Draco had returned home before dinner that same evening, pondering over his conversation with Hermione and discovering belatedly, that once they'd decided to set aside their contentious past and start anew, the rest of the day had been quite pleasant and enjoyable. They'd bantered, laughed, debated and listened to each other, and whilst he'd always known how intelligent Granger was back in school, having the opportunity to actually study with her up close and personal, gave him an intimate view into how brilliant she truly was.

She had a singular mind for details and extrapolation. They'd debated the merits of everlasting elixirs for well over an hour, and then tried to determine the inherent properties of the Sorcerer's Stone, and how it theoretically could differ from the panacea. Lunch had been taken out on the veranda outside the library, where their conversation had turned a bit heated at one point, and he'd watched with an almost keen fondness, as Hermione's cheeks had flushed and her Magic had crackled in her hair like fire, when she was truly passionate about something. It had caused him to think back to when he'd found her with Potter, and how instinctively it'd made him feel in that moment.

He'd been jealous, there was no denying that truth, but it was the why, that had thrown him.

As a Malfoy and a Slytherin, it wasn't in his nature to share. He'd never had to, in all his formative years. He'd been given the best of everything, but even so, there was an empty hollowness that came with being a Malfoy. Being an only child, and the Heir to the most prestigious magical line in all of Britain, was a weighty thing. There were many times, especially during his sixth year, he'd resented his heritage and the expectations placed upon him, but he'd never considered that there was anyone who could ever understand his reality, at least not in any real tangible way.

Then Hermione had shared what her life had been like growing up behind the walls of Ville Fleur E'toille, and as he'd listened avidly, the parallels of her life and his own had given him pause. It also made him reluctantly conclude, that he would need to reevaluate every interaction they'd ever had in school.

Once dinner was over, he'd asked to be excused, feeling the weight of his parents combined gazes on his back as he walked out of the dining room and headed upstairs, his thoughts on overload. He hadn't said much to his parents, his own sense of introspection needed this time to process everything, (and that would take some time), but one thing he did know was that he needed to get some answers where Astoria was concerned.

After talking with Hermione, it had become a bit clearer that perhaps he needed to rethink his approach on how to confront Astoria. If she truly didn't know, he certainly didn't want to be the one to tell her, but if she did know—then he could very well be giving away the element of surprise, and a more truthful response as a consequence.

Once settled into his room, he sat down by his hearth and stared into the flames, smiling slightly at how thoughtful Bibi always was, making sure his room was just to his liking. Truth be told, he'd never given much thought to his House Elves, other than the normal thoughts most Pureblood's had about their servants, but now that he knew a bit more about where they'd come from, and how they'd gotten their Magic, he had to admit, his previous thinking had been very shortsighted.

Glancing over at his desk, his eyes caught on the books sitting there, and without thinking too much, he accio'd the top one, his gaze noting the title.

The Hobbit: By J.R.R. Tolkien

Then he got to the beginning of the story and started to read in earnest...

In a hole in the ground there lived a hobbit. Not a nasty, dirty, wet hole, filled with the ends of worms and an oozy smell, nor yet a dry, bare, sandy hole with nothing in it to sit down on or to eat; it was a hobbit-hole, and that means comfort.

It had a perfectly round door like a porthole, painted green, with a shiny yellow brass knob in the exact middle. The door opened on to a tube-shaped hall like a tunnel: a very comfortable tunnel without smoke, with paneled walls, and floors tiled and carpeted, provided with polished chairs, and lots and lots of pegs for hats and coats – the hobbit was fond of visitors. The tunnel wound on and on, going fairly but not quite straight into the side of the hill – The Hill, as all the people for many miles round called it – and many little round doors opened out of it, first on one side and then on another. No going upstairs for the hobbit: bedrooms, bathrooms, cellars, pantries (lots of these), wardrobes (he had whole rooms devoted to clothes), kitchens, dining-rooms, all were on the same floor, and indeed on the same passage. The best rooms were all on the left-hand side (going in), for these were the only ones to have windows, deep-set round windows looking over his garden, and meadows beyond, sloping down to the river.

This hobbit was a very well-to-do hobbit, and his name was Baggins. The Bagginses had lived in the neighbourhood of The Hill for time out of mind, and people considered them very respectable, not only because most of them were rich, but also because they never had any adventures or did anything unexpected: you could tell what a Baggins would say on any question without the bother of asking him. This is a story of how a Baggins had an adventure, and found himself doing and saying things altogether unexpected. He may have lost the neighbours' respect, but he gained – well, you will see whether he gained anything in the end.

Draco smirked to himself, as the fleeting thought entered his mind that it was a good beginning, intriguing, yet simple. Leaving it up to the reader to decide whether or not what was to come, was worth the time spent reading about the journey.

He decided in that exact moment that he would read the books with an open mind, and then decide for himself if what was written on the pages had merit or not.

So for three days, he stayed ensconced within his room, reading about the travels of Bilbo Baggins, and his quest to help return the kingdom of Erebor in the Lonely Mountain, to Thorin Oakenshield. His travels taking him beyond the Shire, into the dark places of the world and the far reaches of Middle Earth. The story had been interesting, but when he'd finally gotten to the Lord of the Rings books, that was where things got really fascinating...

Some of the more notable parts that touched him were...

Three Rings for Elven-Kings under the sky

Seven for the Dwarf-Lords in their halls of stone

Nine for Mortal Men doomed to die

One for the Dark Lord on his dark throne

In the Land of Mordor where the Shadows lie

And other phrase that had left him reeling was...

Cold be hand and heart and bone,

and cold be sleep under stone:

never more to wake on stony bed,

never, till the Sun fails and the Moon is dead.

In the black wind the stars shall die,

and still on gold here let them lie,

till the dark lord lifts his hand

over dead sea and withered land.

