A/N: Yes, I like D/Hr. Yes, my favorite pair is still Romione. Magically, or via some sort of insanity, I can like both of them. WHOA. Anyways, this is totally unrequited and that's the way I like my Dramione so don't expect any fluff here. I do have two chapters for IHG started but not finished, nor are they particularly good. I'll fix 'em up and get back to you on that one... the only reason I managed to post this is because it was already finished months ago.

Trying to forget that you love or even obsess over someone is willingly stepping into hell, I've figured out. Trying to forget inherently makes you think about them, and the cycle continues. It turns out you can't just Obliviate away something like that for very long without possibly destroying synapses or disheveling some of the ability to encode our memories, and the standards — drinking, gambling, prostitutes — certainly don't help anything or anyone for more than that brief moment. It's hard enough to try and think about someone else, anyone else, but it's worse when you know you've ruined whatever chance you may have had at sharing something with that person.

Why can't I just forget? Instead I'm left thinking day by day about how royally someone can fuck up such a delicate balance in their mind when they think about one singular, totally insignificant person. She was one tiny speck of dust on the planet in comparison to the masses. One vibrant froth of hair, eager to impress and improve who, in a brief exchange, can set your world on fire. I'm of course talking about — oh Christ, Merlin, and whoever else deigns to laugh at my misfortune — Granger.

What about this makes any sense? You have me: a woefully spoiled ex-Death Eater turned extraordinarily plain Obliviator — I guess you can add some far worse things to that list by now — and she's the quintessential 'good girl' who is praised as a heroine of the Wizarding world. What a fucking joke, I tell you. But it's still like some fiendish clock tower ringing the hourly bell to bid me a good morning when I had just found my father dead in his study, elegant even as its awkward gait tells of a long forgotten hunch. Or how a nightmarish creature laughing at my empty jokes, or avoiding my eyes altogether, as we work on that case can send electric fireworks through my brain in response. It's true, she's a different sort of creature all right, but even thinking about her like that has given me shivers since that case. Even as I sit here writing down what I can recall, as a sort of impersonal confession before the end, I want to retch.

Three months earlier…

One day I'm working late hours, trying to drown out whatever fantasies of Granger were running through my head, and the next I'm tagged with helping her work with a whole slew of mishandled memory charms and a ragtag bunch of elves and goblins. Perfect. Now I can show off my piss-poor social skills and the alarming ability to totally not have a care in the world for the little shits. That's how you win your way into that pair of knickers, isn't it? But, with a sigh, I went to work.

"Oh, hello Malfoy," she declared when I walked into her office, "if we're going to work on this case in particular, I need an Obliviator to help me with the finer details. The Minister says you're the finest in your division-"

I chortled a bit, but stopped when her eyes met mine.

"He says you are the best he's got that he can offer to me. For the purposes of this case we'll be partners. So, if you'll please take this folder here." She gestured to a plain brown folder filled with papers in front of her. "And turn to the first set of appendices we can begin."

Working with Granger was a breeze. She was exceptional at her job and carried the slack for me — Shacklebolt must be going a bit loony to call me one of 'the best' — and listening to her with rapt attention only meant I could stare at her longer than usual. Of course, I wasn't mad enough to ogle her, but I did enjoy losing myself in the earthy delights that were her eyes. They were small wonders of brown and the light playing off of them gave her already determined look an eagerness that I couldn't help but adore.

But, she would quickly grow quite wary of my stares and clear her throat more often than she would finish her sentences. She was nervous of my eyes, darting away from them before taking a drink of water, and it excited me. But there was work to be done and Granger wouldn't be willing to skip that for anything, not even sex. I could already tell.

By the time the night had slowed down to explanations of dreary mandates on misuse of magic, we both called it a night. I remember distinctly wanting to shove her up against the wall and just get it over with, but an all too familiar coward inside of me couldn't do anything more than brush up against her arm. She seemed not to notice, so I chalked it up as a victory and made my way home. Maybe I was working my way to letting whatever numerous desires that were coursing through my head come to fruition? In retrospect, I was — or am, rather — no better than Greyback or my dear departed aunt.

