Chapter Seven –

It is true that most people evil people are not born that way – but it's likely that most of us understand that. In fact, one might say that there is a sort of insatiable curiosity amongst humans, having to do with the warped minds of monsters. What happened to make them this way? Were they abused? Did they torture small animals as a child? We ask ourselves these questions, it seems, to try to diagnose the mind of a killer, and when we find that one does in fact, seem to be born with the natural inclination towards evil things, we almost enjoy being baffled by it.

Muggles especially appear to obsess over motives and reasons and causes. True-crime television programs typically do better than your average sitcom in terms of viewers, for instance, and any bona fide horrific act of violence can achieve national coverage within a matter of forty-eight hours, and that's a generous estimation. Whether the monster in question is Charles Manson or Victor Lustig, they crave to know what makes that person tick, what makes them do what they've done.

That same curiosity thrived in the Wizarding world as well, as Draco could perfectly well attest, but the stark difference lay in the level of fear that came along with the ascendance of a new monster. Perhaps that had something to do with magic itself, which allows the boundaries of horror to expand a hundred-fold, at least. Either which way, the resulting craving to understand was still just as high, only people talked much less about these things in Draco's world. They couldn't even say Voldemort's name – and while gossip certainly circulated – the most terrifying things were not necessarily broken down and stripped raw the way they were by muggles. The terrifying things were hidden from, they were banished from thought, if only because the sheer power of fear that radiates from the monsters in the magical world is boggling in and of itself. It can drive a person crazy trying to reason it out.

In a way, Draco envied the muggles for this. Only in moments of painful honesty with himself – usually when he was close enough to sleep that his mind went places without his full permission – did Draco realize how easy it would be to be a muggle after living in this world. To know nothing of the real extent of horror must have been a blissful thing. He could even pity them, while thinking along these lines, simply because when the Dark finally overcame the Light, that thin veil that separated the mundane from the magical would be torn away, and there was no telling how the muggles would be able to cope as such a sudden, drastic awakening would be thrust upon them, ready or not.

As it has been said, Draco was not always particularly aware of the blackest side of life, as he was now. That blackness was slowly revealed to him as he aged – or, rather, Draco had been exposed to it at a consistently increasing rate, the older he got. He was also made to understand that he could never shy away from the things that were forced into his knowledge and understand; because that was just the way his life was stacked for him. There had never been any thought, any decision presented to Draco. There was no colored pill to take, no vial of potion to willfully drink. So, naturally, after years of having his opinions decided for him, his fears and hopes chosen before he was even born, Draco had become quite adept at keeping himself in the dark.

Even as he went through the impossibly stuffy, dank passageway which led from the base of the Whomping Willow to the Shrieking Shack only a minutes' walk from Hogsmeade as Wednesday wore into the hour before noon struck, he would not admit that the fear was what drove him – fear of failing, of death, of allowing his parents to perish. Although the fear was so potent that it was hard to ignore, he was able to tell himself that he was simply afraid of being caught, that the fear he felt now was nothing more than the sort of anxiety he might feel trying to break curfew at the risk of detention.

He was afraid of being caught, so it was done easily enough; at one point the passage beneath the Willow had been blocked up, but Draco had heard rumors around the school that it had been opened up again. Some said it was on Dumbledore's orders, others said it was Fred and George Weasley who'd done it, before they fled the school after releasing enchanted fireworks throughout the halls of Hogwarts. Draco couldn't make heads or tails of it, but he knew it didn't matter how the passage had become accessible again; the one thing he could be certain of was that the passage was common knowledge enough to start an array of rumors, which meant that it was probably being watched, and he'd had no way of telling whether it was under scrutiny when he'd immobilized the Willow and crawled in. He'd gone under the cover of a particularly well-done Disillusionment Charm (if he did say so himself) – and thankfully students kept a pretty wide berth from the tree out of habit, so there was at least a chance that he hadn't been seen by any passersby. His real concern was for Filch, or Snape (who was apparently disposed to follow Draco around whenever he felt so inclined), or even Dumbledore.

Plus, there was a rather illogical, yet crushing, sense of impending attack from anyone who might be waiting in the Shack for him. Draco knew that the Death Eaters must be aware of the necklace he'd purchased, and his mother's promise to have it delivered to the Shack for him to pick up whenever he had the chance. It would not surprise him – especially after receiving his father's letter – if he found Macnair, or even the watery-eyed Wormtail there, waiting like some muggle loan shark's crony, ready to shatter both his kneecaps as encouragement for results.

However, as Draco popped his head up from the passageway under the floorboards, revolving his head slowly to get a look at every angle of the room, he found that he was quite alone; he pulled himself up and dusted off the front of his robes, exponentially relieved to find no Death Eaters or vagabonds or fellow students looking to skive – only the necklace, sitting on one of the ancient tea-tables which squatted in what had probably once been some sort of parlor.

