Part II

Ron was never happy about Draco's visits, although both he and Harry claimed to have gotten past their old contempt for him, which lasted through the days of Hogwarts, until the final battle, when Draco helped the light.

He and Harry would see Draco in my house, poring over the Daily Prophet in just his drawstring pants, and Ron would purse his lips and nod curtly, a red vein popping out in his forehead, matching his hair.

Harry was more verbal about his disapproval, and once he asked me if I knew what I was getting into with Malfoy. I'd asked him what he meant by it, although I knew full well what he was talking about.

"I've seen the way you look at him. He's Malfoy, Hermione, nothing good is going to come out of... whatever this is," his green eyes were imploring, gleaming with what I recognized as concern. But it was wrongly placed.

I longed to tell him that he didn't who Draco really was -only the image of the sneering boy back at Hogwarts, and the former death eater. He didn't see the Draco that couldn't sleep at night because the nightmares were so bad, he woke up sweating. He didn't see the Draco that still visited his mother's grave with white lilies -her favorite, he told me once. He didn't see the Draco with the lopsided grin, and the far-away storm cloud colored eyes, that saw so much, and yet so little.

He didn't see the Draco who stopped by my sorry excuse of an apartment in the middle of the night just because he wanted to see me.

And I had a feeling that he never would - not him, and not Ron.

So I smiled, like Hermione always smiled, because that's the kind of person she was, and it seemed to calm Harry down a little, because the worried glint in his eyes died down just the tiniest bit.

Harry persisted.

"How do you know he's not going to hurt you, 'Mione?"

The smile didn't leave my face. I smiled at the boy who lived; my childhood friend, my brother.

"I don't, Harry, and that's the beauty of it."

I didn't think he'd ever understand that either.