Prologue

A/N: For all of my readers, I haven't given up on The Best Laid Plans, not by any means, but this came to me one day. In fact, all that came to me was one line, said by Draco Malfoy. This entire fan fiction was the result. It's not complete, of course, but, it will be. Truly, I hope you enjoy this. It's much lighter than The Best Laid Plans, but I'm sure my plot-bunny will insist that there be some substance in here at some point.

It was already beginning to turn to autumn, and they had only been back in school for a week or so. The Gryffindor trio sat in the common room talking quietly. The war was over, it had been rather brief, but brutal. Possibly more brutal than the first reign of Voldemort. But no one liked to think about; that's not to say they didn't think about it, it was just that no one really wanted to think about it. Who could blame a sane person for being sane?

No one hated to think about it more than Harry Potter himself. He had had to do things no man with a conscience would have willingly done, had seen things, unflinching, that would make most grown men vomit. Harry Potter dreamed things that would normally induce insanity. However, much of it he had already been used to. Haunting images and nightmares had been a part of a daily routine for him at a very young age. Harry Potter, while having survived with many others something terrible and disturbing, had also been relieved of a pressure few of us will ever feel. He had actually, finally managed to save the world. Of course, not single-handedly as some people seemed to want to think.

The point, of course, was that Harry was so relieved of this pressure, he felt free. It was a freedom he couldn't remember ever feeling, though he was sure at one time he must have felt the same way. Now, it was easier to laugh. It was easier to smile, easier to see the beauty, easier to just be himself. And that made it a lot more bearable on a lot of people.

Hermione felt it was easier for her if continuity were the plan of action. Indeed, who expected Hermione Granger to change much at all? Her original plan seemed to have worked for her up 'till then, and when it seemed ineffective, she would then consider change. Ron, on the other hand, had found that he was more than just 'another Weasley'. The identity-less image he'd formed for himself had disappeared and he was reconciling himself with this new, bolder, slightly (just slightly) more articulate Ron with whom he had believed himself to be for years upon years.

Now, it wasn't just the trio we are all so near and dear to that fought in that terrible, horrific war. Let's take a peak in on an unsuspected (hah! Cliché, anyone?) do-gooder, shall we? Yes, there in the Slytherin common room, alienated and to the side sets a young man. Draco Malfoy. That young man had no choice but to accept change. His entire life, as far as he was concerned, had been a lie. He was learning how to live again and it wasn't easy. He'd lost his father in the war, struck down in a battle. He missed the image he'd always constructed for himself of a father, not so much Lucius Malfoy. His mother was handling the things well, he admitted to himself, but then again, well would be an understatement. She was elated at the freedom she had now that Lucius was out of the picture. Arranged marriages in the Wizarding world were rare, even in his parent's time, but they continued on to present if the right dowry could be had.

Our little dragon was curled up like a big cat in an overstuffed dark green armchair, rewriting some notes. He tended to have difficulty reading his own writing if he wasn't careful. Sloppy wasn't the problem, it was that his brain worked too quickly for his hand to catch up and what came out was different language of short hand that sometimes even he couldn't decipher. It also helped that no one ever asked to borrow his notes more than once. However, his notes weren't on his mind tonight. Oh, no. They were actually quite far from his thoughts. In fact, tonight, he was thinking over the last battle he'd been conscious for. He'd fought, literally, back-to-back with Potter. He had fired shots on death eaters who had attended his birth. He had defended Potter, and Potter had defended him. All the enmity between them dissolved in mutual desperation for freedom, the ultimate reason for the war.

Although, Harry Potter wasn't quite the center of his thoughts, if he'd dig just a little deeper. Ronald Weasley stood to their left. He had covered them, shooting around the perimeter. The Weasel that he'd tormented for many reasons, (one of them being jealousy, though he'd never admit it, not voluntarily at least) had aided him, had in fact fought fist-to-fist with a Death Eater when his wand had snapped. But still, we are not quite to the thought that was distracting him so this particular night.

