Hermione groaned and rolled over in her bed.

There was something different about the pain this morning. It felt like it was waiting for her. Waiting for her to order it around. Direct it. Put it on its rightful path.

How should she control it today?

She sat up and rested against the headboard, trying to ignore the throbbing that once again originated in her abdomen. She could will this feeling away, but why not see what else she could do first? If at any point it became too much and she wanted it to stop, she knew how to do that.

Hermione squeezed her eyes shut and concentrated. She focused on the origin of the disturbance, visualised herself scooping it up in her hands. Grabbing hold of it to reform and reshape it for her own needs.

Take it take it take it.

A fetid, rotting smell invaded her nostrils and interrupted her train of thought. Darting out of bed, she walked through to her kitchen in confusion. Had it been so long since she'd cleaned?

The mess angered her. The evidence of her former hysteria and fang fixation was in chunks on the floor, on the counters. Flies had taken reign, setting up their own little disgusting kingdoms over decomposing fruits.

She could retrieve her wand from the bedroom and clear up the mess with a few targeted spells.

Or she could do something new.

She closed her eyes and drew on her new, growing well of inner power. Like a pot of water teetering on the edge of boiling, it seemed to simmer for an inordinate amount of time before finally reaching the required state.

Magic burst out of her at such a ferocity it shattered the windows.

But Hermione could fix the glass later. Because in the wake of her strike was a bounty of perfect, ripe fruit. Pristine, gleaming vegetables. Mouth-watering looking meats and cheeses.

She'd taken her magic and eradicated the rot.

She'd restored dead things to life.

Malfoy pushed off his usual wall and approached her. "Good morning."

Polite and proper. No hint that he'd brought her to a leg-shaking orgasm against his library wall not twelve hours ago.

"Malfoy."

The last time she'd said that name his ruthless tongue had been circling her clit. She hadn't so much as said it either, as gasped at a decibel level far too loud for the height of his home's ceilings.

"Anything you're looking forward to in your work day schedule?" he asked.

"I…" she frowned, puzzled and trying to remember. "No," she finally said slowly. "I don't think there's anything…"

She trailed off and looked up at him as they came to their usual parting point on the mornings she wasn't inviting him to her office for less than professional private meetings.

Suddenly the pain pulsed within her. The sharp vibrancy made her bold. Tonight she could discover more of the physical properties of this feeling.

And this man would help her do it.

"I'm looking forward to seeing you later tonight."

"Ah yes. You had said yesterday you wanted to have a more practical approach now, is that right?"

"Yes. I'd like to use my hands this time."

"Careful Granger."

His eyes darted to either side of them, to the passing crowd of Ministry workers.

"I'm tired of being careful."

Temptation could be much more fun.

"Good."

"I know it's why you took the job."

"Your point?"

"Don't get defensive, I didn't say it was a bad thing."

"The implication was there."

"On the contrary, I think it's a good quality."

"Pull the other one."

"I'm serious Draco. I… I feel similarly. There's nothing wrong with being intrigued by magic."

"Of course not, but taken to the extreme—"

"Good thing you have me then, isn't it?"

"Yes, my own little conscience. Morality made sentient with impossible hair."

"Prat."

"I see it with you too, sometimes. The curiosity."

"And I'll tell you again. There's nothing wrong with that."

Hermione arrived at Malfoy Manor with a burning anticipation.

She hadn't yet told Malfoy about her experience this morning, with a pulsing ache that she'd directed outward and restored rotting things anew.

"Good evening Granger."

"Malfoy."

A set stage. Malfoy in his dark clothing in his dimly lit, ancient library. Candles dripped wax like tears of enemies and prisoners that had been led through the lower halls, certainly never allowed into the foreboding splendour of this grand room.

Odd, she thought then, how she'd once been marched through the front doors, bled on his drawing room floor. She wondered about the other rooms in the Manor and glanced towards the tall oak doors at the opposite end of the room.

"Are you ready?" Malfoy called her attention back.

When she looked back at him, she had the strangest urge to run. Her body stilled, almost like a deer startled into a frozen pose, just before it darted across a dark road.

