Author's Note: I'm sure you guys saw the summary change and this story is going to take a turn next chapter. I know that this hasn't seemed like a mystery so far, but now it's going to spin off into mystery genre! There will still be some flashbacks, because that sets up the whole Draco/Hermione doomed romance that they had during the war. And yep, the two stories, both in the past and the present, link together. There's a reason those flashbacks are there!

Chapter Four

Hermione can barely breathe, so close is his proximity to her. It's his usual scent permeating her nostrils, that heady smell of sandalwood and leather and it's so fucking masculine that she's close to losing her mind. She'd never understood how anyone as spineless as Malfoy got away with smelling that like.

They've, thankfully, been assigned to go out into the field today. Most of the time, Hermione's confined to her desk, reading up on recent activities and people and trying to determine which type of criminal would have committed a certain type of crime. But now, the very thought of being confined into a room with Malfoy is enough to wish for a very sound smack across the face.

So, along with Harry and Ron, they Apparate out to a small village in Ireland. Hermione touches ground with even footing; glancing over at Ron she notices that he stumbles a bit before gaining his footing. She turns away and says to Harry, "Is there any reason that Malfoy and I are necessary today?"

She catches Harry's smirk and due to her current mood, she's quite tempted to hex it off his face. "I know you love your bookwork, Hermione, but this is a pretty important case. You'll see why." His face becomes grim and he pulls out his wand.

Huffing, Hermione sets off after him, Ron and Draco trailing behind. The salt air whips through her hair and clears her head. She can handle being near him. Of course she can. Her body will be treacherous; it will betray her mind and long for his, but she's level-headed. Perhaps they might even move on from what happened. Inwardly, Hermione laughs at her stupidity. She's certain that she and Malfoy are not going to be anything other than civil colleagues.

The four arrive at the small house. Instantly, Hermione recognizes that whoever was here was more aggressive than others she's seen recently. The windows have been broken; the door squeaks as it swings back and forth on its hinges; there's a horrible smell of blood from all the way outside. Looking up, she notices the thatched roof is singed and smoking.

"Who wants to go in first?" asks Ron, looking at the mangled garden to his left.

"There's no one in there, you git. We all go," Hermione responds, her temper flaring. She sees Draco smirk out of the corner of her eye.

Inside, it smells even worse, for the scent of blood and vomit is concentrated and cloying. Hermione pulls out a handkerchief and places it over her nose and mouth, willing herself not to gag. She can see the body in the corner of the room, but she doesn't want to move toward it. Resisting the urge to push Malfoy into the mess, she turns to Harry, who is already making his way over.

Slowly, the rest follow. Hermione concentrates on a spot of wall, covered in sick; whoever had done this had tortured their victim.

"Hermione," comes Harry's voice from below her. She looks down and nearly reels back from the shock.

It's Seamus Finnegan, his throat split open, his eyes bulging. His limbs are contorted into horrible positions and his clothes are so soaked with blood they are almost black.

"Look at his cheek," Harry says, his voice unreadable.

Hermione has to bend down to make it out but then she sees it, the heavy and sloppy slashes carved into his face: DA.

December 1996

It's been a month since he's kissed Hermione Granger. She avoids him mostly, a feat that is not difficult given that they hardly speak anyway. If she sees him coming around the corner, she'll turn on her heel and huff off in the opposite direction. She's often accompanied by Potter, who looks puzzled by her abrupt change in direction. Rarely does Draco see her with Weasley, though; ever since he'd attached himself to Lavender Brown, Granger hadn't wanted anything to do with him.

This thought makes him laugh when his forehead is against the cool tiles of the bathroom sink, when he's wracking his brain for an idea and all he can think about is Weasley and Granger. Does she cry whenever she sees him with her? It doesn't seem much like Granger to do so, but he doesn't really know anything about her, so maybe she does. Maybe that's the only thing that's bothering her as she spends her days reading in the library, maybe that's all she and Potter talk about anymore.

Draco considers ignoring her as well, for it would be the proper thing to do. There's no point in wasting time considering what it might be like to kiss her again, what it might feel like to have her kiss him back, because he knows that he hasn't got a chance in hell. He won't touch her again and the thought won't even enter her head to touch him.

As the month passes, as he watches the lake's waves churn up and down with storms, he begins to wonder if she might be able to help him. He doesn't think that he wants to join the Order, Merlin no; but what if he could trick her into helping him with the Vanishing Cabinet? Asked her for her advice, pretended it was homework?

During the last week before Christmas, he sees her again in the hallway. She's by herself, carrying an armful of books and wearing a scowl that makes him think that's she fought with Weasley again. If she notices him, she feigns ignorance and continues past, mad hair tumbling across her sweater. But he cannot let her walk past. He cannot let her walk past because he has to leave Hogwarts in a few days and return to a home that no longer feels like anything other than a prison. He has to kill a man by the end of this year and everything's he done so far has only strengthened his belief that he will fail. He has a sudden attraction for her, the Mudblood who could probably save the whole fucking world if she wanted to. So he cannot let Granger go, not because he cares for her, not yet anyway, but because she may be his only hope.

He grabs her arm and the books tumble from her arms, spilling down at her feet, spines cracking and pages ripping; he hears her curse as she throws her hands up in exasperation. She turns to him and opens that mouth, the one he's heard smacking open and shut for the past six years, and all he can think to do is place his mouth over it.

So he kisses her again in the hallway in the middle of December, when the moonlight tumbles across the hallway and splashes the walls, when the wind outside howls in protest. For some reason that he will never come to learn, she kisses him back. She places her hands at the base of his neck and moans into his mouth, sighing this soft little thing of defeat, as though she's known for the past few weeks that this was inevitable. And he thinks that it must have been, for there is no other explanation for this, no other explanation other than the possibility of a higher power forcing them into it. He doesn't even consider the possibility of loving her nor does he imagine that she loves him. In all honesty, he hates her, hates her even as he kisses her, would much rather kill her than kiss her again.

She pulls away; her fingers slide down his shoulder blades and he shivers. He catches the smile that curves her lips.

"Malfoy?"

Perhaps he kisses her because by the end of the year he will be dead. Maybe that's too maudlin for him, too plebian, but he supposes it could be true. Why not kiss a semi-attractive girl when one knows that one will probably be dead before the consequences are of importance? Perhaps he wants to know what his father used to decry: examine the filth from every angle. Weren't Mudbloods supposed to taste dirty? But he only tastes mint and something like the apple cider he'd had as a child, a taste that years later he will still be able to recall.

At this point in time, however, he is probably kissing her because he wants help and Granger is the closest thing he has. He can use her, he knows he can, properly turn her intelligence into cunning and hurl it at their defenses while they have their eyes closed. Granger is useful, how none of the Death Eaters thought about this he'll never know, but she will help him. And he knows it the way he knows about his own mortality and possibly hers: that he will be dead by the end of the year and because of this, so may she.

So he answers her and he faintly hears her question, but it doesn't matter anymore. He has his solution.