Authors Note: This is my first story on here-I'm working on two other D/H romances, both of which I intend to be novel length along with Wake. This is totally unbetaed/unedited, unless you count myself and I know I'm not perfect...so if you spot any mistakes, please let me know! The song to go along with this chapter is "Changes" by Stars.

24 August 2001

It was a typical Friday night at the Burrow. Hermione, Harry, and most of the Weasley family were gathered in the sitting room, enjoying pre-dinner conversation and catching up with one another. Tonight the usual crowd was there: Mrs. Weasley, George, Ron, Ginny, and, of course, Harry and Hermione. Bill, Charlie, and Percy only came for special occasions—something that Molly strongly objected to each time she saw her three eldest children.

Granted, the majority of them did not need to catch up as they saw each other nearly every day, but ever since the War everyone was more than willing to gather together once a week. Hermione especially enjoyed these gatherings; she had always loved the family dynamics of the Weasleys. It got rather lonely being an only child.

The fire flared green as Arthur Weasley tumbled through, brushing ashes off of himself as he greeted everyone cheerfully.

"Is he coming, Arthur?" Molly enquired her husband as she helped him out of his traveling cloak.

"Is who coming?" George asked curiously.

"He said he would, Molly," Arthur replied genially. "Took quite a bit of persuasion on my end, mind you," he added, shaking his head. "Poor boy kept saying he didn't want to be any trouble."

"Oh, the dear," Molly murmured.

"Who are you talking about?" Ron queried, echoing George's previous inquiry.

Molly glanced at her husband with an unreadable expression on her face before she turned to put away Arthur's traveling cloak. "Draco Malfoy," Arthur answered his son calmly. He continued talking over the barrage of outraged exclamations, his placid voice carrying over the noise.

"He works under me, as you all know, and I don't care what silly school grudges you have against him, the boy has changed. He's very alone right now and Molly told me—err, I thought it'd be a good idea to have him stop by for supper just to have some company. Merlin knows he doesn't get any of that in that empty Manor of his," Arthur finished decisively, with a stern look at his children.

Hermione glanced at the rest of the younger crowd. The Weasleys had the grace to look abashed, but Harry was wearing a stubborn expression that she was familiar with.

"Arthur, you know just as well as we do that this is much more than just a 'silly school grudge'," Harry said tightly. "He took the Dark Mark, and he definitely didn't try to help any of us when we could have used it," he finished darkly, no doubt thinking of that fateful night at Malfoy Manor. At Arthur's pointed look, Harry sighed and shoved his hand through his already messy hair. "Look, I'm not saying we're going to attack him when he walks in…he just better watch his mouth, that's all."

Hermione sighed inwardly. It could have been worse, after all. Harry was much less hot-tempered than he had been pre-War, but he was still prone to outbursts, especially when it came to the subject of the War—or in this case, former Death Eaters. Hermione herself didn't mind so much; she knew that Arthur and Molly wouldn't have invited Malfoy into their home without good reason. The Malfoy she remembered—the cocky, swaggering, spoiled brat she'd encountered so many times during her school days—still irked her, of course, but if Arthur said he'd changed…well, she'd just have to believe him.

Hermione glanced across the room at Ron and smiled. He was listening to Harry's sullen whispers with a slightly pained look on his face. He smiled sheepishly at her as he caught her eye and shrugged as if to say, 'what can you do?', turning his attentions back to Harry. Hermione knew Ron was just as displeased as Harry was about the situation but he, like all of them, had changed as a result of the War. Hermione felt a glow of pride as she watched Ron diplomatically pacify Harry.

"Oh, get a room, will you?" Ginny said cheekily. Hermione flushed red and turned to the girl next to her, who wore a mischievous expression that so echoed the ones that the twins wore that Hermione's heart broke a little seeing it. It never got easier seeing reminders of Fred's death, but after three years of dealing with the pain, everyone was an expert on masking their darker emotions.

Hermione shoved Ginny's arm and muttered, "Shut it. You should see yourself drool over Harry in his Auror robes!"

Ginny smirked. "But he fills them out so well…" She licked her lips suggestively. Hermione held in her laughter as she watched George's face twist into a grimace.

