Rose and Sword

by SanaNGU

Draco Malfoy, due to the prolonged absence of the Ancient Runes teacher, has been stirring up the class as he pleases with the help of his cronies, preventing the other classmates from studying. Hermione Granger, a responsible and persevering student, is not going to sit idly by.

38. Run away

Hello, everyone! How are you? 😊 I hope you're doing great.

Thank you so, so much to each and every one of you for your always nice words, you're such a sweetheart... Thank you to everyone who's reading and enjoying this story with me! 😘

Disclaimer: There are a couple of scenes written in italics in which some of the dialogue is taken from the original Harry Potter books. The narration is mine, but the dialogues are copied from the books, because I intend to rewrite some of the original scenes from a different point of view. Therefore, I would like to make it clear that these dialogues belong entirely to J.K. Rowling.

Thank you very much in advance for reading! Hope you like it! 😊

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CHAPTER 38

Run away

Night had fallen on Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Most of the students, tired from a hard day of classes, extracurricular activities, and hours of studying for the ever-approaching exams, had collapsed into their beds. But some were not having such an easy time falling asleep.

Draco had been lying in bed for hours. He didn't know how many hours, but he reckoned it was late at night. His roommates had been asleep for a long time, but he hadn't done anything that required the least bit of physical exertion all day, so he wasn't sleepy. He hadn't even put on his pyjamas; he had simply laid down on the duvet after dinner and stayed there. He didn't know why he still wore his uniform when he couldn't attend any classes. Possibly out of habit. Or so as not to draw attention to himself in the corridors or in the Great Hall.

The dormitory had gradually grown darker, as the sunlight ceased to penetrate through the dark lake on the other side of the room's windows. While there was still a sliver of light left, Draco had been staring at the little label that corresponded to Hermione Granger's name on the Marauder's Map. He had it open beside him, and had been lying on his side, so that he could see it comfortably. Hours ago, the girl had been in Gryffindor Tower, in what he assumed was the Common Room. Along with Potter and Weasley. Then she had gone up some stairs and into her dormitory. Patil and Brown had joined her not long after. The girl paced the room, back and forth. Putting on her pyjamas, surely. Brushing her teeth. Possibly choosing a book to entertain herself before going to sleep. He had seen her stop at last at a place which, he interpreted, would be her bed. She hadn't moved again. Had she fallen asleep by now? He hoped so. It was already very late.

He closed his eyes. There had been no light in the room for hours, and he could no longer look at the map; but he was still lying on his side, not moving. He did not allow himself to light his wand. That would show a terrible weakness, he was convinced. He had looked at it long enough. He should not even have allowed himself to look for her while there was light. He shouldn't have used the map to look for her, and he knew it.

But he had. Challenging himself. Assuring himself that he was in control, despite everything. That it didn't mean anything if he looked for her on the map, stared at her for hours. He had nothing better to do, that was all.

"Read a fucking book, you prat..." an infuriating little voice whispered in his head. Draco gritted his teeth.

He really didn't have much to do. And it was disconcerting. He'd been on edge all term, overwhelmed with classes, homework, detentions, Quidditch training, secret missions in search of access to the Dark Lord, meetings with Granger whenever he had a free minute... And now it was all gone. But his head couldn't take it all in. He needed something to hold on to, something to ramble on about. And it seemed to have decided on its own that Granger was the best option. At least it was the lesser of two evils. Because the thought of the life that awaited him as a Death Eater was far worse. More terrifying. More unbearable. Or at least that was what his head thought. He wasn't so sure.

"Just fall asleep, dammit..."

He didn't want to think about her. But lying in bed, in the dark, unable to sleep, was the only thing his brain bothered to do. And it was maddening. But, unfortunately, his thoughts weren't dangerous enough to force himself to stop.

His head wasn't trying to find a solution. It wasn't trying to fix what had happened. He wasn't fantasising about scenarios in which he went to meet her and told her the whole truth. His brain was being surprisingly coherent in that regard. He was just thinking about her. In a totally pointless way. He was merely remembering how it felt to be in her company. Conversations they'd had. Her face. Her expressions. How she moved. Her voice. It had been days since he'd heard her voice... From hearing it every day, to not being sure when he'd get to hear it again.

That day he had seen her for the first time since the fight with Potter in the Entrance Hall four days before. He was on his way to the Library. She was with Potter and Weasley, in the middle of them. Weasley seemed fully recovered now; he had no bandages of any kind on his body, and he wasn't limping. They had passed each other in a crowded corridor, which meant that the boys hadn't seen him, as they were concentrating on personal chatter. And apparently, Granger hadn't either. She hadn't looked at him. He hadn't taken his eyes off her, and they hadn't exchanged glances. She had continued walking with her friends, chatting with them. Draco had strained his ears, but he hadn't been able to hear her voice in the crowd. In other circumstances, it would have been fine for him not to make eye contact. Because they would have planned to meet alone. He would have a folded piece of paper in his bag, in the shape of a note, which he would discreetly send to her in some class. He could pretend in public, because alone he could stare at her for as long as he wanted. But that was no longer possible.

"You're not together any more, you wimpy shit... Stop it, stop dwelling on it, go to sleep, for fuck's sake..."

Now everything was, indisputably, in its place. There had been times in those months when he had thought that day would never come. But there they were. Separated again. And now it seemed to him foolish to have doubted. It was all over, as it was clear it would be. And he had caused it. Although, now, lying on his bed in the silence, he wondered how he had been able to do it. Where on earth had he found the strength. He remembered everything that had happened with the Bubotuber pus and the argument with Granger as if he had been a mere spectator. He realised that he had lived through it all in an adrenaline-fuelled, fear-driven state. And thank heavens, otherwise, he wouldn't have been able to do it. Now he wouldn't be able to do it again.

He had put everything back on track. But it wasn't supposed to be like that. He was supposed to come to his senses, that's what he had thought when they started seeing each other in secret. That at some point he would understand that he wanted nothing to do with a Mudblood and he would let her know so. And she would decide the same. They would break up as if nothing had happened, coming to their senses. And he would never think of anything that had happened again. It would only have been a slip in his exemplary life as a pure-blood. A mistake with nothing to regret.

Nothing to do with reality. The reality was that leaving her had not been his decision. And he didn't give a shit knowing it was the right thing to do. That now he was finally doing the right thing. That he was a blameless pure-blood again. He didn't care. He didn't want any of it.

He rolled over onto his back. As if the change of position would make it easier for him to fall asleep. He clenched his jaws tightly and rubbed his eyes with his fists. He couldn't stand the silence around him. He couldn't stand the loneliness, the only company of his thoughts. He couldn't stand himself.

He tried to focus on Nott's slow breathing, sound asleep in the bed next to him. His friend had managed to approach him a couple of times that week, trying to make small talk, but had gotten no response from the blond boy. Draco had tried to avoid him, wandering randomly around the castle and not going past the Common Room or his dormitory more than necessary. At breakfasts, dinners and lunches, he made sure to sit with Zabini.

He didn't want to talk to Theodore. He was the only person who knew what was really going on. Who could reliably sense how he was feeling. And maybe that was possibly why he was the one person he couldn't bear to have a frivolous conversation with. Because it wouldn't be honest. Because Nott had seen him breaking down. And any topic they talked about would feel insufferably false. Because with him he couldn't pretend he was all right. And he had no intention of talking about what was tormenting him.

He didn't want to talk to him. But neither did he want to listen to his own thoughts in the middle of that dense night silence.

He closed his eyes tightly. "Please, enough already." He had to stop thinking about her. When he left school, it was paramount that he never thought about her again. He had to put her out of his mind. Because, if he hadn't, having pushed her away wouldn't have done any good. The Dark Lord would find her in his mind anyway. Everything he had done could not have been in vain. He had to protect her. He could do that for her. He had to. Get her out of his head. Could he leave her inside his chest and get her out of his head? He hoped so. Because if not, he didn't know what he was going to do.

"Go to sleep, go to sleep, go to sleep..."

He felt the rage come over him, once again. Rage at himself. It was the easiest feeling, the one that hurt the least. Getting angry. He had let himself go enough in stupid sentimentality. He was an Occlumens, for Merlin's beard. He was supposed to know how to control his mind. And his bloody heart couldn't function apart from his mind. It was biologically impossible. Keeping a mere girl from the forefront of his thoughts should be a piece of cake. Was he getting weak? Careless?

The thought flooded him with such frustration that he clenched his jaws. No way. He wasn't going to go weak for a Mudblood. Because of Hermione Granger. He was above all that. He was a Malfoy. A pure-blood, part of the Sacred Twenty-Eight. With a promising career hand in hand with the Dark Lord, the greatest wizard of all time. He was on the winning side. He was clever, he had brought Lord Voldemort into the castle. And he was mature, he had more control over his emotions than any of his clumsy classmates. He was a better wizard than any of them. It was time to get his life back. The life in which Granger was just an insufferable classmate, and, sooner or later, an enemy. She was a Mudblood. Opposing sides. Opposing ideologies. Different goals. He was going to spend the rest of his life without her, so it was time to start remembering all that.

Without her.

Without her.

Her dark eyes stared at him from the back of his mind, open to him, blinking. Staring into his fucking soul. He almost felt her lips stretching into a smile against his. Her breath caressing his neck, laughing against him. Her hands clasping his sides as he kissed her, holding him close. Her mouth kissing his temple, and his forehead, and his lips...

He pressed his fists against his face. Erasing the imaginary trail of the girl's lips. His hands were shaking. "Damn it... stop... stop..."

It didn't matter how he felt about her. That he hated her. That he loved her. It didn't matter. They were no longer together. Nothing could ever happen between them again. Nothing should ever have happened between them.

The air escaped between his teeth in a restrained hiss. He tried to keep holding it all in. Not sure what all was.

It was wrong. Everything was wrong. And he didn't care.

He couldn't take it anymore. He was going to suffocate in the middle of the silence. In the darkness. In the middle of his memories.

'You have great balance, you have quick reflexes when it comes to catching the Snitch, and you're a very agile flyer. You're good.'