He loathed to think about her. He felt dirty, and not in the fun way, either, when she leaped across his mental vision. She had been there, determination on her face. He could still see her expression, passion in her eyes and something wild, animalistic. He had never seen her like that before, and probably never would again. She fought for him, instead of against him. That, in and of itself, was a change so mind-blowing that it had taken a second to register once he'd actually seen who was to their right in that battle. A curse had singed the top of his left ear while he was turned, trying vainly to assure himself that, yes, that was Hermione Granger.

And we've come to the center of his thoughts. It wasn't the rumors that floated about his own House that said he'd become a blood traitor. Although he had been and was damn proud of it, for his own, personal reasons. It wasn't the pain of the past that flooded his stomach with ice, although that pain rested deep in a place in his body and he doubted it would ever be assuaged. No, the trouble with him was Hermione Granger and her infuriating manner of confusing his entire world. Okay. So, she wasn't entirely to blame, but it helped Draco out. If there was just that one point of focus, he could attempt to hate her more easily.

He never managed to find hate for her anymore. Frustration, now he had plenty of that for her. Aggravation, too, was in excess. However, intrigue and a sneaking little tendril of curiosity about her worked its way in there, too. He even began wondering what she thought about in her spare time. Or, he would have if he didn't distract himself purposefully whenever she crossed his mind.

No, dear readers, this last year was not meant to be dewdrops and lollipops, but what year at Hogwarts ever has been? This year, I have a feeling all of our favorite people will have a lot to deal with. However, what they're dealing with now is life. I don't envy them one bit. How are seventeen year olds supposed to pick up in the middle of their life, just knowing how to sort feelings out and deal with things on their level if they've never had time to allow life, outside of constant vigilance and life-threatening situations, to occur? These next few months for them, might be quite taxing, indeed.

Chapter 1- The Beginning

A/N: Chapter 1 brings the line that started this entire endeavor. I hope you enjoy this. As always, please review. It's positively my reason for living.

So, darlings, our saga begins with breakfast in the Great Hall. The noise was, as usual, climbing from a dull roar to near-deafening, though most students were quite used to this. Excitement was rampant in Hogwarts. The joy of being free was catching like the most infectious of diseases and outbreaks of pranks and dare-devil stunts cropped up almost daily between classes causing much malcontent with the caretaker everyone loves to hate, Filch. Oh, it really isn't all his fault he's as bitter as he is. You try living with a family who's so ashamed that you're a squib they don't invite you to family reunions anymore. Or… since you were 11, when the owl skipped you for your older, more attractive brother. And you try going to your brother's wedding while not only being skipped of the prestigious duty of best-man, but be thrown out because you didn't have an invitation. (Hearing those things, don't you feel just a little bit guilty about all those nasty things you think about him?)

So, as I was saying, most students were used to this. Hermione Granger was no exception to being used to loud noises (she did manage to study while Harry and Ron played Exploding Snape right next to her), but she also had little impatience for those who didn't take learning quite as seriously as she did. Which was pretty much everyone this morning. Already, she was preparing for graduation tests, which were several months away. Seventh year, everyone said, was merely a reminder year. Hermione Louis Granger did not believe that for a moment, especially with the classes she was taking. No, she hadn't made the mistake of actually needing another Time-Turner again for the amount of classes. Instead, she opted for difficulty. So, when the cajoling of Harry and Ron to join in on their reindeer games finally got to her, she stood up, said a harried, "See you later," and all but sprinted to the library.

Draco Malfoy had been in a bad temper since the beginning of school. Okay, so, he wasn't Head Boy, even though he'd sacrificed a lot for Dumbledore. He could handle that. Okay, so his House mates turned on him, he could handle that. What he couldn't handle was that he was actually becoming friends with a Ravenclaw. Alright, so friends might be a little bit of a stretch just yet. At least there was no animosity between them, and Terry Boot happened to be almost as good at Potions as he, himself was. Almost. Currently, they'd skipped breakfast to head to the library to settle a debate about a particular potion and it's after effects. He was silently comforting himself with the fact that Terry was neither a Hufflepuff nor a Gryffindor, and so, he was acceptable.

