Saving You

I Can't Stay Away

:::I Can't Stay Away:::

An unspoken understanding passed between them after their brief encounter on the balcony, one that told each of them to keep their distance. As a result, Hermione didn't see much of Draco in the coming weeks. She spent as much time as possible outside of their dormitory so that she wouldn't have to face him—hoping that separation would lessen the pain that wasn't numbing, wasn't fading away.

It only succeeded in making it worse. Every time she did see him was like a smack across the face, a knife in the heart—stabbing quick, lasting long. She couldn't bear passing him in the corridors or seeing him from a distance, knowing that he was going on with his life. She wondered if he missed her, if he even noticed her, remembered her. He seemed to be moving forward without a backward glance.

Was it because he didn't care? Or did he ache as much as she did? She supposed she would never know.

Every night, she dreaded going to sleep. She would stare at her bed with weary eyes, exhaustion overwhelming her. But how could she rest when he wasn't there? How could she sleep without him next to her, holding her close, making her safe? His masculine scent still haunted her sheets, bringing tears to her eyes every time she pulled them over her body. No matter how tired she felt or how long she closed her eyes, she couldn't slip completely into unconsciousness. How could she, when she was more than conscious of the empty space beside her in the bed?

Harry and Ron's worry had intensified with her lack or animation. Her appetite was decreasing; she was talking less and less—smiling almost never. And all of it was happening in painfully slow increments—painful because no matter how slow the changes were, the boys seemed as helpless as ever to stop them. History was beginning to repeat itself, and they didn't know what to do, didn't know how to make it better.

"Have you seen the Daily Prophet?" Ginny asked early on Saturday morning.

Solemn heads bobbed in silent confirmation.

Virgil Haley, veteran Auror and long-glorified leader in the search for Lord Voldemort, had gone missing like so many of his dark-battling brethren. It was big news, so much bigger than the stories in the newspapers that they'd been poring over these past weeks. But it was hard for either Harry or Ron to care very much about it. The war looming over their heads seemed like nothing but a rainstorm in the back of their minds compared to the silent battle they were currently waging with Hermione.

"You were right. There's no doubt about it now," Ginny went on, looking from her brother, to Harry, to Hermione. "You-Know-Who is behind it all. It's just gone on too long and been too much to be coincidence."

Harry sighed, his eyes on Hermione. "You haven't eaten anything, Mione," he told her quietly. She had lost some weight, he realized with frightened eyes. Five pounds, maybe six—a small amount to some. But on a girl Hermione's size—and with her history—it was absolutely terrifying. "You haven't even touched your food. And you barely ate anything last night at dinner." Hermione's brown eyes were glazed over. She was looking at her plate as if it were some distant place; Harry wasn't sure she really saw it. "Hermione?" he pressed.

"I'm not hungry," she told him automatically, the words a whisper, soft and robotic.

"Eat anyway," Ron commanded, his voice rough and threatening, as if warning her that he'd force it down her throat if he had to. Anything to prevent the past from becoming the present…

Hermione shook her head. "I'll only be sick afterward," she informed him sadly.

"We should take you to the infirmary, then," he argued gently. "I'm sure Pomfrey will know how to make it better."

Hermione only shook her head again. This wasn't something Madam Pomfrey could fix with her healing potions and her alleviating spells. This sickness ran deeper than upset stomachs and broken bones.

"Really, Mione, just a few bites. You look white as a ghost." It was Ginny's tender voice speaking now, Harry realized. Had things gotten so bad that even she was on their side?

Hermione shook her head one final time and pushed the tray away. "I'm sorry," she told them without emotion. "I can't. Not right now." And then she was standing and walking away.

"Hermione!" Ron called after her, but she didn't turn back.

Harry's wary gaze watched as she disappeared behind the door, before turning to the Slytherin table. He hadn't failed to notice that she'd been spending next to no time in her own dormitory. And though she tried to hide it, he could see the pain in her eyes every time Malfoy was nearby.

Had he insulted her? Rejected her? Grown tired of her, bored of her, as he always did with his women?

Something was telling Harry that the reason was far more convoluted than that. Because while Hermione had obviously been doing her best to stay away, it appeared that the Slytherin Prince was attempting the opposite. Wherever Hermione was, he always seemed be, always somewhere on the outskirts or in the background, hidden in shadow, almost completely out of sight. Was it just a coincidence? Or was he watching Hermione?

"Maybe you should take Mione to Hogsmeade," Ginny suggested to the boys, pushing her scrambled eggs around on her plate. "The fresh air might do her some good."

"She won't want to go," Ron informed his sister, his voice and eyes looking hopeless.

Ginny rolled her eyes. "Then drag her there, Ronald," she insisted. "You've never had a problem with imposing your will on her before."

Harry and Ron smiled humorlessly at that. They exchanged shrugs. "We haven't been there in a while," Ron reasoned quietly.

No, they hadn't, not in ages. The stressors of school, the disheartening newspaper articles, the visions, and Hermione's ruined recovery had kept them too busy to spend lavish weekend trips to the village. They hadn't had time to spare. They still didn't, really. But Hermione needed some time away from all the chaos, and so did they. An afternoon outing would be good for them all. Harry and Ron could take her out for a nice lunch; they could pet the animals at the pet shop, buy her some new books the way they always used to back in the old days. Maybe it would help her to forget her troubles for a while. Merlin knew Harry needed to forget his.

"We'll talk to her," Harry said evasively. His gaze flashed over to Malfoy, whose face he couldn't see. "She needs a break from this place."

He didn't add that he did, as well.

The Slytherin table was virtually empty, leaving only Draco, Blaise Zabini, and a few nameless fledglings that were scattered along the benches.

Zabini's dark eyes watched him from his place across the table. "Have you read the newspaper?" he asked mildly, bringing his glass to his lips.

Draco stared at his food. "No," he answered tonelessly. "But think I have an idea of what it says." Virgil Haley's disappearance was this morning's breaking news—but, of course, the story had been broken to the Heir in his most recent covert meetings, long before it had been sent to the presses.

Blaise nodded. "It's a wakeup call. The Ministry will really be on its guard now, I'd imagine."

"I'd imagine," Draco echoed sardonically.

Silence followed. Though Draco's back was faced to the Gryffindor table, he could feel Hermione there. He could sense her, her energy, her aura—could feel it emanating around her, reaching out until it brushed his back with the subtle warmth of a dying flame.

He longed to look over his shoulder, but kept his neck firm.

"Do you have anything arranged for this afternoon? Blaise asked, looking at his fingernails with practiced superiority. "Planned anything fun?" Draco didn't answer, causing the darker boy to lift his scrutinizing gaze. "Or are you going to play puppy dog again today?"

Draco's eyes flashed. "I don't know what you mean."

"Come off it, Malfoy. You can pretend for everyone else, but don't think I don't know." Blaise shook his head and took another sip from his cup. "I see the way you've been following her around. You haven't exactly been all that subtle."

Draco's gaze narrowed, but he said nothing.

Blaise sighed. "She isn't looking so good these days, is she?" he asked casually after a long, silent moment. His dark eyes looked beyond Draco to the Gryffindor table. "Getting skinny again. And quiet."

The words had Draco's teeth grinding together. It was true. And it was killing him that all he could do was watch from afar as the warmth in her eyes slowly dimmed and her subtle curves straightened out inch by inch.

"You must have really twisted her into knots," Blaise observed almost sadly, watching the Gryffindor clan across the room. "She's totally spent."

The words had darkness tightening around Draco's heart like an iron fist, and he couldn't stop himself from glancing over his shoulder any longer. His eyes followed her, haunted, as she stood from her seat, as she refused to stop when Weasley called after her. He watched her back until she disappeared from the room before turning his eyes back to the table she'd left behind. His jaw clenched with anger and worry when he saw the food still piled untouched on her plate.

"Potter and Weasley are getting nervous. They'll bring her to Hogsmeade, I think," Blaise predicted with near-certainty. "Get her out for a while."

Draco turned back to his food. Again, he said nothing.

Blaise's eyes were colored with dark amusement as he watched his friend. "Which means we'll be taking our own trip there, I assume?"

Draco looked to the ceiling, shook his head. "I should take a step back," he answered finally, almost to himself. "I've been too obvious. It isn't safe."

Blaise's eyes turned to him, looking mild, knowing Draco wouldn't—couldn't—fight his obsession. "We'll be taking our own trip there—won't we?" he repeated dryly.

Draco dragged a heavy hand through his hair. And then, defeated, he nodded once. If Hermione was going, then so was he. The mark on his arm could keep them apart, but it would have to allow for that much.

Hermione sat on the sofa in her common room, staring into the ashen hearth across the way. She was feeling tired, like all the energy had somehow been drained from within her, leaving nothing but an empty body, bare and blank and incomplete. She had thought that things would get easier over the weeks, but it seemed like that would never be the case. She was slowly numbing out again, but pricks of pain penetrated through the armor every time she saw him, every time she heard his voice echo down the corridor. His presence was palpable, so familiar, so strong that she could feel it even when he was rooms away.

It had been hard ignoring him. Every time she saw the flash of silver eyes, it was hard to turn away. There were moments when she was sitting with her friends, or walking down the hallways, or working in class, where she could have sworn she felt those intense eyes on her, watching her—but when she turned around to find them, they were never there.

He was never there.

Was it so easy for him to ignore her, then? Was it so easy for him to move on? It pained her—but also relieved her—to think so. Maybe the whole thing had been a dream. Maybe those short months with him had never happened. As she looked down at her hands, thinning and white, it seemed possible.

