Draco Malfoy took a drag from the cigarette that he held in his hand. As he blew the smoke out, not really caring where it went, a petite figure walked in his direction. Leaning against the counter next to him, she lit her own cigarette and stuck the end between her lips. Draco didn't really care who she was and assumed that she felt the same. However, when the woman pulled out a small book and began to write in it, he couldn't help but feel a tad bit curious. He realized that, quite honestly, it was none of his business what she was writing, but he really didn't care. Besides, one of the unwritten rules of communication was that if you were in a public place, you were allowed to ask whatever you want to whoever you want. At least, that's how Draco thought of it. After dropping his cigarette and smothering what remained of it with his boot, he turned to the woman.

"What are you writing?"

Startled, the woman instinctively covered the words on the pages. Draco rolled his eyes.

"If you don't want to tell me, you don't have to. I was just curious."

The woman sighed. Draco waited, sensing that she was trying to figure out how to respond.

"No, forgive me," she said, her eyes staring at the floor. "It's just…you remind me of someone from my past - someone that I'd rather forget."

"Really."

Draco had made it a statement, not a question. He didn't want to seem as though he cared anymore, so why did he care? He sensed that this woman, whoever she was, had been broken down. Something in him, for whatever reason, wanted to help her. Maybe it was because he, too, was broken beyond repair. He knew that the war had fucked him up, and that he, in turn, had fucked up so many other people. There was one person in particular, though…

Draco pulled himself out of his thoughts. He refused to go down that path again.

"May I see your journal?" he asked again, gentler this time. The woman looked frightened (of what, he had no clue) and appeared to almost refuse to let him see her book. Finally, though, without looking at Draco, she picked up the journal and, cradling it as though it was fragile, handed it to him. He began to read what she had written.

"I am broken. Broken beyond any state that anyone could ever imagine. I know that there is nobody to blame but myself. The world has turned its back on me. Is life even worth living anymore?"

Oh, Merlin…this woman was more hurt than he could even begin to imagine. Was she really contemplating suicide? Sure, Draco had more downs than ups, but he had never gotten to that point. He shut the book, noticing the front cover had a single letter on it – an H. There was also a faded photo, with three people whose faces he couldn't make out. Suddenly, he started. The pictures were moving. They were moving! She was a witch. That could only mean one thing – she had lived through the war as well! Strangely, the thought that this woman might be as fucked up and broken as him gave him a small amount of joy. He was not alone!

Draco's mind was racing. How could he let her know that he wasn't a Muggle without frightening her away? She seemed ready to bolt at any minute. A flash of inspiration came. He took out his wallet and pulled a picture out from the center.

"Excuse me, miss."

The woman turned to him. Her eyes were focused at some point beyond his head. Honestly, why wouldn't she look at him? He shook his head. There were things of greater importance right now.

"I might have figured out why I look familiar to you," Draco told her. He pulled out a photo of a Quidditch match between the Slytherins and the Gryffindors in his fifth year at Hogwarts. It was just as he was reaching for the Snitch. To his surprise, the woman finally focused on him, looking into his eyes, seeming more scared than ever. There was something combined with the fear, though…hatred. Before he could figure out why, she pulled her fist back and punched him in the jaw. Then, before he could react, she turned around and ran.

The pain wasn't even registering, at least, not in his jaw. His heart, however, felt like it had been knifed. He knew those eyes. As Draco stared at the retreating figure, all he could do was utter one name, her name, over and over.

"Hermione."