A/N: I am definitely sure that I discovered the fanfiction world, 13 years ago, by reading a HP story. I don't know if it was Dramione, but they have always been my favorite ship. That is why it feels weird that I have never written anything related to them.

This takes place loosely in the 6th book. If I am being honest, I haven't read the books for a while now and I am pretty sure I will take some liberties. Don't expect me to remember much about the details, I just want to stick with the context: Malfoy as a Death Eater and what that costs him. Feel free to point out any grammar mistakes and if someone feels like beta reading my story, please let me know.

Enough with that and on with the story. I hope you like it and please let me know what you think by reviewing it. (I myself am an avid reviewer because I know what each comment means to a writer). :P

Don't know if continue this or leave it as it is.

Alessandra


He was a ghost.

The bags under his eyes were not purple like an eggplant anymore, but almost as black as the dark tattoo on his left forearm. His complexion had always been pale, but now his skin looked translucent as if someone could pass their hand through it if only they reached out to touch him. He knew that was unlikely. Even his bodyguards, Crabbe and Goyle, knew better by now.

He was more alone each passing day. He did not know if he had chosen that way or if it had occurred naturally, progressively. He had secluded himself for protection. His and the ones he cared about. He was not allowed to feel anything for anyone. Not anymore. Therefore, he had distanced himself from his housemates, even the ones who he knew since he was born, before Hogwarts, like Blaise Zabini and Pansy Parkinson. He knew they were hurt, but he felt so numb, he did not care.

All he could focus on was at his task. A task he was miserably failing. The Dark Lord would not be pleased if he knew how little progress he had made. That was why every second of his days was lost reading in the library, searching for an answer, or trying on different spells for that cabinet.

The Room of Requirement was already more familiar than his own. An old reddish velvet sofa, that was secluded in one corner of the badly lit habitation, accommodated his body perfectly. It had already been moulded with his shape since he slept there the few hours he managed to shut his mind down.

His figure that had once been partially build by being on the Quidditch team was slim as a skeleton. It was not an attractive view. His tall image looked better with more muscles on. Nevertheless, he could not waste time with unimportant and superfluous things like eating.

He wandered the hallways, passing by and going unnoticed, like a ghost.

Or so he thought he did.

Hermione had considered Harry's claim that Malfoy had begun working for Voldemort to be paranoia. Moreover, because when Harry felt convinced of something there was little anyone could do to change his mind. The blond had always been a prat, but she did not believe he was truly evil. She could not believe he had a dark soul. His mind had been constructed by the world that always had surrounded him. The venom that travelled through his lips was the result of an exterior speech that he took and believed to be his own.

She knew better.

She knew a person was shaped by the education they got in school, but it was hard to change the misconceptions that came from the experiences and teachings they had had in their early childhood. It did not excuse his behaviour. However, she had studied this phenomenon in a few psychology muggle texts she read while on vacation and knew it was a complex one. That was why she had always expected Malfoy to come around… eventually.

She was worried.

Malfoy looked sick. There was no other way to describe it. In addition, he almost never showed up his face anymore, not even to spit his remarks about her inferiority. He was cutting classes and never hung out with his friends; he even ate alone. Besides, she thought about the violent incident he had with Harry at the start of the term, which felt like too much brutality, even by his standards.

After what had happened to Katie Bell, she was afraid that Harry might be right about him. All evidence pointed towards his direction.

That was when it succeeded.

She saw him with the corner of her eyes.

Just as Harry stood up to talk to Katie and ask what had happened or who had given her the enchanted necklace, he entered the Great Hall. He grew even paler if that was possible. A look of utter terror crossed his pointed face. Then, he was gone.

No one had noticed him, only her. Harry looked at Katie's expression with confusion.

Hermione told Ron she needed to go to the Library and did not give him time to answer or question her. She gathered her things and followed Malfoy, silently.

He had entered Moaning Myrtle's Bathroom. His own eyes stared back at him in the mirror.

She could not believe she would enter the boy's restroom. Even at this moment, her moral barriers appeared in her mind.

She did it anyway. Carefully, so he did not notice her. She observed him.

He seemed to be studying himself. As if searching for something.

Maybe his spirit… or his essence.

Had he lost his soul?

Suddenly, he broke. His whole body began to shake and she did not understand what was happening to him. She was afraid he would collapse or that he was having a seizure right in front of her. Just as she was going to reach out to him and let her presence be known, she saw his eyes.

He was crying.

She put a hand in her mouth, surprised, suppressing an "ow!" However, he heard her.

He turned his back to the mirror, facing her. His wand in his hand, pointing directly at her heart.

"Granger."

He did not even bother to clean his face; he knew she had seen him.

She gulped.

"Leave". The only word he could muster. It was said with such a force and with so much hate that it sent shivers down her spine.

She nearly turned and left, but her feet felt attached to the floor.

"No." She told him, with security.

"Don't make me hurt you". He affirmed.

She almost believed he would.

Nevertheless, she saw something twitch in his eyes.

A plea.

Or she hoped she saw one and it was her own imagination: always expecting something positive. A crack of light, even when there was only gloom.

She did not consider people to be black or white, good or evil: but grey. Everybody had both sheen and murk within. Moreover, his eyes were grey.

He groaned.

He did not feel like arguing, even with her. He did not want to spend his energy taking her down. He didn't want to hurt another person. He had his fare of victims. They had been chosen and not by him. She was not one of them. Not yet.

He chose to ignore her. Draco let his body fall to the ground; slowly sitting with his back leaned against a bathroom's cabin wall.

She did not know what prompted her to do it. Perhaps it was his absolute distress.

She crouched down, her knees touching the floor, and crawled until she was mere inches apart from his legs.

He looked down, defeated, refusing to acknowledge her presence. He expected her to go away if he did not pay her any attention. He hoped she would give up. He had… given up.

She lifted her hand slowly, hesitantly, and reached forward. For a moment, she retrieved it back, afraid, and sighed.

Almost in slow motion, she tried again. This time, her fingers covered his pale ones.

He had not been touched in nearly a year. The small gesture sent electricity down his body.

It was all that took him to remember.

He was alive.

He raised his head to meet her gaze.

The instant his sight met hers, she flinched but did not look away. The trance, which surrounded them as smoke, was lost in one blink.

She widened her eyes, her brows arching to her hairline in shock.

As she prepared to run away, turning her face and frame in the opposite direction, he grabbed her arm and forced her to confront his stare another time. She looked straight at him, defiantly.

Before she could react, he crashed his lips, ferociously, against hers.