A/N: Let the fall begin.

Reviews please =]

"Clothes, slippers, toothbrush, comb… Anything else?" Ginny asked, rushing to jot down items onto the piece of parchment. "No books?"

"I want to focus on getting out of bed," Hermione explained, yawning. "If I have books to lounge around with, there's not as much motivation."

Ginny raised an eyebrow at that, but chose not to comment. "Right. Time for bed, then. We'll be back tomorrow, keep yourself rested and don't overdo it."

"You sound like your mother," Hermione chided, smiling. Harry was already tucking her quilt up over her chest and giving her a quick kiss on the cheek.

Ginny grimaced. "Don't say that. I'll be bringing her round, you know, and then you'll be begging to have my nagging back." She bent down to give Hermione's shoulders a soft squeeze—it was as close as she could get to receive a hug while her body was still so tender. "Thank you for hanging in. I knew you would."

Hermione felt content as she watched her best friends leave through half-closed eyes. The visit had been much more uplifting than she'd expected. Harry had given her a very long, warm hug as soon as he got through the door and he'd brought Bertie Botts and chocolate frogs, just like he used to when she was in the infirmary at Hogwarts. He had been a bit subdued for the rest of his time there, but Ginny filled in with gossip about Padma Patil's affair with a high-profile, much older wizard. No mention of the fact that she was magic-less and quarantined. It felt very… Normal.

Hermione liked that.

I'm going to bin this bloody thing, Ginny brooded, slamming her hand down on the blaring alarm clock. Her brain screamed in protest as she thought about pulling the covers down. She lifted her head from the pillow and glanced over at her husband, who was snoring lightly and didn't seem to have been disturbed in the least. Ginny growled and threw the comforter off of her body, stomping out towards the kitchen. She stole a look back at Harry, who shifted slightly before contentedly snuggling against his pillow.

She glared at him.

Her generous and loving mood from last night had not carried over during her three-hour bout of unsatisfying sleep. The three of them had returned together from St. Mungo's in better spirits than they'd been in weeks. Ginny fixed them each up with a mug of butterbeer and the biscuits her mother had sent her home with after dinner at the Burrow. It was already getting to be late, so she padded off to bed soon after. However, before long, the two of them had wound up quite drunk and loudly reminiscing about the Hogwarts days. She knew that she should have told them to be quiet, or even to put a muffilato charm over themselves (though she didn't think of it at the time), but it had been so relieving to hear the two of them finally sounding happy again that she didn't bother. Besides, since the wedding Ron hardly ever slept over anymore, and in Ginny's opinion, Harry could use the break in routine. Therefore, she had laid there awake until the wee hours of the morning, quietly content with listening to their laughter.

When 6 o'clock rolled in and she had to drag herself to quidditch practice, however, her mindset about their late-night giggling had decidedly shifted. Tired and irritated, she stalked through the living room and saw her brother sprawled across the sofa, who was not snoring nearly as lightly as Harry had been. She narrowed her eyes, summoned a metal bowl and spoon with her wand and levitated it directly above Ron's face before commanding the kitchenwares to smash together obnoxiously. Her brother flew up in panic, crashing into the bowl and falling to the floor in a cacophony of metal and screaming.

"Fuck wussat for?" Ron panted, wide-eyed, before he tried furiously to untangle himself from the quilt. She felt a wave of calm wash over her as she watched him struggle.

"Time to get up," she said cheerily. Ron scowled at her with a dark glare before giving the brooding over to a long stretch accompanying a yawn.

"And you wonder why I don't bloody come over anymore," he muttered, half-heartedly throwing a cushion at her as Harry emerged from the bedroom. "What's for breakfast?"

"I don't know, Ronald," Ginny answered in a sugary-sweet voice, shoving the spoon into her brother's hands and an apron into Harry's. "Surprise me."

She sauntered back towards the bathroom and let the door slam behind her. She could hear some exchange of talk between her brother and husband, but she wasn't really listening, and soon the patter of water against the tile drowned them out, anyway.