Hermione's head snapped up when she heard the Domek portrait shut with a click. "Oh. It's you," she said, heaving a sigh of relief when her two best friends made their way into the room.

"It's us," Harry agreed.

"What's up?" Hermione asked quietly, trying to give them a smile.

"We're going to Hogsmeade," Ron informed her. She could tell he was trying to hide the concern from his eyes. He'd always been so easy to read. He was the kind of man who wore his every emotion on his sleeve.

"That should be fun," Hermione told them. "Have a good time."

Harry smiled. "Oh, no, Hermione," he said with a shake of his head. "We're going to Hogsmeade—as in the three of us," he stated matter-of-factly.

Hermione's soft smile slowly thinned. "I... I'm not feeling very well, Harry," she tried to tell him. "I'd only be a bother—"

"No you wouldn't. You'd be you. We'll have a great time."

Hermione sighed. "I have homework," she tried again.

"Do it later," Ron insisted. "Come on, Mione. We haven't been out since the first month of school."

Hermione looked down, thinking. Draco probably wouldn't be there, she knew, which meant she could spend a whole day free of the anxiety. She wouldn't have to worry if she'd see him, or hear his voice. Her careful brown eyes could let their guard down for a few hours. And maybe that would reduce the burning pain of regret to a dull ache. Maybe she could reach something close to relaxation… at least for a little while.

"So what do you say?" Ron asked, his arms crossed. "Will you come willingly—or will we have to tie you up and drag you?"

Hermione nodded, a little reluctantly. "Just let me get my coat and mittens," she relented with a sigh.

A smiling look passed between the two boys as they watched her disappear under the archway and through the lion painting beyond. Both had thought it would be harder to convince her. Maybe this was a step in the right direction. Maybe today would finally be the beginning of something better.

The three headed out twenty minutes later, walking side by side—Hermione in the middle, guarded by her two friends. They moved through the freshly fallen snow, visiting all their old haunts: the Three Broomsticks for a taste of butterbeer; Zonko's for a quick laugh; Honeydukes for a bite of toffee; and Murmy's Pet Shop to pet the bunny rabbits and teach the parrots naughty words.

"You know, Mione, I've been thinking," Harry said matter-of-factly as they made their way out of Murmy's.

Hermione couldn't help the half-smile that quirked her lips. "That's always where the trouble starts," she quietly replied. It was her best effort at lightheartedness, but it just barely fell short.

"She's got you there, mate!" Ron laughed, grateful for the attempt.

Harry gave them both a mock scowl. "Well don't you want to know what I've been thinking?" he asked, his arms crossing.

"Not really," Ron interjected, and Hermione smiled. Really smiled. That smile had both Harry and Ron's hearts soaring. Bless Ginny for thinking of coming here, Harry thought.

"I was talking to Hermione, not you," he scoffed. He looked at Hermione. "I was thinking that I haven't seen you reading anything new in a while."

Hermione shrugged a tired shoulder. "The library has the same old stuff. And I haven't gotten around to buying anything." Really, she'd been spending her sleepless nights studying Hoffman's Journal, hoping to find something encouraging, searching in vain.

Harry smiled, stopping her in front of the Billyworth's Bookstore. "Well it's time you got around to it," he told her warmly. "My treat."

The two boys shared brief looks of satisfaction as the smile spread deeper across her face. "Really?" she asked, tugging on his sleeve. "A new book?"

"Two new books," Ron corrected, winking. "Can't let Harry look like the better friend, now can I?"

Hermione was hugging him in an instant, then moving into Harry's arms. These men truly loved her. These men would never hurt her, never leave her. And though she knew two new books weren't enough to fix her or change her, she was grateful that her two friends cared enough to try.

"Thank you," she said meaningfully, appreciative for so much more than the gifts.

Harry and Ron seemed to understand the deeper meaning. "Of course," Harry replied softly. "Now come on. Let's go in."

"Yeah, the sooner we're in, the sooner we're out," Ron added with a laugh. Knowing Hermione, it would be a lifetime before they could finally drag her out of the store again.

Hermione smiled softly, pulling away from Harry's arms. And then her smile was disappearing. Her brows furrowed suddenly, and she turned, her honey eyes searching the people in the distance. She could feel them again—those intense silver eyes that she had fallen in love with. They were on her, watching her—she was sure of it this time. But as she scanned her surroundings she found that, like all the times before, it was just in her head. Just wishful thinking, because Draco wasn't there.

She turned back to her friends and pasted on a smile, trying to regain some semblance of composure. "Sorry," she said. "Let's go."

Harry smiled and nodded as she stepped into the store. But his lips fell back down once the door closed behind her, his eyes narrowing at something in the distance.

Ron raised a brow. "Are we going in?" he asked his friend with a frown, but the emerald-eyed boy wasn't listening. Ron followed his gaze, squinted, but didn't see anything. "What is it?" he asked, looking dubious.

Harry shook his head. "Nothing," he said deadly. "You go on. I'll be there in a minute."

Ron wanted to argue, sensing a storm brewing, but Hermione knocked on the window just then, waving them inside.

"Alright," Ron said, looking doubtfully at Harry. "See you in a minute."

Harry nodded. "Yeah, see you."

He was walking across the road as soon as the door closed. Brisk steps brought him to a narrow alley between the buildings across the way. A dark form was retreating further into the shadows, moving fast but trying to seem nonchalant.

The bastard thought he could make a quick escape. Not happening.

"Malfoy!' Harry called loudly.

The figure stopped, sagging with annoyance before whipping around. "Potter," he greeted with a mockingly accommodating smile. "Is there something I can do for you?"

Harry stepped forward. A storm of protectiveness was raging inside of him. He wanted answers—and he wanted them now. "Yeah," he said back edgily. He crossed his arms. "You can tell me why you've been following Hermione."

Draco's smile immediately darkened. "Who says I'm following her?" His grey eyes were cold, his words like ice.

"I do," Harry bit off impatiently. "Don't play dumb, Malfoy. I've seen you."

The other man didn't respond, but his gaze pierced into his enemy's, the threat there evident in the way the silver flashed.

It only fueled the fire building inside of Harry. "I don't know what's going on between you and her—but whatever it is had better end."

Draco smiled bitterly at the irony. It had ended. And the reminder of that fact had him sneering. "I'll do what I please," he snapped superiorly. "Besides, who are you to threaten me? Last time I checked, I am the reason your little friend is even alive." He raised an expectant brow. "Or maybe you'd forgotten."

Draco certainly hadn't.

"I remember," Harry spat. "But you can consider your work done. She doesn't need you anymore—so you can just stay the hell away."

"I'm afraid that isn't an option. We do live together," he reminded the other man with sugar-sweet spite. "Anyway, this is a free world, Potter. I come and go wherever and whenever I please."

"No you don't, not if it's around her," Harry threw back, his jaw clenched. He took another step forward when the other man only raised a rebellious brow. "I know you've been watching her. Tell me—what is it you see?" He raised a challenging brow. "Does she seem happy to you? Healthy?" It was Draco's turn to tense. "She doesn't, does she?" Harry demanded. Emerald eyes burned into silver. "And something is telling me that you're the reason for that, too."

Draco's jaw clenched. It was true. All of it was true. "You're way off base," he answered tightly.

"I don't think so," the other boy said. There was a heated pause. "I know you've touched her."

Draco felt his hands ball into fists. "Did she tell you that?" he asked through his teeth.

"She didn't have to," was the biting response. Harry shook his head. "If you think for one minute that I'll let you do to her what you do to the other chits, you're dead wrong. I will unleash hell on you, Malfoy. I will put you down like the dog that you are."

Draco didn't respond with threats. He only watched the other man with a placid, unaffected smile.

Harry let out a sound of disgust at the sight of that snide smirk. "Just keep away from her, Malfoy," he advised, his voice threatening murder. "You stay out of our way and we'll stay out of yours."

Draco watched as Harry whipped around and stormed away. He waited until he sure he was alone to let the smile slip away and the haunting thoughts to return.

Pansy stood at the entrance of the Three Broomsticks, watching Harry and Draco's distant figures through slitted eyes.

The two were deep in the shadows across the way, almost blending into the dark. But the sight would have stuck out like a sore thumb to Pansy, even in the black of night. She couldn't hear the words they were exchanging, but she could feel the intensity. The air around them was thick with barley-controlled fury.

What were Harry Potter and Draco Malfoy fighting over this time? Pansy's simmering eyes briefly flickered over at the bookstore and then back again. There was only one thing she could of—and that thing was Hermione Granger.

She felt her hands clench into fists, felt her long French-manicured fingernails dig into her palms.

A rolling stone was supposed to gather no moss. But here Draco was, gathering something far worse—gathering filth, collecting dirt, letting himself get stuck in the mud.

And there lied in her real problem. He was stuck—not rolling, not moving on to the next one as usual. He was willingly letting himself get caught up in Hermione Granger—something he'd never done with any other woman before. The notorious debaucher she knew didn't feel for the women he shagged. They were merely dolls he played with, there only for his amusement—there only until he tired of them and tossed them aside.

But he felt for Granger. She was more than the passing fancy the other sluts were.

Pansy had always told herself that Draco Malfoy didn't return her feelings because he couldn't. She had told herself that he was incapable of that kind of true emotion. But it was becoming painstakingly evident that the cold-hearted prince could fall in love. He just… couldn't fall in love with her.

