Author's Note: So many things to say. First off, I apologize for the unofficial hiatus. I didn't mean to take such a long time updating, but this chapter was, again, a pain to write. Nevertheless, I did make this chapter extra-long for the extra-extra-long wait. ;-) Thanks for those who read the sample chapter on my LiveJournal. I loved the comments -- they mean a lot to me.

Second, in response to some inquiries, thank you to those people who nominated this story for the Dangerous Liaisons Awards. Unfortunately, due to complications with the nominations process, POHAL was not able to accept the nominations for this round. Maybe the next round I'll have better luck. XD But no hard feelings -- quite the contrary. I feel blessed enough to know that people think this story is award-worthy. Quite the honor in itself.

Third, and most importantly, I haven't read Book 6 yet, so I don't know if I should continue with my original plot or revise it (for the umpteenth time). I will post in my LiveJournal a more concise analysis of POHAL in regards to Book 6, but here, I will just say that the characters who are dead will stay dead except for those who are MAJOR components of this story's plot. By the way, I don't mind spoilers. Spoil me all you want -- I got a great deal of them anyway. :) So yell at me, curse me, friend me, scold me, love me, spoiler me, whatever you want, at my LiveJournal and if (not if but when, hopefully) you review. ;-)

The Passion of Hate and Love
Chapter 21: They Need to Know So Much
By Callisto Callispi

Lucius could not deny the fact that the more desperate the situation, the more withdrawn the Dark Lord would be. The Dark Lord's mild brooding was but a façade, however, and on more than one occasion did he lash out angrily for a minor misdeed or misplaced whisper.

Lucius watched, eyes flickering in carefully hidden horror, as Hopkins screamed and writhed, crucified against a flaming cross. His sin was stepping too loudly while the Dark Lord contemplated his next move. It nauseated Lucius, who had the strongest of stomachs, just watching the enchanted flames licking at the fair skin so highly prized within the Hopkins family. Seeing what caused those screams made the torture all the more painful. Oh, Lucius knew that a flick of a wand could remove the enchanted burn marks and restore that rich head of cropped black hair, but just watching him scream, begging for mercy, crying for his mother --

At least the possibilities of the Crutatius Curse were left to the imagination, even though the pain tremendously exceeded that of burning to death. But pain, no matter the amount, felt the same, whether one broke a limb or had a full body-binded Crutatius curse cast upon them. Watching, envisioning, imagining from the sidelines -- seeing how graphically that fire blistered his pink lips…

It was all for show. The Dark Lord was cleverer than Shakespeare in respects to human psychology; he knew that the more horror his underlings witnessed, the more fear they would feel. Torture was executed effectively not through the pain, but through the show and the screams.

And Lucius found out that even he was not immune to the Dark Lord's wrath.

The curse was cast for only a brief moment, perhaps lasting at most ten seconds, but the pain was so incredibly intense, so terribly mind-numbing, so very body-wracking that he couldn't think straight for the next ten minutes.

He spent the remainder of his night at home, drinking directly from a bottle of hard liquor. He stared into the great roaring fire, eyes vacant yet mind wracked with thoughts. He hadn't known before tonight just how painful it was to even twitch. He never knew how oddly metallic his own foamy blood tasted in his mouth. Before tonight, he had never been subject to the Crutatius Curse.

Lucius heard the door to his study slide quietly open, but he did not speak. His mind still mulled over the pain, the screams, the pleads for mercy. His own voice had betrayed his very manhood, begging for mercy then breaking weakly as his lord finally lifted the Crutatius Curse.

Soft palms slid down his shoulders and finally rested on top of his loosely held fist. Absently, Lucius settled his brandy bottle on the little table, placed his frigid hands upon hers, and breathed in deeply, finally lowering his eyes from the fire.

Before tonight, he had never known how pale Narcissa's hands were.

She knelt in front of him, fair hair loose and in curls, eyes beautiful yet unpainted. Lucius and she stared at each other for many passing moments. Her eyes revealed truths that she would never tell him -- not in this life, anyway.

The storm raged outside, slashing at the pines and stripping bare the oaks. Icy rain and bits of hard snow pummeled the world ruthlessly. Strangely, Lucius felt his anger and terror die down a little. He slowly held her fingers gently between his own and brought them to his lips in a gentle kiss.

The seconds passed with aching prudence, but Lucius did not wish it otherwise. These moments were his few reasons for living. This tenderness sometimes felt like the truth he had sought ever since he chose the path of betrayal and domination.

Gently she rose from the ground and moved toward Lucius, her body melting into his in a gesture of affection of which Lucius never even thought her capable. And as he felt the gentle swell of her soft breasts push softly against his chest, her lips brushed against his like the lightest touch of silk.

After that brief, feathery kiss, her head sought the juncture of his neck and shoulders as its sanctuary. Lucius closed his eyes, thinking that he should be planning his next move before seeing him, Voldemort, again. But for this moment, he didn't care about anything or anyone but the woman warm in his embrace.

"You're angry so often," she whispered into the darkness. Her warm breath tickled the nape of his neck, and Lucius could not bring himself to answer. "You don't have to follow him, you know. You don't have to leave for such long hours and come back, so shaken and pale."

Lucius squeezed his eyes shut, tightening his hold on his wife. Oh God, if only. If only.

"You can stay here with me. And our son."

But despite his quivering heart, Lucius's voice was composed. "It's not that simple, Narcissa."

He heard her sigh forlornly. "It isn't ever with you, is it?"

Lucius nuzzled his lips into the glossy locks of her curling hair, and whispered, "No, it never is."

-x-x-

Hermione knew, even in her sleep, when Draco left. The air became that much colder, her arms that much more empty. Even her dreams, once sweet and fresh like ripe summer cherries, seemed so bitter. The night of her fantasies was done.

Hermione reluctantly opened her eyes and sighed, smelling his scent, though she did not seeing him anywhere. It was a dream -- it really was. It was a dream in her reality. But just as she brushed her hand against the covers with which Draco covered himself, something red caught her eye.

A rose.

Gingerly, she placed the thornless stem between her fingers and tentatively raised the blossom to her nose. Deeply, quietly, she inhaled the sweet fragrance. Draco…he left this for her. Draco, no longer Malfoy to her, but Draco.

What had she done last night? He knew. He knew that she still…that she still ached for his smile…that rare smile that lightened the dark, angry glimmer in his eyes. Hermione closed her eyes, quelling the throb of her heart. When he smiled, she thought him able to be salvaged. She thought he would come to her.

A sudden barrage of knocks upon her door shattered her fragile nostalgia. Hermione sprang from the bed, rose still in hand, and whipped open the door.

Her breath caught in her throat.

"Ron!" she breathed. "What -- what are you --"

His eyes were not angry, as she suspected they would be. Instead, he looked frantic. His body trembled. His widened eyes betrayed his panic.

Then, she spotted Professor McGonagall behind Ron. Hermione's breath hitched in her throat. What was going on?

"Miss Granger," the professor began urgently, her voice quivering. The woman wore her robes loosely, as if she had thrown it on spontaneously. "There has been an emergency."

And heaven help her, Hermione's first thoughts were, Oh my God. Draco! The Death Eaters! They've hurt him!

