For days after Narcissa's visit, Hermione spoke barely a word to Draco. She'd let her gaze slide over him and keep her mouth clamped shut whenever he entered the room, still upset that he hadn't even warned her of his mother's visit.

Narcissa had apologized, of course, multiple times in fact. Try as she might, Hermione simply could not be angry at the woman. Despite being upset with Draco, the two women got on well. Hermione wouldn't have guessed how genuine and kind Mrs. Malfoy could be. She was quick to realize that she may have been hasty in judging all Malfoy's with the same characteristics of Lucius.

Despite the new friendship between Hermione and his mother, Draco still said nothing other than the apology he was forced to give.

It's near a week after Christmas before Hermione and Draco manage to have a civil conversation. Even then, it wasn't much.

"We're going to the library. Fetch your coat," Hermione says, pulling on her own.

"Alright, I'll be back down in a few moments."

With a huff, Hermione replies, "quickly, it closes in an hour."

And that's as much as they talked besides Hermione telling Draco which books to find in the library. Two days later, they have an argument. It's over nothing major, just normal bickering between the pair, but a tapping at the window soon changes the situation.

"Will you quit complaining for a single moment and let me read the letter," Hermione barks after releasing the owl and sitting down at the kitchen table.

"It isn't my fault that the meat is under-cooked! If you weren't so dim-witted, you would know that you have to take it out of the oven when the inside isn't pink. Even I know that, Granger," he remarks, tossing the pan of still-raw chicken back into the oven and slamming the door closed.

Ignoring the jab at her intelligence, Hermione glares at him and shouts, "shut up, for Merlin's sake!" Her outburst effectively silences him to mere grumbles of discontent as he leans against the counter. Taking what she can get, Hermione unfolds the letter.

Hermione,

They told me not to contact you, that it would be better for everyone if I just stayed away, but I was never one to listen to directions, was I? Anyways, I'll make this short as I don't have a lot of time to spend on a letter. I noticed that my family and friends didn't seem to know what had really happened on our wedding day. As far as I could tell, they only knew that I left, which means you didn't tell them. For that I am grateful. I know you said that you wouldn't tell anyone but I didn't actually believe you, especially after what I did. I never imagined you would be willing to help me after that, so thank you.

On that note, I need you to know that I never meant to strike you that day. It was a rage driven action and I am sorry for it. I've wanted to tell you that for a long time but never could get around to it.

That was the only thing I regretted about that day though. Every word I said, I meant. It was your fault that I fell out of love with you. You were too dull and boring and I needed someone more fitting for a war hero like me. I needed someone more intriguing and willing to do more entertaining things for me. You were not, and most likely still aren't, that kind of person. I had hoped you would be, after the war, and that was why I had stayed. But you hadn't changed at all. That's your own fault and if you don't realize that then you can't be nearly as smart as you claim to be.

That is all I have to say.

There is no signature, but Hermione didn't need one to know who had written it. Not only because the content, but because the messy scrawl it is written in.

She wants to scream, to rip the letter apart and watch in joy as the pieces burn up in flames, but she can't do that at the moment. Draco would see and would be bound to question why she's taking such delight in destroying a letter. She doesn't need him knowing anymore about this particular part of her life.

Instead, she rises from the table. Her face is blank and her body moves easily. The only sign of her inner turmoil as she moves for the stairs is the letter scrunching in her fist. Slow breaths in and out keep her sane as she walks up to her room. Only when the door closes and she casts a silencing charm on her room does she tense and freeze in place.

Hermione really does try, for a moment at least, to control herself. She almost manages, too. Then her gaze wanders to the letter and her control shatters apart like glass.

Crumbling the letter into a ball, she throws it at the far wall, where it bounces off and lands harmlessly in the corner. "That bloody prick!" She howls, "who does he think he is? Writing to me, insulting my intelligence and claiming himself a great war hero." Rage welled in her chest, building up her throat and flooding out past her lips in a deafening scream.

She attacks her dresser with a vengeance, ripping the drawers off their tracks and heaving them around until they crashed on the other side of the room. Her clothes are strewn about, creating a mess that, even with magic, will take time to clean.

Nowhere near satisfied, she moves to her bed. Pulling out her wand, she shoots spell after spell at it until the only thing left is a heaping pile of white feathers and tattered quilts. Years of carefully managed rage and power slipping out of her grasp as she destroys the bed.

