Atonement

*Chapter 1*: Where We Started

Chapter 1

Where We Started

Hermione stood in her room at the Leaky Cauldron, having just finished folding the last of her new school robes. She laid them neatly on her bed along with her glossy school books, cauldron and potions supplies, some muggle clothes, and her fluffy ginger cat, Crookshanks, who was sprawled across The Standard Book of Spells, Grade Seven and a pile of eagle feather quills. Her brand new dragon hide trunk sat empty, its mouth gaping open, waiting to be packed. Hermione referenced her Hogwarts supply list again, running over the checklist of books and other necessaries listed there and checked off each item as she located it on the bed.

Once she was satisfied that all items were present, she pointed at the trunk with her wand and thought, ‘Pack’. The items on the bed jolted to life and flew into the trunk. Crookshanks hissed as the quills tugged themselves from underneath him and zoomed away. He sprang up and followed them, trying to whack them out of the air with his paws, but a binder had unlatched itself and enveloped the quills before he could catch one. She took one last look at the trunk, its contents settled tidily inside of it, nodded curtly, and shut the lid.

There was a knock at the door, and Hermione turned to see Harry poking his head inside her room. “Nearly ready?” he asked, walking over to stand beside her.

“I wish the two of you were coming with me,” she said. He threw an arm over her shoulder as Crookshanks threaded himself between their legs, purring.

“Yeah, ‘Mione, I know. I’m glad you’re going, though,” he said.

Ron rapped on the open door and came in as well. “Almost done, ‘Mione?”

“Um-hmm,” she said, as Ron joined them in standing around her trunk. The three of them stared down at it, and Hermione felt a knot forming in her throat. Ron chuckled quietly as Hermione ducked from under Harry’s arm and threw her arms around Ron’s neck. “Can’t you two come?” she pleaded. “Finishing school is just as important as beginning Auror training!”

Ron flushed and his eyes darted to Harry. He jerked his head pointedly at the door as if to say “get out while you still can, mate!”

“I’ll just be outside in the hallway, then,” Harry said awkwardly as he made for the door, leaving the couple alone in Hermione’s room.

Ron ran his hands over Hermione’s bare arms and detached her from his neck, taking her hands into his and rubbing his thumbs over her knuckles. “Look, we’ll be where we’re supposed to be, and you’ll be where you’re supposed to be,” he said gently. Hermione gazed up into his eyes, tears welling up in her own. “We’ll send you loads of owls, and Ginny and Luna will be there, and Harry’s going to give some presentation to the DADA classes, so you’ll see him then. And we’ll all be at the Burrow over Christmas and we’ll meet you in Hogsmead over weekends. It won’t be so bad, ‘Mione.” He brushed away a tear from her cheek, and tilted her chin up. “Besides, you’ll be busy with studying for NEWTs, won’t you?” He shuddered. “Better you than me!” She laughed, and he smiled and kissed her forehead. “That’s my girl. Come on, then! Don’t want to miss the train!”

Hermione nodded and bent to catch Crookshanks to stow him in his carrying case. Ron went to the door and called Harry back in. The two of them took hold of either handlebar on the sides of her trunk as Hermione wrestled Crookshanks into his cage and shut its door. Together, the three old friends turned, apparating to Platform 9¾.

+++

Draco found an empty compartment near the end of the train and stowed his things in the luggage rack over the seat before returning to the platform to say goodbye to his parents. The steam from the scarlet engine made it hard to see, and as he neared the front of the train it took him a moment to make out their silhouettes in the gloom. As he approached, he saw his mother and father whispering heatedly. They halted abruptly as he joined them, and his mother managed a strained smile as her cold hand reached up to cover his cheek.

“I wish you weren’t going, Draco,” she said, her smile faltering a little.

Draco covered her hand with his. “I know, mother.” He was through arguing about it, and despite his parents’ conclusions that his decision to return to repeat his seventh year was a bad one, he was determined. They stood for a long moment as people rushed past them, some staring or glancing back over their shoulder, or else whispering to their companions. The train’s whistle trilled, and his mother started, startled by the sound. Draco took her hand in his and squeezed it, then shook his father’s outstretched hand. He took a step back and turned to leave, but his mother cried out and flung her arms around him, sobbing into his shoulder. He looked up at his father, and watched him gently pry her away from her son.

“You will write, won’t you?” she asked, tears pouring down her cheeks as his father dug around in his robes for a handkerchief.

“Of course I will. And I’ll see you over Hogsmead weekends, and during winter break. It’ll be fine, mother. I want to do this.” She blew her nose into his father’s handkerchief and nodded. He gave her one last hug, and then headed back toward the end of the train.

He hadn’t gone ten steps into the smoky gray mist before he ran straight into a girl, nearly knocking her over. Something she was holding went careening to the ground, hissing and sputtering as it hit the platform with a echoing bang. He caught her flailing hand before she fell, and he held her steady as she righted herself. She looked up, annoyed, and he realized who it was: Hermione Granger. Immediately, she whipped her hand from his grasp and shot him a scathing look before stooping to recover the quaking and yowling animal crate.

“What are you doing here, Malfoy?” demanded a voice behind him. Draco turned and found himself nose to nose with Harry Potter, wand drawn. A whole gaggle of Weasleys stood menacingly behind Potter, some of their wands also pointing at him. He staggered backward, nearly bumping into Granger again, then strode off down the platform, cheeks flushed and heart racing.

+++

When Hermione’s and Ginny’s trunks were safely stored in a compartment on the train, everyone gathered outside on the platform again to say goodbye. Mrs. Weasley tearfully gathered her daughter into her arms, then hugged Hermione while Harry took Ginny aside for a moment alone. Hermione continued down the line, embracing Mr. Weasley, then George, then Bill and Fleur, before coming to a stop in front of Ron. He pressed his forehead to hers and whispered, “I’ll miss you, Hermione.”

“I’ll miss you, too,” she said, and then gave him a sheepish peck on the cheek, aware that the whole Weasley family was standing close by.

“Alright, well, hurry up you two!” said Mrs. Weasley as the train gave a final warning whistle. Hermione just had time to give Harry a quick hug before Ginny hooked her arm in the crook of Hermione’s elbow and dragged her off toward the train. She and Ginny made their way to their compartment as the train began to move, and waving from the window, watched the Weasleys and Harry disappear from sight.   

Ginny flopped down in her seat and let Arnold out of his cage. “So, I guess we’ll be in the same classes this year, yeah?” she said, watching as her pygmy puff rolled around on the seat beside her.

“Looks like it. Are you going to carry on with Muggle Studies?” asked Hermione, remembering that it has been a mandatory class Ginny’s previous year.

“Yeah. I think it helps me get where Dad’s coming from. Well, I mean, I think it’ll help this year, now that there’s a proper teacher and all.”

“I expect so.” Hermione shifted uncomfortably. Crookshanks meowed from his cage, staring at Arnold hungrily. Ginny changed the topic.

“Do you know if you’re still a prefect? No one told me.”

“I don’t think so.”

“Well, I hope you’re not, for your sake. I think you’ll have quite enough to be going on with even without patrols.”

“Talking of patrols, who’s the Head Boy this year?”

“Zacharias Smith.” Ginny put her head in her hands dramatically, looking up through her fingers and sighing. “He’s going to be unbearable, I just know it. He’s such a prat.” They laughed.

“Where’s your badge?” Hermione asked, noticing Ginny wasn’t wearing it.

“Oh, I pinned it to my uniform already so I wouldn’t lose it. I just couldn’t bring myself to wear it in front of George. You know how he gets.”

“And why aren’t you in the prefects compartment?”

“Let them wait. I can’t leave you alone!”

“No, it’s ok. You should go. I’ll be fine,” she said as she dug around in her bag, “I brought a book.” She pulled A History of Magical Symbolism of the British Isles out of her bag and showed it to Ginny.

“Great,” said Ginny flatly. “Well, if you really don’t mind, then I guess I’ll head over there now.” Hermione assured her she’d be fine as Ginny put Arnold back in his cage before exiting the compartment.

Hermione leaned against the window and propped her feet up on the seat. “I’ll be right here,” she called as the door slid shut.

+++

Draco shoved his travelling cloak between his back and the window and leaned against it. He pushed the empty owl cage further into the opposite corner of the seat with his feet and stretched out on the cushion to read. No one had bothered him since they’d left King’s Cross. People out in the corridor stared into his compartment sometimes, but no one had come in. Truthfully, he hoped no one did come in. He preferred to be alone.

Thumbing through the pages to find his place, Draco started in on chapter seventeen of The Definite Guild to Defense Against the Dark Arts by Hector Nighthawrt and wondered vaguely who had assigned it. He had just turned the page when he heard the door of his compartment slide open.

A girl with dirty blonde hair and protuberant grey eyes stood in the doorway, staring fixedly at him. He stared back, unsure what to say or do.

“Hi,” she said. Not waiting for a response, she came in and sat down on the seat opposite him, her hands under her thighs, still staring. He regarded her, nonplussed, then sort of nodded and half-smiled. She didn’t seem to blink; she just stared and stared.

“You’re Draco Malfoy, the boy who made fun of me and my friends for six years, the boy who tried to kill Headmaster Dumbledore, the boy who got the dark mark and became a Death Eater.”
Draco thought about throwing his textbook at her.

She continued, “You’re the boy who called Hermione Granger a mudblood and dueled Harry Potter and tried to have Hagrid sacked and helped Professor Umbridge break up the D.A. and helped those Carrow people torture students last year.” There was a pause. She stuck out her hand. “I’m Luna Lovegood.” Looking expectant, her hand waited there in the space between the two seats. Draco looked at her incredulously.

Her hand hadn’t moved. He sat upright, put his book on the seat next to him, and hesitantly took her hand. She shook it once, then let it go.

“So, why are you going back to Hogwarts?” she asked, repositioning to sit cross-legged on the cushion. He noticed her wand behind her ear, her butterbeer cork necklace and radish earrings, and a magazine tucked into the back pocket of her jeans. She definitely seemed the type of person he would have teased.

He put his elbows on his knees and clasped his hands, considering how to answer her question. “Why do you care?”

“It seems like a realistic question to ask. Didn’t you finish your seventh year already?”

Draco closed his eyes and sighed heavily. “I didn’t take the NEWT’s.”

“Can you just take the year over, then?”

“I got special exemption.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah, my father made a very generous donation to the rebuilding of Hogwarts.”

“Really?” The Lovegood girl cocked her head and thought about this. “Interesting. I wonder if he thinks that will keep him out of Azkaban.”

Draco stood up in fury and took a few steps toward the open door, then rounded on her. She was watching him with dreamy interest. “Do you talk to everyone like this?” he shouted.

She didn’t seem intimidated at all. “I think so,” she said. “Do you mind if I stay in here for a while? It’s much quieter.”

He felt foolish just standing there seething while she regarded him with placid interest.  “Sure,” he said awkwardly. She took the rolled up magazine out of her pocket, opened it, and began reading. His eyes widened as he saw the front cover. The title read The Quibbler. The main headline, sprawled over a picture of his father and mother, said “Trial Continues to Decide the Fate of Death Eater Family”. Other, smaller, headlines advertised a quiz called “Do You Know Your Invisible Creatures?”, “Revisiting the Blibbering Humdinger”, and “Magical Parasites and You”.
Draco slumped back in his seat, grabbed his book, and tried to take his mind off of how awful this year was going to be.

“By the way,” said Luna, not looking up from The Quibbler as she spoke, “if I’m ever trapped in your cellar again, gurdyroot tea is my favorite.”

*Chapter 2*: Us Ones In Between

Chapter 2

Us Ones In Between

Hermione rode with Ginny and her friends in the thestral-driven carriage up to Hogwarts. She’d only ever seen drawings of thestrals in books before, and now could finally, albeit bittersweetly, appreciate everything that Harry, Luna, and Neville had said about them. Hermione wondered where Luna had gotten to as Vicky Frobisher, a Gryffindor girl in Ginny’s year, talked about the rumored changes to the Hogwarts castle.

“My mum told me they’ve added a indoor swimming pool!” Vicky said, “And they’ve done away with the dungeons completely.”

“You’re mum’s mental, Vicky,” said Ritchie Coote, who she recognized as one of the Gryffindor quidditch players. He swung his arm around Vicky’s shoulder and added, “You’re lucky she hasn’t run me off yet.” The group laughed, but Hermione didn’t quite get the joke.

Ginny said, “We’ll know soon enough. I just hope they haven’t torn down the quidditch pitch!” Everyone groaned in agreement except Hermione. She wasn’t nearly as passionate about quidditch as Ginny or Ritchie, who were on the Gryffindor team, though she was sure that the quidditch pitch would be just fine.

Hermione waited for Hogwarts to come into view, and as they passed through the front gates, the castle loomed over them, as majestic as ever. She leaned out of the window, searching for differences from the castle she remembered, but she couldn’t even tell where they had made repairs and which part of the castle was original. The major addition was a large statue of two men dueling in front of the Astronomy Tower. One of the men was cloaked and hooded, the other wore muggle clothing, and both had their wands pointing directly at the other. Hermione guessed this was the statue that Harry had been complaining about during her last visit to the Burrow. “They will insist on having me and Riddle on the memorial,” he had said. She could see why he didn’t like it.

She wasn’t exactly sure why, but Hermione was starting to get really worried about Luna as she stepped out of the carriage near the restored oak doors of the castle. She ran up the smooth stone steps and turned to look out over the growing crowd of students. Spotting Luna almost at once, Hermione breathed a sigh of relief and returned her wave before pivoting on her heels to join Ginny and her friends as they were walking past her into the entrance hall.

+++

Draco lagged behind the current of students rushing into the entrance hall, their footsteps stampeding around in great booming echoes from the high ceilings and their chattering voices ricocheting off the massive stone walls. He entered the great hall after some giggling second year Ravenclaws and slipped onto a bench at the Slytherin table. Students around him shuffled down the table to avoid sitting next to him and turned their heads to laugh or whisper with their friends, not bothering to mask their disdain. Draco thought miserably that last year he would have been among those scoffing and sneering. He remembered holding court at this table, remembered being the center of attention.

As he gazed across the House tables, he noticed the Lovegood girl surrounded by admirers at the Ravenclaw table. The celebrity status endowed on all of Potter’s pals was as formidable in the press as it was in the gossip that ebbed and flowed through Hogwarts like flood tides. Of course he had heard of the famous Luna Lovegood. Hadn’t he brought her and Ollivander their meals during their time as hostages to his Death Eater family? Hadn’t he called her Loony Lovegood ever since her first year at Hogwarts? And yet, he’d never even known her proper first name. Draco felt the shame of it burning his cheeks, and he wondered for the hundredth time if he’d made a mistake in coming back to Hogwarts this year.

Looking for a distraction, his eyes wandered up to the high table, where four new faces caught his attention. Two he didn’t recognize, one was definitely a Weasley, and one looked like the old barman of the Hog’s Head who had turned out to be Dumbledore’s brother. Just when he was wondering what subject an old weirdo like that would teach, the newly-appointed Deputy Headmaster Flitwick, head of Ravenclaw House as well as the Charms professor, appeared with the nervous-looking first-years. He walked them down the center aisle, shorter himself than most of the seated students, and came to a stop in front of a little three-footed stool, which seemed naked without the sorting hat perched on top of it.  

Headmistress McGonagall got to her feet and cleared her throat. The boiling of noise in the great hall died down, though there remained a low hiss of whispering. “Ahem. As you may know, our beloved sorting hat suffered serious injury during the Battle of Hogwarts. It is now taking a well-deserved sabbatical under the care of Madame Pomfrey and will be unable to sort this year’s students.” The murmuring intensified and McGonagall raised her hands for quiet. “However, the staff and I have created what we hope is a suitable substitute for this year. Aberforth, if you would.” She gestured to the barman, who stood up and made his way down to Flitwick. “Mr. Dumbledore has agreed to allow us the use of his brother’s splendid wizard’s hat. Thank you!” She clapped, and everyone followed her lead, with some students standing in ovation as the curmudgeonly old codger handed off the sky blue, spangled hat to Flitwick, smiled awkwardly at the applauding crowd, and returned to his seat. Flitwick set the slightly rumpled hat onto the stool and took a few steps back. Everyone waited.

Then, with Albus Dumbledore’s voice, a voice that struck Draco like a knife through his memory, the hat began to sing:

In keeping with tradition,
As was in days before,
A hat which sorts the students
Will settle still the score.
While maybe less bedraggled
By age and length of time,
I’m just as suitable, you’ll see,
To sort you and to rhyme.
However sorrows weigh you
In the aftermath of strife,
Remember what was given
So that you may have this life.
And do not mourn the passing
Of those we cannot hold
But keep your neighbors closer
In these Houses forged of old:
If brave of deed, then Gryffindor
where boldness is the quest,
or to Ravenclaw, where cleverness
is prized above the rest;
To Hufflepuff, if kindness
And hard work’s where you are strongest,
or then Slytherin, whose class
and style have aided them the longest.
Gallant Lion, subtle Snake,
It’s time to make amends.
Wise Raven and good Badger,
Recall we all are friends.
Above all, do not forget the past
Which once rent friends apart
Use your brains and, above all else,
Find love in all your hearts.

The great hall erupted into wild applause again. Draco saw the Weasley girl, Ginny, standing on her seat as the whole Gryffindor table whopped and cheered louder than any other House. Dumbledore’s hat bowed its peak to each House table in turn, and then went still. Flitwick stepped forward again and withdrew from his robes the list of names to be sorted. He waited for most of the clapping to abate before adjusting his glasses a little farther down his nose and calling, “Adderbose, Letholdus!”

A grinning, sturdy-looking boy strutted up to the stool and sat down. Flitwick reached to place the hat on his head, though it he had barely managed to perch it there before the hat shouted “Gryffindor!” and Letholdus strode proudly off to join his cheering House table.

Draco watched as “Ambrose, Ellyn” and “Bach, Linus” were both sorted into Hufflepuff, and he chuckled to himself and thanked his lucky stars that at least he wasn’t in Hufflepuff.

Suddenly, he felt a searing pain on his neck and smacked his hand to it as if it were a bee. He saw flecks of blood and ash flesh on his palm and whirled around in his seat to see two Slytherin quidditch players, Harper and Vaisey, cackling viciously. He searched for a reflective surface and grabbed his polished silver plate. Angling it so he could see his neck, it took him a moment to decipher the backwards letters scorched there. They spelled “FINK”. Harper was visibly struggling for breath through his guffawing, and Vaisey was leaning on Harper for support, dabbing at the corners of his eyes with the sleeve of his robes. Other Slytherins were glaring over their shoulders at the two boys still trying to stifle their sniggering as the rest of the table clapped for “Greene, Christopher”, who had just become a Slytherin. Feeling even worse than before, Draco bunched his robes up around his neck and tried to pay attention to the sorting.

+++

Hermione yanked Ginny back down as she tried to climb up onto her seat again as “Ops, Larunda” positively skipped over to the Gryffindor table. She gazed up at the newly restored ceiling as it reflected the velvety black sky studded with stars and thought of all the duels fought in the hall the less than six months ago. Not a single trace of rubble remained, and yet Hermione felt as if she were sitting in a ruin. She supposed that the nagging feeling that she didn’t belong would fade once classes began.

“Hermione,” said Ginny, poking her in the ribs, “clap!” A tall, lanky boy was making his way over to the Gryffindor table to sit beside Letholdus Adderbose. Finally, “Yulvik, Otto” became a Ravenclaw, and Flitwick took the hat from him as the great hall stormed with applause. The tiny professor charmed the stool to float before him as he made his way back up to the high table and McGonagall stood once again, her severe gaze demanding respect.

“In the words of Albus Dumbledore, ‘tuck in’!” She smiled and sat down as food appeared in the dishes in front of Hermione, and she suddenly realized just how hungry she was. She piled mashed potatoes and beef casserole onto her plate and dug in, listening in to Ginny’s conversation with Nearly Headless Nick, the Gryffindor ghost, about the castle’s renovations.

“Well, they’ve done a good deal to the place, you know,” Nick was saying, “I myself oversaw the re-stitching of the tapestries in Gryffindor tower.”

Ginny swallowed a mouthful of steak and kidney pie and asked, “Did they manage to fix that vanishing step on the staircase to-”

Nick interjected, “I’d rather not talk about it. Nasty incident with Peeves, I’m afraid.”

Hermione lost the thread of the conversation when Andrew Kirke asked her to pass the pork chops, and she began to wonder why Percy Weasley and Hestia Jones were sitting at the high table. There was another witch sitting stiffly to the left of professor Slughorn, the Potions master, who she had never seen before. Hermione noticed Hagrid trying to catch her eye and returned his wave with a cheerfulness she didn’t entirely feel. She decided that tomorrow after school she would go down to visit him and catch up. She hadn’t seen him since Remus’ and Tonks’ funeral. Hermione forced herself to think about something else.

Nearly Headless Nick was assuring Ginny’s friend Vicky that the dungeons were perfectly intact and that there was definitely no indoor swimming pool. “The Bloody Baron was very particular about the dungeons, as a matter of fact. And then the Grey Lady wanted just as many changes to Ravenclaw Tower. The pair of them drove the staff to within an inch of reason” Nick adjusted his ruff thoughtfully. “I’ve never seen either of them so happy.”

Very soon the puddings where served and just when everyone was beginning to feel sleepy, McGonagall rose a third time and motioned for silence. “If I could please have your attention for just a few start-of-term announcements,” she said, her voice seeming to hitch a little as she spoke. “First years, be advised that the forest in the grounds is out of bounds. Also, Mr. Filch, the caretaker, has asked me to remind you that no magic of any sort is permitted in the corridors between classes and that there is a blanket ban on all Weasley Wizard Wheezes products.” (Ginny giggled.) “Any prohibited items found will be confiscated.

“We have three changes of staff this year. We are delighted to welcome Professor Wealsey, who will be taking over my old post as Transfiguration teacher, Professor Hitchens, who will be assuming the Muggle Studies post, and Professor Jones, who has kindly consented to lend her considerable talents to our Defense Against the Dark Arts lessons.

“And finally, students, I would like to take this time to thank the staff for all of their hard work to make Hogwarts fit for educating again and to ask you all to join me in a moment of silence to remember those who were lost during the battle which took place right here on Hogwarts grounds.” For a full two minutes, the great hall held its breath. Not clang of fork on plate, nor a scuffle of feet on the stone floor, nor a single whisper broke the absolute stillness. Images of Fred Weasley and Colin Creevey flashed through Hermione’s mind, only to be interrupted by McGonagall’s terse “Thank you. To bed now, all of you!” There was a sudden din of scrapping and banging as the school rose to its feet as one and began tussling towards the exit.

Hermione walked with Ginny, leading the Gryffindors into the entrance hall where Ginny located Violet, the Fat Lady’s gossiping old friend, in the midst of a pastoral landscape near the staircase.

“I’m to show you up to Gryffindor tower, then,” said Violet. Ginny nodded, and Violet led them up the stairs towards their new home.

*Chapter 3*: When the Levy Breaks

Chapter 3

When the Levy Breaks

The next few days were not pleasant for Draco. Not only did he have to endure name-calling and sometimes worse from the other Houses, his own House, Slytherin, disdained him has well.

After countless applications of the jelly-legs jinx, two accidental ingestions of nosebleed nuggets which were hidden in his food, and the mysterious disappearance of most of his school uniforms, Draco had decided to cast protective charms on whatever he could to keep his property and himself safe. Draco warded his four-poster bed against intruders. He magically sealed his trunk with his remaining possessions inside. He did his homework in a lonely corner of the library and came down late to almost all meals, making sure that Vaisey and Harper were gone before he sat down at the far end of the Slytherin table to eat. But it was only getting worse. The Slytherins, at least, were not content with the usual joke jinxes. They were becoming exponentially more ruthless by the day.

Draco had just stepped out of double Charms on the Friday following the start of term, distracted with cramming his textbook into his over-full bookbag, when he ran headlong into Vaisey.

“Watch where you're going, fink!” hissed Vaisey.

“Yeah, Malfoy,” growled Harper, who was looming just behind Vaisey. He cracked his knuckles ominously.

Draco nodded slightly, resigned, eyes on the ground, and tried to sidestep the two boys. They were both bigger than him, though they were a year behind him in school. Draco was forcibly reminded of a younger version of Crabbe and Goyle.

His consternation at the memory of his former friends must have shown on his face, because Vaisey jeered, “What's the matter, Malfoy? Nothing to say now?”

No, Draco didn't have anything to say. What could he say? He just stood there, feeling stupid, as a little crowd gathered around them. Most of them were Slytherins from Charms and Ravenclaws coming up from classes on the first and second floor on their way to their common room before dinner. He had no friends among them, or anywhere in the whole school for that matter.   

“You're pathetic, Malfoy! You're a disgrace to Slytherins,” Vaisey spat.

Draco tried to get by again, but Harper blocked his way. “Don't,” muttered Draco, still not looking at either one of them.

“What are you going to do, fink? Pay me off?” Harper laughed and Vaisey joined in, though Draco doubted he got the joke.

“Why don't you call Potter and have him save you, Malfoy, huh?” Vaisy smacked Draco's bookbag out of his hands. It landed with a dull thump on the stone floor of the corridor, its contents scattering, but Viasey had jerked his hand away with a yelp. “Flagrante curse, Malfoy?” He shook his hand in the air, trying to soothe the burns to his palm and fingers. “What, you afraid we'll take your bag like we did your clothes?”

Harper pushed Draco, and he stumbled back into someone else, who pushed him forward again. Vaisey and Harper laughed again. “I don't need magic to teach this fink a lesson,” said Harper.

Draco sneered. Let him try. Let him hit me, he thought. Harper pushed Draco again.

“Wipe that grin off your face, you traitor. You coward!”

Draco's head snapped up at this. He looked Harper right in the eyes. He could tell they were going to try to hurt him. They had worked themselves up enough.

Harper smiled viciously. “This is going to be fun.” And he shoved Draco hard into the wall, coming at him almost faster than Draco could react, but Harper's fist hit stone instead of flesh as Draco ducked out of the way. Harper cried out in pain before Draco's shoulder connected with his chest, plowing him all the way into the wall at the opposite side of the corridor. People were moving out of the way, re-forming into circle. No one lifted a finger to help, to stop it.

Draco pounded his fist into Harper's stomach. Harper doubled over with a grunt and Draco drew his wand. He was ready. He raised it to do he knew not what when —

“Crucio!” roared Vaisey. The crowd gasped as the spell hit Draco in the back. He fell to his knees in writhing agony. His wand dropped from his hand rolled into the forest of feet in front of him. “Petrificus Totalus!” The unbearable pain lessened as Draco froze and fell forward. His face hit the stone floor with a crunch, and blood gushed into his mouth and onto the floor unabated. Then Vaisey and Harper were kicking him anywhere they could. Each blow felt like his insides were exploding anew with pain.

“Stop!” A pair of mary-janes shuffled through the crowd of shoes and came to a stop near his head. He could hear more footsteps behind him. “Finite Incantatem!” a girl's voice said. Draco's body collapsed, free of the body-bind curse, and he gasped for breath under the weight of so much agony. He spit blood onto the floor.

“Expelliarmus!” It was a different voice this time, but still a girl. “Get up, Malfoy,” said the second girl.

“The rest of you, shove off!” commanded the first girl. “GO! NOW!”

Draco got to his hands and knees, still struggling to catch his breath. He felt like his lungs were filling with water, like he was drowning. He looked up to see the Weasley girl, her wand pointed at the wandless Vaisey and Harper, the latter of whom was laving his busted and bleeding lip with his tongue.

Granger was there, too, standing over Draco, holding Vaisey and Harper's wands in one hand and brandishing her own wand in the other. The last of the crowd retreated down the corridor, whispering and stealing glances over their shoulders.

“Right,” said Weasley to Harper and Vaisey, “Fifty points from Slytherin for fighting. Each.” She glanced down at Draco as she said it. He took this to mean that she was including him as well, but he didn't much care at the moment. “You can get your wands back from Headmistress McGonagall. Now get out of here!” Vaisey and Harper ran off down the hall, clutching their bookbags and readjusting their cloaks as they went.

Now Draco was left with just the two Gryffindors. It was very quiet. He could hear his pulse pounding in his ears. Draco rolled back into a kneeling position and tried to wipe away some of the blood on his face with his sleeve. He thought he might pass out from lack of air. He felt dizzy, disoriented.

“You need Madame Pomfrey,” he heard Granger say. She stowed her wand in her robes and crouched beside him to get a better look at his face. “Ginny, take these wands to McGonagall. I'll take Malfoy to the Hospital Wing.” Weasley stared down at Draco with an inscrutable expression as she accepted the wands from Granger. He blinked in the intensity of the redhead's gaze. It was staring into white-hot sunlight.

“Ok, Hermione,” she said. Weasley made as if to go, but then suddenly turned around and slapped Draco hard across the cheek. “That's for my brothers, and for Harry,” she hissed.

“Ginny!” squealed Granger.

“I know. Sorry, Hermione. I couldn't resist. I'm going, I'm going.” The Weasley girl turned on her heel and marched off down the hall.

Now he was alone with Granger. What was she going to do to him?

“Can you stand?” she asked after a moment. Her voice was softer, low but cautious. Draco nodded and she helped him to his feet. They started for the Hospital Wing which was, mercifully, on the same floor. “Thank God we don't have far to go,” she said.

“My— my wand,” sputtered Draco.

Granger pulled out her wand. “Accio Malfoy's wand!” It flew at her and she caught it rather clumsily.

“And my bag,” he said.

“Oh for Merlin's sake.” She stopped and turned awkwardly to look back at the place where his bookbag and school things were splayed near the entrance to the Charms classroom. Granger pointed her wand at the bag and it vanished. “It'll meet us there,” she explained, “Now, let's go.”

+++

“Merlin's beard! Mr. Malfoy! What— Miss Granger—” Madame Pomfrey seemed lost for words as Hermione hobbled into the Hospital Wing supporting a semi-conscious Malfoy. The flustered witch helped Hermione the rest of the way to the nearest bed, and they lowered Malfoy onto it together.

“Madame Pomfrey—” Hermione began, but stopped short as Madame Pomfrey rolled a fabric partition between them, blocking Hermione's view of Malfoy in the hospital bed.

“I'm sorry, dear, but you'll need to give me a moment with him,” came Madame Pomfrey's voice from the other side of the partition, “I need to— there. Oh dear, punctured lung, broken ribs, cracked malar bone.”

“Will he be alright?”

“Oh yes, dear. Nothing I can't mend. But he'll have to stay overnight.”

“Well then, I'll just—”

“Miss Granger, you will wait where you are.”

So Hermione waited, listening to Madame Pomfrey muttering to herself. Every so often a bottle would zoom in from her office and disappear behind the partition. Malfoy didn't seem to be awake. Or, at least, he wasn't making his usual fuss.

Soon, Madame Pomfrey joined Hermione on her side of the partition. She looked upset. “I shall have to call for Minerva.”

Hermione had expected that. Madame Pomfrey crossed to the fireplace near the door to her office and lifted a jar of what Hermione knew to be floo powder from the mantle. As, Madam Pomfrey knelt on the pristine hearth, Hermione edged toward the side of the partition. She waited until the other witch's head had disappeared into green flames before she peered around it to get a look at Malfoy.

His eyes were closed and he lay stiffly with his arms at his sides. Madam Pomfrey hadn't pulled the covers over his bare torso, which was covered with large red splotches, the beginnings of nasty bruises. The nurse had cleaned the blood from his swollen face. Hermione noticed cuts on his knuckles. He had tried to fight back. She took a few tentative steps toward Malfoy, wary yet weirdly fascinated. She hadn't seen anyone look like this since...

“Miss Granger!” snapped Madam Pomfrey, and Hermione spun around in alarm. “What do you think you are doing?!”

“I'm sorry, Madam Pomfrey! I was just going to put his wand on the table.” Hermione hurriedly pulled Malfoy's wand from a pocket in her robes. She showed it to Madam Pomfrey, who was looking stern, then placed it on the nightstand.

“Mm-hm! Miss Granger—” but just then Headmistress McGonagall entered the Hospital Wing and Madam Pomfrey and Hermione hurried out from behind the partition to meet her.

“What happened?” asked McGonagall, addressing Hermione.

Hermione shifted uncomfortably. “I don't know exactly, Headmistress. I was talking to Professor Flitwick after Charms with Ginny Weasley, and when we came out, there was a crowd of people and Malfoy was fighting some Slytherin boys.”

“Arctus Vaisey and Denis Harper, yes, Ginny has been to see me.”

“That's really all I know, Headmistress,” said Hermione. She wanted to get away from the Hospital Wing as fast as she could.

“Well, thank you, Miss Granger. You did a good thing bringing him here. You may leave.” Hermione nodded and hurried out of the double doors of the Hospital Wing, confused and agitated.

*Chapter 4*: Rootless Tree

Chapter 4

Rootless Tree

 An entire night of peace, and most of the next day, too. No classes, no taunting, no torture. Now it was Saturday evening and Draco was trying to not to limp as he made his way to the Headmistress’s office, his backpack slung uncomfortably over his shoulder, his school uniform rumpled and unwashed. What did she want with him anyway? Was she going to expel him after all, after practically bending over backwards to get him back to Hogwarts?

He almost didn’t want to know.

“Rontra Narconum,” he said to the gargoyle that guarded the entrance. It leapt aside and he climbed the spiraling staircase up to the door.

Before he could knock, he heard McGonagall’s voice say, “Come in, Mr. Malfoy.” He pushed the door open.

It was quiet, except for the whirring of delicate instruments to his right. McGonagall was sitting at a huge desk, her glasses perched at the end of her nose, her lips pursed as she watched him.

“Sit.”

Draco crossed to the desk and sat in the chair opposite the Headmistress. She regarded him unblinkingly, scrutinizing, saying nothing. He tried to return her penetrating gaze, but he broke off after a moment, hating the feeling of worthlessness welling up in his gut, hating the slight wheeze of his breathing, his lungs still not quite healed.

“Mr. Malfoy, you must know that you are not welcome here.”

There it was. She was going to expel him.

“While you must know that I have very little sympathy for your predicament given your history, I cannot allow brawling in the hallways, nor will I condone bullying, especially the sort that results in—” she glanced at a parchment in front of her on the desk “—‘fink’ written on the back of any students’ neck.” She caught his eye again and held it meaningfully, then continued, “Therefore, I have asked you here in order to find a solution to your problem. It would seem that your fellow Slytherins no longer have any use for you in their House. I propose then, that you need a new House.”

Draco blinked. He was still grappling with his anger that Madame Pomfrey had included the ugly brand she’d found festering on his neck in her report to the Headmistress (though of course she would have had to have done). At first, the weight of McGonagall’s words did not sink in. “Headmistress?” he asked, confused.

“You need a new House, Mr. Malfoy. And soon. What do you think?”

“You mean, you’re not expelling me?”

“No. Not today, Mr. Malfoy,” returned McGonagall severely. She folded her hands over the papers on her desk. “But I think we can both agree that your current state is pitiful. It cannot be allowed to continue. I have discussed your predicament with the heads of House and Professor Sprout has graciously agreed to accept you into her House. You should gather your things and report her immediately.”

Professor Sprout? But she was head of…

“Hufflepuff?!” Draco sputtered. The idea of it! Draco Malfoy in Hufflepuff?! It was ridiculous, inconceivable!

“Yes, Mr. Malfoy, Hufflepuff.”

“What? Why?!” he gasped, nearly laughing. Surely this was a joke! Yes, the Slytherins all hated him, and Gryffindor was out of the question, but Hufflepuff? Draco tried to plead his case. “What about Raven—”

“Professor Flitwick intimated to me that he would prefer a rampaging nundu to your presence in Ravenclaw tower. Professor Sprout, however, was happy to accept you into her House. You should be grateful, Mr. Malfoy.”

“Headmistress—”

“That is my final decision, Mr. Malfoy. Either go to Hufflepuff or go home.” McGonagall shuffled the papers in her hands and rapped them on the desk smartly.

“But—”

“That is all, Mr. Malfoy.” McGonagall waved her wand and behind him the office door opened.  “Good afternoon.”

+++

Hermione added the last bullet point to her study schedule and glanced over the long list, trying to think of anything she may have missed. Her N.E.W.T. level courses were exciting, difficult, and consuming. Without Ron or Harry there to distract her, though, she found that filling the empty hours with studying was oddly unsatisfying.

Not that she missed the near-death exploits or the constant bickering over their avoidance of homework, but she would have liked a little company. There was nobody to talk to here anymore. Well, that wasn’t exactly true. Everyone in Gryffindor was eager to get a moment with the famous Hermione Granger, the heroine of the Second Wizarding War, the girl who helped defeat Lord Voldemort once and for all.

Hermione didn’t feel like any of those things. She barely felt like her. Eyes unfocused, she gazed blindly at the parchment in her hand, thinking of bodies like bundles littering the school lawn and rubble falling from the castle battlements and the blistering hot fire that had raged in the Room of Requirement—

“Hermione?” It was Ginny, her broomstick over her shoulder, coming to a stop in front where Hermione sat huddled in a corner of the Gryffindor common room.  “We’re going to have tryouts now. Do you want to come?”

“So soon? I thought tryouts for quidditch weren’t until next week.”

“Well, I’m the team captain, and I say there’s no time like the present,” Ginny replied with a smile. “So, do you want to come along?” 

“Thank you, Ginny, but no. I think I’m going to head to the library to—”

“Do some studying,” Ginny finished for her, looking vaguely amused. “Alright. See you at dinner, then?”

“Sure.” Hermione gathered up her books, stuffed them into her backpack, and followed Ginny and what felt like the rest of Gryffindor House out into the corridor. She trailed behind the crowd down the stairs until they reached the third floor where she broke off and headed for the Library.

She could see the library doors ahead of her when something else caught her eye. Someone was walking slowly down the hallway toward her. There was no mistaking that head of white-blonde hair. Malfoy.

Hermione sped up, trying to get to the library before he noticed her there. The last thing she wanted was a yelling match.

“Granger! Hey, Granger!” he called, speeding up too as best he could. Was he limping? Hermione remembered the state he’d been in when she had seen him last. Of course he was limping.

He reached the doors of the library almost exactly when she did. “Go away, Malfoy,” Hermione said.

“No, wait!” He leaned up against one of the doors just as she grabbed for the handle. “Wait.”

She turned to face him, folding her arms defensively.  “What, Malfoy?”

“I wanted to say…” he seemed to be struggling for words. She heard a slight wheeze in his breath. “Thank you.” Hermione raised her eyebrows in surprise.  “Thank you. For what you did.” She stared at him uncomprehendingly.  “Yesterday.” As if she needed reminding. “That’s all.” He shifted his weight from the door and took a few shuffling steps around her before continuing his slow trek down the corridor toward the stairs.

She watched him go in utter confusion. Thank you?  When has Malfoy ever thanked anyone for anything?

+++

It was a long, long way from the Headmistress’s office to the dungeons to pack his things in solitude, then to Professor Sprout’s office near the Herbology greenhouses. He could hear people on the quidditch pitch as he crossed the lawn to the little stone building that housed extra gardening supplies and the head of Hufflepuff’s quarters. When he knocked, she answered the door herself, welcoming him in, though a bit stiffly. She pressed a slightly dusty mug of tea into his hands and offered him a chair near the window.

“Now,” Professor Sprout began as she seated herself adjacent him and set her own mug down on the little table between them, “the Headmistress told me this morning that you were having troubles in Slytherin, Mr. Malfoy. I gather that’s true?”

“Yes,” Draco answered. He was uncomfortable with how personable she was, how inviting.

“And I suggested you come to my House, to Hufflepuff.”

“You ‘suggested’ it?” he asked. McGonagall had made it sound like Sprout had needed a lot of convincing.

“Well, yes,” said the plump little witch, taking a sip of her tea and wincing. “Be careful, dear, the tea’s still hot.” She set hers back down and looked at him sympathetically. “What was I saying? Ah yes, naturally, Hufflepuff would be happy to have you. If that’s what you want, Draco. May I call you ‘Draco’?”

Disarmed, Draco nodded. Happy to have me?

“And you could stay in all your normal classes. N.E.W.T. classes are all Houses together, aren’t they? So that’s no trouble. We can charm all of your uniforms to match Hufflepuff colors, black and yellow, you know. And we have a vacancy in the seventh year dormitory since Hopkins—” She broke off suddenly, her eyes filling with tears. 

Draco didn’t know what to say. He knew why Sprout was looking so upset. Wayne Hopkins was one of the students killed during the Battle of Hogwarts. He remembered the name from the list of deaths in the Daily Prophet. He’d practically memorized that list.

Sprout had gathered her mug back into her hands and was cradling it distractedly. Draco remembered that he, too, had tea and took an indecorous gulp of the scalding liquid to distract himself. His whole face contorted with the pain of the piping hot tea scorching his throat.

After an awkward minute, Sprout took out a handkerchief and blew her nose. “Well, anyway, there’s a free bed,” she said thickly. “Draco, no one is going to force you into this. I just want you to know that we Hufflepuffs, well, we’re not like your House. You would be safe in my House, I promise you that. No one would… judge you for your past… mistakes.”

Draco wondered how any person could be so good. She, surely, knew who he was and what he’d done. Surely she hated him every bit as much as McGonagall or any other person at this school. And what about the other Hufflepuffs?  Were they likely to be as accepting of him as she assured him they would be? Draco thought back to over his first week. It was true, no Hufflepuff had joined in the constant harassment he’d had to endure since the start of term. In fact, not a single Hufflepuff had so much as sneered in his direction.

He wasn’t sure he deserved it, but he decided that he would take Sprout up on her offer. Draco supposed that he’d made up his mind back in his Slytherin dormitory as he packed his things. Besides, it couldn’t get any worse, could it? He smiled inwardly as he remembered his derisive feelings toward Hufflepuff at the Welcoming Feast. At least he wasn’t in Hufflepuff. How times change.

“So, Draco, what do you say?” Sprout said, fixing him with a steady gaze.

“Alright,” he answered feebly, then with more conviction: “Yes. Thank you, Professor Sprout.”

Sprout clapped her hands and smiled. “Good, very good! Well, I think we should head there now, don’t you?” she said, standing up. Draco looked up at her then glanced back down at his half-drunk mug of tea. “Oh, just leave it, dear. I’ll tidy up later.”

Draco set his mug on the little table and got to his feet. Time to meet the Hufflepuffs.  

*Chapter 5*: I Was an Island

Chapter 5

I Was an Island

Hermione secretly wished she could stay in the library forever. But by dinnertime she’d run out of homework and Ginny would be wondering where she had gotten to, so she packed up her books and folded her essay parchments carefully and headed down to the Great Hall.

On the way, she stopped by the girl’s loo and ended up staring at her gaunt, harassed-looking face for a long time in one of the cracked mirrors. She didn’t like who stared back. Her eyes were muddy brown; her hair was a mess. She was a mess.

What was she doing anyway? What was she playing at coming back to school and pretending like she didn’t just spend the last year of her life hunting down horcruxes with Harry and Ron and getting tortured and escaping impossible situations and watching the people she loved die horribly?

It felt like a game, like a clever ruse to trick herself back into normalcy. But her life had never really been normal, had it? Not since McGonagall had showed up at her front doorstep to explain that the wonderful things she could do were magic, that she was a witch, and that she was invited to attend Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Every day since then had been an adventure.

And now it was supposed to stop.  Now she was supposed to be the golden girl of Gryffindor and a Witch Weekly celebrity and a student and a normal girl whose adventure had finally, finally come to an end.

Her eyes ached from reading the tiny print of library books. Her hand ached with the strain of writing essays and drawing diagrams and taking notes. Her head ached with trying to sort out her priorities, trying to focus on school. Her heart ached with missing Ron and Harry. Especially Ron. Why didn’t they write? Why didn’t she write them? Why did she feel so desperately lonely, so isolated?

Hermione turned on the faucet and splashed the cool water over her face. She tried to get a handle on her fly-away curls. She patted her wet skin dry on a hand towel without looking at herself again.

She was going to finish her seventh year and take her N.E.W.T.s and go on to have a brilliant career and that was just the way things were going to be. This feeling of listlessness, of loneliness, would pass.

Dinner. She should go to dinner.

Hermione swept out of the bathroom and down the corridor to the Great Hall and the sound of hundreds of chattering voices. As she walked, she forced her shoulders back and her chin up. Everything was going to be fine.

+++

Draco followed Sprout down the staircase leading off the Entrance Hall to the corridor below. About halfway down the hallway and near a conspicuous-looking painting of fruit, they came to a halt. They were standing before a shadowed recess full of massive barrels. This is the entrance to Hufflepuff?  

Professor Sprout patted him on the shoulder and stepped forward. “Second barrel from the bottom, middle of the second row. Easy enough to remember,” she said with a smile over her shoulder to Draco. “Just tap the rhythm of ‘Hel-ga Huf-fle-Puff’ with your wand like so— ” she demonstrated with her own wand “—and voila!” An opening had appeared at the top of the barrel.

“We go down there?” asked Draco, unsure of how to proceed.  “How?”

“There’s a ladder, dear,” replied Sprout. She clambered over the rim of the barrel and disappeared into its depths. Draco heard her call “Come on!” at him as if from a great way down.

It required some finagling with his tender ribs and sore leg, but Draco managed to climb into the barrel with his backpack in tow. He took each rung of the ladder one at a time, careful to get his footing. Perhaps he was being overly-cautious, but he wasn’t completely sure he wanted to see the common room below. The feeling of otherness grew with each step of his descent. He caught glimpses of yellow and black wall hangings and the colorful blooms of large, leafy plants.

Finally, Draco reached the worn rug at the bottom of the ladder and turned to see the Hufflepuff common room for the first time. It was large, low-ceilinged, warm and comfortable.  Sprout stood a little ways away with her hands on her hips near some younger students who seemed to be waiting for Draco to move so they could make their way up to dinner. Draco hobbled out of the way, taking deep wheezing breaths after the effort of climbing down the ladder (Madame Pomfrey had told him it would take some time for his lungs to heal, but this was ridiculous!), yet no one moved.

“Well, here we are!” said Professor Sprout into the utter silence, gesturing around the room. The Hufflepuffs were staring at him unabashedly.  It must have been a strange sight. Here he was, Draco Malfoy, still in his Slytherin uniform, standing in their cozy, fire-lit common room. He supposed that he’d be giving him those quizzical, suspicious looks too if their places were reversed. Still, it didn’t help the situation.

Sprout toddled over to a short girl with long blonde hair plaited down her back. “Susan, this is Draco Malfoy. He’ll be joining us in Hufflepuff,” she said to the girl. Taking her arm and practically dragging an apparently stunned Susan over to Draco, Sprout continued introductions. “Draco, this is Susan Bones. She’s back for her seventh year, too.” Susan was ogling open-mouthed at Draco. She didn’t speak, she simply stared.

