Author's Note: Just a quick note to say, this was not how I envisioned this piece at all. The entire idea of a HG crossover with Dramione was so exciting, and then became much too overwhelming, and I may still have been writing by the time my children reached high school. So this was the end compromise with myself. If you haven't read the books, you may be lost. If you have read the books, hopefully you'll get most of the references. Oh, and because I know someone will say something, the present tense at the beginning and end is a little homage to the books. Finally, thanks to Sam (withdrawnred) for helping out with this. You're a rock star!

Disclaimer: I am neither J.K. Rowlings nor Suzanne Collins, and I do not claim to be. I'm just having a bit of fun with their characters and stories.

She sits in the field, the long grass tickling her legs, watching her daughter run in circles and chase after her father. She stares, drinking in the quiet that is punctured every so often with shrieks and giggles, her mind wandering and racing, with thoughts she tries not to think.

She is startled when a body plunks down beside her, and a head burrows onto her lap, forcing her to stretch a bit to accommodate.

"Tell me a story, Mum."

She runs her hand through her daughter's blonde curls, and replies like she always does, "What kind of story, Denise?"

"A good story." Her daughter pauses. "A true story. The ones you're best at."

She chuckles softly at her daughter's comments. She is better at retelling fact, even in story form, than creating fiction. Imagination was stifled early in her. She has hopes that her daughter will be better at it.

Before she can think of something appropriate, something true to tell, her daughter speaks again.

"Tell me a story about you and Daddy. About when you fell in love."

She stiffens briefly, instinctively, and immediately looks toward her husband, who is caught up in picking flowers, and weeds, and other things she knows the name of, but has no idea how they will come together in whatever he is planning.

He catches her eye, and smiles, unaware of what their daughter has asked. There was a time when she would have fled at such an innocent question. But there was also a time when she didn't want children, or to be married. Now she can't imagine a world without Denise, without her husband.

Her daughter can't know all of it, not yet, but she can know some of it.

"How about I tell you about the first three times I knew I loved your Daddy?"

She turns her eyes toward her daughter, who is nodding eagerly, and smiles gently, beginning her story. No. Their story.

Once upon a time, there was a young girl named Hermione, and she lived in a place called HH1. And in HH1, her home was located in the Stretch.

"Ooh, that's where we live, Mum! But, what's a Stretch?" "Denise. Let me tell the story."

In HH1, like in the other houses, there were both magical people and non-magical people. The magical people lived in the Village, and the non-magical people lived in the Stretch. Hermione's daddy said it was called that because if you stood between two houses and stretched out your arms you could touch both houses. Others said that the people that lived the Stretch were stretched too thin, physically and mentally.

"But Mummy, you and Daddy have magic, why did you live in Stretch?" "Listen, sweetie. Wait for me to tell you."

Hermione lived with her parents, and neither had magic. Hermione's daddy, when he was young, had lived in the Village with his parents, but had been born with no magic. They called him a Squib.

"A squid? Like from the ocean?" "No a Squib, with a buh."

A Squib was someone whose parents had magic, but he or she didn't. And Hermione's daddy lived with his parents until he met Hermione's mummy, and fell in love with her. But Hermione's mummy didn't have magic. She was called a Mug, short for Muggle. And so they married and moved to the Stretch. Right next door to Hermione's aunt and her husband.

Now, in those days, almost everyone in HH1 who was a Mug worked in the Pit.

"The pit? Like a hole in the ground?" "Actually something just like that."

The Pit was a giant network of caves. And in the caves were minerals and gems that were very valuable in making certain potions and other magical devices. So, HH1 extracted these minerals. Well, the Mugs did.

And Hermione's father, with no magical ability, living in the Stretch, married to a Mug, worked in the Pit. As did Hermione's uncle, and almost all of the Stretch men that Hermione knew.

See, even though non-magical people and magical people, or Mags, lived in the same place, they were divided. Mugs worked the more dangerous jobs, and in general, just had less of everything—money, food, clothing, space. Life was generally harder.

