A/N: So I had this scene pop into my head and it definitely doesn't fit with my other story. So YAY new stories!! Don't worry, I'll still be writing "Behind the Mask". I'll just be multitasking. :) Winter break means more freetime anyways!

Please read and review!! I'd love to know what you think! As always I do not own any of the Harry Potter characters, places, or the like.

Chapter 1: Strangers

It was dusk in Hogsmeade. Everything was still, save a few locals hurrying back to their homes. Nighttime wasn't safe anymore – not here, especially not now. It was all at once soothing and maddeningly unnerving to be able to hear footsteps on the cobblestone. So long ago the hustle and bustle of everyday life, filled with laughter and retail therapy, would completely drown out any other sounds.

"Spare bit o' change, sir?" A bum asked from the alleyway to the cloaked figure walking past. The bum was not that old, but the strenuous feat to survive had carved premature lines on his face, accentuated by the accumulation of dirt.

The shadowed face turned to him. "Are you not afraid to be out at this hour?" It asked in a velvet voice, deep and rich – not at all husky as the bum's.

"Why should I be?" He grunted.

"Everyone else is. They retreat to their homes almost as soon as the sun sets, like diurnal vampires."

"P'raps they've still somefing to live for."

"And you do not?"

"Nah, no' really. As you can see, the only 'fing I 'ave lef' is me life," the bum motioned around him to the emptiness of the alley save a little trashcan fire and a heap of blankets and rags, "and I guess now, even tha's not much, 'en it?"

"Are you a squib?" the faceless stranger asked.

"Migh' as well be. Me wand was snapped ages ago after ol' Mr. Ollivander went missing. All the ofer wand shops got raided af'er You-Know-Who took over the Ministy o' Magic, employed all those oaf creatures into his army…" the bum shuddered, "not to mention them dead 'fings. The likes of them give me the creeps. Tha's why I keep meself by this here fire – they don' like it none. They ain' been 'round for awhile, but I knows they'll turn up sooner or later. And I knows we all 'ope it's later.

The cloaked figure stood there attentively as the bum kept talking. Everyone knew what had happened, but it seemed like the bum hadn't had a conversation with anyone for a good long time.

"Story was is He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named stole all the wands so as none o' us could keep teachin' magic to the youngin's. Closed Hogwarts; it's been abandoned for a year now. They says he's only teachin' them kids he sees fit to learn magic."

"And who would be these privileged few?"

"Sons an' daughters of his Death Eaters. P'raps any converters, too."

The shadowed face didn't reply. The bum rubbed his hands together and breathed into the hollow he made and rubbed them together again.

"It's so cold all the time now. It's all been this way: dark and cold and dead depressin', ever since You-Know-Who killed Harry Potter. Ain' no one got any hope left in 'em."

The shadow became more alert. "So you believe he's really dead?"

"I s'pose so," the bum shrugged. "Sure seems like it. The other two wen' missin' after it happened and most of the Order, too. No one 'as seen 'em in months and months. Or at leas' not that I've heard, and I hears a lot sittin' in this alleyway. People don' know they're being overheard. They say they're all dead or hidin' from You-Know-Who."

A strong wind blew through the alleyway; the fire flickered nervously as if afraid it too would meet the same desolate end.

The cloak turned his head away from the alley, extricating a few silver coins from a leather purse, tossing them at the bum who smiled genially.

"Thank you, sir! You are most kind," he said, thumbing the coins.

"Have a butterbeer or a firewhiskey at the Three Broom Sticks. It will warm you up." The cloak turned to leave when another breeze whipped around him. "And please, for Merlin's sake, find a bath."

Just as soon as he had appeared, the cloaked figure was out of the alleyway and down the street. A few moments later, droplets of water began to fall – a tease. The cloaked figure chuckled at the irony.

Rain fell down his back as Draco stepped through the doorway of the Three Broomsticks, lifting away his hood and shaking out his hair. The slightly disheveled look was a new one for him, but there was too much on his mind to worry about it. Ugh, to think! Wizards living like squibs! What more could go downhill? Who would be next?

The Three Broomsticks was empty save the barkeep, Madam Rosmerta, whose unwavering nerve kept her from closing business like nearly everyone else – at least she was a constant on which he could depend. He noticed another figure wearing a heather-grey traveling cloak with the hood pulled over their head sitting at the end of the bar talking to Madam Rosmerta.

It was unusual to see strangers in the Three Broomsticks – it was unusual to see strangers at all, Draco thought. Most people he ran into around here were residents, or lived in a village nearby. Judging by the mannerisms, this person was just passing through.

"A fire whiskey on the rocks, Rosmerta," Draco said as he sat at the bar, a stool away from the grey-cloaked figure. "A double, please."

Rosmerta nodded and began making his drink. "It's been awhile since you've graced us with your presence, Draco. Where are the rest of your friends? I haven't seen any hooded cloaks for several months now."

She slammed down the drink a little harder than usual.

Draco knew who she meant: Death Eaters. Rosmerta was most certainly not one to condone them, but her forked tongue was as far as she'd fight. If she went too far, she would disappear and the only vestige of Hogsmeade would be gone. People needed some hope – even if it was just a bar.

"Come on, Rosmerta, don't be like that. It's been a hard day," he said.

"A hard day?" She scoffed. "It's been a hard couple years and you want to complain about a hard day? I hardly have any customers nowadays – people don't want to come into down anymore. Hell! Even the drunkards have sobered up. You and your lot have scared everyone off – even those who do have money."

Draco just looked at her and took another long pull on the drink.

"I'm not sure where everyone is. I've been gone for a several months," Draco looked at the hooded figure; they hadn't moved yet except to take another sip of the drink in their hand, "on business."

