Author's note: Mysteriously reappearing with a Dramione multi-chaptered story. :) Probably 10 years late to this fandom, but I wanted to explore Draco Malfoy's post-war journey towards redemption in a way that wasn't too black-hole depressing or too easily resolved and builds momentum with each chapter. I wanted to create a compelling reality of a 17-year old adolescent who was objectively not-nice, but also never truly evil, and his struggles in inching along a path he's never walked.

This story contains references to Hermione's torture by Bellatrix at Malfoy Manor; the scenes were heavily influenced by the movie and book, so I personally think it's less than or around that same level. But reader's discretion advised, just in case.

Please enjoy!

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x-x-x-x

He heard her gasp before he saw her.

Granted, considering the pulsing throb that would no doubt bloom into a very purple swollen eye tomorrow, it was understandable for his eyesight to be a bit impaired.

He thudded his head against the bookshelf, instantly regretting it as sharp pain spiked through his skull. Draco let out a watery cough, speckles of blood landing on his dirtied robes, and summoned enough concentration for his eyes to focus on the fuzzy image of Hermione Granger.

Oh great, exactly who he did not need. What was she here for? To smirk at him as he finally got what was coming for him? To relish in her victory as the boy who mercilessly harassed her for years was now rightfully, and quite literally, bloody and broken?

Or perhaps Granger, being the epitome of all things saintly and just and righteous, wasn't here out of malice and was simply concerned about the wellbeing of her books. Yes, he knew his blood was splattered all over the spines of her precious tomes and seeping in the woodgrain of this dusty floor, but he was rather pre-occupied with trying to stay conscious to do much about it.

Granger opened her mouth to say something, but then promptly shut it. As if rooted to the spot, Granger stayed frozen a few meters beside him, though he noted that her fists appeared to be trembling by her sides. What, was she struggling to stop her fists from pummeling him too? Wouldn't have been the first time.

In no mood to continue dancing around this silence game they were playing, Draco grit out though bared teeth, "Here to laugh at the slimy little cockroach of a Death Eater? Go ahead, have at it. Or is this about the books," he vaguely gestured at the bookshelf behind him, "and the atrocity that I've committed by staining them with my blood."

Something within Granger activated, and she straightened up as her eyes narrowed. With a frustrated huff and a few quick and angry footsteps, she was towering over his slumped form.

Draco cracked a sordid smile, though he winced at the way it stretched his split lips.

"Oh? Come for a closer view—"

"Shut up Malfoy," Granger clipped. In one fluid motion, she brandished her wand point-blank in his face.

Panic seized him, the smile dropping from his face. He supposed he hadn't thought of this possibility, though in hindsight it was foolish of him not to consider it. Hell, Potter had tried to kill him before, it wasn't so farfetched that Granger wanted to get in on the action too.

"Episkey," Granger pronounced perfectly.

A tingling heat flowed through his nose, abruptly followed by a numbing coldness. There was an audible crack as his broken nose re-aligned itself.

Before he could blink, Granger had lowered herself to the floor beside him— careless to how his blood smeared sticky splotches on her robes— and carefully held his wrist. Her thumb caressed the skin over his pulse point and he nearly shivered at the contrast between her warmth and his coldness.

Granger shook her head as her fingers trailed the length of his mangled wrist, a look of horror openly painted on her face. She exhaled in frustration. "Your wrist shouldn't even be able to bend this way…why would people continue to hurt other human beings like this? Have we learned nothing from the war?"

Draco let out a harsh laugh. "It's not that surprising, Granger. I'm sure you're able to put all the pieces together. It's the first week of school, the first time that Draco Malfoy is out in the open and unprotected. There are people who've lost their families and suffered permanent trauma because of my…kind, people who immediately associate the Malfoy name with dark arts and murder, and what do you know— I got off without a single day in Azkaban. This result is all very logical, you see."

Granger frowned, her forehead creasing, but she said nothing to refute him. Instead, she muttered a curt Ferula.

