Let it all go (but keep holding on), a harry potter fanfic

She slides her hand up his left sleeve quickly, twisting her fingers to get higher and he stills, tense and unsure in a way Malfoy rarely is; funny thing about it is that Hermione has always wanted to see him like this, hating the fact that he's always so damn collected, always perfectly immaculate no matter how long the day has been and she is a mess, with ink on her cheeks and creases in her shirt and frizzy hair… but now she doesn't like to see him this vulnerable at all, does not think she can take it.

Still, she cannot stop. She's physically unable too, and maybe it is the fact that she has had too much wine, or that they have been conversing so long grey light is coming through her previously dark office window and she is not even sure how this started but she- they have to finish this.

Draco is looking down at her, jaw tense but eyes soft, sad, and he looks so good against the backdrop of the starting day. Pale skin, white hair, grey eyes: a colour palette that somehow fits perfectly in its surroundings, a sculpture of a beautiful but frozen man.

She sighs, the breath taking a tremendous effort to come out of her lungs, to expel all the carbon dioxide her mitochondria have produced in their quest for energy; and slowly pushes his sleeve all the way up, revealing a faded dark skull with a serpent coming out of its mouth, revealing all his ugliness, all his past mistakes condensed in one image. And she just stops, and stares at it, and his exhale ruffles the hairs on her forehead, her heels laying discarded under her desk and he's so much taller than her now.

Hermione moves her fingers over the mark, in a caress maybe, or a blessing or a conviction and she raises her eyes to meet his, and they are both trembling. Draco's eyes drop away from hers a second or minute later, and he twists himself free in one smooth movement, closing long, elegant fingers around her left wrist in the progress, encircling it completely.

Hermione feels so fragile all of a sudden, and she doesn't know if it is because her feet are bare on the wooden floor, or because he towers over her now that he stands so close to her, or because the silence allows her to hear her heart pumping precious blood around her body, or because the dim light makes it difficult to see much more than the way he's taller and heavier and bulkier than she is, hard where she is soft, making her feel very much like a female, the weak one of the two sexes.

In any other setting, and with any other man perhaps, though she would curse his head off if he would dare suggest something like that, racism already littered through their shared history, wounds barely healing, unable to take sexism too- in any other setting, in any other moment she would hate this feeling, but now, strangely, she doesn't mind at all.

His hand cups her cheek a moment, and she realises his stillness was from her lack of attention. When he is sure he has regained her focus, he moves his fingers up her arm in the same way she had done earlier and they stop when they meet ridges off raised flesh, scar tissue.

He folds her sleeve away from her arm gently, slowly, following the lines with his finger, a look of intense concentration and fascination on his face, and maybe he's rewriting the word his aunt had seared in years ago, or maybe he is erasing it, but he follows the lines all the way to the curl of the d and there his finger lingers as he meets her eyes again.

Then, finally, the silence is broken as he speaks: "would you get rid of it?"

Hermione shakes her head before she is even aware that she is doing so. "It is part of who I am," she whispers, "I hate it..." she says, looking at it, reliving it, "but..."

"There you go, then." The words are short, clipped and full off ice and as he moves away and to the door a phantom touch of his fingers lingers and burns.

"No." She says, "No, because it is not the same, Draco. I didn't choose this." She moves her arm.

His face gets tight, his eyes go hard. His voice becomes very, very soft. Danger, dangerous. Malfoy always becomes stiller when he is at his most lethal, like a tiger ready to strike.

"And you think I really had a choice? Not that it is any of your business, Granger, but the Dark Lord never offered me the mark. He ordered me to take it. Do you really think they would have let me refuse?"

They. She'd noticed that a lot. When he spoke of Voldemort, of the Death Eaters, he always referred to them as they, them. Others said we, our, my Lord.

She doesn't answer, not quite knowing what to say. He uses the same argument she had used for him at court, when the unfairness of it all had made her want to scream, had made her blood boil. She thinks he is remembering that, too, but then he turns, walking to the door and she feels cold and alone for a moment.

Yet as he turns back to meet her eyes one last time before he sweeps out of the door, for a moment she feels free of past mistakes and future expectations and just feels... peace.

