Author's Note: So here's the deal. I scrapped the last story which was similar to this one. Why? Because I had a brilliant flash of genius (or so I think) last night. I couldn't fall asleep because I had this one scene stuck in my head. So, naturally, I wrote it down. I wrote all night, and I think it's much better than the previous story. All in all, it's just a better way to get to the same pinnacle event.

There are some things you should know, though.

1. I don't know where it's going. It's just happening. When I'm writing it, I'm quite literally making it up as I go. It's kind of like a movie that' playing in my head.

2. Therefore, I don't know how compatible it will be with HBP. Obviously, it won't be DH compatible because it's taking place at Hogwarts during the seventh year.

3. As you can see in this chapter, I like to use flashbacks. It serves a purpose, I assure you (it has to do with the dramatic element of the story). Flashbacks will be in italics for future reference. Each chapter will be a combination of current happenings in the story and flashbacks leading up to the main event below. I'm hoping it doesn't cause too much confusion. If it does, though, feel free to ask questions and I'll try to clear them up ASAP.

Hopefully you enjoy the seriously revised version of this story. Feel free to leave your thoughts and questions in a review. I'll answer any questions in the Author's Note of the next chapter. Oh, and as always, please excuse any spelling and grammar errors.

Jane L. Doe


It was an immediate pain, not at all gradual. The crushing weight on her chest that had sent her across the room had been replaced by a relentless ache. Every movement she made was intensified by her aching muscles. Hermione Granger had been reduced to a helpless heap beside a rustic fireplace. When she tried to pick herself up off the dusty floor, a shallow breath rattled and gurgled from her chest. The overwhelming pain in her chest was nothing compared to the foreboding spread of warmth in her lungs. It was harder and harder for her to breathe, to catch her breath.

The dust had yet to settle, but she knew exactly where she was. The Shrieking Shack. She was in the living room next to the staircase that was beginning to collapse into itself. The furniture, moth-eaten and covered in a thick dust, was scattered in the room. The couch had been upturned as she was thrown into it, the heavy velvet curtains ripped clear from their rings in the fall. In the scuffle, she had lost her wand. In the unsettling silence that filled the room, Hermione fell back onto the wooden floor. The floorboards looked like the crooked teeth of the house; they were aged, worn and some were missing altogether.

It was an awful place to die, she thought.

Hermione's head rolled back against the floor, her eyes wandering into the night outside. Oddly enough, for this time of year, the sky was cloudless. It didn't look its usual inky black. The moon, so bright, lit up the night sky. The moon looked unnatural; completely round and luminescent. It overpowered the stars, drawing her attention. The full moon.

The full moon. The words played over and over in her mind, like a mantra. The odd occurrences, the late nights, the missed classes, the unruly appearance, the bruises and cuts, the broken bones.

"A werewolf," she murmured.

He couldn't understand a word she said. He who prowled the opposite end of the room, waiting. He who had no shred of his former self, not that, that self would be more reasonable or human than the monster in front of her. Hermione's head rolled to the other side, her cheek resting on the cold wood. She was aware, now that her fear and panic had subsided, that it was cold. It was November and all she wore was a sweater and a pair of jeans. She hadn't brought a coat, hadn't thought logically. Now, she was paying for it. In more ways than one, it would seem.

The set of eyes stood out from the dingy room, glowing brightly, maliciously. The beast stalked back and forth, eyes fixed on Hermione's limp frame. What was he, or it, waiting for? She was broken, bleeding. She had no defense, no hope of fending it off. Low snarling resonated in the empty room. The rumbling sound was all she could hear as her eyes drooped, her body twisted at an odd angle. Hermione played over the past few months in her head, over and over again. She had figured it out when Lupin began to miss classes, when he came back looking battered and beaten. What had thrown her off this time?

Hermione told herself it was his circumstance. He was in league with Voldemort, he was acting peculiar. Naturally, his becoming a werewolf was not the first thing that came to mind. Especially not after last year, not after the mission he'd been assigned. How could she have figured it out? Other than this, other than being attacked. She scolded herself, closing her eyes slowly. Why hadn't she told someone she was following him? She should have told Ginny, should have been more open with her friend. Harry and Ron were gone, gone without her while they searched for the remaining Horcruxes. This was not what she had planned. This shouldn't have been happening to her, not here, not now. It didn't seem fair that she would be left alone in the dark to die, least of all at his hand.

There were a number of people she could have blamed, that she wanted to. Harry and Ron for leaving her behind. They wrote her a letter she found the day they disappeared. They told her it was for the best, that she would be able to research for them and keep an eye on Hogwarts. Hermione felt unease rather than reassurance at this. She wanted to blame everyone, including him for wrapping her up in this. Professor McGonagall for putting them together, for naming him Head Boy when he clearly did not deserve it. She could have blamed anyone, but she kept coming back to the obvious question in all this; why did she follow him? It was her fault. This was her doing.

Despite all the secrets he kept, she had become the means to her own end.

I think about you all the time,
but I don't need the same.
It's lonely where you are, come back down,
and I won't tell em your name.

She wanted to stay far enough behind him that he would notice her, but she wound up falling too far behind. He had disappeared beneath the Whomping Willow, down the narrow, earthen tunnel that lead to the Shrieking Shack. When she came to the end of the tunnel, she crept into the house. He was gone, he had vanished. Hermione held her wand securely, starting down the hall to the living room. Her foot caught the lip of a loose floorboard and she stumbled, cursing herself silently. Movement in the corner of the room caught her eye. A dark figure leapt up from the couch, turning to her.

"Granger?" he asked, the fury evident in his voice.

"What are you doing here...in the Shrieking Shack? Why are you sneaking off like this? You've been acting strange since school began—"


"Granger."

