Hello again! Part 2 of this little story for your (hopefully) enjoyment :)

As always, endless love to my ABC team In Dreams, LightofEvolution, and Mcal... and to every one of you!

Green turns out to be a rather pleasant day. The weekend has arrived, and, as such, Hermione spends her afternoon after classes outside by the lake. She finds her vision to be nearly normal against the natural world. The lake takes on the look of water with a bit too much algae, and glancing down at her own skin is a bit sickening, but all in all, her day passes without incident. Harry and Ron collect her at some point for a late dinner.

Walking into the Great Hall, laughing at something the boys are retelling from their day, she almost doesn't see Malfoy. She looks up just as they cross paths, him leaving just as she enters, and she nearly stops dead, her double take comedic.

There, set against the emerald and jade and olive, is a beacon of stark crimson and blood. She doesn't stop walking, but she knows he sees her stare. The scowl he gives her tells her that. He doesn't seem to appreciate her notice.

Blue matches her mood, exhausted and a little down from dealing with a confusing and stressful week. Only two to go is her mantra for the day, very much looking forward to her life getting back to normal once again.

A lazy Sunday morning greets Hermione in the rich hues of indigo. Less melancholy than the blue of the previous day, there is a luxurious quality to the shade that Hermione finds almost indulgent.

Selecting a pair of denims (which are probably the closest thing to their true color in her vision) and a jumper that she recalls by texture and design is probably a rustic orange, Hermione makes her way to breakfast with a spring in her step. Only one more day, and no more potions sessions until this is over. No more potential of failing grades… Tomorrow is Arithmancy and History of Magic; she thinks she can face that just fine through violet tinted eyes. All that leaves is how to spend a quiet day. Reading is always a good distraction. The letters and pages showing deep royal on pale azure shouldn't be too difficult.

Gryffindor tower is always late to wake, so Hermione makes her way to the Great Hall alone, a selection of books tucked into her bag. The Hall itself is also quiet, a pleasure to be sure.

Taking a seat at Ravenclaw, she makes small talk with Luna. The flighty personality of the eccentric witch does not always appeal to Hermione, though sometimes she finds her open lack of judgment terribly comforting. After a hard week, a bit of Nargles and radish jewelry sounds strangely uncomplicated.

"You don't seem quite yourself this week, Hermione. It seems as though some Wrackspurts may have taken up residence behind your eyes."

Nevermind. Fucking iritating as ever.

"Well, I'm sure they will move along soon enough," Hermione answers, shmearing a bit of strawberry jam on a slice of pumpernickel.

At least, she hopes it's strawberry. The seeds seem indicative. Could be raspberry…

Blackberry. Goddammit.

"Hmmm," Luna hums back at her, thinking very hard on the situation. "They certainly might. Are you sure you're not having any ill effects? I may have some Humdinger droppings in my bag, if you'd like me to try and lure them out…"

"NO!... No. Thank you, Luna. That's quite alright." Hermione rises and steps back from the table with a thin smile. Her toast she leaves. It's ruined anyway. "I have some reading to get to, if you'll excuse me."

"Have a lovely day, Hermione," the witch says in her airy way. "Be careful today. Your aura seems awfully blue. Maybe periwinkle… I can't quite tell if you're sad or pensive, but if you are low on sage or crystals, I have plenty enough to share."

It's a sweet thought, Hermione reminds herself. Generous. She smiles back, a bit more sincere, as she makes her escape. "I appreciate it. I'm sure it's just a temporary situation. I'll see you later!"

She bolts, not liking the feeling of someone walking over her grave that Luna sometimes gives her. Blue aura and creatures messing up her eyes… All those little things that always makes it seem like Luna isn't as ludicrous as Hermione's logic knows she must be.

Turning down a quiet corridor, Hermione is making her way to an empty part of the castle where she sometimes takes her reading material. More private than the library, more hidden than the grounds, it's a nook just west of the Transfiguration classroom, a tapestry hiding it mostly from view. She's been coming here all year and not once seen anyone else.

Not once… until right this moment. The fuck?! There are shoes poking out from underneath the tapestry. Fancy custom made dragon hide ones… and they were easy to spot because they are practically glowing red.

She growls and spins on her heel.

Draco hears the clicking of shoes with a low heel nearly racing toward his position. Surely no one will find him here. He just wanted a little quiet, is that so much to ask? Over the course of the last few weeks, he has found this to be the perfect respite when he just wants to read or unwind.

