Unofficial Portkey Archive

TITLE: All Roads Lead Back

KEYWORDS: Hermione, Harry, Ron, Ginny, Draco and the rest of the gang. Primarily H/Hr, but a slew of various ships as well. Post-HBP.

SYNOPSIS: Harry Potter always figured that once his destiny was fulfilled he could finally have a happy, normal life. Unfortunately for him, he fell in love with his best friend...and everything went straight to Hell! A very gradual, slow moving H/Hr love story told through multiple canon character perspective as well as several flashbacks. Set 7 years after the final battle.

SPOILERS: All six books.

WORD COUNT: 15,279

RATING: NC17 for language and later sexual content.

BETA: None. I was under the gun to get this to y'all. All mistakes are totally mine.

WARNING: There are two. First; there is some strong, past one-sided D/Hr. Y'all know the drill. If you are extremely sensitive to it, this one might make you antsy. But I think it just might be worth it to suffer through it to see what actually happens. Two; because of the size of the file I had to break 21 up in two parts. I'm really unhappy about it because I'm not sure if it reads well as a part A&B. Please let me know what you think. And one last thing, if you remember back to Chapter 05 the scene where Harry walks in on Draco and Hermione in a compromising position, the D/Hr flashback here takes place 15 to 20 minutes before it. Happy reading and Happy New Year. Enjoy!

DISCLAIMER: If it looks like it's JKR's, well, that's because it is. She's provided me with the canvas and I'm truly enjoying painting on it.

Sunday, 6/12/05

"Do not make direct eye contact with the patient. Do not sneak contraband into the patient's room. If the patient becomes violent, do not attempt to restrain the patient. No conjuring, summoning, scrying; no magic whatsoever. Do not over stimulate the patient. That includes, but is not limited to hugging, rubbing, and/or touching the patient…"

The blond raised his head from where it had been dazedly tossing back and forth on the counter top. "So I suppose that means fisting is out of the question then?" he arrogantly drolled.

The stern faced, ecru robed witch with the little white badge pinned to it that read, H.H.A. Hatchett, eyed the young man severely. She then returned to reading the parchment she held in her right hand.

"Failure to comply with any of these prescripts-"

"Will get me tossed on my arse. Yes, I know this already, Hatchett. I remember these rules from the last four or five times I came to see him. Are we done here yet?!"

The Head Healer's Assistant stared at the scoundrel opposite her for only a second, before she began droning on again in her atonal voice.

"Do not make direct eye contact with the patient. Do not smuggle contraband in to the patient's room. If the patient becomes violent-"

"ARG!" yelled her truly disgruntled audience in frustration. He had been standing at her desk for the last fifteen minutes and had yet to receive permission to escape her reproving eye. "JUST GIVE ME THE BLOODY QUILL, WOMAN!"

Although her starchy outward countenance gave nothing away, on the inside Silence Hatchett practically squawked with glee. She couldn't stand the churlish, pinch faced beast standing before her and really didn't give a damned if he knew it. Besides having the manners worthy of a wood louse, she was convinced that he also had the indecent morals of a tomcat that was perpetually on the prowl, so she treated him accordingly. Since having the displeasure of making the licentious lothario's acquaintance, she had lost no less than four promising, yet highly impressionable trainee Assistants to his insatiable appetite.

The first three had been dismissed on the spot after being caught doing unrepeatable things in a toilet stall, an empty patient's room, and a supply closet off the Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore Memorial Wing, respectively. The fourth young witch, unquestionably the prettiest and the dimmest, had been an outpatient of the Mnemosyne Clinic for Memory Modification these last four years. After receiving no floo call or owl post the day after what could have only been a truly unforgettable tryst, the silly little chit had tried a complex, and as yet unproven spell to extract the memory herself claiming no other lover would have ever been able to live up to it.

After that, Silence began to employ her own set of strict hiring practices when taking on new (and less comely) trainee Assistants; much to the discontent of many of the male Healers on her ward. Although it had been awhile since the blond rapscallion had been back to darken her desk again, and even though she had it on good authority that the cur had a long-term and undoubtedly sainted girlfriend these last few years, Silence was still wary of him. As she handed him her own albatross feather quill to use, the squint eyed look she gave him let him know that under no certain terms was she going to allow him to pull any of his usual shenanigans this day, especially not with her latest protégé.

"I hope you know, Auror Malfoy, I've got my eyes on you," said the white haired witch, turning her head as she leaned over to place the visitor's sign-in sheet in its appropriate place.

In reply, Draco grabbed his crotch.

Trainee Costigan's abrasive, immature cackle made Silence quickly look back to see what had inspired the fleeting outburst of mirth, but finding only her apprentice studiously scribbling in her daily assignment log at the desk, and the blond miscreant's cold, blank eyed expression peering back at her, she shrugged it off and hurried over to catch the barking, dog faced patient that had escaped her room when no one was looking, and who was chasing after the Healer's Assistant who usually handed out the patients' post each day.

