Disclaimer: I claim no ownership over anything except this particular little plot, and even that, I'm sure, borrows from writers better than me. I hope you enjoy this little fic, and I hope to hear from you.

The light was bright as she opened her eyes. Her mouth was dry, as if she'd had it stuffed with cotton, and she licked her teeth to try and ease some of the discomfort. She groaned as she rolled to her side, sitting up and noting all the various aches and pains in her joints. It felt as if she hadn't moved in days.

Days. What day was it? She opened her eyes and looked around. Behind her, a large window with direct sunlight pouring in. The light was orangish so it must be close to evening. Surrounding her small, hard bed were gauzy white curtains. A hospital bed? Was she in the hospital?

As if someone had been waiting for her to wake, the curtain opened with a jerk and two heads popped in—one with unruly black hair that stuck out all over and bright green eyes, the other with a mop of red hair that topped a pale face covered with a smattering of freckles.

"Hermione!" they said in unison, smiling as they each went to different sides of the bed. They each took a hand—the dark-haired boy's hands were cool, while the redheaded boy's hands were warm and moist—and smiled down at her.

"You're finally awake," the dark-haired boy said. "We've been so worried."

"How do you feel?" the redhead asked. His eyes were a vivid, cornflower blue and she thought they were quite lovely, but the pressure he was putting on her fingers where he gripped her hand was uncomfortable.

"Fine," she said, looking at each of them, over and over. "Um, who are you?" Gently, she pulled her hands away from theirs. "And where am I?" She sat up taller in an effort to pull away from these boys. She felt like she should know them, but she just didn't. It was like the knowledge of who they were—of who she was—was just outside of the depths of her memory.

The dark-haired boy's shoulders slumped and he sat carefully in a chair beside the bed. The redheaded boy's cheeks grew red and he crossed his arms over his chest and clenched his jaw.

"I'm Harry," the dark-haired boy said. "And this is Ron." He smiled, but it didn't quite reach his eyes. "We're your best friends." His disheveled hair shifted as he huffed out a breath and she noticed a pale, zigzag scar on his forehead that stirred something in her memory, but it was like a whiff of smoke that was there and gone.

"And I'm—" she scrunched her nose to remember the name they'd said when they walked in. "Hermione?"

The dark-haired boy—Harry—nodded again. "You were injured in an accident." He swallowed and looked at the other boy—Ron—with big, panicked eyes. "Do you remember that you're...you're a—"

"A witch!" Ron exploded. "You're a witch, 'Mione! Surely you remember." Ron's face was red and he was pacing beside the bed.

"A witch?" She scrunched up her face and noted a feeling of something tingling in her fingertips. "I can do magic?" she asked.

Harry nodded, eyes bright, and handed her a stick—no, a wand. Her wand.

Her fingers wrapped around it and she remembered the feel of it. "Swish and flick," she whispered and with the words wingardium leviosa in her mind, the sheet at the end of her hospital bed lifted. She smiled and let her wand arm drop, and the sheet settled back into place.

"I remember magic, I think." She smiled, then met boy boys' eyes and her smile fell. "But I'm sorry, I still don't remember you."

"It's OK," Harry said, a sad smile on his face. "Madame Pomphrey said that it could be a while before your memories came back."

"If they come back," Ron huffed. "This is all bloody Malfoy's fault," he said, looking at Harry. "They were aiming for him, and if she hadn't tried to help him—"

"Who's Malfoy?" Hermione asked, another familiar niggling in her memory that wasn't quite there.

"The prat who got you into this mess," Ron said, scowling.

"Is he my—our—friend?" she asked, and shied away from Ron as he scoffed and kicked the leg of her bed.

"He's a classmate," Harry said, looking toward the curtain. "He's—your relationship with him is complicated."

"Complicated?" Ron said, leaning forward. Hermione found herself leaning away from his aggression. "He's an arse who's been horrible to you since we were eleven!"

"And—" Harry said, standing and staring at Ron, "he's someone that, in the last few months or so, has put forth a real effort to be better, he's—"

"He's a rotten piece of garbage," Ron said, sneering toward the curtain.

"Is he over there?" Hermione whispered, eyes going large. "He could hear you!"

"He's asleep," Ron said, rolling his eyes.

"Actually," said a drawling voice from behind the curtain, "he's awake."

Hermione felt mortified. With a groan from sore muscles, she shoved her blanket down, grateful that she was wearing clothes—a maroon tee shirt and matching flannel, drawstring pants—and not some sort of hospital gown, and slipped from the bed.

"Where are you going?" Ron asked, but she ignored him and walked past. She pushed the curtain aside and stopped, not sure what she expected. In a bed just like the one she'd just left sat a boy with white-blonde hair and an expression that suggested he was just as confused as she was. Instead of maroon, his shirt was green, and somehow she thought he looked very out of place in it.