She felt more than saw someone step up beside her. "Didn't your parents teach you that it's not polite to stare?" asked a mild a voice. It was Blaise, of course. He was always in the background somewhere, watching from the sidelines.

"No, actually," Pansy replied, not taking her eyes off of Draco. "They taught me to always stare, to see everything."

Blaise smiled at that. "A lesson I know you've taken to heart." It was what he'd been taught as well, though he'd learned to be less overt about it. Scrutiny led to discovery, and discovery led to knowledge—and knowledge meant always having the advantage. "So…" He tilted his head. "What have you observed?"

Pansy's lip curled, and she found that for the first time in her life, she was unable to speak. She swallowed, finding her voice. "Her," was all she said, all she needed to say.

Blaise shrugged, playing it off—wondering how much longer he would be able to do so before the others found out the truth. Before they realized that it was more than sex for Malfoy, that Granger was more than a passion, or even an addiction. Before they realized that this betrayal was rooted in the heart.

"She's not the first," he reminded Pansy. "I highly doubt she'll be the last." His dark eyes scanned over her. "This isn't new. I would have thought you'd be used to it by now."

Pansy crossed her arms, her eyes burning holes into Draco's distant form. "I've never been insulted before now," she spat. "To betray me with her—a mudblood. Potter's mudblood." She shook her head, the words leaving a bitter taste in her mouth. "It is… base."

"The best sex always is," Blaise said with crude smile.

Pansy's angry eyes flashed his way before settling back on the two men in the shadows. They watched as the conversation suddenly cut off and Potter turned on his heel, walking back across the street and into Billyworth's shop. Draco stayed a moment longer, his silver eyes looking ragged, before fading into the shadows and out of sight.

Pansy looked down. "The Dark Mark was supposed to fix this," she said, almost to herself. "He was supposed to finally start following orders." He was supposed to be mine now.

Blaise knew what she really meant. "I told you he wouldn't change," he reminded her. "So did he." He shrugged helplessly when she sent him a loathing glare. "You know his nature, Pansy," he told her. "He's never given you illusions or false promises. You're the one who keeps trying to make something out of nothing. You expect too much."

"It's too much to expect that he be faithful to his wife?"

"You're not his wife yet," he reminded her dryly. "Even if you were, it wouldn't matter. Not even Hera, Queen of the Gods, could keep Zeus from shagging other chits." He sighed, his eyes turning wary as Hermione Granger emerged from the bookstore. "Even mortal ones," he said quietly, his dark gaze watching the girl.

"Is that supposed to make me feel better?" Pansy snapped.

"No," Blaise answered bluntly. He paused, his head tilting, his dark eyes turning quizzical. "Pansy… you belong to him," he told her, "and not the other way around. You do know that, don't you?"

Pansy was silent. She watched with narrowed eyes as Hermione and her two little guard dogs headed their way, passing them by with wary glances. She didn't speak again until the three were little specks at the end of the road.

"Why does he want her?" she asked, her voice harsh, but her eyes vulnerable and confused.

Blaise wasn't sure. He forced himself to smile. "Because she's off limits," he told her simply. "And there's nothing Draco Malfoy loves more than doing what he shouldn't." He looked from the Gryffindors' disappearing forms to the Slytherin Princess at his side. "You'll just have to become reaccustomed to it," he said after a while.

"Reaccustomed to what?"

Blaise watched her frankly. "Looking the other way."

Pansy's eyes narrowed into slits, but it didn't scare the darker boy. He held his hands up helplessly and slowly backed away, once again leaving her by herself.

She watched him go, glad to be rid of him. He was wrong this time. Draco did belong to her—and soon the world would know.

Hermione Granger would know. Pansy would make sure of it.

Hermione sat in the common room during her free period on Monday, holding one of the hardback books that her friends had bought for her the previous day.

Amulet was the newest hit novel by bestselling author Alyssa Garrett, and, from what she could gather from the inside of the dust jacket, it was the kind of tale that promised an easy escape. "An everyday man's life is turned upside-down by an eccentric and beautiful witch named Soraya, who stuns him with the news that he's actually a wizard, and that the pendent he received in his grandmother's will years before is actually a volatile talisman that has the power to warp time. Together, they team up to prevent a dark sorcerer—Soraya's estranged father—from obtaining the amulet and using it for his evil purposes. And, of course, true love blossoms along the way…"

Reviews on the title page were full of accolades and praise. "Garrett delivers another thrilling ride, full of exciting twists and lovable characters," read one. "An action-packed adventure with a mixture of suspense and romance that will warm your heart," raved another. "You'll gasp, you'll sigh. You'll laugh, you'll cry—and you'll be praying for a sequel!" It seemed like just the kind of book Hermione needed to take her mind off of her troubles. Predictable surprises, formulaic fun… a guaranteed happy ending…

She tapped her fingers against the bright cover, knowing that this story was the one she should delve into. But her brown eyes were wary. Reluctantly, they moved to the other purchase she'd made, a thicker, darker-covered book that rested on the coffee table a few feet away.

Snake Charmer: The Life and Work of Salazar Slytherin was written in fancy letters across the front, a silver snake wound around the words. Hermione didn't know what had possessed her to buy it. Harry and Ron had looked less than pleased with her choice, but had wisely decided to keep their mouths shut.

She looked at it now, debating, her fingers going around the metallic snake at her throat. Reaching out, she picked the book up, letting it take the novel's place on her lap. But just as she moved to open the thing, a throat cleared, breaking the silence. Her head snapped up…

And found Pansy Parkinson.

Hermione watched the beautiful girl warily. "How did you get in here?" she asked when she found her voice.

Pansy smiled her feline smile. "Silly girl," she chastised condescendingly. "Did you really think Draco wouldn't have told me the password?" Hermione looked down, causing the other girl's smile to grow. She looked nonchalantly around the room. "Is he around, by chance?"

Hermione stood, holding the book protectively against her chest. "No," she answered quietly.

Pansy's gaze stopped its roaming and landed on her. "Perfect. Because I actually came to spend some quality time with you." Hermione stayed still as a statue as the Slytherin girl strode forward. "Don't think I haven't seen what's going on," she jeered with a menacing smile. "The pathetic way you've attached yourself to him, drooling over him like some kind of animal."

Hermione felt her shoulders sag. "I don't know what you're talking about," she replied wearily.

Pansy stepped even closer, the movement drenched in threat. "Deny it if you want," she replied. "I don't need to hear you say it to know its true. I've spent the past seven years learning all the signs." Her eyes intensified, but her smile stayed crisply in place. "You didn't honestly believe you were the first bitch to trespass on my territory, did you?" she asked, her low voice filled with mocking pity. "I hate to break it to you, darling, but a hundred girls have passed this way. But that's all it ever is and ever will be—passing." Her voice had the hiss and slither of a snake, and the threat of venom sounded behind the calm. "If you think you have any real hold on Draco, you are sadly mistaken. At the end of the day, it's me he needs, me he's dedicated to." She shook her head. "Girls come and girls go. But I'm the one that stays. I'm the one he always comes back to."

Hermione held the thick book tighter against her breasts. She knew it was true; she saw it every day in school, at lunch, in the corridors between classes. "This isn't necessary…" she tried to say.

"Oh, on the contrary. I think that this is very necessary," Pansy assured her harshly. "You don't want to cross me, mudblood. You have no idea what I'm capable of—but I swear to you, you'll find out." She tilted her head, one sculpted brow raising as, again, Hermione looked away. "You don't believe me?"

Hermione didn't look back. "I believe you," she whispered.

Pansy crossed her arms haughtily. "Good," she commended coolly. "Then I won't be forced to prove it to you—the way I was with some of Draco's other whores. A few of them had to learn the hard way," she explained regretfully. "Like Greta Berg. She was trying to insert herself where she didn't belong—and she left me no choice but to intervene." Pansy shook her head, her dark hair swaying against her shoulders, her lips lifting into that bland and edgy smile. "She's still recovering from that suspicious bout of mercury poisoning," she informed Hermione. "And I'm sorry to say that she's not the only one. Amelia Gleeson still vomits on a daily basis. Hester Rosenthal's pretty face will be scarred forever by those bizarre lesions that inexplicably appeared." She raised one skeptical brow. "Do you need more examples? I happen to have a trove of them."

Hermione's dark gaze was weary as she slowly shook her head. "I believe you, Pansy," she said again.

"What I did to them is nothing to what I have the power to do," Pansy assured her nemesis, blue gaze narrowed. "I have tricks up my sleeve that I've been saving for someone truly deserving." There was a pause; slowly, she took one last step closer. "I'm giving you the courtesy of a warning, Granger," she said quietly. "Trust me when I say you don't want to make me regret it." Another pause. Pansy's eyes intensified, thinning into slits. "Do we understand each other?" she asked dangerously.

Hermione watched the beautiful woman with tired eyes. "Yes." The whispered word wasn't afraid. It was sad, accepting. She had always known how it really was, had always known that it was Pansy Draco belonged with—Pansy he belonged to.

The Slytherin Princess smiled with cold satisfaction. "Excellent," she said with sweet derision. She reached out, dared to pat Hermione's slender shoulder. "I'm glad we had this little chat, Granger."

Hermione watched as the other girl backed away, leaving the way she'd entered—with her nose in the air and a superior smile on her lips. She watched as the door behind the portrait closed, watched until silence and stillness had fallen again…

Her brown eyes were solemn, and the pounding of her heart was lethargic, methodic, like the slow and solemn beat of a drum. The truth was that she didn't understand. Couldn't they see? Didn't they realize she had already said goodbye?