Before

"Do you swear to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth?" The counsellor asks. He is a skinny man, with thin almost gone hair and a moustache that makes him look old and creepy. Dark, beady eyes glitter with a righteous desire to convict every last Death Eater or person he thinks guilty. Hermione has been to every court session, and every time she has had to sit in those hallowed chambers and listen to his smug, squeaky voice she has come to dislikes him more and more. But this is the first time she is going to testify. The ministry decided to start with those whom they deemed most guilty, and apparently an underage boy is high on their list; Dumbledore died because of him, and that seems to be reason enough.

She can't wait for Kingsley to be officially instigated. But right now, they've installed a substitute, and the man is vindictive to say the least. It seems the wizarding world wants to be done so badly with this war, they've stopped looking for justice, and started a quest for revenge instead. But Hermione thinks they are repeating their muggle counterparts' mistake, and fears the backlash.

Ron

"Well, I am under Veritaserum aren't I? Not like I've got much of a choice."

Harry

"Yeah."

Hermione

"Yes, I do."

"Well, he didn't rat us out at his manor," Ron says, "and he didn't fight when we left- but if you ask me he was just paralysed with fear."

"I saw him lower his wand. Just before Snape came barging in. And he didn't tell on us at Malfoy Manor, even though it's impossible that he didn't recognize us. He didn't put up a fight when Dobby," Harry's voice breaks on the word, "came. Just stood there."

"He didn't betray us. He couldn't possible not have known it was us. It's not like we were strangers in school." She laughs.

"If you weren't strangers, what were you? I mean, could you describe your relationship with Draco Malfoy? Mr. Weasley?"

"Enemies. He did everything in his power to thwart us at every possible occasion. He insulted me and my family for being poor, called Hermione a mudblood, tried to get us into all sorts of trouble."

"Well, we weren't friends," Harry snorts, "and what Ron says is true. But we did about the same to him."

"Yes, but only as response, isn't that right, Mr. Potter?"

Honestly, could this man be more biased? Hermione almost calls "Objection" out, but nobody else seems to share that opinion. Witches and wizards murmur, glaring at Malfoy, nodding at every word that comes out of the counsellor's mouth. No matter what Harry answers, he will find a way to twist his words.

"Rivals."

"More than that, no? Hmm. Tell us, Miss Granger, what your very first interaction was. What did he call you then? And on countless other occasions?" The man sounds smug; sending a hateful look Malfoy's way. The blond doesn't even look up, slumped up in his seat as he is, wrists locked to the armchairs, sleeves bunched up. They had taken good care of putting his mark on display, and it makes Hermione furious. This world is not known for their fair trails. She remembers Sirius and Hagrid and the scars from Azkaban they carried, two boys sent there without even a chance.

Still the pull from the Veritaserum comes. "Well, actually, the very first time Malfoy and I ever interacted he picked up my books. But that was before-"

"Before?"

"Before he knew." She says, shrugging a shoulder. Simply, honestly.

There are some murmurs, witches and wizards straightening up, she watches Narcissa Malfoy, proud, regal, as her back and shoulders stiffen even more.

"Before he knew what exactly, Miss Granger? What did Draco Malfoy call you all through Hogwarts?"

"Mudblood." Her voice is clear, hard, and does not shake at all.

A few persons gasp at the slur, though far more simply don't react at all. Why bother, if they have never experienced the prejudice in their world?

The man-Philip? Hermione hasn't bothered to remember his name, spreads his arm out as though saying See, there you have it, and Hermione closes her eyes against the roaring of her head.

"He didn't fight, that I know off. Followed us into the Room Of Requirement, but didn't attack us. It was Crabbe that lit the fiendfyre."

"How did he get out?"

"We saved him," Harry shrugs.

"Yes." Says Ron, "But he was a minor, too. We all did bad things."

This, from Ron, makes her smile slightly. She's glad he is not all hate.

