Hermione had been daydreaming for quite some time when her mother called for her to come back into the house for dinner. It only pulled her half out of her reverie. She really had no desire to return inside, not until she could feel the cold start to make her bones ache, anyway. She stared ahead over the white capped water, at the dark outline of the islands scattered alongside the mainland, and wondered for the millionth time where Ron was.

She looked down at her hands. They were white, a little bony. Not too skinny, but getting there. She and her parents had been eating well, but they all knew without saying it aloud that food was getting more and more difficult to come by. The brunette squeezed her fingers into tight fists and could feel the stiffness there; the cold was beginning to settle in. The wards around the cottage wouldn't allow the unrelenting coastal winds to touch her on that open porch, but she could still feel the cold of mid Autumn in the highlands.

"Mione?"

The young girl turned to see her mother's pale but smiling face peering round the door at her. Was it just Hermione, or did her mother look older these days? Had confinement aged her so?

"Supper soon, darling."

Hermione let her eyes fall back to her lap, onto her hands, still pale and probably on the edge of a little too thin. Was she starting to age prematurely too?

"Thanks, Mum."

She stood with a heavy sigh and automatically patted her pocket; her wand was there, as it always was. Her eyes scanned the fields sloping down from the cottage again, across the rocks and over the dark water reaching to the darker horizon. Not a soul to be seen. No twinkling lights, no boats. She very rarely saw anyone all the way out in those parts, which was sort of the point, really. Hermione figured it wouldn't matter, even if she did see the random stranger. With all the magical wards surrounding the house, they wouldn't be able to see her.

A deep breath, one filled with cold, salt air and the faint stink of low tide, and Hermione was back in the warmth and light of the house. Dad was in the sitting room reading and Mum was busying herself over warming Sunday's roast and frying up some root vegetables. Hermione usually helped, but she'd felt tired all that day, anticipating her monthlies to come any day now, and as she got older, it generally made her feel worse each month.

The brunette settled into a chair at the dining room table and stared at the ugly portrait of Great Aunt Lavinia, circa 1930 or so. It was her cottage that the three Grangers were holed up in nowadays, a four bedroom, cozy little place in a remote corner of the Isle of Skye. She was rich and as Muggle as they come, and when Hermione became desperate for a place to hide her family, this place seemed her best option. And for three long years, she and her mother and father had been living there, all alone, living in near total isolation.

"Set the table, darling?" asked her mother. Hermione nodded, giving Lavinia's portrait a narrow look before taking a handful of plates and fetching up silverware.

Why even bother? she found herself wondering.

Granger Senior was peering out into the back garden. "Too bad your pumpkins never took, 'Mione. Halloween is almost here. We could have carved one."

She didn't bother repressing an eye roll. "Pity; we'll disappoint all the trick-or-treaters."

Her mother gave her a look. "That's not necessary."

Hermione said nothing, only continued to lay out silverware and fold napkins. Her father was hovering in the doorway looking down at the floor. He was quiet, which Hermione hated. It meant he was about to ask a difficult question. "When are you going out again, Hermione? We could do with some news, you know."

She'd finished setting the table. Only three places, after all. Hermione sat down at her place and watched her mother fuss over Sunday's roast in the kitchen. "I don't know, dad. Soon, I suppose." She made to put her frizzy hair into a ponytail and cursed when she realized she'd lost her favorite scrunchie, the cute one with the red and white stripes. It'd been lost for a few months now and she kept forgetting.

"You don't know much."

"No."

"I don't mean to pressure you, you know that. It's just that we're terribly isolated here, and if we don't have to be here then—"

"Dad, I don't want to be stuck here anymore than you do, trust me." She crossed her arms and sighed. Her mother placed a plate of rolls on the table. Hermione snatched one up and began to butter it anxiously. "It's complicated. My best sources of information are the papers, and you know they only print what people want to read. If I could only find Ron; if only I knew if he were even still alive..." Her knife went clean through her roll and she grimaced.

