Nothing is mine, except maybe the order of the words. J.K.R. gets all the credit here.

She awoke to the golden glow of early morning sunshine filtering through an old orange curtain. The quiet of the morning lulled her into a state of calm. Not genuine calm, like that of a warm summers night. No, this was the calm before a storm. Or rather, after a storm. This was the calm of a wind that had just passed after stirring the leaves, or the calm of a tornado seen leaving behind the debris of a home destroyed. It was not truly calm, but frantic in its need to survey the damage.

As she laid there in quiet in the morning, she tried to pull herself out of the unnatural quiet in her mind by focusing on her surroundings. The way the light shone through the curtains to the ground littered with clothes. The warmth under the blankets. The weight of the pale freckled arm hanging at her waist. The gentle hum of quiet activity filtering up from the ground level, where surely at least one or two people were already up and about. She tried her best to focus in on something, anything to pull here from this unnatural, unhealthy calm. Numb more like.

Time passed. She wasn't quite sure how long, but enough for the beam of light to pass from a single pink converse across to a pair of ripped stonewash jeans. The body at her back moved a time or two, but never startled from its slumber. Her muscles began protesting the absence of movement from the typically frantic girl. She sat up slowly, as though trying to shake off unseen cobwebs from her still limbs. Mechanically she collected her scattered clothing and dressed. She hardly gave herself a once over in the mirror over the dresser as she picked up her wand lying on top before she turned to begin the morning descent of the seemingly endless stairs of the Burrow.

Approaching the ground floor, her nose alerted her to the nearly overpowering smell of fresh made pancakes with an assortment of undertones: coffee and maple syrup, bacon and the tangy scent of Fleur's rose jam. She felt the overwhelming urge to keep moving, however, and so only waved to the assembled group around the kitchen table as she powered through to the back doors of the cozy home.

She had no conscious destination, so allowed her feet to guide her across the garden riddled with gnomes, toward the gate at the far end leading out to the fields of gently stirring wheat. She walked slowly, thoughtfully it would seem, but in reality her trek was far from thoughtful. Her mind was numb and blank. Somewhere deep in her mind there was an acknowledgement that this walk was an attempt to see something that would startle her from her numbness. Anything beside this feeling of being removed. Not connected to anything...

Her walk was seemingly endless that morning. First across the expansive fields of wheat surrounding the rickety structure she had claimed as home for the last month. When she felt the need for a change of scenery, she Apparated to a long stretch of solitary coastline, just north of Shell Cottage. She walked along in the surf for awhile, then Apparated away again. She was looking for something, she felt, but she wasn't entirely sure what.

She continued this sporadic cycle of walk, Apparate, walk, Apparate, visiting numerous haunts she had claimed as her own. The park down the street from her parent's home growing up, the rough hiking path leading to Sirius' hideout outside of Hogsmeade, the restaurant that she had Apparated outside of when the three of them had begun their perilous journey for their lives. None seemed to satisfy that part of her mind that was looking for something. She Apparated to the alley near the Leaky Cauldron, just outside the music shop that abutted the magical storefront. She made to enter the small dingy hub leading to Diagon Alley, but upon facing the grimy door she couldn't seem to grasp the handle to enter. She spun on her heel and blindly walked through the milling crowds of the shopping district, leading she knew not where.

His eyes follow the beam of light hungrily as it leads from the small window at the top of the wall across the hall through the bars to the floor near his thigh. He should feel grateful, he thinks, having this small reminder of the outside world to cling to. He knows if things had gone as they usually do following the end of a magical war, he wouldn't even have this small reminder to cling to. He would instead be holed up in a dark, dank cell, wearing a threadbare prisoner's jumpsuit. Instead, he sits in his own clothes (dirty as they may be), in a dry, warm cell that has a window, even if it is across the hall. The irony is not lost on him. Some of the nation's most dangerous criminals holed up in this abandoned Muggle manufacturing building. It had been converted to a makeshift holding facility for the numerous Death Eaters captured after the end of the war. There are too many to hold in Azkaban, and even if they were fewer in number, the damage done to the magical prison by the escapees before the end of the war made it unwise to hold captives there.

