Disclaimer: Meh. I don't own it. Okay? Get off my case.

A/N: I hope this chapter doesn't end up too confusing... to avoid it becoming such, here's the rundown of characters we get insights to: First, Draco -- Second, Amnesiac -- Third, Hermione who's in present tense and then has a few memories we delve into. Happy reading!

"Well," Draco thought haughtily to himself, "that couldn't have gone better."

He was back inside his own personal chambers. They looked just as one might imagine them to, dark green covering every piece of furniture that was situated just-so throughout the wide expanse of the room. There was little light illuminating anything. Dusty books lined shelves, trinkets lay idly everywhere, as if they'd not been given a second thought since moving day. And it was almost painfully cold.

Just like he was -- how he needed to be.

He knew he couldn't let himself slip up like he had outside the Great Hall again. And that's why he had constructed a plan he had just set into motion.

As he flopped down on the nearest oversized couch, he laughed out loud, recalling the expression on Granger's face:

She had been thoroughly annoyed when she put her hands on her hips and begrudgingly asked, "Okay, what do you really want?"

There. That was his cue: "You."

It's not important he didn't finish the rest of his thought. Though, if he had, it would've been something along the lines of: 'You dead.' or 'You unhappy for the rest of your miserable life.' Well, at least that's what it should've been.

(But it wasn't quite that simple. Not anymore. She would be his proof to the world that he could be as cold and as unfeeling as he was raised to be. It would just take some work to get to that point.)

And then there had been her pricelessly choking on his words. Simply hilarious.

What he had said next was a complete adlib, "Get off it, Granger. You can't tell me you don't feel it too."

But she bought it. And why not? It was blatantly clear he was not only an expert at Potions, but might've very well been able to make it in the acting business. He'd had enough practice as a child anyhow. It was good it was being of some use to him.

Because there was nothing he liked being more than productive. And tonight had been nothing if not productive.

It wasn't that he wanted the dirty mudblood for himself. Well, okay. So maybe it partially was. But not because of some stupid reason like he was in love with her or anything. She was something to be won. She represented everything Potter and Weasley had held dear, even though neither of them had ever truly had her. And in the end, she would come to represent his overcoming of himself. She would be his. He would see to it. And to hell with anyone who tried to stop him, like that blood-traitor prat from her past. That one would do well to just stay gone. And he just might do whatever it took to make sure he stayed that way.

What about once he had her? Well, he hadn't thought it through quite that far. He certainly wouldn't keep her. No, he just needed to prove to himself he was still capable of getting whatever it was that he wanted.

Yes, there always was all that garbage about how time could change people, but it certainly hadn't changed him. Well, not much, anyway. And certainly not enough to add up to anything. The world would soon understand this, left only to wonder why they hadn't realized it sooner.

He was going to do his father proud.

o o o

I watched that man, Draco Malfoy, walk away.

I don't know how long I stood there on that sidewalk with all the nameless people walking past me, it was as if they weren't there at all; my tousled red hair, sweeping across my forehead with every new gust of wind.

Hermione was not just some figment of my imagination. She was a part of my past and was still alive this very day. Granted, I had absolutely no clue where she was, but was I really going to let such a small detail deter me? Certainly not. Besides, I had names: Weasley, Granger, Malfoy, Hogwarts... a school of magic, Quidditch, Gryffindor.

Honestly, how hard could it be to find information on any of those things? I'd just have a go on Emeline's computer.

Things had to be looking up.

o o o

After Malfoy left, I sat, completely stunned, in my chair. I'm not sure I would've been able to move if I had wanted to.

Then a wave of relief washed over me as I thought, 'Thank Merlin he went away.'

Something else inside of me whispered, 'But he'll be back. You know he'll be back.'

No, he couldn't come back. I didn't want anything to do with him.

I didn't.

And I certainly couldn't simply sit around while he pranced around the castle acting like he owned it. At the very least, I needed to come up with, yet another, game plan to elude him. Or better yet, beat him at his own game. Somehow.

Yes, I know hiding wasn't very Gryffindor of me, but a lot of the things I had been doing lately weren't either.

I finally found the strength to rise from my chair, taking special care not to dwell on the way my face still sort of tingled where he had brushed his hand across it.

No. I had to get my mind off of him. Maybe the best route to take would be to ignore him?

Merlin, I wish I had someone to discuss things with.

I once would've gone directly to Ginny, and she would've had an excellent idea as to what I should do.

But you see, she's become yet another one of my friends who I'm forced to refer to in the past tense.

She had been my best female friend. After all, every girl needs another girl to confide in, no matter how wonderful her male mates are. It's true. Who else would I've spent hours discussing Victor with after the Yule Ball? Who would I have gone to, in a complete hysterical mess, after putting the canary hex on Ron, after finding him snogging Lavender in that empty classroom? ...And I would've loved to seen her expression if I had ever gotten the chance to tell her about Ron and me.

Ron and me.

