Draco Malfoy had never been as interested in a drawing as he was in the one before him. The Mountain of the Sky Chambers…. Surely, this had to be it. The clouds chased each other from midway up to the peak of the mountain, and beyond sight in the photo, where the sky received it like an open palm, grasping. He could picture it as it had been painted with human fingers on the slab of wall, now located at the British History Museum. He closed his eyes. "The Black Headed men," had circled the mountain in the painting. Not headed, he knew, but hooded. But far be it from him to change the minds of muggles that were long made up on their History; a history that was completely lacking in any real knowledge of his kind, of course.

For a long time, Hermione was silent. He had to admit, she was surprising him. He had prepared himself for a hard road ahead when he learned she would have to reenter his life. He'd steadied his resolve, mentally, against the whining, grating voice, and the competitive, know-it-all nature she had. He had been totally expecting her to balk against him, her suspicion, and perhaps even getting hexed. He had obviously not- he now realized- been expecting a grown woman to greet him. Certainly not a topless woman.

And she had changed, more than physically. Whether it was from the stress he knew she'd been under, doing all of this work by herself, or perhaps just becoming an adult and letting childhood competition fall by the wayside, Hermione Granger was not the hand-raised-violently-in-the-air-swinging, rule-sticking, brown-nosing, mud-blooded, Gryffindor girl that he had once despised. She was reserved. She was contemplative. She was… tired, he decided. She had hung onto many of the teenage features he recalled: small nose, wide eyes, long eye-lashes, pert lips, a splash of freckles over her nose and cheeks… but her face had lost a bit of the roundness… her eyes had sunken in a little against her cheek bones, causing them to stand regally on her face in a way she probably wasn't even aware of. But he was. He was aware of just about every inch of her, from the mane of hair that almost intimidated him, to the nearly perfect breasts he had managed to catch more than just a glimpse of, to the legs that went on for days inside those jeans… and he hardly blamed himself, even knowing it was her. Been months since he'd even been in the presence of a woman… let alone one his own age, with a pulse, and an IQ that made him dizzy. And much as her desperate craving for knowledge may have changed, he knew her passion for it hadn't... just as the passionate anger he was able to stir in her, hadn't.

"Who is summoning us?" he asked, breaking from this dangerous line of thought, with some effort.

"The Kings of the Valley. The Black-Headed ones," she answered. He smirked. So she hasn't deduced that, yet, he thought. "Well, they're called Black-Headed, in the mythology, but, of course, its more likely that they wore black dressrobes with hoods," she corrected. His smirk faded. She was still in there, all right. Maybe she hadn't changed.

"What reason would you have to think they'd still be alive, let alone would want anything to do with two Hogwarts drop-outs?"

Her brow knitted together and her lips nearly disappeared. He'd hit a nerve, he realized immediately... and he couldn't help himself.

"What's the matter, Granger? Haven't accepted that bit, yet? That you couldn't be the Valedictorian of Hogwarts? That no one gave you an award for Most Questions Answered in the span of seven long years?"

"Be careful, Malfoy," she said, coolly. "You are still in my house." His smirk widened. He bit his bottom lip.

"Of course… wouldn't want you to… make me bleed, again, Granger. I'm positively quaking." Her cheeks were pink and her lips like two thin rubies. Her eyes were whirling with chestnut fire. He was halfway surprised she wasn't bearing down on him, yet. She really had gained restraint over the past decade.

"Nearly everything I lost in that year away from school is your fault, Malfoy. Your poor decision making and cowardice lead to the destruction of people I loved. If I was half the self-loathing, egotistical failure that you are, Malfoy, I'd have either reduced you to physical, shaking pain… or I'd have run away, screaming. But one of us has to be the bigger wizard. One of us has to be worthy of being summoned." She turned from him then, and strode to the doorway, leaving him taken aback- and slightly satisfied- after having forced this reaction from her.

