Seven months after the Second Wizarding War, Draco Malfoy struggles with his personal demons while watching his longtime enemy Hermione Granger deal with hers. He's always longed to be close, to know her, and now that the war is over and the Wizarding World has changed, he has his chance.
Hermione still mourns the loss of Fred, the love of her life, and her sense of self. When Draco comes into the picture, she's more than reluctant to consider his help. But since her friends are struggling, she lets Draco in, keeping him only an arms length away, for fear she might break him too. Gradually, they break each others walls down, and they both begin to heal in the face of opposition, realizing they needed each other more than they knew.
But when a new threat emerges and the Wizarding World is thrust into danger once again, can they maintain the peace they've worked hard for, or will it all burn to the ground?
I watched her from afar, every second of every day. She mesmerized me, starting from the moment I met her all those years ago. I couldn't let any of my cohorts know that a Muggleborn had caught my affections before, but now that the Wizarding world had changed, I was free to pursue.
Things were different after the war; people began rebuilding shattered lives, or making new ones, some even left Britain for a new start. The ones that remained behind still dealt with the pain and loss, working through it in ways that the rest of us vaguely understood. Some turned to drink, others to unmentionable practices, but we never passed judgement. The war had been hard and had left everyone in some sort of destitute state.
Fortunately, my family hadn't suffered too much of a blow to finances or lodging. But our reputation was smeared nonetheless. People openly ogled me, looking away only when I met their glares and looks of disdain. They stared, not because of who I was, but because of a curse I had been gifted with shortly after the Battle; a long, jagged red scar, marring my once fair face, and it was my burden to carry it, as a sort of shame. It let everyone know where my allegiances had once lain, and the punishment that had soon followed for my misplaced loyalty.
She never noticed though. In fact, it seemed she never noticed me at all. I could count on both hands the many times I'd passed her in Diagon Alley, occasionally brushing against her warmth, and she'd never once glanced or given me passing note.
I hoped each time I saw her, I would hear her beautiful bell of a voice, singing my name in a ringing alto. But none of that sweet, opulent music flowed from her cupid's bow lips; not one single utterance.
I hadn't heard her speak, really, after the war. She never spoke, never said one thing to anyone in public. Everyone knew she wanted to be left alone, war heroine or not, and some speculated it was due to trauma and loss. She'd been involved with the elder Weasley twin, Fred, and she mourned him. Her sadness had been broadcast to the entirety of Wizarding Britain by the loathsome Rita Skeeter, eager for any sort of publicity to give credit to her dying career, but the plot itself had backfired horribly. Rita had been put out, shunned by many a publisher, and droves of her former loyal fans had crucified her, refusing to pick up any of her works and condemning any attempts at redemption she made.
All those that had been against Hermione Granger were now for her, only because she had saved their miserable arses. But they didn't see her like I did. They saw her as fragile, even though her reputation contradicted that greatly. I saw her to be strong, a testament to perseverance in the face of pity. She was never the wilting flower, never the damsel in distress.
She made it look easy, dealing with grief; much like a knife cutting through butter. Flawless correction, easy execution. She was everything I'd hoped, wanted, loved. She had been the Hermione Granger everyone knew at one point; intelligent, vivacious, brave, strong. And I had been Draco Malfoy, cunning, smart, skillful, powerful. Now, we both were burning and broken, grasping for a sense of who we were before the war.
I wanted to know her, to start over. But she never let me in.
And I would soon change that.