Six months.

Six months were all it took to put all the pieces of the broken castle back together.

From the courtyard, it didn't seem that only six months ago this building was reduced to shreds, all rubble. The signs of the misery, death and bloody battle were gone and Hogwarts looked exactly like it did when Hermione had first laid eyes upon it, eight years ago.

Eight years.

So much had changed since then.

She couldn't bear it. Hermione looked away.

She remembered the first time she stood in the dark, outside the castle: anxious for the doors to open, to reveal to her all the magic and wonders of the world. She remembered how the warm yellow light from inside graced her face, how suddenly she felt as if all her worries had evaded her; her mind whirring, fingers itching to look through every nook and cranny of the old castle, just dying to unveil its secrets. She remembered feeling like she was home.

She didn't know what was home anymore, the mere concept seemingly ridiculous.

Even though there weren't any signs of the war anymore, she couldn't help but see red splashes of blood everywhere she glanced. On the walls, the floor, tables: she couldn't escape the red that hazed her vision, it was impossible. The sudden feeling of being trapped, being unable to breathe surrounded her whenever she tried stepping inside; as if any moment the walls would start closing in on her and would bury her underneath in the dark.

Hermione took a deep breath. She had to face her fears. It was the only way to ensure the nightmares went away for good. Her eyes pricked but she did not, could not let the tears fall. She turned and faced the castle again. She took in the serenity of her surroundings; no sounds except for the chirping of birds and the wind whistling softly in her ears, however, if she closed her eyes for more than a few seconds, she could hear them loud and clear, like going back in time: the shouts and cries of utter pain and despair, the sounds of death, ringing in her ears: too loud to ignore.

She let out her breath and straightened her posture. It was time. To leave it all behind her, to forget. She walked towards the entrance.

•••

The sorting ceremony was a blur of faces as Hermione sat at the Gryffindor table, mindlessly staring out into the open. She tried not to think about the past, but it haunted her with a cruel reminder of everything she had lost. Her mind went to Ron and Harry, she smiled at the thought of them, off to pursue their career as aurors.

Without her.

She shook the thought away. It was not right for her to think like that. He war had meddled with the minds and hearts of everyone, and she wouldn't blame them if their hearts had led them away from Hogwarts, away from her.

She cleared her head again. Choices, she thought, all the choices being made around her lead everyone she loved away from her.

With the final words of the sorting ceremony ringing in her ears, she wiped away a lone tear that had managed to escape and tried to put up a smile. She couldn't.

•••

The  following week and a half passed without incident, or she would like to think it did. Hermione did her best not to notice her surroundings, instead keeping her head in a book. Being a seventh year meant large amounts of homework, a huge pile of heavy books left half unread on her table in the dorm. The first weeks had given her a clear preview of how difficult this last year would be for her, but her academics were the least of her worries. What haunted her were the rows of the classrooms, each reminding her of her past years. She sat alone most of the time, but often she was so focused on her lecture that she'd almost forget where she was; unless there was some hindrance. Every time the professors asked a boy to shut up, she expected a Weasley's sly remark as a retort, but was reminded of her isolation once more when there none. She would almost turn around to shush Harry when she'd realize he wasn't there, just another boy with dark glasses. Everywhere she looked, she was reminded of how wrong everything felt, how every one who surrounded her were not the people that actually mattered, and it broke her to think to they had chosen to leave her own when they knew it was now that she needed them most.

Every time the thought came Hermione was reminded of the fact that her friends believed in her and trusted her enough to know that she would solve her problems on her own, but it pained her to think of how much they could have helped if they were just here. She knew she was being selfish, her needs would have kept them back from their auror career, but still. The thoughts came and she could do nothing to stop them.

Suffice to say, Hermione's first week of classes weren't going as well, but they were better than what she'd imagined. At least the nightmares weren't returning, which meant she was making progress.

Though deep in her heart she knew she hadn't even come close to facing her fears, she was avoiding them; faking the load of homework and unnecessary studying as progress on her obvious problem. 

It was though, one fateful day when she was making her way towards Potions that her she had been so engrossed in her potions books that she did not realize she had reached a turn in the hallway and bumped head first into someone. With a quick apology Hermione looked up to see who it was, confused when she saw the person had already moved on. she turned in an attempt to spot the person, only to see the receding mass of blond hair. Hermione stopped in her tracks. she was dumbfounded, she did not know he would come back. He who had tormented her for years, who had made all the wrong choices, and always found himself on the other side. She gulped. She did not want anything to do with him, for only the smallest glimpse of is figure brought back memories worse than she could ever imagine.

