Unspoken

A deep chill had taken a hold of her body. Tendrils of ice snaked their way up her legs and then her torso. The creeping cold froze her into place as it gained ground. Even as she fought against the paralysis, the chill took control. It forced her face upwards, eyes opening to see only darkness, and then the ice constricted and pierced through her skin.

Every inch of Hermione that had been frozen flared with heat, a river of fire roaring through her. She could smell charred flesh and rust and even as she screamed, the air in her lungs was consumed by the burning flames.

Shadows rippled and masked figures hovered just under the cover of the darkness. Something or someone was pressing down on her shoulders. Her body gave in and she slipped under, a pressure familiar to water overtaking her. She wanted to scream but the not-water rushed to fill the now empty space of her lungs and she was drowning and burning all at once…

“GRANGER.”

Her eyes snapped open. The fire and the pressure were gone, but the pain was still there, digging into Hermione’s legs. Crookshanks retracted the claws he had buried in her calf with a distressed cry and barreled his face into her, a squashy expression of concern as he roughly bumped his chin against the bridge of his owner’s nose.

“Let her breathe, you shaggy abomination!” came the voice that had called her out of the darkness.

With an angry hiss, Crookshanks was lifted off her head by two pale hands and displaced to the far end of the bed. Malfoy leaned over into her field of vision, eyes almost as distressed as her cat’s had been.

“Apologies. You were turning in your sleep a great deal. I wasn’t going to enter your room again without your permission, but the kneazle was going spare and then you started screaming.” he stated. “May I help you sit up?”

She numbly nodded her head, still working air into what felt like empty lungs. The wizard slid an arm under her and propped her upright. Her sheets were damp and sticky from sweat and she tried to push them off of her legs. Malfoy took note of her struggle right away and used his wand to cast a drying spell and fold them on the end of the bed.

Crookshanks was back at her elbow again, growling at the blonde and swiping at his hands until Malfoy stepped back. 

“Are you alright now?” he asked cautiously, taking another step back as Crookshanks raised another paw and kept it in midair, as though warning him against coming closer again. 

Hermione shook her head before even thinking about a proper answer.

She could feel a slight tremor in her limbs now, even though her room wasn’t particularly chilly. The nightmare, as she now recognized it, had been utterly overwhelming. Her hand twitched; Hermione wanted to touch along her skin, look for the ice and burn marks she could have sworn would still be there.

Teeth clenched, she ripped herself away from those thoughts and focused instead on Malfoy. He was just standing there, a little on guard, but still there, waiting to be of assistance. She hadn’t forgotten what he had said, and she was still mad. However, it appeared she was still very much in his debt regarding her health.

Hermione counted backwards from five in her head to remind herself to keep her temper in check and then cast about for some topic that wasn’t her nightmare. 

“Did you add an extra blanket to the bed?”

She couldn’t see an extra blanket in the now folded pile of fabrics. The effort to get the layers off of her had seemed a bit too much, even for someone in her state. 

“Dreamless Sleep isn’t recommended for concussions, so I added a weight charm, to assist with keeping you from tossing about in your sleep if need be. I meant it to keep your head from being jostled, but I should have asked.”

“No, it’s fine. Thank you.”

That awkward silence hung between them again.

Hermione took that moment to take stock of herself. Her head still hurt but everything seemed so much more manageable now. Most of the aches were gone. She was still in her big, lumpy sweater and leggings, both now also soaked in sweat much as the sheets had been. While she couldn’t see her hair, she was sure it was in frazzled knots by now given how long she had been sleeping. Frays of brown hair were sprouting at her temples and attempting to obscure her vision.

“What time is it?” she asked suddenly.

“It’s actually Sunday morning now - you slept through the night, unsurprisingly.”

So she hadn’t had a shower in two days. No wonder she felt like muck. 

“Are you feeling up for breakfast?”

The question was offered up almost as defensively as Malfoy was standing. Seeing him on edge put a little perk back into her spine, petty as it was. The corner of her mouth curled upward.

“I could be persuaded, but I think I need to take a shower first.”

He nodded, his shoulders relaxing slightly. Hermione gave Crookshanks a few more reassuring pets before swinging her legs over the side of her bed. As she made to stand, a hand was waiting for her. She looked up, surprised. Malfoy had apparently mustered his fear of her cat and stepped forward to help her up. 

Hermione slowly placed her hand in his, bemused by how much larger his hand was than hers. She didn’t move to stand up and was a little astonished he hadn’t immediately attempted to pull her to her feet. He was waiting on her.

