A/N: Whats good, readers? If you're still reading this fic, after all these years, i just want to say a huge thank you. You don't know what it means. Not many know this, but I'm a mom of four boys (two of whom are disabled) and my life is just super busy since my fourth little boy came almost a year ago. I am sorry for the delays in updates, and the concern over if this story is abandoned or not. it is not. I have a very specific ending planned (as I always did), so please. Don't give up on me yet.

Also, can I just say thank you for reading a WIP? I know alot of people don't care to read stories if they aren't complete and that can be a little frustrating. I get it - it takes a certain kind of strength to read something without an ending, but still. Thank you for giving me a chance.

I love all the support and comments and messages I get. It truly means the world. - rg

Chapter 30

The Champion

An unusual sunny day split the frigid Scotland highlands. Hogwarts castle was given the briefest glimpse into spring, despite the chill that still rode on its breath. The sunlight warmed the air. Wind died to nothing but a soft whisper.

The Viaduct courtyard was filled with stone. It was still rather cold. Their gray surfaces prevented the sun's hold on the air. Pockets, once stepped inside, chilled to the bone with a rather sharp edge.

The fifth year Slytherins were gathered beneath a warming charm spread on the grass. It was large enough they all held their own space with a short stone bench for the wizards (mainly Draco Malfoy, Vincent Crabbe and Gregory Goyle) to lean against to chat. They talked Quidditch, the players, the gear, the professional leagues, the amateurs, the World Cup they'd all attended the year prior.

Hermione was on the blanket's edge, nearest the bench, but still plenty away from Draco that he could not overlook her shoulder to spy on what she wrote.

A letter was beneath her quill. It was broken pieces of conversation, personal and explanatory as much as she could manage to Viktor. He'd asked about her friends and their year. Her correspondence was monitored. There was no true information she could relay to her friend that would impart any enlightenment. Still, she yearned to confide in him.

The battle for this purist ideology was not regional; the wizarding world was stained with its dark.

She relayed the bits of news that were common enough knowledge: Harry's ban from Quidditch, the article, the low quality of their DADA class. Her palm found strength to write that there were impending changes that she felt still yet to come. He had no idea what that meant. The shudder of her breath as she stared at those handwritten words did alleviate the tension of such anxiety that she did not breathe word to aloud.

There was a split in her seams that she felt grown over the year. The change in the world did not compare to the fragments of her inner self that were transfiguring.

Her eyes drifted over to Draco as he smiled, joked with his friends, so carefree and happy. For once.

He had not been so in a long while. The pompous entitled prat that was so content in his life that he taunted others for being so miserable was not the facade he wore. No longer was he so unmarked by the climate. It'd taken hold of him, too.

Pansy and Millicent lounged out on the blanket. Pansy's long slender legs hanged over Millicent's thighs as her neck craned back to absorb all the sun she could. Her upturned short nose caught the gleam of sunlight.

Blaise Zabini and Theo Nott were there. Each had their legs crossed below.

Dark serious eyes read through a school textbook: charms. His neatly trimmed nails tapped the hardback as he read.

The other wizard twirled his wand above his head. Smokey white circles crafted in the air as he worked. A goofy grin emerged on his face, with the tip of his tongue poked from the corner of his mouth, when the clouds took shape to a Quidditch pitch.

Draco took notice. He perked with interest.

Goyle and Crabbe followed suit, excited.

Theo looked to Blaise at his side with an open mouth when the wizard said through very calm tones with words that were the opposite of calm. He assured Theo that for every bit of smoke that touched him, he'd repay the favor in a very different way.

It caused the wizard to jump to his feet. "Alright then. We'll move."

Blaise's eyes remained focused on the pages at his face. "Mhm. You do that."

Daphne emerged in the courtyard as the other pitch was assembled. The wizards tossed off their long robes to free up their arms. Goyle tossed his just in Daphne's path, narrowly missing her head. She stopped short with an annoyed glance at the numpty.

Her eyes smiled when they met Hermione's. The edge of her skirt swished as she moved toward Hermione's side.

The other two witches gave their soft greetings to the blonde. Neither moved their heads away from their sunbathing, just a gentle 'ello' from their lips.

"Transfiguration essay?" Daphne asked. She settled in on the blanket. Her chin gestured to the parchment just atop Hermione's lap.

"No," she answered. "Just a letter to a friend."