If that wasn't a stark reminder of everything he'd seen and felt during the war, he wasn't sure how to feel about the emotions the stories invoked, but there was more...

Many that live deserve death. And some that die deserve life. Can you give it to them? Then do not be too eager to deal out death in judgement. For even the very wise cannot see all ends.

But perhaps the one part that resonated with him the most was...

But I suppose it's often that way. The brave things in the old tales and songs, Mr. Frodo: adventures, as I used to call them. I used to think that they were things the wonderful folk of the stories went out and looked for, because they wanted them, because they were exciting and life was a bit dull, a kind of a sport, as you might say. But that's not the way of it with the tales that really mattered, or the ones that stay in the mind. Folk seem to have been just landed in them, usually – their paths were laid that way, as you put it. But I expect they had lots of chances, like us, of turning back, only they didn't. And if they had, we shouldn't know, because they'd have been forgotten. We hear about those as just went on – and not all to a good end, mind you; at least not to what folk inside a story and not outside it call a good end. You know, coming home, and finding things all right, though not quite the same – like old Mr. Bilbo. But those aren't always the best tales to hear, though they may be the best tales to get landed in!

Or not, Draco thought ruefully to himself. What would history make of his story when it was written? Would he be cast as a villain? Or a victim? Did he really wish for his story to end up as a sad footnote in history because he was too weak, or too cowardly to do the right thing when it mattered most?

That was when another passage came to his mind, one that very much applied to where he was at this moment...

'Was I chosen?' 'Such questions cannot be answered,' said Gandalf. 'You may be sure that it was not for any merit that others do not possess: not for power or wisdom, at any rate. But you have been chosen, and you must therefore use such strength and heart and wits as you have."

"I wish it need not have happened in my time,' said Frodo. 'So do I,' said Gandalf, 'and so do all who live to see such times. But that is not for them to decide. All we have to decide is what to do with the time that is given us."

And perhaps that was the crux of the lessons he'd yet to learn—which was, to use his strength, wits and heart and try to do the most good with this new chance he'd been given. It might've not been his first choice, nor would he have chosen this path, but it was his—and he could either lament his ill fortune, curse his fate—or he could fully embrace his future, and everything that went with it.

Which meant opening himself up to the possibilities of a future with Hermione and Potter.

He sat back and stared into the fire, that was burning in his hearth and sighed.

Despite what was always expected of him, he wasn't completely indifferent to members of his own sex. He'd been attracted to Adrian Pucey fourth year, the older wizard extremely handsome and unapologetically bisexual. They'd snogged quite a few times, and he'd rather enjoyed it, but due to whom he was, and what was expected of him, he'd put it down to experimental curiosity, and then the Dark Lord had returned weeks later. His social life had taken a drastic halt as a consequence, except for his friendship with Astoria and his, whatever it had been, with Pansy. He'd learned to care for Astoria, and he'd adored her too, but what had held him back was the lack of an all-consuming passion that he'd wished he'd felt for her—but it wasn't enough to dissuade him from courting her, figuring he could grow into that, given time.

Now he had to wonder if he hadn't been rather shortsighted about what it was he'd truly wanted for his future, or what he needed to be happy.

He wanted passion, fire and someone who would understand whom he was deep down, and not judge him for it. Astoria had fulfilled the last one effortlessly, but then he'd never been completely honest with her about his past exploits either.

It was all so confusing.

As he continued to stare unseeingly into the flames, he couldn't help but think back on that day at Hermione's home, walking in on she and Potter in that passionate embrace. He'd been affected by it, and truthfully, had been jealous of their connection. He had never looked upon Hermione Granger with any kind of sexual awareness, but now it was next to impossible not to do so. She was to be his wife in a years time, and he'd be lying to himself if he didn't acknowledge his newfound intrigue with the witch.

She had grown into a beautiful woman—intelligent, compassionate and fiery.

And he wasn't as indifferent to Potter as he wanted everyone to believe back in school, but again, he was a self-preservationist at heart and such musings would've gotten him killed.

He was cut short from his errant thoughts, when he heard a light tapping on his window. Standing up, he sauntered over and opened it, staring at the pretty golden owl, who held out its talon, and then flew off into the night, clearly not waiting for any kind of response.

Moving back over to his preferred spot near the hearth, he opened the missive and smiled softly at the elegant scrawl...

Draco,

It's been a few days and I haven't heard from you, but if you're anything like me, you've probably been locked away in your room, reading the books I gave you and devouring every word. I hope you've found them enjoyable, I know I always adored them growing up.

I'm heading to Paris tomorrow, to meet with Master Flamel, and I wanted to see if you were free to join me? If not that's okay too, I just wanted to extend the invitation.

I also wanted to tell you, I very much appreciated our conversation the other day, and in the spirit of new beginnings, I wanted to also extend an invitation for the June 5th ballet Performance at the Opéra Bastille, which will be Romeo and Juliet. I'm led to understand that it's your birthday, and I thought...well, I'd hoped perhaps we could spend the evening together, if you'd like?

If you're agreeable to attending me tomorrow, I'll meet you at ten in the morning on the Rue de Magique, in front my favorite sweet shoppe. I'm sure you remember the one, yes?

Hermione

He smiled at the letter, and then felt his gut twisting a bit at how thoughtless he'd been. Here was his intended, a witch he'd been an unmitigated prat to for the majority of their school years, and she was making the overtures of courtship, and he was a git!

He was a Malfoy, and if there was one thing his parents had ingrained into his thick skull, it was how to properly court a witch.

He'd need to step up his game, and it was with that final thought, he fell asleep, determined to show Hermione that he was deserving of her willingness to forgive him and start anew.

She really deserved nothing less from him, and he owed it to her to stop being such a selfish blighter and really try.