“I wanted so badly to lie down next to her on the couch, to wrap my arms around her and sleep. Not fuck, like in those movies. Not even have sex. Just sleep together in the most innocent sense of the phrase. But I lacked the courage and she had a boyfriend and I was gawky and she was gorgeous and I was hopelessly boring and she was endlessly fascinating. So I walked back to my room and collapsed on the bottom bunk, thinking that if people were rain, I was drizzle and she was hurricane.”

- John Green, Looking for Alaska

________________________________________

Two minutes. That’s how long it took for Nott to drag the unconscious forms of his Death Eater buddies close enough together to safely Disapparate back to wherever they’d came from. Nott had always been unnaturally good when it came to Apparition, so being capable of Apparating with two other injured people accompanying him did not come as much of a surprise, and even if it did, Draco doubted whether he’d actually care, what with the state he was in.

Once they were gone, he was left with nothing but the scarlet stain of blood beside him. He waited for his pulse and breathing to slow down as close to it’s usual rhythm as he could, waited for the fuzziness of his eyesight to fade, and while he sat there, his bones not quite rid of the burning the Crucio left in its wake, he thought back to the time just after sixth year, not long after he’d escaped from Hogwarts and let all those Death Eaters in. He remembered all those prisoners his Aunt Bella had sought out, thinking of them to be some use to her Dark Lord. He remembered how, even though Draco had put as much distance between himself and the cellar, he could still hear their screams no matter how many floors up he was, and then those dreadful occasions when his Aunt would force him to watch, as if in the hopes he would suddenly ask to join in. He remembered how her torture sessions went for as long as the person stayed conscious, which could sometimes take up to hours and hours at a time, and Draco now wondered how the ones who didn’t beg for death did it.

He thought about Longbottom’s parents and the day Bella had told him what she’d done. The way her face had lit up, with that crazed smile and the dreamy, glazed look she’d gotten in her hooded eyes (it had been all Draco could do not to shudder). She’d even laughed hysterically when she’d talked about how much they screamed and sobbed, had a proud and satisfied expression as she described the pure agony on their faces.

But they still hadn’t given in. And now Draco found it hard not to admire them for it. He thought back to how he’d just felt in those few or so minutes of torture and wondered how long it would take to break him. He knew there was no way he could hold out like the Longbottom’s, and Draco made a mental note to be just that little bit more patient with Neville the next time they saw each other.

He stood up, deciding Diagon Alley was completely deserted and that there was little chance of being found and because, in the small chance that someone would come along, he did not want to be found so vulnerable. Hugging the wall when his legs trembled, Draco’s eyes scanned the area for his wand.

When he did not spot it immediately, panic hit him. One of the advantages about being rich was that you rarely ever lacked transportation. The disadvantage was that, should the odds not be in your favour, you had no idea what to do if you were to get stranded.  

He knew there was something called the Knight Bus for situations like these, but that still didn’t help him much, having never seen nor rode the thing before. 

He found his wand eventually a few feet to his left, and when he began to relax and move away gingerly from the wall to Apparate, keeping close enough to it in case his legs gave way, that brief feeling of relaxation was swiped away when he realised he couldn’t Apparate like this. The Apparition lesions he’d taken in sixth year were not forgotten entirely – of how a Hufflepuff girl (whatever her name was) left her leg or arm or head or whatever it was behind, and then the cry she’d gave. If Draco were to try Apparating in this state there was a very good chance he’d get splinched.

This brought him back to the Knight Bus. It looked like it was his only option. But how did one summon it? Was there a spell or a special wand movement or something you had to say?

Keeping a hand on the wall for support, Draco edged down the alley until he was looking at the usually crowed street in between shops.

If the Knight Bus was summoned by a spell, it would be stupid to even bother guessing what that was. He very much doubted you used Accio. So that left Draco with either a certain wand motion or saying something.

He cleared his throat (should he be concerned that that hurt?) and said, very hoarsely, “Knight Bus.”

Nothing.

Did he need to say it clearer? He tried again louder.

Obviously that was a lost cause. He raised his wand in front of him and brushed off the bits of snow still stuck to it and glanced down the street. He supposed he could stay in the Leaky Cauldron, even if the place stunk. He lifted his wand higher to look at it in the streetlight, searching for any marks, though not really believing he’d find any.

And then there was a loud BOOM, the sound of something being smashed, a dog barking and the flash of purple.

Draco would have fell flat on his backside had it not been for the wall. Pulling up before him was a purple bus. The doors slid open and out stepped a man about four or five years older than Draco.

