Tears - frustratingly familiar at this point - pricked the corners of Hermione's eyes and she covered her face with her hands. She didn't know what to do with herself; the thought of her parent's smiles was threatening to eviscerate her from the inside out. She moved towards her pile of books, snatched one into her hands and opened it. She gave up after a few futile seconds of scanning the first page and tossed it back to the floor carelessly.

As if she could read right now.

Hermione could hear Malfoy's muffled shouts coming from the hall. She couldn't make out his words, but the tone was distinctly angry - which she thought was a bit rich, all things considered. She sat down heavily at the edge of the bed. She stared fixedly at the wall, but all she could see in her mind's eye was her mother's clear blue eyes.

'Is everything alright, sweetpea?'

Her mother had a kind voice, never sharp.

Hermione had pulled her mother into a hug, tears springing to her eyes. 'I love you both so much, mum. I love you.'

Her mother had sounded concerned. 'Hermione, what's–'

Her vinewood wand had pressed softly into the back of her mother's head, through her chestnut hair.

'Obliviate.'

The next day, Hermione had seen her parents for the last time. She guided them through the Heathrow airport with a weak Confundus charm and made sure that they'd gotten through check-in. They had met her eyes with polite blankness, a perfectly appropriate response for interacting with a stranger.

Exactly what she'd wanted, wasn't it?

'Well, Mister and Missus Wilkins, I hope that you enjoy this new chapter of your life in Australia.' She had pressed the tickets into her mother's hands and 'Monica' had accepted them with a bland smile.

'Thank you, again, Miss…?'

'Griffiths.' Hermione had mustered all of her will to keep her voice from breaking.

Another aloof smile, and her parents had turned away from her - only looking the slightest bit dazed - and had headed towards 'Departures.'

Safe.

The door to the antechamber burst open again, violently startling her back to the present.

"Miss Granger."

Thankfully, it was only Friedmann. His expression was considerably less cheery than it had been at his last visit. The corners of his lips pulled down into a deep frown, and his eyes were wide with concern.

She swiped angrily at her eyes and cleared her throat. "Yes, sir?"

He shook his head and looked at her very directly. "I apologise." Friedmann didn't need to clarify, but he did anyway. "About Draco."

Hermione did not return his gaze. She shook her head. "You don't need to apologise for him."

"He's under a tremendous amount of pressure–"

"You don't need to make excuses for him, either," Hermione clipped quietly.

"Of course," he said with a grim, apologetic sort of smile. "All the same, it wasn't my intention to cause you more distress."

"It's alright."

Clearly. Look at how alright I am.

He hesitated before speaking again. "Mr. Potter was apparently inquiring if he could stop by this afternoon. Would you like me to have a medi-Witch contact him?"

Hermione took a long breath before replying. "Yes, please. Actually," she said suddenly, recognising an opportunity to avoid another blowout with Malfoy, "if someone could contact Ron Weasley and add him to my visitors list as well, I'd appreciate it."

Friedmann dipped his head in a nod. "Certainly. Right away."

Draco was flooded with regret the instant his feet hit the floor of his hearth. He had stormed out of the Ward, ignoring Friedmann's calls to him, and walking right past Wanda when she'd clearly intended on stopping him.

Well done, Malfoy. Absolutely top-tier professionalism.

He acknowledged (dimly, as rage was still soaking up most of his attention) that he had accomplished nothing but reinforcing Friedmann's doubts, and more than likely getting himself kicked off of Granger's case.

'You shouldn't have to take this whole case on your own,' Friedmann had said, in his naturally reasonable and diplomatic tone, 'especially when it's someone you have a history with.'

Draco, of course, had taken Friedmann's words to mean you're doing a piss-poor job, and I'm taking over. Draco had snarled that being old schoolmates hardly qualified as having a history, and he had no intention of handing responsibility to anyone else, at least not while he was on shift at St. Mungo's.

He'd said it just before he'd chosen to go into Hermione's room to yell at her about how she ate, drank, and apparently anything else he could think to fucking complain about.

