Sit Beside Me

Hello, back again! The idea bug bit me and got me interested in a new story. It's been a long hiatus but I'm keen to get writing again. Not sure who's still reading out there, but I'm back on FF out of habit, though I may post on AO3 as well, haven't decided. This one won't be as depressing as my last piece, I promise! I'm just really drawn to the whole post-war setting with these two cahracters. Plenty of angst but plenty of fuzz too. Eager to explore this new story together. Enjoy!

Chapter One

The doors opened with their usual dramatic flair to reveal the towering cavern of the Great Hall, a sight that was still impressive even after all these years. But if you looked closely, you could see the subtle, lingering remnants of the terrible battle so recently inflicted on the castle. The cracks in the stone pillars, the dust scattered lazily around the hidden corners missed by Filch's broomstick. The slight sheen of newly repaired glass in the window frames. But for the most part the castle was open for business, even if the atmosphere was a little eerie, the cries of the dead haunting its corridors and alcoves.

Draco stalked in at the back of the group, hardly able to ignore the muttering and whispers of students sitting around the four long house tables.

The Eighth Years had arrived relatively late in the evening by special Floo travel once the feast had already begun.

That's what they were being named. Eighth Years. Drifting somewhere awkwardly between NEWT exams and freedom. Caught in stasis, not quite school children and not quite adults. Draco felt more than one pair of eyes pass over the group, settling on him in particular, the mutters turning hostile. He wished, not for the first time, that his appearance wasn't quite so distinctive. Once a proud Malfoy heir strutting through these doors, he now felt awkward and ungainly. If only he was shorter, he thought, but his tall, lithe frame and blond hair certainly stood out in a crowd.

Only fourteen students had chosen to accept McGonagall's offer of returning for this rare, unprecedented 'Eighth Year'. Unsurprisingly, seven members of the group were former Ravenclaw students. From what he could gather they had all felt as though they'd been short-changed and were owed the chance to finish their education properly without the toxic influence of a bunch of crazed Death Eaters masquerading as teachers, with no real syllabus to follow.

Fair enough, he supposed. What was the point of chasing the dream of academic rigour if one didn't even finish their exams under legitimate circumstances?

Three more students were from Hufflepuff. All Muggleborns who had escaped the ministry's notice and had gone on the run. They'd never even been given the chance to learn their Seventh Year NEWT material. And there was another half-blood Hufflepuff who had lasted only a month at Hogwarts before ending up in the Hospital Wing for the remainder of the year, rendered comatose after a particularly nasty detention with the Carrows.

Two Gryffindors stood amongst their ranks too. These two he knew well enough. The Thomas boy, muggleborn as well. He'd fled the wizarding world supposedly and had now returned, quiet but determined to prove himself.

And finally, Neville Longbottom.

That one had been a surprise. Longbottom had, after all, been present at the school all of last year if the rumours were to be believed. But from what he'd overheard, the boy would be studying to take his NEWTs while apprenticing under Professor Sprout at the same time. Watching him now as he walked with calm confidence towards their table, Draco was a bit baffled by the other boy. He was gaunt, matured now in a sort of gawky way, and carried himself with a quiet dignity that had been sorely lacking when he was younger.

The group arrived at their table, greeted warmly by the new Headmistress who was waiting for them there. It was a smaller table set towards the back of the hall. A private corner of the room reserved for the Eighth-Year students alone. Draco breathed a huge sigh of relief, almost closing his eyes as he shuddered and thanked Merlin for small blessings.

He had been worried they would expect him to sit at their former house tables. It would have been a mistake to say the least.

Draco was the only Slytherin who had returned for their Eighth Year.

Looking around at the sneers and contempt written on the faces of each house table they had passed, including his own, he felt his shoulders hunch up as if to appear smaller somehow. He was absolutely mad to come back here. And everyone knew it. He had been directly involved in the murder of the beloved former Headmaster, after all. His role in Dumbledore's death sat heavy in the air around him, and it was no surprise they hated him, really. Not to mention the brand tattooed indelibly on his arm even now despite being hidden under his jumper. It didn't matter that nobody could see it; they all knew it was there. He swallowed, curling his hands into fists so tight the palms began to sting from the insistent press of his blunt, neatly filed fingernails. He licked his lips and wished desperately that he could be literally anywhere else right now than here.