The other girl's icy words replayed in her head…

Someone truly deserving… I'm giving you the courtesy of a warning…

Her brows furrowed. Pansy had always turned the other cheek to Draco's little liaisons—but she had always gotten her little revenges easily in the end. She had dealt with the other girls swiftly: with curses, with hexes, with poisons and potions; she'd always done it stealthily, without a word of warning, so that they didn't see it coming, so that they never knew what hit them.

So what exactly made this time different? What made it special? Out of all the women, why would Pansy confront her? Why would she come here to assert her dominance… if not because she perceived Hermione as a threat?

Could it be that the Slytherin Princess thought that she was different from the girls in the past? That maybe she did have a hold on him? Could it be that Draco was having as much trouble letting go as she was? Could it be that he did care, that it was hard for him, too?

The idea didn't soothe her. It only broke her heart more. It would have been better—easier—not to know. Because if she believed he had moved on, maybe she could have, too. But now there was question, doubt, making her long to run to him and beg him to come back and try to work everything out.

But she couldn't do that. And neither could he.

Hermione slowly lowered herself back to her seat and opened the heavy book in her hands. In the deafening silence, she began to read.

Brandon Madison kept to his word. He did not—would not—forget Hermione's offer of a rain check. Over the next few days, he had found every excuse to sit with her, grabbed at any reason to talk to her. He had all but inserted himself into her life—and into her crew, seemingly turning the Golden Trio into a quartet.

Hermione was always polite, always patient—but it was clear to the two men who knew her best that she wasn't interested. Concerned, they watched as she silently allowed the man into their group—passionless, emotionless—never leading him on, but never turning him away.

If Madison had had the power to raise her spirits, they would have embraced him with open arms. But they could see the way her lightless eyes warily watched him. She was going through the motions. And it only unsettled them more.

"What's the matter, Mione?" Ron asked her at the end of the week. He had found her sitting at her favorite table in the library, just staring off into space with an unhappy look. That damn Slytherin book was closed and sitting on the table's surface in front of her, and his mind was already jumping to the conclusion that reading it had upset her. He pulled out the chair beside her and sat, subtly pushing the dark book away from her. "Mione?" he asked again.

Hermione was still staring straight ahead. "It's Brandon. He asked me to be his…" She swallowed down an acidy taste. "Girlfriend," she finished quietly.

Ron's eyebrows shot up. "Really?" She nodded numbly. "Well, I can't say that I'm surprised. He's been pretty obvious about how he feels." When she said nothing, he watched her with cautious eyes. "I'm not exactly sorry to see him go, though," he went on carefully. "He's a good bloke, but he doesn't exactly gel."

Hermione looked to the side. "He isn't goinganywhere," she informed him dully.

Ron's eyebrows dropped low. "What do you mean?" he asked. "He still wants to hang around, even though you said no?"

Hermione looked at her hands. "He still wants to hang around because I didn't say no." When Ron just looked at her, she sighed. "I said yes, Ron," she supplied tiredly.

His bright blue eyes widened. "What!" he asked, incredulous. The entire library looked their way.

"Shhh!" Madam Pince commanded with a disapproving glare.

The people around them were still staring, interested. Ron rolled his eyes. "What are you looking at?" he asked in a loud, heated whisper. "There's nothing to see here. Go back about your business." Everyone reluctantly turned their eyes back to their homework and books.

Ron looked back to his friend. "You said yes?" he repeated, whining in a whisper. "But, Mione, you don't even like the bloke."

"Of course I do," she whispered back, looking down at the table. "He's nice."

"Yeah. Really nice. Bordering on condescending nice." Ron shook his head when she made no defense or reply. Sighing, he took Hermione's hand in his. It wasn't warm the way it used to be, but cool and lifeless. "You might think I'm slow, Mione, but I know you. I know when you're not happy," he told her seriously.

"I'm fine," Hermione said, trying to smile.

"No, you're not," he shot back quietly. "You may be able to fool everyone else, Mione, but don't think you can fool me. You've been like my sister for seven years." Hermione sighed when Ron tightened his grip around her fingers. "I'll put up with Brandon if it's what you really want," he told her. "But Hermione—" He paused, waiting for her to meet his eyes. "I don't think it is."

The words were dead on. It had been a long time since she'd truly talked with Ron. She'd almost forgotten how deep and perceptive he was when he wanted to be.

She felt the brotherly love emanating from him, and it warmed her heart—if only barely.

"I said yes," she repeated dully, and he nodded.

"Okay," he answered, and with a smile added, "I guess I should go warn Harry about the new addition to the family. He's going to be just ecstatic!" The words were sarcastic but lighthearted, and Hermione smiled. "I'll see you later, right?"

"Yeah." Hermione was grateful he hadn't pushed too hard. The truth was still so close to the surface that it probably wouldn't have taken much digging to unearth. The wound was only barely scabbed over—she was sure even the lightest of scratches could rip it open and make it bleed. And the last thing she wanted was for her friends to find out about her misguided love for Draco, her inability to let it go. She didn't want them to know that Brandon Madison was only a distraction, a vehicle to help her escape the feelings she couldn't quite shake…

She didn't want them to know that she was running into Brandon's arms to forget they way she'd felt in Draco's.

It appeared that her friends had picked up on her lack of conviction where the Ravenclaw boy was concerned anyway. But she was determined to keep forcing herself. She was determined to keep pretending. She couldn't look back—only forward. Forward and away from Draco Malfoy.

Hermione watched as Ron disappeared before gathering her own belongings. She headed for her dormitory, walking slowly, silently, lost in her own thoughts—completely unaware of the man that followed in the shadows behind.

She dropped her bag in the common room before whispering her password to the lion king and entering her bedchamber. She sat on her bed, tired for no other reason than that she was emotionally drained. The days seemed to be getting longer and longer, making them harder and harder to bear. She was learning now that time didn't heal all things. The emptiness inside of her was only spreading wider as the hours passed.

Lightly, she fingered the cool diamond at her throat. How could she wear it now? How could she ever move on with his chain around her neck, binding her to him, enslaving her forever? How could she ever be free with his snake at her breast, a symbol of his suffocating grip around her heart?

That heart was aching now as she reached around her neck and unhooked the clasp, freeing the chain from its desperate embrace. Slowly, she drew the necklace away, and her throat felt suddenly naked and unprotected. She held the thing carefully in one hand, staring at the diamond and the snake with dry and burning eyes.

"You told me you were only friends." Draco's voice was emotionless as it echoed in the silent room. "You told me that was all you'd ever be."

Hermione looked up. He was standing just inside the lion portrait, his back straight, his body tense. He hadn't spoken to her in weeks, and hearing his voice directed at her had pain stabbing into her heart. Seeing him there, so close, had her breath stopping in her chest. It prevented her from speaking, and her only answer was the weak shake of her head.

"Put it back," he commanded, his voice low. She didn't move, didn't even blink. "Damn it, Hermione, put the necklace back where it belongs."

Hermione looked back down at the jewel. She couldn't. No matter how bad she wanted to, she couldn't let herself be his.

She stood from the bed, cautiously walked to him. Hesitantly, she took his hand and gently pushed the necklace into it. Her broken eyes looked into his. "There," she whispered sadly, withdrawing her hand before it could burn. "It's back where it belongs."

Draco's teeth gritted dangerously and his eyes heated with fury. "This was a gift," he said, grabbing her hand, trying to force the jewel back into it.

"I'm giving it back," she replied quietly, pulling away.

Draco felt a rush of fear. Wasn't this his final hold on her? If she gave back the necklace, didn't it make the end real? He had thought she would keep it... and as long as she did, as long as she wore it, she would secretly belong to him.

Tears pressed at the back of Hermione's eyes. "You should go," she said, trying to stay composed. "Things are easier when we keep our distance."

Draco's eyes flashed. "Easier for whom?" he demanded.

She only shook her head. She didn't know the answer. She wasn't sure there even was one.

Draco's angry eyes looked away. "Fine. Whatever you say," he spat. His hand clenched painfully around the sparkling diamond. Unwanted hurt pooled inside of him. It was for the best. Wasn't it? Wasn't it?

His jaw clenching, he turned to leave. And then he paused. He breathed once, twice, waiting as if about to say something else, waiting for her to say something, waiting for her to stop him. But he said nothing, and neither did she, so teeth gritting together, head shaking, he continued on without a word.

Hermione watched him go with saddened eyes. Only after the door slammed shut behind him did she let her silent tears fall.

Draco stormed down the short corridor, pacing to one end, then whipping around and pacing to the other. The portraits of Randolph Delphi and Lady Barbara shared concerned glances, and the latter fiddled worriedly with one round-barreled ringlet that dangled from her powered wig. "Dear boy, don't stomp so," she tried to intervene, but he didn't pause, didn't even hear her worried words. The familiar diamond was heavy in his hand, heavier than it had ever been before, as if somehow it had absorbed the weight of the situation—matching the heaviness of his heart, which was pumping wildly, even as it was sinking within his chest like stone.

When the laps up and down the hallway had failed to calm the mad surge of racing blood, he turned into his own room, saying the password through gritted teeth, throwing the portrait open when it moved too slow. He crossed the threshold and slammed the door behind him—and then, just as violently, he stopped short.

"My lord."