"It's complicated," says Harry. "I almost killed him once. Voldemort-" sharp intake of breaths resonate through the room, more than a few people look pale, but Harry has never been one to not name his fears, fear being his greatest fear of all- "lived in his house, threatened his parents. He didn't have a choice. He was protecting his family. He lowered his wand. And he saved us."

Were it any other person, making this admittance, they'd be grilled with follow up questions. What did you do to him, how did you almost kill him- but this is Harry Potter, The Boy Who Lived And Defeated Voldemort, The Chosen One, and the mark is dark against Draco's pale skin, and so it gets no acknowledgment at all.

"He saved us. He held under pressure. He didn't tell on us. We would be dead if it weren't for him. He looked so bad all through sixth year, so hopeless. So tired. He didn't have a choice."

"We all have choices," the counselor mutters, and Hermione would like to ask him what he would have done, then, but this is not the time, nor the place, and the man would simply brush her off. So she holds her tongue, lets it curl inwards, and shoots Malfoy a glance. He is looking at her, now, where he had never looked up before, an odd look sweeping across his face. But as soon as their eyes cross, he looks away and she lowers her gaze a moment later, to stare at her shoes as they scuff against each other.

Draco Malfoy is sentenced to wandless house-arrest for the remainder of summer, and has to return to Hogwarts for his eight year, where he'll only be allowed a wand in classes or under supervision in case he needs to practice. He is banned from Quidditch, banned from Hogsmeade, is not allowed to return home during breaks. After his last year, he has to work a year in the ministry, after that his behaviour will be evaluated for further course of action.

It could be a lot worse. Though his face remains blank, his shoulders relax slightly, and across the room, Narcissa Malfoy's do the same. Lucius will probably be the only Malfoy in Azkaban, since Narcissa saved Harry's life. Hermione thinks it will not be long before the Malfoy's sent someone to ask Harry to testify in the woman's defence. Knowing Harry, he'll say yes-always a saviour complex.

"What do you mean you won't be returning to Hogwarts?" Hermione questions shrilly. Her voice echoes of the walls of Harry's and Ron's temporarily hired apartment, Grimmauld place being completely renovated. Harry shoots the walls an anxious glance, and she lowers her voice when she remembers the elderly muggle neighbours. "I thought you wanted to work for your job instead of getting everything for free, Harry? And you promised me, Ron!"

"The ministry thinks fighting a war is qualification enough, Hermione. I happen to agree. You got the same offer."

"I know," she rubs her forehead tiredly. She has never wanted to be an auror, though, has always believed there are other evils to fight.

Ron smiles his easy smile at her, "You know I've never been as fond of books and learning as you."

It's a good thing they decided to let the kiss be what it was: a desperate spur of the moment decision. They tried, for a week or two before coming to that conclusion, but they were always meant to be just friends- best friends.

Still, wistfully, Hermione wonders how it would be like to have what Harry and Ginny have. Though they've decided to take it slow, Ginny lights up when he is near, and Harry becomes sure, confident. They make each other strong.

"You two write me every week! And you come to Hogsmeade every time I can. I'm going to miss you." Her voice breaks, and Harry and Ron knock into her, hugging her as only they can.

A pale hand shoots out to catch her trunk as it starts slipping out of the overhead compartment. She turns to find herself looking at a black sweater clad chest, drags eyes up until she meets a pointy chin and farther up grey eyes looking down at her.

"I- thank… thank you."

His mouth opens, closes. He nods, turns away and is gone as swiftly as he appeared.

"Merlin, Hermione! Why didn't you just levitate- wait, was that Malfoy?" Ginny interrupts herself, and Hermione follows her gaze to Malfoy's hair further down the hallway. "What was that about?"

"I have no idea," Hermione says, and follows Ginny and Luna into the compartment.

Hermione remembered standing at the top of a tower, saying goodbye.

She remembered asking Harry if he thought Draco would've done it. "No," he had said, and then the same sentence he had uttered so many times at that hearing: "he was lowering his wand."

A knot in her chest had loosened then, for reasons she didn't fully understand. She thought it had to do with hope: if a boy lowered his wand, ready to walk away from all that he had been promised, ready to walk to a certain death, that meant that somewhere, deep down, he was holding onto an innocent piece that could be saved; holding on to some redemption. And if others like Draco were holding on to that same small piece as well, they had something worthwhile to fight for.

