Disclaimer: The situations presented in this story are based on concepts and characters owned by J. K. Rowling and her publishers. I am not making any money off this story, nor will I ever.

Chapter VIII: And the Plot Thickens…

by Jenni

Draco loved how the soft tendrils of honey-brown hair rested over the delicate curve of her neck as she slept. Her lovely face was buried in the pillow, and he followed the gentle rise of her back with every breath.

How easy it would be to push her down into the indentation and watch her suffocate. He would never have to worry about her running off with Potter again.

It was perhaps the eighteenth time he had contemplated such an action, but he had rejected it each time in horror. He would never hurt Hermione on purpose. He felt the scar along his cheek itch with every such thought, for it was past midnight, and he had not drunk the potion in several hours. Not that the potion made a difference. He could always sense that scar, whether the feeling was physical or subconscious.

Sometimes he could even hear the screams that had accompanied its creation, and he would shudder. He hadn't wanted to kill her then, but he had done it. Wouldn't it be ironic if he did it again? Yes, even after everything he had gone through to find her. But then, he had to remember that she wasn't really his.

Sometimes he hated her for this.

Draco had never considered that things might be so different in this world that Hermione wouldn't accept him. Just as not loving Hermione seemed anathema to him, a Hermione not loving him had been equally incomprehensible. But here she was.

What had she been talking about with Potter? He hadn't heard a bloody thing they had said, but whatever conversation had been exchanged, it had seemed fairly intimate to him. The sight of his beautiful girl entwined in Potter's grasping arms had nearly driven him to murder. Yet it hadn't been Potter whom he wanted to kill. Only Hermione could make him lose his focus like this. This simple, muggle born girl defied all the tenants he'd been brought up with and had made him question his very existence until all he could think about was her. You Know Who had seen his weakness immediately because Draco had never been able to disguise his love for her. And his fury over losing her certainly did not diminish his love now, even as he contemplated the peace of mind he could achieve by removing her from his life forever. It wouldn't last after the guilt set in, but maybe for one moment he could find respite. And maybe that would be enough. After all, if she wasn't his Hermione, what did it really matter if she died? If she loved Potter...if Draco Malfoy didn't mean anything to her in this life, then surely he could feel the same casual indifference to her.

No. Don't even think it.

Hermione snorted in her sleep, unaware of the potential peril. She squirmed in her sleep and pulled the sheets closer to her bare flesh.

Draco smiled. Yes, he hated her. He also loved her. He desperately wanted to know what she had been discussing so heatedly with the fabulous Mr. Potter. Undoubtedly they had been arguing over him.

Why did it matter what Potter thought? Why should there be anything to argue about?

He knew the answer was that Hermione had seen through him. She must have somehow sensed his crime.

I told her I'd never hurt her, he thought. But at that moment Draco couldn't bear the image of her disgust. He never wanted to see her beautiful eyes look upon him with the hatred that would be inevitable if she were to find out the full truth about how he'd destroyed her life. She was a smart girl, possibly the most intelligent he had ever met. He had loved her mind, but now it was his greatest enemy for she would most certainly figure out the truth. And he couldn't live with that.

His trembling hand grasped his pillow, and he raised it to hover over her unsuspecting form. He sat up fully, in order to give himself better leverage. Disturbed by the slight jiggle, Hermione groaned and moved over onto her back. Draco froze. His shadow, cast against the pallid moon-light, had fallen over her face. The hands that held the pillow were shaking.

Oh God, he couldn't do it.

Draco threw the pillow back into its place, and flopped onto the bed. The sudden movement woke her.

"Draco?" she whimpered.

He seized her up and pressed her full against his body, burying his weeping eyes in her hair. He shook against her, terrified by his own thoughts. She struggled a little under his tight embrace, but he wouldn't slacken his arms. At last, she surrendered to him and to sleep, letting him hold her as a sort of restraint against the violent tremors of his body.

It was one of those rare nights when Ronald Weasley arrived at his home alone. Not that he couldn't have picked up some girl in a bar...it was just that frankly the dating chase was becoming awfully dull. Not to mention his heart just wasn't into it today.

But that didn't mean Ron Weasley was going to find "The One" nice girl he'd been destined for, fall in love and settle down. No way. Love was overrated, and it ruined peoples' lives. He'd seen what it had done to his friends, and he didn't care for it happening to him. Eventually, maybe...if he found someone he was completely certain wouldn't rake him over the coals, and who in addition wasn't dull as dirt, and who was incredibly pretty (but not so pretty as to produce an obscene amount of competition from other interested blokes) and who could cook as well as his Mum and who liked Hippogriffs and Quidditch and was just the right age, and had a nice body and brown hair (because Ron liked brunettes) then yes, Ron might consider settling down. Maybe. But not before that.

