Prologue
Hermione
Does it matter that he hates me? Should it matter? Sometimes I wonder if I enjoy the belittlement for the sake of the attention. Why does it hurt me so when every word he says is an insult? Nothing he says should matter. He's the sheltered one. He's the one who hasn't had to leave the world he's known and loved for one that's completely foreign. He's not the one who has had to adapt to a completely new culture a new language – so similar to my own, yet so different. I am stronger than that. I will not allow his taunts to get to me.
So why do I? Dearest Diary, he mocks my friends, my hobbies, my views, my politics, and my heritage. Why do I spend each day in anticipation, waiting for the moment when I would see him – whether it was a passing glance in the Great Hall, or a full on argument with my best friends. If anything, I should be overflowing with reasons why I should dread seeing him. He is scornful of everything I stand for and of those who stand with me. This alone should make me feel repulsed. It should make me feel nauseated. Oh dear. I am completely hopeless. I suppose I could turn around and look at me – self analysis is supposed to be vital for a healthy mind.
For one, I've always been the type to flourish under rebukes. I remember in third grade when I was scolded for not getting a hundred percent due to a huge array of silly errors. Misunderstanding is one thing, but carelessness is far from acceptable. Some people get down; I've always been the type to get even. I worked harder – made sure I wasn't careless, and I haven't been since. You know, I've never really understand the culture of not telling someone they're fat. It's the same thing. It's a flaw that can be remedied. Sometimes one just needs to be told, or else they can't improve. I suppose that's a really harsh way of putting it but hey you're a diary, it's not like anyone else is going to read you is it? So how does this apply to the prince of Slytherin? Nothing I suppose. I think I thrive under negative attention. It makes me stronger – and although his criticism are nothing I can change, its yet another person to please. Or perhaps it's the whole ambition thing – choose the hardest path, just to prove I can do it. I don't know.
A psychotherapist may attribute it to my father. But I'm not a male sexual offender, so that's not likely – they'll probably say it's because of my mother. Or it could be an Oedipus complex – after all, Malfoy loves to rebuke people, which is what a father is supposed to be like. My father wasn't the one to rebuke. He was at work too often, so when he came home it was fun time. Actually, maybe my father does have something to do with it. For one, my father always told me that I should never settle for someone that doesn't love me more than I loved him. That I should be adored.
Seriously though, adoration is highly overrated. I am not stupid. If, and this is a massive if, we were ever to get together, it's like that I'll be the one 'adoring' him. Well, that's how it seems anyway. Look at me, I'm obsessed already! I can't imagine what it'd be like if we were actually together. But that's getting way in front in myself. You know what, I'm the blowfish and he's the fisherman. I'm the prickly irritating thing he doesn't want to catch but every time he casts that stupid line of his ("Stupid mudblood") I fall for it, hook line and sinker. He'll feel the tug eventually and he'll pull me up and he'll either be the good fisherman that throws me back in or he'll be the evil one that leaves me stranded, slowly suffocating to death on the deck. Or maybe it'll be a quick death with the heel of his shoe.
Draco
The mudblood is looking at me again. She's like fully staring. Man, that mudblood is a freak of nature. Not only does she have magical talent when she has no right to it, she has it in greater abundance than most that deserve it. I can see its cruel eyes, piercing me; it's like a shiver down my spine. It disgusts me. That's the best way to describe the bushy haired freak – as an it. I doubt that she even knows whether she's male or female, the way she attaches herself to dumb and dumber – the four-eyed freak and weasel.
Why is she still looking over here? Every time I glance across the Great Hall she's there, staring. Who does she think she is? Who gave her permission to violate my privacy like this? Doesn't she have better things to do? What gets me is the way she stares. As if she doesn't hate me. I think that's what really gets me. Where's the hate? Where's the loathing? She certainly has enough reason to hate me, I know I do.
Hate me that is. Well I don' really hate myself, but I swear that sometimes it's incredibly difficult to look at myself in the mirror - I know what I have to do but I just can't do it. I just don't get what the hell is holding me back. Every morning I wake up with some other hare brained idea. For f's sake, I even skipped quidditch for on eof these stupid schemes. How many more stupid ideas will I attempt before I just face him like a man? Man. That's funny. Am I a man? When am I a boy, and when am I a man? I'm a boy when Snape is there telling us what to write. I'm a boy when my mother is around, pampering me. Can I grow up now? I need the decisiveness of a man. Not this stupid wishy washiness of boyhood.
All I need is to walk up to the old codger and lift my wand and kabam! My task is done. I can lift my head with my pride. My family name would be one of power again and no one could say otherwise. After all it can't be that difficult, just look at what some lucky bugger's done to his hand!
I can see it now, the Malfoy name once again heard in fear, not ridicule. Lucius would have had to kiss my feet. Snape would grovel before me and I would be the Dark Lord's right hand man. Man not boy.
But no, it seems I'm to be the coward. Snape says I shouldn't be ashamed of being scared of but frigging heck, Snape's a freaking nancy boy and Dumbledore's a frail old man. He's weak. I'm young. And I'm strong.
Who am I kidding? I know I can't do it. Even if I know it's the right thing to do. Even my mother knows I can't do it. I disgust myself. Necklaces? Poisoned drinks? Only fools would fall victim to those paltry plans.
I bet that's why she watches me. I bet that's why she's not scared. Laughing at my weaknesses. She doesn't know what I've been asked to do, but she knows that whatever it is – I'm not capable of it. Laugh it up, mudblood, One day, I'll be able to kill, and on that day, I can promise you – you will be on my list.
Chapter One
The wind howled down the chimney. Lightning flashed as the rain poured down. Draco shivered under his blankets as he sat in the ramshackle house that Snape had concealed him in a few days earlier. The stupid man had said that he'd be back in a few hours and it had been a few days.