She spun around in the doorway. "And furthermore… I'm not surprised in the slightest, Malfoy. After all… ferrets don't quake when they're frightened, do they?" She left the room, and not a moment too late, he thought, as anger quelled inside him… a satisfied, hot, roaring anger, spreading like a wildfire through dead brush. Why had he missed this? A brat through and through, he decided. And she? She really hadn't changed much, after all. She was just hiding her cards, biding her time. He was grateful, he realized suddenly. "No they don't quake," he answered quietly, to himself. "They bite."

Hermione was furious. How dare he bring that up to her, expecting her to forfeit, or expecting her to let bygones be bygones… he had no idea how close he was to leaving with a belly full of Slewborne Slugs… or a black eye. It took her a moment to chase away the red rim around her peripheral vision and find her old self inside the beast she had become. Only he had ever made her feel like this, she realized. Only he had ever been able to bring her away from the type of person she liked to be… the type of woman who could break the stereotype and quell her emotions for reason. The type of witch who could stare hate in the face and keep calm, keep her head. She felt out of control around him, and she didn't like it. She wasn't ready to lose control this early into everything. If she lost it now, before they'd spent scarcely more than half an hour together, what exactly was she setting herself up for over the course of the next year?

She couldn't- she wouldn't spend her time plotting and scheming against him while supposed to be working at his side. It was too much for her to deal with after four months of no sleep. And yet, she realized, she didn't yet find herself longing for the uncomplicated, lukewarm contentment she always had with Harry and Ron. She sighed. I choose not to think on what that says about me, as a person….

"Have we gotten that out of our systems, then?" she heard from behind her. She turned. He was leaning lazily against the doorway to her kitchen, staring at her. She despised him.

"Have we?" she repeated.

"Well I won't speak for you, Granger. I don't even speak your language."

"And what language is that? Mudblood?"

"I was thinking of Hysterical Woman, but I reckon that works too."

Her gut knotted. She told herself to breathe.

"Malfoy…" she started, the numbers counting down in her head seeming more akin to the launching of the rocket than counting sheep.

"Yes?" he asked. Six sheep jumping over a fence on fire… five sheep jumping over a fence into a pool of acid… four sheep jumping into outer space….

"Thank you," she said. His face twisted in confusion.

"Thank you…?"

"For offering to protect me."

She'd hit the nail on the head, she knew immediately. He was frozen for far too long to not have been right on the money. And why, she wondered, did he suddenly… give a damn? She knew of course it was partially about the project; about the questions that burned inside him... but would he admit it? A galleon said he was about to dismiss her.

"A man has to protect his investments," he said at last, and studied his fingernails. She rolled her eyes and sighed.

"Good. Since that's settled… do you drink coffee?"

That was clearly not what he'd been expecting her to say. His game of cat and mouse, she knew, hadn't grown boring for him yet, and he was still hungry to play.

"Why?" he asked, watching her.

"Well. If you have any interest in staying up tonight with clenching worry and sleeplessness, while we discuss the rest of what we heard tonight… they sell some… down the street."

She'd never seen this look on his face, before. He was so awkward, and she, so at ease. It was easy to invite Malfoy to coffee. If he had been any sort of a real man, a potential dating specimen, she'd have rather ridden on a thestral into a hurricane. But Malfoy? She could ask Malfoy to drink a whole vat of coffee. He could even eat food if he wanted. It did her good to see him off his game. And, she thought, it did him some good to squirm.

"Why would I want to do that?" he finally asked, as if unsure of what else to say. His brow was furrowed and he was tracing his lip with his thumbnail, a definite nervous tick. She was positively giddy.

"Well, maybe because we've sussed out exactly one of the five things The Kings want from us-"

"If it even is "The Kings" talking to us, at all, and not a lot of bollocks-"

"-and something tells me that's not going to be enough. And, there's also the delightful fact that you've still not shared with me exactly what you really want with this project- or with me. I don't trust you. I don't like you. And other than the obvious financial aspect, I have no idea what you bring to this relationship."

