I

May 1997

McGonagall wasn't in class, either. (He only attended because it was the next class he shared with Hermione and wanted to know if she had shown up yet. She hadn't.) Instead, he had to sit through an entire period's worth of lectures from the portrait of the long-deceased Headmaster Edessa Sakndenberg, whose German accent was so thick most students gave up and were trying to see how many colours they could charm the portrait before the Headmaster noticed. Draco hadn't even bothered listening as Headmaster Sakndenberg introduced herself; the Middle Ages dialect mixed with the German - and she was proficient in Muggle Studies, not Transfiguration - was too much to care about when he had several other issues to deal with that were not the portrait that should have been still hanging near the Grand Staircase.

Right now, he had what felt like a headache on top of another headache, and his whole world was strange. He felt off-kilter, like his balance had been only slightly shifted, where he couldn't tell what the problem was - he could, he really could, it was Granger, it was always Granger - but could sense he was missing something. That was the most infuriating part, actually. The answer was on the tip of his tongue, he just had to find it and then he could find her.

The moment the bell rang signalling the end of class, Draco bolted, his lips twitching at the various shades that had been charmed onto the portrait of the unsuspecting Headmaster.

Minerva McGonagall skipped a lecture. McGonagall. She was commonly known as the professor who stubbornly attended class and almost fell and hit her head against her desk because of vertigo from an illness she did not have. She was the one who refused to miss a single period all last year despite a (still being punished) first year accidentally setting off a Wildfire Whiz-bang that hit her in the stomach, causing Madam Pomfrey to keep "dropping by" for various reasons that were definitely not to check up on her dear, stubborn friend Minerva. How she was still resolutely returning to school every year was beyond Draco, and sometimes he would wonder if she'd retire the year his and Granger's hypothetical future child would attend Hogwarts. But of all the people to ditch class, Hermione Granger and Minerva McGonagall were not the witches he would have chosen.

No, it was genuinely worrying for her to miss a class period. Nor was the Transfiguration professor at lunch, and Draco couldn't recall having seen her at breakfast. That was even more terrifying; he'd seen her set Flitwick on fire because he took the last cinnamon roll.

There were lots of similarities between his witch and their professor.

Professors were able to take sick days, not that the Head of Gryffindor House seemed to be aware of that, but if McGonagall had shut herself up in her room due to the nasty head cold that was being spread like Fiendfyre around the castle, he sincerely hoped she wasn't having as rough a time as Crabbe, who ran a fever so high he passed out and had to be levitated to the hospital wing. Though, if an illness finally took the obstinate witch down, Draco supposed she must be nearly dead to admit she was ill.

But if she was missing because Hermione was missing, if their disappearances were somehow connected, Draco just had to know. It made sense; he doubted any professor cared for the curly-haired witch more than the Head of Gryffindor House. If Hermione was in trouble, and a professor was involved, odds are it would be McGonagall.

And yet, the Transfiguration classroom was empty, as was the attached office. He loitered, poking through nooks and crannies for clues, not even caring if he was missing Defence and would certainly hear about it from his godfather later. But that was only another reason to avoid Severus Snape, who tried to corner Draco at every opportunity and offer his help. Like that was the sort of help Draco wanted; to finish his mission and be a murderer.

The fireplace wasn't lit, and it was chilly in her office, which meant she hadn't used it recently. With a heavy sigh, Draco let his gaze drift to the other door in the small office space. It wasn't often students attempted to speak with professors by knocking on their private chambers, and Draco waffled with his options for several minutes before he gave up and knocked. She didn't answer. Not the first time, or the second time, and by the third time, he was ready to knock down her door, consequences be damned. Granger could be in trouble, damn it, there wasn't anything anyone could do that would stop him or get in the way of making sure she was alright.

"Professor?" He finally called out, cursing and hoping she couldn't make out which student was asking for her. Still, there was no response, and he had to take several deep breaths, rolling his shoulders as he waited for a plan to come to him.

Draco sent a quick spell to the classroom doors, locking them so no one would catch him unawares, and pressed his ear to the wooden door. Having spent plenty of time throughout the year working with a solid wooden door, he knew it wasn't likely he would be able to hear anything through the wood. However, thanks to this great, incredible year, he learned how to properly skulk in corridors and small spaces and keep his pockets stuffed with very useful things, such as Extendable Ears.

