Draco could not sleep.

He lay on his back on his bed, staring at nothing. At some point during the night, Blaise quietly made his way back to their dormitory, and soon his heavy breathing indicated he had gone to sleep. It was well after two in the morning when Macmillan finally stumbled in; being Head Boy meant he had been in charge of cleaning up the aftermath of the Halloween Dance.

Rivers had already been tucked away into the closed curtains of his own four-poster when Draco returned to the dormitory sometime after midnight. His Halloween costume was strewn in pieces by the floor of his bed – uncharacteristic of the Ravenclaw, who was generally meticulously tidy.

Draco considered himself organized, but Rivers took neatness to a new level. His ink bottles were arranged in a neat line on his bedside table, first by color, then by size. His trunk was immaculate, with each of his uniform shirts, slacks, vests and ties neatly folded and organized in stacks. He made his own bed every morning and there were never creases in the sheets.

You're kind of adorable when you're jealous.

Curtains drawn around him as if he were a wraith of darkness, Draco smirked to himself. After what he had done with Granger behind that painting on the fourth floor, there surely was not good reason to be jealous of Rivers any longer…

With an ambrosial shiver, he recalled the stolen moments they had shared in that dark hiding place, groping one another like the apocalypse was upon them and the hounds of Hell were nipping at their heels. His hands had been suddenly clumsy and heavy as he had traced the curve of her slender waist, her slight hips.

Pressed up against him, he had been conscious that she could feel his erection; it was an unavoidable reaction to her touch. This time, instead of recoiling, she had trailed her hands down the length of him tauntingly before grabbing a handful of him through his clothes. He had groaned loudly while worrying he would ruin his trousers like some bloody fourth-year. Nonetheless, he had grasped her bum in both hands and pulled her into him… and she had moaned his given name in a wanton gasp of a sound he would never have expected Gryffindor's swot extraordinaire could make…

He would never forget it either, that little gasp. In fact, that one delectable noise would probably constitute wank material for a good while.

When Peeves passed by twice without detecting them in such a compromising position, it seemed too good to be true. Rather than pressing their luck, they had disentangled themselves. By the time they had returned to their common room, they could no longer seem to meet one another's eye.

Back in his dormitory, Draco had to resort to rubbing one out, just to get some relief. That had been hours ago.

Now, Macmillan's gurgling snores droned out all other sound and the dormitory was utterly dark. Draco lifted his palms to his face and rubbed at his tired eyes, but no matter how he tried to drift away, slumber was just beyond his reach. Body sore with his perpetually inflamed joints, Draco's shoulders were tense with thoughts of what tomorrow was to bring. He closed his eyes, willing his body to rest, if not to sleep…

.

.

"In here. Quickly," Narcissa whispered, ushering Draco into Lucius's study. She shut the door behind them and cast a charm on the room to ensure they would not be overheard.

"What is it, mother?"

The room felt strange without his father's presence, forbidden almost; the entire Manor seemed to know his absence. The study was cold, vaguely smoky, and smelled stale. "There's something I need to give you. Hold out your hand."

Palm out, Draco extended his hand - but Narcissa flipped it over and slid a ring onto his index finger. It was heavy and before he even saw it, Draco knew what it was. A lump formed in his throat.

"Your father left it behind when he reported for his mission at the Ministry," Narcissa explained. Draco noticed there was worry in her eyes. "His instructions were that if he were to be captured or killed, it should be bequeathed to you."

Draco stared at the bulky gold band with the heavy green stone set into it. Being given the Malfoy family signet ring was no small thing, though there was certainly quite a bit less pomp than he had always assumed accompanied such a ceremony. The heirloom had been resident on his father's hand for nearly a decade, and had sat on his grandfather's hand before that. Abraxas had passed away from a particularly nasty case of Dragon Pox, when Draco had been eight.

He hated the tremor in his voice when he croaked out, "Are you sure? I'm sixteen."

Despite suppositions that she was merely decorative, Narcissa Malfoy was not a stupid woman. She knew exactly what was at stake and what she was asking of her son. "You are the Malfoy heir – the only heir, Draco – and with your father incarcerated, you are the natural head of the estate."

"I'm not yet of age… I don't know how to run an estate."

"It doesn't matter," she insisted, shaking her head. Her blonde hair, generally so immaculate, was somewhat lank today as if she had not been caring for herself. "Most of your father's business affairs will take care of themselves until we can free him from that dreadful place."

That dreadful place… Azkaban.

Her voice went low and for the first time, Draco noted fear in her clipped tones. "Listen to me, Draco… the Dark Lord is angry with our family – very angry. He seeks retribution for your father's… mistake."

