It was a Hogsmeade weekend and she was supposed to go with the boys and Ginny. But then she had gotten distracted following a long set of tapestries that showed the story of the Troll War of 1412, which incidentally ended at a familiar scene of the creatures tap dancing in celebration before the final assault that wiped out all but the mountain tribes. When the great clock chimed twice she realized she was long past late. She considered not going, just continuing down the line of troll tapestries and finishing out the history. But if she didn't appear they would be worried, and they were already worried enough. She was sick of worrying; she needed just one person to not treat her like glass. She wanted someone she could spar with, someone who could act like she hadn't changed. She'd take anyone, at this point.

Turning to start the long walk to Hogsmeade alone, she caught sight of the opposite wall where a door appeared. She flinched, wondering what the Room of Requirement had summoned for her and if she should walk away. It was that tell tale spark at the back of her mind that had her cautiously gliding towards the door. It was a question she didn't have an answer to, something that would bother her all day if she didn't know. For a moment she felt like her old self, and that was good enough for now.

Her hand rested on the door. She felt equal parts concerned and eager as she let the weight of it turn the knob. The door creaked quietly, and billowing smoke drifted out around her, curling around the hall like a content kitten. She swallowed and inhaled the cool, damp air. Gripping her wand in her hand, she stepped into the room, curious to see what exactly Hogwarts thought she needed.

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Draco Malfoy was sick, absolutely sick, of his life. He didn't want to be here, pretending he was just another student, that his life was in any way normal. He wanted to retreat to his manor and spend the rest of the days of his life as a mysterious, old, rich man who never left his home until the Malfoy line died with him. But the Ministry wouldn't even let him do that.

Instead, he was back at a school full of people who hated him but pretended not to see him in the name of moving on. Well, he didn't want to move on. He wanted half of the members of his house to stop looking at him like he wasn't there and the other half to stop treating him like a defeated hero waiting to rise again. He wanted to feel like shit and just be angry at the world. He would have taken the trip to Azkaban to rot in a cell for his crimes if it meant he could go outside without hearing about someone's dead family. But then Potter and his ridiculous friends had to go and earn him freedom, even though he didn't want it.

When he saw Granger in the hallway that one night he thought maybe, maybe there was someone who still loathed him. Someone who wasn't just going to brush everything under the rug and could fucking fight back. His blood sang at the idea of someone challenging him, especially her, with that admittedly sharp wit and barbed tongue. She wasn't one to shy away from physical violence, either.

He would have never expected that over everyone else, she would be the one to not let go. She was always the soft one. He would have expected her forgiveness without even having to ask. Even though he didn't deserve it and she had every reason to still hate him, he would still have her forgiveness because it was 'the right thing to do,' or some such nonsense.

When he felt that crushing pressure on his bones, it sent pure panic coursing through his veins. It was almost pleasing to see that righteous anger slashed across her face like battle paint. His wand was gripped so hard in his pocket he thought it may snap. He felt awake, alive and wholly in control. He was ready for anything... and then she let go. She gave up. She faded back to that infuriatingly stupid-looking chit who wandered the halls in a stolen body. Terribly disappointed, he drifted through his classes like a forgotten ghost. And yet, even now he could stare at his wrist; the faint yellowing of the skin nearly faded. A reminder that someone out there was still holding him accountable. That someone remembered who he was and seethed over it. It wasn't a nice feeling, not at all. But at least it was something.

He had considered baiting her, just to get that one predictable reaction, even for a moment. But he knew how unfair it was. While he may as well be a ghost, she was nothing but a shadow. He silently watched her for days, waiting for his opportunity to catch her alone, hoping a hex or two would be enough to kickstart his soul again. But it became very apparent that whatever Granger had become, it was nothing compared to what she used to be. There were a few moments every now and again when she was so angry he could practically feel the magic rolling off her body from across the Great Hall. No one else appeared to notice, but to him it might as well have been the smell of fresh brewed coffee, drawing him out of whatever state of sleep he spent the rest of his life in. When that rage was reflected on Finnigan, he cursed himself for missing whatever the walking disaster had done to set her off. But just as soon as it had started, it was gone, and she was back to the empty husk drifting around the school.

A week later he was still hating her for it. The thought of Hogsmeade sickened him. As did the idea of younger years sneaking into various empty corridors with most of the student body gone, fumbling around with first kisses and awkward flirting. So he waited until his dorm mates left, got dressed, and wandered through the corridors, sticking to out-of-the-way passages and shadows.

