Rated T for the swearing that will occur because swearing is a great form of expression, and there will perhaps be some more mature content cropping up. T was a safe place to go.

It pains me to say that I don't own Harry, or anything to do with his world, but I don't. The characters are hers, no matter how much it feels as if they belong to us. This is my disclaimer.

'What can I do to drive away remembrance from my eyes?'

John Keats

Chapter One

Away From Prying Eyes

The Room of Requirement has, over the centuries, been the place for the lost to venture, but even the lost have a purpose. Every person who enters into the Room has a purpose; the Room cannot serve its function if there is no requirement for it. These things are very obvious to anyone who has ever used the room, all the young lovers in need of a quiet place, all the desperate children hiding from prying eyes, all the headmasters in need of a chamber pot or two. Although, very few people acknowledge that the Room is used by others, even though most rooms are. That is, after all, the purpose of the Room - to meet the requirements of many, and reveal the secrets of few. The Room is so full of secrets, and lies, and one or two lost souls, so many paths that never cross, so many lives that never expected to touch.

Hermione had never ventured into the Room of Requirement alone; she had never had reason to before. Now, however, she had to get away. She had to disappear, to somewhere she could possibly forget about what she had just seen. She would never be able to forget. How could he? With her? She hated him. She hated every part of him, every single terrible, wonderful part. Ron, that blundering, childish, foolish, clueless, perfect boy. He really couldn't see it, could he? She was in love with him, or at least she thought she was. Seeing him with Lavender was so terrible. It was agony.

Thoughts raged in Hermione's head like a storm-corrupted sea, making her blind to her peers, deaf to their taunts of sympathy. She wandered aimlessly, tormented, throughout the castle, traipsing back and forth, walking down the same corridors far too many times. Nowhere was quiet enough, lonely enough. 'Let me be alone, let me be lost, let me be hidden,' the thought was constantly going over and over in her head, like some sorry chant. Even in the darkness, there was no place to be truly invisible, except one. The door materialised before Hermione even realised which corridor she was on. Tentatively, she reached out and turned the handle, hearing the definite chink of metal on metal unlocking itself. An unfamiliar scent drifted from inside the room, but as she slinked in, Hermione felt herself be engulfed by the same complete, raw magic that she knew too well. It was the feeling of being needed, being required.

The Room had never looked like this before. Hermione had only known it to be the headquarters of the Dumbledore's Army, where it was equipped with everything the DA had required, dark detectors, Death Eater dummies, and the like. This was something completely different, which made sense to Hermione. She needed it for something different, why should it be the same? Great fragile pyres of broken things, that looked like they could go up in smoke in a second, towered to the ceiling. Mounds of discarded books, tables with strange creatures in jars, an unmade bed piled high with numerous diaries and journals. Everywhere she turned had a strange, labyrinthine quality, it seemed like all of these things, these possessions, had been lost, no, hidden. 'This', Hermione thought to herself, 'must be where people have hidden things, since the beginning of Hogwarts.' Every step she took led here deeper and deeper into Hogwarts' past, the books became older, the dust was set thicker, and the air was more alive with whispers. She was so far in now; she couldn't see the great entrance doorway, although Hermione suspected that had disappeared long ago.

The tears had stopped now, but the torment was still alive and raging inside her head. She wiped away the running tears from her cheeks, and paused to rub her eyes. It was remarkable here. Hermione was alone, finally, to be one with her feelings, away from prying eyes. Even Ron had seen her flee from the Common Room, so how was she ever supposed to leave?

"Work, stupid thing, stupid, bloody, useless, worthless, hopeless thing. Why doesn't it work?" Hermione froze, panic filling every area of her body, her eyes wide with confusion and alarm. Who was that? Who else was in the Room? The Room was only able to serve one purpose at a time; this was impossible, she had to be alone. Slowly, Hermione backed towards a small alcove of gutted wardrobes. Silence. Relief flooded over her body, it had just been her mind, so confused it was playing tricks on her... Then, suddenly, from not very far away, the voice came again. "Stupid thing. They're going to kill me. Why, please work, please…" There was a faint sense of recognition, Hermione had heard that snarly drawl before, but now, it was different. There was pain, and anxiety, and fear in this voice. Hermione backed a little too quickly into the piles of furniture, and suddenly, almost as if it had been choreographed, the broken shards of wood came tumbling down. Terrified, only this time for her life, Hermione half ran, half flung herself out of the path of the falling debris. "What the hell?" alarm traced through the voice now, and as she heard soft footsteps striding towards her, Hermione's worst suspicions became a reality. The harsh, platinum blond head of Draco Malfoy came into view, and Hermione froze, just as Draco did.

