Disclaimer: Most unfortunately, I do not own any of those tantalizing characters that belong to the fabulous J.K. Rowling.

I would like to thank all those who reviewed for chapter 8, including Samhaincat, Cinnamon, sugaricing, ashesKittyHawk, Kiyoko, Christina *who had thrown a very excited Daniel on the bed*, Loretta, and my cuz Bigevil.

At last, readers of the world!!!! The mysteries of the cold fire will finally surface today!!! Muhahahaha!! *cackles amidst lightening and thunder*

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"Oh, what I would have done to see you stuff snow down the back of Malfoy's trousers… you are brilliant, Hermione…" Ginny Weasley murmured in an awed tone, her cheeks still a flustered pink from the traces of mirth that bubbled actively in her stomach. Hermione Granger and she were slowly walking down the drafty corridors of Hogwarts school of Witchcraft and Wizardry. It was Wednesday afternoon, and already the evidence of evening was peaking over the mountaintops, eager to take up its mighty throne in the heavens above. Hermione blushed with satisfaction, her fingers tightening around the books hugged to her chest. Harry and Ron had decided to remain in Gryffindor tower to start their Divination assignments, which no doubt meant making up the most preposterous predictions of their ever awaiting doom. 'The ol' bat Trelawney will wet herself in excitement when she reads of my prediction that a great, big army of flying rabbits will attack Hogwarts, and take us all captive.' Ron had told her earlier.

"When do you have to meet him for the charms assignment?" Asked Ginny, her watchful brown eyes lolling leisurely around the stone hallway. Wisps of fiery red hair escaped the messy ponytail that was tied at the base of her neck. Hermione then gave an audible sigh, a sniffle of annoyance escaping her nostrils.

"Now, actually…" She admitted, her lip unconsciously curling. Ginny offered her a sympathetic expression. But then a light of revelation bloomed to life on her features.

"Hey, at least today was the last day of classes. And you won't have to see the rotten git until he gets back from the Holidays." The sixth year Gryffindor reminded with a grin while wagging her index finger. At this, the bushy haired prefect's heart soared with irrevocable elation. She would have almost two weeks without that insufferable, conniving toe-rag breathing verbal abuse down the back of her neck. As this fact registered throughout her system, a light, almost fuzzy feeling sprung awake in her gut. Without the constant, clawing of projects and dreadfully long detentions with a certain Slytherin menace, she could enjoy a tranquil holiday with her friends, finishing up any access homework and receive the solace that she long lacked.

"I still have to meet him at the library in a few minutes though. Trust me, Ginny; Malfoy will make it his personal business to make me go completely mad before he leaves for the Holidays. The prat won't set foot out of Hogwarts until he has the satisfaction of annoying me to the point where I'm throwing myself off the astronomy tower." Hermione grumbled, uttering a giggle from Ginny. Tucking some stubborn, wild curls behind her ear, her thoughts drifted back to the last two detentions she and Malfoy had. Monday, the two had nearly dueled with the use of snow shovels, abandoning all thought of magic. That was until McGonagall promptly broke up the raging battle. Tuesday, Draco never once touched his working tool, and took to lounging around barking insults at her laboring back.

"Well, I think it will be Malfoy throwing himself off the astronomy tower after a library session with you, Hermione," Joked Ginny, dodging a swat from Hermione's hand. The two Gryffindor's shared a laugh, admitting that it was somewhat true. They all knew that once Hermione Granger's feet touched that of the stone floor in the library, power was hers. It was in library sessions that the prefect was endowed with the uncanny regality of Minerva McGonagall. Draco would get what was coming to him if he dare try to come between her and the grades at hand.

"If anyone's going to be hurled off the astronomy tower, it's going to be me throwing him off. Honestly, he doesn't know when to shut that snarky mouth of his…" She said, shaking her head furiously, her fingers tightening around her books at the mere, euphoric image of Draco Malfoy falling off the tallest tower of the school. A most appetizing image indeed. An image she would receive with much gusto. Eyes darkening dangerously as they neared the library, she wondered what would happen whence she step within the large doors. Though she had no intention of it happening, Draco had made it quite clear that he was the boss making orders for the path of the project. Oh, but no one would order her around. Especially when it put half of her charms grade at a lengthy risk.

"What spell do you reckon would be worth inventing? Cor, Hermione, think about the possibilities." The red head suddenly said. Starting out of her thoughts, she looked to her friend, a new gleam in her eyes. Ginny could recognize the familiar, particular glint every time school work was mentioned.

"Well, there is already so many spells that tribute to the daily life styles of wizard, so I'm looking to work toward a spell that is both rare and extremely useful," Hermione explained, her brows furrowed. Ginny nodded for her to continue. "I've been thinking…  Maybe there is a spell I can create that would be helpful for the cause of Harry…" She murmured, biting down on her lower lip, conflict storming noticeably around her stony, somber features. Ron's sister's eyes widened when this was said. Very lightly, she grabbed onto the older Gryffindor's arm to halt their stride. Mouth tightening, she looked intently at Hermione.

"Hermione…" She began, an almost sympathetic expression forming on her freckled face.

"I know that you would do anything to help Harry against Voldemort, but… he needs to do this by himself…" She whispered, her fingers admonishingly tight around her wrist. The way she murmured those words was with a soft significance, a passion that meant to get her point across. The prefect stood in complete silence for a moment, letting the words echo in her head. Do it by himself? But this is Voldemort for Merlin's sake! Ron and I want to help him so badly, we cannot let Harry stand alone… But as she thought about that, and her gaze traveled to friend at her side, the occurrence of realization flooded through. Could Ginny already know about the prophecy? Could she know that before the plunge of the end, Harry would murder or be murdered? But somehow, the idea of the youngest Weasley knowing that forbidden secret was more of a comfort then a bother. Virginia Weasley did after all love the great Harry Potter.

