Hermione lay awake for a while before she opened her eyes. She felt so rested. It was as if she had slept for an entire day, though she assumed it was probably closer to seven, maybe eight hours. Merlin, how badly her body needed more rest... and her mind... her buggering mind. She had never been so equally impressed and revolted by her own imagination. She'd had the most elaborate, dark nightmare… but it must have done the trick, she thought, because sh hadn't felt so free of anxiety and tension, in decades. The freedom flowing through her blood, and the sensation that she was finally back, at home at Hogwarts, had left her completely at ease.

But, now that she was awake, so was her conscience. Her memory. She sighed. Finally, she opened her eyes and threw her feet over the edge of the bed. She glimpsed the back of the couch and yawned, remembering their fight. She supposed she was probably going to have to grit her teeth and apologize for her outburst… even though the idea of facing him anytime in the next several days, while the freshness of her dreamland ecstasy lingered, made her want to trade places with Hagrid, instead. And Merlin did she hope he wouldn't detect even a trace of it… because if Draco Malfoy ever knew that Hermione Granger had had an erotic fantasy about him… and had woken up feeling- dare she even THINK it- … satisfied… she would probably just have to off herself.

She stepped onto the floor and made her way for the little bathroom nook at the back of their suite in The Room of Requirement. She could suddenly hear what she assumed was him brushing his teeth and she braced herself. She had been hoping he was still asleep… hadn't expected to do this before she even had the pleasure of a shower… thinking about the pleasure of anything sent a shiver up her spine. Was this how it was for other women? She had no idea. It was her first time. She hoped it would end after some tea and breakfast. And some reality. Surely that would help break this spell.

When she rounded the corner, she froze. He was standing at the sink, leaning down to rinse his mouth. His hair was still wet, wavy and clean. He had jeans on, no shoes, and an open button down shirt. He hadn't shaved his face, and he smelled like… a man, she realized. She saw stars for a moment. She wanted to throw up. He heard her footsteps and turned to face her. As soon as he did, she saw the imperfection… that smirk. It was… so triumphant. The color drained from her face as she suddenly realized a truth that she had not even considered.

"Are we feeling better this morning then, Granger? Or do we need to give it another go?"

Draco had gone to bed last night horribly hard and terribly exhausted, but so sodding satisfied with himself that he had scarcely even cared.

He'd had her. When she opened her eyes and her first waking thought was him… whenever she took tea with those two golden-boys… the next time she had a lover that just didn't quite measure up… he'd be there, in her pretty little head, underneath all that hair. He hadn't been this pleased with himself in years.

When he awoke, still tired, hair plastered to his head, he looked over the edge of the couch to see if she'd awakened and snuck away to hide… he was only halfway surprised to see her still in bed, lightly snoring, with the covers drawn up around her, but not quite covering her. Her shirt had risen, exposing her clean, fit abdomen and just a hint of her lower breasts. He had considered climbing into bed with her and tormenting her all over again… but he had pressing matters to get on with, this morning. And for Merlin's sake, he was hoping she was at least going to be less uptight from now on. But he knew, that might require a repeated offense. She was far more tightly wound than his average toss.

He took a shower, washed himself and his hair with all the stuff he liked—The Room of Requirement really lived up to its name. He stepped out, toweled off, and grabbed some stuff out of his suitcase to wear. He heard her breathing change when he was just starting to comb his hair, shirt hardly buttoned. He smirked… and unbuttoned the rest. He let it hang open, and stood to face the mirror. He wasn't a God, he reckoned. He was a little too skinny. His face was a bit too hard. He couldn't tell if he looked better shaven or a bit scruffy… he didn't know what each woman liked about him, visually. But he had a feeling that in his present state, even if Granger hadn't been shagging Ron Weasley, of all the imbeciles, previously to this… she wouldn't kick him out of her bed. So let her take a peek. Let it all sink in.

He was brushing his teeth when she entered, and he allowed her to drink him in. He could feel her eyes feasting on him like they hadn't eaten in days… before he turned around, he wasn't sure quite what to expect from her. What was her mood? Was she… accepting? Rebelling? Did she want more? Did she fancy him, now? Was she going to try to kill him? Maybe she'd feel horribly violated and storm out of the room, dropping the project completely… and then he'd really be kind of screwed. He maybe ought to have thought of that.

All he could do was turn to face the bear he'd poked—quite a figure of speech—and hope that he wasn't about to get murdered.

And just when he thought he had her, saw the color creeping into her face, her heavy eyes swaying down his chest... just when he hit her with a good line to remind her of her weakness for him… she dashed past him, ran to the toilet, and vomited.