But Hermione didn't notice this as much when she was a child. Her father made her laugh, her mother brushed her hair every night, and books were her friends. She played outside, read, and told stories. Her father made sure she had enough to eat, that she had plenty of parchment to read, that she was sheltered from the how terrible the world was. He and her mother loved her, and she felt it each and every day.

And then, one day, everything changed.

"Oh Mum! What happened? Is this about Grandfather?"

Hermione's father died when she was only ten years old. There was a cave-in in the Pit, and Hermione's father died, along with her uncle, ten other extractors, and three Mags. It was the day that orphaned her cousin, Dennis, and left her with only one parent. It was a horrible day, and the day Hermione became cold and bitter. But that wasn't the day that she realized that she was now the protector of her family. That was the day was the day she met Draco Malfoy.

"Ooh! Here's where you fall in love with Daddy!" "Not quite, dear."

When Hermione's father died, she was scared and sad. But quickly, she and her family became hungry, and then sick. Without money coming in from working in the Pit, Hermione, her mother, and Dennis, were slowly dying. Her mother refused to move, much less work, she was so broken by her husband's death. And it was on a day that Dennis wouldn't wake up, after days of no food, with a burning body, that Hermione made her way into the Village.

She looked in rubbish bins, desperate for food, and found a few scraps. What she really needed was medicine, a potion. Something for Dennis. His body had been too weak to fight the infection, and even if she found a mountain of food, he needed something else.

And so Hermione crept behind the potion maker's home and business, thinking perhaps there were a drops left in a vial. A vial that had been tossed out. She'd read about potions in books from her father. She was sure she could identify something. Being desperate, and young, and ill herself, she never considered the consequences of giving little Dennis something that may hurt him further.

"But Mum! You've said never to drink a potion that I don't know!" "You are quite correct— you shouldn't. But I was very scared; I wasn't thinking straight."

But as she was scavenging through the bins, Draco's father, came out, and saw her. He was an angry man, and did not like people from the Stretch, people without magic. As he yelled at her, terrible things, she saw Draco staring at her from around his father. But he quickly turned away as his father came back inside.

Hermione stood shaking, cold, and terrified, though not of Draco's father, but of Dennis dying. Herself dying. She sunk down against the wall, wishing for tears, but there was nothing—just an empty stomach and a broken heart.

But, suddenly, she heard a thunderous voice, screaming about something being ruined, and then, something breaking. And before she knew it, there were a handful of vials thrust in front of her face. Even in the shadows, she recognized the milky colour as an antibiotic. But the others, the bright purple, she had no idea what that was.

She looked up at the blond boy with what must have been a questioning look, for he immediately said,

"Vitamin supplements. Each should last a few days."

Hermione was stunned. He couldn't be just…giving these to her...could he?

"Probably will be bitter, but shouldn't affect the quality," he said with a glance over his shoulder.

Hermione knew he was looking for his father. Something happened in there, and she wasn't quite sure what. And her unhealthy constitution kept her curious nature somewhat at bay.

It didn't stop her from asking, "But, why?"

She wasn't sure if she meant about the bitterness or what he had done. Probably both, but Draco only answered the latter.

His grey eyes stared into hers, and he said sharply, "Just make it last. Just find a way."

And then he whirled around and went back inside. He seemed angry, but Hermione didn't know why. And she wouldn't find out for a long time.

"Well, that wasn't very nice of Daddy to be so mean to you, Mum." "He saved my life, Denise."

Hermione went home and gave the potion to Dennis, though the supplements were not tasty or comforting, like warm stew in your stomach, their bellies felt full.

You may think that the first time Hermione fell in love with Draco was when he gave her the potions, but in fact, it was the next day, at school.

In the morning, as Hermione crossed the yard, heading toward classes, she saw him. And when he turned his face toward her, she saw it. The bruise covering the side of his face. A wound no doubt inflicted by his father. As punishment for ruining something to give to her.

And it was at that moment that Hermione realized her determination, her strength. She would find a way to keep her family fed. She wouldn't let this happen again. If a boy, who didn't even really know her, would risk a beating to give her a potion, then she could at least be that strong.

And that, was the first time she loved him.