The clicking stops, and someone growls… literally growls… like a beast. Who does that?

He peeks out and finds a mass of curls swinging away. He should just let her go. She's bloody leaving… just let her, Draco. Just allow her to walk away, and she'll never know you even saw her. She will leave you alone and find somewhere else to do whatever swotty thing she was looking to-

"Granger!"

Well, now you've done it.

He watches her turn and look at him, eyes wide. "Malfoy?"

"A bit far from your den, little lion. Looking for something?"

"Solitude," she clips out, "so obviously this isn't the place for me."

He shrugs at her, feigning indifference, but for some odd reason he would actually like her to stay. Draco has been seeking privacy and quiet all year, but that's mostly because he feels awkward in groups. Something about sparring with Granger, riling her up and letting her bite back, feels like home; like things aren't that different from how they were before.

Before is a pretty significant concept for Draco at this point. Before the war. Before he fell. Before the world watched him break apart, only to eye him with disdain for trying to heal.

"I'm just reading, Granger. Not quite solitude, but if you're looking for quiet, it's a good spot." He gestures to the alcove out of which he is half leaned, the wall supporting his palm as he peers out at her.

"I'm aware it's a good spot. Typically, it's my spot, but it seems you beat me to it."

"Oh, yes?" he says, with a quirk of his brow. "Here I thought it was my own secret hideaway. I've never seen you here."

She steps closer, and something about that movement feels like a victory. "Well, I'm here a lot when there are other activities. Quidditch, and the like. You probably go to all the games."

He glances away, a needle of ice piercing his insides at the thought. "No. I don't go to the games. I usually sneak off to Hogsmeade those days."

"I thought you were quite invested in Quidditch," she answers back, a lilt to her voice like it's a question.

"I'd rather play," he tells her honestly. Oddly honest for him. Terribly honest when speaking to her.

"You didn't make the team? I mean, I know Harry usually beat you, but I thought you seemed like a really strong flyer as well." She has her head cocked to the side, like she's puzzling him out.

With a long-suffered sigh, Draco gestures to the other half of the wide window seat. "If you're staying…" he prompts.

She hesitates for only a moment, then steps forward with her head up like she has something to prove. Once she has settled in, arranging her skirt primly over her lap, she levels him with an expectant look.

Draco would suppose he had implied that he would answer when he asked her to sit. Taking his original seat, one leg propped on the window ledge and his back against the stone, he continues being frightfully honest for some reason.

"I didn't try for the team. I was given the impression that my attendance would be frowned upon, as well as a waste of everyone's time. I think I spent that day at Rosmerta's with enough fingers of Firewhisky to make a pair of hands."

"She let you in?" The question is blurted and inelegant, and immediately her cheeks pink. "I'm sorry. That was very rude."

He waves it away. Being a Slytherin, so seldom do any of his fellows say what they mean. He's not sure if it's obnoxious or refreshing, but he's choosing to be positive today. "I went to see her just before the start of the year and apologized for casting against her. She was pretty fucking understanding, actually. Called me a "misguided lad." I don't think she ever saw me as a threat as much as just a fucked up child."

"It's amazing how forgiving people can be when you just ask for it. Not many people hold grudges if you just say you're sorry."

She's looking away, looking pensive. Draco isn't a moron, thanks. It's an opening… a hint… but pride is his enemy, and he can't say the word.

"Yes, well, it was easier with someone like her. If she laughed in my face, just don't go back to her fucking pub. Others… that I have to see every day…? Well, there's a reason my tie isn't red and gold, Granger. I don't have the brash stupidity to put myself out there."

There. That's as close and he thinks he can get. Let her read between the lines. Or don't. What the fuck ever.

"Seems like that might be lonely," she muses. It could have been said with pity, but she seems only contemplative. He actually appreciates that: the lack of pity. He's surprised she has it in her not to pass judgement.

"Maybe," he allows, studying cracks in the stone that lines the window, resolutely not looking her way. "Safe, though. Better alone than dealing with other people's baggage."

He senses her movement, and finally looks up to see her studying him, trying to work out the puzzle of Draco Malfoy. It makes him uncomfortable in more ways than one, not all of them entirely unpleasant. He studies her back, allowing himself to indulge just this once in tracking the line of freckles that dot the bridge of her nose, accenting her skin in a way that is uniquely her.

She stands, and he's disappointed, but she looks down and smiles.

