Hullo. Yours truly is making a poor attempt at angsty, bitter-sweet romance. And, unlike the others, this one has been thought over, carefully.

It's a hard feat, I admit, to attempt a romance and at the same time trying to make it realistic, in the sense that the idea of Draco and Hermione is a fun possibility to consider, but there are conflicts that deflects that possibility. In other words, as a D/Hr-shipper myself, you guys will hate me in the end.

LJ username: _starburn



n o b e d o f r o s e s
i. a view beyond the chrome-scope



Hermione quietly opened the door to the greenhouse and stepped inside, savouring the rich redolence of the silverflowers and pale roses that decorated the room amongst other numerous shruberies. The warmth of the room was sweet and delicate, pure and soothing; Hermione thought she could bask in this captivating glory all day and night if given the tempting offer. But, unfortunately, the idea was for naught so she fancied herself portions of her afternoons in perfumed bliss.

She glanced around for a moment before settling on the farthest corner of the room, sitting herself down with a thick book on her lap. As soon as she opened the flap, the door to the greenhouse opened and shut. Hermione peered up, slightly, through her wispy fringes. Her brows furrowed in curiosity, her mahogany eyes glittering with uncertainty.

Draco Malfoy had stepped inside with a polished flourish, his dark-green robe slung casually over his arm, leaving him in a black, cashmere sweater with the distinct crest of Slytherin embedded over the left breast. The shirt, somewhat tight, clung to the new muscle he had obtained from his rigorous years of Quidditch seeker - beautifully sinewy. The pale blonde tresses that were often seen slicked back to further enhance his superciliousness was now dry and windswept, strands brushing his brow, soft to the touch. The Prussian chrome of his eyes were mesmerizing and deep, as well as mysterious and unfathomable.

Hermione's disdain for him was clearly great, but she was not as dim as others liked to think. She knew the Malfoys were sinfully debonair, attractive. They were the fresh apples of others' eyes. They were sweet in the looks and irresistable. No, Hermione had taste when it came to first glances. But she did have a much keener eye for personality.

Waking herself from a mindless reverie, she shut her book and stood up, brushing her uniform for any stray dust particles that might have collected on the fabric. She would have stood her ground if she needed to; after all, she had been there first. But she had been at ease for the past week and wrecking the new bliss that was hers would have destroyed all serenity she had experienced. It was nice to draw away from the stringency of schoolwork sometimes, although she would never admit that she, too, had other interests than essays or spells.

Excuse me, she muttered softly, as she tried to pass him. It wasn't long before she felt a firm grip on her forearm that she spun around to face him, eyes curious, although her face was set into a scowl. Malfoy, what are-

She stopped mid-sentence.

Prussian storms met russet plume, and her knees were close to buckling as she realised how purely wonderful a set of eyes could be, no matter how malicious or unkind they were. Now, however, there was no trace of such dislike but a searching sort of gaze. It was a look that seemed to peer through her brown mirrors and delve into the dark abyss that was her, searching and grasping frantically for her soul.

Suddenly, he let her go and left the greenhouse.

No spats. No glares. No mudblood.'

Hermione clutched the book she was holding to her chest, wondering if what had just happened was a reality or a dream.





The austere sun hung low, the blue skies fading to a pale orange and rose hue. The gentle light drifted over the mass of lush green and azure rivers and over hills in the distance. Hogwarts was just another element in the tranquil portrait of colours. The landscape seemed too ethereal, almost a dream, full of tarnished gold and antiques of emeralds. It was a blue veil over green in a palette of tints.

Draco sat under the bleak willow tree with his knees to his chest, his elbows propped upon them, as his gaze swept over nature's miracles. Even so, no sense of calm, or anything else for that matter, flitted past his eyes. And if there were, it was only for a fleeting moment, a moment that could not even be defined. His mind was definitely elsewhere, simply focused on a bookish brunette with hidden curves and soulful depths of brown. Hermione Granger, Head Girl, epitomized everything he was taught to loathe, embodied everything the pure bloods were against.

So why was she, once considered filth in his eyes, suddenly more than just something he despised? Something that intrigued him so? He couldn't answer that himself as much as he wanted to. Every time he searched for answers, they always led to more questions and more searching for their answers. The only explanation he could come up with was that, despite her dirty blood, she was pure in a different sense. She was another sweet innocent that every one envied. Her naivetë was simply magnetic. Not only that, but he felt a sort of strange comfort around her. Sure, he still despised her and hated her for what she was, but it didn't erase the tranquility he felt when he was around her. It eased his child-borne pains, soothed him from the man he was and the man he was to become. And, at the same time, he wanted to use and abuse her, kiss her hard enough to bruise her, wanted her to share the same unknown ache in his chest.