Ginny stepped into the shower and frowned as the water fell over her. It had been a hard couple of weeks for all of them; Hermione's hospitalization weighed heavy over them like a noxious fog, and the fact that Dolohov laid one door over from their friend did nothing to ease anyone's nerves. She thought that Harry—likely Ron as well—needed a couple of days' rest from work, but neither were allowed any reprieve because of the sudden appearance of a Death Eater. Now, they were overworked, worried and angry.

Each of them had their different way of coping. Ginny's was to remain calm and emotionally detached. It was how she had grown up; with a brood of brothers who would tease her mercilessly for crying and a mother who was about as useful as a wet sponge in (most) times of crisis, she hadn't had much choice.

Ginny decided that Harry had a particular, unique brand of brooding that was all his own. He had always seemed to feel that his grief was singular and incomprehensible to others. Predictably, he had retreated in on himself when Hermione was brought in; she managed to get him to talk eventually, but she knew that he was giving her a surface explanation of the goings on in his head.

Ron's method was to sputter nervous ramblings and succumb easily to rage when it came his way. He was quieter than usual with this particular situation, and Ginny knew it was because he was plagued with guilt. He'd never apologized to Hermione—fully apologized, not just about Sarah—and as a result, he couldn't be at her side while she was dying. Their reconciliation was something Ron craved deeply, but her idiot brother had too much pride to acknowledge the real betrayal:

Weasley Blames Adultery on Granger; Says Ex-Girlfriend 'Damaged'

Of course she's damaged, Ginny had thought at the time, We all are. No one had survived the War, not really. Not even Ronald, who had never really been at the mercy of the Death Eaters.

No one knew exactly what happened that day in the study at the Malfoy Manor; Harry and Ron had both mentioned that there was a stretch of silence so long between crucios that they had thought that Hermione was dead. Ron had had to drag her back to Dobby because she wouldn't respond to his voice despite being fully conscious.

Hermione had never spoken about that day. No one ever asked why she used to wake up screaming in the night.

Antonin Dolohov seemed eager to get out of his hospital cell, even though he must have known that meant the Dementor's Kiss.

Despite his practice in Azkaban, it seemed that he still wasn't skilled at the art of confinement. The medi-witches and wizards told Harry that he was unrelenting in trying to loosen his restraints, and he'd taken to screaming incessantly any time someone entered the room.

"Have fun," a portly and stern-looking witch muttered, slamming and locking the door behind her.

Right, then.

"Saint Potter himself!" Dolohov shouted. "My, my, I imagine you're angry about the Mudblood bitch, hm?"

It was their job as Aurors to remain impassive, but Ron's red ears gave him away. They had Prewett with them, an Auror with seniority over both of them. Harry had been assigned the questioning, and older Auror was only acting as a supervisor.

"Dolohov, do you know what charges are being brought against you?" Harry began. When the Death Eater scowled, he ran the accusations off—there were three minutes' worth—and instructed Ron to administer the Veritaserum.

Dolohov's glare was murderous, but he answered each question automatically once the potion had taken effect. They began with the older charges—back from the War—and worked their way up to the attack on Hermione.

"Why did you return to Great Britain?"

"To find Hermione Granger," he replied instantly. Harry hadn't expected that would be the sole reason he came back, but he didn't allow himself to falter.

"And what were your intentions once you found Hermione Granger?"

"I planned to kidnap her, torture her, maybe fuck her, I hadn't decided yet. Kill her eventually." This time, Dolohov was smiling. The Veritaserum forced the words, but it seemed that he was happy to give them anyway.

"Why did you choose Hermione as your sole target?"

"I blame her for my imprisonment and my exile, and I don't think she deserves to live among other wizards because of her impure blood."

Harry sneered a bit at that. He hadn't heard supremacist talk like that for years, and now that the threat of those words was gone, Dolohov just sounded pathetic, not to mention crazy—which he was.

"What happened when you entered Hermione Granger's home?"

Dolohov's account was fairly similar to the one Draco had surmised. He admitted to the attacks, but the final one was before Hermione fell.

"Did you attack Hermione Granger once Veloces diruam had rebounded to you?"

"No."

The next question seemed pointless, then. "Did you cause any harm to her once you were incapacitated?"

"I don't know."

All three Aurors looked at each other. "What do you mean, you don't know?"

"I don't know if I caused Hermione Granger any harm once I was incapacitated."

