Draco Malfoy had never been as interested in a photograph as he was in the one before him. The Mountain of the Sky Chambers…. Surely, this had to be it. Even as the clouds chased each other from midway up to the peak of the mountain, beyond sight in the photo and reaching into the sky like an open palm grasping, he could picture it as it had been painted with fingers on the slab of wall located at the British Museum. He closed his eyes. "The Black Headed men," had circled the mountain in the painting. Not headed, he knew, but hooded. But far be it from him to change the minds of muggles long made up on their History; a history that was completely lacking in any real knowledge of his kind, of course.

For a long time, Hermione was silent. He had to admit, she was surprising him. He had prepared himself for a long road ahead when he deduced he had to meet her without her knowledge. He'd steadied his resolve, mentally, against the whining, grating voice that competition and know-it-all tones rolled off of whenever she dared to speak—which was often, if memory served. He had been totally expecting her balking against him, her suspicion, and perhaps even getting hexed. He had obviously not- he now realized- been expecting a grown woman to greet him.

And had she changed… it was almost a shame. Whether it was from the stress he knew she'd been under in doing this work by herself, or perhaps just becoming an adult and letting childhood competition fall by the wayside, Hermione Granger was not the hand-raised-violently-in-the-air-swinging, rule-sticking, brown-nosing, mud-blooded, Gryffindor girl that he had once despised. She was reserved. She was contemplative. She was… tired, he decided. She had hung onto much of her teenage features he recalled: small nose, wide eyes, long eye-lashes, full lips, a splash of freckles over her nose and cheeks… but her face had lost a bit of the roundness… her eyes had sunken in a little against her cheek bones, causing them to stand tall away from her face in an elegant way she probably wasn't even aware of. But he was. He was aware of just about every inch of her, from the mane of hair that almost intimidated him, to the breasts he had managed to catch more than just a glimpse of, to the legs that went on for days inside her jeans… and he hardly blamed himself, even knowing it was her. Been months since he'd even been in the presence of a woman… let alone one his own age, with a pulse, and an IQ that made him dizzy.

"Who is summoning us?" he asked, breaking from his thoughts.

"The Kings of the Valley. The Black-Headed ones," she answered. He smirked. So she hasn't deduced that then, yet, he thought. "Well, they're called Black-Headed, in the mythology… but, of course, its more likely that they wore black dressrobes and hoods," she continued. His smirk faded. She was still in there, somewhere.

"And what else do we know about these Kings, or why or why not they may still be alive, let alone would want anything to do with two Hogwarts drop outs?"

Her brow knitted together and her lips nearly disappeared. He'd hit a nerve, he realized immediately... but he couldn't help himself…

"What's the matter, Granger? Haven't accepted that bit, yet? That you couldn't be the Valedictorian of Hogwarts? That no one gave you a buggering trophy for Most Questions Answered in the span of seven long years?"

"Be careful, Malfoy," she said, coolly. "You are still in my house." His smirk widened. He bit his bottom lip.

"Of course… wouldn't want you to… make me bleed, again, Granger. I'm positively quaking." Her cheeks were pink and her lips like two thin rubies. Her eyes were whirling in chestnut fire. He was halfway surprised she wasn't bearing down on him, yet. She really had gained restraint over the past seven years.

"Everything I lost in that year away from school is your fault. Your poor decision making and cowardice lead to the destruction of people I loved. Instead of my final year I had been dreaming about, I was tortured by your family while you watched. If I was half the self-loathing, egotistical failure that you are, Malfoy, I'd already have either reduced you to physical, shaking pain… or I'd have run away screaming. But one of us has to be the bigger wizard. One of us has to be worthy of being summoned." She turned from him then, and strode to the doorway, leaving him taken aback- and slightly satisfied- after having poked the bear. She spun around in the doorway. "And furthermore… I'm not surprised in the slightest to hear that, Malfoy. After all… ferrets don't quake when they're frightened, do they? They bite." She left the room, and not a moment too late, he thought, as anger quelled inside him… a satisfied, hot, roaring anger. Why had he missed this? A brat through and through, he decided. And she? She hadn't changed that much after all. She was just hiding her cards, biding her time. He was grateful, he realized suddenly. He shrugged. What was the point of life if you weren't going to have a little fun? …Especially at Hermione Granger's expense.

