POV: Hermione

Draco's back is turned to me and I know I've hurt him with my carelessly tossed comments. His movements indicate he's breathing rather hard and, even though I can't see his face, I know he's working on regaining his composure.

"Just do it, Draco," I continue to prompt impatiently. "It's OK."

At my words he whips around to face me again. I see he's lost his fight with self-control.

"IT IS NOT OK!" he roars at me. His magic is visible, crackling around him. "Do you want to know how it feels to be violated that way? DO you, Hermione?!"

My eyes widen at the little lunge he makes toward me. I know I have little time to batten down the hatches against the storm of his magical invasion.

"THIS is how it feels!"

I feel the pressure of his hand against my shoulder and let out a cry as his magic ruthlessly pierces into me.

POV: Draco

How dare she push me to this!

Gritting my teeth, I silently scream the spell that has me thrusting into her with astonishing ease. I look directly into Granger's eyes as I make my way inside her. I purposely ignore the unconcealed panic on her fine features. This was what stopped me before. This time I show her no mercy. I force myself inside of her, heedlessly ripping apart her hastily thrown barrier. I hear her keening cry at my intrusion, but it is muffled, as though from a great distance away.

I adjust to the double sight of Legilimency, quite disorienting at first. In front of me, I see her. She's gone rigid in the red overstuffed arm chair. She holds herself in a sort of self-hug, her knuckles white as she grips her folded forearms. As I watch her helplessly react physically to my intrusion, I am also able to see into her.

At last, like an open book before me are the secret folds of her mind. All of her thoughts and memories, visions and hopes, darkest secrets and fanatasies are mine to peruse at my leisure. I take faint notice of the trails of a few wispy thoughts that leave the space I've entered. I don't give chase, knowing I will eventually get to them. Being inside her this way has somehow doused the fiery anger that led to this invasion. I feel myself regaining control, remembering again what I want to accomplish now that I find myself here. Her magic pulses brighter and I feel her beginning to fight back. The cause of her resistance is backed by some impossibly strong emotion, and because of this, the ward she uses does nothing to keep me out.

She has not averted her gaze. The stare we share gives new meaning to her eyes being the windows to her soul. Alarmed that I may lose myself in her, I place a hand on her shoulder in an attempt to anchor myself as I begin to delve more deeply. She does not pull away from my touch as I expect she might.

Spine. She is amazingly resilient. I don't know why this still surprises me.

At the feel of the side of my hand grazing her neck, everything in her mind solidifies around me. My grip on her shoulder intensifies. She lets out a low, distressed mewl as I push further in. I stop a moment to savor once again the pulsing of her sweet magic around the unforgiving piston of mine. I don't assist her by prompting her to empty herself of all emotion. I don't bother to taunt. All I focus on is my need to show her how horrific this spell can be.

I allow myself to take in the sensation of her body's rapid in-and-out breathing. Her thoughts, at first having swirled around me, settle at last. I see they are methodically organized, tidily indexed and cross referenced. Very clever witch, this one. The layers are deep and interwoven. Her memories, ideas, and thoughts are intricately connected to one another, increasing fact retention and understanding of the most arcane information.

Purposefully, I slow my magical trespass, not wanting to accidentally sever any of the strings that hold these things together.

I begin to riffle through her memories. I relish her excited and inquisitive ideas about libraries – from Muggle to magical – some memories of visits... others wishes for future exploration. She has wondrous thoughts of everything Hogwarts. With her visions of our school, I am presented with some of her joys: images of Weasley and the pink hue of puppy love surrounds him for nearly as long as we've been at Hogwarts. I wonder at the rosy images of their times together, laughing, hugging, fighting. Something foreign clenches within my chest at the sight of their joyful ease with one another.

I distract myself from her thoughts of Weasley by turning to flip through her picture memories of Muggle England and find myself staring at an image of her hand clasped in the hand of a boy I do not know. I turn to examine her memory of this mystery male's laughing face and feel her excitement at being near him at this precise moment. Her attention shifts to a large flickering screen and I hear her thoughts relay his furtive whispers, telling her of his happiness at finding himself beside her while they watch some sort of Muggle entertainment. The thrill that rushes through her and into me has me biting back a snarl. I do not yet dare look to her thoughts on Potter. It occurs to me that I may not be strong enough to discover the thing I had at first intended to find.