He came to his old room, thinking very strongly about how he needed to hide himself. Much to his surprise, the room that appeared was not full of towering stacks of ash. Instead, when he stepped into the Room of Hidden Things, he found himself in a dimly lit gray area with drifting mist, too thick to be fog but too low to be clouds. He meandered to the center of the space, trying to figure out what it was telling him. A torn couch appeared from the air. He grimaced at the general state of disrepair before he settled on it, content to fold his arms behind him and pass away the hours until nightfall charming lights above his head in and out of existence.

Two hours later, just as he was beginning to drift off, the door opened. He rolled off the couch into a crouch, taking cover in the quickly depleting clouds. He heard the door shut, and the light in the room brightened to a clear, sky blue. He rolled his eyes.

"What in the hell is this supposed to mean?" He heard a girl mutter, her footsteps echoing against the stone. He sighed and stood, pulling his body above his cover.

She stood waist-deep in a bank of white, her wild hair catching droplets of condensation as a large puff of cloud drifted behind her. She was thinner than she should be, her wrists far too breakable to control her suddenly feral temper. A thick, corded jumper hid most of her frame, giving her the general impression of a dowdy housewife.

He schooled his face back to the bland mask he always wore around people, even as he took great satisfaction in watching her jump. Her anger was back, lapping against his skin in direct contrast to the cool air. He did his best to hide the shiver running down his spine as she glowered at him, her wand drawn.

"Malfoy," she hissed.

Ah, he loved that sound, so full of condemnation and hate. It was quite validating. She sounded like she belonged among snakes when she did that. Though, he supposed cats hissed too.

"Don't ignore me," she spat. her eyes sparking violently.

She was suddenly safe to prod, no longer a doll. A fair target to pick to pick a fight with.

"You are beneath my notice," he remarked, maintaining his mask while he cackled wildly on the inside. She stomped forward with the grace of an erumpent, huffing almost as loudly as one. Deep pleasure flowed through his chest, uncurling like a cat in the sun. This, yes, this was normal. This he could control.

"Wipe that look off your face," she growled.

"What look?" he questioned.

She lifted her wand, aiming it directly at his shoulder. He felt the sharp stab of a stinging hex hit his collar bone. His lip twitched slightly, but he didn't move otherwise. She was so cloyingly predictable in her anger.

"Draw your wand," she commanded.

A sourceless wind pulled up the fog and obscured his view. He expected her to disappear, or to hex him. It was the smart thing to do, really. When the cloud dissipated, she was standing exactly where she had been, her eyes trained on him.

"No, I don't think I will."

He tucked his hands into his pockets, if only to prove the point. A knock back curse hit his chest, prodding him to stumble.

She was looking for a fight. He could give her one. It was tempting to duel with all his might and crush that know-it-all attitude under his heel. But something about the way she was standing, her magic flaring uncontrollably around her with just a touch of madness in her eyes, cautioned him to still. There was something wrong with her, something his mind told him to heed. If only to watch her implode.

"Draw your wand." she hissed, taking another step closer.

"Hex me all you want, Granger. I am not going to fight you."

A slicing hex glanced off his cheek and he felt the warm blood seep down his skin, tracing the outline of his jaw. The adrenaline coursing through him screamed to fight but that new very quiet voice that had appeared over the summer bid him '"steady on."

"React!" she screamed. The sound bounced off the walls around them, seeming wholly out-of-place in the peaceful, blue sky.

"Why?" He mocked.

With another step, her wand was only inches from his throat. He loved the way her body pulsed with life. She panted heavily, her pupils so wide that the black almost overtook the brown. She looked nothing like she usually did, when she wandered the castle absently, causing everyone to wonder if their world had lost yet another great mind. She stared at him without fear, the tip of her wand now pushing against his jugular, a graceless snarl on her face. She was so expressive; she would have made a terrible Slytherin.

"Because I hate you!"

"Why?" he asked, resisting the urge to wipe at the blood dripping down his chin.

"Why?" she repeated. Her voice was so light he wouldn't have heard her if she weren't standing entirely too close to be safe. "Because you are a violent, foul, bigoted monster who got away with it only because Harry has a soft spot for your mother. People died because of you! And you get to stand here when they will never open their eyes again. You don't deserve to be here. You don't deserve a second chance! The world would be better if you rolled up in a hole and died."

She stared up at him expectantly, smiling wildly. The look wouldn't be out of place on Aunt Bella. He kept his face frozen, cocking it to the side as he watched her calmly, the smile slowly fading as her eyes tracked another drop of blood. He glanced down as it fell, peppering his tie and mixing silver with wine.

"So kill me then." She flinched and took a half a step back and lowered her wand slightly. "If you blame me for all of this, then kill me."

He watched something crack in her, not enough to break, but just enough to cast doubt. Merlin's might, she was a wreck. He was too, in all honesty, but everyone had expected that. But they had not expected it from Hermione Granger, the shining star of the Lions Three. With her falling apart, he felt like he had been given front row tickets to the demolition of the Taj Mahal. A beautiful tragedy, even in its demise, but he was still unable to look away.