Hermione was furious. How dare he bring that up to her, expecting her to forfeit, or expecting her to forgive… he had no idea how close he was to leaving with a belly full of Slewborne Slugs… or a black eye. It took her a moment to chase away the red rim around her peripheral vision and find her old self inside the beast she had become. Only he had ever made her feel like this, she realized. Only he had ever been able to bring her out of the type of person she liked to be… the type of woman who could break the stereotype and abandon her emotions for reason. The type of witch who could stare hate in the face and keep calm, keep her head. She felt out of control around him, and she didn't like it. She wasn't ready to lose control this early into everything. If she lost it now, before they'd spent scarcely more than half an hour together, what exactly was she setting herself up for over the course of the next nine months? She couldn't- she wouldn't spend her time plotting and scheming against him while supposed to be working at his side. It was too much for her to deal with after four months of no sleep. And yet, she thought, she didn't yet long for the uncomplicated, lukewarm contentment she always felt around Harry and Ron. She sighed. I choose not to think on what that says about me as a person….

"Have we gotten that out of our systems, then?" she heard from behind her. She turned. He was leaning lazily against the doorway to her kitchen, glancing at her. She despised him.

"Have we?" she repeated.

"Well I won't speak for you, Granger. I don't even speak your language."

"And what language is that? Mudblood?"

"I was thinking of Hysterical Woman, but I reckon that works too."

Her gut knotted. She told herself to breathe.

"Malfoy…" she started, the numbers counting down in her head seeming more akin to the launching of the rocket than a sheep jumping a fence.

"Yes?" he asked, sheepishly. Six sheep jumping over a fence on fire… five sheep jumping over a fence into a pool of acid… four sheep jumping into outer space….

"Thank you," she said. His face twisted in confusion.

"Thank you…?"

"For coming here… to protect me."

She'd hit the nail on the head, she knew immediately. He was frozen for far too long to not have been right on the money. And why, she wondered, did he suddenly… give a damn? She knew of course it was about the project; about the questions that burned inside him... but would he admit it? A galleon said he was about to dismiss her.

"A man has to protect his investments," he said at last, and studied his fingernails. She rolled her eyes and sighed.

"Good. Since that's settled… do you drink coffee?"

That was clearly not what he'd been expecting her to say. His game of cat and mouse, she knew, hadn't grown boring for him yet, and he was still hungry to play.

"Why?" he asked, watching her.

"Well. If you have any interest in staying up tonight with clenching worry and sleeplessness, while we discuss the rest of what we heard tonight… they sell some… down the street."

She'd never seen this look on his face, before. He was so awkward, and she, so at ease. It was easy to invite Malfoy to coffee. If he had been any sort of a MAN, she'd have rather ridden on a thestral into a hurricane. But Malfoy? She could ask Malfoy to drink a whole vat of coffee. He could even eat food if he wanted. It did her good to see him off his game. And, she thought, it did him some good to feel beneath her.

"Why would I want to do that?" he finally asked, as if unsure of what else he could say. His brow was furrowed and he was tracing his lip with his thumbnail, a definite nervous tick. She was giddy.

"Well, maybe because we've sussed out exactly one of the five things The Kings want from us-"

"If its "The Kings" talking to us at all and not The Flying Nun-"

"-and something tells me that's not going to be enough. And, there's also the delightful fact that you've still not shared with me exactly WHAT you really want with this project- or with me. I don't trust you. I don't like you. And other than the obvious financial aspect, I have no idea what you bring to this project."

Apparently she'd gone beyond his capacity to pun. He stood there, looking at her, poised and contemplating. She rolled her eyes and brought her wand tip to her lips. She blew on it, and the light in her kitchen went out.

"Coffee it is."

Draco sat across from the square table from Hermione Granger, a box of menus and two upside down mugs between them. There was also, he noticed, a short, fat candle with a lit wick inside a little glass bottle, with a suggestive purpose on the table. He felt like laughing. Hermione Granger and I going for coffee well past the time of day in which its practical to drink it… in a muggle café. And what was even MORE shocking, was that she had asked HIM... Miss Queen Prude as they used to call her. Well not all of them, he reminded himself. She had gone with Krum, and he imagined that hadn't been an especially chaste relationship... and of course, he'd heard about her and the Weasel, though he had no idea whatever happened to set them apart. Still, whether she was Miss Queen Prude or Baby Sex Kitten of the Night, if any of his friends had seen this back in school, he'd have been ruined. But, then, he reminded himself… he didn't have any friends.

