Cry Me Tears of Fire

By Pensive Puddles

Draco hissed as the desk corner poked him sharply in the thigh again. He growled under his breath but continued to scrub. Imagine, Draco Malfoy cleaning desks… oh! the humiliation! He hated cleaning. Why bother? It was just going to get dirty again anyway.

Detention, he still couldn't believe he had gotten off so easily. Then again, he was a Malfoy, and Malfoy's got away with everything. Look at his father, for example! How many times had he weaseled his way out of Azkaban? It all boiled down to money. But Dumbledore was one of those men who were foreign to money, who cared nothing and viewed it as nothing more than paper and round pieces of metal. The old bloke found no thrill or value out of something such as money. His views on hard labor weren't anything like his views on money, however.

Quickly taking the stories of the witnesses and Weasley on the incident during Care of Magical Creatures, Draco and the idiot, Weasley, were condemned to three weeks worth of detention. One day of detention down… 20 more nights left to go, he thought bitterly.

"Damn," he mumbled as he paused and looked at his throbbing red hands. They appeared raw and blistered, so unused to hard labor they were. Why was he being punished? He wasn't he one who started it. He defended himself, like any man would do. He didn't mean to nearly light the rodent on fire, and besides, if he had, he would have put the burning Weasel out…eventually.

He collapsed back into one of the chairs, cracking his neck and giving his hands a break. He'd have to begin again, but thankfully he was already two-thirds done. And this time, he couldn't slack off. Flinch was serving detention, which meant that if that old geezer didn't like what he saw, Draco would have to keep cleaning until he was satisfied. And Draco desperately wanted sleep. He hadn't had much these last few nights, more like months.

The pale boy looked around the dim, dark room. How could Snape let his room get so downright disgusting? The amount of fungus he had found in the corners was repulsive. He hadn't wanted to touch the foul, fluffy weeds, until Filch had handed him a spray, which practically burned the fungus alive. After Flinch had left when his cat told him of another rule-breaker (Draco did not want to know why or how Flinch had a special, mind reading bond with his furry pet), Draco tried to entertain himself by using his fire power to burn the weeds. He had quite enjoyed himself, creating a snake out of pure fire and making it slither along the ground and attack the unsuspecting fungus. If only the weed could have fought back…

Draco wished the throbbing in his hands would cease. He could feel the grime of the dirt on the desk dry against his perfect skin. He hated to feel dirty, unhygienic. He wanted to take a bath, a nice long hot bath. Or maybe a long ride on his broomstick. He missed flying. He hadn't had enough time lately to fly for pleasure. Head Boy duties, Quidditch captain responsibilities and other…extra activities kept him busy.

He took out his lighter. He had been craving it all day. It had felt good to use it on the weeds; it was good practice in controlling his element better. Control, he needed to have ultimate control in order to fully control the element, and hopefully others as well. Supposedly, a wizard could control all four elements. It hadn't happened in centuries, and as far as Draco could remember, the last wizard was only able to obtain three elements. He had ended up losing control, letting his emotions getting the best of him and sadly, had made himself explode. Thankfully, the fire had turned him to ashes so there was no mess to clean up. The Ministry always hated messy deaths.

Draco would never let that happen to him. 1) He was a Malfoy, 2) Malfoy's never lost control (well, usually they don't. Draco was finding he had become more moody now that he had his new powers and thus he blamed that for the reason why he had lost his temper countless of times now), and 3) he was Voldemorte's heir, so obliviously he would have more magical power than any other wizard. Draco smirked and his arrogance somehow fed the fire. He watched in amazement as the fire grew and jumped out of his hand. He kept perfectly still and watched as the fire flickered into a shape.

He could distinguish a feminine body, and somehow the fire was capable of casting shadows on its form, making the details clearer. The figure appeared naked, but it was hard to tell, the fire wouldn't stay still. It was as if a clear, heat-resistant plastic covered the flames and trapped them inside, molding it into this fire nymph that transformed before Draco. Long locks of fiery hair cascaded down her back, the fire moved in spirals downward to the floor. Her body was shaped perfectly, a figure that many girls dreamed of having, and many tried to achieve through plastic surgery. But this, this was utter perfection that could never be created by mortal hands.

