"How's Narcissa?" 

Hermione had just returned after enjoying a pleasant evening with Narcissa at their cafe. They had talked about mundane things, and had had tea and crumpets. Hermione found that she actually looked forward to the evenings that they spent together.

"She's fine," Hermione said cautiously, "how come you're suddenly asking?"

"Do I have to receive permission before I ask about someone?" Carson drawled, "She was my mother's friend."

"Oh," Hermione nodded, "she's doing good. And she's eating a little better than before I think."

"That's great," Carson said. He avoided Hermione's gaze.

The weeks bore on. Hermione followed routines. She would go to work, go to tea with Narcissa on a few days, come back, watch a movie on the television with Carson in the evening. On weekends she would write to Poppy and Professor Slughorn, and visit Harry and Ginny at Godric's Hollow. Her life became constant, and that in itself was very comforting and reassuring.

The night on which she had had a panic attack was never mentioned. Hermione was too embarrassed about it to bring it up, and she knew Carson knew better than to try and initiate a conversation with that as its topic. Hermione knew that since then, the remaining sheet of ice between them had melted. They still sat at opposite ends of the table, still kept small talk at a bare minimum, but something had shifted. Now they weren't just roommates. They were, Hermione had come to the conclusion, friends. Hermione also knew that on that night, a barrier had been crossed, but another one had been built. She had been vulnerable in front of him and allowed herself to break down. She was determined not to let such a situation arise again. Hermione was okay with being friends, but she was terrified of what the outcomes may be if she got too close to him, or if her expectations built up. So, she vowed to herself to strictly keep this a friendship, and nothing else. Nothing more and nothing less. A middle ground where she was comfortable.

It was around five in the evening, and Hermione was putting her files and rolls of parchment in her drawer after arranging them. She closed her ink pot, blotted her quill, and put them in a case before placing it in the drawer on top of all her files. 

"Miss Granger?" 

Hermione lifted her head and brushed aside the strands of hair that were too stubborn to stay in the bun she had managed to create. She was greeted by a face framed by dark, wavy hair. The man's dark eyes were wrinkled at the corners due to the cheeky grin that graced his features. Hermione was always used to looking at his face as the opposition, as a cronie of a bully. She saw none of that now. They had all matured, and gotten over most of their petty rivalries.

"Nott." Hermione inclined her head, and continued putting her things away.

"Blimey," Theodore couldn't keep the from his face, "you're as righteous as ever. Call me Theodore."

"Thank you?" Hermione quirked an eyebrow, "Did you have something to say, Theodore?"

"Yea," Theodore stopped grinning, "Clearwater asked me to inform you to make a change to Lucius Malfoy's file before you leave today."

"I'm listening," Hermione took her coat off the back of her chair and pulled it on. She picked up her bag and turned to the door.

"His sentence has been reduced," Theodore said, leaning against Hermione's desk. His eyes wandered over Hermione's form, and he rolled the sleeves of his shirt up before continuing, and Hermione could see his Dark Mark, faded now, "he is to be kept under house arrest for the next seven years. His wand is going to be snapped, and he will be monitored. We're to send an owl to Narcissa Malfoy."

"I'll add the changes and send the owl," Hermione answered briskly, "thank you for informing me, and please do keep your eyes to yourself."

She left the office without a second glance behind her. Hermione walked swiftly to the archives room, and summoned Lucius Malfoy's file. 

Name: Lucius Malfoy

Profile: patriarch and head of Malfoy        Manor. Acclaimed Death Eater. Ex Governor of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Accused of the deaths of muggles and muggle-borns, and for providing Malfoy Manor as headquarters to Voldemort.

Family: Narcissa Malfoy (wife), Draco Malfoy (son, and Malfoy heir)

Sentence: for the crimes committed by Lucius Malfoy during and before the war, lifetime imprisonment shall be served in Azkaban.

Hermione traced the tip of her quill across the last line, scratching out his previous sentence. She neatly wrote the updated sentence down below the paragraph. Once she was done, she placed the file back in place and walked out of the archives section.

"Could you please direct me to the owlery?" Hermione asked a young boy who was color coding some memos.

