Narcissa Malfoy looked like she was falling from the hinges, which her son Draco noticed with a slight pang of guilt that he unsuccessfully tried to ignore. His stomach churned slightly at the scarlet sight of the Hogwarts Express, one that normally would have purveyed him with happiness at just another school year...

But this was not just another school year, at least not for Draco Malfoy, who was feeling tension so insurmountable that it was presented in his face by a scowl. The scowl itself was not unusual, but there was a certain pensiveness in his cold grey eyes that would have been unnerving to anyone who knew the now sixteen-year-old boy well. Usually his mind was buzzing with schemes to get Potter and his doting friends in trouble, but now he had a task that would involve himself that much closer with Potter’s circle.

The Mudblood. His stomach churned again, and his scowl hardened. He fingered the spot on the robes where last year’s prefect badge would have been worn, but this year he had not been chosen as prefect again, providing him with more time to...He didn’t want to think about it. His eyes flickered back to his mother unwillingly. She looked like she was trying to restrain herself from crying out, a look she had been wearing since the Dark Lord had delegated him the most heinously impossible task that his life, and his parents’ lives, depended on. The Dark Lord. He gave an involuntary shudder he could not repress with the image of those red slits for eyes, the long-fingered hands, the serpentine features, and beyond them all...that voice. High, cold, and chilling, the Dark Lord let his wants be known...and if he was displeased, terrible things could happen...would happen.

“Do your best in your studies and all your pursuits, Draco,” Narcissa said with surprising steadiness, although her blue eyes were misting. Draco thought he knew what Narcissa was hinting at by ‘pursuits’, but gave no more thought to it. He would enjoy himself today. Stay in a compartment with Crabbe and Goyle and the other Slytherins like he always did, and laugh at the increasing shrimp-like stature of the first-years. Everything would be the same, if only for today.

Narcissa nodded at her son, clearly unable to utter a comprehensible goodbye. Her composure had expired, it seemed. Draco offered his mother a smile so forced it hurt, but it was the least he could do. His mother was often overprotective to an annoying extent, but she had not, and would not be able to protect him from his fate if he failed.

“Crabbe, Goyle,” Draco said carelessly to his friends, who wore their perpetual vacant expressions and who both seemed to have grown substantially both in height and width over the summers. The three of them sidled into an empty compartment, soon to be joined by Blaise Zabini and Pansy Parkinson, who had long harbored a not-so-secret attraction to Draco, who did not reciprocate her same level of devotion, but whom he regarded highly all the same.

“Good summers?” Zabini asked, but it was clear his question was rhetorical and asked purely out of saccharin politeness that did not fool Draco. Draco knew that Zabini was only in their company because he thought he was superior to them and wanted to exploit that, which was how Draco himself felt about Crabbe and Goyle. “I went to a congregational meeting between influential wizards, including Colbronde, and I met...” His voice trailed off and his hands snaked over to his school bag and he retrieved a photograph, which he handed over gloatingly to Draco.

“A toad?” Draco could not help but cultivate his well-practiced smirk. The photograph was of a girl who looked like she could have been Umbridge’s niece, with her pouchy eyes and slack, flabby mouth. A ridiculously loopy and illegible signature was scrawled hastily on the right corner of the photograph.

Zabini glared at him, snatching the photograph back. “I’m not going out with her,” he said scathingly. “It’s Asrai,” he snarled. Asrai. Draco had the impression that it was a name belonging to someone significant in the magical community, but he could not think what a witch with such an uncanny resemblance to their fifth-year’s Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher could have to do with anything Zabini found impressive.

Zabini rolled his eyes at the lack of comprehension on the Slytherins’ faces. “The first Naturagus in magical history,” he explained witheringly, as if that was something they all should have known. “She can turn into a puddle by will.”

“Naturagus,” repeated Gregory Goyle stupidly, as if he intended to store the vocabulary in his mind in the future. Unable to say something thrusting in response, he reverted back to his comic book in silence.

After that, a silence took over the compartment, which left Draco to brood about his predicament, the last thing he wanted to do. Pansy continually cast him furtive looks, clearly wondering why he was neglecting to attend to her like she wanted him too. She sniffed in impatience and annoyance and gave up trying to catch his attention. If Pansy could have seen into his thoughts, she would have been scandalized that he had been thinking about another girl. Hermione Granger was certainly not someone he ever thought about, but the plan and the task of leading Harry Potter to the Dark Lord was one that centered entirely around her, no doubt for the maximum humiliation for the Malfoys. His insides burned with the indignation of the plan�”have Hermione Granger fall in love with him? The idea would have been laughable if it had not been one that would control his fate...whether he lived.

Back in the comforts of the Slytherin dungeon, Draco immediately retreated to his dormitory. He was the only one, and was glad for it as he sat on the four-poster bed amid the emerald-green covers. The window revealed stormy weather, matching his inner angst that culminated inside of him, threatening to burst. Imprisoned in his own thoughts for so long as he languidly lay across the bed, he was unaware of falling asleep as his eyelids began to droop, lulling him into uneasy dreams...

He was in a dark and dank dungeon, the only light flickering from the lighthouse far, far away. A crookedly constructed four-legged table was laden with a roster of foods that left his mouth watering. He walked over to the table and pulled out a throne-like chair, a perfect irony to the poor craftsmanship of the table. As he readied his knife and fork to cut into a hearty steak, the steak immediately turned into a human face. To his great shock, it was Hermione Granger, and the rest of her materialized directly from the table. With a clatter, he dropped his knife and fork, stunned beyond disbelief. The scene changed. They were in what looked like a ballroom. She was dressed in periwinkle blue robes, which he dimly recalled as the same ones she’d worn to the Yule Ball in their fourth year. Her hair was not bushy like it usually was, but sleek and cascading freely past her shoulders. She was smiling the way one might afore a particularly inquisitive and bright child. “Draco, Draco,” she said teasingly. “What have you been up to?”

Draco woke with a start, his thoughts racing a marathon, his hands curled tightly into fists, though he was unaware of it with his heart beating at a rapid pace. The dream was becoming less clear in his mind...a poorly lit dungeon...he had been about to eat steak...the steak had turned into Granger, who had looked...well, he didn’t think there could be another word for it...beautiful. She had said his name...his first name. He felt thoroughly confused and disgruntled by his feelings. His watch told him it was half past midnight. Crabbe, Goyle, and Zabini were all fast asleep, perfectly unaware that a member of their dormitory was awake and shaken at the thoughts and feelings that he’d invoked after the dream.

The beginnings of sunlight filtered through the dank, looming windows of the Slytherin common room. After the dream last night, he had been unable to fall back asleep, unable to evade the pounding thoughts and worries that he had tried so hard to compartmentalize. The lack of sleep showed on his face, which was paler than ever and purplish shadows lingered underneath his eyes.

He hooded his eyes, focusing on the elaborately threaded hearthrug, which was green and silver like all the décor in the Slytherin dormitory. A swish of a robe and carpet-muffled footsteps announced the presence of somebody else.

“Malfoy! Just the man I want to see,” a booming voice that could only belong to the hulking figure of Montague, the appointed Captain of the Slytherin Quidditch team. “Got up early to run a lap round the pitch, you know?” He indicated the Nimbus Two Thousand and One broom clasped in his right fist and grinned, his resemblance to a warthog increasing tenfold. “Anyway, you and me, we have to talk tactics. Can’t have us losing to Gryffindor again, can we?” Montague jerked in an irritable fashion. Clearly, the memory of Gryffindor winning the Quidditch Cup was one that still stung and his grin immediately dissipated to a scornful expression.

“Yeah, I was thinking,” Draco began, wondering whether he’d have the nerve to complete what he was about to say, “I want to resign.”

“Resign?” Montague looked most displeased, his muscles twitching in anger. Despite never having been able to scrabble a victory for his house as Seeker, he was still widely thought to be a very talented Seeker nevertheless. Indeed, Pansy Parkinson practically swooned with every successful capture of the Snitch Draco made during Quidditch practices in years past.

Draco felt uncomfortable now. He had been deliberating over staying or leaving the Quidditch team for some time, and if he wanted to do his best in all his ‘pursuits’, well, he needed all the time he could get.

“Who am I going to use as Seeker then?” Montague thundered, swelling in anger.

Addressing the hearthrug as he spoke, Draco muttered, “You’ll hold try-outs for a new Seeker. It’ll be fine.”

Feeling less fine than ever, he consulted his watch for the time and he dutifully left the comfortable armchair and a seething Montague. At the same time, he wished he could also leave behind his own thoughts as efficiently. Time for breakfast, he thought, striding towards the Great Hall.

The news that Draco Malfoy had resigned from the Slytherin Quidditch team left all in puzzlement and surprise, not to the least of Potter and his friends.

Draco had other things, and other pursuits to occupy him, however. The first day back was uneventful. His schedule allowed him almost a disgusting amount of free time now that he’d given up Care of Magical Creatures, Astronomy, History of Magic, and Herbology.

In Potions, Draco could tell in snatches of whispers he overheard that he was being talked about. He also rather thought the eyes of Snape followed him more than it was inherently natural. He avoided eye contact with everyone, hardly speaking with even Crabbe and Goyle, who both shared similar expressions of disillusion at being neglected as a soundboard for jokes. The two of them stared glumly at their cauldrons, clearly at a loss for what to do. How they had managed to pass their OWLS was a mystery to all. Draco disregarded all of this, and concentrated his efforts on successfully concocting a Blissful Invigoration, a tremendously difficult potion to induce carefree bliss.

Gather all required ingredients listed and let them stew for a quarter of an hour. Add five drops of salamander blood and stir it counterclockwise for exactly five minutes and cease stirring immediately after aforementioned five minutes. Chop valerian roots exactly ¼ of a centimeter and if stirred properly, the roots should drop directly to the bottom of the cauldron, serving as the base of the Blissful Invigoration. The ideal halfway stage for the Blissful Invigoration should be a pale blue. Any darker shade of blue or other color indicates an inadequate amount of salamander blood, and the potion-maker must revert to the first step again. Should you succeed in achieving a pale blue mixture, essence of belladonna should be added in the quantity of one teaspoon. Now stir clockwise for exactly thirty seconds, and your potion should now be a rich violet with the Blissful Invigoration’s trademark zigzagging steam arising.

