Tuesday; 1 September 1998, 11:18 p.m.

As the Start-of-Term Feast came to an end, Professor McGonagall dismissed everyone with a tight smile and a curtly-bidden goodnight. Draco made his descent to the Slytherin common room along with the rest of his housemates. He parted with Pansy (who started nattering to Daphne instead) and quickly reasserted himself by moving to the front of the group. He was pleased when the other Slytherins parted to let him through.

However, even as nobody openly opposed him, Draco was aware of their furtive glances and wary expressions. He had a vague idea what was going on in their heads—they were mistrustful. They didn't know what to make of him now that the war was over. Considering his own constant brooding during the Dark Lord's reign, Draco supposed his housemates' doubts towards him weren't totally unbiased. Remarkably, it didn't help that he was the only student-cum-Death Eater in school, either.

Regardless of the Slytherins' open support for the Dark side, a Slytherin's true loyalties usually laid, first and foremost, with their own. With the castle run by Death Eaters, Draco had often found himself out of the loop when it came to the happenings in Slytherin. It wasn't out of disrespect or disregard, though, that his housemates had taken to eschewing him—it had been out of distrust. With his primary allegiance to the Dark Lord, Draco had become something of a pariah among the other Slytherins. Of course, the fact that he'd been more often absent from class than he'd been in attendance did nothing to improve his image.

Not that Draco had cared much for it at the time—he'd had more important things on his mind. By then, it was no secret to anyone that Draco had been determined to remedy his and his family's position in the Dark Lord's ranks. Even his friends had been afraid he would sell them out. And rightly so—because, frankly, whatever little understanding of the word 'morals' Draco had possessed before the war, eluded him completely during his career as a Death Eater. There were many things he would have stooped to for the sake of bringing the Malfoy name back to grace.

Despite everything, Draco wasn't looking to gain back the Slytherins' trust at the moment. His authority was clearly still recognised, and, for now, this satisfied him. Truth be told, he'd been a bit worried about his reception in Slytherin before arriving at Hogwarts, but it turned out to be better than he'd expected. Perhaps his housemates were just as uncertain of their stance in Slytherin as Draco had been, or even more.

As they walked, hardly anyone in his vicinity spoke. Because of this, Draco was easily able to hear some lower year students at the back whispering to each other, as though he was two metres away, and not at the other end of the group. He could feel his lip curl. There was one conversation in particular that caught his attention.

"I don't know about you," a girl's voice said, "but I'm going to keep my head down this year. Daddy said it would be most beneficial for us Slytherins not to attract any attention at the moment."

"You don't say," a boy sneered in response; Draco thought he sounded familiar. "Brilliantly spoken, Queen Obvious! Got any other advice for us sorry twits? I can hardly wait."

"Oh, belt up, Baddock," said Astoria Greengrass, who brought up the rear of the entourage. The boy's full name dawned on Draco then—Malcolm Baddock, a fourth year who sometimes had been privileged to hang out with Draco's posse in the earlier years. "We don't need any bad blood among us—the Slytherins are hated far and wide as it is."

"Well, and who do we have to thank for that?" Malcolm Baddock hissed. Draco felt the boy's angry gaze at the back of his head, though with his next words, Baddock cautiously lowered his tone. "I'll tell you who. It's Malfoy's fault we're treated like some filthy Blast-Ended Screwts! Did you see what they write about him in the papers? 'The epitome of Slytherin charistics'! And you're wondering why everybody hates us."

"I think the word you meant is 'characteristics,'" the first girl said.

Baddock ignored her. "And guess what?" he asked in a whisper. "You know how he bought his way out of prison? Well, I hear our resident Death Eater is on probation right now. Know what that means? That the teachers can kick him out to Azkaban for the smallest transpassion!"

