Draco Malfoy sat in his mahogany chair, glaring moodily at a bowl of flowers, a prominent frown upon his face. There was something wrong with the flowers, yet he couldn't quite put his finger to it, and that was what made him frown in distaste. It seemed as if there was no life in it, as if it simply was, without an inkling of the simple beauty that every living thing was blessed with. All living things held some form of magic to show that it was alive, yet this flower lacked it. Yes, it was magnificent in its glory, with so many shades of red and hints of blue that he simply couldn't to look at it. Yet it was a dead thing, the absence of magic making it disgusting to behold. He stood up shakily, letting the fire whisky travel through his veins before settling at the pit of his stomach, hot to the point of burning. Hey, they didn't call it fire whisky for nothing.

Stumbling towards the flowers, he picked them up in a cold, clammy hand and hurled them roughly to the window, the shrill sound of breaking glass jarring his senses for just a moment. His head was pounding more than usual, and it felt as if it would explode, but that would be no good, he mused silently, as the explosion would splatter his brain everywhere. A laugh left his lips, though it would more likely be called a cry so grievous, so rage- filled that Voldmort himself would be moved with pity. The damn drink was playing havoc with his brain, white splodges entering his vision.

"No", he muttered angrily, he would not lose it for someone who wasn't even there for him yet, one traitorous tear still managed to escape his control and he clumsily wiped at it with his hand. The jaw on his face trembled violently, threatening to break the dam that he was struggling to keep closed. Shaking his head slightly, he walked slowly to the bed, as if his very bones were exhausted, and took the piece of parchment that had words on there that sent a bludger to his heart. A great sob left his throat and many more tears dropped onto the parchment. Ha! Draco Malfoy…is crying! Perhaps he was the great sod his father kept reminding him of.

"Can Tinka help Mister Malfoy in anything?" a high-pitched, nasal voice acquired, directly behind. He stood abruptly, letting his black cloak billow about as if caught in a windstorm. To an onlooker, he would look murderous. Jaws clenched, mouth pierced- it would not be these things that would set this onlooker running; It would be his eyes, raging orbs of grey, although still eerily calm, even though he was evidently intoxicated. They were the eyes of a murderer. The house elf shrieked helplessly, wanting so much to run but bound by magical law to wait until her master dismissed her. She clung onto her thoroughly dirty, thoroughly used rag in horror, mumbling incoherently as her master towered over her.

"Tinka, what did I tell you about when my door is shut?" again, the voice was deceptively calm, almost conversational, if not for the strange light in his eyes. The house elf sobbed pityingly, throwing her to the floor and trying to kiss his shoes. He kicked her hard, so hard that blood- thick and green was starting to drip onto the cashmere carpets from her lips.

"I asked you a question" the tears had long dried from his cheeks, the only evidence of sorrow buried deep where no one but Draco could feel.

"M-mmaster said nn- not to be b-bothered at th-that time" He looked as if he was ignoring her, for he turned away from her. A small squeak of relief escaped her mouth when he went his wardrobe. Assuming she was dismissed, she made for the door, but a cool voice from the wardrobe called out.

"I didn't tell you to leave". She froze, turned slowly and-trembling in terror- waited for her master to come back. Eventually he did, with something in his hand. Oh God. No! He threw at her something soft and bad smelling, and her cry of anguish could be heard all over the Malfoy mansion. It was a sock. With trembling fingers, she picked up the piece of cloth and howled.

"Not c-c-clothes, master.p-please"

"Get out of my house you filthy creature, before I make you." Again, the quite, cool voice, but laced with undeniable malice. A final cry and she popped out, carrying one of Draco's old, faded Quiditch socks. Sitting on his bed- once again, he studied the letter, not a trace of remorse or guilt on those hard features. The effects of the fire whisky were dyeing down so he felt the pain of his loss tenfold. One more look- brief this time- and he dropped the parchment into the fire, watching as it curled and blackened under the heat- eventually disappearing to become one with the fire. Even after the letter was gone, the words were etched into his head, forever engraved.

'We regret to inform you that your mother, Narcissa Malfoy, died on the morning of November third. We have strong suspicions that she was murdered.'

He needed to get out. Preferably fast. Grabbing his wand, he walked to the fire, got some floo powder and muttered, loud and clear: 'The Wizard's Hat'. The Wizards Hat was, as Draco liked to call it, a whorehouse. It was full of women who were all very willing to bed a rich, absurdly handsome Malfoy. Straight away he walked swiftly to the bar, noting the many eyes that followed him there. The bartender was an old, stuffy man with tattered robes, and he knew who Draco was, the tell tale platinum hair and grey eyes being a huge clue.

