Draco Malfoy is persistently haunted of the moment the Death Eaters arrived in Hogwarts. Even as an adult, he can never forget that part of his past. Will he ever learn to forgive himself?

I Still Regret

I still regret the things I've done.

I won't forget what I had become.

Even now, even then,

I still remember that night again.

I wonder why I let it happen

And why I wasn't able to stop it.

My enemies were so important to me.

Potter, Weasley, and Hermione.

Maybe they weren't enemies after all

Just friends, all of whom I didn't want to fall.

I was so upset at what I had done.

No one will forgive me for what I have become.

Hermione Granger stared at the poem that was messily scrawled on the napkin with what appeared to be a Muggle pen. After reading the seventh line, she knew immediately who wrote it: Draco Malfoy.

After the war, Hermione was in closer proximity to Draco Malfoy that she would have wanted to be. While she wanted to be in Ireland at a prestigious wizarding university, she was stuck here, in Diagon Alley, working at a cafe to raise her tuition money; in addition, she was also a freelance writer, and typically got a few writing jobs a month with the Daily Prophet and The Quibbler. Draco Malfoy, on the other hand, was a completely different story. She often saw Malfoy working in the Apothecary, measuring out herbs and selling oils to the resident customers. The tawny-haired girl could tell that he never enjoyed it; but when she looked at the poem that was written in his handwriting on the napkin, she wondered why he didn't bother attempting to publish his poetry--even in the Muggle world, it would do well.

So Hermione set out to return the poem to him.

Shyly, Hermione entered the Apothecary, looking to see if Draco was on his shift; he wasn't. She gingerly approached the black-haired woman (whose name was Astoria) and asked where Malfoy was. The pale girl's eyes lit up with a wicked gleam, and asked why.

"U-um..." Hermione blushed three different shades of pink. "He left something at the coffee shop next door, and it seemed important; I just wanted to return it to him."

Astoria nodded understandingly. "I can write down the address for his flat; he's off the clock now, and probably at home. I'm sure he'll welcome the return of his poem."

As Astoria wrote down Draco's address, Hermione couldn't help but asking, "Does Draco write poetry often?"

Astoria looked up at Hermione as if she had just sprouted three heads. "You didn't know that he writes poetry?" Hermione shook her head as Astoria handed her the paper with his address. "He writes poetry constantly. He has quite a few binders filled with the poems he's written; they're absolutely beautiful."

Hermione thank Astoria for the directions and headed to the direction of Malfoy's house. The genius girl was astounded at the shabby apartment complex that Draco resided in; compared to the pristine and expensive manor that his parents owned, she was surpised to see the Slytherin living in such a dumpy and cheap place. Either the Apothecary paid their workers low, or Draco just didn't want to go back to Malfoy Manor--it could have been both.

Granger climbed the rickety wooden stairway to the fifth level of the Gellert aparments. Draco's complex was five-thirteen. When Hermione arrived at the door, she heard wracking sobs coming from inside the room; they were obviously masculine, and could belong to no other than Draco Malfoy himself. Hoping that she hadn't come at a bad time, Hermione gently wrapped on the door; the sobbing stopped immediately, and the door opened nearly a split second later.

"Granger."

Draco's face was stoic as usual. His grey eyes were bloodshot, and his eyelids were puffy and swollen. Hermione could tell that he had been crying a lot lately. "Why are you here?" he barked.

Hermione held up the napkin with the poem written on it. "I...well...you left this on the table at the cafe; I just thought you might want it back. It seemed important."

Draco snatched the napkin from Hermione's hand, and paled when he realized that it was the poem he had written--the poem about he regretted everything he had done as a Death Eather. "Come in." Hermione was taken aback at Draco's sudden invitation; she obliged, and entered the apartment.

Though the outside looked terribly faulty and decrepit, the interior of apartment five-thirteen was richly decorated with fine wooden floors, expensive decor, and imported furniture; one could tell that Draco had a taste for the finer things in life. Hermione sat down in a plush armchair (made in Bulgaria) and a floating tea tray came to her side, and a cup and saucer flew into her hand. "Tea?" Draco asked politely; Hermione nearly laughed at that late response as she sipped it. She couldn't really tell exactly what was in it, but she could distinctly taste ginger and spearmint. How did Draco know that she loved spearmint?

"You...really weren't supposed to read the poem," Draco mumbled as he stirred some sugar into his tea. "I've...never really let anyone know how much I regretted all the terrible things I've done--how I still regret them."

Hermione could see the slight tremors that ran through the blonde's body. He was trying his hardest to keep his tears at bay, and was doing a better job than she would have thought. "When the Death Eaters were destroying the Great Hall after I brought them in using the Vanishing Cabinets, I kept thinking this is my home they're destroying. When I saw the Death Eaters fighting you and Ron and Luna Lovegood and all of those folks, I couldn't help but thinking those are my family they're hurting. Six years at Hogwarts, six years of classes together, really bonds people in a way you'd never expect, doesn't it?"

Hermione looked at Draco with sad brown eyes. "Yes, Draco, it does." With that, she stood up and sat on the arm of the chair that Draco was sitting in. Cautiously, she put her arms around him in a comforting way. "When Harry kept talking about you being a Death Eather, I couldn't help but think that Draco Malfoy wouldn't do something like that; he's too good of a guy. Even though you pissed us off a lot, even though you caused us a lot of grief, made fun of us, and hurt our feelings, you were still central in our lives. To me, the fact that the boy with the slicked back blonde hair who I met on the Hogwarts Express could be a Death Eater was just preposterous."

Draco looked up at Hermione with something akin to...what was that? Love?...in his silvery eyes. "How are you and Ron doing?"

Hermione bit her lip. "We broke up some time ago. I just couldn't see him as anything more than a brother...even though for a time there I could have seen him as so much more. Harry and Ginny are still going strong, I mean. And how about you an Pansy?"

"I couldn't handle her high-maintenance bull," Draco commented with a laugh. "So let's just say we're broken up."

Hermione grinned. "That's good. Maybe we could go out sometime--get to know each other better."

Draco smiled. "I'd like that; it'd be great." He used his wand to levitate the tea tray and asked, "More spearmint tea?"

Hermione grinned as she took a cup from the tray, and kissed Draco lightly on the cheek. Maybe she wasn't so upset about working at that cafe after all.

A/N: So I was bitten with this Draco/Hermione plot bunny when watching the HBP movie, and seeing the look of complete dismay on Draco's face when the Death Eaters were destroying the Great Hall. I was originally going to make it a Draco/Harry or Draco/Ron fic, but I decided against it for the strangest of reasons--I even had the desire for it to be a Draco/Ginny fic. D: In addition, I wrote this at 2 in the morning (all except the poem, which was written earlier.)