Disclaimer: The author of this piece of fiction does not, in any way, profit from the story. All creative rights of the characters belong to the original creator, J.K. Rowling/Robert Galbraith. The plot and written works is copyright of writer Loutzy. All else belongs to their rightful owners. Any potential brand, name, or anything else belongs to their rightful owners.

I would like to say a grand thank you to OLHV, the BETA for this story. He's a wonderful writer, and his new story is now available; a story I will be BETAing. Look out for it – Gravity Rises.

Welcome to my little world.

Mudblood

Hermione huffed, drawing her hand up to brush a piece of unruly hair away from her face and behind her ear with her delicate fingers. It had been exactly two weeks since the Start-of-Term feast, meaning about six weeks since she had first reunited with her two best friends. Meaning she had about a week's amount of time to get settled into her new living space with two other Gryffindor six-year girls and still, there she was, softly folding her robes and placing them into the worn down drawers that had become so familiar to her these past few years.

All because she decided she wanted to find the comfort of home by doing it the 'muggle' way.

It had been a small yearly tradition of Hermione's to give herself one final breather, one final adieu to home, by unpacking her belongings without the use of magic – whether it would take her hours, days, or even weeks. This was her reminder that no matter how big-headed she may get, being called the brightest witch of her age or acing all classes, she is and always will be a Granger. And she took pride in that.

Despite what the wizarding world might indoctrinate about muggles and muggle-borns, Hermione felt pride wash over her whenever her thoughts moved to her status of being muggle-born. She found pride in the fact that she had to work twice as hard as most to get to where she is now – at the top of all her classes and readying herself for a life of achievement; if the world around her would let her. She was ecstatic to throw prejudices about her back into the faces of those that let words like 'mudblood' leave their mouths. She was intelligent, an activist, and knew that these traits of hers effected others.

And she marvelled in it.

But this didn't mean that she was happy with herself for letting a whole week pass her by and still have clothes to fold and put away. She was the brightest witch, was she not? Then why hasn't she come up with a more efficient way to do this without using magic?

Sighing with exhaustion, she finished folding another robe and closed the drawers, giving herself a well-deserved stretch. Her stomach made itself known, a reminder that it was probably time to go downstairs for dinner and to discuss just what Harry had heard Malfoy discussing with his fellow Slytherin house members on the train ride to Hogwarts.

Malfoy. Where the hell was he?

Hermione gracefully got to her feet and started heading herself in the direction of food. Malfoy was a boy who had made himself apparent in her life since the moment she stepped foot into Hogwarts despite her lack of wanting him there. Hermione found herself remembering a moment when her fist had collided, very purposely, with his jaw. She had felt just how hard she punched him, and that moment felt defining for her in a way. She finally stood up for herself in an aggressive way. She stood up for her friends.

Still, she couldn't help but wonder how he could have disappeared if he was on the train. She missed him at the Great Feast, and knew she shared multiple classes with him, yet the blubbering idiot had clearly skipped out on every class. She knew he could be stupid, but this was just bizarre.

Walking down the Grand Staircase in order to get to the dining hall, she noticed a portrait of one Percival Pratt that had been taken down the previous year. A fine wizard, he was. A poet.

She wondered why.

Draco glared at the bright room and it's many windows. For a place to gain privacy, it sure as hell made him feel like a caged animal being watched intently by children at a zoo.

What once was an underground harbour for incoming boats was now a radiant, yet somehow shadowy place to rest. The entrance to the lake was closed off for the rest of the year, giving space for floors and furniture to be put down. The small boathouse allowed only enough room for a closed off bathroom, a small bedroom, and a space for a deep green sofa, a coffee table, and a bookshelf.

No other forms of entertainment, not even a kitchenette so he can eat in peace without having to visit the Great bloody Hall, where only questions await him.

"You must have really put effort into ensuring my sanity to come up with this place," he mumbled to his old professor, walking over to the bookshelf to examine its contents. Books on Hexes, and Arithmetics, beasts and unforgivable curses covered every inch of shelving. Not even one book for pure entertainment, for pleasure's purpose. Draco grimaced and turned to look at the rest of the room, a scowl darkening his features. Eyeing Draco, Snape shook his head and turned to leave.