Actually, it the sun was shining and it wasn't really all that windy and the hidden cottage that Snape had hidden Draco in wasn't all too bad, but Draco was not to be contented. It had been 6 months since Dumbledore's death and Draco had been spent the entire time waiting. He had thought that fugitives would have exciting times running from authorities and all that. But on the whole, it had been rather quiet. Snape was incredibly quiet about any news he had heard and Draco was completely isolated. He hadn't even talked to anybody since the events on that, lightning struck tower.
It wasn't really that he craved excitement. Far from it, really. The events of his sixth year of Hogwarts had really destroyed any possible desire for a dangerous or exciting lifestyle. It was just that he was so BORED. Every few days, Snape would reappear and move him, drop off a book and some food and then disappear for a few days. No conversation. They didn't apparate – apparently that was too easily tracked. So they travelled by a combination of broom, foot and muggle transportation. But was there conversation? No. The damn man was silent the entire time. And he didn't even inform Draco where they were. All Draco knew, was that he was currently in Europe. Somewhere where it was warm despite it being December.
There was one thing to be pleased with though – he hadn't been summoned once.
He sat in the rocking chair, rocking away. The disguise he had on currently was a blind old woman, so he might as well rock. And he got to wear a dress – at least they were vaguely similar to robes. The old and female part of it wasn't too hard – he had a glamour charm and he got to cackle a lot. He just wished that Snape hadn't teased his hair into a curly mess as well as some muggle disguises under the charm (something about a fake nose), in case the charm was disabled. Not that was likely. Even he didn't have a clue how to undue these stupid charms – clearly a simple finite incantem was not sufficient.
Draco rocked back and forth. Damn this was boring. Hmm. He thought he would practice cackling. That was always fun.
When he finished, he swore he heard some rustling outside his window. Taking his wand out of its holster he crept silently to the window in question.
"Seriously, Ron – I'm okay. It's nothing that a professional mediwizard can't fix. I can apparate back."
"There is no way you have the strength to get back in that state. You'll splinch yourself o something"
"So what do you suppose I do, Harry? Sit here and bleed to death? None of us are capable of fixing a wound this great. It's lucky I can even talk – lucky that I remembered the pain charm"
"We'll just ask the people in the cottage to look after you while I apparate back to get help"
"Look at yourself Ron, you're exhausted, and you too Harry – and we're so close. By the time you get there you'll be too exhausted to take anyone back here and when you are able to get back, the trail will be cold."
Hermione cringed visibly. The pain charm was fading fast.
"I'll just appara…" and she passed out.
Chapter two
"Oh bloody buggering hell, Hermione wake up, please!" Ron turned and looked at Harry, "I'll be back real soon Harry, just go inside, get some warm water or towels or something – just don't let her die!"
And he was off.
Running to the door, Harry cast a glamour charm on himself to look like a young boy and ran to the door in tears, "help miss! Help! My sister's been in a car accident! Can you call an ambulance, please miss, please!"
Anybody else would have rushed out in haste to see the poor girl in trouble and then run back in to call an ambulance. However, Draco was currently an old blind woman and he curtly informed Potter of it. And he didn't know what an ambulance was.
"I am old and I am blind. I cannot call an ambulance."
He was about to tell them to go away, when he realised what an opportunity he had. He had Potter and Granger, the latter dangerously injured, here in his home, at his mercy.
"But bring her in, and then run down the street, there's another house there and ask them to call an ambulance. I'll comfort the poor dear". And then he pretended to be blind some more and stumbled about.
Harry gave the strange old lady an odd look. Should he leave Hermione with this old lady? She certainly couldn't stay out on the path. But this lady was definitely odd. Harry couldn't place it, but there was certainly something strange about the way she acted. Something that just didn't feel right. That's was it. The whole house felt. There was magic in the house. No one had said anything about any wizards in the area. Was this what they were looking for? Had they hit the jackpot? Harry cast a subtle finite incantum and a range of other common charm ended spells on the house. The old lady standing at the door didn't flinch. Nothing about the house changed. Looking around, he levitated Hermione towards the door and begged, "Please miss, could you please floo for help? She's in dread trouble."
Draco was certainly shocked. How did Potter know that there was magic? Narrowing his eyes he repeated what he had said earlier, but this time with an additional, "I am not connected to floo". Using his wand he accio-ed Granger, then levitated her to the table behind him, He accio-d towels and ordered Potter to run for help. As soon as Potter left he threw the towels on the girl.
She was in pretty poor shape, and he knew that there was no way he could help her. He should call Snape. He'd know what to do. Draco suppressed a sigh. Snape. His Saviour. He supposed he owed Snape since if Dumbledore wasn't dead, Draco's life would be forfeit. He felt repulsed. Snape was his only hope for survival and he hated it. But, this had played straight into his hands and he certainly wasn't going to waste it, by letting the girl die without any recognition.
Harry was a little disconcerted as he was removed of Hermione's body and then ushered out the door. This definitely did NOT feel right. He should rightly run back in there
Draco stuck his wand into the chimney and waved the contact signal that alerted Snape to his desire to speak. Sure enough, within a couple of minutes Snape's head appeared in the fireplace. "What do you want boy?"
"I have a gift, a certain bushy haired know it all is currently lying unconscious on our kitchen table"
Snape's eyes widened, "Stand aside boy" and with a whoosh, Snape was in the cottage. He strode towards the table and gave Hermione a once over. Muttering something about redemption, Snape removed a few vials from his robe and poured them over Hermione's wounds.
Draco was inordinately pleased with his discovery. Redemption? Is that what the old man was thinking? To the right buyer, Granger could definitely fetch an excellent price- their freedom.