"I think I might just forgive you, if it's all the same, even if you didn't ask. Take care, Draco."

And then she flounces away, grinning, hair swinging, and leaves Draco to fall back against the bricks, the air puffing out of his lungs.

Hermione feels good. Excellent. Who knew forgiveness could be so healing? A world class holder of grudges (see also: Marietta Edgecombe), it's a rare thing to be so magnanimous. What utter relief…

Draco had started snarky and mildly unpleasant; pretty typical, absolutely on brand, but there had been less edge to his comments and a less distasteful expression on his face. Maybe that's why she had elected to stay when he invited her. Something about sitting next to him and reading hadn't felt right. They just aren't to that point. But to finish the conversation they started, the most honest and frank conversation she'd ever had with the wizard, had felt almost natural.

It is painfully obvious he has a lot of demons, a number of regrets, but he doesn't seem to know how to face them. If Harry could speak at his trial, which he had done with classic Potter flair (impassioned and slightly manic), the least Hermione could do was throw him a bone and graciously accept the implied apology he was loath to deliver.

She feels light, unbothered by the deep, earthy blue that surrounds her. Draco had been red, of course, but since Hermione doesn't believe in fate, or divination, or the words of a quack named Sybill, she is still chalking that up to the agitation he has always created. She wonders if he will be a different color tomorrow, if he will fade into the plum and lilac, taking on the same purple hues as all the other students.

Fate, indeed. Ridiculous. But losing the glaring red that signifies him would feel like a victory to Hermione. There is a sense of being untethered, the weight of blame, of judgement, lighter on her shoulders. Maybe she should send Marietta the counter-hex. Perhaps she's suffered enough for her betrayal.

She forgets the thought almost as quickly as it is formed. Hermione is feeling generous, but that little bitch had it coming.

At dinner that evening, Hermione applies mayonnaise to her dinner roll rather than butter, the ceramic crocks housing them being a similar size and the colors too difficult to distinguish in her current blue-tinted state. The table at large laughs at her, and she smiles back sheepishly, spouting out some typical excuse about her thoughts on school work, and too much reading before bed, and oh, silly Hermione, mind in a million places except right here...

It actually doesn't cause her as much distress as it might have yesterday. Why she is so pleased to be on civil ground with Malfoy is a mystery, but Hermione doesn't ponder on it too closely. Certainly, nothing to do with fate. She repeats as much that evening as she prepares for bed, looking forward to an amethyst colored Draco on the morrow. Trelawney will see. Nothing but mood and magic; no futures were told, no sooths were sayed, in the telling of this story.

Hermione snuggles into bed that night, feeling like she is back in control. One last day, a pretty, wine colored day, and this whole mess will be far behind her.

Draco has had a great deal of time to ponder grand concepts recently, forgiveness among them.

Granger forgives him? And he hadn't even asked. He is stunned, to say the least, but tries not to dwell. Monday classes are a distraction, but his mind drifts more than once. His gaze lands on Granger when they pass in corridors; he finds himself looking for her in the Great Hall.

Rosmerta had forgiven him as well, but there is something different coming from Potter's witch. Something that makes him feel included, like the wizarding world might not turn their collective back on him yet.

He watches Zabini approach her that evening, Potions notes in his hands. It's more than obvious to Draco the wizard is using any excuse to chat her up. He's been witness to the flirting of his friend all year. Granger seems fairly unaffected by the charms of Slytherin's notoriously charming snake, though he would swear she faintly blushes now.

It's becoming, the way her demeanor softens and her eyes hold fast on Zabini's face. Draco isn't sure she's interested, but she certainly isn't discouraging the attention.

Why this is Draco's concern, he isn't quite aware, and he goes back to his meal, steadfastly ignoring the rest of the exchange.

"I think I'm wearing her down."

Draco looks up to find Zabini plopped down across from him.

Completely aware of the answer, Draco asks anyway. "Who are you wearing down?"

"Granger," he answers with a grin. "Is she looking at me?"

Not wanting to comply, but nor is he interested in listening to Zabini prod, Draco rolls his eyes and glances over, only to lock his gaze with Granger. She looks away quickly, staring at her plate with a vengeance.

"No." But she's looking at me, he thinks, gloating ever so slightly.

"Probably doesn't want to be obvious." Zabini grins around a bite of potato, but Draco's mind is wandering again.

