A/N: I'd like to grant Tootsie Roll 101 her very own Draco Malfoy for the immense help she has been in the creation of this fic.Kudos to her, and I hope she enjoys that Slytherin.

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Day 5

Hermione Granger had long since known from a young age that patience was a virtue when dealing with particularly challenging problems. It was what enabled her to be so successful in juggling her academics, her life, her relationships. How else could she have taken Harry and Ron's antics daily or dealt with the hour-long gossip sessions Parvati Patil had hosted? Not to say her tolerance for waiting was unlimited by any means, but she had always excelled at outwaiting and dragging out any particularly conflict to reach the end.

Of course, this ability had taken quite a while to establish itself in her mind; the lack of it in primary school had transformed her empty wastebasket into an overflowing soup of crumpled numbers when she attempted to deal with any nasty math problems. And even today she still kicked furniture and tapped her foot and checked her watch, scowled at long lines and long talkers.

But that didn't deal with the big picture. This did. This problem in the form of a certain platinum-haired person who was staring at her stonily from across the table.

Draco Malfoy's jaw twitched as he bore holes into the wooden surface before him with his murderous gaze. She felt her own glare take on heat as he remained unmoving before her, until her eyes decided to trail up the wood to the sheet of parchment and quill that remained untouched. This only seemed to ignite her heart with more fire, but she would not budge.

She was being tested, she was sure. Some greater force had left her with this daunting task to prove herself and stretch out her tolerance until it surely wrapped around the globe.

After all, it was day five of the interrogation, and Malfoy had still not revealed a single word to her since she had the guards drag him out from his cell. After the conclusion of their session on the third day, she had pondered techniques to apply in order to force him to talk.

Legilimency would have normally worked with others, but Draco Malfoy had been trained in the art of occlumency by Bellatrix Lestrange herself and for some reason was less susceptible to veritaserum as she had hoped, probably due to the fact that Voldemort had prepared his followers for capture in successfully inducing semi-immunity. Nor was he swayed by the promise of a shower, hot soup, or even the chance to see his own mother.

Eventually she came to the conclusion that perhaps he disliked talking to her face, the one he had long since associated with being one of a dirty mudblood's, and would prefer to communicate thoughts to a medium that wasn't tied to childhood trauma and his superiority complex. Thus she had left him a scroll of parchment and quill before she had parted last night at the strike of seven, hoping he would cave in and make it easier for both of them.

Instead, he had greeted her arrival with the same blank look that had featured in the previous four visits, and… blank paper without even so much as a speck of dirt on it.

He was good, she'd give him that. Too good for his own good, she thought bitterly as she met his own determined gaze with her own.

"I don't know what you're playing at, Malfoy," she declared to empty air. At first it had been unnerving to hear only the sound of her own voice and water dripping down the walls for an hour straight for the past five days, but she had long since gotten used to the echo of silence that followed her every proclamation. All that mattered was that Draco was listening, that was one thing she held over him.

"We found the body right in the cellars of Malfoy Manor, a muggle whose family is no doubt mourning." She tried to keep the accusation out of her throat, as it couldn't be certain that he was the one who had committed the murder despite public opinion. Truthfully, she was fairly certain the ministry was being so unrelentless about this because they wanted to find something to incriminate the younger Malfoy because of the popular hatred following the family around. They had long been the face of bigotry and pureblood elitists, and it was not secret they had sworn loyalty to Voldemort since the dawn of his return.

He remained silent, and Hermione cursed. What was his problem? She was fairly certain Malfoy didn't have it in him to commit murder, so she couldn't understand why he was letting the assumptions circling around him continue when he could at least claim innocence himself. She raced on, "Would you rather rot in here rather than provide evidence that the murder was not of your doing? Your release could be so simple if you could give us a hint at who did," she said, exasperated and again rather tired of her own grating voice that was her only company.

"Well, that is… unless you did kill him." Once again, dangling such an opening left Draco Malfoy still calmly looking at her with those invincible Malfoy bearings.