The Battle of Hogwarts had been more or less a draw. Harry and Voldemort were both killed by their own counter curses, or so everyone assumed. They'd both disappeared. Ever since, both sides warred back and forth. People were killed, people disappeared, and when Death Eaters started outnumbering everyone else and Muggles were targeted, Hermione took no chances. She packed up her parents and slipped under the radar, and had been there ever since.

Dad was still leaning against her doorframe looking at her. She smiled weakly, thinking for the millionth time that maybe she hadn't made the right call after all, that maybe old Voldy and his devoted Death Eaters didn't give two shits about her or her parents, and she'd been hiding out in the middle of nowhere in Scotland for three bloody years for no damn reason...

She shook her head. "I'll sneak into the city tomorrow, perhaps. Get some papers, some supplies. I'll find out what I can find out. The point is, maybe I was high on You-Know-Who's hit list and maybe I wasn't, but I surely didn't want to find out the hard way, right?"

Her father blinked, confused. "Eh, sure love."

"Hungry, all?" Mum sang as she waltzed into the dining room with the pot of roast and vegetables. Hermione, putting on a smile that she did not feel in her heart, stood to help her mother get situated. Today was Tuesday, so Sunday's leftovers were still plenty delicious, just as they had been last week, and the week prior. In all the weeks prior. Three goddamn years worth of Sunday roasts and nagging fathers and concerned mothers. Hermione smoothed the tablecloth with her hands and wondered, not for the first time, whether next Sunday's roast ought not just burn the cottage down by 'accident'.

"Dad? Please get a dish for gravy?" she asked sweetly.

"'Course," he said. Fetching a gravy boat, Granger Senior smiled and said, "'Mione may make a city run tomorrow, darling. Why don't you make a small list tonight of things you may need?"

Mrs. Granger was spooning potatoes onto her plate. "I could do with some night cream."

"If you get your old man some aftershave, I'd be forever grateful. It never seems to last, that stuff."

"You could always let your beard out," winked Mrs. Granger.

"I'll get as much as I can fit in a small bag, Dad, but you know I can only carry so m—"

A loud CRACK from outside the house startled them all. Granger senior dropped his teacup and it crashed to the floor. Hermione's mother groaned aloud. "Oh no, I hope that's not another one of my potted plants. That'll be the second one that fell over and broke this week—" She paused when a loud thump followed the sound. It came from their porch.

"No," Hermione breathed, grabbing for her wand. "It's not your plants, Mum." She rushed to the window, trying to peer through the curtains at their open porch. It was full dark outside and, though the wards kept out the wind, they somehow allowed the mists to creep in, allowing her to see very little.

"Oh, I'm afraid now," she heard her mother whisper. Father wasn't far behind with soothing words. Hermione heard more thumps from the porch. She took a deep breath to steady herself. Despite the powerful spells she'd secured their house with, Hermione felt anxious. Anyone could be out there. She opened the front door a crack. Nothing happened. It definitely was dark, now. There were torches on the front porch that cast some light, but it wasn't much. Another scuffling sound and thump made her squeak in fright. Her wand slipped in her hand and she realized she was bleeding. Must have cut herself slicing her roast when she was frightened by the apparation sound.

Because she had no doubt that that sound had been someone Apparating onto the porch.

There, sprawled over the steps, was a dark figure. The stocky build and long legs revealed it to belong to a man. She could see him struggling up the steps. Or was he trying to go down them? She couldn't be sure.

The man jerked when the heavy front door squealed on its old, salt-rusted hinges.. Hermione blinked at him. She could see torn clothes, a shattered wand clutched in his white-knuckled fists, and a mass of filthy red hair. Her hands flew to her face. "Ron!?"

"Ronald!?" Her mother nearly flew out the door, but fear kept her just inside the threshold. "It can't be. Can it truly be?"

"Hermione, how did he get here if you've hidden us from the rest of the world?" her father demanded in a low and frightened voice.

