POV: Draco

I rub the sleep from my eyes and try not to stumble out of bed.

Why did I forget to take the bloody storage box from Dumbledore's office? I wonder if it is it too late for me to claim it?

For the third time tonight, and countless other similar occurrences last night, strange noises and an eerie light pours from my trunk at the foot of my bed. Had it not been for my renewed insomnia, I would have missed the show. Once I cracked the lid open, muffled curses also spilled out. I quickly look to my roommates who thankfully sleep like the dead. I firm my shoulders and work to keep the extreme annoyance out of my voice and off my face. I wonder idly what it was about this man than made me even bother. I peer into the trunk and into the face of Hermione's grandfather.

"Mr. Muestildae, I have told you, Sir. You have to stop doing this." I whisper my reprimand to the inside of my trunk.

"And I told you, Rugrat, that I need to see my granddaughter."

"That's impossible," I say through clenched teeth, moving my face from his view. "We aren't on speaking terms."

"Well, you'd better fix that, lad. Dumbledore's told me that she needs the likes of you to help her."

"I no longer wish to help her," I seethe. "I am proceeding with Professor Dumbledore's plan solely to save my family and your granddaughter, Emmanuelle," I emphasize.

As the words hit the air, I know no greater lies have ever been spoken. I turn to face the portrait, "It is over, Sir. The girl I know as Hermione Granger will no longer speak to me, and I no longer wish to speak to her."

"This is ridiculous. I don't care what your wishes are! Emmanuelle needs to be saved, yes, but you are also instrumental in keeping Hermione alive! I have only you and that red-headed fellow to do the saving! You cannot choose between the girls!"

I watch him pace in his portrait, his arms thrown up in the air as he continues his loud and rambling rant. Granger-I've decided she will always be Granger-must have inherited his tendency to prattle and gain exasperation along the way.

I smile ruefully.

"... You, boy, are as stubborn as the day is long. Just because she kept her true heritage a secret does not warrant such reprimand from the likes of you!"

I feel my hackles rise as the decibel level of his voice increases. I peer at the darkened hulks of my roommates who are shifting in their beds. Quickly, I gather up my Slytherin scarf and wrap it around the portrait. I murmur words to soothe the aged wizard as I hear he is upset at my attempts to silence him. Obviously, I need to speak to the infernal man, but being caught doing so on the floor of my shared room may cause me increasing problems with my already suspicious housemates.

I gather the bundle and climb back into my bed. I slide the curtains of the four-poster shut and with my wand, cast an Imperturbatum! before unwrapping the scarf from the painting and set it against the foot board.

"How dare you!" he shouts, arms akimbo. I stifle a smile that threatens to upturn my lips as I view his perfect imitation of an outraged Granger.

"My apologies, Mr. Muestildae, I would rather not have my roommates privy to the conversation you were about to begin with me. We are quite out of range of their hearing now. Please, proceed."

I wave a hand at him as I lean back into my pillow and stare at the man who calms considerably after hearing my reasonable apology. I watch him settle himself into the plush armchair by the fire in the portrait.

"I see. In any case, Boy..."

"Draco, Sir. Call me Draco."

"As in the constellation?"

I nod.

"My wife rather liked calling me Leo."

"As in the constellation," I note without sarcasm.

The man nods. "She used to say that I exhibited the typical characteristics of one born under the sign: confident, ambitious, generous, loyal and encouraging; but that my failings were equally notable: pretentious, domineering, melodramatic, stubborn and vain."

He stops and looks at me with his piercing dark eyes. "I daresay, young man, perhaps we do have some things in common after all."

I shift uncomfortably since I was thinking the same as he voiced the traits his wife ascribed to him.

"Albus told me some of your history, Draco. Not much, but enough for me to have concerns about your dedication to the protection of my granddaughter—both of them. He believes there is enough good in you to withstand the temptation offered to you by Voldemort. I had been doubtful of Albus's assertions, until I saw a flash of courage the other night when you asked of a plan. I have since been impressed with your strategic planning skills."