"I think you meant transgre—"

"From what I remember," interjected Astoria, "you weren't exactly this hostile towards the Death Eaters' cause two years ago, Baddock. In fact, I recall you parroting Malfoy on several occasions, word for word—"

"That was a long time ago, and I've changed," snarled Baddock. "The point is, we Slytherins are screwed because of Malfoy. What do you say we—"

"Are you crazy?" a fourth voice hissed; though high-pitched, Draco could tell it belonged to a male. "Don't talk about him so loudly—he can do the Cruciatus Curse!"

"Malfoy wouldn't risk a lifetime in Azkaban just because you called him names." Astoria sighed. "Seriously, think a little, you dolts, it doesn't hurt."

"But he can do other Dark spells, too," the younger girl from earlier said. "And he duelled Dumbledore."

"He's probably still in cahoots with the runaway Death Eaters!" the boy with the high-pitched voice added.

"Damn right he is," agreed Baddock, readily. "I mean, his uncle is still on the loose! But anyway, as I was saying—"

"Shhhh," the younger girl shushed nervously. "Look, you can see him from here a little—see his face? I think he heard us..."

Draco tried to hold back a sneer, but his mouth rebelled and twisted. Losers, the lot of them. The four lower years carried on, but Draco managed to block out their mindless prattle, deciding he'd heard enough. It was not a minute later that the prefects at the lead reached the stretch of wall concealing the entrance to the common room, and the entire Slytherin entourage was brought to a standstill. Crossing his arms, Draco leaned against the opposite wall.

Blaise Zabini turned around to face the rest of the students. "The password is 'Caput Lupinum'," he said, and the wall shifted automatically. "It changes every month," he told the first years. "The current password is always pinned to the notice board in case you forget it. Your curfew begins at 7:30 p.m. If you're caught out after curfew, you'll lose House points and get detention. Are there any questions?"

The first years looked too terrified to be asking questions. Draco snorted.

It was like all Slytherins in years below his had suddenly been given freedom to look at him unreservedly, and not with secret glances.

"What?" Draco demanded when they just kept staring at him. "If you've got anything to say to me, then say it." Nobody spoke. Draco pushed away from the wall. "Yeah, that's what I thought," he said, stepping through the entrance to the common room.

Looking vaguely amused, Zabini followed him in, and the first years did as well. "The girls' dormitories are that way, and the boys'—this way." Zabini waved his hand respectively to the left and right side of the room, as Draco threw himself into a black leather armchair near the fireplace. "Breakfast is at eight, and classes start at nine. Well, I suppose that's all. Goodnigh—"

"Hold up, Zabini," a voice called. Draco turned to see Astoria Greengrass marching into the room. "Aren't you forgetting something? You're the oldest Slytherin prefect here, so learn to take some responsibility." She addressed the first years then. "This one here is Blaise Zabini. Don't let him intimidate you—he's just acting like a prat. If you've got questions, don't be afraid to ask any of the prefects. We'll all try to help you."

At Astoria's pointed glare, Zabini rolled his eyes. "Yes, yes, of course I'll try to help."

Astoria seemed satisfied. "My name's Astoria Greengrass," she told the first years. "If you want to find other prefects, the list of names is on the board right there." She pointed to the information board hanging by the entrance of the common room. "It's late, so unless you want to sleep in tomorrow, you should head to bed. The first years' dormitories are those nearest in both the boys' and girls' corridors; you'll find plate names on the doors. That should be about it."

Nodding her goodbye, Astoria headed to the girls' corridor without more fuss. It was late, so the other Slytherins followed her example soon after, clearing out of the common room. Draco was the last one to go. For a long time, he sat in his armchair and stared at the fireplace, thinking.

He was back at Hogwarts. This was going to be a long year.

.


.

Wednesday; 2 September 1998, 7:42 a.m.

Slytherin Dormitories

Draco woke up to the sounds of talking and moving about. He cast a quick Tempus spell to find out what time it was, and then sighed into his pillow.