"And did you and Daddy see each other lots after that?" "Not quite."

It was that afternoon that Hermione braved the Forbidden Forest. It was the first time she had gone in alone. No one was allowed in the Forest. It was against the rules. And to enforce those rules, a magical boundary surrounded HH1. But, Hermione's house had only a few Aurors guarding the town, and lapses in the upkeep of the Barrier were frequent. More often than not, the Barrier wasn't up. But the Forbidden Forest was called that for another reason. It was full of beasts, those with magic, and those without. A weapon was necessary in the Forest, and weapons were illegal. Who was going to go into the Forest with a kitchen knife or a wand that they only knew a handful of spells for?

Therefore, the Aurors weren't too concerned with keeping the Barrier up and running, and that suited Hermione's purposes just fine.

Hermione's father had loved the outdoors, and had been brave enough to venture deep into the Forest. He was resourceful, laying traps and gathering edibles. But just because he was a Squib, didn't mean he didn't know magic. He just couldn't use it. But his daughter could.

Most Mags snap into their magic at an early age—five or six. Hermione did not. And her father and mother were pleased. Her father wanted her to have magic, but being a Mag born of two Mugs was not good. It was likely she would be shunned by both Mugs and Mags. They did not wish that stigma on their daughter.

But, Hermione was eager to learn, even if she didn't, or wouldn't, have magic. So, Hermione's father had taught her what he knew, what he had been taught, until his parents realized he had no magic. Her father had also brought with him, from the Village, books and books. Books that he had hidden in the Forest, for no one to find, along with a wand and bow. A bow that he had taught her to use, and a wand that he and his daughter had waved that neither could use.

Ironically, it was the day that her father died that Hermione Snapped. She came into her magic, and had no one to tell.

But on this afternoon, Hermione ventured in, determined to provide for her family, determined to use that wand, and that bow, determined to live.

"Mum, when are you going to get to the next part?" "Am I boring you?"

And Hermione did. She was resourceful and bright, and taught herself new things. Even created some new spells. She kept her mother and Dennis's stomachs fed. She protected them.

But, there was one thing she could never protect Dennis from. One thing that both Mugs and Mags feared, and despite the inequality in their living conditions, both were equally vulnerable.

This was The Tournament. Long ago, The Tournament had been created to remind every house of all the death that they had caused in their attempt to rebel against the Ministry. One Mug and one Mag were chosen each year, because each of their kind had rebelled against the Ministry. In the end, the Ministry had wanted to show that Mugs were useless and powerless, and clearly lesser than Mags. Of course, the Ministry never said that. They just said that the houses needed to be thankful that the Ministry was around to ensure stability and be thankful that the world was not in chaos.

And twelve magical and twelve non-magical teenagers fighting each other to the death was the perfect reminder of that.

On the day that Dennis was first eligible for The Tournament, Hermione had been sure he would never be called. He only had one slip in the Goblet. Hermione had many more. She assured him that he would be fine, that there were hundreds of other slips in the Goblet.

Hermione wanted to protect him, but she couldn't. Not from this.

So, when his name was called, Hermione's heart grew too large in her chest. And she couldn't speak, though she wanted to scream. But when she finally opened her mouth, she said the only words she could think of to protect him.

"I volunteer! I volunteer as Champion!" she cried out.

Dennis had cried, and had to be carried off, but Rita Skeeter, their house's escort, didn't wait for his cries to subside before she called out the Mag Champion.

And whose named popped out of the Goblet on a worn piece of parchment? Draco Malfoy.

And so Hermione became the first person in her house to volunteer for another Champion. Hermione went into the Tournament with a hidden magical ability. And Hermione went into the Tournament despairing that she would never get to repay the boy who had saved her life years before, before he or she died. She thought it was ironic that if she were to survive, she may have to kill the boy who saved she and her family's lives.

"But Mum. You didn't die. And neither did Daddy." "No, we didn't. He saved me again."

