A/N: Thank you so much to all those who favorited or followed or commented on my story! I must confess, this story's only going to get darker from here on out. However, in the spirit of Valentine's Day; here's the next chapter ( I hope you enjoy it).

The day of the Yule Ball had the halls bursting with chatter and excitement. The girls in my year would often clump together to discuss dress colours and heel sizes and who would be asking whom out for a dance on the Ballroom floor. Earlier today I'd overheard Seamus Finnegan betting against Dean Thomas that he'd be granted a kiss from a Veela by the end of the night. Dean had betted ten galleons that Seamus would be ditched by nine o'clock which had made the Irish boy up the ante to agreeing to dive into the Black Lake naked if he failed. Almost everyone had stayed for the entirety of the Christmas Break, hoping to attend the Yule Ball this evening with the rest of the School. The Ball had been set for Christmas Day and so this morning instead of waking up at home in my blue-painted bedroom, I'd woken to Lavender and Parvarti chattering while opening their stockings.

I'd been happy at my own stocking and modest pile of presents at the foot of my bed. My stocking had been filled with the usual assortment of Sugar quills, bath bombs and lotions, a small pocket-novel (this year I'd been gifted with '1984 by George Orwell', a dystopian book I'd been wanting to read), a few Muggle sweets and a thimble-sized jade dragon (courtesy of my French Aunt, who liked collecting antique rarities). I'd been pleasantly surprised by the number of presents by my bed and wondered whether Viktor Krum had asked the elves to deliver an extra present. In shiny blue paper were my parents gifts; a First Edition compilation of classic Muggle poetry and a Yankee Candle which smelled of gingerbread and coffee beans. In stripy paper was Harry's practical gift of a book on Complex Charms and Ron gifted me with a slightly tattered Potions set which was equipped with higher-level ingredients (probably bought off of Fred and George). Mrs Weasley had sent some homemade fudge and a lilac sweater with a 'H' knitted onto it. Ginny had sent me a set of Tarot Cards (probably due to my professed hatred of Divination and her cheeky sense of humour), my French relatives had sent a bottle of my favourite perfume (lilac and musk) along with a beautiful floral patterned diary and the mystery present turned out to be a box of Belgian chocolates from Viktor. The rest of the day had been spent hanging out with Harry and Ron and drinking in the joyous atmosphere.

I'd also used this time to reflect on Viktor and what I felt towards him. He was a charming young man with a nicely filled out body and rather rugged looks which made most girls swoon. He also had a great sense of humour, it was surprisingly self-deprecating and humble despite his fame, and of course his interest in me made me feel flattered. Yet the fact of the matter was that he was seventeen and a World-Champion Quidditch player while I was a bookish fifteen-year-old who had the coordination of a clumsy child and knew next to nothing about Quidditch since I found the whole thing uninteresting. As flattering and unexpected his interest in me was, I couldn't forget that we came from completely different worlds and our language barrier made communication somewhat awkward. Regardless, I'd figured that for the time he was at Hogwarts I would not be resistant against befriending the older boy and letting time decide whether we were compatible with each other. It seemed the most logical thing to do.

Smiling with the memory of his note- 'Dear Hermione, I hope you like the chocolates. They are sweet like you. Viktor x'- I didn't realise where I was wandering towards until I found myself in a random hallway which was gloomy and cut off from the other festivities. I realised that the tapestry I'd passed through was hiding this secret passageway since little light filtered through into the stark surroundings. And then I noticed another odd thing: there was a person silhouetted by the bricked up wall at the end of the one-way corridor.

I stroll towards the shadow, hoping that I'll have enough time to get myself prepared for the Ball since it was five o'clock in the evening and I had been on my way to my Dormitory.

"Lumos" I mutter under my breath and the light from the tip of my wand illuminates the figure. It's Malfoy stretched out languidly with his ankles crossed and his upper body and head resting against the stone wall. His eyes are shut yet one cold blue eye blinks open at the intrusion of light.

"Malfoy? What are you doing here?" I look around for Zabini and Parkinson, wondering whether this is some sort of trap. It's only been a few months since that whole ferret incident where he'd deflected the animal hex onto Pansy when Moody had sought retribution and the black-haired banshee had screamed bloody murder when she'd been reverted back. My fingertips graze my shrunken down teeth in memory of the abrasive encounter.

"What does it look like I'm doing?" he replies evenly, closing his eye again. I'm slightly miffed that he doesn't consider me enough of a threat to keep his eyes on me and my annoyance doubles when I realise he's just answered my question with a question; something he'd done when I'd questioned why he was lying in the grass.

"You can't answer a question with a question. It's bad etiquette." I proclaim with my arms crossed. His eyes blink slowly open, sparkling in the magical light, then roll in exasperation.

"According to who?" he drawls. I huff in frustration, ditching this pointless line of questioning.

I should turn around and leave the mysterious blonde in his patch of darkness to fester in whatever thoughts that are troubling him. I should walk into the bright light of the torches lining the halls of merry students and weave my way around garlands of holly and mistletoe strung up by the House Elves. I should put on my blue periwinkle dress and wait for Ginny to arrive so that she can doll me up with hair and makeup charms and products. I don't.