Father's mistake. Not a Malfoy family mistake.

It was because of his father's mistake that he, Draco, was now given a man's responsibility at barely sixteen years of age. He wanted to be worried about normal things, like Quidditch and whether or not Salmeh Shafiq might give him a shot despite being two years his senior. Now he was meant to step into his father's shoes and there was certainly no time for frivolity as he struggled to accept a legacy he had ignorantly revered throughout most of his childhood: he had to be his father.

His face hardened, "How could father fail? He knew what was at stake!"

Narcissa's eyes were veiled with sudden anger, "Don't speak of your father in that manner, you know not of what you speak. The Dark Lord will want you to take his place."

"I'm ready," he answered firmly, standing up straight and dropping his hand to his side, now burdened with the weight and responsibility of the signet ring. His anger burgeoned when he realized his mother did not believe him. Instead of being proud of his conviction, she pitied him. Malfoys were not meant to be pitied… surely she knew that?

Before he could say a thing, she continued, "You will be asked to take the Mark. Know this: while it is disguised as a request, it isn't one… and if you should fail at whatever task He sets you, He will kill you."

Stunned, Draco was unsure what to say. Surely the Dark Lord would not murder the sole heir of an independently influential and wealthy pureblood legacy? Wasn't he meant to champion the cause of scions like him? With this disturbing new thought, he questioned, "And you, mother?"

Narcissa chewed her lip in a nervous manner Draco had never seen her display before. "I will be forced to watch." She seized his hands, "Draco, you are the most precious thing to me. Any torture of my body is something I can bear – have born – with grace. Seeing you murdered… my son, my precious son… that would break me utterly and completely. You cannot fail."

.

.

You cannot fail…

Draco could hear his mother's words whispering frantically in his ear as if she sat beside him on his four-poster. Quietly, he reached into the bedside drawer of his nightstand and pulled out the signet ring. He had never returned it to his father, despite the numerous opportunities he'd had. The truth of the matter was, that despite living with his parents for the majority of the war, he had barely spoken to Lucius for over two years. He was not even sure who that man was anymore.

It had been no small feat to mend the vanishing cabinet in the Room of Hidden Things, but Draco had done it. In the end, however, he had not killed Dumbledore. He had no stomach for murder and he was no brute. His intellect had served his family by being of use Lord Voldemort… and the Sorting Hat had taken that into account at the beginning of eighth year, whispering that his cleverness had spared his entire bloodline from extinction.

The signet ring had become both a prized possession and a burden. He preferred not to wear it. Heavy, like the responsibility it represented, the green stone that sat in the center was smaller than a knut, but not by much. Into the stone was carved the Malfoy crest and coat of arms, along with the motto: Sanctimonia Vincet Semper.

Purity will always conquer.

Suddenly he did not feel so cocky about his earlier rendezvous with Granger.

What would mother say? The thought made him ill. He shoved the ring back into his bedside drawer.

Sitting up to glance at the clock, Draco determined that it was barely four in the morning. The world outside the tower was cloaked in darkness, but he had no hopes of sleeping. He decided he would take a shower.

Climbing from bed, he quietly gathered his things and stepped into the bathroom off the dormitory, placing a Silencing Spell on the room so he would not disturb his dorm-mates (though Macmillan's snoring was in far more danger of doing so than a shower in the next room).

Stripping down was a fascinating experience in a way it never had been, now that he was covered in so many new marks and scars. Who knew Granger had so many battle scars?

The 'Mudblood' scar carved into his right forearm made him nauseous, especially since he had watched her receive it and done nothing. He was convinced the white scar on his throat was from the same evening of torture at the Manor; he seemed to recall his aunt Bellatrix pressing her cursed knife to Granger's neck and a few drops of freshly oxygenated blood beading bright red on her throat…

The mottled purple-and-blue blotch that stretched down his ribcage was something she had apparently got from Antonin Dolohov at the end of fifth year. Draco recalled Dolohov: he had always been ambivalent toward the man, but now felt an unmitigated pleasure that he was dead.

Determining the water was hot enough, he stepped into the shower and let the stream of water beat down on him in a reassuring barrage. He sighed as relief flooded his aching bones, continuing his inventory of newly inherited scars. There were many small cuts on his hands and fingers that looked as if they might be remnants from Potions class, but he inspected them each nonetheless.

Most perplexing of all were the random small burn marks that now littered his body. It was as if Granger had been slowly buried in many white-hot objects at some point. "Insane," he muttered, unsure if he meant it rudely or as a compliment. "She's bloody insane."

