Late-March, 1998

"Your warning saved your cousin and her unborn child."

Malfoy turns a page, carefully cradling the First Folio against his bent knees. "Don't know what you mean. Now fuck off, Granger, I'm busy."

"Tonks was born the fifteenth of March," she reminds him. His Julius Caesar warning about 'bewaring the ides' had given her time to alert the Order that something may be in the wind around that time. They were therefore prepared when Death Eaters came knocking on Tonks' door the night of her birthday, and had not only saved her and her baby, but also had routed a victory out of it, capturing both Thorfinn Rowle and Antonin Dolohov and delivering them into Auror hands for attempted murder.

He shrugs. "So? What do I care about my cousin or her blood-traitor family?"

There's no heat in his conviction. He's fronting.

"Thank you."

Another page turns before he answers. "Don't ever… Just don't."

She watches him in silence for a few minutes, trying to discern what his game is in denying he's done a brave and good thing, but he seems entirely unaffected by her scrutiny or even interested in her presence. The light from the magical ball he's conjured to float above his head makes his pale hair sparkle like starlight in the darkness of the sixth floor corridor.

"That seat cannot be comfortable," she states, ignoring his rather rude request and noting how rough the stone is under him and against his shoulders as he leans back in the wide window seat. "Why didn't you conjure yourself a pillow?"

He sighs and slams shut the book. "You have to butt in everywhere, don't you? Can't just leave things alone, can you?"

"Not when there's a riddle before me that needs answering, no," she frankly replies.

He carefully sets aside the book and stands to confront her. His anger is now a swarm of bees fluttering around his head and buzzing from his irate mouth. "I'm not some puzzle for you to break open and solve, you stupid bint! This isn't a game!"

She meets his eye and says evenly, "No, it's not."

Shoving back his long bangs from his face with a shaking hand, he glares at her. "You don't get it, do you? You don't get it at all!"

"Then explain it to me."

He glances around, his eyes darting to every nook and cranny, seeking possible eavesdroppers. When he raises his wand, Hermione tenses, but he only non-verbally casts a Muffling spell before dropping his arm. "The sixth floor corridor is hardly a smart place for this conversation, don't you think?"

She turns and looks over her shoulder. "There doesn't seem to be anyone else here."

He smirks and it's the same bitter expression he wears in public on a daily basis. "You sure? Not even Potter under his infamous cloak?"

The Invisibility Cloak is one of Harry's greatest weapons in the conflict with darkness. That Malfoy knows about it disturbs her. What if his father were to use Legilimency on him one day and report this tidbit to the man's Dark Master?

Hermione purposefully blanks her expression. "What cloak?"

Malfoy's lids narrow and his dark amusement grows Grinch-like across his face, stretching from ear to ear and giving him a sinister pall. "Clever witch." He steps towards her, and there's something about his panther-like stalking that truly unnerves her. Her Mary Janes slide back a step before she can catch herself and rout her courage.

Squaring her shoulders and raising her chin, she refuses to back down as he closes the distance between them and encounters her personal space. Leaning forward, he bends slightly and angles his face so they are eye-to-eye.

"The left corner of your mouth twitches when you lie," he tells her. "You should work on that."

"Technically, I haven't lied once during this conversation… unlike you," she points out, refusing to be cowed by his staring technique. "And you drum your fingers when you fib."

His cynical grin widens and she notices that his teeth are straight, white lines in his mouth and that his breath smells like the green apple candy that coats his tongue a funny lime colour. "Checking me out, Granger?"

"I could ask you the same," she counters, arching a brow. "Why are you staring at my mouth?"

Grey, half-lidded eyes drop to her lips. "I often ask myself that same question."

Her chest constricts. Is he flirting with her?

No, that would be absurd. Draco Malfoy does not speak nicely to her, much less flirt in her direction. He taunts her, curses the ground she walks on, sneers at her. He trips her up, calls her nasty names, makes her cry on occasion, but he never, ever…

"What do you think you're doing?" she whispers, shocked by how he seems to be swaying towards her.

His mouth trembles, as if he's nervous. "Something ill-advised and very stupid," he admits, pausing a breath away from kissing her. "Should I stop?"

Their eyes meet again, and Hermione feels all the air squeeze from her body, as if the space around her is attempting to suffocate her. Her heart pounds madly under her ribs, and her cheeks burn. "I… I'm not sure."

