Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter, merely this plot and Mr. Troy Malfoy who shall be entering this chapter!

Sorry about the wait.

READ THIS! If you have been waiting for this story to be completed so you can read the sequel, I say go ahead and read the sequel. Although the ending of this story is given away, there is still a lot of stuff that is important for both, and you're gunna miss a lot of things either way, so have fun and read the sequel. I just wanted to tell you guys that, because it has been mentioned.

Chapter Summary: After a brutal fight the night before, Hermione is left exhausted and aching as she relives the verbal spat that made her cry at the thought of it, and the bruises that leave tears on her face as she fidgets in pain. There is nothing she can do but wait, and when Malfoy lets himself in to bother her again, she retaliates with inhuman strength and manages to escape… only to be caught again by her savior… or so it seems.

Now, ON WITH THE STORY!

The October Hollow
By Darkwing731
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((--Chapter Three--))
Fire Starter

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Monday, October 19
Day 2

Bruises everywhere, pain throbbing throughout her entire body, she slowly fell away into unconsciousness with Malfoy's cruel laughter ringing in her ears.

And the only thought she could conjure out of the torment was that she would suffer alone.

She couldn't even sleep. It wasn't sleep, despite the fact that her eyes were closed and her body unmoving, but neither was it unconsciousness. The moment she fell into blackness, pain seeped through her veins and showered her with random hot pangs through her arms and fingers. She was drifting in and out of the terrible pain, and each time her fingers twitched she was more acutely aware that she was waking up, and the throbbing grew horribly intense in her palms and fingertips.

Hands on fire, body aching to be relieved of its pain, her mind cleared itself of its mist as she turned on her side, rolling onto her bruised ribs and she woke up suddenly with an abrupt start, a sharp feeling pushing through her chest. Groaning, she let out a strangled sob, mumbling into the dirt, and rubbed the weariness from her eyes.

The moment her fingers touched her face, she shrieked; they were white-hot and shaking, and no matter how hard she clenched them in her palms, they would not stay still and only bit deeply into her flesh like knives. Hissing in pain, she kept her trembling hands in the dirt.

Eyes clamped together, and her face pressed against the ground, she shifted slowly and noisily, moaning in pain, and tried to use the nonexistent strength in her body to pull herself onto the surface of the semi-soft mattress.

Her muscles were stiff and rigid, pulled tightly and shaking with weakness. She propped herself up for a moment on the side, blinking drunkenly and trying to focus on just making it to the bed rather than thinking about her empty, feeble body. Her arms were shaking hard, and they collapsed after her elbows bent so hard and her tendons become so prominent it was alien-like.

Aching. Aching everywhere, every place, every curve and every dip and bone of her body. Malfoy did not manage to beat her entire body, but the pain was too focused and every time she moved, her skin rippled across a wound and she would cry in pain as something tender was tested or pushed on.

She feebly pulled herself to the bed, and let herself go limp, and, even in the most uncomfortable position, she had never felt so relieved in her life.

The memory from the night before throbbed in her mind and she watched the scene flicker against her heavy eyelids. All she could see—feel, really—was the blinding rush of emotions when Malfoy had struck the right chord about Ron… the little snot could point out insecurities so easily, and he used them against everyone to make himself look superior. And she hated that.

But each blow he delivered the night before hurt even worse, Malfoy was bigger, stronger, and right now, he was smarter. He knew what was going on, what to do, he had the wand for Merlin's sake… hell, he even had the Dark Lord on his side.

Voldemort had ordered her kidnapping after all, as far as she knew. That's what Malfoy had so pleasantly mocked in her face, so it had to be true.

Why does it have to be true? The stupid ferret lies all the time, it doesn't necessarily mean it's true, Hermione thought wearily to herself, ignoring the shooting, prickly feeling in her palms and finger joints. He might've just said that to scare me, to have the upper hand… I wouldn't put it past him.

And Malfoy had every intent to make her feel trapped and helpless and scared; if he could suppress the true reason she was there, and purposely mislead Hermione into thinking something else, Malfoy could feed her the wrong things by implication, and just when she had her own clever conclusion, Voldemort's army would strike her with something completely different, catching her off-guard and helpless… something that was bound to happen in one form or another.

