𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐆𝐈𝐑𝐋 𝐖𝐈𝐓𝐇𝐎𝐔𝐓 𝐀 𝐅𝐀𝐂𝐄 [𝐝𝐫𝐚𝐦𝐢𝐨𝐧𝐞]

𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐟𝐢𝐟𝐭𝐲-𝐞𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭

_____

St. Mungo's

_____

HERMIONE couldn't believe it.

It was the only plausible explanation for Draco's recent behavior, but it was also difficult to fathom. His memories had returned.

She'd suspected it when she confessed her love for him. The man she'd known would've reacted in a different manner. But he'd pushed her away, and that was when she knew.

She'd expressed her ideas to Healer Silverspoon, who agreed to check it out. And he had. He'd confirmed it. Draco Malfoy had his memories back.

However, she didn't expect Legilimency to be involved. There was nothing she could've done about it; she had to stand there and watch as his mind was searched. She hated it. 

She grew more terrified the further he resisted. The more he writhed as Healer Silverspoon examined him.

She couldn't help but fear Healer Silverspoon might discover their secret, but she'd swept passed it. It was probably just her paranoia toying with her mind.

That had been a week ago, already. And her boss hadn't said anything to her about the subject. So, perhaps he didn't happen upon anything not meant for his eyes.

It just gone six o'clock, and Hermione had finished work for the day earlier than what she was used to.

She'd been planning to speak to Draco about it. That and other things. Now she knew for certain. Now she could look at him and know that he was okay. 

He'd be struggling with his memories, this was known from the beginning. Since they'd realized he'd woken. Healer Silverspoon said he would. And it made sense why.

It all made sense. 

The only issue was — even though she knew what was happening to him, she was unsure of how to support him. She wanted to be there for him, but stood clueless on how to approach.

She waited in the staff room. Her bag draped over her shoulder, her cloak folded over the expanse of her forearm, her fingers crunching the material in an effort to bide time. 

Hermione paced back and forth, watching the clock, carefully. She was stalling. She needed to go see him now.

With that surge of encouragement she gave herself, she made for the exit and strode down the corridor, shoes crossing over the cool tiles of the floor. 

She headed for the stairway, trying to tame her wild imagination, in case she listened and bolted in the other direction. In case she chickened out.

When she reached the desired corridor, it absorbed all the effort she owned to wander toward the door to his room. She braced herself for the worst, sucking in sharp breaths before walking in underneath the frame.

He was sitting upright on his bed, a book held between his long fingers, his silver eyes intent on the pages. That was, until she came into his view. Then his gaze flitted up to her, his expression reserved.

"What now?" He asked her, his tone was clipped. "You're not just going to stand there in silence, are you?"

She had prepared herself for when he would say something like that. "I just wanted to tell you something."

"If it's your little sap story on how you 'love' me," — he gestured with his fingers as he said it — "you can save me and yourself the trouble."

She sealed her eyes shut for a moment, dragging in a breath before inching nearer to him. He arched a brow at her.