Life was an evil and complicated thing, a myriad of complex wonders.

Draco stood up and looked thoughtfully at the castle. He had no desire to go back inside. Inside, he had to put on a different mask, a façade of indifference and malignancy. Inside, his purpose was to taunt and torture, to hurt and break others when they were already down. To a Malfoy, these things were natural. There was almost a strong, invisible urge to hurt others; Malfoys were a sadistic bunch. Even so, he wanted to stay out longer where every thing was just perfect, a fantasy of sorts where a repuation was of no significance.

The sun dipped below the hills, the warmth and smell of summer saved for another sunrise. In the place where the bright sun was previously etched, gloriously high in the sky, was the silver core of the velvet night where stars dipped in lustrous mercury dappled the dark blanket.

The Great Hall was probably full of students already, judging by the time of the skies. The blonde youth sighed and pinned his robe around his neck.

Draco Malfoy was coming inside.





Hermione had just returned the book she had borrowed to the library and was now sauntering down the empty hallways to the Great Hall. The candlelights on the stone walls of the castle flickered and cast shadows against the floor and ceiling, creating an eerie glow in the dark corridors.

She passed an open window and took a moment to stare out in the dark abyss, admiring the pale glow of the moon and the effervescent stars. How wonderful it would be if she could simply ignore her dinner to bask outside on a hot, summer night underneath such an amazing view of the bright cosmos. Lately, non-school-related things had piqued her interests such as wizard plays (they were quite interesting compared to the muggle plays she had read), the history of the heavens according to wizards, and much more. To her delight, there was so much more than that.

Suddenly, her gaze flickered to a figure in the shadows that stood still underneath the window. The way the moon shone so bright, it was hard to miss the platinum blonde and the glowing eyes. She tilted her head to to the side, slightly.

Draco?

No sooner had his name flashed in her mind, the figure that seemed to be him disappeared. Hermione blinked and rubbed the nape of her neck. Maybe she was being a bit too relaxed. Draco Malfoy was never one to stare, much less at her.

She pushed herself away from the window and headed towards the Great Hall.





It was another ordinary night in the Great Hall. Great peals of laughter echoed and bounced off the walls. Dinner arrived on golden platters, appearing magically on the four, long tables.

Minerva's eyes scanned the room with cat-like precision, then finally settled on two tables, Slytherin and Gryffindor, her eyes bouncing between them. The aged woman leaned slightly towards the elderly wizard whose silver beard, long and shimmery, glittered underneath the chandeliers' glow, his eyes twinkling with amusement and wisdom that peeked through a pair of half-moon spectacles.



Dumbledore leaned towards her as well, chewing his food until it slid down his throat.

Yes, Minerva?

Two of our students are missing. The wrinkles on the woman's forehead stood out prominently now, worry etched quite clearly into her features.

Albus Dumbledore sat quietly for a minute, his hands paused at the slice of bread on his plate. Then, he adjusted his glasses with the same hand and leaned back on his chair.

It seems you're right, Minerva. He said calmly, eyes, too, switching back and forth between the Gryffindor and Slytherin tables.

Should we look for them?

Albus reached for his bread again.

I suspect that the two are not in danger. Let nature take its course, Minerva. I have a feeling that there's more to Miss Granger and Young Malfoy than they lead on.

The woman leaned back into her own chair, half-relaxed and half-tense.

So you say, Albus. So you say.

Young Malfoy will not be deterred from what he wants and what we have on our hands right now is a curious witch. Minerva, they are growing up. I believe there is so much more to hatred, something much more stronger than hatred.

She shook her head lightly.

Mister Malfoy does not seem like the type, Albus.

Oh, but we do not give him much credit. He may not be capable of something so pure, but he is capable of something else. He nodded.

Oh? What is that?

The will to try.

she said, sighing, you can be a bit too optimistic at times.

Perhaps not. Look, he said, pointing at the door, here they come.

Minerva peered through her glasses at the magnificent oak wood door and watched as it opened gently with a reverberating creak.





