The paper-thin edges of The Daily Prophet didn't even wrinkle under Draco's fingertips. His expression remained bored whilst he continued to chew on the bite of food he'd just taken and his eyes remained dull as they stared down at his father's gaunt face. The photograph might as well have been taken with a Muggle camera… Lucius was barely moving.

Draco's hands didn't tremble when he flipped to the next page, but he could feel the physical tightening of his lungs, the burning hot glares of the Slytherins around him, their scowls accusatory and resentful. His father was a traitor and now so was Draco.

He ate another mouthful as he pretended to read the next article. The letters were a blur and he felt numb. He didn't know what he was reading. A few minutes passed and he folded the newspaper back neatly. Without finishing his meal — which he rarely ever did anyway — he made a slow rise up from the table, grabbed his schoolbag and headed to his first class. As he left the Great Hall he noticed that not one single person was looking at him anymore. Not even the Slytherins.

Pansy wasn't at the table. There was a chance she was already at class, waiting for him. Maybe they'd be able to have a civilized conversation, maybe she would be rational… Draco wondered if, after everything they'd been through, Pansy would kill him given the opportunity.

Perhaps he should try speak to her despite his own reservations… try to explain… but he also knew that there was little to explain. Mr. Parkinson had never taken the Dark Mark, but Pansy and him both knew the truth of her father's actions. She didn't need to be told.

Draco had been so deeply shrouded in his Occlumency that he suddenly found himself sitting in his Muggle Studies class at his desk, alone. The door was ajar. Pansy wasn't there. Even the professor had yet to arrive. Like a sleepwalker he opened his bag and took out his things. He placed them tidily before him.

The quill was slightly askew.

He straightened it and arranged it perpendicular to the rest of his materials. But a quill is not perfectly straight, not very much like the mass produced pens he had learned about in his last lesson here. Those were plastic pieces of perfect linear proportions, the pinnacle of penmanship — he inhaled deeply — he had to stop the rambling in his head… he had to remember to breathe… he couldn't allow his mind to wander away from things as they truly were… that place where things got jumbled and he hid in delusions. See, his talent for Occlumency was the only thing keeping him from falling apart, but, he wondered, was it also the reason he was losing his mind?

Draco didn't have time to answer his own question because just at that moment the door burst wide open and a gaggle of students poured in; Professor Trombour floundering in right behind them. The chairs creaked as everyone quickly took their seats.

Pansy was among them. She did not look at Draco. In fact, she looked right through him; as did everyone else. He fought the feeling of being invisible. But he decided, in a wholly pragmatic sense, that he was. When he'd returned to Hogwarts under Snape's charge, he'd been feared… the big bad Death Eater. No one dared do or say a thing to him while the Carrows were doling out punishment. Then as the months went by he learned it wasn't so much fear, as hate… and now he was beginning to be ignored.

No, not ignored, exactly. He was being forgotten. It's what happens when hatred dissolves into complete and utter indifference.

Even the most resentful like Finnigan and Thomas were beginning to tire of bullying him. As Thomas had put it, 'it wasn't as fun anymore.' And the teachers, they barely registered his presence sometimes. It was like he was a bad reminder, a walking neon sign blinking the memory of Albus Dumbledore…

Then there was Theo and Blaise; they looked right through him. Of course they were friends, but in the ficklest sense. They didn't know Draco, they didn't understand him, and despite the obvious commonalities, they weren't branded with the same neon sign; they weren't required to sit Muggle studies or redeem themselves. Blaise was Quidditch Captain. He was popular, especially among the girls, and Theo… Theo was respected. Even with Nott Senior locked in Azkaban people still liked Theo. They recognized his intellect, his cool reserve and penchant for playing devil's advocate — McGonagall made him Head Boy for Merlin sake. Couldn't his friends see that while they were shining, he was vanishing before them?

He occluded for the rest of the class, his mind buzzing in and out of awareness, minutes disappearing in his exile. And then suddenly class was over and Draco was still in his seat while there was a rush to the door; Professor Trombour was mumbling something about a project, about it being compulsory but Draco didn't have an inkling or clue as to what he was talking about.

His head was still fuzzy and he became afraid that this wasn't Occlumency, that he might be falling ill. Everyone except the professor was out the door. Trombour was fiddling with sheets of parchment on his desk and Draco dreaded the idea of being left alone with him. Quickly, he gathered his things, haphazardly dumping them back in his bag. He only got as far as out the door when someone grabbed him by the back of his robes flinging him against the stone wall.