"I know, Ginny… But there has to be something we could do to help him along the way. You know, guide him to the right path… Harry still has no idea how he is supposed to defeat Voldemort." Hermione pointed out, the slightest hints of exasperation in her voice making Ginny give a half smile.

"Don't worry. While he may be a bit on the thick side at times, I'm sure Harry will figure out what to do.

"I sure hope so." She hugged her books fiercely. "Oh, has there been any more news about when Voldemort attacked Grisinlow?" Ginny's attention snapped back to Hermione with the reminder of when the dark lord swept through Ireland, leaving scars of devastation forever burned into those who populated the once quiet wizarding village. She licked her lips quickly for a moment, involuntarily twirling a strand of fiery hair around a fidgeting finger. It was the habits that overtook her like that, that gave her that lost image of innocence that had been eternally tainted by Tom Riddle at the unripe age of eleven.

"I owled Dad about that actually. So far he hasn't been able to find out any information if the ministry found evidence at all." Ginny explained, her nose wrinkling dubiously. Then she continued, her voice lowered to a mere whisper that only Hermione could hear. "We're still in the dark of things, but the Order is working on it…"

Hermione nodded breezily, making sure that the both of them didn't appear suspicious or fraudulent. Neither of them desired to capture the unwanted attention of the shadows that lurked behind every corner. The veil of shade that whispered of dark and unfriendly things, and listened for the voices that spoke wrong and unjustly of them. Any promise of rise against the rising war would be a show of great promise to the serpentine lord. To get their eminence…

"It does make you wonder what he is planning though…" Hermione knew very well whom 'he' was referred to by Ginny. Anyone who's suffered at his pawns of power would know who 'he' was. "It feels strange that he's moving his way around the United Kingdom, but we have no idea what he is really going to do and when he's going to do it. Kind of unnerving, isn't it?" She questioned, a gentle sigh coming from her.

"Yes, but whatever it is, Dumbledore will be ready for it. If we didn't know any better, I'd say that he's been planning for this even before Harry was born." The red head grinned at this, something like a familiar reassurance flooded back onto her face. The mention of Dumbledore was often like that. His name alone was a comfort among the uncertainly and unanswered bafflements. When in the shadow of doubt, he was the restorative of hope. Hermione felt gladdened. But the solace that had settled within her came to an abrupt halt as the familiar doors of the library came in sight.

"Good luck, Hermione," Said Ginny, her mouth curling into a delicate, friendly smile. She gave her head a little suggestion of inclination toward the library doors where Malfoy would no doubt be behind. Inhaling sharply, Hermione returned the smile before putting a tentative hand to the wood of entrance. Lips set in a firm, determined line; she puffed up her chest and pushed it open. It would be best to just stroll in, her form burning with an aura of confidence as to not let him know of the uncertainty swooping in her rib cage. Sunlight greeted her eyes as she entered, making her squint for a short moment to become accustomed to the sudden implosion. Madam Pince looked up from her desk and gave a curt nod of her head. Hermione was a regular at the library of course, and was quite used to the silent act of greeting that the strict librarian gave.

With quick strides, her robes billowing out at her feet as she walked, Hermione's eyes sought for the silver haired Slytherin prince. Maybe I am the one who is early, she thought to herself gleefully.

"So the mudblood finally decided to grace me with her presence…" Drawled that silky voice. Turning around, she went rigid at the sight of Malfoy lounging quite elegantly in a library chair, his feet kicked up on the table, arms crossed. Silently feeling appalled at his kingly monotone, she decided to swallow the comment that had arisen in her throat. It would not do good to start an argument so early in the library session. She did not want the urges to impale him in the eye with her best quill to overtake all balance already. If all else failed, she could hurl him down the longest staircase in the school, then tell the professors that her and Malfoy were trying out a charm for pain countervailing of the wizard body. That is, only if they find his mangled body. Fighting down the devilish giggle, Hermione sat down across from him.

It was now her and the little ferret who no doubt thought he was Merlin's gift to the world…

Without speaking a word, she looked pointedly down at his feet which covered the table. Raising an eyebrow, she looked back up at him, waiting for him to move them. He, however, was busy inspecting some imaginary dirt on his fingernails. Smug Bastard, she thought to herself. She distantly knew that sixty years from now, she would still remember him as the 'smug bastard'.

"Ahem!" She coughed softly. His gray eyes did not even pause to blink.

"Would you please move your feet, or were you waiting for me to clean the dirt off of them for you?" She asked. Seeing the sudden expression of evil, malevolent delight that bloomed at the chance to retort, she interrupted. "Wait, don't answer that……" Ignoring how crestfallen he appeared at missing his chance to be vicious, she pushed his feet off the table.

The Gryffindor prefect felt his eyes settle on her as she made a show of pulling books and parchment out of her bag. After withdrawing the last quill and bottle of ink out of her satchel, she met his calculating gaze. The Slytherin sat there, arms folded over his chest, legs crossed. She very well registered the irritating fact that the infamous smirk had failed to leave his mouth as she watched him. The two stared at one another for a few moments in complete silence, wondering idly who would the one to first break the quiet, to shatter the glass of confinement. Hermione decided it would be up to her to do so. Choosing her words carefully, she spoke gently. This would be a long day indeed…

"Well, lets get started, shall we?" She asked curtly.

Snort. "Lets…" He answered. Wondering when he would begin insulting her, she continued. It was better to say as much as she could before all chances of a civil library session was thrown out the window.

