She didn’t want to have sympathy for him. She truly didn’t. She would have been perfectly content despising him and privately cursing his family name for the years to come.
Truth be told, Hermione hadn’t seen Draco all that much since the start of their 8th year. He was at more meals than not, but never breakfast, and his appearances at dinner became less and less frequent as autumn faded to winter. By December, she was lucky (well, maybe not lucky ) if she caught sight of him in the Great Hall more than 5 times in one week. Not that she was counting.
And not that she was complaining, mind you. Hermione had no difficulty recalling the role the Malfoys had played in the war – in the tragedy, the bloodshed, the prejudice, still thick in the air wherever she went. It was as if the wizarding world was simply unable to shake the ghosts of its past; people looked at each other with fragmented trust, with wordless resentment. Nobody spoke of it, but everybody remembered. And Hermione was no exception.
Still, she had to give Draco credit for his efforts to disentangle himself from the noose that had become his family’s legacy. Everyone knew he was no longer in contact with his father – with anyone except his mother, really. All that he had kept from the Malfoys was his last name, his near-white tufts of soft hair (now slightly grown out, parting down the middle and gently swept from his face), and a wretched mar on his forearm that could never fade fast enough. It was no wonder he kept to himself; every Slytherin was a reminder of his body, and the others were a reminder of his blood. Draco never held eye contact for long, and Hermione wasn’t sure of the last time she had heard his voice.
So, yes – although she didn’t want to have sympathy for him, she did nonetheless. Not to mention, he and his mother donated what Hermione had to assume was a considerable portion of their wealth to post-war recovery efforts, wizarding hospitals, and charities focused on victims’ relief and recompensation. She wondered to herself if such amends would ever feel like enough for him. Something deep inside her said no, they wouldn’t – which only worsened her sympathy.
But that didn’t mean she had to do anything about it; she was quite busy anyway, catching up on all the schoolwork she missed and exceeding expectations with her Head Girl duties. Thus, Hermione merely wondered about all this from time to time, and did her best not to think of Draco too often. She was sure he wasn’t thinking of her, by any means.
~ ~ ~
The cold winter air was brutal, just the way she liked it. Snowfall reminded Hermione of all her favorite memories: Hogsmeade with the boys, winter vacations with her parents, curling up with a new book on Christmas. Older, more bitter, and more broken now, these memories came with a painful, aching thud in her chest. The sudden reminder of all that was gone often stung in a way she couldn’t quite articulate; lucky for her, she could only cry when she was alone (typically at night, stroking Crookshanks in between sobs).
Shoving this out of her mind, Hermione continued on her walk in between responsibilities. Her classes were done for the day (her Transfiguration lecture had been fascinating), and she wouldn’t be meeting with her 1st year mentees for another hour. She figured she would find a quiet place to read while she waited – hence how she found herself absentmindedly climbing the steps of the Clock tower.
It wasn’t until she reached the very top step that she even realized the area was already occupied.
Draco didn’t see her come in, and Hermione immediately felt uneasy about this perceived power imbalance – almost as if she was sneaking up on him, despite her having only just entered the room. He was casually sitting on the other side of the platform, his legs swung over the tower’s edge and his arms resting on the iron bars that barricaded the top floor. He seemed to be staring off into the distance, or perhaps at the clouds of snow thickly settled on the horizon. At any rate, he appeared to be deeply lost in thought.
Leave it alone, Hermione. He obviously doesn’t want to be bothered.
Yet the other voice in her head (the voice that most frequently won internal debates such as this one) pressed her, and as she walked further into the room, she narrowly avoided scoffing. You never have been able to keep to yourself, have you?
Draco didn’t stir as she neared. There were no benches or seating on the platform – it was mostly empty, except for the two iron spiral staircases ascending to the upper-most balcony of the tower. It would feel strange to sit, and it would feel strange to stand, so for whatever reason, Hermione settled on the strangest option of all:
“Hello,” she offered, then immediately cringed at herself. But Draco’s head turned, and Hermione’s gaze softened within seconds; his eyes were… tired, and his cheeks were faintly traced with tears. He made no effort to hide this.
“Granger,” he noted gently. Not quite a greeting, but certainly more than she might have expected.
I’m sorry to interrupt, I was just looking for a place to read, but now you’re here and I’m here and we’re both here, and I should mention that I’m privately quite worried about you.
I hate to be a bother, I just was wondering if maybe you’d like to talk, or simply have some company as you stare off into the distance. If not, that’s entirely alright – just let me know and I’ll be out of your lovely, overgrown hair.
“Were you looking for something?”
Oh, fuck.
“Oh, no, not at all! Well, yes,” she stammered, “I, er, was wandering, looking for- well, that’s not important. I just, I saw you up here, and I thought maybe I’d see if you wanted any company.”
Top-notch work there. Now you’ve bothered him and made him absolutely sure that you’re a creep. But the damage had been done, so Hermione resigned herself to silence and remained where she stood.
In a response she never would have expected, Draco actually responded to her rambling with a faint smile. It was hardly noticeable, sure, but it was there. It began to fade as soon as it had appeared, but he supplied with that same quiet warmth, “I can’t imagine I’m much fun to be with right now, but you’re more than welcome to stay.”