Professor Sprout tried again. “Terwilleger! Come here!” she snapped at a weedy-looking boy who sat frozen in one of the squashy armchairs near the fire. Terwilleger stood and walked over to Professor Sprout without a glance at Draco. “Draco, this is Jameson Terwilleger. He’s good in Herbology but he could use a little help in Potions. You’re good in Potions, aren’t you, Draco?”

Again, the silence lengthened. Draco had to hand it to Sprout, she was making a real effort, but the Hufflepuffs all seemed petrified to even speak to him and Draco had no idea what to say.  He sort of nodded at Terwilleger, and the boy nodded back. That was something.

Just then, a tall, sandy-haired boy with an upturned nose rounded the corner into the common room from a hallway in front of Draco. Immediately, Draco recognized him as the new Head Boy, Zacharias Smith. “What the bloody hell—” Smith shouted upon catching sight of Draco standing awkwardly near the ladder, but he broke off when he noticed Professor Sprout. He stopped mid-step, presumably to take in the full scene, his eyes roving bemusedly over Susan Bones staring at her sneakers, Jameson Terwilleger gazing firmly up at the ceiling, and the rest of the Hufflepuffs looking shiftily at him.

“No need for that kind of language, Smith!” chided Sprout from between Bones and Terwilleger.

“Sorry, Professor Sprout, I just—”

But Sprout cut him off. “This is Draco Malfoy. He’s going to be sharing your dormitory from now on.” Her words had a sharp-edged feeling of finality to them, as if she’d had quite enough of this behavior from her House.

“He—I—What?!” stammered Smith, seemingly in a transport of bewildered indignation.

“I said,” Sprout began again, her eyes closing as she tried to mask her irritation with calm, “that Mr. Malfoy will be sharing your dormitory here in Hufflepuff House. So you’d better hop off and show him where it is, hadn’t you?”

Smith seemed to struggle inwardly for a long moment before speaking again. “Yes, Professor.”

“Your trunk ought to be in there already, dear,” she said to Draco. “Just follow Smith and he’ll show you where you’ll be sleeping. I’ll wait here for you.” Then she addressed the room at large: “The rest of you, off to dinner!” 

There was a sudden rush for the ladder and Draco had to sidle out of the way to avoid being trampled. He was about to join Smith at the entrance to the hallway when a muscular, dark-skinned boy with a yellow Quidditch Captain’s badge pinned to his sweater blocked his path.

“You played seeker for Slytherin, right?” said the boy, his brown eyes locking intently with Draco’s gray.

“Yeah,” Draco replied. The very last thing on his mind right now was quidditch, but the boy nodded curtly and said, “Tryouts are next Saturday. We need a good seeker.” Then he stuck out his hand to shake. “I’m Prescott Cadwallader. See you on the pitch?”

Draco smiled in spite of himself and shook hands with Cadwallader. “Definitely.”

+++

So far, dinner for Hermione was a silent affair. Ginny and her friends discussed their classes and the new professors (Ginny had a lot to say about Percy’s performance as Transfiguration teacher), seemingly oblivious to the fact that Hermione did not participate in the conversation. She listened, but could not work up the enthusiasm to join in. Instead, she played with her food and worried about her Charms essay.

She did, that is, until the absolute strangest thing she’d ever seen walked into the Great Hall. Hermione felt her fork slide from her hand, heard it plop into the gravy of her mashed potatoes, but she couldn’t close her gaping mouth and she couldn’t take her eyes off of Draco Malfoy.

He was striding alongside Zacharias Smith, who was looking sour but not nearly sour enough, in Hermione’s opinion. Professor Sprout walked a step behind, smiling to herself with her hands in the pockets of her patched and dusty witch’s robes. The two boys had sat down a little distance from each other at the Hufflepuff table and Sprout was well on her way to the staff table before Hermione recovered herself. By that time, however, Ginny had noticed something was amiss by Hermione’s befuddled expression.

“What…” Ginny started, but she trailed off as she followed Hermione’s gaze to Malfoy, who was now spooning green beans onto his plate. Cadwallader sat opposite him, and as they watched, he offered Malfoy a dish of roast beef. “How…” Ginny didn’t seem capable of finishing a sentence. Hermione couldn’t blame her.  

The rest of the Great Hall seemed to have noticed this singularity as well. There was a rush of whispering and a lot of craning of necks as students struggled to get a glimpse of Malfoy at the Hufflepuff table. In fact, the only people not itching with curiosity or stunned into silence by the sight of Malfoy among the Hufflepuffs appeared to be the Hufflepuffs themselves. If they felt a hint of confusion, they showed no sign of it.

Ginny found her voice again. “What in the name of Merlin’s saggy balls is Draco Malfoy doing at the Hufflepuff table?”

Ginny’s friend Vicky Frobisher and her boyfriend Ritchie Coote practically stood up to get a better look. “Holy hippogriffs,” muttered Vicky in disbelief, and Ritchie added, “That has got to be the weirdest thing I’ve ever seen in my life. That is weirder than the time Hagrid showed us how bowtruckles mate. That is weirder than—”

“I agree with you, Ritchie, but please shut up,” said Ginny, cutting across him. She turned to Hermione. “Do you think this has anything to do with the fight Malfoy was in with those Slytherin gits yesterday?”

Hermione thought about it as she stared at Malfoy. He took a bite of roast beef. Cadwallader was talking to him about something animatedly. Malfoy nodded and chuckled a little stiffly.

This was unprecedented. This was crazy. Draco Malfoy couldn’t be in Hufflepuff, could he? Well, could he?!

“I don’t know,” Hermione said to Ginny, but Ginny was distracted by something else. She’d turned full around in her seat and was gazing across the Great Hall at the Slytherin table. Over there, a group of boys were making quite a lot of noise, pointing and shouting at Malfoy.

“Hey Malfoy!” one of them catcalled, “Don’t tell me you’re in Hufflepuff now! I didn’t think that being a slimy little fink could get worse, but I think you’ve managed it!”

“Malfoy!” shouted another boy, brandishing his wand in the air, “Glad those wankers would have you, ‘cause we sure won’t miss you!”

If Malfoy could hear them, he ignored them. The rest of the Hufflepuffs, however, glared over at the Slytherin table in disgust, including Cadwallader, who made a crude hand gesture in their direction.

“Hey Malfoy! Malfoy! Is that your boyfriend now?” yelled the first Slytherin boy.

Hermione glanced up at the staff table, where McGonagall was focusing on a treacle tart. The desserts had appeared. Then a bang echoed through the Hall, quickly followed by another, this time accompanied by a flash of brilliant purple light. Hermione’s head snapped back to face the Slytherin boys, one of who was now writhing on the table in agony with many slimy green tentacles protruding from his exposed skin. They wiggled through the air comically as he thrashed around on the desserts, rolling over right into a huge chocolate gateau. His mates staggered back, some falling out of their seats in alarm.

And there, standing alone at the Ravenclaw table with her wand in her hand, was Luna Lovegood. Luna’s back was to the Gryffindor table, but that long, wavy blonde hair could belong to no one else. “Leave him alone!” 

Hermione was speechless. She glanced back at Malfoy. No longer pretending to ignore the goings-on behind him, Malfoy had joined the rest of the Great Hall in staring at Luna.

“That will do, Miss Lovegood!” came a carrying, severe voice from the staff table. McGonagall was on her feet. Everyone turned to look at her. Somewhere at the Slytherin table came an anguished cry from the boy with the tentacles. No one bothered to look at him now, though. “Fifty points from Ravenclaw, and another one hundred from Slytherin. Vaisey, you may escort your friend to the Hospital Wing. Madame Pomfrey will meet you there.” No one moved. “GO!” McGonagall bellowed. Hermione watched Vaisey jump with fright and try to extricate what appeared to be Harper from the puddings.

A few strained minutes later, the two boys went reeling from the Hall with all eyes staring at their backs. Madame Pomfrey wiped her mouth at the staff table and hurried off behind them.

“I will not tolerate fighting at this school,” said McGonagall into the general stupor of the Hall. “Really, this is ridiculous. We have all had a trying few years, but that is absolutely no reason to brandish wands at each other like a bunch of drunken warlocks. The next students to be caught dueling on school grounds will be expelled. Now, prefects, please escort your Houses back to their dormitories. I don’t want to hear another peep out of any of you for the rest of the night.”

Ginny stood up at once and looked pointedly around at the Gryffindor prefects. “You heard her,” she hissed. Everyone else got to their feet in silence and started for the Entrance Hall. Hermione watched Malfoy follow the Hufflepuff House prefects out of the Great Hall, still flummoxed by the scene she’d just witnessed.

*Chapter 6*: I Wasn't Prepared

Chapter 6

I Wasn’t Prepared

The Hufflepuff common room was buzzing with talk of what Luna Lovegood had done to Denis Harper. No one bothered to suggest they should go to sleep. Tomorrow was Sunday, after all, and everyone suddenly wanted a chance to talk to Draco.

Prescott Cadwallader introduced him around to the other boys who would be sharing their dormitory. There was Justin Finch-Fletchley, who was back for his seventh year after having been in hiding somewhere in Ireland the year before. Curly-haired a kind of mousy, Justin seemed nice enough, if a bit hesitant around Draco.

Draco had already met Jameson Terwilleger, who turned out to be a Ballycastle Bats fan. They spent a few minutes abusing Finbar Quigley’s abysmal performance at the 1994 Quidditch World Cup (Quigley played Chaser for both the Bats and the Irish National Quidditch team), before Prescott called over a boy named Ryan Oaklane.

Ryan sidled up with a girl who looked strikingly similar to him. They both had raven black hair and the same high cheekbones and blue-green eyes. “Draco, this is Ryan Oaklane and his sister Rory.” Ryan and Draco shook hands and Rory waved before getting distracted by another girl who Prescott said was named Tamsin. Rory left to join Tamsin and some other girls by the fire.

By this time, Draco was feeling definitely overwhelmed. He guessed that he’d never actually spoken to the majority of the people crowded in the common room, and he barely recognized any of them from his previous years at Hogwarts. Oh well, he thought. He’d just have to learn fast. 

Prescott seemed to know that Draco was getting lost in the flurry of names and introductions. He also correctly assumed that Draco would not want to talk about what had transpired in the Great Hall at dinner.  Instead, he guided the conversation back to quidditch tryouts.

“Draco says he’s going to try out for quidditch,” he told Ryan, Justin, and Jameson. They all looked at Draco incredulously.

“Really?” said Ryan. “I thought you wouldn’t want…” He broke off, but Draco knew what he was going to say. Ryan didn’t think Draco would want to be on a team with any Hufflepuffs. He couldn’t honestly say he was surprised.

“Prescott says you need a seeker,” he offered, trying to cover up Ryan’s blunder for him.

Jameson jumped on that immediately. “Yeah, we do. Our last seeker was Ashton Summerby, and he graduated last year.” Summerby had been a pitiful seeker, in Draco’s opinion, and Jameson seemed to read his mind. He said, “And he was nowhere near as good as you, Draco.” Everyone agreed.

“Gryffindor are favorites to win the Cup this year with Weasley as Captain,” Prescott said. “I aim to prove everyone wrong about that.”

This was something to which Draco could relate. He told them so.

“Yeah, it’s a little different when it’s Slytherin and Gryffindor,” Ryan said. “One of the two always wins the Cup. This year is going to be different.”

Draco nodded along with the rest. It certainly was.

Around three in the morning, the common room was distinctly more subdued.  Justin suggested they head to bed, and after Prescott issued an open invitation to play a friendly game of quidditch following breakfast to the room at large, almost everyone else decided it was time to get some sleep.

“Everyone’ll want to come and watch, at least,” he told Draco as they walked with Justin, Ryan and Jameson down the hall to their dormitory. That was smart, getting everyone to go to bed by inviting them to an event the next morning. Draco concluded that he liked Prescott Cadwallader. And he liked Jameson Terwilleger, too, who had told Draco just to call him ‘James’.

In the seventh year boy’s dormitory, Zacharias Smith was still awake. His Head Boy’s badge was sitting on his bedside table, and he was reading a copy of the Evening Prophet.

“I was wondering where you got to, Smith,” said James, jumping onto Smith’s bed with a grin. Smith, now looking distinctly rumpled, slid his legs out from under James’ prone figure with a sneer.

“There’s a very interesting article in the Prophet about Malfoy’s upcoming trial,” said Smith in a mock-casual tone. It couldn’t have been clearer that he thought Draco was scum.

James snatched the Prophet away from Smith, looking grim. He scanned the article with his eyebrows raised, then made a noise of disgust and handed it to Prescott, who didn’t bother to glance at the paper before giving it to Draco.

Ministry Prepares for the Trial of the Decade, said the headline on page two.

                Members of the Malfoy family, former Death Eaters of both the First and Second Wizarding Wars, are due to stand trial in the coming months on various charges, including the use of the Unforgivable Curses on muggles and wizards alike, treason, harboring a fugitive, and attempted murder.   Harry Potter, hero of the Second Wizarding War, was quoted this afternoon on his way out of the Ministry where he now trains to head the Auror Office, saying “The Malfoy family definitely has a lot to answer for.” When asked if the rumors of Narcissa Malfoy’s role in Harry’s defeat of Lord Voldemort in May of this year were true, Harry preferred not to comment. “You’re going to cover the trial, right? Well, you can wait until then.”

                As a formerly prominent member of the wizarding community, Lucius Malfoy, head of the ancient pureblood family, spent time in Azkaban last year after being apprehended during what has been termed the Battle of the Department of Mysteries. His fall from acclaim could hardly have been more shocking for most of Wizarding Britain. Mr. Malfoy had been a long-time friend of Cornelius Fudge, former Minister for Magic, and a generous donor to many charitable causes. But no more. This reporter wonders how the disgraced family has managed to stay out of Azkaban thus far, but again, Harry Potter has an answer ready for us, dear readers: “Innocent until proven guilty.”

                Draco Malfoy, the son of Lucius and Narcissa, is back at Hogwarts to repeat his seventh year…

                (For more, turn to page 7.)

 Draco didn’t want to read any more. He wadded up the Evening Prophet and threw it back onto Smith’s bed, then stalked over to his own four-poster where his trunk stood open. He noticed that his uniforms were all there and wondered vaguely how that had come about before laying down on his bed and pulling the yellow and black curtains closed.

Smith and James began exchanging whispered insults as soon as Draco was gone from their sight.

“What in the name of Helga’s frilly knickers did you do that for, you ugly great prat?” hissed James. There was a creaking noise and Draco imagined James getting up and standing over Smith aggressively.

“He’s a snake,” returned Smith. “You all know he’s an evil git. What are you idiots playing at being friendly with an arse like that?”

Draco heard Prescott’s heavy steps as he crossed the room. There was a gasp and more creaking then a thud that sounded like Smith hitting the ground. “Get up and say that again, Smith!” growled Prescott.

“Guys, stop it!” Justin said in a whisper.

“Shut it, Justin! If you don’t want to be involved with this, go to bed!” came James’ angry reply.

Smith wasn’t giving up. “Justin, you know that he’s part of the reason you had to spend all last year with your grandparents in hiding! He’s a Death Eater! He wants to kill people like you!”

There was another thud and a grunt. It sounded like Prescott had Smith pinned against the wall now.

“I don’t care what the stupid Prophet says about Draco or his family. He’s here, and he’s trying to start again, and he’s a Hufflepuff now. That’s all I need to know,” said Prescott.

With a slightly muffled, mirthless laugh, Smith retorted, “Yeah he’s here, and I wouldn’t be surprised if he killed us all in our sleep!”

Ripping paper. Someone was tearing up the Prophet. “I’m with Prescott,” James said between rips, “This is all rubbish. You’re the git. At least he had to guts to come back to school this year. At least he’s trying. We owe him the chance to prove everyone wrong.”

Ryan spoke up for the first time, then. “Smith can think what he likes, James. We all know he’s a sodding coward anyway. I saw you pushing first-years out of the way before the Battle of Hogwarts, Smith. You couldn’t wait to get out of there. I bet you were the first one through that secret passage in the Room of Requirement, weren’t you? Come on, Prescott, he’s not worth it. Let him go.”

Smith stammered a bit before answering. “I may not have wanted to die for Potter, but at least I didn’t try to kill him.” It got very quiet after that. Smith raised his voice to make sure Draco could hear. “Malfoy dueled him back in sixth year, didn’t you, Malfoy? Bet you tried to kill him then. And didn’t you try to kill Dumbledore as well? You’re evil, and I, for one, am not going to pretend that I’ve forgotten that fact.”

Draco tried to think of how to respond, but was saved the trouble by Prescott. “I can’t believe you, Smith. You’re more of a Slytherin than Draco ever was. Come on, guys, let’s go to bed.”

There was a lot of creaking of beds a minute later as everyone changed and got into bed. The lights darkened. Draco lay there fully-clothed and stared at one of the posts of his bed. In the dim firelight glowing through his curtains, he could just barely make out a name carved into the wood there: Wayne Hopkins.

+++

Hermione was alone again. This time, she was the only one awake in her dormitory. Everyone else had gone to sleep hours ago, but Hermione couldn’t seem to shake the events of that evening. Firstly, that Malfoy, a name synonymous with ‘Slytherin’ to her, had sat with the Hufflepuffs. Secondly, that members of his own House had attacked him right in the middle of the Great Hall, and thirdly, that Luna Lovegood had shielded him from harm and retaliated seemingly without inducement on Malfoy’s part. How could any of that be?

She lay in her bed, her curtains open so she could see out the window into the moonlit grounds beyond, and let the scene play over and over in her head. She went through each part and dissected it. Malfoy was in Hufflepuff. Probably to reduce the amount of in-House bullying he’d encountered during his first week back. That had the ring of logic. What better House that Hufflepuff the just, the loyal, the accepting, to take Malfoy in and protect him from further torture from Slytherin? But how could any Hufflepuff look at Malfoy and see a friend? Hermione couldn’t tell.

And Slytherin must truly hate Malfoy to antagonize him so furiously. But why? What had he done to incur their wrath? They’d called him a fink. Finks were informants. Had he given up the names of their Death Eater parents to the Ministry? No, that couldn’t be it. At least, not all of it. Hardly any student at Hogwarts even had a relative who’d been a Death Eater now. Hermione could only think of one: Malfoy himself. Maybe it was because he’d gone against their Slytherin code. Which was…? Be a slimy git at all costs, thought Hermione maliciously.

The Sorting Hat always used words like “cunning” and “ambition” to describe Slytherin. What else? Hermione ticked off traits in her head. Traditionalism. Self-preservation. Shrewdness. Class, whatever that meant. Had he violated any of these expectations? Hermione decided that she could make a case for self-preservation.  He’d left the safety and solitude of his estate to come back to Hogwarts and face those he’d injured with his bullying and bigotry. Were Slytherins not supposed to do things like that? Hermione had no idea, so she left that line of thought for a while.

Luna. What could she have been thinking? Luna hadn’t so much as mentioned Malfoy for months. Granted, Luna had been the bullied in the past. It made a sort of sense that she would defend Malfoy, who was suffering even worse than she had done. Had they spoken? Had he apologized? Hermione wished she knew the whole story. She resolved to ask Luna about it during breakfast.

A rush of movement at the window caught Hermione’s eye. Ron’s tiny owl Pig was pinging through the air just outside of the glass. She got up quickly to opened the window, and a moment later Pig was zooming happily around the darkened dormitory. With some difficulty, she caught him and managed to make him sit still in her lap long enough to extract the letter tied around his leg.

It was from Ron. Finally, a letter. Hermione felt a flood of guilt at not having written to him yet, then another surge of happiness. She grabbed her wand, murmured “Lumos,” and began to read.

                Dear Hermione,

                I hope you’re doing ok. Harry and I are training hard at the Auror’s Office. It’s not much fun, to tell you the truth. This place needs an overhaul.  Harry mentioned he got ambushed by some reporter (not Skeeter) outside of the Ministry today. They really need to step up security. Oh hang on, that’s our job.

                Listen, I was wondering when your first trip to Hogsmeade would be. We want to come see you and Ginny. I know Harry’s downright disgusting in his letters to her. Have you seen them? Don’t.

                How’s Hogwarts? How’s Luna and all the old D.A. lot? How was your first week back?

                Missing you,

                Ron

Hermione felt like she had never been so happy to receive a letter. Seeing Ron’s handwriting was comforting beyond words. She reread the letter a few times, laughing silently at his jokes, fighting back tears of relief for who knew what reason.

Finally, she stuffed a now positively quivering Pig into her pillowcase where he hooted happily, and rummaged around in her backpack by her bed for quill, parchment, and ink. Once she’d gotten everything, she padded over to the window and extinguished her wand to write.

                Dear Ron,

                Ambushed by a reporter? What did they want from him? The usual hero stuff?

                I hope you’re learning loads at the Auror’s Office. I almost wish I could be there with you, but my studies have kept me pretty busy.

She stopped there, her quill poised over the full stop she’s just made, and wondered what to say about Malfoy. When the words came to her, she began again.

                Malfoy’s in Hufflepuff now. It seems like he’s had a pretty rough time of it so far at school. Ginny and I found in fighting with some other Slytherins outside of Charms on Friday. I had to take him to Madame Pomfrey afterwards. Then at dinner tonight, one of the Slytherins tried to hex him in the Great Hall and Luna blocked it and hexed the boy right back. I wonder why she would do something like that. Do you know?

                Anyway, our first trip to Hogsmeade probably isn’t until October. I’ll keep you posted.

                Hogwarts is good. That memorial statue Harry said he hated really is awful. Everyone’s good here. Ginny had quidditch tryouts today. From what I gather, Peakes and Coote are back on as Beaters and Vicky Frobisher is the new Keeper. Then there’s Neil Randall, Michael Karume, and Ginny, of course, as Chasers. And a fifth year girl named Thelma Holmes is Seeker. Thought you’d like to know.

                My first week back was quiet, aside from everyone wanting to talk to me about what we got up to all last year. They make it sound like a holiday, you know? It’s a bit off-putting.

                I miss you, Ron. You and Harry.

                Love from Hermione

Hermione folded up the letter, retrieved Pig from the pillowcase, and tied it on with the string from Ron’s note. Pig zoomed off into the velvety night sky, and she watched him until he disappeared before shutting the window and climbing back into bed clutching Ron’s letter to her chest. It felt like a long time before she drifted uneasily into sleep.   

*Chapter 7*: You Could Be Happy

Chapter 7

You Could Be Happy

Hermione woke up with the rest of her dormitory on Sunday morning for breakfast, feeling bedraggled but happy as she got dressed and slipped Ron’s letter into her jeans pocket. She reminded herself to bathe later. Ginny had promised to tell her the new password to the Prefects’ bathroom, but up until now Hermione was either too rushed or too preoccupied to think about long, bubble-filled baths. Today seemed like a good day for it, though.

As Hermione, Ginny, and Vicky headed down to breakfast, she noticed the windows were misted with rain. “Good thing we had our tryouts yesterday,” Ginny said.

Vicky agreed. “Yeah, I’m not one for getting soaked if I can help it.”

“It’s going to be a good year, though. I think we’ve got that Cup in the bag,” Ginny said.

Great. They were talking about quidditch again. Hermione trailed along a little behind them.

“Hey, Hermione, wait up!” It was Natalie Fairbourne, one of the girls in Ginny’s year with whom Hermione now shared a dormitory. Hermione slowed and Natalie ran down a few steps of the staircase to catch up to her. “Thanks,” she said, before continuing, “I was wondering if you still kept in touch with Viktor Krum.”

“Viktor?” Hermione asked, caught off-guard.

“Right. Well, I’m a big fan of his,” Natalie explained.

“Oh. Right.”

“Anyway, do you?”

Hermione had to suppress the urge to ask why exactly Natalie wanted to know. Instead, she said “Not really. I saw him at a wedding last year, but that’s the last time.”

“A wedding?”

“My boyfriend’s brother’s wedding,” said Hermione vaguely.

“Your boyfriend? Is that Ron Wealsey?”

Had she really just called Ron her boyfriend? Hermione supposed that he was. But she’d never actually said it aloud before. “Yes,” she answered slowly. The thought of Ron being her boyfriend had her smiling in spite of herself and she lost the thread of the conversation.

They had reached the marble staircase that led to the Entrance Hall before Natalie spoke again. “So, Viktor—”

“I don’t really know, Natalie. I’m sorry,” said Hermione quickly, cutting Natalie off before she could continue. She couldn’t believe how annoyed she was. All she wanted to do was escape this prying girl and eat breakfast in peace. “See you,” she said, then sped up to join Ginny and Vicky, leaving a disappointed-looking Natalie behind.

Ginny was just saying, “Well, I for one have got a ton of homework to catch up on for Potions. Hermione, do you think you could…” They’d made it to the entrance of the Great Hall, and Hermione noticed right away what had made Ginny stop in her tracks.

There was Malfoy again, in the middle of the Hufflepuff table. But no longer was he sitting in hunched silence. Far from it! He was standing up at his seat and tossing a quaffle over the heads of several breakfasting Hufflepuffs to a younger boy, who caught it then passed it back down the table to Cadwallader. Cadwallader stood on his seat and pointed at a laughing girl in a purple sweater with one hand, brandishing the quaffle in the other.  

“Better not miss this, Carolyn!” he called before chucking the ball at her. Quick as lightning, she stuffed a piece of bacon she’d been about to eat into her mouth and caught the quaffle. The Hufflepuff table cheered, with the exception of Zacharias Smith. He sat moodily at the end of the table nearest Hermione pushing a fried egg around his plate.

“What is going on with them?” Vicky whispered to Ginny and Hermione. They started walking again and joined their fellow Gryffindors at their table a moment later.

“No idea,” Ginny said. “Mental, that lot.”

+++

Draco’s feet squashed into the soggy grass as he made his way to the Quidditch Pitch with the other Hufflepuffs. About half of them had broomsticks over their shoulders, and Prescott was dragging a bag of quaffles. Usually, Draco hated playing quidditch in the rain, but with the Hufflepuffs it was less of a problem and more of a perk. The light sprinkle of cold water on his cheeks felt good; the smell of wet grass hung thick in the air.

Most everyone in his new House had turned up for the game, and those who weren’t interested in playing found good spots from which to watch in the Hufflepuff stands. Everyone else came to a stop in the middle of the pitch and looked to Prescott for further instructions.

Prescott dropped the sack of quaffles at his side as the crowd formed a semi-circle around him. “Alright, listen up! We’re going to play six on six. No seekers, no live bludgers. I brought some extra quaffles—” he leaned down and dug around in the bag, producing two shiny, slightly mud-spattered balls “—so the Beaters can throw them instead.” He took out his wand and tapped each quaffle in turn. They turned bright blue and deflated a little.

“So,” he continued, “two Beaters on each team, three Chasers, and a Keeper. Who wants to be a Beater?”

At once, the fifth-year boy Draco had thrown the quaffle to during breakfast stepped forward, followed closely by another boy who looked to be in the same year. They grinned at each other and bumped elbows. “Alright, Owen and Kevin, you’re on Yellow team. Who else?” Three more people moved to the center, and Prescott chose two to be Beaters for the Black team.

“Great! Keepers?” Carolyn Stump was chosen for the Black team and very young boy, a second-year by the look of him, for the Yellow team.

“Chasers?” Almost everyone left stepped forward. Prescott laughed. “Well, yeah, obviously. Ryan and Rory, why don’t you and Isaac take the Yellow team?” The three of them nodded and walked over to where the rest of the Yellow team waited. “James, you and take these two and join Black.”

It took Draco a moment to realize that Prescott was looking at him expectantly. “What, me?” he said, pointing at himself.

“Yes, you! Go with James and Laura. You’re a Chaser for Black.” Everyone laughed and Draco felt himself blush. “The rest of you, head over to the stands. We’ll switch out in a bit. I’ll be the referee.”

“Come on,” said James, throwing his arm around Draco’s shoulder and guiding him to the Black team.

“I’ve never played Chaser,” Draco confessed.

“Seems like now is a good time to learn, huh?” James returned with a smile. “It’s not that hard, I promise. If they’ll let me do it, it’s got to be easy!”

The Black team seemed to be taking their cues from James. He showed them all how to turn their sweaters or t-shirts black so that everyone would know who was on what team. Draco saw the Yellow team follow suit a little ways away. Then James suggested that they all introduce themselves so that they’d know whose name to yell if someone dropped the quaffle. Draco chuckled with the rest of his team, but he knew that James had made his suggestion for Draco, so that he would know their names. Practically everyone in Hufflepuff were best friends already.

Yves Slipton and Rundi Muamsted were Beaters for the Black team. Yves was pale and restless; she kept tapping her shoes with her Cleansweep Seven. Rundi, in contrast, looked as though she were carved from wood. Her chocolate brown skin glistened with rain and her damp, jet black hair fell straight down her back. Then there was Laura Lufkin, a third-year playing Chaser with Draco and James. She was tall for her age with cropped auburn hair and many freckles on her nose. Their Keeper, Carolyn Stump, was a carelessly beautiful sixth-year with bright blue eyes, a sinewy figure, and shoulder-length blonde hair.

Draco watched Carolyn smooth her hair back from her face and put it up into a ponytail while she listened to James talk tactics. As soon as he’d finished talking, she said, “Shall we?”

“Yeah,” James agreed. “Remember, Owen and Kevin aren’t going to be gentle with those quaffles. Don’t think for a second that just because they’re a little deflated that they’re not going to sting like a son-of-a-bitch. Better to duck them than lose an arm or something. Okay, Black team, brooms in!” He stuck his broom in the center of their huddle. Everyone copied him. “Black on three. One, two, three…”

“BLACK!”

Everyone was looking very serious as they mounted their brooms. On the other side of the pitch, the other team shouted “YELLOW!” The echo bounced around the stadium, joined by clapping and cheering from everyone in the stands.

The two blue quaffles and the red lay on the ground at the center of the field where Prescott stood. He waved at both teams. James waved coyly back and batted his eyes. Laughter erupted from the stands.  

Prescott shook his head but smiled in spite of himself, then leaned down and picked up the red quaffle. He launched it into the air and all the Chasers dove for it at once. Draco didn’t even see Prescott toss up the blue quaffles; he focused all his attention on the red ball, now caught by James who ran headlong into Rory on the Yellow team’s side of the pitch, but recovered with the quaffle still in tow.

“Is that a Nimbus 2001?” asked Laura, flying up next to Draco as they bolted toward the Yellow team’s goal to help James.

“Oh, yeah!” said Draco, but then he had to swerve out of the way because Owen had pelted one of the blue quaffles at him as he sped by in the opposite direction. Draco saw Kevin catch the makeshift bludger about twenty feet below and start off after James with a wicked grin on his face.

A second later, James rolled over sideways, water careening from his drenched clothing, to avoid the ball Kevin had thrown at him. He dropped the quaffle and Ryan caught it. The little boy Keeping for the Yellow team looked relieved.

“What are you doing?! Help me!” shouted James, streaking past Draco and Laura to catch up with Ryan. Draco realized he was hovering in midair and clenched his jaw. Idiot idiot idiot!

He and Laura caught up to James over on the Black side of the pitch, only to watch Carolyn make a spectacular save at the right goal post. She threw the red quaffle to Draco, who caught it and hesitated for the tiniest instant. Rory was on him in a flash, her eyes squinting against the rain, but the next second she’d pulled her broom up vertically to evade a blue bludger thrown by Rundi from above.  Owen swept under them and caught Rundi’s bludger. Draco watched him brandish both blue balls very suggestively until Yves rammed into him and stole one back for the Black team.

That was long enough. Draco rocketed off to the Yellow team’s goals, flanked by James and Laura and pursued closely by Rory and Ryan. He zoomed behind the left goal and over the center, hoping to confuse Yellow’s Keeper. It worked. He scored on the left goal post to a round of applause and whooping from the spectators.

“Ten to zero!” Prescott called.

And so it went. The Hufflepuffs were surprisingly good, even for just playing against each other. Draco had never been a part of game play like this, he’d always watched from the outskirts while searching for the snitch. Playing Chaser was a lot harder than it looked.

The rain kept them all cool, but soon Draco was soaked to the skin. His black shirt clung to his chest and his hair hung in clusters, plastered to his forehead and dripping water into his eyes as he whizzed around the pitch after the red quaffle and tried to avoid the bludgers and everyone else.  As the game progressed, the weather went from light mist to torrential downpour.

When James scored another ten points for Black, bringing the score to 80-30 with Black in the lead, and they could barely see a foot in front of them through the rain, Prescott shouted for them all to come down.

“I think we’re going to have to call it off, everyone,” he said. The other Hufflepuffs had come down from the stands to join them. “Sorry, guys, but this is getting ridiculous! We’ll try again when the weather’s cooperating.” Everyone was upset, but they clapped all the same.  Laughing and wringing water from their clothes, the Hufflepuffs headed out of the pitch and back up the lawn to the castle.

*Chapter 8*: A Sunday Smile

Chapter 8

A Sunday Smile

Hermione didn’t get a chance to talk to Luna at breakfast. Admittedly, she was very busy watching Malfoy with the Hufflepuffs out of the corner of her eye until the mail arrived with Ron’s reply. A slightly soggy Pig landed in a bowl of fruit between Ginny and Hermione, and Hermione extracted the damp letter from his leg while the little owl helped himself to some cantaloupe.

“What’s that?” asked Ginny, looking at the parchment Hermione was unfolding.

“Letter from Ron,” Hermione answered, but then had to pull the letter up sharply away from the table as another owl carrying the Daily Prophet landed in her breakfast and slopped porridge down her front. Wiping up as best she could, Hermione paid the second owl (which flapped its enormous wings and showered everyone with rain water) and hushed Pig, who was hooting merrily and now covered in porridge. She set the rolled-up newspaper on the seat beside her and resumed opening Ron’s letter.

                MALFOY’S IN HUFFLEPUFF?!!

                That’s the sort of news you lead with, Hermione! Blimey!

                And Luna stood up for Malfoy? Now I’ve heard everything. Wait until Harry finds out. I’d tell him now, only he’s been at the Office since Saturday evening. Going to go mental, he is.

                Speaking of slimy gits, did you read in the Prophet about the Malfoy trial? Stupid question. Well, I wanted to give you a heads up that you might be summoned for a statement or something. I don’t know much yet, since the clerks over at the Wizengamot are about as good-natured as a pack of trolls.

Hermione didn’t want to think about having to go to court, especially to talk about things that had happened during the war, but she felt a little twinge of satisfaction that maybe the Malfoys would finally get their comeuppance. She went back to the letter.

                I don’t want to wait until October. Maybe we can work something out with old McGonagall so Harry and I can come visit you at school over a weekend or something. I’ll get Harry to send her and owl. She always liked him better.

                Sounds like quidditch is going to get along fine without us this year. Tell Ginny that she’s got a Weasley tradition of excellence to uphold, so she better get that Cup.

                I miss you, too Hermione. Things aren’t the same without you around.

                Love,

   Ron

Hermione tucked the letter in her pocket for later and told Pig to head over to the Owlery for the time being and she’d come find him when she had a reply. Pig shot off through one of the high windows, and Hermione noticed the watery gray of the clouds at the ceiling of the Great Hall.

“So?” said Ginny solicitously. “What did he say?”

“He said I might be asked to testify in the Malfoy trial.”

“Oh, lovely. Well, you can tell them all that Malfoy’s a Hufflepuff and everything’s ok now.” Ginny laughed and Hermione smiled in a preoccupied way that made Ginny ask, “What else?”

“He said that Harry’s going to write to McGonagall and ask to see us.”

“What do you think the odds of McGonagall allowing that to happen are?”

“I wouldn’t bet on it,” answered Hermione, stealing a glance up at the staff table. McGonagall and Sprout had their heads together. Sprout was smiling as she murmured something to the Headmistress, but McGonagall looked solemn. Hermione guessed they were talking about Malfoy by the way they kept looking down at the Hufflepuff table. McGonagall answered Sprout curtly then got up, folding a piece of paper and slipping it into her robes before she made her way down the aisle between Gryffindor and Hufflepuff. Ginny and Hermione hurried to look busy eating, but a moment later McGonagall was baring down on them, her lips thin and her spectacles flashing.

“Miss Granger, Miss Weasley, I’ve had an owl from Mr. Potter about you two.”

“Oh really, Headmistress?” asked Ginny a little too innocently.

“Not a chance,” said McGonagall with a meaningful look at both of them. It was obvious to Hermione that McGonagall knew that they knew what the letter was about. “Mr. Weasley and Mr. Potter can wait until October. I dare say they’ve got enough to keep them busy at the Ministry until then.” But the corners of her mouth twitched a little, as if she almost thought of smiling in spite of herself.

Hermione nodded, and Ginny rolled her eyes as McGonagall swept out of the Great Hall past the Hufflepuffs, who had gotten to their feet en masse and were totting their broomsticks out into the Entrance Hall in the direction of the great front doors.

“Told you!” said Hermione.

Ginny shrugged. “So, what about that Potions homework?”

Hermione walked back to Gryffindor tower with Ginny and agreed to help her with her Potions essay for Slughorn on the use of salt in poisons in exchange for the password to the Prefects’ bathroom, which turned out to be “Terrycloth”.

One extremely long roll of parchment later, Hermione was feeling very ready to soak in a bath before lunch, but Vicky met her in their dormitory and invited her to the first meeting of the Gobstones club.

“It starts in a few minutes,” she told Hermione excitedly. “Do you want to come?”

Hermione tried to think of a polite way to refuse. She’d never been much for wizarding games, and Harry and Ron would have laughed at the thought of joining the Gobstones club, but they weren’t here and she had no real excuse.

In the end, Hermione told Vicky she would meet her in the common room. After dumping her books out of her backpack and replacing them with ink, a quill, and some parchment (she decided she’d reply to Ron’s letter if things got slow), she grabbed a sweater and headed down to the common room to find Vicky.

Vicky, it transpired, had convinced Ginny to join them as well. Jason Swann and Roderick Seaton, both in their seventh year, were also in the Gobstones club, which met in one of the unused classrooms on the ground floor. They all traipsed down the many flights of stairs together, laughing as Jason tried to explain the rules of Gobstones to Hermione.

“We like play Jack Stone, which is where after four snaps your Gobstone must be the one closest to the Jack Gobstone at the center. Understand?”

“No,” said Hermione. Everyone giggled.

“Ok, well a snap is like your turn to get a gobstone closest to the Jack Stone in the middle of the rings. Each player gets four turns to get a gobstone closest to the Jack Stone, and the loser gets… well, they get sprayed in the face with this gross liquid from the Jack Stone.”

“Ah ok. So sort of like marbles, then?” asked Hermione.

Jason furrowed his brows at her. “What’s ‘marbles’?”

“It’s a muggle game,” Hermione said, but when everyone continued to look puzzled, she added, “Nevermind.” She changed tacks. “And there’s a Gobstones team for each House?”

Roderick answered this question. “Yeah, and we play each other every year for the Gobstones Cup. It’s not nearly as popular as the Quidditch Cup, but not everyone’s good at quidditch.”

“I sympathize,” said Hermione, now at the grand staircase.  

The front doors groaned open with a rush of rain-soaked wind just as Hermione and the others reached the bottom of the stairs. It was the Hufflepuffs. By the look of their mud-stained clothes and the sound of their squelchy footsteps echoing around the Hall, they had indeed been out at the pitch. And there, broomstick slung over his shoulder, his waterlogged long-sleeved shirt hanging heavily off his shoulders, his boots splattered with mud, was Malfoy. Was there no escaping him?

He was talking over his shoulder to a tall, wiry boy who snorted with laughter then sobered as he pointed at where Hermione and her little group of Gryffindors stood watching them.

“Hey Weasley!” called Cadwallader, sauntering up to the center of the Hall, halfway between the Hufflepuffs and the Gryffindors. His smile was easy, but his were shrewd. Hermione remembered seeing him as Chaser on the Hufflepuff team a few years ago, then had to stifle as giggle when she thought of Luna having misidentified him as “Bibble – no, Buggins” during her one time as quidditch commentator.

Ginny nudged Hermione and Jason out of the way and walked up to meet Cadwallader as some Hufflepuffs closed the great oak doors against the deluge outside. She had the good sense to stop a little ways from Cadwallader so she wouldn’t have to crane her neck to look him in the eye.

“Hey!” she said confidently, though the top of her head barely reached his shoulders. “See you got Captain this year.” She nodded at the Captain’s badge pinned to his pullover.

“I heard you did, too. Well done!” said Cadwallader.  

“Thanks. You, too.” Hermione knew that the congratulations were genuine, but both Ginny and Cadwallader’s tones were cool bordering on icy.

“How’s the Gryffindor team this year?” Cadwallader asked. “You had tryouts yesterday, right?”

“That’s right.” Ginny shook her long red hair back and put a hand on her hip. “I’d say we’re unbeatable.”

“We’ll just have to test that theory,” Cadwallader replied with a cocky grin.  

“I look forward to it.” Hermione could almost feel Ginny’s eyes narrow. Her voice was all challenge, all bravado. She wasn’t going to let Cadwallader intimidate her, even if he had the whole of Hufflepuff standing defiantly behind him.

 “Well, see you on the pitch,” said Cadwallader. He let his broom fall from his shoulder and caught it smoothly as he turned to leave. The rest of the Hufflepuffs followed him past the marble staircase to the smaller one leading down to the basement, leaving only muddy footprints and the smell of damp clothes behind.  

+++

“I can’t wait for the quidditch season to start,” said Ryan, pulling on a fresh shirt while simultaneously trying to rummage around in his trunk for socks.

“You’re not on the team yet,” Prescott reminded him as he toweled his arms dry.

“Well, I can’t wait for tryouts then,” amended Ryan sourly.

“That’s more like it.” Prescott smirked and grabbed the sweater off his bed. He tugged it over his head and pinned his Captain’s badge to the front.

Draco was tying his shoes when James opened the barrel-round door to the dormitory. He sauntered over to his trunk wearing only a fluffy pink towel around his skinny waist and another twisted up around his hair. Ryan laughed and said, “Hey, James. I like your new hair-do!”

James smiled wryly, but didn’t take the bait. “It’s a zoo in there,” he said instead, and Draco knew he was talking about the Hufflepuff boy’s bathroom. Everyone was trying to shower and get out as quickly as possible before lunch. As it was, he’d had to wait a long while for a free shower stall and by the time he’d left, some of the four-year boys were complaining about all the towels being gone. Draco wondered where James had gotten his two pink towels, but decided he’d rather not know.

“So,” Prescott said, “Anyone seen Smith?”

The mood in the room changed at once. They were all still upset about Smith’s behavior the night before.

“I saw him at breakfast,” offered Justin, who like Draco was fully dressed and sitting on his bed to wait for James, Prescott, and Ryan to finish.

“I mean after that,” said Prescott. Draco looked around the room. Everyone was shaking their heads.

“That’s slightly ominous,” muttered Ryan, then he said, “James, do you think you could pick up the pace a bit?”

“Yeah, sorry!” James pulled off the towel around his waist with a flourish and everyone hurriedly stared in another direction.

“James can’t help he’s so slow,” said Draco, who was gazing fixedly up at the rod of his four-poster, “It’s a Hufflepuff thing. You’re all a bit slow.”

No one laughed. After a second, Draco looked around. They were all staring at him with slightly wounded expressions. James had stopped pulling up his trousers to glare at Draco. Justin didn’t meet his eye.

“What?!” said Draco. They’d been joking around a minute ago. What had he done?

“We’re slow, are we?” said Ryan with a raised eyebrow.

Draco opened his mouth to defend himself, closed it, then tried again. “It was a joke!”

There was a very strained moment. Prescott said, “You’re a Hufflepuff now, too, Draco.” He gave Draco a meaningful look that said very plainly that he’d crossed a line.

“Ok, yeah. You’re right. I’m sorry, guys.” Draco dropped his gaze to his shoes. “Old habits die hard.”

More silence. Then Prescott said, “James. Today!” which broke the tension.

James made an impatient noise. “I’m going, I’m going!” Draco heard a zip as James fastened his trousers. “You can’t rush perfection.” They all laughed a little too jovially to cover up the awkwardness.

Prescott’s sneakers appeared in Draco’s line of vision. “Hey, Draco,” he said quietly as the rest of the boys prepared to leave, “Don’t sweat it. Come on, I’m starving.”

*Chapter 9*: Revealing Too Much

Chapter 9

Revealing Too Much

Gobstones turned out to be rather fun. Hermione got squirted with a lot of the slimy, smelling liquid from the stones, but it was worth it. She didn’t have time to wash up much before lunch, so she ended up heading over to the Great Hall with the rest of the Gobstones club without a quick cleaning charm to get the worst of the ooze off of her hair and face.

Still, no one was very keen to sit near them while they ate. Ginny was immersed again in talk of quidditch with Vicky, her new Keeper. Hermione decided to write back to Ron. She pulled out his letter, reread it, then took the paper and writing supplies out of her bag to reply.

     Dear Ron,

     Looks like that visit before Hogsmeade is a no-go. Sorry, love. We all knew McGonagall wouldn’t go for it.

     I can’t say I’m excited to testify at the Malfoy trial. As much as I’d like to see Malfoy’s dad back in Azkaban where he belongs, his mom didn’t seem too involved with the Death Eaters, really. Did she even take the Dark Mark? And Malfoy’s always been a prat, but you should see him now, Ron. I think Hufflepuff’s really agreeing with him. I wonder what he would have been like if he’d been sorted into that House to begin with. There are purebloods in every House, after all. Maybe he didn’t really belong in Slytherin.  

     Hope to hear from you soon! Can’t wait until Hogsmeade in October!

     Thinking of you,

     Hermione

Hermione looked up from writing to see half of the Gryffindor table gone. Ginny and Vicky had moved down the table to give Hermione some privacy while she wrote, and even they had finished eating.

“We were waiting for you,” Ginny explained when Hermione caught her eye.

“Oh, don’t worry about it. I’m going to take this letter to Pig, then I’ll see you in the common room, ok?”

Ginny leaned in a little and whispered, “Are you going to take a bath later?”

“Yes,” Hermione laughed. “I’ll sneak in while everyone’s at dinner.”

“That’s my girl!” Ginny smiled and stood up with Vicky. “See you later!” They left.

Hermione folded her letter, packed her things, and started for the Owlery at the top of West Tower.  

Pig had a whole section of the Owlery to himself, not because there were only a few owls around, but because he seemed to annoy them so much that they didn’t want to be anywhere near him. Instead, they bunched two to a perch on the other side of the circular stone room and watched him imperiously. When he saw Hermione, Pig started whizzing around and hooting excitedly. Hermione tried and failed several times to catch him, her frustration mounting with each unsuccessful attempt. It was drafty and wet in the Owlery with its windows open to the elements, and the wind howled through every few seconds. Even with her sweater on, Hermione was freezing.