"P-professor!" Hermione cried in alarm as McGonagall grabbed her wrist and pulled her from her room.

"You must get out, Miss Granger!" the professor nearly screamed, dragging Hermione from her room. "Come, come! Hurry!"

Hermione stumbled, protesting as her rose fell to the ground. But McGonagall would not listen. And soon, they entered the hallway, joining other quietly rushing professors. Fear and fury numbed Hermione's mind. Was Draco all right? Forgetting the rose for that moment, she followed McGonagall willingly, praying that Draco wasn't hurt.

X

Ron followed the two women's progress apathetically. Then, when they were completely out of the room, he walked toward the fragile rose, lying as innocently as a sleeping lamb on the carpeted floor. He bent down, almost with animalistic grace, to examine the blossom.

Hermione never bought flowers. She disliked all that sentimental rubbish, and he and Harry both knew. They purchased books and quills for Hermione; never flowers. He could also imagine no reason for Hermione to buy flowers for herself.

Someone had given it to her. Two guesses who.

Ron rose, anger darkening his eyes. Then, without another word, he stepped on the rose, crushing it with his foot until it's crimson, blood-like stains streaked the heel of his slipper.

Then, without another look back, he left the shattered flower, uncaring of Hermione's scream of anguish just a few floors up.

-x-x-

Whispers were abroad that someone had died at Hogwarts. Though not the most uncommon sort of gossip, it generated shockwaves through out the school. A majority of the regular professors were replaced by auxiliaries. A high-standing prefect handled Charms lessons. Ghosts, dwarves, and one over-grown pixie assumed leadership of the other classes.

The official excuse was that every teacher was required to attend a clandestine emergency faculty meeting. But word had somehow leaked out of a death. It was blatantly obvious -- the infirmary was banned from student visitations, even those seeking a fresh supply of bandages and ointment.

Ron, despite himself, was beginning to get nervous. In fact, he was so nervous that his previous anger regarding Malfoy's incursions on Hermione's person had largely faded from his mind. He was scared for her: McGonagall didn't give a flip whether he was standing in the Head Girl's quarters, though it was strictly against the rules. Instead, she grabbed Hermione's wrist and nearly dragged her out of the door as if a monster were about to attack them. What was going on? Was Hermione all right?

Ron felt a sudden wave of shame. He fidgeted with the parchment in front of him as the other students began to file into the class. He was about to hurt her, just because of his jealousy. He submitted to his temper again, just because he had been too cowardly to admit his feelings to her before now. Perhaps if he had told Hermione that he did indeed started to look at her with far more affection than brotherly love, he and she might have started to go out. Maybe then Malfoy wouldn't have…

Ron suddenly felt very nauseous.

"Ron? You're early."

Harry appeared before him, face pale and hair messier than usual. His movements were sluggish, as if he hadn't enough sleep.

"What's the matter? You look half-dead," Ron commented.

Harry took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes. "I couldn't get enough sleep yesterday. My head kept hurting --"

"Dreams?" Ron interrupted, alarmed.

"-- No, just a headache. That annoying blighter, that fourth-year Hufflepuff, the one that I told you about, kept me outside after he dropped my glasses in the quidditch stands. I got soaked to the bone -- I think I'm catching up with a cold."

In Ron's opinion, Harry looked as if he had caught pneumonia, but Ron refrained from saying so. "You should go up to the infirmary. I mean, we do have a game later today against Ravenclaw, and you know how their Seeker is."

Harry sniffed. "I know, but we've trained extra hard for that game. And we have to keep in mind that even Ravenclaw is disoriented from the vacation. Anyway, I already tried going up to the infirmary. Some aide turned me away. I think there's someone up there…"

Ron stared dully at the pixie substitute professor as it (no one could determine its sex) began lessons in a voice very androgynous in tone and pitch. What was happening in Hogwarts?

"Hey, Harry…"

Harry risked a quick glance toward Ron.

"Do you think…that maybe Hermione is all right?"

Harry blinked in surprise. "Why wouldn't she be?"

The pixie's disturbingly bright yellow eyes pierced the two with a single, well-timed glare. When it turned back toward the black board, Ron whispered, "She's not in class."

Then, to Ron's complete surprise, Harry answered, "Neither is Malfoy."

-x-x-

"Wha-what?" Hermione asked, her eyes wide, her hands fisted tightly so that her knuckles were white. "Why?"

Sunlight streamed in through the glass of the infirmary window, yet the light was cold. Or perhaps Hermione was the one that was cold, sitting on the cold metal chair with a needle inserted intravenously into her arm and with the headmaster's icy blue eyes drowning her ability to speak. She felt cold. Very, very cold.

"Surely, professor, there must be a solution. There must be a reason!"

And the headmaster, wizened even in his happiest moods, looked so frail and saddened standing there in front of Hermione that she thought a mere breeze could tumble him. Madame Pomfrey quietly slid the needle out and sealed the tube of the collected blood. Hermione stared at Dumbledore, eyes still as the nurse bandage the arm. Hermione had once been deathly afraid of needles. But even as Madame Pomfrey slid it, that thick needle with a pointed scoop-like end, into a spot on the inner part of her arm, Hermione merely stared at the headmaster, not wincing.

"Madame Pomfrey, please make sure that Miss Granger is in good health. I'm sure that the blood sample will be sufficient," the headmaster said.

The nurse nodded grimly. The headmaster turned back toward Hermione. "It cannot be helped, Miss Granger," Dumbledore said quietly. "It pains me as well, you see. But…with Mister Hawking like this…" He gestured toward the bed next to Hermione where Head Boy Gregory Hawking was prone on the cushions, his face horribly bruised and his lips blue. Hermione could not look at him. It made her feel sick. She wanted to throw up.

"But -- but he's not dead, professor. And…and I'll be sure to take extra precautions. Please…" Hermione's voice cracked. "Please, you can't send me away. Hogwarts…it's my home. My sanctuary. It's where I belong."

Professor Dumbledore, for the first time in Hermione's eyes, looked as if on the verge of tears. Hermione wiped her own eyes. She looked up to find Dumbledore's still dry.

"I have no choice, Miss Granger," Dumbledore said quietly. "I've already owled the governors and the Minister of Education. Hogwarts has no choice but to temporarily suspend all those of muggle descent from the school premises for their own safety."

Hermione shook her head, not believing what was happening. This was wrong. Just wrong. "A-and what about school? What about graduation?"

Dumbledore walked up to her and placed a spindly hand on her shoulder. "It'll all be resolved in time, Miss Granger. The rest of the staff and I shall determine that. But keep faith in justice, Miss Granger. Soon, everyone will be able to attend school. Everyone will be allowed equal opportunities. Such discrimination does not last for a long time."

Hermione nodded, but she did not trust herself to speak. It wasn't fair. It simply wasn't fair.

"But for now, the school is not safe for those of muggle descent. You yourself saw the horrible message on his…body. You saw that message. I…I do not wish for anyone, whether they be wizard or witch or giant or ghoul, to endure what Mister Hawking has been through."

Again, Hermione felt the urge to vomit. This time, she submitted to that urge. She sprang up from her seat, ran to the lavatory, and threw up what little remained in her stomach. This was a bloody nightmare. It had to be. She collapsed near the toilet, her hands gripping the walls. Vaguely, she heard Dumbledore's voice say from the recuperation room, "Please help Miss Granger back to her room and instruct her to pack her belongings."