The corner of his lip twitches upwards. "That would be a first."

"No, I mean, I'm not sure I trust or could like you enough for… this."

His gaze returns to her lips and regret tightens the corners of his eyes for a fraction of a second before he straightens and moves back to his window seat. Quickly, he collects the First Folio and then turns to head back down the corridor towards the Grand Staircase, his attention firmly fixed on the floor. His cheeks are as pink as hers, she notes.

He is half way to the exit when he stops, flips open Shakespeare's masterpiece, and searches for something. When he finds it, he begins reading aloud: "…in my heart there was a kind of fighting that would not let me sleep. Methought I lay worse than the mutines in the bilboes. Rashly—and praised be rashness for it: let us know our indiscretion sometimes serves us well when our deep plots do pall, and that should teach us there's a divinity that shapes our ends…"

Hermione is floored.

Malfoy has just read from Hamlet – and not just any speech, but the one where Hamlet confesses to Horatio that he has warred within himself over the path of revenge he has vowed to complete. It is a significant, yet subtly layered moment in the text, informing the audience that Hamlet feels he is being guided by the hand of God in all things, and as such, his actions which may seem mad to others are, in fact, justified by the divine.

Piercing grey eyes looked up from the text, spearing straight through her. Oceans of silent intention reflect in their cold depths.

Before she can open her mouth to speak, he again snaps shuts the book and turns from her, continuing on his way. At the far end's arch, he veers right and heads down the stairs, most likely to return to Slytherin's familiar territory – his snake's burrow in the deep underground of the dungeons. He has, it seems, poked his head up too far this time, and now he retreats.

Contemplating what has happened here tonight, and what Malfoy could possibly mean with his cryptic messages and his carefully chosen passages, Hermione doesn't leave the sixth floor for a long while, even after the glow from his floating light spell finally fades, leaving her in darkness.

Mid-April 1998

It is her first Easter celebrated at The Burrow, and Hermione is overwhelmed by the noise and activity, as she always is whenever visiting the Weasley homestead.

To her great relief, it is not her this time that Molly turns her great displeasure upon, however (the egg incident from fourth year is still a lingering irritant sometimes, when she gives it thought). This time it is the twins. Their latest prank causes Molly's traditional Easter bread to expand until it fills the entire kitchen and spills over into the living room. The aroma of braided sweet bread is everywhere throughout the house, causing Hermione's mouth to water… and the sit-down meal moves outdoors, under the canopy of a magically warmed tent.

The clean-up of the pastry disaster delays Easter breakfast, and so the group–comprised of the entire Weasley clan, Harry, Tonks and her family, the Lovegoods, Professor Dumbledore, Kingsley Shacklebolt, Minerva McGonagall, Mad-Eye Moody, Rubeus Hagrid, Remus Lupin, Sirius Black, and Hermione–are forced to make it a late brunch instead. This seems to suit everyone just fine, especially Ron and Harry who are both enamoured with breakfast in general. As her boys stare at the laid-out banquet, she giggles at the fact they can't seem to choose between egg-in-the-hole toasties, cinnamon pancakes, or spicy beans and chips to start. They end up eating all three, plus a dollop of other dishes to try, and afterwards lean back in their chairs in a state of lethargic food coma. Hermione's choice of fare is simpler: she satisfies herself with spinach baked eggs and parmesan crusted bread slices, chasing it down with a tall glass of raspberry lemonade.

As the group sits around, talk inevitably turns to the 'shadow war'.

"Do we know where they might strike next?" Arthur asks. "Any clues?"

"Robards thinks it'll be another high ranking member of the Ministry, maybe even the Minister, himself," Shacklebolt replies. His deep tenor rumbles as he speaks, emphasising the gravity of the situation.

"Why not one of us instead?" Moody asked, pointing around the table. "We're the easier targets, staying put as we have." He clearly referring to the fact that he's been trying to convince the majority of the Order members to move into safe houses for the past few months, and has met resistance to that plan at every turn. Most of the group has stubbornly refused to be chased out of their ancestral homes and off their lands, but Hermione is now beginning to understand the wisdom of such an idea. Pride was a liability in war, especially with an enemy this sly and seasoned.

