Telling Ron was not easy.

Draco stood in the shadows by the window, breathing in the unfamiliar air of the highest tower at Hogwarts. He felt dizzy and wondered if the altitude was affecting him, but a quick glance at the witch sitting quietly across the room answered his question for him. Her legs stretched idly in front of her and her hair was wild. It was most definitely not the altitude. Draco loosened his tie and watched the Trio hash it out, trying to keep his amusement under wraps. Trying to keep his eyes off Granger, sitting primly on the sofa and studying Ron's chess set intently. He didn't need the added complication. She hadn't said a word since Harry had cleared his throat and introduced his shadowy visitor. Ron hadn't known whether to lunge for his wand or for Draco's throat and wound up face down on the Persian carpet, arms and legs akimbo. Granger hadn't blinked.

Oh Merlin, she wasn't just an added complication, she was the complication. Of all the things to be worried about at this moment – his betrayal of thousands of years of careful, pure breeding, the fortune he was certainly losing and the life whose value was steadily decreasing with every minute he spent up here in the high tower with these two nitwits – of all the things to be worried about, he was most concerned that she believe him.

She had been his first thought this morning when his enchanted alarm snake set up a celebratory hiss at 8:13 am, declaring him officially of age. Draco had grinned warily at the alarm snake and then bolted from the dungeons to work out his plan on the Quidditch Pitch. It didn't do to be too near the alarm snake when it got overexcited

At first, Ron was incensed. Then he was confused, then suspicious, then incensed again. Having worked his way through his full emotional spectrum, he finally demanded that Draco prove it. It was then and only then that Hermione looked up from the chess board. She opened her mouth to say something and then quickly closed it again and rose from her seat.

"Excuse me," she said, and the three men followed her with their eyes as she disappeared up the staircase to the girls' dormitories.

"Oh, now you've done it," sighed Ron, but he looked devilishly pleased. A surge of nerves coursed through Draco and he shifted uneasily and avoided Potter's eyes. The fire crackled and Granger re-emerged from the girls' staircase clutching a small crystal vial. She crossed to Harry and whispered something in his ear. A low sound escaped his throat that sounded suspiciously like a chuckle.

"Hermione wants you to take Veritaserum, Draco." Ron snorted with glee and Draco sent him a look that could have shattered glass.

"That's illegal," he spat, and Hermione turned on him with a delicately arched eyebrow and the same icy stare she had directed his way on the Hogwarts Express. The one that had simultaneously frozen him to the core and convinced him that she was the only perfect woman in the world.

"Yes, it is," she said in a cool monotone, and handed him the vial. Potter stood back, away from the action. This was not his fight, for once, Draco mused. Ron was staring into the fire, his fists clenched at his sides, a small smile playing on his lips.

The hell with them. Draco smirked boldly at Hermione, popped the cork from the vial and downed the bitter liquid. When he looked up at her again, all he saw was her retreating form.

"I've got work to do, Harry. I'll see you two at lunch."

Draco stood bewildered, trying not to wretch from the vile taste in his mouth, as Ron wheeled on him and bore him down with questions. As the Veritaserum pounded through his veins he was grateful she was gone. If she'd looked at him any longer with those smooth brown eyes, if she'd asked him any careless questions…

A little Q&A, however foolproof, was not going to be enough to satisfy Ron, Draco knew, but it would go far in assuaging Granger's doubts, even if she wasn't there to hear him explain himself.

"Why did you wait so long?"

"I waited as long as I had to. I came of age this morning. I never have to go home."

Harry looked up at him, shocked.

"You're never going home?"

"Not if I can help it." Draco shuddered at the recollection of the place. Ron looked at him piercingly, responding to the other boy's obvious distaste for his home. True, in the past Ron had proclaimed everything he owned to be rubbish (a statement he now squirmed to recollect, knowing what he knew about the rest of the wide world) but he had to admit to himself that this hardship of Draco's was one of which he was blissfully ignorant.

"You're going to have to go back," Potter said reluctantly, as if the words hurt him. "Just a couple more times. You're going to have to go to Death Eater meetings… maybe even take the Mark."

Ron gasped and Draco's eyes widened but he didn't flinch. Potter was right.

"I'm sorry, Draco," he said, and he meant it. The thought of sending anyone to a home they hated left a heavy sadness in his chest. Not to mention asking Draco to take the Mark so that he could pass them information. The thought was almost unbearable. They would cross that bridge when they came to it. Hermione would know what to do.

Hermione…There was no mistaking the look in Malfoy's eyes at the sight of her. Even on the Express at the beginning of the year, his attraction to her couldn't have been plainer if he'd had it tattooed on his forehead. Harry winced at the thought of tattoos just now and he chalked up Malfoy's obvious attraction to Hermione as another bridge to cross when they came to it. If they came to it.