'What about Alchemy, what are the career opportunities? You're going into something related to it, aren't you, or is it more of a hobby?'

'... I'm happy with you.'

Her voice. It was no better than silence. On the contrary.

"I miss you..."

He jumped out of bed. He opened the curtains. He slipped his feet into his shoes. He strode out of the room, leaving a draft behind him as he closed the door, causing his roommates to stir uncomfortably in their beds.

He ran down the steps. He strode through the deserted Common Room. The chandeliers flickered in his wake. The dim light brought him back to life. The air hit his face. He felt better. The air helped him not to think, so he quickened his pace. By the time he reached the hole in the wall, he was running. He ran through the cold corridors of the dungeons. His quick footsteps being the only noise in the place, but it was enough. There was no silence anymore. He ran up several flights of stairs. Running out of breath. He didn't stop. Feeling his chest burn from lack of air didn't feel so bad. He ran through the deserted Entrance Hall. His footsteps echoed around him, muffling the voices in his head. Muffling Granger's voice. Running felt good. While running he couldn't think. Not if he ran that fast. His heart was pumping too fast, pumping blood to his muscles. It wasn't beating for her, it was just beating because he was running. He started running up the Marble Staircase. Forcing his legs to go faster was liberating. It felt like he was doing something. He was running, even if he had no destination, no direction. He just wanted to run.

And he did, all over the castle, waking up a thousand and one paintings. Because, if he stopped, his brain would start working again.

And he was thinking about Granger again.

---

Although the students in the Slytherin seventh-year dormitory were already awake, there wasn't much din in the room. Six o'clock in the morning was not an auspicious time to be up, and it showed in their moods. Zabini, in the middle of a big yawn that made him close one eye, managed to tie his tie with difficulty, leaving it too long without realising it. Nott was finishing making his bed with slow movements, forgetting to tuck the duvet into the corner of the mattress. He looked as half-awake as his roommate. Neither of them spoke. Zabini had woken up earlier than usual to study, and Nott had been lying awake listening to his roommate tossing and turning, getting ready, to the point of getting up as well.

Theodore's narrowed, sleepy eyes focused on the bed next to him, still with the curtains closed. Draco didn't seem to have woken up yet. After hesitating for a few seconds, he decided it was best not to disturb him. He didn't have to go to class, he had nothing to do. Besides, there was no telling how much sleep he would have gotten; possibly very little. Nott watched him pretend in front of the others that he was feeling his usual self. He joked about being expelled, about not having to put up with certain teachers any more. He boasted that he'd get 'Outstanding' in everything with the amount of hours he actually had to study. And Nott hadn't seen him break down since the day he'd attacked Ron Weasley.

But that didn't mean he was fine. On the contrary. Nott knew Draco was a bomb waiting to explode. He knew how much he could take. But he was reaching his limit. One more spark and he would explode. He didn't know when, but he would. And he didn't want to be around when that happened.

He knew there was no way he could help him. He'd made a decision and followed it to the end. Draco wouldn't let himself be helped under normal conditions, let alone in a situation like this. And there was nothing Nott could do about it either.

"I'll go fetch the boys, Draco. We'll be in the Library until the Great Hall opens," Zabini mumbled, followed by another yawn worthy of a hippopotamus. He slung his bag over his shoulder, staring at the closed curtains. Getting no response.

Without really waiting for it, he walked out the door with a listless pace. He didn't bother to wait for Nott, or to ask him if he was coming down as well. He never had and never would, and Nott didn't give a damn. To the vast majority he was invisible, a dull, boring boy who was only worth having the slightest dealings with. And Nott had resignedly accepted that perception of himself that most of the castle's inhabitants had. Except Daphne. And Draco.

He looked back at his bed, hidden by the curtains. He wanted to help him. He would give anything to have the power to help him. Because the reason for his suffering was not fair. No one should have to suffer for love like that.

He held back a sigh. He approached Draco's bed quietly and pulled back the curtain carefully. Expecting to see his friend's face contorted into a grimace of suffering as he slept. Perhaps trembling, in the middle of a nightmare. Maybe curled up in a ball under the covers.

Nothing like what he saw. His eyes snapped open.

He wasn't there. The bed was empty. Crumpled, but made, and empty.

He heard the door handle click, behind him. Nott blinked, turning around.

"Is it possible...?"

He faced the door, just in time to see Draco walk through it. Or a person who vaguely reminded him of Draco. Though he had never seen him looking so pitiful, not even in his worst Quidditch training. He looked like he was barely standing. He was leaning against the doorway, hunched over, apparently too tired to keep his body upright. His clothes were rumpled. His body was covered with a thin film of sweat that dripped down to the floor from his face. He barely seemed to breathe.

"Where — where did you come from?" Nott exclaimed instantly, staring at him in shock. "What on earth have you done?"

Draco didn't answer immediately. Still panting heavily and loudly, he stumbled towards his bed. Shuffling as if he had no strength in his legs. He collapsed face up on the mattress as if he hadn't lain down for weeks. His face contorted into a grimace of suffering, as he continued to pant. His eyes closed tightly. His whole body seemed to be aching.

"I... couldn't... sleep," he managed to articulate, as if each word was a great effort. He coughed hoarsely. His throat must be dry. Nott didn't blink. Taking in his words.

"You haven't... slept all night?" he questioned, astonished, unable to take a single step towards him. Draco, swallowing between gasps, managed to shake his head. "And... w-where have you been?"

"Wandering around... the castle," Draco was beginning to be able to say more than one word in a row without having to take a breath. Now it was Nott who began to get short of breath.

"A-all night?!" Nott blurted out, with a mixture of alarm and disbelief. "You've been wandering around the castle all night?"

"Running."

Nott opened his mouth but closed it again. He opened it a second time.

"What?"

"Running. I've been running... around the castle," Draco revealed, opening his eyes. Fixing his gaze on the canopy of his bed. Beads of sweat glistened on his face.

All he got was silence from Nott. He just stared at him, his eyes wide. He clenched and unclenched his fists, feeling his patience slipping through his hands. He ruffled his dark hair and did a sort of frustrated spin on himself before turning back to face his friend.

"Have you lost your mind?" he asked louder, frantic, unable to contain himself. "What's the point of this? Draco, you're already expelled, if Filch catches you sneaking around at night you'll be kicked out of the castle. You can't do this, you've got to calm down, you've got to — !"

"Oi, you," Draco's firm voice interrupted him. Nott fell silent, almost frightened at his friend's sudden tone. Icy. Menacing. Draco's eyes turned, searching his. "Don't you dare tell me what to do."

A shiver ran through Nott from head to toe. Erasing any possible completion of his sentence from his head. He wasn't able to say another word. Draco's eyes... They looked different. Bright, silver, but strangely dark. As if they had been pushed deeper into their sockets. As if darkness surrounded them. As if it was coming out of them. Almost inhuman. He had the same pejorative, haughty, impertinent look in his eyes that he'd had since he'd known him. The same look he hadn't had since Hermione Granger had entered his life.

But now he had it back. And it was scarier than ever.

---

Hermione was running her index finger along one of the top shelves of the bookshelf in the Ancient Runes section. Reading the names of the authors. Looking for the one she needed to expand her knowledge of lesson seven. She needed a more detailed explanation of the tables. There were things she still didn't understand. And she couldn't learn if she didn't understand. The Library was not very crowded, fortunately. Although the silence was never complete. She could hear rustling at a distant table. And shoes walking with slow steps, very close. Possibly in the aisle parallel to that one.

The shelf was ending, but the authors whose surnames began with 'C' didn't end. "Carlyle, Carlyle...". Nothing so far. Carlier. Carlsen...

End of the bookshelf. And nothing. She would have to continue on the other side. She lifted the five heavy books she already intended to consult from the base of the shelf and started to walk towards the parallel aisle. Rounding the corner with the books in her arms. Stopping sharply before colliding with Draco Malfoy's shoulder.

Malfoy was standing at the beginning of the bookshelf. One arm raised, apparently reading the titles, just as she was. He turned his face around as he felt a presence approaching him so suddenly. Their eyes met. They recognised each other. And Hermione had the same feeling in her stomach that she would have if she had inadvertently skipped a step. She took two footsteps back out of pure inertia, not hearing her shoes hit the floor. Her brain focusing on not touching him in the slightest.

He seemed completely frozen in place. Only his finger slipped along the spines of the books, free-falling. He locked his eyes on hers, managing to control them after having opened them in surprise at her sudden presence. He didn't seem to know how to blink. It was the first time they had been alone, even if it was in a public place. The first time they had been so close after what had happened.

Hermione remembered then that she had a heart beating in her chest, never stopping. She could feel it thudding now. And she also became more aware of the weight of her legs. Of how hard it was going to be to move them. But she had to get away from him. Because that wasn't right anymore. Because they weren't supposed to be alone anymore. She wasn't supposed to have at her fingertips, again, that body she'd hugged so many times. Because his closeness felt as familiar as she remembered. And it hurt more than she could have imagined.

"It's just Malfoy. He's no one. He's not important. Just another classmate. Keep walking. Just walk..."

She clutched her books tighter to her chest and continued moving forward. Almost sleepwalking. She walked around his body, his back, and moved several metres away. Moving to a more central part of the aisle. She set the books down on the shelf, with a thud. She straightened her body and raised a hand to continue reading the authors on the shelf. Her arm felt heavy, too. And her fingers trembled. But that didn't matter. She couldn't control her body, and she knew it, but she could control her actions. And that's why she blinked steadily when tears prevented her from seeing the names engraved on the spines. Carmichael. Carnaru. It wasn't there. It was further back. Where Malfoy was. Maybe he was looking for Carlyle too. Maybe he didn't understand those tables either.

Draco hadn't moved. Hermione could sense his presence in the outermost part of her field of view. A blurred, motionless figure. A shadow. A wormhole, sucking all the light out of the place. The girl turned her face away from him, and lowered her hand long enough to wipe away a quick tear. But she raised it again. Reading the authors. The titles. Maybe one of them would help her anyway...

