The following morning at breakfast there was an uproar when one Pansy Parkinson, of Slytherin House, took a huge swig from a goblet she had assumed held pumpkin juice- after all, what else would a goblet at the breakfast table be expected to hold?- and found it to contain, instead, undiluted bubotuber pus. In the ensuing madness, Hermione, studying Draco shrewdly through narrowed eyes, thought she had never seen him look quite so innocent. Their eyes met, his wide and guileless, and he mouthed to her over the din, "poor girl."

Hermione just shook her head.

Pansy spent the next three days in the hospital wing, during which time an extensive inquiry was of course launched, but the identity of the mean-spirited prankster was never discovered. Had it been, the guilty party would almost certainly have faced expulsion. Pansy herself was quite vocal (once she could do more than gurgle, that is) about her conviction that it was Hermione Granger, the Head Girl herself, who was responsible, but she refused to explain to the headmaster just why she thought so, and so, between the fact that there was no evidence whatsoever to support Pansy's claims and the fact that the faculty all agreed Hermione was about as capable of attempting to poison a fellow student as the Giant Squid was of moving into Gryffindor Tower, nothing ever came of it.

At nearly the same time as an extremely sullen Pansy was finally being released from Madam Pomfrey's care, Snape kept Hermione after potions in order to inform her that the corridor in which she had been attacked no longer existed. He and Dumbledore had seen to that. Any student now venturing that far down into the bowels of the school would, upon descending the final staircase, be met with a solid stone wall upon which had been placed the portrait of a very old, foul tempered wizard named Reginald the Recluse, who quite liked it by himself down there and would swear like a sailor at anyone who came near (what Snape neglected to tell her was that Reginald was, in fact, his own great-grandfather). Due to the fact that old Reggie's mouth was capable of sending the younger students into fits of hysterics- and not the good kind, either- "his staircase" would henceforth be on Dumbledore's list of prohibited places within the school.

Hermione was grateful, and even forced a smile to show it, which required a supreme effort because for her, smiles were hard to come by these days. Since the disastrous episode that had begun in the library and ended at the scene of her rape, Hermione had felt herself slipping deeper and deeper into depression. After all, though she had related some of what she had overheard that day to Draco, she had not told him the worst of it; the one comment, above all the others, that had truly devastated her and caused her flight- Pansy's sneering voice saying, "Granger, the perpetual virgin!"

It was this comment that ate away at her- this comment, which Pansy had intended as a scathing insult, but which had ended up causing Hermione far more anguish due to its inaccuracy than it ever would have had it been true. If it had been true, Hermione would have dismissed it for the spiteful, petty sniping that it was, but it was the fact that it was false- so woefully false-

So upsetting had been this comment, followed immediately by her unintentional visit to the very place where her virginity had been shattered, that she found herself dwelling on it nearly constantly and growing more and more distressed as the days passed.

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Thus it was that on the second Friday after the Pansy incident, she woke in such a black mood that she made the decision- for the first time ever since her arrival at Hogwarts seven years ago- to forego class when she wasn't seriously physically ill.

When Draco knocked on her door to collect her for breakfast, as was their custom, she raised her head from the pillow, in which it had been buried, long enough to call out to him that she wasn't feeling well and he should go to breakfast, and on to class, without her. When he asked to be allowed in, she refused.

She still hadn't gotten out of bed when Harry and Ron came around pounding on the door at lunchtime. She didn't bother answering them at all. No one else came by, and Draco did not return until after dark. By then, at least, she had gotten out of bed and showered, but had put her pajamas (pale blue jersey knit pants and a baggy white tee-shirt) back on and was doing nothing more than sitting in her window seat, staring out across the grounds. She had a book spread open across her lap, but had not read a single sentence since summoning it from her nightstand an hour before.

Dinner was over and she had been watching the Gryffindor Quidditch team, which of course included Harry, Ron and Draco, practicing as the Sun went down. They were now following the path back up to the castle, single file, broomsticks slung over their shoulders. As they disappeared through the double doors far below, she knew it was only a matter of moments until she would be once more under siege by at least one of "her boys", if not all three. Sighing, she turned her face away from the window, but made no move to get up. She lacked the energy, she lacked the will- at that particular moment, she lacked any conviction at all that it would be worthwhile to get up ever again.

