Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“Excuse me, sorry,” Hermione pushed through the horde of students congregated in the hall. “Yes, pardon me, terribly sorry,” she continued as she made her way to her lecture hall. She’d be late at this rate. Lovely.

Sliding in at the last minute, Hermione found a seat near the back of the auditorium. The urge to sit front and center struck her, but the Muggle world didn’t really belong to her anymore. Not really. So while she appreciated the opportunity to study at Oxford, one of the most noteworthy universities in Muggle England, she didn’t want to make a spectacle of herself.

Hermione had finished her magical healer education earlier that year and had decided to further her education in an untraditional way by attaining a Muggle doctorate in medicine. She’d always been interested in the overlap between science and magic and thought there was ground to be broken by combining both Muggle medicine and healer magic. The jury was still out on whether or not she could get her colleagues at St. Mungo’s on board, of course, but she could be very persuasive when she needed to be.

Hermione settled into her seat, taking out a notepad and pen for notes, when she recognized another student slipping through the door at the last minute. She flipped her hair to the side to conceal some of her face, hoping to escape his notice. His white-blonde hair was all that was visible as he took a seat several rows in front of her. Draco Malfoy sat, dressed in a Muggle-passing white button-down and tie, and took out his own notebook and, of course, she scoffed inwardly, a Montblanc fountain pen.

The professor had already begun his introductions when she realized she’d been so caught up in Malfoy’s sudden presence that she wasn’t listening. She quickly darted her eyes to the front of the room to catch up.

“—and if you haven’t any questions, be sure to thoroughly review the syllabus before reaching out to me via email. I will try my best to reply in a timely manner, but I am quite busy,” the professor turned as he took a piece of chalk in his hand.

“Oh, and you may call me Dr. Green.”

Hermione made note of that in her pad. Always a good first impression: knowing someone’s name.

“The class you’re currently in is Neuroscience Diseases and Disorders, or NSCI 640. If you’re in the wrong class, please pack up your things as awkwardly as possible and be sure to hunch over in shame on your way out,” Dr. Green smiled a bit at his own joke, his eyes crinkling in the corners. It earned a few low laughs from the class, and he placed his hand to his heart, exaggeratively relieved. “Thank God that landed; my wife owes me dinner tonight.”

Hermione smiled genuinely and listened as Dr. Green continued with their first lecture.

She was taking notes rapidly, making sure to write down the ISBN of the recommended texts, when she saw a flash of white out of the corner of her eye. She’d almost forgotten about Malfoy, being so wrapped up in the class, until she saw him stand and quickly walk toward the exit. He’d chosen a seat on the end, so he didn’t have to fight through other students in order to make it to the door. He didn’t stop to acknowledge Dr. Green’s slightly confused, slightly annoyed expression before hurrying out the door. He seemed a little frantic, even, pulling his hand roughly through his hair, his other hand gripping his notebook and pen tightly.

Hermione’s gaze remained on the open door for a few moments after he’d gone. She couldn’t help but wonder where he’d rushed off to in such a hurry. Did he receive a message somehow with urgent news? It wasn’t like he’d have a Muggle cellphone to receive texts on, and she surely didn’t miss an owl flying through the lecture hall. Maybe he had something akin to the Protean-charmed DA coin she’d created during fifth year, she thought before stopping her train of thought abruptly.

Why did she care where Draco Malfoy had gone? She didn’t, she decided, and did her best to focus on the rest of the lecture.

She caught herself looking at his abandoned seat more than once.

When class was dismissed, she realized he’d never returned.

—

“All I’m saying is, The Harpies might have a better chance this season if they tightened up their defense and—“

“Piss off, Ronald Weasley, what do you even know? Do you have a few years of professional Quidditch playing under your belt that you’ve never mentioned?” Ginny rolled her eyes dramatically as Ron stammered his next defense.

“That’s how you lose, you know, blowing off fans’ opinions. We happen to have an unbiased view,” he argued, not entirely unfairly.

Hermione sipped her butterbeer, tuning out the ensuing argument between siblings. Harry caught her eye and raised a brow. She shook her head exasperatedly, and he laughed.

“So, Hermione,” Harry began somewhat loudly, changing the subject, “how was your first day of school?”

She rolled her eyes at his exaggerated fatherly tone.

“My first day of university,” she corrected, “was lovely. Highly informative. I have a fairly full course load this semester, but nothing unmanageable. I only took nine credit hours so I’d be able to keep up my residency at St. Mungo’s.”

“Wait a minute, you’re only taking nine classes?” Ron’s eyes bulged a bit, and Hermione laughed.

“Not nine classes, nine credit hours,” she corrected, now her turn to roll her eyes at Ron, “it’s only three classes.”

“Oh,” he remarked, his cheeks redder than usual, “Well, that’s a bit more reasonable.”

Padma took her seat next to Ron then, back from fetching more drinks. She pecked Ron on the cheek when she saw his embarrassed expression.

“I trust you’re all playing nice?” she questioned, and Harry laughed.

“As nice as this lot ever is, of course,” he replied, taking the butterbeer from her outstretched hand. She placed the others in front of her and Ron.

“‘Mione was just talking about her never-ending educational journey,” Ron jeered, taking a swig from the glass.

“I am so excited to hear about how it went!” Padma squealed, “I’d totally forgotten that was today!”

Padma was a resident with Hermione at St. Mungo’s and one of the only people she knew who got as excited as she did about medical research.

“It was so refreshing,” Hermione gushed, “and one of my professors is actually quite funny. Maybe he missed his calling as a stand-up.”

“Oh? What does he teach?” Padma asked.

“Neuroscience Diseases and Disorders,” Hermione replied, “which—MERLIN, I ALMOST FORGOT! You’ll never believe who’s in that class with me!”

Everyone at the table turned to her, newly engaged by her outburst. Their eyes implored her to continue.

“Draco. Sodding. MALFOY!” she whispered, probably a little louder than she should’ve, even.

“What’s the Prince of the Purebloods doing in a Muggle university class?” Padma’s eyebrows raised incredulously.

“Prince is a bit of a stretch,” Ron scoffed.

“Especially now,” Harry mumbled under his breath.

“Wait, what do you mean by that?” Hermione asked, seeming a little more interested than she’d like.

“Well,” Harry rubbed the back of his neck uncomfortably, “I only know from work, so I don’t even know what I’m allowed to tell you. But after his trial, he sort of became a bit of a recluse, I reckon.” When she and Harry spoke on his and Narcissa’s behalf at their trials, Malfoy had looked a fright. It was so odd to see him look so haggard compared to his usual posh appearance. Although, there was sixth year. She still thought about his haunted expressions sometimes—the faraway look in his eyes, the dark circles under them almost like bruises.

“Yeah,” Ron added, “the Auror assigned to his parole said he never had to go anywhere other than the manor because he never really left.”

“Hmm,” Hermione took another drink while she pondered this, “I wonder how he’s ended up in uni lectures then?”

“Hell if I know. Or care,” Ron grumbled, “I hope that fuckin’ ferrety arsehole stays holed up in his daddy’s mansion.”

“Ronald,” Hermione chided, “I get it, trust me. I spent the first half of the class hoping he didn’t notice me so I didn’t have to deal with the ponce. But isn’t it a good thing that he’s taking a Muggle class? Shows he’s making a bit of an effort?”

“The first half of the class?” Harry interjected, his eyes quizzical.

“Well, he sort of… left?” Hermione shrugged, taking another drink.

“He couldn’t even lower himself to staying the whole class,” Ron proclaimed, then adjusted his volume in accordance with Padma’s warning look, “right, fat lot of effort that shows.”

Hermione bristled a bit, remembering how Malfoy hurried out of the room. He hadn’t seemed bored. Maybe a little frazzled. Agitated.

She laughed and changed the subject.

—

The third lecture of the week began much like the others. Hermione arrived early, taking her usual seat near the back. As the lecture hall filled, she caught herself glancing at the door, wondering if Malfoy would appear.

He did, of course. Late again, with his usual calm exterior masking whatever chaos made him rush. He scanned the room briefly before slipping into a seat on the far side of the auditorium, this time a few rows below Hermione. His eyes didn’t meet hers today, and she found herself oddly disappointed.

The lecture passed mostly in a blur, Hermione trying to take notes as vigilantly as she could while keeping a reluctant eye on Malfoy. She just couldn’t wrap her head around why he would suddenly leave yesterday and then be back today. Did he truly have an emergency to rush off to? If so, what? His father was in prison for the foreseeable future. Was it Narcissa? Surely he wouldn’t be here today if something had happened to his mother. It could’ve simply been a date with a witch he was running off to for all she knew. Or cared, she reminded herself.

After the lecture, she ended up walking out at the same time as him.

“Malfoy,” she greeted him cordially.

“Granger,” he acknowledged her without sparing her a glance. His jaw tightened when her eyes didn’t move from him.

“Can’t say I expected to see you here,” Hermione continued as they seemed to be heading in the same direction. The apparition point was just around the corner.

“Why, because it’s a Muggle course?” he bit out, ever the Draco Malfoy she knew and disdained.

“Well, yes,” she conceded, “that, and it’s a 600-level neuroscience course.”

“Ah,” his mouth formed a tight line, “yes, well, I'm taking it for research purposes.”

“Oh?” she perked up, “Research into what?”

“Neuroscience, obviously,” he drawled.

She rolled her eyes.

He cleared his throat uncomfortably.

“Granger, I—I suppose I should thank you. For speaking on my behalf.”

She turned to him with wide eyes. Her mouth may have been agape.

“Uh, yes, well, you’re welcome. It seemed only right. You may be a prat, but that’s hardly Azkaban-worthy.” She didn’t know why she made light of his actions. Gave him this out. It just felt like the least uncomfortable route in this situation.

He stopped walking and turned to her. “Well, your feelings aren’t shared by most of the wizarding community. So, again, thank you.”

And on that note, he disappeared, Apparating away to wherever it was he went.

—

“Truly, I’m fine,” Hermione’s reading glasses fogged up as she took the lasagna out of the oven.

Theo leaned against the counter next to her, sipping from a glass of red wine. After he and Harry started their headline-snatching relationship, she and Theo had grown quite close. Once their Hogwarts days were well and truly behind them, and house rivalries were set aside, they realized they actually had quite a bit in common.

“I’m not saying I don’t think you’re ‘fine,’ Hermione, as much as that’s good for. I just worry that you’re taking on a bit much. A full-time job and now a new degree? That’s a lot for anyone.”

“Well, I’m not anyone,” Hermione winked, slipping off the oven mitt and sipping from her glass.

“The brightest witch of her age has always been known for her humility, that’s what I’ve always said,” Theo laughed. “But you always do that.”

“Do what?”

“Deflect. I just want you to be happy, Hermione. What else do you need to accomplish to make it there?”

Hermione rolled her eyes.

“School does make me happy.”

“You would say that, you little swot,” Theo teased.

“You’re one to talk,” Hermione laughed, “I think that you may have been single-handedly responsible for the passing grades of all the Slytherins in our year.”

“Well, not all of them. Draco passed on his own, but unlike me, he didn’t ever let anyone copy his work,” Theo said, rolling his eyes in faux annoyance.  

“That sounds like him,” Hermione snorted, but felt uncomfortable at the reminder of Malfoy and his awkward show of gratitude. 

“The insults are already flying? What is it with you lot, did your parents not teach you any better?” Harry strode into the kitchen.

“Rude and uncalled for,” Theo replied, taking another sip from his glass.

“What can I say, no parents, no manners,” Harry shrugged.

They both gaped at him for a long second before dissolving into laughter.

Later, Hermione watched as Theo and Harry stepped through the Floo, holding each other’s hands tightly. She stood in the silence of her living room a moment too long before heading up to bed.

—

The next day, Draco was already there when Hermione walked into the auditorium. He was discussing something with the professor, his face severe. Not that it was ever not severe, but particularly so in this case. He noticed her enter, nodded in her direction, and went to take his seat.

She wasn’t sure what compelled her to do so, but she approached Malfoy with her class materials in hand.

“I thought maybe I could sit here and run a few things by you? Regarding the, ahem… implications of this course material in our, uh… realm, so to speak? I feel like it only makes sense for us to work together given our shared… traits.” Subtlety had never been a particular skill of Hermione’s, but she’d been dying to talk to someone about her theories. And conversation with Malfoy still seemed preferable to silence… even if only just barely.

Draco seemed a bit taken aback but gestured for her to take the seat next to him.

“Thank you,” she mumbled. Thanking Draco Malfoy wasn’t something she wanted to make a habit of.

He only nodded. He had significantly less to say now than he did as a child; she’d give him that. She wondered if it had something to do with the self-imposed exile that Harry mentioned.

“Have you ever considered the possibility of melding magical healing techniques with Muggle science?” She jumped right into it, keeping her voice low enough that only he could hear.

“Yes,” he replied smoothly.

She tried to act unsurprised by his response.

“Oh, uh—that’s why I’m taking this class. Or, why I’m getting this degree, I suppose. I think there’s a lot of potential we’re missing out on in our practices. Muggle science is growing exponentially by the day, and there are a few things I think we could use at St. Mungo’s to really take our quality of care to the next level.”

Draco quirked an eyebrow at her, signaling for her to continue.

“Okay, so, like MRI scans. What if we could use the same principles of magnetism, only controlled by magic, to create a similar outcome? It could be significantly more detailed than a simple diagnostic charm.”

“And you think you could create a spell that could excite the hydrogen atoms and then detect and record the resulting frequency?” Draco questioned.

Hermione was dumbstruck. She stared at him, slack-jawed.

He made a small “tut” noise before shaking his head at her. “Yes, yes, please get it all out of your system early.”

“I’m sorry, I just—firstly, I’m shocked you even know what an MRI is, let alone the science behind it. Who are you and what have you done with Draco Malfoy?” Hermione laughed incredulously.

“What I should’ve done a long time ago,” he looked at her seriously, then turned to face Dr. Green as he started his lecture.

Hermione and Draco lapsed into an oddly comfortable silence, taking notes as was appropriate and, once, chuckling simultaneously at one of Dr. Green’s slightly painful jokes.

—

After 20 or so minutes, Draco stopped writing. Hermione assumed he was just taking a break, but he seemed to stop paying attention altogether, his eyes going a bit distant and glassy.

“Hey, you there?” Hermione whispered.

He looked over at her a little blearily.

“Yeah, just thinking,” he said, then went back to writing.

About five minutes later, the same thing happened.

Suddenly, he stood, a little unsteadily.

“Excuse me,” he mumbled before turning and walking down the stairs and out the door in a hurry. Dr. Green glanced at him briefly but didn’t seem perturbed, continuing on with his lesson.

Whatever Draco was leaving for, he must have run it by Dr. Green at the beginning of class.

But who planned to leave and then did so in a seemingly unplanned hurry?

Just like last time, Draco never returned.

As she was leaving, Dr. Green waved her over to his desk.

“Ms. Granger, is it?” he began, jotting down something on a notecard.

“Yes, sir,” she replied.

“I noticed you sitting with Mr. Malfoy today. Are you two friends?”

There was absolutely no way she could be honest with this man right now, so she said, “Err, yes, we’re friends. We went to high school together.”

“Oh, I see. In that case, would you mind getting him the required reading for tomorrow? He left before I had a chance to write it on the board.” He handed her the notecard that he’d been writing on. It included the information for the two articles they were to read before class tomorrow.

“Yes, I can do that,” she nodded, taking the note. She supposed she could owl it to him when she got home.

“Thank you, Ms. Granger. Tell him if he’s not feeling up to it, he can just take notes during our discussion tomorrow.”

Hermione tried to hide her confusion, smiling politely. “Will do, sir. Have a good day!”

If he’s not feeling up to it? Dr. Green clearly assumed she knew something she didn’t. Maybe Draco had told him he was ill so he’d have an excuse to leave? Maybe he was ill?

—

“And then he just completely spaced out for a few minutes,” Hermione spoke lowly, hopefully out of range of any prying ears.

“What do you mean, spaced out? Like, he just stopped paying attention? Some people do get bored in class, Hermione.” Padma giggled at her expense.

“Yes, yes, my best friends are Harry Potter and Ron Weasley. I’m very well-versed in schoolwork avoidance,” Hermione sighed. “It wasn’t like that. He was totally engaged one second, taking notes and all, and then totally out of it the next—staring off, unmoving.”

Padma pursed her lips and shrugged. “And you said your professor sent his well wishes?”

Hermione nodded.

“Well, I mean, maybe he really was sick?”

“I suppose, but like… what illness causes you to look like you were suddenly struck with a prophecy before rushing out of the room?” Hermione threw her hands up and let them fall at her sides.

Padma laughed. “That’s it, Hermione, you’ve definitely cracked it. He’s a regular Trelawney.”

—

Hermione owled the message from Dr. Green to Draco after her shift with Padma.

Malfoy,

Dr. Green asked me to get you the reading. I’ve attached his notecard where he wrote the titles down himself, so you can’t accuse me of leading you astray.

He also wanted me to let you know that if you aren’t feeling up to it (???), you may take notes during the discussion tomorrow instead.

Are you playing truant?

That being said, you can borrow my notes if you need them. If you were really ill, that is. I won’t support class-cutting habits.

Get well soon,

Hermione

His owl pecked at her window a few hours later as she was getting ready for bed.

Granger,

I appreciate you relaying the readings. I’m sorry to have inconvenienced you, albeit indirectly.

I do not “play truant,” thank you very much. But I will take you up on the offer of a glance at your notes tomorrow before class.

Regards,

DLM

—

Hermione was already seated when Draco took his seat next to her.

She held out yesterday’s notes to him after he’d settled, barely looking up from where she was jotting down discussion points in her notebook.

“Thanks,” he mumbled, taking them from her outstretched hand.

“Don’t mention it,” she said, looking up at him finally.

She might not have noticed it if it weren’t for the paper in his hold, but his hand had a slight tremor. She scanned his face and saw that he was generally looking a bit worse for wear. His eyes were lined in pale purple, his skin somewhat sallow.

“Are you okay?” she asked before she thought better of it.

He raised an eyebrow at her. “I’m here, aren’t I?”

“That’s not really an answer.”

“No offense, Granger, but why would you care?”

She shook her head and turned back to face Dr. Green. “Suit yourself, you great broody hen.”

Malfoy snorted at that. Hermione suppressed her responding grin.

—

Again, about halfway through class, Draco seemed less present. Hermione’s brow furrowed in concern.

“Malfoy, are you sure you’re okay?” She placed her hand onto his arm where it rested on the chair. He startled slightly, and she jerked her hand back. He turned his dazed expression toward her.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean—uh, I’m just—no, not really,” he stuttered out, squeezing his eyes shut and pinching the bridge of his nose.

She found herself fighting the urge to reach out, knowing that he wouldn’t take as kindly to her touch as her friends did.

“I’m sorry, I have to go,” he stood and pushed past her. When he made it to the door, he had to steady himself against the doorframe before continuing.

Hermione got up to follow him, making eye contact with Dr. Green to let him know her intentions. He nodded, motioning her out the door eagerly.

She saw him turn the corner, but she was a few minutes behind him.

“Draco, wait,” she jogged behind him to catch up.

When she turned the corner, he was sitting against the wall, his head fallen back against the brick.

“Draco, I’m a healer. Tell me what’s wrong so I can help.” She squatted down next to him, placing a hand on his shoulder.

“Granger, I’m sorry to put you in this position, and I promise I’ll explain everything, but I need you to Disillusion us,” he forced out on an exhale.

She checked over her shoulder to confirm they were alone in the hallway before pulling out her wand and casting a Disillusionment Charm over them both, along with a Silencing Charm for good measure.

She looked back to Draco, her hand still on his shoulder, and made brief eye contact with him before his eyes rolled back and he collapsed against her.

She caught him to the best of her ability, scooting back to lay him awkwardly on his back next to her.

“Fuck,” her voice broke a bit, “a few more details about what to expect would’ve been really helpful, Malfoy.”

She did her best to put her personal feelings about him to the side and fall back on her healing training. Come on, Granger, you do this every day. It’s your job, she reassured herself silently.

She’d just begun considering how long to wait before intervening when she noticed his muscles start tensing up. The air in his lungs was forced out in a groan. Tonic phase, her mind supplied readily. A seizure, then. Relieved to have some plan of action, she rolled him onto his side, keeping a hand under his head in preparation for the clonic stage, if it came. As she suspected, his muscles began to spasm forcefully. She didn’t interfere other than to prevent him from banging his head on the ground. She realized belatedly that she should probably be timing this, so she glanced down at her watch to note the time, then added a minute mentally. She noticed a wet patch bloom on the front of his trousers and felt a small pang of empathy course through her as she shot a drying charm at it. Better to spare us both that conversation, she thought.

She grasped around mentally for anything she could remember reading about seizures—what she was supposed to watch for, what the recovery looked like, anything to feel less helpless and panicky in this moment. It didn’t help that it was Draco Malfoy, and he’d likely be somehow unhappy to receive any quality of care as long as it was coming from her.

Although, he did thank you, a small part of her whispered.

Pushing all that to the back of her mind, she put her full attention back on Draco. Three minutes, she noted mentally. A seizure lasting longer than five minutes was cause for concern, she was fairly sure. The muscles in his face and neck were pulled taut in a way that looked incredibly painful. His arms and legs jerked sporadically, thankfully never with very much range because she wasn’t sure if she could prevent him from hurting himself or her while keeping him from concussing himself.

Eventually, his movements slowed, and the tension gradually released him. As he stilled, she exhaled, relief washing over her.

“We made it, Malfoy,” she sighed, pushing his hair back off his damp forehead. “Please do me a favor and don’t extra hate me when you wake up.”

She sat that way for a while, waiting for him to regain consciousness. Hermione wasn’t sure when the idea of Draco hating her had stopped playing into her sense of self. His words, his prejudice… it used to get to her, regardless of the face she put on for her friends. Maybe it was after his trial; maybe it was even sooner, like when Harry hexed him while he was crying in the bathroom. Eventually, she realized that his feelings toward her meant a lot more about him than they did about her. Not in a “sticks and stones” way, but more in a… hurt people, hurt people way. Now, her sympathy for Malfoy wasn’t in high supply, but she did have eyes in school. It didn’t take her being the brightest witch of her age (as much as she loathed the title) to notice that he wasn’t faring much better during Voldemort’s struggle for power than they were. She could still remember the haunted look in his eyes.

Malfoy groaned, and she startled out of her thoughts.

“Hey, easy there,” she cautioned.

“Fuck,” he swore, rubbing his hand roughly over his face.

“Yeah, that’s what I said,” she admitted, laughing softly as the panic started to wear off.

He startled at her voice, reaching instinctively for his wand.

“Whoa there, not too fast,” she began, but he didn’t make it far anyway. She placed a comforting hand on his shoulder when he fell back. “Really, Draco, you’re okay. Give it a second.”

She wasn’t sure how much he remembered or how much he’d remember of this interaction, but she wanted to keep him from panicking. She knew that people often woke up scared or confused after a seizure.

“Hurts,” he mumbled, pressing the heels of his palms into his eyes.

She felt a little odd about seeing him in such a vulnerable state. Granted, she’d seen him in similar situations in school. It was strange how familiar you could be with someone you’d consider an enemy or, at the very least, not a friend. She might not like him, but she knew his mother. She knew a small amount of his history of injuries—hell, she knew he was left-handed.

This, though. She didn’t know about this.

“Yeah,” she exhaled, rubbing his shoulder gingerly. “I know, Draco. I’m sorry. Let’s get you out of here, yeah? I know this isn’t ideal, but do you think you can side-along with me?”

He looked up at her, and his eyes were just… sad. Lightless. Haunted. He exhaled shakily and managed a nod.

She stood and extended a hand down to him. He sighed and took it, wincing a bit as he stood.

“Ready?” She hooked an arm around his.

He nodded hesitantly, and she whisked them away.

They landed in the sitting room of her flat. She steadied Draco as they found their footing. She plopped him down on the couch and started off toward the kitchen. “Stay put for a few minutes; I’ll go put on a kettle,” she announced on her way out.

Having Draco Malfoy in her flat for any reason was not on her bingo card, that’s for sure.

Especially not in her flat asleep on her couch, she amended her earlier thought as she walked in to see him fallen over with his face smushed into her couch pillows, his feet still on the floor.

She sighed and sat in the armchair across from him, picking up where she’d left off in her book last night.

He woke up an hour or so later and jolted up with a gasp.

“Oh, good, you’re awake,” she said, looking up from her book.

“What the fuck? Where am I? And why are you here?” Draco demanded, looking around the room with wide eyes.

Hermione pursed her lips. “Well, I suppose I should figure out what you remember first so I know where to start.”

“I, uh—” he stammered, “I remember leaving class and walking toward the apparition point. And… here I am.”

“Wow, that’s interesting. I really wouldn’t have guessed you’d lose that much time. Do you ever have memories of your tonic-clonic seizures?”

“Granger, as much as I’d love to participate in your medical study right now, I’d love to know where the hell I am and how long I’ve been here.”

“Fine, but just because you asked so politely,” she rolled her eyes. “This is my flat. You were too out of it when you woke up to go anywhere on your own, and I didn’t fancy getting my dirty blood boiled by stepping foot in Malfoy Manor.”

Malfoy blanched a bit at this. “Oh. I see. Well, thank you for the efficient exit, I suppose.” He cleared his throat. “I feel like I should note that nothing in the manor would hurt you. Not anymore.”

Now it was Hermione’s turn to look surprised. “Oh?”

“Yeah,” he breathed, dropping his head and bringing a hand to the back of his neck. “My mother and I have done some… renovating. Since Lucius has been in Azkaban.”

“You mean the Aurors have come for all of your dark artifacts, right?” Hermione countered.

“No, Granger, I mean that I’ve been removing blood curses and dark magic from random fucking objects and rooms in my house for years,” he snapped, then took a deep breath and closed his eyes, resting his face in his hand. “I’m sorry. I’m not trying to be a twat.”

Hermione watched him for a beat, then laughed. “That’s a nice change, I agree.”

He grimaced a bit but laughed despite himself. “I suppose I deserve that.”

Hermione was decidedly confused and surprised by this new Malfoy. Of course, she was happy he seemed to be less of a prat these days, but it had gone a bit further than that. Sure, he didn’t seem to hate her for her blood status anymore, but he also seemed like… like all the fight had gone out of him. For better and worse.

“Do you want a pain potion? I have a few stocked up, I don’t mind,” Hermione changed the subject, not feeling inclined to reminisce.

“I, uhm—no, thank you,” he faltered. “I’m off them.”

“I understand,” she replied. And she did. She’d seen it a lot, pain potion addiction. She could see how someone in his position could end up hooked. Speaking of… “So, before you went out earlier, you told me you’d explain?”

“Of course I did,” he grumbled under his breath.

“Tea?” she offered.

“Please,” he agreed readily.

“In all the research I’ve done, the closest thing I can find is the Muggle diagnosis of post-traumatic epilepsy. But it also can’t really be that, because it’s magically induced. So, the Muggle methods for treating it wouldn’t be sufficient. The brain injury doesn’t respond the same.”

“And you’ve tried them? The Muggle methods?”

“I’ve tried everything, Granger,” he sighed.

“You said it’s magically induced? How?” Hermione inquired, trying to wrap her brain around this. She loved a puzzle, after all.

“It stems from… er—it’s caused by repeated exposure to the,” he cleared his throat uncomfortably, “Cruciatus Curse.”

“The Cruciatus Curse? I’m not doubting you, but I’ve just never heard of a side effect that severe.” Hermione’s eyes widened at the thought.

“I’ve read about a few other cases, but they were all, understandably, swept under the rug. It’s only seen in cases where the curse has been implemented liberally or for extended periods,” Draco’s voice was soft, and his eyes avoided hers. He chose instead to fidget with his shirt sleeve.

Hermione struggled to find the appropriate words, her mouth hanging slightly ajar.

“Fuck, Granger, I’m not an invalid. And half the time I probably deserved it, so can we just move on?” Draco blurted, his face reddening in embarrassment or shame or maybe anger.

“Draco,” Hermione balked, shaking her head in disbelief. “What do you—no. No, you didn’t.” She huffed out a slightly hysterical laugh. “Are you kidding? I’ll drop it if you’d like, I understand, but… God, I am so sorry.”

“No,” Draco snapped. “Don’t do that. You don’t get to be sorry,” he glared at her, furiously. “Not you.”

He stood in a huff, turning from her to pace the small room. “Merlin, Hermione, I was fucking horrible to you.” He laughed sardonically. “And don’t get me wrong, I am sorry, but what does that even fucking count for? It doesn’t change anything. It doesn’t make me any less guilty, and it certainly doesn’t fucking un-torture you on my drawing room floor,” he shouted, banging the side of his fist against a doorframe, and then took a ragged breath, pulled the fingers of that same hand through his hair, and patted the doorframe in what seemed to be an odd little apology.

Hermione was frozen in shock. Her mind jolted back to that day, that pain. Bellatrix’s face so close to hers, her hot breath invading her senses. She took a stuttering breath, her hand unconsciously moving to her covered forearm where her skin was etched in a jagged hand— Mudblood.

Draco, seeming to finally remember himself, met her eyes. He noticed her expression, her hand on her arm, and his face softened. He took a few steps toward her, his hand twitching forward slightly, as if to reach out to her. To repair something within her, within him. Then he stopped, turning his face away, a muscle feathering in his jaw.

“I should go,” he rasped, and she didn’t stop him as he grabbed a handful of Floo powder and stated, “Malfoy Manor,” before disappearing into the hearth.

She swore she saw a pained glance in her direction on his face before he went.

Chapter Text

“Padma,” Hermione began, in a way that she hoped sounded casual, “have you ever heard of magically induced, post-traumatic epilepsy?”

“What do you mean? Like, Muggle epilepsy?” Padma asked. “Because I’m honestly not even sure if there’s a magical equivalent.”

“Yeah, that’s what I thought too,” Hermione said, frowning. The lack of precedent for this condition made treating it even more difficult. Her mind kept readily supplying memories of Draco’s face—the grimace that his mouth pulled into as his muscles seized, the exhaustion evident on his face that night at her flat…

“Why do you ask?” Padma pulled her out of her thoughts. She had a curious, almost concerned expression at Hermione’s reaction.

“No reason. Just an interesting case study I saw recently,” Hermione shrugged. “Are you ready to go to lunch? I’m starving.”

—

Hermione showed up for class the next day only a few minutes early, but she still beat Malfoy. He walked in, taking hurried strides, right before Dr. Green closed the door. He sat down hastily next to her, exhaling shakily, and didn’t bother speaking to her as he took out his notebook and pen.

Fine, Hermione thought and didn’t acknowledge him either. The lesson began a few moments afterward, anyway, and Hermione was effectively pulled from her thoughts by Dr. Green’s lecture.

That was until she noticed Draco’s head bob out of the corner of her eye. He recovered quickly, clearing his throat, and resting his chin on his palm as he began taking notes again. A quick glance at the last thing he’d written told her he’d stopped paying attention a while ago. She went back to taking her own notes and pointedly ignored him.

A few minutes later, she saw his pen stop moving, still pressed into the page. She looked over at him to see that he’d fallen asleep with his face propped on his palm. She couldn’t help but grin at the sight, a tightness spreading through her chest that she didn’t want to dwell on. Unwilling to allow him to ruin his notes with a leaking fountain pen, however, she bumped his shoulder with hers. He jolted awake, inhaling sharply. Dr. Green noticed but clearly decided to take pity on him because he didn’t mention it.

Malfoy managed to stay awake for the rest of the lecture.

Hermione turned to him as he was packing his things away.

“Are you… okay?” she asked, hesitant.

He sighed, looking at her for the first time since he left her flat last week. “I’m fine.”

His pale gray eyes were red-rimmed, and deep purple shadows darkened the skin beneath his eyes like bruises

“I think I might have some ideas,” Hermione spoke quietly. “Now, granted, you may have already tried some of them, I don’t know, but I have some suggestions that may be worth a shot.”

Draco’s gaze on her was so tired. The light behind his eyes was always present, even if occasionally malicious or mischievous. Now… there was nothing. Just bone-deep exhaustion.

“I… fine, Granger. Sure. If you want to help, you’re welcome to,” he said, his voice tight and mechanical.

“Okay, great because I have a lot of ideas,” she said immediately, looping her arm through his and tugging him out of the room.

She was pleased with herself when he almost smiled at that.

—

The next day in class, Hermione waited as long as she could before tapping him with her pen and saying, “So, I’m thinking we could maybe meet up at my flat some evening after class and I can run my notes by you? I have some thoughts on causes and possible solutions, but I need a bit more information, I think, on how it started. That will help shape my theories an—”

“You’re rambling,” Draco said, his eyes focused squarely on the professor. 

“Sorry, I just have a lot of… thoughts,” Hermione deflated, not looking at him.

“I was only kidding. I’m sorry. I have a fairly dry sense of humor, I’ve been told,” Draco turned to her then, smiling softly, “I was actually thinking I could take you to dinner and we could talk then. If you’re willing to help me become less of an invalid, I figure the least I could do is feed you.”

“Oh, uh—I mean, that would be fine. I don’t—can you—” Hermione stuttered around, searching for a polite way to ask him if that was something he could even confidently do.

“Merlin, Granger, I’m not quite that hopeless. I am capable of being in public,” he said, rolling his eyes and answering her unasked question. “I generally go days between seizures. I guess their recent frequency would be considered a ‘flare-up’ in Muggle epilepsy terms, but—well, it’s not really important,” he decided. 

“At any rate, I do get a bit of warning. Enough to get somewhere else, at least,” he added, quietly—shamefully.

“That would be lovely,” Hermione responded before he got a chance to dwell.

“Okay,” he nodded, “tonight?”

“That works,” Hermione agreed, “will I need to wear something ridiculous to not look out of place?”

“I took the liberty of having something delivered to your flat,” he fought a smile, “it will automatically adjust to your measurements. Pardon the assumption, but I thought you might not have anything you felt was suitable and I didn’t want you fretting about it.”

“That’s the assumption you’re apologizing for? Not the part where you assumed I’d agree?” she asked, with mock indignation. Even if a very, very small part of her brain reacted in a stupid, blushing way at this gesture. 

He bit his lip, fighting to suppress the smile tugging at the corners, then tilted his head to the side with a cocky lift of his eyebrows. “You did, didn’t you?” he said, before turning back to face Dr. Green.

—

Hermione had the grace and self-awareness to admit that she was nervous. 

She got back to her flat earlier than she hoped that afternoon, even after classes and running some errands that she only ran to make the day pass faster. At any rate, she figured she might as well start getting ready, even if it was only 3 pm and dinner wasn’t for another four hours. 

She showered, which was a lengthier process than normal seeing as she decided to shave her entire body. She didn’t plan on anyone seeing it, of course, but it was the way of things. She couldn’t wear a dress and have hair on the back of her knees, for Heaven’s sake. 

So, yes, basically she was a bit nervous. She wasn’t sure why, it wasn’t a date. 

It’s kind of a date, her mind unhelpfully supplied. And she found herself in agreement with this interjecting thought. 

Was she going on a date with Draco Malfoy? This hadn’t occurred to her when she agreed. 

Why had she agreed? He had looked very sad at the idea that she might not agree. Hadn’t he? Or was that just something she told herself because she wanted to agree?

Why would she want to agree to go to dinner with Draco Malfoy? Merlin’s Beard, maybe she should cancel. 

Except… he’d sent her a dress. It had been waiting for her in a box on her bed when she arrived. Who would send a dress for dinner with a friend? Surely, he must think this is a date. 

On the other hand… he’s exorbitantly wealthy. He probably didn’t even pick this out, just delegated the task to some assistant or overworked house-elf. Maybe he just genuinely thought her wardrobe consisted of Healer robes and muggle jeans. It wasn’t an entirely unreasonable assumption. Maybe he would send a dress without thinking of it as a date. 

He’d smiled, though. That was encouraging. 

Wait, do I want him to think of this as a date? She asked herself with a jolt. 

Draco wasn’t kind to her when they were kids. He was a bully, and occasionally he was worse than a bully. Notably, he was a death eater. Granted… he didn’t seem to have much of a choice in that matter. And, she thought with a shiver, he was clearly tortured more than she was by his own side.

Hermione and Harry had spoken for Draco at his trial. Harry mentioned that he tried to conceal his identity from Voldemort that day at Malfoy Manor, which went a long way. She’d based her defense on the facts that Draco was given the Dark Mark as a minor and under duress. He’d also never killed anyone.

He had, she reminded herself, tortured people using the Cruciatus Curse though. 

Hermione was crucio’d right in front of him. He’d stared at her, wide-eyed, unmoving as she writhed on his drawing room floor. Not that he could’ve intervened, he would’ve gotten them both killed. Even denying he knew who Harry was could’ve killed him, and he’d done that anyway. 

It was odd to think that while he was watching her get tortured he was so intimately acquainted with the feeling. 

How often had he been tortured? Especially to end up with brain damage. Hermione’s ongoing theory is that his brain still being a young, developing brain at the time likely contributed to his condition. 

The Wizengamot found him guilty but only sentenced him to a year of house arrest and two years without magic. That was four years ago. 

And somehow a 23-year-old Hermione Granger was getting ready for a maybe-almost-date with him. 

She looked at herself in the mirror as she dried her hair. After getting a handle on how to take care of curly hair, she actually found she rather liked the mane of hair she’d been given. Her mother had straight hair, so she’d never known how to treat it. Now, instead of puffing out in a tangled ball of frizz, it fell in loose spirals. 

Her preferred way of doing makeup combined muggle makeup and beauty charms, as opposed to one or the other. She always felt that beauty charms on their own felt more artificial. So she applied her makeup, just a bit past everyday makeup, and set it with smoothing and perfecting beauty charms. Her 13-year-old self would be appalled that she even knew a beauty charm. Granted, she had had much more to prove at that point. At this point, she was more confident and recognized that one could be both pretty/girly/etc, and smart. 

And Hermione wasn’t blind, she could look in the mirror and recognize that she was, in fact, pretty. Her hair fell to the middle of her back, her brown eyes were large and fit well with her small-ish nose and full lips. She didn’t have the largest breasts, but she was shapely and her hips were rounded despite her smaller frame. It wasn’t something she considered all that often, to be frank. 

And Malfoy was… honestly, she hadn’t let herself consider how he’d looked until this point. Maybe she’d been purposefully ignoring it. 

Because, God, was he fit. 

Sure, he was a bit pointy around the edges, but it was in a way that looked sort of aristocratic. Tall and lean, he carried himself with a kind of effortless grace that had likely been instilled in him from a very young age. His white-blond hair—short on the sides, longer on top—caught the light in a way that made it look almost silver, and his sharp, angular features gave him the sort of face that belonged in a portrait, not a lecture hall. Then there were his eyes: pale gray and piercing, like storm clouds just before the rain. His clothes—perfectly tailored, of course—embodied old money and would have been insufferable on anyone else. Used to be insufferable on him, she reminded herself. She wasn’t quite sure when that had changed. 

When she was suitably primped and had stared at herself quite enough, thank you very much, she made her way back into her room to get dressed. 

When she opened the box on her bed, she found a dress that was certainly more expensive than anything she’d ever purchased for herself. It was stunning, honestly. A rich satin with an off-the-shoulder neckline framed by a soft, ruffled bit of fabric. The bodice was boned and the full skirt fell a bit past her knees. The back was her favorite part—it laced up as opposed to zipping. It was lovely, truly. 

It was, however, a deep emerald color. Slytherin green. She rolled her eyes at this. That may have been the only part of this he had any say in, possibly just to spite her, maybe to make a joke about later. He couldn’t possibly be expected to do a nice thing without throwing a subtle jab in here. 

She sighed and stepped into the dress. As he’d claimed, as soon as she started sliding it on, it took over, magically fitting itself to her body. She found a pair of simple, nude heels in the box as well that were spelled to adjust to her foot size and shape. They were also unnaturally comfortable, which was likely due to both the fit and a cushioning charm. 

By the time she was ready, she still had 30 minutes to kill. She paced around in front of her fireplace in a way that was decidedly not very calm and then decided that that just wouldn’t do and settled on perusing her own bookshelves in the sitting room that just happened to be next to the fireplace. 

An eternity later, and five minutes early, Draco Malfoy stepped out of her fireplace, waving floo powder and a bit of soot away from his face irritably. He looked ready to complain about it until his eyes found her across the room and he stopped short. 

“Hi,” she stated, too loudly. 

Malfoy looked maddeningly composed in a sleek black ensemble—a high-neck sweater, perfectly tailored trousers, a slim blazer, and a long, wool overcoat. Everything about him was sharp and deliberate, down to the polished shoes and the silver rings on his fingers.

“Hi,” he replied, uncharacteristically informally, then recovered with, “you look lovely. Quite the vision in green. I knew I made a good choice. That dress was only available in black, plum, and emerald on such short notice.”

“Yes, yes, I’m sure it regales you to see me in Slytherin colors,” she narrowed her eyes at him.

He looked a bit affronted, then. Or… embarrassed? “Well, if you must know to not think quite so poorly of me, green is just my favorite color… unrelated to our alma mater.”

Hermione’s brain had finally caught up to the fact that Malfoy had just said he picked out this dress. Not just the color of it.

“You don’t look half bad yourself,” she replied, for some unfathomable reason.

“High praise coming from you, Granger,” he smirked. 

Heat flooded her cheeks and she almost pretended to come down with some sudden and violent illness, but decided that could potentially be more embarrassing. Just barely.

“Shall we?” She said instead, clearing her throat primly.

Malfoy offered her his arm and she took it in a completely normal, appropriate way like the sane person she obviously no longer was, and he apparated them to Muggle London.

—

When the hostess showed them to their table, Draco pulled out her chair for her automatically. As someone raised middle-class, not to mention a muggle, the pureblood manners that were so instilled in him to be second nature were always surprising to her. 

“A muggle restaurant?” Hermione asked, smiling as she asked it so as not to seem argumentative. But she couldn’t pretend not to be curious.

“Only of the highest caliber, of course. I may have shaken my father’s prejudices, but I have firmly held onto my mother’s tastes,” he smirked, raising his nose in a faux display of arrogance. The true display of arrogance was the way he ordered when the waitress made it to their table.

“What are the wine pairings for tonight? I was considering the salmon, but I’m not sure what she’ll have. Hermione, have you had a chance to look at the menu?” 

Hermione froze, not accustomed to this level of… class. Luxury, perhaps. “I, uh—no, not yet. In fact, why don’t you order for both of us?” she stammered.

He nodded matter-of-factly as if he was used to this sort of deference to his opinion. “Okay, we’ll both do the salmon then and split whatever bottle your sommelier recommends. No need to send her over, I trust her palette,” he said, smiling charmingly at the young woman taking their order. She smiled back and told him that she’d send our order in, a bit too flustered to look all that professional.

“So, let’s get this over with,” he sighed, “I’ve had… whatever this is—Epilepsy, we’ll call it—since after the war. As soon as Vold—err, he was gone, I started showing symptoms. I don’t know if it was something in his own magic staving off the symptoms or if it was something as simple as my body wasn’t in fight-or-flight for the first time in years, but… that’s the short of it. In terms of symptoms, according to my research, I experience a few different types of seizures. Tonic-clonic, tonic, absence, and drop seizures. Tonic-clonic refers to the—”

“—I know what they are, you don’t have to explain,” Hermione interjected, “Healer and med student, remember?” she smiled kindly.

“Yeah—yes, of course, I’m sorry. I just—I practiced this—this monologue before I came,” he ran a nervous hand through his hair, “I don’t—I guess I don’t particularly love talking about this. I don’t—”

Hermione reached across the table and placed her hand atop his. He stopped talking and averted his eyes, clearing his throat.

“What if I just asked you a couple of questions and then we agreed not to talk about it for the rest of the night?”

He looked back at her. His eyes shone with humiliated gratitude for just a moment, then he blinked and inclined his head in a slow, almost regal, nod.

“Okay, so, firstly—what remedies or treatments have you already tried?”

“Well… a variety of muggle anti-epileptic drugs, for one. None of those had any effect at all. Or, at least, any desirable effects, I suppose. Plenty of side effects. I’ve also tried changing my diet and several different potions and combinations therein prescribed to me by my healer. Nothing has worked… yet, I say, in an attempt to feign positivity.”

“What sort of side effects?”

“Headaches, drowsiness, tremors… nothing noteworthy,” he shrugged.

“Okay. And you said you have tonic-clonic seizures a few times per week?” she asked, clinically.

“Yes.”

“That’s… fairly often, you know.”

“I’m aware,” he replied tightly, a muscle in his jaw feathering. 

“I’m sorry,” she said, softly, then added, “Have you noticed anything in particular that triggers your seizures? Then, I swear, no more questions.”

“Sometimes, they feel completely random. The only correlations I’ve found are stress, lack of sleep, or flashing lights. Fairly standard, that last one, I suppose.”

“Actually, less common than you’d think. Just well known. Obvious to others, I suppose.”

He hummed thoughtfully, then took a sip from his glass that had been filled with wine at some point when they were talking. 

“Oh, and alcohol,” he added, dryly. 

“Draco!” She admonished, furrowing her brow. 

“Stop fussing, it was for comedic timing’s sake,” he smiled into his glass, “one glass will hardly kill me. I would have to drink a bit more than that to suffer any real consequences.”

She rolled her eyes, and pulled the half-full bottle toward herself, “Well, I suppose the rest of this bottle is a sacrifice I’ll have to make.”

“That’s so good of you. Must be those Gryffindor sensibilities,” he put a touched hand to his heart, coyly. 

“I can never outrun my spotless reputation, it seems,” she sighed, bringing her glass to her lips. 

“Hang around me long enough, your reputation will be well and truly sullied,” he leaned forward, propping his chin on his elbow. 

“Oh, yes, you’re such a bad boy, Malfoy. I don’t think you even swirled your wine before smelling it. Such a rule breaker,” Hermione joked, but she knew that they were skirting abound dangerous territory. Awkward territory. 

Draco didn’t reply and she braced herself for the impending collapse of the conversation, but she looked up to find him staring blankly over her left shoulder. 

She placed her hand over his. 

His eyes refocused on her a few moments later. 

“Apologies,” he said, clearing his throat awkwardly. 

“It’s okay,” she replied easily. 

“Ah. There it is,” he leaned back into his chair. 

“There what is?”

“That look. The pitying one you’ve been giving me. You haven’t had it all night. I suppose you’d almost forgotten,” he laughed. It was a bitter laugh that forced heat up her neck. 

“I don’t—“

“—don’t insult me. Blindness is not one of my afflictions.”

“Draco,” she spoke so softly that it was barely a whisper. 

“It’s quite alright. I’m used to it,” he interjected and his face fell into a more neutral expression. 

“Who… who knows?” She was cautious when she asked, keeping her voice at a whisper. 

“My mother, Theo, Pansy, and now you.”

“Theo Nott? Harry’s Theo?”

“Yes. Theo’s my best friend,” Draco shrugged, “well, more of a brother, I suppose. He spent most of his time outside of Hogwarts at the Manor with me.”

“And Pansy? Is she… are you two… involved?” She stammered. 

“Me and Pans? No, gods, no,” he actually laughed, “we tried that for a while in high school, but that was mostly because that’s what close friends did when they were of the opposite sex and heterosexual. But, no. Pansy is just a friend. Plus, I think she’s been seeing Longbottom recently. I’m surprised you didn’t know that.”

“Pansy Parkinson has been seeing Neville Longbottom?” Hermione’s eyes widened almost theatrically. 

“She seems quite… smitten,” Draco shook his head, equally confused. 

“I need much more wine to digest this information,” Hermione laughed. 

Draco sighed, smirking all the while, and downed the rest of his glass. 

Chapter Text

“Gin, it wasn’t a date,” Hermione said, exasperated, as she wiped down her already spotless countertop. Ginny, perched on top of it, swung her legs lazily. “We’re just working on a project and happened to discuss it over dinner.”

“Uh-huh. Right. I always buy dresses for my coworkers when we meet to compare notes too,” Ginny said with mock seriousness, nodding solemnly. “Honestly, it’s a bit rough on the budget, but you know, that’s just what everyone does for their purely platonic research partners. I’ve been saying for years that it’s outdated, but as they say, why fix what isn’t—”

“Yes, thank you, point made,” Hermione interrupted with a sigh. If there was one thing Ginny excelled at, it was the sarcastic monologue.

“All I’m saying is…” Ginny leaned forward conspiratorially. “If it were a date—don’t give me that look, and put your swotty finger down, I said if—would it really be such a big deal? Or so bad, anyway?”

“It’s Draco Malfoy,” Hermione said softly, almost to herself. Her gaze met Ginny’s for the first time in several sentences.

“And? I’m dating Blaise Zabini, and Harry is practically married to Theo Nott. We’re a very snake-friendly crowd these days,” Ginny replied with a shrug. Hermione huffed, shooing her off the countertop, but pressed a placating glass of wine into her hands.

“Blaise and Theo weren’t the youngest Death Eaters on record,” Hermione said quietly. “They didn’t host Voldemort in their childhood home, Gin.”

“I’m pretty sure Malfoy wasn’t exactly thrilled about either of those things,” Ginny said, taking a sip of her wine.

It’s caused by repeated exposure to the Cruciatus Curse, he’d said, wincing.

“Of course not,” Hermione conceded, her voice soft, “but… he made the wrong choice, Gin. He was lucky to avoid Azkaban. Many people think he shouldn’t have.”

“What do you think?” Ginny asked, her tone neutral, but the question still caught Hermione off guard.

“I—I don’t know,” Hermione said, though even as the words left her mouth, she knew they weren’t true.

“I think he’s different now,” she admitted honestly after a beat.

“Different how?”

“More… sincere. Less antagonistic. Less arrogant.” Hermione hesitated, searching for the right words. “More real, in some ways. He’s smart, I think. I’d never really noticed that before. And… thoughtful. And funny, sometimes.”

“You like him,” Ginny said abruptly, cutting through Hermione’s rambling.

Hermione froze, her teeth catching her lower lip as she avoided Ginny’s gaze.

“You like him,” Ginny repeated, her voice gentler this time. “And you think he’s different. You don’t owe anyone anything, Hermione, except yourself.”

Hermione exhaled slowly, leaning against the counter as Ginny rested her head on her shoulder.

“I—thanks, Gin. I’ll think about it,” Hermione replied.

“If it’s any consolation,” Ginny said, her tone perfectly serious, “he is ridiculously fit. At least he has that going for him.”

Hermione couldn’t help it; she laughed.

—

“I don’t excel at it, no,” he sighed, rubbing his temple. “Additionally, I’m not really feeling up to a game of Twenty Questions this morning, Granger.”

“Timeout, then. Don’t be rude,” she countered, arching an eyebrow.

He groaned, rolling his eyes. “You’re right. I’m sorry.”

Hermione crossed her arms, giving him a pointed look.

“I mean it. I’m sorry,” he repeated. His voice softened. “I just… had a long night.”

She didn’t need to ask to understand. The shadows under his eyes were darker than usual, and she couldn’t help but wonder if he’d glamoured them away at dinner before. She shook the thought away.

“I forgive you.”

“Good. Because I was planning on asking you to be my date for the charity ball at Malfoy Manor next week, and it would be rather awkward if you were still cross with me.”

She blinked, caught off guard. “I—what? Why?”

“You really know how to make a man feel desired, Granger.” He gave her a dry look as he pulled out his notebook and pen. “Alas, it’s not for my sake. It’s for you. The gala is for St. Mungo’s, and a number of Healer bigwigs will be there. I thought it might be useful for you—rubbing elbows with the elite, so to speak. Could help with your efforts to revolutionize magical medicine with your Muggle-inspired ideas.”

Hermione stared at him, shocked.

“Or… not,” he added briskly. “Trust me, I don’t want to go. You’d be doing me a favor by saying no.”

“No, I—thanks, Malfoy. That would be lovely. I’m just… surprised, that’s all.”

His expression grew a bit more severe at her hesitation. “Don’t thank me. It’s the least I can do, considering how much time and effort you’re putting into my likely hopeless cause.”

He turned his attention to Dr. Green, who had already begun the lecture. Hermione’s gaze lingered on him, a mix of confusion and something softer filling her chest.

“Actually,” he added, his voice low, "if you could stop looking at me like you’re shocked by the barest scraps of human decency coming from me, I would consider it a thank you. I know I’ve not done much to deserve that, I suppose, but it… does chafe a bit, to be honest.”

He didn’t meet her eyes, but his neck reddened slightly. Hermione nodded, turning back to her notes. After scribbling a few lines—none of which made much sense—she hesitated before placing her hand gently on his sleeve. She gave his forearm two light pats in an awkward gesture of apology.

Malfoy stiffened at first but seemed to relax a moment later, the corner of his mouth twitching like he was fighting off a smile.

They weren’t halfway through the lecture when Hermione noticed the change. It was subtle at first—a tightening of his posture, the way his hand stilled over his notebook. Then he brought his palms to his eyes and pressed hard, as though trying to block out the world. He seemed surprised by his own reaction—and then a bit scared.

Hermione instinctively cast a wandless Notice-Me-Not charm and Muffliato around them.

“Thank you,” he murmured, slumping back into his chair. His knees fell apart, and his head tipped against the backrest, his hands still covering his face.

“What’s wrong?” she asked, her voice urgent but gentle.

“I—I don’t feel well,” he mumbled.

“I need more than that, Malfoy,” she said, her tone softening as she pressed the back of her hand to his cheek. His skin was too warm.

“Head,” he mouthed, wincing as though speaking would hurt, either physically or pridefully.

Before she could respond, his body went limp. His arms fell to his sides, and his head lolled to the right. Hermione caught him just before he slid from his chair.

Shit.

Drop seizures, he’d told her. Also known as atonic seizures, her mind supplied, but this wasn’t the time for medical definitions.

Scooting closer, she positioned his head on her shoulder, keeping a hand on his forehead to prevent it from falling forward. He was feverish—too feverish. Her fingers moved to his scalp, scratching lightly in a soothing rhythm. The desire to take care of him settled heavily in her chest, weighing heavily on her throat. It felt somehow completely foreign and totally natural… also terrifying due to both of those things.

He woke about thirty seconds later. At first, he nuzzled into her shoulder, seemingly comforted by her touch. Then, as awareness returned, he jolted upright.

“Shit,” he whispered, his voice cracking. He leaned forward, resting his head on his desk and hiding his face in the crook of his elbow.

Hermione placed a hand on his back. He didn’t move. She began rubbing slow circles between his shoulder blades, and he shifted almost imperceptibly toward her—perhaps unconsciously.

Her hand drifted back to his hair, her fingers threading through the pale strands. His breathing hitched before evening out. Then, to her surprise, it slowed. Moments later, he was asleep.

This made her sad, in a way. It was too quick, he shouldn’t have been able to fall asleep so quickly. He must truly be sleep-deprived. Didn’t he say being tired was a trigger for him? If so, why did he never seem to sleep enough?

Hermione continued carding her fingers through his hair, a gesture far more tender than she’d ever imagined extending to Draco Malfoy.

He slept for the rest of the lecture.

When the other students began packing up, she shook him gently.

“Malfoy,” she murmured.

His eyes fluttered open, blinking blearily at her before recognition dawned.

“Let me take you home,” she said softly. “You’re sick.”

He just nodded.

Then he closed his eyes again.

“Draco,” she sighed, packing his notebook and pen into his bag. The satchel was surprisingly light. A permanent Featherlight Charm, maybe?

She shook his shoulder. He grumbled in response.

“Is he alright?” Dr. Green asked. She noticed all of the other students were already gone. The situation must’ve been odd enough to nullify her notice-me-not charm or something.

“Yes, I think so. He fell asleep a few moments ago. He has a fever, I think, so I’m going to take him home,” she added, hoping that Dr. Green would take less offense to him sleeping in his class if he knew he was sick.

“Poor lad. He told me at the beginning of the semester about his condition. If you ever need to step out with him, that’s absolutely fine with me, for the record. No one should have to go through that alone,” he added kindly at the end, frowning at a still-sleeping Draco.

She nodded, unsure of how else to reply, then added, “Thank you, Dr. Green. I’m sure he’d appreciate it as well.”

She shook his shoulder again, leaning closer this time. “Come on. Up you go.”

His eyes opened again.

His face pinched in pain.

“Come on. You can sleep as soon as I get you home.”

She grabbed his hand and pulled it. He was heavier than he looked and didn’t budge at all.

Then he groaned in a way that didn’t seem completely coherent and was totally at odds with his usual aristocratic demeanor.

Then he stood, rubbing his eyes with the hand she wasn’t holding. Which, of course, led her to realize she was still holding his hand. She dropped it quickly.

“Come,” she whispered, looping an arm around his waist and tugging him towards the door.

“Thank you again, Dr. Green,” she said as they were leaving.

He smiled and nodded.

Once they were at the apparition point, she stopped and he almost stumbled. She tightened her arm around his waist.

“Are you even okay to apparate?” She asked, concerned.

He shrugged.

That was not comforting.

“Okay, well… alright, I’m going to wrap my arms around you to minimize the tugged-along feeling and make sure you don’t get splinched. I’ll take you to my flat first then we can floo to the manor. Is that alright?”

