Hello friends!

I just wanted to thank everyone for reading the story and everyone that wrote me the review...THANK YOU. This is a slightly longer chapter! I hope you enjoy it!

Beta love goes to Takingflight48!

Until next time

Kiwi

It took a few days for Draco's emotions to settle. His conscience hadn't let him sleep peacefully since he inadvertently sent that letter to Granger. He should have expected the racing of his heart for the rest of the day or at least the nightmares that came back with a vengeance, but he hadn't and sleeping for any respectable amount of time had been nearly a pipe dream.

So, he had tried to calm his mind as much as he could. He followed his healer's instructions and took flight around the dank and dilapidated building that he had called home for much too long. Flying above the cold October wind, around the angry kaleidoscopic water, and trying and failing to drift above the ever-present storm clouds. He had hoped that doing one of the only things that kept him sane in Azkaban would calm his roiling stomach and soothe the constant ache in his throat. However, during the day everything was too quiet both inside his cell and the lapping of waves, rain, and angry winds outside were no more soothing than sleep. There was nowhere to escape and nowhere to hide.

He had regretted not so much the demands he placed on her in the tantrum-like letter, but the assumptions and how quickly he had snapped back to his childhood mannerisms where she was concerned. He knew, since he couldn't speed up time, that he would sit in this odd limbo stage stewing between regret and exasperation at her delay in responding—again.

Looking up at the small window, he watched the angry sky as it slowly dawned on him how royally he had fucked up. He had worked so hard on his apology to this one witch, felt as if so much weighed on it, and now she would question his sincerity after this second response.

Startled, Draco realised how ridiculous it was to even consider a response. He didn't know this witch, but if he was right, he wouldn't ever hear from her again, and rightfully so this time.

Biting the inside of his cheek, he silently made his way back to his bed and attempted to burrow into the middle of the bed, wrapping his flimsy blanket around him in a cheap attempt to protect from the increased chill. There weren't many ways for him to tell the time of year, but when he could feel the way the prison got even colder, welcoming the autumn weather and leaving behind the more temperate chill of the spring and summer, he at least had a light sense of the season.

True, it was always frigid in the North Sea, but that morning, Azkaban's temperature dropped lower than usual, and his already sleep-deprived body slowly felt its nose freezing. His breath had come out in light vapours as he exhaled the cold air that penetrated his lungs.

Once again, he hadn't slept a wink. He knew his body would punish him the moment he moved but Draco had laid still, praying for warmth as he watched the magical lights turn on around him and once again attempted to imagine the sun doing the same. When his feet hit the concrete floor that morning, the slow shiver travelled up his spine to meet with his warm blood, his only cover for the coldness he felt. He definitely needed to ask his mother for socks if they were allowed for her next visit.

"I'm a complete idiot," he whispered as he gave up walking and threw himself back into his bed, ignoring the light wispy air his words left behind.

"I should—" he hid his face in his hands, attempting to invite warmth back to the tip of his nose as his mind reminded him of all the creative ways he had once again insulted Hermione Granger.

"Damn it!" he moved to hit his pillow a couple of times and then dropped his head back.

He was annoyed, upset, and so fucking angry at himself for being an impulsive and insecure git. She had no obligation to be kind to him. Yet he had naively set up the expectation of reciprocation from her and when it didn't come exactly as he had wanted, he...well, it was like beating a dead thestral.

Now, thanks to his hasty reaction, he probably lost the little sympathy that he could gain from the witch. It was very likely that she hated him right now, even more so than before.

However, the most bothersome of this is how it was affecting him. Draco knew a lifetime of rejection waited for him as soon as he was free of this place, so to feel this badly after one rejection was excessive.

Groaning inwardly, he knew what he had to do, hesitating only slightly before he made to touch the frozen stone below him once again. Moving towards his desk, he squared his shoulders knowing he had nothing to lose even if this didn't work. He eyed the pages littered with his drawings, attempts at distraction, before shifting them aside and pulling out a fresh, crisp parchment. He didn't have many left, so he'd make sure to be careful.

He dipped his quill into the only other thing on his desk, his ink. His quill hovered over the parchment, actions stalled by doubts that his initial idea had merit. After all, what would he gain that he hadn't the first time.