"So, tell me," she started, her suddenly cavalier attitude not fading in the slightest, "what exactly about magical origin catches your fancy? Apart from of course, the obvious."

"The obvious?" he asked.

"Well, you know… being able to prove that those of us from non-magical backgrounds have a lesser form of magic than you Purebloods and therefore should be given fewer privileges and shoved underground where we belong—if we're allowed to live, at all."

"I see you read the file," he said, not bothering to stifle the sarcasm that was beginning to flow freely.

"Not that I believe a word."

His brows went up. "Oh?"

"Rubbish, all of it; all of them theories, none of them facts. I'm surprised you thought I'd be interested in it at all. Interviewing your family members to get that rubbish..."

For a moment, he was quiet, reading her. If he was honest with himself, he'd admit it… she was beyond his intelligence. She was sharper, and more creative. He had a better sense of self-preservation, a more practical "common sense," than she did- not that that was ever really a Gryffindor thing- but in a beat, it was she who would find the correct answer 85% of the time, and he knew it. So how could she have missed what he assumed had been so obvious?

"Tell me more," he said simply. She rolled her eyes at him. His widened. She really didn't know…? She sized him up, eyes up to his, then down. She sat back, cleared her throat. The waitress approached them and poured the silent couple coffee. She looked between them before walking off. She dropped a check on the table. Hermione took a sip; cocked her head.

"That file represents a 'peek behind the curtain' into your thoughts, yes? Going back and forth, not sure what you believe anymore… I think you went through something after the war. I think daddy being locked up and mummy playing the waifish hero was too much for you. I think all that money and all those feelings went to your head and you didn't know what you thought anymore about any of it. The two people you always hated most of all saved your hide- twice- in that war. Had to be tough getting over that. Tough enough to break you? I doubt it. I think there's more to that, but I won't pretend to guess what happened. I think you had seven long years to stew in wonder and hatred. I think you started to go a bit mad. And then, somehow, I don't know how, but somehow, you heard about what I was doing, and if fascinated you… because you were wondering all the same things I was because of your own bollocks-for-brains upbringing and high-society nonsense. I think all that money finally came to use, and you decided to try and buy me to do your legwork; to tell you what to believe… to ease your tortured mind. I think you need me to find yourself. The question is whether or not I'm going to help you out. A need is ever stronger than a want, after all."

Draco almost felt like congratulating her. For it was truly a marvel to read that much into a file so small. She had thought a lot about this, he realized. But that was one of the great Hermione Granger's faults… she read too much into things. She struggled to see what was two feet in front of her, always concerned with what was a mile away. And now, she had convincer herself that she was in control. It might as well have been his birthday, because this was truly going to be spectacular….

"Se melius," he whispered, and her coffee rippled. She looked down into it, and back to him.

"What—"

"You'll thank me in a minute," he said. Her two hands were curled around the cup. Small hands, he noticed, marred by the signs of labor. He chuckled. "All that you deduced from the file I had hand delivered to you?" he asked. She shrugged.

"I wager there's much more to it than that… I'd ask you to tell me if I thought you'd be honest."

"Mmm. Not one of my known traits."

"Precisely."

"Well, Granger. I'm about to do you a favor." She stared at him, prying for clues. He smirked. "It's not my file. They aren't my notes. The only thing of mine in the whole case is the photograph… the one, I assume, was the trigger you needed to assemble this jigsaw puzzle in what I will admit to you is a pretty impressive brain you have, there. Impressive, if not overly ambitious. For someone rambling on about theories and facts... you sure are looking the part of The Hypocrite." She glared at him.

"You're lying."

"Well. You're the master witch, here. Read my thoughts," he invited her, and he closed his eyes. He could feel her grappling, wanting to know, not trusting him, and trying desperately to read his features, alone.

Nice try, he warned her. I can camouflage any emotion I want. You'll never find your answers that way.

He heard her scowl, and he chuckled. She was reading him now whether or not she wanted to. So he opened his mind a bit more to her, and felt her gently float in….

Hermione walked into Draco's mind an began to read like pages from a book on every sensory level what he saw, felt, heard, smelled… she could feel him, physically, emotionally. She expected him to be cold. He wasn't. She was back in the lukewarm embrace she always felt around Harry and Ron, but Draco was alone in these memories. Utterly alone, she realized… and he was poured over what looked like years worth of books, letters, and files. He wasn't shaven, she could feel and see. His hair was long, straggly, like Sirius had been when they'd first met. The memory made her gut twist. Or at least, it would have, she knew, had she not been sharing one with Draco Malfoy.