Draco hissed under his breath as his wrist shifted back into place in agonizing seconds, the pain blinding his vision white. When he blinked away the kaleidoscope of stars in his eyes, Draco had to muster all his strength to not pass out immediately. He registered that Granger was still there, but she was no longer touching him and had moved half a meter back.

"Tergeo," she incanted, and with a swish of her wand, vanished the blood from his robes and library books like sunlight evaporating rain water. "I suspect that you have a few broken ribs that Madam Pomfrey would be better at mending. We best get you up to the hospital wing."

Glancing down and finding himself appearing almost normal, the weight of what had just happened suddenly hit him. Quite simply, this situation didn't make any bloody sense.

"But what isn't logical is all this…what's your angle, Granger? Are you doing this because you want me to be indebted to you? After this, are you going to go write to Potter and Weasel about the pathetic state that Malfoy has been kicked down to? You should have taken a picture first before you cleaned me up," Draco sneered, glaring at her from under his lashes.

Granger rolled her eyes and released a heavy sigh. She crossed her arms over her stomach and spoke calmly, "Believe it or not Draco," he raised an eyebrow at the use of his first name, "as much of a prat you were, and apparently still are, I don't wish this kind of pain and suffering upon you. Even if the feeling isn't mutual."

Draco lingered on her words, no doubt a roundabout referral to her night of torture at Malfoy Manor. He wasn't an idiot. But something didn't sit right with him. She talked as if she knew him, as if she could only conclude one option in her head that Draco Malfoy somehow condoned her torture and would always want Hermione Granger to be in pain and suffering. The little swot couldn't have been more wrong.

He felt his eyelids droop like lead curtains, but he needed to say this. She had to know that she wasn't always right about everything in the whole damn world. "Well news flash for you, Granger. The feeling is mutual. Believe it or not, I didn't wish it for you either."

He managed to catch the perplexed expression on Granger's face as he allowed himself to succumb to darkness.

x-x-x-x-x-x

x-x-x

Light streamed through the unobstructed window, basking Draco in a warm sunbeam. Draco shot up with a start, wildly taking in his surroundings even as he was blinking to consciousness. Lumpy white beds. Bitter smell of medical potions. Fraying green curtains. Impracticable diamond-patterned windows that had absolutely no heat insulation against Scottish winters.

Hospital Wing. He was in the Hogwarts Hospital Wing. His heartbeat began settling to a normal rhythm as he committed that this was real and he was in a good place. Memories from the previous night unfolded themselves in his mind— Granger? Had she brought him here? Draco turned to the left, then to the right, half-expecting the brunette witch to be sitting primly at his side, watching him with a raised eyebrow.

There was no one, of course. No one was beside him. He was alone in the middle of the room, flanked by nothing except white beds on the right and white beds on the left.

x-x-x

After begrudgingly admitting that he had indeed taken a nasty spill down a flight of stairs (Really Granger? That's the best excuse the brightest witch of her age could have come up with?), and convincing Madame Pomfrey that this bout of clumsiness was a one-off occasion, Draco was discharged right before lunch time.

The smell of rich meats and sound of murmuring students was familiar, and he felt himself relax as he slipped through the Great Hall doors. Without much fanfare, he slid into his usual seat across from Blaise. A steak and kidney pie materialized in front of him, and Draco half-heartedly stabbed at it with his fork, watching the steam rise out of the flaky crust. He quietly marveled at how perfectly functional his wrist was—Granger's magic was so precise that he could hardly believe that it had been snapped like a decaying tree branch just last night.

"What happened to your eye?" Blaise asked, an amused lilt to his smooth drawl.

Oh right, his black eye. Though not quite as swollen as it would have been if he hadn't been found by Granger, it was still conspicuous enough that he should have cast a glamor charm.

"Fell down a flight of stairs…" Draco mumbled. What? He had to keep the story consistent.

Blaise snickered, then snorted in that dignified way that only he could pull off.

