I own nothing. I condone none of the actions/thoughts/behaviors/sentiments of the author of this work's source material. This work is entirely fictional and for entertainment purposes only.

Draco was up with the sun, as usual, the following Saturday. He had slept better since visiting Professor McGonagall's office. The dreams persisted, but were less severe. The Headmistress insisted that he see Madame Pomfrey for a sleeping draught as well, though he didn't think that's what had improved his nights.

It felt as if someone loosened the grip on his throat after he gave to the Pensieve. Like he could breathe easier.

"What did I tell you, m'boy?!" Beckett had said, through a mouth full of pancakes, when Draco reported the improvements.

"Yes, you're my knight in shining armor, Beckett."

"A pleasure to serve you, m'lord." he planted a sticky kiss on Draco's cheek.

Draco had closed his eyes and sighed. "Did they spike the syrup today?"

They'd shared a chuckle and moved on to less personal topics…quidditch, potions homework, and the like.

Two years ago, there was no world in which Draco could have conceived the friendship he had with Beckett. If Crabbe or Goyle had tried to touch him in any way, never mind with their lips, he would have bombardio'd them into the next century. But Beckett was just different. So easy to like. Draco hated it, but by the time the school year had begun, he hadn't spoken to anyone in months. He received glares of contempt from most of his fellow students, and was given a wide berth everywhere he went. Not Beckett. He'd trotted up to Draco on day one, held out his hand…and they'd been friends ever since.

Best friends.

"Alright, calm down." Draco scolded himself aloud as he plodded up the stairs, making his way to the school kitchens.

He always went through the kitchen on weekend mornings, taking the back way to the outer grounds of the school. It was an extra precaution to avoid any potential early risers. And he desperately needed coffee in the mornings.

At first, the kitchen staff were wary of him. He didn't say a word on that first day, just kept his head down and scurried out the door. Beckett had instructed him later to say hello, ask how their morning was going. Politely request a cup of coffee. Make a big deal about how good it was, even if it tasted like garbage juice. Sincerely thank them. Then leave.

When he tried this the next morning, he sounded like an infant learning his first words. But he improved with practice. These days, the head cook, Ellie, made him eggs and toast in addition to coffee. Sometimes even two cups. Draco smiled to himself, rather pleased with the small progress he was making.

The halls were always empty at this hour. He relished the solitude. It was nice not having to keep his head down, blocking out the harsh whispers from his classmates. Gentle streams of sunlight spilled from the archways and windows. Birds chirped merrily in the trees. It was a brief, idyllic moment for the most hated boy in school.

He was coming upon the Great Hall when suddenly, he heard the soft padder of bare feet on stone. An early bird? A student sneaking back to their dorms after a whiskey-fueled Friday evening?

No. It was, of all people, Hermione Granger. When she appeared at the bottom of the stairs, his breath caught in his throat. Instinctively he moved into the shadows, terrified that if she saw him, she would scream. But she didn't seem to notice anything at all. Her eyes were frantic, her hair was wild at the back, but wet and matted around her face. She wore a thin nightgown the color of freshly fallen snow. And no shoes?

She was a flash in the pan, disappearing into the lower staircase as quickly as she had appeared from the upper. Draco moved in closer. When came upon the staircase, he cautiously peered down. The scent of burning wood and baking spice lingered where she'd passed. Once he was certain she was gone, he inhaled deeply. She smelled delicious.

He closed his eyes and tried to burn the sight of her into his memory. That gown, so light he could see the approximate outline of her body. Each curve kissed by the rising sun and soft cotton…

She looked so scared. He thought about the look in her eyes as he forced himself in the direction of the Great Hall. Maybe she was just late for something?

…So late she didn't put on shoes? Or a bra? Draco shook his head. She was clearly distressed, stop thinking about her brea…

But he couldn't stop thinking about her. He hadn't stopped thinking about her since the moment they met in first year. Thoughts of her consumed him in his classes, where he intentionally sat behind her, dreaming of running his hands through her soft curls. She taunted him at meals, the melody of her laugh wafting from the Gryffindor table to Slytherin's. Even when she'd socked him in the nose in third year, he had to disguise a moan as a cry of pain. It was the first time they'd touched.

