A/N: Hey guys! This is my first story... it's a little depressing. Anyway, let me know what you think!

Disclaimer: I do not own anything Harry Potter. It all belongs to the wonderful J.K. Rowling. You know, the one that created our childhoods? Yeah, her.

Draco sat in the comfiest chair nearest the fire in the high-ceilinged drawing room of the manor, letting his thoughts roam back to the happier time of his life — the innocent years at Hogwarts. The crackling of the fire was like a distant memory: everything felt cold now. His father's mansion was headquarters to the Dark Lord. The halls, once regal and majestic, now felt dark. They whispered. Draco did not like the change at all, though he would never say it aloud. He was raised to serve "His Lord." He shuddered in the dark of the room. The darkness was unfair. Outside would have been beautiful, if it weren't for the dementors. It was his favorite time of year, the fall… His memory once again lapsed into the past, of wandering school grounds, hoping to catch sight of a certain brown-haired witch… His reveries were snatched away from him upon the entrance of his aunt.

"Draco, darling, you will not believe what we found today!" she breathed heavily in his ear. He did not want to know. He found it all ghastly. But, he reminded himself, it's all for the good of the cause he was raised to stand for. One he did not believe in — he must not think these things. The Dark Lord, his master, might read his thoughts.

Bellatrix was prancing around the room with a letter in her hand. She skipped back around to him and stuck it in his face, waving it about wildly.

"Guess what we found, Drakeykins!" He managed to pull his eyes away from the fire to look up at her. Her eyes were glittering with a malice that could only mean one thing — she found not just something, but someone. And that person was now gone. She kept talking, not waiting for a response. "We found the scum."

"Which scum, Aunt Bella?" he asked, knowing it was what she wanted.

"That girl. The filthy-blooded one you went to school with! Isn't it incredible?" With that, his heart dropped into his stomach. His mind raced back to her, the insults, the glimpses of her with the weasel and scar-head, laughing. He had seen her pass him in every single class. He remembered sitting in the common room, in a chair quite like this, wondering what was wrong with him: why was he so jealous of her — a muggle-born? Why did he feel they were so close in circumstance, even though they couldn't have been more different? He found it hard to breathe. Hermione. Dead. It can't be.

"What?" he asked again. Surely he heard her wrong the first time.

"That filthy little mudblood they allowed in the school. The one I had the pleasure of torturing? We found her today! It was quite sad though," she pouted.

Draco looked at her sharply, "Sad? In what way?"

Above her 'sad' expression, Bellatrix's eyes were still glittering maliciously. "She was already dead. She off'd herself before we got to her." She slumped crookedly into the chair next to him, quite happy to sit there and sulk. She still had the parchment in her hand, but now it was dangling from her fingertips, swinging back and forth. Draco knew that if he didn't ask what it was soon, he'd find it in his face again.

"What-" he grimaced and cleared his throat, "what is that?"

"Oh, this?" she asked innocently, as if she had forgotten all about it. "Just a dirty old piece of parchment. The filth scribbled all over it before she drank the poison. Funniest thing," she said, gazing straight into his eyes, "but it's addressed to you, Draco."

His breathing hitched. He stood up shakily, reaching a hand out for the letter. Bella stood up as well, moving closer to him. "I thought you might want to read it," she said. At this point she had circled to stand to stand behind him. "For a second, Draco, I thought you looked upset," she whispered. He shook his head, more of a shiver than an answer. "Good boy," she breathed. She danced back around him. "Well, I'm going to go see if the Dark Lord needs… help with anything," she said, dancing back out of the room. "See you at dinner, sweetheart."

The second the door clicked shut, Draco collapsed back into his chair, mind swirling. When Lord Voldemort had finally killed Potter for good, and the weasel as well, the world receded into darkness. Magic is Might, and Voldemort wanted to make sure everyone knew it. Draco couldn't imagine what it must have been like for Granger — for Hermione. How often had he sat in his room, feeling sorry for himself, only to have his mind wander to her and how much worse she must have been feeling. At least he still had his family, and his home. Her parents hadn't been heard of for years. At least all his friends, if you can call them that, were sitting next to him. Her closest friends were dead. All of them. She had nobody left. But he'd never imagined her taking her life. He looked down at the paper, not wanting to read her words. Why had she addressed it to him? What would she have possibly wanted him to know before she…she…

He took a deep, shuddering breath, and opened the letter.

Dear Draco,

There are a few things I would like to clear up, while I have the chance. Unfortunately, this is my only chance, but at least, as you read this letter right now, you will come to know what I have been too afraid to say for years.

I remember my first day in the wizarding world. I was on the platform with my parents, eagerly awaiting the train that would take me into the magic that I had only dreamed of. I remember seeing you across the way, and you smiling just as brightly as I. You looked at me, and I thought, maybe we will be friends. But you smiled because you did not yet know of my blood status. You did not know yet that you were supposed to loathe me. When we were sorted, and you learned of my heritage, you were instantly cold. I couldn't help what your house hated me for. I felt ashamed.