No, I should just do this, he thought. This apology would be different. It would be insightful, from a logical perspective rather than his feelings and vulnerability, and entirely deserved. Or perhaps he needed to dig deeper, really lay it out on the table, speak from his...soul.

Draco shivered at the thought, but truly he had nothing left to lose. One of the most valuable lessons he was still learning was to value himself and this seemed like a perfect moment to demonstrate his growth in that regard.

Words began to flow through him on their own. The only sound that could be heard from inside his cell was the scratching of his quill and his mumbled commentary as he considered phrasings and ideas before penning them down.

He was moved by his own words. Speaking to her as if he really wanted her to understand his reasons, and at the same time, apologising for any further hurt his snarky remarks and words may have caused. He wasn't a good man, that much he knew. His anger and remorse were on his day-to-day agenda and was a constant reminder of how ignorant he had once been, but she didn't need to know that, let alone have him unload and attack her when she was not at fault.

Draco was sure to let her know that this would be his last letter, the last time Hermione Granger heard of Draco Malfoy.

His quill stuttered at the thought. He had no attachment to this witch, no real reason to desire her continued correspondence nor understanding, yet the idea of no longer having the opportunity to make amends stung. He rolled his shoulders, trying to ease the inexplicable physical reaction he had to losing out on something he had never wanted or realised he wanted until now.

"Hey!" August's yell startled Draco so badly he instinctively hid the letter and accidentally knocked the ink bottle on to his desk. "Everything all right, Malfoy?"

Sighing heavily, Draco squeezed his fist to keep from clutching his chest and twisted his neck to the side to eye the unexpected visitor through narrowed slits.

"What in Salzaar's name do you want? You fucking scared me!"

"Ahhh, sorry about that," August flicked his wand to clear the mess on his desk. Draco stared at the table, longing to do magic again but grateful the guard had the foresight to assist with the mess. He swallowed and approached his bars when it looked like August had no plans to explain himself.

"What the bloody fuck do you want, August? I told you I wouldn't have any more letters for you." Draco watched his 'friend' as he looked beyond him towards the desk and moved instinctively in front of him to block his view.

"No, no, none of that." August had always been a little too nosey for his own good as he batted his hands and tried to shift around Draco to get a better view of his desk.

"Well…" Draco raised an eyebrow at the blue-eyed blond, he needed him out of his business. "Spit it out, what can I help you with?"

August seemed put off, deciding to leave the matter for now, even as he stared suspiciously at Draco. Instead, he extended his hand and Draco felt his heart race once again. He gaped at the familiar handwriting, there was no possibility of being mistaken.

"This came for you," August waved the envelope before him and Draco mechanically took it until August spoke again. "Mate, are you there?"

Draco shook his head, attempting to compose himself. He managed to nod his head in confirmation as he forced himself to hold the envelope firmly but calmly at his side.

"Oh, yes, yes…I haven't slept, I…" But Draco couldn't finish his response as he glanced down, reading the name of the sender for the first time, the world narrowing into the howling wind outside his window.

Draco loved his banter with August, it was the only regular conversation he had but at this moment he needed him gone.

"Right. Will that be all then? Can you stop bothering me?" He knew August didn't deserve this treatment from him, but the letter sat like a burning fire in his hands. He glared while reminding himself to be extra decent next time they spoke.

Without another word, August turned on his heel—most likely offended—and marched away. After making sure the guard was no longer near, Draco dragged his hand through his hair—forgetting that the accumulation of greasiness acted like a natural sleekeazy—and looked at the envelope in his hand. He turned it over twice, confirming he had read her name and his accurately, and allowed his arse to slam onto his mattress as he tore it open, eyes drifting down to where she'd signed her name:

Hermione J. Granger

"Fuck it," he muttered. Draco knew that this letter would have nothing nice to say, so he braced himself and with a deep breath, he read.

Malfoy,

First of all, I take back what I said, and I am unable to accept your apology.

Since we're being honest, prior to the receipt of your latest inner thoughts and desires, I had been preparing myself to send you a follow-up letter to warm up my first, so to speak. If anyone knows even a millimetre of what it's like existing in that frozen fortress, it's me. But now, how in Merlin's name could I have ever thought you were sincere in your sentiments about my person when you so quickly—and without cause—turned and immediately began calling me prejudiced. To think you almost entirely classified your past dealings with me as more important than growth and the ability to move on!

