I do not own the HP universe. I receive no money from this story.
Grey and green flashed by with unremitting tedium as Draco looked with unseeing eyes at the progression of familiar scenery as the Hogwarts Express chugged its way to its destination. He hadn't thought he'd be on the train after the Dark Lord's forces were defeated. If Granger and Scarhead hadn't spoken for him and on the behalf of his mother, both Draco and Narcissa would have joined Lucius in Azkaban. Their trials had ended exactly a week before the school was due to start, and Draco, having nothing else better to do, decided to attend. Mother, of course, stayed at the Manor, restricted not by law but by shame and fear. She had endured the most during the Dark Lord's sojourn at the manor, unable to escape either his presence or that of her mad sister. Mother had seemed to shrink daily, becoming pale and withdrawn as if the Dark Lord and his pets' mere presence had leeched the life force from her.
Gone were the days of light chatter and the piquant innuendo that sustained father's affections for her. Father had turned to drink for succour, and Mother had faded into the scenery. After the trial, she had not set foot out of the manor, even the extensive gardens were too exposed for her. He worried over the change in her demeanour, in the vague way of someone who was equally traumatised by the same events would. He seemed to just endure the days he lived before the start of school and looked forward to more tedium and a type of strange emotional distance that he'd fostered since Father had gone to prison the first time.
Yes, Draco had endured the last two months with rare stoicism. He'd had no choice. His family had stood up for their convictions and they were now strange outcasts, punished for their beliefs whilst still in the midst of their comparatively luxurious prisons. Even father his sundry luxuries to augment the cold and dank of Azkaban. He would serve a few years and be back to his scheming in no time if Draco knew anything about him.
Yet they were still outcasts, banished for the promises made to them by a twice dead man.
Draco scoffed aloud startling himself to a sense of somnolent wakefulness. It was pure shite, that thought. It was a romantic notion to pretend that they had been on the side of right but really, they had been trapped neatly in one of his father's schemes. It was just another way that his father had failed him in the headlong pursuit of power. Draco was aware he had also followed blindly. Not the Dark Lord, but his father whom he had once worshipped as a god on earth. No more. With his father's emasculation, after the Dark Lord stripped Lucius of his wand, Draco had seen him for what he was; a grovelling worm who cared only for his line's survival. Draco's life had come as a secondary consideration in his father's eyes. If there had been a spare to the heir, Draco was sure Lucius would have sacrificed him as willingly as he had sacrificed Mother's safety. Draco had lost his childhood idol because of his father's very real feet of clay. That was what angered him like nothing else had in the preceding years of incarceration, degradation, horror, and war.
So now Draco had to endure, for there was nothing else left for him.
He'd started the day enduring the whispers as he walked through the platform, had kept his head held high as he found that the only door open to him was near the baggage compartment, one that was already loaded with several boxes bound for Hogsmeade, and a door that ironically wouldn't close. He could accept people's judgement of his actions. He deserved their scorn, he actually welcomed it. What had brought him close to breaking was the absences he noted. Not just the ones killed during the Battle of Hogwarts. Vince, he missed, but Gregory… he should have been here. He shouldn't be serving a term almost as long as his father's for the little he did during the war. Hell, Greg had been scared witless, almost paralysed with fear. He'd only joined because his useless lout of a father had bullied him into it.
Greg hadn't been like Draco, taking the Mark to get power and glory. He'd just been… Greg Goyle, a dim lump when it came to academics, but funny when he was pissed and loyal to a fault. Greg had just been a bloke in over his head for the last two years. The same could have been said for Draco, but no one would. He had made his bed and he would lie in it like the proverbial dog. The adults had created this war by following a madman, but their children paid the price along with them. The situation was merely the way the world worked from time immemorial.
Draco closed his eyes as he heard the scuffle of feet coming down the aisle. He'd welcomed his punishment enough for one day and his endurance was frayed. He felt as if he would shatter if he had to hear one more whispered comment. He heard two girls giggle before they scuttled to the toilet and locked the door with a click. He'd just keep his eyes closed until they went back to their friends, warmth, and relative innocence.
***
She almost missed the train that morning and it had been next to impossible to find an empty compartment. She'd finally found one in the second to last carriage, a compartment at the front with a missing seat and sticking door that took more than a little effort to close. It was obviously under repair, much like Hermione was after what she had found in Australia.