Draco sighed deeply as he tipped five drops of salamander blood and stirred counterclockwise, his heart not into the work. In fact, he was not sure whether his heart was functioning at all, but he supposed it had to be if he was still here stirring a Blissful Invigoration. His eyes skirted over to where Hermione Granger was, a rapt expression of utter concentration on her face. One peek in her cauldron would undoubtedly reveal the “ideal halfway stage” of pale blue.

With his billowing cloak and his hooked nose and dungeon-dark black eyes full of malice, Snape was the least favorite professor of many, but Draco had long grown accustomed to preferential treatment from him. He was stooped over Granger’s cauldron, his mouth readily open should he be justified in some well-chosen criticism, but none came. Passing over Weasley’s cauldron with an awful smirk, his lip curled still more at the royal blue contents in Potter’s cauldron. After Quidditch, one of Draco’s personal favorite entertainments was avidly watching Snape bully Potter. Still stirring his Blissful Invigoration, he left his gaze wander off to Snape and Potter.

“Potter, does that thick skull of your’s realize where you went wrong in your awful attempt at a Blissful Invigoration?”

It looked to Draco like it was taking all of Potter’s self-control not to hurl the contents of his cauldron at Snape. “I didn’t use enough salamander blood,” he said in a low voice barely audible over the hissing and steaming of many cauldrons.

"I know you didn’t Potter, which is why I will have to…” He flicked his wand casually, and the potion vanished.

Returning back to his position behind the desk, he said, “For those who were able to follow the steps required for the successful concoction of a Blissful Invigoration, fill a flagon of your potion for sampling. For homework, twelve inches of parchment on salamander blood’s properties and how the misuse of it can make this potion go wrong.” Casting one last unpleasant smirk at Potter, he added, “Class dismissed. Draco, I would like that you stay behind.”

Draco lifted his head in cold surprise as he packed away his things. Sure, Professor Snape was one of the Dark Lord’s most highly regarded Death Eaters, and knew of “the plan”, but there was no reason to request a private chat with him…was there? He felt a great sense of foreboding as he watched Snape approach him.

“Your mother has asked me to keep regular reports of the plan’s progress, Draco, and it is my duty to make sure the plan succeeds.”

Draco said nothing. He had suspected this, but his sense of foreboding increased still more.

Snape’s eyes flickered towards his, the black depths of them unblinking, undoubtedly trying to break into his mind.

“That won’t work on me,” Draco said moodily, “so you can stop trying to break into my mind.”

Snape’s face revealed nothing, inscrutable as always, but there was an edge to his voice when he spoke. “So Aunt Bellatrix has been teaching you Occlumency?”

Draco shrugged at the mention of his mother’s sister and his aunt. Bellatrix Lestrange might have been his aunt, but he had always associated her so closely with the Dark Lord’s circle that it seemed unreal that she was related to him. Fourteen years spent in Azkaban had left her slightly mad, and she continually referred to herself as the Dark Lord’s most faithful servant. Draco had been able to mull over his solitary summer that his aunt just might be in love with the Dark Lord, twisted as that might be.

“Well, Draco, tell me how you intend on making this plan work,” Snape said, interrupting his thoughts. His eyes swept over his face, unable to break into his mind but still keenly observing him.

“My mother might have made you her emissary, but I’m telling you nothing.” Draco’s grey eyes met Snape’s. “Nothing,” he repeated.

“Draco, I can help you.”

“No, you can’t, and you’re not going to,” Draco maintained stubbornly, unsure of why he was refusing help when he so badly needed it. “Anyways,” he ploughed on valiantly with fleeting bravado, “how could you possibly help me? Have you ever even been with a woman?” He had done it, he was sure, and steeled himself for an explosion like a dragon. But there was no anger on Snape’s face. A strange expression had taken over his face, one that could have been sadness or regret, but Draco could not be sure, and in any case, he didn’t care. As far as he was concerned, their little chat was over. He snapped the buckle on his satchel, swung it over his shoulder, and stormed out of the dungeon, all the while being reminded of the one he had been in the night before.

“What could Snape want to do with Malfoy?” Harry asked as the three of them took up their usual positions in the Gryffindor common room. It was not the first time he’d posed the question, but his curiosity had been piqued and he wouldn’t let the topic rest. On any account, Hermione suspected he was glad to have something for his mind to think about other than Sirius’s death, which he avoided talking about like the black plague. She hastened to reply.

“Harry, we’ve talked about this before…shall we get started on the homework?” she asked brightly, opening her school bag eagerly and readying her eagle feather quill on a blank piece of parchment.

“I think they’re up to something,” Harry insisted, who reluctantly got out his own quill and parchment to tackle Snape’s salamander blood essay. He let the quill rest pointlessly in his hand, not very keen on starting work at all.

Ron, who seemed to be feeling the same way about work said, “Exchanging tips on how to be gits maybe? The most useful tip would to be themselves, I reckon.”

Hermione and Harry both snorted in derision. “But seriously…Snape never asks people to stay behind unless he wants to arrange detention or something.” He paused, remembering many a detention with Snape and glowering. “I think they’re up to something,” he repeated with conviction.

“Maybe,” Ron replied vaguely, untidily scrawling The Properties of Salamander Blood. He glanced at Harry. “Or should it be Salamander Blood’s Properties?” He frowned, and eyed Hermione’s already half-full parchment greedily.

“Why do you think he resigned from the Quidditch team?” Harry interjected.

Hermione glanced up from her parchment and put down her quill dramatically, as if she had been interrupted in top-secret workings. “I don’t know, Harry. It’s certainly fishy but---”

“It’s fishy all right,” Harry conceded, cutting her off.

“Probably realizes there’s no chance of Slytherin winning the House Cup with you as Seeker,” Ron suggested and added darkly, “Took him long enough, stupid git.”

“I don’t think that’s it,” Harry said. Hermione privately agreed, seeing as the Draco Malfoy they all knew had always had a seriously inflated sense of himself.

“Harry, I really think you should get started on your work. You don’t want your work piled up like it did fifth year. Even if Snape and Malfoy are up to something, which they aren’t, it’s not our business to know,” Hermione said plaintively. She returned back to her essay, completing her last sentence with a flourish and snatching her essay from Ron’s prying eyes.

Although feeling distinctly discomfited by her words, Harry could not let his mind escape the thoughts of just what his two least favorite people in the world could be up to.

This must have shown on his face, because Hermione said with a heaving sigh, “Harry, if it means so much to you, I’ll watch him for you, okay? But do your work.” She said this all with the air of one who knew she was making a grave mistake, but her words had the intended effect of making Harry prioritize.

Draco wasted no time making his way towards the Great Hall on Saturday, where the aroma of crisp bacon and eggs awaited him. Crabbe and Goyle entered the Great Hall ten minutes after he did, both of them looking strangely small together despite their considerable bulk. Draco nodded towards both of them, who both took positions next to him in silence, evidently waiting for him to start a conversation. It was only now that Draco began to realize what an important role he had in the trio---he was the one who provided conversation and entertainment. Without him, Crabbe and Goyle were complete nonentities.

He was grateful when Zabini made his way towards them, accompanied by Theodore Nott, a stringy looking boy whose verbal prose was limited to monosyllables and was usually alone. Draco didn’t know Nott very well, other than his father was also a Death Eater and that he was an exceptionally gifted student.

“Guess who’s going to try out for position as Seeker?” Zabini asked by way of greeting as he sat directly across from Draco and helped himself to a large portion of bacon and eggs.

Draco shrugged to feign disinterest when he realized he wasn’t feigning---he wasn’t interested. It was as if the pressure of the plan had consumed him and he was left with an emotionally detached self, leaving an insufficient amount of emotion to spare for anyone else.

“I am,” Zabini said, smiling in a way that looked more like a leer to Draco.

Draco let surprise color his face. “Are you any good?”

Zabini helped himself to more bacon and eggs before replying. “You’ll find out today when Montague holds the try-outs at noon.”

Draco swallowed his toast with difficulty. Zabini had always been hard to like, but he had never actually resented his company as much as he did now. There was something annoyingly smug about Zabini just now, whose eating habits were startlingly uncivilized.

Finishing his last strip of bacon with apparent relish, Zabini said, “And Warrington left last year, so Nott here is going to try out for Chaser.” This bit of news was even more surprising, considering Nott’s demeanor and tendency to avoid places with people.

At noon, Draco took it upon himself to witness the try-outs, and was not the only one. Crabbe and Goyle of course, attached themselves left and right of Draco like menacing bodyguards, as was traditional. Pansy Parkinson and her group of friends had secured themselves a spot on the top of the bleachers and waved unabashedly at Draco with fluttering eyes. Draco blinked, and nodded to acknowledge her presence, making a point to sit a good feet away from her crowd.

Anything he might have ever had with Pansy Parkinson was built on convenience and ease, but it was a concept he had never actually gotten around to explaining to her, and now it seemed it was too late to undo the damage. Pansy, who was apt to fawn over the littlest gesture from him was hopelessly in love with him, and deluded herself into thinking he felt the same. Pansy thought of Draco in the way one might regard the king on a chessboard, which was heartening sometimes, and other times, like now, downright annoying.

The try-outs for the Chaser took place first. Montague divided everyone into groups, instructing them to fly round the pitch. The first group of ten comprised of second-years whose capabilities on a broom were dubious, at best. After trying out five groups of equally poor flyers for Chasers, it was the last group’s turn. The last group comprised of mainly fourth-years and Nott.

A sudden and wild idea occurred to him�”why not try out for Chaser himself? He could suddenly envision himself across the Quidditch pitch, in pursuit of something tangible... the Quaffle. This appealed to him on many counts. This was a pursuit he could actually pursue without fear for his life, and without the pressures of being a Seeker having to end the game. And this way, he could still be on the Quidditch team.

His mind set, he ran down to the pitch before Montague could blow the whistle to start the sixth group’s try-outs.

