page 2 of a letter

- put a plaque up outside Severus Snape's old classroom, can you believe it? We aren't doing Potions there anymore, which is a relief. I'm not sure I could sit in that room, surrounded by all his things, and not just wonder what he was thinking. I mean, all those years. Boggles the mind. Anyway. Neville's back, but I don't think he's all that pleased by the memorial. I found him there, his hand spread out over it, and he was breathing so hard I was afraid he'd pass out. I asked him if he wanted me to walk him up to the infirmary, but he said he was fine. The infirmary is out of most everything anyway. I got into a shoving match with Malfoy (also back, just my luck) and McGonagall decided for detention we have to work together to brew up replacement supplies. I can't believe she trusts him to not spit in them or something. I'll have to do all my work and watch him too because there is no way I'm letting him screw this up for me. M. threatened if I didn't serve these detentions with that prat I could leave. His parents must have thrown a ton of galleons to buy his way back here after everything he did. But since no one will be buying me any internships, I'm going to get enough N.E.W.T.s to prove –

. . . . . . . . . .

Meals are still tough. The past is the past is the past is right here next to you with its hand on your throat. You sit on the bench, worn smooth by hundreds of years of students. You have to put your back to the room. Every sound makes you stiller. Don't move. Listen. Scrape of spoon on platter. Food going onto the plates. Feet walking by. Turn your head, casually, to see who it is.

Malfoy.

Laughter from down the table. Things are becoming normal again. Heads jerk up less. Someone risks a joke. Happiness. You pour the juice because this is what people do. They sit and they eat and they choke down beef and potatoes and you count your blessings because you aren't measuring who's missing. No one is missing.

Only you are missing.

Only the dead are missing.

And the people who couldn't bear to come back are missing.

" – she has to serve detention with that godawful Malfoy, can you believe it?"

You look over to see who is speaking. Half-blood. Half-blood, so at risk. Half-blood, so she should keep her voice down. You don't want to be pulling her off of a rack later because Alecto heard her. Don't want to –

You bite your lip hard. Blood. Iron. It's over. She can gossip. Blood status doesn't matter now. It never mattered. It mattered so much people died.

The girl sees you looking at her, and she drops her voice. The beef smells. It's making your stomach turn. You can still hear her. You taught yourself to hear everything. Slosh of juice. Footsteps. Bang of plates. Whispers. "It's not like I care. I mean, it's just Granger.If it weren't for the way she latched onto Potter and Weasley, she'd be a nobody."

"Right?" That got another laugh. Hermione had never been well liked, not by girls.

"But Malfoy." Disgust in her voice. "Glad it's not me."

The smell of dinner is too much. You're going to be sick. Stomach heaving. Taste of bile, burning in the back of your throat. Swallow it down. Acid. Chair shoved back, wood banging against the back of your legs. Grab your bag. Walk. Running attracts eyes. Don't run. Walk to the door. Walk quickly. The floor under your feet. Stones. Push. Clean air. Dust. Curious portraits. You inhale.

Theodore Nott walks by. You nod. He nods. He's as stuck here as Malfoy. No Mark on his arm, but a Death Eater parent. You always suspected, but the trial confirmed it. The Ministy stripped their sleeves at the trials, yanking them down to bare Death Eater flesh so the audience could gasp and recoil, loving the drama of it all. Nott's father. Malfoy's father. Malfoy. Meat, all of them, rancid meat prepared for the mases to consume. The war is over! Look at how we'll sacrifice these men to your vengeance! The crowd roars and the stench of their bodies washes over you.

Washed over you.

It's over.

Door opens.

Malfoy saunters out, pricey bag swinging from his hip. Nott must have told him you were out here. Pathetic you, sick at the smell of dinner.

"Shitty dinner tonight," he says.

"Boarding school food."

"I've got a bottle," he says. "That room on the third floor?"

"I wouldn't turn it down," you say. As close to a yes as you can manage. Sharp cheekbones break into a smile just as hard. Just as lost. Just as knowing.

Hermione Granger appears. Late. Running. You grab her arm before she goes in to dinner. "Don't," you say. They aren't her friends in there.

"Yeah, Granger," Malfoy says. His hard honesty is gone, replaced by a shell so fragile it begs to be shattered. "Come get pissed with us." He sneers. He rolls his eyes. Every line of his body tells her to go away. Dares her to stay. Maybe that's why she tightens her own frame into a wall of rage follows you both, up to a room she's never seen.

. . . . . . . . . .

Draco hadn't expected her to follow them. He didn't even want here there. Nott told him about Neville and one thing still lingered from the last year: you didn't let people drown. Not anyone. Not even if they were golden boys beloved by everyone. Not even if they were heroes.

Granger, however, could go hang.

But she didn't hang. She tromped up the stairs after them, face stretched into an expression that suggested she hated him just as much as he hated her. He was hateable, after all. Death Eater. Traitor. Coward. Anyone who hadn't known before knew after his horse and pony show trial. Some of the old crew held their Marks out defiantly when the Aurors ripped their sleeves off. True believers, no matter what. He'd turned his face away when they bared his, shame burning in cheeks too pale to hide a flush. The crowd loved that. His misery was far more fun than stoicism. They jeered even more when one of them caught sight of a tear he hadn't been able to hold back.

