Somewhere I Have Never Traveled.

[Liz-Miia Parker]

PART III: SOMEWHERE IN BETWEEN

The decision to kiss for the first time is the most crucial in any love story. It changes the relationship of two people much more strongly
than even the final surrender; because this kiss already has within it that surrender.

- Emil Ludwig

Chapter 21; Hello to Hogwarts

The arrival at Hogwarts was not nearly as joyous as Hermione had expected. As they stepped off the train, she was reminded painfully of the harsh segregation of their school. The Slytherins and Gryffindors stood on opposite sides of the station, casting furtive glances at one another. She watched as the Slytherins greeted Draco. Pansy threw her arms around him and planted a kiss on his cheek. He smiled a small smile at her antics and set her down firmly. The other Slytherins seemed just as happy to see him. He was, after all, their unspoken leader.

The welcome from the Gryffindors was no less exuberant. Ron stood at the front of them, and when he saw them he hugged Hermione and then shook hands with Harry and clapped his shoulder in that complicated way boys had. He hugged Ginny as well. Hermione frowned. He had given her a tentative hug, almost a beseeching hug. Ron was never cautious, especially where Harry and Hermione were concerned.

Hermione felt her stomach clench with a sense of wrongness. Something was off about Ron. She would have to ask him if he was feeling alright later. She glanced across the crowded train station and saw Draco surrounded by friends. Is this how it will always be? she thought. A hundred people standing between us? Draco never even looked back.

I don’t need him, he was never anything to me, Hermione began convincing herself immediately. He is my enemy, nothing more.

“What are you looking at, Hermione?” Parvati asked her suddenly.

Hermione snapped out of it and turned her gaze on Parvati. “Nothing,” she said truthfully.

“I hope that git Malfoy didn’t give you three too much trouble,” Dean commented as Ron, Ginny, Harry, Parvati, Hermione, Seamus, Neville, and Lavender walked up to the castle.

“Not the kind of trouble you think,” Hermione muttered under her breath.

“What?” asked Lavender, always on the lookout for gossip.

“Not too much trouble. The usual,” Hermione replied loudly.

She did not fail to notice Harry’s relative silence on this subject.

“Harry,” said Dean, serious for once, “something’s happened.”

“What?” asked Harry, his face full of concern. “What’s happened?”

“Blaise Zabini has gone missing. The Slytherins are blaming it on Gryffindor and the Order,” Neville said. “Tensions have really heated up between us and Slytherin. And . . .”

“And what?”

“There have been some rumors of war . . . take over . . . whispers of the final battle. You lot have been out of the country, but Muggles and Muggle-borns in Britain are sometimes being killed on sight by Death Eaters. No place seems safe anymore but Hogwarts.”

Hermione watched Ron pull his coat closer around himself and hunch his shoulders way from the wind. He kept his eyes on the ground.

“Even Hogwarts isn’t completely safe,” Lavender added in. “Gryffindors and Slytherins get into brawls in the halls regularly, and the teachers don’t know how to prevent it.”

“You guys chose the wrong time to leave,” Seamus told them. “We needed you.”


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“We’ve needed you, Draco. It’s been awful. Some sixth year Gryffindors attacked a third year . . . he’s still in the hospital wing,” Pansy said softly. “Everyone’s scared to death.”
Draco shook his head. “Unbelievable.”

“We’re sure that the Order had something to do with Blaise’s disappearance,” Pansy continued angrily. “The Gryffindors deny it, but they’ve become more vicious than ever. I want you to call a truce. We can’t have any more of this.”

Avery touched Pansy’s arm. “Leave us for a minute, will you, Pansy?” he asked, and gave her a meaningful look. He dropped his voice. “Death Eater business.”

She looked at Draco beseechingly, but he shook his head.

“I’ll talk to you about it later,” he said softly, and she walked away icily. She hated being left out of their conversations. Draco constantly had to remind himself that it was for her own good.

“Let’s take a walk,” offered Nott. Draco, Avery, and Nott started on a slow course around the lake.

“We wanted to fill you in on what’s happening,” Nott started. “Frankly, we suspect that our Lord is engineering the final takeover.”

“Are you serious?” asked Draco. He had heard nothing about this.

“Our fathers have become increasingly confident and excited. Something is happening. We figured you would know more about it than us. You’re the highest ranking Death Eater at this school.”

“Keep your voice down,” Draco admonished. Then, “My father was acting odd also.”

The sudden talk of politics seemed surreal to Draco. He was so used to dealing with Krum and Fleur and Hermione, so used to talk about the murder and the Ambassadors.

“Then it’s true,” said Avery softly, awe and triumph in his voice. “This is it. The last battle. Lord Voldemort promised that all Muggles would be killed. If this really is the last battle, we’re going to rule the world.”

“And the Muggle-borns?” Draco asked.

“What?”

“The Muggle-borns. What is our Lord going to do with them?” He couldn’t imagine why his heart was pounding so hard.

“Slaves, every one of them,” Avery said proudly. “Groveling at our feet, ashamed and broken where they’ve always belonged. The half-bloods will become lower class citizens, and only Purebloods will rule. The age of Muggles is ending, Draco. The age of Wizards will begin.”


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FACT: The Druids religiously worshiped a ‘snake god’, which was called ‘Draconita.’
Salazar Slytherin was buried under Stonehenge.

Lupin could not believe it.

One of the most famous places in the world held one of the most notorious Dark Wizards of all time. It was brilliant because everyone had overlooked Stonehenge as too obvious of a place for Slytherin’s burial.

It generated more questions than it answered, however. Why had no one discovered his grave, and how did the powerful object relate to Salazar Slytherin?

As Lupin had researched the Druids, he had also come across many odd coincidences that had to do with the tale of King Arthur. He had long assumed the story to be only a legend. The first and largest coincidence was that the final battle of King Arthur had taken place on Salisbury Plain. Salisbury Plain also happened to be the place that Stonehenge rested. Was there a correlation?

There was a great deal of information about Arthur’s son, Mordred, who had in the end killed his own father in the Last Battle. Mordred had also been dealt a deathly wound, and had apparently been buried very near where he had been killed. He was often called Mordred the Traitor.

Was it possible that there were two famous figures buried at Stonehenge, Mordred and Slytherin?

He decided to research Modred a bit more, because the Centaur had mentioned ‘The Once and Future King’ in the Prophecy. He took a seat in the Hogwarts Library, hoping that he did not look overly conspicuous. He opened a book titled Way More than You Ever Need To Know About the Legend of King Arthur. Why were books named so poorly?

Mordred the Traitor.

Born circa 490 AD. Died 537 AD. Was killed by his father on Salisbury Plain, and had an elaborate burial ceremony close to the site that he was killed.

Little is known about Mordred’s earlier life, only that he was shunted from his father’s Kingdom at the age of seventeen. The sword that Mordred stabbed King Arthur with is rumored to be one of the most notorious objects in the known world. Thousands have searched for this long lost relic, which is presumed to be buried along with Mordred himself.

“Professor Lupin?” came a bemused voice, shocking Lupin out of his book.

He looked up to see Ron Weasely staring at him disbelievingly. An easy grin came over Ron’s face as he recognized the Professor.

“Good day, Ronald,” Lupin said politely.

“What brings you here, Professor?” Ron said , obviously pleased to see his old acquaintance. “I haven’t seen you in a long time!”

“I was talking to your Headmaster, actually,” Lupin said diplomatically.

“Were you?” questioned Ron. “What about?”

“Well, it is a bit of a secret . . .” Lupin started, but did not wish to make the boy feel excluded. “I’m sure you’ll find out soon.”

Ron nodded wisely. “What are you researching there, Professor? King Arthur?”

Lupin cursed himself for leaving books out where people could see them. “Yes,” he said with a smile. Ron sat down opposite of him and picked up a book.

“Oddest thing, Professor, we’re studying the legend of King Arthur in school right now! The story is actually true, but no one can seem to figure out whether Arthur was a Muggle or Wizard. What do you think?”

Lupin paused. “I was actually reading the strangest account of the life of Mordred, and I can’t help book notice the oddest coincidences between–”

But he cut himself off as he realized that he was not supposed to share his ideas too freely. Laughter sounded from outside of the library, and it was obvious that classes had resumed again.

“Between what?” Ron asked, obviously curious.

Lupin smiled. “Perhaps I will tell you one day when it means that I will not be keeping you from your real classes. Off with you, now, or you’ll be late.”

Ron’s eyes flashed dangerously. He didn’t look miffed, he looked downright angry. “Promise to tell me later, Professor.”

He walked off without another word.

Lupin immediately opened a reference book that held Salazar Slytherin’s information in it.

Salazar Slytherin, circa 496-537 AD.

He glanced incredulously at the other book.

Mordred the Traitor.

Born 495 AD, died 537 AD.

Words came back to him swiftly.

Little is known about Mordred’s early years . . .

Very little has been discovered about the later years of Slytherin . . .

Some say Slytherin may have changed his name, others say . . .

Thousands have searched for this long lost relic, which is presumed to be buried with Mordred himself.

Slytherin is buried at Stonehenge.

Modred died and was buried on Salisbury Plain.

Stonehenge lies on Salisbury Plain.

A gunshot exploded in Lupin’s ears. He came to the startling realization that there was one fact that even Dumbledore had overlooked.

Mordred is Slytherin! It isn’t that two people were buried at Stonehenge, just one. They’re the same person. And this means that . . . Slytherin is king Arthur’s son. Salazar Slytherin killed King Arthur. King Arthur killed him.

And finally, the pieces came together. The long lost relic was Mordred’s sword, the very one that he had slain King Arthur with. It was the most powerful and evil magical ever object created, and also the sword of legends. Voldemort was looking for it.

Lupin stood up dazedly and went to talk to Dumbledore for what seemed like the thousandth time.


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Harry felt glad to be home, despite the relative state of war he had been thrust into. Hogwarts was just as grandiose as the other two schools, in its own fashion. It had a warm grandeur and an ancient aspect that characterized it with charm beyond dark Durmstrang and imposing Beauxbatons. The charm of Hogwarts lie in its spontaneity, in its oddity. He liked his own school infinitely better.
Hermione, sitting next to him, cast a discreetly worried glance toward the Slytherin table.

It was dinnertime, and Harry smiled politely at something Renae told him. The Beauxbatons group had chosen to dine with the Gryffindors, while Durmstrang felt at home near the Slytherins. He kept a careful eye on all of the Ambassadors; after all, it was helpful to know where his enemies were. One of them was a murderer.

Harry stood up suddenly. “I thought about what you said, Seamus. I’m going to make a truce with Slytherin. Or I’m going to try.”

“Do you want someone to come with you?” Dean asked immediately.

“No. I can handle it,” Harry said.

A smile came over Seamus’s face. “That’s the Harry we’ve needed all this time. But be careful. The Slytherins are . . .”

“I will,” said Harry with a mirthless smile. He couldn’t have innocent young Gryffindors getting hurt over a feud that belonged to their parents.

“My,” said Fleur, and fanned her face. “Ze French Ambassadors ‘earby declare zemselves neutral to all of zese inter-house rivalries. Very unmannerly, if you ask me.” She raised her nose imperiously.

The majority of the Gryffindor students at the table ignored her.

Harry approached the Slytherin table with no trace of fear. Draco seemed to know of his presence, and turned around, his eyes as malicious as Harry remembered them.

“I want a word with you, Malfoy,” Harry announced, crossing his arms. He radiated far more power than he realized.

Draco looked nonchalant, but some of the other Slytherins had their hands on their wands. Did they really think he would attack Malfoy in front of the teachers? Had it gotten that bad?

“Just one word?” Draco questioned sarcastically. “I knew Gryffindors weren’t good at forming coherent sentences, but this is just . . .” Laughter rang out behind him.

“Cut the pitiful act and get up, Malfoy. I said I wanted to talk to you,” Harry snapped fiercely. The Slytherins around him shifted defensively.