As she let more venom slip off her tongue in the next half an hour, Hermione knew her own eyes were hard, the set of her lips rigid against the pallor of her face. Despite the cold that seeped into her body in Draco's living quarters, she felt strangely hot from the tips of her toes her woozy forehead. Maybe it was from the sheer frustration of it all. She had no idea why he wouldn't say a word, assuming that he hadn't killed, or why he wouldn't even if he did. In fact, she couldn't understand why he was so content to remain here in this barren room that wasn't Azkaban but quite close. It was standard procedure to locate the interrogees in less-lavish conditions before they could be proven guilty, but most were out in a matter of a day or two.

Draco Malfoy had suffered dripping ceilings, gruel for three meals a day, and a slab of stone that was ashamed to be called a bed and a rag held the same opinion about being labeled a blanket. Just spending an hour in here a day left her weary and longing for her bed at the temporary flat she had rented out in London. She could imagine how walls like these could close in on a mind, drive a bloke mad from the shifting and blurring of bricks that stacked up around the entirety of the enclosure.

His eyes, though, were still too awfully bright with clarity and calculation. But not enough clarity, so it would seem, from his lack of judgment. No one save Draco Malfoy understood what he was playing at.

Hermione didn't know how long the tense silence dragged on, just very much aware of nothing but the shadows under his eyes, the leaking ceiling, and the feel of the fabric of her own skirt scrunched in her hands. Merlin, he could even control his breathing to make her seem like a panting donkey in comparison.

At last, the beeping of the muggle watch strapped to her wrist signified that it was seven. The air seemed to hum with energy as she hit the silencing button, and he didn't even seem to register her departure, though Hermione had snatched up her briefcase and bolted out of her seat with a hint of desperation. Moreover, he even maintained the same posture and expression as the door swung behind Hermione with a loud bang, as if he hadn't registered her presence here at all.

Tomorrow's session would surely be a long one as well, Hermione thought with resignation as she labored down torch-lit halls.

Day 9

A few days later, Hermione tried a nicer approach. After much soul-searching, she had to admit that her demeanor wasn't doing their predicament any favors or making Malfoy any more inclined to make matters easier for her. So after she gathered enough information from questioning Laxley using grimmer means than she had the authority to inflict on Malfoy—she really didn't know why she agreed to this job—the brunette apparated to Diagon Alley and made a brief stop in a bright shop, emerging ten minutes later with her own money pouch a few sickles lighter and the added burden of a bag.

She hadn't even questioned her decision until she passed the doorway into Malfoy's room and caught the familiar off-putting attitude he was always emitting. Her mind must have been clouded early from some substance in the air, she decided, and Hermione debated turning around with the object accompanying her to later give as a gift to Harry or Ron. There was no way Malfoy would find this convincing at all, and most likely he'd just eye her with a hint of disdain from across the table.

But as soon as she felt the merest flicker of cool gray eyes towards her, she clamped down upon her hesitation and strode over with determination set into her shoulders.

She scooted in her seat until she was comfortable enough and took her time extricating a slim box her bag. It only encouraged her further to feel Malfoy's attention piqued by her change in routine, as this shift on his part was more progress than she had seen in the last few days.

She slid the box of chocolates over at him. At the puzzlement he was no doubt trying to hide, Hermione cleared her throat and crossed her arms.

"No doubt you're bursting to blurt out questions at me," Hermione contemplated. "But don't take this box of chocolates as anything but a peace offering. I still dislike you, Malfoy, but I'm convinced that if we're a bit more civil towards each other the conversation might… ah, I don't know, exist."

She sped on, her fingers tapping the table before her. "And I figured that even if you are a git, you're a git who enjoys chocolate like any other human being…"

Hermione trailed off, sneaking a glance at Malfoy's reaction. Wait, was that a curl of his lip she saw? My, my, wasn't she making breakthroughs today and exerting quite an influence over Malfoy's facial muscles.

She even went as far as to remove the lid of the chocolate, letting the heavenly smell waft throughout the dank cell and revealing six pieces of art that had cost her quite a pretty penny. At that, she did something else that neither Draco nor she could have foreseen earlier—she stood up from her seat and grabbed her briefcase despite the fact that she had only been here for five minutes.

"Well, it's been a pleasure, Malfoy. I have matters to attend to." The claim hung in the air, and Hermione was fairly certain he was quite aware of the fact that she had nothing waiting for her at home except dirty laundry and cold leftovers from last night's takeout.

"So...I'll be off."

She felt his eyes following her all the way out the door.