Even through the layers of the burlap cloth it had been wrapped in several times over, the necklace seemed to glint maliciously from the inside. As he picked it up and stowed it in his robes, Draco felt as if he were carrying a living child, filled to the brim with evil that had been born into it. Once it was under his robe the Disillusionment Charm concealed it from view, but he still felt as though it would make its presence known somehow.

On his way back through the passageway, his mind worked furiously, trying to figure out the ideal time to return; he already had the plan worked out, how he would use the Imperius Curse on Madam Rosmerta to force her to corner any lone student who would happen into the bathroom (excluding Potter and the two Weasley's, of course) – there, Rosmerta would curse them, and send them on their way to Dumbledore, necklace in tow – but he wasn't sure when he could make it back to the Shack, with enough time to slip into Hogsmeade without being detected.

Even if he managed to make his way into the Three Broomsticks and lay the curse upon Rosmerta, and even if she could turn the mission over onto someone else, Draco had not a single hope that the plan would work. He was even banking on the fact that the necklace wouldn't make it into the castle, which was fine with him. If the necklace could be discovered on a student returning from Hogsmeade, while he was sitting in the dungeon with Granger, there could be no doubt amongst whoever investigated the incident that he'd had nothing to do with it. Plus, a discovery such as that would make its way to Snape, who would know it had been Draco, and from Snape the news would flow to Voldemort.

It wasn't very ideal, and there would be drawbacks even if the plan worked out the way he wanted it to; Voldemort would sneer at something so clumsy as a cursed necklace, and he would be angered by it – but he would know that Draco was acting, that he was listening to his orders.

It wasn't as if Draco had much of a choice.

Although no one appeared waiting for him at the base of the Whomping Willow, ready to slap a body-binding jinx onto him and cart him into the Headmaster's office, Draco made his way back to his dormitory with a heart that threatened to burst from his chest and explode in front of his very eyes. The halls were mostly clear, with almost every student taking their lunch in the Great Hall by now, so he wasn't worried as the Disillusionment Charm began to wear off.

He bolted through the Slytherin Common Room and collapsed on his bed the moment after stuffing the opal necklace under his clothes piled in his trunk, drawing the hangings of his four-poster shut around him. His heart still hammered in his chest and the back of his head felt slick with sweat against his pillow.

He forced his eyes closed and began to visualize that wall which built itself, laying cement and positioning brick after textured brick. As he emptied his mind of all worded thought, however, one more slipped through the closing gap, a wailing sort of thought, twisted with confusion: What am I doing?

Not once, not twice, but three times Hermione made the attempt to see Dumbledore. One could say that the first time didn't count, as all she'd really done was try to catch his eye during dinner Thursday evening, but there was no Dumbledore present, and therefore no eye to catch. She went to his office after dismissing the rest of her fellow Gryffindors, but was unable to reason with the gargoyle that kept his office under guard. After her final class on Friday, she once again found herself in the corridor, already dressed for Slughorn's dinner party as the stoic Gargoyle which guarded the Headmaster's office resisted plea after plea.

She'd even tried out a few passwords – everything from firewhisky to notebook – until the sound of a misty, dreamy voice broke her from her string of attempts (that would have possibly gone on for many more minutes had the voice not spoken).

"Hello my dear, may I help…?" Professor Trewlaney stopped short, her magnified eyes narrowing to slits behind her glasses as she recognized Hermione. When she next spoke, her voice had dropped to subzero temperatures "Oh. It is you."

Hermione resisted the impulse to roll her eyes. Apparently the Divinations professor had not quite found the will to forgive Hermione for the time she'd pretty much declared the woman a crack-pot and a fraud, and stormed from the class three years ago. She was more surprised than anything else, however, as she rarely saw Trelawney about the castle.

"Hello, Professor Trelawney," Hermione said, trying to keep her voice meek. "I was only trying to see the Headmaster. He wasn't at dinner, you see."

Trelawney tutted and heaved a dramatic sigh that caused the beads of her many necklaces to rattle against her bosom. "It is a pity that you gave up the chance to hone your sight. Perhaps if you had stayed under my willing wing you would not have wasted your efforts here."

"And how, exactly, am I wasting my time?" Hermione asked, and on second thought added the more respectful term, "Professor?"

"Professor Dumbledore will be away from the castle for a time. I am not sure when he will be back."

Hermione wanted to ask why the professor didn't just consult her Inner Eye, but she knew that wouldn't go over well. Besides, after seeing Trelawney turned inside out by Umbridge only last year, Hermione had a hard time finding the will to provoke her, even if she was a batty fraud.

Instead of insulting her, Hermione settled for, "Well, alright then, I suppose. Thank you, Professor Trelawney."

Hermione turned and walked away, footsteps echoing through the Hall. She had gone only a few steps when Professor Trelawney called her back. Hermione stopped and turned back, and the professor ambled forward until she stood directly in front of her. She was wringing her hands and looking at Hermione with a slightly fogged look of confusion in her eye.