He didn’t reply, just stared absently.

“Draco,” she frowned, “are you listening?”

He nodded.

“Is that okay?”

He nodded again.

She sighed in a long-suffering sort of way and questioned why it was always her in these situations. The healer’s plight, she supposed. Then she wrapped her arms around him.

She knew he wasn’t listening by the way he tensed in surprise. He quickly relaxed, however, wrapping his arms around her in return. And, then, oddly… he rested his chin on her head. The unexpected gesture left her feeling strangely feverish herself.

“Ready?”

He nodded again, burying his chin into her hair.

She apparated them into her living room.

His knees buckled slightly when they landed and he would’ve probably fallen if she weren’t holding him.

Right, she was holding him.

She didn’t let go immediately, mostly out of concern he’d hurt himself, but only mostly.

“Will the floo wards at the manor allow me in?”

He nodded.

“Do you have a stock of fever potions there?”

Another nod, slower this time.

“Okay. Can you stand on your own?”

The way he hesitantly disentangled himself from her did not make her feel confident. He started shivering.

She took his hand and pulled him toward the fireplace.

She grabbed a handful of floo powder and thought about the fact that she was willingly going back to the house that haunted her nightmares.

Then she called “Malfoy Manor,” and they stepped into the green light.

—

He leaned on Hermione the entire way to his bedroom—which, given the size of his house, was less than ideal. She didn't complain, though; he was the type to try doing things alone if he sensed he was a burden.

The thought crossed her mind that she knew this about him—that she was starting to know him—and she let it pass.

When they reached his room, she deposited him on the edge of his bed. He sank heavily, letting his face fall into his hands.

“Are you… Will you be okay here alone?” She asked, softly.

"Mipsy," he murmured, his voice quiet and raw.

A house-elf appeared instantly, a frown creasing her features. Hermione took note of her professional clothing.

"Master Draco is needing help?" Mipsy inquired.

When Draco didn't immediately respond, Hermione stepped in. "Could you please bring a fever-reducing potion for him? And perhaps a cool, damp cloth in the meantime?"

Mipsy accepted the request without hesitation—likely because it was indirectly from Draco—and vanished, reappearing moments later with the requested items.

Hermione turned back to Draco, who hadn't moved. "You've taken this potion before, right?"

He nodded.

"I'm just making sure it doesn't interact with your condition in any way."

"It won't."

"Here," she offered, holding out the vial.

He didn't move to take it.

When she continued to extend it toward him, he cleared his throat. "I need a minute. You can leave it on the nightstand. Thank you." His face remained buried in his hands.

"Are you having an aura?"

He didn't reply.

She sat down beside him on the bed. "You can leave if you want. I'll be okay," he whispered.

"Lie down," she instructed instead.

He leaned back onto the bed but left his feet on the floor.

"Don't leave your legs hanging; you'll hurt yourself," she sighed. "Your self-preservation needs work, Malfoy."

She gently rolled him onto his side, positioning his head near her leg. She tapped his leg to prompt him to pull his feet onto the bed.

He sighed but complied.

"I'm sorry," he mumbled, his words slightly slurred.

She patted his head in acknowledgment of the unnecessary apology. A few moments later, he went limp as unconsciousness claimed him.

First, his body tensed. A grunt forced its way out as his back arched and his neck strained at an uncomfortable angle.

But the muscle spasms didn't come.

Just a tonic seizure, then, she thought.

It was shorter than the tonic-clonic seizure she'd seen before—only about a minute before he relaxed.

She realized Mipsy was still standing nearby, a worried frown etched on her face. Hermione offered her a reassuring smile, her fingers instinctively carding through Draco's hair in a gesture that was becoming familiar.

“Mipsy wants to thank Miss for staying… Mipsy doesn’t do well with the seizures,” the elf whispered.

“You don’t need to thank me. I’m a healer, so I’m a bit more used to this sort of thing,” Hermione replied, looking down at Draco. He seemed to be regaining awareness and was displeased by that fact. He whimpered softly, pressing the heels of his palms against his eyes.

"I know you said no pain potions, but you need to take something for your head, Draco," she whispered, pressing her wand gently to the back of his neck and murmuring a muscle-relaxing charm.

He shook his head.

"Can I give you a Muggle pain medicine?"

"I have paracetamol in my nightstand," he sighed.

She was, frankly, surprised.

"I don't even have the energy to be offended by how loud your surprise is," he mumbled, his voice muffled by the bedding where he'd buried his face.

“Sorry, sorry, it’s just… I don’t think I know anyone who isn’t muggle-born who knows anything about muggle medicines. I’m not surprised because it’s coming from the Prince of the Purebloods, per se.”

He snorted.

“Well, when everything hurts all the time and you’re a recovering pain potion addict, the magical qualities of solutions start to seem less important,” he grumbled.

It was probably meant as dark humor, but Hermione couldn't bring herself to laugh.

“You should change into something other than formal wear for once and take a nap. And I should get home,” she said, shaking out two pills from the bottle in the nightstand. She handed them to him along with a cup she’d summoned and filled with water.

“Let me feed you lunch first?” He asked.

“Mipsy will bring lunch up immediately!” The house elf announced, then disappeared with a crack.

"Well, there you have it. You wouldn't want to disappoint Mipsy, would you?" he smiled weakly, raising an eyebrow.

That was a great point. She couldn’t bear to slight the elf after hearing her heartfelt thanks. “Fine. I’ll stay. But only if you go put more sleep-appropriate clothing on and promise to sleep after I leave so I don’t have to scoop you up off of your desk tomorrow.”

“I can make no promises about my ability to sleep or my ability to stay upright in any situation, as you know, but I will change if it pleases you,” he said, as obnoxiously posh as ever.

He stood to exit and swayed slightly before regaining his balance.

“Are you… okay? To go in there alone?” She gestured toward the adjoining bathroom.

“Granger,” he drawled theatrically, “if you want to see me naked, just ask.”

“I—you—you know very well what I mean, I wasn’t—“

“I’m kidding. Don’t get your knickers in a twist. Allow me the small kindness of dignity in assuming that you’re flirting with me, as opposed to fearing for my safety from the threat that is myself,” he sighed, summoning a stack of soft-looking clothing from his, elaborate and large, she noted, closet, “but, yes, I’ll be fine. And if something happened, I’ll yell. Granted, I’m heavy enough, I imagine you’d hear it if I fell.”

Hermione felt a pang at the resignation in his voice as if this was something he considered regularly.

It’s odd, sometimes… someone as prideful and private as Draco feeling so beholden to and dependent on the people around him against his will.

“Yes, you’re probably right. At any rate, I’ll be here if you need anything. I only asked because you’re sick and still a bit wobbly, you know. I don’t think you’re generally a danger to yourself,” she added, a bit flippantly, but she wanted him to know.

He nodded, color tinting his cheeks a darker red than the fever had left them, then turned and walked into the bathroom, closing the door behind him.

Mipsy reappeared almost immediately after, levitating a tray laden with enough food for several people. With a snap of her fingers, a small table and two plush armchairs materialized in front of the fireplace.

"Where has Master Draco gone?" Mipsy asked, noticing his absence as she set the table.

"He just went to change," Hermione assured her.

"Mipsy is so glad Master Draco has such a good friend in you, miss. When Master told Mipsy to start sending Mister Theo and Miss Pansy away, Mipsy was very worried. The seizures can go poorly when Master Draco is alone," she whispered conspiratorially.

"Please, call me Hermione," she replied, needing a moment to process Mipsy's words.

"Miss Hermione, then. Mipsy thanks you," the elf said with a polite nod before vanishing with a soft crack.

Draco didn't return until Hermione had already settled into one of the armchairs and begun sipping the tea Mipsy had left under a stasis charm.

When he walked back into the room, she glanced up over her teacup—and nearly choked.

He was wearing soft gray joggers, a white long-sleeved T-shirt, and slippers over white crew socks.

In all the years she'd known Draco Malfoy—which, at this point, was more years than she hadn't—she had never seen him dressed so casually.

Hermione considered, for the second time—or perhaps the hundredth—the irony of knowing an enemy as intimately as she knew Draco. She was familiar with several of his fears; she'd seen him cry; she'd shared countless meals in the same room. He'd seen her with braces. He'd watched her being tortured.

This, though. For some reason, this was the turning point for her. This incredibly mundane moment would be forever etched into her memory.

Draco Malfoy was no longer her enemy. The intimacy they now shared wasn’t that begrudging knowing that she’d had with him for so many years. This was an intentional sort of learning. A seeking out of information. A lunch by the fireplace in pajamas.

He looked softer in these clothes—both literally and figuratively. Less sharp-edged. More vulnerable, approachable... human. He ran his fingers through his damp hair, and she realized he'd showered. She did her best not to dwell on that thought, but her mouth went dry nonetheless.

“Sorry, I was going to just change, but I…” he shrugged, averting his eyes, “I hoped it would help me feel better.”

“Did it work?”

“Not really. But I am cleaner, which is something, I suppose.”

He rocked back and forth on his toes, an uncharacteristically awkward gesture.

"Sit, eat. The tea is lovely—you'll have to give Mipsy my compliments," Hermione said, suddenly aware that she'd been the one letting the silence stretch.

Draco settled into the chair across from her, slipping off one of his slippers and tucking his foot beneath his opposite leg. As she watched him, she felt like she was intruding on something not meant for her to see. He picked up a fork, absently nudging the food on his plate and taking occasional bites.

"So... what did Mipsy say?" he asked, finally meeting her eyes.

"What do you mean?"

"What did she say to make you look at me like a wounded animal?" Draco sighed as if the answer were obvious.

Truthfully, she hadn't been thinking that at all. Was that how it appeared to him? Perhaps she'd been staring—but more appreciatively than pityingly, a voice in her head suggested. She barely suppressed her surprise at the realization.

"I'm not," Hermione replied, tilting her head thoughtfully.

"I may be prone to paranoia—or projection, I'll admit—but I know that look. So go on. Ask whatever it is you want to ask." He brought his other foot up onto the chair, wrapping his arms around his knee.

Well, since he mentioned it... She did have a question that would save her from admitting she'd been staring simply to stare.

“Why don’t you let Theo or Pansy visit?”

Draco clicked his tongue. “I was hoping she wouldn’t lead with that, that’s for sure.”

"You don't have to tell me."

"Because it's gotten worse," he said, gazing into the fireplace. The flames crackled loudly in the ensuing silence.

When she didn't respond immediately, he continued, "The bad ones used to be once or twice a month at most. Mostly just absence seizures, and even they were less frequent. The atonic and tonic seizures are new. I don't know why they've started. My symptoms don't align directly with any form of Muggle epilepsy, so there's no rulebook to follow."

He took a shaky breath. "And I'm... fucking terrified, to tell you the truth."

Hermione wanted to reach out to him but held back. He was so far away just across the table.

"Wouldn't having friends around help, rather than make it worse?" she asked gently.

"It might help me, but it would hurt them," he answered after a moment.

She didn't need to ask what he meant. She understood. After the war, she'd hidden her own instability—her fears, anxieties, nightmares—from her friends because she didn't want them to worry.

She nodded.

They sat in silence for a while, picking at their food and sipping tea. Draco stared into the fire, lost in thought. She wanted to ask him what he was thinking about, but she didn’t.

Eventually, his eyes began to droop. His head rested on his palm, propped up by his elbow. She allowed herself to watch him as his eyes closed.

He was handsome. She was going to kill Ginny for planting that seed in her mind. She certainly hadn't been thinking about him that way before—at least, that's what she told herself.

But now that she'd noticed, it was hard not to. His features were softer with his guard down, not fixed in the perpetual sneer she was accustomed to. The firelight played across his face, warming the cool pallor of his skin. His cheeks and nose were tinged pink from the fever.

She stood and moved toward him. The arm not supporting his head rested along the chair's arm, his hand still loosely holding the teacup. She gently slid the cup from his grasp, placing it back on the saucer without a sound. His fingers twitched at the loss.

It was painfully intimate. Her breath caught, and she backed away as if burned, covering her mouth to stifle the sound of her breathing. Her heart ached with the desire to reach out—to pull him close, to run her fingers through his hair in a way that wasn't purely consoling. This boy who bullied her, who hated her for her dirty blood, the first person to teach her that she would be thought of as lesser just because of her lack of magical parentage… the first person to ever call her a mudblood.

And yet, here she was. Aching to touch him. Watching him sleep. Caring for him. Checking his temperature with her hand. Making sure he didn't spill his tea.

At first, this urge to give care, she’d chalked it up to pity. Her Healer instincts, perhaps. And maybe at some point, it was. She saw it now, though. Saw it for what it was.

Desire.

She longed for him.

What a fool.

She apparated back to her flat without waking him, trusting Mipsy would find him soon enough.

Chapter Text

“Hermione, I’m here to ask you to be mine and Harry’s third!” Theo announced dramatically the moment he stepped out of her Floo.

Seeing her curled up alone on the couch with a book in hand and one eyebrow raised, he added, “Well, what a waste of a perfectly good entrance.”

“Care to elaborate?” she asked, ignoring his pout at the lack of an audience for his joke.

“I’m serious, in a roundabout way,” Theo huffed, flopping onto the couch beside her. Without preamble, he rested his head in her lap, replacing the book she’d been holding.

Hermione frowned down at him, then calmly placed the book over his face and returned to her reading.

“I thought you loved me,” Theo lamented, swatting the book away with a flourish.

“I could love you, Theo, truly… but your penchant for odd, cryptic announcements and interrupting my reading time is, unfortunately, a dealbreaker,” Hermione sighed, closing her book and sliding the ribbon she’d been using as a bookmark into place.

“But, Hermione, my love, think of the children,” Theo exclaimed, pressing the back of his hand to his forehead in mock distress.

Hermione groaned, trying not to laugh. “What is it that you actually want?” she asked.

“For you to be our third, like I said,” Theo replied breezily. “But, if you must know the details, it’s for an upcoming charity gala at Malfoy Manor.”

“How generous of you to offer,” Hermione said dryly. “But as much as I’d love to join your union, I’ve already got a date. Someone beat you to it.”

Theo bolted upright and turned to her with a gasp. “Who is it? If you don’t tell me, I will pull out your bookmark, I swear it.”

Hermione narrowed her eyes. “If you must know the details,” she said, mimicking his earlier tone, “Draco Malfoy.”

Theo stared at her, wide-eyed and silent, for a moment before bursting into laughter. “My god, I thought you were serious. Fair play. Okay, so you and I can coordinate since Harry is going to be everyone’s date that night. As usual, he’s going to be in full Boy Who Lived mode, so I was thinking—”

“Theo, I’m serious.” Hermione cut him off, her tone sharp. “Draco asked me to go with him. I told you we’ve been taking that class together, remember? We’re working on a project, and he thought it would be a good idea.”

Theo’s amusement vanished in an instant. “Hermione,” he said, his voice low and serious, “Draco doesn’t go to galas. Or anything akin to them.”

“I don’t know what to tell you, Theo.” Hermione shrugged. “He asked me to go with him. I said yes.”

“He—I don’t—Draco barely leaves his room anymore, Hermione,” Theo pressed. “There must be some sort of misunderstanding.”

“Theo, I assure you, I am quite adept at the English language, and I’m certain that the fact of us going to the gala together was the impression he intended to leave me with,” Hermione fixed him with a patient stare. “I mean, if there’s something you’re not telling me, some reason that you think I’m wrong, by all means, please—”

Theo’s expression shifted, a slow, knowing smile spreading across his face. “You know, don’t you?” he said, his voice soft with realization. “Okay, that makes much more sense.”

“Know what?” Hermione asked, tilting her head innocently.

“Don’t bullshit me, Granger. It’s unbecoming,” Theo said with a smirk. “And that answers my other question—why on earth you’d ever willingly speak to him.”

“Wait a minute,” Hermione said, abandoning her feigned ignorance. “What does me talking to him have to do with anything?”

Theo shrugged. “It makes sense. The only reason you’d give him the time of day is pity.”

“I don’t pity him,” Hermione scoffed.

“Don’t you? He’s pretty pitiful,” Theo said casually. “I’m not judging you.”

“Theodore,” Hermione gasped, genuinely offended on Draco’s behalf. “That’s awfully prejudiced of you. Isn’t he your friend?”

“Of course, Draco’s my brother. But that doesn’t make him normal. He’s not your average bloke taking you on a date, Hermione,” Theo said, shrugging again.

“Theo,” Hermione began firmly, “epilepsy is a serious condition, absolutely, but I hope you’re not implying that he can’t live a full, happy life or that people should treat him as a pariah because of a health condition that—by the way—doesn’t affect his cognition outside of episodes. He’s fully capable of—” Hermione stopped her monologue when she noticed Theo smiling at her. “—What? Why are you making that face?”

Theo was smiling in a strange, sincere way that looked too soft on his face. “Just checking,” he murmured.

“Now’s not the time for the shovel talk,” Theo said, standing and smoothing out his clothes. “But just so you know—this is a big deal for him. I’m sure he didn’t necessarily lead you to believe that, but it is.”

“I know, Theo. I’ll keep an eye on him,” Hermione nodded. “It’s literally my job,” she tacked on at the end, a bit more lightheartedly.

Theo grinned. “Yeah, I know. But that’s not why you’ll do it,” he added with a wink before stepping back into the fireplace and vanishing.

Hermione couldn’t focus on her book after he left.

—

So, what’s your plan of attack at the charity gala tonight? Hermione read from the notebook Draco slid across the desk. His elegant script, as always, inspired envy. She scribbled her response beneath it.

Beyond charming a bunch of old men to get my way? I haven’t made it that far.

He raised an eyebrow, then responded:

While I don’t doubt your capabilities in that regard, I am surprised. Hermione Granger doesn’t have a plan?

Hermione rolled her eyes theatrically and wrote back:

I’m in the very beginning stages of this process. I don’t even have a concrete plan for how I’ll propose integrating Muggle and magical healing, let alone anything else. Tonight is mostly about setting the scene, so to speak

Draco considered her words before replying:

Well, rest assured, you’ll make a good impression. While having the youngest Death Eater in history on your arm might not win you points, I am still a Malfoy, and it is my house...

Hermione frowned at the joke—if it could even be called that—and wrote:

And they say money can’t buy happiness… Clearly, they’ve never tried buying political or social influence.

Draco snorted a laugh and covered it with a cough. He wrote:

Money also bought the dress waiting for you at your flat. And it will certainly make many people happy. Including the old men you're victimizing this evening.

Hermione felt her cheeks flush and scrawled:

You’re ridiculous.

She looked pointedly toward the front of the room, hoping to redirect both their attention to the lecture. But the notebook reappeared beneath her arms moments later.

I consider myself among their number, you know. Those who would be lucky to see you in the aforementioned dress.

When she glanced up, she found Draco staring steadfastly forward, though the tips of his ears were red.

She wrote:

I thought you said they’d be happy, not lucky?

His response came quickly:

Well, I’m the lucky one of the group. They aren’t the ones accompanying you this evening, after all.

Hermione would have to borrow someone’s notes for today’s lecture.

—

“Will you stop fidgeting? You’re making this updo impossible. I’m a witch, not a miracle worker,” Ginny grumbled as Hermione sighed, doing her best to stay still.

“I have no idea what you’re so nervous about,” Ginny continued. “Malfoy’s going to want to take a bite out of you with the way you look in that dress. The dress he picked out, I might add.”

Hermione stood and moved to the mirror to check her reflection. The dress was green again—deep emerald velvet that hugged her figure. Thin straps framed her shoulders, leading to a low, open back tied delicately at the waist. A plunging neckline and fitted bodice gave way to a flowing skirt with a thigh-high slit. It was stunning, of course. Draco had frustratingly good taste.

“Oh, hush,” Hermione mumbled, brushing off Ginny’s comment though her cheeks burned. “That’s a bit of an overstatement. I will say, he did a great job with this one. I really like it.”

“That’s your good mate, Draco, for you. Just your close pal, buying you expensive dresses and taking you to galas. Totally normal, friend stuff,” Ginny droned as she handed Hermione a pair of heels with a comfort charm applied.

“Ginny,” Hermione sighed as she slid on the shoes, “I don’t know what you want me to say. He probably just pities my wardrobe and doesn’t want to be seen with me in something I picked. And this isn’t a date—it’s a networking event.”

“Sure, Hermione,” Ginny said, folding her arms. “If that’s what you need to tell yourself, I’ll not deny you that right.”

Hermione pulled on a matching floor-length emerald robe, tying it neatly at the waist. “You really think I look alright?” she asked softly, her gaze lingering on her reflection as she checked her makeup.

“Duh,” Ginny said. “You look hot. Your friend will be pleased, I’m sure. Now, go. You’re going to be late. And I’m already late for my very important plans of lying on Blaise and watching romantic comedies.”

“Thanks, Gin.” Hermione smiled, grabbing her bag and pulling her friend into a hug.

“Don’t mention it, babe,” Ginny replied and then blew Hermione a kiss as she stepped into her floo.

Hermione laughed as she stepped into the Floo, calling, “Malfoy Manor,” and vanishing into the green flames.

—

“I can’t understand why you’re so nervous. You’re the smartest person here,” Draco murmured as they prepared to descend the grand staircase. At the top of the stairs, he offered her his arm with a gesture that seemed second nature to him. Hermione didn’t take it immediately, looking up at him with a smirk.

“What?” he asked, confused.

“Nothing,” she said, shaking her head with a soft laugh. “You’re just so posh sometimes. I usually forget, but it’s little things like this that remind me.”

Draco pursed his lips in mock annoyance. “If me offering you my arm gets you weak in the knees, Granger, I suppose I should thank all the dolts who’ve set the bar so low.”

“Thank them? Why? Are you suggesting you like the idea of making me weak in the knees?” Hermione teased.

Draco winked at her, grinning coyly. Still, the blush blooming high on his cheekbones didn’t escape her notice.

“At any rate, I wouldn’t say I’m the smartest person here,” Hermione said, finally taking his arm as they began their descent. “This is a room full of Healers, in case you forgot.”

“I said that with that in mind, thank you,” he replied coolly as they reached the bottom of the stairs. “Besides, it’s not only Healers. There’s a fair share of pompous, rich bureaucrats and socialites as well. I would know—I’m one of them.”

She smacked his arm lightly, suppressing a smile.

The bustling ballroom was a stark contrast to the more subdued hum of the hall they’d just left. Laughter, conversation, and the clinking of glasses filled the air as the best and brightest of Wizarding London mingled with one another. Guests from across the UK had traveled to attend, lending an even greater air of importance to the event.

Draco stiffened beside her, the tension in his posture unmistakable. Hermione frowned, noting the change in his demeanor, and guided him a few steps toward the wall before stopping and turning to face him.

“Is this going to be okay? This is… a lot,” she asked, glancing around. What had seemed vibrant and buzzing moments ago now felt oppressively loud and overwhelming when she tried to view it from his perspective.

“What? Don’t be daft. I’m fine,” Draco replied quickly.

She leveled him with an insistent look that said, Don’t lie to me.

“Truly, I’m fine,” he insisted, though the damp hand he subtly wiped on his jacket betrayed him. “I’ll… I’ll let you know if that changes. I promise.”

“Fine,” Hermione relented. “Just know I’m holding you to that.” She tugged him gently into the party by his arm.

Her plan of attack hadn’t changed: socialize, charm the who’s who of the Healer community, and keep tabs on Draco. That last goal hadn’t been one she’d shared with Draco, for obvious reasons.

They made their rounds, smiling, laughing, and shaking hands, performing the social niceties expected of them. Draco got caught at the bar by Theo, the two engaging in a conversation that seemed just private enough to warrant Hermione stepping away for a moment. She welcomed the excuse to people-watch.

“Hermione?” came a familiar voice, and she turned to see Roger Davies.

“Roger,” she smiled politely. “Nice to see you. I’d heard you’d completed your Healer course a few years back. I’m sorry that my congratulations are so belated.”

“No need for apologies. Unless, of course, you’d like to express your regrets by… dancing with me, perhaps?” Roger smiled, but the coyness that had seemed lighthearted and charming on Draco only moments ago now felt smarmy and false on Roger.

Hermione smiled awkwardly, shaking her head. “I’m sorry, I’m afraid I’m not much of a dancer. I hope you enjoy the rest of your night—”

He caught her arm, insistent. “Come now, Hermione, I’m sure that’s not true. Just one dance.”

“Truly, I couldn’t, but thank you for offering—”

“Come on, Hermione, you—”

“I believe she said no,” Draco’s voice interrupted, smooth and polite, but carrying an undeniable undercurrent of warning. Hermione hadn’t noticed him tuning into their conversation, but she was silently grateful he had.

“I don’t believe you were part of this conversation,” Roger retorted, his narrowed eyes and pursed lips showing his distaste.

“She’s my date,” Draco replied, his tone still pleasant but sharper now. “So you’ll understand why I feel entitled to interject into your fumbling attempt. Now, if you’ll excuse us—”

“You’re here with a Death Eater?” Roger scoffed. “Wow. How the mighty fall. I wouldn’t have pegged you as a gold dig—”

Draco’s left-handed, her brain reminded her. It was something she’d considered when thinking about little facts she’d learned about him over the years. It was something she liked about sitting to his right in class—when they passed or shared notes, they could both see the page at the same time without his arm obstructing her view. Being left-handed was uncommon among wizards, just like it was among Muggles.

Therefore, when Draco drew his wand, Roger didn’t notice. No one watches a wizard’s left hand. He had his wand trained on Roger before Roger had a chance to react.

“I’d choose your next words carefully,” Draco spoke lowly, his wand against Roger’s side, mostly obscured in the sleeve of his robes. “After all, a Death Eater is listening. I’ve heard they’re quite impulsive.”

Roger’s breath caught in his throat. Hermione couldn’t blame him. She’d gotten so used to the version of Draco that she’d been taking notes and eating dinner with that she’d forgotten that he was still the same man that housed Voldemort against his will. Survived Voldemort. The youngest Death Eater to ever take the dark mark. He may not quite be exactly who he was, but he was still Draco Malfoy. And who he was right now was giving Roger Davies one of the most menacing smiles she’d ever seen.

“That’ll do, Draco,” Hermione murmured, her fingers lightly brushing the back of his arm. He lowered his wand, though his glare lingered on Roger.

“Roger, if you’d do me a favor and fuck off, that would likely be for the best,” Hermione said coldly.

Roger looked between the two of them, seeming to be determining whether the fight was worth it, before scoffing and turning his back, walking back into the crowd.

Hermione tugged Draco closer by the arm and guided him away. “Are you okay?” she asked quietly.

“Am I okay? I’m afraid that’s my line this time, Granger,” Draco said, turning to face her with a look that was suspiciously like concern.

“Me? I’m fine. I wasn’t the one being insulted.”

“He called you a gold digger.”

“And he called you a Death Eater.”

“I am a Death Eater, Hermione,” Draco said, his face a mask of indifference.

“You and I both know that’s not a fair assessment. Taking the Dark Mark under duress isn’t exactly the same thing as devotion to the Dark Lord,” Hermione whispered, her brow furrowed in his direction.

“Perhaps. I can’t talk about this, though, okay? I’m not trying to be dismissive, and I will talk about it with you another time, but I can’t… can’t right now.”

She nodded, her arm tightening around his.

—

Eventually, Harry caught Hermione’s eye. She’d known he and Theo would be attending and was glad to see friendly faces. What she didn’t expect, however, was Pansy and Neville accompanying them as they walked over.

“Draco,” Pansy began, “I was beginning to think you only haunted this manor.”

“I decided to make a rare appearance in the flesh,” Draco replied with a smirk. “Couldn’t let Theodore down, of course, as a fellow representative of the guests invited solely due to their exceptionally deep coffers.”

“Couldn’t do it without you, mate. Truly,” Theo grinned.

“Mate?” Draco drawled, narrowing his eyes. “Potter really is rubbing off on you.”

As he spoke, Theo wrapped him in a sudden hug. Draco stiffened, startled, before clearing his throat and patting Theo awkwardly on the back, doing his best to return the gesture.

“Maybe this is Harry’s influence as well,” Theo laughed as he pulled back. “But I’ve missed you.”

“Oh, I—I, uh,” Draco stammered, his face turning faintly pink. “I’ve missed you too, Theodore.”

Hermione smiled softly, resisting the urge to reach for him.

“Hermione, you fit right in, of course,” Harry said, pulling her into a proper hug. Hermione returned it warmly.

“I’ll take that as a compliment,” she laughed. “So far, we’ve made good progress at the whole rubbing-shoulders thing. Draco’s a professional, of course.”

“You should see my mother if you truly want to see a professional at work,” Draco scoffed, though his expression softened at the mention of Narcissa.

“Where is Narcissa, speaking of?” Pansy asked.

“I don’t believe she’s here,” Draco replied. “She’s been summering abroad, and her trip’s gone long. I haven’t looked for her, though—trying not to attract too much attention to myself. Seeking her out would surely do so.”

It was almost as if he’d spoken them into existence.

As if he had used some type of accidental magic against his intentions, a mass of reporters descended on them like vultures almost immediately.

“Harry Potter! What are your thoughts on expanding th—”

“—Ms. Granger, look over here! A little to the left, a little to the le—”

“—Mr. Malfoy, are you a donor tonight? Does that mean you support the Minister’s goals for advancements in—”

“Potter, Granger, get together, we need a photo of 2/3 of the Golden Trio.”

All of these things were spoken or asked in rapid succession, some of them at the same time. Maybe 15 seconds had passed.

Hermione had been so taken aback by the onslaught that she didn’t immediately consider the cameras.

Bright, flashing lights burst repeatedly and rapidly, creating a strobe-like effect that lit up the faces of her friends.

One of whom was Draco.

He’d said flashing lights were a trigger of his, but she didn’t know if this sort of thing fell into that category.

Her unasked question was answered, however, when she looked at him. He was wide-eyed, slack-jawed—stricken. He turned toward her quickly, burying his face in her neck unabashedly. He covered his mouth with his hand and gagged roughly.

Harry and Neville looked confused, maybe startled.

Theo and Pansy looked scared.

They know, she remembered suddenly.

“Get me out,” Draco groaned against her neck. “Please.”

“Go, Hermione, I’ll take care of them,” Theo said firmly, meeting her eyes. “Get him out of here.”

Pansy offered her a quick nod as well.

Hermione wrapped her arms around Draco and Disapparated them directly into his bedroom.

By some miracle, Draco remained conscious long enough for them to land on the bed. But the moment they did, he slumped against her, his body going limp. She hurried to position him safely before the tonic phase began.

He gasped as his back arched, air forced from his lungs as his body tensed.

Then the spasms started. Hermione stayed close, keeping his hands away from his face when necessary, but otherwise letting the seizure run its course.

She glanced at the timer she’d started with her wand. The seconds ticked past three minutes.

Placing her palm against his cheek, she sighed. “Come on, Draco,” she whispered. “Come back.”

Thankfully, about 30 seconds later, his movements slowed.

She exhaled shakily as he finally stopped moving. His face smoothed out and his body relaxed, sprawled out across his bed. If she hadn’t just seen him have a seizure, she would think he was just sleeping.

She tried to make him more comfortable as she waited for him to wake up. She leaned forward and loosened his tie, then paused before deciding to also unbutton the top button of his shirt.

She was carding through his hair when his eyes began to flutter.

His eyes were dazed and unfocused when he first opened them.

“You’re okay,” she said softly.

He groaned, closing his eyes again.

She resumed stroking his hair until he suddenly pushed himself upright, swaying unsteadily before he swung his feet over the edge of the bed.

“You shouldn’t—” she began, moving to stop him, but she fell silent as he leaned forward and vomited onto the floor.

Her hand on his back was tentative. He whimpered at the contact, but she didn’t pull away.

“I’m right here,” she murmured.

He looked miserable as he nodded, swallowing convulsively as he tried to steady himself. He wiped his mouth on his shirt sleeve.

Hermione vanished the mess as he collapsed back onto the bed, covering his eyes with his arm.

“I’m sorry,” he said hoarsely.

“Don’t be. It’s not your fault,” she replied easily.

“I don’t think I can go back,” he admitted. “I don’t even think I can stay awake.”

“For the record, I’m planning to be frustrated with you later about the fact that you ever thought I’d let you go back down there. But for now, you should sleep,” Hermione scolded him but undercut her own threat by unlacing his shoes and sliding them off his feet.

“I need to rinse my mouth,” he muttered, visibly uncomfortable with the admission.

She offered him a hand, helping him upright. He winced at the sudden change in equilibrium and swayed slightly before tilting forward, letting his head rest against her shoulder.

He swore under his breath, his voice wavering.

“Take your time,” she encouraged.

“I’m sorry,” he repeated, his stuttering breath warm against her chest. “I didn’t mean for you to… you didn’t sign up to babysit me tonight.”

Hermione sighed. Ever since she started at Hogwarts at eleven years old, she’d taken her friendships for granted. Not in that she took advantage of them, of course, just that… she knew they’d be there for her if she needed them. The same way she was for them. She’d felt that way about her parents too, and even though their relationship had been strained since she returned their memories after the war, she knew that she could rely on them in this way. If she was hurt, if she was sick… she’d have people there if she wanted them.

She’d never considered that Draco’s reservation, his seclusion, his stubborn self-reliance… wasn’t entirely self-imposed. That he’d perhaps wanted someone to help, but didn’t have anyone he could, or would, ask.

Emboldened by the fact that he still hadn’t moved, she wrapped her arms around him tentatively. His breath hitched sharply, but he didn’t pull away.

She rubbed a hand up and down his back, wordlessly.

She wouldn’t have even noticed that he was crying if she hadn’t felt the hot tears dampening her collarbone.

“It’s okay,” she whispered.

“I—I’m s-sorry,” he stammered, his words catching in his throat. “Heightened… emotions… it’s—it’s just a symptom of the postictal state. I’m not… usually like this.”

“Draco,” she interrupted gently. “It’s okay.”

He fought for control over his emotions for a few moments, and she didn’t comment, but she didn’t like the way that it made her feel.

“My head hurts, and I feel like I’m going to pass out,” he mumbled. “I’m sharing this with you in the spirit of vulnerability but also so you’ll know what happened in the event that I do faint.”

“Okay,” she said, trying not to let her own panic seep into her voice.

“It’s not a big deal. It happens,” he added, in a way that he probably thought was reassuring but certainly did not reassure her.

“Here,” she replied in lieu of acknowledging that statement and summoned a cup that she filled with a wordless Aguamenti. She handed him the cup to allow him to rinse his mouth out.

His gaze on her was heavier than she’d prefer. “Thanks,” he murmured, taking the water from her.

“There’s vomit on your shirt,” she replied, eloquence never having been her strong suit.

“Remind me when I wake up to say something snarky to make up for my utter inability to do so right now,” he said, fumbling with the buttons on his shirt.

“Can I?” she asked before thinking better of it.

And again, there was no snarky comment to be heard. He just nodded weakly, letting his head fall back against her shoulder as she unfastened the buttons quickly and with as few touches as possible.

He shrugged the shirt off with her help, and she helped him to lie down. He probably could’ve managed it alone, her thoughts traitorously informed her.

His eyes started to droop almost immediately as his head hit the pillow.

As she pulled a blanket over him, she realized belatedly that his bed was unmade. It felt oddly intimate to be sitting on his rumpled bed, somehow more so than if it were made. But, for the moment, she was thankful for it—otherwise, he would be asleep on top of his duvet.

She’d already decided to stay, not wanting him to wake up alone or, worse, experience some sort of complication she wasn’t aware of while he slept. So she sat next to him with her back against his headboard.

At some point, as she was reading a book she’d pulled from her bag (and being thankful for her overly ambitious compulsion to carry books everywhere with her), he rolled onto his side in his sleep. In doing so, he placed his head directly in her lap.

Her breath caught, her whole body feeling suddenly warmer than normal.

He absently threw an arm over her legs.

His face was slack with sleep and a bit redder than normal from crying. His hair was ruffled and fell messily into his face. She pushed it back away from his eyes, scratching her nails lightly against his scalp. He sighed contentedly.

Her heart ached.

—

“So, you were just thinking of me… and wanted to bring me a cup of tea on my lunch break?” Hermione asked an astoundingly awkward Harry, fighting the urge to smile.

“Yeah, what, like that’s so out of character for me?” Harry rebuffed, putting on his best offended expression.

Hermione just narrowed her eyes at him.

“Fine,” he sighed. “I just wanted to… talk about it.”

“There’s nothing to talk about,” Hermione shrugged and went back to reviewing the charts on her desk.

“Silly me. I must be misremembering the part of the night where you cozied up with a disoriented-slash-terrified looking Draco Malfoy and then disappeared for the rest of the night, taking him with you,” Harry deadpanned.

“That’s an interesting variation of what happened, that’s for sure. He needed help, so I helped him,” Hermione replied. Her relationship with Draco—or lack thereof—was none of Harry’s business, especially if he was going to approach the question this way.

“He needed help with what? Avoiding reporters?” Harry scoffed.

“You don’t know anything about him, Harry,” Hermione bit, meeting his eyes.

“And you do? I know plenty about him. Like how he’s almost assuredly using this newfound ‘friendship’ with you to buff out some of the stains in his reputation,” Harry’s voice was incredulous. “I mean, come on, Hermione, it’s Draco bloody Malfoy!”

“How can you be dating his best friend and still think so lowly of him?” Hermione asked, laughing bitterly.

“Right, his best friend. How could I forget? Maybe it’s the fact that Theo spends more time worrying over him than he does with him. I’ll never understand why he even cares so much—Malfoy constantly avoids him,” Harry scoffed.

“He’s not avoiding Theo, Harry. And you’re right—you don’t understand,” Hermione said coldly.

“Then help me understand because I trust you, Hermione, I really do. But I don’t get why you would defend him,” Harry said, his tone losing some of its heat. “You, of all people.”

“It’s not… it’s not really my place to tell you,” Hermione sighed, wanting nothing more than to share this secret, this weight, with someone else.

“Of course not. Hermione, I don’t know what sob story he’s given you, but I think you’re forgetting who he is. What he’s done,” Harry said, scolding her like a child.

“I’ve forgotten nothing,” Hermione seethed. “Who I decide is worth my forgiveness is my choice alone.”

“Usually, people have to apologize to be forgiven,” Harry mumbled under his breath.

I am sorry, but what does that even fucking count for? Draco shouts in her memory.

I’m sorry, you didn’t sign up to babysit me, he had breathed against her shoulder.

I’m sorry, he’d gasped out tearfully. I’m not usually like this.

I’m sorry, Draco, Hermione thought. You may be okay with everyone thinking the worst of you, but I’m not.

“He’s epileptic,” she fixed Harry with a glare. “Or at least that’s the closest diagnosis we have agreed upon. And I assure you, he’s apologized. Not that you asked me. You were clearly content to think whatever you wanted.”

“He—what?” Harry gaped at her. “How is that possible?”

“Extensive use of the Cruciatus Curse,” Hermione stated, enjoying Harry’s flinch at her words.

“My theory is that because he was only sixteen, it affected his brain development,” she added, deflating a bit and falling back into her chair.

Harry didn’t respond immediately.

“Now who doesn’t know how to apologize?” Hermione said, raising an eyebrow.

Harry narrowed his eyes at her. “Sure, Hermione, I’m sorry I was so harsh, but him having a hard time doesn’t absolve him of everything he’s ever done wrong. Clearly, Theo knows, so why not talk to him then, huh?”

“I think… I think it’s gotten worse, and he doesn’t want Theo to know,” Hermione admitted. “Merlin forbid someone worry about him,” she added, rolling her eyes.

“Like you do, you mean?” Harry asked, softer this time.

“Not forcing him to have a seizure in public is hardly a declaration of love, Harry,” Hermione admonished, tilting her head to the side in annoyance.

“My bad. I guess I just missed you at your flat last night, then.”

“You—my what?”

“I stopped by last night to try to have this same conversation. I felt bad—it was pretty late. I was surprised, for that reason, to find that you were out,” Harry smirked, clearly feeling victorious.

Hermione had stayed most of the night with Draco, it was true. She fell asleep without realizing it and woke up in the early morning with a crick in her neck, flooing home at around five. She blushed and averted her eyes. “It’s not what it looked like,” she mumbled.

“Just… be careful, okay? I get it, he’s changed, or whatever. But that doesn’t mean I trust him,” Harry said pleadingly.

“Harry, have you ever known me to not think something through?” Hermione sighed.

“Well… no, I suppose not,” Harry smiled softly.

“Then could you just trust me? We aren’t together. We’re working together. And… we’re friends. Honestly, I think you may even get along with him now,” Hermione shrugged.

“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves,” Harry laughed. “But okay. I hear you.”

“I’m sorry for being mean to you,” Hermione said and stepped forward to hug him.

“I’m sorry for earning it,” Harry replied, hugging her back.

Chapter Text

“Have you tried muggle medicine in conjunction with any potions before?” she asked.

Draco was sprawled on her couch after class, tossing a ball into the air and catching it. Well, except for the one time he didn’t, and it hit him squarely in the face. She was still trying not to laugh, even though it had happened several minutes ago.

“No,” he replied, rubbing his nose for effect. “I always thought it was too risky, not knowing how they’d interact.”

“Hmm,” Hermione mused, her brow furrowing in thought. “I feel like that’s solvable. I could research the potion ingredients alongside the medicine components and see if there’s any cause for concern.”

“I wanted to do that,” Draco admitted, tossing the ball again, “but I’m not confident enough in my knowledge of Muggle science to make the comparisons—or even find a reliable source on the recipe for Muggle drugs.”

Hermione nodded, too deep in thought to reply. Draco swore loudly as the ball hit him in the face again.

“Will you stop?” Hermione snapped, trying to suppress her laughter. “You’re distracting me from solving your problem.”

“This is a problem,” Draco said, gesturing dramatically to the ball. “I used to have such good hand-eye coordination. I’m in mourning for my former glory. Please respect my need for solitude during these trying times.”

She rolled her eyes and threw a pen at him, aiming for his head. He caught it effortlessly.

“Granger, you’re brilliant,” he said with mock reverence. “I’m threat-motivated. Do it again.”

—

“I guess I’ll double-check his chart. Thanks for your help,” Padma said, finishing her round of questions before lingering in the doorway.

“So… how are things going with your research project? The one on Muggle epilepsy?” she asked, her tone feigning mild curiosity.

“I wouldn’t call it a project,” Hermione replied, shrugging as she signed a release form in front of her.

“What would you call it, then? Does it… have a name, maybe?” Padma pressed, her voice coy.

Hermione looked up, narrowing her eyes. “What are you getting at?”

Padma sighed dramatically. “Word gets around, Hermione. ‘Draco Malfoy clings to Hermione Granger as they disappear from charity gala’ has been the talk of the faculty. I’m sure you know.”

“I didn’t, actually. Gossip usually skips the gossipee,” Hermione replied curtly.

“Don’t shoot the messenger,” Padma said, raising her hands defensively. “I just… wanted to say I’d be happy to help. Even—well, even him. If you needed it.”

“Why?” Hermione asked, caught off guard.

“I trust your judgment,” Padma said simply, offering a small smile.

—

Hermione had an idea. She’d been researching an anti-seizure Muggle medication that she believed could work in conjunction with a calming draught. Her working theory was that the potion might help Draco’s body absorb the medication while also keeping his symptoms at bay.

When she walked into class ready to share her thoughts with him, however, he wasn’t there.

Hermione sat in her usual seat, trying to focus on the lecture while keeping an eye on the door. He never showed up.

After class, she packed her things quickly, intending to owl Draco as soon as possible. Before she could leave, Dr. Green stopped her.

“I hope your friend is okay. It’s unlike him to miss class,” he said.

“Yeah, I hope so too,” Hermione replied, forcing a smile. “I’m going to check in on him. He didn’t tell me he’d be missing today.”

“Please give him my well wishes,” Dr. Green said with a nod, turning back to the papers on his desk.

Hermione took the dismissal and headed straight for the apparition point.

—

Draco,

 

It’s unlike you to miss class, according to Dr. Green. I would agree but we’ve spent a many a class paying less attention than he knows.

 

Regardless, where were you today? Are you okay?

 

Let me know,

 

HG

Hermione sent the owl and spent the next two hours tidying her flat in an attempt to distract herself from pacing nervously. When she realized she hadn’t received a reply, worry started to creep in.

At the two-hour mark, she decided she’d just pop into his private Floo to check on him.

But what if he wasn’t there? Worse, what if he was there—with someone else? What if he skipped class because he was busy with someone else?

No, that didn’t feel right. Draco never missed class, even on days he slept through most of the lecture.

Hermione hoped for the best and stepped through her fireplace.

—

His room was dark—that was Hermione’s first impression as she stepped quietly out of the Floo.

Is he even home? she wondered.

Her question was answered when her gaze fell on the bed, where white-blonde hair peeked out from beneath a fluffy comforter.

A soft pop announced Mipsy’s arrival beside her.

“Oh, Miss Granger. Mipsy is glad that Master Draco finally decided to send for you,” the elf whispered.

“He didn’t. I just… showed up,” Hermione replied, equally hushed, feeling a bit awkward.

“Oh.” Mipsy frowned slightly, then added, “Well, then Master Draco is lucky that you care enough to check on him. Mipsy has been very worried. Yesterday was a bad day.”

“Bad how?” Hermione asked, her eyes lingering on Draco’s mostly obscured form. She felt some relief at the sight of his chest rising and falling with deep, even breaths.

“Just… many seizures. More than Mipsy has ever seen in one day, she thinks,” the elf explained, her frown deepening. “The last big one was sometime in the middle of the night, Mipsy thinks. Master Draco has been sleeping since then.”

Hermione glanced at the clock on the wall. “It’s almost 3 p.m.,” she said aloud, mostly to herself.

Mipsy nodded. “He is usually sleeping a lot after bad days.”

Hermione offered the elf a soft smile. “Thank you for looking after him, Mipsy. You should take a break—I’ll keep an eye on him for you.”

Mipsy’s expression brightened, and she gave a small nod. “If Miss Granger needs Mipsy, just call.” With that, she disappeared with another pop.

Hermione made her way to the side of the bed, slipping off her shoes and sitting cross-legged on the edge. From this vantage point, she could see his face more clearly. He was paler than usual, the faint web of red blood vessels near his eyes stark against his alabaster skin. Dark circles shadowed his eyes like bruises, and his usually immaculate hair was a haphazard mess he would undoubtedly hate.

She placed a light hand on his shoulder.

Draco jolted awake, gasping, then groaning as the sudden movement clearly caused him pain.

“Sorry,” Hermione murmured, pulling her hand back. “I didn’t mean to startle you.”

“Hermione?” he rasped, his voice rough with sleep. Hearing her given name—rarely used by him—as the first word he spoke made her feel warm and unexpectedly nervous.

“Yeah,” she said softly. “Sorry, I didn’t want to show up unannounced. I was just… worried, I guess.”

Draco hummed faintly in response, his eyes already fluttering closed again.

“Clearly, I was right to be,” she admonished gently. “Why didn’t you… I don’t know, reach out to me? Yesterday, I mean. I could’ve helped.”

“Not your job,” he mumbled.

“I didn’t say it was.”

“Not your problem,” he added.

“It wouldn’t have been a problem,” she countered.

He harrumphed softly.

“I’m not going to argue with you right now,” she said with a sigh, her hand returning to his shoulder. “Tell me what’s wrong so I can help.”

“Don’t wanna talk about it,” he huffed. “Head hurts, body hurts, tired.”

She sighed, her fingers brushing against the back of his neck as she sent a wandless muscle-relaxing charm into his tense muscles. His body melted into the mattress with a shaky exhale.

“Thank you,” he breathed.

Hermione didn’t reply. She was struck by an insistent urge to smooth down the messy hair at the nape of his neck, and against her better judgment, she did.

Draco’s breath hitched, and he froze beneath her touch. And of course he would, she thought. Any other time she’s touched him for any extended period of time, especially in such an intimate way, he’s been unconscious or just barely conscious, postictally.

She pulled away, clearing her throat awkwardly.

“No, I didn’t—I don’t,” he sighed, I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay. I’m sorry. I don’t—I shouldn’t presume,” she whispered.

“No,” he said quickly, “I want you to. Presume, I mean. You can… presume all you want.”

Hermione hesitated, her breath catching at the sight of his flushed face and reddened ears. There didn’t seem to be anything she could say to that. Nothing felt right, and she didn’t trust her voice even if there was something she felt compelled to respond with. Instead, she let her hand return to his neck, now warmer with the blush tinting his skin. Her fingers pressed lightly into the muscles at the base of his skull, earning a soft, appreciative noise from him.

He shifted toward her, and she responded in kind.

The way he placed his head into her lap was organic, like it was the only response that made sense.

They stayed like that for a while. Hermione’s chest tightened as she worked her fingers through his hair, Draco’s shuddering breaths the only sound in the room.

She knew he was crying even before he brought up his hand to hastily wipe the tears from his face.

She exhaled in a weary sigh and leaned forward, draping her arm over his chest, her hand coming to rest on his chest, the warm fabric of his shirt soft against her skin. She placed her cheek against his shoulder.

“I keep wanting to ask you why—why all of it. But I’m terrified I’ll find your pity in your answer. Or worse, that you’ll stop. It’s pathetic.” His words were laced with disdain, not for her, but for himself.

“I don’t pity you, Draco,” she said softly. “As much as I wish things were better for you, it’s not out of pity.”

“I don’t deserve your kindness, Hermione.”

“And yet you have it.”

“I have done nothing to earn it.”

“What you’ve earned is a good night’s sleep, Draco.”

“Why, Granger? Tell me why.” Draco turned his head to meet her gaze, his bloodshot eyes rimmed red and glassy with tears that refused to fall. His voice was sharp, laced with anger. “Why?”

“I like you, Draco,” she admitted. “I think you deserve a second chance. Is that not good enough?”

“No, it’s not.”

“Why?”

“Because I was horrible to you!” he shouted, sitting upright. Tears finally spilled down his face in hot, angry trails, cutting down the sharp alabaster of his cheeks.

She didn’t reply.

“I was horrible to you, and I’ve done nothing to atone for it. Nothing! I look at you and I am just reminded of how fucking horrible I was. And then you smile at me and it—it makes me sick, like—like why do I get that? What have I done to deserve Hermione Granger smiling at me?" He laughed bitterly, wiping his face with his shirt sleeve.

“I don’t know, to tell you the truth,” Hermione admitted. “For whatever reason, I care about you. I like you. I think you’re funny and smart and… worth it, I suppose.”

He deflated, all the anger and indignation collapsing back within him. His head hung low, his hand still wiping at his face.

“I lied to you,” he huffed a laugh, smiling softly.

“What do you mean?” She asked, raising an eyebrow at the sudden change in subject.

“I said I wasn’t normally like this. That was a lie. I’m a crybaby, I’m afraid. So… sorry in advance.”

Hermione laughed, “I’ve known you since you were eleven, if you’ll recall. You weren’t ever getting away with that one.”

He rolled his eyes, huffing a wet laugh in response, sniffling in a way that almost seemed comedically timed.

“Yes, well. I couldn’t be handsome, intelligent, rich, and stoic , I suppose,” Draco replied, a crooked smile on his face even as he dabbed his face with his shirt sleeve. “Can’t win them all.”

Hermione crawled over and knelt over him where he sat cross-legged on the bed. She took his face in her hands, swiping her thumbs under his eyes. He leaned into the touch, looking up to meet her eye through his lashes, shiny with tears.

His laughter faded, his lips parting in a soft, surprised gasp.

They shared several breaths like that.

“Are you going to kiss me?” he whispered finally.

“I was considering it,” she admitted.

“Shame you didn’t catch me at my best tonight, then,” he smiled softly, bringing his hand up to her cheek.

“It’s only 4 p.m.,” she replied.

“You always get hung up on the unimportant bits,” he said with a small smile, his eyes flickering to her lips before meeting hers again.

“Do you want to kiss me?” she asked.

“What kind of question is that?” he breathed, shaking his head incredulously before surging forward to press his lips to hers.

Chapter Text

Hermione froze. His lips were warm. Draco Malfoy was kissing her. She’d all but asked him to. He smelled of sweat and vetiver, leather, and the faint sharpness of whatever product he used in his hair. His warmth surrounded her, but her mind faltered, struggling to reconcile the man eagerly pressing his lips to hers with the boy who’d once despised her.

Draco pulled back, his hand still tangled in her hair—when had it even gotten there? His eyes flickered with something unguarded, hurt, or maybe confusion.

Before she could think better of it, she slid her hand to the back of his head and drew him close again, her lips meeting his with deliberate intent.

He responded immediately, his eagerness matching her resolve. His hand found her back as hers brushed his neck, fingers threading through soft strands of hair.

She leaned forward, deepening the kiss, steadying herself by placing a hand on his thigh.

He moaned, suddenly and unrestrained, into her mouth.

She smiled against his lips.

He groaned, this time out of embarrassment.

Her soft laugh warmed the space between them as she moved closer, breaking from his lips to press hers along the sharp line of his jaw.

“Sorry,” he murmured, voice low and uneven, as she trailed kisses to the side of his neck. “It’s been a while since—" his voice broke on a quick inhale, "since I’ve been touched.”

She paused, her gaze lifting to his. His eyes held something vulnerable, startled, as though he’d said too much.

“Don’t be sorry,” she whispered, her hand finding his cheek, her palm cradling him with quiet reassurance.

He leaned into her touch, closing his eyes, the tension in his expression softening.

Her thumb brushed across his cheekbone, and she turned her hand slightly, letting her knuckles glide down his neck and across his collarbone. Then, with deliberate gentleness, her fingers followed the same path back up, as though mapping him.

He exhaled, his breath hitching slightly, and his eyelashes fluttered. She marveled at how lovely he looked in that moment—skin flushed, lips parted, his breathing uneven as if the air between them had thinned.

Her hand lingered on his cheek as she leaned forward, pressing her lips to the soft curve beneath his ear.

A quiet, breathless “Ohh,” escaped him, the sound barely a whisper but enough to spark something in her chest.

She repeated the motion, trailing her lips a little lower along his neck, and was rewarded with another unguarded, irresistible noise. Smiling against his skin, she committed it to memory—the sound of him unraveling beneath her touch.

Then he froze.

“Wait, sorry, I—” he began, then faltered, leaning forward to rest his head on her shoulder. His breaths came in shallow, uneven bursts, his body trembling faintly against hers.

“Are you okay?” she asked, wrapping an arm around him instinctively. The question felt clumsy, even invasive. She never quite knew how to ask him if he was about to have a seizure.

“No, I—” He shook his head, the movement quick and jerky. The honesty of his answer startled her—it was more direct than he’d ever been before. A tremor ran through him, his body tensing briefly before he stilled again.

“I think I might be sick,” he mumbled, his voice low and strained.

“Okay. You’re okay,” she said gently, summoning a rubbish bin from the corner with a flick of her hand.

He stayed pressed to her, utterly still save for the spasmodic jerking in his left arm and hand. His breaths grew faster, sharp and shallow, teetering on the edge of hyperventilation.

“Can you tell me what’s happening?” she asked softly, her hand moving in soothing strokes across the back of his head.

He shook his head, the motion stuttering.

She nodded, her grip on him loose but steady, waiting for him to find his footing.

After what felt like an eternity, the tension in his body eased ever so slightly, and he sagged against her.

He gagged then, bringing a hand hastily to his mouth. She quickly positioned the bin beneath him, though it was clear there was nothing for him to expel.

“Breathe,” she reminded him when he paused between bouts of dry heaving, his body wracked with silent convulsions.

“Can’t,” he rasped, the first word he’d managed in minutes.

“You can,” she said softly, her fingers tracing steady, calming circles on his back. “Take a deep breath for me.”

It took a moment, but he eventually complied, dragging in a shaky inhale before pushing the bin away with a trembling hand.

“Has that happened before?” she asked gently, her voice careful, almost hesitant. His current state was clearly fragile, physically or mentally. She knew he had nothing to feel bad or guilty or embarrassed about, if anything she was the one who inadvertently caused this seizure, but she didn't want to pry.

He shook his head faintly.

“Can you talk about it?” she tried, keeping her tone neutral as she cradled him against her, her cheek resting lightly against his hair.

“C-c-can’t. No,” he stammered, frustration threading through his weak, hoarse voice. “Can’t really… think yet.”

Her frown deepened. This felt different—new and unsettling. She couldn’t imagine it was a good sign that his seizures seemed to be evolving in type.

“Okay. That’s okay,” she reassured him, forcing calm into her voice. “I think, based on what I’ve read, that this was a focal seizure. I’ll explain more later, when you’re feeling better, all right? But for now, you should lie down.”

“Tired,” he murmured in agreement, his voice slurring slightly.

She guided him down with her, refusing to let him go completely. A fleeting thought flared in her mind—you just kissed for the first time; this is moving too fast—but she pushed it aside. Her crisis over their shifting dynamic could wait.

He rested his head on her shoulder, one arm and a leg draping over her as though anchoring himself. Good thing I wasn’t planning to move, she thought, though a small part of her found comfort in his weight. It was an unspoken confirmation that she wasn’t intruding—that he wanted her there.