Madame Pomfrey's voice shook. "It's true, headmaster? It's true that all muggle-borns are to be sent home?"

Hermione looked up blearily.

"Yes."

The nurse gasped. "But, headmaster! We can't!"

Dumbledore's voice was strained with fatigue. "We must."

"But it simply isn't moral! We can't --"

"Did you not see the message on that boy's chest!" Dumbledore's voice raged.

Hermione stood up shakily and walked back into the recuperation room. Dumbledore was pointing at Gregory's body, his index finger shaking violently. The nurse, stunned, only could nod vaguely. As soon as she caught sight of Hermione, she hustled over and grabbed her by the elbow.

"Come, dear. We must get you back to your room. Come, come."

And Hermione allowed herself to be led away. She spared one more glance toward the headmaster to find him staring at her dolefully.

"I'm so sorry, Hermione," he whispered. "I'm so sorry that I've been unable to protect you."

Hermione felt the tears overflowing her eyes once more. But she nodded. "It's okay, headmaster. It's really okay."

And finally, Madame Pomfrey led Hermione out.

X

Dumbledore stood alone in the vast room. It was a white room, clean and welcoming. The beds were soft and comfortable. How the headmaster wished for those beds to be all empty. But… Dumbledore's eyes trailed toward the bed that Gregory occupied. The boy's face was marred with terrible bruises and scars -- there must have been quite a scuffle during the night. Strangely, Hermione confirmed she did not hear anything, even if her Head Girl chambers were adjacent to his.

Quietly, Dumbledore walked over to Gregory and gently placed his palm on the boy's cold cheek. No, he was not dead, but he damn well should have been. Without another word, Dumbledore flipped off the white covers and forced himself to stand.

It was repulsive, the damage done to the boy's body. Dumbledore delicately placed his fingers over his lips. He could not blame her at all for vomiting.

Red scars as thick as ribbons laced the boy's body. His very chest was a mess of blood-soaked bandages and scars, as if the attacker were trying to scratch out his very heart. But the blood did not perturb the headmaster, the man who had seen so much during the wars. The blood did not matter, but the message did. For written on his very chest, a message dug into the skin of Gregory's body with the pointed tip of the knife, foretold the impending war between the Dark Lord and the world.

"They taste sweet, these mudbloods."

And below the message, right above his bellybutton, did the attacker burn a crudely designed dark mark onto the muggle-born Head Boy.

Dumbledore could not stand to look at Gregory's mutilated body for a second longer. The scars and the mark would never heal -- they could only be concealed. Dumbledore fell down into the chair next to Gregory's bed. What was this world coming to, when boys were targeted for such gruesome mutilation?

The muggle-borns would be safer at their own homes. They would be safer, Dumbledore knew, because he suspected that the muggle-borns were not the true targets of the Dark Lord. At least not yet. This time, the Dark Lord would strike at the person whom he feared most, even if it meant killing every single muggle-born in his way. Headmaster Dumbledore breathed in raggedly. Yes, the Dark Lord was aiming for his life. And this time, he would stop at nothing to get it.

-x-x-

Hermione was still trembling as she began to stuff her bags with her clothes, scarves, and shoes. She still hoped it was a dream -- something to which she could wake up and scream out loud. But something that would allow her, after crying, to get along with her life. But no, this was not a dream. This wasn't a dream, and Hermione was very scared.

Seeing Gregory's bashed face was one of the most terrible moments of her life. She never considered Gregory a good friend like Harry or Ron, but she still liked him and respected him if not as a friend then as a colleague. He was one of the most dedicated, hard-working boys in all of the school, and they understood each other at what Hermione thought was an intimate level. After all, he too was muggle-born, just as she, and they both knew how difficult it was to be so even in this age.

And to see him…his lips blue, his eyes swollen and black, his chest marred with those scars, that terrible mark, that revolting message on his body…

Hermione shuddered. It was obvious: a supporter of the Dark Lord had somehow made his way into the castle and did that to Gregory. But how and when? It was a strike against Dumbledore, to be sure, and to all mudbloods everywhere. It sickened Hermione, and it terrified her. What if she were the one in Gregory's place, her body ravaged, bruised, and mutilated?

Hermione stood and looked around her room. The one place that she loved no longer felt safe to her. In this moment, she realized once more how dangerous and vile the world was.

What repulsive people, those Death Eaters; the damned ones caged in their own hazy prison of self-indulgence and ignorance, who considered blood their sword of dominance when it was but a flimsy in-born trait that set them apart very little from others. Pathetic. What a pathetic and mad lot, and to hand them such a terrible power only spelled catastrophe.

Hermione resumed packing once more, this time shoving in her clothes with a ferocity that she had much regained from anger. But she was angry for a variety of reasons -- she was also angry at herself. Draco was with her the whole night. She slept in his arms, blocking out the world because she was with him, because nothing could go wrong with him at her side.

Hermione suddenly screamed in frustration and flung her clothes against a wall. How was Draco so blind! Why couldn't he just leave them! Hermione fell to the ground, her hand on her mouth. She felt so sick with dread that she wanted to curl on the floor and sleep. Draco was one of them. The people who did that to Gregory!

What was the world coming to? When had things become so mad?

Hermione stood as someone knocked on her door. Quickly, she regained her composure and said calmly, "Yes?"

"Hey, Hermione. It's Ron. Can I come in?"

Hermione stared around her room, making sure everything was tidy. She picked up the clothes she threw in that sudden burst of anger and finally said as she folded them neatly, "Of course."

Quietly and swiftly, Ron entered. His face was haggard and his cheeks had a gray tinge to them. Hermione, only an hour before, would have rushed up to him and felt his forehead, demanding if he were ill. But after Gregory, after she saw the damage done to his face…

"I heard the news from Dumbledore," Ron finally said, closing the door behind him.

Hermione's eyes flickered down to her bags. She progressed to zip them up.

"He -- he only told us that you had to leave, really." Ron walked up next to her and helped her stack her picture frames neatly on her bed. "I…well, Harry and I, don't want you to leave. We have a quidditch game against Ravenclaw today, and Harry's already outside drilling the team. Can you stay until after the game so we can give you a proper farewell?"

Hermione managed a thin smile. "I don't know, Ron."

Ron consented with that answer. He and she remained in silence for a few moments until he asked tentatively, "W-what's going on, Hermione?"

Hermione couldn't bring herself to speak. She didn't know what to say. Instead, she merely started to pack away her books. There really was nothing to say or do anymore. She was beyond tears, and though it pained her to admit it, Ron's presence was not helping her at all.

"Hermione --"

"Just drop it, Ron," she snapped then cringed. She did not intend to be that sharp.

Ron stared at her, his eyes widened slightly, though she caught the glimmer of despair in his eyes.

Hermione sighed and sat down on her bed, clenching the bed sheets between her fingers. "I'm sorry, Ron," she said a bit more quietly. "I didn't mean to be so…curt. It's just that today wasn't the best of days."

Ron did not speak for a bit. But then he finally nodded. "Okay. I'll accept that."