Draco’s eyes turned to ice. “If I feel like it, I might talk to you after dinner. Now get out of here. You’re contaminating Pureblood air.”

Harry stared at Draco with intensity, but nothing had flickered on the Slytherin’s cold and disdainful face. Harry shook his head, and turned to leave. Draco was the same as ever. For one moment, Harry had been convinced that he had changed.

“So?” Dean asked as Harry took a seat at the Gryffindor table.

“I’m talking to him after dinner, apparently,” Harry spat.

“Same old Malfoy,” he heard Hermione say softly. There was a trace of sadness in her voice. Why did Harry find himself wishing it wasn’t true?


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Draco appeared in the hallway after dinner, as he had said he would. Harry waited there for him, stony faced. They decided to talk outside, away from prying eyes and ears. Whispers flew through the air; Harry Potter and Draco Malfoy were negotiating.
“Is anyone following you?” Harry asked abruptly, when they were out of hearing.

“No,” Draco said honestly, and narrowed his eyes. “What about you?”

Harry shook his head and glanced around quickly. Why did he feel as if he were being watched?

“I hear some of your sixth years attacked a defenseless Slytherin third year,” Draco said with soft malice. “Your house becomes exceedingly more pathetic.”

“And yet we can never seem to surpass the pathetic Slytherins. Do you really blame the Gryffindors for Blaise’s disappearance? How stupid can you get, Malfoy?”

The two young men glared, and were sharply reminded of why they hated one another. In France and Bulgaria, it had been easy to pretend that there was no Slytherin, no Gryffindor, no animosity. But at Hogwarts, they were like two generals of warring nations. They were helplessly pitted against one another on the brink of war. Friendship wasn’t unlikely, it was impossible.

“I do not believe anything of the sort, Potter. As you always have, you generalize beyond all rationality.”

“And you, Malfoy, make snide rhetorical comments when I am only looking for a word of truth.”

“Then you will look forever. Truth is the biggest lie of all, Potter. It’s honest people like you that don’t understand that.”

“I think you’re deluded, Malfoy. You lie so much that you don’t even know the meaning of truth anymore.”

“Is there a difference between delusion and truth? Perception is reality, after all.”

“If perception is reality, then how is it that you and I see the same Snitch as you do on the quidditch pitch?”

“The Slytherins weren’tat fault.”

“Don’t try to change the subject.”

“I didn’t.”

“You did,” said Harry fiercely.

“Maybe I did,” replied Draco in a soft voice. “You were winning.”

A ghost of a smile flitted across Harry’s face, but he was quickly sobered by the fact that he had smiled at Draco. The old Draco. The one he couldn’t trust.

“Look, Potter,” Draco started in condescending tone, “as much as I would love to pound the pulp out of you Gryffindors, I am fortunately not as brash and single-minded as your substandard acquaintances, and though the notion of an accord has never been previously aforementioned, I am under the impression that it would benefit both my superior entourage and your uncultivated contemporaries.”

Harry was silent after that. “Did I hear you propose a truce somewhere in that load of bullshit?”

“To put it in moronic Gryffindor terms, precisely.”

“Then, yes,” answered Harry, “your house drops their accusations about Blaise Zabini and we promise not to attack any more Slytherins. That is, of course, if you behave yourselves as well.”

“It’s a deal, then,” Draco said. Harry stuck out his hand in a chivalrous fashion.

Draco smirked. “Like I would shake your hand,” he added after a moment, before he walked away.

Harry stared after Draco, a frown fixed on his face as he stood alone by the lake. Eventually the frowned turned into a small smile, and he followed Draco inside.


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“If you need anything, my room is down the hall on your left,” Hermione said, keeping her eyes focused on Renae. When she looked at Fleur she felt too much like a maid or stewardess. The French Ambassadors had been given some old, unused guest rooms near the Head Boy and Girl dormitories.
“Thank you, Hermione,” Renae said graciously. “Your castle is beautiful, once again.”

“We’re honored to have you,” Hermione replied with equal eloquence. She could practically feel Fleur roll her eyes as she turned to walk away.

Hermione made her way quickly to her Head Girl dorm, relieved to be back at Hogwarts. She didn’t notice a shadow slip in behind her as she muttered the password and entered her room. On her bed, luggage was strewn around messily. She hated messes, and vowed to unpack in the morning. Haphazardly, Hermione dug through her luggage to find a nightdress.

Loosening her hair from its bun, she undid the first three buttons of her blouse.

“You really should be more careful with your password,” came a voice from behind the wardrobe. She gasped in surprise and groped for her wand. “This is a time of war. Just about anyone could have gotten in here to snoop around, murder you . . . watch you undress.”

Draco stepped out from behind the wardrobe, a contemplative expression on his face.

“Malfoy!” she said indignantly. “Of all the gall . . .! How dare you sneak into my room!”

“I thought it was rather chivalrous,” he said with a smirk, “to make myself known before you lost the shirt. Who knows, maybe Potter is rubbing off on me.”

“Harry never would have done it in the first place,” she retorted. “Now what in the name of Merlin are you doing here?”

“I wanted to see you,” Draco said innocently, his gaze downcast. “And I can’t exactly walk up to you in the Great Hall, now can I?”

“You certainly can’t,” she said sternly. “Malfoy, I don’t think you get it. We’re enemies. I can’t trust you with anything. Our houses are at war and you expect me to believe that you . . . what? Wanted to see me? You’re probably a spy!”

“I know we’re enemies,” Draco answered seriously. “I’ve known that for a long time. I think it’s you that just realized.”

The slightest bit of uncertainly slipped into her features. Her face softened.

“I thought you had gone back to normal,” she said a little more quietly.

Apparently he took this as an invitation to stay, and sat casually on her bed. She stepped away from the bed and from him.

“What is normal?” he asked expansively.

“Will you stop with the philosophical questions? They make you seem so jaded.”

“I am jaded. Anyone who stays in this world long enough gets jaded. I already see it beginning in your precious Potter.”

Hermione frowned. “I don’t believe that Harry’s jaded. Not jaded like you.”

“Potter sees things exactly as I do. He has experienced as many awful things as I have. I see them staring back at me when I look into his eyes,” Draco said, and met her gaze. She saw nothing staring back at her. Eyes were a window to the soul, and she saw nothing in his eyes.

“Harry hasn’t seen awful things. Well, some,” Hermione reasoned, “but not many more than me. He tells me everything.”

Draco laughed at that, an awful chuckle. “He does not tell you everything. He cares too much about his favorite girl to do that. He only tells you what he wants you to know.”

The way he sneered favorite girl had some other connotation. Anyone but Draco Malfoy, and she would have suspected he was jealous.

“That’s not true,” she said furiously. “You don’t know him.”

“Neither do you,” Draco responded. Usually that wouldn’t have hurt her. Recently, however, Harry had become steadily more reserved. It did hurt.

“No,” Hermione said vehemently, at last regaining her footing. She never lost an argument. “But I do know that there is a difference between Harry and you. It’s true that you may have seen equally terrible things, but the way you see them is completely different. You, Malfoy, you watch these horrendous events explode around you, and you know what? You accept them. You accept that this is the way things are supposed to be, that humans are inherently evil, that nothing can be done. But Harry? Harry believes in redemption for the human race. He looks at bad individuals and thinks, ‘You know what? This isn’t how people really are. Somewhere there’s something good in humans.’ Redemption of the individual and redemption of the whole. He believes that things can be better. He has to,” she finished.

“Redemption . . .” Draco started, but ceased quickly as a contemplative expression came into his eyes. “Hell, maybe you’re right, Granger. Maybe you’re actually right.”

“Maybe I am,” she said quietly. Maybe I’m not.

“Philosophical discussions aside,” Draco intoned, “I came here to say that this whole Gryffindor-Slytherin rivalry thing really isn’t fun. Even though we’re back at Hogwarts, I can’t stop thinking about you. I don’t want to end whatever weird thing it is we have going on.”

There was only a short pause before Hermione replied, “Neither do I.”

“Come somewhere with me,” Draco pressed. “Tomorrow night. I swear you won’t regret it.”

The look in her eyes was all the answer he needed.


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Draco shut her door and laughed. He thought he was doing good. Sickeningly agreeable personality? Check. Acting like a gentleman? Check. Letting her win the argument? Check.
Things were going well.

[Kathreen Granger]

jätkata

[Liz-Miia Parker]

PART III: SOMEWHERE IN BETWEEN

But logic never could convince the heart . . .

Colin Raye

Chapter 22; Evening Escapades and Elves

Draco awoke to the sound of pounding on his door; a high-pitched screech sounded from the other side. Cursing whatever mundane life form had been so unfortunate as to awaken him at this early hour, he wrenched open the door, scathing tongue at the ready.

On second thought, he admitted that Fleur Delacour was far from a mundane life form, especially when so scantily clothed. Her low-cut nightgown was wispy and sheer in all the right places. It still hadn’t been very considerate of her to wake him up. Everyone else at Hogwarts knew better than to wake Draco before ten on weekends.

It took him a while to focus on her face and not her . . . nightgown. It was contorted in horror.

“Drah-co!” came a high-pitched scream. “Zer are giant rats in our common room!”

“Huh?” he uttered, and blinked once, trying to pull himself together.

“Rats! With ‘uge ears! Zey are going to eat us!”

He wondered if this was all a very odd and nonsensical dream. It really seemed like the only explanation at this point.

Dream-Fleur grabbed his hand and pulled him down the hall. They shot past Hermione’s room, and Dream-Fleur babbled in a loud and high-pitched voice the whole way. As last they reached the Ambassadors’ guest rooms and Dream-Renae stood outside the door, a look of revulsion on her face.

The scene inside the common room was also surreal. Dream-Jaime wielded the fire poker jerkily, and had it pointed at two figures huddling in the corner. Dream-Michael looked pale and faint.

“See!” screamed Fleur, pointing at the huddling creatures accusingly. “Giant man-eating rats ‘ave infested your castle!”

Draco responded by uttering a hysterical and slightly maniacal peal of laughter. It was a terribly rude thing to do, but the situation was hilarious. He didn’t stop himself after one, either. He sat down and kept laughing. The hall outside rang with it, and he sounded like a total lunatic.

“They’re house elves, you enormous bint,” came a scornful and sarcastic voice from the doorway. Hermione stood there, hands on her hips, looking imperious and bushy-haired as ever.

She pushed past Draco, who was still gasping from his laughing fit. “You’re completely useless,” she snapped scathingly at Draco. “And put that down!” she ordered to Jaime and his fire poker.

She knelt down next to the house elves, and Draco’s eyebrows flew up as her expression changed from annoyed to sickeningly compassionate.

“Poor things,” she said softly, “you’ve scared them to death. C’mon, now, it’s all right. Go to the kitchen and come back later.”

“W-we being t-terribly sorry, Missus, please forgive us, we were not knowing . . .”

“It’s okay. Don’t worry. Just come back later,” Hermione said sweetly. The elves scampered out.

Next she rounded on Fleur and the others, eyes filling with anger so quickly that Draco wondered briefly if she was bipolar. “Those are house elves. They cook food and clean for the castle, understand? Like the Brownies at Beauxbatons. Next time you frighten innocent little creatures like that, think twice!”

She was breathing raggedly, her eyes blazing. Draco had never seen her so worked up, and he found it rather cute.

“And put some clothes on!” Hermione added to Fleur disgustedly as an afterthought. She strode out and Draco stared after her, a dazed expression on his face. Then his lips crept upward into a smile.

Draco drifted back to his room, sad to say that the entire episode had not been a dream.


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“Harry!” called Ernie, and caught up to him in the Great Hall. “I can’t believe we have the whole week of classes off on account of the Ambassadors.”
“Yeah,” said Harry with a grin. “Maybe my group will actually start the project we were assigned. Or not.”

Harry waved goodbye to Ernie and took a seat at the Gryffindor table next to Ginny. She picked at her toast and didn’t seem hungry at all.