I flip up a different fold and images of Gilderoy Lockhart outlined by girlish valentine hearts flutter around me. I watch with growing amusement as the sound of Granger's younger twitter effusively defends the useless wizard to her best friends. Beneath my palm, I feel Hermione shrink away a little in embarrassment over this disastrous memory. It makes me chuckle.

Then, quite unexpectedly, I stumble on something else, hidden at first, like some dirty thing hastily thrown beneath a rug before opening the door to unexpected company. It is a memory of me. I pause. She tenses. It's not a time I recall easily.

Through her mind's eye I watch a darker scene unfold. She'd darted a glance around a corner of the castle to find me sitting with Crabbe and Goyle. There is a look of pure disdain on my face as I hear myself say, "I know one thing: last time the Chamber of Secrets was opened, a Mudblood died. So I bet it's only a matter of time before one of them's killed this time… I hope it's Granger."

How many times had I thoughtlessly spoken this wish aloud during our second year? This image dissolves away only to light onto me again. I don't remember where I was or that she was even there when it happened. But, this time I am talking to someone else, it seems it might have been Pansy, or any number of faceless Slytherins.

"I'm surprised all the Mudbloods haven't packed their bags by now," my 12-year-old self crows. "Bet you five Galleons the next one dies. Pity it can't be Granger." I feel the memories of her bewildered response to my words as I watch her hand grab hold of Potter's before he can launch himself toward me.

"The cockroach isn't worth the detention, Harry," her whisper masks a swirl of enraged and horrified emotions which send an unwanted prickle up my spine. This scene fades quickly and I am brought to her dorm room where she is looking at herself in the mirror. A single tear slides down her face. When I catch the forlorn look in her eye reflected in her mirror, something clenches in my chest and I try to disconnect my magic from hers, unnerved by this private moment I feel wholly unworthy of witnessing. The reflected image of her dark watery eyes haunts me, insisting I pay penance by staying to watch. I am so deep inside her now that I can feel her despair within me. I feel an awful desire to join her in tears; it catches at my throat. Another fade and she takes me to a shared memory, one I distinctly remember. It is of a night during second year when I had snuck into the infirmary to catch a glimpse of her petrified form.

"You should have died, Mudblood," I had hatefully hissed at her. I hadn't thought she could hear me. Surely at the time, I likely didn't care if she did. I recall with shocking clarity exactly what had driven me to her bedside, but I push away the protesting memories of my own selfish motives so I can take in her version of that night's events. Her memories tell me that, even statue-still, Granger was able to hone her vision in on the nasty snarl of my lips and the drops of spittle that had collected on them as I lashed out at her.

What have I done to make Malfoy abhor me so much as to wish me dead?

The recall of her single, silent, forlorn thought ricochets in her mind and rockets into me. I gasp at the ache of this remembered upset. All at once I am awash in shame. Unable to view any more, I quickly pull out of the memory to find myself in real time, back in the Room of Requirement, a more grown up Granger holding onto my fingers at her shoulder.

Her gentle effort to comfort me is nearly my undoing.

"Go on," she croaks, not sounding as if she can withstand much more of this. She grasps my wrist, not allowing me to let go. I suddenly realize that she is not going to fight me with Occlumency. She's letting me look, discovering for herself that there is also power in succumbing to my magic.

Without a word, I toss my head to clear the fringe of bangs shrouding my eyes. I focus my magic and enter again. I see her memories of me from earlier this year. An errant image of us in the library, me asleep and her looking at the book from the Manor. I remember this night, but must have been slumbering through this particular moment in time.

She's crying again, this time into the book. I feel the familiar stirring of helpless rage at the sight of her tears. I see that she is intently examining the Gaunt family tree. Her wand touches the lower half of the page. Before I can discover the cause of her distraught, Weasley appears in her memory. I zoom in to enlarge the image of her, trying to listen to their exchange, but Hermione strengthens her magical barrier against me and the image of her, the book and Weasley fade away even as I try to grasp onto it. I make a mental note to take a closer look at the book in my room. By our next lesson, if there is one, I promise to discover the secret she is keeping from me.