"First level, at the right end," the boy said, "they make a mess, be careful."

"Thank you," Hermione was about to turn and walk away when a gasp of surprise stopped her.

"You're the Hermione Granger!" they boy exclaimed loudly, "It's such an honour to meet you, Miss!"

He enthusiastically pumped Hermione's hand up and down, "I'm Florence Settington."

"Oh, that's a coincidence," Hermione broke into a grin, "I live in the apartment where Mrs. Settington is the landlady."

"Yes, yes, Grandma mentioned it in a letter," Florence's grin stretched from ear to ear, "I won't keep you for long, Miss. Both of us have work."

"I hope to see you again, Florence," Hermione nodded at him. He smiled again before getting back to work.

Hermione followed his directions when she got off the lift on the first level.

The owlery reeked of owl droppings. Hermione covered her nose to stop herself from gagging and picked a piece of parchment from the stack kept near the door.

To Mrs. Malfoy,

The result of your request has been passed.

According to the decision of the Wizengamot, the sentence of your husband, Lucius Malfoy, had been reduced. He will now be kept under house arrest for the next seven years. His wand will have to be confiscated.

If you have any further queries, you are requested to approach the Ministry.

Best wishes,

Department of Medical Law Enforcement

P.S. This is Hermione by the way. You have my sincerest wishes.

Hermione fixed the letter and chose an owl. It allowed Hermione to tie the letter on its leg, then flew out through a hole in the roof.

She was slightly frazzled by the fact that Lucius had been released. Yes, she was happy for Narcissa because she wouldn't have to be alone anymore. But Lucius Malfoy, he deserved atleast ten years in Azkaban if not life imprisonment. Silently scolding herself for being such a hypocrite, Hermione walked to the entrance hall and apparated home.

She was welcomed by the sight of Carson huddled on the floor, his back against one of the couches, and his eyes glued to the television screen. Hermione was reminded of the poem 'Television' by Roald Dahl. She smiled to herself.

"Had a good day at work?"

"Kind of," Hermione mumbled.

"Kind of?" Carson mused, "Why wasn't the answer a "yes!" like you always say?"

"Lucius Malfoy's sentence has been reduced," Hermione said before she could stop herself, "instead of life imprisonment, he's now under house arrest. His wand has been snapped."

Carson knitted his brows together. His eyebrows, Hermione noticed, were thick, and only a few hairs away from bushy. 

"Why does that put you off?" Carson asked almost inaudibly.

"Well," Hermione placed her bag on the floor next to him and sat down with a thump, "I know that, everyone deserves a second chance, that everyone has good in them. That applies to Lucius as well. But…"

"You think he's too cruel to be given a second chance?" Carson stretched his legs out in front of him.

"No," Hermione shook her head twice, "I just feel like he deserves a punishment for what he's done. Obviously it's not my place to look into that. There's nothing to actually excuse his deeds, I think."

Carson remained silent, looking at Hermione thoughtfully. She fiddled with her fingers.

"Looks like I've got prejudice problems just like pure bloods," Hermione rested her head back on the couch to look at the ceiling, "I'm such a hypocrite."

Still not a word came out of Carson's mouth. Hermione finally peeled her eyes off the very empty ceiling to look at Carson. His intense gaze was still on her.

"What do you think of the Malfoy family?" he asked, tilting his head to the right slightly.

"They're misunderstood," Hermione said after a while, "they had to do what they did because it was either follow Voldemort or lose their lives. Narcissa suffered so much, she lost her son and her husband under the course of a few years."

"I don't think Lucius deserves a second chance," Carson muttered.

"He does," Hermione insisted, "my dislike for him is personal, not otherwise. Yes, he has killed several people and done horrible things. But so have Theodore Nott and Blaise Zabini. They've been forgiven, so Lucius should be given a chance too. Regardless of my personal hate against him."

"And what about their son?" 

Hermione turned to Carson curiously. Why was he suddenly so interested in her thoughts on the Malfoy family?

"Draco Malfoy?" Hermione laid back again, "I did punch him once."

"Aside from that," Carson rolled his eyes.