"Oh yeah? From home?"

The witch's eyes grew twice as large when Hermione revealed it was for Viktor Krum. "Krum. Really. I didn't know you'd be -." Her eyes flickered to the blonde wizard very invested in his cloud Quidditch match. "in touch."

The length of Hermione's brown curls was held by a black band around her head. It left her ears exposed to the open air. The tips of the flesh went numb.

Her fingers tapped at them to ignite the sensation once more. "Ah. Well. Yes. We're friends."

"That is very sweet you write," Daphne stated. She wrapped her green and silver scarf around her neck. "You two looked close."

Hermione smiled. Memories of Viktor were very nice ones. He was a kind wizard with a gentle heart, unassuming mind, and thoughtful speaker. It made his presence easy to be around. Not a demand, but a breath of fresh air to be given space and respect without accusation.

Then, at the end of all those memories, was the one she longed to forget: Yule Ball night. Ron had been so jealous and lonely and hurt that he'd taken it out on her. Ruined a beautiful night just to be selfish.

"We were." Hermione hummed. "He's very calm. It was nice to be around someone relaxed for a change."

"You know what I do not understand," Pansy said, full volume, out of nowhere.

Even Blaise lowered his book a millimeter to observe the reclined witch. His dark intense brow drew up in it's center.

It was a moment or so before it became clear that Pansy was continuing on their conversation.

"Why did he bother attending Durmstrang if he already started on the national Quidditch team? He'd gotten that far. What did a full graduation matter?"

The entire group looked at her with confusion. It was the first time she'd spoken to Hermione without being nasty and using 'mudblood' as her title in the course of history, a fact that no one missed.

The witch finally turned her head. Her lazy eyes stared in question.

"Well?" She demanded. "He's got it all now: fame, money. Soon enough he'll have power. It comes with celebrity. What use was Durmstrang to him? Nothing, innit? I do not understand it."

By the way the Slytherins bobbed their heads, accepting or rather – understanding – of the observation, Hermione was concerned. Her eyes scanned through the crowd. "I'd imagine his mother would have a lot to say if he quit something. Let alone school. Notoriety is a fickle concept. If he's not determined to complete his goals to their full extent, then he'll not withstand the changing tides of favor. An education is just another key to hold in his pocket."

Pansy's lips pursed together. Her head turned back upward to the clear blue sky as the words stewed in her mind.

The witch at Hermione's side gave a supportive smile. She did not aid in convincing, but it was a nice gesture to be gracious in another input.

Blaise reclined against one palm as he read his text. He gave no inclination he'd heard a single word.

Hermione did not know what to make of the wizard. He was far too calm for comfort. She sensed a cunning beneath his flesh, faking its exterior to aid its goal, whatever it was.

The conversation they'd had remained unacknowledged by either. He made a point to avoid her completely in most settings where even Pansy had come around.

He spoke of power. Her power.

The banished and outcast will rise again.

A shiver descended her spine to consider what kind of power he believed she had, if he knew what had happened with Draco in the wood or if Professor Snape had spread a secret he demanded she keep hidden. Either way, it set her on edge to be near Blaise.

She turned back to her correspondence. There was a letter to her mother to write – to keep up the charade with Draco. Despite the awkward line of asking for a refill on her birth control pills, she did not mind his look at her inner life. It kept up the pretense that there was full transparency between them.

However, there was a hidden letter being crafted for Remus in her dorm room. It held information she thought would be relevant should it be used in a trial of some kind. At the end of things. She hoped it would be enough to convey Draco's attempts to save her. A heroic effort. Not a Death Eater plot.

These times were precious. When she was still trusted by the Order, and her friends.

The growing suspicion that her credibility would conclude soon was a repeating pretense in her nightmares. It was only a matter of time. Before her association with a wizard known to be in league (if by relation) to dark works ruined whatever respect, trust, and adoration held by her friends, she was set to use it for the best.

If she was to ruin herself for a wizard, there was no chance she'd leave him to chance.

Again, her attention snapped to Draco Malfoy.

Her heart knew him well. It greeted his image with a kind glaze that overlooked his many past discrepancies against her. There was no one who held her with the fullest attention. The sheer intensity of his control shattered all belief that love was gentle and kind.

It may be. Just not for them.