It was morning already, but Draco felt utterly worn-out. He hadn't slept well—nightmares plagued his sleep, though he couldn't remember now what they were about. After lying in bed for a few more minutes, Draco slowly dragged himself from under the covers and opened the curtains.

As the Slytherin dorms were located in the dungeons, where there were no windows, the Slytherins mainly relied on torches and magic to provide them with light. Draco usually didn't mind it, but mornings were an exception—he always had trouble getting up for classes.

He nodded a sleepy greeting to Zabini, who sat on the neighbouring bed, gathering his textbooks, and ignored Nott, who'd paused to stare at him.

Since Crabbe had died in the fire and Goyle opted out of Hogwarts, Draco was left to share the dormitory only with Zabini and Nott. He was grateful for the added privacy, even if it was for the price of his mates' absence. He knew Goyle blamed him for Crabbe's death, and that he'd taken it much harder than Draco had—but then, Crabbe and Goyle had always been closer with each other than Draco was with them.

A lukewarm shower several minutes later didn't help to clear his head of the gloomy thoughts. It wasn't like Crabbe's death was his fault, Draco knew—the idiot had brought it on himself. Regardless of Goyle's unspoken accusation, Draco refused to feel guilty. Who in their right mind used Fiendfyre if they knew they couldn't control it, anyway? Crabbe had been so fucking stupid.

Draco was so lost in thought while brushing his teeth that he almost failed to notice that what he spat into the sink was not white, but dark pink in colour. Pausing with his hand on the tap, he tongued the inside of his mouth. He wasn't surprised to find his gums bleeding.

Mentally shoving Crabbe's death to the back of his mind, Draco cursed to himself.

"Not this again..."

He hadn't thought much of it at first, when it had started happening some three months ago, but, by now, Draco was fairly sure he knew the reason his gums were so sensitive. He rinsed his mouth and then looked into the mirror, pulling his lips back to expose the canines.

They hadn't been this long back in June, of that he was certain. His canines were steadily growing.

"Damn it."

He took a deep breath, holding onto the edges of the basin. What the hell was wrong with him, anyway? He'd never heard of werewolves developing physical characteristics of a wolf, aside from the full moon transformation, so soon after being infected. Draco remembered Greyback's beast-like appearance and behaviour, but he knew that was different. Greyback had relished in being a monster—not to mention the fact that he'd been a werewolf for decades. It wasn't the same. Draco stared at himself in the mirror. Was he going to wholly resemble a wolf in a few years' time? Salazar, he hoped he wouldn't start growing a tail next week, or fur. He rubbed a hand across his jaw, feeling the unshaved whiskers under his fingers. Then, Draco shook his head, letting his hand fall back onto the basin. He was just being paranoid. Nevertheless, he concluded that a visit to the library later certainly wouldn't hurt.

He was almost finished shaving when Zabini's testy voice from behind the door urged him to hurry up. Draco made a final sweep with the razor before rinsing the lather from his face. He gave himself one last look in the mirror, and then left the bathroom, ignoring Zabini's grumbling.

It turned out that Nott was still in the dormitory. He was writing a letter, by the looks of it, and seemed perfectly at ease. Draco marvelled at it—if their roles were reversed, Draco wouldn't be anywhere near as indifferent, knowing that a werewolf was standing a few feet away, in the same room.

But then, he became suspicious. Who was Nott writing to, anyway, so early after arriving at Hogwarts? Was he telling them about Draco's condition? Had he already told anyone? Draco watched him from the corner of his eye as he crossed the room and began absently packing textbooks into his bag.

It wouldn't really make sense, though, Draco reasoned with himself. If Nott wanted to expose Draco's secret, he'd have done so by now, wouldn't he?

"I haven't told anyone, if that's what you're thinking."

It took him a second to realise that Nott had actually spoken. Draco glanced towards the bathroom, from where the sound of falling water could be heard—Zabini was apparently taking a shower. He looked back at Nott. "I've got no idea what you're talking about."

