The art of the Minoan civilization speaks of a society of joyous disposition, in touch with their environment, and in awe of the logical order of the natural world. The Minoan people obviously demanded, of each other and themselves in reference to their art, a high degree of self-respect and a keen eye for observing and adapting to their physical environment.
Hermione sighed, unable to work. Sure, she loved school; she thirsted for knowledge and loved the thrill of learning something new, but History of Magic was not her idea of fun. Professor Binns, she had to admit, was the definition of who not to hire for the teacher of this class.
She was so bored with the "new" information about the Minoan civilization and their art (which didn't even relate to magic and she had already learned a while back) that she started to doodle.
Ten minutes later, five minutes before the class would be over, she looked down at what she had unconsciously drawn. It was a face, framed by wisps of long, straight hair, attached to a young girl's body. Hermione felt tears spring to her eyes, and ground her teeth together, angry at herself.
Why did she always have to think of Sarah? She was dead. She would never come back. And even though she had only been Hermione's half-sister, she still missed the nine year old.
She looked up suddenly as Professor Binns called on her for an answer. She was surprised; he liked to hear his own voice, and no one else's. What had motivated him to speak to her in the middle of his class?
"Do you have the answer, Miss Granger?" he asked, his low, drawling monotone filling her ears.
"Uh," she replied, unable to answer. She cursed herself. Why hadn't she been listening?
She felt something drop into her lap, its weight light. She looked down, and her eyes skimmed over a piece of paper that read, in scrawling cursive, Freedom of movement, liquidity, and vigor.
Without hesitation, she looked back up at the ghost professor, and smiled charmingly. It seemed he hadn't noticed her lapse of attention. "Freedom of movement, liquidity, and vigor," she answered confidently.
"Very good, Miss Granger. Five points to Gryffindor."
Hermione sighed in relief. She looked back down at the slip of notebook paper. It had vanished. She glanced wildly around the room, to either side of her, but could find no clue as to what merciful soul had taken pity on her state of mind and helped her out.
0000
Finally, blessedly, the day had come when Hermione Granger, book-worm extraordinaire, had not gotten the answer. She wasn't even taking notes, but doodling distractedly on her notebook. He gave an internal chuckle, victorious, but knowing that he would have to help her out of the kindness of his heart.
He didn't have much of a heart, but of what was left of it, of what had survived his father's brutal torture, he reserved what little kindness he had for those he thought worthy of his time. His father was in Azkaban and his mother was dead, but he thought of Snape as a mentor and McGonagall as a kindly aunt. He would never admit it, but both of them had helped him without disgracing him, forgiving him for past deeds, such as letting death eaters into the school last year and indirectly causing Dumbledore's death.
Of course, there were those in the school that didn't forgive him. Hagrid was still struggling with the old headmaster's death, and wouldn't speak to Draco, and Potter and Weasley hated him more than ever, but that didn't bother him. Half of his own house had dropped out of Hogwarts all together, going off to become a Death Eater in service to Voldemort. He however, had other plans.
He had become an Animagus, with not only one form, but three. He had achieved the impossible, something that no one else had ever done before; and McGonagall and Snape had supported him one hundred percent, keeping his secret, trusting him blindly as a spy for the Light side. Potter didn't even know, and Draco laughed as the Boy-Who-Lived became frustrated as the Potions master and the new headmistress gave him new information, not knowing where it came from.
So now they had two spies, one, Snape, getting his information based on trust alone, and one, Draco, getting his based on stealth. He was only glad that McGonagall had accepted Snape back into the staff, too, her, Potter, Granger, Weasley and himself being the only ones who knew the crime he had committed: killing Dumbledore.
Draco knew, as he looked up at the stars at night from under his tree at the lake, that Dumbledore forgave them, too.
Hence how Draco had learned to forgive himself. Every Saturday, instead of hanging out with his friends (he didn't have any, anyway, as almost all of the upper class Slytherins were gone), he went to visit his father, and then traveled to see his mother's grave and to place fresh tulips, her favorite flower, on her tombstone. His father was an empty shell, having been given the Dementor's Kiss almost four months ago, in late July. But nevertheless, Draco went faithfully to see him, his smooth blonde hair, once impeccably groomed, a long, tangled mess, mingling with a newly grown beard. He looked so much older, and, even though Draco had convinced himself that he hated Lucius for beating him and brainwashing him, every time he looked into those hollow gray eyes his heart twanged, and he cried.
Everyone thought that he had his father's eyes. And his father's heart. And his cruelty, too. But his eyes were blue; as blue as the sky on a summer day, or like the Royal Tulips that his mother had always loved because they matched her eyes, too. And his. And their hearts had been similar, also, having a compassionate nature, a love for music and art, a tendency to forgive, and a hopeless romantic streak. Of course, Lucius had abused Draco so much, physically and mentally, over the years, that Draco's heart was mostly a battered and bruised mess, struggling for air, desperate for any compassion. The only compassion he had ever received was from his mother, Narcissa, and a bit from Dumbledore, and a small amount from Snape.
And of course, there was Hermione Granger, who had always wanted to forgive him, but he had thrown it back at her; he had, figuratively speaking, spat in her face. But she never gave up, never thought he was beyond redemption, beyond hope; if he didn't start an argument, she would approach him with something akin to civility, eager to change him for the better. When he wasn't willing to cooperate, and started an argument, they would fight, hurling colorful insults at each other until someone intervened.
No one could ever change him, he knew. Only he knew, in the depths of his soul, that there was a better side to him. He just couldn't seem to find it, bring it out; it was always beyond his reach, just above the surface of the water he was drowning in. He was still cold, Snape the only person he shared any of his thoughts with, sometimes including McGonagall, sharing his opinions on this and that and the war.
He hoped the Light would win. He desperately hoped so, for the good of all man-kind, wizard and muggle; for the good of his father, who had fought so hard for the wrong thing, for the wrong idea. But in the end, his father had only wanted one thing; people thought it was power, wealth, high rank, the Dark Arts…
It was peace. No matter how the world turned out, with Voldemort in power or someone else, with muggles still around or wiped out, his father, and his mother, and Draco, wanted peace. That was it. Simple, right? Not to everyone else.
Draco grinned on the inside as Granger looked around discreetly, wondering, no doubt, who had sent the slip of paper with the answer that she couldn't get on it. He knew that it would probably impede on her pride, someone giving her the answer, but he also knew that she was suffering, inside her mind, so much with the war and the death of her sister and parents that she would be grateful for the help, coming to terms with the brute honesty of her condition; she was flailing. She was hurting, and it seemed, to Draco, that everyone was blind to it but him; even she was, to some degree.
The answer had been the least he could do. He thought her worthy of his consideration; she was intelligent, clever, and beautiful, with a strong and accurate sense of right and wrong, and an open compassionate side; he respected that, and the latter was something that he could never quite have, something that had rapidly disappeared as he grew older into the Death Eater, Voldemort-following way of life.
But, by God, he would do his best to get it back, and someday, when he did, he would show her just how much he appreciated her help. Until then, he would do everything in his power to make sure that the Light side would win.