"I think I'm going to vomit and we haven't even eaten yet," George proclaimed. "Speaking of, Mum, when are we starting? Do we have to wait until the Ferret bounces in, or—," George was cut off by a swift cuff to his head, courtesy of Molly. "Ow, Mum, watch the hole! It's delicate!"

Molly ignored the joke and reprimanded George over the laughter of the others. "George Weasley, so help me if you use that horrid nickname during this dinner I will make sure your other ear matches this side!" She finished with another smack to the side of George's head that was missing an ear.

"Alright, alright," George muttered sullenly, rubbing his head. "Don't get your knickers in a twist over it."

Molly bustled off to the kitchen, presumably to check on the many dishes she had prepared for the night. Arthur followed her, and the atmosphere in the small room slowly became less tense as the occupants' topics of conversation drifted to other things. Ginny was regaling them all with a tale from one of her practices with the Harpies when Hermione heard the crack of Apparition split through the air. Ginny abruptly broke off in the middle of her story and, after a beat of silence, dashed to the back door, closely followed by Harry, Ron, and George. Hermione rolled her eyes and followed at a much slower pace. She was standing in the small kitchen when she heard muffled whispers from the scullery.

"…doesn't have much of a fortune anymore, and he's got no family…" That was Arthur speaking. Hermione heard a sympathetic moue from Molly. "Now, Molly dear, don't bring it up, you don't want to upset the boy, especially in front of…"

"Of course I won't bring it up, Arthur!" Hermione heard Molly huff and then sigh. "The poor lamb…"

"Oh, bollocks!" Ginny hissed, and scrambled away from the back door. "I think he saw us!" There was a mad dash as everyone fumbled to seat themselves at the rickety table. A soft knock on the door followed. Hermione bit her lip as she watched the Weasley children arrange themselves into overly nonchalant positions. Harry, on the other hand, looked stiff and uncomfortable. Hermione was reminded of the Yule Ball in their fourth year, and had to stifle another laugh.

Molly threw open the door. "Draco, dear, do come in!" She smiled kindly at the boy standing in the doorway. Hermione blinked, and then blinked again. Either that person wasn't Draco Malfoy, or he really had changed. He seemed to have grown to his full height—not as short as Harry, but not as tall as Ron—and that growth was evident in the way his skin was stretching over the bones in his face. His hair was no longer sleek and shiny, but hung in rather lank strands around his face. But the most different trait, the one that Hermione noticed the most, was his comportment. His shoulders were slumped and rounded in towards his body, as though to shield himself, and his head was lowered slightly. The whole effect seemed to have taken the wind out of everyone's sails; the Weasley children were openly gaping at him, while Harry had slumped a bit and seemed rather taken aback.

"Thank you for having me, Mrs. Weasley," Draco said quietly.

"Oh, nonsense, dear! The more the merrier," Molly replied cheerfully, patting Draco on the shoulder and pointedly ignoring his flinch.

"Sit, Draco, sit!" Arthur gesticulated towards the table. The only open seat was next to Hermione, something she suspected had been arranged by the rest of the table's occupants who all, with the exception of Arthur and Molly, looked rather relieved that they didn't have to sit next to the "Ferret".

Draco sat without complaint, his posture unconsciously becoming ramrod-straight. He nodded at the rest of the table, and to everyone's surprise, greeted them politely. This seemed to snap Harry out of his momentary trance of sangfroid. "Malfoy," Harry all but growled. Ron didn't even bother to greet Draco, choosing instead to peer at Draco through narrowed eyes as though he were about to jump up and hex them all.

Hermione rolled her eyes and suppressed a sigh. Honestly, when were they going to grow up? "Good evening, Draco," she greeted, gracing him with a small smile. "How have you been?"

No sooner had the question left her mouth that she remembered in horror exactly what had been the catalyst in Draco's change of character, and just how asinine her query had been.

It had happened during the aftermath of the War; Wizarding Britain was still reeling six months after the War was over. The news had been shocking, yes, but it had slipped Hermione's mind—she had still been finding her footing after a year living in fear of her life, as well as her friends'. The Weasleys had still been mourning Fred, and Hermione was still uncomfortable around her parents, who still didn't completely trust her after she had revealed taking away their memories.

