She knew this would happen.

She had gone against all her logical instincts.

However, since the second letter—even as her mind told her to take heed and step back—her heart led. The rational side of Hermione pounded the gavel at extending a hand in friendship, but her heart softly murmured that it was just the thing he needed. Her intellect howled and shrieked from under twinkling lights and fresh-baked cookies to not send him any gifts, but her heart had already wrapped up the blanket and stuffed in as many candies her heart had urged her to buy for him. Hermione knew better than to trust her heart, especially with someone who hadn't given her much reason to risk it. It was her brain she had always trusted the most. It was the safer option.

And now, after she had invested so much of herself, against her better judgement, Malfoy had stopped speaking to her.

That's not to say that Hermione's logic had abandoned her. Just last week she had turned down an exquisite pair of blue jeans after rationalising the purchase as frivolous. Although her preferred loungewear was a decent pair of jeans and a t-shirt or nice blouse, Hermione knew she had more than enough in her closet that she'd hate seeing that withdraw from her account if she only wore them sparingly.

So, here she was at the Leaky Cauldron, sandwiched between Harry and Theo, as she finally contemplated the pros and cons of one, Draco Malfoy. Theo nudged her shoulder as he went to reach over his plate for one of her chips, jarring her back to the present. She slapped Theo's hand away as she finally looked around the table, now more packed than when she had first sat down.

She had been cajoled into going out for food and drinks with her small group of friends. Some people she had been friends with for years and others new and unexpected, yet no less important. Half the table laughed loudly at a joke Ron was telling about something or other from his tour. The other half of the table groaned at his poor joke, Parvati throwing a napkin at him and Theo chucking the stolen chip. Hermione cracked her first smile when Ron promptly plucked the chip out of the air and ate it, sending her a wink as he continued his tale.

Biting her lip, Hermione realised this was why her heart had guided her so fiercely to maintain contact with Malfoy. It was a reminder and proof to Hermione that we're programmed to follow our hearts. And she knew the importance of living through the decisions of our hearts. Sometimes it was the pain that made us stronger at the end of it and although this wasn't nearly the hardest thing she had lived through, her heart was just as invested and currently, just as pained.

A couple of years ago, on a fine sunny day in late August, Harry waltzed into a cafe with Theo in tow and simply introduced him as if she hadn't known him for eight years prior. Their conversations flowed naturally, and it had been less awkward than Hermione initially thought it would be. Then, Harry introduced Daphne to the group. While Ron was less than enthused about the Slytherin witch joining them to a late-night supper, he had his arms around her shoulder by the end of the night. And the rest, as they say, was history.

So historically, there was evidence that new was good, that new friends, new people, new experiences could lead to great things. She couldn't discount the joys she'd had with Draco and how he was more than the sadness that was clouding her mind presently.

Hermione knew her feelings towards Draco shifted, but she wasn't able to pinpoint the exact moment.

She hadn't planned it, she knew, but she had grown to find many aspects of Malfoy more than friendly, alluring even. Merlin, the way he phrased his thoughts on paper complimented her so well. Not because they were alike, but because they were so different in how they approached topics. Even the snarkiness that had once irritated her, she now found charming. Instead of just the happiness she felt receiving a letter from someone like Ron or Viktor, there had slowly been something more with Draco's letters—a giddiness she couldn't ignore. With each letter she received, her body thrummed with anticipation, eager to devour the next bit of information about the wizard behind the letters. She wrapped herself in his comfortable words and felt safe and relaxed enough to share with him her deepest thoughts.

Oh Merlin, she hoped that it wasn't just in her head. Could it be? Could his banter and teasing tone, a tone she probably created in her own mind, be nothing more than a plea from a lonely man to have a friend?

Would the heartache she already felt from not hearing from him be worth it? Would she come out of this learning something like she had learned from all the other rash and impulsive things she had dove into in her youth?

Looking to her left, she found Theo engaged in a serious conversation with Luna, Neville, and Ron. Turning her head the other way, she found Ginny's eyes closed with a smirk on her lips while Harry whispered in her ear. It had to be worth it because it brought her this group. She'd wait Malfoy out, see what his actions meant before further spiralling.

