Draco, usually the image of cool control, was clumsy in love.

He wasn't used to being unfiltered, the expectation of raw honesty, and the vulnerability of being himself in the presence of someone else.

He was having difficulty keeping his mask off – letting it show when she scared the shit out of him, or when he just wanted to destroy everything associated with the Malfoy name with his bare hands. There had been too many years of practised caution, of being even-tempered, of keeping it quietly locked down in his mind.

He was irrationally afraid that if he didn't keep an eye on her, if he didn't do everything he could to make her well, the curse would somehow relapse and he would be complicit in imprisoning her back on Ward Four again.

He was terrified that if he showed himself to her, she would come to her senses and realise what a mistake she'd made.

Hermione, on the other hand, melted into him like he'd always been there. It was like her had sickness sucked away any energy that might have been reserved for awkwardness or tentativeness in the past. She wasn't overbearing, but she never pretended with him; never spared him of her feelings, whether they are joyful or despairing.

It's an unnatural way of being for someone whose emotional tune has always been modulated by the expectations of others. Draco was beginning to recognise that he'd been raised to believe that emotion and longing were weaknesses to be exploited - and that not everyone had been raised the same way.

The comfortable place he has carved out with Hermione is sacred to him. He continually feels like he has to test the ground to ensure he won't fall through when he steps, but every time he does, it is solid beneath his feet.

He's like a feral cat, slowly learning that his benevolent human is not just trying to trick him by approaching him, showing him affection, and caring for him.

Draco eventually made a few changes to Granger's rowhouse – first and foremost, stocking her pantry with some decent tea – but despite his whinging, she had been right. Her little flat, though it is kitschy and looks clearly lived-in no matter how often he tidies, feels like a home. It's foreign to him, in a pleasant kind of way.

He keeps a quiet eye on her, boosting her magic with his, just enough to let her perform the spell properly. It is slow, but sure enough, he gives her less and less support.

Sometimes, he isn't so quiet, and he tests her to let her know that he isn't going easy on her, and that he won't give up until she does.

Draco knows that the greatest wound he could inflict on her is his pity.

She's come to recognise the facial expression that signals she has precisely three seconds to conjure a Protego charm. Then he will hit her with a jinx that won't hurt her, but will definitely annoy her. The first time, he transfigured her pyjamas into a Slytherin uniform; the next, he exaggerated the veracity of her curls and her hair shrunk up into a tight puff against her scalp.

"Malfoy!" she snaps, tugging at her locks, stretching them out in a useless attempt to loosen them. "Change it back!"

"Better strengthen up those shield charms, Granger," he drawls, grinning when she growls at him and stalks off.

The next time, she was more successful. His jinx only partially penetrated, and the lion ears that he tried to make sprout from her headband were shrunken and pathetic.

"I thought Healers were supposed to be helpful," she grumbled, tugging off the headband and chucking it at him.

He should have known that their domestic solitude would be temporary.

When the chime of the doorbell pealed through the flat, Draco's stomach dropped like a stone.

"Who is it?" he asked, suddenly aware of his heartbeat.

She gave him a funny look and shrugged. She wasn't nervous, clearly, because she lived in a world where people just popped over to your flat unannounced.

While considerably less insidious than his usual house guests, Granger's crowd did seem to lack manners and basic civility.

"They didn't owl first?" he asked as she strode towards the door, and he had to admit that his voice sounded a little more desperate than he might've liked. "What if it's the DMLE? Maybe you shouldn't–"

"It's not the DMLE," she said dismissively, waving a hand at him. "I'm sure it's just–"

Despite his choked sounds of protest, she tugged the door open. "Hello!" she beamed.

He groaned.

There were so many redheads filling up the front step.

Not to mention Potter, et al.

Draco sighed and rubbed his hand over his forehead. Though he could no longer deny that he was actively seeking out Hermione's company, he wasn't exactly thrilled for that to be extended to her voluminous friend group. Ginny, at least, was not quite as disagreeable as the rest. He had to concede that Mrs. Weasley was a good cook, too, and she was holding several bags that he assumed were filled with food.

"I've brought lunch," Molly said by way of greeting.

"Come in," Hermione said, stepping aside and letting the horde of Weasleys – plus Potter, Lovegood, and Longbottom – file in.

Mrs. Weasley bustled through, planting a pot full of something in the middle of the dining table and helping herself to the kitchen to find cutlery and bowls. "Sorry we haven't been by yet," she said distractedly, "I thought we should give you a couple of days to settle in before we all descended on you."