Hermione rushed to the man's side. "Ron, what's wrong? What happened?" She took in the tattered clothes. They were torn in many places, as if he'd been fighting fiercely with someone. She ignored the blood that was smeared on the stony surface of the old porch, thinking at first that it was her own. She pulled at his arm, trying to turn him over. He growled and pushed her away, rolling onto his side.

"My god, what's happened to the poor fellow?" Granger Senior's fear seemed to have left him as he joined his daughter in kneeling beside the broken and bleeding boy lying on their step. He reached out with shaking hands to soothe him. "We must get him to talk as soon as he's able. We must get information from him!"

"Dad!" Hermione hissed. "He looks like he's been beaten half to death! Making him 'talk' may have been why!" She smoothed her hands through his matted hair. "Ronald, Ronald speak to me… what happened?" When she pulled her hands away, she was startled to see that his hair color had come off on them. Great smears of clotted, red color. She looked in horror at his head and continued to run her fingers through it. As she smoothed the strands, more color came off, revealed paler and paler hair. Finally, the man turned. She gave an astonished cry. Stormy gray eyes stared up at hers, filled with the utmost contempt and loathing. His blond hair was now apparent. "Malfoy?"

Hermione was paralyzed with confusion. Yes, this was Draco Malfoy lying before her. His clothes were torn and bloodied, as was his hair. It was positively soaked in blood. No wonder she'd thought him a redhead. Blood was smeared across his face. His nose appeared to be broken, giving the skin around it an ugly purple and yellow hue. One of his eyes appeared to be bleeding as well. She whimpered when he squeezed them shut and grunted again. More blood seeped from his twisted mouth.

"Hurry," she said to her parents. "Hurry, we have to get him inside. He's badly hurt—"

"Step aside." Her father pushed her out of the way and scooped Malfoy up in one swoop. Malfoy wasn't very big for a boy, had never grown as tall as Harry or Ron, and her father was a big man. He carried the broken boy inside and slammed the door behind him.

"You know this boy, Mione?" her mother asked. She was flitting around her husband, who stalked through the halls with the limp Slytherin in his arms, wringing her hands and fretting. "Goodness me, look at him, just look at him—"

"This is Draco Malfoy," Hermione said. "He was in my year at Hogwarts, though in a different house." She, too, was dancing worriedly around her father. She saw that Malfoy was trailing blood on the floor and she vanished it with jerky waves of her wand.

"Oh, the carpet," her mother moaned when Malfoy gave a particularly nasty cough and sent bloody spittle flying.

"Mum!"

"Both of you, keep quiet!" her father snapped. He tore up the stairs. "We need to get him patched up."

Hermione continued to make squealing, whimpering sounds in her throat. They grew louder when she saw how her father's shirt was getting more and more soaked in Malfoy's blood. Soon, her father had kicked open the door to one of the spare bedrooms and, as gingerly as he could, laid Malfoy on the bed. The injured boy's face contorted in pain, but he was silent. He rolled over to his side again and bit back his cries of pain.

Hermione could only stand transfixed in the doorway. Her parents weren't doctors, they were dentists. What could they do to help? Malfoy looked positively wretched. She watched her father push him onto his back and start removing his garments. "Go get some bandages and rags. And some peroxide—maybe we can just clean him up a bit before you take him to a hospital."

Her mother dashed from the room. "Dad," Hermione said quietly, "I don't think I'll be able to bring him anywhere."

He continued to tear away at Malfoy's shredded clothes, ignoring the boy's weak attempts to push him off. "What do you mean? Of course he has to go to the hospital, he's hurt badly."

"No, no I can't go anywhere with him. He shouldn't even be here…" She wrung her hands anxiously. "Merlin, the blood!"

"What are you talking about, Hermione? Oh—come here, will you? Put pressure on this cut!" She complied, quite forgetting just how vile and nasty she remembered the boy to be.