For your information, I did think it was genuine. If you knew me at all, you wriggling ferret, you would have known I wouldn't have responded otherwise!

Godric, I decided to make my reply as short as possible to not prolong this conversation and avoid giving you any additional baggage to sort through from me, a stranger. However, it appears that won't be happening, as you've taken it upon yourself to determine and tell me exactly how I feel. Let's wade through it, shall we, and dispel the assumption that you know anything about one, Hermione Jean Granger.

Yes, Malfoy, my deep disregard for you is still the same as when we were still at Hogwarts. It did not lessen after the war but only grew as the days went by, and for reasons other than the ones you've mentioned.

To be clear, I do not feel as if I have any right to have opinions based on your life. Unlike you, I realise I do not know you and any judgement I make is entirely based on my perspective and tinted by my own experiences.

But instead of accepting my curt letter for what it was—an olive branch for you to be better—you demanded a verbal lashing from someone who you assumed would give you the self-flagellation you required. It's laughable, but you want me to be angry and frustrated with you; that's what you're trying to say is it not? That I, of all people, should give you a piece of my mind—as if the past four years have been consumed by words I needed to speak to a prat like you

Thankfully, I've never been one to have an issue with words or stringing together coherent thoughts so I can absolutely dredge up old discarded thoughts on behalf of the war effort.

Let's start at the top of the tantrum you sent my way. First Hogwarts days: Of course I didn't forget the way you treated us, the way you went out of your way (a lot like this now) to pull reactions from us.

Do you know why I've held such disregard for people like you my whole life? Your kind always judged others just because you were lucky enough to have the right people as parents or someone to help you change. You never really dedicated the time to finding out who we are and allowing us the space to shift our perspectives or integrate ourselves into your world. No, I didn't have people around who could make life easier for me every step of the way like your father did for you. How lovely it must have been to simply be welcomed into this world because it was your destiny to be a part of the higher echelons of this society, rather than fight tooth and nail to be seen as more than the muggle-born.

But let's not dwell on childhood bullies, let's instead focus on who you were when the war really began to pick up and drown us all in it.

I won't pretend to know you (see that Malfoy, that's called maturity, the ability to not assume nor make ignorant assumptions) or your motivation during the war beyond what you displayed for us to see, but I will speak to who you were to our faces when you were most vicious.

You were a weasel of the highest order, so focused on what you learned at home you were unable to see beyond yourself, until you weren't. And when I thought, in my battle-weary mind, that we were all—yourself included—ready to lay down our lives to rid the world of the disease that was Voldemort and his dogs, you did nothing. I was internally screaming for you to do something, anything, and you didn't! We were holding on to our last bits of hope that the war would end differently after Harry's body was brought to us, and I had hoped you would have been firmer in your stance.

But you weren't. Let's then move forward to your trial. We were children playing adults, Malfoy. But for once in your life, I had hoped you'd take the self-serving part of yourself and manifest it into something like bravery and fight your way out of this sentence.

Instead, I watched you sit on that chair during your short trial as if you were suddenly all-knowing and realised what the outcome would be before it even started. You listened to misinformation and lies and exaggerations against your person, something you had always fought before, and you swallowed it. Your lack of motivation to speak up or even hire a Merlin damned solicitor to fight for you proved to me how much of a real coward you are. So don't you fucking dare put yourself in the same category as the helpless like you so eloquently stated. You do not lack a voice nor the proper resources to support and influence just treatment for yourself. No, you didn't need anyone to save you. You never did. And that is why you find yourself in the place you are now.

Perhaps five years ago I could sit here and continue checking off each thing I believed wrong with you—for the record I'd be wrong since I. Don't. Know. You. But, I do not have the strength to argue with you on all of this. I may have been angry with you, but growing up has taught me that sifting through old, dusty hurts does me no good. It hasn't been easy for any of us, especially you, but don't you think it would be better to let go of these things?

