Chapter one: Duty

Hermione surveyed the red brick building with distaste.

It wasn't that the building was displeasing in itself, but the task that awaited her in its walls caused her to loiter unnecessarily outside its gates. She wasn't even sure why she was here, but she knew that she'd feel very guilty if she turned away.

Still, that didn't stop her from coming up with several excuses to tell Harry, letting the rain collect in her hair and eyelashes, and shifting from foot to foot before taking a deep, exasperated breath and walking in the gates.

Her first impression was of poorly whitewashed despair. Something about these walls was unhappily stuck in the past- or maybe she was just projecting on them. She didn't want to be here.

Luna, the only other member of the project, greeted her inside. "Hello, Hermione."

"Hi, Luna," Hermione replied wearily. She did everything wearily, nowadays. "How have you been?"

"The same," she said in her lilting, airy voice. "Daddy's gone to Europe for a long trip, so I have the house to myself. I'm thinking of redecorating."

Hermione smiled as she considered what Luna's idea of home decoration might be, then shook herself and focused on the task ahead of her. "So what exactly does my job here consist of? Harry wasn't very specific about it. I think that he thought if he told me everything, I'd say no."

"It's not bad as all that," Luna demurred. "They're just angry, that's all. Angry and scared. They need a gentle hand."

"I can see why he didn't ask Ron," Hermione said lightly, and they both smiled. Then Luna turned to the desk in the front hall, sifting through it for a paper that she then handed to Hermione.

"Here's the Ministry mandate," she said. "Harry persuaded them to make it softer than it was originally."

Hermione read through it quickly, raising an eyebrow. "The following individuals are sentenced to a year of community service and rehabilitation as Ministry-appointed counselors see fit. At the end of the year a review will be taken and further work may be awarded if necessary. Luna, I'm not a counselor. Sometimes I think I need a counselor."

Luna put a hand on Hermione's shoulder. "None of us are," Luna said seriously. "We're just the only ones willing to do it."

"Nobody else wants to?" Hermione demanded.

"That's right," Luna said. "Nobody wants to associate themselves with the fallen."

There was a hot point of anger building under her ribcage, and she crushed the mandate in her fingers to prevent it from coming out. "And yet they're sinking to their level," she pointed out, "In not giving them a chance."

"You're preaching to the converted," Luna replied. "I know."

Hermione looked towards her own hand, trembling with the pressure, and then chucked the mandate and the rage in the general direction of a trashcan. "Sorry," she muttered. Pasting a smile on her face, she looked back at Luna. "Where do I start?"

Luna gave her a measuring look before giving her a list of three names, each with appointment times on them. "These are your charges. You're going to meet with them all today, then set up a plan and schedule as you see fit."

"Assuming any of them listen to me," Hermione muttered. She looked down at the list, and was instantly slapped in the face by the one name that she really, really didn't want to see.

Draco Malfoy.

…

Draco walked listlessly around the Manor, examining the dust that had settled on everything with tired, tired eyes. It was another sign of how empty his life was- empty house, empty heart… and all because he had, apparently, made the wrong choices. According to an establishment Draco had never trusted and a public opinion that he didn't think he deserved.

He settled onto a couch, throwing his limbs in the general direction of the cushions and holding his breath as a cloud of dust blossomed into the air, dispersing to other points in the room. He'd told the House Elves to stop cleaning his father's things in an effort to relegate the past to the past, and one day he'd move those things out of the house.

Perhaps he'd burn them.

The idea gave him dark satisfaction.

With a groan, he righted himself and ruffled his hair, sending the dust into the air again. Then he walked back to the hall to pick up the letters that had been left on the silver plate designated for that specific use and perused the thick pieces of paper.

A letter from his mother, who had settled nicely in Spain, thank you very much, and was working on her tan. It was filled with the kind of shallow talk that Draco had heard his whole life, veiling the sadness she felt at her self-imposed exile and the heartache that he knew was somewhere behind the perfectly formed letters. It was pain as familiar as his own, but Draco was in a mood for self-pity and not empathy, and so he tucked the letter in his pocket to respond to when he'd dealt with himself.

It probably would take a while. But when his mother was sunning herself in Spain and he was stuck here by Ministry mandate, how could he prevent himself from feeling bitter?

The next few missives were trash, anonymous letters telling him to leave, berating him for his life, asking him to consider that muggles were actually people and how dare he do things that endanger their lives?

He destroyed those letters with great relish. It was funny, he thought, how every one of these citizens who wrote forgot his age. He was still so young, and that was his shield, his excuse. He'd grown up with this kind of thinking, and he refused to think that he could have grown away from it. He was a Slytherin and a Pureblood and it had been his duty and he'd done it.

They didn't know the absolute panic that had accompanied it, or the sick feeling in his stomach as he watched Dumbledore fall…

"I didn't know any better," he growled to the ashes of the accusations, and then he turned to the last letter in the stack.

It was written in cramped handwriting that he recognized as Potter's. With an exasperated sigh, he ripped it open, read the short note on how he was supposed to start counseling shortly, that he was sorry but Draco did have to attend, and the name of the person who'd been roped into duty as he'd been roped into therapy and community service.

Hermione Granger.

"Merlin's pants," Draco growled, and chucked the letter to the floor.

…

A/N:

So I had another idea for a longer fiction. I'm pretty excited about it, actually. Both Hermione and Draco will narrate this time around, and they're going to be a little different than they were in Letting Go. Anyways, thoughts? Comments? I hope you enjoy it!

Isefyr