I do not seek and do not intend to find
A calmer ocean or a sun that never will rise
My world will never change and time'll bring you to my thoughts
And I'll move on and then forget you all over again
Moving on, I can forgive you all over again

"A Poem For Byzantium" by Delerium

.

The Passion of Hate and Love
Chapter 19: Glimpses . . . Have We Hated For So Long?
By Callisto Callispi

His breathing rose and fell heavily. But he needed to remain silent. He needed to remain still, no matter how much he wanted to rip that filthy bastard's lips off of her face. The tips of his fingertips tingled and his arms trembled with that unsatisfied desire.

He watched, his eyes growing wider with each passing second as pale hands clasped her side and gently roamed to the gentle swell of her bosom. His breath tightened as he saw Hermione arch unconsciously to meet his hand. And those pale hands cupped her breasts with such painstaking tenderness, with such painstaking...love.

Ron turned away, his face pallid and his breathing choked. He wanted to vomit all over himself. A part of him felt shame for intruding on their moment. The greater, more influential part of him throbbed with horror and hate. In that one blinding moment, he felt as if he could stab both of them in the heart with relish. It was betrayal at the highest level: the woman that he loved was in the embrace of the man that he despised.

"Draco . . ."

Ron squeezed his eyes shut. Her whispering his name. Her voice throbbed with clouded desire and unfulfilled wanting. How had she changed? How had she changed so completely? How had she fallen in this tangle of darkness and lust? Right under his nose. Right under their noses. Harry didn't know. Did he? God, what if Harry did know and he kept Hermione's relationship from him?

He couldn't take this any more. He couldn't watch in the shadows, listening to their heavy breathing, their quiet moans. They were in a world of their own, a world fogged with hatred and remorse. And Ron walked stiffly away, hunting his own fears and dark passions in the shadows, knowing that these trysts, that their God-awful coupling would end in nothing.

At least he hoped so. For he had never felt such hurt and anger in his life. And this was his quiet anger. An anger that could not be quelled with her smile or her voice.

He emerged into the Great Hall and smiled nonchalantly at his partner. She smiled back. Smiles were fake. Hermione was fake. And yet, why did he desire her so? Why could he not step out of the dark, tangled forest that was his heart? Why could he not remove this aching love from his body?

Because black hate caged him. Black hate for Draco Malfoy, the bastard who stole away the woman that unknowingly held his heart, and Hermione Granger, the woman who unknowingly crushed it under her foot.

But still, there was love. And as he danced with his giggling partner, he mused over this love. And he decided. Draco Malfoy bested him in everything -- renown, power, and money. But not anymore. No. This time, Ron decided, he would not stand in the shadows.

-x-x-

Thy wishes seen naught,
Thy desires wished naught;
Yet seek 'ere bought,
As he be direly sought.

Hermione sat on her bed, twirling the golden chalice over with her hand with one hand, fingering Draco's family ring with her other hand. Home did not feel like home, especially without the boys. She wondered what Harry was doing at Hogwarts. Probably struggling not to go mad. Hermione chuckled. She and Ron both left for home this winter recess. Harry claimed that he would go mad with boredom. It was quite the spectacle. But Harry insisted on staying at school. Go figure.

But Ron.

Was it her imagination or was Ron acting strangely ever since the Yule Ball? He coldly refused to speak with her and did so when absolutely necessary . . . or when they were around Harry. Hermione decided that it was because of something that she said. Ron tended to hold grudges for the littlest things and for the longest of times! And, assuming that Harry did not suspect anything, she refrained from openly yelling at Ron. Instead, she became a recluse as well. And anyway, her tolerance for men waned significantly after Draco Malfoy left her that night.

"You accept me . . . And I love you for that, Hermione."

Yes, she accepted him. Even if he had hated her because of blood, even if he was a selfish and spoiled, even if his greatest desire was power, and even if he preferred power over her.

Bastard.

Hermione sat up on her bed as she heard someone knock on her door. "Yes?"

In stepped Mrs. Granger, her face creased with worry. Wordlessly, she swept in and sat down on the edge of Hermione's bed. "Why didn't you come down for dinner?"

Hermione shrugged and settled the chalice down on her bedstand. "I don't have any appetite tonight."

Her mother stared at her pointedly. "You weren't hungry when you got home, you weren't hungry yesterday after nibbling on a bit of cheese, and you aren't hungry now. What's the matter, darling? Are you ill?"

Hermione grinned. "Of course not. I'm just not hungry."

"Darling," started her mother with a joking smile, "if you are worrying about your weight . . ."

"Oh mum. Please. You know I don't care about that stuff."

Mrs. Granger ceased smiling. "Hermione. I'm worried about you. You're neither eating nor reading. Is something going on? Did you have a fight with Harry or Ron?"

Hermione shrugged. Mrs. Granger sighed and rubbed her face with her hands.

"All right, all right, Hermione. You tell me when you're ready. I actually came up here to tell you that Aunt Isabelle is dropping by tomorrow. She wants you to go to France with her for a few days."

Hermione felt an unexpected rush of relief at the thought of leaving home for a few days. "Really? France? Why?"

Mrs. Granger shrugged. "She claims she has business there. She won't say what it is though. But I trust her enough to watch over you for a bit. I know that you're fond of your aunt. Perhaps she can shake you out of this gloom."

Hermione smiled slightly. "Thanks."

Mrs. Granger stood up to leave the room.

"Oh, and mum."

Mrs. Granger turned around.

"Send up a bit of that chicken for me?"

-x-x-

"That's ridiculous!"

Draco eyed his father coldly. "I assure you. It's all very true."

Lucius paced around the room, muttering frantically to himself. Draco sat stiffly on the silk-covered sofa, wincing at the hot pricking of the mark. His hand traveled up to the tender, blackened skin. Stupid way to ensure an agreement, it was, marking someone for life on their back where they couldn't even see it. And it would have been nice if it remained unseen to others, as it was supposed to; but now it was darkening. The outlines were clearer and bolder. Draco hated it.