“I’m still a little angry at you,” she admitted, flicking her eyes back up to Malfoy.

“If you weren’t, you wouldn’t be Granger.” he responded.

“Right…” Hermione said awkwardly.

It wasn’t an apology but she supposed he had apologized yesterday. Then she realized she was just sitting there, holding his hand. She stood up so fast that Malfoy’s intention to help was useless. Now they were both just standing and holding hands. She dropped it, flushed, and hurried into her washroom. 

“Do you like eggs?” he voiced through the washroom door.

“Yeah?” 

“Good, because that’s all you have left in your fridge.”

She winced, a little embarrassed, and turned on the hot water.

-------

Hermione emerged from her bedroom thirty minutes later, clean locks dripping lightly onto the carpet as she tossed them over her shoulder. Crookshanks was careful not to wind around her ankles as he accompanied her to the kitchenette. 

Malfoy looked up from the counter in surprise. She bit her lips together to keep from chuckling at the sight of him. He’d found an apron in some drawer that he’d folded over and tied around his waist. He’d also thrown a tea towel over one shoulder, like some television chef. 

“What are you doing out of your room?” 

“I’m not a complete invalid?” she answered, raising an eyebrow. “Do I have to stay in bed for a concussion?”

“Well, no-”

“Do you like to keep your women in bed all day, Malfoy?”

CLANG

Something had fallen to the floor in the kitchen. He bent over to scramble after it and she watched as he replaced a pan on a burner before turning to face her. 

“In my bed, certainly, Granger. But you are not my witch, you are my patient.” he scolded her.

“Mmm.”

He scowled at her pleased smile and pointed at her to sit. There was no dining table in the flat, just a pair of stools at the edge of the countertop. Hermione thought it was a bit of a lonely sight but with Malfoy bustling about in a domestic manner, it almost felt more intimate.

“I thought you didn’t cook your own meals.” she asked, eyeing the fry pan on the stove and the half empty carton of eggs out on the counter. Malfoy had apparently waited for her to get out of the shower before making breakfast.

“Everyone knows how to make eggs.” he scoffed.

“I’m rubbish at cooking.” 

Her statement was more of an educated guess than any knowledge of her ability to cook. Given the lack of ingredients in the cupboards and the daily lunches ordered at the Ministry, Hermione was confident in saying that magic apparently came easier to her than roasting and toasting.

“You admitting to any fault terrifies me, Granger. Now, how do you take your eggs?”

Hermione blinked at Malfoy. 

The question was so simple. Obvious, really.

How did she take her eggs? There was soft-boiled. Fried. Poached, over easy, scrambled. Maybe she liked them omelet style. Or maybe just egg whites. She could prefer them baked. Sunny-side-up. Malfoy was fancy, though. Did he expect her to say something like eggs benedict? Or maybe-

“I’ll just fry these in some butter…” he muttered, turning the gas on and magicking some butter into the pan. 

Hermione wanted to plant her face into the counter in embarrassment.

A few minutes later, Malfoy served up two plates of fried eggs and a couple of cups of black coffee, as she was out of both tea and milk. 

“Is caffeine okay with a concussion?” Hermione asked, hoping for an excuse to get out of drinking the bitter liquid.

“It’s fine as long as you hydrate and have no issues resting. I didn’t want to deprive you of caffeine completely, ingrained into your habits as it is. Withdrawal might make it worse, if anything.”

She smiled wanly and downed a gulp of coffee, hoping to get through it as fast a possible. To her great and utter dismay, he refilled her cup almost immediately.  The eggs were fantastic though.

“I love fried eggs.” she declared, trying to get every last morsel of egg onto her fork before cramming the final bite into her mouth. She chewed with pleasure and sighed. “Thank you for the meal, Malfoy.”

“Enough to forgive me for my transgressions yesterday?”

Hermione narrowed her eyes thoughtfully before nodding. “Eggs will serve as a suitable exchange.”

The expression on his face was both relief and bafflement. Both of those emotions passed quickly though and a more serious character came over him. Malfoy took their dishes and set them to washing themselves in the sink before addressing her.

“Granger, calling you a wreck was childish of me, and I apologize, again. Sincerely. However, we do need to talk about what I mentioned yesterday. ”

She grimaced but waved for him to continue. 

Malfoy nodded before announcing, “I think I know what’s happened.”