Instead I sit down onto the cold stone next to Malfoy and watch his eyes fly open in astonishment. His elegant eyebrows arch in skepticism and I can see his muscles tense in apprehension.

"What are you doing?" His voice bleeds distrust. I take great pleasure in throwing his words back to him;

"What does it look like I'm doing?" I comment with a sardonic smile.

We sit in silence for awhile, the kind of silence which sets heavily on your shoulders like a finely woven cloak, a smothering tension of unasked questions and wariness and surprise.

He looks tired from the purple crescents under his eyes and the way he's so relaxed leaning against the wall and yet in spite of all this I still am acutely aware that he could easily grasp hold of my head between his finely tapered fingertips and smooth palms and snap my neck in a jarring twist to leave me a crumpled shell waiting to be discovered. It's a morbid thought for Christmas Day and yet the fact that he feels no need to sneer or put up his usual persona comforts me somewhat.

"You can keep a secret can't you Granger?" his voice is a sliver of sound in the vacuum of air. The question takes me back to him stealing a smile and eating my apple. I nod my head slowly. "Not good enough Granger." his voice is suddenly sharp like the sharp point of a needle. "I can keep a secret." I vow, curling four of my fingers and sticking my pinkie finger towards him. His face scrunches in confusion. I loop his pinkie finger with mine and curl mine around his as I explain to him the intricacies of a pinkie promise.

"It's a Muggle promise," I say, "Between two confidantes who vow to never betray each other's secrets for as long as they both live. It's also a sign of friendship and trust." He yanks his hand away at the last part and a startled laugh bursts out of me and his immediate reaction. "It's okay Malfoy you don't have to befriend me. Nor trust me in any other way outside of the promise. The pinky is not that binding, it does not have the ability to change one's personality or rationale." The confusion and horror fades from his features to be replaced with his indecipherable mask. The silence stretches, more comfortable now than it had been before, although I couldn't pinpoint exactly when the awkwardness started to melt away. Just when I think he may have dropped to sleep (his eyes had closed once more) or decided not to tell me after all, he speaks.

"I'm betrothed." He says this flatly, not a whit of emotion altering his tone. I'd read up on Betrothal contracts ever since I'd been laughed at by Parvarti for not 'getting it'. They were contracts written up by the parents of the upcoming bride and groom detailing a marriage between two Purebloods (a man and a woman) in order to birth an heir. There was always what was called a 'courting period' where the male would buy jewellery and other gifts to his fiancee and take her out on dates and such before the official wedding. It was an antiquated tradition yet supposedly important to Pureblood families for what they called 'continuing a Magical and Noble bloodline'. I called it 'inbreeding to remain relevant'. It was a controversial topic among the Student populace.

My voice is carefully neutral when I enquire to whom he's betrothed to.

"Astoria Greengrass." He replies, his eyes fluttering open with a wry smile painting his lips.

"Not Pansy Parkinson? The girl you're supposedly taking to the ball?" I feign a scandalous gasp, shocked (but trying to hide it) when his lips twitch in amusement.

"I'm only taking her there to soften the blow." My jaw drops for real.

"Seriously? You're going to tell her you're betrothed at the Ball? That's… That's so…"

"Callous? Cold-hearted? Haven't you realised by now that I'm both of those things." The snark in his tone is half-hearted at best. He seems tired and indifferent and I understand I'm not talking to the boy with pretenses and a stereotype to live up to but a different boy who's too wearied to care about what I think of him. I try to wrap my head around this new concept.

"Are you upset that you're betrothed..?" I press, trying to figure out the thoughts running through his head. I dare not to inquire as to his family life or his friendships. He'd only close up in a millisecond or deflect the question.

"Honestly?" His eyelids drop, shutting out the rest of the world as his thoughts turn inwards. "I'm not mad, not really, betrothals are seen as normal in my family- in all Pureblood families who haven't ditched the old ways- and my father like his father before him was betrothed at my age. Astoria is pleasant. She's pretty, she's in the year below us and she's as submissive as they come, or my father told me. She'll make a perfect housewitch and baby-maker." I feel a flare of righteous indignation flare up on account of poor Astoria Greengrass having to be forged into this matriarchal model and useless trinket merely for show. I would have said something had Malfoy said the last part without bitterness.

"I know what you're thinking-" he blurts out in the answering silence, "I can feel you bristling with that righteous attitude you have." Another wry smile blooms across his lips. "But it's not that simple. We have a certain amount of choice in so far as which blushing bride we prefer and the girls? Hell, Astoria is already infatuated with me. She keeps writing me these sickening love poems and there's only so many fire spells I can be arsed to perform in one day. She wants me to begin courting her immediately. So do our mothers. I've already stated that I'm not marrying her until we've both graduated and yet the fact that it's being introduced now… I'm fifteen for fuck's sake. I don't want to be tied to some vapid giggling thirteen year old." He says all this with a small furrow burrowing deeper into the small space above his nose. I absorb his vocalised thoughts, not knowing whether to say something or to just sit there. In the end I don't have to choose because he's reached the conclusion that I'm bound by my Muggle promise and will listen without input as he rants.

