Author's Note: Do you ever weird yourself out by the things you do? For instance- I'm 27, I have 2 sons (8 and 2 for the record), I'm in a commited almost 4 year relationship, I'm a supervisor (in the real world, lol) and I'm sitting awake at 4:20 am reading/writing MOTHERFUCKIN FANFIC! I'm the best type of weirdo. Lolol. I hope I don't ever "grow up" and grow out of fanfic. Haha. I'm sorry. I'm having a moment. So anyways, you're welcome for the new update. I really like this one. Enjoy darlings!

-MamaPunx a.k.a. Steph a.k.a. Stevie B. a.k.a. Mum lol

P.s. I just love your reviews. I'm totally narcissistic and needy like that. Ha. But seriously... ❤

Chapter 18

:Draco:

For the past month, since her breakthrough with the whole "Wandless Magic Thing", Draco had watched Hermione start to heal. It didn't happen quickly, it was NOT a sudden thing. It was slow going. She was a broken mirror. A shattered version of her old self that was being distorted and skewed, reflecting back to him from the countless shards lying around her. But she was currently Under Repair, with time and a little wandless magic, of course. And he watched as slowly, REALLY fucking slowly... A fucking SLIVER at a time, slowly... She was piecing herself back together.

With the simple act of unknowingly, wandlessly, unlocking her door, it was as if another door, somewhere in her brain, had been forcibly ripped off of its hinges as a page-thirsty bookworm sprang free from its cell, snatching at any new information it could find.

His mother as promised, had sent over several impressive stacks of books on wandless magic. He had come down the stairs to find Hermione seated in her window seat, surrounded by books that were turning their own pages, and sorting themselves into tidy piles according to some kind of system she had thought up in the moment. He had quirked an eyebrow at her wand lying on the coffee table and his lips twitched into a smirk. He laughed out loud when she caught him staring at her and gave him the best deer-in-the-headlights look he had ever seen, blushing fiercely as the books ceased their movements. But then he saw a glint in her eyes as she smirked right back at him and shrugged, waving her hand dismissively. "I AM a fast learner, you know," she huffed airily, throwing him a slight smile, before turning back to the book in her hand, the books around her getting back to business and stacking themselves once more. She paused again a moment later to inform him that the books had been sitting on the coffee table that morning.

"It was like magic", she said rolling her eyes and sending a slip of paper floating lazily into his hand.

He glanced down at it and read in his mother's elegant script:

Pooper,

This was everything I could find. I'd love to hear about this witch you're trying to impress.

Love always,

Your ever doting Mummy

He cringed so hard his neck cracked, mumbling something incoherent about his room, and stomped up the stairs blushing a harsh, Weasley worthy red. 'Fucking POOPER!' he screamed silently to himself. There must be a secret mother's code book somewhere that makes it mandatory for mothers everywhere to utterly embarrass their teenage sons. He cringed again at his mother's toodlerhood nickname for him and didn't leave his room again for several hours, fuming quietly while he pretended to read muggle literature about creatures called hobbits. But he caught an almost affectionate smile on her face later that evening as she whispered, "Pooper", under her breath and giggled quietly while walking past him. And he cracked a smile too.

They didn't have any practices that week, yet each night after they went their separate ways for the night, he often heard heavy thuds and other small bumps coming from her room. As well as the occasional "Oh no!" and "Shit! Shit! Shit!" He could picture her in there. Her hair would be crackling with physical energy, the very air charged with the static of her magic, while her bedroom furniture floated around her, and flames burst into and winked out of existence. I his head, she was a fiercely glowing goddess of pain. He knew his fantasizing couldn't be too far off the mark. He had caught glimpses of her room on three occasions this week as he waited at her door to walk with her to classes. The furniture had been in different positions around her room each time, and he had also spied a fresh burn mark on her bedcovers about the size of a tennis ball. As for her hair, it was often still crackling with raw magic as she slid through the smallest crack of the door, quickly shutting the mess and chaos of her bedroom behind her, looking sheepish, but flushed defiantly. And he knew damn well she wasn't pushing that shit all over the room.

He started to see her strolling around the common room making small bits of magic happen. Barely noticeable, subtle magic. Slightly changing the color scheme to include more of a white against black theme and doing away with the harshest of the house colors while leaving more indirect house tones of greens and golds. But he noticed. He was paying attention. Draco watched this newly emerging creature Seth fascination, for he had never seen Bookworm Hermione so up-close before. True to the name, she was not seen without a book in her hand ALL week. But he also noticed that there was no wand clutched fiercely in hand. There were moments without her white knuckling a death grip on her wand as if she might lose it were she to loosen her grip even slightly, as she had been wont to do previously. But only in the common room. In the halls she still fingered the tip of her wand nervously from where she kept it tucked loosely into her sleeve, never out of reach.

