Disclaimer: JK Rowling created Harry Potter. I'm not making any money off this.

There is an extremely long, rambling Author's note at the end. You do not have to read it. ^^ Seriously.

Chapter 22

Questions Answered

17th November, 1998

As usual, she found him at 'their' table, reading. When he heard her approach, he looked up and closed his book.

"Am I bothering you?" she asked as she sat down.

"No," Malfoy said, but she couldn't be sure he wasn't lying. "Am I?"

"I was looking for you," she said. "We need to talk."

"Really."

"Really."

"All right," he said. "Maybe we do." He closed the book he was reading (Your Inner Eye: NEWT-level Divination), stretched his legs out in front of him, and said, "Go ahead."

"I don't hate you," she said.

His eyes shot to hers.

"I mean in. I just... wanted you to know that. I mean, I used to," she said. "But I don't think I do anymore."

"I don't hate you, either," he offered, looking out the window at the Quidditch pitch.

"And – I know you don't believe me, but I don't blame you for anything you did." She glanced down at her arm. "And I certainly don't blame you for this. It wasn't your doing."

"I was there. I could have stopped it."

"No, you couldn't have," she said firmly. "Malfoy, do you blame me for something?"

He looked quizzical.

"You haven't said a word to me since..." She stopped before she mentioned their last conversation. "Well, you know. We didn't really leave each other on good terms then. I felt like you were angry about something, but I couldn't figure out what."

"Nothing you did," he said. "Just something you are."

"Something I am?" she repeated. Did he mean –?

"Gryffindor," he said. "No offense."

She was silent for a moment.

"You said there was something we needed to talk about," he ventured.

"Well, that was it, really," she said. "You don't seem to want to talk about it, so..." A thought suddenly came to her. "When's your birthday?"

He looked surprised, then amused. "5th June, why?"

"I don't know. It just occurred to me that I... didn't know. And I want to know."

Friends did that. Friends knew all the tiny little insignificant facts about each other. She wondered whether Malfoy would pick up on that, but he just shrugged, as though this was just some strange fancy of hers.

"Well, when's yours, then?" he said, in a tone that suggested he was playing along to indulge her.

"19th September."

"Oh." He was silent for a moment. "Happy birthday, then. Guess I missed it. Do you have any brothers or sisters?"

It was her turn to be surprised. He seemed to have caught on quickly. It seemed so... strange for someone who had known her for years to not know this simple fact about her.

"No, I'm an only –" And then she stopped.

"Something wrong?"

"I..."

"Granger?"

"Sorry," she said. "I forgot something." She laughed a little; even to her, it sounded forced. "My mother's pregnant."

"How do you forget something like that?"

"It's a long story," she said.

He glanced down at his wrist, then back up at her. "We have at least a half-hour left."

She followed his gaze, but his wrist was bare. He wasn't wearing a watch.

"Malfoy –"

"Handed it over to the Ministry a few months ago," he said breezily. "It was a present from my father, and I couldn't just take his word for it that there was nothing – dark about it."

She nodded as though she understood, but she didn't. How could she?

"It isn't really that long, anyway," she said. "Just... strange. Last year, you know we – Ron, Harry and I – weren't at school. We were on the run, looking for the Hor – for a way to kill Voldemort."

Malfoy flinched at the name.

"Before I left, I knew I had to protect my family. I told them they had to leave, to go into hiding, or they'd be killed – or worse. But they didn't want to. You know they're Muggles – maybe they didn't realise what Voldemort was, what they were exposing themselves to – what I was exposing them to. So I –" she said the next sentence very quickly – "erased their memories of me and sent them to Australia."

She watched his expression carefully, but it didn't change. He wasn't judging her, but he didn't look like he understood, either.

"After the war was over, I went to Australia to get them back." She paused. "And that's why I said I didn't have any siblings. Because I don't. I never did. But when I found my parents, they had forgotten all about me. So they thought they would like to have a child..." She swallowed. "My mother is expecting another daughter."

Malfoy's gaze was piercing. "And you're not happy about it."

She looked away from him and out the window, scanning the lake with her eyes. "It isn't like that. I've always wanted a little sister. But my parents never did. They always said I was more than enough for them. I begged them for a little sister, but they always said no. They didn't want another child. I know they didn't. One was enough for them... I was enough."

There was an awkward silence.

"I have something I'd been meaning to ask you," Malfoy said eventually. "While we're on the subject of awkward questions..." He seemed to hesitate, then dove in. "Do you pity me?"

She looked at him and laughed. She shouldn't have, but she couldn't help herself.

"Do I pity you? Pitying you would require my feeling superior to you. I should probably be asking you."

