Disclaimer: I don't own the characters. They all belong to JK Rowling.

"Dreams are alive, more real than real ... for a moment at least ... that long magic moment before we wake." - G.R.R. Martin

Merlin was certainly against her today. She was not one to moan, but Hermione had reached so many dead-ends that day that it seemed even the furniture was leading her further astray in this labyrinth of confusion. Instead of facing the Death Eaters that had killed her parents in cold blood, she was left fending off a rabid painting, a bigoted old hag and the ensuing rain as she searched for Malfoy in the grounds of the decaying manor.

Soaked to the bone, she resolutely retreated back to her room, an overwhelming sense of defeat sweeping through her. Hermione flopped onto her bed, angrily muting a strangled scream into her pillow as she whacked her fist on the mattress. If anyone unfortunately stumbled upon her ireful form, she would, without hesitation, have stunned them into silence, whether by magical means or simply by the preposterous nature they found her in. She was acting like a petulant child, and she could not stand it.

Turning onto her side, she reached over to light a candle on her beside table, her hand clumsily grazing the coarse leather tome that rest there. She had not gotten any closer to finding out Malfoy's reason for defacing several pages that lay there within. It was a mystery to her. Not one she could readily solve without the clues, ones that she was so desperately lacking.

She tapped her fingers on its leathery bindings, her brow furrowing even deeper than before. Opening the book, she wished to inspect the contents of the envelope further, flipping the pages until she came across the one she desired the most.

What?

It seemed to be the only thought Hermione could fathom, before her curiosity sunk down into the deep pit in her stomach. The envelope was gone. Not even a trace of silvery hair had slipped onto its pages, unbeknownst to the intruder. To be sure, Hermione flicked through every single page from cover to cover, coming at a loss when she realised that nothing was, in fact, there. Had she simply dreamt it up? She shook her head.

Her anger seemed to get the better of her, as she flung the tome off the bed with as much energy as she could muster. Out of sight, out of mind, she thought. But for Hermione the idea seemed to possess her innermost being. She was not just in a labyrinth seeking her way out; somebody was catching her out at every twist and turn. They were making her go in circles until her mind was subsumed by the crouching madness that seemed to be like a hound nipping at her heels.

Taking a moment to compose herself, she slowly sought for another book that would take her mind from the conundrum at hand. Within the velvety confines of her purse, Hermione's hand clasped onto the spine of an anonymous book. Pulling it out, she peered at the title that was boldly pronounced on its front. The amethyst swirls of the darkly embossed cover framed the words: Secrets of the Darkest Art.

She had not quite committed this one to memory yet. She was not sure whether it was due to her innate fear of the subject or what the knowledge that lay within its pages might do to her over time. Hermione could feel the effects of Malfoy's presence already, she did not need further temptation to fit the mould he so desired her to fill— to become the messianic warrior of the Light. She wanted revenge, retribution, but not by means of dabbling in the Dark magic that she and her friends fought against each and every day of their war-torn lives.

Many years ago, when she first opened its pages to better understand the creation of a Horcrux, Hermione was sickened to her very core, managing to contain her disgust and dismay until she, at last, reached the end of the chapter. The first words she could even bear to utter were etched in her mind: "Excruciatingly painful…apparently the pain of it can destroy you."

She would tempt providence again, it seemed, as she slowly prised the book open, allowing the words to consume her. Yet the nature of the passage rapidly ripped Hermione from her hectic reverie, voraciously commandeering her mind.

Her hand automatically clutched at the chain about her neck, quickly wrapping her fist around the pendant that lay against her chest. She felt oddly reassured by the trinket, egging her on to follow the inquisitive stream of her consciousness.

Soul-splitting is not simply restrained to the Dark Arts, but has often transcended the barrier that lay between that and the everyday use of magic…some have been traced to simple playthings, jewellery and looking glasses…it appears when one wishes for the object of their desires with such fervour that only their subconscious could admit does this occur…rumoured to lay within the Iberian Peninsula is the Erised fo Rorrim, which is a manifestation of such a phenomenon…showing the deepest and most desperate desire of one's heart can often lead to the splitting of the viewer's soul, especially when the fires of their insatiable desires cannot be dampened…

The young witch swiftly released the necklace from her grip, feeling unnerved by the recent revelation before her. It made everything so clear now, how Dark Magic could infect the simplest of treasures. Borgin and Burkes was a clear example of that— all its wares and goods were full of it, ready to harm or even kill those who were not permitted to touch them.

