HHis hand trembled as he brought his now warm cup of tea to his lips and sipped. The porcelain clinked as he placed the cup back on the saucer. He picked up his charcoal between his fingers and turned his attention back to the parchment spread out on the table in front of him. His hand continued the fine and precise tracings. With the tip of his middle finger he smudged the charcoal on the paper, creating shadows. The Manor was empty. A large pendulum clock, a giant one at that, swung from left to right in a steady rhythm. That was all that could be heard.

Tick... tock... tick... tock...

Draco Malfoy racked his brains. As soon as the war ended and Voldemort was defeated, Death Eaters had fled to escape the Aurors, including his father, but he'd been caught. The bastard. He and his mother had preferred to act wiser and stay put. Resisting or fleeing would only give the Wizengamot one more reason to convict them.

The charcoal continued its precise and now frantic strokes; hair. Draco didn't know what to expect. He really didn't know if he would be convicted. Yes, he had received the Mark, but not by choice. He had never really wanted to be part of Voldemort's ranks, but he had never had a choice. He had to act on his father's behalf, to restore his name. Voldemort had counted on him.

Draco's hand hung over his finished drawing. Crabbe's inexpressive face looked up at him, flat on the table. His eyes bore the echo of well-concealed anguish. Eyes that knew he was going to die.

Tick... tock... tick... tock...

Draco had lost his friend. Crabbe had died in the Room of Requirement a little over a month ago. Consumed by the flames. Draco couldn't save him. Many people had died in the Battle. Draco had been careful not to look at the bodies on the ground. He had tried to stop Potter, Weasley and... her. The Mudblood.

He turned the parchment over so that Crabbe would stop staring at him. His hands smeared with charcoal, Draco did not get up to clean them. He remained in his chair, absently examining his black nails. Mother wouldn't like that. But Mother was not there. At the other end of the endless laminated cherry wood table, where his father used to sit, the newspapers with the big headlines lay on the smooth surface. The Quibbler and the Daily Prophet were the ones that published the most. The Malfoys' trial was split into three separate events, one for each member of the family.

The Daily Prophet was having a field day with it:

Lucius Abraxas Malfoy: THE TRIAL OF THE CENTURY not to be missed!

NARCISSA neither MALFOY nor BLACK : the trial will reveal her true colors.

DRACO LUCIUS MALFOY: The Malfoy heir on trial! An uncertain future... who would want to marry a fallen Pureblood?

While the Quibbler relied a little less on scandal:

Fugitive Death Eater Found: Lucius Abraxas Malfoy's trial

A poor woman with no choice: Narcissa Malfoy's trial

A son used and misguided: Draco Malfoy's trial

Draco no longer opened a single wizarding newspaper.

When the Dark Lord had finally appeared with Harry's dead body, Draco had stopped moving. He was stuck in a crowd of other Hogwarts students. Something inside him had been crushed. He hated this wizard with a hero complex, but somewhere deep down he knew that Harry represented everything he had been told he had no right to be. Harry was the 'only' — he really didn't like to admit that — hope he had of freeing his mother from the monstrous grip of the Dark Lord.

And once again he was given a choice. Come forward and join our ranks. Or die!

And his father imploring him to cross the courtyard to leave the students. Draco...

And his mother. Draco, come...

His mother only wanted his safety. His father only wanted to avoid being killed.

A son used and misguided.

And they'd left like cowards at the same time that Harry, by some surprise, had leapt to his feet, back to life. Or maybe he was never dead after all. Next thing you know, the three of them were back at the Manor. His father was urging them to pack up. He wanted to run away. Immediately. But Narcissa, standing before her son, had categorically lifted her chin and refused.

"If you leave, we won't be behind you, Lucius," she had said gravely.

So Lucius had left them, and he had saved his own skin. Narcissa had turned back to Draco, her face as composed as ever.

"We stay put," she said gravely. "This is our best chance to get out of this. We're not fighting back. Do you understand, Draco? "

"The Dark Lord will kill us."

Narcissa took her son's chin between two firm fingers. "No, Draco. It's almost over. He won't make it."

"How do you know that?"

"Because... I trust Harry Potter."

So they'd stayed put and waited. And after only twenty minutes or so, his scar flared up, causing him extreme pain, before turning quite pale. Draco had slid the tip of his index finger against it.

"It's over, isn't it?" he had whispered.

Narcissa had touched her son's cheek tenderly. "Yes, my boy. It's over."

Draco finished his tea, but still did not get up from the table. His trial would begin tomorrow. He kept his eyes fixed on his cup, trying to prepare some kind of speech. But he had nothing to say. He had nothing to say for himself. I never had a choice, was all that was running through his head. But that wasn't going to be enough. He knew that.