“Pig, come here!” she shouted angrily as he zoomed out of reach for a fifth time.

“Did you just call that owl ‘Pig’?” asked a voice behind her. Hermione jumped, startled, and lost her balance. She swung her arms wildly around her, trying to keep from falling, but whoever it was caught her and set her back upright. “I seem to be doing a lot of that,” the voice said over a fresh wail from the storm.

“Thank you,” Hermione said, straightening her sweater and making to turn around. “Doing a lot of wha—” She broke off when she saw Malfoy standing there, holding a rolled-up copy of The Quibbler in one hand and a bright violet envelope in the other. Her cheeks flushed furiously and she was suddenly very aware that she smelled like gobstone stink-juice. “Malfoy!”

“Guilty as charged,” he said with a grin. “Whoa, hey! Granger, calm down.” Hermione guessed she must have been looking murderous, because Malfoy took a few steps back from her and held his hands in front of him in a gesture of submission. “I’m sorry I scared you, ok? Just don’t hex me. I only came up here to… mail off an order.”

Hermione glared at the magazine. “Is that a Quibbler?”

“Yeah,” he said, holding it out for her inspection. “One of the girls at lunch had a copy and I thought I’d… well, anyway. Yes, it’s a Quibbler.”

What on earth was Malfoy ordering from The Quibbler? Hermione endeavored to recover herself. She looked around, trying to locate Pig again, and was just on the verge of giving up and using one of the school owls when Malfoy spoke again.

“Do you need that owl? Pig, is it?” He pointed up into the rafters, where Pig was half-hidden behind a heap of dried owl droppings.

“No, I can just—”

“I can get him for you. Can you call him?”

“Oh!” said Hermione, disarmed. She was immediately suspicious of Malfoy trying to help her, but he didn’t seem to be planning anything devious. “Um, ok.” He stuffed The Quibbler into his trousers pocket, and she turned to look at Pig and called him sternly. Pig took flight again and swooped down over them, apparently up to his old tricks.

Malfoy watched Pig rocket around for a moment, then his hand darted into the air. Hermione’s eyes widened incredulously. There, in Malfoy’s outstretched hand, was a struggling, hooting Pig.

“Wow,” said Hermione before she could stop herself. “Thank you.”

“It’s not a problem,” he said, handing Pig over to Hermione and turning his attention to the school owls.

“Don’t you… don’t you have an owl of your own?” Hermione asked. Malfoy had chosen a tawny and was attaching the brightly-colored envelope to its leg with a string.

“I do. My mother’s got him right now, though. Her owl…” His sentence faded away on the whine of the wind. Hermione got the impression that whatever had happened to Malfoy’s mother’s owl, it wasn’t good.

She wasn’t sure what to say, so she busied herself fixing her own letter to Pig. How was she supposed to make conversation with Malfoy? But she felt compelled to say something else, just to break the awkward silence between them. “So, a purple envelope, huh?”

Malfoy’s back shook with his laughter. “Right. Well, it came with the magazine. It’s for mail orders, you know?”

Hermione resisted the urge to ask him what he was ordering. There was another little pause, then she said, “Hufflepuff?”

He turned to face her, his gray eyes flashing. “What about Hufflepuff?” he snapped hostilely. The tawny owl flapped its wings in agitation behind him and took off through the window, Malfoy’s mail order in tow.

Now it was Hermione’s turn to take a step back. “I didn’t mean… it’s just… You don’t think it’s odd?” she stuttered.

Malfoy’s face softened considerably. He regarded her as if unsure of whether he could trust her or not. Hermione thought this was rather rich coming from Malfoy, but said nothing. She was so curious at his abrupt transformation, and she didn’t want to miss this opportunity to learn anything she could about it.

“You saw how the Slytherins were treating me. They think I’m some kind of traitor,” he said, cradling his arms defensively. “Hufflepuff doesn’t think that way. They… like me. And not because I’m rich or because I’m a pureblood. They like me.”

Hermione wasn’t sure how to take that. How could anyone, anyone like Malfoy? That was beyond her comprehension. He was an awful little boy who’d done awful things to good people. He was a bully. He was a Death Eater however repentant he may seem. Her gaze flicked unconsciously down to his left arm, to the brand she knew was there, concealed by his sleeve.

He had noticed. “Listen, don’t bother. You wouldn’t understand.” He turned his back on her and headed for the door.

Brought up short, Hermione felt anger and uncertainty and disappointment well up inside of her. She didn’t want him to leave. She wanted him to tell her what the hell was going on! “Understand what?” she called after him.

He didn’t bother to look back. “You’re going to kill that owl if you don’t stop squeezing him like that.”

Hermione looked down in confusion to see Pig’s eyes bulging, his wings fluttering feebly against her grip. She released him and he sped out of the window as fast as he could. When she returned her gaze to the entrance of the Owlery, Malfoy was gone.

+++

To avoid thinking about his altercation with Granger (What else could it have been? A conversation? Surely not), Draco submersed himself in his homework all afternoon. The Hufflepuff common room was loud and there was no shortage of distractions, but he preferred it to the Library or even his dormitory now. People socializing without pretense, completely at ease, were still something of a novelty for him. He found that he enjoyed it.

Sitting in the corner with a bunch of flutterby bushes in gigantic pots crowded around him, he toiled away at his Potions essay for a long time. No one bothered him as the rainy gray afternoon light faded to an evening amber, but after a while, Carolyn Stump came over with her own pile of homework and joined him. They didn’t speak; she just found her place in her Charms textbook and began taking notes, tucking her blonde hair over her ear every so often. James brought over a couple of Butterbeers and set one down near Draco and another in front of Carolyn, then disappeared again.

Draco put the finishing touches on his essay before popping the cork on his Butterbeer and taking a long drink. He watched Carolyn for a moment, then opened hers for her, too. She smiled up at him quickly and said “Thanks, Draco,” but returned to her homework.

He wondered what time it was. Must be at least five o’clock, he thought. He found a squat clock on the mantelpiece. It read 5:13pm. Dinner had started already. Why was everyone just hanging around? He approached Prescott over by the fire and asked him.

“Oh, we have dinner in the common room on Sundays sometimes,” Prescott said breezily, clinking Butterbeers with Draco. “You can go to the Great Hall, if you want. I bet there’ll be some people there.”

Draco digested this. Dinner in the common room? “Can we do that?” he asked.

“It appears we can,” said Prescott, standing up and nodding significantly over Draco’s shoulder. Draco turned to see James leading a troupe of Hufflepuffs down the ladder into the common room. He wore such a goofy grin as he balanced a platter of chicken legs in one hand that Draco couldn’t help but smile back.

“Dinner is served!” James called to the room at large, sliding the dish onto a table in the middle of the room, and everyone whooped. Soon other dishes joined the first: plates of sandwiches, tureens of stew, jugs of pumpkin juice.

“This is fantastic!” Draco said when James handed him a chicken drum and a napkin.

“Try not to get too excited,” James replied, biting into a sandwich.

“We’re practically next door to the kitchens,” said Prescott, helping himself to a ham sandwich, “It has its perks.”

After dinner, Draco returned to his mountain of homework. Carolyn was no longer there, having apparently completed her Charms notes. He saw her chatting with some other sixth-years at the other end of the room where a few bookshelves dotted with potted cacti stood lit by lamplight. He had pulled a fresh sheet of parchment from his bookbag and settled in for another essay when James and Ryan tossed their backpacks onto the table, making Draco’s Butterbeer teeter precariously.

“What are you working on?” asked Ryan.

By way of reply, Draco flipped his book closed, keeping his place with a finger. The title read Home Life and Social Habits of British Muggles, Volume 7.

James clutched his heart in shock. “Muggle Studies?!” he gasped. Ryan’s mouth hung open in stunned amazement.

“It was a condition of my return to Hogwarts. I have to take N.E.W.T. level Muggle Studies. Stop laughing!” James was beside himself in hysterics. Ryan was still looking confunded.  

“I’m sorry! I’m sorry!” guffawed James, wiping tears of mirth from his eyes. “Wow. I did not see that one coming.”  

“Thanks, guys.” Draco reopened Home Life and Social Habits with a scowl.

“Oh, come on! Don’t be like that. You have to admit it, that’s funny!” James said, taking a seat next to Draco. He unhooked the clasp on his bag and withdrew his Potions book. “Have you done Slughorn’s essay yet?”

“Just finished it before dinner,” Draco grumbled.

James and Ryan groaned and started in on their homework, too. Every so often, James would suppress a chuckle and Draco would shoot him a dirty look. Around nine o’clock, they decided to pack it in. Ryan stuffed his half-finished essay into his Potions book as if it had done him great personal injury. They retreated to the dormitory, followed soon after by Prescott and Justin. Smith had the curtains drawn around his four-poster. They didn’t bother to lower their voices.

“Did you change your colors yet?” Prescott asked, nodding at Draco’s trunk.

It took Draco a second to understand his meaning. “Oh, on my uniforms? No, not yet.”

“Hufflepuffs wear yellow and black,” said James as he changed into his pajamas.

Draco gestured around the room with a no shit expression. James sniggered again and murmured something that sounded like “Muggle Studies!” Draco let it go. It was a little funny. Or it would have been, if he didn’t have so much catching up to do.

He pulled out his ties, sweaters, and robes, tapping them each in turn with his wand until a stack of black and yellow clothing littered his bed. “Done!” Draco said. Everyone (except Smith, who hadn’t uttered a single word) gathered around to look. It felt like something final, something positive and definite.

James slapped Draco on the shoulder. “Now you’re really one of us.”

*Chapter 10*: On This Side

Chapter 10

On This Side

Hermione tilted her head back against the stone rim of the gigantic bath in the Prefects’ Bathroom. The bubbles, a lilac hue tinted pink and blue at different angles, piled up around her like little candy-colored mountains. The water was steaming hot, but it felt good. And at least the aroma of the bath had overpowered the smell of the Gobstone stink-juice.

Everyone was at dinner, her homework was done, and she was more relaxed than she’d been for ages, but Hermione still couldn’t shake her encounter with Malfoy in the Owlery.

“Hufflepuff doesn’t think that way. They… like me. And not because I’m rich or because I’m a pureblood. They like me,” he’d told her.

How did Hufflepuff think, if they didn’t feel that Malfoy’s sudden appearance among them was, as she’d said, odd? They accepted him. Of course they had. Hufflepuffs were known for being accepting. But they weren’t pushovers. They weren’t gullible or stupid. Only Slytherins thought that way. So, what did they see in him that she didn’t?

She remembered him laughing and throwing the quaffle around at breakfast that morning.  He hadn’t even looked like himself without his patented Malfoy sneer. Was he really so desperate for a break from the bullying, or was it something else? A voice whispered in her head that maybe Malfoy had just been waiting for his chance to get out from under the thumb of all those expectations. And there were expectations. His family expected him to toe the pureblood line. Slytherin expected him to… to what? Before, he’d been the height of Slytherin royalty, all narrow-mindedness and full of talk about wealth and status, but now they seemed to want him to slither off to Azkaban without a word in his defense. If there was even a defense for his behavior to be had.

And she expected him to hate her, to ridicule her and strut around with his nose in the air as he’d always done. But he’d defied all expectations. He’d laughed and offered thanks freely. He’d helped her. Maybe he was trying to put the past behind him, make a new start. Could that be true? Did he deserve it? 

She spent a lot of time thinking about Malfoy lately. It made her feel slightly petty. She judged him so harshly, but she knew much more about him than just the evil, conniving things he’d done. He hadn’t actually killed Dumbledore, had he? He’d tried, yes. But hadn’t she said herself that his attempts to finish off Dumbledore with the necklace and the mead had been perfunctory at best? And from what Harry had said about Dumbledore’s conversation with Malfoy up on the Astronomy Tower, the old Headmaster had agreed with her. He’d said, “Forgive me, Draco, but they have been feeble attempts. So feeble, to be honest, that I wonder whether your heart has been really in it.” Whether his heart was really in it. Had it been? How could she find out?

Dumbledore had tried to persuade Malfoy to join the Order. He’d wanted to help Malfoy. He thought Malfoy was worth saving.

Kingsley Shacklebolt said it best in that secret radio program Potter Watch. “We're all human, aren't we? Every human life is worth the same, and worth saving.”

Shouldn’t Malfoy be afforded the same courtesy, or should they condemn him? No one was going to save him now. Maybe he was trying to save himself.

Hermione slipped under the water and tried to block out the world. She stayed under for a full minute before breaking the surface through a massive heap of bubbles. Her giggles echoed off of the stone walls, but their sound had been joined by something else. Someone else was laughing, too.

“Myrtle!” Hermione shrieked. How long had she been there?! The ghost of the girl who haunted the second floor girl’s bathroom was hovering around the stack of towels, her spotty face contorted with cackling laughter. Hermione gathered up all the bubbles she could reach and stacked them around her naked body. “What are you doing here, Myrtle?”

“I’m visiting,” said Myrtle simply.

“Visiting?” Hermione knew Mrytle could go anywhere in the castle, but she usually confined herself to her bathroom, thus making it much easier to avoid her. She wasn’t exactly good company.

“Yes. It’s boring in my bathroom, you know. No one ever goes in there.”

Hermione knew all too well why Moaning Myrtle’s bathroom was always deserted. It was an ideal place to hide because nobody would ever choose to go in there. Then Hermione had an idea. Hadn’t Malfoy confided in Myrtle two years ago? Harry had seen Malfoy and Myrtle together on the Marauder’s Map. Maybe she’d have some insight on Malfoy’s strange behavior.

Myrtle had drifted closer while Hermione was lost in thought. “I see your tale’s gone. That’s a shame. I liked it,” she said, suppressing another round of sniggering.

“Yeah,” said Hermione vaguely. How should she begin? “Listen Myrtle, do you remember a boy named Draco Malfoy—”

“What about Draco?” Myrtle was looking curious and – could it be? – protective.

“He’s back this year. Did you hear he’s in Hufflepuff House now?”

Myrtle flipped over onto her back and pretended to swim through the bath (though of course her arms moved right through the water without disturbing its surface) and said nothing. 

“What… Harry said that you and Malfoy were friends. Is that true?”

“I think so. I think we had a lot in common.”

Hermione’s brow furrowed. “Like what?”

Myrtle turned onto her stomach and propped her head up on her hands to glare at Hermione. “Why should I tell you?”

That was a tough one. As Hermione tried to come up with an answer, Myrtle twirled her finger through the water to no effect. “I’m his friend, too,” she said finally.

“Then you can just ask him!” said Myrtle. 

“He wouldn’t tell me something like that. I… I’m trying to help him, but he won’t talk about that year at all.” She was definitely lying now, and Hermione could tell that Myrtle was still suspicious.

“Help him how?”

The trial, thought Hermione. Should she tell Myrtle? Would that get her attention? Hermione decided it would. “He’s going to be on trial for everything that happened. For trying to kill Dumbledore and for being a Death Eater. Do you know anything about that? Anything at all? He won’t talk about it, and I need to know so… so I can help him.”

Myrtle sat up. She looked to be on the verge of tears. “On trial?”

“Yes,” Hermione said firmly.

“I promised I would never tell,” she said with less resolve, picking at a zit on her forehead.

“Will you help me help him, Myrtle? He needs our help.”

Myrtle pressed her ghostly palms into her watery eyes and bit her lip. Slowly, she nodded.

“Great!” Hermione said in excitement, then quickly tried to more look somber. “That’s great, Myrtle. Thank you.” Myrtle jerked her hands away from her face and started picking at her nails in her lap. Hermione took this as a sign she was ready to be questioned. “So… how were you alike?”

“He was lonely. People bullied him, made him to do things he didn’t think were right. He was under a lot of pressure to succeed. And he was vulnerable, sensitive, you know? ” Hermione didn’t know, but she nodded encouragingly anyway.  Myrtle continued, “You-Know-Who threatened his family. He said that they were going to kill his parents if he didn’t… do Professor Dumbledore in.”

“Voldemort said he would kill his parents?”

“Well, yes!” said Myrtle aggressively. “He’s just a boy! I mean, he didn’t want to kill anyone, but he couldn’t see any other way out. What would you do? He had to fix something—”

“The vanishing cabinet in the Room of Requirement,” offered Hermione eagerly.

“Yes, that. He had to fix it and he was having so much trouble and he kept trying to... finish the job, you know? But he couldn’t do it fast enough but he had to do it and he couldn’t trust anyone to help him. Except me. He trusted me.” She looked proud then, defiantly delighted that the lonely, depressed boy who mistrusted everyone had vouchsafed her with his secrets.

“He told me everything,” she went on. “He told me how trapped he felt and how lost and lonely he was and how the world was against him. He just wanted to be safe. He wanted You-Know-Who to leave him alone but that awful tattoo on his arm was always hurting him and he said that was his Master ‘reminding him of the consequences of failure’. It was so overwhelming for him. Sometimes he’d visit me in my bathroom and just cry.” Myrtle seemed far away. Her transparent eyes streamed with tears and her chin trembled. Hermione could almost see Malfoy raked with desperate sobs in some old tiled bathroom – maybe even this very one—pouring out his heart to the ghost of a…

Hang on! Moaning Myrtle was a muggle-born! That’s why the schoolboy Riddle had made the Basilisk kill her! Hermione felt sure that Malfoy would have known this. He must have! Hadn’t it been common knowledge by the end of their second year? Hadn’t that been why he was so keen for the Heir of Slytherin to return, so that the monster could rid the school of mudbloods and bloodtraitors once and for all, so it could finish the job it had started fifty years ago?

And he’d confided in a muggle-born. What a change a year of desperation makes. Hermione could sympathize with that. She would have done anything, anything to save the people she loved. She still would. But last year was just… unbearable. She knew how Malfoy felt. Like he was tied to the tracks with a train barreling toward him impossibly fast and no one to save him. Because that was how she’d felt.

Hermione was numb. Her gaze travelled back up to Moaning Myrtle’s face lined with gray tears. She didn’t know what to think, how to feel. “Thank you, Myrtle. Thank you for telling me all of this.”

“Will it help him?”

“Yes.”

“Good,” said Myrtle. There was a long silence. Hermione looked down at her pruny hands and was surprised to find they were shaking. “When you see him again, could you tell him to come visit me sometimes? I’d like that.” She gave Hermione a watery smile which Hermione returned.

“Definitely.”

+++

James’ potion was on fire. Not boiling, or else billowing smoke. On fire.

Draco coughed, brandishing his wand and sputtering, “Aguamenti!” over and over, but to no avail. The rest of the Hufflepuffs had backed away from the table, trying to get clear the smoke and flames. James stripped out of his smoldering robes and yelled for Slughorn, who hurried over wearing thick dragonhide gloves.

“Out of the way, out of the way!” he shouted, popping the cork of a little potion bottle and dumping its contents straight into the cauldron. The potion fizzled and hissed then turned a placid shade of sea foam green. “Terwilleger!” he gasped, turning to face James, “do not – NOT! – add the dragon blood before the hyssop root. I was very clear on that point, Mr. Terwilleger! Were you trying to kill us all?”

“Sorry, professor,” James said, still distracted by his burned clothes. Draco could see angry red skin blistering under his charred shirt sleeve.

“Now, get that arm under some water. I’ll get you a salve.” He directed his attention to the three other cauldrons at the table. “I’m sorry to say these are no good, boys,” he said to Draco, Prescott and Ryan. “You can barely tell they were Fire-Breather Brews. Shall we say ‘E’ for effort?” They all nodded. Prescott and Ryan were looking grateful and relieved, but Draco knew his own potion had been a solid Outstanding. “Mr. Terwilleger, I’d say that was a ‘T’, wouldn’t you?” Slughorn didn’t wait for an answer. He swept back toward his desk to retrieve the salve for James with a scowl.

“Sorry, Draco,” muttered James behind him.

Draco glanced back at him and shrugged. “It’s alright. How’s your arm?”

“You know,” said James with a small smile, “on fire.” They couldn’t help it, they all laughed.

“The rest of you,” Slughorn was saying from the front of the class, “take your cauldrons off of their fires and bring them to the cooling racks to congeal. We’ll pick up from there on Wednesday.” There was a flurry of movement as everyone did as Slughorn instructed. With a huff that made his walrus mustache billow, Slughorn made his way back through the shuffling students and thrust a little bottle into James’ hand. “Dittany,” he said.

James murmured his thanks and tipped the bottle over his arm, gingerly rubbing the dittany on his skin. It looked better at once, now pink and slightly raised.  “That was stupid,” he said as he tried to pack up his blackened supplies. Draco and the others waited for him then joined the queue to leave the classroom.

“What happened?” asked Rory catching up to them with Susan Bones and Katarina Tildman.

“Poof!” said James simply, mimicking an explosion with his hands.

“Yeah, we’d worked that much out for ourselves,” countered Katarina.

“He added the dragon blood before the hyssop root,” Draco supplied when it became clear James wasn’t going to respond. They squeezed out of the dungeon room door and headed off down the hall toward the stairs. Draco felt a small pang of sadness as they passed the corridor to the Slytherin common room.

The girls were making tutting noises. James glared at them. “You headed to Muggle Studies, Draco?” he asked, clearly wanted to change the topic.

“Yep.”

“Have fun,” said Prescott.

“We can go together,” Susan Bones said.

At the Entrance Hall, Draco and Susan broke away from the rest of the group, who all had a free period before lunch, and continued up the marble staircase.

“So, how is it that you can take N.E.W.T. level Muggle Studies when you never took the O.W.L.?” Susan asked.

“I’m not getting credit for it. I just have to take it.”

“Oh.” Susan seemed to mull that over. “Why?”

Why? This question irked Draco. He thought it should be clear why. “Do I really have to answer that?”

Susan quelled under his annoyed glare. “No, I know why,” she answered in a strained whisper.

Of course she knew. Everyone knew. Because he was a muggle-hating, mudblood-smearing, evil evil git who needed his perspectives completely overhauled. That’s why. Obviously.  

Susan tried again. “Do you like it so far? I know it’s a lot of work but—”

“It’s ok. Confusing. Like, how do airplanes stay up? How are televisions any different than wizarding portraits? Where do they keep all the electricity when they’re not using it?” Draco ran his hands through his hair impatiently, thinking that he had the utmost sympathy for muggles now that he knew how mundane and hard their lives must be. But he still didn’t see how taking Muggle Studies was supposed to somehow reform him.  

“There’s a lot to learn,” said Susan. “I think it’s exciting. I want to work in the Muggle Liaison Office once I finish school. What about you?”

Draco didn’t know how to answer that. What was he going to do after school, assuming he didn’t get sent to Azkaban, of course. He shrugged. “I’m good at potions. Maybe I’ll do something with that.”

Susan nodded, looking as if she knew he was thinking about the trial. It was all over the Daily Prophet, after all. But she didn’t mention it. “Potion-making is an interesting profession,” she said, then launched into a story about her Uncle Edgar’s youthful potion experimentation that lasted until they were seated in the Muggle Studies classroom.

The new Muggle Studies Professor, Hitchens, was an elderly but energetic woman. Though she was patient and explained things well, Draco was still nearly always lost. Not many students had continued to N.E.W.T. Muggle Studies, so Professor Hitchens had plenty of time to devote to each member of the class.

Ginny Weasley was already there, sitting with two Ravenclaws Draco didn’t know. Professor Hitchens called for their essays and collected them before starting in on Chapter 2, Modern British Muggle Politics. It wasn’t awful, but it wasn’t exactly riveting stuff.

Draco caught the Wealsey girl staring at him during class more than once, but each time she looked away and busied herself with taking notes. Seeing her made Draco think of Granger, which made him think of the day before in the Owlery. He’d left in a huff. He shouldn’t have done that. What he should have done was beg her for forgiveness, but Draco was never one for heartfelt apologies. He just didn’t know how to talk to her. His fellow Hufflepuffs were one thing, they accepted him without judgment (for the most part). He didn’t have to win them over. They wanted to like him, so they did.

But Granger hated him. He knew that. And she was well within her rights to despise him. And there was nothing he could ever do to change that. No apology, no explanation, was going to change her mind. Why should it, he thought bitterly. As much as he wanted to tell himself that the bushy-haired walking library could go hang herself and her opinions, he wanted, really wanted, to make her understand.

The first step there was understanding all of it himself, and Draco wasn’t sure if he ever really would.

*Chapter 11*: Eyes on Fire

Chapter 11

Eyes on Fire

     I don’t care what colors he wears, Hermione, Malfoy is a Slytherin.

There it was. After waiting a whole three days for an answer to her letter, that’s all Ron had bothered to write in his reply.

Did Ron think she was stupid? Did he think she wouldn’t be able to see if Malfoy’s strange behavior was anything less than genuine? He’d been nothing but nice to everyone she talked to, especially his fellow Hufflepuffs. He seemed to have made real friendships there at lightning speed. He ignored Slytherin jibes in the halls and during class. He joked around at mealtimes and did his homework and caused no trouble. He had changed. Just because Ron didn’t see it didn’t make it untrue.

Hermione fumed over the letter all during Potions and Charms and through lunch to D.A.D.A., where she now sat with the other Gryffindors taking notes as Professor Jones talked about curses. They were learning about the cruentintus curse, which produced a streak of purple flames and caused the victim serious internal injury without any external symptoms. She’d had this very curse cast on her during the battle in the Department of Mysteries by Antonin Dolohov, a Death Eater who had killed Mrs. Weasley’s brothers during the First Wizarding War and Lupin, among others, only months ago.

This effectively took her mind of off anything Ron had to say. She recalled perfectly the purple flash and the blinding pain, then nothing until Madame Pomfrey’s face loomed over her in the Hospital Wing days later. The nurse had said that the curse had done “quite enough damage to be going on with”. The way Professor Jones was describing it didn’t really seem to communicate the severity of the spell.

Her heart ached when she thought about Lupin. And Tonks. It was so unfair. Their son, Teddy, was given over to the care of his grandmother, Andromeda Tonks. He was such a wonderful baby, so full of life…

Hermione dropped her quill and hid her face in her hands. Why did everything have to remind her of death? Her whole life seemed consumed by it. She felt like she would never outlive all of these terrible memories, like she had a Dementor following her around, sucking all the happiness from her mind.

Ginny nudged her. “Are you ok?” she whispered. Hermione looked up at her and couldn’t hide her red-rimmed eyes, her cheeks flushed from trying to hold it together. She could not break down here in the D.A.D.A. classroom in front of everyone. She just wanted to be alone.

Ginny cocked her eyebrow significantly and pointed with her quill. Hermione looked across the room to where Malfoy sat with a group of Hufflepuffs. He snapped his head forward to face Professor Jones again, who was writing something on the board.

While she watched out of the corner of her eye, Cadwallader glanced from her to Malfoy then to the tall, wiry boy she remembered Malfoy talking to in the Entrance Hall on Sunday, who reclined in his seat beside the Quidditch captain with his quill behind his ear. The boy put a finger to his lips then jabbed it at Professor Jones, clearly telling Cadwallader to pay attention. Hermione almost laughed. Cadwallader narrowed his eyes at the wiry boy then elbowed Malfoy, whose gaze was fixed in Hermione’s direction again. Malfoy’s hand slipped and his quill dragged a bold line of ink across his notes. He shot Cadwallader a dirty look and siphoned off the still-wet ink with his wand. After that, he turned his attention back to Professor Jones.

Ginny wrote on the corner of her notes: He’s been staring at you all day.

Hermione wrote back underneath: What does he want?

Ginny shrugged almost imperceptivity and added a question mark under Hermione’s question.

“If you would turn, please, to page twenty-seven,” said Professor Jones from the blackboard, “we will continue on to the hacktor curse.” Hermione sighed and started taking notes.

+++

Prescott and James caught up to Draco after D.A.D.A. despite his best efforts to get away from them and retreat to Arithmancy before they could interrogate him.

“Prescott here told me a pretty funny joke just now,” said James, coming up beside Draco and keeping pace with him as they climbed a flight of stairs. “I know it’s a joke, because there’s no way you were staring  at Hermione Granger with those widdle puppy dog eyes of yours.” Draco didn’t look at him; he just kept walking. Two more corridors and three flights of stairs. They couldn’t follow him all the way there, could they?

“Hey!” barked James, getting ahead of Draco and putting a hand on his chest to slow him down. Draco tried to get around him, but James laughed and wouldn’t let him by.

Finally, Draco stopped and just stood there facing James. Prescott dragged them both out of the way of a group of Ravenclaws and into the doorway of a deserted classroom. “I’m going to be late,” growled Draco.

“Whoa! It’s a joke, right? This is a joke!” James eyes roved from Draco to Prescott and back again. His smile vanished. “Wait, you were staring at Hermione Effing Granger?”

Draco shut his eyes. If they wanted to talk about it, fine. He’d talk about it. But he didn’t have to like it. “Yes,” he began, “but—”

“What, yes? Yes?! You can’t be serious!” James glanced over at Prescott again, who said nothing.

“It’s just because—” Draco broke off and waited for two little Gryffindor girls to pass them. He licked his lips and started again. “It’s because she talked to me,” he finished rather lamely. 

James threw up his hands and staggered back. “Oh, she talked to you, did she? Well, then, that sorts that out. Prescott, did you hear that? Granger talked to Draco, here! What a revelation!”

“It is, kind of,” said Draco quietly.

“Let him explain,” Prescott said, speaking for the first time. He was looking grim.

“What’s there to explain? Didn’t you hear him say she talked to him? Bloody hell, Draco, I knew you were dense, but this is just a whole new—”

“Shut it, ok? She talked to me. As in, we spoke to each other without me calling her a ‘mudblood’ or her slapping me in the face. It’s not exactly something that happens every day. I didn’t mean to… I didn’t mean anything like that,” Draco said. “It was just… nice, for a minute. To pretend like everything was really different.”

“What is that supposed to mean?” asked Prescott.

“If she could like me, just… as a person, you know? If I could explain things to her and make her understand that I’m trying to be different, that I am different, maybe… maybe there’s hope for me. If I can convince her.”

“So she’s the one to impress, then?” James cut in, folding his arms.

“Not impress. No.” This was really hard for Draco. He couldn’t exactly put into words how he felt. When he said it out loud it sounded stupid. He told them so.

“Yeah, it does sound stupid. You don’t have to convince anyone of who you are, Draco,” said James, his gaze intense, as if this was the crux of things. Draco thought maybe it was. “You don’t need to prove anything.”

“He’s right, Draco,” said Prescott.

James leaned an elbow on Prescott’s shoulder. “Listen to Prescott, Draco. I’m right. I’m always right. You will come to know this in time.” They all tried to keep a straight face but couldn’t.

Draco was baffled by how he could possibly deserve their friendship. Their loyalty to him after only a few short days was stunning. He thought about telling them how much it meant that they’d befriended him and accepted him, that they even cared at all.

Instead, he said, “I’m definitely late now.”

James patted his shoulder sagely. “Alright, you are free to go. Just remember,” he said, “don’t measure yourself by anyone’s standards but your own.”

Draco nodded and shuffled his feet. Prescott punched him in the arm and said by way of goodbye, “See you at dinner, ok?”

They headed back down the hall and out of sight. Glancing at his watch, Draco broke into a run. Professor Vector was going to murder him.

+++

Hermione was starting to lament ever agreeing to be Luna’s partner in Transfiguration, but she couldn’t keep listening to Ginny criticize Percy’s teaching strategies. It was distracting, not to mention annoying. So, Ginny paired up with Jimmy Peakes instead and, with Vicky and Ritchie being disgusting between herself and the snide comments issuing from Ginny every three seconds, Hermione could finally concentrate on getting down the finer points of human facial transfiguration. She’d had a go of it earlier that year with Ron when they broke into Gringott’s Wizarding Bank, but it was so much better with a book in front of her.

Now she just had to get over her frustration with Luna. Almost everyone in the class was a complete novice at this kind of transfiguration. It took finesse and a certain artistic eye that Hermione felt she lacked. Luna, however, was a skilled artist. If only she could stop being so outlandish.

They were supposed to be altering each other’s faces to look like themselves. Luna had already had her turn on Hermione, who, by the time it was over, looked like the frizzy-haired reflection of Luna, protuberant eyes and all.

After she’d wiped her face clean of transfiguration spells, it was Hermione’s turn to try on Luna. A duel-sided mirror was hovering in midair between them, and Hermione was glancing down every second or so to get a detail down before trying to replicate it on Luna’s face. It wasn’t going well.

Luna made it worse by making comments like “this feels strange” and “I think your mouth is a little wider” and “your eyes are really small” every so often. Her penchant for blatant truths was doing nothing for Hermione’s morale.

It had occurred to Hermione that now would be an ideal time to talk to Luna about Malfoy. So, in an effort to steer the conversation toward Malfoy and away from Luna’s running commentary on the task before them, Hermione said, “That was pretty nice of you to stick up for Malfoy.”

“It was nothing he wouldn’t have done for me,” said Luna airily. “You’re teeth are bigger.”

Hermione sighed inwardly and flicked her wand. Luna’s teeth grew slightly larger. “Better?” Luna nodded. Hermione tried again. “What made you do it?”

“They were going to hex him.”

She waited for Luna to continue, but when she didn’t, Hermione really did sigh. “I think I’m done.”

“I still have my chin.”

“Right. Sorry.” Hermione scrutinized her own chin in the mirror before setting to work on Luna’s. “Have you talked since…?” Hermione decided she didn’t want to elaborate, but Luna seemed to know what she meant.

“We met on the train. Did you know we hadn’t met officially before then?”

“No,” said Hermione. That was a bit of a surprise, though on second thought Malfoy didn’t exactly make a habit of going around introducing himself to the people he bullied. “What did you two talk about?”

“Him,” replied Luna simply.

She was being infuriating. Why wouldn’t Luna just tell her what she and Malfoy had talked about on the train? Hermione finished Luna’s chin and sat back in her chair while Luna examined her face in the mirror.

“I almost look like you,” she said. Hermione wanted to gouge out her own eyeballs with her wand. 

“Thanks.”

Ginny came over to see Luna and Hermione wearing an inexpert interpretation of Jimmy Peakes’ grin. “Hey Hermiones!” she said. Hermione smiled and tried not to stare at Vicky kissing a weird double of herself behind Ginny.

“Oh, I’m not Hermione,” said Luna matter-of-factly. “I’m Luna.” Ginny rolled Jimmy’s eyes in amused exasperation.

+++

At breakfast on Thursday, the thing Draco had been both eagerly anticipating and absolutely dreading arrived. He wavered somewhere between regret and elation whenever he thought about the idea he’d put into action a few days before. Meeting Granger had pushed it from his mind for a while, but as the days progressed, he spent more and more time dwelling on what would happen. He honestly didn’t know what she’d do. She was so unpredictable.

So, as the owl carrying a brightly-colored package soared in through the high mullioned windows and came to rest before Luna Lovegood, Draco had to suppress the urge both to run out of the Great Hall in fear and whoop with excitement. He watched her relieve the owl of its parcel and feed it a bit of bacon before it flew off again.

Draco could barely stand it. She was turning it over in her hands. Other Ravenclaws had stopped examining their own mail to watch. With careful fingers, she untied the packing string and opened the package. Inside, he knew, was a box of Gertrude’s Best Organic Gurdyroot Tealeaves and a little note.

Open the note, open the note! he thought excitedly, which then fought, don’t open the note, don’t open the note!

She put the box to her nose and breathed deeply, a little smile on her lips, before turning to the folded slip of parchment. She flipped it open and read. Draco held his breath.

If Luna was confused, she didn’t show it. She set down the note and started opening her box of tea. Her friends leaned in to her, apparently asking her who the package was from. She shook her head.

One of the Ravenclaw girls grabbed the note and read it aloud. “’I’m sorry’?” she trilled loudly enough for Draco to hear. He felt himself flush scarlet and started shoveling food into his mouth to avoid staring. When he chanced a glance back over at the Ravenclaw table, teacups and a jug of hot water had appeared before Luna. She was making tea for everyone. Great. This was not going at all the way he planned.

A few minutes later, Draco heard a series of disgusted noises emanating from where Luna sat surrounded by people holding their teacups away in obvious revulsion. Draco had never actually had gurdyroot tea. Was it bad? Did she hate it?

No, Luna was sipping her tea mildly amid her friends’ upturned noses and pinched, sour faces. Maybe gurdyroot tea was an acquired taste. Luna certainly seemed to be enjoying herself.

Still, she didn’t so much as toss her hair in his direction during the rest of breakfast, but as Ravenclaw table emptied, she remained seated, eating slowly and pouring herself more tea.

“Draco. Let’s go,” said James, slapping Draco on the back and momentarily distracting him. “Class, remember? That thing we do here?”

He looked around. The rest of Hufflepuff was already gone. Prescott and Ryan were waiting for them in the Entrance Hall. “You go on,” Draco said. “I’ll catch up.”

James eyed him beadily, but seemed to decide to let it go. “Alright, mate. See you in Greenhouse Six.”

“Greenhouse Six,” Draco repeated to James’ retreating back.

In just a few short minutes, he and Luna were the only ones left in the Great Hall. She still hadn’t looked at him. She wasn’t ignoring him, exactly. In fact, her manner seemed more inviting than anything. Plucking up all the courage he could manage, he stood and made his way over to where she sat alone, still drinking her tea.

“Hello,” she said when he sat down across from her.

“Hello.”

She bit into a piece of toast and took her time chewing. There was a long and extremely awkward silence, then Luna said, “Thank you for the tea.”

“Do you like it?” Draco asked keenly.

“You don’t need to buy me gifts or write me notes to tell me that you’re sorry, Draco. It’s much simpler just to come to me and say it.”

Then she looked at him, and her huge gray eyes captured him within her gaze. It seemed to reach inside him and wrench his heart from his chest. All the things he’d been wanting to say to her – how sorry he was, how he could never feel sorry enough, how he would never, ever forgive himself that he had done nothing, watched her imprisoned and tortured in his own house – all of it felt utterly insignificant.

Even though he wanted to run away and find somewhere to hide where those eyes could never look at him like that again, Draco held her gaze and tried to say without trembling the thing that he absolutely could not live for another second having let gone unsaid. “It will never be enough, Luna, but I am so sorry for what I did to you. I am so, so sorry.”

“I forgive you.”

Draco lost it. He looked away, tears spilling over his cheeks. He felt drained, helpless, exhausted. And relieved. Some pressing weight he hadn’t even known was there a moment before had been lifted from his shoulders.   

“Do you want to try some tea?” Luna asked after a little while.

Draco nodded, and she poured him a cup. He sat there, across from her, with the cup of tea warming his hands. “Thank you,” he said. He tried to put a lot of things into those words.

Luna seemed to understand. She smiled. “Try the tea.”

It was disgusting.

*Chapter 12*: Alone or Otherwise Engaged

Chapter 12

Alone or Otherwise Engaged

Draco was late getting to tryouts on Saturday morning because no one bothered to wake him up. Most of Hufflepuff had gone up to the Great Hall early to get to get breakfast before heading to the pitch to watch the quidditch team hopefuls run their paces, so the common room was practically empty as Draco hurried through it and up the ladder to the basement corridor.

He started running down the lawn to the pitch, realizing mid-sprint that he was, after all, holding a broomstick and deciding it was faster to fly. As the dawn light settled over the castle grounds, Draco sped toward the quidditch stadium where the chorus of many cheering voices reached him on the racing wind.

Why hadn’t they told him they were leaving? James usually made such a racket in the mornings that it was impossible to sleep in anyway. Today, nothing. He didn’t even remember them leaving the dormitory. Draco was a light sleeper. He had been ever since the stress of his sixth year. They had to have snuck out without a sound. Didn’t they want him on the team? The first thing Prescott had ever said to him was about quidditch tryouts and now he was missing them.

He touched down at the entrance to the stadium and ran through the gateway into the field, not panting exactly, but breathless with anxiety. There were a lot of people standing in the center of the pitch, their eyes trained on the goals at the far end where three boys on brooms were zooming around, trying to get a quaffle past Carolyn Stump. Draco recognized her golden hair bound up in a ponytail as she flitted to the right or left, knocking quaffles away from the goals with apparent ease.

“She’s the last one,” said a voice behind him. It was James. He was munching on a piece of toast as he leaning down on his broom, which was floating about eye-level with Draco. “Toast?”

Draco glared at him. “Why didn’t you wake me up?”

“Oh that! I’ll let Prescott explain.” James raised his voice and shouted, “Hey, Capt’n! Look who I found!”

Prescott turned to see Draco with James hovering beside him and jogged over to meet them.

“She’s good, isn’t she?” he said, coming to a stop and jerking his thumb up at Carolyn. “I was going to tell her she got Keeper ten minutes ago, but it’s just so impressive to watch her embarrass those poor guys up there.” James laughed, Draco didn’t.

“Why did no one wake me up? I thought you wanted me to try out!” Draco said angrily. Prescott chuckled, which only made Draco feel worse. It was funny now, was it?

“Keep your panties on, Draco. We didn’t bother to wake you because no one dared go against you for Seeker. Figured we just let you have a lie in.”

“What?” Draco said uncomprehendingly. “What do you mean ‘no one dared go against me’?” Were his Housemates still suspicious of him? Did they think he was some kind of Slytherin spy? It made Draco sick to think anyone in Hufflepuff could mistrust him. Well, except maybe Smith, and he didn’t really count.

“We’ve all seen you play!” said James through a mouthful of toast, cutting across Draco’s thoughts. “Bit intimidating, really.”

“You were the obvious choice. Everyone thinks so,” Prescott said. Then he seemed to realize something. “You didn’t think we let you sleep because we didn’t… Draco, don’t be stupid. I said we needed a Seeker. We have one. It’s you.”

Draco was still unsure. “Really?”

James ruffled Draco’s hair from his broom. “Bless him. Isn’t he cute?” he said to Prescott.

“Not really my area,” Prescott replied tersely. He glanced back at Carolyn as the Hufflepuffs in the stands clapped and shouted. She’d just made a brilliant save on the center goal post and was hanging upside down from her broom holding the quaffle in her hands. “I think it’s time for the Chasers,” he said. “James, go put those poor kids out of their misery and tell Carolyn she’s Keeper. Draco, why don’t you hang out with me?”

Draco was feeling happier than he had done for ages. The trial, his uncertain future, everything he had yet to apologize for, even his still aching lungs; it all melted away. He was the Hufflepuff Seeker. He fought the urge to jump for joy.

As he walked alongside Prescott to the group of people standing at the center line, James flew up at retrieved Carolyn and the three harassed-looking boys and brought them all back down. Carolyn was beaming. Her blue eyes fell on Draco and she waved.

“Alright, you lot, Carolyn Stump is our Keeper. Isaac, you’re reserve.” Isaac nodded, looking unsurprised about Carolyn but pleased all the same. “We’re going to do Chasers next. Get into groups of three, and I want you to fly against each other. Carolyn, Isaac, get up there and Keep.”

“But I just flew all the way back down here!” interjected Carolyn.

“Well then Keep for the other side. Change of scenery will be good for you.” Carolyn cast Prescott a look of annoyance then took off again for the goal posts near the entrance Draco had come through. Isaac followed suit, taking Carolyn’s place at the far end of the pitch. Everyone else, meanwhile, had grouped themselves as instructed. Prescott picked two groups to start, then threw the quaffle into the air for them.

Draco and Prescott stood looking up at the Chasers whizzing around above them. Every so often, Prescott made a comment or switched out a team, but mostly they just watched. James really was very good. And Smith, who had deigned to show up for tryouts despite being furious with them all, also stood out. Since they only needed two Chasers (Prescott was a Chaser as well as Team Captain), Draco thought Smith and James were the obvious choices.

“I agree with you completely,” Prescott told Draco after an hour of watching the Chaser hopefuls fly. He called everyone out of the air and gave them the news. As expected, Ryan wasn’t happy, especially at being beaten out by Smith, but he’d get over it. James started in on a ‘thank you’ speech before anyone could stop him, and they only got him to shut up after he’d gotten down to “and I’d like to thank the Ballycastle Bats, and my lucky socks, and the steak and kidney pie I’m about to devour at lunch…”

Draco had missed the Beater tryouts, but Kevin Whitby and Owen Cauldwell were shoe-ins. They were well-suited for it with stocky builds and long arms, and they could practically read each other’s minds. So, with a last thank you from Prescott, the rest of the Hufflepuffs departed for lunch, leaving only the new quidditch team on the pitch.

Prescott addressed his team for the first time. “Hey guys,” he started, and they all laughed. “So, look around. Take a good, hard look. This is the team that’s going to win that Cup for Hufflepuff this year.” Everyone cheered. “Our first practice is Monday night. Does anyone have a problem with that? No one? Great! Let’s go get some lunch!”

Prescott was diverted by Kevin and Owen, so Draco walked with Carolyn and James back up the lawn, chatting happily about the tryouts.

“You missed it,” Carolyn said to Draco. Her hair was free of the ponytail now, and it caught the light in flashes of brilliant gold as she moved. Her walk was a graceful sway. She was so unlike other the girls who played quidditch, who were either awkward or tomboyish, neither of which Draco particularly liked.

“Yeah, let’s not bring that up,” said James, elbowing Carolyn in the ribs.

“Ouch!” she said, elbowing him back. Now I’m definitely telling him. During Beater tryouts, Kevin knocked James clean off of his broom. Lucky he was only ten feet up.”

James was looked sulky. “It wasn’t exactly like that—”

“And when I say Kevin knocked him off, I mean he caught him in the stomach with a Beater’s bat. James wasn’t even paying attention. I think you did a front flip off your broom. Then I guess you tried to fly or something because you were flapping your arms like an owl—”

“It wasn’t that funny,” said James because Draco was doubled-over with laughter. “And I’ll have you know it was a graceful swan dive to the field—”

“Directly on your face,” Carolyn finished for him.

“Look,” James snarled, barely concealing a smile, “I—” 

But he broke off, distracted by a pudgy figure tottering toward them from the oak front doors. It was Professor Sprout.

Prescott hurried forward, apparently thinking that Sprout was coming down to see how tryouts had gone. “The team’s going to be brilliant this year, Professor,” he said, but she bustled past him and came to a puffing halt in front of Draco.

“Draco, I need you to come with me now. The Headmistress has asked to see you in her office. You have a visitor.”

Draco didn’t voice any of his questions out loud as he sped through the castle with Professor Sprout, but his mind reeled. A visitor? Who could it be? Why were they here? Was it his mother, or his father maybe? Or both? No, she’d said just one visitor. Why would anyone be visiting him? It was only the second week of school. Was McGonagall revoking their arrangement? Was he going to be expelled? That couldn’t be it, either. He hadn’t done anything wrong.

