Hello, dolls! So, I know I disappeared off the face of the earth for a while there. Junior year is much, much more stressful than I thought it would be, and between AP classes and Debate tournaments, I was much too busy to write.

Thankfully, this is no longer the case. I've managed to con passing grades, and have been writing much more frequently as of late. I sincerely hope you enjoy this chapter, and (of course) review. I should have another chapter out before break is other.

When he was 4 years old, he learned the power of manipulation. He had broken his mother's favorite vase, a family heirloom, playing Quidditch indoors. Something that was undoubtedly against the rules. His mother had nearly had a panic attack, screaming through the house like a banshee. When she cornered him in his room, he sobbed, telling her that Fleety, his nanny house elf, had pushed him into the table.

The house elf had been given clothes immediately, and he, well, he got away with it. A new house elf was given to him the next day.

He didn't feel bad.

That little boy had been called Draco, a name that he hadn't heard in years. To the world, he was Lord Malfoy.

The Lord in question was wearing a path in his carpet's study, pacing back and forth. It was a bothersome habit, one that he'd always had and, as a child, been punished for. It was improper, his father would say, for a Malfoy to express nervousness. It was improper to show emotion of any kind. A weakness.

Some would say that Malfoy learned his lesson well. He now faced the world without fear; and, perhaps because of this, the world trembled at his feet.

There was a knock on the door, snapping him out of his thoughts.

Before he could tell whoever the fuck it was to stay out, Blaise Zabini walked in.

"Alright Malfoy, you need to listen to me for once," he began. His eyes were narrowed in frustration, and his tie was loose around his neck, where a vein was pounding fiercely.

Draco snorted. Had anyone else addressed him as Blaise so carelessly did, they'd be Avada-ed on the spot. With a cool smirk, he replied, "sit, my friend. I'm sure whatever you so urgently need to discuss with me can be said in civilized manner."

Blaise's features rearranged into shock. He had not expected his old friend to listen to reason so easily. Draco rolled his eyes. "Really? Oh… ok. Well, then, that was easier than I… of course, let's get to it." He grabbed the seat opposite Draco, who was busying himself by pouring two shots of Firewhiskey.

"Go on then, what is it?"

A small pause, a hesitation, filled the room with silence. Draco tapped his foot impatiently. Blaise swallowed a large gulp of air.

"You've been acting strangely. Do you think that no one has noticed? You're skimping out on meetings, and, hell, we haven't had a raid in two weeks! That's unheard of. They think you're going soft, mate. They fear you too much for an uprising, of course, but there's no way of knowing how long that will last if you don't get your head in the right—wait a minute. Quit laughing!"

His shout of indignation didn't help the situation, of course. Quite the opposite; Draco gave an unattractive snort, effectively ending Blaise's rant.

"Blaise, you worry too much. It's unbecoming."

"It's about her, isn't it?"

Silence. Blaise gave an almost imperceptible clearing of his throat. A minute passed, and the dark haired man began to wish that he'd said something, anything, else.

He may be Lord Malfoy's most trusted advisor and (dare he say it?) friend, but Draco was still a very powerful, very personal man.

Finally, Draco sighed. His grey eyes tightened with exhaustion, and a deep frown marred his features. His friend was right, of course. He couldn't get her out of his mind.

It started simple, as these things often do. He had successfully led a raid against a Muggle town a few hours from London. It was glorious. Spells and curses flew in reds, greens, and purples against the black night. Several men and women of the Order toppled to the ground, withering, bleeding, dying.

He was victorious once more.

Ever since he had taken up the throne, he'd been victorious. That blasted Order thought he'd be an easier opponent than the last Dark Lord, but Voldemort had nothing on him. That poor saint Potter, as the leader of the Order, had underestimated him.

And the Muggles and mudbloods of Britain continued to pay because of it.

He was flying away from the rubble. While most of his men simply apparated away, he welcomed an opportunity to survey his handiwork. With a disillusionment charm, he flew low over the buildings.

Then it hit him.

He was about thirty minutes from the sight of the battle when the most delicious scent invaded his senses.

Draco almost fell from his broom.

Following that scrumptious smell, he soon found himself outside a window. The building was unimpressive, as was the décor of the office he was looking into. He was almost sure he had mistakenly flown to the wrong building, but then he saw a girl. She was small, and her frame was awkward as she crouched over something. Brown hair tumbled over an ancient desk, shaded against the light of a Muggle-thingy. Compooter? He wasn't sure.