"I agree," Bill spoke up, turning to Charlie on his right. His brother nodded in agreement, deferring to Bill's lead. Both young men had been part of Tonks' rescue party, and had been there to battle off the Death Eaters before escaping with their childhood friend and her mother and father to Grimmauld Place. "I think we're playing right into the enemy's hands by staying in our homes. We're easy pickings." He glanced at his parents. "Sorry, Mum, Dad, but I think we should close up the Burrow, ward it with curses, and go into hiding."

Molly takes her husband's hand, and it is clear she is beginning to agree with Bill's reasoning.

"I, too, agree," Dumbledore pipes in. "I think it would be wise to take stronger precautions. Perhaps we should reinstitute the First Order's security provisions for good measure?"

"Designating a Secret Keeper for each home?" Sirius scoffs. "You saw how much that worked for us the first time." His tone is bitter and he glances at Harry from the corner of his eye as if to reassure himself that his godson is still with them.

Peter Pettigrew's betrayal is something Sirius Black will never forgive or forget.

Hermione feels it prudent to speak up and offer a suggestion then. "We could use the coin communication method I developed to thwart Umbridge two years ago. I mean, we could create a charmed item for each of the Order members to use to send messages across the distance."

Dolores Umbridge had come to Hogwarts at the behest of her boss, Cornelius Fudge, to act as the school's High Inquisitor during Hermione's fifth year. The woman's goal was to 'weed out the chaff' (read: expel anyone who didn't go along with her new programs) and prevent any talk of the return of Voldemort. Hermione and her friends had rebelled against the odious woman's strict reforms by creating an underground club without her knowledge. The guild known as 'T.D.' (short for 'The Defiant') had met in secret throughout that year, the times of their meetings conveyed through a series of coins Hermione had charmed. The coins also served as an early warning device for whenever Umbridge closed in on them or one of them was in trouble; all of them would vibrate and heat up when one of them was rubbed three times.

Dumbledore gives her a small smile. "An ingenious idea, Miss Granger." He holds up a finger, as if to say, 'wait, I've thought of something else!' "It should be a token that is ordinary on the outside, but not one that cannot be easily passed around and that holds some special meaning to the owner."

"That way, if it's seen, it won't cause suspicion, but it also won't be mistaken for regular currency by us," Harry chimes in with a nod. "And, the owner will take care not to lose it, too. Brilliant!"

"But how do you prevent the enemy from using it if they get their grubby paws on one of 'em," Ron asks, "or what if one of us loses it and someone else picks it up?"

A solution comes to Hermione on the fly as she stares at Harry. "We spell the items with the same modified charm as exists on the Marauder's Map to keep others from knowing its secrets." She turns to Sirius and Remus. "It's a type of Anti-Cheating Charm, correct?"

They both chuckle.

"One of Remus' better ideas," Sirius admits.

Talk turns to how they should deal with the possibility of disguises and Polyjuice use, and then the meal and meeting come to an official end. The party splits up, and Hermione joins in clearing the table and securing the left-overs.

"Miss Granger, could I trouble you for a moment of your time," the Headmaster requests, "to discuss those coins of yours."

She sees the familiar twinkle in his blue eyes, and knows this is a ruse to lure her out of the hearing range of the others. Perhaps he has some news regarding her parents in Australia?

Excusing herself, she follows Professor Dumbledore out, and walks with him at a leisurely pace towards the edge of the Weasley's wards. They are silent until the half-way mark, and then Hermione cannot hold her anxiety a moment more. "Professor, are my parents-?"

"Fine, my dear," he promises her with a fatherly pat on her shoulder. "They are perfectly fine. Better, I dare say, than we are."

They share a smile. No doubt her parents are enjoying scuba diving off the Great Barrier Reef. Conservative they may seem in public and at the office, but on the weekends and during holidays… It is safe to say Hermione comes by her sense of adventure and curiosity honestly.

"They are not the reason for needing to pull you away from the others. I need to speak with you about Draco Malfoy."

She feels a strange fluttering sensation in her belly at just the mention of the name. The memory of their last encounter is indelibly burned into her brain and has been haunting her for the last few weeks.

"I understand it that you've been on speaking terms with him since the start of first term."

"It's not really speaking, per se," she explains.

He gives her a significant look, and she blushes under his scrutiny realising how that confession sounded.

"What I mean is, I run into him sometimes around school," she tries to explain, feeling like a bug mounted on a Plastazote rectangle under the Headmaster's perceptive stare. "I've discovered quite by accident that he… well, that he likes Shakespeare. We debate Muggle literature on occasion."

Which led to him trying to kiss her.

