Draco allowed himself a rare smile as he ran his hand over the smooth glassy expanse, admiring the intricate detail on the work as a whole. It wasn't complete yet; it would take a bit of time before the entire thing was set and ready for her arrival but it was coming along nicely and he couldn't wait for her to see it.

And it will be ready in time, he assured himself as he stepped away and shrugged on his cloak, striding through the halls for the exit. It wouldn't do to be unprepared for when he caught his little bird. She was as resourceful as she was beautiful, and if any small detail was left unchecked then she would fly away again, and Draco was not about to risk that after he had waited so long.

The days were turning colder; the brilliant display of colors from the leaves on the trees surrounding the property had faded quickly and turned into a sea of muddy browns and oranges. The crisp air snapped at his exposed skin as he stepped outside and began to walk around the grounds, taking his time.

There was hardly anything to do but wait, which vexed him greatly. If it were possible he would have liked to visit his parents. Narcissa sent him letters whenever she felt strong enough to write, which was not often. Lucius kept mostly silent. When Draco wasn't thinking of Hermione he worried about his mother. If it weren't for the bloody Ministry stalking his parents he'd have been able to see them whenever he liked and perhaps find a way to help his mother but here he remained, much to his displeasure.

The Malfoy Manor wasn't the most inviting place, nor could he claim that he'd lived a happy life there but it was his home, and he missed its familiarity. There he had wanted for nothing and had enjoyed the solitude of his formative years. Lucius and Narcissa were safe and protected in the Malfoy Manor; they had successfully proved they "did 'not know' where their son was". As long as he didn't show up there they would be left in peace. Draco knew ways around the Ministry's surveillance but dared not risk it. What would happen to his mother then? And him? He'd never have completed his own mission.

The last time he had been there, he had shut himself up in their library and ransacked the shelves for any damn book that would hold a clue as to what was killing his mother. She had not gotten worse, but she was not getting better either. All she did was sleep; her groans of pain would slice through his mind as he tore through the priceless volumes, seeking a cure that might as well not exist. All the while his father grew increasingly distant with him (not that they'd been very chummy before), shutting himself inside his study, barely speaking at all.

He ran a hand through his hair, clenching his jaw angrily.

That was the problem with having a Death Eater for a father. The Dark Lord had ingrained it into all his followers to eradicate all emotions.

"They make you weak, pathetic, and susceptible to attack," he had said, and everyone obeyed. Some saw it as a commodity; something essential to the self that must be mastered. The ones who didn't agree could say nothing.

Am I the same way? He thought absently, raking his eyes over the dense forestry.

Yes, he most likely was though sometimes he surprised himself. He was a Malfoy, after all. Cold, aloof, powerful Malfoy, just like his father.

Just like your father.

Images and flashes of memories danced before his eyes with every step he took.

His father, standing above him as he wept on the floor, clutching at his toy broomstick.

His mother with her back to him in the parlour, sobbing silently into her handkerchief as he watched, hidden behind the door frame. He had never been able to figure out why she was crying, for when he made to go to her, his father called him sharply from behind and ordered him to go to his room in that tone of voice that used to make his legs shake.

The first time he had ever seen his father lose control; coolly killing a House-Elf for not serving his tea quickly-the the small, limp little body dropping to the floor like a marionette that had its strings cut. His father, calmly drinking his tea as though nothing had just happened.

Five-year-old Draco on an 'outdoors' trip with his father. He had been confused but excited to see his fathers' friends there. Perhaps they had brought their sons and he would have someone to play with. They had set off on a hunt. When he had asked Lucius what kind of animal they were hunting for, he had not answered. After some time, they had come across a small cabin in the woods. There had been a loud, scraping noise and then he saw a red flash of light, and the next thing he knew, the charming little cabin was on fire. Screams could be heard from inside the structure, and he had looked to his father, waiting for him and his friends to rush inside and save the people trapped within. As the screams and cries worsened, so did the panic clawing at him. He didn't dare speak; he never was allowed to speak around his fathers' friends. He had frantically looked around at the others to see if they were just as concerned as he. But every face he had looked at was covered by the hoods on their cloaks; all that could be seen was the lower halves of their faces. Some of them were grinning or sneering at the spectacle, the others' mouths were set in a grim line.