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Draco trudged slowly up the many stairs that led to Gryffindor Tower, exhausted from practice and desperately worried about Hermione. That morning, when she had told him to go on to class without her, he had thought she meant that she would be missing the first class of the day- and that had caused him enough concern. But that she should miss them ALL- that she should go an entire day without once leaving her room, for class, for meals, or even to visit the library- that was just SO unlike her. Or was it? Come to think of it, was it really? Or was it just the natural progression of the depression that seemed to be claiming her more and more fully of late? And if so, where would she go from here? How much worse could things get?

He shook his head. No worse. He couldn't allow this to go on. He had to think of a way to make this better. She was suffering and he had to come up with a way to help her. He HAD to. But how? Dear God, HOW?

In the common room, he parted from the rest of the team; they headed up yet more stairs to their dormitories while he turned toward the door beside the fireplace. Harry grasped his shoulder briefly in a comradely fashion and the two boys shared a significant look. Draco knew that Harry- Ron too, for that matter- was as worried about Hermione as he was. Well, almost as worried- they didn't know about the Pansy incident, so they had one less thing to fret about than he did. But nevertheless, they could certainly tell that Hermione's state was deteriorating, even if they weren't aware of every single contributing factor. They had told him about her refusal to answer them at lunch time, concern etched all over their faces; she had only previously given the two of them the cold shoulder a handful of times over all the years they had been at Hogwarts, and only when the trio had been fighting over one thing or another.

Yet it had been Harry who had convinced Draco not to forego dinner and practice, when his inclination had been to nip some food straight from the kitchens and bring it upstairs to eat with Hermione. Harry had convinced him (not without some difficulty) that Hermione needed time, and would probably be more herself if he gave her until after practice. So, though it had been hard for him, he had waited. He was going to see her now though, come hell or high water. Oh yes indeed.

He stopped by his own room first, wearily dropping his broomstick on the bed and stripping off his protective gear. This was something that the rest of his teammates did down in the changing rooms, but not Draco- oh, no. Old habits died hard, and Draco Malfoy was not about to leave his expensive, top-of-the-line Quidditch equipment in a filthy locker down in the communal changing room, where just any riff-raff could lay grubby hands on it. And imagine the horror if it were taken, or accidentally mixed up with someone else's- not that that was likely- the accidental mix-up scenario, anyway- since his things were of such obvious superiority in quality and cleanliness- but one could never be sure, and it would be a cold day in Hell before he pulled on someone else's sweaty, grimy, stained equipment. Or worse yet- he actually shuddered- the extra "emergency gear" that belonged to the school. If it came down to that, he wouldn't play. He would see a game forfeited first, which he knew would sit very ill with his teammates- therefore, his gear remained in his room at all times he wasn't actually wearing it. And if his teammates sniggered behind his back at his insistence on wearing the hot leather equipment all the way back up to the tower after every practice and game, so be it (damn them all).

Ordinarily, he cleaned and oiled the leather gear immediately upon his return from any practice or game, but just for tonight he decided it could wait. Pulling his scarlet and gold Gryffindor Quidditch robe over his head, he used it to briefly towel off his sweat-soaked hair, then tossed it carelessly in a corner and, still wearing the remainder of his uniform- tightly fitted flying breeches tucked into dragonhide boots and his scarlet team jersey- headed across the hall to Hermione's room.

His knock at her door did not achieve the result he had intended- immediate entrance into her room- or, indeed, in any result whatsoever. It appeared that she had decided to extend her earlier silent treatment of Harry and Ron to him as well.

Only he wasn't going to have it.

"Hermione?" he called, his voice soft but carrying. No response.

He tried the handle. It was locked.

He sighed.

"Hermione," he called again, in the same voice, which managed to carry without actually being raised, his tone calm and matter-of-fact; "believe me when I say that I am coming in, one way or another. Now," he asked, almost conversationally, "are you going to open this door, or am I going to blast it out of my way?"

There was a long silence. Then, he heard a softly spoken spell from the far side of the door- the far side of the room too, by the sound of it- followed by a click from within the doorknob. When he tried it again, it opened.

