Title: The Lion and the Beast
Author: BookyJuliet
Genre: Dark, Romance.
AU/CU: Alternate Universe.
Rating: M, for safety reasons.
Warnings: More harsh language.
Word Count: 2,736.
A/N: The amount of songs that go into writing this story is a long and varied list indeed. It has also occurred to me that I forgot to mention that this writing exercise is a work of fiction, and that with the exception of the plot, I do not claim to have any legal rights over the characters, spells, places, or canon plot over-laps. Those belong to J.K. Rowling. She is a lovely woman. Now that I have given you enough pause, onward to this chapter that took too long to write, and didn't get where I wanted it to. Also, it has been noted that Draco has taken to wearing rouge blusher, and wearing women's clothing. If you do not understand, you were not supposed to.
Dedication: Honoria Granger. Thanks for the laugh.

Illusions

Hermione feels as if she has been walking for hours. It stands to reason that she probably has been. And as she looks around them, the sun is long past gone, the only light is the bobbing tip of Draco Malfoy's wand as he walks, smooth, even strides that she tries to study and imitate, but instead ends up tripping over her feet like they are some foreign part of her that she is not acquainted with. She curses herself for not eating much during the day, and Moody for this mission. She curses Lupin for not warning her, Harry and Ron for not catching her in the act of saying goodbye, the damn mosquitos that seem to think she's the next best thing since sliced bread. Then, she curses Malfoy, and his swaggering superiority complex, and the way he still sneers at her, and for most of the evening refuses to acknowledge her presence.

They have been walking for what seems like hours. Her stomach is protesting loudly, her feet growing more uncoordinated by the second. She knows that this is war. And she had suspected that war would mean doing some walking. Walking, and running, and casting spells she doesn't even want to think about uttering. She had imagined that she was in shape well enough to handle it. Now, she wasn't so sure. And maybe, just maybe this is why she is being given a mission that requires no walking, or fighting at all.

"Where are we even going?" She finally asks, breaking the silence. Adding to her list of hates in the way her voice holds the hint of a whine. She cannot be whining, and especially not at Draco Malfoy. For a long moment, it seems like this will be just another question in a long slew of questions that he refuses to answer.

"A safe house," he says, voice tight like he's doing his best not to explode.

"Oh…" To think about it, it was an obvious answer. Moody had said several times that she wouldn't be entering the Manor for another week at the earliest. She wasn't fully prepared, she needed training. And who else was going to give that to her, than her partner? It was impossible to think of him that way. And yet she needed to. Because he was all she had. Even though he made her blood boil, and her hands shake, and everything he did made her want to curse him, hex him or punch that damnable smirk off his face. But her life was in his hands.

That was a twist of fate she would never be ready for. "Is it much farther?" He seemed to heave a great sigh. Like speaking with her was tiresome. They would very soon be in a situation where they both needed to pretend that they were lovers. If they couldn't even stomach looking at one another, there was no doubt in the witches mind that they were both very shortly to be dead.

"No, Granger, it's not that much farther. As a matter of fact if you'd spend less time with your burdensome lines of unending questioning, you would have more time to lift your head and notice the outline of the house right in front of your bloody face." His words where ground out through clenched teeth, and her stomach only sank further as she felt the rise of her anger straining her control.

She counted to ten slowly in her head, biting back every scathing remark that flitted through her mind. "My apologies, I didn't realize that my attempt to successfully complete a civil conversation in light of our current mission was burdensome." It comes out harsh, and scathing. And she almost feels bad about it. But then he is glancing at her and in the light from his wand, she sees his sneer, and is ready to grab the nearest blunt object.

"When we both die, I want you to remember that it's because you can't handle answering a few little burdensome questions!" She snaps. The words are out of her mouth before she can think better of them. And though he slows in his walk, looking for all the world like he had a piece of his mind to give her, she just continues pushing onward, picking up the pace while ignoring the way the roots catch on her trainers and threaten to send her reeling face-first into the dirt on the over grown path.

She wasn't angry, not really. But rather frustrated, almost to the point of tears. Because this wasn't just her life, but it was his, and it was Ron's and Ginny's and the Twins and everyone she cared about right down to Harry James Potter.

