Where once the story had been told so that Draco had merely stood by and watched her, Hermione, bleed and be weakened. For why would he have aided her; they had never acquainted, always foe and never friends.
Yet stories sprout different paths, could have beens and should have beens. We take a twisted stone path and we find them not loathing, but loving. Perhaps he no longer stood and simply watched. Perhaps he turned his back not on her, but on the ones once friends now foe.
He may have cast curses with prestige and conviction, crumbling his home. Where she would have bled with the crimson blood much too similar to his, on the floor and having alone and tormented, she would have fallen into his arms, enveloped by his warmth, not coldness he had once given her.
Others would have watched with wide eyes of bewilderment, a mother betrayed, an aunt enraged as he took her, hand in hand, and twisted them along a cobbled path leading them places he, nor she, had been before.