“Hello,” he said, sounding rather bored. “My name is Michael –”

“I don’t really care,” he rasped out. He didn’t think Michael heard what he’d said though, because he looked up, maybe to ask if he could repeat that, when he saw Draco and his eyes went a little wider. At first he didn’t understand what he was looking at, but then Draco remembered that he was not only aching and having difficultly standing by himself, but his face and shirt were bloody.

“I don’t care about your stupid introduction,” Draco said as loud as he could so Michael could hear. “So long as this is the Knight Bus, just take me where I need to go without asking questions.”

Michael wasn’t offended or surprised by his rude tone. He looked relieved that he didn’t have to explain whom he was and go through the trouble of making Draco feel welcome, but he still had the look of wanting to ask questions. He didn’t though, and lazily stepped aside to admit Draco in. Reluctantly, he let go of the wall and gripped the handle near the doors instead, helping himself up the few steps and into the bus.

He told him his address, having to think for a while longer than what he normally would have, and went to sit on one of the many dishevelled beds.

It didn’t take Draco long to decide he never wanted to ride on a Knight Bus again. As hard as he tried to prevent it, he was thrown about, swaying this way and that, and more than once grabbing onto the bed for dear life. When someone’s luggage from overhead fell and hit him on the back of his head, right where it’d connected with the stone wall during the Crucio, Draco felt the familiar dizziness hit. As the gash on the back of his head reopened and blood trailed down the back of his neck, his sight swam in front of him, and then, apparently too much for one night, he was doubling over and retching violently, his eyes squeezed shut and tears trailing down his cheeks from the force of it. He figured vomiting mustn’t be an unlikely occurrence, because a bucket had appeared and nobody was looking over.

He emptied out his stomach not once, not twice, but three times until there was simply nothing left to empty, the acid burning his throat and stinging his already swollen tongue. He put his head between his knees, remembering his mother saying that was best for motion sickness, and tried not to focus on the renewed throbbing of his skull, or the dizziness, or the foul taste and stinging in his mouth, or the stench of blood, sweat and vomit combined.

He stayed like that for the remainder of the trip until Michael tapped his shoulder. “Your stop, sir,” he said, having the courtesy of trying not to wrinkle his nose up at the smell.

Draco nodded, not even attempting speech, and gladly stepped off the bus, which zoomed away the moment both his feet were on solid ground. It took him a few humiliating minutes to get to the front doors, but he managed in the end, still keeping close to the walls. 

Draco put it down to everything that had happened to him tonight that it took until he was in the elevator and going up to his floor to realise he couldn’t very well walk through the door, covered in blood, tripping every few steps and smelling as putrid as he did without giving Granger an explanation.

So when he got out of the elevator, Draco pulled out his wand and cleaned himself up as best as he could. Getting rid of (hopefully) all the blood wasn’t too hard; he could still do that at least. The unstableness he would have to make do, but he could not recall how to rid yourself of smells… was there even a spell for that? He racked his brain. He was sure there was… wasn’t there? His head proved to be useless, coming up with nothing. He just had to hope that the sink had lessened now that he’d cleaned up a bit. Maybe he could only smell it so strongly because he knew it was there?

His head was beginning to feel heavy now, and he could not stand outside for long. Perhaps he’d fallen into the wall harder than he’d originally thought. Out of nowhere, a thought struck him. Why hadn’t he gone to St. Mungo’s? Was he really so out of it that the most logical thing to do had not occurred to him?   

And then he was swaying dangerously, like on the Knight Bus, only this time it was happening all on its own. He slumped against the doorframe. Everything went black. Focused. Black.

Instinct took over, and he fumbled around for the door handle, inserted his keys clumsily, and stumbled through the door when it burst wide open, only just catching himself on the kitchen counter.

It must have been later than what he’d initially thought. There were already dinner plates – hers and Crookshanks – in the sink waiting to be washed, and Hermione was already in her pyjamas when she came hurrying from the lounge room. At the sight of Draco, she threw – actually threw – her book and ran up to him.

He thought he only blinked, but it must have been longer because when he opened his eyes again Hermione’s hands were on his shoulders, nails digging into his shirt in her panic.

“Draco,” she was saying, and he noted that he had never heard her voice tremble like that. “Draco, where does it hurt?” Not ‘what happened?’ or ‘who did it?’ or ‘are you all right?’ because she obviously knew those questions would be pointless.

“My head,” he said, and he repeated it again in case she did not hear. When he blinked again, his eyes did not open.

***

Flashes of light.

