Disclaimer: I obviously own nothing. Harry Potter & cast belong to my liege, J.K. Rowling.

Prologue – Aftermath

Hermione Granger could not have possibly known it, but she was the direct cause of the redeemable change that had come upon Draco Malfoy following the Final Battle of Hogwarts.

He had seen her, Granger, that is. Not just saw her as she looked, but he had seen her for what she was – human. She had been crouched beside Pansy Parkinson, of all people, applying a fresh bandage to the Slytherin's arm that was already beginning to pink through with the copious amounts of blood.

Draco had been sitting down on a half demolished sandstone bench at the time, ignoring the Mediwitch that was tending to a burn on his calf. As he had been sitting there, his gaze had wandered.

The sun had begun to rise behind the castle, tinting the sky with hues of purple, pink and orange. Bodies of the fallen were being lined up against the far wall, and he could see the beginnings of a makeshift medical ward being set up in the Great Hall from where he was sitting.

Destruction and debris surrounded him; the dust had not even settled yet.

The last of the Death Eaters had fled from the grounds moments after Voldemort's defeat. There were several bodies littered across the courtyard that wore flowing black robes, some even had their white bone masks at their faces. Others were beyond recognition. The air was thick with the static of recently used magic, heavy with the stench of death and keening cries of wrath or despair could still be heard ringing.

This was the aftermath of war. The picking up of the pieces left behind, absorbing the shock that holy fucking hell, this really just happened. The disbelieving gasps for air when you weren't sure whether you were really alive or if you were dreaming. The tending of the injured, the burying of the fallen and the courage to continue breathing when it was easier to just curl into yourself and stop existing. Because it was easier to disappear than to have to be one of the ones left behind to make sense of the destruction that war caused.

There was a small commotion and Draco lifted his head, just in time to catch Potter's eye as the Chosen One trudged past the blond Slytherin. The eye contact lasted maybe all of four seconds but entire conversations passed between them.

I'm sorry. Please forgive me.

Thank you, Harry's eyes conveyed. I forgive you.

I respect you.

Potter disappeared from sight, into the Great Hall where he was no doubt seeking medical attention for the numerous gashes to his face, arms and upper body. Draco also noted the fact that he was limping, blood flowing freely from a deep cut in his upper thigh. Seconds later, Weasley jogged after him without sparing Draco a glance.

Numbed by a heavy heart full of fear for the future, Draco could only stare at the scene around him. What was he going to do now?

The Mediwitch had long gone, and he took a quick inventory of his injuries. The burn on his calf; caught by fiery falling debris at the base of the grounds. The wetness he felt on his neck was too thick and sticky to be sweat, and there was a stinging sensation behind his right ear that he correctly deduced to be a gash of some kind. He stared down at his arms and hands and caught sight of hundreds of tiny little cuts and scrapes that trailed up and disappeared under the rolled up sleeves of his school robes. He was covered in grime and blood, streaked brown and scarlet, marring the ugly black tattoo on his left forearm and blurring it.

Funny, being a pureblood did not make you invincible. It was something he had always thought of as a child, that feeling of being on top of the world because he was richer, smarter, more attractive and just… better. That feeling of wearing a permanent shield, that the purity of his blood could protect him. The elation he felt as a young boy at the cold, calculating look on Lucius' face that could have been pride, or it could have been something else. How Draco had felt when he had landed on the ground after riding a broom for the first time when he was four years old. Or the glow his mother got when he came home for the school holidays, dressed impeccably complete with gracious manners, a perfect little pureblood toy soldier. He had felt so tall, so unbreakable.

Draco stared on.

Granger had a nasty gash on her temple. Strangely, her face was dirt and grime free, save from the flecking of blood on her chin and the crimson from her forehead that trickled down her cheek. Her clothes were ripped, mud caked the bottoms of her Muggle jeans, her jacket was absolutely filthy with blood and dirt and scorch marks, but strangely her face was saved from the ugly signs of war.

Draco didn't acknowledge the strange thought that flitted through his mind as he continued to gaze at her. He thought she looked poised. A war maiden, fresh from a battle. Graceful but wholly capable of destructive wrath. Compared to the hysterical sobbing of Pansy who was sprawled at Granger's feet, Granger was silent. Her back was straight; her chin lifted with indignation and her eyes… oh, her eyes. They burned with determination, grief and challenge. He was afraid of her in that moment.

Draco stared at the blood on her cheek, studying it. It was red. He touched his fingers to his neck, behind his ear, and stared even longer at the droplets of blood that covered his fingertips. He looked back up to Granger, looking for differences in their blood. There was none.

In the tragic aftermath of war within the confines of the Hogwarts courtyard, whilst people were dead or dying around him, Draco found it all very amusing. As a boy, he had imagined a Mudblood to possess exactly that – mud brown blood.

He wasn't sure what he was expecting, but the dawning realisation that was coming over him was overwhelming. That Granger, the Mudbl–Muggleborn witch he had tormented for the better part of seven years, bled the same colour as he did.

He hadn't seen it before, all those months ago.

Granger, along with Potter, Weasley and that strange blonde girl from Ravenclaw had been captured and brought to Malfoy Manor in Wiltshire. Granger, being the only Muggleborn, had been tortured.

And he didn't have the stomach to witness it. After the first Crucio flew from his aunt Bellatrix's wand, Draco had inched towards the door leading towards his rooms, away from the hall and in the other direction of the dungeons.

Lucius had grabbed at his arm, his left, the one bearing the Mark. But Draco had violently thrown him off, not daring to meet his parents' eyes as he fled the scene. Even in his room, Granger's screams could be heard reverberating through the walls and seeped deeply into his consciousness. Draco had cast a silencing charm on his bedroom, dashed madly for the bathroom off his suite and had promptly thrown up.

No, he hadn't seen her bleed then.

Draco hung his head at the realisation that his father was wrong, wrong, wrong. Cringe or cry – he wasn't sure how to react. Did he seriously think that? Was he so naive to believe his father's words spoken with derision – that the impure had mud flowing through their veins? Furthermore, this meant that the very basis of Voldemort's ideals and loathing of Muggles was based on… well, nonsense.

He wasn't to know it, but his soul exhaled greatly at that moment. In that moment, as he was staring mindlessly at the cuts on his hands, the Muggleborn and the pureblood witches crouching ten meters from him in his peripheral vision, the tight fist that was his blood based prejudices loosened. The fist, once held closed by an unwavering conviction of superiority and disdain for anything other than the purity of blood, relaxed enough to form a loose jumble of confused fingers.

"…Draco?"

His grey eyes flickered to the source of the timid voice and he found himself staring into the teary, hopeful eyes of Pansy. She rested her fingers on his forearm, casually, as if she were asking for homework.

"It's over, Draco. We're going to be okay, it'll be you and me again."

Draco didn't even hear her soft whisperings. He chose to ignore her, to ignore her hands touching him and instead focused on the spot where Granger had been.

He remained frozen on the bench, dirty, tired and bleeding, until his parents came to collect him. Together, the Malfoy family departed from the battlegrounds.

A/N: Tah-dah! My first story. I'm nervous and excited. Sup.