Feeling her eyes droop with the heaviness of sleep, Hermione tried to shake the need to rest her head down on the pillow for only a moment.

Only five minutes. I'll refresh my knowledge on the Polyjuice Potion after that…not that I need to… she thought, the faintest hints of credence mingling with the dregs of slumber that ensued.

A sudden knock woke Hermione as she was so close to dozing off. Her head rose from the pillow, her hair dishevelled, her eyes adjusting to the apparent darkness that surrounded her. The candle had long since gone, the flame a cause of its own demise. The curtains of her bed seemed to shroud her existence, hiding her away from any prying eyes that may have fallen upon her previously sleeping form. The slightest sliver of the crescent moon shone through the uncovered windows.

Another knock swung Hermione into reality. The tips of her fingers began to close around her wand, wariness tainting her every breath.

She heard the door creak open. Her hand quickly rose before her, her wand pointing dangerously in the direction the noise came. Peeking through the cracks of the curtains she saw a light slowly making its way towards her. She was prepared to disarm the intruder if they took another step towards her, when she heard her name being whispered. She saw the faintest outline of the whisperer's face, coldly illuminated by his wand. Hermione could have sworn she saw the curl of a dark pair of lips, icy eyes gazing down.

"Hermione. Hermione, are you awake?"

Her nerves slightly frazzled, she pushed the curtains apart only to be greeted by the vivid orange of a certain Chudley Canons t-shirt, any traces of blood long gone in the wash or a quick cleaning spell. Ron peered down at her, unsure if he was welcome or not— his cheeks appearing to redden.

"I- I'm awake, Ron. Sit down."

She quickly ran her hand over her hair, hoping to tame some of her curls.

Thinking he was going to perch on the edge of her bed, she was surprised when he placed himself right beside her, sitting not a wands-width away. Her heart thumped in her chest, her throat slowly becoming a closing damn to her breath and, apparently, Hermione's ability of to speak. She coughed hoping to dislodge any sense of trepidation she felt.

"Where's Harry?"

"Asleep."

Hermione could not help but laugh nervously at his audacious response. She pasted a smile on her lips, trying to brush away any awkwardness she may have felt.

"Well, as much as I'd love to stay up and chat, Ron, I'm awfully tired. I think you should just go back to bed—" Her suggestion was cut off as the young wizard placed a pallid finger against her lips. All the air in her lungs seemed to escape her at that very moment. Simply put, she was shocked at her friend's actions.

Friend. Is that really how I see him? The question seemed to ripen in her mind.

He cautiously began to lean in toward Hermione, who sat dumbfounded watching the events unfurl before her. She was not sure whether she should be repelled at the thought of it all or go along with it. The question of friendship was certainly wiped clean from all her thoughts.

Taking his finger from her lips, he placed his hand on her waist. It was as though she had no control over actions, dumbly responding like a clockwork automaton, doing his bidding. She wanted to push him away, but she could not. She tried, but could not think anything besides: Why not?

"Ron— we can't."

Her words were equally as feeble as her original feelings. He pulled ever so slightly away so that he could gaze at the young witch before him, unleashing the power of his doleful eyes, disappointment resting on his brow. Yet the vicious glint of possessiveness did not escape her either.

"I just want you to give into your deepest and most desperate desire, Hermione."

She could not help but frown in confusion at his reasoning. His words sounded oddly familiar, but her thoughts soon evaded her when he crashed his lips on hers, viciously moving in on her shrinking form. The very breath was sucked out of her. At first it seemed to be all hands and teeth, pent up frustrations, despair and grief reigning over their senses. Hermione could do nothing— and seemed disinclined to anything that would veer them from the path they were headed on. That was until Ron broke their kiss abruptly, their hot breath the only link to their previous intimacy. Her eyes were closed trying to take in what had just occurred. She could not let this continue — it was dangerous to begin an affair like this in the midst of a war. Her hand came up to rest on his chest, gripping his collar, wanting to pull him in again, but she knew she could not, should not. With a sigh and gentle touch she began to push him away, her eyes still sealed shut for want of some semblance of restraint. Hermione knew if she were to look into his eyes again, she would never be able to say 'no' to him again.

"Don't you long for the touch a man, Hermione?"

Her eyes snapped open, her mouth agape. She tried to swallow her fear, but could do nothing, say nothing. All she could do was stare at him. 'Shock' could not encompass the emotion that coursed through her veins, she almost felt sick with it.