She, It, the nymph, flipped her hair behind her, getting stray locks behind her shoulders. Her face titled towards him and her perfect body started walking towards him. She was life-size, and she walked like a human. Her hips swayed, the fire ran in teasing lines and spirals inside of her body. Draco was transfixed, sitting back in his chair. She leaned forwards, her hand reaching up and nearly touching his face. He flinched, thoroughly surprised that her touch didn't burn. In fact, it was quite cool. She smirked, he could see it outlined in her flaming face. He could distinguish facial structure, and it appeared so natural that he found it quite shocking to remind himself that this was something he created…somehow. The nymph sat on his lap, loosely straddling him. She wrapped its arms around his neck, lazily playing with his hair.

She leaned closer in and Draco could feel her coolness. How strange…

He could see her lips, perfectly outlined on her face. He could see her eyelashes seductively lower and rise when she blinked. He could have sworn he could see her eyes glide over his face and torso, but he wasn't quite sure. The flames wouldn't stop dancing inside of her. Draco had a sudden fear that the creature would kiss him, but instead, the lips went past his lips and to his ear. He trembled in surprise as her kiss burnt slightly as she kissed his ear. The pain instantly vanished and he wondered if he had felt anything in the first place.

He could feel her soft, cool lips brush against his ear, and her voice was deep yet distant and lofty as she spoke words that chilled him more than anything he had every heard in his life. "It'll be over soon."

Yelping, he shoved the creature off of him, a devilish smile on her face as she hit the floor and scattered into a multitude of flames that quickly faded in the air. Draco sat, staring at the spot where the creature had distinguished. He breathed heavily, his chest rising and falling quickly. He could suddenly recall many of his dreams. He could see her…the girl at his initiation. Those brown eyes, those kind touches. She had felt pity for him. And she had died. He didn't know why she died, but he remembered how she just looked at him…Merlin, it was permanently engraved in his mind. He could still hear her slight pause in her breathing and then her long exhale.

And then she was dead and the men were hauling her body off unceremoniously, the tiny grin still stuck on her lips. He had wanted to tear it off, but he couldn't move. It was like invisible binds had tied him to the floor. He would have called for help, but he didn't. Pride was the only thing that kept him from crying in utter humiliation. Pride was the only thing that had kept him from screaming during his marking. Pride was the only think that kept him from shouting for help. Pride was the only thing that made them continue on with the ceremony.

He wasn't sure of the details of the ceremony that had taken place that horrible night. All he remembered was that it was supposed to give him more power. Voledmort was so desperate in killing Potter he was willing to use Ancient Magic to achieve his means; the old Mudblood couldn't kill Harry Potter himself.

It was a prehistoric ritual, one that had died out centuries ago because many of the wizard folk had dubbed it barbarian. It hadn't been used in so long, it was a miracle that he had survived it. He remembered how horrible it was. No pain could equal it; no amount of Crucio's could match the pain. It was the type of pain that penetrated everything: mind, body, and soul. The Death Eaters spent weeks before hand, studying the chants, making sure that their pronunciation were flawless. One mispronounced syllable could have ended up in ultimate disaster. His father had been one of those chosen Death Eaters to carry out the ritual.

Anger surged inside of Draco. How could a father do that to his only son? How could any father watch his son be branded like a cow? How could a father watch his son become possessed by some evil spirit? Draco, truth be told but not to any living ears, found most of the good vs. bad battles and schemes a waste of time. He would have loved there was a neutral side, pull a Hufflepuff as many liked to say during a fight. Dumb idiots, never really did stand up for what they believed in. Ravenclaw didn't either. It was only Slytherin and Gryffindor that started the fights. And that's what made him chose a side, Slytherin ran through his blood.