"Oh Granger," he gave a low chuckle and leaned back in his chair. "You're the most powerful thing in this room. We'll have none of that," he waved a careless hand at her face.

Nowhere to run, little witch.

Hermione shook her head and a few rapid blinks later found herself sitting in a chair.

Malfoy's face split into a haughty smirk; the kind that only lifted the corner of his mouth.

"Good girl."

She let those two words slide into her mind, jolting a thrill through her body, then promptly buried any and all visceral reactions to his borderline mocking praise. Another thrill was now building. Pain within; acknowledged, categorised, and then tucked away. Leashed, for now.

Hermione pulled Secrets of the Darkest Arts towards her and frowned. She didn't recognise these passages in the book. She didn't remember coming across them before and she'd thought she'd thoroughly read the proper sections.

But wait, that wasn't right. She hadn't read these sections because the book wouldn't let her turn its pages.

Pulse. Thrum. In your veins, in your veins, in you.

Hermione let her fingers glide across the black ink. It was faded and ancient looking, yet she could have sworn these words had not been there before.

She tried to speak, tried to read them, but her brain could not decipher the language. Some unknowable force kept her mind from comprehending and her voice from speaking.

Pulse pulse pulse pulse stronger.

"Could you come here for a moment?" she asked Malfoy.

"Not until you've made some progress."

She shot him a withering glare.

"I need you to read a passage for me. If you prefer I slide this over I—"

He rose so swiftly from his seat she almost jumped.

"How may I be of service tonight?"

He ran the pads of his fingers up her arm, a slow and patient graze as he came to stand behind her and lean forward. Surrounded, trapped, safe. Kept inside something bigger than herself. The cocoon of a blanket during a thunderstorm. A man who represented both.

There was an insistent thrum now, beating against her good intentions. An incessant swirl that would whip up into a frenzy and could possibly force her hand. She felt the power grow but it did nothing for the mental block.

"I'm not sure what I'm looking at here," Hermione said, frustration bleeding into her words. "Is this… is this a code or… well it doesn't look like standard text or even runes, it's all just… out of focus…"

Malfoy kept up the light, constantly moving touch along her arms.

"Perhaps your answer doesn't lie in that book. Not just yet," murmured into her ear. A soothing placation she could latch onto and hold. "Didn't you say earlier that you'd like to use your hands?"

Hermione lifted her hands and pushed her palms out in front of her. The pain from this morning still lingered. She'd managed to keep a loose lid on it after her demonstration in the kitchen, but she ripped that cover off now.

Her entire body started to tremble, and not from weakness.

"You feel it now, don't you Granger?"

"Yes, what—what is it?"

"It's you. It's your power. Hone it now, control it."

Her magical core. What made her, her. She had unfettered access to raw magic, from low in her gut to the tips of her toes to the ends of her hair. She could burst. She could fly. She could burn and destroy and create.

Hermione's hands fell to the pages and she traced more words with her fingertips. Malfoy's excited voice came from just behind her.

"You feel it all, don't you? Your strength is remarkable. If you could harness this, you'd be unstoppable."

"What do I have to do?"

Malfoy slid two fingers under her chin and tilted her head back. His height afforded him the ability to look down into her eyes at this angle.

"What do I keep telling you? Whatever—" he kissed her forehead, "you—" he kissed her cheek, "want," he kissed her jaw.

"I'm afraid."

"Don't be. Remember, you're the one in control."

Hermione tried to refocus, but her pesky conscience chose that moment to make itself heard.

"We're not meant to tap into our magical cores like this. The raw power… it's usually too much for a wizard to handle. We need a wand as our conduit."

"That may be so, but how does finding that natural ability, that innate strength, make you feel?"

"I—"

She couldn't quite articulate it. Not just yet.

She remembered the moment she'd received confirmation of being an actual witch. Not a kid with a knack for accidents or funny episodes. But a real, proper, magical witch. This felt similar.

This felt stronger.

She raised her palms again. Now she remembered how it felt to abandon righteousness for ruthlessness. The fierce triumph of leading Umbridge to a herd of centaurs. The savage success of trapping Rita Skeeter in a jar.