Nott sighed. "Malfoy, please... Are we going to play this game now?" He set his quill aside. "Don't insult my intelligence. We both know what I'm talking about—I know what you are. I know that you're a—"

Draco was in his face not two seconds later, his hand clamping roughly over Nott's mouth, his voice a furious rasp. "Shut up, shut up! Shut the fuck up!" Looking over his shoulder at the bathroom door, he dug his fingers deeper into the cheekbones beneath. "Not another word—don't even think of fucking saying it. Do you hear me?" Nott just stared up at him with wide eyes. Keeping hold of his face with one hand, Draco slowly drew his wand from the pocket of his robes, and held it to his classmate's throat. "Not ever, Nott."

"Mmhmphf," came a muffled response. Draco loosened his fingers a fraction.

"Okay..." This time, it was more discernible, though still stifled by Draco's hand. "Okay... Calm down. I won't say it. I wasn't going to tell anyone." Nott tried to inch away, but Draco didn't allow it; he jerked the other boy's face forward and pressed his wand deeper in the pulsating jugular. "Okay, okay, I get it," breathed Nott. "Merlin, Draco, just calm down, alright—I'm not your ene—"

"How did you find out?" Draco demanded.

"I'll tell you, but—can you take your hand away, first? It's hard to talk like this."

Draco didn't release him. "Then you'd better get over it! Answer me, how did you find..." He cut off, glancing over his shoulder again; the shower had just been turned off. Adjusting his grip on Nott's jaw, Draco whispered to him harshly, "Never mind that—we're not going to talk about this now." He brought his face closer, making sure to keep eye contact. "Listen to me, Nott, and listen carefully. I don't want this getting out—you won't tell anybody about it, and you won't hint at it. You won't fucking look at me funny when people can see you and become suspicious. Do you understand? If word of my... if word gets out, I'll know it was you, and I will make you regret it." He made a pause to let that sink in. "I'm serious, Nott—I'll kill you if you tell anyone. I'll rip your fucking throat out with my teeth, and I won't bother waiting until full moon. And don't think it's an empty threat. I've got little to lose as it—and not many inhibitions left, either."

There was a moment of silence as they stared at one another, breathing heavily. Finally, Draco released his grip and stepped back.

Nott swayed backwards, catching himself with both hands on the mattress. He looked up at Draco in disbelief. "What the hell, Malfoy?" He shook his head slightly, fingers coming up to feel his jaw. "I thought we were... We used to be friends. I wouldn't sell you out."

That wasn't exactly what Draco had expected to hear now. But put like that... He swallowed thickly as he pocketed his wand. He was unable to look at Nott anymore.

It was pathetic, but Draco was only starting to see how desperate he really was. Unhinged—that was how he was acting. Who was he kidding? He was going insane with the mere thought of having his condition exposed. This goddamn curse brought him to this state. With a shaking hand, Draco reached for his bag and shouldered it.

"I'll see you later, Nott," he said as he left the room.

.


.

Wednesday; 2 September 1998, 8:31 a.m.

The Great Hall was abuzz with chatter and the sounds of clinking cutlery.

"You must be joking!" Ron groaned despairingly, letting a forkful of scrambled egg fall back to his plate. "Transfiguration first thing in the morning, and it's a double!"

"It could be worse," consoled Harry. "Imagine if it was History of Magic with Binns."

At all four tables, the Heads of Houses were in the process of giving out class timetables. Unfortunately for Ron, Professor McGonagall was still within earshot, and so she'd heard him gripe about the subject of her lessons. For his tactlessness, Ron was shot a stern look, which he, of course, failed to notice. Hermione watched as Professor McGonagall shook her head before handing a schedule to Parvati Patil.

As it had turned out, due to shortage of teaching staff and the fact that no other Professor had been a Gryffindor, the Headmistress had decided to resume her position as a Transfiguration teacher, as well as continue being the Gryffindor Head of House. Hermione found that both impressive and worrying—the load of work Professor McGonagall was now dealing with had to be enormous.