Voices. Speaking in hushed tones and then yelling. Brief flashes of faces he did not recognise. Someone was crying. The word ‘concussion’ was being repeated a lot and something was touching his hand. Then more lights among the gentle sound of somebody speaking softer now. He could not make out the words. Strained to hear it, because he knew that voice, was being very fond of it, but then there were no lights, and the darkness had him again, and then there was nothing.

***

“I wish she’d go home. It can’t be healthy for her to spend all her time here.”

“I don’t even understand why she’s here in the first place. I thought you said –?”

“Lucius! He’s stirring.” Chair scaping the floor as it was dragged closer, and then the voice was closer. “Draco, honey? Can you hear me?”

His eyes fluttered open slowly, but it was too bright again.

“Lucius – could you? The blinds. They’re too bright for him.”

The footsteps of someone crossing the room, a rattling, and then the light behind his eyelids was no longer red.  

“You can open your eyes again, honey. It’s all right,” she said softly, her cool hand brushing back his fringe.

Slowly, Draco obeyed, and his gaze focused on his mother, sitting beside his bed and his father standing not too far behind her, his hand on her shoulder as if to restrain her from jumping on him.

Narcissa’s hand flew to her mouth, her eyes watering. “Oh, it’s so good to see you awake. How are you feeling?”

His lips, cracked and sore, parted to reply, when he was suddenly all too aware of something warm clutching his hand. Looking down the length of the bed, he spotted Hermione. He’d seen her fall asleep many times on the sofa, but he’d never seen her look so… exhausted and drained. Through the tangle of curls almost obscuring her, he could see her face, resting on his bed, was not relaxed. Her brow was creased, her mouth was turned down.

And her hand was grasping onto his so tight, like she thought that alone would bring him back. But his hand was slack in her hold, non-responding, his fingers not curling around to hold onto hers.

He told himself the fluttering in his stomach was only because he hadn’t had a proper meal for hours.

Narcissa noticed where he was looking and smiled slightly. “I think she’s becoming very fond of you. Ophelia and Natalie have all been by, of course. So have Blaise and Pansy. I could barely get the last two out of here, but Hermione… she refused.”

Draco knew how much Granger loathed hospitals and everything about them. The poor colour choice, the uncomfortable beds, the food, the plastic-like smell, the eerie lights, and the echoes of people coughing or crying as you walked down the halls… So it was hard to conceal his surprise that she’d willingly chosen to stay in one for so long.

“How –” It came out as a croak that had his mothers eyes watering more, so he cleared his throat, glad when it did not hurt quite as much as it had done the last time, and tried again. “How long… have I been here?”

“Two nights,” his father answered.

“But you’re going to be all right,” Narcissa said quickly, afraid of unsettling him. He sat up and then winced, his head was still a bit funny. “Shh, not so fast. Just calm down and listen to me. The Healers said you had a concussion, but they assured us that it wasn’t fatal and no damage has been done, other than the headache you’re going to have for however long. They said everyone’s different. They also supplied us with some Potions to take regularly, which will get you back to health in no time.”

“Two nights?” he repeated, embarrassed by how weak he sounded. “But Granger’s got work, she shouldn’t be here –”

“She’s hired someone to fill in. I think you’re more important than work –”

“No!” he protested, and this time his voice was stronger. “No, that’s the problem, don’t you see? I shouldn’t be more important than work, I – I –”

“Settle down,” Narcissa said, gently easing him back into his bed. “Darling, I really don’t understand why you’re making such a fuss –”

“I can’t do it anymore, Mother!”

“Do what?” Lucius asked.

As he slowly came back to himself, everything else was beginning to click too. And he remembered very well what Nott had said; a girl could get herself into serious trouble, being with you. And as he became increasingly aware of the tingling in his fingers and how warm and soft her hand was and how she’d stayed in a hospital, a place she’d told him how much she hated more than once, for two nights just because of him, how he was more important than her work… it was all too much. She was sinking deeper and deeper into danger and she didn’t even know!

He was going to tell his parents exactly that, well, maybe not exactly, but close to, except before he could even get the first word out, he felt Granger stir.

She lifted her head off the bed, ran a hand drowsily over her face and rubbed her eyes, which were already red. Apparently too exhausted to notice she had company, her head settled back down on the white sheets, gripping his hand a little tighter as if to reassure herself he was still there.

And this time, Draco could not help but to squeeze back.

Her head popped back up so fast it might have been commercial. Her eyes sought out his, and sparked in a way he didn’t think was possible given how lifeless she looked.

“Hey,” she greeted quietly.