"The charms task is to manipulate magic in ways we can use to our own advantage, if not all witch and wizard. In simpler terms, we are to create a spell." She began, feeling slightly flustered but regal nonetheless.

"Tell me something that I don't already know, Granger. While we are still young, if you will…" Draco sneered sardonically, once more studying his nails with utmost fascination. Sucking in an almost shaky breath, Hermione decided to let his comment slip by unnoticed. Fingers clenched tightly into fists under the table, she drew in air to continue again.

"Well, er, since Hogwarts has found its way into questionable times, I think what witches and wizards need-"

"You mean wizards and witches?" Interrupted the smug bastard, his sneer growing so monstrous that she thought it might break open his face in the effort. What did he mean by that?! Oh I see it now… The ferret really does believe that wizards are more superior to witches. Ho Ho, she would prove him wrong, oh so wrong. Yes, she definitely felt sympathetic toward the poor fool who would have to marry this little snaky brat. The unfortunate witch would be his expensive little arm toy, a trophy to show off among pureblood modus vivendi. He continued sitting there, his eyebrows raised, arms crossed whilst he looked at her over the top of his nose like some lord delivering an order to his servant. No doubt, he had a few of those back at Malfoy manor. Probably house elves… A spark of foul indignation flared to life within her, causing her brown eyes to narrow with a parlous gleam. Harry and Ron would know that glint of S.P.E.W anger a mile away. Those innocent, wretched house elves. The poor creatures were probably chained down to that mansion of abomination and eternal service, deprived of the freedom that all house elves secretly desired, but not dare speak of.

"Earth to Granger? I didn't come into this foul, sordid library to have you sit there and stare at me." Barked Draco, looking with disdain as his eyes registered the library around him, nose wrinkled with disgust. Pushing against the scarlet blush that rose in her cheeks from both embarrassment and anger, she looked down at the table to continue.

"As I was saying, I think witches and wizards," Hermione began again, putting emphasis on the word 'witch'. Malfoy only chose to snort rather than remark. "Need a spell that would be helpful in dangerous and life-threatening situations. Basically I mean that I wish to create an imperative spell that is not used in a mundane matter." She looked back at him, expecting him to respond in any way. He, on the other hand apparently did not seem to be listening to her because the attention that was focused on examining his nails was now switched to some imaginary dirt on his expensive, pressed robes. The quill clenched in her quivering hand began to bend under the pressure as her fist tightened. She could almost hear the writing tool scream with desperation.

"The sort of spell I had in mind was a way of manifesting magic with the power of emotions."

Malfoy chose that particular moment to look back at her as those words were uttered. That suggestion finally caught his attention because he uncrossed his legs and leaned forward in his chair. She noted the way he splayed his hands upon the surface of the table, and her scrutiny momentarily studied them. His hands were somewhat large, but the lithe form of his body made them just the right size. From his hands stemmed long, elegant fingers callused by the sport of Quidditch yet delicate as they were powerful. The skin was taut and outlined some of the gentler veins in a subtle, artistic way, but also gave way the power behind his knuckles. Yes, he has beautiful hands... She thought to herself. Lord! Mentally slapping herself silly, she looked back at his face. If he noticed her blatant staring, he chose not to mention it. But then again this was Malfoy she was talking about, and he by all means would say something in return if he caught her staring. Something snarky of course…

"Oh? How so?..."  He asked, starting her out of the reverie that drifted in and out of her mind. If she kept zoning out like this, then she would not hesitate to perform a sobering charm upon herself.

"Well, there might be a way to construct a spell that would draw its power from not only our magic, but also emotion as well. According to study, wizards die much faster during battle because they cannot receive proper medical attention until a war is over. Unless of course, a medi-witch or wizard apparates into the mists of battle and cares to the medical dilemma at hand. The problem with that is it could also result in the casualties of the medics." Hermione stopped, drawing in a breath to continue what she had so carefully monitored and memorized, but the look on the young man's face across from her made her halt. Malfoy sat there, his face utterly plagued of all emotion, his grey eyes glassy and dazed. There it was, that look again. As if he was asleep eagle-eyed. The possibility that he had ignored every word she had just spoken thoroughly came to mind causing her hands to once more tighten into fists. Brushing it away dismissively, she licked her suddenly dry lips and spoke again. She had written the whole speech down, but as it was spoken aloud she could not help but believe that Malfoy would find it very funny, if not hilarious.

"I propose a spell that could be used by any witch or wizard, even in the heat of war. It does not necessarily need to be known by only those with proper mastery of healing," She said. Draco seemed to have decided that it was a good time to come back to focus because he interrupted her textbook like speech with a question.

"And what, may I ask; does this have to do with emotion?" He asked, drawing out the word 'emotion' with honeyed sarcasm while wagging his quote fingers. He had to ask that question because gods know how long she would have continued before she actually got to the point. Draco ran a frustrated hand through his silver socks. He was beginning to feel a tad bit irritated and none too happy with the mudblood sitting in front of him. Long ago had he lost any interest with her proposition. Perhaps it was time for him to draw the ol' Malfoy fist through her rubbish and raise himself to the head of the project. The Slytherin was quite sure she had remembered their little 'talk' on Monday. The one about how he was going to be making the choices. The one about how he was going to be choosing what spell they created. And most importantly, how it would be he who was choosing who did what and when.

"It has everything to do with emotion, Malfoy!" She exclaimed, agitation written across her face. "Emotions are powerful. They have perhaps an ever higher rate of potency then regular magic does. Try to focus on my point, honestly!" She stammered, exhaling sharply. The quill in her hand cracked dangerously.

