Prologue
Year 1
She still couldn’t believe it. She was a witch?? With actual real magic? When the strange woman in robes knocked on her door and handed her parents a letter telling them she was a witch and that she was invited to attend a place called Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, she thought at some point someone would pop out and tell her it was all a joke. But walking through the castle halls told her it was real. She would spend the next 7 years here absorbing, practicing, and studying every ounce of knowledge from her classes like it was her last day with magic. Walking in with the other 11-year-old strangers was a funny feeling. These people would become her friends and rivals and classmates. Maybe the brown-haired girl walking next to her would be her best friend in a year. She thought she heard her say name was Hannah. Or maybe the boy with the frog, Neville. She very much doubted that snobby boy with the white-blond hair and the pointy face would make a good friend. From the way he talked to Harry Potter and sneered at the redhead next to him, he seemed a bit elitist. No matter who in the crowd of magical strangers would become her friends or not, Hermione knew her life was about to get a whole lot more exciting.
He couldn’t wait to get to the sorting ceremony. Not because he was anxious to find out his House – he knew he’d be in Slytherin just like his father and grandfather. No, he couldn’t wait to find out what House Potter would be in. How dare Potter turn down his friendship. Who did he think he was? He didn’t even grow up in the magical world. He should be so lucky to be offered an in with the most powerful wizarding family in England. But no, the Boy Who Lived decided he would be better off befriending the blood traitor Weasley. Well, if Potter decided not to take Draco up on his offer, then soon he would see how big a mistake that would be.
Year 2
Every day Hermione was scared to leave the Gryffindor common room. The Chamber was opened and whatever was inside was hunting down people like her. It was baffling really. She couldn’t understand why something as trivial as her blood made her less than in the eyes of others. What did it matter if her parents were magical or not? She had magic too therefore she was the same, right? She knew her blood status didn’t matter to the people who mattered to her, but still, it stung when Malfoy called her a filthy mudblood in front of the whole Slytherin and Gryffindor quidditch teams. She made sure to hide her tears and pretend it didn’t affect her. Nevertheless, she headed to the library as usual to research this Chamber and its mysterious monster – it was the only way she could pretend to feel as if she had some semblance of control over everything that was happening. She hoped that at least next year, she could have a quiet year – she would throw herself into her studies to make sure no trouble came knocking.
Draco hoped the Granger girl was the first to go. People like her didn’t belong in his world. His father had said that a hundred times and Draco agreed. If the magical line falters, then it is surely a sign of weakness, and weakness, above all, was something the Malfoy family did not tolerate.
Year 3
The start to her magical life was not exactly what she had imagined. At 11, she fought a mountain troll and helped her friend protect a magical stone from He Who Must Not Be Named. At 12, she was petrified by a basilisk while her two best friends ventured into the Chamber of Secrets to kill the monster within and save the school – again. Now at 13, she traveled back in time and was running through the Forbidden Forest from her werewolf teacher and watching Harry cast a Patronus charm to save another version of himself and his godfather. At least she had gotten to punch Malfoy in the face. That was definitely the highlight of the year.
He couldn’t believe she’d actually done it. She punched him. In the face! And it hurt, too, bloody hell. He would never admit it, but that made him respect her just a little bit. She was fiery, that was for sure – for a mudblood.
Year 4
Hermione actually felt pretty. Her usually untamable curls had settled into a nice wave with a charm Parvati taught her and Lavender had done her make-up; something Hermione had never worn before but she realized she liked to. She felt pretty. Walking in the procession with Viktor made her feel special in a way that no one could take away from her. Even Malfoy’s scowl at her when hey briefly locked eyes in passing was not enough to take away from her moment. What did taint it slightly, however, was the swiftly passing thought of how Malfoy looked somewhat handsome in his dress robes. But she was sure that was just the excitement of the Ball causing her thoughts to behave so uncharacteristically.
