And so here is the next installment, in which Hermione meets a new friend and we delve into Draco's mind a little more. If you haven't already, and have a few seconds, please let me know how I'm doing! I do care what you think – and if you're enjoying it, hating it, I'd love to know. I'm especially curious what you will think about Draco's past. Thanks for the reviews and alerts, guys!

LCailan

CHAPTER SIX

Hermione blinked as she walked into the large, stuffy, dusty room, glad to be away from the Ministry and from Draco Malfoy.

Her heart still beat strangely within her, from anger and confusion. For the hundredth time she wondered why Malfoy had not simply taken her earlier in the courtyard, where she had spit her wedding ring at him. Surely, it must have happened often. Too many other wizards and witches had died in the last several years, some for lesser transgressions!

And yet…

The room she had entered was lit by harsh overhead lights which did little but cast a strange yellowish glow to the enclosed space. She followed a small group to the far left corner where a double cot sat - nothing more than a metal frame and a lumpy mattress on top of it. There were no blankets, no place to put the clothing she wore, and nothing to change into. In fact, the whole room was filled with such cots – end to end, so that it was nearly too crowded to move.

Hermione, however, would not complain. Since the fire that had destroyed the Burrow, she had not had a mattress to lie on, and this in some strange way, was not entirely unsatisfactory.

She chose a cot and then sat down, her legs giving out from under her, and as she fell back onto the mattress, her whole body throbbed with the nightmarish pains that it had endured that night. The room was full of people - stuffed with life and heat, and yet it was eerily quiet, as if everyone was too frightened to speak. She closed her weary eyes and lay there - feeling her heart beat in every inch of her body. In spite of losing the only people she had called family the last six years, and the two near beatings she had received, she found herself thankful for the respite, for this moment of rest. She let out a sigh.

"He's not the worst."

The sudden voice from above her made Hermione jump, and her eyes fly open.

"Malfoy, I mean."

The man speaking was vaguely familiar, though the years and the new world had taken their toll - he looked wan and beaten down. Hermione found herself blinking furiously, her mind working on overdrive.

"J-justin?"

Ignoring the comment about Draco Malfoy, Hermione could only register surprise and a flicker of joy at the moment of recognition. Justin. Finch-Fletchley. Former rich boy from Hufflepuff. Popular and funny, he had been a good student and an even better friend. She recalled his infectious laughter, his warmth. She even recalled wide sparkling eyes and a head of vivid sun kissed curls framing a rather handsome face.

Justin. Muggle-born Justin. His fate was the same as hers. Life had been just as cruel to him, she was certain.

They watched each other for a moment and finally, he broke the silence.

"Someone mentioned there was a fight going on outside of the bunks, so I wandered to the doorway and - I thought it was you. The hair gave it away."

Hermione moved over on her cot so the leggy man could sit down, and he did so slowly. She detected stiffness in his body language, as if he was bearing an unspoken pain. Perhaps, he was. But if he was in pain, he covered it up with a lopsided smile that Hermione could not help but to return. The moment warmed her.

"My hair's the same as ever, I guess."

Her response was sheepish.

Justin sighed as he looked at her.

"You looked familiar. It's funny though, isn't it? All of us...searching, hoping for just a crumb of familiarity. I just - I saw you and I thought of Hogwarts, of bushy-haired, know it all Hermione from Gryffindor and it kind of...made me smile."

Hermione dropped her gaze down to the tops of her hands, as they rested on her lap. Her eyes watered as she gazed at her now naked ring finger, her heart twisting in pain. She didn't reply for a long time, and when she did it was barely above a whisper.

"It's hard to find anything to smile about anymore."

Justin made a soft murmur of agreement.

"It's been difficult."

Hermione looked up at him curiously. The truth was, she hadn't thought much about what had happened to those who had managed to survive the battle at Hogwarts - Justin included. She knew some had died, many in fact. In her scrapbook of nightmares, there were many still-frames of long dead friends and companions. Those same people she had shared midnight talks with, challenges with class work and magical training. People whom had made her laugh, whom she had grown up with, who would always hold a special place in her heart. Yet, the war, the changing world had made all those memories fade somewhat. She wondered now what Seamus Finnigan was doing, if Dean was still alive and well, and her belly did a small lurch as she thought of Luna and Neville. They were pureblood, and she hoped and prayed that in this new world, they were doing well and thriving. She hoped that they had not done the selfless things the Weasley's had done, for she wanted her old friends to have joy in their lives.

Please, let them be happy somewhere, even if I never see them again.

Justin interrupted the lengthy silence.

"I heard somewhere along the line that you married Ron Weasley."

A faint smile played on Hermione's lips.

"Five years ago. He...well, we didn't really have a reason to wait, you see. Not with the War, what had been going on then. We were on the run, and he had been hurt. It was...quick. It was..."

She shuddered, and shook her head, her face falling.

"There was an explosion right after - and Ron...Ron didn't make it. Ginny, Harry and I...we...we had to keep running. I feel like I haven't stopped running since."

Her voice faded away, heavy with dread and implying long endured pain and suffering. A moment later she managed to take in a huge breath and look up at her companion, whose eyes shone with a strange kinship.