"Damn that Old Magic. It wasn't supposed to show. Not yet. Damn it!" Lucius cursed.

"So what am I supposed to do?" Draco demanded. "I can't walk around Hogwarts with this monstrosity burning on my skin! It wasn't supposed to show. It wasn't supposed to show!"

"I know that, boy!" Lucius roared, whipping around. "I know! So keep your mouth clamped shut while I try to think!"

Draco winced as the mark on his back throbbed again. Why? Why must everything happen to him? Draco closed his eyes, trying to ignore the beads of cold sweat popping out of his skin. Everything spun around in his head. Nausea rolled within him like a wave.

The chair under him slipped and crashed to the ground. THUD. His body hit the hard marble floor and Draco moaned.

"Draco!" he heard his father roar.

And there Draco lied on the conservatory floor, unconscious. And yet, the mark on his black began to glow in a haze of unyielding power.

-x-x-

Hermione should have known. After three days of lovely meals overlooking the Seine River, of beautiful-faced young men waiting on them hand and foot in their hotel suite, and the carefree traversing of Paris, Hermione should have known that he aunt had an ulterior motive for bringing her to France.

Hermione almost wept when they arrived in the hotel room and she stared into the mirror. Her hair. It was an absolute atrocity. A blond that she had never seen before except for on dolls colored her now sleek, curly hair. She had no idea what had been done to her at the salon -- it was a salon for witches looking for their "new" self.

"Oh, hush, Hermione," Isabelle scolded as Hermione struggled to keep back her tears of absolute horror. "You look lovely. It's the latest rage in France."

"I look like a bloody hooker! Look at these -- these -- ringlets!" she shrilled. Hermione knew she was acting like a petulant child. But she couldn't help it. Heaven help her: her HAIR! "I want it back! I want it all back!"

Isabelle clasped her hands. "Oh . . . but you've complained to me so much about your hair. You said you hated its bushiness."

Hermione twirled and collapsed dramatically on her bed. She covered her face with her arms and groaned. "I know. I know. I just wanted it a bit calmed, I suppose. But . . . but these ringlets! I look like a grown-up Goldilocks!"

Silence followed. Then:

"Are you worried that your gentleman friend won't approve of it?"

Hermione sat up immediately, her face flushing red. "What?"

Isabelle shook her shoulders while unwrapping her scarf from her slender neck. She continued to stand in front of the mirror to fix her hair. "Your gentleman friend. You know. The one that you've been moping over for the last few days."

Hermione felt as if her face would explode with heat. "What? Who -- how -- I never told you anything!"

Isabelle grinned good-naturedly. "Why, darling, it's so very obvious. I've seen it: the way your eyes shine when you see couples clasping hands, how you gaze so longingly at those dancers, how you drone on and on about some 'insufferable' arse who never ceases to poke fun at you --"

"It's not him!" Hermione said at once and then regretted it as soon as Isabelle's eyes lit up. Hermione felt herself unable to respond. Stupid! She just gave herself away. A sudden wave of exhaustion consumed her and she fell back onto the bed with a sigh. What was the use? Besides, her aunt didn't even know of hers and Draco's relationship -- only that she was infatuated with someone. Hermione felt another blush creep up to her cheeks. It was strange -- how she still found any sort of attraction to a Malfoy mortifying. Some things never changed.

"Darling . . ."

"Does my mother know?"

"I don't think so."

Hermione opened her eyes. "Please don't tell her."

Her aunt stared at her suspiciously. But then she nodded her consent. "All right. You can tell her yourself when you feel up to it."

"Thank you."

Isabelle shifted uncomfortably from one to the other. "It wasn't my wish to make you so uncomfortable. But you just seemed so miserable. I know. And your mother senses something wrong as well. Why are you so melancholy, Hermione? Is it because of him?"

Hermione smiled bitterly "Somewhat."

"Did he cause you pain?"

And Hermione did not know how she lost control of herself, for a second later, she gripped her head and uttered a small scream of frustration. Isabelle's eyes widened.

"I bloody hate him! I hate him with all of my heart. I hate everything about him! I hate the way he speaks, the way he walks, the way he smirks! I hate him so, so, so much!"

"Hermione . . . "

"But . . . " Hermione pushed down the urge to vomit. "But I feel so alive when I'm with him. I feel so complete. I've never felt it before. Never ever. It's like . . . he's the other half of me. It would be so much easier if I didn't hate him so much. But I can't help it. It's like natural instinct. It's always there, this hate." She stared up at her aunt and her heart fell. Hermione knew it. Hermione knew that she revealed too much. By the look on her chalky face, Isabelle thought that Hermione was absolutely bonkers.

"You truly feel all of this?" Isabelle asked in a hollow voice. All humor disappeared from her face.

And heaven help her she wished she never had laid eyes on Draco Malfoy. But Hermione nodded. "Yes."

Silence screamed in their once-noisy room. Isabelle stared at Hermione with acute curiosity, and Hermione stared dully at the mass of cream-colored blankets.

"You know, Hermione," Isabelle started gently, "I do understand you."

Hermione looked up. "What?"

"There are no rules that state that these sort of emotions must always be romantic." And before Hermione could question her aunt, Isabelle pulled her up by the arm and murmured, "Now let's see what we can do about that hair."

And that was that.

-x-x-

Draco had been ill for the last few days. He spent most of his hours sleeping and stared dully at the wall during the brief moments when he would wake up. Narcissa had been worried dreadfully. It was as if her son caught some sort of a virus, some illness, but none of their most potent potions would aid him.

The fifth day.