"Your point?" Echoed Malfoy. "Merlin's beard, has Granger finally decided to get to the god forsaken point? Well then, please get on with it before I take matters into my own hands. Oh and I'm warning you, Granger, you will not like it when I become the dominant figure in charge of your grade." He said hazardously, his lip curling maliciously. He noted with self satisfaction the way her shoulders quivered with self restraint. St. Mungos will be on Hogwarts door step in a heartbeat when the mudblood starts foaming at the mouth, He thought to himself with a mental snigger.

"Focus! My point is that emotions are powerful enough to be used in a form of magic. Imagine there was a way to use an emotion, perhaps love," Hermione ignored Draco's loud scoff. "As a power source of magic. Heading back to my theory about the casualties on the battlefield during war. People loose their lives because the lack of time that is needed for medical attention. For example, lets say, two good friends were fighting dark wizards and one of them is dying. There is no help within distance and they don't have eligible knowledge of healing. What if there was a way to use friendship to save the one dying? The wizard or witch can channel the power and strength of their love for that person into their wand and save them." She explained heatedly, not noticing the mirth swimming in his eyes. The idea to use the emotion of love to save someone came to her from what had happened to Harry and his mother. Lily Potter's love had saved Harry from death. She had closed that ever looming door to him.

"You do realize what you're suggesting, don't you? You're saying that we are to create a spell that uses emotion to summon magic? Also, did you not already know that there is a spell that uses emotion to create magic already? It's called the Cruciatus curse, Granger, and it uses the emotion of hate to inflict pain upon others. If you didn't already know, that's considered a dark art. So sorry to put a damper on your idea," He leered, looking ready to start barking with laughter. The Gryffindor prefect felt her eye twitch as his humor nearly slapped her in the face with all its edging boldness. Why was that so amusing? What did the bastard possibly think was so funny about the idea? Frankly, she had thought it almost beautiful in a sense to use love as a way to save the ones dear to you. All these years in the company of Harry and Ron had taught her that love was the one thing that would lead them into the sunsets of victory when trapped in the night of war. She had no intention of using the emotion of hate. Hate and loathing was powerful enough without having to channel it into magic.

"Learned that from the latest death eater youth association meeting, did you?..." She simpered, indicating what he had said about the unforgivable curse. Malfoy's eyes darkened to a dangerous shade when she said this, but he soon blocked any evidence that her comment had angered him. Her eyes momentarily strayed to his left arm. Who knew if the seemingly innocent skin was branded with the mark of the serpent? If it still remained unmarred, then for how long? Feeling overwhelmed, Hermione put a tentative hand to her forehead. She was startled to find a light sheen of sweat there. The color in her cheeks quickly began to transfigure into a scarlet red. The heat was rising in her chest, and she felt it somewhat difficult to breathe, to focus. He was doing this to her on purpose. He just wants you to snap and go mad, don't give the git what he wants, she thought to herself. Tears of frustration gathered in her eyes, and she tried desperately to blink them away. Hermione did not know how much more she could take of this.

Malfoy seemed to sense this, his smirk grew considerably nasty. His tongue splayed across the back of his teeth, desiring more of her control to be wasted away, to be diminished into nothing. Hermione crossed her arms stubbornly, her wild hair frizzing into a cloud on her head as she fought against the angry tears. She knew this would happen. She just knew it! Getting a good grade for this charms task would be so much more difficult, if not impossible, than she thought it would indeed be. He was a protruding rock in her path toward receiving the most sublime, omniscient grades that Hogwarts had ever seen. The gold prize would still be held outside grasping point if she didn't push him along a tad.

"Let me guess, this whole idea is about Potter right?" He sneered. What? Harry? Could he have guessed that she was trying to create a spell to help Harry and his battle against evil? Brows furrowed, she asked,

"What does Harry have to do with this?" She asked with a sigh. Draco merely leaned further back on his chair, his stony eyes twinkling wolfishly. Uh oh, he was up to something. He seemed to really want to say something to her because his lips were slightly moving wordlessly. His chair gave a soft creak and he leaned further back on its two legs. She could not help but have high hopes that his chair would topple out from under him, resulting with the Slytherin laying on the floor with a not so minor concussion. It was mind blowing the way he could sit there like that and not even receive any attention from Madam Pince, the hawk of the library.

"I mean, you blatantly got this whole idea from what happened to Potter and his dead parent's right?" Seeing the shock registering on her face, he continued. Draco looked positively victorious. "Oh yes, Granger, I heard all about how his mudblood mother used her pathetic love to protect Potter. Apparently, she died to save his sorry arse. First, the dark lord blasted away his good for nothing Father like a foul little rag doll... Then, in a last attempt to save her precious Potter, his mother took the killing curse. Received it like a willing little mudblood should…  Oh the drama… Your famous best friend was only a brainless, ickle baby, but he still managed to get his filthy, muggle-hugging parents wasted and buried six feet under. In the cold, dead ground…" He snarled, his voice in a low whisper, eyes bright with glee. He watched in sheer delight as she looked down at her lap, biting down so hard that a small trickle of blood ran from her lips. His eyes followed that dulcet trail of crimson, his body nearly shaking with savage pleasure. Oh, the sight was beautiful! Leaning forward, he said in a dead murmur.