With this passing avowal, I suddenly find myself immersed in images of myself, all from this year. I notice the softer patina she gives her memories of us together in the Room of Hidden Things, a stark contrast to the hard edges of the earlier, more painful images of our younger selves.

I see my sleeping visage, well, what appears to her as me sleeping, anyway. I feel her memories of how my hair felt as she ran her fingers through it. Not all is rosy between us, however. She seems to remember every minuscule disagreement. My grey eyes turn dark and drowsy when her memories show me in my dishevel as I attempted and dismally failed to pay attention to her tales of woe in the Room of Hidden Things. I am pleased to discover that she much prefers the term Bookworm to anything else I have ever called her. I take note that my sneer bothers her. Immensely. I file this knowledge away for future use as well.

As I prod this part of her mind, I startle at a thought, not a memory, but...

Merlin! The Bookworm does have a vivid imagination!

I find myself pleasantly stirring at the arousing images and thoughts that swirl around me that feature the both of us in various... ah... states of undress. I feel the sudden warming in my lower regions at one specific image. The Bookworm is wearing nothing but a loose Slytherin tie atop what can only be one of my unbuttoned white dress shirts. I watch the image of her confidently sauntering over to me. I find myself disappointed as this image of her fades, but then I am thoroughly delighted as I am greeted with another, one of her scantily-clad body curling into and clinging to mine in what can only be described as her romanticized version of post-coital bliss.

I hear her gurgled gasp as she realizes what has captured my interest. I stand stock still above her and feel my pleased masculine smirk snake its way onto my lips. I feel myself harden as the image of her fantasy self continues to murmur sexily about how satisfied I must be to have at last captured the golden snitch that should have rightfully gone to a Gryffindor.

"Naughty, Granger," I admonish throatily, as hearty chuckle wants to escape from my chest. I am both surprised by her healthy imagination and flattered beyond words by the starring role I play in her erotic daydreams. Perhaps I should show her mine sometime, I think idly.

"It would only be fair, Malfoy," she says with a sultry pout. The sound of her put-out answer to my errant thought shocks me out of my woolgathering. Is she somehow able to read my mind when I am in hers? Or did I plant my idea into her head? If so, it's the first time I have ever done something like that.

The possibilities of such a connection existing between us is incredibly powerful and seemingly limitless.

"Are you quite finished?" Her annoyance is clear.

"I have not even begun, Granger," I reply ominously. My magic again hovers, but does not plunder.

"In or out, Malfoy? I haven't got all day," she retorts. Her discomfort seems lessened. I take some comfort in this.

"Why, Granger, I had no idea you could speak so bawdily. I realize now how neglectful I have been in showering you with such attentions. In. That's where I'd like to be."

"Prick," I hear her mutter.

"Oh, it will be more than a prick if we ever get to that lesson, Bookworm," I promise with a waggle of my eyebrows. My lewdness is rewarded with the sound of her quick intake of breath and a blanching of her face. As soon as the dawning of full comprehension reaches her eyes, I plunge into her again. This time in search for what I should have gone after to begin with.

I want to see her thoughts about Potter and how this Muggle-born witch truly feels about the Boy Who Lived.

I don't know what to expect, really. I approach this with some trepidation, knowing that her images of him might likely be more intimate than the ones she has of me. The impact of such a reality check would certainly wreck havoc on my psyche, but, I hope, such dreadful images might also serve as a necessary antidote to this growing tenderness I find myself having for Granger.

I need her to show me, or I need to find for myself, her secret love and longing for my longtime rival, if only to convince myself that any idiotic pursuit of her will lead to my eventual downfall. She seems to guess my intent. Her magic claws maniacally at me, frantically tugging at my magic to redirect it to more lurid images specifically fashioned, I'm sure, to distract me. They are certainly far more tempting to view.

"Granger," I groan hoarsely, with a bemused shake of my head.