So, being in this situation, Hermione didn't know what to believe. At the moment, she was almost positive she was here because of Harry; why else could she be there? There was nothing remotely special about Hermione except her astounding intelligence and close relationship with the only person ever known to live through the Killing Curse…nothing else.

So it was Harry, it had to be Harry.

She thought that maybe, with this conclusion, she ought to be mad, but she wasn't. Somehow, she was comforted with the fact that she knew what was wrong, and that there would be a way (she didn't know how or when, yet) that she could tell him that she didn't care; she still loved Harry and wanted him to get rid of the goddamned Dark Lord that just wouldn't die, because at one point or another, she and Ron had been in major jeopardy just for befriending Harry… and she didn't care one bit.

Hermione shifted just slightly, trying to find a position that would allow her breath to come more easily into her lungs, but she stopped halfway and let out a cry of pain, hands involuntarily going to her ribs to comfort whatever was wrong. Malfoy, the bastard, had fractured her ribs, no doubt, but moving to breathe shifted a splinter inside of her and now she could feel the blood seeping into her lungs.

Gasping for breath and falling back into her original position, she stuffed her face into the clammy pillow and coughed the mucus and despair out of her throat, hoping that whenever she could she would beat the hell out of Malfoy and make him feel just as terrible as her. The feeling of needles was pushing into her lung, rising hot liquid rising her windpipe again, and she gave a dry cough, struggling; spots of crimson dotted her pillow as she fought against the puncture.

She struggled against the liquid bile in her throat, choking her, blocking her breath from passing, trying so goddamned hard to cough it all up that she was going dizzy. Grey was seeping into the corners of her closed lids, and she knew she had to stop the unconsciousness or else she would die by her own blood.

She pressed her hands hard against her ribcage, cradling it but pressing her fingers between the gaps, hoping to take the pressure off.

Please, she thought desperately, coughing louder than ever and spitting up blood with every second; please let me live; please make this stop!

Her arms shook suddenly, and her hands clenched involuntarily around her chest. Her flesh rose up with sudden fever, her fingers hotter than ever, and she spurted a choked gasp before leaning over the side of the mattress and vomiting up thoroughly the blood that had been rising in her windpipe.

She rolled back over on her back, gagging at the horrible taste and wiping her mouth. Her hands were trembling so hard that if they hadn't been so hot, she would've thought they were freezing.

Eyes fluttering shut, she sat up slowly and buried her hands in her face, marveling at the fact that she could feel no pain in her ribs or lung, no blood rising in her throat, and hardly any pain at all anywhere in her abdominal and chest area.

What the hell was that all about? That was the only coherent thought she could muster before a storm of fury and emotions arose as the door to her holding area, cell, whatever the hell she was in, swung open.

Malfoy strutted in, fingering his wand and drawing her eyes to it, and kicking the door shut behind him. He smirked at her, a triumphant, superior look, and started to speak, but could hardly get a word out before she started screaming at him.

"You stupid jerk!" she shrieked at him, mustering up what little strength she had to shove herself up and off the bed, only to stumble and land halfway in the bloody vomit. A look of disgust and embarrassment crossed her face before she glared at the boy.

"You're such an idiot," Malfoy drawled, lifting a lip to sneer at her. Angrily, she shoved herself up again on weak legs, wiping the disgusting mess of blood and vomit on the side of her clothing and twisting her face up into a snarl.

"I had no protection at all," she hissed, narrowing her eyes. "But you're such a coward you decided to attack me anyway!"

"If I may recall correctly," Malfoy started lightly, looking at his fingernails; "It was you who attacked me. All because I was stating the obvious… and really, there's nothing wrong with that."

"You provoked me, you bastard!" she snarled. Now, this was something new. Hermione simply did not curse. Cursing was for men who could not keep their angry emotions in check, like Ron—stop that; don't think about it—and Harry who were always swearing at one thing or another.

But Hermione kept herself under control, because swearing would mean losing her reason, something she never ever wanted to do, because then she would let herself fall victim to whatever was being laid out as a trap.

"Oh did I?" Malfoy countered, feigning curiosity. "Because really, I thought informing you that you're a stupid little Mudblood who can't even smell the whore under her nose isn't just funny, it's true."

