Hermione was amused to learn that Draco Malfoy slept in pyjamas. Bottoms, at least. He hesitated for a moment before shedding his hoodie and t-shirt and placing them neatly into the hamper that sat in the adjoining bathroom.

His home, if you could call it that, was fastidiously neat. There were no abandoned cups of tea, no crumpled throws on the sofa; every object felt precisely placed. There were no photographs, only a spare few paintings on particularly large sections of uninterrupted wall. They depicted historical wizarding events in dark colours, and she wondered if Draco had put them up because the paintings conveyed something that he found interesting, or because he felt like he needed to fill space.

The furnishings, at least, were not so sparse; the sitting room had two comfortable leather sofas perpendicular to the fireplace, a black walnut coffee table between them. Under the window sat the sodding chaise – flanked between two short bookcases filled with textbooks on potions and healing.

The bedroom was simple; the same wood as the coffee table made up the platform bed frame. The only other piece of furniture was a matching wardrobe that consumed an entire wall. The bedspread and sheets were a crisp white and practically looked starched.

Draco's home felt like a quiet, defeated sigh.

He ran his hand over the back of his neck, avoiding her eyes and quickly sitting down on the edge of the bed, facing away from her.

From behind, she could just see the ends of his silvery Sectumsempra scars — the ones that cut long enough to wind around the lateral edges of his back.

Hermione was twisting around like a bloody skrewt beside him.

He wasn't surprised that she couldn't sleep, but he had a difficult enough time getting through the night on his own, let alone with all of her malevolent wriggling.

"Granger."

She stilled.

"What?"

"Stop thinking so bloody hard."

She made a noise that sounded defensive. "Sorry."

She turned away from him, onto her side, and even though they weren't touching, he could feel the tension radiating off her.

He squeezed his eyes more tightly shut and flipped himself so that he was facing her. He let out a sound between a grumble and a sigh and tugged her back toward him so that his chest was against her back, the swells and dips of her fitting against him perfectly. She relaxed into him, each individual muscle softening one at a time as if she was testing to make sure he was really there before fully letting go. He let his head curl down, burying his face in her hair.

"Now sleep," he commanded, mumbling into the back of her neck.

The next morning, after they rowed about the proper way to prepare a pot of tea, Draco apparated her back to her flat.

He had asked if she needed anything, if she was getting along alright.

"Yes, Draco," she said, a little annoyed.

Just because she had sought him out didn't mean she had invited him to examine her.

"How are you managing with your magic being blunted?" he pressed.

She winced at the word blunted; it felt like a swinging club, hitting her dead in the stomach and sending her off balance.

"Fine," she hissed, pushing her way through the front door and getting even more annoyed when he followed her.

He stopped dead when he rounded the corner.

His eyes raked over her flat; there were books everywhere, open and abandoned, cold cups of forgotten tea strewn about, dishes stacked in both sides of the sink.

Her cheeks were aflame.

"Hermione–"

"Don't," she seethed.

His gaze skated over the geography of her shame, unjudging but concerned.

She didn't expect him to say what he said next.

"You've muggled everything," he said quietly.

"Of course I have!" she shouted, balling her hands into fists and turning on him furiously. "What was I supposed to do, Draco? My 'blunted' magic is not exactly cutting it, you know!"

His eyes widened like she'd slapped him.

Granger, you are walking out of this hospital with your wand in hand, or I will burn it down in protest, yeah?

He'd kept his promise. He'd fallen on the sword to do it.

And it wasn't enough for her, evidently.

"I'm sorry," she whispered, steepling her fingers over her mouth in shame. "I'm – I'm sorry," she repeated softly.

He sighed, enclosing her hands in one of his and pulling them away from her lips. His mouth was soft against hers, unvexed and more patient than she felt she deserved.

"You're allowed to be angry, Granger," he muttered. "Merlin knows, I am."

She closed her eyes, her hand coming to his cheek. "But I survived," she protested.

He snickered bitterly. He lightly dragged his fingers over her cheek, from her temple to her jaw, watching her with one eyebrow raised. "Right. Just like we survived the War."

After another day of her showing up to his flat, then him opening up his Floo to hers, then her showing up twice more – he finally put her out of her misery and showed up at her flat first.

She found him in the kitchen, frowning down at the cord from the toaster, which he was turning slowly in his fingers.

"You shouldn't use these things, Granger."

He wants her to get rid of all of the muggle conveniences – the electric kettle, the telephone, even the washing machine she'd had installed after being discharged from hospital.

"That's helpful," she muttered angrily. "Look – my cleaning spells are shit right now, alright? Floo calls are hit and miss. And I don't want to have to start a fire to boil water for my tea!"