If she was surprised by Draco being there, she didn't show it. Awkwardly, he followed her lead and started placing glassware on the table, hoping that Granger owned enough matching cups for the group. He thought of his flat, where there were sixteen identical drinking glasses, despite the fact that he never had any company.

As it turned out, she didn't have enough. He watched with quiet horror as Mr. Weasley set out tea mugs at the remaining empty spaces.

"I brought more cottage pies," Mrs. Weasley said cheerfully, turning to Draco and forcing a heavy bag against his stomach. "Ginny said you enjoyed them."

"Oh," he spluttered. "Er, yes. I did. Thank you."

She waved him off impatiently and gestured for everyone to sit.

He became increasingly confused as the pleasantries swelled into excited chatter. There was no awkwardness – no delicately skirting around the horrible thing that had just happened to all of them.

Ron was the only one who seemed a bit withdrawn.

Draco watched him carefully, wondering what hexes must be dancing through his mind – but he didn't look angry. Sad, perhaps, but not angry.

" - didn't you, Draco?"

He startled and directed his attention to the voice. "Pardon me?"

"You came up with the idea to try using your blood to break the oath, right?" Ginny asked, raising her eyebrows at him in acknowledgement as she began to ladle stew into bowls and pass them around the table.

"Oh," he said awkwardly, nodding. "Right. Well – sort of. Femi knew it might work before I did, but I did suggest it, I suppose."

"Awful, what you've all had to go through," Molly said ruefully, filling up cups and mugs with pumpkin juice. "It must have been a terrible shock to you, Draco."

He felt every set of eyes draw towards him, waiting for his response.

His fingers curled into fists and he inhaled sharply, feeling suffocated and dissected – what on earth was he supposed to say to them? To anyone who would inevitably be asking, interrogating him –

Was it easy, condemning your father?

How did he take it when he realised his only son had swindled him?

You must have known, surely.

If not you, then your mother, at least —

Hermione's thumb swept over his knuckles and he was back in his body again, in the suddenly very quiet dining room, clearing his throat.

"I don't think either of us are ready to talk about it yet," she said gently, offering a regretful smile. "Another time, maybe."

"Of course, of course," Mrs. Weasley said, apparently unbothered to move the subject along. She waved her hand apologetically. "Don't mind me. Always putting my foot in my mouth."

"It's alright," Draco said, because even though he was exquisitely uncomfortable, he wanted to at least appear to be trying.

"You'll get used to it," Ginny said with a sigh, just to him. "Not much for privacy, my mum."

Draco nodded and took a long sip of his pumpkin juice.

After lunch, everyone dispersed – Hermione went off to chat with Harry, Longbottom made a show of reintroducing a bloody Mimbulus mimbletonia into the foyer, which he at least had the decency to cast an anti-odour charm on.

Ron stayed at the table, watching the others with his chin resting in one hand.

"Weasley," Draco said, but there was no malice in his voice - saying the name 'Ron' just felt embarrassing and incorrect. He would always be Weasley, just like Harry would always be Potter. "Could we talk?"

Ron looked unsurprised and almost acted resigned to the request. He nodded, then indicated to the seat next to him with a tilt of his head. "Sure."

Once Draco felt reasonably sure that everyone else was wrapped up in their own conversations, and after he had stalled for several seconds by bouncing his leg, he spoke.

"I owe you an apology," he said, looking down at the drab tile flooring adorning Granger's flat. "I treated you a bit like a criminal."

"Can't really blame you, given what you thought was happening," Ron returned neutrally. He sat back in his chair and folded his arms over his chest, sighing.

Draco crossed his arms too, and worried his bottom lip with his teeth before speaking. Maybe he shouldn't have said it, but he did anyway.

"Are you… alright with this?"

"Honestly?" Ron asked, huffing with the ghost of a laugh. "Between learning that I tortured Hermione for yearsand the fact that we might've had a chance if none of this happened… seeing her with you isn't the most difficult thing I've had to swallow recently."

Draco grimaced and couldn't bring himself to meet Ron's eyes.

"I have to accept it regardless," he continued quietly. "Whatever Hermione and I had burned out a long time ago." Ron's voice was soft, but steady, and Draco watched him with something entirely foreign to his conception of the youngest Weasley boy: respect.

"At this point, I just want her to be okay," Ron murmured, shrugging.

Draco uncrossed his arms, finally levelling his gaze with Ron's clear blue eyes, and extended his hand to shake. "I'm sorry," he said firmly, and he knew that Ron knew what he meant: I'm sorry for being a prat, for keeping you away, for being the son of the real monster in this.