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He first noticed that the usually neatly-kept room was in a very un-Hermione-like state of disarray. Two or three different homework assignments lay strewn haphazardly across her desk, all appearing to be only half done. The bed was unmade, sheets and blankets scattered all about, and clothes littered the floor and lay draped carelessly over the backs of chairs, presumably where she had left them after undressing the night before. He didn't think they were from today, at any rate, because when he noticed her- sitting curled in a ball in her window seat, a large book lying open beside her like a faithful but neglected pet, her face turned away from him, staring out the window at a night so dark she couldn't possibly actually be seeing anything- he realized that she was wearing pajamas which, by the rumpled look of them, had been slept in last night and then worn all day as well.

"Hermione?"

"I don't want to talk," she said in a dull, flat voice. "The locked door should have clued you in to that, but then you never were one to take a hint, were you?"

He walked slowly over and settled himself on the window seat as well- it was more than long enough to accommodate two people. She didn't look at him, choosing instead to continue her examination of the pitch darkness outside her window.

There was a long silence.

"Bookworm," he said at last, "this can't go on. I need you to tell me what it is that's torturing you like this. Not just some of it- ALL of it. Because you didn't tell me all of it before, did you?"

Finally, she turned eyes to him that were, as they had been in the hallway when she had nearly knocked him over in her haste to escape the library, haunted. There were no tears in them- not at the moment- but tear-tracks streaked her pale face. She swallowed, then dropped her gaze away from his. She whispered something so softly he couldn't make it out.

He leaned forward. "What?"

She dropped her head onto her knees and her next words were badly muffled, but by edging closer and listening intently, he managed to make them out.

"Pansy said something else."

Draco felt that now familiar protective rage flare within him, but he fought it down. He could tell that ranting and raving about the Parkinson bitch (bloody fucking whore!) the way he wanted to do would cause Hermione to shut down completely. If he wanted her to open up to him, he had to remain calm.

Unconsciously, he raised his right hand to his face and began massaging his temple with his fingertips. When he spoke, his voice was quiet; composed. "Tell me."

She made a sound that seemed as if she were swallowing back a sob, but when she raised her head from her knees, her eyes were still dry. Dark-ringed and despairing, but dry. She hesitated, and he could see the uncertainty behind those brown eyes. She was debating whether to tell him. Her hesitation pained him, but it lasted only a second, to be replaced by resignation.

"Granger, the perpetual virgin," she said in a monotone, then gave a short, bitter laugh. "I suppose it goes hand-in-hand with being a frigid bitch- as far as Pansy's concerned, at least. She said it to hurt me, and it did- but not in the way she had intended. I could have stood it if it were true- I wish to God it were true. It hurt me because it's so blatantly false." Her eyes remained steadily on his as she said, "because I don't care what you say to spare my feelings, I AM damaged and I know it. All I am is used goods."

Draco closed his eyes, fighting for control. What he wanted to do in that instant was take her by the shoulders and SHAKE her- shake her and SLAP some sense into her, if necessary. This was not a stupid girl sitting in front of him- she was the smartest girl at Hogwarts; the smartest girl he'd ever met, for Chrissakes. And he had met many highly intelligent people in his parents' circle (evil as the day was long, yes- but intelligent). Hermione outshone them all. So why in God's name was she allowing herself to buy into such complete and utter bullshit?

And the most frustrating part was that he knew that her very intelligence and innate sense of logic- which should have, but had somehow failed to, protect her from falling into this trap of self-loathing- would be his biggest hurdle to helping her claw her way back out of it again. Shaking her, yelling at her, even taking her into his arms and rocking her, telling her that he would give his life to go back and change the outcome of that day- all of which were things he wanted to do at the moment- would not work.

Assuring her that he, Draco Malfoy, was not bloody likely to waste his time on used or damaged goods and therefore she must clearly be nothing of the sort- in his opinion anyway, which was, after all, the only one that truly mattered- would not work.

He needed to prove her wrong with calm, rational logic.

But how?

What logic could he use in the face of such an emotionally charged situation? How on Earth could he make her see that what she was saying simply was not true?

All at once it came to him, in a blinding flash of inspiration. "Come on," he said urgently; "I have something to show you. Bring your book." And seizing her hand, he pulled her bodily out of her room, in her pajamas and slippers, through the crowded common room, which buzzed with conversation as weekend plans were cheerfully being made, and out the portrait hole.