Granger was the only one who knew how he grudgingly admired the two Weasleys - and just those two, though the Weaselette was growing on him slightly - for their business-savvy ideas and execution. Even he had sometimes laughed at their antics.

With the Extendable Ear firmly in place, he let the flesh-coloured string wiggle its way under McGonagall's door. He sent a quick plea to Salazar Slytherin that, if he heard anything, it was strictly Granger-related, as he didn't want to know anything personal about the Transfiguration professor.

"Professor McGonagall?" He tried again, casting his voice at a lower pitch and listening intently if there were any sort of response or movement. "Are you too ill to teach your next class?"

The room was disappointingly quiet, except for the crackling of a fireplace. Damn, he really thought that might work. Granger was always easily riled whenever he touched a nerve or sore subject, and with all the similarities between his witch and their Professor, he hoped mentioning a sickness was enough for her to respond - assuming she was in there, of course.

He wondered if McGonagall was even in her chambers, and after waiting a little longer, he rolled up the Extendable Ear and strolled out of the Transfiguration classroom. He hadn't heard any movement or noises except for the fireplace, and he wasn't going to stick around and have someone catch him snooping.

Once again out of leads, Draco unlocked the classroom doors and stepped out into the hallway, looking left and then right, trying to think of where to go next.

"Alright, Malfoy, think, where would Granger go?" He muttered to himself, immediately turning and trekking through the castle to head back to the library.

Unfortunately, when he stalked through the shelves and scanned for the familiar bushy hair, studiously ignoring Madam Pince's pinched glare, it seemed like his witch hadn't gone to the library either. He made sure to check their spot several times, going so far as to cast Hominem Revelio, hoping maybe she was invisible and trying to read. She did that, sometimes, especially when deadlines for important assignments were coming up and the other two from the Golden Trio were trying to track her down to get assistance on their homework.

Draco would always Disillusion himself, too, and sit back and enjoy the show as she, once she grew pissed enough, would send a trip jinx here and there, moving the rug or untying their laces with a jinx so it seemed they were tripping over themselves. It seemed like Potter and Weasley dubbed the aisle the "haunted section," and were always overly cautious whenever entering. It made Draco fight to hold back his laugh every time. Sometimes when she noticed he'd been having a rough few days and felt like he needed a laugh, Hermione would 'accidentally' let slip she'd be in the library and a subtle reminder about their homework, just to lure the boys in for Draco's amusement.

Of course, if he were to ask her directly, she'd deny any contribution and blame it on their inability to not be behind on their homework, but he knew her.

He clearly didn't know everything about her - a little more disappointing than he thought, and it brought a sour taste to his mouth - because he had absolutely no idea where she could be. It felt very "no steps forward, seven steps back," as he was in the same place he started that morning and had very few leads.

He hadn't hit Dumbledore's office yet, having been too terrified of seeing the old coot himself and having to face him with the knowledge that Draco's actions would get the geezer killed. He didn't want to see the wizard, but if he was the last person to see Hermione before she vanished off the face of the Earth, then he had no other choice.

Draco sighed from where he had staked himself outside of Dumbledore's office, the offensively ugly gargoyle statue glaring back at him. If a stone statue could sneer, it certainly would have.

Granted, Draco didn't need to be so rude and mutter something about "needing a well-placed Bombarda" when it first requested the password, so he could understand why it had sniffed and refused entry. After several minutes of Draco attempting to hex and annoy his way past it, the statue was positively seething at him, its stone eyes burning a hole in between his eyes. When the sound of Peeves' joyful chanting and jeering grew louder around the next corridor, the gargoyle loudly summoned the poltergeist, a gruesome smirk crossing its face. Draco didn't know how it managed to make facial expressions, but if Granger were with him, she would have said something like, "Only you could make stone statues mobile in order to glare at you".

"Well, if it isn't ickle little Malfoy-kins," Peeves giggled at Draco's scowl.