"He's a Dark Wizard, Dad. The son of a wanted Death Eater! Probably one of the most wanted men in all of Wizarding England! I can't bring him anywhere, the authorizes will be alerted for sure..." Malfoy's eyes cracked open at that statement. He glared at Hermione, still choking back growls and moans of pain. He lashed out at Hermione's father.

"Listen, son, I'm only trying to help!" Malfoy continued to struggle. One of his feet kicked Hermione in the side.

"Malfoy, stop!" she cried. "Merlin, what happened to you? What are you doing here?" She began to weep piteously. "What's going on?" Her father ripped Malfoy's sleeves away and Hermione screamed. His left forearm appeared to have a large chunk of skin carved out of it. The Dark Mark…

Someone had cut it wholly out of his arm.

Her mother returned to the room, arms loaded with medical supplies. She pushed Hermione aside. "Go on, Mione, get out of here. Let us work." She started helping her husband disrobe the sweating, writhing boy beneath her. Malfoy opened his mouth to say something, but gasped and drew back, struggling against cries of pain.

Hermione backed into the corner and continued to sob. Her hands were stained with his blood and she wiped them off on her jeans. "But Mum—"

"Go!" her parents shouted in unison. Hermione staggered from the room and collapsed in the hall outside. Her hands were still filthy and bloodied. She cried into them and wiped them on her pants, her shirt… anything to get the horrid stains off.

She could feel a dull horror slowly stealing over her like a frost. Hermione hadn't felt that truly afraid for quite some time, not since they went into hiding. If Malfoy was able to find her, then surely others would be able to. How in the world had he been able to break through her wards? They weren't all powerful, but they were certainly enough to repel a lone wizard. And why Malfoy!?

Damn, she knew so little of what he'd been up to in recent years. She knew that Lucius had been imprisoned for some time in Azkaban, but had broken out after Harry's death. She knew that he was back in the ranks of the Death Eaters, probably trailing along at Voldemort's side. She had no doubt his son had been doing the same. The Death Eater's crimes were famous even in the Muggle world. Petrified, she wondered whether or not he had been followed by whoever had hurt him so.

Sniffling and sobbing, Hermione rose to her feet and retreated to her own room. It was next to the guest bedroom. She collapsed on the bed, listening to the sounds of struggle through the walls. Every once in awhile, she heard Malfoy give a particularly loud gasp of pain. Her parents' frantic murmurs could be heard as well.

She ignored the pounding of her heart. What would this mean for them? He absolutely could not stay there. He would be found by whoever was tracking him and their security would be forfeit. She'd have to come up with a plan to force her parents into hiding, since they likely wouldn't go willingly. And what of her? She was in just as much danger.

Think, Hermione, she told herself, forcing her breathing to slow. Think of a logical way out of this. Obviously, nothing can be done until he's properly stabilized. After that… well, perhaps it would be best to erase his memories and dump him somewhere. He'll live.

Hermione forced herself into a state of quiet, meditative silence, trying her best to remain calm and composed. Eventually, this caused her to fall into a state of restless half-sleep, one in which she could still hear stifled cries of pain and the occasional rip of bandages. She imagined that she could still see him writhing in pain, resolutely refusing to utter a single sound that would betray his agony. But she saw the blood in his mouth and his hair, she saw the deep gashes all over his chest and arms. The hole that had been sliced out of his arm made her stomach turn. In her half-sleep, she turned and retched.

Hands on her shoulders made her sit up in cold, stark awareness. "Mione," her mother whispered. "Come see him. We've done all we can; now he needs magical healing."

Hermione stumbled from the bed. What could she do? She wasn't trained in healing magic. And Merlin, he'd lost so much blood…

He was bandaged from head to toe, courtesy of her parents. He looked to be slipping in and out of consciousness, growling quietly and grimacing every once in awhile. Maybe he had internal injuries, as well. Her father was standing beside him, slapping him lightly on the cheeks every now and then to keep him awake. "He might have a concussion," he said when Hermione scolded him.