"I've got my eye on you too, Auror Malfoy," said Trainee Costigan with a piercing, sugary giggle as Draco began to walk away from the desk; heading for the corridor that would take him to where the long-term care rooms were. The Auror's prowess out of uniform, not to mention his predilection for young, female Healer's Assistants, was legendary around the hospital's venerated halls.

Never breaking stride at the sound of his name, Draco pivoted around and delivered a devastating, white toothed smile to his rather homely looking admirer.

"If only I wasn't already spoken for," he said with skillful charm, hand to heart, making the empty-headed bint nearly drool all over herself at his gallantry. "And was blind, you cow," he callously added after he turned the corner into the hallway, disappearing from her view. Great Grindelwald's Ghost, the girl, if that's what passed for females these days, had a face like a slapped arse, thought Draco piteously, sticking his tongue out in revulsion.

As he stalked down the corridor, the way lighted by the crystal bubbles that floated high upon the ceiling like soapsuds, his scarlet robes billowing out about him with each leaden step, Draco could barely keep himself from snarling at anyone and everyone he passed; Healers, patients, and busybody portraits alike.

He was simply in an ugly mood. He had lost valuable time dealing with hatchet-faced Hatchett and her little pet trog, and the current task he had set before him wasn't really doing much to help lighten his disposition. He was supposed to be sitting at his desk right now, actually; it had been his unlucky lot to be scheduled on duty the day after the Ball. But thanks to the Head Healer's Hag, and her apparent hard-on for him, when the next one of Scrimgeour's stooges came looking for him at his cubicle, they would find only Jacoby there, manning the incoming reports like Draco had swayed, more like bullied, the newbie Auror into doing.

Evidently his Loony Love's latest investigative piece had caused such a stir within the Ministry's inner sanctum, that the hunt was now on in earnest to uncover the name of the inside snitch before he (Draco was pretty damned sure it was a bloke) could leak anything more vital and damaging to the current administration. All morning long he'd had to suffer the company of arse lickers and other assorted sycophants smiling in his face every time he turned around to so much as drain the dragon. Draco couldn't understand why they bothered, though. Even if he knew the identity of Luna's "Deep Wand", it's not like he would ever tell. It was as simple as that. There were only three people in this world that had ever deservedly earned Draco Malfoy's undying loyalty. Of course the woman he had grown to love more than his own life was one of them; to Hell with guarantees of advancement and incalculable glory!

Hermione was the second. He had meant it when he had pledged to help his friend do battle with the affliction she had lived with since she was just a girl of seventeen. Although his best efforts to keep Potter at a distance had mostly been in vain; the woman seemed pretty much incapable of keeping her damned self away from Bangs Boy, though he supposed it couldn't be helped considering she loved the git, Draco's main concern from the very beginning had always been to find out all he could about the Discordium that she had imbibed.

After hearing her story, something had told him that there was much more to the mysterious excraptio than even Hermione knew of. After all, that branch of potion making wasn't all that well documented. Maybe that shriveled shrew Pomfrey didn't know shite what she was talking about; it was well passed time they put that hoary old sow out to graze! Draco was convinced that there just had to be something they were missing. Discordium sounded very dark, and Draco Malfoy knew of dark things. But he also believed that if he could crack its secret code, he would be able to save his friend from the wretched half-life she had suffered through since falling into its trap. That was what had truly brought him out to Mongo's, and that was what spurred him on to the room he was now trudging towards.

Interestingly enough, it had been Potter who had tipped him to the fact that he might find the answers he was seeking in room 39. It just went to show that the idiot was good for something; obviously Potter, in no shape or form, was the one other person Draco felt he owed any fealty to. Sure Four-eyes was his partner, and maybe...just maybe he didn't hate the ponce as much as he usually let on; that didn't negate the fact that Draco found himself fighting off the compulsion to punch Potty in his self-righteous mug every time he opened his mouth these days. The bastard just thought he knew everything; particularly when it came to Hermione. Draco would have been lying if he denied that the thought of throwing it in Potter's face how wrong he was hadn't crossed his mind. Daily; actually. But since he had practically promised the distressed woman that he would take her secret to the grave, Draco did his best to simply hold his peace. It was so very hard at times, though.

Finally reaching his destination, Draco placed his hand on the door handle. However he took a moment to take a breath, and prepare for what he might find once he turned the knob. He owed his life to the man on the other side of the door, so he had to beat back the passing bolt of shame that shot through him at the recognition that it had been a good long while since he had last come to call. Almost three years, in fact. Though it was selfish of him, it had just begun to become too difficult to continue to look upon what his own fate might have been if not for different choices made way back when.

Still, Draco knew he owed this visit to the man. He owed it to Hermione, as well. If there was something in that room that could help his friend, he damned sure wasn't going to let such silly frippery as guilt hamper him now. So he gathered up all his courage, a virtue not solely owned by ruddy Gryffindors, contrary to popular belief, and opened the door. At the sight of the tiny, shrunken wizard sitting by the room's only window, barely lit by the grainy streaks of sunlight that struggled through the dusty, dingy glass, Draco somehow managed to eke out a fainthearted smile and announced his presence to his awaiting host.