There was a reason the questions were pre-written; Veritaserum could only elicit the most straightforward truthful answer, subtleties and implied questions were a no-go. Harry tried not to show his frustration. "Why do you think that you could have harmed her if you didn't attack her?"

"Hermione Granger was harmed directly after she rebounded my curse. It's an odd coincidence if it is one."

Odd indeed. "Do you know what caused Hermione's injury?"

"No."

"Do you have a plausible explanation for her injury?"

"No."

Ron swore under his breath. The senior Auror began to pack his things—that was the final question.

"Was Draco Malfoy involved in your plan to harm Hermione Granger?" he asked quickly.

"No." Dolohov's face was clearly confused at the question.

Prewett glared at Harry, also unsure of what was going on. "Potter—"

"To your knowledge, does Draco Malfoy have any intention to harm Hermione Granger in any way?" Harry demanded, before he could be cut off.

"No."

"Enough," the senior Auror hissed. "This interrogation is finished." He grabbed Harry's arm and tugged him out of the room impatiently. He held up the transcript of the interrogation in his hand. "I have to deliver this to the Ministry, and you had better be waiting in my office when I return. I hope you have a damn good explanation for your behaviour, Potter."

Hermione tried not to wince as the apprentice Healer poked and prodded. He'd obviously had little practice, and he had even less skill. She chalked it up to anxiety.

"How are you feeling this evening?" Jesse asked, digging two fingers into her back, feeling for Merlin-knows-what.

"Fine," she lied flatly. She felt more alert today, but the aches in her body were much more acute because of it. Her falls hadn't helped any. It felt like her knees were being whacked with a baseball bat over and over again—not that that would deter her. "Can I try walking?"

Jesse studied her chart, biting his lip. He was good-looking in a boyish way, even though he might have been older than she was. He had a cute, nervous smile and was lean with short, wavy chestnut hair. Too bad looks don't translate to Healing ability.

"No," he said finally, "Healer Malfoy wrote that you're to be on bed rest until tomorrow, other than to be assisted to the loo. He says you took a couple of falls."

She hmphed and folded her arms over her chest. "I'm not going to fall again."

He gave her an apologetic smile. "Are you hungry?"

Textbook diversion tactic. She'd indulge him anyway. "Not even a little. I suppose I should eat something, though."

Jesse looked satisfied. "Great. I'll send for Wanda to get you started with some soup. Do you think you could handle chowder? It's higher in calories, I want to get as many in you as I can."

"Sure," she replied, smiling politely. He nodded and headed for the door, and once again, Hermione was alone. She'd had a decently long visit with Neville and Luna earlier in the evening, but Harry and Ginny were conspicuously absent. When she asked about it, Neville spluttered something about them both working late, which she knew wasn't true, but she didn't want to pry. It was good to see Neville and Luna, but she had been looking forward to something more substantial than Neville's anxious ramblings and Luna's… aloofness.

She rubbed the spots that the Healer-in-training had jabbed at. She missed Malfoy.

It was clear early in the day that Draco was going to develop a migraine.

Evidently, Dolohov's interview had gone as planned, and now that he was in custody, his crimes were fair game for the papers to exploit. Naturally, someone had leaked to someone else that the Death Eater was indeed the trigger for Granger getting sent into hospital, and yet someone else had confirmed that Draco was the acting Healer on her case. It was going to reach the public eventually, but that didn't keep his mood from souring. The paparazzi would be unrelenting now, and because they'd confirmed Dolohov didn't injure her, he would have to have another grueling discussion with Granger.

Then, when he arrived at St. Mungo's, a goddamn Auror was in his office.

"What's this about?" Draco asked, barely managing to keep his tone of voice civil.

"I'm sorry to bother you, Healer Malfoy, but I wanted to catch you up on the situation with Dolohov," the Auror replied—Prewett, according to the badge he flashed. "As you may have heard, he has been transferred from St. Mungo's to a holding cell awaiting trial. Our interview under Veritaserum revealed that he was not the direct cause of Miss Granger's injury, nor does he know what caused it."

He nodded, already aware of all that. "Yes. I found that when I used legilimency."

Prewett gave a single, curt nod and spoke solemnly. "Healer Malfoy, do you know of any reason why anyone may have suspected you of intending to harm Hermione Granger?"