"Hey, we've got Herbology today, too!" Neville said, looking elated. "Fantastic. I heard Professor Sprout is going to make an exception for us eight years and show us Devil's Snare in our first lesson—and Devil's Snare isn't normally covered at Hogwarts, at all! Isn't it fantastic?"

'Eight years', Hermione knew, was an unofficial term for the students who were supposed to have sat N.E.W.T.s this summer, but decided to repeat the year instead. Therefore, eight years weren't really above seventh years educationally, but they did have a slightly more demanding curriculum.

"Only you would get excited over that, Neville," said Dean. Neville looked sheepish. "But back to the topic... Look at Friday—we do actually have double History of Magic this year..."

"That's what you get for wanting to be a solicitor." Seamus laughed. "The rest of us knew better and dropped out of Binns' class when we still could."

"You dug your own grave, mate," added Ron, smiling smugly. "Even Hermione here gave up History of Magic after O.W.L.s. That's when you knew staying was suicide by boredom."

Hermione looked up from studying her own timetable. "I—I did not opt out because of... that," she argued, lamely. "I just don't need History of Magic N.E.W.T. for my future career. There's nothing wrong with Professor Binns' teaching style."

"Except for putting everybody to sleep," said Ron, and Hermione swatted him under the table. At that moment, an exchange of urgent whispers could be heard a few feet away. Hermione, together with the other eight years, quietened, watching curiously as a pair of Hufflepuff girls approached, still engrossed in hushed conversation.

"You ask him!" one girl said.

"No, you ask him," the other replied. "It was your idea."

They couldn't have been older than fourteen.

"But you said you'd start..."

"Only because you made me say it! You put the words in my mouth..."

"Oh, come on, Elle—don't be such a pansy– oh!" The girls both jumped up, suddenly aware that they were being stared at. Hermione had an idea what this was about. "Oh, er, hi! That is, hello. Er, we just came to, um... to ask if..."

"W-what Laura wants to say," the other girl cut in, looking at Harry and blushing profusely, "is that we were wondering if... well... if you could, perhaps, sign this for us, Mr Potter." She produced a simple, yellow t-shirt, and Laura took out hers.

Harry looked very uncomfortable. "Er... I don't really..."

"Come on, Harry!" Seamus laughed, clapping Harry on the back. "The poor lassies are asking for an autograph! How can you say no to them?"

"Please? It'd mean a lot," pleaded Laura, while Elle nodded earnestly. "We admire you a lot, Mr Potter—I mean, you're our saviour!" They both blushed.

"Thanks, but I'm not..." Harry grimaced, glancing around himself, clearly in hope that not too many people were paying attention to this scene. He slumped in his seat, and Hermione knew he would agree just to make these girls go away. "Oh, okay, sure... I suppose..."

Elle laid out her t-shirt on the edge of the table and handed Harry a quill, looking reverential. Moments later, Laura did the same.

"And if you could also write a dedication—for Laura—that'd be really wonderful!" said Laura.

Harry did write a dedication, though his expression after the ordeal was that of extreme embarrassment. Then Laura and Elle looked at Ron and Hermione with shining eyes.

"Oh, no, I didn't really do anything..." began Hermione, knowing now very well what was coming.

"Please?" said Laura, drawing out the word; it was clear that both she and her friend were becoming more confident the longer they stood there. "You're a heroine, Ms Granger! We heard you got Mr Potter out of trouble every time, is it true? Personally, you're kind of like an idol to me!"

"And Mr Weasley, too! We've read all the articles about your bravery and incredible duelling skills!" added Elle.

Neither Hermione nor Harry (and especially not Ron, who seemed content soaking in the attention) bothered telling them that half the things they'd read in the Prophet after the war was greatly exaggerated. They had tried clarifying it to their admirers at first, but all they got in response was patronisation—people just didn't want to accept the truth. Eventually, Harry and Hermione became tired of being lectured on how unattractive fake modesty was.