"Just like his no good, despicable parents, Potter will find himself alone and dead. Love will be his pitiful grave right next to his rotten mother and his loathsome father…"

Draco Malfoy watched; enchanted as Granger let go a sob, tears streaming down her cheeks. The cry seemed to rip through her because her body began to shake like a frail leaf in the wind. The Gryffindor had so obviously been trying to fight against the howling misery. The quill that had been clenched tightly in her fist had snapped and fallen into her lap broken. A strange feeling fluttered madly in his stomach as he watched this. He had broken and shattered her… Broken her like the quill that lay forgotten upon her lap. The Slytherin would have laughed if he knew that it was infact Harry who had given her that quill. A small gift as a token of the love that Malfoy claimed would kill the boy who lived in the end. She looked up at him through glistening eyes and brought up her hand to slap him across the face, but unlike third year, he was ready for it. His spidery hand fastened itself around her small wrist, her fingers trembling. A grin broke out on the corners of his mouth as she struggled. Heads were beginning to turn toward their direction, but he paid them no heed.

"Scared of the truth, Granger?..." He leered into her trembling features. Then he grew quiet as he watched more untainted rivers of tears splash across her face. Rivers of grief and fury mingled together, brewed as one. Very slowly, he brought his free hand up and swiped his thumb almost tenderly across her cheek. The softness of her skin made his fingers burn like a vampire in the blistering sunlight. He was not to corrupt such innocence.  Fear filled her large, brown eyes as he did this. Draco then looked down at his thumb, wet with her tears. Rubbing his index finger to his thumb, he drew close to her face… Their hearts began to beat with rhythm, with harmony.

"Filthy……" He breathed in a hiss, lips lifting and quirking with unrestrained delight.

To elicit and arouse such sorrow in this one being was worth savoring. Granger backed away from him, her breath hitched as she crammed her books into her bags hurriedly. So, she was running away again. When she was done, she looked back at him, her shoulders shivering. The tone of voice had accusation and finality as it was spoken.

"The only one who's going to find himself alone and dead are you…" She whispered before turning and fleeing the library, her wild mane of hair flashing over her shoulder. Whispers and murmurs broke out through the library when the door closed behind her, all eyes watching him with loathe and disgust. Draco Malfoy merely sat back in his chair, a satisfied smirk at last finding its way back onto his pleased face. Finally… Some peace…He thought to himself, ignoring the gossip traveling fast around him. Let them talk… Well, the truth always did hurt didn't? Granger just couldn't bear the thought of her Saint Harry Potter dead. Only when she was weeping those filthy tears over his broken body would he gloat to her and say,

"I told you so…"

******

Meanwhile the portrait hole to Gryffindor Tower opened and Hermione Granger stumbled in. Her books spilled to the floor but she paid no attention to her beloved possessions. His words…. So horrible…. So horrible…. They echoed through her head, over and over like a broken, resounding record. His voice, mocking and cold, rung in her ears like the haunting hiss of a snake.

"Mother used her pathetic love to protect Potter

Dark lord blasted away his good for nothing Father like a foul little rag doll

Mother took the killing curse.

Received it like a willing little mudblood should…

Wasted and buried six feet under…"

Ron Weasley had been sitting in a comfy armchair beside the fireplace placing the last touches on his false Divination homework when he caught sight of his best friend standing in front of the open portrait of the fat lady. Her books and parchment lay in a pool around her feet, one of her ink bottles spilling free in the red rug like shed blood. Her arms lay limp as her sides, and her face was deadly pale, the very color seemingly stolen. Tears were matted under her eyes. Forgetting all predictions running ramped throughout his mind; he got up from his chair and approached her.

"Hermione?..." He asked softly. She looked back up at him, her voice in a dead whisper.

"So horrible…"

Ron said nothing but took her in his arms, feeling her tears sink through the fabric of his robes. And when her sobs grew harder, his arms tightened, enfolding her in his case of warmth, protection and love.

******

Draco Malfoy watched quietly as a house elf of Malfoy Manor floated away his trunk up the stairs. He would be here for the next week and a half, and happiness was not one of the emotions that were currently running through him. The Holidays had started yesterday with the breaking of the hurricane, and he had only arrived back home ten minutes ago. Lucius Malfoy stood but a few feet away, handing his coat and his serpentine staff to one of their loyal house servants to stash away. Even after living in the manor all his life, his watchful gray eyes lingered to the surroundings. The ceiling seemed to go on forever into darkness, the very height of the roof still questioned. Intricate patterns of the Malfoy crest were emboldened into the stone and marble of the walls and floors. It just wreaked money. The silence that engulfed the two men as they had stepped into their home had yet to be broken. 

But Lucius did not even breathe a word but stormed away, disappearing into the eerie corridors. Sighing softly, he floated up the stairs after the house elf. Well, conversation really was not expected. After all, his father didn't give a damn what went on in school or how he was doing. He left that to be mothers job a long while ago. Draco swept up the marble staircase, the feeling of it alone still unfamiliar under the palm of his hand. Even living there for all his life, he could not become accustomed to the subtleties of what home was supposed to be. The smell was forever odd; the marble was cold and foreign, and the Persian rugs still felt too rough under his feet. He was a mere visitor of his own mansion. In a matter of thought and truth, Draco Malfoy really didn't have a home. He didn't know what it felt like to belong somewhere.

Some of the portraits blinked awake from their sleep to spy on him as he passed, their intruding gazes calculating the seventeen year old. Many he recognized as his relatives because of the trademark blond hair, steely eyes and pointed features. One day, his photograph and portrait would be up there, forever looking down at some silver haired boy making his way through the manor.