  •••  

The nightmares came back late that night, vicious than ever.  Sleep evaded her as her mind reminisced the events she so desperately wanted to forget. Her mind ringing with the sounds of the war; spell against spell, cries of pain and shouts of distress; Hermione shot up from bed, unable to breath. She tried to calm herself: deep breaths, deep breaths, she held herself tight, eyes screwed shut trying to keep away the bloody scene that played against the inside of her eyes. She tried so hard not to cry; the other girls might wake up. She held herself for what seemed like forever, but to no avail. The dark room was lit by the moon light, the bare trees outside casting sinister shadows on the walls. They haunted her, reminding her of the shadows that she had been trying to escape for so long. The memories choked her; buried her underneath layers and layers of pain and fear.

Hermione caught her breath. She couldn't breathe, she needed air, air: somewhere, somewhere, she needed to go.

Not making a sound, she swiftly got up, put on her robes and went out of the room.

Crossing the common room and out of the dorm, she did not pause and let her feet guide her in the dark to where ever they led. It was well after curfew, but she didn't care; she would have suffocated otherwise.

It was times like this that she missed Ginny; if she were here Hermione would have simply woken her up, or might have found her lying awake in bed already, still pondering over the things she'd lost.

But she was not here, neither was Ron or Harry. Hermione was alone, so irrevocably alone. They had chosen to let her fight this one battle on her own, and a part of her was greatful. But another part of her yearned for their company, so they could make her fears go away.

But you cast your own patronus, Hermione, she reminded herself. No one does it for you. But she also thought of how much easier it'd be if someone was there to constantly remind her of all the good times in her life; a friend to help her cast a patronus. Shed even forgotten what it was, it had been such a long time since shed cast it. An otter, her thoughts echoed at the back of her mind. She wondered if a patronus could save her from her own mind.

Her footsteps echoed in the dark as she walked the long hallways, tears falling as she recalled how once she roamed the same halls with so many other people, and how fate had led her to roam those halls now alone. It was cruel, she thought. Thinking about it made her heart ache, so she let her mind race, traveling to a thousand different places at once. Absent mindedly her fingers traced the edges of a bandaged that wound around her arm, a bandage she never intended on removing, yet another cruel reminder of what she did not want to remember. She was thankful for the dark; it deprived her from knowing where she was, and that saved her from remembering who she had lost there.

She had her wand with her, but she did not use it to light her way: she knew she wouldn't get lost.

Her feet came to an abrupt stop as she came to a turn, the unmistakable sounds of cries coming from the other side.

Her breath hitched as she hid behind the wall, trying to make out who it might be. It was definitely a boy; the sounds were too deep to be one of the girls. He cried and cried, his breaths hitched and often interrupted by mumblings she made out to be spells; which ones, she did not know. She stood there for who knows how long, contemplating her options.

Hermione couldn't take it anymore, she took out her wand, wordlessly illuminating it and stepped out from behind the wall. If she could not deal with her own nightmares, she could at least help someone with theirs.

However, what she was not expecting to see when she rounded the corner was the disheveled image of a particular platinum blonde whose face she could not forget even if she tried; with his white shirt torn and stained with the same blood that pooled at his feet and stuck to his hair.

Draco Malfoy stood ten feet away from her, unmistakably crying and heaving, angrily muttering a string of spells she could not quite catch. He was holding his wand and pointing it to his arm, too busy inflicting pain upon himself to notice her presence. It was her horrified cry that escaped her lips as she saw the image before that caught his attention, and Draco turned towards her with bloodshot eyes and a face streaked with blood, wand poised towards a bloody arm.

Draco stared at Hermione, his eyes holding emotions so strong, so full of pain, confusion, utter hopelessness and desperation, and fear that she was caught in a trance for a moment. She took in his image, his sleeves torn at the arms, both his arms bloodied and bruised, face contorted into one of insane sorrow. It was the first time they they had come face to face since the war, since he had fled, and both could see the horrible things the war had lead them to do, led them to feel and think, leaving them questioning their own memories, their own thoughts. He saw in her eyes the same pain, followed a deep, deep woe he could not place. But soon as he realized what was happening, Draco's face contorted into an expression of utter agony, and hot, raw anger.

"Leave me alone!" he shouted as a string of an unfamiliar spell shot past her, barely missing her shoulder. That was enough to bring Hermione back to her wits, and she took in the situation.

"Draco I- I just wanted to help," she started. "Why are you doing this to yourse-"

"I don't need your help," he sneered. " You're here to point and laugh at me, aren't you Granger? Just like everybody else, just like saint Potter. Leave now before I kill you." He shouted at her, completely taking her aback, his wand now pointing her.