Lord Voldemort's dark, daunting form sat regally on the edge of his bed, haloed in sunlight, his black-clad arms crossed, his black hood down, revealing a pale skeleton face and a thin snake-like smile.

"Hello Draco. Having a bad day?"

Draco had been all heat and momentum a moment ago. But the unexpected sight before him had him instantly still, instantly cool and cautious. He slowly turned, fully facing the man, expertly masking the hurt and the fury of minutes before, making himself as hard as granite.

"You were… already entertaining, I take it," the Dark Lord said, tongue-in-cheek. Draco's brows furrowed. "The bauble," Voldemort supplied, nodding to his clenched fist. "It gave you away."

Draco's fingers tightened around the diamond, it's sparkling edges digging into his palm. "I didn't know you were planning to drop by," he said carefully. "I would have made sure to clear my schedule if I had." Slowly, he moved to put the thing into his pocket, away from the Dark Lord's skeptical gaze.

But it was too late—the Master's curiosity was already piqued.

"Come, come, don't put it away," he scolded mildly. "I haven't had a proper look." He held out an expectant hand, his palm stiff and exactly parallel to the ceiling, waiting like a strict professor's to confiscate whatever his student was trying to conceal.

Draco forced himself to smile blandly. He came forward and, holding the precious jewel by its thick silver chain, let the necklace trickle down until it was a pool in Voldemort's waiting hand. He stepped back, watching as the Dark Lord raised it closer to his eyes for inspection. It gleamed from within his grasp, sparkling with the fire of late afternoon sun.

"You have excellent taste," the older man decided after a while. "Very extravagant. It obviously cost you a fortune." His mild black gaze peered up, surveying the younger man. "Didn't she like it?" he asked after a moment.

Draco's silver gaze sharpened. "Who?" he asked guardedly.

The Dark Lord's head tilted to the side. "Whomever you were planning to give it to."

Relief was like a river, but Draco iced it over before it could show. "I guess not," he answered coolly.

The Dark Lord's gaze returned to the jewel. "It's beautiful," he observed. "Far too beautiful for any common whore to deserve." He sent him a sardonic smile. "She must be one of your favorites." He turned his black eyes back to consider the diamond that sparkled in his palm. "Strange, though, for a woman to turn away something of this size and clarity," he said after a while. He laughed knowingly under his breath. "It must be the snake that she objects to."

The irony left Draco bitter. "Must be," he agreed with a humorless smile.

The Dark Lord's own mouth curved easily. "Oh well," he sighed dismissively, holding out the necklace for the younger man to take. "I suppose you can always pawn it off on Miss Parkinson. A woman in her position would never reject a gift like this one. And I'm sure she would appreciate everything about it."

"Everything except that it wasn't meant for her," Draco returned dryly. He accepted the diamond and pocketed it immediately, secretly relieved to have it out of the Dark Lord's grasp. "Pansy isn't the kind of girl to accept secondhand goods."

"She'll take what she can get when it comes to you," Voldemort somehow knew. His smile widened when Draco averted his dull gaze. "She's become quite the beautiful young lady," he went on casually. "Refined on the outside—artful underneath. The two of you are evenly matched." He nodded approvingly. "When are the nuptials to be?"

Draco's jaw clenched. "Nothing has been decided," he answered patiently.

The words—and the dead tone in which they were given—had the Dark Lord's head tilting amusedly to one side. "The date has not been decided or the marriage altogether?" he asked. The dark silence that followed drew the white corners of his mouth up. "Well," he laughed quietly, "you certainly do live up to your reputation."

Draco raised one blond brow. "And what reputation is that?"

"Why, the infamous, elusive Draco Malfoy, of course—untamable rogue and libertine." Voldemort's smile lengthened when the younger man's arched brows furrowed. "Don't look so surprised, Draco. You are quite the living legend."

Draco's smile was grim. "Don't believe everything you hear," he said blandly. "Legends have the tendency to be exaggerated."

"But a frightening few happen to be true…" The Dark Lord's eyes and smile were simmering. "I should know," he said quietly. "I am one of them, after all."

A silent moment passed, bright black eyes staring laughingly into dull grey ones. And then the intensity eased again, the dark amusement becoming light and casual once more.

"That necklace in your pocket is all the proof I need," he informed his Heir. "It tells me the tales aren't so far off."

Draco crossed his arms. "Tales?"

Voldemort clucked his tongue. "Come now, Draco, surely you've heard your own stories."

"I don't know that I have," the younger man answered quietly. "Please—do tell."

The skeleton man let out a breezy rasp of a laugh. "They say you're a drifter," he informed his Heir, his smooth, low voice coming out through a crack of a smile. "They say you're a renegade and a rake. They say you're dangerous, like a storm; that you have all the apathy of a tornado, rolling in and out at will, breezing through places and people without a care in the world for the damage you leave in your wake." He tilted his pale head. "Well…?"

Draco was still. "You're right," he said patiently. "They aren't so far off."

The Dark Lord folded his long, white fingers together in his lap. They looked even paler against the black velvet of his robe. "They also say you're a master debaucher," he went on dryly. "That you deflower one innocent rose after next, sucking their nectar until they're dry and then casting them aside." He considered his Heir with amused, assessing eyes. "What makes it all the more intriguing is that you have a beautiful blossom already in your possession."

Draco's silver eyes were dour as they met the Dark Lord's smiling ones. "Maybe I'm not partial to pansies," he said.

The pun had Voldemort's smile growing in delight. "I had no idea you were so particular, Draco," he replied, tongue-in-cheek. "I was given to understand you appreciate all different kinds and quantities of flowers."

"I have no problem picking flowers," Draco informed him blandly. "It's planting them that's less appealing."

"Yes, once they're rooted in the ground you can't throw them away," the Dark Lord returned knowingly. "You have to keep them."

Draco's only answer was the imposing sound of his knuckles cracking as he pushed them into his fist with his other hand. Though the action came more out of habit than threat, it had the Dark Lord's pointed chin rising amusedly.

"Lucius and Upton are keen on a wedding," he went on after a moment. "They've been good to me over the years, Draco. Especially your father," he added pointedly. "If it's in my power to give them their way, I will." He watched Draco openly, his black gaze frank and entertained; laughed under his breath at the dead look on his Heir's face. "What is this persistent aversion to marriage?" he inquired amusedly. "It doesn't appear to me to be all that bad."

Draco shed his school robe, busied himself with hanging it up. "I don't like making promises I can't keep," he answered casually, forcing himself to appear nonchalant enough to present the Dark Lord with his back. "That's why I tend not to make any promises at all." He rolled the sleeves of his charcoal sweater up. "I can't vow to love Pansy for better or for worse." He looked over his shoulder. "I can't love her."

The Dark Lord's smile was smooth and suddenly intense. "Believe me, you're the better for it," he assured him quietly. "Love is the most crippling kind of magic there is. It makes a strong man weak. It turns a wise man into a fool." He shook his head. "It makes him soft. Vulnerable—It makes him do things he wouldn't ordinarily do and take chances he wouldn't ordinarily take." His gaze narrowed, his beady eyes shining like black pools in the moonlight. "That's what makes it so dangerous," he told his Heir seriously. "It's a virus. It's a curse."

"It's a hassle," Draco corrected, turning to face the Master with one brow raised. "And, as I'm sure the stories say, I prefer life without strings or burdens."

Voldemort shook his pale head slowly, the amusement quieting, becoming solemn. "I've been alive for a very long time, Draco," he informed him. "And I've learned that every man is bound in one way or another—some by the expectations that other people have for them." He smiled self-condemningly. "Others by the expectations they have for themselves." A moment passed, ending in a silent sigh. "There isn't a living person on this earth who is truly free."

Draco crossed his arms. "Not even the almighty Dark Lord?" he asked mildly.

"Especially not I," Voldemort replied. His dark eyes flashed, the wistful look heating, burning away like fire through ice. "And that's all I've ever wanted in the end, really," he said with a sizzling smile. "That's all my little crusade has ever been about." He shook his head. "A man with infinite power and eternal life has no limits. He is boundless, fetterless, fearless..." His lips curved slightly. "Free." His folded fingers seemed to tense, tightening like chain links as they gripped one another. "That's why immortality is so attractive, isn't it?" he asked reminiscently. "It releases a man—from pain. From harm. From that most binding of burdens, time." The words—the mere thoughts—had his wistful smile turning wolfish. "That is why I have to have it," he rasped.

Draco's brows lowered, and a line appeared between them. "So why name an Heir?" he asked skeptically after a while. "Why need one if you'll never die?"

The Dark Lord chuckled under his breath, the sound as smooth as the wind against a black night sky. "The years have worn me down, Draco," he confessed with a halfhearted smile. "After so many thwarted and failed attempts, I'm beginning to accept that I may never be immortal." He held his hands up. "Not in a physical, literal capacity, at least. So, you see, it's purely a matter of self-preservation," he said matter-of-factly. "I want eternal life. I want your children's children's children to be afraid to say my name." The pointed corners of his mouth lifted predatorily. "You are the bridge between me and them," he explained with a smile. "As long as I have an Heir, a piece of me remains." He considered the younger man with satisfied eyes. "You are going to make sure that I live forever, Draco…" His smirk slowly grew. "Among other things."

Among other things… Draco hated the way the ominous words rolled right off the other man's tongue and into the silence, so vague and still so full of meaning. They hung in the air, thick like a fog, powerful like a poison, one that seeped beyond his skin and into his soul. He didn't know what exactly Voldemort had in store, but he could feel the weight of it on his shoulders, could feel the darkness of it shrouding him like a shadow. He was heavy, weighed down by all the future orders he would have to obey, all the obligations he would have to fulfill…

And all the people he would have to hurt in the process.