"Hello, Severus."

Horrified. He was simply horrified as he sat and listened to everything his professor and Head of House was telling him.

After getting passed the school gates, he had Apparated to Spinner's End as Snape had commanded him to do while they were fleeing Potter's heated pursuit. There had been that split second there where Draco had wondered why the two of them were disobeying the Dark Lord's orders and not going to the intended meeting point that had been prearranged, but he ignored the momentary instance of reservation and decided to just sit back and let the whole thing play out. He'd rely on his fellow cohort to get him to the next step; the professor hadn't failed him so far. On the other hand, Draco had been so very scared at the time that he probably would have laid all of his trust in that brute of a Gamekeeper if given the option. Now he had to wonder if out of all of the colossal missteps he had taken this year, if he had just made the biggest one of them all.

The Dark Lord's "inside man" wasted little time getting right to business as he divulged all to the bewildered teenager. It had been decided early on that Snape would have to be the one to deliver the Killing Curse to Dumbledore when the time came. Though the Unbreakable Vow had been a troubling angle, in the long run it did serve its purpose by cementing Snape's place with the Dark Lord's faction; removing any doubts whose side the professor was on. Hah!

After that, saving Draco's life had become paramount. Both men knew that the Slytherin youth would not be able to fulfill the Dark Lord's request. Not because he was a coward, but because, as Dumbledore had said before, Draco was not a killer. As the teenager's few botched attempts had went on to show, his heart just wasn't in it. But if the Headmaster did not die, Draco would. So the choice had been a simple one to make in the end.

As Draco tried to come to grips with all of it; the price that had been paid to save his hide, all that had been sacrificed to salvage his pitiful soul, Snape dropped the biggest bombshell of them all on him. It was now time for Draco to make his own decision, informed the professor; eternal servitude to Lord Voldemort or the chance to be his own man by fighting along side the members of the Order of the Phoenix.

"Look at it, young Draco," said the cunning traitor, setting eyes as dark as pitch firmly upon the frightened boy. He rolled up the tattered sleeve of his robes and displayed the skull and snake twisting through it on his left forearm; the Mark that declared to all who he belonged to. It still burned black; possibly signaling the Dark Lord's growing impatience with the two laggards.

Draco was to have received his own Mark upon completion of his assigned task. Now he could only cower at the thought of what he would be rewarded with instead.

"See it, boy. Know it for what it really is. Is this what you really want? Is this the grand laurel you've worked so hard to attain? To be marked as chattel? To have no desire that is truly your own? To live this half-life I've been forever condemned to? Chose wisely, son, because you are fast approaching the crossroads and there is little time left. You've always claimed to be a leader, superior; so much above all those surrounding you. Well, here's your chance to finally prove it. Make the choice your own father was too weak-minded to make. Make the choice that I was too blinded by hate and vengeance to see until it was too late. Just know that after tonight, you might never have the chance again."

As the professor continued to speak, telling him of hidden cups made of gold and magical compasses that could find them, Draco began to weep; inconsolably almost. He cried the way only the very young can when disillusioned and forced to accept for the first time the firm evidence that the world did not in fact revolve around them. Because it had finally begun to hit home with the teen; he was nothing more than a pawn. Despite all of his posturing and his general high opinion of himself, he had always been nothing but someone's pawn. First his father's whenever the elder Malfoy chose to either trot his son out as some credit to his own accomplishments or banish him when easily displeased with the boy. Then he became the Dark Lord's patsy; an expendable cog in his machine of destruction.

Hell, that old coot Dumbledore was trying to manipulate him now, even from the grave. The professor detailed to him the plan that had been set in place already for him to retrieve something called a "Horcrux", and use it to buy his way into the Order's good graces before one of them turned him into a blackened, greasy stain on the carpet in retaliation for the blond's treachery. That is, if he decided to throw his lot in with the side of Light.

In a way, supposed Draco bitterly, he had even been Saint Potter's pawn all this time; existing for the sole purpose of making that tosser look good.

It was that final notion that drove Draco to decisively settle on a side. His. He would fight for the only cause he wholeheartedly believed in, because no one else ever would. He was tired of his destiny always being in the hands of others; he was ready to shake things up and prove once and for all that the name "Draco Malfoy" was not one to be taken lightly. And if that meant treading down a path he had never believed open to him before, well; that is what he would do. Because he would never be anyone's puppet again, he told himself as he dried the last of his tears on his shirt cuffs and wiped brutally at his leaking nose. He would make sure of that; for in the end, he was a Malfoy. And he was better than all of this.

So by time the harbinger rays of dawn stretched lazily across the early morning sky, Draco Malfoy, for perhaps the first time in his wayward existence, chose what was right (without really meaning to).