I turn away, my jaws working. Of all the things anyone has ever said to me, never once has anyone called me courageous. It comes as somewhat of a shock to find that this stranger has somehow discovered in me the one trait I thought never to possess.

"You do realize that it was Hermione's right. She did not have to tell you, Draco. You were not entitled to know. Now, don't look at me as though I've struck you, lad. I saw the truth in your face the other night. You were hurt that she had not confided in you and felt even worse that she'd felt kinship enough with your ginger-haired friend to share the news with him. "

I avert my gaze from the frame. My breath is short as I try to take in the increasingly stifling air in the rapidly confining space of my curtained four-poster. I dislike his ability to see things in me that I would rather stay hidden.

"Can you blame her, Draco? Raised the way you were, what if you received news that you were Muggleborn? That as an infant, only hours old, your parents had given you away to another family and replaced you with another because of what you were fated to become? What if you discovered you were related to Godric Gryffindor and your fate required that you turn on all the people you care about? Perhaps even destined to kill one you love?"

"I love no one." The words rip out of me, a heated denial I had not seen coming. I flinch thinking about his words, but his expression compels me to keep eye contact.

The man in the painting regards me quietly. He moves so his face is all I see, brown eyes, so familiar in their regard of me that it makes me want to weep.

"I find that difficult to believe, son."

I stiffen, reigning in my violent desire to swipe the frame and his blasted image to the floor and out of sight. When I provide him no response, I hear him ask the question that has haunted me since I closed the door on her silently sobbing form in the darkened classroom.

"The only question left, Draco, is how badly did you hurt Hermione when you told her you knew the truth?"

Next Morning
The Great Hall

An unfamiliar owl, black and beautiful, dropped a package in front of my morning meal, narrowly missing my glass of pumpkin juice. The Slytherin table had emptied only minutes before when Snape swept himself off the faculty dais.

I am still smarting from yesterday's private lesson and decide to take my time traipsing to class as a means of sending my godfather a clear but silent message of displeasure at his training methods for me... and Ron. It was all getting a bit old and the fact that the Weasel was proving more proficient in his role was simply too difficult to stomach.

I pluck up the package. It fits in the palm of my hand. I glance up and see the trio across the Great Hall, taking notice of how small she looks. She plays with her food, something she hadn't done since before the Yule. The dark smudges under her eyes are also making a return appearance. I find myself worried for her and push those concerns away with an annoyed scowl.

Sighing, I turn to unwrap the letter that accompanies the small bundle. The handwriting is in tight script. I can almost feel the agitation that forced the quilling of this missive.

Draco,

This package is for Hermione. You must give it to her. It is a matter of grave importance, and you must do this before noon today. It must be you who delivers this bundle to her and you must tell her that it came from me. If you do not do as I wish, Draco, I will send a Howler and I do not care who knows about her, you, the lot of it.

As I've no doubt you've already surmised, I am most desperate in my desire to get to know my granddaughter before you return to your Manor. Hermione has been kept from my family for far too long. I will not allow your mulish pride to be all that stands between us.

— Leo Muestildae

The old codger should be the one blood-related to Slytherin, I think bitterly, weighing the package in my hand. I wonder if hurling it at the Gryffindor table while yelling that a stupid owl accidentally sent a package from her grandfather to me as I storm out of the room would meet the old man's approval.

Not bloody likely.

With a fortifying intake of breath, I rise and make my way to the still sitting threesome. The remaining Gryffindors along the long table quiet and turn to me with suspicion. I take some perverse pride in the disturbance I still manage to create when I move to their side of the hall. Apparently, Granger and Weasley can rival the best of Slytherin secret keepers.

"Granger," I sneer her name and I watch her lips tighten at my acerbic tone. "It would appear there are a few loose ends left for us to take care of regarding our task for Snape. I'd like to take care if it before lunch, after Arithmancy, if you can manage the time."

I watch Potter's hand move to cover hers. His show of silent support reminds me that while I was in a drunken stupor, Ron revealed that Potter, too, had not been told of Hermione's secrets. I wonder if the future savior of the wizarding world would be so keen on touching her if he knew the truth.