Hermione muttered to herself as she scaled the stairwell to the library, "Boys. They've never understood.. Bah." She had always chalked it up to being preoccupied with other, and at the time, more important things. Now, she didn't understand why they didn't want to take full advantage of the education that was provided for them. Harry, well, he was doing his best, but it seemed like everything lately was funny to him. Ron, on the other hand, was more obsessed than usual with Quidditch, which was another irritating thing. She, on the other hand, was feeling a little lonely, a little dark. No one had really talked about the war, of course. Hermione, however, had felt that she wanted to say something, get something out, but she didn't know what to say or to whom. So, school work was the back up plan.

The library was always empty this early in the morning. It was like a sanctuary from the world outside, her own little cave of solitude. So, why did she hear muffled voices in the back? She almost screamed. Sometimes, she just wanted to be away from everyone. Didn't everyone have those days when people in general irritated the hell out of them? She resolved to sit in her normal seat and reread a book she had on her. It was fiction, actually, and pure leisure. She needed a chance to relax, too, after all.

Her seat felt odd to her today, but she ignored it, finding the nail marks she made out of boredom one day. It was indeed her chair. Her thumb moved over the familiar indentations, picking the book up in the middle where a favorite part of hers was about to happen. It was suspenseful, a heroine climbing down dank, damp cement stairs into a dungeon, eyes fixated on the spark of light at the bottom, her life in danger. She could feel her heart rate elevate, remembering adrenaline from times before. Hermione leaned forward, forgetting the world around her, becoming the heroine in the story. Just as her feet touched the slick bottom of the dungeon, her fingers clasping around a necromancer's bell, a voice whispered in her ear, "You're in my chair."

She bit back a scream, jumped and nearly took out the person behind her. She stood, scrambling for some semblance of grace under fire. It was no where to be found, of course. Today was going to be marvelous. Who should be standing next to her, a self-satisfied smirk plastered all over his face, but Draco Malfoy.

Of course, dear readers, he would have to be looking self-satisfied. He'd known that Hermione Granger escaped within books as he escaped within lucid dreaming. It was her chance to be anyone she wanted, as it was his chance to be normal. He was now positively glowing under the scrutinizing, withering black glare that was being rained down upon him. He only smiled brighter. "What in Merlin's name are you on about? This is my chair, Malfoy. I've sat here since I was eleven." Her whisper was leaden with scorn, a bad attempt at covering up the fear that had her heart beating so hard it hurt. She was a jumpy little thing these days.

Her chair, Draco thought, eyebrow lifting. What a coincidence. And how convenient for my plot, eh, readers? Of course he hadn't been using that particular chair at that particular table for nearly that long, but did two years count? Of course they did, if you were Draco Malfoy. And it just so happened that it was Draco Malfoy who'd been sitting there. "Well, Granger, can't we share? You get the chair on the weekends and hols, I get it every other time." To this, she pursed her lips, sat heavily down onto the chair and stared at him.

"Leave me alone, Malfoy. I'm reading," and with that, she turned her back to him. Now, Draco couldn't have that. He never lost an argument. Terry Boot, who had been down a different stack looking for the book that would prove him right in the debate with Draco had heard a scuffle and, sighing, turned around to see what the ruckus was now. He'd known that in allowing himself to associate with Draco Malfoy there would be certain other things that came with it. Scuffles and fights and the like were just some of those things. Honestly, though, Terry didn't see much wrong with the guy, aside from some neurosis and bad hand dealt to him for life. Although, the enmity with the Gryffindors he'd stay completely out of. He was Switzerland, when it came to that. Let them fight it out, he thought. Not his battle.

So, when he walked over and caught the very last little bit of the 'argument' before Hermione turned her back to Draco, he rolled his eyes. Could he not go one day without tormenting the poor bird? She could be infuriating in class, but she deserved respect. Switzerland, he reminded himself. I am Switzerland. Draco turned to Terry, amusement on his face. "She says that's her chair."

Terry eyed the chair, then the table. Malfoy had sat there ever since he'd known him at all. The table had a small doodle of a snitch done in green ink with the initials D.M. in the middle. Alright, so Draco had sat there. He whispered, several feet away, "Do you honestly want me to mediate a fight over who's chair that is?"

Draco grinned wickedly and nodded. This was obviously some sick game that Terry wanted as little part in as possible. The book he needed to prove Draco wrong was in his hand, the page marked by his thumb. The quicker this was over, the quicker he was owed a Butterbeer. He took two steps and said, " Hermione, he does sit there. He's neurotic. It's just easier if you scoot over one bloody chair."

