The week had been long. Pansy Parkinson and her boyfriend had been particularly bloodthirsty, and when there were not any first-years around, they would try and hunt down Draco to test their jeers and jinxes. Because of this, he had spent most of the week silently hiding behind the centaur statue, ducking between bookshelves in the library, and avoiding meals even more than usual. To top it all off, he had received a rather stiff letter from the one woman he hated to disappoint: his mother.

Dearest Draco,

I do hope you are enjoying your time at school. France has been beautiful, but this place is terribly empty without you here with us. However, your father and I both are proud of you for continuing your education.

There has been a bit of an inconvenience, though, and I was wondering if you may know anything about it.

Since returning from leaving you at Platform 9¾, Wimby has been struggling with her speech. Whenever I ask her a question, she is quiet until I demand an answer. Recently, she stated that she is afraid her linguistic tendencies may bother me, and that you were the one to inform her of this. I do hope you did not say anything that may have given her this idea, Draco. I often do not know if the silver has been cleaned until I find time to check for myself! As you know, I am far too busy for such menial tasks, so it is pertinent that Wimby communicates.

When you see her for the holidays, please right this wrong, as I have been patient with her for weeks now, but the behavior has continued.

With love,

Narcissa Malfoy

P.S. Your invitation to this year's holiday feast should be folded within the parchment. This year, it will not be at Malfoy Manor, but at the Avuelle property here in France. Your father will arrange a Portkey and Wimby and I will meet you at King's Cross Station. Mathilde will be joining us, so please, Draco, do dress your best. We owe her many thanks for how accommodating she has been.

Draco had folded the parchment and tucked it in his schoolbag, along with the silver-embroidered invitation. He had not intended on joining his classmates in Hogsmeade, but the more he thought about failing his mother and spending the holidays with his father, the more he needed a drink.

There were many reasons that he should have avoided the small Wizarding village, and those were the reasons he would have to be as stealthy as possible.

Under the veil of a Disillusionment Charm, Draco passed by the Three Broomsticks, outside of which stood Pansy Parkinson, suspiciously latched onto someone's arm. She was whining as usual, but she was not whining to the person Draco might have expected.

Rather than the sleepy gaze of Evan Siftwell, it was Theodore Nott that was staring back at him. Draco's old friend knew of his mastery of the Disillusionment Charm, and if Draco did not know better, he might have thought that the bucktoothed Slytherin could see past his magic.

After all, Disillusionment Charms were not like Potter's revered Invisibility Cloak, as they were imperfect, and the trained eye could catch the phantom breeze of robes or a quick slip of loose bits of cobblestone. Theodore, due to his father's place in the war, may have been alert enough to notice something out of place. If he had, he was likely to pinpoint Draco as the hidden culprit.

"Are you coming, Theo? It's cold."

Theodore gave Draco—or what would, to him, look like empty air—one final glance, and followed Pansy inside. "Yeah, sorry."

Draco was surely unwelcome at the Three Broomsticks, so he decided to continue walking until he reached the Hog's Head Inn. Still, he wondered why Pansy Parkinson and Theodore Nott may be meeting alone, as Theodore rarely made his presence known since the end of the war. How was it that Pansy, of all people, could draw him out into the public? She had never liked him much, yet there she was, tugging on his arm.

Draco assumed his questions would never be answered, as he could never enter the Three Broomsticks again. Standing in front of the Hog's Head Inn, he wondered how the darker corners of the village would receive him in contrast to the more popular spots. The war had put him in a strange sort of limbo, unrespected by Dark witches and wizards and downright evil to everyone else—but there were those that did not fall under either category. These were the types that would, undoubtedly, be drinking in Aberforth Dumbledore's filthy pub.

He finally lifted the charm and, anxious, stepped inside. He was pleased to see that it was quiet for a Saturday, giving him time to linger among the few drunks before facing anyone less forgiving.

There was, however, someone that did worry him. By the bar was the same barman that had always been there, the man that was later revealed to be the brother of Albus Dumbledore, and this was only man there that Draco could not read. The papers loved Aberforth Dumbledore, but Draco wondered if they knew the man beyond the legacy: a grumpy goat-wrangler who served shady beverages to even shadier patrons.

"Ahem." Draco awkwardly pressed his lips together. "Could I possibly buy a Fizzlebit Ale?"

