A/N: Rated T for language. I wanted to challenge myself to write something above 5k words, because I don't usually have the stamina to write that in one shot.

Please excuse any mistakes with regards to the details of law-making.

Finally, Happy New Year's Eve (is there such a greeting?) and here's to a fulfilling and blissful 2018 ahead! :)

We Played at Love

"The greatest happiness of life is the conviction that we are loved; loved for ourselves, or rather, loved in spite of ourselves."

-Victor Hugo

The overwhelming emotion Draco Malfoy feels when looking at Hermione Granger is that of annoyance.

He feels annoyed when he runs his eyes over her big, bushy hair, unapologetic in its volume, in its loudness, in the sheer amount of space it takes up.

He feels annoyed at the way she parades around with her stack of important-looking documents, her head held high, her cheeks flushed, her eyes sparkling with passion.

He feels annoyed that she can't seem to switch off her overactive brain or stop her bloody bleeding heart from coming up with new, neglected causes to work for, that she is the only one in the world who has so much compassion and care for the downtrodden, the ignored, the marginalised, from house-elves to werewolves to Death Eaters.

He doesn't need her pity, he thinks. He doesn't need her understanding, her sympathy, the way she tries to coddle him around others who shoot bolts at him through their eyes. He doesn't need her fucking pity.

And he knows it's not fair that he feels this way, that she's only trying to help, but that doesn't stop him from feeling that way anyway. In fact, the more he thinks about it, the angrier he feels at himself for being so irrationally annoyed, and that translates to anger at her, too, because who is she to try and change him? Who is she to think that he's redeemable?

Because he's not.

So Draco just steams in this whole messed up furnace of feelings, allowing them to burn him up. If he tried to sift through the churning tornado inside him, he would probably identify many more emotions than annoyance. Envy, perhaps. Regret. And maybe, just maybe, a tad of gratitude buried beneath a shit ton of bitterness. But annoyance is what he wants to feel, it's what's easy to feel, so he pins this label on it. Annoyance is what thirteen-year-old Draco Malfoy felt towards Hermione Granger, and it's what twenty one-year-old Draco Malfoy feels towards her as well. It's familiar. It's almost comforting to slip back into his old skin.

Equipped with his old skin, of course, is his patented Malfoy scowl. He feels it tugging it down his lips, his brows drawn down, eyes narrowed, and he doesn't attempt to change his expression as Granger passes him in the corridor.

She nods at him. It's a cordial gesture, one he is accustomed to seeing from her as they encounter one another at the Ministry. It's a lot better than the glares Potter and Weasley shoot him whenever they meet; clearly, the boys have yet to get over their petty school rivalry.

Clearly, he hasn't either, because the glares he shoot back on a regular basis are just as venomous. And he supposes he could apologise, that he should apologise, but he's too prideful to do that.

But Granger - despite all the bullying he'd done to her, the snarky comments he'd said, the hurtful names - still acknowledges him with civility. And that's more annoying than anything Potter and Weasel could do to him, so his face twists into a sneer.

She isn't fazed, and walks past at a brisk pace while he meanders back to his dingy office - if it could be called an office - from his toilet break.

Fucking Ministry, he thinks for the umpteenth time as he settles down to do some work. One of the many requirements he has to follow as part of his sentence is to get a Ministry job, which will supposedly 'play an instrumental role in the rehabilitation of the criminal and provide him a suitable platform for the service of society'. What a load of crap. He could serve society a whole lot better by throwing Galleons at the poor, but they'd frozen his family's Gringotts accounts. The pitiful amount he rakes in at this job is nothing compared to the blow to his dignity as he walks through the halls of the Ministry every day, affecting nonchalance as people - both figuratively and literally - spit at his feet. It's nothing compared to the fury and shame he feels at working under Hermione Granger, who's two positions away from the Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, as she shoves do-gooder proposal after do-gooder proposal in his face.

The latest proposal, he's heard, is one aimed for the rehabilitation of Death Eaters. He knows how she interviews the parties directly related to her proposals before finalising their outlines. It's been a week, and she has yet to tell him about her new worthy cause.

Rehabilitation of Death Eaters. He thinks he has heard that phrase enough to last him a lifetime.

There is a knock on his door, and Draco looks up to see Granger. He isn't surprised - she's the only person who bothers to knock. Basic courtesy, it seems, fades in the face of pure hatred when it comes to wizardkind.

"Malfoy," she says curtly. Then, gentler, "May I come in?"

He shrugs. It's not like he could stop her even if he said no.

She steps carefully over the threshold, holding herself like she is in enemy territory - which she, he supposes, could see it that way. He notices how tightly she is gripping the proposal in her hands, and feels a rush of unwelcome anticipation at finding out what exactly it says.

For a moment, she dithers on her feet, looking unsure. He waves imperiously. "Sit down - please," he adds as an afterthought.

"Right." She fumbles with her skirt, smoothing it out nervously before setting the papers on his desk. "I understand this isn't very conventional - it's not in the guidelines, I know, and you probably have other work to do - I hope I'm not disturbing you - but, ah, sod it!"

He tries not to feel amused at her rambling, and composes his face in time for her to meet his eyes, steely determination flashing in hers.

"I have a proposal for the rehabilitation of Death Eaters," she states firmly, "and I want to know what you think about it."

He leans back in his chair, and tries to bite back a scathing remark. "Didn't know you cared so much about Death Eaters," still escapes his mouth anyway, coated in the bitter powder he feels lining his throat.

"I don't." Well, at least she is honest. "Or, at least, I didn't, but I did a lot of research, read a lot of accounts of people in similar circumstances, even spoke to some of them firsthand, and, well… I think someone should rectify the flaws in our justice system. Even when it comes to Death Eaters."

Despite himself, he cannot help but be curious. "What people? I wasn't aware of any publications written by Death Eaters. Or that you are allowed to visit criminals in Azkaban on a whim."