A bitter taste filled his mouth and he stood up, abruptly pushing his chair back and tipping it over. He didn't pick it up. The Manor was gloomy. The cold marble floors reflected back at him. He could hardly bear the size of the Manor. The memories that hovered there. The blood that had flowed there. The cries of the Mudblood in the next room, echoing like the ghostly howls of a wounded animal.

What had been the point of it all?

What had been the point of carrying this Mark for two years, of being constantly afraid of being punished for something his father had done?

What had been the point of staying so strong and tough, to make sure he had the upper hand?

He had never had the upper hand and it was a lie to think that it had all been up to him.

Saint Potter had come. So did the Weasel.

But not the Mudblood.

The fucking popular trio was receiving praise from every mouth. The two boys Draco hated the most had shown up at his trial. They had testified on behalf of him and his mother.

But not the Mudblood.

He wasn't surprised. He wondered what she was up to.

He was tired.

Draco was in the garden looking at the flowers. The sun would soon be setting, and Draco liked to see the colours painting the sky before dusk. It always made him feel good. Roses, lilacs, tulips, scabiosa. He hadn't written to anyone this summer, and no one had written to him. The Slytherins had never really been keen on sending letters to each other during the holidays. But after the Battle... things had changed. He hadn't seen his supposed mates since the Battle. The Malfoys' trial was taking time and obviously everyone had heard about it. But nobody had written to him. No one was asking him how he was doing. Goyle was in prison, Crabbe was dead, and Zabini was looking after his mother who had just been divorced for the eighth time and was having problems. "I'll explain some other time".

The warm summer air caressed his face and gently lifted his hair, which was getting a little too long on his forehead. He shoved his hands into his pockets. Someone tapped him on the shoulder.

Draco pivoted. His mother was facing him, elegantly dressed as if she'd just come from a trip to the city. She was wearing her black gloves and a white blouse with a swan collar decorated with small, shiny black gemstones. She held a newspaper in her hand, which she handed to her son.

"We are cleared, Draco," she said in a composed and controlled voice. "The Ministry has summoned me. The journalists have already written tomorrow's headlines."

Draco looked down at the paper, an unfinished editorial copy of The Daily Prophet.

The Wizengamot's long-awaited decision: Mother and son Malfoy cleared and Father convicted!

The young wizard raised his dull grey eyes to his mother's soft, maternal ones. He took a deep breath and closed his eyes, breathing in the scent of the garden. His father was going to be imprisoned. But all that was spinning in his head, again, was the headline. Who would want to marry a fallen Pureblood?

"I'm tired," he finally admitted.

Narcissa raised her arm slowly, and with her long, slender fingers, stroked the tips of the locks on her son's forehead. "I know what this trial has done to you, my son," she sighed. "But you don't have to worry about it anymore. It's over."

"Are we going to stay here?" he asked suddenly. "At the Manor?"

His mother's arm dropped abruptly. "Here?" she repeated, bewildered. "Where do you want us to go?"

Draco shook his head and looked at the horizon, letting the wind toss his hair in place of his mother's fingers.

"It's too big and too empty," he said. "We could start over again. Find another place."

Narcissa looked shocked. "My whole life is here, Draco. I understand how you feel, but I couldn't bear to erase my whole life from one day to the next. If you want to start afresh, I'm willing to make changes within the Manor. Changing the decor, even replacing our house-elves, if you want..."

"No, it's not about the house-elves." He closed his mouth and his mother guessed that he had wanted to say something else.

"What is it, Draco?" she encouraged him.

He looked back at her. "It's the place. It's just the place, the walls, the floors, the tables, the rooms, the cellar. Nothing can really change, no matter how many coats of paint you apply or which lamp you decide to change."

He stopped, because he realised that his tone was becoming rude and he did not want to be rude to his mother.

His gaze softened. "I want to go back to Hogwarts," he said.

He hadn't even thought about it since the beginning of the summer, and the decision had come out of his mouth as if it were a separate creature. His mother's gaze remained neutral. She listened intently, detailing his drawn features and overly long hair. He felt her scratching at the walls around his mind. She was a tremendous Legilimens, the best one he knew, and could read one's mind if she wanted to simply by looking at them. But he was an extraordinary Occlumens and could keep her out whenever he needed to. The occasions where she tried to see in his mind were rare because she wanted to respect his privacy. But sometimes she was too worried about him and couldn't help herself.

"There's an eighth year for those who couldn't finish their seventh," he continued, ignoring the fact that she was trying to probe him from inside. "The rebuilding is going well. We'll be able to focus on our N.E.W.T.s."

"Are you certain this is what you want?" she asked, concerned.

Draco blinked and his eyes found the brightness of the sunset colours. "Yes, Mother."

In early August, a firm hand knocked on the door of the Manor. Narcissa Malfoy herself went to open it. An expression of surprise crossed her face at the sight of Minerva McGonagall, dressed all in purple with a long, pointed, crooked hat.

