There was rubble everywhere. The ruins of Hogwarts was tumbling down as if from the heavens, ash and dust and stone all hurtling to the ground. The screams of the dying were deafening and Hermione put her hands over her ears to stop from hearing them.

And then Harry was there. His face was slack with grief, tears making tracks down his muddied cheeks. He was yelling something, but Hermione couldn't hear because her hands were still blocking out the sound. She removed them and the noises overwhelmed her, the dying accosting her every sense.

"Mother! Father!" she now heard Harry scream, and she let out a sob which burned her lungs. He screamed again, over and over, his voice tearing itself apart.

"Mother! Mother! Father!" he yelled again, but his voice was somehow altered. Hermione wanted to go to him, but something was weighing her down.

Her eyes dropped and she was met with the sight of Winnie's lifeless body cradled in her arms, a bloodied, gaping hole in the middle of her chest where her heart had once been.

Hermione woke with such a start that she knocked the book off her bedside table where her arm had swung out. She gulped in air as though she were dying, her chest tight as she breathed deeply, trying to regain some calm. That's when she realised the yells were no longer in her nightmare – the voice she had heard, the one she thought had been Harry's, was now coming from downstairs.

It took her a few moments to find her feet, and as she padded out of her bedroom and towards the stairs, her legs felt as though they had turned to jelly. She clutched the banister with both hands, moving slowly down the stairs sideways, her eyes adjusting to the infinite darkness. Outside she could hear sirens wailing, a noise she had long since grown used to having lived in London for more than a year.

The yells grew louder as she approached the living-room door, and she gingerly turned the handle and opened it, somewhat worried about what she was about to find. Draco was curled up in a ball in the armchair, his head hidden beneath the blanket with only the soft, white hair on the back of his head visible above the chair. He was screaming for his mother and father, his body rigid as though it had been frozen solid. She crept closer, wondering whether it was wise to wake him, and decided that switching on a light might be enough to pull him from the dream.

She heard him start as soon as the bulb burst into light, and Hermione had to close her eyes against the brightness before she could turn to face him. The blood had drained from his face, and as Draco sat up, the blanket fell from his shoulders and she saw the stains of sweat which had seeped through his pale-blue jumper.

"What time is it?" he asked hoarsely, now wiping his damp forehead with the back of his hand.

Hermione hadn't even checked when she herself had woken, though certainly the sky outside was still inky black. She shuffled across to the clock on the desk and sighed.

"Just before five," she replied wearily, folding her arms across her chest for warmth as she sat down shakily. Her own heart was still beating frantically, and the image of Winnie's lifeless body would not leave her mind.

Draco, too, seemed badly shaken, the circles beneath his cold, grey eyes darker than she had ever seen them. She wondered if the nightmares which had so obviously plagued him last night were a common occurrence, knowing as she did what horrific dreams could crawl from the abyss of one's tormented mind. She had not met anyone from the war who had not been shackled to torturous images once they closed their eyes, even those who had been on the opposing side. War made victims of everyone, and the burden of death weighed heavily on all.

"Did I wake you?" he asked slowly, almost as though he was afraid of the answer. He seemed genuinely troubled at the thought of disturbing her sleep and so she shook her head, deciding it would hurt neither of them by telling such an innocent lie.

"I couldn't sleep. I came downstairs when I heard…" She paused for a moment, wondering if he was aware of what he said when he was dreaming. He looked at her inquisitively and Hermione felt unable to simply end the sentence there. "You were calling for your parents. I thought it best to wake you," she finished, and watched as his white cheeks flushed with just the slightest of colour. It was an almost welcome sight.

Draco laced his thin fingers together, looking at them with wide eyes as though he didn't believe they belonged to him. He looked so terrifyingly thin, all sharp edges and corners in the darkness, that he seemed more a starving creature than an actual human being. In fact, if Hermione was truly honest, Draco resembled more a Dementor than the boy he had been.

The thought made her so uncomfortable that, to distract herself, she offered to make them both a cup of tea.

"I've never tried muggle tea," he replied, and Hermione halted just before the door.

"I can make you something else if you'd prefer," she said sharply, looking over her shoulder as the realisation dawned on his face. He looked as though he had been petrified, his face frozen in fear.

"N-No, I didn't mean- Tea is fine," he eventually managed to stammer, and she left him still looking horrified to go into the galley kitchen at the back of the flat.