"You need to use your magic as much as you can," he insisted. "It's like a muscle. If you stop working it, it'll shrink. If you push it a little further every day –"

"I'm barely getting by as it is!" she cried. "I don't have anything to push with, Draco!"

His mouth snapped closed as he frowned.

"So just leave it–"

"Let me help you."

She frowned and suddenly felt like she was going to cry.

He tells her that he wants her to stay with him. He tells her that he will let her do as much as she can and bridge the gap with his magic, like a spotter making sure a heavy barbell doesn't crush the weightlifter struggling below it.

"You don't have to do that," she said thickly, feeling suffocated someplace between humiliation and utterly overwhelming relief. "You don't have to keep trying to make me better."

He levelled his gaze with hers and raised an eyebrow at her, irritated. "Granger. I'm bored. I'm going to have to teach myself to cook, or something equally asinine unless I have something useful to do. Barclay said he's going to stage an intervention if I keep spending so much time at the gym."

So that was how he kept so fit.

"Who's Barclay?" she asked, sniffing.

"Muggle bloke," he said gruffly. "Kicks hard." He didn't explain further. He paused, eyes scanning over her face, as if trying to find something in her expression. "Please let me help you with this."

It was too soon, surely.

Wasn't it?

"We stay at my flat," she ventured.

"No offence, Granger," he said delicately, "but mine has more space, and–"

"I hate your place."

Draco glared, indignant. "What's wrong with my place?"

"Nothing, other than the fact that it feels like a hotel suite."

"Just because it is clean does not make it a hotel suite."

"It's utterly soulless," she argued. "There are no photos, or knickknacks –"

"Knick-knacks and tchotchkes are the definition of naff, Granger."

"It doesn't even look like you live in your flat."

"It does so!" he pouted. "What about my paintings? I had the duel between Dumbledore and Grindelwald specially commissioned–"

"Then bring your bloody paintings!" she snapped. "I want to be in a place that feels like a home."

He frowned at her for several seconds before speaking again. "Fine," he conceded, "I'll come here. But I have standards about tidiness, you know."

"Shocking," she said sardonically, not daring to show how pleased she was.

"Despite your slovenly habits," he muttered snidely, "it is… nice here, I suppose. Cozy."

She tried not to smile.

There are times when it feels like he is nearly smothering her.

It's like he is afraid that if he looks away, she will disappear.

He doesn't leave her alone often, but when he does, it is generally because he is going to visit his mother. She offers to go with him – wants to go – but he adamantly refuses her.

"I don't want her anywhere near you," he said in a low voice.

"But –"

"It's not up for discussion, Hermione."

She wants to tell him that she wanted to help him, to be his support for once, because every time he's come back from visiting his mother, he's been quiet and withdrawn.

This time, though, he was angry.

"What happened?" he demanded as soon as he caught sight of her laid across the couch. She must have looked ghastly – which, to be fair, was how she felt – because his wand was out in a second and he was striding towards her.

"I'm fine," she grumbled, sitting herself up unsteadily. She rubbed her eyes. "I just overdid it."

"Doing what?" he questioned, already casting several diagnostic charms and crouching in front of her. He wasn't looking at her, he was examining her – taking in the sickly pallor of her skin, the bags under her eyes –

"Boiling the kettle," she snapped. "I had already done my magic exercises, but I –"

"Why didn't you just wait? I would've helped–"

"Because I didn't want to!" she snarled. "I wanted a bloody cup of tea, Draco, and I didn't want to have to wait until someone else could do it for me!" Her voice was hysterical, and she was gesturing violently with her hands as she spoke. "I thought I could handle it, and I was wrong, but–"

"Sit still," he said firmly, his brows knitted together in concern. He summoned his kit and plunged his hand into it, coming out with a vial in his left hand while raising his wand with the other. "Let me–"

"Stop!" she shrieked, recoiling back into the cushions of the couch - as far from his bag and his potions and his instruments as she could get.

He stilled instantly.

He met her eyes, alarmed, and seemed to see her for the first time that day. He withdrew his hands like he'd burned them, letting his wand and the potion fall to the floor, and he held up his hands in submission.

"I'm... shit, I'm sorry, Granger."

She said nothing, willing herself to calm down; willing the tears not to well up in her eyes.

"I didn't mean to scare you," he murmured, hands still up in a gesture of capitulation.

She nodded slowly, then faster, and put her hands against his. His long, pale fingers curled over hers and dwarfed them. "I keep seeing you... comatose, and jaundiced, and with an oxygen mask on your face," he muttered, frowning as he stared into space. "It's hard to see you struggling again. I want to fix it."

"I know," she replied softly. "But you can't fix it any more, Draco. The rest is on perseverance and just … some time, hopefully." She gave him a half-smile. "I don't want you to be my live-in Healer. I want…"

She trailed off, getting lost in his heavy-lidded expression; the slight smirk that had crept onto his mouth. His eyes were transfixed on her lips. "What do you want?"