Hermione realized a second too late that getting angry with him and retaliating was exactly what he wanted; he wanted her to loose her cool and charge at him in fury and attempt to hurt him, simply so he could have the excuse to hurt her.

She lunged, only managing to gain a few feet before she fell over, panting and wincing with pain. She clutched her knee, her fingers burning into her bones, before looking up at him to glare. His smile was enough for her to curse under her breath; she had reacted, giving him the pleasure of winning.

She couldn't decide what do with this situation, because now he had the control and she was still very weak. She needed to get even, and fast.

"So what if I was wrong?" The mental route sounded particularly appealing, she could handle it. "Everyone makes mistakes. Even me; I'm not perfect. Just because I'm smarter than you and almost everyone else doesn't make me immune to the pain that love brings… not that you would know. You've never had a heart, have you?" She knew she sounded arrogant and better than him, and she wanted it that way. Let him get angry as she set up her own little comparison; let him see how he would like it!

"Why, you're a bit egotistical, aren't you?" he commented snidely.

"Well you're a right pain in the rear, aren't you?" she spat right back at him. He looked mildly affronted, but really did not look hurt in the slightest way.

"Granger," he started, looking pensive, before giving a thoughtful little laugh. "Don't start getting all hypocritical all me, alright? How can I be a pain in the arse when someone like you can't even see two people literally shagging right in front of you?"

She gave a little laugh, ignoring the painful twitch in her mind. "I'm sorry, did you call me hypocritical? Because with your master wanting to rid the world of Muggle-borns and half-bloods when Voldemort himself—honestly, it's a name, you're pathetic! — is half-blood is a bit hypocritical… but you know, I could've heard you wrong." She allowed herself a pleasant smile tossed in his direction, primarily to piss him the ruddy hell off… stupid bugger, she thought, upset.

Malfoy stopped to think for a moment, she could tell, but he gave her a cold, calculating look, and she stared right back at him, just as hard.

"You don't know the first thing about the Dark Lord, Mudblood, so I wouldn't even be talking if I were you," he growled quietly.

"Well I do know that he was stopped by a helpless little baby… funny how things work out, him being the supposedly most powerful wizard and all… except, in reality, he's not," she finished, deadpan. "Dumbledore is. Then Harry. And it looks like, from my point of view, which is, you know, a lot more logical than yours, that Voldemort is last. Oh, stop flinching you stupid—little—boy!" she cried.

His face hardened. "I'll stop the moment you fetch yourself a backbone and tell Weasley to piss off. You're a sobbing little mess and it's disgusting."

"Hmm, I see a pattern in your insults. This happened last night, didn't it?" she inquired, tapping her head in mock thoughtfulness. "I get angry with you and try to make you shut up, while I get the hell beat out of me for defending myself. You aren't creative at all, Malfoy."

"I don't need to be creative, Granger. I can do what I want," he snapped back.

"Well, I am floored by that statement," she said sarcastically, and started laughing at him. "I mean really, that must've taken hours to come up with. And you're calling me an idiot? Merlin, you make me laugh."

Malfoy glared at her, and she smiled victoriously to herself. This route was twisting up his wit and allowing her great amusement.

"Well, I'm glad I provide you entertainment, Granger," he started, keeping his seething temper under control. There was a little voice inside her head that predicted his next words, and she knew that as soon as the thought occurred, it would happen. "Because really, it's mutual. I've never seen anything as pathetic and cowardly as you, and I've never laughed so hard in my life."

"I can see where you gather that I'm pathetic, because I had my heart broken, but how in the hell can you call me cowardly? Now that is so hypocritical of you it isn't even funny," she said seriously.

"You're completely cowardly Granger, everyone can see it," he drawled; she had a feeling she knew where his words were going, but she didn't want to think about it, but rather delay the inevitable pain. "You'd rather ignore Lavender Brown and stupid Weasley and their escapades instead of standing up to them, because you know you'd turn into a helpless sniveling mess… similar to a few nights ago."

"That's not true," she snarled, even though it was. "I knew what was going on, believe me, but I didn't say anything because I knew Ron would stop. The guilt would eat him away, and he would come back in the end."

"In the end? You mean after that whore died and he had no one else to screw around with?" he replied wittily. She let out a growl.