Once alone, Hermione found her heart returning to a more normal pace, and as she put the kettle on to boil, she exhaled deeply and leaned against the kitchen counter. She felt very frail all of a sudden, and she rubbed hard at her arms to bring some warmth back into her numb body. Though truthfully, it was not her body that was having a hard time readjusting. Her mind felt fuddled, as though someone had shaken her brain violently and now her thoughts were all knotted together, losing any of their coherency. Hermione relied on her brain, she needed it in order to make sense of the illogical, to understand what seemed utterly impossible. And yet, Draco had been in her home for a little over 7 hours now, and she was still unable to fathom why. It was not just that the once great Draco Malfoy had been destroyed unutterably by the war and its aftermath, but also because she, Hermione Granger, one of the many he had tormented, had, without so much as a moment's hesitation, invited him inside. Even as she poured the steaming hot water over the teabags, she could not decipher her thinking. Had it been the shock of Ron's kiss and her reciprocation? Was it because she was so exhausted and had therefore been entirely lacking sensibility or caution? Or was it simply because she had lost so much that Draco no longer posed any kind of threat? The latter seemed, while rather depressing, the most honest of the three, though that did not comfort her in the slightest.

Hermione binned the sodden teabags and carried through the two china cups – a memento she had taken in the last second before leaving her family home forever. They had been her grandmother's, and had sat wrapped in newspaper under her bed for years, ready for when she had a home of her own. She had always imagined that she and her mother would have unwrapped them together. It was not an image she liked to dwell on for too long anymore.

Draco took the cup from her hand and thanked her, something which sounded unnatural on his dry, thin lips. They sat in silence, both watching the steam rising in spirals as they warmed their hands against the floral china. The smell of the peppermint made Hermione's shoulders slump, her tense muscles easing slightly as the last remnants of the nightmare left her. She glanced across at Draco, wondering whether he was at all uneasy about being surrounded by so many Muggle things, but he seemed as comfortable as someone like Draco could ever look.

"Do they happen often? The nightmares, I mean." It wasn't particularly sensitive of her to ask, but her mind was still tender from her own terrifying dream, and the only way she could cope with such images was talking about something equally as terrifying.

He set down the cup on the table to his right, his Adam's apple bobbing as he gulped down the remainder of his tea. He did not look angry at her question, but more wary, perhaps uncertain of how best to reply.

"Most nights, yes. They've changed, though – when I was first recruited, my dreams were all about me dying. But after the war… they began to focus more on my parents, on their suffering. I've heard that time heals, but all it's seemed to have done for me is make them worse."

Hermione could relate to such a statement. She had imagined that removing herself from the magical community might lessen her own suffering, or might protect her in some way from the brutal reminders of what had occurred. But it was her mind that seemed to store the most horrendous images, and constantly revealed themselves just when she was beginning to find some peace. It was strange to think that she and Draco were in much the same position, considering how truly opposite they had been. But she could not forget, would not forget the things he had done to her and those she cared for. After all, were it not for Draco, perhaps much of hers and others suffering would never have existed.

"I used to wonder if you had a conscience at all," she said, and though he seemed mildly hurt or insulted by the mark, she could not bring herself to regret saying it. She was so angry with him, so disgusted by his actions and his principles, that her desire to wound him was too strong to deny. She wanted him to feel pain, to know the torment she had endured for so long at his hand. It did not seem right to her that he dream only of his parents, and not once about the injuries he had inflicted on others.

"I have wondered it myself," he answered simply, his voice so low that it was almost inaudible. He would not look at her, and Hermione puzzled over whether he felt any guilt for what he had done. Were it the old Draco in front of her, the answer would have been as clear as glass, but the figure before her now was so much more complex. He was fractured, the cracks and chinks in the armour showing a tangled mess of emotions she could not completely comprehend. It was her own prejudice, her own inability to let go of the past which prevented her from truly seeing the present version of Draco. She could not seem to accept that the Malfoys son and heir was no longer recognisable, that he was no longer someone to fear and hate in equal measure.

His hand went to the inside of his left forearm, and Hermione's gaze followed, knowing exactly what he was feeling for.

"You still have it, then," she remarked, unable to keep the judgement from her tone. Every witch and wizard in Voldemort's inner circle had one, a symbol of their unquestionable loyalty. It did not surprise her that he too would have been marked.

Draco winced before pulling up his sleeve to show her. The faded red skull shimmered across his skin, the snake slinking from its open mouth as vile and evil as she remembered. It made her feel sick and she immediately looked away. He pulled the sleeve back down, his face grim.

"I half expected it to still be black," she commented, more for something democratic to say, as well as to quell the tirade of words which threatened to pour from her mouth like a fountain, damning Draco and the Death Eaters and everyone who believed in such racist, bigoted and discriminatory philosophy. Her pulse quickened, beating hard through the scar on her arm, and she glanced down to make sure her pyjama top covered it completely.

Draco shifted back in his chair, his face now obscured by the shadows. "There were some who tried to destroy the mark, to show they posed no threat to the new social order, or perhaps in the hope they might be spared Azkaban. One even severed his arm at the elbow just to remove it."

"And you didn't feel the need? Perhaps you like it."

"It serves as a reminder," Draco countered, now fixing her with a stare which was as resolute as it was serious. "Those who tried to destroy the mark failed, and I knew that I nor anyone else had any right to remove it. I'll be forever branded guilty, and there is nothing I can do to change that."