The dark silhouette suddenly moved away. Out of sight around the corner. Hermione, after hesitating, turned her face to look. He was gone. She was alone in the aisle. She lowered her arm. Staring at the blank space where Draco had been moments before. They really were just that now. Strangers. Willing not to share a word. Not even the proximity in a public place, if they could help it.

Hermione let her lips pucker. Let them tremble. She put a hand to her mouth and choked back a strangled sob against it. Tears rolled over the back of her hand. She sobbed again. She ducked her head. Why, why, why...?

She brought both hands to her face and wiped it painstakingly. Spreading the wetness of her tears. Running out of skin on her hands with which to dry herself. She tried to breathe without choking. She sniffled, wiping away one more tear. And another. And then she managed to catch her breath without her chest heaving.

She picked up the books and retraced her steps. To the place where Draco had been standing. She put the books down again and scanned the shelf before her. Looking for Carlyle. Trying to force air through her constricted throat. Ignoring the spasms in her chest. Forcing herself not to think. Not to dwell on something that had already been written. To forget. Pushing it away to a hidden corner of her being, far from her brain. Even further away from her heart.

If that's what love felt like, if it hurt so much, she didn't want it.

---

It was pouring with rain. Few students had ventured out of the warm and inviting castle walls into the grounds or courtyards. So, on that dreary late May afternoon, most of the students of Gryffindor House were in the Common Room, taking advantage of the rainy weather to get a head start on their studies.

The portrait door to the Common Room opened, and Ron Weasley stepped through into the room. At an exaggeratedly fast speed, as his feet donned in old boots slipped on the waterlogged floor of the entrance. He grimaced in shock, but managed to keep his balance and not fall on his arse in front of half the Gryffindors who had gathered there. Steadying himself, he straightened up, brushing his soaked red hair back from his forehead. He moved forward a few paces, making room for Harry, who was following behind him, to enter as well. The dark-haired boy had the same trouble maintaining his stability, and, like his friend, also slipped a few inches, emitting a high-pitched, creaking, wet sound. When they were both inside, the portrait door closed behind them.

"Gulping gargoyles," Ron complained, glancing around the room. "What a rain. I've got water in places I didn't even know water could get to."

"I appreciate the information, and I second it," said Harry, suppressing a shiver of cold, also looking in all directions. At one point he elbowed his friend, pointing to one of the tables. "There she is."

They both started walking towards there, with heavy steps due to the amount of rainwater accumulated on their clothes. Many of the people they passed moved away with grimaces of discomfort, afraid of getting wet.

"Hermione..." Ron greeted cautiously, once they reached the table.

The entire surface of the table was occupied by the girl's belongings, which was no surprise to any Gryffindor, given the proximity of the exams. There were books everywhere, some open and others stacked in precarious, delicate piles that partly concealed their young friend. There were dozens of parchments full of quick, brief notes, and just as many tables full of strange runes that the two friends were unfamiliar with. The polished wooden surface was barely visible.

Hermione was bent over a heavy book, her thick brown hair partially hiding her concentrated face, and using her index finger to follow what she was reading. The finger was moving at an astonishing speed, the same as the girl's eyes in their sockets.

Hermione's other hand, clutching a worn and nibbled quill, rose up and asked silently for them to wait, raising her index finger in response to Ron's greeting.

"Of course..." Ron replied, raising an eyebrow.

"One second," she mumbled sharply, not taking her eyes off the book. After five seconds without moving a muscle, she took her quill to an almost empty inkwell and then began to write something at full speed on a piece of parchment with hardly any blank space left.

Her friends sat patiently in front of her, waiting for her attention. They were used to such pre-exam behaviour. It wasn't really unusual for her.

Hermione then consulted her wristwatch and looked up at last.

"Can I have a ten-minute break now... Have you reached the fourteenth lesson of Charms?" she asked with a hectic look.

Ron let out a loud histrionic chuckle. Harry smiled at his friend's reaction and looked apologetically at the girl.

"Of course not," Ron emphasised with amusement. "No one's been able to get to that point yet, Hermione."

The girl snorted, offended.

"Well, you'll see, but then I don't know how you're going to have time to give it all a second revision?"

"A second revision?" Ron repeated, disbelief etched in every syllable- "Hermione, I'll settle for reading all the subjects. Read them, do you understand?"

The girl snorted again. She blinked rapidly, as if Ron was shocking her.

"You're unbelievable. How badly you organise yourselves. Good thing I made you this..." she mumbled, looking curiously similar to a frustrated mother, and began to rummage through the items around her. Eventually, she pulled out a pair of identical parchments, which she placed in front of her two friends. "There you go. If you follow it to the letter, you won't have any problems..."

The boys looked at what she offered them, with more or less disguised suspicion. Their friend had gone to the trouble of creating elaborate timetables for them, telling them which subjects, even which pages, they were to study every day and every hour until the date of the exams. She had marked the subjects in different colours, and had underlined meal times in bright red and breaks in electric blue — which were very few, as they found out dejectedly at a quick glance. The last three days before exams were highlighted in yellow, and the words 'Last revision of all subjects. Only revision!' were written in large letters. There was nothing blue on them.

At least they weren't like the homework diary she'd given them in their fifth year, which screamed motivational phrases like "Don't leave it till later, you big second-rater!" when you opened it to any page.

"Hermione..." Harry began hesitantly, looking over the parchment at his friend. "Thank you, first of all, but... How could you have the free time to do this to us?"

"And how do you expect us to comply?" Ron protested in a slightly less delicate tone. "We cannot go on at such a pace. This Thursday," he pointed to the parchment, "we only have half an hour's break in the morning... And another half an hour in the afternoon!"

"Yes," Hermione agreed sardonically, "but the next day you can finish studying at eight o'clock in the evening to make up for it. It's called organisation," she remarked.

"It's called attempted murder," Ron muttered dejectedly. Her friend shook her head nonchalantly, beginning to push aside a few books, looking for one in particular.

"You have to learn to organise yourself, Ronald."

"I have to learn to divide myself into five so I can study five subjects at once."

Seeing that Hermione was about to protest, offended, Harry stepped in to restore peace.

"Hermione, why did you bring all the books here? These are from the Library, why didn't you consult them there? You usually do that instead of taking up a whole table in the Common Room..."

The book the girl had finally found slipped from her fingers and fell to the carpet with a thud. She bent down to pick it up and answered his question from under the table in an impersonal voice.

"I don't want to go to the Library."

"You don't want to? Why?" Ron questioned, now intrigued, putting aside the elaborate schedule the girl had prepared for them.

"Nothing special. People talk too loud, you study better here," she replied, sitting up. Her face was emotionless. Then she changed the subject with complete ease and no change in her tone of voice, "How about Hagrid? What did he say to you?"

"Well, we didn't get to talk for too long, he was too busy preparing for the Care of Magical Creatures exam for the third years," Harry said with a shrug. "And we struggled to find a way to put the question to him..."

"But he's made something clear to you or not?" she insisted with an impatience not at all like her.

"Let's see," Ron scratched the back of his neck, "as a novelty, it turns out that Aragog died of old age last month."

The impatience on Hermione's face vanished. Her eyes widened in horror.

"What are you talking about? Really? My God, poor Hagrid," she whispered. "Why didn't he tell us?"

"He didn't want to, so as not to worry us," Harry explained, sharing his friend's guilty look. "He says we're too busy studying, and that's as it should be. He didn't want to take up our time. He's buried him, but he's waiting to do the funeral when we finish the N.E.W.T.s."

"So... the spiders in the forest aren't well," Hermione interpreted, straightening up. "They'll be badly upset. They might need your help."

Harry shook his head, regretfully.

"No, not at all. According to Hagrid, they don't want anything to do with humans now. Not even him. They won't let him near them, he was so offended."

"And," Ron added, almost proud of their findings, "he's let it slip that he's very pleased that Grawp has learned to say 'spaida'," he arched a red eyebrow. "So we can rule him out as an expert in Legilimency."

Harry grinned sideways, but Hermione did not. She was still in thought.

"I can't believe we still have nothing, not a single clue," she muttered grumpily. She stared at the table angrily. "I'm sickened by this situation. We need to find out which creature is... You could be in danger."

"Woman, I don't think so at this point," Harry said gently.

"You haven't heard it again, have you?" Ron questioned, looking at Harry resignedly. He shook his head.

"Nothing for weeks. I don't think he's ever been quiet for that long. I did hear his voice for the last time days after Aragog had died..."

"Maybe he's gone?" Ron suggested unconvincingly. Harry frowned, indicating that he didn't believe it. Hermione snorted loudly and folded her arms in obfuscation.

"That's impossible!" she exclaimed in a tone so hysterical and worried that it startled both of her friends. "This isn't normal, there's something going on here. He could be planning something, we still don't know if he's friend or foe..." She gazed at the table with an impregnable, absorbed expression. She sighed finally, as if summoning up the courage to do something, "There's nothing else to do; tomorrow I'll go to the Library to investigate further."

"Well, there's no need to —" muttered Harry, feeling a little guilty.

"Yes, there is, Harry," she protested, not letting him finish, her eyes twinkling. "I'm not going to leave this to chance and... if I have to go to the Library, then I'll go to the Library," she said, with a firmness that was somewhat unusual for such a statement. "You guys go check floors four and five, and I'll go to the Library."

That morning, the three friends had spent their free period before lunch thoroughly searching the first three floors of the castle. They discreetly examined all the empty classrooms, broom cupboards, paintings, tapestries, carpets... Any place where there might be a hidden trapdoor, or signs that someone had hidden inside. The previous evening they had gone to the Room of Requirement in a fit of desperation, but had failed to even get it to create a room. The request "lead us to the voice that speaks to Harry Potter in his mind", and alternatives, were, it seemed, too ambiguous, and the Room ignored them.

"All right," Ron muttered, trying to sound peaceful. "By the way, we met Justin on the way here. He was with The Quibbler. Did you hear about the French girl?"

"Yes," Hermione corroborated, straightening up. She pulled the magazine Ron was talking about out from under some Arithmancy tables. "Luna gave it to me in the Great Hall. I've kept it for you... Page twenty-two."

