Title: Written in the Ashes
Author: Callisto Callispi (Callispi)
Rating: R
Warnings: Some HBP Spoilers, character deaths, an insane amount of angst/repentance/darkness/upset!Draco/bitch!Hermione, and word count that will make you want to boil up some tea water before you begin to read.

Author Notes/Beta Credits: RE-EDITED VERSION – LESS GRAMMAR/SPELLING MISTAKES AND MORE CONTENT CLARITY, W00T! For Hot Summer Nights with Draco and Hermione fic exchange!! Millions of thanks to Sin for her help with the first revision. All further mistakes are all mine, not hers. And a million apologies to Agarttha, who must have been anxiously waiting for the post of this story. I'm still not quite sure if this story fits with your criteria… At least I didn't create little mini-Dracos named Apollo Gabriel Xavier Draco Lucius Malfoy (though I admit that I was direly tempted to just to break the monotony of a non-suburbia fic, heh!). I'm sure it's not what you've been expecting! But I tried my best and really did pour my heart into writing (and editing) it, so I hope that you enjoy it, even if it might not conform to your expectations.

Summary: When the past doesn't keep its peace, one must silence its voice. Except Hermione Granger doesn't know how. Sort of HBP-compliant.

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Written in the Ashes
by Callisto Callispi

The sun faded below the horizon only fifteen minutes before, but it was already dark. Stars littered the night sky and twinkled like pieces of shattered glass would in candlelight. A warm, sticky breeze ruffled her hair and simulated golden waves upon the field of barley before her. Each breath she took in reminded her of sweet, sharp kisses, the ones she had enjoyed as much as she would apple cider. The night was warm. The days were steadily getting hotter. Hermione always found herself perspiring, even in a loose knee-length skirt and a sleeveless shirt of lace and cotton.

She had always enjoyed the countryside. It was a nice retreat from the always-busy streets of London and was a quiet sanctuary from a society living according to the movements of a little hand of a clock. Hermione smiled slightly, running her nails gently against the wooden balcony of the porch. She could not imagine living without other people. Or the clock. Or the work. Granted, Hermione Granger was hardly a Romanticist, but sometimes, the desire to pack and run away rose up within her. It was a foreign feeling – something not entirely welcome but satiable just the same. So she fled.

It was a pocket of a place tucked away safely from the view of the entire outside world. A small island of a wooden cabin floating about in a sea of gold, drifting whichever way the wind took it. Neither radios nor humans could ever disturb the tranquility of this little valley. The nearest forests were about half a kilometer from the house, and animals, excluding the occasional rabbit or two, were no nuisances. Or, rather, they weren't nuisances before.

Hermione spotted, for the third time in four evenings, a little blot darkening a small spot on the full silver moon. She waited for a few seconds, hoping against hope, it seemed, that it would be a bat. But as the blot got bigger and bigger, it clearly took the shape of an owl.

With a mild curse, Hermione retreated into her house and closed the door firmly behind her. From the gentle thud and the flutter of wings, Hermione knew that the owl had landed on the porch. She refused to acknowledge the incessant pecking against the door and sat down in a chair, opening a novel. She would wait until it gave up and went away. They always did.

Close to forty minutes had passed. The owl still had not left and the pecking against door was starting to drive Hermione rather mad. At first, she wondered how a bird could rap its own mouth against something as hard as the door for such an amount of time. But she quickly excused that thought and reminded herself that Harry knew a wide array of spells and knew just exactly what got on Hermione's nerves.

Damn him.

The owl wouldn't leave. Not this time. Hermione closed her book and finally stood to open the door. She found the owl on the porch, bobbing its head rhythmically in a motion similar to that of a woodpecker.

"Oh, all right, all right, Hedwig," Hermione said exasperatedly as she took the envelopes from the owl's beak. "You win. Harry will be happy to hear that."

Hedwig hooted wearily.

After quickly making sure that there was no damage done to the beak, she brought the owl inside and fetched it a bowl of water. As Hedwig greedily gulped down her offerings, Hermione studied the envelopes. One was from Harry, obviously. The other from Hogwarts. The last one, however, piqued Hermione's curiosity. There was no return address, no sender name. She looked on both sides of the envelope and all she could see was her name written in fine black ink. Just her name.

The ink. The handwriting. They both struck her like a wave.

"It can't be," she murmured, distancing the letter from her face.

Indeed, it couldn't have been. It had to be some sick joke.

Hermione stood up and tossed the letter into the hearth and quickly lit a fire. Just as she expected, the envelope burst into a shock of green flames, and Hermione watched impassively as the envelop and the contents inside withered into a pile of black ashes.

She didn't think much of it, however. She forced herself not to. Hermione turned toward Hedwig, her eyes tired.

"Humans can be so cruel sometimes," she stated bluntly, ignoring the fact that she knowingly left an owl pecking away at the door with its beak nonstop for almost an hour. Hermione nodded toward the ashes. "It's such a dick thing to do."

Receiving no response from the owl, Hermione sighed and opened the other two letters. Harry's composed of his best wishes and worries on her behalf, though he was already quite accustomed to and sometimes encouraged Hermione's surprise vacations. Harry, ironically enough, was always the one who called her back to the real world.

Hermione skimmed through Harry's scrawly writing, skipping paragraphs that were recounting some of his office duties as assistant to the Minister of Magic and his rendezvous with another woman. Hermione rolled her eyes disdainfully. He did not give a flying fuck whether she fell out of an office window or not, the poor thing. Hermione impatiently searched for the date of her return to London and was extremely frustrated that Harry did not have better penmanship; she could hardly decipher the numbers composing the date.

Her gaze trailed from the squiggly lines Harry dared to call words and settled on the unlit hearth. Even within the gray ash, Hermione could just barely discern the darker ink marks upon the smooth remnants of what used to be parchment. Those notes were always so short and written so unimaginatively in choppy commands or statements, but she had cherished every one of them as if they were sheets of gold. The handwriting had always been so polished, so elegant…

No. Just stop that.

The other letter addressed to her was from Hogwarts. Hermione briefly wondered what it contained as she opened it. She perused through the greetings and the pleasantries – something she was very accustomed to doing.

Though it had been six years since she had even seen the word "Hogwarts" on paper, she had to some extent expected to receive such a letter. After the battles, Hermione, a war veteran with no university training but too much experience with Ministry politics, had decided to exploit her influence and the public support she had gathered over the years. With the help pf Harry's popularity, she quickly entered into the Department of Magical Education and centralized herself as the Head Minister of Education. Yet despite the prestigious title, most of Hermione's time was occupied signing and reading through official reports of the institutions of education under her jurisdiction, just like any white-collar worker would do.

Hermione during her golden fourth and fifth year at Hogwarts swore to never end up stuck in an office like a cockroach, but, lo and behold, the Gods of Irony (aka Mutate-Even-the-Simplest-Dreams-Into-Nightmares) knew no end of their incredibly dark humor. She wanted to be an auror, a scholar, even an archeologist! – at least they had some field work.

Yet the bitch of it was that she felt the need to be thankful for how well-off she had gotten financially and socially. Unarguably, if she could have chosen, she would have taken up a less bureaucratic job that preferably did not have anything to do with the Ministry, but she knew of nothing else that she could have taken advantage.

This letter only solidified her destiny.

Same deal. More paperwork.

It was a routine for the schools in the country. Every year, one of the department agents would go to a school, observe some classes in session, make sure the professors were up-to-par with new Ministry standards, and then leave with a bunch of mostly useless observations and doodles of brooms and flowers.

This time, she was to go to Hogwarts.

Hermione narrowed her eyes and cursed softly.

Even after six years, the prospect of returning to Hogwarts made her anxious.

Hermione could not sit still any longer. She got up, searched her pockets for her box of cigarettes, and went outside to the porch to take a smoke. With a whispered spell, the tip of her wand flamed and she quickly lit her cig and took in a long drag.

For six years, she had avoided setting foot in Scotland. She avoided issues revolving around Hogwarts. But this time, she could not not go. The inspector who was supposed to go this year had fallen incredibly ill, and as it was the high season, there were no other qualified people to take her place. If she could, she would send in an eager rookie, but she herself had presented the seriousness of these inspections to the High Ministry Court.

Hogwarts held many secrets. Some of the darkest of the past decade were hers. Even she did not want them to emerge into daylight.

White wisps of smoke escaped her lips, twisting and coiling like mating snakes. It did nothing to calm the feeling of nausea in her stomach. She cursed once more. Hermione knew her anxiety this time was quite serious; even her trusty cigarettes failed to tranquilize her. Hermione hoped that she was just going through a phase, or otherwise she would have to resort to pill capsules for some sort of relaxation. And if it turned out to be a prolonged treatment…well, Hermione knew how those cases usually ended up – prone, cold, and in a coffin.

Hermione drooped her eyelids, hooding her vision, and stared wearily out into the valley. The field swayed this way and that like a giant lake at the whim of the volatile breeze and glimmered like gold and platinum, bathed lusciously in the abundant moonlight. His hair was exactly that color.

Hermione tightly reigned her thoughts, though she could not prevent the wave of loneliness that washed over her. It was too late that night, to drag the past out into the light. She remained on the porch, alone and suddenly feeling cold despite the sticky humidity, and closed her eyes.

…

Hogwarts was just as she remembered. The castle emerged like a lighthouse in the midst of the dark, brooding hills of the night, windows that honeycombed the tower spilling warm, mellifluous light.

Hermione had taken the Hogwarts Express with the rest of the students, though because of her Ministry status, she managed to get her own compartment. A voice over the intercom announced their arrival to Hogwarts. Hermione stood, lowered her carry-on bag from the overhead compartment, and headed out.

She got off with the first wave of students, mostly the first years. The faces around her seemed so young and so pure…so clean. Their eyes were clear and glimmering, almost begging to be clouded with the knowledge that there was dark magic, that there was a dark wizard, that there was more to the world besides playschool magic.

Hermione was suddenly hit with the realization that these children were the next generation, the people of the future who would ultimately effect the post-war society. Students were an amazing force – Hermione knew that for a fact. She and her classmates had contributed to all three sides of the triangular society that had emerged from Voldemort's revolution: the Death Eaters, the Ministry recruits, and the Order of the Phoenix. They were all driven by their ambitions, their own sense of justice. Especially Hermione.

But, as she found out too late, principles such a justice did not exist during a war. Nor did they exist during peacetime. Each day had been a fight for survival, and even now, with a gleaming peace treaty on display in the Ministry museum and twenty-two monuments dedicated to the heroes, both fallen and crippled, she continued fighting. Nothing existed except oneself – the world was rather Darwinian in her opinion, though many refused to acknowledge the painful truth.

Hermione watched the anxious first years board the boats, and she half-expected to hear Hagrid's loud call: "Firs' years over here!"

But she didn't. Fireflies and little creatures that suspiciously looked like gnomes that pushed against their calves to usher them toward the boats led them to the castle.

Hermione got a boat to herself and sat alone in the darkness, the chatter of the students far behind her. She was thinking again, though she tried to keep her mind a blank. It was difficult to find so many things changed so utterly, even if they were subtle. Hagrid had been one of the first casualties of the war, captured and tortured to death when the Death Eater invasion reached the school. Hermione wondered if they were even able to arrange a proper funeral for the caretaker – no one liked giants.

So many things were so different, but too many things remained as it had been. All that remained was what had been, and what had been Hermione remembered as if looking into the mirror of yesteryear.

She was sitting with the boy she had seen in the train before, though at first she had not known it was him for he had his hood on. Her stomach seemed filled with butterflies as her hip rubbed against his as more people boarded. Despite his age, he cursed under his breath. Hermione's eyes widened slightly at his vulgarity and the two caught each other's eyes. He stared at her for a brief moment, his face expectant, as if he had cursed to prove his maturity and had wanted to see her reaction.

"It's always like this," he said in a blasé drawl, though Hermione had caught the glimmer of excitement in his eyes before. "I know some of the older students here, and they always say that the boat ride is the most boring part of the night."

Hermione stared at him quietly, nervous. This was her first real conversation, her first real test of her social skills. Her earlier episode with those other two boys in the compartment when she was helping the Neville child with the toad did not go as well as she had hoped. She got the impression that she had come on too strongly. She would not make the same mistake again.

"This really is nothing new to me, you know. I'm already familiar with these parts of the school. Father and I visited loads of times."

The boat had finally started floating toward the entrance when Hermione spoke up. "There is the Sorting Ceremony to look forward to."

The boy laughed smugly and drew back his hood. Hermione's eyes widened slightly. His hair was such a fair color – it gleamed like pure gold. "I already know where I'm going. Slytherin, of course. All the respectable pureblooded family members go there. The crème de la crème, as the French say."

"Well if you're considering yourself a French dessert, it seems to me that your definition of respectable is a bit skewed." Hermione closed her mouth tightly, not able to believe she had say what she had just said. It was snappy, catty, and not even that witty! The boy regarded her as if she were a shaved hippogriff. Hermione was glad that it was so dark. She was blushing so furiously.