"Where is it, Malfoy?" demanded Hermione through clenched teeth. "Where," she hissed, "the hell is it?"

Draco's mind was still foggy and it took his brain a moment to catch up with the fact that he wasn't being attacked by Finnigan or another Slytherin. He was being physically harassed by Granger and was relieved for it.

"Where's what?" he replied innocently.

"My book, you evil ferret!"

He stared back at her. She was looking at him. Seeing him. He stood taller feeling a little more like himself. "Didn't you get my letter?"

Hermione stepped back, her arms folding defensively across her chest. "Yeah," she said a little softer. "And I'm not meeting you at some stupid chess club to get it."

"But that's where I left it," he lied.

Her cheeks reddened again, the anger simmering at the surface. "What do you mean, 'you left it?'" she mocked. Then her hands were suddenly on the lapel of his robes curling the material in her fists. In a choked voice she rasped, "You haven't lost it, have you?"

"It's perfectly safe in their private library. Now please unhand me, these are expensive robes."

Her nose twitched in a sneer but released him all the same. He smoothed down his robes where they'd creased, in a haughty manner befitting a Prince. She rolled her eyes as he did so but didn't make comment on his grooming.

"Why did you take it?" she demanded.

"To read it, of course."

Draco watched as her eyes narrowed doubtfully as if he'd told her that he'd just seen Filch kissing Professor Sprout. "What were you doing in the dungeons last night?" he asked catching her off guard. "You were a little underdressed."

Whatever she had been doing, his query was enough to turn her entire face red. Her tongue darted out licking her lips. "How did you…" Her eyes flickered away from his gaze and she crossed her arms again. She muttered something under her breath that Draco didn't quite catch. "It was all Blaise's idea, believe me —"

"You were there for Blaise!" he blurted out a little louder than he'd meant to.

"What! No, I…" her eyes were dancing over his face, perplexed. "Never mind," she said finally. "I was there for you —" Draco smirked. "I mean, not for you," she corrected quickly, her eyes growing wide, "for my book. I was there for my book."

Draco couldn't help it, his smirk grew into a wide grin. He was relieved to hear that Blaise wasn't trying to interfere. But besides that, there was something adorable — or maybe adorable was an oversimplification, no there was something enchanting about the way Granger was squirming with embarrassment in front of him. It was hard to look away.

"Look," he half-laughed, half-scoffed. Her nervousness was contagious. "I promise to give it back tomorrow at the Chess Club."

She was looking down at her feet, pointing her toes like a ballerina and then squashing it down as if she were warming up. "Can't you just…" she glanced up, her cheeks still flushed, "just bring it back once you're done?"

Something like the weight of a stone fell to the pit of his stomach. He adjusted the strap of his bag on his shoulder. "Um…" he cleared his throat, trying desperately to come up with a plan that could salvage this. "Well, I—"

"That book means a lot to me."

"Okay," he heard himself say in a deflated tone, "sure."

Hermione cleared her throat too, gearing herself up to say something. "Unless…" she released a deep breath, "unless you actually want me to meet you at the Chess Club." His mouth fell open a little in surprise and she misread it immediately. "Or not — I'm not even very good at chess."

"It's a wizard's game, really," he said without thinking. Her jaw clenched, rolling her eyes at him. Without another word she began to leave. He grabbed her arm and quickly released it remembering the library and how he couldn't just go around touching Hermione Granger like that. "Only because the British Chess Federation has a bunch of old, no-talent geezers sitting on the committee. Bet if you joined the Club you'd get good enough to beat Roberts."

She crinkled her nose. "Who's Roberts?"

"Only the best chess player in Britain," he grinned. "Thought you knew everything."

Hermione, to both their surprise, smiled. Realizing so, she pursed her lips awkwardly, her arms at her chest, defensive once again.

"Well I'll be there tomorrow if you decide to come," said Draco decidedly, strutting away with more confidence than he felt. He made it a point not to look back.

…

The next two days went by without incident. Draco's initial contentment at hearing the news of his father's early release was darkened by the discovery of how he had acquired it. Yet still, all was quiet in the castle, which only made him more paranoid; more likely to look over his shoulder as he walked the corridors to class and more certain than ever that Pansy was plotting her revenge.

He'd taken to casting protective wards over his bed before sleeping and still he couldn't find peace. Even with Blaise and Theo's reassurances, Draco kept a distrustful eye open. His wards could fail, his friends could be rendered useless with a sleeping potion… or perhaps they were conspiring against him. Several possible scenarios flitted in and out of Draco's sleep-addled mind before he finally succumbed to his nightmares.