"He never had a choice," Hermione said after thinking for a while, "he followed his father, idolised him. I've seen Lucius with him, he never seemed affectionate. He was forced into being a Death Eater. I think that if he's given a chance, and the right company, he can truly become a better person."

Carson's molten metal eyes grew dark, "You think he deserves a chance at redemption?"

"Everyone deserves atleast one of those," Hermione shut her eyes. 

"You're wrong," Carson shook his head to emphasize his point, "not everyone deserves a second chance. Definitely not a Death Eater. Definitely not a Death Eater because of who the war started."

"Perhaps," Hermione said a quiet voice, "but I think there's still good in people, you know? Under all the layers of bad. Look at Blaise. He's happily married to Luna, he has a respectable job as a part time auror. He's changed for the better."

Carson said nothing for some time, and when he spoke, it was in a low, harsh voice, "You're too naive, Granger."

"So I've been told."

"Other people don't care that you're so nice," Carson sounded determined to make Hermione lose her way of thinking, "they don't care that you want to be kind to them."

"They don't have to." Hermione had always been stubborn, she stuck to her point like velcro, "But, just because I'm nice doesn't mean I can't kick arse."

"So I've heard."

They lapsed into silence, and it wasn't a comfortable one. Hermione wasn't sure whether she should be the first to speak. What if he didn't want to talk? Wait, why does it matter? She'll do whatever the hell she wants. 

"What were you watching?" Hermione pointed to the television. The screen showed the seemingly endless list of names of the people involved in the movie. 

"I don't know the name, something about people sitting in those metal cars muggles have," Carson said, "I couldn't find anything else."

"Shall I check?" Hermione stretched her arms out to take the remote from beside him, and he passed it to her. She skimmed through the channels, and there was nothing nice to see. So she switched it off.

"Get up," Hermione said. She stood up and stretched out, hearing her muscles pop from being inactive for so long.

"And do what?" Carson said as he dramatically covered his face with his arm and looked away. 

"I don't know," Hermione had to stop a smile from infecting her face now, "read something."

"I've done enough of that at Hogwarts."

"So you were studious?" Hermione mused, "Or do you mean you read other books and not school books?"

"A bit of both," Carson finally stood up. Hermione realised how close they were standing to each other and took a step back. 

Carson smirked, "Why are you so afraid of me?"

"I am not," Hermione's cheeks heated up with indignation. She narrowed her eyes at him.

"Whatever you say," Carson turned away and headed to his bedroom. Without a second glance at her, he closed his door and Hermione heard the lock click into place.

As if she'd be scared of him. And as if she'd tell him if she was afraid of him. Arrogant bastard. Who does he think he is, anyways? 

Hermione took refuge in her bedroom to calm herself down. She ran her hand along the spines of the books she had, and on finding one she liked, pulled it out. Looking for a comfortable spot, she settled down on the floor with her back against her bed. However, she couldn't concentrate on the words on the page. She reread paragraphs, lost her train of thought, and sometimes couldn't put together meanings of the words on the page. After being able to read only three pages over the course of an hour, Hermione snapped the book shut and let out a frustrated sigh.

Racking her brains for other ways to destress, Hermione decided on taking a shower. Hopefully she'd be able to make it last until dinner time so that she wouldn't have to see Carson's sorry face till then. Hermione snatched her towel from the top of a stack of folded clothes. The other clothes lost balance and toppled over, losing their folding. 

She could swear that the whole world was against her.

Hermione left her room muttering furiously under her breath. She tried to open the bathroom door, but it wouldn't turn. It was locked, and she could hear the shower running inside.

It's okay, Hermione swallowed in an attempt to calm herself down, she'd wait. She would not bang her fists on the door and yell at him to get out. No, she definitely would not do that.

Hermione sat down on one of the couches and glared at the door of the bathroom. She crossed her arms and folded her legs, so that she was pulled tight into herself. 

Hermione waited. And waited. And waited. Her frustration at the world slowly gave way to tiredness, and she fell asleep on the couch, her much needed shower forgotten.