I don't think your life is enviable and I never dreamed that it was straightforward, but take this free time you have to consider other people's lives too. Again, you are the reason you're there, not because of your adolescent actions alone but your lack of desire to fight for yourself when it mattered most. You say you wanted to demonstrate your time in virtual solitary confinement had changed you, well perhaps if you see beyond your woes, you'd realise that you're not the only one who's ever felt sad or lonely.

I don't know who assured you of all those things about me or how you came to the conclusion that it was easy to go through the things I went through (before, during and after the war), but you're so wrong about my' luck in life'. But again, how the bloody fuck would you actually know from your 'four-walled cell' so far away? I cannot find a least displeasurable act than telling you all the things I carry on my conscience every day.

Godric! It angers me how you can make any aspersions on my character knowing so very little of who I am now. Yet, here you are still as much of a coward, hiding behind your sharpened tongue when things get too vulnerable for you.

We were willing to fight with everything to try and change our destiny even if we could lose everything in turn. Instead, you took refuge in being born in ignorance, and even when Harry defended you both about the Astronomy Tower and your home, you couldn't be brave for yourself. Instead, you decided Harry's support meant nothing and played the victim all the way to Azkaban.

I'm mad at you for that because, unlike you, I don't think you were born to be an outcast. Appreciate yourself a little bit and stop feeling so bad about yourself.

As you've said, you've improved, you're an adult and grown man, so I don't know why you're sulking inside the walls of Azkaban, waiting and getting vicious when a stranger doesn't respond to your exact expectations. The place is already depressing, don't participate in it.

Anyway, I do wish you a good life.

Sincerely,

Hermione J. Granger.

If Draco had felt like a complete imbecile before, now he thought he was even more pathetic. He looked like a spoiled, weeping child in front of Granger and she was frustratingly right. But she didn't know the entire truth.

He leaned forward, setting the letter back down on the desk, before leaning back against the wall to ponder his reply this time, if he replied at all. He wouldn't be making the same mistake again. He felt ill after the way he had victimised himself to Granger, a truer victim than him. Running a hand down his face he realised he felt so small, so exposed in front of her.

He sighed heavily and re-read the letter before returning it to its original envelope and securing it under his bed.

He looked at his original letter that he had started to draft and decided to set it aside for another time. He felt compelled to tell this witch that although her inference of cowardice was not wrong, he felt his reason for being here was much more than that. If not to convince her that he made the right choice, he thought maybe he could convince himself that he was not a coward like she had frustratingly mentioned. He would personally deliver the letter when nightfall approached.

And this time, as he stretched out and retraced the aged stone of his ceiling, he was pretty sure what he wanted to say, even if the witch had expected nothing else from him.

/||\\ /||\\ /||\\ /||\\ /||\\ /||\\ /||\\ /||\\ /||\\ /||\\ /||\\ /||\\ /||\\ /||\\

The moment the final light extinguished, Draco was re-reading the last line of his letter for the fourth time. He didn't want his words to be misconstrued. His leg shook anxiously against the desk, a soft tapping noise inadvertently hiding the sound of parchment folding and sliding into an envelope.

Draco stared at the letter for a long moment before standing and stretching out his aching muscles. Swinging his arms around to warm up his shoulders he walked the four paces from wall to bars to further warm up his body. Stretching his neck from side to side, he prepared himself to see Granger tonight.

With a satisfaction he rarely felt, Draco paused at the bars, noting the near darkness and ensuring the walkway was clear, as he had expected. The only sounds that filtered over the storm and his racing thoughts were the whinings of prisoners who couldn't sleep, the gentle whispers from the cells to those who craved company, and those who wanted sleep and complained about the noise.

He walked back beside his bed and tried to relax all the muscles in his body. He felt nervous tonight, his muscles revolting as they seized and twitched in anticipation as he tried to convince himself that it would go smoothly.

Draco took a deep breath and closed his eyes, and little by little, he began to feel the small electric current pass through every bone in his body. It trickled up his feet and split into each vein as he focused his mind into shifting to his animagus form.

Every time he transformed was slightly painful. The act of his frail bones shrinking to a minuscule size was something he still couldn't get used to.

And with a final deep grunt, Draco's entire body shrunk. Now beautiful white spotted feathers stood where his skin once was, a beak instead of his mouth, and wings instead of arms.