But to her immediate surprise, the boy burst out laughing and held out his hand. "My name is Draco Malfoy. You have a lot of nerve to say something like that to me." His words were threatening, but his tone was genial.

Hermione, though shaking inside, accepted his hand and shook it firmly. "Hermione Granger. I speak my mind. Often times to a fault."

The boy called Draco stared at her, amusement tilting the corner of his lips. "You're not fitted for Slytherin, then. We never speak so boldly."

Hermione's lips quirked in a smile. "All cloaks and daggers?"

"To be sure."

She remembered wanting to cry because she had been so sure she had found a friend in this arrogant yet confident boy. "Are you truly as sly as they say Slytherins are?"

Draco paused for a moment, his eyes clouding slightly. "I suppose. For me, getting into Slytherin is tradition. All of my family members were Slytherins. Cunning, ambition… I suppose I'm right for the house, and if I'm not, I'll have to accustom myself to its expectations. Being pureblooded is not as easy as it was one hundred years before… Or at least, that's what my father says."

Hermione had not understood the implications behind his words back then. She tried, but it had been impossible for a girl fresh from a muggle background to truly understand the mind of a pureblooded boy raised in a pureblooded world all his life.

They did not speak for the rest of the boat ride, though Hermione wished that they would. But she was optimistic. They were in same schools. They would surely meet again. And when they did, she was determined to talk with him and befriend him and learn from him as he would surely learn from her. She had read somewhere that purebloods and muggle-borns did not get along very well, but she was confident she could change that unattractive statistic…

The boat jolted to a halt as it hit the edge of the dock. She stood and got out, careful to make sure she wouldn't slip on the slippery surface of the wooden dock. She saw the entrance of the castle, and she went in to be greeted by the warm glow of candlelight.

Home was Hermione's first thought. The stairs, the ghosts, the lights all seemed like visions of the past.

"Miss Granger!"

Hermione turned to face the staircase and smiled. "Professor."

Professor McGonagall went down the stairs swiftly, her classically styled cloak swirling behind her. She had aged considerably, Hermione noted silently. The wrinkles on her face, once but faded lines upon skin, were now deep crevices. Her hair was almost completely white, though still tied up in her traditional bun. Her hands, now veined and blemished with liver spots, grasped Hermione's.

The old woman stared down at her former student fondly for a second then kissed her cheek. "Welcome back, Miss Granger," she said warmly.

Hermione felt her heart inflate. "It's wonderful to be back."

The Professor, now Headmistress, McGonagall smiled. "It's been too long, Hermione. Six years since the war ended, nearly nine since I've last seen you."

The students began to file in.

Hermione felt her hands slip from the headmistress's. "Yes," she replied quietly, watching the progress of the students. "A very long time."

The headmistress noted this subtle change in attitude. She placed her hand gently on Hermione's shoulder and said quietly, "The Sorting Ceremony is to start soon. Dine with us in the Great Hall. Sit with us at the Professors' table."

The infamous Sorting Ceremony. Hermione felt a wave of emotion that drained her of her strength to disagree. It was like submerging one foot in a lake of memories and the other in a running stream of the Now – one always remained and the other always pushed forward. "All right. But I hope we can speak later… If not about official Ministry duty, then at least to catch up."

The headmistress nodded, and Hermione took that as her dismissal. She had not taken a scanty three steps toward the hall when she heard the professor call behind her:

"There is a reason for everything, Miss Granger. Please do not be shocked."

Hermione turned around, a questioning look on her face. She wanted to ask the headmistress what she meant but found it too late as the headmistress was already greeting the new students. Hermione closed her mouth, debating whether she should stay and wait or go. After some consideration, she went, though she already hardened her heart and prepared herself for more unexpected surprises.

…

The Great Hall was decorated as it always was at the beginning of a new school year. The House banners glistened as if sewn from silk and threaded with gold and silver. The long tables were filled with students from the years past with a spot nearest to the podium vacated for their new house members. Hermione walked along the long hallway toward the podium, upon which the Sorting Hat was settled.

She had settled that hat over her own head those many years before. That hat had determined her friends, her alliance, and her future -- or at least gave her a great big shove in certain directions. What would it say now if she settled it above her head? Would it be different from what it had said when it sorted her?

"Bravery. I see much of it. A tendency towards success with the drive to go with it. And quite a mean streak you have there. Oh…but what is this? Ambition. Oh yes, I see much of that. The desire to prove yourself, the desire to earn the respect of your colleagues…"

The professors' table was nearly full. There were some gasps of surprised recognition as she walked up the stairs to the podium. Those Hermione had known before greeted her with kisses to the cheek. Professor Flitwick even had tears in his eyes, and Professor Binns smiled – something that not many people ever saw. A great number of others shook her hand with polite, bewildered smiles of a first-time-met fashion on their faces. Eight out of each ten professors were new.

Hermione sat down at the end of the table, the rest of the vacant seats quickly filling up with just-arriving faculty members. Madame Pomfrey was still at Hogwarts. She had her nurse's cap off, and Hermione almost did not recognize her with her hair let loose. The nurse stared at Hermione wearily – she was a tired woman, just like the rest of them after the war – but her face lightened up so much with the smile she directed at her just a moment later. The war affected so many people – it was frightening at times to consider how many lives it had touched and forever altered.

The smile did not remain on the nurse's face for long. The grand doors of the Great Hall slammed against the back walls, causing Hermione to half jump out of her chair. It had sounded like an explosion and though the war had ended, Hermione never let her guard down. But when she looked toward the entrance, even a scream of Avada Kedavra could not have frozen her so utterly as did the person who ran into the Great Hall.

Hair, as fair as the moon. Skin, as pale as alabaster. Eyes, as stormy as an arriving hurricane. The professors murmured a bit, though they all seemed to expect his arrival. Hermione could not move. She could not speak. The blood drained from her face, and the walls she had built for six years eroded away like dirt.

He was running toward the professor's table, fixing the neck of his cloak and combing his hair back with his fingers. Hermione had half the mind to stand up and curse him, but she found her legs completely zapped of their strength.

Quickly making his way to the podium, he began to apologize profusely for his tardiness while greeting everyone at the same time. Professor Flitwick shook the man's hand sternly and welcomed him back. Madame Pomfrey stared at him disapprovingly and demanded if he had been out in the quidditch pitch again with that cold of his. Some of younger (and older, for that matter) female professors stared at the young blond man wistfully, smiling brightly as he shook each of their hands.

He finally reached Hermione. She could not breathe. His eyes were still the same color, and they bore into hers, just as they did in her deepest, darkest dreams. He reached out his hand, and Hermione stared at it as if it were a serpent ready to lunge at her.

She thought she had finished with him.

It wasn't possible.

The other professors stared at Hermione, slightly worried and obviously very curious. Hermione's mouth was dry, and breathing was difficult. He was…should be a ghost to her now, standing right there. He had to be. A flood seemed to overtake Hermione, and her inner consciousness struggled to take hold of something, anything.

"Have you come here to raise the dead?"

"Hello," he said carefully, at last, lowering his hand slightly when it seemed unlikely she was going to accept it. "You must be the Ministry Inspector."

Hermione managed a nod that was hardly a twitch of her neck.

"It's a pleasure to make your acquaintance. My name is Draco Malfoy, Professor of regular, OWL-prep, and NEWT level Potions."

Professor? Potions? How was this possible?

Draco frowned slightly. He obviously did not like to be ignored.

"Granger," she said as he began to turn around. Her voice was quiet but rough. "Hermione Granger, Head Minister of the Department of Education." She raised her eyes up to his, the glimmer in her dark pupils full of challenge. Her voice got stronger. "I will be looking forward to seeing you."

Draco stared at her over his shoulder, whatever geniality he had left in him disappearing into thin air. His look was cold and calculating. "Likewise."

Hermione, in her condition, did not know how she endured the Sorting Ceremony and the dinner that followed. She also gracefully handled being called up toward the podium and being introduced as an official guest at Hogwarts and made a Thank-You Speech without forgetting anything and managed to eat a piece of chicken and some corn so as not to seem impolite.

She could not see the faces of the students. She could not taste anything. Only he occupied her mind, and Hermione did not like it.

Hermione once in a while raised her gaze toward the other end of the table where Malfoy sat, his smile, though hardly ever easy or bright, challenging the females around him and sending them into a fit of giggles. Hermione expected to be scared, confused, angry. But a feeling so foreign to her, something that had not visited her for almost a decade, hit her. Jealously.

Malfoy wanted to play, did he? Just like him – always wanting a part in the cat-and-mouse game. Hermione pursed her lips, shifting her gaze down to her food as Malfoy looked toward her.

They had a challenge, the two of them.

Just like old times before, during, and now after the war.

This time, there would be no stalemate. One would have to fall.

…

The first class that Hermione was to observe was Professor Flitwick's OWL-preparatory Charms. She sat in the back of the class in a nice cushioned chair, a notebook on her lap and a quill perched between her fingers.

For the first hour, she watched attentively, making sure the professor gave impartial seminars without his own personal experiences and beliefs altering the delivery of his lessons. The war had been driven on propaganda, and the Ministry thought that the best way to avoid conflict was to be as unbiased as possible, with very special emphasis on student education.

Hermione did not doubt Professor Flitwick's competency. His lessons plans strayed from neither Ministry nor Hogwarts standards. She checked his name off the list easily.

When the second hour rolled around, Hermione already felt her eyelids grow heavy. It was harder than she remembered to stay awake while class was in session, even if she wasn't the student. The sun beat against her back and the classroom flushed gold and beige in the afternoon heat. The air was hot and stuffy – it was like breathing against a damp pillow. Hermione wiped the sweat from her forehead and breathed out, checking her wristwatch. Over forty minutes left.

Would it be rude to take a step outside? She had already finished her analysis, and she was going to fall asleep right in her spot if she didn't move.

Despite her misgivings, Hermione decided to try and carry on in the class… Or at least wait when the professor was finished with his lecture so she could get up causing the least amount of distraction.

She had forgotten how much Professor Flitwick enjoyed speaking.

Her eyes slipped into darkness. Hermione began to hypnotize herself, groggily assuring herself that only two short minutes of keeping her eyes shut would relieve a bit of her fatigue. The warmth drugged her muscles. The tip of her quill rested on her notebook, ink collecting and the blot getting bigger and darker against her parchment like a growing nightmare.

The first envelope came by owl.

"Point Echo. Come alone."

And she went to that Point Echo – an abandoned hideout originally occupied by Death Eaters, cleared out by Ministry forces, and then taken over by the Order of Phoenix. Then they themselves cleared out as the swampland flooded closer and closer toward them during the hot, rainy season of summer.

Hermione blearily opened her eyes, finding herself a lot cooler. The sun had set slightly, and the shadows lengthened. The little hand on her watch declared that only three minutes had passed. Professor Flitwick continued his lecture, and Hermione closed her eyes slightly once again.

The bog was clammy, dark, and uncomfortable. Her cotton tank top was damp with perspiration and the humidity. His hair, usually soft, stuck heavily to his forehead.

She threw the envelope at him. The point hit his chest, and the envelope fell to the wet, marshy ground.

"…You're scared. You're desperate. I will tell you right here and now that I won't help you," Hermione snarled.

Draco bared his white teeth, and he had never looked so animalistic before. His eyes glinted as the few beams of sunlight penetrating the quagmire lit them, and Hermione directly challenged his gaze, fearlessness on her breath.

Had he entranced her with those eyes?

Because she never remembered saying yes.

But her fingers were curled around his hand.

Two little traitors in the fog
plotting dange'ous foul for all

It had been made a nursery jingle afterward, though Hermione could not imagine for the life of her why.

Sometimes she re-visited that bog in her dreams. The paths they had once walked upon were already dried-up and tangled with weeds and thorns. Point Echo, where they had first met during the war and joined their hands in their filthy, extraordinary promise, was inaccessible. But, as with all dreamers, Hermione found herself blessed with unknown omnipotent powers and always managed to reach it. The journey took place always during the night, and the full golden moon gleamed like a hungry wolf's eye.

Not as humid. Not as much heat. But still too warm for it to be properly night.

Hermione always looked over her shoulder. She never had the feeling she was all alone in this place, but she slowed down for all the ghosts that would never catch her.

When she turned back to look forward, Hermione stopped walking.

He waited at the center of the bog, the center of Point Echo, fair hair and pale skin glowing with the moonlight, as if he were a prince from the stars. His stare was condescending, and Hermione lashed out.

"Are you here to play Jesus?" she demanded.

"If I were to play Jesus, you would be my Judas," he would reply.

When Hermione opened her eyes, the room was quiet. She wondered where she was and why her back was so sore. Then her eyes widened, and her cheeks flushed red. Oh, dear lord, she had fallen asleep!

She stood up, gathering her papers, and saw that the desks and chairs were empty in front of her.

Oh. Fucking. Merlin.