Hermione reached the large door and was surprised to find the Slytherin prince across from her, not more than four feet away. They stood there for what seemed like an eternity, staring at each other, words forgotten. Although she tried to mirror his indifference, it didn't stop the glint of interest in her brown eyes. She sized him up, her eyes coming to rest on his own. She searched and searched through his own whirlpool of blue storms, watching as it faded to grey and a chrome silver.

Then, he smirked. It was hard to tell if it was genuine or not, but she figured that was the mere beauty of Draco Malfoy as a whole - he was an enigma that needed unraveling.

Careful, Granger. Curiosity killed the cat.

She blinked.

His baritone voice was musical and alluring, she noted sourly. Draco managed elegance in whatever he did. She hated him for that.

I could say the same for you,, Malfoy. She countered after a second's hesitation. Really, she was referring to the minor incident in the greenhouse, but she decided against reminding him. Draco Malfoy was smart enough to catch on.

The smile vanished from his lips; instead, his brows arched slightly and she could see the faint amusement in his Prussian orbs. It was for a fleeting second, really, before he reached out to the door and pushed it open. A blinding light washed over them and when everything seemed to adjust, the many eyes of students and professors stared back at them with shock and inquisition.

They walked in together and then parted ways.

The chatter in the room had enormously multiplied.





Ron leaned forward towards Hermione, a strand of his fiery-red hair brushing his brow.

What did that slimy git do to you, Hermione? He asked calmly, anger hidden beneath his tongue.

Over the years, she had noticed a change in Ron. He filled out nicely, she gave him that. His bright red hair was now much more striking. Instead of the unkempt style he kept it in from his first year to his sixth year, it was nicely combed and tousled in all directions and fixed with a generous amount of gel. He had grown out of the gangly boy stage and was now lean muscle from the few years he was on the Quidditch team, and his emerald eyes seemed bright, accentuating his physique. He had also matured, but beneath all that was the old Ron, short-tempered with his heart on his sleeve.

Harry was another story. He had managed to become increasingly handsome over the years. Ron and Harry almost shared the same appearance with the slight differences between them. His hair was a dusty black, sleek and silky, and the glasses he wore gave him a tender and intelligent appeal. The talk about him had also increased. Instead of the usual gasps and shocked faces that occurred when people took notice that he was The Boy Who Lived, there was also much talk about his appearance amongst the young and older witches. And still, with all that attention, Harry continued to shy away from it, modest as he was.

She twirled a strand of her hair around her finger, absently.

He didn't do anything.

It was a little white lie, really. But the incident earlier in the afternoon was very minor. It wasn't as if he had tried anything with her.

Harry and Ron exchanged skeptical looks then turned back to her.

The young Ron would have been livid now, would have jumped to conclusions that the git was just toying around and that he would have tried something. The young Ron would have made a firm statement that Draco Malfoy was still a prat and not to be trusted.

This Ron, however, tried to keep his anger from seeping. He bit his lip. He was getting better, she had to admit.

I still don't trust him. Ron spat, before distracting himself with food.

Hermione was about to reach for a slice of bread when she glanced up at Harry, only to find he was staring at her with uncertainty. Harry, always wide-eyed and observant. Sometimes, she wished he was just another dim-witted fool. Unfortunately, he wasn't but Hermione loved him all the same.

She asked, innocently.

Harry shook his head then smiled brightly.

Nothing, Hermione. He paused. Just remember that we're here, okay? You don't need to hide anything.

How was she to retaliate to that?

Harry returned to his food and began another exciting conversation about Quidditch with Ron and the other boys.

Hermione sighed. For some reason, she had lost her appetite. She didn't dwell on it for too long when her gaze suddenly locked across the room to a pair of eyes that were staring back at her. Slightly unnerved, she excused herself from the table and left the Great Hall.

It wasn't long before Draco followed.

Albus's lips twitched into a smile.

He never saw the frown and worried look on his colleague's face.





Normally, she would have gone to the library to study. Now, she was in the library for a different purpose. Hermione wanted to think, sort out her conflicting feelings. It wasn't so much as being intimidated by his unusual stares, but she wasn't daft enough to not notice the glances he shot her every so often. Now that she was recalling it, it started out on the first day of their meeting when they were assigned a separate tower for making Head Boy and Head Girl. Whenever Professor Dumbledore said something, she would nod in confirmation and look towards Draco to see if he was paying the slightest attention. He was, in fact, but his attention seemed to be directed at her instead. And the minute she had caught his eyes, he would look away and maintain his insufferable expression of superiority.