Both friends placed the open magazine in front of them, leaning precariously against one of Hermione's many books.

The young French girl named Samantha Minette, who disappeared at the beginning of term, and reappeared without a scratch at Easter, had disappeared again. Without a clue. This time, along with her father and mother. And no one was clear at this point whether the Minette family were victims or villains: had someone circumvented the strong protections that the French Ministry of Magic had put in place for the girl, or had the family fled on their own? The first option seemed more plausible, if puzzling. Their faces were on the front page of every copy of The Quibbler in the world, waiting for someone to recognise and find them. The Daily Prophet had again refrained from mentioning them beyond a brief column in one of the centre pages. But The Quibbler was unstoppable. And more and more people were bothering to read it and find it true, like Justin Finch-Fletchley. Luna had told Hermione that her father was making so much money that he had put aside his business selling Dirigible Plums to devote all his energy to the magazine.

Hermione began to rummage through her things, while her friends read silently. Looking for the parchment on which she had jotted down a long list of titles on Legilimency and Magizoology, along with some notes. She would need it for the next day. When she found it, she unfolded it before her. The first few books on the list were written in a handwriting that was not her own. Small and cursive.

Malfoy…

She took a breath to keep her sternum from sinking into the depths of her chest. She stiffened her shoulders and rolled the parchment back up, setting it aside. If she sat at the back of the Library, away from other tables, there was no danger of meeting him there. She was aware that, having been expelled from classes, it was a feasible place to go to while away the hours. She could not blame him. Nor did she think he would go there to see her, far from it. But she needed to not see him. She didn't want to be sitting at a table and have him sitting at another table nearby, within eyeshot. She didn't want to bump into him around the corner of an aisle. She had no need to experience again the electric shock her body would subject her to if she met his eyes.

She blinked him out of her mind and forced herself to think of something else. The Marauder's Map. It hadn't proved very useful in the past, but now the object of the search had changed. They were no longer looking for a person, but a magical creature. She told herself that she should ask Harry for it again and examine it again. It had been weeks since it was no longer in her possession, and she had assumed that her friend had taken it back, without mentioning it, on some occasion when they had shared a table. She would ask him for it again. She would check it again. She needed to keep busy, and the exams weren't enough. She needed more. Not to think at all. To exhaust her brain so she wouldn't think.

"Any hypotheses?" Ron said as he finished reading, listlessly. Harry continued to stare at the page. The good-looking face of the dark-eyed French teenager was staring back at them from the corner of the page. Her file photo was of the young girl sitting in an armchair, smiling broadly, waving at the camera and then posing still again for the magical photograph as the flash went off.

"None," Hermione confessed quietly. "I'm puzzled at this point." Harry fixed his eyes on her and she cocked her head to one side. "I don't know what I'm thinking, Harry. They could very well be traitors, yes, but they could also be victims who have been hurt again by Death Eaters. You can't deny to me that both options are, objectively, valid."

Harry looked as if he might retort, but restrained himself, looking back down at the page.

"Shall we try talking to Remus again to see if he knows anything?" Ron said in a whisper. Hermione opened her mouth, but closed it again. Judging by her perturbed expression, she almost seemed capable of saying that they had too much studying to do and that something like this would break their study schedule completely, but she swallowed her protests. Harry, to his friends' surprise, shook his head.

"He said he'd let us know himself if they knew anything that wasn't in the newspapers," he mumbled heavily. "There's nothing we can do... except finish the term and go out there and see it all for ourselves. Without relying on Barnabas Cuffe or Xenophilius Lovegood," his eyes glittered. And Ron and Hermione understood. Harry saw the N.E.W.T.s as an annoying formality that had to be overcome by whatever means necessary before he could finally emerge into reality. He seemed painfully anxious about it. He had long since outgrown the role of student. He needed something more. A much more active role in what was happening outside.

"With the N.E.W.T.s in the way, I don't know if I'll get to see the end of the term," Ron joked softly, wanting to take some of the tension out of the matter. He glanced at his wristwatch and let out a whistle. "In fact, look what time it is... It's too late to start studying. What did I tell you? There's no way..."

Harry agreed to let out a resigned smile. Hermione, on the other hand, gave him an outraged look.

"Oh, please... Ernie's studying nine hours a day," she spat harshly, and slightly hysterically. "Hannah spent yesterday afternoon with Terry Boot in the greenhouses, in a tutorial with Professor Sprout. Anthony Goldstein was revising Transfiguration at dinner yesterday. Theodore Nott spent yesterday lunchtime in Professor Babbling's office, asking questions..."

At the mention of Nott, Ron fixed his blue eyes on her. Deadly serious. Harry tensed slightly beside him. Prepared for the impending argument.

Ron pursed his lips slightly. He looked away, blinking, and looked back at the girl.

"Hey, how's it going with that Nott?" he questioned. Dryly. Then he added, before the girl could answer, "You can tell him to come with us sometime. To the Library. To study... or whatever," he finished hastily. There was silence at the table. Harry turned his face shamelessly to stare at Ron's profile. Stunned. Hermione blinked, mute. Trying to understand Ron's defensive expression. His brow furrowed, and his eyes fixed on the table. Aware that he had said something highly unusual. Not wanting to see his friends' expressions.

"What the hell was that?" Harry articulated, indelicately, perplexed. Ron blushed slightly.

"Nothing," he replied gruffly. "I was just... saying that to... get to know him better. He doesn't seem like a bad bloke." He hesitated for a moment, then added, "He stuck up for you that time, Hermione. When Malfoy burned your Transfiguration essay."

Hermione felt her muscles twitch. He was right. "Come on, guys, cut it out," Theodore had uttered, facing his younger classmates in a whisper. She could remember it. But the memory made her lose herself in her thoughts for a moment. In everything that had happened afterwards. In the staffroom...

She struggled to get back to the conversation as quickly as possible.

"He should not be seen with us in public," she said, cautiously. In a calm tone. "The rest of his classmates don't think like him when it comes to Muggle-borns. He could get into trouble. But... thank you for that," she finished saying, more quietly. More softly. Actually, besides all that, she hadn't spoken to Nott since the day Draco had attacked Ron with the Bubotuber pus.

Ron twitched his mouth again. Scratching his fingernail across the cover of one of the girl's books.

"You're talking about Malfoy, of course," he mused, reluctantly. Beginning to remove part of the book's cover with his fingernail. Hermione's chest spasmed involuntarily, but the loose robe managed to hide it.

"For example," she chorused sharply, picking up a book at random and flipping it open in front of her. As she did so, the trembling of her hands knocked a small stack of volumes to the floor. With a plaintive groan, she bent down to pick them up. Harry, sitting closer to her, bent down as well. Watching her carefully. Noticing the sudden moisture in her eyes.

"Hey, are you all right?" he questioned quietly. "You don't look well. Aren't you studying too hard?" he asked, all the more cautiously.

Hermione pursed her lips, stubbornly piling her books back into two smaller piles.

"Not at all. It's not that," she took a sharp intake of breath and rubbed her eyes. Pretending to be tired. Discreetly wiping away the tears that blurred them. "I'm exhausted from something else. Being Prefect during exam time is insane. Today I've already confiscated seven stupid potions and other smuggled stuff that people buy to help them with their studies..."

She pointed to a small paper bag on the empty chair next to them. Ron picked it up curiously and began to investigate the contents.

"This doesn't work," he complained, looking at the label on a small bottle that said 'Baruffio's Brain Elixir'. "Fred and George tried to fool me with that once. And neither does this..."

"People are a bit desperate, aren't they?" Harry said with a shrug of his shoulders.

"Of course all that nonsense doesn't work," Hermione agreed firmly. "The only thing that does work is studying with an organised and effective scheme..."

"This does work!" Ron suddenly protested, taking out a small box and opening it. "It's powdered dragon claw! Just a little bit and you'll become very clever..."

"Don't talk nonsense," Hermione said, taking it from him just before his friend managed to get his finger inside. "Don't even think I'm going to let you try this. Who knows what it really is..."

"I'm telling you, it works," Ron insisted emphatically. "Dragons are very powerful magical creatures. You know all the properties their blood has... And the powder from their claws does work."

Hermione shook her head in exasperation, but then went very still. A strange gleam had come into her round, intelligent eyes.

"Is something wrong?" Harry asked when he saw her expression.

"No," Hermione denied, but the absent-minded twinkle in her eyes didn't fool them. "It's nothing, it's just..." she shook her head again. "I'll check. It's nothing." She sighed heavily. "Well, my break's over, I'm running late, I've got to continue..."

She leaned resolutely over her books and continued her studies without further ado, as if there had been no interruption. Ron arched an eyebrow and gave Harry a sidelong glance, exchanging an incredulous look. Wondering if she was kicking them out of her side or not.

"Right... By the way, you told us you wanted to talk to Hannah about changing your Prefect's patrol again, didn't you? Did you get — ?" Ron began, cocking his head curiously to one side.

"Yes, and we'll talk about it at dinner, Ron, I've got to continue now," she interrupted him without looking up. "Go upstairs and change your clothes right now. You're soaking wet and you're going to be sick."

Her friends looked at each other again. Confirming that she was sending them away.

---

It had finally stopped raining, though the grass was still sprinkled with droplets. Draco felt his bottom getting steadily wetter, sitting in the middle of the deserted Quidditch pitch. Not that he minded too much either. He sensed, judging by the aching emptiness in his stomach, that it was almost time for lunch. Or maybe it was just that he hadn't eaten anything since dinner last night.

He had spent the night wandering the castle, as he had all the previous ones. The silence of the nights, and the loneliness it implied, made Hermione Granger seep into his brain through all its walls, preventing him from breathing. He couldn't bear to lie in his bed at night. He needed to go for a run to exhaust his head. More than once, Filch had come close to catching him in the corridors, even Prefects from other Houses. But he always managed to slip away unseen. Once, Hannah Abbot, the Hufflepuff Prefect, discovered him in a corridor on the first floor, but he excused himself by saying that he was on his way back from the Library, that he had fallen asleep there. And he got away with it by the skin of his teeth.