“Montague, you think it’d be okay if I tried out for Chaser?”

Without waiting for his say-so, he said, “Accio Nimbus Two Thousand and One!”, reminding himself distastefully of when that Potter had summoned his Firebolt for the first task in the Triwizard Tournament. His Nimbus Two Thousand and One hurtled from the Slytherin dormitory and he caught it easily and prepared to mount.

Montague, looking bewildered by this unexpected twist nevertheless blew the whistle. Draco mounted, and sped across the pitch, enjoying the light breeze whipping across as he accelerated, swerved, and completed a lap round the pitch. He had been so absorbed by flying that he hadn’t bothered noting how the others had done, but as he touched down gracefully, he felt a certainty that it would be him who triumphed.

Nott gave him a distinctly annoyed look, which Draco decided was an indication that he had flown well. Montague, however, was grinning. “Malfoy, you’re Chaser. First practice is tonight. Now, for those who came to try out as Seeker…”

Nott looked still more annoyed, if that was possible, and began muttering furiously incomprehensibly. This did not faze him, as he was too buoyed up by his success in securing the role of one of three Chasers.

“You were great,” Pansy simpered, seizing her chance to flatter him.

Pretending he hadn’t heard her, he sauntered over to where Crabbe and Goyle still sat. The three of them continued to watch the try-outs. Even Zabini being declared the new Seeker couldn’t drown his spirits. Feeling positively gleeful about the whole outcome of it, he was the happiest he’d been since last June, when the Dark Lord himself had given him the task. He tried to empty his thoughts, but after being pilfered, there was no leaving them. He sighed, and his now ready-to-wear sullen expression returned with a vengeance.

“Going to the library,” he muttered almost incomprehensibly to Crabbe and Goyle, who both grunted in their usual gorilla fashions.

Leaving the bleachers, he looked unseeingly upon the pitch, the vivid green of the field becoming a blur in his eyes. When he realized the pitch was blurring before him because of an involuntary dampness in his eyes, he blinked furiously, wondering why the hell he was getting teary-eyed out of nowhere. More annoyed with himself than ever, he was barely aware of his feet taking him to the library, where he would be, at last, blessedly alone. No Hogwarts student ever went in the library more than necessary.

But he had forgotten the same time he’d remembered. Hermione Granger, poring over a stack of thick volumes, her nose barely an inch away from the book in front of her. He entered as inconspicuously as possible, and thanked the heavens when she did not look up from her book upon his arrival into the library.

He took a seat in a table that was furthest from her, and noted with increasing discomfort that they were the only two students in the library.

Draco placed his arms in front of him and let his head rest there for a good long brooding, which was all he seemed able to do lately. It was barely past one, but already he felt exhausted. Having been declared Chaser meant nothing to him now, especially not in the stuffy surrounding that was the library. Things like Quidditch meant very little to him now, and he marveled that he had been feeling so elated just moments before.

He lifted his head and let his eyes focus on a random point in the room. He was looking at a clear inch of dust on ancient books. No surprises there. But what did surprise him was a creeping feeling that he was being watched.

Hermione watched Malfoy with a feeling of disbelief. She couldn’t honestly recall ever seeing him in the library in all her years at Hogwarts. Remembering her harebrained promise to Harry, she dropped her gaze back to When Encountering Evil hastily, but continued to observe Malfoy covertly. A prickling feeling she wasn’t sure she could identify crawled in her stomach. She ignored it, but to her dismay, it resurged throughout the rest of her body. Maybe she’d been in the library too long. She shut When Encountering Evil and shoved it in her school bag, collecting the rest of her books and parchment and her quill.

With a late lunch in mind, she stepped out of the library, inadvertently brushing shoulders with Malfoy, whose grey eyes widened slightly as he was about to leave, rooted to the same spot as her. He looked sullen. His mouth opened, but shut almost immediately after it had opened. He stalked past her, his steps quick and jerky and not at all like his usual swagger. He seemed to be in a towering temper, undoubtedly because he had just made contact with a Mudblood. The word riled her, just thinking about it.

She wondered why he hadn’t said anything to her. After all, he never missed an opportunity to taunt her, be it her bushy hair, her formerly long molars, or her blood status. As she trudged into the Great Hall, her stomach growling in anticipation, it never occurred to her that what she should be wondering about was why she was wondering.

Draco was feeling surly again, having revisited the dungeon once again in his dreams. He had the nagging feeling that the dungeon was somehow real, a manifestation of his inner turmoil. Worse still, Hermione Granger had also been present in the dream.

The table was empty this time, with nothing but a single blood red rose sitting innocuously in the center brought into sharp relief from the light from the lighthouse. There were two throne-like chairs this time, and he pulled one out and sat, and waited for what seemed like an eternity. A distinct crack let him know that his beloved had arrived. “Draco, is that…is that for me?” Hermione Granger had just Apparated into the dungeon, and her hair was sleek and loose once more.

“For you,” he heard himself saying, extending the rose towards her. She reached her hand for it, a smile on her face, but the moment the rose was in her grasp, her fingers were dotted with blood.

“No…no…” He leant towards her, horrified at the sight of crimson flowing from her hand. He reached a hand to touch her, to let her know she would be all right, but the blood became ice, and the last thing he saw were her wide frightened eyes as she lay frozen to death, unmoving, dead because of him…

Somehow, this dream was even harder to shake than the one before, and it bothered him more than he would have ever admitted to himself. Now under the bright atmosphere that was the Great Hall, it was hard to believe there was light at all, but the sun descended from the windows and was reflected in the ceiling that was bewitched to reveal the sky.

Conversation poured from all four of the house tables, but he turned a deaf ear to all of it, immersed in his thoughts, his fork hanging limply from his hand.

“What’s that?” Blaise Zabini demanded sharply, his eyes narrowing as an eagle owl dropped a tiny silver box next to Draco’s pumpkin juice. Glad to find a reason to return to the real world, Draco turned his attention to the silver box.

With a sudden childish thrill of what treasures he might unearth from the box, he opened it eagerly. Out fell a ring; black stoned with a ruby in the center and with bumps he realized there was an inscription reading SACRIFICALIS.

“Let me see that,” Zabini said, his eyes round with greed. “It might be goblin-made.” Even Nott’s interest had been piqued, although curiosity did not wear well on him; it made him look all the more like a rabbit. Crabbe and Goyle of course could be counted on for their blank expressions, which just then were alight with interest.

With some reluctance, Draco handed it over. Zabini inspected it closely, as if to detect any obvious value. “You ought to take it to Dervish and Banges, they look at this sort of thing.”

“What, rings?”

“No, just magical objects in general,” sneered Zabini.

Draco pocketed the ring, suddenly feeling apprehensive as to who might have sent it. The Dark Lord came first to mind, but that was highly unlikely. The ring didn’t seem like a dangerous object, but then again, the rose hadn’t seemed dangerous either. Don’t think about that, he thought, furious with himself.

In any case, he thought he might really take it to Dervish and Banges for an inspection, much as he hated taking suggestions from Zabini, seeing as a trip to Hogsmeade had been posted up for next weekend. With only Hogsmeade to look forward to, it was a long week, marred by two more unpleasant chats with Snape and the most homework he had ever been assigned.

On the up side, Draco excelled as a Chaser, managing to place a dozen goals past Nott, who had been recruited to the team as a Keeper over his desire to be a Chaser. Zabini, to Draco’s disgust, had become Seeker and was all the smugger for it when he caught the Snitch within a few minutes. Draco was gratified when Montague told him conspiratorially that Zabini had been the only person to try out for Seeker, however.

So far, he had not managed any close encounters with Granger. He remembered her look of shock when she had bumped into him in the library. He could not honestly recall a more awkward moment. Draco had meant to say something, anything, but he was going through a bit of a silent phase. Words were hard to form, and when they did, they were oddly stilted. There were those odd times, like during Quidditch practice when he felt almost like himself again, but more often than not, he felt hollow and diminished from his former self, which was beginning to feel more and more like a phantom.

“You saw Malfoy in the library?” Harry said for the umpteenth time.

“Yes, in the library,” Hermione said impatiently, and tapped her wand to Disillusion a rat, which squeaked in protest before promptly camouflaging perfectly into the desk. With another tap, the rat was visible once more and scurried away.

Amidst the noise of the Charms classroom, Professor Flitwick was looking a bit harried. Some students were having difficulty seeing their rats after disillusioning them, Ron among them.

“Stupid rat,” Ron grumbled between Harry and Hermione, his hands groping around for it and irresistibly reminding Hermione of Scabbers’s constant departures in their third year. Of course, Scabbers had turned out to be an Animagus and not even a real rat.

“I knew it,” Harry declared triumphantly. “He’s definitely up to something, we’ve got proof!”

“How does being in the library confirm he’s up to anything?”

“That’s easy,” Ron said with a snigger. “Who else goes to the library but you? Nobody else is that keen on well, learning.”

Hermione gave him a very nasty look before facing Harry again, about to regale him about how she had bumped into Malfoy and his seeming inability for speech, but stopped herself. Somehow, she’d rather keep that to herself, and Harry would probably read too much into the “up to something” factor.

“Here,” Harry said, choosing to ignore the minor spat between them. Hermione stared at the aged parchment in his hand with widened eyes.

“What, no! The Marauder’s Map, Harry? Is that really necessary?”

“Well,” Harry said slyly, “I didn’t ask you to do it, but from now on, I’m going to keep my eye on where he is, who he’s with, what’s he doing.”

Hermione narrowed her eyes. “Haven’t you got enough to be getting on with? You’re barely keeping up with your homework, and you’ve got Quidditch practices and such.”

Harry grinned, dropping the Marauder’s Map in front of her. Ron raised an eyebrow as he struggled to hold his grasp onto his rat, which he had mercifully found lurking the edge of the desk. “Aren’t you getting, I dunno, a bit obsessed with Malfoy?”

The grin fell off Harry’s face like a ripped bandage. “He’s up to something, and I’m counting on you to find out what it is, Hermione.”