Draco loved hard. She liked to be loved hard. The totality of her person an intoxicating poison for the sane man's mind. It flattered her sensitive self-esteem left trampled by years of ridicule and isolation.

"Have any of your classes gotten fizzled?"

She looked away from her writing. "Once. It almost awoke all the second year mandrakes from their naps. Madame Pomphrey was frazzled."

The Weasley fireworks were an epidemic in the school. They were set off all the time. No one admitted to igniting them. Whether it was the pesky twins that did it, or other students that ordered in droves for the stuff, Hogwarts was overrun with their bursting sizzling sparking interruptions.

The professors refused to do a thing. They simply called Umbridge to handle it.

Any inconvenience to Umbridge was positive, but she hated that it came at the expense of their learning. Her classes were so important. OWLs were soon. They needed all the extra study time they could have.

"What about you?" She sighed wearily.

"I was being tutored in Potions. A couple zipped through the classroom. They almost bumped the cauldrons off their burners. Thought Professor Snape would lose his head, I did. He attempted to redirect them."

Hermione cringed. Fred and George knew how to make their pranks tamper proof. It was awful.

"Oh no," she groaned.

The blonde reflected the look. "It shattered lots of the professor's personal brews. His stash of a few ingredients were lost, too."

Daphne managed to pull out a Divination text that she needed to absorb if she hoped to retain an ounce of her upcoming lesson. She curled herself on the blanket below her robes and stilled to silence as she studied.

There were a few moving bunches of students around the courtyard. The sun had encouraged them out.

Most stayed moving. The cool stone was not as warm as the middle courtyard with lots of grass and warm hues.

A quick clip caught her eye across the way. The reddish blonde curls protruded from a rather small stocking cap. It bulged in the hair's volume, slipping from its place and being adjusted by its wearer.

Marietta Edgecombe.

The awful red pus-filled boils burned across the otherwise pale complexion. In large, bold lettering spelled the word SNEAK.

A smirk settled on her face that she did not try to hide. The bitch deserved it for what she did. She ratted them out, protected herself and led Umbridge right to their meetings.

Harry was convinced by Cho that Marietta's behavior was not malicious, but Hermione did not like the blatant disrespect. If she did not need the skill to defend herself, she could stop attending meetings. Don't jeopardize it for the ones that depended on it.

She was glad it was Marietta. Couldn't have happened to a more deserving person.

"Pet." Draco called.

It roused her from her daydream. She grabbed her satchel, said a quick goodbye to Daph, and bounced up alongside Draco.

Crabbe, Goyle and Theo continued to play their game of Quidditch with smoke rings and promises of distraction. She shook her head. Whatever miracle they lived by to keep their place in school, she hoped it would last them yet another year.

The pace was rather quick. She had to step twice to keep up to his one.

"Hey. Where's the fire?" She finally asked.

Draco glanced over his shoulder. Storm grey eyes then scanned around them.

She dug her gloved hands deeper into her robes.

"You wouldn't happen to know anything about that, would you?"

He tilted his head in a direction behind their backs. She did not bother to look.

With total innocence, she fluttered her eyelashes up at him. "I haven't the foggiest what you're talking about."

She gave a smile as she marched onto the covered footbridge. The span of light around them gave a shimmer to the cold winter's castle.

Her shoulder leaned against an opening. She watched the water below cascade hard.

Draco took the position opposite her in a very close proximity. He leaned forward even further. "I'd recognize that hand anywhere." He stated it as fact. "You cursed that girl."

She shrugged. "I could've. Might've." Her eyes abandoned the scenery to take in a much more appeasing scene before her. Draco with a black fur-lined cap, a sharp wool coat, an ascot tucked around his throat. "There could be many more in this castle who would want to seeing as she's a bleeding sneak."

Draco scoffed. His eyes leapt out to the brilliant lit landscape in front of them. It gave golden light a chance to touch his eyes. It ignited them beautifully, already complimenting his complimented handsome face.

He slid his eye very slowly to her adoration of the sharp edges of his face. A subtle twist came to the small of his mouth.

"Admiring the view there, Granger?"

She smiled. "I like it better on top of me." His brows jumped. The color of his eyes expanded in surprise. "But this is quite nice, too."

The playful bounce of his features bled from sight. His jaw again clenched tight. The corners of his mouth downturned. "You better not have a thing to do with these bloody fireworks, pet. If they are one of Potter's plots to -."