That thrum of her heart rate racing upwards was becoming too familiar. Hermione kept her composure, tightening her fists in her lap behind the counter where he would be unable to see them. All these little changes in her behavior surely must have blown her cover by now. Her inability to make decisions, her confusion. She braced herself for it, waiting for his accusation and then-

“You are working too hard.”

He nodded grimly as Hermione stared at him in blank shock. 

“Yes, I’m sure you are surprised, but even the other day you were telling me that you are trying to slow down, so on some level, I think you already knew what you were doing to yourself.” Malfoy conjured up the same chart he had been looking at the night before, his wand making trails of yellow light in between them. “All the late nights have taken their toll. You need to make some serious changes, the biggest of which should be your working hours and your nutritional habits. See here?”

He pointed out some part of the chart to her, talking about something affecting thyroid functionality while she sort of numbly nodded along.

Somehow, impossibly, Malfoy still hadn’t guessed. Harry hadn’t guessed either. No one knew that Hermione wasn’t Hermione any longer. This was really her life now, wasn’t it? No one was coming to claim it back from her. 

Malfoy dissipated the charts and fixed her with his Healer stare. She did her best to seem sheepish and thoroughly chastised by the speech she hadn’t paid one iota of attention to.

“I agree?” she asked after a few beats of silence had passed.

“You agree?” he repeated suspiciously, an eyebrow raised.

“Your data appears to be irrefutable.”

“It is irrefutable.”

“So why would I argue?”

It was his turn to narrow his grey eyes, looking for a hint of insincerity. Malfoy tapped his wand on his counter. 

“Then, before I leave this evening, we are going to get you set up with a recovery plan.”

-------

The sound of her quill scratching against the parchment paper made Hermione wince. The ink had run out, causing the harsh scrape of the nib against the paper. She sighed and rested her forehead against the back of her hand instead of dipping the quill into the inkwell. She was only halfway through writing a missive to Elizabeth about her situation and already it was hard to continue writing. It had been explained to her that sometimes a concussion made regular actions like reading and writing more difficult because of the modicum of focus required. 

Naively, she had dismissed the notion that her concussion was that bad. She had managed to run a quick trip to the grocer down the street - unfortunately with Malfoy along for supervision on his insistence that she might overtax herself. They’d had a long, whispered argument in the milk aisle regarding the benefits of organic versus the store brand. The undesirable dairy debate had, in her opinion, resulted in her crawling back into bed once they returned to the flat, rather than her actually needing more rest, as per Malfoy’s opinion.

She had managed lunch and downed a few more potions. Malfoy proclaimed that the gash from splinching herself was healing nicely with the help of the purple tincture. There was a meal diagram on her fridge, compliments of her in-home Healer, and a fresh lasagna in the oven. The big hit had been when she sat down to do a bit of light reading and her whole vision had swam alarmingly. At that point, he finally secured her promise to rest at home through the remainder of the week. 

All in all, Hermione felt well enough that she wanted her apartment back to herself. There were things she wanted to accomplish that she couldn’t do with the wizard constantly shifting his gaze over to her from his spot on the couch where he was reading the Sunday Prophet. 

Aggrieved with her situation, she jabbed the quill into ink and went back to gathering her words. The examination of the Hall of Prophecies was still ongoing and she wanted to be sure that any reports went through her before they went up to Painswick. Would it be too much to have her assistant approve funding for the week? Elizabeth would also need to reschedule all her appointments…

“We were supposed to have lunch tomorrow.” she suddenly remembered aloud.

Malfoy looked up from the paper. “No work, Granger. We can postpone it to another week.”

“But I thought you wanted to go over the aspects of the spellwork for additional funding?”

“You expressed interest in some of the finer tuning, and if it means more possible funding, who am I to refuse? But it’s just as well,” he said, turning his attention back to the Prophet and flipping a page. “I wanted to bring a book for you to borrow, there’s a chapter on retrograde amnesia I thought might be beneficial to our talk. Now you might have some time to read it, well, once you rest for a few more days, hopefully.”

“Which book?” she asked out of curiosity.

“Obliviation and the Collateral Damage on Cognition.”

“By Perdita Caput?”

Malfoy lifted an eyebrow in her direction. “Oh, you know it?” 

“I own a copy.”

There was a copy of it on the bookshelves in the bedroom. It was a thinner tome, with a bright red binding, a rather newer publication than some of the other books on memory loss, both magical and muggle, in her possession. She knew from the letters that the collection predated the prophecies about her own amnesia. 