"Go away Peeves, or I'll send the Baron after you," Draco grumbled, trying to recall where the Baron tended to roam around this time. Peeves cackled, spinning in a loop in the air and hovering near Draco's face, resting his face in his palms with elbows in the air as if he were leaning on a table.

"It isn't nice to make a threat, be careful, I will not forget," the poltergeist rhymed with glee, and Draco rolled his eyes.

"You've done better," he said, waving a hand, "so get lost."

"Your father said something similar when he was in school, mayhaps the little Malfoy-kins is following very closely in his daddy's footsteps," Peeves rolled upside down, and Draco had to clench his fists before he said something he'd regret telling the poltergeist.

"Fuck off or I really will get the Baron," he tried again, but Peeves just floated higher as he and the gargoyle shared a laugh. With a groan, Draco Transfigured a speck of dust on his sleeve into a rock, sending it rocketing at the poltergeist with a well-timed Projectile Jinx. As it caught him in the shoulder, Peeves wailed curses at Draco, vanishing from sight. Draco only knew he had swooped away by the fading noise.

"That wasn't very nice, did he touch a nerve?" The gargoyle asked slyly, and Draco pinched the bridge of his nose.

"Look, is Dumbledore in or not? I need to speak with him."

The gargoyle just shrugged with a mischievous smile. "Too bad, if only you had the password and a nicer tone you could go in and find out."

In the end, he had to leave before he could blast apart the statue as Peeves returned with the armful of ink pots he was threatening to throw at Draco as he zoomed closer.

Draco was filled with a series of conflicting emotions as he walked away - sure, he hadn't needed to be in the presence of one whom he was supposed to kill, but Hermione was still missing and his worries were starting to really eat away at him now.

II

November 1996

Part I

It had been several weeks and Draco had yet to attend classes he shared with Gryffindors or encounter Granger at the library. He wasn't technically running from her, per se - he had yet to actually run - but he was certainly very quick to veer behind tapestries and duck into empty classrooms whenever he spotted her nearby.

However, he was trying to dodge Flitwick - the old codger was trying to nag him into turning in better work, fat chance, he was passing and that should be good enough for the lunatic holding court at the Manor - and stumbled into a corridor that, unfortunately, held the Golden Trio as they tried to make it to class.

"Potions is the other way, Malfoy," he heard Potter call in a suspicious tone, and Draco sighed to himself, upping his pace to pass them faster, already wanting to get away from the shitshow that was sure to follow.

"I'm well aware of the castle's layout, and I certainly don't need directions from any of you," he shot back.

"If you miss another Potions class, Slughorn will give you detention," Granger added primly. It was true, last week he was already given extra work, and the week before lost ten points.

"I didn't ask your opinion, Mudblood," he said reflexively, pursing his lips as the words came out naturally. It was uncalled for, and for a split second, she looked as if she had been hit in the gut. Maybe he should hunt her down later and apologise.

That was a new development; the last time he had sincerely apologised was to his Mother when he accidentally broke one of her favourite vases in a rage after the Mark was forced on him.

"Watch what you're saying," Weasley said, brandishing his wand and trying - and failing - to look threatening.

"You're out of line," Potter snapped, his wand drawn as well. Draco didn't want to push them any more than he had, they were almost late to class and he had places to be that were decidedly not there, damn it, so he held Granger's cool gaze, hoping she saw the apology in his eyes. She gave no indication that she received the message, so he shrugged and kept walking, leaving his wand in his pocket despite the two trained on his back.

"Run along, now," he said airily, his pulse thumping a metre a minute. The moment he was out of sight, he dramatically threw himself into the nearby window seat - thank Salazar it was there, he didn't want to walk up two flights of stairs to find a seat at the highly populated one on the third floor.

He pressed a hand to his chest, feeling his heart beating, and rubbed at the pang of heartburn that was flashing through him. Draco tried to understand what he was feeling - guilt, it was guilt - and why he was feeling it. It made no sense - he had called her a Mud- that for five years without a flick on his conscience, and after spending two months around the girl, he was having second thoughts.

Draco tried to separate what he was feeling from what he should feel. He tried ignoring the shame - because that's what it really was; he was ashamed at his words - and tried to manifest the old satisfaction that used to bloom in him whenever he beat someone down.

