A/N: All the characters belong to Rowling, of course. This is a friendship one-shot; no romance here, sorry. I promise I'll write something romantic eventually. This didn't go entirely the way I had intended it to, but I still think it turned out alright.
One-shot with Draco Malfoy and Hermione Granger, from Draco's POV. Let's just assume they became friends after the Battle, because this is set around a year after it, and it takes place in Number 12, Grimmauld Place. Read and review; I hope you enjoy it!
"There are some families in the Wizarding World that consider themselves better than others because of so-called 'purity of blood.'"
Purity of Blood
"Hermione?" I call, pushing open the door to the ancient Number 12, Grimmauld Place, where she, Harry, and Ron had taken up residence shortly after the Battle.
The door creaks slightly on its hinges, filling the near-silence with a rather aggravating squeaky noise.
"Hermione?" I call again, louder this time.
I follow the sound of sniffling. It leads me down the hallway. I wave my wand to ignite the gas lamps lining the walls as I make my way into the living room. She's sitting on the floor in front of the fireplace, her bushy hair disheveled and her pale features illuminated by the flickering inferno.
I can hear her sniffling, crying softly. She's either refusing to acknowledge my presence, or she truly didn't hear me come in. I'm guessing it's the second one.
"Hermione, what's wrong?" I whisper, crossing the floor and sitting in front of her, my knees tucked to my chest. I keep a good amount of space between us, just in case. Sometimes she has no problem being near me; other days, she can't even hug Harry without suffering a mild panic attack. I suppose that's the sort of thing war does to people.
She quickly wipes her eyes on the sleeve of her jumper. "What do you want, Draco?" she hisses.
She glares at me and her dark brown eyes bore into mine. I see the girl she was before the Battle. The one who loathed me with a burning passion. Sometimes I think she still does, just…not as much. But that's something, and I don't ask for much from her. I'm content with our growing friendship; I'm willing to be grateful for small mercies.
"I want you to talk to me," I say, softening my voice as much as I possibly can.
"About what?" she responds. I hear some anger and a note of suspicion in her voice, like she's still unsure of my trustworthiness. Part of me can't blame her for that.
"Why are you crying?"
Suddenly, she's not looking at me anymore. In fact, she's looking anywhere but at me. Her eyes dart around the room, hitting all the mundane objects lying around it. The stack of spellbooks on the table, the old photograph of The Marauders framed on the wall, the little pot of Floo powder on the mantel of the fireplace.
After a long pause, she speaks again. "It's nothing really."
"You know you can talk to me."
Another pause. A heavy sigh. "I know."
She fidgets nervously for a moment. I can practically see the gears turning inside her head, the cognitive dissonance tearing at her thoughts. She takes a deep breath and moves her hair, tossing it all over one shoulder and tilting her neck back.
There's a long, thin, grey scar stretching across it, marring the pale skin. With a pang, I remember Bellatrix torturing her in my own living room. I remember standing there, pretending nothing out of the ordinary was happening as her howls of agony filled the house.
"Hermione," I breathe. I fight my own inner struggle for a long moment before finally deciding to reach out and run a finger across the scar. "I'm sorry."
"It wasn't your fault," she says softly. I feel her throat vibrate beneath the pads of my fingers.
I hold out my arms to her, wondering if she'll take the invitation, if now is too soon, too painful. She looks uneasy, but she inches forward, wrapping her arms around my neck. I hold her to myself like I'm afraid she'll slip through my arms if I don't grasp her tightly enough.
"I remember it so vividly sometimes…" she starts, but her voice trails off as she buries her head into my chest.
"I remember the most important thing," I say, tracing over the scar again and stopping over her carotid artery. Her pulse throbs beneath my fingers as her heart pumps the blood I used to call dirty. "Your blood, Hermione. It was just as clean as mine."