Draco's blood turned fiery. I'm going to kill that sodding twat. He couldn't allow himself to betray his anger. "Harry Potter made it clear to me that he found my presence at Hermione Granger's home suspicious."

"And did Mr. Potter have any evidence to substantiate his feelings?"

"None whatsoever." He folded his hands together and stared cautiously at the Auror. "Have I done something wrong, sir?"

He shook his head. "Potter breached protocol during the interrogation to ask questions about you and Miss Granger specifically, and he didn't seem to have much explanation for it."

"Really?" Draco inquired, feigning surprise. "And what happened after he asked about me?"

"What happened? He got himself suspended from Dolohov's case," Prewett said with considerable annoyance.

He didn't know if that was a good or bad thing; suspension might jolt Potter back into reality and drop his ridiculous threats, or it might spur him further and just make it worse.

"Has Potter acted inappropriately or aggressively toward you in any way?"

"No," Draco replied slowly, after an extended pause. "Don't be too hard on him. When we were younger, I gave Harry good reason not to trust me, particularly with any muggle-born individuals—as you know. I'm sure that he just felt that he was doing what was necessary for his job."

"Well, you've obviously grown up a great deal more than Potter has," Prewett grumbled. "Thank you for your time. We won't be bothering you again."

By this point, Draco's blood was positively boiling. Now the other Aurors would be wondering about him, and he couldn't be sure if his 'gracious and reformed Healer' routine—even though it was the truth—would be enough to satisfy.

So, when he reached Granger's room and she was taking timid but surefooted steps in full fucking clothing—more specifically, full sleeves—it took every bit of him not to lose his rag. He would have been more patient and softer if he'd thought it was a mistake, but he knew exactly why she had chosen that attire.

"No." His voice was sharp, and she looked surprised before her features wrinkled into an annoyed frown.

"No what? Are you still ordering me on bed rest so that I can expire from boredom?"

He walked up to her and tugged the edge of her sleeve. "No to this. Are you serious, Granger?"

"Now I'm not allowed to wear my clothes, either?" Hermione demanded, wrenching her arm away. "I don't know why you're being so unreasonable!"

"I'm not being unreasonable—" he snapped, grabbing at her wrist despite her evasion, "—hold still, Granger! You can't wear long sleeves when you have an IV in your arm, it's going to move it around under your skin and it makes it impossible for the staff to get at quickly if they need to."

She looked down at his hand—the one that held her—and she huffed in annoyance. "Well, I didn't want to wear a hospital gown anymore, and all of my shirts are long-sleeved—hey!"

He had tapped his wand near her shoulder and the sleeves instantly shortened to t-shirt length. "There. Problem solved. Now—"

"The problem is not solved!" she shouted, nearly jumping back when she twisted her arm away. "I liked my shirt the way it was—"

"And I told you that it's unsafe the way it was," he replied in an almost mockingly calm voice. "If you ask me, you're the one being unreasonable. Unless you have an alternative."

She narrowed her eyes hatefully at him. "I just want to wear my regular clothes."

"Your regular clothes aren't going to get rid of those scars, Hermione."

Her eyes darkened dangerously. "You think that because you're this great Healer, you have some right to just nose your way into my life like you know something about it, like you care about who I am or what's happened—"

"Of course I care, you can't just keep hiding from your—"

"I am not hiding from anything, Draco Malfoy, I am making a choice to avoid painful reminders of things that don't matter anymore!"

"That is hiding!" he said sternly. "You clearly haven't dealt with your past, and you're letting it control your life because you can't bear to think about it!"

Hermione was leaning against the wall for support now. "I fail to see how any of this is your business. It has nothing to do with what you're supposed to be treating me for."

"Wrong again," Draco replied matter-of-factly. "The Aurors interrogated Dolohov."

She stole a glance at him, but plodded forward stubbornly, slow as a turtle on her small socked feet. "Yes, and?" she asked, trying but failing not to sound anxious.

"He didn't do this to you, Granger."

She stopped suddenly and clutched her stomach as if she was going to be sick, but she wouldn't look at him. "Wh—what do you mean?"