Apparently, she'd gone beyond his capacity to insult her. He stood there, looking at her, poised and contemplating. She rolled her eyes and brought her wand tip to her lips. She blew on it, and the light in her kitchen went out.

"Coffee it is."

Draco sat across from the tidy, square table from Hermione Granger, a box of menus and two upside down mugs between them. There was also, he noticed, a short, fat candle with a lit wick inside a conical glass, with a suggestive aura on the table. He felt like laughing.

Hermione Granger and I going for coffee well past the time of day in which its practical to drink it… in a muggle café.

And what was even MORE shocking, was that she had asked him, despite how it may have looked... The Queen Prude as they used to call her. Miss Priss. Well, not all of them, he reminded himself. She had gone with Viktor Krum, and he imagined that hadn't been an especially chaste relationship... and of course, he'd heard about her and the Weasel. Though he had no idea whatever happened to set them apart. Separated they were, though, of that he had no doubt. One bedside table. One dresser. Undergarments that suggested no eyes were upon them. Still, whether she was Miss Priss, The Queen Prude or a Sex Kitten of the Night, if any of his friends had seen this back in school, he'd have been ruined. But, then, he reminded himself… he didn't have any friends.

"So, tell me," she started, her suddenly-cavalier attitude not fading in the slightest, "what exactly about magical origin catches your fancy? Apart from, of course, the obvious."

"The obvious?" he asked.

"Well, being able to prove that those of us from non-magical backgrounds have a lesser form of magic than you Purebloods and therefore should be given fewer privileges and shoved underground where we belong—if we're allowed to live, at all."

"I see you read the file," he said, not bothering to stifle the sarcasm that was beginning to flow freely.

"Not that I believe a word."

His brows went up. "Oh?"

"Rubbish, all of it; all of them theories, none of them facts. I'm surprised you thought I'd be interested in it, at all. Interviewing your family members, and elder pureblood lines, to get that rubbish... research requires an open mind, Malfoy. Without it, you see only what supports your thesis. Your worldview."

For a moment, he was quiet, reading her. If he was honest with himself, he'd admit… she was beyond his intelligence. She was sharper, and more creative. He had a better sense of self-preservation, a more practical "common sense," than she did- not that that was ever really a Gryffindor trait- but in a beat, it was she who would find the correct answer 90% of the time, and he knew it. So how could she have missed what he assumed had been so obvious?

"Tell me more," he said simply. She rolled her eyes at him. His widened. She really didn't know…? She sized him up, eyes up to his, then down. She sat back, cleared her throat. The waitress approached them and poured the silent couple coffee. She looked between them before walking off. She dropped a check on the table. Hermione took a sip; cocked her head.

"That file represents a 'peek behind the curtain' into your thoughts, yes? Going back and forth, not sure what you believe in, anymore… I think you went through something after the war. I think daddy being locked up and mummy playing the hero was too much for you. I think all that money and all those feelings went to your head and you didn't know what you thought anymore, about any of it. The two people you always hated most of all saved your hide- twice- in that war. Had to be tough getting over that. Tough enough to break you? I doubt it. I think there's more to it than that, but I won't pretend to guess what happened. I think you had ten long years to stew in wonder and hatred. I think you started to go a bit mad. And then, somehow, I don't know how, but somehow, you heard about what I was doing, and it fascinated you… because you were wondering all the same things I was, but because of your own bollocks-for-brains upbringing and high-society nonsense, you couldn't face it. I think your inheritance finally came to use, and you decided to try and buy me to do your legwork; to tell you what to believe… to ease your mind. I think you need me to find yourself. The question is whether or not I'm going to help you. A need is ever stronger than a want, after all."

Draco almost felt like congratulating her. For it was truly a marvel to read that much into a file so small. She had thought a lot about this, he realized. But that was one of the great Hermione Granger's faults… she read too much into things. She struggled to see what was two feet in front of her, always concerned with what was a mile away. And now, she had convinced herself that she was in control. It might as well have been his birthday, because this was truly going to be spectacular….

