Disclaimer: It's still Rowling's, always will be.

Chapter 20

Apology

23rd October

"You have to feel sorry for them," Ginny said one day at lunch.

"For whom?"

"You know." Ginny pointed her fork in the general direction of the Slytherin table. "Them."

"Do you?" she said, wondering at her friend.

"Merlin, Hermione, have you been listening to a word of what I just said?"

Hermione had to admit she hadn't been. It had become a habit to zone out what people said, especially during lunchtime when the words were interspersed with munching noises that she found... repulsive. It was strange, but since the war, she hadn't been able to come up with anything even remotely resembling an appetite. It was like all the blood she had seen spilled had sealed up her stomach; she just couldn't look at food and be tempted.

"Is there anyone in there?" Ginny said, waving her hand in front of her face. "Are you okay, Hermione?"

"Of course I am."

"I dunno, you looked really pale there." Ginny squinted at her. "Gosh, Hermione – are you sure you're okay?"

"I'm sure."

"You look sick. Have you seen yourself? And this!" Ginny took Hermione's wrist in hers. "I can see your bones!"

"You're exaggerating."

"Yeah, but not a lot. You've lost weight, Hermione. You should eat."

It was true, but try as she might, Hermione still wasn't hungry. She was more careful now, since the time she had fainted, but she still didn't eat much. The feasts Ron had adored now disgusted her. She ate, though, a little bit, otherwise Ginny would have called her on it earlier.

"What was it you were saying about the Slytherins?" she asked, changing the subject.

Ginny shot her a You're-not-fooling-me look but unwillingly took up her lead. Ginny wasn't one to talk, anyway. She wasn't going so well herself, though she tended to lean the other way. She sat down at the table ravenous at every meal, as though the emptiness they all felt could be filled with food. Hermione had caught her in the lavatory once, just after lunch, throwing her guts up. She had held her in her arms as she vomited and held her hair out of her face. After that, Ginny had sobbed into her chest like a baby.

"I was just saying... All their families are in Azkaban."

She had felt strong and loving then, being like this for her friend. She wished there was someone strong enough to help her. She couldn't help herself, could she? She wasn't even the worst. There was an entire table of people like her at the other end of the Great Hall. The people Ginny was talking about. The Slytherins all picked at their food worse than anyone she had ever seen.

"I mean, their fathers. Parkinson, Nott, and Goyle's. Their entire families were put on trial, and they only narrowly escaped it even though they didn't do anything. Well, they weren't Death Eaters," she corrected herself after Hermione stared at her. "Malfoy's father was attacked last time he set a foot out of Malfoy Manor, and they haven't caught the culprit. They're saying the Ministry isn't really treating the case as a priority, if you know what I mean. And now look at them. It's like they have the plague or something. Even their own house doesn't want to sit with them. Everyone hates them."

"Yeah."

"Yeah?" Ginny looked at her like she was mental. "Merlin, Hermione – what about your sense of moral judgement? What about S.P.E.W.?"

"Are you comparing Malfoy to a House-Elf?" she asked, amused despite herself.

"No, I'm comparing you to a maniac. I hardly recognise you anymore, Hermione."

House-Elves, thought Hermione. Malfoy and House-Elves. The Slytherins were hardly comparable to House-Elves. They still had their free will, for one thing. And they stuck together. That, as far as she was concerned, was something positive that had come out of the war. You had never seen a group more united than the Slytherins were now. They entered the Great Hall in groups of five at least, more often ten. The first-years were often accompanied by older students. The seventh years, especially, were very united. You never saw one without the rest of them, except for Malfoy himself. This meant that every day at around half past seven, seven eighteen-year-olds swooped in in V formation behind Pansy and sat down at their table without a word. Almost every time, a deathly silence came over the Hall for a few seconds. She had found herself talking during one of them, once, and all eyes had turned to her. Now she fell silent along with the rest of them.

The Slytherins were silent, too. Once she had looked over at them. She had met Parkinson's death glare and had been surprised by the venom in them. Parkinson had always disdained her, but this was more than that. There was something proud and righteous in the other girl's hatred which froze her blood in her veins. Hermione felt – for the first time – as though she deserved it. As though the Slytherins didn't.

She stood up. "I'm going to the library."

"You haven't eaten anything!"

"I have an essay to write," she called over her shoulder as she exited the Great Hall.

It had become a habit of his, to "steal" her table. Virtually every time she walked into the library, he was there, reading. If he had wanted to avoid her company, she reasoned, he would have chosen another table. So every time she sat down next to him and, without a word, they would read, or write an essay, or look something up in a textbook. Sometimes she would ask him which essay he was working on. Sometimes they would exchange answers. Sometimes they did their homework together. But most of the time, they just read. Hermione felt strangely close to Malfoy during these moments, strangely aware of him no matter how enthralling her book was.

