Charlie and Mira walked back to the house. There were shouts of welcome drifting down to them from the upstairs, and Charlie looked sideways at her. "I think they're home…are you ready to meet them?"

Mira looked apprehensive. She would soon be meeting Harry. Harry Potter. The-Boy-Who-Lived. The reason she was even in this whole goddamn mess. She took a breath, and nodded. "Yes…sweets with the sour, I suppose." She said grimly.

Charlie grinned faintly, and lightly dropped her hand, gesturing for her to go up the stairs first.

Mira did so, and her stomach pulsed with nervousness. They approached the door to the sitting room Mira had drank her scotch in, and she opened the door.

Nothing could've prepared her for what she was about to see.

---

It was truly amazing how Draco Malfoy could turn a faded, molding couch into his throne. He had, since his earliest years, possessed a certain aura that simply demanded admiration and respect for the power he held within his blood. He had expected Mira to be shocked to see him here, at Number 12, Grimmauld Place, but she had, as she often did, far exceeded his expectations. The girl went, as they say, completely psycho.

"Draco fucking Malfoy! Just what in the helldo you think you're doing here?" She shrieked, dragging Charlie Weasley behind her. Upon seeing his black-haired beauty's hand firmly clasped in the red-headed dragon lover's, Draco stood up from the couch.

"I suggest you, Mira, be quiet and keep your hands to yourself." Draco wrenched Mira's hands from Charlie's and glared at the Weasley who dared impose on his prize.

Mira was glowering, but in confusion, as she often had been doing since the day they buried Foster and Natasha...

*Flashback*

The air was cool, the weather a bit damp and musty, as most English summer days were. The assembled crowd were dressed in black and dark green, the custom for followers of Voldemort.

Mira, in a black dress with a green scarf tied around her delicate throat sat, silently, beside Lucius. Draco was on her other side, Pansy next to him, looking extremely bored.

As Natasha and Foster were both students at Hogwarts under the reign of Dumbledore, the Headmaster conducted the service. Draco, remembering his meeting with Albus not three days ago, mentally acknowledged the old man, dressed in navy blue robes.

Draco remembered that he would be meeting with Dumbledore again next week, and promised himself he would tell Mira everything. She did, after all, have a right to know, and he could even justify that it was essential to the entire plan that she understand what was going on. Not yet, he reasoned to himself, just a bit longer…when Mira was ready.

He was worried about her. Lately, he had found empty packs of cigarettes in her bedroom, and under her bed were tall bottles of vodka and other liquors, some completely consumed, others full and waiting for her to drown herself in. And yesterday, just yesterday, he had walked in on her massacring her right arm with a small, sharp razor. The cuts, thankfully, were few, and not too deep. He had cleaned them with a wave of his wand, and confiscated the razor from her. He still had yet to tell her how he had grieved over that, how he knew that he, Draco, was part of the reason she couldn't take the screaming inside of her anymore, and instead elected to turn a deaf ear to the all the noisy pain and etch her misery into her skin…

*End Flashback*

"Hello!" Mira screamed, pushing him in the shoulder. Draco snapped out of his thoughts, blinking several times before he was able to see her face contorted in anger clearly again.

"Dear, there is much to explain….come, meet this lot first." Mrs. Weasley said carefully from Mira's side. Mira was grabbed on either side by Charlie and Molly, who led her to the couch where she had sat earlier that evening.

Mira's startling green eyes fell first upon Hermione, her brown hair brushed back into a loose bun. Delicate walnut tendrils fell lightly around her sun-tanned face, which was free from heavy makeup, but the girl scarcely needed any. Her warm, honey-colored eyes were framed with thick black lashes and perfectly arched eyebrows. Her eyes traveled downwards, across Hermione's smooth, defined neck, past her slightly protuberant collar bone, and paused shortly at this beautiful girl's low cut tank top, considering the voluptuous breasts evident from the cleavage peaking out of Hermione's shirt of choice.

Looking back to Hermione's vibrant face, Mira noticed Hermione's lips were full and glossy, tinged pink and delicious looking.

Hermione held out her hand to Mira, and smiled brightly. "I'm Hermione. A pleasure, Mira." Hermione said, her fingers lingering in Mira's hand longer then necessary. Mira smiled faintly back, her thoughts still focused on her shiny lips.

"I'm Ron." A tall, sort of gangly red-head boy sitting next to Hermione said, also smiling and holding out his hand. Mira reluctantly let go of Hermione's soft, warm hand, and took Ron's outstretched shake.

"And I'm Harry." Mira turned to him. Harry. Harry Potter. The-Boy-Who-Lived, the conqueror of Mira's master, the one who had not once, or twice, or even thrice defied the Dark Lord, but the boy of only sixteen who had escaped with his life four times now. Mira felt nothing but hate radiating from her soul. If it hadn't been for this, this Harry, her parents would still be alive and she with them, in her own house, living her own life.

She wouldn't, she noted, be wrapped up in this psychotic mess, wondering why in the hell Draco Malfoy, the spokesperson for mudblood haters, was in this old, disturbing house, which just happened to be the headquarters of Voldemort's most noted enemy, that absolute fool Dumbledore.

As Mira pasted her fakest, most cynical smile on her lips, and took in his emerald green eyes and messy mop of black hair, she knew for sure, now, that her alliance was with Voldemort, and she didn't care, not one fucking bit, who knew it.

She was a Harry hater.