So when it came time to meet Hermione at the chess club the next day, he was beyond tired. Doing his best to cover up the dark circles under his eyes with a charm his mother had taught him, he made his way to Hogsmeade that evening.

Taking a seat at his usual chess table he informed the head waiter, Monsieur Gérard, that a guest would be joining him. The thin, sharp nosed wizard listened intently to Draco with a grave look upon his face.

"Permit me to say sir, it is not customary to bring a guest of the err," he cleared his throat in an elegant manner, "of the female disposition, but for you sir — anything. I will inform the door host at once."

Then he marched off, his black velvet robe gliding purposefully behind him, as if he had been handed a task of grave importance. Draco frowned wondering if by inviting Hermione here he had crossed a line of sorts… nowhere in the club regulations did it state, that a member could not be female, or that female guests couldn't be invited, yet it was an unspoken rule. One Draco had never given thought to, and frankly he couldn't care less.

His plan was infallible. Here he had, as the Muggles put it, home-court advantage. The Chess Club was always empty at this time, the tables secluded, the staff knew him, the owner and his father had been childhood friends, and even though he had a feeling the snobbery of the place wouldn't impress a witch like Hermione, their private library definitely would. Books, he gathered, were the way to win her over. And books he could do, he could read her favorite authors, engage in intellectual discussion, bedazzle her with his wit… she was a cerebral person after all.

Draco stole a glance at the clock. She would be here any minute. He found himself nervous, far too nervous. He considered Occluding but felt it might make him… less him. Instead he began a game, playing white. The enchanted board responded moving a pawn forward to D5. He sighed, leaning back in the large leather armchair. It had been a while since he'd played a game of chess and it felt like coming home.

Within ten minutes he had captured a black knight, the game was slow but a leisurely game such as this didn't need to be rushed. His eyes were drawn once again to the clock and he began to question Hermione's punctuality… or… swallowing down a lump in his throat, he prepared himself for the alternative; she wasn't late, she was standing him up.

The thought left a bitter taste in his mouth. Logically speaking, he couldn't blame her… but his logic didn't speak to his ego; it felt the rebuff wholeheartedly.

Draco was staring at the chess board dejectedly, resigned to playing alone, when a voice startled him.

"Mister Malfoy," said Monsieur Gérard with a flourish. "Your guest, Miss Granger, sir."

A lost bushy-haired looking girl was standing behind him. She was wearing those Muggle jeans again, the ones ripped at the knees, and a jumper that hung loose on her frame and off one shoulder.

There was an awkward moment after the waiter left, where she stood still looking around, not knowing exactly what to do.

"Aren't you going to sit?" proposed Draco, a hand extended to the chair opposite him.

Silently, she sat down.

Her cheeks were flushed and once she was sitting down, she was no longer averting her eyes. She was staring at Draco in the most unnerving way. He couldn't think of why, but she seemed irritated. She had come here willingly, hadn't she, so what did she have to be angry about?

He cleared his throat remembering Blaise's note. "I didn't send you that note," he said, unable to stand the silence. "Despite what you might believe—"

"I know," she deadpanned.

He was taken aback at how certain she sounded.

"Oh." He sat up a straighter in his chair. "So you believe me?"

Hermione bit her lip. "I thought you might have something to do with it at first, but then I realized—"

"You realized that a wizard of my caliber would never write such a depraved thing."

Hermione's eyes narrowed, the same soul-piercing stare burning right through him. "No," she said slowly. "I realized that when you look at me, you don't see a witch, you don't see a girl — you see a Mudblood. You would've never referred to any part of me as beautiful. You've made it a point to let everyone know just how ugly you think I am."

Draco swallowed, a cold stone in the pit of his stomach. He wished he could be rid of it but it was impossible while he sat opposite her. He moved forward, hunching over the table, trying desperately not to wring his hands. "I don't think you're ugly," he whispered. And it was said so softly that she almost hadn't heard. "There are parts of you that I find—" he cleared his throat, his cheeks reddening. "That I find beautiful — platonically speaking of course," he added quickly. "I just want to make amends. After all, Potter was magnanimous enough to help me when I was in a tight spot, it's the least I can do to be civil to you all."

Hermione folded her arms, leaning back in her chair, a look of disbelief on her face. "So that's what this is about, your trial."

His eyebrows furrowed. "My trial?"

She gave him a tight smile. "You think that if you play nice with me, I'll testify at your probationary hearing, claim that you're a reformed little boy ready to contribute toward wizarding society, friends to Muggle-borns and elves alike!"

