Author's Note: There's a lot of plot in this chapter, but I'm not going to apologize for it, because it's all really important for what is still to come. And we FINALLY get to see things from Hermione's point of view, too! I know it may seem strange to you, but I am of the opinion that Hermione would feel a deep sense of guilt for not attempting to help Severus, and this is especially true if she has to see him every day in school.

I hope you enjoy this chapter. Please let me know what you think!

Chapter 4: A Concert to Die For

"Don't run away. I won't be long," Pansy said coolly as she approached Draco in the Slytherin Common Room and watched his eyes go wide as he leapt up as though he were about to bolt. "I just wanted to say that I give up. She wins. Go and make kissy faces with that mudblood girl and her stupid ginger cat."

Draco scowled.

"Don't call her that!" he said sourly.

"Why?" Pansy replied, grinning like a Cheshire cat, "If I'm not mistaken, you're the one who started the rest of us calling her that particular nickname."

Draco's hand shook at his side and his face contorted into a snarl for a moment before he reined in his emotions and his face went almost blank.

He's calming himself down using Occlumency. Impressive.

Less than a year before, he'd just have screamed at her, and she would pretend to cry and run off and then they would have made up and snogged for hours in the achingly intense way she liked best.

But things were different now that the War had come and gone.

Pansy avoided his eyes, just in case he tried to use it on her, and took this opportunity to rifle in her robes and thrust the tickets out towards him violently.

"Here!" she said abruptly. "Take them. I don't need them anymore, now that we're not together. Think of them as a gift to wish you two luck in your happy future together."

"What are these?" he asked suspiciously, as he grabbed them. His eyes widened when he saw the name at the top of the tickets and his voice came out full of excitement. "I asked my father to get tickets but they've been sold out for ages!"

Pansy began to get excited too, until she remembered that she would not be going with him. She toed the plush rug and stuck her hands in her pockets. "Yeah, well, don't be too happy that you're free of me. You'll make a girl cry."

Draco's eyes twitched momentarily, the ghost of a sympathetic look racing across his face until he seemed to realize exactly who he was dealing with and his eyes narrowed again.

"What do you want in return?" he asked, suddenly all business.

"Nothing much," Pansy replied, pouring sweetness into the tone of her voice as she looked up at him through her thick eyelashes. "It's just...if things don't work out between you two...I'd like you to consider trying things with me again. You might just find that our time apart has made our relationship stronger."

Draco gave her a skeptical look.

"You only broke up with me yesterday," he said dubiously, looking at her as though she were crazy, "I've never told Her-Granger, about...well...how she affects me, among other things. And anyway, so what if I like her body? It's not illegal to look or touch as long as I'm not marrying her or filling her full of bastards or something!"

They both turned pink at the implication of his outburst and went silent for a few moments, pointedly avoiding each other's gaze.

"You're not afraid, are you?" Pansy said, sliding her gaze to glance hungrily at the way he was holding the tickets in his pale, slim fingers.

She wanted him to grasp her like that. Her body hungered for the pressure of his fingers as they trailed down her spine and rested against the small of her back. They'd never done more together than snogging and a bit of outercourse, and Pansy decided that when Hermione was dealt with, she'd make him come to her in another manner altogether.

"Of what?" he muttered, looking at the floor.

"Of asking Granger to see the Wailing Banshees with you, of course!" Pansy replied, her tone implying that she thought Draco was purposefully being thick.

"What does it matter to you who I ask?" he replied loftily, "After all, Goyle's a big fan too."

Pansy glared at him. "Draco Malfoy! Now you're just trying to get a rise out of me."

"Fine, yeah, I was thinking of asking Granger," Draco sulked, "But there's no guarantee she'll say yes, is there? She probably still hates me."

Pansy could think of a number of reasons the bushy-haired know-it-all would dislike Draco, and part of her wondered if simply goading Draco into being rejected was really all she needed to get him over his stupid fixation.

After all, there would be nothing like kissing Draco's wounded pride and making it all better to worm her way back into his good graces and, with time, his heart.

"You were the one who told me that you needed to follow you heart," Pansy said, trying a different tactic. "And even though I don't agree with where it has apparently led you, I'm still Slytherin, and we stick together in our House. I know that you have it in you to ask her, regardless of what she says. And hell, if you need to lick your wounds afterwards, I volunteer in advance to help you do it."