'Traitors,' one of them hissed, and had spit onto the ground.

Draco hadn't known what to do then. The cries from the inside of the cottage were weakening and fading, he found he was more curious than disturbed by the screams, merely wondering when they would stop. None of those around him seemed distressed either-some of them were grinning, in fact, relishing the sound of a cruel death. Draco didn't grin, but he bore the fading screams silently until they ended, feeling neither alarm nor grief at the fate of these people he didn't know. Why should he? The man had said they were traitors, after all…

He looked up at his father. His face was also obscured by his hood, but there was no mistaking the feral grin on his face. Draco should have been frightened. He should have felt compassion. He had felt nothing.

By the time the screams were long gone and the little cottage collapsed into a smoldering heap of ash and stone, embers glowing threateningly on the ground, he felt he had seen enough and wanted to go home. The men around him seemed satisfied, and after marking the black sky with the Dark Lord's mark they apparated away, leaving himself and his father alone in the forest, breathing in the acrid smoke. Lucius had explained to him why they had killed the family inside but he had hardly heard him and even now he could not remember the reason his father had given.

Draco blinked and stared straight ahead, counting his footsteps. His mother had said nothing when they returned, but he had sensed she had known where they had gone, what they had done. He had automatically bid them good night like the dutiful son he was and went to his room to sleep a dreamless sleep.

He blinked again, wrapping his scarf more securely around his neck. That memory had come out of nowhere. He hated that feeling, when memories he didn't know he had just floated back up to the surface. Had he repressed it? He had read something about repressed memories in one of the books in his father's library once. And he had heard Granger speaking about it to Potter once in third year; just in passing, when they had come across each other in the library.

That had been sometime after the incident between himself and the Mudblood, when she had slapped him for the first time. He'd been too proud and mortified to acknowledge her much afterward, only had sent her a brief sneer and swept away, his ears burning with hate and shame as he heard Potter mutter something and her high peals of laughter followed him for the rest of the day.

Now that he thought on it, he realized he never had gotten back at her for that slap.

There had been so many opportunities: over the summer at the Quidditch World Cup, Fifth-year with the Inquisitor Squad, he surely could have used his power to lure her into trouble, and well, last year had not been enough. He supposed he had been too embarrassed at having been bested (yet again) by her. Their third year had been a revelation for him-that had been the year he realized how strong she was. Not only was she the most intelligent witch he'd ever met, but she certainly could dole out a little serving of humility when the calling she'd finally had enough of his taunts and jeers and had lashed out with her fist had both astounded and infuriated him.

He had revisited the memory of her punch for days after, still shocked to see that the famously prim Granger had true bite to her, after all. Before, she'd just made sarcastic comments back at him or rolled her eyes and turned her back, but that punch was a total surprise and he'd found himself intrigued by her since then, refusing to admit for the longest time after that the memory of her viciousness was troublingly arousing, and that he'd masturbated to multiple fantasies in the years since of ways he might stoke and dominate that delicious little temper of hers.

I'll break you like a twig, he thought, desire and anticipation curling inside him. I'll leash that temper of yours, Granger.

He couldn't wait to see her at the ball. She would be unaware and probably too preoccupied with Potter to see what was really going on. All for the better. He'd have his chance to strike and be one step closer to his goal.

Count your days of freedom, little bird, he thought, smiling again. I'm coming for you.


"Are you absolutely sure you've got everything ready?" Ginny asked for what seemed to Hermione like the millionth time.

Hermione looked up from her Ancient Runes textbook and glared at her redheaded friend.

"Quite. Now ask me again and I'll hex you."

Ginny tossed her long hair over her shoulder and smiled. "You'd never."