Hermione thought she had been anaesthetised to loss. She had thought that all the dear people she lost would somehow inoculate her against the deep grief she was now experiencing over the loss of her parents. She worked so hard to save them, gave up so much so that they might live only to find that the spell she had chosen was well and truly irreversible. She'd spent the two weeks she'd had after the funerals and her own minimal recovery trying to find a way to banish Monica and Wendell and bring back Mum and Dad. She so longed to have her parents returned to her whole and safe. After consulting with a sympathetic Australian healer who was willing to overlook her very illegal use of magic, she had concluded that she had made herself an orphan, even if they were still living.
It should have been enough for her to know that they were alive, but it wasn't. Not really.
She'd returned to the UK, to Dorset with the Weasleys a scant twenty hours before she was due at Hogwarts for the first day of school. She had not told anyone about the trip or her failure. She had pleaded fatigue and all of the people she considered the next thing to family had left her alone. Only Ron had given her a hard look before he resumed his duties as Fred's keeper. It was only fair. They had all lost someone due to the war, whether it was by their own actions or not. The loss of her parents was her burden to bear alone because she had chosen her family's path without their counsel.
She looked out on the rain-soaked scenery, her eyes blurred with tears. She would give herself these last few hours to grieve and then she would soldier on. That was the only thing she could do. She closed her eyes and tried to remember what life had been like before magic, before Hogwarts, and her first real friendship with Harry and Ron. She drifted on a wave of nostalgia, knowing that nothing good would come of the gilded memories she chose to project against the black screen of her eyelids, but couldn't stop herself. She was alone and for the moment she wanted to remember what it felt like to have a family who loved her without condition.
Draco awoke when the train lurched to a halt, his neck cramped, one foot asleep. He'd stretched, realising he had slept for over two hours. Longer than he had been able to sleep at the manor in a stretch in the last year. He'd meant to change into his school robes and be on the first carriage. That way he'd miss the students rushing pell-mell to find their particular set of friends or lost possessions. He wanted to avoid their chatter, their happiness that he could no longer feel, their sense of belonging. He stood, pulling his robes out of his satchel, muttering a quick ironing spell over them as he laid them out. Fortunately for him, the train was nearly deserted as he entered the hallway. The toilet was also unoccupied and he slipped into it silently so as not to draw the attention of the few stragglers that remained on the carriage.
His image looked back at him from the mirror of the cramped compartment. In the flickering witch light that illuminated the cubby, his face looked alien, drawn and aged. His jaw was unshaven, stubbled with coarse dark-blond hair. His eyes were cold, the pupils dilated until they seemed to fill the grey of his pupils with black. His vulpine features had taken on a haggard quality, his cheekbones sunken, his eyes underscored with dark half-circles. He had made a mistake returning to school. He should have taken his mother's tack and retired into relative obscurity until the Malfoy name was no longer associated with the war. He smirked at his reflection. That would only take a few centuries.
No, this was the path he needed to take. He'd take his NEWTs, apply for apprenticeship as a healer, an apothecary, or even become an Auror… anything where his good works could be seen by as many people as possible, and he would reclaim his honour. He'd let his father worry about the family name once he was out of prison. Draco no longer gave a damn about it.
Hermione jerked awake, heart pounding as nightmare Bellatrix Lestrange's cackle echoed in her ears. She caught herself rubbing the spot on her neck where the evil witch's dagger had pressed. She knew if she looked in a mirror there would be a small white scar, not noticeable to anyone but those who knew. She consciously withdrew her hand, drawing her fingers down to the necklace that Ron had given her right before Fred's funeral. It was a promise, she knew, that she and Ron would continue on the path they had begun with their reckless kiss at the Final Battle. She wanted what that kiss meant. For Ron to become her family in reality, for her life to go on in a little more well-ordered fashion than it had the last seven years. She wanted that. She did -but the small escapist part of her, the one that wanted to dance until dawn, who wanted the shining armour and the knight- that part that rebelled just a little, wanted just one experience that was heartbreakingly romantic.
She heard the door to the loo at the other end of the carriage open and then shut with a soft metallic click. She dropped the delicate chain and picked up the bundle of clothes she had carefully packed after Mrs Weasley charmed them smooth for her the night before.
Who was she kidding, anyway? Hermione Granger would always be a swot, more at ease in the library than in a glittering ballroom. It was in her genes, no matter that the donors didn't remember her.
She locked the door to her compartment with a charm and stood, hastily donning her robes and stuffing the spare clothes in her faithful evening bag. Once done she exited the train and got in the last remaining carriage, careful not to look overlong at the Thestral that pulled it.