Curiously, Hermione's eyes followed Ginny's freckled arm, finding it hidden underneath the table. Ginny's fingers were tucked into the placket of Harry's trousers, light movements—that were definitely not suitable for the table—shifting her hand back and forth. She snapped her gaze away from the hold and back up to the salacious couple to find Ginny winking mischievously back at her. Hermione broke eye contact with her fiery friend and snapped her eyes forward, watching instead as Parvati and Daphne spoke quietly.

Hermione picked up her glass to cover the blush creeping across her cheeks for being caught prying on an intimate moment.

With a soft groan, Hermione realised her glass was empty, and as everyone was otherwise engaged, she thought this was the best moment to fetch refills for the table.

She shot up and the world tilted for a second. Hermione placed her hands on the table, leaning into it with her eyes closed, allowing all to right itself before trying again. Was this her third round or fourth? She didn't care, all she wanted to do was escape the moment, cringing internally at having been caught staring again.

She heard Ginny's calls over the murmur of low voices holding intimate conversations around her but she marched forward in a zigzag, passing the crowded tables and booths. Finally making it to her destination, she butted up against a wooden bar stool, placing a trainer against the brass foot rail at the base of the high counter, and lifted her hand. She flagged down the bartender, watching as he freshened up drinks and filled new orders with rolled-up sleeves.

"Shots for the table, please, Benjamin," she requested of the handsome man behind the counter, wiping away the beads of sweat gathering on the side of her face. She fanned herself as she waited for the drinks, watching as he winked at her before setting to work.

"Hermione," Ginny softly called behind her.

Taking a deep breath she turned around, "Oh Gods, Ginny. I'm sorry, I didn't mean to intrude on…that." She covered her face with her hands, still mortified.

Barking out a playful laugh, Hermione felt two warm hands clutch around her wrists and move them down to her sides. "The only person I would have been mortified to have seen that would be Ron. I strategically sat where he wouldn't. But apart from him, anyone was privy to see and I knew that. I got caught in the moment. We both did." Ginny's tongue licked across her upper lip and Hermione looked away once again.

"Anyways, I'm sorry."

"Hermione, stop being a prude. We aren't in Hogwarts anymore." She raised her brow.

"I am not a prude." Hermione narrowed her eyes at the redhead, "I'll have you know, I've done plenty of…stuff—"

"Are you still—"

"Shh, for Godric's sake Ginny, keep your voice down." Hermione looked sideways to check if anyone had overheard them and moved narrowed eyes back at Ginny, who seemed to still be waiting for an answer. She watched Ginny for a moment longer before Hermione sighed and replied, "Yes."

"What happened to "—Ginny waved her hands—"that bloke from accounting?"

"Boring," Hermione deadpanned.

"Unspeakable Collin?"

"Secretive."

"Oh! Didn't you also date that one Chaser from Puddlemere?"

"Dunderhead," she clipped.

"Theo?" she wiggled her brow.

"No!" Hermione frowned at the thought. Theo was a lovely wizard and undeniably handsome, she just never felt a spark between them, not like what she felt with…

"There you go, Hermione." The bartender interrupted her thoughts, gesturing at the tray of auburn filled glasses on the bar.

"Thanks a million, Benji!" Ginny quipped as Benjamin scowled, hating nicknames as she well knew. With the help of Ginny, Hermione managed to make it back to their table safely and without spillage—even if Ginny had to steady her a time or two—and she set the tray in the middle so everyone could grab a glass at their leisure.

"...Draco on Christmas." Snapping her head towards Theo, his words muffled to a ringing sound in her ears.

Biting down on her lip, she lowered herself into her seat and cleared her throat.

"What were you saying about Malfoy?" Her mouth felt dry even uttering his name aloud, and she took a large sip of her drink to hide her nervousness at the random inquiry coming from her.

"Theo here was trying to convince us that Malfoy is different now." Ron waved a hand dismissively towards Theo.

"Wow, Weasel, you really are a selective listener." Theo rolled his eyes and faced Hermione.

"I mentioned that I visited Draco on Christmas Day with Narcissa, and Luna here—" he looked towards her and sent her a wink "—told us that she received a letter from Draco a couple of months ago." He picked up his drink to take a sip.