"I've just remembered something…" She began slowly, her voice one again taking on that mystical ring. "I don't… I had a dream, and it concerned… you, my dear."

Hermione audibly scoffed, unable to help herself. She'd heard this sort of thing before from Trelawney, and she wasn't about to stick around and hear about her impending death.

"If it's alright with you, Professor, I think I'll leave myself in the dark." Hermione said, but Trelawney's fingers enclosed around her wrist, gently, but firmly.

"No, I see now! I've run into you on purpose, my dear. I was meant to speak with you today." Hermione rolled her eyes and Trelawney, to Hermione's vast surprise, reciprocated. Hermione hadn't thought of Professor Trelawney as the type for eye-rolling. "Really, Miss Granger, if you doubt my sincerity, ask yourselves what the odds are that I would meet you here? I only came down from my tower on the merest of whims, fancying a walk. And here I find you, the very person I dreamt of only last night."

Hermione pulled herself free of the professor's grip as politely as was possible, and folded her arms across her chest. "Well?" she questioned. "What was the dream, then? If you must."

"Not here… I need to be in my office." And before Hermione could protest, the Professor had passed her, heading unmistakably in the direction of her classroom, quite at the other end of the castle. She thought longingly of diving out of sight and continuing on her way to meet Harry and Ginny in the Entrance Hall, but natural curiosity (the bane of any Granger's existence) prompted her feet to follow. It took many minutes to reach the Divination tower, and even after they'd mounted the ladder into the heavily-perfumed room, Trelawney went through the business of making herself a cup of tea, which Hermione declined politely.

Finally the Professor sat down at her desk across from Hermione, who immediately set to questioning her forward.

"The dream, Professor?"

Professor Trelawney's eyes looked down and away, focusing on some point on the stone floor. She was deep in thought, Hermione could tell, and it was somehow a different sort of thoughtfulness from the one she was normally overtaken by during one of her classes. Her voice as she spoke was slow and methodical.

"There was a great black pike – so tall that its tip was lost in the clouds above - with swaths of green fabric wrapped around its base… A boy appeared on the ground in front of it, weeping and tearing at his clothes. The fabric ensnared him, kept him from moving. In the distance – beyond the pike – a door opened atop a set of steps. A faceless woman came from the door and took the stairs down towards the boy." Hermione felt shivers quake through her thighs, up her spine, and she felt suddenly chilled. "She knelt by the boy, and she touched his shoulder, and all at once a smile lit his face and he stopped resisting the snares, and they began to fall away. A voice called something out – it came from the black pike – I don't know what it said - and the smile left the boy as quickly as it had come. He began to change into a wolf. The woman begged him to stay – to stay with her – but he did not. He changed."

The Professor's words became steadily more forced, more frantic, and the chill grew in Hermione until she felt as if she might unravel. The dream, whatever it was, had very little to do with Hermione's fear; it was the professor's earnestness, her voice, which had seemed to grow thick. Hermione had never seen a person this way, and it was jarring to watch Trelawney unfold before her. Fraud or not, this was definitely the creepiest thing Hermione had ever experienced.

"The boy changed, like I said, into a wolf. White fur he had – the whitest, purest fur I've ever seen – and it splashed with red as he bit into the girl's heart – right through her chest – and took the life from her." Trelawney looked Hermione right in her eyes. "She wasn't quite dead however, the girl. She simply drew her hands to her chest and sobbed as she backed away. The wolf watched her go. The green arms of fabric began to swirl next to him, and the wolf jerked his head and released his jaw, and sent the girl's heart flying into them."

Hermione realized that her mouth had begun to hang open just a little, and she snapped it shut as she shifted on her cushion, as though to wake herself up.

"That's certainly interesting, Professor, but really, I'm not –

Professor Trelawney drowned Hermione's words out with her own.

"When I awoke this morning, the dream faded within seconds, as dreams often do. It hadn't seemed important," Trelawney said, at first seeming to speak more to herself, but as she went on, her attention focused sharply back on Hermione. "Even when you and I first spoke, I had no thought of it. But the girl in my dream was most definitely you, my dear."

"I appreciate the time you've taken to tell me all of this – sincerely. But I really must be going. I'll be late, and my friends are waiting for me." Hermione tried.

"This dream should concern you, my dear!" Trelawney cried, and that emphatic edge had crept back into her voice. "It is obviously an important message from the Beyond!"

"And that message would be?" Hermione asked plaintively.

Professor Trelawney blinked, her lips puttering a little as though she were trying to blow raspberries in Hermione's general direction. "Well, I don't know – precisely why you should analyse – really Miss Granger, have you learned nothing of dream interpretation? It is not a matter of simply knowing anything."