This makeshift prison did it's job admirably, however. The Ministry decided that a large part of the reason there was a successful escape made was that the prisoners became familiar with the magics in and around the prison. They decided to go with a simple alternative- no magic at all in or around this building. It seemed to be effective, the boy considered. He had spent several days at the beginning of his confinement doing all he could to stretch his magic out to feel that familiar tingle he had grown up with. But he had no success. The warehouse was far removed from any magical communities, and the guards did all they could to avoid using magic. It was part of the punishment, this removal from all things magical. He felt perhaps this was the worst thing, aside from the solitude. Even the littlest tingle would be better than this.

As the young man inspects the long streak of sunshine at his side, he became aware of movement along the hallway. He doesn't bother raising his head. The long concrete hallway echoes, allowing him to hear footsteps long before the people making the noises arrive. One set he knows, being the purposeful footsteps of a regular guard. This particular guard walks with a slight limp from the war, yet somehow walks tall anyway. It always irritated the forlorn prisoner, knowing the guard could walk tall and proud, whereas he could barely muster the wherewithal to hang his head.

The pair of feet accompanying the guard's were softer, somehow devoid of the purpose inherent in the guards gait. He almost wanted to look to see who this person with him was, and where they could possibly be going. Rarely do visitors come through this particular cell block, if it can even be considered such. Besides, the only person to see him since his arrest was his mother, and she would never be seen out of the house without heels. This particular visitor lacked that distinctive step.

His eyes came to focus when he heard the uneven feet of the visitors chair scrape decisively against the cold stone outside his cell. Not much brought him from his stupor these days, as he was resigned to his fate of rotting in Azkaban once it was rebuilt, but the rarity of visitors had him focusing his eyes for the first time in hours, even if he wasn't lifting his head to see who it was. To his utter amazement, it turns out he didn't even need to raise his head to find out. Shockingly enough, the soft and familiar voice of Hermione Granger carried to Draco the words of thanks uttered by the unexpected visitor to the guard who placed the visitors chair in front of the cell for her.

The absurdity it would be her caused his head to rise almost reflexively, and as he did so he saw the guard nod in recognition of the bushy-haired girl's thanks, then turn and walk a reasonable distance so he would be far enough away not to overhear the meeting, but close enough so that he could jump in should a situation arise. Not that the guard in this case was necessary, as Granger would be finished taking care of the problem before the guard even noticed there was one.

As she sat, the rickety chair wobbled about and squeaked, so she shifted her weight to the front, looking ready at any moment to bolt up if the chair unexpectedly disintegrated. After a moment he could see her realization that, though seemingly decrepit, the chair was likely able to hold her weight, so she leaned her torso back and reclined in a stance of seeming relaxation. He knew better, however. He had never truly seen this particular girl be anything near truly relaxed, and this was certainly not an occasion he would expect her to be relaxed.

He allowed himself to observe her, as she seemed to be doing the same to him. His eyes followed hers for a moment, as they perused his cell. He felt the skin on the back of his neck tighten in embarrassment as her eyes inspected the meager contents of his cell. He knew she could read more from the placement of the items he had collected than most people, and he was curious what she saw. What would she think of the untouched muggle razor on the edge of the sink, or of the lack of books on the single shelf above the toilet, he wondered. As he decided he would rather not know the answers to those particular questions, he allowed himself to take in the rest of her, besides her eyes.

Hermione Granger had never been much into fashion, and she confirmed it again with her clothes that day. A light flowery blouse peaked out from a drab olive colored sweater several sizes too large. A pair of loose overalls and pink plimsolls completed the look. Her hair was a unruly as ever, framing her head in such a way that it resembled a brunette halo. And her face was just as unmade as he would expect of her. The look on her face was far more contemplative than he would expect of her, even if she was considered the brightest witch of her age. It held some burning question, he thought. It made her eyes sparkle, he grudgingly admitted. She must not realize what expression she exhibited. Did she even look in the mirror this morning?

