A/N Hello everyone! This is the first fan fic I am posting, so bare with me as I try to figure out the logistics of actually posting it correctly. Oh, and of course I don't own anything in the Harry Potter world, as lovely as that would be. Anyway, enjoy!


Chapter 1: The decision

"Crucio!"

Hermione felt her entire body course with pain as a scream was ripped from her lungs. She lay gasping as it stopped, but the pain was quickly replaced with fear as the wild eyed woman approached. The madwoman grasped her arm and pointed her wand. Hermione screamed again as a word was etched into her flesh.

"No!" she screamed, bolting upright in her bed. In a panic she took stock of her surroundings. Bookshelf, lamp, cozy maroon armchair. She was home in her flat. Taking a breath she willed herself to loosen her clutch on the blanket.

"Get a grip Hermione," she told herself. It had been three years since the war had ended, but the dreams still came every night, always about that horrible night in Malfoy Manor. Some nights she only saw Bellatrix's crazed eyes, some nights it happened exactly how it had that night, and some dreadful nights brought new terrors that hadn't actually occurred. However no matter how detailed the rest of the dream was, they all ended the same way. Subconsciously she gripped her arm, her mind still thinking of her flesh being carved with that horrible word. Mudblood. She tried not to be ashamed of the word emblazoned into her flesh, telling herself that she should be proud she survived. Not all were as lucky as she in that respect. Yet she still found it hard to look at word and nearly always covered it if possible. The memory was still so fresh, she preferred not to relive it if she could avoid it. She did enough of that at night.

Hermione shook herself slightly, trying to will the dream to loosen its grip on her. Little did she know miles away someone else was trying to shake the very same dream.


Draco Malfoy was pacing in his room. Three years, he thought. It had been three full years since he had watched in horror as his aunt tortured his classmate. Or was it four? He had lost all sense of time now that his days mainly consisted of pacing his home. He no longer stayed in the Manor. He hadn't gone back after the war. Whatever happy memories might have lived there were blown to bits that night. He shivered at the thought of even stepping foot in there again. And what reason did he have anyway? His mother had been killed in the final battle, and his father was rotting away in Azkaban. He was just thankful that his family owned this small, well in Malfoy terms anyway, house in the countryside near London. He had hoped to escape the memories there, but it hadn't worked. Nearly every night for three years, or was it four, he dreamt of that awful night.

His pacing grew more frenzied as the memories came flooding back. He had been living in hell for quite some time already when she was flung on the ground. Up until then he had been doing as he was told, fearing for his life and for his family's. He had already screwed up too big to screw up again. Then he saw her. He had not been able to move, fearing his insane aunt too much to do anything useful. And then those brown eyes caught his, and Merlin help him, in that moment he had wished he had the Gryffindor bravery.

He hadn't seen her since, not really. He had seen her across the battlefield in passing, he had seen her picture in the Daily Prophet, but had not really seen her properly since that night. The night that had changed him forever. A part of him had always questioned the prejudices that had been handed down to him, but he was a Malfoy and Malfoy's were expected to behave in a certain way. So in order to convince himself as well as his father that he was really a true Malfoy, he was a little prat to everyone. It was expected of him to uphold certain standards, and the few times he did slip he paid for it dearly. So he never slipped. He just put on the cool mask of indifference he was trained to use. But that night, the few fragile threads holding him to those beliefs shattered. This was a girl who had intelligence and magical ability far above many of the Purebloods that he knew, and she was being tortured because her parents had the wrong kind of blood. In a sudden flash of clarity he saw all the Pureblood superiority talk was rubbish. He had been fighting an inner battle with himself for years, trying to hold on to at least some of those beliefs so he could still hold some respect for his father, but that night it vanished. His goal from that point on had been to get his mother out of that war alive. In order to do that, it meant keeping his head down. He certainly had no intention of helping in any way, but he wasn't exactly sure he could outright oppose with without getting his mother killed either. But Merlin he wished he could stop his aunt that night. He knew any reaction from him would have meant her instant death, but it didn't stop him from feeling like the coward responsible for her pain. He wondered for the millionth time if she was alright. He wondered if she had moved on from the happenings in the Manor, or if she was as trapped there as he was.

In that moment, he made up his mind. He would do the thing he had toyed with for at least a year, the thing he swore he would never do, as much for his sake as hers. After three years of nightmares it was the only thing he could think of that could possibly make them stop. He would find Hermione Granger and see that she was ok with his own eyes.