"I don't pity you," he said quietly. "But I don't f –"

"Pity you," she repeated, suddenly more serious. "I – I don't think I do. Forgiveness isn't the same thing as pity, you know. In all honesty... I think you got what you deserved."

He nodded, unruffled. "Promise me you'll never feel sorry for me."

"I promise," she said, the words gliding easily off her tongue. After all, it wasn't going to be a difficult promise to keep, was it?

He seemed satisfied. "What do you think of me, then?" Then he winced. "Or maybe I don't want to know the answer to that."

"No take-backs, Malfoy." She paused. "You know, that's a really hard question to answer."

"In a bad way?"

"In a confusing way," she said. "You're asking me to sum up what I think of you. And what I think of you is really, really long. I hated you, you know. And now... I don't know you all that well. I don't know if I like what I know. It's like it's a new you or something. I think you're trying. I don't hate you anymore, but I don't like you."

There was a long silence. Then Malfoy tilted his head back and laughed a little.

"Well, I deserved that."

"I've got a question, too," she said.

"Ask away."

"How many Slytherins are pureblood?"

"Not many," he replied easily. He paused, then elaborated. "There aren't that many of us to begin with, and we lose some to the other houses at the Sorting. In our year, Pansy, Daphne, Theo and I are pure-bloods. That's less than half of us. Four out of ten is actually unusual; the year under us has no pure-bloods at all. Blaise is practically a pure-blood, but he has some Muggle blood on his father's side, maybe three generations back or something. All the others are half-bloods to a greater degree; one of Goyle's grand-parents is Muggle-born. I think Millicent even has a Muggle for a father. Unless it was a troll."

Hermione smiled at that. Then: "What is Pansy like?"

"Are you serious?"

"You like her," she said. "She's important to you. So she must have some qualities."

He paused. "She does," he said after a moment's thought. "She's clever, even if you won't give her credit for it. She knows what she wants and she knows how to get it. And she's the most loyal person I know. I don't think she would have been in Slytherin if it weren't for me. I mean – she has the cunning, but it isn't her strongest asset.

"We knew each other before Hogwarts. My family knows hers – it's often like that with pureblood families. I already knew Daphne and Theo. Daphne can't stand me, by the way. I think my parents had plans for us – Pansy and I – to eventually marry. In fact, I'm sure of it. I grew up expecting it, and I probably would have gone through with it if it hadn't been for the war. How do you sidestep that? Our friendship would have happened anyway; it wasn't completely forced. But we thought we would spend the rest of our lives together, so we tried to make the best of it.

"Pansy has been like my sister, and there are worse fates than marrying someone who loves you, but it's definitely not going to happen now. My parents have other things to worry about, and she wouldn't have me anyway."

"What happened?"

"I used her," he replied. "I was callous and I lied to her. I pretended I was protecting her, but really, I hurt her more than doing nothing would have. Up until now, she's always been someone I could count on, even when I didn't give her anything in exchange. And she would have gone on like that, because she's loyal and – and selfless. But she isn't suicidal, and when I hurt her, she must have realised she was better off without me. And she's right.

"I don't know how to make you understand what Pansy is to me." He looked down at his palms. "I grew up loving her attention. She was a pure-blood, she was rich; but most of all, she was very good at making herself indispensable. She could make me laugh very easily. She was always trying to please me, but not because I was just as rich and pure-blooded as her. It was because she genuinely liked me, right off the bat."

"I understand."

"No, you don't. How could you? You're a –"

"A Mudblood," she finished for him.

He flinched and looked as though she'd just slapped him. "Don't. I was going to say, a Gryffindor. You're noble and loyal and brave and everything. I'm Slytherin, Granger. It just isn't our way to... to be as selfless as Pansy has always been with me. I never realised how precious it was until she was gone."

"Then you should tell her," she said. "You should tell her you miss her. Tell her she's important to you."

He was silent.

"Do you really believe in pureblood supremacy?"

Again the surprised look. "I..."

"It's a question, Malfoy, not an accusation."

He closed his eyes.

When he remained silent, she added, "You don't have to answer if you don't want to."

"Yes." The answer came through clenched teeth, almost unwillingly.

She started to reply when he continued, almost inaudibly and without opening his eyes.

"I did. I believed I was a more worthy wizard because my entire family have been wizards. I believed you were inferior because your parents are Muggles, and I believed Muggles were lowly and ignorant. I hated you for six years because you beat me in every class. You, a..." He opened his eyes and looked at her squarely. "I can't even say the word anymore. Not since..." He nodded at her arm, which they both knew to be mottled with bruises and scars.