Hermione could fix things when they didn't go her way. And now she wouldn't have to rely on luck or chance or life-or-death reactions. Those had been victories of practicality and quick thinking.

She recalled how it felt then to use her magic as the weapon, instead of her mind. The surge of anger that led to her attacking Ron with canaries. The satisfaction of seeing Marietta Edgecombe with pustules across her face.

She had it here, literally in her hands.

But she had no cause to champion. No threat to cut down. No friends to protect at all costs. No pride to avenge.

Hermione would be using something Dark for the sake of using it. For experimentation.

The words on the pages slid into and then back out of focus. A rippling window of opportunity she didn't have the heart to seize.

Should she want this type of power?

Like a pin popping a balloon, her resolve burst, energy depleted to nothing.

"I'm tired," she said suddenly, and sank back against her chair, Malfoy's hands leaving her.

Her eyes felt heavy and when she blinked next she found him sitting across from her once more.

"You've done well to even identify your own inner power," he said softly. "Perhaps you've done enough for tonight."

Hermione agreed and let her eyes fall shut again.

When she opened them next, it was morning and she was alone in her bed.

What day was it?

Hermione stood in her bedroom after work and tried to remember. She'd woken up and gone to work and… wait she'd gone to work. She saw Malfoy in the Atrium. No, she'd last seen Malfoy in his library. But that had been last night. And then she'd slept and… and woken and gone to work. And now she was home again.

What day was it?

The pain pulsed, like an old friend saying hello, remember me?

The nipping reminder in her gut swirled and spread, feeding itself with her magic. So strong, you're so strong, don't you want to know?

She wanted to feel normal. For just a minute. And whenever Hermione wanted to feel normal, when magic became too much, her world too weird, she knew exactly where she could go.

Her parents.

"Mum? Dad?"

Hermione stepped out into a room. A barren room, dark and deserted. Where were they?

She revolved on the spot, her current setting blurring in a mix of the familiar and unfamiliar. She'd meant to arrive at her parents' home and she had. But where were the photos on the mantel? The artwork on the walls? The sounds of the television or her mum bustling about the kitchen?

Fear spiked and choked her, panic hijacking her senses.

Where were her parents? She wanted her parents, she wanted the normalcy, not this terrifying blankness.

"Hello darling!"

Hermione whipped around, eyes wide in surprise and then relief. Light seemed to flood her sight, warmth and comfort snuffing out her anxiety as she beheld her smiling parents. Everything else seemed to bleed back into reality: a cozy home, a lived-in sitting room, and the Grangers standing whole and healthy before her.

"You startled me," Hermione said with a laugh.

"You'll stay for dinner, won't you?" asked her mother and gestured to the dining table.

"Your mum's made your favourite," said her father.

"Of course I'll stay," Hermione beamed and sat next to her father.

Hermione relaxed, and all her worries turned brittle; easily broken and disregarded. She could forget about troublesome questions about her powers, her attraction to Malfoy, or hallucinations. Tonight, she could simply be Hermione Jean Granger, daughter of Muggles, as ordinary a woman as any other.

Plain. Safe.

Hermione woke feeling refreshed, ready to tackle her work day. Though she received Malfoy in the Atrium with a smile, all it took was a simple greeting to tilt the world on its axis.

"Good morning Granger. How was your weekend?"

"Oh it was… it was..."

It had slipped by in a haze of nothingness, she realised. But surely she must have done something with her time?

"Never mind, I had quite a dull one as well," he said with a charming smile. "Will you be stopping by after work?"

"Actually, I was hoping to spend time with Harry and Ginny tonight. I missed dinner with them last week."

"Why not come over after your dinner?"

"Oh… all right."

"Lovely."

Hermione waited until dessert to bring up her reason for being so scarce with her friends as of late.

"I've been spending time with Malfoy lately."

Harry blinked at her. "Oh, that's nice Hermione."

Ginny looked just as nonplussed.

A frisson of fear rippled through Hermione as she stared back at her thinly-smiling friends. The ripple grew and became a splash in the pool of her psyche.

This wasn't Harry. This wasn't Ginny. An alarming realisation to have about one's closest friends. Alarming and not entirely sane.