“Eat up, Gin,” he said softly, a worried frown creasing his forehead. She didn’t look up or even acknowledge him. She probably wants me to sod off, Harry thought dismally. She’s probably thinking about her new boyfriend.

“Why don’t you tell me who he is?” Harry asked abruptly but gently.

The corners of Ginny’s mouth twitched up ever so slightly as she picked at her toast with dogged persistence. “You wouldn’t like him.”

“Hey, you don’t know that!”

“Then you wouldn’t approve.”

“I wouldn’t approve? I’m not your father, Gin.”

“But you want to protect me.”

“What– where did you– that’s not true–”

“It is true, Harry. You’re an awful liar, you always have been.”

“I’m trying to help, and you’re being ridiculous.”

“You’re asking questions I don’t want to answer.”

Hermione burst into the Great Hall, looking more ticked off than usual. She strode straight up to Harry and Ginny.

“The press found out,” she said in a stony whisper, and thrust the Daily Prophet at Harry.

The headline read, “Two Young Ambassadors Die in France: Is It Murder?”

Harry put his head in his hands.

“What do we do now?” Ginny asked softly.

“We just don’t comment on it, even if people ask us,” Hermione replied bossily. “Not a word.”

Harry nodded. It was a good idea, as usual.

“By the way,” Hermione dropped her voice even lower, “I’m almost positive that Viktor is our man.”

“Oh no, not you too,” Harry groaned wearily, “has Malfoy finally convinced you to join the ‘I despise Krum’ club?”

“I wish it wasn’t true,” Hermione replied seriously, “but let’s just say I’ve got some really good evidence against Viktor.”

“What evidence?” Harry asked.

“Let’s not go into it in the middle of the Great Hall,” she answered.

They were silent after that for a moment, thinking.

“Where’s Ron?” Hermione asked Harry with a small frown. “I’ve barely seen him at all since we got back.”

“He’s still sleeping,” Harry said with a shrug. “It’s odd. He never used to sleep late, even on weekends. He always wakes me up, usually. Guess he’s just tired or something.”

Hermione shrugged. “I hope he isn’t sore about not getting chosen as an Ambassador. It wasn’t our fault Dumbledore chose his sister over him.”

Harry cast a furtive look at Hermione and moved his eyes toward Ginny. Hermione jumped slightly as she noticed Ginny sitting there, more absorbed in picking apart her toast than ever.

“Oh . . . sorry, Ginny,” Hermione said quickly. “I didn’t even . . . notice you there.”

Ginny’s expression didn’t change. “Ron was happy for me,” she said tightly, after a few moments.

Hermione’s face fell. “Of course he was, I shouldn’t have . . .”

“I’ll see you later,” Ginny said to them, and got up from the table without another word.

She had completely destroyed her toast.


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Later that evening, Hermione jumped as her door creaked open. She had just finished pinning up her hair.
It was Draco.

“You’re early,” she said imperiously, and checked her watch.

Draco checked his pure silver watch. “I’m right on time.”

“Exactly,” she said with a raised eyebrow.

He rolled his eyes. “The late rule is really overrated.”

Hermione stepped out of her room with him and closed the door. She didn’t want to look as if she’d been getting ready to see him or anything. Not that she had been getting ready to see him.

Or anything.

But Draco noticed immediately that she looked different. Her hair was pinned up neatly and her brown eyes seemed more pronounced. Her clothes were also less baggy. Overall she looked casually neat and pretty. He would have to do his very best to mess her up by the end of the night.

“You still haven’t told me where we’re going,” Hermione reminded him.

“Maybe it’s a surprise. Maybe you don’t always have to know everything,” Draco intoned evenly.

“But–”

“I’m not telling you and that’s final,” Draco said, doing his best impersonation of McGonagall.

The ascended flights of stairs until they reached the Astronomy Tower’s balcony. The sun was setting quickly, and the last of its rays lit up Draco face and hair, a thousand shades of silver in the evening. He didn’t look so bad himself.

He pulled out his wand. “Accio Firebolt,” he murmured.

“Malfoy, don’t tell me we’re going to–”

She was cut off soundly by a Firebolt whizzing into his hands.

“Fly?” he finished for her. “We are, actually. It’s the only way to get where we’re going.”

“I hate flying,” she whined. “I won’t even fly with Harry.”

“Potter’s an awful person to fly with. Very self-centered.”

“And you aren’t?” she retorted.

“Self-centered? Not like Potter is.”

“I know what you do with girls,” Hermione continued ruthlessly.

Draco assumed a weary pose and said, “What do I do with girls?”

“You sleep with them and drop them like trash afterwards. That’s what I call self-centered.”

Draco was silent for a moment, gazing at the floor. As last he looked up, and she was surprised to see amusement in his eyes.

“Are you seriously gullible enough to believe every rumour bitter Gryffindors conjure up out of nowhere about me?” he lied flawlessly.

Hermione bit her lip and looked away. She had no idea how cute she was when she did that.

“C’mon,” Draco continued, and held out his hand. “I’m not going to drop you, Granger. You know that.”

As always, his words had double meanings. She stared at his hand, as if she could read his intentions from it. Draco could tell she wanted to believe him, and wanted to trust him. For some reason, he really wanted her to trust him too.

It’s because I have to get her to trust me in order to gain Potter’s trust. That’s all it is.

Hermione took his hand, looking up at him with narrowed eyes. I’m trusting you, her face seemed to say. He smiled.

“Now,” intoned Draco, “you can sit in front of me, and I’ll hold onto you and steer . . .”


--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
When, at last, they landed, Hermione felt that the overall experience could have been worse. The air had been sweet and refreshing, the view breathtaking, and then there had been Draco’s body pressed against hers, and his arms wrapped around her waist . . .
Not a bad experience, by any standards.

“Where are we?” she asked, glancing around curiously. They appeared to have landed in a random spot in the middle of the Forbidden Forest.

“I come here to think, mostly. It’s a special place. I’ve actually never shown it to anyone else.” This was one of the first things Draco had said to her that was true.

“It’s not very interesting,” Hermione said bluntly. Why had he taken her to the middle of nowhere?

“This isn’t it!” Draco replied quickly. He took her hand–she shivered involuntarily–and led her to a clump of bushes. He pulled a fern back and ushered her in front of him. “This is.”

Hermione gasped, scarcely able to believe that they were still in the Forbidden Forest.

The clearing was large in a small way, being that there was enough room to feel comfortable but not so much that it didn’t feel private. Even in November, the ground was covered in a lush layer of grass, and ferns closed out the ominous forest. In the center of the clearing there was a deep, clear rock pool full of shimmering water. A small, silent waterfall trickled into the pool, catching the rays of moonlight and throwing them around the clearing. Trees clustered protectively overhead, though moonbeams filtered erratically through the branches. At first Hermione thought there were lanterns strung amongst the trees, drifting to and fro in the soft breeze, but quickly realized they were too phosphorescent to be lanterns. They had a bright, lily green color to them, and Hermione identified them quickly.

“Evening Lilies,” she said reverently. “They are luminescent at night, and are one of the rarest specimens in the world . . .”

“I know,” answered Draco.

The Evening Lilies lit up the entire clearing, and cast a soft greenish-blue light into the depths of the pool. Coupled with the harsh light of the moon, the clearing seemed truly magical.

“This place is . . . I don’t even know,” Hermione breathed. “How did you find it?”

“I just came across it, one day, flying,” Draco said. He doubted he would ever tell her how he really came across it.

Hermione walked to the side of the pool and gazed down into its sparkling depths.

“If magical botanists found this place, they would go insane with excitement. It’s like–”

But she had not noticed Draco sneak up stealthily behind her, a demonic smirk on his face. He prepared to give her a soft shove, but she whirled around at the last moment.

“What–?” she started, but his eyes were locked on hers. He took a hold of her shoulders and pushed her lightly backwards, as he had in France. With an enormous yelp, she toppled into the pool.

Feeling the shock of water hit her skin, she instinctively struggled up from the blackness. She sputtered indignantly as she broke the surface, treading water. The pool wasn’t as cold as she had expected. For late autumn, it was actually quite warm.

“MALFOY!” she screamed angrily, glaring daggers at his silvery silhouette. “You’re awful! What was that for?”

“It was for ruining my clothes at Beauxbatons!” he cried, a laugh sounding down into the water. “Now we’re even.”

“You . . .!” she said, too angry for words. “In France you shoved me into the rain first. We are so not even.”

She realized dazedly that Draco was unbuttoning his shirt. He cast it off quickly into the grass. His chest looked sleek and muscled in the soft light. He spoke, “I only pushed you into the rain because you told me to!” Then he dove headfirst into the pool, and water flew into Hermione’s face. Draco surfaced a few feet from her, dripping wet and eloquent. “So what is your defense to that?” he asked softly. The way her clothes were plastered over her body did not go unnoticed by Draco.

“My defense is . . . well, it’s that . . .” she trailed off as they drifted closer. Her hair had come halfway out of its bun, and floated gently around her.

Looking at Draco, she had a really hard time thinking of a defense.

“Is that I’m a deceitful and conniving prat?” he suggested slowly, his face so close that she could see every individual eyelash.

“Is that you’re an arrogant and self-involved moron, actually,” Hermione said softly, with a tiny smile.

“Well,” Draco replied, and touched her face, “I think you’re a hypocritical and somewhat commandeering know-it-all.”

His lips brushed her cheek for a moment and she felt herself tingle from head to toe. How was it possible to be so warm in a cold pool of water?

“Then maybe . . .” she breathed softly, as the distance between their lips closed at an alarming rate, “maybe we’re even.”

But “even” was cut off as their lips met forcefully, and Hermione felt an explosion of pleasure within her stomach. It was as if she had been waiting for this moment forever, although she hadn’t realized it.

Their kiss in the rain had been full of anger and uncertainty and explosive emotion. In the hallway at Beauxbatons, it had been soft and deep. Hermione always found the description “passionate kiss” both repulsive and cliche, but passionate was really the only word she would later find to describe their kiss. It was full of love and hate and anticipation and frustration and something else she couldn’t identify.

The bottom of the pool was too deep to touch, and she found herself sinking slowly into the water. She put her arms around Draco’s neck for balance and pulled him closer. She was surprised when she felt his hands on her thighs. He slipped her legs around his hips, and she felt an odd, deep roiling inside her stomach at this proximity.

She kissed him again, harder this time; it was a more pronounced, articulate kind of kiss.

They had reached the side of the pool (due to Draco’s steering, which she had been too preoccupied to notice), and he lifted her out. Hermione’s legs were still wrapped around his pelvis, and she scarcely noticed where he was taking them due to fascination with his dripping lips.

He set her down on the soft bed of grass, her hair out splayed out around her, glistening and wet in the cool air. She vaguely noticed the luminescent lilies blowing in the soft breeze, and was overtaken with a sense of perfection.

She hadn’t even realized how badly she had wanted to kiss him until she had done it. Her mouth turned to flame, and it was nothing less than mandatory that she pull him closer. He was like a dangerous and addictive drug that she would get more of at any price.

She had never come anywhere close to feeling this way about another boy. Ever.

His hands trailed slowly from her neck to her shoulders, and then down her back.

Her mind reached for some way to justify her actions with logic, for any train of thought that could have led her to the conclusion that it was okay to snog Draco Malfoy in the middle of the Forbidden Forest. Unsurprisingly, she found no justification.

Hermione drew in her breath as he placed his full body weight on top of her. His chest was toned and smooth, and the feeling of his body pressed so close to hers brought forth a new sensation. Heat began radiating relentlessly from the center of her body. As he kissed her more firmly, she felt her breathing speed up.

She reached with no avail for logic. Where was her constant companion? Why hadn’t she thought the situation through logically? There was a bleary haze clouding her brain, and every moment it seemed that her precious logic slipped farther and farther from her grasp.