Several minutes passed in silence as they contemplated one another. Growing up with each other in school gave them a deep insight into each others habits and mannerisms, even if they resisted the idea. She noticed the changes several weeks in an isolation cell had done to him. The pale skin characteristic of his family looked several shades lighter from the dim light. The facial hair she'd only ever seen as a light stubble, that she remembered seeing first in Arithmancy fifth year when they were forced to work on a project together had grown out a bit. As her eyes scanned his cell, she realized why- he must not now how to use a muggle razor. The sharp knuckles of his long hands had several bruises and a couple old scabs, matched by a small smear of blood on the wall of his cell, near the empty shelf above the loo.

After some time had passed, she realized that he would never deign to start speaking first. She has no idea what to say, as she has no idea why she's here to begin with. But, it seemed she wouldn't have to begin the conversation.

"Why?"

Now that he broke the silence, she realizes the answer will determine how the rest of their interactions go for years to come. She also realized what an insane notion it was, deciding as she wandered through the congested streets of London to come to this place. She was a bit out of her depth here, she acknowledged to herself. So the silence dragged on.

The blond repeated himself. "Why'd you come, Granger?"

Her eyes seemed to focus back on him from some far distance, even if she was already gazing at his face.

"To… thank you." If she had just proposed marriage, his face couldn't have shown more shock. For him, of course, the shock took the form of a single raised eyebrow. He would never allow his emotions to write themselves on his face like she did.

"What for?"

What for indeed. She wasn't really sure what for herself, let alone the herculean task of explaining it to someone else, especially the man she spoke to. She just shakes her head, eyes still alight with that curious burning light she held throughout the mutual examination.

"I don't know why I'm here. Of late I've taken to long walks, I think somehow to allow me to sort the tangled mess of thoughts I carry with me since... well, since as long as I can remember. But since the end of the war, they've grown stifling, almost numbing, and I can't seem to find an outlet. Walking seems to help. Aimlessly, for hours. And somehow I ended up here."

He squinted his eyes at her, allowing them to burrow into hers, trying to gauge the truth of her statement. She holds the eye contact, unwaveringly, even if it seems to make her uncomfortable. Very few things made her uncomfortable, he knew, and he always felt proud of the fact he was one of the things that threw this girl into discomfort. She shakes her head in frustration and incredulity, looking around his cell as she answers.

"I… don't know what compelled me to come here. I didn't really consider where I was going or what I was doing until I sat down in this chair. I don't even know if I have a reason to be here, so I haven't prepared some elaborate speech for you."

She breathed out, looking at him once more. "I don't know what I want to say to you. Do I want to thank you for not outing Harry and Ron and I that night over Easter Hols? Or do I want to remind you of bullying me endlessly for every aspect of my being for the last seven years? Do I want to rub in your face the fact that you are finally getting the comeuppance you so righteously deserve? I really don't know, and I hate not knowing."

He can't help himself as he responds, knowing that what he's about to say won't do him any favors in the long run. "Stupid little Mudblood, can't even come up with an excuse for why she's here."

Her eyes narrow, but the flushed cheeks he associates with calling her that slur don't appear. She seems more or less unaffected by the derogatory term. Her reply is cool, but collected. "That word has no power Malfoy, you may as well just stop using it."

His reply comes faster than sh'd expect given the cadence of their conversation so far. "What do you expect, Granger? That overnight all my beliefs will overturn, that every bit of what made me who I am, the man I've become will just be swept away and I'll be left a clean slate? Get it through your thick mudblood skull Granger. I. Will. Never. Change."