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"Draco, where are we going?" Hermione asked anxiously, as he pulled her by the hand across the dark grounds toward the forbidden forest. "Will you please just tell me what is going ON? I don't-"

"Shh," Draco whispered. They had passed Hagrid's hut and were now skirting the forest, heading toward the enclosure that had at one time held four dragons during the Triwizard Tournament years ago. Though the stands had long since been removed, the enclosure remained, and was now used to house an ever-changing assortment of animals for the Care of Magical Creatures classes to study.

It was nearly empty now, for such a large space; only a handful of animals could be seen within as they approached, widely spread out, brilliantly white and shining in the dusk. A faint whinny reached their ears; a beautiful, almost musical sound.

"Unicorns," Hermione breathed. Having missed Care of Magical Creatures that day, she had not known they were there. One look at her face told Draco that she was utterly enthralled by them, as he had hoped she would be. As most girls were.

"C'mon," he said quietly, and led her toward the enclosure's gate.

"Wait," she whispered, when they had reached the gate and Draco was reaching for the latch; "I think I hear something. A voice. A person."

"Draco cocked his head, listening hard, and heard it too. A girl's voice, coming from off to their right, where the enclosure had been expanded to surround a small stand of trees, which provided shelter to the animals on hot days.

He jutted his head toward the sound of the voice, as much as to say, shall we investigate?

"I don't know," Hermione murmured. "Maybe we shouldn't intrude…"

"Let's just have a look," Draco said. "We've come all the way down here; it would be a shame to leave without seeing the unicorns. Maybe whoever it is will welcome some company."

They started off around the edge of the enclosure, toward the stand of trees, walking very quietly, as if both sensing, despite Draco's words, that the owner of the voice would not welcome their arrival at all. They were almost to the trees when Hermione stopped abruptly, peering through the slatted fence.

"Draco, look," she whispered; "I can see her. It's…it's Pansy."

Draco looked, and saw her too. Sitting cross-legged on the ground at the base of a nearby tree, with a book spread open on her lap, was Pansy Parkinson, Slytherin princess, queen of vicious words that cut like knives. Though apparently quite alone, she was reading aloud by wandlight, in a quiet, faltering sort of voice. Closer observation revealed the reason her voice was faltering; she was crying openly, tears streaming down her face as she continued to read. Several feet away, apparently listening intently, were two unicorns; a snow-white mare and a silvery half-grown foal, shimmering in the night, for it was now fully dark.

They occasionally tossed their heads and whinnied, but did not approach Pansy.

Draco and Hermione watched, silently, transfixed, for the next ten minutes as Pansy continued to read, her words becoming more difficult to understand as she cried harder and harder. Finally, with a great sob, she ceased reading altogether. The instant she stopped, the two unicorns pawed the ground, snorted, and turned away.

"GO ON THEN! Get out of here!" Pansy shrieked suddenly (in a voice still decidedly scratchy from her bubotuber ordeal), making Hermione jump- and, leaping to her feet, she hurled the heavy book at the unicorns. It thudded to the ground between them, and they reared and galloped away toward the far side of the enclosure. She then dropped her face into her hands and stood, shoulders hunched, for a long moment, sobbing pitifully. Finally, she raised her head, wiped her face on her sleeve, went to retrieve her book, and, without a glance in Draco and Hermione's direction, made her way slowly toward the enclosure gate, still sniffling.

They watched in silence as she let herself out of the enclosure and headed back toward the castle. Only once she was completely out of sight did either of them breathe deeply again- they hadn't even realized that they'd been holding their breath.

"Poor Pansy!" Hermione exclaimed at last. "I mean, I never thought I'd feel sorry for HER, but- my God! She was so upset. What was that all about?"

Draco was staring after Pansy, looking uncharacteristically shaken. "Class," he murmured, more to himself than to Hermione; "she must not have understood. And I noticed that she didn't come back up to the castle with the rest of us- so she's been down here for hours, trying to-" he shook his head. "Oh Pansy, you stupid, stupid girl."

Hermione's full attention was now focused on him. "Draco," she said slowly, "would you care to enlighten me as to what happened in class this afternoon? Because I am seriously in the dark right now."

Draco turned his eyes on her. As always at night, they shone faintly silver. "We learned some new facts about unicorns today," he said, totally unnecessarily. Hermione gave an impatient snort. "I gathered THAT much," she retorted; "could you elaborate, please?"