That caught him by surprise. Of all the insufferable things she could have said, that was the one option he hadn't considered. It was true that Draco Malfoy was a desperate man. Desperate for many reasons from his families barley hanging on to their status in the Wizarding world to his father's blind acceptance of Voldemort and following him until death, and his mother's inability to see anything past how much she loved Lucius Malfoy. He was risking everything. Becoming a traitor, to the Death Eaters, to his status and his family, right down to his moralistic integrities; everything he held dear. And he was sacrificing it for them.

She was a Mudblood. A filthy Muggle-born witch basking in all the glories of a Pure-blood, but she wasn't. She wasn't pure, or natural, or even something that was supposed to exist. She was an anomaly. A fluke in the tapestry of magic, along with the rest of her kind. But for his father, he would bare it. He would hold her filthy hand, and look into her eyes, and kiss her dirty lips. He would laugh at her stupid jokes, and ignore that every second she was close to him was another second that increased his inner desire to set himself on fire.

But did he really want her to die? The irrational part of his brain that was honed by an entire lifetime of prejudice and hate easily barked that yes, yes he did want her to die. And his was the wand he wanted her to die by. And if he ever had the chance in open battle, so help him, Merlin the urge would be so great he'd struggle with himself to keep his wand arm down. To keep the curse off his lips, and the hatred from his eyes, because she was an abomination, a filthy little Mudblood. And she bested him in every way possible.

From academics to gaining her way into the inner circle of Harry Potter, this Mudblood, this Muggle-born who didn't belong in his world was better than him. It chapped his arse, made his blood boil, and his jaw tick as his hands clenched to fists. But he couldn't afford for her to die yet. Not when so much rode on this plan, his family depended on this plan.

Grey eyes watched in a nervous, shuddering rage as she came to a stop, eyeing the air wearily before she gently reached out a hand, sucking in a breath as she yanked her hand back as the magic of the barrier gave her a warning shock. This was his home. The house he'd bought in the event that the war went horribly wrong. This was his contingency plan. Not even his mother knew about the small cottage in the woods with all of the protection spells and barriers that the Order of the Phoenix could offer him. Gruffly clearing his throat he slid up beside her, pressing a hand between her shoulder blades, a look of disgust settling in the lines of his face as he pushed her forward and through the barriers.

They admitted her easily enough with the aid of his touch, but he could feel that the magic was nervous. Because he'd let her in, but it was obvious he didn't want her inside the confines of the only place in the world where he could be truly safe. They both took the three steps that lead to the porch in silence, and he unlocked the door, motioning her inside, "Your room is in the back, Granger." His voice sounded less than civil as he pointed her in the right direction.

"We'll get started in the morning." The finality in his voice left no room for argument, and soon, he was gone, taking the stairs that led to the upper portion of the house two at a time to get away from her more quickly. She was an abomination. The collective epitome of everything he was ever told he should hate in his life. An abomination…but she was his only hope.

That made him sick to his stomach.

Hours later, after sleep, a bath and food, that she had prepared for them both but he'd left untouched in favor of creating his own meal they had finally settle into what he called 'lessons' and she mentally referred to as torture.

"Damn it, Granger!" He barked, pushing her away from him for what seemed like the millionth time in just a few short minutes. "How can you be this bloody bad at dancing? It's the Waltz, not advanced Divinations!"

She felt her cheeks heating in embarrassment, the frustration continuing to mount. Growing and growing until she was permanently biting back scathing remarks. The inside of her cheek was bleeding from the strength with which she'd been biting down on it. She knew it was the Waltz. She could faintly remember MacGonagall teaching them the steps, her matronly voice rising and falling to be heard over the sound of the music playing throughout the Great Hall. "One, two, three. One, two, three. One, Chin up, Patill. One, two, three." Echoing, over and over.

"I know, I'm sorry, I'm just….nervous," she finishes lamely. "I was never all that good at dancing, Victor…Victor was always the better dancer. He made me look much better than I was…" She hates being vulnerable. She hates admitting that this is one thing she truly cannot do with any kind of grace, because her place is in a library, not on the dance floor.

He is glaring at her again, those swirling grey eyes clearly showing his anger, when he is angry, he's an open book for her to read. Suddenly, he's sighing in frustration, running tapered, graceful fingers through his hair that is damp with sweat. "Fucking…just pretend I'm Weasley," he bites out. "Pretend, for two blasted minutes that I am Weasley, and that you don't hate me, and that I'm not a Slytherin, and you aren't a Gryffindor and this is as normal as tying your shoelaces."

