Something about the girl stuck in his mind throughout his years at Hogwarts. She was an insufferable know-it-all; a bushy-haired swot - but she crept into his mind and dreams every night as he crawled into bed and finally let the smirk and fake hatred slip away.

Draco Malfoy was not his father. No matter how similar they appeared, and no matter how Draco was forced to act, he would never be the evil, slimy git that was Lucius Malfoy. He never thought he was better than anyone else because of his blood. How could he, when muggle-born Granger bested him in every subject, in every year? No, Draco knew that blood meant nothing. Nothing meant anything anymore.

Draco walked over to his large, four poster bed and crawled under the emerald silk blankets. No matter how many warming charms he applied, he just couldn't get warm. Not with the Death Eaters and their twisted, snake-eyed leader going in and out of the Manor. He rolled over and drifted to sleep, dreaming of bushy hair and fresh parchment...

Draco woke to loud knocking at his door. He knew he couldn't have been asleep more than thirty minutes. "Come in," he called, his eyes narrowing as Wormtail cautiously entered the room. Wormtail resembled a rat almost more than Umbridge had resembled a toad. Draco had heard once that Wormtail had been chums with Potter's father. Draco pictured the Weasel abandoning his friends and shook the thought - only a rat could do such a thing.

"You're needed in the drawing room. Some snatchers think they've caught Potter and his friends. Someone has to identify them, and you're the lucky bloke for the job."

"Right. I'll be right there; let me get dressed."

Wormtail rolled his eyes, muttering something about "self-important rich people" and scurried away.

Draco's heart was racing. He knew that Granger must be travelling with Potter, because if she wasn't, the moron would be dead already. She would be tortured, raped, or killed. Or all of the above. He knew that nothing he did could help her; Voldemort would kill him and his parents if he turned now. His mother's safety was the only reason he was still here.

He entered the drawing room and saw her. Those brown eyes locked onto his grey ones and held his stare. Eventually he had to look away, lest he show his hidden weakness.

"Well, Draco, is it them?" Draco's aunt asked excitedly. She was bat-shit crazy, but she was evil as well. Draco eyed the Weasel, who stared at Granger desperately, as if he hoped she would conjure up a way out of this mess. Potter's face was messed up; clearly he had been hit with a stinging jinx. Clever, Granger, Draco thought. "If we are the ones to hand Potter over to the Dark Lord, your weak father and you may be forgiven. Look, is that his Mudblood whore? And the blood-traitor Weasley?"

"I - I'm not sure. This one's face is a bloody ugly mess," he gestured to Harry, "and I never glanced at the Mudblood long enough to remember her filthy face." There, he thought. Maybe that will buy them some time. Come on Granger, think! Think! Figure a way out of this -

"WHERE DID YOU GET THAT?!" His aunt screamed. A stupid, smug snatcher replied, "Found it in her bag. Reckon it's mine now." Stupid man. He was dead before he could take another breath, and Bellatrix grasped the object - a large sword encrusted with rubies. "Take the boys to the cellar! I want to have a talk with this one, girl to girl!"

Draco's heart sank. Granger was going to die before his eyes, and there was nothing he could do about it.