The bitch of it was Draco couldn’t deny that Theo was right. He knew he’d started his life as a little shit and had only grown into a larger, handsomer shit. He knew that the worst of his sins, which could never truly be wiped clean, were visited on Hermione Granger. He remembered the last time he’d seen herf. He was fresh back from Durmstrang, and she was there, alone, looking as exhausted as he felt, silently weeping into a pint of butterbeer at the Leaky. He remembered throwing himself into the seat across from her, uninvited, drunk off his arse, and still reeling from the thrill of her being  right there  . The war was barely even a year over, and they were all like that then, moving like ghosts through the lives they’d thought they wanted.  It was all too awful, too terrifying, too  much  , and Draco didn’t know what the fuck he was doing. He knew there were things he’d wanted to say to her, important things like  I’m sorry I was such a fucking prat,  and  Thank you, Granger, for saving my life, for not letting me rot in Azkaban whilst mum sits at home, alone and unprotected.