A/N: How about a story where Hermione is the one secretly pining after Draco for a change? Also, I am taking so many fanciful liberties with the art and intricacies of scrying, for the sake of the story. Forgive me. This story has a sequel, The Princess and the Pariah. This story has been beta'ed by the lovely sunshinekatz. So a big thank you to her!

Chapter 1:

Hermione Granger had cried herself to sleep every night for the past week. Stowed safely in her tent, with Harry Potter keeping watch over them, she allowed the tears to flow freely. Ronald had left them in their hunt for horcruxes. She didn't know why she was surprised—his mood had been somber and petulant for weeks now. Not that she could honestly blame him. They were on the hunt for horcruxes—not knowing what they were, where they were or how many there were. It was a frustrating and disheartening affair.

But tonight, she refused to cry anymore. The saddened tears had dissolved into sheer anger—anger at Ron for running out on them—on her, anger at their predicament, anger at the state of the world. Hermione reached into her beaded bag and felt around, finally retrieving the item she was looking for.

In her hand, still wrapped in its original velvet emerald cloth, was an ornate mirror with a smooth obsidian face. The edges and handle were made of pewter and had intricate designs of briars and roses embossed into the metal. A scrying mirror.

Hermione was never one for Divination—such a fanciful notion, being able to see the future. Even still, she'd felt drawn to this mirror when she saw it in the Divination corner at Flourish and Blotts last summer. She'd stowed it carefully in her bag and pulled it out at random moments when she was alone. Hermione had never attempted to try her hand at scrying—she had a complete lack of Seeing abilities and feared angering the Higher Powers with her lack of respect on the subject.

But she was desperate, and desperate times called for desperate measures. She wanted to gaze into it and get some inkling of where Ron had gone and to see that he was safe. They listened each night to the lists of their classmates, friends and loved ones who had been murdered and Hermione breathed a sigh of relief each night when none of the Weasleys' names appeared on the list.

She sat on the edge of her bed, having just finished her watch for the evening. The scrying mirror was in both hands, a flame burning in midair in front of it. She felt foolish for even thinking this would work. But, still, she persisted. Hermione Granger was never one to give up so easily.

Hermione sat in the center of her bed and closed her eyes to start. She took deep, calming breaths. In through the nose, out through the mouth. When her nerves were steadied, she opened her eyes and refocused on the obsidian surface. The flame's light danced across the surface, but nothing else was clearly reflected in the darkness of her surroundings.

Hermione stared into the abyssal darkness, willing her Second Sight to come forth. She knew she had to keep her eyes focused and she watched the flame's reflection, trying to bring her intention to the forefront of her mind. I want to see him—I need to know he's safe.

It felt like she stared into the nothingness for hours, though it may have only been a few short minutes. This was hopeless. Hermione growled in frustration and set the mirror beside her, burying her face in her hands. Her eyes were trained on the floor, but she refused to let the tears fall. Not for Ron. Not again.

As she stared straight, her eyes staring toward her shoelaces but completely unseeing, a movement beside her caught her eye. The flame she'd conjured still flickered above the surface, but there was something more. She couldn't get the images to focus properly.

Pushing the mirror to the middle of the bed and sitting cross-legged, Hermione began her meditative breathing once more. She trained her eyes on the mirror, willing the images to clear for her.

Hermione had expected to see Ron Weasley's messy mop of red locks, but when the images flashing finally cleared for her, it was a shock of white-blond hair that caught her eye. Is that Malfoy? Hermione craned her neck, as though the repositioning would help her see any better, and stared at the scene playing out before her.

As though she were drawn to act, Hermione brought a single fingertip to the surface. She felt a small tug in her, like her nerves were leaving her body, a tingling and not-unpleasant sensation of magic being brought forth. Suddenly, as though sucked into a Pensieve, Hermione was standing behind Malfoy.

Draco Malfoy was sitting at the base of an old willow tree. A large Manor loomed in the darkness behind him, the bright full moon highlighting the turrets and angles almost menacingly. There was an albino peacock strutting around in front of him and Malfoy appeared to be conjuring treats to toss at the bird.

Hermione walked around to look into the face of her rival. His head was down and his sleeves were rolled up. She brought a hand over her mouth as she took in the sight of the Dark Mark, ugly and ominous against his otherwise creamy skin. He was staring at it as well, and though his head was down, Hermione could see the scowl. His jaw was tight and clenched and he had tears sliding down his cheeks, slick and shining by the light of the moon. He looked so…broken…so defeated, she felt a sharp pang in her chest.

"Malfoy?" she called his name quietly, not wanting to startle him.

He made no indication that he'd heard her. She tried again, a little louder, but still nothing. Hermione knelt beside him and brought her hand to his cheek, wiping the tears as she did. Malfoy looked up, scanning his surroundings with a look of confusion and fright on his face. He looked in her direction, but his eyes seemingly didn't take in her appearance. He may not have been able to see her, but he certainly sensed her touch.