Narcissa sat stiffly in her chair and stared outside into the frozen winter gloom. Despite what Draco thought of her, she truly did care for him. He was her only child, her only son. How could she not care for him? The rhythmic strokes of the grandfather clock soothed her nerves, but only a little. There she sat on top of her plush, silk-cover sofa in her private quarters sipping tea out of the finest china. And there was not a thing she could do to offer Draco some sort of release to this illness.

Lucius had been adamant about keeping his son in quarantine. He told her briskly in his Lucius Malfoy way, "I do not wish to see you ill as well, Narcissa."

Pish posh. Lucius cared for her welfare, yes, Narcissa knew. But how could that husband of hers keep her away from her own son?!

Narcissa slammed her teacup down, called for one of the house elves to clean away the tea, and pulled a thick cloak over herself. And like a fugitive of the night, Narcissa rushed silently and quickly like a shadow to her son's room. She dismissed the house elves with an authoritative wave of her hand, threatening to dismiss them if any of them shot off their twisted little lips, and walked into Draco's room.

The room smelled like a damned hospital and boiled cabbages. Fumes of sickening potions and cure-alls brewed in the corner where the healer tended to her son about an hour ago. Incenses were hung up over windows, doors, and mirrors. And damn, was it stuffy! The healer, fearful that cold air might worsen Draco's condition, tightly sealed off all of the windows with a spell. Narcissa's lips screwed into an unpleasant snarl, for she was unaccustomed to anything but the fresh air and the aroma of flowers, but she pushed on forward, covering her nose with her hand.

And further into the room, there was her son. Narcissa felt an uncharacteristic twist in her heart as she gazed at his pale, pale face. How lifeless he looked with his usually brilliant hair dull and limp like that over the pillow. Slowly, lest she disturb him, Narcissa walked up to her son and placed a gentle hand upon his sweaty brow.

He looked utterly spent. Narcissa felt a sudden wave of terror washing over her senses and she collapsed into the chair settled next to the bed. She had never wanted anything to be like this -- she had never wished for such a small family. She had always dreamed of having many children, children that she could raise in the sunlight. But her face was impassive as she stroked her son's hair. Draco hated the sunlight; he preferred windy, stormy nights instead.

She had never wished for a family that acted as three different units instead of one. What with her own entourage of maids, Draco's army of house elves, and Lucius's own mysterious servants . . . how were they anything but mere relatives that lived in the same house?

"My boy," she said softly. "My dear boy."

Hours passed and Draco did not wake. Narcissa sat at her son's side, wiping off his sweat with the soft hem of her cloak. And still, he did not stir.

Lucius walked in quietly past midnight. He gazed silently and stoically at his wife and son in the flickering shadows caused by the hearth. Narcissa's head was leaned upon Draco's high bed in an uncomfortable yet deep slumber. Her small, pale hands clasped tightly with Draco's. And for hours, Lucius merely stood in the shadows, unable to join the two, yet unable to look away.

And for the first time in his life, Lucius felt shame.

-x-x-

"Again: why are we here?"

Isabelle shushed Hermione and peered into the window of a seedy looking cottage. Loud cat calls of drunken men followed. Isabelle quickly ducked her head, grabbed Hermione's elbow, and rushed away.

Hermione had no choice but to helplessly follow. It was nearing evening and here they were, two women with the horrible tendency to get lost in high-heeled boots. "Auntie, I want to go back to the hotel. I'm freezing. My toes -- oh my, I think they fell off --"

"Oh Hermione, you can be so dramatic sometimes. It's around here. Rue . . . yes, we are at the right place. So why can't I --"

Hermione sighed and yielded to her aunt's wishes. They had been struggling to find her aunt's mysterious "place" of hers for almost an hour now in this subzero weather. Oh, what she wouldn't give for a nice, long bath with the hot water streaming out of that shiny faucet --

"Ah hah!"

Hermione jerked out of her thoughts. "Huh?"

"I found it!" Her aunt dragged Hermione up to a small, quaint little cottage in an obscure place on the path. Hermione frowned slightly as they neared the place. That scent of . . . heavy jasmine and . . . had she been here before?

They were greeted cordially into the cramped receiving room. Hermione's head was dizzy with the heavy, lingering scent of lavender and jasmine. Yes, she definitely recognized the scent. But from where?! Then she saw the little sign hanging over a wooden door.

"A clairvoyant?!" Hermione demanded in a whisper as the serving woman went off to fetched her mistress. "We came to a clairvoyant? Auntie, I never knew that you were so superstitious."

Isabelle shrugged off her coat and said irritably, "Darling, you and I are witches. I think that's like the pot calling the kettle black, dear."

"Oh, Miss Isabelle!"

Hermione whipped around, just managing to miss elbowing her aunt in her stomach in the cramped quarters. She yelped as she almost tripped over a stack of books. Her aunt, who had apparently been here before, maintained her composure and said in a warm voice, "Olivia. Olivia Trelawny. I haven't seen you for ages."

And from the doorway came a woman that Hermione vaguely recognized. She was thin. Her round eyes gleamed and were guarded by thick spectacles. She wore the garments of a clairvoyant from the many pieces of jewelry to her silky shawls. Wait, though. Did her aunt call this woman Olivia Trelawny? Clairvoyant, Trelawny. No, it couldn't be . . .

"Miss Isabelle! How wonderful to see you again!" said Olivia, kissing both of Isabelle's cheeks with her thin lips. Then she turned, her spectacled eyes widened as she saw Hermione. "And her? Your niece? The one that you wrote to me about?"

Isabelle nodded nervously. Hermione blinked. Her aunt wrote to a clairvoyant for her? What?

Olivia Trelawny took her hands warmly and said with a smile, "My, what a pure soul."

Hermione felt her face flush. "P-pure soul?"