"I've noticed it, you know. You wake me up in the middle of the night, cursing and smashing things to bits, screaming in your sleep—"

"GRANGER!"

"When you manage to come to class, you're covered in bruises and cuts—"

"Listen. To. Me."

"NO. You listen to me. I've noticed. I know something is going on. Tell me...or I'll have to—"

"Leave. Right now," he warned, his voice dangerously low. He ripped the back collar of his white button down over his head, throwing it to the side. She could hear the tearing of cotton, the scattering of buttons across the room. Hermione frowned in confusion. Something was terribly wrong...and he was taking his clothing off?

"Why?" she asked, taking one step closer. "You have to tell me something..."

"GET OUT. GET THE BLOODY HELL AWAY FROM ME, GRANGER!"

"Malfoy?" her voice wavered and she pointed her wand at him.

Hermione hoped that, in the dark, he couldn't see her hand shaking ever so slightly. She had seen him furious before, but he was a completely different person. He was hunched over, grasping his side tightly. Hermione took a few steps closer, following the slices of moonlight that leaked through the curtains. Parts of his face were illuminated. Hermione could see his face, aristocratic and quite elegant in nature, screwed up in pain. His jaw was clenched and his eyes shut tightly. A sheen of sweat glistened in the light, beads of sweat rolling down his temples. It looked like he was focussing on something intently, like he was closed off to the world. The shock of white-blonde hair stuck to his forehead.

Draco Malfoy let out an inhuman sound. The yell was one of indescribable agony, but the snarl tore through his chest. He heaved forward, disappeared behind the victorian sofa. She could hear the strangled sounds of pain, the unmistakable sound of nails scratching and ripping through wood.

"Malfoy?" she asked, taking a measured step forward. "Answer me!"

The couch, just in front of her, was tossed aside like it weight next to nothing. Hermione leapt back, shrieking in surprise. The tall, lanky form was difficult to mistake for anything else. After that night, the night in this very house with Lupin and Sirius, Harry and Ron, Hermione couldn't forget the distinct silhouette if she tried. Malfoy was a werewolf. He lurched toward her, growling. She threw herself against the wall, away from the jagged claws reaching for her. Scrambling to her feet, Hermione ran toward the decrepit kitchen. The cabinets were hanging from a single hinge, some of them missing altogether. Her eyes darted between both doors. Then he came bounding into the room from the door she had just come through. Hermione darted for the other door, running into the hallway. She looked over her shoulder, waiting for the monster to follow her. Nothing. The sound of cabinets being ripped from the walls, of rusty hinges squealing in protest, stopped.

All she could hear was the sound of her own breathing, heavy gasps filling the silence. This was worse than the chase; the waiting. She didn't know where he was. Everything seemed to be moving in the dark. Her eyes played tricks on her, foul tricks that made her heart race. The sound of wood splintering made her jump. Her heart skipped a beat and she clutched at it, desperately trying to calm herself. There was nowhere to go in the small, dilapidated house. Nowhere to run. This is what it's like to be preyed upon, she thought; you're crippled by the fear, forced to face the worst realization—there's nothing you can do. There was no reason she of all people should be so helpless, the brightest witch of the age.

The whine of a floorboard behind her made her racing heart come to a complete stop. She had seen enough horror movies to know what was behind her. It was always the monster, always the end to the madness. Hermione felt some comfort in the end of horror movies, but the comfort was difficult to attain now that the horror was real. She gripped her wand slowly, trying not to move perceptively. A gust of breath, heavy with a foul odor, brushed through her wild curls. In a flurry of movement, she whirled around and opened her mouth to shout a curse. The words were strangled in her mouth, though, her throat closing tightly as a crushing force threw her across the room like a rag doll.

And scars are souvenirs you never lose,
the past is never far.
Did you lose yourself somewhere out there?
And don't it make you sad to know that life
is more than who we are?

His whole body ached with a newfound pain. Draco rolled over, groaning at the little movement. It felt as though he was coming apart at the seams. He wouldn't be surprised if his joints just gave out. Hopping gingerly to his feet, Draco reached for a raggedy, dusty blanket that rested on the back of a crumbling armchair. He wrapped it around his waist, scanning the room for his clothing. If he was going to end up here after every full moon, he needed to bring some clothing. Waking up here was bad enough, but waking up here alone, naked and vulnerable, was even worse. He leaned, wincing slightly to pick up his torn button up. A few stray buttons lay scattered on the dusty floor. Draco followed the trail to a crumpled heap against the wall, a mottled trail of blood. The congealed mix of dried blood and dust covered the girl, the floor around her.

He wanted to keel over and vomit. There hadn't been close calls before. Draco had always transformed on his own and woken up in the same fashion. Her battered body was twisted oddly, her crusty curls covering her face. Why couldn't he remember her? Why couldn't he remember last night? After leaving the school his memory blurred into a series of dark shapes and shadows. As soon as the moonlight spilled over him, the full moon illuminating his eyes, he was helpless to stop it; his own personal demon. Draco swore loudly, ducking to the girl's side. He reached out and pushed her hair aside. He uttered a silent prayer to Merlin that her skin was still warm. He turned right around and cursed him at the same time, as soon as he recognized the face. Of all the people to find out. She was the one person he couldn't threaten or bribe into silence. Knowing her, she'd probably blab it to McGonagall, the Order, her precious Potter and the Weasel King. Draco fell back onto the floor, leaning against the toppled over couch.

This was a conundrum...no, a bloody mess. That's what it was. Draco Malfoy had, in an animalistic rage, almost killed the Hermione Granger. Now he was going to pay for it with his sanity... as soon as she woke up.