But he'd had no choice. Hogwarts or Azkaban. The Ministry of Magic had made that very clear.

"Welcome Eighth Years. I'm so glad you arrived safely and thank you for agreeing to come for the opening feast," McGonagall told them, ushering them closer to their table, "I expect you're all tired. We've finished sorting the first years, but there's more than enough time to eat a hearty meal before bed. Professor Flitwick has kindly offered to escort you to your chambers after you're finished so just wave him over when you're ready. You're not regular students this year so there will be no curfew. Just make sure you're ready for your first session at nine tomorrow morning."

She continued to greet them one by one, chatting briefly to each person as they took their seats. It was surreal, he thought, this courteous greeting. It felt so mundane, so terribly polite after the events of the last year. They were supposedly not going to be treated as normal NEWT students, or so the new Headmistress had told them through correspondence. They didn't even have to wear uniforms. Their exams were already scheduled for midway through the year and the teaching staff had organised special subject-specific tutorial sessions for the small group each day to facilitate their preparation, rather than joining the usual NEWT level classes the younger Seventh Years would attend.

They were 'the lost year', everyone had told them. The ones who'd fallen through the cracks and weren't willing to compromise their education just to move on with their lives in a post-war world.

Draco was the only one who wasn't here freely. But even he took some small comfort in the sight of the Great Hal lit with hundreds of candles, the enchanted ceiling dappled with twinkling stars and a clear night sky. The familiar warmth of the feast that lay waiting cheerfully on the table before them. It felt like coming home in a way. Especially now that Malfoy Manor no longer seemed like a home to him. Just a place of nightmares.

Once the group had begun to reach their seats, the old witch finally made it through the throng, and it was his turn. She gave him a long, piercing look, her green eyes sharp but brittle too; a common symptom of the war, he'd noticed.

"Make the most of this chance, Mister Malfoy," she told him steadily after a moment, before her hand grasped his arm firmly and she nodded to him a bit bracingly. Then she was gone, and he was left staring at the table in a bit of a daze, feeling out of place. The other Eighth Year students had begun to arrange themselves on the benches in their little corner. They weren't looking at him much, aside from the occasional flicker of doubt or distrust. Draco slipped onto the edge of one bench, keeping his jaw clenched and his gaze on the food in front of him. As they jostled and chatted, organising themselves into some kind of order, he grimaced when he realised what would happen, watching in numb resignation. The benches were filled, the conversation already beginning merrily as they dug into their food. And next to him there was a space, conspicuously empty. Nobody had wanted to sit next to him, leaving him isolated down the end. Draco sighed and started to help himself to some chicken pie and mushy peas, wondering idly whether this would become the norm.

"What does our timetable look like then? Anyone seen it?"

"My gran got a copy from Professor Sprout. It's pretty straightforward. Prep time in the morning, then two tutorials per day and an afternoon study session in the library."

"That's not so bad."

"Speak for yourself."

"I'm just glad we can go to Hogsmeade every weekend."

"Cheers to that."

"Apparently old Trelawny was miffed that none of us wanted to take our Divination NEWT."

"She's barmy. As if we would."

"I dunno, did you hear she was the one who made the prophecy about Harry being the Chosen One?"

"No, really? I thought Seamus was having me on."

"It's true. I heard from…"

Draco sat silently, chewing blankly on some chicken without really tasting it. He let the conversation wash over him as he looked around at the group. They were friendly but a bit quiet and more serious than the other tables. He supposed they'd all been through more than anyone in the last year.

As his eyes drifted around their faces, Draco frowned. From the first moment he'd arrived in McGonagall's office earlier, he'd felt a sense of unease deep in his gut. Like a twinge just below his stomach that was turning the food to ash in his mouth. The feeling was only growing more uncomfortable the longer he sat there.

With a pained grimace of recognition, he silently acknowledged in the privacy of his own deepest darkest thoughts what was bothering him.

She wasn't here.