"I mean we still have no idea what's caused your body to suddenly go berserk," he answered bluntly. "And that means that my only method of getting information about this thing is by going through your memories—your past, Hermione."

She whipped her head around so quickly that her neck might have snapped. "Why in the hell would it mean that?" she shrieked.

"Because I have no idea where to start in treating you," Draco replied firmly. "If I can't treat you, you stay in here, you refuse treatment, or you take the full course of vito mutato. If you let me look at your memories—the episodes of pain you've experienced, and the events leading up to them—I might be able to pinpoint where they started, or at least glean a pattern from it."

Hermione's breathing had become ragged, and her tone was angry, but her eyes spelled fear. "You've taken my freedom and my magic."

"Yes," he said quietly.

"But…" she swallowed heavily. "They're mine. My memories—they're private!"

"I'm sorry, Granger. But I need to see them and I need to see them soon. If you're not willing to cooperate, I'm turning your case to another Healer." It was an empty threat, but if he gave her any time to make a decision, she would inevitably get lost in her own anguish.

"You haven't changed," Hermione murmured in disbelief. "You're just as cruel and unfeeling as you've always been."

He felt his jaw tighten. "Shall I take that as a yes, then?"

"I don't have a choice, do I?!" she screamed, tears suddenly dripping down her cheeks.

"You always have a choice." Gods, have I always sounded like a pathetic whelp?

"GET OUT!"

The hatred in her voice left no room for argument, and he skittered back into the hallway, oddly shaken by the exchange.

He wasn't cruel. What else was he supposed to have done? Lie to her? Let her pretend things were alright for a week before shattering her all over again? He was being blunt, which was what a Healer was supposed to be.

Or maybe it was just a desperate attempt to throw up some barrier between him and Granger before it was too late. She infuriated him, and she was making him foul up left right and center. He couldn't stand when she gave him that damn look, that look of helplessness, that look that told him, this is all your fault, moron.

Draco's palms were sweating.

Who are you trying to fool, Malfoy? It's already too late.

I hate him.

Hermione repeated the mantra in her head over and over. It had taken her a full hour to calm down after his callous tirade. She had been so excited that she was able to walk—actually walk, even if it was slow—and then he'd just come in, arrogant and ruthless. If he could've just told her, rather than mentioning her scar and getting her angry to start with, she would have been able to keep herself together. But the way he just taunted her, then acted as if she was some emotional tart for being upset…

She sniffed and tugged the comb through a knot before wiping her eyes with the back of her hand. Hermione had conned a medi-witch into bringing her a handheld mirror, and like Malfoy had warned, she was unprepared for what she saw. Her face was drawn and pale, her lips cracked, and there was a massive bruise spanning her forehead to her jaw from where she'd fallen a couple of days ago. And then there was her hair—a mass of curl and knots. Someone had taken care of it while she'd been unconscious—it would have been one enormous mat otherwise—but it was in serious need of brushing now. It was the only part of her appearance that she could do anything about, anyway.

Hermione had to hand it to her friends; none of them had even flinched when they saw her.

Her arms were beginning to tire by the time Malfoy showed up for his rounds. He was silent as he approached her bed, but the mirror didn't escape his notice. He picked it up, then glanced back at her.

She stared at him defiantly, daring him to admonish her for it. Just when she thought he was going to, Malfoy simply sighed and set the mirror down before sitting himself beside the bed.

He held his hand out expectantly, and at first she didn't get it—then he pointed to her near-limp hand that was feebly trying to drag the comb through her snarled locks. Reluctantly, she placed it in his palm. He scooted a bit closer and began working the comb into her hair.

He said nothing as he worked patiently, and so gently.

How could someone that gentle be so cruel?

The seconds ticked by, and she wondered how he could possibly have time to be doing this, and the nerve of him for showing up after what he'd done, and how in the hell she was going to be able to show him her memories, her most guarded secrets—

He stopped, and she suddenly realized that she was sobbing against his shoulder. He shifted slightly so that she could properly rest her head on him as she cried. Eventually, she felt his cheek press against her forehead, and his hand reluctantly, shakily, came to the small of her back and smoothed the fabric of her shirt comfortingly.

For the first time since waking up in St. Mungo's, Hermione felt like there was a possibility that she was going to be alright.