She finds herself staring at white blond a lot now. The eight years share all classes, because they are such a small group. Only a few D.A. members that had gone into hiding felt the need to come back. From Gryffindor, only Neville Longbottom and Dean Thomas had returned, but Neville was following a special program with Professor Sprout, ready to replace her in a few years. Hannah Abbott, Susan Bones and Justin Finch-Fletchley from Hufflepuff. Anthony Goldstein, Michael Corner and Terry Boot from Ravenclaw, and Malfoy as the only Slytherin. The Slytherins hadn't had to fear the Carrows after all, and though she'd heard both Greengrass sisters and Theo Nott had secretely joined the D.A. they had been able to take their exams as normal. Parvati and Padma Patil had chosen to go to Beauxbatons, and so had Pansy Parkinson.

Malfoy is utterly alone, and Hermione aches for him, in a detached sort of way, but does so from afar. She doesn't think the boy would appreciate the sentiment. Even if he did, she probably wouldn't act on it, because he was still Draco Malfoy, and she Hermione Granger, and that was reason enough to keep them divided.

"Time you visited me, Hermione! Hi Luna," Neville smiles, hands deep in the dirt.

"Hi Neville," Luna says, stroking a leaf next to her. The leaf purrs and rolls up, allowing Luna to run a nail over its underside.

"NEWTS." Hermione says apologetically, and Neville good humoredly rolls his eyes at her.

"I'm sure you'll do very well, Hermione," Luna says, a bit muffled by the plant that's hugging her now, "you are very good with books."

Coming from Luna, it's possibly not quite a compliment, but Hermione still decides to take it as such. It's easier. Besides, Luna seems to be coming down from her wild beliefs, becoming more grounded-no, that's not quite it, she thinks. Luna has always been grounded, maybe more than all of them. She just seems to have grown, to have changed in a very defining way. Then again, that's what war does, doesn't it? It takes and it takes and it leaves everything in a different way than it was.

She shakes the thoughts away and smiles: "Thanks, Luna, but I still need to revise."

"Ah, that's our Hermione," Ginny appears, caring a wildly struggling potted plant, streaks of dirt across her cheek. "Where do you need this one, Neville?"

"Oh, uhm- just put it on that table there," he gestures vaguely without looking up from the strange white structures he is detaching from the Purple Beads Tree.

The tree lashes out, and with remarkable agility Neville grabs it roots and twists it in an eight figure as Ginny jumps in and cuts the bead from it. Neville releases the root and hissing, it retreats into the ground.

"So, can I help with something?"

"Oh, yes please!" He smiles at her, "You can help Ginny move the Peskyl-bushes.

Hermione nods, and follows the redhead into the other greenhouse.

It's Malfoy.

She looks up when a shadow falls over her, and it's Malfoy that stands there, looking down at her. Tears are still flowing freely down her cheeks, sobs tearing out of her chest. She hadn't been able to take the silence in her dormitory any more. Had remembered, with a bittersweet pain, how much she used to hate Lavender's and Parvati's incessant chatter, until the moment it wasn't there anymore: Lav, who never ate dessert because it would ruin her figure, but kept a box of bright red lollipops under her bed was gone, and so were Fred and Tonks and Lupin and Dumbledore and Dobby and Sirius and-

She had to get away, get out, get some fresh air. The moon was shining brightly, calling her, so she had put on a sweater and stepped out onto the grounds. And cried.

She doesn't know how Malfoy came to be here, and she doesn't care. She's prepared to be mocked any moment now, but nothing ever comes. Instead a warm weight is dropped on her, and he sits down next to her. She clutches his coat tighter around him, and looks at him, confused and surprised. But he is staring ahead, looking at the squid swimming calmly, only the rigidness of his shoulders betraying the fact that he may not be as comfortable as he seems.

How long they sit there, Hermione doesn't know. They don't speak, don't touch, don't even look at each other, but when she goes back inside her heart is lighter, and she can breathe a bit easier again.