Sonorous shocks of pleasure engulfed her as Draco pinned her down more firmly. He began unbuttoning her blouse and cast it off quickly into the grass. Her bare skin on his was sensual, and his mouth slipped to her neck. He caressed her skin languidly with his lips. Her hands slid to his back and she ran her fingers along the smooth skin. She felt him give a shiver of pleasure.

Her brain was more mottled than ever as she made a final and desperate attempt to retain some form of logic. This attempt failed. Draco was driving her crazy and there was nothing she wanted more.

Hermione did something she had never done in her life. She threw logic and common sense out the window.

Or at least, she almost did.

But logic never entirely left her. She was afraid of trusting Draco, afraid of letting herself go, afraid of being out of control, afraid of not understanding, afraid of liking him, and most of all afraid of loving him.

As she had done in the hallway in Beauxbatons, she pushed firmly on his chest. This time Draco did not budge.

“Malfoy,” Hermione started, warning in her voice. She did not trust herself with Draco for one more second. She was on the verge of letting him continue. He attempted to silence her with a kiss, but she turned her face away.

“Malfoy!” she repeated persistently, as she pushed him away more urgently. He remained on top of her, but looked into her eyes intently. At last Draco realized she was serious; she didn’t want to go any further.

“Malfoy, stop,” she said more softly, feeling small under him. He was breathing hard, through his nostrils.

“And what if I don’t want to?” he asked her back. Despite what he had said earlier about not being self-centered, Draco Malfoy had always gotten everything he wanted.

Now he wanted Hermione more than anything and he wasn’t going to get her unless he forced her to keep going.

With a groan that seemed half pent-up lust and half frustration, he took himself off of her.

“Do you realize that you drive me absolutely crazy, Granger?” he said angrily, eyes flashing up to meet hers. She sat up, and Draco looked furious. “You drive me crazy in so many more ways than you know.”

Truth rang in this statement, which was, for once, far from a lie.

“I’m sorry, Malfoy,” she said softly, out of breath, “but I just haven’t thought this over . . . it isn’t logical . . .” she trailed off as she realized that he was really angry.

“Get up,” he ordered in a deadly tone. Draco looked as if he wanted to break her neck. She didn’t obey.

“And what if I don’t want to?” she mimicked sarcastically. Draco noted that someday her sharp tongue would get her into trouble. He grabbed her arm roughly and jerked her up. Then he spoke.

“You see these evening lilies, clustered around this pool? How can so many grow in one place, like a common daisy? It isn’t logical, is it? This whole clearing isn’t even logical, is it? A beautiful clearing in the middle of a deadly forest doesn’t make sense, does it? Or . . . or what about the stars up there? Do you think they planned themselves out logically? I am so tired of hearing about your pros and your cons. You’re pathetic. Can’t you do anything without weighing the consequences? You can’t live your life like that, Granger, so don’t even try.”

“You could be lying to me!” Hermione said in defense. “This could all be an act on your part! You can’t erase seven years of hatred in two weeks, Malfoy. It just doesn’t work like that.”

Draco looked at her indefinitely (had he ever been indefinite?) and an expression flitted across his face that she couldn’t be sure of. It had looked suspiciously close to guilt. Draco let out a slow and thoughtful breath.

“C’mon, Granger. Don’t you trust me? What do I have to do?”

Hermione was silent for a great deal of time, looking at the ground as intently as Draco was gazing at her.

“I don’t know,” she said, looking up at last. There were tears in her eyes. “I don’t know. Maybe you could start by flying me back to the castle.”

“We’re not going anywhere,” Malfoy asserted firmly, “until you tell me what you’re so afraid of.”

“Afraid of?”

“Yes.” He did not elaborate.

She considered answering, and took a deep breath. “I might be afraid that I’m losing control.”

“And?”

“I might be afraid that there’s something bigger and more important out there than knowledge. I might be afraid that logic has been my guiding force throughout my entire life, and that logic tells me you’re awful. I might be afraid that my heart tells me something completely different.”

I might be afraid that I’m falling in love with you, she added silently.

“I once had a quidditch coach,” Draco told her, “who said that if you’re in control of your broom then you’re just not going fast enough. Because I don’t know about you, but I’d rather crash into the ground than lose the game without ever having a hope of winning.”

A few moments of silence followed those words.

A tear dripped off of Hermione’s nose. “Why do you have to be so right?” she accused him. Suddenly she found that she had somehow fallen against his chest, and that he was holding her tightly. Suddenly she found that she was crying harder than before.

“Because sometimes you have to be wrong,” Draco said softly. “Even you, Granger. Sometimes you have to be proven wrong.”

She was wrong about this. Hermione had been so obsessed with control and logic that she had never taken a chance. This isn’t how I’m supposed to live life, she realized.

She sank down on the ground, her agony sharp and wounding. Draco sat on the ground also, and held her still. Sobbing softly, she sank back against him, and they both lay back in the magical clearing, watching the evening lilies drift listlessly. It wasn’t long before she had fallen asleep in her worst enemy’s arms.

As Draco fell asleep, he realized that he couldn’t see the stars.

[Kathreen Granger]

edasi

[Liz-Miia Parker]

PART III: SOMEWHERE IN BETWEEN

ooo

Lie for fun and fake the way I hold you . . . let you fall for every empty word I say.

Brand New

ooo

Chapter 23; Forgiving and Forgetting

Draco awoke to the color blue. It took him a moment to realize that the blue represented sky.

He sat up suddenly as memories came flooding back. Hermione in the pool, Hermione with her legs around him, her hair splayed out around her like a chestnut halo on the grass.

He ran a hand through his hair. Had they . . . ? No. He remembered the sharp disappointment of taking his body off of hers, of realizing that he had failed to seduce her.

I still want her, Draco thought with dismay. I want her more than I’ve ever wanted anyone.

He realized also that it was a different kind of want.

He wanted her body, for one. He wanted to explore every crevice; he wanted it to be his. He wanted her in the mindless way that teenage boys sometimes wanted girls. He wanted her in a way that would fill up the emptiness within himself. He wanted her selfishly, lustfully, hollowly.

But then there was something else.

Sometimes he wanted to hear her laugh, and sometimes he loved watching her when she wasn’t looking. Sometimes he was content with talking to her, and sometimes he just wanted her to bite her lip in that thoughtful way she had.

“What’s wrong with me?” Draco asked the dead air around him. He felt like he had an awful disease. He had never been an obsessive type of person, but Hermione was on his mind more than he liked to admit.

He looked once at her softly sleeping form, and walked around the pool to retrieve his shirt.

The Plan. He had to get back to the plan. He was supposed to seduce Hermione in order to gain Harry’s trust. That was the plan. That was all.

Pushing her into the water had been part of the plan. Shagging her had been part of the plan. Letting her fall asleep in his arms had not been part of the plan. Holding her while she cried had not been part of the plan.

Doing these things suggested that he cared about her, or something equally as ridiculous. She was just a pawn to use to get what he wanted.

What doI want? he asked himself. Do I want what my father wants?

He heard a slight stirring behind him, and he knew that Hermione had woken up. He visualized the plan, vowing not to stray from it this time.

ooo

The first thing Hermione was aware of was that her anagram independent study paper was due tomorrow. The second thing she was aware of was that she had no blouse on.

Opening her eyes groggily, she tried to remember why she wasn’t wearing a top.

Draco.

She gasped. Her blouse was wiggling back and forth in front of her face. Draco was standing over her, holding her shirt and wearing an unvarnished smirk.

She took the blouse. “Oh my lord,” she said softly, remembering everything that had occurred the night before. She slipped her shirt over her bra and buttoned it.

“Merlin! You've finally realized that Dr. Fillibuster's fireworks really are wet-start, haven't you?" Draco asked, and somehow managed to refrain from rolling his eyes.

Noting but not commenting on the wry sarcasm in his voice, she stood and brushed herself off.

“Malfoy, it’s already nine or ten, people are probably wondering where we are, I have to work on my project, we have to get back to the cas–”

“Granger,” Draco cut her off, exasperated, “can you just relax for three seconds?”

Her face softened. “Maybe for two,” she said after awhile.

“I’m going to get my broom,” he said carefully, with a small, patient smile, “and then we can go back.”

He started to walk out of the clearing but Hermione’s voice stopped him.

“You were right last night,” she said to his back. “I was wrong. About having control issues, I suppose. I always thought that if I could micro-manage my whole bloody life, I’d be okay. But I guess that isn’t what life is about. It’s about taking chances . . . you made me see that.”

Draco knew it was unheard of for Hermione to admit she was wrong. It had taken a lot to admit it to Draco Malfoy, the one person who would remind her of it for the rest of her life.

Draco didn’t say anything, but had he been turned toward her, she would have seen a thoughtful frown come over his features.

He walked away, and she gaped. Why hadn’t he said something snarky, or laughed as she had expected him to? Why hadn’t he smirked about it or rubbed it in her face?

There were things about Draco she would never understand.

ooo

Ernie, who had classes off that morning, decided to give Renae a tour of the castle.

“This castle is so intricate,” Renae murmured as they walked along the edge of the roof.

“Hogsmeade, a full-fledged Wizarding village, is within walking distance,” he told her.

“Walking distance? You can tell a lot about a person by the way they walk, you know,” Renae said conversationally.

“Oh?” asked Ernie. “How so?”

“Take Harry, for instance,” she asserted. “He walks very directly, and usually people move out of his way. His strides are even, and his shoulders are squared. It’s obvious just from the way he walks that he knows he’s worth something, but he doesn’t let it go to his head. Draco, on the other hand, has a downright arrogant stride. You’ll notice he always has his head turned up, and he swings his arms as if he doesn’t care if he hits anyone.”

“That’s quite perceptive of you,” Ernie replied after a moment. “I’m curious, though. Why is it that you don’t even have a trace of a French accent?”

Renae tensed slightly at this question, thrown off guard by the rapid change of subject.

“I just started attending Beauxbatons this year . . . had you heard that?”

Ernie nodded agreeably.

“I’m not actually from France at all,” she admitted, keeping her gaze downcast.

Ernie got the feeling that she didn’t want to talk about it. With a jolt, he remembered Krum distinctly mentioning that Renae had no accent.

That was impossible. How could a person have no accent? Ernie took no notice of the accents of himself and his friends, but that was because he was so used to hearing a British accent. He had merely assumed that Renae had a British accent as well. But if she did, then how could Krum say that she had no accent? He would only say she had no accent if it was similar to the Bulgarian accent he spoke with.

And Renae did not have a Bulgarian accent.

It was very strange, but Ernie did not press the matter further.

ooo

Draco and Hermione landed on the roof of Hogwarts at last, somewhat to Hermione’s relief. She dismounted from the broom in front of Draco, and opened her mouth to say something to him.

A dark figure rushed up to them threateningly, and it was amazing how quickly Draco got Hermione behind him. He had unsheathed his wand and pointed it at the figure instantly. When he saw who it was, the wand slipped out of his fingers and clattered uselessly to the floor.

Harry Potter.

I’m dead, Draco thought. A goner. A ghost. A corpse. No. A maimed corpse. At least, that’s how I’ll be when Potter gets through with me.

Harry had watched as Draco shoved Hermione behind him, and he didn’t understand that it had been a protective gesture.

“Let go of her,” he said in a viciously pitiless voice.

“Oh, boy,” Draco said, admitting that he had become somewhat paralyzed with fear. Harry took this as some kind of confession, and consequently lunged at Draco, tackling him to the ground. He had never been more scared of Harry. There was some hurricane in the boy’s green eyes that made Draco realize he had awakened a sleeping lion. In that moment, he understood that he had not known of Harry’s capability to fight until right then. Harry hadn’t been this angry when Draco had belittled his parents, even. His parents were mere memories, whereas Hermione was the only living family he had.

Draco tried to struggle away but it was completely useless. Harry was so much stronger than Draco had ever understood.