She crept forward, hoping he wouldn't open his eyes and give her filthy looks again. Just like she remembered, just like he used to be. Always glaring hatefully at her, as if she were beneath him. The look he'd given her on the porch was proof of that. She reached out to touch the bandages across his chest. "He's still bleeding."

"That's why we need you. Cast some spells over him to make it stop."

Hermione withdrew, looking pale. "I don't know many…"

As she suspected, she hadn't been much help. Learned though she was in charms and potions, she'd never been properly trained in complex healing magic. Sure, she could vanish his shallow scratches, even knit a few of them together if they were small enough. But his entire body was covered in deep gashes, all of which festered horribly. They were angry, raw and green-tinged. Most of them look as if they'd been inflicted by Dark Magic; in particular, the Sectumsempra curse. She wouldn't be able to heal those. They'd need more bandages too; Malfoy was already starting to bleed through the new ones.

"Tomorrow," she said fretfully, trying to ignore the way Malfoy shrank away from her touch. "Tomorrow, I'll try to go to the city. Perhaps a wizarding one. I'll need…ingredients, things I can't buy in Muggle shops. I can make a few potions, maybe an elixir or two… they might be able to help. I was—pretty good in Potions."

Her mother was eyeing him worriedly. "Maybe we should give him something for the pain? It would help him sleep, at any rate."

"He's a wizard, Mum. He'll be impervious to Muggle medicine. I keep an elixir or two in my bathroom…" She left the room to search around for any spare vials of potion. She always kept a few stocked in her cabinet for her nasty cramping every month. She grabbed a vial and swore, cursing Malfoy for being such a damn inconvenience. She was due to start any day now, and with him dipping into her stash too, she'd just have to live with the cramps.

She watched with a kind of sick pleasure as her mother forced the contents of the vial down Malfoy's throat. He struggled against her and tried to spit the liquid out, but her father stepped in and held his nose and mouth shut. Eventually, he swallowed.

Shaking, Hermione stepped forward to push Malfoy back against the sheets. "Don't struggle against us, you little toerag. You came here of all places for help, so help us help you!" He grimaced and glared at her before he closed his eyes and laid back against the pillows. They were filthy from his blood and sweat. Hermione whispered "Tergio," in an attempt to clean them. In her weary state, it didn't help much.

"Leave him to rest for now," her mother said softly from her side. "There's no use in interrogating him. We'll talk to him in the morning."

Her parents slipped quietly from the room, leaving Hermione standing beside the bed. Malfoy had turned resolutely away from her and remained silent. His labored breathing was the only sound to be heard in the room. "Malfoy," she whispered. "At least tell me why you're here." He said nothing. She stood there for some time, watching the way his chest rose and fell in an alarming, jerky sort of way. She could hear him trying to muffle low growls of pain in his throat. He didn't look at her.

Doesn't this twat realize he's the first person we've spoken to in ages?

She sighed and left the bedside. "You'd better have a good explanation for this in the morning."

Hermione slept horribly that night. She woke up with a start and dashed into the guest bedroom more times than she could count, either because she'd dreamt that it had all been a horrible nightmare, that no one had ever appeared on their porch broken and bleeding under pain of curses, or because she'd imagined that Malfoy had been screaming in pain in the next room. Once, right before the sun rose, she awoke in terror because she'd dreamt that a bleeding, bandaged Draco Malfoy had been standing next to her bed with his wand pointed at her throat.

Finally, she fell into a deep sleep. When she awoke for the last time, sunlight was pouring through her open window. She sat up and rubbed her eyes, feeling shaky and cold. What time was it?

She slipped from the bed and wrapped herself in a cloak—Fall was on the way out and Winter almost upon Scotland. Though the cottage was cozy and warm enough, the wet cold made itself known through the stone floors and occasional drafts. Hermione crept down the hall and peered into the guest bedroom. Her spirits sagged. There, lying in the bed, was Malfoy. Her mother was sitting at his side, sponging at his face and arms with a wet washcloth. Hermione sighed.