Friedmann had given him a look - not angry, but weary, and bordering on exasperated. He gently pointed out that Draco hadn't been at the clinic in weeks, and perhaps it would be easier to balance his workload if he was only responsible for the Obliviation therapy aspect of Hermione's care. He argued that Draco was rarely the primary Healer for his Obliviation cases, anyway. This had been by their design in the first place: less contact with the patient, less chance of forming a rapport that could interfere with the ability to cast Crucio and seriously fuck with Draco's head.

But this was different. At least, that's what he told himself, and what he had insisted to Friedmann. He already knew all of the details: her medical history, her nearly nonexistent intake, her potion schedules, what side effects she was experiencing. He knew all of it . Yes, he trusted Niklas - probably more than he trusted anyone, barring his own mother. But Niklas was busy, and Granger would be just another semi-anonymous patient to him.

He did not think it necessary to voice that the thought of yielding any oversight caused him to be wracked with absolutely crippling panic.

You're fucked, Malfoy, he recognised dully, with a cold and heavy sensation settling down into his stomach.

Draco had repaid Friedmann's offer of assistance by telling him to fuck off, then acting like a monstrous prick (even by his admittedly low standards) to Granger, and then telling Friedmann to fuck off a second time for good measure. And then, the pièce de résistance, he had tried to pull rank on Friedmann, and reminded him that he was the Ward director, which would almost be laughable if it wasn't so idiotic - Friedmann had gotten him the bloody job in the first place.

Yes, he'd done a stellar job of convincing his mentor that he was handling working with Granger perfectly well, thanks.

He grimaced as the image of Hermione's stricken expression floated into his thoughts. Draco knew he'd taken it too far, and he knew it as the words left his mouth. He was so desperate to regain control of the situation that the oldest parts of him - the worst parts - had re-emerged in full force. It was the Malfoy way: seize power back at any cost, consequences and collateral damage be damned.

Maybe it was for the best. This was the Malfoy that Granger had grown up with, and probably the one she'd been expecting, anyway.

Less than an hour after she'd asked for them, Hermione heard Ron and Harry's voices in the antechambers, muttering to each other between casting the protective charms.

Her stomach churned unpleasantly and she realised quite suddenly that she was very nervous.

Having been preoccupied with thoughts about her parents and Malfoy, she hadn't thought about what Ron would say to her, or vice versa.

Oh god. Surely he won't want to talk talk tonight.

Surely to god -

"Bloody hell, it's blinding in here," came Ron's voice. "Does St. Mungo's have a policy against anything but white?"

She had expected him to be nervous and apologetic. When he wasn't, there was a sudden shift, simultaneously both infinitesimal and seismic. For a precious moment, the man in front of her didn't feel like Ronald, who'd humiliated her and broken her heart, the one who had infected all of her most important relationships with this tense, unspoken heaviness. He was just Ron - insensitive, sometimes an idiot, but generally well-meaning. Formerly her best friend.

She looked up at his eyes, which were fixed brightly on her face and he was evidently relieved at her response. She took in his crooked grin and realised, painfully, that despite how much he'd hurt her, how angry she still was at what he did, it wasn't important right now. There would be plenty of time to address all of it when - if - she got out of this godforsaken room.

She stood, and Ron seized her into a fierce hug, one arm wrapping around her back and the other holding the back of her head. "When we found you at the Ministry," he mumbled into her hair, "I never thought I'd be grateful to have Malfoy around, never in my life. First time for everything, I guess."

Her pulse stuttered at the mention of Draco, but she kept the smile plastered on her face. "I'm sorry that you couldn't come in," she whispered, peering at Harry over Ron's arm. He was watching cautiously, but there was the hint of a smile in his eyes. Ron rocked her slightly side to side as he held her, and she didn't pull away. "I didn't mean to worry you."

Ron huffed out a laugh, pulling back from her and surveying her. "Worry? I've been relaxed as a… relaxed thing. Just ask Harry."

"Oh, yes," Harry muttered, his voice dripping with sarcasm. He set a paper bag down on the table tray and came in to hug her as well. "The very picture of composure."

"How are you feeling?" Ron asked, settling his hands on his hips and looking around the room. "Claustrophobic, I bet."

"I'm fine," she said automatically. "Just tired."