He had been stripped of his Prefect rank due to the expulsion, and Nott took the baton.

Returning to the dormitory that morning, he had found the new Slytherin House Prefect sitting on his bed. Draco was not surprised. It was always like that. Theodore didn't look him straight in the face, but he did stand up, showing that it was him he was waiting for, then grabbed his bag and walked out the door without saying a word to him. Nott seemed to need to make sure Draco got back to his dormitory alive before he allowed himself to go to his classes. And so it went on day after day.

That morning, once his friend left, Draco lay down on his bed and fell asleep dreamlessly almost instantly. Missing breakfast, as he found out when he woke up, almost five hours later. He was still alone in the room. He decided to take a shower, to wash off the traces of another night of aggressive exercise, and dressed in his regulation uniform. And he didn't know what else to do. Everyone would be in class. He had planned to spend the afternoon studying for the N.E.W.T.s, because he didn't know what else to do, so he decided that he didn't need to spend the morning doing that. He had plenty of time, more than he needed. Especially since he didn't need the exams at all. But he did need to find some kind of entertainment so he wouldn't go crazy with boredom. Then it occurred to him that he could go to the Quidditch pitch. Even if they wouldn't let him train with his mates, or take part in the last matches of the term, they couldn't forbid him to play on his own.

Harper, a sixth-grader, had been chosen to replace him as a Seeker. And, since his expulsion from the team, none of his teammates had spoken to him. Blaming him for what was surely going to be another defeat for the team in the Quidditch Cup. Harper didn't have the experience, nor was he going to be able to do the necessary training, to be good enough.

Sitting in the middle of the pitch, feeling the wind move his hair, he was grateful for the solitude of the place. His new Thunderbolt VII lay beside him in the grass. The broom he had chosen after reading the April Which Broomstick? catalogue. With Granger. In those Changing Rooms. During the Ravenclaw versus Hufflepuff match.

He held back the urge to set fire to the broom. To smash it and buy another one. Another Nimbus Two Thousand and One. Everything was easier when he had that other broom. And he'd lost it because of Granger. Crabbe and Goyle had attacked him during the match for having seen him with her. His broom had broken because of her. It was all Granger's fault...

With jaws firmly clenched, he stood up. He stripped off his robes, remaining in his shirtsleeves, which he hastily rolled up to his elbow. He could show the Mark. It did not matter. He was alone there. And soon, anyway, he would never have to hide it again. It was part of him. Forever.

He grabbed his broom in one swift motion, without looking at it, and walked over to the crate with the balls he had taken out of the Changing Room and placed a few steps away. He opened it, and pulled the small Golden Snitch out of its compartment. It vibrated in the palm of his hand and flew away, fluttering its little wings like a hummingbird. It flew a few feet away from him, which the boy took the opportunity to mount his broom and fly upwards with a strong kick to the ground. The fresh air caressed his face, waking him up. He felt alive again. Stronger, more himself. He rose many metres, scanning his surroundings for the ball. Seeing it several metres away, he dived for it, missing it almost by the skin of his teeth. But he didn't care. He tried again. And again. And again. He caught it several times. It escaped him several times. He played for a while alone. And yet... It wasn't enough.

He stopped in mid-air. His heart was not beating too fast. He wasn't panting. Something was missing. He looked at the crate with the balls. He could do it. He was alone. No one was watching him.

Leaving the Snitch to flutter at will all over the pitch, he descended back to solid ground. He opened the crate and pulled out one of the Bludgers and a Beater's bat. He let the ball fly away, whizzing in the silence. He tightened his fingers around the bat and swiftly mounted his broom again. The Bludger hurtled at him at full speed, breaking the wind. Draco swung his arm back and hit the ball with the bat with all his might. He hit it. Throwing it away. Without direction. Joy washed over him. Much better.

He hit the ball hard again as it came whizzing back to meet him. And again. And again. Now he was sweating. Now his muscles ached. He'd almost forgotten how much he loved Quidditch.

But he kept thinking.

Draco walked with wide strides through the aisles of the train. Crabbe and Goyle, lifelong friends, were escorting him, pushing everyone out of his way. Which felt fantastic. Everyone had to know who he was from the start. Hogwarts wasn't Durmstrang, but he was sure he'd manage to rub shoulders with important people. Influential. Worthwhile people. Like his father did. Not Crabbe and Goyle, of course. They were just useful.

"Wasn't this compartment?" Crabbe asked in his hoarse voice, pointing to one of the doors they'd just left behind. Draco raised his eyes to the sky. Merlin grant him patience. They were useful, but exhausting.

"For the last time: Potter's in the second to last compartment, you dunce," Draco spat unceremoniously. "Near the tail end of the train."

"That one there, then, is it?" said Goyle, pointing further on. Draco could have agreed with him, but he didn't. He just took in the fact that the compartment door was open. A boy's body was leaning out of it, his head inside, hidden from his eyes. Draco pursed his thin lips disapprovingly. Everyone was going to take a look at the famous Harry Potter. How pathetic. The delusional git would be hallucinating how idiotic they could all be. 'Don't worry, Potter, I'll take this rabble away from you...'

"... You two had better change, you know, I expect we'll be there soon."

A high-pitched, boastful voice floated from inside the open compartment. The boy then stepped away from the door, making room for someone else to come out. And Draco's eyes were lost in some sort of coppery bush. Hair, hair, and more hair.

The girl who had just exited the compartment turned in his direction as she closed the door. Dark, keen eyes met his. She was already dressed in her school uniform. And what an amount of hair she had, Merlin's beard.

The girl grabbed the other boy by the sleeve of his robe and took a few determined steps towards them. Eyes locked on Draco's. Draco had stopped, along with Crabbe and Goyle, barely two metres from Harry Potter's compartment door.

"Have you seen a toad? Neville has lost it. It's his," said the girl, tugging a little on his sleeve until she lifted his arm slightly. She had a bossy voice. And rather large front teeth.

Draco barely spared a fleeting glance at the terrified round face of that Neville, who was staring at Crabbe and Goyle with apprehension. Predictably. But not the girl. She didn't look impressed at all.

Draco's lips curled into a sly sneer.

"A toad? Who brings a toad? How pathetic..."

Neville blushed brightly, cringing even more. The girl kept her eyes locked on Draco. Deadly serious. She blinked twice and then turned her face to speak to Crabbe.

To Crabbe.

"If you see it, please let us know. He needs to get it back before we get off the train," she spoke very quickly. And Draco's comment didn't seem to have been to her liking. And Draco neither.

"Okay," Crabbe stammered, looking a little confused. Shocked that someone was speaking directly to him. Draco was about to hit him. What does he mean, 'okay'?

"I'm Malfoy," he said then, looking at the girl. Wanting her to identify him as the leader of the trio again. "Draco Malfoy."

The girl agreed to look at him again. Her face did not alter. His name didn't mean anything to her.

"I'm Hermione Granger," she replied, and turned back to Crabbe. "If you see the toad, let us know. We're in compartment twenty-two. And we're going to be arriving soon, so you should change into your uniforms."

And then she started walking, pulling Neville, who looked a little groggy, past them and away down the aisle of the train. Draco spun around to watch her go. He realised then that he was clenching his jaws. His tongue was moving inside his mouth, wanting to say something else. But she was simply walking away. Who had she thought she was? Granger... She didn't sound familiar. What a pedant.

"Draco?" Goyle's voice snapped him out of his reverie. "What do we do?"

He looked at him, still frowning.

"What do you mean, what do we do?"

"Are we going to look for the toad?"

Draco wished he had his wand with him to cast one of the few spells he already knew how to cast.

"Don't be an idiot. Come on in. Let's go meet Potter."

Trying to relax his frown, and pushing that thick brown hair out of his head, he opened the door to Harry Potter's compartment.

Draco couldn't have been hitting the Bludger for more than ten minutes, but he was already panting. And yet it wasn't enough. He kept thinking. He needed to play faster. Harder. He didn't want to think. He didn't want to think...

Everyone was shouting on the Quidditch pitch as the players emerged from the Changing Rooms to meet in the centre of the stadium for the start of the match. Draco was ascending the stairs to the stands, with Crabbe and Goyle flanking him. Looking around, looking for a place to sit.

"There?" Goyle suggested, pointing a few stands higher up. Draco glanced at the spot out of the corner of his eye and shook his head.

"No," he looked away. Towards the tide of red and gold that stood at that height. He caught sight of a reddish clump of hair at last, like a torch. He smirked and pointed to the spot, "Better there."

Crabbe and Goyle looked in the same direction and chuckled under their breath. The three of them slipped through the crowd and pushed several Gryffindors out of the way until they were behind the ones they were really interested in.

"I've never seen Snape look so mean," Ron Weasley was saying, for some reason. "Look – they're off. Ouch!"

He turned around, holding a hand to his nape. Draco was lowering his own, having just smacked him with it.

"Oh, sorry, Weasley, didn't see you there," he apologised falsely, as he grinned at Crabbe and Goyle. The red-haired boy grimaced angrily and looked ahead again, reluctantly. Longbottom stood beside him, slightly cowering in the presence of the Slytherins. Granger was on the other side of Weasley, her eyes fixed on the match. She hadn't turned towards them at any point. "Wonder how long Potter's going to stay on his broom this time? Anyone want a bet? What about you, Weasley?"

Ron, forcing himself to attend to the match, didn't answer. Granger continued without even looking at him. As if he didn't exist. All he could see was her bushy brown nape. And, if he looked down from his angle, sitting behind Weasley, he saw her fingers crossed over her skirt as she watched Saint Potter fly across the pitch. He pursed his lips in disdain. Potter shouldn't even be playing. He was a first year. He wasn't allowed. But, of course, he was a bloody celebrity, and he could bend all the rules like it was nothing...

Snape, minutes later, gave a penalty to Hufflepuff. And even Draco warned that there was no reason for it. He wasn't paying too much attention to the match, though. The people in front of him were more interesting.