Cry baby! Pissant! Hope you like crying in Azkaban!

No Azkaban for him, though. Youth. Hope. A chance to feel good about themselves. Let us show mercy and see what he makes of it. So far what he'd made of it had been time served at Hogwarts, no wand, and detention with Hermione Granger. Not, perhaps, the best accounting for his sins.

Drinking with Hermione Granger. Was that a way to atone? He was going to suffer, sure enough, so it better count. Maybe she'd get drunk enough he could weasel his way into a kiss, into a hand slid over a breast. One of the punishments for his crimes turned out to be celibacy and he wasn't a fan. And she was pretty enough. More than pretty enough.

Neville spread his hand across the wooden door of their old refuge and Draco waited. The room wouldn't open for just anyone. It had to like you. Neville it had always liked. Him, sometimes. Ginny Weasley, oddly enough, never, though it would let her in if someone else held the door. A click, an open lock, and the door swung wide.

"What's this?" Granger pushed her way past them both into what had been hideout and infirmary, rest stop and sanctuary.

"It's a room," Draco said. "Castles have them, or so I'm told." He flung himself down into one of the dark couches that littered the place. Dust had coated everything when they'd first found it, and, after a summer of neglect, it had begun to settle again. Elves didn't come here. Not elves. Not professors. Not Death Eaters.

Well, except for him.

Neville found a tray of old glasses, all cadged from the Dining Hall, and sniffed at one of them before deciding to rinse it out. A little aguamenti and a quick slosh and it was good enough. None of them were going to be too nice about a little grime and the fire whiskey would sterilize most anything.

Neville sat and Draco did a quick pour. A pair of shots were thrown back, and then another round. Granger was sipping at hers, face screwed up against the burn and Draco felt unreasonably annoyed with her. This wasn't some sort of rotgut, brewed in someone's basement. He always brought Ogden's Finest. No one turned away a man with good booze, not in wartime. Not even if he was on the other side, or supposed to be, or believed to be. Alcohol made friends.

"You're supposed to swallow it," he said. "Not swish it around your mouth."

She did, and her eyes began to water, and she tried to cover up the spate of coughing that overtook her. He laughed and filled her glass again. "Second one's easier," he said. "Third one'll feel like a kiss."

She threw back the second, her eyes never leaving his, and held the glass out for a third. He filled it, set the bottled down, and tipped his head back so it rested against the back of the couch. "You okay?" he asked. The question wasn't for Granger, and, wonder of wonders, she seemed to know it.

Neville's laugh was short. Clipped. It was the same sound he made every time Draco had peeled him up off the floor and poured a potion down his gullet. "I'll be fine," he said. The same old lie. "You?"

"Screw it, I'm rich. Who gives a fuck?"

The pair of them clinked their glasses together as Granger looked on. "What is it?" Draco asked crossly, as if he couldn't tell by the way she screwed up her face. The way she looked from Neville to him. Her shock. Maybe she thought Neville had lost his mind somewhere over that year. She might not be far off. The Carrows broke things. They broke things and people and him and probably Neville too. Not Ginny. The fearless ginger had a spine to her, and she slid between the shadows. Darkness couldn't touch her. But the pair of them, sitting together on an old couch? Broken into bits.

"I didn't know you two were friends," she said. "That's all."

Draco finished round two and helped himself to a third before setting the bottle at his feet. "Everyone who survived last year is friends of a sort," he said. Friends. Brothers. Some had let it go more easily, and if they woke at night screaming, well, they walked the halls in the day without too much trouble. They took jobs and sat exams and planned weddings and screwed their brains out because they would go on. They would live. They wouldn't think about Unforgivables, or how to do them. How you could come to like them.

Sometimes he could still feel the words on his lips. Imperio. Crucio.

He suspected Neville did too.

Not Ginny Weasley. Not Luna Lovegood. Not the dozens who would make it out okay. But he did. Neville? Probably. He was too haunted to not.

Did Potter? Did Granger?

"We aren't friends," she said.

Neville answered that. "You weren't here." The words were harsh, so harsh Draco might have been afraid to say them. Trust Neville to charge in. Fear wasn't his weakness, never had been.

"I was -."

"Busy, yeah," Neville said. "Malfoy was here. You weren't. Harry wasn't. Ron wasn't. He was. I was."

"He's a Death Eater," she said. It was the only condemnation she needed.

Neville shrugged, dismissing that. "And you're a Muggle-born."

"And here we are, drinking together, one happy family," Draco said. The fire whiskey had begun to do its magic. The edges of his rage began to dull, and the despair seeped away. It would be fine. The worst was over. "Anyone wanna fuck?"

Neville laughed. "You won't respect me in the morning," he said, "So I'm out."

Draco laughed too. "Who says I respect you now?"

Granger had her lips pressed tightly together, holding in the words he could tell she was desperate to say. He wondered if she tasted like rage or contempt or both.