She cast a glance over to Luna to confirm, and the pretty witch nodded, "Yes, he did. It was rather sweet, and he didn't have to do it. I don't have any qualms with Draco Malfoy, and I told him as much when I replied. But I never heard from him again."

"You must be insane for thinking that." Ron shot Luna a sour look.

"I understand how you feel Ron, but it isn't your place to tell me how I should feel." She smiled serenely at him.

"I also got one from him," Harry finally spoke up. Her hands shook around her glass, the rich liquid sloshing about as she thought about speaking up as well. It would be the right thing to do after all.

"What!" Ron exploded.

"Settle down, Ron. It was an apology, not a lunch date. What's got your knickers in a twist?"

"He's jealous he didn't get one too." Ginny mocked from beside Harry.

"I'm glad he didn't. I wouldn't have even wasted my time with a response. Hermione and I still remember the foul things he did to us." A twinge of old anger lanced through his voice. "Right Hermione?"

Every eye fell on her, and her own gaze searched for the fastest path to the floo. She felt like someone had aimed sunlight through a magnifying glass and her body was slowly catching fire. She wiped her sweaty palms on the side of her blue sweater dress, calmed her racing heart and waited for the tingling in her extremities to subside. She picked on a piece of lint and closed her eyes, taking a calming breath before answering.

"I got one too."

"I don't fucking believe this." Ron stood from his seat, shaking his head. The scrape of his chair against the wooden floor made Hermione wince. "And what did you say?" he pointed an accusatory finger at her.

"Calm down—-" Harry stood to diffuse the thickening tension.

"Harry's right, but I don't need him to defend me. Ronald, you have no rights here to dictate who I speak to and how." She stood, pulling Harry back down, "You will not speak to me like that or demand anything of me. Furthermore, just because you didn't get a letter doesn't mean you have any conceivable idea what they could include. So stop assuming, just because a young boy was unkind doesn't mean everyone stays that way." Hermione was standing, unwilling to sit unless he sat back down.

"But Hermione—" his voice gentler.

"He was doing the best he could with a messed up situation—his mother's life was on the line! I don't know how much better you would've handled it if you had the familial support towards the Dark like he did. If you just tried to have a few conversations with him you'll see that he might have changed, or at least the bloody sod is fucking trying!" she spat the words out through gritted teeth. Frustration and disdain were wrapped up in her impassioned response.

"Can we all take a moment to breathe. I apologise for bringing the subject up. Clearly, this is still a sensitive topic." Theo finally stood, "Weasely, apologise to Hermione while I go and get us the next round."

Turning to face Hermione, Theo leaned in, "And Granger," he whispered, so only she could hear, "a few?" He raised an eyebrow at her.

Shite, in her anger she had let a few details slip.

"Ah, um, yes. Um, it was hypothetical." She tucked a hair behind her warming ear and sat down.

"I'm sorry," Ron grumbled.

"Apology accepted," she replied sternly.

After the 6th round of drinks, Hermione could barely keep her eyes open. However, every time she closed them, she felt like she was on a broken Ferris wheel going round and round and round. Deciding it was time to leave, she bid her friends farewell, promptly making her way to the floo. Before allowing the green fire to sweep her back to Grimmauld Place, she heard Ginny calling after her.

"Hermione! Wait." Ginny ran, her red hair flying around her like flames that barely calmed when she reached her.

"Ginny! You really are so beautiful. Harry is such a lucky man," she slurred.

"Y-you're my best friend. You know that, right?" Ginny frowned at her.

"Of-of course, Gin." She furrowed her brows, "What's wrong?"

"You seemed a little agitated when Malfoy's name got brought up; everything is alright with you, yes? He didn't say anything to upset you?"

Hermione couldn't help the tears that formed behind her lids, and she enveloped Ginny in a tight hug. "I love you, Ginny. Everything is fine." When she looked back at the redhead's brown eyes, she saw tears forming around her eyes too.

"Okay, I believe you. But you would tell me if something was wrong?"

"You know I would, and anyways, were both quite drunk," Hermione giggled while wiping her eyes. "I need to go and get myself a sober-up potion before I sleep. I can feel the hangover coming over me." She closed her eyes and massaged her temples.

"I'll see you soon then. I'll come around before I have to leave for camp again. I love you, Hermione Granger. Goodnight."