Aberforth grunted in response before reaching beneath the bar for a pint glass.

Draco placed a Galleon on the bartop, and in exchange, the bearded man pushed the single ale his way. Draco's nod was his silent thanks, and with that, he went back to a table in the frontmost corner. With only a few pubgoers strewn about, he chose to adjust himself to fit perfectly behind one of the largest men there: a dirty, bare-chested fellow that Draco assumed to be a Squib.

Slowly, Draco sipped. Witches and wizards ambled in, though Draco was certain that at least a few were hags. It was not until he hit the bottom of his glass that two familiar faces shuffled inside: One awkward and the other fair-faced and ash blonde, they were nothing like the rest of the establishment's visitors.

"I do think she'll come," Luna Lovegood sang in her usual airy-fairy manner.

"I dunno, love. Did she write back?" Neville Longbottom replied.

"She thanked me for the invitation, and in many cases, that would mean she wasn't going to come, but the rest of her letter was quite nice, so I think she's at least considered it."

The duo seated themselves at a table that was, to Draco's relief, plenty far away. His place behind the large man would keep him hidden until he decided to leave under the cover of another Disillusionment Charm.

Then, he realized who they had been referring to.

Hermione Granger had walked into the dingy pub, her hair messier than usual and her eyes darting around as she searched for her friends. Draco ducked lowly behind the large man, who was now passed out.

"Oh, there they are," Granger muttered to herself.

Draco watched her plod away. Only when her feet had made it across the room did he rise behind the large man once more, and there he sat alone, listening to the chatter of the pub—especially that of Granger and her friends.

They spent mostly spent their time ordering beer, butterbeer, and talking—the sort of things that normal teenagers did before the war began. Longbottom prattled on about his job, Lovegood complained about Wrackspurts and being stuck in her father's house, and Granger claimed she was enjoying her time at Hogwarts. Draco heard the fib in her tone.

Then, after nearly an hour, through the fat man's snores, he barely heard Granger say, "I'm sure someone has thought of it. If you'll excuse me, I need to go to the restroom."

Less than a minute had passed, and already, Lovegood had brought up Wrackspurts again.

"We really ought to take care of those Wrackspurts of yours, Neville. You know, if you leave them for too long they could lead to irreversible brain damage."

Draco did not believe her, and he imagined anyone else with sense would doubt her too.

"You never told me that before! I thought they just made your brain fuzzy!"

"Well, there haven't been many studies on it, but some older witches and wizards claim they were never quite right again after having them a long while. Usually, they'll go away after a dose of that potion I brewed you last Tuesday, but it seems you still have quite a lot of them left."

"So we need the stronger potion, like you said. Is it possible?"

Foolish Longbottom may have killed the Dark Lord's awful snake and he may have gotten a job as an Auror, but still, he was just as daft as Draco always thought him to be.

"Anything is possible," Lovegood replied. "I suppose we would need more Wiggentree bark."

"I have loads of Wiggentree bark at the house! Fresh too!"

"We may be able to get rid of those Wrackspurts faster than we thought, then."

With Granger still absent, Lovegood and Neville paid their tab and started towards the door. Draco ducked down behind the fat man, yet Luna Lovegood seemed to turn around and look right at him. He decided she had just had one of her little delusions, because the smile on her face could not have been directed towards anyone of the Malfoy surname.

Granger's inevitable reaction followed. From behind the fat man, Draco could hardly see her, but it was hard to miss her curly locks whipping around as she searched for her friends. "Neville! Luna!"

A few patrons turned her way. The unbathed man sitting at the bar seemed particularly interested in her.

"Luna? Neville?"

"Someone tell Potter's little girlfriend to shut her bloody trap," the fat man garbled before falling asleep once more.

Draco assumed that Granger had not heard him, because she went to the bar to have a short conversation with Aberforth Dumbledore. He poured her a glass of what looked like firewhisky.

Next, the unbathed man tipped his green hat, and muttered something that Draco did not hear. Whatever it was, Granger seemed bothered by it, as she grimaced and scooted away.

"Oh c'mon! I'll buy ya another!"

It was then that Draco realized what was happening, and without thinking, he stood and began to storm across the room, a sneer on his face. Wizards living in society's underbelly were unlikely to respect a woman, let alone a woman with Granger's parentage. They would, however, respect a Malfoy.