Hermione's head swam. It had been real. Real?! She'd let Draco Malfoy… oh, she couldn't think of it. She was going to be sick, again. She was shaking. She stood up, holding her arms by her elbows. Her hair hung like a privacy curtain between her face and his lean form, which was still facing her, awaiting her reply. She wiped the back of her mouth with her wrist, glad to be hidden.

What was she going to do? She couldn't seem to string one moment into the next, they were all broken segments in time, and this rolling in her stomach was never going to end and why the bloody Hell wasn't he dressed-

Snap out of it, she told herself. She closed her eyes. What had really occurred? she asked herself: A man she despised had climbed into her bed in the dead of night… he was aware that she was overly taxed, and she had challenged his manhood with her request for some humanity. She'd shown him weakness. He was a man who, undoubtedly, often mistook weakness for submission. And then… he had caused her to reach orgasm. She felt ridiculous. She felt like a slag. What was worse, she was bewildered by herself.

She wasn't drunk, or drugged. She hadn't been cursed. Why the Hell hadn't she stopped him?! And deep down, she knew why not… because it had been YEARS since she'd bothered to take up with a man. She had never been particularly good at, or interested in dating. She wasn't the type to handle her own business... and even though it was attached to the worst POSSIBLE human being on the planet, Draco Malfoy did still have a penis… and he consistently did something that no other person had ever been able to do, to this extent: He impassioned her.

…Even if that passion was typically nothing but malice. Rage.

Should she even blame herself? Was it any surprise, since she had starved her body for the sake of spoiling her mind these last five years, that on the first offering of sustenance... it accepted?

Greedily, she admitted.

He'd done what Draco Malfoy always did, she reminded herself. He'd taken advantage of a situation in the hopes of attaining a goal: to control her with that emotion. He hadn't hurt her. On the contrary, she'd as good as helped him put his hands on her, if memory served. She distinctly remembered letting it all go when he started to work that physical magic. And truly, she'd never reached climax so fast, or wholly, in all of her life. Despite his reasons for doing so being repugnant... her body certainly hadn't rejected his touch.

Must have been the adrenaline, she told herself. That had to have been it, because she was not about to admit to herself that Draco Malfoy knew how to play her body like a violin. That was never going to happen.

He thought, she realized… that he was teaching her a lesson. He wanted her to feel as though he had won. Well, two could play that game. He'd love it if she fought him, hexed him blind, argued herself blue in the face… he'd expect her to cry, or to stumble away and simply beg him not to tell anyone, and chancing a glance at him, she thought, well damned if he didn't look like he was halfway hoping she'd ask him to finish the job he started.

But, no. She'd had enough of puking. She wouldn't go there. He'd served his purpose, and he was disgusting for it. She would give him no further satisfaction where she was concerned. She knew the one thing that Draco Malfoy feared, underneath it all. She knew how to really get under his skin, and make him forget whether he was hunting or hunted.

She walked to the edge of the shower, opened the glass door, and climbed inside. She shut the door calmly, took her clothes off from the day before and tossed them over, onto the floor. She pictured his face… calculating her movements… trying to assess her mood. She began to lather up in the shower.

"Nothing to say to me, Granger? Not even, "Thank you"?" She poured shampoo into her hands and began to wash her hair. She heard him shift weight on his feet; heard the sink faucet turn off.

"Feeling ashamed then, are we?"

She was rinsing her hair, gathering conditioner with the other hand. She felt her curls soak it up. Merlin, she really ought to spend more time on her hair. The tendrils felt so abused, so jaded. She was surprised they even knew what to do with the product. She squeezed out a bit more and worked it in. A hairbrush appeared for her to use and she picked it up, thoughtfully. She experimentally brushed her hair with the cream in it and let her jaw fall open as it passed through with ease. Was there nothing this room couldn't improve upon?

"Granger?"

She shut the water off, squeezing it out of her now relaxed and moisturized hair as she did. She reached out of the shower, snaked a towel into her hand and wrapped it around herself, brushing droplets off her cheeks. She opened the door, stepped out into the bathroom, and folded the rim of the towel down so it would stay put around her chest as she moved about the room. She passed him, still leaning against the sink, with a very different look on his face. There was a hint of lonely puppy in there somewhere. It wasn't nearly enough.

She moved to her suitcase and removed a new set of clothes. She stepped behind the changing curtain.

She hustled a bra over her breasts, dipped low, fastened it, and stood upright. She pulled a tank top over herself, then stepped into panties and hoisted up a pair of brown suit pants. She donned an orange blouse and a brown jacket, and scooped her hair up over the collar to rest over the coat. She used her towel to squeeze more of the abundant water out of it as she walked back into the light.

