Disclaimer: I'm still poor, aren't I? Go on with the story instead than see me sulking in the corner. Sniff

Summary: On the verge of insanity, or so he is forced to believe, Draco Malfoy still harbours love for Hermione Granger. They were lovers, once, during the Cold War that they both survived. But deaths and deceit happened. Loyalty not to a lover surfaced and they have been separated… A project brings them together, but Hermione fears it is too late. A shadow lurks behind their back, wanting revenge.

A.N The arrangement is somewhat altered, I know.

This was a result from some weird drabble that I had thought of once. Anyway, I've already thought of the next chapters, and they have already been typed. I seriously hope you wait for the next chapter before you dismiss this story as... something not good'. Reviews are always welcome! Oh yes, foreshadowing will be used in the latter chapters. Actually, you might see the technique in this chapter already. If you don't understand some things, they'll be revealed, explained and elaborated in the next chapters, I promise. :)

Written: January 3, 2006

Edited: April 09, 2007

Read and edited Hermione's part (again, for those minor things): April 12, 2007

Someone deserved a praise for a job badly done. In the past, his reports were at least prompt. Presently, however, not only were they submitted late full of inaccuracies, but they were also lacking in quality. Hermione glowered at the thick pile. When its size didn't decrease, Hermione sighed as she pushed the manila folder away, then leaned on her right palm. "This isn't fair," she muttered, annoyed and miserable. "How the hell am I supposed to finish this bill if he doesn't work his arse off?"

Hermione was the Head of the Department of International Magical Cooperation which intrinsicaly worked with the new Mugggle Department. There were filed complaints of terror from all over the Muggle World. All of them random. All of them odd. All of them magical. There was chaos within the walls of the Obliviator Headquarters. There was an Obliviator being dispatched every second which left the department in constant panic.

Hermione knew the cases were still Voldemort-related, even though he was dead and sent where he rightfully belonged. Hermione wished, not that she was an evil person or anything, that he was rotting in Hell.

"How many Death Eaters are still there? Again?" Margaret Limsky sat down across Hermione's table, then pour newly brewed coffee to Hermione's mug.

Hermione yawned and gave her thanks for the coffee. She needed it badly and was glad that Margaret offered to stay the night. "Hundreds. Thousands," she said irritated. "I don't have a clue how many were recruited before the War ended. I'm not even sure if they still are recruiting."

Margaret sent a look of sympathy to Hermione. "That's why I'll never work as a Head."

Hermione growled impatiently, tapping her quill. She didn't know what else to do. "It's not the Head thing that makes one's life difficult. It's who. It's who the other Head is." She paused, then glared at the feather part of her quill, looking for something to vent her anger at. "The Department of the Magical Law Enforcement Squad is just so damn secretive! They won't give me any new information, or even allow me to the files room to access their records! Unless, they said, I get a special permit from their Head." She stabbed the paper with her quill, furious.

Margaret raised a brow at Hermione's sudden passionate attitude. "Then do it. It sounds easy enough."

It does, doesn't it? But it isn't.

Hermione grunted, threw her head back, closed her eyes, then rotated her neck. When Hermione didn't give a reply, Margaret quiered, "Who is the other Head, by the way?"

Hermione opened one eye. "You seriously don't know?"

Margaret shrugged. "I can't say I do. I know the people, but I don't know what dep they work in."

Hermione couldn't care less on what the Head was doing, but he was greatly affecting the project they were working on. His absences, his detachedly-placed passion for the project –if there ever even was-- was getting on Hermione's nerves. God, how can he be so infuriating, especially at a time like this. At a time where Hermione was depending on his department to work with hers just to pass that damn bill, which might lessen the dark shadows still wrecking havoc in the state.

Hermione gritted her teeth. "Draco Malfoy." She had never once spoken his name after their arrangment.

Margaret grinned. "He's hot, but he's... eccentric."

"Eccentric?" Hermione repeated, puzzled, before she understood. "You're too nice for your own good," she finally remarked. A small part of Hermione ached for the optimisim Margaret had..

"I know," Margaret responded, standing up. "That's why I'm already going home. I only promised you," -she looked at her wrist watch- "until eleven. It's past one in the morning."