He swallowed.

There's always more, isn't there…. Why is it we don't have a choice…

"Why did you come here?" he asked cautiously after a while. "Was there… something you needed to discuss?"

The Dark Lord rose from his place at the edge of the bed and began to glide superiorly around the room. "I just wanted to drop by and make sure everything was alright," he said nonchalantly. "I sent you a note," he added pointedly. "I was beginning to worry when I didn't receive a reply."

Draco was still. His grey eyes were guarded as they watched him examine the room. "I wrote," he explained. "But the school owls don't know how to find you."

The Dark Lord sent him a wry glance over his shoulder. "Yes, well, I am very skilled at playing hide-and-seek." He turned back to slide one pale fingertip over the smooth wood of the open fall front desk. "Even if I wasn't, those old barn owls hardly know east from west," he said dismissively. "I'm sure your own bird would have done a far better job."

"I don't have my own bird," Draco told him. "Not anymore."

Voldemort looked up at that. "Anymore?" he mused dryly. "Did you misplace him?"

Draco looked to the side. "You could say that," he said with a shrug. "I lost him in a game of écarté."

"Of course you did," Voldemort replied with a mild smile. He shook his head fondly. "Draco, Draco, Draco," he sighed. "You really should learn not to gamble with such treasured possessions. There's always a chance the man beside you is playing a better game."

There was a twinkle in the Dark Lord's black eyes that gave the lighthearted words an eerie tone, and Draco wondered briefly if they were the veiled warning they seemed to be.

"My gambling days are behind me," he assured his master, standing straight, still, and completely reserved.

"Oh, I hope not," Voldemort returned, his black eyes shining. "What would be the fun in that?"

Silence fell, the two watching one another—one man's gaze grey and guarded, the other's black and bright and somehow knowing. Long seconds passed before the Dark Lord spoke again, putting an end to the deafening quiet.

"In any case, we need to be able to communicate," he said with a grin. "Until you win back your bird, I would be more than happy to lend you mine…"

He snapped his fingers, the sharp sound echoing in the silence, and at once, the dark creature appeared, floating up from somewhere out of sight and onto its master's waiting arm. The raven was everything myths and superstitions made the species out to be—mysterious and majestic, with smooth black feathers and piercing pale eyes.

"I call her Nerezza. She always knows where to find me." Voldemort affectionately stroked her long midnight plumes before extending his arm, guiding her to Draco, watching with warm eyes as she settled on his forearm.

The raven was heavy, and Draco could feel its claws digging into his flesh, puncturing, breaking his skin. But he didn't grimace, didn't so much as flinch. He was like stone, strong, hard, and invulnerable; like a shadow, vague and removed from pain.

One long, soundless moment passed, dark eyes smiling into unreadable marble ones. Again, it was the Dark Lord who broke the silence—this time with a resounding clap of his hands. "Now, as much as I'd love to stay, I really should be going. The walls in this place have eyes and ears—and they all report back to my old professor." His black eyes narrowed, sparkling and sinister. "I wouldn't want dear old Dumbledore finding me out." His pale mouth curved. "Not yet, anyway." After a moment, he turned those bright eyes from Draco and gazed fondly around at the room. "It looks just the same, you know," he said nostalgically. "Right down to the tiniest cross-stitch on the duvet." One knobby fingertip ran slowly over the bedspread. He looked back to Draco, his wistful smile turning sly. "Of course, your year as Head Boy is shaping up to be ten times as eventful as mine ever could have been…"

Draco said nothing. He didn't need to be reminded.

"I'll be seeing you at the manor for our weekly meeting, won't I?" the Dark Lord asked him. "Same time as usual?"

He nodded once. "Of course."

"Of course," Voldemort echoed with a smirk. He looked Draco over one final time before stepping to the glass door, his robe sweeping the carpet behind him. "Be sure to send my regards to your whore," he said over his shoulder, his voice dripping with wry amusement.

Draco smiled disinterestedly. "Which one?" he asked.

Voldemort's gaze flickered. "Which one, indeed." His black eyes fell briefly to the expensive lump in the younger man's pocket before flashing back up to smile into his eyes. "Have a pleasant evening, Draco," he said with cool satisfaction.

And then suddenly he was gone, leaving Draco and his new bird alone.

Both Harry and Ron were skeptical as they watched Hermione's thin hand cling limply to Brandon Madison's the following day. They could see how unnatural the meshing of fingers was, how uncomfortable it made Hermione, but she begged them with her eyes not to say anything, stopping them before they could so much as give Brandon a passive-aggressive glance. They forced themselves to bite their tongues, exchanging the narrowed looks they longed to send their new clan member's way.

"Why are you encouraging him, Mione?" Harry asked once Brandon was gone and they were walking alone together to class.

Hermione sighed. "We're together, Harry," was all she would say. She winced at her own words, as if saying them out loud hurt her.

"Yeah, whatever that means," Harry scoffed.

What did it mean? She had discovered that very morning that she couldn't bear Brandon's touch. How had it come to this? She had liked him once, had enjoyed his company. The thought of being more than friends with the Ravenclaw heartthrob had once been so appealing.

He was the same person he had always been. It was her that had changed. She just wasn't sure if it was for the better or for the worse…

The gaping hole in her heart was telling her it might be the latter.

Harry and Ron had yet another detention with Snape after lessons, so Brandon took it upon himself to escort Hermione to her dormitory. He took hold of her hand as soon as he found her, smiling, guiding her firmly to his side as if it were the most natural thing in the world. Hermione let him lead her through the crowded corridors, not saying a word as he began to talk about this and that.

They hadn't even made it a quarter of the way when a collection of girls intercepted them, blocking the current of students and keeping the new couple from passing by. Their leader was at the front, her dark blue eyes scanning up and down, her painted lips smiling condescendingly as she considered their joined hands.

"Pansy," Brandon greeted unenthusiastically, drawing himself and Hermione to a halt before her.

"Brandon," she returned sweetly. She glanced at Hermione. "Granger," she forced herself to add.

Hermione said nothing, only averted her gaze.

Pansy looked back at the Ravenclaw Seeker with a pleasant smile. "So I see the rumors are true," she said with false excitement. "You've finally made your little relationship official."

Brandon pasted on a patient grin. "That we have."

Pansy smiled primly. "Well isn't that quaint." She looked the couple over. "My felicitations." The words were stained with thinly veiled insincerity.

"Your sarcasm slays me," Brandon told her, his voice dead.

"Don't be silly—there is no sarcasm," the Slytherin Princess assured him. "I'm genuinely happy for Granger, here. She did a smart thing, snagging a catch like you." Her piercing gaze snapped to Hermione's. "A very smart thing." She let a meaningful moment go by before turning her eyes back to Brandon. "Unfortunately, I can't say the same for you, dear," she went on sympathetically. "You've given yourself the short end of the stick, getting involved with someone like her."

"Well you would know," Brandon returned gravely. "Being Malfoy's main squeeze makes you an expert on the subject." He saw fire ignite, but wasn't afraid. "Where is he by the way?" he asked with false interest. "Off with one of his other chits?"

Pansy skillfully kept her easy smile in place. "He would have loved to be here, but he's just swamped with Head Boy duties," she told him, disguising the hit with her signature pout. "Oh, I know how dearly you wanted the position, but you really should be grateful they didn't end up choosing you in the end. All that responsibility is such a bother. And far more time-consuming than being a Prefect."

Brandon's jaw worked at the words. "And yet Hermione has had no problem fitting me into her busy Head Girl schedule," he replied. He shrugged one shoulder. "I guess I've been made a priority," he taunted with a smile.

Pansy's eyes narrowed at the insinuation that she hadn't. "Well, it's been fun catching up, Brandon," she snapped, her chin raising, "but isn't it time you and your new pet were on your way."

"So it is," Brandon answered complacently. He waited for the gang of girls to part before guiding Hermione through. "Give my regards to your boyfriend," he threw out over his shoulder. A pause. "On second thought, I'll probably see him before you will. I'll just give them to him myself."

The jab was meant for the Slytherin Goddess—but the words 'your boyfriend' secretly hurt Hermione, too. They were a reminder that no matter how much distance was between Draco and Pansy, there was an even wider chasm between Draco and herself.

She let herself be led around the corner, and then, again, to be drawn to a halt. "I'm sorry about that," Brandon said soothingly. She could feel his tender hand running over her hair. "They're animals," he told her. "They go straight for the jugular."

"It's alright," she assured him quietly, taking his hand from her head and holding it lightly in hers. The feel of his fingers in her hair—so like Draco's, but so unlike them—was almost more than she could bear.

"No, it's not alright," he insisted. "It's despicable the way they traipse around like they're better than everyone else." He shook his head, the incident rousing his gentleman-like sensibilities. "They are despicable—the Parkinsons, the Malfoys, and their whole despicable lot."

"Their whole lot?" Hermione asked with a tired smile. "I thought the Madisons were a part of that crowd."

Brandon shrugged indifferently. "We are but we aren't." Hermione sent him a quizzical smile, and he laughed under his breath. Tightening his hand around hers he began to slowly walk again. "The name Madison may mean something now, but it didn't always, you know. My family's history doesn't go back nearly as far as theirs," he explained. "We were nobodies until a few generations ago—pure-blooded, but poor, plain bumpkin laborers whose only glimpses of affluence were from the fields we worked on grand country estates."

