DISCLAIMER: I don't own Harry Potter.

Hermione leaned her head back, holding her arm tightly against her chest.

She'd been alone when she fell off of the stool in her kitchen, her right arm taking the brunt of her fall. She was sure it was at least fractured, and she couldn't hope to try a healing spell with her wand hand injured. So here she was at 's, where she'd Apparated in a hurry, waiting for a Healer to come in and heal her arm. She sat in the chair where the intern had left her, after having given her a potion to numb the pain.

She sighed, shifting her back against the reclined chair. She didn't have time for this; she had work to do. She had to finish that draft that was currently sitting on her kitchen table, gathering dust; oh, and right now she was supposed to be getting ready for that party, the one that she couldn't miss because her department needed the support of the wizard that was hosting it.

"Damn," she muttered, twisting her head around to look at the clock behind her. When exactly was the party again? She'd forgotten where she put the invitation; she wasn't even quite sure where it was, for that matter. She often felt these days as if she was losing her mind, small things slipping from the corners of her memory, things like this party. She never used to to that; she'd always had a brain for details.

"Hello there," said the voice of the Healer, accompanied by the sound of the door opening. "Sorry you had to wait."

Hermione twisted back towards the door to stare at the Healer, who had just turned to stand with his back to her, looking at the clipboard that the intern had left sitting on the counter. Was that...she could've sworn...his voice sounded just like...but it couldn't be. She stared at the back of his head as he lowered it over the clipboard.

That can't be who I think it is.

"Hermione Granger?" he said in surprise, turning to face her.

It was. Draco Malfoy stood in front of her, dressed in a neat white Healer's coat.

They looked at each other for a long moment, as if neither could quite believe what was happening to them. Then Malfoy turned towards one of the cabinets and began pulling things out - a bottle, a pair of gloves.

"You're a Healer?" Hermione blurted out.

"Yes," said Malfoy tersely, pulling on the gloves. "I am."

Oddly enough, Hermione did not detect the old hostility that she'd expected to hear in his voice. Malfoy poured a dose out of the bottle he'd taken from the cabinet into a little cup and handed it to her.

"What's this?" she asked him.

"Skele-Gro," he told her. "You should keep some of that around."

Hermione swallowed the dose, grimacing heavily at the taste and the burn it made going down her throat. Malfoy sat down next to her, reaching for her arm.

"If you gave me this to regrow the bones," Hermione said, waving the empty cup at him, "what are you doing now?"

He raised an eyebrow at her. "I know what I'm doing, Granger. I am a real Healer."

Hermione pressed her lips together. Of course he was a real Healer, he wouldn't be here in the white coat if he wasn't, but that didn't change the fact that she didn't really trust him at all. "Is there another Healer that can…?"

"No," said Malfoy shortly, drawing his wand out of his pocket. "I know Pomfrey used to use just the Skele-Gro when we were in school, but there's now a spell that Healers use to help graft the bones in your arm. It makes the process quicker; using just Skele-Gro is a rather outdated procedure. If you want, of course, we can skip the spell and you can stay here overnight, but most people want it done as soon as possible."

"What a fabulous bedside manner you have," said Hermione, putting the cup down on the little table next to their chairs.

Malfoy sighed a little. "Do you want the spell or not?"

Hermione glanced at the clock again. Given that she had to go to the party that night, she didn't have time to wait around for her arm to heal; she'd forgotten that Skele-Gro took all night to take effect. "Fine," she said, blowing her breath out, "fine."

Malfoy picked up his wand, which he'd put on the table, and put its tip to her arm. Hermione braced herself, expecting to feel a great deal of pain; she felt only a light pressure, and a feeling as if warm water were running over the skin of her arm. She glanced down; Malfoy's blond head was bent over her arm, intent on what he was doing.

A moment later, he straightened, putting his wand back in his pocket. "Another hour," he said, getting up from his stool, "and you can go."

Hermione looked at her arm, lying on the bed next to her. "It feels fine now," she pointed out.