She really didn't feel like doing it, but Ron was already signing Elle's t-shirt, looking very pleased with himself, and Hermione couldn't think of how to get out of this (and she didn't have the heart to refuse the girls, either). In the end, she accepted Laura's offered quill. Once the autograph was made, Hermione held the t-shirt back to the younger girl, but it was Ron who snagged it from her grasp.

"Here, let's swap," he said, and swiftly placed Elle's t-shirt in front of Hermione, for her to sign. It was all Hermione could do not to hit him upside the head and knock the stupid grin off his face.

Three minutes later, they were on their way to Transfiguration, and Hermione wasn't talking to Ron. Ron didn't know why that was. In fact, he didn't even seem to have realised Hermione wasn't talking to him, which was a bit sad.

"Come on, Hermione, what's wrong?" he asked pleadingly, trotting a step behind her; she'd set a fairly fast pace. "You can tell me. Are you mad because of those girls? Laura and Elle? I know, they were a bit annoying, weren't they?"

Hermione whirled on him, her bag swinging and almost hitting Harry in the stomach. "Oh, they were annoying, were they?" she hissed, glaring at Ron. "You didn't look very annoyed to me when they were praising you for things you didn't do!"

"What?" Ron blinked, evidently bemused. Then, realisation filled his eyes. "Oh, Hermione! Is this what it is about—you're jealous? You don't have to be, you know you're the only one I..."

Hermione didn't stay to hear the rest. With a frustrated cry, she swivelled back around and tromped off to class, alone.

.


.

An hour and a half later, Hermione's anger at Ron abated somewhat. Truth be told, she wasn't even sure why she'd been so angry with him—it just annoyed her when Ron was so busy lapping up praise that he completely disregarded her feelings. She hated how clueless he was sometimes.

"How was Transfiguration?" Ginny asked from a sofa, when Harry, Ron, and Hermione entered the common room. Having had to climb all the way up from the ground floor (where the Transfiguration classroom was located) to the seventh floor, they were panting slightly. Now, they all had a free period—even Hermione, who was taking seven N.E.W.T.-level classes.

"Oh, you know," said Ron, collapsing into an armchair while Harry sat beside Ginny, kissing her on the lips. Hermione chose an armchair opposite Ron's and extracted a copy of A Guide to Advanced Transfiguration from her bag. "The usual. McGonagall's already dished us out a one-foot long essay on the most common Untransfigurative spells, and the Slytherins were being greasy gits. Nothing new."

"Those snakes!" said Ginny. "What did they do this time?" She looked Harry over, as though checking for injuries.

"Well, you know," Ron said again, and then frowned. "I don't know, actually. They just were there—I don't need another reason to hate them, right? Especially Malfoy. It's the principle of the thing." He glanced at Hermione, but his attention was soon caught by Harry and Ginny snogging. "Bloody hell, don't do that when I'm in the room!"

Ginny retracted her mouth from Harry's. "Oh, shut up, Ron. If you're jealous, Hermione's sitting right there," she said before winking at Hermione. "I've no idea how she can enjoy it, but if you ask, maybe she'll let you snog her, too."

As Ron turned a deep shade of red, Hermione became very engrossed in reading her textbook. She was still feeling somewhat sulky, and kissing Ron was not something she really wanted to do at the moment.

"Hermione?" said Ron, his voice uncertain. "Are you still angry with me? Because you know I'd never... with those girls..."

Hermione rolled her eyes, and stuffed the textbook back into her bag. "No, Ron, I'm not angry with you. I overreacted. It's nothing." She got up. "I need to visit the library—start on that Transfiguration essay."

"But it's only due on —"

"I know, Ron—and you know me. The sooner, the better." She lifted her chin a bit. "You and Harry should probably get down to it as well, instead of writing it at the last minute—like you always do."

