AN: Hi guys! Sorry I've been so rubbish at updating! I've kind of lost a bit of inspiration for the fic and started another Tomione AU which I have more inspiration for, but I received a few really lovely reviews this past week that have given me the motivation to sit down and write! Things are PROGRESSING in this slowest of slow burns, I promise you.

Chapter Twenty Nine – Some Hope

June

The day of his birthday, Draco slept in.

He knew without having looked at the clock, because his head felt heavy and his chest light, and the way the sunlight filtered through the kelp and seaweed on the lakebed was brighter than usual, sunflower yellow instead of muted and dull. It rippled across his bed, dancing along the pale expanse of his skin. He raised his hand and watched it flit through his fingers.

Another year gone. Another three hundred and sixty five days. Another twelve months. Time was flitting through his fingers, sifting like the sands of an hourglass. It had scared him before, how quickly his stolen life was carrying on, as though the war hadn't happened, as though hundreds and thousands of people hadn't had their time cut brutally short whilst he stumbled on.

Draco breathed deeply, hand falling to his chest.

Eighteen. Before him stretched the responsible and trying years of adulthood and for all that he felt he had been born anew, a gasping infant to such a new and unfamiliar world, Draco simultaneously felt like the same boy that had hidden his shaking hands in the sleeves of his robes on September 1st all those years ago. The burden of duty had always weighed him down, first his name, then the Mark, and though he remained burdened with both, there was something lingering in the air that morning that made him breathe more freely. His future was stretched before him, an unending, winding road, but Draco swore there was some glimmer of light, some hope, waiting for him at the end.

It was a strange feeling, one he had not felt in such a long time, but it was unforgettable, impossible to ignore. A lazy smile pulled at his lips.

Draco allowed himself a few more seconds in bed, the comfort and warmth foreign but welcome, before he couldn't justify it any longer and got up. It was a weekend, early June, summer in full bloom. He buttoned up his shirt, then stopped abruptly, catching sight of the dark, garish smudge on his forearm in the mirror, where the sleeve had slipped.

Freezing, he stared at it. Before he diverted his eyes, straightened his shirt and rolled both sleeves to his elbows. The cream Blaise had given him for Christmas was locked and warded in his drawer, and Draco reversed the magic, taking the tub and sitting on his bed. He turned his arm, skin pale, the Mark dark, and he only stared at it for a moment or two before he began to apply the cream, relishing in the way every line disappeared under his fingers.

It felt odd, tingling as the magic took effect. It felt like a second chance.

Draco put it back in his bedside table drawer, warding it shut again, and slid his shoes on before he left. He knew nobody would either care or remember his birthday, but he couldn't shake the slightly euphoric feeling in his stomach, the victory that he had survived this far, that things were finally looking up.

The Common Room was almost empty as he passed through it, making his way to breakfast. If the sunlight bathing his room was anything to go by, most people would be outside or down in Hogsmeade. At least the castle would be quiet today.

Draco found Blaise immediately when he entered The Great Hall, moving over to sit beside him and helping himself to some food. His friend didn't acknowledge him, merely slid a black tub to him.

"Happy Birthday," said Blaise, before continuing with his breakfast.

Draco stared at the gift. He took it and put it in his pocket. "Thank you."

Blaise nodded, glancing sideways at him and smiling slightly, bumping their shoulders. "Didn't think you'd make it to eighteen, Drake."

"Neither did I."

Blaise clenched his jaw, smile fading, before he said, in a quieter voice, "I'm glad you did though, mate."

Draco swallowed thickly, reaching for Blaise's hand to squeeze his knuckles before they both returned to eating.

They had not eaten very much, however, by the time Hermione slid onto the bench opposite them, grinning, hair blown wild, lips and cheeks pink.

"Happy Birthday!" she beamed, passing him a present wrapped in golden paper which had him rolling his eyes despite himself.

"Couldn't help yourself, Granger?"

Her smile simply widened and she shrugged, plating herself up some breakfast and said, "I'll make a Gryffindor of you yet, Malfoy."

Draco's eyes widened in horror and she burst out laughing, tipping her head back. He watched her, only tearing his eyes away when he tuned into the murmurs floating down the table. The eyes darted away when they caught him looking, but it was enough to make his entire body tense. His fingers dug into the wrapping paper.