"So, how is Hogwarts treating you?" Ron asks with his easy smile. Harry is standing in line to treat them to butter beers, Neville, Ginny and Luna went to get candy first. It could be any normal Hogsmeade weekend.

"Well enough," she says, and doesn't think it is a total lie. "Advanced magic is very interesting," and this is definitely true.

"Does the library still have books that you haven't read?" Harry asks as he sets down their butter beers in front of them. She spots Dean Thomas entering and waves. He smiles back, but heads in another direction, and after a moment she sees Seamus Finnigan in the corner, grinning at him.

"Too many," Hermione says and they laugh. She reaches out to wipe beer moustache from Ron's upper lip, and he pretends to bite at her finger. "What about you guys?"

"Well," Harry says, "I've survived training till now."

She doesn't find this all that funny, but he'll always be Harry and her stomach is full with waffles and butter beer, so she smiles.

"I need to tell you something, actually," says Ron, scratching his head as he always does whenever he is unsure of something, "I quit auror training. I'm helping out F- George in the shop."

They all are silent, then, for a moment; though around them people still laugh and smile as if they haven't a care in- no, that's not quite true. Everywhere she looks she can see smiles suddenly fading away, faces becoming pale, Madame Rosmerta reaching every so often into her pocket to find a coin that is no longer there.

"That's amazing Ron," says Hermione and finds she means it whole heartedly, "I'm sure George must be very happy with it."

He shrugs, mumbles: "I hope so." Hermione thinks she knows what he feels: that he'll never be Fred, never be enough. But he is there, doing the best he can, so she squeezes his hand and he smiles.

Neville, Ginny and Luna come in, hands full of candy and Harry stands immediately, sits down, stands up again, casting a hesitating glance at Ron who rolls his eyes and says "Oi, go snog her, mate, and stop bothering me about it."

He doesn't need to repeat it twice. He and Hermione share an amused glance, and watch as Harry greets Ginny rather… enthusiastically.

Ron pretends to puke. Neville and Hermione laugh fully, and Luna reaches for the menu.

On 29 October Hermione finds herself sitting with a very quiet Neville and Ginny.

"This date last year we called the DA back to life," Ginny will tell her later.

"This date last year the Carrows forced us to crucio first years," Neville will say, "I refused."

In class Hannah and Susan whisper softly, remembering the Carrows insulting Hannah's mum, Susan's aunt, both victims of war, and not being able to say a thing in reply- there were worse punishments than carving lines in your hand.

"Halloween was worse," says Terry Boot. "They wouldn't let us celebrate it, because it was the day Harry had vanquished 'our great Dark Lord'. "

Some days, Hermione forgets a war was fought in this castle too. She will catch sight of the scars on Ginny's back in their dormitory and remember, and have forgotten again the next morning. Dean tugs at a curl and she knows he understands too: they all fought different wars in the end.

"Granger. Are you finished with this one?"

"Hmm," Hermione looks up briefly from her essay, "oh, yes, yes, take it- wait, no, I'm-" she closes her eyes, tells herself to breathe: "Why don't you sit here and we can share?"

She watches him blink, and blink again, his face a perfect mask. After a moment, he nods, and sits down, and they both continue to work.

The weekend before she leaves Hogwarts for Christmas, she goes to Hogsmeade to buy gifts.

She hesitates a lot over one particular one, but when she leaves the shop, she doesn't regret buying it.

"I don't need your pity, Granger," he sneers, and she is horribly reminded of the boy he used to be. The gift looks terribly childish in his hands, and she regrets buying it in the first place.

"It wasn't pity! It wasn't! I was trying to be…"

"What, Granger? Kind? The bleeding heart Gryffindor saving everyone in her path, the war hero who is so much better than we all will ever be?" his voice takes on a taunting admiring edge, as he gestures with the gift.

"No! No! I just- you know what, Malfoy? Never even mind! Don't even bother. I should have known-"

"Oh no, Granger," he takes three steps towards her, crowding her into the wall, just shy from touching her, "don't go turning this on me now."

"Well, don't I have every right?"