"There aren't, and we aren't," she says. "By people in similar circumstances, I meant Muggles." Here she pauses and looks at him meaningfully, as if she expects him to shudder with repulsion or throw her out just for the mention of them. She continues, "There was a war, too, a few decades ago - two wars, actually - and I was doing some reading of war criminals' accounts, found it intriguing, and started probing further -"

Now that she has picked up steam she is blowing full speed ahead. "And, really, if you think about it, the wizarding world could stand to learn so much from the Muggle world in terms of the justice system. We have deplorable treatment of criminals here. They're still people, you know, even the worst of them, and yet we don't have any statutes or legislation protecting their rights and preventing them from being abused by the courts, the general public, or even the prison guards. The Geneva Convention or even the Universal Declaration of Human Rights - haven't they heard of those before?" She shakes her head and tuts a little. "They're so eager to separate themselves from Muggles that they're being left behind in the dust. Left obsolete, hidebound - and all for what?"

Then she realises who she is speaking to and quickly backtracks. "The point is, Death Eaters have rights too. There are so many complex circumstances surrounding the nature of their involvement with Voldemort's regime and yet there is only one fixed guideline for punishment. As soon as the sentence is determined, the Death Eater is left to rot, no matter how he fares. And that's - that's unfair."

Life isn't fair, Draco wants to say. He of all people should know that. But isn't that what she's trying to fix? Shouldn't he give her a chance, no matter how much of a lost cause this is?

Wordlessly, he leans forward for the proposal. She clasps her hands together and watches as he flips through the parchment. What Granger is working towards is extremely compassionate - and extremely foolhardy. The bias towards Death Eaters - or even just purebloods who had previously expressed anti-Muggle sentiments - is at an all-time high. The parallel between this and past prejudice against Muggles and Muggle-borns is too obvious to be ignored, and he cannot help but question why she is doing this. In her position, he would have thought good riddance and left him to suffer.

How can anyone be so good? He feels a wave of revulsion for Hermione Granger all of a sudden. He has to force down the anger that surges in his body, igniting his heart and causing it to thump painfully in his chest. He wants to yell at her. He wants to grab her by the shoulders and tell her to give up, that he isn't worth it. That none of them are worth it. Instead, he tosses the proposal onto his desk and grinds out, "It needs more research. Until you can make clearer the parallels between the Muggles and the Death Eaters - or at least, the similar circumstances they faced, no one in hell is going to accept it." He sneers. "Least of all the Death Eaters who would rather die in Azkaban than be compared to Mudbloods."

He feels rather than sees the shock on her face at the viciousness in his voice and the insult he hurls at her, spinning across the room like a jagged blade. When he has finally found the courage to look her in the face, she has gathered up her papers, stuffing them messily into her bag, and walked off, white-faced with anger.

He'll give it to Granger - she sure doesn't give up.

Two weeks after her failed attempt to get him to approve her proposal - Merlin knows what she wants his approval for, though he can guess - she stomps into his miserable excuse for an office, not deigning to knock this time.

"Here." She thrusts the parchment at him.

He raises an eyebrow at her.

She visibly swallows her pride. "Malfoy, would you look at my proposal… please?" She bites off the last word like it's the last thing on earth she wants to say; it probably is.

"I suppose," he drawls lazily, drawing satisfaction from the way her face flushes red and her fingers clutch, white-tipped, at her proposal. The hard look she levels at him belies the shaking in her hands as she passes him the papers. She really wants him to approve of it, he realises. And it makes sense; after all, who better to judge a proposal for the good of Death Eaters than a former Death Eater himself?

Again, he flips through the pages nonchalantly. She has done a good job of following his advice - she clearly highlights the similarities between the Muggle war criminals and Death Eaters, illuminating the extenuating circumstances that caused them to commit crimes against their will. She also crafts a lucid argument as to why criminals deserve basic human rights even after they have violated laws and deserve the harshest of penalties.

But the more Draco reads, the more he feels that familiar maelstrom of emotions stir up in him again, banging in his gut like an enormous drum. Because laced in those innocuous, seemingly compassionate words, is something he has never wanted to witness - the underlying emotion of pity. Yes, Hermione Granger feels pity for him - him, the poor little Death Eater who couldn't help it because his family was threatened and would be killed if he didn't do what he was told. The poor Death Eater who wasn't a Death Eater, not really, because although they didn't have to hold him down while he was Marked, he scrubbed at it for hours after the ceremony, crying to himself in the bathroom. The fucking poor Death Eater who didn't know better, who was too weak to stand up and fight for himself, and is too weak to do so even now.

She feels pity for him. Does she understand? Does she understand what it was like, living with the Dark Lord in his house, having his presence seep into every corner of the Manor, taint every sunlight-painted memory he had of his home and family? Does she understand how hard it was to stand there at the top of the Astronomy Tower and level his wand at Dumbledore, not wanting to kill but knowing the consequences of not following through? Does she understand how it was like fighting the last battle, running from the Death Eaters and trying not to harm the Order? Does she know the weight of the guilt that eats at him, how he wishes he could go back in time and redo his decisions, and how he knows he will be paralysed in fear even if he was given a second chance? Does she know?

He tosses the papers onto his table. "This is bullshit."

She stands in indignation. "Malfoy, you didn't even look at it properly! This proposal is for the benefit for you and your family and friends -"

He stands and lunges at Granger. Her cry of surprise and pain is drowned out by the roaring in his ears and the hot throb of his blood.

"I - don't - need - your - fucking - pity," he grits at her. His fingers are digging deep into her shoulders, his teeth bared at her, and it feels magnificent and terrible at the same time to voice what he has been feeling for all too long.

