Disclaimer: I do not claim to own or have created Harry Potter. The story is mine, charas are not. Got it? Okay.

Chaptire 1

Death is an unavoidable occurrence

Without death, there would be nothing to hope for in life

Darkness is embraced by many

It is a well-played game

But there are those who do not play,

Who can not

Who will not

This story is about one such person

Who could not face Death

Because Death cheated in their little game

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"Professor Malfoy?" The girl's tentative voice woke the man from his unscheduled nap as abruptly as if she'd smacked him across the back of his head.

He blinked blearily at the child in front of him and rubbed at his eyes tiredly. He suppressed a groan of annoyance when he realized just who had woken him up. The slight girl straightened her shoulders, as if to draw strength from this action, and reached into her pocket, from which she pulled out a folded piece of parchment. He raised a questioning eyebrow and took the paper from her with open hesitation.

She shrugged in response. "Mum told me to give it to you," she said.

Both eyebrows shot up as this new information turned through his head. He really had too much to think about as it was, without the offspring of another Weasel handing him notes from mummy and daddy. "Thank you Analissa. That will be all." He glanced at her through the fringe of his blonde hair, "unless there was something about the class you needed help with?"

The look she gave him was clearly adapted from her mother's example, Draco told himself in contained exasperation. That know-it-all Granger had married Ronald Weasley and thus created a rather impressive clone of herself at the start of the war. The girl had managed to escape the inheritance of the infamous red hair, but she had (unfortunately enough) inherited several of her father's distinctive features.

She stood taller than most of her peers, though only slightly (she was a first year). She had a sprinkling of freckles across her cheeks and nose that added to her distinctive heritage. She did have her mother's hair, though not quite as bushy, yet, and she had her father's blue eyes. Analissa was brilliant (annoyingly so) but she was, at least, a bit more humble than Draco recalled Granger being in their school days.

"I'm doing alright in potions now, aren't I Professor?" Her voice held little worry, though in her eyes he could tell that she was genuinely curious.

He felt the sudden urge to tell her that she'd received a failing grade on the last assignment he'd collected, just to see what her reaction would be. If she was anything like Granger, she'd probably flee the dungeons in tears. He bit back the lie quickly and nodded his head toward the girl. "You're doing quite well, Miss Weasley."

She smiled and let out a small sigh of relief (not that she'd had anything to worry about in the first place) and nodded before turning to leave the room. When her brown hair was out of sight and he no longer felt her magical signature he waved a hand to close and lock his classroom door. He unfolded the piece of parchment to be greeted by a blank page. He tapped the parchment with his wand once and ink spilled from the center and arranged itself into the handwriting of Hermione Granger-Weasley.

Draco,

I hope that you are in good health when you receive this letter. Annie is quite forgetful so I am sure that this letter will reach you after she's had it in her possession for a week.

Draco raised an eyebrow to himself at the unnecessary information but continued to read the letter in silence.

Ron and I have been working on a book, a sort of memoir for those involved in the battle. We have both been jotting down notes on events that happened and we wondered if you would like to mention anything that you'd like to see in the book.

I also wanted to extend my deepest gratitude to you once more. You really did help us a lot during the war. We realize that more than ever now that we live in peace. I know it may seem hard to believe, but in those three long years, Harry had grown quite fond of you. He had wanted us to become friends instead of staying enemies. I only wish he would have had the chance to see how different things are and to enjoy the world without fear and suspicion.

We'll be visiting on the next Hogsmede weekend. We thought you would like to have brunch with us. It would be nice to talk to you again. It's been such a long time since we've spoken.

I also thought it'd be nice to visit Harry as well. Owl us with your answer when you have the time, okay?

If there is anything you need, you've only to ask.

Yours truly,

Hermione W.

P.S. Annie wouldn't have been able to read this letter, so you know.

Draco put the letter down on the table. He hadn't thought about Potter or the war in years. The eighth year since the death of the Dark Lord would be celebrated within the next month, a constant reminder of what he'd hoped to forget. Thinking about the war still held painful memories. He'd lost almost everything and everyone in the war and he had a habit of secluding himself to drink himself into a stupor during the annual celebrations.

The fact that Granger and Weasley were writing a book was a surprise. As a matter of fact, the knowledge that Weasley could string words together in a comprehensible sentence was just as (if not more) shocking. He allowed himself to laugh at the thought of Ronald Weasley pouring his soul into writing a single sentence.