I sense the moment she decides her efforts against my Legilimency are futile. Then, like the index of a textbook, she offers up information that has me immersed in nearly every single one of her memories of Potter.

Clever, this effort to drown me in details.

Warmth, care, friendship, comfort, worry, respect, confusion, and, yes, love. It glows red, not like the rosy hue she has in her memories of Weasley, but a blazing red, so hot that I fear it might burst into flame. The spurt of jealousy is impossible to control. It eases only when I see there are no images of a heated embrace, no desires to be in his bed. Not one thought to rival even the least lascivious one she has of me. There is only one thing– one kiss.

I quickly realize that this is no fantasy, but a memory of that awful night in the corridor. There is a pang of pain in the general vicinity of my heart as I contemplate closing my eyes against this image that has already been engraved in my own mind. In a masochistic effort to purge myself of desiring a future with her, I continue to watch, knowing that a second viewing of it seen through her eyes might be the revelation I need to rid myself of my growing feelings for her.

I am rocked by the shock of this being her first kiss, the taste of chocolate, wetness, pleasure, dizziness. This immersion into her sensations makes me so incredibly furious that I want to rail at her for having the audacity to not even bother to hide this one memory from me. Just as I am about to roar at her for her absolute ineptitude at Occlumency, I feel her magic clamp down around me, blocking me from seeing anymore.

Though absolutely disgusted with her for having these feelings toward Potter and his kisses, her sudden surge of power to keep me from seeing more has me truly intrigued. I press on, deciding to take her on her word that she wants me to act every bit the evil and vile Death Eater. Doing it this way will only prove to her how unskilled she is at this sort of magic. It is also a handy excuse to continue to pry.

"What is it, Hermione?" I purr seductively, knowing every step in this intricate dance that will eventually have her opening to me. "What is it that you want to keep hidden from me, witch?"

She stiffens beneath my grip.

Something there. Something I want to see, perhaps even need to see.

"What did Potter do to you in the dark, Bookworm?" I venture silkily, though my own words rip at me. "Did he make you feel something for him? Maybe Potty gave you a glimpse of pleasure you never knew yourself capable of? Did you suddenly realize your undying love for him in his single, pathetic little kiss? Did you feel his, likely lacking, ardor for you against your own body, Granger?" I recapture the recent taunt in my tone. Thoughts of Potter and her together do this to me, making me lash out in anger at the nearest body.

"Is that what's making you go stiff as a board under my hand? Show me, Granger!" My threatening bark sounds too similar to Father's commanding voice. I wonder at the venom in my words even as I speak them aloud. "There is no need to hide such foolish sentimentality from the likes of me, Bookworm. Have you forgotten that I am an unfeeling bigot, destined to be a Death Eater, just like my wretched forebearers? Forever cowardly, like my own weak mother? Perhaps you don't remember what a vile pureblood prat I am? Worse, you've forgotten that I am only out to save my own skin? What do I care what a Muggle-born like you feels?"

I hear her whimper at the effort to ignore my biting words while concentrating on summoning the strength to keep my magic at bay.

"Give in to my magic, Granger. Let it wash over you," I encourage, using a slightly sinister tone that might have even tempted Eve. "Let me see, Hermione. Are you trying to protect me from your true feelings for Potter? Do not bother, witch. I know your bedside declarations of having feelings for me are only due to the fact that you thought I would be dead that following morning. I don't need you to care for me.

"Frankly, Granger, your pathetic heartfelt declarations of love are the absolute last thing I need. I certainly hope you are not holding onto some ridiculous hope that I am at all capable of reciprocating such feelings." I add a dry laugh to punctuate the harshness of my words. "I refuse to care a whit for someone with so lowly a pedigree as you, Mudblood."

Though the word is jarring for me to spit out, the last line is necessary for me to say, just as it is vitally important for her to hear.

She chokes at my sneering delivery.

"You self-loathing arse," she seethes between gritted teeth. "How dare you belittle me and how I feel! For once in your life, I want you to see that you are already more than what you think you can be!"

Not quite the reaction I am looking for. Anger, yes, but not a scalding rebuke such as this.