Her reading had been interrupted once again. This was not going to be a good day. She was not happy. Slowly, she took a breath, closed her eyes briefly then turned her face towards Terry. "I. Am. Not. Moving." That was that. Terry tried once more, "Come on, please? This is stupid." He paused, knowing how to appeal to the Head Girl, "Shouldn't you be more mature about this?"

He had done it. That was it. That was it! She snapped her book shut and turned, eyes bright and face hard, "Sometimes, I don't want to be mature." It was clipped and her tone said leave me the bloody hell alone.

Terry held his hands up in retreat, shrugged to Draco and went back to the stacks. Let them work this out. He was still going to get a Butterbeer out of it.

Draco left it quiet for a moment, not saying anything, though not moving, either. Then, just as she'd relaxed a little, he leaned over, one finger tracing lazy circles on the chair's arm, "Soooo… who's in my chair…?" he said in a sing-song voice, still quiet as Madame Pince glowered momentarily from her spot behind her desk. Hermione ignored him. "Come now, up, up, up." he added brightly.

Control yourself. Breathe. Just bloody breathe, Granger. Don't curse his ears off, you can handle this maturely. Stupid Terry Boot and his stupid logical arguments… A mental monologue rushed through her head as she attempted to calm herself. "I'm sitting here. Just.. Sit somewhere else, why can't you?
Truth be told, she was neurotic, too. Patterns were what gave her a sense of normalcy. She was not going to give her chair up if she could help it.

She watched as Draco seemed to consider this with real fervor. "Alright," he chirped brightly and plopped a rather nice arse on the table right next to her book. Anything to annoy the bushy haired annoyance. And today, he felt the need for more aggravation than was usual. Hermione studiously ignored him. This plan seemed to work for a while. Until, of course, her book was ripped out of her hands just as she was about to get free of the ropes that held her prisoner. "What are you reading, anyway? Good Merlin, Granger. This is smut." He'd flipped through a few pages and had seen a few sentences of the racy sort.

"It is not smut!" she whispered vehemently. "It happens to be a fictitious story- that is all," and indeed, it was not smut. There was a sex scene or two, though they were well written and integral to the plot. It figured Malfoy would have to see those parts, wouldn't it. And he would have to be delighted at it.

"My, my, my, Granger. Growing up, are we?" She glowered, tore the book from his hands.
"Have your damnable seat!" she said, shaking with embarrassment and anger. She stormed out of the library, stamping so loudly that even Madame Pince, who was known to favor her, scowled in her direction with a quick, "Shh!"

That had been fun. A lot of fun. And bloody hell, what he'd seen in that book amounted to smut to him. Throbbing member, indeed. Draco snorted. No wonder she spent so much time reading. If he'd had books like that, he'd spend a lot of time reading, too. Terry reappeared with an expression of trepidation. "Do I really want to know?" Draco smiled gleefully. "Probably not."

"Fine," remarked Terry, pushing wire-rimmed glasses up on his nose. "And just so you know, here's where it says that dry-mouth isn't a side-effect, but increased libido is," Terry pointed to the paragraph and the gleeful smile vanished off of Draco's handsome face. "Fine, I owe you a Butterbeer." Alright, so, Terry was getting better at potions. Under Draco's careful tutelage, of course.

The entire day had followed suit for Hermione. She glowered at everyone who so much as said 'hello' to her, muttering under her breath during classes about boys, and how she couldn't stand them. Ron looked over to Harry during Transfiguration class. Harry shrugged and scribbled a note to Ron that they'd talk to her that evening in the common room to see what they'd done this time. The only time they'd seen her this incensed at the entire male race was when Ron and she rowed, back in fourth year. Good Merlin, they'd obviously done something to incur her wrath this time. Both just wished they knew what it was that they'd done.

Dinner came with a surly Hermione. At one point, she looked up from squishing her mashed potatoes viciously with her fork and blurted out, "Just because there happens to be sex in a book, it doesn't mean it's smut, does it?"