----

After what seemed like hours, he stepped out of the shower. The hot water left his skin feeling raw and sensitive. He surveyed himself in the mirror. After staring at his expression for a few seconds, he grabbed the wand he was using and pointed it at himself.

"Tirinum."

He watched with mild curiosity as his appearance changed and the spell did its work. When he stopped altering, he pointed his wand at his face.

"Felintas Ristaris."

Once again, he stopped and stared as the spell did what it was supposed to. A few more muttered incantations later, he looked over himself again. Satisfied, he turned to the door and opened it.

Hermione was asleep on one of the couches. She was curled up into herself like a cat. Her eyebrows were knitted together as though she was frustrated, and her forehead was creased. Her mouth was turned down in the remnants of a frown.

A grumpy cat with a nest for hair, he thought to himself.

She was wearing shorts and a tee shirt. It was chilly in the apartment, and he didn't think her scanty clothing gave her much protection against the cold.

He hadn't planned on closing the kitchen windows to prevent the wind from penetrating the apartment. He hadn't planned on walking to his room in search of a blanket. He hadn't planned on coming back with one. And he definitely hadn't planned on covering her with it.

But for him, things never went according to plan.

----

Hermione woke up feeling warm. For the first few seconds, she lay still and silent, relishing the warm feeling that had enveloped her entire body. Eventually, Hermione opened her eyes and looked down at herself. 

There was a blanket on her.

And it wasn't hers, and she she was certain that she hadn't fallen asleep on the couch with a blanket on.

She examined the blanket. It was a deep emerald color, and made of a thin yet fleecy material. The edges were sown neatly, there was not a single stain or blemish on the fabric. And it smelled...nice. It smelled like apples and lemons and oranges and cologne, and there was also a faint trace of something like menthol.

Hermione snapped out of her trance. 

She stood and folded the blanket and placed it on the couch. A quick glance at the watch told her that it was around ten at night. Hermione groaned internally. She still had to make dinner. For no relevant reason, she felt ticked off at Carson. He could have woken her up! That stupid, son of a-

"Oh, you're awake," Carson said, feigning cheerfulness, "hungry, are you?"

Carson had made dinner. For both of them. Usually, they made their own food. Hermione had, however, noticed that Carson used apples in almost everything. He would have an apple in the evening, garnish his bowl of cereal in the morning with thin apple slices, and he made apple pie every alternate day. To be honest, Hermione had started thinking that he had an unhealthy obsession with them. 

Now, Carson stood with two plates in his hand. There were two sandwiches on each of them. He was a little sweaty, and his silver eyes had a mischievous glint to them.

"You're staring, Granger," Carson accused, "it's rude to stare."

"Sorry," Hermione mumbled. His breath smelled like alcohol, and Hermione realised that he must have been drinking. She wrinkled her nose in distaste and sat down at her usual spot, and Carson placed one of the plates in front of her. 

"Your welcome," he rolled his eyes as he took his seat at the opposite side of the table. He summoned another plate with a few more sandwiches and placed it on the center of the table.

"Right, uh, sorry," Hermione felt her cheeks flush, "thank you."

Carson nodded approvingly. The rest of dinner passed in silence. There was one more sandwich left on a plate in the middle. Over the course of the meal, the plate had ended up a little away from Hermione and closer to Carson.

"Can you please pass me the other sandwich?" Hermione looked up from her food.

"No," Carson smirked, "because I need it."

"So, we'll have half each," Hermione couldn't believe him. Arrogant seemed to be his middle name. 

"But that would require some effort," Carson was now struggling not to laugh, "and if you haven't noticed, I don't like doing things that require effort."

"You annoying git, you little- just hand it over!"

"Come and get it."

Carson took the sandwich off the plate and tossed it into the air before catching it again. Hermione lost it. She shot out of her chair and chased after him as he ran from the kitchen into the living room. She grabbed her wand off the counter as she ran past.

"Give it here, Carson!"

"I told you, come and get it!"

"I will hex you, don't tempt me."

"Oh, you will? Miss Goody Two Sh-"

"Tarantallegra!"