They both raised their eyebrows but neither said anything. Harry moved to unpack the bag, revealing Molly's homemade scones, raspberry jam, and clotted cream. He distributed everything between the three of them. Hermione invited them to sit in the bedside chairs, and she perched herself on the edge of her bed.

They munched in relative quiet for a few minutes, discussing things like Arthur's latest muggle obsession (pogo sticks) until Ron cleared his throat. "Harry told me about your memory. That must've been quite a shock."

And there it was again, the space between them.

She shifted uncomfortably. "I'd rather not talk about it, if that's okay."

"Oh, yeah," Ron said quickly, the slightest blush creeping onto his cheeks. "No, of course. You're probably sick of talking about - er, being sick."

Harry looked over at Ron and visibly cringed.

"So, what's happening with the investigation?" Hermione asked. Her voice was strangely high-pitched.

Ron's face turned fully scarlet and Hermione recalled, too late, that he'd been taken off the case. Mercifully, Harry cut in before she could stammer through an apology.

"It's coming along," Harry said, a bit too quickly. "We've been looking into a few lobbyists that have taken issue with your department in the last few years."

"And?"

"There's a couple of groups that seem to hold strong opinions about your, er, work."

"Yes, I'm familiar," Hermione replied, with a tinge of impatience. "There are several people who apparently take great joy in tearing apart every policy proposal I try to bring forward. Pleasant bunch."

Harry looked slightly put out. "Right. Well, yes. But we've noticed some interesting patterns."

Ron turned to look at Harry. This was news to him as well, apparently. Hermione tried to think of some of the faces from the group, but no one stuck out as being particularly memorable. "Like what?"

"Well," Harry said again, huffing a bit, "they're clean. Every member of these little organisations."

Hermione frowned. "Why is that interesting?"

"Don't you think it's a bit odd that those kinds of political group would have no connections to anyone who went to trial after the War? Not just Death Eaters - no one who had been officially accused of following Voldemort, according to the Wizengamot?"

"No," she replied cautiously, "because having members like that would be waving a giant red flag to be scrutinised by the Ministry."

"Yes. Exactly," Harry said. "So, they've flown under the radar by appearing as several unrelated groups that are generally considered to be more of a nuisance than anything. But there's some overlap with members, and we think that there is a larger collective-"

"Because…?"

Harry glared at her. "We're still gathering information, alright? I'm telling you what we have so far. You know, like you asked me to. "

Hermione winced. "Sorry," she said quietly.

Harry balled up the empty paper bag that he'd brought the food in and chucked it lightly at Hermione's head. "I'm not hiding information from you, as if I even could. Knowing you, you'll have the bloody thing solved on your own before I get the chance."

"Well, I certainly have the free time right now," Hermione replied moodily.

"Heaven forbid you focus on recovering," Harry replied sardonically, raising an eyebrow at her. "Or, worse yet, relaxing."

"Not a chance," Ron muttered, smirking.

She rolled her eyes. "Not exactly easy to relax when you're locked in a room and being pumped full of squib-juice."

Harry's expression was sympathetic. "Hopefully Malfoy makes quick work of it, then."

Ron frowned, his eyes darkening. "Quick work of what?"

Harry gave Ron a look. "The memory, Ron."

"You're–" he started, then he blinked several times in quick succession and shook his head. "You're not–oh, come on, Hermione, don't be mental. At least wait until the investigation's finished."

Harry's stare turned murderous, but it was Hermione who spoke. "And what - wait in here until the truth miraculously reveals itself?"

"Malfoy said that with your magic suppressed, you're stable - I'm sure it'd just be a few more weeks - "

"A few weeks?!"

"I'm just saying–you do know how he does it, don't you?"

"Of course I know how he does it," Hermione hissed, looking to Harry to do something before she went nuclear.

"Ron," he said calmly, reaching his hand to rest on his friend's shoulder, "stop talking."

Ron's eyes darted between them and he suddenly seemed to become aware of himself. He swallowed heavily. "Sorry," he said a little breathlessly. He winced, as if remembering something unpleasant, and looked away from her eyes. His gaze trailed down to her left forearm. "No, you're right, of course. It just… feels like you've been put through enough."