All he knew was that the smell came from her.

This Muggle girl.

And immediately, he hated her.

Malfoy tried his damned hardest to forget about that night. About the girl. About that smell.

He concentrated more than ever on conducting raids; his followers were made busier than ever, breaking into Muggle villages and scattering the now disorganized Order members across all of Britain. He channeled his hatred of the girl into destruction.

He had never been more powerful.

And yet, his heart hammered at the sight of brown hair. He hesitated to raise his wand. That had never happened before.

Draco Malfoy was slipping.

Barely a month had passed before he was back at the window. Despite his promises to forget the girl, he could no longer deny his desire to see her. In his dreams, she was there—that long, curly hair and the smell.

He needed to see her face.

Draco did some research beforehand, just to be safe. The building was owned by the Guardian, a Muggle paper much like the Daily Prophet. It employed hundreds of people. Any of them could be her.

It was dark. The girl was at the desk once more, alone. He could hear the fierce clacking of some Muggle machine, which she seemed to be using. It was different than the compooter she had been using last time. She turned, stretching, and at that moment he saw her face.

Beautiful.

He was only able to see her profile, but he knew this to be true. She was beautiful. Her eyes were wide and light, yet sharp and intelligent. She had a button nose and large cheekbones.

Beautiful. Beautiful. Beautiful.

Mine.

A low growl escaped his throat, and, if only for a moment, he lost control of his body. His heart tugged against his chest, and his fine, pale fingers gripped the side of the window, as if preparing to haul himself in. He wanted to… bite her. Grab her. Take her away forever, and keep her by his side.

Wait.

What?

Draco did the only rational thing he could. He ran.

This wasn't happening.

This wasn't happening.

This could not be freaking happening.

With a frustrated shout, he threw a lamp against the wall. It had been a week since the window, a week since those feelings, and Draco Malfoy did not know what to do.

After his disastrous encounter with that girl, he apparated to his mother's mansion.

The Most Noble House of Malfoy was dark and extremely unwelcoming. Tall, leafless trees with spindly branches sprouted near the front of the house, blocking most of the windows from view. The grass was tall, but not unkempt. Even the wind sounded sinister.

In short, it was perfect for his family.

Draco was reminded, oddly, of Hogwarts. The two buildings looked nothing alike, of course. Hogwarts was warm, and enchanting. Hogwarts was filled with laughter and gleeful children. The Manor was not.

And yet, he had once called both home.

His mother was waiting for him in the parlor. Narcissa Malfoy was, in a word, distinguished. Her hair was always immaculate and her robes were of the latest fashion. She walked with grace and poise, and was able to enchant a room with her polite conversation and docile features. Bright blue eyes shined in her pale face, which was dusted with rouge, and which ended in a small, pointed chin. She was the perfect pureblood, and therefore, the perfect Malfoy.

It was unnerving for Draco, who felt anything but pristine, to be sitting in the perfect parlor in front of his perfect mother.

"What can I do for you, Darling?" She sipped delicately from her tea, raising a pale brow.

"I…I've come to some…difficulty recently, regarding a…well, a..." he sharply inhaled. This was way too hard. He couldn't even get the worlds out properly, and a man of his fine breeding and high position should never have that problem.

Exhale. "Oh, for heaven's sake! I can't get this girl out of my head, mother!"

"A girl?"

"Yes, mother, a girl. You know, long hair, big eyes, the most wonderful smell. Actually, I was wondering about that, too. I don't recall ever noticing a female's scent before. And now, well, now I can smell practically anything. My senses have been much sharper than usual and—"

"I know what's wrong with you."

That shut him up. He had not noticed that he'd been ranting, nor had he noticed that he was no longer sitting on a chair, but rather had taken to pacing back and forth furiously. "What is it?" He asked anxiously, forcing himself to sit down once more. "Am I dying?"

It seemed a silly question, but Draco Malfoy had never been more petrified. He had never been so out of control, especially over some stupid female.

"My boy, I was hoping that we'd never need to have this conversation." She smiled sadly at him, walking over to him, sitting down by his side and patting his arm comfortingly. "You know I've always been proud of you, yes? You've grown into such a powerful wizard.

"The Malfoy and Black families are very, very old. In that time, some…discrepancies have occurred. You remember my sister, Andromeda, do you not?"