Draco arrived in the kitchen, the image of Hermione Granger's soft curves taking a temporary backseat to Beckett's lessons in etiquette.

"Thank you, Ellie. This smells delicious." he said, coming upon that morning's breakfast.

She nodded, revealing no emotion. "Can't be out hauling all day on an empty stomach."

Draco smiled. "I appreciate it, as always, Ellie."

He ate in silence. Draco had grown to love this place. The quiet hubbub of cooks preparing the meals for the day, the delicious smells wafting out of pots and pans and ovens. It almost felt…normal. Like he was in his own kitchen, with his own family, about to leave for a day's work. He smiled to himself, grateful for that small glimmer of joy.

He ate his plate clean and gulped down the rest of his coffee. Today he was addressing the North tower, one of the areas hit hardest in the war. The day would be long, but no small part of him yearned for the release. For the ache in his arms, the sweat on his brow.

Draco picked up his empty dishes and walked them to the sink.

"Thank you all. Have a very good day!"

Draco might not have had the sincere part down quite yet, but it was certainly sounding less rehearsed as the weeks wore on. The staff nodded in response, Ellie waved.

Draco opened the door and crossed the threshold onto the grounds.

—-

"Ronald." Hermione's head was in her hands. She did not sleep well last night and Ron was tap dancing on her last nerve. She didn't understand how a person's brain could completely reset from week to week. She felt as if she'd been teaching the same concepts to her best friend for months.

"Ok, you know what? Let's just hover. Practice hovering" she said wearily.

"Good plan!" Ron sputtered as he leaned downward and fell to the ground, his Firebolt dropping across his legs. Hermione shook her head and turned away, breathing deeply.

Her mind wandered back to her restless night. It was the usual routine; she tossed and turned until midnight before giving in and taking the sleeping draught forced upon her by Madame Pomfrey. The potion did the trick...Hermione slept, but at what cost?

Then, the nightmares came.

A sky slashed with green light. Distant screams growing closer with each passing moment. She couldn't see anything. Or could she? Were they…bodies? She tried to run, but she was suddenly surrounded by mountains of corpses. There was no running, no escape. Hands burst forth from the mass of dead flesh and she tried to scream, but no sound came from her. The hands grasped her arms, her legs- and pulled her up, up, up, into the flashing green sky. Horror boiled in her belly as she passed familiar faces; Harry, Ginny, her mother, her father…until a burst of emerald blinded her.

It was early in the morning when Hermione woke, gasping for air. She was in her bed, in the girl's dormitory, in Gryffindor tower, at Hogwarts school. She was safe.

Still, her body trembled. The sensation of cold, leathery hands grasping her limbs lingered. The chorus of screams rang in her mind. She grasped the sides of her head, tangling her fingers in her curls, as if to yank those screams out of her head.

Suddenly, a sharp pain seared through her arm and she jerked it into her eyeline with a yelp. To her horror, the scarred flesh where Bellatrix Lestrange branded her appeared fresh; each letter looked as if it had been remade in the night.

Mudblood.

Hermione jumped out of her bed, wrenched a towel off the door, and flew out of the room. The sun had just begun to rise.

Now, she swayed where she stood at the edge of the pitch, clutching her forearm. She planned to go to the library when she was done with Ron, to find a spell or a potion to treat the wound. She was too…ashamed…to go to the hospital wing. The pitying looks, the grave memory of war suffocating the entire room.

In any case, she needed to figure out why Bellatrix's brand had come back. Was it a curse? What did the dream have to do with it? Why now?

Hermione's gaze had grown long, following the outline of the Castle in the distance. Her brow furrowed.

You should tell Professor McGonagall.

That voice in her head was always worried, but its tone today? For the first time since the war, it felt like something it might not be able to handle. It might be something Hermione could not handle, not on her own.

Her eyes paused when a figure disappeared into a cloud of dust near the North Tower. She squinted. Who was that? Was the structure collapsing? It had been hit hard in the war. The administration had sealed it off to students. Who would want to willfully mess around in there?