"You know how I think they choose people for the Gryffindor team? It's people they feel sorry for. See, there's Potter, who's got no parents, then there's the Weasleys, who've got no money — you should be on the team, Longbottom, you've got no brains."

Draco smirked at his own taunt. He averted his eyes to the back of Granger's head, but she was still pretending not to hear him. She was pretending, because it was obvious that she was hearing him. How could she not hear him? He was right behind her. But she wouldn't turn around. The smug girl thought she was better than him for ignoring him...

"I'm worth twelve of you, Malfoy," Longbottom stammered, facing him, red as a tomato. Draco burst into exaggerated laughter, as did Crabbe and Goyle.

Weasley said something he couldn't hear, and Draco merely added, pretending to wipe away his tears, "Longbottom, if brains were gold you'd be poorer than Weasley, and that's saying something."

"I'm warning you, Malfoy — one more word —" hissed Weasley, only to be interrupted by Granger, who had visibly winced.

"Ron!" she gasped, not at all aware that she was interrupting an almost overt fight. "Harry!"

"What? Where?"

Draco rolled his eyes and leaned back in his seat. Biting his cheek on the inside of his mouth, he looked at Granger. She had stood up, crossing her fingers in front of her mouth. Eyes fixed on Potter, who has gone diving. All around him, the crowd shouted and cheered.

"You're in luck, Weasley, Potter's obviously spotted some money on the ground!" Draco said loudly.

His eyes strayed back to Granger, as she was leaping on to her seat to get a better look at Potter. Ignoring his presence, his words, completely. Not getting angry. Not flinching. Not paying the slightest bit of attention to him, for better or worse. Bloody pedantic Mudblood...

And then Draco was pushed, falling to the floor. Weasley had thrown himself on top of him. He felt a fist crash into his right eye. They both rolled and kicked under the seats. He found Weasley's nose. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Longbottom clambering over the back of his chair, facing Crabbe and Goyle.

"Come on, Harry!" He heard Granger's voice clearly, oblivious to it all.

Draco hit the Bludger so hard that he almost smashed it into the stands. But the clever ball spun around and came at him again. He was sweating, but he wasn't going to stop.

Draco looked over and over at the pattern of the carpet in his drawing room, not daring to move a muscle. His father had been silent for what seemed like minutes. The rustling of the pages of the newspaper his mother was reading was the only thing that broke the silence.

He swallowed saliva and it stuck in his throat. He pursed his lips. Thinking of excuses. It wasn't his fault...

"I expected better, Draco," Lucius said then, looking up from the thick parchment. His grey eyes pierced his son, standing before him. "Only an 'Acceptable' in Transfiguration... Who teaches the subject?"

"McGonagall," Draco spat instantly, mumbling. "She's the Head of Gryffindor House. She favours them in everything. That's why I don't get a better mark, it's not my fault."

"Is Minerva McGonagall still teaching?" her mother questioned, lowering the paper. "She must be very old. I thought she would have retired long ago... I don't know if she's fit to teach any more, Lucius. You should send for an inspection."

Her husband dismissed the idea with a wave of his hand. He was still staring at his son's marks.

"'Outstanding' in Potions," he offered, arching an eyebrow. "Of course, Severus teaches it..."

A shudder gripped Draco's chest. He felt his cheeks heat up and he didn't like the feeling. He hadn't gotten that mark because Snape liked him. He was good at Potions.

"Who got the best marks in the class?" Lucius asked then, looking at him again. Draco knew perfectly well, but he pretended to think for a moment.

"Possibly Potter's friend."

"What friend of Potter's?"

"Hermione Granger," he heard himself utter aloud. He couldn't remember ever saying her first name. "She's an insufferable, presumptuous Mudblood..."

"I told you not to use that word outside of this house," Narcissa warned him, looking at him seriously. But then she pursed her lips. "Although, if that's the case, it's a pity. I expected more from that Potter. Rubbing shoulders with such riffraff..."

"A Mudblood is outperforming you in the exams?" Lucius repeated, his eyes flicking over the parchment at him again. His voice was icy. Draco felt himself flush again.

"It's not my fault. She's an arse kisser. And a friend of Potter's. What can I do?" He pointed disdainfully at himself. "I'm not going to kiss Potter's arse to get good marks..."

"Watch your language," his mother admonished him again, patiently. "And of course you don't have to do that," she let out a relaxed smile. "You've passed everything. You'll get better marks next year. What do you want us to give you as a gift? You deserve a present, whatever you want..."

Draco grinned shamelessly. He'd been waiting for that.

"I want to be the Seeker on the Slytherin Quidditch team," he demanded, his voice firm. He glared at his father. Lucius finally rolled up the parchment and leaned back in his armchair, staring at his son. He let out a deep sigh through his nose.

"The team's Seeker. All right, what's the best broom at the moment?" he asked, almost listlessly. Draco blinked, not expecting that question.

"I think — the Nimbus Two Thousand and One," he said, frowning. "But what I want —"

"I know. And you'll get both. The whole team will get a little gift from me," Lucius explained, and his mouth quirked into a lazy grin. "You'll have to present yourself at the trials, of course. But the position will be yours if they want the brooms."

Draco's eyes sparkled. That was better. He was burning to play Quidditch at school, to show how well he could fly. And the whole school would see it. It would make Potter look like an amateur. That pedantic Granger, up in her seat, would be open-mouthed...

"What marks did Theodore get?" Narcissa then asked, putting the paper aside. Draco's elation cooled. He exchanged a bitter look with his mother.

"Quite good, I think," he managed to say, in a whisper. "When they gave him the news, we only had two exams to go. I think, except for those, he's got good marks in all of them..."

His mother composed a grimace of distress. Lucius stared at the back of the room, chin resting on one hand, deep in thought.

"I'm glad," Narcissa managed to whisper. "Poor boy... We should go and visit him and his father, to offer our condolences. I've done it by letter, but I want to do it in person. We'll go this afternoon."

Another sharp swing of the bat and the Bludger flew through one of the goal hoops without him actually intending to.

"Saint Potter, the Mudbloods' friend," Draco said, slowly. Almost thoughtful. Crabbe and Goyle, sitting before him on a pair of chairs, watched him. "He's another one with no proper wizard feeling, or he wouldn't go around with that jumped-up Granger Mudblood," he added with more disdain. He remembered the young girl, stretching out her hand in class, eager to answer any question. And, on top of that, to answer it correctly. He snorted, pushing her away from his head. "And people think he's Slytherin's heir! I wish I knew who it is. I could help them."

He was unaware of Crabbe's stunned expression. Goyle added quickly, demonstrating his slowness once again, "You must have some idea who's behind it all..."

Draco stared at him in disbelief — could he be any more stupid? How many times had they talked about it already?

"You know I haven't, Goyle, how many times do I have to tell you?" he snapped. "And Father won't tell me anything about the last time the Chamber was opened either. Of course, it was fifty years ago, so it was before his time, but he knows all about it, and he says that it was all kept quiet and it'll look suspicious if I know too much about it. But I know one thing — last time the Chamber of Secrets was opened, a Mudblood died. So I bet it's a matter of time before one of them's killed this time..."

He felt his heart race at the possibility. Granger came to his mind again. Her nose pointed at the ceiling. Her glances loaded with disdain, indifference, barely a sidelong glance. She never insulted him. She hardly ever replied to his witty comments. Well, sometimes she did.

'At least no one on the Gryffindor team had to buy their way in. They got in on pure talent.'

His blood boiled every time he remembered it. Stupid pedant. He hated her so much... Her very existence annoyed him. Very much so. She was possibly the person who annoyed him the most in the world.

"I hope it's Granger," he said with relish. Then he'd be rid of her. The only person he knew who treated him as if he didn't exist at all.

The Bludger hit echoed across the pitch, reverberating through the stands. Draco almost didn't hear it. He couldn't hear his breathing. He heard a ringing in his ears. He was even seeing a little blurry. He was probably getting dizzy from lack of food.

"Look at him blubber! Have you ever seen anything quite as pathetic?" Draco said scornfully from the doorway of the castle's front door. Watching, along with Crabbe and Goyle, as Hagrid walked away back to his hut, his face covered by a handkerchief. "And he's supposed to be our teacher!"

He could hardly contain his laughter. Potter, Weasley and Granger were on the stairs, and of course they had heard him. That's what he'd intended. Draco saw the two boys turn and head towards him, with identical expressions of rage. Feeling Crabbe and Goyle on either side, he thought that was going to be fun...

But then the vision changed. Granger overtook both boys, approaching him with powerful strides. Draco couldn't move a muscle in his body. She was heading straight for him. Eyes fixed on his face. All her attention was on him. She was right in front of him. Absurdly close. But what — ? Why — ?

SMACK!

Granger slapped him with all her might. There was silence in the Entrance Hall. Draco looked up at her as soon as he could turn his neck again, aware that his eyes were as wide as saucers. He caught a glimpse of Potter and Weasley behind her, with expressions that, he was sure, were identical to his own. Crabbe and Goyle hadn't moved either. Granger, angry, upset, frantic, raised her hand again.

"Don't you dare call Hagrid 'pathetic', you foul — you evil — !"

"Hermione!" Weasley stammered then, trying to grab her hand as she swung it back.

"Get off, Ron," she hissed. Pulling out her wand. Draco couldn't restrain the absurd impulse to step back two paces. Crabbe and Goyle were still standing uselessly beside him.

"C'mon," Draco heard his own lips utter. Granger looked ready to curse him. And judging by the slap that still burned on his skin, she wouldn't hesitate to turn him into a Flobberworm. It didn't even occur to him to pull out his own wand. He was embarrassingly sure that the stupid girl could beat him. He felt utterly dumbfounded. He couldn't remember ever feeling so ridiculously out of place.

He slipped away with his mates down the passageway that led to the dungeons. His heart pounding in his throat. He felt a creeping warmth take over his face and neck, and he quickened his pace to get ahead of Crabbe and Goyle so they wouldn't see it.