"I love you too, Ginny Weasley."

She picked up a handful of soft, crumbly floo powder, tossed it in the fireplace, and twirled away.

Draco stood behind his barless window staring aimlessly up at the moon. He closed his eyes and focused his hearing on the trashing of the waves and his soft breath. He breathed in the biting coldness of the air, burning the insides of his nose with every inhale he took and breathed out his confusion, frustration, sadness. At least he tried to, but it was something to feel other than the emptiness he was slowly succumbing to again.

Draco was lonely.

He spent many nights in the past years asking himself why this had to happen to him? Had he really been such a terrible person to have deserved this?

When he was locked in his room—alone for months at a time—while the Dark Lord roamed his house, he occluded and prepared himself to become an Animagus. It had taken him two tries, after two years of studying, to get it right. The first time had almost been successful. He had kept the single mandrake leaf in his mouth without swallowing it, but on the 29th day, he was summoned in front of The Dark Lord, so he had to remove it and start over again.

Draco wanted to run away, and this was his escape route. If all went to shite, he would hopefully transform to something that could get him far away and just go. He would write to his parents to let them know he was unharmed, but he never planned on coming back. He'd only seen a small glimpse of what could have been had The Dark Lord won the war, and it was something he didn't want any part of. Not if he could help it.

But this.

This was his choice. He chose not to fight. He chose to be thrown in Azkaban because he couldn't face the reality of being on the losing side and existing amongst the victors. But if someone told him that loneliness might kill him here first, he might have chosen differently.

It was eating away at him slowly. It was like an insidious spell that couldn't be controlled, trickling through each moment and destroying everything it touched.

As much as he looked forward to seeing his mother, her pained smile during a lull in their conversations was a constant reminder that their time was limited and he would head back to his cold cell, alone.

As much as he enjoyed writing to Theo, his letters were sparse and far apart, a reminder that his friend had a life of his own and Draco wasn't willing to burden him with his problems.

As much as he appreciated August taking a few minutes to converse with him weekly, he knew the moment he came that he would need to leave again soon.

Every human interaction he had a chance to face was painfully limited, fleeting in a way that tore at his already weakened mental state. He wasn't a total idiot, however, and had been aware of the despair held within this stone island, but just like the decisions that got him here, they were made by a boy who had little guidance, little help to choose better.

He had never planned on using his secret skill while here. He felt this was the least he could offer the Wizarding World, a penance if you will. However, the first time he transformed into his animagus form was when he felt an all-encompassing feeling of helplessness. He hadn't been able to breathe, the walls were closing in on him, and all he needed, for just a second, all he told himself he needed to feel better was fresh air. No matter how salty, violent, stormy that air was, he just needed to feel it against his face. And since that wasn't an impossibility, he had transformed and flown out of the narrow window as high and as fast as he could get. He never ventured far from the daunting building. Draco would take a few laps to stretch his wings, and perch up at the highest peak of the high fortress, big grey eyes just watching the isolation that stretched out in all directions; a location that had been decided to keep people like him hidden and away from the world.

It had taken him almost four years to finally go further than the North Sea and that was one part curiosity and two parts madness. He hadn't meant to deliver anything on his own, but as his eyes tried to follow the ministry delivery owls path, he knew he couldn't sit on her letter any longer. So, he transformed, rather hastily, and flew towards the one witch he was most nervous to write to. However, it had been that one trip that had cast a direct line between him and her, and now, he couldn't stay far away. She could be at the ends of the earth and still, Draco felt pulled toward hers. It was the only logical explanation he could give himself for why he had to leave that fateful night, all those months ago, to deliver her letter. It was a pull he still felt deep inside his core.

He wanted to stay strong and nonchalant, but fuck it all if he couldn't help to be drawn to her smile. The first time he laid eyes on it, that perpetual ticking of time stopped. She had never smiled at him like that before. Admittedly he was to blame for that particular expression thrown his way—easily acquiescing that the disgust and disdain she reserved for him was self-earned—but if he knew she was able to bewitch him with a slight curve of her lips everything would have changed. Draco would have found himself a time turner and gone back to the day he first called her that slur to smack that little boy in the face and jinx his mouth clean.