Her admission had Malfoy gobsmacked. He sent the paper down entirely and turned his whole body to look over at her where she was sitting at the small wooden desk.

“That is a rather obscure piece for a non-Healer to own.” he said slowly.

His eyes were searching her face and she fixed his curious gaze with her own. 

“Do I seem the non-academic type to you, Malfoy?” she asked, gesturing to her cardigan and the whole of her being. “I’m rabid for knowledge, remember. Did you miss the small library in my bedroom?”

“Hardly a library, Granger,” said Malfoy with a small smirk, “And no, I don’t suppose you do much for the stereotype.”

She threw a wadded piece of parchment across the room and he Vanished it lazily, now half hanging over the back of the chair while he talked with her.

“But why do you have a book on memory loss?”

Hermione blinked and cast her eyes away from him.

-------

To You,

All of the things I am working to come to terms with over my impending erasure from the world, there is one regret that haunts me the most. 

You know already that Richard and Nora Granger were the best parents a muggleborn child could wish for. I was only able to leave a few memories for you from my childhood, but even from those you cannot mistake the expressions of affection on their faces. They loved me so much, only child that I was, and still supported my need to spend time in the wizarding world outside of school. They wanted me to have that connection to the magical world, even at their expense.

They will never know the price they paid. That I paid.

When I Obliviated them before leaving with Harry and Ron to search for the horcruxes, I was in a rush. I was desperate to keep them safe. You may not understand why it was necessary to erase their memories not only of me but of themselves when I was already fixing to send them so far away. No one seemed out of Voldemort’s reach and I was the high profile muggleborn next to the Boy-Who-Lived. The probability that they would have been left untouched was, frankly, low. 

And so, with very little research and no one to help me, I took their memories. I shoved false memories on top of the hidden ones, going even beyond the normal taboo for Obliviation in magical society. A normal 17 year-old would have never managed it and I was too hasty in thinking that because I could, I should.

I have spent years searching for a way to restore my parents' memories. After the war ended, I thought it might take some time to find a means of reversal but that ultimately, I would have my parents back. They would be angry and eventually forgive me after hearing my harrowing tales of heroism… but that never came. I couldn’t undo my own spellwork.

I didn’t want to ask for help from St. Mungo’s. They were already dealing with so many casualties of the war and I was afraid. Afraid of how the wizarding world would paint me if they learned what I had done. Everything I do is scrutinized by the press and I wanted to leave my parents out of it. So I quietly kept researching, hoping for some breakthrough that would allow me to regain my family.

And now it’s too late. Almost every day I bitterly wonder if my own loss of memory is the universe taking it karmatic due. Even if I were to beg you to continue on with my research, what joy can there be for parents whose daughter has been lost from them? Wendell and Monica Wilkins do not know who Hermione Jean Granger is, and never will. 

I wish it was all for the best, but best for whom?

Brokenhearted, Me

-------

“One of my many interests.” Hermione told Malfoy with a shrug, thinking with a pang about the tear-stricken letter amongst the many scrolls in the suitcase that was disillusioned and hiding under the bed. 

“What other rare finds are you hiding on those bookshelves of yours?” he asked.

“You’re welcome to take a look. I’m surprised you didn’t earlier.” she said, following the wizard as he left his chair and entered her bedroom. 

“I’m not a snoop, Granger.”

“Says the wizard who secretly cleaned up all the blood in my living room while I slept and then used it to check my condition.”

He sniffed, pointedly not looking at her as he ran his long fingertips over the book bindings. “Your carpet looked like your cat had murdered another animal and hidden its body. I was doing my due diligence… You also own Absconditus Memoria? You are a trove of surprises.May I?”

Malfoy reached out to pull the large book down and, not for the first time that day, his Dark Mark peeked out from under the edge of his rolled up shirt. Hermione could not help but stare at it, close as he was. The ink had faded, the edges dull, but the image of the skull and the snake was still clear. The tattoo was in such contrast with the rest of his crisp, clean look that Hermione took advantage of Malfoy’s distraction to ponder the man in front of her.

His hair was hanging just above his eyes again. It was his habit, she now knew, to run his hands through the white locks to slick it back but it never stayed put. His grey eyes seemed fixed on the text in front of him and she regarded the rest of his face with satisfaction. Oh, he was handsome alright, strong chin, high cheekbones, but he didn’t feel intimidatingly so. Was it that he was confident? Comfortable? There was something in the way he held himself that added to his physical appeal. 

“Do you like what you see, Granger?”