Hermione stared down at her feet. "What do you mean you'll accept that?"

He resumed helping her stack up her picture frames, but his movements were not as gentle as before. He clashed the silver and glass together casually, deliberately, as if trying to provoke her into screaming. "I'll accept that you're not feeling well and that you won't talk because of it. But remember, Hermione. I do want to know what's going on, and you'll have to tell me and Harry sooner or later."

Hermione stood up suddenly. "Pardon me? Since when am I obligated to tell you or Harry anything?"

He appraised her impassively. Then he settled her picture frames down into a little bag on her bed. "Of course you're not obligated to do anything, Hermione. But this is important. You're leaving, and I think we should fully know why. Aren't you being a bit selfish, keep things all bottled up?"

Hermione blinked. "Selfish?" she echoed.

Ron paused. "Er, not selfish. Bad choice of words. But you do understand what I'm trying to say."

Hermione shook her head. "No. No, Ron Weasley, I haven't the slightest inkling what you are trying to say. Look. I'm getting a headache. Can we finish this conversation later? I'm rather busy. I need to talk with other people as well, and I promise I'll get to you and Harry sometime soon and try to resolve this mess."

She turned away, hoping that Ron would leave, and busied herself with arranging her bags. But he didn't leave. Instead, he stood right behind her, and when Hermione turned to face him, she gasped quietly, for his eyes, usually dancing with merry laughter, were cold and hard.

"Actually, I think I want to know now. Tell me why you are leaving, Hermione," he said quietly.

Hermione felt her heart skip a beat. "Ron, what is the matter with you? I haven't the time for this right now."

He barked out a laugh. It was a grating sound. "Oh yes. No time. No time at all for the brilliant Head Girl Hermione to spend mingling with her lesser. Of course, no time to speak with Ron Weasley, but plenty of time to speak with other people."

"Ron, what in the world is wrong with you? Why --"

"It's Draco Malfoy, isn't it?"

The scarf slipped from her hands. Hermione's eyes widened. Ron watched her reaction with cold satisfaction.

"What…are you trying to say?" she asked slowly, deliberately. But she had a horrible sinking feeling that Ron knew about her and Draco.

"You know he's a rat bastard in the leagues with Voldemort."

Hermione shook her head. "This is ridiculous. Ron, Malfoy and I are not…like that." Her hands began trembling so she turned away to busy herself with securing the locks on her chest. So it had come to this: her lying to her best friend. "Malfoy and I…"

"Oh, fucking Merlin, Hermione!" Ron exploded, gripping her arms and turning her toward him. She cringed, but he did not falter. The fire in his eyes blazed so brightly. "Do you think I'm fucking stupid! I see you looking at him! I see him looking at you!" He brought her face close toward his. "I saw him fucking kiss you."

Hermione's eyes widened in horror. She pulled away from Ron, her heart drumming in her chest.

"Yes, I saw it all. I saw you two snogging oh so fucking happily that night of the Yule Ball," Ron ranted, his voice sharp and angry and hot. His fists were clenched and his face was red. Hermione listened, growing more and more horrified with each word that spilled from his lips. She could see that night in her mind once more, like watching a movie reel playing slowly in her head. But with Ron in the background, that beautiful memory was shattered into the something sunken into debauchery.

"And I saw him, stalking out of your room this morning, grinning like the Cheshire Cat. OUT OF YOUR ROOM, HERMIONE!"

Hermione's knees felt weak. She fell on her bed, thinking noting else but, Oh my God, oh my God, oh my God, oh my God, oh my God…

"I can't believe you soiled yourself with him. I can't believe it. I mean, sleeping with him? Merlin, you slept Malfoy. Oh, God," Ron moaned, covering his face with his hands.Hermione felt tears prick her eyes. How could he demean her so much with his cruel words? How could he do this, say this, in this manner?

Slowly, Ron fell down to his knees in front of her, his face the very portrait of agony and betrayal. Hermione could not bear herself to look at him. She gripped the bed so harshly that her knuckles were white. This very bed…she and Draco slept here together -- not in the way that Ron had thought but what did that matter now? -- yet while it was so warm to her before, why did it feel so dirty and hard now?

"But let me ask you one question, Hermione," Ron whispered, his voice cracking. "Why? Why did you do all that with him? Why?"

Hermione couldn't speak. She hadn't even considered speaking. Her throat felt so painfully constricted, but she knew she had to. She had to give Ron her answer, no matter how much it hurt him…or her.

"I…love him, Ron."

She could not see his face through her mess of tears and hair, but she could almost feel his defeat. His hands, the hands that gripped hers so tightly, went limp and cold. His breathing was harsh and labored but shallow.

Hours seemed to have passed in this terrible silence. Ron lowered his forehead onto Hermione's hands. Forgive me for my confession, Ron. Please.

"Why -- why didn't you tell us?" he finally asked, his voice hoarse.

She closed her eyes. "I didn't know until now either."

She felt Ron tense. Oh, Merlin, could they ever recover from this ordeal?

Finally, Ron dislodged himself from her. Hermione could not face him, but she should have. For if she did see that expression on his face, she could have prepared herself even the slightest bit for what he said next.

"He can never love you."

Hermione looked up at Ron, stunned. "What?" she whispered.

Ron shook his head, eyes narrowed and lips screwed tightly with anger. "I said: he can never love you."

"Ron. Ron. What are you saying?" Hermione stuttered, standing up slowly.

He grinned almost playfully. It was a forced grin. But there was malice in his eyes. Hermione felt her throat clench.

"He's in too deep, you know."

Ron walked slowly around the room, inspecting some insignificant object or another. He continued, his voice shaking but not as much as before. He had a low, smooth voice when he was angry. "He has a pretty high position in the ranks of the Dark Lord, you know. You couldn't expect any less from precious little Malfoy, can you?"

Was he trying to hurt her? Was Ron trying to hurt her? "Ron," Hermione said quietly.

"There was this ceremony, you see," Ron continued, ignoring Hermione. "I heard it from Mum and Dad. They were talking about it during the break and I accidentally walked in on their conversation. Malfoy is apparently a very, very high-ranking Death Eater."

Hermione didn't want to believe it. It was impossible. But… "He doesn't have the dark mark, Ron," she said, her voice getting louder with each word. "He doesn't have the dark mark! His arms are bare! There is no mark!"

Ron regarded her coolly. "Who said that the dark mark had to be on arms?"

She was confused for a moment. Then realization hit her with the force of a brick wall. Oh, God. Her faced paled. She saw it last night, didn't she. She saw that mark on his back. She saw it, she knew it was branded on him. As if he were someone's property.

"He's his heir, Hermione."

Hermione looked up, her eyes wide with fear and dread.

Ron shook his head, and though he wished to remain so cold and unattached, the look on Hermione's face broke him. Without another word, he walked in front of Hermione and swept her into his arms so gently. He held her to his body so tenderly that it shocked her. He ran his fingers through her hair, caressing the back of her neck, even as she remained unresponsive to his touches, her arms limp at her sides. "Love me, Hermione," he said quietly. "I'll promise you anything that you want. I know that I don't have much financially right now. I know that. But I promise I'll make it somehow. I promise you. And then, I'll buy you the finest dresses and perfumes and yes, even books. Please trust me that I'll love you and never hurt you anymore. Love me, not him, Hermione. Please. You'll only get hurt more if you love him. Hermione…please."