And being a Slytherin meant having an oversized ego, pride, wealth, and let's not forget the most important factor: Pureblood. But still, even through all these traits that he'd receiving Outstanding's on, he'd prefer to be neutral. Sometimes he was tired of acting the way he was. It became uneventful, too predictable. Every day was the same thing. Every day brought nothing new. Every letter from his father was the same boring message discreetly talking about only one thing: the Dark Lord.

To put it as simple as possible, Draco just got sick of it. He was tired of acting. He was tired of pretending. He was tired of trying to gain the respect he dearly wanted from his father; it was a losing battle. He once thought life was absolutely not worth living. He hadn't killed himself in the end. He found that cowardly, and he knew that Potter's trio would have been overjoyed at the news of his death. It was that thought that kept him from killing himself. He still had a job to do: to make Potter and co.'s life as hellish as possible. Still, he would secretly admit that there were times where he didn't want to barb Potter and his friends. He sometimes wished he could just sit in the same room with them without arguing, without talking to them. That was impossible. If he didn't start anything, they certainly would find something to insult. And then the cycle would begin again.

He was tired of it all and just the thought of Potter, of his father, of the responsibility of being Voldemort's so-called heir when really he was just a pawn in his little game, enraged him.

Angrily getting to his feet, Draco grabbed the dirty rag and rinsed it with water before scrubbing at the desks he hadn't cleaned yet. His anger fueled him as he scrubbed harder and harder at the desk, scrubbing the memories out of his mind.

There was a dark stain on one of the desks. It reminded him of the color of her eyes. He scrubbed.

And scrubbed.

Harder.

Fiercer.

Faster.

And while he savagely tried to scrap the stain out of the desk, he kept thinking of his father who had hurt him so deeply that nothing that he'd do could make Draco forgive him. And the thing that made his hands bleed as the rough rag tore at his soft flesh was that he knew that his father would never ask for forgiveness.

It angered and pained him so much that he found himself breathing heavily, a broken chair splinted all over the floor. The red haze lifted from his eyes and he looked at the destruction he had caused. When had he broken the chair? Merlin, he hoped neither Flinch nor Snape would notice the crack in the wall…

:-:-:-:-:-:

"Hermione," cooed a soft voice in her ear. She shivered as hot hair blew into her ear. "Wake up. The library's on fire."

The library…on fire? All those precious books!

"No!" she yelled, jerking herself out of her sleep and quickly getting to her feet. Her hand automatically and instinctively groped for her wand, and without letting the sleepy haze fade, she yelled the first thing that came to her mind that would save her darling, valuable books, "Aquarious!"

"Bloody Merlin!" yelled a drenched Seamus, looking down at his clothes soaked from Hermione's water attack. "It was just a bloody joke, girl! Get a grip!"

The Gryffindor Common room erupted into loud fits of laughter, and Hermione's faced blushed darkly as she tried to dry Seamus. "I'm so sorry! I didn't mean to. You just gave me such a fright."

"Obviously…" Seamus growled, wiping at his clothes. Finding it pointless, he stopped and fixed his bangs that were hanging in front of his eyes. A mischievous glint caught in his eyes causing Hermione to freeze. She looked up at him as a large, maniac smile covered his face. "Seamus," she said warningly.

"Oh sweetheart, I think someone wants a hug!" Seamus called in a singsong voice. The bookworm screamed as Seamus made a dive for her, missing. With the psycho smile still on his face, he raced after her, following her in circles around the couch as she tried to get away. Jumping over the couch and cutting her off, Seamus swooped the shrieking girl in his arms and held her tightly to his chest while she fought against him. The watchers laughed as Hermione struggled to get out of his grip. He rubbed his wet face and neck over her face, smearing water all over her.

Hermione shrieked even louder, which soon turned into laughter. "Take your hands off her, villain!" someone shouted.

The crowd looked at Harry whose wand was outstretched, pointed directly at Seamus. Seamus pulled Hermione behind him and took out his own wand, pointing it at Harry. "She is mine, Potter! You'll have to kill me to get her!"