"Time is of the essence and I am not willing to waste anymore on you. Either you accept the safe house I have given you or you make my task at hand just that much more difficult. And my task is keeping you alive. Do you understand me?"

Draco scoffed, eyes narrowing at the demanding tone in his Godfather's voice. He could simply walk away and tell him to fuck off and mind his own business. He never asked for Snape's help anyways – why the hell should he care? He was never asked when his Aunt Bellatrix demanded Snape to provide his arm for the start of this unbreakable vow, and if he had been told, he would've put a stop to such nonsense immediately. He was forced into this – he was the victim. He could easily turn away from all of this and never look back.

But he knew he could only be fooling himself with these painless thoughts.

Snape quickly grew impatient waiting for a proper response from his apprentice, "Malfoy, I won't ask again."

Rolling his eyes and throwing himself on the green couch, Draco condescendingly responded, "As you wish, my Dark Lord."

Lowering his stare to Draco once again, Snape's voice dropped to snap at Draco, "You will watch your tongue."

Draco had to bite his inner cheeks to stop himself from responding. The tired professor turned, leaving the room – leaving Draco in his demanding solitude.

The only thing of interest in the room suddenly caught Draco's eye. A portrait that had been taken down the year before of Percival Pratt, a famous poet, was hung on one of the walls adjacent to the bookshelf. The only person to keep him company was a dead rhymer. Bloody fucking brilliant.

It had been time since Draco had eaten with his housemates. He somewhat missed the company of fellow Slytherins Zabini and Theodore, and he felt at least a bit peckish knowing that it had been over twenty-four hours since the last time he had put anything in his mouth.

If Snape was supposed to be keeping him alive, he was doing a pretty foul job at it.

Draco suddenly hissed at a burning sensation on his left arm. He pulled his sleeve up to look at the damage the dark mark was doing to his body and what he saw did not please him.

To say in the least, his body was rejecting the mark placed on his arm almost unwillingly. As much as Draco wanted to follow in the footsteps of his father and carry on the Malfoy name in aristocratic pride, he could help but fear for his life when taking that mark upon his body. As much as Draco despised the Gryffindor house, he couldn't help but envy their courage in almost every scenario. He always was a fearful boy.

As a child, fear clouded his choices. He feared his father, feared how he would be treated by others, feared the world he had been placed in and the principles that had been shoved onto him by his family members. They were a family of standards, and those standards were founded in their blood.

And now, nearing adulthood, he still hadn't found the courage to turn against his fears. He feared for his life. Feared for his family's lives. Feared for what he will be asked to do. Feared for letting down his father. Fear had tracked him down, put a potato sack over his head, and buried him alive. Maybe that's why they thought of him as a good candidate to follow the Dark Lord and his wishes.

Maybe that's why they wanted him to kill Albus Dumbledore.

He shook his head, pushing the thoughts aside and quickly pulling down his sleeve. Now was not the time to contemplate what he had been asked to do. Though, his arm still burned to the touch, weeks after he had submitted himself to the retrieval of that mark. He wondered whether or not Voldemort knew he had taken it almost unwillingly – if he could sense these things.

His stomach sounded for a second time and he groaned. He remembered Snape telling him that whenever he was ready, he could rejoin his classmates and act as though nothing has changed. He had to keep up appearances now more than ever in order to seem… normal. At least, as normal as he had been in the past.

These last few weeks were sickly to Draco. It was within that time that Voldemort was brought into his childhood home and made him into this… thing. The burning sensation quickly started again under the fabrics of his clothing and he forced himself not to touch it. He could never look back to the Manor as a home again. Not after the horrors that had taken place there.

Scolding himself for bringing those thoughts into the forefront of his mind, Draco instinctively reached to the pocket of his robes, ensuring his wand was within reach, and walked out of his new hell-turned-sanctuary.