Then, a sliver of hope licked up his spine when she kept writing back. Hope bubbled stronger in his chest since they started speaking, really speaking. Draco had felt hope that the world wasn't all grey and foreboding like he once thought.

But had he looked too much into her offer of company, of companionship, of friendship? Every word they exchanged meant something to Draco in his bleak surroundings, robbing his reality and replacing it with a moment of togetherness that left him warmer once he finished her letters, her books, or the memories of his visits. But Draco knew that hope was dangerous when you put meaning to it. A temporary feeling that managed to cloud his judgement.

However, Granger never gave him a reason to think that she was opposed to a friendship with him. There had been no indication that the placement of his hope was unwarranted.

Until Offred came around and sent him a fucking gift.

Draco's body slumped at the thought. It's been a few weeks since he heard anything from Granger. It irritated him that she hadn't written to him when he had once explicitly asked her not to wait for his letters. Salazar, she had sometimes sent him three or four letters at once, prompting his own responses to each one.

Everything felt colder without her. It didn't help that he was vacillating between anger at her and himself, pain at her non-presence, and sadness at what the random name on his package meant. If not for his stubbornness and need to understand, he would have been blissfully asleep by now.

The logical, emotionless part of him that had kept him alive thus far demanded he simply ask. If she was as invested in this 'friendship' as he was, then a simple, "Why did you do it" would suffice, and he could finally go to sleep. There just seemed no reason, not in her gift letter, not in her previous letters, to indicate why she had done it. If she were ashamed of him or of being associated with him, he would have understood, she could have simply said so in her last letter. But perhaps she wasn't as brave. He had seen her act in less than Gryffindor was during school, maybe this was why she had been a hat stall so long ago and the fake name was an answer in and of itself.

Draco himself didn't want to be associated with the Malfoy name, but that was something he could never escape from. It would haunt him to the day he died, just like his father. Granger obviously had a choice and perhaps it was her way of indirectly letting him know.

When his feet finally gave out, he went back to his bed and slumped down onto his comforter. The scent of the blanket was slowly drifting away. He tried holding onto its scent every night but it was like collecting water in your hand, slowly dripping out.

He hated that his need to see her again intensified with each passing day. He missed their conversations; he missed the way he felt her excitement through her words when she would try to explain a theory in a book or her side of an argument. Her swottiness had endeared her to him almost immediately.

Merlin was he a fool, but he resigned to go and see her again. As much as he was seething with how she handled the matter, he missed her. He would have to wait, but for the first time in weeks he was feeling lighter.

Could he be any more smitten?

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Draco lay staring into nothingness for the rest of the afternoon once his decision had been made. He remained prone even once the lights outside his cell dimmed out—-too lost in his thoughts—-his dinner tray left untouched. He should probably eat, the trip to London wasn't exactly without hurdles, but this was more important.

The only time he had made a move out of his position was when he had scribbled out the shortest note he'd sent to her yet:

Granger,

Haven't heard from you in a while.

I hope you're doing well.

D.M.

Perhaps he should have thanked her for her gifts—aside from the fake name, they were magnificent—but he was still too heated, too hurt, too everything. Once he was certain the guards wouldn't return until morning, he stretched until he felt his neck crack and muscles ache and stood silently from the bed. As if Imperio'd, he rolled the short missive between his fingers and secured it with a piece of string he pulled from his worn down blanket, barely turning his head to confirm he was absolutely alone.

How many times had he done this now, prepared the letter, tripled checked his surroundings, and got his bed ready to be unattended for hours on end. The only positive was that he still felt the thrill of seeing her, no matter how deep it was today, hidden under the storm clouds of his thoughts.

With a sigh, Draco transformed, feeling that painful electrifying tingle course through his veins—a welcome more than a hindrance now—and he stretched his wings, neck turning before tucking his clothes underneath his bed with his talons, and flew away with the scroll secured between his beak.

He flew over the Northern Sea smelling the salty air and the cold running through his feathers. There was still bite to the wind, but his owl form was strong, made for this sort of weather, his animal instincts gliding him through the wind channels rather than against them. Flying had always been his favourite thing to do. It was liberating and the rush of adrenaline made his heart beat faster. He disconnected from everything except the drumming of his heart in his ears as he flapped his wings.