Her first day on the job in her old school, and she had completely and utterly proven her incompetence. She sat back down in her chair and buried her face into her hands. What was wrong with her? The Hermione Granger she knew never fucked up so badly. The Hermione Granger she knew would have finished the job quickly and efficiently. That was how she got to where she was today – Head of the Department of Education, respected by her peers and the wizarding community. She used to be untouchable. She used to be unstoppable.

She was slipping.

Hermione retired to her room. It was five o'clock, and she had a few hours time to compose herself before dinner started. First off, she would have to apologize to Professor Flitwick. Then, she would have to fix her Ministry report. That bloody quill tip had made a huge inkblot stain all over her observations!

Hermione couldn't stand this.

She picked up the pack of cigarettes from her cloak pocket and headed outside to the abandoned quidditch field.

…

The sun was still hanging over the mountains, softening the evening breeze with a nice sprinkle of warmth. Hermione sat in the second row of the quidditch stands, her legs drawn up on the headboard of the chairs in the row below her, and laid back into her own headrest. She watched the cloud's steady change of color from blue to a darker purple, cigarette settled gingerly between two fingers. She tried to pretend she was at her country cabin. It would have made her feel better.

Didn't work.

"Only faculty members are allowed in this area at this hour."

Hermione supported herself on her elbows and quickly put out her cigarette to find a familiar face scrutinizing her. Draco Malfoy. Her eyes widened slightly, but this time she maintained her calm. "Surely a Ministry official is trustworthy enough to sit in the quidditch stands, especially a Ministry official who is an alumna from this very school."

Draco, donned in a casual pair of tanned slacks and a black, long-sleeved button-up shirt stared at her with hooded eyes. "Have we known each other before?"

Hermione sat up languidly, lips set in an unconscious pout and her fingers laxly massaging her neck.

He approached her, hands casually stuck in his pockets so that it lifted the shirt up at the sides. "Your face seems familiar."

Hermione tilted her head and said clearly, "Yours doesn't."

He paused as he approached the foot of the stands. They were eye-level with each other. "Why does it seem like you're lying to me?"

"Maybe you're just a naturally suspicious person," she supplied.

"Who are you really?"

"What kind of a questions is that?" Hermione replied. "I can you tell you with plain honesty that I am me, no more. Just a plain Jane Doe. No one special. No one extraordinary. A regular person, trying to live and trying to survive at the same time." Hermione paused. "Just like you."

Draco's lips pursed slightly. A telltale sign that he was getting frustrated. Though Hermione did not know how much Draco had changed, if he was half the reflection of his former self, he would channel his anger to deadly accurate calculation and extract what he wanted from her. Hermione quickly changed the subject.

"You're rather young to be here. Have you always wanted to be a teacher or is this a temporary occupation?"

That seemed to catch him off-guard. Good.

"I…I truthfully don't know," he replied honestly. Then he paused, seeming to weigh his words. Always a Slytherin first, Hermione noted dryly. "It's an unexpected vocation, but I suppose I can't complain. It's earning a living."

Hermione quickly calculated what he said. Unexpected vocation: someone had deliberately offered him a job as a Potions professor because Hogwarts professors usually weren't hired through "Need Help" ads (the Defense Against the Dark Arts vacancy a notable yet only exception). Not complaining: a change from his usual bratty, arrogant self. Earning a living: no wealthy relatives left alive to pull him out of financial quarries. So far, so good.

"I'm a rather lost case, really," he murmured, digging his hands deeper into his pockets and scraping the soles of his shoes against the stone floor of the stands. "Literally lost."

Hermione remained silent, as if politely waiting for him to enlighten her on his own sweet time, when in reality, Hermione already could sketch a basic picture of what had happened.

But he did not continue, and Hermione tried to look a bit disappointed. She sat back and stared out into the horizon.

"How intriguing," she said casually, pulling out another cigarette. She offered one to Draco, but he refused. She lit the tip with her wand and stared at him. "Why are you lost?"

Draco smirked slightly. "Why do you smoke?"

"I asked you first."

He paused, probably considering just how important Hermione's own answer was to him. "It's like waking up from a dream. You can remember tidbits of what had happened, and some things, upon sight or just feeling, are familiar and one can refer back to the dream…or, on the other hand, one can find something so familiar without knowing really how it's recognizable. I was a soldier. That's what they told me."

Hermione narrowed her eyes and wisps of smoke slipped from her lips. "They?"

Draco looked suddenly uncomfortable. "The Mediwizards at St. Mungo's. I was hit with some sort of spell – they can't identify it. I woke up in the infirmary bed, and I remember them saying that they thought that I would never wake up. I recalled some things… Like the name of my mother, but not her face. I remembered how to brew a potion that's so poisonous that breathing it in once would paralyze the human body in half a second. Such complex things yet such little good they do me."

Hermione leaned forward slightly. He truly wasn't supposed to wake up.

"Someone from Hogwarts came to me. The headmistress. She told me that I had once been a student here. I hadn't even known that the school existed."

"So now you are here," Hermione concluded, nodding slightly as if she sympathized with him. In reality, she did.

Draco did not confirm with words and turned toward the sky. Despite everything he had told her, Hermione could not believe how little he had changed. Secretive and aloof, as always.

"Why did you start smoking?"

And just as insistent.

She took in another drag. "Stress."

Draco shot her a wary look, something that he had perfected over the years. She had no doubt he used the look on students who neglected to pay attention during his class.

"I was also in the war," Hermione said, attempting to clarify without really clarifying. "There are things that some see…that some do… Nothing is ever easy with some types of knowledge. It's like taking the Eden incident to a new level."

"Were they horrible, the things that you have done?" Draco asked quietly.

Hermione shrugged, shoving the tip of her cigarette against the stand with a bit more force than was needed to put out the light. "They were necessary." Hermione looked up and straight into the eyes of Draco. "I don't regret what I've done."

"You remember, though."

"You many be lucky that you don't."

Draco would wonder later if she meant to say that he was lucky for not remembering his or her wartime deeds.

"Have we known each other before?" he asked once more, his voice stronger. He walked toward Hermione. She did not answer. She did not respond. She showed no reaction. But her heart thrummed.

"I've told you already. No."

Draco stood right in front of her, and he seemed so tall. He leaned in, his face centimeters from hers. "You're lying. Or you're hiding something."

"Believe what you want to believe."

He did not move. Hermione didn't either, but drops of perspiration slithered down the back of her neck. It was a hot night.

After what seemed like an eternity, it was Draco who retreated first. Hermione breathed out.

"You smell of tobacco. It's unattractive," he drawled, and Hermione stared up at him in shock. Well that was too familiar for her liking. He smirked easily.

"Well, Professor, no one forced your face right against my lips," Hermione snipped, collecting her cigarettes. How was it that even after suffering a spell that wiped out nearly all his memories, Draco Malfoy was still the Draco Malfoy she had known in school and on the battlefield for so many years?

Draco shrugged and shoved his hands into his pockets once more and looked up. Stars littered the sky and the clouds glowed silver with the moonlight. After living in the city for so long, Hermione forgot how pretty the country sky was.

Stars littered the black sky. Hermione lied in the flowerbed of the empty field, staring at the pinpricks of light as if searching for Heaven's gate. She liked to be outside on nights like these. The bloodshed seemed like a surreal nightmare when she stared long enough. The moon emerged from the clouds and bathed her in its silver light, as if she were its goddess playing on the mortal earth.

The situation seemed shockingly appropriate.

"O, swear not by the moon, the fickle moon, the inconstant moon, that monthly changes in her circle orb, Lest that thy love prove likewise variable…"

His hand curled against hers, and Hermione felt his body warm her side. Sometimes, he fit against her so perfectly that it frightened her into thinking that she would not be able to do what she needed to do.

"Why will you not tell me what you are thinking?"

Hermione smiled slightly. "I'm not thinking anything."

"You hide too many things."

Hermione turned toward him, her face centimeters from his. Her lips grazed his chin as she spoke. "Believe what you want to believe."

Hermione felt as if someone had dunked her in cold water. She shook herself slightly. The ghosts had considerable power here, especially with one standing right in front of her, glowing like a prince from the stars. She had to stop this. She was getting too close… It was her greatest folly six years ago, and she would not commit it again.

"It was nice speaking with you," she said finally, shattering the pensive silence. A clear dismissal. Her voice was like a breath of cold air.

"It was nice working with you."

His gray eyes flickered slightly, and Hermione suddenly wondered if he too had heard that.

His smile was that of vengeance and incredible insult.

The professor's smirk twisted almost into a snarl. His eyes were unreadable.

His eyes were unreadable.

"I'll be seeing you around, then."

"I'll be seeing you again."

He left with a wave of his hand, his other hand stuffed in his pockets, fisted around his wand. Hermione already knew his habits, and though it did not make it any easier to deal with this Draco Malfoy, it was easier to prepare herself for the worst.

…

The next day, Hermione found herself in the Headmaster (now Headmistress) office with the stern, wizened face of Headmistress McGonagall staring at her with restrained adoration. For just a moment, Hermione wanted to feel like a student, to dedicate all her energy to only studying and not to worries regarding how she was going to convince the next bunch of uptight pricks to accept some Ministry proclamation. But then, the moment passed. If she were a student she'd probably be sitting in this same spot, waiting for some punishment.

The office was a bit different from when Albus Dumbledore occupied it. There were more fresh flowers and less jars of candies. The paintings of former headmasters were still hung up on display and the Sorting Hat was still placed next to Fawkes. Except Fawkes was not the grand phoenix she remembered it to be.

"It's…it's a baby!" Hermione breathed, staring through the cage. "When…when did it… I thought during the Chamber of Secrets incident…"

"Age is not the only factor that determines the death of a phoenix," said the headmistress, running her hand down the cage fondly. "When it gets big enough, it will be perched where it was before, but now, when it's young…"

They had tea and lemon cakes between the two of them and began chatting about uncontroversial subjects, such as who the new troublemakers of Hogwarts were, how the Magical Media should have handled the exploitation of Re-Grow Fungi, daily Ministry going-ons in boring departments…

But it was rather obvious that this was not what they came here to talk about.

"I can not tell you how much I've wanted to see you again, Miss Granger," said the professor quietly after a long and awkward pause, staring into her empty tea cup. "I feel it was partly my responsibility as well. I should have made more of an effort in contacting you, but the truth is, Albus's death made such an impression on us all. Everything was so much more complicated, so much more difficult."

Hermione nodded.

"Then when the attacks began, everything was a mess. We couldn't depend on owl post. Everyone went into hiding, and no one trusted anybody. Hogwarts emptied when it closed, then it got flooded soon after with refugees. We were a camp for the injured and persecuted for three years, Miss Granger. Three years. It was a very difficult time for everyone. My first task as headmistress was not to protect students, but to protect anyone who arrived at our gates, begging for food and water."

This was something that Hermione had heard over and over again during the years. Harry had been in the camp. He kept a journal for eight months, writing in it daily, and later he had given it to Hermione to read. But the professor looked as if she needed to speak with someone, anyone, using any valid excuse. So Hermione let the woman speak, and she merely listened, not interrupting. After all, a Headmistress with the dignity of a lion that governed a grand school would not confide in any random person who happened to pass by her office.

"Hermione…"

Hermione looked up at the mention of her name.

"I'm unsure to whether I should ask you this…" The woman paused. Hermione already knew what she was going to ask. "Why…why did you leave so quickly? Why did you not stay in Hogwarts? I've tried to salvage any and all facts and rumors about my former students, but I've gained hardly anything about you until the war ended."

Hermione chewed the inside of her lip. How was she to avoid such a question? "It was not an easy choice to make, I can assure you."

"I can't leave them. I can't!"

"Yes, Granger, you can! If not now, we'll never escape them!"

"We were so worried. All of us. Especially Mister Potter and Mister Weasley. It was almost an inhuman thing, what the Ministry did, recruiting children to their armies. Children fighting wars. Utter madness. To-Be-Graduates with one month of training became aurors and were sent to the fields to battle. Mister Potter had tried to convince him not to go. You…you have heard of his –"

"Yes," Hermione replied shortly. "I had received news of Ron's death three days after he was found."

They called it the Massacre in the Forest. The dead called it their home.

It was numbing, witnessing the damage they had done. Everything was red and wet, so it was surprising that they found him by the color of his hair.

His eyes were tearless but they knew that he was crying.

"Mister Potter was devastated. He had lost two of his best mates, the only family left to him. He seemed as if he passed the next few months in a dream."

Hermione winced slightly, and her forehead felt hot. She wanted to take a smoke. "Professor… Thank you. For taking care of Harry. I don't think I could have handled myself if he too had gone." Years. She had suffered the same pain alone for years, but it was so much difficult to share it with another. Fawkes chirped in its cage, and Hermione used that to turn her head away from the professor to stare at the phoenix, her expression stone.

"Miss Granger. Why did you leave?"