He was puzzled, watching her, she saw.

"Well bloody say something then, Granger! It's not as if nothing has happened."

She patted her face completely dry and looked into the mirror. Acceptable, she deemed herself. She reached into her bag and began to pull out the notes she wanted to have with her today when she started her research. At last, she turned to face him. She could tell his anxiety had mounted. She could almost see the demon sitting on his shoulders. He was facing her, fidgeting, and looking abashed.

"Nothing has happened, Malfoy. Nothing I shouldn't have foreseen. I can't trust you. I shouldn't have tried. It was foolish of me to think you had changed. I won't make that mistake again. All I can do, until you decide to treat this project with the respect it deserves, is what you've forced me to do: ignore you. I almost feel sorry for you. I know it's really the only thing that you're afraid of... being alone.

She paused for a moment as she watched him blinking at her in confusion, and denial. And then without another word, she calmly turned and left.

What had just happened? Draco was confused. This was her plan? To… pretend he wasn't here? How did she expect to keep that up with them working on the same bloody project?

He straightened his shirt back out, irritated, and buttoned it up quickly. He forced a hand through his damp hair and looked around the cluttered room, suddenly aware of just how empty it was becoming.

How could it not have meant anything to her? It had always meant something to them, in the past. He knew she wasn't like any of the others. For one thing, she was mostly sane. But her thirst for him, he had physically felt... the way her body had impossibly clung to him. Claimed him. Submitted, wholly, and without regret to him. He was good, but he alone did not render that reaction from Hermione Granger. Her body was in step with his, the whole way. It had been a bloody team effort.

But she had NEVER forgotten about Draco Malfoy. And he wasn't about to let her. He couldn't. He started flying about the room, overturning this and that, looking for inspiration. And then, he realized... she was right. This was the only thing that ever got under his skin. He mentally congratulated her, even as he was sneering, feeling just a little bit bested. His pride stung, but in it all, there was a glimmer- of hope, or arousal, he didn't know. But one thing was certain. This was a strategy. Straight from the horse's mouth, even. She was still competing with him.

And as long as she was willing to play the game... he hadn't lost.

Hermione strode quickly down the hall. She had to get away from him. His smell was in her nose and his taste was somehow still in her mouth. Or was that the vomit? Could have been the vomit, she realized. That was a somehow more pleasant thought. Visions of his mouth claiming hers slashed through her thoughts, even as she shook them away.

After everything that she and Neville had discussed, and after the prophecy that Draco had received from Trelawney, Hermione didn't know what to think about this situation, anymore. Together, were they some sort of a key? And if so... what did the two of them open? Everything in her past told her that locked doors very rarely disclosed something fun and upbeat. And yet, like The Fool himself, she always had to know what lay beyond.

Descending the stairs, she allowed herself to slow, and focused on her elevated pulse. He wasn't following her, not that she'd expected him to. She ignored the bitty nugget of disappointment in her core, and chose to celebrate with some clarity, instead.

Let's say we do create some sort of key. We would require homeostasis. In our present condition, we form exactly nothing.

And who said the two halves were she and him, anyway? Who said they were people at all? What did Draco Malfoy really bring to the table, as her other half? Money?

Terrific orgasms, she thought. Bugger. Maybe there was still time to quit.

Oh, please. Are we a Gryffindor or aren't we? She felt herself sternly asking as she moved down the hall toward her destination. She hoped being in the company of one of her former friends would bring her back to her senses, and back to the task at hand… she desperately wanted to stop replaying the scenes from last night in her head. She didn't even want to think of what her friends would think of her. Ron would probably never speak to her again. He had gone absolutely mad when it was only Viktor on her plate. "Fraternizing with the enemy," he'd called it. Lord, had he been premature. And Harry… thoughts turned to the baby in Ginny's belly. To her goddaughter, Lily. She felt sick, again.

This was madness. She wasn't a bleeding teenager, anymore. So why did she suddenly feel like one, again?

When she stepped out into the daylight, her skin warmed despite the chilly air of late December. She continued on, across the grounds.

She knew it was a bad time for her damaged brain to attempt to decipher any more on who was and who was not "a half," at this point. She hoped Neville would be open to juggling ideas on the rest of the translation with her, between his usual duties. She had rather fallen into his lap with this, she realized. She felt her cheeks color. Why did that phrase suddenly feel so much less innocent?

"Hey, Hermione!" She hardly realized she had gone all the way to the Herbology Green House until she heard Neville address her. The long walk had not done her good. She felt just as shaky and uncertain as she had when she'd left her room. She sighed.

