The usually inquisitive girl, sitting deep within the comforting embrace of an armchair by her window, was absorbed only by the erratic and flushed contents of her mind. Her fingers traced absentmindedly in swirls over the fabric of the chair, soothing and placating herself in ways she did not realise. She had spent yet another weekend holed up in her residence, highly reluctant to see anyone else for fear that they might read her thoughts clear across her face. She needn't have worried. Her thoughts were so intense and yet so fleeting that no soul could have hoped to divine them.

Resting on a small lamp stand to her left was her ring. Each time her restless gaze fell upon it she would sigh. Running a lightly shaking hand through her tumultuous mass of hair, she pondered her predicament. She had, for the first time in a long while, actually removed it from the safety of the small wooden box in which it was kept. She had decided that, after what happened that Friday night, she needed to motivate herself. She needed to be prepared. Constant vigilance and all that. She had spent the last two nights thinking of the danger of the situation in which she had somehow landed herself. Had Malfoy wanted her dead it would have been far too simple.

Evidently, that was not his intention, irrespective of his words to the contrary; it was clear from the slow burn of his gaze as it had held her own in those few alien moments. Even drawing that image to the forefront of her mind caused her body small shivers, faint echoes of what she'd felt that night. Above all else, the whole situation left her more confused and angry than ever. Her anger was directed at herself, for her naiveté, and at him for exposing her the way he had.

His presence was claustrophobic and she found at times she could not breathe with the thought of him. It was as though his mere presence in her thoughts sapped so much energy that her body was incapable of completing minor yet essential tasks, like breathing. He made her so angry that she wanted to claw at his perfectly smooth brow, to dismantle the symmetrical structure of his face. The face that had haunted her behind closed eyelids. When even sleep could not relieve her of his presence. It was the look on his face before the darkness had swallowed her, before his composure returned. His fair-lashed gaze wide and intense, haunted. Though his actions had been his way of one upping her, she felt certain the torture had not been hers alone.

She wanted to hurt him – really hurt him – and she had never felt that overwhelming desire to inflict pain on anyone before. She wasn't like him; she didn't thrive on fear the way he did. She recalled the trembling vibrations that had wracked her body, the strangely exquisite torture. Her fear had been palpable; she had never felt so exposed and so vulnerable. And he had left her like that, in the darkness for over half an hour after his departure. It had felt like a year. In those quiet moments, she knew fear.

He may have seen it as a game, but it was real to her. Too real. He had taken steps to be in control, he broke down her defences without permission. She was in a losing battle – and she did not have the experience to fight his way. She had stood alongside Harry year after year facing a vast number of dangers. She had fought Death Eaters, looked down the barrel of a wand so to speak, had faced death itself, and never been so shaken.

But she now knew the distinction between her previous battles and her current one. She knew how to handle evil, truly evil people. She knew where she stood with them. But Draco Malfoy was something else entirely. Despite everything he had inflicted upon her, she knew she had never been so wholly affected. Something in him, the strange and layered riddle that he was, called to her in a way she could not define or remotely understand. It felt as though he had made her fall into some endless pit of shadow and uncertainty. It was unfathomable for such a change to be wrought in only a few months of interaction, compared to the many years she'd known him. What was clear, however, was that with the onslaught of physical and mental sensations being in his presence brought upon her, she could never again be completely cold and removed from him. He'd marked her in some way. Just as she had him.

The shadowy outline of his features had shifted in her mind; he was not just another face beneath the Death Eater's mask. Draco Malfoy had always been a constant in her life. For as long as she could remember, Hermione had been forced to defend herself against his attacks, even as a child. As a result, she had built some form of immunity to him and the petty nature of his insults.

Then he changed. He wasn't the bratty child of years past, but an entirely different beast altogether. His tactics changed, his intentions too – though she wasn't entirely sure he knew what they were either – and now he was attacking her in new ways, ones against which she had no defence. She had never felt such a lack of control over her own life and the path down which she marched.

She shifted her turbulent gaze toward the high panes of her window, staring out at yet another grey day. The rain slapped violently against the double glazed window as she traced a finger over the grooves of the stippled glass. Hermione gently pressed her forehead to the cool matter and let reluctant tears leak down her cheek, several catching in thick lashes and blurring her vision further.

In her room, where it was quiet, private, she would let them fall to ease the turmoil churning inside her. The release of tension was much needed, though she knew she could not allow it to happen outside the confines of her dormitory. Despite her anxieties, she knew to crumble before the watchful eyes of those beyond her guarding portrait would be to announce her defeat. She would not, could not allow that to happen. No matter how the edges of her strength began to fray.

So she cried as she hadn't in a very long time. She cried for her friends and for their youth. Youth that was marred by war and hatred, by discrimination and by power. A war from which they could not escape. A war that ran rampant both within the solid castle walls and beyond. She cried.