"Blimey, 'Mione! I didn't know!"

She shook her head quickly.

"It's all right. One thing I can say is that somehow, you just keep moving on, you know?"

Her question was hopeful as she stared up at her former schoolmate who nodded as well, understanding coloring his eyes. They didn't have to mention Harry – that Harry was dead, because in the end that was why things were different. That was why Voldemort had won.

"My Rosie died a few years ago," he admitted his lips pressed into a line, and Hermione thought that whatever it was he had gone through had crippled him deeply. She put a comforting hand on his shoulder as he revealed a past that was as tragic as anything Hermione had gone through.

"I came to London with my daughter last year. Three weeks ago they raided our flats and then forced us all to come here. Some of the others who lived in my neighborhood are gone now. The ones they call blood traitors always get sent away, though I don't know where. The children work, unless they are too young."

His eyes watered for a moment.

"I thought maybe I could handle being here, you know? Even with Rosie gone, my life in ruins and the way they all treated us. Because I had my little one. Except that they decided she was too young and...well..."

He looked up, swallowing hard.

"That's what they say the dementors are for."

Hermione was struck silent at even the thought of knowing that any man or woman would be put through that, let alone a child. And her heart broke for Justin, who had put his face in his hands. His voice was muffled as he continued.

"I guess the only blessing is that if my wife and daughter were still alive, they would have to deal with this hell on Earth. So maybe it's better this way, that they both went to a better place."

Hermione watched as Justin stood, and turned away from her to gaze towards the door to the courtyard - the only way in or out. She remained motionless, her thoughts moving to earlier that night, the eagerness of the Ministry officials to give Lily the kiss. To know that it had been so close still stopped her heart, and when it resumed it's erratic beating, she was overcome by the uneasiness of knowing that it was because of Draco Malfoy that Lily Potter had been allowed to live.

I hate to admit it, but it's true.

She stood to join her new companion, not wanting to be far from him right then. The feeling of being all alone threatened to break her. They stood there, side by side, watching other newcomers enter, all wearing the same looks of fear and confusion that Hermione had been wearing earlier. The room was quickly becoming full, and now it was harder to have a conversation because the din of whispers and fearful murmurs had grown louder.

Amidst the strangers in the crowd, Hermione's brown eyes searched for one particular person - the one who had been so hateful and yet at the same time who had offered her a great kindness. But he was nowhere to be seen. She found herself turning towards Justin curiously.

"You said...about Malfoy-"

Justin nodded quickly, looking first to his left and right and then down at her.

"He's not as bad as the others," he finished for her. "Some of the things I've seen..."

Hermione motioned towards her cot in the corner and he joined her there, his look serious.

"Some of them...they like to hurt just for the sake of hurting. Pansy Parkinson and Marcus Flint especially, but they're all pretty bad. They're a nasty lot, and they don't have any reason to be as cruel as they are. Even if to them we are just Mudlboods."

He took a deep breath, and his words were tinged with sarcasm at the end. Then he grew more serious, his face falling.

"Malfoy tried to save my daughter, when no one else would."

Draco had gone home.

As he had predicted earlier, he could not sleep. Instead, he had taken to the balcony of his home, which faced one of the quiet main streets in Kensington. Here, it was a different world. Here, Draco could break free from the despair that surrounded him each day at the Ministry, and now at the new alienages his Aunt had instituted. The house where he lived with his wife was a two story stone row that rose up above one of the main streets in central west London. During the day, the street would often be busy, but this time of night, Draco was by his lonesome. All the better, he decided.

Behind him he could still glimpse the figure of his wife in their bed, her face ethereal porcelain, framed by long raven colored hair. He had a long time ago likened her to a doll, one of those ones that women collected. In every way, she had been perfect. Astoria Greengrass Malfoy had been of money and from a pureblood family. She had been, and still was, a woman of impeccable beauty, exceptional breeding and high status. To his parents, those things had mattered the most, and Draco had taken her willingly as his wife not even one year after leaving Hogwarts.

The thought of the last time he had been at Hogwarts made him wince – too many memories were associated with that day.

I was a coward. I could have stayed behind. But I didn't. They told me to come with them, and I did.

And when they had swiftly arranged his marriage, he had agreed as well. Astoria was no better or worse than any other girl his parents would have chosen, so in the end they had both entered into an uncertain union. And Draco had quickly learned that the virtues Astoria exemplified were rather dimmed by the vices which she kept hidden.

She was a woman who easily caved to bouts of rather impressive anger – though when Draco had found himself on the receiving end of that anger, it was no longer so impressive. She was quick with her tongue and knew how to cut someone down. She tended towards bigotry. And she was cruel, rude and snobbish. Not that those things mattered to Draco, for he often cornered the market on such traits himself.

What bothered him was that even motherhood had not softened her.

It wasn't like Draco had expected motherhood to change her, simply because he had not expected to change himself. After all, a child was still just a child. His father had not changed after having him, had he? Lucius Malfoy had been the same cold and standoffish man that Draco imagined he had been before his own birth. Having a child had meant very little to Draco – even when he had found that Astoria was with child, he had not been able to muster much emotion. Children were a nuisance. They were best seen and not heard. Children were bratty little things that didn't know how to keep their emotions in check. They were annoying, needy and a general pain in the arse.