Should she want to feel wanted by him? Did she want him?

Oh.

She wanted him.

“M’sorry,” he mumbled, his cheek pressed against her shirt, muffling the words. She ran her fingers lightly up and down his arm, feeling the faint shiver that followed her touch. Her heart ached.

“Don’t be. I’m sorry,” she whispered in response, though his breathing had already evened out. He was asleep.

—

Hermione didn’t realize she’d fallen asleep until the sharp crack of Apparition jolted her awake. She gasped softly, blinking at the figure standing nearby.

Mipsy stood by the bedside, her large eyes soft and tinged with sadness.

“Mipsy is sorry. She didn’t mean to startle Miss Granger,” the elf whispered, her voice low enough not to disturb Draco, who hadn’t stirred.

Hermione shook her head in silent reassurance, unwilling to risk waking him.

“Mistress Narcissa has returned from France,” Mipsy continued, glancing at Draco’s sleeping form with a slight frown. “She requests Master Draco and his guest’s presence in the dining room in half an hour.”

“I mean…” Hermione hesitated, her voice matching Mipsy’s quiet tone. “I don’t know if he can, Mipsy. I think he had another seizure, a different kind than usual. He was pretty out of it when he fell asleep.”

“Master Draco has forbidden Mipsy from telling Mistress about his worsening condition,” Mipsy admitted with a sigh. “He will want to go, Miss Granger, even if he shouldn’t.”

Hermione’s lips pressed into a thin line. Of course he had. Draco Malfoy had always been more concerned with managing other people’s reactions than addressing his own well-being.

“Fine,” she muttered, resigned. “Can you fetch some water and paracetamol? Wherever he keeps the Muggle medicines he sometimes uses?”

Mipsy nodded and vanished with a soft pop.

Hermione turned to Draco, resting a gentle hand on his shoulder. “Draco,” she murmured, shaking him lightly.

He groaned in protest.

“Yes, I agree,” she said dryly, “but your mother is here, and apparently, you’d have it no other way than to attend.”

His eyes snapped open, panic replacing sleep. “My mother is here?” He pushed up onto one elbow too quickly and winced. “Fuck, my head.”

“Sounds about right. And yes, your presence has been requested downstairs in half an hour,” she replied, exhaling heavily.

“Fuck,” he muttered, sitting up fully and rubbing his face. “Fuck.”

“Why? What’s happening? Help me out here,” she asked, sitting up beside him.

“I have to be okay,” he said, his voice trembling slightly. “She—she can’t know.”

Hermione’s brows furrowed. “Firstly, I disagree with this choice. But since we’re short on time—what helps? A potion? Medicine? I sent Mipsy for paracetamol because focal seizures are known to cause headaches.”

“Focal seizures,” Draco repeated, as though testing the words. “Is that what you think it was? God, it felt like a panic attack. That’s never happened before.”

He swung his legs over the side of the bed and staggered to his feet, making his way to his wardrobe.

“I can occlude the physical symptoms,” he continued, opening drawers haphazardly. “Or at least force myself not to react. It’ll make me feel worse later, but it’s manageable. And I’ll glamour anything visible. I—” He held up his trembling hand, letting it fall with a defeated sigh. “Shaving might be ambitious.”

Hermione watched him with a mixture of exasperation and concern as he yanked a pressed suit from the wardrobe. He looked like the boy she used to know—frantic and polished—but less sure, less composed.

“Draco,” she said gently. “Slow down.”

He froze, turning to meet her gaze. The fight drained from his shoulders as he sighed.

“I can’t, Hermione. She can’t know. I’m sorry. I… I promise I’ll talk about it. But for now—I have to be presentable. Normal. For her sake.” He made his way to the side of the bed, sitting down next to her and leaning his head onto her shoulder. She patted his leg, a show of acceptance of these terms.

“I’ll ask Mipsy to bring you something to wear if that’s alright. My mother is absurdly formal about dinner. Well, about everything,” he laughed softly. “That’s fine. I can probably get by with a few beauty charms for my hair and face,” she shrugged.

He nodded and stood.

“Draco, are you sure I should come? To dinner, I mean. Does she know it’s me? Is that why she asked?” “

Mipsy likely told her, yes.”

“And… she’s okay with it?” Hermione asked carefully.

Draco frowned, understanding. “Well… yes. It is. My mother is less traditional with my father out of the way. His prison sentence has served her well, in some ways. She has no qualms with me associating with muggle-borns, if that’s what you mean.”

“Would she have qualms about you sleeping with one?” Hermione asked bluntly.

Draco choked, startled. “Uhm, I don’t—that’s not really something we discuss. However, no… I don’t think so. Marrying one, however… that’s the trickier bit, or at least, that’s the part that’s relevant to her,” he said, and when Hermione’s eyes widened, he stammered, “t-that’s not to say I think there’s any need for that discussion quite yet, or—or, I mean, ever. Well, not ever, I suppose, I don’t mean to assume that—I’m not saying that I would or would not be interested in marrying you with that statement, I just—“

“Draco,” she interrupted, smiling, “I know what you meant.”

“Regardless,” Draco groaned, his cheeks flushed pink, “I—I’ve never—“ he sighed, “there’s never been any reason for her to care about who I’ve slept with… seeing as I’ve never slept with anyone.”

Hermione’s mouth fell open, but for once, no words escaped her.

“Yes, well, now that that’s out of the way,” he cleared his throat, “will you do me the honor of standing near the door while I shower so I don’t accidentally injure myself, gravely or otherwise?”

“Of course,” Hermione said, standing.

Draco avoided her gaze as he opened the door to the adjoining bathroom, and motioned her inside, “You can get ready in the dressing room. Don’t worry, there’s a divider between it and the shower.”

“Malfoy, I’m a Healer. Naked men are not exactly novel to me. I would not be ‘worried’ one way or the other,” she teased, rolling her eyes.

“‘Malfoy,’ again, am I?” he shot back with a smirk, then added, “I’ll keep that in mind,” before following her into the room.

When she turned to respond, the words caught in her throat.

He’d already pulled off his shirt. She noticed, first, how thin he was—too thin—but still strong. Then her eyes fell to two jagged scars crisscrossing his chest.

“Was that—?” she began, but he cut her off.

“Yes, yes, St. Potter left me with a few mementos,” he deadpanned. “I think they suit me, don’t you?”

Hermione swallowed and replied tightly, “You should hurry. You’re going to be late.”

He nodded, disappearing behind the divider as the shower turned on.

“Thank you, Mipsy,” Hermione smiled, accepting the dress from the elf.

“Does Miss Granger need any help dressing or with her hair?” Mipsy offered politely.

“No, I think I’ll manage. But thank you,” Hermione replied.

With a snap of her fingers, Mipsy conjured a small platter with two white pills and a glass of water, placing them on the vanity. “Tell Master Draco that Mipsy spelled his cufflinks to glamour his hand tremor as he asked. Tricky bit of magic, that, but Mipsy believes it will work.”

Hermione raised a brow, impressed. “Is it some sort of notice-me-not charm?”

“Yes, Miss, a localized one,” Mipsy explained. “Mipsy found a variation in an old magical tailoring text and adjusted it for this use.”

Hermione’s eyebrows lifted higher. “You have access to wizarding textbooks?”

Mipsy frowned slightly. “Of course, Miss. The Malfoy library is very elaborate.”

“And Mipsy can read whatever she likes,” Draco interjected from the doorway, his voice wry.

Hermione hadn’t noticed the water stop running. When she looked over, Draco was fastening one of the cufflinks onto a crisp white shirt. His hair was damp, his shirt tucked into tailored black trousers, but he was still barefoot.

“Of course,” Hermione said, nodding absently as her eyes trailed upward to his face.

He caught her look, raising a brow. “What?”

“Nothing,” she said quickly, holding up the dress. “I’m ready—I just need to change into this. Do you need help with the glamours you wanted to use on your eyes?”

Draco smiled faintly. “I actually never said I wanted to use them on my eyes, but that is what I meant. Thank you for confirming my supposition that I look like I haven’t slept in ages."

Hermione pursed her lips, ignoring his teasing. “Yes, well, while you’re at it, put some color into your face as well. You look a bit peaky.

“Noted,” he said, smiling crookedly, “I feel more than a bit peaky, so you’re paying me a compliment.”

Hermione didn’t return the smile, her expression softening. “Are you sure you’ll be okay tonight?” She asked, her voice more tender than it had been when she asked the question in her head seconds before she said it aloud.

He paused, his humor fading, and nodded.

Crossing the room, she gently pulled him toward the vanity and guided him into the chair. He didn’t protest, even though he’d said he didn’t need her help.

“Let me do the glamours?” She said softly.

“You can do whatever you want to me, Hermione,” he replied, his voice low, his gaze steady. Heat rushed to her cheeks at his words, but she focused on the task at hand.

Taking his chin between her thumb and knuckle, she lifted his face and her wand. He closed his eyes without hesitation, a quiet surrender that sent a pang through her chest. There was so much trust in that small gesture that her breathing stuttered. She had her wand trained on him and he turned himself over to her completely.

She murmured the incantation, swirling her wand in smooth motions. The skin beneath his eyes brightened, the sallow tone warming into something more natural.

Her wand shifted seamlessly into a drying charm, warm air sweeping through his damp hair. She turned his head gently to the side, her palm cradling his cheek. He leaned into her touch more than he should have, his weight heavy but unspoken.

She summoned his pomade off the vanity, rubbing a small amount between her fingers before smoothing and twisting sections of his hair into place. His breathing evened out, and when she finished a few moments later, she realized he’d dozed off.

“I wish you’d make an excuse and go back to bed,” she murmured, patting his cheek lightly to wake him.

“It would only worry her enough to check on me,” he replied, stretching and wincing slightly.

“If you say so,” Hermione said with a shrug, moving behind the curtain to change into her dress.

When she emerged, Draco’s gaze swept over her appraisingly.

“You’re lovely,” he said simply. “Are you ready?”

She nodded, and he offered his arm. A moment later, they apparated into the foyer.

Chapter Text

Their landing could have been smoother, but Hermione took it in stride.

“You don’t think—should I maybe let go of your arm? I don’t know what you want your mom to think about our… friendship,” she muttered as they made their way toward the dining room.

“Are you kidding? My mother raised a gentleman. She’d be distraught if I didn’t escort you in, regardless of our… friendship,” Draco replied, though his confident tone faltered slightly on the last word.

“Draco, darling,” came Narcissa’s calm voice as they entered the room. There was no dramatic display, no hugs or tears. Instead, she rose gracefully, approached them, and took Draco’s hand in hers. She squeezed it lightly, but her eyes betrayed her emotions, shining with quiet relief.

Narcissa gestured for them to sit across the overly large table from her.

“And Miss Granger,” she added, her smile warm. “What a pleasant surprise.”

Hermione blinked, a little taken aback by the genuine welcome. “Thank you, Mrs. Malfoy. I’m happy to join you,” she replied, taking her seat.

“Ms. Black, please,” Narcissa corrected gently. “Or just Narcissa, if you prefer. Lucius and I are no longer married. Divorce—such a taboo, isn’t it? But one must do what is necessary when one’s husband endangers one’s child.”

“Oh,” Hermione managed, trying to conceal her shock, “well, Ms. Black then. Thank you for having me.”

“Thank you for joining on such late notice. I hope I haven’t put you out. I have just been gone for so long, spending time catching up on lost time with my sister. Admittedly, this dinner may have been a bit of an impromptu choice. Draco, I hope you two didn’t have plans,” Narcissa added, turning to her son. 

Hermione glanced at Draco, but he seemed distracted, his gaze fixed somewhere over Narcissa’s shoulder. Absent.

“Did you say something to me?” he asked suddenly, blinking as he came to. “Sorry, just… thinking. A sharp mind is never idle, as they say.”

“Oh course, dear. I was just saying I hoped I wasn’t interfering with any preexisting plans of yours this evening,” Narcissa repeated. Hermione saw it though—she wasn’t fooled. Her eyes on Draco became just a bit softer. Her gaze more melancholy. She wondered if it was the look he’d seen on her face at dinner. 

“We had no plans outside of studying, I’m afraid. And I, for one, and always happy for that to be interrupted,” Draco smiled coyly, sitting and scooting his seat nearer to the table. 

“Hermione has been helping me research solutions for my condition, as it were. We’ve made promising progress. She thinks that my symptoms will soon be much more manageable,” Draco continued, taking a drink from the glass of water that had been placed in front of him. 

“And how have your symptoms been as of late?” Narcissa asked, her casual tone too practiced.

“Manageable enough,” Draco replied smoothly. “We’re just working to eliminate any lingering concerns. No need for you to worry, Mother."

“I could always spend more time here, you know. Andromeda would understand if you needed me here,” Narcissa insisted, softly, “I already don’t like leaving you here alone.”

Draco rolled his eyes theatrically. “I’m fine. Not alone, as you’ve seen. And I have the elves if anything goes awry.”

Hermione’s chest tightened unexpectedly. He just told his mother he wasn’t alone because of you, her mind supplied unhelpfully. She felt both the urge to run and to reach for his hand simultaneously.

“Firstly, mind your manners—no eye rolling at dinner,” Narcissa chided lightly. “Secondly, while I trust the elves and Miss Granger’s capable assistance, I don’t like it, Draco. I know you have told me that I should go and do, but… I think my place may be here,” Narcissa said, an air of finality in her tone. 

“Mother, that’s truly unnecessary. I’m fine,” Draco insisted, his tone edged with frustration.

Whatever response Narcissa was about to make was cut off by the arrival of their food, appearing neatly on the placemats before them.

“Ah, just in time,” Narcissa said, a hint of satisfaction in her tone. “Please, eat. I couldn’t possibly start without the two of you.”

Checkmate. 

“I’m actually not hungry. I had a late lunch,” Draco said, taking another drink of water, “you two, please, don’t wait on my account.”

“Draco,” Narcissa said, appraising him subtly, “eat.”

With a sigh, Draco picked up his fork and knife. Hermione noticed the faint tremor in his hands, wondering if the charmed cufflinks weren't working because she knew of it, or if his symptoms were simply overpowering it.

He cut a piece of chicken and brought it to his mouth, chewing and swallowing with exaggerated precision before raising an eyebrow at Narcissa, silently asking, Satisfied?

Narcissa smiled faintly, her expression bordering on smug, and began to eat.

Hermione ate quietly beside them, uncertain how to break the tense silence.

Draco’s posture seemed to be getting worse the longer they sat. Worn-down, it said. 

Ten or fifteen minutes of silence pass before his plan falls through. She had to admit, it was an admirable attempt.

As Draco brought the glass again to his lips, it slipped from his weakened grip. The glass shattered onto the table, soaking his clothing and, to a lesser extent, Hermione’s. 

“Shit,” he swore under his breath. 

Narcissa clearly wanted to say something about the profanity if her pursed lips were any indication, but refrained given the circumstances. 

Draco placed his face in his hands, elbows braced on the table.

“Are you okay? Mind the glass,” Narcissa said, standing to intervene if necessary. 

“Yes, yes. Fine,” Draco replied tersely, his voice muffled. “Just… a headache.”

That’s when Hermione remembered the medicine she’d forgotten to give him in the bathroom. 

“Clearly you’re doing worse than you’ve been letting on given Miss Granger’s obvious lack of surprise at this. I’ll tell Andromeda that I’ll be staying for a while. Just until you are doing a bit better,” Narcissa said and Hermione blushed at how perceptive that statement was. 

“Mother, you don’t have to do that. I don’t want you to do that,” Draco sighed, his face still resting on his palms. 

“This isn’t up for discussion,” Narcissa replied firmly, standing. “I believe you’d be better off retiring for the evening. Wouldn’t you agree, Miss Granger?”

Hermione nodded quickly, eager to back Narcissa’s assessment. “Yes, I would.”

“I’ll fetch Topsy,” Narcissa said, her tone lightening just slightly. “You’d best be on your way to bed before I return. Miss Granger, it was a pleasure. I hope you’ll join us again soon.”

With that, she swept out of the room.

Draco groaned, leaning back in his chair and letting his head fall against the wood.

“Let me apparate us back,” Hermione offered, standing and reaching for his hand.

He nodded, resigned, and let her pull him to his feet. When she wrapped her arms around his middle, he rested his chin on the top of her head and slid his arms around her shoulders.

Then, with a quiet pop, they were gone.

—

Their feet landed on the hardwood floor of Draco’s bedroom with a barely audible thud. Hermione had done her best to transport them gently. 

Draco didn’t let go of her. If anything, he leaned into the embrace, stepping closer.

She ran a hand up his back, and he sighed.

“So, all this effort just because you don’t want your mother to stay at the manor?” she asked softly.

“It’s not that,” he murmured, his voice resonating in her ear with her head against his chest. “I quite like having her here, actually.”

“Oh, okay. So this is a ‘if you love something, you set it free’ sort of thing,” Hermione replied, tilting her head slightly to look up at him.

“Pardon?”

“It’s a Muggle expression,” she explained, her voice growing quieter with each word. “I’m not sure where it originated, but the idea is that if you love someone—or something—you should let them go to become the best version of themselves. And if they’re meant to return, they will.”

“I see,” he said thoughtfully, finally releasing her and letting his arms fall to his sides. “I suppose it is, then.”

He shrugged off his jacket, tossing it aside.

Hermione noticed the small glass of water and the two white pills sitting on the nightstand. She picked them up and handed them to him.

“Here,” she said.

He exhaled wearily, thanking her before swallowing the pills and setting the empty glass back down.

Moments passed in silence as he sat on the edge of the bed, kicking off his shoes.

“Your clothes are wet,” Hermione noted.

“Yes, tonight wasn’t my finest performance,” he grumbled, wrestling with his second shoe and the damp sock clinging stubbornly to his foot.

Hermione stepped closer, standing between his knees until they were eye to eye. Without hesitation, she reached for the buttons of his shirt.

He froze, his eyes on her widening. 

“Is this… okay? I don’t want to—to trigger anything, or whatever happened earlier,” she whispered.

“Wait—” he said, catching her hand. “Hermione, that wasn’t your fault. I… I felt off before. I just didn’t realize why. This is… fine. Yes,” he added, his voice softening as he released her hand.

She nodded and continued unfastening the buttons, her fingers steady.

“I just… what you said earlier,” Hermione began, her voice hesitant. “I wasn’t sure how to take it.”

“That I’m a virgin?” Draco asked bluntly, though his lips twitched upward.

“Yes, that,” she replied, rolling her eyes. “I thought maybe… arousal, or something like that, could be a trigger for you.”

“It’s not, necessarily. But stress is,” he admitted with a small shrug. “And… I don’t know. I never thought it was worth the risk of someone finding out.”

“What about before?”

“What do you mean?”

“Well,” she smiled faintly, “why didn’t you ever have sex with anyone before the war?”

“Were you out canoodling at sixteen, Granger?” he countered, raising a brow.

“I was,” she replied with a grin. “But that doesn’t answer my question.”

“I—well. I was raised… to take it more seriously than some, I expect. Most of the pureblood families bring their kids up with a healthy fear-slash-respect regarding sexual relations. It’s sold as a sort of… purity culture, I suppose. But it’s likely to reduce the amount of half-bloods, if I were to guess. Regardless, I just… never felt like the time was right, I suppose. And then the war happened, and everything that came with it, and… here I am,” he met her eye on the last few words, his voice quieter. 

He met her gaze at the last words, his voice quieter.

“I see,” Hermione said, nodding. “Well, I am… not pure, so to speak.”

“You mentioned some canoodling, yes.”

“Does that bother you?”

Draco frowned. “Of course not. If anything, I should be asking you that.”

Hermione raised a brow. “Why would it bother me that you’re a virgin?”

“Well,” he swallowed. “I don’t suppose I’d be very good at it right away, would I?”

“You seem like a good student,” Hermione said, cupping his cheek with her hand. “You’ll figure it out.”

He leaned into her touch, his expression softening.

“I think it’s sweet, actually,” she added.

He groaned. “That does not make me feel better.”

“Alright,” she said, a teasing smile tugging at her lips. “Honestly, it’s kind of hot.”

Draco laughed, the sound startled. “I beg your pardon?”

She shrugged, laughing with him. “No one else could say they’ve deflowered Draco Malfoy. I’d get to see what you think about it… for lack of a better, less lewd statement.”

He groaned again. “Please don’t ever use the word ‘deflowered’ in this context again.”

She laughed softly.

“All that aside,” Hermione continued, “this conversation—and its accompanying actions—should be saved for another time. Your mum’s right. You should be asleep.”

She waved her hand, undoing the glamours on his face. “You even look like you feel poorly."

Draco nodded, rubbing his face.

Hermione started to step away, but he caught her by the waist before she could move.

“You could stay,” he said quietly. “If you wanted. If it feels too soon or too much, I understand, but… I’d like it if you stayed.”

She hesitated. She really should go home—she’d put off all other responsibilities today. Thankfully, she’d fed Crookshanks, but…

“You don’t have to,” he added before she could reply, “I’m sorry, that was—that was presumptive of me.” 

He laughed uncomfortably and pulled his fingers through his hair, “I’m sure you have things to get back home to. I just—I was thinking that maybe if you slept here, I could—well, that it might be—“

“I want to stay. First of all, I want to make that clear. And, if you want me to, I will,” Hermione interjected, “I wanted to say that before you continued so you don’t think I’m staying because you want me to or because of whatever you say next.”

Draco stilled, staring at her. His mouth opened as though to speak, then closed again. Finally, he said, “Are you sure?”

“Yes,” she said, “I’ll have to go and get thin—“

“Mipsy can do it, if you want,” he replied before she’d even finished. 

He was acting strangely, she realized then. 

“I mean… she can, I suppose. I don’t mind to go and come back, though,” Hermione raised an eyebrow. 

“She can go. I’m sure she wouldn’t mind,” he said, leaning back onto the bed. 

“What were you going to say earlier? Before I cut you off,” she asked, sitting on the edge of the bed next to him. 

He was silent for a few moments, as if debating whether or not to answer honestly. 

“I was going to say that… that—well, sometimes it’s sort of… unsettling for me to sleep alone, especially during flare-ups like this, and—and don’t get me wrong, I’m used to it and happy to do it if you wanted to go home. But… but it’s less… worrisome. To sleep with you here. Easier,” he sighed, “that probably sounds pathetic.”

He laughed bitterly at himself, “I don’t want you to think of me as—as a patient or something. Or a burden, especially.”

“Why do you think everyone that takes care of you does so begrudgingly?” She interjected. 

“I—what?” He breathed. 

“You are under the impression that I am burdened by you or view you as some sort of responsibility. And that’s just not true, or—or fair to me, honestly,” she said, a bit indignantly, “I like you, Draco Malfoy. I like you because you’re smart, and funny, and-and helpful. And I know we don’t have the most… flattering past, but it’s true. And yes, I want to help fix… all of this for you. Initially, that’s because, among other reasons, I wanted to prove that I could. And don’t get me wrong, I still want that.”

When he didn't immediately respond, she continued. 

“But I also want to do it so… so I can get a chance to know you properly. Sans eye bags,” she smiled, “I don’t view you as a burden or a project. You’re my friend.”

When she managed to make eye contact with Draco, tears were streaming down his face. 

But he was laughing softly. 

“I really have always been such a crybaby,” he said, shaking his head.

Hermione laughed with him, her indignation fading.

“I like you too, Hermione Granger. I’m glad to be your friend. Even if you are only trying to fix me to further your agenda.”

She furrowed her brow, “I did not say that, I—“

“—kidding. I thought you said I was funny? Clearly, my delivery could use some work,” he said, and she swatted his arm and rested her head on his shoulder. 

“I say again—you should probably go to sleep,” Hermione said after a few silent moments. 

“And you’ll stay?” He asked.

“I’ll stay,” she replied.

Chapter Text

She was running.

She was running and the forest around her was dark and cold, the air sharp against her skin. Her hands grazed trees and undergrowth as she moved, the rough bark scratching her palms. Something sharp caught her hand, slicing through the skin. She winced, crying out, but her voice sounded small, swallowed by the oppressive stillness.

She couldn’t stop. She knew she couldn’t stop. She had to find Harry.

But he wasn’t there.

A snarl echoed behind her, low and menacing. Twigs snapped under heavy, deliberate footfalls.

Someone was chasing her.

Greyback was chasing her.

Her lungs burned, her legs screamed for relief, but she couldn’t stop. He was faster, closer. Panic surged through her as she stumbled, falling hard against the damp ground. She scrambled forward, clawing at the dirt, trying to push herself up—

“Hermione.”

The voice cut through the nightmare, pulling her back. She gasped awake, her chest heaving as her surroundings shifted.

A soft lamplight glowed nearby, illuminating Draco’s face. His hair fell into his eyes, which were tired but laced with concern.

She realized his hand was on her head, his thumb stroking soothing circles over her temple and cheekbone.

Tears she hadn’t noticed fell onto her cheeks, and Draco gently wiped them away.

“Just a dream,” he murmured, his voice low and sleep-roughened. “Are you okay?"

She nodded, though her breathing still came in shallow gasps.

His face was close, his presence grounding her. She hesitated before placing a tentative hand on his cheek, her fingertips barely grazing his skin. He leaned into her touch without hesitation, his eyes softening.

Wrapping her hand around the back of his neck, she pulled him closer, their lips meeting in a tentative kiss.

He kissed her back, once, then again. But he didn’t deepen it. Instead, he pulled away gently, pressing his nose against hers in a tender gesture.

When she tried to draw him back, he shook his head softly, then leaned in to press kisses to the tear tracks on her cheeks. Her face burned with a mix of shame and vulnerability.

“As much as I want this,” he whispered, his voice barely audible, “and I do want this—more than you know—I want it to be when I’m sure you really want it too.”

His hand drifted over her hair, smoothing it, before he kissed her forehead and lingered there.

“Can you go back to sleep?” he asked, his voice warm and steady.

She nodded again, her throat too tight to speak.

Draco laid down beside her, then shifted onto his side, wrapping an arm around her waist. With a gentle tug, he turned her onto her side, pulling her close against him.

She laughed softly as he muffled a groan, his face buried in her hair. He pushed her hair upward, muttering something unintelligible as he arranged it to keep his face near hers without inhaling a mouthful of curls.

Settling in, he slotted one of her feet between his calves and held her close.

“Wake me if you can’t,” he murmured, his breath warm against the back of her neck. A shiver ran through her, though the heat of his body chased away any lingering chill.

His breathing slowed quickly, his grip on her waist relaxing as sleep claimed him again.

She stayed still, cocooned in his warmth. The faint scent of his cologne lingered, comforting and familiar.

She didn’t have as much trouble falling back asleep as she thought she would.

—

When Hermione arrived in her office, slightly late due to her impromptu sleepover last, she noticed a bouquet an irises were somehow already sitting on her desk. 

Hermione, the card read. 

I like you too, if that wasn’t clear. I also think you’re smart and funny and more helpful than I deserve. I’m lucky to know you, let alone consider you a friend. 

I appreciate what you did for me yesterday. Have dinner with me tonight? Or tomorrow? Or anytime?

Yours,

D.M.

“Secret admirer?” Padma asked from her doorway. 

Hermione blushed and closed the card with a gasp, then laughed awkwardly, “Sorry, you startled me.”

“Mhmm,” Padma smiled, “or a not-so-secret admirer. It seems like your night after the gala went fairly well, then, if you’ve made it a recurring thing. And you’re getting flowers out of it? I can’t remember the last time Ron sent me flowers. Who would’ve pegged Malfoy for a romantic?”

“I never said they were from Draco,” Hermione feigned offense. 

“He’s Draco now, is he?” Padma’s smile widened. 

“You’re impossible. I have work to do,” Hermione sputtered, blushing furiously, and shoved the card in her pocket, walking past a laughing Padma into the hall. 

—

Draco,

It depends. What’s on the menu?

HJG

She owled the letter from her office when she returned. 

—

Hermione,

Well, I think restaurants these days usually let you choose. Granted, the ones I go to do generally subject you to the chef’s personal tastes, more so than their less renowned competitors… but I’m sure you could have some sway if you needed to. 

D.M.

—

Meet me at my place around 7.

Should I be watching the post for a dress?

—

Well-spotted. I’ll see you then. 

—

Harry and Theo had no business trying to share the same armchair when Hermione had a perfectly sit-able couch. But Theo, as usual, wouldn’t hear of it. He sprawled half beside, half on top of Harry, gesturing animatedly as he recounted his day at work.

“—then Francis, Merlin forgive her, she tries, completely buggered up the spell to secure the dark artifact that we pulled from Nott manor. Insane that we’re still finding stuff in my father’s home, he found a lot of hidey holes before getting locked away, one supposes. Anyway, the mirror, that’s what it was, she ended up…”

Hermione wasn’t fully listening. Her thoughts kept circling back to last night. The weight of Draco’s hand in her hair, the soft concern in his grey eyes, his lips on hers, the warmth of his chest pressed against her back. The letters they’d exchanged earlier today. And the way he would undoubtedly look tonight in whatever carefully chosen attire awaited him.

“I don’t know, what do you think?” Theo asked, dragging her back to the present.

“Hmm?”

“What do you think went wrong?” Theo repeated, arching a brow. “I’m not even sure what spell she ended up using, but it definitely wasn’t the one she intended. Got ink everywhere, of all things.”

“I… I’m sorry, I don’t think I caught the whole story,” Hermione admitted, giving him an apologetic smile.

“Hermione, are you okay?” Harry asked, his brows knitting together.

“Yes, fine. Just thinking,” she said, awkwardly brushing off their concern.

“Fine, I’ll save my deeply interesting and important work tidbits for later,” Theo sighed dramatically, “It’s your turn, it seems.”

“What? No, I don’t want a turn,” Hermione said with a laugh.

“I insist,” Theo said with mock seriousness. “Tell us what’s got you so distracted.”

“It’s nothing. I just… had an interesting day yesterday, and I’m not sure how I feel about it yet. Or—” she hesitated, letting her head fall back against the couch, “—maybe I do know how I feel, and I’m not sure how I feel about how I feel.”

“Is it too early to start drinking?” Theo asked, naturally.

“Hmm… almost four? I think we’re in the clear,” Harry replied.

“I’ll floo home and grab something,” Theo offered. “Can I ply you with wine for your troubles, ma’am? Heartbreak red or budding romance white?”

“What makes you so sure this has to do with my love life?” Hermione shot back, rolling her eyes.

Theo just shrugged and murmured, "Fine, I'll pick myself," then grabbed a handful of floo powder. But before he could toss it into the fireplace, the flames roared green on their own.

Hermione startled, but her tension eased when Draco stepped through. He looked a bit frantic, but was well dressed, as usual, but only a white button-up cuffed to his elbows and trousers. His cuffed sleeves put his dark mark uncharacteristically on display. Not what she’d expected him to wear to dinner, given the dress that had been waiting on her bed when she arrived home 30 minutes ago. 

“Hermione, I—” he began, stopping short as his eyes darted to Harry and Theo.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to—”

“Stay,” Hermione and Theo said in unison.

Draco swayed slightly, steadying himself with a hand on the mantle.

Oh, she realized. That’s why he’s here.

“What’s wrong?” Hermione asked, immediately rising and stepping toward him.

“Don’t… don’t feel right,” he murmured, his voice unsteady. “Didn’t want to be alone.”

Her heart twisted. She took his hand and led him to the couch. “Sit,” she said gently. “Tell me what’s happening. What do you mean ‘don’t feel right’?”

“Light-headed,” he whispered. “Hot, sick… confused. Like I don’t… I don’t feel here. Like I’m having a p-panic attack.”

“Okay,” Hermione said, sitting beside him. “Remember, we talked about focal seizures? This is the kind you stay conscious for. I’m so sorry.”

She sat down next to him and he immediately laid down on his side, placing his head in her lap. She ran her fingers through his hair. 

His shoulder twitched involuntarily, jerking toward his ear. He whimpered softly.

“You’re okay,” she murmured. “It’ll be over soon.”

Draco closed his eyes, swallowing thickly. Sweat dampened his brow despite the coolness of the room.

Hermione glanced at Harry and Theo. Harry looked uneasy, unsure of where to put his hands. Theo’s expression, however, was a mix of sadness, concern, and barely contained anger. She’d have to unpack that later.

She looked back down at Draco. His eyes were still closed, and his jaw was twitching to the side. 

After a moment of this, he gradually went limp against her. 

“Can you hear me?” Hermione asked.

He nodded faintly.

“Can you speak?”

“C-c-ca—” he stammered before letting out a bitter laugh, biting his lip to stop the tears welling in his eyes.

After a deep breath, he managed, “I ca-can’t move m-my l-left side.”

Hermione exhaled carefully, keeping her voice steady. “That’s okay. It’s normal—temporary. Just give it some time.” She continued stroking his hair. Todd’s paralysis, she remembered suddenly that's what they called it, for whatever reason. But it certainly wasn’t a good sign that his symptoms were worsening in general. Especially so quickly. 

“So tired,” he mumbled, his eyelids fluttering.

“You can sleep in my bed if you want,” she murmured. But he only hummed in response, already half-asleep. She sighed and settled for pulling the blanket from the back of the couch over him.

She was avoiding meeting Theo’s eye, not wanting to see the hurt that was certainly settling in there as he realized that his condition had not only worsened but he had simultaneously told Hermione and not told Theo. Relied on her and not him, someone who had been his friend his entire life and cared about him despite it all. 

“Tell me how bad it is, Hermione,” Theo said, his voice quiet and emotionless.

“This isn’t the worst I’ve seen,” she admitted softly, brushing her thumb across Draco’s cheekbone. “But it’s the first time he’s lost function in a limb afterward.”

“How often? How often is it this bad or worse?”

“Theo, it’s not my place—”

“How often, Hermione?” he interrupted, his voice colder now.

“Once or twice a week,” she confessed. “More in the past few days. I’m trying, Theo. The research I’m doing isn’t sound yet. Treating him could be dangerous.”

“Does Narcissa know?”

“She… she assumes, I think. She’s returning to stay at the manor with him, as of last night,” she said, “he didn’t… couldn’t put on as convincing of a show as he usually can, I think.”

“Is it killing him? Will it?” Theo asked bluntly.

She thought about it. She knew the risks of epilepsy that had advanced to this degree. If it continues advancing at this pace, it could eventually cause damage to his brain or start affecting his vital organs. 

Hermione hesitated. “I don’t know.”

“I need you to know,” Theo began, his voice breaking slightly, but Harry grabbed his arm and whispered something Hermione didn’t catch. Theo sank back against Harry, defeated.

“We’ll come back another time, yeah?” Harry said softly.

Theo nodded, his gaze lingering on Draco. “Take care of him,” he said, then added, “floo me if I can help.”

Hermione nodded, and they disappeared.

She went back to watching Draco breathe. 

—

It was a little after six in the evening when Draco stirred.

Hermione had carefully replaced her lap with a pillow, expecting him to sleep for a while, but she hadn’t left his side. She was curled up at the end of the sofa near his feet, sipping tea and reading.

He woke slowly at first, rubbing his eyes and dragging his hands over his face. But as awareness crept in, he sat up abruptly, his movements sharp and frantic.

“Why am I here?” he asked quietly, his wide eyes scanning the room.

“You don’t remember coming here?” Hermione asked, setting her tea aside with a frown.

“Obviously not, Granger,” he snapped, his tone clipped.

Hermione raised a questioning brow, but said nothing.

He sighed, his shoulders softening. “Sorry. I just… no, I don’t remember. I recall feeling that uncomfortable deja-vu-aura feeling, but I was home for that.

“You floo’d here shortly after that, I imagine,” she explained gently. “You said you felt strange. I assumed it was a focal seizure.” She hesitated. “Wait—do you want me to tell you what happened? Or would you rather not?”

He paused, his gaze fixed on the flickering fire. “Just… tell me what I need to know.”

“It was a focal seizure,” she began. “You couldn’t speak for a while afterward. And…” She sighed, dreading her next words. “And you couldn’t move your left side after. Just temporarily.”

“What do you mean?” he asked sharply, his head snapping toward her.

“You told me you couldn’t move,” she said softly. “That’s all I know. Then you fell asleep.” She left out the detail of him sleeping in her lap, deciding it wasn’t strictly necessary.

Draco exhaled heavily.

“There’s one more thing,” Hermione said hesitantly. “Theo and Harry were here when you arrived. They left after you fell asleep.”

His jaw tightened, the muscle ticking as he nodded.

“You should talk to him,” she suggested gently.

“I don’t want to talk to him,” he replied emotionlessly, his gaze still locked onto the fire, his elbows resting on his knees, his hands clasped tightly in front of him. A facade of composure. 

“Draco—”

“Drop it, Hermione,” he bit.

She recognized the hurt in his words. The helplessness in his demeanor. Draco Malfoy has been absurdly competent and capable their entire lives, even as an outsider who didn’t care for him she was able to recognize that. He was an accomplished duelist before the war. She’d seen the remnants of that in him in the altercation he’d almost had with Roger Davies. A good quidditch player, she’d heard, though she wouldn’t be a good judge of that. A good Potioneer, the only one in their year that could keep up with her, if you didn’t count Harry’s run-in with the Half-Blood Prince’s wealth of knowledge. This was a man not comfortable with helplessness. A man who’s had helplessness thrust upon him. A prideful man who is constantly forced to abandon his pride. 

Scooting closer, she rested her head on his shoulder.

“The dream,” she started, “it was about Greyback. He was chasing me through the forest of Dean, where Harry, Ron, and I hid during the war. I… I couldn’t find Harry in the dream. I knew I was supposed to be finding him, but I couldn’t, and I could feel Greyback gaining on me, and—“

“You don’t have to tell me this,” Draco murmured, lowering his cheek to rest against the top of her head.

“I know,” she replied, her voice soft.

They sat like that for a few moments. 

“Thank you,” she said eventually, “for waking me. I didn’t get to say that last night.”

“You don’t have to thank me,” Draco said. “I’m the one who practically begged you to stay. It was the least I could do.”

“You didn’t beg me to do anything, firstly. But, even still. I’m not used to having someone there. I have nightmares pretty regularly,” Hermione admitted, “which, is likely true for most of our class. But… it was nice having someone there,” she paused, then added, “It was nice having you, specifically, there, I mean.”

“Why me?” He asked quietly, “I’ve been thinking about this a lot recently. Why me and why you? Why did you sit by me in class? Why did you stay with me last night? Why did I ask, how are you—how are you even comfortable with me? I don’t—I don’t even—why did you kiss me, Hermione?” 

His tone shifted from curious to pleading, and she pulled back to look at him. He was already staring at her, his expression open and raw.

She thought for a moment, and the silence seemed to start pulling him apart. Each second that passed seemed to pick away a thread that held him together. 

“I should go,” he rasped, standing abruptly.

Hermione reached for him, catching his arm before he could take another step.

“I don’t know, Draco,” she said, her voice soft but certain.

He turned, his expression incredulous.

“Right,” he muttered bitterly, a defeated smile tugging at his lips. “Don’t worry. I won’t hold it over your head, Hermione. I won’t bring it up agai—“

“Can you at least let me finish before you assume I’m insulting you?” She interjected. 

He nodded tightly.

“I didn’t mean I regret it,” she said. “I just… I don’t have answers to your questions. Beyond that I wanted to. And that it felt right.”

“It felt right,” he repeated, his voice barely above a whisper.

She nodded again, stepping closer.

“I,” he whispered, pausing to place his hand on her arm right above the elbow, “I don’t know either.”

“Do I need an answer?” she asked. “Is it enough to say that I just wanted to? I wanted to sit by you that day in class. I wanted to stay last night. I wanted to kiss you.”

His eyes flicked down to her lips, and he brought a hand to her cheek.

“Do you,” he whispered, “want to kiss me now?”

She answered by closing the space between them, pressing her lips to his.

He made a surprised noise as she kissed him, stumbling back a step before breaking into a soft laugh. When she pulled away, he smiled at her, then tilted his head down to kiss her again, slower this time.

Wrapping her arms around his neck, she deepened the kiss, walking him backward until his knees hit the couch. He sank down, pulling her with him.

Hermione stayed standing between his knees, tilting his head back to keep kissing him. His hands fidgeted at her waist, unsure, until she threaded her fingers through his hair. He groaned softly, the sound sending heat pooling through her.

Emboldened, she climbed onto his lap, straddling him. His hands instinctively settled on her hips as he gasped into her mouth. She broke the kiss to study him, flushed and breathless, his pupils blown wide. His hair was mused from her fingers and a few strands fell into his face. The fact that he looked so debauched after a few kisses began to unravel her.

He furrowed his eyebrows, confused by her sudden assessment of him. 

She leaned in to kiss him again and rocked her hips experimentally against his.

She considered the experiment a success when he groaned and bucked his hips up against her. Then he pulled away from her, looking at her with wide eyes.

“Sorry,” he breathed, “that was… involuntary.”

“Then do it voluntarily,” she murmured.

The sound that escaped Draco as she nipped at his ear was somewhere between a groan and a whimper, raw and unguarded. Hermione smiled against his neck, trailing kisses along the sensitive skin as she rocked her hips against his again.

The sound that escaped him bordered on a whimper and she smiled against his skin, then nipped at his ear. He gripped her hips and ground up against her, applying just enough pressure to cause her to gasp against his ear. 

He pulled away, grinning ear to ear, breathless. 

“Noted,” he said and then took up her position by laving her neck with kisses. 

She set a steady pace with her hips against his, loving the sounds he couldn’t seem to reign in. Her core throbbed at the friction. 

“You’re so sensitive,” she murmured into his ear, pulling his earlobe between her teeth. 

“You have no idea,” he groaned, his eyelids fluttering shut as he tilted his head back, offering more of his neck.

“Then tell me,” she murmured, pulling his earlobe between her teeth. “Educate me, Draco. I’m a good student too, or so I’ve been told.”

He let out a soft laugh, though it broke into a gasp as she shifted her weight against him. “I don’t think y-you need any lessons from me,” he managed, his voice trembling.

Their rhythm grew more desperate, the tension between them pulling tighter and tighter. Hermione felt a cord deep in her abdomen draw taut, her breaths coming faster as the friction sent waves of heat through her.

Suddenly, Draco stilled her hips with a firm grip, his fingers trembling. “Hermione,” he panted, “I—I’m too close. Stop.”

She leaned in, her lips brushing his ear. “What if I told you I was close too?” she whispered.

Draco’s eyes widened as he let out a shaky breath, “I’d say you shouldn’t have told me that if you wanted me to last longer,” he said, his voice breaking on the last word.

“I don’t,” she said, then resumed her movements against him. He jerked at the returning sensation. 

He groaned, the sound low and guttural, as his hands guided her hips. “Merlin, Hermione,” he breathed, his grip tightening as his body trembled beneath her.

“You can let go, Draco,” she whispered against his neck, pressing a kiss just beneath his jaw.

“S-so close,” he groaned, “don’t stop, please, don’t stop,” and it almost did her in. 

“I love hearing you,” she said.

Draco’s hips jerked involuntarily as he shuddered, his head falling back against the couch. A deep, drawn-out moan escaped him as his release hit, and Hermione felt the tension in her own body snap in response. She gasped, gripping his shoulders as her climax crashed over her.

For a moment, they stayed like that, their foreheads pressed together as they caught their breath, their chests rising and falling in frantic tandem. 

Draco was the first to break the silence, his voice low and self-conscious. “I, uh—should probably go home. Especially if I’m supposed to look somewhat presentable in an hour.”

Hermione laughed, sitting back to look at him. His face was flushed, the pink spreading from his cheeks to his ears.

“I think you look lovely right now,” she teased, brushing a strand of hair from his face.

“Gods, you look lovely,” he murmured in return, his eyes soft as he reached up to tuck her hair behind her ear. “You always do. But especially now.”

She blushed right along with him, then. 

He lifted her off him, then pulled them both to their feet. 

“I’ll be back in an hour?” he asked, though he still hadn’t let go of her hand.

She nodded. “I’ll try to look presentable by then. I have more work to do than you, after all,” she teased.

Draco sighed dramatically. “It’s like you don’t know me at all.”

“Go home, you posh debutant,” she laughed, rolling her eyes. “I’ll see you in an hour.”

Draco smiled, winking as he stepped into the Floo.

Hermione lingered in the living room for a moment, her lips curving upward as she replayed the evening in her mind. When she caught sight of herself in the bedroom mirror a few moments later, she realized she was still smiling.

Chapter Text

“So what do you think? Is the menu Granger-Approved?” Draco asked as they were eating. 

The restaurant buzzed with the hum of conversation. The seating was very Parisian, so tables were packed together, but the cozy atmosphere softened the noise, making it feel intimate rather than overwhelming.

“Very much so,” Hermione nodded, covering her mouth as she spoke, still mid-bite.

Draco smiled at her, a small, fond smile that made her suddenly aware of how uncivilized that must have seemed.

“Sorry,” she laughed once she’d cleared her mouth. “Where are my manners?”

He took a deliberate sip of wine, shrugging lightly. “No matter. I prefer you without them.”

“Really?” she asked, arching an incredulous eyebrow. She gestured pointedly at him—his napkin neatly folded in his lap, his silverware precisely placed, the way he held his wine glass delicately by the stem.

“I can’t help it,” he admitted with a quiet laugh, his eyes dropping to his fidgeting hands.

It wasn’t the reaction she’d expected. She thought he might deflect with a quip, maybe brag about how good he is at everything or make some other throw-away joke. Instead, there was something shy, almost self-conscious, in the way he avoided her gaze.

“I wasn’t trying to insult you,” Hermione said softly.

“No, no, you didn’t,” Draco replied quickly, offering her a small, reassuring smile. He gestured for her to continue eating, but the tension in his shoulders hadn’t quite eased.

“You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to,” she said, her tone gentle but curious. “But I’d like to know.”

He sighed, leaning back slightly.

“I just…" He hesitated, searching for the right words, "It sounds ridiculous to say that I legitimately don't know how to be casual. At least, not in the normal, socially acceptable way that I see everyone else do it.” He gave a faint, awkward laugh. “I wasn’t trying to be mannered—I just… am. It’s what was drilled into me.”

“Well, isn’t that a good thing?” Hermione asked, her brows furrowed in confusion.

“It makes me…” He paused again, then settled on, “unrelatable.”

“Do you want to be relatable?”

“Sometimes,” he admitted with a shrug.

“Then why don’t you try acting more casually?”

His lips curled in subtle distaste, and Hermione couldn’t help but laugh. Propping her elbows on the table, she rested her chin in her hands.

“How about this? Try it,” she said with a playful smile.

Draco sighed theatrically, though there was a faint grin tugging at his lips. Mimicking her posture, he leaned forward, propping his chin on his hands and tilting his head slightly to the side, before raising a taunting eyebrow.

“You’re looking more relatable by the second,” she teased, nodding approvingly before taking another bite of pasta.

“What about this?” she asked with mock seriousness, her cheeks puffed full of food.

Draco laughed, shaking his head. “Don’t misunderstand me, because I think you’re utterly charming, but absolutely not.”

“Come on,” she groaned. “Live a little.”

He stared at her for a moment, clearly debating. Finally, he rolled his eyes, twirled some pasta onto his fork, and placed it into his mouth hastily.

“Happy?” he asked, chewing uncharacteristically.

Hermione couldn’t stop the flurry of laughter that escaped her.

Draco cringed and immediately straightened in his chair, brushing his fingers down his shirt as if to smooth away the moment.

“My mother would quite literally hit me if she saw that,” he said, though his smile softened the words.

“Would she really?” Hermione asked, curious.

“No,” he admitted, “she was fearsome enough with pointed looks."

She nodded, taking a sip of wine.

“She left the hitting to my father,” Draco added casually. “He was much more suited to it.”

Hermione froze, her fork suspended midair. “Your father hit you?”

Draco sighed, his shoulders tensing. “I didn’t mean to say that so casually. Sorry. I’m used to…” He laughed uncomfortably. “Used to being around people who’d accept that as a joke. Like Theo. Or Pansy. I didn’t—sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry, but why would anyone laugh at that?” She asked, incredulously. 

“Call it bonding,” Draco replied, his tone flat as he took another sip of wine. “Over shared experiences.”

Hermione’s stomach dropped, but she forced her expression to remain neutral. “I see,” she said softly. “Well… I’m sorry for making you uncomfortable.”

“Merlin, Granger, I’m the one oversharing at the dinner table. Don’t apologize to me,” Draco said, looking anywhere but at her.

“You can share whatever you want with me,” Hermione said, her voice steady and matter-of-fact. The honesty of the statement hung in the air between them.

Draco looked up at her then, his expression softening. “You, uh…” He hesitated, his voice quieter now. “The feeling is mutual.”

Hermione smiled.

—

“Hermione, it’s your turn,” Ginny whined, her head hanging upside down off the edge of the sofa. Her legs were draped upward over the backrest where her top half belonged, her red hair grazing the floor.

“Okay, fine. Never have I ever… shagged someone in public,” Hermione offered, holding up her remaining four fingers.

“Gods, I’d hope not!” Padma exclaimed, her own three fingers remaining intact.

Ginny snickered, lowering another finger, leaving her with only two remaining.

“Ginevra Weasley,” Hermione gasped, grinning ear to ear.

Ginny shrugged, sitting upright to take a sip from her wine glass. “What can I say? Blaise and I have fun.”

“Clearly,” Padma snorted into her glass. 

Hermione was warm from the wine and the company. Their regular girls' nights had been less and less regular recently, so she was always glad when they could find the time to get together. 

“Okay, Padma, you’re up,” Hermione said, nudging her shoulder into Padma’s. She misjudged her strength, nearly sending Padma tumbling off the floor cushion she sat on.

“Okay, okay!” Padma laughed, steadying herself. “Fine. Never have I ever… mixed business with pleasure, I suppose. I’ve never slept with a patient.”

Hermione froze. 

I don’t want you to think of me as a patient. 

Just a dream. Are you okay?

Do you think you can go back to sleep?

It’s less worrisome to sleep with you here. Easier. 

“Hermione. Granger!” Ginny shouted, effectively pulling Hermione out of her memories. 

“What? No! I haven’t!” Hermione exclaimed, flustered. She quickly held up her fingers. “See? All fingers still up!”

“Your finger is up for debate, that’s for sure,” Padma said, raising an eyebrow. 

“Spill,” Ginny pressed, leaning forward into Hermione’s personal space. 

Hermione shook her head, “I was thinking, that’s all.”

“Thinking about shagging one of your patients, clearly!” Ginny said, throwing her hands up exaggeratedly.

“No, not—” Hermione sighed, feeling her cheeks heat. “I was just thinking about how we use the phrase ‘sleeping with someone’ for both literally sleeping and for sex. And how… obviously, those are two different things. That’s all.” She took a long sip from her wine glass, trying to bury the topic.

Ginny opened her mouth to respond, but Padma placed a firm arm across her chest, halting her. She turned to Hermione with a mischievous glint in her eye.

“Okay,” Padma began, her voice slow and deliberate. “Say I meant either definition of ‘sleeping with’ in this scenario. Does your answer change, Hermione?”

Hermione’s smile grew tight, her discomfort plain.

“Define… patient,” she muttered.

The living room exploded into chaos.

—

“You slept in Draco Malfoy’s bed?! Who are you and what have you done with my friend?!” Ginny squealed, grabbing Hermione by the shoulders and shaking her lightly.

“This is a much larger reaction than what this situation warrants if I do say so myself,” Hermione grumbled, though her face burned. “I’ve had sex before, you know.”

“I’d be less surprised if you’d said you shagged him, Hermione! You slept in his bed!” Padma added, her mouth agape.

“It wasn’t—I can’t—it’s complicated,” Hermione settled on. 

“Sure, sure. I can’t imagine a situation where you slept in Malfoy’s bed that isn’t complicated. Now, details,” Ginny demanded, waving away Hermione’s excuse.

“I really can’t, Gin. It’s not my business to share,” Hermione replied, shaking her head. After a pause, she added with a sly smile, “But… I will say he’s a good kisser.”

The room erupted once more. 

—

“I have an idea for a possible treatment,” Hermione wrote in Draco’s notebook during class, her handwriting quick and slanted.

Draco read it, then raised an eyebrow at her in silent inquiry.

“It’s a combination of a calming draught and a Muggle anti-seizure drug. It’s in potion form. I just finished brewing it yesterday,” she wrote, splitting her attention between the words and Dr. Green’s lecture.

“When do we try it?” he scribbled back without hesitation.

“Aren’t you hesitant to try my experimental potion?” she replied, glancing sideways at him as she passed the notebook back.

“I trust you,” was his simple answer, punctuated by the soft click of his pen as he closed it. He shrugged, leaning back in his seat and redirecting his gaze toward the lecture.

Hermione’s cheeks warmed, and she ducked her head, pretending to focus on her notes.

—

“How’s tonight? It should be taken with dinner, ideally,” Hermione said as they packed away their things after class.

“That should be fine. Do you want to come over?” Draco asked, slipping his notebook into his bag.

“Actually, if you’d be willing…” Hermione hesitated, then continued, “I think it would be best if you came to me. That way, if you have any sort of reaction, I’ll have the necessary medical supplies on hand.” She met his gaze anxiously. “Are you sure you’re comfortable with this?”

Draco scoffed softly, his laugh breaking the tension. “You’re certainly doing a good job of scaring me if that’s what you’re going for.”

“I’m serious, Draco,” Hermione pressed. “I’m not trying to scare you—I just… this is big, right? I want to make sure you’re sure.”

He stopped walking and turned to face her, his expression uncharacteristically solemn. “Hermione Granger,” he said, taking her hand with surprising gravity. “I will try anything at this point. And beyond that—if you tell me it’s safe. I trust you.”

“Why?” she blurted before she could stop herself.

“Because you’ve given me every reason to,” he said simply. His lips curved into a lopsided grin. “Plus… you’re Hermione Granger, obviously. And I’ve heard that’s kind of a big deal.”

She rolled her eyes, though a smile tugged at her lips. “I’ll see you at six. Don’t eat before you come.”

And before he could reply, she vanished with a soft crack.

—

Hermione was tidying up the remnants of Girls’ Night when Draco stepped through the Floo.

Seeing Draco Malfoy in a tee shirt and joggers will likely hold no novelty to her one day, she thinks, then dismisses the thought as it holds too many expectations for what they are. But that day is not tonight. Tonight, she couldn’t help smiling at the sight of his plain white shirt and black joggers, his casual demeanor feeling strangely intimate.

“You look like a Muggle,” she greeted him.

“That better be a compliment, or I’m telling,” he replied, sticking his nose up indignantly as he kicked off his trainers and placed them neatly by the fireplace.

“Telling who?” she laughed.

He considered the question, tapping a finger against his chin. “Whoever holds the most playing power in the moment, I suppose. I could go with Potter, but he’s unlikely to take my side. Theo… possibly even less likely…” He trailed off, plopping down onto the couch.

Hermione gave him an exaggeratedly solemn nod, waiting for him to continue.

“No, wait. I’ve got it,” he declared, nodding confidently and tilting his head back to look at the ceiling. “I’ll tell McGonagall.”

She gasped. “You wouldn’t.”

Draco shook his head with a mock sigh. “I hate that it’s come to this, Granger. Truly. It’s a shame—I was really rather fond of our budding romance.”

“Good thing it was a compliment, then,” she said, settling next to him and mimicking his posture, leaning back and staring at the ceiling.

He turned his head to look at her, a faint smile playing on his lips. “A good thing, indeed. And thank you, then, I suppose.”

She turned to meet his gaze, her own smile widening. “We have a budding romance, I hear?”

“Don’t we? I’m wounded, Granger.”

“Don’t all of your Healers give you this sort of special treatment?”

Draco barked a laugh. “No, and I’m certainly glad of it. Much as I do have a fondness for the Healers I’ve seen over the years, I’d have to let them down gently if they tried to snog me.” He reached out to pat her hand lightly. “You, though. Consider that advance always welcome.”

“Ah, I see,” she replied, her voice playful. “Well, I’ll keep that in mind.”

“Be sure that you do,” he murmured, still smiling but more absentmindedly now, his gaze drifting back to the ceiling.

After a beat, Hermione broke the quiet. “Are you nervous?”

“Yes,” he said simply.

“I understand,” she murmured.

He smiled faintly. “Aren’t you supposed to reassure me?”

She reached for his hand, her fingers threading through his. “You’ll be fine. This is highly unlikely to cause any serious complications. The biggest risk is just… that it doesn’t work.”

He nodded, though his eyes remained fixed ahead.

“The ratio of the anti-seizure drug and the calming draught may need tweaking. You might feel a little dopey after taking it, but if it works, we can adjust that,” she added, brushing her thumb over the back of his hand.

Draco frowned. “Should I go home after you make sure I don’t have a reaction, then?”

“Well...” She hesitated. “I thought you’d stay. I figured we could watch a movie while I monitored you, then… you could sleep here with me, if you’d like. But you don’t have to, I suppose.”

“I just—” he paused, his voice dropping to a whisper. “If I’m being honest, I’m nervous about potentially being, quote-unquote, dopey.”

“Why? It’s fairly normal with this type of drug. Nothing to worry about.”