The vortex of what he feels - what does he feel? - is sweltering up his bones, flaming along his skin like an unbearable itch, a red-hot fire consuming him. He spits out his words in a rage, because all he can think about is how she was on the right side, and wasn't she lucky, and how he was on the wrong side - the wrong side all along - and wasn't that fair. And he thinks, sometimes, in his lowest hours, the times he spends recounting his childhood and schooldays in his bed, that maybe it's his fault. His fault that he took what his parents said at face value. His fault that he swallowed up generations of ingrained prejudice unquestioningly, and spat it out like bitter bile for all to see, stinking up Hogwarts with its sour stench. His fault that he can't swallow his goddamn pride and just say the apology that everyone wants to hear but no one wants to accept, because the weight of all the wrong things he has done is his to bear alone, and not theirs.

And because it's his fault, he can't accept her pity. He can't accept anything but the hatred and prejudice he passed out to her in generous doses, the poison she should be falling over herself to inject into his bloodstream. His pure, pure blood. Contaminated, by her hands. That's what he wants. That's what he needs.

He shakes her roughly, unthinkingly. "Do you understand?" She is going to bruise from his grip, he realises. He loosens his fingers too late.

They stare at one another for a long moment. Her eyes glint with unshed tears, and he thinks she is going to cry, but instead she gathers all of her righteous fury and begins to lay it on him.

"Look here, Malfoy, if you think I'm showing you pity then you can go shove it where daylight doesn't shine. You're an asshole and an utter prat, and I do not feel anything remotely positive for you. I'm not doing this for you, I'm doing this for everyone who deserves it!" She takes a deep breath, looks deeply into his eyes. The question swims in her eyes, or maybe he's just projecting his own thoughts onto her: Do I deserve it? Does big, bad Draco Malfoy deserve it? Then he blinks and it's gone as quickly as his anger has burnt itself out, smouldering like the ashes of a short-lived phoenix.

"I'm going to go ahead with my proposal, and fight for it tooth and nail, but you can rest assured that it's not because of you. Or whatever misplaced pity you think I feel for you." She lifts her chin, turns sharply on her heel, and stalks off.

He doesn't see Granger for days after that. He has been consciously looking for her, in the corridors of the Ministry, in the employee canteen, in the rickety lifts. He even sends her an interdepartmental memo and stalks down two hours later when he has failed to obtain a reply to find that she has taken a holiday.

A holiday. It's not like her to take a fucking holiday after working on a proposal without said proposal being pushed through. He has heard stories of how hard she fights for new legislation for house-elves, for endangered magical creatures, for Squibs. She pulls all-nighters in the office, then goes home to continue working. She tromps around the Ministry to talk to various parties. She wrangles the contact details of uncontactable people out of unassuming secretaries and sweeps out to bathe them in her righteous glory.

When he probes deeper, he can still feel the anger seething within him. But more than that, he feels strangely disappointed. Yes, he hadn't wanted Granger's pity. Yes, he didn't particularly like her proposal. But it feels somehow wrong that he caused her to give up on her proposal, like he has stomped on and broken an essential part of her spirit.

He returns to his office, but no matter how he tries, he is stuck in a rut. He can't help but feel glum, and the frustrating thing is, he can't logically pinpoint why. He should feel glad that he managed to piss Granger off - annoying people is one of his greatest skills, after all. He should feel accomplished that he managed to talk her off her high horse. But it all feels hollow inside. He wants to talk to Granger, tell her to ignore him and just go on her merry way and do-good crusade.

To be very frank, he just wants to tell himself to fuck off, and Hermione Granger is the best candidate to do so for him.

By the time he's finished work and returned to the Manor, he's talked himself into a mess.

Narcissa Malfoy is an intelligent woman, and though he tries to conceal his bad mood from her, she sees through his facade in no time.

She finishes her meal and pats her mouth delicately with a napkin, letting a house-elf clear her plate. Then she asks bluntly, "What's wrong, Draco?"

He swallows. "Nothing, Mother."

She gazes at him with calm eyes. "You're sulking."

Draco gapes, affronted. "I am not." Then he sulks. "Alright, maybe I am." He puts down his cutlery and asks carefully, "Mother, what do you think of our justice system?"

Narcissa takes a moment to consider. "It is… not the best it could be," she admits, "but I might be biased." Unspoken goes the fact that Lucius is currently serving his life sentence in Azkaban.

"Do you… do you think it's fair that Death Eaters all get thrown into Azkaban without proper trials?" Death Eaters like me. Like us. Because you didn't need a Mark to be condemned as one of Voldemort's circle.

"I can see why people think it will be… for the betterment of society, but I hardly think it is fair," Narcissa says. She looks haunted when she raises her eyes to meet Draco's, and for a fleeting moment he feels the urge to burrow into her arms, again little Draco in her arms, safe in the knowledge that whatever happened, his mother would be here to protect him.

He knows better now, of course. The world isn't fair. It isn't black and white. Not all of the Order is good and not all of the Death Eaters are bad. His mother can't protect him forever. In fact, one day will come when he will have to protect Narcissa. Maybe that day is already here.

On that thought, he reaches forward to clasp his mother's hand. His family has never been one for physical affection, and he knows his mother can feel the love he sends through the squeeze of his fingers.

"Draco…" Narcissa says. He looks up and she smiles wanly at him. "You know family is most important, right?

"And by that I don't mean upkeeping the Malfoy line, or the Black name. I mean protecting your family members and doing everything in your power to make them happy. Blood…" She chokes on the word. "Blood doesn't matter to me, not anymore. Family first."

Draco can't help think of Aunt Andromeda. He remembers walking in on his mother in the library when he was young, wide-eyed with surprise as she sat on the floor and flipped through photo albums, crying softly as she traced circles over the smiling faces of her sisters.

Then he can't help but think of Granger, and he wonders why that is.

No matter what his mother said. No matter what he worked out in his head. The third time Granger walks into his office holding that familiar file, he snaps.

"Granger, don't you understand?" he yells. "I don't deserve this. I'm not one of your heroic Gryffindor types! I'm a school bully. I'm a fucking Death Eater. That's all I'll ever be. So stop feeling -"

Granger slams the file down on his table and he jumps against his will. She smiles sardonically and says, "I think I figured you out, Malfoy."