"Fuck," Draco said under his breath. Of course, the only carriage left in Hogsmeade would have Granger in it. It bore several obvious spell scars and had a burnt spot just behind the hitch. The thestral didn't seem to mind, so Draco assumed the vehicle was safe. As he paused, Granger's gaze swept over him dismissively before she returned her attention to the dog-eared copy of whatever boring tome she deemed worthy of her mighty intellect.
He hefted himself up with a feeling of dread, using the edge of the carriage as a fulcrum to land, cat-like, on the seat across from her. Except it didn't go as he had planned as the seat gave a great icrack!/i collapsing under his weight. Draco ended up inside the box that held the seat with his knees curled tightly into his chest, his bottom on the floor of the carriage where the seat used to be. He heard Granger snort, then cough, as if to smother a laugh. She primly put a piece of parchment in her book and then held out her hand to him.
"Ha bloody ha, Granger." He looked into her smiling face and batted her hand away as he attempted to dislodge himself from the wooden frame of the seat. His robes would be ruined by the time he got out, and the Malfoy finances being what they were after paying the Ministry fines, he wasn't sure he'd be able to replace them immediately. He supposed she was used to second-hand clothes being friends with Weasley and Potter. Anger welled in him at her ham-handed Gryffindorness and he spat, "I don't need help from iyour/i kind."
"Don't be a prat, Malfoy," Granger said as her smile crumbled, replaced by her usual determinedly set jaw and furrowed brow. He assured himself that the lighting in the carriage was what caused her eyes to appear damp. Draco was almost sorry he was the cause of her mood change. "Take my hand, even if you do consider me filth."
Draco lowered his gaze suddenly ashamed. Granger was anything but the type of person he had been taught that mudblo— iMuggleborns/i were. He had finally acknowledged it when his mad aunt had tortured her. He'd admired how she had refused to break under the onslaught of his dear aunt's curses. Draco knew that he had on more than one occasion. "I-I didn't mean it like that."
She wiggled her extended hand impatiently, the harsh lines of her expression easing only a little.
He took it. It was warm, dry, and softer than he expected. He'd never touched someone of her blood status, at least not voluntarily. He pulled against her as she braced her foot on the seat box between his splayed legs. She blew out a hissed breath as he increased the pressure on her hand until he all but popped out of the box. As he stood, he heard a soft hiss of rending fabric and the coolness of the night air on his back. Granger slid her wand out of the wrist holster she wore and the horror and terror of the last two years came rushing back to him.
…the night he had failed to kill Dumbledore… the headmaster's blank eyes staring into his… the flight from Hogwarts with Snape and the others… the punishment for his failure…raids with screaming and blood amidst fire... Aunt Bella's mad screams of mirth… Father… who had always been so strong, emasculated in front of his family… grovelling and finally turning to strong spirits to ease his mind… Crabbe… poor Crabbe, his eyes seeking help even as the Fiendfyre devoured him… the screams and acrid stench of spells, lights flashing across his retinas in dizzying rapidity… the rich organic scent of bowel, blood and piss…
Without conscious thought, Draco had his wand drawn even though he couldn't remember doing it. He had leant into Granger and put that wand against her throat, the pulse of her carotid ticking erratically against it. His breath came in harsh, juddering gasps, his hand ached from the tightness with which he gripped his wand. Granger said in a strangely calm and soothing tone,"Draco, it's not real. What you're seeing… it's over. Breathe with me."
She placed her hand on top of his, drawing his wand away from her throat. He jerked his eyes upwards, meeting her sympathetic gaze. She took a deep breath through her nose and blew it out through her mouth. "Like this."
Draco attempted to join the soft rhythm of her breathing, concentrating on it as he had done when learning to occlude his mind after reading about the practice in the manor's extensive library. He could feel the cold sweat that had formed on his brow and down his back congeal in the crisp night air. He could smell the powdery, girlish scent of Granger's perfume. He concentrated on those two things until his mind calmed and his visions retreated. He drew his hand from beneath hers, "You too?"
"Yes." It was all she had to say.
As he collapsed on the seat next to her his knees still weak, she said, "Take off your robes. I can repair the rip for you."
's why she drew her wand, and then the sarcastic bastard that lived in his brain added, She really is a fucking Gryffindor.
He cast her a filthy look but did as she bade. Something had changed for them in that brief moment between breaths. He would have to think on just what it meant.
The carriage started moving with a jingle of the harnesses. Draco glanced up at the thestral that he'd been trying to ignore. He was sorry that he could see it, but he was struck with the realisation that he was sorrier that Granger could. She handed him his robes without a word. He took them, touching the seamlessly repaired garment where she had mended them. If he concentrated he thought he just might feel Granger's gentle magic lingering.
They made their way to the castle in silence.