She pulled back her shoulders, regarding him with suspicion.

"I'm not a killer; not like you."

"Am I?" he responded.

He regretted the flash of anger that leaked out. A slight tug at the corner of her mouth disappeared so quickly he almost missed it. She looked smug, validated. Bitch.

"Well, if not, you're a pretty shite Death Eater, aren't you, Malfoy?" she muttered.

"Historically speaking, yes," he responded. If she was shocked by the admission, she didn't show it. That brain of hers was spinning in circles so quickly he could practically see it.

"So then why?" she questioned. She stepped forward until her face was mere inches from his, her wand still digging into his neck, a bead of blood branching to down the gnarled… oak? Holly? She would have a sappy, sentimental base like that. Probably with a dragon's heartstring, for her bravery or some bullshit.

She was begging for a reaction, any reaction at all. For him to step back or push her away. He wouldn't give it to her. The very second he did, he would no longer be an unanswered question and she would go straight back to being the lifeless husk ghosting through the corridors. So he didn't respond and stared at the mahogany curl that slipped across her eye that shifted with each breath.

"I don't understand you," she admitted. The statement sent a warm wave of satisfaction through his chest. "You sit there surrounded by a second chance, a scott free getaway that few could pull off. No one openly bothers or blames you. As a matter of fact, you may as well not exist at all. And yet you pretend to be just as empty as I am, but I know you aren't. So, why Malfoy? If you feel nothing and have never felt anything, then why bother saving us?"

There was a right answer; he was sure of it. Maybe if he were more put together, or if it weren't her asking, in all of her wild and crazed glory, he would have been able to find one. Instead, his mask slipped, a harsh smirk pulling at the corner of his mouth as he leaned in until all he could see was her eyes.

"I'll never tell."

There was a moment, just a quarter of a second, where he thought he had won. Where fury had overtaken the chocolate brown and chased it into a honey amber. A moment where he was sure she would fall off the edge of madness and hit him hard enough that he could actually feel acknowledged by someone. He was wholly unprepared when her eyes blinked shut and her lips pressed softly against his.

The rational part of his mind flew away as she wrapped her arms around his neck, pulling their bodies flush. Whatever strands of self control he had left snapped violently as the room pulled up walls of clouds, trapping them in a vortex of soft white.

This was not how it was supposed to go. How fucking dare she. She was supposed to hate him, to curse him, to offer some condemnation that no one else deigned to give. She had slipped past his carefully built walls that held back his anger, and that infuriated him. She didn't get to come in, promising violence and pain, and then kiss him like she cared.

No. The game was still in play, but it was his move, now.

His hand slipped into her hair, pulling tightly near the base. A pained gasp escaped her, halting her movement. He smiled, stealing the control and sliding his tongue into her mouth, giving her no room to argue. If she hated him, fine. He hated himself too so at least she was in good company.

She scratched at his neck, her nails digging feebly into his skin. Like she didn't have it in her to fight. And didn't that piss him off all the more. Fine. He was good at taking, and if that wasn't what she came for, then it was her own damn fault for starting something she couldn't finish. If she wanted soft and careful she should have baited him.

His hand grasped at her arse, smirking at the fearful little gasp that escaped her. She would run any minute, terrified of the monster she wanted him to be. It was a part he could play as naturally as fucking breathing. She would fold, and he would win. She would either report him and he would be expelled, or she would be unable to look at him in the eye for the rest of the year, a constant reminder of his victory. Both results were satisfying in different ways, and he wasn't particularly sure which he would prefer. Gryfindors were so predictably black and white.

His victory was ruined as she kissed back, her body molding around his. It felt so very natural it took him a moment to remember why it was a problem.

As if on fire, he pushed her away, wincing as she fell to the floor with a yelp. Her skirt was tacked high on her legs with a forbidden flash of black peeking out. She was breathing harshly as she watched him, eyes dark. His blood had smeared across the side of her face and neck like a macabre hand print. He choked trying to regain his own breath as he took a step away.

"W-what the fuck Granger?" he questioned, eyes shooting toward the door.

She smiled, hanging her wrist over her knees, and he almost pulled her back to him right then just to wipe that smug look off of her face. It was the same look she got when she knew an answer before anyone else had found it. She looked up at him, smirking as if she were so high above him he had no idea where she even stood.

"I'll never tell," she breathed, her eyes sparkling in delight.

His feet moved, carrying him to the door as her laughter followed him into the hall. He wanted to scream, to growl, to make her remember that playing with him was dangerous. That sweet girls like her had no business challenging him. By the time he made it back to the dungeons, he could still hear the blood rushing in his ears.

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