Hermione rolled her eyes, and tapped her wand again to Disillusion her rat once more. The truth was, she was as interested as Harry about what Malfoy was up to, because she was sure Harry was right. Malfoy was up to something.

Hogsmeade looked as picturesque as ever, now with autumn leaves strewn on the trails and the roofs. Draco sought Dervish and Banges alone, feeling he would rather find out the mysteries of the ring himself. He had never actually been inside Dervish and Banges, which was overshadowed by the more vibrant-looking outsides of Three Broomsticks and Honeydukes. Dervish and Banges was a good distance away from Draco’s two favorite Hogsmeade places, and it was with some relief that he stepped into the store, glad to have finally found it.

A wizened old man wearing askew glasses and a pointed wizard’s hat greeted him jovially, reminding him absurdly of Harry Potter. “How can I help you, young sir?”

Draco took a good look inside the store, which was much more colorful inside than out. Sneakoscopes occupied a whole shelf alone in different sizes, and unknown objects sparkled, jumped, and shrieked, all of their own accord.

“It’s this ring,” he said, reaching for it from his robes. “I got it in the post, and I was wondering whether there are any special properties to it.”

“Special properties,” echoed the wizened wizard, giving it a cursory glance and straightening his glasses to properly examine it. “Let’s see…well, it’s almost certainly goblin-made, with dust-repelling qualities. This increases its value, certainly. Do you have any idea who would send you this through the post?”

“No,” Draco replied so quickly that the wizened wizard stared. “I mean, I don’t know who sent me it.”

“Well, it’s valuable, I daresay. And what’s this? An inscription…it says ‘Sacrificalis’…If I’m not mistaken, that sounds decidedly Latin for Sacrifice, but I’ll have to check with a colleague…I’m not really one for languages, see. This is curious, indeed. Goblin-made things don’t usually have inscriptions, unless they’re specially made, you know.”

“And the magical properties?” prompted Draco.

“As to that, my dear boy, I cannot be sure. ‘Sacrificalis’ sounds a bit like ‘sacrifice’. A most curious object, this is. It’s finely made.” The wizened wizard made a motion to hand the ring back to Draco, who was beginning to feel that the visit to Dervish and Banges had been pointless. The wizard paused, and an excited gleam flitted in his eyes. “Unless…surely not…surely not…” he said.

“Surely not what?” Draco snapped, sounding much more like himself.

“The fabled Ring of Sacrifice was made in the seventeenth century. Given to someone, and should that someone find themselves in a dire, life-threatening situation, they would escape death, and pass on the evaded death to the giver of the ring…but alas, I cannot be sure. It is a fabled ring, after all, and I’m not even certain whether ‘Sacrificalis’ means sacrifice. I’d check that, if I were you, young sir.”

“Can you give it to someone after you’ve used it?” he asked keenly, riveted by the ring that was now his.

“As to that, I cannot be sure…it is only a legend, after all. If I were you, I’d take care of this ring.”

Draco accepted the ring and pocketed it once more, thinking hard. The wizard had certainly given him something to think about. The Ring of Sacrifice…that was intriguing, but offered no more hint as to who it could be from, and if it was indeed the Ring of Sacrifice…well, who would give him such a precious, valuable object?

“Draco, stay behind,” said Snape in a barely audible hiss as the rest of the class practically ran for the door to leave the dungeon.

Harry sent Hermione a significant look that clearly said, “I told you so.”

Hermione felt a twinge of annoyance that showed when she spoke. “What?” she snapped, annoyed.

“I’m going to try to listen outside the dungeon.”

“Are you mad? What would you do that for?” she demanded in hushed tones.

“She has a point, mate. I mean, if Snape found out, it’d be the equivalent of tickling a dragon,” Ron interjected.

“I have to find out what he’s up to,” Harry persisted.

By that time, most of the class was gone, and Hermione cast an anxious look at Snape, who looked grim.

“I’ll do it,” Hermione said, feeling resigned.

Harry grinned. “All right.” The three of them bustled out of the dungeon, but Hermione lingered outside the dungeon, feeling as if she really were preparing to tickle a dragon. She heard nothing for the space of thirty seconds, until an all too familiar drawling voice issued. Her heart thudding in anticipation, she pressed her ear against the wall, wishing wistfully that she had an Extendable Ear at hand with her.

“I don’t need you butting in,” Malfoy said crossly.

“Your mother�””

“Leave my mother out of this, will you?”

“Draco, do you have a plan? The Dark Lord gave you a task, and we both know his wrath will be terrible to behold if you fail…you must succeed. I can help you.”

“You help me,” Malfoy sneered contemptuously. “What can you do to make Hermione Granger feel differently about me?”

Hermione’s heart thudded still faster as she raced to the Great Hall, her bag swinging against her knees as she ran noisily, her shoes slapping against the tiles. She couldn’t have heard right. She couldn’t have. From the sounds of it, Malfoy had been given a task of some sort from Lord Voldemort…but what did she have to do with the task? Why had her name been brought in the conversation? And how did Snape know of the task, whatever it was?

She arrived in the Great Hall pink-faced and breathless, dropping down beside Ron, who was stuffing himself with chicken with undisguised enthusiasm.

"Well?” Harry asked expectantly. “Anything strange?”

“What?” she said, feeling disoriented.

“Anything strange?” he repeated. “Snape and Malfoy?”

“Oh, that…” She wrung her hands agitatedly, trying to gather her thoughts. “Er, no, I couldn’t hear anything, sorry.” Ignoring the look of disappointment and incredulity on Harry’s face, she excused herself from further conversation by digging in to shepherd’s pie, still reeling from the day’s revelations.

“What was that?” Snape hissed softly at the sound of noisy footsteps. He looked unnerved, a rarity for him.

Draco shrugged, his expression haughty. Frankly, unidentified footsteps didn’t mean very much to him.

“As I was saying, Draco�””

“I don’t need this. And don’t ask me to stay behind class anymore,” Draco said menacingly in a low hiss to match Snape’s own.

His feet pulled him straight to the entrance of the Great Hall and keeping his eyes on the floor at all times, settled at the end of the Slytherins’ table, which was mostly isolated except for a few first-years marveling at the automatically refilling treacle tarts. He snorted in derision, remembering his own first year at Hogwarts…trying to befriend Harry Potter, who had rejected his offer of friendship, a stain to his ego. However, the stain had been removed as efficiently as Mrs. Skower’s All-Purpose Magical Mess Remover, and been replaced with hatred suffuse enough for a rivalry.

But leading him to his death…he had never wanted that. A recollection of a day in June when the Dark Lord had told him what he had to do was as clear as ever.

“You will bring Harry Potter to me to his death…Sixteen years his death he has managed to evade death from me, but I will bring it upon him, with your help…you are excited, are you not, Draco?” A high, completely mirthless laugh echoed in the drawing room, and Draco felt his insides boiling with equal parts dread and despair. “Ah…and why not vanquish dirty blood at the same time? You will also bring me the Granger girl…have her give herself away to the foolish notion that is love.” The Dark Lord laughed again, his laugh cold as frost. “For your own sake, you must hope to be more successful than your father,” he said with a cruel smile and in a flash of robes, he had Disapparated, his laugh still echoing in Draco’s head and leaving him in an ominous silence louder than anything.

He was in too deep, and he couldn’t pull himself out of the dangerous waters. If he didn’t do something, he would drown, and no one could save him. Without thinking about it, he reached for the ring and slid it on and let himself sink still further.

Draco let out an awful yell, which roused his fellow Slytherins from their torpor. Zabini straightened himself, managing to look contemptuous even in his sleepy state.

“Ah…is poor ickle Draco having bad dreams? Dragon under the bed?” Zabini jeered with an awful rendition of a baby voice. Crabbe and Goyle both looked nonplussed at the unexpected awakening and gawped at him openly.

If Draco had been the type for Muggle dueling, this would have been the time, but the nightmare that had awoken him was still too horribly ingrained in his mind.

“Bring them to me,” the high, cold voice commanded, sitting upon the throne-like chair Draco recognized as being the same one he had sat on dreams before.

“They’re not…they’re not here,” Draco said, his voice quavering as he cowered in the corner of the now familiar dungeon, the tiniest fraction of light provided from the lighthouse.

The voice was higher and colder than ever as it spoke. “Draco…let us play a game to submit to my will.”

“No…please…” The long white fingers wrapped around a yew wand in an almost loving manner, the Dark Lord raised his wand.

“Crucio!” Pain beyond pain attacked him, the feeling of sharpness and heat flaying every inch of his body like fire, never ceasing until he raised his wand once more to lift the curse.

Sadistic pleasure was evident in his voice as he said, “Tell Lord Voldemort why you have not succeeded in the task I have given you.”

In a strangled but sure voice, Draco heard himself say, “I am not a murderer.”

A laugh escaped the Dark Lord’s lipless mouth that could have shattered glass. Draco’s ears were ringing from that laugh. “You are not a murderer. You are quite right…you don’t have the backbone or the necessary evil to be. It is I that am the murderer, the greatest wizard of all…I am Lord Voldemort, and tonight, I will teach you why it is impertinent to disappoint me as you have done.” The Cruciatus Curse was inflicted on him once more, this time more terrible than the first time.

The pain intensified with every passing second. His skin was surely being scorched from the heat, his whole body searing as he twitched and writhed involuntarily, and his yells filling the capacious dungeon. As he throbbed on the ground shrieking in pain, he heard the gleeful cackle of the Dark Lord, and noticed that the light in the lighthouse was gone. Darkness enfolded in the dungeon, with only the Dark Lord’s pitiless red eyes visible. Death would be preferable to this almost unendurable pain…

“Shut up, Zabini,” Draco muttered, pulling the sheets off of him. He felt like the Cruciatus Curse had really been used on him, and he was only aware that his legs were twitching when he heard the noise of the thump on his bed. The twitching stopped immediately, but it felt like his heart had at the same time.

“You’ve got some problems, I’ll say,” Zabini noted importunately, his haughty eyes looking at him pitilessly in a perfect mirroring of the Dark Lord’s eyes, save for the gleaming red.