"Hello, Mrs. Malfoy," she greeted her. "I'm sorry to come uninvited."

"You may call me 'Black'," Narcissa clarified gently. "Come in, please. You are welcome."

McGonagall was greeted in the hallway of the Manor, and a house-elf appeared.

"May Jaba take your hat and cloak, Madam?" he offered, bowing excessively.

"No, thank you," the old witch politely declined. "It won't take long, I assure you," she added to Narcissa.

Jaba disappeared with a snap of his finger and Narcissa smiled, a little nervously, at her guest. "How can I help you?"

The politeness was hasty, as if there was some fault to redeem. Narcissa felt a little uneasy about receiving the new Headmistress of Hogwarts in person at her home, considering that a few months earlier her husband and his pack of Death Eaters had destroyed her school. But McGonagall didn't seem bothered or embarrassed in the least. No doubt she had been following the state of the trials

"I have a special matter to discuss with Mr. Malfoy regarding his return to Hogwarts."

"Of course," nodded Narcissa. "May I offer you some tea?"

McGonagall hesitated for a few seconds, letting her gaze wander over the grandeur of the marble hallway and the polished floor, before nodding with a smile.

"Please, if it's not too much trouble."

Narcissa dismissed her words with a wave of her hand. "Not at all. I'll show you to the sitting room."

The Headmistress followed the Lady of the Manor through two different rooms before arriving in an elegant sitting room, with black velvet chairs, heavy curtains on either side of a huge bay window, and a black marble fireplace large enough to accommodate three wizards standing.

McGonagall took a seat in a chair, thanking Narcissa, in front of a small table, just opposite an identical chair.

"I will fetch my son," said Narcissa. "I'll ask Jaba to make some tea."

"Please do not rush."

Narcissa disappeared for a few minutes, during which time Jaba reappeared with a silver tray on which a complete tea set was laid out. Teapot, saucers, porcelain cups with golden rims, and an appetizing platter of scones. He placed it on the table.

McGonagall poured herself some tea, but did not taste it. Draco appeared in the sitting room, followed by his mother. He looked... exhausted. The Headmistress stood up and let him come closer before extending her hand towards him.

"Mr. Malfoy, I'm so glad to see you."

Narcissa disappeared, closing the doors behind her, even though she was horribly curious about this impromptu conversation. Draco, surprised and stiff, shook the Headmistress's warm hand and she invited him to sit in the other seat in front of her. He did not touch the tea.

"Nice to see you... too," Draco returned the courtesy, not knowing what else to say.

"Mr. Malfoy, I won't beat about the bush."

She pulled a large envelope out of her cloak with a recognisable green ink on the back. The Slytherin frowned. He recognised the Hogwarts seal, of course. McGonagall placed the envelope on the table next to the tea tray, the seal hidden, and pushed it towards Draco.

The blonde boy made no move to take it. "What is it?".

McGonagall felt like rolling her eyes. "Open it."

Draco did so, his movements slow and uncertain. When he read the first paper, his eyes widened for a single second and then crinkled, his brows furrowing considerably. Confusion drove him into a mute state. He reread the parchment three times. Five times.

"What—" he began, before turning the paper over to look at the blank reverse side. "What is— Is this true? Is this a joke?"

This time the old witch really rolled her eyes and took a sip of her tea. "I don't do 'jokes', Mr. Malfoy," she said, her tone serious. "I have chosen you to be the next Head Boy at Hogwarts this year."

Draco could hardly believe the very simple words that came out of the Headmistress' mouth. He looked into the envelope and noticed a thick bundle of parchment folded in three. A contract? His mouth went dry. Crazy thoughts swarmed in his boiling mind.

"I... I don't understand," he breathed out after a moment, his face still dazed.

A son used and misguided. Who would want to marry a fallen Pureblood? The faceless figures of the members of the Wizengamot in the stands around him leapt to mind. Mr. Malfoy, do you plead guilty to conspiring with the Dark Lord and fighting alongside him? His attention went to the smaller sheet of parchment congratulating him on his nomination, on which was his full name. His father's name. Draco Lucius Malfoy. I did what I had to do to keep my family from being killed. I had no choice. In fact, I had a choice, forgive me. But I chose the 'wrong' choice, the one that would keep me alive and save my mother.

"Why me, Professor?" he asked, looking into her eyes. "Why choose me and not Potter?"

"Mr. Potter has many outstanding qualities, but he needs to focus on his own well-being this year. It's not every day one dies, comes back to life, fights the most powerful wizard in the world and defeats him. He's been under a lot of pressure in the last few years."

Draco rolled his eyes, unable to help himself. A lot of pressure to be a hero, yes, he thought.