"Shut up, Malfoy," she hissed. "That's a damn lie, he'd come back to me before Lavender died."

"He'd come back for food and money, and you know it, Granger," he retorted. Her face twisted up in emotion—anger or pain, she didn't know—before she pushed the swelling tears out of her eyes and glared at him.

"Stop implying that Ron is a good-for-nothing bum, because he's not. He might be a jerk, he might've cheated on me, but he's not as bad as you!" she snarled, choking on her own tears. Malfoy grinned at her, delighted that he was pulling the right chord in her heart hard enough to make her cry.

"Look at you, you're already crying. You really need to learn how to suck it up, Granger, because in the real world, you're going to be killed in an instant if you wear your heart on your sleeve like that," he said idly.

"You know what, Malfoy? At least I have emotions! You're just a heartless, cruel prick who can find nothing better to do except make people feel like rubbish," she spat, blinking away the tears as hard as she could. She was angrier with him than ever, and she deducted quite firmly that she was crying in frustration, nothing else.

"Granger, you are, once again, such an idiot. I do happen to have feelings, but I'm not weak like you; I'm not a sniveling little mess who can't keep her emotions in check," he countered calmly.

Her face twisted up in a snarl, and she released a jagged breath. "Stop doing that Malfoy: stop jabbing at one little thing just because it's the only fault you can find in me!" she spat. "So I cried, bully for you! So I'm Muggle-born! Who cares?" she cried, throwing her hands up into the air.

"Isn't there anything else you can find wrong with me?" She didn't give him a moment to answer the question. "No, you can't, because you're only stupid enough to point out what everybody knows! Thank you, Captain Obvious!"

His eyes were narrowed, his lip upturned, and his body was tense. She took pride in seeing him so angry like this, trying to keep from bellowing out at her in rage. Now, it was her turn to provoke him.

"But you know what, Malfoy?" she asked in mock curiosity. She stood, and took a shaky step towards him. "At least I can admit my faults. At least I can admit that I'm not perfect, that I can be an idiot and ignorant. And at least I can honestly say that I've been in love, or cried because I was so happy or so sad, and that I can actually help people. You can't do any of that."

She took another angry breath, the air hitching in her throat as she glared at him, stepping forward with caution, fire burning her fingers and hands, splinters and ribbons of pain dancing up her arms.

"At least I'm not a sniveling coward who has to bow down to the world's most idiotic and two-faced monster, because he's not even good enough to be called a human, much less a wizard! At least I know that I have people, friends, family, that loves me and would be heartbroken if I ever died. And I can't really say the same for you," she finished in a quietly angry voice.

Fingers clenched into fists at her side, she stood as firmly as she could to the spot and mustered up the fiercest look she could, staring him down from a foot away. The bastard in front of her didn't know anything of what she did, and the fury that was building up, forcing the muscle in his jaw to suddenly stand out unnaturally, was nothing of the pain, or happiness, or love, that she had ever felt. And it never would be.

There was a resonating crack through the air before she realized what happened, and without warning her cheek flamed up in pain. She mewed a little cry, cupping the side of her face, before she realized that Malfoy had struck her.

She looked up at him with a strange look on her face, before the comprehension that she had won the argument, that she had provoked him and made him crack dawned on her. After a moment, the corners of her mouth lifted in a victorious smirk.

"And you're the one that said I couldn't keep my emotions in check," she whispered, smiling maliciously at him. Hermione knew she could do it; if someone as dimwitted and narrow-minded as Malfoy could push her to the edge and force her to snap and lash out, then she could do the same.

And she had.

Suddenly, the fire burning in his eyes was so bright that she couldn't look at it. He snarled at her, making a vicious movement, and she was sputtering for breath and trying to fight off the grey that was seeping into her vision as he dug his fingers—nails and all—into her throat.

Trying to swallow the panic away, she found she couldn't. Hands were wrapped around her throat, fingernails pressed into her throbbing veins, blood pooling and flooding and choking her, the walls of her throat collapsing.

He was strangling her. Malfoy was trying to strangle her! The realization brought on a well of anger deep within her that was so unknown and so powerful it swallowed her like a child sucked into the ocean. Despite that she could muster no breath or gather a scream in the back of her throat, she snarled at him and started to claw at his face, pressing his fingers to his eyes and temples, hoping to set him aflame with her fiery hands, once again throbbing with blinding white heat.