She could only focus on the pair of icy eyes that stared intently into her own. The sharpness of his features was clearly accentuated by the darkness of the room and the little light that the moon deemed necessary to reveal the man before her. Her eyes slipped from his, gazing at the planes of his ivory-skinned chest. She just about managed to swallow her shame when she prised her eyes away. His smirk was almost feral when suddenly a scream passed her lips— the moment she finally awoke from her torrid dream.

Her breath was ragged. Her palms were sweating. A sob passed her trembling lips. It was all she could do to stop herself from screaming again. Nothing seemed to come into focus. The curtains of her bed blurred with the brightness that shone through the swath of darkness that surrounded her. Starring at the moth-eaten fabric that hung above her head, she recited as many uses of dragon's blood as she could recall considering the circumstances.

Slowly, her mind began to settle, her eyes adjusting to the darkness around her. She tried swallowing, coughing, anything to trying and shift the sense of unease that choked her lungs and tightened her throat. Steadying herself on her beside table, Hermione climbed out of bed, making her way towards the window, but froze when she spotted a dark silhouette sitting in the armchair before her.

"Tut-tut, Granger. First rule of surviving a war: never leave yourself unarmed."

She stared at the young wizard, her face becoming unseasonably warm. He had the audacity to scrutinise her openly, inquiring after her dishevelled form with the slight arch of his eyebrow. Steeling her resolve and standing tall, Hermione wanted to spit at his arrogance, not only at his comment, but also by stealing away into her room without permission.

"What do you want, Malfoy? I can only imagine it's very important, if you had to invite yourself into my room without the courtesy of knocking. Seeing as I know you're a gentlemanly Pureblood and all," The sarcasm dripped from her lips. It was certainly nice to be the one dishing out sneering comments for once.

I like this. I like this very much.

He stood, his eyes never leaving hers.

"Get your wand and follow me, Granger."

She stood her ground, not intending to obey in the slightest. Reverting to her twelve year-old self she cocked her hip, her fists clenched against the fabric of her jeans. She was prepared to lecture him to death, if he so much as tried to order her about again. She was not some hapless house-elf that would readily forget any misdemeanours of their heartless masters.

"No, Malfoy," She was not tempted to be verbally butchered by him at this ungodly hour. She had had enough of him already. All she wished to do was go back to sleep and try and forget the memory of a pair of unsavoury hands and lips that seemed to mould unnervingly to her own. Yet, she knew she had riled the dragon in him with her comment. It was not over yet.

His eyes seemed to turn to blackened onyx. They were an echo of what she had seen in her dreams. She knew in both cases they were a sign that nothing good was to come of their presence. Hermione could visibly see his jaw clench, bridling his anger and annoyance. Two emotions that seem synonymous with this impertinent witch, he thought. He took a calming breath before he spoke again.

"I will not ask you again, Granger."

She glared back at him, not standing down. It felt like hours they stood there, their eyes challenging the other to make the first fatal move.

"Forgive me, that sounded like a command, not a request, Malfoy."

In a flash, he grabbed her arm, crushing her wrist in his vice-like grip, his wand digging viciously into the base of her throat. She hissed in pain. His grip only tightened. Lifting her head, she tried to place as much distance as she could between them both. Even with his callous advances, she refused to show any weakness. She simply shot a baleful glance his way, daring him to continue. She would fight with brute force, if she needed. She had done so before. Hermione knew what she was capable of, even without the aid of a wand. Something in his eyes told her he knew that, too. Malfoy was aware that he was but a snake in a den of lions, but he was never one to shirk his Slytherin duties in goading the brains of the Golden Trio.

"You'll regret that."

"I'm not afraid of you, Malfoy— at least not now. Today I saw you crumble in front what you thought was Voldemort. You're just a scared, little boy trying to survive this war. So, stop with your airs and graces. You can't hurt me without going against your vow."

She gazed down at his hand that had only squeezed tighter during her speech. The evidence was there if he only pulled the sleeve of her jumper off her forearm. The marks would still be there. They may fade soon enough, but the chord that bound them together was there forever. That was unless Malfoy failed to protect Hermione. In that case both of them would be dead. They had to work together in order for this to run as smoothly as possible.

He studied her face, half-smiling.

"Well said, Granger. I would call you a fool to tempt fate, but for once your courage has been put to better use."