"Mudblood," she said, and had the satisfaction of seeing him flinch again. "Mudblood," she repeated. "The name your aunt called me when she tortured me in your house. Why does that make it any different? You called me it for six years."

Malfoy leaned forward and looked at her intently. "Because, Hermione... Muggleborns scream just as loud as anyone else."

She was the one who winced and leaned away slightly at the memory.

That night, Hermione dreamed of Malfoy Manor. In her nightmare, she saw through her own eyes, only a few months previously. She saw the gates, the black cloaks, the Snatchers' leering faces. She retraced her steps up the alley, up the few steps, through the door, and down so many corridors. She saw Ron and Harry, their faces oddly blurred, being shoved down into a dungeon, and saw Bellatrix step forward, grinning madly, her voice echoing around Hermione, repeating the same word over and over again.

"Mudblood, Mudblood, Mudblood!"

And she was screaming, experiencing more pain than she had ever thought possible. And at one point, she raised her eyes and – she would never have done this in any other situation – looked up at Malfoy, pleadingly. He held her gaze, but not out of cruelty or enjoyment at her situation. It was more like he couldn't look away. He was pallid, white even, and his eyes never left her face.

And this was when the dream started to divert from reality. Malfoy's eyes suddenly went cold, and his mouth contorted into a horrible, insane grin. He drew out his wand and –

She woke up, breathing hard and sweating. A nightmare? She never had nightmares. She knew that since the war, Ginny had taken to sleeping in the Common Room so she didn't keep waking up her dorm mates with her screams. But even with what had happened at Malfoy Manor, Hermione hadn't had a single nightmare since the war. Maybe it was because she hardly slept at all, and when she did, it was only for a few hours at a time, an exhausted, dreamless, soulless sleep. This was the first nightmare she had had in a long, long time.

It wouldn't be the last.

I love writing Hermione and Draco in this story, because they're both so hurt. And even though Hermione was tortured – and I really don't think you can just get over that in a couple of weeks, by the way. I understand that because of the Horcrux Hunt she didn't have time to dwell on it, but I think it's something that would have stayed with her all the same – even though she was tortured, I'd say Draco was the one who was the most hurt. All the same, they're both hurt but they've both still got their pride and it's fun trying to work past that. They're afraid to broach touchy subjects like the war but eventually they'll have to – as you'll see later. And they'll have to forgive each other. I'm not sure Draco can forgive himself.

Can I tell you something? This fic is a post-war story, originally meant to be more angsty than hopeful. It's the first year after the war. Yes, Harry Potter has won – but at what cost? Fifty people died in the Battle of Hogwarts. Countless others were murdered by the Death Eaters between Voldemort's return to power and the Final Battle. I wanted to depict a world left reeling by its losses, everyone mourning in a different way, with maybe the slightest ray of hope – mostly learning to open up to others. And in this story, there was going to be minimal Draco/Hermione interaction, if any.

Like I said in the previous chapter, the first plot I came up with was Lee's. Then in came George after his twin's death. How did he heal? It must have been slow, gradual – how can you ever get over the death of a brother, let alone your twin whom you have never lived apart from? And how did he get closer to Angelina? George's story is planned out throughout the years – because, no matter how long it takes me, I do intend on writing all the years between the end of DH and the Epilogue. Then Alicia found me. When I wrote the first chapter (which was, hopefully, a little sad, because that was what I was aiming for), Alicia jumped it with her paralysed leg and her cheerfulness. And gradually, the cheerfulness faded and Alicia grew, with a dark story of her own.

I only remembered Hermione was going back to Hogwarts when I started working on Ginny's character. And after I wrote the scene where Harry gives his wand back to Draco, I started to wonder about Draco as well. I knew he would have changed, just like everyone else? His stay in Azkaban – okay, I completely made that up, but you can see it happening, can't you? – would certainly have done something to him, but beyond that, he would have changed. Not drastically in the sense that he wouldn't be on his knees begging Hermione for forgiveness. He's still got too much pride for that. But I can see him regretting some things.

Anyway, I thought – if Draco came back to Hogwarts – that Hermione would notice the change, but I didn't intend for them to ever really talk or end up anywhere close. It just happened. And soon their scenes turned into my favourite scenes to write, much more than Lee's or Alicia's. As you can see, after much internal debate (because I didn't want to be classified as a 'Dramione' story... because there's more to this story than them), I even decided on them as the two leading characters for this fic. And they are the main characters, I suppose. I only hope I'm pulling off their personalities passably.

Next chapter is called Blood Calls to Blood and no, no one dies and no one gets hurt.