"I intend to," Harry said, muttering an incantation that transformed his wand into a sword. Seamus smirked, also changing his wand into a sword. Holding out his sword, Harry yelled, "En guard!"

"En guard!" Seamus replied and clashed swords with Harry. It was a spectacular sight, watching the two boys fight, insulating each other.

"You fight like my mother!"

"I fought your mother! That's a compliment!"

"My sword shall taste your blood!"

"Not unless mine tastes yours first!"

Swipe, duck, dramatic slicing, it was all an act but highly entertaining. Harry jumped on top one of the chairs and leaped off, pointing his sword down at Seamus. And suddenly the act was not an act any longer, nor was it entertaining. The crowd cried in alarm as the sword went through Seamus's chest. Yelling out in horror, surprise, and pain, Seamus collapsed to the ground. He reached a hand towards Hermione who came towards him and kneeled by his head, "My dearest, my love of my life! It's always been you. Take care of…Seamus Junior…"

Seamus kissed her hand and touched her stomach affectionately before falling back and dying, a trickle of blood flowing from the corner of his lips. The crowd looked with wide eyes, staring at the dead boy and at the shaking girl by his side. Hermione was pregnant? She was with Ron, wasn't she? They watched with shocking disgust as Harry ripped the sword out of his chest and pulled Hermione to her feet. "Victory is mine!"

"As it should be, Harry Potter!" Seamus shouted, getting to his feet. The crowd let out a sigh of relief before shouting in anger, "You jerk! We thought you were dead!"

"Pity he isn't," someone commented, making the mob laugh. Seamus cleaned up himself up with the help of his wand. "Good fight, Harry," Seamus said, holding out his hand. "It appears the best man has won."

"Well, did you really expect that you could beat Harry Potter?" Neville remarked, coming over and smiling at the two. Hermione shook her head and laughed with the others.

"Oh Hermione, that was so romantic! Having two men duel over you! And it wasn't with wands either! Some girls have all the luck," Lavender gushed, sighing dreamily.

"How'd you make it look so realistic?" someone asked.

"Magic," Harry shrugged and the room erupted with laughter at the pun. Hermione detached herself from the group and walked towards the door. She suddenly didn't feel like laughing anymore. Her thoughts turned to Ron.

She was pleased that no one stopped her, and she quickly walked back to her own Common room, hoping that Malfoy wasn't there.

That horrid, vile creature! she thought, anger surging through her veins. Oh! she'd kill the wretched beast of she could! Nothing could make Hermione forgive him for what he had done to Ron. She didn't even want to remember how horrible and sick she felt holding Ron's hand during those few moments in the Infirmary

He had been so burnt; she could still remember how sick she got every time she looked at him. And it killed her because she could do nothing to help him. All she was capable of doing was sitting next to him and holding his hand, letting him squeeze it when a wave of pain overcame him.

He had tried to talk, but the nurse had told him to hush. She couldn't remember if he had any recognizable lips to speak through. His beautiful, long, silky red hair was no more. His face had been so distorted by the fire and heat. She could still feel the ice cold fear inside of her stomach as doctors from St. Mungo's came and quickly port keyed Ron away. No one knew how long Ron would be hospitalized, and already it felt like an eternity when it had only been two days.

She missed him, how he smelled of the Weasley scent. She missed how he'd put his arm around her and give her kisses against her cheek. She had never had a boyfriend. With Victor Krum, that had been just a one sided infatuation on Victor's side. She wasn't entirely attracted to Victor. Sure, she was immensely flattered that someone as famous like him would like a bookworm like her. And she was in love with the idea of being loved by him. But deep down, she knew that she could never really love him. Truth be told, she had a slight crush on Ron since third year in meeting Sirius. It had grown, and heavens she had been excited when she discovered that Ron shared the same feelings as her.

