Disclaimer: I own nothing. Even my heart belongs to another. Oh well I do own my ideas. Just not the characters

Where the Light Ends

The walls were spinning while she sat near the edge of her four poster. The duvet lie on the plush crimson carpet a few meters from where she rocked, wounded like a broken child. The tears had dried long ago. The screams left nothing but ringing in her ears and sores in her throat. The hysterical laugh was all that could be heard aside from the ticking of her muggle clock. She stood and looked for her wand. There is lay, just as it had the night before. Yet it was different. The room was different. She was different. Her hair, she once spent so much time to straighten those mahogany strands, fell dull and matted, giving her another madwoman attribute. Her gown of caramel silk, torn in several places. And in the darkest corner of her room, next to the bed where the nightstand rose, a glistening dagger shone by the candlelight. It was not yet morning, she knew the sun had a many minutes left of rest. But the dagger drew her eyes. Not the rubies and crystals that shone, not the heath that lie next to it, glistening platinum and midnight leather. It was the sparkling smooth blade that was tarnished. Tarnished it was more beautiful than before. She just stared at the blood that appeared still wet on the blade. His blood, how it had covered his skin and the blade so easily, while not a drop fell on her or her room. His stupid pureblood, it only made her laugh how he believed his foolish concentrated blood could demand anything of her, most of all her love and purity. She knew they were out there: men who felt they had the control and would take no hesitation to use whatever method to capture their prey. Ironic that this beautiful prey surrounded herself with weaponry. But why not? She was beautiful in her own right, perfection of mind, soul, body, life. Too many dangers in life to not know defense. Too many dangers for a mudblood in addition to those of a young muggle girl. Hermione Granger would defend herself with all she knew. One would have though he would have known better. After all, wasn't he supposed to be… her best friend.

Ronald Weasley should have known better. Hermione loved him once, but that ended as many young relationships end, with someone falling out of love and into the same comfortable friendship. When he snuck through the portrait connecting the Gryffindor common room to the Head Girl's private quarters, Hermione thought he was just complaining about some new girl. She was shocked to feel Ron pounce on her on top her bed. He was so strong, Quidditch practice having built up layers of muscle. Her main source of defense, her wand lay across the crimson and gold room. Malfoy had silencing charms around his room so screams were futile. A handy muggle defense mechanism Hermione kept was in the dresser her wand lay upon, and it bullets were deep within her closet. There was only one thing close enough to save her. The drawer was already open, all she had to do was stretch her arm while Ron tugged at her sleeping gown. She looked deep into his eyes for a moment, scared that he was under s trance and that she'd hurt him. But there was nothing but lust and demand. And it was Ron and the end of the look. Her hand already lifted with leverage, Hermione skillfully plunged her dagger, sure to steer clear of all vital organs and solely removing Ron of his defenses. Seconds later she was no longer under Ron. She faced her fireplace and cast some powder into the grate. The image of Dumbledore in a night cap appeared. She quickly informed the Headmaster of the situation and hr personally retrieved the faint Weasley and tended to his wounds. Hermione agreed that a short trip to St Mungo's would be the best for Mr. Weasley. He could recuperate without destroying his reputation while receiving counseling for his problem. Professor Dumbledore tried to help Hermione but she asked him to depart without accepting his sleeping droughts.

So she cried and screamed into the late hours of the night. the silencing charm she had cast would soon end. The room looked ordinary but was so different. She could no longer keep it this way. She could no longer be this way. She was attacked. Her defenses were up and her trust for all shattered. At least her trust for her friends. And that was the only trust that mattered to her. There was a sudden cry within her heart and Hermione screamed with all the strength left in her lungs. As she screamed a dim blue light engulfed the room than disappeared. Her cry was too powerful for the charm, it broke and her cry was heard across the Head Common Room in Malfoy's room.

Draco Malfoy awoke suddenly to the most heartbreaking holler he ever heard. Years as a Deatheater's son never brought a cry this mournful. He rushed out of his room toward the sound of the cry. Within milliseconds he magically broke through Hermione's door and was on his knees by her side. Hermione lifted her head from her hands and looked into stormy grey eyes. They were abnormally clear, yet blackened. They held the mystic security Hermione had be screaming for. She let her pain flow and collapsed into his arms. Draco sat there. He didn't run his hands along her arms, he didn't cradle her and hush her with sweet whispers. He didn't pet her hair and hold her hand. He just sat with her body limp against him. He understood she would only build hate if she was comforted like a broken soul. He understood that she still hated him from the previous six years of torture he pushed upon her. He understood he didn't like this know it all anymore than two years ago. A perfect beauty, but completely UN-understood by the world. Yet he got it. That should have scared him. But there she was needing him. And he wished to Merlin he could say no to her. But Draco was a gentleman. Draco was a man. Draco was a prideful wizard and a knowledgeable one. And most importantly, this pureblood was against the satanic views of the Deatheater and violent use of power given to the purebloods. No man with the intelligence of Draco Malfoy could be so biased. So Draco sat there until the fiery sun with her radiating smile rose high into the sky. Hermione's breathing was deep and repetitive. She slept as he leaned against the wall. As he looked at Hermione's muggle grandfather clock it read eleven in the morning. He was too happy it was a Hogsmeade Saturday. He sat and contemplated. Numbers and words and history rushed through his head. Then the prophecy he learned as a small child. He sat and looked around the room. Then he decided. He would help her. On what he wasn't sure, how he wasn't sure, or if she even needed it. But he needed to help this woman he loathed so much. If only to fulfill the prophecy he learned from the Legendary Pureblood Seer, the Ghost of Lordallic.

Tell me what you think. I will not continue unless given some ideas on what you think and what you want me to write about. I have a motive. But I want to write about what you want to read. So talk to me. Michee