He didn't know what he'd expected really. He hadn't actually stopped to think about it in any great detail. But somewhere in the back of his mind, like a nagging toothache, he'd just assumed that she would be here. He'd almost been bracing himself to see her again. After all, any fool with half a brain might have guessed that know-it-all Granger would have come back to earn her NEWT levels.

Draco had certainly thought in some distant part of his mind that she'd be here. He'd have put money on it, in fact. The problem, he reflected as he sat there numbly eating his dinner, was that he wasn't sure how he felt about her not being here.

It was almost… wrong.

Like the school was somehow more insipid without her, in a way. Ironic really, since he'd spent the previous six years wishing she could just bugger off. But somehow, buried beneath all his jealousy and animosity, she'd become a complex, integral part of his life at the school. Like Binns and his sleep-inducing lectures, or the whomping willow terrifying little first years or the giant squid frolicking in the lake. She'd become a part of it all.

And now…

Now he felt listless, like there was no purpose for him here. Not if he couldn't beat her fair and square.

Who are you kidding, Draco? You were never going to beat her. Not in a million bloody years.

Okay, so it was a long shot. But even though he probably never stood a chance, the bossy little swot had always driven him to strive for more anyway, as he struggled vainly to keep up with her.

Draco couldn't help but think back to their first year. He'd swaggered his way through the halls back then, haughty and proud. After suffering through years of his father's lectures, slaving away with stern tutors and preparing for this very moment, he was confident, cocky even, that he would shine. Powerful magic was in his blood, going back more generations than he could count. At first, he'd despised Potter for the other boy's undeserved fame, always cast in the spotlight and always taking it for granted, never appreciating it. But slowly as the year progressed his ire had been re-directed. Because Potter turned out to be as thick as a brick, almost as dumb as his moronic ginger friend. No, it was another Gryffindor who'd drawn his attention.

Hermione Granger had been infuriating to the point of madness. Every bloody test, every assignment, every piece of homework was completed to absolute perfection. He'd started thinking of her as just an annoying swot, a bookworm. Any brat could sit and memorize a textbook if they had no friends or social life, right? But as the months went by, it became embarrassingly obvious that there was more to it. She also mastered spells quicker than him. In class she did magic with ease, almost unthinkingly. While he was usually fairly quick to grasp new things as well, he seemed to have to toil more than her to get it right, to concentrate on the movements, to focus his power. But to her it came almost naturally. She could usually master a charm on her first or second attempt, earning a veritable flood of house points. That raw potential combined with an irritating thirst for knowledge made her unstoppable.

And he'd been jealous of course. But also… oddly in awe of her somehow?

He used to glare at her from across the room as she concentrated, trying to throw her off, but mostly just watching that little crease on her nose appear when she scrunched it up. Whenever she made that face, he knew she was about to succeed at something far beyond her age level. It was a look of total, fixed attention. Intimidating too. Scary even.

And then Lucius had twisted his ear over the summer holidays. He'd returned for his second year with his heart full of hatred, the contempt positively eating him from the inside. His father had made it painfully clear that no, it wasn't natural. It wasn't right. The blood that flowed through her veins was dirty, corrupted by the primitive bearing of her muggle heritage.

But despite this, she was still beating him in every bloody thing.

And so, he'd lashed out. Made her feel small and unworthy. And when she'd been Petrified… he was suddenly coming top of the year for just a few short weeks. The victory had felt strangely unsatisfying.

In their Third-Year things had taken an odd turn. He'd truly despised her that year. He'd taken a sick pleasure in witnessing her loneliness during the long weeks she'd been ostracised from her friends after some petty fight they'd had. Served her right. Nobody could put up with her, he'd told himself. It was inevitable she'd end up all alone with just her precious books for company.

Although he had to admit, even amidst the months of hating her, he'd been weirdly impressed and amused the day she'd stormed out of Divination, declaring it a frivolous waste of her time. He'd grinned to himself later that night, lying in his dormitory, remembering that old hag Trelawney's face, horrified behind her spectacles, spluttering with indignation in the face of Granger's cold dismissal.

Merlin that had been bold.