"Er… Hermione.." Ron paused, obviously not knowing if this were a trick question. He looked to Harry again, who shrugged helpfully. Ron smiled, "No. It doesn't have to be," he said cheerfully, hoping he'd chosen correctly.

"That's what I said!" Her anger was apparent as she grabbed her bag and said she was going to the common room.

"What the bloody hell is wrong with her, Harry?" Ron was confused. Very confused. However, he was used to being confused when it came to that particular girl. He'd had a crush on her for years, but she was so intense he was never sure how to go about asking her out. Sometimes, he was positive she'd say yes. Other times, like today, seemed to make him feel she'd never feel anything for him but brotherly love. It made his stomach squirm uncomfortably.

"It's Hermione, Ron. I'm sure.." he'd started to say he was sure it didn't have anything to do with Ron, but finished with, "she'll be fine by the time we reach the common room."

Draco had been watching the Gryffindor table happily. Hermione had been sullen all of that day, muttering about smut and boys. He did so love to aggravate her. She was pleasantly fiery when he had the time to think of really good insults. This morning was sheer brilliance, and straight off the cuff. Who knew they'd be thrown together in the library like that? Of course, he could have been seeking her out, the library being one of her known hang-outs. Although, it had been Boot who had wanted to prove him wrong, so he tried not to think anymore about psychology and instead, thought about what he'd do to her next.

Dinner went sluggishly. It was always sluggish now-a-days, and even though he was a so-called blood traitor, there were several girls who hadn't given up pestering him. Honestly, he had enjoyed the attention, the flirtation, even if he would never have actually deigned to touch them. Now, however, after years of the same old thing, he'd grown bored of it. There was no excitement when Pansy made a barely veiled comment alluding to some such sexual favor she would be more than willing to perform for him. There was no excitement in the giggling, vapid younger girls who cooed when he passed. He was handsome. He knew he was. He also knew he was intelligent. However, for some reason, people in his own house seemed to take that aspect of Draco Malfoy for granted. (but we don't, do we, dear readers?)

He made a low noise in his throat, a cross between a groan and a growl, both born of frustration, as he pushed his plate away and left the table. He shoved one hand into his hair, scowling at himself and his predicament. How had he managed to do this? How had he been so stupid as to let himself actually fond of one woman he knew he had no ability to gain. Perhaps it was the allure of the forbidden. Forbidden fruit. Indeed, that was what Hermione was.

He stalked out of the Great Hall, a laugh bubbling into a great, "Hah!" as he saw himself presenting Hermione Granger with a bouquet of flowers and a heart-shaped box of candies. This was positively absurd. Flowers and chocolates were not his style. They could be, if done the correct way, and that was not, in Draco's superior opinion, the correct way.

His footfalls on the stairs were quiet, muted and he was thankful for it. At least he was left with his own highly amusing thoughts. While he and the Golden Trio had put aside their animosity for a time and worked together, they would never be bosom buddies. There was a general truce on the insults and fist fights and also a general respect. He and Potter nodded in acknowledgement of one another in the hall ways, but never had more interaction than that, if it wasn't absolutely necessary. He and Weasley had the unspoken agreement to simply stay out of each other's way.

He and Granger, on the other hand, seemed to bicker just as much as before. In fact, more than ever before. He had nothing left to occupy his thoughts and time, aside from school work, really. And who wanted to let themselves be occupied solely by school work? Oh, Hermione Granger. However, even when they were fighting, he found it to be all in good fun. She didn't seem to see it that way. Odd, he thought it apparent.

Draco let his fingers brush over the cool metal of the suits of armor decorating the hallways he was so familiar with, wandering aimlessly. The library wasn't closed, he just simply didn't feel like going in there with nothing to do. So, wandering about seemed to be the thing. His common room was treacherous, as well. What tenuous bonds he had held with those in his house able to verbalize even remotely well had been shattered completely. Most still upheld the tradition of pureblood is automatically the equivalent of superior. He knew better. The only thing that was inherently superior was himself. In many ways, though, he admitted to himself, not in all. He had faults, but he worked desperately to hide them. It was too much like work to correct them.

A/N: How do you like it? I randomly found it on my comp when I was completely out of DSL service. As always, read and review!