Doubtful.

Regardless, the sickening reality is that Potter sits beside her, not I, and the sight of his hand on hers causes bile to rise in my throat. I sneer at the back of his dark head. I ache to snatch her hand away from his and knock him flat for daring to touch her. A flash of warning in Weasley's eyes keeps me from making good on my impulse.

"Alone," I add tightly, before either one of her ever-present footmen offers her his company.

"What is it that you have to tell her that you can't tell her now?" Potter bites out, not bothering to look at me, his eyes watching her. Her eyes rest on Weasley.

"It is nothing that would warrant me being a guinea pig to another one of your dark curses, Potter," my soft snarl has his spine stiffening. The ensuing silence and Potter's extreme discomfort brings me a great deal of wicked pleasure.

"After Arithmancy, Granger. You know where."

With that, I turn on my heel, the small package in my pocket, clutched in my grip.

POV: Hermione

He is lying on the green velvet chaise. My heart aches at the familiarity of the setting, but instead of staring into a crackling fire, he is staring at a wooden cube suspended above him, spinning and spinning. He points his wand at it like a conductor coaxing an orchestra to play a lazy melody.

I clear my throat to let him know I've entered the room. I watch him go still for a moment before he plucks the cube from the air and stuffs it into his robe, then he pulls himself to a rigid sitting position. I sense he dislikes looking up at me, so he moves to standing. Now I am forced to tip my chin up to view him. He doesn't reveal any emotion and this frightens me. It seems he's retreated once again, embracing his timeworn defense mechanism of playing the cold bastard he once was. It pains me to know that I am the one who pushed him to it.

"Draco—"

"Do not speak, Granger."

His command is quiet and steely, too much like the first time he made his aristocratic request of me in the bowels of the library.

A lifetime ago.

His tone dissuades me from arguing. I gulp and nod.

"I am being forced to speak to you," he explains, disdain lacing his every word. I dare to look into his face as he addresses me. His eyes rest on something above my left shoulder and I itch to turn and see what it is he's staring at so intently. Instead, I watch him reach into his pocket. I fully expect to see the floating cube again. "I received something by owl post this morning that I was ordered to personally deliver to you. It is from your grandfather."

"That can't be," I whisper, shocked. How did he know about my love for my late grandfather? My insides clench at the Slytherin's cruelty. I'd expected something like this, but I'd somehow forgotten how delightful it felt to be on the receiving end of his poisonous tongue.

What an idiot I am for offering my heart to this cold-hearted snake.

I promise myself that I will not cry in front of him again.

"Don't you dare use my family to try to hurt me, Draco. My grandfather has been dead for nearly three years," I say in a voice that thankfully doesn't shake. I watch his jaw clench at my continued use of his name. It hasn't escaped me that he no longer uses mine. "My grandfather was a good man. He suffered terribly because of his cancer and it was horrible watching him die. My grandfather was once so strong—" my voice falters at the memory of his gnarled fingers holding onto mine as he told me of his love and made his final goodbyes.

That had not been the first time I'd wondered what good being magical was if I couldn't use my unnatural power to save the people I loved.

I turn away from the Slytherin and stride toward the red chair he thought to conjure up along with the rest of the parlour room from Christmas.

"Why are you doing this to me, Draco?" I ask in a pained whimper. "You know I didn't mean to hurt you by keeping my blood status a secret. Why must you punish me more than I am already punishing myself?"

I see the furrowing of his brow before he speaks again. As he struggles with words, I distract myself by running my hand up and down one of the chair's overstuffed arms. The weight of his Christmas gift still lies foolishly at my neck. I want to rip it off, but I haven't found the strength to do this yet.

"You have a living grandfather, Granger," he clarifies in a clipped voice, "a Mr. Leo Muestildae." I know he doesn't know what to do with my accusation because he's shifting on his feet. It's not like him to fidget. "In any case, he wanted me to give you this."

I have a crazy thought that this special space he'd created in the Room of Requirement was just for the sole purpose of giving girls gifts. I shake my head at the preposterous idea but can't help hold onto the disturbing, lingering thought.