He nodded and slackened his grip, but kept a hold on her arm. She could feel the coolness of his touch as he pulled her towards him. She held her breath, unsure of his intentions. Whispering into her ear, she felt his breath against her neck, sending a shiver through her.

"But perhaps next time when you face an opponent you'll make sure you have your wand. A slap can only do so much damage."

Relinquishing his hold on the young witch, he turned and made his way towards the door, not even looking back to see if she would follow him now. They were at some truce— or at least an impasse.

It was only seconds before Hermione grudgingly turned and grabbed her wand from under her pillow. She knew she had to oblige his ego and do as he said in order to gain some trust, or at the very least some knowledge about the man she was to rely on. He would be her only ally in the midst of the evil she was heading towards. It was best to start now.

Maybe he'll put me out of my misery and feed me to that bloody Venomous Tentacula in the conservatory! She thought as she trudged from her room, feeling the effects of a restless sleep.

The silence of the manor created an air of eeriness to the place, which she had never noticed before. Maybe it was the presence of her silent companion that gave the illusion of being alone, but Hermione felt as though her conscious was slowly being invaded by the sadness that infested this place and the people there within. She then understood why Malfoy seemed so at ease here. He had been bred on coldness and tradition. Yes, he had the affection of his mother and father, but certainly the only home he had was now overrun with Voldemort's minions. She now knew why he was not the spineless boy that she knew at Hogwarts. His heart had been hardened by his sufferings at the hands of a wizard he now sought to undermine. She saw it when his eyes seemed to thaw as she spoke to him in her room, calling him out for what he was: a scared, little boy. He wanted to be blithe and merry and see his children grow up in a world unfettered by darkness. So did she. This is why they had to make this work. The lives of those around them depended on it.

As she followed closely behind Malfoy, she could not help but be in awe at the decaying beauty of the manor. In this darkness its faults and flaws were hidden from any onlooker. The paintings high above them on the wall, their occupants sleeping soundly or peering curiously at the witch and wizard that passed them by. Opposite, the curtains lay open, drawing Hermione's attention to the world beyond the thin glass of the cracked and stained windows before her. The moon had disappeared behind a bank of clouds, submerging the gardens into the abyss of gloom. But her heart seemed to skip a beat when she thought she saw a shadow move in its depths. It could have been a trick of the light or sleep taking a hold of her senses, but she felt ill at ease, all of a sudden. She glanced ahead assuring herself she was not alone. Malfoy had only advanced a few metres in front of her in the time she had stopped and taken a second look out the window. Yet it was enough get her moving again, jogging to catch up with him.

He came to a halt outside a great oak door that creaked as he pressed on the handle. A chorus of sighs and angry shouts erupted in the hall. The paintings evidently hated their sleep being disturbed. Malfoy turned to her, paying no heed to his errant ways.

"Come in, Granger."

Unsurprisingly, the room was as dark as every other she had been in since her arrival, save for the innumerable candles that swathed a massive table in light. Dark wooden cabinet lined the walls, holding unsightly specimens and unnatural mixtures. Some of the glass panes that enclosed numerous jars of all shapes and sizes were clouded or caked in sinewy substances that certainly warded off anyone who wanted to open their doors. Plants hung, untamed from the ceiling curling their tendrils around anything they could grip onto. A large cauldron stood in the middle of the table flanked by hordes of scrolls and tomes that seemed to engulf the surface they had precariously been placed on. Areas had been cleared where certain plants lay half-cut and small piles of substances sat stewing in little pots. However, what caught Hermione's attention was the hair that peeked out from under the flap of an envelope sitting beside the brewing potion. It was not just any type of hair. It was white blonde.

Malfoy had been gauging Hermione's reaction the whole time, regarding the steady realisation of the famous know-it-all in front of him. She now knew who had been in her room and he was just waiting for the fury that was to ensue— or at least some light berating.

It's to be expected, he thought.

He certainly took some pleasure in ruffling her feathers however hard it was starting to get. He sensed this time it was not enough. Hermione was getting better at schooling her emotions in the short time he had been around her. She was channelling her anger and frustration into wit and logic, two traits she had long since mastered. It was like adding tinder to a flame— and that fire just kept growing. He needed her to make this change in order to begin the task they had at hand. She still had much to learn from him in the little time they had been granted.

"You're making a Polyjuice potion, aren't you?"

"Ten points to Gryffindor!"