All at once, too many things happened for her to comprehend: a yell of surprise, of pain, bounced off the walls of the holding chamber a moment before air was granted back to her body. She pulled herself together so fast, her brain took off in strategizing before she even realized what she was doing.

A torch was stationed in the room, up by the ceiling, so high up that it wasn't possible to reach it without an aid of some sort. It flickered orange, little wisps of bright blue flames dancing and licking the air around it. It was small, hardly bigger than the size of a fist, but still, fire was powerful. And that was why Hermione jumped for it.

Standing on her tiptoes, Hermione was only about 5 feet and 6 inches, but the torch was stationed at maybe eleven feet off the ground, even jumping barely brought her even closer to it. But she didn't care, despite how far out of reach it was.

Malfoy was on the ground, cradling the wounds on his face from her fingernails and her flaming hands. She sprinted, ignoring the screaming of her muscles and the shortage of her strength, and reached up as much as she could towards the flame of the torch, hoping, that by some miracle, she could grasp it.

It happened so quickly that she didn't believe what she had seen: she was so desperate, so scared that Malfoy would regain his icy posture and attack her before she could manage to grab some sort of defense, that she started chanting hard in her mind for the fire to come down, to jump to her hand, to gather in her fingers, to allow herself some protection. When it did, only then did she throw a swift thanks of gratitude the gods above before she knew, suddenly, that she was holding fire, and she was wielding it.

She balled her hands around the flames dancing in her palms, and when Malfoy looked up at her for only a moment, a moment where she could see the scratches on his eyes and the burns on his face, she forced all concentration, all energy, all fury and all regret, everything, into the power she was holding.

Life seemed to burst out of her body as the flame multiplied and… attacked. It dropped from Hermione's hands like an atomic bomb, and the air seemed to contract for a single moment before it exploded, sending a ripple through time and space, shoving her backwards. She stumbled over, unaffected by the flames but mesmerized as Malfoy screamed out in surprised fright.

Fire was eating away at the walls, at the lump that was a poor excuse for a mattress, and at the hem of Malfoy's robes. It was attacking him, and suddenly she willed it, ever so hard, with all the might and fury that still remained in her blood, to swallow him up and kill him.

A sharp crack echoed as the air sang, and the fire rose up like a twister, gathering up at the ceiling in puffy clouds, leaving Malfoy a split second of fake security before it funneled down in a spiral and consumed him.

Hermione glanced at the door; it was burning up, bits of old wood falling through and eating the rotten surface away for good. She looked at Malfoy, screaming in pain and clawing at the fire for escape, and then turned and ran for the door.

She did not feel the fire licking at her feet as she kicked away the remains of the door, throbbing coals blistering her feet, before she pushed her whole body through the smoky hole and ran.

She didn't know how far, how long, how fast she had gone, but all she knew what that with each passing moment, she was getting farther away from Malfoy and closer to the home that she had been abruptly taken from. To her at the moment, there was nothing to think about except running; no point in thinking about the stitch in her side, the grey clouding up her vision, the pebbles piercing the soles of her feet, nothing had any point anymore to her except escaping as fast as she could.

Soon, however, when she knew that she had been running too long, had been going too fast, and had gone so far that she had no clue as to where in the hell she was, she stopped. She slowed down, dragging her feet, and each time her soles hit the ground it was harder for her to lift them up again. The oxygen that she had so hurriedly deprived herself of as she ran suddenly was squeezing back into her body, and she was gasping for breathe and struggling to regain the logic that had never failed her, but had escaped her this very moment.

She looked around, and collapsed against a wall, wheezing heavily. Clutching her ribs, she looked around, eyes wide against the darkness, and ears alert for any sort of sound. After a minute of doing nothing but steadying her breath, she stood very slowly and started walking, her fingers grazing the wall and giving her the only hint of direction as she walked steadily, blindly, into darkness.

She didn't know why it wasn't dark when she was running. It was pitch-black now, and she couldn't even see her own two hands that were groping in the unending darkness. Swallowing her fear, and the panic that was slowly rising in her veins, she kept moving, gaining speed as she went, before running with her fingers guiding her.

