Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter. Duh.

Note: I am re-writing this. I hope you like this version better. In this version, Hermione is not Tom Riddle's daughter. Sorry!

Chapter One: Absence

They say absence makes the heart grow fonder. But in the case of Hermione Granger, I am not so sure.

In this world of prejudice, many assume that just because I am a Slytherin, that I am the boy of Lucius Mafloy, that I must be evil as well. Scheming the hours of life away. People have come up with incredulous stories of how I serve the Dark Lord, that I have his mark branded upon my arm.

Upon birth, I was chosen to become the exact replica of him. The one I call Father. His mindless droning, drilling this fantasy of his that Mudbloods are inferior in our race worked on me when I was five. I believed him. Till I started to doubt the words from my Mother's actions.

Mother carried a shawl, she hid herself under it and went out into the night when Father was out at his meetings. Mother always came back crying, soot on her beautiful satin dress and blood staining her hands.

I made the mistake of asking Father.

"Father," I asked one day, when we had a family get-together in the Malfoy Library, "What was Mother doing last week when you were out?"

Father turned an accusing eye at Mother. "Yes dear," he whispered, "What were you doing out?"

"Nothing," my Mother replied quickly. Too quickly for my Father.

"You liar," he hissed, drawing out his wand, "You shall be punished for disobeying the Dark Lord." Father raised his wand and pointed the tip in the direction of Mother. "Crucio."

The screams I heard. Loud, shrill, painful. I had caused Mother to feel pain. I was seven then, and I knew what I had done was terribly wrong. And to pay the consequences I stepped in front of Mother screaming, "Run Mother! Run!"

Father quickly drew his wand away from me. But Mother had not run. I looked back and pleaded her silently. Please go now! She couldn't even see me. She was lying motionless on the lush green carpet.

"Boy, move away immediately," Father shouted angrily, "Move away—now!" I had never seen Father this angry, I had never felt to protect my Mother. I had never felt the urge to say no. No. No. Never.

"Never," I said quietly, but my whisper was soon heard.

"You dare disobey me, my son?" He asked, raising his wand again.

My eyes were wild with fear. I could do nothing and froze on the spot. I could hear the curse. I could see the red light, and I felt the intense impact. But I couldn't run. I couldn't leave Mother here so vulnerable. And then when I thought I was going to be alright. I felt the pain.

Oh the pain was unbearable. It was like the world was caving in on me, and I was slowly being heated in a furnace.

Once I had felt it, he lifted the spell. I looked into his eyes. Those once filled with spite, were filled were guilt. My Father actually felt guilty for the pain he had inflicted on his own wife and son. His son; his own flesh and blood.

That emotion soon faded and his eyes turned a stormy grey, glaring directly towards me, "Draco," he informed, "From now on, you report to me every night in the chamber beneath your room. If you don't, it will be one hour under the Criticus Curse. Do you understand?"

Helpless. I was helpless. I nodded.

From then on, I was just a mannequin to beat, to bruise, and to hurt. It was as if I wasn't even human. But, so was my Father. He wasn't human.

Mother used to tell me stories on how Father and her fell in love. They seem like fairytales right now. She used to tell me how kind Father was; before he was washed away into the depths of evil by the lyrical words of the Dark Lord.

He was my problem. Father was just the puppet that beast used to his own pleasure. And I was to be just like him. To hate Mudbloods and Muggles.

Hermione Granger was the one to teach me how wrong he was. How wrong my life just was. How wrong life just was.

That was the day I found her in her own compartment, without Potter or Weasley. Just finding her crying was a shock, but without Potter and Weasley, it seemed rather odd.

To say I fell for her right then and there would be incredible rubbish. My fondness for her had been built over the respect and intelligence that she carried. From the middle of First Year, I looked up to her, to a Mudblood, and I wondered what Father would think.

Remembering what happened to Mother, kept me on my toes and stopped me from writing about her in my letters to Father in anything but loathing. Of course, he agreed and said many hurtful words. Many a nights I had stayed up, burning the parchment as if it were infected. The more letters I burnt that were from him, I was soothing myself.

I was deluding myself that everything was going to be okay, but nothing was. When I went home for the holidays, I was treated just the same. And soon, I dreaded to go back. The look of pride I had to wear around Potter that I had a family to go back to was killing me. Home was a foreign word to me. I envied Potter when he got to stay in the safe vicinities of Hogwarts.

Hermione Granger taught me to pity Potter than envy him.

Her back was turned to the window, she was staring at the passing scenery. Blurs of green and blue were all she could see, for the tears falling down her face and clouding her eyes were obscuring her vision.

I coughed loudly to get her attention and sat on the bench across from her, staring at her. She didn't want my sympathy.

"What do you want Malfoy," she asked spitefully. She had enough reason to curse me out of her compartment, yet she didn't.

"What's wrong with Potter and Weasel?" I asked, concern laced my voice, "Why aren't they with you?"

To say she was suspicious of my concern would be an understatement. She looked at me with uttermost distrust. "What do you want Malfoy," she repeated.

"Why are you crying?" I mocked her, but leaned forwards towards her. My actions betrayed my voice.

She leaned back and abruptly wiped away her tears with her sleeve. She looked rather pretty when she was crying. She looked rather—innocent. "It's none of your concern Malfoy," she said.

I had been hurt before of course. Physically. But the harsh reality that Hermione Granger hated me, hurt me much more.

"Fine Granger," my voice was cold, "I thought you just needed some comforting." I stood up walked to the compartment door.

I could see her battle with herself. Whether to give in and let me comfort her, or better yet, let me leave her alone. She chose to keep me. I was one step closer to her.

"I'm sorry, please stay with me?" She asked me, grabbing onto my robes. I immediately stepped away from the door and seated myself by her.

"What's wrong," I asked her. She couldn't bring herself to look up at me.

"Harry and Ron," she sighed dejectedly, "They won't talk to me, much rather look at me."

"With such a pretty face," I started saying, "Why would they not look at you?"

She looked up then and stared at my face with bewildered eyes. "Why are you being so nice to me all of a sudden?"

I shrugged my shoulders, I knew her enough not to burden her with the fact I was in love with her from practically the moment I met her. She would have been critical over-analyzing why I was torturing her every moment of her waking life. She would then know that I craved attention. Especially from her.

She looked out of the window and watched the scenery again. I was going to ask her about Potter and Weasley when all of a sudden she answered my unasked question.

"Harry hates me," she said sadly, "He hates the fact that I banished the Dark Lord, rather than him. His fame really had got to his head." She paused. "But I can't help but still love him."

I had always known of the romance between them. I saw their secret glances. Their hands entwined under the table. I felt sick with jealousy. Hermione had always belonged to me. Potter had never even liked her from the beginning. Not like me.

"Potter is an idiot," I said viciously, "And I am glad it was you who killed the Dark Lord rather than that Potter, his head is big enough."

Hermione winced at my words. She hasn't gotten used to my company.

"Harry isn't all that bad," Hermione commented, "He's actually sweet, sometimes."

"Has he ever told you he loved you," I asked, and saw her hesitate to answer, "And really meant it that it was as if you could feel it?"

She looked down at her lap. I was right. Potter had used her, like he used many people. Oh how I loathed that Potter. Harry Potter, the star, and the wizard of the century. He was the last person on Earth any sane girl would be drawn to.

"Did he ever tell you how much you meant to him, how Cho Chang means nothing to him. Did he ever?"

"Never," she whispered harshly, tears straining to fall from her brown eyes, "Never."

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