Day 10

When she came back the next day, she was surprised to find all six chocolates swiped clean from the box. Excitement bubbled within her; she was convinced she was at the edge of a breakthrough, using nothing more than sweets no less. Who knew Malfoy was so childish.

Frantically, she swiped her pen and legal pad from her briefcase (she had long since known it was futile to even get them out on the previous days) and waited expectantly before Malfoy in anticipation. When he still greeted her with clamped lips, she let another two minutes slowly drag out before she opened her mouth and promptly closed it like a speechless fish.

"Why aren't you talking?" she sputtered out indignantly. "You had my chocolates, Malfoy, and I even granted you some peace and quiet last night."

And then, to her utter rage, he had the nerve to react with one of his infuriating smirks she hadn't seen since fifth year, launching them into another five minutes of silence that heavily featured her own breathing. It made the tips of her ears warm from frustration.

"I totally foresaw this, you know. That's exactly why I laced your chocolate with a poison that will leave you doubled over with explosive diarrhea for twelve hours, and then a slow but sure death where your intestines boil over and bubble from your mouth, and then in a short five hours nothing remains but your skeleton and a pool of a liquid flesh." Draco's eyebrow rose higher and higher on his forehead with each word.

"Unless," Hermione interjected, "you decide to be cooperative, whereupon I might be merciful enough to let you lap up the antidote from the floor." The utter lack of panic that greeted her on Draco's face didn't seem to dishearten her, and Hermione crossed her arms and stuck up her nose in a way that was reminiscent of her first year posture before she was friends with Harry and Ron.

More silence dragged on, and Hermione continued to berate his behavior, "I never pegged you for the ungrateful type. Well, okay, everyone knows you're the ungrateful type. But I suppose what I mean to say is that I didn't think you would be so thick headed. Perhaps I should simply stop trying and let the giant mob with pitchforks outside cart you to Azkaban by forging a confession from you, because if you don't talk soon, most will take your silence as the attempt not to incriminate yourself further as the murderer."

"In fact," Hermione continued, "who's to say I didn't just give chocolates to a killer. And to think I probably could've gotten myself several cartons of ice cream with that money only saddens me further, or perhaps a few more books for my rather empty new bookshelf, and poor Crookshanks needs a new bed-"

"-Granger."

Hermione almost double over in her chair. Could it be? Surely not-

"Shut up."

Hermione had long since shut up, her eyes wide. Malfoy drawled, "I ate your chocolates in the act of eating chocolates and made no promises" as if he had held a conversation with her for the last half an hour. It was so refreshing to hear a second voice in this setting that Hermione continued to glub like a rather unattractive fish.

"Is that… all you want to say to me?" she squeaked out, furiously scribbling what he had just said verbatim onto her legal pad. He eyed her without expression, as if folding back into his old self. When Hermione looked up and trained her eyes on him, it almost seemed like he hadn't moved his mouth at all.

"What?! You can't just do that, Malfoy." But he did, and he would.

She fumed a little longer. "Don't tell me you have some little daily word allowance or something, because enlightening me on your motives wasn't helpful at all. I would've rather you say, oh I don't know, Bellatrix Lestrange, or I was shagging Pansy Parkinson at the time of that muggle's death."

A mere eyebrow quirk, and they were launched into silence once again.

Day 11

It had seized her when their eyes met across the table, a gasp rising to lodge in her throat as she felt something in her gut give way. Then, it was like doors were opening in her mind, creating a tornado of images that passed behind her eyeballs in a way that bordered on pain. At first she thought it was her memories pouring forth like blood, but no, she caught images she had never seen before: A bedroom thrice as big as hers decked in Quidditch posters and a green and silver comforter, the feeling of the wind when racing to the clouds, the tremor of a hand in a tower swallowed by darkness… She felt an all-consuming wholeness-or was it hollowness- within her. Hermione's heart almost forgot how to beat.

And then she was seized by a pain that made her bit down on her tongue. It pounded in her head before being replaced by a cold voice echoing in the chambers of her mind,"Kill him, Draco. Kill him." Voldemort's unmistakable red eyes glowed above her head, and liquid fear coursed through her veins as his hand stretched out like a serpent's, ready to strike.

