So because I'm leaving for conservatory in two days, y'all are getting this chapter earlier than I planned. Lucky you! I don't know when the next update will be since I'm going to be drowning in college soon, but I'm also starting on a fic for a FicExchange in a little bit, so that will take priority for a while. But don't loose hope! I'm not planning on giving up this story.

Thank you to SwayPippin and IrethMalfoy for reviewingand to everyone else who read even if you didn't review (shame on you! Hehe). I really do enjoy hearing your feedback! I just thought I'd say now that I am the only beta for this story, and while I've edited this as thoroughly as possible, all remaining mistakes are mine. (I may have to take you up on your generous offer to help beta, SwayPippin…I'll be in touch! Thank you for the extension of your services!)

And now, without further ado…the chapter!

Chapter Two
"Aw, is poor ickle Dwackie scared?"

There were mirthless, sadistic sniggers all around, but Draco merely glowered, and would have done more were it not for the Silencio his crazy Aunt Bellatrix had cast upon him as she and a few other Death Eaters entered his cell. He knew they had done that on purpose, the sick bastards—they told him they would stop when they heard him screaming and begging for mercy (he would die before he gave them that satisfaction), but he couldn't very well be heard screaming and begging for mercy if he couldn't make sounds, could he? They wouldn't kill him—that was far too easy a death for a traitor, and besides, the Dark Lord had expressly forbidden that—but they could torture him to the brink each time. They let him suffer in pain and misery for a few days, almost healed him completely, and then began their fun again.

Draco wondered if they would ever tire of this routine, but apparently they never grew bored of this monotony. Sometimes Lucius was there, and sometimes he wasn't. Fortunately for Draco, the bastard had chosen not to show for this round, although that was the only happy thought he could muster at the moment.

He strained against the chains that bound him to the wall, wanting to break free of them so he could strangle Bellatrix's pathetic life out of her pathetic body. He wanted to kill them, kill them all, like they were killing him...

"Do you not want to be a part of the fun we're about to have, my wittle nephew?" The crooning singsong could not have come from a more repulsive person, and Draco felt himself surging with a scornful, almost hysterical laugh at the bitter irony of it all. "Maybe you'll change your mind once we start…"

Draco braced himself, knowing exactly how this would begin. Bellatrix wasn't very creative, even by Death Eater standards. The Cruciatus was her favorite curse, and she therefore used it as often as possible. He doubted this time would be any different.

"Crucio!"

Right again, Draco thought breathlessly, arching his back, the pain worse because he couldn't writhe freely on the ground, clamping down on his mouth so hard to prevent it from opening he could taste blood, metallic against his tongue, because even if they couldn't hear him they'd know he was screaming and he couldn't let that happen because his pride was all he had left, all he had left in the world…

When Draco finally wrenched himself out of the nightmare, he thought he was still dreaming.

He was tangled in his sheets, and like a maze, couldn't find his way out of them. They were wrapped all around him, pulling him down with them, and the room was bathed in darkness, he couldn't see, he couldn't escape, the Death Eaters were going to come back and torture him soon, but his body still tingled from the Cruciatus, and—

And he was in his small bedroom, he was safe, free from the dark, lonely, miserable time he'd been in captivity. Except it was still dark and he was still lonely and miserable and sometimes it seemed to Draco like he was still in captivity, just of a different kind (even if it had been of his own making). Perspiration had glued his fine hair to his forehead, and now that he'd somewhat adjusted to his surroundings he allowed himself to calm his breathing, although his heart still seemed to be going as fast as a speeding car. Ever since his physical recovery, he'd always had nightmares, and couldn't seem to sleep for more than an hour before they set in. Then, knowing it would be fruitless to attempt the fight for more sleep, he'd end up wandering into the kitchen where he'd drink himself into blissful oblivion, usually ending up in an unconscious stupor on the kitchen floor. But it had been a long while since he'd woken up feeling so disoriented.

