Nothing's ever easy that's worth doing, Hermione thought, as she looked at the troubled youth in front of her. His blonde hair and blue eyes screamed sunshine - and yet behind those eyes lurked shadows. A stray thought came back to her, as she looked at him - his clothes were wrong. Hermione paused a moment, and studied him more carefully. There. It wasn't that the clothes weren't impeccable - or even brand new, they seemed posh enough, even. It was in how he sat, a sort of nervous awareness that he was underdressed. As if short sleeves weren't natural for him - or showing any skin for me either. Hermione thought, shelving the clue for a latter moment. Taking a deep breath, she recited,

"For doubt is the handmaiden of truth,

Doubt is the key to the door of knowledge; it is the servant of discovery.
A belief which may not be questioned binds us to error,
for there is incompleteness and imperfection in every belief.
Doubt is the touchstone of truth; it is an acid, which eats away the false.
Let none fear the truth, that doubt may consume it, for doubt is a testing of belief.
For truth, if it be truth, arises from each testing stronger, more secure.
Those who would silence doubt are filled with fear;
the house of their spirit is built on shifting sands.
But they that fear not doubt and know its use are founded on a rock.
They shall walk in the light of growing knowledge; the work of their hands shall endure.
Therefore, let us not fear doubt, but let us rejoice in its help.
It is to the wise as a staff to the blind.
Doubt is the handmaiden of truth."

Draco Malfoy stirred in his seat, uncomfortable with the words - but he hadn't been comfortable since he sat down here, which had caused the drinking in the first place. Of course, he was even more uncomfortable with the speaker - a Muggle - and the way her fervent eyes gleamed as she recited that. It was strange - oddly bewitching, though of course not in that way, to see such fiery passion. It wasn't something that Draco had seen much in his life - Slytherins tended to be colder - smoother - subtler. No less passionate, but the passion that submerges you under the waves, not that of a reflected hearthfire, tamed and toasty.

Hermione studied the curious youth in front of her, who looked so uncomfortable with what she had said. "Did I hit too close to the mark?" Hermione asked, only afterwards thinking that such slang was inappropriate to be using with someone who might not understand the idiom. His face darkened, as if to confirm her suspicion that he might not understand - and yet, he made no comment, only stared at her with bleak eyes - as if his sparkling blue eyes were dead and lifeless, instead of only looking like it.

Finally, he leaned forward, looking deeply into her eyes, and said the most disconcerting thing, "I'm supposed to want to kill you." Hermione Granger's breath caught, briefly, as she found herself musing momentarily on why those words seemed so unsurprising.

Hermione Granger's smile met his steady gaze - the smile of someone staring into the sun, moments before they go blind. "We could do that, if you wanted. You've got a knife right here. There's an alley out back." The lad shifted in front of her, almost wanting to say something, before thinking better of it. "No one to hear me scream."

Draco Malfoy boggled, before he could think better of it. He had been wrong to compare this lady to a hearthfire. Only a wildfire, consuming everything in it's path, would dare suggest such madness - and with a smile.

Inconspicuous, Snape thought, as he stumbled, dancing in a nearly uncoordinated way through the crowds. Not drunk, just uncertain. Another tavern beckoned, looking quieter than the last he had stumbled into. Taking a deep breath and shuttering his mind, his hand touched the door.

[a/n: Daring is the part of being a Gryffindor that Hermione does right.

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