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:1,800.
A/N:It seems that running around like a chicken without a head as I attempt to get my travel plans together and finalized is causing some issues with my writing time. Regardless, here is your next chapter, it is shorter, but was interesting to write, to say the least. Also, if you are curious, on my profile there are some Q&A's to keep you busy as I work on catching up. Reviews are lovely, but not required.
Shout Outs: Thank you to the following, for deciding to track this story, or follow me, as an author: EllieMay Duncan, SugarSweet82, kdrac, tangerinequeen, tacker23, AtlantaOfArcadia, Miss'Phelps, itsjillian, Nostariel, Ivy Grimm, Sasha2121, pillowwolfpup, Morfinafina, La Belladonna, wolfshifter 1001, LondonGirlxXx, KaTee19 and Honoria Granger. Thank you for the support, bearing with me as I make my random updates, and for putting up with my lack of Beta, and there for any kind of formal editing; this is for you. -BookyJuliet

Hopeless Wanderer

Draco Malfoy's face was alive with concentration as they moved about the floor, her skin under the tips of his fingers was warm and soft, a distraction. An unwanted distraction. Hermione Granger was not supposed to be warm and soft, she was supposed to be dirty, and abnormal. Or perhaps insufferable. His turn in thoughts was causing him as much grief as teaching her to dance, but he had to admit, if only to himself that she was improving. It still wasn't the practiced ease one would expect from a Pure-blood, she was no Pansy Parkinson, but she was graceful enough to pass; and some Witches and Wizards never did reach the levels of high proficiency in dance as his family.

There was no room for a Malfoy who couldn't dance.

As the song came to a close, he twirled her, hating the way her eyes shined up at him happily as she clapped, a rare moment where she expressed pleasure in how far she had come. She was almost ready, at least, as ready as she would ever be. And Draco found that the closer to 'Operation Loverbirds' as it had been nicknamed by blasted Mad-Eye Moody, they became, the more and more he considered his fate if they were to fail.

Blood traitor. Even the thought made him shudder. He could not live in his world if he was labeled a blood traitor now. There was a chance he wouldn't be welcomed in his world after the war if it succeeded. He was becoming a man lost. A man with no direction and nowhere to belong, and that thought was almost as terrifying as the thought of being caught.

Could he live outside of the society he'd been raised? Could he still hold his head high in the face of the families he was betraying? Families…there were numerous families. He was smiling in their faces, dragging them in for a hug, and whispering words of welcome as he drove the dagger into their back. A true Slytherin, he mused. A true Slytherin…

"That will be all then, for this anyway." His voice was far away, so lost in his thoughts he was not present in the moment.

"Great! We can continue going over Malfoy history then? Or shall we move on to Hawthorn history?" Her voice was so full of intelligence. So warm and welcoming, and he hated her for it. Hated that she seemed to forget who he was, and who she was, or rather what she was. This wasn't History of Magic, this wasn't Potions. You didn't get a grade for knowing everything; you just got dead if you didn't.

"Why do you bloody do that?" He snapped voice gruff as he stared her down.

"Do what?" She asked, her head tilting to the side innocently like she wasn't driving him up the damn wall.

"That! Act like were friends. Act like this is some class you are taking a test on at the end of the week. Like you aren't a Mudblood!" He sneered, fast contorting with rage and discussed. He could see it, there in her eyes. The pain the word brought her. The pain and the anger. It was shocking how clearly he could see it on her face when the thin band that held back her rage snapped.

And suddenly she was in his face, wand pressed into his throat, eyes snapping fire as she let out a tense breath, so compressed by emotions that it came out as a low, deadly hiss.

"Like I'm not a what? A Mudblood! Why are you even doing this?" She demanded voice shrill with her rage. "Why are you pretending to be on our side when you still think that way? When you still see me as a second class citizen, with no right to breath your air let along hold this wand?"

The tip of said instrument was pressing harder into his skin. If he was a lesser man, he would have winced, but he held his ground. Her magic pulsed through the enchanted wood, sending warning signals to him, how close he was to being hexed to oblivion. But he just stood there, glared her down.

"Because you are a second class citizen," he ground out. Like explaining it to her was tiresome. "Because no matter the outcome of this bloody war you will always be second class, and not even that. Third! Because before you are the half-bloods." He laughed the sound bitter. "Do you think killing Voldemort will change that? That him being gone suddenly means you are equal?"