"They aren't," she hissed. The moment could have been lighthearted, lovely, playful like they used to be, before all the mess of the DA convoluted things. "I warned them not to. I wouldn't encourage those two to interrupt classes this close to OWLs. Think of the seventh years. They have to pass exams with all this nonsense."

Her arms wrapped around her chest in a tight squeeze. Why couldn't he just leave things well enough alone?

They remained very many moments in the stilted silence until he decided he could not withstand it.

"What is it? Out with it," he barked. "I can tell you're angry."

She frowned deeper. "Not angry. Just… disappointed."

Draco's teeth gritted with an audible crackling in his mouth. "Disappointed."

"Things used to be so easy with us. Content, even. We enjoyed one another," she rambled before she caught herself in a chastising logical explanation. "Now all we are is raging."

"You do know what pressure we are under," he said swiftly on a tense breath. "I couldn't rest until I protected your image from Umbridge's discovery, could I. You, intent on breaking every rule there is in this bloody castle, unbothered if the world knew it. I not only have to protect myself, but you, too. Seeing as I'm the only one of us who cares if we survive."

Breath sputtered out her lungs. The crisp chill of the morning air surged through the warmth of her lungs, deflating them with their painful touch, until released through her nose.

She swallowed. Thoughts swirled around her head. "You mean -." What exactly? They were in danger. Their heads were on a chopping block, a microscope, scrutiny?

That was nothing new. Her life was one big dangerous romp through wizard Britian.

"I cannot afford to make errors," he spoke through his clenched teeth.

"Neither can I," she retorted.

A group of younger years walked by. They bounced through in loud, conversation with laughter as a taunt to Draco and Hermione's lack of it. Their voices echoed throughout the foot bridge like thunder to their ears.

Draco ushered her in the opposite direction with his arm as a guiding presence away from eavesdroppers. "You are an extension of me. Our destinies are intertwined. And there is the fading hope that Potter will succeed. No one will get out alive, do you understand me? He'll ignite the world if he has to. He does not care." His throat was tense as he spoke. "Potter will fail. The Weasels and all their numerous offspring will fail you. They will hide. They will run underground and leave you to rot. Alone. Do not ask me to trust you to that. Do not."

Her eyes were cautious. She did not want to reveal what she knew of the plans, should things turn.

"It may be safer for us," she said, "if we part."

He shook his head. "Even if I believed that possible, it is far too late for that, pet."

"You cannot ask me to turn my back on my friends, the side of equality, everything I stand for."

"I can and I do," he said.

There was expectation in his eyes as he observed her. His body now blocking her path. The rest of the courtyard was oblivious to the interaction so astounding and serious that it deserved a better backdrop than the bustling courtyard of their school.

She ran her tongue along her lips. The air was stealing their moisture. Soon they'd be cracked and dry. "Draco. You don't know what you're asking me."

"On the contrary, pet. I know exactly what I am asking of you." He shifted so that his shadow blocked all light from her face, their faces hidden further. A hand rose, gripped her hand and held it against himself. "You say you love me."

"I do love you, Draco."

"Then choose me."

Her heart was a franken-mistake of melted and frozen tissue, flattered and scared at once.

"What happens when it all ends, Draco? What then? Could I depend on you when the world is dead and all hope has failed? If we were all that was left, would I be enough for you? What happens when your admiration runs dry, and the appeal of my attachment withers and dies?"

His brow furrowed. "That will not happen."

"It could," she countered.

He could lose all interest in her, destroy whatever humanity that remained after it all.

"A snake does not release its fangs just to slither away. It consumes until the lines of predator and prey blur."

She shook her head. "Draco…"

Her hand tried to revoke from his grasp, but the tension in his fingers kept them locked together.

"You are mine. My own."

"Your parents would sooner curse me than tolerate this," she whimpered. "You know this. You know we cannot be. The world you were born into does not have space for me. And I refuse to exist as a mere trinket for you to use."

"You're not a trinket," he snarled. "You're my pet."

There was nothing more to say. He would hear of no other talk of things they knew or logical solutions to their predicament.

He wanted her and wanted to live.

In part, it seemed he would make peace with whatever fate the world suffered, just to keep her.