Granger wasn't like that. Granger always ignored him. She would look away as if she didn't hear him. And, for once when she'd confronted him directly, he hadn't been up to the task. Now the back of his neck burned too. She was a Mudblood, Merlin's beard. But he had been paralysed. That pedantic girl hadn't hesitated to smack him. She didn't care that he was a Malfoy, that he was above her. She wasn't afraid of him, she didn't even respect him. She simply didn't care about him at all. He didn't disrupt her life. Except for when he messed with her friends. Then she had no problem fighting him tooth and nail.

Crabbe and Goyle, beside him, said nothing. They seemed to appreciate that he was fuming. Or maybe they were analysing what had happened with their tiny brains. He felt the need to say something, to remember who was in charge. Who was above whom.

"Did you see that? That Mudblood is fucking nuts!" he said, in a firm voice. "They shouldn't let their kind hang around with the others. They're unstable. And I seem to have hit a nerve with that nasty, dumb gamekeeper..." he forced a malicious chuckle. "Let's see if she's as brave as that when that stupid chicken's head is hanging on my drawing room wall..."

And, as he expected, Crabbe and Goyle laughed, pleased, cheered by the idea. Hopefully, forgetting what had happened. Though Draco would have a hard time forgetting.

His shoulder hurt. He wasn't used to batting, let alone for so long. But he didn't stop.

At the POTTER STINKS message that glowed brightly on all the badges, the fourth-year Slytherins howled with laughter. Potter turned red with fury. Granger stood beside him, staring at everything with her lips pursed in a disapproving sneer. Draco saw her turn to Pansy sharply, who was laughing with Millicent and Tracey.

"Oh, very funny," Granger scoffed, haughtily, "really witty."

Draco pursed his lips to stop himself from smirking. A comment worthy of Granger. And she was furious, he could see it. He'd managed to infuriate the stoic, pedantic Granger. And he was going to take advantage of it.

"Want one, Granger?" he said, offering her one of the badges he held in his hand. The girl's eyes locked on him. Dark. Angry. Suspicious. "I've got loads. But don't touch my hand, now. I've just washed it, you see; don't want a Mudblood sliming it up."

She didn't flinch. She just looked him in the eye, very stiff. Her lips were still tight with irritation. It wasn't often he could get her to look directly at him. Granger was always the one with her nose stuck in a book, ignoring him and his comments, and Potter and Weasley were the ones who played along. But there she was. Glaring at him angrily. Like he was really annoying. Of course she wasn't going to take the badge, nor did he want her to. But she was glaring at him. He was the centre of her attention. And that was already quite an achievement.

Then Potter pulled out his wand, attracting her attention. The people, all around them, moved away. Granger's eyes widened in surprise.

"Harry!" she warned him. But Draco was undeterred. He felt a surge of vanity wash over him. She was right to be worried about Potter. Because he was going to give him what he deserved. Granger would see which of them was the better wizard...

"Go on, then, Potter," he challenged him, quietly. And boastful. "Moody's not here to look after you now — do it, if you've got the guts —"

It didn't take more than a split second for them to attack each other. Two spells cast at the same time. They collided in mid-air and bounced off each other. Potter's hit Goyle in the face. And Draco's hit Granger. Goyle began to howl beside him, and Draco saw that he was getting ugly boils on his nose. Granger let out a shriek as well, cupping her hands over her mouth. Weasley, emerging from the crowd, rushed over to her, as did Potter. Her hands were removed from her face and everyone saw what was happening. Her front teeth, already larger than average, were growing at a rapid rate.

Snape left the classroom then and managed to silence everyone so that Draco could explain.

"Potter attacked me, sir —" Draco said, and, ignoring Potter, who had shouted that they both attacked each other at the same time, he added, "— and he hit Goyle — look —"

Snape did so, almost lazily, and directed him to the Hospital.

"Malfoy got Hermione!" Weasley shouted then, pulling the girl's hands away so that she showed her teeth. "Look!"

The resemblance to a beaver was already striking. Draco heard Pansy laughing behind him.

"I see no difference," Snape said coldly.

And Draco couldn't stop his jaw from dropping in surprise. He let out an incredulous laugh. Almost nervous. Bloody hell, that was cruel even for Snape. He watched Granger let out a whimper. Her eyes filled with tears that seemed completely justified to Draco. The girl turned and walked away down the corridor, the same way Goyle had gone, towards the Hospital. Potter and Weasley then started shouting things at Snape that none of the people present understood due to the echo of the place. And Draco caught himself staring at them in disbelief. Thinking they were prats. He looked at the deserted end of the corridor and then at them again. But what was wrong with them? Granger had just run off. Crying. Why weren't they after her?

He tried to aim more accurately and managed to hit the edge of the goalpost with the Bludger. It wobbled dangerously. He was out of breath, but he had strength. So he kept going. And he purposely tried to get it through the inside of the hoops.

"Can you see who Krum has come with?" Pansy said, squeezing his arm and stretching herself to see the four champions in the crowd. They were standing, with their respective partners, on either side of the Great Hall doors to let the rest of the students through. Draco shook his head half-heartedly.

"Not from here," he admitted, without even trying, looking around. He was trying to find Nott, but only caught a glimpse of Zabini, standing next to Tracey Davis.

"Potter's brought one of the Patils — do you think they're together, or hasn't he found another?" Pansy questioned, still stretching. Draco showed little enthusiasm again.

"Who knows... I don't think they're together."

"Chang is with Diggory," Pansy reported, an excited gleam in her eye at her own revelation.

"Chang who?" Draco questioned, now looking in the same direction as her.

"The Ravenclaw Seeker. Cho Chang," Pansy specified, craning her neck even further. Then she tapped his forearm excitedly. "Tell me who's the one with the Beauxbatons champion. He's from Hogwarts, but I don't know his name. He plays Quidditch. Look at his face, he can't believe it..."

Draco agreed to look over the crowd, craning his neck.

"Roger Davies," he reported listlessly, looking around him again. He saw Weasley then, with another of the Patils. He frowned. Well, it was obvious that neither of the two friends had come with Granger. He had overheard them say days ago, in the Entrance Hall, that the girl had a partner that even they didn't know. 'You'll just make fun of me,' Granger had said. Who could it be? Was he someone so ridiculous that she wouldn't even tell her friends? Who on earth could fall into that category?

He caught Daphne, on Adrian Pucey's arm. Draco let out a discreet sigh through his nose. He tried again to look for Nott. He knew he had come alone. Maybe he was all the way in the back.

"Wait a moment," Pansy said then, again using Draco's arm as a support to stretch out. Her voice sounded agitated. "Look at the face of — who's that with Krum? It looks like — oh, it can't be, you've got to be kidding me..."

Draco looked at Pansy, and saw her with wide eyes, but he didn't have time to ask. The doors to the Great Hall had opened, and the crowd carried them in. Passing between the four champions and their partners. Standing nervously by the doors, smiling and waving. The stunning Fleur Delacour shone brightly, outshining everyone around her. But Draco's eyes only lingered on her natural radiance for a brief, dazed moment before they were drawn to a periwinkle-blue flash. Krum's partner. Her flowing robes. Her face.

It was Granger.

Their eyes did not meet as he walked past her. The girl was glancing nervously through the crowd, not making eye contact with anyone. Draco was vaguely aware that it was her, but at the same time he wasn't entirely sure. Where was her bushy hair? Where were her generic uniform robes, her books on her back? It wasn't her, and yet... it was. Pansy stared open-mouthed at her, not disguising her surprise. Draco was aware of how his own lips moved, out of inertia, out of habit. Something automatic every time he saw her. With the intention of saying something to her. A whispered insult. To make her look at him. So that she wouldn't pretend not to hear him, not to see him, that he didn't exist. Something to wipe that smile off her face. But he couldn't remember why he would want to do something like that. And he was sure that nothing he could say would be cruel enough. He couldn't think of anything degrading enough to say to her. So he walked past her silently, looking away as quickly as he could.

"Hermione Granger," Pansy whispered next to him in a high-pitched tone as they looked for a seat. Her arm hovered around his with excited strength. "That was Hermione Granger. Krum invited Granger. Blimey, I've got to talk to Tracey about this... And what the hell has that freak done to herself? Have you seen her?"

Draco was still blinking periwinkle-blue. Focusing on the tables. He felt confused. As if he'd just seen a house elf with a wand, taking Transfiguration. It didn't make any sense at all. All he could think of was turning his head to confirm that what he had seen was real. That he hadn't gone mad. Pansy's words beside him were enough, though. But nothing made any sense. Granger couldn't... be like that. She was irritating. Pedantic. Ordinary. It didn't make sense that she looked like that, that she was so, so...

"I didn't get a good look at her, but I think it was her," he managed to say, just to silence Pansy's spiel. For the first time in his life, he wished Hermione Granger wouldn't pay him any attention all night. And, hopefully, she wouldn't. He didn't even want to look at her. It made him uncomfortable. Because she made him think. Because she made things make no sense, and that annoyed the hell out of him. That girl never stopped bothering him. He was fed up, very fed up, with her mere existence.

He had to dart away from the Bludger to prevent it from hitting him full in the stomach. He spun around, snorting, and only adrenaline allowed him to hit it, knocking it away from him again. He was beginning to lose his reflexes from exhaustion.

Draco pulled his lips away from hers, not really wanting to. But he wanted to see her face. He wanted to take in that it was happening. That it was really her. And he saw her, eyes closed. Still lost in the sensation. He almost smiled. What a woman, she didn't need to treasure anything... Now that they'd given each other carte blanche regarding their encounters, he was going to give her that and a thousand more kisses. Whenever he wanted. Whenever she wanted. No regrets. At least without those regrets that forced him to stop.

The girl's eyes opened and focused on his. Rather, they bore into him like harpoons. She was staring at him. She was seeing him. Him and only him. And he almost felt the need to look away. Intimidated by her eyes. He felt her sigh against his mouth. Could there be a more genuine gesture than a sigh? She didn't move away, not even to get a better look at him. And he didn't plan to either. Her forehead pressed against his. Her breath hitched against his mouth, almost begging her way back in. Her skin pressed against his... Oh, merciful Merlin, he was fucked up. So fucked up. He knew it. And he'd never believed that screwing up, knowing he was screwing up, could feel so good. And he wasn't able to stop. Not now.

