Harry had lingered with her memory in his hand. He was clearly angling to see Malfoy and Blaise practice their Patronus, but she knew full well neither of those men were going to move a muscle with the 'Wonder Boy' watching. She found herself conjuring a tiny flock of what looked like bluebirds, and narrowing her eyes at her best friend,

"Well, you've been Stephens' errand boy. Do I need to use these," she pointed at the cobalt birds, "or are you going to admit you're being rude, Harry James Potter, trying to stick around for something you know full-well is really quite personal?"

Harry immediately focused his now wide eyes on her, not her guests, and put his hands up in surrender,

"My apologies, Hermione. Yes, it's personal, and yes, I'm leaving, and no, you don't have to use those." She cancelled the spell, and he smirked at her,

"See you three for dinner on Thursday night?"

Hermione felt herself fighting back a chuckle, and Malfoy nodded, but Blaise just looked around as if he was confused about how he'd garnered an invitation. Blaise shrugged—'what the hell' might as well have been written in capital letters across his forehead—and Harry's resulting smile was affable and only a little impish.

"Well, gents, I'll leave you to it. Remember that when she says you're not focusing enough, what she means is to relax and only stay with the Patronus. Ignore everything else. The memory doesn't need to be happy—mine's not really happy, neither is hers—but they are strong and re-affirming. Also, stop Occluding, or you'll never be able to do it."

With those parting words and a sharp crack, Harry apparated away, likely back to the office, Blaise was quirking an eyebrow at her,

"Does Occlumency really prevent the Patronus from working?"

"I have to stop using it before I can do the Patronus, and Harry is pants at Occlumency, it's likely part of why he's so good at the Patronus. I'm sorry, I didn't realize either of you were using it, or I would have suggested that last time."

She turned to see Malfoy was smirking, shoulders quaking, clearly holding in a deep laugh.

"What's so funny, Malfoy?"

"Two things: Ginevra is going to adore Blaise and it's going to irritate Potter, and Wonder Boy was afraid of bluebirds? What's not to find funny?!"

She quirked an eyebrow at him, and again used that tone that implied she was describing an overcast day,

"Those aren't really bluebirds Malfoy, they're bluebell flames in the shape of bluebirds, and they're sentient enough to send after a particular person. As for Ginny, I'm sure Blaise will figure out how to skirt her being a gossiphound."

His laughter was sucked back into his mouth mid-chortle, and he leaned over to clutch his knees as he appeared to have choked a bit and was now coughing. Blaise was laughing at Draco, slapping the posh blighter on the back,

"That'll teach you to mock Potter for being afraid of her."

"I gathered that."

She couldn't have stopped her resulting torrent of laughter if she had tried. It was silly, really, to consider how long it had been since she'd had a really good laugh. This sort of laughter made her feel scrubbed clean, short of breath, and contentedly empty on the inside when she was done. Despite Ron's explosion this afternoon, she was oddly sure that she'd had, and was continuing to have, a very good day.

Malfoy seemed to have recovered, and was standing quite comfortably, having removed his shoes. Blaise kicked off the ridiculously garish loafers he'd been wearing all day, seemingly without noticing. Really, how was it he could make purple velvet look normal?

"It occurs to me that both of you might be losing sleep—like I've been—over when the Sorting Hat might start spitting out decisions. It should get to our year within the next fortnight or so. Hopefully that will at least let you relax for today."

Blaise looked visibly relieved to have a timeline, Draco seemed apprehensive, but accepting.

"Ready then?"

...

The ripple of magic through his skin when his grandfather's wand chose him. A light breeze, a decent blue wash of light, and then a fizzle and a crack, and it was gone.

Finding Draco after the Battle of Hogwarts, alive. Very bright, she said, that one nearly took shape.

Hermione's snarling face as she said she'd set his and Draco's future bride straight should she dislike her romantic prospects with the two of them, the sensation of being validated by someone without ulterior motives, and defended before a problem had even really occurred. Her bared teeth and narrowed eyes had felt like a shield and precious gift at the same time. He'd liked that feeling. She gasped and he opened his eyes.

There was a sudden burst of air and blue light—swirling from his wand and condensing in the air about a meter off—and suddenly the shape was there, sniffing the air and seeming to paw at the unseen ground. He heard Hermione whisper in awe, but he could not take his eyes away from the shape in front of him,

"Mellivora capensis."

...

Letting his Occulmency shields down was akin to letting fortress collapse inside his head. Draco knew it likely took several minutes, but neither Blaise nor Granger said a word. He had always been a natural at Occlumency, or so Aunt Bellatrix had said when she'd taught him. He had to shut his eyes and imagine stone walls crumbling in order to begin peeling back his layers of self-defense.

He was racking his brain for things that had made him feel safe after the War, things that had been re-affirming, things he could believe. Children he'd healed at St. Mungo's before their parents recognized him, and their lack of initial judgment didn't seem strong enough. Something else then, something stronger.

Pulling on Auror robes, even if they were Trainee robes, had recently lent a certain air of redemption. He could help, he could mend people while they did the brave thing and stuck their necks out for the betterment of society. Maybe one day, he'd learn how to do that himself, instead of just lending his intuition to investigations and his healing skills to the DMLE. He'd healed Granger, perhaps she could teach him. A massive spark, oddly teal in color, flew from his wand and popped as violently as a game of Exploding Snap.

Blaise's embrace after the Battle of Hogwarts, as brazen as it had been under the scrutiny of both of Draco's parents—despite the audience, his being covered in dust and ash, stinking of brimstone and the ozone aftertaste of casting curses—Blaise had found him, pulled him into an iron embrace and had given the kind of deep exhalation that screamed his relief to all and sundry. There was a flare of bright blue light and a blast of warm air, crackling and tinkling at the end of his wand, the sound reminding him of icicles in the sun, but it collapsed back into his wand as the noise sped up.

Then he remembered the thought he'd had after his father's funeral, that he was here, alive, that he Survived. He was a Survivor. And just like Blaise, the light was near-blinding, the rush of determined and powerful magic was making his wand-hand tingle. As a shape coalesced from the bright blue mist, Hermione whispered its name.

Her tone sounded much like it had when she'd understood his tattoos for the first time, a little impressed, and like she very much approved of it's shape, even though he still didn't quite recognize it.

"Gulo gulo."