But the news that Hermione had willingly chosen to seek Malfoy's company would never be met with such indifference, such non-reactions. Especially from Harry.

And Ginny… Ginny should be… she should be interested, curious in that mischievous way of hers. Always willing to support Hermione, but not without some wariness first.

And Harry should frown at the very least. Long past his days of apoplexy where it concerned Malfoy, but surely he'd have some sort of opinion about Draco's character.

Because Harry liked to… he liked to ask questions and… take care of his friends, protect them.

Dessert progressed as if Hermione hadn't spoken at all, but now her little seed of doubt, watered by a paranoid fear, had her observing her friends as opposed to interacting with them.

Their movements seemed odd, mechanical. They picked up their forks, put food in their mouths, chewed, swallowed. No reactions to the taste, no banter between husband and wife, just the blank, emotionless motions of playacting humanoids.

Instead of making a scene, Hermione quietly ate her dessert and said goodbye and Floo'ed home.

She paced her bedroom, mind and heart racing. Who could she go to? Who would believe her?

Who was the one person who often believed in anything?

Luna.

But when Hermione arrived at Luna's flat, she blinked in confusion. This looked like Harry and Ginny's place. No wait, that couldn't be right. Because it actually looked like Ron and Susan's place. With each blink of her eyes, Hermione's vision morphed, walls and pictures shifting. Like interlocking puzzle pieces, rooms moved in and out of view, a flat being created in real time in front of her.

Once the correct picture had fully formed, a smiling blonde woman also stood in the middle of it.

"Hello Hermione," said Luna. Said. Luna said it. But now that Hermione's suspicions were raised, her brain could catalogue why that was wrong.

Luna didn't just say things as boring as "Hello." She pronounced a greeting with a cheery, dreamy enthusiasm, as if her friends appeared at the most pleasant time possible, no matter when. She'd chirp "oh hello Hermione. I was only just thinking how your birth chart means you should avoid any medical procedures this month. Would you like to see the new species of daffodil I've grown?"

Hermione sputtered out the first test question she could think of.

"Luna, when was the last time you hunted for the Crumple Horned Snorkack?"

"I can't recall. Staying for dinner?"

"Only if you're serving crushed Erumpent horns with a side of pulverized Nargles. How does that sound Luna?"

"Sounds lovely. Won't be a moment."

There was no universe in existence in which Luna Lovegood answered doctored ridiculousness with calm, clinical sanity.

Before Luna could return and continue her chilling mannequin hostess routine, Hermione fled through the fireplace once again, but this time she went to the only place that had recently offered her actual answers.

She spun out into the hearth in Malfoy's library and couldn't stop shaking. Malfoy, leaning his hip against her usual table, approached with smarm on his lips and probably a quip on his tongue until he noticed her obvious distress.

"Granger. What's wrong?"

She threw herself into Malfoy's arms. He caught her, supporting her easily. Restraining all night from descending into hysteria finally took its toll from her.

"Are you real?" She said into his chest. "I need something to be real. Please."

He gave her no answer, but the constant thudding heartbeat emanating from him spoke of flesh and blood. A steady thumping, beating and pulsing beneath his skin. She looked up into a face showing actual concern.

His brow wrinkled, a rational reaction to Hermione's alarming theatrics. He looked confused, possibly worried, a little afraid. Maybe uncomfortable.

She stepped out of his hold and shook her head. "So sorry, that was—"

"It's fine," he clipped.

Hermione stared and stared at Malfoy. So long that she watched in real time how he could shutter himself, could whittle away the emotion in his eyes, erasing feeling and pulling obscurity to the forefront.

It was a deliberate, human act.

"I don't understand," Hermione said. "Why are you the only one I can trust right now?"

He shrugged. "I have no idea Granger."

"Ever since… ever since these changes have started happening… you're the only one who believes me."

"Because I want to help you."

"But, my friends—"

"Are useless on their best days."

"That's not true," she argued. "Just the other night at Harry and Ginny's I… we…"

She trailed off and the defense died on her tongue. Who would she even be defending right now? Fear dragged through her mind, the simulacra friends she'd noticed this evening.