"It's procedure," said Malfoy. Hermione watched him as he capped the bottle and put it back where he'd gotten it, then stripped his gloves off, his movements clean and precise.

"What made you decide to be a Healer, Malfoy?" she asked, without really meaning to.

Malfoy looked at her as if she'd grown a few extra arms. "Really? We're having that conversation?"

"I'm just asking," Hermione said, holding up her uninjured hand.

They looked at each other just as they had when Malfoy first came into the room, but this time Hermione felt a little shift in the mood. He looked as wary of her as she felt of him, but there was no hostility, no tension in the air between them. He wasn't pretending to be civil, she realized; he was being civil.

"Always wanted to be a Healer," he said finally, tossing his gloves into the bin. "Just wasn't what my father wanted."

"But you did it anyway."

"I stopped caring what my father thought," said Malfoy, reaching for the clipboard.

Hermione felt curiosity poking its way into her mind, but she couldn't find a way to ask him what he meant without being nosy; besides she wasn't exactly sure how far this precarious peace between them would go. So she stayed silent as Malfoy took a quill and a pot of ink from the counter and handed them to her, along with the clipboard. "Would you sign this? Your right hand should be fine for that."

Hermione lifted her hand, tested her fingers. Her arm felt as good as new, and she signed the parchment with ease.

"All right?" asked Malfoy, taking the quill and the parchment back.

"All right," she said, nodding. She smiled, testing the water between them, and Malfoy actually smiled back.

"An hour, Granger," he said, walking to do the door. "An hour, no less. It's mandatory."

Hermione took a sip of her drink and looked around the room. If she were to be honest, she hated parties of all sorts; she'd hated the rowdy kind, the kind you stopped going to when you were out of school and realized how stupid they were, and she now hated the fancy grownup kind, with piano music and dressed up people. She felt equally awkward and out of place at both; she must be the only person at the entire party that hadn't brought a date, the only person that had no one to talk to.

She had spoken to the host, made her presence known to him, so she had fulfilled her obligation for being at the party. But as that was the first thing she'd done, she'd still only been there for a few minutes. She'd seen a coworker of hers, but he was too busy chatting up a blonde in a red dress, so she'd left him alone.

She leaned against the wall, watching the people mingle, talk, envying how comfortable they looked. She studied her drink, wondering if she would start to feel more comfortable if she could get more alcohol in her. But she had to work on her draft tonight, and she was as inebriated now as was good for her if she wanted to get any serious work done.

"Granger!" Hermione turned when she heard Rosa's voice behind her. Rosa was another coworker of hers, and she had become a good friend a year or two ago. Recently, Hermione hadn't spoken to her much; work was a bitch, and she'd never had much time for friends anyway.

"Hello, Rosa," she said, smiling.

"Didn't think you'd be here," said Rosa, leaning against the wall next to Hermione.

"The whole department was supposed to come," Hermione reminded her.

"Oh, that's not mandatory, and I know how you feel about these things," said Rosa. "Although I can't imagine why. Free alcohol!" She waved her cup at Hermione.

It was easy for Rosa. Short, bubbly, silky-haired and gorgeous in every possible way, Rosa was the life of the party everywhere she went. She was the kind of person who had never met a stranger, the kind it was impossible not to like. Hermione couldn't say any of this, however, so she just shook her head and smiled. "Free alcohol, indeed."

At this moment, there was rather a stir near the entrance. Both girls turned and looked that way, and to her astonishment Hermione saw the very same man who'd Healed her arm that afternoon, Draco Malfoy himself; only he wasn't in a drab white Healer's coat now. He was wearing a dark gray suit (it had become a movement in the Wizarding World to wear Muggle clothes, although you were considered very progressive politically if you did), and he looked remarkably well in the suit.

"The man of the hour," said Rosa, turning back to face Hermione.

"What do you mean?"

Rosa raised her eyebrows. "Don't tell me you don't know who Draco Malfoy is!"

"Of course I know who he is!" Hermione said. "But why's he in a Muggle suit? And why is he a Healer?"