"Well, no Professor, I cannot say that I excel at dream analyses," Hermione grinned and rose to leave. "Again, I appreciate the time you took – but I'm the sort of girl to take things as they come, you see. Even if you chanced to predict my doom moments from now I wouldn't care to know about it, Professor, as there wouldn't be much I could do to prevent Fate, would there?"

Trelawney gathered her many shawls around her, looking offended beyond reason.

"No matter," she said in tones of preserved dignity. "I have become rather… accustomed, to skepticism, especially from your type. It is your decision if you do not heed my premonition."

"I'm not at all skeptical, Professor." Hermione replied. "That would require thinking about the matter, and I've made up my mind not to. Things will happen as they will, after all. I've got enough to worry about without adding the inevitable to that list. I'll go insane, trying to question everything."

Hermione allowed her feet to carry her to the trapdoor, weaving around cushions and tea-tables draped in copious amounts of silk.

"Miss Granger," called the professor, rather unwillingly. Hermione looked back over her shoulder questioningly. Trelawney drew her shawls even further around her shoulders as if to swaddle herself and said, "Be careful."

Hermione grinned; wasn't she always careful? Still, though, it was somewhat touching that Trelawney seemed to care at all. She supposed, batty or not, this may have been the first moment she saw her as a teacher.

"I will. Good day, Professor Trelawney."

Sybil watched her go, her feelings at the peak of frustration and premonition so strong that her stomach fluttered, and she was inclined to believe it would be long time before she was able to banish those feelings completely.

The girl's head disappeared under the opening in the floor, and after sometime just sitting at her desk Sybil stood up and fetched a deck of worn cards from the spindly little table by the window nearest her, and moved to a sunset orange cushion near the blazing hearth, intending to ask nothing but the most serious of questions.

However, within moments Sybil began to think of other things, and wound up asking the cards what she might hope to expect for her Christmas lot.

As Saturday morning dawned over Hogwarts castle, the sky was so thick with clouds that the sun was distinguishable only as a spot over the horizon that was slightly brighter than the rest. The day was still bright – crisp, even – with the beginnings of a flurry cascading delicate snowflakes upon the ground already swirling with frost, but Hermione, who was already predisposed to such a mood, felt as if the atmosphere was rather oppressive with melancholia. Although, she knew that even if the sky had been a cloudless, robin's egg blue and the outside echoed with the sounds of birds' songs, she would have felt something oppressive in its sight.

From her window she could see groups of students in their black school cloaks filter towards the main gates. They were the last of the students to leave, the morning having already worn closer to the hour before noon, and although Hermione knew that her friends would have departed soon after the breakfast she'd skipped, she couldn't stop herself from trying to distinguish them from the crowd, which was pointless anyway, considering how far down the heads of the students were. She wondered for the thousandth time if they were still upset that she hadn't joined them. She was sure that skipping breakfast with them probably wasn't a step in the right direction on that front, but she hadn't been able to bear the thought of Harry's disappointed expression or Ron's pestering about why, exactly, she felt such a need to stay behind.

Harry had asked his own questions during the party in Slughorn's chambers last night, but thankfully Hermione had been able to dodge most of them, the way she'd dodged Cormac McLaggen, who, for reasons unknown to Hermione, had taken to following her about and smirking as if he knew some secret about her. She'd arrived late to the party, after that befuddling conversation she'd had with Professor Trelawney, and she'd made sure to leave as early as possible, dragging Harry and Ginny along with her. Ron, who'd managed to squeeze an invite out of Lavender, had hung around until Slughorn called the party to a close Hermione assumed, as it seemed like Ron would be the type to enjoy such a gathering as the one Slughorn put together.

Now, she couldn't have said why, but sitting in her room as she was, watching everyone else take their freedom, she felt somehow traitorous. Perhaps it was the knowledge that she was giving up her time with her friends for someone as inevitably ungrateful as Draco Malfoy was bound to be, so, naturally, at least once every handful of hours over the past few days she'd resolved to call the whole thing off. She'd decided at least a dozen different times that she would leave Malfoy to the wolves – tell him, so sorry, but you'll have to wait – and face whatever consequences Slughorn felt to be appropriate for choosing Quidditch over his lessons. After all, why should she have to deal with the repercussions of Malfoy's decision?

Still, however, after every determined resolution, Hermione found herself here at the end of them all, curled up in the window seat, watching everyone third year and up vacate the castle. She told herself it was because she couldn't imagine much fun coming from the visit to Hogsmeade, anyway; it was common knowledge that over half the shops had been shut up and abandoned. If a walk through Hogsmeade would have been anything like her trip to Diagon Alley with the Weasley family, Hermione could do without it. She'd seen enough boarded windows and chained doors to serve her a lifetime, and she would rather have avoided such poignant evidence of the hopeless state of things, thank you very much.

