-hearted attempt to pull away from her hand. She heard him suck in a shaky breath, and suddenly he had both of her hands in just one of his, and he firmly directed her arms down against her abdomen, away from him. She tugged against him weakly, but he was immoveable.

"Hermione," he murmured. "We have to stop. I can't – I can't."

Draco may have been right to worry that he was going to be the death of her–just not for the reasons he was so concerned about. At this rate, the emotional whiplash was going to give her a bleeding spinal cord injury. She blinked back furious, humiliated tears.

"If you're worried about your career, I'm not going to–"

"Christ, Granger," he hissed, pulling back so that he could survey her face with incredulous eyes. "I'm worried about you."

She didn't immediately know how to respond to that, so she settled on an unfortunately very strangled-sounding, "why?"

Draco shot her an unimpressed look, arching one eyebrow. "Oh, I don't know. Perhaps the fact that a couple of months ago you'd have nothing to do with me, and now you're trapped in here. I'm supposed to be responsible for you - and I fucking did that?"

She winced. "I don't care about that," she said, feeling slightly awkward.

"You should."

Fury exploded in her, like a million fireworks in her chest.

"Frankly, I have bigger problems occupying my attention at the moment," Hermione snapped. "I would appreciate it if you didn't treat me like some naive patient who just met you for the first time after falling ill. I know you, Draco. My eyes are wide open."

He frowned and said nothing for several moments. "It's unethical."

Gods, if younger Hermione knew that her future self would be seriously fighting over this with Draco Malfoy. She gritted her teeth. "When have you ever cared about ethics?"

His eyes snapped to hers, and for a moment, she was worried that she had hurt him when she really hadn't meant to. His frown deepened and he said, "I'm serious, Granger. I lost my head. It can't happen again. Not while you're here."

"And after that?" she asked defiantly.

"After that, I'll patiently await your legal action against me for gross misconduct," he snarked, though the edge of his mouth quirked up into a smirk. "Once you've regained your mental faculties."

She scoffed and twisted away from him, rolling her eyes. "I meant what I said. I don't – I don't want to be left alone in this bloody room." Much to her frustration, her voice wobbled on the last words.

He let out a short, humourless laugh and shook his head. "I think I've already proven myself extraordinarily incapable of that."

She felt her chest relax a bit then, and her fury softened into something less sharp–relief, maybe.

Exhaustion, more likely.

"I meant what I said, too," he said, serious again. "I think Friedmann should take over as your primary Healer."

"But–"

"Take a look at me, Granger," he interrupted, his voice firm. "I think we both know that I've lost whatever fucking iota of control I had to start with." He sighed and shook his head. "I'm obsessing over routine diagnostics and micromanaging my staff. I have an insatiable desire to set Weasley on fire any time I see him. I need an objective set of eyes on you, even if I still have to do the Obliviation therapy."

She regarded him warily, considering. "You aren't going to run off."

She said it as a statement, but it was really a question. He sighed and ran his tongue across the inside of his lip, looking very much like he favoured the idea of running off and releasing himself from her orbit.

"I don't know how I'm going to manage the Cruciatus, " he admitted quietly. He rubbed his hand over his face tiredly, then he shook his head. "But – no. I won't. If that's... what you want."

Breath escaped from her lungs in a rush. She did feel a moment of pity for Draco, but the relief she felt was so overwhelming that she could burst into tears. "Okay."

"Okay."

He sounded resigned and he folded his arms over his chest.

They were both quiet for a few moments, unsure of how to proceed. The air felt thick with their silence. She tore her gaze away from him and quickly noticed the duffel that had been slung over his shoulder when he'd first come in. It lay abandoned near the door, where he'd mindlessly dropped it at some point during their bickering.

"Your bag," she said lamely, pointing at it.

He frowned for a split second before comprehension dawned on his face, then he turned and snatched it up. He unfastened the zipper, pulled out a familiar beaded satchel, and tossed it onto her bed.

"Your bag," he repeated a little stiffly. It was the one she'd been carrying when she was attacked by Dolohov. Hermione had forgotten that she'd even asked him about it; she certainly hadn't expected him to track it down and bring it himself. "Your assistant collected it from the Aurors. I took the liberty of asking her to remove those files you mentioned," he said snidely, raising an eyebrow at her, "lest you turn this hospital into your new office space."

She blinked at him, mouth agape, which only served to make his eyes glint with smug satisfaction.