"Anyfing oi can getcha Mr Malfoy?" he grinned to show the missing teeth and Draco grimaced slightly.

"Yes. Absinthe. Filled to the rim." He wanted to get blind drunk-, which wasn't hard-, and shag a girl so hard she'll cry out in pain-, which also wasn't hard-, and then throw himself off a preferably high cliff-, which could be, he admitted sourly, problematic.

"You sure you be wantin' that- it'd be a tricky drink?"

"You are paid to serve drinks so serve old man." The pain was becoming too intense and he needed that damn drink to lull it out. The man snorted in contempt but got out a crystal glass and filled it to the brim with a green liquid, adding sugar to take the bitter taste away. Without a seconds thought, Draco snatched the cup and downed it in one go. Straight away, his head went into over drive, and he felt as if little buzzing insects were gnawing at his ear as the sounds of the room became magnified. Already he was getting light headed and the pain of loss was lessening.

"Another" called Draco, signalling with his hands for a refill. The bartender looked at him dubiously before getting a glass bottle from the shelf and filling his cup once more with the liquid of the Green Fairy. This time he sipped more cautiously, searching the crown for an attractive enough woman. Soon enough, he found her, grinding against some guy. Well, that guy was going to piss off right now if Draco had anything to do with it. He leaned against the bar and waited for her to turn his way. She had a passable body, slim to the point of skinny, the barest trace of curves. She did- although- have great hair. Auburn locks tied in a tight knot about her head, she was clad in a short black dress that hung to her body in sexy waves and exposed the pale flesh of her legs. Oh how he wanted to have those legs wrapped around his waist…She finally looked his way, and he let his gaze travel deliberately over her body, appreciating the barely concealed breasts and overall stature. When his eyes found hers, he saw, predictably, that her eyes, half lidded were filled with lust. He tilted his head slightly towards the door and she answered with a smirk, symbolizing a ' one minute' with her hands as she left her partner-to his great dismay- and got herself a drink. For Draco, the grief was not so bad once he was thoroughly intoxicated and had only one thing on his mind. Eventually, she sauntered over to him with a glass of her own drink, pouting slightly to make her seem sexy. It was pretty pathetic.

"Hello" her voice was low, husky and extremely full of hidden intentions.

He gave her his own smirk and leaned into her until his lips touched her ear. Would you like to go somewhere- less noisy?" The implication was thick in his voice and her answer was to down the rest of her drink, boldly grab his hand and March for the door. Draco did not like to be lead so he switched positions so that he was pulling her along by the hip.

"Lila", her voice hinted at something and he was unsure of what, but tired of the pleasantries, he pushed her roughly to the wall and attacked her lips. It was not the soft, lingering kiss that many read in novels, no. It was a hot searing kiss that was bruising and desperate. He plunged his tongue roughly into her searing mouth and proceeded on sucking, biting and dominating her mouth with his own. Suddenly, at the worst possible time, a picture of his mother entered his mind. Her beautiful eyes were red rimmed and she had a horrible bruise on her left eye, slowly turning a darker shade of blue. Her lips were split and swollen- as if someone had punched her- and hard. The image refused to fade, and it wrenched forever at his heart, till he was crying into her mouth, wet tears transferring to her cheek. He pushed himself away, disgusted at himself for crying in public. Wiping fiercely at his eyes, he threw the girl a hard glare who, extremely sexed up, turned and stalked away, finding an easier target. Draco slid down the wall and put his head between his hands, his shoulders wracking with the tears that he refused to let fall.

A dull aching in his stomach told him that he had nothing left to give so, standing up, his face twisted into a cold grimace as he vowed one thing to himself, to his mother.

Revenge.

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Hermione Granger sat on the airplane, cursing herself over and over for ever agreeing to this stupid mission. It was pointless, futile. 'Following up a lead' they called it. Sure, and her name was Mary Sue. She knew that the only reason they sent her on this damned wild goose chase to Spain was to keep her out of the way when they actually fought Voldmort. She had argued, shouted, insisted, persisted and pleaded to stay, but she might as well have asked an ogre to sit and have a cup of tea with her. They had been stubborn, and gave the tickets to Spain. Even when she tried to apparate, they had insisted that it was safer to travel the muggle way. And now, here she sat on a second class plane, reading the airplane guide over and over since she was in such a huff she forgot to bring any of her books and with a distinctly funny smelling old man next to her. We can safely say that it was not her day. The air hostess-a smiling lady- came to her and asked if she needed anything. Smiling back, she politely declined, and instead stood up to go to the toilet. She hated with ferociousness that baffled even her, the toilets on the plane. She didn't know whether it was the lack of space or perhaps what Ginny was telling her about what young couples do in there, but she loathed to be in there, and spent the least amount of time as humanly possible.