Draco stepped tentatively away from the door and made his way further into the room.

"Severus, you're looking…"

The trite compliment wouldn't even deign to pass his painfully stretched lips. Self-contempt nearly blackened Draco's vision before he drove it to the side.

"...you're looking," he finished awkwardly, continuing to speak to the person that had once been Severus Snape.

The gaunt looking wizard at the window didn't acknowledge him. Then again, that was nothing new.

"I brought you something, but shh...don't tell," said the young man, making his voice into a serviceable imitation of pleasantry, as he reached into his robes and pulled out the small, concealed object he had smuggled in; right under Hatchett's veiny nose. After placing it on a badly scarred wooden writing desk nearby, and restoring it to its natural size, he turned back and smiled feebly as he revealed it to his awaiting company. White, snowy, fan-like blossoms stood well above a cluster of dark green, oval leaves, inside of a cheap looking ceramic flowerpot.

It was a house plant.

Draco momentarily frowned at the sheer absurdity of the gesture, but chose to ignore how foolish he felt as he uneasily fell into idle chatter.

"Bought it off of that Dumbottom clod," he said, sneering. "He called it a peace plant. He said that Muggles find comfort or something from them."

As it had in the store when the fat shop clerk had said it, the simplistic sounding platitude made Draco's nose flare disdainfully. A potted Devil's Snare would have made a far better offering in his opinion. Sure it would have eventually throttled Severus in his sleep, but anything was better than some poofy shrub, he thought lamentably. It was too late to do anything about it now, though.

"Then again, I've never pretended to understand how ridiculous Muggles can be at times," he offhandedly continued, slipping his wand back into his robes. "I thought I'd bring you something, though; brighten up the place a bit."

Draco gave his surroundings a cursory glance and did his best to curb his involuntary shiver. Nothing much, however, had changed since his last visit. The modest sized cot was still pushed in its corner furthest from the window, and the spartan, homespun throw rug was laid out in the middle of the room where it had always been, though it begged for a good beating. Besides the time ravaged desk, a rather wobbly looking, web covered bookshelf on the right hand wall, and the chair Severus sat on, the room held little else in means of adornment. No photographs. No cards of well wishes. There was nothing of warmth at all. Other than Draco, himself, and his rather puny looking donation, the room felt devoid of any other forms of life. It was just as deadened, dull, and deserted as the tenant that called it home.

"So…uh, yeah," muttered Draco ineffectually. He began to distractedly fiddle with the leaves of the plant. "I know it's been awhile."

His eyes strayed to where Severus was sitting, but quickly cut away as if the sight of the man pained him. He let go of the leaf he had been nervously fondling and hurriedly clasped both hands behind his back.

"Sorry about that. It's just that I've been keeping terribly busy," he said in way of apology, eyes lowered to the floor. "My Loony Love has been keeping me on my toes as of late." He smiled at the mere thought of her, unable to keep himself from doing so. "You remember Luna, don't you?"

The stillness of the room seemed to swallow the query.

"Of course you do," Draco answered for his host. He cut his eyes towards the window and quickly went back to studying the floor.

He distractedly began to pace.

"Luna Lovegood isn't the kind of witch one easily forgets," he said, tone jocose. "Well, it's been three years now. I'm pretty sure it's serious." He then confidingly added, "I've even bought a ring."

He paused as if awaiting some form of rebuke or jeer from the seated man. Needless to say Draco would have been more shocked than angered if one had come.

"A real posh one too," he grandiosely continued on with a haughty smirk. "It even comes with its own appellation and everything; I only bother with the best. Of course…I haven't given it to her yet," he insecurely sighed as he came to a halt in the middle of the room, ashamed almost of his irrational fear that his girlfriend would laugh and throw the shiny bauble back in his face. He knew she wasn't ready for the Malfoy Pearl, but the thought that Luna wasn't ready for anything else was a concern that hadn't eluded him. That's why he hadn't given her the damned snorkack ring yet, despite the fact that it had practically been burning a hole in his pocket for weeks.

He had it on him even now.

"The Ministry has been keeping me very busy as well," he said, changing the subject abruptly to something a little less personal and far less perilous to discuss.

His company didn't protest.

"You just can't slouch on the job if you plan to be Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement someday," shared Draco genteelly, and in a somewhat presumptuous tone. "I was born to be a Malfoy, not an underling. You see, that's where my father first went wrong," he rather matter-of-factly stated, leaving no room for argument.

As he talked, Draco began to discreetly inspect the room. He needed to find that Advanced Potion-Making book and there was no point in squandering his time further with an invalid; gossiping like a couple of hens and painting each other's toes. He didn't have all day to waste.

Never looking towards the window, Severus' guest strolled over to the wall where the bookshelf hung. Despite his displeasure at having to sully his freshly laundered uniform, he brushed at the cobwebs and dust that had amassed there with his robed arm, then blew over it to get at the remains. That small gesture seemed to almost make the shelf collapse, taking the books that it bore down with it. However the crudely built projection teetered unsteadily for only a second, before it ultimately held. Once Draco was sure that the damned thing wouldn't just disintegrate into nothingness, he leaned forward to inspect the titles as he unceasingly rambled on.