"Amused, Blaise?" Draco scowled back.

"As a matter of fact, yes. It's a wonder that you survived the Dark Lord with lying skills like that," Blaise lowered his voice, something shifting in his dark brown irises. "So, who were they and how many were you up against? Have you already planned how you'll make those cowards regret it?"

Draco looked away, his scowl deepening, before taking a tepid bite of his pie. The beef was far too seasoned, coating his tongue in thick salt. "I don't know. There were four or five of them. Gryffindors and even a bloody Hufflepuff. It seems the secret to inter-house unity is to find a common enemy to beat to a bloody pulp," Draco chuckled hollowly, "and as much as I would like to hex all their arses into next week, I have to lay low on my probation. It's either here or Azkaban, and I rather see your mug than a dementor's."

Blaise hummed, folding his hands under his chin. "Not too keen on fairness when it's against Slytherins huh. They say us Slytherins are the evil ones, but everyone else is just as bad."

As if responding to being summoned, the doors to the Great Hall burst open and Gryffindors came streaming in like sardines released from a dam. Leading the pack was none other than Hermione Granger herself, with her faithful side characters, the ginger Weaselette and Longbottom, by her side. Younger Gryffindors swarmed their sides, but Granger seemed to duck from the attention and hide in her book, though she did give a polite hello to some of the more eager students. She never glanced in his direction, and he doubt that she realized that he had left the Hospital Wing.

Appetite lost, Draco pushed his food away. "What world do we live in when Granger is the most popular girl in school?" Draco murmured, massaging his temples.

He expected Blaise to immediately agree, smirk a little, maybe even sneer. Then, they would proceed to pounce on how insufferable Granger was and how the world had really tilted itself on its axis when Granger was the hotshot hero and Draco Malfoy the condemned pariah.

Instead, Blaise lifted his shoulders in a half-hearted shrug, his expression neutral. "Well, better Granger than Potter or Weasley. At least she's clever."

Draco's mouth hung open. Blaise was delivering a compliment and it wasn't even a thinly-veiled insult?

"Zabini mate, are you feeling alright in the head? This is Granger you're talking about here. Aside from being a swotty know-it-all with minimal qualities of a proper woman, she's a…muggle-born. You hate her," Draco exclaimed.

"Without Potter and Weasley she's not so bad," Blaise said, taking a bite out of his sandwich and chewing.

"What initiated this change in attitude? I'm afraid I'm missing something here."

A smirk flickered onto Blaise's face. "Nosy, aren't you? Careful there Malfoy, you've always been rather obsessed with her and her crew, but you're not even bothering to hide it now."

"That's not it," Draco brushed off, crossing his arms over his chest. "It's just, last I knew you hated everything about her and her blood. That doesn't change overnight," Draco stated, careful to tamp down any inflections in his voice that could be misinterpreted as too-much interest.

"But they do change over a war. You of all people should know that. And if you must know, and it seems like you absolutely must as you're not letting me eat in peace," Blaise rolled his eyes at Draco's growl, but continued, "Granger and I partnered for potions and it wasn't all that unpleasant. Not once did she mention the war or anything against Slytherins, and she's admittedly bloody brilliant. She'd catch my mistakes before I even had a chance to think about making them."

"You chose her as your partner?"

"No, she asked me. And I thought why not? Slytherins are resourceful, and Granger is a better resource than any textbook."

They settled into a silence after that, Draco frowning at his wrist while Blaise munched on his sandwich.

"Oh, don't brood that she didn't ask you. You were already partnered with Nott that day."

"I'm not brooding," Draco snapped. And he wasn't brooding because he had no reason to be. Granger could be nice to all the other Slytherins she wanted. Blaise wasn't as good as potions as himself, but the boy wasn't a dunce, so it wasn't necessarily a bad decision to choose him as a partner. And perhaps the most glaring fact of all— Draco was obviously Granger's enemy, so why would he want to be her partner? Like he needed her approval that he was a capable potioneer.