McGonagall continued. "Also, your grades are exceeding expectations and you have always taken your responsibilities very seriously, which is an essential quality for the position I am appointing you to."

The Slytherin couldn't help but smirk, pleasantly surprised by this little speech in his honour. The Headmistress pursed her lips severely and put her cup back down, which clattered on the saucer.

"Now, don't get too cocky, Mr. Malfoy," she warned. "I don't think I'm wrong in saying that you need to keep your thoughts busy this year, do you?"

Draco's mouth went dry a second time and his smile disappeared. He decided to pour himself a cup of tea awkwardly, just to keep his hands busy, and answered without looking at her when he was finished.

"You are not mistaken. I just don't think anyone will be happy to see me at Hogwarts."

"Don't worry about the others, Mr. Malfoy. If the others have a modicum of trust in me, they'll have to have trust in you."

Draco touched the handle of his hot cup with his fingertips. I had to become a Death Eater to replace my father, who was making a fool of himself in his Master's eyes. I was a puppet who had the misfortune to bear the Malfoy name. His gaze remained fixed on the amber tea filling his cup.

"Don't you care that I'm... that I was a Death Eater?" he asked after clearing his throat.

McGonagall examined him carefully, taking care to choose her answer. She took a sip of her tea before answering, keeping her cup in her hands.

"I truly believe, Mr. Malfoy, that if you really wanted to harm our school and Mr. Potter, you would have identified him that night."

So Draco had been right. McGonagall had followed all the details of his trial.

"Besides, if Mr. Potter, Miss—" She stopped abruptly, realising that she was saying Hermione's name out of habit. Draco's stomach knotted.

The old witch continued. "If Mr. Potter and Mr. Weasley could somehow muster up the ability to believe in your... good intentions and testify on your behalf, I choose to believe them. I put my faith in the wisdom of the Wizengamot in making its decision, and in the confidence that Albus Dumbledore had in you."

The Slytherin's head was buzzing with ideas, images, and sentence fragments. He could see himself on top of the Astronomy Tower that night, pointing his wand at the old Headmaster, who was looking at him with such kindness and caring. I had no interest other than to see my mother spared. Draco's throat tightened and he snapped out of his trance.

"Okay," he agreed.

"Then it's settled!" McGonagall exclaimed as she rose from her seat, holding out her hand to the young man. "Welcome to the team, Mr. Malfoy."

Draco stood up to do the same and shook her hand. She pulled her cloak back on, smoothing out her robes, as she spoke.

"Oh and Mr. Malfoy? You and our Gryffindor Head Girl each possess strengths that will complement those of the other and assist you in the fulfillment of your respective duties. For these reasons, I have no doubt that you will form the best team of Heads we have ever had... once you can work alongside each other. All the details are in the contract."

Draco frowned at the Headmistress' penultimate sentence, but he kept silent. He led her out of the Manor, and Narcissa emerged from the dining room a few moments later.

"Thank you for your kind welcome, Mrs. Black," the old witch thanked her.

"You are welcome anytime," Narcissa replied warmly. "Goodbye."

McGonagall left the Manor, but Draco stood firmly on his feet and looked at the door. Narcissa approached her son. "So?" she asked.

"I'm the new Head Boy," he whispered.

He had the unsealed envelope in his fingers, with the contract still stuck in it, which he had not yet opened. His mother wrapped an arm around his shoulders and led him to the dining room she had just left. Draco took a seat at the long cherry table and set the envelope down. His mother took it as she sat down.

After reading it quickly, her eyes still fixed on the letter, she spoke.

"Well, I can't say I'm surprised," she said. "You've always done quite extraordinary well."

Draco kept his head down, his eyes locked on his hands under the table. A Head Girl Gryffindor. Once you can work alongside each other. Alongside each other?

Seeing that her son said nothing, Narcissa put the letter back on the table and turned her attention to him.

"I wonder who the new Head Girl will be," she admitted. "Do you think it will be Daphne, maybe?"

His ex-girlfriend? Not a chance. Draco shook his head and let out a heavy sigh, resting his forehead in his palms, elbows on the table.

"No, Mother, it's Hermione Granger. McGonagall didn't say her name, but it was clear enough."

The mere mention of her name, Hermione Granger, Granger Hermione, caused a sort of nausea that did not bode well. An unspeakable, subdued anger swirled in his stomach. What had he gotten himself into?

Narcissa raised her eyebrows, and carefully spoke up. "And... are you... okay with this?"

"What, with Granger as Head Girl? I don't care, as long as she does her job well. I couldn't afford to be disadvantaged because of her."

"But... isn't she a Muggleborn? The one who—"

"Stop it, Mother! Yes, it's her. If I'm lucky, she won't hex me as soon as she sees me."