Sweat laced the back of Draco's neck. He had finally made his way to the self-righteous Great Hall and found himself stopped a few steps away from the doors. Not that he had a care in the world for what others had to think about him, but Draco grew up knowing just how much appearances had to do with social standing – and he could never forgive himself if he let them see him during such a weak time in his life.

Draco knew he looked different. Thinking back to his most recent bathroom break, looking in the mirror was a similar experience to pulling gauze off of a recently dried up wound. He looked ill and he knew it. His skin had become paler, if that was even possible, and he had lost some weight since the snake arse came flouncing around his home. But the thing that troubled Malfoy most of all was just how bloody tired he had looked all the time. No matter how much sleep he had gotten the night before, and no matter how many vials of Dreamless Sleep he had downed, Draco found himself continuously looking more ghastly than the day before. And it was bothering him.

Another tug at his internal organs and fuck was he hungry. Swallowing his pride and straightening his back, Malfoy walked into the Great Hall as if nothing had changed.

And in a sense, nothing had changed. Looking around, he noticed Blaise glance up and lock eyes on him, elbowing Theodore Nott with a grin and pointing in my direction. Draco rolled his eyes, walking over to his classmates.

"Hasn't anyone told you it's rude to point?" Draco shot, taking a seat casually where room was quickly and obediently made. Food appeared in the plate in front of him. Theo looked up from his plate and barked a laugh.

"Hasn't anyone told you it's rude to skip every fucking class, Malfoy?" Theo scolded back, but even that was hardly a scold. Theo couldn't care less about whether or not Draco attended any classes, he simply always needed to have a retort for everything. It was in his nature.

"Well, whatever happened, I'm glad you're back now," Blaise said with purest intentions, nudging Draco happily and turning back to his food. Sometimes Draco had wondered how Blaise had even been sorted into Slytherin.

Turning to the plate in front of him, Draco quickly started devouring the food that would have seemed worthless if it weren't for the fact that he was so damn hungry. He bit into every piece of chicken, attempting to savour the flavours in his mouth while feeding the hunger that had been biting away at him for hours. He was starving, and right now he couldn't take out the proper time to care about how he looked to others.

As he was finishing his final bites, something felt off. A strong wave of anxiety washed over him and he discretely placed his hand on his robe pocket where his wand was being stashed. Nerves getting the better of him, he looked up to scan the large dining hall until his eyes fell onto a pair of brown eyes boring into him.

A frown crossed Draco's features when he realized he was taking part in a staring contest with one Hermione Granger.

Draco realized just how much pity he takes in her. A smart witch, the smartest of their age, who seemed to have had her fate decided for her before she was even born – for her blood had already been polluted before she had come out of the womb.

Draco's need for dominance took over and he found himself staring back at Hermione for quite some time. Enough time to realize that this mudblood had admirable qualities. While she had proven herself to be a gifted student, it also looked like time had taken favour over the witch, very much unlike how much damage time had caused Draco. Within just a few months, she had matured.

The jungle she had referred to as hair had calmed down, framing her features and giving her a look uncanny to any other girl he had seen before. She was a little slenderer, a face much less baby-like and suddenly more womanly than he remembered. The only thing that seemed to remain the same were those doe eyes of hers. As much as he wished she looked like a deer caught in headlights at all times, her eyes took on a look of both wonder and wisdom at the same time.

And she was looking at Draco – making him anxious. It's not like she could know anything he was going through. She couldn't possibly have any information about him that could reveal him as a traitor to all of Hogwarts, could she? Then again, did he believe he was a traitor?

He shook his head. How could he be a traitor if he was working in favour of his own blood?

"Fucking mudblood," Draco heard a growl come from Theo's mouth and quickly snapped his eyes away from Granger towards his kind. Suddenly, he felt sick.

He realized he didn't only take pity on Granger for her blood. He pitied her because of what he knew was going to happen to her soon enough. He was a Death Eater; he knew what the Dark Lord had in store in the field of cleaning the blood pool. She would be dead soon enough. That was his plan, right? Voldemort had ordered him to eliminate Dumbledore at some point and he had to follow his orders or his family would be at stake. And with one of the most powerful wizards gone Granger wouldn't stand a chance.