"N-no thank you. I mean no offense, but my mother taught me not to take drinks from strangers."

"Listen, Mudblood, I'm tryin' 'o be a nice guy here, but you're makin' it difficult."

Unsurprised, Draco seized his wand and growled, "I believe she said no thank you."

Draco was familiar with the look of horror in the man's eyes. Those that knew what Draco was capable of knew better than to get in his way, and this man had done so in his most vulnerable state: drunk.

"Mr. Malfoy! I was—I was only bein' a gentleman... I don't want no trouble..."

"Then you best leave."

The man did not even pay his tab before scurrying out. Whispers filled the room, many shocked that Draco Malfoy would dare show his face, while others speculated what might have happened to the man if he did not listen.

Draco was certain one woman said, "A Malfoy defendin' a Mudblood? Sad times we live in, sad times..."

Their opinions did not matter. Draco knew he had, for once, done the right thing.

"I had it under control," Granger muttered.

"Did you?" Draco patronized. "It didn't look very under control to me—unless you've started spending your nights with grimy old men instead of Weasley."

Her face pinkened and in a scandalized tone, she rushedly said, "I've never spent the night with Ron."

"Good to know. May I sit?"

"It's hardly my place to deny you service," she said, beckoning the stool beside her.

Sitting beside her felt strange, especially in a public place. She was afraid of being seen with him—ever since their first meeting in the library, she seemed more embarrassed of being seen with him than he was of being seen with her—yet she was willing to join him in Hogsmeade, in the same place that her friends allegedly frequented.

He decided it was best not to risk a glimpse at her. If he did, maybe her eyes would revoke the invitation she extended.

"I saw Loony and Longbottom left. Interesting company you keep, Granger."

Even as he worried about overstaying his welcome, the near-insult slipped from between his lips. Habits did not die easily.

"Her name is Luna, and they're lovely. They just had to leave."

Dumbledore's brother, the grouchy barman, emerged from the narrow, mildewed archway that undoubtedly led to a second room, though Draco never wanted to learn what might be back there. The disconcerting rumor of the man's history with goats was already more than he ever wanted to know.

"Yes, so I heard. Longbottom had a nasty case of the Wrackspurts. Pity." He met Aberforth's eyes and tapped the surface of the bar. "I'll take what this one's having."

Aberforth poured a glass of firewhisky and slid it towards him, but his reluctance was not lost on Draco. The elderly man glanced at Granger too, a sign that she was safe in his pub, even if it meant he would have to duel someone—particularly someone of Malfoy lineage.

"So where are your friends?"

Draco finally dared to lay his eyes upon her. One hand was wrapped around her glass, while the other was squeezing her own thigh. It was a nervous habit of hers; she tended to do it when she was not sure about an answer. He had not seen her do it in awhile.

Alas, it was not her that should have been nervous. Somebody had actually bothered to come and visit her. This alone was more than Draco had been awarded.

"No need to mock me. We both know I don't have any friends."

There was a long pause, filled only by the buzzing of other patrons, all much more drunk than either of them.

"Never a night with Weasley, then," he recalled with a smirk, hoping to break the awkward air. "Somehow that surprises me."

"Why?" The leer she gave could have burned a hole in greater men than he. "I'm not easy, if that's what you're implying."

Draco chuckled. Easy was not a word he ever would have used when it came to the likes of Hermione Granger. Nevertheless, he always thought that Weasley had, somehow, broken her thick shell.

"I just thought you two seemed rather attached."

"Ron and I are friends."

Draco watched her for a second, before deciding not to press any further. Behind her hard, umber eyes, there was a solemnity that suggested there was a much longer story to tell, but not one that she wanted to share with him.

"Only friends, then."

The silence that followed was long enough for three more wizards to enter, order drinks, and find their seats. He and Granger were far from friends, yet Draco did not think she detested him as much as she once did. Whatever act he had once put on was certainly fading, and he was sure she noticed the diminishment of the Malfoy mask he had worn for so many years.

"So how have you been?" he said at last.

It came out as confidently as he prayed it would, though it felt rather lame.

"How have I been?" she repeated, slowly. "Why are you asking me that?"

"Well, Granger, in the civilized world, it's a common courtesy to ask."

She glared at him and downed her drink. "So suddenly you're an expert on the civilized world."