How could she answer this? "I – I was scared, Professor. I had no part in the war, but I was the target. I was so powerless. I panicked. I think I was mad," Hermione said quietly. She was trying to lie, but this came out as the truth.

"We were all mad, Hermione. We lived in a time of madness." She breathed out and leaned on the desk, rubbing her eyes. "Did you know that Draco Malfoy had left the same day you disappeared?"

Hermione opened her mouth to deal out some bullshit she had been planning hours before. She had anticipated these questions and the professor's reaction. So she was rather surprised when the headmistress removed her hands from her face and straightened to her full height in her chair, eyeing Hermione with the distrust one would reserve for a traitor. As if she were flying on a broom, Hermione felt something in her stomach plunge, and the once cozy headmistress office seemed to suddenly drop in temperature.

"I do not take you for a fool, Miss Granger." The headmistress's voice was clear and sharp. It was the voice of a woman who for years led a rag-tag group of frightened, persecuted refugees through a war in which one slip of the eye could earn an Avada Kedavra.

Hermione felt panic arise within her. Her mind throbbed with untreatable equations of human psychology, trying to resolve the situation without worsening her position.

"Headmistress –"

"We all have our ghosts, Miss Granger. But I believe yours are much too powerful for any of us to handle." The woman stood and walked over to the other side of the room.

Hermione's head was reeling. The professor suspected something. She knew something.

"I believe your claims as the victim during the war as utter codswallop," the headmistress remarked from across the office. "You are much too clever to be so degraded, no matter how great the odds."

"I believe you overestimate my potential, Headmistress," Hermione replied impassively.

The professor did not respond and instead returned to her desk with a shallow stone basin in her hands. The rim was etched with ancient symbols and top was sealed with a wooden lid. The object was devastatingly familiar, and Hermione could not help the blood draining from her face. A pensieve.

"I've obviously attempted to look into the pensieve, but for some reason, I only found myself lost in an incredibly thick fog. That is a powerful enchantment you have placed in this pensieve, Miss Granger. I know no other wizard other than Albus, Riddle, and now yourself to have that kind of capability."

McGonagall slid the basin toward Hermione, and she accepted it silently.

"I do not know what has kept you away, Miss Granger, from both Hogwarts and yourself. Perhaps the answers lie here in this basin, perhaps they do not. But if they do, I suggest you deal with your ghosts before you yourself become one."

Hermione left the office, her will to protest buried rightly into the ground. She was a fool to think that she could ever fool McGonagall. She carried the pensieve all the way up to the room. The basin was heavy, being made from all silver, and the contents swirled around with her movements. She set it down on her vanity, stared at it for a while, and then angrily shook her head.

Instead, she grabbed her half-read novel from her bed and sat on the couch. She would read. She would relax. But her attempt to forget her conversation with McGonagall proved unfruitful. Every five to ten minutes her eyes strayed from the tiny letters of her novel and toward the basin.

It must be so full right now.

She had started putting her thoughts into the pensieve during the war, a year after she left from Hogwarts. By that time, the war was already beginning to end, though it took two additional years for anything to be considered "safe" or "stable". Voldemort and his supporters were quickly losing power, especially the supporters. What political and financial power they harnessed seeped through their fingers like water. Draco was hysterical.

Hermione couldn't help wondering if things wouldn't have been different should Draco have started to extract his own thoughts into a pensieve.

She didn't know what she thought she was doing when she removed the lid to the pensieve. Gas seeped from the lid, which reminded Hermione that she sort of wanted to smoke, but she pushed the feeling away. The contents swirled around like liquid silver. If she watched closely enough, she could see flashes of the scenes of her memories in faded colors. She thought she could hear voices as well, but it was impossible for a pensieve to reproduce sounds outside of the memory.

She dipped in the tip of her wand, stifling the urge to look over her shoulder, and swirled around the liquid.

No. No. Hermione jerked her hand far from the basin as possible. This was madness. She should destroy this thing while she had the chance.

Hermione needed to lie down. She walked toward the bed and reached down to flip the covers when she saw something that made her heart grow numb. On her pillow was a single envelope with only her first name written elegantly in the center.

Hermione found her mouth go dry. How could he know? She picked it up and observed it.

The envelope was smooth and free of any wrinkles. Hermione observed the writing closely and indeed, it was his handwriting. With trembling fingers, she opened the flap and watched nervously as a small sheet of paper drifted down to her bed, face-up.

"Quidditch field at nightfall. The stars will be there too."
(Point Echo. Come alone.)

Hermione dropped the envelope to the ground as if it were burning her. But despite her inner reason screaming at her to ignore the message, she found herself digging in her closet for her cloak. She began to place her pack of cigarettes in her pocket but stopped herself. She considered the small pack for a few seconds. Then she left, leaving the pack on her bed and closing the door behind her.

…

ten years earlier…

"Why did you send this to me, Malfoy?"

She threw the envelope at him. The edge hit his chest and fell to the wet, marshy ground.

"Let's all jump to conclusions like silly little rabbits," Draco drawled, leaning against a rotting tree. "Tell me, Mudblood, is coarseness some inherent muggle trait or is that just your natural reaction to everything you don't understand?"

"I may be coarse, but I am no fool. You're scared. You're desperate. I will tell you right here and now that I won't help you," Hermione snarled.

Draco bared his white teeth, and he had never looked so animalistic before. His eyes glinted as the few beams of sunlight penetrating the quagmire lit them, and Hermione directly challenged his gaze, fearlessness on her breath. "You're almost correct. Not bad. I'll tell you very frankly, Granger. Yes. I am scared, but hell no am I desperate." A feral grin colored his pallid features. "But I can tell you're desperate, Muddy."

"Do you think your silly name-calling is scaring me?" Hermione asked dryly.

"Oh, it's all fun and games when I call you Mudblood and Muddy and Muggle. But when Death Eaters attack the school, it won't be so fun to be called any of those things." His face got serious. "You don't understand their thirst for justification, Granger."

Hermione exploded. "WHAT JUSTIFICATION! What did we ever do to your lot that merits the murder of millions of people for the crime of being born?" She threw up her hands. "This war is not a war. It's a sick game initiated by an insane player whose own doctrine ordains that he himself should not exist!"

Draco remained coldly unaffected. "You're so stupid. Everyone keeps saying how brilliant and how genius this Hermione Granger is, but I truly have no fucking clue what they are talking about."

She jerked back, as if slapped. Her cheeks, pink from her outburst, were now red with embarrassment.

"Open your fucking eyes," he retorted harshly, voice grating. "Dumbledore isn't here to smother your face with a rose-colored veil anymore, thank God. Look at the world around you, Granger. Do you think anyone cares whether Muddies like you merit the same privileges as the rest of the magical world? Let me tell you a secret: this war has very little to do with land or water reserves. What do you think the driving force of it is? What makes wealthy men like my father plunder the Malfoy family savings to finance Voldemort's campaign? What makes powerful men like MacNair and Crabbe lobby politicians into supporting various social measures that buy time for Voldemort to prepare his plan of attack?"

Hermione fumed silently at being netted into this trap.

"Pride," Draco inserted, "and the exploitation of the pride that we hold so dear."

Hermione laughed bitterly. "What pride? You mean the discrimination? The mightier-than-thou bigotry you purebloods sprout? If it's pride, it's damned and racist."

Draco threw up his hands. He stared at her, eyes piercing her very façade. "Damned and racist," Draco mocked. "Can anyone make this ignorant Mudblood understand? To your crowd, yes, it may seem evil. But not to us. Thinking inside the box like that won't last you a minute in my world."

"And why would I want to ever step into your world?" Hermione wondered sarcastically.

His smile was crooked. "Because that's what it's going to be like from now on."

Hermione returned the grin. "Then why would the almighty Draco Malfoy be forewarning me? Why would he want my help?"

Draco regarded her silently for a minute. Then he finally spoke up. "Because I'm not a conqueror like the Death Eaters. I understand the concept of co-existence, that a coin is composed of two sides, not one. And that sometimes, the two sides must work together to ensure the other's survival."

Hermione was rather surprised. "I still don't understand why you called me."

He smirked slightly. "It's now a sudden-death match, Granger. And it's always better to play together against the army."

…

Hermione arrived at the same place in the quidditch stands as the last time, confident that he would be there waiting. She was not disappointed.

"Professor," she said shortly.

Draco had his back to her and was facing the balcony, his face thoughtful. He turned at the sound of her voice and greeted her with a nod.

"I suspect it was you, then, who sent me the message. Just as I had thought previously," Hermione said briskly as she placed herself next to him. She stared at the darkening quidditch pitch. "What did you wish to speak about?"

"Pardon me, but I said nothing about speaking," he answered. Hermione would have almost been hurt if she already hadn't put up with almost seventeen years of his attitude. "I strictly mentioned the stars. I look at them often."

Hermione couldn't believe his bullshit. Still as cocky as a prince, even without a single galleon signed to his name. "You wanted me to come."

"Lie," he said easily, folding his hands together. "I never said such a thing. I told you the place and that the stars would be out. No more."

"'Too.'"

Draco stared at her. "Pardon me?"

Hermione smirked. "You also said 'too.' 'The stars will be there too.' You implied your presence as well."

"I still hold my argument. I never told you to come."

"Don't think so highly of yourself, professor," Hermione sniffed. "I came for the stars, not your esteemed self."

He barked out a short laugh but did not bother retorting back.

…

The inspections continued without falter. Though there was some controversial discussion about the origins of Voldemort's first upheaval, Professor Binns was very dutiful in emphasizing the heroics of the then-influential Order of Phoenix. Hermione gave points for that.

When dinnertime rolled around, she finally got around to apologizing to Professor Flitwick for the other day, claiming that she had felt sick for the past week and that it all built up. The poor, gullible man smiled and nodded energetically, buying up all of Hermione's lie, assuring her than none of the students noticed and that he didn't want to disturb her so he left her to sleep there because she looked so worn. She was surprised when she felt a tinge of guilt when she left the Great Hall and entered her room. She savored the feeling for a bit then cast it aside.

The silver pensieve was still on her vanity. It was always the first thing she saw when she woke up in the morning, but Hermione would always ignore it. She should really destroy it or at least hide it in her closet or something, but she found that she could not.

Instead, she found herself lifting the lid once more. It was almost an obsession, this pensieve. Or maybe it was curiosity. Just one memory couldn't hurt, could it? They were hers, after all. There was nothing wrong with her looking into her own past. Without thinking, she dipped her wand in and felt herself being pulled into the basin.

Thus she began the tour of her own past.

The fog was dense, but Hermione muttered her counter-spell and everything cleared. She found herself in Hogwarts in the East Wing and quickly spotted her past self. Past-Hermione was walking, posture firm and back straight. Her face was a mask of concentration, of deep thought. She had been thinking about Draco's proposal in Point Echo, wondering whether Ferret Boy would hold up his end of the deal. For both of them, this whole war would end up being a losing situation, even if they did nothing but sit on their bums all day.

Hermione watched as her past self walked right past her. She could even feel the wind.

The attack came without warning. A loud explosion rattled the castle gates. Past-Hermione stopped to a halt, her lips set in a firm line. She was scared but hardly surprised. They had been expecting something like this for weeks now.

The ghosts began to poke their heads out from their various sleeping places – grandfather clocks, cupboards, wardrobes – and demanded in a flurry of voices what was happening. Hermione walked past them calmly and told them that Death Eaters had breeched the school walls.

The ghosts disappeared. Even the dead fled from the Death Eaters.

Past-Hermione began to run. She had been heading toward the rendezvous point. It was where the students all agreed to meet should there have been an attack on the school. McGonagall was probably gathering all the students that she could right now. Hermione had wanted no part in this stupid war. Past-Hermione had tears running down her cheek, though she was hardly sobbing. Hermione watched on grimly. It was ten years ago, but she had still been just a child.

Suddenly, a door opened and a hand shot out, latching onto past-Hermione's arm and pulling her in. The darkness shielded them like a cloak, and the first thing that past-Hermione saw was the glowing face of Draco Malfoy by candlelight.

"What are you doing?" she gasped, out of breath. She tried to shake off his hand, but Draco held her tight. "They have attacked. We must go to the rendezvous point, or we're –"

"Granger, it's time."

Past-Hermione paused. "What are you talking about?"

Draco's grip got harsher, as if he were already regretting what he was to say. "The Death Eaters have blown a hole in the North Wing of the school. The explosion rattled one of the underground passageways. It should now be open to free-air."

They were going to leave now? No. Past-Hermione shook her head, desperation twisting her insides. "No. No! It's too soon. I can't leave them. I can't!" She began in a reasonable tone then finished in a high-pitched scream.

Draco gripped her shoulders and shook her ruthlessly. Her head bobbled like a broken doll's. Past-Hermione wept piteously, screaming, "I can't! I can't!"

But Draco would have none of it. "Yes, Granger, you can! If not now, we'll never escape them!" He turned his head away from past-Hermione, and Hermione, watching from a third-person point of view, now could see just how frightened he had been as well.