Hermione nods, slowly as he approaches her again, the song on repeat will be stuck in her head for days. As he wraps an arm around her fingers resting against the skin between her shoulder blades, she takes position, her hand clasped in his lightly, because she is scared he'll yell at her again if she adds any more pressure. She takes a deep breath, finding the count in the music. One, two, three, she remembers. One, two, three. Feeling his body poise to move, she steps back with her right foot, planting it before the left moves back, sweeping to the side to plant and finally a step together. Then, with her left she steps forward, one. Her right follows it forward, sweeping to the side, two. She steps together on what she prays is the three, knowing she'd succeeded in at least one full rotation of the box step before he's making her move again.

She does her best to keep her eyes on his, and not on the floor. Though she is trying to imagine Ron, his grey eyes are wrong. It's not a bad thing. They can actually be pleasant when the smooth mask is on his face as he dances. She desperately needs to find something about him she likes. All morning she's been struggling to find things. So far, the list is short, and this makes it lucky number four, and it's a far cry from the look of intense concentration she knows is twisting her own. She reminds herself it's as natural as tying her shoelaces. When that doesn't work, and she stumbles, she tries; it's as natural as reading a book. That helps, just a little.

She was surprised that the first thing he felt she needed to learn to fit into Pureblood society was the knowledge of simple ballroom dances. Nothing fancy, just standard, run of the mill steps; it was a rudimentary crash course. It's the first time Hermione can remember where she has thought of Pure-blood society like the English courts during the fifteenth century, and not as a group of hate filled bigots. It was bound to happen; she rationalizes, but still makes her uncomfortable. For the first time, she is seeing the enemy as human, and not black billowing cloaks, pointy hoods and masks shooting the killing curse at anyone and everything they can.

Lost in thought she managed to lose count, stepping squarely on his foot. He grunts, eyes snapping fire, his hand tightening painfully on her own. "We should send you against Voldemort," he drawls, staring her down. "He'd be so appalled by your dancing he'd probably shrivel up and die on the spot in horror."

"Oh please, if he was going to die from anything it'd be your grades," she countered, rolling her eyes. "You lot are really awful at studying you know. I know that Herbology is difficult for some people but I'd have expected that your house would have realized that dreadful is not an acceptable grade." She continued to stare him down, watching his jaw tick in obvious annoyance. She'd have felt bad if this was anyone else, and if he hadn't been running her like a slave for the better part of the last two hours.

"Doesn't feel good, does it?" She quipped, pushing the bangs out of her face, the summer heat was attacking the small dance studio in waves now and it was overbearingly hot. "I am doing my best to not criticize you; one would think you'd do the same. We only have so many days left for me to learn everything and every time you stop us for one of your immature insults, we lose more time." She approached him with calm, analytical reasoning. An emotional response had thus far, and as long as she'd known him, proven ineffective against the arrogant Slytherin.

There was a look on his face, one she couldn't fully read, something stained at the edges and peppered with how much he'd rather be anywhere else, and yet, here he was. A small moment existed where a mutual understanding passed between them, lingering for a scant second before it disappeared into nothingness once more. "Let's go," he mumbled, stalking past her, and she followed because she didn't know what else to do. It was good practice in following his lead.

Hermione didn't have much time to examine the house where they were hiding. But as she followed him out the front door, and into the summer sun, she finally had a chance to really see it for the first time. The roof had three points that all reached a different height and covered different pieces of the home, one taller than the next. Above the front door, half way up the first point was a window that looked out over the front of the property, and on the sill was a potted plant that seemed to be overcome by natural flora.

It had dark green shutters, and walls of grey coble stone and up the outer wall that she reckoned got the most sun, shoots of English Ivy climbed the stone. A half-hazard fence surrounded the property, and saplings of unknown trees and well placed flowers grew surrounded by the naturally occurring vegetation. It was happy and bright, and so different from any place she'd ever imagined Draco Malfoy to stay, even short term that it made her quirk a brow as she followed him down a path of little grey pebbles that crunched beneath her feet towards an unknown destination.