AN: I'v found a new way of expending my frustration over not understanding chemistry at all. Murders!

Chapter 1

Draco Malfoy had thought that when he took up the position to be the new Muggle Studies teacher at Beaubatons, he had left it all behind. He thought that he could simply shed his skin like a snake and adopt a new one. He thought that he could simply forget the past- bury it – and live anew. Little did he know that although as a child he had belonged to Slytherin – the epitome of the mighty Snake – he unfortunately wasn't one. He couldn't shed his skin; he couldn't erase the past; he couldn't simply detach himself from what he used to be and pretend that not even a hint of his previous life showed on his face. In short, Draco Malfoy was living a delusion. However, someone was very keen to reveal the reality too him – too keen perhaps. For when, on that chilly September Saturday, he entered his room, a surprise lay – a gift, if you will - waiting for him, wrapped in the thin, slick, crimson cover of blood with a black ribbon tied around the body. At the centre of the black bow shone a small silver sign; one that Draco did not even need to take a closer look at to know what it was. Imprinted across the wide, satin bow that rested upon the gift's midriff was the Dark Mark. The gift – that took Draco slightly longer to uncover. He didn't approach the body; he didn't scream. But slowly, with his eyes, he looked past the blood that was smeared on the face; he detangled the dark array of hair that was spread around the body's head like rays of sun in a child's drawing. As he did so, he arrived at a startling discovery. One that shook him, made him shiver and shudder and one, strangely enough that even elicited a short, sharp hysterical laugh that jagged around uncomfortably in the air.

The person that lay before him was thin of build, tall in stature; the person possessed remarkably pointy features that often give one the impression of acuity. But Draco knew; he knew that the person - though she was thin and tall and everything that one would associate with perfection and beauty – was anything but astute. It was probably her lack of shrewdness that resulted in her present condition. The person was none other than Pansy Parkinson.

Yes, Draco had wanted to run. He'd settled in France in order to escape from things that haunted him in England; he had a loving, caring girl friend – French of course – but one that did not interrogate him; one that did not question his generosity but rather one who accepted him as he was. She was, as I am sure many of you can guess, was a Muggle and was hopelessly and pitiably unaware that her oh-so-trustworthy boyfriend taught magic at one of the world's finest institutes. Draco had thought that having established a life that no one would be able to question or deride, he would escape from his past; he would start anew. If only, the twenty-three old could have realised that past often has the most pernicious way of sneaking up on one and tapping one's shoulder, like a friend at first, until one realised that the hand that one preferred in friendship as a handshake was now suddenly gripped by the skeletal fingers of the corpses that one had buried deep in the recesses of one's mind. There was no skeleton before Draco; nor was there a seemingly friendly handshake, but he saw in the crimson body before him an echo of the ghost that called him, pulled him towards a destination he had avowed never to return to: London.

Hermione Granger sat at her desk, her rimless glasses resting precariously at the tip of her nose as she peered at the document before her. Her eyes scanned the words. Without stopping her flow of reading, she pushed her glasses back. But something was wrong. She frowned, and returned to the top paragraph of the case file. Frustrated, she leaned backwards in her chair, removed her glasses and rubbed her eyes. It was something that her parents would have disapproved of: "that would ruin your eyesight," they would have said. But regardless of the imaginary voice of her mother in her mind, she continued to rub her eyes, determined to remove whatever lens it was that distorted the meaning of the words before her, making them utterly incomprehensible.

She had changed over the years. Yet, it seemed her pride had persisted. She was still just as stubborn as she was when she was the thin, wild-haired, buck-toothed eleven-year old, who'd just started Hogwarts. When she couldn't understand the text, she knew that she should go back, have dinner, and sleep. It was after all 11:30 in the night. Morning would bring comprehension. For others that would seem to be the most sensible solution; for Hermione, it was the most irrational one.

She returned to the text, fiddling with her wedding ring. She was still new to the idea – Mrs Ron Weasley; it had only been a few months. She had insisted on keeping her name; it caused quite a disagreement with Ron but he had relented in the end. She tried not to think of her marriage as she read the words, but somehow the black letters changed and moved and repositioned themselves until everywhere it said 'Mrs Ron Weasley'.

So, when the Ministry of Magic 'popped' in her office without any warning, she took it as a welcome distraction, beginning to develop a morbid fear of the file that was presented to her by her superior.

"Percy," she said, confused, rising from her chair.

"Oh, Hermione, please stay seated." He was sweating, rather profusely. He procured his handkerchief from his pocket and dabbed his forehead. "Terrible business, terrible business."

Perplexed, Hermione asked, "What's happened?"

"Hermione, I realise you said that you didn't want to be involved in any Ministry business and wanted to stay as much away from any…incidents as possible." Hermione listened, her heart increasing in pace, and her face growing in worry. "But I'm afraid we need your help, we need your expertise." Hermione nodded, careful not to give him a specific response without knowing the full details of the calamity that seemed to have struck the government. "It's do with…You-Know-Who." He whispered the name; even the phantom of the formidable wizard still scared people, his very name, mere mention still instilled great fear in them. Hermione could understand it but she also knew that Voldemort was long dead, and Harry had eliminated all possibility of his return. Their fears though understandable but unfounded. So when Percy employed the secret name that had been given to Voldemort, a slight look of irritation crossed her face; thanfully, Percy remained oblivious to it. "I would go to Harry and Ron but they're on a mission and I don't really know where they are." Hermione nodded again, not committing herself to anything.

"You had better come and see this yourself." Hermione, still not imparting a word, left with her brother-in-law for the St Mungo's Mortuary. There, it wasn't the dead body of the person that lay on the cold, glinting metal that surprised her but it was the person who sat beside it; he was equally white, equally ashen: Draco Malfoy. He looked at her, a faint, ghostly expression of surprise splashing across his features; a similar expression could be seen reflected on Hermione's face too. Fate somehow collided them both into the very thing, the very encounter that they had both hoped to avoid. Percy would have noticed the look that passed between them had he not been so concerned with the body that lay between Draco and Hermione. The body that was now forgotten as the Hermione and Draco looked at each other; the very body that had somehow, inextricably brought them together now hovered in their peripheries as they perused each other with a strange ambivalance of hatred and...tenderness.