But the truth was, that in some way, he had hoped motherhood would change Astoria.

This was because the only warmth, the only good memories Draco had of his own childhood had involved his mother – her smiles, her hushed voice as she had told him stories while tucking him into bed, the way she had been his protector as he grew older. And most importantly, the way she had betrayed Voldemort to ensure his safety. He knew she had been a cold woman, but motherhood had changed her.

Had it been unrealistic to have the same hope in his wife? Had his father cared at all about fatherhood, or whether or not his wife had embraced being a mother? These things he did not know, but there was one thing he did know for sure.

He had been irrevocably changed from the moment he had looked into the eyes of his own son.

Perhaps the change had not been an earth-shattering one. Perhaps he had changed in small, insignificant ways, but the change had happened, and it had been irreversible. Draco did not know if what he felt for his late parents had been love. He knew, for certain, that he did not love his wife. And he was just as certain that his first taste of love had happened with the birth of his son.

Scorpius had become Draco's only reason to live – amidst a fallen wizarding world, a wife who sometimes scared, but mostly angered him, and the death of his parents. And his mild affection for Astoria Greengrass had faded a little every time she had refused to check her bad moods around their son, each time she had chosen to scold him, to belittle him, or even to ignore him. In the end, she single handedly had destroyed any possibility of Draco's ever loving her – and she had never been aware of it. Or, she had known the entire time, and never cared.

Either way, Draco had long ago gone from simply tolerating his wife's presence to ignoring her altogether. They lived in a massive house, lead two different lives and on the outside nothing was amiss. It was as he wanted it.

Draco turned and walked through the massive double doors that led to their bedroom and gazed on Astoria. She sighed in her sleep and mumbled something incoherent as if she knew he was watching her. Then, she was silent once more. It was the way Draco liked her best – if liked was the appropriate word. Tolerated would have been more appropriate, he supposed.

He silently padded past the large bed and to their chest of drawers, where he rifled through the contents, his fingers closing around an old, slightly faded photograph. He carried it to the window and then looked down.

A little boy waved up at him, chubby fingers wiggling, and a bright smile lighting up a cherubic face framed by white-blond hair.

Malfoy hair, Draco thought with a faint smile.

Scorpius Malfoy had gotten his beauty from his mother, but his hair and bright gray eyes were Draco's.

The Healers at St. Mungo's had told him some rubbish about scarlet fever – he hadn't believed them. There had been too much going on then, and Draco had been torn in several directions. The Ministry had been reorganizing itself, and he had been busy trying to maintain order in a world that had fallen to chaos. Recently promoted, he had been trying to shift into a heavier workload and a job that had become more stressful than it was truly worth. And when Scorpius had come down with what Astoria had called the sniffles, he hadn't thought twice about it.

The infant had passed three days later, his tiny body emaciated and pink, burning with the fever which had killed him. All the joy, the sense in Draco's life had passed with the boy. He should have known, for joy was fleeting. He had known little happiness growing up, and what scant joy had been given him in adulthood had been torn away by cruel fate. He had never imagined that while death and destruction had befallen all those around him, that he, Draco Malfoy, would also fall victim.

But he had. He had lost his little boy. He had lost everything that had made sense in his life.

He had lost a part of himself.

Draco knew he would never forget the way he had felt, standing in the waiting room at St. Mungo's, his heart turning into a deadened thing inside of him when he had seen the sadness and sympathy reflected in the eyes of the mediwitch assigned to Scorpius's case. He hadn't needed to hear the confirmation; he had known Scorpius was dead.

To that day, he still was not able to put into words the consummate loss he had felt as he had held the fragile body of his son, still hot from fever. Not that it mattered, for he had not shared it with anyone. Not his wife, not his parents, who had still been living then, and not any of his other family. The pain was Draco's own and he had carried it within him, locking himself away in the western side of the house, taking no food, no drink, no visitors and no work for weeks on end. By that time, he had long loathed his wife and even her demands and pleas fell on deaf ears. It was only after a riot in eastern London between the Ministry and a group of Muggle-supporters which caused his parents deaths, did Draco finally emerge from grieving.

When he had rejoined the remnants of those still alive, Draco had been a changed man. A man who had no family, no parents, a dead son and a wife he hated. A man who had learned how to turn off his emotions so that he could get through each day. He was now a man who no longer cared – if he had ever cared at all.

Draco gazed down at the photograph once again. It was four years old now.

He would have been five this autumn.

The tiny boy in the photograph waved again, and broke into another wide smile, a smile that hinted at boyish giggles, a smile innocent, bright and genuine.

A smile that had been rare then, and now.

A smile that was a sliver of light along a darkened horizon.

Granger's smile.

And that had been the reason he could not get her out of his mind. The reason he had spared Lily Potter. The reason he had let Granger live that night.

For how could he be the one to extinguish a rare light amidst an ever present and deepening darkness? He had already lost his son. He did not want to lose all memories of him, too.