"Se melius," he whispered, and her coffee rippled. She looked down into it, and back to him.

"What—"

"You'll thank me, in a bit," he said. Her two hands were curled around the cup. Small hands, he noticed, marred by the signs of labor. He chuckled. "All that you deduced from the file I had hand delivered to you?" he asked. She shrugged.

"I wager there's much more to it than that… I'd ask you to tell me if I thought you'd be honest."

"Mmm. Not one of my known traits."

"Precisely."

"Well, Granger. I'm about to do you a favor." She stared at him, prying for clues. He smirked. "It's not my collection. They aren't my notes. The only thing of mine in the whole case is the photograph… the one, I assume, was the missing piece you needed to assemble this jigsaw puzzle in what I will admit to you is a pretty impressive brain you have, there. Impressive, if not overly ambitious. For someone rambling on about theories and facts... you sure are looking the part of The Hypocrite." She glared at him.

"You're lying."

"Well. You're the Master of Occlumency, here. Read my thoughts," he invited her, and he closed his eyes. He could feel her grappling, wanting to know, not trusting him, and trying desperately to read his facial features, alone.

Nice try, he thought toward her. I can camouflage any emotion I want. You'll never find your answers that way.

He heard her scowl, and he chuckled. She was reading him now whether or not she wanted to. So he opened his mind a bit more to her, and felt her gently float in….

Hermione walked into Malfoy's mind and began to read like pages from a book on every sensory level what he saw, felt, heard, smelled… she could feel him, physically, emotionally. She expected him to be cold. He wasn't. Neither was he the lukewarm embrace she always felt around her friends. His skin felt electric, the type of heat that burns without, more so than within. Had she had skin to feel, it would have prickled. She thought he must have been elevated by something, but... he was alone in these memories. Utterly alone, she realized… and he was poured over what looked like years worth of books, letters, and files. He wasn't shaven, she could feel and see. His hair was long, straggly, like Sirius had been when they'd first met. The memory made her gut twist. Or at least, it would have, she knew, had she not been sharing one with Draco Malfoy. She watched as he ripped pages from journals and toss them into a pile, a pile she recognized from an ornate container she was hand delivered.

The memory changed. She was tiny, feeling everything, understanding next to nothing… a face was blurred in her vision. A tall, pale man with long blonde hair… not Lucius, she realized. Lucius was holding her, tightly, with strong hands, but no warmth. Yet, her body still prickled. But the man peering down at her, the one resembling the son more than the father, had a kinder face, she could sense through the blurry lines and fuzzy edges. He reached for her and she was pulled away. "If you have decided to do this, then go," she heard her father say. Malfoy's father. "You don't get to make your goodbyes. As far as you are concerned, he no longer exists." His face seemed to change... she leaned into the memory, yearning for more. Why did he no longer exist?

She was thrust into the body of a preteen boy, listening to two people fight. When had the memory changed? She felt a sea of chaos inside her, emotional torment, physical pain. She'd been beaten on this day— he had, she knew, but it was if the bruises were freshly on her arms and legs. She almost couldn't believe how strongly she could feel it. And what were they saying, out there? She strained to listen. "Rory is dead. What he found means nothing."

"Lucius, don't do this. Please listen to me," the other pleaded. She knew this voice. How did she know it?

"You've brought this upon yourself..."

"OBLIVIATE!" a new voice shouted. There was silence. She felt her teenage chest heaving. He silently pressed his ear to the door. A pop on the other side of the door. He pressed harder. A moment passed... and she was knocked to the ground by the full force of the door being blown off the hinges.