Draco quieted himself once more as he tried to work out how to respond to her. In the end, he knew there was no correct response, but his truth was her truth, and maybe that would resonate with her the way it resonated with him.

"Surely things are better than they were before, though. I mean, back when he was...around."

"They are, I suppose." She knocked on the bar. "Aberforth, may I have another, please?"

Draco straightened his spine, finished his firewhisky, and did the same. Strained social scenarios were nothing new for a young heir, but for some reason, it was much more painful when it was Granger.

History ran deep in their blood—his pure, hers far from it. Only war could have shown him that despite everything that he had ever been taught, it was his blood that was tainted all along. It was tainted with acts of his father, his mother, and worst of all, those of Bellatrix Lestrange.

"Another for me as well, thank you."

Aberforth filled their tumblers, though he did not seem incredibly pleased about it.

"So is this what you do during Hogsmeade weekends?" Granger asked. "Come drink firewhisky by yourself?"

"Well, I don't know if you noticed, but I'm actually not by myself," he retorted.

As usual, he blamed himself for the long silence that followed. The drinks he tossed back could either help him relax or cause him to say something much worse than he already had.

"Why did you stand up for me? You didn't have to do that."

Draco ran his tongue across his teeth and throated the glass of firewhisky in his hand. "My mother taught me to keep my fellow man in line when it comes to how they treat women. If he didn't learn his lesson then, he would've gone on to try it on someone else." He patted the bar, ordering another. "It was better to run him off before he caused more trouble."

"Well, I appreciate it."

They were quiet again before Granger confessed, "I didn't even see you in here." She took a small sip and cringed. "Where were you?"

"In the corner. I've developed superb hiding skills this year, if you hadn't noticed."

She laughed a laugh that could stop his heart. In fact, if he thought about it longer than he dared, he might have admitted to himself that it did.

"I did notice, actually." It was apparent that she had not learned her lesson, as she took another sip and glanced at some smarmy characters behind them. "There really isn't anyone here to hide from, though. Rather silly to be lurking in dark corners."

Dark corners had become his only friend. Of course, Granger could not understand that.

"Easy for you to say. You don't have the Ministry trying to find every reason to put you in Azkaban or McGonagall itching to expel you."

"Don't be so dramatic. They can't put you in Azkaban."

He busied his lips with another drink so he could choose his words carefully.

"The Ministry believes I'm reformed just about as much as you do. A single misstep and they'll gladly put me behind bars."

The Gryffindor seemed inhumanly focused on her firewhisky right then.

"Your silence speaks volumes, Granger."

"Well—"

"Just leave it," he spat before finishing his drink and tapping the bar again.

The amber liquid filled the glass to the brim, and as Aberforth Dumbledore pushed it towards him, it spilled over the edge. Apparently, Draco nor Aberforth cared, because nobody bothered to clean it up.

"Draco, slow down!" Granger demanded.

He locked eyes with her. She was terribly pretty—prettier than any of the other girls at Hogwarts. She was also stubborn, occasionally violent, and a breed of pretentious that rivaled his own. In a way, she was not so different from himself, except in one glaring way: she was good, and he was not.

"Why should I?"

"Well, I—never mind." More, she drank.

"I could drink myself to death and no one would care."

He downed his firewhisky and pounded his knuckles on the bar once more. Umber eyes were sure to drive him to madness, and here they were, willingly, watching him.

"That's rubbish and you know it, Malfoy."

"Is it?"

"Nobody wants you dead. That's just crude."

"Oh, I'll bet there are plenty of people in the Ministry that would disagree."

Those umber eyes were watching him again—so nearly in the way he once imagined she would. He had let go of such dreams many years ago, but the drunker he got, the more he remembered how he thought of her so often when his dark cloud cleared. Once, he had even thought to save her; his father wanted to kidnap her from the Quidditch World Cup, but Draco found her first, and with the type of behavior she would have expected from him, he hid his secret in a jeer...

"Your aunt tortured me, you know," she finally whispered.

"All the more reason for my bloodline to come to an end as far as you and your little friends are concerned, isn't it?" he growled, pushing away his buried fantasies with harsh reminders of the truth.

Then, she shook her head. It should have surprised him, but it did not, because she was far too noble to wish death upon anyone.

"Your aunt tortured me and—and y-you watched. You watched every horrible, sickening second of it."

