Previously:

But in this game he called life, there could be only one winner. The rest didn't reach the finish line. And it was quite obvious that Voldemort was going to win. The Order could never be strong enough to fight the Dark Side. Never.

So Blaise did what he had been taught. He pushed his pain down. He pushed his sadness down. He pushed his heartache down. He pushed his regret down. He called upon the only emotion that seemed common to every person in the room he had just vacated.

Revenge.

-CONTROL-

2 months later

Blaise did not care about the Mudblood. It – and by it, he meant she – wasn't of any concern to him. Whether she survived the humiliation was just a by-the-by thing. Whether she escaped her imminent death was also a by-the-by thing. Of course, what Blaise wasn't too happy about was the probability of Draco's murder. Because, really, he and Draco had been friends for practically six years. But, in the greater scheme of things, it did not affect anybody. What was the world without one less person? People die every day...every second, right? So two more people wouldn't make that much of a difference.

And besides. He wasn't the one murdering anybody. No. Voldemort would see to that part, surely.

As a Slytherin, it was extremely easy to be secretive. No one minded your business, and in return, you didn't give a shit about their business. It was an unspoken law. But sometimes, some people – some stupid people – broke this law.

"Blaise, I feel as if I haven't seen you in ages," whined Astoria Greengrass, pouting prettily (or so she thought). She stood up the moment Blaise stepped into the dimly lit common room.

He tightened his hold on his bag, resisting the urge to fling it at Astoria. "I've been busy," he said shortly, being careful not to look at her.

"Doing what?" Astoria asked, twirling her hair, making her way towards him.

He flicked his gaze towards her, narrowing his eyes. He thought of images of her lying in a crumpled heap on the floor. Alarm coloured the girl's eyes before she backed away slightly. Blaise couldn't help but smirking. She was scared of him.

"Blaise, are you—?" she began in a high voice.

"There's something you need to learn, Greengrass," he said softly, making sure to wipe his face smooth of any expressions. "Do not make the mistake of caring."

She raised her eyebrows. "They talk about you, you know," she said, and Blaise didn't know if she had taken offence to his words or not.

He turned away, deciding to ignore her. "They say that you've changed – that you've become a pathetic pile of—"

Blaise didn't give her time to finish. Before the girl knew it, he had her backed up against the wall, his hands roughly grinding into her shoulders. She bit her lips, but he could see her eyes tightening.

"Lesson number two," he whispered, digging harder into her shoulders. She winced. "Never assume."

He let her go after that; turning away before he could see the hurt look she shot him. Turning away, before he could feel the guilt.

He walked stiffly up the stairs to the boys' dormitories. With every step he took, he wondered where all this anger had come from. With every breath he breathed, he wondered about the person he had become. And with every tear that he did not shed, he wondered if he'd ever go back to being a normal human being.

He slipped on his slippers, throwing a silk gown over him. He tiptoed quietly out of the dorm, clutching his wand. With one last look at the boys sleeping peacefully, he hurried out of the room. No one was up at ten past three in the morning. It was a Saturday, after all.

He would never admit it to anybody – not that he willingly talked to anybody, of course – but he did shop at that Weasley shop. A lot of their goods came in handy. Like now, for instance. He put the invisible hat on that obscured his face from view. He put on the invisible cloak that obscured his body from view. Of course, this invisibility charm lasted for only an hour, by which time he would be back, safely tucked in his bed.

To Voldemort, Muggles were at the bottom of the food chain. Squibs were the next thing up. Right above them were the Mudbloods. And then, of course, house elves, thestrals, giants, et cetera, et cetera. Blaise's plan was, therefore, highly ingenious. If Draco Malfoy fell madly in love with one Hermione Granger, Voldemort would have Draco's head on a plate. And Granger's.

And it was doubly perfect because how could Draco choose to love a Mudblood? Harry Potter's best friends, no less!

But the problem, of course, was that Draco would never fall in love with Granger. Even he had a set of 'requirements'. Every man did.

Therefore, Blaise had decided, two months ago, to make Amortentia. It had been difficult. He had to find three strands of Granger's filthy hair...which had been done with a very simple, very specified Summoning Charm. He had never been particularly good at Potions, but he seemed to have gotten it right this time.