Just as Ginny predicted – the twins did not listen to reason once they set their minds to abandoning their educational career. They went out in a blaze of glory that was overly dramatic. It matched the commotion of the fireworks released through the castle. Only, now, it impeded their journeys through a corridor.

Hermione Granger bemoaned the Weasley exit.

Umbridge ordered her pet squad – of whom Draco was a leader for – to capture the pair, but there was nothing to be done.

Fred and George left Hogwarts in their blaze of glory.

To her surprise, there was mention of a shop in Diagon Alley to where their wares tested on the student body of Hogwarts would be sold. For money!

"What a ridiculous waste," she snapped.

Harry rubbed the lens of his glasses on the collar of his robes. "You know them."

"They better not have done something bad to open that shop. Those two could be convinced to do anything if mention of wrongdoing was there. Can you imagine Molly's face?" She held her books tighter to her chest. "Godric, if they met up with Mundungus."

"Actually…" Harry admitted to gifting them the money for the shop.

An equally unsurprising truth to the immature saga of boys in her life.

They were all mad.

Her only refuge now was her dormitory bed with the curtains closed. With all the twisted confusing plots of the year, it was the only safe space to let her thoughts reign without fear of what they would amount to.

Harry had been less irritating. Cho's pleads of her friend Marietta distracted his fury away from Draco Malfoy. There were minimal comments made about him now.

When she fled their common room or lunch table, his eyes seldom narrowed in disgust.

Draco, too, had calmed his insane rage. The DA's crumbling brought a balance back to a routine they recognized. It did not sour her for hours to spend time with him.

Things, still, had not been lovely. Their romance was absent. Each morning she rose to take her pill like a dutiful woman should but was given the bitter reminder that it was wasted effort. Stolen kisses and quick shags were a thing of their past.

It unsettled her to feel as though he'd lost interest. Once her naked body was claimed, he showed little interest in it otherwise.

She swallowed waves of emotion: anger and embarrassment and hurt. Was she not good enough? Was her fanny not tight? Did it not please him like he thought it would? There were boney parts of her body that were not feminine, gorgeous, supple. Her eyes drifted to the absent swell of her chest.

There were twenty ways on quick count that she lacked in areas of beauty that others within the castle did not.

Her fingers fumbled around her school supplies to find a spare sheet of paper and an ink pot.

It took a couple tries but she jotted out a note to ask if she was still attractive to him despite not being a virgin and then tied the note beneath Drogon's collar.

He required no explanation to whom it went. His legs stretched out in front of him, a dip went through his spine as he gave a final yawn before he bounded out of the dormitory.

She pretended to recline back against her pillows and close her eyes. As if it would calm the quaking in her mind.

Her ears strained to listen for Drogon's feet pad against the wooden floor boards on the way to her bed. It took ages until his little tail swished against her toes.

"Why would you ask that?" was hastily written on the note.

You never try to kiss or shag me anymore. It is like once you used me that I was no longer enticing.

She cringed as she reread the words. Her hand held the note just within her palm. "I shouldn't send it, should I? It's so insecure. What am I, a nipper?"

Drogon bit the note. Two teeth sank through the paper as he carried it away before she could call after him.

That bugger. His attitude had only grown in the spoiling of all her friends of the Tower.

His ego now matched that of Draco.

"Spoiled beast," she muttered. "I'm going to seem like such a ninny."

The cat bounded back happily after a while. The edge of a returned note poked from beneath his collar. It taunted her with its possible humiliating tease. She could imagine Draco's sneer of her vulnerability so cleanly displayed for him to pick apart.

You have not declared your love for me in weeks, pet. I am not in the habit of making love if there is animosity.

She rolled her eyes. "How do I know you want to hear my love if you're furious all the time?"

I always want to hear it. From you.

Her breath caught as she read the note over and over. The delicate letters that formed that beautiful statement.

Tingles sourced at her palms surged up to her mouth. Her nerves pulled to a large smile. A giggle pulled from her lips as she read it – yet again – with greed.

Without flashes of memory and guilt and his tempting lips there to spirit her away, Hermione found her hands moving freely across pages of notes. Her fingers ached and burned. Still, she continued to answer every note sent back.

He asked about her childhood, and her family, and what she liked most about being a muggleborn.

Muggles have a very diverting way of life. I miss the options. Wizarding Britian is so limited. Things are the same now as they were fifty years ago. There is not room for growth or improvement. Muggles have been inventive with their lack of abilities.

