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Sunday 16 February 2003: PM

Hermione blinks furiously. Or rather, she tries to blink furiously, but her eyelids won't co-operate. They are partially gummed together and merely allow fuzzy glimpses of a high white ceiling accentuated by classic cornices. Disorientation sets in; her bedroom ceiling in her modest apartment is painted a soft cream with plain wood trim, and no amount of squinting can reconcile the two images. The pale afternoon sunlight leaching into the room is also unfamiliar. Hermione is rarely still abed during the daylight hours.

Her heartbeat accelerates and her breathing stutters when she attempts to push herself to a sitting position; the soft supportive mass beneath her prone form barely shifts as her weakened limbs slip. Failing to gain traction, she is suddenly aware of her compromised physical state. Her eyes are tacky and sensitive, her head throbs as though she's been recently kicked by an angry elephant, her entire body aches painfully and her raging thirst is a cruel counterpart to her parched mouth and throat. And her bladder is ready to burst.

Eyes closed once more, Hermione chokes back a small sob at the overwhelming helplessness and confusion that threatens to send her into a screaming panic attack. Get ahold of yourself, woman! She chides herself. She can and she will figure this out.

"Granger." A controlled, cultured masculine voice to her left interrupts her silent pep talk. She knows that voice… but the tone is different… shouldn't it be mocking, or cruel? Hermione slowly rolls her stiff neck and head in the direction the voice emanated from and carefully wills her sticky eyes to properly open and provide her with some much-needed clarity.

The figure in the chair is tall and fair-haired; the sunlight streams in from the open curtains behind the low armchair in which the man sits. He is leaning forward slightly, blessed with perfect posture that yet communicates an aspect of tension and displeasure. The combination of the backlighting and her compromised eyesight leave the man's face a vague blur. Hermione peeks through the protective curtain of her dark lashes as his countenance slowly sharpens into focus, and her mouth gapes as her brain finally catches up.

"M-M—Malfoy?" she gasps, unable to control the nervous stammer. She instinctively pushes away from him, her muscles protesting as she barely manages to slide a few inches backward. Everything hurts, she thinks miserably.

Draco straightens in the chair, slowly lifting his palms in the classic 'no threat' gesture. Despite her distress, Hermione can't look away from him. This is the first time she's clapped eyes on Malfoy since… since his trial, four years ago. She'd testified in his defence, despite Ron's furious protestations and criticism from many of her Order friends.

The gaunt and emotionless youth she'd last seen has matured into a strong, strikingly handsome man. His white-blond hair is sharply cut – longish on top but clipped short at the back and sides to precisely frame his angular face. His eyes are a stormy grey, holding her gaze with disturbing intensity. He is clothed in a crisp white Oxford shirt and tailored navy trousers that emphasize his defined, lean musculature. Still looks like a prince, then.

"If you're done ogling me, Granger – perhaps we could discuss your presence in my home?" Draco drawls sardonically, a smirk lurking at the corners of his mouth as he registers Hermione's answering blush.

"I wasn't ogling you, Malfoy!" Hermione snaps before she can stop herself. "I was – I was assessing my surroundings… Wait, I'm in your home?" her voice rises as she immediately remembers Malfoy Manor and her last 'visit' to his ancestral abode. The faded 'Mudblood' scar forcibly carved into her left forearm burns with a phantom itch as Hermione whips her head from side to side in growing panic.

"Easy, Granger. This is my townhouse, not Malfoy Manor. You've never been here before," Malfoy tells her in a careful, subdued tone. His taut fingers grip the arms of his chair and he briefly shifts his regard to the floor, his face a purposefully blank mask.

Hermione calms immediately, before laboriously propping herself on her elbows. She won't hold this odd conversation lying on her back; she feels helpless enough as things stand. Malfoy rises swiftly, leaning over her a little to prop two plump pillows behind her back. He gracefully resumes his seat before she has a chance to protest or register alarm. Hermione is left with a lingering impression of body heat and a whiff of piney cologne. He hasn't changed his signature scent, then.

"Are you ready to explain?" Draco abruptly queries. He is leaning forward again and doesn't mask his impatience.

"Am I ready to explain?" Hermione parrots. "Don't you mean – are you ready to explain? Why in Godric's name am I currently lying in a bed in your house, Malfoy?" Hermione breathes, astonished and irritated. Her usually swift brain is sluggish as a mule. Disjointed images stream through her mind's eye as she strives to piece together her recent experiences. To her utter dismay, the last clear memory she possesses is walking into a pub for… a date? She shakes her head in a futile attempt to clear it.