"Granger," he muttered, leaning forward slightly. She hummed, but didn't look at him, reaching for the bacon a little further down the table. "This is the Slytherin Table."

Hermione rolled her eyes and said, sarcasm thick in her voice, "Thank you for that information, Draco. Insightful as ever."

He gritted his teeth. Blaise simply laughed.

"Hogwarts' War Heroine can sit wherever the fuck she so pleases!" he exclaimed, eyes twinkling, eyebrows raised. "Isn't that right, Granger?"

"Exactly right."

Draco looked between the two of them cautiously, as though they were conspiring against him, teaming up to take him down. He felt Hermione's eyes flick to him a couple of times and realised he was still holding his present.

Blushing slightly, Draco looked at it, running his hands over the gold paper. It was immaculately wrapped and taped, the Muggle way, not that he expected anything less, and he slid his finger along the seam, taking care not to rip it. He imagined her sitting on her dormitory floor, mismatched lengths of cellotape hanging off every doorknob, bed post, table and drawers, fingers nimbly folding the wrapping paper into place. His lips curved into a small smile.

When the wrapping paper fell away, his hands froze. The scarf was woollen and emerald and silver, neatly knitted, with little silver snakes and flowers in each corner. Draco ran his fingers over it. It was much softer than he had expected, and his finger snagged on a few frays and odd knots where she'd gone wrong. She hadn't used magic. She'd made it herself. For him.

"I didn't know what to get you," began Hermione nervously, nose wrinkling, fingers drumming on the table. "I was considering a different colour, blue actually because sometimes, your eyes look blue in the light, but then I know you would've laughed at me for giving you something that matches your eyes so I just played it safe-"

"Hermione."

She blinked, lips pressing into a line. Draco couldn't help but smile at her, reaching across the table to squeeze her fingers. "It's perfect. Thank you."

"I had a lot of practise," she admitted, looking away from him. "With the things I've made for the House Elves over the years."

Draco rolled his eyes, exasperation drenching his voice when he muttered, "You and those bloody House Elves."

Hermione smiled despite herself, her entire face lighting up, eyes bright, lips wide, teeth shining, and Draco swallowed. She lit up, like one of the stars, blinding, reminding him there was hope after all.

"You're an incredibly difficult person to buy for, you know," she said. "What to buy a person who has everything."

She laughed a little, tucking some hair behind her ear, and Draco stared at her. Not everything, he thought. Not you.

The post arrived later than usual, given the fact it was the weekend, and Draco's eyes widened when three owls landed in front of him, one dropping a letter on his plate before soaring back round to land by his arm, the other two carrying a conspicuously shaped parcel, wrapped in brown paper, tied with string; the latter two birds crashed into the table, knocking over goblets and upending plates of food. Blaise threw his arms up as his beans spilled out onto the table. Hermione had had the foresight to gather her plate and drink and hold them out of the way, pursing her lips together.

Draco swallowed. People were watching him now, glancing over, but he paid them no mind. He took the letter and recognised it immediately, breath stalling in his throat. She always left the 'o' of his name on an errant, flyaway curl. Instead of opening it, he ran his thumb across his name in his mother's handwriting and folded the letter in half and slipped it in his pocket.

The second delivery made him hesitate. There was a note attached to the string, and Draco couldn't stop the laugh when he flipped it over and read it. He shook his head. It didn't take a genius to figure out what was under the wrapping, but Draco still felt the surprise bubble in his chest at the broomstick on the table in front of him. It was the newest model, slick, black handle, gelled sticks sharpened to a point.

"Is that-?" began Blaise, but he broke off. It was the first time in a while he had heard his friend sound so genuinely lost for words. Draco couldn't answer him. "From who? Because no offense but you're not the most popular guy around at the moment-"

He checked the note for himself. "You've got to be fucking kidding me."

Hermione was watching him when Draco looked at her. She shrugged and said, "I told them your Gringotts account was suspended until the end of your probation. Clearly, they interpret necessity as a broomstick."

Draco stared at her for a very long time, until she was shifting in her seat and frowning back at him, before he stood from the bench, broom in hand, and moved around the table to stand in front of her. Hermione watched him warily.

He offered her his hand. "You promised me."

Hermione felt her cheeks flush. Her eyes flicked to his outstretched hand and back. "I didn't promise," she said quickly. "It was only an offer, really, a suggestion, if you will-"

"Well, I'm taking you up on it."