September first was only a week away now, so he supposed his anxiety levels had increased at the thought of returning to the wizarding world. He was already starting to have doubts, wondering if he had been drunker than he thought when he signed his consent. He'd already met with McGonagall, and that had been painful enough. But then she had hugged him, actually hugged him, and that was when he realized he'd been more starved for human affection than he'd thought.

It had been so long since someone had touched him without wanting to harm him that he'd almost forgotten other sorts of touching existed. He had resisted at first, but it hadn't lasted long, and had soon found himself clinging to her, that if he let go she'd vanish like a mirage in a desert. Imagine that—Draco Malfoy, clinging. The word made him cringe from the shame of his weak emotional state. He had almost burst into tears right there, but he'd probably forgotten how to since he hadn't really cried since…

Well.

He'd rather not dwell on that, or he might break that record. He was too numb for tears—his body was so cold it froze them on the spot, so there they were now sitting inside him (Draco swore he could feel them sometimes) and all it would take was someone or something to thaw them and then they'd break free. But seeing as how he hardly had someone or something around him to make that possible and all he became was colder and colder, he highly doubted that would happen any time soon.

He sighed heavily as he glanced at the clock on the table beside his bed, and almost screamed in frustration when he saw it was only a little after nine. He'd known it was early, but not that early. There was no way he was getting back to sleep, and he suddenly felt as though his apartment were suffocating him. He had to get out, had to escape, at least for a little while.

Struggling out of bed (he'd fallen asleep in a white shirt and black trousers), he shrugged his feet into his trainers that he'd kicked off onto the floor, shuffled down the short hall to the closet by the front door, grabbed a light jacket, shoved his arms into it and left, locking the door behind him.

He had no idea where he was going, but anywhere was better than there.

When Draco saw the small pub at the corner of the street several blocks down (well maybe it was more than several, he hadn't really been paying attention to where he was going), he immediately knew that this was where he wanted to go. He had already checked his pockets and had found a wad of Muggle money left over from the last time he'd gone out, and making sure the hood of his jacket was securely around his head—there was no telling who was a wizard in these predominantly Muggle neighborhoods, and he had no particular desire to be recognized—he pushed open the door and walked in.

The air was thick and filled with smoke. It was a small pub, adorned with a few round tables and a bar. Since it was evening, the room flickered with meager candlelight, one for each table. Most of the tables were full, mainly with older single men and women, although there were some laughing couples as well. Resolutely ignoring everyone (although he spared a few sneers for the couples), Draco sauntered over to the bar and plunked himself down on an empty stool.

The bartender, an aging man with a slight stoop to his shoulders, glanced over at him, and Draco ordered, "The strongest stuff you've got," not even bothering to exchange pleasantries. Exchanging pleasantries meant he was somehow open to conversation since he had chosen the bar and he had no one with him—and there happened to be no one else sitting up here—but he was most definitely not open to conversation, and he wanted to make that very clear.

Giving Draco a brusque nod, the bartender strode over to the back to prepare Draco's drink, and if Draco hadn't been holding his head down, he would have seen the man give him a curious look.

The beverage was ready shortly, and once the bartender had it before him, Draco slumped over it, gripping the mug tightly in his hands. He'd better make the most of this night, considering it was probably going to be the last chance he had to get really smashed until the Winter Holidays.

"Here's to Hogwarts," he muttered, thinking it was going to be a long night as he started on his first drink.

It was about an hour later when he finally left, and if he'd any idea what Fate would have done to him after he staggered out of the bar (he knew he didn't have the necessary focus required to Apparate) and collapsed in a dead drunken faint in the middle of some sidewalk a block down, he probably would have never left his flat.

While she would always harbor scorn for Divination, Hermione had always possessed a love for the stars, and had taken it upon herself to memorize the positions and names of every constellation in the night sky, and where and when they could be found.