Problems…if you only knew, Draco thought sourly, a bitter taste in his mouth as he fell back against the pillow and shut his eyes.

Surreptitiously glancing around in the mostly secluded library, Hermione reached for the Marauder’s Map Harry had lent her, feeling much the way she did whenever occasions arose that required rule breaking. Draco Malfoy’s name jumped out at her in the Slytherin dormitory, where he was alone. The little dot marking his name seemed to be pacing around a certain area, and she continued to watch it. For several minutes, the little dot representing Malfoy paced around the same area. She sighed, and let the Marauder’s Map rest and returned to her work, admonishing herself for getting distracted.

It was a glorious day, and “perfect Quidditch conditions” as Harry had said. In a state of rare absentmindedness, she decided to give her work a rest and return to it later, her eyes itching from tiredness. She could do with a nap…

Theodore Nott glanced sulkily at the ever-mounting workload he had left to do. He was tempted to save his work for tomorrow, but blotted his quill with ink once more to begin his Transfiguration essay. He heard the scuffling sounds of somebody leaving---Hermione Granger had just left the library, vacating the seat that he favored when he was in the library. He gathered his belongings and moved over to his favorite armchair. Not that it was any different from the one he’d been sitting in before, but it was the position of the armchair he liked, offering him a view of all the dusty volumes of books in the library. There was something comforting about being in a library, a place of knowledge, of cold hard facts. Theodore liked facts�”a lot more than people, to be truthful.

The precise wand movement to Untransfigure a recently Transfigured object is a complex motion even qualified witches and wizards have difficulty performing, he wrote. He dropped his quill and let out a heaving sigh. Sixth-year was even more laden with work than their fifth-year, which was OWL year.

He eyed his surroundings edgily, and on his right noticed an ancient piece of parchment, which had squirming black scribbles. He welcomed the distraction, intrigued as he picked it up with a thrill of excitement. With some shock, he found his own name, Theodore Nott completely stationary in a place that was labeled, The Library. He realized a few moments later that this piece of parchment was, incredibly, a map of Hogwarts. What he had taken to be squirming black scribbles were all dots with assigned names. Experimentally, he left his seat and meandered around a few shelves. His name moved along as he did, and when he returned to his seat, so did the dot.

Filch was lurking around the seventh corridor with Mrs. Norris at his heels and Peeves the poltergeist was in the trophy room, moving around absurdly fast on the map, undoubtedly trying to break something for the chaos he was famous for. Harry Potter was in the Owlery, and Theodore’s fellow Slytherins were in the Slytherin dormitory. Theodore watched the little dots that were Zabini, Crabbe, and Goyle for a minute before realizing that Draco Malfoy was not among them…what could Malfoy be doing without his bodyguards and Zabini? Trés strange.

His eyes zeroed in on the dot that was Draco Malfoy, in the girl’s bathroom? Even stranger…Theodore figured that life couldn’t get any stranger when he noticed that Malfoy was not alone…he was accompanied by Moaning Myrtle, the perpetually glum girl usually found in her own U-bend…what in God’s name was Malfoy doing with Moaning Myrtle?

He considered taking the map with him, but let it stay there. Whoever had left it behind�”and he had a shrewd suspicion it was Hermione Granger�”obviously had not meant to leave it behind. Most people would have simply taken it, but Theodore liked to leave his tracks clean whenever possible. He packed away his things, headed for the dormitory to ruminate on his next track, a rare but startlingly nefarious smile spreading on his face.

“No one can help me,” Draco choked out to Moaning Myrtle, the bespectacled girl who haunted the girls’ toilet. Maybe it had something to do with being around somebody who was always in despair, but some of it seemed to rub off on him as he tried to restrain the tears that threatened to fall. The truth of his predicament had never struck him so strongly as it did now in the bathroom. He leaned further down the wall, his head in his hands and Moaning Myrtle looking at him with a mixture of sympathy and coquettish longing. “He’ll kill me…and my parents,” he said incoherently, the tears escaping and falling on his lap.

“Death was�”is terrible,” Moaning Myrtle mused unexpectedly after a quietude had taken place for some time. “But you get to haunt the ones who taunted you in the past…Olive Hornby was horrified when I came back as a ghost and proceeded to follow her everywhere…in the loo, when she slept, at her brother’s wedding…”

Draco tuned out, feeling unsteady from repressed angst he was sure was ready to break out from him again as he tried to restrain himself. Death…I’m only living to breathe…maybe death would be preferable to this…this hell. Of knowing I’ll fail, of knowing I’ll die at the hands of the Dark Lord…

Slightly less red-eyed and calmer, Draco returned to the Slytherin dormitory, his mind completely blank and his eyes unfocused. On his way to the dormitory, he bumped into Nott, who was grinning in a way that made him feel uneasy.

“Malfoy,” Nott said, still smiling in an eerie fashion.

“What?”

“I know,” Nott proclaimed ostentatiously.

“Know what?” Draco snapped irritably. All he wanted to do was relax a bit before dinner, and Nott, the most antisocial person in the world of all people was getting in the way.

“Your secret.”

“My secret,” Draco repeated, trying to sound superbly disdainful, but something about his expression must have given away the certainty he didn’t feel. “Is this an attempt at jesting? You really ought to perfect your delivery and your inflections.”

“Your secret,” Nott said again in mock grave tones. “How would it be if everyone accidentally…found out?” Nott put a delicate stress on ‘accidentally’ that Draco liked even less than the smile.

How, how would Nott have found out about the plan? Draco’s blood felt cold when he remembered that Nott’s father was also a Death Eater�”there was the vague possibility that the Dark Lord had told Nott’s father. But what could possess him to wield that information as a weapon now?

“But nobody has to know,” Nott continued, carefully watching Draco’s face, gauging his reaction. “If you resign.”

“Resign?” Draco reiterated blankly, trying to fight his inner building panic.

“As Chaser,” Nott clarified.

Draco thought his throat had stuck itself, words unable to form for a long moment. There’s no way he can know, he thought desperately. He had no idea who the Dark Lord had told of the plan apart from Snape and the Lestranges, his most faithful Death Eaters.

“You would…you would do that to me…for Quidditch? My God, you’re pathetic. Pathetic,” Draco spat venomously, now feeling incredulous indignation at the Machiavellian depths Nott would sink to for his coveted position as Chaser. Pathetic, but also potentially incriminating for him if anyone did find out… The facade of having no secret had been abandoned.

At least I’ve still got the upper hand when it comes to verbal taunts, Draco thought wryly. Without another thought, Draco’s hand flew to his wand, which he drew threateningly against Nott’s face, a reckless sort of fury coursing through his veins.

Nott laughed. “I’ll give you a day to think about it, Malfoy.” He laughed gaily again, a laugh that left Draco’s ears positively ringing. Nott walked jauntily away with a spring in his step that infuriated him.

The man of monosyllables can string sentences after all, he thought, feeling disgruntled as he pocketed his wand, the ruby in his ring glowing incandescently bright on his finger, almost as if a warning of what was to come.

Feeling infuriated with her growing curiosity with Draco Malfoy that vied Harry’s own, Hermione unbuckled her bag to retrieve the Marauder’s Map…when she realized it wasn’t there. With a spasm of horror when she realized she’d left it in the library, she raced to the library, her bag swinging wildly. To her relief, the map was in the same place she’d left it. She gave it a cursory glance and scanned it for Draco Malfoy. He was in the Great Hall with the other Slytherins�”nothing unusual. “Mischief managed,” she muttered, and the map was wiped innocently blank and she made her way to the Great Hall.

“What kept you?” Ron inquired after swallowing a considerably large mouthful of food.

“Oh, I was in the erm, library…” Which was perfectly and predictably true, but she turned red for reasons she didn’t know herself. This didn’t go unnoticed by Harry and Ron, who exchanged looks. Pretending she hadn’t noticed their identically bemused expressions, she helped herself to food without tasting it, her mind still on the boy who had become increasingly prominent in her thoughts.

It was fast approaching night, but the darkening sky didn’t daunt Draco. The lone flier on the Quidditch pitch, Draco flew still higher around the hoops, feeling suddenly despondent that he wouldn’t even be able to play in the first match of the year (Gryffindor vs. Slytherin) if Nott had his way. Giving up Quidditch the first time had been terrible, but the respite had been temporary once he’d been anointed on the team once again as Chaser. To give it up a second choice would be inconceivable and it was a thought that made his stomach plummet. He couldn’t give up the only outlet he now had. But if Nott really did know…but there was the tiniest possibility that Nott’s threat had been an empty one.

But no, there had been a gleam in his eyes that Draco hadn’t liked�”a wicked sort of gleam. He definitely knew. Flying once more around the pitch, he landed, soft as a ghost, and wondering grimly just how much worse life could get. I’ll give you a day to think about it, Malfoy. He envisioned telling Montague again that he was resigning from the Quidditch team, of Nott’s victorious smirk, of Zabini’s curious surprise. His imagination’s take on the events would probably become reality. Death is terrible, he thought, Moaning Myrtle’s words coming back to him for some inexplicable reason.

He hadn’t made a decision, and he had a feeling sleep wouldn’t be coming too easily anytime soon. In any case, he felt wide-awake with worry.

Passing by the capacious depths of the lake on his way back to the castle, he caught his reflection looking back at him�”a tall figure clutching a broomstick in one hand and an expression he didn’t recognize for never having seen it on his own face before…a few moments passed before he realized the expression was one of fear and uncertainty, and he didn’t like it at all.

Hermione was temporarily distracted by her desire to complete her work by a vision that she was sure she could not be seeing. It was Ron, chattering happily away to a girl that definitely wasn’t her. The realization that the girl was Lavender Brown, who looked like she meant business in a very un-business-like fashion, annoyed her.

“That was so funny!” Lavender professed, fluttering her eyelashes in an immodest way, which irked Hermione still further. Ron looked rather thrown by the attention, but also flattered. Her work quite forgotten, she almost made to stride towards Ron and Lavender but stopped herself in time, trying to pass off her half-motion to stand up to smooth the front of her robes.