He stepped forward, ignoring the pain, ignoring the magic. "You. Are. A. Muggle-born. You will never be the same as me. You will never be the same as Weasley, or Potter," he spat. "You won't because you aren't. Not because of Voldemort, or because of the Pure-bloods. Because of what you are. And yes, I do hate you for it. I hate you for being an abomination to my world. I hate you for waltzing through Hogwarts castle like you deserve to be there."

There was a long, pregnant pause, as her face twisted, and contorted with so many emotions, that he quickly gave up on reading her face.

"Do you think it's just us?" He asked dark amusement in his tone. "Do you think that only Death Eaters and Pure-bloods see your kind as below us? Do you think that because Remus bloody Lupin, or McGonagall accepts you as a witch that somehow every half-blood, every pure-blood that isn't us accepts you freely?" He laughed. He laughed in her face, out right, and not caring if she cried. Or if she was angry, or if he'd broken her spirit.

"Do you think the Ministry of Magic doesn't view you as an anomaly? A chink in the armor? A blight on the otherwise perfect fabric that is the magical world?"

He could tell by her face that these were thoughts she had in fact entertained. Draco could watch the way her world was being ripped out of the ground, turned upside down and smashed back into its base without even the pretense of grace. Her wand shook, and then lowered, slowly. Excruciatingly slow.

"You can kill all the Death Eaters in London and still not make a dent in the equal rights movement you seem to confuse this to be. My reasons for wanting to end Voldemort have nothing to do with you, and your blasted Mudblood comrades. I'm not fighting a war to give you equal rights. I'm fighting a bloody war to stop a madman who kills without discretion, tortures, and rapes and pillages everything in this world that means something, or makes life worth living." He let his silver eyes bore into her brown ones. Brown. Dirty. Dirty, filthy blood.

"Before you wage war, Granger, maybe you ought to know what exactly it is you are fighting for." Stepping away from her, he took his leave. Stalking out of the studio to ascend the stairs that led to his room, his only solitude in a world otherwise ripped to shreds.

He could curse himself for letting her get under his skin. For failing to keep the pretense that she wasn't disgusting to him in place. Maybe if he had, than the future would look less screwed. He could hear his mother now, nagging in the back of his mind as she tried to explain how to get what he wanted out of people. Compassion, Draco. You need to breed compassion to get what you want out of people. Otherwise they don't feel they owe you anything at all. Compassion.

Compassion was comprised of two elements. The ability to recognize that you as a being, are not separate from the whole of society, and every other living being on the planet from flora to fauna. And the ability to detangle yourself from the idea, or fear of outcome, throwing caution to the wind; a leap of faith, while being fully prepared to bash your face into the pavement if no one catches you. Compassion was not something Draco Malfoy possessed.

Then again, perhaps he did. But it was not something he exorcised. Compassion he could not offer. And it was compassion that would get him out of this mess. If he didn't, they were doomed to fail. If he didn't back track, re-write his steps, it was as good as wrapping them both up with a nice silver ribbon to be delivered and executed promptly.

It wasn't that hard, really. Not in his thoughts anyway. He needed to retreat, charge in the opposite direction of his wrath and scorn; he needed her to like him. Like wasn't love, but it'd make the charade easier. There were potions for this kind of thing, of course. And it wouldn't be so hard; he supposed to start slipping it into her morning tea. A gentle love potion, an artificial affection, it would be passable, but too easy to detect.

No, he needed her on his side of her own accord. And his little outburst had set him back in his plans by ten years if he had to guess. Slamming the door behind him, he cursed, kicking the leg of his proper four-post bed. The black comforter and soft beige sheets looked terribly inviting. But he had no time to take a nap. He could erase her memory; remove their little spat from the archives of her over-active brain. But tampering with her head was dangerous, even for someone as skilled as himself.

It stood to reason then, that he had only two options. Both of which went hand-in-hand, and would be terribly painful for the blond aristocrat to suffer through. But so was joining the Order, and willingly agreeing to fake a relationship with Hermione Granger. He was doing all sorts of painful and undesirable things lately, why should he stop now?

His next move would be to apologize. The idea made him scowl. A Malfoy was never supposed to feel sorry for anything they did. A Malfoy willingly coming to an apology was a sure sign that hell was freezing over, and perhaps, considering Voldemort, it was. After his apology, it would be necessary to breed compassion. It would not erase his transgression. But it would go a long way in the right direction to pull at the strings of her bleeding, Gryffindor heart.

It would allow him to recover some lost ground. It would not fix the mistake, nor was it a perfect plan. But it was a start. Sighing heavily, he let himself fall back into the soft, comfortable bed. Perhaps a little nap is in order, he mused. Perhaps, just a little.