A/N: This was written about six months before the release of Deathly Hallows, so it is not compliant. I posted it somewhere on livejournal, but never here, so I thought 'what the hell.' I tweaked it a little, but it's basically in its original state. This will probably be the last D/Hr story I ever post. Please review!

Jean

She was sitting out on the porch bench the first time he saw her. At least, since everything had happened. Her knees were pulled up to her chest, one arm holding her legs close, the other lying lazily at her side, a smoking cigarette in hand. Her eyes were downcast, almost blank. The fiery passion he had once seen there was gone. Perhaps forever. Her hair was pulled back at her neck. It was just as unkempt as he remembered, perhaps more so. A cane was leaning against the bench, he wondered why it was there.

He watched as she pulled the cigarette up to her lips and took a long, slow, drag. She set it down just as slowly, and he watched the white wisps float slowly away into nothingness. He wondered why she didn't seem to be cold. A blizzard was raging mere yards from her, yet she hardly noticed, clad only in a thin, dark blue jacket and jeans.

She didn't notice anything anymore, it appeared. Hadn't looked up once when he had entered from the back door and crept delicately onto the porch. He had been observing her for several minutes, when –

"Malfoy," she said, not sparing him a glance.

He started, taken aback at her sudden acknowledgement of his presence. "Didn't think you'd be one to come here," she continued. He felt a strange twinge of annoyance at her superior air.

"Neither did I. Turns out I'm not made for life after war," he said finally.

"No one is. It's something you get used to."

"Well, I couldn't."

"Neither could I, why do you think I'm here?" she said sharply, turning away from him further.

He was hit by a stab of pity for her that he pushed aside. He spared no emotions for anyone but himself anymore, as they were so rare these days.

Draco looked back to the door leading inside. He hoped no one would interrupt them. He had so much to say to her, so much to ask…

They were living, or rather, Draco was about to live in, a house of recluse. It was built for survivors of the war who couldn't deal with having a regular life again. Draco had tried and failed to go back to normal for years after his trial, then decided he had no other choice but to join the likes of Bill and Fred Weasley, Lupin, Snape, and Hermione. Differences were put aside in the house, because everyone understood each other's reasons for residing there, as they shared them. They hardly spoke to one another, and didn't mind it much. It was like being alone with the occasional appearance of ghosts rather than people. It was his kind of life.

A moment passed before he decided to speak again.

"How did you know it was me? Did you see me coming?" He sat down on the bench beside her, wringing his gloved hands.

Unexpectedly, she looked up at him, staring at a point just above his shoulder.

"Look me in the eye, Hermione," Draco demanded.

She winced, then said simply, "I can't," a hint of a smile gracing her lips.

He didn't understand. But then he grabbed her chin and pulled her face to parallel his; what he saw startled him. Her eyes were a shocking light blue instead of her unique deep brown. The pupils were almost non-existent.

"You're blind," he gasped, trying to hide his surprise, trying to hide his disgust, trying to hide another sudden burst of pity.

"Got there, have you? There are some scars magic can't heal," she said, pushing away his hand and bringing the cigarette to her lips again. She looked supremely unconcerned at his badly concealed reaction. "And it isn't Hermione anymore. It's Jean," she added briskly.

"You… You changed your name?" Draco whispered, unsure if he could take any more change.

"Yes, in so many words. It's my middle name. I go by Jean now. I don't want to be Hermione Granger anymore. I want to be a new person, I want to start over."

"Hasn't worked yet, has it?" he said slyly.

"I must forget the past, Malfoy," she said resolutely.

"You can't forget the past, Hermione. Jean," said Draco fiercely. "That's why it's the past, it's always there. I know from experience."

"Why not?"

"Because it happened! Because it determines who you are! Even if I were to obliviate you this very moment, it won't make you happy again! You'll still lead the same miserable life. The only difference is that you wouldn't know why you're unhappy. You'd be going from bad to worse."

"Maybe I don't care. Maybe I just don't fucking care anymore…" said Jean, closing her eyes, as if to block out the world and all the pain and sorrow that went with it.

They stayed still like that for a moment. Draco, watching the storm rage, Jean, watching nothing at all. Her small, delicate hand twitched beside him, dragging itself along the bench, searching for something. He reached out with a gloved hand and touched it. She latched on instantly, holding tight to the wool.

Draco stroked her deathly cold and pale skin with his thumb, reminding himself that he was only doing this because she asked him to, not because he wanted to. But it became more difficult as he fought the urge to take it with both hands… Bring it to his lips…

No, no, no… No good can come of digging up the past.

The past…

Memories stirred behind his eyes, memories of the war… Many nights together behind closed doors… Secrets he could not afford to reveal but did anyway… Nights he had tried relentlessly to forget… Moments that had cropped up in his dreams, and in his waking hours for years after they had occurred, those deep, dark brown eyes that followed him everywhere. But those brown eyes didn't even exist anymore.