"Ah," he said, as if just remembering when he plucked a second item from his holdall. "I couldn't leave you without any reading material. Femi recommended it, although he insists that oral storytelling is the purest and most preferable form of learning." He thrust a large, nearly-decaying tome at her chest. The cover was so worn that the title was mostly indecipherable, except the word 'Magicke'. "There's a section on blood oaths. Thought you might find it interesting."

She made a strong effort not to show how pleased this made her, and she placed it gingerly on her bedside tray; it really did look like the pages could dehisce with any sudden movement.

Draco was practically beaming at her.

"Thank you," she muttered, feeling a small smile forming despite herself. She nodded towards his bag with her head. "Any other surprises in there?"

"I considered bringing tea, but I thought it might be a sore subject."

"Hmph," she sniffed. "Tea would've been nice."

"You know, you are actually allowed to ask for food and drink when you're unable to fetch it yourself," he said impatiently, rolling his eyes. "I'll have some sent up. And pudding. It's bread pudding today, unfortunately, but it's serviceable."

"How do you always know what they're serving?"

He narrowed his eyes defensively. "I work here."

"Right, but surely you're not working during every meal every day."

"I work a lot, Granger."

"Draco," Hermione said slowly, "do you – eat all of your meals at the hospital?"

His cheeks were suddenly very red. "Not every meal," he huffed under his breath, "and I'll have you know that I have an excellent working relationship with the house elves. I compensate them very generously for feeding me."

She shook her head in disbelief, her eyebrows raised. "Too busy to cook your own food, Malfoy?"

He shot her a venomous look. "Malfoys don't cook." He said the word like it was distasteful.

She pursed her lips together to keep from laughing. "Don't or can't?"

"Whatever," he snapped, tossing his holdall back over his shoulder irritably. "Ask for your own bloody tea."

He made a bit of a show storming out of the room, muttering about how ungrateful she and everyone else at St. Mungo's were towards his attempts at generosity.

She was unsurprised when, a few minutes later, a Medi-wizard came by with a tray of steaming tea and bread pudding.

Drama queen, she thought, spooning the dessert into her mouth with an amused smile.

It was time.

Draco had officially relinquished primary Healer duties over to Friedmann. Friedmann had been relieved, which bolstered his confidence that it was the intelligent thing to do, even if he was internally panicking at the thought of giving any control to anyone else. He tried to remind himself that emotion clouded judgement, and he'd certainly proven that over the last few days.

He tried to remind himself that Friedmann had never lied to him (to his knowledge, anyway). He kept his word, and he'd looked after Draco, even when he was a surly degenerate doing his community service hours. Friedmann promised that he would take care of Granger, and Draco knew that he needed to trust him.

He had to let go, insofar as he was capable of it.

Shortly after, Friedmann had given him the honours of officially transferring Dolohov's custody to the Aurors. He'd gone hissing and spitting, every bit the pathetic, desperate man Draco knew him to be at his core. He was reminded that even Death Eaters stopped being frightening when their weapons of destruction weren't readily available.

Dolohov did leave him with a nice parting message about how he'd warned Lucius that he'd mishandled Draco. How he had made him obedient but weak; useless, powerless, impotent.

Potter had looked vaguely pleased when Dolohov's thrashing became belligerent, after he'd wordlessly cast a Silencio mid-diatribe. As the Aurors readied Dolohov for transport to Azkaban, Harry had locked eyes with Draco, and gave him a single nod of acknowledgement.

He'd even had his mandated session with Will-the-Mind-Healer. Though Will had made it abundantly clear that he didn't think Draco ought to be attempting Obliviation therapy, he'd conceded that given Granger's condition and the fact that there were currently fewer than a half-dozen Healers capable of performing it in the world, there wasn't much of a viable workaround. He'd reluctantly agreed to allow it, under the condition that Draco booked another session with him after each round.

Somewhere in there, there had been a slight misunderstanding in which Draco's wand came to be pointed at Ron Weasley's neck, demanding who the hell told him he could enter Granger's room, only to be told by a furious Granger that she had.

Well, no permanent damage had been done. He didn't see why everyone felt the need to get all up in arms about it.

No harm, no foul, right?

So, yes. It was time.

Because Hermione was quarantined, they would have to perform the Obliviation therapy in her room, and he watched Granger dutifully put on a brave face as the Medi-witches vanished the furniture, her get well cards, the hideous fucking lump of a quilt she kept on her bed. Even her bed was transfigured to a nondescript procedural table - no blanket, no pillows.