Ron eyed his outstretched fingers for a moment, then took his hand in a firm but amiable grip. He shook it, then let his gaze fall to the floor as he sighed.

"Treat her better than I did, yeah?" Ron said quietly. "She's been through a lot."

Draco nodded. "It wasn't your fault, you know."

Ron offered a melancholic smile, and nothing else was said.

"How are you doing, now that you're home again?" Harry asked Hermione pointedly, after they'd sat down beside one another on the sofa. She knew that he was asking about everything – readjusting to being out of hospital, her magic, and especially Draco – but he wouldn't say all of that out loud.

Hermione scratched lightly at her cheek, thinking. "Some days are harder than others," she said. "It's been easier since Draco started staying."

Harry nodded, not meeting her eyes. "And that's … okay?"

"I don't know, Harry," she countered cautiously. "Is it?"

Harry's eyes flicked up to meet hers and she realised that his cheeks had reddened, just a bit.

"You were the one who didn't want anything to do with him," he replied a little defensively. "Despite what you might think, Mione, I didn't doubt him. Not this time."

She sighed. "Sorry. I was expecting… I don't know what I was expecting. I was nervous."

"Tough to hold a grudge against him after what he did," Harry said quietly. "Despite remaining insufferably poncey."

"I think these pauper's quarters might actually be killing him," she agreed solemnly. "He was positively crestfallen when he saw the size of my closet."

Harry barely suppressed a smile at that. He waited a few beats before sighing and turning to her. "I'm surprised you haven't asked me about the trial yet."

"Is it bad that I haven't really cared?" she murmured, biting at the cuticle surrounding her thumbnail. "I'm tired, Harry. Goldstein seemed pretty confident that he'd get a conviction. He certainly hasn't reached out to me to tell me otherwise."

"That could have to do with his being under review for a department change," Harry said dryly. "The Ministry feels that he may be more suited to lead Magical Maintenance, given his handling of your case."

Hermione looked up at him sharply. "What did you–"

"Nothing less than the right thing to do," he replied shortly. "I wasn't going to let him get away with using you as a gambit, Hermione. What's the point of being the Chosen One if I can't use it when it matters?"

"He said that he was averting a terrorist threat–"

"Lucius Malfoy's pathetic attempt at a coup was hardly a terrorist threat," Harry said scathingly. "Goldstein had the Wizengamot convinced that anything less than lifetime solitary confinement would have meant the collapse of the Ministry. Do you know how I made the connection that it had to be him?"

She shook her head, feeling her eyes widen.

"Remember those groups I told you about, the ones protesting all of your policy changes? One member stuck out to me, because he's DMLE," he explained. "Lucius' probation officer. Then I noticed a pattern – all of them had some connection to the Malfoys. The Flints, the Bulstrodes - family friends, suspected but never convicted of Death Eater allegiance. Another group was headed by a wizard who turned out to manage Lucius' assets in France."

Hermione frowned. "But why? Why go to all of that trouble just to undermine basic rights to magical creatures?"

Harry shook his head. "I don't think it was really about any of that. I think that Lucius was trying to amass enough favour that he could regain his political clout, and he could start reintroducing blood supremacy into the Ministry without ruffling too many feathers."

Hermione's jaw tightened. "And me?"

Harry met her eyes soberly. "He needed a bargaining chip to bring Dolohov back into the fold," he said grimly. "And…" He paused, deliberating whether or not he should continue. "He seemed a bit obsessed with you, Hermione. You were like a symbol of what had been taken from him. Convincing Dolohov to take you hostage was pure insanity. It was desperate and reckless. But it was like…" He stopped again and took in a deep breath. "It was like he had run out of patience, and he had to see you destroyed."

She closed her eyes.

A bargaining chip.

Leverage.

Something to be destroyed.

Some thing.

A fury that she'd thought had died in her a long time ago burgeoned again, tearing through her chest and clawing at her throat.

All she'd done to Lucius Malfoy was have the audacity to be born.

All of the suffering – the pain, the lost years, the destroyed relationships – for simply existing.

Her brows came together in a frown, and she swallowed. "Even if it was reckless, he intended to disrupt the stability of our government. That is a terrorist threat, regardless of how viable it was. Goldstein had a responsibility to make sure Lucius was neutralised. I was just… collateral damage."

"Hermione," Harry whispered gently. "As soon as Lucius' cronies realised what he was being accused of, they all fed him to the lions. Goldstein had more than enough to convict him already – but without the charges for what he did to you, it would have meant months more investigation, and probably a protracted trial to prove everything they'd accused him of before they could send him to Azkaban." He took her hand in his and squeezed it hard. "If it hadn't been for Draco, Goldstein would have nuked any chance of you recovering, and he wouldn't have felt an ounce of guilt for it."