The sickle moon was gone from the sky, leaving only a blanket of stars to give light as he glided through the air. But soon, the stars were barely visible and he knew he was getting closer to the city.

A calmer wind swirled with dirt and exhaust fumes hit his nostrils.

Close.

With a low 'hoo, hoo', Draco could see the Black ancestral home now, swooping delicately onto a sturdy branch of a naked tree. He could see through a slight opening of Granger's curtain that the room was pitch black. His eyes immediately darted to the sky trying to spot the moon's position to attempt to determine how late it actually was.

Deciding to get a closer look, he flew down to her windowsill Cocking his head to the side, the room was eerily still, her bed neatly made. Draco decided to take a lap to the front of the townhouse, she was probably downstairs and not yet made her way up.

Landing on a tree opposite the front door

the whole house stood still, unmoving and lifeless.

He went back to Granger's windowsill and decided to wait for a while, just to make sure she was okay. He had a nagging feeling deep in his gut that something may have gone wrong.

Just when he was preparing to fly back, the door swung open and the light flickered on. Granger tumbled through her door, falling flat on her face, laughing riotously. Stretching his neck as far as his owl form would allow, he watched as she stood on her wobbly feet and relief washed over him as she turned to him, her face instantly lighting up. She ran towards him, swinging open the window with more force than necessary and holding onto it tightly.

"Aconite!" She gushed loudly. A waft of her familiar vanilla scent mixed heavily with firewhiskey danced around him. "I've m-missed seeing you."

"My, my, Granger. You're wasted."

Wings flapping, he accepted her invitation to come inside and landed at his usual place, dropping the scroll on her desk.

"J-just give me a moment." She pet his head rather roughly before waddling to her bathroom.

When Granger appeared moments later, she looked more like herself. Her chocolate brown eyes looked more focused, and she had changed from a blue dress to a white camisole with matching short shorts, exposing her arms, chest and legs.

Shite, this is what Granger looks like in her pyjamas? The shorts were just sheer enough for him to see the black knickers shadowed around her most intimate areas, and Draco literally thought he would keel over at that moment.

"Make yourself at home, Aconite. Just give me a moment as this potion takes its full effect." She threw herself onto the bed more than she should in her state, but Draco wasn't complaining. The gentle bounce of her body against the sturdy springs had her tits bouncing under the camisole, her nipples puckering against the fabric and Draco shifted, suddenly concerned whether owls could get boners or not.

"Granger, you can take all the time you need," Draco thought, talons clicking lightly against the desk to just get closer to the prone witch. His wide eyes took in every detail of her: her curls halo'd around her head, blending into the blue sheets and her chest slowly falling and rising with each deep breath she took. Her eyes were closed, long lashes whispering against her cheeks and her lips were slightly parted.

His gaze lingered on the creamy colour of her throat, until he almost groaned as an arm flung over her eyes, frustratingly obscuring Dracos vision of her face, but lifting her breast up. If he was a better man he wouldn't have admired the shape of her hourglass figure and the way her nipples seemed to suddenly tighten to form perfect peaks under her thin top. He wanted to burn every inch of her body permanently into his mind. Why had he stayed away from this goddess for so long?

"Draco," he heard her whisper, her voice sad, almost mournful and he couldn't stand it.

Throwing caution to the wind, he flew, landing atop her firm stomach rather than the blue expanse of bedding and made sure not to dig his talons into her.

She laid there for a few moments longer, her deep breaths setting around him like small waves before she propped herself up on her elbows. She took Draco in, her eyes never leaving his for a moment before speaking.

"Draco." She shook her head slightly, "You have a letter from Draco?"

Fuck, he hooted. He couldn't move or even attempt to act appropriately as he heard his name roll off her tongue. He knew he was risking blowing the cover he had carefully constructed for years, but she was mesmerising. He was immobilised, paralysed on his spot, his thoughts short-circuiting. The animal instinct in him was so soft, so hidden behind the euphoria her closeness brought her. Should he go and grab the letter for her? Was this something an owl would usually do? He didn't really know the technicality behind being a mail owl beyond the secrets of their speedy travel. But it seemed her question was more rhetorical, not demanding action as she hummed and softly stroked his wings shifting to lay back again and looked up at the ceiling.

It felt good.