Harry grinned. "Probably."

"We'll see you in Herbology, yeah?" asked Ron.

"Of course," replied Hermione. "Talk to you at dinner, Ginny."

"Sure. Good luck with Transfiguration—doubt you'll need it, though."

.


.

Although the Transfiguration essay was an excuse, Hermione figured that since she was already out of the common room, she might as well start it now. It wasn't like she had anything better to do, anyway—they'd only had one class so far, and there was still over half an hour until the next period. If nothing else, that was enough time to find the materials and resources she would need to write the paper. And besides, Untransfiguration in general was quite an interesting subject. She certainly wouldn't be bored reading about it.

With all that in mind, Hermione headed down to the third floor, and then into the corridor leading to the Hogwarts Library. The castle was large, and the hallways empty—those students, who weren't in class at the moment, were either out on the grounds or in the common rooms. Hermione had been fairly sure she wouldn't meet anybody on her way—that is, until another set of footsteps could be heard coming from the other end of the corridor.

Judging from the sound, the person had a confident gait and expensive shoes. As she looked up, Hermione wasn't, and at the same time was, surprised to see Malfoy.

She faltered a bit in her step, and Malfoy, still several metres away, did the same.

The library door was right beside him—much closer than it was to Hermione—but Malfoy merely flicked a glance at it. He didn't go in. Instead, to Hermione's disquiet, he started slowly advancing straight on her. In turn, Hermione quickened her pace, moving close to the wall and hoping to get around him without any problems. She wanted to get to the safety of the library. There was something in Malfoy's eyes that she didn't like.

"Out on a stroll, Granger?" Malfoy drawled when he was near enough. He eyed her bag full of books. "But of course not. You were going to the library."

"I am going to the library," corrected Hermione, halting as he moved into her path. "Not that it's any of your business what I do, Malfoy. Why don't you step out of my way?"

Standing some five metres away, Malfoy ignored her demand. "Transfiguration, right?" He paused expectantly, and then hummed. "Essay to write and all. I mean, that's why you're here, isn't it?" Still, she refused to respond. "I'd bet... Not that I'm surprised, mind—it is you, after all."

Hermione frowned, but said nothing. Technically, he hadn't insulted her yet, even if his voice held a note of scorn. She didn't know what to expect of this post-war Malfoy. There was still that unnerving look in his eyes—it was the same look she'd caught him giving her yesterday at the feast, and today in Transfiguration.

"Why so silent, Granger?" Malfoy asked quietly. "Don't want to talk to me?" He moved a step closer and Hermione took one back, watching him carefully. "You know, I've been wondering something. It's about you, actually. You seem different somehow. I can't figure it out."

She was becoming increasingly uneasy with this situation. "Look, Malfoy, I've got no time for this. If you don't mind..." She made as if to skirt around him, but Malfoy blocked her way. Huffing, Hermione tried to walk through the gap between his body and the wall. She only managed one step—then, there was a sharp movement, and Malfoy's open hand slammed against the wall.

Hermione jumped, startled despite herself.

"Strange, isn't it?" breathed Malfoy. "You make me curious. Almost intrigued. Would you believe it?" Before Hermione could speak, Malfoy snarled out, "I don't. It's all very fucking strange, indeed. Since the Ministry, you're—you're everywhere. Why? I know it's no fluke. You did something."

Blinking rapidly, Hermione could only stare up at him, bewildered and a little frightened. "What are you—"

"Is it to get back at me or something? For calling you Mudblood or whatever?" Malfoy sneered, white teeth flashing in the torch light. "Well, you must be having a laugh now. But don't get used to it. I'll tell you once—don't try my patience, Granger. Stop fucking provoking me. It's disgusting."

Floored, Hermione tried to find her bearings. She couldn't take her gaze away from Malfoy's teeth—his canines seemed very long.