Olivia nodded with a smile. "Yes. It has been so long since I've seen a soul as clear as yours. Yours is a soul that attracts so many others because of its purity. My, what a --" Hermione almost jerked as Olivia ceased speaking. It was an abrupt pause, a pause that Olivia initiated with a odd look on her face. She looked as if she drank rotten milk.

"What is it?" Hermione asked nervously, trying to pry her hands away from the woman's thin fingers. Hermione looked to her aunt for aid. Isabelle did not offer any, and instead she stared at Olivia intensely, tension screwing her face.

"Oh my," Olivia murmured, hands going limp. "Oh my, my, my."

Hermione quickly withdrew her hands, feeling an immense amount of discomfort. She despised all of this clairvoyant mumbo-jumbo -- she simply did not believe in it. And she hated the way that this Olivia Trelawny was staring at her. The clairvoyant's look of utter horror and pity washed over Hermione like a boiling wave, making her flush so deeply in shame that she was certain her re-dyed brown hair would catch fire.

"What is it, Olivia?" asked Isabelle, alarm coloring her voice. "What is wrong?"

The thin, small woman peered at Hermione intently. Hermione shifted uncomfortably, feeling like a small mouse cornered by a hawk. Why did she feel so lightheaded all of the sudden? It was the incense of jasmine. It was so strong, and with Olivia's sharp, beady eyes tearing her apart . . .

"Something stains you," said Olivia in a low voice, almost hypnotic in this dim, orange lighting. Something tremored in the dusky air. Hermione's breath sharpened. Olivia closed her eyes.

"Aunt Isabelle . . ." Hermione began in a small voice, but Isabelle shushed her quickly. What is going on? My heart is beating so quickly. Everything is . . . so dim . . .

Olivia's eyes shot open. They seemed so gray, so unusually pale. Hermione stifled a gasp as she recognized those eyes. They were Draco's eyes . . .

"My sister. I must go get my sister," said Olivia in a raspy voice completely unlike hers. She spun around in a trance-like state and headed for the kitchen door. "I must go get my sister . . ."

"Aunt Isabelle," Hermione whispered, moving slowly from the corner that the clairvoyant trapped her in. She maneuvered in between the stacks of tattered books and dusty lamps with fluid steps. Hermione felt hazy, almost drugged, as she stared at the mothy paintings that were plastered all over the scarce wooden walls. Gypsy men with one eye and withered young girls holding bouquets of dead, dried roses stared listlessly into the dim, golden atmosphere of the room. "Aunt Isabelle. I don't like this place. I feel so dizzy. Let's leave . . ."

But her aunt did not falter. She merely stared at the door where the clairvoyant disappeared to. "Wait a little, Hermione. Your dizziness is just the result of your amplified emotions. Your emotions are so strong that they are dominating your body and making it weak. Sit down if you wish."

Hermione obeyed and flumped down into a mahogany chair. "But why are we here? I don't understand . . ."

Her aunt stared pointedly at her niece this time. "The best ways to rid of your pain is to face it head on."

But before Hermione could demand to know what "pain" her aunt was speaking of, someone rushed out of the kitchen doors. Hermione's eyes widened and she sprang out of her chair, mouth wide open.

"Professor Trelawny?!"

-x-x-

Draco dreamt of her during all of his sickness. There were sweet dreams, there were horrible ones. The horrible ones were rather frequent.

The stone walls of the castle surrounded them both, entrapping him in memories and fantasies that almost drove him half mad. He ran through the red halls, heart wrenching with pain. He heard her sobs, heard her crying out almost as if in pain.

And still the man in black pursued him.

The corridors were endless. One door led to another, the turns leading deeper into the suffocating darkness. Laughter, screams, and sobs tailed him.

"Draco! Draco!" her broken voice cried.

And still the man in black pursued him.

Shadows clawed at his face. Hot droplets of rose-red blood painted the white marble with shocking precision. Like Icarus he fell, tumbling from the sun into the ocean of darkness. All he could do was keep running -- yes, keep running and save himself.

Broken memories shattered beneath his feet. He heard the gurgle of an infant. It was him yet not him. Small squeals of broken delight and wails of fluty terror surrounded him like mist.

FLASH.

Fingers entwined . . . sweet breathing . . . one moment. For one moment . . . just that moment . . . the crystal-clear wave of sweet fruition . . . crashed into them. Release . . . she took her leap . . . of faith. But . . . did he catch her? Rose-red droplets of blood . . . sweet, sweet blood . . . so salty upon his tongue . . . stop bleeding. I command you.

And she stopped bleeding . . . because this was his dream . . . and he could do anything, see anything that he wished . . .

But the man in black caught him.

The dreams shattered. The castle has fallen. The King has been taken.

And Draco wrenched the hood away from the man in black. He gasped. The sneer, the pale skin. Mirror. He was staring right into the mirror that revealed his soul.

His own face stared right back at him.

-x-x-

Hermione shifted uncomfortably in her seat and traced the purple ripples of silk table cloth with her eyes. She could feel the professor's beady eyes boring into her.

"Ahem."

Hermione risked a quick look up. She could feel the pads of her cheek flaming. It was sort of embarrassing. She, who walked out on Trelawny's class while claiming divination a ridiculous practice, was sitting across from that very same professor . . . asking just for the use of her divine craft.

Even if her aunt was insisting that she do it, it was humiliating all the same.

"Now, tell me, just what is it that . . . bothers you?"

Her tone was goading. Hermione hated it.

"Nothing," she muttered.

Silence ensued for a torturously long, awkward moment. When Hermione could not take it anymore, she quietly stood up and headed for the door. To hell with psychics -- they all babbled nonsense anyhow. But how in the world her aunt of all people could ever fall for this mumbo-jumbo was --

"Just where do you think that you are going?" the professor's surprisingly sharp voice came from the doorway. "I have not excused you, young lady --"

"You've excused me ever since I walked out of your classroom," Hermione interrupted before she could stop herself. Her face absolutely burned under the professor's writhing gaze.