She recovered quickly enough, wiping at her face with her hands. "You've taken out your funds?" past-Hermione asked, already accepting with that question.

Draco nodded.

Past-Hermione gulped. There was a moment of pensive silence, a moment of acceptance, though all the time in the world could not allow Hermione to fully absorb what she was going to do.

"All right. Let's go."

Hermione closed her eyes as she saw them exit the room. Draco blew out the candle before he left, and everything was dark. When Hermione opened her eyes again, she found herself in her room, her heart feeling heavier than ever.

She fell down onto her bed, covering her forehead with a hand. The ceiling was high and made of polished stone, and Hermione stared at it until she fell asleep.

…

Hermione was to inspect Draco's class the next day. She was lucky that the potions room was so cold. She did not sleep well the other night, and any sort of cushy warmth would have caused a repeat of the embarrassing episode in Professor Flitwick's class. She would simply die if that happened with Draco.

Draco, Hermione had to admit, was a capable teacher. He did not display the professionalism of the late Professor Snape, but he was getting there. He obviously earned the respect of his students, especially the girls; they hung on his every word. His lecture tended to slip toward more of the theoretical uses of potions instead of the technicalities of making them, but he always managed to stay on track. To Hermione's thorny disappointment.

He stared at her every once in a while with a smug smile on his lips, knowing he was a good professor and merited a good report. That ticked Hermione off. Her quill constantly fanned back-and-forth in her hand. Her fingers itched to check some of the boxes to the right – the ones listed with remarks such as "biased lectures," "displays inconsistency with his sources," and "obviously incompetent."

Instead, she exacted her little revenge by writing biting quips alongside her observations. A knowledgeable professor, earning the attention of his students with an attractive façade and well-worded witticisms. This inspector does not doubt that the passage of time will eventually allow for student respect rooting from his experience rather than a handsome smile.

It felt good being a petty bitch.

When the class ended, Hermione left with a bad taste in her mouth. She and he should have had nothing between them. The competition should have been over. Ignore him. Regard him with apathy. Dilute the potency of his existence with indifference. But she entertained that thought for only a moment, for Draco Malfoy flashed her a dazzlingly fake smile and said cheerfully, "I hope you've enjoyed the lesson!" as she passed him

Heat raged within her forehead. The corner of Hermione's lip twitched, and she left for the hallway, her hands fisting in indignation. Hermione felt a passing urge to smoke before her observations of the next class, but Hermione waved it off.

Headmistress McGonagall and she remained on speaking terms, surprisingly. The headmistress never trusted her motives from the beginning, but she left Hermione alone. Hermione could not figure out the headmistress's objectives.

It was quite obvious that McGonagall had taken pains to seek out Draco. Hermione also thought it quite a coincidence that the headmistress just happened to have in her possession the pensieve that she had created eight years ago. Other than this time, Hermione had returned to Hogwarts only once during her long absence and that was to bury the pensieve in the ruins of what was then the underground passageway through which they escaped.

Hermione silently thanked Merlin that she had the foresight to protect the pensieve with enchantments. It would have been better if it were destroyed all together, but she couldn't bring herself to do it. Even now, she was unable.

So she had hidden it deep within the earth in the safest place she could have ever imagined. She supposed some day in the future a scholar would dig it up and witness her part during the war, but she never imagined that day would be so soon.

Now, Hermione had to figure out what she was going to do with it.

Though looking into a person's memories without permission was strictly against the law, there were things contained inside that basin that could make it very easy for a person to gain a warrant to make an official Ministry case against her.

Hermione's head spun with the possibilities of what could happen.

God, she really did need a smoke.

She exited through the western passageways and found herself in an open courtyard. She sat on a bench, and lit up and puffed, watching the slow progress of the sunset. She needed to destroy the pensieve. But what was stopping her?

"I hope you enjoyed the lesson, Miss Granger?" came a voice from the doorway.

Hermione drew in, kept the smoke within herself for a few seconds, then breathed out. "You handled your students well."

"Why, thank you." He approached her, this time garbed in casual black slacks and a white Oxford with the top two buttons undone. "May I?" He gestured to the empty spot next to her on the bench.

Hermione was loath to say no.

They sat in silence for a while. Hermione tapped the butt of her cigarette repeatedly, putting out the flame, and watched the ashes drift in the air.

"I've been having very strange dreams lately," Draco began.

Welcome to the club, Hermione thought dryly.

"I was in a swamp, speaking with you."

Dear lord, she hoped that this wasn't going to take that direction.

"It was during the war, and all I felt was desperation." Draco paused, his eyes flickering. "There was someone else with us as well."

This sounded too familiar for her liking. Hermione's hands clenched into fists in her lap, but her expression remained neutral.

He was injured and smeared with blood. He howled, tears staining his face. His kneecap was nonexistent and all that kept his shin connected to his thigh was a fleshy piece of tendon. "Water" was what he cried. "Give me water…"

"It's just a dream, Professor," Hermione said sharply. "And frankly, I'm not that interested."

Draco visibly stiffened next to her. Hermione meant offense, and he damn well took it. Good. She had enough of this. Hermione stood up to leave, but found herself pulled down sharply by her wrist.

"You are interested," Draco said lowly, closing his hand more tightly around her arm. Little shocks of pain soared through out her body. "Because this really did happen."

"Let me free."

"Let me go," she replied coldly.

"Not a chance in hell."

"Not until you tell me the truth, Granger."

Hermione stared at him, her eyes wide. "Why…why did you…"

He still did not let go of her wrist. "That's what I used to call you, isn't it…Granger?"

"You're mad!"

"You're delusional. Let me go."

Eyes of steel. Impenetrable. Unyielding.

Draco's eyes were unyielding, even to Hermione's desperate pleas. All he did was stare and stare at the crumpled form of a war-torn soldier with whom she had once talked for hours, studied, cried...

"You may be pureblooded, but you're so foul to me," he hissed, raising his wand.

"No. NO! RON!"

Something seemed to explode in her chest. Hermione stood up and pulled her wrist free from Draco's grasp. Then she turned around to face him, swinging her arm so that her bare palm smacked him burningly across his cheek.

His neck snapped to one side, and Hermione stared, horrified at what she had just done.

A moment of unbearable silence stretched across them like a rubber band pulled too tightly.

"Don't think I don't know who you are, Granger," he whispered finally. "I know who my father is. I know with whom his alliance lied."

Despite her control, Hermione felt herself tremble.

"I remember going on my knees, begging him to forgo his foolish allegiance. I remember when he cursed me, disowned me, told me I was no son of his for allying myself with a…a…Mudblood." He looked up to stare at Hermione. "You were that Mudblood, weren't you?"

Hermione clenched her jaw.

"You know what I am talking about. Because you were there. I know you were there, hidden but listening, watching."

She turned toward the door and walked away.

"Who were you to me?"

The slam of the door was his answer. Draco sat alone on the bench and covered his face with his hands, nails digging into his skin. He howled in anger, in confusion, in misery.

…

nine years earlier…

Draco had arranged a meeting between his father and himself at Point Echo, dangerously close to Hogwarts but also close to the Death Eater camp so that no one would miss Lucius if he had off for a while since they completely blocked off the area from apparation attempts.

Hermione hid herself behind a tree, a few meters from Draco so that she faced his back, using spells so that she melted in with the shadows. Draco did not want her to come, but Hermione refused to stay behind. They were all each other had in these times, and if one of them were captured, they were both stuck in a hole with no way to get out.

They were arguing. Lucius had been surprised at first to see his son – the son that he had believed as dead or kidnapped. Draco was grim. This was his last plead to his father, and Lucius in response called his son a manner of things ranging from "humiliating disappointment" to "blood-traitor".

"Father, he isn't one of us," Draco implored. "He was not born like us!"

Lucius's eyes flashed and he stared at Draco as if he had just grown another head. "Not one of us?" Lucius echoed. "You great fool, Draco. Do you believe that this war is truly based on the ideals of blood?"

Draco opened his mouth to reply, but Lucius continued.

"It's about power, my little fool of a son. Power and honor."

"What honor is there in following a crazed half-blooded fanatic who understands nothing of our world?!" Draco nearly screamed. His self-control had never been strong, and Hermione had been surprised it lasted this long.

"And just what is it what you understand of our world?" Lucius snarled. His grip on his wand got so tight his knuckles were white. "You were born in a time of a minor pureblood victory, when the muggle world was under tighter Ministry control after the Dark Lord's first rise. You enjoyed the pleasures of pureblood supremacy. Our colleagues monopolized the Ministry, the banks, and the businesses. We had the power in our magical society. But then, muggle-loving fools like Dumbledore and Weasley infiltrate the minds of the younger generation into thinking that pureblood ideology, our natural right of superiority in this magical world that our fathers, our ancestors, had founded is bigoted arrogance."

"Father," Draco pleaded, his voice nearly breaking. "He's a monster. He's mad."

Lucius stared at Draco coldly. "He's intelligent enough."

"His greatest desire is to kill Mudbloods and half bloods, no more," Draco deadpanned, though his voice shook.

"Since when have you ever been against that ideology, Draco?" Lucius asked, displaying his gleaming teeth with a feral grin. "They spread like a cancer, infecting our society like a disease. Let him kill whomever he wants. When he has satisfied his desire, our time will come to rise again from the ashes of our ancestors, as a phoenix would rise after its initial death."

"Father, the Dark Lord will never allow a pureblood to ascend to power. All he will do is destroy our society, our place in magical history."

Lucius stared up at the sky, his face impassive. "Our society, this deplorable status quo of our status in this society, is no longer fit for us, Draco. When someone muggle-born, a man who has lived almost half his life not even aware of his own magical powers, claims the job as Head of the Security of the Magical World over the candidacy of our very own MacNair… You can see that there is something fundamentally wrong in this equation, Draco."

The night was quiet from them on. Hermione had to strain to hear the rest of their conversation, but she kept quiet and did not dare to move from her hiding spot.

"Go, Draco. I have no more to say to you."

"Father –"

Lucius whipped out his wand and pointed the tip toward Draco's throat. "Did you not hear me, boy? I am still your father, and when I tell you to do something, I expect to you obey without question."

Draco did not react immediately. "I'm so sorry, Father," he said finally and bowed. A farewell. He walked away, passing her without a word. Hermione stood still behind the tree, not daring to move. Had she seen tears in his eyes?

She turned back toward the older Malfoy, who had already lowered his arm and was glaring into the vast emptiness of the night. "Go," Lucius whispered. "Go and survive."

Hermione wondered if Draco had heard that, but she never got a chance to ask.

…

Hermione could not wait to get out of Hogwarts.

The following day, she purposely rushed her schedule so that she was observing four to five classes a day. At this rate, her mind was going to be mushy from concentrating on lectures and enduring stupid childish pranks the students pulled on one another when they thought the professor wasn't looking, but if it could get her out any quicker, the better.

Hermione was paranoid about smoking now. She recounted all of her encounters with Draco Malfoy and realized that a majority of them occurred because she had been outside. Hermione now smoked from her room, though she was very aware that that was something of a great lack of respect, but she always opened her window and aired out her sheets so that nothing would smell bad.

With his memories wiped out and not a single spare knut in his pocket, he still insisted on dominating her.

That bastard.

Which made Hermione wonder. How had he been able to remember again? Was his condition similar to amnesia and all he needed was something to trigger a memory? If that was true, Hermione had come to Hogwarts at the least opportune moment.

Sometimes, she dreamed about him. Dreamed about what she did with him, what she said to him, what she wanted about him.

They had never been lovers, but they had not repulsed each other either.

After their escape from Hogwarts, they fled to a part of muggle London that was their home for the next three years.

They were as desperate as mice.

Both of Hermione's parents had been killed as soon as seventh year started. Draco received the news of his impending Dark Mark. Ideals clashed, but it brought them closer, and together, they managed to outlive the more powerful wizards who had taken up their wands against the Death Eaters and the Ministry.

She still thought herself as half-mad for ever making a deal with someone like Draco Malfoy.

The inspections went about according to schedule and, thankfully, without flaw. Hogwarts was officially Ministry-approved. When Hermione finished her last inspection, she toasted herself with four glasses of wine that dinner in the Great Hall and chatted amicably with all the professors, thanking them for their patience and good humor.

Hermione had to force herself to approach Draco. It would look suspicious if she shook hands with everyone except for him, and anyway, she wanted this relationship to end here and now. She did not ever want to see him again because it hurt when she saw the lost, unsure look in his eyes, and she always ended up wondering, how am I to handle this?

It would have been so much easier if he remained dead.

"Thank you, Professor Malfoy, for your cooperation," Hermione said professionally and offered him her hand. It was the same hand with which she slapped him, and she knew that they both remembered.

Nevertheless, Draco accepted her hand and drawled, "It was hardly a problem, Miss Granger."