But her eyes were wide when she looked back up at him. He wasn't wearing his usual Healer's robes - he always wore surgical scrubs when he performed this procedure. It was the only time he left his dark mark uncovered in the hospital, and her gaze briefly skated over it before looking back up at his face.

He gave her a solemn, reassuring sort of smile, and she nodded tightly.

"It's going to be alright, Granger," he said, quietly, so only she could hear.

She bit at her nail nervously. "I was expecting more straps."

He blinked at her, incredulous. "What?"

"You know, straps. Belts. Buckles. That sort of thing?" she clarified, the anxiety plain in her voice. "There was a section in your dissertation about restraints–"

"Friedmann never should have given you that fucking paper," he said weakly, rubbing his forehead with his hand in agitation. "Just - forget about that. You're not going to feel anything until you're awake again. You're going to be sore, but you've been through much worse. But try not to fight me during the Legilimency bit, otherwise you'll have a hell of a headache."

"Alright," she agreed quickly.

It made him uneasy when she was compliant.

He helped her onto the table and Wanda ran a second IV, this one with the potion that would keep Granger unconscious and unaware.

He sat down on a wheeled stool and positioned himself at Granger's head.

"It's going to be alright," he said again, just to her. Impulsively, he took her hand and squeezed firmly. He felt her squeeze back before her eyelids fluttered and her head lolled to the side.

He sighed, his brows creasing into a frown.

"All ready, Malfoy?" Wanda said tentatively, after a moment.

Draco nodded. "Incarcerous."

Straps of tightly bound cord snapped over her limbs, securing her in place to prevent her from twisting herself into injury as the Cruciatus wracked through her body.

Draco closed his eyes and took several long breaths.

Focus.

You want her to get out of here, don't you?

The feel of her lips against his, her riotous curls ensnaring his fingers—

He thought of Dolohov's oily smile.

"Crucio."

Hermione's body bucked against the restraints and a soft moan escaped from her, but he knew it wasn't enough, he could feel that it wasn't enough.

Fucking focus, Malfoy.

He thought of what usually worked–sitting at his dining table, watching a suspended Charity Burbage whimper and beg. Watching, and not doing anything.

But then, he suddenly remembered Hermione's face when he'd pulled the curtain back in the emergency department, her haunted, half-opened eyes–

"Crucio."

Not enough.

Following them into the room of requirement, nearly letting them all get killed by Fiendfyre.

Hoping out loud that Hermione would be the next victim of the Chamber of Secrets.

You'll be next, mudbloods.

"Crucio!"

She arched against the straps, a horrible, strangled sound erupting from her throat.

He exhaled slowly, closing his eyes again, and wheeled closer to her, so that his head was positioned above hers, upside-down. He held her face in his hands, his fingers securely curling under her jaw.

Wanda reversed the Incarcerous spell and the bindings vanished.

"Ennervate."

Her eyes opened heavily and her face instantly twisted in pain, and Draco found himself muttering, "it's okay, you're alright, you're alright…"

"Draco," Wanda prompted, clearing her throat.

He blinked and fixed onto Hermione's eyes. "Legilimens."

A recent memory. He recognized…

At the clinic. His clinic. Waiting room.

Potter, looking at her, then staring back at him, at Malfoy, who was standing in the doorway of the waiting room, watching them carefully.

"Oh, for god's sake." Potter's voice.

Draco retreated from Hermione's mind and instantly found himself back in the quarantine room, looking at her upside-down, still holding her head. His hands were wet with her tears.

"Pain potions," he commanded a bit breathlessly. "And a sleeping draught."

Wanda quickly got to work, placing and replacing the IV bags to deliver the necessary potions, all while Draco whispered, "it's alright, Granger, it's alright," and smoothed his thumb over her cheek.

She looked at him hazily, and he thought she nodded, just once, before she was unconscious again.

He stood suddenly, raking his hand through his hair and nearly gasping for breath. He felt clammy and shaky, and he had to lean against the wall.

"Draco–" Wanda said again, cautiously, in that tone she always used when she was about to tell him something he didn't want to hear.

"Give me a fucking minute, Wanda," he snarled, trying to catch his breath.

She did. She waited for several minutes, arms folded, watching him with concern.

"Sorry," he finally said. "That was... I'm sorry."

"It's alright, love," Wanda said gently, wrapping her arm around his waist–she was far too short to reach his shoulders. She offered him a grim, pitying look. "But you know that you're going to need to do better than that if you want to get her memory back, Draco."