Draco looked a little bashful at this and Pansy suppressed a wicked grin.

She had him at last.

"Well, it can't hurt to ask," he mused slowly, "Besides, I could always pretend it was just a big joke if she says no."

"That's the spirit!" Pansy replied, trying to sound supportive.

But as Draco turned and strode off to the library (as even Slytherin students knew where Hermione was most likely to be at this hour on a weekend) all Pansy could think about was the wicked curve of her sister's smile when she'd spoken of the plan she had in store. Her mouth turned up at the edges in a ghostly impression of the expression. She almost hoped that Hermione would accept Draco's invitation even as she winced a little at the twinge of pain in her heart.

Almost.

Hermione Granger had just finished reading a fascinating chapter about Lesser Mountain Trolls when she finally looked up and saw something she liked even less.

Malfoy.

Her eyes narrowed out of long-practiced habit as he walked down the narrow aisle between the bookshelves, carrying himself with purpose as he glanced left and right down the rows of shelves as though looking for something.

Hermione propped up her book, hoping that it hid her voluminous, bushy hair, which was doing rather badly due to the humid heat that had built up while she was working on her weekend potions assignment earlier that morning. Slughorn had been gleeful beyond belief at her near-perfect result. He'd blustered about talking about putting in a good word with his Ministry contacts to have her entered in the runnings to take Mastery level certification classes, but all Hermione could think of was what Harry and Ron must be doing without her.

She'd started jogging around the Black Lake every day to relieve stress and try and ignore the loneliness in her heart, though she had to admit that it had done wonders for her energy level. With her two best friends working hard outside of school, Hermione found herself feeling more isolated than ever. As one of the only students from her year who had gone back to finish her last year of school after the War, Hermione was surrounded by students a year or more younger than she was, and many of them were students from other Houses, as most of the Gryffindor students she'd fought side by side with in the final battle had gone on to work tirelessly in the Ministry or in other capacities as they rebuilt society. But Hermione knew that her place was here, at Hogwarts, finishing what she started. She was incredibly popular due to being a war hero, but most of the other students who tried to get to know her seemed to have an ulterior motive and it was exhausting trying to figure out who was being sincere and who was simply looking to use her for their own ends.

She'd had enough of being used as a pawn with an encyclopedia after all that had come to light after the War.

After losing so many in the final battle, Hermione had at first been overjoyed and then frustrated when she found out that Professor Snape had somehow been able to hold onto life long enough to be rescued and taken to receive emergency care. At least, that's what everyone had been told by a tight-lipped Minerva McGonagall when he'd shown up at the front steps of Hogwarts several months later.

Hermione had been overjoyed because she hated the idea of anyone dying, especially after Harry had gone on at length about what he'd seen in the pensieve. But she was frustrated and angry at herself because she'd just stood there while he'd been bleeding out. She should have done something, anything! But she'd frozen at the sight of the blood pouring from his wound and the horrible gasping choking noise he'd made and then Harry had told them that nothing could be done, that Snape was dead. She kept kicking herself about how easily she'd believed him. She knew that Harry's point of view was unreliable at best, even when he didn't mean any harm. She'd had over seven years to learn that lesson very, very well, after all.

The regret surfaced every time she saw him walking purposefully down the hall. She'd even taken to sitting in the back of the classroom during Defense because she felt a horrible knot of despair twist in the pit of her stomach every time his dark eyes glanced in her direction.

Hermione was almost as good at avoiding Professor Snape as she was at studying, which is to say, quite adept indeed. She hadn't actually spoken to him directly in nearly two years. He'd always been a secretive, private person, and a war and a near-death experience hadn't changed that. It didn't help that her sense of guilt made it hard to breathe when he was nearby, though Harry and Ron had told her dozens of times that she was mental to feel that way, which was why she no longer talked about it with anyone at all.

It wasn't every night that the nightmares would come but it was often enough that she lost sleep. And in each one it was she who was lying on the floor of the Shrieking Shack, her blood pouring hot and wet from her throat as she gasped and choked, her vision going blurry and fading to darkness. She could feel a set of dark robes whisper against her cheek as her life ebbed from her body, their warmth causing a fluttering surge of hope before she was left, cold and alone in the dust and decay of the Shack.

And it was at that moment, before she woke covered in sweat and clawing at the sheets in terror, that she knew utter despair.