“You look like shit,” he said, to cover up how she was really making him feel.

He thought her eyes looked glossier than normal, and he thought maybe she was about ready to smile at him, but his comment seemed to bring her back to herself. She blinked quickly to rid herself of the possible tears there, and took her hand away from his, her cheeks tinging red.

There was a soft click of a door closing and Draco did not have to look up to know his parents had just left.

 “Are you feeling better?” she asked a little too lightly.

“Spectacular,” he replied wearily. “A little sore here and there but it’s nothing –”

She acted fast. Perhaps because, if she didn’t, she’d have lost her nerve; but one second Granger was sitting there, inching her chair closer, and the next she had placed both hands gently on his shoulders and leaned down to kiss his cheek, lips lingering there for a moment before she was pulling back again, leaving his cheek tingling and warm. 

The room went very still. She sat further into her seat, eyes downcast as she played with the hem of her shirt nervously, the blush back on her cheeks, and Draco had to stop himself from taking her hands back in his again, and this made him think back to Theodore and his warning. Maybe he had not been as far off the mark as he’d liked to think, maybe Nott was much more correct than Draco had given him credit for. Perhaps hurting Granger was the way to get to him, because watching her go red and fumble with her shirt did something to him. She could go to war with a brave face, fighting and prepared to die, ready to meet any attacker in the eye, yet she could not look him in he eye after pecking his cheek. And Draco could no longer pretend that she wasn’t somewhat captivating. But this was the reason why he was in this mess.

His gaze had wandered to land on the basket beside him, which was empty completely save for a few leftover crumbs. Hermione must have noticed where he was looking, because instantly she jumped to the opportunity to say something to fill the silence.

“Your mother brought muffins,” she explained. “But when Blaise visited he saw, and well… you know what he’s like with food. I did manage to save you –”

“What are you doing here?” he asked, not sounding nearly as firm as he’d intended. Not so much because he voice was still weak, but because he did not want to hurt her, but this was exactly his point; he shouldn’t care if he did.

She frowned in the middle of her sentence. “Well… I was visiting you.”

“Why?”

Her frowned deepened. “Because you’re, well, we live together, and I was the one who brought you in.”

“You missed work for me,” he stated.

Hermione shifted in her seat a little. “Yes. So what?”

“You love your work.”

“Yeah, but you had a concussion, Draco.” She emphasised the second last word like she would to someone who couldn’t speak English. “You do understand that, don’t you?”

Irritation found its way to him. “Of course I know that,” he snapped. “But do you know that you spent three whole days here?”

Again, she shifted uncomfortably, like this was something he wasn’t supposed to know. “And?”

“You hate hospitals. Don’t try denying it either,” he said, seeing her mouth open to retort, and her eyes narrowed.

“Since when has that ever mattered? I’ve been in the hospital so many times it hardly makes a difference.”

“Yes, but those times were for people like Weasley and Potter. I’m not them.”

“Really?” she asked in mock surprise. “I had no idea.”

“This isn’t the time for sarcasm, Granger,” he growled. “This wasn’t bloody part of the deal.”

“So Blaise, Pansy, your mother, father, even freaking Natalie Hopkins and darling Ophelia,” – at the mention of the last name, Draco saw a flash of something that took him aback, an emotion he’d only seen when she’d caught Weasley on New Years; jealously – “can visit you without question, but when it’s me I’m not allowed?”   

Just as he was about to fire something back, the door burst opened and in stepped Blaise and Pansy, the former grinning widely.

“Shit, mate,” was Blaise’s greeting, “it’s good to see you up.”

Pansy, however, was faster than Blaise and picked up the tense mood. “Are we interrupting something?” she questioned cautiously.

“Actually –” he began, but Granger got there first as she stood out of her chair loudly.  

“It’s fine, I was just about to leave anyway.” She got all the way to the door, then stopped, took something out of her bag and threw it at him before leaving.

It was a muffin she’d managed to save from Blaise. 

They were left to an unpleasant silence, and then Blaise, more probably to fill said quietness, sat down in the seat his mother previously accompanied.

“So pray tell, what happened?” 

It took a moment to reply as his gaze travelled from the muffin in his hands to the door, and when he considered the question, he thought about everything that had happened, not just Granger storming out, but the things before that too; things that shouldn’t have happened either. For example, he should not care that she’d left, but he did. So what happened? “Everything,” he answered.  

________________________________________

Next chapter; Pansy wants some answers. 

“How long?” she asked the second they were alone.

“Excuse me?”

“Don’t be thick, Draco. How long have you had this thing for Granger?”