Her brown eyes glint with righteous fury and I know that my words have unleashed a power in her that I am incapable of countering.

As though wrenching open the dam that holds back the water of her deeper emotions, I am suddenly gasping for air, drowning in the knowledge that while she was engaged in her first kiss with Potter all of her thoughts and passions were centered on me. This would have ordinarily soothed and inflated my bruised ego, but I catch sight of something else entirely, something that she has clearly been trying to repress. Something far more revealing about her feelings for me than I care to know.

I brace myself against her masterful use of Occlumency, through which she reveals exactly what she wants me to see. Buoyed by her anger, Hermione assaults me with the memory she holds of me in the corridor that night of Potter's fateful kiss.

I examine myself with a horrified sort of curiosity. My tightly held mask of contempt is wholly absent. Instead, I see myself at my most vulnerable. I am completely, alarmingly disheveled. My hair is tousled. The dark circles beneath my eyes are noticeably gone. My facial features are at complete ease, outwardly showing a fraction of the joy I know I held after the innocent hours spent in Hermione's company. I'd been humming a blasted Christmas carol, for Merlin's sake.

The way she cradles this image of me in her memory, I know it is a moment she cherishes, perhaps nearly as greedily as I hold onto the rare bit of happiness I had felt in that frozen stitch in time... before I turn to see her in Potter's arms.

Viewed through her mind's eye, the sight of my uncharacteristic show of contentment is as foreign to me as her occasional use of Muggle colloquialisms. What is worse is that in her memory I am awash in the pure white glow of something entirely different than the rosy and red colors of the loving thoughts she holds for her two best friends. This aura she has chosen for me pulses icy and hot all at once. I abruptly realize that the sparks I enjoy watching when our hands touch are but tiny fragments of a suggestion that there is something beyond ordinary magic that might possibly bind us together if we so choose to indulge in it.

I pull out of her immediately, bested again by the undesired truths she so willingly offers me. Her gaze searches and I refuse to allow her to see how deeply she's touched me with the generosity of... love she's offered–this exquisite, utterly fragile emotion I cannot allow myself to feel.

I cannot bear to watch anymore. I recoil against the tragedy of the next scene in this little melodrama. I know I caused it to unfurl this way, my own tongue lashing out to protect myself from the deep hurt I failed to shield myself against as I watched her kissing him. I refuse to lie witness to the all too familiar agony and helplessness I felt at how this precious, stolen bit of contentment was cruelly ripped away at the mere sight of her in the arms of my enemy.

"Enough," I announce gruffly, roughly shoving her away. Her surprised cry has me whipping my face to her, adjusting my sight to insure I had not actually hurt her with my manhandling.

"Draco, I–"

"We will not speak of this," I warn stoicly, worried again for her, for me, should the dangerous secret of this bond between us ever be revealed to anyone outside of this room.

The silence between us is heavy, filled with words yearning to be heard and a true reticence to speak them.

"Was I passably competent, Malfoy?" her tone carefully neutral as I begin striding toward the door. "With the Occlumency lesson, I mean."

I do not answer because I truly cannot judge her ability. I imagine she affected me far more than I affected her.

"Draco," she whispers to my retreating back, "please don't go."

"I regret that I am unable to stay," I announce the honest truth with as much hauteur as I can muster to mask the turmoil inside.

"Then, at least let me thank you for your time and for the... Christmas gift." I wonder at the composure in her voice, so business-like after such raw exposure.

Eyes focused on the door hinges, refusing to turn, I clench my jaw and nod to acknowledge her gratitude. I know if I give in to my desire to look at her, I will never be able to leave. For my sanity's sake, I know I cannot stay. I take another step toward the door.

"–and Draco?"

I stop my hand from turning the cold handle in my grasp. She clears her throat as though gathering the courage to continue. She starts off strong, but her voice eventually falters into a whisper.

"That last thing you experienced, that memory I have of you... what you saw of my true feelings for you... I know you don't wish me to speak the words, but it is simply enough for me that you know the extent of it. I would not presume, or expect, you to feel the same."