She kept telling herself that it was stupid to keep thinking about it, but the more she tried to resist, the more her mind fixated on that singular point of failure. So she threw herself into her studies. She was taking seven classes, including Advanced Divination with Firenze, which she was utter pants at, though this wasn't enough to force her to give up. She did a bunch of extra credit Potions work for Slughorn on the weekends and volunteered to help at St. Mungos on Sundays. She even did personal research projects "for fun," though they wouldn't receive any sort of benefit or grade once they were completed. She ran herself ragged so she wouldn't have to think, because thinking led to despair and Hermione wasn't sure if she could bear it any longer.

"Penny for your thoughts, Granger?"

Goddamnit.

Hermione glared from over the top of her book at the blond Slytherin boy...well…Hermione had to admit to herself that he wasn't a boy anymore, not really. Who could remain a child after taking the Dark Mark? The scar on her own arm throbbed as her mind flashed momentarily to remembering the horrible thing that had been carved into her by Draco's aunt.

The horrible thing that Draco had called her long before she'd been trapped under the sharp knife and putrid stench of Bellatrix Lestrange's mouth.

She reminded herself that she wasn't a little girl, either.

Looking up at him, she noticed that there was actually a clump of wiry blond hairs growing from his chin, but they were patchy and nowhere near anything like a man's goatee. It gave him the look of a young male lion with his mane only partially grown in.

She smirked despite herself at this mental image, especially considering what House he hailed from.

"Care to let me in on the joke?" Draco said, leaning forward with his hands on the study table. He was trying to look nonchalant and casual, but Hermione could see the way his eyes darted nervously around, refusing to meet her eyes. A flush was creeping up his neck and there were small dots of perspiration at his temples.

"Oh, I was just reading about you, is all," Hermione replied a little snootily, closing the book.

"Terrible Trolls and their Subspecies?" Draco read, his eyebrow arching for a moment before he frowned. "Ha ha, very funny, Hermione."

Instantly, he reddened, his hand going partway to his mouth as though to silence himself, but he'd already said it.

Hermione's head snapped up and she stared at him with wide, surprised eyes.

He's never called me by my first name before.

"What did you call me?" she asked quietly.

"I'm sorry, I-" His calm demeanor had drained away and his eyes were wide and frightened as though he were about to run away at any moment.

"Say it again," Hermione said.

It was not a request.

Draco paled and gulped loudly.

"Her….Hermione?" he said, finally, his eyes on the floor.

"What changed?" Hermione asked, looking puzzled.

"What do you mean...what-"

"I mean, why do you think that you can march in here like you know a thing about me and call me by my first name?" Hermione's voice was rising as the rage filled her, warm and strong and powerful. "I thought that 'Mudblood' was your term for me...for people like me."

She tried to stop the anger from overflowing. Logically, she knew he didn't deserve her ire. Harry had even written a long letter to Kingsley begging him to pardon the Malfoy family, which kept them all out of Azkaban, though their assets had been seized to help pay for damages wrought by the Death Eaters, and they were strictly forbidden to own anything Dark, regardless of whether or not it was a family heirloom. They'd kept Malfoy Manor, as ownership was tied directly to the Malfoy family's blood thanks to ancient magic, but now it was largely empty save for anything that was attached with a Permanent Sticking Charm or had no monetary value.

At this point, Draco was largely still shunned by his fellow Slytherins, save for Gregory Goyle and Pansy Parkinson. Blaise Zabini's parents had decided to enroll him at Durmstrang for his final year, and Vincent Crabbe had been burned to ash by Fiendfyre. And while the Hufflepuffs and Ravenclaws held no love for the youngest Malfoy, the Gryffindors who knew who had been lost made certain to make his life hell.

"I'm sorry….I didn't mean…" Draco was wringing his hands and had gone a particularly nauseous shade of green.

"You could have fooled me," Hermione snarled, standing and pulling her wand before she even realized what she was doing. "Did you come here to humiliate me again today? Because if you're looking for an easy victim, I can assure you, I've learned my lesson."

Draco stared at her wand with his eyes wide like a deer in headlights before his shoulders slumped and he held up his hands.

"Fine. If you have to hex me, get it over with," he mumbled, wincing instinctively as he expected a flash of light and pain.

None came.

Hermione had frozen, finally realizing that she'd let her anger get the better of her, and felt markedly stupid indeed. She slid her wand back into an inner pocket of her robes and put her hands on her hips.