"Blimey," was all Ron could say, and Harry caught his eye and gave him a wry grin. Then Draco laughed uneasily and the boys drew tentatively together around the fire.

Hermione, sitting statuesque on top of her neatly made bed, was experiencing no such breaking of the ice. She told herself she wasn't interested in hearing Draco's answers to Ron's ponderous questions. Harry trusted the slimy git and that was that. Hermione was long past fighting with Ron or Harry over every little thing, choosing wisely to pick her battles instead. She told herself she wasn't interested in the Slytherin Prince's sob story, when the truth was that she didn't need to hear it. She already knew.

Pansy Parkinson was many things – a conceited bitch, a malicious gossip, a Prefect, a rather accomplished gymnast – but one thing she was not was discreet. Hermione had no idea what the male Hogwarts prefects discussed over the multi-colored soap bubbles, but she reckoned it was nowhere near as interesting as what surfaced when the ladies bathed.

The Gryffindor and Slytherin girls had come to an uneasy truce regarding the use of the delicious, multi-colored taps. After a Quidditch match, girls from both teams sloughed off the mud and sweat of the game while eyeing each other warily. Girls are sensible and the ladies of both teams were generally too tired to get into it with each other after a drawn-out battle on the pitch.

There was one other occasion on which it was deemed safe for ladies from both Houses to occupy the same space, and that was on Hogsmeade mornings. Even if a young lady had no particular reason to look her best, there was something about being cooped up in a castle for weeks on end that made you want to put your best foot forward when you went out and about. So on these days the bathroom was crammed with ladies from all four Houses and no conflict went beyond the occasional catfight over a space at the mirror.

It was on one of these mornings right after the start of school that Hermione had heard all she ever wanted to know about Draco Malfoy's home life. Having bathed and removed herself behind a screen at the far end of the bathroom to dress, Hermione was fighting with her tangled hair when Pansy's familiar whine caught her ear.

"...told me he doesn't want it…there's not much he can do about that, is there? We've been engaged practically since before we were born! His parents won't stand for it if he doesn't."

"I don't know, Pans," came Millicent Bulstrode's doubtful baritone. "I mean, you're right, he obviously doesn't have much choice but to marry you, but are you sure you even want-"

"Of course I'm sure! What is that supposed to mean?"

"What if he turns out like his father?"

"So much the better!"

"I don't mean like his father in terms of wealth and influence…I mean – well, you've heard he beats Narcissa, haven't you?"

"So I have. Everyone knows."

"Well, and there was the rumor going around that she lost a baby because he lost his temper. Some years back."

"Honestly, Millie, if you're going to believe everything you hear – "

"I'm not saying I do. I just…"

Hermione had frozen, her towel clutched to her body. She slowed her breath to short, shallow sips in order to avoid being heard. This was the juiciest gossip to come out of the bathroom since the Patil twins demonstrated the art of French kissing on each other.

"It seems quite a gamble that Draco wouldn't turn out exactly like Lucius, doesn't it? I mean, it's obvious his father beats him too. And I read in Muggle studies that – "

"You're taking Muggle studies?"

"Know your enemy," Millie stammered.

"Hmph."

"Anyway, just watch yourself. A lot of violent things have been done to that kid. We've all seen it. Remember his fifth birthday party?"

Pansy let out a harsh chuckle. "How could I forget? His father beat him black and blue for not getting all five candles out on the first try."

"It doesn't take much to set off a Malfoy. Maybe you should get out while you can. If Draco doesn't want – "

"Draco doesn't know what he wants, Millie. But I do. He's the richest pureblood wizard around and he's mine. If that comes with a few bruises, so be it."

Hermione closed her ears, not wanting to hear more. After her brief encounter with Draco on the Express, her eyes had been following him unwillingly whenever he was in the vicinity. With this new information, she knew she was falling into the age old girl-trap of being fascinated by a tortured soul…and she found she didn't mind so much. Deeply troubled? Tormented? Emotionally unavailable? Bring it on. Hermione may have been the brightest witch of her age, but she was also unequivocally a girl. No matter what Ron thought.

And thus began the staring contests. Him with his Draconian smirk, Hermione's face plastered poker-stiff - they locked in a battle of wills with undefined stakes. Stakes that had seemed low enough until this moment when Hermione, still sitting ramrod straight on her plush red coverlet realized that for better or for worse, Draco was in this with them now.

She stood up suddenly and smoothed her hair. She'd better go downstairs before she missed anything good.