She was sure that today wasn't the first day he was staring at her.

Why would he, though?

Then, she felt someone metaphorically burning holes into her head. She twitched slightly on her chair and shifted into a different position.

Hasn't your mother ever told you that staring is rude? She snapped without looking up.

A swish of robes, the pat pat pat of shoes on padded floor, and the flop on a chair. Hermione looked up into the face of Draco, who was sitting right across from her with the same look he had on back at the greenhouse.

she sighed, I would appreciate it greatly if you didn't look at me like that.

He smirked and leaned back on his chair, resting his feet on the table.

Why? Does it make you nervous?

For lack of better words, yes, actually. And don't think I haven't noticed you staring at me before. Honestly, this is creepy - even for you, Malfoy.

I figured you would.

Silence weighed them under a heavy blanket and Hermione was suffocating. With every passing second, the urge to wipe off the taunting smile on his face amounted greatly.



Well' what?

Prat.

Will you stop?



Why in heaven's not? She demanded, standing up and slamming both hands on the desk. The portraits looked at her, condescendingly, for interrupting whatever conversation they were having with other portraits. They seemed to accept the new silence that followed and continued.

Draco stood up, mirroring her stance, except he was leaning more towards her. Too angered, Hermione never noticed.

Torture doesn't stop at words, Granger.

She glared at him before he turned away and left the library. When he was a good way away, Hermione let out a loud squeal of frustration.

The portraits hushed, annoyed.

Hermione looked around her and saw the paintings looking back at her with expectance. She smiled, sheepishly, and exited.





Torture wasn't the whole reason. Draco had other intentions but he'd be damned to let her know what they were. Besides, getting under her skin seemed so much better. Hogwarts was becoming boring, Pansy and company were beginning to get bothersome. In other words, he was looking for excitement. Hermione Granger seemed like the perfect victim. She shared the same tower with him for easy access to annoy the lovely bookworm, she was another element to the Potter factor (two birds with one stone, in actuality), and it was ridiculously easy to get under her skin. Virgin Granger really needed to know a thing or two. He wanted to see how far she could play. If he was correct in his assumptions, Hermione was the proud sort and backing down from anyone - especially a Malfoy - was unacceptable. She would stand up to him, confront him for every action he would take upon her. He wanted that, wanted to aggravate her in many ways as possible: mentally, physically, sexually. He would play her for the filth she was and keep going at it when she had finally broken down.

Another part of him told him otherwise.

These were just simple distractions. It was just another reason to stay close to her.

After all, she relieved him of pain and if he could just get release, then he would truly be free. And she seemed to be the perfect outlet.

Even if it did mean torturing her at the same time.





Hermione sighed and closed the door to her room, savoring the warmth of her room. In the fireplace, where crackling embers of the small blaze danced wildly, the fire licked shadows on the wall, dancing primitively on the rosewood doors before slipping to the crimson-carpeted floor in a pool of black shadows. The setting of the dark room was almost other-worldly, if not for the scattered papers on the desk and floors, which threw off the ambiance of the room. Hermione walked slowly to the parchments and plucked them from the floor, placing them underneath a paper-weight on her desk in the shape of a graceful lion.

She flopped down on the bed and stretched languorously on the silk sheets that brushed against her bare legs. A yawn escaped her lips and sleep soon drifted above her, taking her away to dreamland.

Draco stood up from the red plush chair that was hidden in the shadows and raked a pale, strong hand through his blonde hair. The girl was a complete lush, a beautiful portrait all on its own. With her wavy brown locks and fair skin, she appeared smaller and fragile, a sweet seraphim that the stars from the heavens sent down to torture him, please him, hate him, and love him.

He smirked at that.

Love was alien in his vocabulary. Torture, pleasure, and hatred would have to do.

Tossing the sleeping maiden a final look, he left her room, shutting the door behind him with a soft click.





- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
// end chapter i, 2o - o9 - o3

You'll realise that there's not much interaction between the characters, save Draco and Hermione, Dumbledore and McGonagall. I did that intentionally for reasons of my own, which I won't delve into here.

Anyhow, I hope you liked it. I'm very proud of it and I'm happy that I actually have a timeline for it, whereas my other stories lack that specific aspect and I work in the spur of the moment.

Review, please.