She would kill Malfoy, that is if Harry didn't get to him first. It took nearly all of Hermione's strength and words to keep Harry from hunting down Malfoy and Avadaing him then and there. He had looked at her, his eyes so pained at seeing his friend injured and not being avenged for his pain. She was so worried if Ron was going to be normal again. Distorted facial features would have only increased Malfoys barbing next to Ron's lack of wealth, his red hair, and his 'mudblood' girlfriend. Harry and her both knew that Ron was going to be embarrassed about his face. He already got irked when Malfoy would tease him about his freckles, pale skin and outrageously bright hair. Not that Malfoy should have been talking, his hair was ghostly white that when in the sunlight it was blinding.

And yet, there was something about Malfoy that having bright hair was perfectly flawless. It was just his features. They flowed together so well. Pale skin only looked pleasing on him. Pale hair only appeared perfect on him. Pale eyes, only flawless and fitting in his face. Everything that made him perfect to the female population of Hogwarts, everything that made girls sigh dreamily, everything was unnatural, and yet perfectly normal. He was a work of the gods, as some girls loved to exaggerate. And Hermione would have to say under a truth potion that she herself found Malfoy attractive. Until he opened his mouth, that is.

He was so horrible, so cruel. How could he be so cold? She could still remember his arm wrapped tightly around her neck. And she could remember how soft his lips were against her ear; it only made her wonder what they'd feel like against her lips. His breath had been so hot, which surprised her when he could act and speak so coldly. She supposed it was because of her childish stereotype against Malfoy's that made her assume that even his breath would feel cold. And his lips…it had felt as if burnt marks had been left on her ear. But there weren't any, she had checked twice.

His arms had been so strong. If she hadn't been in that awful predicament, and if the arms had been wrapped around her waist, she would have felt protected. She knew of his powers; she could feel it pulse inside of him. And with that power coursing thought him and making it almost tangible to her, she had felt such an urge to share the power, to carry it herself. It was so alluring, Dark Magic. She found it fascinating, but she wasn't willing to sell her body and soul to obtain it, especially if it hurt her friends in the end. No, she would have to admire Dark Magic from afar and watch as Malfoy grew in power.

Stop him, before he gets too strong. Tell somebody! her mind would cry out to her. But something was holding her back, some inner voice told her it was unwise, that it would serve for a purpose later in life. So she continued to walk down the halls, shoving her frightening, yet exciting memories of Malfoy into the back of her mind, and instead she focused on Ron.

But the more she thought of Ron, the clearer she remember Malfoy punching Ron, Malfoy chocking her, Malfoy standing with such arrogance, Malfoy glowing with power and strength. And that power, as bitter as it should have tasted, tasted intensely sweet instead, and Hermione wondered what Malfoy would do if he knew that she knew of his powers. Maybe he'd share, or teach her… she smirked. Malfoy, sharing? That was as impossible as him loving her. Basically, it was never going to happen. Ever.

:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:

A/N: :waves white flag: Uh…sorry for the delay:dives back into ditch as machine guns and bombs go off: Yeah, I had a feeling that'd happen…

Hey, flame me for my deal in a review…just as long as you review. You've all been doing so wonderful these last three chapters! Peaches for everybody! Or whatever fruit you'd prefer...

And just for some justification for my writing last chapter: 1) sorry for the typos and 2) I know it seemed as Draco was OOC in that chapter in the way he talked to Dumbledore, but he knows how to weasel himself out of trouble. He knows the he said/she said deal won't work with Dumbledore and that it is childish. Thus, he tried to approach the situation like an adult, and he showed respect, although later in the chapter I tried to show that he really wasn't sorry and he was just saying it to get himself off the hook. Did that make any sense:scratches head with worry: sorry if I confused anyone!

Oh, and thanks to my beta, Ptsrt (who I had no idea was my beta, but hey, she's/he's reading my story and helping me become a better writer. So I'm all for it!) :D Happy Valentine's Day to everybody! You know what's really strange? This is still taking place during Christmas time…O.o