The end of Third Year saw a dramatic shift in his feelings. It didn't take a genius to spot when things had changed so suddenly. Granger slapping him across the face in fury had been a rude awakening. The shocking sting of her palm on his cheek was like being roused from a deep sleep. The static current of magic ringing through from her skin into his was so raw and so visceral that it had left him shaken. It was a quiet rage that had seethed and burrowed inside him in the following months, with no real outlet or use. The whole incident had become tangled and muddied in his thoughts. It had festered there until fourth year.

That was a fucked-up year. No two ways about it.

His father had started turning totally psychotic, wrapped up in his obsessive double life as a Death Eater, responding almost maniacally to the increasing burn of the mark on his arm. Draco had actually been relieved to return to Hogwarts for once. And with the Triwizard Tournament going on, there had been plenty of distractions at the school to take his mind off things.

It wasn't until the Yule Ball that Draco even paid much attention to the little swot. She'd appeared in the Great Hall, hanging nervously off the arm of Viktor-bloody-Krum of all people, and the whole student body had gone completely mental. Draco had tried all year to get the surly wizard's autograph with little to no success and here she was, Hermione mudblood Granger, waltzing around the room with the famous Seeker and looking flushed and happy.

He'd been confused.

That was the right word. Confused.

Because Krum chose her. Bookworm Granger. He could have had literally any witch in the whole castle on his arm that night. They would have been tripping over themselves for the honour. But he chose that know-it-all. At first Draco had wondered if Krum was smarter than he looked and he was merely playing some game to learn all of Potter's secrets. Know thy enemy and all that.

But watching them that night, his gaze never straying, he'd been astounded to note the look of dazed pleasure on the Seeker's face. He'd seemed genuinely enamoured with his dance partner. And in truth Granger had indeed looked… different. With her sleek, elegant French chignon, periwinkle robes that hugged her curves and simple silver jewellery. There was something a bit off about the whole look though. Even though every girl in the castle, even the Slytherin ones, were all whispering about how radiant she looked, it felt almost unsettling seeing her hair slicked back and tamed. He was used to the riotous mass of curls that normally spilled wildly over her shoulders and down her back. The same curls that had crackled with electricity when she'd slapped him. It was wrong to see her without them.

He'd sneered at poor Pansy several times during the course of the evening. Her face had looked puffy and flushed next to those hideous bright pink robes she'd chosen, and he couldn't help thinking how overdone she was, like a piglet with make-up slapped on, dripping in gaudy family heirlooms. Her snide comments all evening about how ugly Granger looked actually made him want to laugh. Even back then when he was still a bigoted little prat, he was rational enough to know that ugliness shone from within, rendering Pansy Parkinson the most monstrous beast in all of Hogwarts.

About a week after the ball, he'd spotted Granger in the library one day. She'd been concentrating on her homework, almost oblivious to the sulking presence of Krum who was huddled next to her, pretending to study. The wizard kept sneaking glances at her from under his dark brows, scowling as if he could make her notice him if he gazed intently enough. Draco had just chuckled and moved on, shaking his head. What a waste of time, pursuing that single-minded swot. She'd rather date a textbook than an international Quidditch star. He'd taken a sick pleasure in hearing Pansy whispering lies to that annoying bug Rita Skeeter when she'd come buzzing around, hoping her lies would ruffle the Gryffindor girl's perfect feathers. But Granger had just read her copy of the Prophet with a laugh right in the middle of the Great Hall, snorting and shrugging it off. He'd almost bent his fork in half.

Fifth Year had been… interesting.

He wasn't a total idiot. Rationally he knew that Umbridge was an absolute toad who was single-handedly ruining their education. But Lucius had made it quite clear that he expected Draco to achieve a certain level of academic success in his OWLs, and the extra credit he received from joining the Inquisitorial Squad was almost obscenely unfair. His father was a walking nightmare that year, stricter than he'd ever been, to the point of being totally unreasonable. He'd been walking along the edge of a knife trying to appease the Dark Lord with sycophantic enthusiasm while making amends for his error with the Diary. Oh yes, Draco had heard all about that mistake, although personally he thought Ginny Weasley was a vapid little idiot for writing in the cursed book in the first place.