When Granger stands to leave, Draco begins to make excuses himself. Zabini waves him off, hardly noticing where his gaze has been focused.

Once free of the table, he picks up his pace, hoping he hasn't missed her. Just through the doors, he catches a flash of her robes as she turns the corner, and he nearly jogs down the hall.

"Granger."

She turns, eyebrows lifted in question.

Now what? He'd hardly thought further than this. Something lingers in his mind in regards to her, and letting her leave feels wrong. In the end, he blurts out, "How can you forgive someone that didn't ask for it?"

Scrunching up her nose in that adorable way she has, she ponders the question. "Forgiveness is mine to give. You don't have to ask for it. Of course, if you had, it probably would have happened faster," she adds, lips quirked up into a crooked grin.

He steps closer. "Then why now? We've hardly spoken all year. Most everyone won't even look at me. A few days ago, you would hardly look at me. Now, suddenly, you're staring and doling out forgiveness… why?"

Draco watches as she chews her lip. Contemplating once more. He hadn't thought his questions were all that difficult. Why are you looking? What made you change what you see?

"If it would make you feel better, you can still ask."

"I… that's not how this works, Granger," he argues, taken aback.

"Then I suppose you'll have to accept it anyway," she says with a shrug and a smile, light on her feet, like a weight is lifted.

Well, he's glad she's feeling great about it, because Draco feels like a prick. He's left there standing when she walks away with a wave.

When Hermione wakes the next morning, it is with palpable relief. Her sheets are red, her hair is brown, and her hands are perfectly suited to bifurcate a spleen, thanks very much. She wears a sunny smile all morning, taking in the myriad colors of the world and relishing the simple luxuries of choosing the right jam and matching up her socks. She makes her way to Potions with a spring in her step, hoping very much for incredibly delicate slicing required.

Draco doesn't sleep much after his last few odd encounters with Granger. Not that he has been slumbering peacefully since right around sixth year, but his insomnia reaches bold new heights.

When Potions rolls around, he walks with haste to the classroom and arrives just as Zabini is taking his usual seat. "Zabini, switch me. I'm tired of carrying the weight with Goyle. Your turn."

His friend barely glances up, ignoring the urgency in Draco's tone. "You just want to benefit from Granger's brilliance. That's a losing trade for me, mate."

"Blaise." Draco waits for his level tone to make impact. When Zabini looks up at him, he tries again, jaw clenched. "Switch with me. Please."

The man studies him for a moment before some sort of recognition flits across his eyes. "Fine," he says, sounding like he's pouting, but no longer giving any fight. "I'll leave you to it, but, Draco, don't bring down her marks," he says with odd emphasis. "If you seem not to be a...fitting partner, I will not hesitate to slink back in. Understood?"

Nodding with relief and just a hint of gratitude, Draco agrees, "Quite," as his friend gathers his things and stomps to the back of the room.

"Budge over, Greg, I like the aisle."

Draco listens as Greg mutters about not enough leg room by the wall but can hardly be arsed to care. Especially so when Granger comes flouncing in, looking like the cat who got, not only the canary, but a fucking nest full of sacrificial birds covered in cream.

She stops dead, however, when she sees Draco beside her chair, her eyes flickering to Zabini in the back.

Has he miscalculated? Draco stiffens, unsure.

But then she continues her pace, looking down at her feet but making her way to his table nonetheless.

"Morning, Malfoy."

"Granger," he greets carefully in reply. "You've seemed much more chipper this morning than the past couple of days." Regardless that her face dropped upon seeing him, she had been downright sunny when she walked in.

Placing her bag beside her, she begins to pull out her text and parchments. "What's not to be happy about? The sky is blue, the grass is green... The world is just as it should be."

He frowns. Her demeanor has completely flipped. Draco leans back in his chair and pretends to be casually unaffected.

Potions class in general, at least her performance therein, is a vast improvement on the last. When they are tasked with preparing the lady's mantle, her blade follows the veins of the leaves with such precision, he wonders what had been wrong with her the week before. She's confident and in charge, just as he always imagined she would be in a partner.

He finds that he doesn't mind at all, allowing her to dole out particular steps for him to accomplish while she shoulders equal work. This is what one would think would entail having a 'partner'. No wonder Zabini was loath to give her up.

Draco chances a quick look to the back of the room to find Zabini scowling while Goyle rubs at his robes with a cloth, apologizing in his gruff, angry way.