Despite the unpredictable nature of life, there were things she could always count on, and the stars were shortly after her family and Harry and Ron. She knew they were no more than burning balls of gas thousands of miles away, but she found comfort in them. Mythology had always fascinated her, and she eagerly devoured the stories in the library until she knew them all. Whenever she was especially troubled, she would take long walks alone outdoors at night and would be swept up in the peaceful serenity of the evening sky.

Walking happened to be what she was doing now, although she was feeling less burdened and downtrodden than she had for sometime. Now that there was only a week left until Hogwarts' grand reopening—the news had been all over the headlines of the Daily Prophet for the past few days—she found herself unable to settle down between the odd mixtures of excitement and anxiety that were plaguing her.

The last year at Hogwarts had been exceptionally dark, fraught with increasing levels of Death Eater attacks not only against Muggles and Half-bloods but Order members as well, Malfoy's mysterious disappearance a few months after the Winter Holidays (at the time, she, Harry, and Ron were convinced he had finally left Hogwarts to move himself firmly over to the Dark Side, although she supposed they all knew better now), and intense training with Dumbledore's Army that had been reopened at popular demand, along with furious studying for the NEWTS. Then there was the War of course, which had come to a head just at the end of the year. Part of what had enabled them to win was the aid of a spy from the other side—nobody had known who he was at the time, and it wasn't the late Professor Snape because his duplicity to Voldemort had been discovered at the end of her sixth year—and it wasn't until after the War that Minerva had told them all it was Malfoy.

Draco Malfoy, Slytherin spy extraordinaire.

Even now, Hermione found this image of Malfoy hard to line up with the image she'd had of him at school. She'd always thought he was a coward beneath his bullying bad boy exterior, although he obviously couldn't be that craven if he had been facing Voldemort and keeping secrets from him on a daily basis.

She realized then that while Malfoy probably was a cold, heartless bastard—although that was most likely a fault of his upbringing—he had been a bloody good actor during their school days. His face had always been impeccably impassive, and she couldn't help but think that the majority of what they'd mistaken for vanity was Malfoy constantly practicing his expressions in the mirror. That didn't mean Hermione doubted he actually was vain, with the way he swaggered around Hogwarts as though he owned it.

Needless to say, there was obviously more to Malfoy than they'd ever given him credit for, although he hadn't really given them much reason to analyze the inner workings of other personalities that might be lurking beneath the surface.

Oh, Malfoy.

He was probably one of the greatest enigmas of the War, and Hermione couldn't help but wonder what had made him want to go spy anyway. Certainly not out of the goodness of his heart. No, there had to be have been some kind of ulterior motive—he was a Slytherin, after all.

Taking her eyes off the sky to glance at the block ahead of her, the sight she saw was enough to put a stopper in her ruminating.

Was that—a figure…lying on the ground a block up? She approached cautiously, and when she could get a closer look her heart froze over like a lake in winter.

She simply couldn't believe it, and her thoughts were in a boiling turmoil. Of all the bloody coincidences! What in Circe's name was going on? She kept on walking, and sure enough, she saw the blond hair and pale skin that were trademark Malfoy. The ex-Slytherin was lying at an awkward angle on his side, and, very carefully, Hermione gripped his shoulder and rolled him so he was on his back.

Now that she had a better look at him, she couldn't stifle the gasp that squeezed out of her lips. He was definitely Malfoy, but he looked—to put it very bluntly—absolutely terrible. The hood of his jacket had slipped down his head, and beneath it Hermione saw his blond hair that was even longer than usual, a face that was practically emaciated with his prominent cheekbones sticking out more than ever, and bags beneath his eyes that were so dark they even had bags.

What in Merlin's name are you doing here, Malfoy? Did you drop out of the sky, or something?

She had been studying him so intently that she missed his eyelashes flutter against his almost translucent face like butterfly wings.

"Unnhh…"

"Malfoy!" she cried, his slurred groan pulling her out of her examination. When no further response seemed to be forthcoming, she prodded his arm with a relentless finger, questioning, "Malfoy?"

