𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐏𝐥𝐚𝐜𝐞 𝐖𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞 𝐓𝐡𝐞𝐲 𝐆𝐨

𝐗𝐈𝐕

"Yes," I said, "And he has no intention to hurt me or anyone."

She wore a strange expression, I couldn't tell if it was relief or apprehension. Probably both.

"So... Are you... Getting along then?"

I shrugged, "Guess you could say that."

Now, she definitely was relieved. "What do you talk about? Has he apologized? Do you forgive him? Are you friends?"

"Umm... Er– I mean we talk about... normal stuff, school and life. I think he's sorry, he hasn't said so exactly, but he's sorry. And I do forgive him."

I ignored her last question. To be honest, I want sure what we were. Ex-enemies, acquaintances, loose friends? Friends that cry and hug each other and don't talk otherwise?

"So, he's changed then."

"Of course."

"And you're okay with that."

"Of course."

"And you like him."

"Of– Wait, what?" I asked surprised. Like him? Where in the world did she get that idea?

She laughed at my reaction. "Harry. No. I didn't mean like that. I meant platonically. You value his company."

I thought about that for a moment. Value. Surely Draco had never been valued before. Not in any way that Hermione said I did. He has no true friends, his family doesn't seem too fond of him, obviously Voldemort and his Death Eaters weren't either. Was that why he could open up to me? Because I was the only one who had ever shown him the slightest amount of affection? The only one who's ever cared enough to ask if he was okay?

"Yes. Yes I do," I was sure of myself. "He's a real interesting person, 'Mione. You already know, but he's really smart. I swear he could name every star in the sky if you asked him to. And he reads too! Like, smart books. Books that you would like."

"Like what?"

"Umm, Oh! He read Inferno, but he didn't like it, and now he's reading... Um... The Something of Dorian Someone, and he writes things in there too."

"The Picture of Dorian Gray," she said knowingly, "I read that back in Muggle school for an English project. It was good. He seems to have good taste."

I nodded in agreement. "Yeah..."

She tilted her head to the left, analyzing me up and down, in and out. She was good at that. I hated it. "What is it?"

"He... He draws too. Really well, like, full on artist kind of well."

"Oh?" she questioned.

"Yeah," I nodded again, "I saw one of his sketches the other night. It was me, when we were having a conversation. I was doing my homework and he made a joke which made me a little embarrassed. He got my expression spot-on."

"Malfoy drew you?" she raised both of her eyebrows. She then furrowed them as she asked quicker, "Malfoy made a joke? Was it a mean joke?"

"No, not at all. Something I said just sounded wrong and he made it a joke. That's all," I reassured her. "I told you, he's changed."

She hummed and nodded. Her eyes travelled around the library, but I don't think she was actually looking at anything. She was somewhere in that big brain of hers, the one I wish I could understand sometimes.

Draco not being a bully anymore was a lot to take in—especially for her. I will never be able to imagine the kind of inadequacy and invalidation he put her through on a daily basis.  

Though I could forgive him for tormenting and bullying me, the things he said to Hermione were forever unforgivable.

That, he did have a choice in. His father wasn't around twenty-four-seven to see exactly how he acted at school, he knew that. But he did it anyways.

Even just that word. That one stupid little word that had ruined countless lives of young Muggle-borns alike. Even if he just didn't say that one word.

"Where is he now?" she said after what felt like an eternity.

"Hm?" I didn't completely register what she had said.

"Malfoy. Where is he? He wasn't in Arithmancy for the last few days. He doesn't show up a lot, actually."

"Don't know. I haven't seen him myself since he drew me that night."

"Should you be worried?" she asked, worried a little herself. She was amazing, really. It was power beyond imaginable to be able to be worried about someone who had made her life miserable; who made her feel like it was a bad thing to be who she was.

"I don't know,"—and I didn't—"Should I?"

She shrugged and started to pack up her things. Book in her bag, quill in her front pocket, wand in hand.

"That's up to you, Harry."