Hermione did not want to be satisfied with his answer, and yet it was an admirable response and one which surprised her greatly. She had assumed he was still very much proud that he had been deemed worthy of joining Voldemort's inner sanctum of followers, the Dark Mark a sign of his status amongst the highest and most powerful Dark Wizards and Witches. But perhaps the mark was just as much of a burden to him as Hermione's scar was to her. They wore it, not as a souvenir from the war or a sign of pride, but as an emblem of what they had been through and what they had managed to overcome. That was, of course, if Draco was to be believed.

The watery morning sun filtered through the half-closed curtains, splinters of cold, white light cutting through the darkness. Hermione tugged at the latch on the window and opened it wide, the icy draft chilling her instantly. The air smelt clean and fresh, and across the street she saw a paperboy on his rounds, his gloved hands clasping at a dozen rolls of paper. She went out into the hallway and unlocked the front door, calling a thank you to him before picking up her paper. The headline was grim, as usual, another war being fought and crises in the government. It seemed no matter where she went, chaos surrounded her.

When she went back inside, Draco was standing by the stairs and she flinched noticeably.

"Do you want a shower?" she asked, her eyes travelling to his greasy, ash-blonde hair. He seemed to consider it for a moment, but surprisingly shook his head.

"You've done enough, more than I expected you to," he replied graciously.

He moved towards her, and she wondered what he was about to do, but he simply patted her shoulder gingerly before manoeuvring round her to the front door. His jumper was so thin that she could see every muscle in his back, not to mention that it seemed far too small for his tall frame.

"You can't go outside in that," she said suddenly just as he had opened the door. He wedged his foot in the gap to keep it from closing before turning his head slightly to look at her with one eyebrow raised.

"I'm fine, Granger."

If Hermione closed her eyes, she could almost have pretended that they were back at Hogwarts, his tone as frosty as she remembered, and her first name suddenly forgotten, almost as if it didn't really matter what she was called. Perhaps all mudbloods were the same in his eyes.

She thought about letting him go, about saying goodbye and putting an end to one of the most surreal experiences of her entire life, but something stopped her. Perhaps she was too kind for her own good, or perhaps it was because she could see through his act. He was not fine as he claimed, and anyone with eyes could see it.

"If you're leaving, then I'll get you a coat. And a scarf. I might even have gloves-"

"No," he interrupted her forcefully. "I don't need charity, and I'm not going to except anything else from you of all people."

"I see. Well, I apologise for not having the correct breeding, Malfoy, but I'm afraid I'm the only one offering you any help."

Draco shook his head and opened the door fully. "Don't be ridiculous. I have no quarrels with what you are."

"Then why-"

"I don't deserve it," he snapped, and Hermione immediately took a step backwards. "I should be in Azkaban, and I'm not, so I'll be damned if I play the victim to you now."

It was not what she had expected, nor did she agree with him in the slightest. But Draco had always been proud and stubborn, and she saw how her help must have grated with him, regardless of her muggle status.

"You won't take anything?"

"No."

Hermione nodded, having expected his refusal. She held the door open as he stepped back down onto the pavement, his breath like fog rising towards the dusky grey sky. He looked so much worse in the daylight, his face gaunt and sharp, but Hermione refrained from offering her help again. He wouldn't allow himself to take it, she saw that now, and it was better in some ways if he left. There was no place for him in the muggle world, and although he was far from welcome in the wizarding community, he at least had people he could turn to.

"Are you still living with your mother?" she asked as he pulled his sleeves over his pale hands. He looked at her then, teeth worrying away a layer of skin on his bottom lip.

"Not anymore, no."

Hermione immediately wondered where Narcissa Malfoy was, and why she and her son were now separated considering how dangerous it sounded for them to be on their own. Not to mention that Draco hardly seemed able to take care of himself at the moment, and Hermione had no idea where else he would go.

"Where have you been staying then?" she enquired as he began to move backwards, away from her.

"I have some friends, still. My mother… I was difficult to live with. But the hostel has rooms and…"

Hermione could see he was struggling to come with up an excuse and she descended the steps, her cotton pyjamas doing nothing to keep out the cold. He was still backing away from her, though she could his whole body was shaking badly as the freezing air whipped up around them. He wouldn't make it five minutes at this rate.

"Come back inside."

"No."

"Yes!" she exclaimed, losing her temper. "This is ridiculous, Draco. You look half-starved and I wouldn't be any kind of human being if I let you go now. I'll put the hot water on, you can have some breakfast, and then you can leave. It's not charity, it's just common decency."

There was a metre or so between them, and for one moment Hermione thought he was going to walk away. But after another second of turmoil, Draco slowly but surely made his way back towards her, though he did not seem in the least happy about it.

Once he reached her, he held out his hand, one galleon shining brightly against his white skin. "Take it."

She thought about refusing, but knew that at least this way, he wouldn't believe her offer to be entirely charitable. She took it from his palm and ushered him back into the warmth of her flat, feeling strangely relieved as she closed the door against the outside world.