That following weekend, Hermione sought HIM out, knocking on his door timidly at the first hint of sunlight Saturday morning. He had stumbled half naked clad in only lounge pants, stubbing his toe on the corner of his bed frame and cursing across the room. He had thrown open the door roughly, still grumbling over his poor toe, and sobered immediately upon realizing that he had just scared the fuck out of Hermione, who was standing with her back pressed against the wall outside of his door, palms flattened on either side of her. Everything about her screamed Flight Mode, from her too wide eyes to her posture, and he immediately felt like an asshole.

But she only shook her head and held up a finger when he went to apologize.

"Don't," was all she said before straightening up with an embarrassed flush. "So anyways, how would you feel about helping me practice?" she asked timidly, staring at her feet for a moment before lifting her gaze shyly to meet his.

"You realize it's barely daylight, Granger?" he had asked, dragging his hands down his face, trying to wake it up.

She smirked at him and nodded. "I made you a coffee," she stated walking back towards the stairs.

So they started a new routine. Every morning at sunrise Hermione made two coffees and waited in her window seat for him to come downstairs. They said good morning but didn't otherwise talk until the coffee was finished. They sipped and walked in comfortable silence around the grounds of Hogwarts. They stopped in a new spot every morning to practice for a bit before it was time for classes.

The lake. Where he suggested different spells, and she performed instantly and admirably, her wand tucked into her back pocket. Creating dry pockets in the lake, whipping up a strong batch of waves. She even somehow made all of the water crystal clear for a solid two minutes. They stared through miles of never before seen depths in awe, relishing the moment. She even twitched her fingers against his for a moment, squeezing his fingers briefly with her own, her eyes lit with wonder.

The quidditch pitch, where she rearranged all of the house banners, throwing the centuries old seating chart off kilte. It was sure to cause confusion and chaos when the students realized that Gryffindor's banners hung over the Slytherin section, and Slytherin's hung over the Hufflepuff's section. With a wicked smirk she declared smugly that she intended to leave them like that just to make the whole school talk about something new for a while. She smiled sadly while saying that it would give her a laugh. And then almost imperceptibly changed the face of Slytherin's snake to possess the facial features of a lion. He laughed out loud at that one, picturing the outraged Slytherin's when some stray Gryffindor first year unwisely pointed it out to them.

They practiced at the Owlery. They caused chaos, sending random found objects flying about and drastically shrinking and enlarging forgotten envelopes. The owls became so irritated with their presence that in a great parliament, they all flew out in a rush of feathers and beaks and talons. They took turns pecking and scratching at any exposed skin on their way out to show their displeasure. She laughed and laughed and laughed about it, to the point that there were tears streaming down her face. And he laughed with her. They stood there in an Owlery completely devoid of owls, their arms covered in scratches and tiny bite marks all the way up to their cuffed sleeves, laughing like a couple of loons. And he mentally added it to a small collection of moments in his life that he wanted to remember always.

She started eating again. Nibbling really. But it was something. Before she would wait until he had worriedly eyed her still full plate while they dined in their common room, working on homework she would hastily shove a few peckish bites into her mouth when she noticed him watching and chew forever before declaring herself full and delicately pushing the plate away. Now, she nibbled on tea biscuits with her coffee. She tried to eat an apple every day. Saying something matter-of-factly about apples keeping the doctor away, with an innocently "know-it-all" lift to her eyebrows. He didn't know what that meant, but it amused him every time she said it. She liked tomato sandwiches for lunch and soup and salad for dinner. She never ate everything, and he couldn't help but always notice, but it was better. She was better. Even if only slightly.

And then it hit a wall, the reverberating crash threatening to fracture the tenuous threads of their strange friendship. She hadn't left her room in a week and it was entirely his fault. No matter how much he begged her quietly to just talk to him, she hadn't made a single sound, save for asking him that first day, the day of "The Incident", to please inform Professor Dumbledore that she would be feeling unwell for the next several days. Dumbledore had only smiled sadly and told him to give her his regards and well wishes, looking more informed than one would expect given the petty excuse Hermione had used.

'Now if only she would let me explain', he thought miserably.

Authors Note: Did you like it? Little cliffy, lol.