For a while, nobody liked me. I was an insufferable know-it-all. In reality, I just wanted to know everything about this world that was so incredibly new and magical, since I had never had the chance before. And then my knowledge put me in just the right place — the Golden Duo was lacking the brains. I became friends with the two kids that you hated just as much as me, it seemed. A blood traitor, a muggle-born, and the one kid that had put your family to shame. It further detached me from any hope of your friendship. But I was no longer alone.

Your insults were truly dreadful, at first. They began to lose their shine, though, when used upon our every meeting. I began to wonder if you remembered the first time I saw you, before you knew I was unworthy of your company. I doubted it. But I learned to keep up with your sharp tongue. It eventually became a sort of game, me firing back words just as barbed and stinging as your own. It helped me sharpen my wit. I came to enjoy our various meetings, even if it didn't seem that way.

When I met your father, and I truly became aware of how your life was and was supposed to be, I understood. It was awful, how your life was expected to go, and I felt sorry for you. However, in my eyes, it in no way excused your poor behavior.

In fact, when Harry first suspected you had become one of them, officially, with mark and all, I was the last to believe it. I wanted you to have some control over your own life, some semblance of reluctance to join the ranks of the Death Eaters. Unfortunately, I was wrong.

Yet I still felt some connection to you. I felt that we were tied with similar spirit. I was just encouraged to have my own, rather strong opinions, and you were taught to repress yours. We were equally intelligent, I was just more driven than you, I think. It hurt my heart when I finally realized we could never ever be friends. I had always hoped… but it was not to be.

So here I am, the last of my friends and all that have stood up for equality and justice in this world, sitting in a dirty apartment on the dark side of town, with only the quill that I write with, this paper, and these words. Why did I write them to you? I don't even know that myself, really. I just have always felt a strange connection to you, even before we knew each other. I felt that you deserved to know that before I down this poison. I made it myself, you know. Wormwood and Asphodel, my trusty friends.

I don't want you to think poorly of me for this. It could be seen as either cowardice or a final stand for justice. I am the last of the fighting. I would not join the other side even if my blood-status allowed it. At this point, I can think of nothing I could do to carry on the fight, except maybe write this to you. I know you have some good in you. You've just been trained not to listen to it. But you know what it is. Listen to it, please. Even if you do not change your behavior in any way, please change your thinking. I know you have the strength to do it.

I do not know what your aunt will do to my body. I shudder to think of the possibilities. I hope, as — well, maybe not friends, but as associates, the two brightest of our age — you will attempt to talk her out of anything crazy, if you can.

Draco, I wanted you to know that I thought of you quite often, as I suppose this letter reveals. While I wonder if you did the same, I may never know for certain. Just know this: I had always hoped we could have been more.

I think you are truly a good person. Keep strong. Don't give up hope. I hope you will think hard on what I wrote here, and that you may see the truth amongst what seems to be all darkness and death.

You are my last tie to the world, Draco. Please remain that way.

Respect and hope,

Hermione

The letter fluttered out of his shaking hands, falling like the last leaves of autumn succumbing to the cold of winter. The letter was brutal.…You were supposed to loathe me…I felt ashamed. He felt ashamed. He had always pitied himself, but shame was not something he had ever thought of before. He had said some terrible things to her, only to later find he didn't have any idea what he was talking about. And yet…I came to enjoy our various meetings…I understood. And even after he had been marked, she "felt some connection" to him. He was a terrible person. He knew that. He had come to accept it. But the thought that he was just ignoring the good in himself rang true. He did remember the first day at the station. He had been so excited — he'd never really been away from home before. And he wanted some comfortable privacy. Not intrusions, from his mother, or cold distance, from his father. She had been standing right in between her two parents, each of them holding one of her hands. Why did he remember that? But Draco remembered more about her than he would care to admit, especially now that there was no chance of winning. Of them winning, he corrected himself.

I know you have some good in you…I know you have the strength to do it.

And the twisted humor she used when she talked about how Bellatrix would mutilate her body was just sick. How could she talk like that? And there it was again when she brought up making her own poison. Why did Draco have to know that? How did he benefit from that? Was she trying to 'lighten the tone' of her suicide note? Or maybe that was it — she wanted him to feel bad. That was why she wrote this in the first place. Now he would have to live the rest of his life knowing that Hermione Granger's last words had been written to him, for him. As she put it, the two brightest of their year. Mere acquaintances, associates.

He reached down to pick her last words up off of the rich, emerald carpet, noting how she had signed the note. "Hermione." Not Granger. And she had addressed it "Draco," not Malfoy.

In a morbid way, he was curious which poison she would have chosen. Something with minimal pain, he was sure. He ran through the list of deadly poisons he kept in his head. Some had illegal ingredients, but he didn't think she would have used any of those. Wait, hadn't she said something about the ingredients? She talked about it on purpose. She had said…Think hard on what I wrote here, that you may see truth among death? Was that right? He tore his eyes from the dying fire and scanned the note until he caught sight of the line he was looking for:

I made it myself, you know. Wormwood and Asphodel, my trusty friends.

That was it! Those were ingredients to the Draught of Living Death — not poison at all. She wasn't dead! Without further thought, he snatched his wand off the mantle and put the letter in his pocket. He was going to find her. And when he did, he was going to fix things.