Chapter III

Hermione's eyes shyly peeked out from heavy eyelids.

Red. Lots and lots of red.

Curtains of blood enclosed her bed, trapping her in a cell only a creature like Sanguini could appreciate. Her eyes shot fully open in disgust and an emotion not far from terror. With her mind fully awake now, Hermione relaxed. It was just the bed-hangings. A house elf must have closed them in the night.

Hermione moved to rub her eyes, struggling to push away the image her groggy mind had fed her. As she moved her left arm out from underneath the covers, they brushed against her skin. Hermione winced and moved more slowly. The matching scarlet of her blankets and the congealed blood staining her arm made the untainted skin appear out of place, unnatural. Hermione lightly traced her finger along the deep scores, a tingle building at the base of her spine. Not excitement or loathing, some emotion in-between. A tingle that made her entire body shiver despite the warmth of her dormitory. The shiver made her realize she should get moving.

She was careful to drape her towel across her right arm as she walked to the bathroom to take a hasty shower. A few minutes later she emerged dripping wet and shrouded in towel. Hermione began to dry herself, vigorously rubbing the towel over her body. Without thinking, she moved with the same speed and force over her left arm.

The pain was immediate and intense. Hermione gasped, the pain was such that screaming just couldn't suffice. She sank to the floor, her vision blurring, her head reeling. Breathing in shallow raspy inhalations, Hermione cradled her arm, the scabs that had begun to form washed away by the fresh flow of blood. She unconsciously began to rock back and forth.

Unclenching her muscles and letting her eyelids drift apart, the room came back into focus around her. Hermione stared dumbly at her arm, by now so completely soaked in blood in seemed like a sleeve. "Shit," she mumbled to herself and hurriedly began to dress. She had already missed breakfast and Arithmancy would start in twenty minutes.

Emerging from behind the Fat Lady fifteen minutes later, Hermione walked briskly. Her right arm swung free, but her left she gingerly held as close to her body as she could without risking contact.

Entering Vector's classroom just in time, she quickly scanned the room for an empty seat. She realized with dismay that the only chair open was next to Draco Malfoy. She was doing her best to conceal her pain at both having to sit next to the most snake-like of the Slytherins since Salazar himself and at having brushed her tender arm against someone's back while making her way to this accursed table.

Hermione sat down brusquely and before she could slam her books on the desk, Malfoy darted his left arm out of the way. It took her a moment to realize the possible implications of Malfoy's special sensitivity to his left forearm. The underside of the left forearm is where Voldemort left his Dark Mark. Could Harry's theory on Malfoy's status as a Death Eater be correct? She peered questioningly into Malfoy's face.

He looks like hell, she thought to herself. Like he hasn't slept well in weeks and certainly didn't make an attempt at anything resembling peaceful slumber last night. I certainly hope I don't look that bad. The beginnings of dark rings surrounded Malfoy's pale grey eyes, the only color on his otherwise pallid face. On anyone else, those rings would have looked sickly. On Malfoy they looked decadent.

Hermione couldn't help but be pulled into those eyes; grey pools without bottoms any girl would pay to drown in. Their usual condescending glare was replaced by a glazed over fear. Malfoy looked away from Vector at the front of the class to notice Hermione staring at him. "What's the matter, Mudblood? Forgotten your other natural disadvantage, being a Gryffindor? If you can't remember why that's bad I'm sure I've got a list somewhere…"

"Stuff it, Malfoy."

Even Malfoy's insult had seemed half-hearted. His forceful personality wasn't behind it. His angry words sounded scripted, a part he had to play in order to keep some shred of normality in whatever was going on in his life right now. Hermione looked away from him and faced Vector. Certainly not an improvement. Despite his acidic personality and apparent insomnia right now, Hermione couldn't deny that Malfoy was attractive. His pale body was perfect, not over-muscular, not overly-soft. At least, that's the impression Hermione got. Hogwarts' robes weren't the most flattering attire. She felt vaguely repulsed at her acknowledgment of Malfoy's bizarrely powerful sex appeal, but it didn't matter. No one else knew she noticed.

At the end of the period, Hermione watched Malfoy out of the corner of her eye as she packed away her materials. Malfoy's signature fluid movements lacked their usual grace, a deference being shown to his right arm, his left merely looking pretty. When he unwittingly tried to pick up a text with it, he dropped the book as soon as the weight of the book caused the skin on his forearm to stretch. Cursing under his breath he scooped up the book with his right arm and shoved it in his bag. As Draco hurried out of the room, Hermione's eyes followed him out. Lost for a moment watching the way his robes swung perfectly about him, Hermione made the same mistake Malfoy did, with similar results. Muttering the same curses, Hermione slid her book into her bag with her right arm and left the classroom in the direction of Gryffindor Tower.