He stepped into the vacated bathroom – a room that no one, to his knowledge, knew about – and went quickly into the furthest cubicle. His potion was ready. It looked like the clear, slightly pinkish liquid the book said it should like. It smelt like – no. Blaise stopped himself, and held his breath. He didn't want to smell that smell again, even though he had the scent practically memorised. Besides, there would never be a day in hell that Pansy Parkinson would even look at him again.

But he was fine with that.

Really, he was.

He rubbed his hands together, closing his eyes briefly. Am I doing the right thing? he wondered. He couldn't get rid of the guilt, but he also couldn't get rid of the image of his father's lifeless figure. Nodding to himself, he opened his eyes. He waved his wand, and a thin, clear glass tube appeared. He waved his wand again, and a small measuring spoon appeared. He filled the tube to the required volume. He was only giving it to one person, really.

The innocent-looking potion glistened in the tube, and Blaise briefly marvelled at its pearl-like sheen. He smiled a smile of satisfaction, and pocketed the tube. The rest of the potion went down the toilet, of course. He wouldn't want to leave any traces.

Ten minutes later, five minutes before the potion would wear off, he tipped the potion into Malfoy's flask of water. Because it was a flask – a silver flask – Malfoy wouldn't be able to see through it. By morning, he would be in love with Hermione Granger, and Blaise would be on the way to inching his way up the ladder of success.

That same guilt hovered in front of Blaise, but he refused to accept it. Instead, he stood at the door to his former best friend's dormitory. He waited. He waited to feel nothing. He waited to feel the weight lift off his shoulders.

But all he felt was sadness as he looked at Draco's peaceful face.

Draco had been staring at his ceiling for the past hour, and in that past hour, nothing had changed. It was still there, in all of its white, boring glory. He had tried countless methods of prolonging his waking up. He had counted the spots of dust on this ceiling; he had imagined blobs of colour on it. He had even imagined the whole ceiling caving in, crumbling him to pieces of nothingness.

But, the stupid bloody thing was still there.

His mission of tracking Potter started today. Surely the idiot would be up to something at Hogwarts? And if not, then what the hell was he doing here? His other purpose in life was to thwart Harry Potter's plans. Any and all of them.

Draco sighed, closing his eyes. Why couldn't he learn about magic like every other normal person? Why couldn't he live the life of a normal teenage boy? Why couldn't he picture his future as something happy? A wife, a child maybe. But it was pointless wishing. Even if the Dark side won the war, Draco would be harmed in some way or another.

What would it be like to quit? To say no? Draco thought, in a brief flash of idiocy. It wasn't the first time he had thought this. It wasn't even the second. Try double digits. But to answer his question: death. Death is what it would be like.

Stop asking stupid bloody questions, he silently berated himself. He pushed the sheets back, getting out of bed at the same time. He forced his body, heavy with fatigue, to move forward to the window. He pulled the curtains open, and squinted. Sunlight split the sky into a variety of colours. There was no blue in the sky, no white or grey. The sky was a blend of yellow, orange...even pink. It was different.

Draco shook his head at the dull irony of the picture. How could the sky look like that – a picture of beauty, peace and innocence – when down here on Earth, there were many wars? It was as if it was mocking them – mortals and wizards alike.

He turned away from the view, and reverted to the real world. He picked up his flask, unscrewing the top lid. He took several gulps, before placing the flask back on the table. For the wildest moment, he experienced an inexplicable feeling of happiness. He blinked, trying to understand the feeling. It felt ... alien.

He shook his head, and picked up his wand, heading towards the bathroom.

Just as he got into the shower, he stumbled. He stumbled, nearly slipping on the slippery floor.

He stumbled because at that moment, the name and face of Hermione Granger flashed across his mind.

And the very same happiness he felt before coursed through his body again.

XXX

"They've got every single exit monitored," Hermione said, pointing her wand at the Marauders' Map that lay open on Ron's bed. She looked pointedly at Harry.

Harry raised his eyebrows. "Lupin knew I had the map, Hermione! Of course the rest of the Order would know about it as well!"

"I know," Hermione said, tucking away a strand of hair that kept falling onto her face.