It didn’t hit him until the door of the Headmistress’s office swung open and he saw McGonagall standing with a thin, sallow-faced man in long black robes. The trial. It was about the trial. Of course it was. He had allowed himself to forget for a few shining days about the looming threat his future posed. He’d gotten so caught up with everything that he’d forgotten that his past was haunting his footsteps, ready to spring the trap at any moment.

This was the moment.

“Mr. Malfoy,” said the man with a very small bow.

Draco inclined his head in return, his old icy demeanor back in full force. “Counsel Bliswick.”  

“I am here regarding—”

“The trial, obviously,” cut in Draco. He’d never liked Bliswick, but he was the best legal counsel in Great Britain. Whether by bribery and cunning or actual skill, he had never lost a case.

Bliswick nodded very slightly and said, “I was just discussing your progress at Hogwarts with the Headmistress.” He motioned smoothly to McGonagall but did not remove his sharp black eyes from Draco’s gray. “She tells me that you have been moved to Hufflepuff House.” It was subtle, but Draco caught the tiny sneer of disgust. Bliswick had been at school with Draco’s father. One guess at what House he’d been in.

Sprout spoke up from behind Draco. “And he’s been a model student. All of his Professors speak very highly of him.”

“Even Professor Hitchens?” inquired Bliswick, his gaze now focused on Sprout. Draco felt the sudden urge to move between them, to shield Professor Sprout from Bliswick’s condescending tone, his haughty face.

But Sprout rose to the occasion beautifully. “Our Muggle Studies Professor believes Draco could be ready to take the N.E.W.T. for her class at the rate he’s going. She says he’s a natural.”

“A natural at Muggle Studies,” Bliswick repeated. “How… nice.”

“Does this visit serve some purpose, Counsel?” Draco asked, “Or are you here merely to inquire after my studies?”

Bliswick seemed to consider Draco for a moment before replying. “I am here, as you said, to discuss your trial. Do you have any objection to the Headmistress or your new head of House being here for our conversation?”

Draco shook his head. “They can stay.”

“As you wish. The Wizengamot has convened and decided, given the circumstances, that your parents should be tried first. Do you wish to contest this?”

“No.”

“Very well,” said Bliswick. “Your own trial, of course, may be entirely dependent on the outcome of your parents’. If they are both found innocent, the charges against you will likely be dropped.”

“Are they being tried separately or together?”

“Your mother has requested her own counsel. It is my understanding that Counsel MacDougal has been commissioned for her case.”

Draco tried not to betray his surprise at this. “Separately then?”

“Yes, separately. Your mother will be tried first, then your father, then you. Counsel MacDougal has his own plans for your mother which he has failed, as of the present, to disclose to me. If you have any questions, I suggest you write to either your mother or Counsel MacDougal and ask them about it yourself.”

There was a pause, then McGonagall said, “Would you like to take a seat, Mr. Malfoy? Counsel Bliswick, tea?”

Draco sat down in one of the hard-backed chairs in front of the Headmistress’s desk as Bliswick replied with a terse “No, thank you,” before sitting down as well. Draco heard Sprout settle herself into a chair near the door.

They all waited for someone to break the silence. Draco decided it might as well be him. “You could have said all of this in a letter, Counsel. Why are you here?”

McGonagall shot Draco a disapproving look, but Bliswick seemed unfazed. “Your father was apprehended last night attempting to leave the country, Mr. Malfoy. He is being held under house arrest at Malfoy Manor until his trial.” Bliswick made it perfectly clear what he thought of Draco’s father’s effort to flee. “I thought this was news better received in person.”

“Very thoughtful of you, Counsel,” Draco said evenly. 

“But why wasn’t it in the Daily Prophet?” interjected Sprout from behind Draco.

Bliswick did not turn around. “I have managed to keep the Daily Prophet out of Mr. Malfoy’s day-to-day affairs thus far, and I intend to continue to do so. As I will for you, Draco.”

Draco suppressed a shudder. He didn’t like Bliswick saying his name like that. As if they were old friends. He was not his father.

“What else?” Draco asked, for clearly there was more. Bliswick’s smug expression said it all.

“A few of your fellow classmates have already been contacted to testify at your trial, as well as the trials of your mother and father. You will not, of course, attempt to learn the names of these classmates. And should you find that you have deduced who they are, you are not to speak to them about the trial or any events pertaining thereof. Am I clear?”

“Crystal.”

“Good. Very good.”

“And?” There was more, Draco knew it. His eyes bored into Bliswick’s with an intensity akin to Legilimency. Let’s have it all out, Draco thought. Just tell me everything.

“You should know that the public is not on your side, Mr. Malfoy. It is very probable that more articles like the one in the Evening Prophet a week ago will speculate on you, your family, and your case. I want to prepare you for the pressure that comes with a trial of this magnitude.” 

“I am well-acquainted with pressure, Counsel.”

“Of course you are.” Bliswick had all the pretense of graciousness, but none of the sincerity. He was patronizing Draco, and Draco wasn’t going to let him get away with it.

“I think we’re done here,” Draco said. “You will keep me informed?”

“One more thing, Mr. Malfoy.” Producing a slip of parchment from his robes, Bliswick offered it to Draco. “I am calling you as a witness in your father’s defense.”

Draco stared at the words on the parchment and said nothing. It was an official summons. A witness. In defense of his father. He should have expected this.

“Good afternoon to you, then.” Bliswick stood up and bowed to Draco then McGonagall in turn. He breezed by Sprout without a glance and exited through the office door.

+++

Hermione reread the few lines of legal speak under the official Ministry of Magic letterhead, trying not to panic.

Ms. Hermione Granger,

This is document serves as an official summons to testify before the Wizengamot in the trial of Mrs. Narcissa Malfoy on the 15^th of October at 9:00am in Courtroom 7 (Level 10), as per the request of Counsel Hackney MacDougal.

Please arrive at the Ministry of Magic Headquarters no later than 8:00am, as processing may take some time.  

Any inquiries should be directed toward Counsel MacDougal at 23 Diagon Alley, London hereafter.  

Hoping you are well,

Galophena Felicitude

Then, in a post script written in minuscule handwriting on the back of the parchment, Galophena Felicitude had added:

Ms. Granger, thank you for everything you have done for the wizarding community. I am a big fan.

Ron had warned her that this might happen, but actually seeing the summons, holding it in her hands, was another thing entirely. And this was just the beginning. The letter had mentioned only Narcissa Malfoy, but Hermione felt sure that more were on the way. She would be asked to testify before the Wizengamot for Mr. Malfoy and his son as well.

Lucius was one thing. But Narcissa and Malfoy? She wasn’t sure she could do it.

It was Saturday evening and Hermione lay curled up in her four-poster with Crookshanks snoozing at the end of her bed. Everyone else was in the common room or else at quidditch practice, though that was probably over by now. The owl had come during dinner. At first, Hermione thought it was from Ron or Harry (who else would be writing to her?), but when she’d looked at the envelope and seen the official seal of the Ministry stamped in wax on the flap, she knew this was the letter she’d been dreading.

Everyone had been very curious about it, but Hermione hadn’t wanted to tell anyone just yet. She wasn’t sure why, but she felt so conflicted now and she didn’t feel like hearing Ginny rant about the Malfoys and their just deserts.

So now she found herself alone again, brooding over Malfoy. It would be so much easier if she’d never come back to Hogwarts. She wouldn’t have seen his transformation. She wouldn’t have known all the things she knew now. She could have gone on hating him in peace. All this business with ‘saving himself’ and ‘trying to change’ was just confusing the matter.

He’d done what he’d done and now he had to pay for it, she told herself. He and his family had to answer for the crimes they’d committed.

But it wasn’t that simple. It never was.

“What’s up?” asked Ginny, jarring Hermione from her reverie. She had just come in, presumably fresh from quidditch practice by the look of her clothes. Her hair was wind-swept, her cheeks still pinched red by the cool evening air.

Hermione got up suddenly. She didn’t want to talk to Ginny and she didn’t want to lie there running through the same thoughts over and over again. She wanted to get out of here. Now.

“I’m going for a walk,” she said, grabbing her backpack and quitting the dormitory without another word.

She headed west where the windows of the castle had a view of the Forbidden Forest. Hermione couldn’t make out much, though, as the moon was only a sliver in the sky, its light very faint on the treetops of the forest across the lawn. Still, it was peaceful. She found a torch-lit alcove with a big window to sit in and drew out quill, ink, and parchment to write.

Her letter was for Harry. She was still too furious with Ron’s snappish response to her last letter to write to him. Even if he was her boyfriend. Hermione wanted to forgive him. He couldn’t help his prejudices against Malfoy, who had earned the slur of Slytherin for seven years after all. She thought that, had she not been at Hogwarts, she would feel exactly as Ron did now. Could she blame him for being skeptical?

Dear Harry,

How are you? How are things at the Auror’s Office?

I got my summons for the Malfoy trial, but it’s just for Narcissa Malfoy. Are the Malfoys being tried separately? I suppose that makes sense.

Will I see you there? Do you know who else has been called to witness? I’ve never even been to a trial before, but I’ve read all about the history of the Wizengamot and wizarding law, of course. I’ve been thinking of going into law after I graduate. Maybe it will all be a good learning experience.

But it feels almost wrong, doesn’t it? She did lie to Voldemort for you, didn’t she? That’s got to count for something. I get the feeling she didn’t have much of a choice, doing the things she did. Voldemort would have killed her or her husband or Malfoy if she’d tried anything before then, after all.

I’m supposed to be at the Ministry on the 15^th of October, which is a Thursday. Do you know how I’m to get there? If you don’t, I’ll ask McGonagall. I’m sure she’ll figure something out.

I miss you and Ron, Harry. I’m sure he’s told you that I think Malfoy’s been acting differently this year. I wish you could see him now. He’s nothing like he used to be. I even talked to him a few days ago and he wasn’t foul at all.

See you in October either way.

Love from,

Hermione

Hermione read through the letter then folded it up. She’d mail it tomorrow. Right now, she should get back to Gryffindor tower and apologize to Ginny.

*Chapter 13*: Heart Is Hard to Find

Chapter 13

Heart Is Hard to Find

Breakfast at the Gryffindor table was icy this morning. Vicky Forbisher and Ritchie Coote had had a row the night before and were not speaking, Ginny was annoyed with Hermione, who still hadn’t told her about the summons for Narcissa Malfoy’s trial despite being pestered repeated, and to top it off, Peeves was gliding along ten feet above the table bombarding everyone with stick pellets.

Hermione decided that today was going to be a complete bust.

“Hi, Ginny and Hermione,” said Luna, wandering over looking dreamy as ever. Ginny said hello before turning back to Vicky, who had just burst into tears.

“Hi, Luna.” Hermione was still a little peeved at Luna about their frustrating encounter during Transfiguration the week before, but it occurred to her that Luna may have gotten a summons as well. After all, hadn’t Luna been imprisoned in Malfoy Manor? She would certainly be called to testify before the Wizengamot. So it was with a bit more enthusiasm that Hermione said, “How are you?”

“Full,” replied Luna. She was holding an envelope in one hand and a cup of tea in the other. The tea reminded Hermione of something else she’d heard about Luna.

“Hey Luna, can I talk to you?”

“Weren’t you before?” she asked, looking politely bemused.

“Yes, well, I meant, somewhere more private.” Luna nodded and took a sip of tea, and Hermione got up, said goodbye to Ginny (she had her hands full with Vicky anyway), and headed out of the Great Hall with Luna drifting along behind her.

Hermione headed for the same unused classroom where the Gobstones Club met and checked to be sure it was empty. They slipped inside.

Closing the door behind them, Hermione said, “Luna, did you get a summons from the Ministry about the Malfoy trial?”

“Just this morning,” said Luna, holding out the envelope to Hermione, who extracted the letter and read it over. It said exactly what Hermione’s had done: be at courtroom seven for the trial at 9:00am. See Counsel MacDougal for any questions.

“What do you think?” asked Hermione, looking up from the summons. She wondered what Luna thought of being asked to relive her torture and captivity at the hands of Death Eaters. Whatever consternation Hermione felt about the whole thing, Luna’s trepidation must be ten times worse.

But Luna only said vaguely, “It should be interesting.”

Interesting?! Hermione tried to hide her irritation. Luna was always a bit wistful, wasn’t she? Surely must she was as concerned as Hermione.

Unsure of how to continue about the trial, Hermione decided to leave it for now ask Luna about the tea instead. “I heard Malfoy bought you gurdyroot tea.”

Luna turned her huge, round eyes on Hermione. She looked, for the first time, a bit… discontented. “He didn’t buy me,” she said.

Hermione recoiled. Had she implied that? The thought hadn’t occurred to her, at least not consciously, that Malfoy had tried to bribe Luna with a gift… “I didn’t mean to say—”

“Draco apologized to me. He said he was sorry for all the things he’d done in the past.”

“And you believe him?” said Hermione before she could stop herself. The idea of anyone forgiving Malfoy for his past misdeeds was unthinkable, least of all Luna with all she’d suffered at his hands. And ‘Draco’. She’d called him ‘Draco’. Nothing made sense anymore.

“He meant it.” Luna tucked a long strand of wavy blonde hair behind her ear. The familiar dirigible plum earring dangling there reminded Hermione that Luna was — had always been — an impressionable girl, willing to believe anything as long as there was no hard evidence for it. Hermione must have looked skeptical, because Luna went on, “Draco doesn’t need your permission to change, Hermione. The only person who hasn’t realized that is you.”  

Luna turned to leave. This was all so uncharacteristically Luna. How could she be saying these things? How could she even think them? “I know he doesn’t need my permission, but don’t you think that giving you—”

“Hermione, stop it!” Luna set her teacup down on a desk with a little more force than was strictly necessary. “Draco has only ever had people treat him the way you do. No trust. No acceptance. No understanding. After everything that has happened to all of us, this is the year when we get second chances. You’ve got yours, and he has his. Why is it so hard for you to have faith that Draco could ever be anything other than how you see him?”

Hermione found it difficult to think with those enormous gray eyes gazing into her. The Lovegoods thought Hermione had no faith, no imagination. They’d always made it clear that they felt Hermione was deficient in that area. Hard facts. That’s what she believed in. Anything else was suspect.

But just because something couldn’t be real didn’t mean it wasn’t. Hadn’t magic been impossible? Hadn’t the Deathly Hallows been just a fairytale?

Luna picked up her teacup and affected her usual airy manner. “I think I’ll go visit the thestrals.”

Before Hermione could come up with anything to say, Luna as gone.

+++

Monday night’s quidditch practice was amazing. After another long day of Potions, Muggles Studies, and double Charms, flying around a pitch after little balls bewitched to behave like snitches was exactly what Draco needed. He tried to push everything except the wind through his hair and the glorious freedom that came to him every time he flew his Nimbus 2001 out of his mind, but as he dove after a particularly fast ball, he was momentarily distracted by the image of Luna and Granger disappearing into a classroom yesterday morning.

What had Luna told Granger? Was Granger trying to persuade Luna to hate him?

Draco pulled up at the last second, nearly plowing into the field and completely missing the ball, which zig-zagged away toward the other end of the pitch.

“Head in the game!” called James, zooming past him toward the goal posts, quaffle in hand.

Get your head in the game, Draco, he thought. He swerved and shot off after the ball.

He didn’t like it that they were talking. Not they Luna couldn’t talk to whoever she liked. It was just that Granger despised him so entirely that anything she had to say to Luna couldn’t be good. If they’d even been discussing him at all.

Egotistical, he scolded himself, then took a hard left and snatched the ball out of the air. He stuffed it in his pocket and drove on through the rushing wind. They probably weren’t even talking about you!

Night was falling. It was getting harder to see the little white balls, but Draco thought he only had two left. He soared high above the pitch and squinted down, trying to see one. There! Over by Kevin, a flash of white was bulleting around the players. He was going to have to drop right through gameplay to get it.

Draco nosedived between Prescott and Owen, who ducked out of the way just in time. He plucked the ball from beside Kevin’s right elbow and crammed that one into his pocket, too.

“Like taking candy from a baby,” he shouted at Kevin, who grinned, and Draco returned to his spot above the practice to search for the last ball.

The last rays of sun were staining the sky with a riot of color. It was too beautiful to ignore. Draco hovered far above the ground, watching the sun set below the tree line of the Forbidden Forest and trying very hard to be happy.

Just don’t think about the trial. Too late.

Draco wanted to savor these moments where the world was just about sunsets and quidditch practice. He’d even take homework and boring classes. But trials and whispered taunts and memories of the terrible past wouldn’t go away just because he willed them so.

He was supposed to get getting that stupid ball. Where was it? Draco looked down, scanning the pitch for any hint of white. Was that—no , that was the failing light shimmering on Carolyn’s hair. Then he saw it, the final ball. It was right across from him. He’d practically been staring at it. But he hadn’t seen it because of the sun.

Draco bolted straight across the pitch and swirled to catch the ball from behind his back. He thought it had been a pretty smooth move himself, and the rest of the team evidently thought so, too. They’d stopped practice for the night and were all staring up at him shouting their appreciation. He took a bow in midair and flew down to join them at the center of the pitch.

“Great practice, everyone,” Prescott was saying when Draco touched down beside him. “Kevin, Owen, heads are not bludgers, no matter how much James’ face looks like one.” Everyone sniggered, and James folded him arms in mock-annoyance. “And Carolyn, nice moves. I think you’re the best Keeper Hufflepuff’s ever had.” Carolyn smiled as the rest nodded in agreement. “James, pass the ball. Smith, Smith—” Smith wasn’t even looking at Prescott, who hesitated, then carried on without comment when Smith didn’t turn around, “Draco, I don’t know what you’re doing half of the time, but I like it. That dive earlier nearly killed me.” Draco thought maybe Prescott was offering a criticism, but the captain just smiled and said, “So, keep up the good work!”

“Are we done?” asked Smith suddenly. Everyone glanced over at him in disgust.

“Yeah, we’re done,” said Prescott. “Practice again on Thursday. Same time, alright?”

The team broke apart into smaller groups as they made their way to the changing room. Carolyn walked with Draco, her Keeper gloves tucked under her arm and her stride long and graceful. She told him how she’d sustained an injury during practice from Smith, who had been trying to get a quaffle past her and missed.

“He ran right into me,” she said, pulling her shirt down to show Draco the bruise on her on her collarbone.

It looked bad, all purple and swollen, but Draco had to swallow hard in spite of himself. “You’re lucky he didn’t break it because, let me tell you, that hurts.” Draco was remembering his injuries from Vaisey and Harper. He took a deep breath and felt his lungs protest. It was still there, that slight wheeze, the sharp pain that bit at the inside of his chest from the bottom of his lungs. Better, but not gone.

Carolyn fixed her shirt back into place, eying Draco astutely. “Yeah,” she said. “So I’ve heard.”

Once everyone had taken showers and stowed their brooms, they traipsed back up to the castle talking excitedly about dinner. In the Great Hall, Draco was about to seat himself between Prescott and Carolyn when James yanked him backwards with a whispered, “Oh, no you don’t! You’re sitting with me.” He dragged Draco down the Hufflepuff table to the very end and pushed him into a seat. As Draco settled himself, James rounded the corner of the table to sit across from him.

Draco didn’t have to wonder what on earth was going on for very long, however. As soon as James sat down, he leaned over the table to Draco and said, “So it’s Carolyn, is it?”

“What in the name of Merlin’s sodding ballsack was that all about?!” Draco hissed. Food appeared before them, but neither boy moved to pile any on their plates.

 “Carolyn Stump,” James said. “You like her.” It wasn’t a question.

Draco had to think about this for a moment. Did he like her? He’d only known her for a few days. He hardly knew anything about her. Yes, he spent time with her in the Hufflepuff common room. They liked to study together. They didn’t bother each other. And then there was quidditch. She was an amazing quidditch player. And yes, she was quite good-looking. But like her? There were so many other things going on that Draco hadn’t even considered it. He told James so.

“I’ve seen the way you look at her,” said James, not at all like his usual self. “And I’ve seen the way she looks at you.”

A thought occurred to Draco just then. “You like her!”

James sat back. “She’s a muggleborn,” he said venomously, as if he was delivering a death blow.

“So?” growled Draco, flaring up at once. “What’s that supposed to mean?” Did James think that Draco had been playing a game here? Did he think that after all that Draco had done, as far as he’d come in so short of a time, that it was just an act? “You think that just because she’s a muggleborn I wouldn’t like her?”

“So you do like her?” James snapped back. “I knew it!”

“James, you’re freaking me out right now,” said Draco, trying to restore some sense to the conversation.

 “I don’t even know Carolyn! She’s just a friend!” 

“Right. Just a friend. Sure.” It looked as though James was fighting back a Hungarian Horntail that was spitting fire somewhere in the vicinity of his stomach. He laughed mirthlessly and bent over the table toward Draco again. “It’s just like you and Granger,” he spat, “You watching her all the time, thinking if you buddy up to her that everyone will just magically think you’re man of the year. I bet you think if you get yourself a muggleborn that people know you’re all rehabilitated or whatever. It’s not going to happen, Draco. I won’t let you.”

Draco drew his wand under the table and twisted it in his sweating hand, exercising all his will power not to curse James into next Christmas.

“I thought you were my friend, James. I thought—” he broke off, unable to put into words the betrayal he felt at that moment. “But I’m glad to finally know what you really think of me. Thanks for that.” Draco got up. He wasn’t hungry anymore. He just wanted to put as much space between himself and James as possible.

Draco felt every Hufflepuff’s eyes on him as he stomped out of the Great Hall.

+++

The school owl that delivered Hermione’s letter to Harry found her at dinner on Monday night with his reply. It landed on her Arithmancy book, dutifully held out its leg for her, and then took flight again after she’d relieved it of the envelope. There were three letters inside. One said “Ginny” on the front, and the others said “Hermione”. The second addressed to her was in Ron’s handwriting. She tapped Ginny on the shoulder and handed her the letter.

“From Harry,” she explained when Ginny, taking the folded parchment, gave her a quizzical look.

“Oh, brilliant!” Ginny, whipped it open and started reading it at once.

Hermione looked between the two letters in her hands and decided to read Harry’s first. It said:

Hermione,

Ron and I will be coming to collect you, Luna, and Malfoy at 7:30am on the 15^th for the trial. The escort is mostly for Malfoy, it’s just a bonus that we’ll be back at Hogwarts to get you, too. It’s all settled with McGonagall. I’m surprised she didn’t mention it.

Both Ron and I have been summoned to testify for Narcissa’s trial as well. And yes they’re all being tried separately, apparently by Narcissa’s request. She’s not exactly blameless, but I think it’s smart of her to distance herself a bit from the rest of the family.

Do you know anything about this MacDougal character? I asked around in the office and no one’s ever heard of him. I mean, I recognize his name. He’s Morag’s dad, isn’t he? You know, that Ravenclaw bloke in our year. Anyway, I don’t know anything about him, but it is strange that Narcissa’s not being represented by Bliswick. Everyone says he’s the best counsel this century, and he’s been the Malfoy family counsel for ages.

I wanted to talk to you about Malfoy. Ron told me what you said. Well, shouted at me is more like it. I made him write to you and explain himself. That last letter from him was not exactly fair.

I hear what you’re saying about Malfoy, Hermione, but I want to warn you anyway. Be careful. Malfoy’s a slimy git, and I wouldn’t put it past him to put on some act to try to get everyone on his side before the trial. I’m sure it’s occurred to you that he’s manipulating everyone. I told Ron you can handle yourself and that if you think Malfoy’s piss poor attitude is on the mend, you know what you’re talking about. Still, Hermione, watch your back. I agree with Ron. He’s still a Slytherin, and he’s still a Malfoy. Two weeks of playing nice isn’t going to change my mind.

See you soon!

Harry

Well, that didn’t make Hermione feel any better. She’d been so conflicted since her talk with Luna the day before that she could barely concentrate on her studies. And now Harry was telling her to be careful. He thought that Ron was right.

She read the letter again, trying to focus on something besides the last paragraph. Harry and Ron were coming to get her and Luna and Malfoy. So Malfoy was to testify as well. And Narcissa had requested a separate trial from her husband and son. Hermione wondered why, but she moved on.

MacDougal. MacDougal? Hermione hadn’t heard of him either. He’d never been in the Daily Prophet, to her knowledge, and he wasn’t included in any of the Wizengamot court cases she’d ever read. But Counsel Bliswick was. From what Hermione knew about him, Bliswick was a force to be reckoned with in the courtroom. So much so that he wasn’t allowed in the courtroom for Lucius Malfoy’s trial a few years ago because the Ministry was afraid he’d get Lucius off on some minor oversight. Instead, the Death Eaters had been represented by some junior counsel who could barely read the charges, let alone defend his clients. Hermione couldn’t say she thought that was fair, but most of her didn’t particularly mind that the Death Eaters were not properly represented in that case. Serves them right.

Hermione moved on to Ron’s letter.

Dear Hermione,

I’m sorry about my last letter. I was bang out of order. But I agree with Harry. Just be careful, ok?

Harry and I are coming to get you in October for the trial. Maybe we can talk about it then? You’re the smartest girl I know, Hermione, if you think Malfoy’s changed, I think you could be right. I still want to see it for myself, though.

I miss you, and I can’t wait to see you. And I’m sorry again.

Love from,

Ron

Hermione folded up both of the letters and tucked them into her Arithmancy book. You will see it for yourself, Ron, Hermione thought. Then maybe you can tell me what to think.

When Hermione looked up to ask Ginny what her letter had said, the redhead was staring at her.

“You got a summons for the Malfoy trial and you didn’t tell me?” Ginny asked.

Nodding and feeling dutifully ashamed of herself for keeping such an important thing from her friend for so long, Hermione said, “Yes. A few days ago.”

“Why did I have to hear this from Harry?”

“I’m sorry, Ginny,” Hermione said. “I should have told you. It’s just hard for me to…” She didn’t really have an excuse and she knew it.

Ginny glared at her for another minute, then seemed to decide to let it go. Her expression softened when she said, “So Harry and Ron are coming to collect you then? That’s good news!”

Hermione nodded again. At least Ginny would get to see Harry before the first Hogsmeade visit. As much as Hermione missed Ron and wanted to see him, Ginny and Harry had been practically inseparable all summer. They had the kind of love that authors spent whole books trying to adequately describe.

When Harry had decided not to come back and finish his seventh year, the Burrow shook with Ginny’s wrath, but eventually she relented. After all, Harry had good reason not to want to spend a full school year wading around in terrible memories. Hermione almost envied him and Ron. She knew that school was important, but it was almost worth skipping out on her last year to escape the haunted feeling she got whenever she let herself think about the battle here only months before.

“Hey, you ok?” Ginny was watching Hermione intently now. “Harry said Ron was a prat to you in his last letter. Want to talk about it?”

“No thanks, Ginny.” Hermione packed up her books and parchment and stood up, slinging her backpack over her shoulder. “I think I’m going to go up to the common room and study there. Want to come?”

Ginny shot a look over at Vicky and Ritchie, who were canoodling down the table from them. “Yes,” she said, rolling her eyes pointedly. Hermione and Ginny laughed all the way up to Gryffindor tower.

+++

Draco wandered around the basement floor of the castle for a long time before actually going to the Hufflepuff common room. He didn’t want to see James. He didn’t want to see any of them. They all thought he was a fraud. He knew that now. And they’d all been so nice to him. Draco didn’t think he could feel any worse.

Maybe he was a fraud. Maybe he’d been kidding himself to think that just because he wanted to change that he ever really could. He had been hoping so hard for so long that things could really be different. But they weren’t. They never would be. He hadn’t even been to court yet and he was already condemned. And he’d done it to himself.

Up ahead, a shimmering something was wafting down the corridor. It was the Fat Friar, the stout little monk who was the Hufflepuff ghost. Before Draco could duck out of sight, the Friar had hailed him. “Ho there!” He sped up to meet Draco in the hallway and came to a stop before him, rubbing his belly congenially and grinning from ear to ear.

“We haven’t officially met! I’m—”

“The Fat Friar. Yes, I know,” said Draco.

“And you’re Draco Malfoy, the newest Hufflepuff. Our reputations precede us.” Draco suppressed a grimace at the mention of reputations, thinking that he’d rather his buggering reputation would take a damn holiday. The Fat Friar had noticed Draco’s expression. “Something on your mind, young man? You can tell me, you know. I’m a friar!” He chortled pleasantly and pretended to lean against the wall. Draco thought of another ghost who’d been willing to lend an ear to Draco’s troubles and decided he’d go see Myrtle as soon as he had some free time.

Draco looked up and was almost startled to see the Friar still watching him. Right. He was supposed to be answering his question. Something was definitely on his mind. Did he want to talk about it, especially with the Hufflepuff ghost? Could he be trusted? Draco shook himself. He shouldn’t be thinking like that. Of course the Friar could be trusted. And yes, he did want to talk about it. But he didn’t know how to begin.

Draco was spared the necessity of starting, however, by the Fat Frair. “The Bloody Baron speaks very highly of you, Draco.” What did that mean? Draco wasn’t sure he wanted the Baron talking about him at all, let alone saying glowing things about him. Again, the Friar seemed to know what he was thinking. “He says that you have a lot of potential. You’re ambitious and of good noble stock. Exactly what a Slytherin should be.” The Friar gave Draco a dubious look. “But you know, you’ll forgive me if I confide in you that I have always found that Slytherin House has lacked, shall we say, a certain measure of compassion. What do you think, Draco?”

Draco said nothing, so the Friar went on, folding his hands pensively over his gigantic ghostly belly. “Every House has its flaws, Draco. Ravenclaw can be, pardon me, a bit aloof, tucked away in their tower with their books, and Gryffindor is a little on the reckless side.”

He couldn’t help himself, Draco laughed. “Reckless is putting it nicely!”

“Well, quite,” said the Fat Friar, chuckling genially. “As I say, each House has its flaws. None of us is perfect, but together we strive to do more — be more — than any of us could hope to accomplish on our own. My own House is known for compassion, much the opposite of Slytherin. We have our hearts open when others would rather not.  And sometimes that gets us hurt. Sometimes we wish we were not so accepting of others. Because, you see, we still live with the fear that our hearts will be broken just like everyone else does. It’s a different sort of courage than Gryffindor the Brave, you will agree, but it is courage nonetheless. And sometimes, our courage can falter, and we start to doubt what we know. We Hufflepuffs have no problem showing kindness ourselves, but at times it can be difficult to accept the kindness that comes from others. Does any of this make sense to you, Draco?”

Draco stared at the ground rather than look at the Fat Friar. “Yes,” he said quietly. He knew what the Friar was getting at. James wasn’t afraid Draco was a fraud. Not really. James was afraid Draco doubted himself, that he would slip back into his old ways out of his own fear of the unknown. And then people would get hurt. Because they did care about him. Because they did trust him.

“Acceptance is a tricky thing. We all want it, but we’re all wary of it,” said the Friar. “I know Hufflepuff is a good fit for you, Draco. Do you know how I know that?”

Shaking his head, Draco looked up at the Friar, into his small, pearly bright eyes. “How?”

The Friar smiled warmly. “Because you accepted us, too.”

Draco was speechless. He hadn’t thought of that. The Fat Friar pulled a pocket watch from his monk’s robes and glanced at it, then clapped his hand to his forehead. “Look at the time! I’m late for the weekly meeting of the ghosts. You’ll have to excuse me, Draco. I’m sure I’ll see you soon.” He floated past Draco down the hall, but stopped short of a bend in the corridor. “And Draco,” he said.

Draco turned to look at him. “Yeah?”

“I’m proud to have you in my House.” The Fat Friar disappeared through the wall ahead, leaving Draco alone in the hall with a silly grin on his face. After a moment, he took off at a run down the corridor toward the Hufflepuff common room. He needed to find James.

*Chapter 14*: Everything You're Not Supposed to Be

Chapter 14

Everything You’re Not Supposed to Be

Draco found James sulking in their dormitory. He had a book open in front of him, but his eyes weren’t moving. When Draco came in, he stiffened and shrank further down on the backboard. The temperature in the room might have dropped ten degrees. Prescott, Draco noticed, was sitting tight-jawed at the edge of his bed, saying nothing. Draco shut the door behind him and Prescott looked up at him, shaking his head.

“What—” Draco started, but he wasn’t sure where he was going with it. He wanted to apologize to James, but it suddenly struck him that James was really the one who needed to say he was sorry. Isn’t it a curious thing to want to patch things up so badly that you’re willing to take the blame? It was a new feeling for Draco.

Prescott picked up where Draco left off. “I think what Draco is trying to say is, ‘what the bloody hell is your problem, James?’” That was not, in fact, what Draco was trying to say, but it was as good a start as any. At least Prescott had said it, not him.

James didn’t look up from his book. “My problem,” he said, turning the page he clearly hadn’t read, “Is that I am an ass.”

That took Draco by surprise. Was James ignoring him because he was actually angry with himself? Did he avoid looking at him because he thought he had ruined their friendship?

Again, Prescott filled the silence where Draco’s responses should have been. “You’re doing a pretty good impression of one, yeah.”

James might have smiled, but he still didn’t look up from the book. “Girls suck,” he said, as if commenting on the weather.

“Undoubtedly,” said Draco. Prescott glanced over at him and cocked his eyebrow.

“And I am an awful friend.” James turned another page.

“Definitely not,” countered Draco.

“If you continue on in this shameful way I shall be forced to hex you,” said Prescott, pulling his wand from his pocket and pointing it at James. It sounded so ridiculous, and the sight of Prescott biting his tongue in mock-concentration and squinting his eyes as if taking careful aim at James’ nose was so asinine, that Draco snorted with laughter.

James looked up to see what the joke was and ended up smiling himself. “I think that pink would be an appropriate color, Prescott, if you wouldn’t mind.”

“I think Draco should do the honors,” Prescott returned, nodding at Draco.

James addressed Draco instead. “Draco, pink with orange polka-dots.” He threw out his arms, presenting his chest as a target.

“I’ll pass,” said Draco, “I don’t want to be seen with a pink guy, especially not one with orange polka-dots. That would be really embarrassing.” James locked eyes with Draco, his hazel gaze searching for some hint of anger and finding none. Draco couldn’t stay mad at James if he wanted to. Besides, James wasn’t in control of himself. He liked Carolyn, and that was like a form of temporary insanity. Boys did stupid, stupid things when girls entered the picture.

“I’m sorry, Draco. I shouldn’t have said anything of those things. I didn’t mean them. I just…”

“He knows,” interjected Prescott. “Look at him, James. Draco practically wrote the book on ‘dumb shit I’ve said in the past and am now really sorry about’.” They all laughed, though Draco joined in a little peevishly, and Ryan backed into the room carrying food.

Prescott tossed his wand over his shoulder onto the bed behind him and shouted, “Finally! I am starving.”

“What, didn’t you eat?” asked Draco, who was actually pretty hungry himself now that he thought of it.

“Nah. James was having his period all over the place after you left so we gave up on dinner and came back here to talk about his feelings.”

“Stuff it, you prat! I can’t help it that I’m sensitive!” And James feigned bursting into tears, but stopped abruptly when Ryan brought over a sandwich and a glass of pumpkin juice for him. 

Ryan held James’ food just out of reach and cooed, “What do we say, Jamesy?”

James affected a bashful demeanor and replied in a baby voice. “Thaaaank Youuuuu.” Ryan nodded his approval and handed everything over.

“Draco, are you hungry? I brought enough for you as well.”

“Really?” said Draco, taken slightly aback.

“Well, I knew you had to come back at some point. Roast beef, right?” Ryan handed a sandwich to Draco which he took with his thanks, leaning up against one of the posts of Prescott’s bed to eat.

“So, you’ve got it bad, huh?” said Draco to James between mouthfuls of roast beef sandwich. 

James pretended not to hear him.

“He’s liked Carolyn since third year,” said Prescott after a gulp of pumpkin juice. “No one else has been allowed anywhere near her since. Doesn’t seem able to get up the nerve to ask her out, though.”

“I’m building the suspense,” said James with dignity. They all laughed.

Ryan said, “She’s stayed single so far. Maybe she’s just waiting for you to make your move.”

“I’m like Draco here. I like to admire from afar for a few years before I pounce on a girl. You have to make them want it, right Draco?”

Draco turned to James in bewilderment. “What are you talking about?”

“Hermione Granger,” said Prescott. “He’s been comparing the two situations all night.”

“But there’s nothing between me and Granger!” Draco retorted.

"The lady doth protest too much, methinks," said Prescott.

Draco looked at him in blank confusion. “What the bloody hell is that?” 

“It’s Shakespeare, you uncultured swine! He’s a muggle playwright.” said Prescott, looking offended.

“His mum’s an English professor at a university in the States,” Ryan explained. “He’s always coming out with rubbish like that.”

Draco nodded his understanding for a moment, then snapped his head up to look over at Prescott. “Hang on, did you just call me a ‘lady’?”

+++

On Tuesday evening, Hermione sat with her head against her four-poster listening to Ginny talk, sitting opposite her at the end of the bed. Crookshanks lay stretched out between them, inviting Hermione to scratch his tummy. She obliged, and he purred loudly. Hermione wished that he could drown out Ginny’s words.

“…And the fact that he’s Seeker for Hufflepuff is just disturbing. What are they playing at? They’ve got to know that he’s just putting on a show so that people will like him for the trial. Too bad Skeeter’s not buzzing around Hogwarts. It’d be great to get it out in the papers what a joke he is. It’s pitiful, really…”

Hermione focused on Crookshanks, who had taken her hand into his paws and was licking her knuckles. “I don’t think it’s pitiful. And I don’t think he’s pretending, really.”

That shut Ginny up. Now she was just staring at Hermione incredulously. Then she broke out into giggles. “Come on, Hermione! You can’t be serious. This is Malfoy we’re talking about.”

“You sound like Ron.”

“Aw, Hermione, don’t say that,” said Ginny, affecting a shudder with a smile still on her face. “Listen, Malfoy’s a buggering Slytherin. He deserves to go to Azkaban. Look what he did! He tried to kill Dumbledore, and he’s a Death Eater. Who knows what all he got up to did that we don’t even know about!”

“I’ve already thought of all of this. But Luna believes him. He apologized to her. ”

Ginny made a sound like “pft” and waved this away dismissively.

“No, I mean it. Luna was there in the worst of it. She was trapped in his house, remember? If he can apologize to her and she can forgive him, that means—”

“—that means dick,” Ginny finished for her. “She’s not right in the head. She only believes in stuff that doesn’t exist! That just proves—”

“—proves that Malfoy’s pretending? Because Luna believes him? Nice, Ginny.” Hermione gathered Crookshanks up into her lap and glared at Ginny.

Ginny glared back. “You can’t actually be taking Luna’s word over mine?”

Hermione tried to bite her tongue, but she couldn’t hold back. “What is your opinion, exactly? That Malfoy’s a Malfoy? That he’s a Slytherin so he can’t be trusted?”

“Pretty much.”

“That’s just stupid, Ginny.” Hermione couldn’t believe what she was hearing. Ginny sounded so full of blind hate and bitter judgment. Was this how she had sounded? No wonder Luna had walked out on their conversation. Hermione was just barely resisting the urge to walk out on this one right now.

Ginny opened her mouth to retort, but just then Natalie Fairbourne opened the door and headed straight for Hermione holding a note. “McGonagall wants to see you,” she said and handed the folded parchment over. It said very simply:

Ms. Ganger, I would like for you to come to my office as soon as is convenient. If not sooner.

Gloria Magnus

- MM

Hermione looked up to see Ginny sliding off of her bed and heading toward the door with Natalie. “Fancy a game of exploding snap?” Natalie was saying. They were gone before Hermione could say another word.

That was just as well, she thought as she pulled a sweater over her head and slid into some flats. Maybe she was being hard on Ginny. Of course the hot-blooded redhead would refuse to hear any defense of Malfoy. She knew how awful Malfoy had been to Harry during school. She would hate him on principle, even if Malfoy hadn’t been a complete prat to her personally as well.

And he had. He’d been a gigantic jerk to all of them. But… It was different now. Hermione felt like she understood him. She may not know the whole story, but she knew he was trying to change the ending. He was working toward something that Hermione had always struggled with as well: acceptance. Working hard. Hoping people would see he was trying. The Hufflepuffs had noticed. Luna had noticed. She was weird, and frustrating, and right. Malfoy did not need Hermione’s or anyone else’s permission to change. And change he had. She wished she could talk to him again, just to see it in his eyes for herself. What if he apologized to her, too? Could she forgive him? Maybe she would get the chance to find out.

She took a few shortcuts to the Headmistress’s corridor where the gargoyle stood guard at the entrance to the staircase. Still, she had plenty of time to over-think everything, and when she whispered “Gloria Magnus,” to the ugly statue blocking her path, she had already started coming up with excuses to get him alone to talk.

Then there he was, opening the door of the office. Malfoy saw her and took a startled step back, then leaned forward and grabbed her wrist to keep her from toppling back down the spiraling steps in surprise. He smiled a little, and she knew he was thinking of how he always ended up catching her right before she fell. Her cheeks flushed violently red. She forgot to thank him as she brushed past him into the Headmistress’s office. He closed the door behind her. She heard his footsteps down the staircase.

“Ms. Granger. That was fast.”

“Well, you said sooner than was convenient, Headmistress. That means now, right?”

McGonagall allowed herself a smile and gestured to one of the seats in front of her desk. But Hermione wasn’t looking at her. Instead, her gaze fell on Dumbledore’s empty portrait. Then on the other painting right next to it, the one Harry had insisted be placed in this office despite countless protests. Snape. He was glaring down his hooked nose at her, awake and alert while the other portraits snoozed. He said nothing, but he nodded his head very slightly. Hermione nodded back and sat down, still watching him watching her.

“Ms. Granger, I wanted to speak to you about—” There was a knock at the door and McGonagall said, “Enter!” Luna came in and sat down without being asked. “Ms. Lovegood, thank you for coming.”

“Hi Luna,” murmured Hermione, wondering what the other girl was thinking. Was she still angry with her over what had transpired between them in that empty classroom on Sunday?

Luna turned to look at Hermione. “Hello, Hermione,” she said with her usual haze of dreamy ambiguity. She seemed to recognize something in Hermione’s eyes, because she smiled. “You feel differently about it all now. I’m glad.”

Hermione was completely distracted by this off-putting observation, but McGonagall had apparently discerned nothing strange from the situation because she continued with what she had been trying to say before. “I wanted to speak to both of you about the upcoming trial.” Hermione stiffened, her unease strengthened by the fact that Luna had not stopped looking at her approvingly.

“You will both be excused on the 15^th to testify, as will Mr. Malfoy. He’ll be missing a lot of school to attend the whole of all three trials, but hopefully you two will only be missing just three days of classes, one for each trial. Of course, we don’t yet know if you’ll be summoned for Lucius Malfoy’s trial or even for Mr. Malfoy’s trial, but I think it is a safe assumption to make at the present.

“I will have a classmate of yours take careful notes and present them to you with the day’s homework upon your return. Does that sound alright?” Hermione nodded, and Luna finally turned her huge, gray-eyed gaze to McGonagall, though she made no other sign that she’d even heard the Headmistress.

McGonagall ignored Luna’s strange behavior and continued, “Mr. Potter and Mr. Weasley will be coming to collect you in the morning from this office, which will be connected to the Ministry by the floo network for the day.” Then McGonagall took of her spectacles and set them heavily on her desk. She peered at them both earnestly. “Lastly, I want to offer my support to both of you. I know how difficult it can be to relive terrible memories of the past, let alone in front of strangers and face to face with the causes of so much pain. I am sorry to say that I have tried to absolve you of this burden, but Minister Shacklebolt tells me it cannot be avoided and Counsel MacDgoual — he’s Narcissa Malfoy’s counsel – assures me that your testimony is very necessary. Otherwise—”

“I want to do it,” said Luna. Both Hermione and McGonagall looked at her. “I want to. Someone should tell the truth about all of it. I think I could be that person.”

McGonagall pursed her lips. “The truth, Ms. Lovegood?”

“I was trapped in that cellar for a long time, Headmistress, but I think the Malfoys were even less free than I was.”

McGonagall looked like she’d just been stumped by a sphinx. “Well…” she blustered, but Hermione cut in before she could go on.

“I want to testify, too. I didn’t at first, but I want to now.” Up in his portrait, Snape gave her a very small smile.

“I think we both have very relevant information to offer, Headmistress,” said Luna, a note of defiance in her voice.

“Well…” McGonagall started again, “Well, yes. I believe you do. I just didn’t want either of you to be forced into this against your will.”

“They need us,” Luna said. She was picking absently as a hangnail on her finger. It had begun to bleed. Hermione thought about how much strength it must take for Luna to champion her torturers like this. Her resolve was uncanny. She believes the impossible, Hermione thought. But just because it’s impossible doesn’t mean it’s not true.

McGonagall bid them both goodnight soon after. She seemed a bit put off by Luna, actually. Hermione privately agreed. Luna’s penchant for making everyone around her uncomfortable was as potent as ever.

Hermione and Luna descended the spiral staircase together in silence. When they passed the gargoyle at the bottom, Luna said “Goodnight!” and skipped off down the corridor toward Ravenclaw tower. Why had she left in such a hurry? Hermione had so much to tell her, so much she wanted to say. She wanted to apologize for her behavior on Sunday. She wanted Luna to help her understand everything she was feeling, how conflicted she was, how wrong she had been. Luna was wiser by far than Hermione had been. She could definitely use her guidance now.

Hermione was so wrapped up in her own preoccupied thoughts that she didn’t notice the figure moving in the shadows until he spoke.

+++

“Granger,” said Draco, pushing off from the stone wall where he’d been waiting for Granger to leave the Headmistress’s office.

She gave a little squeak of terror that would have made his old self cackle derisively. But now his eyes widened and he stepped out into the moonlight streaming in from the windows opposite him. Granger plucked at her sweater as if trying to pull it closer around her, as if to shield herself from his very presence. Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea.

“Hey, it’s ok. I just want to talk,” he said coaxingly. He really did just want to talk to her, and he was hoping she felt the same. After staring at her in class for weeks and one very brief encounter which, admittedly, had not gone so well, he had decided that he needed to put a little more effort into interacting with Granger. As James and Prescott kept reminding him, he didn’t have to convince her of anything, but he still wanted… wanted to say something.

“Hi Malfoy.”

 It occurred to Draco that he was doing exactly the opposite of what Bliswick had instructed. He knew that Granger was going to speak at his mother’s trial in just a few weeks. He knew that she’d probably be called to testify at his own. Still. This was a long time coming.

“Hi.” Pitiful.

“What—uh—what did you—” She was looking shifty.

“I was waiting for you,” Draco said. That really didn’t tell her anything. He took a step toward her and she didn’t recoil in fear. That was a good sign. “I wanted to talk to you—” he started, but she suddenly blurted out, “Why are you always staring at me?!”