"Her daughter died in the battle that killed Voldemort—" his mother flinched, "of course. That was the night I was finally able to take over. She died a few months after, escaping to Bulgaria, did she not?" He reached for her hand and held it tightly between his. It must have been hard, he acknowledged, losing a sister.

Especially when your son rules over the people that took her life.

His mother gulped, "Yes, her. Well, years ago, your great-great Grandfather fell in love. This was greatly frowned upon, but he did not care. You see, he was in love—" she sneered the word, "and cared not for what was proper in society.

"His bride was a Veela… Oh, Draco. The Veela blood rarely asserts itself in males. This wasn't supposed to happen to you. But… you must have found your mate."

His what? That was preposterous!

And yet… he had read about Veelas in school, once. From what he remembered, they were extremely powerful magical creatures, and extremely beautiful (which, he admitted smugly, he was). They had sharp senses, and uncommon grace.

It made sense. It was completely logical.

That would mean…that would mean that the Muggle girl he had seen was his intended!

"The Veela chose wrong then, mother."

"And why is that, Darling?"

"It chose a Muggle."

His mother's eyes widened, almost comically, and her mouth opened in a very unladylike fashion. "That—that—that can't be. The Veela chooses the most compatible mate possible, Darling! She is your equal in all things, magic included...magic especially."

He frowned. Perhaps there was more research to be done on the girl after all.

"So, what are you going to do, mate?"

Blaise Zabini had been quiet while his friend thought things other. You see, Blaise was not a stupid man. He knew this was hard for Draco. He knew the ramifications and consequences Draco would face, even as Lord, if he brought home a Muggle to wed.

But she wasn't a Muggle, was she?

After speaking to his mother, Draco had done extensive research on the girl. On Hermione.

And what he discovered rocked his world.

She was a reporter for the Guardian, and she'd had a fairly normal—if not academically incredible—life. She'd attended the best Muggle university on the planet.

Top of her class: beauty and brains. This girl was phenomenal.

But more interesting than that was what school she didn't attend.

In an old scroll at Hogwarts, the scroll that contained the name of all witches and wizards in Britain, Draco had discovered her name.

The reason she didn't attend? Lack of Parental Consent.

That had filled Draco Malfoy with a fury. She could have been his, much earlier. He could have held her and cared for her, he could have claimed her. He could have brought his lips to her lips, could have hidden her away, could have kept her in his bed chambers.

And some stupid fucking Muggles dared stop that. Dared keep what was rightful his away from him.

They would die.

Draco looked up at Blaise, a wicked smirk gracing his features. Trouble. "I want you to bring her to me. Tonight."

With a low bow, Blaise walked away, ready to obey his Lord's orders. And Draco? Well, he sipped on his Firewhiskey, and he waited.

For a moment, Hermione felt as though she couldn't breathe. There was an intense pressure on her eyes, and her throat closed. Her stomach churned uncomfortably.

They were suffocating her.

One of the robed men's hands gripped her by the arm, and the two of them were squeezed, tightly.

This must be what it's like during childbirth…for the child.

And, as suddenly as it had begun, it stopped. Hermione registered a sharp pain to her knees as she fell to the hard stone floor beneath her. She gasped and sputtered, trying to regain the oxygen she'd lost. Her eyes, no longer surrounded by darkness, shifted rapidly, taking in her surroundings.

Well. She most certainly was not in her mother's horrid dining room anymore. She was…

Wait.

Her mother.

Her family… oh, gods, her family.

Her memories returned then, attacking her, clouding her vision with tears. Horrible men. Green lights.

Incredible, insufferable pain.

Hermione screamed.

In that spacious, medieval room, surrounded by men in cloaks, Hermione screamed, and sobbed, and wailed. Hysteria gripped her.

Her family was dead.

Yes, they didn't see eye to eye. In fact, they disagreed whole-heartedly on some matters. Hermione would never forget the day her mother called her a freak, or the day her cousin spat on her, ripped her dress, and told her she did not belong in the family.

But she was family, damnit, and she had never wanted them to die.

Especially for her. What is it that man had said? "Our Lord, for some reason, requires your presence, specifically."

She forced herself to stop screaming. This was not the Hermione Granger way. Hermione was brave. Hermione could fucking fight. So, after regaining control of her emotions, she looked up.

And she gasped when brown eyes met smoldering gray.

"Welcome home, darling."

She fainted.

So much for being brave.