This was mad. Hermione wanted to scream. Why was this happening?

"Hermione, please. He's dangerous. He'll kill you. You know he will."

No. No. Hermione pushed herself from Ron's embrace. She needed to think this through. She needed to be rational. She needed to maintain her posture. Oh, God. Why was this happening to her?

"Ron…please," she said quietly. "I love you so much, Ron. You know that. But…not like that. Please, Ron. You're making this so difficult for me. Please stop."

He did, but he didn't want to. "You know of what I speak, Hermione. That mark on him."

Hermione did not want to admit to knowing anything. "What do you mean, 'his heir?'"

Ron looked toward the window. His voice was flat, broken. His eyes betrayed the hurt he felt. But he could deny her nothing, not even the truth she so desperately wanted to forget. "I don't know quite myself. But I do know that he and Voldemort are close. Very close. He's dangerous, Hermione. Keep away from him."

But Hermione did not want to heed his warnings. She hated not knowing. So instead of dodging the truth, she marched out the door.

"Hermione! Wait! Where are you going!" Ron called from her room.

She paused and finally said, "I'm going to find out what Draco knows. And don't try to stop me, Ron Weasley. Just don't."

And he did not try, for Ron knew he did all he could to save her from that vile Death Eater's charms. Ron knew he had lost when Hermione called that bastard "Draco" and not "Malfoy."

X

Thousands of thoughts and questions shot through Hermione's head. But some were more prominent than others. I love him. I really love him, that Slytherin prat. I really love Draco Malfoy. I love a Death Eater. I love someone whose companions mutilated Gregory's body. I hate him for that, but I still love him. I love Draco Malfoy, the Death Eater. Ron hates Draco, but Ron loves me. I love Ron and Draco, but I don't love Ron the way I love Draco. I love Draco Malfoy…

It was still class time for students other than the quidditch players, so Hermione used her head girl influence to look up the student registry. She spotted Draco as having Advanced Charms with the excuse that he was wanted for duties in the Great Hall, but when she went into that class, she found his seat empty.

"He hasn't been to classes all day, I hear," a Ravenclaw informed her.

Hermione nodded and left, cursing him with everything she could come up with. Of all days to skip classes. She then reluctantly swung toward the corridor that led toward the Slytherin dungeons. But she didn't know how she would get in. Even the heads weren't allowed passwords to the other house commons.

So Hermione loitered in the shadows, torn between running back to her room to finish packing or waiting for a chance that Draco might stroll by. She, however, resolved to wait. And she waited for almost forty minutes, hiding herself in corners though no one came by.

This wasn't working. She was wasting her time. She would have to do something civilized like sending him an owl. Just as she was about to leave, the entrance to the Slytherin commons opened. She clapped her hands over her mouth.

By the sound of their voices, they were two girls. One Hermione immediately recognized. Pansy.

"So is he ill?"

Pansy laughed. "I doubt it. He just probably doesn't want to go to class. He's like that."

"He's a rather handsome man -- one of the best in Hogwarts, I think. Except for Gereus…"

"That randy bloke? He's no match for my Draco. And he's so strange. He makes up the stupidest, most complicated passwords because he fancies himself intelligent. Can't he just use plain English, like all civilized people do?"

The girls laughed. "True, true. This time, though, it's easy to remember. Dragon, indeed."

Their footsteps echoed across the hallway. Hermione allowed herself to breathe again. Dragon?

Hermione approached the barrier blocking off the Slytherin commons. Her heart beat so quickly. She was going to be in so much trouble if she were caught. Hopefully, no one was in the commons since it was still class time.

"Dragon," she said clearly.

The barrier did not open. Hermione stared at it, confused. Had she heard incorrectly? They did say something about a dragon. Right? Hermione racked her brain. If not dragon, what could it be? Then she remembered Pansy saying that the passwords were not in English.

Hermione moaned. A million different possibilities there.

But…

"Draconis," she said again, more clearly than before.

And the barrier opened.

Hermione walked in quietly, her heart thrumming in her heart. Oh, this was so not allowed. But she had no choice. Before she left, she had to know if Draco was what Ron had said. She needed to know. Ignorance was bliss, at least for a while. But now, things were too dangerous for her to evade anything she could possibly know.

The walls were clammy and cold to the touch, and the passageway to the commons were dark, even if the sun was but an hour away from setting. She shivered, praying that the commons were empty and that Draco was in his room, at least. He wasn't in class nor in the Great Hall nor in the library (not that she really expected him there). And if he wasn't in his room, then -- then…

The passageway soon came to an end, and Hermione emerged into a stone chamber. She quickly scanned the room and breathed out, confirming it was empty. But it was not a room in which she wished to be alone. Perhaps it was because her being used to the warmth of the Gryffindor colors and atmosphere, but this house's commons seemed so cold. The walls were of stone (of course, it had to be since they were used as dungeons before), the ground carpeted with a rich emerald rug spotlessly clean, and the furniture of dark leather or mahogany. Everything was sharp corners and edges -- nothing round, nothing out-of-place, everything so luxurious.

Hermione shook her head. This was indeed suited to Draco's taste, and she felt so out-of-place here with her bushy hair and wrinkled robes. She slowly walked toward the doors that led to the dormitories, trying to be as silent as possible. She could easily spot where the girls and the boys were housed by the shields on the walls. But the room was dim, the windows heavily curtained. Within seconds, she felt her foot catch on the leg of a chair and down she crashed to the floor, chair and all.

Hermione jumped up and quickly settled the chair back next to the table, her face burning furiously. Even if she was alone, it was embarrassing, tripping so clumsily like that. She started once more toward the boys' dormitories until something caught the corner of her eye. Hermione turned toward the desk and picked up the piece of parchment. Her eyes widened, for written with red ink in neat, sharp penmanship was the following message:

They taste sweet, these mudbloods.

She covered her lips, feeling sick again. But Hermione had no more time to react, for the door to the Slytherin commons slid open and two people walked in.

Draco and Blaise.

-x-x-

Draco had been restless all morning, so he decided to skip classes today. Instead, he wandered into the Great Hall three times, looking for something to eat. And surprisingly, he did step into the library. He didn't know why he was there. He had resolved to give up on Hermione -- he really did. If not for his sake, then hers. She would gain no happiness with someone like him -- someone incapable of stability or control or…love.

The thoughts made him angry. She was so damn full of everything -- emotion, pain, intelligence, charity, passion, will. Him? He was nothing but a cold slate of sneers and scowls, nothing else but a mere puppet for bastards like Voldemort and his father. He hated not being able to control his life.

And as he walked out of the library, he bumped into the person he least wished to see. Blaise Zabini.

Then, the rage flooded back to him in a storm of pure hatred. He remembered how Blaise pulled Hermione to him, kissing her so forcefully, how his hands fondled her body as if she were a damn doll. It took all of his willpower not to fuck up every single part of that treacherous snake's slender body in front of about a dozen or so students and Madame Pince. But Draco couldn't help a stray punch aimed at Blaise's face, which Blaise easily evaded due to Draco's hesitance in delivering it.