Draco tried to look unfazed. What was he supposed to say to that? “I’m plotting your untimely demise.”

Right. Now was not the time for jokes. Granger obviously didn’t get it.

“I mean,” he started again, thinking this was way harder than he could have ever imagined, “I keep thinking that I should say something to you about everything.”

“You don’t need to explain it to me, Malfoy.” She tucked a loose strand of curly brown hair behind her ear nervously. The moonlight had cast her face into shadow. He couldn’t see her expression. Was she annoyed? Scared?

“I think I do.”

“Well, Luna made it pretty clear what your intentions are.”

She was maddening.  What did that even mean? Luna made it pretty clear what your intentions are. Draco contained his irritation and tried to think. Granger must be talking about the time when he’d seen her and Luna coming out of that classroom together. It was killing him to know what had passed between them. He didn’t want Granger to ruin things for him with Luna. She was the first to forgive him. She didn’t outright hate him. She even seemed to understand him. She was important.

He thought, suddenly, that he wasn’t giving Luna enough credit. Maybe Granger hadn’t changed Luna’s mind. Maybe it was the other way around.

“She get to you, too?” he asked, trying to make his voice sound light.

“In a way.”

Merlin’s soggy underwear what the hell was Granger on about? Just say what you mean!

Draco decided to take his own advice. “I know there’s this trial coming up and you probably think I’m full of dragon dung, but I wanted to apologize to you before all of this goes to hell. No matter what, Granger, I am sorry for everything that happened. I just want you to know that. I’m sorry.”

Granger was staring at him open-mouthed. It was not an attractive look. It was a look of stunned amazement.

“Don’t tell me I stumped you, Granger. That’s got to be a first!” Draco said, cracking a smile despite the awkwardness surrounding everything to do with the scene.

Granger’s face hardened. She clenched her jaw and narrowed her eyes at him. This was not going to be pleasant.  

“This act you’re putting on, being nice to everyone, being everybody’s best friend, it’s not going to work on me,” she shot at him, her voice echoing off of the stone walls. “You want to stay out of Azkaban, I get it.”

“I don’t want to go to Azkaban, you’re right,” Draco returned, his voice rising to equal hers. “But you still don’t get it.” How could he have ever thought she’d understand? Now that she was standing in front of him practically spitting venom at him, Draco wondered how he had convinced himself otherwise. “I don’t just want to stay out of prison. I want to live. Finally, really and truly live.”

“No one’s stopping you!” she shouted. “You made your own mistakes. No one forced you to do what you did! No one forced you to get the Dark Mark and going around trying to murder everyone! You did that all by yourself!”

“Yeah, me! Right again, Granger. I chose to take the Mark so that the Dark Lord wouldn’t target my parents. I chose to accept the mission to kill Dumbledore because it came down to my family or him. I chose to come back to school and torture a bunch of little kids so that no one would ever know how evil I felt, how much I hated myself. Because if they ever did, if they ever suspected for one second that  I was anything other than a loyal servant, everyone I ever cared about would be dead. And yeah, I chose to bully and demean you and your little Gryffindor friends and everyone else for years because that’s what my father expected of me, because that was the only way I’d ever known how to be. Me me me.”

His voice broke, but he kept going, yelling at Granger in the harsh contrast of the moonlight and shadows. “You’re completely right. I was a despicable person and I deserve a lifetime in Azkaban and more. How dare I try to make up for that! How dare I change! How dare I even attempt to make up for all the awful things I’ve done! How dare I apologize to you when here you are clearly trying your damnest to hate me. I’m sorry I can’t be what you want me to be, but I won’t do it anymore. You may want to live in the past, but I can’t.”

Draco turned on his heel and strode down the corridor before Granger could reply, the summons to his mother’s trial a balled-up crush of paper in his fist.

*Chapter 15*: The Tension and the Terror

Chapter 15

The Tension and the Terror

When Harry stepped out onto the hearth rug in the Headmistress’s office, dusting ash off of his robes and looking even more grown up than when Hermione had said goodbye to him a month and a half ago, Ginny couldn’t contain herself. She jumped into his arms at once, knocking him back against the fireplace and kissing every part of his face she could reach while standing on her tiptoes.

McGonagall looked disapproving, but said nothing. Perhaps she knew that the couple wouldn’t be able to hear her reprimands over the hum of their own excitement, or else thought that they would just ignore her. Either way, when Ron appeared in a swirl of green flames, McGonagall needn’t have bothered shooting Hermione a warning look. Her reunion with Ron was decidedly more subdued.

“Morning!” he said, hugging her gently around her waist. “Hermione, I missed you so much!” She knew he was suppressing the urge to scoop her up and kiss her, but found she was glad he had decided against it. She was still sore about his letters and too nervous about the morning ahead to think much about blissful hellos.

“Good morning,” she answered him, adding a peck on his cheek more out of the pressure to seem overjoyed at his arrival than anything else. And because she wanted, if only very briefly, to think about someone other than the blond-haired boy standing away from the fireplace with Luna. They were holding hands. Not because they’d realized some ridiculous passion for each other, but because Malfoy needed support and for a month Luna had been there at every turn to give it. Solidarity, that’s what it was. And it made Hermione uncomfortable. Especially since she hadn’t spoken to either of them since that night in the Headmistress’s corridor weeks ago.

“Are you ready?” Ron asked Hermione. He was cupping her face in his hands, looking into her eyes as if he could read in them some testament of her emotional state.

“No, you don’t have to go yet, do you?” came Ginny’s muffled whisper from Harry’s shoulder. Harry softly extracted himself from her embrace. He seemed to pull himself together, taking in the scene, taking in Malfoy and Luna standing hand-in-hand, and McGonagall sitting stiff-backed at her desk, and Hermione with Ron’s arm around her shoulder, and the office looking the same as it always had except for the conspicuously empty portraits of Dumbledore and Snape.

And he smiled. “I think we should go, yeah,” he replied after a moment. Ginny stepped back, apparently recovering her senses. Her face was flush with happiness then disappointment. Hermione knew Ginny had spent half the night awake thinking eagerly about seeing Harry again because Hermione had spent it lying awake dreading the dawn. And now it was here. And they were going to the Ministry to testify at Narcissa Malfoy’s trial.

“Alright you lot,” said Ron, who had yet to let go of Hermione, “let’s go. We’ve got a long day ahead of us.”

Harry smiled at McGonagall. “Nice to see you, Headmistress.”

“Potter,” she replied, her cool demeanor warming into a smile.

“Oh yeah! Hey, McGona—Headmistress!” said Ron, grinning at her.

McGonagall stood up. “Mr. Wealsey,” she said, and her height was imposing, even for Ron who was very tall, “I think, under the circumstances, you may call me Minerva.”

Ron gaped at her, then Harry laughed. “I think we’ll have to work up to that, Headmistress,” he said. Harry squeezed Ginny’s hand one last time and released it. “We’ll be back before dinner. I’ll see you then, ok?” he told Ginny, who nodded.

“Hermione!” Harry said, as if he’d just seen her.

“Hi Harry! How are you?” It was so strange to speak to him in person again. After all of their correspondence, about Ron, about the Auror office, about the Trial, about Malfoy, it was almost awkward.

“Harry, this is Draco Malfoy,” said Luna, moving forward and pulling Malfoy by his hand. Hermione snuck a glance at them. Malfoy’s face was like marble. Luna was smiling pleasantly, as if introducing one good friend to another for the first time.

“Yeah, hi Luna. I know who that is,” said Harry without looking at Malfoy. Hermione had warned Ron and Harry of this recent unnerving development, but that didn’t make it any less bizarre.

“You’re going to be late,” said McGonagall, her voice breaking through the icy silence.

Harry nodded curtly and turned toward the fireplace. “Malfoy, you’ll go after me. Ron, you next, then Luna, then Hermione.” He took a little container out of his robes, dug a handful of floo powder out of it, and tossed the shimmering dust into the fire. It burst into green flames at once and Harry stepped inside. “Ministry of Magic,” he said very clearly over the roar of the flames. In a swirl of greenish flame, he disappeared.

Malfoy was next. Hermione noted his haggard, slump-shouldered appearance. He looked like she felt. His neat black robes had the usual expensive air about them, but the way he wore them was different. As he shouted, “Ministry of Magic!” he looked at her. His grey eyes were dazzling in the bright green light, gripping her, pulling her into him. There was something about his gaze… A question. No, a plea… Then she realized he was screaming. Screaming at her with his blazing eyes. As if he was burning up in the fire as it ate him away into nothing.  Then he was gone.

Hermione was so disoriented that she barely noticed Ron and Luna vanish into the fireplace. It took McGonagall voice softly calling her back to the present to wake her from her thoughts. “Hermione?”

“Right. Sorry, Headmistress,” Hermione said and stumbled over to the fireplace.

“You don’t have to do this—” McGonagall began but Hermione interrupted her.

“I have to go,” she took a fist of power from the pot on the mantle and threw it into the fire. “The Ministry of Magic!” She caught one last glimpse of the Headmistress’s office and McGonagall’s confused expression twisting away from her before she was zooming past myriad other wizarding living rooms and pubs on her way to the Ministry of Magic.

They were right to get to the Ministry an hour early, but it wasn’t processing that was taking so much time. From the moment they had arrived in the atrium, it seemed that hundreds of people had jostled her, taken her picture, pressed her to answer questions with quick quotes quills waggling in her face as they whizzed across parchment in midair, or just shouted their names.

“Harry! Harry Potter, the Daily Prophet would—”

“Hermione! Luna Lovegood! Ms. Granger! Over here!” Another camera flashed nearby, blinding Hermione.

They were all shunted forward, with Harry and Ron tried to stave off the crowd as Malfoy, Luna, and Hermione inched closer to the security guard stationed at the other end of the atrium to register their wands.

“Mr. Malfoy, do you—” began a man, shoving a microphone under Harry’s arm, trying to get closer to Malfoy, but Harry pushed him roughly out of the way. Hermione watched Malfoy out of the corner of her eye. His head was down, his expression stoic.

Here and there, witches and wizards trying to get to work were jolted diagonally through the throng in a long-suffering, harassed sort of way.

At the fountain, now a circle of dark stone statues holding hands around a single spout of water, Hermione caught a snippet of words in French from a witch running along beside them with a microphone held to her lips, shouting over the din. “—Hermione Granger, héroïne de la Seconde Guerre des Sorciers, se cache son visage en alarme, clairement submerge—”

Finally, they made it to the security guard’s stand. They each held out their wand for examination and answered the guard’s questions in turn. Everyone except Harry and Ron received visitor’s badges that read “Visitor – Witness” and pinned them to their robes as they forced their way to the lifts.

Ron shouted down a bald man with a camera when he tried to sneak into their elevator and then the golden grate slid shut and they slid downwards toward the courtrooms, leaving behind the insanity of the atrium. Harry straightened his robes and said, “That was ridiculous.” Ron laughed, but he was the only one. They were used to the attention. For Luna, Hermione, and Malfoy, this zoo was overwhelming, to say the least. Whatever she had expected, it wasn’t that.

Harry fiddled with the buttons next to the elevator door for a moment, before explaining, “this lift is going straight down now. We don’t want to risk anyone else getting in.”

When the grate slid open again, a granite-walled hallway yawned back at them. The walls were a blank expanse of harsh, shadowed gray with no windows or doors except the one to leading to the Department of Mysteries on the right. To the left, the corridor ended in a staircase. When they exited the lift together, it was toward the stairs.

Hermione blinked rapidly and tried to keep control of herself. She could feel her hands shaking. She stuffed them into her robes to hide them from the others. Surely no one else was as panicked as her.

They reached the bottom of the steps and started off down another hallway. This one had rough-hewn stone walls with torches set high in iron brackets and thick wooden doors with iron bolts set at intervals. There was a light under the door up ahead, and the murmur of voices muffled by stone and wood. This didn’t feel real.

A woman bustled up to them out of the shadows. “Good morning!” she said. Her voice echoed down the hallway, and down the corridor a little knot of people turned to face them. Hermione recognized Narcissa Malfoy, her white-blonde hair tied up in an elaborate hair-do. She wore robes of deep blue that gleamed in the torchlight.

“Mother!” Malfoy called down to her. He brushed past Hermione and broke into a run before Harry or Ron could stop him. Narcissa’s face contorted in a pitiful mixture of desperation and relief. She dissolved into tears, held up by a small, balding man in clover green robes. When Malfoy reached her, the man moved back into the shadows, placing a hand on the shoulder of another woman and coaxing her away. Hermione understood that this meeting between Malfoy and his mother was private, that she and her friends were intruding with their curious staring. Still, she watched them together, mother and son. Narcissa was clasping onto the front of Mafloy’s robes, sobbing, whimpering indiscernibly to him. He stroked her hair and wrapped a protective arm around her.

After a minute, the witch who had said good morning to them cleared her throat. They all looked at her dazedly. “Hello to you all. Harry Potter, of course, and Ronald Weasley. Hermione Granger, Luna Lovegood. Welcome to the Ministry of Magic and thank you for answering your summons to testify during today’s trial. If I could just have you sign these—” she produced several pieces of parchment from a clipboard at her hip, riffled through them, and handed them out with quills “—then we can ask MacDougal his preference for the order you will give testimony. Ah, and here’s Mr. Ollivander!” They turned as one to look behind them at Ollivander taking careful steps toward them. “Mr. Ollivander, if you could sign this, please…” He took the parchment and quill from her, the hobbled to a torch to read.

Hermione felt overcome as she tried to comprehend the words on the paper in her hand. It shook, and she thought she was viewing it through a pane of very warped glass. The sight of Malfoy with his mother was shocking. All of this was too much. She gave up trying to read the parchment and signed it without question, handing it back to the witch, who thanked each of them in turn.

“Alright, I’ll just get Counsel MacDougal, then, shall I?” said the witch. They stared at her. “Counsel!” she called over her shoulder. The bald man said something to the woman he was standing with and she nodded, then he strode up to them, sighing heavily and looking grim.

“Yes, Jocasta?”

“These are the…” she gestured around at them. Apparently they needed no introduction, because he smiled rather more warmly and said, “Have they signed the releases? Very good, very good. Well, I can handle it from here. Thank you, dear.” The witch nodded, returning his smile, and headed over to the door of the courtroom. She opened it and the noise within stopped abruptly, then struck back up again, then was cut off as the door shut behind her.

The man clapped his hands together and looked at them. “Which of you would like to go first?” he asked. Then he laughed and said, “No, no. Only joking! I think we’ll start with Mr. Ronald Weasley, if that is agreeable.”

“Are you MacDougal,” asked Harry suddenly.

“Oh yes! Yes, I am he! The very same.” MacDougal and Harry shook hands. The counsel seemed to be babbling a little. This was not at all what Hermione had expected from the counsel of Narcissa Malfoy. He was wavering somewhere between jumpiness and distraction. Another strangled issued from where the Malfoys stood, and MacDougal twitched.

“Anyway, yes, I am Hackney MacDougal, counsel for Narcissa Malfoy,” he said as if trying to cover the silence with a flood of talk. “Mr. Weasley, you first then. And after, Ms. Granger, Ms. Lovegood, Mr. Ollivander, Mr. Malfoy, then Mr. Potter. Very good, very good.” He was definitely distracted. His client was in pieces at his back and the buzz of a great multitude of people behind the door to their right was unnerving even to Hermione.

MacDougal procured a pocket watch from his vest and peered at it. “Great Galloping Hippogriffs, is that the time? Oh, well you had all better scoot in. There’s a place for the witnesses along the side there,” he said, gesturing vaguely at the door. “You’ll see it. There’ll be someone to direct you. Thank you, and I’ll see you inside!”

+++

“No, no, no! Please, Draco, please no. I can’t do this. I can’t stand in front of all those people and—” his mother broke off, her voice rent by a sob. She pressed her forehead into his shoulder. Little tendrils of hair were hanging out of her elegant bun now, and her back shook. Draco had hardly ever seen her like this. It was awful, unbearable, to watch his mother tremble with fear and grief like this. Draco didn’t know what to do to comfort her. What could he say? That it would all be ok? That she would be safe? They would find her innocent?

She didn’t want that. She kept telling him over and over, “I’m guilty, guilty guilty, Draco. My son, my little boy, what have I done. Do you know—did they tell you? Child endangerment! I should be dead. I should be dead!” Her voice was a hoarse rasp, wracked with hiccupping cries. She wasn’t making any sense. Child endangerment? What did that mean? Were they holding her accountable for… for what? Draco supposed he would find out soon enough.

“Mr. Malfoy, I’m Hackney MacDougal, your mother’s counsel. It’s time,” said a man, approaching them from the direction of the courtroom door.

Draco nodded at him, trying to look stronger than he felt. He squared his shoulders and pulled his mother off of him tenderly, turning her to face him. “Mother, we have to go now.” She shook her head and tried to bury herself in his arms again, but he held her off. “Mother, it’s going to be alright. I’ll be right there. I’ll be…” His voice trailed away. He turned to face the little man, looking down at him. “Where is my father?”

MacDougal responded with something between a shrug and a grimace. “Counsel Bliswick advised him against attending—”

“He’s not here? What, he’s not even in the courtroom?” The look MacDougal gave him said it all.

Draco felt anger scorch through him, electrifying even his fingertips. His mother gasped and jumped back away from him as if he’d burned her. It occurred to him that he may have done. “I’m sorry, mother, I’m sorry.” He glared back at MacDougal. “I wish I had known. I could have…” He stopped again. He would have… what? Nothing. He would have nothing. If his father wasn’t here, then that was just the way it was.

A movement behind them made Draco start. He had his wand out before he even realized he’d done it, but MacDougal was hurrying between Draco and a terrified-looking woman Draco had not seen before. “Mr. Malfoy, please! This is my wife, Elodonda.” MacDougal sort of twitched his hand and Elodonda inched forward. Draco lowered his wand, feeling furious with himself. “This is Draco Malfoy,” MacDougal was saying, “Narcissa’s son. We’ve heard a lot about you, haven’t we, Elodonda?” MacDougal smiled awkwardly, clearly eager to smooth over the misunderstanding.

The woman was mousy, short and thin. She gave him a small smile, then Narcissa held out her hand to her and Elodonda grasped it in both of hers. Where they friends? This woman – MacDougal’s wife – was here to offer support? Was that done?

“We should…” muttered MacDougal with another glance toward the courtroom.

“Yes,” replied Draco simply. They walked together down the hall and through the door into the courtroom beyond.

*Chapter 16*: Sympathy for the Martyr

It turns out that writing a trial is really, really hard. Please be nice. Also, I have a question for you. If you were on the Wizengamot, would you dismiss the charges against Narcissa? Tell me in a review!

Chapter 16

Sympathy for the Martyr

The mood inside of the courtroom was tense, wavering somewhere between excitement and trepidation. Behind the little group of witnesses where Hermione sat wedged between Ron and Luna, reporters and other bystanders kept up a continuous hum of whispered chatter. She couldn't differentiate one conversation from other. Snatches of sentences like, "never start on time" and "open and shut case" reached her ears, but she tried to ignore them.

Instead, she gazed around at the courtroom itself. It was similar to what Harry had described from Wizengamot courtrooms he'd visited before: high ceilings, rows of stone plinths where the members of the Wizengamot wearing plum-colored robes embroidered with a silver letter 'W' sat hunched over papers or else talking in quiet voices with each other, seating for the public spectators and press, and a single, stone chair at the center of the room. Chains hung limply, ominously, off of the arms of the chair, which would have looked like a throne had it not been so menacing. Hermione wondered if she would have to sit in that chair. How would it feel? She thought it would be hard not to feel like she herself was on trial, swallowed up in the gloomy high-backed stone seat.

She saw Kingsley Shacklebolt, the new Minister for Magic, at the center of the Wizengamot. Leaned toward Kingsley and talking fast was a man Hermione knew from Harry and Ron's letters was Reginald Williamson, the newly-appointed Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. To Kingsley's left, the Senior Undersecretary to the Minister sat with her spectacles perched at the end of her pointed nose reading a large stack of papers, the point of her quill in her mouth. Hermione thought her name might be Gelindas. She'd been quoted in the Daily Prophet in the weeks preceding the trial. As Hermione watched her, Gelindas checked her watch and looked around the courtroom. Hermione turned away quickly so that the witch would not catch her staring.

Ron took her hand and held it in his, rubbing her knuckles and smiling a little. "Don't be nervous," he whispered soothingly.

"Hard not to be," she replied. She felt the importance of this trial bearing down on her and wished it could already be over, that she could be back at Hogwarts doing homework or eating dinner in the Great Hall with her friends.

Just then, Malfoy, Narcissa, MacDougal, and the woman who had been standing with them entered the courtroom to a renewed bout of echoing murmurs. Narcissa was immediately swept away from her counsel and her son by an imposing-looking auror. "That's Savage," said Ron beside her. "He's intense." Ron left it at that. Savage was escorting Narcissa to the huge stone chair. When she sat, the chains rattled, but stayed put. That was a good sign, wasn't it?

Malfoy took his place between Harry and Mr. Ollivander, and MacDougal led the other woman to a seat at the end of the spectator's stands before sitting down near the witnesses.

"Is everybody ready to begin?" boomed Kingsley's commanding voice from the center of the dais. Many members of the Wizengamot nodded, watching Kingsley or Narcissa from their lofty seats. "Very well. Trial proceedings of the fifteen of October into offences committed before and during the Second Wizarding War by Narcissa Malfoy, resident at Malfoy Manor, Salisbury, Wiltshire.

"Interrogators: Kinglsey Shacklebolt, Minister for Magic; Reginald Williamson, Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement; Marisol Gelindas, Senior Undersecretary to the Minister; Court Scribe, Evangeline Leach; Counsel for the Defense, Hackney MacDougal… And everyone else," he finished with the hint of a smile. Here and there, people stifled a nervous giggle. MacDougal stood up and crossed to stand beside Narcissa, who was gazing unblinkingly up at Kingsley.

"The charges against the accused are as follows: That she did knowingly, deliberately and in full awareness of the illegality of her actions, aid in the kidnapping of Mr. Garrick Ollivander, Ms. Luna Lovegood, Mr. Harry Potter, Ms. Hermione Granger, Mr. Ronald Weasley, Mr. Dean Thomas, and the goblin Griphook, now deceased. Furthermore, that she did knowingly and deliberately act as an accessory to murder to the organization calling themselves the Death Eaters, that she did commit obstruction of justice, trespass upon the property of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry with the intent to take part in the abduction and subsequent murder of Mr. Harry Potter, that she perpetrated various hate crimes directed toward muggleborns and employees of the Ministry of Magic as well as any supporters thereof, and that she did willfully endanger her own child, Mr. Draco Malfoy by condoning his acceptance of the Dark Mark as a Death Eater at the age of sixteen." Kingsley looked down at Narcissa, who was crying silently now, "You are Narcissa Malfoy, of Malfoy Manor, Salisbury, Wiltshire?"

"Y-yes," she answered shakily.

"You were aware of the consequences of your actions when you allegedly committed these offenses?"

She nodded, her lip trembling.

"Please voice your replies for the record, Mrs. Malfoy," said Evangeline Leach, looking up from her quill and parchment.

"Yes, she was aware," answered MacDougal for Narcissa, who looked on the verge of dissolving completely into hysterics.

"Mrs. Malfoy, do you grant Counsel MacDougal the right to respond for you?" asked Leach.

Narcissa nodded again and swiped her fingers over her cheeks, wiping away her streaming tears.

"Very well," said Leach, returning to her parchment, "Continue."

"Your client understands the charges against her now brought before the Wizengamot for our judgment?"

"Yes."

"And your client understands that all witnesses called to testify before this council are required to submit to the interrogation of this council, as well as to your own questions?"

"Yes."

"Do you wish to issue an opening statement?"

"I wish to get this show on the road," said MacDougal. Kingsley raised his eyebrows at him, but nodded. "Counsel would like to address its first witness, Mr. Ronald Weasley."

Hermione listened as MacDougal asked Ron to briefly characterize his relationship to Nacissa ("not bloody good!") and then to explain, to the best of his recollection, the events of the night he, Hermione, and Harry had been brought to Malfoy Manor by snatchers. Ron started off talking about the peacocks, and was directed to recall specifically Narcissa's involvement in the incident. Here, Ron struggled. Hermione knew that anything he remembered was vastly overshadowed by his need to rescue her from torture and then their escape, aided by Dobby the house elf. Ron tried, however, and said that it was Narcissa who led them into the room where Malfoy and his father were sitting in some chairs by a fireplace. He mentioned that she'd said that they needed to be sure that Harry was Harry before they called Voldemort.

"She was all excited that the sodding snatchers had brought us. She recognized Hermione, then Bellatrix had seen the sword and she wanted to torture out of Hermione how we'd gotten it. Then we were forced into the cellar and we broke out and then everyone was throwing spells around and then Dobby came back and helped us escape. She was trying to drag Mal—Draco Malfoy out of the way of everything, but it was chaos, mate. I don't remember everything that happened, to tell you the truth," Ron finished rather lamely.

"And did Narcissa Malfoy direct any spells at you when you 'broke out'?" asked Williamson from the dais.

"Yeah! Yeah she did. She was really surprised. I dunno. I think we scared the hell out of her," Ron said.

MacDougal said, "Did you see any indication that Mrs. Malfoy was not acting of her own free will?"

"I don't remember," said Ron. "I think she was, yeah."

"Let's talk about the Battle of Hogwarts. Did you see Mrs. Malfoy there?"

"Right, yeah. She was running around at the end shouting for her son."

"And what about after that?"

"She was… sitting in the Great Hall with the rest of us."

"How did she appear to you?"

"Freaked out," said Ron. "Relieved."

"Relieved, as you all were, that the end had finally come?"

"Relieved to be there, yeah. I don't know why."

A few questions from the Wizengamot and MacDougal later, and Ron's testimony was complete. Now MacDougal turned to Hermione.

"Counsel for the Defense recognizes Ms. Hermione Granger," he said.

Hermione stiffened. What was he going to ask her? Even just listening to Ron talk about that night had been hard enough. He was going to make her relive it.

"Ms. Granger, can you tell us what it was like to be in Mrs. Malfoy's home?"

"It was… awful," said Hermione. She didn't know how to continue. She didn't want to do this. She felt like running out of the courtroom. Ron's hand tightened around hers and she tried to be strong.

"Please continue, Ms. Granger," said Gelindas from her seat at the plinth.

"I-I don't remember a lot of it. Like Ron said, it happened really fast. It was… dark. The place looked a bit beaten up. It was the headquarters for the Death Eaters, wasn't it? So, it was… like you would expect from something like that?"

"Did Mrs. Malfoy appear, in your estimation, to be in control of her home?"

"No," said Hermione quickly. "No, Bellatrix was definitely in charge. She was ordering everyone around. She's the one who… who tortured me."

"And what was Mrs. Malfoy doing while Mrs. Lestrange questioned you about the sword?"

Hermione tried to remember. The pain had been so intense, the memory so warped by agony, that she could barely recall it. "She was… I think she was standing in front of her son. He was holding her back." This was new to Hermione. Had Malfoy really been holding Narcissa back? Had she imagined that? No. Hermione could hear Narcissa's pleas to Bellatrix over the wracking pain of those minutes that had stretched into an eternity of torture. She could see Lucius looking bedraggled and pathetic, Malfoy torn between staring at her and trying to drag his gaze away from the scene, and Narcissa struggling to get free of Malfoy, her face a wretched mask of its former beauty. "Yes, she was trying to get to me. I… I don't know why she would… Why would she do that?"

"Ms. Granger," said MacDougal softly, "Is it ok if I ask the questions for now?"

Hermione blushed. "Yeah. Sorry," she said.

"So, Mrs. Malfoy was trying to get to you, correct?"

"Yes," said Hermione. She looked at Narcissa, now partially hidden by the chair. She was still staring at Kingsley.

"And what happened next?" asked MacDougal.

Hermione thought about this, trying hard to keep calm. "I can't… I can't remember. I passed out, I think. The next thing I remember is Shell Cottage."

"Thank you, Ms. Granger."

MacDougal moved on to Luna, asked her to describe her imprisonment in the Malfoy's cellar. Luna talked about how Narcissa had been almost kind to her, about how when she brought her and Ollivander food, she seemed torn and upset. She had asked Luna about her son. Luna described telling Narcissa all she knew about Malfoy at Hogwarts. She told of the argument between Narcissa and her sister Bellatrix over how she was treating the prisoners. After that, Narcissa had not come again. Ollivander's story was nearly identical to Luna's.

Now it was Malfoy's turn.

+++

MacDougal paced around in front of Draco a bit before finally turning to him. "Mr. Malfoy, you are the son of Narcissa Malfoy, are you not?"

"I am," Draco said levelly. From her chair, he heard his mother give a little cry of grief, then saw her whip her hand over her mouth to stifle the sob.

MacDougal was watching Draco intensely now. Draco met his gaze unflinchingly. "Do you believe that your mother ever intentionally did anything to harm you?"

"No."

"Can you think of anything that she might have done to prevent you from joining the organization which called itself the Death Eaters?"

Draco thought before replying. He remembered the sleepless nights spent arguing with his mother after the Dark Lord had offered to trade the lives of Draco's family for his loyalty. How his mother had been desperate to talk him out of the deal. How he had told her that it was an honor and she had said it was a death sentence. She'd wanted to run away together. She'd said all sorts of things. But, "No, there was nothing she could have done. It was my cooperation or all of my family's lives," he said.

"She wasn't happy you were following in your father's footsteps?" called a stump-nosed wizard from the Wizengamot.

Draco's head snapped in the direction of the question. "Of course not! No! She never wanted me to join! "

"Mr. Malfoy, did you ever witness your mother willingly participate in any Death Eater activities?" said MacDougal, drawing Draco back to him.

"She went to meetings. But she had to. Father never told her anything, so she went to find out what was going on. She never… she never killed anyone! Or tortured anyone!" said Draco. The thought of it made him feel nauseous. "The Dark Lord set up our house as headquarters, but he never asked us for permission. He just did whatever he wanted…. She wasn't a part of it, not really. She never took the Mark."

This was worse than anything he could have imagined. How could anyone think these things about his mother? She was… she loved him! She never wanted any of this for him or his father! This was despicable. Couldn't they see what all of this was doing to her?

MacDougal seemed to guess his thoughts. "How has your mother been coping since the fall of Lord Voldemort?"

"She's… a bit of a mess, really," said Draco, feeling guilty for admitting it. She could hear him saying these things about her. "She hadn't wanted me to go back to Hogwarts. She knew… what would happen. She wanted all of us to be together again. But my father… he's not doing well with all of it. It's a lot for her to take, but she's handling it better than I could if I were in her place." He wanted to gather his mother up in his arms and hold her, tell her that he loved her and that none of these people mattered. They, he and his mother, knew the truth. She'd had no choice. Neither of them had.

"Mr. Malfoy, just one more question. Can you tell this court what Voldemort would have done if Narcissa had questioned your inclusion in the Death Eaters, or, indeed, any of his decisions?"

"He would have tortured and killed her." There was not a doubt in Draco's mind about that. "And he would have done it in front of my father and me. To teach us a lesson."

"Thank you, Mr. Malfoy."

Draco mostly ignored Potter's testimony. He'd heard from his mother about what had happened in the Forbidden Forest, about how she had been ordered to see if Potter was dead, found he wasn't, and then lied to the Dark Lord so that they could return to the castle as victors. So she could get to him. So she could make sure—absolutely sure—that her son was not dead. He did not look at Potter or MacDougal or his mother or anyone else. He was so tired, so consumed by his own guilt, that he could barely focus when the Wizengamot asked to question his mother. MacDougal addressed them, told them that she had declined to give evidence in her own defense, and referred to the necessary document allowing her to opt out of doing so.

So, all that was left was for MacDougal to give a closing statement. Draco heaved himself back from his thoughts and tried to listen. This was important, this summation. His mother hadn't wanted to speak in for herself. This statement from MacDougal was the last line of defense.

Facing the Wizengamot , MacDougal began:

"I want you, members of the Wizengamot, to take a good, hard look at Narcissa Malfoy. Think about what the last few years have been like for her. Her husband of over twenty years was thrown in jail after a shamble-of-a trial for breaking into the Ministry of Magic. Why? To steal a prophecy from a fifteen-year-old boy and his friends. Why? Because his master told him to.

"Her sixteen-year-old son was compelled to take his father's place as a Death Eater, then manipulated into accepting a mission to kill the Headmaster of his school, then forced to attend that same school the next year in the presence of brutal persons known for their cruelty to children. She watched, helpless and horrified, as her son was forced into the company of vicious werewolves, hardened killers, corrupt politicians, and the criminally insane, all of whom made up the ranks of the Death Eaters under Lord Voldemort.

"Meanwhile, her husband returned to her from Azkaban, wandless and dishonored. She saw how this murderous psychopath – Lord Voldemort, Tom Riddle, He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named, the Dark Lord – controlled every aspect of her husband's life, their future and their son's future.

"For months, she was kept hostage in her home under the watchful eye of her own sister, Bellatrix Lestrange, and the steady stream of Death Eaters who used Malfoy Manor as their base of operations without her consent. But she was powerless as her home became a prison for loyalists to Harry Potter and his cause. She was powerless to stop the mockery to which her husband's former friends subjected him. She was powerless to help her son, far away under the care of Lord Voldemort's right hand man, Severus Snape, who had only the year before shoved Draco out of the way to murder his predecessor as Headmaster of Hogwarts School. This man, this old friend of the family, now raised so high above her by the favor of the Dark Lord, this man with whom she had made an Unbreakable Vow, binding him to protect her son at school and to help him achieve his impossible mission, now held her son's life in his hands. And she was afraid. She was afraid because if she breathed one word of her fear for her family or herself, of her changing attitude toward the evil around her, she would be killed and her opportunity to be of some use to her wayward son would be lost forever.

"Gone were the days when she could scoff at others for the impurity of their blood or the number of galleons in their vault at Gringott's. She was lower even than the lowest of those she had scorned before. Because they could leave. They could escape. She could never do that, never run away and leave her husband and son tangled in so treacherous a web. This," he said, pointing to Narcissa where she trembled in her chair, "is a desperate woman. And this desperate woman took the first chance she could to bring her son and her husband and herself back together, the first chance she could to escape the tyranny of the Dark Lord forever. She told a lie: 'He is dead.' And with that lie, told to save her son from further harm, with the hope that finally, finally the fighting would stop, she abandoned Lord Voldemort and his supporters and altered the course of history forever. She is the reason we are here today, not only because this is her trial, but also because her love for her only son set us – all of us — free.

"So now, with her husband slipping slowly into mania and drink, and her son on trial for the crimes he had been forced to commit, the Wizengamot sees fit to this charge woman with, among other things, child endangerment. I ask you all, what more could she have done? Would you have preferred her to die? Because that was the fate awaiting her if she tried to interfere with the affairs of Death Eaters. And what good would her death be to anyone?

"It would not have protected her son, would not have saved her husband, would not have helped correct the mistakes she had made in the past. Narcissa will tell you that she wishes she would have had the courage to die before allowing her son to take the Dark Mark, a bloody business in and of itself, if only to avoid living with herself after. But I submit to you, members of the Wizengamot, that Narcissa was not free to even die as she wished. This is not exclusively because of her pitiful circumstances, though pitiful they were. This is because she is a mother.

"A mother's life is not just. It is not fair. She can't be trusted to make good decisions for herself. She is not fussed about doing 'the right thing.' She is not a person; she is not even really a woman. She is a thing living solely for her children, without thought for consequences or corollaries. Narcissa is such a mother. The rules did not apply. She lied, stole her chances, did whatever she had to do to survive and for her husband to survive so that her son would have a chance."

MacDougal looked down at the paper with the list of indictments brought against Narcissa for a long time before continuing. "These other charges are ridiculous in light of her situation, but child endangerment? You do not know the meaning of the charge if you apply it to this woman, this mother." He glared around at the Wizengamot, and many its members paled or shrank back from his contemptuous gaze. "Narcissa Malfoy lived for her child, for Draco, her only son. She loved him. Everything else was just a means to that end."

He stood there, every eye in the courtroom riveted to him with shock, as the weight of his words settled on all of their shoulders. Draco didn't know what else to think except that MacDougal was beyond amazing. He had given voice to everything Draco felt about his mother, everything she had had to face. He would never be able to pay back this debt.

There was silence for several minutes before Kingsley cleared his throat and said, "Thank you, counsel." MacDougal gave a curt little bow, and crossed to his seat. "I think," Kingsley said, "that, in light of what we have heard today, the Wizengamot will need some time to reach its decision. We will reconvene here tomorrow at nine o'clock to give our verdict."

The courtroom echoed with much shuffling and whispers, but Draco's gaze was trained on his mother, so small and still in that massive stone seat. She was looking down at her hands clasped in her lap where her white knuckles stood out against the brilliant midnight blue of her robes. He wanted nothing more than to go to her, to assure her of the wisdom of MacDougal's summation, but he knew he would not be allowed. An Auror approached her then and murmured something in her ear. Mechanically, she stood up and permitted him to escort her from the room.

*Chapter 17*: Never Saw It Coming

Chapter 17

Never Saw It Coming

Hermione lay on her stomach, her upper body propped up by pillows, with her Ancient Runes textbook leaned against the headboard and a bottle of ink balanced on the mattress. She was writing an essay that had been assigned the day of Narcissa Malfoy's trial on potions-specific glyphs, trying to keep her mind off of everything but school.

Next to her, a stack of newspapers and letters were jumbled on the bedside table. Hanging off of the table at the bottom of the pile, the morning's Daily Prophet featured the headline "Martyr Mother or Malicious Miscreant?" with the subheading "Wizengamot Decides Today in the Brief but Scandalous Trial of Narcissa Malfoy".

Previously unheard of counsel Hackney MacDougal offered a riveting summation at yesterday's trial following a flurry of witness testimony from such famous members of the Wizarding community as wandmaker Garrick Ollivander and heroes of the Second Wizarding War Hermione Granger, Ronald Weasley, and of course, the legendary Chosen One, Harry Potter.

MacDougal, a career clerk in the counsel office of Camorra, Nomothet, and Jure, apprenticed under Jerboa Jure (of Gaspard Shingleton's self-stirring cauldron fiasco fame) immediately following his graduation from Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry in 1959, but has never acted as counsel publically before his much-applauded performance at yesterday's trial.

However deftly MacDougal phrased his questions and however poignant his final summation may have been, many Ministry officials in the know are chewing their wands over the outcome of this, the first trial in a trilogy for the Malfoy Family. Worry has arisen of the effect a verdict of innocence for Mrs. Malfoy could have on the tone of her husband and son's upcoming trials. As for the public outcry to dismiss the charges against Narcissa Malfoy following MacDougal's assertions that his client was "kept hostage in her home" and that she "was not free to even die as she wished"? The reviews are mixed.

"I darn well would dismiss the charges against her if I were on the Wizengamot!" says Garasel Pliswench of Tinworth, who was among the breathless spectators at Mrs. Malfoy's trial.

A member of Department of Magical Law Enforcement, who wished to remain anonymous, had an altogether different opinion: "Maybe she should get some leniency for lying and saying that Harry Potter was dead but dismissing the charges? No I would not and could not do that."

Regardless, the verdict is sure to cause quite a stir, as members…

The rest of the article was obscured by some notes from Transfiguration and a list of homework assignments in Ginny's untidy scrawl.

On top of these papers, the Evening Prophet was alive with a huge picture of Narcissa Malfoy being led from courtroom 7 in tears, MacDougal guiding her by her elbow and Malfoy's arm around her slumped shoulders. His hand was extended in an attempt to block the camera. Behind them, the expressions on the faces of the Wizengamot and spectators were so mixed it was impossible to know what had just transpired.

Despite the blur of movement from this picture, Hermione wrote on, sliding the parchment up to begin a new paragraph. The headline under the photograph read, "DISMISSED!"

In an upset not seen since the trials of the First Wizarding War, the allegations leveled against Narcissa Malfoy have been unanimously dismissed by the Wizengamot, clearing the suspected Death Eater sympathizer of all charges.

This trial, eagerly anticipated by the British Wizarding community, is to be closely followed by Mrs. Malfoy's husband Lucius Malfoy, a previously-convicted Death Eater, on the 27th of October. What does this shocking result mean for Mr. Malfoy, the Daily Prophet asks his celebrated counsel Dubias Bliswick, catching up to him outside of his home in Mould-on-the-Wold?

"I am confident that Mr. Malfoy will be afforded the same courtesies as his wife," Bliswick says.

But what about reports of Lucius Malfoy's deteriorating mental state in recent months? To this, Bliswicks offers nothing, but when pressed to explain Mr. Malfoy's mysterious absence at his wife's trial, Bliswick is quick to assure the Daily Prophet that "My client was unable to attend for health reasons. However, I promise you that he will not be missing his own day in court."

The remainder of this article was covered by another summons addressed to Hermione. This time, it was for the trial of Lucius Malfoy. On top of the summons, an envelope holding Hermione's reply to a letter from Narcissa Malfoy lay waiting to be sent off by owl.

Hermione sighed heavily and rolled her aching wrist before turning the page of her textbook and continuing on. She was nearly finished, and she wanted to get this essay done tonight. It whisked her mind away from thoughts of the letter she'd received by express owl during dinner. They had all gotten one, even Ron, Harry, and Luna. Hermione had not waited to hear Harry and Ron read their letters aloud for the benefit of the entire Gryffindor table. Instead, she'd said her goodbyes then amid a torrent of objections and headed up to her dormitory with the old excuse of homework in order to read the letter alone.

And now she was writing an essay to hide from it all. She kept thinking that she should feel viscously cheated by the outcome of the trial, or else elated or relieved, but she mostly just felt tired. All she wanted was to finished her homework, send off her owl, and sleep away the entire weekend.

Hermione pressed her quill into the final full stop and read over the closing paragraph of her essay. It was good. Not up to her usual standards, but then again, she wasn't up to her usual standards. Her head was so full of thoughts. Maybe she should start a journal. No, that was stupid. What is some reporter for the Prophet got ahold of it? As if there wasn't enough scandal going around…

Clambering to her feet, Hermione grabbed the letter off of the bedside table and dragged her sweater out from underneath a languidly snoozing Crookshanks, who yowled and shot her a reproving glare.

"Sorry, Crookshanks!" Hermione whispered. She pulled on her jumper and headed off for West Tower.

Hufflepuffs really would take any excuse to have a party and run with it. Draco could hear the ruckus in the common room where everyone was celebrating his mother's acquittal. They'd heard the whole thing on Ryan's wireless; James and Prescott even skipped classes on Thursday to listen to the entire trial. And they were happy for him. Everyone was happy for him.

Draco supposed he was happy, too. His mother was vindicated. Now everyone would be forced to recognize what he knew: that she was a pawn in Voldemort's game who had decided not to play anymore. She was the strongest of the three of them, stronger than him or his father. Or maybe fate had been kinder to her, offered her a way out before it had extended a hand him. No, that wasn't true. He could have taken Dumbledore's offer. He could have switched sides, but he hadn't. He'd let fear and pride win out. Never again.

And now he was staring down at his mother's impeccable penmanship. She'd sent him a letter with his own eagle owl, Gwydion, who he hadn't seen for months. Gwydion categorically refused to leave his side now. Bit annoying really. He was perched on the footboard of Draco's four-poster, preening his feathers after a long journey. It was endearing, if Draco was honest with himself, but Gwydion's visit would be short; Draco intended to answer his mother's letter tonight.

A loud shout and the boom of fireworks shook the dormitory. James, thought Draco immediately, and his owl ruffled his feathers in agitation.

"You're the one who didn't want to go to the Owlery," grumbled Draco before returning to his mother's letter. It read:

Draco,

I do not quite know how to begin this letter to you. You, the source of my freedom and strength, now quite literally. How can I ever thank you for being by my side through these last few days, let alone the years you protected and supported me and your father as best you could? You are the best of us, my darling.

Now, I confess, I find myself unable to reconcile the decision of the Wizengamot in my mind. A part of me wishes they had come to some definite conclusion. Guilty or innocent. Then, at least, I would know the truth of it. This business of dismissals is too convoluted. I wish I could have had the benefit of a true ruling to guide my future. Guilty, and my fate is sealed forever, my life is in some wiser person's hands. Innocent, and my peers no longer whisper behind closed doors about my actions.

But here again, I admire your bravery. You have chosen to face your accusers when I could never bring myself to do it. You have gone back to school, changed your life and the minds of your fellows, made new friends and come into your own. It's all I could have ever hoped for you. Thank you for being the son I wanted, not the son I raised.

Your loving mother

Tears stung Draco's eyes. He'd read it at least five times since Gwydion had delivered the letter at dinner, but it still got to him. The son I wanted, not the son I raised. It seemed impossible that she could think she had played no part in his decision to return to Hogwarts, to start fresh, if that was even possible.

Draco pulled parchment, quill, and ink into his lap and started to write.

My dear mother,

He stopped there, feeling as she must have felt, unable to think what to say, how to begin. Finally, he started gain.

I have never been more relieved than when the Minister for Magic read the conclusion of the Wizengamot. Though I knew the charges were a mockery, I was afraid for you. I shouldn't have been. You are blameless in my eyes, and now in the eyes of the rest of the Wizarding community. It is one more burden lifted from my shoulders, to know that you are safe at last.

I hope you will not continue to hide yourself away at home. You are free. You do not have to feel ashamed.

But father, why wasn't he there, at your trial? Why am I reading about some mysterious illness in the Evening Prophet when I haven't spoken to him or had a letter from him in months? Where is he? What is he doing? Is he truly sick?

Will I see you at Hogsmeade on the 31st? I would very much like that.

Your devoted son

"Pastry for your thoughts?" It was Prescott, leaning in the open door of their dormitory holding a pain au chocolat. Draco had to drop his quill to catch the pastry as it came souring over Gwydion at him.

Prescott was looking at him strangely. Could it be sympathy? "I'm fine," Draco said. He didn't want to eat. He didn't even really want company. He wanted to mail his letter and finish his homework before practice tomorrow evening.

"That wasn't what I asked you," said Prescott. "I gave you the pastry, now tell me what's going on. I haven't seen you all night. You've been holed up in here forever. It's like you don't even know this party is for you."

Draco digested this. Yes, he should be out celebrating with his House. They were all being so supportive of him. It felt wrong not to join them. Slowly, he replied, "I'm writing a letter… to my mother."

Prescott nodded his understanding. "Do you want me to go?"

"No, I've just finished."

"Great," said another voice from behind Prescott. James sidled into the room with a huge Weasleys' Wildfire Whiz-bangs firework over his shoulder, all bravado with a smug grin on his face. "We're going to go set this off out in the grounds. You're coming."