So, before the Tournament could actually begin, we were taken to the Capitol, where the Ministry was, and there were interviews, and parades, and training. The Tournament was a game for the Capitol, and Hermione and Draco, and other Champions, had to pretend it was great fun to want to kill each other. But it wasn't. And most of them were terrified, having never fought a day in their lives.

Draco and Hermione were trained together, and their stylists and mentor, Severus Snape—

"Uncle Severus? He's in the story?" "Yes, he is. Not much of this story, but he plays a part."

—required that Draco and Hermione act like they were a team. Most Champions did not work together, because in the end, there was only one Grand Champion. But, they had made a promise to Severus to listen to him, and they did.

Despite Draco having saved her life those many years earlier, Hermione didn't quite trust him. She was worried that he was plotting against her, trying to impress Ministry citizens, pulling their potential gifts in the arena away from her. He was sarcastic and a little rude, but not necessarily in a cruel way. And he made up for it with a dashing smile. She wondered if he was hiding his own fear of the Tournament. But none of that mattered—Hermione couldn't take the time or effort to get to know him. She had a made a promise to Dennis that she would return. No Potion boy was going to take that away from her.

Still, Draco was disconcerting. He was everywhere. They had to train together, act like a team, and Draco kept attempting to make conversation with her, as if trying to figure her out. But she wasn't one for conversing, at least not anymore.

Finally, one day he commented on it, saying, "You don't talk much."

Hermione didn't respond, as was typical for her. She always eventually ended up speaking because she was too tired to fight it, or because she wanted him to leave her alone.

"I remember you talking in school all the time. Always had something to say. Always had an answer."

Draco had been right. Hermione used to talk all the time. She could have told him about the other houses, and their specialties. Spells she had learned. How she had discovered the secret exit that led to the rooftop. But she stayed silent.

"What happened?"

"There was no one to listen anymore."

She said the words before she could stop them from tumbling out. The words were truthful. They were painful. They made her want to weep.

Hermione's father had always listened to her. When her mother would roll her eyes, her father looked at Hermione with interest—like he cared. He seemed to have loved her thirst for knowledge, and for sharing it. But he taught her so much—he could have taught her even more.

When he was gone, Hermione still wanted to learn and she worked harder to learn new things, but she lost interest in sharing it with others.

"I didn't realize all of HH1 went deaf."

His words jolted Hermione out of her reverie.

Hermione cringed a bit at his sarcasm. She was beginning to think it was a very unattractive feature. It was unfortunate, for Draco was rather attractive himself. Until he opened his mouth.

He turned and stared at Hermione. It was then that she realized his eyes were grey. She wondered why she had never noticed it before.

"It's rather tiring to go through this ordeal with no one to talk to."

"I didn't realize that Rita and Severus had become mute."

He snorted and a grin graced his face. "Nice one, Granger. But even you have to admit that those two are only going to listen to themselves."

Hermione smiled unconsciously, but immediately wiped it off her face. Her eyes narrowed in suspicion. He's the competition. He could be who kills her in the Tournament.

"What are you doing? Why do you care if we converse?"

Draco shrugged.

"Listen, I know you are able to have a conversation—I remember you carrying on a heated one with that Potter kid about the uses of those crystals from the mines. You were always a bit verbose, and a lot of a know-it-all, but you have a nice voice. And who knows, maybe I'll learn something."

And then he turned and walked out of the room without another glance at her.

And that's how their conversations usually went. Snarkiness, a hint of a compliment, and some unknown tidbit that Hermione would discover he knew about her.

It unnerved her, and she was more determined to guard against him until the Tournament, when she would have to guard against everyone.

It was at the interviews that everything came apart. The interviews were the final shebang in all the Pre-Tournament activities, and of everything, the part that Hermione dreaded more than anything else.

Rita spent hours with her, having her practice on heels and in various gowns. She thought it couldn't get worse than that, until she met with Severus. She attempted to do what he said, be bubbly, be sensuous, be humble…be anything other than what she was—pissed off that she was there. Angry that she was being paraded around like livestock. Eventually, he gave her a glare that she wished she could emulate, and strode out of the room, saying that she was "hopeless" and that "a toadstool mushroom had more personality" than she did.