Yet her former enemy was as stubborn as ever—even while unconscious—and, with a grunt, merely rolled over again. Throwing her hands up in frustration, a muttered "boys" under her breath, she thought of one thing that might bring him out of whatever stupor he was in.

"Harry Potter!" she shouted, right in his ear.

Malfoy's eyes snapped open so quickly Hermione fancied they could've flown right off his face, and they were strangely unfocused and were darting around all over the place. "Wha'?" Malfoy said, words bunching together dangerously like too many beads on a string, "whodunit?"

Oh, sweet Morgana.

Malfoy was bloody wasted!

She put her hands on her hips and glowered at him. "Malfoy, are you drunk?"

"Whazat?" he sounded genuinely confused, and Hermione's heart sank as she saw the only solution to the problem that was currently sprawled at her feet. Then he really looked at her, and she could see him struggling to focus on her. "You…look like someone I used to know…"

He was remarkably lucid when he was thinking about it, and Hermione blinked at him, uncertain as to how to respond. How would Malfoy feel to be seeing her right now? More importantly, how did she feel to be seeing him right now?

Yet before she had time to answer, for once Malfoy decided to be cooperative. "Unngh…prob'ly…seein' things…"

She chose to play along, for the meantime. No sense in creating more trouble than there already was, and besides, she had no idea how much his personality changed when he was drunk. While she'd long since stopped hating him after his true activities had come to light, she didn't really know what to call their relationship anymore. Not enemies, not friends, definitely not lovers…she supposed she could say acquaintances, but they had tormented each other more and more throughout the years as tension continued to escalate between Slytherin and the other houses, although it was mainly Gryffindor house. Still—there were so many questions she longed to ask, although this was hardly the right place and time. She frowned. Malfoy had always been tightly controlled, with—it had taken her awhile to acknowledge this—a sharp mind, and hardly seemed to fit the profile of an alcoholic. He was anything but controlled now, and Hermione couldn't help but wonder what had brought him to this state.

"I guess you are," she said finally, liking this situation less and less. Sometimes ignorance was bliss, something she never thought she'd say.

She watched him try to struggle to his feet, her lips quirking upwards in an amused smile. If he honestly thought he'd be able to walk properly like that, his intelligence was more impaired than she'd originally thought.

She saw him get up, fall down, and get up and fall down again. Well, this is definitely turning into a broken record, she thought, and, going over to him, demanded, "Where's your flat, Malfoy?"

Sighing in defeat from his place on the ground, he frowned, then pointed left and said, "Tha' way." A beat. "No, tha' way," he corrected, pointing in the opposite direction. Still frowning, his face pinched in intense concentration, he muttered, "No, that's not right…"

"Alright, enough," Hermione said, thoroughly frustrated and annoyed. "I'll take you back to my flat for the night, it's not that far from here."

He turned to look at her, the frown still on his face, his cheeks flushed with what looked like embarrassment.

She almost laughed at the expression on his face—it was so unlike the sneers and smirks Malfoy usually wore—and had to bit her lip to keep it caged inside.

Sucking in a breath, Hermione approached the drunken blond.

"Now, listen," she said, careful not to use his last name now that she had his full attention, "this is what I'm going to do…"

TO BE CONTINUED

Yes, I know, Hermione had to conveniently be walking around the same time Malfoy was out getting drunk, and of course there is only one area of London and they just so happened to be living relatively close to each other. Thoroughly cliché without providing much use for the overall plot, but I couldn't resist—and besides, it will add a bit more tension when they see each other at Hogwarts in a week. Let an author have her bit of fun, will you? cheeky grin We can just call it coincidence, how about it? How ridiculous was it, in all honesty?

I cannot guarantee when the next update will be, but this story has just been flowing from my fingertips so it hopefully shouldn't take too long. I can't make any promises, though, but I'm counting on no longer than a month or two at the most!

Now you readers know what you need to do…review, review, review! Even one word will make my day and will be extremely appreciated…please lurkers, come out of the darkness to the light side of the force (er, wrong fandom I suppose…haha) and let me know you were here!

See you next time!