She keeps that little bit to herself.

The old wizard's smile is genuine and broad. "Indeed. That is excellent news. And I am excited to hear you're helping him on his journey towards a broader appreciation for and an understanding of perspectives beyond those he's been raised to believe."

She considers that for a moment, recalling that his attitude has been slowly changing right under everyone's noses since Umbridge's reign of terror. The reason eludes her, but she cannot deny the fact that he's clearly a different boy than just two years ago. "I don't think I've had much to do with that, honestly."

As they reach the edge of the wards, Dumbledore stops and turns towards her. Hermione can't meet his eyes, staring instead at her fingernails as she plays at cleaning underneath them. She's afraid that if she looks up at him, all of her confusion will show on her face and that will lead to questions. She doesn't want to be interrogated about her odd feelings towards Draco Malfoy, not right now. Her mind's still too muddled from indulging in the Easter pudding and her heart's at war with her head over the subject.

"I wouldn't be so sure of that, Miss Granger," her teacher encourages her traitorous-hopeful thoughts. He leans closer and murmurs low, passing something off into her hand at the same time, "Sometimes, the obvious is hidden in plain sight – especially where Slytherins are concerned."

She puzzles over his words as he Disapparates, returning to Hogwarts she presumes.

When she opens her hand, she finds two lovely Trochus seashells. One is red and yellow striped, the other a rich green with black flecks. Both are no bigger than her thumb nail, and they weigh no more than a feather, but in her hand they feel as weighty as gold.

If she were to fathom a guess, she'd say they came from the waters around Australia.

Late-April 1998

Hermione finds Malfoy in the Astronomy Tower this time. He is sitting on the floor, leaning against the railing and reading from the First Folio. Apparently, he's checked it out for the remainder of the term.

"You're monopolising a very important piece of Muggle culture and history," she accuses in a light-hearted tone, somewhat relieved to see him still curious about such things. She's been worried that his going home for the holiday might have undone all of the good over the past several months, but now she sees that is clearly not the case.

"Maybe I am," he answers, unfazed by her company or her commentary. "What are you going to do about it?"

She sighs. He's still a challenging little git, though.

"Would you believe me if I said I'll dock you House points?"

"For intentionally ignoring curfew, yes. For hogging a book and being out after hours reading, no." He glances up at her through the fringe of his bangs. "You're not that hypocritical, Granger."

She can't help but chuckle with agreement and crosses the wooden floor to his side of the room so they won't have to conduct this conversation in raised voices. "So, what's on the roster for tonight?"

She means the tome in his hands. He knows it, but answers in typical Draco Malfoy fashion:

"Taming of the Shew. Thought I'd give it a go."

Rolling her eyes, she sighs. "You're insufferable and predictable."

He is quiet for a moment in the face of her pronouncement. "Is it possible for a villain to be anything else?"

"I take it back. You're not a villain."

Now that the words have left her mouth, she knows they are true. Malfoy had been a rotten brat for years, deserving of far worse in punishment than he's received, but she knows at the core of him, he is not evil. That he questions his father's belief system–one might say, he even defies it in the reading and enjoyment of Shakespeare's works–is proof enough of that fact.

He quickly shuts the book and sets it down on the floor in front of him, tracing the cover letters with a well-manicured finger. "You willing to bet your life on that?"

That's the big question, isn't it?

"I am excited to hear you're helping him on his journey…"

Perhaps Dumbledore was right. Maybe she'll be able to reach Malfoy now that he's dropped his walls and is open to possibilities aside from pure-blood supremacy.

Stepping closer, she folds her legs under her tailor-style and takes a seat, assuring her skirt covers her knees. "Yes, I'm sure," she says with conviction. "You respect a good play, and no one who does so can possibly be evil."

He glances at her through a half-lidded, amused gaze. "But every Slytherin appreciates a good performance. It's in our very nature."

She thinks about that. "Is that what you're doing – performing?"

His smirk mocks her very bones. "What do you think?"

Her eyes drop to the book under his hand. "I think I'd like to know what play you were reading when I walked in here tonight." She is almost positive she saw the names Tybalt and Mercutio before he slapped the cover closed.

The way his lips drop into an instant frown and the defensive set of his shoulders is very telling. "None of your business," he bristles. "Why does it matter anyway?"

"Why are you bothered by such a simple request?" she counters.

"Why are you so damned nosy all the time?"