Turning his thoughts back toward the letter, Draco battled with himself over sending a reply. Should he take her up on her offer? Would it be wise to go with the Weasleys to visit Potter's grave? In the end he shook his head, folded the letter and tossed it into the fire. He tried not to let the hissing sound of the burning letter bother him too much. He was a busy man, and couldn't be bothered with such trivialities. He had rounds to make after dinner, and he still had papers to grade, after all.

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Draco sighed heavily as he sat down on one of the plush chairs in the library. It was nighttime and well past the students' curfew. The castle was quiet, the only sound being the merry crackling of the fire. With a wave of his wand, the papers he still needed to grade appeared from the doorway to stack themselves into piles according to class and house.

All he had to look forward to was hours and hours of work. He sometimes found himself wishing he hadn't taken Severus' offer to become Potions master at Hogwarts, let alone becoming Slytherin's head of house. The little devils were definitely worse than when he'd been a teenager. It had taken him three hours to fix his students' faces after one of the third years 'accidentally' hexed the living daylights out of everyone in the common room. Though that student was probably with Filch right now, he thought with satisfaction, probably hanging by the ankles somewhere. The twisted Squib had always been itching to do something like that.

Gathering himself together so as to focus on his task he sighed to himself. He began the monotonous task of reading through dinner-stained, ink-smeared parchment. Three sentences into the paper (which was about the wolfsbane potion) he was distracted by the sound of footsteps. Immediately, Draco opened his senses to pick up the intruder's footfalls. His wand was twirling in his hand calmly as he waited for the sound to get louder. He put the parchment down and stood slowly from his seat.

Silver eyes scanned the empty library slowly as he looked for a stray student out of bed (which was usually the case). Probably going off to meet their lover, he thought to himself sardonically as he imagined one of his students scampering down the hall. If it was one of his (Dimitri, he would bet) he would leave them alone. Of course, some favoritism was involved in his punishments, but Draco was far too tired to deal with interrogations. Honestly, his student's were having more sex than he did. And that pissed him off to no end.

He waved his wand, silently casting a spell to track magical signatures. This spell allowed for Draco to see the magic radiating off of a person or their wand. With students their wands usually showed a smoky blue while the person themselves would show little magical signature. There were some exceptions to this, Analissa Weasley being one of the few whose magical signatures were mature for their age and radiated with a healthy gold color.

There was no trace of magic in anything other than the books and fireplaces. Even the signature of the young boy he'd been expecting to catch was not present. He found the lack of a magical signature disturbing, seeing as the footsteps had become louder and he could feel a presence in the room. Odd, he thought to himself and moved forward to inspect the rest of his surroundings.

As he stepped behind a bookcase, all of the fires went out. He jumped slightly as he was plummeted into total darkness. He flicked his wand, producing a small light. He turned toward the fireplace and tried to relight it. The flame went out with a puff of black smoke before it had even reached the fireplace. He tried again, his heart beating wildly at every failure. He gave up just as he heard a clatter of books falling behind him. Draco turned suddenly, his wand ahead of him, only to come face to face with none other than Harry Potter.

He fell backwards in his haste to get away from the figure in front of him. He shouted as he fell, the shock evident in his face. His eyes were wide and glassy, his hand on his heart as it beat wildly in his chest. He watched in horror as Potter knelt down to touch his face only to disappear from his sight. Draco gasped softly and looked wildly around him, willing his heart to slow down and gain control of his breathing.

The sound of scratching on the floor startled him. The scratching became louder until the dark form of Mrs. Norris appeared in his field of vision, followed closely by Argus Filch. The grim and dirty face of the old Squib (previously alight with glee at the prospect of catching a student out of bed) held worry as his eyes moved toward Draco's position on the floor. Cursing his momentary insanity, he picked himself off of the floor with his trademark Malfoy grace. He waved off Filch's rambling and questions with an impatient hand. He tuned out the man's voice as he looked around him suspiciously.

He felt a hand on his shoulder and fixed a cold gaze toward the man. In a satisfactory response (in Draco's opinion) the man flinched and moved his hand away with the speed of a man being burned with a flame. Draco pointedly dusted off his shoulder and ignored the man as completely as he had been doing since Filch's arrival. "I'm going to my rooms," he announced as if to no one in particular. With a flick of his wand, the papers were once again stacked up and flying toward his room.

For the first time since his entrance into the library, Draco acknowledged the Squib's presence. He fixed Filch with a glare, "you will not speak of this to anyone. Understand?" He hid a smirk at the obvious fear in the man's eyes. He brushed rudely past the quaking man and his cat and walked straight to the dungeons, following the path his work had taken.

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