Disclaimer: All Rights Reserved to J.K.Rowling and her publishers.

Chapter One

The Sad Beginning

Once upon a time, she had had it all. Everything a young girl should of had growing up: Love, parents, friends, family, laughter. Hermione's life everything she had wanted it to be. For the first eleven years of her life, everything was wonderful, and perfect. Well, until she received a letter, delivered by a darn owl. Such a strange way to receive a letter. That day, on her eleventh birthday, did she learn that she was a witch, and she had been excepted to Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. But surely, this must be some cruel joke. Witches and wizards weren't real. But soon her thoughts of fiction were a reality. She was a witch, and she was going to attend a school to learn how to use the great power that was templed in her tiny body. It was then, she learned, that her life would never again be normal, but she didn't know how abnormal her life would there-on be.

That was six years ago. Now, here she stood in the door way entrance on the steaming scarlet train, for the seventh, and very last time on here life. And here she stood, with everything left behind. Over the recent seven and three-quarter months, she had so many things taken from her, and so many things change.

She came home for summer break, anxious to see her parents and ready to be back in rural Wilshire. She came home to a disturbing site: her mother wasn't there. All that was left was a note on the refrigerator,

"My Dearest Hermione,

How I hate to leave you like this, but your father and I have come to a divorce. I know it must hurt you hearing this, even more from a letter. I'm sorry, sweetheart. We don't love each other anymore. We will, however, always love you.

I don't know when I will, or I ever will, be back for you. You're almost seventeen, honey. Go out and find your place in that strange world of yours.

I love you,

Mother."

She sat down at the dining room table, taking in the note, clutched in her sweating hands, trying to find a sort of promise saying she will see her mother again, but she found nothing. She slowly, gently put her head in her hands, and wept. She wept for her parents, for herself, and for her future. It was near two when she lifted her head, and she knew her father would be home soon from the office. She went to work, cleaning and starting the laundry. It was her place now, to take care of herself and her father.

Her father came home around midnight, with a bottle of brandy in one hand, and his truck keys in the other. He was three sheets to the wind and falling over. He mumbled on and on about his wife leaving him and no longer being given the sex he craved whenever he wanted it, and no longer coming home to dinner on the table. It was then, he looked up and saw his horrified daughter staring at him. His foggy mind was unclear as he approached her, and took her by the arm.

"You look here girl! You're the woman around here, and you'll do as I say!" His words slurred so much she could barely understand him. "You're to clean, and you're to make dinner for me to come home to. You hear me?" He threw her down with such force that the windows shook in their panes.

"Y-yes, sir.." Her voice, barely at a whisper, was horrified and teary. This man that just man-handled her, was supposed to be her father.

As he grabbed her again, he threw her behind him, with very little effort, out of his way and he took his leave up the staircase. Somehow, he managed to make it to his bedroom and slam the door without falling over. It was from then on, that she knew this was going to be a hell of a summer.

As the weeks came and went, things would gradually get worse. The bruises would get larger in size, and the cuts would begin to get deeper, and take longer to heal. By mid July, you could barely see her body for the purple and blue. It hurt her to do almost anything those days. But things seem to get better, well, before they got any more worse. He seemed to stop paying any attention to her the last few weeks before she was to leave, paying more attention to the bents he brought home from the club. But the day before she left, everything went horribly wrong.

She had done what she was told, clean up the house, finish up the last of the laundry and have dinner on the table for him when he arrived home. She had done all those, but apparently not good enough to his satisfaction that one day. He came home in a fury, angry with a patient. He'd never hurt her so bad before. He left whelps on the backs of her legs, permanent scars on her back and chest, too many bruises to count, and a fractured rib. From then on, she always wore pants and long sleeve shirts to hide the mistakes she had made.

Now she stood in the back of the Hogwarts Express, not wanting at all to find the intriguing Head Students compartment, which was located somewhere near the front of the train. But she really had no other choice. She already know who her partner, and house mate would be. Oddly, it didn't bother her, after all, he had changed with the war, realizing that blood was blood, it was all the same color, his and hers. But it was still quite strange, seeing him in such a different light then before. She arrived at the compartment in a shorter time than she would of liked, but regardless, she entered, finding him there, along with Professor McGonagall.

"Now, Miss Granger. Mr. Malfoy and yourself are, as you can tell, this years Head Students. Now, this does not mean you are allowed to behave like hooligans and disregard the rules. For you, some rules no longer apply, but the others still do. Now then, you also have some great responsibilities. As the Heads of the school, you are to compose a Graduation Ball for the end of the year, scheduled in May. And you are to address the student body at our ceremony, as valedictorians. I expect a copy of your speech to be presented to me in April. Anything else, you will be filled in throughout the year. See you at the school." McGonagall vanished with a loud, obnoxious crack.

The two seventeen year olds stared at each other from across the compartment. It was intensely awkward for both of them, neither wanting to be the first to say something, but both having something to say. Hermione hung her head, she had so much to apologize for, and so much to say to the handsome boy, but she couldn't find the words. Draco, too, had much to say, more apologies than anyone could imagine, he had hurt her so much in the past, and he only had a year to make up for all the pain he had caused in the past six years.

"I'm sorry," the words sounded foreign to him, almost like a bad taste in his mouth. "I'm sorry for the horrid things I said to you, taunting you because of your blood. When all in all, its just as clean as mine. You bleed just like I do, and its the same color."

Hermione smiled up at him, "I'm sorry, too. For punching you, and saying those things about you, and making fun of you being turned into a ferret. Truce?"

"Truce."