"Right…" His somewhat-friend regarded him skeptically.

Frustrated at himself or Blaise, or probably both, Draco insisted, "Let's talk about something else. The topic of Granger has already consumed far too much of our lunch."

Ignoring his suggestion, Blaise continued on, "Plus, it helps that she's gotten somewhat pretty. Her cheekbones are high and her eyes are intelligent. Don't you agree?"

"No," Draco shot down. But of course, now he couldn't help but think about it. He spotted her alarmingly quickly at the table across from him, as if he was already hyper-aware of her curly brown hair and high cheekbones and intelligent eyes, and found that he really couldn't refute Blaise's point. Even without a swipe of makeup, it was obvious that Granger had a pretty face and toned body.

She was chatting with a gaggle of young Gryffindor students, and judging by the plastered smile on her face, they were likely harassing her for war adventures. Adventures that were likely tales for the history books, but nightmare fuel for the person who experienced them.

Draco groaned and slammed his hands on the table, causing several other students to startle. Pain lanced through his bones; his fragile wrist protesting against being battered against the solid wood. One young wizard even dropped a full goblet of pumpkin juice, the orange pulp sliding down the ledge of the table and dribbling onto the floor.

He couldn't think of her that way. She couldn't make herself at home in his head. He wrangled up the thoughts regarding any form of attraction to her and meticulously filed them away.

x-x-x-x-x-x

x-x-x-x

x-x

Her sobs echo through the stone walls of the drawing room, each whimper clear as a glass bell in the sparsely furnished space.

Bellatrix hovers over her prone body, alternating manically between unnerving whispers and furious screaming, gnashing her teeth mere centimeters over Hermione's face. Hermione's wrists are bent at unnatural angles, Bellatrix's vice grip no doubt leaving a trail of bruises down her pale, white skin.

Gone is the insufferable witch that held her shoulders high with pride and always had an answer for everything. She's just a human, a young teenager, chest heaving for air as she tries to survive this.

Bellatrix utters the Cruciatus curse— hatred straining every syllable, flecks of spit spraying straight into Hermione's eyes. A terrible shriek rips through Hermione's throat, her voice vibrating every surface in the room as she convulses on the floor, her hands and feet flailing against the woodgrain floors in an uneven staccato. Draco visibly flinches. Her scream shudders down to snivels, but it's still reverberating endlessly inside Draco's head.

He will be haunted by this scream for the rest of his life.

Tears stream freely down Hermione's dirty cheeks, and he feels the pressure building behind his own eyes as well. Bile rises in his throat, acid churning restlessly in his stomach. He looks away.

He didn't want this. Never did. Hermione Granger isn't some stranger— she is his classmate, someone he spoke to regularly before, someone he saw every day, someone he wasn't remotely friends with, but someone who wasn't nothing either.

He knew that in a roundabout way, this was entirely his fault. If only he hadn't become a Death Eater. If only he hadn't fixed the Vanishing Cabinet. If only he had found a way to save Dumbledore rather than kill him to save his own skin. If only he wasn't such a pathetic coward and could actually do something that was the right thing to do.

Another ear-splitting scream pierces through the tense silence, and Hermione jerks her head to the side, choking on her blood as she coughs it onto the floor. She's barely conscious, but her intelligent eyes and high cheekbones manage to find his face, and she stares at him with hollow misery. Her eyes don't hold a trace of anger.

He realizes then, that even after all that, Hermione doesn't blame him.

Hermione's eyes roll to the back of her head, her eyelids fluttering shut. Draco's back goes ramrod straight, his hands fisted at his sides as cold sweat pools into his palm and between his fingers. No. Stop. His own breaths come out shallow, hard and fast. He's crying now, his vision going out of focus as hot tears roll down his face.

But then he sees her chest rise just a little, and relief soothes his frayed nerves. The reprieve is short-lived, however, as Bellatrix grips her wand and uses the sharp point to carve letters into the unblemished skin of Hermione's wrist.

x-x-x

Draco woke up shaking, quite literally, as Blaise gripped his shoulders and shook him back and forth like a rag doll.