She landed in another body. One who was crying, tears streaming down its face. She was alone, in the room- the same room, door in tact. Alone in her heart, and in her head. Perhaps sixteen years old… about to go back to Hogwarts. The trunk was packed and sitting by the bed. The prickling feelings had gone, completely. Her body was scarcely attached to her, anymore. She was entirely inside him, now. Cold air sat, acrid in her chest like drowning in frozen water, or cement. The doorway was bright, and she found herself shaking. Her arms stung and burned. She looked down and saw red, soaking flesh, clothes and the floor she stood upon. Blood dripped from those arms and cut through the air, to the floor-

"ENOUGH," she heard from somewhere far away, and then what felt like a hand tore through her chest and yanked her from her position inside him. She was sailing, reeling, and then she was back in the café across the street from her flat, a coffee in her shaking hands and fresh tears staining her cheeks. Her hand flew over heart, protectively. It was beating wildly after feeling as though she had been pulled back into her body by it. Her head was pounding. Draco Malfoy looked livid in a way she had never seen him, before. Vulnerable she realized. And part of her could still feel it, too.

"That wasn't something I showed you," he said, refusing to look at her. "You went looking. You found that on your own," he accused. She shook her head, wiping the tears from her cheeks with some embarrassment.

"No I didn't," she stammered when she finally found her voice. "Draco, how could I have? I wouldn't have known what I was looking for…" she was completely out of breath. She found herself staring at his arms, suddenly, turned inward, away from her. Long sleeves. Had she ever seen him without long sleeves? She'd never noticed, before. And suddenly, regardless of what he'd done, who he was, and what she knew he was likely to do again if he ever really had the upper hand… what she felt was altogether new. It was a predicament she didn't have a word for, and that was very unlike her. She found his eyes. He was beginning to calm, she saw. His wall was coming down again, and he was separating himself from that memory. She had forced him to relive it as well, she could see. It wasn't just her pain, but his all over again. They had both just experienced a deep part of Draco Malfoy, together, without his permission, and neither of them even bloody liked one another.

She wasn't sure how to continue; what to say. She'd never imagined him to be so deeply conflicted... traumatized. Without thinking, she lifted her coffee to her lips and took a long gulp. Her eyes flew open. She choked, coughed, and swallowed hard. She stared at the mug, and then pointed that stare at him.

"You spiked this?!" she asked him. She had startled him. He looked at her cup and cleared his throat. He took it from her hands and finished it off. He shook his head a little, letting out a breath.

"I'm not sorry," he said, pushing the coffee cup away from his hands. He leaned back in the chair, loosened his button-down shirt. Hermione bit her lip. He rocked on the chair's back legs for a moment, not seeing her. She was ready to put down some muggle money and head home, when he picked up a spoon and began absent mindedly playing with it. "You called me 'Draco."

Had she? She had barely been herself. The connection between them had still been collapsing. She could hear herself saying it more than it had been intentional. She nodded. "I did," she said.

He nodded, still looking past her, over her shoulder, out the window of the café. For not the first time, she wanted to know what he was thinking. He lowered the spoon into his untouched coffee and began to stir without cause. "So… what do you reckon the rest of those words mean?"

A warm sun was setting in the Valley of the Kings, as it was once known. Sheep herding men and women carrying baskets of grains and fruits were heading back to their village from the Tiber, having gathered all they needed for the week. Children played in the tall reeds, and the balance of energy was right. The village would reap a bountiful harvest, they knew. They walked along harmoniously toward their homes.

A breeze kicked dust into the air, then, carrying seeds and leaves along with it. Many continued on the path toward home, unchanged. Hamid Yosef, their tribal priest, paused. He watched the dust as it was carried up off the ground and into the air. He watched it swell over the Tiber, swirling and following its course, until it disappeared in his vision toward The Mountain. He turned his head and watched as his village marched on. His people; who he worked so hard to protect. And they were happy. He turned back to the mountain.

"They come, two halves… to find one path," he said to himself under his breath. He took a deep breath, burdened by a memory, before turning back to face his people… and as he did, clouds formed over the mighty mountainside. He heard the lightening, though he dared not turn around.

It had begun.