Hermione stared at him, her lips pursed. Then, she slid his fingers from his and nodded, moving away. That bastard, he did not know when to let go of the past. Because stuck between her fingers was a small folded piece of parchment, her name still written elegantly in dark ink.

As soon as she took her seat, she unfolded the parchment. The message made her lose her breath.

"I too would like to know what is inside that pensieve."

Hermione looked up to find Draco staring at her, the mirth in his eyes replaced by coldness. Shaking her head, she stood up, thanked the headmistress for the dinner, and half-walked, half-ran to her quarters. Draco followed quickly after.

Upon entering, Hermione opened her wardrobe, took out an armful of clothes, and shoved them into her open suitcase. She was stupid to come here. Nothing good ever came from meddling around in an unpleasant past.

"What have we done?" Hermione half-sobbed, falling to her knees into the blood-soaked field. "Malfoy, what have we done?!"

The Massacre in the Forest, historians would call this battle later on. But it was neither a battle nor a massacre. It was a nightmare of blood and corpses: a field that would never lose the smell of death, a wasteland forever choked with a fog that would never ever clear and set the souls of the dead free.

"It was what we had to do," Draco said, his voice worn but still determined. "We agreed that there would be consequences."

"No. No, nonononononononono!" Hermione screamed, covering her ears and shaking her head. Draco wrapped his arms around her tightly, yelling at her to pull herself together.

"We're murderers! We're traitors! We're worse than both of them!" Hermione shrieked.

Draco held her until her frantic screaming reduced itself to quiet sobs. When Hermione finally looked up to stare at his face, he too was crying.

The door to her bedroom slammed open against the wall. Hermione whipped around, wand drawn out in the duelist's position. As she half-expected, Draco stood in the doorway, his face a mask of quiet fury. His wand, too, was drawn.

"Get out of my room," Hermione snarled. "Or I swear on Ron's grave that I will throw at you everything that I have."

"You know what has been bothering me, Granger, since the first time I saw your face? You seemed so familiar, like a fading dream, but so elusive. Like a mist…or water slithering between my fingers, no matter how tightly I fist my hand." His body tensed slightly, and he smirked. His voice was wispy but the undercurrent of threat coloring it made Hermione more than just nervous. "Then these memories…these visions hit me like bricks, and I find myself staggering sometimes with the rush. I feel like I'm taken with the current sometimes, flailing and drowning, and all I see is your face, and I implore you to save me. But you do nothing."

Hermione's hand was steady. "Get. Out."

Before Hermione could react, Draco had already cross the room in two strides.

"Expell –"

But with a swipe of his hand, Draco knocked the wand from Hermione's fingers and sent it clattering against the wooden floor. He gripped her shoulders, one hand sliding against her collarbone and wrapping around her neck.

"Who are you to me? What have we done?" he whispered, lips grazing her ear.

A whimper escaped Hermione's lips. She could hardly breathe. As if reading her mind, Draco slightly loosened his grip and pulled her away a bit so that she could look into his eyes.

"Were we lovers?" he asked her almost gently.

Blood rushed to Hermione's cheeks.

"Were we enemies?"

Hermione's mouth quivered, forehead wrinkling. "Draco…"

"I want to know. I'm so tired of living in this cloud, this never-ending dream that is so monotonous…"

Hermione stopped struggling and breathed rapidly. Should she tell him? Did he not deserve some truth, some pain?

"Get off me!" she screamed, pushing suddenly against his chest and making a dive for her wand, despite the arm that wrapped around hers. They wrestled for a few seconds, him trying to get on top and pin her down against the floor. Hermione squirmed, and though Draco was so much stronger than her, she slid out from underneath him and got to her feet, rushing to where her wand lay prone at the foot of her vanity.

"Bitch!" Draco screamed, getting to his knees as well. He reached out his hand and grabbed the back of Hermione's shirt and sent them both crashing into the vanity. The silver basin on top tilted, and Hermione, who had managed to pick of her wand somehow during the struggle, opened her mouth to perform a curse, only to have Draco push her backward into the edge of vanity. She arched her back and screamed, her spine thrumming with pain at the sharp impact. She did not see that in the skirmish she had plunged her wand into the pensieve.

Hermione only knew when the world twirled around her. Her eyes widened in horror as she too saw Draco Malfoy's wand in the pensieve right next to hers.

"You damn fool," she whispered to her bewildered counterpart as the fog started to overtake them. Hermione felt an indescribable coldness creeping its way to the core of her body, and she prayed that her past would not further shatter her already broken present.

…

"Where are we?" Draco asked, his voice throaty.

Hermione pushed him away and covered her face with her hands. "We're in one of my memories. In the pensieve."

She felt Draco turn toward her. "In the pensieve? Two people at once? Is that even possible?"

She moaned. "We're both here."

"Why can't I see in this fucking pensieve, then?" he snarled. "Was there ever a day with so much fog?"

Hermione muttered the counter-enchantment, and the fog started to retreat from the depths of magick where she had first summoned it.

In a few minutes, most of the fog cleared, but a slight mist remained. This was not a part of her enchantment. Hermione looked around, and her heart almost stopped. She found herself in a field, and when she recognized where she was, she fell to her knees. Oh Merlin. No.

Eight years had passed. And she still had nightmares about this day.

The day of the Massacre in the Forest.

It was the same misty field where that ever-familiar smell of blood permeated the air.

"Oh God, no. No. NO! It can't be!" Hermione whispered. She tried every spell she could think of to escape this memory. This was one episode of her life that she did not want to repeat.

"What are you dong?" Draco demanded irritably at her frantic incantations.

"We need to get out of here," Hermione nearly shrieked. "We need to stop this memory."

Draco snorted slightly. "More of your secrets, you clandestine bitch? What have you done here that makes you so nervous? Anything vulgar? Some tryst, maybe, with someone forbidden." He grinned maliciously, teeth gleaming despite the mist.

Without warning, Hermione whirled around him, her curly hair fanning out in the motion. "You damned fool! Look at the field and tell me that this is a place to have a tryst."

Draco did as she told and turned around, the nasty smirk still playing on the corners of his lips. But when the field greeted him, all signs of mirth disappeared and horrified fascination colored his face.

Bodies carpeted the open field. The battle had occurred here in this exact place. Ministry members allied with the Order of Phoenix at that time had been in the process of evacuating from the abandoned base of Point Echo when they were ambushed by a group of Death Eaters waiting near the forest.

A huge coincidence with even greater consequences.

"What…why…?" Draco stuttered.

Her answer was hollow. "It's called the Massacre in the Forest."

He whipped around to face her, but Hermione nodded her head toward a certain point in the field. "Look."

There, a black hooded figure walked through the field, stepping over the corpses with complete disregard for the dead, it seemed.

The figure seemed to regard the field around him, as if proud and sickened by what had happened. Another figure, this one in robes of red, emerged into the memory, smaller and more delicate, and stood next to the larger one.

They began to speak, it seemed. Soon, their conversation escalated into a row. The red-robed one screamed something and fell to her knees on the blood-soaked field.

Draco walked closer toward the couple, but Hermione grabbed his arm.

"You will never be able to let go," she warned him.

He merely shrugged her off and approached the two robed figures of the past.

"It was what we had to do," the black-robed one said, his voice worn but still determined. Draco's eyes narrowed slightly. The voice seemed too familiar. "We agreed that there would be consequences."

The red-robed figure, the one who had fallen to the ground, began to cry. Her small body trembled violently with her sobbing. "No. No, nonononononononono!" she screamed, covering her ears and shaking her head. Her companion wrapped his arms around her tightly, yelling at her to pull herself together.

"We're murderers! We're traitors! We're worse than both of them!" the girl shrieked.

Draco jerked. Her voice... He heard it so many times in his worst nightmares.

Her companion pulled her up to her feet and held her until her frantic screaming reduced itself to quiet sobs. Despite his cool façade, the black-robed figure's shoulders were also shaking, and it was not difficult to guess that he was crying as well.

When Draco turned toward Hermione, she was in no better shape, her hand covering her lips and her eyes squeezed tightly shut.

Suddenly, the red-robed girl pushed away her companion, causing him to splatter down onto the bloody ground and soak the back of his robes with red. The hood fell down to his back, as did the girl's, and Draco took in a sharp breath.

The two…were them.

Hermione in the robes of red. Draco himself in the black.

Visages of themselves almost ten years ago.

Eyes still so much older than they themselves were.

Behind him, Draco heard Hermione breathe out and whisper for forgiveness to whatever god she believed in.

"What have we done, Malfoy?" past-Hermione sobbed. "What have we done? All – all these innocent people… Dead… Cold… Why? Because of us. We're covered in the blood of the thousands dead. Because of us!"

Past-Draco stood up shakily. "Shut up, stupid Granger. We did we what we had to do. We've done worse if you think about it –"

"I've had enough!" past-Hermione screamed. "I can't do this anymore – this filthy lying, betraying…"

Past-Draco walked over to his companion and lifted her quivering chin. He placed an open-mouthed kiss on her moist lips to which she fervently returned until she seemed to grip where she was and whom she was kissing. She pushed him away, weakly spitting in his face as the tears continued to roll down her red cheeks.

"MacNair is dead. So are Goyle, the two Bones brother, and Snape." Draco returned to Hermione, holding his face between his hands as if she were a china doll, unfazed by her previous hostility. "Those of power…they are almost all dead. Then we won't have to fight anymore. We won't have to lie anymore. We're smarter than them – we've been smarter since the beginning."

Hermione hiccupped. "The two giant whales fighting… We watch until they both bleed to death…"

"Then we will be the rulers of the ocean. That's my girl," Draco whispered, wiping the corners of her eyes with his fingertips. "Oh, God, Granger. Don't back out on me now. I can't do this without you."

Draco, the one watching, turned to face Hermione, his face pallid. Hermione could not face him. It was what both of them did together, but Hermione could not help but feel shame at such a display of emotion.

"Oh my God," past-Hermione whispered. She raised her finger to point toward a spot in the field. "Malfoy. Someone survived."

They both hustled toward the designated place, and fell to their knees, lifting bodies until they reached the one that had been moaning. Past-Hermione gasped. Past-Draco's face turned stony.

Ronald Weasley. His face was blackened by the fire, his skin blistered, and body and robes smeared with blood, but they recognized him easily. With the weight pulled off his chest, he breathed in and began to howl in agony, face contorted in pain and body convulsing as if in shock. He was hurt badly. His left kneecap was nonexistent and all that kept his shin connected to his thigh was a fleshy piece of tendon. "Water" was what he cried. "Give me water…"

They, rather Hermione, had levitated him all the way toward Point Echo. Death Eaters of Ministry-Order troops were bound to show up soon, and they had to get away. Hermione refused to leave without Ron.

The two outsiders viewed this memory, one captivated yet sickened, the other just sickened in general to see it over again. They followed their two past selves through the field and into the marsh that was the old abandoned Point Echo.

Past-Hermione had been diligent in caring for Ron. She had wrapped up his knee, or what was left of it, and fed him as much water as she could find. Past-Draco watched on from the shadows, disapproving but not able to deny her anything, especially after her earlier outburst on the field. By that time, Draco had observed many tendencies of the human psyche. He noted that it was easier to control when it was more tranquil, and to keep it tranquil, it had to be indulged every once in a while.

Ronald fell asleep soon after.

Past-Hermione sat next to him until she was sure he was resting. Then she turned toward past-Draco, her eyes red-rimmed from the shock and the crying. "Malfoy…"

He held her to him, giving her permission to cry though she didn't. Good girl.

The memory then faded and they were lost in the fog. But the two outsiders did not return to the world outside the pensieve. Draco turned toward Hermione for an answer to which she responded, "I had fallen asleep."

No sooner had the words left her mouth, they were back in the swamp again, though it was considerably darker. Past-Draco was standing over the prone Ronald Weasley, though he was not in the same spot that Hermione had placed him. Past-Hermione sat up quickly and crawled toward the two, horrified to see that Draco had drawn his wand against Ron.

"Malfoy!" she shrieked. "What are you doing? Put that wand down!"

Past-Draco kept his eyes on Ron, who was fully awake by now, and growled, "Do you know what he tried to do while you were asleep, Granger? He tried to strangle you! He tried to fucking murder you!"

Hermione turned toward Ron, eyes wide. "Is this true?"

Ron did not answer but glared, eyes gleaming with unshed tears. "Traitors. All…this time…"

"Oh Ron," Hermione whispered, slumping onto the ground. He could not have hurt her more if he had plunged a dagger into her chest. "Forgive me, but I had to. I couldn't – "

Suddenly, Ron's eyes gleamed and his hand shot out toward her hair. Gripping a fist-full of her unruly locks, he dragged her head towards himself as the other hand searched for her wand. Hermione screamed, demanding that he let go, that he forgive her, that she was sorry.

Suddenly, Ron released her hair and Hermione looked up to find Draco's foot digging deeply in Ron's injured knee. He screamed, shouting out curses and flailing his arms against Draco's leg. Hermione, once gaining perspective on what Draco was doing, shrieked at him to stop, that he was hurting Ron.