Emerging from beneath his pooled uniform, he tugged it under his bed with his beak to keep it out of sight, just in case. Draco had every intention of returning before the guards' morning rounds, but best-laid plans and all that.

He hopped onto his desk, grasped the letter between his talons tightly, and began to fly towards his small window, careful not to make much noise.

He turned his small head around—his vision much better in the dark in this form—to make sure nobody was behind him. When he felt safe enough to fly, he took off without a backward glance.

As the angry winds rioted against his flapping wings, Draco was thankful he had followed the Ministry owl so closely on the first trip to Potter's home. Otherwise, he would never have found the magical pockets tucked into the starry night that made his trip significantly faster.

"See you tomorrow, Harry. Goodnight." Hermione stepped inside her chilly room, gently locking her door after having dinner with Harry and almost falling asleep as they watched a movie. Hermione had decided to take a relaxing shower to soothe the stress of a reasonably busy day's work before tucking herself in bed. Stretching and slowly disrobing, she considered what all her day had been made up of. She had reviewed a mountain of documents for different matters in the ministry and successfully signed off on a dozen clauses for new laws to be reviewed by the Wizengamot the next day.

Even while having dinner and watching a movie, her mind had been continuously working and thinking, and she desperately wanted it to stop. So she decided she wanted to bask in hot water, allowing it to relax every muscle in her body since movie night hadn't afforded her the same comfort.

Hermione stepped into her shower, flinching when her toes touched the chilled ceramic floor. Quickly, she turned the metallic tap and welcomed thousands of warm droplets onto her face. Her eyes shut and she moaned, tilting her head back as water trickled down her hair, lengthening it, and down her back. The warm sensation calmed her and wrapped her in a lovely bubble of peace for the first time all day.

Picking up her favourite shampoo, humming at the gentle massaging she was giving her scalp, her fingers drifted to her neck, slowly allowing the water to wash away the day's tension.

As she finished rinsing off her hair, Hermione could just make out a disruption coming from her bedroom. Lowering the shower pressure—she waited a few seconds in case it had been her imagination—before resuming her shower, she thought it could've been Harry knocking on her door.

Once finished, Hermione wrapped a large fluffy towel around her body and a smaller one around her hair and stepped out of her small bathroom. She was instantly hit with a brittle chill. Her warm shower quickly evaporated off her body and unwelcomed goosebumps erupted all over her arms and legs. Her eyes moved to the offending window and she shook her head, remembering that she left her window open earlier in an attempt to air out her room while she was having dinner.

On her short journey to the window, her bare feet stepped on several plastic things scattered on the ground. Immediately widening her eyes, Hermione found her makeup on the floor, making a complete mess on her carpet. Had the wind outside been strong enough to upend her heavier pallets enough that now decorated her wooden floor?

Grumbling, Hermione bent down to pick up her things, sighing when the towel on her head tumbled down, and Hermione caught an unfamiliar movement from the corner of her eye, making the contents in her hand fall down with a clatter.

"Oh! You scared me." Hand on her heart, Hermione approached the little owl perched atop her desk. The owl didn't make a move but continued to stare at her.

"I'm sorry you have to keep coming to give me my letters. I remember you didn't like me much last time." She smiled at the owl and slowly approached, her hand preemptively outstretched before her.

The owl didn't move an inch and allowed Hermione to stroke it. Smiling at her accomplishment, Hermione moved towards the window and shut it, grabbing the owl a few treats.

"How have you been? Was it a long journey?" The animal did not react. Hermione narrowed her eyes and snapped her fingers in front of the frozen owl. "Are you okay? Are you hurt?" She moved quickly to check the owl's wings but was met with a snapping beak.

"Hey!" Sucking her fingers to ease the ache of the small nip, she berated the cantankerous bird, "You are not very nice. Since you don't want to be helped, can you just give me what you're here for and be on your way?" she huffed.