Because, honestly, that's the day I can pinpoint as when I felt anything other than remorseless hatred for Granger. Seeing what the two of them did to her, in my home no less, had sparked something inside of me. I wanted to hurt him. I've never wanted anything more than to see him shrink in terror just as she had been doing, and I've never wanted to see a man dead or even blood as much as I wanted to kill him. I had been too frightened and weak to kill Dumbledore, but Greyback was different. He had stolen something from her that I had admired even through my seething, misguided hatred and I wanted to feel the breaths inside of him quicken and his jaw slacken. I wanted to feel my hands around his throat as he begged for mercy. But I didn't, of course.

So that spark fizzled out for a little while and exploded back to life the moment I laid eyes on her again.

God. Damn it.

Onward we marched through the eldritch moors of companionship, me being apparently oblivious to the picture of the Weasel on her desk for weeks on end and trying my best to do what I could to satiate this undying hunger. I caught on fairly quickly without having to see it, though.

"So Granger," I started one night, summoning my suddenly lethargic courage, "if you're free after your shift, why don't you join me for a dri-"

"Hermione, Ginny's game is in an hour. We've got enough time for a bite and then we have to get moving." In the middle of my awkward schoolboy whatever-that-was I sighed at the voice of Weasley speaking with such calm urgency. It should have been obvious, of course they would be together — because doesn't that just wring my neck a little bit more? Oh how wonderful this big cosmic joke is.

"Sorry, I've already made plans as you can see." she motioned to Weasley, who didn't take his eyes from hers. "Maybe a rain check?"

And I think that's when I snapped. I nodded and made some sort of garbled attempt at agreement, and I had to fight every urge to get rid of Weasley and fuck Granger right then and there and maybe not necessarily in that order. It might have been fun to have Weasley watch, just to see him walk away in shame. The pair left and I slammed my forehead into the desk in front of me, leaving my hands to flop by my sides in defeat. I would keep trying, but that night had broken me in a way that I wasn't prepared for.

I had been in relationships before, but none of them were really anything to speak of. I tried the Greengrass girl for a while, but that was just casual sex and even then I wasn't thinking about her at all or even interested in what we were doing. I didn't want anyone but her, and the world was aggressively disagreeing with me. I was actively being shoveled as dog shit next to the redheaded baboon, when I deserved to have her. At least, that was what I thought.

That was the real height of my purely mental obsession with Hermione Granger. I ate and slept, I took care of myself, but I wouldn't stop thinking about her. The normally placid waves bouncing around in my head would wobble with ironic dissonance at every corner of my free time, goading me into a violent bout of some personal time in the shower or a few hookers that were readily available in my neighborhood. Anything was better than sitting with all this pent up feeling… and unfortunately I learned rather slowly that my emotions weren't simple love or lust. I didn't realize for another few months the rage and disgust that I would project on to that girl, a girl I thought I truly loved.

But love doesn't hurt willingly or so openly. It doesn't do what I did, nor should I ever think it would. And all I want now is to apologize — something I am far, far too gone to do to her face. Obsessed by my own desire, I led her into a life possessed by cruelty yet again.

Who am I? Better yet… what am I?

I was struck by a bizarre dichotomy those days: I hated being alone but staying in that filthy manor with my mother weeping about father every day made me want to ram my wand into my eye. I hated to see mother so distraught, but nothing I could do would help her and the strong woman from before melted into a bedridden mess that began hating me for my resemblance to father. So, I left. It was as simple as that.

Then the long nights came — the nights of nothing. Those nights of no one but myself. Being left to your own devices in the grip of maddening obsession only fuels whatever fire is burning inside… I couldn't grasp the meaning of the sparks before they turned into a blaze. I wouldn't let myself peer into the flame's heart because, if I had, I would have found an escape. Despite everything I told myself, I didn't want to run. Not just yet.

And then the nightmares came.

Those screams bit at me. They gnawed at my bones and bid me to die. They chipped away the boy that a few years ago would have laughed at the scene before me, leaving the shell of myself — not a man, I couldn't help but think — to bear witness to the terrors my manor had made home to. I wasn't a man. If I was a man I would have stopped this. If I was anything more than a family name I should try and help her. I could make a break for it with them… maybe they could help me after I saved her? She might even be grateful for it.