This time, Draco ignored her completely.

"You filth!" Draco roared, adding to the insanity of the night. "You should have fucking died back there! Rats should have been feeding on your sorry corpse! Filthy excuse for a wizard! You're worse than all of us – you're worse than Mudbloods!"

"Stop it, Malfoy. STOP IT RIGHT NOW! GET OFF HIM!" Hermione yelled, clawing at his leg.

Draco's foot slid off Ron's demolished knee cap, but he had hardly spent his fury.

"You blood-traitor. You fucking blood-traitor!" Draco was getting hysterical. "Your whole disgusting family revolts me! Your kind is what drives people like my father and MacNair and Goyle to follow around a half-dead corpse like lost dogs! Filthy blood-traitors. You weren't even born like them, and yet you still go against us!"

Past-Hermione's eyes widened. Oh God. She couldn't believe she was hearing this.

"Your kind exhibits our vulnerabilities to the rest of the world, and what happens? Some fuckwit half-blood maniac comes along and exploits every one of those weaknesses for his bloody parade to be led by us, his disposable puppets! You may be pureblooded, but you are so foul to me. Blood-traitor. You filthy, disgusting, putrid…"

"Malfoy," Hermione cut in sharply. "That is enough."

Draco narrowed his eyes and. He bent down and pulled out a small dagger from the back strap of his boot. "Yes, it is enough."

Hermione's heart jumped in her chest. "Malfoy. What are you doing?"

Ron stared at Draco with wide eyes.

"Your treachery runs deeper than any of ours," Draco whispered, eyes not leaving Ron's pallid face.

"No. Malfoy! Stop!"

"You are Fortune's fool," Ron spat out. "You…the puppet…act like they want you to. You accuse me…to quiet your own doubts…to quiet the scream…of your insignificance." His eyes followed the progress of the dagger. "Set me free."

Black amusement shaded Draco's smile. "Not a chance in hell."

Ron's eyes flickered toward Hermione. "Then I'll see you…both of you…there."

Draco's dagger slashed open Ron's throat, cutting his flesh into ribbons. Ron tried to scream and did until those screams were reduced to strangled, gurgling sounds as Draco ripped apart Ron's vocal chords with his fingers and left the him choking on his own blood. Hermione screamed and screamed ("No. NO! RON!") through out the whole process, unable to close her eyes but unable to do anything to stop what was happening.

There was too much blood. Too much human flesh. Too much stink of death.

When Draco finished the business, Hermione was already numb, inside and out. Her fisted hands bled where she her nails had dug into her palm. Her throat felt raw, as if Draco had slashed her neck, not Ron's.

The night was silent for a long while. Crickets did not sing. The river did not follow its own current. Ron lay on the swampy ground, unrecognizable now with his blood-streaked face frozen in that pained, horror-stricken mask and with a great, gaping hole where his neck should have been, steaming even in this muggy heat.

"You're mad, you know that?" Hermione told him, her voice deflated and empty.

Draco stared at her, stringy pieces of Ron's flesh caught in his hair, his pale face soaked with a splashes of Ron's pure, special blood. It seemed red, not blue, to Hermione. It looked like the same blood that everyone else had, only with the ancestral proof of generations of wizards and witches to endorse it.

They did not speak for days after that episode.

The world swirled around them, and the pensieve released them.

…

They both found themselves in Hermione's quarters a few seconds later. Draco's face was pale, his expression pinched, his fists clenched. He was shaking. Badly. Hermione offered him a blanket, but he refused with a curt shake of his head.

She did not know what she could say or do.

"When did you put that memory into the pensieve?" Draco finally questioned, his voice deep and threatening.

Hermione hesitated slightly before answering. "Two years into the war. Almost eight years ago."

Draco nodded curtly. "Has anyone else seen this? Do they know…do they know that I was responsible for that man's death?"

She shook her head. "The memories here have only been witnessed by my eyes. Now yours."

His breaths were loud and shaky. His forehead looked moist. Hermione grasped his clammy, trembling hand, but Draco pulled away, rejecting her offer of comfort. "How many people have we…killed?"

The question was a difficult. So was the truth. "Thousands."

The revelation was either too much for Draco or he didn't believe her. Either way, he exited from her quarters, shoulders hunched and strides unsure. Hermione watched him leave and fell down onto her bed. Her heart thrummed.

She needed to finish packing, but she couldn't bring herself to do it. She crawled under her blankets and brought her knees to her chest. She lay in that fetal position, feeling more vulnerable than ever, and kept her eyes closed.

…

The deal that Draco had proposed was a simple one.

They were to leave Hogwarts together, using their connections on both sides to their advantage and advance the war. When both sides crippled each other to the extent of no recovery, they would both emerge from the ashes of the war and claim domination over the wizard society in their own fashion.

But they did not look so far into the future. What they truly wanted to do was just survive.

Draco was to receive the Dark Mark and the whole package that came along with it: a mar on his skin that automatically allied him with what he hated and feared (though Draco never admitted that) most. Hermione had been orphaned in the most severe way: Dumbledore, the one man she had trusted to protect her, had been murdered during her sixth year, and her parents were both killed and mutilated in the beginning of her seventh year. She had been lucky that she had been at Hogwarts, or they would have gotten her as well, though Hermione never figured out who they were and did not get to exact whatever revenge she promised for herself.

Difficult times are always the most unbearable for those who do not belong to any party in power. In Hermione's case, she was the hunted victim on both sides, with those in the Ministry secretly eyeing her as if she were vermin, as if she were the reason that this war began. Harry was constantly sent into hiding when she needed his companionship the most, and Ron, despite his efforts, ended up downsizing everything that was happening. Ignorance was bliss, at least for him. And Hermione understood him to some extent. It was easier for Ron: he was pureblooded and not first on the Death Eaters' priority list, though his parents were well-known muggle-sympathizers.

It really was a lose-lose situation for both of her and Draco. They just took the path that seemed more do-or-die than suffer-and-die.

Hermione had been loath to agree with Draco's plan, but she was tired of being alone, tired of fighting to live each and every day by herself. She desired his companionship more than anything else, and Hermione knew that in this game of life-and-death, Draco would always look out for her, even if he hated her and disdained her for being the Mudblood she was.

Using Draco's funds, they hid from the outside world and buried their lives around lies. Hermione still kept correspondence with Harry and some of the other Order members, and managed to gleam information off them. Draco did the same with his father, Crabbe and Goyle, and a few of the other Slytherins. They would then gather together their information and calculate which move would benefit them the best.

Sometimes, they lived together. Sometimes, they lived apart, even in different countries. But Draco would always keep contact. On her pillow, on her desk stand, on her vanity he would always leave an envelop with only her name written in the middle, and inside there would be a short note, something that no one else would take the time to analyze, but would mean the world to Hermione.

He was always with her with those notes. She never felt alone. Hermione had guarded those little scraps of paper like sheets of gold.

For the three years of the war, they had played an elaborate, dangerous game of chess.

But Draco changed. And so did Hermione.

He became more of a fanatic, bit by bit losing the cool-headedness that was so crucial to their survival. Hermione herself felt herself slip, exhaustion racking her body like a seizure.

The Massacre in the Forest had cut the last strand of their insanity.

The history books called it an amazing coincidence that the two armies had met. The tabloids called it an elaborate conspiracy that the two just happened to be there at that particular time. In this case, the tabloids were more accurate than the history books.

Draco and Hermione had been planning this move for five months, tracking Death Eater and Order movements. Hermione had been working with the Ministry at the time, and Draco, though refusing the Dark Mark, still kept his tight circle of Death Eater friends. A little tip here and a little note there opened up so much possibility. If the two had to have learned one thing during the war, it was the power of suggestion.

They were both tired of the war. So they planned this: two great armies with many of the important players would meet and battle. It would be a massacre, but it would end the war more quickly.

It was amazing how cold and ruthless they had once been.

After Ron's death, however, their relationship seemed to deteriorate.

Draco seemed more aloof toward her and much more zealous about the murdering, about the end, about the aftermath. Though he was never violent with Hermione – their relationship had past the boundaries of petty name-calling and secrets – he still began to frighten her so deeply that his notes failed to comfort her. Hermione knew Draco inside and out, and she was sure it was likewise with Draco to her.

She put up with him as he had put up with her. It was a difficult process and at times, painful, but they remained united – until the day came when his insanity reached new levels Hermione committed her final and ultimate betrayal.

That was when Hermione began to smoke.

…

The next day was another hot one, though the humidity had almost dried out and when the sun began to set, the cold began to arrive. A sure sign that autumn was arriving.

Hermione finished packing, wrapped up her observations, and went to bid her farewells to the Headmistress McGonagall.

The two women, this time, were seated across from each other at the empty Gryffindor table, sipping iced tea.

"I hope Hogwarts will receive a good report," the headmistress began conversationally.

Hermione smiled tiredly. "All teachers have passed the inspections. I still need to write the official report, but I'll be sure to mention just how competent the professors here are."

The headmistress snorted into her cup. "I hope that report won't be a long replication of what you wrote for Professor Malfoy."

Hermione choked on her tea and her face turned red. "Oh. You…read that?"

The headmistress flashed Hermione one of her rare smiles. "Old rivalries die hard, don't they?"

Hermione grinned a bit bashfully.

A silence tangled the two women for a time afterward. They finished their tea and their cakes quietly.

When the headmistress stood, Hermione did as well. The headmistress eyed Hermione inquisitively.

"I don't know what you've done during the war, Miss Granger. And I suppose I'll never know until you choose to tell me."

Guilt overtook Hermione for a second. But then she saved face. "It was a difficult time for everyone, and I'm not certain I feel prepared to recount my experiences. Forgive me."

The headmistress nodded sternly. "Miss Granger, I know you do not have as much trust in me as you did in Albus, but I want you to know that if you ever need help, preferably help that is legal and philanthropic, you always will have me in Hogwarts."

A sign of a peace. "Thank you."

After kissing the headmistress's cheek, Hermione prepared to leave. But then, the professor stopped her with a question.

"Have you faced your ghosts, Miss Granger?"

Hermione paused, considering her words before answering. "I'm still trying."

"That pensieve…" the headmistress started, "I did not find it. Professor Malfoy did."

Hermione stopped for a brief moment. "Yes. I had suspected."

"He seemed to know so little and so much at the same time." The headmistress's smile was a bit crooked. "Do you know how a phoenix can die young, Miss Granger?"

"No. How?"

"It loses its innocence too early in its life."

Hermione let the words sink in. She then nodded and left.

…

Draco Malfoy had gone out to the quidditch fields to watch the sunset. Despite the fact that she had left over half a year ago, he still had hoped she would be there, smoking her cigarette and being her usual bitchy self. He hated to admit it, but the little twit had grown on him. Of course it was not that surprising, considering how they had knew each other for so many years before.

Memories were starting to flood back to him. What he thought originally as impulses and brief scenes of his life gradually pieced together like a quilt blanket. He continued to gather further insights from his dreams and from meeting people who had once knew of him.

He had waken up in the hospital in the May of last year, and he had never felt so utterly lost. The Mediwizards were speaking in the language he spoke, but Draco could not understand to what they referred when they asked him questions about some dark lord and people who ate death.

What he had learned those lonely days were that his mother had passed away during the time he had "slept" (as they called it) and that his father died during the war.

All the Mediwizards could conclude was that Draco had been a soldier, a fighter for either the Ministry or the now-scattered Order of Phoenix, judging by the fact that he had no Dark Mark, and that he was hit with a powerful spell that rendered him into a coma for nearly six years.

All Draco could think of was that he was alone in the world, and that was the most desolate feeling in the world.

Until the letter from the headmistress came.

She had called him to Hogwarts to teach as a Potions professor. Outside of the Mediwizards who cared for him, no one knew of his mastery of potions. She had to have been observing him, but Draco was so glad to get out of the hospital that he did not care if the old witch had been spying on him while he was in the shower.

By the time he had reached Hogwarts, he had a rough sketch of his background. He had been the one-time heir to one of the grandest estates in the magical world that was now almost non-existent thanks to war-time legal measures and his own father's disastrous pillaging of their family's resources. No wonder his mother passed away so quickly. He was a student at the school called Hogwarts, not one of the most brilliant students but pretty smart just the same. Most of his companions fought on the losing side of the war and were either dead, rotting in Azkaban, or in the mental institution. Life seemed gray and colorless. No one was left, not even him – he just never felt as if had fully waken from his sleep, as if he were a waif in both the real and dream world.

After attending daily Potions seminars, Draco had taken to wandering around the grounds of Hogwarts, sometimes feeling a rush of familiarity in one place and nothing in another. He found the pensieve on one of his expeditions, and when he found that he could not look into the memories, he handed it over to the headmistress.

That same pensieve was next to him right now, capped with a wooden lid. He held Hermione's letter in his hands.