Carson began tapping his feet on the floor and waving his arms around in the air as he did a vague impression of some kind of Scottish folk dance. Hermione summoned the sandwich and it zoomed into her hand. She caught it and took a bite, while Carson continued dancing.

"You've done it now, Granger," Carson said in between his dancing routine. 

"You started it," Hermione stuck her tongue out at him.

"You dare stick your tongue out at me?" Carson finally stopped dancing, "You'll pay for that one, if it's the last thing I do."

Carson took out his wand from inside his pocket, and pointed it at Hermione, "Rictumsempra!"

Hermione deflected the jinx with a flick of her wrist before shooting her own at him, "Colloshoo!"

Carson narrowly dodged the spell, "Avis!"

A stream of yellow canaries shot out of the tip of Carson's wand and gathered around Hermione's head. 

She couldn't breathe.

No, no, not again.

Not again.

She sluggishly tried to swat away the birds. But they relentlessly kept pecking at her. 

Finally, gathering her senses, she pointed her wand at the birds swarming her head, "Immobulus."

The birds stopped fluttering and pecking at her, and remained floating in air. Hermione felt hot tears stinging her eyes.

"Well, not as good as others claim, are we?" Carson stowed his wand, seemingly oblivious to the effect his hex had on the brunette in front of him, "Brightest witch of your age? Maybe. But maybe not the most quick acting. But if you're ready for taking lessons under me, maybe you can be good enough."

Hermione's mind absorbed every word he said. Not as good as others claim. Maybe you can be good enough.

She was never good enough. She tried and tried, but she couldn't do it.

"Granger?" Carson dropped his sneering and his face took on an expression of concern.

"Yes?" Hermione tried not to let her voice crack.

"Are you seriously crying because you lost in a duel against me?" Carson threw his head back as he laughed, "Really, Granger, I thought you were a better loser than that."

I thought you were better.

Carson furrowed his brow at her when she made no fiery retort. He took a tentative step toward her. Hermione flinched away. 

"Granger what are you keeping bottled up in that head of yours?" Carson stepped back to survey her form, "you're not okay, so don't bother lying to me."

"I'm," Hermione didn't know what to say, "I don't know."

"I'm listening," Carson said in a low, gentle voice.

"I'm tired," Hermione closed her eyes as the tears finally slipped out, "I'm tired."

"Tired?" Carson quirked a brow. Hermione became aware of how close he was standing. She could feel the warmth emanating from him. His silver eyes bore into her as though he was looking deep into her soul. He had placed a hand on her shoulder.

Hermione couldn't find it in her to tell him.

"Good night, Carson," Hermione moved away from him. His hand slipped off her shoulder and fell limply by his side. 

The next day, Carson was in one of his foul moods. He didn't respond when she wished him good morning, and picked at his food without eating it. Then he disappeared into his room, snatching a bottle of firewhiskey off the kitchen counter on the way, when Ginny arrived. 

Hermione wasn't surprised. He had several mood swings. This must be one of those days. Usually, he'd be fine in the evening, or the next day. Hermione paid the thought no more mind as she apparated to work.

Carson's bitter outlook on everything around him remained as such for the next four days. He became increasingly quiet, and Hermione noticed that he started wearing slightly loose, full sleeved clothes. 

"Oh, you've chosen to eat breakfast today," Hermione said cheerily on the fifth day, "you look terrible, I insist you don't skip anymore meals."

Carson nodded and sat down. He silently ate his porridge and apple. Hermione observed his actions, looking for any sign that would give her a hint as to what was bothering him so that she could help him.

"Your owl's here," Hermione pointed to the jet black owl tapping at the kitchen window. 

Their owls generally came in on the weekends, but this jet black one turned up once or twice a month without any regular pattern. Hermione assumed it was from a friend.

Carson stood and took the envelope from the bird's beak and placed a few bronze knuts in its leg pouch. Hermione watched as he pulled the parchment out of the envelope. As he read, his expression dimmed, and became agitated. However, he was quick to cover it up with a cold mask of indifference. Hermione was about to ask if everything was okay, but he shot her a warning glare to shut up before stalking to his room and banging the door closed.

Carson's attitude improved over the next few days. And Hermione felt relieved. For some reason.