I stare at his outstretched hand and the small package lying on his palm. The vision reminds me of the other, far lovelier time. Although I had been mortified at myself for not thinking of Draco at Christmas, I'd been more than willing to accept his beautiful gift and I certainly had not been filled with a primal fear to bolt out the door.

"What is it?" I ask, keeping still, as if the package might strike me should I make any sudden movements.

He lets out a quiet huff and his frosty gaze hardens. I try not to flinch at the coldness I see there while mentally kicking myself for the impulsive response that has the both of us tumbling into a bittersweet memory.

He none too gently tosses the small brown-paper package at me and smirks as I make a fumbling catch.

"Open it," his voice is gruff. "I have done what is required of me. I am leaving."

"Stay, Draco."

I swing my eyes to the source of the voice. It certainly isn't mine. I find myself glaring at a frowning man in a painting set on a shelf next to the door.

Who was this man to dictate whether the Ferret stayed or not? I don't need Malfoy, even though just a minute ago I thought I did. Why was this man making demands?

As if reading my mind, the man in the picture says, "Miss Granger—"

I hear a rude snorting from the wizard in the room at my surname and force myself not to confront the vile git, focusing my full attention on the man in the picture frame.

"I am Leo Muestildae, your paternal grandfather."

I gasp, and he stops, allowing me to absorb the stunning information. When I am able to take in a calming breath, he continues. "I apologize, my dear, for the lack of ceremony for this first meeting."

I do not miss the incendiary glare he sends Malfoy.

"I regret that I cannot be at Hogwarts. There have been some recent extenuating circumstances that disallow me from being able to properly meet you in person. I hope I can make it up to you soon."

He smiles hopefully and I am aware of Malfoy's brooding presence behind me. I send the strange man a tremulous smile, wondering how on earth he found Malfoy, but decide to save my questions for later.

"Go, Draco. I don't care," I say turning to stare at the blond. Where this strength comes from, I don't know, but it had been absent since our late night row and I am grateful for its return.

His eyes flash and he balks at what I know he considers a command. I respond with words meant to inflict hurt.

"Just decide, Malfoy— in or out. I don't care which. I don't need you."

I watch Draco jerk against my mean-spirited sentiment.

Good.

I turn away from him to hide my satisfied evil smirk, fully expecting to hear the slamming of a door. When no such sound is forthcoming, I turn again to assess the situation.

Draco does not acknowledge me. He says nothing. Just to be contrary, he turns to sit on the chaise, his expression one of cold withdrawal. I feel a prickling at the back of my eyelids when he turns his face away from the sight of me.

I don't love you anymore! Go away! I want to scream, recognizing the falsity of the declaration even as I think it. I want to scream at him, to shout, to stomp on his foot, anything to get a stronger reaction from him.

Why is he still here?

I must have been staring at him for a long time.

"Open it, Granger." I notice his use of my adoptive surname. Interesting. The annoyance is clear in his gruff demand and it makes me want to do the exact opposite. The irony nearly escapes me.

Trembling, I examine the package. My annoyance at Draco, however, is not enough to overcome the morbid curiosity that has me slipping a finger under the flap of the paper. The wrappings fall open as if magically charmed to do so at my touch.

At the sight of the contents, I completely forget about Draco's presence and the portrait of my newly discovered grandfather. I gasp and fall back, distantly grateful that the red chair is there to catch me.

"Hello, Hermione."

My God, she looks just like me.

POV: Draco

I watch the color leech from her face. She falls into the chair that somehow accompanied my chaise when I wished for this room. Her eyes glimmer with overwhelming emotion and I want to go to her, but the feeling I have of being an intruder keeps me seated as I witness the scene unfold.

"You hold your grandmother in your hand, child," Leo's baritone calls out from the shelf I'd perched his frame on. Next to his picture is the orb containing Granger's blasted prophecy. The puzzle box remains in my pocket, a heavy weight.

"I never knew my grandmama," Granger's voice is a whisper and a whimper all at once.

"Well, you'll get to know me now, my darling girl," said a light, jubilant voice. "Thank you, young man, for seeing me to my granddaughter."