"Morning, Neville," she said, trying her best to mask her deliberations. "When's your first class?"

"You're in luck," he said, potting something that looked rather spindley and dangerous. It's branches reached out as if to claw Neville's heavily gloved hands. "You missed breakfast, and the first classes,"

"Merlin's beard," she said, shaking her head, her tongue on the roof of her mouth. "I really have changed." He chuckled.

"Not so much as you think," he said. There was silence between them for a moment. His eyes lingered on her. She shifted her weight from foot to foot. Yesterday, this comment might have intrigued her. Now, she felt like a predator, before him. Her mind might be scattered, but her body was most certainly laser-focused, after recent events. He turned and bent to return the grasping plant to the ground, and her awareness spread to the stretch of his muscular back through his shirt, and his almost perfect bum. She swallowed. He stood and returned to her, but noticing something foreign plastered across her face, she watched his head cock at her. She reddened and cleared her throat, busying her eyes with her shoes.

"Anyway…" he continued, the slightest grin on his face, "the second half of the day for me is open block. I usually spend this time taking care of our seedlings, the ones set to harvest in the summertime. You just missed my third year Gryffindors—they're a good bunch. It's still odd, ya know? Being head of a house that used to have nothing at all to do with Herbology. Feels weird, sometimes."

"…What?" Hermione asked, suddenly confused, her feet blessedly firmly planted on the ground, again.

"Well, yeah. When Sprout retired six years ago, and they called me here... at first, you know, McGonagall had been trying to do it all, but… it's a big job: Head of House, Professor, and Head Mistress, and Dumbledore wanted her to be in charge, so…"

"So… you're head of… Gryffindor house?" Hermione asked.

"Well, yeah!" he said, smiling. She beamed at him.

"That's great, Neville. I'm so proud of you." He blushed. Her stomach did a little flip flop. She was going to hang herself if this newly prominent part of her didn't find a quiet place to die.

"Nah, it's nothing. It's been so long since I've seen you, I forgot you didn't know, is all."

"Sorry about that," she said, looking away again. Why did all her interactions with school friends revolve around her feeling guilty? And even school enemies, now, she reminded herself.

"What? No! Hermione, you can't be sorry about that… Harry, Ron, Seamus, Dean, Ginny, Luna, George… I mean, we all have an idea that the other is fine, but… you know. None of us really talk. It's not your fault. We grew up."

He said it so matter of factly. She'd been worried all this time that she'd moved on without everyone… had everyone else moved on without her? She didn't want to think about it. She'd gone from happy as a clam, to disgusted, to annoyed, to embarrassed, to pathetic all in just the hour since she'd awakened. Already she needed another perfect night's sleep. Her neck was starting to flush at the prospect. Oh, no. No way. He does NOT get to take sleep away from me, too.

"Who are the other House Heads?" she asked in a voice that was barely her own— high- pitched and too fast. He noticed, looked up, studied her for a second, but didn't push it.

"Well, McGonagall's niece is the new head of Hufflepuff. That's when she brought her in, when Sprout retired, she split the bill between us—but she's still teaching Transfiguration, of course. Don't think she could ever let that one go. Her niece teaches Modern Magical Accounting and Business amongst the upperclassmen. Flitwick is still head of Ravenclaw—doesn't seem to age, that one… and the last five or six years or so, they've had Professor Mazuko in charge of Slytherin."

She blinked at him. "Professor Mazuko? I know that name… was he a Potions Master, previously?"

"Hmm? Dunno. I know he's old blood. Pretty sure he's related to your boyfriend," he chuckled.

"My WHAT?" He froze.

"I… it… it was a joke, Hermione. Sorry."

"Nevermind. Dealing with Malfoy is just… he's on my last nerve. Carry on." A moment passed between them, during which, she was nearly positive that Neville was aware of things he couldn't possibly know. She was terrified he was going to address it. It hung in the air like smoke for a few seconds, before it fell away. He softened.

"Right. Well, I think he's "pureblood," but I dunno where he would fall amongst the rest of them. Keeps to himself, mostly. Name's Lorenzo."

And then she remembered… the too-neat note taker who had sat in on her debriefing with The Department… the man who had been working with Draco Malfoy: the man funding her project. They knew each other on a deeper level? A familial level? Those eyes, she remembered, had been icy. Not penetrating the way Draco's were, the way they could tell exactly what she was thinking, though she could only guess at what he was up to. This man, she had a suspicion, had seen death. Perhaps even caused death.