Potter simply could not comprehend that Hermione had gone anywhere with Draco by her own free will. Therefore, Harry’s irrational mind immediately leapt to the conclusion that he had forced her to go somewhere with him. What if he had taken her to Voldemort? What if he had hurt her?

“What the hell are you playing at, Malfoy! You rotten, rat-faced coward, you fucking imbecile, I’m going to–”

“Potter,” Draco gasped, his breathing labored due to the fact that Harry’s hand had gone to his throat. “You irrational neanderthal, just let me explain–”

“Harry!” Hermione cried from behind them, at last regaining her voice. “Stop it! Please!”

“Ugh,” Draco said from beneath Harry, trying but failing to breathe in enough air. His plan had backfired so horribly that he was at a loss for words. He would seriously be lucky if he got out of this alive.

Harry looked confused at Hermione’s words but didn’t let up.

“Harry, listen to me,” Hermione said firmly. “Draco didn’t do anything wrong.”

“That means, ‘Get off of me, you wanker,’” Draco croaked painfully.

Harry at last released his grip on Draco’s throat and lurched back, his wand still trained on the Slytherin’s heart.

“What’s going on?” Harry asked Hermione a little more gently. The blind rage seemed to be receding slightly, but Draco would never forget the expression in Harry’s eyes from a few moments ago. Voldemort should be scared, Draco thought wryly. Voldemort should be very scared.

“Oh, God, Harry,” Hermione said, her complexion ashen, “I didn’t mean for you to find out like this . . .”

“Find out what?” There was a taut, tightly controlled panic behind Harry’s tone.

“That,” Hermione started slowly, “well . . .”

“That you and Malfoy are together,” Harry said with a contrived sort of calm, glancing from Hermione to Draco. “That you’ve liked each other for some time. That I just completely overreacted because of the sometimes hindering fact that Malfoy’s face makes me want to go on a killing spree.”

“Twenty points to Gryffindor,” Draco said a little bit breathlessly. But why hadn’t Harry destroyed him yet? Where was the pain?

“I don’t believe this,” Harry said, his eyes filling with confusion. “Actually, I do believe this. I’ve suspected it for a while now. Ever since that dancing in France, I suspected that something was going on between you two. I didn’t know where you were half the time, Hermione,” he reminisced, voice taking on a soft distant quality. It was as if he was talking to himself more than them. “I knew Hermione had a boyfriend, but I guess I just didn’t think . . . no . . . I didn’t want to believe it was you.”

He turned to Draco with hard eyes. Draco felt a weird little stab of guilt somewhere down in his stomach, and maybe something also akin to disappointment. Hermione remained ghastly silent.

“Yeah, I believe that you two are together,” Harry repeated, “but what I cannot believe is that you didn’t tell me, Hermione.”

He turned to her and there was blatant hurt in his eyes, some weakness Draco didn’t think he had ever seen in Harry Potter. Hermione’s face looked like it was about to shatter.

“She doesn’t have to tell you everything,” Draco said coolly, aware that the boy’s wand was still trained on him. “You don’t own her. You’re not her keeper.”

“This doesn’t have anything to do with possession. You wouldn’t understand that, Malfoy.” Harry looked at Hermione straight on. “This has to do with friendship. Hermione . . . do you have any idea how dangerous he is? Lucius Malfoy’s son? Do you know how irresponsible it is of you to wander off alone with him without telling a soul? I’ve known you since you were eleven years old, Hermione Granger, and I know you aren’t stupid or cowardly. But not telling me about this is the stupidest, most cowardly thing you’ve ever done. I thought we were better friends than that. I thought you were at least brave enough to tell me you liked Malfoy, at least smart enough to keep yourself out of danger. Guess I was wrong,” he said the last part softly, disbelievingly.

This gentle reprimand was worse than him yelling, or being angry. Silent tears trickled down her face, and for some reason Harry was really starting to piss Draco off. What was wrong with the greened-eyed halfwit? Couldn’t he see that he was hurting her?

“D-Draco wouldn’t hurt me. I know that,” Hermione said shakily. “I wasn’t being stupid.”

Harry shook his head, as if refusing to believe it, but then met Malfoy’s eyes steadily. The Gryffindor seemed to search for something . . . hadn’t Snape said that the boy was skilled in Legilimency?

“He wouldn’t hurt me,” Hermione repeated desperately.

“I know,” said Harry after a moment, looking away at last. Draco felt as if Harry had looked into his soul. “That isn’t even the point.”

“I wasn’t stupid, but cowardly?” Hermione continued softly. “I was terrified of telling you I liked him. I won’t deny that. It was cowardly not to tell you.”

Her words were beseeching and fragile and suddenly Draco understood that she would be lost without Harry’s friendship, and he without hers. Yet another thing Draco could put onto the list of concepts he would never quite understand: emotional dependence.

And then Draco witnessed something that only Harry Potter could do, and it was like a sudden burst of light behind Draco’s eyes. It shocked him that much, at least.

One moment Harry’s eyes were full of anger, betrayal, pain, worry, and disappointment. In the next moment he let it go.

He forgave her.

Without a question, without a hitch, without so much as an apology from Hermione, he let it go. Because people made mistakes. Because he loved her.

“It’s okay,” he said to the girl, who almost collapsed in relief. She opened her mouth to speak.

“Harry, just because Draco and I . . . well, it’s not like . . . you know I’ll never . . . you’re my best . . .”

And somehow he understood what she was trying to say without the words, and he nodded and suddenly they were in one another’s arms and then Draco snapped out of it and felt like puking at the sappy Gryffindor show of emotion.

But something lingered at the back of his mind, something that Hermione had said to him.

Harry? Harry believes in redemption . . . redemption of the individual and redemption of the whole.

Draco had until that moment seen forgiveness as a weakness. Now he saw it as a strength.

He wasn’t stupid enough to think that Harry had the divinity in him to forgive Draco for everything he had done, but he couldn’t help another thought flitting across his mind like a hard-to-catch butterfly, like a wisp of cloud across the blank afternoon sky.

Could Hermione forgive me?

For every spiteful comment, every hateful jeer, every unwanted encounter, every stolen kiss, every lie?

It was a desperate, unfounded hope, something that he wanted without even knowing why.

It would never happen. He could not ask that much from her.

But that people could forgive one another, that people could let it go, that people could love unconditionally . . . that much gave him hope. Maybe someday he would make all of this up to her . . . all of these political games, these lies.

Maybe not.

“I hate to interrupt the moment,” Draco drawled, making it obvious that he was, on the contrary, disgusted at the scene, “but I’m getting the feeling that I’m co-starring in some sappy Shakespearian drama. I think I’m going to leave.”

“No, you’re not,” said Harry matter-of-factly, pulling away from Hermione. “You go on ahead, Hermione. I want to talk to Malfoy alone for a second.”

Oh, no. Here it came. Potter was going to pound the crap out of him.

“Okay,” Hermione said with a small smile. She seemed reasonably less upset. With a Be Nice look at both Draco and Harry, she left.

Harry turned to Draco, his expression absolutely unamused.

“Do you want to know what I see in her eyes when she looks at you?” Harry asked him point blank.

“What?” he asked.

“Trust,” Harry said heavily, dejectedly. “Pretty, brown, innocent trust . . . maybe even the same amount of trust I see when she looks at me. Maybe more.”

Draco was shocked. Did Hermione really trust him that much?

“I could hate you for that,” Harry continued blatantly, “because you’re the least trustworthy person I’ve possibly ever known. I don’t know what you did to get her to trust you that much, but I can tell that she’ll keep on trusting you right until you stab her in the back, if that’s what it comes down to. I can’t stop her.”

“Potter . . . that’s not how it is. I’m not going to stab her in the back,” Draco said wearily. But wasn’t that what he had been planning to do all along?

Harry sighed, and then spoke.

“Believe it or not . . . I don’t think you will. You’re a Slytherin, a Malfoy, a conniving schemer, a ruthless tactician, and a Muggle hater. But I guess I realized somewhere between Bulgaria and France that contrary to the popular belief, you’re not actually a bad guy.”

Draco almost fainted. Had Potter just . . . had he just . . .?

“That doesn’t mean I like you any better,” Harry assured him. “It wouldn’t matter if you handed out cookies to orphans at Christmastime. We’ll never get along.”

Draco smirked. “You had me scared for a second there, Potter.”

“This doesn’t change anything between us,” Harry reassured him stonily. “We’re still in a war. We’re still enemies. I’m just not so sure I look down on you anymore. Maybe you’re someone I respect. Because Hermione trusts you, and that girl has more common sense than the rest of the Gryffindor house combined. But if you ever give me the slightest reason to hurt you, I will do so without question. One chance, Malfoy, that’s all you get from me. Hurt her and there aren’t words for what I’ll do to you.”

Draco was silent for a moment.

“That was pret-ty threatening, Potter,” Draco said after a brief silence. “But you know what?”

“What?” Harry asked suspiciously.

“I’m not usually wrong about people,” Draco said grudgingly. “I was wrong about you.”

“What do you mean?”

“You’ve got a lot of Slytherin in you. You and I . . . we aren’t so different. Kind of in the same position, actually. Quidditch captains. Figureheads of our houses. Ambassadors. We’ll never be friends, you’re right. But I think we understand one another.”

“Am I dreaming or did you really just say we were alike?” Harry asked incredulously.

Draco laughed. “Sometimes we’re more alike than we are different. Sometimes I just want to strangle you until you shut up for good.”

“We are alike, then,” Harry replied grimly, “because I was just thinking the exact same thing.”

As he walked away from Harry, Draco asked himself a confounding question. How much of what I just said was a lie? He had lied so frequently that he couldn’t discern what was sincere anymore. But he got the sickening feeling that a lot of what he had said was too real for comfort.

[Kathreen Granger]

nii armas ;D

[Liz-Miia Parker]

PART III: SOMEWHERE IN BETWEEN

I lie for only you . . . and I lie well. Hallelujah
– Brand New

Chapter 24; Living a Lie

Draco dreamed.

It was not the dream of the silver dragon, nor was it the deep brown dream like the ones that had assailed his nights recently. This dream had the sharp clarity of reality, the acid bite of wakefulness.

A black-haired man with grey eyes stared at him stonily. Draco was sure he had never seen the man before, but there was some odd familiarity in his features, some mixture of facial aspects that sent a shiver down Draco’s spine.

The man handed him a sword wordlessly, and Draco reached out and grasped the sword, which looked notably unimpressive aside from the fact that the blade was pure black. It looked as if it were made of onyx, but as Draco touched it he found it to be sharp as steel. He noticed something engraved along the blade, but the writing was in a runic language. The words suddenly swirled around and became English. They burnt into his eyes, pure and painful.

“For everything I could not be,” Draco read in a bemused voice, and suddenly the sword turned into a black cobra. He yelped and dropped it instinctively. The earth below him rumbled. Finally, the man spoke in a hiss that grated against his ears.

“Starlight shines on the eye.”

Draco sat up in bed and gasped. The words from the sword were imprinted behind his eyes.

For everything I could not be.


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“Filthy Slytherin,” a nameless Gryffindor spat at the green and silver table. Shaking his head, Draco stood up. He had lost his appetite. The physical brawling had stopped due to Harry and Draco’s truce, but hate still emanated more dangerously than ever between the two tables.
Draco grabbed the Gryffindor by the wrist when most of the professors weren’t watching and whirled her around. Some fifth year girl whose name he didn’t even know.

“You say that ever again,” he whispered into her ear, “and I swear to Merlin I’ll make you wish you’d never been born, you filthy Muggle-loving pregnant dog.”

He pushed her away from him so hard that she stumbled. She hurried away, tears in her eyes.

Draco didn’t even bother looking at the Gryffindor table as he sat down heavily. He didn’t want to see the disappointment or wariness in their eyes. He knew that if the situation had escalated any further Harry would have been across the hall to break it up in less than three seconds.