Hermione smiled then waved a hand. "I didn't asked you to stay this long."

Margaret's hand was already at the knob when she stopped. "Just talk to him, will you? It won't hurt you, you know." She hesitated before adding softly, "Sometimes, Hermione, you make things too hard for yourself."

When she left, Hermione leaned back at her chair and felt miserable. Boy, don't I know that.

But there was a problem. Hermione was no mood to talk to any person named Draco Malfoy. Ironic, wasn't it? It was just so damn ironic when she was Head of the Department which promoted policies such as communication, relations, patience and understanding. Heh

What a funny way to strike back at me.

And now, she was scurrying away from them. How she ever got promoted was beyond her. But she had her own reasons, bitter reasons, for staying away.

Her gaze halted to a picture frame; the red hair most distinct against her brown hair. They were cuddled up against each other; their smiles very broad and wax, depicting the picture of happiness.

That was before the war.

Then, the war happened.

Everything happened during the war.

The silence was replaced by the sound of her breathing: slow and paniful. It was too difficult to bear. Too difficult to even just remember or accept. It could have been Paradise, if it weren't for the last mission-- his last mission.

God. What could she do? Would she just risk everything? Just like that? Will her efforts of control end just because of him?

A snort.

She'll be dammed before she let that happen.

The question was how.

Glass bottles were already lined up and positioned along the porch of the next house. They were brought by a man wearing a uniform as white as the liquid they contained. It was during at this event that Draco remembered what day it was.

Monday. Or was it Tuesday?

No, the green --the color of the man's uniform which led Draco to call him just as that-- man who always had two blades joined together by what seemed to be a screw, was always what the man was flexing who came during Tuesdays.

Definitely a Monday. There was no mistake.

He should get a fucking calendar. Unfortunately, he kept forgetting to conjure one. And the act alone of forgetting to conjure one escaped his logical thinking because...

He held up his palm, closed it, then lifted the index finger.

One is because I'm always bored. Whenever mum isn't around, I constantly pace around thinking for anything, something, that I could do. Still, I forget to conjure a bloody calendar.

Draco sighed, knocked off his shoes and lay down on the sofa.

Second is the fact that it's just a bloody conjuration! I could do it wandless. No, that's not it. It's the fact that a first year could bloody remember it and conjure one. So much for maturity.

He rolled his eyes, yawned and put his arms behind his head.

Third is that fact that I am never forgetfull! Forgetfulness was never a trait of mine in Hogwarts. Ever!

Then again, he told himself, miserable, his mother was almost always in the house! Which forced him to attend to her. Or else... Or else suffer the endless lectures and insults of how unceptable his attitude was to her. It already happened to him twice, and, Draco could not believe his mother's audicity. She was ignoring her when she was in his own flat. His own flat that he bought with his own money! That wasn't the worse part even. The thing was, she acted like a demolisher, wrecking havoc to his furniture and his very personal belongings that mothers should never see.

Draco hit his head over and over the sofa. Thud. Thud. Thud.

Where was I? Ah, plus the fact that I always find myself out of my house wanting to escape her.

Draco loved his mother so much that he was practically willing to do anything for her. But this was something else. No sane son would actually stand through all this. No, he wasn't insane, thank you very much. Draco liked his sanity; and he feared, that if he spent more time with his mother, she would drive him insane. And an insane Draco Malfoy wasn't a very pleasant image he could picture.

Now, where was I again? Hmm...? Oh yes, 'was'. A statement of the past.

He rolled his eyes, flexed his jaw then paused.

There was always a nibbling feeling, an irritating feeling that always nagged him. It was becoming so incessant that, instead of figuring what it was, he just kept shoving it back to the back of his mind. Then, he made sure he had gulped down a bottle of a Dreamless Potion to ensure that the thing didn't hunt him, pester him, and annoy him, even in his own dreams where things were supposed to be peaceful.

It reminded him so much of his mother. So much, that once, he thought it might even be related to his mother.

It was rather pathetic, really. Whatever his mind was concluding was way out of hand.

A clatter was heard in the kitchen.

She was already here.