Draco stayed at as far away from the dance floor as he could. Waiting for the moment the teachers decided it was an acceptable time to allow students go back to their dorms. He still couldn’t believe Viktor Krum was at Hogwarts. And more importantly, he couldn’t believe he was here with her. Draco was sick of her one-upping him. She’d taken top marks in all of their classes, some people were deeming her the brightest witch of our age, and now she was dating Viktor Krum – his favorite quidditch player. Her blood is inferior for Merlin’s sake! And everyone is treating her like she’s the bloody Queen of England. No matter how good she looked in that dress and how nice her hair was when it wasn’t frizzed up like she’d been electrocuted, she was inferior, and Draco was sure of it. He just didn’t know who he needed to convince more – himself or everyone else.
Year 5
Hermione knew Harry was struggling but she didn’t know how to help. He wouldn’t let her in. She and Ron would invite him for walks around the grounds or a visit to Hagrid but he continued to shut them out. She spent most of her days with just Ron now, wondering when Harry would come back to them.
Draco’s head was throbbing. He didn’t know how much more he could take. His mother had insisted he master Occlumency now that the Dark Lord had returned. He understood the need for it, he really did, but Aunt Bella was not the kind of teacher who would go easy or give him a break if he was struggling. No matter, he would follow his mother’s orders like the dutiful son he was. He knew the time would come when he would need this skill.
Year 6
Hermione had just needed to get some air. Cormac was looking for her and the only thing she could think of for reprieve from him was to leave the Slughorn’s party entirely. She hadn’t meant to overhear Malfoy’s conversation with Professor Snape. He seemed upset. Snape was offering him help, for what she wasn’t sure, but Malfoy seemed to think the situation was life or death.
“If I don’t, he’ll kill me,” she heard him say.
He was probably begging Snape for a better grade in Potions – his father was an awful man and no doubt threatened him if he didn’t receive top marks. Truthfully, Hermione felt a quite sorry for Malfoy. She couldn’t imagine what it must be like to have a father like that. A father that abuses house elves, demeans his own son in public, and is Voldemort’s right-hand man. No wonder Malfoy was angry – he must hate the world, and to be honest, she didn’t blame him.
Draco was still healing from Potter’s curse. He was beyond lucky that Snape had arrived so quickly, or he might not have survived. But now he had to sit through Charms class and pretend like he was not in excruciating pain as his skin stretched to stitch itself back together. Just as he noticed the blood starting to seep through his shirt, a handkerchief dropped next to him. He reached for it and noticed the faint smell of peonies. He looked back to hand it back to the stranger and saw a head of big brown curls retreating with a soft, knowing look. He didn’t want her pity, but he secretly didn’t mind her kindness. He hadn’t been shown that in what felt like months.
Year 7
She knew he recognized them. She saw it in his eyes. Saw the recognition flash across his face the moment the Snatchers apparated them into his family’s Manor. But she could not figure out why he didn’t tell his mother and Bellatrix it was them. The sisters did ask him after all. They wanted confirmation it was them before they called Voldemort. And with Hermione’s stinging jinx to the face, Harry wasn’t so easily recognizable. She tried to focus on the puzzle that was Draco Malfoy for as long as she could – anything to try to block out the unbearable pain his aunt was inflicting with alternating Cruciatus curses and a blade to the arm. She tried to figure out why he protected them until she blacked out from the pain.
No, no, no, no, no this couldn’t be happening, he thought. How on earth had she’d been captured? And why did he care so much? He hated Potter but that didn’t mean he wanted to be responsible for turning him over to the Dark Lord. He was forced to become a Death Eater. He was forced to accept the task of murdering his own Headmaster. He was forced to allow and “welcome” the Dark Lord into his home. He would not be forced to turn over his classmates like pigs to slaughter. Draco would make this decision himself, for himself. He would not turn her over. Them over – he meant he couldn’t turn them over, of course. He put up his walls and occluded. He couldn’t listen to her scream anymore. He had to keep up appearances for his father’s sake. Lucius was already on thin ice with the Dark Lord as it was. And as much as he despised his father, he couldn’t let his sympathy for a muggleborn show, or it would mean the death of them all and he couldn’t allow that to happen to his mother.