Hermione let him swing their linked hands back and forth as they walked. She listened silently, dutifully—trying not to let her mind wander off or dwell on Draco, as it so often longed to do.

"And then one day my grandfather struck gold. Literally," he told her. "He stumbled upon it while carving a sitting-alcove into one of the hillsides near his cottage—a nook for his new wife, my grandmother, to read in during the summer." Brandon shrugged his shoulder. "He made some good investments and turned the earnings from that mine into a fortune. And soon enough, he had almost as much money as the aristocrats whose land he and his father had been working all their lives."

They rounded a corner. Side by side, hand in hand, they began to climb the main staircase.

"So the Parkinsons and their ilk grudgingly accepted us into their little circle," Brandon continued. "With money like ours, they didn't have a choice." He looked to the side. "But they're disdainful of what they call the 'nouveau riche'. And we're disdainful of anyone who thinks that fortunes and bloodlines somehow magically make you superior." He suddenly drew her to a halt right there on the steps, meaningfully meeting her soft and tired gaze. "So, you see, we aren't all like the Malfoys," he told her seriously. He glanced down the staircase, into the shadows, then back into her clear brown eyes. "I'm nothing like the supposed Slytherin Prince."

Hermione longed to smile, to reassure, but couldn't. "I know that," was all she could quietly—and honestly—say.

Brandon's mouth tilted up warmly. He obviously believed that he had come out the victor in the comparison, and Hermione wasn't about to tell him otherwise.

She wasn't about to tell him the truth…

Brandon turned, beginning to step up the stairs once again, guiding Hermione alongside. "So what about your family?" he asked conversationally. She stayed silent. "Your parents," he urged. "What did you say they do for a living?"

Hermione didn't know how he could hold her hand when it felt as heavy as lead. "They're in the dental industry," she answered dutifully after a moment. He sent her a puzzled look. "They… fix people's teeth," she simplified further.

His eyebrows went up. "Oh. Grand," he declared. "I imagine that's hard work… you know, without magic."

Hermione shrugged one shoulder weakly. "You'd be surprised what people can do without a wand," she replied. "We don't need spells to repair things, really." Her smile was faint and haunted. "Any more than we do to break them…"

Those mysterious words, said in that vague and veiled tone, had him looking curiously to the side. "You don't think there are certain advantages to having the kind of power we do?"

Hermione shrugged that same slender shoulder. "There are all different kinds of power, Brandon," she told him, a little sadly. "The things that are truly broken can't even be fixed by magic."

Brandon frowned. Her dark brown eyes had that faraway look, the one that had intrigued him when they were Prefects, the one that had drawn him to her. But he was realizing now that it was really what kept him away. She was somewhere else when she had that look. Somewhere he wanted to be but wasn't sure how to get to.

So he'd decided the only way to get to her was to ground her—to bring her back from that mysterious place she went, that place where he couldn't follow.

He tightened his hold around her hand and put on his charming smile. "So…" he began, determined to be lighthearted, "is there much money in the—what did you call it?" He paused. "The dental industry?"

Hermione nodded mutedly. "You can make a good living," she said. "My mum is more on the corporate, manufacturing side of things." Her gaze flickered to the floor, dark and absent. "And my father is a partner in his own private practice."

Brandon nodded. "I'd love to meet them."

Hermione swallowed. "They're away a lot," she told him, though it was only half true.

"When they're around, then," the Ravenclaw said back smoothly. "And you can meet my family," he added. "I'm absolutely sure they'll love you."

Hermione was relieved to see Domek in the distance, his long mane blowing off to one side in the invisible wind—relieved she had a way of sidestepping a reply. She said the password and edged awkwardly toward the portrait, trying not to show how eagerly she wanted to run inside. "Well, thank you for walking me up," she said, backing away with a pasted on smile. "I'll… see you tomorrow."

"Not so fast," Brandon commanded, playfully pulling her back. Before she could say anything, he had her in his arms, with his lips planted against hers before she knew what was happening.

Hermione's mind flashed with visions of Draco, of him kissing her softly, holding her close. She kept her body very still—though every fiber in her being was screaming for her to wrench herself away. Brandon's lips and tongue were warm, but the heat that spread to hers was tepid and uncomfortable, so unlike the burning ice of Draco's. It was strangely soft, not like the firm, jailing kisses she and Draco had shared.

The differences were so keen that it had discomfort churning in her stomach. She was ultra-aware that it wasn't Draco. She was kissing someone else, someone who wasn't—who couldn't be—anything like him.

Hermione had to hold the grimace off her face as he pulled away. She nodded, unable to say goodbye or even to speak, and entered her dormitory with her head down.

Brandon watched the portrait slowly close, a satisfied smile crossing his face…

And then he turned, folding his arms victoriously across his chest. "Enjoy the show, Malfoy?" he asked, his eyes narrowing on the shadows where another man lurked.

Draco stepped into the light, his face and body tense, his eyes holding all the barely-contained fury he felt inside. "Do you have a death wish?" he asked the other man darkly.

Brandon laughed, and Draco's hand tightened around his wand; it took all of his self-control not to point it straight ahead and kill the whelp right where he stood.

"No, actually," the Ravenclaw boy said back. "Are you threatening to kill me? What, over Hermione?" Draco didn't speak, and Brandon shook his head, his eyes throwing daggers. "Shouldn't it be the other way around?" he asked pointedly. "Shouldn't I be the possessive one? She is mine now, after all."

"Shut your mouth," Draco said through his teeth. His hand was strangling his wand, holding so tightly that he could feel splinters cut his palm.

Brandon smiled, unthreatened by the infamous volatility; there was an edge to the lifting of lips, the weeks of building resentment making it forced and sarcastic. "We've been good competitors these past couple of months," he dared to go on edgily. "But don't you think things have gone far enough?" There was a pause. "You got the Snitch. I got the girl." He shrugged a taunting shoulder. "Why don't we just call it even?"

Draco restrained his violent instincts—but only barely. "Be very careful what you say to me, Madison," he warned the other man dangerously. "I'll make it so that you never play another game of quidditch or kiss another woman again."

Brandon only shook his head in disgust. "I know you're used to having whatever girl you want—even if the poor thing is already spoken for." He took one powerful step forward, the movement stating he wasn't intimidated. "But I'm not like the other blokes who turn a blind eye while you shag their chits on the side," he informed him harshly. "I won't stand by and let you take what belongs to me." His arms crossed his broad chest, strong and resolute. "So I'd watch my step if I were you, mate," he advised.

And that was it. The possessive words had flames of fury singeing through the last straining strand of patience, unleashing the violence that was always so carefully contained. Suddenly the back of Draco's fist was flying, his knuckles colliding hard with the other man's left temple.

"I'd watch my back if I were you," he growled. "Mate."

The Ravenclaw Seeker staggered backwards until his back hit the wall. Dizzy and disoriented, he held the side of his head.

Draco's wand was pointed meaningfully an inch away from Brandon's forehead, and he had to use every ounce of restraint he possessed to keep himself from whispering the torturous words. Instead, he bit out the password and stormed through the portrait, leaving the ponce behind before he lost any more of his careful control.

Hermione was sitting on the sofa just inside, staring into the fireplace, though no fire was burning. Her head snapped around, startled by the slam of the portrait. She met Draco's eyes, could instantly see the rage there. Fury was simmering in sparks all around him, hot and dark and dangerous.

She knew right away that he had seen everything.

The silence ate away at her. After a few long, intense moments, she stood, breaking their gazes and hurrying towards her bedchamber.

"Running away?"

The harsh words made her pause. She turned. "Yes," she answered softly. If she didn't run, she knew the emptiness would kill her.

Draco came closer with slow, deliberate steps. He reached out, but she backed away from him, trying to protect herself from the ache in her heart, the one that worsened every time he came near… that forbidden ache that spread through her body every time he touched her.

Draco's silver eyes slitted at the rejection. "Is my touch so disgusting to you?" he demanded bitterly. "Am I such a monster?" His suspended hand fisted. "Or do you prefer him now?" he spat, drawing it back.

"Draco…" Hermione tried to speak, to explain, but didn't know how. She only shook her head.

For a very brief moment, Draco considered backing away. But the hurt and fury was mixing like a poison, driving him forward, making him dangerous. He had to know she still felt for him. He had to be sure it hadn't all been a dream.

Purposefully, he stepped closer once more, and this time she stayed still, jailed by his gaze.

Hermione knew she should move, knew she should run away. But she wanted his touch, wanted his arms around her. She wanted it more than she wanted to go on breathing.

His hands took hold of her shoulders, gripping her, slowly pulling her body flush against him. Their breathing, slowly, arduously rolling in and out, was the only sound against the silence.

"You said you'd keep your distance," Hermione whispered, trying and failing to keep her senses.

"I know," he answered, unable to keep himself from leaning into her. His breath brushed her ear. "But I can't stay away."

The words filled her, hurt her—wiped away the last of her resolve. She moaned as his lips traveled down her jaw.

"I saw him kiss you," he said raggedly against her skin. "I could have killed him for it." She heard the possession in his voice, felt it melt her heart and weaken her bones. "You hated it, though," he whispered harshly. "You wished it was me."

Hermione's breathing was tumbling rapidly in and out. His lips were a whisper away from hers, and she couldn't think of anything at all except that she needed him to kiss her. His words were only an echo in the back of her mind; she was too lost, too dizzy, too breathless to answer with anything more than a helpless shake of her head.