The memory changed. She was tiny, feeling everything, understanding next to nothing… a face was blurred in her vision. A tall, pale man with long blonde hair… not Lucius, she could feel. Lucius was holding her, tightly, with strong hands, but no warmth. But she wasn't cold… that lukewarmth was still all around her, and the man peering down at her was happy. He had a kinder face, she could sense through the blurry lines and fuzzy edges. He reached for her and she was pulled away….

She was a teenager, listening to his parents fight. She felt a sea of chaos inside her, emotional torment, physical pain. She'd been beaten on this day—Draco had, she knew, but it was if the bruises were freshly on her arms and legs. She almost couldn't believe how strongly she could feel it. And what were they saying? "Rory is dead. What he found means nothing."

And then she was crying, tears streaming down her face. She was alone. Utterly alone, perhaps ten years old… about to go away to Hogwarts, and the luke warm feelings were gone- or perhaps, they'd yet to exist. The doorway was bright, and she found herself shaking. Her arms stung and burned. She looked down and saw red. Blood began to ooze—

"ENOUGH," she heard from somewhere far away, and then a hook grabbed her by the bellybutton and tore her from that place. She was sailing, reeling, and then she was back in the café across the street from her flat, a coffee in her hands and fresh tears staining her cheeks. She was shaking, her head was pounding. And Draco Malfoy looked livid in a way she had never seen him before. Vulnerable she realized. And part of her could still feel it, too.

"That wasn't something I showed you," he said, refusing to look at her. "You went looking. You found that on your own," he accused. She shook her head, wiping the tears from her cheeks with some embarrassment.

"No I didn't," she stammered when she finally found her voice. "Draco, how could I have? I wouldn't have known what I was…" she found herself staring at his arms, suddenly, turned inward, away from her. Long sleeves. Had she ever seen him without long sleeves? She'd never bothered to look. And suddenly, regardless of what he'd done, who he was, and what she knew he was likely to do again if he ever really had the upper hand… what she felt was altogether new. It was a predicament she didn't have a word for, and that was very unlike her. She found his eyes. He was beginning to calm, she saw. The wall was coming down again, but he was separating himself from the memory. She had forced him to relive it as well, somehow, she could see. It wasn't just her pain, but his all over again. They had both just experienced a deep part of Draco Malfoy, together, without his permission, and neither of them even bloody liked one another.

She wasn't sure how to continue; what to say. She'd never pegged him for ever having any real troubles… without thinking, she lifted her coffee to her lips and took a long gulp. She gasped, swallowed hard, and grimaced.

"You spiked this?!" she asked him. She startled him. He looked at her cup and cleared his throat. He took it from her hands and finished it off.

"I'm not sorry," he said, pushing the coffee cup away from his hands. He leaned back in the chair, loosened his dress shirt. Hermione bit her lip. He rocked back on the chair's legs for a moment, not seeing her. She was ready to put down some muggle money and head home, when he picked up a spoon and began absent mindedly playing with it. "You called me 'Draco."

She heard him, but barely remembered. The connection between them had still been collapsing. She had still been inside him a bit. She could hear herself saying it more than it had been intentional. She nodded. "I did," she said.

He nodded, still looking past her, over her shoulder, out the window of the café. For once, she wanted to know what he was thinking about. He lowered the spoon into his untouched coffee and began to stir without cause. "So… what do you reckon they meant in the rest of the rhyme?"

A warm sun was setting in the Valley of the Kings, as it was once known. Sheep herding men and women carrying baskets of grains and fruits were heading back to their village from the Tiber, having gathered all they needed for the week. Children played in the tall reeds, and the balance of energy was right. The village would reap a bountiful harvest, they knew. They walked along harmoniously toward their homes.

A breeze kicked dust into the air, then, carrying seeds and leaves along with it. Many continued on the path toward home unchanged. Hamid Yosef, the tribal priest, paused. He watched the dust as it was carried up off the ground and into the air. He watched it swell over the Tiber, swirling and following its course, until it disappeared in his vision toward The Mountain. He turned his head and watched as his village marched on. His people; what he worked so hard to protect. And they were happy. He turned back to the mountain.

"They come, two halves… to find one path," he said to himself under his breath. He took a deep breath, burdened by a memory, before turning back to face his people… and as he did, clouds formed over the mighty mountainside. He heard the lightening, though he dared not turn around.

It had begun.