When she finished, she washed her hands and took a quick look at the mirror. Her cheeks were slightly flushed and her eyes big and wet, as if she'd been crying. It was still the same murky brown, except she wore glasses that seemed to suit her. Her hair was as bushy as ever, and came to rest just above her waist, but she had learned to love her hair, and would not change it for a thousand gallons. The announcer told everyone to get back to their seats, so she hurried back and sat down, her mind drifting back to her last meeting with the Order.

"Hermione you'll have to do it." The tone was dismissive; and Lupin stared sympathetically towards her.

"I don't want to go! How do you know that this lead is worth following mmm? For all we know, you could be sending me to no where, for no reason!" She was certainly not going anywhere while Harry and the others fight Voldmort. Moody gave her a cold glare and put a hand to stop Lupin from retorting.

"Do you know how many leads I've followed up that lead me to the punch Miss Granger? No I don't suppose you do, but it is a lot, so I suggest you follow orders lassie and stop your impertinent mouth" His glass eye was staring holes into her head but her feathers were thoroughly ruffled and she had long given up on the good-little-girl-who-never-spoke-out-of-line faze. Squaring her shoulders, she looked him in the eye.

"You need me." It was a statement which was met with silence. She was right of course. She was intelligent beyond many in the order, and this intelligence had bought them many Death eater captures and stolen items found. Nobody was able to deny this unfortunate little fact, and she took confidence in their sullen faces.

"Why send me to something that is most probable to be a waste of my time when I can be of assistance here?" her voice was calm, collected, so much was her confidence, but it was Harry that broke her argument.

"Hermione, we need you to check it out. Whether it is reliable or not is irrelevant. We need you to locate the place and, if it is indeed true what we have heard, retrieve the artefact."

Bought back from her reverie by the insistent ache of her ears that told her they were landing, she looked into her window, marvelling at the beauty of colour and landscape that was all a part of Spain.

"We have now arrived at Alicante. The time is 1am local time. Please be seated while the seatbelts sign is on. I hope you have enjoyed the flight."

People around her were blinking away the last vestiges of sleep, yawning and stretching their aching limbs. She had taken the later flight so it was very late and very dark in Spain. She got her bag pack from the top compartment and filed out with the rest of the people. The airport was near empty and she hurried to the door after the passport checks and some such. The air was crisp and humid, even though it was the middle of November, and Hermione wiped her brow several times with the back of a sweaty hand. The village was beautiful even in the dark, cream coloured cobble stones twisting and turning to different places. She ducked into the nearest alleyway quickly, and muttered a quick 'Minisculio', effectively shrinking her heavy baggage. She pocketed her luggage and smoothed her skirt before walking out of the alleyway, intent on finding an inn she could stay in. The locals were chatting uproariously in inns and clubs, oblivious to the dark light and Hermione, a stranger, walking in their midst. She spotted an inn in a corner of a street, so she walked determinedly towards it, hoping to find something vacant. Swinging the lark oak door open, she was met with silence as she walked to the reception. Eyes bored holes into the back of her head and she inadvertently flushed scarlet. The inn keeper was an elderly woman, kind eyes shining with mirth and she smiled encouragingly as Hermione approached the desk.

"Hello, do you speak English?" The woman's eyes lit up at Hermione's question, and she nodded vigorously, muttering rapidly in Spanish.

"Yes…I do speak…how you say… English. Yes, I speak a little." Hermione was fiercely glad, since she didn't know a word of Spanish and she couldn't risk doing magic in front of a room full of muggles. It took quite a while for her to explain exactly what kind of room she wanted, and frequently she had to gesture crudely with her hands, so it was a good half an hour before she was standing in front of a white wooden door, tired to her very bones and weary after her travels. She opened the door and was met with an instant smell of honey: Sweet, subtle and with just a hint of some sort of flowery scent. She sniffed it appreciatively before taking her first real look at the room.