“I don’t like… not being totally in control,” he admitted, his words measured. “I also don’t want to be annoying.”

Hermione understood this. Knew it about him already. He has so little control already that it makes sense that he’d want to hold onto what he has. But she doesn’t say that. Instead, she smiled and said, “Well, you won’t be any more annoying than you always are, I promise, so you might as well stay.”

Draco laughed, finally turning to meet her eyes. “Wow. With that vote of confidence, how can I not?”

—

They ate takeout and started a comedy show that Hermione quickly realized she’d have to explain as they went.

“Why is he telling them not to panic when he’s clearly panicking?” Draco asked, frowning at the screen.

“It’s supposed to be ironic,” Hermione replied, suppressing a laugh.

“Screaming ‘don’t fucking panic’ is certainly an odd choice,” he muttered, shaking his head. “I don’t really get it.”

Hermione rolled her eyes and muted the show as they finished eating.

“Here,” she said, handing him a small vial of the potion.

He accepted it and downed it quickly, seemingly before he lost the nerve. 

Hermione picked up her stethoscope from the side table and cast a diagnostic charm, watching the floating chart display his vitals. She leaned in closer. “Lean forward a bit.”

He obeyed, and she placed the stethoscope against his chest. He inhaled sharply. “That’s cold,” he whispered.

“Sorry,” she replied automatically, her attention already on the chart and the steady rhythm of his heartbeat.

She moved the chestpiece to the right side of his chest, then lower to his stomach, methodically checking for any irregularities. His heart rate spiked slightly as she moved the stethoscope back to the left side of his chest.

She glanced up and found him blushing.

“Sorry,” he said quickly. “It’s not the potion—I feel normal. There’s just a pretty girl touching me," he added, laughing softly.

Hermione laughed, shaking her head. “You’re a shameless flirt.”

She moved the stethoscope to his back, her tone shifting as she said, “Take a deep breath, please.”

He complied, and she moved it to the other side of his spine. “Again.”

After finishing her checks, she set the stethoscope aside, dismissing the diagnostic charm after a few more moments of observation. “Okay, everything looks good. No allergic reaction or anything concerning so far.” She leaned back against the couch and unmuted the show.

Draco nodded, then shifted down, laying his head in her lap. Hermione froze for a moment, caught off guard, but then let her hand drift to his hair, smoothing it down with gentle strokes.

“That helps,” he murmured, so quietly she almost didn’t hear him over the television.

“Helps with what?” she asked softly.

“The nerves,” he admitted, resting a hand lightly on her leg in front of his face. 

She continued to run her fingers through his hair. “Don’t be nervous. Everything will be fine. So far, so good, yeah?”

“But it hasn’t started working yet,” he replied, his voice faint.

“No, but that wasn’t the part I was worried about. The main concern, although slim, was an initial rejection or reaction. So, that should make you feel better,” she murmured, her voice soothing.

Draco nodded, nuzzling his head lightly against her leg, and turned his attention back to the screen.

—

About ten minutes into the new episode, she noticed a change.

He was giggling. 

Hermione raised an eyebrow and looked down at him.

Draco turned his head to meet her gaze, grinning. “Did you hear what he said?”

“I did,” she replied, smiling. “Very funny.”

He laughed again, covering his mouth with his hand, his eyes crinkling in amusement.

She scratched her nails lightly against his scalp, and he hummed contentedly.

“You touch my hair a lot,” he said suddenly, his tone curious. “Do you like it?”

“I do,” she said honestly, “but I touch your hair because you like it.”

He looked up at her, his expression serious.

“No one touches me but you, you know?” he said quietly.

She tried not to frown. She knew how quickly these sorts of moods could take a turn for the worse. 

“Do you want me to touch you, or would you prefer I didn’t?”

“I always want you to touch me,” he said simply. “I like when you touch my hair.”

“I know,” she whispered, continuing to thread her fingers through the soft strands.

They sat in companionable silence for a few moments, Draco staring ahead but no longer seeming to watch the show. Hermione fiddling with his hair. 

“Hermione,” he said eventually.

“Hmm?”

“I’m glad you call me Draco now,” he muttered.

“Yeah?” she replied, keeping her tone light and neutral, not wanting to pry too deeply into his dopey ramblings.

“Yeah. My mother named me Draco. Malfoy is my father’s name,” he murmured, his eyes slipping closed.

The sins of the father are to be laid upon the child.

Hermione frowned at the thought.

“Draco it is, then,” she whispered, brushing her fingers lightly over his shoulder.

“Sometimes when you touch me, I think it’ll kill me,” he said suddenly.

“What?” she asked, startled.

“I went so long without being touched. At least, not in a way that was… desirable. Then you show up, and you touch me so casually. At first, it shocked me—I wanted you to stop. I didn’t need it. Didn’t want it.”

She felt a bit guilty at that. 

“Then, I—I wanted it more than anything. And I h-hated myself for it,” he hiccuped. 

“Hey,” she murmured, her hand returning to his hair in slow, calming strokes. “You’re okay. Breathe.” This was what she’d been hoping to avoid. More for his sake than for hers. 

“See? You—it’s just so normal for you. I bet you and your friends touch each other casually all the t-time,” he continued, “I have never had that. With anyone. Until you. And I’m so scared of how much I want it. I’m worried that if I lose it now I won’t survive it. Won’t be able to go back to being okay.”

She cupped his cheek in her hand, brushing her thumb over his cheekbone. 

“Don’t cry, love,” she whispered, unable to resist comforting him. 

Draco propped himself up on one elbow, his tears finally spilling over as he looked at her.

“I’ve changed my mind,” he breathed, his voice soft and shaky. “I like that name more.”

Chapter Text

Hermione wasn’t sure what woke her at first, the quiet of the room undisturbed. Then she heard it—a soft, strained grunt from the other side of the bed.

She turned onto her side, her eyes adjusting to the dim light, and found Draco. His body was rigid, his face twisted in a grimace that pulled his lips to the left, somewhere between pain and an unnatural smile.

Her heart sank. She hadn’t expected an answer about her potion’s efficacy so quickly, but now wasn’t the time to dwell on it.

Scooting closer, she gently cradled his head in her lap, her hands steady despite the growing ache in her chest. The tension in his body gave way to convulsions, his muscles jerking uncontrollably. She reached for her wand, casting a quiet diagnostic charm, her eyes darting between the glowing results and the timer she had started.

Four minutes and twelve seconds.

When the convulsions finally slowed, his body sagged against her, limp with exhaustion. Hermione didn’t move, her hand brushing through his hair as his breathing evened out.

When he regained consciousness with his head still in her lap, he wrapped his arm around her waist and repeated, “Sorry, so sorry,” or some variation a few times before he fell back asleep. 

—

When Hermione woke again, she found Draco sitting in the chair across from her bed, tying his shoes.

“Why are you up so early?” she asked, her voice rough with sleep.

“I should go home,” he replied softly, glancing up at her briefly before returning to his task. “I have things to do before class later. Plus, I doubt I’d be very good company today.”

He smiled as he spoke, but it didn’t reach his eyes.

“Why?” she asked, sitting up.

Draco turned to her, his expression guarded. He shrugged. “I’m just… disappointed. I should’ve known better than to get my hopes up.”

Hermione frowned, processing his words. “Let me make you breakfast,” she offered after a moment.

“Hermione,” he sighed, his voice weary. “I’m not in the mood. And I’m trying my best to not make that your problem. Let me.”

“Make it my problem,” she said simply, her tone steady. “I don’t mind.”

He stared at her, his gaze searching hers for a long moment.

“Stay for breakfast,” she repeated, softer this time. “Then you can go sulk to your heart’s content, okay?”

He huffed quietly, shaking his head. “I don’t sulk.”

“You are excellent at sulking,” she said, slipping on the house shoes beside her bed. “You could likely teach a master’s level course in it.”

“This is not helpful,” he muttered, though the corners of his mouth twitched. The faint smile that didn’t quite grace his lips did, in fact, shine in his eyes. 

—

Hermione set a cup of tea in front of Draco, who nodded his thanks as he wrapped both hands around the warm mug.

She placed a banana and an apple on the table with a sheepish smile. “Sorry. My homemaker skills are lacking. Turns out I offered you breakfast without actually having any real food in the kitchen.”

He laughed softly. “Don’t worry. To be frank, I don’t usually eat breakfast. Tea is fine.” He nudged the fruit toward her. “You can have them.”

“You don’t eat breakfast? Why didn’t you say so?” she asked, raising an eyebrow.

Draco shrugged, his lips twitching upward in a faint smile. “I would eat breakfast if you made it for me.”

Before Hermione could respond, the Floo roared to life, and Harry stepped into the room, dressed in his Auror robes.

“Harry?” Hermione said, startled. “It’s odd for you to pop in during work hours.” She didn’t bother feeling guilty about Draco’s casual presence in her kitchen.

“I was actually looking for Malfoy,” Harry replied, his voice neutral but his expression strained. “When he wasn’t at home, I thought I’d check here next. Looks like I was right.”

“What’s wrong?” Hermione asked, her gaze flicking between the two men.

Harry approached, his hands clasped behind his back, his eyes trained on Draco.

Draco didn’t look up. His grip on the mug tightened until his knuckles whitened.

“Just get it over with, Potter,” Draco spat through gritted teeth. “Is he dead or injured?”

Hermione blinked, taken aback by the sudden and seemingly random deduction. A panicked laugh almost bubbled up, but the look on Harry’s face stilled it.

“Dead,” Harry said, too softly. “Stabbed by an inmate in the prison yard. They have the person who did it in custody.”

Draco’s jaw clenched tightly. “Right.”

He stood abruptly, his hand gripping the counter to steady himself.

“Excuse me,” he muttered, his voice cracking as he made for the hallway bathroom.

Harry caught his arm, halting him. “That’s not all,” he said, his tone heavy. “Malfoy, they… they think you’re involved. You’re being investigated for the death of Lucius Malfoy.”

Draco didn’t wait for Harry to finish. He wrenched his arm free, glaring at him before disappearing into the hall and shutting the bathroom door behind him.

Hermione and Harry stood in stricken silence. 

“I’ll… I’ll come back in 30 minutes,” Harry said finally, his voice low. “I have to give him the details before the hearing. But I’ll give him some time.” He gestured vaguely toward the hall. “It can wait.”

Hermione nodded, unsure of what else to say.

Harry disapparated with a soft crack.

Hermione turned toward the bathroom, her gaze fixed on the light shining under the door. She approached slowly, her hand raising to knock, but she hesitated.

Who was she to him, really? The person who he should be with after finding out his father was dead? The first face he should see after receiving that news? Who was she to ask that of him? Someone who he’d hated or at the very least was a stranger until recently? A friend? An acquaintance?

If he wanted me there, he would’ve said so, she thought.

The muffled sound of retching broke her train of thought.

She knocked softly, then opened the door.

Draco was on the floor, his head between his knees. He retched over the small trash bin she kept in the corner, though it was clear he had nothing left to expel.

“Please, go away,” he gasped between heaves.

Hermione stood in the doorway, unmoving.

Draco placed the bin to the side with a shaking hand and wrapped his arms tightly around his knees, pressing his head against them.

She sat down next to him.

“You shouldn’t be alone,” she said quietly.

“I have seizures alone all the time. Please, Granger, just go,” he begged her, his breathing bordering on hyperventilation. 

“I know,” she murmured. “I wasn’t talking about that. Though I don’t like the idea of you being alone for that, either.”

A silent sob racked through him, and she slid her hand tentatively across his back, resting it on his shoulder. He was trembling.

Slowly, she wrapped her other arm around him, her fingers brushing over the short hair at the nape of his neck.

He inhaled sharply, and then… he laughed.

Hermione pulled back slightly to look at him, her brow furrowed in concern.

“I hated him,” Draco said, his laughter verging on hysterical.

“I mean… I fucking hated him,” he repeated, shaking his head.

Hermione nodded, leaning back against him and holding him tighter.

He was still laughing when he added, “So why does it still fucking hurt?”

She didn’t answer. She knew he wasn’t looking for one.

Instead, as his laughter gradually dissolved into sobs, she just rested her cheek on his shoulder, smoothing over the back of his head with her hand.  

—

Draco sat on the couch, his feet planted firmly on the floor. He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, and stared into the fire. The only trace of emotion left from hearing about his father’s death was the red rim of his eyes and the flush on the tip of his nose.

“The man who did it was two years above us. A Slytherin. Cassius Blackwood. Do you recognize the name?” Harry asked, sitting in the armchair nearby, his gaze fixed on Draco.

“Yes, but I was never acquainted with him,” Draco replied numbly, his eyes never leaving the flickering flames. The reflection of the fire was the only sign of life in his otherwise vacant expression. Occluded, then, Hermione reasoned internally.

“He said under Veritaserum that he killed Lucius Malfoy under your direction,” Harry continued, his voice tense.

“Well… I’m not sure how he’d manage that, given I don’t know him and I’ve never instructed anyone to kill my father,” Draco said flatly.

“Hopefully, you can prove that,” Harry sighed. “You’ll be brought before the Wizengamot in two days to plead your case.”

Draco didn’t respond, his gaze locked on the fire, blinking more often than usual.

“Malfo—” Harry began, but Hermione touched his knee, cutting him off.

She shook her head and murmured, “He’s not ignoring you. Give him a moment.”

Eventually, Draco came to, glancing surreptitiously around the room. When he realized they were waiting for him, he cleared his throat. “Sorry, what were you saying?”

—

Draco refused to skip class, despite Hermione’s insistence.

“Are you sure?” she asked, fixing him with a concerned look.

“Quite,” he replied with a hollow nod, his eyes still distant and cold. “Who knows? If I get hauled off to Azkaban, this may be the last class I get to attend.”

“That’s not going to happen. You didn’t put a hit on your father, did you?” she asked, leading.

“Of course not. If I were going to kill him, I’d have done it myself,” he said plainly.

Dismissing any reasonable reaction to that statement, she replied, “Exactly. Then we’ll be able to prove it.”

“Hermione, did you attend any of the other Death Eater trials? Any besides mine?” he asked, meeting her gaze.

“No,” she said softly.

“Goyle was sentenced to Azkaban for ten years. Did you know that?”

“I… I don’t know if I’d heard,” she admitted.

“Yes. Ten years. What are we, around five years out from the war? Goyle never killed anyone. Cast a few Unforgivables. Certainly didn’t let Voldemort’s army into the castle. Goyle wasn’t even marked,” he huffed a bitter laugh, “The vote of two-thirds of the Golden Trio went a long way for me.”

“You never killed anyone either, Draco,” she argued.

“Only because I failed to do so,” he snapped.

“What is this, the Baddie Olympics? What do you want me to say, Draco? That I should’ve defended the entire Slytherin class even though they were horrible to me?” she shot back, raising her voice.

“Again, I was fucking horrible to you, Hermione! I was!” he shouted. “But I buy Potter five minutes of anonymity and I get off with what? Two years of house arrest? People spitting in my direction in public? Who are you to decide who should walk free?”

“Oh, you’ve got it easy now, do you? Could’ve fucking fooled me,” Hermione said, her voice sharp and cutting.

Draco sneered, the familiar expression sending a jolt through her.

“I almost forgot that face,” she said, raising her chin defiantly. “Odd how that works. It’s the only face I saw from you for years. And now it feels foreign.”

His expression faltered, just for a moment. Good, she thought.

“I have to go,” he muttered. “I need to speak to my mother before class.” Without another word, he turned and stepped through her Floo.

Hermione sank onto the couch, deflated.

—

When he walked into class, Draco looked as composed as ever, save for the cold emptiness in his eyes.

He sat down next to her in his frivolous suit and took out his frivolous pen and his frivolous paper. The armor of elegance draped over him in sturdy plates.

He didn’t even glance at her.

“I thought you couldn’t occlude for long periods of time,” she whispered, her gaze fixed on the front of the room.

“I shouldn’t anymore, no,” he replied quietly. “But I can.”

“What’s it like?” she asked.

He hummed, considering. “It’s like building a wall between your psyche and your thoughts. They try to jump the wall or break through, and sometimes the persistent ones do. But the better you are at it, the stronger the wall gets. If you’re skilled enough, you can build lots of walls, lots of rooms, and bury things inside them—hide them from others or from yourself.”

“It sounds lonely,” she said after a moment.

“It can be,” he admitted.

“Why do you do it, then?”

“I wouldn’t have survived the war if I didn’t,” he said simply.

“We’re not at war anymore,” she said softly.

“Am I not?” he asked, turning to face her. His cold, empty eyes met hers, and she recognized the look—it was the same one she’d seen across the dining hall in sixth year.

She didn’t reply, turning her attention back to the lecture.

A few moments later, her hand found his where it rested on his thigh under the desk.

His only reaction was a shaky inhale.

He squeezed her hand once before letting go, his arm shifting to rest on the desk, his hand clenched into a tight fist.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I—I can’t. I’m not good enough at occluding anymore to let you touch me right now.” He tried for a smile, but it was weak and apologetic.

She nodded, understanding.

Chapter Text

They left class together, walking in silence toward the apparition point.

Hermione didn’t want to be the one to break the quiet, unsure of what to say.

“I’m sorry about earlier,” Draco said eventually, his voice soft.

“No, I’m sorry about earlier,” she replied quickly. “If anyone had a right to feel overwhelmed, it was you. That wasn’t fair of me.”

As they reached their destination, she took his hand in hers, giving it a gentle squeeze.

He sighed, then pulled her into a hug, catching her off guard. She stumbled slightly, but managed to steady herself and return the embrace.

“Sorry, that was a bit over-zealous,” he laughed, his voice muffled against her hair.

His laugh broke off with a ragged inhale as she hugged him back tightly.

“You okay?” she murmured, her cheek resting against his shoulder.

He chuckled again, though his voice trembled. “In the spirit of honesty—no, not really.”

“In the spirit of honesty,” she replied, her tone light yet sincere, “I want you to come back home with me so we can watch cheesy comedy shows and I can play with your hair.”

He pulled back slightly to look at her, his grey eyes meeting hers. For the first time all day, there was a spark of life in them.

“In the spirit of honesty,” he said, a soft smile tugging at his lips, “I was hoping you’d ask.”

—

Hermione wasn’t paying much attention to the show. Her eyes kept drifting to Draco, curled on his side with his head in her lap. This is why, when his eyes slipped shut, she noticed.

“Are you falling asleep?” she murmured.

“No, I’m awake,” he replied, his voice thick with disuse. “Just resting my eyes. I have a bit of a headache.”

She realized then how long they’d been sitting in silence, the television the only noise in the room. She turned it off.

“You don’t have to do that, Hermione,” he sighed, pressing the heels of his palms against his eyes.

“You said you had a headache. I thought it would help.”

“It’s not that it doesn’t help,” he said, smiling softly, “but—you don’t have to dote on me all the time. I’m tougher than I look.”

“I never said you weren’t tough,” she replied, rolling her eyes. “But there’s no prize for suffering in this life, Draco.”

“I’m not trying to win or prove anything,” he said, turning his head to look at her. “I just—I want to be normal to you. It’s my own fault, honestly, I’ve not done a very good job of keeping my shit together recently, but I am capable of it. I’m okay, okay?”

Hermione laughed lightly. “You know, I thought I’d actually done a pretty good job of restraining myself from being too overbearing.”

“This is restrained doting on the Granger-scale?” he asked, smirking as he gestured to his position in her lap.

“I mean… yes, honestly,” she said, then leaned over to lay her head on his hip. “You remember what you said the other night at the restaurant? About trauma-bonding?”

“I don’t think I used the word ‘trauma,’ but I take your point,” he said, huffing a laugh.

“This is my version, I guess. I spent years at Hogwarts taking care of Harry and Ron and… everyone I could get my hands on, really. It was the only way I could be sure they’d be okay—I had to do it myself. I couldn’t trust anyone else. So now… call it a love language, I suppose,” she finished with a sheepish smile.

“I’m not complaining, you know that, right?” he said, brushing his knuckles over her cheek.

“I know, but I wouldn’t blame you if you were,” she admitted, laughing softly. “Harry and Ron were special cases, so I never really noticed before. Harry needed someone to take care of him, even more than he realized, and Ron needed anyone to pay attention to him.”

Draco nodded, his gaze distant.

“Also,” she added after a few moments of silence, “I think you’re normal. As normal as any of us, anyway. And I don’t need you to keep your ‘shit together’ to think that.”

“I don’t—” he started, then stopped.

After a moment of chewing his lip, he continued, “I don’t know how to be taken care of. It makes me uncomfortable, generally. Not so much when you do it. When you do it, I just feel guilty.”

“I don’t want that,” she whispered.

“I’m sorry,” he replied.

She sighed. “I don’t want that either.”

“I know.”

Moments passed in silence.

“How am I allowed to take care of you?” she asked suddenly.

“What?”

“I mean, like… what do you like or dislike?”

“I don’t know how to answer that, Hermione,” he said with an awkward laugh.

“This would’ve been easier with dopey Draco. I should’ve asked him,” she sighed dramatically.

He clicked his tongue. “You’d take advantage of me under the influence? These are harsh tactics, Miss Granger.”

She flicked his arm. “You know I wouldn’t.”

“I like it when you touch my hair,” he admitted. “That’s still true when I’m sober.”

She nodded, encouraging him to continue.

He thought for a moment. “Sometimes you squeeze my neck, and that’s always nice. I’m admittedly constantly sore.”

“Noted,” she said.

“I like when you take my shoes off if I fall asleep with them on,” he murmured.

She smiled. “That’s very specific.”

He shrugged. “I don’t know, I’m not good at this.”

“You are,” she assured him.

“I like everything you do. I just… feel bad that you do it.”

“I want to do it, though,” she said, exhaling softly.

“Then let me take care of you, too,” he whispered.

She paused.

“Okay,” she replied eventually. “We’ll take care of each other, yeah?”

—

“Breathe,” she murmured softly in the middle of the night as Draco heaved into the rubbish bin over the side of her bed. “It’ll pass.”

She noticed his shirt was soaked with sweat and added a cooling charm to the muscle-relaxing one she sent through her palm into his back.

“Thanks,” he mumbled when she handed him a water bottle. His hand shook so violently that she had to stop herself from reaching out to steady it for him.

—

“The hearing is tomorrow, yes?” Narcissa asked over dinner, her voice calm and composed, as always.

Draco nodded, his fork dragging aimlessly across his plate.

“I will see if they’ll allow me to attend,” she offered.

“No need,” he replied coolly, not looking up. “It’s a formality, I’m sure.”

Narcissa watched him for a moment, then said, “Your father’s body arrived today.”

Draco’s hand froze mid-motion, his eyes snapping to hers.

“They’re allowing him to be entombed in the Malfoy mausoleum,” she continued.

Draco shoved his plate away and stood abruptly, the scrape of the chair loud in the otherwise silent room.

“Draco,” Narcissa said.

He turned away, starting out of the room.

“Draco,” Narcissa said firmly.

He stopped but didn’t turn around.

“What?” he asked, his tone deadpan.

Hermione sat still, her breath caught in her chest, unsure if she should follow him or remain seated.

“Don’t,” Narcissa cautioned.

He didn’t respond, his posture rigid, his hands fisting at his sides.

“Don’t open the casket,” she said, her voice soft but commanding. “You shouldn’t see him like that.”

Draco’s shoulders stiffened further, his silence crackling like static in the room.

After a long moment, Narcissa stood, smoothing her gown as she did. She touched his shoulder lightly as she passed him on her way out, leaving Hermione and Draco alone in the tense, heavy quiet.

Hermione watched him, her heart aching as his white-knuckled grip on the edge of the table slowly loosened. She wasn’t sure how long it took—only that, by the time his hands relaxed, she felt almost as tired as he looked.

—

The moment they stepped out of the floo, Hermione felt Draco freeze beside her. Without hesitation, she wrapped her arm tightly around his waist and tugged him toward the lifts.

Harry and Theo followed immediately, flanking them on either side. Harry, thankfully, had been assigned as the Auror escorting them.

“Death Eater scum!” a woman screamed, her voice shrill, before spitting in their direction.

Draco inhaled unevenly.

Jeers, threats, and vile insults filled the air. Some spat at them; others surged forward, trying to push past Harry and Theo. Harry shot a disarming charm at one of the men then pushed him back with an arm. Theo, less diplomatically, hit another man with a stinging jinx before shoving him to the ground.

Hermione’s patience snapped. She raised her wand and cleared a path to the lift, her magic shoving the mob of reporters and onlookers aside like waves parting for a storm.

“Nicely done, Granger,” Theo breathed, gaping at her, unsubtly impressed.

Hermione nodded sharply, focusing on pulling a stumbling Draco into the lift just as the doors closed behind them.

Draco collapsed before he could take another step.

Hermione dropped to the ground beside him, catching him by the shoulders and guiding him down gently.

“Harry, back up, please,” she murmured, her voice calm despite the urgency. She pushed his hair out of his face, stroking her thumb against his cheek to soothe him. She loosened his tie and unbuttoned the top button of his shirt.

Theo reached out and wrapped an arm around Harry’s waist, pulling him back to the far wall of the lift. Harry placed a steadying hand on Theo’s shoulder, his face grim.

Hermione wanted to acknowledge them, to thank them both for their help, but she couldn’t yet.

Draco started tensing up and all the hopes she had of this just being a drop seizure vanished.

The muscle contractions started shortly after. His height didn’t allow her to prevent his feet from banging against the wall of the lift. Theo knelt down next to him, putting his hand in front of Draco’s shin, allowing his leg to move but stopping it before it hit the wall. A tear rolled down Theo’s cheek as he watched him, but Hermione didn’t comment. Harry placed his palm on Theo’s shoulder and she redirected her energy and attention toward Draco.

Draco’s convulsions finally slowed after what felt like an eternity—four minutes, longer than usual, Hermione noted distantly.

As his body stilled, Hermione brushed her hand through his damp hair, dabbing the sweat from his brow.

Draco groaned as he came to and she shushed him consolingly. “You’re okay, give yourself a second,” she murmured, leaning down to whisper the words only to him. She knew he wouldn’t appreciate the audience that he’s been subjected to.

“Sick,” he mouthed, swallowing thickly.

“I’m sorry,” she murmured, squeezing his arm. “Can I help you sit up?”

But Draco had already started moving, lurching forward unsteadily and retching onto the lift floor. His arms shook with the effort of holding himself up.

Hermione vanished the bile he’d managed to bring up, seeing as he hadn’t eaten all day. He swallowed convulsively for a moment, his whole body shaking. Hermione wrapped an arm around him and pulled him back against her chest. He didn’t fight her, probably couldn’t if he’d wanted to, and settled against her, his ear pressed against her chest.

She leaned back against the wall of the lift, wrapping one arm around his shoulders and draping her other hand over his neck, lacing her fingers through the short hair at his nape.

She just realized that the lift had never opened at the their floor. Theo was holding the doors closed, the tip of his wand held against the button. Harry was watching Hermione. Hermione held up a finger to them, indicating that he’d need another minute. Theo nodded.

She rested her cheek on Draco’s head, feeling his breathing start to even out. But when his body grew heavier against hers, she murmured, “You can’t sleep yet, love. I’m so sorry.” She kneaded the back of his neck gently.

He whimpered softly in protest and she took that as proof that he wasn’t fully awake.

“Draco, you have to wake up,” she whispered. “You have a hearing with the Wizengamot, remember?”

“Please,” he mumbled, his voice slurred with fatigue. His eyelids fluttered as he fought to keep them open. “M’sorry.”

Chapter Text

“Use a reviving charm on him,” Theo murmured, crouching down beside Hermione on the floor of the lift. His voice was quiet, but firm.

Hermione frowned, her lips pressing into a thin line. “Theo, that’s… that’s almost cruel. I can’t—”

“You have to,” Theo interrupted, his hand settling heavily on her shoulder. “He can’t miss this. He would want you to.” His tone softened. “I can do it if you’d rather.”

“No,” Hermione said quickly, too quickly. “I can—I’ll do it.”

Theo nodded and stepped back, giving her space.

Taking a steadying breath, Hermione pointed her wand at the center of Draco’s chest and whispered, “Rennervate.”

Draco gasped awake, his body jerking as he bolted upright.

“Please don’t panic,” Hermione said softly, leaning closer to him.

“What?” he rasped, his voice rough and strained. “Where am I?”

Hermione’s chest tightened, her heart sinking as she registered his disorientation. 

“You don’t remember?” she asked, her voice steady despite the worry bubbling beneath the surface.

Draco huffed a weak laugh, biting his bottom lip before shaking his head, the motion barely perceptible.

“You have a hearing with the Wizengamot,” she reminded him gently. “We’re at the Ministry of Magic.”

“Right,” he murmured absently, his eyes flitting around the confined space of the lift.

Harry, who had been silent until now, stepped forward. “I know now’s not a great time, and I’m sorry,” he said, his voice low but urgent. “But we’re going to be late. And you can’t really afford to be, Malfoy.”

Draco nodded, pushing himself unsteadily to his feet. He swayed slightly, and Hermione instinctively reached out to steady him, but he didn’t lean into her touch.

When no one moved, Draco cleared his throat, gesturing toward the elevator doors with a shaky hand.

“After you,” he muttered, his voice hoarse and distant.

—

He seemed hazy. That was the best description that Hermione could think of. It wasn’t the sharp, calculated haze of occlusion, but a warmer, muddier sort, clouding the edges of his movements. She didn’t think it was noticeable to anyone but her and Theo as they walked into the room where the hearing would occur. He walked with his shoulders back and his chin held high, that aristocratic grace that he always carried with him now carrying him. Someone not looking closely wouldn’t notice his trembling hand, especially not with the charmed cufflinks that he had thankfully thought to wear. They wouldn’t notice his clenched jaw or the sweat beading at the nape of his neck.

But all it would take is one misstep to give himself away.

“Mr. Malfoy, you’re late,” the acting council head, Mr. Robson, greeted sharply as they entered.

“That’s my mistake, sir,” Harry interjected smoothly. “We were held up in the atrium. I didn’t realize news of this trial had gone public already. The crowd… caught us off guard.”

Robson scoffed, shuffling papers in front of him. “Yes, well, I imagine people are quite interested in the outcome of this. Not many Death Eaters lived to see a second trial.”

Draco tensed beside her.

“Mr. Malfoy, please have a seat,” Robson said, gesturing to the solitary chair positioned in the center of the courtroom.

Draco inclined his head curtly and walked to the seat. He sat with his legs crossed and hands neatly folded on his knee, exuding an air of practiced indifference. Today’s facade was ‘unconcerned,’ Hermione reckoned.

“Those accompanying Mr. Malfoy are welcome to sit in the chairs designated to onlookers,” Robson gestured to a group of chairs off to the side of the room. It was further than Hermione would like to be, but she begrudgingly relegated herself to one of the seats.

“We’ll begin,” Robson announced, glancing at his colleagues for their confirmation before turning back to Draco. “Mr. Malfoy, in order to avoid any unnecessary complications, do you agree to be dosed with Veritaserum for the purposes of this hearing?”

Draco nodded.

“A verbal response, please,” Robson pressed.

“Yes, I agree,” Draco said, his voice steady but subdued.

A vial appeared on a tray beside him, and he tilted it back without hesitation, swallowing the small dose.

“Now,” Robson began, scanning his notes, “what is your full name?”

“Draco Lucius Malfoy,” he answered easily.

“How old are you?”

“I’m 23 as of June 5th, 2004.”

“Good,” Robson replied, pausing to let the charmed quill record his words. The scratching of the quill echoed through the room.

“Did you employ Cassius Blackwood to kill your father, Lucius Malfoy?”

“No,” Draco said, his voice flat and cold.

“Did you otherwise imply to him that he should kill your father?”

“No, I did not.”

“Did you wish harm upon your father?”

Draco froze.

Hermione stood abruptly. “I fail to see the relevance of that question,” she objected.

Robson ignored her, his eyes fixed on Draco. “Answer the question, Mr. Malfoy.”

“I—I didn’t want him to be murdered,” Draco rasped, his composure cracking slightly.

“That was not the question,” Robson pressed. “Did you or did you not wish harm upon your father?”

Draco’s throat worked as he swallowed hard, struggling against the truth serum. “No—I haven’t in a long time, no.”

“Have you, in the past or present, ever wished harm upon Lucius Malfoy?” Robson demanded.

Draco nodded.

“Please answer verbally, Mr. Malfoy.”

“Yes,” Draco whispered, his voice raw. “Yes, I have wished harm upon him in the past.”

Hermione clenched her hands together, but Theo reached over and covered them with his. The cracks in Draco's facade were beginning to show. His shoulders slumped, and the trembling in his hands grew more visible.

“Please bring in the accused,” Robson instructed.

The doors opened, and two security guards escorted a bound and shackled Cassius Blackwood into the room.

Hermione’s stomach dropped. This man had Azkaban woven into the fabric of his being—his gaunt frame, his hollow cheeks, his limp brown hair—he looked weak and sickly.

But not his eyes. His eyes weren’t weak. Instead, they were determined. There was almost a crazed sort of glee shining in them he stared openly at Draco.

“Let the record show that Mr. Blackwood has already been dosed with Veritaserum,” Robson stated. “Mr. Blackwood, did Mr. Malfoy instruct you to kill his father, Lucius Malfoy?”

“Yes,” Cassius said, smiling.

Draco looked stricken and confused. His eyebrows knitted together and he huffed a laugh, "Is this a joke?"

“It is not your turn to speak, Mr. Malfoy—”

“Aren’t you pleased, Draco?” Cassius interjected, his voice lilting. “I did what you asked me to. Shouldn’t you be pleased?”

“What?” Draco breathed, leaning forward as a panicked laugh escaped him. “What are you talking about? I didn’t tell you to kill anyone—I don’t even know you!”

“Mr. Malfoy,” Robson warned, “if you don’t get a handle on yourself, you will be removed and kept in holding until this trial is completed.”

Draco glared at him but fell silent.

“Make him prove it,” Theo said suddenly, his voice cutting through the tension. “If Draco told him to kill his father, make him prove it.  Bring a Pensieve and take the memory from him.”

“That’s redundant,” Robson said with a dismissive wave. “The Veritaserum is sufficient—”

“A skilled Occlumens can resist Veritaserum,” Theo countered, his tone sharp. “Mr. Malfoy also answered under Veritaserum, even going as far as to say he doesn't even know this man. Their claims clearly differ. An additional level of scrutiny is warranted. If he’s telling the truth, he shouldn’t have a problem proving it.”

“I can prove it!” Cassius crowed, his grin widening. “I can prove it, your honor! Then Draco will see why he should be pleased and offer me his thanks.”

Draco recoiled as if struck.

“Very well,” Robson grumbled. “Security, have a Pensieve brought down. We’ll take a 15-minute recess to prepare.”

—

Hermione sat next to Draco on a bench in the hall, her hands clasped tightly in her lap.

Draco leaned forward, his elbows resting on his knees, staring blankly into the distance.

“I don’t... I don’t know how he’s making this claim,” Hermione said softly, breaking the silence, “but the memory—or lack thereof—should prove you innocent. So... don’t worry too much. It’s not good for you.”

Draco’s lips twitched into a hollow, sad smile.

“I lose time sometimes, Hermione,” he said, his voice flat, almost lifeless.

Hermione froze, the implications of his words settling heavily in her chest.

“I’ve woken up places I don’t remember falling asleep. I’ve come to in the middle of conversations I didn’t remember starting. You know this.”

“That doesn’t matter, Draco,” she replied firmly. “If this was something you’d done, you’d at least remember wanting to do it—even if you didn’t remember the act itself. Or you’d remember Cassius! You’ve never even met him.”

Draco’s sad smile deepened.

“I hope you’re right, Hermione. I really do. But... I don’t know anymore.” He sighed, his shoulders slumping further. “If... if this doesn’t go my way, for whatever reason, I... I just wanted to thank you for—”

“Stop,” Hermione interrupted, placing her hand over his mouth. “Tell me later, okay?”

“We don’t know there will be a later, Hermione. I just—”

“I do. I do know. Tell me later,” she insisted, her voice steady and unyielding.

Draco sighed deeply, letting his head drop onto her shoulder.

—

The memory projected in the courtroom after they all reclaimed their original seats was painfully vivid, and Hermione felt the world around her dissolve as she was drawn into it.

She recognized the Slytherin dungeons, though the setting startled her—it had been years since any of them had been students at Hogwarts. How would this be relevant to this trial? The perspective was strange, and she quickly realized she was seeing the scene through Cassius’s eyes.

“Draco, stop! You’ll get us in trouble if someone hears,” a familiar voice whispered, and Hermione—or rather, Cassius—moved closer.

“Get in trouble?” Draco scoffed, his words slurred. “Grow up, Nott.”

“Grow up? Are you kidding?” The voice that she now recognized as a younger Theo responded.

Cassius crept around the corner. The memory showed two younger boys: Draco and Theo, perhaps 15 or 16, sitting on a bed. Certainly too young to be drinking, but Draco was holding a bottle of Firewhiskey, his grip unsteady, his face flushed. Neither of them noticed the presence of Cassius just outside the room.

“Fuck you, Theodore. I don’t want or need you here,” Draco snarled, lunging for the bottle.

Theo snatched it out of his reach, his reflexes quicker. “But I can’t leave you alone,” Theo snapped back. “Apparently, I’m too busy babysitting you tonight.”

Draco growled in frustration, making another swipe for the bottle, and when Theo pulled it away again, he lunged at him instead, grabbing the front of his shirt and raising his fist.

Theo dodged the punch and wrapped his arms around Draco, restraining him to prevent him from hurting him or himself.

Draco yelped in pain, and Theo’s face immediately shifted to concern.

“Did I hurt you?” Theo asked hurriedly.

“Fuck off. I mean it,” Draco muttered, standing and turning his back on Theo.

But Theo grabbed his arm and pulled him back. “Why did that hurt you?” he pressed, his voice low and steady.

Draco squirmed against Theo’s grip, cursing and snapping until Theo managed to force him back onto the bed. Before he could fight him off, Theo hastily pulled up Draco’s shirt.

Hermione felt her stomach drop at the sight. Draco’s ribs were a patchwork of bruises, some faded yellow, others fresh and angry purple.

Draco took Theo being shocked still as an opening to shove him off. He grabbed Theo by the front of his shirt and bared his teeth at him.

Theo just stared at him, understanding written plainly on his face. He didn’t even put up a hand to defend himself.

“Stop looking at me like that. I don’t want your fucking pity, Theo,” Draco scoffed.

“Does Narcissa know?” Theo asked quietly, his voice trembling.

“Of course she knows,” Draco laughed bitterly. “He’s not exactly subtle.”

“Draco,” Theo breathed, “that’s... that’s not oka—”

“Really? Who says?” Draco interrupted, his tone sharp and defiant.

Theo opened his mouth, then closed it.

“I mean… I think most people wou—“

Draco leaned closer, his face inches from Theo’s, his expression fierce. “Most people would what? What would most people do for me, huh?” Draco said, leaning into Theo’s face, all humor gone from his features, “Do you think the Department of Magical Law Enforcement is going to trial one of their largest shareholders for child abuse? The school that he is on the board for? My mother? Who, Theo? Who?” He shouted, jostling Theo with the fist he still had balled in his shirt.

“Who, damn it?” Draco’s voice cracked, and his hand twisted into Theo’s shirt. “Who do you want me to tell?”

Theo cautiously wrapped his arms around Draco’s shoulders.

“Get the fuck off me,” Draco snarled, shoving weakly against him.

Theo didn’t budge.

“I said get off ,” he tried again, but Theo just pulled him in closer.

“Fucking, let me go!” he shouted, but his voice broke on a sob.

“Stop,” Theo murmured, his arms tightening around Draco.

“Please let me go,” Draco said, sniffling. The fight had gone out of him, though, and Hermione watched as he slumped against Theo’s chest.

“Stop it,” Theo repeated, and he adjusted his arms around Draco to be more like a hug and less like a restraining maneuver.

Draco settled against Theo, closing his eyes and wincing.

Theo was always ahead in their class, but she was still surprised to see him murmur a couple wandless healing charms as a 5th year. She watched as Draco relaxed further against him.

“You’re gonna be okay,” Theo said.

Another sob tore its way up Draco’s throat.

Theo held him tighter.

“I hate him,” Draco whispered hoarsely, sniffling as tears flowed down his cheeks.

“I fucking hate him,” he wept, still clinging to Theo’s shirt.

“I hate him too,” Theo replied softly.

“I’ll kill him,” Draco choked, “I’ll kill him if it the last thing I do. I’ll fucking kill him, I’ll—“

Theo shushed him, rubbing a hand up and down his back.

“Don’t talk like that, okay? You don’t know who could be listening.”

“I don’t care,” Draco sniffed, then shouted, “who’s fucking listening?!”

“Draco, stop—“

“If you’re fucking listening, you can go ahead and tell him. Tell him I want him dead. Hell, if you’re listening, kill him yourself and tell him I fucking sent you!” Draco shouted.

Theo sighed and rested his chin on Draco’s head as he continued to cry into his shirt.

—

The room was abruptly plunged back into the present as the memory dissolved. Cassius’s crazed grin lingered in the charged silence.

Chapter Text

Hermione started to follow him, but Theo caught her by the arm.

“You clean up the mess here, get him to call a recess so Draco doesn’t get caught on a technicality for leaving. I’ll go,” Theo murmured, his tone low but firm. He patted her arm reassuringly before heading out.

She watched him leave, her gaze lingering on the door long after it closed silently behind him.

Harry cleared his throat beside her, breaking the silence. When she turned to face him, his expression was soft, sympathetic.

“Don’t worry,” he said quietly. “He’s good at picking up someone’s pieces too—just like you. How do you think we ended up together?” Harry’s smile was small and sad, but there was conviction behind it.

Hermione squeezed his hand briefly, nodding in silent agreement.

“Someone needs to retrieve Mr. Malfoy before the council is forced to settle against him,” Robson announced, his tone clipped as he gestured toward one of the guards.

“Councilman Robson, we’d appreciate a recess, if you could,” Hermione rushed out, stepping forward.

“It’s not the time for that,” Robson replied dismissively. “As soon as all evidence is presented and questions are answered, there will be a recess for a verdict to be agreed upon. Until then, we continue.” He gestured again toward the guards. “Go get him.”

Hermione stepped in front of the door. “You don’t understand. He—can you please make an exception? I’ll go get him myself, but—can we have five minutes?”

“Is Mr. Malfoy’s time more valuable than ours, Ms. Granger?” Robson’s brow arched imperiously.

She let out a harsh laugh, one devoid of humor, and stared at him incredulously.

“Are you kidding? Did you not see the same thing we all just saw?”

“Watch your tone, Ms. Granger,” Robson warned, his voice icy.

“Robson, I’ll get him,” Harry interjected smoothly, placing a calming hand on Hermione’s arm. “No need for the guards. I’ll bring him back in as soon as possible.”

Robson regarded Harry for a moment, then nodded curtly. “Very well, Mr. Potter. Don’t make us wait.”

Harry inclined his head respectfully before following Hermione out into the hall.

They found Theo and Draco sitting against the wall. Draco had his head between his knees, and Theo rested a steadying hand on his back.

Hermione lowered herself onto the floor beside Draco.

“They sent me after him,” Harry said, his voice carrying a tinge of regret. “Robson wouldn’t approve a recess.”

Draco nodded, though he didn’t lift his head. After a few moments, he pushed himself to his feet, swaying slightly.

Hermione instinctively reached for his hand, stopping him. “Wait—”

“Please, just let me finish this,” Draco interrupted, his voice flat and detached. “I can’t afford to make any mistakes. He’s made that clear.”

Hermione hesitated but nodded. Draco extended a hand to help her up, and she took it, rising to her feet beside him.

He walked off without another word, pushing open the court doors.

Hermione and Harry followed, but not before she turned to Theo, mouthing, Is he okay?

Theo didn’t answer right away. His gaze lingered on the door Draco had disappeared through before he finally murmured, “He’s fine for now. He only had a drop seizure if that’s what you’re asking.”

“It’s… that’s part of what I’m asking,” Hermione admitted.

Theo gave her a small, tired smile, but it didn’t reach his eyes.

Draco was already back in his chair, his posture stiff but composed, by the time they returned.

“Mr. Malfoy, do you have anything you’d like to add before we adjourn for deliberation?” Robson asked, his tone almost disinterested.

“No, I’m quite alright,” Draco replied coolly, his voice a mask of indifference.

“Aren’t you pleased, Draco?” Cassius interjected suddenly. A giggle bubbled up his throat once. Then again. Then his voice was tilting into manic laughter.

The sound was jarring, grating, and Draco’s jaw tightened imperceptibly.

Cassius tilted his head, his laughter bubbling up again. “Aren’t you pleased I was listening? I was listening. It was me you were talking to. Aren’t you glad to know—”

Draco’s eyes were sharp and cold. Occluded.

“Mr. Blackwood, that’s enough fro—”

“No,” Cassius interrupted, his eyes fixed on Draco. “I want to know. Is it really what you wanted, Draco?” Cassius sneered, leaning forward as much as his restraints allowed.

“Answer me, you fucking blood traitor!” Cassius spat, his voice venomous and biting, spittle flying from his mouth with the force of his words as he struggled against his restraints.

Draco flinched. It was subtle, but it was noticeable.

“That’s what I thought,” Cassius sneered. “A blood traitor and coward, just like your father.”

Draco's eyes shifted to meet Cassius's. For a moment, the coldness in his eyes gave way to something hot and unrestrained—rage.

“Guards, remove him,” Robson ordered sharply.

“Does it feel good to have the mudblood bitch sticking up for you? Does it make you feel like a real boy again?” Cassius was laughing again, wildly, “Huh? When you sully yourself with her, do you—“

Cassius’s mouth snapped shut as though an invisible force had slammed it closed.

Draco blinked, momentarily confused. He didn’t even have his wand.

Hermione turned to see Theo, his wand raised, his chest heaving with barely restrained fury. His gaze on Cassius was murderous.

“Get him out of here before you have to trial me next,” Theo seethed, turning his glare onto Robson.

Robson nodded at the guards, who moved swiftly to haul Cassius out. He didn’t fight them, but he smiled back at Draco until the doors closed behind him.

Harry grabbed Hermione’s hand, his touch grounding.

She realized he must have thought she’d been affected by Cassius’s words.

But she wasn’t. Not in the way he expected. She hadn’t even considered it. Maybe she should. All she felt was rage and concern on Draco’s behalf. She’d spent enough time affected by the opinions of people that were lesser than her. She was done with that.

“Court is adjourned. Please wait in the hall while we deliberate,” Robson announced. The council members filed out through the double doors behind them.

—

The four of them sat in silence on the bench in the hall. The corridor was eerily quiet, the usual buzz of the Ministry absent. Only the occasional employee scurried past with an armful of papers or files, their footsteps echoing faintly against the stone walls.

Hermione noticed Draco’s head bobbing in her periphery. She looked over to see his eyes were closed, his arms crossed tightly over his chest, and his hips scooted forward just enough to allow him to lean against the wall. Each time his chin dipped, he instinctively jerked himself upright before it could fall too far.

She sighed softly and shifted closer. She guided his head onto her shoulder, keeping her palm gently against his cheek. He didn’t stir, just melted into the change in position. Her frown deepened as her fingers ghosted over the dark circles beneath his eyes.

Theo mirrored her sigh, leaning his head onto Harry’s shoulder. Harry smiled faintly, his hand resting on Theo’s leg in a reassuring gesture.

Hermione met Harry’s eyes from her place between Draco and Theo. Their mirrored positions on the cramped bench drew an involuntary eye roll from her. Harry stifled a laugh, shaking his head as he reached up to adjust his glasses.

—

Draco was still asleep when they opened the doors and called for them to reenter twenty minutes later.

Hermione shook him awake. He woke up blearily, looking at her through dazed eyes.

“They’ve reached a verdict,” she whispered.

He was more awake then.

—

“We, as representatives of the Wizengamot, find Draco Malfoy innocent and therefore acquitted of any claims against him related to the death of Lucius Malfoy.”

—

“You know that’s not what I meant,” Harry replied, his tone patient and quiet, likely for Draco’s sake. “As unfair and ridiculous as it was, it could’ve gone a lot worse. You heard Robson—most people want to see him suffer.”

“You included,” Theo bit out, his voice sharper than necessary.

Hermione sighed, massaging her temple. “Theo.”

“Not me included,” Harry countered firmly, narrowing his eyes. “Let’s not do this here, okay?”

“Oh? Did you have a sudden change of heart?” Theo pressed, his agitation bubbling over. It was obvious he’d been itching for a fight with someone, anyone, since the trial ended.

“I wouldn’t call it sudden. Why, would you prefer I go back to hating him?” Harry snapped, his composure cracking.

“I would’ve shown you my memories years ago if I’d known they’d mean so much more to you than my word,” Theo retorted, turning away to stare into the fireplace, his voice flat.

Harry didn’t respond, seeming thoroughly chastened.

—

Harry and Theo eventually left, thankfully in better spirits than they’d started with.

Draco didn’t stir for hours. When he finally woke, darkness had already fallen outside. Hermione was reading, now seated at the opposite end of the couch with a pillow in her lap in place of him.

He groaned softly as he came to, rubbing his temples. Hermione glanced over, her lips curving into a gentle smile. “Good morning, Sleeping Beauty.”

His brow furrowed as he shot her a bleary, confused look. “Who?”

“You know the intricacies of muggle MRI technology, but you don’t know Sleeping Beauty?” she teased.

He waved her off with a grumble, closing his eyes again. “Nevermind, I don’t want to know.”

“Oh, don’t be so grumpy,” she said lightly. “Does your head hurt?”

“My everything hurts,” he muttered, pouting.

She bit back laugh at this borderline-egregious action coming from him.

“Are you actually pouting?”

He nodded solemnly, exaggerating the expression to the point of ridiculousness. He even raised a hand to point at his face. “See?”

A laugh bubbled out of her as she leaned against his side. “You’re absurd.”

He sighed dramatically. She wrapped an arm around him, her fingers absently stroking over his collarbone. They sat in comfortable silence for a while, the weight of the day settling softly between them.

She was beginning to think he’d dozed off again when his voice broke the quiet. “I spoke with Theo.”

“Yeah?”

“Yes. I apologized, I suppose,” he said, his tone quiet, almost contemplative.

“Yeah?”

“Yes, I have seemingly made a habit of not deserving him as a friend over the years,” he admitted, a bitter edge to his voice.

Hermione hummed, her fingers still tracing soothing patterns on his chest. “I very much doubt that’s how Theo feels about it.”

Draco huffed a soft laugh. “Well, he’s always had terrible taste in people. Must be how he ended up with Potter.”

“Hey,” Hermione chided, swatting his chest lightly. “Low blow. Harry stood up for you today.”

He caught her hand, brushing a kiss across her knuckles. “I know. I’m just kidding. My heart’s not even in it anymore.”

“You’re losing your edge,” she teased, her lips twitching.

“Clearly. I might have an identity crisis over not hating Harry Potter anymore,” he murmured, a faint smile tugging at his lips.

“What about me?” she asked, her voice softer, staring at where his lips had touched her hand.

He turned his head to look at her, puzzled.

“You hated me once,” she clarified. “No identity crisis there?”

His smile faded into something gentler, wistful. “I never really hated you, Hermione. I was just jealous.”

Her brows lifted in surprise, but she stayed quiet, letting him continue.

“I was a spoiled, pureblood brat, being outperformed in every subject by someone I’d been raised to believe was lesser. If I hated you, it was only because I wanted everyone to look at me the way they looked at you.”

Hermione didn’t respond immediately, her gaze fixed on his face as she mulled over his words.

“You know,” she said eventually, her tone light, “I remember thinking, back in fifth or sixth year... what a shame it is that this beautiful boy is such a twat. What a waste.”

Draco barked out a laugh, the sound warm and genuine. “Given the other thoughts you assuredly had about me, I’ll take that one as a compliment.”

She smiled, leaning forward to press a kiss to his shoulder.

Draco tilted his head back against the couch, a faint smile lingering on his lips. Hermione shifted closer, resting her chin on his shoulder, her fingers brushing along his collarbone again.

“Were you exaggerating earlier, or do you really feel poorly?” she asked, her voice soft.

He shrugged. “I’m used to it, but I wasn’t exaggerating necessarily. Well, except the pouting. I don’t pout.”

She rolled her eyes, leaning back to meet his gaze. “Do you want to take something? I think I have paracetamol in the kitchen. I know you don’t do pain potions, so I’m not sure what else to offer you.”

“I’m okay,” he murmured, his hand brushing absentmindedly against hers. “I try not to take anything if I can help it. I need to keep my functioning organs in order, after all. I’m hoping they can pick up the slack for the rest.”

Hermione nodded, deciding to pick up where he left off, in that case, and shifted their position to put his head back in her lap. She brushed his hair back from his forehead and began to knead her thumbs gently into his temples.

He made a soft, appreciative noise in the back of his throat, his eyes fluttering closed.

She grinned, leaning down until their faces were nearly level. Her nose nudged against his, and he cracked one eye open, gazing at her through his lashes.

“You’re being very indulgent tonight,” she teased.

“Can you blame me?” he murmured, his voice low and warm. His hand found the back of her head, fingers threading through her hair.

She leaned in, her lips brushing against his softly, tentatively. He tilted his head to meet her properly, deepening the kiss with a quiet hum of approval.

“I was hoping the pouting would work,” he murmured against her lips.

“That was premeditated pouting?” She whispered back in mock offense, pulling away far enough to meet his eyes.

He nodded, pulling her lips back down to his greedily.

“I assumed you felt too bad for any further deflowering today,” Hermione said, nonchalantly.

“Oh, haven’t you heard? A full recovery. Miraculous, they said,” he said, and she could feel him smiling as he pressed his lips into her between sentences, “I was fully cleared for further deflowering, I’m pretty sure that’s exactly what they said.”

She laughed and pushed him up into a seated position, or, rather, directed him to do so with her help.

She sat down on his lap, and held his face in her palms, looking at him.

“You really are beautiful,” she whispered.

“I believe that’s supposed to be my line,” he replied, all traces of humor gone from his face as his eyes bored into hers, his pupils already blown.

She shook her head, a gentle laugh escaping her lips.

“I mean it,” she murmured, her thumb tracing the sharp line of his cheekbone.

He smiled faintly. “Now I can’t say it back because you’ll think I don’t mean it."

“Try again next time. Good luck beating me to it,” she teased with a wink.

“I’ll accept that challenge,” he said, pulling her closer. One arm wrapped firmly around her waist while his other hand slipped into her hair, cradling the back of her neck.

“You’re bold tonight,” Hermione breathed.

“Haven’t you heard? I’m a free man. Might as well enjoy it while I can,” he replied, moaning softly as she pushed her fingers up his neck and into his hair.

“That’s true. I should congratulate you, I suppose,” Hermione murmured, leaning in.

He exhaled a shaky laugh. “I feel pretty congratulated already,” he managed, gasping as she shifted, settling her weight into his lap.

Her kisses trailed down his neck, deliberate and slow, as her fingers began working at the buttons of his shirt. When he tried to assist, she batted his hands away with a mock frown.

“Stop. I’m trying to do this properly. It’s not the same if you help,” she chided, her eyes sparkling.

He let his hands fall to his sides, his head dropping back against the couch. “Good boy,” she hummed approvingly, and his sharp inhale made her pause, her lips curving into a mischievous smile.

“Draco,” she teased, feigning shock, “do you like that?”

He let out a breathless laugh, his eyes fluttering shut as he nodded. Warmth unfurled through her chest, igniting every nerve.

“Interesting,” she mumbled against his skin, kissing her way down his chest. “Noted.”

Her hands wandered to the waistband of his trousers, her movements deliberate. When he caught her wrist, his gaze was intense but tender.

“We don’t have to do anything you don’t want to,” he said, his voice low, his sincerity undeniable.

She smiled softly. “I know. I want all of this.”

His hand loosened, falling away as he let her continue, his breath hitching each time her fingers grazed his skin.

“Do you really?” he whispered, his vulnerability startlingly raw.

She leaned closer, her lips brushing his ear. “Draco, I’ve been waiting for your sake. Not mine.”

His breath caught.

“Well, p-please, don’t let me stop you,” he gasped, his voice trembling as her knuckles grazed over him, drawing a series of sharp, involuntary shudders.

Hermione’s lips curled into a wicked smile, her confidence unmistakable as she wrapped her hand around him. She leaned down, her breath warm as she dragged her tongue languidly across his tip, savoring the way he jolted beneath her touch.

“Fuck,” he swore, his body arching violently, helpless against the surge of sensation.

She laughed softly, the sound rich and teasing, before winking up at him. Then, with deliberate ease, she took him into her mouth, her movements steady and sure.

He dropped his head back against the couch, groaning as he fought to keep his hips still, his hands gripping the cushions in a desperate bid for control.

Only when he settled did she allow herself to move, her rhythm unhurried yet deliberate. The pressure of her hand complemented the warm pull of her lips, coaxing fragmented gasps from his throat.

“Oh my god,” he rasped, his voice broken. “Hermione, please.”

“You’re doing so well, darling,” she murmured between movements, her voice soft and full of affection. “I love hearing you.”