"Did I ever tell you about how I made it all the way up from fourth string to the Second Squad in little less than a year?" Not really expecting a response, either way, from his host, he boastfully filled him in anyway. "That old Mad-Eye had said that it was the quickest clamber up the ladder he had ever seen." Draco even squared his shoulders proudly at the account.

They then sagged.

"Of course soon after Potter the wunderkind waltzed in and was pretty much handed the Squad Leader position on a silver platter," he resentfully groused, continuing his one-sided dialog. "I mean, sure he's good…but-"

His lips curled in revolt, forcing him to discontinue the thought. Draco begrudgingly respected his partner's work ethic when they toiled over whatever shite assigned mission Hanes dished out to them or when they went out in the field together, side by side, on some covert operation. Whatever the Gryffindor lacked in intellect, thought Draco meanly, he more than made up for with his usually infallible hair trigger instincts and often heart-stopping demonstrations of guts and derring-do.

Though on the whole the Second Squad consisted of a good group of lads and skirts, there was no other Auror on his team that Draco would have rather had backing him up in a trice; certainly not the dickless Jacoby, that snitch Krispens, or either of the smarmy, bootlicking Sweets! His partner was a credit to the Department; it was beneath Draco to belittle that simple truth. That didn't mean he had to go slobbering over arseface's balls about it, though.

"You remember how he was back then," Draco went on, confidingly; reaching out to trace a gloved finger down the faded and encrusted spine of what looked like an old, worn textbook.

As his fingers perfunctorily flicked away the grime they had collected, his eyes stared unseeingly before him.

"He always wins; Quidditch matches, house cups, fancy and important sounding titles. Even when he doesn't want to…even when he isn't trying…he wins. It was maddening! That prat was always getting in my way," grumbled Draco sourly. "There was a time when I would have given anything to be the one person who denied Harry Potter something he really wanted."

His melancholy voice musingly trailed off.

"Anything…"

As if suddenly remembering where he was and what he had been about, Draco gave his head a good shake to clear away the rancorous miasma that had taken control of his thoughts. He removed the book he had previously been pawing from the shelf and took a gander at its front cover. He then irritably shoved it back from whence it came. It had been a very outdated edition of Hogwarts: A History.

"Bah! It's all ancient history now," he tetchily proclaimed, moving on to the next book. Although he couldn't decipher much off of the battered spine, he could make out a few washed out letters here and there. 'A...Po...king', it said.

Pay dirt!

"Besides, my partner and I get along well enough these days," divulged Draco, smiling to himself triumphantly as he pulled the book off the shelf. He fairly performed a victory two-step on the spot. "Believe it or not, every so often Potter does manage to come through," he said smugly.

He then opened the tome to its title page.

"THAT SNEAKY SON OF A DEMENTOR!" bellowed the blond as he ripped the crumbling dust jacket away to reveal what was hidden beneath it; Potterdise Lost: The Mostly True Tale of The Boy Who Lived.

Draco's eyebrows came together in consternation as he began to plot out in his head his partner's slow and tortuously agonizing demise. He wasn't exactly sure how he was going to go about it, but he knew somehow it would involve a Never-Ending Bowel Expelling Curse, with a sweet little hex thrown in that would make the git's bollocks swell to twice the size and consistency of regulation sized Bludgers just for kicks! He was going to murder that bastard, Draco demonstratively seethed.

For all of the blond's howling and teeth gnashing, Severus never budged an inch.

Haphazardly tossing the absurd piece of trash to the side, Draco began yanking the remaining volumes from where they sat as he hunted like mad through them for the Half-Blood Prince's book. The Slytherin was almost frantic as he hurled them here and there, not even bothering to look where they landed. Magical Knitting & Other Sew-Sew Spells, Who's Afraid of the Dark Lord, Turn Your Coal to Gold: Alchemy Made Easy, What Witches Want; Draco never stopped to question why a fellow who was pretty much a cabbage would have these odd and varied titles in his possession in the first place, he just wondered where in the hell the Sixth Year potion textbook could be or if Potter had been pulling his leg all the while.

Losing all pretenses of calm and comportment, Draco began to search the small room more thoroughly. He even got down on his hands and knees on the grotty looking floor to sweep his arm under the bed after his Summoning Spell failed to produce any results. He came up with zilch.

"WHERE IS THAT GODDAMNED BOOK?!" he thundered, nearly pulling the few hairs on his closely shorn scalp out in his fury. His head whipped back and forth wildly, practically willing the book to leap out at him before he tore the room apart brick by brick. It was only when Draco nearly upended the desk and the house plant atop it in his mindless rage, that his eyes finally fell fully on his old teacher, and he noticed for the first time the item that was held, almost as if in a death grip, in the man's dry, papery-skinned hands. It was a book.

