Summary: We're both broken, but maybe, just maybe, together we can heal. Based on the song 'Good To You' – Marianas Trench *Dramione, Begins two and a half years after the war, compliant with DH except epilogue, updated weekly*

Additional description: This fic is a bit different. Based off the song 'Good To You', it follows Draco and Hermione as they still try to heal after what happened in the war. Draco deals with his family, Hermione with her friends, and together, they battle the challenges of a world moving on. The first half is first person from Draco's point of view, the second half is first person from Hermione's point of view. This goes with the song as well.

Note from the author: This is something very different from the other stories I have written and, even though I am excited to share it with you, I am also pretty nervous. I am trying to grow as a writer so I hope this is a step in the right direction. I would really appreciate comments, reviews, just letting me know what you think. As I said, nearly every dynamic of this story is new, from the era, the POV, the verb tense, the plot. So, I hope you like it and here's the first chapter.

Disclaimer: The song 'Good To You' is by Marianas Trench and the characters and world of Harry Potter belongs to JK Rowling.

Chapter 1 – With Everyone Around

November 25, 2000

Why am I here?

This is not some existential question. I am standing in the middle of a banquet hall, dressed up in a suit to give money to a cause my family doesn't believe in. We sort of have to, I mean, at the moment, not many people want to deal with us. My family is seen to be associated with Death Eaters, Voldemort, the enemies in the brutal war. We're trying desperately to change that – well I am.

The music is playing but no one is dancing, simply mingling. I hear the mutter of empty small talk and fake conversations as I walk through the crowd.

It took a lot to get me here today. My father – and you are correct if you hear tension in the word – prohibited me from coming. We argued quite a while about the why behind my decision. The family name. I am tired of being looked upon with fear and disdain and this is one step in the right direction.

He said the price did not outweigh the rewards to such a quest. I disagree, but his chief point was that tonight, I would be surrounded by the people we believe are inferior; blood traitors, mudbloods, half-breeds.

'We' is a very general term I throw around to say 'my family'. These are no longer my own beliefs, but I live under their roof so I must comply with how we are.

I'm looking for someone as I scan the groups of people around me. She spoke just a few minutes earlier about the importance of werewolf participation in society, the importance of werewolf support. I had thought the ministry shut down this department, but apparently, I was misinformed. But the woman who spoke about such things that 'we' do not believe, I recognized her, and now, I must find her among the falsity chatters.

I move a few more paces and come to a new group. That frizzy hair, that smile, that passion for underprivileged creatures. I would know her anywhere. Her hair is cut short, somewhere between chin and shoulders, and slightly more tamed than it had been when I previously saw her. Hermione Granger

She turns and sees me, smile faltering for only a second. I try to tell her it's alright, that I'm not here to ruin anything, but she is still with the group and my eyes are not all that specific.

She excuses herself from those she is talking to and makes her way towards me. My heart leaps to my throat. The question remains. Why am I here? Why am I hunting down this woman, this woman I haven't seen in years?

Her smile drops completely as she stands in front of me and my words fail. It strikes me that she has grown into a spectacular woman. And what have I become?

"What are you doing here?" she asks curtly.

"I wish to donate," I inform.

Her brows raise. She's surprised.

"Why?" she's suspicious. She has a right to be.

It takes me a moment to respond. I have been asking myself the same question all night. I was the one who wanted to be here, but I feel out of place, lost. I realize what I really want has nothing to do with the Malfoy name and more to do with me.

"I want to change," I say and she's surprised again.

"Fine, the box is over there in the corner, by the stage."

I realize she's avoiding my gaze, has been since she came to talk to me. She's in my presence and she feels what everyone else does; fear, disdain.

I find myself wishing she would look up. Her eyes are beautiful, telling. I don't want her to be afraid of me.

"I am not my father," I tell her as I push past towards the stage.

I feel her eyes on me, but I don't turn around. I stay purposeful in my strides. People have seen me here, and once I have donated, I can leave. My quest has been fulfilled at this particular location.

I see her, even though I can't. Granger is everywhere, but nowhere. She haunts the space behind my eyes; her beauty, her strength, her passion. I don't recall seeing her in the news lately. Potter is everywhere, famous as ever, and Weasley was in the spotlight for the first little while after the war. But Granger, she wasn't. And maybe that was simply who she was, not desiring the attention of the boys, but I sense something.

Tonight, she was confident, funny, outgoing, until she saw me and we were somewhat alone. Something is off but I can't quite place it.

It is time for me to leave, I can't talk to her now. I fight the desire to find her again. I want to ask her how she has been, these past two and a half years cannot have been easy and I know nothing. I fight the urge to talk with her again and make my exit.

I push through the people one last time and escape into the crisp November air. It fills my lungs and forms a puff of white as I steadily exhale. It is nearly midnight and I must be going. I attempt to drive her image from my mind as I walk to the point of apparation but she lingers.