He clenches his fists. "Oh? Do tell."

She walks up to him and stares him solidly in the eyes. "I think you feel sorry that you were on the wrong side of the war. I think you're over your blood prejudice issues, but not your bratty ways, and so despite the fact that you don't hate me for being a Mudblood anymore," he has to hold back a wince at the word, "you still feel harbour most if not all of the hard feelings from Hogwarts. And most of all, you feel resentful that I came out on the winning side, the one that tore your life apart."

"Wow. Give the woman a prize and degree in psychology," Draco drawls.

If Granger's surprised at the Muggle reference, she doesn't show it. In fact, she seems even more determined to chew him out. "Why do you have to be such an arse? Would it hurt you to say something nice, or even neutral?"

"What did you expect?" Draco folds his arms.

"Hmm… let's see, maybe an apology would be a good place to start."

He glares at her. "I'm. Sorry. Are you happy now? Are you happy you got the evil Death Eater to apolo-"

Granger marches forward and slaps him soundly across the face.

"Stop thinking the whole world revolves around you, Malfoy! I've done bad things. You've done bad things, and okay, maybe they've been objectively worse than what I've done." She breathes deeply through her nose. "But get this through your thick skull - the war messed us all up. That doesn't mean you have the right to drown in self-pity and lash out at the rest of us!

"You - were - a - Death - Eater," she enunciates clearly. "So what? I've gotten over it, because you were an unwilling victim of Voldemort, like the rest of us. I'm trying to make things better because those who haven't are treating you like shit! Stop trying to hinder me because you think you deserve the punishment; that's the easy way out, you coward! Have the courage to be a better person!"

Silence rings out. Draco's cheek stings. Granger breathes in and out heavily. He tries to think of what to say, but the options his mind comes up with are rather lacking.

You're right. I'm an asshole. Leave me the fuck alone.

"I don't know what I fucking want, or feel, or think," he finally admits on an exhale.

That's quite possibly the truest thing he's said in years. He doesn't know. He feels lost - and why shouldn't he? The war changed everything. The world that he grew up in, safe in the knowledge that he was one of the superior, the privileged, has been destroyed. He's been scrabbling to come to terms with the fact that he was on the wrong side of the war and that he'd have to make up for all the stupid shit that he did, and most of all, the fact that he actually feels sorry for all of the aforementioned stupid shit. It was easier to discard the guilt and regret and cling on to the self-pity and self-hatred. Maybe if he hated himself he could justify continuing to be a bad person.

Then Hermione Granger had to come into his life and show him all the goodness he'd been missing out.

"Don't we all," Granger says. She looks at him with sympathy, and this time, he doesn't cringe. "Malfoy, trust me, nobody here knows what they're doing."

"You do," Draco points out through the lump in his throat.

She smiles and shakes her head. "No, I don't. I'm good at bossing people around, but it turns out I'm not good at bossing myself around."

"How about you boss me around then," Draco snarks, but she seems to take him seriously.

"Malfoy… I know you're a good person." She taps the area over her heart. "In there. Beneath the occasional meanness, the snarkiness, and the overwhelming survival instinct."

She closes her eyes and takes a deep breath. "What I really hope for you… is to become who you want to be. And that's a good person. I just know it is."

Their spat doesn't seem to have changed much. She still nods politely at him in the corridor. Sometimes she smiles faintly at him and says, "Malfoy." Those times, he'll say, "Granger," back in acknowledgment.

He passes by a Ministry employee in her department - Susan Bones, the Hufflepuff with the famous aunt? - and overhears her say, "Miss Granger must be so disappointed… But I'm honestly not surprised it didn't go through, considering…" Bones flicks a surreptitious glance at him as he walks past and he knows immediately what she is talking about.

He makes his way to Granger's office and pokes his head in. She's sitting in front of her desk, her bushy head surrounded by a swirl of fluttering memos, writing something at the speed of light.

He almost forgets to knock, and does so at the last second, reminded of her courtesy. "Granger?"

"Oh, Malfoy." She doesn't look happy to see him. A flush suffuses her neck and cheeks, and a furrow has worked its way into her brow. "What are you doing here?"

He edges in and she says, "Come in and take a seat."

He does, then steeples his hands together on her table. "Granger… I heard it fell through."

She frowns. "What fell through?"

Her ploy doesn't fool Draco, though - she's not Slytherin enough - and he says, deliberately, "The proposal you wrote on the Death Eaters."

Her face falls and she sighs. "Yeah, Malfoy," she mutters, "I don't really feel like talking about it." Then just as suddenly, she looks up, her eyes bright with anger and a red spot flaming her cheeks. "Shouldn't you be happy, anyway? Now you won't get my pity."

He refuses to let her intimidate him and gazes back intensely. "Sure," he agrees, "but I decided your pity wasn't so bad after all."

She lets her head slump onto her desk. "It's fine. It's not like I'm not used to it."

Draco raises a sceptical eyebrow. Granger's success rate is in actual fact pretty high - sure, the plan with the house-elves fell through, but that was only because the creatures in question didn't want the help. Her new legislation helping werewolves and Squibs had been very well-received.

"Look who's wallowing in self-pity now," he scoffs. "They might have rejected it once, but that's only in its current form. If you work on it harder, make arguments they can't deny, then they'll have no choice but to pass it. And…" He tries to shrug nonchalantly. "I guess I could help. I interned for a while as a Wizengamot Assistant when I was in fifth year, and I was pretty good at it. And the proposal does benefit me in the long run."

She lifts her head from her table at his words. "Really?" she squeaks. Then, clearing her throat, she fumbles, "It's okay, Malfoy, if you don't want to. You don't have to be obligated…"

"Granger. Stop. I'll help."

By this time she is beaming at him so hard he thinks the sun could probably go into retirement for a year.