"Mione," said her mother, looking up when the floorboards beneath Hermione's feet creaked, betraying her presence. "Darling, go and fetch me a fresh cloth, please. And a clean bowl of warm water."

Hermione eyed the figure of Malfoy. He still looked pale and wretched. His bandages were bloody; they'd need to be changed again. She nodded and gathered the necessary items. On her way back up the stairs, she thought, He could die. What if he dies here?

"Thank you, dear," her mother sighed. Hermione took away the bowl of dirty, pinkish water and the bloodied rag.

"Mum… I'll set out soon for the city. There are things that I can buy for him there that might help."

"Do be careful," she answered distractedly. She began to gently smooth the fresh rag over Malfoy's long, dirty hair. Hermione could tell that he was awake, as he would jerk every once in awhile when her mother accidentally brushed against a wound, but his eyes were closed. He refused to look at them.

Hermione took in the sight of her mother. It would have been almost sweet, watching her gently soothing Malfoy's bloody forehead with a warm washcloth, if it hadn't been Malfoy's forehead she was mopping. Images from her past filled Hermione's head—Malfoy extending his hand to shake Harry's on the train, Malfoy dressed in a black cloak, pretending to be a Dementor, Malfoy leering at them in Potion's class…

"So," her mother began, "you know this boy well?"

Hermione stifled a sneer. "Not really. We went to school together for many years, but… we were never friends."

"I see." Malfoy gave a start when the washrag brushed over a wound hidden by his hair, and her mother whispered, "There there…"

"I'll do that," said her father from the doorway. Hermione and her mother turned round. Granger senior was standing in a pair of loose pajamas, a steaming mug of coffee in one hand and a newspaper (old) in the other. "I'll clean him up in a bit. Throw him in our bathtub, you know."

Hermione nodded. The master bedroom of the Skye cottage had a spacious bathroom with an old claw foot style tub. Malfoy would fit nicely into it. "Perhaps wait until this evening?" Hermione suggested. "I'm about to go buy the potions and simples he'll need. I can get some medicinal salts for the bathwater."

Granger Senior scratched his chin. "I think we have a few of those… soothing salts, you know, for his pain more than anything else. We also have some oatmeal bath still in the cupboard from when you had chickenpox ages ago."

"Dad… chickenpox and cursed wounds are two totally different things."

He shrugged. "I'll draw the bath now." They looked at Malfoy and were surprised to see that he was staring at them all with wide eyes.

Hermione chuckled softly. No doubt he had been horrified to hear things like 'oatmeal bath' and 'chicken pox.' She also guessed that he didn't particularly like the idea of being bathed by her father. .

"Don't worry," her mother said soothingly, "we'll leave the room for it. Give you your privacy and all."

"Urgh," Hermione muttered. "Gladly."

Her mother sat back in her chair and wiped at her brow. "I'm going to go see if I can't throw something together for him to eat. Soup, probably, and maybe a bit of dry toast." She rubbed his forehead, causing him to scowl. "He looks as if he needs to eat. Here." She dropped the wet washcloth into Hermione's hand. "Take over for me."

"But—" Hermione protested. Her mother didn't listen. She rose from the chair and left the room, followed by her father.

Hermione stared at Malfoy's face for a long time, listening to the water running through the old pipes above her head, readying a warm bath for their new ward. Forces were warring within her, forces she understood well, in a logical way, yet struggled with on an emotional level. The Gryffindor in her demanded that she care for this person who could not fend for himself, enemy or no. However, some dark part of her heart found it very hard to forgive seven years of snide remarks, of dirty looks, fights, being topped in certain classes and being called 'Mudblood' at every opportunity. Just the sound of his name, Draco, was enough to send a chill across her and make her clench her teeth.

You must put those feelings aside, Hermione, said the better part of herself. This man is dying, will absolutely die without your aid. Help him. It's simply the right thing to do.

And in times like these, right and wrong have never been so greatly magnified.