Draco eyes closed in relief. He needed no soothsaying skills to tell him that it was just the page-turner he had been looking for.

Well maybe he wouldn't be making Potter shite himself to death today, thought the Slytherin benevolently.

He then cautiously approached his target. It's not as though he expected the frail, dried-up man to jump out of his seat and suddenly take 100 points from his house or something. The likelihood of the professor doing such a preposterous thing, even when he had all of his wits about him was practically nil; Draco had just learned never to assume anything when dealing with one Severus Snape. Even now, when all of the Healers and experts had pretty much pronounced Severus' case incurable, there still seemed to be something of the old Potion Master still lurking inside those black, furtive eyes of his. Of course it could have just been wishful thinking on Draco's part, but he knew of no other way to explain the way Severus' whitened knuckles sat rigidly around the tome in his lap. Not even Draco's cry of, "Accio potion book", had dislodged it from its owner's hold.

As Draco knelt before his former professor, bending on one knee, he had the pleasure of an up-close and disheartening view of just how badly Severus had deteriorated in the seven years since the War had ended. He appeared to be as neglected as his surroundings. Though the long, stringy hair Draco remembered always being thick with grease looked to be relatively clean, it had also prematurely grayed since the last time he had come to visit.

Severus also appeared to be wasting away. Though never what one would have considered a large man, the Professor had never looked to be made of nothing more than tautly stretched skin pulled snugly over poorly erected bones as he did now. The dusty, threadbare patient robes he wore practically swam around his emaciated frame. The shoddy garment greatly offended the dapperly dressed young man examining them, but Draco conceded that it was probably hard to get top-notch attention and care when you had murdered quite possibly one of the most highly regarded wizards of the age, despite your reasons for doing it.

The one and only attribute that Severus had to recommend him now was his face; even with the long, hooked nose that nearly dominated the rest of his newly deep-set features. Though greatly aged more than his 45 years would suggest, his blank, expressionless face gave off the impression of placidity and calm; two words that had never been previously associated with the man before. Finally freed from the dark shroud of duplicity that had always hung over him, and his constant state of always being at dual-purposes, Severus had finally found in his infirmed state what had been denied him all the days of his good health; a semblance of peace.

This was the first time that Draco had really taken the opportunity to seriously study the wizard seated in front of him. The few times Draco had come to visit in the past he had made it a point never to look directly on the professor; one of the few asinine rules of Hatchett's he actually observed. He usually stared at the floor, the wall, or took the time to examine the finely buffed fingernails he always kept immaculately clean, as he spent the paltry five minutes he generally allotted to these outings talking to the patient as though he could actually still understand what was being said to him. Then Draco would make his weak excuses, make a hasty retreat, and go and make whatever tart was readily available scream out his name as quickly as possible as he desperately tried to prove that he was alive; that he was whole, sane, and still the person he knew himself to be. But those shallow attempts at trying to purge from his conscious thoughts what his Aunt Bella had done, never really did any good.

There were many mysteries that surrounded the life of Severus Snape that Draco had long accepted would always remain unsolved; what had led him to become a Death Eater, what drove him into camp Do-Gooder in the end, or why such a gifted wizard had never looked into a good teeth whitening charm when he'd had the chance. Draco would never even know what peril had befallen Severus after the young Slytherin crept out of Spinner's End to begin his long journey to Durmstrang to retrieve the Cup that fateful day. He could only imagine the corrections that would have been meted out to the professor when he showed back up at Death Eater central with no young charge at his side. But they had already worked out a cover story beforehand in case the Dark Lord bothered to ask questions first or after.

Draco never knew if the lie that he had overpowered his Head of house after becoming fearful of what punishment awaited him, then gutlessly ran off into the night, had worked. But just in case the Dark Lord took the time to look for evidence of it, Severus had had him perform the Cruciatus Curse on him a few times so the Occlumens could have the specific images ready to show his master if needed. Although Draco's first two attempts had been rather lackluster, by time Severus had cruelly and craftily threatened to arrange for Narcissa Malfoy to be offered up to those two sick fucks, the Carrows, as a toy, instead of helping get her to their family in Geneva like he had already pledged, Draco was able to throw out a Crucio like he really meant it.

While Draco understandably never knew what had happened to the man right after he last saw him, he would learn from Hermione, in great detail, how Severus had ended up as this hollow shell by time he laid eyes on him again. She had been at Potter's side when the Prat Who Lived barreled his way into Azkaban Fortress to face Lord Voldemort for the sixth and final time. After avoiding a close scrape with two battling werewolves, the Disillusioned Gryffindors had run smack dab into their former teacher. Before Potter the hothead could attack the man, Hermione revealed to both of them, without delay, that she had known that the double agent had been Draco's silent partner, almost right from the start. Despite all proof to the contrary, Severus had always remained true to the Order. Oh how Draco regretted not being a spider on the wall to see the look on Potter's face when he had heard that one!