"You aren't exactly defending your point, Granger," he mumbled. "If I were in your shoes, I'd blast the Killing Curse at me right now. Suppose I should keep my hand on my wand in case you decide to take me up on that."

"Draco, you aren't listening to me," she slurred, surprising Draco with the use of his given name. "Your family has done despicable things to me, to the people I care about. But the war is over and here we are, drinking firewhisky. Maybe it's time to move on, you know?"

Bellatrix haunted her dreams just as she haunted his. It was yet another shared trauma, and if he dwelled on it, he might overanalyze exactly what that meant.

"I don't claim to be a good person, Granger, but what Bellatrix did was vile."

Without a drop of malice, she inquired, "Even though I'm just a Mudblood?"

"Nobody deserves to be tortured. I suspect you and I both learned that the hard way."

Fluttering eyelids were something Draco associated with Pansy Parkinson—a manipulative tactic he had grown to loathe. Yet, when Granger, did it, it was innocent and vulnerable; neither word could even begin to describe Pansy.

"I'm drunk and I should hate you, Malfoy. Stop giving me reasons not to."

Unlike his childhood sweetheart, Granger did not feign her inebriation for attention.

"Don't worry. You'll hate me tomorrow."

The words resonated with him more than they could have possibly resonated with her.

"You know what I think? I think—hmm. Maybe it's not my place to say."

Emotions ran high when the blood was poisoned with alcohol. The very thing Draco had spent year after year fighting was impossible to avoid, and if she could offer any sliver of hope, he might have taken it.

"Tell me."

She hummed again and then said, "Well, I don't think you're as bad as you let on."

He shoved the sliver back at her where it had lived since he was a boy. Draco had many weaknesses, but misinterpretation was not one of them, and what she was saying could not have been what he wished she meant. Her words were laced with intoxication and well-meaning, because that was all that she was: well-meaning.

"You don't know what I'm capable of, Granger. You have no idea what I've done."

She tucked her wild locks behind her ear, yet several sprung forward anyway, as they tended to do. Trying to force them back, she replied, "Perhaps not, but I do know you're sitting by a Mudblood—by choice."

Draco chuckled. "I suppose that's true."

Then she stared at him. For a moment, he was afraid she was about to vomit in his lap.

What she actually said might as well have been vomit: "If we don't let the war end, it never will, you know."

"Well, isn't that profound," he muttered, rolling his eyes.

"But it's the truth!" She gave the bar a violent slap. "As long as we let it rule the way we live our lives, we might as well still be fighting. I don't know about you, but I'm sick of fighting."

Her words were followed by a long silence as Draco contemplated her meaning.

"Why didn't you leave the pub as soon as you saw me?" he finally asked.

She tried to blow her untamed locks from her face, but they simply landed right back where they last were. "I dunno. We could be getting along worse, lately, right? And I guess I don't have friends either. Not real friends, considering they just ditched me over some bloody Wrackspurts... Well, there's Ginny, but lately, our conversations are rather limited to flower arrangements and dessert trays... It's all a bit pathetic, really."

Draco snorted, hardly convinced that Hermione Granger was nearly as unpopular as he was. "What about Potter and Weasley? And you mustn't forget your friends at the Prophet. There wasn't a day in summer that I could read so much as the Quidditch column without seeing your mugs."

"I don't exactly have tea with Berdus Bickwalt or Yaven Dodd after they find a hundred different ways to ask me what it was like to be Muggle-born during the war." She paused. "And I don't really talk to Harry and Ron anymore, either. Not much, anyway."

"Is that right?"

"Ron and I haven't spoken since I left. We were seeing each other, I suppose, over summer, so I think it's all a bit confusing for him," she sighed, resting her face in the palm of her hand. "I think I'm over it, though. We were just being silly, if I think about it."

Draco could not have controlled the smirk on his face even if he wanted to. Granger and Weasley had already gone down the path he always thought they would—and it had not worked out.

"So you weren't spending nights with him but you wanted to."

"I did not!"

"I'll take your word for it," he teased, before rapping on the bar again.

"It's the truth!" Granger laughed, trying to hide her impossibly red face. "I mean—I guess I liked him but—well, things change. He didn't come back to school and he's an Auror now and I honestly think it's better for the both of us. He needed to learn how to get by in life without me doing his homework for him."