The scene dissipated in another shower of blinding pain. Hermione gasped for breath when she heard heart-wrenching sobbing, a woman's, and realized her vision was painted in crimson. It seeped up her nostrils to set her lungs on fire, and panic gripped her in its hand as she felt the wetness soak and run down her cloak. So much blood, so much blood… Hysteria gripped her as she landed on the dark floor with a jarring crash that sent a torrent of pain shiver up her knees.

Wide blue eyes met hers, and an elegant hand coated in blood stroked her hair back. "I'm sorry, Draco, I couldn't let you...I-"

Nothing escaped from his mouth but ragged breathing and pure loss, a darkness clenching around her heart and the feeling of drowning as the voice of Voldemort resurfaced. More and more conversations sounded in the back, layering over each other as they each jostled for dominance. Hermione thought her skull would crack open, and tears prickled in her eyes as the weight of her thoughts seemed to grow heavier and heavier and the coaxing voices louder and louder. It was horrendous, it was awful, it was-

And just like that, everything stopped. Hermione's eyes were still clenched shut, but her body and the air around her seemed unfamiliar. It was so quiet, so serene, and she was actually able to draw air into her lungs without difficulty. It took some time, but she eventually allowed her eyes to lift, meeting Draco's a distance away from hers.

There was a glint of communication in them, and Hermione was determined to give no hint of this interaction until she could figure out what it meant. He had showed her this, she was fairly certain, and this was also the key to understanding why he had kept mum for this entire time. But what she had just experienced had left her heart still racing at a shocking speed as her blood struggled to rush to the brain where gears were now shifting and turning.

She couldn't give anything away though, not yet. As she did her best to smooth over an expression of serenity, Hermione found her own voice again after a prolonged clearing of her throat. The whole situation seemed more manageable once her chest and head felt normal again.

Hermione met Draco's eyes and tried to send a message along the lines of I honestly have no clue what you're trying to communicate but I will find out. She wasn't sure if he got the exact message, but something in his eyes told her he got the gist.

That night in her flat, Hermione's mind turned the scenario he had showed her over and over in her mind. She focused her attention towards any information about Narcissa Malfoy she had heard recently. For some reason, no one had seen it necessary to interrogate her about this whole mess, probably because Harry Potter was deflecting anything that came her way on the premises that she had saved his life.

It was quite simple really, if Narcissa hadn't done what she had done for love's sake the war would have probably never ended. Well, it would've eventually after their side was crushed into submission, but Hermione preferred not to think about the stuff of nightmares.

But if she was gathering the pieces correctly, it seemed like that wasn't the only sacrifice she had made in the name of family. Narcissa had laid forth her own innocence, her own clean hands, and tarried them with ghosts of murder for the rest of her life so Draco's head could remain untarnished. The bizarre beauty of it made her head spin, more so when she realized that Draco himself was laying forth his youth so his mother could have her life.

While she kept freedom, Draco would be a caged bird who still had his humanity to clutch onto. Even after the war that had warped and tore apart, that was something him. That was something worth it to Narcissa.

She couldn't take that away from them in the name of justice, some sense of the concept she had developed herself along the years. That wasn't fair to them and their sacrifices, and who was she to decide that?

Day 31

When their eyes met of Hermione's doing, she gave a slight nod and a half smile to him.

The last time she would see him for seven years was on day 31, where his silhouette disappeared into the darkness and his last words ringed in her mind, the phrase he had uttered near her ear when he brushed past: "Thank you for the chocolates, Granger."

And like that, he was gone.

Day 2,585

Hermione Granger was having her morning tea on a snowy morning in February. Flecks of white sped past her kitchen window at an alarming pace, coating the landscape outside with a fuzzy blanket of white. Her hands wrapped around her mug, the warmth of it reaching the deepest caverns to her chest to the tips of her toes, and she leaned back into her chair with a resigned sigh.

She was snapped out of her reverie when she heard the tap tap of her The Daily Prophet delivery at a frosted window. The poor thing fluttering in with a flurry of water, snow, and feathers as soon as she forced the frozen contraption open, forcing Hermione to coo and and warm the rather indignant animal before it faced her with enough patience to accept an owl treat and a few knuts. In fact, she didn't give The Daily Prophet much attention as she watched the black shape disappear into the storm and closed off the drafty winds that were making goosebumps rise on her arm.