Lucius Malfoy had been tried by the Wizengamot and found guilty on multiple charges. His determined sentence was life in Azkaban. Days later, he was found in his cell, hanging from a makeshift rope made from his bed sheets. The irony of it was not lost on Hermione—a Pureblood supremacist using Muggle means of gaining his own death, which was completely overlooked as a hazard to the prisoners by the Wizards employed at Azkaban.

As soon as Narcissa found out about her husband, she went virtually insane from grief, eventually wasting away to a mere shell of the imposing woman she had once been. She had passed away recently, and Draco was the sole Malfoy remaining. He had been taking care of his mother as well as he could, but the cost had been a heavy toll on the remaining Malfoy fortune. All Draco had left was the Manor and his meagre earnings from the Ministry.

Draco Malfoy was utterly, absolutely, alone.

The horrified silence that followed Hermione's question lasted for what felt like hours, but eventually Draco cleared his throat and answered quietly, "I've been well, thank you." Conversation after that was stilted and awkward, and Hermione felt like a fool. If there was one thing Hermione absolutely hated, it was feeling stupid.

"So, Malf—er, Draco," Ginny piped up some time later. "What is it that you…do, exactly?"

Malfoy looked up from his plate, wiping his mouth before he answered Ginny. "As I'm sure you know, I work with Arthur in the Muggle Liaison Office," he stated placidly. "I'm a Junior Officer, so I do small tasks, such as report on Muggle-Wizard incidents and network with our partners in the Muggle world."

When he didn't say anything more on the subject, George cleared his throat and inquired, "So…basically, you liaise with…Muggles, is that right? It's just you weren't very clear, and—oof!" Ginny had jabbed him sharply in the ribs with her elbow. She turned and smiled at Malfoy. "Well, I for one find it very interesting. I don't think I'd be good at a job like that; I don't know the first thing about Muggles, other than what Hermione has told me."

"Wait a minute," Hermione interjected interestedly. "If you work in Muggle Relations, then am I correct in assuming you got an O in Muggle Studies?"

Malfoy glanced down at his plate, his cheeks pinking slightly. He nodded.

"But—you didn't go back to Hogwarts after the War!" Harry burst out. "And, I'm sorry, but I don't think you'd have been allowed to take Muggle Studies if your parents had any say it!"

"Harry!" Molly chided angrily.

"Well, it's true," Harry said mulishly.

"You're right," Malfoy spoke up quietly. "I didn't go back to Hogwarts, and I never took Muggle Studies before—," he broke off quickly. "I got tutored, afterwards, and Muggle Studies was a required course in my syllabus. And…" He trailed off.

"And what? Let me guess, the Wizengamot forced you to work in the Muggle Liaison Office to atone for your sins, right?" Harry scoffed.

"No!" Malfoy blurted. "No, I…I found it interesting, alright?" He smiled bitterly, shaking his head. "After all of the years of force-fed prejudice I thought Muggles would be stupid and inferior. But they're not. They've come up with amazing things, some even more advanced than our society…" He looked up at the rest of the table. Something in his face hardened and for a moment he looked like the old Malfoy. "Forget it," he muttered. "You lot won't believe me anyway."

He stood up from the table, gently setting his napkin on his chair. "Please excuse me, Mrs. Weasley. It was a lovely dinner. Arthur, I'll see you at work," Malfoy muttered, and with that, walked out the door. There was a moment of shocked silence, and then:

"You…you…," Molly sputtered, her face turning an alarming shade of red. She stood and threw her napkin down. "Harry James Potter. I have never been more disappointed in you!"

"But—," Harry started.

"No buts!" Mrs. Weasley exclaimed, staunchly ignoring George's snigger. "You may not be mine by blood, but you're as good as, and I will not stand for this kind of behaviour in my own home." She took a deep breath, and everyone tensed in anticipation of a Howler-worthy tirade. But instead, Mrs. Weasley exhaled, and continued in a quieter voice. "You've known your whole life what it's like to not have parents. I would have expected you, of all people, Harry, to have more compassion and empathy." Her eyes shone bright with tears, and she sniffed before making her way out of the room. A moment later, they heard a door close quietly.