"Young master follows Wompy, please," Said the Malfoy house elf. Draco started out of his train of thoughts to realize that he had frozen in stride half way down one of the corridors. Quickening his pace to catch up, he could not help but feel that quiet feeling of trepidation creeping back up into his stomach. He had felt it when first stepping back on the Manor grounds, but thought it nothing but the magic protecting his home. But as he was pulled farther into the maze of wealth that was the curious mansion, he knew that something or someone else but his family was under the same roof. Something sinister… Pulling the collar of his black cloak tighter around the pale column of his neck, he entered the towering door of his bedroom. The house elf named Wompy quickly deposited of his trunk at the foot of the massive bed before bowing low so that his long, thin nose touched the floor.

"Does the young master want anything from Wompy at all? It would make Wompy very happy to serve the young sir." Asked the elf, straightening his wrinkled tea cozy. Draco snorted softly in annoyance, waving his hand dismissively. He felt very exhausted, and the feeling that Lucifer itself was somewhere in the manor did nothing to relinquish the migraine fighting to consume his head. All he wanted was to delve deep under the blankets folded so crisply over his king sized bed and hide there until he could return to his mighty throne at Hogwarts. All inner power and defiance was stripped of him from the moment his foot touched the grounds of his Father. But one day, one day in secret, he would rise against him. He would be the towering phantom staring down at him. And he would love every moment of it, he would make sure of it… For one glorious moment, he would see true fear swarming his father's stony eyes.

"No, please go…" Draco sighed, dismissing the house elf. Wompy bowed low once more before dashing away out of the room. He simply did not have the strength at the moment to order around some silly servant. Kicking off shoes and unbuckling the clasp of his cloak, he let the fulgent fabric slip gracefully off his broad shoulders to puddle at his feet. Not bothering to remove his clothing, he jumped for his bed, his face greeting his large pillows. Eyes heavy with desired sleep, he slipped under the emerald green velvet. While his father preferred the luxuries of satin sheets, his son chose velvet. Comfortable warmth settled over him, and he could not help but feel a gladdened that he was alone in his bedroom. At least he wasn't stuck back at school shoveling snow with a certain bushy haired Gryffindor in detention. The satisfying image of seeing her burst into tears, yesterday in the library was relishing indeed. Yes, those wonderful sobs would dim the fires of his being until he last return.

At last, the Slytherin prince fell under the seduction of slumber, dreaming of bushy haired prefects and her salty, wet tears.

******

The air surrounding and within Malfoy Manor was alive with magic. The wards were flickering dangerously like shields of gleaming stars, and the house elves were cowering into the kitchen, scared and sobbing fretfully. A siren allurement of power drifted like smoke under the door of the young master of the mansion, and crept over his belongings, breathing and whispering. The wisps crawled malevolently over the lithe body of a silver haired young man in dexterous fingers, caressing and welcoming. A sharp sigh escaped his mouth as this magic slipped beneath him, gently prodding his lower back into an arch, rising his torso up from the mattress. Very slowly, Draco was beckoned gracefully into a sitting position before the power erupted into the snowfall of sparks. With a gasp, his eyes flew open.

He took in the surroundings, reminding himself that he was still safely in his bed. But the air was thick with manifestation. Great power had been summoned that night, he could almost taste it. He almost knew for sure that was what woke him up from the comfortable sleep he had been welcomed into earlier that day. It was now night over the mansion, and rays of silver moonlight spilled through his window and onto the floor in puddles. Throwing back the blankets and registering how dry his throat had become, he decided that he should go down to the kitchens for a glass of water, or better yet, some of his father's wine. But fear mixed with the haze of dread in his gut. Drifting and mingling with the shadows of the many halls was not an intelligent idea when such strong magic lingered like a cloud. It was frightening, if not dangerous.

Pushing away the rising sense of curiousness, he swung his legs out of the bed and onto the floor. He almost jumped at the shock that jolted through him at the freezing stone. Not bothering to put on his shoes, he opened his door. It swung open on his hinges, the creak wavering through the hallway eerily. Gulping softly, he padded out of his room and into the shade. The outlines of the people of their portraits were moving restlessly, obviously awoken by the stir of magic as well. Everything was alive and the shadows gave movement to things he really never chose to notice. Shivering as he made his way down the marble staircase, Draco could not help but feel a twinge of regret for even leaving his bedroom, let alone his bed.

"No time to get all scared you ninny git, you've done this loads of times before…..ok, maybe just once before….." He murmured to himself uncertainly. After what seemed like eternity, he let go a sigh of relief as he entered the kitchens. The kitchens were not all that dark, but the glint of the moonlight on the silver utensils cast glow on the tables. Thankfully there was a bottle of his father's best wine already open on one of the many countertops. Some of the house elves must have been serving Lucius some. The Slytherin didn't know if he could handle going all the way down below under the kitchen into his fathers wine wing if it hadn't already been there. Now that would be scary… Getting himself a goblet, he watched carefully as the crimson liquid sloshed into the glass, a gentle aroma entering his nose and making his nostrils itch pleasantly. As he lifted the goblet to his lips to sip, he heard a whimper come from one of the kitchen's corners. Setting the drink back on the counter, he peaked around to see a press of house elves huddled together. Most of them had their eyes covered with their long floppy ears, and their hands clamped over their faces while they sobbed silently. Wrinkling his nose, he prepared to snap.

"What do you think you're doing there?" Asked Draco suspiciously. He then went quiet for a moment, startled that his own question had come out in nothing more than a mere whisper. It was that blasted magic, whatever it was. It was making his insides all jumpy. But his whisper was apparently enough to get their attention. Wompy the elf jumped at Draco and hugged his bare feet.