Gods, he was such a bully, and it was only now that he was regretting it enough to consider changing. Not that he was thinking of changing, his Father would call him a "Muggle sympathiser" and he was quite frankly terrified to think of what the Dark Lord would do if he caught even a whiff of regret for his actions. But if he had a choice-

Before he knew it, the sun was midway through the sky, and the bell rang for dinner.

"I've been looking for you," he heard a familiar voice say, and he sighed loudly, not deigning to glance in the annoying witch's direction.

"Are you a glutton for punishment?" He asked, picturing the hurt expression on her face when she dragged her friends away hours earlier.

"I came back by myself because if I confronted you with Harry and Ron around, you wouldn't listen to me," Granger said, and Draco made a face.

"I don't need to listen to you with or without your annoying entourage," he started, and from her huff, he could tell she was rolling her eyes.

"Just hush up and let me speak," she commanded, and Draco snorted a laugh, humouring her for reasons he couldn't explain. He settled back against the window, leaving his legs across the seat and finally faced her. Granger looked annoyed, and Draco supposed she must have had another row with Potter for showing her up in Potions; she always tended to be extra testy for the rest of the day whenever they got into it. Or, she was just that annoyed at their previous interaction, though he supposed she had every right to be still pissed with him.

"I'm not sure what you've been tasked to do," she started, eyeing him critically as he fought back the effects the thoughts of his task brought, "but if it's to be that little shit you've been for five years, you're doing an excellent job."

Draco huffed in surprise and tilted his head, sure she heard her incorrectly.

"I'm sorry-"

"You should be," she interrupted sharply, putting her fists on her hips and jutting out her chin imperiously.

"Excuse me, Granger-" he sputtered, trying to find an adequate response without knowing the full extent of what she was talking about.

"Do you not understand what your words, what your actions do to people?"

He shot up from his window seat, turning until they were facing off as if about to duel. She hadn't made any move to grab her wand, so he left it in his pocket, but was acutely aware of her shaking hands, covertly watching for any sign their argument would turn to hexes.

"Of course I do-" he began again, reigning in his frustration with gritted teeth as she interrupted him yet again.

"You see what you want to see, and that's only how it makes you feel better, not how it affects others."

"I'm not blind, Granger," he drawled, blinking to bring his focus back to the topic at hand. With a strangled curse, she shoved his shoulders, hard enough that he stumbled back a step.

He hadn't realised they had been unconsciously moving closer - within touching distance - until she had pushed him.

"I think you really are blind, Malfoy," she spat, following him so they were once again so close together it was driving him mental- "I don't think you see how hurt one can be after the words you say. How derogatory it is to label an entire group of perfectly capable witches and wizards as disgraces to society."

"You just don't-" he tried, but she poked him sharply in the sternum.

"You don't get to talk right now," she snapped, "not about this. Not after five years of going around and telling all us Mudbloods we have dirty blood."

Draco's mind was whirling. She just wasn't understanding- it had nothing to do with them personally, it was more of a fact than anything else- it just…

Although technically, it was sort of personal, especially when he threw out the words as insults whenever he felt threatened in the conversation. But... but...

He had no comebacks this time, nothing that wouldn't be both an insult and a point for her in the argument. He wasn't even entirely sure why he was arguing in the first place, she probably was right about this, but what would it matter if he stopped using a word or two-

He stepped towards her so the finger that was just resting against his chest dug into the skin and he was crowding her in the middle of the hallway. Her glare turned even flintier as he towered over her, forcing her to have to look up to meet his gaze.

"That's not how it is," he cut in and cringed as literal sparks flew from her eyes. Her chest rose and fell rapidly with each breath she sucked in, and for a moment she looked like an old painting that hung in the spare dining room in the Manor - the one of Morgan le Fey in her legendary duel against Merlin, the duel which historians still argue who won. If Granger were the one in the painting, he would have bet on her without hesitation. He immediately forgot what he was trying to say, the deadly aura emanating from her effectively convincing his self-preservation instinct to shut the fuck up.

"That's exactly how that works," she snarled, "have you never put it together? If you put us down, you Purebloods get to stay on top, despite the fact that you've worked your arse off and have yet to beat me in both grades and magic."