Since Draco doesn't actually have that much work to do in this godforsaken job, he spends a lot of his time working on the proposal with Granger.

Of course, he has his doubts. He's still amazed that Granger of all people would try and help the Death Eaters, having suffered firsthand their prejudice and cruelty, but in the end, isn't it just like her?

As for him - well, if it's not like him, all he can say it's that he's changed after the war. It feels good to be working on something that could make a difference for once, and the proposal strikes a nice balance between his Malfoy sensibilities to protect his own self-interests and his growing desire to help others.

Right now he's sitting in the Ministry canteen eating lunch as he pores over the documents she recently acquired. They are both resolutely ignoring the stares of their colleagues around them as they chew on their food and flip pages in silence.

Granger lifts her head. "Malfoy, look at this passage." She traces the lines to direct his attention. "If you use this act as precedence we can spin it in such a way that we can allow criminals suffering severe medical conditions to receive aid of regulated standard."

Draco frowns and says, "That's a possibility. But don't you think that the Judiciary Act of 1783 directly contradicts this law?" He rummages through the stack of parchment and pulls a book out. "Here, look at this."

Granger nibbles at her lip. "Damn, you're right. Isn't there a way around it?"

"Well," Draco works it through in his mind. "Perhaps, if you think about it this way…" He spends the next half hour outlining his plan to Granger. It would have been quicker but for Granger's incessant questions and inextinguishable need to look things up for confirmation. By the time she's sure that his suggestion is a viable route, he feels like his brain has been scrambled.

Granger's eyes are sparkling when she looks at him. "Malfoy, you're really smart!"

"Why do you sound so surprised?" he grouses. "After all, I fixed the Vanishing Cabinet-" and let the Death Eaters into Hogwarts. He stops talking for a moment but she's still looking at him with something akin to affection.

"You're right, that couldn't have been easy to do," she says, looking at him meaningfully.

Draco smirks at her, hoping to convey his gratitude with his eyes. "And I'll have you know I had good grades!"

She sniffs and rolls her eyes. "I don't want to brag, but I think the person with the better academic standing is clear in this situation."

"Hint: it's not you."

Granger throws back her head and laughs.

It feels good to make her laugh, and he thinks of more ways to make her smile again before realising what he is doing and chastising himself.

Granger is a workaholic.

For the past few weeks, he's been staying with her past office hours. Sometimes, he accompanies her to various libraries, searching for texts that will support their proposal; he's taken a few tomes from the Manor's library - he doesn't quite think they're at the stage where he can invite her to the Manor yet - and she's filled with enthusiasm every time he flourishes another book from his bag. Most of the time, they huddle in her office, her working feverishly at her desk, him usually lounging on her chair or sprawled across the sofa.

This is the first time she's brought her work back to her flat, and him along with it.

He sits on her couch and watches as she bustles around her kitchen. Her walls are painted a warm cream colour. Bookshelves line the room; he spots a few well-known Muggle titles like that Shakespeare guy and Jane Austen. The cushions are stuffed to plumpness; he curls his toes into the rug. He thinks he could feel at home here, more than he could at the Manor.

"Tea?" Granger asks. He nods.

They sip at their cups in companionable silence. She curls up on an armchair with her feet tucked beneath her, her hair swept up into a bun.

"I hope you don't feel obliged to do this," she begins again, and he mock sighs exasperatedly, shooting her a look that quells her concerns.

"I don't."

They sit in the living room and peruse their documents. They work in easy tandem: he passes her a book as she mutters and casts about for it; she scribbles down what he says as he muses aloud. This is what they could have been like at Hogwarts if they hadn't been caught up in issues of blood status and House rivalries. But then Draco thinks otherwise; he'd been too much of a spoilt brat and her too much of a bossy know-it-all to get along well.

After a couple hours, Draco's starting to get pretty tired; keeping up with Granger takes a lot out of a person. Besides, he's out of practice, given that he's been mooching around his own job for a long while. Granger seems to sense when the words start swimming before his eyes and she says, "Dinner?"

He looks up in surprise. Dinner sounds… intimate. Friendly, at the very least.

"Do you invite everyone you know to dinner, or am I just that privileged?" He covers his confusion with his usual snark.

"Just you." She smiles.

Granger brings him to a diner near her place that serves good Japanese curry. The plates are enormous - fluffy scrambled eggs sprawled over mounds of soft white rice with thick salty curry, hot steam wafting above in long tendrils.

They chat for hours and conversation isn't restricted to the proposal they've been working on; in fact, they talk about a myriad of topics other than that. She brings up books that she's read and discusses her insights; he adds on to her ideas or plays devil's advocate. He talks about a potion he's been developing at home - something he thinks could potentially help a person resist the Imperius curse - and she just about explodes with enthusiasm and then falls over herself giving him suggestions.

Sometimes the subject of conversation is casual: what their favourite cuisine is, restaurant recommendations, travel plans. Sometimes he thinks he's sharing with her more than any of his friends: he talks about what he wants to do with his career; she shares her life goals with him.

All these have only caused Draco's confusion to mount steadily. What exactly were Hermione's intentions when she asked him out to dinner? Is this a friendly thing? Or is it a suggestion of something more?

That undefinable something more with Hermione Granger. He thinks his fourteen-year-old self would rather have been Marked thrice over than to ever go near Hermione Granger. Then he thinks he should stop comparing what he feels now to what his younger self would have felt. But that's the crux of the issue, isn't it? The fact is that the Draco Malfoy of Hogwarts cannot be separated from the Draco Malfoy who was a Death Eater, nor can he be separated from the Draco Malfoy that stands now in his eternally shrinking skin and wishes away everything he's ever been.

Because it's all him. He can't just sift through his memories and experiences and everything that has made him Draco Malfoy and pick and choose what he wants. Oh, the Manor - keep Mother's rare smiles, Father's annual approval; throw the lectures, the isolation away; sure, just fling the Dark Lord over your shoulder. Hogwarts - keep Quidditch; crush Potter; erase his bullying and cruelty.