In reality it had been the memory of Draco's words, his moment of half-baked honesty when he'd raged about his family's expectations that called her back from her resolve. She could relate, in all actuality, and besides that, she'd never really considered what it must have been like to have Lucius Malfoy for a father. Or, rather, she hadn't considered that Draco was the sort of individual grounded enough to realize and feel the monstrosities of such a man.

She lingered by the window for another hour, at some point opening her copy of Jane Eyre once again to pass the time, and then she rose to dress herself absentmindedly, thinking of how to proceed with the upcoming lesson, distracting herself with logistics and plans and such.

At that moment, as Hermione was pulling on a simple cotton t-shirt and stepping in front of her mirror to pin her hair back and tame her curls, Draco Malfoy was ducking back under the floorboards of the Shrieking Shack, after a visit to the Three Broomsticks. He ran through the passageway at top speeds, stopping only to dry-heave at the will of his empty, terrified stomach.

Hermione had taken the same stool she'd chosen the first time she waited for Malfoy to meet her in the dungeon. She'd counted on his lateness and came prepared, pulling out her Herbology text and falling into studying as it was second nature.

Eventually however, she glanced up at the clock above Slughorn's desk, realizing with a jolt of indignation that Malfoy had outdone himself this time: half an hour had already passed, and a cold fury stole over her. She hadn't a thought of staying a moment longer, and she immediately set to packing her things furiously, muttering all the while.

"My fault, really. Should have known better, Draco Malfoy, keep a promise?" She pivoted on her heel and strode to the dungeon door. "You're a fool, Hermione. No one to blame but yourself."

And as she threw the door open, hoping beyond all reason that it wasn't too late to join her friends in Hogsmeade, she collided with Malfoy himself, who'd just been reaching for the handle.

His mouth opened in shock as Hermione's rapidly moving body made contact, spilling both their books. She slipped back on her heel from the impact, and there was one outstandingly comic moment where Granger's arms literally pinwheeled as she fought for balance. He instinctively reached out to steady her with both hands planted firmly on either of her shoulders, reminding him again of that confrontation outside the library, and he noted the difference between what he'd wanted to do then, and what he wanted to do now. He held her in place for a second or two, his mind fogging with a confused sort of certainty that he shouldn't be touching her at all, that his father would smack him against the back of his skull if he saw Draco aiding Mudblood Granger in such a way, and then he set her to rights.

"Thank you," she said breathlessly, for the time forgetting that she was angry with him.

He simply shrugged and she knelt to pick up her books. He followed her lead to collect his own, and she darted glances at him as she slipped the many sheaves of disheveled parchment into the respective folders they'd fallen out of. She noticed the slight sheen of sweat that beaded at his hairline, and he was breathing rather heavily, as though he had run here, but also as though he were frightened.

"Where were you?" Hermione asked, her chin setting curiously.

"I overslept, Granger. It is Saturday, after all." He drawled, but he wouldn't look at her.

"May I remind you that you are the one who wanted to meet today?" Hermione pointed out, and he only shrugged again, fueling another bout of frustration in her chest. "Well, come on then, I suppose. Let's just get started."

He nodded as he stood and went over to the table they'd worked at the last time they'd met. He thought it rather fitting how their chosen seat was in the middle of the classroom; neutral ground, so to speak, between the half of the room the Slytherin's typically occupied, and the side that was normally clustered with Gryffindors.

Hermione figured the best way to proceed would be to ask him questions based on the notes Draco had taken last time, so for the next ten or so minutes she asked him to repeat key terms and principals. He did well enough, but his answers were just vague enough for her to notice. She let the parchment float on to the table and gave him a shy sort of stern look.

"What is it, Granger?" He breathed, stretching his hands behind his head. "Spit it out, will you?"

"It's just, I can tell you haven't studied since we last met." Hermione said calmly.

"No, I haven't," Draco snapped. "I've been a little busy studying what we're already covering in class."

"You've got to find the time for both or you'll just end up digging yourself in a trench," Hermione retorted, her patience already waning. No one worked her up as quickly as Malfoy, with his harsh tongue and quick temper. "You're doing fairly as of right now, but the more we review, the more you're bound to get mixed up unless you keep up with what you've forgotten and what we're currently learning."

Draco only looked away and picked up his quill, turning it over in his hand absentmindedly. Hermione tried to soften her voice, and he must have noticed, because in the next moment he was looking at her again with wary eyes.

"Look… I know you aren't having an easy go of it." She said, and he responded with a disbelieving smirk. "Don't brush me off like that, Draco. I'm trying to help you."

Before she knew it, his eyes had narrowed into slits. "Don't call me that, Granger."

"It is your name, isn't it?" She remarked, feeling her cheeks flame. It really had just slipped out.

"I don't want you to call me by my first name," he said through his teeth, and Hermione wanted to roll her eyes at the way he seemed to be trying to keep himself calm.

"Oh, forgive me, sir. I seem to have forgotten that I am unworthy." She mumbled, and his eyes narrowed further still.