Deciding to make the owl wait for her as punishment for biting her, she turned, making her way to her wardrobe to dress herself before giving him a treat for his delivery. Her eyes roamed her colour coded pyjamas and landed on an old favourite jersey of hers. She pulled the garment from between the oranges and purples and dashed back to the bathroom to change. She dressed in the familiar maroon Gryffindor quidditch jersey that still hung loosely around her body. It was long-sleeved, and the hem hit halfway above her knees, it was perfect for her to sleep in. Her lips lifted in a victorious smile every time she thought about how she managed to convince Ron to let her keep it after their break-up.

Appearing back into the room, she found the owl unmoved, and Hermione started to feel uneasy with his grey orbs staring back at her suspiciously.

Crossing an arm in front of her chest, she held up the other to receive her missive but was met with nothing. She remembered that she hadn't fed the owl for his journey and decided to give him another chance. Perhaps he was moody and tired.

"If I give you a treat, do you promise not to bite me again?" she caressed his head again, and his feet jotted out, holding a familiar envelope.

"So you're here from…" Hermione stopped mid-sentence as she read over the name of the sender.

"Good Godric," she murmured, the hand that had previously crossed over herself, landing along her neck in a bid to calm her racing pulse.

"Again?"

Suddenly, the owl took off, flying around her a few times before landing next to the closed window, indicating his departure.

"Don't worry, I'll open it for you. Could you wait a few minutes while I read this? I might want to respond. He must have written a whole essay trying to defend himself, and your journey must have been long, why don't you rest a little." She smiled, petting his wings once again. At the attentive glance of her white feathered visitor, Hermione opened the envelope and began reading the contents.

Swotty Granger,

Her eyes narrowed at his insolent greeting.

You want to know why I chose to accept their sentencing and not fight back? You were right. You don't have the bloody faintest idea what I went and am going through.

As you so eloquently noted everyone knows my past, everyone wanted me to fall and pay for the sins of my father, to set a precedent, an example if you will, of what can happen to even a pureblood boy like me, and how even I was not safe from Azkaban at such a young age. And here I am, put inside the highest tower, shut far away from society to pay the price. Does your gullible mind honestly think spending thousands of galleons to hire someone who would have half-heartedly fought on my behalf could have saved me from this fate? Did you simply forget that even scarhead and the brightest witch of her age testifying on my behalf couldn't save me?

My, what would the world think if they knew you got this particular part of the equation wrong? Not so smart now, are you?

I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but everyone hates me. Everyone wanted to see me fall even before matters got worse. You know part of the story from Potter, but you don't know how I perceived things. So let me give you a small glimpse.

During sixth year, everyone saw the way I looked—I'm sure even you noticed how I was, but no one gave a shite Granger. I came face to face with my deepest fears that night in the tower.

I was scared, fuck, I felt sick with every step I took leading to that moment. I hadn't eaten for days when I realised I had fixed the bloody cabinet. When I couldn't hold the plan off any longer, I could barely manage a 'lumos'. I felt my knees were going to give up on me, and with every step up the stairs, I felt my lungs seizing, unable to take in enough air to get me there. I was hoping my body would give out by the time I reached the top so I could no longer bear witness to my own actions.

However, the moment that ruined me was when Dumbledore spoke. He knew what I was tasked to do, he offered to help me then, but it was a slap in the face. Offer to help me when time was up? With nowhere to go? Nowhere to hide? And right at the end of the school year? He had all year to come offer me his assistance, why now?

Do you know what I felt at that moment besides fear? I felt like no one gave two shites about me. In that moment and for so long after, I feel unwanted, unloved and discarded. I have felt so unheard, so lonely in this world when I had, first the crippling weight of my parents lives on my shoulders, and then the appeasement of the Wizarding World to see the Malfoy's pay. The feeling is crippling, both for the body and mind. Look at what I had to go through that year to help mother, naively hoping and wishing that I could help our family's situation. Me, a sixteen-year-old boy.

Hermione instinctively clutched her chest as if the motion could soothe the hurt she felt when she thought of her parents. She shut her eyes, fighting back the hot sting behind her lids.

She knew deep down that she did the right thing. Her decision solidified when she found her house shredded into pieces from the inside and blood smeared on the walls—as if a massacre had taken place. Her bedroom was destroyed beyond recognition and she thought it would be enough to convince her parents that she did the right thing after managing to reverse the memory charm. But it wasn't.