He wiggled his hand for emphasis, and Hermione saw the smugness of his faux-patient face. She grimaced.

"Hermione," said Draco, pouting slightly. "It is my birthday."

He heard her swallow, but then her fingers hesitantly touched his, hand sliding to hold his own, and Draco pulled her to her feet and out of the Great Hall. He heard Blaise call after them and Hermione admonishing him and pulling at his hand but he didn't stop, dragging her until the fresh, summer air had washed over them, and sweat beaded on their hairlines, didn't stop until she was laughing and running to keep up with him, didn't stop until they got to the Quidditch Pitch and he'd swung his leg over his new broom, and looked at her.

Her cheeks had flushed pink, eyes bright and wide, hair wild. She was breathing heavily, beaming up at him and he was momentarily struck by how young she looked, how free. She did not look like a soldier, like a war veteran, like someone who had witnessed and delivered death. She looked like a teenage girl with big, brown eyes and pink lips and a futile, desperate hope perching in her heart that the world was a good place after all, that it would be good to them.

Draco held his arm out to help her on and Hermione moved with little objection, letting him pull her waist as his hands settled her in front of him. He stopped. She was so close to him that he could smell her shampoo, and the jasmine on her breath, feel the heat of her back against his chest, the softness of her curls against his nose. His hand slipped from her waist to wrap around her front, pulling her against him. Draco could feel her pulse fluttering on each of his fingertips.

"Are you ready, Granger?" he murmured against her ear.

Her hand lifted to squeeze his. "Always, Draco."

Without another word, he took a deep breath and pushed off. Hermione didn't scream this time. She laughed, her euphoria tumbling from her lips, catching in the air, like music to his ears. Draco clutched her tighter and soared higher, faster. The sky was blue and endless. There were clouds above their heads, grazing their skin with unshed water droplets, but summer was light and fresh for them, and the future felt open and ready for the taking, laid out like all the freedom in the world. The sun warmed their skin, forced them to squint. He wondered if heaven was a place or a feeling because surely, surely no feeling could ever beat this. No light would ever be so blinding.

Hermione dipped her head back, leaning it against his shoulder, tipping her chin into his jaw, and closing her eyes. The smile played at her lips. Draco's eyes caught on her. As they ascended the sky, he pressed a sweet, lingering kiss to her skin.

When he pulled back, he met her gaze only briefly before he looked ahead, swerving the broom and dropping them into a feint. A gasp was torn from Hermione's throat. They plummeted to the ground, earth coming up to meet them. The air rushed upwards, squeezing their bodies, ripping at their clothes and hair. Draco leaned into her, moving them both lower to the handle and they went faster, dropped faster. Hermione squeezed his fingers so hard he swore they would break.

He pulled out of it, right at the last minute. Flying along the ground, so low that the grass tickled their ankles, Draco came to a gentle stop. He didn't let go of her immediately. They both panted, lives on the line, blood rushing to their heads.

She dropped her head onto his shoulder again, eyes closed. Draco leaned his head against hers.

He wanted to kiss her. It had been so long he had forgotten what it felt like to kiss her but he knew, with all his heart, that freedom would never taste sweeter than on Hermione Granger's lips. He wanted to see if he could taste the jasmine on her tongue.

But she moved, clambering off the broom, his hand falling away from her. She stumbled back from him, trying fruitlessly to manage her hair, and Draco swallowed back the feeling, swallowed everything.

Hermione laughed slightly and fixed him with a knowing smile. "I still hate flying."

He forced his lips to curve. "I guess we'll have to get used to agreeing to disagree."

"I guess we will."

Draco clutched the broom tighter, knuckles turning white.

"I'm going back up," he said, eyes meeting hers only for a brief second before he had pushed off again.

Hermione frowned. Her eyes followed him until he became a spec in the sky, before she made her way to the bleachers, finding a seat in the empty crowd and unshrinking a book she had stashed in her cardigan pocket that morning. She kept her eyes on him, smiling as he dipped in and out of the sparse clouds, euphoria tangible and infectious in the air, even from this distance. The book on her lap remained open but she had yet to read a page.

Hermione didn't look away from the figure in the sky when she felt someone sit next to her.

"Is your book interesting?" asked Blaise pleasantly, crossing one leg over the other and clasping his hands around his knees. He squinted up at Draco.