He felt sick because he knew what her future would bring and he felt responsible. He wanted to puke.

Blaming it on the speed at which he ate, Draco shoved his plate aside, muttered a hurried goodbye, and was on his way back to his rickety purgatory.

He looked so different; Hermione hardly would have noticed him at all if it weren't for the lack of students due to the time at which he attended dinner.

He just looked so different, she almost felt worried for him.

His skin had dropped shades lighter and the skin under his eyes shades darker, enough for her to wonder whether or not he had slept in weeks. Lines tore through his features, allowing him to look much older for his actual age of merely sixteen. His face was worn and sported a drained yet eager expression, choking down his food. Had he eaten in weeks?

His body stiffened and its almost as if Hermione can feel his senses heightening. He looks around the room and his gaze lands on her.

Shit.

As much as she'd like to prove otherwise, she can't help but notice his straight features and overall appealing look, attempting to shy away under a mask of sleepless nights. She had always known he was an aristocratically attractive boy – who didn't? He was the widely known king of Slytherin for the time being. He fit all the characteristics.

The number one characteristic he couldn't seem to get away from? He was a complete and utter arsehole.

She noticed Theodore turning to look at Malfoy and following his gaze to find who Malfoy had been staring at. Immediately, she recognized the word she read coming out of Theo mouth.

Mudblood.

His eyes quickly snap away from Hermione towards the direction of his friend and she couldn't help but feel a twinge of uneasiness when seeing Malfoy in his new state.

As hard as it is to admit, the word hurts her. Being a muggle-born isn't an issue to her at all; like she stated previously, she actually enjoyed facing those who mock her head on, the Gryffindor courage always seeming to take over. Nonetheless, the word still hurt. From the first time she had heard it until now, it stung just the same.

She looked at Malfoy, waiting for the well-known smirk to cross his features and a snarky remark to mock her yet again with his pure-blood friend. It never came.

"He's a Death Eater, you know," And suddenly, Hermione finds herself repeating what she had just witnessed Malfoy do a second ago. A coughing noise was heard coming from Ron's mouth, expectorating the food he was eating to face Harry who was seated next to Hermione.

"Who?" Ron asked, still with food in his mouth. He swallowed quickly and repeated his question, "Harry, who?" Harry motioned for his two best friends to come closer, just for him to confirm Hermione's suspicions.

"Malfoy," he disclosed quietly, turning to Hermione to see her reaction. There is no way in hell.

Sure, Malfoy might seem battered beyond repair to some extent, but as Hermione gave him a final look before he stalked out of the Great Hall she reasoned with herself. Someone doesn't just become a Death Eater. It's not that simple, she's sure of it.

"Not this again, Harry," she scoffed, shaking her head in disapproval, "We already went over this. I think this little house rivalry has gotten to your head - you should be careful where you place your accusations."

"Yeah, what Hermione said," Ron pipped in, leaving a small smile on Hermione's features.

Over the past few years, the feelings she had for Ron only proved themselves to be stronger. He made an effort into always making her feel safe, always taking her side, and being overall supportive to Hermione. He believed in her, and in a world trying to tear muggle-borns down, sometimes that is all one needs. But, like many friendships, Ron had his own set of troubles. He provided a lack of… cognition and overall thought. He hardly added much content to texturize conversations and this proved to be a hindrance on any emotions Hermione could stir up for the boy.

Oh, that and the fact that he doesn't hold the same amount of affection for her as she does for him. Yes, he might hold her in his small list of people that he will always have a devoted allegiance with, but devoted love? That was a whole other quandary, and she realized that he had turned her down too many times for her to not be over him by now.

"Guys, you have to listen to me," Harry almost hissed, annoyance laced in his voice. Sighing again, Hermione leans in, "That's what I heard on the train. Draco was with Blaise Zabini and a few others and was lifting his left sleeve to show them that mark."

A frown crossed her features. Something didn't seem right to her.

"Did you see the mark, Harry?"