Rosa raised her eyebrows. "I'm a little confused. You don't know why I called him the man of the hour, but you know he's a Healer?"

"I was in St. Mungo's this afternoon, and he Healed my arm."

"Do you know how many women - and men, for that matter - would have killed to be you this afternoon?" asked Rosa, her dark eyes widening. "Of course you don't, what a question. It's you."

"What are you talking about?"

"He's only the most famous Healer in all of Britain," said Rosa witheringly. "What am I talking about, indeed?"

"Rosa, I clearly don't know the backstory here, so I'd appreciate if you'd explain it to me," said Hermione, trying to keep the exasperation out of her voice.

"Well," said Rosa, "his father cut him off years ago, because he decided to be a Healer. He's quite rich now, but not with a penny of the old Malfoy money. There's all sorts of rumors about how his mother wanted to divorce his father over that, but that's a whole different story. I should think you'd at least have heard of his political work, considering politics is your, like, thing right now - he started a whole campaign last year, it's all about educating supremacists, it's very progressive - how it's beneficial for them to support muggleborn equality, not oppose it."

"He did?" Hermione asked, now thoroughly shocked. Malfoy was anti-supremacist? Who knew? She glanced back at him; he was shaking hands with the host, with a genuine, open smile on his face. No wonder he'd been so civil to her that afternoon.

"Yeah," said Rosa. "Made quite a splash, he did. You seem surprised."

"I just...he was just different when we were in school, that's all," said Hermione.

Rosa shrugged. She had never been to Hogwarts; she was British-born, but had spent most of her life in South Africa and had missed the rise and fall of Voldemort. She had made it quite clear that she didn't much care for the grudges that Purebloods and muggleborns had against each other, and thought most of the arguments silly, and why couldn't everyone just get along and treat each other fairly and not bitch about every little thing.

Hermione agreed with her for the most part, but growing up during the Second Wizarding War had given her more personal background knowledge than Rosa, and she knew things weren't that simple. Still, she loved how idealistic Rosa was.

"You should go talk to him," Rosa said, raising her eyebrows at Hermione.

"I don't know him well," Hermione said hastily. "We weren't exactly friends." She glanced up the clock. "Besides, it's getting late, and I have work to do. I don't have time to talk to anyone."

"My darling," said Rosa, "when are you ever going to let up? Have some fun? You can't just work, work, work all the time."

"I don't," said Hermione. "I'm here, aren't I?"

Rosa shook her head, then looked over Hermione's shoulder, her eyebrows raised. Hermione turned at once, guessing who was behind her a split second before she looked into Draco Malfoy's face.

"Well, fancy meeting you here," he said, his face unreadable.

"Likewise," Hermione answered, glancing back at Rosa. But all she saw was her friend's back, disappearing into the crowd. Damnit, she thought. There goes my wingwoman. "Nice suit," was all she could think of to say.

"This old thing," he deadpanned.

They looked at each other for the third time that day, an appraising, evaluating look on both sides. When they'd done this before, Hermione had noticed a surprising lack of tension; standing here, with champagne in her hand and wearing a ridiculous party dress, she felt quite different. Here there was tension aplenty.

"So I hear you're into politics these days," she said, clearing her throat.

"I wouldn't say that," he answered. "I like to think of it as being less into politics. It's more of a...human rights thing."

She laughed; she couldn't help it. "Draco Malfoy, starting a Wizarding human rights campaign!"

He didn't laugh; he looked down, fiddling with his glass. "I know," he said. "It's something, isn't it?"

"Why?" she asked him. "Why'd you do it?"

He blew out his breath. "It's a long story," he said.

"I have time," she told him.

He looked at her. "Do you really?"

She was surprised at the intensity behind his words. "I'm interested," she answered honestly.

"Why?" he asked, setting his glass down on the table behind him. "Why are you interested, Granger? If I were you, I wouldn't give myself the time of day."

She had to search for an answer, had to refrain from telling him how surprised she was herself that she'd decided to give him a chance. "You've changed," she answered, and as soon as she said it she knew it was true. He had changed, a great deal, and she wanted to know why.