The war - why not just scrap the whole fucking thing?

Life doesn't work that way. If he is to ease back into himself, if he is ever to allow himself to think about Granger without feeling the guilt gnaw at him, followed by the familiar rise of anger - there is an important thing he has to do.

Draco has been thinking about doing this for a long while. He's tried on many occasions, but always copped out with an excuse: Granger's just gotten a new idea. She doesn't seem to be in a good mood. Wouldn't want to put off her food. One time, Crookshanks jumped onto his lap as he was opening his mouth to speak, and Draco took that as a sign to shut up and stroke the cat.

But this seems like a good time. He and Granger are strolling down the street after a satisfying dinner. The street seems deserted; the night is warm but a cool breeze is blowing; and the moonlight is shining softly down on Hermione's face, bathing her in silvery light.

He screws up all his courage and says, "Granger?"

"Hmm?" she hums.

"I…" He stops walking and turns to face her. She looks bemused.

"You know I'm sorry, right?" He blurts. "I'm sorry I was so cruel to you in school. You weren't inferior because of your blood. You never were. I'm sorry for all the taunts, the hexes, the way I tried to hurt you."

He takes a deep breath. She is watching him now, intently, quietly, waiting for him to continue. The moment is his. It has always been his, he would like to think, his moment of self-reflection and remorse, the first step towards redemption. If someone had crafted a jigsaw puzzle for his life, this moment would be the centrepiece, the piece that slid in and caused somewhere in your head to go click, like a key turning in the lock, the piece that caused all the others to fall into place and the picture to unfurl in your head.

"I'm sorry for being a bully. But more than that, I'm sorry for being a coward. I'm sorry for letting the Death Eaters into Hogwarts. I'm sorry for identifying you at the Manor. I'm sorry for not doing anything while Aunt Bella tortured you. I'm sorry for so many wrong things I've done, I can't even count.

"I know there are some things an apology can't solve. I'm aware that the things I've done count among those. So, I'm not asking for your forgiveness, but just for you to accept my apology."

This is followed by the most awkward silence Draco's ever been in his life. He stays still, breathing out his regrets. Granger moves first, throwing her arms around him. He's alarmed to find his clothes growing slightly damp beneath her face. "Oh, Draco," she says, "I forgive you." She steps back, sniffling softly. "Thank you for your apology."

He can't help the smile that breaks across his features. He feels it like a wave cresting the shore.

"And, Draco…" She bows her head shyly. "Please call me Hermione."

For a moment they stand there, smiling breathlessly at each other. Then the world rushes back on a heartbeat and Draco is suddenly aware of how close she's standing to him. Her skin is soft and warm and dappled by the leaves overhead. Her long hair stirs in the wind that rustles through the trees. She smells like fruity shampoo and vanilla perfume.

He lowers his head and watches the lamplight glint off her eyes. He traces the rim of her lips with his vision, imagining how soft they would feel.

Then a cricket chirps, she blinks, he loses his courage in one fell swoop and backs away.

He fools himself into imagining the disappointment in her eyes.

Months and months of work and preparation have led up to this moment. This is the final stage - Hermione is currently in the room Draco waits outside, pitching her proposal to the Wizengamot, hoping against hope that they will pass it.

Draco's heart is thumping loudly in his ears. He thinks he should probably prepare himself for the worst - the likely worst - but his blood is singing a symphony of What if? What if? in his chest and veins.

This proposal means a lot to him. It promises fairer trials for convicted criminals, better conditions in Azkaban, more Ministry regulation to prevent the abuse of prisoners, medical care for prisoners who need it, and a more comprehensive rehabilitation programme for released criminals. He and Hermione have long since expanded the scope of the proposal past that of Death Eaters, yet he can't help but think of it in terms of what it means for his family, and his friends, and his friends' families.

Greg's father was a cruel Death Eater, but Draco remembers a time when he squatted and gave six-year-old Draco a big shiny lollipop in the shape of a Snitch and ruffled his blond hair. He doesn't deserve to be lying in Azkaban while the latest strain of dragon pox consumes him, shivering with cold and the rampant itch coursing through his skin.

Mr Parkinson wasn't a Death Eater, but he's serving out a sentence in Azkaban anyway because of his 'pureblood affiliations' - another clear sign of Ministry corruption. What kind of reason is that? Pansy spent days on end crying after she knew of his sentence, blaming herself for voicing out her suggestion to hand Potter to the Dark Lord during the final battle. They hate me, she'd cried, but they can't put me in jail, so they did it to Father instead.

Lucius Malfoy was given life sentence in Azkaban, no questions asked. Narcissa was pardoned for her lie to Voldemort that saved Harry Potter's life, while Draco served a short stint in Azkaban and then was let out on parole with an unending list of stipulations to follow.

He thinks Azkaban might have broken something in his spirit. Sitting there in his dingy cell and looking around at the bare walls, he bore the weight of what he had done like nothing he had felt before. Under the Dark Lord's rule, he could still justify he was being forced against his will, and try and make up for it with little transgressions here and there: slipping more food to the prisoners in the cellar, commanding the house-elves to heal them, not identifying Potter and his gang.

But in Azkaban, the only way he could see himself was a criminal. All the good acts he had done were a drop in the ocean, a spot of light futilely struggling against the writhing shadows of his background and heritage. He was still here, in Azkaban, where - childish and simplistic as the notion might seem - all the evil, bad, immoral things in the world were laid to rest.

And now he was one of those things. Nothing mattered but the fact that he was a Death Eater.

Will this proposal change all of that? No. But it is a good first step towards rectifying the situation, and he feels pride swell in his veins that he has done this, something good, together with Hermione Granger.

And so he waits outside the room. He paces a little, then catches himself. He presses his ear to the ornate wooden door for a second, but can't hear anything. He tries to distract himself with other thoughts, then gives up and paces again.