She didn't care. And as she fidgeted before they took their seats on stage, she actually thought she'd rather be in the arena than out there. She thought it was a disturbing thought and tried to put it out of her mind. The interview was only three minutes. She could do three minutes. She hoped she could.

Hermione glanced at Draco, although he seemed much more composed than she, he refused to meet her eyes. She didn't have time to ponder it for she was pushed out on stage by Rita. An annoyed Severus told her to wipe the scowl off her face.

She barely heard any of the interviews. She barely even noticed her own. She focused on a person in the front row, and tried to answer as if she was talking to a friend. Which seemed laughable, since she really had no one.

Soon her time was up, and she headed back to her seat, passing Draco as he took the interviewee seat. She felt his hand brush hers and she swung her head back toward him, giving a small half-smile. She thought perhaps he was nervous, and needed reassurance. He only glanced at her briefly, barely acknowledging her, before he sat down his seat, and she took hers.

Again, Hermione only half-listened to the interview. She heard laughs from the crowds and Cornelius Fudge, and she realized she shouldn't have been worried about Draco. He always had an easy way with people, and Cornelius's job was to make all the Champions likeable. They were a match made in heaven. Cornelius asked the right questions, and Draco had the right words, the smooth demeanour, the personal smile.

It wasn't until she heard Cornelius ask about a girl back home that Hermione turned in her seat toward the pair. Draco coughed awkwardly, but said there was no one. Cornelius prodded, and Draco shifted in his seat, saying that there was someone, but he was sure she didn't know he existed until the Goblet chose his name.

Hermione wondered who it could be. She didn't remember him being attached to anyone at school. He was always surrounded by friends, including many girls. What girl didn't know Draco?

Cornelius consoled with Draco saying that if he won, then he could go back to HH1, and sweep the girl off her feet.

His next words came as a complete surprise to Hermione. Surprise was probably a poor choice of words. They shocked her. Stupefied.

Draco just shook his head, all the ease and poise of earlier gone. He was stumbling around for words. And when he found them, everyone was blown away.

"Well, that . . . that won't exactly work." A pause. "She's here. She came here with me."

And at that, Hermione's mouth dropped open, and the blush that covered her face matched Draco's. But Hermione covered her face with her hands, only peeking out once at Draco, who continued to look pained, before lowering her head to her lap.

She heard Cornelius make some comment about getting her reaction, and received the perfect reaction of eager excitement from the crowd, only to disappoint them by saying that unfortunately, Hermione's time was already used.

Never had Hermione been so thankful for Ministry rules.

One may think that this was the second time that Hermione loved Draco, but it was not here. Too many emotions were rolling around her, and none of them were positive.

The Champions were ushered off the stage, and so Hermione was forced to uncover herself and follow the crowd. She took the first lift she could find, one that did not contain Rita or Severus or more importantly, Draco. She was shaking so hard, she clenched her hands together in fists. What was he thinking? How dare he do this to her?

As she stepped off the lift, she saw Draco and Severus stepping off another, and heard her mentor say, "Nice job, Mr. Malfoy. You're not as incompetent as it would seem."

Draco was looking away, in annoyance or disdain, but a faint blush covered his cheeks.

Hermione barely registered it as she strode up, her hands still bound up in fists, and she threw all her weight behind the arm that flew into Draco's face. She cried out in pain and in anger as she hit him. He staggered backward, and she dropped to the floor, forcing her eyes shut to hold back the tears.

"What the bloody hell was that for?"

"How dare you say those things? You had no right!"

Draco tenderly touched his nose, and face, and Hermione could see a welt forming on his cheek already, but he made no response to her query.

"Why? Why would you do that? You made me look . . . stupid, and—and weak!"

"You are stupid if you think that, Ms. Granger. You may have had excellent training scores, and blown the other Houses away at the Opening Ceremony, but you have no personality. No life. Mr. Malfoy just saved you. He gave you something you could never achieve on your own."

"And what exactly is that?"

"He made you desirable. He made people want you."