So, he'd been forced to adapt to the changing situation at Hogwarts. Slytherins knew all about how to survive. And being Umbridge's lackey had made the year so much easier in the long run, with privileges the other students could have only dreamed of.

But that didn't mean he didn't admire, on some twisted level buried deep down, the way Granger had fought back. It was strangely satisfying to see just how much the old bitch despised her brightest and most stubborn muggleborn student. He secretly loved seeing the toad's face turning almost purple when confronted with Granger's calm defiance.

There was one moment that year during the winter holidays that had stuck with him ever since. He'd been fighting through the snow around Christmas time, making his way down to the Quidditch pitch for some practice, when he'd spotted Granger loitering around the edge of the lake. There had been rumours that Potter and Weasley had suddenly left the castle one night, whisked away on an urgent family matter, leaving their curly haired friend behind. He slowed his pace as he noticed her. She was frowning and staring glunly at the icy surface of the lake, twirling her wand absently in her fingers. His first gut instinct was to laugh at how pathetic she looked, clearly wallowing in self-pity and miffed about being left all alone in the castle. But as he passed by, he couldn't help watching her. That was when it happened.

A small, seemingly insignificant moment, but memorable nonetheless.

She seemed to draw in a deep, fortifying breath as if steeling her resolve and brushing her misery aside. With a small smile tugging at her lips, she had held her wand aloft with a determined look. Twisting it to the side gracefully, she muttered an incantation under her breath and a silvery mist burst forth from her wand. It curled around in the air before taking shape.

It was an otter, he realised. The creature frolicked about, seeming to swim playfully in the air around her. Granger's smile widened and she scratched the place where the otter's ears would be. Her whole countenance was brightened, and she chuckled privately to herself just as Draco realised what he was witnessing. It was her Patronus. His mother had shown it to him once, many years ago. A spell to drive off Dementors.

The otter suited her, he thought, as it faded away into the dim haze of twilight. And as it vanished, Granger looked up through the snow drifting between them and their gazes locked. Brown eyes met grey, and his breath caught in his lungs. A long, tormented silence followed as they stared at each other. She frowned slightly, as if puzzled by him, her cheeks flushing self-consciously. Draco shook himself and kept moving, pushing on through the snow towards the Quidditch stands. But for the rest of the evening as he soared over the pitch running drills, that silvery otter kept flickering across his senses and filling his thoughts.

He buried the moment deep in his mind. It was easy to ignore really. Because the change of season brought with it only more terror and desperation. His father's failure had placed the burden on him to serve the Dark Lord and revive the Malfoy name among his ranks.

Sixth Year was something else entirely. He'd barely been capable of rational thought by the time term started. His mother's safety, the task he'd essentially been threatened to fulfil, the horror of meeting and living with his crazed Aunt Bellatrix. The mad bitch still gave him nightmares. In some ways she'd frightened him more than Voldemort.

It had almost been too much for his sanity. But even so, he was still semi-conscious of the subtle shift in his perception of Granger even then with so much else going on. He had noticed her sometimes, sitting alone in the library that year. He'd been researching vanishing charms in dark objects to fix that damned cabinet, and Granger was clearly studying every type of charm and spell known to the world. She was always surrounded by piles of tomes on a wide range of topics, from healing to defensive spells to protection wards. And it didn't take a genius to figure out why. Of course she would want to be prepared for anything.

She was almost never accompanied by her two imbecile friends those nights. She just worked in solitude until late in the evening. More often than not they were the last two remaining in the library when Madame Pince chivvied them out as curfew approached. Once or twice, rare anomalies in an otherwise painfully numb year for Draco, their eyes had met. But like with the Patronus in fifth year, nothing was said on either side. They didn't sneer or glare or anything so foolish. And they certainly didn't smile, Merlin forbid. It was just a silent meeting of their gazes, steady and solemn.

And then Dumbledore was dead, and he'd been forced to flee the castle. His feelings had become a mess as he adjusted to the trauma of returning to the manor, now the stronghold of the Death Eaters.

The next time he saw Granger she was being dragged in front of them by a snatcher, a grimy fist clenched in her curly hair as she struggled uselessly against them. He'd remained silent when his father had asked him if he recognised the trio. Which of course he did. He wasn't blind. But her brown eyes were looking up at him solemnly and he simply couldn't speak.