Being friends with an orphan and the poorest wizarding family in the world would have you believe it. However, wizards have many options in life.

She rolled her eyes and hastily wrote back, The choice of what to have for afternoon tea is not the diversity I meant.

I prefer a good traybake myself.

A lazy smile spread across her face. She shook her head. I'm partial to a smoked trout tartlet or sausage rolls if the day is right.

They fell into a game of twenty questions with each revealing intimate aspects about their preferences. He preferred classical music. Its lack of lyrics helped him focus better whilst studying or drawing (a hobby she did not know he had). She enjoyed classical music, but opera was included within that grouping. The lovely pitch and tone of their voices were as beautiful as a melody. A worthy addition for a study session.

They spoke of favorite foods, best memories, the strangest thing they ever encountered, rules in their households during childhood. He devoured books as a tyke, same as she. Sadly, there were no favorites that overlapped. His father only permitted magical stories within the manor.

Does your father pick out your clothes for you too? She joked.

Draco did not see the humor. Until I was old enough to choose it my father picked every aspect of my life. It is tradition. A father leads his children in the way the legacy delegates. An heir's obligation is to their family. I must do as my father says.

I'd be daft to believe your father said to carry on with me that way you do.

Yes, well…I am not always the best listener. Draco knew how to write in a way that felt kin to the way he spoke. His words pierced through her mind just in the way she knew he'd say it. Half cocked, a little ashamed but still too proud to bow his head.

She smiled as she stared at all their little scraps of paper notes. Her hands folded the pieces together and tucked it safe within her trunk alongside her pills.

A small memento for when things turned.

Hermione Granger learned a novels worth of information that she could not have gained in a decade as his pet. Despite the hour, she was fueled. More. She had to know more.

Her hands wrote as many questions as she could think of.

Later in the night, hours after she should have curled beneath her blankets to settle for a night's rest, Drogon's attitude plummeted. Note carrying had lost its appeal. He curled into a ball with all intention of falling asleep when her voice lured his eyes open with a request.

He snapped his long tail over his eyes. His blue eyes closed.

She poked a finger at his side. "Oi. Got all day to nap, you."

The slender tail twitched and swatted her finger away.

"Please," she said softly. "Bring this down to the dungeons."

It took the note with a dragged-out yowl.

Hermione slipped into her pastel pink jim-jams with Drogon gone. It helped distract her from the excitement of Draco's reply. A pair of fuzzy white socks slipped over her freezing toes. She murmured a spell over them in the hopes it would revive the rigid digits.

She tossed her voluminous curls in an unceremonious ponytail piled high, possibly lopsided, and framed with little wiry curls.

The only thing that remained untouched day in and day out was the necklace. It stayed clasped at her neck. Her fingers caressed the cool metal to ensure it was still there. A reminder of Draco, of what she'd done, that the nightmarish dream was not trapped inside her mind, but in her life.

If she lost it all, if he was wretched from her by dark forces she could not withstand, she'd always keep the necklace just to remember the murky greying of ethical lines when it happened. The darkening of her light, and the lifting of his darkness. How she questioned what it meant to be truly dark.

Harry and Ron thought it meant being a violent aggressive person. If they hurt people, they were bad.

That was too naïve. Too simple.

She knew she'd hurt people to save the ones she cared about. Hell, she put Rita Skeeter in a jar for being a little sneak. Ruining their names in the papers just to make a name for herself.

Draco exposed a line that Hermione long suspected but never observed in full attention: She'd kill to protect her friends, her family, him. She'd break all the standards she held herself to without a thought if one of them fell into danger.

And if she ever saw Voldemort, her wand would not hesitate to curse him. Any dark spell she could muster, she'd find a way to damage him. Diminish him to nothing but ash. Reduce a man whom committed atrocities too despicable to fathom just to free Draco from the fear that kept him so afraid, so on edge, poised for attack every moment his eyes were open.

A daydream of destroying Voldemort was near completion when the dormitory door creaked open once more.

She filled with giddy glee. Her head poked out of the curtain to urge Drogon faster, but she was instead met with the vision of two slinking silhouettes close to the ground. They were backlit with the faded orange of coals.

Khaleesi jumped onto the bed first. She did not hesitate to rush against Hermione's back and rub her sides down her length, while Drogon took his time to assess the edge and jump at his leisure. By the time the curtain fell around them, Khaleesi was stretched in a long furry spot on the comforter. Her brown hairs blew through the air.