I surprise myself with the amount of anger I put into wrenching open the door. I make haste to cross the threshold into the darkened hall, but not before I hear the resigned sigh in her final intimation.

"Consider it a gift, Draco, freely given."

Before my body has a chance to override my brain's direct command to retreat, I forcefully slam the door shut against her and her naively romantic notions of love.

Holding back a frustrated sob, I pound my fist against the stone wall next to the tapestry of trolls in tutus. When the pain of this does nothing to block out the dread that envelopes me after her sincere revelation, I break into a dead run all the way back to my dormitory.

I throw myself onto my four poster and something sharp bites into my hip. I shove my hand under the pillows to fish out the curious cube Dumbledore bestowed on me several weeks ago. As I do most nights, I run my hand against the side of it and watch, mesmerized, as the letters light up beneath my touch.

Thanks to my Runes class, I have managed to conclude that this gift from Dumbledore is the wizarding version of a Himitsu Bako, originally created by Japanese muggles. Contemporary Himitsu Bako, or personal secret keeping boxes, open through a series of strategic movements of the wood itself. Wizarding varieties, I assume, must have more intricate solutions.

This one in my hand, I deduced, must open through a series of letter lighting, a series of passwords, if you will. It seems too simple an answer, but I have already exhausted my armory of opening and revelation spells trying to open it. I examine the curious cube again. Needing a diversion from recent occurrences, I look at the 25 letters on the upward facing side. Five letters across and five letters down.

The first row: D B P F T.
The second row: H G R L H.
The third row: V O W I Z.
The fourth row: T C M H E
The last row: C Y A O K.

I touch my finger to the P in the first row. The letter flashes silver white for a moment before turning into a shimmering blue. I touch an R in the second row, right below it and to my amazement, there is again a curious shock of silver white light, this time both the P and R stay this color and a sliver of bright light shoots around the letter tiles, connecting them.

With a quickening heartbeat, I look up, wishing to share this discovery with someone. The room is dark and I am thoroughly alone. I sigh and turn my thoughts to coming up with all the words I know that begin with P-R. Of course, being a Malfoy, the word PRIDE is the most obvious choice.

With a certain degree of conceit, I touch a fingertip to the I in the next line, but all the lights fade at once and I am left with the simple wooden cube again. I let out a sharp curse but stop myself before hurling the block at my wall. Instead, I reach for my wand.

"Wingardium Leviosa."

The cube lifts from my palm. I lay back, propping my head on the pillows fluffed behind my head. I flick my wand at the cube and it slowly revolves above me. I watch it slowly turn as I contemplate the letters.

I think back to the Headmaster's puzzling words.

The words of this vow are known throughout the wizarding world, but few of us ever fully comprehend their meaning. Draco, you may be the rarity among us who is intelligent and cunning enough to discover the secret of these words. Such a vow can sometimes be used to answer one of life's greatest puzzles.

Vows.

Do you know, Draco, that some Muggle vows, when spoken from the depths of the heart, are stronger than any one of the most powerful magical vows that bind us witches and wizards to one another?

Muggle vows.

But what sort of vows would Muggles and Wizards share?

I shut my eyes and pure exhaustion envelops me. Tired. So incredibly tired. My thoughts turn to my parents. Father. Mother. Between them there had been vows. Of love? I let out a scornful scoff. Fidelity, maybe? Care, perhaps? But neither word started with a P-R. What had Father wanted me to swear to? What had he been trying to do this whole time? What about a promise? That's a P-R word.

I grab hold of the cube again and search for the side that has a P in the first row. Fortunately, of the six sides, only one side does. I press onto the P and the R and am gratified to see the lights again. I hesitate momentarily before touching the O and let out a satisfied cry when it too lights up and is connected to the first two letters.

Without stopping, I press my finger to the M in the fourth row. All the lights go out. In frustration, I slap the cube upwards and away. Still partially levitating, it spins up to hit the bottom of my canopy. It bounces twice. In my agitation, I forget to recast the levitation charm and watch the cube succumb to gravity, hurtling back toward my head. I throw my forearm over my face to protect my eyes. As the box bounces harmlessly off my arm to lay on my chest, I smile. I know the next word to try. I pick up the cube and deliberately press the letters: P - R - O - T - E - C - T.