It always felt good when she touched him—Merlin and Morgana what he wouldn't give to be in his own skin at this moment.

"You have beautiful eyes, Aconite." She finally spoke into the softness, her hands never stopping their soft movements, fingers gliding through the ridges of his feathers as if she'd done this a thousand times.

"I've never seen them on an owl before. And as much as I've missed seeing you around, I've missed him too. I felt like I was losing a friend...," she sadly said, tapering off as if she had wanted to say more as she stared straight at him.

"No, you could never lose me. I'm the idiot." He tried to convey those words to her through his unblinking eyes, tried to lean into her touch more, inch his body closer to hers in hopes it would scream his apology.

"I'm sorry if the gift upset him. I honestly thought he would like it," she continued, her voice thick with unshed tears.

"Please don't be sad, Granger. I fucking adore it." He tried to speak, but all he could offer were a series of hoo hoo's.

"I made that for him you know. So I hope he hasn't thrown it away or given it to any of the other inmates." He felt a shiver under his talons as if the very idea caused her as much pain as it did him.

"I would never dream of it."

"It's silly I'm talking to an owl, but," she dropped her voice, "I can't really speak to anyone about this. Not yet at least. I'm...argh! No." She stood abruptly, arms thrown on either side of her, and forcing Draco to catch himself in mid-air and land back on her warm, now unoccupied spot. She went to grab a treat for him, digging through her drawer and Draco was not looking forward to eating that rubbish—it hardly constituted as food.

He stared at her open palm and puffed his chest in preparation before begrudgingly taking the disgusting treat off her hand. Only because she had offered it would he consume the foul thing. Draco nibbled at it slowly, knowing this was the typical sign to leave, wanting to prolong his time here by whatever means.

"I've decided I'm going on a date next week, I think I'm ready. I'm starting to lose my mind." She was pacing now. If Draco had any eyebrows, they would be furrowed. So instead, he shot her a venomous look. He didn't like what Granger was telling him. A spike of anger coursed through him and his whole body shivered as he attempted to take a deep breath to calm his tiny heart. He was ready to leave.

"I cannot keep doing this to myself. Yes, yes. That's what I should do. I'll ask Harry to set me up," she muttered to herself.

Flapping his wings, he flew to her windowsill, barely stopping as he continued on his way without turning back; the last thing he heard was a sob and a soft goodnight.

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A week later, he received a short response from Granger. It was so curt, so reminiscent of the first letter, he felt the warmth of his cell evaporate. He had caused this.

Malfoy,

What is that supposed to mean? Why would you send this? I was the last one to write you on Christmas. I sent you a letter along with a package for the holidays.

Did you not receive it?

Hermione

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Granger,

No, I only received a package from an Offred. Which is odd since I don't know an Offred. However, you'll be pleased to know that they did send me a letter and a gift, a gift I was most overjoyed to receive. It's a shame I cannot thank them myself, since you know, unknown sender. But it was so thoughtful, Granger. They sent me an assortment of chocolates that would have made even you jealous. I don't mean to boast, I left that part of me behind a few years ago after all, but the blanket the unknown sender sent has been a lifesaver. I just won't understand why they couldn't be upfront about who they were. All they needed to give was a return address so I could at least reply to the letter.

Definitely made me feel as if they didn't want a note from me or want anything to do with me. Perhaps it was a new prisoner Christmas gift program? Were you behind this one-sided exchange?

D.M.

P.S. The blanket was a nice touch, the various charms are a godsend, but the colour was atrocious. It clashed horribly with the decor of my room.

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Malfoy,

That's not funny! You know it was me. It's been weeks and you haven't responded or even told me how upset you were from giving you a gift, even after you had told me not to. How could you keep me up all night thinking that you now hated me?

Argue with me as much as you want, but I couldn't leave you out of the gift-giving. I've gifted all my friends, and it was only fair I do the same to you.

Honestly, the moment I sent it under an anonymous name, I regretted it. Not because I had assumed it would offend you as such but because it felt disingenuous to me. However, I didn't know how you would feel if everyone knew you were speaking with me. Letters are one thing, but sending packages on a major holiday might have seemed a little too intimate for your liking. I also didn't want to give anyone ammunition to mock you over it. I try and be mindful of my friends and their feelings, I am sorry if this one went the opposite direction. I thought you'd find the name endearing enough to overlook the anonymity.