I grunt miserably, then belatedly remember my manners.

"It was an honor, Mrs. Muestildae," I reply more appropriately.

I watch her husband nod approvingly at me before he vanishes from his frame. From the sound of surprise from Granger's corner, I surmise that Leo's forced himself into the small miniature she holds in her hand.

"Your grandmother is no longer with us, Hermione," Mr. Muestildae explains, "but this portrait keeps her very close indeed. She promised herself long ago that she would protect you at all costs. On the day of her death she passed that promise onto me and at last told me of the prophecy that concerns you—"

I glance over at the orb and find Leo back in his frame pointing at it.

"There is much for you to know. The most important is that this prophecy is the reason for the secret switching of you and Emmanuelle. And now she is in—."

I hear a swift intake of breath and realize that the sound comes from me. I stand up and race toward Granger. Without thinking, I snatch the miniature portrait from her hand and curl my fist around it. Then I rush toward the portrait on the shelf, grab it and toss it under the corner of the oriental rug.

"No! Draco!" Granger's swift protest and her hand on my arm nearly causes me to drop the small painting. I yank my arm out of her grip and turn away from her. With my free hand I hold her off from going to the frame near my feet and hold the miniature in my hand above her head. While she struggles against me, I pull the pocket portrait back to my face and glare into the small picture frame. I expect to see a cowering elderly woman but am instead confronted with two pairs of brown eyes, as angry as my own.

"Do not do this," I seethe into the frame, my words meant for the man who had returned to his wife's side. All the while, Granger is still screeching at me to "give it back."

"Truth, Draco. Isn't that what you wanted? What you expected of her? She needs to know," the man's voice is gruff, the woman's mouth a tight line of disapproval. "And, you will do what is honorable."

"I do not need to live up to your expectations," I bite out furiously. My arm is tiring from holding a surprisingly strong, enraged Granger at bay.

"You are correct," Granger's grandfather replies more calmly, "but I do believe you will want to live up to your own."

I blink.

"Give us back to her, Draco," he says more urgently. "She needs us—all of us."

I shake my head. We are not ready. I begin to say this only to be stopped short by her grandfather's fathomless dark eyes.

"My dear boy, it's begun."

"What do you mean?" Her voice is a strangled gasp. Granger's white knuckled grip on the small portrait reveals her terror. "How can He have Emmanuelle? She's... she's—"

I knew Granger should not have been told. Who knows what she will do now? She always acts on emotion and now she thinks she is at fault. I shake my head bitterly. My lips tighten into a scowl. I watch her sink into her infernal silent, shaky sobbing. I can't stand the sight of it.

"Granger," I growl, not really knowing what I am going to say.

Her big, wet, outraged eyes turn on me. Her anger hits me before her shouting does.

"You knew?" she accuses hotly, her hair whipping around her. Electricity sparks off the ends in her heightened state. "YOU KNEW? And you didn't tell me? You knew and you've done nothing! It's been nearly three days! THREE DAYS, DRACO!"

She is standing now, her face contorted in her disbelief and horror. One accusing finger points at me, her other hand is clenched around the small picture frame; her grandfather's portrait is still under the rug.

"How dare you judge me for keeping something private and, by comparison, so trivial as my blood status from you... when you... when YOU didn't bother to tell me something THIS important!"

Her screeching has me wincing. "She could be DEAD, DRACO! DEAD! And you've done nothing! NOTHING! My God, Draco! She's my parents' DAUGHTER!"

At her last ranting declaration, I watch the shock register in her deep brown gaze. I see the realization of the fact hit her at last, and like a true Slytherin her first instinct is to lash out when faced with fear.

At least, I understand this.

"YOU VILE, LOATHESOME, EVIL GIT! SHE'S MY PARENTS' DAU—" I stand to grab her when I see her begin to sway alarmingly. "She's my parent's... daughter." She pounds her fists against me with each word as she starts to shriek her frustration. Her wailing starts as soon as my fingers close around her shoulder.

"Draco, she's... my...MY... parent's... dau—daughter."