Malfoy huffs in annoyance, having mistaken her headshake as a denial to offer an explanation.

"Listen, Granger – I found you passed out on my front porch at precisely half past midnight last night, bedraggled and half-alive. Against my better judgement, I brought you inside, whereupon you briefly regained consciousness and raved about being drugged – roofied? by an unidentified male. You stubbornly refused to allow me to contact any authorities for help before you proceeded to eject the entire contents of your stomach over my person and floor." Draco's enunciation is clear and clipped as he bites off the words with growing aggravation.

"So yes – at the very least, I expect an explanation for your imposition. Now," his voice is an exasperated, demanding rumble. Hermione cringes as she hears the undeniable ring of truth in Malfoy's account.

"I vomited on you?" she asks in a small voice. Embarrassment turns her ears and neck pink and her cheeks grow hot.

"Vomited, spewed, puked, hurled, retched, gagged, regurgitated, disgorged and heaved all over me," Draco confirms, curling his upper lip in disgust. "And yourself," he adds as an afterthought.

Oh Merlin. The shame. Hermione drops her chin to her chest, thoroughly mortified. She notes soft material against her skin and realizes she is wearing an over-large unfamiliar white t-shirt of superior cotton: where did this come from? For that matter, why isn't she still covered in puke? Her eyes widen as she senses she is not wearing a bra. She reaches down feverishly with one hand and is vastly relieved to encounter knickers banded across her hip. Her hand stills as she turns back to Malfoy.

"Where are my clothes, Malfoy?" Hermione demands. Surely, he didn't – he wouldn't –

Malfoy has no trouble following her line of thought; he draws himself up to his full regal demeanour, replying stiffly, "Cleaned and dried and waiting for you in the adjacent bathroom, Miss Granger." He emphasizes her title with cold hauteur; if Hermione didn't know better, she'd think him wounded.

"I have done many terrible things but violating an insensate woman who has fled to my home to seek refuge is not one of them," Draco elucidates. His grey eyes are hard steel and bore into her own brown orbs with unflinching disapprobation.

Hermione rushes to rectify her wrong. "Malfoy, I'm sorry – I didn't mean to – "

"Don't prevaricate, Granger. It's unbecoming. We both know what you meant. You have my word that I bathed you and changed you without compromising your dignity or virtue. The Scourgify spells I employed failed to effectively remove the stench of sick from your hair and person," Draco clarifies coldly. The arrogance and disdain that Hermione remembers from their schooling years is distinctly displayed. In an odd way, Malfoy's snobbish mannerisms help to ground Hermione and settle her escalating nerves and chagrin about her current situation.

"Thank you," Hermione adopts the same aloof tone that Malfoy is wont to employ. Although it is decidedly difficult to look down her nose from her awkward pose in the bed. Is this Malfoy's bedroom? She lets her curious gaze meander the bedchamber as she stalls to organize her chaotic thoughts.

The room is luxuriously spacious when compared to her own small sleeping quarters. The wall to her left is dominated by generous, gleaming windows framed by thick white curtains (currently half-opened to bathe the room in sunlight). The low modern grey armchair currently occupied by Malfoy has a twin, arranged to the right against the wall directly opposing the bed. A plain white tallboy is centered beside it, with twin wardrobe doors in the left corner. Matching chests of drawers bookmark the bed, and the open door situated in the right far corner shows a slivered view of a bathroom. The floor is wooden, with a simple dark grey rectangular woolen rug beneath the chair and tallboy. The ajar bedroom door is on her right, at the nearside corner.

Her vision muddies a little as she notices a large painting occupying most of the opposite wall, perfectly positioned for the bed's occupant to contemplate. Hermione squinches her bleary eyes to focus more effectively, but her attention is diverted by Malfoy testily waving an elegant hand before her face.

"Granger - stop dithering and concentrate. I need some answers. Your peculiar drama has squandered much of my day already," he grumbles. Draco launches into another inquisitorial barrage before Hermione can reply.

"What brought you to my door last night? How do you know where I live? Who drugged you? What does 'roofied' mean?".

Hermione winces as Malfoy's sharp pitch exacerbates the towering headache that has been gathering momentum since she awoke. Her deteriorated bodily condition had faded to the background somewhat whilst verbally sparring with Malfoy; but Hermione is now painfully aware that her mouth is cotton-dry, her muscles are singing a song of bitter complaint… and her poor head is ready to explode.

"May I have some water, please," Hermione whispers. She won't look at Malfoy. Her bravado has deflated under the weight of her confused mental state and fragile body. Hermione chews her bottom lip, determined not to spill the unwanted tears welling in her eyes. She hates feeling weak and she absolutely will not cry in front of the boy who relentlessly bullied her for years.