I thought you would never speak to me again.

I'm sorry. The silence was deafening.

Hermione

P.S. Can I make it up to you and come to visit? Perhaps I can knit you some socks to go with the blanket!

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Draco paced around his cage like an animal possessed. He knew owls were hunters, but tonight he felt like a feral cat ready to strike. All her pandering aside, how dare she still think he would ever feel any type of way towards packages from her directly. Had he not been clear, had he not been transparent enough in his changes. Had she only put up with his talks of improving who he had been as a courtesy to him? Meanwhile, she still harboured the reminders of his youth, of who he had once been and was so desperately trying to untangle from, still.

Draco took to the skies that night, needing to let off steam and come back with a concise, clear response to her ridiculous message. Her reasoning should no longer have any place in their friendship.

Granger,

Your last letter flagged up quite a few things for me which I would like clearing up.

Firstly, am I, your friend? You continue to use that word but your last letter has left me doubting its actual definition. To be clear, you are to me. But right now I don't know if what we are goes beyond the realm of being strictly penpals. I had thought you weren't someone who you would stop speaking to me after I leave this place. However, I know who you are and what your name means just as surely as I know who I am and all the baggage associated with my surname. I would never hold it against you if you didn't want to be seen in public with me or have any desire to be associated with me in general.

You see, I am asking this because at no point in our five months of correspondence have I ever indicated to you that your name on my letters, packages, books, ever meant anything negative. Yet your hyper concern over your name on something as 'intimate' as a Christmas present has me worried. Therefore, I would appreciate a warning beforehand so I can properly realign whatever we have going on here. For some reason you are under the impression that it is I who wouldn't want to be associated with you. I thought we had beaten this topic to death so very long ago.

Second, you absolutely cannot come and see me here. That would do the opposite of making up for your ill-addressed gift. But if you could wait, I would very much like to meet when I'm released. We could be discrete about it if you wish.

Lastly, I wanted to thank you for the thoughtful gift. I have to confess, Offred or no Offred, that it's perfect and has kept me warmer than I have felt in years. Your knitting skills have greatly improved; the house-elves would be proud. However, if you want to knit me something else in the future, I would kindly request it be more Slytherin than Gryffindor, Merlin I'd even appreciate tones of blue. I have no choice but to wrap it around myself for now, but just know it pains me deeply.

D.M.

P.S. I keep you up at night?

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Draco didn't know what he had expected when he read her response. Perhaps a fight, perhaps more fire that he'd felt in their earliest letters. Whatever it was, his gut had clenched, a weight lifting off his shoulders that even the warmth of her blanket hadn't soothed.

Malfoy,

I understand how my actions may have led you to believe that I would be ashamed of you or not want to be seen associated with you. However, as I previously stated a letter ago, that is far from the truth. At the risk of repeating myself, you must understand that I cherish my friendships, holding them in high regard once they make the cut. They are my family, and as you know that is a gap in my life that I wish I didn't have to fill but they have. Not to say that you are mine (you sort of are), but I am unapologetic about whom I chose to be associated with. So, to answer your question, clearly unequivocally, loudly: Yes. Yes, you are my friend. I too hoped that was clear from the moment I offered companionship in my letters.

I hope that by asking you if I could come and visit, you would shed away your insecurities that I am ashamed of you. It's far from the truth, believe me. It's daunting to me that you don't see your worth, Malfoy. Please stop beating yourself up over it. We've all made mistakes in our lives, some worse than others, but it's about the path we choose to take after that matters. It's the way we shape our lives and decisions after recognising the mistake that is so important. I hope you take the time to think about that for a moment, please.

Where would you like to meet up after your release? Is there something you've been craving to eat after all your time in Azkaban? Or a place you've been dying to see. Let me take you there, we can go anywhere you want, in public, in private, invisibly, however. If someone has a problem with it, they can take it up with me or sod off.

I am so sorry for the pain the colour red has caused you. I'll keep your preferences in mind for the next time. Maybe I'll knit you matching socks before I change over to green. Who's to say I didn't make it red so you would think fondly of the sender?

Hermione.

P.S. Wouldn't you like to know?

P.P.S. Sometimes.