"You're Malfoy?" she asked, letting the curtain close behind her, only for it to be shoved open just behind her by Ron.

"That's what I've been told," the boy said. He sat tall, his hands clasped in his lap, and reminded her of a storybook prince. "Draco Malfoy. But honestly, I don't remember."

Hermione smiled and carefully sat on the foot of his bed. "I'm Hermione, I think. And—and we know each other," she said, meeting his light gray eyes. "But I don't remember you." She couldn't take her eyes off his. "Except, it feels like I should."

His eyes went a little wider and he leaned forward and she was struck by the fact that he was scared. She didn't know how she knew that, but something in the slight widening of his eyes and the way his lips parted the slightest bit let her know that he was only acting nonchalant.

"Do you feel—" he glanced at Harry and Ron, then leaned back, that mask he wore slipping back into place. "Do you feel like you can almost remember things?" he asked, his voice quiet.

She nodded and found herself leaning toward him. "Like, it's just outside of what I should know."

"This is mental," Ron said, standing right behind Hermione. "You might not remember each other, but we do, and you're not friends!" His face was red and it stirred something unpleasant in Hermione's chest.

"As far as I know, neither are we," she said, scowling over her shoulder at the agitated ginger. To his credit, Ron paled and looked a bit remorseful.

"Listen," he said, swallowing heavily. "I just don't want you to get hurt."

"Are you her boyfriend?" Malfoy asked, and Ron's eyes went wide.

"What? No," he said, looking between Hermione and Harry with a panicked expression.

"Is he, then?" Malfoy asked, nodding toward Harry.

Hermione, for her part, was equally curious and terrified at the thought of being romantically involved with any of these people she didn't know.

"No," Harry said, eyes soft as he looked at her. "We're all just your friends. And you, Malfoy—" green eyes met gray, "Er, Draco—" Ron scoffed. "Were starting to be our friend, too. Or, at least not our enemy. Only this year."

"So, what happened?" Draco asked as he crossed his arms over his chest and leaned back. Hermione noted a bandage over one forearm. "How did we lose our memories?"

Harry's expression shifted from concerned to determined in a breath. Before he could answer, Ron broke in.

"If you tell them, she'll just be more determined to be his friend," he said, his teeth gritted.

Harry looked at him for a long moment, then back to Hermione and Draco.

"It's a long story," he said before clearing his throat. "But basically, Malfoy, you used to be a—a not great guy." He cleared his throat again. "There was a war, and you were on the wrong side—"

"A war?" Hermione asked, eyes wide. She looked to the bandage on his arm.

"We won," Harry said, meeting Hermione's overwhelmed gaze. "And after, well, you tried to make amends." He motioned toward Draco with a nod of his head. "Hermione here was the first to give you a shot, and—"

"And that's how she was almost killed!" Ron spat, but Harry pressed on in spite of him.

"The two of you were together, working to remove the Dark Mark—there, on your arm—when some Death Eater sympathizers bomb-spelled the room you were in. It was supposed to reset your memory. McGonnagal thinks they wanted to—to reprogram you to restart Voldemort's ranks." Harry sighed and shoved his glasses up on the bridge of his nose.

"And Voldemort was who the war was again?" Draco asked, his face a carefully constructed mask of indifference.

Harry nodded, and to everyone's surprise, Draco laughed big and loud.

"I'm a teenager," he said, his smile incredulous. "That's preposterous."

"Regardless," Harry said, "it's what happened. The people responsible were apprehended—one of them was an old classmate of ours—and the two of you have been in these beds, asleep, for the better part of a week." His face seemed to fall with what Hermione could only assume was exhaustion. "We weren't sure you were going to wake up," he said, his voice cracking.

"But I did," Hermione said, standing—wincing with what she now realized were sore, unused muscles—and going to him. She took his hand and squeezed. She didn't know Harry, or Ron, but she knew that what they were saying was true. Even Ron's anger somehow felt familiar. Unwanted and unpleasant, but familiar.

A sudden noise—the loud growl of Ron's stomach—cut through the air and he turned red for an all new reason.

"We'll go," Harry said, smiling at Ron's discomfort. "Pomphrey will bring you both dinner, as you've not been released yet. But we'll be back in the morning. Alright?"

"Alright," she said, a little anxious for some time away from Harry's overly concerned eyes and Ron's overly critical ones. "See you both, then." She smiled at Harry, then turned and smiled at Ron, though it felt a little more forced.

With a droop of his shoulders, Ron shoved his hands in his pockets and nodded. The two left, Harry with a little wave, and then it was just Hermione and Malfoy.

She'd felt drawn to him, before, but now she felt awkward. Exceptionally awkward. A quick look in his direction told her he felt the same way.

"So, your Dark Mark," she said, pointing to his covered arm. "Harry said I was trying to remove it. Do you remember what it was?"

