365 days [d.m. + h.g.]

[eight]

325 Days After

Hermione didn't sleep. Every time she closed her eyes, she saw herself ruthlessly and unforgivingly killing someone, without a second thought. She murdered him with no guilt.

She filled the roles of judge, jury, and executioner. Dolohov deserved everything he had coming, but who was she to determine that? Who was she to kill him?

She was not sure where along the line she decided she got to play god, but here she was. Malfoy had told her that morality wouldn't win the war, but who was she if she abandoned them? Who would she be after the war if she abandons what makes her her?

She was the same stubborn Gryffindor who fought for every righteous thing she could think of – S.P.E.W including – and created study guides and organized lesson plans. But now she was the Gryffindor who mauledpeople on the battlefield just because she had a personal vendetta against them.

Harry would be disappointed in her. He was always mad at the Order's leadership – primarily Moody – for teaching dark curses, for pushing for more violent fighting. He would be disappointed in her.

Her personal vendettas weren't as personal as that they had harmed herper-say. Rather, the fact that he was threatening her friends was enough for her. She always would cross every single line for her friends. Morals be damned when her friends were at stake.

She was sure Harry would still be disappointed in her, but she jaywalked into immorality for him and Ron and the DA and the Order. And Draco. She knew he defected and should technically be considered a Phoenix like the rest of them, but she couldn't bring herself to label him as one of them. But he was still on her team and just like everyone else, she would drag herself through hell for him. Potentially even more than the others.

Speak of the devil and he shall appear...it was like he could hear her thoughts as he walked into the room and sat down next to her on the couch, sporting a smug smirk.

"Granger," it came out as a low purr. Fitting for the way he pranced and prowled around the safe houses like a pariah, feet as light as a cat's. She wouldn't be surprised if he had nine lives too.

"Malfoy."

"What are you doing out here sulking at – "he checked his watch and pulled a face, "3:24 am?"

"I guess I could ask you the same thing."

"I just got out here, you've been out here. Hence, sulking, I just couldn't sleep."

"Oh, shut it, prat."

"Is that the best you got, swot?"

"Git."

"Bitch."

"Incorrigible ferret."

"Too far, Granger, that was fourth year."

She let out a loud laugh, her whole body shaking from its force. Relaxing in his presence, Hermione stretched out onto the couch, placing her feet in Draco's lap. He stiffened before relaxing, his hands held lightly on her legs.

She noticed too much about Draco. The way he was withdrawn around the whole group of them, but reciprocated her energy, like he needed to be coaxed out of his shell. He was cold and hard and cruel and rough, but he had a way of making her feel warm and soft inside. He treated her like she was a person and like she mattered. But he was more than that. He's...

She didn't know how to describe him without using the word infuriating.

"So, Malfoy, can't sleep?"