How long had it been since I'd thought of Ron? A picture of him flashed in my mind, the one I always see when I think of him. It's him just before sixth year, still young, but not much older than he would ever grow to be. He's wearing the sweater his mum knitted for Christmas fourth year, it's slightly too small, but for some reason it's always been his favorite. He's wearing a muggle white button-up shirt underneath it, and while it was obviously meant to balance out the ill-fitting sweater, it pronounces it more. His hands are shoved into the front pockets of his brown corduroy trousers, which, oddly enough, actually fit well. They might've been the first pair of pants he owned in ages that fit that well (hand-me-downs were one of his least favorite things, especially since Fred, George and Percy were all a great deal shorter than he was). His brilliant red hair was on the long side and windswept, having just come in from out-of-doors, where he had been practicing Quidditch with Harry. He was leaning up against a wall at the Burrow, listening to me as I ranted on about something or another. If I had to guess, I'd venture I had been upset with him about something or another. But he just had stood there, taking everything I said in -- or, perhaps he was simply ignoring me -- staring at me through blue eyes. He's smiling, as if he didn't have a care in the world.

The reason that image of Ron stuck with me was because in that very moment, I had realized something: I was falling for him -- the dopey redhead, best known as being Harry Potter's sidekick. But he was more than that, he had always been so much more than that.

We had buried Ron in that sweater. I think that might be another reason that particular image of him sticks with me. The stark contrast between him just before sixth year, alive and utterly vibrant... and how he'd looked the day we laid him in his final resting place. Nothing about the sweater had changed, but it hadn't looked the same on him that day as it once had. And at the time, I had felt like nothing would ever look the same.

And for the most part, it hadn't yet. I had wondered, for a short time, if the world was capable of returning to what it had once been. I believed if anyone could bring about a return, it was the infallible Fred Weasley. Well, all right, he had never been infallible, perhaps dependable. No, that was no good either. I don't know what there had been about him that made me hold hope for the future, but I had. Perhaps it was my own naivety.

This was why I tried not to think of him -- of them -- it was too hard.

Another image flashed in my head: that of Ron's headstone. Here lies Ronald Bilius Weasley, Loved Son, Loyal Brother, Courageous Friend. The scene began to play in my mind:

I was standing next to Molly during the service, paying attention only to the brisk wind sweeping my hair about.

I couldn't look down. I couldn't look down.

None of this was real. It couldn't be.

I mean, yes, others had died in the war. Noble, brave wizards and witches alike. But not Ron. Never Ron. Still not Ron.

I had been reminded, at the time, of a book I'd once read as a child. The Adventures of Tom Sawyer. For reasons I couldn't remember then, in the story, the people of the town believed Tom to be dead, and were in the middle of his funeral when he fell through the ceiling, perfectly fine and quite healthy. Perhaps that was what would happen with Ron? Would he fall from the sky at any given moment, only to sweep me up in his arms and proclaim to all our friends and family that we were in love and going to be married?

I looked up hopefully toward the sky. It was completely overcast and gray. There was no one falling from its clouds. Nor, I realized with a shock, would there be.

And it was in that exact moment when I, Hermione Granger, had fallen apart for the first time since I had watched Ron die. I suppose most had wondered what had taken me so long. Looking back, even I wonder what had taken me so long.

Harry, being the utter hero he always was, had been at my side in mere seconds, wrapping his arms around me as I buried my face in the front of his suit (something I had, only just earlier that morning, tried to convince him not to wear, since it was highly unorthodox for a wizarding burial).

There were no words exchanged between the two of us. After all, what was there left to say? We both knew this war was slowly, slowly tearing each and every one of us apart. Yet that is why we all continued on: to finish it as quickly and painlessly as possible. So far we weren't having much luck, to say the least. But we would continue on, almost with a renewed vigor, as soon as this ceremony concluded.

We had to. If not for ourselves, for Ron's lost life. It wasn't revenge, though. It was fighting for what was right and good in this world.

So what if it all turned virtuous people into murderers? So what if it shredded everyone's hopes of a happily ever after? It was now up to the next generation, yet to come, to be honorable and be able to live the life that had once been within our grasp.

Yes, we would fight for them. We were altogether worn out simply fighting for ourselves.

A/N: Well, there's my installment. I originally wanted it to be longer, but do you think I can manage to spit out more than 2000 words at a time? I'll try harder next time, I really will. But in the meantime, I shall send out thanks to my reviewers!

screwtheperfectlife: Your review made me smile. Yes, I think I would lust after Draco as well. Our Hermione is smart though, and, as you read, is onto whatever it is that Malfoy's up to. She just doesn't know the half of it yet though.

Ana: Oh, I do hope you're still reading. In response to your lovely review (I truly mean it), I know Malfoy isn't a good guy; he's just really fun to look at, thus why he's in the fic. hehe. I've also gone and answered your question about Ginny. I'm afraid I've gone and offed her as well. I know, I'm horrible. And as for the angst, yeah, I know. I feel bad about it sometimes, since it's just not most people's cup of tea, or what have you -- but I might just surprise you all with a rather unangsty ending. waggles eyebrows :)

Astrianna Glaze: Well, I guess Hermione didn't really think of Fred this chapter either, but I'll try to incorporate a flashback in the next chapter... because, yes, she would be thinking of him, despite how much it hurts to do so. I think that's why Draco fills up so much of her thoughts: it's easier to hate him and try to figure out what he's up to than dwell on her lost loves.