"No, but I-

"Did you hear him say the words Death Eater, or the Dark Lord, or anything that can truly indict him for being a servant to You-Know-Who?"

"No, but Hermione-

"Than I don't know why you're letting your head fire away with accusations," She shot at Harry, who suddenly was feeling very, very small in her presence. She had a way with words, and she knew that. At times like this, she took advantage of her skills in logic and told her two best friends exactly what her thought process was.

"Hermione," Harry spoke, growing increasingly irritable, "He stomped my face in."

"Well, she knows that, Harry," Ron teased again, taking Hermione's defense for a second time, "You told us Tonks fixed your nose and everything. Even your glasses were a mess. How could you lose in a fight with a ferret?"

Harry's mouth tightened and he decided he would let this conversation go for another time. Though he knew he hadn't imagined what had happened on that train, he also knew his friends wouldn't be giving up anytime soon. He turned his attention to his female best friend.

"Hermione, a question," Harry spoke up for a final time, letting his glasses fall slightly lower on the bridge of his nose to look at Hermione free of his frames, "Just why exactly are you defending Malfoy?"

Hermione rolled her eyes at her non-consanguineous brother, "Calm down, Harry, I don't have a crush," she shot him down, maintaining her level-headedness on the matter, "I'm just looking at this situation logically. You never heard him say anything, you never really saw anything, so how can you be so sure? In a court of law, you would have no evidence." Harry looked down at his hands, realizing she did have a point. He decided that dropping the subject seemed like a good choice until he could possibly gain more information on the matter.

"He's acting strange though lately, isn't he?" Ron stated almost not as a question. Hermione looked at Ron quizzically, waiting to see if there was something else Ron could have picked up on about Malfoy that she hasn't realized, "He hasn't been showing up to classes, he skipped out on Quidditch try-outs, and he hasn't even been trying as a prefect."

"Ron, you haven't even been trying as a prefect," Harry said pointedly, continuing, "Is it really all that strange that Malfoy has been skipping? I mean, he's a Slytherin."

Hermione felt herself awkwardly shift in her chair. Yes, it was strange that Malfoy was skipping and acting out against the school in such a way. Malfoy might be an arsehole, but he certainly wasn't stupid. In passing, she had noticed his interest in certain literatures and the electives he chose were always high in workload. She only knew this due to the fact that those electives always seemed to be the ones she chose, too, in order to get an upper hand and more wide knowledge on how to use her skills. She had placed herself in all advanced courses that she could and noticed that every year, without fail, there he was – haunting her every footstep in this school.

And anyways, if you aren't liked by many teachers in the school, the only way to become a prefect was if you had high grades. And Hermione had a hunch that Malfoy was not one to suck up.

"Well, he's a fucking nitwit, he is," Ron harshly belittled his house-enemy, turning back to his food.

Suddenly, Hermione didn't feel so hungry. She finished up as much as she could and turned to her friends to say a soft goodbye. If she got to her dorm soon enough, maybe she could get in a little studying before sleep.

She grabbed the pocket edition of Advanced Potion Making and left the Great Hall. Hermione tried to bring a book with her as much as possible when she went to eat in the hall due to the fact that Harry and Ron always tended to show up a little later than usual. It's not that she didn't like talking to Neville or Ron's little sister – in fact, Ginny was one of her best friends, she reflected – it was simply her pure enjoyment of reading.

Much like Malfoy.

Hermione tried to push her attention away from how Malfoy looked, seated around his friends. He felt different. His aura seemed different and that made her unnerved.

And what about his lack of response when Theo quite obviously slammed her? That was the worst of all. One would think Hermione would find comfort in the fact that Malfoy kept his mouth shut and his eyes to the table but all this accomplished for her was a rowdy mental state.

Hermione found herself staring into the eyes of Percival Pratt once again and she didn't know why.

A/N:I already have three chapters written for this fanfiction and am working on the forth. I was planning on posting one chapter every week but other arrangements can be made.

If you want a chapter up faster, you have to leave a review. I am doing this purely for pleasure but if I don't get reviews it is hard to keep motivation and momentum!

Love always, Elle – your author for this story.