"Ah, so you're still sore about my kissing the mudblood," Blaise said, his voice flippant but his face lighting up in a cruelly amused smile.

"No," Draco snarled, settling his fist down to his side. But his hand still shook. "I just hate seeing your filthy mug."

Blaise grinned crookedly, losing some of his snarkiness. "Really? I understand, though. I suppose seeing her face is far more pleasurable than seeing mine. At least, to you."

Draco did not even pretend not to know to whom Blaise was referring. "What the hell do you want from me, Zabini?"

Blaise cocked his head. "Why don't we discuss this in the commons?"

Draco followed him out toward the hall where there weren't as many people.

"Ah, well, you ask me what I want? Well, I am speaking with the future Dark Lord. His heir. His fucking heir, can you feel the irony?" Blaise laughed, his fingertips on his forehead.

Draco eyed him coldly. "I fail to find any amusement in this at all."

"You stupid bastard," Blaise said, his tone still cheerful despite his words. "You stupid, arrogant bastard. You impure Malfoys couldn't ever imagine the duties you would have to perform to become the Dark Lord. No. All you want and see is the pomp, the honor, and the respect that others will gain for you. Stupid and arrogant, the lot of you."

"Jealous, eh?" Draco asked, a slight smirking gracing his features. "You want to become the next Dark Lord? You want that fucking mark on your back?" Draco barked out a laugh.

They were alone in the corridors now, heading toward the Slytherin commons. The passage was dark, lit only by a few enchanted lanterns hanging on the wall.

Blaise shrugged. "You have no idea how closely we Zabinis are involved with the Dark Lord. No idea, you simpleminded twit. But I won't spoil the fun for you. No, no. I'll let you find out for yourself how this all works. I'll let you scream and cry and beg for repentance, but you'll ever get it. And I'll laugh, and I'll fuck Hermione Granger hundreds of times, make her scream my name, and I'll possess her so thoroughly that she won't even remember who you are, and I'll laugh and laugh at you."

Draco grabbed a fistful of Blaise's collar, while shattering lantern hanging on the wall with his other fist. In once fluid motion, he slammed Blaise against the wall and held a broken shard of glass against Blaise's throat.

Blaise's eyes widened, and Draco could see fear and shock glimmering in his dark depths.

"Tell me why I shouldn't kill you," Draco whispered, his eyes burning with hate. He pressed the glass more harshly against Blaise's throat, not minding his cut hand. "Tell me, I dare you, after you say that you'll screw me over like that."

But scared or no, Blaise could still think. And people like him were the most fearsome lot.

"You need me," Blaise gasped out. "You know why? Because I'm the only person that's so close to you. At least, in the ranks of the Death Eaters."

"Close to me!" Draco exclaimed. "Like hell you are!"

But Blaise managed a thin smile. "I've not told anyone of your liaisons with Hermione Granger, you know. And no matter how much I hate you, I can't harm you. Because it's the Zabini curse. We are bound to the Dark Lord. Forever. I'll only further your ascendance to power, contribute to your survival. No matter how much I may despise you."

Draco's eyes narrowed. He could now understand that he himself, despite what he wished to believe, did not know much at all about this Dark Lord thing at all. "Why are you telling me this now?" he asked, his voice low. The glass at Blaise's throat did not falter. "To win my sympathy?"

Blaise's eyes narrowed slightly. "In fact, yes. I was bound to tell you sooner or later, and if not, you would have found out for yourself. But I felt obliged to rise to the occasion, what with this piece of glass grazing my throat."

Draco almost laughed at his bluntness. But he did find himself lowering the glass, and soon, he dropped it all together. Draco stared distastefully at his bloodied hand and performed a spell to stitch the wound back up. The blood stopped flowing, and Draco wiped it on his robe, but the aching in his hand did not cease. "Tell me, Zabini. Just how much do you know?"

Blaise grinned, and there was malice in it. "More than you can imagine."

"Why didn't you tell anyone about me and Granger?" Draco demanded.

Blaise shrugged. "And how would that help me?"

They walked back to the commons in silence. Draco thought about this all, his shoulder starting to bother him once more. Damn it. What was Voldemort planning? He was so deep in thought that even when he reached the Slytherin commons and opened the door, he failed instantly to see Hermione standing there.

But Blaise did see her. With a smile, he opened his arms in welcome and said loudly, "Hermione!"

She jumped, and Draco saw her, his eyes wide. What…what was she doing here?

Blaise walked over to her, as if it were the most natural thing that she was there, and embraced her gently. He leaned in and kissed her on both her cheeks, and stepped back, still holding her shoulders so affectionately. "I'll admit it is surprising to see you here, but I don't think I could be any more delighted. I'm sure Draco is as well."

Her face was pale as she regarded Blaise. Then, as she averted her eyes toward Draco, her cheeks flushed red.

It was a spontaneous movement, but Draco strode up to her with purpose and shoved Blaise away from Hermione. Then, he gripped her wrist and pulled her in the direction of his room, hissing at Blaise, "No word to anyone about this, you got that?"

Blaise nodded with a small smile and watched Draco slam the door behind him. Then, the smile still plastered on his face, he stooped down to collect the piece of parchment Hermione had dropped when he embraced her. Draco, in all of his surprise, had not noticed a thing. His fondness for that mudblood was clouding his senses.

Blaise regarded the paper and read the message scrawled there in red ink. Then, he mused softly, "Ah, well, no use for you to be around so openly, where anyone can see."

Then with a flick of his wand, he burned the paper in a sudden flame of green fire and walked calmly to his room. Let the two have their fun while they could because it wasn't going to last long. That one thought kept Blaise at bay, even though hate, anger, and jealously boiled within him.

X

Hermione followed Draco whether she wanted to or not. She was still speechless and unable to move after the message and then Blaise's embrace. Too many surprises, apparently, weakened her will. So she followed Draco to his room and stumbled as Draco pushed her towards his bed. He then turned from her and slammed the door behind.

Hermione tried to regain her composure, but so many thoughts were clouding her mind. First Ron, then that message, after that Blaise, and now Draco.

"What the hell are you doing here?" Draco demanded as he whirled around, his eyes wide in surprise. "How did you get our password? I didn't know they gave it to the Heads."

Hermione stared dumbly at Draco. Why was she here, again?

Then, Draco's incredulous expression hardened. "You're not supposed to be here."

Hermione blinked. "Why are you so cold to me?" she suddenly blurted out.

This time, Draco was taken aback.

But Hermione pressed him. She was desperate. She was leaving. She had to know. "Why? Why do you keep pushing me away?"

"Granger, I --"

Hermione waited, but she saw he could not answer her. Hermione looked away. She hated this awkwardness between them. None of them could make a move without eyeing each other, wondering what each was thinking. They always played these stupid mind games.

So she did the most senseless thing she could possibly think of doing. Without a wasted movement, she walked up to Draco and kissed him softly on the mouth. He jerked in surprise, even attempted to pull away, but Hermione had her arms wrapped around his neck to keep him with her.

Draco pulled his head back. "Granger," he said softly, almost angrily, though his voice wavered just a bit. "What are you doing?"

Hermione didn't answer him, and instead, she kissed him again. This was madness -- she never did things like this. She was never the one who made the first move; Draco always did that. But she was leaving, and she had a terrible feeling that she wouldn't be back for a long time. A tear trickled down her cheek.