"I have been asked here to solve your problem," spat the professor spitefully. "And I will not leave until I do what is asked of me."

Hermione pondered this for a moment. Then she sat back down, feeling an uncharacteristic wave of shame.

The professor did not waste any time. She spoke immediately. "My sister tells me many things. She says that you are disturbed. And . . ." The professor paused. She squinted her eyes. "And I see it too."

"What do you mean?" Hermione asked, her curiosity getting the better of her.

"A stain. A scar across the very heart of your soul. It is deep . . . and long . . . and it still bleeds . . ." The professor shook her head.

The musty air made her dozy. Hermione blinked rapidly for a few seconds them looked up to find the professor staring intently at her. "I don't understand . . ." Hermione said quietly.

"You and whoever causes you this . . . this pain . . . Have you known each other for long?"

Hermione thought about this. Was six years long? It seemed much longer than that. However, she shook her head 'no.' The professor nodded her head. Her expression was that of worry.

"It's as I thought. You . . . and this person . . . You two have an interesting history together. You've spent many lives hating and loving each other with such passion that --"

"What?" Hermione interrupted loudly, shaken out of the mystical mood that this room fogged up. "'Many lives?'"

The professor pursed her lips. "Yes. Many lives. Is there a problem with that, Miss Granger?"

Hermione narrowed her eyes, gripping the cushion of her chair. "This is ridiculous! I can't believe my aunt pays to have these preposterous . . . stories told to her!"

The professor's scowl darkened. "Stories? I assure you. What I say, especially regarding the past, are not merely stories. Unlike the cloudy visions of the future that I may have, I have been blessed as have all of my kind, to see through the many layers of death and lies. I see you clearly, Miss Granger, now that I truly look at you. You bleed whenever you are born. You bleed whenever you are dead. Someone scarred you so badly that you still bleed now . . . it's all over your chest."

Hermione's head snapped down to her chest. She took in a sharp breath as she did indeed see crimson blood soaking the white cotton of her turtleneck. And still, the blood fell in torrents from the invisible wound in her chest. She closed her eyes and swallowed down her urge to vomit. When she opened them again, the blood was gone. It was as if it had never existed. Hermione stared at the professor, her face pale and her breaths short. Was she truly bleeding?

"You saw it," the professor said in a voice uncharacteristically low. "You saw the wounds."

Hermione nodded shakily, wondering how this was all possible. "Yes."

Without a word, the professor reached over to the middle of the table and produced a brass goblet with a flick of her hand. Then she rubbed the tips of her forefinger and thumb together and from between the two, droplets of water splattered into the cup.

"It's a mirror of water." How was her voice so low? It almost rumbled. Hermione felt sleepy. "Look into it. And you shall see what is wrong. Do not fear -- everything is behind. Remember that."

Hermione, too dozy to do anything but obey, leaned over as soon as the goblet was filled with shimmering water to its chipped brim. At first she saw nothing . . . and yet, her eyes got heavier and heavier until she felt as if she could not hold them open any longer. Her reflection stared back at her in the goblet. And yet . . . the images shifted. What sorcery was this?

Her eyes closed, and still the images played in her mind like a film. She felt a sense of incredible nausea, as if she was tumbling though a wet, dark tunnel.

And Hermione drowned in the anemnisis that drenched her skin like rain . . .

She saw him many times, and yet they refused to speak to each other. She did not know why it was so, but it seemed more proper to do so. He was a noble, she but the daughter of a soldier. Sometimes, in order to avoid his gaze, she would escape her home and go about the grassland and hum her tunes, thinking of the paleness of his eyes. He was much to fair and slender for her taste, but he intrigued her somehow.

He had a cruel smile for her when they first bumped into each other while she walked about, thinking. Her father said that she shouldn't think so much if she wanted to find a husband. But she did think -- and she thought about many things. She wondered about God, about love, about fate. And the bloodshed.

The Danes began their plundering near the eastern seaboard. As summer soon chilled to autumn, whispers were abroad that the Danes were numerous enough in force that they would reach her home. Sometimes her thoughts were so disturbing that she found herself forcing hot tears down.

"Why does sorrow cloud your eyes?" he asked her with a small quirk of his lips.

"That is none of your concern," she spat, wiping her eyes, before moving away.

But with those few words, she knew that they had began something. And as he gripped her wrist and twirled her to his chest, she knew that they would see each other again many, many times.

"Do not speak so lowly to me, peasant," he hissed like a serpent. His absurdly pale eyes glimmered like the silver band he wore on his finger.

She faced him evenly, though her heart pounded madly. "I shall do as I wish." And she wrenched her wrist away from his callused hand and walked away, ignoring the fact that he was the son of the most powerful man in this part of Northumbria.

Intimacy was what described them. Incredibly intimacy -- shared smiles, knowing glances, clandestine nights of countless hours where they would do nothing but speak and speak of whatever struck their fancy. He did not touch her, however, and she did not touch him. Their emotional stability developed first -- it was a tentative development. Her heart wept with envy when he married, and all through out the wedding, he would seek her eye in apology. But she understood -- it was his duty. She just did not wish to lose him as her friend, for he was the only friend that she felt that she would ever know.

When he died while campaigning against the Danes, she died as well. For two winters she endured, tending to her needful husband while quietly grieving the loss of her friend, her soulmate. On the first day of spring of the year the Danes attacked Paris, she died of loneliness.

It was then that they first met. Even from that day when he stopped her in the grassland, their meeting had been a total accident. How had their relationship blossomed so beautifully during that life? Flashes and reels of recollections blinked in her mind.

Uttered hellos, quick glances, one smile. There were years when she would see him once every month consistently and never speak with him. Then she would sleep into oblivion, wondering why she felt so empty. But those times when she did not meet him -- she was so much happier, if not a bit vacant. When they met, everything ended in tears.