Her mind raced; what in the hell was she supposed to do now? Worry was etched into her mind as she thought of anything to do, anywhere to go, anyone who—

All thought stopped abruptly, her eyes widening and her fingers twitching. She was frozen, listening, as someone slowly walked up the hallway she was in.

Blood crept back into her brain, and all reason and logical thought started whispering to her in a rushed, muffled voice. She had only one option—what do I do oh gods where do I go?—and she didn't particularly think it was a good idea: run.

She couldn't tell which way the footsteps were coming, only that they echoed loudly, bouncing off the walls, and soon she could hear the breath that was steady and calm and hadn't a real care in the world. Where the hell was it coming from? What direction?

Hermione looked left, then whipped her head to the right, and whimpered very quietly. She hadn't a clue what to do. She clenched her eyes closed, twisting her fingers into her scalp, praying to the gods that when she ran one direction, it would be away from this unknown person.

She took a step to the right, hesitated, and as her heart burst with adrenalin and panic, she started fleeing, hoping that she was going the right way. She was scared out of her mind; was she going towards it, or away from it? Was each step bringing her closer to her inevitable capture, or to her illusion of a hideaway?

A gasp flared up in her lungs as she stepped and ran, tripping over her feet, stumbling before pushing herself to run—faster dammit, they'll catch you—and away from whatever fate had in store for her.

All movement slammed to a stop when she collided with another human being. Shrieks of surprise: her own, high and scared, and that belonging to a man. She realized only after she was running again, that she had pushed the person against the floor and used him as a mean to give herself more momentum.

She didn't get very far, however, because she let out a cry of fear as something, someone, grabbed her around the waist, hoisting her into the air and pressing the familiar tip of a wand to the hollow of her throat. Struggling, she fought to be released, kicking and screaming.

"Would you please calm the hell down?" her captor snapped; the voice was male, young, and strangely familiar.

"Malfoy?" she gasped, fury spreading over her. "Let go of me you stupid jerk!"

There was a chuckle, but the boy's grip did not loosen. "You think me to be Draco," he said, and gave a hearty laugh. "That's rather funny, actually."

"Let go of me, you stupid fool!" Hermione snarled. The restrictions of his arms holding her up were suddenly released, and she fell to the floor before she could blink.

"Incarcerous!" the boy yelled, and before Hermione could even move to try to get out the way, ropes had bound themselves around her, twisting and tightening over her body; she went rigid and couldn't move, but she settled for squirming anxiously about the floor.

"Lumos," he muttered, and a bright beam shined in her face. Neon spots erupted in her eyes, and she blinked and turned her scowling face away.

"Untie me," she growled. "Untie me and let me go, I didn't do anything!" Was it possible that whoever this person was hadn't a clue who she was and might actually be naïve enough for her to persuade? Would it be possible?

"Sure, you might not have done anything, but did the thought occur to you, Granger, that a prisoner is not to be released?" he asked, his voice amused.

He knows who I am, she thought irritably. There goes my means of escape.

The boy who had captured her, whoever he was, slowly crouched down next to her and pointed the bright beam of his wand in her face. She winced at the bright light.

"Huh, so you're Hermione Granger. They've been telling me about you, you know. Especially Draco. He just doesn't shut up. Really, I think he envies you," he said, and laughed at his own words.

Who the is this bloke? Hermione thought to herself. If this was a Malfoy that was talking to her, why was he being so lighthearted and nice? Why wasn't he beating her up or calling her a stupid little Mudblood?

"My name, Granger, is Troy," the bloke said, bringing the light up to illuminate his face. The light shined in his eyes, and he squinted and lowered it slightly; Hermione's eyes widened at the sight of him.

This boy, Troy apparently, looked like Draco Malfoy in almost every single way. Their faces were sculpted the same way, the same arrogant arch of the eyebrows, the same stunning silver-grey eyes, the same aloof look. Everything was the same.

But he was different, somehow. He was older, his face longer and his eyes brighter, possibly with amusement or kindness, she didn't know. His hair was ruffled and unkempt and falling into his face, and his lips upturned into a smile, not a smirk.

"Are you sure you're a Malfoy?" she blurted before she could stop herself. This boy, Troy, smiled at her before it turned into a grin and he started laughing.