"Why can't you just answer the question?"

"Why are you here?"

"Why haven't you left?"

He snorts a tad inelegantly. "You're the one rudely invading my space and destroying my peace of mind. You should leave."

"Do I really make you feel like that?" she asks, genuinely curious. How much power does she have over him, really?

His jaw sets with anger and his grey eyes flash like struck matchsticks. "You bloody well know you do!"

"Why?"

He tosses his hands into the air with frustration. "Because you like to fuck with my qi. I don't know!"

"No, I mean, since when does what I do affect you in any fashion?" Therein lies the real issue, and she is determined to get to the heart of the matter. "You've always made it very clear in the past that I'm nothing to you. Less than your family's house-elf. Less even than the towels you use in the loo to dry your hands. Why has that fact changed this year?" She reaches out and strokes a reverent hand over the First Folio. "Is it because of the stories in the book? Have you finally decided something Muggle actually has worth?"

He is quiet for so long that she cannot help but be curious as to why. Peeking over at him from her peripheral vision, she finds him staring at her with an unfathomable emotion. Is it anger, or is it longing, or is it regret tainted with both of those things? She can't decide. What she does know is that it causes a serious case of fluttering in her belly.

"Maybe I have," he finally admits.

"Does that mean you don't subscribe to You-Know-Who's agenda any longer?"

He gives her a 'shut your trap' look. Then, his hand twitches and his wand falls from his sleeve into it. With a barely perceptible twitch and a powerful non-verbal spell, he Muffles the entire room.

"Would you believe me if I said I don't?"

She arches at brow at that. "Does that mean you're going to switch sides and join the Order?"

The corner of his lip twitches. "I never said that."

This whole conversation is exasperating; he won't admit to anything, like the slippery Slytherin he is. "So you would stay at your father's side and serve an evil madman even though you no longer share their values? Why?"

"I never said that either. Granger, not everyone walks in the light, but they may still serve it," he states, stopping her cold.

Good God, he's going to go against Voldemort, isn't he? When the war comes, he's going to help the Order. He's just implied as much.

No, there is still wiggle room in that confession for him to back out. She must get him to admit it, out loud, for them both to hear. It will only be real then. "For once, Draco, just state your intentions," she challenges him, her blood pounding in her ears.

He meets her eye and in a grim tone says, "I follow him to serve my turn upon him."

Iago's shocking confession employed here for Malfoy's purposes is as a lightning strike between them. Hermione is made numb by it, and there is a long silence before she can conjure any sort of response.

"That's… completely suicidal. A fool's mission. You can't–!"

He interrupts her with a mocking smile on his full lips. "I have lost the immortal part of myself, and what remains is bestial…"

Fervently, she shakes her head. "That's not true! Your reputation may be, admittedly, a bit on the darker side, but that doesn't mean it can't be fixed or that you have to throw your life away to do so! Getting close to You-Know-Who just to stab him in the back could end with your death as well!" She stands up and puts her hands on her hips, staring him down much as she does Ron or Harry when they say something utterly ridiculous. "And you can't cite Cassio and Iago in the same series of breaths! They are as different as Gilderoy Lockhart and Professor Snape!"

Malfoy growls at her, picks up Shakespeare's tome, and rises to his feet. "I knew I shouldn't have… Just stay out of my bloody business!"

She steps in his path as he makes to leave. "Reconsider whatever you're planning. The Order can help you–"

He stares down at her with a fury she's never seen in him before. Something has happened, perhaps over the Easter holiday. Whatever it is, it has unhinged him.

"Come not between the dragon and his wrath," he advises her much as King Lear warned Kent.

She dogs him again as he tries to go around her, refusing to back down. "Let me help you, at least. Please, Draco. Let me in."

His breath is harsh as he leans forward and presses his mouth to her ear. "That's the whole problem, Granger: you are in."

Malfoy's words buzz around in her head like a bevy of agitated insects for two whole weeks after that confrontation. He ignores her the entire time, and retains possession of the First Folio just to spite her, she's sure.

TO BE CONTINUED...

Author's Notes:

I changed the name of Dumbledore's Army to The Defiant to distinguish in your mind that this fic is very much an alternate universe fic. No other reason for it, but to bring that point home to you.

Please review!

Dramionelove's Adopt-A-Prompt Fest (dramionelove . livejournal . com) is still going on. Please check out all the new art & fanfic and leave a review, if you would!