"Well, Draco said, sounding suddenly rather hesitant, "we learned that if a maiden sits on the ground beneath a tree and either sings or reads aloud, unicorns will come and lay their heads in her lap and go to sleep. It's a method that was used quite commonly in the Middle Ages to capture them; while they were sleeping, men would creep up and bind them. Very few people know about it anymore, as there are so few unicorns left. Pansy must have thought it could work for any girl- she either missed the word 'maiden', or she didn't understand what was meant by it."

"It means virgin," Hermione whispered, looking suddenly stricken.

"Yes," Draco replied, "which Pansy most definitely is not."

"And neither am I," Hermione said, in a small, choked-sounding voice. She was looking from Draco to the book tucked under her arm- the book he had instructed her to bring- over to the distant unicorns, and back to Draco again. Abruptly, she dropped the book to the ground. "Draco- why did you bring me down here? Surely you don't- you can't mean for me to-"

Tears were welling in her eyes, and she took a step back from him, then another, shaking her head all the while.

"Hermione, listen-"

"No!" Her voice was shrill. "I can't believe you would do this to me! After what I just TOLD you up in my room! You WANT to see them reject me the way they rejected Pansy? Why? WHY would you want to see that?" She dissolved completely into tears.

"Hermione!" Draco took two quick strides forward and grasped her firmly by the upper arms. "You WILL listen to me," he said commandingly, his pale eyes boring intently into her dark ones. He took a deep breath, and when she offered no further resistance, continued; "Pansy missed a large part of the lecture altogether. She and a couple of other girls wandered off to get a better look at that foal, either not realizing, or more likely not caring, that Hagrid was still talking. She missed quite a few interesting facts. Such as the whole discussion about virgins and, in particular, 'true virgins', which is a fine distinction that unicorns, as highly intuitive magical creatures, are capable of making." He shook his head again. "If she had bothered to stick around for the last twenty minutes of the lecture, she would have realized that she, being no kind of virgin, was a lost cause for the whole reading-aloud deal, and she wouldn't have wasted hours of her time and frustrated herself to tears."

Hermione, now staring at the ground, whispered, "I don't understand. We learned a little about unicorns in fourth year, when Grubbly-Plank was filling in for Hagrid, but she never mentioned any of this. Virgin, true virgin, what does it mean?"

"She probably figured- correctly, in my opinion- that fourth-years weren't ready to hear about it yet. A true virgin," Draco said quietly, "is a girl who has never- WILLINGLY- given up her virginity to a man she loves- or at the very least, thinks she does. Therefore it is possible, in rare cases, for a girl not to be a technical virgin, but still to be a true virgin. You are one of those cases. See, Pansy, for all that she may regret it now, gave up her virginity willingly to a boy she thought she loved. (Never would he tell her that he had been that boy, on the night of the Yule Ball during fourth year, so long ago.) You, on the other hand, have never done so." He tilted her chin up, forcing her to look at him. "You are a true virgin, Hermione, and the unicorns will recognize that, and they WILL come to you. You'll see."

For the briefest second, he thought he saw a wild hope kindle in her eyes- but it vanished as quickly as it had appeared. She was shaking her head again. "You're wrong," she whispered despairingly. "They'll never come to me. Never. Not after what he…" she trailed off, and a violent shudder wracked her body. "It was disgusting. I'M disgus-"

"HEY!" Draco, who was still holding her by the upper arms, was no longer able to resist the impulse; he gave her a sudden, hard shake. "Don't you say it, Hermione, do you hear me? Don't you even THINK it! Goddamn it," he swore, and she saw that he was really, truly angry; "that's complete and utter bullshit! And what's more, you're smart enough that you should KNOW that's complete and utter bullshit. For the love of God…" he trailed off for a moment, staring intently into her eyes, then, abruptly, yanked her to him, engulfing her in a tight, hard embrace. Resting his chin atop her head, he said, "I think deep down you know what I'm saying is true. You must. You're smart enough that you must. The things that bastard- that bloody fucking bastard- did to you- were just that; done TO you, wholly without your consent or participation. The unicorns will sense that, and they will disregard what he did. And they will come. They will come. I know they'll come; I swear it to you. And what's more, we are not. Going back. To the castle. Until you sit under that tree and bloody well READ! Do I make myself clear?"