"So that's how Weasel was passing classes."

She ignored his comment. "Why did you come back to Hogwarts, anyway? You never seemed like the type to care about your N.E.W.T. marks."

"Where else was I going to go? Death Eaters want me dead. The rest of the Wizarding world wants me in Azkaban. Hiding away at school for a year seemed like the easiest thing to do."

"That's a bit sad."

Draco sucked on his teeth. "I don't want your pity."

"It's not that. I just—I don't know..."

He eyed her, realizing how horribly close to honesty he had become. "I shouldn't have sat here."

"Don't do that."

"Do what?"

"Act like you're the Dark Lord himself! It's exhausting, honestly."

"I may not be him, but I may as well be."

"If you're such a brute, why didn't you just let that creep have his way with me?" she asked.

Draco frowned. "You're drunk."

"Maybe so," she laughed, locking eyes with him. Suddenly, her voice was much more serious. "But you intervened for a reason. A lesser wizard wouldn't have done as much."

The entire situation, to Draco, was unprocessable.

"You know, if Ron saw you with me he'd call you a ferret and hex you," she giggled.

"Thought you didn't want to discuss Weasley."

Whatever happened between her and the redheaded nitwit, it had hurt her, and she was using Draco as a way to upset him. The thought was a bit sobering. Still, he wanted to believe there was more to it.

"I don't! I just—I think I'm just a bit tipsy," she admitted, resting her face in her hand. The rest of her drink disappeared down her gullet and she clacked her fingernails against the bar.

"So it seems," Draco mumbled.

Then, Granger fell. She let out a loud yelp, drawing beady eyes from all around the pub. Unsure what else to do, Draco helped her back to a standing position. Her legs wobbled beneath her and she stumbled a bit, laughing wildly. Draco sighed, his mind still on Ronald Weasley, and took her drink. Somehow, it had not spilled.

"We ought to get you back to the castle."

"Th-thank you. I almost fell flat on my face." Her laughter was loud and neverending and the sweetest sound he'd ever heard.

Draco snickered and held his hand against her arm, helping her catch her balance once more. "How much did you drink before I joined you?"

"Not much! Really! I just—I'm not much of a drinker..." With each giggle, Draco tried to remember what he thought a giggle sounded like. Usually, they were mean-spirited—only aired when there was new gossip or if someone had been harmed. Hers were so different, so genuine. "I'm more of a—" She hiccupped, choking on her laughter. "—butterbeer type."

Draco opened his mouth to respond, yet he was interrupted by the flash of a camera. He blinked several times, blinded by the light.

"Of course someone would be—" Granger hiccupped again in between laughs. "—taking pictures of us." She cackled and coiled her arm around him, holding her index and middle finger above his head. "Pose, Draco. We might as well give them a show."

The camera flashed several more times and the man holding it rushed out of the inn.

"What the hell was that?" Draco asked, still seeing spots.

Granger stumbled again, but he caught her in his arms as she giggled, uncontrollably. "Prob'ly the Prophet. Who cares? They're all a bunch of—" She stopped to let out a hiccup. "Malfoy—no, Malfoy, listen to me!" She pawed at his face in a way that might have been annoying if she were Pansy. Fortunately, she was not. "Thank you."

"For?"

Still grabbing his face rather roughly, she slurred, "Well, firstly, for sending away that terrible man. That and—well, honestly, I had fun." Another hiccup escaped her throat as she seized the drink from the bar, to Draco's protest, and downed it. "I don't think I've been able to have fun since, well, you know. It's been a long time."

The young heir held his arm around her to help her stand, amused and a bit sad as he watched her cry with joy. Then, her face froze as she hit her wall of toxicity. It was clear that she was far too inebriated to walk back alone, so Draco motioned Aberforth over and pointed to both himself and Granger before dropping several Galleons on the bar.

"If I hear that girl didn't get home safe, I'll invent a fourth Unforgivable Curse just for you. Mark my words."

Draco nodded and steadied her as they stepped out of the inn. He was too drunk to think about everything he had learned, but one detail was niggling: She had only been friendly with him to teach Weasley some sort of lesson, yet she still seemed to be having fun.

That likely meant nothing. Fun was hard to avoid when one was as drunk as she was.

Granger groaned. "I drank too much."

"Clearly."