His eyes flash, his jaw clenches. He smiles, but it is no happy smile.

"Off course," he murmurs, "don't bother coming down from that pedestal of yours, Granger." And this is turning into much more than just the stupid gift.

She shoves him away, hard. Glares at him, feeling hurt, betrayed, rejected, the feelings mixing into a hot, aching belly. She shoves him away, and leaves the corridor he cornered her in, goes back to Gryffindor and doesn't speak or even look at him again, glad when she leaves for winter break.

The night before Christmas she thinks she understands his fury about her comment. She is thinking about towers again, about redemption, about how he deserved it. Yet, when he told her not to turn it on to him she had latched right back on to their past roles: him, the perpetrator, her the victim.

She had latched right on to righteous fury, and though she still felt she had every right, maybe he didn't deserve to have one problem- the gift- being turned into a rehash of what he used to be.

But Hermione also thinks he should understand that he has a long way to go before he proves he has changed. Though… he hadn't called her a mudblood once since the war, had been cordial, had sat next to her that night… she didn't think he was pretending. Had he truly changed?

Maybe, he was trying- and got his efforts thrown back into his face, was mistrusted. And he deserved that, surely! He was the boy that had let the Death Eaters inside Hogwarts; that had been prejudiced against her, racist, called her a horrible slur for six years.

However… Voldemort had been living in his house, claiming the head of his family table, threatened his family. He hadn't had a choice, had he? She didn't know what she would have done- but she had obliviated her parents without their permission, had written SNEAK on a frightened girl's face.

She had found Marietta Edgecombe, and erased that mark. She knew now, or thought she did, that not everyone had the same choices. That Marietta had been frightened, and her mother's job threatened. She couldn't erase Draco's mark, but perhaps she could give him a chance to erase it himself.

He had been horribly childish about the gift, though.

The next morning, her parents hand her a gift with no name on it.

She knows whom it is from.

"Granger."

"Malfoy."

"Can we talk?" he gestures to the potions classroom they just emptied.

She furrows her brows, but "Uhm, sure."

He pushes his hair back from his forehead, and for one moment looks terribly like his eleven year old self, hair slicked back with gel. The fringes fall back immediately though, and the moment passes. He has filled out where he used to be so pointy, and grown and grown. So has she, she supposes, eleven years seeming like forever ago, eight years and a war between now and that girl whose world had just opened, had become magic.

"Could you supervise me this afternoon?"

"Super- oh," it dawns on her, at the look he gives her, his sentence of course. She was there, how could she forget. "Yes, okay."

He offers no explanation as though why he is asking her; she knows Slughorn usually does it, but he doesn't say a word. Just nods and asks "At five? Here?"

"Yes." She says.

"Thank you."

"Spit it out, Granger," he says, looking bored.

"What?" she doesn't sound very convincing, but forces her eyes not to stray from the essay in front of her.

"You've been eyeing me for the past five minutes." She looks up now, surprised and sees him raise an eyebrow.

How did he know? He hadn't looked her way once.

"It's just, you should bring your wand farther up," she says, "and angle it slightly to the right. It has to do with spell balance- you want to make it snow, so you have to balance the elements. The angle is a request for the air to take form."

Malfoy stares at her, and stares some more. She feels herself grow red.

"You really make it a point to know everything, don't you?" It's a bit teasing, but mostly admiring. So Hermione tries to take it well.

"I think if you don't come from a magical background you are more interested in knowing where it came from." She says, and there is no heat behind her words.

He hums, low in his throat and on the next try his spell works perfectly.

Hermione smiles at him, and after a moment, his lips twitch in return.

They start to study together often. Draco is very good at potions, at understanding why the ingredients work together the way they do, and his essays have a flair for words that Hermione's miss. He teaches her to say what she wants to say in less words. In turn, she explains theoretical concepts behind spells, pronunciations and wand movements.

They make a good team.

Hanna Abbot accompanies them to Hogsmeade the next time, and Hermione sticks with them since Harry and Ron can't make it. Harry is on a mission, and this makes her stomach roll and roll, and George is sick, so Ron had to take over.