He shook his head and pulled his arm a little closer to his chest. "I've been too nervous to look," he admitted, his cheeks blooming a light pink.

"Together?" she asked, holding out her arm. She noticed, faintly, thin white lines across her own forearm, but didn't pay them any mind.

He hesitated half a breath, then extended his arm toward her. She took his hand—it was warm and firm—and felt something flutter in her stomach. It felt new and familiar all at once. She looked up at him and noted that the pink in his cheeks was slightly more pronounced, and smiled.

With gentle fingers, she peeled away the bandage that seemed to be stuck with some sort of sticking spell that loosened as soon as she pulled. When it fell away, her eyes went wide.

His arm, which was as pale as the rest of him, was darkened as if ink had been spilled and only partially wiped up. It looked like a tattoo, except it lacked definite shape. A drawing that someone had tried to wash away.

"Is this the Dark Mark?" she asked, looking up into his eyes.

"No," he breathed, his eyes wide. "I mean, I don't know, but it feels like, no. Like, it's changed." There were tears in his eyes and Hermione gently took his hand and gave his fingers a squeeze. "I don't know why I'm reacting this way," he said as a single tear fell. "But it feels like—like—" he met her gaze and breathed out, heavily. "Like absolution, somehow."

They sat that way for a moment, eyes locked, and Hermione felt the stirring of memory, just out of reach, again. It felt as if she might be able to grasp it, to remember, when the curtain moved.

Startled, they pulled their hands away from one another, matching blushes on their cheeks.

"Misters Potter and Weasley said you were awake," the older woman said as she deposited two trays full of food, levitated magically, onto the bed. "And that remembered nothing?" she looked at each of them, and Hermione nodded. "Well, we'll fix that. Just may take some time." She smiled and with a flick of her wand, moved Hermione's cot closer to Draco's and levitated her food onto it. "Now, eat your dinners and back to bed with you, Miss Granger. You've slept a week and we'll need to build up your strength." She smiled, patted Hermione on the shoulder and pointed to her bed, then left.

"A week," Draco said as he sat up some and pulled his tray closer. He picked up his utensils like someone accustomed to a more sophisticated way of life. Hermione crawled back into bed, tired now, and did the same.

"A week," she echoed, then looked over at him. "But for us, it's been longer, hasn't it?" She felt panic well up. "We don't remember anything. Any of our friends, our classes, our families." Her breath felt tight and she stared down at her tray as the thought of all she'd forgotten settled on her shoulders like a mantle. "We don't remember anything," she breathed.

And then, he was there, arm across her shoulders, fingers gripping her arm tightly. "Hermione," he said, his voice forceful, and she looked up at him, eyes wild. "We don't remember, but we will." He squeezed her arm again. "I know it."

She nodded, feeling the vice around her heart loosen slightly. He started to move, to get up and walk away, and she gripped his arm, holding on tightly. "Can you stay over here?" she asked, unsure why she wanted him to stay, to be so close, when her supposed friends made her shy away.

"Of course," he said. From the table between their beds, he picked up a stick—no, his wand—and levitated his tray over. She scooted over—the bed wasn't very wide—and in silence, they ate their meals, shoulders pressed together.

After, Hermione yawned, and her eyelids felt heavy. "How can I be so tired after being asleep for a week?" she asked, and he responded with a yawn of his own.

"My bet is she drugged our food," he said, eyelids drooping.

"Thank you for staying with me," she said, and he nodded. "I panicked, for a moment, and—"

"This is all a lot," he said, smiling at her in a way that made her stomach clench. "And if your friends are right, you're in this predicament because of me." His smile turned to a grimace.

She turned toward him and gripped his arm, their trays pushed to the foot of the bed. "I don't remember what happened, but somehow I know that if I was with you when this happened if I was trying to help you with your arm—" she gripped the place where the remnants of his Dark mark were, "then it wasn't your fault at all. I have a feeling I don't do things I don't want to do." She smiled and he smiled back, only to be interrupted with a yawn from each of them. "We'll remember," she said, "And then we'll know for sure. Right?"

They were inches apart and she noted this his eyes were circled by a dark slate, maybe a hint of blue.

"Right," he breathed, and for a moment, she thought—haphazardly—he might kiss her. But he didn't, and in spite of the new pink in her cheeks, she turned away as he cleared his throat and got off her bed.

He picked up both trays and sat them on the table between the beds, and leaving the curtain open, he laid down.

"Tomorrow, things will be clearer." He picked up his wand one more time. "Nox," he said, and the lights inside their shared bed space went out. The sun outside had set while they ate and now moonlight poured in. She watched him lay his wand back down and lay his cheek on the pillow and she was struck by how his hair and skin looked like the moonlight itself.

"Tomorrow," she said, her voice barely a whisper. And then, whatever potions Madame Pomphrey had laced their food with kicked in and she fell asleep.