It had all started, he said, when he told his father he wanted to become a Healer. Malfoys didn't work, Lucius told his son, they were independently wealthy, and that wealth had been handed down for generations and generations, increasing in value over time. There was pride and honor in being raised in, and coming from, money; that was what Lucius had grown up believing, that was what Draco had grown up believing, and that was just the way life was.

What changed his mind, Draco said, was watching the clean-up after war, watching how many people invested their time and how selfless they were. He'd noticed a certain satisfaction in these people, not a prideful, selfish kind, but a truly fulfilling kind, different from anything he'd felt his entire life. He'd wanted to experience that, he told Hermione, wanted to see what that felt like.

So he'd retaken his N.E.W.T. exams, which he'd failed miserably during his seventh year, and studied to become a Healer. During that time, he kept his head down and hadn't shown any favor to either political side. When his training was nearly over and his father realized he was serious about becoming a Healer, he cut Draco off from his inheritance.

Draco had worked then as an employee at the Owl Post-Office while he finished his training, and this was apparently was his most enlightening experience yet. Being a part of the workforce, as an entitled young man who'd never had to work for anything in his life, and depending on the work he did with his two hands to make sure that he could eat and pay his rent every week made him realize exactly how cushy his life had always been. It also made him realize that there was value and satisfaction in working to earn money, rather than just going to Gringotts whenever you needed it.

By the time he finished his training, he was a different man. He didn't exactly explain to Hermione what the inside of his head had been like at the time, but she could almost read between the lines, figuratively, of what he was saying. When he talked about his first real case as a Healer, she could see in his eyes how much it'd meant to him to be able to use his hard work to help someone else. When he mentioned off-hand how he'd been suspended because he'd cured a child for free whose father couldn't pay St. Mungo's, she could see the joy in his eyes as he remembered the father's gratitude.

Holy shit, she thought. This isn't Draco Malfoy anymore. This can't be Draco Malfoy. It's a clone.

He'd stopped talking now, seemed to be lost in thought, and she took the opportunity to slow her racing thoughts. He had Draco's face and voice and mannerisms, but beneath them was an entirely different man. The last time she remembered seeing him, he'd been pale, frightened, a coward under the tyranny of the Dark Lord. She'd thought so many times, when she was still a teenager, even after the war was over, that he was vile and she would never forgive him.

But clearly he had grown up, and changed, and maybe so had she. She realized that many of her scars from the war had healed, that she'd let go of her hatred for Malfoy a long time ago.

"So what made you start your campaign?" she asked him.

He looked up, jolted out of his thoughts. "Oh...that," he said. "I felt like I needed to."

"What do you mean?"

"There aren't many Purebloods speaking up for muggleborn equality," he said. "There are people like your friends the Weasleys, but everyone knows that they were on the opposite side during the War, so they don't count. There's no one that was once supremacist but changed their mind that's added their voice to the debate. They exist, I'm not the only one, but I think most of us are afraid of speaking up. I was for a while. To believe in something is one thing, but going public is different, no one wants to face the backlash of people who we once called friends."

"Or family," she said.

"Or family," he agreed, nodding.

"That doesn't really answer my question," Hermione pointed out after a moment. "You told me why people need to speak up, but you didn't explain what made you decide to do it."

"Fair enough," he said, giving her a half smile. "I think it's because I felt so guilty...most people didn't do the things I did, you know? I, Draco Malfoy, owe this to the muggleborn community, forget everyone else. I did...terrible things, during the war, I was so awful to people like you when I was a kid...I feel like maybe I can wipe some of that out of my ledger. But even if I can't, I owe it to them...to you...to try."

Hermione looked at him in surprise. "You don't owe me anything, Malfoy. I don't really blame you for the decisions you made when you were a kid."

"You don't?"

"No," she said, realizing as she said it that it was true. "Maybe I did before, but...you've kind of proved now that you were just following the crowd, you were doing what you were raised to do. No one can blame a kid for the way he's raised, of course you followed your parents' beliefs and ideals, why wouldn't you? As soon as you realized you could make a different decision, you made it."