Narcissa pursed her lips. Draco tried to soften. He didn't like raising his voice at his mother; that was his father's job. Now that Lucius was no longer around, it was Draco's responsibility to step up and show his mother proper consideration.

"Well, Draco," Narcissa sighed. "I know how I raised you. The Dark Lord... Voldemort... is dead. There's no point in dwelling on—"

"On what, Mother?"

The tall witch's face went slightly white. "Prejudices."

Draco blinked. "Prejudices? Is that what you call it? The only thing Father taught me was blind rage. You saw it. You saw her in the fucking—"

"Language, Draco!"

"You saw her on your drawing room floor! What do you want me to do, Mother? Become her best friend? Tell her we're sorry and that you'd like to invite her for tea? Tea in the drawing room, if she likes the idea? Because... no. Just, no. I'll fulfill my responsibilities and that's it. At the end of the day, she's just another Mudblood among the rest."

Draco bit his tongue as soon as he finished his sentence. He wouldn't have wanted to use that word, but he'd never been in the habit of calling her anything but that.

His mother's eyes twinkled. "At least learn to say 'Muggle-born' instead," she said, her tone low.

But the blonde boy could not help but continue. "You and Father let me be branded by a psychopath for the very 'prejudices' you now call them. He would have killed me without a second thought, and now you're telling me that everything you taught me, this animosity, this hatred, this disdain, was all nonsense?"

Narcissa raised her voice. "Draco! The Dark Lord was a Half-Blood himself. I just found out a few weeks ago."

Draco froze. His heart skipped a beat. He blinked. "A Half-Blood?" he breathed, incredulous. He was a... a FUCKING HALF-BLOOD?"

"Language!"

"I bowed down to a HALF-BLOOD?"

"Jaba!" cried Narcissa.

The House Elf appeared at her side in a second. "Yes, Mistress?"

"Be so kind and bring us some Firewhisky."

Jaba disappeared. Draco's features were hard. His thoughts swirled like a fire breath. A fucking Half-Blood... what the hell? Did he now have to bow down to the house-elves too? Maybe he should join the S.P.E.W or whatever the fuck Granger called it?

"Was this all for... for—" Draco was at a loss for words and stuttered. His mother wanted to let him finish. "—for nothing?" he murmured, looking completely distraught.

He got up from the table in a hurry. "I just can't be in here right now."

He left the room, ignoring his mother's many calls. Without even bothering to return to his room, he rushed out of the Manor and apparated.

Draco Malfoy and Blaise Zabini had been in a pub on the night of McGonagall's visit to the Manor. Draco had apparated directly to Main Street and knocked on Blaise's door. He didn't care that he hadn't been invited. He needed a drink with Zabini, end of story. The latter, surprised to see him but pleased, had hastened to accept.

Draco had greeted Ravona, Zabini's mother, and locked himself in his friend's room while his friend finished his conversation with his mother. Blaise had told him a certain robbery story that his mother had experienced at the beginning of July, and she was still very upset about it.

Now in the pub, Draco had told him everything that had happened, from McGonagall's visit to his mother's last sentence. Blaise seemed in no way surprised that Voldemort had been a Half-Blood. Zabini had always been less of a stickler for such principles and had never shown any real conviction in them, even if he did hang out with 'bad' Slytherins like Malfoy, Pansy, Crabbe, Goyle...

"Speaking of Granger," said Blaise, taking a sip of his Firewhisky, "Did I tell you that I ran into her at the beginning of the summer? She looked like a ghost, man, I couldn't believe it."

"What? What do you mean, you saw her? You met her?"

"Mate, she lives right down the street. I met her when we were kids, but we never really talked. Nor have we been friends."

Draco almost choked on his alcohol. "Why didn't you ever tell me that?"

Blaise shrugged. "You never asked." He took another sip of his whisky, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and looked at Draco. "And besides, why does it matter where she lives? Why do you care?"

"It doesn't. I don't. It's only because I just found out she's going to be Head Girl."

"Malfoy, anyway, even if I had told you... What would you have done? Told that bloody white-skin psycho to kill her and her parents? And if he had ordered you to do it yourself, would you have done it? I have nothing against Granger. She's smart, and she never let you get away with your crap. I actually liked her. She never gave a shit about inter-house prejudice as long as she wasn't assaulted by people like you. So why on earth should I have told you?"

Draco felt his cheeks burning, but he ignored the sensation as he drowned his throat with a far too generous gulp. "You liked her?" repeated Draco, dumbfounded. "So... you… protected her?"

Blaise shrugged again. "Yes and yes. Potter needed her brains to defeat that maniac, you know that. Everyone knows that. Without her, he wouldn't have had the same chance. Granger represented my chance, my only chance, to live a normal life. Sort of."