And with a sinking heart, Hermione realized it was true. Her interview wasn't bad, but it was mediocre at best. And the sponsors will only know that she received a high score in training, but not why. Her stylist's design may have caught the Capitol's eye, but that was superficial.

Hermione looked over at Draco, who was holding a packet of ice to his face, staring out the window at the lit-up city. She wondered why his stylist hadn't already fixed his cheek and nose.

"Remember Granger, you're not the one who said it. Think about how it makes me look. Who do you think looks weaker, me or you?" Draco's words were bitter, but not angry.

"Then why? Why would you do it?"

At that, he looked at her. He even looked a little sad, much like he had after he had made his announcement on stage. Draco just shook his head, and stalked off.

And that was when Hermione loved him for the second time. When she knew he'd saved her again. This time not by giving her a potion, but by giving her an edge.

"Mum, your story is really sad." "Well, not all stories are filled with happy things."

Once the Tournament began, it was terrible. There was blood and weapons and death. Hermione entered the Arena, and immediately was separated from Draco. Not that that was a surprise. They had no alliance. They had not left the Ministry on good terms. Hermione had apologized for the hit, but she had continued to feel uncomfortable around him.

So, Hermione moved through the arena, day after day, hunting for water, searching for food, desperate for a weapon. She often wondered where Draco was, what he was doing, if he was still alive. And each night, as the dead were displayed in the sky above her, she found herself both relieved and worried that he had made it another night.

Eventually, though, they ended up together. A rule was changed—something Hermione had never heard of—and it would allow for two winners in the Tournament if both Champions from the same house were still alive at the end.

Hermione wasted no time the next morning in searching him out. She was sure he had to be alive, for if he was, HH1 and DH3 were the only houses that had both Champions still alive. There had been no point for the rule change otherwise. She had a feeling he must be hiding and well, to protect against those he had been previously aligning with. During an incident that had lead to Hermione acquiring her wand, she had seen him with the Champions favoured by the Ministry, and knew that any separation from them would not have gone well. She grew concerned that he was hurt.

She ran across him, quite literally, as she crossed a stream, jumping in surprise as an "Oof!" came out of nowhere.

Hermione swung around, her wand out in front of her, eyes darting around.

"Draco?" she whispered.

"Would have thought being out here, you would have dropped a stone or so. Severus must be sending you all the gifts."

She scowled briefly at the comment, but instantly continued searching since she still didn't see him.

"Where are you?" she said again, only to flinch as a hand wrapped around her ankle.

"Granger, if you're trying to save me, try not to walk on me. It's not helping the wound."

Her eyes about bugged out of her head. He was literally underfoot, covered completely in the mud and silt from the river. He must have had his eyes closed earlier, for now, looking down, she could see the grey eyes, staring at her.

"Draco!" she said in relief, and dropped into the stream next to him. When he didn't attempt to sit up, she suddenly realized that he had to be hurt, and badly.

"What happened? Where are you hurt?"

"Leg. Slashed by Goyle. He's cocky and an idiot. Assumed I would die, and didn't finish me off. Lucky for me, though. Cause you showed up. Perhaps now, you'll give me a kiss. You wouldn't deny a dying man, would you?"

A smirk covered his face, but his eyes were glassy. That and the babbling was a clear sign he was definitely not in a good shape.

Hermione rolled her eyes, and moved behind him, grabbing under his arms from behind him, in order to pull him to a sitting position.

"You are not dying. I won't let that happen. Not with the new rule."

"And you're going to save me? You can win without me. You should."

There was no way Hermione was leaving his side, though instinct told her to leave the wounded and head to higher ground. Not only would she be a pariah in her House if she didn't partner with him, her heart knew she needed to stay. Despite the debt she felt she owed him, there was something that drew her to him. And regardless, she was here now. She was staying.

"Would you stop it? I'm not leaving, and you're not going to die. We just need to you sit up."

It was an arduous process that left Draco out of breath, and his skin as grey as his eyes. And when Hermione saw the cut—

Needless to say, she had never done well with human wounds. But she did what she knew, which was limited. Cleaned out the wound. Applied some medicine that she had in her bag, medicine that Severus had sent her for burns she'd acquired, thanks to the Ministry. When the Champions aren't killing each other off, the Ministry was great at helping things along.