She cried until the tears no longer ran unchecked from beneath her lashes. Then she stood and steered her weary form to her bathroom, where she would shower and scrub away all the signs. She would scrub away the layer of uncertainty she felt sure coated her skin. That's what one had to do in a war. Clean away the residue of prior days. Heal the wounds and start once more.

At precisely the same moment in another room across the hall, hidden behind the portrait of a young man with white hair and an aristocratic sneer, were three people, each absorbed by their own thoughts. Draco Malfoy had his back to the two unwelcome visitors. He gazed out at the darkening sky in much the same fashion as the object of his thoughts.

Behind him, a dark-haired girl rested against the plush fabric of the chaise lounge on which her lithe body was strategically draped. The girl appeared to be paying little attention to the interactions of the other two. But Pansy Parkinson was far more observant than anyone had ever acknowledged, or indeed, recognised. Her sweeping gaze paused momentarily on the other figure in the room, whose form was currently resting against the frame of a second chair.

Blaise Zabini gazed steadily at Draco's back awaiting an answer to his silent question. Finally, the other boy turned away from the window ledge and looked back into the sharp blue eyes of his fellow classmate. Pansy glanced back down at her cuticles as his stare swept meaningfully over her.

"What is it, Zabini?" he asked softly. "Perhaps this conversation can be shelved for a more… appropriate time."

The darker boy ignored the nod in her direction. Instead he spoke, in an equally low voice, "I've seen you watching her."

Pansy's eyes flew up to catch sight of Draco's gaze narrowing in the direction of the other boy. She watched, waiting for his reaction, but he merely pointed a finger toward the general direction of the door and said, "Out, Pansy. Now."

With a last look in their direction, she escorted herself out of the room and down the corridor, not before bestowing a final, scathing glance at the portrait on the other side of the wall. Indeed, Pansy had always paid far more attention than she had ever been credited with.

He continued to hold the gaze of the boy opposite him even as he heard the sound of footsteps leading softly into the distance. "Zabini."

"What are you doing, Malfoy?" The probing eyes never once left Draco's face as they scanned for any hidden ticks that might give the blond away. They would find none.

"I fail to see how any of that is of your interest."

"You watch her every move, thinking that no one else can see. I suppose you are mostly correct… except, I have. As did her bodyguard. Are you going to send me to the hospital wing like you did Finnigan?" He arched a single brow in question.

Draco merely glared at him.

"You are treading on dangerous territory. I would be very careful if I were you. Just some friendly advice…" He inclined his head in a gesture of goodbye before tracing Pansy's footsteps out the door.

Draco expelled a rather large amount of air as he turned his back to the sheets of white rain currently cascading around the grounds beyond his window. It was still mid-afternoon and darkness was settling, enticing him further under its blanket.

He went down to dinner that night for the first time since the incident two nights ago. He'd been closeted in his room for the entire weekend in order to stem the flow of thoughts that corrupted his already jaded mind. As he seated himself next to Zabini, he nodded his head slightly in acknowledgment. He didn't as much as glance in the direction of the Gryffindor table.

He did not need to. He felt, rather than saw, her presence there. After what had occurred the other night, he knew he would never quite escape her image in his mind. It had most definitely not been his intention for the events of that evening to escalate quite as they had. In truth he had simply wanted to toy with her a bit more, but the expression in her eyes as they began to glaze against her will, and the subconscious parting of her lips had been too intense a sight to ignore. He had lain in bed with the curtains drawn, drowning in the darkness for two days because of it. Because of the ache, the dull pulse, which it ignited within him.

No matter how hard he worked to break her down, to win, she continued to assault his senses and infiltrate his very being. It was entirely reactive and it was entirely his fault. Without even realising it she was fucking with his head and he was the one who went back for more, just to prove he was not alone. That he was not the only one being ripped apart by this thing between them. He could see it in her eyes each time. She was just as sick as he was.

Ignoring the conversation swirling around him, Draco looked up from his plate as he reached for his glass of pumpkin juice. His eyes clashed violently with a pair from across the hall. The eyes flashed darkly at him before turning away. Finnigan. Naturally. He scanned the room impassively, though his watchful gaze did not fail to see the two seventh year Gryffindors who slipped out, and the boy's hand placed on the small of her back.

Clever girl. She appeared to have learnt from her previous mistake. He would address the issue of that particular surge of anger at the sight of Finnigan's hand on her at a later time, in a less public place. He suppressed such thoughts as he noticed another Slytherin's eyes on the departing couple before they slid to him. He had the distinct impression that Pansy was an entirely underestimated entity.

"Wow, it's something else in here. Can't believe it took you that long to invite me up." He wiggled his eyebrows suggestively and Hermione had to work hard to suppress a groan. She rolled her eyes instead and threw a cushion at him.

