(A/N: Alright. I'm going to try my hand at this whole "shipping" thing because, well, I'm slightly addicted. I want to point out that I LOVE the books/movies, and the outcomes –cough-Harry should have ended up with Luna-cough- but I've been reading too many Draco/Hermione fics to NOT try it.

That said, this story takes place first briefly right after the War, and then goes to the start of the next term, when Hogwarts re-opens. I read somewhere that JKR said that Hermione would have gone back to school but Ron and Harry wouldn't have. Well, that's the basis for this. You shall see.)

It wasn't supposed to be like this, Hermione thought as she sat on the edge of where a wall used to be, figuring she was about four stories up. The castle shouldn't be broken like this. WE shouldn't be broken.

But they were.

They had won, but they had lost too. Friends, family, classmates. They were just gone. Now Hermione was alone, off in some would-be secluded corner of the castle she had come to regard as home, wondering how, exactly, the hole in the wall she was currently occupying had come to be. It didn't really matter, she figured, but it gave her something to do. Something to keep her mind busy.

Harry had slipped away with the help of Luna, who had come to tell her shortly after. She wanted someone to know, the blonde witch had said, just in case. Hermione had only nodded, knowing that if she had told Luna that it wasn't necessary – Voldemort was dead – the other girl would have simply replied that she had been referring to some creature that probably didn't exist beyond Luna's imagination.

But she appreciated the information all the same.

Luna had wandered off, and Hermione's attention had drifted to Ron. When she had left him, he had been with what was left of his family. He needed that, and while she didn't particularly want to be alone, she had had enough of death for one day. Or a lifetime.

She leaned against the edge of the remaining wall and contemplated beginning to repair the castle. Some already were – she could see them from her perch – and she wondered if it helped any. Some of her Muggle friends had talked about cleaning when they were sad or angry, and she was definitely both of those things. More sad than angry, but the feeling was still there. She also wondered how the use of Dark Magic would affect the rebuilding process. She knew it affected the healing process, and weren't the two kind of similar?

He didn't belong here. He knew this, but no one was paying him – or his family – any attention. For the first time that he could remember, he was glad of that fact. He was glad that the War was over, and as strange as it sounds, he was glad that it had turned out the way it did. The thought was foreign to his mind, but it kept coming back. As Draco sat there looking around the Great Hall, his mind tried to pinpoint the exact moment that his subconscious had changed sides. It was before Potter had pulled him onto the broom to escape the wicked fire in the Room of Requirement. Even though he had gone looking for his enemy in hopes that whatever the boy was after would bring him into good graces with the Dark Lord, he hadn't really been looking forward to it. It was a fleeting attempt to regain his place as a leader, even if it was just among Crabbe and Goyle. Potter had hit him with the question that had been shoved in the back of his mind since it happened, and he faltered. He had no real answer to why he hadn't identified the trio at the Manor when they had been brought in. Maybe, he thought, I was already on their side by then. He scolded the mere thought. He was in NO way on Potter's side. If anything, he was simply not on the Dark Lord's side.

It shouldn't have mattered now. It was over, he was dead, and no one had questioned why his family was sitting inside the walls of the castle that they had helped to attack.

That's precisely why it did.

Draco wanted to know why he didn't have the urge to curse everyone in this room. Perhaps, his mind reasoned with him, the loss still outweighs the victory. He shook his head, but knew that it was probably true. These people were grieving, despite the fact that they had won. He needed to get out of here.

He had watched as the blonde Ravenclaw spazz had distracted everyone so that Potter could slip out. How fortunate. He, however, would have to do things his way.

His way turned out to be muttering some excuse about talking a walk, squirming out of his mother's grasp, and exiting the Hall before anyone could stop him.

Hermione had decided to clean up. The deciding factor hadn't been grief, or a need to satisfy curiosity. No, it had come in the form of a small gash on her arm from carelessly leaning up against the wall. It shouldn't have bothered her, given the number of scrapes and bruises already covering her skin, but it did. So she had shifted her position slightly, careful not to fall off the ledge, and begun to survey the damage. There was a layer of debris covering everything – mostly from the crumbling stone, but also large chunks of walls, pillars, and the occasional piece of armour. Then, of course, there was blood. That was everywhere as well. She got started on the area around her, siphoning away the liquids first and then slowly directing the dust into several small piles a few feet away. It was then that she heard footsteps. They were slow enough to be purposeless but steady enough to have a destination. Having been alone for over an hour, Hermione hoped that it was a friend. She was almost in the mood to talk to someone.

She changed her mind when the owner of the footsteps rounded the corner.

"Oh," she muttered. "Of course."

The footsteps stopped. "I'm not exactly thrilled to see you either, Granger." Draco sneered, but the malice behind his words was gone. He paused, looking around. "Are you…cleaning?" The words tumbled out of his mouth before he had a chance to stop them. Not that it really mattered, but he normally kept the conversations with this particular female to a dead minimum. Sitting with his parents for over an hour had driven him to the brink of insanity, apparently, because not only was he questioning his loyalties, values, and himself even, but he had voluntarily started a conversation with someone that he simply didn't like.

A further sign that things were not as they should be came with her response.

"Possibly," Hermione said with a small sign, leaning back against the wall. "I just couldn't stand it anymore." She wondered why she even answered him at all when he rolled his eyes. It wasn't like she owed him anything. If anything, he owed her! They had, after all, saved his life twice, once not long after he had threatened theirs. With that in mind, she simply turned her back to him to resume her original perch on the ledge, facing the open air. She decided that she wouldn't pay any mind to him, but she caught herself waiting for either a remark or retreating footsteps. She heard neither, but forced herself to stay facing the way she was.

Draco, on the other hand, had his hands shoved in his pockets, and was staring at the little piles of rubble on the outskirts of the cleanest patch of ground he'd seen since Hogwarts had started quaking. It circled her, like a form of peace and sanity. It was just a clean patch of ground, but it was a start. He wished he could do that to his own mind. If he could just sort out the pieces –

'Draco!' His mother's earlier cries rang in his ears. She had found him slouched in the corner shortly after the Dark Lord had been defeated, once and for all. It was because of his mother that Potter was alive, that he had been given the chance to defeat the man they all feared, regardless of where their loyalties may lie. His mother, who had put everything on the line for the chance to find him, had done just that. His father hadn't been far behind her. He remembered seeing the slight fear in the man's eyes, and he understood that for the first time. They didn't belong here. They were on the losing side. They should be part of those getting round up and taken to a waiting cell in Azkaban. But they weren't. They weren't, because his mother had helped Potter. So that would be the third time his nemesis had saved his neck.

It was too much to take. The sights of the battle and the silence and the memories of not too long ago flashing through his mind were all ganging up on him. He reached out to steady himself on the wall, but the walls were weakened. The bit of stone he had latched onto crumbled at the slightest bit of pressure, and he realized that he was just outside of the peaceful, sane, and clean area. If he could just get there, everything would be okay. All he had to do was take a couple of steps. He had the wall to guide him. It wasn't like he had to talk to Granger. He just had to cross over the neat little piles and all would be well.

Hermione didn't turn around until she heard the thud that can only be made by the sound of a body hitting the floor.