Storm of Hearts (Dramione)

Chapter Three

Draco took a tentative step forward, the distance between them shrinking with each measured tread. Hermione noted the subtle shift in his demeanor; the haughty arrogance that once hung about him like a cloak had diminished, leaving in its wake a solemn maturity she found disquieting. His eyes, those stormy grey mirrors to a soul seeking redemption, were fixed on her with an intensity that belied a vulnerability she had never associated with Draco Malfoy.

"Granger," he said again, this time softer, almost hesitant as if testing the weight of her name upon his lips. "I've been meaning to speak with you."

"Have you?" Hermione's reply came out guarded, yet laced with a curiosity she couldn't quite suppress. The rain continued to fall, pattering against the cobblestone and weaving a curtain of droplets around them, a world away from the rest of bustling London.

"Indeed." He paused, searching for the right words. "I owe you a long-overdue apology. For everything – my behaviour at school, the war... I was... misguided and cruel. I'm not asking for forgiveness, just... the chance to express my remorse."

The rain seemed to hush around them, awaiting her response. Hermione observed the lines that experience, rather than age, had etched onto his face. There was no mistaking the earnestness in his voice or the penitent tilt of his head, both so alien on the person she thought she knew.

"Apologies are easy," Hermione finally spoke, her tone measured but not unkind. "It's change that requires effort."

"Which is why I've started working with the Ministry," Draco offered, a flicker of defensiveness crossing his features before he smoothed it away. "Hunting dark wizards. It's one way I can make amends for... for my part in the past."

She watched him closely, her amber eyes reflecting the somber light of the evening. The library behind her seemed a world apart, its sturdy walls brimming with the silent strength of knowledge – a stark contrast to the fragile moment unfolding before her.

Hermione folded her arms, a barrier of wool between her heart and the man who had once delighted in tormenting it. "Hunting dark wizards," she mused, the words hanging between them like the fog that clung to the streetlamps. "A noble pursuit for someone who—"

"Who was raised to be one?" Draco finished for her, his grey eyes steady under the weight of unspoken histories. "I'm aware of the irony."

"More than ironic," Hermione replied, her voice a soft yet steadfast challenge. "It's almost inconceivable."

"Believe it or not," he said, "people can change, Hermione."

"Can they?" Her query was more to herself than to him, a whisper lost to the symphony of raindrops on cobblestone. The dampness seeped into her bones, mingling with the chill of doubt. Her gaze lingered on him, tracing the contours of his resolve.

"Can you trust me? No," Draco admitted, the raw honesty in his tone disarming her defenses for a precarious second. "Not yet. But I can hope that, someday, you might see the man I'm trying to become rather than the boy I was."

She exhaled slowly, her breath misting in the evening air. Trust was a currency devalued by war, spent sparingly and with great care. The malaise of suspicion still lingered in the post-war world, a persistent echo that colored even the most mundane encounters.

"Trying to become," she echoed, the phrase igniting a skirmish within her. There was a part of Hermione that yearned to believe in the possibility of redemption, of magic potent enough to transmute the base lead of past misdeeds into the gold of a better future. Yet another part, the vigilant custodian of her conscience, stood sentry against the charm of wishful thinking.