This evening. Dinner and then… and then…

"Why can't I remember how I got here?"

"What do you mean?" asked Malfoy.

"Exactly that I… I can't recall how I ended up here. In your home."

"Did you want to be here?"

"Yes."

"Then does it matter?"

"But how… I was at work and then… and then… I was with Harry and Ginny and then… Luna and then—"

"And then you Floo'ed here."

"But I can't remember anything in between, do you understand?"

Agitated, Hermione strode further into the library. She paced up and down rows, ran her finger along spines, circled the reading table, tried to catalogue every detail along the high walls and ceiling.

No artwork, no tapestries. Odd, she thought then, for a family as ostentatious as the Malfoys to have such a grand library and not decorate every inch of it.

"Have you made changes since the… the war?"

"I would say I hardly recognize this as the place I grew up in." He said it with a wry smile, as if the unfamiliarity of his own home amused him.

During her entire inspection, Malfoy hadn't moved. His eyes only swept along after her, watching her trudge through his library without comment.

Hermione wanted more tactile proof, a reassurance that not everything around her had gone slightly wrong. She was playing with puzzle pieces that didn't quite fit. On top of that, the puzzle itself had no definite picture, she had no idea what she was even working towards.

She approached Malfoy slowly, palms raised towards him. They landed on his chest and she slid them up to his shoulders. Solid beneath her hands. Real.

She tracked the silvery scar tissue at his neck; an embedded spider webbing in his skin. Her curious fingers landed on one, tracing it from the top of his collar to the underside of his jaw.

"You're… you have scars," she murmured. "From Harry. Harry gave you those scars in Sixth Year."

"He did."

"They're beautiful."

"They're a souvenir of a Dark curse that should have killed me."

Hermione dropped her touch immediately, but Malfoy didn't look or sound angry. He'd answered her forward observation with indifference, a statement of fact.

But his eyes had come alive again. He didn't say anything further and the silence grew and lengthened, stretching on until she felt uncomfortable audibly breathing.

His home was too quiet.

Hermione stepped back from him. "Where are your parents?"

"My parents?"

"Are you really all alone in this humongous manor?"

"No, I'm here with you."

"This isn't a joke Malfoy."

"I don't recall making one."

"What do you do when I'm not here?"

"Oh, all the sorts of boring things you imagine someone as aimless and incomparably wealthy as myself doing."

He smiled and it disarmed her. She was being silly. Paranoid.

"Stuffy galas then?" she teased.

"Would you want to accompany me to one? As my guest of honour?"

"Oh… well if you're asking."

"I am. Pick a night."

She floundered for an answer, unable to grasp the sudden flip to him giving her what she wanted. Something more outside the library rendezvous and mornings at the Ministry.

"Me? I couldn't possibly impose, I only meant—"

"Name the evening Granger, I assure you, I'd have it well in hand," he insisted.

"Saturday."

"Done."

"I hate them. They are unequivocally awful."

"Says the man who probably grew up attending them several nights per week."

"Bit different for me now."

"How so?"

"Is that a serious question? Half the room looks at me as if I might torture them at any moment and the other half want to see how much gold they could wring out of me."

"Well of course the networking and social climber bit is tiresome, but you can't tell me getting dressed up and dancing isn't a little bit fun."

"I suppose it could be, should one have a… companion."

"The Ministry Yuletide Gala is next month."

"It's the same time every year."

"Right. Were you planning to attend?"

"I… I'm not sure. I truly don't enjoy large parties. They make me… uncomfortable."

"Maybe you just need the right companion, per your overly formal word choice."

"Yeah. Maybe."

The pain was there again when she woke the following morning. It was brighter, even more tangible, and it wanted to be let out. Here for you, here from you. Want to see what you can do?

What could she do with such an intensity? Could she inflict it outward again? Could she channel it with her wand? Or just her hands?

Could she make someone else feel it?

Hermione always ignored it or played with the power just enough before dismissing it. Though she felt the stir and knew how her abilities would obey her commands, she would need the book to maximise her potential.

But it was more than just books and spellwork. She wanted a partner in this endeavour.

A/N: Thanks for reading, there will be 8 chapters total.