Two people stood in the room, yet three hearts thumped. His eyes, cold and calculating, examined her face. Yet when that tear escaped her eye, his defenses fell and he collected her in his arms. She did not respond -- she stood stiffly like a figurine of ice. How could he do this to her? How could he resort to this?

"I am sorry."

She eyed him, terror and hate pounding through her veins.

"Please know that I love you, my lady. Please."

Lies. All lies. She believed those words once. She could never, ever again trust him. She could never, ever love without hating. He damned her. She damned herself.

"I've lived under my uncle's shadow, my love. You know what he did to me. He took away everything. Everything! My honor, my estate, my title, my father . . ."

That was true. He came to her as a noble living in genteel poverty. Bruises marred his chest -- the thrashing he took from home. The knights shunned him, the squires taunted him. He was never so physically strong. No. He depended on speed, agility, resourcefulness. His mind was sharper than Arthur's sword. His wits quicker than a hawk's. It was what kept him alive.

"You promised me," she whispered, her hand traveling to her stomach. She felt sick. "You promised me!"

He looked away, unable to face her in his shame. "When this is over, when this is all over . . ."

She stepped up to him and plucked the red rose that he clenched in his fist. She stared at the bloody redness, the fragile delicacy of the rose. She threw it onto the ground, petals weeping in pain as it shattered from its core, and mangled it under her heel.

"You," she snarled, "and your vows."

He stood there in the tower, eyes clouded but unrelenting. He chose his path -- nothing to do but uphold his allegiance or risk being decapitated.

"I've loved you once," she said over her shoulder, tears glistening in her eyes. "But I hate you now. And I shall hate you until my death. I shall hate you even in my death. I shall hate you the moment that I set eyes on you, even if I've never seen you before. May you never find happiness." Her hands clenched her stomach as she whisked into her chambers, trying desperately not to cry. She did not tell him what they had produced together. She had not told him about the child that she carried in her womb.

That beautiful night of love, tenderness, and passion resulted in the child within her. She had thought that her love, the one who bore the crest of the dragon so proudly, would . . . save her from her incestuous . . . uncle . . . that monster who haunted her steps every night, staring at her with leery eyes and moist lips. But could she reject him now? She would have to raise her child as a bastard. No. She could not allow that. For the love of her child, she had no choice but to marry quickly and raise the child with the man who wasn't even the child's father.

She sobbed on her bed. She hated him so much, the one that she once loved both spiritually and physically -- she hated him with all of her body and soul. And yet . . . why did she so desire his body next to hers on this bed?

Hermione's eyes were closed. And yet, tears that she did not summon, marked a heavy path from her closed eyes to her chin. She could remember so many things. And yet, she recalled so little. The child died from the bite of a serpent. Her husband-uncle divorced her years after their marriage because of her inability to bear more children. She spent the remainder of her life weeping in a darkened nunnery, and she died with a rope around her neck. Why did her lover, her lord of the dragons, never come for her?

No more. No more of this sadness. She avoided him for years. He sought her. His soul was heavy with guilt and sorrow. It was not until much later on that she finally let her guard down.

The Abomination paraded around with his officers like war heroes. The crowd gathered on the streets to watch the march, eyes burning with hatred though their faces were impassive. Her heart throbbed with anger. She thought they looked like street thugs, strutting in front of the Eiffel like peacocks in their black overcoats. Her eyes lingered on that blood-red band wrapped around their arms.

Her lips twisted in a disgusted snarl as she caught sight of one of the young officers who had a self-satisfied smirk on his face. Fair and pale-eyed, he eyed the Parisians with curiosity and triumph. For a few intense moments, the two locked gazes. She was the first to turn away. The officer did so later.

The nights of the occupation were hell. News of American salvation thinned as the days passed like the petals of a wilting flower. Her father and uncle were picked off by the Gestapo to work in German factories while the Germans entertained themselves in the theaters and museums of Paris. In four years, her family was reduced to living in a single-room apartment with most of their worldly possessions and kin taken from them.

But the occupation proved to be a time of observation and experience. She watched how the officers and their ladies acted. She mimicked them when in a different city, pretending to be the wife or mistress of an officer in order to sneak files and documents for the Parisian resistance.

She had almost died.

"What is it that you are doing here?" he asked in flawless French as he stepped out of the shadows.

She was so frightened that she almost dropped the papers that she held under her coat. Her eyes widened slightly as she recognized the young officer. It was the same man that she had locked gazes with during the day of the march!

His pale eyes lingered on her for a few seconds, flickering in confusion. "Have we met before?"

She shook her head sharply. "No, sir. You must be mistaking me for someone else."

"I do not doubt you. But . . . it feels as if I've known you, spoken with you before."

She shook her head again, a scowl marring her face. "We've never met."

"Ah, but I've seen you before. That parade? I remember thinking that you were a bold one," he said with a chuckle. He walked up to her and grazed his finger across her cheek.

She turned her head away, quelling the urge to shoot him with the revolver hidden in her coat.

"I see now that you are rather . . . pretty."

"I would rather rot than accept your worthless flattery," she spat, regretting it as soon as the words escaped her mouth.

His eyes grew hard. His hand was but a blur as it contacted sharply with her cheek. She cried out and fell to the ground, dropping the files that she kept hidden under her coat. As soon as her knees hit the ground, the papers scattered at his feet. She breathed out. The ultimate mistake. She was almost afraid to look up, knowing that a gun would be pointed at her. So she stayed on the ground, waiting for the shot that would inevitably come . . . but why didn't it?

When she looked up, she was yet against surprised. The officer was bent down next to her, picking up the files that she had dropped. His pale eyes flickered briefly on the "CONFIDENTIAL" markings on the top and lit a match.

She watched, sickened, as she saw all of the files that she managed to scrape together for three months burn in those red and orange embers. So much work . . . so little yield!