"You're insane," was the first thing out of her mouth when she shook out of her stupor. "I—I've got no idea what you're talking about. This is..." But she couldn't think what it was, with Malfoy hovering over her like a vulture. She had to pull back.

Malfoy was there in a second, eyes glinting oddly; Hermione found herself with her back against the wall. "Running away? I don't think so, Granger." His hand was now planted beside her head. He leaned down a fraction, and Hermione thought he might be smelling her hair.

She could, in all sincerity, say that she had never before been genuinely scared of Malfoy. However, at that moment, he was making her blood run cold. She didn't even understand it herself—it was some kind of primal fear, born from instincts, not logic. Something seemed wrong, something about Malfoy was off. She felt like prey in face of a predator.

"I'm getting tired of feeling like this," Malfoy breathed. "Frankly, it's getting annoying. So, say, Granger—you wouldn't happen to have anything to do with it?"

"To do with what—"

But Malfoy seemed to be on a roll. "Is it a curse? A potion? Tell me, what the hell did you do to me?"

"I didn't do anything to you! What on earth are you—"

"You're lying!" snarled Malfoy, shoving her harder against the wall, and immediately retracting his hand, as though burned. "I know you did something! There's no way I'd... I don't care about your pathetic attempts at revenge, or whatever it is you did this for. I want you to remove this goddamn curse!"

Barely did Malfoy finish the sentence, when the door further down the corridor grinded open. To Hermione's relief, Malfoy jumped away from her.

"What in blazes is going on here?" Madam Pince demanded lividly, as she flew out of the library. "What are you two doing here, yelling like a bunch of crazed baboons? You could be heard all the way here, behind closed door! This is a library!" She wheezed, shaking her head, and glaring at Malfoy and Hermione in turns. "Outrageous! What despicable behaviour! Next time you want to engage in absurd altercations, you will do it somewhere far from here!"

Hermione felt the automatic need to defend herself. "But I didn't—Malfoy was—"

"Quiet! I don't want to hear it!" the librarian interrupted, seething. "You," she barked at Malfoy. "In the library, now. You," she said to Hermione. "Be on your way—off you go!"

Hermione could tell this was a punishment—Madam Pince obviously knew Hermione was here to visit the library, and she'd probably assumed Malfoy had been only passing by. "But it was Malfoy who..."

"That is enough! Off with you—right now!"

There was a second's hesitation before Hermione nodded and smoothed out her skirt. It was merely the first day of school, and she'd already been scolded by an authority. It was all Malfoy's fault! Her absurd fear from earlier receding, she looked at the Slytherin angrily—but Malfoy didn't seem to be paying her any attention anymore. His eyes were fixed on the wall instead, somewhere above Hermione's shoulder. Although his face appeared impassive, his stance was tense, and his arms crossed. He was clearly waiting for her to walk away first.

Sniffing, Hermione drew up to her full height, and turned on her heel. She couldn't believe she'd let Draco Malfoy get to her like that—it was embarrassing. Hermione left, her heartbeat still racing traitorously, her thoughts a mad jumble.

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Finally there's a new segment! I feel bad for taking so long :(

I can't believe it's chapter 7 already, and it was Draco and Hermione's first actual encounter. The Werewolf is kind of really, really slow-paced, isn't it? But fear not, after this, there're be many, many Dramione moments to come! Well... Maybe not 'Dramione' exactly, because, let's face it, these two still despise each other, but they'll be seeing each other more often :D That being said...

I feel I probably should've warned you sooner, but this story might be going to contain/touch on some disturbing themes and scenes! It turns out my mind can be a weird place sometimes, and my imagination often tends to run in odd directions when it comes to writing The Werewolf. Expect bizarre developments, less-than-moral choices, lots of blood, disgusting gore, countless unexplainable murders, graphic torture, and all-out carnage.

No, I'm probably laying it on thick :D

Or am I?

Thanks to everyone who reviewed/followed/faved/read/bothered to take a look :) You guys are lovely.