Hermione knew exactly what it was that Ron was remembering. She gently covered her scar with her opposite hand. "I'll be alright, Ron. It all sounds very well controlled. There'll be lots of people looking after me."

"Right," he said softly with a weak smile. He apologised again and shook his head, unable to meet her eyes. "None of my business, really. I'm just sorry that you have to-"

"It's alright," she cut in. She felt determined not to sabotage this tentative peace between the three of them, even if Ron insisted on testing her limits. "Forget it. It's not important."

Ron smiled back at her, but the colour had drained from his face. He barely said another word until Harry announced that they should head out, and Hermione was left alone again.

The next day, Draco technically was off-shift and did not need to go to St. Mungo's.

From a professional standpoint, he probably should have taken the opportunity for a cooling-off period. He had more or less thrown professionalism out the window when he insinuated that Granger hadn't bothered to help her Obliviated parents, though, so there was that.

There was also the small issue of being unable to think about anything else since he'd left the hospital yesterday, even after he had the ever-living shit kicked out of him by Barclay at the gym, and he'd returned the favour. This suggested, to use Mind Healer Will's words, that there was an Unresolved Issue that Needed Addressing.

He hadn't expected to be accosted the very second he appeared on Ward Four, but he probably should have.

"Malfoy!"

He sighed. Demoted from Draco, then.

"Yes, Ginevra," he said weakly, taking in the redhead's furious expression. She stalked towards him with her wand gripped tightly in her hand at her side. "What can I do for you?"

"Oh, don't even - where the hell do you get off?"

He quickly cast a Muffliato charm, grimacing. "I do actually work here, you know-"

"A bloody racket that you're still employed-"

"Do you have a specific issue that you'd like to address, or were you just hoping for a public tar and feathering?" he quipped, his patience rapidly dwindling.

"You know exactly what I'm talking about," Ginny fumed, "and you'd best get in there and fix it before Harry catches wind of what you said and strings you up by your bollocks-"

"Enough, Ginny," he said through clenched teeth, very carefully resisting the urge to call her 'Weasley'. "I'm taking care of it."

"And if you think you can just-what did you say?" Ginny stopped, blinked, then stared suspiciously at the holdall that Draco had slung over his shoulder.

"I said I'm taking care of it." When she continued to glare at him, he rolled his jaw. "What?"

Ginny crossed her arms over her chest. "It was a low fucking blow, Malfoy," she muttered angrily, then she pointed a warning finger at him. "Fix it." Just then, the call bell from Hermione's room sounded, and she inclined her head towards it. "Look at that. There's your chance."

Without another word, she disapparated with a loud crack, scowling.

Draco closed his eyes and drew in a long breath.

He marched towards the antechamber, quickly cast his protective charms, and entered after a cursory warning knock.

Judging by her wide, furious eyes, Hermione had not been expecting him.

"What's wrong?" he asked, switching off the call bell with a flick of his wand.

"You're not supposed to be working today," she said fiercely, tearing her eyes away from him. "I wouldn't have-"

"You never use your call bell, Granger," he said flatly, raising an eyebrow at her.

She seemed to contemplate her options for a few seconds before she rolled her eyes. She lifted her hand, the one attached to the Viva mutatur, and Draco understood instantly. All around the IV site was reddened and inflamed, with blisters forming near the cannula. He frowned down at it.

"Sit."

"What are you doing here?" she seethed, but she did as he said, easing herself down into a chair and placing her irritated hand palm-down on the bedside tray.

"Apologising," he said gruffly, pulling a chair close to her and summoning several things from the potions cabinet. At her sceptical look, he added, "I'll get to it, Granger. Let me fix your hand."

She said nothing as he lifted her hand and examined it more closely.

"I need to change the IV site," he muttered, biting at the inside of his lip. He pointed to a spot below the crook of her elbow, close to her scar. "Is here - okay?"

She stared forward, her jaw set tightly. "Whatever."

Draco changed everything over efficiently and mostly in silence, interrupting only to warn her before inserting the new IV. She sighed and closed her eyes, but otherwise didn't react.

She had developed the deadened, dissociated stare that all chronic patients seemed to get after they'd had too many assaults on their body.