Her words undid him. His moan was sudden and raw, his hips jerking upward as he gasped out, “Close.”

She hummed against him, the sound a vibration that sent a final tremor through his body. His hand fisted in her hair as his release took him, a choked cry tearing from his lips as he surrendered to her.

When his breathing steadied, she climbed back into his lap, her movements tender. She adjusted his trousers before settling against him, her head nestled in the crook of his neck. His arms came around her instinctively, holding her close as his heartbeat gradually slowed.

Once he regained his breath, he spoke, his voice hoarse but playful. “Can I?”

Hermione leaned back, raising a curious eyebrow. “Can you what?”

“Can I try?” he repeated, his cheeks tinged pink with both anticipation and vulnerability.

Her thoughts echoed the sentiment he had uttered earlier: Fuck.

“You don’t have to,” she said softly. “You’re tired. Next time?”

He shook his head, frowning.

“Well… okay,” she whispered, “if you really want to.”

“I don’t think I’ve ever wanted anything more in my life,” he said, his laugh quiet but genuine as he pressed a series of kisses down her neck.

Hermione tilted her head, granting him better access. Goosebumps prickled across her skin as his lips moved with reverence, leaving a trail of heat in their wake.

He mirrored her earlier movements, his touch both confident and tentative as he ventured downward. By the time he reached her knickers, he paused, his gaze lifting to hers.

“You really don’t have to,” she whispered, her fingers threading through his hair.

He shook his head, his expression awestruck. “Just admiring,” he murmured, before pressing a kiss between her thighs.

Her gasp filled the room, and he took her response as encouragement, his confidence building as he continued. His mouth worked skillfully, his movements exploratory yet purposeful, every stroke and flick of his tongue designed to draw reactions from her.

When he swiped his tongue across her clitoris, her moan was immediate, her body arching into him. He repeated the motion, adjusting his pressure and speed until her gasps turned to cries, her fingers clutching at his hair as she writhed beneath him.

He groaned softly against her, the sound reverberating through her, pushing her closer to the edge. When she finally shattered, her vision blurred, stars dancing behind her eyelids as his name spilled from her lips.

—

Hermione woke hours later, her body still draped over his. The room was quiet, save for the soft sound of his breathing. She stirred, intending to wake him and lead him to bed, but froze as his breath hitched sharply.

His arm tightened around her reflexively, his body tensing as he whimpered softly in his sleep. His face twisted, his brows drawing together in a pained expression.

“No,” he mouthed, his voice barely audible.

“Draco,” she murmured, brushing her hand against his cheek. “Wake up.”

When he didn’t respond, she gently patted his face, her voice growing firmer. “Draco, wake up.”

He inhaled sharply, his eyes snapping open as he bolted upright. His movements were frantic, his body rigid as he shoved her away. She winced, instinctively clutching her shoulder.

“Hermione?” he rasped, his voice raw as he wiped at his face, trembling. When he saw her rubbing her shoulder, the realization dawned on him. Horror filled his expression.

“I’m so sorry,” he whispered hoarsely, pulling her into an almost desperate embrace. “I didn’t mean… I wasn’t…”

“It’s okay,” she assured him, her voice steady and calm. “I know.”

“It’s not okay,” he choked out, his voice breaking under the weight of his guilt.

“I’m fine,” she said softly, her exhaustion evident. “I should’ve known better than to startle you. Let’s go to bed, alright?”

He nodded silently, following her to the bedroom without protest. She didn’t ask about the dream. She figured he’d tell her when he was ready. Plus, it wasn't like she didn’t have a good guess.

Chapter Text

They lay on their sides, facing each other. Hermione wasn’t sure when they’d become so terribly domestic. Was it when he started leaving his soft, absurdly expensive white tee shirts and cozy jumpers at her flat? When she began washing them and tucking them away among her own clothes? Or perhaps it was when she started wearing them herself, finding comfort in the faint, fleeting traces of his cologne.

Tonight, she was wrapped in one of his discarded button-ups, the fabric loose and familiar against her skin. He’d swapped it for one of those tee shirts she loved. No matter how often she wore his clothes, she always wished they carried his scent a little longer.

“You should go back to sleep,” he whispered, his voice soft and gravelly in the stillness.

The room wasn’t entirely dark; the faint light muted the colors around them, painting everything in shades of grey. His eyes, however, remained the same—stormy and intent.

“You should go back to sleep,” she countered, a smile tugging at her lips.

“I’m not tired,” he murmured, suppressing a yawn.

She raised an eyebrow, amusement flickering across her face.

“Fine. But I don’t want to go back to sleep,” he added, inching closer and slipping his arm around her waist. His warmth was steady and grounding.

“Me either,” she replied, lacing her fingers with his where they rested between them.

“I never got to tell you what I wanted to. Earlier, in the Ministry hallway,” he said, his voice quieter now, weighted with something unspoken.

“I told you there would be a later,” she reminded him, her smile gentle and encouraging.

“You did,” he agreed, but the somber cast of his expression lingered.

“What is it?” she prompted, her voice tender.

“I just wanted to thank you,” he began, his words careful. “And I feel like I’m normally quite good with words, but for whatever reason, I can’t think of how to tell you what I’m even thankful for. Not the way I’d like.”

She remained quiet, giving him the space to unravel his thoughts. Her patience spoke volumes, though her mind whispered back, You are quite good with words.

“Thank you for giving me a chance. For letting me prove that there’s something decent in me worth seeing. Even when I… don’t deserve you looking for it. And for…” He paused, searching for more. “For making me feel a little less hopeless.”

His hand found her cheek, his touch gentle yet grounding. “No matter what happens, even if nothing you concoct in that head or lab of yours changes anything about my condition… you’ve given me something to look forward to.”

Her brow furrowed slightly. “But what if nothing ever helps?” she asked, her voice trembling with the weight of the possibility.

“That isn’t what I’ve been looking forward to,” he said with a faint smile that carried an unshakable certainty.

Confusion flickered across her face.

“Getting to know you has made waking up in the morning easier than it’s been for years,” he confessed, his voice a quiet revelation. “Getting to talk with you, getting to spend time with you, to be touched by you—it’s been a pleasure falling in love with you, Hermione Granger. It’s made me feel like my life is worth living again.”

Her breath caught, a tear slipping free and trailing toward her pillow. “Draco,” she whispered, her voice thick with emotion, “I—”

“I didn’t say it to hear it back, Pet,” he said gently, his smile soft. “Say it another time, if you’d like. There will be a later, after all. I’ve heard.”

She didn’t think she’d ever grow tired of kissing him. 

—

Something woke Hermione up, some noise she doesn’t remember hearing, she assumes. Just that, suddenly, she was startled awake. 

She reached for Draco instinctively, only to find his side of the bed empty. Sitting up quickly, her heart caught in her throat. Her eyes darted toward the bathroom door. It was closed now, though she was certain it had been left ajar when they fell asleep. No light shone beneath it.

Maybe he closed the door on his way out earlier? Did he get up that much earlier than her?

She decided to check the bathroom first anyway, just to be safe.

A growing unease clawed at her chest.

She almost tripped over him when she opened her bathroom door. 

She swore loudly immediately, but her shock quickly turned to concern when she looked down to see him curled on his side on the bathroom floor. 

She knelt next to him, shaking his shoulder. He was limp.

Her hands trembled as she tried again, repeating his name and trying not to panic.

His chin bore a gash, the blood seeping steadily and staining his shirt. A vivid patch of red spread across the fabric, making everything look so much worse.

Now is not the time to panic, she told herself firmly. You’re a healer; you do this every day.

But not for him, her mind whispered cruelly.

She checked his vitals, forcing herself to breathe evenly. He was alive—his heart was beating, and his chest rose and fell with shallow breaths—but the blood and his pallor made her stomach twist.

With a shaking hand, she conjured her Patronus and sent a message to Theo, her voice breaking as she instructed him to meet her at St. Mungo’s. Then, bracing herself, she sat him upright against her chest, wrapped her arms around him tightly, and Disapparated them both into her office.

—

“Padma!” she called, her voice raw as it echoed through the corridor, hoping that by some miracle she was at her desk across the hall or somewhere close enough to hear.

Whatever deity was listening must’ve taken pity on her because Padma rushed into the room a few seconds later, her face quickly changing from confusion to an expression that Hermione had seen and used many times—a facade of calmness and assuredness. They were all taught in school to adopt this demeanor for the sake of the patient and their loved ones.

Hermione didn’t think she would start crying, but her words to Padma were forced out around the newly formed lump in her throat. 

“I don’t know how long he’s been unconscious, I found him on the bathroom floor, I don’t know what happened, he—he didn’t… wake me up when he got up,” her voice trailed off at the end and she stared numbly past Padma.

Why didn’t you wake me up? 

“Let’s get him admitted okay? We can figure everything out later, but first we need to see how serious this is, okay?” Padma said, squatting down next to her and casting a voice-amplifying charm to call out a code and location to get some help. 

“Why didn’t he wake me up?” She forced out, raising her chin off of Draco’s shoulder to meet Padma’s eye. She barely felt the tears streaking down her face. 

“You’ll be able to ask him soon, okay?” Padma smiled softly. 

Hermione nodded weakly, then let her face fall back on Draco’s shoulder, pressing her nose into the crook of his neck. He smelled like her laundry detergent and his cologne and sweat and blood. 

Hermione didn’t notice that a few orderlies had arrived until Padma tapped her on the shoulder, prompting her to let her levitate Draco onto the stretcher. 

“Oh, r-right, I’ll… I’ll,” she rambled, trying to find a way to let go of him. She wasn’t sure if she couldn’t or if she just didn’t want to.

“Hermione, I don’t want you to panic, but we need to get him help, okay?” Padma said, and Hermione felt a switch flip in her brain.

I don’t want you to see me as a patient. 

I’m sorry, Draco. I have to if I want to make it through this—if I want to be an asset and not a liability. I can’t let myself see you as anything else. 

Hermione cast the levitation charm on him herself, lowering him onto the stretcher and immediately casting a diagnostic charm over him as they walked out, hurrying down the hall. 

The chart hovering above him told her that his brain activity was muddy. The area representing his head was glowing red.

“It looks like intracranial hemorrhaging, likely swelling as well,” Hermione said, rapidly reading the vital signs displayed on the chart as they entered the critical care unit.

“He must’ve had a stroke,” Padma added, forcibly opening his eyes to check for pupillary response as soon as the bed came to a stop in an exam room. 

“I believe there’s been a comorbidity established between epilepsy and strokes, so that’s a logical first conclusion either way, we should go ahead and treat it as such and see how he responds,” Hermione murmured absently, mentally searching through any relevant knowledge she had on the subject.

Hermione immediately started casting the necessary spells to control the bleeding and alleviate the pressure in his head. He was responding well, so they may be able to avoid surgery. 

After doing what she could, she allowed herself a second to look at him as Padma cast a few secondary diagnostics and healing charms. She took his face in her hands, carefully knitting together the skin under his chin so as not to scar. She conjured a bit of gauze and saline and wiped the blood from his face and neck.

He was so pale. His porcelain skin, always fair anyway, seemed dull and translucent. His lips and cheeks were blanched as well. His hair had gotten slightly longer recently. Enough so that she could tuck the side that was visible to her behind his ear. She smoothed out the rest of his hair to the best of her ability, knowing he’d be distressed at the state of it. 

“He’s stable for now,” Padma murmured, “you must’ve gotten to him right as it happened.”

“I think the sound of him falling woke me up,” Hermione whispered back, not taking her eyes off Draco. 

“He’ll wake up soon, okay?” Padma said, reaching out to touch Hermione’s arm, “I’ll give you two some space. I trust that you can handle anything that arises. If you need me, I’ll be right outside.”

Before Padma left, she waved her wand at the end of the medical bed he was lying in, discreetly adding a couple of inches of width to it. She shrugged at Hermione nonchalantly, a smile on her face, then walked out of the room, closing the door behind her. 

Hermione was silently grateful to her and crawled into the bed next to him. She rested her head over his chest, listening to his heartbeat, and wrapped an arm around his waist. 

It was a silly, petty thing. But she hated that he’d gotten blood on his shirt. She cast a few cleaning charms, and it helped, but she was never a dab hand at those. 

She liked these ridiculous, frivolous shirts. 

She loved this ridiculous, frivolous man. 

Ridiculous and frivolous and brilliant and thoughtful and respectable and witty and—

She hadn’t even told him that. 

“Why didn’t you wake me up?” She whispered, her voice wobbling. 

“I thought it was less pressing than it was, evidently,” murmured a dry voice from above her head, and a hand weakly came to rest on her shoulder. 

Her head shot up to meet his gaze, relief flooding through her as his hand rested lightly on her shoulder.

She laughed through a sob, pressing her face into his shirt as she held him tightly. He winced but didn’t protest.

“I’m here with the fucking Chosen One; what do you think I’m planning to do? Tell me where he is, or I swear, I’ll spend every cent I inherited from my Death Eater daddy suing you!” Theo’s voice echoed down the hall, sharp and commanding.

Draco sighed heavily, his expression caught somewhere between exhaustion and amusement.

“I’ll go get him,” Hermione said, already starting to rise.

Draco’s hand shot out to catch her wrist. She paused, tilting her head as she scanned his face for any signs of lingering pain or illness. He noticed her scrutiny and rolled his eyes, tugging her gently back toward him.

Before she could react, he leaned up and pressed his lips to hers. The kiss was brief but fervent, leaving her breathless.

She pulled back, startled by his suddenness, and noticed the faint wince that tugged at his features.

“I just wanted to do that before I lost the chance,” he murmured, his voice hoarse with dry humor. “Didn’t really consider how much moving might hurt.”

Her brows drew together in concern. She pressed the cool back of her hand to his neck, feeling the warmth of his skin beneath it. His head lolled back against the pillow, eyes fluttering closed as his hand came up to cover hers, fingers curling lightly around hers in reassurance.

“I should go get Theo and Harry,” she whispered, reluctant.

Draco nodded faintly, his head tilting to the side as though he might drift off again the moment she left.

Hermione rose, pulling the heavy blanket folded at the end of the bed up over him before slipping quietly out of the room. She flicked off the light and shut the door softly behind her.

—

“I am officially listed as one of his next of kin. Feel fucking free to check, please, waste more of my time, I beg of you!” Theo scoffed, and she saw Harry put his arm around Theo’s waist to pull him away from the desk. 

“I need you to take a breath,” Harry murmured, turning Theo to face him. Hermione saw as she got closer that Theo was shaking.

Grace, it’s okay. They’re with me,” Hermione told the receptionist at the critical care desk. She offered an apologetic smile. “Thank you for doing your job despite belligerent, well-meaning friends making it difficult,” she added, shooting Theo a pointed look.

“Why on earth would you send me that Patronus with no details?” Theo all but yelled at her, which took her off-guard. Seeing his face so severe made him look almost alien, “I had no idea where to go besides, generally, here. No one could tell me anything either because apparently, patient records are a fucking endangered species around here,” he shouted at the desk clerk again, leaning around Hermione to make sure she knew it was directed at her.

“He’s not officially admitted, Theo,” Hermione said firmly, placing a hand on his arm and guiding him away from the desk. “It’s not her fault.”

She led them down the mostly vacant hall. This part of St. Mungo’s was always so quiet, the patients and their families always seemed to think louder than they spoke. Losing someone, or coming close, makes comprehensible words difficult for most.

“Be quiet when you go in, he’ll probably be asleep,” Hermione mumbled, going to turn the handle, but Harry stilled her hand.

“Are you okay?” He asked.

“I have to be right now,” she replied with a small, weary smile. “I’ll let you know if that changes.”

“What happened?” Theo asked, the fight all drained out of him, leaving him somber and fearful looking.

“All I know is that he evidently had something at least akin to a stroke. I woke up to the sound of him collapsing, and found him a few moments later,” she shrugged, “he woke up briefly, but didn’t say anything helpful.”

“How is he now?” 

Hermione shrugged, “Tired and weak. Coherent, though. He can talk and see and move, so… good signs, I suppose.”

Theo glanced at the closed door, his worried eyes lingering on the handle. 

“You can see him. He’s the only one in this room, so he can have a few people,” she said.

She opened the door before she wasn’t able to fight off the urge to tell them to leave and keep him all to herself. 

Mine, reiterated a persistent voice in the back of her mind. She reminded herself that, while she loved him, Theo had loved him longer. And that’s what she kept telling her traitorous heart as it ached at the loss of their solitude. She walked in the low-lit room behind an uncharacteristically silent Theo and Harry.

As she suspected, Draco was asleep, curled on his side, his pale face half-buried in the pillow. The awkward angle of the bed’s incline made Hermione cast a quick charm to adjust it, the soft creak of the mechanism the only sound in the room. She reclaimed her spot beside him, tucking the blanket higher over his shoulder and smoothing back the hair that had fallen into his face.

Mine, she shamelessly agreed with her subconscious.

Theo sat in the chair next to the bed, and Harry perched on the arm, draping his arm over Theo’s shoulders. 

“We have to do something,” Theo whispered. “There has to be something that can help.”

“I have a few new ideas… I just really hoped that it would be a simpler, easier solution. My newest theory is—well, it’s a bit far-fetched. But I’ve run the numbers, so to speak, dozens of times now. And I think I may have a loose plan.”

“Stop gossiping about me as if I’m not here, you miscreants,” Draco mumbled, his breath skating across her arm in his unchanged position.

“I swear I’d hit you if you weren’t already so pitiful,” Theo huffed, leaning over to wrap Draco in an uncharacteristically fierce hug.

“Ow,” Draco laughed weakly.

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” Theo exclaimed, pulling away, suddenly fuming, “What are you, a cat who's gone off to die? Why would you not wake her up, or literally get the attention of any other living being? Are you that proud, you posh bastard?”

“Please stop yelling at me, Theodore,” Draco sighed.

“Stop yelling at you? Are you—“ Theo laughed bitterly, looking up at the corner of the room, avoiding looking at Draco. 

Due to this, he didn’t notice the poorly concealed, pained look on Draco’s face. 

Harry, though, noticed. And patted Theo lightly on the shoulder, stopping his tirade. When Theo turned to look at him, confused, and Harry shook his head apologetically in response. Theo seemed to understand immediately, as he always seemed to with Harry. 

“Tell me what happened,” Hermione interjected in a whisper, “I need to know how to treat you.”

“I don’t know if I even fully remember,” he replied quietly, “I woke up feeling nauseous, which isn’t all that uncommon for me, so I didn’t think I needed to bother you over it. I got up, started walking, and… I’m not sure. My head suddenly ached horribly, and I remember feeling faint as I closed the bathroom door. And that’s it,” he finished, clearing his throat uncomfortably. 

He was still curled on his side next to Hermione his eyes tightly shut. 

“Sit up for me, please,” she said, and he grimaced. 

“I need to check for and heal any damaged blood vessels in your brain, I just needed you to be awake to do it correctly,” she said, then added low enough that only he could hear, “It’ll help with the pain.”

He nodded, begrudgingly, and attempted to push himself up with a shaking arm. Harry, being the closer one of him and Theo, caught Draco by his side with a hand before his arm could give out, helping him the rest of the way up. Draco didn’t notice who it was, nor acknowledge the help, but Hermione and Theo noticed. Their eyes met briefly, but otherwise, they didn’t mention it. 

Hermione laced her fingers through his hair on either side of his head, admittedly much more tenderly than she’d do for another patient, and closed her eyes. The spell she was using was a modified episkey that was more discerning and intricate. She murmured the incantation, allowing her magic to flow through him, searching for damage to be corrected. 

He exhaled raggedly and with obvious relief as the spell knitted him back together, leaning forward to rest his head on Hermione’s chest when she removed her hands. There was no hesitancy in the way her arms instinctively wrapped around his shoulders. 

As if the only thing keeping him awake had been the pain, he was asleep again almost immediately. Harry, who had his hand hovering at his side the whole time, helped Hermione lower him back down to the bed when he swayed. 

“Thank you,” she told him. 

She hoped he understood all she was thanking him for. 

Chapter Text

“Thank you for sharing this journey with me, but I think now it’s time I take my leave to go sit in the shower for the rest of my life,” Draco grumbled the moment they stepped through the Floo into his bedroom.

“You’re absurd,” Hermione said, shaking her head as she fought a smile. Then, more seriously, she added, “Additionally, I’m not sure showering is the best first move.”

“Can I truly have no small pleasures in this life?” He sighed theatrically. 

“I mean, I’m just worried. Rightfully so, I’m sure most would agree,” she said, shooting him a pointed look. “Prolonged standing in a hot room could be less than ideal for you.”

“I believe I said sitting in the shower, thank you,” he huffed, settling into an armchair and slipping off his shoes irritably.

“I guess I could just sit next to the shower,” Hermione sighed. 

“I don’t think that will suffice, my dear mediwitch extraordinaire,” Draco tsked, shaking his head as if she’d suggested something utterly preposterous.

Hermione scrunched up her face in confusion. 

Hermione scrunched up her face in confusion. “I—but—why are you agreeing with me? I’m literally arguing against you.”

Without missing a beat, Draco nodded solemnly. “You’re right. It’s just too dangerous. I think you need to shower with me. That’s obviously the safest choice.”

Understanding now, Hermione laughed, stepping closer to him instinctively until she stood between his parted knees. Her hands found his shoulders, sliding down his back as her laughter softened into a gentle smile. He groaned softly, weariness in his voice, and rested his head against her stomach. The warmth of his breath against her skin sent a ripple of heat coursing through her.

“I’m sure that could be arranged,” she murmured, her thumb pressing into the tightly knotted muscles at the back of his neck.

“You’re killing me,” he sighed, his voice low and hoarse.

Hermione stilled her hand, frowning. “That hurts?”

“Gods, no,” he replied quickly, looping his arms around her waist to pull her closer. “Please, I didn’t mean for you to stop.”

She resumed her careful massaging, her touch now deliberate and precise, acutely aware of the effect it had on him. His breathing hitched when her fingers drifted into his hair, and his grip on her hip tightened. A flush of warmth spread through her, leaving her molten and achingly aware of their proximity.

“I’m not sure if this is the safest choice either,” Hermione murmured. 

“Mmm, I think it’s an excellent choice,” Draco replied, his breath warm against her stomach, his voice rasping with desire.

“I believe Padma and I both said for you not to engage in strenuous activities,” she recalled, trying to ground herself in practicality.

“Not engaging in this feels strenuous,” he mused, his hand slipping under the back of her shirt. The heat of his palm against her skin nearly made her knees buckle.

Hermione hesitated for only a moment, weighing his recovery against her own desires. Technically, if the immediate danger had passed, his remaining healing was a matter of rest and time. There wasn’t any specific reason to avoid this—was there?

“What if I made engaging in this… less strenuous for you?” She whispered, straddling his lap in the oversized armchair. 

He tilted his head up, meeting her gaze through heavy-lidded eyes, his pupils dark and wide. 

She kissed him, and he responded with fervor, a soft sound escaping him as her lips pressed to his.

Trailing kisses along his jaw, she smiled against his skin when his hips twitched upward instinctively, a low moan vibrating in his throat.

When she moved to stand, his hands instinctively tried to pull her back, but she slipped free, leaning in to kiss him one more time. His brows furrowed in brief confusion—hurt even—until his gaze followed her hands to the button of her jeans.

“I take it back,” he murmured, exhaling shakily. “Who needs the small pleasures in life?”

She laughed, teasing him with a deliberate show as she slipped out of her clothes. Her trousers slid down first, then her shirt, until nothing remained between her and his wide-eyed stare.

For once, Draco Malfoy was speechless.

When she returned to his lap, draping her arms around his shoulders, he blinked, as if still processing.

She kissed him, softly, tugging at the hem of his shirt. “Don’t make me the only indecent one here,” she whispered, her lips brushing his skin.

He huffed a laugh and pulled the shirt over his head, tossing it aside.

Her chest pressed against his, and he inhaled sharply, a whimper escaping him as her lips trailed down his neck. Her fingers skimmed between them, tugging at his waistband, and he quickly got the message, helping her until the last barrier between them was gone.

Now, the only thing between them was the warm air of the room. He stared at her, still unspeaking.

“Say something,” she urged softly.

“I’ve never had less I wanted to say,” he whispered, his voice unsteady. “Other than… you’re divine. So beautiful.”

“You beat me to it,” she replied with a smile. 

“I recognize a pity win when I see one,” he teased, smirking. 

She shifted her hips slightly, aligning herself with him. His breath hitched, his body reacting instinctively to the warmth of her as she pressed him to her entrance.

“Are you sure?” he asked, his voice quiet, almost reverent.

She nodded. “Are you?”

“You never need to ask,” he replied, his voice rough and breathless.

“Yes, I do, and I will,” she said, steady and sure, as she sank onto him.

When their hips met, his hands gripped her waist firmly, stilling her. “Please don’t move yet,” he murmured with a shaky laugh, his cheeks tinged pink.

She arched a brow, tilting her hips mischievously.

He groaned, biting down on his fist as laughter bubbled up despite himself. “I’m serious, Hermione. You’re going to kill me.”

A flash of him limp on the bathroom floor came to mind. 

“Don’t joke about that,” she said softly, her tone shifting.

He sobered instantly, meeting her gaze. He brushed his hand over her cheek in apology, and she covered it with hers, nodding.

He loosened his hold on her waist, allowing her to move, his hands drifting to the hollow of her throat, lingering there briefly before sliding lower. He gasped as she quickened her rhythm, his head falling back against the chair.

“You’re terrifying,” he managed between ragged breaths.

She huffed a laugh, but it dissolved into a soft moan as she adjusted her angle, pleasure sparking through her.

He reacted to the sound immediately, his hands roaming her body, his breath trembling as he responded to her every movement.

“It’s too much. I can’t—” His words broke off as he shuddered beneath her.

Her own breath hitched, surprised by how close she was. She couldn’t get enough—his hands, his heat, the way he filled her completely.

“I’m right there with you,” she murmured.

He swore softly, his grip tightening on her hips as he pleaded for her not to stop.

When she moaned his name, it shattered him. He broke beneath her, his release overtaking him, and a moment later, hers followed, tipping over the ledge between pain and pleasure. 

They stilled, bodies trembling as they panted in unison. He wrapped his arms around her, cradling her head against his neck, where she could feel the erratic thrum of his pulse beneath her cheek.

“Have you considered the fact that you need to tell your mother you were hospitalized?” She said, after some time. 

He groaned, throwing his head back against the chair. “Must you mention my mother?”

She laughed, a tinkering sound. 

—

Hermione remembered falling asleep half on top of Draco, so she wasn’t sure how he’d managed to slip away. But when she woke up, she was alone. Reaching across the bed for him, her hand met only cool sheets.

Morning light streamed through the window, highlighting the tiny folded notecard hovering above his pillow in a stasis charm. When she noticed it, she plucked it out of the air and immediately recognized his sharp, elegant handwriting.

Granger,

 

I’m just down the hall. Couldn’t sleep. When you wake up, call for Mipsy; she can show you to way. 

 

— D

Hermione spoke Mipsy’s name quietly into the room. 

She appeared immediately. 

“Miss Hermione, you’re awake,” she smiled, “what can Mipsy help you with?”

“Good morning, Mipsy,” Hermione smiled in return, “Draco said you could show me where he’s gone off to? He left me a note saying he was somewhere down the hall.”

“Ah,” Mipsy replied, her smile faltering slightly, “yes, Mipsy can show you the way.”

—

“This is certainly a long hallway,” Hermione murmured as they walked past rows of grand portraits. The witches and wizards in the frames all turned their faces away arrogantly when they caught sight of her.

“Yes, Malfoy Manor is quite impressive. Much room to get lost,” Mipsy replied with a small smile before stopping in front of a closed door. “Here we are.”

Hermione nodded her thanks, and began to reach for the door handle, but Mipsy caught her hand. 

“If Miss Hermione doesn’t mind Mipsy saying,” Mipsy said quietly, “you may want to enter quietly. Mipsy came by to check on Master Draco a bit ago and he was asleep.” 

“Asleep?” Hermione asked. 

I thought you said you couldn’t sleep? Why’d you leave, then?

Mipsy waved her hand, and the door creaked open to reveal an opulent but cluttered office. On the couch, Draco lay asleep, one foot still touching the floor.

“Mipsy put a blanket on Master Draco earlier. This is how he looked when she left him,” Mipsy whispered. 

“Thank you, Mipsy. I’ll be sure to let him sleep,” Hermione whispered in return. 

The elf nodded and disappeared without a sound. Hermione stepped into the room, her eyes falling on the placard on the desk: Lucius Malfoy. Papers, notebooks, and a few photo frames littered the surface. She picked up one of the frames, studying the image.

The frame held a photo of a younger Draco, looking about seven or eight years old. He was wearing a Falmouth Falcons jersey and holding a training broom with a bow on it. Narcissa leaned down to kiss his cheek, her smile soft and radiant. He was beaming ear to ear. 

Hermione quietly approached the couch Draco slept on. 

His head was propped up on a pillow that didn’t belong there. Something Mipsy did, assuredly. He lay on his back, a book resting open on his chest, one hand on his stomach, the other flung above his head, partially covering his face. The dark circles under his eyes were more pronounced than usual, but in sleep, his features were more peaceful. All of the worry lines smoothed out. 

Kneeling beside him, she gently adjusted the quilt, pulling it higher on his chest. She removed the book from his grasp, frowning at how deeply asleep he was—he didn’t even stir.

Hermione sat on the edge of the couch where there was room, resigning herself to wait for him to wake. Her gaze wandered around the room, noting how it seemed untouched since Lucius’s departure. Books lay open on the desk and chair arms, though the surfaces were spotless. The elves must have kept it clean, but why hadn’t they tidied up the clutter?

As she set the book down on a nearby table, she realized it wasn’t just a book—it was a journal. Lucius’s signature marked the first page, his script eerily similar to Draco’s. Hermione closed it with a soft sigh, setting it aside. That was when she noticed a silver ring on the arm of the couch, near Draco’s head.

She leaned closer to inspect it, but her movement or the faint noise woke him.

Draco hummed groggily as his eyes fluttered open, adjusting slowly to the light.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to wake you,” Hermione murmured.

“No, it’s fine,” he said, clearing his throat. “I didn’t mean to fall asleep.”

“It’s still early. You could sleep more,” she suggested.

He shook his head, already pushing himself up to sit cross-legged on the couch next to her. 

His gaze followed hers and landed on the ring. He picked it up.

“I found this in his desk,” he said, inspecting it. “I was told it would pass to me when he was gone, but I’d forgotten about it.”

“What is it?”

“A signet ring. See?” He held it out, showing her the engraved M surrounded by serpents from the Malfoy crest. “My father used it to seal letters.”

She nodded in response and watched as he hesitantly slid it over his pinky finger. It immediately adjusted to him, accepting him as the new owner. He didn’t seem surprised by this, more resigned. His hand trembled slightly as he curled it into a fist, closing his eyes briefly.

“How long have you been in here?” She asked gently. 

“I’m not sure. I wasn’t ever able to fall asleep last night, so after lying there for a few hours, I… thought I’d come here. I’m sorry for leaving you,” he added. 

“Don’t be. I just hate that you’ve been doing this alone,” she replied. 

He shrugged. “It’s probably for the best. Honestly, I feel horrible that you’re even in this room.”

“Why?”

“Well, my father wasn’t particularly kind to you and yours.”

“Or to you,” she added. 

“Or to me,” he whispered, “at least, not toward the end.”

She recalled the photo on the desk. 

She looked to Draco where he sat next to her. She had been too busy looking around the room and hadn’t looked at him closely enough to notice—the puffiness around his eyes, the faint redness of his nose. He stared blankly at the room, lost in thought.

Lucius Malfoy was many horrible things. He was even many horrible things to Draco. But he was still his father.

“You’re allowed to mourn him, you know,” she murmured. 

Draco didn’t answer right away. When he finally spoke, his voice was low. “I don’t know if he deserves to be mourned by me.”

“We don’t mourn for the sake of those we lost, but for our own sake,” she replied. 

“There was a time,” he gave a faint, bitter laugh, “that I all but worshiped him. I didn’t think there was anyone in the world who was smarter, more interesting, or more powerful than him. I wanted to be just like him. What a disappointment I became to him in the end. What a disappointment he became to me.”

He twisted the ring absently around his finger. She rested her head on his shoulder, unsure of how to reply. She felt it wasn’t her place to comment, not when Lucius Malfoy had been a disappointment to her from day one. Disappointed is putting it lightly. 

“All of this becomes my job now,” he added, gesturing to the mountains of paperwork on the desk. “My father managed all of the financial dealings, as is traditional,” he scoffed a bit at that, “and so now that is passed to me. My mother has already been subtly hinting at the fact that my involvement in our holdings and investments needs to become more significant in the coming days.”

Hermione laced her arm through his. 

“I can’t pretend to understand what all that entails, although, I would be happy to help. A good research project is always warmly received, as you know.” Hermione smiled, laughing softly. Draco returned her smile, as genuinely as he seemed to be able to manage. 

“Your willingness to research on my behalf is truly my greatest asset.”

She laughed softly. “The ring suits you,” she said, meaning more than just its appearance.

The Malfoy name may have been his father’s, but it’s also his own. And Hermione believed that he may do his sullied name some good yet.

Chapter Text

Draco, three months earlier

Draco barely made it into his seat that day without his knees buckling. He'd recovered well enough but needed to prop his head on his wrist to stay upright. 

“Do you ever sleep?” Hermione greeted him, and the disapproving tone almost masked the concern in her eyes. He hated it. 

“I don’t excel at it, no,” he sighed, rubbing his temple. His head was throbbing and it filled him with anxiety. He took a deep breath to stave off the panic threatening to constrict his chest. 

“Additionally, I’m not really feeling up to a game of Twenty Questions this morning, Granger.”

“Timeout, then. Don’t be rude,” she whispered. Her eyebrow was arched, as if trying to figure out what had caused his snappy reaction. 

Before she could pick up on his distress, he thought the best route would be to concede. “You’re right. I’m sorry.”

Hermione folded her arms across her chest, sending him a look that prompted him to continue his groveling. 

“I mean it. I’m sorry,” he repeated. His voice betrayed his weakness, his instability. “I just… had a long night.”

A long night indeed. He seldom had tonic-clinic seizures back to back, but he had two in 6 hours. He’d been terrified to sleep after the second, and his body ached with the exertion of them. His muscles were pulled to their limits. 

She was looking at him as if he’d grown a second and possibly third head. Then, inexplicably, her eyes softened. 

“I forgive you,” she murmured and his heart ached. He resented how much weight was removed from his shoulders as she said it. 

“Good. Because I was planning on asking you to be my date for the charity ball at Malfoy Manor next week, and it would be rather awkward if you were still cross with me.”

Please treat me as if I’m normal. For just a moment. 

She blinked, clearly caught off guard. “I—what? Why?”

It stung. 

“You really know how to make a man feel desired, Granger.” He gave her a dry look as he pulled out his notebook and pen. He hoped she didn’t notice how weak his hands were as he struggled to uncap the pen. 

“Alas, it’s not for my sake. It’s for you. The gala is for St. Mungo’s, and a number of Healer bigwigs will be there. I thought it might be useful for you—rubbing elbows with the elite, so to speak. Could help with your efforts to revolutionize magical medicine with your Muggle-inspired ideas.”

She gaped at him openly. A nervous sweat crept down his neck. He'd thought that was a convincing lie until he said it aloud.

“Or… not,” he added in a panic. “Trust me, I don’t want to go. You’d be doing me a favor by saying no.”

“No, I—thanks, Malfoy. That would be lovely. I’m just… surprised, that’s all.”

Thank Merlin. He was starting to think she’d rejected him. “Don’t thank me. It’s the least I can do, considering how much time and effort you’re putting into my likely hopeless cause.”

He tried to tune into the lecture, tried to take notes. But her gaze burned in his periphery. 

“Actually,” he added, his pride and hurt feelings getting the better of him, "if you could stop looking at me like you’re shocked by the barest scraps of human decency coming from me, I would consider it a thank you. I know I’ve not done much to deserve that, I suppose, but it… does chafe a bit, to be honest.”

Pathetic, his mind reminded him. 

Hermione just looked at him for a while, her sad, confused eyes working to meet his. 

He refused to look, so there was nothing to warn him before her hand folded tenderly over his forearm. 

He hadn’t realized he was gone until the touch pulled him back to the surface. He wasn’t sure if he’d lost time or not, but what Dr. Green was saying didn’t sound familiar. After recovering from the initial shock of being touched, the gesture made him feel warm. He hoped he wasn’t blushing. The thought made his lips twitch upwards. 

He attempted to go back to taking lecture notes, but his mind felt so muddy today. Sleep was a luxury, sure, but he was starting to regret coming to class while running on the few hours he’d managed to sleep last night before his mind and body had rebelled against him. He felt himself slipping occasionally and he wasn’t sure if he was falling asleep or actually having an absence seizure. He wouldn’t have even noticed if not for gaps in Dr. Green’s lecture. 

Then, a wave of Deja vu washed over him seemingly without warning. There were warning signs, he realized belatedly, but his exhaustion was masking them. Panic flooded through him at realization and he fought to control his breathing. 

Pain lanced through his head and he nearly collapsed onto the desk from it. He pushed the heels of his hands into his eyes to try to relieve some of the sudden pressure. Confusion and fear were the only two feelings he had the mental capacity to process. 

This doesn’t feel right. This doesn’t feel familiar or normal, his mind kept repeating to him. 

He had somehow forgotten Granger next to him until he felt her bring up a notice-me-not charm and the tell-tale dampened sound of a Muffliato charm surrounded him. 

He couldn’t even bring himself to feel ashamed yet. 

“Thank you,” he managed, trying to make his voice sound steadier than he felt. Without the fear of calling attention to himself, he allowed himself to slump back into his chair. His head was swimming as he let it fall back against the chair and the pressure against his eyes wasn’t helping as he’d hoped it would. 

“What’s wrong?” She asked him, clearly not interested in allowing him the illusion of privacy. 

“I—I don’t feel well,” he replied, hoping that the understatement of it would give some peace of mind to both of them. He couldn’t afford to have a panic attack in front of her moments after asking her on a date. For Salazar’s sake, get your shit together, he pleaded with himself.  

“I need more than that, Malfoy,” Hermione’s fuzzy voice told him. Did she place herself outside the Muffliato charm? Why was she fuzzy?

Something touched his cheek and it was so cold. He wanted to push it away, but he couldn’t tell if it was good cold or bad cold. 

He was suddenly, but vaguely, aware that he was freezing. 

“Head,” he tried to reply, but he couldn’t hear his own voice. Did he speak? Or did he imagine saying it?

His vision went black. 

—

He was awake, then. But when did he fall asleep? Did he dream of going to class this morning? 

Something or someone was touching his hair. Was he still dreaming? His head throbbed and the nails against his scalp felt so good he could’ve groaned in relief if he remembered how to use his voice. He moved into the touch, trying to get closer to it. 

A hand in his hair means a person is with him, he suddenly realized. 

He pulled away quickly, immediately awake. 

He was in class. Hermione Granger was next to him. 

“Shit,” he thought, then realized he’d actually said, out loud and not just in his head. 

Sitting upright took too much energy and made him feel sick. He buried his head in his arms on the desk and focused on breathing. 

He needed to leave, needed to get out of here. But he wasn’t confident that he could stand, let alone walk. He didn’t need to draw any more attention to himself than he already had. And Granger held a notice-me-not charm over him, it was safer to sit here than to try to walk out without it. 

While he was considering his options for escape, he felt her small, cold hand settle on the center of his back. It forced the air out of his lungs. Then her hand started to move, skimming across his back.

He blamed more of it on his current state than he should have. 

But he leaned into the touch. 

He wasn’t coherent enough to hate himself for it, or at least, that’s what he told himself. He was filled with a sudden and all-consuming need for physical contact that he’d managed to ignore for years. 

She moved her hand into his hair and chills erupted over his entire body. He nearly gasped at the unexpected touch but managed to stifle most of it. She assuredly noticed the change in his breathing, but he couldn’t bring himself to care. She could think whatever she wanted about him as long as she kept moving her hand through his hair. 

Pathetic, his subconscious insisted. 

But that’s okay. 

His lack of sleep and the drop-seizure were catching up to him. He could feel himself slipping. He couldn’t fight the heavy blanket of exhaustion being pulled over him, especially when the absurdly competent witch next to him had such a reassuring presence. 

Safe, he realized. He felt safe. 

He didn’t get much time to dwell on that terrifying thought before he was pulled under. 

—

“Malfoy,” someone said.

“Let me take you home,” the voice said then, “You’re sick.” 

He might have laughed. He thought he laughed. Did he laugh? 

Sick was a weird way to put it. He was no sicker than normal. 

He figured, yes, he should go home. Where was he if not home? He nodded to the voice. 

“Draco,” the voice said. He liked being called Draco. His friends called him Draco. 

Something shook him. It hurt, his muscles hurt, his head hurt. He tried to say that, tell it to stop. 

“Is he alright?” Another fuzzier voice asked. 

“Yes, I think so. He fell asleep a few moments ago. He has a fever, I think, so I’m going to take him home,” she told him. 

She was Granger, he remembered. Why was she everywhere he was today?

She said he had a fever, he realized belatedly. 

Oh, he thought, I’m sick. Regular sick. 

What a relief. He was starting to think he was dying. 

Things were being said around him but he didn’t understand them, the words were all blurry. 

Then clearer worlds were spoken next to his ear. “Come on. Up you go.”

He tried to look at her but the light hurt. He closed his eyes again, wincing. 

“Come on. You can sleep as soon as I get you home.”

She pulled his hand. He tried to will himself to stand but failed. Then he tried again, begging his body to cooperate, and he realized how much his whole body ached when he managed to push himself to his feet. He rubbed his hands over his face roughly, trying to force himself awake. 

What the fuck was wrong with him? He felt like he’d been knocked off his broomstick. 

Granger let go of his hand, then. It made him feel colder somehow. 

“Come,” she said and wrapped an arm around his waist. That made him feel a bit warmer. Merlin, he was freezing. 

He walked next to her in a daze, leaning onto her a bit more heavily than he probably should. His vision swam, random spots of light danced in the periphery and the pain in his head was making him feel nauseated. 

“Are you even okay to apparate?” She asked, stopping abruptly. 

He wasn’t sure he could speak without vomiting, let alone apparate. So he shrugged. 

“Okay, well… alright, I’m going to wrap my arms around you to minimize the tugged-along feeling and make sure you don’t get splinched. I’ll take you to my flat first then we can floo to the manor. Is that alright?”

She’s going to wrap her arms around him? His chest constricted. 

“Draco,” she said, “are you listening?”

Yes, that’s the problem, he thought, but he nodded. 

“Is that okay?”

He nodded again, and he couldn’t breathe. 

She sighed and he felt a wave of guilt wash over him. Hermione Granger was trying to make sure he made it home. He couldn’t even speak well enough to help her. 

Then she wrapped her arms around him.

He went shock-still at the feeling of another body flush against his. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d been hugged. This felt so much like a hug that it was cruel. 

It was a hug. 

He realized with a visceral pang that he almost needed it to be a hug. 

He needed to get home. Needed to be alone for a while. The fever was making him delirious. 

He let himself be held. He wrapped his arms around her in a way that he told himself was purely practical. Then he leaned his head down onto hers in a way he knew wasn’t. 

Her hair smelled sweet. It made him feel less sick. 

“Ready?” She asked him. 

He nodded again, burying his chin into her hair.

The swirl of apparition threatened his ability to remain conscious. 

He should’ve fallen when they landed, but she somehow managed to support his weight.

She didn’t immediately let go of him and he selfishly didn’t make any attempt to free himself. Honestly, he wasn’t sure if he could stand on his own, but that wasn’t why he stayed in the circle of her arms. 

“Will you floo wards at the manor allow me in?”

He thought about lying and saying no, but he’d already added her to the wards in hopes that she’d agree to go to the gala with him. 

He nodded.

“Do you have a stock of fever potions there?”

He nodded again, his head feeling so much heavier than it had only moments ago.

“Okay. Can you stand on your own?”

No, he wanted to say. But he pulled away from her with all of the strength that he could muster. 

His body trembled with the effort it took to stand and with the cold leeching through his clothes now that she wasn’t touching him. 

She pulled him through the floo.

He was barely conscious of the walk from the floo in the foyer to his rooms. He walked on instinct, relying heavily on Granger to keep him upright. He tried to carry more of his own weight, but failed continually. 

Somehow, he landed on his bed in a heap. He wasn’t even sure if he was present for the entire walk here. He buried his face in his hand to try to make the room stop spinning. He felt like he couldn’t breathe.

“Will you be okay here alone?” Hermione asked. 

The deja vu feeling returned. He could tell was shivering, but there was sweat running down his back. He fought the sudden urge to vomit.

He thought he heard Hermione talking, but he couldn’t hear her over the ringing in his ears. 

She asked him something. He nodded. He needed her to leave. 

"I'm just making sure it doesn't interact with your condition in any way."

What? 

Oh. The potion bottle. 

“It won’t,” he replied, more confidently than he felt. 

“Here,” she said.

He couldn’t even think about drinking that without gagging. He pretended not to hear her. 

She wasn’t convinced and continued to hold it out to him. 

He cleared his throat, then managed to speak by some miracle, “I need a minute. You can leave it on the nightstand. Thank you." 

His face remained buried in his hands, vertigo crashing over him in waves. 

Too much. It was too much. 

"Are you having an aura?"

Well, fuck. 

She sat down beside him on the bed. His cheeks burned with shame. 

“You can leave if you want. I'll be okay," he whispered. 

Please leave. Please leave. Please leave. 

"Lie down," she said. He accepted his fate. 

He fell back on the bed.

"Don't leave your legs hanging; you'll hurt yourself," she sighed. "Your self-preservation needs work, Malfoy."

She moved him then, rolled him on his side. He was momentarily offended at being stripped of his autonomy, but then she was so close to him that he forgot to be upset. 

She tapped his leg and he remembered she’d asked him to move. He pulled his feet up on the bed with no small amount of difficulty.

“I’m sorry,” he tried to tell her. He was so sorry. For all of this. For so much. 

He thinks she might have touched his head before he blacked out. 

—

Everything hurts, was the first thing he realized. 

His breath escaped on a whimper at the pain. 

"I know you said no pain potions, but you need to take something for your head, Draco," she whispered.

She did something, some charm, and some of the tension left his body. It helped, but not enough. Not like a pain potion would help

Tell her yes, his brain supplied immediately. 

Tell her yes, that wasn’t true, tell her—tell her yes, tell her yes. 

He shook his head and he regretted it immediately. 

"Can I give you a Muggle pain medicine?"

Better than nothing. 

"I have paracetamol in my nightstand," he sighed.

She was shocked into silence, as he assumed she would be. 

"I don't even have the energy to be offended by how loud your surprise is," he mumbled, not even needing to look at her face to know. 

“Sorry, sorry, it’s just… I don’t think I know anyone who isn’t muggle-born who knows anything about muggle medicines. I’m not surprised because it’s coming from the Prince of the Purebloods, per se.”

He snorted. He’s pretty sure Theo started that nickname, so he always found it weirdly endearing. He even meant it as an insult too, just like Granger did. 

“Well, when everything hurts all the time and you’re a recovering pain potion addict, the magical qualities of solutions start to seem less important,” he admitted with startling honesty. 

“You should change into something other than formal wear for once and take a nap. And I should get home,” she said, shaking out two pills from the bottle in the nightstand. She handed them to him along with a cup she’d summoned and filled with water.

“Let me feed you lunch first?” He asked.

“Mipsy will bring lunch up immediately!” The house elf announced, then disappeared with a crack.

"Well, there you have it. You wouldn't want to disappoint Mipsy, would you?" he smiled weakly, raising an eyebrow.

Please don’t leave me alone. 

“Fine. I’ll stay. But only if you go put more sleep-appropriate clothing on and promise to sleep after I leave so I don’t have to scoop you up off of your desk tomorrow.”

“I can make no promises about my ability to sleep or my ability to stay upright in any situation, as you know, but I will change if it pleases you,” he said, hoping it felt lighthearted. He really wasn’t sure if he could walk yet. 

As he suspected, he almost immediately lost his footing as he tried to leave the room. 

“Are you… okay? To go in there alone?” 

She looked so concerned that he almost told her no. 

“Granger,” he said instead, “if you want to see me naked, just ask.”

Coward. 

“I—you—you know very well what I mean, I wasn’t—“

“I’m kidding. Don’t get your knickers in a twist. Allow me the small kindness of dignity in assuming that you’re flirting with me, as opposed to fearing for my safety from the threat that is myself,” he sighed. 

He summoned clothing from his closet and hated the effort it took. Even his magic was weaker now. 

“But, yes, I’ll be fine. And if something happened, I’ll yell. Granted, I’m heavy enough, I imagine you’d hear it if I fell.”

Fucking pathetic. 

“Yes, you’re probably right. At any rate, I’ll be here if you need anything. I only asked because you’re sick and still a bit wobbly, you know. I don’t think you’re generally a danger to yourself.”

If only she knew how much of a danger he was to himself. He wanted to laugh. Instead, he turned and closed the bathroom door behind him. 

He slid down the bathroom door, lowering himself to the floor as quietly as he could. 

He pointed his wand toward the shower and turned the water on. 

He vanished his clothes, not caring about the loss. He knew he was too weak to take them off without falling. 

He thought about standing, but decided to just crawl the 5 feet into the shower. 

The water was scalding hot, and it lit his body up with pain. The clarity that came with the pain was startling. 

It stripped him of the numbness that he had been relying on. 

The tears welling in his eyes weren’t from the water, and they were. The ache in his chest wasn’t from the seizure, and it was. The cold that settled into his bones wasn’t from the fever, and it was. 

—

He felt more human when he walked back into the room. 

Granger gave him such an odd look that he worried he’d forgotten to put on some article of clothing. He was so tired, he wouldn’t be surprised. 

Oh, his hair was still wet. She must’ve not expected him to shower. 

“Sorry, I was going to just change, but I…” he shrugged, averting his eyes so she wouldn’t see the lie, “I hoped it would help me feel better.”

“Did it work?”

Nothing ever does. 

“Not really. But I am cleaner, which is something, I suppose.”

Anxiety flickered through him for whatever reason. 

"Sit, eat. The tea is lovely—you'll have to give Mipsy my compliments," she said. 

He doesn’t deserve any of this. 

He sat in the chair across from her anyways. 

She was watching him too closely. Her eyes looked too sad.

Pity. 

"So... what did Mipsy say?" he asked, shamefully meeting her eyes.

"What do you mean?"

"What did she say to make you look at me like a wounded animal?" He sighed, trying to keep the resentment out of his tone. 

"I'm not," Hermione replied, and it seemed like she thought it was true.

"I may be prone to paranoia—or projection, I'll admit—but I know that look.”

Pity. You're pitiful.

“So go on. Ask whatever it is you want to ask." He wrapped his arm around his knee to stop shaking. 

Why was he always shaking? Why was he always so fucking nervous?

“Why don’t you let Theo or Pansy visit?”

What?

Draco tried not to look too relieved. “I was hoping she wouldn’t lead with that, that’s for sure.”

"You don't have to tell me."

"Because it's gotten worse," he said, honestly, gazing into the fireplace.

Her silence put a lump in his throat. He had to say something to break it. 

“The bad ones used to be once or twice a month at most. Mostly just absence seizures, and even they were less frequent. The atonic and tonic seizures are new. I don't know why they've started. My symptoms don't align directly with any form of Muggle epilepsy, so there's no rulebook to follow."

He took a shaky breath. "And I'm... fucking terrified, to tell you the truth."

She regarded him carefully. He hated it. 

"Wouldn't having friends around help, rather than make it worse?" she asked, and her voice was sickeningly gentle. Much more gentle than should ever be directed toward him. 

"It might help me, but it would hurt them," he answered after a moment.

Theo’s sad eyes haunted his dreams. Made him irrationally angry. Made him want to scream at him. He couldn’t be trusted not to hurt him. And Theo deserves a friend that’s better than that. He deserves Potter. He deserves Granger. They’ll be much better friends to him. 

Oddly, she just nodded. Like she understood something he hadn’t said along with his answer. 

Whatever she thinks she knows is likely just a kinder fiction that she’s assigning to him. Something to make her feel better about being nice to him. 

And he’s pathetic enough to take that pity. Take whatever she would offer him. 

Selfish. Coward. Useless.  

It was his father’s voice, he realized. 

He was so tired. 

Godric, she felt so safe. 

He didn’t mean to fall asleep, but he must have. Because when he woke up, he was alone. The fire had gone out. 

Chapter Text

Draco, present

Draco woke with a start and cursed his unforgiving memory. Why is it that he finds gaps in his memories everywhere he looks, but any that will bring him shame come to him at all hours of the night?

He sat up in bed, trying his best not to disturb the woman sleeping next to him. The woman sleeping next to him despite all odds. Despite logic, despite fairness, despite karma.

He would’ve loved to luxuriate in her company, to press his nose into her sweet-smelling hair—a scent he strongly associated with any positive feelings he’d experienced as of late—but he had a task this morning.

And his father never appreciated tardiness.

He knew his mother had moved his father to the family mausoleum. But she hadn’t given him the courtesy of a proper funeral. She hadn’t completed any of the Malfoy blood magic that sealed his final resting place. No, that task was left to him as the new head of the household.

He dressed as formally as he always did. It had become a sort of armor to him over the years, something that couldn’t be stripped from him as everything else had. Money can’t buy everything—it can’t even buy the most important things—but it can be a sword and shield between someone and the rest of the world. It can determine how you’re viewed by people who don’t know you. And the people who don’t know him are the only people he has any chance of impressing these days.

Hermione slept soundly in his bed. It was a sight he could’ve never imagined having, and one he would also never get used to. He couldn’t imagine explaining the scene to his younger self. Most people would say this was something that would’ve disgusted him at fifteen. But he knew the truth. He knew the envy he had disguised as hatred—towards her, toward Potter, toward all of them. 

He knew the way his heart would constrict in his chest with jealousy, with a hatred that was far less directed toward them than he wanted to believe.

A fifteen-year-old Draco Malfoy would have been elated to see Hermione Granger in his bed. Would have felt unworthy. Would have been unworthy.

So now he left her sleeping in his bed to do the task he’d put off for far too long. He didn’t deserve her, but he could at least do his best to shield her from the parts of himself that made him most ashamed. That made him most unworthy.

It was almost unseasonably cold as he started the long walk to the Malfoy mausoleum. He felt Mipsy following him but didn’t acknowledge her. He figured he would allow her to believe that he didn’t know she was there. She probably knew that he knew, but was equally happy not to comment on it. He’d given up on the illusion of pride years ago. Frankly, he’d given up on himself years ago. If it weren’t for that damned elf, he likely wouldn’t be alive. So he couldn’t rightly deny her the privilege and the right of ensuring his safety. He had given her enough reasons to worry.

As he approached the tall marble building, he only felt colder. Being surrounded by the graves of his relatives—his loved ones, he thought bitterly, envious of those who meant that phrase—made him colder still.

The Malfoy family had no reverence for love between relatives. The only things his family revered were money, pride, and purity. If only they understood how laughably impure their actions, motivations, alliances, and beliefs made them. He would’ve laughed if it weren’t for his heart in his throat.

He approached his father’s tomb casually. He approached it like it was of no great consequence that the man who had raised him to adulthood—the man who had taken his childhood—lay dead only a marble slab away.

Draco took his wand from his pocket with his ever-trembling hand and slit his palm numbly. He’d long since stopped feeling pain over something so trivial. The pain he felt now was ever-present. He carried it with him. If his clothing was his armor, then his pain was his soft, warm underbelly. It was the constant reminder that he was a shadow of his former self.

He wiped his bloody palm across the marble slab in front of him, where his father’s name was engraved. The russet-colored liquid bled into the letters, and as he murmured the Latin incantation that would preserve his father’s body and seal his tomb to anyone not granted access, the letters began to glow. Effervescent versions of them peeled away from the dripping blood and danced in the air around him.

“State your name, he who shall entomb Lucius Abraxas Malfoy, Head of the House Malfoy.”

The disembodied voice echoed in his head and perhaps in the air around him, but he couldn’t tell. He just knew it flooded his consciousness so thoroughly that it was the only thing he could hear.

“Draco Lucius Malfoy,” he gasped. “Head of the House Malfoy.”

“Draco Lucius Malfoy, son of Lucius Abraxas Malfoy, you come to entomb your father and take your rightful place as the new Head of the House Malfoy?”

“I do,” Draco spoke, fighting to keep the tremor out of his voice, out of his hand. His father had always hated when he showed weakness.

“Very well. Lucius Malfoy’s debt to his name has been paid. You, Draco Malfoy, will now begin paying your debt with your service to the House Malfoy.”

Draco didn’t know why, but he nodded. As if this disembodied voice—this soulless messenger—could see him. Would appreciate his acknowledgment of their words. This voice was no more alive than his father was. The thought entered his mind, and he hated the bile that threatened to rise in his throat as a result.

