Disclaimer: I do not, have never, and never ever will own Harry Potter. This disappoints me.

This is Draco/Hermione. I just sat down and wrote it. Therefore, it had no plan and no structure and went wherever I wanted it to on the spur of the moment. So it's not my best work, but it's alright. I hope you enjoy it, anyway.

Please, please review! I would love to hear what you think of it.

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There's a time in this world where you see clearly. It's a moment of surprising clarity. It's a moment where you can accept everything you've done, everything you've been, and every single mistake you've made.

It occurs later in your life for most people, close to their death. For Hermione Granger, it happened when she was seventeen years old.

It happened when she looked across the bloody battlefield into the eyes of an enemy. Of a killer. Of a liar. Of a thief. Of a lover.

It happened that she saw that everything living in this place was dying in some way or another, and that they were the two people left, the two that could stand longer than a minute. They were the two who saw each other and knew a story no one else could ever know. A story they told and no one else. A story of lies and secrets and pain and death and blood. A story of anger and betrayal and danger and hurt. A story of love.

She saw her mistakes in the form of Draco Malfoy.

He had been her enemy, by title, since she was eleven years old. A grudge since your first impression is difficult to dispel. It takes something so much bigger than an idea of hate. It takes something like love.

That was what they had called it, at least, though it had probably never been love. It had been desire, primal and aching. It had been something they both needed as distraction from their own daily challenges. From their consuming, impossible lives. They needed a distraction.

She was never sure when it truly began, and she could never be certain of the ending. The only true and real and palpable ending had been that gory, bloody day, but she would like to tell herself it ended before that.

Because that would have to mean that she felt something when she saw those grey eyes. That would lead someone to believe that she might hesitate upon seeing one of the most horrific Death Eaters to this day. And no one could possibly think that.

No, Hermione Granger had not hesitated on that battlefield. No, no, of course not.

But her memories told a different tale than the definite truth that everyone knew. Her memories told a similar tale, indeed, but one with subtle changes. Changes that changed everything.

Because her memories said that she had indeed hesitated upon seeing that familiar figure. That she had paused on that torn, mess of a Quidditch Pitch, and stared at the grey-eyed man before her. She had not cursed him the second she saw him. The fact was, she couldn't.

He had not cursed her either. He could have killed her any instant. He did not.

Her jaw trembled. She stood, stiff and shattered and changed before him. He expected nothing less.

Either one of them could have gone that night. There was not the choice to walk away, or they would have. But they knew they could not. One had to kill the other, it was as simple as that.

She remembered how he quirked his eyebrow at her. She had remembered other nights he had done this, dark, peaceful, passionate nights. She knew what it meant.

She had not cried. She had not tried to offer anything else, because this was it, and they both knew it.

She had just raised her wand, and in a detached, flat voice she had said the words that ended his life.

They all had called her brave. She had taken on this dangerous Death Eater, Draco Malfoy, all alone. She had killed him.

At first, she thought them all wrong. She was not brave. He was. They had the choice, who would die, and who would live? He had offered her the easy way out. He had wanted it. That was what he meant. He raised his eyebrow and offered her salvation.

But nowadays, she thought differently. Now, she was starting to believe it would be easier to be dead than to be congratulated for his death. It was not a celebration.

In that moment of clarity, she saw her mistakes. She looked into his dead eyes, and knew the world of fantasy they had believed in together was a better world than this one.

He was dead, but he felt like the only living person left in the world.

She had used to believe he was her mistake. She had used to listen to the bullshit people told her about him. She used to listen when they told her he was a murderer.

When she looked into those dead grey eyes, she wanted to tell everyone, well, she was a murderer, too. So where did that put her?

They would tell her it was different, but it was not.

It didn't matter anyway. So what if he had killed people? So what? All she knew was how good it felt when he was part of her. It was not love, maybe, but it was enough.

She could never say that though. She could not explain how they were not different people. She could not explain how they were both running, both escaping, and how nothing but that mattered.

But she did not regret it. She did not regret what they had done those dark, desperate nights. She did not even know that she regretted killing him. They had no more chances together, anyway.

She had one regret, only one, plain and simple.

She looked down at the baby in her arms and nearly cried. Oh, if the little girl only knew that she had her father's grey eyes.