"Don't worry about it, Hermione," Ron said. "It's not Harry's fault...And besides, I'm sure you can work something around it."

"Me?" Hermione asked, glaring at him. "Why does the pressure always fall upon me to do all the thinking?"

Ron held his hands up in mock-surrender. "It doesn't always fall upon you, Hermione," he assured.

Hermione was about to retort when Harry cut in, "So let's come up with Plan B."

Ron and Hermione looked at him. "I'm not saying that I have a plan," he said, answering their looks.

Hermione dropped her wand, raising her hands to massage her temples. "We have limited space, limited time, limited resources...How do you expect to overthrow Voldemort with what we have, Harry?"

"Thinking and dedication," he answered.

Ron snorted. "Right," he said. "And You-Know-Who got where he is now with thinking and dedication? More like greed."

"Harry's right, Ron," Hermione said. "And that is how Voldemort to where he is now. He thought things through very thoroughly –"

"—in a conniving way," Ron interrupted.

"Agreed," Hermione nodded. "So let's meet in the Room of Requirement as often as possible to discuss this."

Ron looked confused. "Er, or we could meet here?"

Hermione shook her head.

"Too risky," Harry said. "I don't want to involve any other Gryffindors in this...This is dangerous enough involving the two of you."

"We told you that we are all in this together, Harry," Hermione said gently, while comprehension dawned upon Ron.

Harry sighed. He opened his mouth, but was cut off by the sound of laughter coming from the Common Room.

Ron held up a hand. "Look, mate, let's not do this here, yeah?" He looked over his shoulder, making sure no one was coming up the stairs. "Let's meet tonight at eight? We'll head to the Room of Requirement with Harry's cloak."

Harry nodded in agreement.

Hermione frowned. "I have corridor patrols with –"

"—Malfoy," Ron said, grimacing.

Hermione sighed. "I still don't see how he got chosen as Head Boy!"

"Maybe Dumbledore could have done it deliberately, Hermione," Harry said thoughtfully.

"I still don't think he's a Death Eater, Harry," she said for what felt like the hundredth time.

"Just because Malfoy Senior is recruited, doesn't mean his kid is," Ron said.

Harry shook his head. "I'm telling you, Malfoy is—"

Hermione waved off the rest of his sentence with her hand. "So you think Dumbledore made Malfoy Head Boy just so that I could keep an eye on him?" she asked disbelievingly.

Harry nodded. "Absolutely."

"He's too young, Harry!" Hermione said. "Voldemort wouldn't trust young people – students, no less! – to be a Death Eater.

"Don't rule the possibility out completely," Harry said, looking at her earnestly.

"Hey, Hermione! We've been waiting down here for five minutes already!" came the voice of Paravti Patil.

Hermione's eyes widened. "You don't think our voices carried down, do you?" she asked, worry evident in the way her eyebrows drew together.

Harry was already shaking his head before she had finished her sentence. "I've already Muffliato'd the room."

Hermione breathed a sigh of relief. "Ah. Well, I better go then. You're coming?" she asked, getting up, and smoothening down her cloak.

"In a bit," Ron said, smiling.

Hermione nodded, and walked away quickly.

Draco gritted his teeth angrily. He didn't know why, but he was standing here. Outside Gryffindor Tower, of all places. For the fifth time in the last ten minutes, he tried his hardest to move his feet in the other direction, but they wouldn't.

"Fuck this!" he exclaimed in frustration, kicking the wall.

Is it possible to cast Imperio on yourself? he wondered, and was about to try it, when the portrait opened.

He immediately wiped any emotion off his face. These were stupid Gryffindors; they did not deserve to see his frustration.

A small group of girls came out, most of them giggling ridiculously. The one, though, the one, didn't. She seemed to be lost in her own world. She had a grim determination on her face, and she chewed her bottom lip as if in deep contemplation. And yet, staring at her, repulsion was not what he felt. No, quite the contrary. He needed to be closer to her.

What in the name of-? he thought. Did he just have the...sick idea of being near the Mudblood? He stifled a shiver, and was about to quietly walk away before the idiots saw him, when he realised two things: 1) He couldn't move his goddamned feet, and 2) His body had other plans.