It was a long moment before he felt her nod once, against his chest. Releasing her, he walked over to where her book lay on the ground, picked it up, and tossed it over the enclosure fence. He then beckoned her over to the fence; she came slowly, reluctantly. Without a word, he boosted her up and over, then easily climbed over himself.

Retrieving her book, he took her by the hand and led her over to the tree Pansy had been sitting against. He then did something that surprised her; he settled himself on the ground beneath the tree, leaned back against it, and patted the soft, springy turf between his legs.

Slowly, still with great reluctance, she lowered herself into a sitting position between his legs, facing outward, away from him. She then leaned back against his chest, allowing her head to fall onto his shoulder as one of his arms circled her waist and the other came up and began stroking through her hair. They sat that way for a long moment as her sense of unease slowly faded and she gradually relaxed into him. Then, reaching around in front of her, he placed the book gently in her lap, pulled his wand from the waistband of his breeches, and murmured, "Lumos."

Holding the wand aloft so that the faint light from its tip illuminated the book, he said simply, "read."

"They won't come," she whispered.

"They will," he said.

She opened the book, drew in a deep, shuddering breath, and began slowly, haltingly, to read aloud.

And they came. Not one of them, not two of them; they all came.

There were, as it turned out, five in total; two mares, two foals, and a stallion. The same mare and half-grown foal that had been listening to Pansy, albeit at a distance, were the first to come, followed by the other mare and her younger, still golden foal. The stallion came last, slowly, majestically, glimmering in the light of the rising moon.

The five animals ranged themselves in a semicircle around the young couple, then sank to their knees, all their eyes fixed unblinkingly on Hermione, as she made a concerted effort to continue reading, though her breath was catching in her throat at their beauty, their closeness, the fact they had come. They had come to her when she had never thought they would. Apparently, they didn't see her as damaged or sullied or disgusting; they, the purest magical creatures in the world, seemed to consider her to be just as good and wholesome and beautiful as they were themselves.

And Draco must agree with them, or he wouldn't have brought her here.

She was nearly overwhelmed by emotion, but she kept on reading and very slowly, never taking his eyes off her, the stallion lowered his head into her lap. As though they had been waiting for his signal, the mares and foals followed suit, jostling for position, their heads bumping gently, eyes still riveted on her face. If all five had been adults, they never could have fit. Even so, it was a very close thing. She finally had to stop reading, as one of the mares laid her head squarely on top of the book.

"You'd better start singing," Draco whispered in her ear, "if you don't want them to leave."

She took a deep breath. There was, of course, only one song that she would choose to sing under such enchanting circumstances.

The large, luminous eyes of all five unicorns fell slowly shut. By the time Hermione had finished the song, they were sleeping soundly.

"I think you can stop once they're asleep," Draco murmured. Hermione let her head fall back against his shoulder once again and stared up, between the gently swaying branches of the tree above them, to the starlit sky beyond. Silent tears were pouring from her eyes, but these were not the tears of despair she had been crying for over a year; these were tears of wonderment and sheer joy.

They stayed like that, sitting perfectly still, for well over an hour, until the unicorns began to stir and then, led by the stallion, got to their feet, tossed their heads, and trotted away. Hermione, leaning heavily against Draco, stretched luxuriously, then sat straight up and half-turned so that she was looking directly at him for the first time since they had settled themselves in that spot. He was staring intently at her, trying to gauge her reaction to all that had happened.

"Draco," she whispered, and then she threw herself at him, wrapping her arms tightly around him and burying her face in his neck. "I love you," she cried; "thank you, thank you, I love you so much!"

She thought she felt him smile into her hair as his own arms came up to pull her even tighter into the embrace. "I knew they would come," was all he said.

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(A/N: so things are finally looking up for Hermione- about time too, poor thing. More fluff to come next chapter. Then the shit will start to hit the fan! As for the unicorn legend, that they will lay their heads in the lap of a maiden and go to sleep, it is true…well not exactly true per se, but it is a real legend (although the actual legend goes on to say that if a non-virgin, like Pansy, tries to "trick" a unicorn into coming to her, it will gore her to death with its horn- eep!)- I made up the part about "true virgins" though.)