In his usual taciturn way, Severus hustled the teens to where Slytherin's Locket was being kept, telling them of how part of the Dark Lord's soul was encased inside it and needed to be unleashed if Potter had any chance of defeating his enemy. Having finally become aware that the Order knew about his little side project with the Horcruxes, Lord Voldemort took no chances with the last one he had blackmailed the Order into releasing to him. It was bricked up in a room under heavy guard of several dementors who hadn't fed in weeks.

When Potter had idiotically raised his wand as if to blast through the barrier himself, Severus had nearly petrified the wanker on the spot. Hermione had had a hell of a time keeping the two of them from killing each other before Lord Voldemort got a crack at it himself. Severus nastily informed them that he would be the one getting the Locket while the two of them waited out in the hall for him. When Hermione voiced aloud concern that he would never be able to take on ten dementors all by himself, Severus had laughingly told her in a voice made of ice that he had no happy memories or joyous emotions on which to dine. The creatures would find little interest in him, he foretold.

Severus got into the room by making the bricks penetrable. Though the two Gryffindors would never be quite sure what happened on the other side of that wall, by time Severus passed back through, shaken and white as a sheet, he'd had the now opened Locket in hand. Unfortunately he had walked right into a trap. With the discovery of the beheaded vampire guards who guarded Azkaban into the early dawn, an alert went out throughout the fortress and to all the Death Eaters that their stronghold had been breached. If the knowledge that there were now enemies amongst them wasn't enough to cause alarm, the remaining werewolf rampaging through the halls, killing all in his path had pretty much sent everything into chaos.

A retinue of the Dark Lord's minions, led by Aunt Bella, was sent out to find the cause of the disturbance, and when they encountered their fresh faced adversaries, they easily got the drop on the outnumbered teenagers. This was the scene that Severus had the bad luck to stumble back onto. The strength of the Crucio that Aunt Bella leveled out at the man was so powerful that he actually lifted into the air and fell back through the charmed bricks behind him. She then un-enchanted the wall, trapping him, and cackled with delight as her entourage led their prisoners away.

After the War ended and Severus was later admitted into St. Mungo's, his Healers were never able to tell what had done the most damage; the nasty Unforgiveable that broke his mind almost instantly or the beginning of the dementor's kiss he had received before the foul and surprisingly discerning creature decided it wasn't worth it to finish the job.

Draco reached out a hand to ease the book out of the two withered hands that held it.

It wouldn't budge.

After a few more failed attempts to remove it from out of his benefactor's astonishingly strong grasp, Draco's chin dropped to his chest as he tried to sustain his nerve. When barely a minute had passed, he raised his head and began to speak aloud; hoping that if there was anything still left of Severus Snape inside of the empty husk that bore his name, that portion of him would hear his former pupil's desperate appeal now.

"Please, Severus," he said beseechingly, "I need your help again. I need this book."

He rested a hand lightly atop the cover, nearly brushing against the skeletal, yet unyielding fingers that belonged to the other man. Compassionately he stared at them for a moment, then raised his arctic-like eyes back to his old professor's sunken face; unmindful of the suppliant expression his own bore.

"I swear to you on my life that I'll give it right back." The vow was free of deceit. "There's just this girl-this woman, you see; she's in bad shape, Severus. I really do think she's in trouble and the Half-Blood prince may be the only person who can save her now. I think the answers I need are in this book. Please help me," Draco pleaded, not really caring how he sounded as the strength of his voice seemed to weaken under the heft of his scattershot emotions.

He felt as though he had a boulder residing in his chest and couldn't quite work it down, no matter how hard he strained.

"You saved me," Draco said plainly, somehow managing a tremulous smile. "You gave me back my life when I didn't even know it was lost. Help me give Hermione back hers," he entreated. "You see, she called me friend when by all rights she should have cursed my name. I'll forever be beholden to her for that," said Draco; the sincerity behind the words he spoke surprising even himself. "Just as I am indebted to you to this day," he continued. "You fulfilled every promise my mother asked of you; even though it cost you much to do so. For that you'll always have my constancy. I know I'll never be able to repay what I owe you, but I can do something for her. Please let me do this for her."

His voice treacherously cracked again.

"Please, Severus…"

The professor never stirred as the book slipped seamlessly into Draco's hands.

Mechanically he removed the false dust jacket and dropped the paper covering to the floor. As he walked his fingers across the battered hardcover of Advanced Potion-Making, Draco expressed his gratitude.

"Thank you."

Then flipped the book open and lowered his head to read.

~~**~~ ~~**~~

Draco stormed down the hall, determinedly striding towards Mungo's special access grate. It was designated solely for Ministry staff use and was only to be utilized by the Aurors when on Department business. Misuse of the right would earn one a fine and a write-up in their Ministry personnel file.