The brunette sighed and dipped the cloth into the clean basin of water. "Malfoy," she began, taking her mother's chair. "Will you tell me now why you're here?"

She resumed Mrs. Granger's cleaning of the bleeding boy's hair. It was very long, nearly to his shoulders. Apparently, whatever he'd been doing in the last few years had not afforded him time to get a haircut, which rather surprised her. She'd always pictured Malfoy to be snobbish and vain.

He did not answer her question. "Come on, Malfoy," she urged, getting angry again. "What happened to you? And how did you get past my wards, anyway?"

The young Death Eater still gave her no reply. Instead, he closed his eyes again and turned away from her. She could only shake her head. She wrung out the cloth, dipped it again into the steaming water, and smoothed it through his hair. It was clotted with dried, blackened blood, but also with what appeared to be dirt. What had he been doing?

He hissed and jerked away from her when she ran her washcloth over a cut hidden beneath his hair. She parted the bloody strands and saw a shallow gash just behind his ear. It looked ugly, but not nearly as bad as the wounds on his chest. Perhaps this was a normal wound. She eyed the similar cut over his eye. His eyebrow appeared to be sliced cleanly in half. It, too, looked mild enough to heal. Maybe it had been dealt by a knife.

"I'm leaving soon," she told him, trying to ignore how angry she was becoming at his silence. "I'm going to go buy potion ingredients. I'll do a bit of research before then to see what I'll need… obviously essence of dittany, maybe some murtlap tentacles, a few painlessness potions. Blimey, I wish I had more Herbology books… it was never my favorite subject." She pushed his hair aside to clean the dried blood and dirt from behind his ear. "Malfoy, you'll need to look at me so I can clean the other side of you face and neck. Turn around." He refused, and she scowled. "I said turn around."

He remained still as stone. With a huff, Hermione withdrew to the other side of the bed. As she predicted, he turned his head the opposite way in a refusal to look at her. This afforded her the access she needed to his neck and cheeks. "Bloody idiot," she hissed. "You're damn lucky that you chose to apparate here, of all places. My parents are kind people. Merlin, my Mum was practically cuddling you. Very maternal, she is, as you can see." She blinked. "I'm willing to bet that this is the first time a human has ever cared for you in such a way. Don't house elves do this kind of thing in Wizard homes?" He didn't answer. "Well, when she comes back, you'd better eat whatever she gives you. I don't want to have to force you to be compliant." She patted her wand, which was stowed in her pocket. "Honestly, fighting us when you came to us for help…"

Malfoy growled low in his throat. Hermione pulled away, almost apologizing for running the cloth over another wound of his. His eyes stayed resolutely shut and, even though he was silent, at least he was allowing her to do what she needed to do. "This is ridiculous," she said under her breath. "We've taken you into our home, dressed your wounds…we're about to feed and bathe you for Merlin's sake. The least you could do is tell us why. At least do us that honor." Still, he gave her no answer. Fuming silently, Hermione wiped at his cheeks and neck with the tip of the warm cloth. "Three years. That's how long we've been living here. Did you know? Just me and mum and good ole dad. Just us. It's a very isolated place. No neighbors. No friends. No one to talk to. Just one another. So now we have you; our first visitor who refuses to talk to us. How lovely." She resisted the urge to thump him.

"Why don't you tell me how you found me and my family. Hmm? Care to share with the class? How did you even know where to look?"

Silence.

"I'll get that much out of you before this is over with. You can bet on that, Malfoy." She scowled at him. "Can you even imagine how it feels to see your face? A face that isn't one of the two tired old faces I've been staring at day in and day out for bloody-damn-ever, and yet of all the faces in the world, it has to be yours…" When she looked at his eyes, she paused and pulled away. They were still squeezed tightly shut and now, with the sunlight falling over his face, she could see that they were glittering with tears.

Author's Notes:

None, really. I just love Dramione. Reviews and constructive criticism are always appreciated. 3 Updates will come.