"Oh sir! Young master must not be out of bed! Powerful magic is happening in masters home! Very powerful magic! It scares us!" Sobbed Wompy, wiping his pointed nose on his tea cozy while big, fat tears streamed down his face. Brows furrowed, Draco looked over the fearful servants. He had never seen them quite like that before. While the servants always did have a large share of crying and moping, never like this. He had to get to the bottom of what was going on. Whatever had been manifested, it had put an unsettled veil of shadow over the Manor. The crispness of this magic floating everywhere like microscopic bacteria unnerved him to a great deal. Perhaps he should just forget about it and go back to bed. Lucius would probably tell him what was being put forth tomorrow morning. Wouldn't he?... Yeah, he probably would. Deciding to go back up to his bedroom, he gulped down the goblet in a single sip and wiped his mouth on the back of his sleeve.

Leaving the house elves to continue fretting and wallow in their fear, Draco padded out of the kitchen and into the endless halls. The mystery would be solved tomorrow morning and then that would be the end of it. It was nothing to worry his pretty little head about. But as he stood at the foot of the marble staircase, he could not help but turn his head over his shoulder to look at the opposite corridors. It was those hallways that lead to Lucius's chambers, studies, and meeting rooms. And when he meant meeting rooms, he meant Death eater common areas. Standing there alone in the darkness, he felt some light force pull him toward those forbidden hallways. The same force that had seemingly disturbed his sleep. As he drew further toward his Fathers study into the obscure, the intensity of the air grew thicker. Gulping down the bile rising in his throat, he continued on.

Draco had never felt such power stirring so erratically around him. It wasn't normal. Butterflies were swooping in his stomach as he felt the urge to bend over and retch something terrible. Just turn around and go back upstairs, you bloody dolt! He thought to himself frantically. He fought to stop himself from going any further, to just go back and hide under his blankets like the little ninny he felt like at the moment. But this magic…. This great and horrible magic… It would not let him. Invisible hands grabbed at his rigid limbs and forced him in the fateful direction of his father's study. Gritting his teeth and straining the column of his neck, he used every fiber of his being to battle against this free, unworldly summoning. But his inner war came to a sudden halt as faint voices from the study up ahead caught his ears. A small line of light fell through the crack of the door. It was open, but only just…

"Ah, Lucius… Poor me some of that exquisite wine, for this is a night of victory and revelry, my friend…" Hissed a cold voice that made Draco's blood turn to ice. He was certain that he had never heard this purely sinister voice before. But he was certain about one thing: he did not want to know whom that voice belonged to. Shivers that had nothing to do with the frigid air traveled up his spine and back down again. As he drew ever closer to the door, the voices grew more clear and less faint. Merlin, help me! His insides screamed in panic.

"Yes, of course Master…" He heard his Father reply. The breaths that had been growing heavier and faster as he neared the study came to an abrupt stop. The force grasping at his limbs gave way and he fell in a silent heap behind the massive, double doors. Draco lay on the rug, shadows falling over his body in a bleak blanket, his eyes widening so intently that they threatened to fly out of their sockets like little golden snitches. Did Father just say Master?! There just happened to be one person whom Lucius Malfoy worked for, and called Master. And it was not Cornelius Fudge… No… No… It was impossible. The dark lord Voldemort couldn't just happen to be in the Malfoy study of which he lay just outside of. This could not be happening. No, this is definitely not happening, Draco thought to himself, his hands clamped down over his ears like the house elves had done back in the kitchen.

Fear like he had never felt before swept over his trembling form. Not the type of fear he had always felt in the presence of his father, but cold, brisk fear… The kind of fear that left your mind utterly numb with hollowness, void of all things except reality. The kind of fear that rolled through a person in waves, making their body start to shake violently. Draco covered his mouth to stop himself from gagging. It ripped through his empty stomach, causing acid to fill his esophagus and make his eyes water with the effort of keeping it down. Rolling over, he sat up and gulped. Taking a moment to quiet his breathing, he looked through the crack where the towering door was slightly open so that he could listen.

The magic that had awakened the whole manor was coming from that room…

"You see, my faithful servants, we finally have an advantage over that old fool Dumbledore…" Cackled the dark lord. From what Draco could see at his position behind the door, he could make out his father and several other robed death eaters all facing one direction. A large, black armchair, his father's favorite chair, faced the fireplace, though no fire burned. The back of the armchair was facing the doorway so the young Slytherin could only make out a thin, white spidery hand curled around the arm rest. The sight of it nonetheless made his wince. He himself had never seen the dark lord before.

"While Dumbledore knows that there will be an attempt siege upon his beloved Hogwarts, he does not know, however, that my army will arrive with… style…"  Voldemort whispered, putting slow emphasis on the last word. Draco's fingers grasped at the carpet beneath himself, and his brows furrowed with confusion. Attempt Siege on Hogwarts? This lit a spark of interest within his mind. Ah, so the dark lord was planning to take the impenetrable fortress of Hogwarts School and witchcraft and wizardry… But it would take a whole lot more than death eaters to breach the great castle. While the particular thought of Hogwarts coming to the ground did not light a real bother in him, he could not help but let his lips fall back into their trademark smirk. Potter was going to get what was coming to him… But the enigma of this fateful hour was: How?... What did the dark lord mean by arriving with style? Voldemort seemed to have sensed his question floating distantly and then beckoned to Lucius.

"Lucius… If you will please demonstrate for your brothers…" Voldemort said, waving his thin hand. He could hear the pleased smile in the dark lord's tone of voice. Draco watched with tentative, wide eyes as his Father bowed low before approaching a metal stand holding up a large leather book. The book was already open and Lucius looked at one of the pages nervously for a moment. Drawing his wand, Lucius raised one of his hands and tapped the wooden point at his palm. Then, he whispered a near silent spell. Draco found himself leaning unconsciously forward, sweat dotting his temple and upper lip. He could feel the change in air almost immediately. It was happening again. The air was sparking with free, uncontrolled magic. He watched fervently to see what spell his father was casting.