"Stand up, wench," the officer said nonchalantly as he watched the pile of papers burn in front of him. "Clean yourself off and run home. I do not know your name nor do I know your face. You are but an unknown Parisian to me. However, I shall remember the next time that I catch you."

Without another look back, she ran. She did not see that officer again until the occupation had ended. His picture was on the newspaper cover, listing him as one of the casualties of the war.

Why did we hate so much?

Was it because we loved so much?

When will we forgive?

Never?

When Hermione's lashes fluttered open, she found three faces of hazy features stare up at her. She blinked, rubbed her eyes, and sat up with a small groan. "Where am I?"

A familiar hand gripped hers. Aunt Isabelle.

"You fell out of your chair, dear, and nothing I did would rouse you." Her eyes gleamed with apology and worry.

The Trelawny sisters assisted Hermione up and steadied her until she could walk without wobbling.

"What happened?" Hermione muttered, clearing her throat. She closed her eyes for a few moments, trying to catch the mystic remnants of her dream before it slipped away. It was to no avail. Those dreamy images slipped through her fingers like water until she was left with nothing but a little puddle of recollection.

"You were hypnotized, my dear," came Olivia's small voice. She stared at her sister and they both nodded. "Let us leave them alone, Miss Isabelle." And then she led the worried aunt from the room.

The professor sat back down and gestured for Hermione to sit back down across from her. "You saw, did you not?" the professor asked sharply. "Like the blood, you've glimpsed it all . . ."

Hermione rubbed her eyes. "I do remember. But . . . why is it that when I try to call the images to my mind, they refuse to reveal themselves?"

"Because those memories are not supposed to come to you." The professor looked away for a few seconds and stared at her thin hands. "There are people in this world, Miss Granger, who have the gift -- the curse -- of sight. Your perception of the world is so underdeveloped, so primitive compared to mine. While you only see the four walls that box you to this life, I posess the wings to rise from that box and see miles on end to glimpse the rooms abandoned. And the inhabitants of those rooms."

"Everything that I saw, that I felt . . . was true?" Hermione whispered, hoping that perhaps this was just some sort of magic trick. But deep in her heart, Hermione knew that everything that she felt in that single span of a few minutes . . . she had felt before.

"It's the curse of those with vision. It is bliss to live in ignorance."

"Why?" Hermione whispered.

The professor stared at her in confusion. "Why what?"

"Why do we, that person and I . . . why are we so . . ."

The professor stopped her. "I did not see what you've seen, Miss Granger. I only see the stains and the wounds."

Hermione felt tears rushing up to her eyes. "Stains and wounds. Is that all you see? Is that all there is?"

The professor's hard, beady eyes, for the first time, softened when they gazed at Hermione. "They are predominant. But I also see warmth and brilliance beneath that pain. Have you heard, Miss Granger, that it takes just as much passion to hate someone? That love requires that equal passion? They are both opposite sides of the same coin."

Hermione looked away and swallowed down the tears in her eyes. Her eyes caught the dusty paintings, the antique vases, moth-eaten tapestries. Everything in this room was so old; everything was the very canvas of the past. "Why did you show me?"

"Sometimes, to overcome fear and anger, you must confront it."

"Why is it that I do not remember? I wish to remember."

The professor sighed. "It is but a dream, Miss Granger. A fleeting dream meant only to entertain and enlighten, but for that brief second. People have such romantic fancies that knowledge of the past, of another world, might help them in this world to find someone, accomplish something. Can the truth of what happened before help you, Miss Granger? Do you truly think that you need to remember everything that happened in order to survive in this world?"

Hermione shook her head reluctantly and stared at her hands. But she tried to remember anything that she had seen before, and when she tried, she would get hazy pictures of grasslands and the sky. She tried to remember who she was, who he was, how they looked, how they spoke . . . and she could recall nothing. Indeed, it was a dream . . . a dream with wings that flew from the cage of her mind the first chance she left the door open. Yet, she had survived without this knowledge so far. Why couldn't she survive now?

She carved her own path.

"Forgive me, but if you can see the past so clearly, why did you teach divination? Why the future?"

The professor's lips quirked. "My vision of the future, except for in rare cases, is not a clear as my vision of the past. I also have no desire to reveal the path to past lives, the past worlds, of anyone that I do not deem worthy or desperate enough to see."

Hermione nodded. She was not drowsy anymore. The spirits of jasmine and sorrow that moaned and pulled her to that same path were released. Her shoulders . . . they felt so light. Had she been carrying this weight upon her for so long? She felt as if she could fly.

"Albus Dumbledore was wise enough to respect my wishes to keep the past cloaked. He was kind enough to offer me a job position. I may be clairvoyant, Miss Granger, but I am not without my worldly needs -- especially a spare sickle here and there."

-x-x-

Returning to Hogwarts had been a new sort of relief. She arrived about a week early on purpose to settle herself down and resolve her emotions. She figured out how to deal with Draco: feign indifference. It would hurt, she knew, but she figured that time would heal that need.

As she walked along the shadowed corridors during the quiet evening, running her fingers gently across the cold stone walls of the castle and unwittingly singing a tune that a woman had sung hundreds of years before, Hermione smiled. It was a sad smile but not an unpleasant one, and she ruffled her hair, trying to get used to the forged bushiness and brown of her hair.

"Hermione?"

She spun around slowly and smiled as her eyes met Ron's. She waited for him to catch up with her, and together they walked silently in this gauzy darkness.

"Where is Harry?" Hermione asked finally.

"He's sleeping. Been up late last night, him and me, playing a bit of quidditch. We have a match coming up soon, you know. Remember when those snitchers of Hagrid got loose and the match was rescheduled?"

"Right. The one against Slytherin, right?"

"Right."