He scooped a salve of asphodel and eucalyptus onto his fingers and spread it over her abused skin. Instantly, the swelling started to deflate a bit, and he massaged her hand more firmly to ensure the pain relief penetrated into the tissues below. She watched as his thumb smoothed over her skin, and he pressed the heel of his palm firmly across the back of her hand.

After a few seconds, Hermione sucked in a breath and seemed alert again, like she had suddenly remembered to make use of all of her lungs when she inhaled.

"How does that feel?"

She only nodded in response.

Not going to let him off the hook so easily, then.

"What I said yesterday…" he started awkwardly. "I was unprofessional."

"Well-spotted."

"I'm sorry."

"Are you?"

"Yes," he said tightly. "I shouldn't have - I didn't mean-"

"It sounded like you meant it."

"Granger, I am the last person who can judge you for whatever you've done to protect your parents. And, for the record, I don't."

This had been a bit of an assumption on his part, but the way she flinched when he said it seemed to confirm his suspicion.

She was too bloody fastidious to have overlooked Obliviation therapy if she had ever wanted to restore their memories. By Draco's estimation, she'd never intended to bring her parents back to Britain, let alone back into her life.

Granger wasn't an idiot. She knew that the end of the War hadn't removed the target off of her back; it would only force anyone hunting her to pursue her more discreetly. And she'd been right, hadn't she? She was here , after all. He wasn't sure that he could've gone through with it himself, but he understood. After everything he had done to try to protect his own family, successfully or not, he could hardly condemn her.

"Then why-" she started.

"Because I want you alive and unmaimed."

She looked genuinely baffled. "What are you talking about? What does that have to do with my parents, Malfoy?"

He steeled his nerves, forced himself to push forward. "This is supposed to be professional. I'm supposed to be objective. I can't fucking afford not to have my head on straight." He could tell that she wasn't satisfied with this explanation and he screwed his eyes shut. "I can't think when you ask me things like that, or when you're so bloody stubborn and don't listen to me and I have to increase the Viva mutatur–"

He stood suddenly, turning away from her and rubbing his face with his hand. "I can't fucking think, and I don't want you leaving this hospital in a casket, Hermione. Especially not because I failed to get a grip on my emotional state."

He felt her fingers against the back of his arm. He turned sharply and was taken aback at her expression: lips parted slightly, eyebrow quirked slightly, eyes curious.

"You're an idiot."

He stared at her, startled. What the fuck?

"What the fuck?" he said, eloquently.

"You are describing caring for another person," she replied harshly. "I really don't think this is the catastrophe that you think it is."

"I'm - are you listening to me? I can't do my job, not when you're– acting like this, and I'm supposed to perform the Cruciatus– "

"Mmm," she hummed, deadpan. "Well, yes. You've failed so far. Abysmal at keeping me alive, really."

With a slightly mocking expression, she fully straightened up and tilted her head up to him, as if to demonstrate her alive-ness.

This was not going at all how it was supposed to.

"Granger, you are not taking this seriously," he snapped, dipping his head down closer to hers. "I am trying to tell you that you need a better Healer, someone who isn't–"

"Trying to pass me off, then?"

"I didn't say that."

"But that's what you want."

"I didn't say that."

"So, your solution is to accuse me of abandoning my parents," she said, raising her eyebrows, "suck any possible joy out of being stuck in this room by insisting on keeping your 'professional distance', but, not to worry, I'll get to see you just to be Crucio'd by you?" Her voice had become shrill and incredulous. "This is how you apologise?"

Somehow, they had gotten very close. He could feel her chest heaving angrily up against his. Her skin was warm, and her eyes were bright with indignant fury. "I'm trying not to hurt you."

"I'm already hurt, Draco. I don't want to be alone, too."

Draco realised that there was colour in her face again. Her cheeks were flushed pink, like they used to get back in their school days, when she was angry at him.

Her eyes were hazy and unfocused, darting between his eyes and his lips, and he couldn't stop watching her watch him.

He couldn't stop–

As if possessed, one of Draco's arms threaded around Hermione's waist to pull her into him. His other hand fisted into her hair and he captured her soft, surprised lips with his own.