"You foul, loathsome, conniving bastard!" She snarls to no one.

Grabbing a hanging picture frame, she hurls it to the ground. The wooden frame cracks, the photo inside now trapped under a glimmering pile of broken glass.

"How dare you come back into my life and bring up the past?"

She snatches a snow globe off her desk and pitches it at the wall, taking great satisfaction in watching the pretty ball smash apart and shower the floor with glitter-filled water and jagged shards of glass. The desk is next. Hermione whips her foot around and kicks the chair, sending it spinning and colliding into the bedroom door with a resounding thud. Grabbing the edge of the desk, she lifts and twists it around until it crashes to the floor with a bang. Every item (pens, paper, photos, inkwell and quills, and even the charm bracelet she got for Christmas) fly off and clatter to the ground.

"I hate you, Ronald Billius Weasley, you despicable prat!"

Finally, the flame of rage that was consuming her flickers out. Her chest heaves with the exertion of destroying her room and her eyes once more settle on that damn letter. Slowly, with careful steps to avoid the minefield of glass, she moves towards it. Bending down to pick it up, she carefully unfolds it from the wad she had balled it in to and scans through the written words again. She half hopes it will return some of her rage to her, but it doesn't.

Hermione sinks to the floor and backs herself into the corner the letter had been in. With a final burst of energy, she tosses the letter away and wraps her arms around her knees. She stares ahead, eyes empty and face blank, none of the previous rage left in her body.

She almost wishes that tears would come. At least then she would feel something. Anything is better than this empty numbness she feels now. Even the burning anger she had felt would be better than this. She can't bring herself to feel anything, not even when she realizes that she left her door unlocked and Draco enters the room.

"Granger, I don't know if you've noticed, but-MERLIN'S BEARD!" Draco gasps, staring in wide-eyed fascination at what looked to be the scene of a natural disaster. "What happened in here?" he breathes, stepping slowly into the room and walking to the girl huddled in the corner.

Draco doesn't know what happened but he is sure that never, in his entire life, has he seen her look the way she does now. Not even the night he had found her crying.

Her skin is horrendously pale and she doesn't immediately appear to be breathing. He almost panics, thinking she might had passed out, but he catches a minute tremor that seems to have taken control of her body. As he listens closer, he can her the sound of her teeth clacking together, until Hermione clenches her jaw. She doesn't respond to his words in any other way besides letting her gaze flick to a crumpled parchment by his right foot.

Frowning, he bends to pick it up and reads through it. Then he reads it again, unsure that he had read it properly the first time.

His eyes narrow as he skims over the words. How dare that prick do this to my witch, Draco thinks darkly. He shouldn't have came back. It's almost as if he enjoys hurting her.

He looks down at the girl who seemed to always occupy his thoughts. She looks so much like she's given up, and yet there are no tears. Draco had to commend her for that, but something didn't seem right. She hasn't moved since he came in and, despite the destroyed room, she now looks as if every ounce of fight in her body has fled. Empty. She looks empty.

Draco's heart wrenches for his witch, and he so wants to reach out and comfort her. To whisper sweet, kind words into her ears and hold her tight until she doesn't believe for a single moment that what Weasley said is true. To kiss away the dead-eyed stare on her face.

Before he can do any of that, though, another part of him takes over.

"You weak mudblood," he spits, tossing the letter to the side.

Startled out of whatever thoughts were in her mind, Hermione looks up at him with no more emotion than before.

"You can't even receive a letter without going completely mental!" Draco claims. "I'm beginning to think he's right. You haven't changed since the war. You were, and always will be, a weak-minded, boring, know-it-all, overly emotional mudblood!"

He sweeps from the room, leaving Hermione behind and her door wide open.Draco's barely made it into his own room when the rational side of his brain reigns control again, leaving him with the all-too-familiar feeling of regret.

Why can't I simply tell her how I feel? Draco sighs and cards a hand through his hair, tugging harshly at the roots.

Not a moment later does he come to a staggering halt. His words had apparently proven too much for the girl in the other room. Whatever barrier that had kept her from bursting has finally broken. Her cries can be heard, filtering through her open door.

It tears him apart because he knows that he was the final hit that broke her control. Sinking to the floor, he leans against his bed frame and pulls his knees to his chest. He wishes more than anything that he could go and fix his mistake, but something is stopping him. So he doesn't move, and Hermione cries long into the night, until even that is gone and he's left alone with his thoughts.