Malfoy's face, more mature and worn than when she'd last seen him, was still as beautiful as ever. His jaw was sharp and he'd lost some weight, giving his cheekbones a higher and more prominent set in his face. His lips were as rosy and full as she remembered but were no longer held in a sneer. His eyes—they had definitely changed most of all. Still an enigmatic shade of grey, they no longer held the haughty arrogance of his youth. They were haunted, pained. She instinctively knew he'd seen too much—too many atrocities, too much death, too much destruction. He was irreparably damaged and his eyes showed the depth of his despair. He looked more like a fallen angel than a broken man at that moment.

Hermione ran her fingertips over his face once more and he shivered. Malfoy moved to pull his cloak more tightly around himself in the cold December air. He made a clicking noise to the peacock, trying to entice it to come closer so he could pet it. The bird simply eyed him with its head tilted to the side. "How about for another treat, eh?" Draco said, and he conjured a handful of bird treats in his hand.

The peacock was intrigued now and ambled toward him interestedly. Malfoy held out his cupped hand and the bird made a noise in its throat before it pecked at the food. He used his other hand to stroke the bird's feathers. 'That's a good bird," he cooed, his voice the most tender Hermione had ever heard.

She watched in mesmerized silence as Malfoy catered to the bird and showed it affection before it grew disinterested in him and strutted in the opposite direction. He put his hood up over his head, tugging it close around his neck and ears as though fighting the cool night. He put his head back against the tree trunk and bent his legs before he closed his eyes and draped his arms over his knees. Hermione wondered at that moment what it was he was thinking about so intently, so serenely, in the midst of chaos and despair that was wearing on him.

Hermione took a moment to look around them and noticed that they were just beyond a wall of tall hedges and flowering bushes. The home—Malfoy Manor, she was able to deduce—loomed overhead and he seemed intent on trying to hide it from his view. She watched as his chest rose and fell steadily, the only movement in the still winter night.

"Draco!" a feminine voice called from beyond the bushes. "Draco, darling, it's time!"

Time for what? Hermione wondered as Malfoy heaved a heavy sigh and drew himself into a standing position. He hesitated and looked around himself once more, seemingly able to sense her presence even if he couldn't see or hear her. He pursed his lips and knit his brow, and for the first time, Hermione noticed the deep crease that was worn between them. He shook his head as though to dispel the idea that there was someone else nearby and set his shoulders. He clasped his hands behind his back. "Coming, Mother!" he called and hearing his voice so cold and unrelenting sent shivers through Hermione. She watched his back retreat until he disappeared behind the hedgerow and she clenched her eyes shut.

Hermione was back in her tent, the surroundings warm and familiar. Her intent had been to see the one she thought she longed for—Ronald. But scrying allowed the practitioner to look deep within. She had tickled her subconscious and awoken something she had long thought dead.

How many years had Hermione watched Draco Malfoy from afar? How many stolen glances from across the Great Hall, through bookshelves in the library, from the stands on the Quidditch Pitch? She'd harbored a tender crush on him since third year. Hermione inherently believed that everyone had good in them. Draco Malfoy had been nothing but ugly to her, this much was true. But she could see past that. She could see the mischief, the sadness, the longing in those grey orbs of his. She knew, an intuitive feeling deep within, that Malfoy was not at all what he seemed. She'd longed for so many days and nights to simply reach out to him, let him know that he wasn't as alone as he seemingly felt. But they weren't friends—they never had been. Befriending her would have put them both in danger, and she was able to appreciate the severity of the situation enough to know this.

Still, she had stoked the little flame in her heart for Draco on more than one occasion. As she watched him chop ingredients with deft ability in Potions; as he smiled and laughed in Transfiguration when his teacup turned into a mouse and escaped down the hall; as he stalked about broodingly all of last year, the weight of the world on his shoulders.

No. He wasn't at all what he seemed. His failed attempt at assassinating the Headmaster had proven what she already knew. Harry, who had obsessively stalked Malfoy—much to her chagrin—even admitted that Malfoy had lowered his wand. He'd been incapable of taking the ancient wizard's life. A coldblooded Death Eater would have simply looked him in the eye and smiled while casting the Unforgivable. But not Draco Malfoy. He wasn't a coldblooded murderer. He was just a boy, faced with no other options. A scared young man, born into a family of Death Eaters, trying to do what was expected of and threatened into him. Hermione felt pity for him more than anything else.

How curious that the scrying mirror would bring him to her once more. She had been so focused on the task at hand and trying to kindle the fledgling relationship with Ron, that she'd all but put him in the back recesses of her ever-busy mind. And what exactly had she seen? Was that the past, present, future? What if it was none of those? Was it all of them, buttoned up in some strange scene filled with metaphors for who Draco Malfoy was, is and will be?

Hermione was now more confused than she was before she pulled out the damned Divination implement. As she lay back in her bed and fell into a fitful sleep, it wasn't a redhead fogging her mind and clouding her dreams. It was a blond boy, on the cusp of manhood, frightened and alone.

o-o-o

A/N: So, a little different. But we'll see where this takes us, shall we?

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