"They always thought I was a bit odd, and I can see everyone else does too," he commented. "Believe it or not, I'm just like them, except the evil side is buried deep."

Hermione remained silent, and watched him suspiciously. A backlash was stinging the tip of her tongue, dying to be said, but she kept it in. This Malfoy was still a Malfoy, and therefore, could not be trusted. Not now, not ever.

"Now Granger, mind telling me where Draco might be? Why he was slacking off enough to let you escape your cell?" Troy asked curiously, sounding as if he was truly interested. Hermione glared at him suspiciously, and refused to make a single movement or sound.

"Oh, come on now; don't make me force it out of you. I could do that, you know. I've got a wand," he said, waving it without threat in her face. By the look on his face, it seemed as if he was teasing her rather than actually threatening her.

"I don't know," she mumbled, immediately tearing her eyes away from his face.

Troy took her chin in his hand and turned her face slowly towards his. He lowered himself until he was nose to nose with her, and Hermione was reminded of the other Malfoy boy, who had grinned maliciously and pressed his body against hers, filling each dip and curve of her body with his. At the memory of Malfoy violating her personal space, she seized up.

"You do know, don't you?" Troy whispered. His eyes flickered down her face, towards her mouth, and she let out a squeak of fear. Her palms were trembling against her legs, despite the fact that they were bound so tightly she could barely feel them.

"Tell me," Troy urged in a hoarse whisper, bringing his hand to pin down her shoulder and swinging a leg over her body. Comfortably, he straddled her thighs and brought himself so very close to her, so close that any sort of movement would force their lips to touch.

"Tell me now, Granger, right now." He let his eyes linger on her lips for a long moment, before they swallowed up her terrified auburn irises. His eyes were gleaming and dark with power, and she let out a whimper of fear.

"B-Back there," she stammered suddenly, her body trembling in fear beneath him.

"Back where you were before?" he asked, and she gave a little noise of confirmation.

"Excellent," he said happily, and hoisted himself off of her in a moment. A terrible weight lifted off her shoulders, and suddenly she felt like crying was the only possible thing she could do at the moment, she was so frightened.

Frightened of what, though? Frightened of the fact that a man had caught her unguarded, tied her up and straddled her, leaving her completely vulnerable? Scared at the fact that Troy had come so close to kissing her that it signified how helpless she was, and in a matter of seconds he could do much more than just kiss her against her will? Scared because a Malfoy had used a primal fear hidden in every woman to get just what he wanted?

Or scared because she actually believed herself for a single moment that she could not get away, that she would never escape and the rest of her life would be like that—helpless and tied down and forced into everything?

Troy muttered something under his breath, and the restraints around her body loosened slightly. He grabbed her by the arms and picked her up, standing her straight, before looking at her strangely.

"Why are you crying?" he questioned her, confused. She bit her lip, shaking her head and tried to muffled the whimpering sob that was about to escape her mouth.

The boy shrugged, and started walking, keeping a firm hold under her elbow. She made no protest, only focused on stopping the flow of the ridiculously scared tears that were streaming down her face.

It had been a tremendously long run for her down to the point where she had encountered Troy, but the walk back to her cell seemed to end in a matter of seconds. Troy stopped dead when the beam of his light hit the wasted remains of what had been her cell.

The door was gone, and in its place were ashes. Scorch marks were etched into the ceiling and floor and walls for five feet in each direction of the door, and everything smelled horribly of smoke. Hermione coughed and choked on her tears and the smell of the dead fumes.

Troy stepped in cautiously, pointing his wand out in every direction to examine every inch of the room. When his wand was directed at the lump in the middle of the room that was big enough to be a human body, he tensed up like he had been struck with a Freezing Charm. For a moment, his fingers went limp against Hermione's elbow, and slid away from her. She considered running, but she was too fascinated by Troy's slow, drunken movements to do anything but watch.

The Malfoy moved slowly, his hand shaking noticeably as he kneeled down and reached out to touch the charred body. He laid his fingers on something dark, his hand shaking against it, before he gave it a rather hard push.

There was a grunt, and she watched as Troy visibly relaxed. He drew out his wand, and pointed it to the unconscious creature.