"I'm so confused," she whispered before kissing the corners of his mouth. "I'm so lost."

"Granger," he pleaded with her.

Hermione wept silently against his lips, but she didn't want to part with him. Instead, she ran her fingers through Draco's hair, caressing his scalp so that he moaned so very quietly before controlling himself.

Finally, finally, he parted his lips. And began to respond to her in the ways that she liked. His tongue slid against hers gently, languorously, almost lazily, dipping to brush against the most private corners of her mouth. Slowly yet surely, Hermione felt herself lose the control she had over him as his fingers silently sought the curve of her waist, and the once-dormant heat against her legs grew hotter and hotter. Slowly, she moved toward him, closer and closer, until finally her hips pressed against his, moving up and down slightly.

He froze for a moment -- perhaps shocked, perhaps aroused, perhaps both -- and his fingers tightened on her waist. He pulled her toward him, almost to the point that she couldn't breathe, but Hermione didn't think air was very important at that moment.

It all passed for her in a haze of love and sorrow and desire. She moved against him, her urgency escalating slightly with each passing second. She could feel him growing hard, feel his own desire grow until his breaths were tinged with the music of his moans. His hands became a bit more daring, sliding from her waist to her abdomen, tickling her in the most arousing way. Every time Hermione breathed in, she smelled only him; every time she opened her eyes, she saw only him. Hermione half-gasped, half-whimpered as his hand moved from her abdomen to her thigh. She responded by wrapping a leg around his, urging his fingers to touch her there.

But he didn't. And instead, Draco pulled her gently from him, her leg slipping from him. "Why are you doing this, Granger?" His voice was deep and husky, and his eyes were dark.

Hermione couldn't face him. Her face felt as if it would burn up into ashes. What was she doing? How had she lost control of herself so quickly?

Draco pressed his forehead against hers, and he closed his eyes, sighing. It was a despairing sigh, whispering of regret and hurt and anger. Hermione groped for his robes, and finally whispered, "I'm going home."

Draco did not speak for a good bit. Instead, he opened his eyes wide, and pulled away to face her.

Hermione looked at him evenly, but her heart thrummed. What would he say? What would he do?

"You're…going home?"

Hermione nodded, and wrapped her arms tightly around him in a painfully bittersweet embrace. She rubbed her face against the cool silk of his robes, breathing in his scent, wishing she never had to part from him.

"Are you ill?"

Hermione shook her head.

"Will you be gone long?"

Hermione nodded.

He did not say anything for a while. Then, quietly, he whispered, "Why?"

Hermione, once so full of intent, could not find the heart to tell him. She did not want to shame him or upset him in any way, no matter how horrified she had been. Draco, however, felt quite the contrary. He moved away, grabbed her chin, and forced her to look up at him. His eyes blazed, and his lips curled angrily.

"Tell me, Granger. Tell me right now," he said. "You can't just leave me without telling me why!"

Hermione caught him. She was leaving him? Not just leaving Hogwarts but leaving him as well? Suddenly, Hermione realized how much she wanted this Draco Malfoy. Why was it that she opened up to him so much more easily than Ron? Ron.

"He can never love you!"

Hermione licked her lips. "Because. Because…Gregory…"

Draco stared at her in confusion. "Gregory? Hawking? The Head Boy?"

Hermione's eyes grew sad. "Malfoy…Gregory's been…hurt."

Draco's eyes narrowed. "That's no excuse for you to leave. Actually, it's all rather stupid. He probably lost his glasses and walked into a pole or something!"

Hermione stepped away. "Malfoy…Death Eaters…hurt him."

And this time, Draco could find no response. He merely stared at Hermione almost expectantly, as if waiting for her to assure him that it was not his fault or that he shouldn't worry about anything. Perhaps he was looking for any signs, just something, that she might accept the Death Eater part of him. Draco, just like his father, wished for his partner to remain oblivious to all the atrocities of his other secret, dark life. But there was a catch: this time, a Malfoy had snared a mudblood, and Hermione knew that. Hermione remained silent, and she challenged his gaze, wondering what he would say.

Finally, Draco looked away and walked toward the window of his room. His shifted the curtains open slightly, not that it made his room any lighter. The sun was just beginning to settle down under the hills, and leaked out only the thinnest rays of light. "Then…I'm glad you're going away," he finally said quietly.

Hermione narrowed her eyes slightly. "You…are?"

Draco nodded. "It's not safe for you here. I told you, remember? Remember when I asked you to leave?"

She snorted and crossed her arms. "Nearly screamed at, is more like it. I can take care of myself, you know."

Suddenly, Draco whipped around, his eyes wide and his mouth set in an angry line. "No, you can't." His voice was quiet, and yet so forceful. "You have no idea what they can really do to you, Granger. So don't say that -- don't even think that. Because that's what they want you to think, and when you least expect it…"

Hermione stood rooted to her spot, not knowing what to say. Even Draco, who was already so closely affiliated with them, thought they were dangerous.

Draco turned around again. "A lot of the higher members -- the respectable ones at least -- aren't the malicious ones. They cast a few Crucio's here and there, but they are the minds behind operations. Mostly their duties are keeping their Avada Kedavra's potent and their brains sharp. The underlings…they are the trouble-makers. They…rape women. They rape them and enjoy it and then mutilate their bodies afterwards, hanging them from trees in the night for all to see."

"You're…lying." Though Hermione fully well knew Draco wasn't. She sat down on the bed, her heart beating rapidly. She should have known, at least tried to have known, the Death Eaters' malice. What if they had decided to target her? What if one crept into her room, bound her with a spell, and…and… Hermione felt sick suddenly. And Draco looked sick.

"That's why I wanted you to leave, Granger," Draco said quietly.

She looked up at him. She was shaking. To her surprise, Draco walked over to her and bent down to his knees to face her. He didn't touch her, but he stared at her in the most intense way. Hermione felt that she couldn't even move -- she hardly dared to breathe.

"When are you going?" he asked her.

"Uh-um, I don't know. Later today or early tomorrow. I think," she managed to stutter out.

Draco stared down at the floor, the internal battle within him revealing itself in his scowl. Hermione touched his shoulder.

"Why don't you come with me?"

Draco looked up in confusion. "What?"

Hermione placed her hands on both his shoulders and leaned down so that her face was a very intimate distance from his. "Come with me. Why not? Don't join them, Malfoy."

Draco smirked slightly. "You're mad."

Hermione glared. "You don't even want to be with them. I've seen it in your eyes; I see it every time people mention Voldemort. It's something of pure disgust, that look on your face."

"How observant," Draco sneered.

Hermione backed away. "I know I'm right. Deny it all you want, Malfoy, but you know what I say is true as well."

"And I thought I could hide my emotions so well," he said quietly, half-amused, half-pondering.

Hermione placed her fingers on his cheek. "Please," she implored. "Please don't join them. Please."

Draco grasped Hermione's fingers in his hand and placed the her fingertips against his lips. He smiled slightly -- it was something resembling a smirk. "And what would I do, Granger? Run to my dear old dad and tell him that I don't want to become a Death Eater because someone muggle-born told me so?"