“It’s revolting, isn’t it?” Ginny Weasley remarked with pronounced distaste. “But then, my dear brother never really has experienced much female attention, if any at all, so I guess you can’t blame him for looking like such an idiot. I wonder what Lavender sees in him…”

Hermione made an indistinct noise that could have been made for assent. Ginny stared at her for a moment, looking agog. “No way!” Ginny suddenly ejaculated in a hushed voice.

“No way what?”

“You fancy my older brother…well, I guess I shouldn’t be that surprised, but…”

“I don’t fancy Ron,” Hermione said, wrinkling her noise at the casual use of the word ‘fancy’ in regards to her and Ron. What a ridiculous notion�”her feelings for Ron were completely platonic. Only, what might have been jealousy that was igniting through her body said otherwise. But still.

“Yeah, whatever,” Ginny said dismissively, positively grinning with her shrewd discovery of feelings Hermione hadn’t even known she had…until now, of course. “Your body movements, your awkwardness after my accusation five seconds ago…it sort of gives you away, Hermione.”

Hermione was aghast and at a temporary loss for words. “Don’t worry, I won’t tell anyone,” Ginny assured her hastily. “But if you intend on stopping Lavender from pouncing, which I think it’s safe to say she plans on doing, well, I’d do something. And make that soon.”

“Pouncing?” Hermione repeated, chancing a glance at Ron and Lavender, who was laughing uproariously at something Ron had said. A tad too uproariously for Hermione’s liking, if she were honest with herself. This was entering danger city.

“Well, excuse my free rein with the English language. But seriously Hermione! Lavender looks practically besotted, God help her…and you, for that matter. But I’ll be upfront�”I’d rather you be with Ron than her. Oh, there’s Dean, I’ll talk to you later about this, Hermione.”

I’d rather you be with Ron than her…

Nothing besides Lavender would obstruct that particular barrier of pouncing Ron, to use Ginny’s free rein of the English language. She was mystified when the face of Draco Malfoy found its way into her mind suddenly for no reason at all.

It’s just because you’ve been observing him a lot lately, but that thought gave her even less comfort. She’d been observing him for innocent reasons�”well, not that innocent, but because he was up to something. Innocent enough. There was no reason for her to think any further about the matter. Ginny got up from her seat and winked very mischievously, her red hair flying behind her as she walked towards Dean Thomas, leaving Hermione in solitude with her work.

What can you do to make Hermione Granger feel differently about me? Hadn’t those been the impishly spoken words Malfoy had said to Snape that day? Her uneasiness stifled any further thought of work. She hadn’t thought of that question since the day she’d heard them, but there was no forgetting them.

What, what was that question supposed to mean? She could deduce as much that Lord Voldemort had given Malfoy some kind of task that Snape knew about. But why had her name been dragged in the unpleasant conversation? What did feelings have anything to do with it? She needed answers, preferably now, but that wasn’t realistic. She supposed she’d have to confront Malfoy after Potions the next day…the thought practically made her blood curdle, but her need for answers was stronger, as was the unidentifiable feeling in her stomach that had resurfaced that she was getting used to having.

Draco retreated from the dungeon as fast as humanly possible at the blessed sound of the bell, his things already packed and his feet carrying him out of the dungeon at alarming speed. Close on his tail was Hermione Granger, but he wasn’t to know that until she was right in front of him with a strangely determined expression.

“Malfoy,” she said simply without preamble, “are you a Death Eater?” The baldly stated question threw him, and it took him a moment to reassert the cold, calculating expression that had once been second nature and now took all his efforts to summon.

“Granger,” he hissed, playing for time. Are you a Death Eater? What the hell was he supposed to say to that? Yeah, I am, and I’m supposed to bring you to the Dark Lord and your best friend to your death like a tea party. Charming.

“Well?” she pressed impatiently. “Are you? Because I erm, overheard um, a conversation you and Snape had…and my name was brought into it.”

“Overheard?” he said mordantly. “More like eavesdropped, Granger. And what’s it to you if I’m a Death Eater?”

“So you are then,” she concluded, staring at him impassively.

Angrily, he roughly dragged her arm out of the hallway leading to the dungeon, where everybody else would be leaving in a matter of seconds and led her to a more distant corridor, immediately dropping her arm when necessity to was no longer.

She was panting slightly and gripping her arm where he had dragged her as if he’d hurt her once they’d reached the darkest area of the unoccupied corridor. Draco felt an odd twinge at the sight of her clutching her arm in pain.

“Keep your bushy hair out of my business, Granger,” he snapped, nettled with both her interrogatory behavior and with himself for letting her get away with it.

“Voldemort gave you a plan, and I’ve got something to do with it. Tell me now or else,” she said, brandishing her wand in a manner that was clearly intended to look threatening, but somehow struck him as comical, even in this time.

“Don’t say the Dark Lord’s name,” he snarled.

“Tell me,” she repeated again, softer but more dangerously. Even in their third year when she’d smacked him round the face hard, he had never seen her in such a state, and it unnerved him, in spite of himself. And I let her die, he thought, remembering the dream with its blood, ice, and anguish…

An impulse struck him�”the same one in his dream that had given her the rose, that had let him pour out his soul to Moaning Myrtle. A nanosecond later, he realized who this was�”Hermione Granger, the Mudblood friend of Harry Potter and Ron Weasley. The hell with true confessions.

“Leave me alone.”

“I’d love to,” she retorted, her brown eyes chockfull of hatred and her bushy hair practically crackling with antagonism.

“Then do it,” he suggested coolly.

“No, not until you tell me what’s going on,” she said doggedly. Damn her to hell, she was persistent.

“Yeah, ‘cause I’d really want to share secrets of my life with a Mudblood,” he said sarcastically.

Granger’s eyes flashed with anger. “Don’t call me a Mudblood.”

Draco raised an eyebrow. “Bothers you, does it, me calling you a Mudblood? Gets under your skin?” He felt vindicated, a brutal sort of pleasure in ragging her about her filthy blood status. Her wand rose still higher, and a wicked smile played with his mouth. “Going to curse me, Granger? Well, I’d love to see you try.”

A pause, as the two of them silently acknowledged just how much closer they were to the other.

Her mouth opened in a snarl, but shut pronto to that. “We can do this the easy way or the hard�””

“Please, Granger. Anyone can tell that’s the first threat that’s ever came out of your mouth. Let me show you a real threat,” he said, and raised his own wand at level with her own.

Something flickered in those brown eyes�”fear? Alarm? Anger? All three? An almost unreal excitement flushed in his pale face at the sight of their wands pointing straight into each other’s faces.

“You wouldn’t dare,” he goaded her, a single green spark shooting out of his wand and bouncing off a wall noisily.

“Incarcerous!” Granger recited, as if a poem and obscenely tight ropes were conjured, binding him painfully, his wand hand useless.

Her wand still aloft, she said softly, almost demurely, “I could reverse this. But only if you wanted me to.” His wand was clamped tightly in an arm that could no longer move was of no real use just now. He groaned�”he needed her to counteract the spell.

He glared at her, and she took his glare for acquiescence, and lifted the spell nonverbally. An infuriatingly teasing, triumphant smirk was on her face now, the same one he used to wear himself. Damn her. It was she who was getting under his skin now, crawling and prickling, but he couldn’t scratch the itch.

“That wasn’t funny, Granger.”

“But I dared, didn’t I?” she said, almost playfully, meeting his icy grey eyes. “And you didn’t think I would…Now, I’m certain you don’t want to repeat what just happened, so just tell me what’s going on. Now.” All hint of playfulness in her voice was gone, replaced with pure and cold anger. That’s more like it, Draco thought.

With a heavy sigh, he slumped against the wall and didn’t speak for a long time. He was too tired to maintain animosity just now, tempted as he was to. She crouched beside him in an obligatory fashion, her anger replaced with anticipation for the words he feared to speak.

Reluctance was evident in the slow, hesitant manner he lifted the robe sleeve covering his left arm.

“The Dark Mark,” she whispered, her mouth in the shape of an O, clearly dumbstruck at the image of the combined skull and serpent.

“Yeah,” he said in a low voice that surprised them both in its intensity.

“And the task…” she urged him.

“I can’t tell you,” Draco said, still in the same low voice. A resurgence of his old self flared, and he added in a louder, more forceful voice, “I can’t tell anyone, Granger. Leave me alone.”

She stood up again, looking livid. “Fine, then. But you can count on me to find out what I need to know, Malfoy.”

“The library can’t help you, Granger,” he sneered, watching her depart and feeling detached from the whole thing, his left arm sleeve covering the Dark Mark once more.

She rounded on him from a distance, as if she were compelled to look at him when she spoke to him. She parted her lips and said haughtily, “But you can,” and without another word, left him there with only his insolent thoughts for company.

“That Hermione Granger,” Lavender Brown began hesitantly, “She doesn’t like me, does she?”

I sure don’t, Hermione thought, watching the two of them surreptitiously with increasing annoyance.

“What gives you that idea?” Ron Weasley said, looking lazily at his lap, which had Lavender occupying it like a throne.

Lavender merely shrugged, and began to kiss him so ferociously that Hermione couldn’t stomach to watch the two of them pouncing around like wild animals.

“That’s what they call true lust,” Ginny said helpfully. She faced Hermione and added, “And you’re arrested development.”

“Arrested development?”

“You know�”somebody who is clearly better, more qualified or whatever, but life sucks for them anyways. You’re gypped. Kind of like Sirius is. I mean, was." A pause as she remembered that Sirius was dead. "Of course,” she said fairly, “you’re partly to blame, so in your case, I use the term loosely, once again exercising my free rein of the English language.”

“I know what arrested development means,” Hermione said, nettled. “I just don’t see how it has anything to do with me. And what’s all this partly-to-blame rubbish you’re spewing?”

“You’re to blame for what’s happening now, don’t you realize? I mean, if you hadn’t been such a�”” It was here Ginny paused, clearly trying to think of a word that perfectly conveyed what Hermione had been. “A coward. You’ve been a coward.”

“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” Hermione said nastily, trying to turn her ears off to the sounds of smacking lips that was now permeating in the Gryffindor common room, which was no easy feat.

