It wouldn't have been so hard if she hadn't saved him.

But she had, and now he was stuck with a nagging conscience.

He had to thank her.

He hated his conscience.

A few years ago, he would've scoffed in repulse at the very notion of thanking her - her, a Mudblood, the very dirt beneath his feet. But things were different now. She was a saint.

She had risen from the ashes of the Second Wizarding War as a shining beacon. She was a light, a hope, an angel, second only to the Boy-Who-Lived. In some ways, she was better than Harry Potter himself. When the Chosen One had fallen into mourning, refusing to appear at press conferences and witness at Death Eater trials, she had taken his place. She rose to the occasion grandly and, a week or so later, had helped Harry back onto his feet. The entire Wizarding World rallied around her, taking heart in her encouraging speeches and embracing her plans for reconstruction. She was the very heart and soul of revival.

He was nothing.

He was a coward. Nothing but a young coward who had thoughtlessly believed the untruths fed to him as a child. He had fought on the wrong side, and now he was feeling the repercussions of his actions.

The day of his trial was the beginning of the consequences of his actions as well as the first day his conscience spoke about her. He remembered the day clearly - the full Wizengamot, the hard stone chair, the cold shackles, the fear for his parents, the remorse for his lost youth, and the threat of Azkaban hanging over his head.

The trial had begun horribly. He was greeted with no lenience, kindness, or mercy. He was positive, halfway through the trial, that the outcome would be final. Azkaban - for life.

Then she had appeared. A door on the side of the courtroom had swung open, and she had scurried in, looking extremely flustered. She had whispered something to the Minister and then, to the Wizengamot's general shock, moved down the steps towards the prisoner's chair. She'd offered him small smile before she turned and addressed the court.

She apologized for her tardiness, then began to list, in simple and no-nonsense terms, why the man sitting behind her was innocent. He was young, he was forced into being a Death Eater - he didn't remember what she said, exactly. What he did remember, more clearly then anything, was Minister Shacklebolt's final decree: "Draco Lucius Malfoy will receive no penalty for his errors regarding Voldemort made before and during the Second Wizarding War."

Before he had time to process the Minister's words, the bindings were snapping off his wrists and she was giving him a smile before exiting the courtroom. He sat in silence for at least five minutes, allowing himself to savor his position. He was free. There would be no Voldemort, no Azkaban. Yes, his conscience agreed. He was free - thanks to her.

Over the next month, he worked on getting a grip on his life. He gathered some of his money, bought a nice flat in the middle of Muggle London, and got himself a job at a nearby cafe. He savored every minute of his escape from the life he'd known. He spent his free time reading in the quiet of his flat and trying to ignore the constant buzzing in his ears that murmured, It's all because of her. It's all because of Hermione Granger.

Then something happened that would change everything.

~~~

It was a bitter, bleak day. The sky was full of threatening grey clouds and the wind howled fiercely around the corners of the creaking buildings of Diagon Alley.

Draco Malfoy walked hunched over, trying to shield himself from the harsh weather. He pulled open the door to Flourish & Blotts, resisting the wind's insistence to keep it firmly shut. He stepped over the threshold and released a small sigh as a draft of warm air hit him. Removing his gloves, he moseyed to the back of the store.

He stepped into the last aisle and ran his fingers deftly over the second row of books, absentmindedly murmuring the titles to himself. He pulled one out, read the back cover, and replaced it. He looked at several more before grabbing a particularly thick tome. Satisfied with his selection, he proceeded to the front of the store, handing it and a few Sickles to the near-deaf, wrinkly old clerk.

The man eyed the cover, smiled, and took the money, stowing it in the register. Just as he extended the book to Draco, an earsplitting cacophony of voices came from outside.

"Miss Granger, what's happened?"

"Has something happened between you and Ron Weasley or Harry Potter?"

"Miss Granger, where are you going?"

"Miss Granger, this is Tracy Jones, from the Prophet-"

"Miss Granger, just one question!"

The voices grew louder, reaching a crescendo. Suddenly the door flew open, and something streaked by Draco. In a flash, the old clerk had his wand out and was ushering clamoring reporters out the door. The man was apparently quite adept at wand work, as the large crowd was safely locked out within seconds. He turned around, stowed his wand back in his threadbare vest, and walked a little ways into the store. "Miss Granger?" he called softly. He waited a moment, but no reply came. With a sad look on his face, he returned to his register.

Draco stood at the counter, frozen. Hermione Granger? Here's your chance, something inside him whispered. Swallowing thickly, he forced himself to move. Slowly, he moved past the aisles, searching for the woman who had changed his life forever.

He passed the Ancient Runes aisle, then the Cooking aisle, then the Dark Magic aisle.

History, Merlin, Morgana, Muggles.

Potions - he saw a flash of brown hair, and heard a muffled sob.

He quickly walked down the row of books, hardly knowing what he was doing. There, at the end of the row, curled up on the ground, was Hermione Granger.

Her hair was mussed, her eyes and nose were red, tears flowed uncontrolled down her cheeks, her shoulders shook, and Draco Malfoy couldn't help but think, She's beautiful.

He didn't know why. Not really.

But she was his savior, and he couldn't just stand there and watch her fall apart.

Hardly knowing what he was doing, he advanced toward the quivering creature.

He spoke her name, softly. When she did nothing but cry harder, he crept closer.

"Hermione?"

Her head shot up, her eyes immediately focusing on the blond man in front of her. She wept louder.

"Hermione, what's wrong?"

She shook her head. Feeling helpless, he crouched beside her. Giving him a desperate, wild look, she grasped his arm and buried her head in the junction of his shoulder and neck. He slipped down until he was leaning against the bookshelf, too, his arms lying uselessly by his sides and his face full of frizzy brown hair.

After a while, when her cries had begun to quiet, he spoke softly to her. "What's wrong?" He watched as her face screwed up in an effort not to cry harder.

"My parents," she whispered at last, through her tears. "There was a car crash and - and - and -" Her sobs once more cut her off, but Draco understood.

"They didn't make it, did they?" he said, softer than he thought he knew how.

She shook her head and gave in to her grief.

Draco suddenly realized that his arms had a mind of their own. They were rising, wrapping themselves around the mournful witch. He watched in astonishment as she pressed herself closer to him.

It wasn't too long before her cries quieted and her tears fell less swiftly. Draco felt the courage to speak rise within him again. "What are you doing in here?"

She sniffed, then replied, "I come in here when the world shows its true colors."

There was silence, again, until he spoke. "Thank you," he whispered solemnly.

She raised her head in confusion.

"Thank you for that day in the courtroom, for giving me a second chance..." But there was more, wasn't there? "Thank you for being you. Thank you for proving me wrong. Thank you for proving that Muggle-borns can be just as smart, strong, and worthy of honor as pure-bloods. Thank you for proving that Muggle-borns can be smarter, stronger, and far more worthy of honor than pure-bloods. Thank you for showing me that all blood is red, that all sorts of people come from all sorts of places, and most of all that the world can be changed by anyone." He paused, staring down into her wide eyes. "Thank you, Hermione."

In the back of his mind, his conscience gave a satisfied sigh.