Hermione could only hope her burn medicine would help. It had soothed and healed her burns almost completely. Although he sighed in relief when she applied it, she was frustrated. Never had she wished that her father had known more healing spells, any healing spells. But his parents had made clothes. The closest thing he knew to medicine was how to stitch together a seam. And of course, for her father, that was in theory only.

And then she wished she had paid more attention to her mother, as she handled the sick with herbal remedies. Hermione considered this one of her greatest weaknesses. She hated death and illness, even more so after losing her father, and avoided all issues surrounding it. When her mother was treating someone, she left. And she lost an opportunity to learn. An opportunity that she may have needed to save Draco. She wanted to shoot something, but settled for dressing the wound, and laying Draco's clothes out to dry.

Of course, once she did that, Hermione realized she had a bigger issue. She and Draco were easy targets where they were, and Draco would die, if she didn't get them moved somewhere. Up in a tree was where she had spent most of her nights in the Arena, but that would never work for Draco. So, she scouted around the stream, not wanting to stray too far from Draco, and knowing that he couldn't move far, even with her assistance.

As luck would have it, she found a small cave, that wasn't nearly as concealed as she would have liked, but it was the best she could do.

After letting Draco sleep, she roused him so they could move. The quarter of a mile trek took almost an hour, and Hermione did all she could not to try to push him faster. He really was going as fast as he could.

"I'm scared. Is Daddy going to die?" "Just look over there...what do you think?"

By the time they reached the cave, it was almost dark, and Hermione quickly settled Draco in the cave, in her sleeping bag, before she went to work, concealing the mouth of the cave with branches and shrubbery. Then she set to work on him again. Without the cool of the river, his skin was on fire, and she knew he had a fever that was much too high. She also knew he needed to eat, but he looked sick at the idea. In his delirious state, he continued to talk about kisses.

And that was what gave her the idea. A bite of food for a kiss. She got him to choke down at least four bites of the rabbit she had killed the day before, each for a kiss on his fevered lips. They weren't romantic, but she was sure the Ministry people loved it. At this point, Hermione was just trying to keep him alive.

But unfortunately, it wasn't enough. Although Draco was taking every opportunity to make Hermione talk, he couldn't stay awake more than an hour or so. That evening, as she changed his wound, she knew that the medicine she had used had not worked. His blood was infected. His fever still roared. Unless he had medication from the Ministry, he would die. And when she caught his eye as she rewrapped his leg, she knew he was equally aware of it. It was sobering. And angering.

"I feel so useless! This wand is useless!" Hermione chucked the wand across the cave. Draco flinched. "I should have studied more healing spells."

"That's ridiculous. You don't come into the Tournament to heal people. You come to kill people. And I have to say, you're not doing a very good job with me."

"We're not going back to that again, are we? I wasn't going to leave you to die, and I'm not going to now."

"Well, you think you feel useless. I make potions every day—but instead of being able to tell you something useful, my knowledge rests in beauty potions and pain killers."

"Perhaps there's something…"

"Then again, it may be appropriate. I'd hate to die in pain, and ugly."

Hermione watched him shudder, and rolled her eyes. "I wonder which would be worse."

"Ugly, hands down."

"You're incredible."

Draco summoned a smile. "I know it."

Hermione couldn't help but smile back, and she felt happy for a moment. Happy wasn't something she had expected to feel in the Tournament.

But it didn't last, as Draco grunted in pain, sinking back onto his back. She sat with him until he finally fell asleep, his hand crushed around hers—he had a much easier time playing the besotted lover than she.

Hermione worried if he would die, and was terribly fearful of being alone. Even though they had only spent a few days together, the comfort of being with someone else during such an awful event was priceless. The week before that she had spent alone seemed far away, and the memories weighed on her. Having another person to talk to, or just to sit with, was reassuring, and didn't let her focus on the emptiness.

She wondered what she would do when he was gone. She wondered when she had moved to knowing he was going to die.