"You don't understand what it's like. The expectation that I'm placed under. Being a Slytherin is all about ruthlessness and cunning. If you can't make the masses fear and respect you, you'll end up the dirt under someone's boot. If you can't bring yourself to fire a blood-boiling hex and a couple suffocating illusions you're seen as weak. Wealth and heritage only get you so far in being respected before one has to resort to other means." My jaw drops open. The world which he's describing- the Slytherin way of life he's painted in the garish red of blood and fickle gold of wealth- seems a terrible and lonely way to exist. No wonder they were seen as the most vicious and dark of the lot. They usually were. "I don't mind the violence. In fact, I thrive in it. The decadence, the satiation of getting exactly what you want, the savage pleasure of seeing a person kneel at your feet, quaking in fear. It's a beautiful artform. A lovely hierarchy." A shiver snakes its way up my spine and I feel my heart speed up in fear at the way his voice lowers to a purr as though caressing each awful syllable which slips off his tongue. "But there's the other side to the coin. The price I pay for being idolised by my House. They expect cold detachment and meagre affection and unquestionable intelligence when it comes to their petty issues. I'm not a God nor do I wish for that level of responsibility. But still they flock like mindless sheep. Pansy does what she can to ward them off- she's selfish to the core and benefits me because she always wants me all to myself, wants my undivided attention. And Blaise… As much as he can be a controversial wanker, he doesn't agree with every goddamn word I say and that makes him valuable. Finding people who don't fear me these days is becoming a rarity." He opens his eyes now and I'm struck silent by how completely alien they look in the dim light. The irises a dark charcoal bordering on black and interspersed with tiny veins of silver. They look luminescent.

"But you don't fear me, do you?" His voice is soft. I try to speak but find my saliva has dried up and my tongue feels like a dead weight. He's looking at me intensely with those burning pennies of flashing nickel and leaning closer and smirking and oh godric I feel like I can't breathe can't speak can't talk can't think-

His lips meet mine with bruising force as though he's trying to find the answer written like braille across the creases of my flesh, written in the seam of my lips. I'm shocked, paralysed against the reality that this boy- this insane psychopathic whirlwind of a Wizard- is crushing his blue blooded lips against mine. His tongue traces the dip of my lips and he nibbles gently on my bottom lip. I gasp then feel my eyes fly open at the intrusion as his tongue slides into my mouth. His lips are moving forcefully against mine and I can see the smooth pallor of his face as he leans closer, weaving those tapered fingers to cup my jaw and hold me closer, slanting my head just so. When his tongue meets mine I can taste him and for a brief fleeting moment I taste black pepper and dark chocolate, the smooth taste of sin. Desire kicks me in the stomach and despite my inexperience, the fact that this boy is my nemesis, the fact that in a couple of hours I will have to attend the Yule Ball with a date who is not the boy I'm kissing, I begin to kiss him back.

It feels like a tidal wave of emotion has just crashed over my head, the current dragging me under. I feel like I'm drowning in him, the way that he seems like a suffocating man who's breathing me in like air, I'm falling deeper and deeper into his cold embrace. His arms snake around me, his cruel fingers combing through my hair, digging into my scalp as he pulls me closer to him so that I'm literally bound to him, sprawled across his lap like some sort of hussy, chests so close that I can feel the rapid beating of his heart. His tongue does a wicked twist and I moan against my volition.

And just as quickly as it began, it's over. He pushes me away, his breathing ragged, his eyes shadowed with desire and rage. It takes a moment for him to catch his breath, perhaps it was a second, perhaps it was an hour, but it suspends us both in disbelief for what feels like an eternity. I can't move. I can't breathe.

Why would he kiss me? How could he when I'm his enemy? Why would he now when he's betrothed to another?

I don't realise that he's stood up until his wand flares with light and I'm forcibly removed from the depths of my own thoughts. I look up when his shadow hesitates over me. His back is turned so that I can't see his face, which makes me feel relieved. I don't know if I could stomach seeing revulsion and shame, or Godric forbid it be apathy, sketched onto his face. Over and over and over I keep feeling the ghost of his lips against mine, his fingers in my hair and his heartbeat echoing my own.

I feel vulnerable and violated and confused. I don't understand. I don't think I want to understand what just happened. I pluck up the courage to glimpse at his profile and flinch at the way which his jaw is clenched. His hands are balled into fists. He's angry… At me? But I didn't kiss him! My thoughts snag and catch like a record struggling to skip over a scratch on the disc. I didn't kiss him. Didn't kiss him. Kiss him. Him.

"This never happened." It's little more than a whisper but I can hear it as if it was a shout. Viktor's letter feels like it's burning in my pocket and I suddenly feel ashamed of myself. He doesn't wait for a response, he simply continues walking as if nothing ever happened. As if he hadn't just snogged me senseless then left me dazed in a hidden corridor. It's only when the light shuts out completely that I draw a gulping breath of air. It might not have meant that much to Draco Malfoy but it meant a lot to me. Because that had been my first kiss which I'd been saving for someone special.

And he'd stolen it.