Hermione watches Neville stammer and trip and swoon around Hannah, this boy- this man who fought a war so valiantly, killed a snake with a single strike of a sword, stood up to Voldemort when everyone else thought hope was lost. She asks Ginny if it is always that bad and Ginny rolls eyes good naturedly and says it's usually worse.

Luna makes an offhand comment about mistletoes and bowtruckles, and Hermione watches Neville's cheeks glow as red as his scarf. Hannah smiles, and smiles, and on their way back she dusts some snow from Neville's hair, and when Neville takes her hand it's impossible to say which of their faces is redder.

Ginny, because she's Ginny, takes Hermione's hand with her left one and Luna with her right, and this is enough for Neville and Hannah to plot against the red-headed girl, their respective awkwardness forgotten.

Harry takes Ron and Hermione with him to visit Andromeda Black over Easter, and Andromeda later writes her that Teddy Lupin, delighted, face usually smeared with chocolate, hadn't stopped wearing bushy hair, freckles and green eyes for over a week.

A year from now, though Hermione doesn't know this yet, Draco will ask her to visit Andromeda with him, and Teddy will wear white blond hair and brown eyes for three weeks straight.

Minerva McGonagall hugs Hermione at her graduation, and tells her that Hogwarts' doors will always be open for her.

She's to start at the DMLE in a month, but thinks that teaching wouldn't be that bad.

After his third auror mission, Harry resigns.

They sit together at Grimmauld place, after a whole day of renovations, destroying portaits, painting the walls, making it a home. He lays his head on her shoulder, and whispers: "I've seen too much war, Hermione."

She hugs him tight, and does not say anything. He does not need her to. They see the same things when they close their eyes: Fred and Sirius, laughing as they died, Remus and Tonks lying beside each other, hands a hairbreadth from each other; leaving behind a child. Professor Dumbledore, at the foot of a tower. Voldemort, falling, hitting the ground with a mundane thud.

And the things only he sees, only he hears: Cedric, dying in a graveyard. A flash of green, Lily screaming, James yelling for her to flee. Their ghosts, as he held a cold ring in his hand.

Tomorrow, Harry will apply for the post of Defence against the Dark Arts teacher. He will think about all the similarities between him and Tom Riddle; and all the differences too. He will teach because he wants to help kids see the light, not the dark.

Harry will be an excellent teacher. He will teach about hope in the bleakest of moments, about holding on to happiness when darkness is all around. So will Neville: he will spread his hands wide and teach children about life, about planting it, watering it, and about facing your fears and laughing in their faces. Both of these boys were taught by Remus Lupin, both of these boys were taught by Minerva McGonagall. They will be stern, and they will be fair, but they will be kind.

The Ministry asks Hermione if she'd be willing to supervise Draco Malfoy for a year and she says yes.

It is Kingsley, now Minister of Magic, who tells her that Malfoy asked for her.

"Draco," she says, holding out her hand.

He pauses, eyes raising from her hand to meet her own, and for a moment time seems frozen. He clears his throat, pushes his fringe away from his eyes and grasps her hand when she is about to lower it.

It is the first time they have touched; except the time she punched him. There are no sparks, no fire spreading out, nothing but his slightly damp and warm palm against hers, his fingers wrapped almost all the way around her hand, his grip solid. Nothing but the contrast of her golden skin against his pale one. She finds herself admiring how good their hands look together-

He lets go, and Hermione adamantly tells herself the flip in her stomach is not from the lack of contact.

"Granger."

It isn't until three months later that Hermione finds out Narcissa and Draco aren't allowed to visit Lucius in Azkaban.

The resulting screaming match is heard on three different floors. Hermione writes furious letters and goes up every day until the woman at the desk doesn't even bother anouncing her and just rolls her eyes as she barges past-Lucius gets three-weekly visitations.

She gets a quill, for Christmas. It has intricate silver lines on the strands, is meant to take shorthand notes of cases and costs a fortune.

She can't keep it.

"Yes, you can."

"Malfoy-"

He raises an eyebrow, as if to say oh we are back to Malfoy are we now but doesn't say anything about it. "It was a gift, Granger."