Running his fingers along one of the larger burns on his chest, Draco thought of how such a mark would look on Granger's breast. From there, it did not take long for his brain to conjure a general picture of Granger's tits. He had fondled them twice now and despite both instances having been over her clothing, he had a pretty good topographical map of what they must look like…

Mentally, he gave himself a good slap. Just because Draco chose not to wear the Malfoy family signet ring anymore, did not mean he had forgotten that the words etched into it would dictate his future, including his choice in a wife. Sanctimonia Vincet Semper. Dismally, he thought, All for family.

Following an hour-long shower, Draco toweled himself off and took his time making ready for the day. He did not need to be at McGonagall's office until noon, but he still left for breakfast the moment it was ready. He was the only student in the Great Hall at such an early hour, and left the moment others began arriving.

May as well begin researching this ugly predicament, he reasoned. Thus, Draco spent a few hours by himself in the Stacks looking for information about alchemal bonds before Blaise came to collect him around ten.

"For the love of Morgana, Draco, do you spend every bloody moment in these infernal Stacks?"

Draco only shrugged, walking shoulder-to-shoulder with Zabini from the common room and down the stairs of Ravenclaw Tower. "How was the party last night?"

"It was quite the spectacle."

"Do tell."

But Blaise only shook his head enigmatically. Per their usual arrangement, they met Theo on their hidden fifth floor balcony. The Gryffindor was already more than halfway through his first cigarette of the morning.

Instead of greeting his friends, Theo effused a great gust of white smoke into the sunny morning air and winced at the sound of Blaise slapping a packet of cigarettes against his hand. "Can you not?"

"Didn't get your beauty sleep last night?" Blaise queried saltily, producing an engraved silver lighter that bore his initials from his pocket and selecting a cigarette.

"Hardly."

"Hmm, and where was it you disappeared with Astoria Greengrass to?"

"Bugger off, Zabini."

Blaise only smirked and lit up.

Draco cocked at eyebrow at his friend, "Did it occur to you that Daphne might not like the idea that you're messing around with her younger sister?"

Theo waved this away, disrupting a cloud of smoke as he did so and belatedly wincing at the movement. "Daph is too caught up with her overgrown ginger lover to notice what Astoria gets up to."

"Fine, then, did you ever wonder how many repercussions there might be to accidentally impregnating an underage pureblood witch?"

"Hey now, Draco, no need to be a stick in the mud," Theo protested with a halfhearted grin, his cigarette dangling from his lips. "In any event, she can't get pregnant if I've been doing her up the…" He stopped and glared at his cigarette, which had gone out. "Bugger."

"Sure sounds like it," Blaise huffed ironically.

Of course Blaise sounds cheerful about that, Draco thought. Gossip monger.

Outwardly, Draco grimaced and deeply expelled a cloud of smoke. "There's an unwanted image I will forever have burned onto the back of my eyelids. I hope you washed up afterward, but for Merlin's sake, don't feel the need to confirm or deny that."

Theo burst into laughter before smothering it as he winced and held his head.

"Let me guess," Blaise said silkily, "you and Astoria indulged in perhaps a bit more liquor than was wise during your tryst?"

"Surely you aren't accusing me of wisdom!" Theo protested, snatching Blaise's lighter to ignite a second cigarette. "That's your expertise, Ravenclaw. I'm just trying to enjoy the freedom that comes from acting the Gryffindor and being a reckless idiot. It's liberating."

Draco snorted.

Theo observed his friend carefully and warned, "Potter's been keeping an eye on your movements, Malfoy."

He wondered if this was as simple an observation as it seemed, or if it was something Theo had Seen.

Blaise rolled his eyes, "Remember sixth year? Potter's always been keeping an eye on Draco."

Theo grinned rakishly, no longer serious, "Who do you think would be the dominant one in bed?"

"Shove off," Draco commanded lazily. Nott had been trying to get a rise out of him for years with those sorts of comments. They had affected him, once. Now they were almost part of a routine.

Blaise appeared only politely amused. "Potter's been claimed by the Weasley girl, rendering your sickening voyeuristic tendencies obsolete, Theo."

"I may vomit," Draco drawled, playing along.

"Anyway, I suppose you're spoken for, too," Theo conceded.

Draco could have throttled him in that moment, but Theodore had always had a loose tongue. He could not help himself. He and Blaise together were just about the worst combination of gossips; Theo spilled everything he knew and Blaise simply soaked it all up like a sponge for possible later use.

Brows rising behind a cloud of white smoke, Blaise prompted, "Oh?"

Shooting a venomous look at Theo, Draco insisted, "You're an idiot, Nott."

"Is he?" Blaise queried tremulously. A beat. "Granger and Rivers broke up last night."

"Oh, really?" Theo did not look at all surprised by the news.