With each letter pressed, the thin silver white light runs along the letter tiles, connecting them together. I want to force a fingernail in between the slits to hasten its opening. Finally, I touch the second T and hear an audible click. A string of sweet notes reaches my ears. The lovely sound dissipates just as quickly as it stirred the air.

Veela.

The enchanting melody reminds me of the singing voices of Veelas. I watch the glowing letters and their tiles disappear. Beneath them is only light. It is the same bright white I'd earlier seen glowing around me in Hermione's mind. I poke a finger at it to find it solid, smooth. I wonder at its beauty. I must have taken too long staring because the squares of light disappear under the lettered tiles that magically return.

I carefully place my thumb on the center letter tile: W. I turn the cube in my hand to look at the other center letters. My thumb covers the only W. Satisfied that I will be able to identify the proper surface again, I place the cube back beneath my pile of pillows, next to the glowing orb.

Muggle vows. What do I know of Muggle vows? What do I know of Muggle anyth–

Oh, bloody hell!

The muscles in my jaw work as I discover yet another reason to enlist the aid of a certain Muggleborn witch. It seems too soon to see her again but unavoidable all the same. In as much as I want to keep her an arm's length away, I know I must go on as Weasley and I planned. I embroiled her in this mess that is my life. She pledged to assist me and in my ill-conceived desire to seek honor above duty, I must now ensure she stays safe through this. Whatever danger she faces, I now have some ridiculous desire to be at her side to protect her, no matter what.

The day after tomorrow, then. Just one day without her and I will have my head clear enough to meet her for another lesson.

To protect her.

Hermione.

Bloody, bloody hell!

POV: Ron
A few days later...

I am alone in my room when the glow of the setting sun is partially blocked by an incredibly beautiful owl. Its black bill taps impatiently at my window. I take one look at its fiery eyes and know immediately by its proud carriage that this is Malfoy's eagle owl. I open the window and it hops onto my bed frame, leg extended, regally awaiting the removal of the letter.

Carefully, I extricate the note. I take wary notice of the sharpness of its beak and talons, grabbing up a treat I usually have on hand for occasions I might have to thank a feathered mail carrier. I offer the meager morsel to the winged creature. It peers disdainfully at it before resignedly taking it and flying off.

The letter is clenched tightly in my grip, a clear indication of my annoyance at Malfoy's gall to send me a note at my home, knowing my siblings would skin me alive if they ever knew I was in cahoots with him. I am just starting to open it when Harry walks into the room to settle on the cot near my bed.

He curiously eyes my mail as I start to unroll it. I sigh in relief when I recognize the writing.

Dear Ron,

I hope everyone and everything is well at the Burrow. I miss you and your family.
I hope you've been having a nice holiday.
I'm sorry I couldn't talk Lavender out of getting you that hideous necklace.
Tell Harry I wish him a happy Christmas, too.

Love,

Hermione Granger

Her inclusion of her last name has been a longtime clue to me that there is more to her letter than what might first meet the eye. I allow Harry to read her short note, watching as he smirks a little at the necklace comment. When he's done, he harrumphs and tosses the parchment back at me. His door-slamming departure with accompanying muttered curse tells me he's not at all happy that Hermione wrote to me and not to him. After Harry leaves, I grab up my wand and tap the parchment with a variation of the Revelo! charm that Hermione taught me. I know her true letter is magically encoded beneath the cover of the simple quilled note and that she hadn't wanted Harry to know about it since she mentioned him up front.

On my fourth tap, Hermione's lengthy, and suspiciously cheery, missive comes into view.

Dear Ron,

I really do miss you.

I'm actually not the least bit sorry I couldn't talk Lavender out of getting you that hideous necklace.

That's what you get for choosing such a silly bint to be your first girlfriend.

Ha. Ha.

Anyway, down to business.

After a strange conversation that ended in a wager and after experiencing a few "lessons" with Malfoy, I think I know exactly what you two discussed before you left for the Burrow.