Another haze of dust burst from the pile of stone.

"Did you see that?" Hermione called behind her. She tilted her head in Ron's direction, expecting to feel his presence amble up beside her. From the sound of it, he was busy trying to maintain his balance on the Firebolt.

A projectile flew through the air in the distance.

Shit, it's falling. And someone is out there.

She began to run.

—-

Draco held a massive hammer over his head, bringing it down upon the stone with an exacting 'thwack.' Dust flew up and out, stinging the exposed skin of his arms. It was turning out to be an unseasonably warm day; he'd already shed his coat and jumper. Draco wouldn't have exposed his Dark Mark if people were around, but it was still early. He'd risk it in this humidity. He wiped his brow before bringing the hammer up again, pausing to study the tattoo.

This time, as he brought it down, he imagined his aunt's face. Bellatrix Lestrange, crouching over a bound Hermione Granger, the Death Eater's magic cutting deep into her flesh…Mudblood.

Rage prickled in his fingertips. As iron clashed with rock, he screamed. He swung the hammer around again, his speed increasing with his fury. Sediment and shards of stone flew around him, marring his skin, stinging his eyes. But he was gone, and in his place was a body of unbridled wrath. It burned in his hollow chest, lighting him on fire. Draco swung and swung, pounding the stone into sand at his feet. He didn't know how long he'd gone when his body finally gave in.

His arms slumped to his sides, and he dropped the tool into the dirt. His breath was ragged. Suddenly his t-shirt was making him feel like he was wrapped in Devil's Snare; itchy and suffocated. He clumsily tugged the fabric over his head and threw it to the side. When Draco brought his hands to his face, he realized he'd been crying.

—-

Hermione had felt a lot of things about Draco Malfoy. She'd hated him, she'd been disgusted by him, she might've been afraid of him once or twice…she'd even felt sorry for him. But concerned? Never.

She was transfixed as he lifted what had to be an 80 kilo boulder off of a pile of rubble. He wiped a gloved hand across his lips. Long, sinewy arms grasped a massive hammer and swung, high over a head of disheveled blonde hair.

A muggle tool?

Hermione was shocked. Never in a million years did she think she would see the day that Draco Malfoy deigned to touch a muggle object. Never mind wield said object with such…precision.

Her heart was pounding, but she was quick to blame it on the unexpected cardio.

When he picked up speed and the rage became apparent in the ferocity of his strokes, she took a few steps back. Hermione was suddenly very aware that she was not at full strength. She took in their surroundings, trying to gauge if he had his wand with him. Reaching into her coat pocket, she wrapped her fingers around her own. She skimmed the endless catalog of defensive spells that lived in her mind, until a resounding thud drew her gaze back to where Malfoy stood. The hammer was in the dirt, the pounding had ceased.

He was taking his shirt off.

He was taking his shirt off.

The well-toned muscles of his back moved in beautiful communion under his skin. The faint glisten of sweat covered him; droplets coursing down his sides, over the sharp angle of his hip bones, down, down-underneath his…

Hermione shook her head violently. It had to be the exhaustion, because there was no way she was checking out Draco Malfoy.

She willed herself to slip away, to forget she'd ever been here, to file this away under hormonal psychosis…

Wait. Was he crying?

She couldn't be certain from where she stood. His broad shoulders shook, and he seemed to shrink into himself. His knees buckled and he dropped into the dirt. Hermione leaned forward, her jerk reaction to comfort, but she stopped herself. Who knew how he would react? He'd probably think she was spying on him. And he had at least one weapon, by his feet…

Her mind reeled. She knew she should go, she should run. But something kept her rooted to the spot. What was wrong with her? First arousal, now worry?

This is Draco Malfoy. Slimy git. Bully. Conspirator. Death Eater. He facilitated your capture and watched his aunt torture you for hours.

Hermione's attention was drawn to the stinging in her arm, and a fresh wave of spite came over her.

When she looked up again, Draco's storm-gray eyes were locked on her.