"On business, hah!" Rosmerta threw down the rag in her had on the bar. "Well we all know what kind of 'business' that is, and we don't need none of that here. So just drink your drink and go."

"Nothing is going on here in Hogsmeade, I give you my word on that," he assured her.

"And what is that worth anymore?"

Draco sighed and tilted his glass back for one last large gulp. "I guess that's for you to decide. May I have a room for the night upstairs?"

Rosmerta eyed Draco, giving him a long look-over, one hand on her hip and biting her lower lip in thought. "I don't see why not. It's not like there's a mad rush for a reservation." She wiped the bar again, and said without looking at him, "I expect you'll be gone in the morning – leave your pay on the bed if I don't see you."

Draco stood up and picked up his cloak, reaching in a pocket for a few coins. He laid a galleon on the bar and turned to leave, giving a last look to the figure still sitting there.

"Get some good sleep, Draco. You look like hell."

Draco didn't reply, but nodded. As he walked up the stairs he heard the figure whisper something to Madam Rosmerta to which she amicably smiled and nodded.

Upstairs, Draco chose the first room in the hallway. Everything looked abandoned, unused for ages. Draco ran his finger over the dresser top, looking at the dust that covered it – in the least it hadn't been cleaned.

He threw his cloak on the chair by the broken window and collapsed on his bed. Soon the sound of the rain pattering on the panes drowned out the sound of his thoughts and he fell into a deep slumber:

It was two years earlier. He was with his father and his aunt, waiting for the signal to rush into Hogwarts. Today was the day – either they all were going to fail, or they were going to win overwhelmingly. No one was really sure which.

From the outside, they could hear yelling voices and loud bangs as curses missed their targets and hit the walls. A scream rang out decibels louder than the rest of them.

"HARRY!!!"

Enough was enough! Draco ran inside the large oak double-doors; on his heels were three other Death Eaters; Crabbe had joined them.

As soon as he saw the battle scene, he stopped – dumbfounded. He had not thought it would have ended like this. There lay Harry Potter on the stone floor, twenty feet from the pale figure of Lord Voldemort. Running towards Harry, coming from the other side of the large entryway, ran Hermione leaving a trail of crumpled bodies as curses hit their targets in her dash to her friend's side.

Her hair swept wildly behind her as she stopped mid-stride in front of Harry's body and wordlessly aimed a curse at Lord Voldemort. He flicked his wand effortlessly, blocking her curse.

Hermione was starring him down defiantly. She glanced over Voldemort's shoulder to see Draco standing with his father, aunt, and another Death Eater that she barely recognized through the hot tears of anger that welled up in her eyes.

Draco did not break eye contact with her; he tried to breath and found he could not. He could not move. She was about to die.

"Silly little Mudblood. You think you can defy me now?" Voldemort laughed. "Crucio!"

Hermione's body writhed in pain, falling to the floor in convulsions, but she refused to scream. He'd taught her well.

"Ugh, you aren't even a fun toy to play with." Voldemort lifted Hermione's body off the ground with his wand and threw her hard against the stone wall. Her body made a loud crack as her head slammed against it, and she fell to the ground limply.

"HERMIONE!!" Draco woke up, sitting up straight in bed, unable to breathe. He rubbed his face in irritation. For the past two weeks he had had the same dream over and over again. He looked at the clock – 12:42 a.m. He'd only been asleep for a few hours.

He went to the bathroom to splash cold water on his face. Looking in the mirror he saw was Rosmerta meant – he really did look like shit. His face seemed grey and large purple semi-circles hung under his eyes. He had not slept well since the dreams started. It had been two years. Why were they happening now?

He looked at his half-dressed, half-awake, half-alive reflection. "It wasn't your fault. Grow some and get over it already," he said to himself.

As he walked down the stairs, he saw the heather-grey cloak clad stranger was still sitting in the bar, though in a different seat. They must have left and come back, Draco thought.

"Rosmerta, another drink, please. Something a bit stronger, perhaps." Draco ordered from the bottom of the wooden staircase as he trudged to the bar.

"Nightmare?" Rosmerta asked, one eyebrow in the air.

"Omniscient; you must have done well in divinations."

"No, I just don't think everyone in Hogsmeade heard you yell her name." Rosmerta put down a dark amber drink in front of him. The drink was swirled with a luminescent gold.

"I don't know what you mean."

"Fine, fine," Rosmerta said as she went into the back to grab more bottles.

Draco took a swig of his drink and winced as he swallowed. "What the bloody hell did you give me?" He put his hands to his chest, bunching up the tee-shirt he had thrown on before coming downstairs. "It burns like hell."

"You said something stronger!"

"I didn't realized I was asking for Death!" Draco's eyes were watering.

"It's a Chimera – a mix of Firewhiskey, Romanian rum and something else you'd rather not know about. It's deadly if you drink too much, but this will help your sleeping, plus I think you'll need it."

There was a weird tone in her voice – like she knew something he did not. "Well enough, but bloody fucking hell…" Draco trailed off as he took another drink and finished off the glass.

He turned to the hooded stranger to whom Madam Rosmerta was talking in whispered voices. "And who are you?"

The stranger turned towards Draco and he saw chestnut curls falling against the grey cloak and dark brown eyes set against a fair face.

Draco blinked stupidly as his eyes began to water from the alcohol. "Hermione?" He asked. "I thought you were gone… dead."

She said nothing, rather just looked at Draco as if she had never seen him before. The fact he knew her name seemed to have her speechless.

"How did you… I thought you… They told me…" Draco stammered, his eyes began to become heavy-lidded. The image of her began to blur and everything went dark.

"I guess I should have warned him not to drink it too fast either," Madam Rosmerta said shaking her head.

A/N: Soooo..... What do you think!! Please review! I'd love to know your opinions so I can make this a great story!

Narratively yours,
Kat