A.N: so I've decided I'll aim to update every Monday and Tuesday-not sure how I feel about this chapter so please read and review and keep hopefully still keep with me!

"Has the famous Draco Malfoy just said 'thankyou' to a mudblood-and meant it?!" Hermione sneered from behind him, a small smirk on her well defined features.
"I've changed you know," Draco said defensively, turning quickly in his chair to look at the woman with a smile, before the expression faded and he faced the table again, "This thing I have, knowing your time is running out, it changes you."

The mood darkened considerably, and for some reason, Hermione didn't think a plate of Jammy Dodgers were suitable at the present moment, but placed them on the table in front of Draco anyway, sitting back down on her vacated seat opposite his.
"I'm sorry." She said sympathetically, reaching out a hand and placing it on top of Malfoy's own, resting it there for a few seconds before the man sharply pulled his hand away.
"I told you I don't want your fucking sympathy!" Draco spat out with audible venom, causing Hermione to frown deeply as she put her hand on the handle of her cup for somewhere to put it; Draco was on his feet now, his chair pushed back as he span out of it, a hand wiping spit from his mouth, looking like he had just been slapped.

"I-I..." Hermione started, but she had no words for the dying man that stood in front of her, pacing her kitchen floor.
"I'm not who I was," Draco interrupted, ignoring her, "I'm not that prick I was in Hogwarts, that all changed after my bastard of a father got arrested. And I swear, I'm never going back to how I was; that selfish spoilt brat I was. I used to be cruel, a bully even, especially to you and Potter," Draco was on a tangent now, pacing the hall, his biscuit still in his hand, "I'd have known then, what I know now, well, if I'd have never had called you a 'mudblood' and cursed you every bloody night."

"It's okay." Hermione said softly, meaning it with her whole heart, never in this moment had he looked more vulnerable; biting softly on his Jammy Dodger, his hair even more messy as he ran a hand through it, the light bouncing off his pale and sickly skin.
"That's the thing Hermione, it's not okay. It never will be okay," he had stopped pacing now, and had turned full on to look at her dead in the eye, "what I did was inexcusable, I killed Dumbledore, I'll forever have to live with that. I killed the kindest man on earth. I killed the greatest wizard of all time. And I tell you something now Hermione, I killed a part of myself that night. Is been dying for months, but that night finished me off. And trust me, I'm dying right now because of the fucking disease, but it's nothing compared to how I was then. I was sixteen and a murderer. Now I'm twenty-nine and a murderer. I deserve this." Draco's breathing had gone heavy and his words decreasing in volume, but he still stood in the middle of the kitchen floor, chest heaving, with his eyes fixed on Hermione.

The woman herself was finding it hard to think straight; she wasn't exactly sure if she was more surprised that Draco had called her 'Hermione' twice in one sentence, or the fact he blamed himself for Dumbledore's death. She decided the latter was probably the most important right now.

"Why do you blame yourself?" She knew as soon as she said it it was a stupid thing to say, and visibly winced as Draco's eyes turned dark.
"Why?" Draco mused with the question, torturing Hermione as he twisted the word with his low voice; "Why Granger, you're supposed to be smart," he spat out, a smirk on his lips as he crept further and further back into the shadow so he was leaning against the kitchen counter, making him look even more menacing as he towered over her, eyes blazing, "Why? Well, let's see, why do I blame myself? Probably because it was me who had the orders, me who disarmed him, me who raised my wand at him, me who looked him in his eyes and saw his pleading. Me who didn't look away." Draco said every word with as much poison as he could muster, and truth be told, it frightened Hermione.

She had almost forgotten this side of him; but right now this was some thing else, he was being deep and open about his thoughts-it sounded to her asif this was the first time he had ever said any of this out loud, and the memory seemed to pain him too as he stared at his hands in disgust-but he was still using his powers of manipulation to make a grown woman feel small in her own home.

But the words hadn't come out with any particular meaning. He was just saying them. Reeling them off as he ticked them off in his head; the reasons why he blamed himself. He hasn't meant to turn on Hermione, had he? It was a simple question; but she was winding him up, she had been all night, she just didn't say the right things. She never said the right things, and now here he was feeling almost bad for snapping repeatedly. Oh well, he'll blame the brain tumour.

He didn't, of course, but he didn't really feel bad for it either. In truth, he was feeling slightly happy at the fact he was finally getting some of himself back. The part that lashed out and snapped and hurt people. And right then, in that moment, staring up at Hermione's living room ceiling with a blanket badly keeping him warm in the sofa half an hour later, he decided that he would try and get his spark back. No more asking muggles for help; and if he was to have to live with Granger and live her stupid squib life, he'd make sure she knew that even though he had an illness that was slowly and painfully killing him, he wouldn't let it make him any less a Slytherin. Ha, well, that would teach the girl not to be sympathetic towards him.
He would start in the morning, first thing.
And that was his last thought before he fell gently asleep, right before the image of Hermione sleeping right above him.