Pale white curtains draped upon small wooden chairs, with intricate patterns sewn with great delicately upon the bottoms. A relatively small bed was situated in the middle of the room, pale pink bed covers and a sprig of rosemary sitting atop it while the floor were wooden but was smooth to the touch and caressed one's feet when walked upon. Hermione loved the room since it was beautiful in its simplicity. The bathroom, she later located, was in the further left side of the room, and had a simple shower and a small bath tub squashed into a small space. The sink was gleaming white and the pipes that were connecting with the plumbing were jutting out of the walls. She was too tired for a bath, but she ran the tap anyway, and as the sounds of running water filled the silence, she took out a large book that Lupin had given her recently for her nineteenth birthday, and looked up the artefact she was supposed to find.

'The Rose of Jadea is a legend known only by a few wizards, as its tale is both astonishing and far reaching in many of its aspects. The tale goes as two young lovers conceive a child under the shade of a Sycamore tree. The child is born healthy and loved, nine months later and the lovers marry, eager to have a life with this child they have made, but the story then tells of a great evil stealing the child, intent on using it to fulfil his evil deeds. The Lovers search frantically far and wide for their beloved daughter, but find it they did not. Time goes by, as it does, and soon it has been a year since the child went missing. The mother is whittled with grief, and the love she had for her husband soon faded as the hope did for finding her child. One fateful day, the story goes, a child shows up on their doorstep, gurgling and smiling, and the mother could not help but take the baby in, and make it her own. Another year went on, and the baby was thriving and happy, the jewel of their eye.

The mother learned to love again and everything was taking a turn for the better- or so they thought. On the morning of the child's- Jadea was her name- second birthday, she woke up howling with such pain the whole town heard. Her wailings seemed to enter into the very heart of man, and the mother was at a loss as to what to do. In an attempt to cool her down- for she thought it was a fever that gripped the child- she yanked off her clothes and was horrified by what she saw. Embedded in the child's skin, throbbing, was a crimson rose. The thorns were still attached and the skin around it was raw and bleeding. Her blood was weeping and her top was soon soaked in blood, her mother was distressed and at a loss to what to do. This is where the tale gets alarmingly far fetched and many powerful wizards, such as Betty Lovertov, the famous Auror of the nineteenth century, called it ' stupendous and without a flint of evidence'. The whole town burned down a few hours after the rose was discovered and there were no survivors. The town suddenly became unplottable, and to this day no one knows where it is. The child was believed to have died along with everyone else, but one strange thing came up every time a witch or wizard tried to scry for it or search for it in any way, the only thing that came up in their searches was a red rose. To this day, the little town of Wilting Corner has never been located. The only object that it said to connect with this tale of sorrow is The rose of Jadea; A glass rose that seems to have incredibly unique properties, of which no one is sure.'

Hermione frowned slightly at the small text, her eyes roving over the rest of the page, trying to find out more information. This is what they searched her to find?! A legend?? This trip is even more pointless than she thought. A glass rose? She was silently fuming, and she stomped to the bathroom, yanking off her cloths in her anger and plopping into the tub, spraying water everywhere. Almost instantly, her mind went blissfully blank and her eyes drifted shut as the hot water massaged her aching muscles. Her skin was no longer the pale she had in Hogwarts; instead it was a slightly darker shade, as if she lived in the sun all the time. She had filled out considerably, and was no longer the awkward, two- left- footed teenager. She was a woman and it showed in the curves that rippled out gently about her waist. She was tall, about 5'8, and by no means as stick thin as lavender or Pavarti had been when she last saw them. She was strong and lithe but still had a rare femininity that she didn't realise she had. She was unbelievably stubborn, sometimes childishly so, but once she had her mind set on something it was near impossible for others to budge her.

Her mind drifted to her friends; Harry, who was searching for Voldmort, who seemed to have done a disappearing act when someone leaked that Harry had found the last Horcrux. Ron, on the other hand, was in utter disarray. He hardly ate, he hardly slept. In fact, he hardly did anything at all, except walk around number 12 Grimauld Place like a zombie. He never was the same after the death of his girl friend, Emily Grumming. She was killed by a death eater when there was a raid in a muggle clothes shop. He had spluttered stupidly when the letter came from the ministry and Hermione's inside did a small nauseous flip at the thought of what he must have gone through. The water didn't feel warm anymore, so she grabbed a towel from the rack and wrapped it around her body. She was utterly exhausted; bone weary and sluggishly she put on her pyjama shorts and top, and was out cold within minutes of dropping to the bed.

Authors note

Enjoy! 'n' Review!

Narjy

x

I'm only writing this once…

…Disclaimer: The characters and places mentioned from any of her books in the story all belong to Jk Rowling. The plot is mine and so is anything else that doesn't happen to belong to Jk Rowling. Please don't sue!