Then again, it might be nice to have someone. Ron took another look around his unkempt flat, letting his sight dwindle on the accumulating number of socks strewn around his sofa, and thought not for the first time that day that he ought to clean up. A sigh escaped him as he thought about how Ginny might be right. He should get a wife. "A nice one," she had told him once. "Someone who can supplement your income enough so you can afford a maid."

He smiled at the memory, but discarded the advice. He was so good at womanizing that it would be too much of a waste to give it up. Although,sometimes Ron wondered if womanizing was the only skill his friends attributed to him. Friends are stupid sometimes.

Ron scowled, thinking about Harry. He couldn't see why he was being so stubborn about the Malfoy business. Harry was generally the responsible friend, the sensible and understanding friend. Or at least he had been ever since the war began. Of course, he had always been amazingly bull-headed when it came to what he decided would be best for his friends, but lately it seemed to be getting worse and worse. Ron wasn't blind; he saw exactly what Harry was trying to do.

He supposed the best course of action would be to yell and scream, give Harry the silent treatment, and wait for him to come around. Maybe he would, maybe he wouldn't.

As he sunk further into the recliner, he wondering if there was a less juvenile solution to this dispute. Probably, he mused. But I don't feel like thinking of one.

He ran a hand through his rakish hair, then leaned his cheek on it. Before he knew it, and despite his uncomfortable position, he was beginning to drift towards sleep.

Then there was a sharp rap at the window pane. Ron's eyes snapped open, and he wiped furiously at the bit of drool that had escaped his mouth. The customary post-somnum confusion dissipated at the second rapping, and Ron slunk to the window.

Sluggishly, he pulled back the curtains, to reveal Hermione's fleecy gray owl, Hermes, hopping around on the outside ledge. Oh thank God, thought Ron. He had feared it would be another note from some heart-broken ex-girlfriend.

He opened the window with more eagerness than he had displayed walking to it, and held out his hand for Hermes to perch upon, as he removed the letter from the owl's leg.

"Let's get you a treat." he told the bird, who hooted with eager agreement. Ron took him to the kitchen, where he deposited him on the back of a chair, and sat in the one next to it. He reached for the tin container of owl treats sitting by the table, and fumbled to open it.

Yet as he read the words on the page, poor Hermes was forgotten.

Ron,

I had a talk with Harry, and I doubt he'll come around to see our point of view. Therefore, in the interests of the agency, I think it would be best to make this an independent project. If you still wish to comply with the wishes of Narcissa Malfoy regarding the Malfoy case, I would still be amenable to its pursuit. You want to prove that he isn't Draco, and I want to prove that he is. Will you meet me at the office tomorrow? Before Harry gets there, of course. Seven o'clock

Write me back.

Love,

Hermione

He squinted at the formal words on the parchment, then at the owl who had delivered them. He scratched his head, and turned to Hermes again, still waiting impatiently for his treat.

Ron sputtered. "Has your mistress gone bloody daft?" He held out an owl treat, and Hermes took it, but not before pecking him roughly on the finger for his insult to Hermione.

"Ow!" exclaimed Ron, holding the cut. He looked back at the paper, and then bolted for his office. He needed some parchment.

Draco knew as he was exiting the train that somehow he had been there before, and it wasn't the station itself which told him this. It was the people, the little details of the day that gave him an eerie sense of déja vu. Somehow he knew the little boy eating his Bertie Botts Every Flavor Beans was going to spit one on the concrete platform. And he saw in his mind an old man tipping his hat nearly two seconds before he actually did it. There was a chain of events carrying him like a river to a waterfall, which he could see from a distance, but was powerless to avoid.

And in two seconds he would see Hermione. She would turn with anxious eyes searching the mass of travelers and luggage, and he would smile because she had pulled her hair back just like he liked it so that her lily-white neck was exposed. He would wave to catch her eye, and go to her. She was so happy. Her arms raised to him. And then...

No... Stop! No... his mind cried out.

But he was never able to stop.

He took her in his arms, and felt her hand upon his left cheek.

It's already too late...

Before he could lean down to kiss her, her smile had disappeared, replaced with one of horrific agony.

"D...Draco?" she gasped her last coherent word before the pain erupted from within, and her utterances turned to tormented screams. The hand that had so lovingly touched his cheek, had not dropped, but bit into his flesh as she latched onto him as if he were life itself. The nail dug through his cheek, and scraped back, drawing blood. Her screams were cut off without warning, as the curse continued its torture, burning through her lungs.