Hermione faltered. She saw his arm now, clearly. The sleeves had been torn till the elbows, baring his skin, and it was then she saw the horrid sign that would forever stain her memory; the dark mark. But it was not just that, it was heavily bruised with blood seeping out of it with a steady flow, dripping to the floor and streaking the nearby walls. It all made sense to her now, as she put the pieces together, and when she did her eyes pricked with tears and her chest tightened with remorse.

Draco had been trying to get rid of the dark mark. Draco, the evilest of all Hogwarts students, desperately hurting himself in attempts to rid himself of the evil that traced his skin, dark against his strikingly pale skin.

It hurt her to see him like this, chilled her to the bone and then, at that moment something shifted inside of her. She no longer saw the proud, handsome young man that had tormented her for years, constantly reminding of her inferior bloodline, but instead, she saw a young boy, broken and lost in a fight he never wanted to be in. In the midst of his grey irises, Hermione saw a young boy desperate to escape, to escape the harsh reality that will follow him like a plague for the rest of his life.

She held out her wand and stepped closer to him. "Draco, you wouldn't, I know you wouldn't," she started, still moving closer to him. He stood transfixed, as if he couldn't believe she was trying to come near him. "If you'd listen to me I can mend your arm before you lose too much blood, please let met h-"

"I don't need your help you filthy little mudblo-" he shouted but stopped, midway. Her eyes widened and pricked, the pain of the past rushing back towards her. However, this time those words did not affect her as much as they once did, she was able to ingest the words, knowing now they held no meaning to her, or to him too, as she did not fail to notice that he had been unable to complete his sentence, while once in another lifetime he wouldn't have thought twice before saying them. Now, he looked like he had been slapped square in the face, an expression of utter horror molding his features as he realized the words had just left his mouth.

•••

Draco could not stop the words from escaping his lips; he had been too angry and torn to have control over his mind. He hated seeing her here, her, of all people. The granger. He hated her for catching him in his moment of weakness, when all his hopes of escaping the dark shadows of the wretched mark had vanished, forcing him to steer away from the dungeon to try and peel it off of him for good, by force. And then she had to arrive, the last person he wanted to, or was expecting, to see.

However, as soon as he found the foul profanity leaving his lips he stopped himself, his eyes widening, realizing what he was just about to say. The words hung in the air, unfinished and inhumane as ever. His mouth tasted foul, tongue tasting the bitterness of the word he had sworn he'd never say again. It shook him to the core and rendered him speechless, all his anger dissipating into the air, replaced by cold and clear shock, at his own actions. It brought back horrid memories of one afternoon at Malfoy manor, when the girl standing in front of him was left with Bellatirx to do as she pleased with her, and he was forced to watch.

The scene played before his very eyes again; he could almost hear her screams reverberating off of the walls once more, crying, begging, screaming for her stop. No words can explain what he felt then, hate and disgust: at himself, helplessness, hopelessness, and most of all: guilt.

That same guilt follows him still, and forever will, for no matter how much hate his father had instilled him for the muggle born girl, he never once wanted her hurt. Not once.

And it was the same guilt that had prevented him from saying more.

He watched with utter shock how she registered the long inflicted wound. She had flinched and stop for a brief second before swiftly recovering her resolve. He watched as she squared her shoulders and closed the distance between them, steady, long strides bringing her closer to him. She stopped when she was right beside him, and took his raised arm in her hands as he could only silently watch as she wordlessly healed his wounds. His eyes never left her, her guarded expression soft unrevealing, following the movements of her hand as she moved the tip of her wand across his skin.

Wordless, they stood there until she had mended all his wounds wand had wiped away all the blood from his arm. And then, as silently and gracefully she had approached him, she left, leaving him reflecting on what had just taken place between him and the muggle born. She did not once look back.

Draco stared, still at a loss of words. He looked at his arm, now devoid of all the scars he had inflicted upon it; and yet the mark was still there, less bloodied, less scarred, but still there.

He stood there, unable to look away from his hand, unable to look away from the dark serpent that stared back at him. Oddly enough, it felt cleaner than it had been before, even though nothing about it had changed.

Still staring and pondering, Draco walked back to the dungeons, eyes not leaving his arm for one second. His face tear streaked and blood splashed, eyes hurting and the arm now numb, he staggered back to the dungeons.

He thought of a billion different things on the way back, but strangely not of his past as he normally did; but rather, of a bushy haired girl who had healed him the middle of a hallway in the dark depths of the night.

Draco didn't know when his misery would end, when his redemption would end, and where would it leave him there after? What he had come to know right know was when it had begun, and he liked to think it was right now as his wounds were healed by a former enemy. He realized, that this was only just the beginning, and the key to the end may be found in a bushy haired witch walking away from him into the depths of castle beyond his reach. 

•••