"That hasn't got anything to do with it," he said angrily. "I just don't like it, alright?"

She pressed her mouth into a hard line, resisting the urge to say something argumentative. She wanted to press him, but knew no good would come of it. Draco, for his part, wasn't even sure himself why such familiarity coming from her bothered him so much; it simply felt like an invisible boundary would have been crossed, had he allowed her the use of his given name.

"Fine." She said slowly. "But I am trying to help you. So, if I ask you to study what we cover today, can I count on you to do it? Consider it as payment of your debt."

Draco snorted. "My debt? And who am I supposed to be indebted to?"

"Me," Hermione said, as though speaking to an imbecile (and at this point, the jury was still out in that regard to Malfoy). When he simply raised his eyebrows, she enlightened him, "You stole a perfectly good Saturday from under me, and I expect you to make it worth something. If you put forth a little effort, Malfoy, I'll consider my squandered freedom as part of a good cause. You can give me that little bit, can't you?"

Oddly enough, as she spoke that same guilt that had sparked on Wednesday, as he left her in the library, returned with a vengeance. He was indebted to her, he realized, in more ways than she knew. He wondered what she would think when the truth came to light, when she learned that he'd used her to buy himself time. He could imagine that it wouldn't go over well with her iron conscience, that it would probably make her hate him beyond all reason if she knew her time and effort went towards his own cause.

So, before he knew what he was doing, he agreed. "I will," he simply said.

And then she smiled at him, and the spasm of remorse that gripped his heart baffled him. Never had Draco ever felt guilt for something as reasonable as this. He'd felt guilt over silly things, like breaking expensive statement pieces scattered across Malfoy Manor – had felt it whenever he thought of how his parents' lives quite literally rested in his useless hands, but those things were ignoble. There was nothing pure about that sort of guilt, which sprouted from such black roots, but this feeling – ignited by the innocence of that smile Granger wore, directed at him – was as clear as could be. It turned his mouth dry as a thousand questions rose from the ashes of such a feeling.

He shook it from his mind as best he could, though it still lingered there somewhere in the dark. He knew he would think of it for a long time, even while actively not thinking about it.

"Alright then, just continue where you left off in the fifth-year text and if you finish that soon enough, we can start covering some of this year's material. If you feel up to it." She added, and the sudden sweetness in her voice made him want to hex it out of her. It was irrational, but he couldn't stand the way it grated against his conscious, that sweetness.

He turned his eyes down to the potion's text.

His mind was more or less occupied by the text in front of him, enough attention paid to it that he was able to blaze through it at a more than reasonable pace; but every once in a while he flung a quick glance at Granger through his lashes, pondering away with the smaller voices of his head.

There was a certain loneliness about her that caught his attention and kept it riveted for moments at a time; lately he had taken to looking about for her rather on instinct. He'd spy her across the Great Hall during meals, or she would pass him in the corridor between classes, and he would notice that aura of solidarity. Even when he saw her with Potter or Weasley, she was typically gazing off into empty space while the two morons spoke between themselves and snogged their girlfriends. He wondered why they didn't make more of an attempt to talk to her. If Draco had been as close to her as those two considered themselves to be, he would try to break through the wall she had so clearly constructed around herself, but they only seemed to care that she was around. As long as they could see her, they considered her fine, just fine.

Nearly an hour had passed and the information Draco skimmed through was nothing new to him any longer. He realized with not a small degree of horror that he had spent most of his time thinking about her. Why, he couldn't have said, but he was certain that he did not like it in the least.

It's only because you're around her so much, he reassured himself as he closed the potions text gently, drawing her attention to him. They looked at each other for a moment. It's only because you've got to tolerate her. You're only tolerating her.

"Are you finished with that?" She asked, indicating the text in front of him.

He cleared his throat, still dry as the parchment he'd taken his notes on. "Yes," he rasped, and cleared his throat again. "Yes, I'm finished."

"It's been long enough that you can leave, if you'd like." Hermione said, although inwardly she admitted that she would rather stay where she was; she had nothing better to do than sit here with him, and she was on a roll with her studying. She'd even pulled out her Arithmancy charts, working through them at record speeds. "But if you feel up to it, we could also start on some of this year's stuff."

In the millisecond of silence that followed her words, Draco heard her stomach erupt in a growl that echoed off the bricks of the dungeon walls.

He raised his eyebrows. "Does the Mudblood need to be fed?" He asked, and Hermione would have been offended if his tone hadn't been so neutral.

"She does, I think." Hermione laughed, surprising him. Apparently his overuse of the word had caused it to wear off on her. It was a shame, in a way; sometimes it was fun just to make her bristle, to make that light come into her eyes.