“That’s where you’re wrong,” Ginny persisted. “It’s plain to everyone that you and Ron are meant-to-be, but you let Lavender come in and ruin it all.”

“Meant-to-be?”

“Soul mates, star crossed lov�””

“�”ers. I know what meant-to-be means,” sighed Hermione. “But…”

“But what? You and Ron are the opposites attract thing. The brain meets offbeat humor. And don’t you dare deny it, because we both know it’s true.”

“I don't believe I've met anyone who uses so many overused phrases...and you really believe that?” Hermione said skeptically.

“I really do.”

“Well…tell that to Ron. He looks�”and sounds like he’s having the time of his life,” Hermione spat bitterly.

“Well, he is,” said Ginny bluntly. “Having the time of his life, that is. Like I said before, he’s never really been a hit with girls, so Lavender is the peak of his sad, sordid life so far. But you were afraid to take a chance, and now it’s too late,” she said with an awful finality and gave a melancholy exhale of regret.

“I really don’t see what the fuss is about. He can kiss any girl he likes. It’s nothing to do with me,” Hermione stated steadfastly. Glaring at nobody in particular, she began to focus on the flickering flames, mesmerized by the luminescence of the fire and the shadows it cast.

Lavender’s insistence on spending every spare second with Ron left little time for Hermione to talk to Ron, which was fine, because she was perfectly fine with their “relationship” together and didn’t want to interfere. Or at least, that was what she told Harry, who merely grunted and nodded but with no real reply to speak of, undoubtedly because he suspected the real truth: she was jealous.

Which was a ludicrous, although disconcertingly true thought. She was jealous. There were times when she thought Ron would look at her more when it was not wholly necessary to, but would look away guiltily and turn back to Lavender. Or was that just the tiny shred of hope remaining that suspected that? No. He definitely looked at her, and it was this thought that sustained her for the rest of the week, where she proceeded to complete her work, refuse to look over Harry’s work in the knowledge that he would let Ron copy him, and dutifully neglect any activities pertaining to watching Draco Malfoy.

Opposites attract…That was what Ginny had said about Ron and her, but despite their differences, she and Ron weren’t really opposites. There was nobody who was so blatantly opposite from her as Draco Malfoy. They were as yin and yang as the sun and moon. But she repressed this thought, because having such a thought disturbed her more than even Ron and Lavender’s passionately public kissing escapades.

During that brawl of a confrontation, there had been a moment of vulnerability, however brief, that Malfoy had seemed to be considering really telling her in spite of their complete loathing for each other. Confiding in her, opening up to her…But something had stopped him, and she had a strong feeling it was her responsibility to open him up, because this was one thing she couldn’t deny�”he was up to something, and whatever it was, it sounded dark or dangerous and it also sounded like it involved her. And having the Dark Mark? That was beyond fishy. It was...eerie.

But how best to approach him again? The same way Ron’s eyes followed her was the same for Hermione for Malfoy. Although the five years she’d been friends with Harry and Ron had practically given her an education for breaking rules and being something like a spy, she had the suspicion that Malfoy knew she was watching him, although he did nothing to dissuade nor acknowledge her. It was the lack of acknowledgment that burned her with resentment she couldn’t explain to herself.

What was so secretive of “the plan” that he couldn’t, wouldn’t tell her? She would ponder this for hours at a time before remembering that he had no obligation to�”he was a Slytherin, she a Gryffindor. He was a pureblood, she a Muggleborn. The parallels were clear, but were becoming less so, at least to her. And of course, they were rivals. There was no reason at all for him to confide in her.

“What are you doing here?” she demanded at the unsettling sight of a tall and all too familiar figure that was Draco Malfoy. She was in the library, her usual choice of retreat, and blissfully away from Ron and Lavender. To avoid two, you get one who’s even worse. Even more unsettling was the fact that he had pulled out the seat directly in front of her.

“We’re in the library, Granger. Keep your voice in an indoor whisper,” Malfoy said, smirking in an even more familiar fashion that for some reason assured Hermione. Still more unsettling was his use of the word ‘we’re’. The pronoun wasn’t meant to imply anything, but she felt goosebumps form on her arms despite the cozy warmth of the library.

She could still remember the moment of understanding they’d reached in the abandoned corridor. He hadn’t been so confident and sneering in there like he was now, and it was this she thought of now.

“What are you doing here?” she repeated again, refusing to betray how confused she felt just at the mere thought, mere presence of him.

Malfoy appeared to ruminate the question. “I guess,” he began with sudden and lilting tentativeness that surprised her, “to find you.”

“To find me,” Hermione repeated, her resolve to conceal confusion dwindling as she felt more nonplussed than ever.

“What you saw the other day…did you tell anyone?” His tone was guarded but anxious.

Hermione considered. She hadn’t told anyone about Malfoy’s Dark Mark, but she saw her answer to be a potential weapon. The wicked impulse that struck her died when she looked in his eyes, which awaited her fateful reply. “Against my better nature, I haven’t, actually.”

His grey eyes, which were absent of their usual coldness, gazed at her intently for a moment, clearly trying to gauge she was telling the truth or not. Hermione blinked. The closeness between them just now reminded Hermione uncomfortably of their former encounter of closeness. The moment snapped, the inadvertent spell of closeness broken as fast as it had arisen uncertainly between the two of them like a Deflagration Deluxe set of fireworks.

“Guess you’re not as filthy as your blood would imply,” Malfoy finally spat malevolently.

Hermione had to admit she was surprised. Was he that eager to resume the familiar plane of hatred? She glared at him, loathing every fibre of his being, his existence. “Get out.”

“It’s not on your grounds to say that,” he drawled, still looking at her intently in that piercing manner. “I know you call this library home Granger, but home for you is in the Muggle world. That’s where you belong. Right now, you’re just a tourist in this world. If I were you, I’d take some pictures before I hopped back to Muggle London.”

“You really don’t have anything else to cast aspersions about on me, do you? Is that all you care about, Malfoy? How pure someone’s blood is? You’re beneath me.” The last three words had been unintentional, and she wasn’t sure what she meant by them as she stood up to leave, seeing as he wouldn’t.

“You think you’re better than me?” he said in a voice barely more than a whisper.

“I know I am.”

“Your vilification knows no limits, Granger. I’m impressed.”

“What?” Unsettled once more, and even worse, he knew it. You’re not supposed to be impressed; you’re supposed to fire back with some snappy retort!

He grinned in undisguised amusement at her reaction. “You enjoy these rows, don’t you?”

She said nothing, her arms crossed, her posture rigidly rock-solid.

“What do they call it in the Muggle World�”debate club or something? That’s what this is for you. You like being in the presence of somebody bigger, somebody better�”somebody like me.”

Words caught up with her again, although the delivery wasn’t as cutting as she wanted in her slightly dazed state. “You’re beneath me.”

Still grinning, he stood up, towering over her and said, “That’s what you think, Granger. But you’ll be back.”

“Back for what?” she said, cursing herself for her curiosity.

“For…well, I think we both know what you want.”

She would have laughed at the ridiculous implications of his words if she hadn’t been trying so hard to identify what that stupid creeping feeling in her stomach was. Was there some truth in his words? Did she enjoy these rows? Did she enjoy the exchange of taunts between the two of them? Did she…enjoy his company?

No, I don’t, she thought furiously with the same conviction she’d had with her feelings on Ron and Lavender, which was to say, none at all.

That’s where you belong. Right now, you’re just a tourist in this world.

Malfoy’s words rang in her ears like a record on a repeat, and she felt crosser every time they replayed.

“How dare he,” she fumed under her breath, not caring for the stares she was attracting from her incessant muttering that was becoming increasingly incoherent. “Stupid…stupid…Belong in a tour�“I'll give you a tour...a tour of fury.”

“Hermione?” How ironic that it was Lavender Brown who was wondering whether she, Hermione Granger was all right. “Are you okay?”

“Just dandy,” Hermione said with such obvious sarcasm even a troll would’ve detected it and scarpered.

“If this is about Ron�“” Lavender began, clearly ready to assert herself in the role of the protective, hands-off-my-boyfriend role.

“It’s not about you or Ron, or you and Ron. De facto, that my anger could possibly be caused by something other than your own self-involved-world-view shouldn’t be so shocking, Lavender! Just leave me alone already!” Hermione was surprised to find that the fury-filled voice that reverberated in the room was her own. What has he done to me?

Lavender, more than a bit bewildered by this outbreak of rage quickly made herself scarce, retreating to Ron in the Gryffindor common room, undoubtedly to rehash on her “jealous” behavior. And off she goes, to relay on how jealous I'm not.

“Hermione, are you okay?” Ready to fire back at Lavender, she was almost disappointed that it was somebody she had no reason to display apoplectic rage to. It was just Harry.

“Yes…I’m fine,” she said, offering a most unconvincing smile that resembled the cringe it really was.

Harry was not to be sedated by her act. “Hermione, c’mon, if this is about Ron, you should tell him how you feel and not�“”

“Not what? Show the world how angry I am? Is that a crime now? I don’t remember you getting too apologetic about your anger last year, but I put up with it all the same. And why does everyone think this is about Ron? Not everything is about sodding Ron Weasley!”

Harry was on the verge of a reply, but seemed to think better of it. Hermione was dully aware of stares from every angle. She knew she must look a real mess�“red with anger, flyaway hair, and a maddening stare Medusa would have been proud of.

It would be a few moments before she felt guilty for how she’d treated Harry (she saw no reason to feel guilt over her behavior to Lavender). She was still too angry with Malfoy and even more so, herself. This was a delayed reaction like no other�“she’d been too occupied trying to find the meaning in his cleverly chosen words to really understand them. But now she did, and her anger was to be known and could not be hidden. That the words had been spoken from Draco Malfoy intensified the hurt and anger they’d instilled somehow.

“Hermione, we need to talk,” Ginny said, looking at her with worried eyes. “Not about Ron,” she added quickly, second-guessing accurately what Hermione was about to say.

“Fine,” she said wearily, trying to master the last shred of sense that seemed to have abandoned itself during her moment of anger that she now wished could be erased from history.