She looked at him, into him, through his eyes hot with fury and into his soul. She didn't know what she saw, and neither did he. But her cutting gaze gave away the fact she really didn't know why she was here, gave away the fact she was looking for answers just as much as he. So when she opened her mouth in retort, he knew it was the raw truth she shared. She hadn't the luxury of forethought.

"I don't expect you to change. I don't expect anything of you, really. You either will remain the same spoilt, elitist, pureblood prat you've always been, or you won't. What you do has very little impact on me.

"But you will change Malfoy. It's inevitable. Like the moon and the tides. If I know anything about you, or the Malfoy's, it's that you will do just about anything in the name of self preservation. You nearly killed a man for it. Your father followed an obviously imbalanced, Half-Blood liar for it. It runs in your blood, this self-preservation. It's a whole new world Malfoy, and you'll have to change if you want to survive. How you do that, however, is entirely up to you.

"I may never be your friend Malfoy, but here's a bit of friendly advice. Use this opportunity. Better the name Malfoy in the process, if you can. It's not impossible, however it may seem in the dim light of this cell, but it will be if you don't try. I'm not saying you should donate your vault's contents and fight for muggleborns rights. Anything but. If you did that no one would ever believe you, or your motives. Start small. Fuck, just use the manners your mother undoubtedly taught you if you don't know where to start.

"You're a smart guy Malfoy. Not just in book learning, but in other ways as well. You wouldn't have made it out alive of this stupid unnecessary war if you weren't. So use some of that to focus on building something better rather than bitching about how things have changed. It's not like you're all bad Malfoy. I've seen you around the castle for six years, don't you think I've grown to recognize your ways? It's not as if you're lacking in common decency. I've seen how Pansy has never touched a door in your presence because it's always held for her. Or how, even with Millicent, you will hold a girl's hand as they exit a carriage. So I know you're not always a prat, that it's a choice.

"It's like I said Malfoy. What you do has very little impact on my life. But it does affect yours. So even if I don't know why I'm here, while I am here I may as well suggest you do something about it.

Just then Hermione turned her head to her left, focusing on something just outside Malfoy's field of view from where he still sat propped against the back wall of his cell. Murmurs of words not quite heard filtered in from where Hermione looked, so Draco assumed the guard had returned to collect her. He watched her head nod to the visitor then swivel back to face him. She stood without preamble, and turned to go. Somehow, it didn't sit right with him, letting her leave without a final parting shot.

"Granger," he said. She stopped in her tracks, surprised that he said anything after her rambling lecture, expecting he would just let her leave after the unexpected visit. 'It's not as though we're friends,' she thought, as she took him in. He looked nearly as surprised at calling out to her as she felt by it. His eyes narrowed, automatically moving into attack mode to hide his surprise. Her next word cut him off before he could start.

"Malfoy." She nodded to him, allowing a single moment of prolonged eye contact as a farewell. He returned the gesture, so slightly that if she weren't looking for it, the nod would have escaped her.

She turned and followed the guard out the way she came. Malfoy listened as the footsteps grew fainter until he was returned to the lonely silence of just a few minutes before. This silence had become somehow less familiar in time it was absent. His gaze dropped from the wall just beyond where Hermione's head was when they bid their barely civil farewell, to the rickety metal chair that had been left dead center outside his cell, just out of reach. After a few minutes, regarding the nondescript piece of furniture, his gaze dropped back to the sunbeam he had noticed before the interruption. It had moved a couple inches to the left, nearly touching the rumpled linen of his slacks.

His mind, which for weeks now had seemed on a permanent hiatus following the end of the war, started slowly to turn again. His first fully formed thought was, "I have a lot to think about. Damn Granger and her rationality. I was just fine before you came by, drowning in my self-made out of despair. I could have kept on in way indefinitely, but noooo, you just have to show up and... Merlin. I really do have a lot to consider.

He figured there were worse things. Being pulled out of your mental numbness, regardless of the reason, is never a bad thing. And how bad could it be, anyway? It was his birthday after all.

Thanks for reading. More to come. It's my first time posting, so be gentle!