The letters on his father’s tomb stopped glowing. Instead, the edges of the marble slab that separated him—and the rest of the world—from his father began to glow brightly, sealing the tomb. And then everything was dark again.

Draco’s knees buckled. It was so sudden and unexpected that he didn’t even think to catch himself; he just fell to the ground, his kneecaps cracking against the marble floor.

All the air was forced out of his lungs on a frantic sob, and left him gasping for breath, but his eyes remained dry. He knew there was a good chance that his father wasn’t—or couldn’t—watch him. He didn’t know what he thought happened to a wizard’s soul when they left this plane of existence. But he knew he would never allow his father to see him cry over him again. The worst part about this realization was that he knew, in some sick, twisted way, it would probably make his father proud.

—

He found his mother in the sunroom, where she often took her tea. He approached her table and waited for her to gesture for him to sit. He likely could have just sat—it was his right as the new head of the household, after all. But as he had told Granger all those months ago, his way of interacting with the world had become second nature. It had to, for him to survive the world he was raised in.

“To what do I owe the pleasure?” His mother spoke first.

“It’s done,” he said simply.

His mother nodded and politely averted her gaze to the window. Averted her gaze from her only son, her only child. Politely. Just as she had politely averted her eyes as he was tortured on her drawing-room floor, even if she had come to his room afterward, crying and holding his head in her lap.

But eventually, she’d stopped doing that, too. He’d asked her to. Her touch no longer brought him comfort. No one’s did.

Theo had tried. Draco thought, at some level, his friend had realized he needed it—whether or not he wanted it. Theo would make excuses to touch him: rub the back of his neck in a joking way, pat him on the leg when a comment warranted it. He recognized it now, even if he hadn’t then. Even if he’d resented it at the time.

He remembered, with a flash of shame, how he had reacted the first few times Hermione touched him. Honestly, how he reacted when she touched him still. Like some touch-starved puppy begging for attention. But no, that wasn’t quite right. He was more like a touch-starved cat—begging for attention while hissing at anyone who tried to give it.

“Are you all right?” His mother asked suddenly. He realized he’d been staring absently out the window. For once, he wasn’t lying when he answered her.

“I’m fine. Just thinking.”

Then she asked something else that surprised him.

“Is Miss Granger here?”

He met his mother’s eye then.

“She is. With any luck, she’s still sleeping,” he answered, silently reveling in the way her nose scrunched in distaste at the mention of anything close to his bedroom habits.

“I would like to talk to you about her,” Narcissa continued.

“I don’t know if there’s anything for us to talk about, Mother,” he responded, his guard immediately rising. “Is there?”

“You assume I’m going to tell you that I disapprove,” she guessed.

He held her gaze, his chin high, daring her to challenge him.

She arched a delicate eyebrow at him, refusing to speak again without first being spoken to. She’d held her own with Lucius in this way too.

“Frankly, Mother, it doesn’t matter if you disapprove. It is now my place to decide who belongs in this home. To decide who is worthy of this name. Who would sully themselves with this name.”

There was a pause, not much longer than a breath.

“That being said, I would appreciate your blessing.”

“And you have it,” she replied.

He had been preparing a rebuttal, preparing his argument, so her answer shocked him into silence. He didn’t openly gape at her—it wouldn’t be polite—but he all but did.

“You are surprised,” she stated rather than asked.

“I imagine that much was obvious,” he replied. “I imagine that much would’ve been expected.”

“I suppose you have a point,” she said, sipping from the teacup she held delicately on a saucer in front of her. If his clothes were his armor, his mother’s poise was hers.

If his pain was his soft, warm underbelly, he was hers. He had always been hers.

“You could certainly do worse than Hermione Granger, Draco,” she said, a small smirk ghosting across her face.

“She could certainly do better,” he said. “I, however, could not. There are none better.”

“You love her, then?”

“Beyond reason,” he answered automatically.

“I see,” she replied simply. “You will marry her, then?”

“I’d like to. We haven’t quite broached the subject.”

“And why is that?”

“Are you truly asking me that?”

“Did you or did you not just tell me that my opinion on the subject is irrelevant?”

“It’s her opinion on the subject that I’m more concerned with.”

“You think she would not marry you?” his mother asked. He couldn’t decide if her expression was appalled on his behalf or understanding on hers.

“Would you blame her?”

“I think your fear is unwarranted, though I understand where you’re coming from.”

“Why is that?”

“No witch treats a wizard she does not love the way Hermione treats you.”

Draco’s jaw tightened, and he averted his gaze out the sunroom window once more. His mother’s peacocks played on the lawn.

“Regardless, loving someone is not enough to shackle yourself to them.”

“You would consider being married to you a punishment?”

“Is it not? Is it not a punishment to have a husband who can barely show his face in public? Is it not a punishment to have a husband who can barely trust himself to be in public without causing a scene? Is it not a punishment to have a husband who watched you be tortured on his drawing-room floor?” He barely managed not to shout the words at her.

“You were tortured on that same drawing-room floor,” she interjected. And for one of the few times in his life, he saw real heat behind his mother’s eyes.

“My mistreatment does not warrant nor excuse hers. And the fact that she loves me need not have any bearing on how that mistreatment affects her decision to want to marry me,” He said, then laughed bitterly. “This morning, I left her in bed so that she didn’t have to witness the burial of one of the men who ruined her childhood.”

“That same man ruined your childhood,” she said, and the venom lacing her words was thinly veiled.

“Well, we can’t choose our fathers, can we?” he snapped, his eyes narrowing at her. “Not like, say, we can choose our spouses.”

“You can blame me if you’d like, Draco. I accepted my fault in all of this long ago,” she sighed, “but my contribution to your suffering doesn’t lessen it.”

He didn’t respond to that. Didn’t have anything worth saying.

“You may feel guilt about how you treated her or how either of your lives have turned out as a result of your actions or the actions of people related to you,” she said after a few silent moments, “but you need to ask yourself—would you appreciate her taking this choice from you if the roles were reversed?”

He didn’t respond.

“She loves you, Draco. At least give her the option of whether or not to shackle herself to you, as you claim would be the outcome, before—“

“—You know I’m unwell,” he interjected. She was silent for a moment, then she nodded. 

“You’d have her be a widow before thirty? Perhaps a widow with a small, startlingly blonde child?”

As his mother processed his words, so, belatedly, did he.

And it knocked the breath out of him.

A child with her raucous curls and his porcelain coloring.

His mother caught the change in him.

“And you’d deny her the chance to have that child? You’d deny yourself that chance?”

“It’s selfish.”

She sighed.

“You are my child before you are your father’s, for better or for worse.”

She stood and approached him hesitantly. He remembered, as a young child, wrapping himself around his mother’s leg, hiding in her robes.

The day he realized he had grown taller than his mother had been a mental turning point for him.

She couldn’t protect him from his father. She never could. But Draco had always hoped to be the one to protect her.

And he couldn’t even protect himself.

How could he protect Hermione now? How could he possibly be worthy of the position, even if he were capable?

His mother placed her palm against his cheek, tilting her chin up to look at him.

“By keeping her at arm’s length, you’re not only denying yourself what you want, you’re also denying her the option to choose if you are what she wants.”

“I’m not what she needs,” he replied, and his voice broke on the last word.

“You’re more than enough, my sweet,” she whispered.

She wiped away the tear that had slipped, silent and unbidden, down his face.

She smiled softly at him. “Regardless, I didn’t raise my son to think he could decide for a witch who or what she needs.”

He huffed a shaky laugh, pulling his bottom lip between his teeth to stop the quiver in his jaw.

His mother held him then, for the first time since the war.

And Draco let her.

Chapter Text

Hermione, present

Hermione woke up alone again. 

Again, Draco had left a note. 

“Join me for breakfast when you wake up? Call for Mipsy. I’ll be in the gardens. It’s nice outside.”

Hermione was a bit upset to be left alone in bed, but she could hardly blame him for not lying awake for hours. Still, why did he never wake her?

It’s not really fair to be mad at someone for letting her sleep in, the logical part of her brain said. 

She got ready quickly and called for Mipsy. 

—

The manor’s gardens were as elaborate and elegant as the rest of the manor. She wondered if that was Narcissa’s doing. 

She finally caught sight of Draco. He sat at a small, round, wrought iron table in a chair that matched the table’s intricate design. 

There was a free chair next to him. 

He was sitting with one leg crossed over the other, his head tilted up towards the sky, his eyes closed. He seemed to be letting the sun warm his face. 

She wondered if he was cold. 

She also wondered how he never seemed to get any tanner with the amount of time he’s always spent outside, especially as a quidditch player. 

She took the seat across from him and he adjusted his posture in the seat, taking up a more natural sitting position. He smiled at her. 

Scones and tea appeared in front of them. 

“I see you found my note,” he began. 

“I did. I’d much rather have woken up next to you, though,” she admitted, begrudgingly. 

Oddly, he looked surprised by this. 

“I’m sorry. I’ll keep that in mind. I could’ve come back to bed, I suppose,” he said, contemplatively. 

“How long have you been up?”

“Only a couple of hours. I had duties to attend to this morning, but I have the rest of the day free,” he said, sipping from his tea.

She nodded, taking a bite from one of the strawberry scones in front of her. They were delicious, of course. 

“I think I’d rather not be here, though. We should go to your flat,” he suggested, leaning toward her and smirking, “maybe do something muggle-ish.”

She rolled her eyes at his suggestive tone. 

Why didn’t he want to be here?

He was clearly trying to glaze over that fact, so she’d allow him to tell her when he was ready. 

“That’s fine,” she shrugged, drinking tea between her words, “I actually had a suggestion for this evening. Well, a proposition, I suppose.”

He raised an eyebrow. 

“I’m supposed to have drinks with my friends this evening. Well, with our friends, Theo and Blaise will be there as well,” she added hurriedly, “I was hoping you might come.”

“You want me to come with you to see your friends?” He asked, and his face was open and unguarded. “Together?”

“As a couple, yes,” she answered, feeling her cheeks flush. 

“And you’re not worried about how they’ll react?”

“Well, Harry obviously knows. Ginny knows too, she’s known since the beginning, actually—“

“—hold on, what do you mean by—“

“And Padma suspects. Ron is really the only… wild card, so to speak,” she laughed a bit nervously. 

“You think he’d be cruel to you over this?” Draco asked, his tone measured and clipped. 

“I’m more worried he’d be cruel to you—“

“—I’m not,” he interjected, “I can take it. I just want to make sure this won’t affect you negatively.”

“I don’t want to hide from this,” she answered, honestly if not slightly off-topic. “I don’t want to hide you.”

She took his hand across the table, “I like you. They will too, after a while. There just might be… an adjustment period.” 

He was quiet for a moment, staring at her openly. Then he smiled, amusement lighting his eyes. 

“I’ll go. I’ll be prepared to… adjust,” he laughed softly.

—

She wasn’t sure what he had in mind when he’d suggested “doing something muggle,” but she’d decided on watching television when she realized how tired he seemed. 

She highly doubted he’d woken up only a couple of hours before her. He seemed like he’d hardly slept. 

She planned to trick him into napping, and she figured she wouldn’t have very much difficulty in doing so. 

She picked some boring nature documentary and put it on. He came back from the kitchen having successfully popped popcorn and sat down next to her. 

“Interesting choice,” he said, “I should’ve expected something educational from you, I suppose.”

She shrugged, non-committal. 

He leaned back on the couch, resting his arm behind her, partially on the couch and partially on her shoulders. 

She’d gotten the marvel that was lounge-wear-Draco this afternoon. He looked much softer in this ensemble of black joggers and a white, long-sleeved tee shirt. 

Step one, she thought mentally, comfortable clothing. Check. 

Step two is a go, she added and tried not to laugh at how ridiculous this was. 

She leaned her head into his shoulder. 

Then raised her head up. 

Then tried again, pretending she couldn’t find a comfortable position. Honestly, it was difficult to even feign discomfort while being curled into his side, but she hoped she was pulling it off. 

“Do you want me to move?” He asked, his eyes still fixed on the telly. 

“No…” she trailed off deliberately but kept shifting her position. 

He sighed and laid down on the couch, pulling her with him. He positioned himself on his back and she curled onto her side next to him, tucked between him and the back of the couch. 

She situated her head on his chest and smiled at her success. 

Step two, she noted mentally, comfortable position. Check. 

“You’re impossible,” he huffed, but put his hand on her head, burying his fingers in her hair. 

She nuzzled her head into his chest in response and placed an arm over his chest. 

He hummed, pleased, his low voice vibrating through his chest under her ear.

She let the silence stretch a bit longer than she normally would. 

Then, softly, she added, “I’m freezing. would you mind grabbing the blanket off the back of the couch?”

“Hmm?” He said softly, and she knew she was winning. 

“The blanket draped over the couch. Could you grab it? I’m cold,” she repeated. 

“Oh,” he cleared his throat, “of course."

She was honestly impressed by the wandless charm he managed while half-asleep, unfurling the blanket over them. 

Step three, check. 

She relaxed further into him and shifted her attention back to the television. As she’d hoped, the documentary she’d chosen was appropriately boring. 

His breathing steadily slowed and his hand eventually stopped moving in her hair. 

She smiled to herself, pleased with her cunning. 

She was sure he was asleep until he spoke quietly next to her ear. 

“I’m figuring out why you weren’t sorted into Slytherin despite your ambition,” he laughed softly, “you aren’t nearly as sneaky as you think.”

“I have no clue what you mean,” she murmured back to him. 

“Despite your complete lack of subtlety,” he continued quietly, “thank you. I clearly wasn’t as subtle about my need for a nap as I would’ve liked.”

She patted him on the chest, refusing to acknowledge his claims against her. He covered her hand with his. 

She fell asleep shortly after him, his warmth and even breathing too calming to resist. 

—

“I’m not sure this is a good idea anymore,” Hermione spoke under her breath, fighting the urge to start nibbling her nails. 

“Hermione, you have to face him eventually. I feel like a group event would be the best-case scenario, don’t you?” Ginny posited, pushing her drink subtly toward her. 

They were the first to arrive and had secured the table for their group. Draco had gone home to change and check in with his mother. 

Draco, Ron and Padma, Ginny and Blaise, and Harry and Theo should arrive soon, and Hermione was considering making a run for it. 

“Deep breaths, Granger. You rode a dragon. I’m sure you can handle Ron hating your boyfriend,” Ginny insisted, not bothering to conceal her grin. 

Draco walked in then, as punctual as ever. It must’ve been raining outside because she watched as he dropped a shielding charm when he walked into the pub with a flick of his graceful hand. He was dressed far too formally for a pub but managed not to look out of place. The confidence that comes with dressing formally often, Hermione assumed. His expression was cold, almost the trademark sneer she knew him by. 

Then he saw her as he was shrugging off his coat. 

And he smiled. 

Hermione’s heart stuttered. 

“Oh, babe, he’s got it bad. And from the looks of it, so do you,” Ginny laughed. 

Hermione scoffed and bumped Ginny’s shoulder with her own, shushing her. 

“I should’ve expected the Nott-Pott duo and the Weasel to be late, I suppose,” he drawled, sliding onto the bench next to her, “Although, I am surprised by Blaise.”

“Late shift tonight,” Ginny supplied, then, before Hermione’s very eyes, raised her hand docilely and offered it to Draco in a gesture Hermione had assuredly never seen her display. 

Draco took it on instinct, thinking literally nothing of it apparently and failing to notice Hermione’s confusion. He inclined his head ever so slightly before dropping it.

Hermione tried not to gawk. 

Ginny was clearly pleased by the little social experiment she’d just run, and she smiled innocently at Hermione. 

Draco glanced over at Hermione and raised an eyebrow. 

Hermione shook her head and stood. “Nevermind. I’m getting a drink. Would either of you like anything?”

“Yes, I’d like very much for you to sit back down and let me get your drink, thank you,” Draco sighed, standing, “Anything, Weaselette?”

“Ogden’s. On ice, please,” Ginny preened. 

“You’ve got a great point there,” Draco replied, walking away. 

“Those pureblood gentlemen, I tell you. They’re something else,” Ginny smirked, watching him walk away. 

“Aren’t you a pureblood?” Hermione reminded her, rolling her eyes and trying to call her attention away from Draco’s ass. 

“Different sort, I’m afraid,” Ginny sighed, turning back to Hermione, “we didn’t have those pureblood coffers in my household, as you well know.”

“Well, my parents were fairly well-to-do, but not in any of the ways that would matter here,” Hermione shrugged, “so I suppose that puts me in last place.”

“You? Last place in anything? Couldn’t possibly be the case,” Ginny laughed. 

The shop door swung open again and a laughing group consisting of Harry, Theo, Ron, and Padma walked in together. 

Harry smiled warmly at her and Ginny when he met their eye, and Padma waved. They made their way over to the table noisily and took seats wherever they could find them. 

Theo attempted to slide into the booth next to Hermione, but Draco, with perfect timing, stopped him with a hand on the shoulder. 

“Seat’s taken, I’m afraid,” he drawled. “Go sit next to your lover-boy-who-lived.”

Ron snorted, then realized he couldn’t laugh at something Draco said, so cleared his throat as a cover-up. 

“Malfoy,” Harry said by way of greeting as Theo slid into the seat next to him instead, flipping Draco off from across the table. 

“Potter,” Draco replied, his tone more pleasant than she’d ever heard it while speaking to Harry, and nodded in his direction. 

“So, this is barking mad,” Ron blurted, gesturing to Draco, “just wanted to… I don’t know, be the first to point that out.”

Draco rolled his eyes and took a well-timed drink. 

“Thank you for your thoughts, Ronald,” Ginny sighed in the long-suffering way one does when speaking to siblings. 

Blaise walked through the door then and immediately locked eyes with Draco. His glare was positively venomous. 

“So,” he said, once he was close enough not to yell, “they’re letting in the actual death eaters now, not just the nepo-babies.”

“What can I say? I got in on account of the upright company I keep,” Draco responded coolly, meeting his eye and jerking his head toward Hermione. 

Ron and Harry were openly gaping at him and looked moments away from pulling their wands on him. 

Blaise’s glare faltered and a genuine smile started showing through the cracks. 

“You absolute son of a bitch,” Blaise laughed, grabbing Draco’s arm and jerking him up into a hug. 

Draco broke too, then, and he laughed. It was a startlingly genuine laugh. 

What is happening?

“I honestly thought I might never see you again,” Blaise said softly next to Draco’s ear, still holding him tightly to his chest. Hermione and Ginny were maybe the only two people close enough to overhear. 

Draco hugged him back but was clearly uncomfortable by the attention. 

“Alright, alright, no need for theatrics, please,” Draco responded. 

“Change your wards. I mean it, Draco. I’m not settling for secondhand information from Nott anymore,” Blaise whispered furiously, pulling away to glare at him once more, “after everything—“

Draco sighed and pulled them both away from the table, dragging Blaise, and therefore this conversation, away from the group and back out the front door. 

Hermione could still see them out of the front window. Blaise lit a cigarette and Draco’s face looked apologetic, even if a bit distressed. Blaise was gesticulating as he spoke, his motions ranging from angry to confused to concerned. 

Draco nodded along, sighing heavily, and responding. 

Blaise hugged him again. Draco awkwardly hugged him back. 

She realized the entire table was watching them. 

“What the fuck was that?” Ron, as elegantly as ever, added.

She noticed Theo laughing then. He was laughing silently, but so hard that tears were rolling down his face. 

“That is 100% what he fucking gets,” Theo managed, “Merlin’s beard, this is the highlight of my week.”

Harry looked equally confused and endeared by this reaction. 

“Blaise was always our momma snake,” Theo quipped, sighing humorously as he watched them out the window, “he didn’t take very kindly to Draco ignoring his attempts to check in on him after the war.”

“Well, Blaise certainly isn’t acting like someone who’s been ignored. I’d be ignoring him for weeks until I got an apology for something like that,” Padma added. 

Theo thought the situation was considerably less funny after that. 

“There are very few things in life that warrant withholding love from someone just to spite them,” Theo murmured, watching as Draco and Blaise reentered the pub, “especially when you were raised like we were raised. You never know when the next chance you’ll get may be.”

The table was silent. 

“So,” Draco began awkwardly when he’d returned, “may I suggest you allow me to ply you all with alcohol to make this painfully awkward experience more bearable for all of us?”

“Hear, hear!” Ginny announced, and Blaise sat down next to her, kissing her cheek. 

“Ginevra, I knew I liked you,” he shook his head, his face flushed red, then muttered, “Right—alright,” before walking away, shoving his hands into his pockets. 

“Well, this is going well,” Hermione spoke when everyone else remained stunned silent.

“Honestly, this has already gone better than I expected,” Harry said bluntly. 

Theo laughed, a sudden and loud sound. 

Ron seemed to attempt a straight face, but failed, snorting a laugh alongside Theo. 

Then the whole table was laughing. 

Hermione didn’t know whether to feel relieved. But she laughed along with them. 

Draco returned with a whole bottle of Odgen’s and a tray of rocks glasses. 

“I figured this would be sufficient for now, yes?” He announced, sitting heavily next to Hermione. 

She placed a hand on his knee under the table. He was bouncing his knee nervously. 

She squeezed his knee once: You okay?

He squeezed her hand back three times: I’m okay. 

They’d devised a whole system for it. Three being the best-case answer. Two squeezes were more like, ‘I think I’m okay for now,’ and one being ‘Nope, not okay.’

She patted his leg in response, turning and offering him a small smile. 

He raised his eyebrows with a smirk, and winked at her, taking another drink from his glass. 

It was so oddly attractive that her cheeks reddened immediately. She turned away from him, unable to even look at him. 

How dare he look like that? And in public? Obscene. 

“Ew,” Theo teased, laughing at her reaction that she had, until then, thought went unnoticed. 

“This is officially the weirdest day of my adult life,” Harry sighed, raising his glass, “cheers.”

“Cheers!” The rest of the table agreed, laughing and clinking glasses. 

—

“Draco, did you hear me?” Blaise asked when his earlier question went unanswered.

That got the attention of both Theo and Hermione. They turned to face him at the same moment. 

Subtle, she thought, cursing both him and herself silently. 

“Sorry, did you say something?” Draco asked, clearing his throat. He’d been staring out the front window. To anyone else, he probably just looked distracted. 

Hermione squeezed his knee.

He squeezed her hand twice, then paused, then squeezed it a third time. 

That was not encouraging. 

“I haven’t had much time for it, honestly. The department is stretched thin with the extra security at Azkaban,” Hermione heard Ron say, tuning into his conversation with Harry at the end of the table. “It’s been shite having to cover for everyone moved onto the island. Not sure why they need the extra security, I say we let whatever happens, happen. Nothing wrong with a few less Death Eaters to pay for.”

Draco stiffened next to her, clearly having been privy to their conversation as well. 

“Mind yourself, Weasley,” Theo murmured. 

Ron looked confused, “Is that a joke?”

“Do I look like I’m fucking kidding? Drop it,” Theo replied, his astounded smile decidedly unfriendly. 

“Uhm—I—excuse me,” Draco mumbled, giving her leg a quick squeeze as he slid out of the bench and headed toward the back door of the pub, the one that opened into the alley. 

Not okay. 

Okay, she thought, okay, this is fine. So what if it’s odd for her to follow him? 

“I’ll just… go check on him,” she muttered under her breath, standing. 

“Fuck,” Ron muttered, finally realizing what he’d said. 

Hermione didn’t even think to reply, already walking toward the back door. When she opened it, she saw him with his back against the wall, bracing himself, his eyes tightly closed. It was pouring the rain and his shirt was already practically soaked through. His wet hair hung in pieces over his eyes as his head was fallen forward. 

“You’re okay, come on, I’ve got you,” Hermione murmured, wrapping her arms around him right as his knees threatened to buckle. She placed one hand on his neck and one on his waist, apparating them into his bedroom immediately. 

He was dead weight in her arms when they landed. With no small amount of effort, she lowered them both to the floor, trying to put him into a safer position. 

It was a tonic-clonic and one he was honestly probably overdue for, so she wasn’t surprised. However, the lack of surprise, as always, didn’t manifest as comfort. Her heart thrummed in her chest as she watched him, waiting for his movements to slow. 

As the timer she’d started ticked over four minutes, he finally stopped convulsing. He groaned as he regained consciousness, as usual, but seemed to be a bit less present than normal. He blinked up at her, squinting, then covered his eyes against the light of the room. 

“Why am I wet?” He managed, trying to pull the wet fabric of his shirt away from his skin. 

“It was raining outside,” she said softly, unbuttoning his shirt. 

“So? We’re inside, Granger,” he replied, painstakingly pushing himself up off the floor. 

“You walked outside at the pub when you felt the seizure coming on,” Hermione reminded him. 

“Oh,” he mumbled, “don’t remember.”

She frowned, and he, for some reason, pulled her into a hug. He was shaking.

“Sorry,” he whispered against her hair, “you’re supposed to be with your friends, I think. Go back.”

“I’ll go back. But you should sleep,” she replied, returning the hug that she didn’t realize she’d needed. The tension drained out of her shoulders at this small signal of normalcy. Of being somewhat okay. 

He nodded against her shoulder, burying his face in her hair. “I just need a second.” 

Her reply came in the form of small circles traced onto his back. 

He melted against her. 

“Like you pointed out earlier, you’re wet,” she whispered after a while, “come on, shirt off.”

“Don’t tease me,” he laughed, but his words with muffled against her shoulder, “it’s cruel.”

She rolled her eyes but slid the shirt off his shoulders anyway. His skin was cold and damp. He wrapped his bare arms around her. “Thank you for helping me. I’m sorry for pulling you away from your friends,” he whispered, his voice drowsy. 

“I’ll always help,” she replied, off-handedly. 

“I know. Sometimes that makes me feel worse,” he sighed. 

She pulled back to look at him, cupping his face in her hands. Her confusion and displeasure was evident on her face. 

“I’m just constantly in your debt, Hermione Granger. It’s not an easy place for me to be. Even if this is the easiest place for me to be,” he placed his hands over hers. 

“You aren’t in my debt. Consider it paid,” she whispered, stroking her thumbs across his flushed cheeks. 

He shook his head, smiling sadly. 

“I love you, Draco,” she said suddenly, “I never got a chance to tell you the other day before I woke up and found you—and I’ve—I’ve not known how to tell you since. And this now doesn’t… doesn’t seem like the best time, now that I think about it, but—“

He kissed her. 

She kissed him back. His hands were cold against her back, her neck, her face. 

“And for that, I will forever be in your debt,” Draco muttered against her lips.

She wrapped her arms around his waist, burying her overly red face against his neck. He folded his arms over her back. “You’re very warm,” he whispered, dropping his chin lightly on her head. 

“No, you’re just freezing,” she laughed softly. 

She helped him to his feet and shooed him toward the bed before grabbing more sleep-appropriate clothing from his drawers and tossing them to him. He kicked off his shoes, and shrugged on the shirt and she watched, not unselfishly, as he slid out of his slightly damp trousers and into a pair of cotton joggers. 

“Spare me your doting, Pet. Go back to your friends,” he sighed, stretching his sore back before sitting on the edge of the bed. 

“You know how I feel about doting. And you’d take the chance from me?” She said with mock indignation. 

“Go before I admit I’d much rather you stay,” he smiled softly. 

“I’ll be back soon,” she said, crossing the room to kiss him once more, level with his height with him sitting on the bed. “You better be asleep when I get back.”

“As if I have a choice,” he said, and the exhaustion was obvious in his voice, a yawn distorting his words mid-sentence. 

She stepped back and disapparated before she could also admit she’d much rather stay. 

—

She landed back in the alley and stepped back through the back door of the pub. She made her way through the crowd back to their table, the bustling and rowdy crowd a sharp contrast to the room she just left. 

“There she is! Merlin, I was about to come after you,” Padma called when she spotted her. 

“Yes, I’m sorry for keeping you all waiting,” she said as she slid back into her seat, “Draco wasn’t feeling well, I just wanted to make sure he got home alright.”

Theo shot her a subtle look of concern. She nodded back to him. 

“He told me to apologize for his sudden disappearance,” she concluded, though he’d said nothing of the sort. 

“Well, whatever it is seemed to come on rather fast,” Blaise said, glaring at Ron, then added more sincerely, “I hope he’s okay.”

“I’m sorry, ‘Mione,” Ron sighed, frustratedly. 

She waved him off. 

“I mean, Godric, I forgot it was possible for someone to give a shit about Lucius Malfoy,” he muttered. 

“That’ll do, Ron,” Harry replied, shaking his head when Ron seemed hellbent on continuing. 

Ron stammered on anyway.

“I mean—I am sorry I hurt his feelings or whatever, but—“

“—hurt his feelings?” Blaise laughed bitterly, “You mean reminded him of his newly dead father? Who was murdered in prison?”

“Okay, yeah, sure, but—I mean, come on, he knows who his dad is—“

“—was,” Theo stated, plainly. “He knew who his dad was. And I assure you—he’s far more qualified to hate him than you are. But that doesn’t give you the right to—“

“Theo, please,” Harry murmured, placing a palm on Theo’s shoulder.

“No, Harry,” Theo barked a laugh. “I mean, fuck, are you serious right now?” 

“I’m sorry, but I have the right to talk about the consequences of the war that I fucking fought in!” Ron all but shouted. “I shouldn’t have mentioned Lucius, but you all don’t know what we went through on the other side. Malfoy doesn’t get to dictate our conversation and I’m not going to not talk about how fucked up you-know-who’s cronies were just because he feels guilty about being safely behind his Death Eater daddy the whole time or something.”

“Safely?” Hermione responded, incredulous, before she could consider whether or not it was her place to discuss any of this, “He lived with Voldemort.”

Ron cringed at the name. 

“Yeah, you react like that to hearing his name. Imagine seeing him at your dinner table.”

“I would have to imagine it, for sure, since I wasn’t a fucking Death Eater,” Ron laughed bitterly. 

“Fuck you, Weasley, you have no idea what you’re talking about,” Theo snapped. Blaise refrained from commenting, but his lips were pressed into a tight line as his scowl fixed on Ron. 

“That’s not fair, Ron,” Harry said, attempting to intervene and lessen some of the tension in the room. 

Everyone was quiet for what felt like an eternity. 

“He didn’t have a choice,” Hermione said eventually.

“He might not have had a choice in taking the dark mark, but he certainly chose to treat all of us like shit,” Ron countered. 

“And he’s apologized for that. We were children,” Hermione exasperated. 

“I was a pureblood child too, Hermione, and I knew not to call you a mudblood,” Ron shrugged and the word coming from his mouth felt like a slap to the face. Her jaw dropped. 

“Tell me, Ronald—who taught you that? That it would be wrong to call me a mudblood?” Hermione asked. 

“My parents, obviously,” Ron scoffed. 

“What if your parents told you that you should think less of me? That I was a dirty thief looking to steal your magic?”

“I wouldn’t have believed them once I met you, Hermione! Are you just going to excuse away everything he’s ever done?”

"For the record," Blaise interjected, his quiet voice somehow commanding more attention than her and Ron's shouting, "Draco didn't believe any of it afterward either. After he met Hermione, that is. He just wasn't allowed to act on that opinion. Not with Lucius watching his every step."

Ron was quiet for a moment.

“Who I think deserves my forgiveness for things done and said to me is solely up to me. If you would like to continue holding childish grudges against someone you don’t understand, then you’re welcome to. Just know that you’ll see less of me.”

“Hermione, I—“ Ron started, but Harry stopped him with a hand. Theo was quietly seething in his seat but seemed to be allowing Hermione the time to speak. 

Hermione stood to leave. 

“We were waiting for a better time to share this. He’s been trying to tell more people. We’d actually discussed telling everyone tonight for safety’s sake, but I was going to hold off until he could do it himself," she sighed. Theo looked shocked. 

"Draco’s epileptic. Or something akin to it. We’re working on a treatment for it, but we’ve got a long way to go. It’s similar to muggle post-traumatic epilepsy, caused by brain trauma from extended use of the Cruciatus curse on a young, developing brain. That’s why I took him home, he had a seizure. So, if you’ll all excuse me, I think I’ll go back and check on him,” she finished, grabbing her bag from the bench. 

"I'll tell him you all know."

She apparated back to the Manor as soon as she made it out the door. 

Chapter Text

Hermione, Draco, Harry and Theo had fallen into an unexpected rhythm. Every few evenings, they’d do dinner together at Hermione’s flat. Draco seemed to be more comfortable there than at the manor, and as she agreed, she wasn’t complaining. 

Like most nights like this, tonight they ate takeout and chatted. Draco and Harry got along well enough, surprisingly, but were still hesitant to engage beyond surface-level niceties or sarcastic quips at the other’s expense. 

After they ate, they drank, Harry too much and Hermione not enough. Hermione knew her friend still struggled more than he let on and drinking was always a crutch for him. Whether it was the stress of his job, the horrors of his past that had followed him like a heavy shadow all these years, or even the nightmares that never actually came to pass that still plagued him… Harry was never quite as okay as he seemed. 

The night went on, and at some point, Harry fell asleep in the recliner. Theo sighed and walked over to him, sliding his glasses off his face gently. Gently even though it would take a lot to wake him up at this point. Theo reclined the chair with a flick of his wand and came back to his seat next to Hermione on the floor. 

They’d made a makeshift workspace consisting of two pillows for desk chairs and her cluttered coffee table for a desk. They poured over Hermione’s notes on Draco’s condition.

Draco had fallen asleep an hour or so before Harry, although much more intentionally. As always, he fell asleep concerningly fast. He’d dozed off on the couch only minutes after he laid down, curled on his side with his arm tucked under his head, after whatever internal debate he’d fought and won (or lost, depending on what side he was on) with his pride. The fact that he was tired enough to willingly fall asleep on the couch in a room with Harry, who was awake at the time, Theo, and her was telling. 

Draco being comfortable enough to sleep around Harry now always made Hermione feel… something. Relieved. Amused. Nostalgic in a way where the past was not something she longed for but something she was happy had come and gone… a type of inverted nostalgia. Not a longing for the future, but a feeling of contempt for the past. 

They were all so young then. She could see that now. Young and thrown into a war that they didn’t cause. A war that was inherited to them and they fought like toy soldiers for adults who happily puppeted them along. 

Hermione knew she was on the right side of the war. She was happy to have fought, proud to have fought. But at the end of the day, she had been fighting for a chance at a life just like Draco had. Just like Theo had. The Death Eaters that had truly backed Voldemort’s claim, the parents and grandparents of her peers, were happy to sacrifice their lives and the lives of their children until the reality of it came to pass. Some, even then. 

So, with Draco and Harry sleeping next to them, Theo and Hermione sipped wine from coffee mugs and tried to save Draco’s life again. 

This would be round two for Theo, she thought bitterly at no one and everyone. 

Theo glanced between Harry and Draco as he spoke, concerned he’d wake them. She saw love in his eyes as he looked at both of them. A different variety of it, sure, but love nonetheless. 

“Theo,” she started, awkwardly, “Can I ask you something?”

He looked confused by her sudden shift in mood but cocked an eyebrow regardless. 

“Did you—were you and Draco ever—have the two of you—“ she stammered, and Theo’s jaw dropped, an astonished smile making the expression all the more mortifying. 

“What, because I’m gay you just assume I want to sleep with all of my male friends?” Theo asked, tilting his head questioningly. “Have you and Harry ever?" He mocked her original question.

“No! And I—that’s not what I meant, I—“

Theo smiled, laughing softly. “I’m kidding, Granger. I can’t deny it, I was head over heels for him the moment I met him, I can’t even keep a straight enough face to tease you.”

Hermione’s mouth snapped shut. 

“Don’t give me that look, Hermione. That was before,” Theo sighed. 

“Before what?”

“Before… everything. Before I found out he was, alas, straight, for one,” Theo chuckled softly. “Before Lucius took a turn for the worse. Before my own father made Malfoy Manor the safer place for me to be. Before he saved me.”

Hermione didn’t know what to say. She wasn’t even sure she understood what he was saying. “Saved you?”

“Draco’s the reason I’m not marked.”

Her breath caught in her throat. “How?”

“Every time it was proposed, he… distracted them. Made some grand proclamation, made a scene, did something to please or displease the dark lord enough for the topic to be dropped.”

Theo’s face was so pale. She’d never seen him look so small. 

Hermione couldn’t even imagine Draco causing a scene. Proclaiming anything, especially toward Voldemort. Especially given how terrified she knew he was of him, then and now. He still woke up screaming sometimes. 

“They tortured him for it. Not just Vold—him. All of them. Narcissa tried to help, of course, divert attention toward herself. They didn’t know it was for my sake, he was always careful. Lucius cared in his own way, was mostly worried they would kill him, but never enough to do anything other than kick him in the ribs a few times if he thought he could get away with that as opposed to someone crucio-ing him.”

Her voice was far away. Any words she could say were stuck somewhere below the surface. She couldn’t think, couldn’t speak. 

“I’m the reason he’s—“ Theo started, then his voice broke on a sob. “It’s my fault, Hermione.”

“Theo,” she whispered, frozen despite finally finding her voice. 

When his following inhale caught, she realized she was just sitting there, watching her friend cry. 

She leaned forward, wrapping her arms around her. He fell into the embrace, accepting it much easier than Draco ever did. 

“I tried to stop him, tried to convince him to just let me take the mark, but he wouldn’t let me,” he sobbed, his grip on her shoulder almost bruising. 

“It’s not your fault, Theo,” she murmured, running her hand across his back, his curly, brown hair. In another world, another context, they could’ve passed for siblings, she thought fleetingly. If he and Harry got married, they would all but be. 

He didn’t reply, just cried into her shirt until he was spent. She held him for a while after that, even. 

“I want to say,” she murmured, “for… for what it’s worth, I wasn’t asking to—to accuse you of anything. I wouldn’t have cared either way, I just… I love him. I know you love him too. I just wanted to know…” she trailed off, unsure of how to continue. 

“I love him,” Theo said, his voice ragged. “I’m not in love with him, though. I don’t imagine Harry would be very pleased if I were.” He laughed then, softly. An attempt at levity. 

“That’s what I’m—I wanted to say that I understood. Either way, I don’t have any—any reservations or—I mean, it’s not my place to be jealous of anything from before. I just…”

“Want to understand him. Want to know him. I know,” Theo nodded, pulling away from her. “He’s not an easy egg to crack. For all his tears,” Theo laughed, “he’s not very forthcoming with the actual word portion of sharing emotions.”

Hermione laughed at that. She looked into Theo’s reddened eyes, looking for something. She wasn’t even sure what. 

“I need you to save him,” Theo whispered. “I won’t be able to live with myself if you can’t.”

“I will,” she said, more confidently than she felt. “And I think I know how.”

—

“Legilimency?” Draco asked her the next day in class after she’d gone over her plan with him. The same plan she’d shared with Theo the night before.

“Yes. Well, yes, and… I have a few theories. I’ll need to test them first, possibly with something less harmful. Maybe on Theo or Harry, I don’t want to mess around in your head any more than necessary. Not when there’s so much to be cautious of with you—“

“I’m not letting you scramble Theo or Harry for my sake,” he sighed.

She frowned. “I’m not going to scramble them, Draco, I just think that my theory might be better tested on a—” she paused, considering.

“A normal person,” Draco said, the bitter edge of his voice almost completely concealed. Almost.

“A less complicated brain,” she corrected.

“You make it sound like a good thing,” he snorted, “please, tell me more about how complicated my brain is.”

He leaned forward, resting his chin on his hand and batting his lashes at her, theatrically. 

She laughed, and he winked at her, smiling. He was so close she could almost just lean in, and—

“Good morning, everyone,” Dr. Green said, standing up from his desk where he’d been seemingly preparing for class.

She refocused her traitorous mind on class. A complicated brain, indeed. She could use a less complicated one of her own, it seemed.

—

Accustomed to checking on him discreetly from the corner of her eye, she noticed the nervous change in his posture immediately. He turned to face her as she turned her head to him, quirking a brow, but before she could ask the question, his eyes fluttered shut and he collapsed forward against her.

He usually woke up pretty quickly after a drop seizure, so she just did her best to avoid attracting attention. She cupped his jaw, holding his head to her chest, and wrapped her free arm around his shoulders. Most people would likely assume she was just hugging him, which, while still inappropriate in this setting, was less attention-grabbing than an unconscious man. Actually, the intimacy in the way she held him may encourage people to look away.

She felt, rather than saw, him regain consciousness. His previously limp frame sharpened along with his awareness.

“Are you with me?” She murmured close to his ear. “Are you alright?”

He shook his head, inhaling sharply. A sudden, pained sound escaped him.

He tried to pull away from her, maybe to stand but collapsed back into his chair before he could get very far. 

He fell forward onto the desk, dropping his head onto his folded arms and groaning in pain. The sound caught the attention of several students nearby and a few curious gazes flickered toward him.

Hermione froze. She couldn’t do anything with them watching. So, she did the only thing she could think of—acted like a Muggle helping a sick friend.

She placed a hand gently on his back and leaned in close.

“Help me,” she murmured near his ear. “Draco, love, please. Help me.”

He whimpered incoherently. She had nothing to go on, she had no clue what was wrong, what he could need, what she should expect to happen—

You can’t panic, she interrupted her train of thought firmly. You cannot afford to panic. 

She wrapped an arm around his shoulders, keeping her face close to his ear so she could whisper to him. 

“I need you to try. Tell me what’s happening,” she murmured, mostly too low for the students watching them to hear, but not caring either way. A group of people growing in number by the second. 

Draco’s breathing was shallow and erratic. “Wrong,” he managed, his voice trembling. “I—my head, it… it feels wrong. I can’t—“

“Ms. Granger, is there a problem?” Dr. Green called from the front of the room, his tone laced with concern.

“I, uh—” Hermione faltered, her voice louder than intended. She winced at the attention it drew. “Yes, there is, but I don’t—”

Her sentence was cut short as Draco groaned again.

“Hermione,” he rasped, his voice cracked and desperate. It sounded like begging.

“You have to tell me what’s happening, Draco,” she whispered. Uncaring of the dozens of eyes on them, she pushed his sweat-dampened hair away from his face. The pinched, pained expression in his features made her chest ache.

Then the room exploded into chaos. Cabinets and doors flew open and slammed shut in an unpredictable, relentless rhythm. The noise was deafening.

Hermione froze. The wild, uncontrolled magic reminded her of her own childhood tantrums—moments that had terrified her parents. It was unmistakably accidental magic.

Draco’s eyes fluttered shut, his consciousness slipping.

“Ms. Granger,” Dr. Green called out again, his tone more serious now. “I’m sorry for how sudden this will seem, and I’ll explain everything later, but for now, I need to ensure the Aurors don’t get involved.”

She looked at him, confused at his lack of confusion, and then she saw him draw a wand from his pocket. It had to be a wand. Dark wood, spindly, about a foot long. 

He raised it and encanted, “Somnumium.”

In an instant, the rest of the class slumped over their desks, sound asleep.

Dr. Green wasn’t a muggle. 

And he very likely knew who they were. 

Dr. Green rushed over to them, rolling up his sleeves. “I’m sorry to make this belated introduction to you, Miss Granger, I was planning to speak to you both. Ideally, in a more private setting. As I’m sure you’ve gathered, I don’t participate in wizarding society. Like you, I’m muggle born and during the first wizarding war, I saw myself out.”

Dr. Green pressed his fingers into the soft skin below Draco’s jaw, checking his pulse. “Draco, son, are you with us?”

“I—what?” Draco gasped. 

“That’ll do,” Dr. Green said, casting a diagnostic charm Hermione didn’t recognize. “I apologize in advance for the breach of privacy, but I’ll be blunt—I’ve been listening in on your conversations during class since Mr. Malfoy mentioned his condition. Epilepsy isn’t common among wizards, as I’m sure you know.”

Draco tried to look up at them, seeming to be willing his eyes to focus, then whimpered. He seemed semi-conscious at best. Hermione grimaced. She put her hand on his back, offering what support she could while having literally no idea what was happening. “Keep your head down and your eyes closed, it’ll help,” she murmured, leaning closer to him. 

He nodded faintly, complying.

“And my findings agree with yours, Ms. Granger. You need a Legilimens,” he said, flipping through the chart floating above Draco, one of the most advanced diagnostic charms she’s ever seen, “I wanted to wait until I was sure I could help to approach you. But you have one.”

Hermione stared at Dr. Green, her shock and confusion surely visible on her face. 

“Before the first wizarding war, I was a healer at St. Mungos. I went into muggle neurology because brains were my wizarding specialty as well, you see. Specifically the use of Legilimency in mind healing. I, too, have studied the physical effects of Legilimency, just never to the degree that you’d need for something like this—“

“Hermione, I feel like I’m dying,” Draco cut in. 

He was trembling almost violently.

“You aren’t dying, Draco,” she murmured, checking the diagnostic chart floating above him. It was mostly unchanged, minus his newly racing pulse. 

“My chest hurts,” he forced out. 

Dr. Green checked his vitals as well, and with a pitying glance that Draco would’ve hated, he nodded at Hermione in agreement with her conclusion. “I’ll deal with the rest of the students and send them on their way. Take care of their memories and such—it should give you two a moment,” he said quietly. 

“The cabinets,” Draco panted, “Was that me?” 

Hermione sighed, “Yes, I believe so. Let’s sit on the floor, okay?”

“I can’t—I can’t breathe,” he gasped. 

“Listen to me, Draco. You’re not dying. You’re having a panic attack,” Hermione whispered. 

He laughed, forcefully, “I know what a panic attack feels like, Granger. This isn’t that.”

“They don’t all feel the same, baby,” she murmured.

“Stop talking to me like I’m some—some fucking—“ he managed before inhaling raggedly, pressing his hand to his chest. 

Hermione didn’t reply, just helped him silently from his chair down onto the floor. She cupped her hands over his ears and guided his head between his knees, whispering soft reassurances.

She grabbed his shaking hand and squeezed his palm. “You have to breathe, Draco,” she whispered when his shallow, shuddering breaths got fewer and farther between.

“Might pass out,” he mumbled. “Feel woozy.”

“I know you do,” she said. “Talk to me about flying.”

“What?” He said, raising his head to look at her, his eyebrows raised and pressed together incredulously, despite his bleary eyes. 

The expression would’ve been cute in a different scenario. 

“Tell me what it felt like to fly on a broom the first time. You remember, right?” She asked, conjuring a few ice cubes, and wrapping them in the handkerchief that she pulled from the jacket hanging on his chair. 

“Of course, I remember, but—“ he muttered, then gasped as she placed the makeshift ice pack on the back of his neck. “Fuck, that’s cold,” he swore, jerking slightly away from her. 

She pulled him back, keeping the ice against his neck. She threaded her fingers through the hair on the back of his head as a silent apology. 

“Tell me about it,” she murmured. The shock of the cold had evened out his breathing a bit. He must have figured out what she was doing because he didn’t try to pull away from her again. 

“It was less scary than I thought it’d be,” he began on a shaky exhale. 

“Yeah?” She prompted, moving the hand not holding ice from his hair down to his arm, applying some grounding pressure by squeezing his shoulder, the back of his arm, his forearm. 

“Yeah. I—I couldn’t get the training broom to go very high, but,” he sighed, “I wanted to.”

“I’m sure your mother loved that,” she murmured, resting her forehead on his shoulder. 

“She refused to let me fly a real broom until the summer before I went to Hogwarts,” he said, and the huff that came with it was almost a laugh. 

“Better to learn at home, I suppose,” Hermione said, setting the melting ice to the side and rubbing her hand over his back. 

“I think that’s the only reason she let me,” he whispered. “She knew I’d sneak off and try it as soon as I got the chance.”

“Yeah, I bet you’re right,” she replied softly, allowing herself to wrap her arms around him. 

“Thank you,” he murmured, “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be,” she said. “Does your chest still hurt?”

“No,” he sighed.

Then, softer, he added, “I’m so tired. I’m always so tired.”

“I’ll take you home soon,” she said, shifting to sit next to him. He brought his knees closer to his chest and wrapped his arms around them, burying his head in his arms as he rested it against his knees.

Dr. Green took his cue to return to them. The rest of the class had filed out one by one as he obliviated most of this class from their memory. 

“Ms. Granger,” he said, nodding, “Mr. Malfoy.”

“You’ve known who we were this whole time, haven’t you?” Hermione asked, bluntly. 

“I never stopped receiving the wizarding press. So,” he smiled softly, “yes. The two of you have made quite a name for yourselves. You’d be hard to miss.”

“Why didn’t you drop me from your roster when you saw my name?” Draco asked, raising his head. He couldn't quite keep the defensive bitterness out of his tone. 

“I read the transcripts from your trial, Mr. Malfoy. I’d be a fool to think you suffered any less in the war than I would have.”

Draco scoffed, “Well, they felt inclined to let me live. That’s a pretty significant difference.”

“Would you feel better if I wished you ill?” Dr. Green asked gently, his head tilting inquisitively. 

Draco glared at him, his mouth set into a hard line. 

“Because I wouldn’t,” Dr. Green continued. “Hating you for something you didn’t choose would make me quite a hypocrite, don’t you think? Given that that’s the reason your family and the like have hated people like me and Ms. Granger, yes?”

Draco bit the inside of his cheek roughly and averted his eyes toward the door, not answering. 

“You two should get home,” Dr. Green said after a while, “Ms. Granger, please send me an owl with your proposed course of treatment. I’d like to compare it against my own research.”

“Why are you helping me?” Draco asked, meeting their professor’s eye. 

“Because I’m a doctor,” he answered, simply. “And because, along with your brilliant friend here, I may be one of the only people who know enough on the subject to be of any use to you. Call it professional curiosity.”

“I don’t believe you,” Draco pressed. 

Dr. Green searched Draco’s face for something. He must’ve found whatever it was he was looking for because he continued speaking. 

“My son died in the first wizarding war. He fought with the Order, a low-level operative, killed in a raid. He was just in the wrong place at the wrong time,” he murmured, “you remind me of him. He was bright like you. Polite and reserved. With a bit of a bite when necessary.”

Draco looked like he’d been slapped. The obvious pain, shock, and disbelief on his face made Hermione’s chest ache. She wanted to reach for him, almost did.

Would have if he didn’t disapparate seconds later. 

She sat in silence with Dr. Green for a long moment. 

“I’m sorry about your son,” Hermione whispered, eventually. 

“He wouldn’t have wanted it any other way. I try to remind myself that,” Dr. Green smiled sadly, meeting her eye. “He knew your friend’s parents. The Potters’. A lovely couple, from what I’ve been told.”

Hermione tried to hide her shock. 

“They were never close. My Penn was never good at making close friends. But he spoke highly of them. I thought I should tell you that. I’m sure Mr. Potter hears kind things about his parents all the time, but one should never be stingy with kind words that are deserved.”

“Thank you, Dr. Green,” she breathed, her mind working to process the ridiculous amount of information she’d been given in the past hour. 

“Please. Call me Gideon,” he said. “And be sure you send me anything noteworthy about Mr. Malfoy’s condition. I’d be happy to help any way I can.”

Chapter Text

When Hermione apparated to the Manor—probably about ten minutes after he had—his room was empty. She heard the shower running through the bathroom door.

Resigned to wait him out, she busied herself around his room. She noticed an upright piano tucked into the corner. She’d taken lessons as a child—her parents had thought it might foster creativity—but she’d never been particularly good. She walked over to the piano and uncovered the keys.

Sitting at the bench, she could almost picture Draco sitting there too. She wondered why she’d never noticed it before or why he never played it in front of her. Surely he did play—evidence being the piano in his bedroom. It fit, considering he was a pureblood, Sacred Twenty-Eight heir. Families like his all had very classical courses of study: piano, Latin, etiquette, etc.

It was strange, seeing Draco through the lens of his possessions. His bedroom was so reflective of the person she went to school with. Maybe not the person she’d known at the time, but looking back, the person she realized he must have been, at least toward his friends. He was smart, she’d always been able to concede that. He was second to her in almost every class, at least the ones they’d had together. She often wondered how he’d managed to excel in school despite spending so much time pretending he didn’t care. Theo had always been the more overtly studious of the Slytherins, but even Theo had admitted that Draco never copied his work like the others did.

Looking around, she saw little pieces of him everywhere. His cologne rested on the dresser. Photo frames were tucked discreetly in places that wouldn’t immediately catch a visitor’s eye. Sweaters she’d never seen him wear in public draped over the edges of chairs.

Less obviously, there was a Firewhiskey decanter hidden among the books on his bookshelf. She’d looked at his collection before; it was a good mix of classics and modern texts, with even a few Muggle novels and scientific works mixed in. His desk was cluttered with journals, quills, and stationery—most of it seemingly unused.

She was so lost in thought she didn’t notice him reentering the room until he sat beside her on the bench.

She rested her head against his shoulder. 

“Do you play?” She asked by way of greeting. 

“I do,” he replied softly, his voice carrying the warmth it reserved for moments like this. “Or, at least, I used to. I don’t play much anymore.”

“Why?” she asked, pressing one of the keys and letting its quiet, resonant sound fill the room.

He raised his hand, hovering it above the keys. It shook with the persistent tremor that seemed to follow him everywhere now, sometimes more subtly than others but never gone entirely.

She nodded, not feeling the need to voice her understanding aloud. 

“Will you play something?” She asked anyway. 

He sighed. 

“Please?” She pressed. 

Placing his hands on the ivory keys, he took a steadying breath before beginning.

As in all things, in this, he moved gracefully. His long fingers looked perfectly suited to the piano. She wondered how she hadn’t noticed that before.

He played something melancholy. Or, at least, it felt melancholy to her. It began slowly, then picked up speed, only to slow once more toward the end. He played for only a few minutes, but it was long enough to see that he was clearly quite good at it, much better than she’d ever been during her lessons. 

“That was lovely,” she whispered when he stopped. He hadn’t spoken since she’d asked him to play. “Who was it?” she asked when he didn’t immediately reply.

“I, uh—it was something I came up with,” he replied, “no such thing as a truly original composition in this day and age, of course, but, you know, but it was something I played without sheet music one day while practicing, and I just… thought it sounded nice.”

“You wrote that?” She asked, impressed. 

“I mean… I suppose you could say that, yes. I’m sure there are a dozen similar compositions, if not identical. But for all intents and purposes, yes—”

“You’re ridiculous,” she laughed. 

“Yes, well,” he smiled softly, color blooming on his cheeks and the tips of his ears, “you’ve mentioned.”

She wrapped her arm around his and leaned against him again.

“Are you feeling any better?” She murmured. 

“I’m fine,” he nodded. 

“That’s not really what I asked,” she challenged. 

He sighed. 

“Just tired,” he added. “Sore, I guess. But I feel fine.”

She nodded, and neither of them spoke for a while. She appreciated the silences that could rest comfortably between the two of them. More like the silence of a heavy snow than that of a class of anticipatory students, she decided, mentally. 

Eventually, though, she broke it.

“I could give you a massage?” She offered, tilting her face up toward his. 

“No, no, no,” he dismissed her, too quickly, “I’m okay. You don’t need to do that.”

“I know I don’t need to. I’m saying I could,” she replied, frowning. “If you wanted me to. If you’d like for me to. No pressure, of course—just offering.”

“Well, I—I don’t know,” he stammered. “I don’t really remember ever… it’s been years since I’ve had anything like a real massage. If ever. Beyond you or Theo rubbing my shoulders or neck or something. So, I don’t know.” He was nearly radiating nervous energy.

She reached up, cupping his cheek and turning his face toward hers.

“I’m not trying to make you uncomfortable,” she said, meeting his eyes.

“No, you aren’t, I’m sorry. I just—” He laughed, the sound edged with anxiety. “I don’t really know what to say. I don’t know how to do all of this.”

She raised up, pressing her lips to his. He kissed her back. 

“Can I?” She asked, deciding on a somewhat different approach. “If you don’t like it or it hurts or something, I can stop.”

“Okay,” he shrugged. “Yeah, sure. What do I do?”

Hermione considered this for a moment. 

“Lie on your stomach on the bed. I think that will work,” she said, nodding as if she were working through the logistics in her head.

Draco shook his head, rolling his eyes at her methodical approach, but stood from the piano bench and crossed the room to his bed. She followed close behind.

“Actually, I’ll be right back—I need to grab something from my flat,” she said, a sudden thought striking her.

Before he could respond, she disapparated, reappearing in her own bedroom. She rummaged through the drawer of her vanity where she kept unused or seldom-used items until she found what she was looking for: a bottle of lavender-scented massage oil. It had been a gift during a workplace exchange last Christmas, containing Murtlap essence to soothe aches and pains along with a calming tincture.

She reappeared in Draco’s room not thirty seconds later.

“Should I be scared?” he laughed, sitting cross-legged on his bed and looking at her with amusement.

“Always,” she replied easily. “I’m terrifying—I’ve got it on good authority.”

“I don’t disagree,” he said, nodding seriously.

“Take off your shirt,” she instructed, climbing onto the bed beside him and kicking off her shoes.

He raised an eyebrow at her but complied, pulling his shirt over his head in one smooth motion. The sight of it distracted her more than she cared to admit.

Draco settled onto his stomach, resting his face on his crossed arms.

Hermione debated sitting on top of him but decided against it, instead sitting cross-legged beside him.