Prescott eyed James reprovingly. "James, he doesn't have to come if he doesn't want to."

"Prescott, it's in his honor. Look, we even put his name on!" James showed Prescott and Draco the scrawl on the side of the rocket. It said "Hey Draco! Seek This!"

Draco chuckled in spite of himself. "Hang on, who's this?" said James, throwing the firework carelessly into Prescott's arms and crossing to Gwydion.

"That's my owl. His name's Gwydion," said Draco.

James bent down and spoke to the eagle owl in a baby voice, stroking his feathers. "Do you want to go for a ride, Gwydion? We could shoot you up faster than—" but he broke off because Gwydion had nipped his fingers rather hard. "Ouch, Merlin's left testicle!" he shouted as he stumbled back, away from Gwydion, who was glaring at him. "That bird's a bloody menace!"

"Yeah, how could he refuse to be strapped to a firework?" said Prescott sarcastically.

"Exactly!" agreed James, gesturing with his bloody fingers. "Menstruating Manticores, that stings!"

"Well, you shouldn't have— Wait, what was that? Menstruating Manticores?" laughed Draco.

James ignored this "So," he said from the door, "are you coming?"

"Just let me mail this letter. Then, yeah, I'll come." Draco was almost glad to have a reason not to think about everything that had happened. Even if he would rather have been alone in his room, he was glad that his friends were forcing him to be social. It was better that way, feeling included.

"See you by the lake, then!" said James. "Come on, Prescott, let's round everyone up!" James and Prescott left, lugging the firework with them.

Draco tried to pick up Gwydion, but the owl wasn't having it. He flapped his wings furiously and gave a great, shrill hoot. "Oh, come on, Gwydion! Don't be so ridiculous! I wasn't the one suggesting to blow you up!" But Gwydion rebuffed every attempt from Draco to attach the letter. "Fine," said Draco, hearing the common room emptying down the hall. "Fine! I'll get another owl and you can just stay here!"

Gwydion hopped out of reach onto the top of Smith's four-poster as Draco made one last dive for him. With a huff, Draco snatched up his letter and an envelope and slammed the door of the dormitory shut as he marched out of the room.

*Chapter 18*: Quiet Hushed Voices

Thank you to my beta LivLifeForever!

Also, Gaara's Plaything, did you catch that I quoted you in the Daily Prophet in the previous chapter? I also quoted an anon who reviewed for an opposing viewpoint, so whoever you are, I hope you noticed! I thought you guys would get a kick out of actually having your thoughts included, which is why I asked you what you thought should happen to Narcissa at the beginning of Chapter 16, Sympathy for the Martyr.

Lastly, I apologize for the delay. I believe you will find it was worth it.

Chapter 18

Quiet Hushed Voices

Hermione tapped the envelope against the heel of her hand and tried to clear her head. It was dark and windy and frankly spooky up in the Owlery at night, but still, she'd been standing there for what felt like an hour staring at the alcoves and perches full of school owls, tapping the envelope, unable to decide which owl to use. Hermione knew somewhere in the back of her mind that her quandary had more to do with whether or not to actually sendthe reply in the first place than which owl should carry it. But it was easier to aimlessly debate herself over owl size, breed, etc.

Her lit wand was tucked behind her ear to act as a kind of headlamp in the darkness so her hands would be free to attach the letter. Instead, they were tapping. Faster and faster. The barn owl was bigger, able to go longer distances, but the screech owl was faster. The tawny was a good mix of the two and what if she just forgot the whole thing and tore up the letter and never answered? What if she pretended she'd never gotten a letter from Narcissa Malfoy, and that she'd never written her reply? Surely, even if she was dismissed on every other charge, her case warranted a few unanswered letters. She knew Ron wouldn't respond. He'd have a laugh about it and never think on it again. Harry might, though. She didn't know what theirs said, but if it was anything like what hers had been, Harry might reply. But what good was any of it, writing letters back and forth between sides of a dead war? Well, maybe it could stitch them back together.

Hermione's uncertainty mounted. Her eyes roved over the owls for long minutes as if playing some absurd game of "eeny, meeny, miny, moe", as she reread the letter in her head:

Ms. Hermione Granger,

Thank you for speaking at my trial yesterday. The truth means more to me than you could ever know, regardless of the outcome of proceedings.
I apologize for my behavior to you. We have never met on good terms, and I assume full responsibility for my cold manner. I have long known that I am a selfish, bitter woman whose worldview was unjust, delusional even. Anyone who has ever spoken of you has applauded your intelligence and your tenacity. Blood could never have anything to do with that. I've always known it, I think, but it is so much easier to blame others for your own shortcomings. You, I see, do not fall into this trap.
So, I say again that I am sorry. My attitude was unacceptable, my actions were unpardonable, and I do not ask for forgiveness, only for you to see that these words on this page come from a changed woman.
But I am also a mother. I know you do not know what it is to be a mother yet, Ms. Granger, but one day I hope you feel for yourself how completely your heart beats for your child, how entirely your will seeks his happiness. And so I ask, not for myself, but for Draco, that you give him a chance to change your mind. I know it is his deepest desire to be forgiven for his mistakes so that he may cast aside the chains of his past. You can be sure that he will never be free of the things he has done, but is it too much to ask for absolution? Let him try to earn your trust. He is my son, I know him. He had become a better man that I could have ever hoped.
I hope to see you again one day. Thank you once again for your words at my trial. They may not have been in my defense, but they were honest. I never should have doubted it.

Sincerely in your debt,
Narcissa Malfoy

The thanks and apology of Nacrissa Malfoy. Hermione wasn't sure she wanted those things. And a desire for Hermione to forgive Malfoy, to let him earn her trust. Narcissa sounded like Luna.

Hermione remembered Luna's chiding voice, the sound of her teacup hitting the desk in that empty classroom weeks ago. She'd said, "Draco has only ever had people treat him the way you do. No trust. No acceptance. No understanding. After everything that has happened to all of us, this is the year when we get second chances. You've got yours, and he has his. Why is it so hard for you to have faith that Draco could ever be anything other than how you see him?"

Trust. Faith. Acceptance. Forgiveness. A Second Chance.

Hermione wanted all of those things, too. But could she givethem? Was it fair to do anything else?

Her mind raced. She thought about the last time she and Malfoy had spoken. He'd tried to apologize to her and she had lashed out at him. Because he was sorry. Because he had forced her to confront her own confusion with everything. He had tried to explain. Why had she said those things to him? She didn't even believe them. Not anymore. Not about him. Malfoy was someone new entirely. She'd never - never - even considered that she would be in this position. Stuck between her friends, unable to make up her own mind about the right course of action. There wasn't a book for this. There wasn't anything anyone could say to help her. She had to come to her own conclusions. No one could tell her how to think.

"Draco doesn't need your permission to change, Hermione." But he wanted it. The boy who'd bullied her for six years, who'd tried to kill Dumbledore, who'd joined the Death Eaters, who'd watched her be tortured, who always ran away, wasn'tthat boy anymore. There was so much hatred and awfulness associated with that sneering face. Anger. Prejudice. Death.

The Owlery was spinning.

And the owls were hooting and shifting on their perches and ruffling their wings and staring down at her out of the shadows with bright amber eyes and she should choose one now because it was getting late but how could she just choose like that this was a huge decision and not one to make lightly should she send it or shouldn't she should she tell Narcissa that she forgave her or not should she trust Malfoy should she let her fear and sadness and grief and guilt and all her failings go and now Hagrid was carrying Harry's limp body up to the school surrounded by Death Eaters and Ron was screaming "NO!" and she was joining his anguished cry and Lupin and Tonks were dead in the Great Hall and no one knew who had murdered them and George was leveled and sobbing over his twin's body more broken than anyone Hermione had ever seen and Ron was leaving the tent in the cold rain never to come back and Malfoy's back turned on her that night in the Headmistress's corridor while his echoes rang in her ears—

"Are you ok?"

Hermione blinked tears from her eyes and watched them hit the stone floor of the Owlery and break into a thousand liquid sparks of wandlight. Someone had spoken. Slowly, she raised her head. She wasn't tapping anymore, but she heard the beat of it in her ears still or maybe that was her heart.

"Whoa! Hey!" said the voice, then strong arms caught her and guided her to the ground because her knees didn't want to be knees anymore. Every part of her was buzzing and no part felt like it belonged to a body at all. It felt… it felt like an ache, thumping drumming pounding out from her stomach and Hermione wondered how much longer her heart could pump the ache through her veins. How long could she last without blood?

The arms became hands, drawing up her face to look into his. It was a he, wasn't it? With gray eyes that were like crystal on cave walls in the wandlight, deep caves where the light can only reach so far but the spectacle of crystal is brilliant. And there might have been a little gold.

Warm hands, careful hands, felt her forehead, smoothed the tears from her cheeks, grasped her shoulders to shake her gently. She struggled to recover herself. This is stupid; get a hold of yourself.

And of course it was him, kneeling down next to her, cradling her as she leaned on him. How was it that he was always there?

Hermione couldn't breathe and she became aware that she was sobbing. Why? Why was she crying? She forced herself to answer the question. Because she wanted to let go. She wanted to forgive. She already had.

She flung her arms over his shoulders and held him tight, even when he stiffened against the embrace. Tentatively, with the aching gentleness of this fragile moment when nothing and everything finally made sense, his arms enfolded her.

Hermione heard herself say "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm so sorry. I forgive you, I'm sorry, I'm so sorry." and heard him echo her words in a whisper into her hair.

They stayed that way for what felt like a long time, their apologies drifting away into silence, before he said, "Shhh, Hermione. It's ok, it's ok…" And they realized together what he had said. Her name. Just her name. Hermione.

That's when she realized that she was smiling.

They parted, and he cupped her face in his hands to get a better look at her. "Are you alright? Are you hurt? What happened?" he asked, concern creasing his brow.

"I'm fine, I'm fine. It was stupid. I'm ok. Really," she said with a little laugh.

And he smiled back. "Well, if you're sure." He let her go and stood up, offering her a hand. It was so ridiculously chivalrous coming from Malfoy that she actually broke into nervous giggles. He sort of shifted uncomfortably above her, but just as he started to withdraw the gesture, she slipped her hand in his and let him pull her up.

Now she was acutely aware of what a mess she was, sniffing and puffy from crying and her hair just chaos and her clothes just some comfortable jeans and a baggy t-shirt. And here he was still in his dress robes from the courtroom.

He rifled in his robes for a second then produced a handkerchief for her. Hermione took it from him gratefully and blew her nose. She offered it back to him, but he said, "Keep it."

"Thanks," she said, tugging the wand from behind her ear and looking around the Owlery floor for her letter.

"Looking for this?" Malfoy was holding the envelope in his hand. It was crumpled and dirty, but the address was obvious even in the semi-darkness. Had he realized who she was writing to? Was he going to ask her about it? "Here," he said, handing it over. "Where's your Pig? I'll get him for you."

Hermione laughed again. "It's just Pig, as in Pigwidgeon. And he's not here. I was just going to use a school owl."

"Me too," he said, turning to face the owls, his wand already ignited. He shone the light over the selection, now depleted somewhat as a few had left to go hunting since the last time she'd looked. "Do you want me to get you an owl?"

"Sure," she said. He was being so nice. It was only reinforcing her conclusion that Luna and his mother had been right and she had been wrong. About him.

Malfoy had moved to the wall and was coaxing two tawny owls down onto his arm.

"Who are you—" she began, but she stopped herself. She shouldn't be asking who he was writing to. That was rude. It was private. Stupid stupid

"My mother," he replied, guessing her question.

"Oh me too!" The words had tumbled out of her mouth before she'd even realized she'd said them. Malfoy was staring at her perplexedly. Should she explain? Would that upset him?

"You're writing to my mother?" he asked. On his arm, the owls jostled impatiently. He ignored them.

"Well, writing back. She… she wrote to me. She sent an express owl." Now he was walking back to her with the owls, holding one out to her. Hermione took it, trying to read his expression, but it was inscrutable. It was like he was reconciling everything in his head, trying to understand why his mother would be writing to her. She decided she wanted to tell him. "You mum, she thanked me for speaking at the trial," she said. "And she told me to give you a chance to explain everything."

Malfoy turned away, presumably to affix his own letter to his owl. After a while, he said, "That's just like her."

"Is it?" said Hermione. Maybe she just wasn't used to getting thank-you letters from people at whose trials she had recently testified.

"Oh yeah. She's always trying to sway the odds. I don't think she understands that she can't just ask you to trust me." So Malfoy was concerned that his mother's request was rude in some way. Was it rude? Hermione didn't think so.

"It's not a big deal. She's concerned about you. She's your mother," she said, and Malfoy nodded.

He finished with his letter and the owl swooped out of the window and off into the night. "Did you want some help with that?" Hermione looked down and realized that she hadn't even started with her own owl. Without waiting for a reply, Malfoy crossed to her and took the crumpled letter from her hand, passing his wand tip over it, smoothing it out.

"So," she began, making a brave attempt at normal conversation, "You're the new Hufflepuff Seeker?"

"Yeah! Where did you hear that?" He deftly latched the newly-straightened letter to the tawny's leg and began tying a knot, holding his wand between his teeth.

"Ginny won't shut up about it."

"How's the Gryffindor team looking this year?" he asked, his words muffled by his wand.

"I have no idea, really. I'm not much for quidditch," she confessed. Why did she bring up a topic she knew nothing about? Now what?

"Alright," Malfoy said to the owl, and it took flight with a soft hoot.

Then a distant bang and a bright golden light illuminated the Owlery. They both jerked around to look out of the huge open-air window that faced the lake. Another bang, another light. This time bright green. Hurrying over to the window, they peered out into the night. Hermione could see the wings of the tawny owl emblazoned with emerald light as- what appeared to be a firework-zoomed around in the sky beneath it.

"What the—" Hermione began, but Malfoy interrupted her.

"It's my House. They're celebrating."

"Celebrating what?" she asked. A whiz then a shower of red and blue sparks. Malfoy's face was cast in mottled purple light.

"My mother's acquittal," he said, leaning against the wall to watch, a little smile on his lips.

Hermione thought about this. She knew the Hufflepuffs were known for their acceptance, their fierce loyalty of each and every member of their House, but this? Shooting off fireworks for Malfoy's mother? She didn't know how to respond to that.

Malfoy looked over the edge of the window. It was a straight drop down over seven stories to the school grounds, but he bent down and sat on the wide stone frame covered in hay, his head resting against the inner edge wall. Hermione was scared of heights. To her, this was tempting fate. But something made her want to join him. He looked so peaceful seated there, his body relaxed, silhouetted every now and then by another brilliant jolt of color.

"Can I join you?" He looked over his shoulder at her, then nodded to the place beside him on the window's edge. Slowly, apprehensively, she approached, her gaze trained on the darkened grounds below. There were a lot of people down there, over by the lake. Hermione imagined she could hear their shouts, their peals of laughter, as they ran around dancing or else lay in the dew-damp grass gazing up at the stars and the flashes of fireworks. The Hufflepuffs were tiny, like ants. And they were a verylong way up.

Finally, she was there, on the straw-covered ledge. She sat quickly. Every inch of her body buzzed with fear.

Malfoy turned and looked at her, taking in her fingers gripping the stone, her hunched shoulders, the terror in her eyes. He put an arm around her as another fountain of jewel-toned sparks rocketed up into the air before them. "Don't worry. If you start to fall, I'll catch you."

*Chapter 19*: A Light on a Hill

There is a high likelihood that I will be updating this chapter with minor changes in the new future. I just couldn't wait to get it out there.

Chapter 19

A Light on a Hill

The Hufflepuffs had come prepared, he'd give them that. It was another thirty minutes at least before they got to the grand finale. Draco watched them in the dying light of two shockingly-pink Catherine wheels. Someone – he guessed James – was doing something of a victory lap, brandishing a huge firework over his head. That must be the one with his name on. Draco could still see James' huge block letters on the side ("Hey Draco! Seek This!") in his mind's eye. Whatever it was, it was going to be good.

He glanced over at Granger beside him. She was smiling wistfully down at the Hufflepuffs on the lawn. What was she thinking about? He could feel the rise and fall of her breathing through his arm, still draped over her shoulders. Though it had calmed down considerably, Draco could feel the catches toward the end of every exhalation, the shakiness of her intake of breath. She almost sounded like him with his wheezy lungs that had yet to fully heal.

Draco remembered that day after Charms when she and Ginny Weasley had come to his aid (he did not like to think "rescue"). And she had taken him to the Hospital Wing so that Madame Pomfrey could clean him up. It was like a dream, but he imagined he remembered her peaking around the corner of the white stretched-fabric partition, then tiptoeing to his bed just to stand over him, looking sadly at the state of him, which he knew from his own inspection had been dismal. What had she thought about then? How many others she'd seen look like him, bruised and ruined and bleeding? Had he reminded her of Potter? Or Weasley?

Shifting on the ledge in agitation, Draco tried to focus on the events unraveling down by the lake. James had pegged the rocket into the ground and was talking to a little group. They turned their heads around and around, as if looking for someone. They're looking for me, he thought.

He felt that rush of excitement just before he did something stupid and rash, then he leaned in to Granger as said, "Cover your ears!" before pointing at his wand at his throat and whispering "Sonorus! Guys! James! Up here!"

The Hufflepuffs all started in alarm and looked up at the castle, most of them in the wrong direction.

"Quietus!" he murmured, the turned to Granger and said, "shine your wand!" She was looking at him in shock. "Shine your wand, Granger. So they can see where we are!"

"Alright, ok!" she said, laughing. "Lumos!" Below, the Hufflepuffs had found them at last. They were waving and jumping up and down. Draco and Granger waved back, smiling, then she extinguished her wand.

Below, the speck that was James was back on task. He was making a big show of what Draco assumed was lighting the wick of the firework.

There was a moment of anticipation while they waited with baited breath for the rocket to ignite, then a sudden shout from the gigantic oak front doors. A tiny figure was slouching angrily down the entrance steps, striding with the kind of joggling malice that could only belong to one person: Flinch.
Granger clapped her hands to her mouth, trying hard not to giggle, but Draco didn't even attempt to stifle his laughter. He clutched his chest in hysterics as he watched James scoop up the rocket and run with it away from Filch, who was giving chase and barking furiously at James for him to "Stop! Slow down, you! Come back with that!"

Two more figures had emerged onto the grounds as Granger and Draco squinted down, trying to see who they were. One was much taller than the other, as straight-backed and thin as the second was round and stout. They could only be Headmistress McGonagall and Professor Sprout. The majority of the Hufflepuffs froze when they saw the two women. They seemed to respond to some shouted order from McGonagall and trekked resignedly over to where the women waited, hands on hips, wands lit like beckons in the semi-darkness.

But not James. He was still fleeing Filch, holding the rocket out in front of him at arm's length. When James had made it a good fifty yards around the lake toward the Forbidden Forest, he stopped, glanced back at Filch (who was still 30 feet away), planted the rocket in the soggy ground near the water, and lit it.

There was a buzz and then a rumble like thunder rose up from the firework. Everyone, even Sprout and McGonagall and Filch, had stopped what they were doing to watch. The rocket shot into the air like a canon, zoomed high into the sky, and burst. Out of the sparks came a great golden dragon. It roared, and streams of green and blue light billowed from its fanged mouth. Huge, batlike shimmering wings expanded in the air and flapped; its tail, long as West Tower was tall, flicked through the night sending jets of yellow light whizzing toward the ground. Owls screeched and took flight from the Owlery behind them, but they couldn't peel their eyes away from the vast fiery beast prowling and dancing through the air.

"Wow!" muttered Granger. He'd almost forgotten that she was there. He looked at her, the enormous firework dragon reflected in her eyes, and decided that this must be exactly the sort of thing that she liked, even if she didn't want to admit it. Big flashy displays. Must be a Gryffindor thing.

Draco had to confess, though, it was pretty amazing. And this was a Weasley Wizard Wheezes product? Hats off to the Weasley twins. Draco had always thought they were good value.

By the light of the dragon twisting around in the sky, Draco saw Filch tackle James, who had been staring dazedly up at his own handiwork. The caretaker pinned James to the ground, and there was much thrashing as James tried to get away again. Everyone else seemed to snap out of a sort of stupor as well. McGonagall and Sprout were yelling at the Hufflepuffs over the roar of the firework dragon, and everyone began traipsing back toward the castle.

The dragon belched another jet of blue-green sparks over the lake. Draco saw water creatures darting away from the light under its smooth surface. He started to point at a little group of merpeople staring up from under the water at the dragon, but they were gone in a flash. And besides, Granger had seen merpeople before, hadn't she? She was Vickor Krum's prize in that same lake during the Triwizard Tournament four years ago. She would have definitely gotten a glimpse of them then.

Draco sat for a long time with Granger, watching her watch the dragon out of the corner of his eye. Something had really upset her, and he wished he knew what.

And things had changed between them so drastically so fast that he was still trying to wrap his mind around it. She was sorry, and she forgave him. Yeah, for tonight, maybe. Well, he'd take the chances he got.

"Hey, Granger," he said. There was a little pause. Behind him, owls hooted and rustled, settling back in after their fright with the dragon.

"Yeah?" she asked, turning to look at him for the first time in an hour. Her face still had that expression of wonderment, but underneath he could see her coming back to herself. This was, after all, not the typical Friday night for either of them. Draco could tell she was wavering somewhere between apprehension and guilt.

"Can I ask you something?"

"Sure," she said, dropping her gaze to the hay between them and starting to pick at it.

Draco wasn't sure he should be asking. It was private, he knew that. But he still wanted to know. "What did you say to my mother in your reply?"

"I said, 'I forgive you, and I will try'," Granger told him. Then she added, "Or something like that."

"Can I ask something else?"

"Yep." She tossed a strand of straw over the edge of the window. It wafted down to the lawn, lost from sight even in the light from the dragon.

"What do we do now? I mean to say, after tonight. What are we?" Granger picked up another piece of hay and tried to throw it past the ledge, but missed. Draco picked it up and tapped her leg with it. "I want to know. I want to be clear."

Granger thought about this for a while before answering. Finally, she said, "We're strangers. You and I. We can be strangers now. Acquaintances, maybe."

Draco didn't understand. Strangers? What did that mean?

And then it dawned on him. Strangers. No longer enemies. Not friends, of course – they barely knew each other. But strangers. Strangers could meet. They could become friends. They could come to know each other.

"Strangers it is," said Draco. They both watched the dragon swoop down and blow sparks on the surface of the lake. At once, steam billowed up from the water and covered the grounds in a thick, rolling fog infused with beams of multi-colored light emanating from the firework beast. The mist had backfired on the dragon, however, enveloping it, extinguishing its light little by little in a dazzling display of pyrotechnics. The more the dragon hissed angry blue and green flames and flailed its wings in annoyance of the fog, the more of it there was. At last, the steam and the water seemed to swallow the dragon as a great, dying ember, finally extinguishing it somewhere deep under the lake.

That was unbelievable, Draco thought. He'd never seen anything so beautiful.

The minutes flickered by, and still they watched the mist curling around the castle, climbing the stone to lap at their hanging feet. It must have occurred to both of them to leave, to get back to bed or risk Mrs. Norris's prying, lamp-like eyes or Filch's wrath, still fresh from run around after James. But they didn't move, not for a very long time.

After a particularly loud hoot from a barn own that made them both jump, Draco stood up and again offered Granger his hand. She took it, got to her feet, and brushed the hay and owl feathers off of her clothes. It was dark, but the moon emitted just enough light for Draco to see Granger look up at him with fierce intensity. It was the gaze of someone who is about to say or do something and really, truly mean it.

"I'm Hermione," said the girl with the messy auburn hair and the sharp brown eyes. She stuck out her hand between them as if to shake.

"I'm Draco," said the boy, and he took her hand in his.

*Chapter 20*: Promising Light

Please, guys (you know who you are), I don't want to see any more of these reviews rudely informing me of how impatient you are. I can't rush these things. I promise the next chapter is coming soon, but seriously, I'm not going to go any faster just because you want me to. Maybe instead of being rude to me, you could try being encouraging or supportive, because I respond much better to that kind of thing.

Thank you to everyone else that has been so awesome. I really appreciate everything!

Also, just so you know, I will be revamping previous chapters in the next few days, adding things and correcting mistakes. I'll tell you when the changes are up (they'll all be done at once), but I'll probably release them after Ch. 25 comes out. Don't worry, if you're not into the idea of re-reading this fanfic, you won't be missing anything significant if you don't start over. 

Chapter 20

Promising Light

Draco returned to the Hufflepuff common room so far past curfew that it was a miracle he was even still awake. As he descended the ladder, he knew instinctively that he was not alone. His brain flooded with unhappy scenarios for the few seconds it took to land on the worn rug and turn to face the room at large. Immediately, he spot the little huddle of boys over by the great fireplace.

"There he is!" said James, jumping to his feet and striding over to Draco with a smile. With a few rough pats on his shoulder, Draco allowed himself to be ushered back over to Prescott, Ryan, and Justin, who were obviously waiting up for him.

"What are you all doing out here? Why aren't you asleep?" said Draco solicitously. It was, after all, strange that they were sitting around in the common room so late.

James laughed. "Your owl doesn't like us for some reason."

"Where have you been?" asked Prescott at once, but James, still laughing, answered for him.

"Didn't you see him in the Owlery? With a girl no less!" James shoved Draco down onto the worn sofa and stood behind him massaging his shoulders with considerable force. "You old dog! I knew you had it in you!"

"James!" said Draco, trying to duck away from James's fingers, which were digging painfully between his shoulder blades. "Hey, come on, James. Stop!"

James tumbled over the top of the couch to lie on the seat beside Draco, his head lulling in Draco's lap, the same goofy grin plastered on his face. "Who was she, lover boy?" he cooed, crossing his legs.

"Get off me, you twat!"

"Don't move until he tells us," said Ryan. "We're holding your personal space ransom."

"You've got to be joking," said Draco. He just wanted to sleep. Sleep, yes. That would be amazing. It had been such a draining night. "Can't this wait?" he said, tilting his head to the ceiling and rubbing his eyes dramatically.

"Not if you don't want me cuddled up next to you all night," replied James, batting his eyes up at Draco.

"Just tell him it was Granger so we can go to bed," said Prescott with a yawn.

Justin, seated to Draco's right in a sunken armchair, blanched. "Granger? W-what?"

"Yeah, didn't you know? They've been talking, haven't you?" said James, leering at Draco and trying to cross his hands under his head.

Draco had reached his limit. He heaved forward and James rolled off of him onto the hearth rug in a heap. "Talking, yes," he growled, "And that's not slang for anything either."

"When did this happen? Where was I?" Justin looked around at everyone with a sort of dazedly helpless expression.

"And here I was thinking it was common knowledge," James said carelessly from the floor. He had flipped around and was now sitting cross-legged with his back to the fire, his body silhouetted by its light.

Prescott, who was closest to Draco in a squashy, lemon-colored chair, said "What were you doing up there with her?"

"I just bumped into her." Which was perfectly true, thought Draco. He'd gone up to mail a letter and there she was, sobbing and being miserable, and he had tried to help. And she had apologized to him and tearfully forgiven him. And then they'd watched the fireworks together. But he wasn't sure he wanted to tell them any of that yet. Mostly because he wasn't sure he believed it himself.

"Just bumped into her?" asked Ryan incredulously. "She was with you the whole time, watching the fireworks."

"Very romantic," James cut in.

"No, not romantic," scowled Draco. Definitely not romantic. They should have seen the state of her. More like piteous. The other boys were regarding him with mingled looks of disbelief and curiosity. "Not romantic!" he repeated. "We were talking –"

James cut in, "—again—"

Draco ignored him. "—and mailing our letters—"

"—is that what the kids are calling it these days?"

"—and then the fireworks started—"

"—so to speak—"

"—and we sat down and watched them together. No! Not together together! In the same place!"

More skeptical gaping.

"THERE IS NOTHING GOING ON BETWEEN ME AND GRANGER!" Draco bellowed. They all started at his voice, so loud in the relative calm of the common room. How could they be thinking this? What could they possibly think was going on? Draco was taking deep, calming breaths through his nose, trying to stop the gravely wheeze in his lungs. This was ridiculous. He stood up suddenly and said, "I'm going to bed."

"No, no! Draco!" said James, getting to his feet and catching hold of Draco's arm. "Hey, mate, we're just kidding you. Calm down!"

"It's not a joke, ok? She was a witness at my mother's trial! She's probably going to be at my father's trial and mine! She's a total stranger—" Draco broke off. Yes, that was the word she'd used. Stranger. But it wasn't bad when she'd said it. 'Stranger' coming from her sounded like hope. It was Draco who was now using it to create distance, to draw a line between them. He regretted saying anything at all.

"We know, Draco," said Prescott. Draco looked at him, half out of his chair, his body as tense as the moment. "We understand what Granger is to you."

"What does that mean?"

"You told us all about it, remember? We know she's how you're measuring your success."

It sounded idiotic coming from Prescott. Draco: measuring his acceptance as a changed man by the whims of a seventeen-year-old girl who didn't even like him. It was clear from Prescott's tone that he thought Draco was being absurd. But if it was true – and Draco suspected it was – that she had actually changed her mind about him, maybe it wasn't so crazy of him to want her approval. Only a little. Mostly he wanted her not to hate him so that would be one less person judging him by his past.

Even as he thought all of this, he knew that he wasn't ready to voice it, so Draco changed tacks. "Did you get in much trouble?"

"Detention," said Ryan, Prescott, and Justin together.

"And none of us can watch the Gryffindor-Slytherin match next month," Prescott said. That explained how solemn he was looking.

"Ouch," Draco said sympathetically.

"Which is why you'll have to go without us," Prescott continued, sounding as though it cost him dearly to have to say these things out loud, "We need eyes on that game, watching for their strategies. Both Gryffindor and Slytherin have new captains this year. We need to know what sort of tactics they're employing. It's up to you, mate." Prescott stared into Draco's eyes in earnest, and Draco could tell he was more upset about being barred from watching the upcoming match than he was letting on to their friends.

"I'll be there," said Draco, "Taking notes and drawing little diagrams or whatever."

"Aw, I wouldn't bother with the diagrams. Yours could never be as good as Prescott's," said James. Everyone looked at him in surprise, waiting for the punch line. Honest compliments from James were hard to come by. James grinned. "What? They're good!" He shook his head in a you-people-never-believe-me sort of way and turned his attention to Prescott. "Cheer up, little buddy! Draco here is going to try to be a useful scout. And if that doesn't work, we'll spy on their practices. I'm willing to make moral sacrifices to beat the snot out of those two teams this year."

Draco nodded fervently, and Prescott smiled in spite of himself. There was a beat of silence, then Draco turned to James and said, "What happened to you? This lot got detention, what did you get?"

"Oh, me? Just a week weeding the greenhouses with Sprout. Filch was threatening thumb screws." They all laughed, the memory of James running off into the night wielding a gigantic rocket still fresh in their sleepy minds.

"I would have gone with the screws," said Draco sagely, "That would have at least impressed Carolyn."

Everyone turned to James. "Nah," he said breezily. "She would have just been hacked off that I couldn't catch the quaffle properly. Girls only like bad boys when they don't actually have to put up with them."

"Good point," said Prescott.

There was a brief pause. A log settled in the fire. Then Justin said, "He likes Carolyn?"

Hermione sipped her tea in Hagrid's hut on Saturday afternoon, half-listening to him prattle on about the impressively large pumpkins out in the garden, half-reminiscing on the fireworks the night before. And Malfoy, of course. Draco.

She didn't really know what to think of it all. It was true that she had finally been honest with herself about him, admitted that he had really changed, that he was not so much repentant as a completely different human being. Hermione had to admire his strength in the face of so much adversity. She had truly been wrong about him. But what was she supposed to do with that information?

"—An' a performance by the ghosts, o' course. Well, all except Peeves. He don' need any more excuses ter make trouble."

"Right," said Hermione vaguely.

"Are yeh alrigh', Hermione?" Hagrid asked, setting down his bucket of tea to peer at her beadily.

"I'm fine. Just thinking."

"About the trial?" Hagrid's bushy eyebrows seemed to swallow up the few inches of his face that weren't hidden behind his wild beard and hair. So they'd come to it at last. The trial. Was that all anyone could talk about?

Hermione tried to think of a good answer. She hadn't exactly been thinking about the trial, but she had been thinking of Mal-Draco. Maybe that counted. "Yes."

"I've been asked ter testify at old Lucius's trial. Got the summons last week. Did yer get one?"

"Yes. Bliswick seems to be mounting an elaborate defense." Hermione glanced over at the Daily Prophet on Hagrid's bed. The front page was another speculative news article about the Malfoy family. This time, there was an accompanying photograph of them taken at the Quidditch World Cup, except the little black and white versions of Narcissa and Draco were standing separately from Lucius, who appeared to be muttering to himself. That didn't bode well.

"I read in the Prophet today that the counsel – Bliswick's his name, I think – has been callin' on everyone tha' Lucius ever knew to testify at the trial."

"I read that, too," said Hermione. That was worrisome. The longer the trial stretched out, the more pain Draco and his mother would be in, the worse it would be for them. "Don't you think—" started Hermione, but she broke off, unsure of how to word her question.

"Yeah? What's up, Hermione?" said Hagrid encouragingly.

"Don't you think that all of this is a little unfair? I mean," she hurried on, as Hagrid opened his mouth to reply, "I mean, don't you wonder why no other Death Eater family has been prosecuted? It feels like the Malfoys are sort of — sort of taking the blame for everything, don't you think?"

"Well, they've all ruddy well left the country, haven' they?" said Hagrid, "Or been killed or summat. There was an awful lot of them that died back in May, yer know." He was eyeing her with a curious expression.

She shouldn't have said anything. Hardly any of her friends would agree with her that the Malfoys might be getting a bit of unfair treatment. It was stupid to think Hagrid would feel any differently than Harry or Ron.

He leaned back in his chair, which groaned under his weight. "Hermione, I've had a letter from Harry about yeh. He seems ter think that yeh might be havin' some sympathy for old Draco Malfoy now that he's been moved ter Hufflepuff. That wouldn't be true, now would it?"

Hermione felt herself bristle. "So what if it is true? He has a right to change if he wants to! He doesn't need my permission, or Harry's or Ron's or yours!"

"Alright, calm down, Hermione," said Hagrid soothingly, but Hermione wasn't done.

"He is really different now! You haven't even spoken to him!" Hermione slammed her teacup down on the table and was forcibly reminded of Luna doing the exact same thing during a similar conversation a month ago. That's when she knew she was on their side, Luna's and Draco's. She was going to fight this battle with them. She was going to stand up for Draco because someone should. And he'd earned it.

"Well, he hasn't apologized ter me," said Hagrid in a huff, as if that settled it, in his opinion. "I don't see what yer so upset about, Hermione. This is a long time comin' fer the Malfoys, if yeh ask me. Bunch 'o slimy gits, the lot of 'em."

"Hagrid!" cried Hermione. She couldn't believe him! "Draco's changed—"

"Oh, Draco, is it now?"

Hermione stood up, indignant, enraged. Much angrier than she should have been. After all, Hagrid didn't really know any better, did he? He hadn't talked to Draco. In his mind, these trials were justice being served. But to Hermione, they were a bitter vendetta, and excuse to point the finger at the only people left to be held accountable, whether they were to blame for their actions or no.

"I can' believe you, Hermione. I thought that yeh of all people wouldn' fall for Malfoy's—"

"Malfoy's what? His what, exactly?"

"He's a bleedin' fake, Hermione! Palin' around with those Hufflepuffs, he's no diff'rent than he was b'fore!"

"He is different. You'll see!" She grabbed her coat and turned to leave. Her hand was on the door when the sound of scraping wood on wood filled up the cabin.

Hagrid had gotten to his feet. He crossed to her, put a massive hand on her shoulder. "Hermione, if yeh really feel tha' way—"

"I do!" she cried, spinning around to look at him. "I believe him, I believe in him. He's changed. I don't care what any of you think. In fact, I feel sorry for you! You're all so blinded by your prejudice that you're not even willing to hear the truth about everything! I know, because I was like you. I let myself hate him even though I didn't know the whole story, just because he's Malfoy, but it's not fair! Why do we think we're any better than him? Why do we think our pain was more, that our hardship was greater? Just because we don't understand it doesn't mean it's not true!" She was breathless now, holding back tears.

Hagrid looked at her seriously. "Alright, Hermione. Alright. Calm down."

"No, I will not calm—"

"I'm tryin' to say that I hear yeh. Yer right, Hermione. Yer always right." Hagrid patted her shoulder and she tried very hard not to flinch. "I trust yeh. If yeh say he's tryin', then he's tryin'." Then he looked at her strangely, cocking his head to the side.

"Y-you think I'm right?" It was almost too much to hope for. Had she actually convinced Hagrid?

"Will yeh sit down an' tell me about him?" said Hagrid, nodding over his shoulder back at the table. "I'm listenin'."

Finally. Someone was listening.

"Myrtle, you're not even listening!"

"Am so!"

"Are not—ugh! No, I'm not going to do this with you. Look, Hermione isn't my friend, per se, but she was trying to help me! She is! She did!"

"She lied to me!"

"You wouldn't have told her anything if she hadn't lied!"

"But—"

"I want her to know, Myrtle! I want her to know everything about me!"

It was Saturday evening and his friends were expecting him at dinner, but he hadn't seen Mrytle in so long, and now this. Why hadn't Hermione told him that she'd talked to Mrytle about him? Well, he reasoned, she hadn't had much time between yelling at him, crying hysterically, and not speaking to him. Maybe she would have told him eventually. But it would have been nice to have a heads-up, if only to prevent the argument he was currently having with the ghost of the second floor girl's bathroom.

That had been quite a bombshell to drop, and Myrtle knew it. When she'd told him of the conversation that had occurred in the Prefects' Bathroom a month ago, Draco had found himself torn between horror and jubilation. Hermione had asked the one person who knew it all, the whole story of his terrible sixth year. And Myrtle had defended him. It was almost perfect. Now if only he could get Myrtle to see it that way.

She was holed up in the third cubicle down the aisle, furious and on the verge of one of her famous breakdowns. And he was standing on the other side of the stall door with his hands braced against it trying to make her understand. But the silence was lengthening in the time since he'd last spoken, and Myrtle was only sniffing a little. No response. Maybe he should say something else…

"I want her to know the truth, Myrtle. Thank you for telling her, even if she tricked you. It was good. I'm glad you did it."

"Really?" she asked in a very small voice, something like a whisper, more like a sigh.

"Yes! Of course! Don't be dense, Myrtle! Come out here and talk to me!"

She emerged suddenly through the cubical door and he took a few hurried steps back. That was really unnerving. She knew he hated it, which explained the smile on her face. "Then I haven't ruined everything?"

"No! Tell me what she asked you! Tell me everything she said!"

After thirty more minutes with Mrytle, Draco was feeling more reassured of his success with Hermione than ever. She had asked some of the right questions. She'd seemed curious. And Myrtle had told her the truth, which was perfect. The walk to the Great Hall took no time at all.

"Thank goodness! We were about to gather a search party!" said James, standing up at the Hufflepuff table and waving him over.

Draco sat down between Ryan and James and told them he'd been to see Moaning Myrtle. They all stared at him incredulously, except Prescott, who was writing furiously and had his nose pressed so close to the parchment that Draco was surprised there weren't ink spots on it.

"You mean," said Ryan, "You actually went looking for Moaning Myrtle?"

"We're old friends," Draco explained, then nodded at Prescott. "What's up with him?"

"The D.A.D.A. essay," said Ryan simply. Draco groaned his sympathy, but Prescott didn't look up.

"Well, you've got some weird friends, Draco," said James. "Lucky you have us around, really, otherwise you'd be hopeless."

Draco laughed and stole a glance over to the Gryffindor table. He could see Hermione sitting there reading the Evening Prophet. As he watched, she brought a fork full of ham up to her face and tried to eat it without tearing her eyes away from the page, but missed her mouth. She looked up, startled, and their eyes locked. The hand holding her fork dropped to the table so fast it was comical, but he resisted the urge to laugh. He knew by the way she blushed that she'd realized he had seen, but she just sort of rolled her eyes and smiled a little. He smiled back.

"Earth to Draco!" said James, who had clearly noticed what had passed between him and Hermione.

Draco pried his gaze from the Gryffindor table and turned to James. "What?"

"Are you ok, mate? You're worse than me!"

"Worse than you how—Hang on!" But they were all laughing. Draco joined in. When he looked back at Hermione, she was buried in the newspaper again.

"LOOK UPON MY WORKS YE MIGHTY AND DESPAIR!" bellowed Prescott suddenly, standing up and punching the air.

"What?" James, Draco, and Ryan all said together, utterly nonplused.

"I'm done, you prats! Yes!"

"Was that more Shakestick?" Draco muttered to James.

"That was Shelley, Draco. And it's 'Shakespeare'," Prescott said. He blew on the parchment and folded it before stuffing it into his bookbag with relish. "I can't believe I finished that. Must be record or something."

"Congratulations," said Ryan flatly.

Prescott settled back into his seat and started pulling platters of food toward him, shoveling a mountain of potatoes and peas onto his plate. "We have got to do something about your deplorable ignorance of the classic poets, Draco," he said.

"I think I can live without it," Draco said through a mouth full of chicken.

"Ah, but you haven't truly lived without the Muggle classics!" said James sagely, folding his hands on the table in front of him and giving Draco mock-scrutinizing glare.

Prescott poured gravy over his potatoes and roast beef. "He's making fun of me, but he's right."

"We can have a poetry reading on the lawn tomorrow. You'll have to pardon me if I'm not present. I've got detention. Draco, however, has no excuse."

"I think Draco's the only one who doesn't have detention tomorrow, actually," said Ryan. "The rest of us are cleaning the potions classrooms."

"Oh, that's delightful," said Draco, glad that for once he wasn't the one in trouble.

"Yeah, it'll give you time to work out how you're going to help James with Carolyn," said Prescott.

"Wait, what?" said Draco and James at once.

"I don't know anything about getting girls!" Draco laughed. It was true. The only girl that had ever shown any interest in him was Pansy Parkinson, and she was long gone. He'd never had to try with her anyway. She just threw herself at him.

"Yeah, but none of the rest of us has had any luck with getting him to pluck up the courage to make a move. You're by far the most qualified to teach Jameson here a thing or two about bravery."

Draco thought about this. What was Prescott referring to? He didn't feel brave at all! When had he ever…

"Yeah, Draco. You've got a solid brass pair of balls by my estimation, not that I've been looking or anything," said James with a grin. "Maybe you could help me out."

"You've all completely lost your minds," said Draco, but he smiled anyway. Yes, he decided. He would help James with Carolyn if he could. Maybe he could help James. Maybe that could in some way make up for everything he'd done for Draco.

Hermione was walking past the Hufflepuff table with Ginny now. He looked up at her and caught her eye again. "Hey, stranger," he said quietly.

Ginny glared at him then turned away haughtily, but Hermione smiled. He smiled back. Then they were gone.

James chuckled and said, "See! That's what I'm talking about!"

*Chapter 21*: Matters of Blood and Connection

I just wanted to say how excited I am for the next few chapters. I hope you like reading them, because they've been quite a roller coaster for me to write.

Also, it probably doesn't interest you to know, but I'm going to tell you anyway: It's my birthday today!

Chapter 21

Matters of Blood and Connection

"Hermione, wait!" Draco was running down the basement corridor outside of the Hufflepuff common room, headed for the stairs that led up to the Entrance Hall.

Hermione rounded on him, and her anger was radiating from her in waves. He thought he would drown in her fury. He'd never seen her so angry. "Leave me alone, Malfoy! And stop calling me that!"

"What? Your name?"

"Yes. You don't get to say my name. You've lost that privilege!" She turned the corner, and Draco ran after her, desperate to catch her.

"What did I do? Please! Come back! Please, Hermione!" Draco was on the stairs now. Hermione was almost at the top.

She didn't turn around. "Stop! Just go away!"

"No!" he shouted, emerging into the Entrance Hall, deserted apart from themselves. "No, I'm not going away. Tell me—"

"You know! You know what you did!"

"You're killing me with this girlspeak. Just tell me what's—"

"Girlspeak?" Hermione stopped halfway up the marble staircase and glared down at him. "Is that what- Just some girl now? Talking gibberish?"

Draco didn't stop. He climbed the steps up to her, reaching out for her, desperate, afraid. "Hermione- no!" He grabbed her arm. She tried to wrench it away, but he held tight. "Wait! Just hang on a minute—"

"Let go of me!" she spat at him. Her eyes were on fire. "Get lost and stay lost, Malfoy."

The marble beneath their feet was melting. They were falling through it. He pressed her against his chest, fearful of losing his hold on her. Together they slipped through the stone and into a vast darkened room.

'I am lost. W-where—" But he knew where he was. The courtroom. He was sitting in the huge stone throne, shackled by the snake-like chains, and everyone he'd ever hurt, everyone he'd ever even met, was watching him from the shadows now. And Hermione was standing over him, her hair wild and her eyes blazing. Then she was straddling him there, in front of everyone, and her hands where on his face and his neck and she was kissing him and he was breathless and bound, gasping for more, his lungs protesting as he tried to heave air into them but Hermione was kissing him so hard—

Draco snapped awake, bolting upright in his bed, sweat drenching his face, his bare chest and arms. And he was panting, wheezing in panic, his eyes searching the blinding darkness for something to focus on, but there was nothing.

His curtains flew open, and there was James, leering down at him. The light was blinding, confusing him, bent weirdly as if through a prism.

"What are you doing, you prat? You're missing your N.E.W.T.s!"

"I-I what? No, they're not until—"

But then the curtains turned to iron bars and James became a Dementor and the light became a thousand grasping hands, trying to seize him through the bars. He cringed back, away from the outstretched fingers. The hands beared down on him, pushing him, compressing him. Now they were walls. Wooden walls. He was in a-a cabinet. The Vanishing Cabinet. Trapped between worlds. Lost and alone.

Someone was whispering, "Severus please…"

"DRACO! WAKE UP!" It was Prescott's voice, somewhere very close to him.

Draco opened his eyes suddenly, then shrank back into the bedclothes in terror. His teeth were clenched and his skin felt tight and cold with sweat. His sheets and coverlet were shoved up against the baseboard. And Prescott was leaning over him with a lantern. Behind him, James, Justin and Ryan were looking very worried, their faces illuminated in the flickering firelight.

Draco became aware of his aching fingers, which were gripping the mattress of his bed so tight it hurt. Slowly, he let go. "I'm awake," he muttered. He'd been dreaming. Of course he had. It was a dream. Just a dream.

"Are you alright, mate?" James poked Draco in the arm. Draco winced. "You were screaming your head off."

