Chapter 4

Disclaimer: I play with them as I like, but alas, they are not mine. Neither these characters nor this world in general belongs to me, or anyone not named J.K. Rowling. No copyright infringement is intended.

Author's Notes: As always, let's take a moment to thank our talented and wonderful betas. My talented beta, of course, was VelvetMouse!

Hermione sat in that same position, long after Draco had left the cottage. Her feet were curled under her and were the only indication of time she had. They kept falling asleep, about every twenty minutes, she guessed, so that she was constantly making minimal adjustments to stay comfortable.

Finally, after what felt like her millionth move, she got up and began pacing. She didn’t know why she was nervous.

‘No,’ she thought to herself, ‘I do.’ She couldn’t get the image of Draco, bloodied, bruised, and possibly dead, out of her mind. The same scenario kept playing over and over, like some morbid movie at a drive-in theatre.

There was Draco, dressed in the same black cloak, kneeling before a monster with bright red eyes. He apologised profusely, saying that things beyond his control were taking too long. But the Dark Lord didn’t believe him.

One Cruciatus was bad enough, but she was picturing him receiving several. Over and over the screams filled her mind until she was sure they were real. She could feel the sweat pouring off her face and into her hair, but knew that that couldn’t be right. Her sweat should have ran down her face, not back, as though she were laying down.

All of a sudden, though, the screams were real, and they were coming from her. She sat up instantly, colliding painfully with something above her, but she couldn’t see what; her eyes were still screwed tightly shut.

“Granger!” a voice called, so close to her ear. She shook her head violently, her whole body joining it, but then hands closed on her shoulders and she couldn’t move at all.

“Hermione,” another voice, no, the same voice, said. It was softer, more soothing, and calmed her down instantly. She hadn’t heard her own first name said aloud in several weeks.

She sat there breathing, feeling each beat of her heart as though it were her whole body jumping. Large, warm hands were still holding her shoulders tightly, but she wasn’t moving out of them anyway. She realised now that she had been dreaming, and that it was Draco above her, but knew that it only became real when she opened her eyes. Her head had dropped, too, between his arms, as he had taken a seated position next to her knees. Trying to orient herself, she was sure she was on the couch. There was something pooled around her middle, though, like a blanket.

Taking one more deep breath, she finally opened her eyes. It wasn’t a blanket she saw, though, but the cloak Draco had left in several hours before. He had apparently moved her from her chair to the sofa, and draped it across her.

“What time is it?” she asked softly. Only she would think of that, and only that, as her first question after a nightmare.

She felt his hands drop away, as she had been sure they would, but he didn’t move from his seated position, surprising her a little. He sighed, too, now, apparently relieved that the ordeal was over. She secretly hoped he was relieved that she was alright, too, and that thought really surprised her.

“Near six in the morning,” he answered her, sounding tired. She looked to see large, purple bags beneath his eyes and was sure he hadn’t gotten a wink of sleep.

Moving just enough to move her hands behind her for support on the cushion, she closed her eyes briefly. This would normally be the time in the morning that he would get up and make himself breakfast, her following a little while later, neither saying a word to the other. She didn’t want that to happen right now, though, and resigned herself to the worst by speaking.

“Thank you,” she said simply and in the same tone as before. With Harry or Ron she would have elaborated on what she meant and probably given them a hug. Draco, however, was a whole other ballgame.

He was her great-great-great grandmother’s china that currently resided in the antique hutch in the dining room of her parents: “You can look, but you should never touch,” her mother would always tell her. She would spend hours just looking when she got the chance, and once, when she was eight, she had taken the tiniest of feels, just to see if it was possible. She didn’t dare hold one, though.

So here she was, years later, still trying her hardest to get the tiniest of feels, not get caught, and definitely not break it.

When he didn’t respond, she thought to push her luck just a little further, by asking, “What time did you get back?”

First, he shrugged, then he looked away. “Not long ago,” he said, after apparently finding a particularly interesting spot on the mantle to stare at. She took the opportunity now to stare at him. She watched his hair sway slightly as he breathed, no longer the neat, straight strands he normally kept. His eyes were almost sad from what she could tell, the grey just a little paler.

Her observations were interrupted as he sighed heavily again and pushed off from the couch. He looked at her for a long moment, seemingly weighing his options.

“I make some great pancakes,” he said, suddenly finding the nail on his right thumb interesting; he just stood there running his other thumb’s nail over it again and again. When it was clear he didn’t intend to say anymore, Hermione opened her mouth.

“Was that an invitation, or were you just letting me know what I’ll be missing?” she asked with a slight smile on her lips. She was definitely pushing her luck now.

A short, breathy laugh escaped his mouth, and she was sure she heard a gasp from her own. “An invitation,” he said, looking back to her and extending a hand to help her up. “You do like pancakes, don’t you?” he asked after a slight hesitation on her part.

A quick nod and a tug on her arm had her scrambling to the kitchen after him.