"Heard Rivers mentioning their split," Blaise interrupted softly. "They went out to the gardens and only he came back. He danced with Turpin and Bones and a few others, but Granger never came back." His dark eyes shifted to Draco, "That's interesting, isn't it?"

Turning to Blaise, Draco stressed, "Anything you might be guessing, Zabini, put it out of your head."

Blaise only smirked and answered, "Of course."

.

.

There were still a couple minutes to spare when Draco arrived at McGonagall's office that afternoon. Hermione was not there yet. As he shut the door behind him, the headmistress raised her head and regarded him for a long moment before acknowledging, "Mr. Malfoy."

He inclined his head and politely responded, "Headmistress."

"Is Miss Granger right behind you?"

"Not that I saw."

She fixed her eyes on his face and Draco felt he was being microscopically analyzed. He remained passive; it had been years since he let down his Occlumency barriers.

"Mr. Malfoy, I can't help but feel that you orchestrated this… mess, on some level," she told him baldly.

Draco wanted to chastise her for such thinking, but he did not dare. His family had historically preferred the role of power behind the throne, rather than the throne itself. For this reason, Malfoys were conspicuously never found at the scene of any crime, regardless of how deep into the jar their hands were.

Until father, Draco mentally added, because it was the bitter truth.

The doorknob turned and Hermione entered. She seemed to be staring straight ahead and past him as she strode into the room. Draco thought he detected a hint of a blush as she anxiously inquired of the headmistress, "Am I late?"

"Precisely on time," McGonagall barked, though her eyes warmed at the sight of her. She wrapped up her deskwork and stood to retrieve her travelling cloak. "I've arranged for a private room at the Three Broomsticks for our conference. There is a carriage awaiting us by the Entrance Hall."

Granger wore a knitted white cap today, to keep her head warm against the first chill of November. Her honey-brown curls burst forth from the hem of the cap like a gushing waterfall, spilling around her shoulders and part-way down her back. Her cloak was thick and heavy. In fact, she might have been a nun but for Draco's memories of the previous night… and she was conspicuously avoiding his eyes.

He hid his smirk.

The few students they passed as they made their way through the castle were preoccupied with other tasks and did not even look up at the sight of them. The exception was one very small girl right outside the Great Hall. She might have been a second year, and she glared after Draco with unbridled hatred as he passed.

His brows furrowed at the sight of her. Where have I seen her before…?

.

.

The dungeons were cold and dark, lit only by pale torchlight that spit and crackled at intervals. Amycus Carrow wiped tears of mirth from his beady eyes and hissed, "Go on, Malfoy. Hit her with it again."

A small girl with blonde pigtails and a Gryffindor uniform looked up from where she had crumpled to the floor in pain, panting with the aftereffects of the Cruciatus Curse. Though her face was stained with tears, she glared at him defiantly, daring him to do it.

A twinge of regret ricocheted through Draco. He did not want to do it, but he had no choice. Not really. If he didn't, the Carrows would take care of the girl themselves and the spell would be worse, stronger with their sick convictions. All of the other Slytherins had been forced to do it to other students, too: Greg, Vince, Blaise, Theo, Pansy, Daphne, Tracey, Millicent… they had all done it. They were victims in their own way.

He raised his wand, hating himself, and cast, "Crucio!"

.

.

Ah, Bollocks.

The same defiant eyes pierced him now. He looked away, hating himself all over again. The hope of redemption had always seemed to dangle teasingly on a string before him, a sun-catcher spinning slowly and catching his eye repeatedly as it sparkled enticingly in the bright light, before turning aside. Sure, the name of Draco Malfoy had been vindicated in the legal sense… but it had certainly never been redeemed. How could it be?

They were met by an awaiting thestral-drawn carriage that was to take them from the castle to Hogsmeade Village. Draco avoided the grotesque horse-like creatures despite knowing they meant him no harm. He offered his hand to McGonagall to help her into the carriage; she looked on him with surprise before accepting it and being handed in. He offered the same gesture to Hermione, who offered him a shy smile – the first time she had met his eye so far – and allowed herself to be handed in, too.

The ride down to the village was uneventful. Granger chatted with McGonagall about something they were studying in Transfiguration with the new professor. Draco did not join them, preferring instead to observe the passing scenery of the Forbidden Forest, the Black Lake, and the far Scottish mountains that were blue with distance.

He could not help but wonder at McGonagall's gall in calling a meeting with his mother – whose initial allegiance during the war had been no secret – and the Grangers, a pair of Muggles. Wouldn't it have been easier (read: more comfortable) to meet separately? Perhaps she had a reason…

Draco glanced to his two companions, still chatting about some Transfiguration topic he had not followed the thread of.