She uncapped the bottle, dripping some of the oil onto her hands and rubbing them together to warm it. Then, tentatively, she placed her hands on his back.

He gasped softly at the unexpected coolness of the oil against his skin, his body tensing.

“Is this okay?” She asked. 

“Mhmm,” he said, tightly, “just—very sore.”

“I’ll be careful,” she murmured. 

Hermione took her time, rubbing the oil over his skin in broad, gentle strokes until she felt the tension ease. Then, gradually, she began applying more pressure.

Leaning some of her weight onto him, she used long, sweeping motions across his back. Starting at the small of his back, she placed her thumbs on either side of his spine and kneaded the muscles in small circles, moving outward toward his sides.

The first time she applied real pressure, finally confident that she wouldn’t hurt him, she ran the sides of her hand up from the bottom of his back to the shoulders, pressing on either side of his spine.

He moaned loudly, his voice muffled by his pillow. 

Then he laughed. 

“I’m sorry, that sounded positively indecent,” he said, blushing furiously. 

“It’s okay,” she replied, laughing softly as well, but her cheeks certainly felt warmer. 

She repeated the action and he groaned again, albeit more restrained. “Merlin, Hermione, why are you so good at this?”

“I’m not, you’re just sore, so everything will feel good to you,” she replied. You’re also incredibly touch-starved, she didn’t reply. 

She found a rhythm and found several knots in his back that she had to work through. He sucked in a few pained breaths as she did, but accepted her whispered apologies. It's a good pain, was his reply.

At one point, he suggested she just cast a silencing charm over him so he could make as many lewd noises as he wanted. 

She laughed and told him to consider it exposure therapy for his goal of being less well-mannered. 

And as much as his little whimpers and groans flooded her with heat, this wasn’t that sort of massage, she told herself firmly.

Eventually, she tapered off the pressure and started aiming for a more relaxing massage than a practical one. She swept her hands over his back and neck gently, rubbing the rest of the oil into his skin. 

She would’ve stopped sooner, but she felt him start to fall asleep. His breathing deepened, and his arm and fingers twitched subtly. So she continued, now just running her fingernails over his back. 

It was still early in the evening. If he went to sleep now, he could get 10 or so hours of sleep. And he desperately needed it. So she did whatever she could not to startle him awake. 

As she was pulling a blanket over him, Mipsy appeared. 

She pushed a finger to her lips immediately, hoping the elf caught her meaning. 

“Sorry, Miss Hermione. Master Draco is needed,” Mipsy whispered. “There’s an issue with one of the transfer documents for the vaults.”

“Can Narcissa not handle it?” Hermione sighed. 

“Mipsy doesn’t think so. The issue is with Master Draco’s portion of the document. Two of the goblins have come here to speak with him,” Mipsy frowned. 

“Is he in trouble? Like, legally?” Hermione asked. 

“Mipsy doesn’t think so.”

“Then send them back. Tell them he’ll come to them to fix whatever it is tomorrow,” Hermione said, firmly. 

Mipsy didn’t seem to love being tasked with this, but she glanced toward Draco. She could see his face at this angle. She frowned. “Alright, Miss Hermione. Mipsy will tell them.” 

Then she disappeared. 

Hermione had settled in next to him, content to read for a few hours before bed, when a gentle knock sounded at the door. Assuming it was Mipsy, she pointed her wand at it, opening it. 

But it was Narcissa who stepped over the threshold. 

“Is he okay?” She asked after quickly assessing the scene in front of her. 

“He’s fine. Just sleeping,” Hermione replied, quietly. 

“Oh,” she replied, seemingly relieved and confused. “I assumed if he turned Mipsy away that something was wrong, so I wanted to check in.”

“Beyond being so sleep-deprived that he’s been falling asleep mid-conversation recently, he’s fine,” Hermione replied. There was an edge to her voice that she couldn’t quite hide. 

Narcissa frowned. “Why?”

Hermione slipped out of bed and went to sit in one of the armchairs by the fireplace so she could speak without waking him. She gestured for Narcissa to take the other. 

“He’s been waking up before dawn every day and working on whatever he’s working on in Lucius’s office. Beyond that, he… the seizures take a lot of out him,” she explained, her healer voice taking over. “Truly, he should sleep more than the average person, not less. Lack of sleep not only triggers his seizures, but for his brain to recover from the seizures, he needs to sleep. It’s cyclical.”

“I see. I agree with you, honestly. I would take on more responsibility myself, but it’s just not done in our circles. My opinion is irrelevant compared to his, everyone wants his signature or his presence to validate my wishes,” Narcissa sounded bitter. Rightfully so, Hermione felt. “As if he’s my keeper now that I’m widowed, not my child.”

As much as Hermione understood her frustration, she did not understand her approach. Narcissa was just going to allow convention and some passive-aggressive comments to determine her actions?

“Narcissa, if I may,” Hermione began, “is there anything legally preventing you from splitting the executive functions of the house with Draco? Or taking them until he’s well again?”

Narcissa sighed heavily. “I’ve already been doing more than they want me to. The Gringott’s Goblins in particular don’t appreciate my ‘meddling’ in the family’s finances.”

“I understand,” Hermione nodded. “I’ll be frank, then. You need to tell them he’s unfit to handle this.”

“Miss Granger, I understand your concern, I worry for him too, but don't you think that’s a bit extreme—“

“Did he tell you that he was hospitalized a few weeks ago?”

Narcissa’s eyes sharpened. “What?”

Hermione sighed. “I worried that he would try to keep that from you.”

“Hospitalized for what?” She asked, softly. 

“He had a stroke. Or something similar. I don’t know how familiar you are with muggle medical terms,” Hermione answered. 

Narcissa didn’t answer. Just stared at Draco where he lay on the bed, his chest rising and falling with his deep, even breaths. 

“I know he doesn’t want you to know. He’ll likely be upset at me for even talking about this with you. But he’s worse off than he’s letting on. In my professional opinion… he needs a break, Narcissa. Or this is going to kill him.”

Narcissa flinched at this, but never tore her gaze away from Draco.

Eventually, her eyes made their way back to Hermione’s. 

“Tell me how I can help him.”

—

Hermione blacked out Draco’s windows and nullified any alarms he’d set. He could be upset at her after he’d slept. 

While he did so, she drafted a letter to their professor. 

Dr. Green,

I hope this owl finds you. I imagine, being a wizard, no amount of distancing yourself from magical society would make you unplottable to them. 

Basically, I have found nothing physically wrong with him. I’ve ran tests, muggle and magical, and his brain is, for all intents and purposes, fine. Except for the fact that it’s very obviously not. 

Draco is a talented Occlumens. A natural one, I think, although trained as well. He used it pretty much constantly during the war. 

My theory is that something is hidden inside of his subconscious. Something incompatible with him. I don’t know if he put it there and somehow repressed the memory or someone else put it there, but both are possibilities we need to explore. 

I’ll attach my notes. They include my record of his charts and symptoms as well as more detailed information on how I believe Legilimency could be used more tangibly in this case. 

Thank you again for your help. I appreciate it more than you know. 

Regards,

Hermione

She sent Draco's owl off with the letter and a treat.

—

Draco didn’t wake up for almost 14 hours. It was nearly 10 am by the time he stirred. 

It didn’t take him long to register that he’d slept longer than he’d intended to. He bolted upright, searching for his wand.

She caught his eye from the armchair by the fire that she’d been reading in, waiting for him to wake up. 

“Why is it dark in here? I had a meeting with the appraisers for the European properties this morning—“

“Your mother handled it,” Hermione replied, “and I blacked out your windows.”

“What? Why? Did I—did you cancel my alarm? How long have I been asleep.” Draco’s questions were rushed and he got out of bed quickly, summoning clothing, shoes, and a bunch of likely unnecessary things as well in a frantic gesture. 

“Draco, slow down,” she sighed, standing and walking toward him. "It's around 10 am."

“Hermione, what—what did you do?” He stopped, turning to look at her for the first time. He’d picked up on her tone and the fact that she wasn’t concerned. 

His gaze on her was suspicious. 

“Other than turn off your alarms and black out your windows, nothing. Your mother came by while you were sleeping, however. We had an interesting conversation.”

“Granger. Tell me what you did,” he breathed.

“You really weren’t going to tell her?” 

He froze. After a moment of being shocked still, his mouth fell open with a harsh laugh.

She raised an eyebrow at him. A challenge.

“You’re serious? You told on me to my mother?”

“I told on you? Are you serious? Draco, you are running yourself into the ground,” she pointed an accusatory finger at him as she spoke.

“I am only doing what I have to do, Hermione!” He yelled back. 

He laughed again, then, but it was not a pleasant sound. 

“This was not your call to make,” he stated, pointing a finger at her in return, “I trusted you and you tricked me.”

He turned his back to her, but she grabbed his arm, halting him.

“I tricked you? I just let you sleep. Draco, you’re killing yourself. I hope you realize I mean that literally. You are killing yourself,” she spoke a bit more softly this time.

“Then let me!” He jerked his arm out of her hold. “Fucking, let me, Hermione. If this is all it takes to kill me, then I’m better off dead.”

She stared at him. He stared back at her, his uneven breathing the only sound. 

“You don’t mean that,” she whispered. 

“I honestly don’t know if I do or not,” he mumbled back, turning around from her and walking into the bathroom, closing the door behind him. 

Chapter Text

Hermione had Floo’d home almost the moment he closed the bathroom door.

Now, hours later, she sat in her living room, suffocated by the warmth and laughter of her friends, feeling more alone than she had in years.

Harry, Theo, Ron, and Padma had, unfortunately, already planned to have dinner at her flat tonight. She didn’t have the heart to cancel.

She wished she had the moment they arrived. They entered in a flurry of noise—joking, smiling, laughing too loudly for the small space. The smile she’d forced onto her face faltered at the sudden influx of sound. Theo’s eyes swept the room, flicking past the others before settling on her, brow furrowing. He’d noticed Draco’s absence.

Concerned for him, of course. As he always was.

She smiled as convincingly as she could and shook her head, dismissing his unspoken question. He looked unconvinced.

The night dragged on, and the conversations only grew louder, filling the room, filling the air in her lungs until it was hard to breathe. Her wine glass was never empty. Every time she set it down, it was full again. Ron and Theo, no doubt—caring for her in the only ways they knew how.

She knew her mask was slipping. And the more she drank, the less she cared to fix it. The less she wanted to keep up with the laughter and the stories. The more she withdrew, the more the room seemed to swell around her, voices rising, pressing in.

“Are you okay, Hermione?” Padma asked softly, her voice cutting through the fog.

Hermione nodded, blinking rapidly, willing the tears away.

She hadn’t known how to approach him today. She kept waiting for the right moment, but she knew—deep down—she had only been waiting for him to come to her.

But why would he? He had told her, in no uncertain terms, that he wanted to kill himself, and she had left.

Her stomach churned. She gripped the stem of her wine glass tighter.

The atmosphere shifted around her. Conversations slowed. She felt their eyes—Ron, Harry, Theo—all of them turning toward her. Their concern pressed in on her, sharp and suffocating. Her head swam, too fuzzy from the alcohol to think straight. Padma placed a gentle hand on her arm.

A tear slid down her cheek. She hadn’t even realized she’d started crying.

“Did something happen?” Theo asked, but the real question was in his eyes, dark with worry. Did something happen with him?

She shook her head, but a sob clawed its way up her throat before she could stop it. She’d drunk too much. She’d known it even as she was doing it.

Stupid.

“Hermione, what happened?” Theo pressed, voice tight.

“Theo, he’s fine,” she snapped. “He made it very clear to me that he’s fine. It’s not my place to tell him what to do even if he’s not.”

Theo sighed, rubbing a hand over his face. Understanding flickered across his expression.

“Hermione.” He sat beside her on the couch, leaning into her, resting his head against her shoulder. “He didn’t mean it.”

She scoffed, voice thick with tears. “I assure you, he did. You don’t even know what happened.”

“What did he say to you?” Ron asked, voice edged with anger. Always ready to hate Draco. Always waiting for him to mess up.

Hermione turned to him sharply. “Draco isn’t the one in the wrong here,” she bit out, frustration twisting in her chest. Even through the haze, she could see what Ron wanted. “So don’t even start with that. And even if he was, you still don’t get to wait on the sidelines for him to fail so you can feel better about hating someone I love.”

The words hit like a curse. Ron opened his mouth to reply, but Harry stopped him with a hand on his arm.

Hermione only cried harder.

She felt like she was watching everyone around her through a haze, like she was watching this memory in a pensieve, a spectator to her own grief. She barely registered Theo’s arms wrapping around her, Harry casting a Patronus—his stag illuminating the dim room as it leaped from his wand. She wasn’t sure if he spoke. She wasn’t sure if she’d even hear it if he did.

Theo smelled like cologne and Firewhiskey, with a faint trace of Harry clinging to his sweater. She buried her face against the fabric, squeezing her eyes shut to stop the spinning.

“You’re okay, Granger,” Theo murmured.

Her ever-so-graceful response was to sob against him. His arms tightened around her.

She had left him.

Just left him, regardless of the fact that he was in a pretty vulnerable state, alone, overwhelmed. And then she had done nothing. She hadn’t gone back. Hadn’t reached out. Hadn’t checked in.

And neither had he.

He had taken her message for what it was.

Whether or not it was what she had intended.

She let herself unravel, gripping Theo’s sweater in shaking fists, no longer trying to save face.

Then, suddenly—new arms wrapped around her. Theo’s warmth disappeared, replaced by something else. Something familiar.

Vetiver and leather. Sharp citrus.

Draco.

She sobbed harder.

He lifted her effortlessly, arms curling under her knees and around her back, cradling her against his chest.

“Let’s get you to bed,” he murmured against her hair.

The too-loud room faded behind them.

“I can walk, Draco,” she mumbled, though she made no move to prove it.

“I know,” he said simply.

The flat was quiet as he carried her to her room. He left the lights off as he entered, and she wasn’t sure if she was relieved because the brightness would only worsen her throbbing head—or because she couldn’t bear to face him.

He sat beside her on the bed. Somehow, she was still crying.

His hand was warm as he cupped her face, tilting her chin so she would look at him. In the dim light, she could just make out the crease between his brows, the frown tugging at his lips. His sleeve slid over his hand as he wiped the tears from her cheek.

She let out a wet, shaky laugh at the gesture. How serious he was about it. How careful.

But the laughter died quickly, swallowed by exhaustion. She had cried enough in her life.

She was tired of crying.

Draco sighed, then, and pulled her into him, wrapping himself around her.

“Stop,” she mumbled into his chest, voice muffled against his shirt. “You’re just going to make me cry again.”

He smoothed a hand over her hair, fingers resting at the back of her neck.

“I’m not making you cry,” he whispered, his voice a low, steady hum against her ear.

His voice seemed much louder with her ear against his chest, the low, resonant sound of it all she could focus on in her drunken state.

“Say more stuff,” she said, dismissing their previous topic of conversation as this new one pulled her away.

“What?” He asked, confused, and leaned back to look at her.

“No, don’t,” she said, pulling his chest back to her ear. “Say something.”

“What do you want me to say?” He murmured, running his hands through her hair.

She giggled at the vibration in his chest. How had she never noticed this before? It seemed so important now.

“Whatever you want to say,” she said, quickly, then patted him on the side when he didn’t immediately respond.

“I’m going to kill Theo,” he said, “I feel like I’m right in assuming that this level of inebriation is thanks to him.”

She didn’t respond, just listened. His chest was warm against her cheek. His voice was warm. Deep. Safe.

“Hermione, look at me,” he said.

She shook her head. “I’m busy.”

He sighed but held her tighter. “I don’t want to talk about this morning right now because you’re drunk, and you’d want to not be for that. But I do want to say that I love you. And that I’m right here. I’m sorry I didn’t come sooner.”

Her chest ached. She swallowed against the lump in her throat and clung to him.

“Will you stay?” she asked quietly.

“Of course.”

He laid back, pulling her with him, settling her against his chest. She threw an arm and a leg over him, sighing when she found a comfortable spot, nuzzling into him.

He chuckled softly. “So, what, a snuggly drunk? Is that what I’m learning?”

She huffed indignantly but didn’t deny it.

Her eyelids drooped, exhaustion pulling at her limbs.

“When you’re better, I’m getting you drunk,” she mumbled. “I need to know.”

“Okay, Granger,” he said, rubbing slow circles against her back. “When I’m better, I’m all yours.”

He may have said something else.

But she was already asleep.

—

Draco, hours earlier

Well, that’s that, Draco thought as he closed the bathroom door behind him.

Stripped off his clothes. Stepped into the shower.

That was too honest, you fucking psycho.

Oh, hey, Hermione—I’ve considered killing myself for years. Tried once or twice, but Mipsy or the Manor’s magic has always got in the way. What a shame, right? So, anyway, I’d love your hand in marriage.

He let out a bitter, breathless laugh. Yeah. That ought to do it.

As was becoming his habit, he sank down onto the shower floor, stretching his legs out in front of him. Steam thickened the air. The water pounded against his skin, too hot, just shy of burning. He let it scald him anyway.

She had only been trying to help.

He knew that.

Still, he had no doubt he was in for an uncomfortable conversation with his mother soon. That was a problem for later. Right now, all he could think about was the fact that—for the first time in weeks—he felt like he could breathe.

The weight pressing against his chest had eased, just enough to notice the absence. The world felt sharper around him, more tangible. He hadn’t even realized how far he had sunk until he felt this strange, unfamiliar clarity.

He felt awake.

Really, truly awake.

The realization cracked something open inside him. And with it, the panic rushed back—embarrassment, regret, the deep-seated fear of being seen too clearly. His Occlumency barriers had been holding it at bay since the moment he shut the bathroom door, but they weren’t strong enough to keep it out now.

So he let it come.

Let it settle over him, pressing in from all sides.

And he sat there with it.

Let the scalding water run. Let the steam suffocate him.

Waited for the feeling to pass.

—

Potter’s Patronus found him in his father’s office.

The ghostly stag shimmered in the dim light, its presence an unwelcome disruption to the fragile calm he had managed to rebuild.

“Malfoy, could you come to Hermione’s flat? I think she could… use your company. She’s safe, so don’t panic or anything.”

Draco was already on his feet before the words had even fully registered.

The chair scraped against the floor.

The stag had to follow him out of the room, its silvery glow casting long shadows across the cold stone as he strode toward the fireplace.

—

Draco, present

Hermione fell asleep on his chest almost as soon as they laid down. 

Her breath evened out quickly, deep and steady against his ribs. The warmth of her body pressed close to his, the way she fit against him so effortlessly—it should have pulled him under too.

However, not even five minutes later, he got that tell-tale feeling of impending doom. He was hurriedly disentangling himself from her when his fingers started going numb, so he knew he didn’t have much time. 

Somehow—miraculously—he managed to extricate himself without waking her. The room tilted dangerously. He gritted his teeth, forcing himself upright, and stumbled toward the door.

The hallway stretched before him, impossibly long, each step heavier than the last.

By the time he rounded the corner into the living room, his vision was tunneling. He barely had the presence of mind to grab the wall for balance, his grip slipping against the smooth surface.

They were still here.

Harry, Ron, Theo, Padma—they must have stayed to see if he and Hermione would return.

He opened his mouth to speak, but his tongue felt thick, foreign.

“Draco?” Theo asked, looking up at him where he stood, swaying, in the entrance to the living room. 

“Theo,” he managed, voice already unraveling. His breath hitched. “I—please.”

He put every ounce of desperation he could muster into those few words.

Theo only took a second to register what was happening, thank Merlin, and he was already walking toward him. 

It seemed like a second. Maybe he’s just already losing time. 

Theo grabbed his arm and pulled him, but the room was already going black.  

“Please don’t wake her up,” Draco managed, barely aware of his own voice.

Then the floor disappeared beneath him.

—

People were talking around him, hushed whispered words. 

Someone was touching him. Touching his hair.

He blinked sluggishly against the weight pressing down on him, trying to force his eyes open.

“Hermione?” he asked, voice hoarse.

“No, bub, just me,” someone said. 

Who? Think. 

Wait—Theo. 

The realization settled, and he tried to sit up, only to flinch as a sharp pain shot through his hip.

“Stop moving, Dray,” Theo said, voice low but firm. “I need to heal you before you get up.”

Draco frowned. “What? Why?” His voice came out rough, scraping against his throat.

“You landed pretty hard when you passed out,” Theo explained quietly. “I tried to catch you, but I wasn’t close enough.”

Draco hadn’t managed to open his eyes yet, but he felt it—felt the warmth of Theo’s magic sinking into his hip, the sharp pain dulling, fading into something manageable. A sigh of relief escaped him.

“Is that all that hurts?” Theo asked. “Let me see your wrist.”

Draco barely had the strength to protest before Theo took his hand, carefully flexing his wrist back.

The pain that lanced up his arm was sharp, immediate. He swore, voice tight.

“I thought so,” Theo murmured. “Hold still.”

Another soft incantation. More warmth. The throbbing dulled, replaced by a numb, buzzing relief.

“Okay,” Theo said. “You’ll still want to go easy on it. Thankfully, it’s your non-dominant hand. Your hip wasn’t broken, but I think your wrist was. You’ll want Hermione to take a look at it when she wakes up.”

Draco heard the words, but he wasn’t sure he actually processed them. His mind felt fogged over, information slipping through the cracks. It wouldn’t stick.

Theo must have known, because he didn’t ask him to move.

Draco’s head was resting against something warm and solid. Theo’s lap, probably. It was the only thing that made sense, especially given the way Theo’s fingers pressed into his scalp, massaging slow circles over the base of his skull.

As always, his stomach churned with nausea as the postictal vertigo washed over him in waves. He squeezed his eyes shut tighter, swallowing convulsively, willing it to pass.

Seconds later, he realized he was definitely going to be sick. 

He must’ve said that part out loud because Theo asked someone standing next to him for a rubbish bin and then he was sitting up with it in his hands. 

He would be thankful that he’d barely eaten today, but dry heaving might actually hurt worse.

Someone pressed something cold against the back of his neck. He jerked at the sensation, a small, broken sound escaping before he could swallow it down.

“Sorry, I know,” Theo said, “but it will help.”

Draco wasn’t convinced, but eventually, the nausea eased. The room around him shifted again, and suddenly he was leaning against something solid.

Theo was still touching him, he thought. His hand, firm and steady, pressed against Draco’s shoulder.

His eyelids felt impossibly heavy, but he forced them open. The room was blurry, fuzzy around the edges, shifting in ways that made his stomach roll.

“Draco, come on,” Theo’s voice cut through the fog. “Stay with me, please.”

Draco frowned, trying to latch onto the sound of his voice, but he couldn’t focus. The room kept shifting, too far away and too close all at once.

“Padma, come here,” Theo’s voice sounded tight. “I don’t—I don’t know if this is normal.”

More hands. Draco flinched at the new touch, struggling to force his gaze into focus.

Hands on his face. Bright light.

Ouch.

“Sorry,” someone murmured. That was out loud, then. 

“Ouch was out loud, yes,” someone said. They sounded close. 

“Ron, will you grab a glass of water?” A girl said. 

Padma, his brain supplied sluggishly.

“Yes, I’m Padma,” she confirmed. “Can you tell me your name?”

He blinked, willing his tongue to form the words. “Draco.”

“Good. Where are you?” she asked.

Draco frowned. “Shouldn’t I be asking you that?”

Silence. No one laughed.

“He seemed less out of it when he first woke up, somehow,” Theo muttered.

Draco scoffed. “I’m not out of it. Very much into it.”

“Can you see me?” Padma asked him. 

He forced his eyes to focus. Blurry, but… shapes. Movement.

“Mhmm,” he hummed, then squinted. “But you’re blurry. Unless you just look like that. Then, sorry.”

Padma laughed. Good. He won. 

“Yes, you won, Malfoy,” she said, her voice soft, amused. “Harry, help Theo get him on the couch.”

Draco tensed. “No, I can’t, I—Hermione.”

“You can go back to her in a bit, mate,” Potter said. “You just need a second.”

Why’s he being nice to me?

“It’s not as fun to kick you when you’re down,” Potter said.

Shit. Still out loud.

A cool glass was pressed into his hands.

“Can you drink this?”

Draco blinked, trying to focus. “What?”

“Water,” someone said.

A small, cold hand steadied the glass as he took a sip. The cool liquid slipped down his throat, sharp and grounding. He managed a few sips without it threatening to come back up.

The room slowly stopped tilting. The world sharpened around him. Someone was holding his wrist.

Theo was still watching him, his face tight with concern.

Draco sighed. “Stop. I’m fine.”

“You do seem… slightly more fine now,” Theo admitted.

“Malfoy, look at me,” Padma said, then—fuck—another bright light flashed in his eyes.

He winced. “Fuck.”

Padma was apparently holding his chin because when he tried to turn his face away, she didn’t let him.

She flashed the light again.

“Your pupils still look normal,” she said. “And you reacted more normally that time. So that’s good.”

“Gods, I guess you’re trying to give me another seizure with that fucking flashing light,” he muttered.

“There he is,” Weasley quipped.

Padma didn’t seem phased. If anything, she looked relieved. 

“How do you feel? Normal or no?” She asked. 

“I’m fine,” he replied, embarrassment finally setting in as he became more and more aware. “Thanks, uhm—for your help.”

“Don’t mention it,” Padma smiled at him warmly. 

Theo stared at him with the sad eyes that always make him want to hide things from him. 

Draco sighed, “I’m fine, Theodore, really.”

“That was different than usual and you know it,” Theo mumbled. 

“No, Theo, honestly,” Draco replied, uncomfortable with this less-than-private conversation, “it really wasn’t, I just… normally, I just fall asleep afterward when I feel out of it. The vision thing was weird, though,” he conceded. 

“Speaking of, you should probably go to sleep,” Padma interjected. 

Hermione, he remembered. He told her he’d stay. 

Draco cursed, pushing himself up immediately. He was a bit wobbly, but not too wobbly to start walking. 

Theo caught his arm, “Can you fucking give it a second? Sweet Salazar, you need to tone it down. There’s no rush right now.”

Theo was right. Hermione would still be there if he took a minute longer. She probably won’t wake up for a while. And if she did… it’s not like she’d be mad at him for this. 

Why did he feel so anxious then? 

“I’m not rushing. Just going to bed. Doctor’s orders, I’ve heard,” he replied tonelessly, immediately occluding against the swell of anxiety. 

Potter gave him a confused look. 

“Okay, well… don’t kill yourself on the way—“

He flinched. 

“—you can slow down.”

Theo didn’t catch it. But Potter did. He met Draco’s eye with the most sickening look of understanding he’d ever seen directed toward him. 

“Sure, Theo. You’re right. Good night. And thanks again,” he directed generally toward the room and tried not to run away from all the eyes on him. 

—

Theo

“Draco?” Theo asked, noticing Draco had come back without Hermione. He was standing at the end of the hall with his palm against the wall. 

Theo barely had time to register the way Draco was gripping the wall at the end of the hallway before he heard his voice—rough, thin, and unraveling at the edges.

“Theo, I—please.” 

Theo’s chest tightened.

Draco was swaying on his feet, paler than normal—somehow. His eyes were unfocused, his breathing too shallow.

Theo didn’t think. He moved.

He reached him in a few strides, his hand catching Draco’s arm just as his knees buckled.

“Please don’t wake her up,” Draco slurred.

Then, he collapsed.

Theo barely managed to keep him from hitting his head, shifting to brace his fall, but Draco still went down hard. The way he landed—sharp and uneven—told Theo he’d hurt himself.

The room behind them fell silent.

“Bloody hell,” Ron muttered, already standing. The others moved too—Harry, Padma—each of them keen to intervene.

Theo lifted a hand, stopping them before they could rush forward. “Stop,” he ordered. “Don’t panic. It makes it worse for him.”

Draco let out a strained sound—low and guttural—and Theo barely had time to react before his muscles seized, his body jerking violently beneath him.

It had been a while.

But this process was something Theo couldn’t easily forget.

Theo slid a hand under Draco’s head, keeping it steady, careful to brace the wrist Draco had landed on. He counted the seconds, forcing his own breathing to stay even.

Three and a half minutes passed before Draco stilled.

Theo exhaled, shifting slightly so Draco’s head rested in his lap. He smoothed a hand over his hair, pressing his fingers gently into his scalp.

He wakes up less frantic when Granger does this.

Theo thought it might help.

Draco’s breathing changed first—his ribs rising in slow, deep waves. Then, a small, pained sound slipped from his lips.

“Hermione?” he mumbled.

Theo frowned. He hated how disoriented he sounded. “No, bub. Just me.”

A beat passed before Draco seemed to register the words. Then—of course—he tried to sit up.

Theo caught him with a firm hand to his chest, but not before he heard the sharp hiss of pain as Draco moved.

“Stop moving, Dray,” Theo murmured, already pulling his wand from his back pocket. “I need to heal you before you get up.”

Draco let out a weak noise of protest. “What? Why?”

“You landed pretty hard when you passed out,” Theo explained, already waving his wand over Draco’s hip. “I tried to catch you, but I wasn’t close enough.”

The spell took effect, magic seeping into the bruised muscle. Draco groaned softly, his body sinking deeper against Theo’s legs.

“Is that all that hurts?” Theo asked. “Let me see your wrist.”

Draco didn’t argue as Theo took his hand, flexing it back slightly—just enough to test for injury.

Draco swore sharply, his breath catching.

“I thought so. Hold still,” Theo whispered, and repeated the spell, healing his wrist. He’s always been a dab hand at healing charms, he had a lot of practice during his upbringing, after all. But Padma really should be the one doing this. 

Draco wouldn’t want her to, though. Not if he could avoid it.

“Okay,” Theo said quietly. “You’ll still want to go easy on it. Thankfully, it’s your non-dominant hand. Your hip wasn’t broken, but I think your wrist was. You’ll want Hermione to look at it when she wakes up.”

Draco didn’t respond.

Theo sighed. He was still too dazed to process any of it.

For now, Theo just kept a steady hand in his hair, pressing his fingers into the tense muscles at the base of his neck.

Draco tensed beneath him.

Theo barely had time to glance down before he noticed it—Draco’s face had gone even paler somehow. His throat bobbed as he swallowed convulsively.

Then, voice barely above a whisper—

“Gonna be sick.”

“Harry, hand me that bin next to you, hurry,” Theo asked as calmly as he could and thankfully, Harry complied quickly. 

“Help me,” Theo whispered pushing Draco up from the floor and Harry grabbed Draco’s other arm, helping to pull him into a seated position on the floor. 

Draco was shaking. Theo pressed the rubbish bin into his hands just in time.

Padma handed Theo a cool cloth. “Put it on his neck.”

He did, pressing it against Draco’s skin.

Draco whimpered, his body jerking violently at the cold.

“Sorry,” Theo murmured. “I know. But it will help.”

Harry, to Theo’s surprise, didn’t hesitate either. He sat behind Draco, letting him lean back against his chest since he was too far from any furniture. Theo sat in front of him, steadying him, and took Draco’s face in his hands.

“Draco,” he said softly, patting his cheek.

His breathing slowed. His lashes fluttered. Then—finally—his eyes opened.

They were blank. Unfocused.

Theo frowned.

Draco just stared straight ahead, silent, his gaze unfixed.

Then—his head lolled backward against Harry’s shoulder, eyes fluttering.

“Draco, come on,” Theo urged, tilting his face forward again. “Stay with me, please.”

No response.

Theo’s stomach twisted.

“Padma,” he said sharply, glancing up at her. “Come here. I don’t—I don’t know if this is normal.”

She was calmer than him when she approached.

Padma knelt in front of Draco, fingers pressing into his neck, checking his pulse. With a flick of her wand, she forced one of his eyes open, shining a light into it.

“Ow,” Draco whimpered.

“Sorry,” Padma murmured.

He blinked sluggishly. “…Ouch was out loud?”

“Ouch was out loud, yes,” Padma replied simply, seemingly unfazed by this behavior. 

Harry, still behind Draco, reached for Theo’s hand. Theo gripped it, grounding himself. Harry squeezed back, reassuring.

Draco’s head tipped back again, resting against Harry’s neck.

Draco would be horrified if he was aware. Honestly, it’s the thing making Theo the most confident that he was actually delirious. 

“Ron, will you grab a glass of water?” Padma asked, a bit louder than she’d been speaking. Ron nodded and headed into the kitchen. He looked uncomfortable and happy for an excuse to leave. 

Draco frowned. “Oh. You’re Padma.”

“Yes, I’m Padma,” she said softly. “Can you tell me your name?”

“Draco,” he replied and Theo would be lying if he said he didn’t channel a bit of relief into his next exhale. 

“Good. Where are you?” Padma asked this time. 

“Shouldn’t I be asking you that?” He asked, some attempt at humor Theo guessed. 

Padma pursed her lips in concern. 

Theo frowned. “He seemed less out of it when he first woke up, somehow.”

“M’not out of it,” Draco slurred. “I’m into it.”

Harry snorted.

Padma hummed. “Can you see me?”

“Mhmm,” Draco mumbled, blinking slowly. “But you’re blurry. Unless you just look like that, then I’m sorry.”

Padma huffed a quiet laugh.

Draco smiled lazily. “Yes. I win.”

“Yes, you won, Malfoy,” Padma replied softly. “Harry, help Theo get him on the couch.”

Draco stiffened. “No, I can’t, I—Hermione.”

“You can go back to her in a bit, mate, you just need a second,” Harry said, already wrapping an arm around Draco’s chest to help him up.

Draco hesitated. “Why’s he being nice to me?”

“It’s not as fun to kick you when you’re down,” Harry quipped, but there was something else in his face. Something unreadable.

Theo filed it away.

After Draco had some water, his body seemed to settle—less shaky, more present.

Theo turned to him. “Stop. I’m fine,” Draco sighed, sounding exhausted.

“You do seem… slightly more fine now,” Theo admitted.

“Malfoy, look at me,” Padma said, checking his pupils again. 

“Fuck,” he muttered, and winced as he tried to jerk his face away. Padma stopped him, though, holding him still to finish her assessment of him. 

“Your pupils still look normal. And you reacted more normally that time. So that’s good,” she said. 

“Gods, I guess you’re trying to give me another seizure with that fucking flashing light,” Draco grumbled under his breath, rubbing his eyes roughly. 

“There he is,” Ron said, rolling his eyes. 

“How do you feel? Normal or no?” Padma asked, her voice much more casual than it had been before. Theo realized that professional, calm tone must be her crisis voice. 

“I’m fine,” Draco replied softly. Theo could see the urge to run written all over him, his posture stiffening. “Thanks, uhm—for your help.”

“Don’t mention it,” Padma told him, and she seemed to mean it. 

Theo couldn’t help but stare at him. Checking for anything new or odd. 

Draco sighed, “I’m fine, Theodore, really.”

“That was different than usual and you know it,” Theo replied, refusing to allow him to underplay this. 

“No, Theo, honestly, it really wasn’t, I just… normally, I just fall asleep afterward when I feel out of it. The vision thing was weird, though,” Draco mumbled under his breath. He glanced nervously around the room after every other word, it seemed 

“Speaking of, you should probably go to sleep,” Padma said, clearly noticing how uncomfortable he was too. 

Panic washed over Draco’s features for some reason and he stood immediately, swearing, and almost fell before Theo caught his arm. 

“Can you fucking give it a second?” Theo snapped. “Sweet Salazar, you need to tone it down. There’s no rush right now.”

Draco stilled. Then took a deep breath. 

“I’m not rushing. Just going to bed. Doctor’s orders, I’ve heard,” Draco replied calmly. 

“Okay, well… don’t kill yourself on the way, you can slow down,” Theo replied, unsure of how to take his easy concession. 

“Sure, Theo. You’re right. Good night. And thanks again,” Draco said quietly, starting off down the hall before he finished his sentence. 

Chapter Text

Hermione

When Hermione woke up, the sun was already high in the sky. 

Draco was asleep next to her, his arm covering his eyes. 

They were both still fully dressed, minus their shoes. Draco even had a belt on. Hermione’s clothes were at least loungewear. 

He seemed very asleep despite that, however. He lay on his back, his hand resting on his stomach, which rose and fell with his slow breaths. 

Hermione’s head ached, a dull pressure behind her eyes. 

If anyone asked, that was why, instead of letting Draco sleep like she should have, she rolled over and draped herself back over him. 

He startled with a small humph, but didn’t actually seem awake when he turned his face toward hers and wrapped his arm around her, humming pleasantly. 

“You’re warm,” he mumbled, his voice rough with sleep. 

“You’re dressed business casually,” she replied. 

“Oh?” He asked, raising his head to look down at himself. “It seems I am.”

Despite this fact, he let his head fall back onto her pillow, his eyes falling closed again. 

“Don’t you need to frantically run off somewhere and attend to urgent business?” She grumbled. It was a low blow, but it sort of just came out without her permission. 

Draco sighed. 

After a beat, he responded. “I shouldn’t have gotten upset with you, Hermione. I know you were just trying to help.”

Hermione had been preparing to argue with him, so this caught her off guard. 

“I—well, I’m sorry for taking the choice away from you. Even if I meant well. That wasn’t fair,” she whispered instead. 

“I feel like my choice is being taken away from me right now,” he murmured, dozing back off, “but by my own body.”

“I’m trying to be serious,” she said. 

He didn’t reply. 

Hermione sighed and laid her head back on his chest, wrapping her arm around his middle.

An owl tapped on the window, and Draco jerked. 

Hermione went over and swung the window opening, taking the letter from the owl in exchange for a treat. 

She looked it over and then looked up at Draco, where he was now sitting up on the bed, a look of confusion settled over his tired face.

“Dr. Green has requested a meeting,” Hermione breathed. “He thinks he can help.”

—

“Basically, he thinks he can unblock or sever whatever in his brain is causing this misfiring of signals,” Hermione explained to the group. 

The group being Harry, Theo, Ron, and Padma. 

“Using legilimency?” Padma questioned, unconvinced. 

“Yes,” Hermione nodded. “He’s developed a way of using it more tangibly. It has actual effects on the brain of the person he’s using it on, that is.”

“This sounds risky,” Harry muttered. 

“It is. And,” Hermione said cautiously, “he’ll need to try it on someone else first. Someone with a normally functioning brain.”

“So, you’re out, Hermione. You’re definitely not normal,” Ron laughed. 

“You know what I mean,” Hermione scoffed, “Either way, I am out. I have to help him with the procedure.”

“Then it’s me,” Theo stated plainly. 

“Absolutely not,” Draco interrupted, “while we’re on the subject, it’s no one. This topic does not leave this room for any recruitment purposes. He can trial it with me and if it works, it works.”

“Your mind’s too fragile,” Hermione said bluntly. “You couldn’t handle a mistake.”

“What good does practicing on an intact mind do? It won’t even be a similar process, he might as well start with me,” Draco argued. 

“That wasn’t even convincing. He’ll try it on me first, it’s settled,” Theo replied. 

“No, Theo,” Harry sighed, “I can do it. I’ve already had similar things done to me and have been fine, so it’s less of a risk.”

Draco looked incensed. “What part of ‘no one, none of you,’ don’t you all understand?”

Theo held his hands up, cutting off both Harry and Draco, “Enough. Both of you. It has to be me. I’m the only other Occlumens in the group, especially the only one that’s even close to as good as Draco. And, Draco, you know damn well that this is the least I can do,” Theo finished softly, shooting Draco a pointed look. 

Draco laughed loudly and abruptly, turning around the room and back. When he stood back in front of them, he wasn’t laughing. He pointed a trembling finger at Theo and just said, “No,” his tone laced with finality and anger. 

Theo stood up, glaring, grabbed Draco by the arm, and dragged him down the hall. 

They heard a door slam shut behind them.

Everyone was silent for a long time. 

“Would it be dangerous? For Theo?” Harry asked, eventually. 

“I don’t think so,” Hermione shook her head. “There’s almost no chance that this sort of thing could be dangerous to someone that isn’t already… compromised.”

“I don’t like it, Hermione,” he grimaced. 

“I understand. I also told Theo that I had reservations about it being him, but he’ll have it no other way. I talked to him about it a few days ago.”

Harry sighed, “I know.”

“I won’t let anything happen to him,” Hermione said, putting her hand over Harry’s, “I promise.”

“I trust you, Hermione, it’s him I’m worried about. If he thinks it’ll help, he won’t object to anything. And you’d never know if something was hurting him if he didn’t want you to, he doesn’t react obviously to pain.”

Harry shot her a look that said more than his words did. 

Suddenly, Theo and Draco’s voices were loud enough to carry through the small flat. 

“Draco, you’re the only family I have left!” Theo shouted. 

“How can you say that and still not understand why I’m not letting you do this?” Draco shouted back, exasperatedly. 

“I don’t need you to let me do anything, I’m not fucking asking for your permission!” Theo retorted. 

“Should someone intervene in this?” Padma asked cautiously. 

“We won’t have to,” Hermione sighed. 

When the room looked collectively confused by this response, Hermione explained, “Draco’s had seizures almost daily lately. And stress is a trigger for him.”

In a way that would’ve seemed almost comedically timed if it weren’t for the severity of the situation, a dull thud sounded from down the hall. 

Hermione rubbed her face roughly and took a deep breath. 

—

Hermione decided to make a habit out of massaging him. Especially on days when the tension and soreness in him were so obvious that it changed the way he moved. 

Tonight was one of those nights. 

She sat next to him on his bed like she’d done the last few times, and worked her hands into his muscles. 

And, like the last few times, his vocal appreciation of the process left her overly warm and aching. 

“Fuck,” he groaned as she worked over his injured hip. “You’re ruthless.”

“It only helps if it hurts a little,” she murmured, apologetically. 

She lingered in that spot until her touch drew softer sounds from him. 

“Flip over,” she said eventually. “I’ll do your chest before we go to bed.”

He hesitated, laughing nervously. “I—Well… there’s no graceful way to say this, but I’m painfully hard. So, I should probably stay like this for a few minutes.”

For a second, she simply stared at him. Then laughter bubbled up, light and free, cutting through the thick tension in the room. She leaned down, brushing her lips across his temple, her breath warm against his skin. "Oh, thank God," she whispered, then pushed him onto his back herself, straddling his waist.

His pupils blew wide as her lips found his, and he exhaled sharply, his hands grasping at her thighs. “Fuck, I—okay, yes, please,” he mumbled against her mouth, fingers clinging to her as if afraid she might vanish.

"I didn’t want to assume," she murmured, trailing kisses along his jaw, savoring the rough scrape of stubble against her lips. She nipped at the hinge of his jaw, felt the way his body tensed beneath her, the soft, desperate noise he made in the back of his throat.

His breath hitched, his head tilting back of its own accord, exposing the long, pale line of his throat. "Gods, Hermione, I can’t take it," he admitted, voice rough and unsteady, tinged with desperation. "I’ve already been fighting not to grind against the mattress for twenty minutes."

She smirked against his skin. "Then stop fighting," she whispered, lips skimming the column of his throat, feeling the pulse there hammering wildly against her mouth.

A sharp inhale. Then—his hands locked onto her waist, fingers digging in with a bruising grip as he flipped her onto the bed beneath him, his wand in his hand before she could even blink. A flick, a murmured spell, and her clothes vanished.

She gasped, affronted. “I loved those jeans,” she grumbled, still pressing kisses to his neck.

“Merlin, Hermione, I’ll buy you more clothes than you know what to do with,” he growled, nipping at her ear, “muggle jeans being the first priority, I swear.”

She laughed breathily. “Ah, yes, Lord Malfoy. I’d love that.”

A soft, choked noise escaped him, his lips ghosting over the curve of her shoulder. "I hate when people call me that," he admitted, voice tight with restraint as he unbuckled his belt, "but, fuck, you can call me that anytime if it means I get you naked in my bed."

“I prefer a few other names, personally,” she managed, gasping as he began kissing and licking his way down her stomach. 

He hummed against her skin, sending a shiver racing through her. "I love being called anything by you," he murmured, his voice thick. "Being referred to by you is a privilege in and of itself."

His hands roamed her body with reverence, trailing heat in their wake. When his lips followed, kissing their way down her chest and stomach, she arched into him, her breathing shallow and uneven.

“Draco,” she gasped. 

A soft, satisfied hum. "That’s still my favorite, yes," he breathed.

The sensation was electric, his mouth against her an overwhelming wave of heat and pleasure that built until her body trembled beneath him. She cried out his name as she tipped over the edge, her head falling back, her heart racing.

She was still trembling when she reached for him, pulling him up by his shoulders, pressing frantic, open-mouthed kisses along his jaw.

"Please," she whispered, voice raw, urgent. "Inside me."

“I’m the one that should be begging,” he exhaled, burying his face in her neck as he lined himself up against her. 

“No,” she murmured, touching his cheek to prompt him to raise his head. “Let me see you.”

He lifted his head back up to meet her eye. He was beautiful like this, his pupils blown, his slightly swollen lips parted, his breaths coming in quickened gasps. 

He hesitated, hovering over her, his fingers flexing against her waist.

“What are you waiting for?” She whispered. 

“You looking at me makes me a bit nervous,” he smiled crookedly, his cheeks tinged pink. 

“Why?” She asked. 

A half-shrug. "I don’t know. I don’t know what I look like right now, and I don’t like that."

Her smile softened, something tender and aching in the way she looked at him. "You’re so beautiful that I can’t believe you’re real sometimes," she murmured. "I hope you’re joking."

His throat bobbed as he swallowed, his breath stuttering.

"I want to watch you," she whispered.

His resolve shattered.

He nodded slightly, then pressed forward, sinking into her slowly, deliberately, his eyes fluttering shut as a low, shuddering moan escaped him.

She exhaled softly, her hands gliding down his back, feeling the way every muscle in him tensed, how he shivered against her.

"I love the way you feel inside me, Draco," she sighed, voice laced with quiet awe.

A strangled sound tore from his throat, his breath hitching sharply.

“I know,” she cooed softly, threading her fingers into his hair, grounding him.

The movements of his hips soon became desperate, his panting breaths more evidence of his impending orgasm. 

He whined headily as he approached the edge, placing his forehead against hers. She wrapped her hand around his neck, holding him to her. She felt herself slipping a second time as well. 

“Just like that,” she purred. 

Her words undid him. He gasped her name, his body trembling as he spilled into her, the heat of him tipping her over the edge with him. She held him close, her legs wrapped around his waist, her arms anchoring him to her as they rode out the waves of their release together.

He collapsed onto her, breathing raggedly. 

They breathed together for a while. He rolled away from her eventually, falling onto his side next to her, wrapping an arm around her middle. 

She cast a subtle scourgify over them both. 

He laughed. 

“Are you okay?” She asked him habitually. 

“Yes,” he answered, simply, even if it came out on a sigh. He obviously understood why she’d ask, but he was clearly uninterested in dwelling on it. 

“Take a bath with me,” he whispered eventually.

“You have a bathtub big enough for both of us?”

He raised up to face her, smiling wickedly, “Oh, do I ever.”

—

And did he ever. She hadn’t noticed it the other times she’d been in his massive bathroom because it was in a totally different room. A giant soaking tub big enough for several people. With a flick of his wand, steaming water started pouring from several openings in the side of the tub. 

The room warmed with the steam from the bath, a relief in her current state of clothes-less-ness. 

Draco sank into the bath without much preamble, motioning for her to follow.

So she did.

She stepped into the bath, sinking into the luxurious water with floral-scented bubbles layering the surface. 

She almost positioned herself to rest back against him.

But, she wanted to face him for the conversation they needed to have.

She rested her back against the opposite side of the tub, her legs still pressing against his, unwilling to fully give up contact with him.

He looked momentarily disappointed by her decision, but the expression was fleeting. He let his head fall back against the smooth porcelain of the tub behind him, his eyes slipping shut. She just watched him for a moment. Sometimes she still found herself shocked by the new microscope under which she viewed him. 

Draco was never someone she’d have described as soft, if she would have described him at all. And even still, he wasn’t, not really. He’s quick to bite, quick to overreact, quick to anger. All defense mechanisms. 

But with her, it’s like some switch flips and he’s suddenly allowed to be human. Vulnerable. He’s allowed to let his walls down—both literally in his mind, and figuratively.

Even enough to say things he clearly regretted saying.

“Can we talk about it?” she asked softly.

“About what?” He asked, looking at her, but she noticed the flash of panic in his eyes. He knew what.

“About the other morning,” she replied, simply.

He sighed, letting his eyes fall closed again. As if not seeing her would make this easier. Or maybe just out of the general fatigue that plagued him, part of what caused his previous statement in the first place.

“I tricked you? I just let you sleep. Draco, you’re killing yourself. I hope you realize I mean that literally. You are killing yourself,” she spoke a bit more softly this time.

“Then let me!” He jerked his arm out of her hold. “Fucking, let me, Hermione. If this is all it takes to kill me, then I’m better off dead.”

Let me kill myself, he’d told her.

He was silent for a while. When the tub was full and the sound of the water pouring into it ceased, the silence hung heavier still.

“Did you mean it?” She asked. 

“Please, Hermione,” he whispered, “I apologized. You were right to do what you did. Can that be enough?”

“I understand that this isn’t something that’s easy to talk about—“

“Then don’t make me,” He interrupted. 

She sighed. 

“I can’t make you,” she said softly, “and even if I could, I wouldn’t force this conversation out of you.”

He didn’t reply.

“But,” she continued softly, “I think we need to talk about it. I think you need to talk about it.”

“I really don’t,” he responded bluntly. 

“So, what, Draco? I’m just supposed to accept that you told me you wanted me to let you kill yourself?” She asked, just as bluntly. He flinched. “I’m just supposed to be okay with that?”

“I can’t control how you feel about it,” he murmured. “But I’d take it back if I could.”

“Draco,” she heaved an exasperated exhale, moving through the water to be closer to him, sitting in front of him to remain facing him. “I don’t want you to take it back. I want you to talk to me.”

“I can’t talk about it,” he pleaded, running a frantic hand through his damp hair, “I didn’t mean it. Okay? I didn’t mean it. I don’t want that anymore.”

She didn’t speak immediately, wondering if he would catch what he just admitted in his own defense.

He clearly did, but instead of elaborating, he froze. His eyes screwed shut.

“Anymore?” Hermione asked softly. 

"Anymore,” he nodded, opening and averting his eyes.

She didn’t press him. Just touched his arm, gently urging him to continue.

“It was mostly an accident. I was drunk,” he laughed dryly, but his breath caught on the words, “I tripped and broke the bottle—gashed my arm open.”

She leaned into his chest so he wasn’t forced to look at her. Even now, he placed a shaking hand on her shoulder.

“It bled so much, maybe it was the alcohol, but I was lightheaded pretty soon. And I just… figured I wouldn’t stop it. Or maybe I helped it along, I don’t know.” 

His breathing was uneven and too quick. 

“But something triggered the wards. Too much Malfoy blood spilled onto the hardwood, I think,” he tried to force a laugh on a hiccoughing breath, but it sounded more panicked than anything. “Mipsy and my mother were both alerted. I wasn’t—I wasn’t conscious when they found me. I should’ve died. The fact that it was my left arm saved me”

She ran her hand over his chest. He was shivering despite the warmth of the water. 

“The dark mark rejects any attempts to mutilate it. So it started healing faster than it should have.” His last words were rushed out on a stuttering breath.

“When?” She whispered.

“Last year,” he replied softly.

She nodded. She traced her fingertips over his skin in a subtle attempt to calm his breathing.

“Please,” he whispered, “can we move on? I can’t—I can’t occlude right now.”

Please, she heard, I’ll fall apart.

She leaned up to press a kiss to his cheek, then fell back against him, resting her back against his chest. “Tell me more about this bathtub. Does it do anything interesting?”

Chapter Text

Theo

“Alright, Mr. Nott. The way this works is I’m going to enter your mind in a way pretty typical of Legilimency. After that’s successful, I’m going to see if I’m able to see and interact with more physical parts of your mind,” Dr. Green said, gesturing for Theo to take a seat in his office chair. Theo and Harry’s office chair, that is. The group thought this experiment would be best conducted somewhere he was comfortable.

Hermione, Harry, and Draco sat on the couch next to them looking varying levels of nervous. Feeling, likely, similar levels of nervous.

Theo nodded, ideally looking ill at ease. He, however, maybe also felt a similar level of nervous.

“My goal with this trial, since your experience will need to be slightly different than Mr. Malfoy’s, will be to increase your gamma-aminobutyric acid activity, also known as GABA, which controls your brain’s inhibitory response. Increased GABA response can lead to drowsiness, confusion, and poor coordination. Then, I intend to use your own thoughts and memories to flood your mind with emotionally charged images.”

Theo raised an eyebrow, waiting for Dr. Green to repeat his words more comprehensively.

“In short, Mr. Nott, I plan to get you drunk and then to get you to react to said drunkenness.” Dr. Green laughed.

“Smashing,” Theo smirked. “Why didn’t you lead with that?”

“I still don’t know that this is necessary,” Draco sighed, his appearance torn between scorn and panic.

“I still don’t think anyone’s asked for your medical opinion, Dray,” Theo sighed theatrically in return, leaning back in the chair and tilting his head up to the ceiling. “Ready whenever you are, doc.”

—

Theo felt it when Dr. Green (or Gideon or whatever he was supposed to call his best mate’s professor) entered his mind. It was a kinder form of legilimency than the variety used by Voldemort, but it was still an odd, somewhat unpleasant sensation.

“Can I call you Theo?” Dr. Green asked in an echoey, disembodied voice.

“Yes, strange angel on my shoulder, you may,” Theo responded mentally.

“I’m an angel, not a devil? That’s a relief, I suppose,” Dr. Green mused. Theo could feel him rummaging around in his mind. But not with his memories, more with… the stuff around them? Like the foundation of the home versus the furniture.

“Fix my friend and then we’ll talk,” Theo replied, but not with much malice.

Dr. Green laughed and it was a particularly odd sound in his mind.

“Okay, son, you may feel a bit of pressure,” he said, then.

“I don’t think I agreed to ‘son’,” Theo responded.

“Does it bother you?”

“I would lie and say yes, but I think you’d know because you’re literally in my head. So, no. It doesn’t. I’m just taking the piss because I didn’t like the way I reacted positively toward it.”

Dr. Green hummed.

“Well, fuck, I didn’t consider the fact that my whole train of thought was going to be front and foremost for you,” Theo grumbled.

“I’m used to it, but I understand that it may make you feel uncomfortable. You’re welcome to ignore my presence if you’d like,” Dr. Green mumbled, fiddling around in his head.

“No, I’d rather just—whoa, ow, that’s weird,” Theo interrupted his own train of thought as he felt a tingling tug at the nape of his neck.

“Sorry. Do you want me to stop?”

“No, it’s fine. Just surprising, that’s all,” Theo said, zoning in on the sensation. It was almost like a massaging sensation, but not in that it was pleasant or forceful, just repetitive and felt like something dragging across his skin.

Then, he was flooded with warmth. His whole body seemed to flush at the sensation. Panic flared briefly, but was quickly smothered by the blurring of the world, a dulling of his senses.

“How do you feel?” Dr. Green asked.

“ Fuck ,” Theo managed, and it felt like that was becoming one of the only words he was capable of using, “I—uh.” His words were flowing too slowly, like cold maple syrup, and his thoughts felt garbled.

He giggled.

He could feel Dr. Green’s amusement somehow. “Okay, let me know if the feeling becomes unpleasant or uncomfortable, okay?”

“Mhmm,” Theo mumbled, “I’m hunky-dory presently.”

“Good,” Dr. Green replied, “I’m going to rifle through a few of your memories and thought, okay? I’m not trying to pry, I won’t look too hard, just… let whatever comes to mind, come to mind, okay? The goal is to think of something somewhat emotional, or something that you find provocative of emotion.”

Theo’s drunk brain immediately zeroed in on that word and a flash of Harry on his knees in front of him, his cock in his mouth, was front and center.

“Sorry, sorry,” Theo rushed out, even as his body reacted viscerally to the memory, his blood heating in his veins. Immediately he felt like a teenager getting caught looking at a racy magazine. Then, lacking the normal control he has over his thoughts, his mind immediately went to his violent father’s reaction to his sexuality. His reddened screaming face. Somehow he managed to flinch mentally.

“My mistake. Poor word choice. Don’t worry, I’m not bothered, I’m the intruder here. Try again,” Dr. Green said, soothingly. Like he was talking to a child, maybe.

A drunk adult and a child have much in common, after all.

Theo settled on a memory of Harry laughing. That was emotional, right? In the memory, they were both drinking from the same bottle of wine. Harry was laughing at something he’d said, and he remembered flushing with pride at making him laugh. Harry leaned over and drunkenly kissed him on the cheek. They weren’t… sure of what they were yet, then. Theo was sure, of course, but they hadn’t discussed it. Not really.

Harry fell asleep shortly after. He was always a sleepy drunk. The memory shifted as Theo’s mind wandered, still fuzzy around the edges.

Harry was drunk again. He wasn’t laughing. He shook with heaving sobs against Theo as he held him. He felt a bit uncomfortable sharing Harry in this vulnerable moment with Dr. Green, but he would have to keep the secret, right? Patient confidentiality and all that?