"This cannot work out well," Granger whispered then, with a faint smile. As if she had read his mind. He watched her close her eyes again, and felt her move her face just a little. Rubbing it against him. Contradicting her words. Moving closer. Draco squeezed his own shoulders to stay still and not do the same. It would look ridiculous, wouldn't it? He couldn't show that much... need. But he couldn't help but let his eyelids droop.

"I thought you Gryffindors were brave," he replied instead, also in a whisper. He grimaced sarcastically against her skin. "You spend ninety per cent of your existence bragging about it."

"We are brave, not foolish," Granger replied, in a new whisper, without opening her eyes.

"'Brave' and 'foolish' are synonyms, believe me," he murmured, and tilted his face slightly. Locating her lips with the intention of sinking into them again.

"And so are 'Malfoy' and 'presumptuous'."

His lips curved into a smile that he knew was indeed presumptuous. It was. Of course it was. And she knew it was. But she was there. She was pressed against his skin. She was making it clear to him what she thought of him. He annoyed her as much as she annoyed him. He was as unbearable to her as she was to him.

He could hardly think. Not at that moment. Not pressed against her face, breathing her in. He would think about it all later. But now... His hands came forward and reached for her forearms, to wrap around them and caress them with his thumbs. He felt her clothes. Her flesh. She was real.

"You're a pedant, Granger," he whispered against her mouth. For all the times he'd thought that about her. His heart pounding with the knowledge that she felt the same way about him as he did about her. In every way. He sank into her mouth, into her pyre, burning, pressing her against the greenhouse table. Surrounded by glass walls, he felt braver than he'd ever felt in his whole life.

"Draco!" a voice called suddenly from the ground. The boy, panting and his eyesight almost blurred, looked down. He saw a small figure beckoning to him from the grass. He recognised the short black hair without much effort. It was Pansy.

Holding the bat under his arm, he managed to catch the Bludger with his hands. Trying not to lose his balance, he descended to solid ground, landing in front of the ball crate. Pansy jogged over with a smile and helped him with one hand to hold the elusive Bludger in place. The other hand was hidden behind her back.

"Playing as a Beater?" said the girl, perking up, when they finally closed the lid. "I don't think I've ever seen you play like that before, is there anything you're bad at?"

Draco felt that the comment called for a smile, but he could barely stretch his lips. His mind felt like butter. And so did his body. He was panting heavily, and every muscle ached. Now that he had stopped, he felt like tearing out his agonising right shoulder. His face was sweaty too, as was his white shirt. He should have changed into a Quidditch uniform for training...

"How did you find me?" was the boy's greeting, in a low voice, turning to look at her. She tilted her face to one side, looking at him with mocking offence.

"It took me a while, believe it or not. I've been looking for you for hours," she confessed, but her smile remained. In fact, it widened as she added, in a louder voice, "Happy birthday!"

She brought her hands to the front and held out a small, neatly wrapped package. Draco was shocked. The broom slipped from his limp hands, falling to the grass with a thud.

"My... birthday?" he gasped. He had no idea what day it was. Since his expulsion he had lost track of time completely; every day was the same.

"Of course, you fool! You think I wouldn't remember?" she protested, excitedly. Almost jumping up and down in her place. "It's something rather silly, but I hope you like it... Oh, and you didn't come for breakfast, did you? I saw Armand, he had a letter from your mother. I took it for you," she reached into her robes and pulled out a roll of parchment with the Malfoy seal on it, closing it. "Go on, open it all!" she encouraged enthusiastically, sitting down on the ground in front of him, adjusting her school skirt. She set the package and the letter down on the grass, waiting for him to sit with her.

Draco was slow to react. He didn't feel like doing it at all, but he ended up dropping to the ground, almost out of pure imitation. He'd rather keep playing. He wanted to tire himself out more. But he realised, as soon as he sat down, that he needed to. His chest was starting to hurt when he breathed. And his vision was still blurry. Who knew how long he had been playing.

He picked up the rolled-up parchment and looked at it for a few seconds before putting it back on the grass.

"I'll read it later, I don't think it's polite to stay quiet for ten minutes," he justified himself, quietly. Pansy smiled warmly, but then her smile faded and she blinked worriedly.

"What was your mother's reaction to the expulsion?" she asked softly.

Draco swallowed. Trying to hold back a sigh, he rubbed his nose to buy time.

"She didn't say much," he admitted, measuring his words. "She offered to go to the Board of Governors and file a complaint, but I told her that wasn't necessary. After all, there are only a few weeks left in the school year, and the N.E.W.T.s —"

Then he realised that Pansy wasn't listening to him. Her face had dropped. Her eyes were fixed on his lap, slightly out of their sockets. Draco followed her gaze and winced.

The Dark Mark. It was faded, but it was clearly visible on his forearm in the daylight. He'd forgotten he'd rolled up his shirt sleeves. He thought he was going to be alone.

He hurried to pull them down, hiding the Mark. He managed to find the strength to look at Pansy and found panic in her glazed eyes. And concern. It seemed to him that she had gone pale. And Draco felt his chest crush at the thought that she might be afraid of him.

"Did it hurt?" she asked in a very low voice. It trembled. Draco didn't know what to say.

"Very much," he ended by saying. Though his voice sounded dull. The girl looked at his now hidden forearm out of the corner of her eye, then back into his eyes. She seemed to be seeing him for the first time. She clenched her fists on her skirt.

"You are... very, very brave," she told him instead, her voice laden with devotion. Draco still felt something cold slide down his oesophagus. "Has he ordered you to do... something?"

Draco didn't even hesitate. He shook his head, eyes fixed on the grass. He remembered that the package was still there. He took it, almost like an automaton.

"You didn't... need to give me anything," he managed to articulate in a quiet voice. Hinting that he didn't want to talk about it. Pansy stretched her lips into an excited smile again, but her eyes looked sad to see that he didn't look the least bit excited.

"I wanted to cheer you up a bit," she justified herself, agreeing to change the subject and trying to speak in a normal tone. Albeit rather forced. "You've been a bit down since you were expelled. I didn't even go to Charms class this morning, I've been looking everywhere for you to give it to you as soon as possible... Go on, open it."

Draco moisturised his dry throat as best he could and tore the paper off the rectangular package. It was flat, as if it were a small, narrow book. Underneath the paper, he found a cardboard box, whose lid he opened. Inside were two golden tickets that shot out bright sparks, like little fireworks; almost as if they were celebrating the sight of him.

"Tickets to next year's Quidditch World Cup!" Pansy reported as if she couldn't contain herself. Looking more cheerful again. "It's going to be in Ireland. I bought them as soon as they came out, I heard some places sold out straight away. I've got two for you to go with your mother. Or whoever you want," she let out a nervous giggle.

He was slow to say anything. His tongue felt heavy inside his mouth. Next year he would be an active Death Eater, serving under Lord Voldemort. Fulfilling missions for him. Helping him restore order to the wizarding world. He wouldn't have time for Quidditch. And he sensed that Pansy was thinking the same thing.

"I can't accept it," he said, closing the box again. She looked at him with two gaping wounds for eyes. "They must have cost you a pretty penny," he tried to justify, more gently. "There was no need to give me such an expensive gift..."

"You always give me expensive things too," she protested, forcing a more joking tone.

"My family can afford it," Draco countered without looking at her.

"Mine too," she protested, amused.

"That's not true..."

"Oh, shut up and accept it, it's a gift," Pansy protested, more firmly, but unable to stop herself from smiling again.

Draco looked at the box. His mind far away. Wondering what he was doing. What was wrong with him. Pansy had always idolised him. She had supported him in everything, ever since they were children. Cheered him on at every Quidditch match, laughed at all his jokes, insulted his enemies, worried when Hagrid's stupid Hippogriff attacked him in the third year, joined the Inquisitorial Squad with him in the fifth, teamed up with him to tell rumours about Potter to Rita Skeeter, just because he thought it was funny... They went to the Yule Ball together in the fourth year. She was his first kiss.

'… from what little I know of her, Parkinson has always seemed to have feelings for you. Even now, I'd say. She adores you. So much for just friendship.'

Draco felt a lump in his throat. He looked up to meet his friend's gaze. So familiar, so full of admiration. He felt the sudden urge to kiss her, not quite sure if he wanted to fight it or let himself go. And it surprised him. He'd only ever felt that urge with Granger, and he almost wanted to groan with relief that he was capable of feeling it for someone else. Pansy would let him if he did, he was sure. She was the right choice. Everything would be simple, everything would be fine. There would be no headaches. They could be together forever, if they wanted to. His parents would approve, the Dark Lord would approve. Pansy had found out he was a Death Eater, and she didn't repudiate him. On the contrary, she saw him as a hero. In a way that even he didn't see himself.

Pansy was the more convenient option. It was the choice he owed to his parents, in honour of all the beliefs they had instilled in him. To everything they had taught him. To everything they had fought for, for him. To give him the best. The choice he owed to his blood.

But it wasn't the one he wanted.

He saw Granger's face so clearly in his mind that it almost frightened him. He saw her huge eyes locked on his. Staring at him. Seeing him. Her hand offering him back the Butterbeer he'd smuggled out for her. Her mouth moving, speaking, urging him to follow his dream of being an Alchemist, wanting to know all about it. Her lips on his neck in the darkness of the broom cupboard, playing with him, taking revenge on him, showing him that something like that was possible between them... That it could be something spectacular...

"So, did you actually like it?"

He was startled. He focused his gaze. Pansy was staring at him, expectantly. Smiling hesitantly.

"Like what?" he managed to say, speechless. She laughed, incredulous.

"The present, man, did you like it? You don't seem very happy," she confessed, embarrassment shining in her dark eyes. Draco swallowed. He didn't have any saliva, though. He forced a smile, the first he'd managed to muster in a long time, and reached out a hand to clasp it around his friend's wrist. He squeezed it tightly.

'So, did you actually like it?'

"Very much."