"It wasn't like that," said Draco. "It was a hard fucking decision, to do the right thing, way harder than it should have been. I didn't want to do it, I wanted to just keep being comfortable, to listen to what my father was saying and bask in my privileges and ignore the whole muggleborn issue, to go down the route every other kid who was raised as a supremacist went down."

"Did you know that Harry was there the night Dumbledore died?" she asked him quietly. "He told me, told us all, that you didn't want to kill him, that he wouldn't have died if it'd been up to you. You may not have changed paths then, Malfoy, but it was in you all along."

Draco's face changed, closed off a little. "It wasn't like that," he said again. "I'm glad I didn't kill him, believe me, but the reason I didn't wasn't because I didn't want to. I did, Hermione, I wanted him dead, but I couldn't do it because I was a coward. That's all."

"You weren't a coward. It's the coward that kills someone who's defenceless," she said. "You didn't want to be a party to that."

"And after that?" he said, a trace of bitterness in his tone. "When I stood by and watched my aunt abuse you? What would you call that?"

Hermione stared at him. "You remember that?"

"Of course I remember that! There's barely a day that goes by that I don't remember it." He twisted his hands as he said it, his face slightly haunted.

Hermione was speechless. In the months after her torture at Malfoy Manor, the episode would return to her in every nightmare, and sometimes even in her darker waking moments. But in the years following the war, it had affected her less and less; it was a dark place in her mind that she never visited, because it no longer affected her; she didn't live her life there anymore.

In essence, she had almost forgotten about it; it had ceased to be something that caused her pain. And yet here was Draco, almost ten years after the fact, still heavily guilt ridden about it.

"If this isn't irony," said Draco, after a moment, "then I don't know what is."

"What do you mean?"

He looked her in the eye. "It's been years, I know that. I could have come and talked to you if I wanted, could've found you somehow, and I should have, but...I never did."

"What are you talking about?" she said, mystified.

"Hermione, that was one of the two worst things I've ever done. Standing by and letting you be tortured, when it was in my power to stop it, to do something. I even wanted to stop her, but I didn't, because I was a coward."

"Draco -"

"Please let me finish," he said, looking slightly pained. "I've had that image in my head for ten years, and if I'm being honest with myself it's the real reason I decided to do all this, to ditch my inheritance and become a Healer and a bloody equality activist. It's all part of an apology, Hermione, the one I was never brave enough to make to you in person. I've wanted to, but every time I even thought about trying to find you I told myself I couldn't, I hadn't done enough to allow you to forgive me. And then you just turned up in the chair at St. Mungo's, and then again here…"

A lump had lodged itself in Hermione's throat.

"...and I realized, no matter what I do, it won't make up for everything. It doesn't make up for anything. I've been sitting here talking to you for hours, but I put you down and bullied you for years on end, I was passive when I could have stopped you being tortured. That's not something I can wipe off my slate."

"Draco, stop," she said, laughing a little even though she could feel tears in her eyes. "I forgive you, I forgive you, I'd do it a hundred times. Don't you see, you've more than redeemed yourself just by...by the campaign alone, let alone being a Healer…"

He was staring at her, looking incredulous. "But you - but I - but that doesn't -"

"Of course it does," she interrupted. "You think I didn't notice when you talked about the little girl you Healed without making her father pay? You're a different person, you've changed entirely, you're...you're a good man. Maybe if you weren't, I'd hold your past over your head, but you are."

She could see tears standing in his eyes too as he looked back at her. "A good man," he echoed slowly.

"A good man," she said, putting her hand on his where it lay on the table.

"And you...you forgive me?"

"Yes, Draco, I do."

He laughed then, a strange little laugh that was made more out of tears than humor. "I didn't even apologize."

"You don't have to," she said, squeezing his hand. "You don't have to."

Prompts: Pairing - Draco/Hermione, Genre - Angst, Word - Past