"Don't tempt me," Hermione warned absently, her nose back inside her book. Ginny laughed and gave her friend a squeeze on the shoulder and left.

As soon as Hermione heard the door slam she tossed her book aside and sat down in front of the fireplace, kicking off her shoes. Dinner wasn't for another hour and she intended to take advantage of that to take a much-needed nap.

The Halloween ball was in two days' time and every one of her and Neville's waking moments (outside of classes and homework) had been dedicated to making sure everything was going according to plan. Due to the stress, Neville had got a cold and was taking the day off from his classes. Remembering that he hadn't been to lunch, she supposed she would have to check on him before dinner to make sure he was alright.

She awoke from her nap a while later, a small frown gracing her features from the remnants of the dream she had been having still pulsing in her mind. She shook her head faintly and sat up from her curled position by the fire, stretching slowly to undo the kinks in her spine.

It's been some time since I've had a nightmare. The thought was comforting.

And a good thing it was, too. Now that she was able to get the rest she needed, her brain was finally waking up from its trance for the past several months. Ron's confrontation had helped as well; she hadn't known how badly she'd needed that. And her reconciliation with Harry. Things were running smoothly again between both of them after she had forgiven him. It seemed he still felt guilty, though, for since she had taken him back he was suddenly very protective of her (more than he had been beforehand) and whenever they were together, he would be extra careful and gentle with her as though she were some delicate glass figurine. It was both sweet and aggravating.

His confession of being in love with her had very much been on her mind for days since he had said it. To think he'd loved her all this time! It made her blush, both flattered and embarrassed. She had almost said it back, but didn't, and wasn't sure why.

That she felt love for Harry was a no brainer. She had come to care for him more than she cared about her other friends. He was brave and selfless at times and utterly clueless at others. He was kind and intelligent, funny and attractive, though she'd never allowed herself to think too much on that last one until not too long ago, fearing it would ruin their friendship.

Now look where we are.

Whether the love she felt for him was the same sort he felt for her, she wasn't sure yet. He had always been a friend-and she had pushed away that little voice inside her head that had sometimes wondered what it might like to be more than that. In Year 4 the daunting fear of the Triwizard Tournament had let that voice become a little louder, and she had hidden her disappointment well when he'd crushed on Cho Chang. But sometimes their eyes would meet and she would catch something in his gaze that was fleeting and warmed her to her toes-it happened here and there, and sometimes his gaze would linger on her as they'd talk and she'd asked herself later if she had imagined it and dared wonder if he felt it, too.

When he'd asked her to go to the Yule Ball with him last year, she had been relieved, as she hadn't been sure if she'd ever have worked up the courage to ask him herself-especially with Malfoy always plaguing her mind.

Being with Harry felt natural. They'd been friends for years, now, so she guessed that played a part. She only wished Malfoy hadn't been around to taint the beginning of their relationship as he had tried so hard to do.

Hermione got up and dressed quickly, glanced at her clock. Dinner was coming up. She'd told Harry and Ron she'd meet them there.

At the mention of Harry, her stomach did a funny flip and she paused, frowning.

That's new.

Before she could dwell on it further, she hurried out of her room, excited again at remembering that the Malfoy nightmares were becoming less and less.

She entered the common room and stopped at Neville's door, rapping on the mahogany with her knuckles.

"If this has anything to do with the ball, you're not welcome," came Neville's groggy voice from the other side of the door. He opened it anyway, blinking blearily at Hermione, who smiled at him.

"It's your lucky day, then," she said. "Just popping in to make sure you're alright." She slipped past him and made herself comfortable on the plush carpet.

"Do come in, by all means," he muttered, shutting the door behind her.

"You've seen better days," she remarked honestly, tapping her chin with her finger. "Have you taken any potions?"

Neville nodded, yawning, and shuffled over to his dresser.

"Dinner is soon, you know. You should eat something."

Neville yawned. "Ugh. Give me a moment, then."