Hermione was a known "know it all", a moniker she very much didn't appreciate. For her it had always been a phrase associated with someone not very humble, with an inflated ego and a borderline narcissist. She hoped she was none of those things. Hermione was proud of who she was: smart, confident in her thoughts, words, and actions. She was right most of the time so it was natural that her self-confidence and pride took a hit when she was proven otherwise, but this time it had been more than pride that was wounded in regards to her parents.

Unsurprising to most, her parents didn't take the memory charm incident well, making it clear that Hermione—an adolescent at the time—hadn't trusted her parents enough to confide her fears and the evil of her world to them. And maybe they had been right, maybe if she had given them a choice, things would have been different. Hermione wiped her eyes as fresh tears of guilt decorated her already ashen face. She had taken away their trust, robbed them of their memories, and it was becoming near impossible to rebuild it, especially when they still lived oceans apart.

However, time heals all wounds, and she was hopeful that they would one day fully forgive her. It wasn't the fact that they lived in Australia that bothered her so much. It was the coldness of their relationship, a strain they didn't allow her to mend.

She looked back down at the paper clutched in her hands and found herself begrudgingly relating to Malfoy when he said what he did was for the sake of his family—to protect them.

Did everything work out in the end?

Yes.

But at what cost?

I'd rather serve my sentence in this place where my loneliness and despair are self-contained than be locked in a house where a madman used to live. An ancestral building where he desecrated centuries of familial history by slaughtering and spreading his dark essence in every corner of the house. The Manor is tainted, just like I am. However, this prison was almost a mercy I allowed myself. You may never fathom the reasons behind my choice, and I don't expect you to….

She stopped reading as the words blurred and her tears feathered out the letters on the parchment. Her heart clenched at his words, and she didn't want to admit it, but she had been part of the problem. She had been one of the people that noticed his worn down demeanour in sixth year and done nothing. Even Harry had been more focused on Malfoy's loyalties, attributing his less than perfect appearance to the theory that he was a Death Eater, a theory she had firmly dismissed without having any proof. No one could have denied the obvious changes in his features and academic performance. And he's right, she never made an effort to investigate nor bring it up to a teacher, but also how would he know if she had or hadn't.

Hermione sniffed and rubbed her eyes, remembering she wasn't alone as she glanced over to her companion. "Could you please wait a few minutes longer while I pen down a short reply? I would rather get this to him sooner rather than later." The owl nodded and Hermione smiled gratefully, thinking it odd that an owl would nod rather than hoot as she walked away to write him back.

Malfoy,

I don't know how to start this other than I'm not sorry for what I said, but I am sorry for how you received it. You are right, I didn't do anything in the rare occurrence when I could step away from supporting Harry and noticed the changes in you as you stalked the halls of Hogwarts.

I wasn't your friend, and you closed down all doors towards that path. You made sure we never breathed the same air. I heard you boast about your standing with Voldemort, you and Nott laughed at me in potions when I told Professor Slughorn I was muggleborn. You didn't seem to want any one's help, Malfoy, especially mine. I was not so righteous to shift my attention away from my best friend to help someone who had hated me for six years previously.

It wouldn't make any difference, but know that I think I would have somehow helped if you ever cracked opened the door even slightly. You may feel like people won't come to your aid, but you might find yourself surprised at who will show up if you stop playing victim and put in the work to let others in.

Hermione

It was longer than her first reply to him, and she hoped, even though he hadn't earned it, that Malfoy would find some peace in her response. At least she felt better about ending their odd correspondence here rather than the heated exchange from before; her consciousness was mollified some. He sounded so broken and Hermione was a sucker for providing comfort, after all. Taking her small scroll and attaching it to the owl's feet, Hermione opened the window for him.

"I don't know what your name is. How about I call you Aconite?" Biting her lip, she cocked her head to the side, and the owl turned his head in the same direction studying her.

"Well? Do you like it? You see, since you seem to be his personal delivery bird, and you've been bringing me nothing but poisonous words from him, I think it fits."

The owl only answered with a long stare and she was completely enamoured by his stormy eyes. She couldn't look away; they were large and hauntingly beautiful.

"Well… look at you," Hermione breathed, "You're beautiful when you're not snippy with me, and your eyes are just so—" gesticulating her arms when she couldn't find the right words "—grey," she finished lamely.