The blonde wizard, speechless, had to bite his tongue to keep his jaw from dropping. He had never heard Zabini speak with such authenticity and honesty. His saliva, even bathed in alcohol, tasted bitter in his mouth. He looked down at the bottom of his glass where a little whisky remained.

"I never saw it that way," he admitted.

"You only saw her blood status."

They were silent for a moment, during which Draco kept thinking about the contract he had not yet read. McGonagall hadn't mentioned Hermione Granger's name, but he was still convinced that she was the other one. Who else? Miss Know-it-all wouldn't miss an eighth year where she would have the chance to enforce rules and keep order in the school.

"She didn't come to my trial," Draco huffed.

He said it so softly that Blaise looked up at him in confusion. "Come again?"

"She didn't come to my trial," Draco articulated. "Granger."

"Would you have gone to hers if she had one?"

"Fuck, no."

"There you go!" Blaise exclaimed, toasting his glass against Draco's nearly empty one. "Problem one solved. What else you got?"

On the morning of September 1st, Draco left the Manor with a small suitcase. He had almost nothing to bring. Shirts, practically identical. He had his uniform, of course, and his wizard's robes, but his personal effects were almost non-existent. A toiletry bag. A sketchbook, a few charcoals. A few books. No pictures. No candies. No secret objects. Black clothes, folded neatly by his house-elf. He had now read the contract dozens of times. He knew what to expect, and he was going to make sure he carried out his duties with efficiency and discipline. He was not going to let anyone step on his toes.

After saying goodbye to his mother, he apparated to King's Cross early, and got on the train. There were only a few other students already there, scattered here and there in the compartments, but he didn't greet anyone. He was not interested in seeing the disdainful or frightened faces of the others. He had to focus on how he was going to address Granger.

She was his... partner now. His colleague.

A sneer of disdain contorted his features at the mere thought that he and Granger were now a team. Collaborating with the Mudblood. How was he supposed to talk to her? How was he supposed to act, or react, to her? Surely she hated the hell out of him. But that wasn't what mattered to him. She could hate him all she wanted, he didn't give a fuck. He just had to find a way to deal with her.

He took a seat in the Heads compartment, which he knew was assigned to both of them, and waited, a copy of a book he'd already read three times on his lap. The train became busier as more and more students began to enter, excited. McGonagall was there, and she stopped by Draco's compartment to greet him and left to welcome the others. Draco could hear the parents on the Platform exclaiming to their children that they would miss them. Bullshit. All they want is to be left the fuck alone at last. The train started moving after a while.

Where was Granger?

If she thought he was going to have to fetch her... She was delusional.

After what seemed like an hour, or maybe just ten minutes, the door to his compartment opened and Granger finally appeared. Draco wanted to throw a remark at her as soon as he saw her, but just looking at her took the words out of his mouth.

Why did she look so thin? Why did she have huge dark circles around her eyes? He'd never seen her look so...slimmed down. She looked horrible. A cold, pale mask stiffened her features. What the fuck was wrong with her? What had happened to her?

Had the Battle really caused all this havoc to her?

And he didn't know what to tell her. It was Granger. Granger who had screamed and cried in his own drawing room. He couldn't afford to embarrass himself in front of her. Everything had changed in the space of a few short months, without them even having to see each other. Normality had to return to its proper place, otherwise he would lose control. And that he couldn't afford. It was the last thing he had left.

"Are you... are you in the right compartment?" she asked him, in a voice that was almost broken.

And just like that, hearing the sound of her voice, the voice that had so often berated him, yelled at him, screamed insults, retorted to his mockery, and defended her two best friends... It all came back to him. He forgot everything his mother had said to him, down to the very notion of 'prejudice'. He remembered the only way he knew how to be with her. And that was easy.

"Yes, this is the Heads' compartment," he replied dryly. "You're not dreaming. I, on the other hand, would rather dream than have to look at you standing there like a fucking idiot any longer."

Hermione and Draco had met with the Prefects and had each outlined some details and tasks, though they didn't dare insult each other in front of them, but the awkwardness was there, and it was tangible. Two seventh year Prefects, one from Hufflepuff and one from Ravenclaw, were going to be given a bit more responsibilities to support the Heads. All the Prefects had left with the password to their respective common rooms, a list of responsibilities, a map of the Castle and detailed security protocols. They had all left the carriage an hour later, leaving the two Heads alone and oblivious to each other.

They had returned to their first compartment where their suitcases were stored. When they arrived at Hogwarts, Draco lowered his suitcase from the rack above the seat without looking at her. Hermione rose limply from her seat, weary and with no desire to speak further with Malfoy. She had tried to read for the rest of the ride, but she had only read the same sentence for thirty minutes.

The train was emptying fast. As protocol dictated, the Heads had to be the last to exit to ensure that no one was left behind.

"Say what you like, Mudblood, but I'm not spending another second with you," Draco spat.