Later, when his aunt was torturing her, he'd closed his eyes and turned his head away. The Cruciatus curse was bad enough. But when she started to carve into the witch's skin with her favoured dagger, Draco wanted to be sick. He'd spent years feeling a bitter, begrudging respect for Granger and how powerful she was. Seeing her reduced to this sobbing mess…

Even if he had actually hated the witch, he still would never have wanted to watch it. And the truth was he didn't hate her, not by then.

At one point when Bellatrix had been distracted by his father's questions about the sword, he'd almost stepped forwards. He'd been so close to just moving towards her and simply checking if she was still… still alive? Still sane? He wasn't sure. But his mother's firm grip on his hand had stayed him. And Granger had seen his jerking, unfinished motion, he was almost certain of it. Because in that moment when he'd briefly struggled against his mother's hold, he'd been captured by the intensity of her brown-eyed gaze once more, blinking pleadingly up at him.

The steady thump of relief when she'd been rescued… well, he wasn't sure what it meant. But there was no time to dwell on it. He supposed it was the same gnawing sensation he was experiencing now, seeing her absent from the table of Eighth Years. He just sort of expected her to be around. This was Hogwarts. And even if he'd mostly just disliked and resented her for the entire seven years previous, it wouldn't be the same without her. A huge part of him had been almost anticipating seeing her again, mentally preparing himself for it.

Dropping his eyes to the table, Draco swallowed the suddenly dry feeling in his throat, placing his fork down gently to one side. He sat quietly for a while, his gaze fixed on the dishes in front of him, his appetite gone.

The gentle hum of chatter continued around him. As Eighth Years they weren't technically part of their former houses and wouldn't earn or lose points like regular students. Their former loyalties quickly melted away as the meal progressed. They were slowly coming out of their shells, the banter becoming steadily friendlier. Sometimes they spoke in smaller groups or pairs, other times the whole table was involved in one discussion all together.

Nobody engaged him in the conversation. Nobody was inclined to ask him any inane questions like what the hell was he doing here or how he dared show his face in this place again. He almost started to tune them out. That was, until her name came up. The shock to Draco's system came mostly from the fact that he'd just been thinking about her. His pulse skipped. Maybe he'd been projecting his thoughts somehow. He listened closely while trying to appear supremely unconcerned as he toyed with the rim of his water goblet.

"I could have sworn I heard McGonagall mention that Granger was coming back," one of the Ravenclaws asked, probably scoping out their main competition.

"Surely the brains of the trio is going to return to do her NEWTs. So where is she?"

"Did she not come through the floo with you guys?"

"No, I didn't see her."

"Maybe she decided to just move on with her life. Can you blame her?"

"It's not like she'll find it hard to get a job, NEWTs or not."

"True, maybe she accepted a position in the ministry or maybe-"

Longbottom, who'd been chatting quietly down one end, seemed to pick up on the topic of conversation as well at that moment. He snorted and leaned forwards, swallowing a mouthful of trifle.

"She's coming," he told them with a half-smile. Draco was taking a sip of his water and almost choked. Swamped with about six follow-up questions at once, Longbottom grimaced sheepishly and shrugged to the group.

"I think she came by floo earlier. She's in the hospital wing with Madame Pomfrey. Something about a Healing apprenticeship maybe? I didn't get a chance to ask her about it."

The others all nodded, carrying on with their chatter. Draco was left frowning down at his half-empty plate of food, his mouth dry. So, she was returning. And now that queasy anticipation had flared up into what felt almost like dread.

There was too much history. Too much tension.

And then, as if his dread had summoned her, she was there.

The merry greetings of the others at the table alerted him first. He looked up and saw the curly head of Hermione Granger walking calmly across the hall towards them. Everywhere throughout the cavernous hall the whispers could be heard, spreading across the four house tables like fiendfyre. The hushed awe was to be expected. She was something of a war heroine these days in the wake of the Last Battle, even if many of their exploits remained unknown, veiled in mystery.