If anyone can do this, it's Hermione Granger. But if she can't…

Draco thinks he has worn out even his expensive shoes with his pacing. The carpet, thick and lush beneath his feet, is starting to look a little ratty and he is peering down at it when the door flings open.

He quickly slides into the shadows while the Wizengamot files out in their plum-coloured robes. He scans the crowd, watching for a bushy head.

Then Hermione comes out and she is radiant and smiling from ear to ear. Draco's heart leaps painfully and the What if? What if? mantra that thrums in his body is replaced by a What now? What now? that promises a thousand possibilities brimming with hope.

He moves towards Hermione and she turns.

"We did it, Draco, we did it!" she squeals excitedly. Hermione's cheeks are rosy and her hair is unruly, and Draco has never seen her more beautiful than she is in this moment.

He kisses her then, and he can feel her smile beneath his lips.

Draco is there again, standing in the Manor's drawing room while Bellatrix trains her wand on Hermione and screams, "Crucio!"

It is worse than his nightmares. It is worse because this is real. The way Hermione's body lifts from the ground as she tries to fight off the pain - the strangled screams that force their way out of her throat - the tangy smell of blood and fear in the air - they are all real.

He finds his younger self huddled in the corner, shaking but unable to tear his eyes from the scene before him. His hand is uselessly clutching his wand and his eyes are scrunched up, but open. He doesn't want to see this, but he needs to. Because there is something raw and human and unbearably compelling about watching the pain another person can go through.

Draco can't stand this. He wants to blind himself. He wants to die. He takes his younger self by his skinny shoulders and shakes him to no avail.

"Do something!" He screams. "Do something, you fucking idiot!"

He screams. He flings expletives at himself, at his father, at Bellatrix. He takes up countless antiques and hurls them across the room, deriving satisfaction from the sound of shattering crystal and the broken pieces strewn on the floor. He does everything he can think of to vent the burning emotions inside him, yet he can't do the one thing that actually matters.

With a sob, he collapses onto the ground. He thinks in his heart of hearts that maybe he should go over to Hermione and stare down into her eyes. Witness her immense strength, the willpower he could never have, the force of her love and compassion and everything that makes her good.

But he can't. It's too hard. He stays, limp, next to his prone self, knowing all too well how this plays out, wishing for the end.

After what seems like an eternity, Potter and Weasley burst into the room, and then Draco is spinning up, up through the silvery water, gasping for air.

He emerges with a gasp from the Pensieve, immediately scrambling away from the silver bowl lying innocuously in Hermione's closet.

Hermione stands there, tears in her eyes, her hands to her mouth.

"Draco. Oh, Draco," she says and hurries forward, wrapping a blanket around him and leading him to her bed. He is shaking violently, tremors running the course of his body and causing him to shudder against his will. The bedspread is wet beneath his face and he wonders why for a moment before feeling the hot sting of tears in his eyes, running down his cheeks. Hermione is murmuring to him, gentle and constant like a bubbling stream; he reaches out towards her voice and her face and clings on to them like a lifeline.

"I'm sorry," she says, and he shakes his head violently.

"No, I really am. I… keep that memory in my Pensieve as a reminder of what I had to go through. Why I fought the war. I don't revisit it - I can't - but it's just there. When I asked you to fetch my clothes, I forgot. I didn't mean to…"

He shakes his head again, then lifts a trembling hand to wipe at her tears.

When he speaks, his voice is hoarse and thick with unshed tears. "I'm sorry." Then, he repeats, "I'm sorry."

The words come like a torrent, unleashed with the set of tears that come streaming down his face. He's sorry. Sorry that she had to go through that. Sorry that he didn't do anything. Sorry that he couldn't be a better person.

But he will be, now. He feels the weight of his remorse, swelling against him like a balloon, pushing him gently into the air, swooping in gentle circles and reliving the magic of flight.

"I'm sorry," he says, over and over again.

"Shhh. It's okay."

And it is. It really is.

There are some days when the self-hatred wells up again. Those are the bad days. Those are the days he walks down the hallways of the Manor and hears his ancestors hiss blood traitor and Mudblood lover at him. Those are the days he writes and rewrites his letter to Lucius at Azkaban, trying and failing to explain how he has eroded centuries of blood purity in just one act and how he is proud, yes, proud of that. Those are the days he goes out onto the streets to meet the sneering faces of people who think they know what the war was like for him, people who cowered in their hidey-holes during the war and then crawled out later to condemn him for doing the same.

Today is not such a day. Today is the day Draco is executing quite possibly the worst idea he has ever had - allowing Hermione to bully him into going to the Burrow.

He paces for a good half hour in the Manor before Flooing to her flat an hour ahead of time. She wanders out of her room, still dressed in her pajamas, looking sleepy and all too adorable.

"Draco? You're early!" She laughs.

He steps out of her fireplace and brushes down his clothes stiffly. "Malfoys are nothing if not punctual."

He has opted for a white t-shirt and Muggle jeans today because not only does he look good in them, they are immensely comfortable and most importantly, will hopefully serve as a physical reminder that he has gotten over his Muggle prejudice. Hermione eyes him appreciatively for a moment and he chuckles.

"Eyes up here," he says and she blushes.

"Ummm… Coffee?" she squeaks and escapes into the kitchen in her slippered feet.

She putters around her kitchen and he settles down on her couch to lazily read one of the many books she has lying on the coffee table. By the time she is ready to leave the house, he is seven chapters into the book and deeply engrossed.

"Can I borrow this book?" He asks.

"Remains of the Day? Sure!" She is resplendent in a fitting lavender dress that shimmers when the light hits it, her hair twisted into a messy braid.

He reaches for her hand as they step into the Floo and she squeezes it reassuringly. "Don't be nervous," she murmurs, though he can detect a hint of apprehension in her voice. "They'll like you."