"Draco! Wake the hell up!" Blaise hissed.

"I'm up, I'm up," Draco answered hoarsely, clambering to sit up and shoving Blaise to the edge of his bed. He paused, instinctively massaging his neck. Why did his throat feel like it had been scratched raw?

"Finally. You were screaming so loudly in your sleep that you're lucky I woke up first to cast a Silencio. Though it seems like Nott over here could sleep through a bloody fire," Blaise gestured at Theo across from Draco's bed, still dozing soundly in his bed.

Draco froze. "Did I…did I say anything?"

Blaise raised an eyebrow. "No words, just screaming. You alright there?"

"Yeah, just…war and stuff, don't want to talk about it," Draco replied evasively. Draco dropped eye contact with Blaise, where they might have been a tiny sliver of concern in his cool black eyes, and he settled back into bed and faced towards the wall.

"Fine, well I'm going back to bed. It's 5 am and too early for all your shite Draco."

When he felt Blaise's weight lift off the bed, Draco released an exhale he didn't realize he'd been holding. He stared vacantly at a speck on his wall, his body coiled tightly like a wound up string. After Blaise's even breathing and Theo's soft snores could be heard clearly enough, Draco mechanically pulled himself upright. He changed out of his silk pajamas and threw on black trousers and a white button-down shirt, and then was out the door.

x-x-x

Breathe in through the nose, breathe out through the mouth. Loosen the tension in the shoulders. Let the hands hang open, don't ball them into fists. Left foot, right foot, left foot, right foot. Focus on the rhythm.

Draco's shoes pounded against the grass, wet with a shiny layer of the morning's dew. The sky was still dark, but there was the slightest hint of periwinkle blue as the stars began to fade. Draco didn't know where he was running, or for how long he had been running for that matter. There was a stitch in his stomach that ached with every stride, his lungs burned like fire, and his legs were heavy, like lead weights had been strapped to his ankles.

It wasn't quite true that running cleared the mind, not exactly. After the screams and sweat and sobbing of his dream had fizzled to white noise, Draco hyper-focused on all the small details. The way she scrunched her eyes, deep furrows lining her forehead. The silent words that Hermione mouthed as she was tortured to oblivion. The dark red blood that streamed down from the jagged lines of her Mudblood scar.

He searched through his mind, finding the compartment nestled deep in the recesses of his suppressed thoughts, and shoved everything back in. He had dreamt this dream before, but never had so much escaped.

Maybe it was the world's twisted form of vengeance, a punishment for his endless cowardice and selfish weaknesses. To protect himself and his family, he was willing to sacrifice everything and everyone. He had every reason to be haunted.

He bet that Hermione wouldn't have been like him. Hermione would have found a way to do the right thing. Hermione would have been able to make the right choices, unlike himself, who only blundered between bad choice to bad choice.

When he ran until his entire body throbbed and was on the brink of collapsing, Draco stumbled to a brisk walk, his hands clutching the side of his stomach as he gasped for air. As his heart rate slowed down, Draco leaned against the castle walls and inhaled deeply, the cool, crisp oxygen flooding his exhausted body. His white button-down shirt was drenched, partially translucent, and his black trousers were sticking to his thighs uncomfortably.

His stomach gurgled, and it struck him how famished he was. Judging by the distance that the sun had risen over the horizon, Draco guessed that it was between half-past six or seven. Hopefully he could stuff down breakfast before the rest of the castle roused awake. The castle was eerily quiet as he strode through the hallways, and he quickened his pace. Hogwarts was both his salvation and his nightmare. Between this castle and Malfoy Manor, he had plenty of ghosts to go around.

In his rush, Draco was late to notice that someone else had simultaneously been heading towards the Great Hall doors. His long fingers reached the handle first and he thrust the door open.