Seamus laughed softly, before sitting down. She couldn't deny she was relieved at his light-hearted approach. Though she knew it was a façade, much like her own.

"Shall I go get it then?" she asked, before heading into her room. She heard his reply of assent as she riffled through her drawer for the box in which she kept the narrow silver band. Hermione gently slipped it from its case and gazed down to where it lay in the centre of her palm.

She glanced at her reflection in the mirror. She looked tired, as though the constant passing of moments was wearing away at her mask. She shook her head to remove such thoughts and headed back out to her companion. Seamus was seated exactly as he had been moments before. Upon Hermione's return he jumped from his seat to join her in standing.

"Okay, so… what way do you want to do this?" Seamus asked, looking more than a little uneasy now that the time had come.

"Just as McGonagall said. I need to practice my wand work while I'm wearing it. I think I'm beginning to control the, uh, emotional side effects a bit better." She bit down anxiously on her lip before continuing, "The problem is I really haven't gotten very far in the way of doing actual magic."

"So we'll duel then. I just – I don't want to hurt you that's all..."

"Seamus? Really…." She shook her head in bemusement.

He laughed somewhat jerkily and said, "You're right… who am I kidding? I should be more concerned about my own safety."

The pair carefully moved the various arm chairs and other furnishings, which presently adorned the room, in order to clear a sizable open space. Hermione took several steps back, inhaled an inordinate quantity of air and then slipped on the narrow silver band.

"Okay, Hermione… you ready?"

"As ever." As she said the words, she felt the familiar tingling of her skin, the slightly erratic beating of her heart, the gentle vibrating hum, which imbued her.

He looked on, mouth slightly agape, at the girl across from him. She was live static before his eyes. Glorious indeed, but quite terrifyingly so. She was crackling. No, she was vibrating. Even though she didn't move a muscle as she stood there, soaking it all in, he could feel the vibrations emitting from her.

She was bigger than him, he could see. The young man, handsome in a scruffy, roguish sort of a way, was disheartened to say the least.

Hermione clenched her teeth as the inevitable bubble of emotions began to swallow her. "Come on Seamus. I can't c-control it!"

"Right. Shit. EXPELLIARMUS!" he roared, waving his wand in such a timid manner as to contradict the violent enthusiasm of his voice.

At precisely that second, Hermione cried out her answer, Impedimenta, watching with mild horror as the corresponding bead of light first absorbed his spell and then proceeded to send him crashing against the far wall with a sickening thud. She flew to the other side of the room, thinking it unconscionable that he should once more be taken to the hospital wing because of her.

'Oh Merlin, Seamus… are you all right. Are you breathing, can you—?" She continued in this way, her concern palpable.

"Calm down," he winced slightly as he said it, "I'm okay, a bit bruised, I'd wager. But I'll live." He chuckled softly despite the pain he was masking and rubbed the tender skin of her palms soothingly, methodically. As though she were the one who had been slammed against a solid stonewall.

He always seemed to do that. His selflessness at a time like this was unforgivable. It appeared to work, however, as her breathing began to even out. She felt the vestiges of her inner anguish subsiding, and allowed a small smile to creep out again.

They practised for another half hour or so, focusing on less damaging spells so she could get used to performing magic with a degree of control. Afterward she felt better than she had in weeks. While there was a lot of work to do, somehow Seamus's presence had a calming influence and she seemed better able to compose herself and focus on her magic.

They were now sitting on the floor in the centre of her room, enjoying a comforting silence. She gazed down at the ring still entwined around her finger, and slipped it off, settling it on the floor before her. That was by far the longest period of time for which she had worn her ring, her burden. Though it may not have been a moment for celebration, she had certainly made some progress.

Her introspection was interrupted by the weary tone of her companion's voice. "So…" the combination of hesitation and determination in his tone caught her attention, "are you going to tell me about Malfoy… or should I draw my own conclusions."

His question hovered listlessly in the vast space of the room, caught between pockets of air and dust. Unanswered.

"Hermione."

She turned to look at him and sighed. "I don't know, Seamus. It's complicated… and I can't explain it either. I'm not… sure, what to do." Her voice sounded feeble, as though her mouth was full of cotton wool.

"Just stay away from him. Whatever it is… his hold over you," she could see him visibly blanch to say it. "Whatever it is – is it worth it? You don't need me to tell you he's dangerous but…"

She looked at him squarely before nodding her head in assent, "I know."

They fell back into silence for a moment before he continued, "I just don't like the way he looks at you…"

It seemed that no matter how much she thought she could prevent the toxins of her internal war with Malfoy from bleeding through each page into the rest of her life, she could not. That was the trouble with war, no matter how many times you cleaned the wound, it would never cease to fester.