McGonagall was thoroughly Gryffindor, though she seemed to understand some of the nuances of being Slytherin, too. The thing was, Draco noticed Gryffindors always tended to operate in black and white, while Slytherins preferred to dwell in the gray in-between.

As for Granger, she made just as good a Ravenclaw as she did a Gryffindor. Draco was swiftly learning that Ravenclaws did not believe everything was simply a spectrum of black, white and gray. Rather, they sought the possibility of actual color. Resplendent color, if possible.

With the affectation that he was looking out at the passing grounds behind her, Draco casually observed Granger. She was lovely when she was animated about a topic - he noticed she tended to use her hands a lot while she talked - but he could not help noticing the witch had purple bruises under her eyes. Clearly, she had not slept well last night either.

Had she been lying awake all night, too?

The carriage ground to a halt.

"Excellent," McGonagall announced, standing to step down. Remembering his manners, Draco hopped down first and handed her from the carriage, then did the same for Hermione. "Thank you, Mr. Malfoy. Now, I believe… ah, yes. Right on time."

His mother had quite a few more lines etched into her face than even the last time Draco had seen her – the war and its repercussions had not been kind to her – but she was still enchantingly beautiful. Her blonde hair was curled and impeccably coiffed, her blue and gray robes pristine and perfectly matched to her dark blue eyes. She stood outside the Three Broomsticks looking uneasy at being so exposed on the village street while alone.

And Malfoys did not wait for people.

"Mother," he greeted, reaching out his hand, which she took and pressed fondly into with both of hers.

"Draco," she murmured, her voice a kind of elegant hum. She smiled in a strained sort of way.

Hermione's parents surprised him, though he could not have said what he was expecting.

Mr. Granger had a youthful face and could easily have passed for Hermione's older brother, rather than her father. The witch had clearly inherited her tumult of curls from the man, though on him it was cropped short and therefore easily styled because of its more manageable length. He was tall and handsome with a classical physique, extremely white teeth, and dark eyes. In fact, Draco suspected that if this man had not been a Muggle, his mother would have admired the fine figure he cut.

Hermione seemed to have inherited the rest of her features from her mother. The two women were precisely the same height and build, their facial shape, mouths, noses, eyes – identical. In fact, Hermione might have been a copy of her mother but for the fact that Mrs. Granger had sleek, rich chestnut hair that was naturally straight and easily contained. A small golden cross was the only jewelry she wore, but her clothing was immaculate, rather in the same way that Narcissa's was perfectly pressed with creases only in the correct places.

Draco thought it significant that they appeared so thoroughly Muggle compared to the ensemble the rest of them wore. It was almost like they were from two different worlds.

We are, he reminded himself.

The Grangers appeared to be somewhat out of their element and were peering at their surroundings with a piqued, but somewhat nervous, interest. As soon as they came into sight, Hermione squeaked and ran to her mother. The woman embraced her, stroking her hair lovingly as Mr. Granger squeezed his daughter's shoulder and clapped her on the back. It was such a blatant display of public affection that Draco felt he had to look away.

"The doctors Granger, I presume?" McGonagall offered a firm handshake to the couple as Hermione pulled away from her mother to give her father a brief hug as well. She introduced herself, "Minerva McGonagall, Headmistress of Hogwarts School."

"Our daughter speaks very highly of you," Mr. Granger said, taking the offered hand and giving it a wary shake. "Please call us Todd and Natalie."

"Mrs. Malfoy," McGonagall greeted, inclining her head to the Malfoy matriarch.

"Headmistress," Narcissa answered calmly.

Draco noticed his mother stood away from the Grangers and close to himself, her eyes occasionally darting to them questioningly. Surely she was wondering why she had been called to a meeting with her son, the brains of the Golden Trio, the Headmistress of Hogwarts, and a pair of Muggles. Draco could almost hear the wheels of her mind turning over all the possibilities.

"Shall we head inside?" McGonagall suggested, likely sensing the general unease of the group. "I have reserved a private room for us all to discuss a predicament our young people now find themselves in. Allow me to lead the way."

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Author's Note: Thanks for your patience while I got this chapter together. It was a bit tougher than usual to write, because as you saw, this chapter was the first one from Draco's POV instead of Hermione's. I hope you enjoyed me shaking it up a bit.

Reviews are the french bread and brie to my FFN experience. Thank you to everyone who left their remarks, or encouraged me to continue.

Much appreciation to my beta, I was BOTWP, who looked over this chapter and kept me from peering down rabbit holes. I have a bad habit of that, but luckily, she has a long shepherd's crook to pull me back up.