She cleared her throat, adjusting her book and turning the page. "Very, thank you for asking."

"Have you read it before?"

Hermione pursed her lips.

Blaise continued casually, leaning his head closer, "I'm only asking because I notice you haven't read a word."

She pulled a face, the sunlight blinding her, her irritation at Blaise making her face crinkle in displeasure. Hermione closed her book and swivelled in her seat to look at him.

"What do you want?"

He raised his eyebrows, glancing down at her.

As he opened his mouth to reply, Hermione cut him off and said, "Because if it's not important then kindly bugger off. I'm reading."

Blaise let out a low whistle and laughed, the smile crinkling his eyes. He shook his head almost fondly.

"You've changed, Granger-"

She huffed, blowing a curl away from her face and looking away again. "We've all changed."

Blaise smirked. "Yeah but you-" He let out a chuckle and Hermione glared at him. "There used to be a time when you couldn't hear the name Malfoy without twitching for your wand."

"Things have changed, Zabini."

"Not everything."

Hermione looked at him carefully. He looked like a bronze statue, she thought, carved from impeccable lines, the cut of his jaw and cheeks sharp and precise. Blaise wasn't looking at her, skin glowing in the midday sun, dark eyes unreadable as he watched Draco dive and speed so close to the ground, she instinctively curled her fingers in her skirt.

"You know," said Blaise, "the first conversation I ever had with Draco was about the prissy little Gryffindor Mudblood who'd bested him on a First Year Potions test."

Hermione snorted.

"Then, it was Draco moaning that the Heir of Slytherin couldn't even do his job once he found out you'd been Petrified."

Her smile dropped. She took a deep breath and clutched the material of her skirt tighter.

"And Third Year- fuck, he didn't shut up. First it was that bloody Hippogriff and then you had to go and punch him and I never heard the end of that! You broke his nose, you know."

"Good," said Hermione, crossing her arms. "He deserved it."

Blaise's lips quirked. "I'm sure. He left Pansy at the Yule Ball in Fourth Year. They'd had an argument. Massive one. Whole of Slytherin heard it. They didn't speak for two weeks after because he couldn't stop staring at another girl."

Hermione swallowed. She shook her head, closing her eyes briefly and said, "Blaise, why are you-?"

"Fifth Year- did you ever notice Draco and Pansy would always get incredibly frisky in the corridors on the nights of your patrol? I told him it was on the nose but he just snapped at me and told me it was none of my business who he was shagging after hours. I told him it was none of yours either."

Blaise dragged his eyes to her. "You visited him in Sixth Year didn't you." It wasn't a question. He didn't even give her the liberty of pretending. "After Potter sliced him open-"

"Harry-" she began in his defence and Blaise stopped, raising his eyebrows. Hermione pressed her lips into a line.

"Why did you go?"

She stared at him.

Blaise stared back. "Why did Draco not identify you at Malfoy Manor?"

Hermione glanced at the boy in question, willing for him to fly closer to interrupt this interrogation or fly so far away as to render every answer she could give meaningless.

"Why did you stay with him in the Hospital Wing, Hermione? Why did you testify for him? Why did you save his mother?"

"Are you quite done, Zabini?"

Her voice was little more than a whisper, strained, and she pressed her arms tighter against her chest. Blaise's gaze, like his questions, was unrelenting. His last one was worst of all and her stomach flipped like it had when she was flying with Draco and he'd pulled out of the dive quite suddenly in the very second before collision:

"Do you love him, Granger?"

Hermione recoiled backwards, nearly slipping off the bench, book falling from her knees, pages flapping, spine bending. She ducked hastily to pick it up and straighten it, smoothing out the crooked pages, before holding it to her chest and standing as far away as she could from him on the bleacher.

Blaise watched her. His lips were pressed together, turned down at the edges, his eyes clinging to her. Hermione couldn't bear the sadness there.

"If you don't mind, Zabini," she began, pushing some hair from her face. "I have somewhere to be. Tell Draco if I don't see him later, that I hope he has a good birthday. Please."

She closed her mouth, nodding, before she spun on her heel and walked quickly away from him.

"Hermione," he called after her but she ignored him, disappearing from view.

Blaise sat back. He closed his eyes, shaking his head, then pinched the bridge of his nose. "Fucking hell, Granger. You've only gone and fallen in love with the git."