With her eyes screwed firmly shut, Hermione hears Draco sigh, then the clink of a heavy ring against glass, beside her head. She flinches automatically as Draco's hand gently lifts her own to wrap it around a textured tumbler, her eyes winging open in shock at both the unprecedented contact and the strange electrifying buzz as his long pale fingers touch hers.

"Here. Drink a little water. Are you able to stay upright?" Draco asks quietly. The harshness that recently coloured his voice is gone. Hermione's breathing hitches at his proximity; his hand is still wrapped around her own as he supports her grip on the water glass. A stray lock of his flaxen hair flops over his forehead as he leans over her, lending an oddly innocent charm to his face.

Mistaking Hermione's hesitation for trepidation, Draco bends his head a little further and takes a quick nip from the glass nestled between their hands.

"It's just water, see?". Satisfied that she won't drop the tumbler, he gives it a nudge closer to her mouth and finally releases his hold.

Hermione brings the water to her lips and drinks deeply, closing her eyes to mask her bewilderment. The clear liquid tastes like nectar to her abused mouth and throat, and she makes a small sound of protest as Draco takes back the glass before she can drain it.

"Small sips, Granger," he cautions, placing it back on the chest of drawers. "Otherwise you'll just bring it back up again."

Hermione cringes internally as she waits for Malfoy to taunt her about regurgitation once more, but the gibe doesn't eventuate. Instead, the tall blond man slides his hands into his trouser pockets and keenly studies her wan face.

"You must need the facilities, Granger" - he tips his head toward the adjacent bathroom door – "and something to eat." Draco's unexpectedly matter-of-fact tone throws Hermione off balance yet again.

He doesn't wait for a response as he asks, "Do you need help rising? Your clothes are on the vanity and your shoes beneath."

"No, thank you," Hermione manages to croak in reply. She pushes her wild brunette curls out of her face, gingerly swivels her hips and slides her slender bare legs out from under the soft snowy duvet. Draco immediately snaps his eyes to the bathroom door. The borrowed t-shirt Hermione wears covers her to mid-thigh, but she is grateful for his courtesy. She trusts that Malfoy took no liberties when he'd bathed her last night; but knowing of that forced intimacy without being able to recall it exacerbates her vulnerability.

Carefully placing her bare feet on the floor, Hermione braces and stands upright, exhaling as her stiff bones protest the movement. Draco moves closer but does not touch her, instead framing her body in case she stumbles or falls. Moving to the bathroom with small shuffling steps (like a frail old witch, she thinks morosely), Draco shadows her progress and only places a steadying hand upon her back once. His hand is warm and large and jolts against her skin, even through the cotton divider.

Having successfully reached the vanity, Hermione gratefully props her sore physique against the glossy navy ceramic and rests for a moment. She's spotted her burgundy dress arranged neatly on the counter; it is her go-to 'first date' outfit and underscores her hazy concept of where she was headed the night before.

Draco abruptly clears his throat. "Right. If you feel faint or require assistance to come downstairs, shout or stamp your feet. The kitchen is directly below. Eggs and toast alright?".

Hermione bites her tongue to prevent her jaw unhinging in shock. Draco cocks his silvery head to the side, awaiting her acceptance. She nods dumbly, trying to process the extraordinary circumstance of Draco Malfoy asking her preference for a meal he is providing. Inconceivable.

Malfoy begins to walk away, turning back suddenly as he gestures to her folded gown. "There was a little beaded purse in the pocket of your dress – fortunately, I discovered it before it went into the wash," he explains. "I placed it beside your clothing."

My bag! Hermione almost sobs in relief. Her trusty (Extendable) charmed purse holds her all her valuables, but she will wait until Malfoy leaves to check that her wand and personal effects remain intact.

"See you downstairs," Malfoy flatly informs her; he departs quickly and gracefully, leaving her thanks unspoken. Hermione watches him leave, admiring the long line of his flanks and economy of motion. He still moves like a deadly big cat, all fluid lines and pared muscle. Belatedly, Hermione realizes she has been gawking after Malfoy like a silly schoolgirl. She grips the cool lip of the basin and lightly presses her hot forehead to the cool glass of the mirror above it.

Hermione straightens and nods grimly at her rumpled reflection. Her nimbus of untamed russet hair and drawn features seem doubly incongruous contrasted with the gleaming dark blue tiles and pristine minimalism surrounding her.

She needs to be strong; she needs to focus; she needs some answers. And a sturdy hairbrush.

Get dressed and get your shit together, Granger.