He debated for a moment: he had to stay close to her until word came back from Hogsmeade. The enchanted coin in his pocket, to which Rosmerta had its twin, seemed a little warmer against his leg, but there was no way to be sure unless he pulled it out and examined the serial number lining its edges. He had to admit now, upon further reflection, that the idea for the coin, which he'd stolen directly from the D.A.'s method of communication throughout last year, had been insanely clever. He wondered absently where Granger had learned the Protean Charm.

"Let's kill two birds with one stone then, shall we?" Draco asked as he rose and began rolling his parchment up neatly and tightly. "We'll continue this in the Great Hall."

Hermione simply stared at him, rather stupidly for a moment. "The Great Hall? As in, we'll sit together?"

He nodded absently, stuffing the potions text into his bag and slinging it over his shoulder.

"In the Great Hall?" She repeated.

"Yes, in the bloody Great Hall," Draco scoffed and added, "I'm not worried about being seen with you today, Mudblood. Most everyone we know are gone to Hogsmeade, aren't they?"

She sat for only a moment longer, before he jerked his head in impatience, indicating for her to lead the way. She did so, in a manner of reluctance that was almost insulting. Was she really so opposed to being seen with him as well?

Hermione silently hung her cloak over her arm and shouldered her bag, which Draco noticed was practically bursting at the seams, and preceded him out of the dungeon. On their way to the Great Hall, he couldn't help but notice how well she moved, without that bulky cloak covering her so completely; her steps were so fluid, her body seeming to glide along with her feet. She could have been a spirit, if only she'd been floating. As they emerged into the Entrance Hall the light hit her blindingly, after over an hour of sitting in nothing more than candlelight. Her hair seemed like a halo around her head. He had so rarely seen Granger out of uniform, and he had never noticed what she looked like in normal clothing, form-fitting clothing. He realized that under those denim jeans, she probably had legs to kill for.

Once in the Great Hall, he noticed that she chose the seat at the far end of the Hufflepuff table, sitting at the farthest point from the entrance that she could, and glancing around with a rabbit-like nervousness. There were only a handful of students in the Hall with them, compared to the vast numbers that were usually present for lunch, and she noted thankfully that they were all twelve years old or younger: no one she knew well enough to care if they saw her with Draco bloody Malfoy.

Immediately Draco reached for a platter of sandwiches, drawing them closer to where they sat, and handing one to Hermione. She took it with the smallest of smiles, but set it on the empty plate in front of her.

"We need to study while we eat, you know." She said.

Draco shook his head. "I can't multitask when it comes to eating," he replied. "Just have your lunch and then we'll start. Unlike Weasel, I don't enjoy being covered in ham and mustard."

Hermione frowned at him, but she began to eat anyway, noticing finally how hungry she'd been since she skipped breakfast that morning. They were silent, not a word passing between them, so that after a while Hermione began to forget that she was even with him. Her chin rested in the palm of her hand as she took small bites of her sandwich, looking up at the enchanted ceiling with a distinct expression of worry.

"What is it?" Malfoy asked, breaking her from her reverie.

She turned her gaze down to him, biting her lower lip and shifting in her seat, but she didn't answer him right away.

"What is it, Granger?" He repeated. He was seconds away from waving his hand an inch away from her face to check for cognition.

"The weather's turned pretty nasty," she said, which wasn't much of an explanation.

"So?" Draco prompted.

She turned her face away. "It doesn't matter," she muttered. "It's just a feeling, is all."

Draco swallowed, his defenses rising. Her intuition was strong, he noted, and it aggravated him. He rolled his eyes and tossed a restless hand through his hair.

"You worry too much, Mudblood." He said.

"Stop already, with all the names!" She breathed in exasperation. "Can't you stand being pleasant for more than five minutes at a time?"

"I'm not sure what you expect," said Malfoy, mildly enough, but he could see the frustration working in her eyes. "I'll never stop reminding you of what you are."

She spied the almost playful smirk on his face, but instead of rolling with it, it only made her angry, probably propelled by the sharp pang of anxiety that had wormed its way into her breast out of nowhere.

"And I'll never understand why you have to be such a prat, Malfoy," she cried. "What is it that makes you want to constantly cut me down?"

"Relax, Granger," said Draco, feeling the tumultuous waves of emotion that suddenly burst forth from her. Then he added under his breath, "You're so much more pleasant when you're silent."

"You know, I actually want an answer," Hermione responded. "I want to know what makes you such a prejudiced git."

He knew that she was mostly just lashing out at him, and that he'd more or less made himself a target by baiting her, but he couldn't help rising to the occasion, matching her raised tone with his own.

"Be prepared to suffer in disappointment, Granger." He drawled angrily. "I'm afraid the logistics of my feelings for your kind will just sail straight over that muddled head of yours."

Hermione snorted. "That's rich, Malfoy. This, coming from the Pureblood Prince who needs remedial potions lessons from said muddled, Mudblood Granger."

He stared at her, hard, his fists clenching against the table where they'd been resting quite peacefully only moments ago. It was just like Granger, to ruin a perfectly tolerable afternoon.