Hermione squeezed back, blinking quickly and taking in a sharp breath. "I'm scared that it was too late," she whispered. "I'm scared that Draco gave up his father to fix me, but I'm still broken."

Harry raised his eyebrows at her and glanced back at Ron and Draco, who were sitting quietly but peacefully next to each other; Ron now looked considerably less burdened than when he'd come in.

Draco was watching her softly, and he seemed unbothered by the fact that there were nearly a dozen other people in the room who could see him doing it so unabashedly.

"I can't tell you how to feel," Harry said, "but that man does not believe you're broken, Hermione."

It was easier than either of them might have expected.

Despite their differences and their wounds, settling into a life together felt like coming home.

Several months passed. Hermione began returning to her work, gradually taking on more hours and responsibilities under Draco's cautious approval. She had to go much more slowly than she liked to avoid depleting her magic too severely, but she had to admit that it had at least been a more sustainable approach than what she was used to.

Will eventually cleared Draco to return to Healing – but not to perform Obliviation therapy.

He told Draco, rather bluntly, that he would not be entertaining the idea for the remainder of Draco's career. He would be allowed to teach, write, supervise – but he would never perform it again.

He didn't say as much, but Hermione knew that he had been relieved when Will had said this.

Friedmann had said as much, multiple times and loudly.

One night, when they were reading before bed, Hermione wondered something aloud. She was nestled against his shoulder, knees bent and feet flat on the bed as she held her book open against her thighs. Draco's arm was wrapped lazily around her shoulders, and he held his own book with his other hand.

"You hated me growing up," Hermione mused, "what changed?"

"You know I can't do that trite shit," Draco muttered, frowning but not taking his eyes off of his copy of St. John's Wort: Muggle or Magic?

"It isn't trite ," she scoffed. "Aren't I allowed to be curious?"

"As if you'd give me a bloody choice in the matter," Draco grumbled, smirking when she smacked him playfully. "Fine," he grouched, but then his expression turned uncomfortable. He drummed his thumb against his thigh. "You're going to be disappointed," he said finally.

"Why on earth would I be?"

"Because it's selfish."

She fixed him with a sceptical look. "I highly doubt that, Malfoy."

"It is."

"Try me."

He rolled his eyes. "Fine," he said again, closing his book with a snap and setting it on the bedside table. He glared defiantly at her. "You're right. I never liked you when we were younger. You were clever, and brave, and just – happy." He sighed, running a hand through his hair. "It was fucking infuriating."

She snorted.

"You were always doing the right thing. Always knew what the right thing was. You were so sure of yourself, and what you cared about – who you cared about."

She hummed. "I'm failing to see the selfish part."

"I'm getting to it," he gritted out, tugging her against him petulantly and resting his chin against her forehead. He took a moment before speaking again, and sighed. "You've always been… good, Granger. Actually , genuinely good. And then, you started to let me in, and I …" His voice was quiet, vulnerable. "I thought that if someone like you could care about me, that I might be able to believe that I could deserve it."

She stared at him, open-mouthed.

"Draco…"

"Stop it, Granger," he warned testily. "I told you, I don't do this trite shit."

She kept staring, speechless.

"I mean it," he snapped, and then he gave her the look , the one that meant he was going to hex her unless she blocked him successfully.

When he levelled a jinx at her, not only did she cast a fully successful Protego, she threw an Expelliarmus reflexively, aimed square at his chest.

Magic burst through her and Draco was thrown from the bed solidly into the adjacent wall, landing with a crash onto the floor.

"Ohmigod," she gasped, clambering to look over the edge of the bed.

She heard a weak, "Christ, witch," from below.

Hermione scrambled to pick Draco up from the floor, apologising profusely - but when he looked up at her, he was grinning.

She froze.

It wasn't the strongest magic she'd ever produced – not by a long shot.

But it had felt right.

Draco stood and encased her face in his hands, smiling down at her crookedly, his eyes absolutely shining as he studied her.

"Well. Welcome back, Granger."

A/N:

I hope you've enjoyed this little story. Thank you for giving it a

Comments are my fuel - I love hearing your thoughts about Ward

I plan to be back (I think I'm brewing a dark, smutty wartime AU?) after a short break - but won't be returning to this site. You can find me on Archive of Our Own under pleasantlyfrantic.

Thank you for giving me the space and encouragement to finish Ward Four this time around ;)