He chokes back a sardonic laugh at her last comment and then they are spinning through the fire and spat out in a small kitchen where Molly Weasley is running around banging pots and pans and the girl Weasley - Ginny, he remembers Hermione telling him - is sitting on a chair swinging her legs and peeling potatoes with her wand.

Ginny notices them first. "Hermione!" she says, hurrying over to hug Hermione. Her eyes flicker to Draco and she leans back appraisingly while he tries not to squirm.

"Malfoy." Ginny extends her hand. Draco shakes it.

Molly Weasley is next, scurrying up while wiping her hands on her apron and engulfing Hermione in a bone-crushing hug. "Hermione, dear!" Then she does the same up-and-down routine that Ginny did moments earlier and her eyes narrow.

"Who is it you have here, Hermione?" she asks rather coolly.

"Molly, I'm sure you've seen Draco before," Hermione says boldly. "Draco, this is Molly Weasley."

He nods and plasters a polite smile on his face. "Molly, it's a pleasure."

Molly takes a deep breath and closes her eyes. When she opens them again, they are shuttered with pain. Jerkily, she nods at him. "Hello, Draco. It's nice to meet you."

Their hands meet then, and Draco thinks of the twin without the ear, of the twin who isn't here, and he silently thanks whoever is listening that the Weasleys are much more forgiving than his family could ever be in a million years. Molly Weasley hasn't accepted him, but she will, she will, and they are off to a start as good as any.

Then Draco is whisked off to meet a whole other bunch of Weasleys whose names he still can't recall despite Hermione's repeated reminders. He sees how Hermione beams when she is at the Burrow and makes a mental note to try harder to remember.

Draco's highlight of the day is most definitely when Potter and Weasel's eyes fall on him after appearing in a flurry and greeting Hermione.

"Malfoy?" Potter sputters first.

Weasley looks like he is turning purple. The veins in his neck are bulging deeply and the rest of his body looks pastier than usual as the blood rushes to his face.

"High blood pressure, Weasley?" Draco says and is rewarded with a smack on his arm by Hermione.

She turns to her friends with a falsely cheery smile. "Harry, Ron… meet Draco."

"Draco?" It is Weasley's turn to sputter.

Draco wisely stays quiet, and Hermione's fingernails dig deep into his skin as she lifts her head and says firmly, "Yes, Draco. We're dating."

"What the fuck," Weasley says. Then, shaking his head, "Bloody hell."

Potter is quiet for a moment then says, "I trust you, Hermione. If you think Malfoy is a person worth getting to know now, and you're willing to look past his numerous faults to enter a relationship with him - that's your choice, and I'll support you."

Numerous faults? What a git. Draco struggles to stay quiet and not launch into a detailed exposition of the many more faults Harry Potter, the Boy Who Thinks He's So Good, possesses.

Hermione's relief is palpable in her brimming eyes. "Thanks, Harry."

Weasley looks like he has a lot more to say, but eventually settles for, "Malfoy's a git and a prat, but you're the smartest person I know, Hermione. If anyone can handle him, it's you. Just promise you'll Floo me when he needs a sound beating." He glares at Draco threateningly. "And I won't hesitate to use magic."

"I'm trembling in my boots, Weasley," Draco drawls. He anticipates a pinch from Hermione, but she is striding forward and flinging herself into her friends' arms, and alright, maybe he understands why the three are the heroes of the wizarding world. Friendship, love, and dancing off into the sunset conquers everything, after all.

A Quidditch match, a fattening meal and way too many death threats later, Draco is lowering himself onto Hermione's stuffed couch, groaning and patting his stomach.

"That was a bad idea." He means gorging himself on Molly Weasley's delicious food, but Hermione seems to interpret it differently.

"Thank you for going and making an effort, Draco." She sinks into his arms and he wraps them around her. She rises to plant a kiss on his nose. "I really appreciate it, and I hope they didn't treat you too badly," she says and worries at her lip.

He grins at her. "It's worth it. You're worth it."

Draco has learned a lot about Hermione Granger in the time he spent with her.

He knows the way she curls up with a book with her feet under a blanket, head on a cushion, and a mug of hot chocolate by her side.

He knows how she mumbles to herself as she writes, tilts her head to one side when she's thinking, and how she squawks and lunges for a piece of paper when an idea comes to her.

He knows how her legs crack when she stretches in her sleep, how she curls up to him on her side, seeking that elusive bit of warmth, how she cries herself awake from the nightmares that still plague her, five years down the road.

He knows who features in her nightmares the most. And where. He knows because they feature in his nightmares as well. And he knows how strong she is, how much of that Gryffindor bravery she has, when she agrees to accompany him to the Manor and meet Narcissa.

He knows how caring she is, how much love she can hold in her heart, how much forgiveness she has in her - for him, for his family, for anyone who's ever done her wrong. But he supposes he knew that from the start.

"What are you thinking?" Hermione whispers.

He considers. He is not so much thinking than feeling. All thought in the world is thrown aside when he is with her, and though logical creature that she is, he knows it is the same for her. It is the only explanation for how they could have ended up together, Draco Malfoy and Hermione Granger, starting at opposite ends of the universe and feeling their way to each other in the dark.

What is he feeling?

He feels joyful when she looks at him with that expression of half-exasperation, half-fondness after he cracks a joke about Potter and Weasel; when she flings her arms around him after a hard day at work; when he snuggles up to her while she is reading and she looks down at him, her brown eyes dancing with laughter.

He feels warmth as he watches her laze on the couch, the sunlight painting her curls a deep brown, her lashes casting shadows on her cheeks.

He feels content as she riffles through the papers on her desk, chewing on the top of her quill, scribbling furiously with ink-stained fingers. He feels proud that she is the only one in the world who could feel so much compassion and care for the downtrodden, the ignored, the marginalised - and happy that, miraculously, she still has enough of her heart left for him.

The overwhelming emotion Draco Malfoy feels when looking at Hermione Granger, as she turns to smile at him -

It could be love, he thinks. It could be love.