"You can leave," he said, without really thinking. He was ready to banish his alibi, if only to get rid of her sudden outburst.

"I already planned to, you pompous ass." She picked herself up in a flash of heated emotion, stopping only to take another sandwich for later and sling her bag over her shoulder.

She refused to give him another glance, even one filled with hatred, as she strode towards the entrance as quickly as her feet would carry her. However, before she could reach the staircase and fly off to the Common Room, a burst of frantic cries echoed through the main doors of the Entrance Hall as they flew open with a crash.

Hermione needed only a moment to recognize Harry and Ron's faces, white with horror.

"Harry!" Hermione cried, immediately running to meet them at the door. Over his shoulder she could see a mass unmistakable as Hagrid carrying the limp form of Katie Bell. "What on Earth's happened? What's wrong with Katie?"

"Ask Malfoy!" Harry roared, his face a stone of absolute anger and fear. "He's cursed her, Hermione! Given her a necklace to take to Dumbledore! She might be killed, that slimy rat-

"No, Harry, he can't have done," she stammered as they all cleared a space for Hagrid to carry Katie into the warmth of the hall. He mumbled something about the hospital wing through lips that barely moved, and he was gone in an instant, Katie's limbs dangling listlessly in Hagrid's arms. Hermione caught only a glimpse of the Gryffindor's face, her mouth hanging slack and lifeless, before Hagrid disappeared around the bend that would lead him to Madam Pomfrey.

"Don't tell me I'm wrong, Hermione!" Harry cried, and Hermione noticed Ron practically cowering at Harry's side, a terrified look of uncertainty clouding his face. "I'm not wrong about him, I know I'm not. And now that git's gone and tried to kill Dumbledore!"

"Harry, I don't understand," Hermione pleaded desperately. "I need you to calm down, tell me exactly what happened."

"I WILL NOT CALM DOWN!" Harry was practically screaming now, his words echoing into the Great Hall, where Malfoy heard and hung his head, preparing himself. "I need to find him. Has he come back to the castle? Have you seen him?"

"If you'll just stop yelling, Harry, we can talk –

"You three!" The sharp voice of McGonagall clapped like thunder from the staircase and instantly their heads snapped up in her direction. Filch hovered a few steps behind her, wringing his hands with a vile smile that implied he was ready for business. "What is going on?"

"Katie Bell was cursed, Professor," Hermione explained hurriedly, relief flooding through her. If Dumbledore was not here to calm Harry, Professor McGonagall was the next best solution.

"Cursed, you say, Granger?" McGonagall demanded, her expression slowly morphing into shock as Hermione frantically nodded. "You three, come with me. Not a word until we reach my office. The whole castle need not know about this."

"You'll need Malfoy too, Professor." Harry called, not bothering to quash the anger in his voice, although he had, at least, managed to lower it a handful of octaves.

"What's that, Potter?"

"You'll need to bring Malfoy. It's his curse she's under." Harry said, much more evenly now. "I'd bet he's back in the castle now."

McGonagall addressed Filch without looking at him. "Find Mr. Malfoy, Filch. Bring him to my office."

"I'm here, Professor," Hermione's head pivoted to look at Draco, whose face had settled into a casual smirk as he stood in the doorway which opened to the Great Hall. "Lead the way."

Author's Note:

I know the time between each chapter has grown from what it was at the beginning, but I'm at least sticking to the goal of posting at least one chapter a week. I also want to assure my lovely readers that I know this has got to be one of the most slow-going Dramione fanfics up on this site, but I'm really set on making this story more than just a romance between the two characters. Besides, it wouldn't be all that believable if they just fell in love within a few chapters, now would it? There's some deep-seated hate there, people!

Anyway, I'm a little worried that I might be overdoing it with the lengths of my chapters. I'm trying to keep the word-count at an average of 8,000 or so, but even that feels a little much, and the last thing I want to do is bore you guys! I'm doing my best to fill each chapter with thoughtful content, at least, but if I'm going too far, just let me know. I'm not the most experienced with fanfiction, so I'm not quite sure what the norm is.

As always, feel free to let me know of any criticisms or thoughts any of you may have.

And a big thank you to Musicangel913 who has given me the greatest compliment I think any writer can receive, "You have a way with words." That review brought a smile to my face, so, I thank you, Musicangel.

Yours Truly,

Emma Perry

I wanted to update this to thank those of you who left reviews, with advice regarding the chapter lengths. I was quite relieved to hear that I haven't necessarily been overdoing it. I've always been pretty verbose as a person, so naturally, I was inclined to think I needed to tone myself down a little ;)

Thanks to Aymee and Musicangel913 for helping to put my mind at ease. Also, thank you ElizaLane for following my story so closely. I've appreciated your kind words twice now, and I couldn't have asked for a more pleasant reader, I think! Not to mention, I love the name Eliza. Next to my own it's my favorite :D