But Draco had to do it. He had to keep the Gryffindors in line, and show them that no one disrespected Slytherin, at least not while he was around. The Slytherins sitting around him looked both proud and appreciative for what he had done.

Dinner ended, and he immediately exited the Great Hall, not in the mood for conversation.

Slytherins and Gryffindors didn’t go anywhere alone anymore. They didn’t risk it. Draco figured he could handle any Gryffindor punk who tried to attack him.

A hand grabbed his wrist and jerked him inside of an empty classroom. He took hold of the attacker’s shoulders and slammed him roughly against the wall of the classroom.

Or her.

It was Hermione.

He released her immediately and slumped. “I swear to God I almost just hexed your head off. Don’t ever do that again.”

“How else am I supposed to get you alone?” she asked him breathlessly. “I just wanted to make sure that Harry didn’t hex your head off earlier today.”

“I’m still here, aren’t I?” Draco asked her acidly.

“I guess your private conversation didn’t go too badly, then.”

Everything was tinted blue in the murky classroom, and Hermione’s skin looked smooth and pearly. Something about her face in that moment was irresistible and crisp and clear. It cut through the haze in his brain and brought reality into sharp focus.

“Why do you have to be so pretty?” he asked her half angrily. Why was there something about the girl that made him want to push her back up against the wall?

“What happened to calling me a bushy-haired freak?” she interrogated suspiciously.

Draco met her eyes steadily.

“I think we both know you stopped being a bushy-haired freak three or four years ago.”

“Ah,” answered Hermione knowingly, “so now I’m just bushy-haired.”

Draco hesitated before speaking next. It was a tiny hesitation, one that Hermione did not fail to notice.

“I’ve got something I’ve been meaning to give you,” Draco told her slowly. “C’mon.”

He took her hand and tried to tug her out of the room.

“Are you crazy, Draco! People will see us!”

He paused, a frown coming over his features. “Come up to my room in ten minutes. No one ever walks by there anyway.”

“All right,” she said, a little bit disappointed.

“And don’t be late,” Draco added with a wink as he exited.


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Ten minutes later, Hermione found herself standing in front of a portrait of two English men playing croquet.
“Dear me, young lady, are you here to see the master?” one asked her politely.

“Mister Malfoy!” the other called obnoxiously. “It’s another one of your nighttime guests!” His wiggled his eyebrows at her.

“Keep it down,” she said furiously, glancing around.

The portrait hole swung open, and three boys stepped out. They were Avery, Nott, and Malfoy.

“What’s Potter’s little sleeper doing here at this hour?” Avery asked sharply when he saw her, and smirked slightly.

Hermione didn’t even blink. “It’s Head business. Now if you two inbred morons would sod off so I could get this over with, I’d be delighted.”

“Oh, but the Golden Girl herself alone in Slytherin territory at night? I think it would be immoral of us not to mess up your innocent face,” Theodore Nott told her agreeably.

“You guys get out of here,” Draco said lazily, “I’ll handle her. I don’t want this Mudblood to be around me for too long. I can already feel the filth rubbing off onto me.”

Avery looked resentfully at Hermione before turning away. “Later, Draco.”

Hermione stepped into Draco’s room.

“Not bad, Miss Granger,” he said as he closed the door behind him. He looked somewhat impressed. “Where did you learn to act so well?”

“From you,” she said teasingly. “So I’m dirty, am I?”

“You’re absolutely filthy,” Draco told her in a soft voice. He grabbed her wrist and pulled her closer, eyes twinkling. “I just want to roll in the mud with you.”

She hit him playfully and laughed. “I thought you were a cultured aristocrat, Mr. Malfoy. Now I see you’re no better than a farm boy.”

“You’d be surprised, actually,” he said darkly. “The Pureblood aristocracy is notorious for being prim, classy, and formal. But you get those Death Eaters alone in a room and it’s not pretty.”

“What were Avery and Nott doing here?” she asked him with a frown.

“They just wanted to talk for a minute,” Draco replied absently. “Anyway, forget about them. I have a present for you.”

Hermione frowned at him curiously. It wasn’t like Draco to buy people presents. As he retrieved a velvet box and handed it to her, she felt as if something was out of place.

“Open it,” Draco ordered her imperiously.

Glancing at him uncertainly, she opened the box.

And gasped.

Offset by white velvet was the gleaming black pearl she had seen in France and had not been able to afford. She lifted it out carefully, admiring the glimmer of the sapphires around the pearl.

“How did you– that’s where you disappeared to that day before we got on the train in Beauxbatons, wasn’t it?”

He nodded, reclining carefully against his desk and trying to gauge her reaction.

“Draco, it’s beautiful,” she started, “but as far as I know, we’ve just gotten past the ‘I’m not going to push you into a pit of seething lava just to spite you’ part of our relationship. Since when do you buy me ridiculously expensive jewelry?”

“Since I decided that it would look good on you,” Draco said simply. “You wanted it and I could afford it.”

Hermione clasped the jewelry around her neck, and felt awkward wearing such an expensive necklace. Hermione remembered something Draco had told her once. He had said he didn’t take girls on dates, didn’t present them with flowers, didn’t buy them jewelry.

“I don’t get it,” Hermione said, sitting down hard on the bed.

“What?” Draco asked.

“Am I not just another girl to you?” she asked him softly, directly. Hermione was an intelligent girl. She knew that the rumours about Draco were mostly true. He used girls, dropped them, and treated them like trash. He acted like the spoiled heir he was. Hermione had figured she was just another fascination, another fling. That was why she didn’t want to face the fact that she was maybe, possibly, mildly, in love with him.

“Just another girl?” he asked again, frowning.

“Draco . . . buying me jewelry is something that you would never do.”

“I would say that your point was valid,” Draco answered with a light smile, “expect for the slightly hindering fact that I did.”

“Look,” said Hermione, “I’m not going to flatter myself by thinking that you . . . care about me enough to buy me jewelry. Because you don’t. It just isn’t like you.”

Draco looked slightly uncomfortable. For him, this was completely uncharacteristic.

“I think you’re trying to buy me,” Hermione stated bluntly.

“I . . . no!” Draco answered, bright spots flaring on his cheeks.

“You try to act mature and thoughtful,” she continued mirthlessly, “but this is still just a big game to you, isn’t it?”

He actually looked dismayed, and slight guilt shone in his eyes. How had she divined everything he hadn’t wanted her to know in one guess? And even worse; why did he feel so guilty that she was right?

“Granger . . . buying you was never my intention.”

“Stop lying,” she said ruthlessly. “It doesn’t work very well with me, have you noticed?”

Draco looked at her before he brought his hands slowly up to his head and raked them through his hair.

“Maybe I wanted to impress you,” he said. “Maybe it was the only way I knew to show you that I could . . . take care of you.”

Hermione’s face softened almost imperceptibly.

“I need to know something,” Draco uttered suddenly. His face had gone white, but he looked determined. “And so do you.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Accio Veritaserum,” he said, closing his eyes and aiming his wand. A few moments passed and a small vile smacked into his palm.

Hermione gasped. “Draco, you’re not going to make me take that, are you?”

“No,” Draco answered. “I’m going to take it. I want you to ask me the same question that you did in France.”

He looked slightly ill, as if he was afraid of the answer.

Do you hate me?

“Are you sure you want to–” she started, but he nodded emphatically, though she could tell he wanted to take it back. Draco unscrewed the cap, looked at the liquid, and gulped it down.

He looked at Hermione. “Ask me,” he said softly.

She bit her lip hesitantly and shook her head. She too was afraid of the answer. He grabbed her wrist. “Do it,” he said firmly.

She took a deep breath. “Do you hate me?”

“Yes,” he answered immediately, and she felt her heart crack inside of her chest. “I absolutely despise you. I despise the fact that . . . you can dance the cha-cha just as well as me. I hate the way you sometimes bite your lip when you think I’m not looking. I hate it that I can’t resist kissing you, that I can’t keep my eyes off of you even though you’re a Mudblood. I hate it that you’re always right, that you never lie . . . I hate you for trusting me.” He talked quickly now, as if he couldn’t stop himself. “I hate the way your hair always smells, like oranges and cream . . . and I hate you for being so pretty . . . God, I hate you for being pretty!” His voice was raw and uncontrolled. “I hate it that you’re a Gryffindor, I hate it that you like Krum more than you like me . . . yes, Granger, I’d say that hate is an understatement.”

Hermione realized that she was crying.

He would hate her no matter how much she liked him. Draco looked horrified, but he couldn’t stop talking. “And you know what the worst part of all is? I hate you almost as much as I like you. Because I really like you, Granger. Maybe I love you, I don’t know.”

There was absolute silence as they stared at each another, shocked.

With a half groan and a half roar, Draco pulled out his wand and performed a cleansing spell on himself. Gasping, he leaned heavily against the bedframe, as if some mortal wound ailed him.

“Draco, it’s not–”

“Get out of here,” he said sharply.

“No.”

His head flew up and he took a hold of her shoulders. She met his eyes warily and he gazed back with a viciousness she hadn’t seen in a long time.

This had gone too far.

He shook her like a rag doll as he yelled, “Now you listen here, Hermione Granger, I don’t– I can’t–”

He seemed to have a hard time getting the words out.

“I can’t take care of you, I can’t be with you, I can’t stand you . . .!”

But he couldn’t resist her lips, not for one second longer, and he bent down to kiss her. At first she resisted, but then she went limp in his arms and clutched onto his shirt like she never wanted to let go.

They never got to the kiss.

He paused, lips only inches from hers, and let go of her, hands shaking.

“I’m serious, Granger,” he cried, voice rising dangerously. He stood up. “Get out of here!”

Every muscle in his body looked taut, deadly.

Did it really upset him this much that he loved her? Hermione suddenly felt hurt and angry. She raised a hand to smack some sense into him, but he grabbed her wrist as it came within two inches of her face.

He stood there shaking, silver eyes burning with hatred and anger. In that moment, she was afraid of him for the first time. She had never fully been afraid of him until that moment.

Coming to a precarious decision, Draco wrenched her to the portrait hole and opened it, pushing her out lightly. Then he slammed the door in her face.


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Draco sank down against the closed portrait hole.
“No, no, no,” he whispered viciously, “it can’t be right!”

She’s just a pawn to you! a voice cried in his head. You don’t love her! You can’t love her!

But Draco was a liar. In Bulgaria he had found excuses to be alone with her. In the church that day so long ago, he had questioned everything he believed in for the first time. Why? Because of her.

He had tried to convince himself that he hated Krum only because of the boat trip, but the real reason he hated Krum was because Hermione liked him and smiled at him and trusted him. The great Draco Malfoy was jealous of some Bulgarian moron.

In France he had belittled and insulted her in order to make up for the fact that he had led her into the ballroom, danced with her, had been civil to her.

The True Kiss? He had attributed that to the amount of magic in the air, nothing more. He told himself he had only kissed her that time to punish her, to ‘do something awful.’

As things became more intimate between them, he had a hard time making excuses to himself about why he thought of Hermione and wanted to see her. So he had come up with this ‘Cunning Plan,’ this genius idea to trap Potter. It didn’t matter if he was nice, if he was civil, because it was all part of the plan. It didn’t matter if he treated her kindly, if he treated her right, none of it was real.

It had all been real. The Veritaserum had shown him that. Why had he taken the Veritaserum? Because he was out of lies to tell himself. Because he didn’t know the truth about his feelings for her. The charade had gone too far and he had wanted to make sure he didn’t feel anything real.

He had convinced himself so fully that his relationship with Hermione was a lie.

The truth had smashed into him like an oncoming train, like the light at the end of the tunnel but so much brighter.

Mudblood.

Gryffindor.

Traitor!

“Agh!” he clutched his head painfully. What was real? Was everything in his life just a lie?

He loved her. How long had he loved the girl? Since he had offered her his coat in Bulgaria? Danced with her in France? Kissed her under the evening lilies in the forest?