“I would keep it either way,” Dr. Green replied to the statement that Theo forgot he could hear again.

“Oh yeah, I forgot. You can still hear me,” Theo slurred.

Theo’s memory shifted again, then he was holding Draco similarly as he cried. They were 15, it was the memory from the courtroom. Then they were 16 and he’d just been marked earlier that day. Then they were 17 and Draco had just been tortured on his behalf. Then they were 19 and Draco had just woken up from one of his first really bad seizures. All the same, Theo had held him as he cried.

Then one day he stopped crying. For a long time he stopped crying, it seemed. Somehow it was worse.

“Can we stop now?” Theo whispered, if one could whisper mentally. “I don’t feel so good.”

“Of course, of course,” Dr. Green responded.

The feeling of coming back to his surroundings was disorienting. His stomach lurched with the nauseated feeling that he hadn’t been totally lying to Dr. Green about.

He fell forward, putting his face in his hands. The room was spinning.

He felt a warm hand on his shoulder and he almost recoiled. “You alright, son? Can I get you anything?”

He shook his head, not trusting his voice. The sudden movement had vertigo lancing through his head, a sharp pain accompanying it.

He might have whimpered, but he’d blame that on his quasi-drunkenness. The only reason he suspected he made a sound at all is because Harry was immediately in front of him, sitting on the floor to be eye-level, replacing his hands on his face with his own.

“Hey,” Harry murmured, frowning, “what hurts?”

“M’fine,” Theo insisted.

“Theo,” Harry implored, “now’s not the time.”

“I’m really okay. Just a bit disoriented,” he replied. “Just… need a second.”

Harry stood, then, stepping between Theo’s parted knees and picking him up swiftly by his thighs. Theo made a surprised noise, but gave into the comfort of the hold immediately, especially as the room still spun and he still felt warm and fuzzy. He let his chin fall on Harry’s shoulder and his arms wrap around his neck. He closed his eyes hoping it would make him a bit less wobbly.

“Are we done here? Can I take him?” Harry asked the room.

“Of course, Mr. Potter, he’s all yours,” Dr. Green said and something about his tone made Theo want to roll his eyes. But eye rolling sounded extra spinny.

“I’ve got you,” Harry murmured, just to him, as they walked out of the office and toward their bedroom.

“You’re warm,” Theo slurred, “I accidentally showed Dr. Green you giving me head.”

“Go to sleep, you lush,” Harry laughed.

—

Hermione

“So, that seemed… okay?” Hermione began after Theo and Harry were well on their way.

“I’d say really well, actually. He’s fine, I assure you, just… hungover, for lack of a better word,” Dr. Green laughed softly.

“So, now what? My turn?” Draco said, humorlessly.

“Not today. It’s a draining process for me as well. But, yes, ideally. I think it would be safe at this point to at least attempt,” Dr. Green replied.

Draco frowned at the idea of both Theo and now his professor sacrificing parts of their well-being for him.

“When would you like to attempt it?” Hermione asked, seemingly trying and failing not to seem both eager and anxious.

“Is tomorrow too soon? I have had my plans ready for a while, this was my last step.”

Hermione turned to him then. Her eyes were so hopeful that it made his stomach turn. He wished he felt the same.

He nodded once, short and brisk. “What the hell? Let’s give it a go.”

Chapter Text

Hermione

Draco was reserved at dinner. He often was in general, so no one really noticed anything awry. 

It was a takeaway night at Hermione’s flat. The crowd consisted of a few more regulars, Ron and Padma, Harry and Theo, and, the newest members of the group, Neville and Pansy. It was a larger crowd, and Hermione had wanted to cancel and spend the night alone to minimize the stress of the procedure tomorrow. 

Draco, however, insisted that she keep up the ruse of normalcy. Neville, Pansy, Padma, and Ron didn’t know about the procedure in general, certainly not the imminent nature of it. He claimed it would make him less anxious. 

She’d known it had been more for her benefit than his. They ate, the whole group chatting and laughing occasionally. Draco barely spoke the whole time, pushing the food on his plate around to make it look like he was eating. He made sure to laugh at Theo’s jokes, Hermione assumes because he knew he’d notice. Theo still noticed, of course, but he seemingly decided to give him a pass because he didn’t comment. 

After dinner, they sat in the living room on the couch, chair, floor, or wherever they’d fit. 

Draco sat on the floor with her, his back to the couch and her sitting between his legs. He had his head rested on her shoulder as she talked. When he became a bit heavier than he’d been, she realized he was dozing off. She didn’t react other than to raise her hand to the side of his head, cupping it over his ear so his head wouldn’t loll off her shoulder. 

They sat like that for a while, until Ron laughed particularly loudly in response to something Harry said, and Draco startled awake quietly, inhaling sharply next to her ear. She scratched the hair behind his ear twice to let him know she knew. 

“I’m gonna go on to bed if that’s okay,” he whispered, his voice already sleep-roughened. 

“Sure, are you okay?” She asked him, equally quietly. 

He nodded. “Just tired.”

He’d been more tired than usual recently. If that was even possible. 

“Okay,” she turned and kissed his head before he raised up, squeezing her shoulder as he stood, and walked off without addressing the rest of the group. 

Most people in the room turned to look when he walked off, his tired gait not doing much to mask the soreness in his muscles, a few of them (thankfully) kept the conversation going. 

“Is he alright?” Neville asked once they heard the bedroom door close down the hall. 

“Yeah, he’s fine,” Hermione said. “Are we all still planning on a theatre trip next week?”

“Granger,” Theo said, leveling her with his gaze. 

“What, Theo? He said he was fine. ‘Just tired’,” she added, empathizing his words with air quotes. “And if he’s not… I can’t force him to tell me.”

Theo looked unimpressed. 

“Theo, you act like you’ve ever gotten anything out of Draco he didn’t explicitly want to tell you,” Pansy said, rolling her eyes. 

“I most certainly have, whether he’d like to admit it or not. Plus, Hermione is different, she gets whatever she wants from him,” Theo said, waving an irritated hand in her direction. 

“Well, that’s not—“ Hermione tried. 

“Give him a break. He looked like he needs one,” Pansy said, “Granger, don’t pay any mind to him.”

“He’s seemed completely knackered all night, so it tracks. I’m sure he’s fine, mate,” Ron said, oddly sincerely. 

“He always sort of does, though,” Neville added, quietly and mostly to himself, “seem tired, I mean.”

Hermione sighed. “Yeah, he pretty much always is. His body is having a hard time keeping up with him, I think.”

There were a few noises of agreement around the room at this. 

“So,” Hermione said, deciding not to dwell, “a film and dinner next week?”

—

The rest of the night was more of the same. Eventually, Hermione all but shooed them all out through her floo. 

She got ready for bed quietly, changing and washing her face in the guest bathroom across the hall. She’d gone into the bedroom initially, she had to grab clothes anyway, and she noticed that Draco actually seemed deeply asleep. She figured she’d do her best not to disturb him, then, and crept back out of the room with clothing in hand. 

After her tedious routine was complete, she snuck back into the room and into bed with him. 

She assumed he was still asleep, and acted under that assumption, turning on her side and deciding to follow suit. 

Until he rolled over, folding his sleep-warmed body over hers. 

“Hi,” he mumbled, pulling her closer to him. 

“Hi,” she laughed softly, “sorry I took so long.”

“No,” he said, “don’t be.”

His words seemed almost curt to her and she started to worry that maybe he was upset that she came to bed several hours after him. 

Instead of spiraling and trying to find a solution for a problem that may or may not exist, she decided to just ask, “Are you okay? You seem upset.”

“Not upset,” he murmured, tightening his arm around her. “Focal seizure. An hour ago. Words are still hard.”

“I’m sorry,” she said, turning around to face him and feeling a bit worse than embarrassed at her initial assumption. 

She placed her palm on his cheek. He turned into it, kissing her hand. His skin was clammy despite the chill of the room. 

“Can I get you anything? Water or something, maybe?” She asked. 

He shook his head. 

“Are you sure?”

“Yes. Too sick. I’ll sleep it off.”

She ran her hand down his cheek and settled it on his neck and murmured, “Okay. Goodnight.”

“Love you,” he said, settling in, his body gradually going slack against hers. 

“I love you,” she replied, and it felt like such an understatement tonight. 

She stayed awake for a while, watching him. Checking his pulse. Listening to him breathe. 

—

“You’re wearing that?” Hermione asked incredulously as she entered the living room. 

Draco was sitting on the sofa in a tee shirt and joggers. 

He stared at her for a moment. Then started laughing. “Who are you?” He asked, “I must finally be rubbing off on you.”

She sighed and went about tidying up the room. She didn’t want Dr. Green to think she was a slob, after all. 

“It’s just odd for you,” she shrugged. “Dr. Green will think you’re ill.”

“I am,” Draco said, shrugging in return. “Maybe he’ll try harder to fix me.”

“That’s not the sort of ill I was referring to and you know,” she replied. “Plus, I’m sure he’d try plenty hard either way.”

“Dressing well made it feel too important,” he admitted. “Besides, he’ll be inside my head. I’ll be well dressed in there, I’m sure.”

She frowned at the admission but decided she wouldn’t dwell on it if he wasn’t going to. She understood, though. He didn’t want to get his hopes up again. 

“Yes, well, you look great either way,” she offered, genuinely but also hoping to recover. 

Draco smiled, “No, Granger, double down. It’s absurd for me to be wearing this.” He said it with an air of false sincerity that she couldn’t help but smile at. 

“It is, a bit,” she laughed. “Maybe I’m rubbing off on you.”

“You are rather cozy most of the time. It does make a man envious, occasionally,” he shrugged. 

“If you need fashion lessons, I’m available,” she offered. 

He laughed outright. 

“Okay, hurtful, but I’ll let it go,” she said, taking her place next to him on the couch. She rested her head on his shoulder. “Are you nervous?”

“Mhmm,” he murmured, “increasingly so, even.”

She hummed in response, patting his leg, “It’ll be fine.”

“Hermione, if it doesn’t,” he started, keeping his gaze firmly forward, “work, that is. If it doesn't turn out fine, whatever that may mean, I think… I think I’m done looking.”

Hermione frowned turning his face toward hers, “What do you mean?”

“It’s too much, the searching, the disappointment… I think I give up,” he murmured, smiling sadly down at her. 

“Don’t say that,” she whispered, “firstly, this could work. Secondly… if not, something will, yeah?”

He shook his head, cupping her face in his palm. Instead of replying, he kissed her deeply. Then he pulled away and rested his forehead against hers. “Thank you for this. All of this.”

“Thank me when it works,” she whispered in return. She closed her eyes, a tear falling onto their joined hands. 

“Please don’t cry,” he whispered. “I know that’s selfish of me, but I can’t bear it. Not if it’s over me.”

The floo roared and Theo and Harry stepped through in a flash of green. Hermione and Draco pulled apart abruptly, Hermione rubbing at her eyes discreetly. 

Neither of them mentioned it, thankfully, Theo just plopped down on the sofa next to Draco and Harry sat across from them in the recliner. 

Theo, ever the diffuser of tension, laid down across both of their laps. “Well, I, for one, feel that this is going to go swimmingly. And I speak with good authority seeing as Dr. Green got me drunk yesterday.”

“Are you drunk right now?” Draco asked, halfheartedly shoving him away. 

“Wouldn’t you like to know?” Theo responded, unmoving. 

Draco sighed. 

The floo ignited again, and Dr. Green stepped through. 

They all stared at him in anticipation. Hermione felt much younger than she’d felt in years. 

“Shall we begin?” Dr. Green asked. 

Chapter Text

Draco

Draco sat on the desk chair in Hermione’s office much like Theo did in his own office yesterday. Again, like yesterday, the other three members of their group sat on the office sofa, watching him.

Dr. Green sat in a small wooden chair across from him. The room felt too warm.

Draco pulled his foot up in the chair and rested his chin on his knee, one of the only unmannered behaviors he hadn’t been able to shake from his youth. His mother hates it, says it makes him look feral. That always just made him want to do it more. The motion of it feels good, for whatever reason—maybe it is the stretch, maybe it’s the fact that it’s the only way of sitting he ever participates in that allows him to relax his posture, maybe it’s just the security of having something in front of his chest.

Either way, he wrapped his arms around his knee, settling his chin atop it, and stared past Dr. Green nervously. Dr. Green, or Gideon as he insisted, checked over his notes once more while they waited.

He could hear his heart beating in his ears. The blood rushed out with each frantic beat. It sounded like a recording of an ocean scene, but sped up significantly.

He could feel his hands shaking, so he clasped them together.

His occlumency walls were still in place. Safe, they told him. Soon he wouldn’t be.

“Draco?” Someone said. He looked up, raising an eyebrow.

“He does that sometimes,” Hermione explained, “just give him a second.”

She thought he was having an absence seizure. He almost laughed. He wouldn’t correct her, an absence seizure made him look better than the impending panic attack would.

“Sorry, were you talking to me?” He asked Dr. Green softly, clearing his throat.

“I was just letting you know that I’m ready whenever you are,” He replied, gently.

Draco nodded.

Dr. Green waited.

Draco heaved a sigh, then said, “Alright, then. Do your worst.”

Dr. Green extended his hand, “May I have your hand?”

Draco furrowed his brow. “Why?”

“I want to make sure you retain control of your body during this. So I’ll periodically ask you to squeeze my hand.”

Draco blanched. “Yeah—yes, okay,” he said, eventually, placing his hand in his professor’s.

“ Legilimens ,” Dr. Green murmured, and the world faded around him.

—

Draco and Dr. Green stood in a cold, grey hall. The walls around them were a matte slate and rose to meet an equally dark ceiling. The walls had no visible doors.

Then the hallway lit itself, lamps flashing on all the way down the hall. The few steps they took echoed. Dr. Green looked around and then let his eyes fall on Draco’s.

“This is… impressive, I think,” Dr. Green said.

“You wouldn’t think so if you saw how I built it,” Draco replied, running his hand down the cool wall next to him. “I’ve never seen it like this, though. How it appears to you. It’s… very cold.”

“Yes, I would agree,” Dr. Green nodded.

After a moment, he added, “I’m going to need you to drop them, Draco. The walls, I mean.”

Draco worried his lip.

“I—“ he cleared his throat, his voice wavering, “I can’t.”

Dr. Green sighed, “First, squeeze my hand.”

Draco did, not the hand in front of him, but the hand outside. In Hermione’s office.

“Okay, good,” he nodded. “Now, I know it’s a lot to ask. But it’s the only way I can try to help you.”

“No, I—“ Draco tried to squeeze his eyes shut, but nothing changed. “I don’t know how. I used to, but… one day, I’d kept them up for too long, I guess. They wouldn’t fall. I can still work around them, still feel around them, and I can certainly occlude further than this, but… I can’t drop them. This is as open as my mind gets.”

Dr. Green stared at him for a long moment.

Then he hugged him. Tentatively at first, and Draco was taken aback. After a second, though, Draco returned the gesture, and Gideon held him tighter for it.

“What?” Draco whispered. “Why?”

“I just thought you could use it,” he said. “And I’m very likely going to hurt you in a moment, at least briefly. So I wanted to do this sooner rather than later.” He stepped away, squeezing Draco’s arm.

“You’re going to hurt me?” Draco repeated. “How?”

“We’re going to drop your occlumency walls. It’s… it’s very important, okay? I can explain afterward. When it works,” Dr. Green stated confidently.

Draco hesitated. Then nodded. “What do I need to do?”

“Sit with me,” Dr. Green said, sitting down on the cold tile floor of Draco’s mind and patting the ground next to him.

Draco did, sitting down cross-legged across from him.

“First, I need you to tell me about what happened. What happened to make you build the walls like this?”

Draco froze.

“I can’t rely on your mind supplying it to me like Theo’s would’ve,” Dr. Green smiled softly.

“My aunt—Bellatrix taught me how to occlude. She thought… she… torture was her motivational tool,” Draco spoke quietly. “I had to build something quickly and something strong. This was the first thing that came to mind.”

“A prison,” Dr. Green stated plainly.

“I—I suppose you’re right, yes. A prison of sorts.”

Draco looked around the cold, dark room. A prison. He’d never noticed.

“What happened the day they stopped coming down?” Dr. Green asked.

“I was trying to avoid the pain,” Draco rasped. “I was trying to find a workaround for the Cruciatus. I thought—I thought maybe if I occluded heavily enough that I…” he took a ragged inhale, “that I would be able to dampen the pain.”

Dr. Green nodded, taking Draco’s hand, now holding it in the office and in his mind as well.

“Draco, the Cruciatus curse, the torture… it didn’t cause the epilepsy. You did.”

You did.

“What?” Draco might have asked. He tried to. The world was going a bit fuzzy.

Dr. Green squeezed his hand to ground him.

“You… somehow, like I’ve managed to do with Theo yesterday intentionally, you managed to physically affect your brain with occlumency. You’ve severed your neural connections, I believe, likely focused on your corpus callosum and frontal lobe. With you trying not to feel physical pain… your brain responded the only way it could. By hurting itself to make you feel less.”

Dr. Green said all of this calmly and while keeping Draco’s hand in his. But Draco barely heard him.

You did.

“What… what do I do?” Draco breathed. “How do I fix it?”

“We have to drop the walls. And they can never come back up again. It will be too easy for them to get stuck next time. And next time… you may not get them down,” Dr. Green said, “I’m confident that we can get them down today. Okay? Do you trust me?”

Draco nodded, surprising himself.

“I need you to think of something… something that makes you feel. It can be happy or sad or angry or scared, just… something extreme, okay? I don’t care what it is,” he added, softly. “Nothing I see today leaves here, I promise.”

Draco of course, thought of her. He didn’t want to think of all the things he could think of that made him scared. Or sad. Or angry.

He thought of her. And somehow… he felt all of those things anyway. Scared of her, scared for her. Scared of how she made him feel when she carded her gentle fingers through his hair. Hands have never been gentler against his skin.

Sad for her. Sad because of her, or really, because of who he was to her. Her eyes on his so much kinder than he deserved. Laughing at his jokes. Rubbing his back as he was sick. Holding him while he cried.

Angry at her. Angry at how little she understood. Her blind trust in the Aurors. Her close-knit group of friends that loved her. Angry for her. Angry at how much she still understood after fighting on the right side of the war. Her friends and their willful ignorance of her struggles.

But happy. Happier than he’d ever been. Happier than he had any right to be. Especially with her. Waking up with her hair in his face. Gripping her hips as he sat on top of him, kissing him. Passing notes with her in class.

“ Legilimens ,” Dr. Green whispered again then, his wand trained on Draco.

And it hurt. Merlin , did it hurt. He cried out involuntarily, clutching his head in his hands.

“Squeeze my hand, son,” Dr. Green said, the world beyond that voice fading around him once more, “out there, not in here.”

Draco did. Or he thought he did. He wasn’t sure anymore.

Everything went black.

—

“Can you hear me?” Dr. Green asked.

He supposed he could, but he didn’t know how to tell him that.

“I can hear your train of thought now,” Dr. Green told him.

Oh, Draco thought. Well, that’s handy, I suppose.

“Indeed,” Dr. Green laughed.

Draco didn’t know what happened. He felt like he was floating in his own mind. His thoughts strayed, some benign, some painfully intrusive, some uncomfortably private.

“This is how most people experience their own mind, believe it or not,” Dr. Green said, from somewhere.

“I’m sitting in front of you still,” he replied to the thought, “out there.”

“Did it work?” Draco asked cautiously.

He felt Dr. Green nod, somehow.

“Whether or not it fixed the connections, I can’t be sure. But your occlumency walls are down, yes,” he said.

Genuine panic lanced through him.

“Calm down. You’re safe,” Gideon told him. “It will take some getting used to. But it’s the only way, son.”

Draco nodded, or… somehow mentally acknowledged the statement.

His thoughts flashed to Dr. Green comparing him to his son. He pushed away the thought without actually shielding it.

“It’s okay,” he told him. “I meant it, you know. You’re good. Just like he was.”

His thoughts flashed to Dumbledore, then. Standing in the astronomy tower. To Hermione on his drawing room floor.

“Your actions define you, Draco. Not those of others. Especially not those you had no choice in,” he said.

“I don’t know if my actions were any better.”

“The people on the sofa next to us seem to think so.”

“I suppose.”

A beat.

“Are you ready?”

“For what?”

“To go back out there,” Dr. Green explained patiently.

“I don’t know,” Draco admitted.

“I can wait with you,” he offered.

Draco considered this.

“No, it’s okay. I’m ready. And—and thank you, sir. Even if this didn’t fix anything, I still… I’m very grateful.”

“Thank me by taking better notes in class from now on, okay? Keep the note passing to a minimum,” Dr. Green laughed.

“Noted,” Draco replied, the pun not lost on him.

Then he opened his eyes and the room around him was brighter, louder, and more horrible than he could’ve imagined.

Chapter Text

Draco

“I imagine it’s best if we give him some space for a moment,” he heard Dr. Green tell them. Likely because Hermione and Theo were already trying to get to him. 

Another sharp wave of pain rippled through his head and he nearly blacked out. He whined through gritted teeth and gripped the arm of the chair. He put all of his effort into controlling his breathing until the pain abated. 

When he could finally open his eyes again, Hermione’s eyes were on his immediately. 

Godric, she’s beautiful. 

Theo, next to her, was looking at him with so much concern in his eyes that guilt ricocheted deeply inside of him. 

It was all too much. 

As he became more conscious, more and more poured into him. The sounds and lights of the room, ambient thoughts, intrusive thoughts of horrible things that have happened to him or that he’s imagined. 

And they didn’t stop. 

Draco staggered to his feet. He had to leave, had to be somewhere else. No one stopped him as he walked out of the room and into the room across the hall—Hermione’s bedroom. 

The light was, thankfully, off, and he shut the door behind him.

Every horrible choice he’d ever made replayed behind his eyes like a film reel, undeniable evidence in the court of his own mind, leading to his well-earned damnation.

He climbed into Hermione’s bed, pulled the blankets over himself, and tried to breathe. 

—

Hermione

When Dr. Green explained the short of it, Hermione felt the blood drain from her face.

No one spoke for a while. 

“One of you should probably go find him. I would say he’s having a fairly difficult go of it right now. But whoever goes, it needs to be someone he’s comfortable around,” Dr. Green cautioned them. “If it gets to be too much and he tries to rebuild his occlumency walls… I don’t know that he’ll ever get them down again.”

After a beat, Theo said quietly, “Go, Hermione. I’ll talk to him later.”

Hermione nodded, standing and walking out of the office without a second thought. She knew where he was, she’d heard the door close next to them. 

When she opened her bedroom door, it was still dark. She supposed that made sense. She saw him, though—huddled under the blankets on her bed. 

He can’t hide from himself, she thought, sighing. 

She sat quietly on the edge of the bed next to him. 

“Are you in there?” She whispered, an attempt at levity. 

She could hear his frantic, shaking breaths, but he didn’t reply. 

She sighed and pulled the covers down off of his face. His eyes were closed, his face was tear-stricken, and his ragged breathing was so shallow. 

“Tell me what you need,” she told him, gently touching his arm. When he didn’t flinch away, she squeezed his shoulder. 

“Too much,” he whispered on the broken exhale. 

“You need too much?” She murmured lightly, lying down in front of him and taking his hand in hers. 

“No, I—“

“I know, Draco, it was just a bad joke,” she smiled softly, cupping his wet cheek in her hand. “Deep breaths.”

“I’m trying,” he whispered. 

“I know,” she assured him, “try with me.”

She took a suitably deep breath, tracing her fingers up his arm as she inhaled and down his arm as she exhaled. 

“Okay? Now with me,” she murmured. 

He nodded and did his best to repeat the action with her. 

Then he surged forward and kissed her, crashing their lips together as he brought his hand up to cradle her head against him. 

She let out a surprised breath.  

He kissed her frantically, but his breathing was a bit more even, somehow, so she let him. He pulled her flush against him, his arm wrapping around her waist. 

He moaned into her mouth, gripping her waist, her hip, whatever he could reach. 

“Draco,” she interrupted softly. 

He pulled away sharply.  

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, his eyes wide and confused. 

“No—don’t be, that’s not—“

He started laughing. Quietly at first, his shoulders shaking as if he were crying. Then, loudly, belly laughing, biting his knuckle between his teeth as if to stifle it. 

Hermione didn’t know how to respond. She assumed that he was experiencing some sort of emotional overload but didn’t really expect it to look like this. 

She was so used to knowing what to do that the not-knowing of all of this set her on edge. 

She was used to knowing him. And given what Dr. Green told them when he’d rushed out, a small part of her worried that she wouldn’t anymore. Know him, that is. 

Gradually his laughter dissolved again into sobbing, as she had assumed it might, and she wrapped her arms around him, still as close as he’d pulled her to him earlier. 

“You’re okay,” she whispered, stroking her hand over his hair. 

“I’m really not,” he managed, huffing a wet laugh. 

“This will pass,” she replied. “Give it some time. It’s not even been a half hour since you… whatever you did.”

“Did he tell you?” 

She nodded, “the gist.”

“It’s just… too much. I can’t—Hermione, I hate this. If I occluded, it would all go away.”

“You have to,” she said softly, her fingers threaded through his hair, her other hand splayed across his back. Latching onto whatever he’d let her have of him. “And you can. You can’t occlude anymore. You heard Dr. Green, you—“

“I don’t want to be awake anymore,” he laughed, his voice breaking.

“Well, I—“ Hermione searched for something, anything, to say to that. “I mean, do you want to take some of a dreamless sleep potion?” She offered. 

“Yes,” he said immediately, then belatedly added, “please, I mean. Yes, please.”

“Yeah… yes, of course, you can do that,” she whispered. 

He sat up, his expression almost vacant, as she summoned the potion from the bathroom cabinet. The only thing that convinced her he wasn’t occluding was the desperation in his eyes. 

She started to hand him the vial of dreamless sleep, then muttered, “Don’t drink the whole thing,” almost as an afterthought. 

“I’m not a child, Hermione,” he snapped. 

She looked at him, then. He looked so guarded, so like the way he used to appear to her. He looked like he was standing trial, ready for the gavel to bang. 

She pursed her lips and sighed heavily. 

“I’m sorry,” he said, gruffly, avoiding her eyes. “Now will you give me that?”

She nodded, placing the vial in his hand. 

He drank around half of it, then raised his eyebrows passive-aggressively, shaking the remaining half in front of her. 

She tried not to laugh, knowing he wouldn’t react well. But the petulance of the act almost did her in. Not a child, indeed. 

She hugged him instead, after taking the potion bottle and placing it on the nightstand. She placed a hand on the back of his neck. 

“Please don’t leave,” he murmured, his voice muffled with his face buried against her. 

“I’m not going anywhere,” she whispered. 

—

She wasn’t lying, but she did have to go back and update Theo and Harry. 

Once he was solidly asleep, courtesy of the potion, she slipped out of his hold and headed back across the hall. Theo and Harry were sitting on the office couch, still talking to Dr. Green who was currently sitting in her desk chair. 

“He’s asleep,” she said, simply, walking in and taking the open seat on the couch next to Harry. When no one replied, she continued. “By that I mean, I gave him Dreamless Sleep.”

“Merlin,” Harry murmured under his breath. 

“That’s probably for the best,” Dr. Green said, sighing. “I don’t want to scare anyone—he will very likely be fine. But this will be the first time he’s had to be fully present in his own mind in years. That would be a lot for anyone. And I’m not implying that he wasn’t feeling anything before, he certainly was, but… it was as if he was pushing everything through a sieve. It all came to him a bit slower. Some of it, not at all.”

Dr. Green paused to write a few things down in the notebook on Hermione’s desk. None of them spoke. 

“He will need time to adjust,” Dr. Green continued. “I don’t recommend he return to class for a while either. Or really… anywhere public for a bit. Miss Granger, here’s a list of notes for proper care. It’s just a few recommendations and some potions I think you should consider for a bit, I’m sure you’re more than competent. I’ve included the required reading for the rest of the semester as well, in case he or you would like to take the final exam to get class credit, I’m more than happy to waive the attendance requirement, obviously.”

Hermione nodded, taking the notebook he offered her to look over the list. “Thank you, sir. I’ll update you on his condition if you’d like.”

“Yes, please do,” he smiled kindly. “I’ll leave you kids to it. Please reach out if I can help in any way… I mean it.”

Hermione smiled and nodded. 

Theo and Harry followed suit. 

Dr. Green tipped his head and disapparated. 

—

Hermione tried to read while she sat next to him in bed, but she couldn’t stop her attention from drifting to him one way or another. 

This whole ordeal had just been exhausting. She almost felt guilty for being tired when Draco was clearly the one who deserved to be. But didn’t they all? Didn’t she? 

Theo and Harry left shortly after Gideon, telling Hermione to catch up with them when Draco was awake. Theo clearly wanted to do more, but there wasn’t anything really for him to do. 

There wasn’t anything anyone could do. 

She felt her eyes grow heavy as the weight of the day settled onto her. Draco sleeping next to her was probably a contributing factor to her sudden tiredness. 

She decided to settle in next to him. Her last thought before falling asleep was simple. 

Please don’t let me wake up to a crisis. 

She’d had enough of those for a lifetime. 

—

When she woke up, she was alone in bed. 

It took her a moment to realize that was probably not good. 

Her mind immediately flashed to finding him bleeding and unconscious on the floor. 

She bolted upright in bed. 

The door to the loo was open, and the room was empty. 

She got up, slipped on her house shoes, and continued her search. 

Thankfully, she didn’t make it far, so her panicking wasn’t quite as pronounced as it could’ve been when she saw him sitting on the couch. 

Watching the television. 

“What are you doing?” She asked immediately, her tone a bit harsher than she intended. 

He turned to her, confused. “Are you upset? You were asleep when I woke up, and I figured you deserved the break.”

“I—okay, but—I’m confused,” she said, unsure how to proceed. 

“I understand what you’re saying,” he began, “but I’ve been doing a very good job of distracting myself from the fact that… well, from the facts. Full stop. And I’d really appreciate it if you’d play along and watch this ridiculous show with me that you have somehow convinced me to like.”

Hermione just stared at him for a moment. 

“I made food. It’s burnt. You’re welcome to it,” he added, gesturing to a plate of burnt toast with jam that he’d been picking at. 

She laughed, suddenly and abruptly. 

Then she covered her mouth. 

“I’m so sorry,” she whispered, wide-eyed. 

He closed his eyes. Sighed. 

Then she watched nervously as he fought a smile, pulling his bottom lip between his teeth. 

“Draco…” she whispered, covering her smile with her hand. “That toast looks… absolutely scrumptious.”

A peal of shocked laughter erupted from him.

“You didn’t realize you were getting a personal chef out of this deal, did you?” He managed, between delightfully pained breaths. 

“What I’m getting out of this deal right now is whiplash,” she laughed. 

“Then you better get over here and watch this show with me before I start crying again and that is, unfortunately, not an empty threat,” he said patting the sofa next to him. 

Chapter Text

Their week became a series of ups and downs.

Some mornings started with cautious optimism—a rare smile from Draco over breakfast or Hermione humming softly as she brewed tea. Other times, silence hung between them, thick with unspoken fears.

Honestly, the days started to blend together after a while.

They fall into an easy rhythm with each other. The threat of Draco’s health an undercurrent to their every move.

Today, she enters the living room, mugs of tea in hand, to find him sitting on the floor behind the couch.

She almost drops the mugs.

Instead, she sees that he’s not dazed, not teetering on the edge of consciousness—just carefully breathing in and out, seemingly trying to calm down.

His posture was rigid, shoulders drawn tight as if bracing for an impact that hadn’t come.

She sits down next to him and offers him the tea. He takes it in his constantly shaking hand.

“Sorry,” he laughs uncomfortably, “I’m fine, I think, I just—when I walked in here, the television was on and whatever was on it, I… I guess I must’ve seen it before, but it was familiar and I didn’t think it should be and—“

“—and it felt like deja vu,” Hermione finished for him, immediately understanding.

Their eyes met for a beat too long, both recognizing the unspoken fear lingering in the room.

He nodded, then let his head fall back against the couch, sighing. Hermione let her head fall onto his shoulder. 

They sat this way for a while.

Neither spoke. The quiet stretched on, filled only by the rhythmic ticking of the clock and their shallow breaths. It felt like waiting for the other shoe to drop.

—

Later, like they had most days, they found themselves sitting on the couch watching their show. Hermione wondered what they’d do when they ran out of episodes.

The show had become their background noise, a steady distraction that didn’t demand too much from either of them.

Hermione was lying mostly on top of him, her head on his chest. Draco laughed quietly at something one of the characters said, his hand moving through her hair, likely frizzing out her curls. His touch always sent chills running through her, so she didn’t mind.

“Are you asleep?” He asked, softly.

She shook her head.

“Are you okay?” He asked, then.

She sat up and looked at him.

Was she okay? She hadn’t really considered it. She thought so, yes. 

“I’m fine,” she smiled.

“You seem… off,” he said.

“I’m just feeling a bit… anxious, I suppose,” she admitted. “This feels like a waiting game. And I don’t know when I get to feel like it’s anything else.”

Her voice wavered at the end. The truth settled between them with uncomfortable weight.

He nodded, “Yeah… I understand that.”

“I don’t want you to take this the wrong way because I’m happy you seem to be doing okay with this, but… I am a bit surprised, honestly,” she admitted.

“Surprised that I seem okay?”

She nodded.

He pulled her back down to his chest. 

“Well, I don’t know that I would say that I’m not worried in a very similar way that you are. But,” he said, pausing to consider his words, “I guess I can’t feel much past the relief. I mean, that’s not right, I feel a lot… all the time, actually, it’s a bit distressing,” he laughed.

Hermione could hear the forced lightness in his tone, the way he masked exhaustion with humor.

She waited for him to continue.

“I’m not sore today,” he said, simply. “I haven’t been for a few days. And—and I guess that’s enough for me right now. Maybe it doesn’t last, maybe it doesn’t fix everything, but…” He trails off, shrugging.

Then he laughs. 

“I feel both mentally worse and physically better than I’ve felt in years. That counts for something. Maybe it balances out.”

Hermione smiled faintly, brushing her fingers against the fabric of his shirt. She didn’t trust herself to speak.

“Let me take you out to dinner tonight,” he says, changing the topic of conversation so abruptly that she raises an eyebrow. 

“Actually out, I mean. Somewhere new,” he continues, sitting up and bringing her with him. 

She isn’t sure if this almost manic energy he was putting off was good or not, but it seemed like it could be fine. Either he was secretly spiraling or he was genuinely just in better spirits. She hoped for the latter. 

“Okay,” she agreed hesitantly. “Where to?”

—

When they stepped through her floo, he’d spoken the name of wherever they were going in French. She didn’t have time to be shocked before being drug out the other end into a dimly lit room. 

The scent of freshly baked bread and something richer—truffle, maybe—wrapped around her immediately. Soft jazz played in the background, blending seamlessly with the quiet murmur of French conversation.

The room around her was opulent, but still had a cozy quality to it that she couldn’t ignore. They were obviously in Paris, given the atmosphere and the language being spoken all around her. She looked to Draco and saw that he was shyly smiling down at her.

“I wasn’t sure if you would agree to let me take you if I told you how far away we were going,” he murmured. 

“Draco, what if something happens? We still don’t know how well the operation worked,” Hermione whispered to him in return. 

“If something happens, then something happens. But nothing’s going to happen, I’m fine,” he said, flagging down a hostess. 

His confidence didn’t quite reach his eyes. Hermione noticed the subtle way he kept flexing his fingers.

It makes more sense to her now that he insisted that they dressed up a bit for the evening. It was the first time she’d seen him in formal wear in a few weeks, and it shouldn’t have been as surprising as it was. She’s gone from never seeing him in anything below business casual to seeing him exclusively wearing sweatshirts overnight it seemed. Now, seeing him in a crisp black suit, he looked much more himself. She hadn’t even realized how little he looked like himself in the past few weeks.

His hair was neatly styled again, the sharp lines of his jaw more pronounced against the dark fabric of his suit. For a moment, he looked like Draco Malfoy—proud, composed, untouchable.

She, on the other hand, rarely wore formal wear. However, the black satin dress she chosen for the evening did make her feel rather pretty. Made her feel composed and more representative of the qualities she was proud to have. She felt like she made sense at his side looking like this. She realized with a jolt that she was proud to be seen at his side.

The fabric of the dress clung delicately to her frame, catching the soft lighting of the restaurant. She caught the flicker of appreciation in his gaze before he looked away.

“Bonsoir. Une table pour deux, s’il vous plaît,” Draco drawled to the hostess that had approached them.

On the way to their table, he kept up a somewhat steady conversation with the beautiful young French woman. His French was nearly unaccented.

“I guess I shouldn’t be surprised by that,” Hermione said after they’d slid into their chairs and their menus were placed in front of them. The table was already set with glasses and fine dishes and silverware.

“Êtes-vous impressionné?” He drawled, smiling a crooked and devious smile, leaning forward toward her so his soft words were more easily understood. He smelled like his cologne again, she noticed. The familiar scent sent a flush of warmth up her neck. 

“Oh oui,” she nodded, fighting the smile that tugged at her lips, “Although my understanding of French stops around there, so don’t test me.”

“I’ll teach you sometime if you’d like,” he said, folding her hand into his across the table. “I’ve heard you’re a quick study.”

“I’d like that,” she smirked in response. “Now, did you only bring me here to show off?”

“I’ll not lie and say that wasn’t a strong motivating factor,” he said, and she could see his secretive smile from behind the wine list partially obscuring his face. “That off my chest, this place is also quite good.”

“Well, order away. I trust your judgment, my lord,” she drawled the title, before taking a sip from the water glass in front of her and leaning back slightly in her chair. 

He laughed, shaking his head in disbelief, but she didn’t miss the way his breath caught. She had a feeling about that one, and she stored this newfound knowledge away for a rainy day. The ability to predict him had come without her realizing it was there. One day she was able to say “That makes sense for him,” and the knowing caught her off guard. 

She had learned his rhythms without intending to. His preferences, his tells, the little things that made him up.

He’s been different over the past week. He’s been moodier, snappier, sadder. He’s startled easily, taken to retreating away from company. 

But he’s also been occasionally happier, almost incandescently so compared to before. He’s laughed easier. 

It will balance out, she realized. It is balancing out. It would be unwise to consider him “healed,” whatever that might mean, but the difference in his physical health is obvious. 

His hands still shake. He’d been frustrated by that. The true damage of the Cruciatus curse, it would seem, was that. 

His hand shook ever so slightly now as he brought the wine glass to his lips. 

“Are you happy?” She asked him, abruptly. 

He tilted his head in confusion, then in thought. 

“I’m afraid to say yes,” he replied eventually. 

His eyes were the biggest change. Right now, they assessed her carefully. Earlier, they sharpened with anxiety, then warmed with laughter. The cool, detached look he’d carried with him for so long was absent. He was present. She hadn’t realized how absent he’d been until she’d seen how… there he could be. How here looked on him. 

And Merlin, he looked good here. Alive. Real. Hers.

“I don’t think it would make a difference,” Hermione said, pragmatically. 

“I’ve never met a less superstitious witch,” he muttered, laughing softly. “Those Muggles and their science have been a questionable influence on you.”

“And you are? Superstitious?” Hermione asked, genuinely. 

“I’m named after a constellation, Granger. It seems only fair,” He shrugged. 

Hermione laughed outright at that. 

“A regular Trelawney, indeed,” she said. 

“Pardon?” Draco said, his responding smile delightfully confused. 

“Just something I heard about you once. It feels like a long time ago now,” she replied. 

—

They ate their food, they drank (a modest amount of) their wine, and they flooed back to her flat warmer for it.

—

A week later, he had his first post-op seizure. 

After a particularly exhausting day working on paperwork at the manor and a particularly stressful conversation with a project manager, they’d apparated back to Hermione’s flat.

Hermione had gone to the kitchen to make tea, a routine she found comforting, and when she’d come back into the living room, she found him sitting on the couch with his face in his hands. 

“The television isn’t on this time,” he groaned, his voice muffled by his hands.

“Try not to panic,” Hermione said, sitting down next to him and placing a hand on his back. “It could still pass.”

“I think I know what a seizure feels like by now, Hermione,” he snapped.

Fear masquerading as frustration.

His eyes were sharp and narrowed, but his quickened breaths shuddered through him.

She needed to take her own advice. Her panicked heart in her throat was hard to speak around.

“Okay,” she said, placatingly. “Just lie down.”

He looked ready to argue but didn’t seem to be able to. He laid down on his side, putting his head in her lap. It felt heartbreakingly familiar.

He lost consciousness shortly after. 

Then, the air in his lungs was forced out of him on an automatic exhale.

The tonic seizure lasted a little over two minutes. 

She pushed his sweaty hair out of his eyes as she waited for him to wake.

He woke up slowly to her whispered reassurances. 

She didn’t mention the tears wetting her blouse as she held his head in her lap, his face hidden in the fabric at her waist. She didn’t call any attention to his stuttering breathing. 

She didn’t mention his tears and he didn’t notice hers. 

—

The seizures weren’t as bad anymore. A month later and he’d only had one tonic-clonic seizure and a handful of the more minor ones. 

They accepted it, accepted them as a gift. Each one that came and went was a reminder of how seldom they had to deal with them anymore.

He'd take the time he needed to recover and he'd go back to life. C'est la vie.

Tonight, they sat around a table at a pub, drinking Firewhiskey and eating chips and laughing as their drunk friends asked increasingly personal questions to one another.

“Blaise, you reckon you’d ever sleep with a man? Obviously in a scenario where you aren’t dating the lovely Ms. Weasley,” Theo slurred, cocking his head with drunken, narrowed eyes.

“Or in a scenario where the lovely Ms. Weasley watches,” Ginny drawled, and the table erupted in scandalized laughter.

Draco tightened his fingers around her hip and she looked up at him.

He gazed down at her, his eyes hazy and unfocused.

“Are you okay?” She asked a bit frantically, her hand going to his cheek.

He nodded, smiling and leaning into her touch, a flushed pink coloring his face.

“Are you drunk?” She asked then, her eyebrows rising in surprise. 

He nodded, smiling more broadly and pressing into her hand like a needy cat.

She laughed softly. “I cannot believe you,” she murmured, bringing her face closer to his, her words intended only for him and given only to him in the little bubble that seemed to constantly surround them.

“You’re drunk too, pet,” he whispered, rubbing his nose against hers.

“Hey, would the Malfoy-Granger members of the party please rejoin the group,” Ron announced, clearing his throat.

Draco flipped him off, and kissed her soundly.

Her pulse quickened and she ran her hand up his chest when he didn’t pull away.

He sighed into her mouth at the touch.

“Actually, something’s come up,” Hermione said, pulling away, “We’ll see you all next week.”

They apparated away to the sound of their friends’ booing and laughter.

Chapter Text

When Draco’s mother walked in his father’s office, he was sitting in Lucius’s chair, leaning forward against the desk, and rubbing his hands against his eyes. 

“Are you alright?” She asked hesitantly. 

“Hmm?” He said, suddenly aware of her presence. “Yes, I’m fine. Just a headache.”

One of the few things that seemed to plague him since the operation. Preferable, but still bothersome. The repercussions of severing one’s own mind, he could only assume. 

His mother didn’t look convinced, so he added, “I already told Hermione. I’m sure she’ll have some concoction or the like for me when I return in a few moments. I was just signing some forms.”

Some forms for a house purchase agreement. A gift for a certain curly-headed witch, should she be amenable. 

Aptly timed, a wispy otter Patronus glided into the room and stopped in front of them. 

“Come home. I’ve got soup on. And I dosed your tea with a headache potion. Don’t worry—you already put so much sugar in your tea you won’t be able to taste it,” Hermione’s voice told him, her tone light and endearing as it often was recently. She spoke more lightheartedly than he knew she could these days. 

Draco laughed softly, pinching the bridge of his nose. 

“So,” his mother began, subtly. “I suppose you’ve already picked out a ring?”

He snorted a laugh, an impolite gesture that he couldn’t mask at the question coming from her. Then he opened the desk drawer and pulled out a small box. 

Opening it, he displayed a gold band encrusted with small studded diamonds alongside a thinner gold band with a centered solitaire diamond. It was reserved, for her sake, but refined to his tastes. If he was going to settle on a smaller stone for her, he’d at least compromise with an internally flawless one and a few extra in the band for good measure. 

“They’re lovely,” his mother said, studying the rings. “When?”

“I have a plan I’m in the process of fleshing out,” he said, sighing. 

The silence stretched between them as he finished signing the documents in front of him. 

“Mother,” he said, before he could think better of it. “Would you like to join us for dinner?”

Narcissa looked surprised, but hid it well. 

“I’d like that very much, dear,” she replied, softly. 

Draco summoned a Patronus of his own. He’d recently been able to produce one corporeally. To no one’s surprise but his own, it was a large house cat that, besides its pale white color, looked oddly reminiscent of Crookshanks. 

“I’m bringing my mother over for dinner. Batten down the hatches and all that. We’ll be there in five minutes,” he instructed the ghostly figure to tell Hermione and it zipped out the door. 

He didn’t expect this to be the more surprising thing to his mother. 

Even less so did he expect the tear rolling down her delicate face. 

He stood and walked over to her, taking her slight shoulders in his hands. 

“Since when can you cast a Patronus Charm?” She asked him, her voice barely a whisper. 

He hugged her. Even almost a foot taller than he, he felt smaller than her when she wrapped her arms around him in return. 

“I only tried recently,” he said. “But I imagine since I kept waking up in some meddling witch’s lap. Ask any man, a scene like that’s certain to inspire happiness.”

His mother frowned half-heartedly and swatted his chest, "Don't be crass."

He laughed.

It was a half-truth. He did think he could’ve probably summoned one sooner. But the memory he used was slightly different—her head on his shoulder as he played piano for her. The way she’d looked at him like he was someone worth being proud of. They did that more and more recently, he’d even tuned the old upright piano in her flat and started playing more while she read or worked. 

He and his mother flooed back to Hermione’s flat together. 

Dinner went well. He hoped that would become a common occurrence. 

—

Three months later

“A public lecture?” Hermione asked. 

“Well, sort of,” Draco shrugged. “More like a seminar, I suppose. At any rate, Gideon asked if we’d like to attend.”

“That would be lovely,” Hermione smiled, and Draco smiled back a bit too widely. 

A week later, they arrived in the same lecture hall where they’d gotten to know each other. Some people were already seated and some were still filing in as they were. But their table was still empty, so they took it. 

The room was dimmer than usual, as Dr. Green had a presentation on the large screen next to him. 

Hermione took out her notebook and pulled the pen from her hair that she’d placed there earlier in her mad dash from the living room to the university. 

Draco responded in kind, pulling out his notepad and his pen with it. 

Dr. Green began speaking but Draco could scarcely hear over the rush of blood in his ears. He tried desperately to keep his cool, but he was sure she could sense the nervousness radiating off of him.

As expected, Hermione shot him a concerned look. “Are you okay?” She asked. 

He nodded, smiling softly for good measure. 

She narrowed her eyes at him suspiciously, but turned back to face their professor. 

Draco fiddled with the flat ring box in his jacket pocket. 

Hermione, he wrote on his notepad and pushed it her way. 

Yes? She wrote back, before moving over to her own notebook to write down something Dr. Green had said. Typical, Draco thought, and rolled his eyes. 

I always loved talking to you in this way, he replied, his writing a bit shakier than normal. I felt like, in the beginning, it was much easier to be honest with you if I could write it down. Because it didn’t feel as vulnerable, perhaps.

She read the note and turned to him. Her expression was a bit confused, but tender. She squeezed his hand and wrote, I loved writing notes with you as well. But I’m also glad you figured out how to do that out loud.

I likely won’t always know how, if I’m being honest, he replied. 

That’s alright. If you can’t figure it out, you can just write me a note, she scribbled, smiling softly at him, amusement shining in her eyes. 

This new easygoing happiness was radiant on her. It likely wasn’t new to her. Just new to him. The way she looked when she wasn’t constantly worrying about him. 

Can I write a note to you now? He wrote after a few silent moments and slid over to her. 

Always, she promised in a hurried script. 

He held his pen too tightly. 

I told you once that meeting you, knowing you, and, eventually, getting the privilege of loving you gave me so many new things to look forward to. I’ll be the first to admit, I’m a selfish man. I was hoping I could ask you, after everything, if you could give me something new to add to that list of things. 

He slid her the notepad. 

She cocked an eyebrow at him, her eyes so open, yet so unsure. He saw the trust in them, though. Finally, he felt the nervousness that he should never have felt dissipate. 

She nodded, pushing the pad back to him, prompting him to continue. 

Hermione Granger, he wrote, will you marry me?

Hermione read the note as he passed it back to her. Tears had started welling in her eyes when she looked back up again. 

Draco pulled the ring box from his pocket. He adjusted his pant leg to allow himself to settle down onto one knee next to her. 

The room had gone quiet around them. 

“You didn’t have to write that one. This one I’m sure you know how to say,” she breathed, her voice just over a whisper. 

“Is that a yes?” He asked with a choked laugh. 

“Yes. Of course, yes,” she replied and sat down on the ground next to him, pulling his lips to hers with hands on either side of his face. 

He wrapped an arm around her shoulders, the ring in his other hand nearly forgotten. 

The room around them exploded into cheers. 

“What is all this?” She asked, burrowing her face into his shoulder and laughing. 

Glamour charms fell all around the room, revealing the smiling faces of 20 or so of their friends and family members. 

“I had to fill out the lecture hall,” he replied softly, slipping the ring onto her finger. It resized itself into a perfect fit. “Couldn’t very well have Dr. Green thinking no one was interested in his ramblings.”

He watched as Hermione looked over at Gideon who only winked and smiled back at her. 

Hermione laughed delightedly and threw her arms around his shoulders. He nearly fell to the ground with the force of it and a startled laugh escaped him as well. 

He realized he was crying as well when she wiped the tears from his face. 

“The crybaby claims get stronger by the day,” she whispered close to his ear. 

He scoffed wetly, but only tightened his hold on her. 

He was regretting the engagement dinner plans he’d made with the whole group later already. He never wanted to share her attention ever again. 

—

Two years later

“I hate the outdoors, there are too many bugs,” Pansy complained, trying to tuck her legs more firmly underneath her to better fit them on the blanket she was sharing with Theo and Hermione. “And now we’re surrounded by a bunch of stinky boys as well. I should've made Neville come."

She was referring to the pickup Quidditch game that was occurring in the field in front of them. 

“Not just stinky boys, there’s a stinky Ginny involved as well,” Hermione acknowledged, laughing.

“I reject being lumped in with the stinky group while Neville gets excluded,” Theo scoffed.

“I’m obviously not talking about you, darling,” Pansy rolled her eyes. “Look at you. You’re wearing linen shorts. Context clues, Theodore.”

Theo laughed, and then blew a kiss to Harry who was hovering a few yards above and away from them, waving at them.

“I don’t know why we ever let Ginny participate,” Ron bemoaned as Ginny scored on him once again. “She’s too much better than us to be fun to play with.”

“Speak for yourself,” Draco and Harry said at the same time, mirrored indignation on their faces.

After a few moments of bickering and risky flying, Draco clearly spotted the practice snitch they were playing with because he dove perilously toward the ground and Hermione, Theo, and Pansy’s makeshift picnic. 

The three of them ducked as he flew close over their heads and grabbed the snitch a few feet from the ground, falling off the broom in the process and rolling a few times across the grass.

Before anyone had the chance to be concerned, he popped up on his feet with a triumphant “Ha!” holding the snitch in a fist above his head.

This was met by groans from the rest of the players.

Hermione shook her head, looking over to him where he stood a yard or so away, smiling snidely up at those still levitating on brooms.

“Come here, you fool, you’re bleeding,” Hermione sighed.

“I am?” Draco asked, his celebratory mood unaffected. “The price we pay for greatness, I suppose,” he sighed theatrically while walking over and plopping down on the blanket cross-legged in front of Hermione.

She cupped his jaw in her hand and held her wand toward his split lip and scraped chin, healing the damage he’d wrought.

He leaned into the touch slightly, winking at her as he did so.

“I think Hermione helped him,” Ron grumbled, “the snitch was next to her when he saw it.”

“Are you accusing my wife of cheating, Ronald? I’ll have to know, I don’t take kindly to ill words against her,” Draco replied primly.

Hermione scoffed and patted his cheek lightly, dismissing him from her care.

“Oh, please, Lord Malfoy. Challenge me to a formal duel or get on with it,” Ron snorted. 

“You smell horrible, Draco. As I'd previously assumed,” Pansy said, scrunching up her face in disgust. 

“And you were making assumptions about the way I smelled for what reason?” He said, pecking Hermione on the lips chastely before standing up and grabbing his previously discarded broom from the ground.

“Not you in particular. Just those of you participating in such strenuous activities on this warm day,” Pansy said, sighing and falling back on the blanket, crowding Theo. He grumbled about this imposition.

“Well, it’s just as well then that I’m starving, and have to shower before going anywhere in the public eye. What do you all propose we do about food?” Draco asked.

“I made lunch reservations for the whole group,” Theo announced, shoving the brim of Pansy’s sunhat away from his leg and, therefore, down her face.

“Please tell me it’s somewhere I can dress like a normal person,” Ginny groaned.

“Patio-seating, love, so I imagine you’ll be fine,” Theo winked, “Now, come on you stinky bunch, we have only thirty minutes to get you all presentable.”

Ron waved and apparated away immediately. Ginny followed shortly after.

“Well, go ahead and plan for me to be late then, that is literally no time,” Draco said, shaking his head in disbelief.

“I have faith in you,” Hermione laughed and took his hand, whisking them back to their apartment.

It took a bit of convincing to get him in the shower without her for time’s sake. 

They did, however, make it on time. Draco’s wet hair be damned.

—

Ten years later

“Mummy, Daddy told me he needed to take a super important nap and asked me to come get you, then go play in my room,” A 7-year-old Aurora Rose Malfoy said, spinning in circles around her mother’s legs. 

Hermione finished reshelving the book she’d gotten up to replace and quirked an eyebrow at her daughter. She knelt down her height in front of her. 

“Daddy told you… what now?” Hermione said, confused at this strange instruction. 

“He said he was very, very sleepy and laid down. He asked if you could come help him because he was so sleepy,” Aurora said shrugging. 

Oh, Hermione thought suddenly. Oh.  

“Okay, that makes sense. Go play in your room, I’ll come play with you later. But play in your room until Mummy comes to find you, okay?” Hermione said quickly, smiling in a way she hoped was comforting and disarming. 

“Okay,” the girl said, drawing out the word and skipping down the hall. 

Hermione walked quickly to the living room. 

She found Draco lying down, as Aurora said. He had the heels of his palms pressed into his eyes. 

Hermione sat down next to him on the sofa, replacing the pillow under his head with her lap. 

“I heard you’re very, very sleepy,” Hermione said softly, an attempt at lightening his mood. 

His laugh came on a shaky breath. “I didn’t want to scare her,” he said quietly. 

“I know. You did fine, she didn't seem to suspect anything. But it would be okay, you know. She’d be scared, but she’d be fine,” Hermione murmured, her hand in his hair as familiar as breathing. 

He turned onto his side, pressing his face into her stomach, but didn’t reply. He might not even have heard her. 

This August would be eleven years since they met again. She likes to say since they actually met, but he doesn’t let her get away with it. Doesn’t like how it excuses his earlier transgressions, he said.

His face has a few more lines around his eyes. His smile has grown warmer over the years. When Aurora and Leo were born it got warmer still. 

Aurora changed him the most. The first child always does, they say. He was immediately wrapped around her finger. And fiercely protective. So much so that she thought she was going to have to go bail him out of jail straight from the hospital. 

But he adapted. They adapted. 

She felt his body go slack against her. The price he’d seemingly always pay for his earlier means of survival. 

It was better now. His seizures were rare. This type of seizure was rarer still, something that they only had to deal with every few months or less. 

So when the tonic phase pulled his muscles taut, she exhaled wearily. He would definitely feel this later. 

The convulsions came and they went. She brushed his hair away from his slack face. She dabbed away the sweat that had beaded on his forehead.

He came to gradually. She whispered soft encouragements to him and kept him horizontal for as long as he would let her. 

They would go back to their lives eventually. Go back to “normalcy” eventually. 

Today, though, he’d take a long nap. He could join Leo in doing so, as he was often happy to do anyway after the toddler had worn himself and his father out with his usual chaos.

Tonight, they’d order takeaway for dinner. 

Tonight, Draco would fall asleep early with his head in her lap as they watched a movie with Aurora, after Leo was put to bed. 

Then tomorrow, things would be as they always were. 

Hermione felt Draco draw her knuckles to his lips and kiss them softly in wordless appreciation. 

She rubbed his back while his body adjusted. 

She helped him to bed, where a little boy with silky, chestnut hair and warm, hazel eyes already slept. Draco curled around him and fell asleep easily. 

She returned the earlier kiss, pressing one to both of their heads. 

Then she crept out of the room, intent on finding a little girl with raucous, white-blonde curls and bright blue eyes, and playing whatever game struck her fancy.