As Granger approached their table, she smiled softly, holding herself with a quiet confidence he envied. Draco gritted his teeth and watched her furtively, trying to appear uninterested beneath the few blond hairs that were falling haphazardly down over his forehead. Everyone greeted her warmly, polite and a bit intimidated but friendly nonetheless.

Then there was an awkward pause. As she was smiling and wishing them a happy start of term, a few stares grew wary and darted around the table, noticing for the first time that every seat was taken.

Every seat except for the one next to him.

Although Granger still appeared unaware, Draco couldn't help but grimace mildly at their painfully obvious worrying.

"Er… Hermione… why don't I grab one of those single chairs from down the end of the Hufflepuff table, and you can sit over here next to us-" Dean Thomas began, already rising to his feet to do as he'd suggested. But Granger frowned in confusion, waving her hand dismissively as soon as he'd said it.

"Oh! No need," she told him offhandedly, "there's a spare seat right here."

Then, seemingly totally unconcerned with the focused, anxious stares of every other person at the table, she strolled over quite casually and sat herself down right there next to him, so close her arm brushed against his as she sank down onto the bench.

Draco kept his head down, forcing his face to remain expressionless. There was a slightly uncomfortable silence that followed then as everyone else absorbed her choice of action, as well as her supposed lack of hesitation or distress in doing it. After a pained silence, suddenly about four or five voices launched into conversation at once and just like that the tension was broken. Draco was glad he'd already lost his appetite earlier, so he didn't suddenly look like a fool who was unable to finish his meal. Because there was no way in hell he'd be able to eat now. He sat stiffly next to her, sipping from his water goblet and trying not to notice every movement she made as she served herself a small helping of the vegetable casserole in front of them. He felt clumsy all of a sudden, like he didn't remember how he normally moved his hands or breathed in and out.

The last few times he'd seen her had been terrible, even by their usual standards. He'd watched her being tortured, then they'd been engulfed in flames and almost died, she'd watched him cowering as Order members and Death Eaters alike tried to kill him. She'd seen him crying over his father's body, banging his fists on the man's chest, too fucked up in that moment to deal with his mixed feelings of despair and relief. Not to mention the rest of the battle that night…

And even before all that, they'd been positively hostile towards each other for six years. Well okay, he'd been hostile. She'd mostly just ignored him, to his eternal outrage and mortification.

How did he even begin to cope with her presence beside him? How did he deal with this composed expression and relaxed body language from her? What did it mean? Didn't she hate him? He would in her shoes.

And so, he sat there half-rigid and half-trembling for the next half hour or so, painfully aware of every little motion she made and every sound she uttered, right up until Flitwick came over to escort them to their chambers. And when Granger finally finished her pumpkin juice and rose evenly to her feet, Draco followed her lead, his stomach in knots even though his expression was cool and unruffled. And as she went to walk away, he felt a wave of relief tinged with unease, feeling strangely bereft.

He waited for the sensation to pass before moving to join the group as they left their little table.

But then his composure was shot to hell, because Granger paused and glanced back his way and he almost froze with shock. Because there was nothing accusing or scornful hidden in the weight of her warm brown eyes. She just considered him quietly, her head cocked to one side and that crinkle on the bridge of her nose she got sometimes when she was working something out. It was the same look she'd given him when she'd caught him watching her Patronus in their fifth year. The same look as when she'd met his eye in the library during their sixth year.

He didn't know what to make of it. So, he just stared back and hoped his cheeks hadn't flushed self-consciously.

And then the moment was over, as quick as it had begun, and she was turning away to converse with Longbottom as they all left the Great Hall. Draco followed, wondering why, in those few torturous seconds, he had felt like he could hardly breathe. But one thing gave him comfort, easing the fears that had plagued him earlier.

She was here.

She'd returned to finish her schooling and would be a constant presence at Hogwarts once more.

And it felt… right. Although he still honestly had no fucking clue why it mattered so much to him, even as he devoured the sight of her curly head walking along in front of him. It was probably better in the end if he didn't let himself think about it too much. He was giving himself a headache and needed to stop fixating on it.

If only it were that easy.

…

…

Thanks for reading - please let me know your thoughts :) - if nothing else, they usually motivate me to keep to some kind of writing schedule haha