Also, they had become Potions partners. They hadn't talked about it beforehand, not since that first time in the library. But the next time they'd had Potions, they had worked together, still almost without talking, but efficiently and in an oddly coordinated way, like they fit. At the very least, they hadn't made anything explode yet, despite Malfoy's occasional comments on her inability. Bilmerk had seemed rather content, and no one else had commented on it, because most of them were paired with someone they would rather not touch with a ten-foot pole.

That day in the library, though, Malfoy broke the silence.

"There's something I've been trying to say," he muttered.

"That would explain the long silences," she said jokingly, but he didn't seem to see the humour in it.

"You're not making this any easier for me," he snapped, then drew in a sharp breath. "I didn't mean that."

"It's okay."

"No, it bloody well isn't okay!" He looked down at the table, visibly struggling to contain himself. "It's not 'okay,'" he repeated tightly. "I don't know how to say this."

"Just say it," she suggested, and he smiled a little.

"Thanks, Granger. That was helpful."

"I mean it."

He drew in a long, shuddering breath. "All right. The thing is, Granger, I... I owe you," he said finally. "So thank you. You, Weasley, and – " his lip curled into a sneer – "Potter. You saved my life in the Room of Requirement when Crabbe would have killed you."

A shadow passed over his face at the mention of his deceased... friend, for lack of a better word. Was this why he had taken so long to speak? He seemed genuinely sad at the loss of Crabbe, and even though she and her friends had come very close to their own deaths then, Hermione felt a surge of sympathy.

"I'm sorry," she said sincerely, and his head shot up.

He scanned her face for something, then shook his head. She thought she saw him smile, but she wasn't sure.

"Merlin, you really mean it, don't you?"

"Well, yes," she said, confused.

He muttered something that sounded a lot like "Bloody Gryffindors," then said, "There's something else."

"Yeah?" she asked, smiling encouragingly at him.

"I'm sorry."

The smile froze, then slid off her face. "What?"

"I. Am. Sorry," he enunciated. "Salazar, what's so hard to understand here?"

"But why?"

"Merlin, Granger," he said. "Are you a complete idiot?"

He reached out and grabbed her left wrist, pulling her to him. He pushed her sleeve up, revealing the horrific set of black-and-blue, mottled bruises that covered the length of her arm, interspersed with long, thin scabs. She tried to pull away, but he held on firmly, his thumb digging into her flesh almost painfully.

"That's why," he said, his voice tight with – something. "My aunt tortured you in my house, and I watched. I didn't do anything about it. And I'm sorry. I'm sorry for what you had to go through, I'm sorry those marks will never fade, and I'm sorry because –" Here he gave a bitter sort of laugh before continuing – "I really was a bastard to you for six years of school, wasn't I?"

"Yes, you were," she said without thinking, and he laughed again, a sharp, cruel, self-deprecating laugh. "I didn't mean that!"

"It's fine, Granger. I get it."

He let go of her wrist, and she pushed her sleeve down again. She hated those marks, hated the fact that, while the unnatural bruises would fade with time and Fred and George's miracle cream, the scars inflicted by Dark Magic would never go. But they weren't Malfoy's doing. He had refused to even identify her, let alone torture her. She remembered him then, how pale he looked – more white than grey, though, maybe healthier than he did now – more scared, but healthier. She remembered how she had hated him, then.

"Malfoy," she whispered, and couldn't get anything else out. "Malfoy," she repeated, and some of her thoughts must have leaked out in her voice because he flinched and half-stood up out of his chair. "Wait," she said quickly, and he stilled. "That's not... None of that was your fault, Malfoy. None of it."

"What does it matter?" he said tiredly. "It still happened, and I'll never forget it. And I know you won't, either. Don't even try to deny it."

"There's no way to forget something," she said softly. "But sometimes we can forgive."

He looked at her incredulously. "Granger, you've gone mad."

And she had, she reflected. What had possessed her to say that? The wizarding world was in no state to be doing any forgiving. Ginny was right. She knew the reason Malfoy spent so much time in the library was that there was no where else he could expect to find peace. Everywhere he went, he was the object of glares and whispers and disdain in general.

When she was silent, Malfoy snorted, stood all the way up, and left.

Wow... I can hardly remember writing this. There are days when the writing just flows from mind to paper (screen), and that was one of them. I like the result for sure. Do you?

On a side note, this fic has gone through so many re-readings I think I know it by heart. I would be getting sick of it by now if I didn't like it so much.

Next update is Tuesday with two chapters: The Deathly Hallows (Lee and Harry) and then Questions Answered (Draco and Hermione). Then we'll be back to weekend updates only because I'm going back to school (oh, the horror).