Did it even matter? He loved her and she knew it. He had overreacted and lashed out at Hermione because that was what people did when their lives shattered to pieces. He hadn’t been able to deal with her right then.

To love her, he thought, is to go against everything I’ve ever believed, ever strived for, ever been told.

And he didn’t even care. That was the worst part.

He didn’t know what love was, really. All he knew was that he wanted her with a violence that couldn’t be equaled.

He had not lost his ideals, he had not become a softhearted Gryffindor, and he had most certainly not transformed into a Muggle-lover.

Draco still hated Muggles. His beliefs had not been budged an inch. He hadn’t even stopped hating Hermione Granger.

It was just that he loved her.

Hah.

There was irony somewhere in that, he was just too tired and confused to see it at the moment.

So what do I do? he thought. How do I live with this? Can I love Hermione and live the life I’ve always wanted?

Is there somewhere in between?

[Lissandra Sylvania]

What next?!

UUT!

[Kathreen Granger]

edasi !

[Liz-Miia Parker]

PART III: SOMEWHERE IN BETWEEN

Maybe redemption has stories to tell

Maybe forgiveness is right where you fell

Where can you run to escape from yourself?

Salvation is here . . .

--Switchfoot


Chapter 25; Germans and Ginny

“Ladies and gentlemen,” came Dumbledore’s booming voice the next morning. “I am pleased and excited to announce that we will be holding a Farewell Ball tomorrow night in order to bid our Ambassadors farewell. Fourth through seventh years are all invited, and the thirteen Ambassadors will be our guests of honor.”

There was a cheer from the students, and the hall dissolved into chatter.

“‘Ogwarts,” Fleur told Michael lightly, “what a quaint place to ‘ave a ball!”

“Attire is formal,” Dumbledore continued once they had quieted somewhat. “And the Ambassadors will open the Ball with a waltz.”

Some of the girls glared enviously at Hermione and Ginny.

“Zey really should have included dance skill in za requirements,” Ivan said to Hilda, shaking his head. He, like Harry, was not a skilled dancer.

Dumbledore took a seat in his usual chair.

Sighing, he wondered if the Ball would be enough to divert the students from their scheming. With the Malfoy boy involved, he highly doubted it, but it was the best he could do for now.

Tomorrow night would be interesting, to say the least. Dumbledore would have to be ready.


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Ginny rushed down the stairs of the girl’s dormitory, a million worries flashing through her mind. She finished buttoning her cardigan haphazardly and smoothed her hair. She’d made it halfway to the portrait hole when a voice halted her in her tracks.
“Wait, Gin.”

There was only one person who called her Gin. She closed her eyes. He was the very last person she wanted to deal with.

Ginny turned around slowly to find Harry looking at her, a small smile on his face.

“Sit down for a second.”

“I’d love to, Harry, but I’ve got to see McGonagall and after that I’m supposed to–”

“I don’t care,” Harry cut her off, his voice gentle. “Just talk to me for a minute.”

Ginny quelled her bubbling frustration at him and took a seat on the couch stiffly. For some reason she didn’t want to look into his eyes, so she fixed her gaze on the fireplace.

The couch was too small, and their knees were bumping.

“What have you been up to?” Harry asked her casually.

Oh, great. Now he wanted to have a perfectly unremarkable conversation with her. He wanted to pretend that the tension between them wasn’t like an electric wire on the verge of snapping.

Harry was too close . . . why was he so close? She turned to face him so she didn’t have to practically lean against him.

“It’s . . . I’m fine. How about you, Harry?” she said as lightly as possible.

Harry paused. “It’s been the usual for me. Trying to figure out how to defeat the murderer of my parents, avoid the paparazzi, and maintain a social life all at the same time.” There was no mirth in his smile, and he didn’t miss Ginny’s flinch.

There were a few moments of strained silence. No longer able to bear it, Ginny spoke.

“Have you heard about Charlie’s latest girlfriend?” she said quickly, trying for lightness and failing. “It’s quite funny, actually. You know how Charlie is, and, well, he’s got this perfectly prim and proper girlfriend! Let me tell you about–”

“Hey Gin?”

“What?”

“Shut up,” he said in an amused tone, smiling softly.

She did.

After a few moments Harry offered, “That’s much better. Now I have reason to believe that you’ve been avoiding your brother.”

“Ron’s avoiding everyone,” Ginny said with a frown. “There’s something wrong with him.”

“Then you’ve been avoiding me,” said Harry coolly, trying and failing to catch her gaze.

Why did he have to watch her so closely?

Ginny took a deep breath. “I’ve been really busy, Harry . . . I’m sorry, it’s just that I have a boyfriend right now and . . .”

She trailed off. That sounded awful even to her own ears.

“That doesn’t matter,” Harry said softly, looking at his hands. “You try to act like just because you have a boyfriend you can’t talk to me.” His face creased into a frown. “I’m not trying to come onto you, Gin,” he told her, spreading his hands wide. “Your boyfriend is just a flimsy excuse not to talk to me and you know that just as well as I do.”

There was enough truth in what he said for it to sting. Suddenly she wanted to hurt him. Maybe she had to; it was hard to tell at that point.

“I know you’re used to girls falling at your feet,” Ginny said sharply, “and I know it’s hard for you to understand that I like my boyfriend, but I do. A lot. You’re acting arrogant and self-centered.”

Harry raised an eyebrow.

“That’s a little harsh, Gin.”

Anger, she could have dealt with. This cool, calculating demeanor of his unnerved her. But when she thought back, she realized that he had never once gotten angry at her.

“I know,” she said after a minute. “Sorry.”

“I’m not upset,” Harry said with a smile. He reached out and tucked a loose tendril of hair behind her ear. She would have taken it as something romantic, but the gesture had been so matter of fact that it seemed only friendly.

“It was nice talking to you,” he said easily. “Maybe we can do it again sometime in the next few months.”

She laughed genuinely at that joke, but stood up quickly.

“I’ll see you around, Harry,” she said softly, and turned around before he could see the remorse on her face.

Harry stared after her. Finally, he got up and left.


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FACT: “Here lies the once and future King.” This was the message inscribed on King Arthur’s grave. Many people take this to mean that King Arthur will someday have a descendent or successor who will reunite Britain.
“Voldemort is looking for Mordred’s sword,” Lupin told Dumbledore, pacing nervously in the Headmaster’s study.

“And the sword is buried at Stonehenge, you say,” Dumbledore repeated.

Lupin nodded, and stopped pacing for a moment. “Now only one question remains. How do we get the sword from Stonehenge? And why has no one ever found Slytherin’s body?”

“Two equally confounding questions,” Dumbledore answered softly, “but I have been doing some research myself.”

The old man smiled mischievously from behind the safe cover of his half-moon glasses.

“Oh?” Lupin asked, sounding grateful.

“Obviously you’re familiar with the tale of The Sword and the Stone.”

“Of course. Excalibur was lodged into a stone, and it was riddled that only the future King of Britain would be able to lift it from the stone. Young King Arthur did so, and hence was crowned King.”

“Exactly,” said Dumbledore, absentmindedly tidying his desk, “and I have reason to believe that Mordred’s sword had quite the same enchantment placed on it at the time of his death.”

“What?” Lupin asked immediately. “You’re saying that only the future King of Britain could remove the sword from Stonehenge?”

“The bane of the Once and Future King,” Dumbledore repeated. “That was what the centaur said in the prophecy. Obviously King Arthur plays a much larger part in this than we have believed.”

“Albus,” said Lupin shortly, “you have the vexing and unbreakable habit of speaking in riddles. What is your point?”

“Mordred conceived a daughter, you know,” Dumbledore told Lupin amiably, “before he died.”

“And?”

“And I want you to piece it together for yourself, Remus. Mordred is Slytherin. Mordred had an heir. Mordred left the sword at his burial site. Mordred obviously wanted someone . . . but not just anyone, to wield the sword.”

“Oh, no,” Lupin said, catching Dumbledore’s drift.

“I’m afraid so.”

“An heir,” Lupin repeated soundly. “There is an heir of Mordred’s lying around somewhere, isn’t there? And the heir is the only one who can pull Mordred’s sword from the stone. It’s like King Arthur all over again, except all twisted up.”

“Our situation has striking parallels to that of the tale of King Arthur.”

“But the heir!” Lupin cried. “Who is the heir? Who is descended from Mordred? From Slytherin?”

“Voldemort,” Dumbledore said at once.

“But if Voldemort himself is the heir,” Lupin mused confusedly, “then why hasn’t he gone to Stonehenge and removed the sword?”

“That is the only reason I have rejected Voldemort as the heir that Mordred spoke of. If he was the heir, he would have long ago removed the sword. You must also remember, Remus, that the heir of Mordred is also the heir of King Arthur.”

“So who else could it be?”

“Harry Potter.”

“What?”

“You can’t tell me you honestly don’t see obvious parallels between Harry and Arthur. The Once and Future King, Remus. Do you know how many prophecies have been written about the boy? Harry is destined to be King. My theory is that Voldemort will try to lure Harry to Stonehenge, in order to make him remove the sword. Once Harry has removed the sword, Voldemort will seize it and gain almost unimaginable power.”

“Voldemort must think Harry is King Arthur reborn,” Lupin said faintly.

“Indeed, I believe he does,” Dumbledore replied.

“Well, what are we going to do?”

“We’re going to wait, Remus, because I’ve got one more revelation up my sleeve that will ruin every single one of Voldemort’s plans.”

“It will?”

“That, or it will ensure their success so completely that there is absolutely nothing we can do.”

Sometimes he hated Dumbledore.


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Harry traipsed slowly up to his dormitory. All of the free time they had been given lately on account of the Ambassadors had been nice, of course.
It had also given him time to think. This was far from a good thing.

It had given him time to think about why Ginny hated him. It had given him time to think about Draco and Hermione. It had given him time to think about Voldemort, and fighting, and the final battle.

Thinking was a dangerous thing for Harry. More often than not it made him sick to his stomach.

He paused with his hand on the doorknob. It seemed that Hermione was never around anymore. Despite her promise to remain friends with him, he saw the way her brown eyes searched only for Draco when she entered the Great Hall, and the way she nodded absently as he talked to her, as if only half listening.

She didn’t mean to pay less attention to him. He knew that with more certainty than anything else. This knowledge only made him feel worse.

When he opened the door, he strode over to his four poster bed and paused. At first the room had seemed empty; on closer inspection, Ron Weasley sat curled up on his bunk. His expression was sullen. He seemed, in fact, to look right through Harry.

“Ron?” he asked tentatively.

The boy started, as if he had just noticed Harry. “Oh. Hello, Harry,” he said stiffly.

Harry sat down on his own bunk and regarded Ron carefully. He had been acting strange. “Your sister won’t talk to me,” Harry told Ron blankly. “I think she hates me.”

Ron shrugged slightly and took a moment before answering. “Don’t ask me. I don’t get her. She’s been acting odd lately, you know?”

Harry frowned. “She said exactly the same thing about you.”

He couldn’t see Ron’s expression in the dodgy light filtering through the curtains.

“I’ve been thinking,” Harry continued, “about Voldemort, you know, and facing him. I don’t feel right about it. I feel like there’s something I don’t know . . . it’s just a feeling, but I don’t think I’m prepared.”

Harry noticed that Ron’s body had tensed. “Oh,” the red-haired said simply.

“I’m just starting to wonder if . . .”

“Harry,” Ron interrupted softly, “I’m not the best person to talk to about this. I know next to nothing about . . . you know . . .”

Harry froze in mid-movement. “What?”

“I mean . . .” Ron wouldn’t meet Harry’s eyes as he spoke, “I can’t handle thinking about death and You-Know-Who and fighting like you can. You’re not going to get any good advice from me.”

The emerald-eyed boy was silent for almost a full minute before he spoke. When he did, he had a hard time keeping the hurt and confusion out of his voice. “Ron, you’re my best mate . . . who else would I talk to?”