After a moment of shocked silence, Harry stood to go after her. "I wouldn't go up there if I were you," George advised. "Mum's in a right state and the only way to get back on her good side is to stay away. Let her cool off a bit," he finished uncertainly, looking taken aback by his mother's out of character behaviour.

"He's right, son," Arthur said gently. "Right now you're better off just leaving her alone. Try coming 'round later next week."

"Thanks, Arthur," Harry sighed and sank back into his seat. "I don't think I can face her right now, anyway."

"Well, it's no skin off my back if I help you avoid Molly's wrath," Arthur replied dryly. He stood and waved his wand; the dishes flew off to the kitchen sink and began to wash themselves. He walked towards the hallway that led to the stairs, and paused. "And Harry?"

"Yes?"

"I may have given you advice on how to make good with my wife, but I must say I agree with her. I expected better from you." Arthur bid goodnight to the others and left the room.

The silence that gathered around the remaining members at the table was heavy and uncomfortable. Hermione understood completely how Molly felt, but at the same time she could see where Harry was coming from—and how horrible he must be feeling after what Mrs. Weasley said to him sank in. She glanced to the side. Harry's face was pale, and as he raised a hand to take off his glasses, she noted that it was shaking slightly. He buried his face in his hands, and Ginny stroked his back lightly, whispering something to him. Ron caught Hermione's eyes and jerked his head towards the door. Hermione stood and they made their way to the garden.

Ron exhaled with a woosh of air, and crossed his arms behind his head, stretching his long body. "That was brutal," he commented. "Poor Harry." He placed his arm around Hermione's shoulders lightly as they walked through the yard.

Hermione nodded, leaning her head against Ron. "Yes, poor Harry," she agreed. "But also, poor Malfoy. I can't believe I brought it up," Hermione groaned.

"Hermione, I know you hate to feel stupid, but don't kick yourself over it, yeah?" Ron said. "It's not your fault that you don't keep constant tabs on Malfoy's personal life."

"Yes, but still," Hermione replied quietly. She sighed and glanced over at the house. Harry and Ginny were no longer at the table and Hermione assumed they'd gone home to their flat in Bath. "Looks like they've gone," she relayed to Ron.

Ron took his arm from her shoulders and stretched again, yawning hugely. "Well, I'll be off, I suppose," he said to her. An awkward silence followed. "When are we going to tell them?" Ron asked finally, sounding uncomfortable.

"Not just yet," Hermione said gently. "Especially after…that—," she waved vaguely at the house, "—happened. I don't want to give Harry another reason to be upset. It can wait another week or so, don't you think?"

"I suppose," Ron sighed. "It's gotten harder to not tell him, though. He's been hinting at me proposing soon, and we don't want him getting too used to that idea."

Hermione grimaced. She and Ron had broken up, amicably, just over a month ago. They'd not told any of the Weasleys nor Harry because, for one, they'd each been quite busy. Hermione also didn't want to upset her role in the Weasleys' lives. She was terrified that when they learned of the break up, they would effectively disown her, Molly especially. Hermione had not forgotten Molly's cold behaviour towards her during the Triwizard Tournament during their fourth year.

"No one is going to hate you," Ron assured her. "And if they do, they can hate me right along with you, seeing as this whole thing was mutual."

"Thanks, Ron," Hermione said gratefully, smiling up at him. The warm feelings she had towards him had not faded, but they had changed from a wild, all-consuming love, to very close to what she felt for Harry, and what she assumed she'd feel for a brother if she'd had one.

"Well, I'm off. Need to catch up on sleep," Ron smiled self-deprecatingly. "I'll see you at lunch on Monday." Ron gave her quick a hug before he disapparated with a pop.

Hermione shot one last glance at the Burrow before neatly disapparating. She appeared in the living room of her house, located at Land's End in Cornwall. It was unplottable, of course, and completely hidden to Muggles. Her small house overlooked the sea, and Hermione liked to think of it as the edge of the Earth, as though with a strong gust of wind her cottage could topple off the cliffs and into the ocean.