Ron suddenly threw an arm over Hermione's shoulders. She stifled down a little yelp but allowed it to remain there, even if it was incredibly uncomfortable.

"So why are you walking alone?" he asked in her a low voice.

She grinned slightly, nervously, then scolded herself. This was Ron, for god's sake! She had no reason to distrust him. "Just needed time to clear my head, you know?"

"You just seemed really preoccupied," he said with a slight grimace. Hermione frowned. This did not feel right. She gently shrugged off Ron's arm.

They walked in silence with an uncomfortably small distance between them. At least, Hermione was uncomfortable -- Ron seemed pleased. At least, he seemed pleased until they came upon a forking pathway and at that fork . . . Draco Malfoy.

Draco looked up, his eyebrows raised and his face paler than usual. He looked as if he were ill and tired. Perhaps he was both.

"Draco?" Hermione whispered without thinking. Then she caught herself and Ron turned and stared at her in unspoken horror. Draco merely gazed at Hermione, his eyes soft and yielding.

"What the hell are you doing here, Malfoy?" Ron spat, pushing Hermione behind him and walking up to Draco with his fists clenched.

"Ron . . . Ron!" Hermione pleaded, trying to hold Ron back by the arms. She yelped as he roughly swung his arms and dislodged her from him. Draco's eyes widened as she fell back against the wall. But Hermione merely watched with growing terror at the fight that would surely ensue. "Ron! Why are you doing this? Stop!"

"This is my choice, Hermione!" he snarled. "Just keep quiet!"

"Don't speak to her like that, Weasley," Draco said in a low, scratchy voice. His eyes burned with hate. "And don't ever push her off like that."

A long pause. Then:

Ron faltered. His eyes were wide. "My god. It is true." His eyes darted from Hermione to Draco. "Oh my god." And without another word, he whipped around and walked quickly in the direction of the Gryffindor dormitory, leaving Hermione and Draco alone in the fork.

"Hello," she said quietly.

Draco nodded impassively, the dullness returning to his eyes.

She stared at the ground, trying to calm her heart. Her arms shook with the desire to hold him. Why was it so hard to feign indifference? "I have to see to Ron."

Again, another nod.

"I'll see you later."

Draco watched her run, cringing against the bitter bite of the mark.

X

"What in the WORLD is WRONG with you?!"

Ron stopped pacing immediately and turned his burning gaze towards her. Hermione did not back down. Instead, she walked up to him and yelled in his face, "Why are you acting so childish?!"

"Because he's fucking Slytherin, that's why!"

"That's not all that he is!"

Ron paused, his chest heaving up and down. His face was red with anger, his jaw locked. "You're such a fucking dreamer, Hermione! A FUCKING dreamer! Do you truly think that he'll ever love you like I can? Do you truly think that he can ever accept you?!"

Hermione gasped, her fingers covering her lips. "Love? Like you can . . .?"

Ron's eyes widened as he realized his folly. His red face paled quickly then reddened at a shocking rate once more. "I -- I didn't mean . . ." Hermione whipped around, her eyes round with shock. "Hermione! Come back!"

His calls echoed through the dark hall, and Hermione ran from them as she would from a pack of wolves. No. It couldn't be true. She and Ron were friends! Friends of the best kind! Friends forever and nothing more! She didn't want it to be true, and yet . . .

She locked the door to her room behind her and slid down onto the floor. Tears gathered in her eyes. Ron . . . he loved her?

She gathered her knees to her chest with her arms. What did this mean for her? Could she ever forget that he ever said that, just forget what his treacherous mouth revealed?

No. She couldn't.

If only he told her that earlier, when she and Draco were not so complicated. Perhaps she might have been ready to accept Ron's affections then. Perhaps she could have at least tried. She groaned into her sleeve. Ron had asked her to the Yule Ball. She should have known then. How could she have been so blind?

Draco, what do I do?

Why was it that she could not love one without hurting the other? And if she rejected both, pretended that their affections had never happened . . . Then she would slowly wither along with both men.

He knocked on the door to the Head Girl lounge. Hermione closed her eyes and tried to ignore him. Too dazed to do anything else, she crawled to her bed and heaved herself up into the covers. She stared into the dark, listening to Ron's tortured demands for her to open the door. He apologized, ranted, pleaded . . . but she merely stared blankly into the dark.

Hours passed. Midnight crept past her eyes. Ron finally gave up, uttering one last apology. "Forgive me." Then he walked away.

"No, Ron. Forgive me," she whispered.

She lied down in her bed for another hour, unmoving. Tick, tock. Time passed by, and Hermione felt as if she were trapped in her own little world where the night remained and the days slept. Her heart trembled from terror of the coming day. Sleep forgot her, so she dozed.

I stumble across the dark halls. A sickly tonic brews within my stomach. My back shrieks in agony.

The darkness is suffocating. The beast that I've unleashed lies in wait for the perfect time to strike. The hunter has become the hunted.

Ghastly, ghostly visions appear before me. The forest of horrors waits to consume me. The harpies of reason nip at the heels of my own vision -- they chase me further and further away from salvation.

Howls of agony. My back! Black insects eat at my skin! They release their nightly venom. I collapse into the sea of crimson blood.

Please help. I am dying. It hurts so badly.

Please help me.

Please . . .

HERMIONE!

Hermione sat up quickly, wiping away the daze from her eyes. That voice! His voice. In her billowing night clothes, Hermione ran through the castle. She had to find him because, well, Draco needed her.

And how could she refuse him?

.

End Notes: Hehe. Cliffie. A lot of dream sequences, I know. Half of the chapter, I wrote when I was doped on NyQuil. The other half was done in parts. I apologize if things seem a bit cluttered. I know the thing with the past lives thing was a stretch, but if you disagree with it, just assume it as developing the romance between Hermione and Draco. Next chapter -- well most of it -- will be pure fluff and angst. XD