“Hermione,” Ron said at once. “She’s much cleverer than me . . . she’d be able to help you.”

“I . . .” the words caught in Harry’s throat. “I don’t want to talk to Hermione. What’s wrong with you, Ron? Sometimes there are things you can understand better than Hermione. Sometimes I can’t talk to her like I can with you.”

Besides, Harry thought, all I want you to do is listen.

Ron shifted off of the bed and stood up. “I just remembered that I have detention with Filch. I’ll talk to you later, Harry.”

Harry didn’t even bother saying goodbye. He sat shock still on his bed. This had never happened before. His friends had always been right there behind him in the battle with Voldemort. Now it seemed like no one wanted to talk to him about it or anything else.

He shivered in the half darkness and let out a slow, concentrated breath.


--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Ernie mused that the Ambassadors were doing quite well at adapting to Hogwarts. Yes, some of them had fallen off of the trick staircases, and others had almost gotten smacked by the Whomping Willow, but ultimately they were unharmed. That was the important thing.
A conversation he had overheard recently disturbed him. Ivan and Hilda had been loitering in an empty corridor, their voices suspiciously low. Ernie had been walking to the Hufflepuff common room. He had ducked around a corner, curious about their motives in relation to the murder.

“Vhat did za mafia tell you?” Hilda had asked Ivan.

“They told me that za German spy is one of za Ambassadors, how many times have I told you?” Ivan questioned angrily. “You are supposed to be helping me out!”

“I gave you my suspects,” Hilda persisted. “Draco and Jaime. Jaime’s French pride is just an act, I tell you!”

“You thought it vas Myra, and look where we are now!” Ivan hissed angrily.

“I’m confused . . .” Hilda started.

Ernie’s face paled and he walked away quickly at that point. From what he had heard, there was some kind of German spy amongst the Ambassadors. Ivan and Hilda were looking for this person at the orders of some ‘mafia.’

Everyone is so sure it’s Krum! Ernie thought wildly. Krum had even been taken into custody for questioning. But it seemed that those two were mixed up with the Bulgarian Mafia.

They had to be the murderers. Were they perhaps trying to kill the spy? From what Ernie had heard, it seemed that hadn’t done it yet. But who was the spy?

It supplied every answer to the crime. The suspects, the alibis, and the motive.

The Ball was tomorrow night, and he decided to bide his time until the Ambassadors left. It would be easier to turn them into Dumbledore while they were all on the train the following morning, trapped in one place. He would tell Dumbledore after the ball, and when the Bulgarians arrived home, they would be intercepted immediately by government officials. It was easier this way. Less dangerous.

Besides, it wasn’t as if they were going to try anything with the heightened security measures at Hogwarts.

Ernie would soon realize that he had too much faith in Hogwarts.

[Kathreen Granger]

jätka

[Marilyn Morgan]

this is great (;

[Liz-Miia Parker]

Täiega meeldis kuidas Draco ukse lahti paiskas, ahhaha. Love that guy!


PART III: SOMEWHERE IN BETWEEN

Love is not breathlessness, it is not excitement, it is not promises of eternal passion, it is not the desire to mate every second minute of the day . . . No, don’t blush. I am telling you some truths. That is just being “in love,” which any fool can do. Love itself is what is left over when being in love has burned away…Your mother and I had it, we had roots that grew towards each other underground, and when all the pretty blossoms had fallen from the branches, we found that we were one tree and not two.

– De Bernieres, from the novel Corelli’s Mandolin

Chapter 26; Telltale Truths
Twilight was like a pendulum, swinging back and forth between bidding the sun farewell and beckoning to the night.

Hermione finished her Charms homework with an agitated flourish of her quill. Technically, they’d been exempted from classes for the past three weeks, but she felt so behind that she had seen the teacher for extra homework.

Or maybe she just wanted something else to think about.

Her mind was a jumble of mush. She swung dangerously (like the pendulum) between hating Draco passionately and marveling at the fact that he . . . what? Loved her?

That sounded so twisted.

It couldn’t be true.

Perhaps the Veritaserum he took wasn’t real, Hermione thought for the fifth time that day. However, Draco’s reaction to hearing the words come out of his own mouth had convinced her otherwise. He had acted as if she had hurt him physically and practically shoved her out of his room.

The gall that boy had! To yell at her and throw her out of his room like a rag doll . . . did he really think he would get away with treating her like that?

She couldn’t stop thinking about him. Hermione seldom had a hard time concentrating on her homework, but this was one of those times.

She hated him sometimes.

A lot of the time.

There sounded a at the portrait hole, followed by, “Granger?”

It was Draco’s voice. She buried her head in her hands. Why did he always have to show up and ruin everything? Just the sound of his voice made her stomach do unnatural flippy things. She held onto what was left of her resolve and did not answer the door.

She wouldn’t forgive him that easily.

The knocking heightened to a pounding. “Granger, c’mon! I know you’re in there!”

She shoved her fingers into her ears and bit her lip.

“Hermione Granger, open the sodding door this instant.” His voice went quiet. Deadly.

A last chance sort of voice.

She shook her head and debated between dead bolting the door with an extra spell or flinging it open.

There was a moment of silence, and then a sigh.

Then there was dead silence.

He’s gone, she thought with relief. And after relief came an unexpected wave of overwhelming depression.

Suddenly, the portrait hole crashed open, and Draco stood in the doorway, hands on his hips. He looked casually angry, elegantly pissed off, and just as beautifully malicious as ever. Hermione stood up, bristling immediately and narrowing her eyes.

“I know your password,” he said, raising an eyebrow, “but I didn’t think you’d appreciate me breaking in.”

“Well . . . you didn’t seem to mind throwing me out of your room yesterday,” Hermione retorted acidly.

He didn’t grace that statement with an answer, just leaned against the side of the door, cool and unruffled as ever.

She hated that there was no trace that he loved her on his face. He could have been reading an Arithmancy book for all of the emotion in his features, and that made her terribly uncertain.

He looked stunning in a stark white buttoned shirt with the sleeves rolled up almost to the elbows, and obviously expensive black slacks. He had changed out of his school robes, and she wondered if he had done it intentionally.

Newly washed hair gleamed in the twilight, and eyes the color of fresh unicorn blood focused on her own unremarkable ones.

She was drooling.

That wouldn’t do at all.

“What do you want?” she asked in a no-nonsense sort of voice.

“I want you to come with me,” Draco told her, holding out his hand like a battered white flag.

“Okay,” Hermione said lightly, and turned her back on him. She walked toward her bedroom. She would give him exactly what he didn’t want.

She felt a hand on her wrist, and jumped in surprise. He had crossed the room in less than two seconds.

He whirled her to face him. “Actually, you have to come with me,” he told her bluntly. “I’ll drag you out of here if I have to. That’s right, Granger, you’re not in control this time. Live with it.”

They stared each other down, each too stubborn to move.

“I’m mad at you.” That sounded so much more immature than she had meant it to. The words sounded weak, half real.

“Can’t you see I’m sorry?” Draco said it directly but quietly, almost as if he didn’t want to admit it.

Why was it so hard to say ‘no’ to him? He dropped her wrist.

“Fine,” Hermione answered stiffly. “You have five minutes of my time.”

“Well, excuse me,” Draco sneered scathingly. “I wasn’t aware that this was a business transaction.”

“You just don’t quit, do you?” Hermione asked, in disbelief about his attitude. “Stop pushing your luck.”

Draco’s mouth curved up into an amused smirk. “Have I ever told you that you look pretty when you’re pissed off?”

Hermione’s eyes flared, and she turned to him, hands on her hips. “You don’t take me seriously, do you?”

“Yes, I do,” Draco assured her, trying hard to mask his amusement.

She merely rolled her eyes.

They walked outside and Hermione almost told him that she didn’t think it was a good idea that they be seen together. There was an unspoken law that in public they could not touch each other. If someone asked what they were doing, two words would suffice: Head business.

Hermione didn’t know where they were going. This bothered her.

Draco surprised her by laughing softly as they walked. It sounded genuine, but she couldn’t be sure.

“What?” she asked suspiciously, narrowing her eyes.

“It’s just funny,” Draco told her slowly, “this whole tough girl act you have.”

Hermione bristled immediately. “Excuse me!”

“C’mon, Granger,” he chastised softly, raising his eyebrows.

“Tough girl act?” she questioned, heart pounding disloyally.

“I mean, I know you care about me. Potter sees it, I see it, and you’ve even told me yourself. So why do you go on acting like you hate me, like I’m something on the bottom of your shoe?”

His tone was gentle and prodding. She had never heard him use that voice.

“You’re so full of yourself,” she retorted angrily.

“I notice you don’t deny it,” Draco answered coolly.

“That I like you?” Hermione asked.

Draco nodded, but didn’t say anything more.

“Just because other girls turn to mush in your arms doesn’t mean I’m the same.”

“You’re not the same. At all. But you like me even if you don’t want to admit it.”

Hermione stopped walking and looked at him. “The word hypocrite applies to you in so many more ways than one. You just drank a truth potion and said that you loved me and now you’re acting like someone reading an Arithmancy book. There’s no emotion on your face at all. C’mon, Draco,” she sneered sarcastically, in the chiding way he had said it to her, “I know you love me and you know you love me, so why do we keep on playing this little game?”

Draco turned to face her in the empty hallway, a smile playing at his lips.

“We need to make a truce, then. I like you, okay? I really do. I’m not going to say I love you because I can’t be sure, but I like you. So now I’ve said it, and you can’t call me a hypocrite.”

Despite the nerveless manner in which he delivered his little speech, he toyed nervously with the collar of his shirt.

“Well, I like you too,” Hermione said quickly. “So there.”

He only smiled more. “Meaning that you’re starry-eyed, dry-mouthed, heart poundingly, over-the-moon, madly in love with me and you’re just too proud to admit it because you’re Hermione Granger,” Draco translated for her.

“If there was an award for Most Arrogant Prick Ever, you would win it hands down,” Hermione laughed. Then, more quietly, “But yeah, that sounds about right.”

Surprised, he looked up at her. She had never seen him so down to earth and sincere about something. It just wasn’t like Draco. At least, not like the Draco she knew. She had to remind herself that she knew very little about him.

God, sometimes the boy had mood swings. Was he bipolar?

“So what now?” Hermione asked, planting her hands on her hips.

Draco rolled his eyes. “Must we always do something, Granger? Let’s just sit here,” he replied steadily.

“Here? In this corridor?”

“Yeah.”

“But what if people . . . ?”

“Do you care?”

It was what she had been waiting to hear. So they sat down side by side, not touching, and silence descended upon them like a blessed veil.

Being in his presence, knowing he was sitting next to her, gave her goose bumps and chills. She was happier than she had been in days. She didn’t even have to touch him to love it.

That had to be unhealthy in at least one way.

She had fallen for him, hard. I’d be a fool not to admit that to myself, Hermione thought grudgingly.

Oh well.

Then Hermione looked into Draco’s eyes and saw so much more than grey.

She saw, like grey, something in between black and white, something between perfection and tragedy, between boundless hope and utmost despair, something shockingly real.

Draco wasn’t an angel, fallen from such great heights, nor was he a demon. He was a human, wedged precariously somewhere in between. He was probably one of the most human individuals she had ever known, with his flaws and perfections and complexities.

He swung, like the pendulum, between black and white.

He would never be a Prince Charming, he would never be a ruthless Death Eater. He would be human and unremarkable and flawed.

That was all.

She felt him put his hand over hers, felt him lace his fingers through her own.

Why had words become so superfluous?

I never hold hand with girls in corridors . . . she distinctly remembered Draco telling her.

Maybe they wouldn’t have to get up. Maybe they could find a way to stay like this forever. Maybe everything would be okay, somehow.

Maybe it didn’t have to be.

[Marilyn Morgan]

hea..
edasi.. !

[Kathreen Granger]

edasi