For a moment nothing happened after Lucius muttered the incantation. Then, with a smooth hiss of magic, brilliantly colored fire bloomed from the palm of his hand. Draco swallowed the cry of alarm that threatened to break free from his dry throat as his Fathers body erupted into flame. The Death eaters let out yells of shock, but the dark lord Voldemort crowed triumphantly, his hand balled into a fist. Draco felt his silver hair stand on end, but he refused to take the hands that covered his face away. He never liked his father, but he didn't think he could see the prideful man in a heap of dead ash.

"Look, my loyal servants!" Cried the dark lord. Letting his hands fall away from his face, a gasp tumbled uncheck from his lips at the marveling sight before him. Never would he forget it. There in the center of the room stood not a pile of smoking flesh and ash, but Lucius Malfoy, his body outlined in unworldly flame. He watched in breathless awe as the older Malfoy raised a shimmering hand, fire dancing around every last fingertip. The man looked like some god of the sun, his silver hair haloed in wisps of the not red, but blue arctic fire. Every inch of the death eater was ignited in the glorifying blaze of magic.

"You see?! This is our weapon! This is our key to raising Hogwarts castle to the ground in ruin and despair! What you see, my faithful servants, is the Cold Fire…"

Draco'a mind hammered with unanswered questions. Cold Fire? What in God's name was the Cold Fire? He continued to watch his father in awe, wondering what sort of unworldly magic it was. It certainly didn't seem like dark magic. He knew without a doubt what dark magic felt like, and this was not it. Dark magic had this sort of aura that seemed to be dirty and non-cleansed, yet it felt undeniably powerful none the less. Yes, this was not dark magic. But what would Lord Voldemort be doing using light magic? His thoughts came crashing back to reality when the dark lord spoke to his servants of abomination.

"The Cold fire… Long have I been searching for its secrets… And only until now have I been able to unfold its mystery! But little did I know that the cryptic enigma of this ancient magic lye hidden away in that vile, destitute village Grisinlow…" He explained, distaste in his voice. Draco shuddered as his voice ran through him in a series of chills.

"Yes, Ancient magic indeed… Its secrets have been lost to all wizard kind for over a long, dreadful millennia… But who would realize that this lost, arcane discovery was locked within the confines of that one book... And all I had to do was travel to Ireland for it," He said, motioning toward the stand holding up the massive, leather book. Ah, so that's what all that news about the Ireland attack was about.  "But alas, I fear that we do not own all of the Cold fires secrets… For there is another book... A book that I am all too confidant lye conveniently in Albus Dumbledore's grasp…" He finished, his white fist slamming hard upon the arm rest of his father's chair. The death eaters hissed like angry snakes, and Draco watched in awe as the blaze still outlining Lucius's bold form heighten with his anger. The fire itself seemed to grow larger and fiercer in its glow.

"But it is not in this moment of victory should we be mourning the loss of the books twin. No, my friends… I'm all too sure you ponder what it is this Cold Fire does?... Wormtail, if you will…" Hissed Voldemort. Draco peered closer, eager to see the nervous death eater known as Wormtail. From under the black folds of his robes, he could see the elaborate silver hand glistening in the dim light. All eyes turned toward Peter Pettigrew as he weakly approached the godly form that was Lucius Malfoy. Even from here, the young Slytherin prefect could see the trademark smirk that so resembled his own upon his father's face. Wormtail raised his wand.

"Stupefy!" Shouted Wormtail. All scrutinized as the stunning spell flew through the air toward the shimmering death eater. One moment the spell had hit Lucius and the next, it had rebound as if hitting a mirror. Peter was sent flying through the air and hit the wall next to the open door, causing Draco to fall back onto the rug unceremoniously. He let out the breath that he had been holding in without knowing. The death eaters let out triumphant yells at the untouched Malfoy. The spell, it had not worked. Whatever the magic of the fire was, it made him invulnerable to the spell being set at him. How was this possible? How could a wizard be unstoppable against a spell? This Cold fire, it was something like a shield.

"My friend, how just the does the fire feel?..."

Lucius was silent for a moment, marveling at the wonder of the powerful magic engulfing his very being. But then he answered, a malicious grin curling on his lips.

"Rich… It feels rich, my lord…" He murmured like the Cheshire cat. But then, his eyebrows furrowed.

"But, master, I understand not how it works…" He said, almost ashamed. Voldemort's fingers simply curled tighter around the arm rest. Draco was beginning to feel even more unnerved if that was possible. He was quiet for a long while before he spoke again, and in an amused voice.

"I don't believe this is the right time for such explanations, as we have a visitor waiting outside your door, Lucius…"

The wind seemed to be knocked out of Draco as the dark lords words registered in his mind. But before a panic-stricken thought could race through his head, the door was thrown open and he was hurled into the room. He lay there breathing heavily on the dark red carpet in front of the roaring fire, silence ringing in his ears. He dare not open his eyes for he feared what might be waiting to look back at him. Someone had grabbed the back of his collar and dragged him to his feet. Draco was spun around to meet with his father's deadly gaze. Familiar fear laced through him like a spider web.

"Ah, this must be young Draco… I don't believe we have met…" Said the cold voice from Lucius's armchair. Being forcibly turned back around, the Slytherin prince's eyes widened in horror…

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A/N: Muhahahaha!!! Major cliffhanger! Ill post the next chapter when I get the chance to write it. I enjoyed writing this chapter immensely, especially the parts with evil draco.