“Something happened to you. I mean, I’ve never seen you lose control like that. Want to tell me what happened?”

“No.”

“But I think you need to talk about it. You’ll feel better.” For a nanosecond, Hermione deliberated on telling Ginny why she was so angry, but decided against it immediately. She was afraid Ginny might accuse her of something�“the same something Malfoy had accused her of.

“I disagree,” Hermione said defiantly. “And I’m in every right to disagree, so don’t try to talk me out of it to talk to you about what I can’t talk to you about.”

“I’m going to have to ‘Lather, rinse, repeat’ to understand that one,” Ginny said with a slight smile.

Hermione scowled.

“Your constant denial that your anger isn’t about Ron makes me think that it well, might be,” Ginny explained apologetically.

“Well, it’s not,” said Hermione tartly.

“Then what?”

“I’m not telling you.”

“Drop the secrecy already�“it’s me, Hermione. I haven’t seen you so worked up about keeping a secret since Viktor Krum, and that was to Ron. I don’t see what could be so terrible that you can’t tell me about it.”

“It’s nothing, Ginny. Really.” Hermione tried to summon a convincing expression of All's-well-with-the-world, but it was met with skepticism.

“Nothing? That’s the something that caused such a dragon-like reaction to all those scared innocent bystanders huddling in the common room now?”

“There aren’t scared innocent bystanders,” Hermione protested feebly.

“What I think is that you were brooding, and Lavender interrupted, and you just snapped because it was her. You hate Lavender, plain and simple. She has the boy you want�“the boy I might add is my extremely gangly, undesirable older brother, but also the boy you’re meant-to-be with. There’s nothing wrong with admitting that. And maybe some mitigating factors like some nose-picking first-year's playing with Fanged Frisbees? Am I getting warm?”

Hermione said nothing, glowering at the rug.

“Why can't you tell me, Hermione? For God's sake, a lie is better than what you’re telling me, which is nothing!”

“There is,” Hermione said with dignity, “nothing to tell."

"So much more convincing with the even more pronounced anger," Ginny said sarcastically.

“Well, the truth is, nothing happened! There, that’s a lie. Isn’t that better?” she snapped.

Ginny gave her a hard look. “When you’re ready to talk about this, I’ll be happy to hear it.”

I’ll never tell.

“Caused quite an uproar in there, didn’t you?” said a sly voice in the shadows, but she already knew who it was.

Hermione whirled around, no longer unsettled but wondering why she hadn’t foreseen this coming. Undoubtedly because I have no aptitude for Divination, she thought dryly.

“So what does an angry rampage feel like, Granger? I’m all ears.” Malfoy looked positively delirious with glee.

“We can’t talk here,” she hissed, irritated that he’d somehow wormed his way into a coveted seat of Arrogant, Inescapable Gits. It looked like Ron Weasley’s top spot had a contender.

In waspish fashion, she pulled him towards an abandoned classroom for more privacy for what would inevitably be another argument. Why do I subject myself to the ignominious pain of his company?

“Are you getting déjà vu?” Malfoy inquired when she let go of his arm and shut the door of the classroom. “Because I have this vivid memory of you, me, alone in a corridor and this is just�“”

“What do you want?”

“The same thing you do, Granger. You could say I want…information.”

“Information? Possibly how to be more of an intolerable person? Tips on how to be a git?” she suggested, thinking of Ron’s invective on Malfoy a few pre-Lavender weeks ago.

“Me, a git?” Malfoy looked deeply amused. “So I do get under your skin. I bother you.”

“And the sky is blue. Are we done here? Please, God, let this conversation end with a ‘yes’.”

“Not even close to being done. Aren’t you having fun, Granger? Possibly the most fun you’ve ever had?” His casual tone betrayed only the slightest bit of dalliance that did not go unmissed by Hermione.

“Quite honestly, no.”

“Quite honestly, I don’t believe you,” he replied with the ease you’d find in a conversation between friends…or sworn rivals. Which was what they were, completely and utterly. That she had to remind herself of that fact so constantly perturbed her. “What I said back when we were in the library, I may have possibly touched a few nerves. Getting warm?”

When Ginny had asked whether she was getting 'warm', she had been far from it. But this time, the tables had turned�“done a complete three-sixty, in fact. The silence stretched on uncomfortably, the awkwardness of it palpable and the tension building between them like the flickering flames of a fire.

“So? That doesn’t mean anything,” she retorted.

“I don’t recall saying it did. It’s you that wants to put the meaning in everything, but it’s a personal fault of your kind.”

“My kind?” The anger bubbled inside the cauldron, stirring at astonishing speed.

“Women,” he explained, raising an eyebrow. “What, you thought I meant Mudbloods? No, I decided to take a tip from what you said�“I do get repetitive with my material sometimes, but it’s only because it’s the first word that comes to mind when I see you.”

“Get out.”

“Looks like I’m not the only unoriginal one then,” Malfoy said, grinning in the extremely vexing way only he could manufacture with a simple smile. “And if memory serves me, you were the one who dragged me in this classroom.”

“Shut up, Malfoy.”

“Not any time soon, Granger. I had a purpose in mind�“information.”

“Right,” she said tersely. “And I’m what, supposed to be handing you information on a silver plate? Is that it?”

“Not quite. There’s an upside for you in this, you know. You give me what I want�“I’ll give you what you want.”

“What do I want?” she asked, momentarily swayed in puzzlement.

“For a know-it-all, you’re pretty dim. Information. What were you thinking?” He put up his hands dramatically and amended, “On the other hand, I don’t really want to know.”

“So what do you want to know?” She was careful to keep her tone heavy with dislike, but he continued to grin despite her animosity.

“What do you think of Weasley with that Brown girl? Are you…jealous?”

“You said you wanted information,” Hermione countered immediately.

“I do.” He rolled his eyes at her apparent lack of comprehension.

“What does Ron and Lavender have to do with information?”

“Possibly you might have noticed I asked you a question. Questions are asked so they can be answered. You should understand this concept well. I mean, the way you jump every time a teacher asks you a question.”

“They’re completely wrong for each other.” The words spilled out before she could stop them from pouring.

“And your opinion has nothing to do with your feelings for him?”

“I don’t have feelings for Ron.”

“Right…and the sky’s not blue.” His grin resurfaced again, and hearing him spit back the words she’d said earlier incensed her.

“Is there anybody else that’s stopping you?”

“Stopping me from what?” Hermione wasn’t sure why she was still talking to him, or why her feet felt magically compelled to stay where they were, which was here in an abandoned classroom with possibly her least favorite person in the world.

“Anyone who would belch slugs for somebody is dead serious about the girl they did it for. What’s he doing with her? Why isn’t he with you? What’s stopping you from being with him?”

Real curiosity was apparent in his voice.

“Because…I don’t know. And I don’t care either. He’s perfectly entitled to be with Lavender, or anybody else, or�“”

“With you?” he cut in.

“Shut up.”

“Oh, right�“not a word from Draco Malfoy, 'cause you might actually get a bit of truth on you, is that right?”

“I feel nothing for Ron.”

“So that’s why you maintained an unpleasant silence with him all through Potions? They’ve got a name for that�“the Ice Queen Act.”

“It wasn’t an unpleasant silence�“anyways, I was concentrated on my work.” And why were you watching me in Potions? she wanted to add, but she was afraid of the answer, and even more afraid of why she was.

“And back to my question�“is there somebody else?” This time she knew the implications of his question, and she also knew it wasn’t one she could answer honestly.

“Of course not. There’s nobody in the way of anything because I don’t like Ron! Well, not in that way,” she amended hastily.

“Denial is a beautiful thing,” Malfoy told her with teasing eyes. “It’s not something I’d recommend, but anyways, it’s your turn now.”

“My turn? What, are we playing a game?”

“You wish, Granger. Although I guess for you, this is a game�“fun and all that. No, your turn to ask for information.”

Why are you talking to me like we’re comrades? Why are we in this classroom together? Why do you make feel as angry as I do the way nobody else ever has? Why do you have the Dark Mark? What do I have to do with this plan of the Dark Lord’s? Why does Snape know about the plan? Why do I want to know these things as badly as I do?

When she still did not speak, he said, “Wasn’t that what you were fishing for the other day? Getting all uptight about the information I wasn’t giving you? Well, here’s your chance. Or do Gryffindors not seize chances that are staring right at them?”

He was staring right at her with piercing grey eyes that made her feel like she was being X-rayed for cancerously concealed thoughts and feelings. A thought trembled her�“what if he did see something?

“What’s this plan Voldemort gave you? What’s it got to do with me?” she finally asked in a brave attempt to maintain her loathing alive in her unfriendly tones.

“More than you'd ever guess,” came his cryptic answer.

Hermione seethed. "Would it kill you to�“?" She sighed, giving up. He wasn't going to tell her anything, and she'd wasted her time yet again trying to find out.

"Kill me to what?" he hissed, the intensity between their unsaid thoughts and feelings louder than the current silence. Before she knew it, the distance between them was no longer an issue. She couldn't have said who had moved first, but it was as if their lips met in synchronized motion, like they'd meant to do it all along, quelling any further thoughts except Why is this happening and why aren’t I stopping it? A thrill of involuntary excitement quickened her pulse and left her forgetting she could breathe, which stopped only when she finally pulled away in shock and disgust with herself and the situation she’d found herself into.

“Did you just…?” The word ‘kiss’ was not one that was going to escape her lips, not to Malfoy.

“We just, you mean. See you around then…Hermione.” He said her name in a way she'd never heard it before, mocking yet sincere at the same time and it unnerved her.

How do these things happen? How did I let this happen? she thought, feeling wretched and wanting to forget, but her mind's remembrance of his touch betrayed her wish to forget her moment of mortification.

Hermione made a contemptuous noise and stood as tall as she could stand. “There won’t be a repeat experience, Malfoy. There was no experience.”

“Denial is a beautiful thing,” he recited again with his familiar sneer. “I’m not under your skin now,” he said. “I’m in it.” And on that note, he left, in her skin at last.