But Draco didn't die. He got the medicine he needed—

"Wait! What happened? How did he get the medicine?" "Well, that's another story for another time. You just asked me to tell you about when we fell in love."

So, Hermione was able to get Draco the medicine he needed, and she instantly administered it to him. She wanted to watch to see if he would improve, if it would make an instant difference, but she too was wounded. And with blood running into her eyes, she lay next to Draco, closed her hand over his, and slipped into darkness.

When Hermione awoke, Draco was kneeling down next to her. She looked him over.

"You're better." Her words were breathy, hoarse.

"Yeah, whatever you gave me was amazing. I feel great."

"Well, at least one of us is." Her head throbbed, and as she struggled to get up, everything swayed in front of her.

"Hold on. Wait." Draco moved to help her sit up, but she continued to try to do it herself. "Damn it, Granger, let me help you for once."

Regardless of whether she wanted to or not, she needed the help. He helped prop her against the cave wall, and as she slowly explained how she got his medicine, he took care of her. Bites of food, sips of water. Soon she was nodding off, and it was Draco who lowered her to sleep on her back, tucked her in, and stroked her hair.

And with startling clarity, Hermione realized it. She realized what she would be missing if he wasn't there. Not just companionship, but help. Protection that comes from knowing someone is there to care for you. Safety in feeling that protection.

She had spent so much of her last years alone, doing everything herself, she almost missed it.

Hermione's hand drifted up to cup the hand that was on her head, and as he looked down at her, she smiled at him.

For the first time, what she felt didn't feel forced or created as a gimmick. The Ministry, the Tournament, the Arena didn't even factor into her thoughts. And though it was the third time she loved Draco Malfoy, it was the first time that her love felt nothing like a favour or a gift. It felt real.

Draco watches as Denise says something to her mother, and kisses Hermione on the cheek. He watches his daughter skip through the grass toward him. He is not far from where they were sitting.

"Daddy? Mummy just told me a story, and it wasn't as happy as I wanted."

He smiles at his daughter, with one brow raised in amusement.

"Really? I'm so surprised," he says dryly.

"Really. I asked her to tell me about when she fell in love with you, and she told me the first three times, but they weren't very happy." She turns to him and looks at him questioningly. "I thought love was supposed to be happy?"

She sounds genuinely disturbed.

"It is, usually."

"Well, Mum said I should I ask you, and that you would have a better story to tell."

He laughs, looking over at his wife, who has her eyebrows raised at him.

"I don't think it will be better—you know your Mum tells stories better than I—but it may be a little happier."

With that, Denise plops down in the grass on her stomach, hands propping up her face, and Draco knows that she is ready.

"Once upon a time, there was a boy and girl who were the same age, and started school at the same time. On one of the first days of school, when they were only six, the teacher asked if anyone had anything to share, and the little girl, whose name was Hermione, her hand shot up in the air, waving it about. The little boy, Draco, watched Hermione as the teacher called on her, and she stood up and told of the butterflies she had watched in the meadow near her house. She was only six, but she said so much. She talked and talked, and all of the class listened, as if they were mesmerised by her voice. She wanted to tell everyone what she knew. She wanted everyone to know what she knew. Draco knew she was the smartest person he knew, even smarter than his parents. And she had a pretty voice that rose and fell in symmetry with her passion for what she said. He thought she was beautiful with her curly hair pulled back into two pigtails on the back of her head. And he knew from that moment that he loved her."

Draco stops, and after a moment, Denise tilts her head, saying, "That's it?"

"I told you I wasn't as good of a storyteller as your Mum."

"But there has to be more."

Her look is adamant, and with a small sigh and laugh, he adds, "Of course there is more. But that is what love is. Ups and downs. Beauty and joy. Anger and sorrow. Release and discovery. Loneliness and uncertainty. Bliss and contentment. Your mother and I went through many good times, and many bad times, but from the moment I first loved her, I never stopped. My love may have changed over time and experiences, but it never ceased."

He looks at his wife as he speaks, knowing she hears him, but pulls his daughter into his arms, holding her tightly.

"And that, my dear daughter, is a happy story."