Hermione's eyes widened. "You have to wait before leaving!"

"Dream on, Granger." With that, he hurried out of the train among the other students. Hermione heard him mutter, "Bloody hell, all the things you do to me, Granger…"

Hermione couldn't stop herself, anger flaring inside of her. "Malfoy!" she called to him. "You're an arsehole!"

She knew that Malfoy was just Malfoy, that you couldn't pay him too much attention. He was an everlasting Slytherin, forever haughty and selfish. She remembered in fifth year, when she, Harry, and Ron were getting off the Hogwarts Express, Malfoy had provoked Harry. And Harry, out of his mind and already filled with a pre-existing anger, wanted to fight back hard. Ron had grabbed him and said, "It's just Malfoy." That's what she had to tell herself. It's just fucking Malfoy.

But her rage had deeper roots that went back to that summer. To that cruel loss, that abominable pain, that appalling injustice, that brutal cold blood murder. It had nothing to do with Malfoy, and yet he was the one she could easily throw everything at.

Hermione finally got out of the compartment, dragging her suitcase behind her. The wheels of her suitcase banged against the compartment door and prevented her from moving forward. The Gryffindor pulled hard on her suitcase to release it. She used all her strength, so that when the wheels finally dislodged, Hermione fell backwards, banged her head hard against the floor.

She lost consciousness.

Draco was walking beside the train when he heard a crash in one of the compartments. He stopped dead in his tracks, wondering if he should go look around. Granger hadn't come out yet... He had still chosen to leave her there, when according to his contract he should have waited with her. He had promised McGonagall that he would fulfill his responsibilities. She trusted him and he didn't want to break that trust on the first day. He sighed, annoyed with himself.

He had acquired so many nasty reflexes, so many unpleasant and selfish ways in all his years! He knew that his behavior appeared inhuman to others, and for the first time he was bothered by it. The world was finally free of Voldemort's domination, life was returning to normal, and he decided to bathe in his old childish and cruel ways. That was all he knew.

He turned around to enter the train. He walked along the compartments one by one, looking inside, but he didn't see anything that could have fallen. When he stopped at the Heads compartment, he saw Granger on the floor, right in front of the door, her body motionless.

What the fuck?

His heart pounded in his chest and a cold sweat ran down his spine. It was his fault, his fucking fault, wasn't it? He should have stayed behind, according to his contract. What the hell had happened? He didn't want to lose his bloody badge for that.

He rushed to the Lioness and turned her over, one hand behind her head. He felt a huge bloody bump. Horrified for a second that someone would find him in such a pose, leaning over her while she was unconscious and would blame him, he took her in his arms, almost swearing under her weight, and rushed as best he could towards the exit. He charmed their suitcases to hover behind him. He walked quickly towards Hogwarts. No, he wasn't the knight every girl dreamed of who would chivalrously carry a lady in distress. Granger was heavy as a bag of watermelons even though she didn't look it. On their first fucking day as a team, he already had to make a trip to the infirmary because of her... What had she been doing? Had she tripped over her bloody clumsy feet?

His trip to the infirmary was long and breathless. Draco didn't miss the curious looks of the students who were surprised to see him carrying his enemy. He dismissed them with a well-chosen insult through his teeth.

"Madam Pomfrey!" he called out when he arrived, out of breath and angry.

He was drenched in sweat. She arrived, a small lady with a kind, wrinkled face. She swore when she saw Hermione. "Bloody Boggart! Explain what happened!"

"Uh..." Draco hesitated. He didn't fucking know, actually. "She hit her head, I think. She's bleeding. Then she must have passed out. I don't fucking know, I found her like that. She's pretty heavy, can I drop her, finally? I'll leave her suitcase with you."

"I see. Put her down here on this bed. I'll see that her suitcase is returned to her room."

Draco did as she ordered, not too gently, as if he were throwing a corpse into a grave. The nurse glared at him, but he didn't care. Granger didn't need to know he'd carried her... She was different and carried a painful anger inside her, and he was sure she would use that to pester him with questions and scathing retorts. Just like I used to do with her, he thought with a touch of irony.

Madam Pomfrey, who was already examining Hermione carefully, rushed to give unsolicited news that Draco never asked for, "She's not badly hurt. It's not a major injury, but all head injuries are more or less dangerous for humans. I'll have to check her for trauma. Normally, she'll be up and about in thirty minutes while I give her a healing potion and clean her wound, but she'll be confused and... Oi, Mr. Malfoy!"

Draco had already turned around. "Don't tell her I carried her here," he said firmly behind him.

He slammed the doors, slightly confused. No, he didn't expect this old wrinkled witch to obey him. All shocks to the head are dangerous. He had put his partner's life in danger, simply because he had done as he pleased and disobeyed a term of the contract. From now on, he was going to respect every fucking term down to the letter, whether she liked it or not. He swallowed the pang of guilt that was biting his throat again, and walked confidently towards the Great Hall with an unjustified victorious grin.