Malfoy,

Sometimes to fight the ghosts of the past, it's better to attack them straight on. At least, for me it is. I don't know about you, but I want to give you a chance to have that attack for yourself.

I created this pensieve one year into the war, and continued to guard my most important, most difficult memories for the next seven years until I buried it within the Hogwarts ruins underground. How ironic that you're the one who dug it up and you're the one who will have it last.

I've altered the mechanics of the pensieve slightly. The memories will only be visible to you and will play only once. The memories taken out will disappear. When the basin is empty, it will self-destruct. There is no time limit – you can take out one memory a decade, if you want.

Those times were difficult for me, Malfoy. And they must have been for you too. I know you must hate me for all that I've put you through, but the only thing that I ask of you is not that you understand but that you at least try to sympathize. I know I'm not pureblooded. I know I'm not even half-blooded. I am only me, and after twenty-seven years of my life, I accept and embrace the fact that that's all I'll ever be.

-Granger

Only one memory remained. Draco had saved this one for his last for a reason. It was Hermione's final registered memory of him and her together.

He had saved it for one week. Perhaps he was afraid that after this, the basin would explode and there would be nothing left. He would have the memories, but what good were they when he couldn't change anything about them?

Through Hermione's pensieve, he lived through betrayal and murder, adoration and kisses. They were refugees for three years, and it was surprising that the furthest they had gotten sexually was lay in bed together and kiss. He sometimes had urges, not entirely of a carnal nature, to touch her skin. Sometimes at night, he laid in his bed, his heart strangely aching for some reason. The pain was real. He was awakening, and it was hard, but now he saw in colors – the vibrant red of blood, the soft yellow her favorite roses, the glittering brown of her eyes.

He could not deter himself any further.

Draco drew out his wand and lifted the lid to the basin. As always, a curling mist creeped out of the top. With a deep breath, Draco dipped in the tip of his wand, and closed his eyes, feeling himself get sucked into the basin and into Hermione's final memory of them together.

…

Draco found himself in the ever-familiar swamp that had been the infamous Point Echo – the place where everything happened.

He heard voices – undoubtedly they belonged to Hermione and him.

"You're mad! You're completely, utterly mad!" Hermione screamed.

Past-Draco's looked up at the girl, his lips corked in a twisted smile. "You're growing weak. It had to be done."

"They were children."

"They were twelve and sixteen, and their father was an important member of the Death Eater ranks."

Hermione flailed her arms around like a shot bird would its wings. "What Death Eater rank? They are all dead! Let the Ministry officials and bounty hunters deal with them. As for us, let's leave the country. I can't stand being here anymore."

Draco wouldn't answer her. He buried his head in his hands. He was such a mess. His hair reached down to his chin and he was badly in need of a shave. Hermione's face was a mask of pity. He hardly slept. He hardly ate. All he concentrated on was ending the war, killing off any and everyone who would get in his way to his ascension to glory.

He held such bitter hate for the Death Eaters, the Ministry, the now-scattered Order of the Phoenix…

It seemed as if sustaining that hate was all he lived for, and they both were slowly dying because of it.

Draco watched the scene, his face grim. This part of his past was all new to him, but he found he understood everything that his ruined past-self had felt. The disillusion, the lazy bloodlust, the desire to finish without flaw something worked on so meticulously for three years…

"Malfoy."

He did not lift his head up from his arms.

"Leave the country with me. Let's start a new life somewhere else, away from this dirty war. The wizard society is completely destroyed here in England, completely changed beyond imagination. Places like Switzerland that have remained neutral – it must be so much more stable there and –"

Draco stood, drew his wand, and performed a binding spell on Hermione in but a second. The battle tactics the war had forced him to master remained with him in his instincts.

"Don't you ever talk about that again, you understand me?" Draco seethed, a murderous gleam in his eyes. "I have not wallowed in the darkness with some filthy Mudblood for three years to flee with my tail between my legs. I will not have it. I will rise as Draco Malfoy, a man with the power and resources to make every person in the wizard community tremble at the sound of my footsteps. I have defeated two great armies by myself. As soon as this war is finished, I will emerge into society with you behind me to win support of the Mudblood crowd, do you understand me?"

Hermione nodded the best she could under his binding spell. He released her. He glared at her for a few more seconds then his confident expression fell to that of desperation. He collapsed on top of Hermione, begging forgiveness for his cruel treatment of her, for his temporary madness, to which she nodded and said she would readily give.

He didn't even notice when she slipped her hand into his robe pocket and slid out his wand.

Draco found himself suddenly pushed away. When he regained his composure, he saw Hermione standing upright, eyes blazing and her lips drawn in a thin line, with the tip of her wand pointed at his throat and his own wand gripped in her other hand.

Realization stuck Draco. His eyes widened, his face contorting from hurt to defeat to anger in a span of seconds.

"I can't let you continue on like this, Draco." Hermione's voice was low. She spoke his given name like a curse, as if that would give her more power.

Draco's face was dark with fury. He wasn't sure he completely understood, but he was still very angry. "You little lying bitch. You little bitch. YOU FUCKING TRAITOR BITCH!" He lunged toward her, but Hermione cast the binding spell on him quickly. She too learned enough of combat skills during the war.

Tears rolled down her face, but her determined expression did not change. "I'm so sorry."

He jerked and wriggled on the ground, giving Hermione's spell a test, but she maintained her ground.

"You're completely mad, Draco," she whispered. "At this rate, you're going to become like him, like Voldemort. Another dictator. Another tyrant. And I know you can, that you will. You're too smart. You're too ruthless. Oh God, how did it come to this?"

"You terrible little whore. After all that we've been through, when you're finished using me, you throw me away, do you?" He bit out a harsh laugh that seemed choked with sobs. He too understood the reasoning behind her words, but the disappointment of arriving so far yet tripping so completely at the finish line destroyed him.

"You mean the world to me," Hermione whispered, his voice trembling. She raised her wand.

"You mean nothing to me," Draco spat out. "You're nothing but a back-stabbing, lying, little whore."

But Hermione ignored those words. She hardened her gaze. "It was nice working with you." Her voice was clipped, as if she had not meant to say that.

His smile was that of vengeance and incredible insult. His eyes were unreadable.

"I'll be seeing you again."

Then the world went back. Hermione had closed her eyes, and before the future-Draco knew it, he was back on the quidditch stands, silent tears rolling down his own cheeks, though everything was just as how he remembered.

…

The field of barley swayed along with the wind like a tranquil ocean of gold. Spring was soon coming to an end and summer was beginning to arrive. Once again, Hermione had fled to her Romanticist sanctuary without so much as a word to Harry, which was unsurprising since she and he did not speak as much as they did before. At least, they didn't speak as much as they did before she had left Hogwarts.

Harry Potter and Hermione Granger. They were still friends – the closest friends as two orphaned people could be – but they were now so distant from the deep intimacy they had once shared. She never told him what she and Draco had done, but Hermione got the feeling that Harry guessed. Or if he didn't guess, he knew she had done something so terrible that he himself did not want to know. Hermione could not leave Harry because he wouldn't leave her. They were two survivors of the filthiest war, and though the paths they had taken were completely different from one another, they understood the unique pain of being so alone.

He too was a victim, but a victim of the expectations of so many others who used him as they would a tool. How Harry Potter had managed to destroy Voldemort was wrapped in mystery and controversy. Harry had done terrible things in the war too. He had emerged changed, just like the rest of the soldiers. He also had his secrets.

They were no saints, and they both had dark pasts. Perhaps that's why they could sustain this fragile camaraderie.

But Hermione still felt lonely. She had told Harry virtually nothing of her part during the war. She never told him the truth behind Ron's death.

For probably the millionth time, Hermione wondered if Draco had gotten the letter and the pensieve. She was curious and nervous as to whether he chose to view the memories, and if he did, what he thought of them. He must be furious.

In the end, it was she who fucked him over the most. The Death Eaters had nothing on her.

Hermione closed her eyes and set her tea cup down onto the saucer.

Would he want to claim his revenge?

Would he want justice?

Hermione didn't know how she was going to react, but whatever he wanted, let him come and claim it. No more tricks, no more betrayal. She made the mistake when she left him alive.

That final curse was supposed to kill him.

Hermione did not understand what she had done incorrectly. She herself had checked his pulse and there was none. But had she known that he wasn't dead? She should have checked more carefully. Draco, after all, was never an easy person to kill.

Instead, he had ended up in a coma for almost six years and had woken up with his memories erased.

Right after Hermione had left Hogwarts when she finished her inspections, she had asked a few of her sources at St. Mungo's and managed to speak with some of the Mediwizards that attended to Draco during and after his coma. At the hospital, she picked up his file case, which the Mediwizards assured was very interesting. She would be the judge of that… When she ever got around to reading it. The file folder was currently on the kitchen counter, unopened.

Hermione took another sip of her tea, for once being able to enjoy the silence.

TAP! TAP!

Or maybe not.

She thought about ignoring it, realizing it was probably another owl from Harry telling her to get back to London. But then again, it could be something important. Hermione groaned, lugged herself up from her chair, and opened the door to have an owl hop in.

Hermione stroked the top of its head after untying the small envelope from the owl's feet. She went to the kitchen to offer it some water, which it took greedily in gulps, and Hermione turned back to the letter.

The envelope was a large, standard office-size yellow one. She tore it open, expecting a pile of official Ministry papers, but raised her eyebrows when another small little envelope fell out and landed on the ground.

No. It couldn't be… Could it?

Hermione bent down and picked up the envelope. Just as she had suspected, her name was written on the front, neat and elegant. Only her name. No return address. Nothing.

With trembling hands, she carefully tore open the flap in the back and took out the paper. It was a note. A short little note that Hermione would guard like a sheet of gold.

"A phoenix dies and turns to ashes if it loses its innocence too early in life."
"(But what emerges from those ashes?)"

Hermione yelped as the note burst into flames, this time not green but red and gold, sharp and brilliant like the feathers of a phoenix. The parchment crinkled as it turned gray and the ink ever blacker. The door to her cabin suddenly swung opened and the burnt-out letter was taken with the breeze.

Without thinking, without even her shoes, Hermione ran outside, following the progress of the ash. It led her toward the field of barley, toward the forest, toward the darkness of the night where the stars seemed to twinkle so much more brightly and the moon shine so much more clearly.

She knew he was there before she even saw him.

He stood there, dressed in black pants and a white Oxford shirt with a cloak of dark, glimmering gray thrown over his shoulders. His hair gleamed, his skin glowed, and Hermione thought him a prince from the stars.

She stopped running and approached him cautiously, her breathing heavy and quick. "You're here."

His smirked slightly. "So I am."

Her throat seemed to close up. His voice – his cool, clear voice; it was like a dream. "Have you…have you seen them? The memories, I mean."

The look in his eyes was sufficient enough of an answer.

"Are you angry? Have you come to exact your revenge?"

"I don't know why I've come, really. I don't even know what I am going to do," Draco admitted quietly.

The remained, standing a few feet from each other, forcing formality and quiet politeness.

Until Hermione could take it no more.

She ran to him, not caring about anything – not the fact that he must have been very angry, that he must want some sort of vengeance, that he was still loath to be intimate with someone he had just newly "met". Discarding all of her previous worries, her cares, her guilt, Hermione threw her arms around him, tears springing to her eyes, and he held her tightly to him, digging his face into the curve of her shoulder. They remained like that for a long time, holding each other as if they would never go. Even as night gave way to dawn, they remained, drawn together by the circling breeze carrying the burnt remnants of Draco's final note to Hermione, where those words of forgiveness and of progress from past to present to future glimmered even in the waning glow of the moon – those few precious words, all written in the ashes.

finis

---

Fic Request
BRIEFLY describe what you'd like to receive: Exploration of pureblood pride: I do not want a Pureblood pride (equals) racism (equals) evol simplistic puerility. Give me substance, give me complexity.
What rating would you prefer?: any
Deal Breakers (what don't you want?): Fluff with happily married domestic bliss and a dozen kids and ickle Uncles Won and Hawy. Don't mind fluff, as long it has bite and is not inane.

End Notes: This has been one of the hardest things I have ever written! I truly didn't expect such a request and being the perfectionist that I am, I was trying to incorporate the perfect story with the request. It all ended up being a huge mess, and I thank Tara and Jenn so much for granting me an extension to completely re-edit my story. I had this finished by the deadline but it had been in a state of badly needed editing, which proved just as difficult as the writing phase.

I wasn't sure how to incorporate elements of pureblood pride in there, as you could probably tell, and hoped it would emerge by itself as I wrote. Eh… It did…sorta…just not in the way that I would have preferred. At least I didn't dig myself into a hole by ending the story with a happy Draco-Hermione wedding party! W00t! That's something to celebrate. Cha!

Agarttha, your request definitely tested my abilities. It was a theme that I really did not explore well enough despite all of my fanfics in the HP fandom, much to my chagrin. But I did learn a lot from writing this fic, and I really, really hope that you enjoyed it and got what you wanted out of it.