I couldn't look away anymore and I had to see for myself what was being done to her so that I might understand why this man had been fighting me so. Maybe it would steel me against him? I walked across the room in time to see my aunt pull the girl into a kneeling position, saying something to the feral man that was beside her. He placed a clawed hand on her shoulder and shoved her to the floor, hard, with a wicked gleam in his eye that I should have noticed sooner.

I should have never watched.

But I couldn't tear myself away from the spot. Whether it was the man frozen in terror, the small boy frightened by the scene, or the firm hand on my shoulder I did not know. More thoughts whirled around in my head when she hit the floor, the crack reverberating through my head like a thousand angry bees. What was I going to see? What was he going to do? I was terrified by his hands, by his teeth. I thought naively that he was going to bite her and make her like him.

She did not turn around once. I should consider myself lucky that I would never have to see the way her eyes would look at me, desperate for help. Instead I was left to wade in her cries of pain and struggle to breathe when she stopped moving and simply lay down crying as Greyback stood up, apparently finished with his appalling crime. I did nothing. I said nothing.

Those eyes were the very same eyes that, only hours ago, I had been staring into…

Sweat poured from my face onto my chest, and with haggard breaths I awoke to the sounds of rain and thunder. Another night and another dream — the same recurring nightmare about that night — were already piling into my brain. Looking at the clock on the wall that read '5:33', I scrambled lazily out of bed to endure another day with my mind and the myriad conflicts going on inside of it.

Familiarity made those dreams worse. Knowing how her voice sounded in plain conversation made the screaming return as real as it had ever been, and it still hurt me then as it does now. I had nightmares about the others that I was forced to watch, but none of them returned as frequently as hers and it made talking to her, and seeing her, a tragic irony. I didn't see her often enough to disconnect the two women in my head, but I saw her often enough to remember what I had done… or what I didn't do.

Everything I had to live for was in her, I now realize. She was order, care, and beauty in my mind that was filled with hate and disgust. She was more than a Mudblood to me because she could counteract the filters of black and grey in my mind that caved in every other inch but the one she resided in. It was bloody ridiculous trying to think why, so I just went about enjoying that idea without putting too much thought into it because every time I did I would think about that night. Why was that what made me realize? Why couldn't it have been at school or even at work?

Those questions only remind me: I could have stopped him quite easily when he had his attention on Granger for so long, but I didn't. I couldn't do it and what did that make me? Shit, nothing, or whatever else you want to call it. Somehow I couldn't let go of what minutes of inaction had led to, and the consequences of doing nothing were plainly visible to me each night. I never stopped to think how taking action could do more harm than good, however.

Brilliant lights dazzle the eyes just as brilliant eyes dazzle the mind passionate, and passionate minds only persuade passion in kind. I don't know why I ignored Granger throughout all those years at Hogwarts, other than years of inbred hatred for Muggle-born and total disdain for Potter. I mean, other than that we would have gotten alongswimmingly in school. She absolutely deserved the praise she had gotten from her superiors, the professors, and anyone else; she was bloody brilliant. And I could think of it even then, spending hours in the library together just as we spent hours in her chambers and in mine. As usual, though, the fucking Chosen One and his Weasel side-kick dashed away those dreams.

Despite the ease of it, working with Granger proved to be the thing that lashed at my heart the most, because inevitably the days would end with her and Weasley leaving together. Together, hand In hand like we should have been. Anger crept in and, being the man I was then, I had to take it out on something — anything. So every day I would take the blasted picture on her desk and smash the frame to bits, then repair it, and repeat.

Break then repair. Break then repair. Break…

I wanted to break that frame, but something else inside of me spoke up and wanted other things to break. It was a calm voice that held a familiar timbre that I had just moments ago heard: it was that very same flame, rising from a wilt of ashes to ignite a blood-red vision. It was her voice, telling me what I could do. I heard it, and my brain met it hungrily and responded. All I could see was a broken body that would be the first step to having her. Fire and smoke born of Granger would destroy him just as her fire and my flame had broken me. It was the perfect way to her, I thought. Oh howingenious the delusional mind can be.

I wanted Granger, and with Weasley in the picture it looked like I wasn't going to. So, naturally, I would kill him.

It'd be so boring if I told you where this goes, I'll just give you a hint: look at the genre tags. I'd rather hear what ya'll think of it/where it could go in a lovely review filled with zero stone throwing and/or mudslinging. Then again, I highly - HIGHLY - doubt that's possible.