"I want a partner. A companion. Someone who feels less burdened by virtue of having me around."

Malfoy grinned and shook his head cheekily. "Yours was the worst case I've ever had – by far – and I still couldn't stay away from you, Granger."

"I resent that," she protested. "I was a model patient."

"You were not," he huffed, still smiling. "You nearly did me in with your bloody stubbornness and apparently being incapable of taking care of yourself. Thank God my hair is already nearly white."

She couldn't stop herself from laughing at that. "Mmmm. Couldn't meddle with your precious hair, could I?"

"Beautiful things ought to be preserved," he said moodily. "Everyone knows that."

Silence.

"Why don't you want me to see your mother with you?"

Draco didn't answer for a long time. He sighed, raising himself from kneeling and plopping down next to her on the sofa. He shifted uncomfortably several times before he spoke.

"I'm afraid of what you'll think when you see me with her," he finally said, his voice quiet. "I don't want you to think that I endorse what they've done. I ... of course, I don't. But, when I'm with her… she's still my mum. I know that she's not a good person; neither of them are good people. But even though she didn't keep me away from him, and she never tried to stop him - she's still bloody seeing him, even now - but even with all of that, she still gave me … warmth, sometimes, when I needed it." There was another long pause. When he spoke again, she wondered if this was how his voice sounded that night Harry watched him on the astronomy tower: vulnerable, anguished, young. "I'm just afraid that if you see her, really see her, you'll see me in there too, and then I'll have to leave because you won't be able to look at me again."

She took his face in her hands and turned him to look at her. "Draco. You are not them."

His face broke then. He shut his eyes tightly, willing his demons away.

"I might be." His voice was hoarse.

Hermione swallowed, still watching him, and rubbed her hand over his shoulder. "I never gave you an explanation about my parents, and why I never looked at Obliviation therapy."

Draco's eyes flew open, and he started to shake his head. "You don't have to–"

"Yes, Draco, I do," she said in a kind, but firm, voice. "You already know this, but I want you to hear me say it: I know what it's like to know what the 'right' thing is and not wanting to do it because it's your family. I erased their memories because I love them, and I love Ron and Harry, and it seemed like the only way to keep them all safe and to have some shot at happiness – to do what we needed to do to destroy the Horcruxes – I had to let them go. You asked me why I didn't try to reverse it, but you already knew why. My parents are happy and peaceful now, and they have no idea that I've ever existed. Why would I insert myself back in, make them realise that they had a daughter who they loved – who chose to erase them? So I can have Christmases with them again?" She laughed bitterly, bringing her legs up to her chest and crossing them at the ankle. "They wouldn't agree, of course. They would say that they'd rather know me and go through all of the pain of it. But I'm selfish, and I … just want them to be happy." She gave him a determined look. "So, I understand how you could still treat your mother with kindness, even after everything she's done and everything she hasn't. I'm never going to force you to leave because of it."

He nodded, rubbing a hand over his forehead. "Even him," he said quietly. "After —" his breath stuttered, and he tried again. "- Everything he did, all I can think about when I think of him is how alone he is in there," he whispered, "and how he's so wrapped up in his fantasies of bloodlines and influence that he probably doesn't even understand why."

"I'm not going to judge you for refusing to be indifferent to their suffering, Draco," she whispered. His eyes snapped open, locking onto hers. "As long as you can extend me the same courtesy for my parents."

That evening, she introduced Draco to muggle films. He was confused at first, thinking that watching a film required going out to the cinema, which he flat-out refused. When she explained that they could watch it on her telly (the only electronic device she'd convinced him to keep), he looked confused.

"I thought that televisions were just for muggle sports and news."

"That's because your muggle experiences extend to takeaway shops and a single gym in Barking and Dagenham," she argued. "That's probably all they played there."

He furrowed his brows, annoyed, but she refrained from pointing out that he was, once again, pouting.

They watched one of her favourite movies, and she was unsurprised when Draco called Elizabeth a 'silly bint who clearly didn't understand the enormity of Mr. Darcy's gesture.'

She couldn't help but smiling as she watched him be absolutely transfixed to the screen, one arm draped around her, his knee bouncing anxiously. He had an absolutely earnest look on his face as Mr. Darcy waited for Elizabeth's answer to the second proposal.

That night, after covering her body in long, torturous kisses, he gently parted her legs with his hand. He moved in her softly, slowly, patiently coaxing pleasure out of her until he had wound them both into a fever pitch and she came hard around him.

Afterward, nestled in the crook of his arm with her head against his chest, Hermione didn't think of hospitals, or blood curses, or Lucius Malfoy.

Neither did Draco.