Hermione started, then flushed when she saw that he was not, in fact, looking at the book but at her. She took a step or two back from his person, trying not to hunch her shoulders. “I’m not sure what I’m seeing, Malfoy.”

The book made a dull thunk sound as he deposited it back onto the shelf and turned to Hermione, crossing his arms defensively. 

“What do you think you see?” His voice as well as the energy in the room was tense.

She furrowed her brow, thinking about how Malfoy had behaved at work against how he had treated her that weekend. “Someone who gave up his entire weekend to take care of a mu-muggleborn.”

Hermione hesitated on the last word. She wanted to know why he had that mark on his forearm. How did someone go from Deatheater to Mind Healer? But using the term ‘mudblood’ was unnecessary provocation.

Malfoy noticed her hesitation and his demeanor flickered briefly, a shadow passing over his face that Hermione might have missed if she hadn’t been thoroughly held in place by his gaze.

“Why Healing?” she asked in a softer voice.

“Excuse me?” he barked.

“You spent the last two days taking care of me. We’re not even friends, Malfoy. But you did it like it was second nature.” pointed out Hermione, sitting down on the edge of her bed and curling a knee under herself. “Why did you become a Healer?”

The movement jostled Crookshanks who had been napping nearby. The cat came and curled up on her lap. Malfoy watched her without moving himself, a picture of disquiet.

“You will never stop with your questions, will you?” he noted.

His nose was scrunched up, his expression peaking somewhere between annoyance and resignation.

“You don’t have to give me the long answer if you don’t wish to.”

“I don’t owe you any answer, frankly.”

Hermione shrugged and petted the Kneazle, already asleep again. His orange fur was soft under her hands and she enjoyed running her fingers through it, scratching his tummy lightly and getting a happy purr in return for her efforts. 

She thought about returning to the desk to finish her letter to her assistant when Malfoy spoke up again.

“It turns out I have a knack for fixing broken things.”

Hermione looked up at him, he looked back at her bookshelf instead of meeting her eyes. 

“A lot of things were broken after… well. Broken trust. Broken people. The latter was an easier fix, so I chose to concentrate on that.”

His explanation was brief but there was so much to read into, Hermione realized. Healing required years of additional study, a residency at St. Mungo’s, and no small lack of talent for it. For Malfoy to claim that it was the path of least resistance for him after the war was disconcerting.

“And Mind Healing?” she inquired, knowing she was pushing her luck with him.

She could see his jaw tighten. 

“I had the necessary qualifications for it already.”

Hermione had no idea how to read into that particular admission but she decided against any further questioning. The straight backed, cold shouldered Malfoy in front of her was not the man she had been spending the weekend with. She fervently wished she could take back her nosy tendencies.

Something started ringing from the kitchen and Malfoy jumped, his wand slipping out of his pocket and pointing to the living room.

“That’s the oven timer,” Hermione explained quickly, “The lasagna is ready. I’ll just pull it out, shall I?”

She hurried into the kitchenette and almost grabbed the tray of pasta with her bare hands before remembering that levitating the dish was an option. Once it was out and cooling on the counter, Hermione looked up to see that Malfoy had followed her back out of the bedroom.

“I don’t think I’ll stay for dinner. It’s time I got out of your hair before I get tangled in it further.”

It sounded as though he was trying to be a lighthearted tease about it, but the joke fell flat and they both shifted uncomfortably on her feet. 

“Right, well, thanks. If you owl me the bill, I’ll arrange to have the gold transferred to your vault.”

“I was joking about an invoice, Granger. Any… any decent wizard would have done the same for you.”

“Still… thank you.”

“Thank me by not showing up at the Ministry. I will bully your assistant relentlessly if it means ensuring she doesn’t send you work via courier or some such.” His face made it clear this was not a joke.

“Leave Elizabeth alone, Malfoy.”

“I’m stopping by later this week to check on you. With your permission, that is.”

Hermione smiled hesitantly. “Sure, I’ll leave the Floo open for you.”

Malfoy nodded and Disapparated without a further word.

She blinked a few times and stared at the spot he had just occupied. Finally, Hermione was alone again. The flat was hers and only hers, baring the beast now begging for dinner from somewhere around her ankle region. No one was going to lecture her about rest or the consumption of a balanced diet. No one was going to stare over her shoulder if she wanted to pull out the letters or the purple planner. She could dance naked if she wanted to.

Something hollow gnawed at her stomach and she realized her appetite was quite gone.

Was this how it felt to be lonely?