"I don't know how you convinced Blaise to switch you, or why, but he seems to be struggling."

Looking back, Draco finds Granger watching Blaise with amusement. He shrugs at her. "I thought it was high time I took back my Potions marks. I had a taste of a better partner last week, and I think I'd like to keep her."

She blinks, his phrasing perhaps more possessive than necessary, and it makes him grin when her cheeks go a soft pink.

The rest of class is spent in mostly silence, Draco stealing glances at her and, sometimes, just all out watching. He doesn't much care if she notices.

She flashes him a quick smile once they are finished and she has packed up her kit, rising to leave the room. Draco isn't sure why she is back to being jumpy and nervous, and not the good kind he would like to instill in a pretty witch. He blurts out just before she leaves their table, "Same time next week?"

Granger looks at him in question.

Hooking his thumb in the direction of Blaise and Goyle as they frantically try to bottle and stopper their potion, he continues, "I'm completely spoiled now. Next week is the final phase of Felix Felicis, and I'd really like to get that one right. Partners?"

Her eyes dart between his, and Draco feels his heart pick up it's pace. What if she refuses? Sets up with Blaise in advance to reject this small move toward civility? He takes one slow breath through his nose and holds it until she speaks.

"Alright. Partners, I suppose. See you, Malfoy."

And then she's gone and Draco releases his breath. He's not sure if he did something really right today or really wrong, but she agreed anyway.

Why it is so important to him that she did, he's not quite ready to admit, but he leaves the room with a slight curl on his lip, satisfied with the outcome.

"Professor! Professor, Trelawny, are you here?"

Hermione races into the Divination tower only to find it empty, colorful pillows strewn about and incense wafting, but no batty instructor in attendance. Huffing, Hermione looks for entrances to any side rooms and finds none.

"You are looking for me, Miss Granger?"

She spins in place to find the professor entering behind her, scarves flapping in her wake.

"He's still red," Hermione blurts out. "You told me seven days and that was it!" She sounds indignant and doesn't care. This was supposed to be over, and here she is, faced with a crimson Draco Malfoy once again.

"If you recall," the woman answers, flitting about, fluffing pillows and arranging censors, "I told you that your spell had marked your destiny. The original charm is a bit of fun. What you are experiencing is something wholly profound."

"Destiny," she repeats in deadpan. "That's ridiculous. First, we make our own decisions, Professor. What is that supposed to imply? He's my soulmate?" She spits out the word with disdain then continues before the professor can reply. "Secondly, how does that even work? Is he going to be red for the rest of my life?! That seems like quite a punishment if I'm supposed to know him. It's… off putting, to say the least. Like he's bathed in blood." She shudders in revulsion.

"Of course not. The spell is a marker of fate, child. It will only last until your fate is realized, either by acceptance or denial."

"How do I accept something utterly incomprehensible? Or deny it for that matter?" Incredulity makes a home in Hermione's mind. This entire situation is so ludicrous, and yet, unless her eyes are deceiving her, there is some magic at play.

"Life happens, Miss Granger, and choices are ours to mould the future. That which is predestined may be shaped by actions. In this case, your connection is not a prophecy as such, but a possibility that it is yours to choose."

Hermione wrinkles her nose as she absorbs that little gem. "Doesn't sound much like fate at all, then. Everything is a possibility. If it's on us to make it happen… Well, isn't that just life? Circumstance? Coincidence?"

The professor shakes her head in such a way that Hermione feels might be pity, which she does not appreciate, thanks. She bristles, waiting for the reply.

"You were always much too rigid for my course of study, Miss Granger. Your Muggle science can do much to explain the world, the 'how' of it, but my field will forever be the 'why.'" She stops then and waves her hand like none of it matters, saying as much in her next comment. "It's irrelevant. You believe, or you do not. But if you want to know more about the spell that affects you and the 'why' of it, all I can say is that you would do well to pay attention to Mister Malfoy. Nothing may come of it, or it might be everything in the end. But if you are not open to possibilities, Miss Granger… well, even your scientists would agree that we must have open minds if we are to evolve, would they not?"

When Hermione doesn't answer, not at all liking where this conversation has gone, Trelawney goes about bustling and straightening her room. "If that is all? I have a class in a few minutes, and I've tea to prepare."

"Right. Of course… Thank you for your time." Hermione turns and makes her way out the door, feeling a bit stunned and like none of her questions were answered, but that the mysteries of the universe were turned a little bare.