It wasn't until she had dumped her tea down the sink that she turned her attention the newspaper for a cursory skimming, but it appeared she didn't even have to turn the page to meet something that caught her eye. The headlines read: Draco Malfoy Released from Prison Today: Did He Get too Light of a Sentence?

She blinked in rapid succession before seizing the paper up, crumpling the edges as her eyes darted over the text:

With the war's end around seven years ago, it's easy to forget the rebuilding process that commenced upon its end. Since then, families have knit back together and stitched their wounds, mourned losses and gained new members. Buildings have been remade and reforms established throughout the Wizarding World to ensure a third conflict does not arise from the ashes of the old. But some question if the Ministry is handling the seeds of the dangerous carefully enough…

Take, for example, young Draco Malfoy, the now twenty-four year old member of the notorious Malfoy family. Extremely loyal to Voldemort before Harry Potter sent him into an eleven year hibernation, the Malfoys weren't locked up the first time around. Their response to this act of grace was to fly back into the Dark Lord's arms as soon as the wind of his return ruffled the inner sanctions of society before his full rise to power. Though Lucius was temporarily imprisoned in Azkaban later on, he was released by death eaters to host Voldemort himself in Malfoy Manor and assist in the atrocious crimes that occurred within its walls.

Lucius is still in prison, and Narcissa Malfoy was pardoned with a testimony from Harry Potter himself. Draco Malfoy, on the other hand, was the suspect of the murder of a young muggle by the name of Henry Smith, whose corpse was found in the Malfoy Cellars seven years ago. Since Mr. Malfoy would not speak a single word to authorities, the Ministry issued a seven-year sentence with the backings of undisclosed evidence.

Today, it seems, he has once again been released back into the wizarding world just as our children have grown comfortable sleeping in their beds once again. Some have questioned the Ministry's decisions to issue such a light sentence when he was obviously the killer. Others believe bearing the infamous Malfoy name is enough for the Ministry to place him where he belongs, behind a fortress and away from their homes that are just now regaining a sense of normalcy. Regardless of public opinion, the truth of the matter remains that Draco Malfoy has been reintroduced into society...for better or worse.

Hermione stood before her kitchen table, the set to her shoulders slumped as she wrung her hands on the gray newspaper before her. Draco's face was plastered onto the first page. His characteristic scowl flashed with particular malice, but Hermione was too distracted to be intimidated. She hadn't even realized it had been so long since...

Her mind flashed back to that room, that table, that box of chocolate that had more or less started and ended it all. She used the wood before her to steady herself, a line forming between her brows as she wondered if the thought of her had ever arisen in his mind during Azkaban.

And did what had transpired between them warrant a nod of acknowledgement if they happened to meet at the same cafe or bookstore? She was uncertain as to what terms they were now on. She hadn't done much seven years ago, simply looked the other way to allow himself to sacrifice himself for his mother. It was a shame such a deed could not become public knowledge to clear the cobwebs stuck to his reputation. In fact, it was so uncharacteristically like the Draco Malfoy she knew that Hermione wondered if it had simply been a miscommunication upon their part.

Day 2, 587

Two days later, another owl pecked at Hermione's window. The snow outside had long since developed into a mud-mixed mush that made the entire world seem dirty and cold. Hermione's tea today didn't feel as soothing as before, the sensation scathing hot on her tongue as she attempted to sort a few papers before work.

This owl was a bit friendlier, giving her a hoot of gratitude for a treat that narrowly missed its beak because Hermione was so puzzled by the package she had undone from its leg. It didn't seem possible, but it was-the exact same box from all those years ago, and when she lifted the lid she even found that he had managed to organize the chocolates in an identical way.

She set the gift down, reaching out for an envelope that was waiting for her in the other talon. It was blue, heavy and rich in her hand. In her haste she accidentally tore through the remarkable penmanship listing her address.

The paper that greeted her was just as expensive and heavy, the letters that were carefully imprinted on them dark and flowing. Figures that Malfoy would have such a feminine hand, Hermione surmised.

The message was simple, bringing an echo of the past:

Much indebted for the chocolates, Granger.

She felt a smile dawn on her face. Hermione hadn't even known she had been waiting for this, this show of recognition and the proof that something had happened, where the truth had tickled her mind open to see the true colors of Draco Malfoy. The wait had been long but...she was known to be patient.

Review, please, even if it is to flame.