There was an indignant huff as the wooden door smacked into a face, followed by a clatter of porcelain and the sound of liquid sloshing onto the floor. Draco winced as the person hissed sharply, then proceeded to mutter under their breath.

"Sorry, I didn't see you there, honest," Draco dropped the door and looked towards what appeared to be a puddle of tea on the floor. In one swift motion, he pulled his wand out from his trousers. "Let me get that for you. Tergeo."

The angry muttering abruptly halted. His confusion only lasted for a few seconds, as Draco looked up and immediately understood why.

Oh great, exactly who he did not need. Again.

Hermione Granger gaped at him, probably reeling in the shock that Draco had apologized to anyone, least of all her.

Draco looked away and rubbed the back of his neck. "Ah…morning," he mumbled.

The brightest witch of her age cleared her throat and regarded him warily. "…Thank you for cleaning me up."

"I really didn't see you there," Draco insisted again.

"It's fine," Granger dismissed. She paused, biting her lip. This accidental civil conversation must have jarred the psychoanalytical profile she had of him. However, she ultimately lost to her thirst for quenching unanswered questions and asked, "Malfoy, why are you down here so early? And why are you dressed like that?"

He pulled at the hem of his white button down. "There's nothing wrong with my clothes. I always wear this." Though he wrinkled his nose at how starchy the material had become now that his sweat had dried.

"I don't think I've ever seen you wear anything other than Slytherin robes or a pressed black suit, regardless of the weather or informality of the occasion. Nor have I ever seen you so…disheveled. And this is an ungodly early hour, I've never seen anyone else up before—"

She continued like this for a bit, rationalizing why he could be here without him confirming a word. This logical rambling must have been a nervous tic, kind of annoying, but kind of reassuring as well. Hermione Granger was still terrible at navigating awkward social situations, not even a war had changed that.

She suddenly gasped, pulling Draco out of his thoughts. He looked at her just as she turned away, her cheeks coloring pink. "Sorry…I shouldn't have gotten so caught up. Your personal…bedtime affairs are not my business."

Two apologies in the span of 5 minutes, which is 2 more than the entire 7 years that they've known each other.

Draco put the puzzle pieces together and fought to hide a smirk, bemused at her dirty conclusion. "Granger, not that my personal bedtime affairs are any of your business, but I was out running."

Granger scrunched her nose up, wrinkling it like a rabbit. "In business casual wear? And Dragonhide boots?"

"What else?"

"Joggers and trainers?"

"Come again?"

"Never mind, forget I said anything. Now if you'll excuse me…" Granger sidestepped beside him and tugged the door, hesitantly holding it open for him.

Draco reluctantly followed after her and they walked silently down the hall. He lazily slowed his pace to avoid catching up with her, though he needn't to since she clearly had the same idea as she briskly fast-walked.

Much like the day before, Draco slinked into his usual seat. What he didn't count on was Granger doing the exact same, as she settled into her seat directly across from him one mere table away. They both simultaneously glanced up and stiffened at the unobstructed view of each other.

Granger was the first to drop eye contact, popping open a book and biting into a slice of unbuttered, whole wheat toast.

Opting for a simple breakfast, Draco selected an apple, poached eggs, sausages, and after an internal debate also pulled a slice of toast, which he proceeded to lightly butter because he was not copying Granger.

With her blatantly ignoring him, Draco couldn't help but use the opportunity to stare. Her cheeks were clean, not a trace of dirty tear tracks. Her hair wasn't matted and mangled by Bellatrix's manhandling, instead, it was let loose in familiar bushy curls. Her skin appeared smooth and soft, no angry bruises purpling her wrists or neck.

Granger was fine. He committed this as real and as a fact, and carefully filed it into the same compartment as earlier.

Suddenly, Granger raised her head and caught him staring. She jumped in her seat as she met the intensity of his gaze, and instinctively glared back at him. He didn't look away. Dark circles shadowed her eyes, reducing the effect of her glare, and Draco briefly wondered what kind of nightmares Granger carried with her.