23rd September, 1998

Draco stared at the ink-stained parchment. He'd read the letter so many times, the words were starting to jumble up in his mind.

Yet, he held onto it as if holding on to his life.

He traced the Love, Mum at the end of the letter with a shaky finger. The words had been scrawled as if she was in a hurry.

His mind went into hyper-dive as the scenarios flooded in.

Of his mother being tortured. Of her being dragged away by either the Death Eaters or the Ministry. Of her being bled to unconsciousness. Of her calling for his help.

He closed his fist around the letter, crumpling it down. He started at the fire flickering in front of him and every part of him screamed at him to do something. To somehow fly from Hogwarts back to his Manor to make sure his Mum was okay.

The only reason he wasn't captured by the Ministry yet was because of McGonagall and Hogwarts.

After the war, the Malfoy's had become fugitives from both sides. The safest option for them had been to go into hiding.

His letter from Hogwarts hadn't just been an invitation to complete his studies. It had been an offer of sanctuary.

Draco understood when Blaise and Pansy had told him about their letters, about being called back, about being promised safety. They hadn't played any major role in the war.

But his letter had come as a shock both to him and his parents. His mother had promised him that they would stay safe if he went back. Both of them had forced him to go back.

He had fought and shouted and struggled against them. He had begged them to let him stay with them so that he could make sure they were safe but his parents hadn't budged.

Draco had relented at last. But not before silently casting a spell on them. A spell that would let him know if they were in trouble.

He pulled out the locket from under his robes and let it dangle in front of him. It was an heirloom with the Malfoy family crest on it.

A silver M with the backdrop of a green and black banner. A dragon curved and twisted around the M and beneath it were the words 'Sanctimonia Vincet Semper' in silver.

Draco had enchanted it in such a way that it was now connected to his parents. The locket showed everything was normal but his mother's letter suggested otherwise.

He sighed, letting his head fall back. His stock of sleeping draught was running low. He'd soon have to buy more. His body protested on the mere thought of more potions in his system but he ignored it.

A sound behind him made him turn around towards the stairs and a shriek followed his movements.

Hermione Granger stood on the last step of the dormitory stairs, her wand now lit, casting a shadow behind her. She had her hand on her chest, eyes wide.

Draco immediately shoved the letter in his pocket and slammed his Occlumency walls in place.

He raised an eyebrow and she gave herself a little shake, letting her shoulders slump before she realized how she was facing. Her relaxed posture went alert again and she stretched her wand arm slightly. Draco instinctively shrunk away into the shadows.

Her face showed the same apprehension he was feeling. She stood studying him for a long moment even though Draco was sure she wouldn't find anything worthwhile.

Draco willed her to leave and she looked like she might but then she took a slow step forward. And then another.

He thought about leaving, about going back to his room but something made him stop. She sat at the other end of the sofa, her eyes still trained on his face. Then slowly, cautiously she allowed herself to look away.

Her eyes landed on his chest and whatever mask of indifference she was wearing evaporated in a burst of disgust. Draco followed her line of sight and almost cursed. He had forgotten to hide his locket back inside his robes.

"Sanctimonia Vincet Semper," she read aloud, not bothering to keep the poison out of her voice. "Purity will always conquer."

"How typical of you," she scoffed.

"Wearing a locket is typical of me?" He asked with an edge to his voice.

She was here only two minutes and he was already hating it.

"What's typical is after everything, you still wear that motto proudly," she shot back and he rolled his eyes.

"Granger, how about you stop talking about things you have no knowledge of?"

"I think I have enough knowledge of what that locket says and what it stands for," she said, sounding like it was taking every inch of willpower for her to not hex him.

It amused Draco for some reason.

"You act like you've changed. You go out of his way to defend that little girl and then you walk around with this thing around your neck," she spat and whatever amusement he was feeling vanished in thin air.

"Granger," he warned, his voice low in a way that tethered on dangerous.

She folded her arms over her chest, daring him to continue, eyes burning brighter than the fire in front of them.

She was as stubborn as him and the fact did not sit well with him.

"I know you hate me so why come here and try to lecture me on an heirloom?" he demanded, trying to rein his words in check.

She blinked as if surprised by his response.

"I didn't know you would be down here," she admitted and slumped back onto the sofa.

"Well, now you know so you can leave."

He raised his eyebrow at the dumbfounded look on her face, pleased with himself.

"I have no intention of leaving," she said finally, tucking her legs under her. "If you have a problem, you can leave."

Draco stopped himself from rolling his eyes.

"Well, tough luck, Granger," he said, relaxing in his position.

They were both too stubborn to relent so they sat in the stretching silence. Draco focused on the crackling of fire and the weight of the locket on his chest. She raised his eyes to his face after every two minutes and he pretended not to notice, letting her draw her psychological sketch of the cold blooded monster.

"Why are you here?" she asked after an hour of silence.

"The same reason as you," he replied.

"Fair enough," she muttered.

"Why did you offer yourself to the Ministry?" she asked and Draco clenched his jaw. He closed his hands in a fist, his nails pressing against the skin of his palm painfully.

He knew she was baiting him. She was looking for a fight. She was trying to find something with which she can reassure herself that he was still the bigoted boy he was before the war.

But he was not. He had nothing to prove to her but he refused to give her the satisfaction of seeing him vulnerable. He stood up from his place, glaring at her.

"For the brightest witch of our age, you are really dense," he said.

He didn't wait to gauge her reaction before he walked away.

Word count: [1,225 words]