That was… annoyingly true. And it was a problem he had first thought of during his first year, but Father convinced him the "Mudblood Granger" was an anomaly, and he wasn't working hard enough. He grappled with what he had been taught and what he had seen at Hogwarts, how the Purebloods who were all meant to be top of the class were, on average, dumber than rocks. Draco struggled to find something to say, something to think to find some semblance of control that had been mysteriously lacking all day and only getting worse as his conversation with Granger grew longer.

"After eleven years of not belonging in the Muggle world, here, where I thought I could fit in, people like you-" she punctuated each word with a sharp jab to his chest, "tell us we don't belong. That we shouldn't exist. That we don't deserve our magic." Her last poke zapped like an electric shock, and he felt his hair practically standing on end.

Draco took a step forward, and Granger matched it with a swift step back. He bit back a smirk that was inappropriate for the situation, but at least felt like they were closer to reverting to solid ground. He took another just to see what she would do. This time, she held her ground, and he could clearly make out the way her lips twitched in anger. He had never noticed that subconscious movement before, and it intrigued him for some reason.

"Well, there are some things that can be wrong," he started hesitantly, and Hermione stared at him for a beat, her expression falling.

"Some things? Some th- Malfoy, open your eyes!" She yelled, throwing up her hands in anger. "You are generalising an entire group of people! All on a premise that is incorrect! You don't even have conclusive evidence to back up your claim."

"So I said a few things, what will change if I stop saying them?" He snarled, using his anger to push past his confusion and participate in the argument, throwing aside the part of him that had been ready to apologise.

"It could change everything!"

"Or it could change nothing."

Granger sighed loudly. "You have an entire House without a single Muggleborn, and had your lot not spent hundreds of years inbreeding, you'd have only a handful of half-bloods or twenty students, max. Maybe if you had a Muggleborn in your ranks for a change, your House wouldn't have a reputation for producing evil!"

"Well, that's a generalisation too," he snapped, trying to find something, anything to say.

She opened her mouth before shutting it with a snap, taking a deep breath before saying calmly, "Fine, that is a generalisation. But that's neither here nor there in this conversation."

"How can I change my mind when all you see is a foul, evil Slytherin? Aren't I just being who I'm meant to be?"

"What if you were meant for more? What if you were the Slytherin to change how others see your House?"

He gave a hoarse laugh despite not finding anything humorous. "We're having an argument on the concept of blood purity, and you're trying to fix all of Slytherin House. Starting with me."

"You aren't going to change your mind, are you?" She asked softly, and he felt his eyebrows come together in confusion.

"Were you expecting your little speech to teach me to be a better person?" It sounded like something she'd do, honestly, and part of him was a little surprised she waited several months before confronting him. Maybe she had tried to get him used to her presence before presenting information that ruined the way he saw the world.

Thank the gods for his Occlumency shields hiding his internal crisis from her - he couldn't have her thinking her methods were getting to him, it would ruin his reputation. And so far, no one had come along to let him know his family's opinion on their reputation was a) corrupt or b) wrong, which meant he was free to pursue that without being a huge dick.

Then again, his Father was just arrested last year - and wasn't even a part of the massive breakout scheme, and had subjected his home, family, and possessions to the will of a crazy Dark Lord.

But that was something to unpack later, after he'd dealt with this blood purity business and decided where he, Draco Malfoy, personally stood.

"It was a long shot to negate sixteen years of ignorance and lies, but I thought it would at least jar you into looking for a different perspective. I just hoped… I hoped that you'd see a lot more than the purity of someone's blood." Her voice was filled with disgust.

He almost called after her when she left, shoulders slumped and dejected. The words were on the tip of his tongue, he would have told her he was in the process of rethinking everything he knew - it would take a long time, he knew a lot - but then she physically shook off their encounter and vanished down the hall with a spring to her step. Even from behind, he could tell the cheeriness on her was false, but it certainly had seemed like she put their conversation behind her, which was both insulting and commendable.

a/n: Slightly shorter this time. You can tell I have all the ideas for the pre-May timeline and am (slightly) struggling to try to draw out the May timeline. There's only so much that can occur over the span of two days.

Next update: 6/5

- Meg