"Yes, but-"

"No. No 'buts'. Didn't your parents teach you to be grateful?" It will be hours from now that Hermione will realise with a start she never even thought his statement had to do with her muggle upbringing.

"Fine." She glares at his smug mouth, "Thank you, oh amazing Draco Malfoy."

He claps twice, so she glares some more. "I didn't get you anything," she says airily. His mouth opens, his brow furrowed, but before he can say what she thinks he is going to says she finishes her sentence. "I tried but all the git-be-gone potion was sold out."

"Oh no, however will you get by now?"

"Exactl- no, no, I meant for you." She changes her sentence after she sees the triumph on his face.

"Yes, I know. Very considerate of you, Granger, truly. The fact that you would ingest such a potion to give me some reprieve."

There's a spark in his eyes, a quirk to his mouth. It takes her breath away.

"Spit it out, Granger," he drawls, sounding rather bored. He has one arm in his coat, already, a silver-green scarf looped neatly around his neck. He hasn't taken his glasses off, yet. Always does that after putting his coat on.

He didn't let her see him with glasses in the beginning, until one day she came in silently and told him he looked rather good with glasses.

She knew she was going to regret it the moment it left her mouth, and she had. He had smirked, slowly, as he put the glasses back on.

"Like this, Granger?" he'd asked, and she had felt warm all over. She had babbled about some theory of women having a faster heartbeat than men which made them heat up quicker, he had replied he didn't know glasses could improve your heartbeat, and she had floundered. It had served the purpose, though.

Point is, she was rather distracted ogling the flex of his back as he put on the coat, so she hadn't caught on he was watching her. She raises her eyes to meet his, feeling rather guilty, and confused.

"What?"

"You were giving me that look- Merlin, woman, what kind of thoughts do you have?" he asks when her cheeks flame up; the habit they have developed around him lately. "Not that look, just that look when you're thinking too much about something."

"Oh. Well, it's just… I'm rather hungry, too."

His face doesn't change, not quite, but somehow it softens. He shrugs out his coat again, hangs it on her coatrack- see, Ron, it can be useful, who's laughing now- and asks: "What would you like?"

He orders and pays for the both of them, orders the most expensive wine on the menu too, ignores all her protests and holds the money in the air for the delivery wizard to take when she tries to steal it and damn him, she's much too short to reach it, even in heels.

After

The door doesn't close all the way after he leaves, and Hermione stares and stares at the little gap it left, at the promise it seems to offer and she can still feel his fingers on her wrist, still can feel his heartbeat against hers, knows that she'll regret it forever if she lets this moment slip away from her; from them.

"Draco," she calls out, speeding into a jog when she sees him at the end of the hallway.

He turns abruptly, and she almost crashes into him. She has to push up on her toes, and balance awkwardly because she doesn't know if she can touch him and god, she hopes she hasn't read anything into their interactions because that would make everything even worse and why, why, why is she doing this-

But, she also thinks about if she is right, about the wonderfulness of that possibility and it is a risk she is willing to take. So she pushes up, and presses her mouth against his.

He goes very still for a moment, and then he grabs her upper arms and pulls her away from him, his eyes flitting over the planes of her face. She feels something akin to rejection bubbling up, starts to look away.

"Hermione," he tilts her chin up gently until their eyes meet again, and breathes out harshly. The puff off air skimming across her skin. "How drunk are you?"

Oh, oh. She starts to shake her head, but he is still gripping her chin. Her eyes must give it away, not clouded with as much alcohol now so maybe he will-

He anchors an arm around her waist and kisses her fully, his mouth warm and soft and wet and lovely and she kisses back, her lips forming a smile until he kisses it away.

Maybe it is seconds, or minutes that they stand there. She doesn't know. All she knows is that his eyes look soft when they break apart to breathe, that his thumb skates her cheekbone in a way that makes tingles erupt across her whole skin and that he brushes his mouth against hers once more after a mumbled Goodnight, Granger. It is a promise for more to come.

Hermione goes home, content and alone, holding on to that newfound peace between them.