He knew he had been waiting for a chance to speak with her for a long time, always subconsciously planning out what he was going to say to her. And now she was here, and they were both together, yet his lips could not form the words.

Perhaps it was because of everything that had happened since they last met. So much had changed. The Hermione he once knew was no more. The Hermione he had come so close to falling in love with was not the same, and would likely never be the same again. And he had also changed. Was he the same Draco Malfoy to which Hermione had confessed her most desperate sins? The same Malfoy and Granger who spent hours under the covers, laughing, crying, telling stories, telling the dreadful truth?

There was nothing to prove that the current Malfoy and Jean would share the same connection. Nothing that could bring back the only happiness he had had in his life. The one thing that had kept him alive. The one woman.

How he wanted her back…

And as he sat with that woman now, hand in hand, not a word of this was spoken. He gave her hand a small squeeze, which she returned, hoping that it had communicated everything he could not bring himself to say.

"Have you suffered much since I last saw you?" she asked suddenly. "Since before the final battle?"

"Physically?" he asked, noting her own damage.

"Anything."

"Sure I have. Not so much physically, I was lucky. But I saw things that I can't bear to think about now. Things that have certainly affected me, changed me in some way. Like what happened to Weasley." Draco had personally witnessed what had been done to him by a masked Death Eater. There were things worse than the Cruciatus.

"Ron's lucky he's alive," said Hermione. "He's still got significant scars and burns, but at least he's living."

"What's he doing now?"

"He got married, he has a family. Somewhere in the country. He's happy."

"Oh," he said, not pressing her. He could tell by her bitter tone that it wasn't a pleasant subject. He had always suspected that their relationship was more than friendly, but whatever came of it, or if anything did, Draco had no idea. "And Potter?"

"I haven't spoken to him in ages. He's reclusive. Doesn't want to be around anyone."

"But he's a hero," said Draco, puzzled, who had expected Potter to bask in the glory of defeating the Dark Lord.

"He doesn't want to be. Never wanted any of it. He just… can't stand the attention anymore, I suppose."

"Then why isn't he here?"

"You'll have to ask him. No idea."

"Thanks, but I'll pass," he said. He thought he saw a flicker of a smile grace her lips, but it faded as a particularly icy gust of wind rushed through the porch where they sat.

"You should go inside. You're cold."

"No, I'm not," said Jean, turning slightly away from him.

"Yes, you are, of course you are," he said, exasperatedly.

"I don't mind the winter. It's a bit cold, yes, but at least I feel something. The harsh wind blowing through me, and the ice coating me like… like a vine. On a brick wall, or something. I'm awful at describing it, but you get the idea."

She said it so earnestly, so honestly, that he could not help but smile. At least a hint of the old Hermione remained.

"I guess I just never really liked it. The muddy slush and the snow –"

"But the snow is the best part!" she gasped. "How you feel it on your skin, small bursts of cold when you least expect it…" She was truly glowing now, in the way he remembered.

He almost laughed.

"You have to at least give it a chance," Jean pouted, one hand on her hip, the cigarette now resting in the snow below them, forgotten. "Here, just do what I do."

He watched her, mesmerized. She stood up gingerly, groping for her cane and ambling toward the edge of the porch. He followed her, feeling nervous for her health, braced to catch her if she should fall. Jean closed her eyes and tilted her head upward, slightly. Then suddenly she threw her arms out into the air, the blizzard positively enveloping her now until all he could see was her mane of hair, flapping around in the severe winds.

Her cane clattered to the floor, he reached to pick it up.

"Don't," she said, anticipating his move. "Now do what I do."

Hesitantly, he stood beside her and held his arms like hers, though in a half-hearted way. He felt extremely stupid.

"Now close your eyes." He did so.

"Nothing's happening," said Draco impatiently, getting colder by the second.

"Wait," she said, so quietly, he barely heard her. "Just wait."

Then immediately, as though she had called for it, a gust of ice and snow and wind and rain ripped its way through the porch, directly at Draco, directly through Draco. He was stunned momentarily as his very insides seemed to freeze from the cold, but then, suddenly, he didn't feel it anymore.

He was being swept away from all his troubles and horrific memories. From his sad present and devastating past. From an inevitable future that he knew he could not avoid.

All he saw was the face of Hermione Granger, from inside his own head. The very world had dropped out from underneath him, but he didn't care. She would never let him fall. It was Hermione, just Hermione, beaming at him.

And not even the old Hermione, he was shocked to realize, but the present one he knew was still there. Yes, she was maimed beyond comprehension, but Hermione was still there somewhere. And he would do his damn best to get her out.

And maybe… Just maybe… She would help him along too.