Reaching my destination, I concentrate on where I want to go; Malfoy Manor. I cannot wait to escape the event, but at the same time, I don't want to leave. Banishing the strange thoughts from my mind, I turn on the spot and feel the push and pull and stretch of disapparation – such a unique sensation – and end up outside the gates of the place I reluctantly call home.

After everything that has happened there, I have to remind myself it is over. The walls have changed, the furniture new and not stained with blood and dark magic, but the outside appearance is the same. Every time I enter I have to tell myself: Voldemort is dead, the terrors are over, the manor is simply a house, the place I call home.

"How was the party?" mother asks as I enter the sitting room and sit beside her on the sofa.

She waits for me to come home. She has ever since I was marked, terrified that I might not return. It's sweet, she loves me, but I am sad that she still feels the need. The war was hardest on her, even though she wasn't supposed to be directly involved. My father was supposed to protect her, protect this family, but instead he brought ruin, pain, fear.

"It was fine, mother," I tell her vaguely.

But she sees through me, always has been able to do so. I've never quite figured out how.

Her mouth spreads into a thin smile.

"There was a girl," she prompts.

I sigh. There is no hiding anything from this woman.

"How do you know?"

"Your face says it all darling. You glow," she tells me.

"Of course it does," and I can't help but smile. "Hermione Granger was there. Haven't seen her in a while. Seems to be quite successful in her field," I explain.

"There's more," mother inquires.

I shake my head, astounded by her perception.

"I didn't even really speak to her. But I can't get her out of my head," I say.

"Hermione Granger. She is Potter's friend, correct? The one who was brought here during the war?"

The words chill me. Yes. She was brought to the manor during the war. That night haunts me. Her screams, echo off the inside of my scull even years later. She was tortured by my aunt and sometimes, I wish I could forget.

She never will.

"I think you should talk with her."

I look at my mother, surprised. She holds the same pureblood ideals that my father carries, yet, she suggests I associate myself with a muggle-born.

"I think it would help you," she clarifies. "I see how you struggle."

I shake my head. "She's afraid of me."

"Are you sure?"

I'm not. I assumed. But it is a probable conclusion. I stood there and watched her be tortured in my own home and did nothing. I was coward. I said nothing. And I hate myself for it every day. Because I was a coward, and she has a constant reminder of it.

"She won't want to talk to me," I say definitively. "I'm the last person she wants to see."

"Alright, I won't push you to do things you don't want to do."

"Thank-you," I respond, knowing she just doesn't want to be my father.

"I'm going to go to bed. You should as well." She smiles and stands, smoothing her hands down her robes.

I stand as well, give her a kiss on the cheek and tell her goodnight.

A few minutes later I am wandering the manor trying to forget, I need to forget. Granger would be better without me re-entering her life, bringing forth horrifying memories of a night she doesn't need me, to remember.

I see her face in my mind as I walk the halls; her smile, her laugh, her outgoing personality – all fake. The somewhat shy, avoidant, curious Granger – that was real – and I want to know more.

But I can't. I shouldn't. But I want to and know I'm wrong to. Not because of some blood purity belief, but because she is better without knowing me, and who I've become.

"Draco," I hear my father's voice and stop walking. "How was it?"

"Not now," I reply without looking his direction.

"How were the blood traitors and mudbloods and half-breeds my son?" I can hear the sneer in his voice. He never truly approved of me going.

"It was fine. I showed my face, donated, and moved us one more step out of this dark reputation. You should be happy," I tell him.

"Happy? You are defiling the name, not saving it!"

"Your opinion on the matter isn't completely wanted," I say, knowing it will get under the man's skin. "I am going to bed."

I continue to the West wing, never looking back at the man who gave me life – and took it away. It isn't that I don't care for the man, he's my father, but he hurt my mother, let Voldemort into our home, and contributed to the factors leading to my getting the Dark Mark that still stains my left forearm. And his idea of the connotations the Malfoy name should possess are very different from my own.

I enter my room and shut my door, thankful to finally be alone. Both parents interested in my night is a strange occurrence and one I don't find particularly pleasant. I am no longer a child and do not need my parents to question my every move. I understand my mother only wants to be a part of my life, make sure I am okay, so it's alright that she asks. But my father, he is only concerned that I don't destroy his view of how the Malfoy name should be.

I collapse onto my king-sized bed and for a moment, wish that my room was more cheery. Grey walls, black furniture. It currently represents my life. No more is there black and white; black and grey are what remain. Living in a family where hate is the expected, that's black. Having to take over the family business that entails sitting behind a desk and looking at the financials of the Malfoy fortune, that's grey. My future is bleak, full of black and greys that I can't escape from, at least not right now.

But that's how it has to be.

For now.

Author's Note:

Hey guys! Welcome to my new story. If you are, or have been, reading my other stories, 'The Fall' won't be put on hold because of it, I'll have another chapter up tomorrow, sorry 'Pretty Little Choice' readers, that one will be put off a little while longer, but I am planning on getting back to it eventually. I should have updates for this one posted regularly. I am still looking for a job for the summer, so right now, this is the only thing I really have to do.

Thanks for reading! I anxiously await your thoughts.