She crossed to the window facing West towards the ocean and opened it, inhaling the salty air deeply. The sea never failed to calm her, its colours and patterns ever changing. Some days it was as jewel bright as tropical waters, others it was grey and stormy. Hermione loved it. She was as drawn to it as she was to a library or bookstore. The sea hadn't always held this magnetic pull for Hermione but after the War was over, she'd gone to Australia to find her parents and fell in love. They were living in the small coastal town of Point Lookout on North Stradbroke Island in Queensland, a complete shock to Hermione: her parents had lived their whole lives (as Daniel and Lara Granger, at least) in the bustling metropolis of London, city-folk through and through. Point Lookout was a far cry from London, with its sweeping views of the ocean and small population.

Hermione stayed with her parents until late August, when she had to go back to prepare for her last year at Hogwarts. She'd discovered that the location agreed with her, as well as her parents—they'd declined returning to England permanently. They loved their new location and life in Australia. After a bit of tricky magic (which Kingsley and a few professional Obliviators helped with), Daniel and Lara were able to resume the lives they'd led as Wendell and Monica Wilkins, with the addition of their memories of their daughter and their original names.

Hermione visited them from time to time, although the International Portkeys were a bit pricey. Her parents had since retired with a sizeable amount of money saved up from their years as dentists and helped her out once in a while, which Hermione gladly took advantage of. Her parents were getting on in their years, at least for Muggles, and Hermione wanted to spend as much time with them as she could. They'd had her late in life, and it saddened Hermione to know that she wouldn't even be middle-aged when her parents reached the ends of their significantly shorter lives.

Hermione sighed heavily and checked the time. It was about six in the morning in Point Lookout and her parents were surely up and about, eating breakfast and getting ready for their daily morning walk. She picked up the phone and dialled the number for her parents' house. "Hi, Mum," Hermione greeted as her mother picked up the phone. They chatted for a half hour before Hermione hung up to get ready for bed. It was good to speak with her mum, to hear her voice, but they didn't really have much to talk about. Hermione's parents were still wary of magic in general after they'd been brought out of Hermione's deliberate memory loss. They were fine with her taking a Portkey to an undisclosed location (in this case, the Australian Ministry of Magic located in Canberra), but anything else—Floo calls, Apparition into the house, even simple spells using a wand—was out of question.

That being said, Hermione wasn't able to speak about her job in detail, nor many other aspects of her life. Hermione worked in the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures, in the Being Division. She worked primarily with House Elves, Goblins, and Werewolves, but occasionally helped out the other parts of the department. She loved her job: it was what she wanted to do for the rest of her life, helping others, and it absolutely killed her to not be able to go into detail about it to her parents. She knew they'd approve and, if they'd been comfortable with magic, even come to love it as much as she did. But knowing they would approve was much different than having their actual approval and praise.

Sometimes Hermione resented them for it. She would fume and rage and throw things, then calmly clean them up with her wand as though nothing had happened. She would go out to the cliffs and scream until she was hoarse—not just at her parents, but at Voldemort, at Death Eaters, at racists, anyone who was discriminatory against a group of people who didn't deserve it. She felt no peace from these outbursts, but afterwards would be drained enough to not care so much until the emotions built up inside of her and would have to be expelled once more.

She knew it was unhealthy. She'd only told Ron, and he'd stared at her seriously for a moment before delicately suggesting that she talk to someone. He'd embraced her, let her cry on his shoulder; ragged, gasping, ugly sobs that felt like they were tearing their way out of her. But he had never judged her, and for that she was grateful.

Hermione slowly began her nightly routine. She took a long shower, washing her face and her hair and her body until she could feel the lassitude sinking into her bones, then washed her teeth at the sink. A hasty drying spell was cast on her hair, and she padded into her bedroom, pulling on a large, tatty shirt that had once belonged to Ron; it was so faded that it was no longer red but a soft coral colour.

She yawned hugely and collapsed into her bed. Her last thought before she fell asleep hours later was of Draco Malfoy, and if he was just as broken as she felt inside.