How it Began and Why

"No exceptions to the rules, no excuses, and if I do happen to catch any one of you breaking them your badge will be taken away immediately." With that, McGonagall concluded the first Prefect meaning. She gave the twenty-four students seated around the table a meaningful look and they all rose to leave. Hermione Granger closed her glossy black notebook to hide the in-depth notes she had taken during the meeting and smiled at Ronald beside her.

"That was fascinating." At times, Hermione still found it hard to grasp that she was a witch. It was exhilarating to have this new world ready for her to discover and learn. She savoured very piece of Wizard culture and knowledge presented to her, and this meeting on the rules of the Prefects, this century old tradition, was like a beautiful bit of chocolate to be eaten slowly with relish.

"Only to you," murmured Ron, running a hand through his messy red hair. Hermione knew he had been completely and utterly bored during the meeting- she could tell by the way his eyelids drooped and his mouth hung slightly open while his tongue traced patterns on his lips. She wondered if he knew it drove her crazy when he did this- the sight of his damp lips never failed to fill her mind with completely inappropriate thoughts and bring a blush to her cheeks.

"I'm going to stay back for a second; I have a question about rule number three. What does she mean by, 'depending on the severity of the crime, it is up to the Prefect to decide whether or not to present said student to the teachers'? It's quite vague. Anyway, I'll see you in the common room." Ron nodded and dusted his jeans off. He left with the other students, and only when Hermione heard the door click shut did she turn to the woman in front of her. McGonagall looked at her expectantly.

What started as a simple question soon turned into a conversation about magical rats, and then a discussion about the history of Transfiguration over cups of steaming lavender tea and buttery crumpets. The two women relaxed into the comfortable atmosphere and familiar chitchat. It was not unusual for Hermione to have such a conversation with McGonagall- they both enjoyed each other's company, and she reveled in the intellectual conversation that was just not possible with her two best friends. It was also a nice break from the stress of outside, away from the prying and infuriating eyes of Dolores Umbridge.

The professor broke off in the middle of her sentence about Tony the Transfigurer to glance at her watch and gasped at the time. She turned to Hermione and demanded her immediate departure.

"But Professor, I'm not even finished my tea-"

"Oh, but I do insist, it is much too late and I know you still have that Herbology assignment to write-"

"You're right, you're right, well thank you very much-"

"Do take care-"

"Have a goodnight, Professor-"

Hermione shook the woman's hand and rose from the table. She pulled on her book bag, rolling her shoulder so that the strap settled nicely into the crevice between her neck and shoulder, before waving goodbye and exiting the meeting room with a light smile on her lips.

…

Draco watched darkly as Hermione skipped down the hall. The crumpled piece of parchment in his pocket felt like a thousand stones, like the words inked on it in slanted writing were written with his blood. His parent's silent urging and disappointment radiated from the letter, and he both basked in it and cowered away. Seeing his parents flustered and desperate brought a smile to his lips- Draco had control over them, whatever he did would reflect what the Dark Lord did to them, and they knew this. They had made the biggest mistake- to let your fate rest in the hands of another was to block the path to greatness.

Draco revelled in his control.

Though there were times when he shied away from this, from the knowledge that though he was powerful he was also being fueled- he had a source that he could not function without, and the thought of his parents reminded him of this every second of the day. He was a hypocrite and though he tried to convince himself he was in control of this game, there were days when the lie was so blatantly obviously just that- a lie. The self-loathing was imprinted into his brain, reducing him to a quivering mess in the worst of times. Today, he could not hate himself more.

He watched Hermione skip down the hall, and his lip curled in distaste. This was a girl that was really and truly the ringmaster- she could break free of her chains, not listen to anybody, go out and fight for herself, and still be great and honored. At most, there would be only a feeble attempt to stop her. She could gain followers, gain power, be the leader. She could bring down the Dark Lord if she wished. And yet, she was letting this bravery, and friendship, get in the way. She still stayed attached to Potter and Weasley, and allowed herself to be controlled by an Order. She could do what he could not, but she refrained from it. It felt like a slap in the face, and he wanted nothing more than to destroy her utterly and wipe this doubt from his mind.

She passed his place in the shadows, oblivious, and Draco snapped. She looked so calm and collected, and here was Draco, a shivering mess of nerves and anger. Why should she be so sure, so healthy, and not him? He was better than her in many ways, not just by blood. She deserved to be the one huddled in the corner.

"Granger," he said, stepping away from the shadows. She turned around, her mouth tight and her eyes narrow with faux anger. He knew she was reluctant, a bit fearful and suspicious of him. Surprise was etched into every crease of her face. She was making herself vulnerable, and Draco hated her for it.

He had to do something. Something that would wound her more than words, that would repulse her and distract her and throw her off track and turn her into a mess like him. He approached her rapidly and crushed his mouth to hers. He pushed her back into the wall and covered her body with his. Her mouth was responding under his. He did not move his hands to clutch her arms, or touch her hair, or stroke her cheek. He stayed utterly still save for his lips moving against her. The lack of passion or anything of the sort wasthe elephant in the room. He was taking her for no reason at all but for her to hurt.

She raised her hand to press it against his chest and gave a feeble push, and Draco pulled back. His lips curved into a grin when he saw the real rage in her eyes, her mouth pursed and her cheeks red. Finally, she looked defiant and angry.

"That's much better, Granger."

And with that he walked away.

…

How dare he. He was worse than a prat, or a wanker, or whatever other names were commonly used to describe someone like… that. There was just no words for the bubbling hatred inside of her, the pressure in her chest like her heart was made of bricks. As an avid lover of words and what came with them, this irritated Hermione beyond belief.

It wasn't just that he kissed her, though that would seem the obvious reason for her anger. It was that he gave her nothing to work with, nothing at all. Had there been tenderness, or passion, or relief, she would have been able to surmise that he was attracted to her. Had there been no kiss at all, she would have had the pleasure to remain with the knowledge that he was the obnoxious spoiled Slytherin she'd always known and despised. But there had been nothing, and it would appear as if he kissed her for no reason at all.

She felt as though whatever he was doing, this tightness in her chest meant he was winning. So she straightened her shoulders and flipped back her hair and walked back to the common room without a backwards glance.

If she had looked back, she might have seen a blonde lanky boy standing in the middle of the corridor with his eyes trained on her retreating back, his eyes blazing.