She moved to give him a final pat, which he allowed and thought maybe that was his sign of approval.

"Thank you for waiting, Aconite. Perhaps if I see you next time I might give you a better treat." She moved away from the window and watched him fly out into the cold October air.

/||\\ /||\\ /||\\ /||\\ /||\\ /||\\ /||\\ /||\\ /||\\ /||\\ /||\\ /||\\ /||\\ /||\\

Granger,

Right—considering you were never meant to actually see the second reply, let me start off by saying I am sorry you received it. It was one of those situations where I felt lighter after getting my frustrations at your curt response off my chest rather than a need for you to observe those frustrations. However, I am tired, Granger. I don't have the energy to continue to explain why I wanted more than your acceptance of my apology—I barely understand it myself. Perhaps Potter's response and easy acceptance of my apology set me up for expectations from the 'more caring' of the Golden Trio to send a response in the same vein. Instead, receiving a response that was so entirely different than my expectations set something off in me that you bore witness to. I completely understand that I am to blame here and that it was my mistake.

I am not trying to play the victim, far from it, but I felt the need to follow up my written anger with this letter to attempt to provide a more meaningful perspective into who I am rather than what you thought you knew of me. When I first wrote to you, I intended to merely apologise and seek your forgiveness and not your approval. And so, for the last time, I hope if you gathered anything from my letters, it is that my apology was genuine and sincere.

My pride stems from my upbringing and therefore, I did not seek help, nor did I expect it from others. Being born in the Malfoy family taught me to see myself as the most powerful player in any given situation. Although this was a lesson I scarcely understood growing up, once I managed to grasp my father's example, it was only too easy to also grasp onto their teachings, their beliefs, their expectations and not doubt anything the great Patriarch and Matriarch of the Malfoy line said.

When I met the three of you at Hogwarts, I despised your friendship, but I especially despised you. Without going into the same long-winded explanation I am sure you are aware of, you made me doubt everything I was taught, especially in regards to muggle-borns. If my parents were wrong about you, what else were they wrong about?

As much as I wanted to question them, I was unwilling to see their disappointment if they ever found out, I had been anything less than superior to you and your friends.

Which brings us back to the conversation at hand. For however much I frustrate you with my inaction and follies of my past, I am much more frustrated with myself and who I was then, and continued to be until I was thrown into this cell. I felt like I was on a leash and there was no way out of the hole I've dug myself in. With time and solitude, I realise that perhaps there had always been less prideful ways of handling the darkness around me, but I didn't and I, too, hate myself for that.

And for what it's worth, I don't despise muggle-borns. I was angry, and I successfully managed to direct my parents' anger and the ignorance they made me believe in towards you. For years, I managed to convince myself that I indeed did hate you, and let's be honest Granger, you made that part very easy with your swotty attitude. I was not too fond of the fact that you made me work twice as hard to beat you in classes and I blamed you for the many sleepless nights I spent trying to perfect my Transfiguration and Astrology essays.

For Salazar's sake, you get turned on by the smell of parchment. How could I ever compete with that?

Hermione gasped and her lips reluctantly lifted at the realisation that for some reason Malfoy remembered that fresh parchment was one of the main scents in her Amortentia.

Thank you for reminding me of that Gryffindor temperament and giving me the response I wanted from you, even if it led to a multitude of letters trying to further explain myself afterwards. After all, every story has three sides, now you at least know two.

D.M.

Hermione sighed as she gently laid the parchment on her desk and sank into her chair, ready to pen him a reply. But as she stared at the blank paper, she asked herself if she should even continue the discourse between the two of them. She said her peace and it looked as if he did too, but there was a more significant part of her that didn't want to stop the letters. It seemed that Malfoy was craving—and rightfully so—some form of human communication. Good Godric, did she pity Malfoy? She shook her head at that thought because no, no, it wasn't pity she felt towards him, but instead empathy. She hadn't been only speaking generally when she had asked him to recognise he was not the only one living a lonely existence. Loneliness can find even the most popular of people.

With a deep breath, Hermione picked up her quill and started scratching a response to Malfoy, all the while mumbling under her breath as to why she had to be the way she was.