Several days passed where Harry rarely saw Hermione, though he didn't find it to be too peculiar as he had been tied up with detention and the occasional allowed Quidditch practice (McGonagall had believed him as far as having only done what he did to protect Hermione, and therefore had allowed the Quidditch captain some leniancy). He had all but given up on trying to steer his dearest friend away from her constant search, and was subsequently blissfully unaware of what type of magic she was dabbling in.
When he did see her, however, he noticed that she was much jumpier than usual. Her eyes darted every which way as she scribbled furiously in her notes over breakfast every morning, and she would only stay as long as Draco was nowhere to be seen. Harry assumed that she was terrified of another physical confrontation, and so he would stare heatedly at Draco's bruised face at every possible opportunity.
Little did he know, young Malfoy was only trying to protect her. Harry had become so cold and violent since his defeat of the Dark Lord that positive thoughts of anything Death Eater related were completely foreign to him.
Draco had been checking the library constantly since he'd realized that Hermione was in possession of the Dark Arts book, but she was intelligent enough to find hew haunts to inhabit.
He had checked all of the courtyards, the boat dock near the lake, even the many reserved study areas, but he hadn't found her yet. He'd tried following her from the Great Hall in the morning, but he'd abandoned the idea when he noticed Harry mirroring him threateningly as he stood from the Slytherin table.
He sat, now, trying to concentrate on the small oak box that he was supposed to be transfiguring into a bowl for homework, but his head was pounding so hard that he'd only succeeded in smoothing one corner.
Where was she? What had she found? Had she hurt herself? Likely. Even his father had been made near fatal mistakes when dealing with Dark Magic, and he'd been practicing since his first year at Hogwarts.
The bustle in the Slytherin Common Room was slowly driving him insane, and listening to Goyle trip over his words as he tried to romance Millicent didn't even make him laugh.
He had to find her. Stashing his wand deep within his robes, he hurried to find the one person that could and possibly would tell him where she was.
Hermione flipped, mesmorized, through Solutions for the Dark Wizard while snuggled comfortably within a large red-and-gold print quilt, bearing the stinging breeze that announced the coming of fall.
She'd taken to hiding up in the highest towers of the school, sure that no one ever took the time to travel up all those stairs only to gaze out over the lake and mountains that they already saw everyday.
She had chosen this particular tower because of the clear view of the Quidditch field, and this Saturday had been reserved for Gryffindor practice. She needed a pick-me-up, and knowing that Harry was happy always seemed to do the trick - for a while, anyway.
She was quickly becoming obsessed with the things that you could do with Dark Magic, like altering people's minds or even your appearance, covering your tracks with simple spells, even drawing forth buried memories from the recesses of others' minds.
There seemed to be so many new doors to open, so much magic that she didn't think should be considered illegal - but Draco was right; nothing to revive the dead.
She knew that there must be something, and if she didn't find it in this book, she would continue looking through every book of Dark Magic that she could get her hands on.
She needed Ron. She wouldn't be happy until she had him again, until she could kiss him again and gaze into those naive blue eyes, ruffle that great expance of red hair and chuckle when he blushed so hard that his ears pinkened.
Then a familliar blond Slytherin surfaced in her mind, smiling then frowning, smoking a clove and laughing, then gazing off into space in deep thought. That husky, sugary scent permeated her senses, taking her to a place that intermingled pleaseure with pain, hatred with passion, fantasy with reality, right with wrong...
"Hermione," a voice called to her from a place that she didn't want to be, desperately coaxing her to join hit. She could feel slender fingers shaking her body, but she was detached from it, floating about and watching the happenings through the fog of unreality. She could see the blond Slytherin hovering above her body, sobbing and convulsing with tears, breathing his life into her, and she wanted so badly to tell him to stop, that she felt better here, away from the pain...
A shock of red hair drew her attention as the owner crouched at the Slytherin's side, touching her and begging her. He was alive! She had to go back, to see him, to hold him!
As she rushed back to her spirit's home, she was thanking Draco for whatever he'd done to bring Ron back to her. Jolting back into her body, she ignored the pain that followed the re-attachment to reality, shooting upright and wrapping her cold arms around the red-head's neck, blubbering and babbling into the long mane and smooth white neck.
"Hermione, it's okay, calm down!"
...A female's voice? No. Sick, hot pain settled into her stomach and she shoved Ginny away, screaming obscenities and thrashing madly.
Draco had never been so hurt in his life. A few more minutes and her body would have been too cold to reinhabit, and it if weren't for him she wouldn't have been found until it was too late. The Drifting Spirit spell. You could only be out of your body for four minutes at the most, but the books in which the instructions were writ often omitted such 'trivial' information.