In the Great Hall, Harry, Ron and Ginny were enjoying their meal. It was dark outside and Hermione was supposed to be there 45 minutes ago… she was late.

"Hermione is never late!" said Harry. "That's unlike her…"

"You're right, mate," answered Ron."Do you think we should go look for her or something?"

At that moment, as if by sheer coincidence, Hermione entered the Great Hall and went to sit next to her friends at the Gryffindors' table. She took a quick look at the Slytherin table, then met Draco's gaze. She immediately averted her eyes from his cold gaze and she felt embarrassed to have been caught looking at him. Madam Pomfrey had told her that Draco had brought her to the infirmary.

"Her-mione", asked Ron, mouth full, "what were you doing?"

"Er, nothing...I was just a bit delayed on the train, that's all," she said, embarrassed.

She didn't want to tell them about the stupid incident. She felt silly enough as it was. She had woken up in an infirmary bed with a horrible headache. But her injury had disappeared.

"What happened?" Ginny asked softly. "Are you alright?"

No, Hermione thought automatically. I'm not.

"Nothing happened, I'm fine," she lied.

Harry bit into a sausage and looked at his friend. "By the way, you still haven't told us who the Head Boy is!"

Hermione bit her lip. "You'll probably have trouble believing me, anyway."

"If you tell me it's Malfoy," Ron blurted, "I'll choke."

"Then you should choke..." the Lioness sighed.

Harry, Ron and Ginny froze in one motion. Even Neville, who was not far away, turned his head for a few seconds.

"Hermione," Harry said, "you know you're going to spend the whole year in a shared dorm?"

"I know that." Her face remained impassive, expressionless.

The two Gryffindors looked at each other, worried. Hermione had changed. She had lost her cheerful glow, her contagious smile and her sense of fun. But everyone had to understand that the sudden loss of a loved one changes a person from inside out. The Battle of Hogwarts stole the lives of too many people.

"Don't worry, we'll be there to help," Ron finally said.

Hermione finished her meal, and by then McGonagall was inviting her and Draco to follow her to their apartment. As they made their way through the castle, Hermione kept thinking about Draco's words. Damn it, Granger, all the things you do to me... She could interpret it in many ways, but she perceived a sort of exasperation at being unable to restrain himself from quarrelling with her. Could it be that deep down he's a bit like me? That he doesn't know how to hold back, because he has so much anger that has nothing to do with me. Could it be that maybe, deep down, he is a good person, but surrounded by bad people?

"Mountain Raspberry!" cried McGonagall to the portrait, which swung open to reveal a lovely dormitory. "I advise you to have a pleasant eighth year, despite your... rather fragile verbal contacts, and I insist that you do not kill each other. Your apartments are private, Miss Granger's room on the right, Mr. Malfoy's on the left. The bathroom must be shared, and here is the common room. That being said, your things are already all set up. Goodnight."

And she left, leaving them alone. It was a beautiful dormitory! The large living room was peaceful, the armchairs arranged in front of a crackling fire, and a table and rugs adorned the floor, the walls were decorated with tapestries, a bookcase was placed against one wall, gorged with books.

Hermione decided to play the goodwill card. This was her last ammunition and she wondered how Draco would react to it. She was going to thank him for taking her to the infirmary.

"Malfoy, thank you for —"

"Oh please, spare me," scowlded Draco in a cold voice. "I knew she wouldn't listen to me, that old hag!"

Hermione ignored him. "Don't you think we could start this year without insulting each other? Wouldn't that be nice? We had a bad start on the train."

Draco grew annoyed at the radical change in Hermione's mood. On the train, she had been tempestuous, uncontrollable and snappy. Now, she was back to being this little damn bird that doesn't want to break anything. He couldn't admit that he also wanted to avoid provoking her all the damn time. Wanted try something else, something new.

Instead, he kept his ice-cold facade. "You? With me? I keep telling you : dream on, Granger. Let's not forget that you're a fucking Mudblood! I could never stoop as low as—"

"Shut up!" she slapped him right in the face.

She stormed into her room and slammed the door, collapsing on her bed. Her face expressed nothing. No life crossed her eyes. One look at her and one would think she was a corpse. Her skin was more pale than usual. She looked sick. Yet she wasn't. She just couldn't find any fucking reason to stay on earth and be jeered at anymore. She didn't want to fight any longer, she refused to go on.

It was too much. She cried silently until sleep won her over. When she would wake up, there would be white marks on her cheeks.

"I imagine one of the reasons people cling to their hates so stubbornly is because they sense, once hate is gone, they will be forced to deal with pain."

James Baldwin