She felt as though he was a person she owed a visit to before she left Hogwarts. But not today… because based on their current situation, and their prior involvement, Malfoy was undoubtedly going to be on his way to see the man, and Hermione wanted not at all to run into him.

A thought suddenly occurred to her, and she stopped. Or, she thought, maybe I do….

"Ready to get down to business, then?" Neville asked. She smiled a genuinesmile for him.

"You bet, old friend."

Draco walked the halls near the Slytherin Common Room as if he had never left. He knew each and every crevice of every wall. He had hidden notes in several bricks, kissed girls next to certain trick stairs, and the monotonous dripping of a pipe outside the Potions Class Room was so calming that it almost made the anxiety of his morning fade away. I'll never fix the plumbing again, he vowed.

With one hand, he pushed his way into the office of the wizard he had been seeking. Lorenzo Mazuko stood over a cauldron, dropping hairs into a bowl. He didn't look up when Draco entered, but he knew it was him. He always knew. He had to.

"Glad to see you made it in one piece," he said suddenly, stirring the cauldron with his wand and raising some neatly sliced pieces of what appeared to be eyeballs over the ladle. "The brunette. She could deal some serious damage. The magic comes off that one in droves."

"Yeah, sod off about it, will you?"

Lorenzo looked to him for just a moment, then he was back to his potion making.

"Why are you in my office, Draco?"

"You know… pressing you for details, I suppose." Draco was walking about the office taking peeks at all the knicks and knacks, which had once belonged to Professors Snape and Slughorn. He figured if you died on the job, perhaps they didn't get rid of all your belongings… and Slughorn, well… the old coot had so much to give, he'd probably left the things that didn't have special significance behind when he'd retired. Draco realized, not sadly, but not happily either, that he barely knew this room as it had been when he'd been lulled into a false sense of security by Severus Snape… when he'd lied to his whole family, tried to help Draco to kill Albus Dumbledore… of course, knowing the truth of the situation now made him feel like even more like a fool. He'd been a child. How could they have put him in that position, knowing what he'd choose to do?

How could they have put Hermione Granger in any of the positions that she was put in? They knew how she'd respond. We were all pawns. And you have always been a Slytherin.

He sighed.

"Details, Draco? I have no details for you. That's what the girl is for."

"Come of it, Enzo. No one knew Rory better than you did. Hell, no one knew he existed better than you did. Don't shut me out, mate. Let's talk." Lorenzo could taste the sarcasm, but he didn't react. He simply looked to the door. He closed it with a blink. And then his hand was around Draco's throat.

Hermione had just come to the door when it slammed in her face. She swore under her breath, her heart pounding. She heard a scuffle behind the door. She leaned against it with the full weight of her body, her ear against the thick wood. She looked down to the knob for a keyhole to peer into, and to her chagrin, there wasn't one. There was, however, a two-centimeter crack above the floor. She rolled her eyes.

"Really?" she asked under her breath. She got down on all fours and looked inside the crack.

She could see the two of them scrambling. She could hear Draco's gasps. Her eyes widened.

"How dare you?" she heard Mazuko ask in a hushed voice. "You come into my place of work and you start babbling nonsense. You've all the financial resources in the world to have your questions answered. You know everything that I know about my brother. I put you in one coma. I can do it again."

His grip around Draco's throat seemed to be tightening. And for reasons that Hermione Granger could not explain, she suddenly found herself upright, her wand tip against the door frame, and bellowing, "ALOHAMORA!"

The door burst open. Draco and Lorenzo looked to it and in strode a brassed off Hermione Granger, wand in hand. "Separate," she said firmly, but Lorenzo's hand was already curling off of Draco's throat. He choked air into his lungs.

"Apologies, miss, that you had to see that. I've no quarrel with you."

"That doesn't mean you and I are without one," she answered, her wand pointed squarely at his chest.

"Hermione—" Draco began. She held up her hand.

"Be quiet, Malfoy. Too long I've been kept in the dark over what's really going on, here. You want to find your uncle. Fine. Tell me why. Who was he? What happened to him? From everything we've discovered, you're about to put me into mortal danger, and I deserve to know. I'm not risking my life for a deceitful Slytherin who can't keep his hands to himself. And you," she began, turning on Lorenzo. "Who are you?"

"My name is Lorenzo Mazuko. My brother was Rorofulus Mazuko. And we have both been removed from the family of wizards once known as "Pureblood,".

"Why?" she asked.

"Because," he answered, "My brother disappeared, searching for answers to questions that challenged the legitimacy of the claims of those known as, "Pureblood." And I, because... I killed the man who tried to obliviate him from my memory."