"Some people are trying to sleep," came a voice from farther away. Smith.

"Shut up, you bloody idiot," said Ryan over his shoulder. He turned back to Draco. "Are you ok?"

"I'm ok, yeah." Draco brought his hand to his forehead and tried to sit up. This was made difficult by the fact that they were all crowded in so close around him. "Can we all take a step back?"

"Can we all go back to sleep?" said Smith.

"Shut up!" said everyone else.

Pinching the bridge of his nose and rubbing the sleep out of his eyes with his thumb and forefinger, Draco folded his legs under himself and leaned forward to grab the blankets at the end of the bed. If they were going to hang around his bed like that, then he might as well be decent and he didn't feel like some boxer shorts qualified.

"What time is it?" Draco asked. There were no windows in their dormitory, but the clock on the fireplace mantle always glowed faintly like the sky outside. It was a slate gray and lightening fast.

"Maybe six o'clock?" said Justin, glancing over at the clock just like Draco had.

"Happy Halloween," Draco said groggily. Everyone smiled. "Not really any sense in going back to sleep, is there?"

"Nah," said James, grabbing Draco's bathrobe and tossing it into his lap on his way back to his own four-poster. "And the bathrooms will be free, so come on, we'll hurry up getting dressed then go down to breakfast early."

Prescott seemed more hesitant to leave Draco's side. "Are you sure you're alright? You seemed pretty upset."

"I was having a nightmare, Prescott. I was upset. But it wasn't real, was it? So it's not a problem. Come on," Draco said, swinging his bathrobe over his shoulders and shooting his arms through the sleeves, "let's get out of here before Smith throws a tantrum."

"I heard that!" said Smith sourly. His bed curtains were still closed, but he was clearly awake.

"Who cares?" Prescott laughed, heading back over to his bed to get shower things and kicking Smith's bed as he passed. Draco could almost hear Smith glowering.

It wasn't really fair, was it? Smith may be a prat, but he was still a Hufflepuff. He was always left out of everything, partly because he was a prat and partly because he was always busy with Head Boy duties. Maybe he wasn't as bad as he seemed. Maybe he was just protective, still distrusting of Draco after all this time.

Everyone else had left for the bathrooms, but Draco lagged a little behind. He walked up to Smith's bed, leaned against one of the wooden posts of the bed frame, and said into the curtains, "Listen, I'm sorry about all—"

"I don't want your apology or your pity, Malfoy," said Smith scathingly from the other side of the hangings, "Just leave me alone."

"Fine by me," said Draco. He pushed off of the bed post and left the room before his temper made him say something he'd regret. If Smith was anything other than a complete twat, he did a really good job hiding it.

All that excitement with the nightmare then with Smith had almost made Draco forget the Hogsmeade visit today. He would get to see his mother again after less than a week. They'd sat together on Tuesday, the first day of his father's trial, with Elodonda and Hackey MacDougal, but Draco had since stopped going.

Draco had quickly learned that Bliswick's style was decidedly more bureaucratic than MacDougal's. He fought every little protest with a stack of paper, argued each charge for hours on end. Draco couldn't just skive off classes for the week to be present at court proceedings when nothing was actually proceeding.

Bliswick was wasting everyone's time with all of that technical nit-picking, in Draco's opinion, but it was his father he was concerned about. He looked worse than Draco had ever seen him on the first day of the trial. The chains on the great stone chair had bound him, and he had struggled vainly against them.

He really did look crazy.

Draco's mother had gripped his hand so tightly that it had gone numb, and every-so-often MacDougal would lean over and whisper something into her ear. Draco felt sure MacDougal was updating his mother on the goings-on since most of it was an incomprehensible mêlée of legal gibberish and a constant barrage of documents with official letterheads being passed back and forth between Bliswick's legal team and the Wizengamot. His mother didn't tell Draco what MacDougal said, but Draco didn't really care.

He was mostly concerned about the state of his father.

Draco tried to shake all of this as he stood in the shower, letting the water wash away bad dreams and worse memories. He was going to see his mother today.

"Hermione! Ginny!"

The chorus of voices rang through the crowded Three Broomsticks so loudly that everyone inside turned to look at the two girls that had just entered through the door. There they were, the whole troupe. Bill and Fleur clung to each other at the head of the table and Ron sat between Harry and George on one side while Mr. and Mrs. Weasley beamed around Mrs. Tonks holding Teddy on her lap on the other. Percy hand turned full around in his chair to face them.

Harry stood up immediately, as did Ron and Mrs. Weasley, and Hermione barely had time to say hello before she was enveloped in one of Mrs. Weasley's famous hugs. She saw Harry pick Ginny up and twirl her around, much to the chagrin of several witches sipping sherry at the table next to them.

Mrs. Weasley finally let go, and then Ron was there, standing in front of her with s sheepish smile. Why did he always look like he'd just done something slightly stupid?

"Hermione," he said, and he wrapped his arms tightly around her waist. It had been a while since she'd seen him. She was happy to be there, pressed against him. It felt safe. This is were she was supposed to be. There was just that little nagging—

"How are you?" Ron asked, breathing into her ear, sliding a hand up the back of her neck into her hair.

"I'm fine," she whispered, feeling a little offput by this sudden display of affection from him. Was this Harry's influence? She could just hear him telling Ron to be more aggressive, to take the initiative. Hermione wanted this to be what she wanted.

He kissed the skin just under her ear. "I've missed you so much."

Had it really been that long? A few weeks of exchanging excited letters, of talking about school and the Auror office and the new apartment he and Harry now shared and not discussing trials or Draco. Especially not the latter. Ugh, why was she thinking of him right now? She shook herself and focused on Ron. He trailed kisses to her cheek, then to her mouth. She let him kiss her. No, she kissed him. It was delicate, sweet even. But she was glad when it was over. After all, she reasoned, they were in a pub surrounded by his family.

Hermione broke away from him, felt his hands slide away from her hips to hang awkwardly at his sides. Then she remembered that he had told her he missed her. "I missed you too, Ron." She glanced over at Harry and Ginny and experienced a little pang of envy. They were still wrapped up in each other. She wanted that kind of love. And she wanted to have it with Ron.

Now was not the time to dwell on her apparent inability to be a normal teenage girl. She let Ron lead her by the hand over to the table, where she sat at the end closest to Percy and farthest from George which, she thought, was just as well. George was a bit on the depressing side these days. She gave him a wave and he returned it with a small smile before Ron obscured him from view by seating himself next to her.

"Hey, Professor!" she said, nudging Percy with her shoulder. He tried not to look stiff.

Harry and Ginny joined them a minute later, looking rumpled but blissful. "So," said Ginny, beaming, "What's new with everyone?"

"Your father's been promoted again!" exclaimed Mrs. Weasley, "To the head of the Muggle Liaison Office!"

"What? Really! That's great, dad!" said Ginny. She high-fived Mr. Weasley across the table, then Madame Rosmerta bustled up to them to take drink orders.

It wasn't so bad, really, Hermione decided. She could do this.

Draco stood outside of Madame Puddifoot's waiting for his mother. She wasn't late, exactly, but for a woman who was terminally punctual, she was pushing it. Finally, he heard a little pop and turned to see her walking up the side street toward him, a faintly harassed look on her face which she arranged into a smile when she saw him.

"Draco," she said as if in great relief, extending her hand, which he kissed before laughingly pulling her into a hug. He didn't care if it wrinkled her robes or rattled her old-fashioned sensibilities. He was happy to see her and he was done with pretense and graces. She didn't seem to mind. She held on to him for a long time.

"Mother, shall we?" he said, letting her go and offering her his arm.

She looked at the entrance of Madame Puddifoot's uncertainly. "Your father and I used to come here back when it was Madame Grey's," she murmured, her gaze turning almost wistful. "It's was a place for couples. Draco, are you sure—"

"Yes, mother. You're my date." This produced an honest smile from his mother, who took his arm and gripped it tightly. Draco tried not to wonder why she seemed a bit flustered, though he could guess. He pushed open the door and led her inside.

The little tea shop was bursting with harvest-themed decorations for Halloween. All the tables were draped in fall colored-cloth, and the centerpieces were tiny glowing pumpkins with swirly carvings set upon a bed of golden leaves. His mother let out a little gasp next to him, staring around at the décor.

"It's very different," she said. "It's wonderful."

Draco could smell the pumpkin and cinnamon aroma that hung heavy in the air. All around, students from Hogwarts were coupled together at the minuscule tables. Everyone looked up as Draco pulled back a chair for his mother and settled her in before seating himself across from her and taking her hands in his.

"How are you?" he asked, but a large, middle-aged woman with a shiny black bun who Draco took for Madame Puddifoot was making her way toward them, squeezing through the limited space between tables.

"Narcissa! It's been a long time!"

"Amadea!" Narcissa stood and kissed the woman on both cheeks. Draco got to his feet, too. Force of habit. If a lady stood up at your table, so did you. "It has been several years, hasn't it?"

"I haven't seen you since we were at Hogwarts!" said Madame Puddifoot. "Is this your son?"

"Yes! Draco, this is Amadea Puddifoot. She claims all the credit for your father and me."

"Not all of it, dear. Your mother knew what she wanted," Puddifoot said to Draco, "She was just always so distractible. I gave her a nudge in the right direction."

"She's being modest. She practically threw me at your father."

"He was such a charmer… back then…" Madame Puddifoot's voice trailed away, and she glanced nervously between Draco and his mother.

"I don't believe I've heard this story," said Draco interestedly, trying to smooth over the uncomfortable moment.

Madame Puddifoot grabbed a chair from a nearby table and dragged it over to them, sitting and waving her wand over at the counter. A pot of tea zoomed toward their table and she conjured three teacups for them. "Well," she said when they all had tea cooling in their hands, "A long time ago, your mother here was the most popular girl in school—"

"Amadea, stop it!" his mother laughed.

"Don't even bother trying to deny it. Anyway, your mother was popular, at least in our year. And all the boys had their eye on her, including Lucius. He was the worst, I think."

His mother buried her head in her hands and tried to hide her smile. "This is so embarrassing."

"So," said Puddifoot, not to be deterred, "While we were all in the pub over a weekend, I- well, I sort of spilled butterbeer down her front accidentally on purpose as Lucius and some friends were walking by. And she was preoccupied trying to get it out of her clothes when she bumped into Lucius and gave her his coat. They got to talking – your mother hadn't given him the time of day up until then – and that was the end of it. The perfect match."

"You spilled butterbeer on my mother and that's how they met?" Draco asked incredulously. It seemed so… improper. He'd never really thought about his parents as young, at school, before they'd fell in love and got married and had a son. And joined the Dark Lord.

"Well, he was a sixth-year then and we were a year behind," continued Puddifoot, "They hadn't really spoken at school until then."

"Though of course our parents were friendly," added his mother from behind her hands.

'It was very romantic, actually. He was such a gentleman with her."

"I still have that coat." Draco and Puddifoot both looked at his mother. She was gazing pensively through Draco, into the past, far away. Then she turned to Madame Puddifoot and said, "I wish you could have been our wedding, Amadea. It would have been so much more fun if you'd been there."

"I wish I had been there, too," said Puddifoot a little sadly.

"Why couldn't you go?" Draco asked, confused. Puddifoot had mentioned that the two women hadn't seen each other since their school days. Now it seemed strange, since they were so familiar. And they'd been in the same year, friends even. Why wasn't she at the wedding?

"My parents felt—" Narcissa began, but Puddifoot interrupted her, a shadow passing over her face.

"I was deemed unworthy. Too low-class to attend a union of the Black and Malfoy families."

"But why?"

"Because I'm a Puddifoot. Not much of a high-society ring to it, is there?"

"I didn't care about that," whispered his mother.

Puddifoot placed a hand over his mother's on the table. "I know. And look how wrong they were!" She gestured around at the tea shop. "I suppose that Slytherin ambition paid off after all!" They laughed, but Draco didn't.

Puddifoot had been a Slytherin? He regarded her with new interest. She was stout like Professor Sprout, but her features were sharper, her eyes quick and bright, her clothes neat, fashionable, hand-tailored. Definitely Slytherin pedigree. He guessed she must be at least a half-blood, since not many muggleborns found themselves in the unfortunate predicament of being sorted into Slytherin House, but he'd never even heard her name mentioned by his parents before.

There were plenty of hard-off children in Slytherin – they couldn't all be rich, after all – but he'd never thought of his mother having a friend that wasn't preapproved by her family. He knew that up until this year all of his companions had been hand-picked for him by his parents before he'd even gotten on the train for his first year at Hogwarts.

He suddenly envied his mother's initiative to befriend a girl from the other side of that invisible line none of his birth were supposed to cross. She hadn't cared about Puddifoot's status. Just like he didn't care if any of his new friends would benefit him in some way. Real friends. Slytherins weren't supposed to have real friends.

"I never thought, when I saw the name on the sign, that this was your shop, Amadea. This is amazing. Truly."

Puddifoot, who was just taking a sip of tea, sputtered with a giggle and said, "Don't sound so surprised!"

"No, I only meant… It's just like you. I should have known."

"Well, you should visit more often, now that you know how to find me!"

"I absolutely will, Amadea."

Puddifoot glanced around at the many couples in her shop. "I should get back." As Puddifoot and his mother made plans to meet the following week, Draco drank his tea (which was delicious) and thought about his parents. They had been so normal once, just two kids in school. Holding hands, laughing easily. And so much had changed since then. He found it hard to draw a path from the picture Puddifoot had painted of an awkward meeting to the complicated, conflicted marriage they were struggling to hold together now. Draco wanted to know everything, the whole story. How could things have gotten so muddled? Well, he thought with a little smile, things were bound to get messy when you started off a relationship with a pint of spilled butterbeer.

Madame Puddifoot was getting to her feet. "It was a pleasure to meet you, Draco."

He stood up again and took her hand in his. "And you as well, Madame Puddifoot."

"Amadea, please!" she replied with a pleasant smile. Then she was maneuvering between the tables back to her counter.

"You asked me how I was," said his mother, and he sat down at once and gave her his full attention. "Draco, things are not… your father…"

"What about him?" Draco didn't want to think about the deranged man who had fought the chains down in the bowls of the Ministry of Magic. He wanted to imagine his father like the boy who had helped his mother, given her his coat to hide butterbeer stains. This idea of a maddened ex-Death Eater who could barely hold his countenance amidst the legion of disdainful onlookers was unbearable for Draco. This man who had wanted Draco to respect him, to become the man he was, to follow in his footsteps.

Well, I'm doing that. Your trial then mine father. Lucius.

He tried to keep the malice out of his expression as he regarded his mother. She had her hands clasped around her tea, drawing warmth from it, looking up at Draco with beseeching eyes. "His counsel will draw things out. Hackey says that Bliswick will try to drag the trial on for as long as possible. He'll call every witness, question them for days, parade your father around in front of the Wizengamot… He's pleading insanity."

Draco set down his tea before his mother saw the cup shaking. She was looking to him for some response, but what could he say? "That's not surprising, mother. It's what I'd do."

She made an impatient noise and said, "That's what Hackney said. But it's not right, Draco. You must see that. It's not right to put your father through something like—"

"What do you want me to do about it?" Draco snapped back. He was losing his patience now.

She leaned over the table toward him, her face aglow in the dancing orangish light of the jack-o-lantern, and spoke in a hushed voice. "He is your father, Draco! He's just not right… right now."

"Yes. He's just not my father right now. And he's not your husband either. You heard that list of charges. Can you honestly contest any one of them?"

"Your father loves you!" she hissed. The she sat back jerkily and brought her tea to her lips with an almost mechanical motion. "He couldn't help those—"

"Don't tell me he couldn't help it! I was there, mother. Lucius—"

"How dare you call your father—"

"Haven't I just told you that's exactly what he's not?" Draco said. He glanced around, but if people were listening in, they were hiding it well. "He's guilty, mother. He put us in this situation. I'm not going to make excuses for him, and you shouldn't either." Draco drained his teacup and set it back on its saucer. The little chink of porcelain seemed to ring through the room, though there was plenty of noise to hide it.

"He's not himself," whispered his mother. She looked away, toward a wall covered in pastoral paintings where ponies galloped through fields of wildflowers.

"I think that's a good thing."

She didn't look back at him. "I know." She hung her head and brushed a tear discretely from her eye. "I know."

"Mother." Draco couldn't stand to see her like that, so exposed and upset. "Mother! It's going to be alright."

Her gaze wandered back to him, then the words were tumbling out of her mouth as if unbidden: "I don't want you to share his fate, Draco. I can't stand to see him like that, b-but even more than that I cannot bear the thought that you might end up like him. He's so cold, so broken. And they won't let him have a wand, even before he tried to – to leave us. It's just me and your father in that house now and sometimes – sometimes I feel so alone I just want to—" She blinked very quickly and wiped the tears from her cheeks impatiently. "I just want things to be better for us, Draco. But I don't…"

"I understand, mother."

"It's such a relief, just being away from him now. Seeing you. I miss you so much. I keep thinking if you came home it would be better."

"I'm not coming home," said Draco firmly.

"Yes. Yes, of course," she said with so much ardor that Draco knew she wasn't really serious about him returning home, "I know you want to be there, and I am so happy for you. I'm so proud of you. I just… I wish things were different."

"You and me both," he said, allowing himself a little smile. "You should get out more, mother. Go see friends."

She laughed mirthlessly. "What friends? No one wants to invite me 'round for tea, Draco."

"Madame Puddifoot wanted to."

His mother waved her hand as if swatting away a fly. "She's different," she said dismissively. "No one from our old circle of friends, no one who matters—" but she broke off, apparently catching Draco's glare of disgust. "No! Draco, what I mean is that – that I want to reestablish our name as… The name of Malfoy used to mean something."

"It still means something to me."

"Yes, but don't you see? We're all but banished. I only want the best for you. I want you to have all the best opportunities. These people – our old friends – they can give you those opportunities."

"I can find my own way, mother," said Draco.

"But you shouldn't have to do it alone!"

"That's it really, isn't it, mother? We're not talking about me right now. We're talking about you."

"What are you—" she gasped.

Draco cut across her, trying to calm the anger boiling in his stomach. "You want your old status back. You want to be the center of attention again on your own terms."

"I want someone to care about me! I've been cast aside, Draco! You father is a lunatic and you're away at school—"

"Don't you—"

"No, you're gone, but I don't hold that against you. I'm just so alone. And the winter season is about to start… Do you understand, Draco? Do you know why I… that I just want things to be normal. Or I think I may go mad myself."

Now, at last, Draco understood. His mother wanted to be a part of the winter season, the whirl of parties and dinners that surrounded the holidays every year. Each of the families – the Zabinis, the Davises, the Flints, the Greengrasses, the Notts, the Bulstrodes, the Parkinsons, the Montagues, and, of course, the Malfoys – threw balls and dinner parties and everyone made the rounds. There were others, other prominent families throwing posh invitation-only events, but these families' get-togethers were the most illustrious, the most desirable. And out of them, two were in disgrace and one, the Parkinsons, had left the country.

His mother's idea of 'normal' was attending these annual gatherings. It was social suicide to attempt to solicit an invitation and social suicide not to attend. If they had shut her out, that was the end of it. There was no surer way of their descent into obscurity and humiliation than for the ladies of this exclusive inner circle to shun the Malfoys this season. And Draco bet that's just what they intended to do.

And now he felt real pity for his mother. This was her world, and it was crashing down around her. It was a different sort of agony than they'd had to endure in the past few years, but it was no less painful.

What could he do? How could he fix this for her? It was impossible. Impossible. "Mother…" he said, not really sure how to continue.

"It's alright, Draco. I know there's nothing to be done. I shouldn't have brought it up." His mother looked anywhere but at him, arranging her elegant robes around her with unnecessary attention. "Actually, I should be going."

"Mother," he began again, but she had stood up was heading for the door before he could think of anything to say. He got to his feet, dropped a few sickles on the table, and followed her out of the tea shop. He caught her arm out in the chilly, blustery side street. "Mother, wait!"

"Draco, I love you, but I should really return to your father before – I've stayed to long. He'll be needing me."

"Mother I—" he started, then said instead, "I understand. I love you."

She took his face in her hands and kissed his cheek. "And I love you. Write to me."

"I will," said Draco, his eyes closed in an effort to control himself. This was not right. He should be able to help his own mother. He would do anything for her happiness. It had been so long since she'd had anything to look forward to. He wanted to give her that. But how?

He felt her touch leave him, heard the little pop that meant she'd gone. The cold cut through Draco like a knife. He wished he was someone else, that he and his mother were far away from here, that he could make this nightmare end.

Then he was reminded of his dream from that morning and recalled the feeling of being trapped in that Vanishing Cabinet, in that stone chair, in that cell, with the world pressing in… All he wanted now was to find his friends and forget for just a little longer what it meant to be a Malfoy.

*Chapter 22*: Carve Your Heart Out Yourself

Thank you all so much for the birthday wishes! Luckily for you I have no life and spent most of today writing this chapter. 

I want you to know that I read all of your reviews (like, over and over), and that they mean so much to me! Thank you! However, I cannot respond to any reviews on AdultFanFiction.net and it makes me sad. Does anyone know a way around this?

Also, lillyput93 on AdultFanFiction.net mentioned that this story could use a better summary, but I have no idea what to say. Any suggestions?

Chapter 22

Carve Your Heart Out Yourself

Madame Rosmerta was soon flouncing back toward them, a tray laden with drinks floating before her outstretched wand. She pointed around the table, listing off the drinks and making each glass zoom down to its owner.

"Firewhiskey at the end over there," – a little tumbler of whiskey flew at George – "And butterbeers all along the row after that," she said, and four butterbeers slid to a halt in front of Ginny, Harry, Ron, and Hermione. "Professor, your mead here," Rosmerta said, gesturing at Percy, then at Mrs. Tonks with Teddy. "You've the coffee with sugar, and your young man there has the pumpkin juice." She turned to Mr. and Mrs. Weasley next. "Molly, sherry, and Arthur, here's your Quintin Black with two cherries." Their drinks whizzed down into their waiting hands, and Rosmerta came to Bill and Fleur at last. "Sir, your Schletters' and tonic, and a water for the pretty miss," she finished. She beamed around at them as they thanked her, then rushed off to see to other customers.

"Just water, Fleur?" asked George. "Bit puritan of you, isn't it?"

"Well—" began Fleur, but Bill stopped her.

"Not everyone has a whiskey at half past eleven in the morning, George," he growled.

Before George could reply, Fleur interceded on her own behalf. "Bill, you do not 'ave to defend me over a water. I do not mind." She put a hand on Bill's forearm and caressed the skin there. He seemed to relax, closing his eyes and letting his drink rest on the scrubbed wood table. "We can tell zem now, I theenk. Zey will figure it out eventually any'ow."

He opened his eyes again and looked at her in earnest. "Are you sure?"

"What is it?" asked Mr. and Mrs. Weasley together. Hermione was curious, too. What would Bill be protective of that would also make Fleur drink water? Then she thought she might know and stared down the table at the couple. Fleur was smiling, her happiness reflected in Bill's scarred face.

"Fleur is pregnant!" He looked at his mother and father as he said it, as if anxious for their initial reactions.

"But… really?" gasped Mrs. Weasley. Fleur nodded energetically, her sheet of white-blonde hair shimmering. Her eyes were misted over with emotion.

Mrs. Weasley burst into tears and hurried over to Bill and Fleur. She hugged Fleur first who kissed her on both cheeks, then Bill, and by the time that was done everyone was standing, shaking hands and congratulating the happy pair.

"A toast!" said Mr. Weasley, and everyone raised their glasses. "To my eldest and his lovely wife! May their—" he looked at them suddenly and asked, "Is it a boy or a girl?"

Bill laughed. "We don't know yet!"

"Well. Well then… May their child be blessed with her good looks and his good taste!"

"And no red hair!" added Ginny to laughter and general agreement. They all drank to the toast (Bill glowered down into his drink as George shot back his firewhiskey and signaled Rosmerta for another) and sat down again, settling into conversation.

Hermione watched Bill and Fleur smiling at each other, happy and in love despite the odds, now with a baby on the way. Bill had always seen Fleur for who she really was, even as the rest of the Weasley family – Hermione included herself and Harry in that group – turned up their noses at her, wary of her otherworldly beauty and rather blatant honesty. But to Bill, she had always been the one. She was perfect.

Hermione wondered if that's how Ron looked at her. Did he see her as perfect? Did he think she was the one?

"Hermione," Mrs. Tonks said across the table, "Have you see what Teddy can do now?"

"No! What can he do?"

Mrs. Tonks plopped Teddy on the table and held him around the middle. "Ok, Teddy, quack!"

Hermione thought that was a very strange thing to say to a baby, but Teddy giggled mischievously up at Mrs. Tonks before waggling his bent arms like a bird and repeating, "Qua! Qua-qua!" As the whole table watched, he seemed to grow pale, blanched even, white as new snow. Then his nose and mouth lengthened, they grew together and flattened out into a perfect imitation of a duck's bill, complete with bright orange color.

"He's still working on the feathers," Mrs. Tonks explained, running her hand through his white fluffy hair. It almost looked like downy feathers piled on top of his head.

"That is incredible!" said Ginny.

"Where did he learn how to do that?" asked Hermione.

"Uncle Georgy took him to the duck pond," said Mrs. Tonks, speaking at Teddy in a baby voice but really answering Hermione.

Rosmerta had since carried a fresh tumbler of firewhiskey to George and departed. George grinned approvingly along the table at Teddy and downed the shot in one gulp. "Kid's got promise," he said, slamming the glass on the table and holding up two fingers pointedly at Rosmerta.

"I think that's enough for now, don't you?" said Mrs. Weasley.

George glared around at his parents and siblings. "How about I decide when it's enough?" He stood up and walked away from them in the direction of the bar. Rosmerta cast a furtive glance at their table, but she set two glasses of firewhiskey down in front of him anyway.

Everyone was very flustered, but somehow Hermione felt as though they'd been dealing with this kind of behavior from him for a while. Ron leaned over to her and whispered in her ear. "He gets like that sometimes. Sour, you know. Sullen."

Hermione nodded and looked back at Teddy, who gave another cooing "qua!" through his duck bill before it began to retreat back into his normal baby face. His skin lost its striking whiteness and became once again pinkish. His hair bloomed turquoise and grew out over his ears.

"He's six months old now, isn't he?" she asked Mrs. Tonks, who shook her head "yes" with her eyes over-bright and her mouth parted in an 'O' for Teddy's benefit. Surely if he couldn't have his parents, she was the best possible guardian for Teddy. Hermione watched them together fondly until something occurred to her. "Mrs. Tonks, do you keep in touch with your sister?"

Hermione might have just asked Mrs. Tonks if she had remarried a Dementor. Everyone turned to her, aghast. Mrs. Tonks took Teddy into her arms as if to protect him from Hermione's words. "No," she said coldly. Suddenly, she looked a lot more like her sister Bellatrix, dark and imposing.

Trying not to feel too disconcerted, Hermione attempted to explain herself. "Well, I only meant that Narcissa might like to meet Teddy some—"

"No. My sister wouldn't be interested in anything to do with her great-nephew just like she wanted nothing to do with her niece."

"Are you sure?" asked Hermione, willing herself to remain calm and rational. Narcissa was her sister after all. If Mrs. Tonks said that she wouldn't want to see Teddy, then she was probably right.

It was just the nagging feeling Hermione had that a lot of Narcissa's behavior in her past had been dictated by the people of influence around her, people like her Death Eater sister and husband and her purist parents. Hermione felt sure that Narcissa's influences, at least, had changed. Mrs. Tonks hadn't even been at her sister's trial. Maybe they both had something to atone for.

"I'm sure," snapped Mrs. Tonks. End of discussion. But, despite being appalled and imperious, she didn't look sure. She looked unhappy.

Hermione knew what had caused such a rift between the sisters. When they were young, probably just out of Hogwarts, Andromeda Black had followed her heart and married a muggleborn. She had not toed the family line. And so her parents had disowned her. And Narcissa and Bellatrix had wealth and status and blood purity over happiness. It made Hermione sad to think about it, too. They could have been happy. Even if Mrs. Tonks's husband had been killed by Death Eaters, they had been happy together. They had known love. That was surely more important than anything high society had to offer.

Besides, Draco had chosen as Mrs. Tonks had done, hadn't he? Hermione dismissed this at once. He'd started over because he had to adapt to survive. Would he have changed if the Battle of Hogwarts had never happened, if Harry had lost? Hermione wanted to believe he would, that he was already on his way to a change of heart in his sixth year. But was that true? Would she ever know?

She looked around. Everyone was watching her. "What?"

"Are you alright, Hermione?" asked Ron.

"Sorry. I'm sorry," Hermione answered automatically. "Yes. I'm fine." She took a sip of butterbeer, wishing she was at the bar with George.

How long could she do this?

Draco started off toward the High Street in search of Prescott and James. They had told him at breakfast that they would wait for him in Zonko's, which was just around the corner from Madame Puddifoot's Tea Shop. At Scrivenshaft's, Draco took a right found himself face to face with a gang of Slytherin boys. Perfect.

"Hey fink!" said Harper. Draco was visited by the memory of him covered in tentacles from Luna's curse and tried very hard not to smile.

"Harper," he said, then started off again, walking straight through the Slytherins. They jostled him as he passed, but no one stopped him until he reached Vaisey who seemed much less inclined to just let Draco go unscathed.

"Where are you going, blood traitor? You meeting some Hufflepuff buggers for a date?" Draco ignored him and attempted to side-step Vaisey's bulk, but it wasn't going to be that easy. Vaisey pushed him backward into a mass of solid bodies, which shoved him back toward Vaisey. Draco didn't have time for this.

"Get out of my way, Vaisey," said Draco, drawing his wand. This wasn't school. If they were going to fight out here in the street, so be it, but Draco wasn't going to just lie down and take a beating. But he just past Gladrags now. Zonko's was right up ahead. If he could get inside, maybe he could avoid a duel of ten against one.

Vaisey wasn't going to back down. He drew his wand, and Draco saw the others copy him out of the corner of his eye. He tried to think. Think! There wasn't really anyone else around. Most of the students were holed up in the shops to avoid the chilly, overcast day. No wayward shoppers were bustling past.

If he couldn't think of a way out of this, he was definitely going to end up in the Hospital Wing again. He'd probably be expelled. Better make it worth it.

Then Draco saw Prescott and James come out of Zonko's. They looked over at the scene in the street and started toward him, coming up behind Vaisey with their wands drawn.

"Draco, what's going on?" said Prescott. Vaisey started and glanced sneeringly over his shoulder at the approaching boys. They joined Draco, taking up defensive positions on either side of him.

Luna had wandered out of the joke shop after them and gazed in Draco's direction. Draco stopped her with a cautionary look. He didn't want Luna mixed up in this. Come to think of it, he didn't want Prescott or James to get involved either, but he didn't seem to have much of a choice in the matter.

"These thugs bothering you, mate?" asked James.

"Guys, you shouldn't—" Draco started to say, but James cut him off.

"Shut it, Draco. We're not going anywhere."

Luna was taking deliberate steps toward Draco now, and he willed her to go. Just go. This is no place for you.

"Are we having a party?" she said. The Slytherin boys behind Draco laughed cruelly and jeered at her. "Am I invited?"

Before Draco could tell her no, to get well away from here, he realized that she wasn't addressing him. She was talking to James, and it was James that replied, "Of course you are, Luna. You're my date! Now get over here." She breezed past Vaisey and came to a stop next to James, pulling her wand out from behind her ear.

This was not going at all the way that Draco wanted. James, Prescott, and Luna were all in the thick of it now and it was only a matter of time till the curses started flying. They were all going to get expelled – or worse – and it was all his fault.

He glanced over at Luna. To his surprise, she had her wand pointed directly, unflinchingly, at Vaisey. He remembered that she had fought with Hermione in the Department of Mysteries, in the Battle of Hogwarts, that she had withstood months of torture and imprisonment. No, this was not a girl to be trifled with. She only seemed delicate. Draco suddenly felt worried, not for his friends, but for the Slytherins.

Still, he didn't want this fight. The Slytherins had pretty much let him be for a month. Why were they striking now, in broad daylight, in Hogsmeade? Something was off. Something was not right.

It was very awkward for Hermione after that. Ron was trying to smooth things over by telling her about the weekends he spent helping out at Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes.

"George could really use the extra help. Even with Verity there, they're swamped on Saturdays. Besides, he… well, it's good to keep an eye on him. It's been hard for him without…" Ron couldn't say it and Hermione didn't want to think about it. Fred. Without Fred. That was the name left unsaid by all the Weasleys. Sometimes Hermione wished they could talk about him more, but who was she to judge?

"Is he inventing anything new?" she asked, hoping to help along the conversation.

"Nah, not really. But what we've got is selling so fast we can barely keep up anyway," said Ron. Hermione glanced over at George's hunched figure at the bar. Half of a whole. She watched a tall woman with braided hair approach him, slap him on the back, then his shout of recognition, a rare smile. The woman and George hugged. Hermione recognized her then. It was Angelina Johnson, an old Gryffindor Chaser who had graduated from Hogwarts a few years before. Hermione hadn't seen her since Fred's funeral.

She half-listened to Ron listing the inventory of best-selling items at Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes as she spied on Angelina and George. They were talking animatedly. Angelina had ordered a drink and sat down next to him. They leaned into each other and spoke in hushed voices, but Hermione could guess the topic of conversation. George knocked back another shot of firewhiskey, but as he brought his glass down, Angelina put a hand on his arm. He shook his head. She nodded emphatically and tightened her hold on him. He tried to jerk his hand out of her grasp, but she wouldn't let go.

Hermione looked away. Whatever they were talking about, she didn't want to pry. When she returned to the discussion at her table, Ron was turned toward Harry and asking him something.

"Yeah, we're well under way," said Harry. "Williamson has scheduled meetings from now to next year with the heads of other wizarding governments' magical law enforcement departments around the world. Looks like it really going to happen."

"What's going to happen?" asked Hermione.

"We're liaising with a bunch of other countries to bring escaped Death Eaters back to Britain for trial," Harry said. "And it could be more than that. Williamson says that this sort of united effort is exactly the sort of thing we could use to find your parents, Her—"

But Hermione was on her feet before Harry could even finish his sentence. Her legs were moving of their own accord, her brain empty of any thought except to get as far away from Harry's words as possible. No. No no no no no

She couldn't, couldn't hear this. She was at the door of the Three Broomsticks before Ron and Harry caught up to her, but she tore herself free of them and continued out into the street, going anywhere else, unable to see anything beyond the panic, the pain flooding every inch of her body. The tears were flowing unbidden. The little gasping sounds echoing through her must have come from her mouth, carried away by the sharp wind, but she was unaware of uttering them. Away. Get away.

Past the Post Office. Then pressed into brick. A wall. Ron was pinning her against the wall of a shop. Then she was on the ground, flinging them from her, trying to make herself as small as possible. Her face was drenched with sweat and tears and snot, but she didn't notice.

"Hermione, wait!"

"Stop, Hermione, please!"

"Get away from me! Get away! Please leave me alone!" But they didn't leave. They knelt beside her and held her between them. She was rocking. She wasn't going to do this again. She never wanted to… This was the one thing that she couldn't bear. Her parents. Her mom and dad. Gone. Missing. Not in the home she'd tracked them to. Without a trace. And for months she had hoped… but not anymore. Never again. Gone.

"We're not leaving," said Harry. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have brought it up. I'm so sorry."

There was nothing he could say to fix this. She had put it all in a box and stuffed it far away in a corner of her mind and refused to go near it for so long. And now all the anguish, all the pain of her mom and dad gone forever, missing without any hope for recovery, dead… It was too much. She couldn't reconcile it in her head. She couldn't. Her mind felt like it was going to explode, compressed into nothing by the weight of her failure, of her guilt and misery.

Ron was standing now. There was cold air where he had been. Hermione didn't care. Good. Leave. Go away. Leave me alone.

"This is why, Hermione!" he hissed at her. It seemed to take every aching muscle in her body to turn her head up to face him. "This is why I hate him."

"Ron, now is not the—" Harry began, but Ron either ignored him or didn't hear.

"You know what I do in my spare time? I follow every possible lead, trying anything to find your parents, Hermione!" There was so much venom in Ron's voice that Hermione actually cowered against Harry in confusion and agony.

"Ron—"

"And you side with him! You defend him! And your parents are missing because of people like him! What is wrong with you, Hermione? What is wrong with you?"

Hermione lost it completely. She sobbed into Harry's jacket sleeve until he wrapped his arm around her. He was shouting at Ron now, but Hermione couldn't make out the words. And Ron was growling back at him. She'd never heard them fight like this. It was too much. Overwhelming. She shut her eyes but the world kept spinning so fast and all she had was this arm around her shoulder and the pain threatening to sear her heart in her chest. Unquestionably this was death. Nothing could be worse than this.

"Is that Malfoy? And Luna? What the—" It was Ron again, but he wasn't yelling. He was… confused, distracted. Hermione opened her burning eyes. Ron was staring around the corner of the building, completely nonplused.

Draco? Suddenly, that was all that mattered. Draco.

Hermione didn't know she'd gotten up until she was standing beside Ron, gazing down the High Street toward Zonko's. Then Harry was next to her, and they were all just watching the scene unfolding a few shops away.

The Slytherins had them surrounded. This was it.

Vaisey raised his wand, but before he could cast his curse, Luna's shield charm expanded between him and the four of them. Draco had just enough time to register Vaisey's expression change before a voice spoke up behind them.

"Wands away, boys."

Vaisey was no longer glaring at Draco with cold hatred. Quite the contrary. Was that confusion? Agitation? Fear? Draco turned around to see who had spoken.

There, standing with casual poise between Harper and a fifth-year boy he knew was called Terrance Samuels, was a girl. She was slender, almost short in comparison to the hulking minions around her, with a sheet of flowing black hair that spilled over her shoulders and glacial blue eyes. The deference the boys showed her was obvious; all of them had frozen, dominated by her mere presence. She radiated cool control. Astoria Greengrass.

Draco's first thought was that this was the perfect opportunity to get the hell out of here, but he too seemed glued to the spot. On either side of him, James and Prescott were eying him in bewilderment. Luna's attention was still focused on her shield charm.

"I am not in the habit of repeating myself," Astoria said, and there was a scuffle of movement as all the Slytherins pocketed their wands at once. It was all Draco could do not to follow suit. "Good."

Astoria. She turned her penetrating gaze on him. "Draco," she intoned sweetly, "What… interesting company you keep these days."

Draco noticed a few Slytherin girls holding shopping bags standing off to the side titter behind their hands and whisper to each other. She must have just come out of Gladrags. He was simultaneously grateful and terrified at her sudden appearance in their midst. This was a power play he hadn't been witness to among his own generation in years.

She crossed the space between them, her heels clicking on the cobblestones. "Hello," she purred into his ear, her cheek brushing against his. Draco could smell cherry blossoms.

Mastering himself, Draco took a step back and said, "Astoria. How are you?"

She ignored this. Instead, she glanced around at the Slytherins. "I seem to remember saying that Draco Malfoy was off-limits. Harper, Vaisey, explain." There was some sputtering, then she rolled her eyes very pointedly and continued, "Never mind. I'll deal with you later." All the boys looked at each other apprehensively.

Vaisey tried to move forward, but ran headlong into Luna's shield charm and leapt back stupidly. Draco's laugh rang through the tense moment. Ok, he was done with this now. "Hey, guys, let's go."

Luna stuck her wand back behind her ear at once and James and Prescott lowered their wands, their eyes still travelling between Draco and Astoria. "Come on," Draco said. He turned away from Astoria and headed off down the High Street toward Hogwarts, shepherding his friends before him.

"Don't walk away from me, Draco Malfoy!" Astoria's tone was careless, but there was a subtle warning laced through it. He stopped, turned around. She was standing alone in front of the other Slytherins, her hip cocked, her blue eyes intense.

"I have to get going," he said with more conviction than he felt.

"Busy holiday, Draco?" she called, "I can't imagine you have any social obligations to fulfill."

Draco shook his head. "Just homework."

"It's Halloween, Draco. Or are you too wrapped up in your new House to remember Slytherin traditions?"

"I'm not a Slytherin anymore."

"But you're a Malfoy. And that name entitles you to certain" – she licked her full lips suggestively – "privileges."

"My name doesn't entitle me to anything," he replied. She was really unnerving. Her posture, her gaze, everything, screamed power, control. She was clearly the new queen of Slytherin. When had that happened?

"You're right," she returned coolly. "You're entitled because I say you are."

Despite her only being a sixth-year, Draco knew that the Greengrass family was the wealthiest non-Death Eater family in Britain, and that was important. They threw the grandest parties, played the social scene well, and had the added bonus of having no criminals or scandals in the past century or so. Every family had their ups and downs, and they were definitely in the midst of a rise to power, even as the Malfoys were sliding.

The Greengrass girls had been brought up with the cunning to flawlessly navigate the treacherous waters of pureblood Wizarding society and the kind of wardrobe that made wearing simple black uniforms every day look like a stint in Azkaban. Astoria's sister Daphne, who had been in Draco's year, was always in the thick of the drama, but never the cause of it. She was obviously more cautious than Astoria, who had the overall deportment of a cobra waiting to strike, poised and deadly. She was a fire-starter, a life-ruining, pitiless bitch, but damn she was an impressive specimen. Draco couldn't help it, he respected her ambition. At sixteen, she was walking a thin line on a tall wall, but Draco supposed that he'd started down the road she was on when he was much, much younger. Still, he didn't envy her the constant barrage of social obligations. It was the kind of thing that drove a person crazy. He would know. If she was the new royalty in Slytherin, it was his place she'd taken.

So, when Astoria said that Draco was entitled on her say-so, by the conventions held as law in Slytherin House, she was absolutely right. His interest was piqued, but he wasn't going to take the bait yet. Not here, not in front of his friends. He'd have to think about this and now was not the time.

Draco turned away and shooed Prescott, James, and Luna toward the road that led to Hogwarts again. He wanted to put as much space between himself and Astoria Greengrass as possible.

*Chapter 23*: The Ice Is Getting Thinner

I know you've waited a long time for this update, so I hope it meets with your approval!

Chapter 23

The Ice Is Getting Thinner

Hermione slipped in and out of strange dreams, unsure of which were real and which were the machinations of her mind. She dreamt that Draco and a Slytherin girl had spoken in the Hogsmeade High Street surrounded by people, that he had walked right by her with Luna and two Hufflepuff boys without so much as a glance, that Harry and Ron took her back up to Hogwarts Castle.

But then she seemed to remember Draco carrying her through empty streets, her body bleeding and slight in his arms. And he smiled down at her and spoke words of comfort and she brushed his hair from his eyes with trembling fingers and he lay her down on a hospital bed surrounded by her friends, who shouted at him and made him leave her cold between white sheets.

She saw a house in her dreams, too. A house on a run-down street in some faraway place she never thought about. The door was red and the windows were boarded up and weeds had grown in the little garden outside. And she knocked and knocked and finally a woman answered but it wasn't her mom and she told Hermione that the people who'd lived there before had just disappeared one day and they'd never come back.

Then she ran through streets again that became the crumbling ruins of Hogwarts Castle, spells blazing around her in the night air that never quite made it to her lungs. Where were her mom and dad? They must be here somewhere.

She pounded on the red door, but nobody answered it this time. Instead, it opened into the Room of Requirement, burned out and glowing in places with red-hot embers with ash wafting slowly down from the ceiling like snowflakes in the gloom. It was cavernously still. There he was again, Draco, standing in the center, calling to her, telling her that her parents were dead. He was holding a bloody knife like the one his aunt Bellatrix had thrown into Dobby's chest. The red gore dripped from the point of it onto the smoldering gray stone floor.

That was when she screamed. The silence engulfed her in clean, soft sheets that smelled like ash and blood and the dusty roads in Australia where her parents were gone gone gone…

It was night. She knew that without opening her eyes. The flickering quality of the light beyond her closed eyelids made her head hurt, and the voices that reached her ears were familiar but distant, as if carried on by sighs, whispering through an echoing hall.

"Will she be alright, Poppy?" It was McGonagall's voice.

"There's nothing physically wrong with her," said Madame Pomfrey. "She's just exhausted, I think. Nothing a night or two here wouldn't help, to be sure."

"Ronald, you said she collapsed?" asked Mrs. Weasley.

"Yeah, out in the street. We were watching Malfoy have some kind of stand-off, then he and some Hufflepuff boys and Luna came walking by us and she just sort of fainted."

Hagrid's voice was gruff and low, but it boomed through the quiet room all the same. "Do yeh think it was b'cause of her—"

"Shh, Hagrid, you'll wake her!"

"Sorry, Molly."

Light footsteps, shuffling away from her, then McGonagall whispered, "Perhaps you shouldn't have mentioned your plan with Williamson to find her parents." Hermione froze. They were talking about – she wanted to cried out, scream for them to stop, but her voice stuck in her throat.

"They've been missing for months, Headmistress," said Harry's voice, almost reproving. "Someone has to do something! She can't just keep pretending that just because she didn't find them that—"

"—That they don't exist, yeah," finished Ron.

"Ms. Granger is trying to cope with a very difficult situation, Mr. Weasley. I'm sure she's doing the best she can," McGonagall said.

"She shouldn't have come back to school. She could be helping us find them!" Harry sounded furious. She imagined him wanting to shake her, to wake her up and shout these things at her, to make her see how awful she was being. Hermione wanted to recoil, to pull the covers around her and sob into the pillow, to drown out their words with her choking cries. It hurt so much. She didn't want to think about it. She couldn't think about it. Please, please stop.

They didn't stop. Why would they? They thought she was asleep. Now they had no reason to continue the fiction she'd been pretending that her parents were in some ambiguous place, safe and sound. It wasn't real. They all acted in her little tragedy, but no one believed the story but her. And no one wanted it to be real more than she did. But it wasn't.

They were missing and she had abandoned them and they were missing and she had abandoned them… The words spiraled around and around in her head until they became a meaningless chant.

McGonagall said, "Ms. Granger is of age and can make her own decisions about her future."

"When she just showed up and the Burrow that night, happy as could be, I thought… I thought maybe she'd found them," said Mrs. Weasley over the roar of anguish in Hermione's ears. "Even after you two came back and she'd stayed, I thought she would find them on her own."

"Mum, she tried. I just can't believe she would give up like that."

"Easy for you to say, Ron."

"George, you're drunk. You should go home," Mrs. Weasley hissed.

"I'll take him."

"Thank you, Ms. Johnson. Arthur, maybe it would be best if you and Molly came to visit tomorrow?"

"We'll go, too," came Harry's voice.

"Only because you're afraid she'll hex you when she wakes up!"

"Thank you, George. Angelina...?"

"Right. Come on, George."