Her eyes latched onto his, still bright with love, but now it was hidden behind pain and confusion. Her hand still clenched, but there was no longer flesh to hold. It slumped to his neck, smearing his blood on his pristine collar, and she fell.

Stricken with disbelief, Draco caught her. But when he moved his hands to support her head, he found her eyes dimmed.

Hermione was dead.

Draco bolted awake, but it took him only a moment to register his surroundings. He had dreamt this dream so many times that he was no longer disoriented by it. However, it didn't make it any less terrible.

As he shook off the aftershocks of his recurring nightmare, Draco remembered that for the first time in years he could tell himself it was exactly that: a nightmare, and nothing else. His arms went out, searching for Hermione's warm body, but all he found was a cold pillow. His eyes darted to the place she should have occupied. Empty.

A chill set over him, and blind panic followed behind. Had it all been a dream? He bolted from the bed, not bothering to clothe himself, and called for her. "Hermione!"

No answer came.

"Hermione!" he shouted again, peeking through the bedroom door, and into the hallway. Still nothing.

His sight found itself focused on a framed picture of Hermione with Potter and Weasley. They were smiling like mad, giggling a little, and had their arms thrown around each others' shoulders. It was recent. He could tell by the similarities in their haircuts that it couldn't have been more than a year ago.

He felt calmer knowing she hadn't been a dream; she was just absent. Still, the picture unnerved him. The three friends moving in the photograph were inseparable...they didn't even acknowledge his presence.

Not wishing to study it further, he wandered into the kitchen, and his face erupted into a smile when he saw a note sitting by a plate of scones fresh from the bakery. When had she found time to buy them?

He picked up the paper, scribbled out in her characteristically neat handwriting, which actually wasn't so neat as it usually was. In fact, it seemed to have been written in incredible haste:

Draco,

Enjoy your breakfast. I bought it especially for you. I have to be at the office in exactly...now, but I'll see you later tonight.

Hermione

He read it over, frowning with distaste at the lack of a proper farewell. Not even a "Yours Sincerely" for the signature. She might have at least put, "Later." But she hadn't bothered. The note could have been written for the cat sitter or the chimney sweep. It wasn't a proper girlfriend's note.

Finally, he decided to throw it away. After all, it wasn't the sort of note you save, and put in your breast pocket, and read over and over with kisses and tears. He crumpled it up, walked over to the waste bin and held it over, ready to drop it in without a second thought. But his trained eyes caught a glimpse of something odd.

He peered down into the can. Burnt paper?

Curiosity got the better of him. Knowing Hermione and her perfectionism, she had probably written ten such notes, only to destroy them. Maybe she hadn't wanted to seem too vulnerable. Maybe she had written a few words too messily. At any rate, he couldn't help but want to know.

A quick trip back to the bedroom to retrieve his wand, and Draco was standing over the trash again.

"Litteras Reparo!" he ordered, and the ashes reordered themselves into clean and healthy paper. Maybe it was nothing, if Hermione hadn't bothered to charm the ashes so they could not be reconstructed. Draco remembered then that Hermione didn't know how to do that. That was a Death Eater spell.

He looked at it to see what she had written. However, the note was not in Hermione's writing, and was in fact altogether unfamiliar to Draco.

Nevertheless, he read:

Hermione,

You can't imagine my surprise at your message. 'Prove that he is Draco?' Does that mean you have some sort of suspicion that he isn't? At any rate, I won't question your motives, but do allow me to say how very odd they are. I'll meet you in the morning, but not at the office. Harry's hours are unpredictable, you know. Meet me in Diagon Alley. In front of the old bookstore. I've got a lead. Or at least I did a week ago.

See you at seven,

Ron

Draco stared at the words with increasing ire, knowing that the note and plate of scones had been a trick to lure him into a sense of false security. She still suspected him, then. So much now that she didn't even vocalize her suspicions. He thought back to the incident during the night. He hadn't been under the potion, and his arms had been wrapped around her. Who was he to say that she hadn't woken up long enough to see the mark?

Well, what were they going to do! Plot to kill him? To arrest him?

How little faith this Hermione had in him. His had never cared, but had always loved him faithfully and as unconditionally as she had promised.

"Incendio!" he roared, and Weasley's letter burst once again into flames. He hurled it into the trash. Should he go after them? No, that would only confirm Hermione's fears. Besides, he didn't know where they had gone after their rendezvous. He could do nothing but wait.