"Ennervate," he murmured; a softly dimmed light followed, and a second later, Draco Malfoy gave a groggy moan and rolled over onto his back.

"What the hell… I feel like I fell off my broom," he groaned. Troy laughed at him and shook his head.

"I dunno what the hell happened Draco, but there was some kind of fire," Troy told him, and suddenly turned and looked at Hermione, who was recalling the events as they were played out in her mind.

Malfoy started moving quickly and hurriedly, pushing his burned robes away from him and struggling to get up as fast as he could.

"Granger, that stupid little bitch! She—she grabbed the fire and threw it at me, and it just—what the fuck?" Malfoy cried, clutching his head. "It doesn't make any effing sense! What the hell!"

"What do you mean? What happened?" Troy demanded hurriedly.

"She was bitching at me, so I struck her across the face, and the next thing I knew the little bitch started clawing at mine, and then she got away and went for the torch and—and she just threw it at me!" Malfoy said hysterically, his voice rising.

"Calm down, Draco. There's obviously something else that happened, because you know my father put that torch where no one could get it without magic. Granger is only like, 5'4 or something, and that torch was a good 11 feet up or so," Troy reasoned.

"I don't care, Troy. She—she cupped it in her hands and threw it at me and—and I was burning up so bad, she just got away. I'm telling you, she threw that fire at me," Malfoy rambled, sounding almost insane with his words.

"Whatever, Draco. We'll figure out what the hell happened later. Right now, we need to get Granger to a different cell, or we'll be in huge trouble," Troy said. He turned around, and Malfoy was suddenly snarling and drawing out his wand.

"Where is the little bitch? I'm going to hurt her so bad she won't be able to move for a week," Malfoy snarled spitefully.

Troy looked around the burnt room. "She's not in here. Where is she?" The Malfoy boys looked at each other before sprinting out the door. "I'll take the right," Troy said. Malfoy nodded, and they each sped off in their other directions.

Fortunately for Hermione, Troy was the one that found her. She had been hopping away hurriedly, scared out of her mind with the possibilities and thoughts on how the hell she had attacked Malfoy, because she remembered it too… she had thrown the fire at him… but she just didn't know how.

Hermione had, unfortunately, tripped and fallen over, and was desperately trying to get back to her feet. She was on her knees and shoving her back against the wall when Troy caught sight of her; he did not hex her, he did not glare and shout at her, but he moved swiftly and grabbed her by the shoulders.

"What the hell happened in there, Granger?" he asked immediately. Hermione recalled the unearthly anger in her body, the way her blood had boiled and heat rushed to her fingertips, how she felt as if she could do anything if she just willed hard enough…

"I don't know," she whispered honestly, looking up at Troy with wide, terrified eyes.

And it was that moment that Hermione realized something; Malfoy had, her first night, refused to answer her assumption that Harry was the reason she had been kidnapped in the first place. She had declared to herself that she was as plain as the next person, and the only thing special about her was her immense intelligence, nothing else.

But she was wrong. It wasn't Harry Potter, it was her. Her, and this fiery power her fingers had when provoked by her anger.

And when she understood that it was no one else in danger except for her because of this, things suddenly seemed to be a lot worse.

She glanced down at her fingertips, recalling previous times when they had been so hot, so burning, that she feared they would melt her down to her very core. Now, they had melted away things that were much larger and stronger than her, and she wasn't so sure about herself anymore…

She had started a fire, and had almost killed Malfoy. Murdering someone didn't make her any better than a Death Eater, so she felt as if she was falling into Voldemort's trap already, just by doing something that came as a natural defense.

But who could've known? Surely not the know-it-all Hermione Granger who got perfect scores on everything and anything she handed in… surely not the bossy, intelligent witch who knew what she was doing… surely not Hermione.

Yet, was she Hermione anymore? Now, it seemed, she was a victim.

A victim of Voldemort, and a victim of herself.

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Author's Notes: Well, you can see that I took a different route with this chapter, and with Troy. Troy is supposed to be a completely different person from the old story, so the violence that he held in the original was just ick, no. It was a spur-of-the-moment thing, and it was bad. So here, he is improved. Viola!

A huge shout to Folk for betaing this for me, I would die without her!

Thanks for sticking with this guys, please review!