There she sat, perched on the windowsill of the common room of the Head boy and girl. It was a far way down and she wondered how ironic it would be that the emerald grass, which looked so soft, would break such a hard landing. Residing in a high tower was nothing new to her and her thoughts were no stranger. She shook her head, expelling smoke from her lungs in beautiful, swirling motions.

"How doth the bird sing in such harsh winter," she recited sadly in nothing louder than a murmur. She stubbed out her cigarette and flicked it onto the grass, watching it fall many stories. She found herself jealous of the butt falling, gracefully guided by the wind- a thought many others would find odd, if she were to ever voice her options aloud. She knew that was a terrible idea; no one could know her dark secrets.

She found herself with the urge to cry, but being well experienced with her distressing emotions, she fought back and repressed the tears that threatened to surface. She ran her palm through her chestnut curls and sighed heavily. As she did so, she heard the distant mumble, "Victis honor," of the dorm password and footsteps ensued, followed by the dragging of a trunk. She didn't bother to look at who it was. Honestly, she couldn't care less; the war had stripped her of curiosity after experiencing the world's evil atrocities.

"Granger?" A familiar voice had called her name, not of a sardonic, malicious nature, but rather curiosity and strange disbelief.

"Ferret," she retorted, lacking in the sneers and loathing she had tried to muster.

Draco nodded and continued to what door was labeled as "Head Boy's quarters- Draco Malfoy; 1998-1999." After an hour of quiet mumbles of discontent and sighs, the results of him putting away his possesions sans magic, Draco entered the common room and was surprised to see Hermione still balancing on the windowsill, puffing on a cigarette. He made sure his footsteps were louder than usual, trying to avoid startling her. He knew if he was jumpy after that awful war, she must be so, even worse than he was.

"Excuse me, Granger. May I initiate a conversation with you?" he asked politely.

She turned around and glared at him. "Well you already have," Hermione snapped at him.

"Well you didn't have to reply," he joked softly and chuckled a bit, trying desperately to ease the tension, which seemed to be an impossible feat.

"How's this for a reply?" She replied, jumping off the windowsill into the room, "Why the fuck are you Head Boy? Have the rules of Hogwarts changed? Only fucking psychopaths who murder people for fun are the elite students. Fucking Death Eaters run the school? I thought Hogwarts would have changed after the war. Or have you fucking slithered in on your precious daddy's money? Why the fuck aren't you locked up? Why did you even fucking bother coming back here?!" Hermione was seething. As she crossed her arms over her chest defensively, Draco could see how thin and frail she was. She looked like she hadn't eaten in weeks and when she flicked her cigarette out the window and reached up to close it, her shirt rode up and he tool note of how her hip bones jutted dangerously.

"Have you even eaten properly?" He blurted out without thinking. When her eyes pierced his and burned him with fiery hatred, he quickly realized his mistake.

"Excuse me?" Hermione snarled.

"That was totally inappropriate. I'm sorry. I-"

"You're sorry? You're fucking sorry?! Who the fuck are you trying to kid here?"

"I-"

"Leave me the fuck alone. Sod off, Malfoy." Fuming, she stomped away to her room, slamming the door so hard, a painting on the wall fell and shattered. Draco sighed and walked over to it. "Reparo," he whispered and hung the painting back in its original place. "Unfortunately that went exactly as expected." He walked back to his room, tears brimming in his eyes. His father was as good as dead in Azkaban and he didn't exactly enjoy being able to express his emotions without being ridiculed and beat, but he could admit it was better than the former.