I catch her fists in my free hand and I hold them against my heart. She wilts, dropping her forehead onto my shoulder. Already I can feel the wetness of her tears against my neck.

"How could you not, Draco?" she cries brokenly. "How could you not tell me?"

She is beginning to hiccup now.

"... Why didn't you tell me, Draco? She's... my... parent's daughter... MY... parent's daughter. Their daughter... and... I'm not... I'm not."

I do not know what to do with a wailing, hysterical female. It hurts me to watch her fall apart this way. I want to gather her in a tight, comforting embrace but I cannot. I do not know how and, far worse, I fear that to do so might not make much of a difference at all.

"Granger," I start to say after a century of her sobbing onto my shoulder.

At my voice I feel her stiffen under my hands. Her head snaps up, nearly catching me under the chin.

"No! I'm not! For once, I AM NOT GRANGER!" she screams up into my face, her tears streaming down her outraged face.

She yanks herself away from me. Her emotions switch from despair to fury in a blink. I can barely catch up. She moves rapidly to the opposite side of the room.

"Don't you see, Draco? I AM the girl in the prophecy! There is a reason for all of this! I can accept it now. I AM a Slytherin. If I wasn't, I couldn't do what I have to do. "

"What?" I whirl around to face her and find she is already at the door. "Where do you think you are you going?" I yell.

"I don't have to answer to you, Draco," she retorts. I am alarmed by the unnatural glow in her eyes. "And, you shouldn't have to ask. I'm going to go save Emmanuelle, of course."

I stare stunned at the door slamming behind her.

"HERMIONE!" I bellow at her retreating back from the opening of the Room of Requirement. "HERMIONE! HERMIONE! GET BACK HERE!"

"FERRET!"

Next, all I see is the color red rushing at me.

"Oi, Malfoy! Shut it! SHUT IT!" I feel Weasley's gigantic hand clamp over my mouth as he tackles me and I fall back into the room.

Oomph!

"Merlin, Draco! What the hell are you doing? SHUT YOUR PIE HOLE!"

I shove off his hand as I struggle to free myself of his bulk.

"Get off, Weasel! Get off!" I'm pushing and kicking, trying to wrestle the big oaf off of me so I can go after her. Unfortunately, he's bigger and he's been to Quidditch practice all season.

"Ge..erroff, Weasel!" I gnash, trying to sink my teeth into his arm to rid myself of his weight.

"DRACO!"

The rough command that is my name does not come from Ron. The outraged roar, however, halts Ron's movement because it is accompanied by a whole lot of clatter and white light shooting out from under the corner of the oriental rug.

"You shoved him under a rug?" Ron asks incredulously, his blue-eyed glare bores into me. His whole weight still pins me to the floor. "You put his portrait under a dirty, dusty rug? That's Hermione's grandfather, Malfoy!"

I let out an exasperated breath and find myself without breath in my lungs.

Merlin, Weasley is heavy!

I shove against his massive chest and he rolls off to crawl toward the light. He flips back the rug to find an extremely peeved Leo Muestildae trying to shoot hexes at us.

Thank Merlin it does not work that way! I would be dead nine ways to Sunday if it were up to the wizard in the portrait.

"Where's Hermione?" Leo bellows between firing off useless curses at Ron and me.

"She's gone off to save Emmanuelle, Sir." I reply coldly, biting back the I told you so as I dust myself off. My hands are shaking. To hide my nerves, I turn to grab the orb and stuff it into my trouser pockets which I'd magicked with an enlarging charm to hold both the orb, the cube, and the frame at the same time without appearing as though I'd grown another limb.

Handy, that.

"Well?" the gruff voice calls me to attention.

"Sir?"

"Why are you two still standing here?" he shouts. "Go tell that Professor Snape of yours that you're moving ahead with the plan and then go follow her!"

Ron's round-eyed gaze meets mine.

Fear.

Indeed.

"For Merlin's sake, lads! Are you wizards or not? GO! NOW!"