Some otherworldly force made him clear his throat. That was all it took for the giggles to cease. Almost as one the girls turned to face him. And when they realised who stood there, leaning against their wall, similar expressions of disdain appeared on their faces. Draco returned their looks with even more amount of disdain. He tried to amplify this expression when he looked at Granger, but he felt the expression fall clear off his face. He found himself suddenly not caring what they thought of them. He found himself slide his gaze over to meet Granger's. She had a resigned look upon her face.

"What are you doing here, Malfoy?" she asked, sounding irritated. Draco hated the way she looked at him. Her face appeared to be carved from stone; her eyes had turned a dark, dark brown. He hated the way she had her hands balled into fists at her sides, as if calling upon all her strength to not physically hurt him.

He also hated the way he was thinking. Behind his back, he clutched his wand tightly. He would even cast an Avada on himself if he did anything stupid right now.

"I need to speak to you," he found himself saying. He masked his surprise, and attempted to push an air of superiority into his stance. Was it possible to commit suicide? Seriously? What was the success rate? Because it was difficult enough getting the flick of the wrist perfect when facing your victim – but Salazar help him, he couldn't master the flick of the wrist behind his back.

She narrowed her eyes, and crossed her arms over her chest. The two girls next to her whispered to each other, now and then shooting dirty looks his way.

"Talk," she commanded.

Draco glared at the two idiots next to her. What did they have to do with anything? "Alone," he responded. He bit his tongue. Why in the name of hell would he want to be alone with Granger? Granger! But he couldn't do anything. He looked around him, making sure that no one else was bearing witness to this scandal.

He sighed, resigning himself to this doomed fate of his. Please let the pain be brief, he pleaded.

As soon as he thought that, he felt the tension leave his body. And his thoughts were focused solely on Hermione Granger now.

He had no idea what he was going to tell her. All he knew was that he needed to talk to her. About something. About anything. Even if it was to have an argument. He just needed to bloody damn talk to her.

"I choose now," she said through her teeth, getting irritated by the second.

"It's okay, Hermione, we'll go," the bint Brown said in a (loud) whisper, sending another glare Draco's way.

"What Malfoy has to say won't take a minute, Lavender," Granger said, casting a sideway glance at her friends.

"No! Lav and I don't mind, really. Bye!" the girl named Parvati exclaimed, and then grabbed her friend's arm and the two ran off.

Hermione turned to face him and raised an eyebrow. "Well?" she asked, and Draco could see her clench her teeth.

"Well what?" he asked stupidly. He mentally urged her to smile, to give some indication that she didn't hate standing there talking to him. But nothing came.

"What was it that you wanted, Malfoy?" she asked.

"I have no idea," he answered honestly.

She narrowed her eyes again. "Shut the bloody hell up and just tell me what you want!"

Draco felt a tickle somewhere in his stomach. "Honestly, Granger, how do you expect me to shut up and tell you what I want?"

She glared at him. "Malfoy, my patience is running low. Just tell me what issue you want to bloody discuss and then we both can get on with our lives."

Draco dug deep into his mind. What could he say? What could he say to not scare her off? What could he say to make her not hate him?

Nothing. He couldn't tell her that for some unfathomable reason he craved her company. Her company! The Mudblood's company! And yet, as she stood there, irritation written quite clearly across her face, he wanted to tell her.

No. Draco Malfoy would have some control in this. "Nothing. Nothing at all," he said, and with some enormous amount of willpower, his feet moved. He moved them until he had come to the end of the corridor. He made his walk look effortless, oozing with confidence and superiority.

When he turned around and saw that she had gone, he felt confused. There was one point in that thing where he had control of his thoughts – sort of. Then, a short while after that, he had no control. He could have sworn he had done a body swap with some insane lunatic.

And now...he had control again of his thoughts and body!

Draco breathed in deeply, staring at his clenched fist. What the fuck had just happened?

-to be continued-

A/N: Sorry if that was kinda confusing. I have a plan for this story, and soon, it shall be revealed . (And by soon, I mean at the end of the story...) BUT, if you're confused, you should be good soon. (and by soon, I mean soon)

Please tell me your thoughts?