He held her arms and pinned her legs, pressing her body into his own to calm her. As she gave in and simply cried with him, he hated her because she would not have come back if she hadn't thought Ron was there.
Parvati watched as Hermione tore her book-riddled portion of their dorm apart, her eyes and hair wild.
"If he took it, I'll kill him, that heartless beast! I swear I will!"
Parvati hesitated, twirling a braid about her finger nervously.
"Hermione... Boys can't come into the Girls' Dorms..."
Suddenly, Hermione stopped ravaging through her trunk, papers floating serenely to the ground around her.
"You're right. You're right, he must have gotten it... when..."
She grabbed her shoulderbag and rushed out of the dormitory, mumbling a quick goodbye to her friend as she went to find the boy that stole her dreams.
"Look at this insanity... What was she thinking?"
Draco thumbed through the book he'd confiscated from Hermione, knowing that his absense from Quidditch practive could very well get him kicked off the team.
He'd really lost interest in everything but Hermione, though he couldn't admit that to himself. He was constantly reminding himself that he only took such dedicated interest in her because he had a personal obligation to help her as his father had been closely involved in her best friend's death.
He tried to ignore the fact that it made him livid to think of Ron and Hermione's relationship. Everytime he saw that blank, emotionless look on her face when their eyes met he was reminded that he'd wasted six years on insults and ego while he could have been noticining how incredible this girl was.
Now she was forever doomed to love a dead man, and Draco was beginning to feel like the headway that he'd felt had been made through the kiss that they shared meant nothing.
Another page was scanned before he slammed the book closed and massaged his swollen cheeks, gazing around himself at the timeless library setting that reminded him every inch of Hermione.
His chin sagged against his hand as he reflected, tracing the inlaid script across the cover of the book, almost -feeling- the evil sinking into his flesh.
She'd come to Hogwars as that bushy-haired know-it-all and had grown into the smooth-skinned young woman that all Hogwarts students - aside from the Slytherins - revered and went to for advice. She was warm and understanding and wonderful. Even a few Slytherin boys - very few - had whispered to one another in the shadows about the beautiful brunette that had definitely been sorted into the wrong house.
They would never say such a thing to the son of the most anti-muggle man in the wizarding world to that date, but secrets were the most popular subject in the school, so Draco had eventually heard and begun considering that maybe, just maybe, they were right.
"How dare you..."
He was unpleasantly snapped from his reverie, meeting the furious brown eyes and tight-lipped frown of Hermione Granger herself, bookbag dangling limply from her shoulder. She stood stock-still in his silence, waiting for him to say something.
Eventually he did.
"We can't keep doing this, Hermione."
"Hermione? Who in the hell is Hermione?"
Slowly, the black eyes and hair of a certain Pansy Parkinson faded into view, and she was obviously furious.
She threw her bookbag - one that strikingly resembled Hermione's own - onto the table in front of him with a loud 'thud'.
Draco blinked a few times and rubbed his black and blue eyes, hoping that she hadn't come to scold him for allowing Potter, the Golden Gryffindor, to inflict such damage on him. He'd receieved enough bullshit from everyone else for his failure to dodge punches for the scond time in his school career. But no, she'd come for an entirely different reason.
"Why haven't you been showing up for Quiddith practice? The team captain has a responsibility to coach his team, and he certainly can't do that if he's reading in the library."
Covertly, he covered the book with his crossed arms, shrugging in response to her questoin and trying to erase Hermione's face from his mind.
"I just haven't been up to it..."
"Haven't been UP to it? Your father paid a considerable amount of money to get you on that team. I doubt he'd have anything good to say about you abandoning it once you've become captain."
"It's really none of your business, Pansy."
"It is my business! I'm as much a Slytherin as you are, and I certainly don't want the Gryffindors winning that cup again."
"Then you coach the team!"
He stuffed the book into his bag and made to leave, ignoring the open-mouthed glare of his house-mate. He hadn't asked her to come to his practices.
He recieved several snide remarks and cold glares from his classmates as he hurried toward the dungeons, in desperate need of a drink.
"Gin," he though, "and tonic, if we have it..."
His mind was on the thoughtless state that he would be in after a few drinks, his mouth already watering, when a hand gripped his shoulder. He cursed under his breath, expecting another beating as he turned around. Instead, he was met with the weak, weary gaze of Granger.
"Let's burn it."
He sucked in a breath and pulled his bag more securely over his shoulder, totally confused.
"The book?"
"Yes. Hagrid has a firepit on the south side of the castle. We can do it after hours, tonight."
"But... Why..."
"I'm tired of feeling like this. I need finality, closure. So I want to watch it burn."
She felt as if that simply had not been enough to convince him to destroy his father's old possession, and so she added a firm "Please."
He switched his weight to the other foot, staring at the floor... And then he gave the tiniest nod.
Anything for her.