"I'm not going to hex you, Malfoy," she said irritably. "I may want to, but that's a completely different kettle of fish."

"The truth is…" Draco said softly "...I can't stop thinking about you."

Hermione opened her mouth but stopped when he raised a hand.

"No, please. Listen. I...I know we've never been on particularly good terms, but I need to know if what I'm feeling is real or if I'm just going crazy or something."

Hermione snorted. "Oh, that's rich. Hasn't anyone ever told you that confessing to a girl that you only have feelings for her because you've gone mad is rather insulting?"

"No! That came out wrong…." Draco trailed off, pulling something from his robes.

Hermione's wand hand twitched. She felt a stab of worry that her earlier reticence to hex first and ask questions later had been a bad decision.

"Here!" he said, shoving two pieces of cardstock-like paper under Hermione's nose.

"What are…?" Hermione said, surprised, her hand frozen halfway in her robes to grab her wand.

"They're tickets. For the Wailing Banshees concert. Tonight. I wanted you to go with me, but...I guess that won't be happening." Draco looked deflated as he looked at Hermione sadly. "So, how about this instead? I'll give you one ticket and you can go by yourself and have fun. And if I see you, you can pretend you don't know me and I'll just...stay the hell away from you."

Hermione frowned as she considered his words. She'd wanted to see the Wailing Banshees live since second year, but the concerts were always sold out within days of their tour being announced. And as a muggleborn witch, Hermione was unable to secure proper transportation to the box office, since her parents could not Apparate to its location like those with magical parents. But her parents wouldn't have let her go anyway. Thier daughter alone at a concert was not a comforting thought, and that went doubly for a concert where people had magic wands at their command. Not to mention the ungodly price of a single ticket.

She thought of her parents, still living in Australia and unaware of ever having a daughter with a twinge of sadness.

At least she would never have to worry about that again.

"Well…" she said, as she held the ticket up to the light and saw the magical signature shine like an oily rainbow in the shape of the Banshee's logo, proving their authenticity. "Fine. You know what? I'll just consider this payback for all the horrid things you've done for me in the past. And you know what? I'm ok with you calling me Hermione as long as you swear not to twist it somehow into a cruel joke.

"How would I even do that?" Draco said tiredly.

He stuffed the remaining ticket in his pocket dejectedly and turned to go. And even though she had no reason for it, Hermione began to feel a little guilty about berating him so thoroughly.

"Wait." Hermione said, watching Draco's back stiffen as he froze and turned his head back so that she could see the profile of his face in the gloomy light of the stacks.

"Yes?" he said quietly, his voice almost rasping.

"I still don't want to go to the concert with you," Hermione said bluntly, cringing a little as he winced visibly in response to her barbed statement, "but I wouldn't be averse to, say, walking to Hogsmeade with you and then walking back when the concert's over. After all, there's safety in numbers and according to the tickets, it does end rather late. That way no one gets the wrong idea that we're on some kind of date."

"Wouldn't want that, would we?" Draco replied flatly, but his shoulders seemed to be slightly less slumped than they had been before.

"So, then," Hermione said briskly, "Do we have a deal?"

"Sure," Draco said, turning back to look at Hermione, his gray eyes unreadable. "I'll see you at the front doors at eight o'clock."

"All right, then." Hermione sat back down and picked up her book again.

"See you later then...Hermione," Draco said, his voice neutral.

Then, without another word, he strode back towards the front of the library and left Hermione to her studies.

When she was sure that he was out of sight, Hermione looked up and scowled. She had mixed feelings about taking anything from Draco Malfoy.

But then again, he's certainly made life miserable enough for me in the past to owe me at least one ticket to see my favorite band perform live.

She cast a Tempus Charm and sighed when she saw the time.

Six more hours? That's practically an eternity!

After groaning and smoothing her hair with her hands, Hermione stretched deeply and felt a little better. She opened up the book to the place she'd marked, pulling out her quill and began to take notes for her research paper about Pygmy Eastern Moss Trolls. No one would read this one, nor would they read the five others she had stacked neatly in her trunk, but at least it kept her mind from having to face the pit of darkness that filled her with guilt and dread whenever she had a moment free of distraction.

But no matter how hard she tried to ignore it, the despair gnawed at her and she feared that one day it would grow too large for her to successfully ignore.

She tried not to think about what would happen and instead turned the page, her quill at the ready.