"Malfoy?" she breathed, unable to fathom much else.

"Granger? How the hell did you get in here?" Draco faltered, his usual sneer distorted by a look of panic and confusion.

"I don't, I had to, um, I-"

"Well get out! You can't be here!"

"No," Hermione's voice was almost inaudible, even to herself, "I, I can't."

"What do you mean you can't? Get out! You prying, nosy, filthy mudblood!"

"Nothing you say is going to change my mind, Malfoy. I need this place right now, and evidently so do you. I'm staying." She surprised herself with her new found voice, daring herself to take a step towards Draco, who stumbled back.

"You don't understand, you have to get out. Just, just leave, now."

"No. I'll stay out of your way, and you stay out of mine, this room is plenty big enough for the both of us." Hermione was astounded by what she was saying, in what world did she speak like this to anyone, let alone Malfoy? She wasn't herself, at all, her head was corrupted with jealously and confusion, and now even in the place she thought to be silent, someone would hear her screaming.

"Please?" Despair swelled in the boy's eyes, and some strange other emotion Hermione had never before seen on Draco's face.

"No." She turned, and abruptly began striding down a small corridor of mould-mottled mirrors, trying desperately to appear like she knew where she was going.

Hermione threw herself into a large armchair, which gave out a magnificent cloud of dust. Her spluttering slowly turned to whimpering, which in turn became weeping. The only place where she thought she would be alone, and Draco Malfoy turns up, out of the blue. Nothing, nothing, ever went in Hermione's favour. With tears still streaming down her face, she rummaged about in the boxes surrounding her chair for something to occupy her mind. Hermione pulled a large, leather-bound book from amidst the jumble, wiping away the dust set in the gold lettering, she read 'John Keats, The Major Works'. Reading some Keats, a muggle poet her parents enjoyed, seemed like a good enough way to pass the time and allow herself to brood, after all, the majority of Keat's poetry was written while he pined to be in love, or longed to be out of it. Hermione didn't know how long she spent flicking through the volume, making a mental bookmark of all the poems that had reflected her personal angst. One thing she prided herself in was her ability to completely lose herself in the printed word. She was so enveloped in her reading, she didn't hear the footsteps approaching, so when Draco spoke, Hermione jumped with a start.

I don't know what finally made me write some long fanfiction, let alone a Dramione. Now, however, upon writing the characters some more, I am thoroughly in love with them.

If you don't like English Romantic poetry, all I can hope is that you'll appreciate it. This story was born from a poem, by the must wonderful, most tortured Romantic poet, John Keats. Keats will be making a few, important, appearances, I couldn't help but put him in. The poem 'What can I do to drive away remembrance from my eyes' is ridiculously beautiful, if you can get past the older English. It's easily my favourite poem, and will, probably, be the main poem, if not the only, to feature. Who knows, perhaps Hermione can give Draco some lessons in English Literature.

I'll try to update at least once a week. I find, if I have a lot of time, and if there's a lot of demand for it, I'll update more regularly, as seen with my first three chapters - all uploaded in one weekend. However, taking a week to write a chapter allows me to review it, and make it the best it can be, so, we'll see what works out.

I'm already astounded by the responses. May I just say now, I love you all to pieces. You're reading this now, you don't have to review, or favourite or subscribe or any of that to know that because you're reading my writing I love you, ok. Seriously. If you're new to reading my stuff, I have a headcanon blog, which you can find in my author description, if you want to read more of my things. If you have any queries, or requests, or anything, don't hesitate to message me. :)

silly-crookshanks xx