Hermione snatched her fingers from his grasp. She hated how he did that, how he always demoralized her into something no more worthy than a beast. "Why can't you?" she asked angrily. "Why can't you leave them!"

Draco stood and his gaze was cold. "Why should I?"

"Because…because they kill people! They kill people to gain power! They are bloody monsters!"

"Would you call Alexander the Great a monster? Genghis Khan? Napoleon? Queen Elizabeth?" he asked, his voice even frostier than before. "Death Eaters are symbols of revolution. It doesn't matter how they operate. Only history will determine whether what they did was moral or not."

Hermione stood as well, her chest heaving. "Killing is wrong, Malfoy. It just is."

"Maybe in your mind, Granger. But this is the real world. If we lived in your utopian society, there would be no shred of humanity left in us. We're greedy, ambitious creatures that strive for perfection, you know. The perfect body, the perfect gadget, the perfect grades."

Hermione felt as if she were slapped. Did he just say what she thought he said?

"And without killing, how could some of us reach the perfection we desire? Voldemort thinks perfection is a world without mudbloods. He's just someone driven by the thing that makes us human. You want us to act like fuzzy little bears that mate and hibernate all our lives."

Hermione was numb. His words were colder than any ice, sharper than any sword. And the hateful thing was that she understood perfectly what he meant. "My God, you're defending him."

Draco quirked an eyebrow. "What?"

"You're defending VOLDEMORT!" she screamed.

"I'm defending my own values!" he roared back.

"Take off your clothes."

Draco blinked. "What?"

Hermione stamped her foot on the ground. "You heard me. Take off your clothes!"

Draco stared at her as if she had grown an another heads. "Is this some perverse sexual fantasy?"

Hermione, in her rage at being humiliated and defeated with her own logic and just frankly Draco's attitude, tore open Draco's cloak, scattering his buttons everywhere.

"GRANGER!"

Hermione felt his hands constrict hers from acting, but she still yelled and tore at his clothes. It took a long while and a great deal of yelling for Draco to stop her from moving at least. She fell to her ground on her knees, stumbling Draco a bit. But he recovered. His face was red from the sudden attack and embarrassment.

"Have you damn well gone mad!" he yelled, shaking her shoulders. Her hair shielded her face. "What the fuck was that!"

She didn't answer for a while -- instead, she sat in silence on the floor. Draco held her by her arms, though not as formally. Worry creased his brow. What was wrong with her? Was she ill? Perhaps this injury to the Head Boy was far more severe that he had previously thought --

Hermione finally looked up at him, and tears streaked her flushed face. Draco was taken aback. "G-Granger?"

She looked away, toward the floor. "I…I didn't want to believe Ron," she whispered so quietly so that Draco could hardly hear her. He strained to listen. "But I believe him more and more…Draco, I'm scared."

Draco's heart fluttered. She just called him by his given name. "Granger…"

She suddenly snapped her head towards him, and Draco shrank back, expecting another frenzied assault on his clothes. But the words that spilled from her lips chilled him even more than her actions.

"I saw the mark on your back, Draco Malfoy. I know you are his heir."

Draco paled so much that he looked almost ghostly under the twilight sky. He too fell back, and he could not utter a word.

-x-x-

She ordered the braches to wrap him tightly because his voice annoyed her. Her red eyes glittered, but this time, they did not shine with amusement.

"So my darling Riddle sent you as his emissary? Pathetic," she spat, her skin glinting metallically. "If that fool has reduced himself to depend on the likes of you, the whole wizarding community wetting their knickers deserves to rot in hell for their stupidity."

Peter squeaked, begging for release. The Red Widow curled her lips in distaste. She had found him running from the Hogwarts castle in his human form, fearing the night owls that just woke to hunt. He led her through quite a chase, digging into rabbit burrows and the like. But she caught him in the end; she always did.

"So, little man, are you the one who released those filthy maggots into that boy's brains?"

Peter Pettigrew was turning the most unusual shade of purple and blue. The Red Widow ordered the trees to release their hold the tiniest bit.

"Actually, I have little doubt about it. Riddle was always the insidious coward, depending on lies and trickery and secrecy to get his work finished."

"H-he's. The. Most. Brilliant. Man. To. Ever… Live," Peter managed to pant out with his tiny gasps on hair.

Angry, she flicked her wrist so that the tree branches holding him revolved so that he hung upside down. She smirked in satisfaction. She could hear the blood drumming to his head as he struggled to deliver oxygen to his pudgy little body. The root around his throat tightened.

"I don't believe you've paid attention in your history classes, little man. Salazar Slytherin was the most brilliant man to ever live."

The trees rustled, as if in agreement. The spiders crawled out onto their webs, witnessing this great show. They would feed on his body if she did decide to kill him.

Peter couldn't even answer. His eyes were so bloodshot that any minute he would be crying blood. But the Red Widow was not stupid. She ordered her tree branches to release him from his full body blind. He fell unceremoniously to the ground, gasping, his body a messy heap. Peter moaned face-down in the dirt, pine-needles digging into his cheeks, thanking Merlin he was alive.

The Red Widow smirked. She gracefully strode over to him and gripped a good bunch of his hair, pulling his reddened face up. He eyed him and he shuddered under her blood-red gaze.

"I won't kill you. But if I did, it would be out of spite. Yet do you know why I spare your miserable little life?"

Peter didn't want to answer, but he thought he should, given how vile this woman was. So he shook his head, eyes tearing in pain as her abnormally strong fingers dug into his scalp, drawing blood. Those eyes glittered in twisted, sadistic amusement.

"Because Riddle and I have a pact. He leaves me alone, and I leave him alone. Simple as that. And killing a Death Eater, no matter how pathetic, would ruin this delicate balance between us."

She grabbed Peter up with her other arm, digging in her nails into his chest so that she could have a handle on him, and hurled him in the direction toward where Voldemort lay in waiting many, many kilometers away. Peter landed near a rock and screamed as the edge ripped the side of his face. "You bitch!" he screamed.

She merely smiled, amused, and watched him scurry away. Then she turned her gaze over toward the castle, musing. Those maggots would cause trouble for Dumbledore, she knew. She was not oblivious to anything that went about with Riddle -- she simply decided not to care. But this time, she felt this queer tingling in her body (since she had no heart to tingle). That tingling was worry, and it surprised the Red Widow because she never felt apprehension. At least, not for centuries.

"Ah, the war begins," she said again softly.

And a boy in Hogwarts Castle fell to the ground, tearing at his hair in pain, screaming for all his worth. He heard voices, but this time, it was thousands upon thousands of voices chattering in an alien squeak and tick. He wanted to bash his head with a hammer for it to stop, and if there were such a tool, he would have rightly done so.

End Notes: Ah, this took so long to write! I hope you enjoyed it, though. 'Twas all for my readers. The Draco and Hermione kiss scene was tough to write, though. I'm not good at those kinds of things, and had to immerse myself in romances to finally produce something with which I could be mildly satisfied. Ah well. ;-) And I told you the Red Widow was an important OC. Well, I guess you don't believe me quite yet, but she will be! In the future chapters. Which will come more quickly. I hope. Hehe. Around 11,500 words for this chapter -- does that satisfy your Dramione fetish for now? I hope so, lol.