"Why is she still here, so?" his mother challenged. He glared at her, nostrils slightly flaring. She had puffed herself right up and her face was very red. Her hair stuck out in a very unMalfoy-ish way and she looked taller than normal. But he was not afraid of her. He was not afraid of anybody anymore. The only person Draco had feared, his father, was now serving him.

Why was Hermione still there? Ever since the ball she had refused to see him. Behind the wooden door, she was silent. She replied to Narcissa in curt, short terms. He was bothered by her silence. It left him with a huge lack of satisfaction at every one of his visits, and his mother told her Hermione hadn't eaten anything proper since. Draco couldn't help but wonder what had happened that had been so bad at the ball, as he'd rather had a good time.

Maybe it was because of something Potter had said. She had been left in that room with him for quite some time. Maybe he had told her he had killed Ron or something petty like that. Currently Ron did not know of Weasley's welfare, and he had limited, extremely limited, interest in the subject. It was Potter's business, and Draco knew better than to pry.

But Hermione's silence was bothering him more than it should have. She was taking all the fun out of being a Dark lord. As a standard rule, both him and Potter were killing only those necessary. It was always a stupid thing to kill somebody if not essential. Deaths brought mess and drains of power and unwanted vengeance from emotional relatives. It wasn't pretty. Maybe people did not realise how much effort an Unforgivable took to cast and Draco had found himself needing to recharge on a weekly basis. He knew Potter was having the same problem, he could see the paleness taking over Potter and the tiredness echoed in his eyes.

Why else might Hermione be so stubborn not to see Draco? Maybe she'd been shocked when she'd looked up into his face and seen something more than hatred and disgust in his face? Maybe that had changed things some how. Draco certainly felt different. He was thinking about Granger too much. It wasn't normal.

His mother must have noticed something in her son's countenance also, because, when he'd returned home that day, she'd been waiting for him.

"Draco," she had said, "you have to do something! Poor Hermione's still up in her room and she will barely say a word to me! She won't eat anything! What's happened to her? You're going to have to do something!"

"Why should I?" he had sneered. "What care I for Granger and her mood swings?"

"It's not a mood swing! It's been three weeks!"

"I have more important things to deal with, Mother."

"Hermione is your responsibility!"

"I don't care!" He had found his temper rising suddenly, exploding up his chest. "I don't care about her!"

"You do," she had said suddenly, as if by a surprise realisation. "You do, don't you? Why else are you getting so frustrated?"

"I don't care," he had spat sullenly. "Stop it."

"Why is she still here, so?" This is the challenge his mother was presenting him with then, and he found the words to be like a bucket of ice water dumped unceremonially on his head. Why was Hermione still here? She was proving herself to be both useless and disrespectful. She was purposefully being difficult, and all because of a silly ball back in the past. Why was he keeping Hermione in his care, rather than throwing her out into the streets to leave Harry find her, or why wasn't he killing her as he stood there? Why was he getting so angry and why was he focusing on her rather than his new career as one of the most powerful and feared wizards known to the Wizarding World?

"That's it!" he growled, his frustration reaching its peak. "I'm going to stop all this nonsense once and for all!"

He stormed up the stairs to where her offending door resided and yelled through the wood, "Granger, let me in!"

No response.

"Granger, I am not going to ask again. Let me in now!"

Silence sang in the air.

He promptly blew the door off its hinges and it crashed to the ground with a resounding bang that somehow matched his mood. He stepped forward loudly to where she was sitting with her back to him and turned her harshly by the shoulders.

Suddenly all that was in his vision was a pale, tear streaked face and two dark eyes full of sadness.

It stopped him in his tracks and he felt every muscle in his body freeze up at the sight of her.

He found his head full of stupid thoughts about how, even crying, she was still beautiful. He would have laughed out loud, except for the fact that it wasn't very funny at all.

"Merlin, Granger, what's the matter?" he found himself asking.

"Just leave me alone, Malfoy," she said and closed her eyes, turning her back to him.

He wasn't sure what to do. But he wasn't just going to leave it go. "Tell me what's the matter with you, Hermione." He raised his wand, to further his threat.

He imagined he could hear the snap that took place inside her. She was suddenly standing and throwing the stool out of her way. She faced him and her eyes were accusing and flashing. "You want to know what's the matter, Malfoy! How about for the fact that Dumbledore is dead, I don't know where my best friend is and I know the other one is exactly what he's tried to defeat his whole life! How about for the fact that I'm stuck in another Dark Lord's house and he has a different personality every time I see him! I mean, what was that at the Ball, Draco? When I looked at you-"

She let out a quiet sob and didn't seem to want to continue.

"When you looked at me…?" He prompted. His wand was still raised.

"When I looked at you, I saw you as a person, okay? A Human! And I liked it! And it confused me…" She looked down at the floor and when she looked up her expression was full of shame.

His hand was shaking, he realised. She saw him as a person? A human? Nobody had seen him like that in so long, not even when he hadn't been a Dark Lord… something inside him was twisting, melting…

"What are you doing to me!" he yelled at her, but she was crying again and he wasn't sure she heard him or maybe she just didn't have an answer. He couldn't help but, as he saw her crying, weak and completely broken, what he was doing to her too. What they were doing to each other…

He had told his mother he hadn't cared. But he did care. It just didn't make sense.

Sybil looked up from her globe to the worried faces of her fellow colleges. It showed their complete desperation that they would consult in her, somebody they had all felt was a complete and utter faker.

"There's hope yet. A certain minor light may still lean incandescent," she told them, and, for one moment, the worry eased from their faces.

Draco couldn't believe it. He left her room and sat on the stairs in the main hall for a long time. His mother stood by him, a comforting but silent presence.

She could never be silent for long, though.

"Are you happy, Draco?"

The answer was no. He'd received his dream already. He had all the power at his disposal and his father had finally given him the due respect. And yet there was no happiness, only a tint of satisfaction among the vast emptiness.

He looked up at her, and knew he didn't have to tell her this. She was his mother, and she already knew.

"Could she make you happy?" Narcissa asked him now.

He had never felt this way about a girl before. He should have seen the signs, really. But he hadn't. He'd pushed them down and now a volcano of emotion and realisation had occurred, burning away whatever defence his father had forced him to build up.

"But…I've done so much…she would never…I mean…" Draco was embarrassed to find himself unable to articulate a simple sentence.

"You have to try," Narcissa told him. "What's the one thing that could make her see you as a better person?"

Draco thought. And then he realised what he would do.

Weasley.

He would go to Harry's tonight and steal Weasley back for Hermione. Even if Harry caught him. Even if he had to kill Harry.

Draco had to try.

So there you go. Yes, I'm going to finish it. I realise whatever readers I had for this story are probably so old their teeth are falling out, but I've decided I AM going to finish this story, even if the ending is rushed. It has to be done, because it's not fair otherwise. I will write the next chapter tomorrow. It's just too late now (3.00 am) so I must go to bed!

"There's hope yet. A certain minor light may still lean incandescent," she told them, and, for one moment, the worry eased from their faces. Minor light quote taken from Sylvia Plath's Black Rook in Rainy Weather.