Rolling up his sleeves, he started collecting certain ingredients as he passed her by. She crossed her arms, summoning all the strength she had to stop herself from lashing out. It seemed to be one step forward and two steps back with Malfoy. Yet, then again, at least they were making some progress. Leastways she thought that until her eyes came to rest on a sight she wished never to see again.

During the vow, Malfoy had naturally chosen his right arm to be used. But despite the previous luck he could use to mask his evident shame, the young wizard had forgotten himself and what he was in that moment. Their smart bickering had nostalgically dragged him back to his years at Hogwarts when the only things that mattered to him were making his father proud, winning the Quiddtich House Cup and making Weaselbee's life a living hell. He had done it out of habit, rolling up his sleeves, like he had done every time he had eased into Potions late.

Hermione just stared warily at the wizard before her. She knew what he was capable of, but it seemed to dawn on her how much she would get herself into if she agreed to this all. Yes, Malfoy may have defected from the Dark Lord's army, but she knew as soon as she took that step, she could never go back. It was do or die.

She tried to look away, but she was almost mesmerised by it. The power it held over him and his family. It was his connection to the monster that had taken so many lives— a constant reminder of what they were fighting against and striving for: death and life.

"Granger, don't stand there like a daft troll. Go and get the rest of the ingredients. We need some shredded Boomslang skin and a pot of powdered bicorn horn."

He peered up from the mortar of pulverised knotgrass, the pestle languidly resting in his hand. It was not long before he realised what Hermione had been staring at. His awareness seemed to harden his eyes into a glacial glare. He quickly ran his hand over the mark, covering it with his sleeve. Nevertheless, the image of the blackened snake and skull against his porcelain skin still burned like an inferno in Hermione's mind.

She held Malfoy's gaze for a moment, until she looked away, starting to search the cupboards and drawers for the two elusive ingredients. Her heart beating faster with every step she made.

They were there for hours mixing, chopping, cutting, and stirring, a word barely passing either of their lips, unless they were discussing the potion at hand. Hermione rubbed her tired eyes, trying to keep her focus on getting the last leech out of the barrel.

"You need to rest."

She was jarred by the suddenness of his speech, losing her grip on the last piece needed to finish the potion. She sighed.

Wrapping her arms around herself, she hoped to shake the chill that had seeped into her bones. The manor had managed to reflect the wet and wintry setting outside, their steady breaths easily seen in front of them. She just about managed to reach the door when Malfoy spoke to her.

"And take this with you. I won't risk my life with your lack of proper knowledge."

She turned and gazed at Malfoy, who held something out to her. Quickly, coming to her senses, she took the embossed journal out of his hand, its weightiness almost dragging her down. Running her palm over its cover, she looked up at Malfoy, inquiringly.

"What is it?"

"It's everything you need to know about being a Pureblood. And you certainly have a lot to learn, Granger."

Prising it open, she turned to the first page. A neat hand had inscribed a name across the fresh parchment. The dark, bold letters stared back at her. It all made sense now. The hair. The Polyjuice potion. And now a name. As soon as she step foot outside the confines of the Order, Hermione Granger would be dead. This name was now hers:

HARMONIA TISIPHONE BLACK

"We begin tomorrow."

She nodded, her tiredness biting back all the questions that seemed to possess her mind. Hermione knew she had a lot to face, but her priority was to sleep and process everything that happened and that she knew would occur in the next few weeks.

Opening the door, she looked out into the hall, the tall windows letting in the first few rays of dawn.

"Oh, and Granger."

She turned and matched his steady gaze, the outline of a smirk on his lips.

"You should really think about taking a sleeping potion before you go to bed. Who knows what you might say when you are sleeping?"

Author's Note: It has been a long time, I know! But I hope all that have reviewed/favourited/followed my fanfic thus far can forgive my absence. I wish I could dedicate this chapter to everyone who has reviewed. I would like to dedicate this chapter to two wonderful people, my best friend, Christina who is both an avid supporter of my writing and a brilliant Dobby-loving editor, and to WolfMaster5, who had created a whole Fanpop page in honour to my fanfic! I was flabbergasted and so overwhelmed by your dedication on the website and your wonderful support. I only wish I had known of it earlier! Thanks once again! Check out my blog that has little snippets for upcoming chapters, and images, etc. The link is on my profile. Reviews are like a bag of nice-tasting Bertie Bott's Every Flavour Beans!