"Good night, Poppy," said Mrs. Weasley. "Minerva, give her our love."

"We'll come again tomorrow. Hagrid, are you—"

"I'll come with yeh," answered Hagrid.

A group of people walked away. The doors of the Hospital Wing opened and shut. Careful footsteps crossed to Hermione's bed. She feigned sleep. Madame Pomfrey went to her office and quietly shut the door.

Now Hermione was alone with her thoughts. She let them swallow her up and drown her again in dreams.

The Great Hall was resplendent with Halloween decorations. After the day he'd had, the feast was an amazing departure from worrying about his mother, the trial, Astoria Greengrass, what his friends thought of him now, and Hermione, who was mysteriously absent from the celebration tonight.

Sitting between Ryan and James and across from Prescott, Draco allowed them to distract him by summoning bats from the rafters and tying streamers to them. The bats took off again, carrying crackers and candy over the throng of students while the wind rattled the windows overhead. The night sky was starless with fast-moving clouds that promised a storm later. Maybe it would snow.

Justin came running along the Hufflepuff table just as James bit into his tenth pumpkin pasty, coming to a stop on James's right side. "D'you hear?" he panted, "Hermione Granger's in the Hospital Wing!"

"What?" barked Draco.

"How do you know this?" asked Prescott, dropping his spoonful of butterscotch ice cream and looking at Justin.

"Well, Friggle was helping Professor Sprout transplant some—"

"Get to the point, Justin," Draco said impatiently, his hands splayed on either side of his plate. He felt ready to… to what? He wasn't sure.

"Ok, ok! Friggle said Harry Potter and Ron Weasley were carrying her in through the gates, and Professor Sprout asked what happened, and they told her that she fainted and they were taking her to the Hospital Wing," Justin said. "That's all I know!"

"Eustis Friggle. That is such an unfortunate name," said James unhelpfully. Prescott shot him a warning look.

Draco was staring at Justin with wide eyes. Hermione was in the Hospital Wing. How had he not known about this sooner? Why had no one told him? Because it was none of his business, that's why. Still, he leaned across James toward Justin and asked, "When was this?"

"Sometime this afternoon, but—"

Draco was on his feet and leaving the Great Hall before Justin could finish his sentence. Nobody called out for him to return, to wait, to visit later as was surely more prudent. He knew they didn't bother because he wouldn't have listened anyway. He took the steps of the marble staircase three at a time, hearing huge drops of water began plunking against the windows he passed at top speed. Down the corridor. Right, then left, then right again. There were the double doors which led to the long room of neat white-clad beds. Hermione was in there, maybe in pain.

He started forward and opened one of the doors carefully, willing Madame Pomfrey to be cloistered in her office. If she didn't know he was there, she couldn't send him away.

The room beyond was still as a tomb, the darkness interrupted every so often with flashes of silver-white lightning from the windows, and the roar of the rain outside covered any noise he'd made at the door. It was really coming down now. Draco thanked his lucky stars as he pushed the door shut again and started off down the row of beds.

She was there, in the bed closest to Madame Pomfrey's office. He could see her in the flares of lightning, motionless, her back to him. Was she alseep? Would be it best, after all, if he came back later? He moved toward her anyway, still unsure but unable to make himself go. He'd come this far. Draco didn't know why, exactly, but he needed to make absolutely sure that she was alright. He needed to know what had happened.

He crept nearer her bed and sat down on the edge by her feet. She stirred feebly but did not turn over. It felt strange to be with her like this, staring down at her, waiting for each new blaze of lightning to illuminate her face. She didn't look peaceful. Rather, she seemed to be battling some turmoil in her dreams, her lips pressed tightly together, her brows tense and furrowed.

There was sweat on her forehead. He balled the end of his sleeve up in his palm and stretched out his arm to it to wipe it away, but as soon as he touched her, she woke. Her eyes shot open, full of blind fear, and she scooted as far away from him as possible, yanking the bedclothes up around her body. She didn't make a noise, but she shook violently as she gaped at him.

Draco jumped, nearly falling off the bed, and jerked his hand back. "Shh, no! It's me! It's me, Draco! Calm down," he whispered, trying to soothe her, but she didn't seem to recognize him. Or she did, and she was terrified anyway. "Hermione?"

The sound of her name seemed to draw her back from some nightmarish place. Her eyes really focused on him for the first time. Her expression turned from horror to confusion. "W-what..." she stammered, gazing around, trying to get her bearings in the darkness. Another flash of lightning. When his eyes refocused, she was closer to him, watching him intently.

"Hey, stranger," his murmured, hoping this would calm her. Some of the mysterious terror seemed to ebb. Her muscles flexed, and her face worked itself into a little smile.

"W-What are you doing here?" she whispered, glancing over at Madame Pomfrey's office door. A warm light glowed under the crack, but there was no movement from behind it.

"I could ask you the same question," he replied, moving to catch her attention again. They may not have much time. He wanted to make the most of it.

But she lay back down and turned her back to him, pulling the sheets up over her shoulders as if to shield herself from him. "Go away, Malfoy."

"If you want me to—" he started, and began to pick himself up off of the bed. If she really didn't want him there, he would go. It was stupid to come in the first place.

"No," she said, her voice barely audible over the rain. Another bolt of bright light showed him her face. She didn't touch him, but her eyes held him there, even as the darkness caved in on them again. "I'm sorry. Stay." There was a pause. Draco lowered himself again to the bed. "Hand me my wand?" He waited for another flare of light, then located it on the bedside table on top of a small stack of her belongings and gave it to her. She held it aloft and whispered, "Muffliato." Whatever the spell had done, she seemed pleased with the result. She stuffed her wand under her pillow and returned her gaze to him.

"What happened to you?" he asked after a moment, trying to make his voice calming, trying to drain from his words the overwhelming curiosity he felt. She didn't answer. She just stared at him, her eyes mere pinpricks of reflected light from Pomfrey's office.

He scooted a little to sit in the crook of her body between her chest and her thighs. Surely this was not right. Surely he should leave now. But she'd asked him to stay. And he didn't think he could leave if she'd wanted him to. "Tell me what happened," he repeated.

"No."

"Please?" He knew he sounded desperate now, but what did he care? He was desperate.

The silence seemed to go on and on. Finally, Hermione murmured, "I'll tell you if you do something for me."

Draco let a roll of thunder die down before responding. "What?"

There was a little prickle of anticipation on the back of his neck now. Draco didn't know why, but they way she was talking made him uneasy. She seemed a bit unhinged still, even if she was calmer. Whatever she was going to ask him to do, he knew instinctively that he wasn't going to like it.

"Show me your Dark Mark."

There it was. "No," he said flat out.

"I'll tell you if you show me," said Hermione.

"No."

The storm hammered on around them, beating against the stone walls, trying to break its way inside. And Draco just wanted it to. He wanted the castle and the gale to come crashing in, to crush this moment once and for all.

So she had not managed to forget this final, inescapable brand of his guilt. She wanted to see it, to know for certain what he had been, what he was. Whatever had happened to her today, it must have something to do with his past. He wouldn't give her the satisfaction.

Then a little voice hissed into his ear that she may not be asking him to mortify him, to remind him of his shame. This request might be to… to level the playing field. Perhaps the reason she was here was so awful that she required some offering of his own terrible past as proof that he would understand her. Even if she knew what he had done. She wanted an even trade of faults, of anguish. He caught her eyes again in another flash of lightning and knew this must be true.

Slowly, very slowly, he moved his right hand to his sleeve. He grasped the hem and dragged the fabric of his sweater up over the Mark. At last, there it was, bared for her to see, and her gaze feasted on it with something like gratification. He looked away from her, anywhere but at her face or down at the Mark, still and burn-scar red against his pale flesh.

The howl of wind and rain died away in the ringing silence that pressed in on him. Hermione was silent, staring fixedly down at Draco's arm, which he held out with growing revulsion. It was getting harder to remain frozen, the brand exposed, his fist balled and forced down into the mattress with the effort of ignoring a nervous buzz churning his stomach.

Just when Draco felt he could keep his composure no longer, that he would have to wrench his arm away from her gaze and run from the room and never look at her again, she began to speak, still staring down at the Mark on his arm. "After the Battle of Hogwarts, I left Britain to go searching for my parents. I'd modified their memory. They thought they were Wendell and Monica Wilkins. They didn't know they had a daughter, you see. I made them forget all about me. And I made them want to move to Australia, so they did. So, when the war was over, I went looking for them with Harry and Ron. We tracked them to Brisbane, to a house they'd rented with money I'd left in a fake account under their new names. But they weren't there. And they'd stopped using their account months before." She stopped then and brought a shaking hand to her forehead.

Draco reached out, but then decided against touching her. "Hermione, you don't have to—"

"They weren't there," she said again, continuing on as if he hadn't spoken. "The couple that did live there had never met them. They were squatting in the house and didn't know anything. We left. We kept searching. We enlisted the help of the Australian Ministry of Magic, who gave us a task force of Aurors to help us find them. I contacted the Muggle police and filed a missing persons' report. Nothing. Nothing for weeks. We kept going, though. Harry and Ron stayed with me for a long time, but things just got harder. The leads dead-ended. Our sources dried up.

"One night, we had a huge row. They wanted to return to Britain and use our connections here to try and find my parents. I wanted to stay in Australia. I told them to leave. They… they left. They went home but I stayed. And I kept at it even though I had no idea what I was doing anymore. I just knocked on doors. Hung fliers. Set up a hotline for Muggles to call if they sighted them anywhere. Still nothing. Harry and Ron wrote, but after a while I stopped opening their letters. I didn't want to hear more nothing, and I knew that's what the letters held.

"Then in August, I finally gave up. They were dead. I had known it for weeks, but I couldn't make myself believe it. No one could go missing so completely for so long."

"You did," said Draco. "You and Potter and Weasley. You were missing for months and no one knew where you'd gotten to or what you were doing. Not even the Dark Lord—"

"I left Australia and went back to the Burrow. I didn't want to talk about it. I got everyone to pretend that everything was fine, like my parents were back home already and everything was normal again. Because that was the only way I'd talk to any of them. If they pretended. So they did. I rented a room in the Leaky Cauldron. I told them all that I was going back to Hogwarts. I owled McGonagall and asked to return. She agreed, of course.

"It was all kept very quiet. It was convenient that my parents were Muggles, since the wizarding press never thought to pry into that particular area of my life. They stuck to the war and my love life, mostly. I came back to Hogwarts to finish school and no one said anything at all about my parents after that. So, that's what happened. That's what I did. I abandoned my parents."

"But you couldn't know, Hermione. You don't know if they moved or if—"

"It doesn't matter. I abandoned them. Alive or dead, I gave up the search. I came home. I returned to school. I forced my friends to pretend that everything was fine, to hide the truth from me as thoroughly as I'd hidden it from myself. They're still out there, my parents. That's the point, Draco." She looked up at him now in the eyes. She wasn't crying. This was not the sort of story that brought that on. It a much deeper pain than that, wedging itself firmly in a place that could not be washed clean by tears. Draco knew that pain – that regret – very well.

There was another long silence between them as the storm battered against the walls of the Hospital Wing. He had not known anything about her parents, had never given them a single thought. He knew they were Muggles, of course, but he'd never entertained for one second the notion that she had taken steps to protect them in such a way.

Then Draco thought about the reason Hermione had sent her parents away with no memory of her or their former lives in the first place. Because of people like him. People who wanted them dead, who would torture them for information, and when they realized there was no information to be gained, would kill them for the sheer pleasure of it.

And she had forgiven him. She had blocked it out but could never quite forget this awful secret. She knew that what she had done was a causality of the threat Death Eaters like him had posed on her life, on her parents' lives. Yet she had forgiven him. Even apologized to him for the way she had been treating him. It could not be allowed.

"Your friends are right. You should hate me," Draco said through gritted teeth. "I have no right to ask for your forgiveness." He moved to stand, thinking dimly that he would pack his things and leave Hogwarts tonight, that he would turn away from this and never look back.

"No!" she cried, and he snapped his head around to look at her just as she grabbed his outstretched arm. Her hand closed around the exposed flesh, over the Mark there.

Instantly, Draco was transported. There was no Hospital Wing, no storm, no Hermione. In their place was a cold study, its walls bordered by Death Eaters, his mother standing by, held back by his aunt and uncle as Draco knelt before a shadowed figure.

"I swear my eternal fealty and devotion to you, Dark Lord. I swear my wand to your cause, my blood to your defense, my mind to your will, and my life to your service. Your pleasure is my desire, you whim my will. May my pure blood mire if ever I displease you. May my magic grow parched as the desert sands if ever I forsake you. As the moon draws the tides, may your command draw my obedience. As the blood flows through my veins, may your power flow through me."

"Well done, Draco," hissed the snake-like voice of the Dark Lord. And he had placed his wand against Draco's temple and Draco had felt a surge of fear that his master would kill him then, but the wand only drew away from his head a long string of memory. The Dark Lord directed this shimmering thread to Draco's outstretched left arm, so clean and pale and unblemished. He pressed his wand tip with the memory attached into the skin there and said, "Cicatrix Morsmordre." Immediately the memory coiled, it twisted, curling into the familiar shape of the Dark Mark with its snake and skull. Then it burned, burned so intensely hot that Draco thought he would cry out with the agony of it. Tears pooled at the rims of his eyes and he willed them not to spill over. The memory burned red-hot then cooled into blackened flesh. A brand. A Mark. Forever scared into his skin. The memory of his oath of allegiance to the Dark Lord scorched onto his forearm.

Draco heard the whimper of a woman behind him, faint and piteous. He heard the steady drip, drip of her blood on the long table. They were draining her dirty blood in celebration of this auspicious moment. Draining her naked Muggle body dry. He knew she was suspended above the table, knew that very soon the thousands of tiny cuts would cease to bleed and she would be dead. And there was nothing he could do to stop it without putting himself, his mother and father, in mortal peril. And he'd just sworn his loyalty to the monster that had done this thing. She was a gift. For Draco. One less Muggle. To commemorate his indoctrination into this most Inner Circle, into the ranks of the Death Eaters surrounding him.

"Rise," said his master. With a great heave of effort, Draco stood. The top of his head barely reached the Dark Lord's shoulders. He felt small and powerless before him. The sleeve of Draco's robes slid over his arm and he gave an involuntary gasp of pain. The Dark Lord smiled. "A reminder of your pledge to me, Draco. The pain will fade. In time." He pointed his wand at the dying Muggle woman behind Draco and whispered, "Avada Kedavra." There was a dull thud of the body landing on the hard wood of the table. Draco's aunt let out a low giggle of pleasure. His mother covered her face with her hands and stifled a sob.

"Clean this mess up," said his master, and then he turned and swept from the room.

Draco's aunt and uncle released his mother, and she ran to him at once, gathering him up into her arms, unashamed that they were being watched by every Death Eater. "Are you alright?" she asked, her voice breaking, desperate. "Draco? Are you—"

"—alright? Draco!" It was Hermione's voice now. She was looming over him, her face hovering above his. Her frazzled brown hair tickled his cheeks.

"How- What—" Draco started, trying to get away from her, but she was pinning him down on the bed with much more force than he would have thought possible. He didn't let up. He had to escape her, this. He didn't want to infect her anymore. He didn't want to be here with those memories and her in the same place.

"Stay still!" she shouted at him, tears falling from her eyes onto his face, practically sitting on him to keep him pressed into the bed. She brandished her wand at him and growled, "Stop fighting me! Draco! I can't hold it together for the both of us, now stop it! Petrificus Totalus!" The spell seared into his neck and he went rigid beneath her. After a moment, she relented, let go of him and sat up straight.

"Are you listening to me, Draco?" He couldn't move. He just stared up at her, unable to resist, furious with her, with himself, with the whole bloody situation. "I gave you my forgiveness. And you're right; I gave it because you asked for it. But don't you think that's important, Draco? You asked me to forgive you. You wanted to apologize. You wanted me to know the reasons, the whole story, the truth. Now I know – at least, I know some of it – and I forgive you."

Draco tried to consolidate the scene that had just played so vividly in his mind with the words she was saying to him now. If she knew the whole story, the truth, she wouldn't forgive him. Not ever. Of that, he was sure. If she knew what he had done, what he had let happen to save himself, she would not have accepted his apology. Perhaps she would not even have listened to him at all. And now she was trying to reason with him. This was unconscionable.

He struggled against his frozen limbs, trying to summon up the will to force his body to move, to carrying him away from all of this, but he didn't budge. He just stared unblinkingly up at her, positioned awkwardly mid-struggle beneath her.

Hermione kept talking, and he clung to her voice as it wove through the thunder and echoing, pounding rain. "Whatever you've done in the past, I've done. Protected your family, considered killing another person to save those you love, made rash assumptions about others based on your own prejudiced judgment, hurt people, done irreparable damage in the heat of the moment, thought only of yourself, abandoned—" her words caught in her throat, but she swallowed hard and pressed on. "—abandoned hope when you should have been driven by it… See? Do you see, Draco? We're the same, you and me. We're the same." He wanted to shake his head no. She was romanticizing him. He was selfish and she was good. He was weak and she had persevered against all odds. There was no comparison.

Hermione seemed to know what he was thinking. She made an impatient noise and slid away from him, back up against the headboard of the hospital bed, out of his line of sight. Now, he knew, she was talking more to herself than to him. "But we want to make things right now. We've come back, though maybe we shouldn't have, to atone for our past. But we can't just keep pretending that this is not happening. We can't keep pretending that everything is alright because it's not. Your dad is on trial and you will be soon as well. My parents are still out there somewhere… And we've got N.E.W.T.s…"

This last bit was so ridiculous that it effectively broke the tension. Draco wished he could laugh aloud. His body was still petrified, but his insides writhed with incredulous mirth. Of course Hermione Granger would be thinking about tests at a time like this. That girl could make anything about schoolwork.

She leaned over him again. "I'm going to let you up now. Promise me you won't run off, ok?" He wanted to nod, but… "Finite Incantatum." Draco's body went limp, but he stayed put. He smirked, stilling thinking of her comment about N.E.W.T.s.

"What?" she asked.

He sat up slowly and faced her, resting his back on the footboard at the end of the bed. "All of this, and you're worried about some test?"

"Stuff it, Malfoy," she returned with the hint of a smile. Despite everything that had passed between them tonight, despite all the awful truth they'd shared and horrible memories they'd relived, he couldn't help but feel just a little happy. The wall between them was crumbling. The ice was getting thinner.

He reached out for her hand and held it tight.

"So, now you know," she said after a while. "Please don't—"

"—Don't tell anybody?" he finished for her. "Would I?"

"Would you?"

He made a brave attempt at his old sneer, but it was more playful than anything. "I guess you'll find out." She looked worried. In that moment, he knew that she was just as terrified, just as broken, as he was. Only she was fighting a much less public battle, and she needed it to stay that way. He squeezed her hand. "I won't, Hermione. I promise."

She relaxed, tilting her head back to look at the ceiling. Flashes of lightning illuminated the rafters there. The storm still raged outside, but it was more comforting now than anything. Draco decided he liked the rain. When he looked back at her, she was setting her wand back on the nightstand. There was a book there he hadn't noticed before, something called William Shakespeare: A Compact Documentary Life. It had an unmoving black and white portrait of a man in profile on the cover. This, Draco supposed, was Shakespeare.

"What is that?" he asked, gesturing at the book. Hermione looked back at it, then reached over and picked it up.

"It's a book about William Shakespeare. Ginny brought it for me, I think. You probably don't know who—"

"He's a Muggle playwright," said Draco knowledgably, though truthfully that was all he knew about the guy.

Hermione regarded him for a second in utter confusion. "How do you know—"

"Hey," Draco said in mock-hurt, inwardly thanking Prescott for this unexpected opportunity to appear enlightened in the ways of Muggles, "I know things."

"Oh, you do, do you?" She shot him a wicked smile. "I wouldn't have given you that much credit."

Draco returned her grin with interest. "'The lady doth protest too much, methinks.'"

*Chapter 24*: After the Storm

I'm back, bitches! Did you miss me?

I really, really need a beta. Any takers?

Chapter 24

After the Storm

"Mr. Malfoy! What are you doing here?"

Draco opened his eyes. He knew it was early morning by the grayish quality of the light. That fact barely had time to register before another surpassed it in importance: the woman bearing down on him like an angry ostrich was Madame Pomfrey. Draco must have fallen asleep without realizing it on the bed closest to Hermione's. They had stayed up late talking, then the lateness had slowly compelled them into silence and now… now he guessed they were in trouble.

"I said what are you doing here, Mr. Malfoy?"

Shooting a look across the aisle at Hermione, he saw her gazing back at him from between her pillow and her sheets. Her eyes were crinkled with stifled laughter. She mouthed "sorry" then hid her face again.

Draco didn't see what was so funny. He sat up, Madame Pomfrey's admonitions buzzing around him as he ran his fingers through his hair and straightened his robes. Hermione was supposed to be here. It was he who was getting read the riot act for sneaking in to see her. And then staying overnight. Accidentally. That certainly didn't help things.

"—and ten points will be taken from Sly – well, from Hufflepuff House – for this blatant disregard of school rules. Be glad I'm not giving you a detention, Mr. Malfoy. I shall, of course, notify your Head of House. Professor Sprout can give you a punishment more fitting the crime—"

"Crime?" asked Draco, getting to his feet. He was taller than Madame Pomfrey, who shuffled back away from him and eyed him beadily. "I was just keeping her company," he explained, "No crime committed." He thought it was pretty rich of Madame Pomfrey to call a sleepover in the Hospital Wing a crime, especially in comparison to some of the more colorful charges on his actual rap sheet. It was like comparing kittens and chimeras.

Madame Pomfrey, who apparently did not agree with Draco's assessment, shot him one last withering look, made a sound like "hmph!" and then turned to Hermione, who was just a lump of sheets on her bed. "Ms. Granger, how are you feeling?"

"Better," squeaked Hermione without revealing her face. Draco knew it must be because she was still trying to master her embarrassed giggles. After a moment though, she sobered, seemingly regaining control of herself. She pulled the bedclothes around her like a cloak, sat up, and crossed her legs on the bed, looking seriously between Pomfrey and Draco. "It was nice having him here. I couldn't sleep. He kept me company. He's not in much trouble, is he?"

Madame Pomfrey's expression softened very slightly toward Hermione. "Mr. Malfoy should not have… but, if you didn't mind then…" She seemed torn between anger at Draco and compassion for her patient. Hermione glanced around Madame Pomfrey and stared pointedly from Draco to the doors of the Hospital Wing. He got the message loud and clear: get out while you can.

Well, she didn't have to tell him twice. "See you, Hermione," he said quickly, giving her a little wave then hurrying away from her bed, toward the doors, and out into the corridor beyond. He thought it might be time for breakfast now. Certainly he could hear a low hum of voices from the Great Hall. His friends would probably be in there, worried about where he'd been. James would almost certainly give him grief about spending the night with Hermione (even though nothing had happened!) and Prescott would be disapproving as always and Justin would be clueless and Ryan would take Draco's side—

Wham! Draco collided with another person so hard that both he and the stranger stumbled backward clutching their shoulder or chest. His lungs protested the sudden intake of air; he coughed hoarsely and tried to catch his breath.

Meanwhile, the other person had moved to face Draco again, readjusting his glasses on his nose. "Malfoy?"

"Potter," Draco growled, still wheezing. It felt like Potter's bony shoulder had dug straight into his sternum. It was all he could do not to whimper.

"What are you doing here?" asked Potter.

Draco struggled to stand up straight, willing the rattle in his chest to go away, and rolled his eyes. "Why does everyone always ask me that?"

"What—"

"Never mind. So, you're here to see Granger?"

"Yeah," said Potter. He glanced around, running a hand distractedly through his disheveled hair. "Uh, how did you know that?"

Draco stared at Potter incredulously. Why else would he be visiting Hogwarts on a Sunday? Then he remembered that Potter didn't know he knew about Hermione's being in the Hospital Wing. Now there was a problem.

He tried to think what to do. Should he be honest and risk making things worse for Hermione, whose loyalty didn't exactly lie with him? After all, he was in the corridor of the Hospital Wing at the crack of dawn. Maybe should he tell Potter it was none of his business and storm off. Or would that just be playing into Potter's already not-so-great assumptions of him and not do him or Hermione any favors?

He resolved to give nothing away and hope that the conclusions Potter drew didn't upset Hermione too much. Then, at least, she'd be able to tell the Boy Wonder whatever she decided she wanted the truth to be. It was all the same to him. Or he wanted it to be.

"Lucky guess," said Draco, deciding that was nice and oblique. He took a few steps toward the hallway which led to the Great Hall. "Erm, nice chatting and all, but I've gotta go, Potter. I'm late for breakfast."

Potter called after him. "Hey, Malfoy, wait!"

Draco didn't stop. As he rounded the corner into the first floor corridor, he reminded himself the very last person he wanted to be talking to at this moment was Potter.

Well, the very last person right behind the boy headed up the staircase in front of him. "Bloody hell," Draco muttered, dashing behind a suit of armor.

Weasley and what looked like half of the rest of his red-haired family were marching down the corridor together toward the Hospital Wing. Draco held his breath – which hurt quite a lot – but they passed right by him without a sideways glance. He felt like he'd just dodged an Unforgivable Curse with that one. Thank goodness they hadn't seen him. Potter was one thing, but he didn't think he could keep his cool with Weasley.

Draco headed back down to the Great Hall, thinking now of breakfast, and, if he was honest with himself, maybe a little bit of the girl he'd just left behind.

When Hermione left the Hospital Wing, the afternoon light was still tinged with that just-rained quality. It streamed in through the windows as she headed first for Gryffindor tower to get her bookbag, then down to the Library to tackle her homework.

As she walked, she tried to decide how she felt. It was good, she supposed, to have told another person about her dismal summer. Her shame, her anguish, seemed less heavy now that there was someone else to shoulder her secret. It wasn't like telling Harry or Ron, who knew most of the story and had their own good intentions. Draco… he had his own baggage. He was broken like her. And he knew how to carry a burden.

She wasn't quite sure that she should have unloaded all her problems on Draco like that, though. It was true that she had decided to trust him, trust that he was repentant and that he really wanted to make a new way for himself in the world. Still. The Draco Malfoy she'd known for so many years wouldn't just be a sympathetic ear. What if he tried to use her secrets against her? Blackmail her? Go to the press with her sad little story? What if he tried to buy a good word from her for his trial with the information?

Hermione didn't want to think about what a betrayal that would be. She wanted to believe he was transformed, truly and completely, into the kind of boy who would stay up all night talking with her until she was too exhausted to dream. She wanted to think of him as the sort of person his Hufflepuff friends thought he was.

And the rest of it – her missing parents and her upset friends – they would take some figuring out as well. With all these musings clouding her mind, Hermione almost ran headlong into the Library doors.

Ten minutes later, Hermione had finally found an empty table on which to spread out her books and parchment. The Library was full of students trying to finish up their homework before tomorrow's classes. She hadn't thought of that, but it wasn't so bad. The rows and rows of bookshelves between groupings of study tables muffled the whispering a little. Not to the point that it wasn't distracting, but Hermione thought she could use a little distraction.

As Hermione settled herself into the hard-backed chair, she noticed who was sitting at the neighboring table. There were two of them, both Hufflepuff girls. She tried to start on her Herbology homework, but the next moment she had to force herself not to stare over at them when she heard Draco's name.

"… can't just walk up to Draco and tell him," Hermione overheard one of the girls, a pretty blonde, saying.

"Why not?" replied the other girl. She had black hair that spilled over her face but didn't quite hide her piercing blue-green eyes.

"Rory, don't be stupid. This is Draco we're talking about here. You know he's—"

"That's just a rumor," the girl named Rory said dismissively. "No one actually knows what's going on with him and Hermione Granger."

"Shh!" hissed the blonde girl. They both glanced over at Hermione, who tried very hard to look like she was busy writing notes. After a moment, they began again.

"What about you and James?" asked Rory. Hermione could hear the glib grin in her voice.

This was obviously a point of contention for the blonde, who closed the book in front of her rather harder than was necessary and said, "What about James?"

"You know he likes you!"

"I know nothing of the sort! He's never—"

"Now who's being stupid, Carolyn? You've like him for years and you never said a word to him about it. And you know he feels the same way! You're both too stubborn to just go for it," said Rory, exasperation poured into every word. "I don't want to end up like you two. If I like Draco – and I think do – then I'm not going to sit around forever waiting for him to look my way!" Rory slammed her own book shut and Hermione jumped at the suddenness of it. Both girls looked over at her again, and she endeavored to pass it off as shifting into a more comfortable position.

Rory stood up, crammed her book into her backpack, and slung it over her shoulder. "Are you coming?"

The blonde girl, Carolyn, hesitated, then grabbed her own things and followed Rory out of the Library without another word.

Hermione sat there, staring blankly down at her fake scribbled notes. Then, like a tiny tug in her stomach, something began to gnaw at her. The Rory girl liked Draco. Hermione tried to dismiss this as none of her business, but feeling grew stronger, as if someone was slowly dropping thumb tacks into her churning stomach.

So Draco had an admirer. Hadn't he had that pug-nosed slag Pansy Parkinson slobbering over him for years at school? And she'd never given it a second thought, except to wonder disgustedly how anyone could ever have feelings like that for someone like Draco Malfoy.

But now… This was different. Draco was different. Things between her and Draco were… Maybe they weren't chums exactly, but he wasn't the odious, loathsome toad he had once been. He didn't treat her like scum under his shoe. Hermione had thought that he maybe even sought her friendship.

Of course he did! This didn't change anything! He could be friends with Hermione and still be with that Rory girl, right? Right! Still, her stomach boiled with… with what? Jealousy? Surely not! She wasn't jealous that someone liked Draco. That was ridiculous!

Wasn't it?

Hermione rubbed her eyes. Maybe she was too tired for homework, but it still needed doing. She had too many notes to take to get distracted by some girl liking Malfoy. Liking Draco, she corrected herself.

She was just confused. And tired. And a wreck. That was all. And anyway she needed to do her schoolwork. That would take her mind off of things. So, with a cleansing sigh, Hermione pulled her Herbology book toward her again, struck out the silly little squiggles she'd made before, and started outlining Chapter 6, Identifying and Caring for Bile-Spewing Fungi.

Almost two weeks later, Luna caught up with Draco after class. It was Friday the 13th already and Draco was trying not to wonder where the time had gone. It had been so long since he'd talked to Hermione that night in the Hospital Wing. He hadn't had a chance to really speak to her since.

More importantly, his mother had stopped answering his letters about his father's trial. Even though it was all over the Daily Prophet, he still ached to know every detail. As far as he could tell, the proceedings had been fiendishly slow and very hard on his father, who the Prophet now described as "gaunt and wild-eyed".

So, when Luna started out their conversation by informing him that she'd been summoned to speak at his father's trial the following week, it didn't improve Draco's mood. If anything, it worried him even more. Luna seemed to sense his discomfort at the thought.

"Don't worry," she said as they headed toward dinner together, "I'll tell the truth."

"Yeah, that's what I'm afraid of," said Draco. He shifted his backpack to his other shoulder and attempted not to sulk. It wasn't fair to be upset with Luna for being summoned, even though he'd been summoned ages ago an never heard another word about it. It was even worse to be angry with her for her pledge to tell the truth. Yes, obviously he didn't want her to lie to the Wizengamot. But he didn't exactly want his father to go to Azkaban, either.

Again, Luna knew exactly what he was thinking. "It's hard, isn't it?" They turned a corner and started down a staircase. "Trying to do and think the right thing all the time must be very difficult for you."

"Yeah, well, it's never simple for people like me. There's a lot of gray area."

"There's a lot of gray area for everyone," said Luna. "You're just new to choosing the right shade."

Draco laughed in spite of himself. "You're full of metaphor today."

"What is going on with Astoria, Draco?"

This took Draco aback a little, thought he supposed Luna's abruptness shouldn't really surprise him anymore. "Well, she's… Astoria is… complicated."

"How so?"

"I don't know. She can't just come out and say what she wants, exactly. High society girls never do. But you heard her; she's the only thing standing between me and constant dueling in the halls."

"That's nice of her," Luna said.

Draco chuckled mirthlessly. "I think not. If I know Astoria, and I've known girls like her my whole life, she's not calling off the dogs to be friendly." They stepped onto a staircase, which started to swivel slowly in another direction. They stopped walking and held onto the railings to wait for it to stop.

After a moment of the thunderous grating of stone on stone, Luna said, "So, what does she want?"

The staircase grinded to a halt, but they didn't move. "Honestly?" Draco asked. He turned to look down at Luna, who gazed back at him unblinkingly. "I have no idea."

As it transpired, the change of direction put them directly above the corridor leading to the Entrance Hall. Draco and Luna started off down a final flight of stairs.

Luna changed the subject again as they reached the long, narrow hallway with the cavernous Entrance Hall before them. "How is Prescott?"

And again Draco was completely caught off-guard. "I– well, he… Luna, why—"

Then a hand closed around his arm and swung him around. Draco was suddenly staring into icy blue eyes.

"Hello, Draco," said Astoria smoothly. She didn't look away from him, but she added, "Goodbye, Loony."

"Don't call her—" Draco started, feeling blindsided and angry, but Luna cut him off.

"It's alright. You can tell me about it later." And just like that, Luna walked away, leaving them alone.

Astoria's smile lifted the corners of her lips only vaguely as she backed into an empty classroom, her grip on Draco's arm still tight as ever. He could easily wrench away from her grasp, say something snide and catch up to Luna before she got too far ahead of him, but something held him back. He allowed himself to be led through the doorway. He wanted to know Astoria's angle. This was how.

When they'd taken several steps together into the room, Astoria released him and slid with sensuous grace onto a desk. She crossed her legs. Everything about her was posed and calculated. It made Draco nervous. He hadn't played this game for a long time. He wasn't sure he wanted to.

"Loony Lovegood, Draco?" said Astoria with contempt. She tossed her curtain of black hair back and returned her gaze to him. The smile was gone. "You can do better."

It was clear he wasn't going anywhere. Draco closed his eyes, shrugged his bookbag off his shoulder, and threw it onto a desk. He rolled his back, trying to ease some of the stress from his body. Finally, with a renewed sense of control, he let himself look at her. "I don't recall asking for your opinion."

"I don't need an invitation to speak my mind. I'm not the one on trial here, Draco." Astoria cocked her chin up slightly. "I'm the judge."

Draco raised his arms. "So judge! I have nothing to hide and I have the added advantage of not caring what you think."

"Silly boy," she said. "Of course you care."

Draco let that hang in the air. He dropped his arms and moved to lean against the desk with his backpack on it. This was her game. If she wanted a conversation, let her come up with the topic. Let her think she has all the power.

After a moment, Astoria spoke again. "You know I've replaced you. Slytherin is my House now."

"You can have it."

"I didn't ask your permission."

"If you had, I would have told you that you are in way over your head."

Astoria's smile was cold. "I don't think so."

"That proves it. And you can barely control those thugs at school, let alone outside of it. Just look what happened at Hogsmeade. You're not going to tell me that was all part of your plan." Astoria's eyes flickered with anger, and Draco felt a rush of satisfaction to see her icy façade crack just a little. "They must not respect you as much as you think, to come after me like that the moment they weren't under your thumb."

"They have been dealt with," she said coolly.

"You don't know the first thing about controlling your court." He smiled. "Pretty soon, it'll be 'off with her head'. They'll find a new queen. Or king."

"You're wrong, Draco, but I forgive you."

"You are too kind," he said, inclining his head in a parody of submission. The slight was not lost on Astoria, who slipped off of her desk and started toward him. Draco was seized with the urge to grab his bag and run away. Her azuline eyes bored into him with such intensity, and her movements were so deliberately serpentine, that he was momentarily stunned with panic.

"I am kind, my pet. You don't understand yet, but you'll find my forgiveness significantly more worthwhile than Loony Lovegood's or those Hufflepuff idiots'. Or the Granger girl's." She was very close now, too close, a breath away, her hand on the desk as she leaned into him.

Draco mentally shook himself. Astoria was talking about his friends, about his desire for their forgiveness, his need to move past his mistakes and forward with his life. She was not allowed to do that. He wouldn't let her. Fury melted his momentary panic. This simpering little sixth-year did not get to hiss through her forked tongue about his life like she had any inkling of understanding.

He leaned down toward her upturned face and said with all the venom he could muster, "Stay. Away. From me."

He grabbed her shoulders and shoved her roughly backward. Her seductress mask crumbled. She stumbled back on unsteady legs, looking for all the world like the pouty little heiress she was. He had truly surprised her. She hadn't expected him to cast her aside so easily. In fact, it wasn't easy, but there was no need to alert her to that fact.

"You effing git! How dare you touch me!" she shouted at him, her grace gone, her eyes wild with rage. "How dare you—"

"Oh shut up! Or better yet, tell me what you want, Astoria. It's dinnertime and I'm hungry."

"You don't fool me, Draco Malfoy! You think if you cuddle up to that filthy little mudblood and her friends that they'll accept you into their club. Well, no one is falling for your act! In the end, what you really want is back in. Just like your mother, am I right, Draco?"

Draco seethed at the mention of his mother. "Don't talk about my mother!"

"You'd be willing to do anything for your mummy dearest, wouldn't you?" she said, continuing on as if he hadn't spoken, "We both know how desperate she is for all the right invitations. And we are getting very close to the winter season, Draco." Astoria was regaining her composure. She turned away from him and sauntered back to her desk. "Imagine if none of those invitations arrive."

Draco wanted to cut in, to rage at this pompous, preening little witch. But he didn't. They were circling her real reason for luring him here. He forced himself to remain calm, to listen imperiously as she condescended to him about his own mother.

"I can just see her," she sighed, gesturing airily as she seated herself on the desk, affecting a forlorn posture, "sitting by a window, waiting for the owls that never come. It's just so sad, isn't it, pet?" Astoria punctuated the last word with a glance of feigned pity in his direction. Draco still said nothing. "What with her husband wasting away in court and her son gone to school and all of her friends abandoning her, I think being snubbed this season would basically kill her, don't you?"

It took everything he had not to curse her. His fingers itched for his wand, but he managed to maintain his appearance of stony indifference. He didn't move; he didn't even blink. Draco was afraid even one twitch would result in some brutal attack.

"So, you see," Astoria said. "My forgiveness makes all the difference."

Draco did see. Whatever Astoria wanted, she was offering to arrange for his mother's return to high society's good graces in exchange.

Through gritted teeth, Draco asked, "What is your price?"

"I think you know," she said, her eyes catching his.

"No."

"Yes. Drop the mudblood. Drop the act. Come back to us, Draco," she said with a mock-pout, "We miss you."

"Hermione is none of your business."

"Please. You're so far out of her league that I'm surprised you two even speak the same language." Astoria ran her fingers through her hair carelessly. She looked utterly at ease again. "She's just not like us, Draco. We're in a different class. Not that I need to tell you any of this." She looked down at her long nails. "You've been slumming it long enough to know the difference, I'm sure."

"'Slumming'—"

"And what about your little friends in Hufflepuff? Really, Draco, it's nice to see you so friendly with the common folk, but it's time you returned to your own kind. You need to be with people who understand you."

"I'm with the people who accept me for who I am."

"That's not what I said. Acceptance makes one complacent. We know that the pressures of our world drive us to be better, don't we, Draco?"

"I don't under—"

"You don't understand? Of course you do. You're a Malfoy. No one understands better than you."

Draco rolled his eyes. "Is this it? This is your big plan? To separate me from my friends? To try and blackmail me into being your puppet in return for my mother attending some snobby parties?" He laughed cruelly. "You really don't get it at all. This," he said, gesturing at himself, "is not an act. This is me now."

"You don't really expect me to believe that, do you?"

"I don't care what you believe." He grabbed his backpack and swung it over his shoulder. "No deal." Draco turned to leave.

"You're not playing the game, Draco. Where's the fun if you don't play the game?"

Draco couldn't help it. His feet carried him across the room to where Astoria perched on her desk. He got close, invading her personal space. She looked up at him, fear evident on her face. It was obvious, so obvious. She was such an amateur, despite all her pretense.

"This is not a game, Astoria," Draco shouted, "This is my life. This is your life. Stop pretending or you're going to end up like I did. You're going to go crazy doing all this to yourself! You're going to hurt people!"

She smiled at him then. It was not pleasant, not even simpering sweet; it was menacing, a serpent's sneer. "I look forward to making your life very difficult."

Draco laughed. "My life is already difficult! Do your worst!" He pivoted on his heels and started toward the open door again.

She giggled a little manically then, as if echoing his derisive laughter, and called after him. "You and I are going to make a great couple."

Hermione knew that it was Draco in that empty classroom arguing with Astoria Greengrass, and though she had every intention of not listening, she still ended up with her back flat against the stone wall just outside the door, her ears straining to catch every word they said. It was pitiful, really. She hated herself for eavesdropping, but she reasoned that they were talking about her anyway. Well, not just her, but she didn't really understand what was going on.

She'd come in at the middle, about to pass by on her way to dinner when his voice had caught her attention. And before she knew what she was doing, she was transfixed by their venomous exchange.

Astoria was trying to convince Draco of something, to "drop the act", and Draco was refusing, actually scornful in his rejection of her propositions. And then Astoria had said some very nasty things to Draco about his friends, about her. She said she was going to make his life difficult. That certainly didn't bode well.

But before Hermione could even pretend to look innocent, Draco had emerged from the classroom. If he'd so much as glanced to his left, he would have seen her there, plastered against the cold stone wall, a guilty grimace on her face. He didn't look. Instead, he turned around as if unable to force himself to drop the argument. He glared into the room again and said, "Couple? You're mental."

Astoria's dulcet voice cooed indistinctly from within, but whatever she'd said, Draco apparently didn't like it. He took a step forward, his body now half-hidden from Hermione, who was mostly torn between a desire to drag Draco out of there by the scruff of his neck and an urgent need to get the hell away from this scene.

"I don't need your help, Astoria," Draco was saying, "I can make my own way in the world."

A pause. Obviously Astoria had some reply of her own that Hermione could not hear. "You're wrong. I've changed," Draco retorted, disappearing entirely from view. "I'm different. We both are."

We? Who was "we"? A second later, Hermione had to flattened herself against the wall again as Astoria appeared. Had she not been focused intently on Draco, who was still somewhere out of sight, she would surely have spotted Hermione. And then what?

Instead, she tossed her sleek black hair over her shoulder and said, "I'm dying to prove you wrong, Draco," before blowing him a kiss and heading down the corridor without even a backward glance.

Hermione didn't have time to decide what to do. She thought fleetingly of following behind Astoria, of starting to walk as if she hadn't just snooped around in Draco's life yet again (she was still beating herself up for eavesdropping on those Hufflepuff girls weeks ago). Plenty of students came this way to dinner. It wouldn't be strange if she just happened to be passing, would it? Then she thought she ought to stay put. Draco hadn't seen her before and Astoria had taken no notice of her. Maybe playing the fly on the wall would work again.

Then he was there, close enough to touch, looking away from Hermione. She held her breath, wishing she had thought to cast a disillusionment charm.

Draco seemed to relax. He stopped just inside the doorway and watched Astoria flounce off toward the open doors of the Great Hall where students were still pouring in for dinner. His hands clasped either side of the door frame, and he didn't give any sign that he'd even noticed her until Astoria had completely disappeared from sight.

Hermione started when he spoke. "Listening at doorways now?" He turned his head to face her, and she was caught off-guard by his smile.

She had tried not to look at him much over the past two weeks. He seemed thinner now, more wan than before he'd transferred into Hufflepuff, more ashen and gaunt even than he had done during their sixth year. Hermione had thought that Hufflepuff was doing him good. Whatever was happening in his life now, it was obviously causing him constant anxiety. But now he was grinning at her like he had when they had laughed together in the Hospital Wing. He seemed genuinely glad to see her. Glad and concerned. A weird mix of guilt and happiness churned in her stomach.

"Sorry," she said. Her heart pounded. She didn't know what to do. When she took a hesitant step toward the Entrance Hall, Draco caught hold her arm.

"Hey, stranger," he murmured, swinging her around and pulling her back through the open doorway of the classroom. She tripped over her feet trying to catch up as he dragged her. When they came to a stop almost at the back of the classroom, she tried to regain control of her balance, but just fell into him.

He laughed and put her right again. "I'm starting to worry about your balance, Hermione."

"I'm sorry. I shouldn't have been eavesdropping—" she started, but he held up a hand to stop her apology.

"What did you hear?" His gray eyes were all piercing seriousness. He wasn't upset exactly, but there was intensity, an edge that cut through the smile. He really was worried, and it had nothing to do with her balance.

"I don't know," she said. It was lame, she knew that. But what was she supposed to say? Everything?

Draco wasn't buying it. "Just tell me."

Hermione hesitated a moment before answering. "It- it sounded like she was trying to bargain with you. There was something about your mother… And she doesn't like me at all, does she?"

"No," he said, and then added, "To be fair, that's probably a good thing."

"You're not going to take the deal, are you?" Hermione wondered at her boldness. This was none of her business. Still, she didn't want the old Draco back. That would ruin absolutely everything. Surely he saw that.

"No. Of course not." He didn't meet her eye.

Now it was Hermione's turn to be incredulous. On impulse, she brought a hand to his cheek. "Draco…"

"No. No, I wouldn't," he said to reassure her, covering her hand with his, and though he drew it away from his face, he did not let go. "My mother will be fine without Astoria's help. There's nothing she could say, Hermione. She's got nothing I want." He squeezed her hand then. Only a little.

"What do you want?"

"I want to move on. I want to finish school, get a job. You know, be normal."

Hermione wanted to laugh. She wanted to ask, "What is 'normal', exactly?" but she was too distracted.

He still hadn't let go of her hand. They stood there for what felt like a long time with the distant hum of voices from the Great Hall filling up the silence. It occurred to Hermione that they were late for dinner. Ginny would worry. She should go. But she didn't want to. She wanted to stay like this for as long as he would let her. She wanted her hand in his. She wanted to be in his confidence like she had taken him into hers. She wanted to help him. The idea of it was overwhelming.

"I… um…" she stammered, and the moment was gone, ruined, popped like a soap bubble. He released her and took a step back as though remembering himself.

He flexed his hand. His brow furrowed, and he closed his eyes. "I'm sorry."

"Don't be."

"She's not going to stop trying, Hermione," Draco said suddenly. When Hermione looked confused, he went on: "Astoria. I don't know what she's got planned, but she's not going to give up so easily."

Hermione frowned.

"But neither am I," he said. "I promise."

She readjusted her robes and smoothed her jumper over her skirt, more for something to do than because they needed fixing. "That's good." Ugh. Lame!

But if Draco thought it was an inane response, he didn't show it. "Come on. We should get you to dinner before Ginny kills us."