The cat buried her face into the bedspread, snuggled close, purred in constant song, and meowed at Drogon. Hermione couldn't help but fawn over the cuteness of the large fluffy creature in her bed. She toyed with Khaleesi's claws. They patted after her fingers, jumping up to swat at the dancing digits beneath the blankets.

Hermione giggled. "Oh, aren't you the sweetest?" She cooed. Her nose wrinkled as she lowered it close to the cat's face. "Draco just spoils you rotten, doesn't he? Little dove."

A short hiss erupted from Drogon's little body. His tail twitched angrily as he took his place at the foot of the bed.

"Drogon," she chided playfully. "You are still my sweetie."

The cat did not turn back around. The little bumpy length of his spine showed to the pair of them.

"He's a little sensitive," she explained to Khaleesi.

Khaleesi delivered the response from Draco. Hermione's lap filled with a ball of brown, white and tan fur as she read.

Did you ever have romantic feelings for Krum?

She sighed through her lips in a deflated balloon kind of sound. Tell the truth and wreck his confidence? Lie and feed his ego, but be later caught in it? What to do…

The tip of her quill lightly brushed the surface with its dark stain, as if that would soften the blow.

At one time, yes. She wrote. He treated me like a desirable witch. So fascinated and never bored by me. It was appealing. But we never behaved more than platonic friends.

There was a strong prayer that left her lips as she dispatched the response with Khaleesi.

Is that the reason he always writes? Was there an unspoken agreement to hobnob to keep the option open?

She wrote back that it was a ridiculous suggestion. If he thought she'd ever entertain the idea, he was ridiculous instead.

It was a passionately written – rather sloppy in penmanship – note.

Draco's reply was equally passionate, though he remembered his manners; his scrawl was perfection. I never disliked the wizard until Yule Ball. That night, I hated his guts more than any. Even Saint Potter.

Why? Because he was in the Tri-Wizard tournament? It was a farce. Unbelievable the Ministry ever approved such a heinous competition in a school. She released a shaky breath when the memory of the Tri-Wizard tournament flooded her senses. The dragons. The merpeople, the lake that she was sunk to the bottom of. That terrible night that changed the world. Cedric Diggory being killed and Viktor being violated in an intimate way that he'd never forget. The trauma of that tournament would never free them from its terror. It left everyone involved traumatized by the experience. You shouldn't hate him. Pity him. He could have killed someone under that spell.

She dragged her knees to her chest. The throb of her pulse hit the tops of her thighs.

Godric. Voldemort was everywhere, in everything.

That moment Cedric's body hit the ground with Harry clung on for dear life – that sound. It sent bile to the back of her teeth. Even in the memory, it brought tears to her eyes.

What if it was Draco? The thought intruded before she caught its darkness. The way its emotion cursed her thoughts to quiver in forced illusion: fallen blonde hair, all stained and dirty, a paling face stained with deep purple bruises, a pair of wide grey eyes trapped in a frozen stare, the beauty of the wizard she once knew, pummeled.

The cursed sound of a lifeless body as it slammed to solid ground. Bones cracked. Teeth chattered together. The unnatural sound of death in its emergence.

Her mind replayed the scene of the tournament with Draco's face in place of Cedric's and she was overcome with grief. Her hands covered her mouth. The trembling of fingertips against her face turned sticky warm as tears fell from her swelled eyes.

Draco Malfoy. Dead.

She ran the back of her hands against her cheeks to dry.

No. Not Draco. Not him. Never, him.

Khaleesi swayed her way to Hermione's side. She nuzzled into the wetness of her sleeves. A plume of brown hairs clung to the fabric.

Hermione's hands trembled as she grasped the note, remembering that they were not discussing war or Voldemort or their deaths. They were being silly teenagers. They danced around their emotional truths with omissions that were still clear enough that either understood.

The note in her hand chased away those awful fears. It tore away her sadness, replaced with joy. His swirled brilliant letters formed beauty fitting a poem that she could recite for the rest of her life.

It read: I did not hate him because he was a champion. I hated him because he'd gotten the most beautiful witch as his date. A witch that I could never have. And she was so breathtaking that night that I forgot who she was. And I wanted her. But he got her. I hate him for it.