Huh. Hermione was unsure what compelled her to walk further towards him – maybe a sadistic winter breeze had pushed her? Whatever the cause, however, Hermione joined him at the barred ledge of the tower. After placing her books behind them, she carefully lowered herself to the floor, smoothed out her scarf, then swung her legs over the side next to his. Their arms were perfectly in line with one another on the railing, and she tried not to stare when she sat down. She wasn’t sure if she had ever been this close to him. At least not since their little tiff in third year.
His nose was slightly rosy from the cold, which was cute in a way that contrasted with his sharper facial features. His profile was mature, and it was structured in a neat, attractive manner that she tried not to admire too much. Draco truly was handsome (but, no, she wouldn’t dwell on that), with intense blue eyes that were much wider than Hermione had expected. They were watery, brimming with tears, which made them appear even deeper– it seemed as if the whole world could be held behind his gaze.
She recognized this as being a foolish thought. There were no oceans behind Draco Malfoy’s eyes; only heavy, heavy sadness. That much was apparent.
“Are you alright?” She asked softly, meeting his eyes and doing her best not to look away first.
“I should be asking you that,” Draco hummed in response. Hermione wasn’t surprised by the guilt in his voice – his guilt was clear as day – but rather by the ease with which he communicated it. Of all the people for him to open up to, she would not have placed herself very high on the list.
In processing what he had said, she furrowed her brow for a brief moment. “Well, yes,” she said simply, “I’m fine. Why wouldn’t I be?” To this, Draco merely looked at her, then looked away. Hermione couldn’t read his expression.
Communication requires two participants, Hermione.
So, she sighed. Then swallowed. Then clicked her tongue once as she rolled the words around in her mouth – as if she could push syllables against her cheeks and the perfect sentence would just fall out.
If you had told her a year ago that she would be opening up to Draco Malfoy…
“It’s difficult, being here.” She offered. “Without the boys… without so many of the people we knew. You would think that everybody suffering through the same war… that we would all feel closer. Some sense of togetherness.” Hermione sighed, then shifted her attention to the horizon. Vulnerability was never her strong suit. A flock of birds were settling in the high branches of a pine tree. “Truthfully, I’ve never felt so alone.”
She felt as if she had been electrocuted when Draco’s hand touched hers. So brief, so fleeting, she might have even imagined it – that he had reached out, his palm meeting the back of her hand, letting his fingers so delicately brush against her knuckles. That his skin was cold, and impossibly soft. In fact, she would have been certain she had imagined it, had he not so suddenly ripped his hand away, banishing it to his lap. This rapid movement, and the faint blush that slowly and subtly flushed his cheeks, betrayed the truth. He had touched her hand. Hermione felt a blush of her own creeping up her neck, and tangible warmth in her chest.
She wouldn’t mention it. Draco was facing away quite deliberately, embarrassed, and she wondered if their conversation had ended just as abruptly as it had begun. But a few moments passed, and Draco spoke in that low, sincere tone Hermione had not heard before today.
“I can’t stand to sit at the Slytherin table in the Great Hall, knowing that most of the classmates I used to sit with are dead. And I can’t stand to sit with anyone else, knowing that I’m the reason why most of their friends are dead.”
His words were a slap in the face. It was heartbreakingly cruel – the acerbity of someone who truly believed what they were saying. “Draco, you’re not the-”
“I am.”
They sat in silence – Hermione looking at Draco, Draco unable to look at Hermione. This was the burden that neither one of them could escape. What had been done, and the inability to undo it. The past that could not be returned to, but which walked the halls with them wherever they went.
Then, in a quiet voice, Draco murmured, “I’m trying. But after all that’s happened, I can’t imagine earning back anyone’s trust.” He turned to face her, sincerity so fervent in his eyes that she swore she could feel it on her skin. “Least of all yours.”
Oh. There blowing past her was years of schoolyard taunts, of the rhetoric that he lived and breathed. That he had recited like a prayer in the years before, but that now seemed to haunt him more than it did her. Neither of us look the same as we did back then , she mused to herself. Neither of us are the same.
Draco held her gaze for what felt like forever, but then managed to muster a small smile. “Although, none of this is your problem, Granger.” A slight flicker. A self-deprecating yet glorious flicker. The corners of Hermione’s mouth turned upwards marginally.
“Well, luckily for you,” she smirked, “I find I can be quite helpful when it comes to other people’s problems. And it seems like you might need a bit of support here, Malfoy.”
Draco let out a light chuckle, and Hermione’s gaze softened yet again. She swallowed. No, she didn’t need to be here. She could so easily stand up and walk away – leave him in the winter cold to fend for himself. She didn’t owe him anything, and he would be the first person to agree with her on that.
But his eyes.
“Draco…” she said in a near whisper, “I know you’re trying. It’s clear. It matters.”
His head was low, but he turned towards her now. God, he looked tired. Tired, and sincere, and pained. It was hard not to have empathy for him; it was clear she wasn’t the only one who felt horribly alone.
So, Hermione pulled back from the iron railing and took his hand in hers so gently. Slowly, but surely. She was right; his skin was cold, and soft, and he didn’t pull away. He could have pulled away – she certainly would have understood. A lone wolf like him. A bitter, devastated young man like him. (And no less, a sardonic pistol like her.)
But Draco didn’t pull away. Rather, he interlaced his fingers into hers with palpable hesitation. As if they were teetering on the edge of a precipice, and they only had each other for safety. As if they were both the valley below, and the safe haven at its peak. They might as well have been at the wind’s mercy.
“You’re not alone.”