I want to be quite clear, Ronald, neither of you are going to convince me that I am being foolish about fulfilling this prophecy. Malfoy might not know the truth of it, but you do. You know I am the girl in the foretelling and that I have to face Riddle. I am convinced that he will not hurt me. He'll want me alive and well to serve as an effective weapon against Harry. Why would he Crucio me? He may Imperius me, but Malfoy will teach me how to deal with that. In any case, whatever he'll teach me will only serve as an added layer of protection in case something goes awry.

At least, that's what I'll ask him to do after these Occlumency lessons.

Malfoy's convinced, and I am too, that the first thing Voldemort will do is look into my mind to check the truth of the prophecy and if I'm lying about being the true female Slytherin heir. No problem there, obviously, since that is truth. All I really have to do is learn how to hide how I truly feel about you and Harry and my abhorrence of everything Voldemort stands for.

Admittedly, it has been burdensome trying to keep Malfoy away from the truth, but I've managed to and that is saying something. Still, he remains incredibly irksome, belittling my ability at Occlumency. If he only knew how successful I've been against his magic!

In the last few days, I've learned how to pull up my most recent fury at Harry and stick it in the forefront of my mind so that Malfoy can see exactly what I want him to see.

After Voldemort pulls this memory of Harry from me, he likely won't look past them.

Malfoy hasn't.

In fact, I've been trying this out a bit, giving him glimpses of things that I know will rile him. I'm not sure if he knows I'm doing this purposely. He simply gets so upset with me, or Harry, which then results in him giving me the silent treatment for a few days after we conclude our lesson. I'm trying not to nag him about these taciturn bouts and allow him his space, but I am impatient to learn more about other defenses.

There's also one other thing, Ron. Before Harry hurt him, Malfoy mentioned something in passing about how it seems impossible that Voldemort could be killed using just the Killing Curse. I know you and Harry were discussing something similar before I came into the common room the day you left– something about horcruxes and soul splitting?

You and Harry are rubbish at secret keeping, and if you two are trying to keep something from me, I can always ask Draco what he might know about horcruxes. He seems to know a lot about dark magic and I bet his parents' library will have lots of information about it. All I have to do is ask him for access to the books, though in his current state I just might have to sell him my soul in order for him to grant the favor. I'm being completely serious about this last part. You really don't want me walking around like some sort of inferi because you're too stubborn to tell me what Harry's been telling you to keep from me.

When I'm not trying to track Malfoy down for more lessons, you should know that I'm spending my time in the library trying to figure out what horcruxes are.

Truly, though, Ron, you must have some information that I can twist up and take to Voldemort when I go to him. For example, maybe it can help me think of a way I can stay close to Harry while pretending to work for the Dark Lord himself. If so, then I can fashion a plan I can live with before Riddle has a chance to make one up for me!

Say hello to your family and thank your mother for the new jumper she knit for me... it's quite... fetching, a bit like your new necklace.

Please, write back soon.

Hermione

P.S. I've commandeered Malfoy's private owl. Isn't he grand?

I smile slightly at her comments about my mum's knitting as I light a candle and hold the letter to the flame. I watch the paper turn to ash and fall against the grainy wood of my hand-me down desk. Obviously, the Ferret underestimated Hermione. I knew he had. She seems more thrilled, if that is at all possible, at the prospect of going against Voldemort now.

Impatience to return to Hogwarts boils my blood and I find myself surprisingly furious that there is nothing I can do to halt this inevitable disaster without being there to ensure Malfoy pulls through on his part of the plan. My fist crashes against the desktop, sending the ash flying.

Bloody hell, Malfoy! For Merlin's sake, get on with it!

~ Author's Note ~

Many thanks again to StarDuchess for again making this installment shiny and bright. Thank you all, too, for your patience as I wrestle with the plot.

Your reviews are most welcome and highly encouraged. I do read them often to help keep the muse alive. Won't you please feed my muse today?

Let me know, too, if you want me to write back. I'd love to answer questions and/or discuss the plot with you. Your thoughts on Malfoy's character development in Dilemma are most appreciated. Is this progression between HG and DM believable?

Thanks!