Theme Eight: Innocence

November 1992.

People (Harry and Ron included) often told Hermione she spent far too much time in the library for a girl her age. They constantly insisted she needed to get outside more often, engage in the games being played in the Gryffindor common room, loosen up, forget about homework, and have some fun. All very foolish advice, she thought, considering Hogwarts was an institution for magical education.

An education that determined not only her quality as a witch, but her place in a world she had only recently learned existed. She was very excited to have access to a new collection of books and knowledge – an excitement no one seemed to understand or share (except maybe the occasional Ravenclaw). But she couldn't understand them - the naysayers. How could they not thirst to know everything about such a wondrous and adventurous world? How did they not crave every magical detail, every fact, every trick, every spell? For eleven years she had been completely ignorant that she was lacking serious and important information; and she intended to make up for this insufficiency.

Thus Hermione could often be found in the library, until late at night when Madam Pince would finally send out any straggling students. She would shoo them out, shut the library for the night, and urge them all to hurry back to their dormitories before curfew. Hermione would collect her enormous pile of books in her arms and return to her tower room, but she never felt quite at home there with the other girls as she did among the crowded shelves and musty pages.

It was this particular habit of Hermione's that afforded her a special opportunity.

One night, in late autumn, Hermione was returning from the library, where she had spent the evening continuing her research on Polyjuice Potion. She had a couple books tucked under her arm, and the corridor was deserted. Everything was quiet – not a Peeves or Mrs Norris in sight. She was enjoying the rare moment of solitude and quiet, when she heard a faint noise, barely heard over her light footsteps. It sounded like crying.

Hermione crept forward, muffling her already soft steps so as not to startle the sad person. She peered around the end of the hallway, and saw a small robed figure huddled in the window casement, arms wrapped around bent legs, bowed head pressed against the glass pane. The night was dark and overcast, not a single star to brighten the sky. She tentatively stepped forward.

"Why are you crying?"

The small head jerked up. In the dim candle light, Hermione recognized Draco Malfoy, his cheeks red and wet. He wiped angrily at his eyes and snapped, "I'm not crying." She wasn't sure what to do. This was Malfoy, after all, the bane of her existence at Hogwarts. He was rather mean to Ron and Harry - and to her. But there was something in his sad eyes that softened her heart, and she felt sorry for him. He was just a little boy, after all.

"Are you alright?" she asked gently, standing a foot in front of him.

"I'm fine, Granger," he spat. He was angry at his own weakness, and that the mudblood should be the one to discover him. What would his father say if he knew? Hermione puffed up, flames igniting in her eyes, to hear her name spoken with such contempt. Why should she even condescend herself to bother with such a prat? But she swallowed her anger, as a tear he didn't notice slipped from Draco's eye. He was glaring at her, but if she looked hard enough, she could see that he wasn't really mad at her. She decided to try again.

"You don't have to be snippy, I promise I won't tell anyone that I saw you cry-"

"I wasn't-"

"But I thought that if you needed someone to talk to, you could talk to me. I'm good at keeping secrets. And," she sighed, "I really do care if you're...not okay."

Draco clearly did not like the idea of allowing this muggle-born to see him vulnerable, and even less appealing was the thought of bearing his soul to her. Yet, he had no one else he could speak to, and he had the strangest feeling that maybe she would understand. He turned his head to look out the window at the dark grounds, and Hermione accepted this as an invitation to sit next to him on the ledge.

"Were you at the Quidditch match?" he huffed.

"Yes." Hermione wasn't normally a sports-person, but she found Quidditch fascinating, and she liked attending games to support Harry.

"Then you saw my spectacular failure. The snitch was right there, and I missed it."

"Because you were being a cocky git," Hermione murmured, but Draco still heard her.

"Whatever," he made to stand, but she grabbed his hand.

"I'm sorry. Tell me."

"No, you don't get it..."

"I want to."

Draco sighed and resumed his seat. Hermione continued to hold his hand, but he didn't say anything about it. "Marcus really laid into me. In front of everyone too, including those Weasley twins." He wrinkled his nose. "Beat by Potter. Everyone already thinks I only got on the team because my father bought us brooms," he shot Hermione a look, and she suddenly felt rather guilty. "Now no one will ever think I belong on the team. But I could be a really good seeker, I know I could... ... I don't know what I'll do at Christmas, when I have to see my father...he was so angry, after all the money he put into the team. I screwed up. Bad. Maybe that's all I'm good for..."

Hermione watched another tear slip down his cheek. She was surprised that he had revealed so much to her, and she was ashamedly shocked that she had never considered that Malfoy could be so human. He's lonely, she realized. He feels alone, like no one cares. She knew how that felt.

"I don't think that," she whispered. "I think you're good at a lot of things. You shouldn't care what other people think. You just need to do your best. That's all you can do. Your father is ridiculous if he is anything but proud of you. No one deserves to be made to feel unimportant or worthless." She cocked her head and offered him a small smile. "You're a special and valuable person, Draco. Don't let anyone tell you otherwise. I think you could do anything you set your mind to."

"Thanks...Hermione."

Her smile widened. "That's the first time you've ever said my first name!"

"Yes, well..."

"You can be kind of likeable, when you want to be."

"So can you."

"Thank you."

"This doesn't mean that we will suddenly become friends," Draco informed her. Hermione couldn't suppress a big grin, but she didn't say anything, merely nodded. "And it doesn't mean that I like you or anything. But..." his mouth twisted, as though this part was difficult for him to admit, "you might not be all that bad. You're actually rather friendly and sympathetic. But don't expect me to be nice to you!" he added quickly, feeling that any kindness shown on his part would have been a great disappointment, even a sin, to his father. "I'll probably, more like definitely, still say some nasty things to you, but just know...I won't always mean all of them." He had to keep up appearances after all.

"I understand," Hermione whispered, and she did. She doubted she would ever tell Harry and Ron about this. She'd never hear the end of it, and they'd probably tell her she should have pressed Draco for information, found out if he was Slytherin's heir. She hoped desperately that they were wrong and he wasn't, that the worst thing in his life would always be losing Quidditch matches.

Hermione reached out instinctively to touch him, and blushed profusely when she realized what she was doing. He stood abruptly, and nodded curtly in her direction. Without another word, he turned on his heel and strode down the hall. His emerald robes billowed behind him, as he hurried off. He looked so small, his shoulders hunched, his arms swinging at his sides. He's just a boy.

The sight made Hermione incredibly sad, but she wasn't sure why.