"I suppose you're not up for patrols tonight?" Hermione asked.

"Sorry but no. This headache's been bothering me all day," he said. "All these Head duties are driving me up the wall," he grumbled, searching for a clean set of robes. "And this Ball has got me barking mad. Thank Merlin it's almost over."

"Cheers," Hermione snickered, and he went into his bathroom to dress.

"Should I wait for you, or do you want privacy?" she called.

"Might as well wait so we can walk down together," his voice was muffled by the walls separating them.

A few minutes later, he emerged, looking fresh and fully awake.

"Let's away," he warbled in a pathetically childish voice and offered her his hand to help her stand.

"Let's," she echoed, hiding her laugh, and together, they walked down to the Great Hall.


The Headmistress looked over her pupils, raising her hands for their attention.

Almost immediately, the din and clatter died down, and the students turned their faces towards her, awaiting her announcement.

"Good evening," she began, and she could practically sense their anticipation; they knew what she was going to talk about.

"As you may all know, the Halloween Masquerade Ball is the day after tomorrow." She raised her hand once more to quell the animated whispers that rose at once.

"And while I know that you are all respectable and will be on your best behavior that night," her stern, withering glare swept across the room, "Your Head Boy and Girl and I have composed a small list of rules for the occasion."

"First, masks are allowed, but no tomfoolery will be. Pranks of any sort will not be tolerated. All students are required to wear their masks until midnight when we will unmask. The ball will begin promptly at nine pm and will end after midnight. I don't think I need remind you that if any tricks are pulled that night, there will be no Christmas Ball in December. Goodnight." And with a warning quiver of her lip and a whisk of her robes, she left.

At once the students stood to go to their friends and discuss costumes and masks and such, filling the Great Hall once more with their noise.

Harry, who had sat with his arm tenderly wrapped around Hermione's waist, turned to face her.

"Well, what do you say, Little Red?" he asked, a teasing twinkle in his eye. "Shall I walk you to your dorm?"

Hermione smiled at him. "That shouldn't be necessary, noble Huntsman," she chimed, "there are no wolves lurking about here."

Harry squeezed her waist and pecked her on the cheek. Hermione laughed, flushed.

"Well, I've got to stay in shape somehow," he chuckled, and together they made their way down the hall, bumping into Ron along the way.

"Where've you been, mate?" Harry asked. "We were waiting for you."

Ron shrugged. "I was studying for an exam, and I guess I got distracted."

Hermione gaped. "You? Studying?"

Ron flushed. "Don't tell me I missed dinner?" he asked, already knowing the answer.

Harry and Hermione gestured to the flow of students leaving the hall.

Ron swore.

"Guess I'll just nick something from the kitchens," he resolved, and set off at a fast clip, but not before giving Hermione a quick hug and Harry a slap on the shoulder for not having alerted him to come down to dinner.

Once she was in the Head Common Room and Harry had left, Hermione slipped off her shoes and made her way over to her room, loosening her tie along the way.

"Hey, someone sent you something."

She jumped at hearing Neville's voice come from behind her but turned quickly to peer curiously at her friend.

Neville had just come out of his room and was holding a small, sealed scroll towards her. Hermione took it and frowned at the seal. No one she knew used seals on their post.

"When did this arrive?"

"A minute or two before you did."

"Did you recognize the owl?"

Neville rubbed the back of his head. "Um, well, it was white…"

"Hedwig?"

"No, definitely not."

Hermione nodded before wishing Neville a good night and shutting herself in her room. She left the little scroll on her four-poster bed as she changed into her pajamas, dismissing it as just a note from another student. Perhaps it was an inquiry about the ball, or another schedule change request. Something of that sort.

But that didn't explain the seal. She regarded it curiously. It was a blood-red color, and stamped into it was the face of a wolf, smiling frighteningly up at her. It made the hairs on her arms and neck stand on end, but she disregarded this as well and broke it, unrolling the bit of parchment.

Save the last dance for me.

That was all it said.