"Say it," he ordered, shaking her. "You wished it was me."

"I wished it was you."

The last word was lost as his mouth crashed down onto hers. His tongue pushed past her lips, stroking hers with all the passion that had been imprisoned inside. It had been weeks and weeks since they'd been this close, and her taste had haunted him every second.

His hands roamed down her back and over her bottom, dragging her closer against his body, melding them together. His mouth left hers to travel down her now-bare throat—and the absence of his necklace had him gritting his teeth.

"He can't have you," he ground out. "You're mine."

His torrid grip was burning her, suffocating her of breath, of reason. "I'm yours," she repeated, her voice a throaty whisper.

The words filled him with heat, with relief. They drove him onward.

"Tell me you love me." His voice was desperate, commanding. She didn't answer. "Tell me you love me," he ordered again.

Her eyes clashed with his. "I love you."

The words attacked Draco's heart, filling him, then draining him again, leaving him empty. The Draco Malfoy she loved was gone forever, a shadow in his place...

He took a deep, steadying breath and then held her away. He closed his eyes tightly, praying for control, for sanity to return. He stepped back. "You love a dead man," he told her coolly. "I'm not sure he ever existed at all." His voice, moments ago so ardent and tortured with passion, was now so cold, so emotionless and harsh.

Hermione closed her honey eyes. The pain was easing its way back into her heart. She was remembering now why they needed to keep their distance. These brief interludes that they shared were only that—brief, like fireworks, hot, fast, and fleeting. The sparks would fly and then burn out too quickly. The sky would light up and then darken again too soon. They would always have to say goodbye in the end…

And she couldn't keep doing it. Feeling him pull away all over again was torture. It would kill her, just like it was killing her right now.

"Draco…"

She opened her misted eyes, but he was gone.

"What happened to you?"

Hermione rose from the stone bench with a start the following morning, her brows furrowing concernedly as a bruised Brandon approached. Automatically, she pulled her cream-white mitten from over her fingers, reaching out to let them flutter softly over the black and blue.

"A stray Bludger during quidditch practice yesterday," he said tightly, wincing as he felt her fingertips gently brush the vicious bruise. "It's not a big deal," he assured her, taking her hand away from his face, warming it in both of his.

Harry and Ron stared dubiously at the dark discoloration. "I thought Hufflepuff has the pitch on Thursdays," the emerald-eyed man stated calmly.

"They do," Ron confirmed, turning his gaze to Brandon, the expectant look in them saying that they could see through him like water.

Brandon's jaw tightened visibly, and his eyes held the vague hint of annoyance. "You caught me," he said finally, forcing a smile. "The truth is… I got into a kind of… scuffle."

The boys' eyes narrowed. Hermione's widened. "A scuffle?" she asked, frowning. "You mean a fistfight? With who?"

Brandon's gaze went to Harry and Ron for aid, but the other men only stared interestedly back at him. "Draco Malfoy," he reluctantly admitted at last.

Hermione tugged her hand out of his warm grasp. "What?" she asked, all the concern draining from her face. Draco and Brandon had fought? Physically? "Why?"

"Who cares?" Ron put in jovially. He stepped forward and gave the Ravenclaw a congratulatory pat on the back. "Did you get a few good shots in?" he asked eagerly. "How bad does the ferret look?"

"Better than he feels, I'm sure," Brandon assured them awkwardly.

Harry crossed his arms. "So you won the fight, then," he said skeptically, unconvinced.

Brandon looked cautiously between the raven-haired man and Hermione, wondering how to respond. He decided that ambivalence would be the safest bet. "I wouldn't say there was a winner, per se…" he answered carefully.

"Who cares?" Ron repeated exasperatedly. "The damned bastard got knocked down a peg—that's all that really matters."

Brandon nodded, his gaze narrowing speculatively on Hermione. "You're not angry, are you?" he asked her quietly, taking her hand in his again.

Hermione looked down, trying to find some objectivity. "As long as no one got hurt," she forced herself to finally say.

Brandon smiled, satisfied, thinking she meant as long as he hadn't gotten hurt. "It's just a scratch," he assured her with a nonchalant shrug of his shoulder.

"It's a bit more than a scratch," Harry corrected mildly. He let his gaze shift slowly to Hermione. She was torn, he could tell; he could practically see the way her thoughts raced through her mind. She was obviously surprised, but he couldn't call her confused. In fact, she seemed guiltily aware of the unnamed source of conflict between the gentlemanly Brandon Madison and the volatile Head Boy.

He forced a smile. "We're off to Ancient Ruins," he told her, pulling his bag onto his shoulder. "What class do you have?"

Hermione sighed. "Advanced Transfiguration."

Harry looked from her to Ron. "We could walk you," he offered gently.

"I can do it," Brandon broke in. "I'm going that way, anyway. And Hermione is my girlfriend, after all," he added, putting his arm around her, pulling her tight against his side.

The boys sent Hermione a look, and she smiled, trying to diffuse the tension. It didn't really work, not even for herself. "You guys go on. I'll see you later."

They looked hesitant, but nodded. "Fine." Harry turned to Brandon and nodded. "Brandon."

"See you."

"Yeah," Ron said, still smiling with amusement. "See you."

Hermione and Brandon watched them walk away with twin frowns before turning and heading off, themselves. They stepped side-by-side in silence, their shoulders brushing, both of them sorting through their own thoughts.

Hermione was very aware of the man beside her. His shoulder touched hers as they moved down the corridor. She could smell his cologne; hear his footsteps. And all she could think was that none of it was right. The scent, the sound. She was overly conscious that it wasn't Draco. It was someone else, someone new.

She suddenly stopped.

Brandon slowed, looking over his shoulder, then coming back to her, his brows furrowed in concern. "Are you okay?" he asked, cupping her shoulder. "Is something wrong?"

She swallowed slowly. She couldn't tell him no—didn't want to tell him yes. Didn't want to tell him, even though it was the truth.

He bent a little, trying to look into her eyes. "What is it?" he asked her. "What's the matter?"

Hermione opened her mouth—closed it. Opened it again. "I… can't do this," she admitted at last.

Brandon looked consciously around at the people passing by. "Can't do what?" he asked back, pasting on a tense smile.

"This." Hermione looked up at him. "Be with you."

Brandon swallowed. "Of course you can," he said with a nervous laugh. "It's easy."

Only it wasn't easy. Not for her. "This can't work out," she told him quietly. "I can't work it out. I thought that maybe I could, that maybe we could, but we can't."

Brandon guided her to the side of the corridor, out of the flow of passersby, looked down cautiously into those dark, mysterious eyes. "What's going on, Mione," he asked her seriously. "Is this about the fight?" Is this about Malfoy?

Yes. "This is about me," she said instead, speaking only in half-truth. She shook her head, not wanting to explain—knowing she would have to if she was ever going to break away. She sighed inaudibly. "I was feeling empty," she told him quietly, "like something was missing. And I thought that inserting you into my life would fill the empty space." She looked solemnly down at her slender hands, which were wringing of their own accord. "But it hasn't. It can't…"

Nothing but Draco could.

Brandon laughed softly, but there was tension behind the sound. "It doesn't have to be serious as all that," he insisted affectionately. "Things can be casual. Nothing too heavy."

"It wouldn't be right," she resisted. "It wouldn't be fair, not to either of us." She sighed again, the sound like water trickling, and brought her dark gaze back up to his. "I see they way you look at me, Brandon—so enraptured and full of wonder." She shook her head sadly, her curls lazily swaying against her breast. "I'll never be able to look at you that same way."

"Because I'm nothing special to look at," he tried to dismiss lightheartedly. "I'm just a plain bloke. I'm not different the way you are." He stroked a tender and pleading hand over her hair.

Hermione took the hand away from her head with a haunted look. "I'm not different in a good way, Brandon," she told him bitterly. "If only you knew…"

"I want to know," he told her adamantly. "Tell me. Show me." His eyes were eager. "Let me in."

"No," she refused.

"Good or bad, I can take it," he insisted. His fingers tightened around hers. "I can take care of you."

Hermione's hand was limp inside of his. "I know," she said with a gentle smile. "But I would just be pretending. It would only be a lie."

The verdict was in. Brandon could feel the gavel slamming—was desperate to stop it. "Maybe with time—"

"I don't want to hurt you, Brandon." Slowly, purposefully, Hermione pulled her hand out of his. "That's why I'm ending it now."

I'm in love with someone else. I will love him until I die.

She didn't say the words, but Brandon could somehow feel them. And he knew it was over—that maybe it had never even really begun. "There's nothing I can say, is there?" he asked her warily. His jaw tightened as she slowly shook her head. He nodded. "Okay," he forced himself to say. He adjusted the strap of his bag on his shoulder, somehow managing a somnolent smile. "If you ever change your mind…"

She only shook her head. "I won't. I'm sorry."

Brandon looked reluctant. "Yeah, me too." He glanced down the corridor, where the stream of students was thinning out. He looked back at her, wanting her to stop him, wanting to stay. But she didn't—so he couldn't. He had to walk away. "Well… I guess this is it, then." Hermione looked down, nodded. "See you around?"

"Yes," she whispered. "See you around."

She watched him turn and disappear into the current, sighing with regret, but also with relief. She looked down the crowded corridor, and her eyes found a pair of cool grey ones, still and stark amidst the sea of motion. They stared at each other, sadness connecting with severity.

And then both of them turned away.