. . . . . . . . . .

from page 3 of a letter

- remedy. I've never needed two doses before. Trying to drink it all away, I guess. I'm worried about Neville, but it was nice of him to warn me about the gossip. Ugh. I hate girls. I wish Ginny had come back, I'd be less lonely, but, seeing Neville, I understand why she doesn't want to. He's different. Really different. I think that year, while we were on the run, was a lot worse than anyone wants to talk about. But I'm so excited Harry is going to come up to see McGonagall and say hullo! I wish you could make it too but I know it's hard to get out of work, and everyone is always willing to make allowances for him because of what he did. All my love, and I'll see you and Ginny both when I'm home for the Christmas holiday!

xxxooo

~ Hermione

. . . . . . . .

Draco shoved his tongue against his back teeth and tried to keep a neutral expression on his face. He could feel pressure building in his sinuses and his left eye had started to twitch. Dinner, never his favorite time of day, was substantially worse tonight. Harry Potter was here. He was laughing at the Gryffindor table, besieged by admirers. He played the hero people wanted him to be, his arm around Granger's shoulders and his smile held out for everyone.

Well, not quite everyone. He never glanced over at the Slytherin table. His warm comradery wasn't for them. Figured.

Draco had stared at the man for years, and, even if no one else noticed, he could see the bitter tension in the way he held his shoulders. Potter had never liked being the center of attention. A nicer man then Draco might have felt sympathy for his predicament. His reward for sacrificing himself and winning the war for everyone was going to be a life filled with the thing he wanted least.

Draco wasn't that nice.

Granger seemed delighted to have him back. When you only had two friends, you had to hold onto them with all your strength. It must be terrible for her here, surrounded by people who didn't like her or who assumed she had been nothing but Potter's little hanger-on. The way she was acting today was unlikely to change their opinion.

"Hail the conquering hero," Theo said. He glumly stabbed his fork into the pot pie that had been today's dinner offering. "Should we throw roses at him?"

Draco snorted. He couldn't tear his eyes away from the Gryffindor table. There was Granger, more animated than he'd seen her lately. Potter, trying to look happy to be here. And Neville, whose mouth was set in a line Draco knew all too well.

The sinus pain was getting worse. Draco begin to push his thumbs along the edge of his jaw, hoping to ease it somewhat.

"I think he's going to give a talk in Defense," Theo said. He stabbed his fork into the pie again, and a tine scraped across the bottom of the plate. Draco flinched at the sound. "A little master class with the man who defeated the Dark Lord."

"Voldemort," Draco said. Theo flinched at that. Draco didn't blame him. After Voldemort had died, Draco forced himself to say the name over and over and over again until his mouth didn't twist around it. Until he wasn't afraid anymore. He wouldn't give the man that much satisfaction. He wouldn't allow himself to be afraid of his bloody name.

"Whatever you call him," Theo said. "You can't deny, Potter killed him."

No matter how hard he pushed his thumb into the flesh around his jaw, this headache didn't seem to want to go away. Draco dipped his fingers into his water and spread them along his forehead and temples. "You okay?" Theo asked.

Draco kept his eyes on Neville's mouth. He was so angry. He was angry and frustrated and hopeless and Draco clenched his fists until his nails dug into his palm. It wasn't fair. What had Potter done? He went on a camping trip, came back, and used a child's spell to disarm Voldemort. He'd gotten lucky. The rest of them knew far more about what it meant to endure the Dark Arts. They'd battled them day in and day out. They'd felt the slow, grinding heel of Voldemort's boot pushing them down, and they still managed to get up every day, to go to classes, to let themselves be immersed in darkness because the alternative was to die.

Neville got up, smiled at Potter with an expression so false it made Draco's teeth ache, and excused himself. His walk out of the Dining Hall was casual and confident. He didn't hurry. He didn't linger.

"You going to follow him?" Theo asked.

. . . . . . . .

"What do you know about the bloody prophecy?" you ask.

Draco shrugs. He's lounging back, his head against the edge of the couch, a drink in his hand. You shift and your leg brushes against him. You wait for him to move away, but he leans into you, rests his head on your knee instead. Pressure. Weight. Trust. Or maybe he's just drunk off his arse. It's why you come here, up to this room. To get pissed. To take off the mask. Everyone else sees you as the leader. As the brave Gryffindor. You don't know what he sees you as. Not infallible. He's pried you off the floor too many times for that. Whatever it is, you don't have to be fucking flawless for him. It's a relief.

"Prophecies are bunk," he says. It's probably the only thing he's ever agreed with Hermione Granger about.

"It's funny," you say, which is an utter lie because funny is exactly what it's not. "Two babies fit the parameters." You've had too much to drink. Your mouth doesn't want to form the word parameters so you say it again, more slowly. "Par. Am. Eee. Ters."

"Two brats who could kill the Dark Lord?" Draco asks. His laugh is rough and bitter. "Who's the other unlucky bastard?"

"Me," you say softly.

He doesn't respond.

. . . . . . . . . .

A/N – I'm so sorry this has taken so long to post. My laptop required repair, and then I was travelling for a week for American Thanksgiving. But I should be back to something resembling routine work habits now!

Thank you to sulisaints, Tamra Praxidike slytherinxbadxgirl, and sm for their alpha reading skills!