This reprimand seems to shake Ron out of his shocked horror. The redhead smiles a strange, nostalgic smile then bends to pick up the man's portrait. Once it is secured in his grip, he grabs my arm to drag me out of the room.

"Are you sure she is headed for the Manor?" I ask as I try to match Ron's running stride.

"She's Hermione. Of course, she'll go there first," he says, stealing a glance around to make sure the coast is clear.

He turns left and motions for me to follow.

"How?"

He makes his way down a back stairway. We turn a corner, and I hope with everything in me that all the Slytherin upperclassmen are in the dungeons so they do not see me racing down the halls with the Weasel.

"Hogsmeade, Draco. By Floo, just like Snape said you and I were going to get to your Manor. Except not from his office, from Hogsmeade. There are working Floos there, remember? That is unless you can disapparate. "

"I wasn't the one who failed my Apparition License Exam, Weasel," I criticize because I need to release some of my heart-clenching fear with a bit of my old nastiness. "I might also remind you that it is nighttime, Weasley. We planned for daylight."

"So, what of it, Malfoy? Night is the best time to use Hogwart's secret passageways. Hermione'll want to get to the Three Broomsticks. We all know the Floo there works for sure."

"She can't get into the Manor without me," I wheeze. My chest is aching from our mad dash and my lack of exercise since I had been absent from Quidditch practice most of the season thanks to Potter's fine curse.

"Let's hope she remembers your warning about the wards before she does something stupid like get into the Floo Network thinking she can storm the Malfoy compound."

I frown, trying to remember that we're talking about Granger. If there is one thing that she is not, it is stupid.

"Are you ready, Weasley?" I ask, concerned and trying to keep up with his long stride.

"To act like an insufferable, arrogant git?" he asks with an insolent grin.

"Yes," I huff. "Your life might depend on it."

"I'm as ready as I'll ever be, Malfoy. Besides, I've had the best teacher."

We are still racing side by side and he sends me one of his goofy smiles.

"Do not smile, you ignorant prat. I do not smile. Remember?"

He nods, duly reprimanded and shoots me an exaggerated scowl. I try not to laugh.

So, it has come to this, I think bitterly. My unexplainable and inappropriate worry for Gryffindor's legendary bookworm has me laughing in the darkened corridors at her best friend's jokes. I roll my eyes at my supreme idiocy. For what must be the thousandth time, I wonder again if it would have been better to have simply kept Granger, Snape, and the lot of them out of this madness.

"Let's grab our brooms," he says, still surprisingly not out of breath. "We'll be faster than her since she's on foot. Besides, Hermione's mad and might not be thinking very clearly. She might get lost."

"She is one of the most single-minded, stubborn witches I know," I pronounce, running an aggravated hand across my perspiring brow as I manage to keep his steady pace. Damn her to bloody hell! "She knows what she wants, Weasley, and she means to do it no matter the cost to her own person."

He takes in a deep, ragged breath, knowing I speak the truth. He turns to view me as he runs. His eyes reflect back to me the worried fear I feel gripping my entire body.

"Five minutes, Malfoy. I'll meet you in the Astronomy Tower. We'll fly from there. Once we get into Hogsmeade, we'll do just as Snape instructed us. Just like we planned."

I look at him, hoping that he practiced as much as he claimed. I nod grimly. I would never admit it aloud, but I would hate to have something happen to the ginger-haired git because of the disaster that is my life.

"Did you get the correct broom, Weasley?" I ask harshly, "Do you have everything of which I equipped you?"

"Only the best for a Malfoy," he replies with an arrogant snarl that would have made my father proud. "You will let Snape know, then?" he asks haughtily, turning to stare down his nose at me before making another sharp turn that I do not follow.

Without warning, my lips upturn in a pleased smile. I nod, relieved to see and hear his practiced reply.

Maybe the plan does have the slightest chance of actually working.

"Five minutes, then," I say, tossing the words at him.

We give each other one last look of acknowledgment before racing in opposite directions toward our respective dormitories. I know he will be in the tower more quickly than I despite having more need for preparation time.

Even though my lungs burn, I make a dash toward Snape's office.

I just hope we are as ready as Ron thinks we are.