Draco's cheeks flushed with anger at her mocking sing-song voice. "The tight spot I'm referring to is not my probationary hearing, it's for saving me from burning to death in the Room of Requirement," he growled. "I wasn't even—" he clenched his teeth trying to remain composed. "Is it possible for you, to pull your head out of your arse for one second and see that I'm only trying to be grateful and nice?"

"Nice," scoffed Hermione, almost laughing. "You practically assaulted me in the library—"

"The only person who was assaulted in the library was me — and I do believe I apologized for that!"

"You stole my most cherished book!"

"Borrowed! I borrowed your book," he corrected quickly.

"And then you blackmailed me into coming here to… to… wait, what is this anyway, a date?"

"This is not a date," he defended clumsily. "I told you, I want to make amends. Besides, what kind of bloke do you think I am? I know you're with Weasley."

Something flashed across her face. "Actually," and her cheeks were burning again. "Ronald and I are no longer together."

His eyes widened a fraction unable to hide his surprise. "Oh, so you ended things with him then?"

Hermione was practically squirming in her seat. "Not that it's any of your business, but I suppose there's no point keeping it a secret. He left me."

"Oh…"

She swallowed, her eyes downcast despite the bold declaration.

"Is that why you're looking a little frazzled today?"

Her eyes shot up. "What — no," she sighed. "It's just… this is probably the most we've spoken, ever. I find it hard to believe that after six years of your vile and animosity you suddenly want to spend time with me. And," there was that blush again. "If I'm being honest, I'm a little uncomfortable that you invited me to a place that screams 'pro pureblood' and doesn't allow you to bring in your wand."

Draco was taken aback. "It's a house rule," he said a little pathetically. "They take everyone's wand. You couldn't imagine the duels between chess players, they…" He trailed off. Hermione's fingers were clawing at the fabric over her scar. Her eyes were round and large, the brownest he'd ever seen them.

"I'm sorry, Malfoy," she whispered standing. "I made a mistake coming here."

Draco shot up from his chair as well. "Wait. If you're not going to stay, at least let me give you your book back. It's why you came, isn't it?"

Hermione opened her mouth to protest and then closed it. "Yes, it's why I came." And strangely to Draco, it sounded like a lie. He shook the feeling off and began making his way to their private library. Her soft footsteps were heard behind him.

A few seconds later he was standing in front of thick grand Mahogany doors. He whispered the password, his lips close to the wood. "Puissance." There was a grind and then a creak, and then the doors seemed to shudder open. "This library belongs to an old French family. This is their establishment, actually." Hermione nodded, wordlessly following Draco inside as the doors closed behind them. For a split second it was pitch black, and then suddenly a thousand fairy lights began to glow, brighter and brighter, till the entire room was lit. "They don't allow any natural light into the library. Preserves the books."

At this point Hermione wasn't even paying attention to Draco. Her mouth hung open, her eyes consuming the shelves — and there were shelves upon shelves, rows of them, fewer than the Hogwarts library, but it was more majestic than any other library he'd ever seen before.

"They're book binders," he explained, "from a long lineage of book binders. There isn't a book here that isn't a work of art."

His words had the effect of finally drawing her gaze to him. She blinked. "It's…" Her eyes were once again on the books. "Do you come here a lot?"

"I used to."

Her gaze was pensive as she walked along the shelf. "You wanted me to see this library," she whispered, almost a secret. "You knew I would love it."

Draco swallowed. "It did cross my mind, that you might like it," he admitted. Taking one final look at the library, Hermione walked back over to him. "Is my book even here?"

"No." He took it out of the pocket of his robes and handed it to her.

She turned it over in her hands, flipping open the book to the first page and reading the inscription. "You had it with you this whole time," she said closing it.

Draco's deafening silence acted as confession.

Hermione stepped toward him, underneath the fairy lights, it almost seemed as if she were going to kiss him, but her eyes narrowed, threateningly. "I'm going to figure out what you're up to, Malfoy."

His eyes found the skin of her shoulder where her jumper hung loose. "And what happens once you do?" he challenged, reaching out and pulling the fabric up over the bare skin.

He thought he felt the slightest quicker but her eyes were burning bright. With something akin to rebellion, she rolled her shoulder, the fabric falling back down. "That depends on what I find out."

Then she brushed past him and out the door. Leaving Draco with thoughts of her bare, freckled shoulder and clavicle.

He pressed his eyes shut. Bet or no bet, he was determined to have the Muggle-born underneath him, if only to see her stripped of those garbs she called clothes.