Draco didn't give a shite! He had places to be and he didn't have the time or luxury to go titting about it! If he had been in a volatile mood when he first showed up at the hospital, he was now near the point of biting off the head of the next poor, luckless bastard who had the misfortune of getting a little too close to his personal space. He practically shoved people out of his way in his mad dash to get to his destination. He didn't even hear what that fishwife at the front desk was bitching about as he sprinted past her desk.

He needed to get to Hermione.

No. No; not yet. He hadn't figured out just what he was going to say to her just yet. Hell, he was still trying to process it all himself.

He should talk to Luna first, he anxiously told himself. Luna could help him figure this all out. She would tell him the right step to take next.

Or maybe…maybe he should tell Potte-

Before he could even complete the notion, he was boiling with indignation at the very idea.

No, thought Draco numbly, a good pub was all he needed; one with a sturdy stool to support his weight as he drank himself into a bloody blind stupor. Because if what he had just read held even the slightest grain of truth…FUCK! ALL!

Draco now had a pretty good idea what price Hermione had had to pay to destroy the Cup Horcrux. It wasn't her happiness, as he had first surmised, though he now had to wonder if that had only been a nice fringe benefit in the deal. It certainly wasn't her denial either, because really, how utterly ridiculous was that?! If he needed any further proof that the formerly rational and levelheaded swot's brains had been addled nearly beyond recognition, it was the fact that Hermione actually seemed to believe that drivel when she had tried to shovel it at him weeks ago. Then again, she was in the midst of losing her mind.

Helga Hufflepuff had created the Elixir of Eris as a mind altering potion to be used for the purposes of psychological warfare. While causing chaos was the intended goal of the properly named Discordium, the damage it inflicted was actually inside the drinker's head, making them act irrationally, exhibit erratic behavior, all while swinging back and forth between violent moods and mounting bouts of depression and melancholia. The victim would be so distracted by their own personal crises that it left them assailable to any outside attack. The Discordium, having found a target inside the drinker's mind that was some hidden dilemma or confusing quandary that had been secretly plaguing them, would exacerbate the issue; turning it against them until the drinker became paranoid and demented.

The one thing Pomfrey had gotten right was the fact that Hermione would not be cured until she confronted the source of her inner turmoil. That meant dealing head-on with her feelings for Potter and confessing all to him. Once she did that the troubling side-effects of the excrapotio should go away.

But there was the rub; Discordium didn't want to just go away. It would make the drinker believe that if they were ever to unburden all to the one they needed to, catastrophe would ensue. So the drinker would sit on their secret, guarding it jealously, while the potion slowly ate at their sanity.

Severus' notes had been very clear and concise on the subject. Researching Discordium had become a favorite, obsessive pastime of his after first discovering its existence in some timeworn and highly prohibited tomes that had been in the possession of his Head of house, Horace Slughorn. It was the very definition of black magic, and young Severus had always been attracted to the dark.

The Slytherin had managed to talk his way into helping around the professor's classroom and office, and every time the irresponsible oaf was distracted by some feckless flight of fancy of his, Severus would voraciously tear through whatever book had been carelessly left hanging about. By the start of his Seventh Year Severus had graduated to brewing the excrapotio himself and had even slipped it to a couple of unsuspecting test subjects around the castle. The Half-Blood Prince had then remorselessly stood back and recorded the results for posterity.

The future Potion Master's meticulous and thorough findings stated that the incubation period before the Discordium drove its victim insane varied from person to person. Constant exposure to the target, the person or concern that the excrapotio used against the drinker, only helped to hasten its progression. Draco could only assume that Hermione's obstinate and inordinately strong will had held off the inevitable before whatever survival instincts the woman had honed through the years had involuntarily kicked in and forced her to put as much distance between her and Potter as she could. Otherwise she would probably be drooling all over her patient robes in a room just a floor below right now.

Draco reluctantly supposed he could no longer blame that bit of ancient history on the Littlest Weasley anymore, though he sure as hell could fault Potter for it. It was him, constantly hovering over his best friend, never giving her any room to breathe, that was causing her so much distress now. One could hardly miss the fact that since coming back home her behavior had become increasingly manic with each passing day.

Or if she wasn't flying off the handle at the drop of a hat, she was wallowing in her misery. Just the night before when he and Luna had Apparated to the Hollow to collect Hermione for the Victory Ball, they had found her out back; sitting on an old tree swing, dressed as though she were going for a run in the park. When he made a pithy comment about her choice of attire for the biggest party of the season, she didn't even bother with favoring him with one of those snappy rejoinders of hers he was so fond of. In fact, she didn't say a thing at all; just stared out moodily before her.

Luckily Luna had been on hand to take control of the situation. She gently guided Hermione away from the large fruit tree they had been under, led her through the sliding patio doors into the kitchen, and took her upstairs; pausing only to ask Draco, who had been following closely behind them, to bring up the La Tour-Blanche that was sitting in the bottom right cabinet nearest the basement door. Draco didn't even bother with asking how she had known the bottle was there; just brought the fine white wine along with three crystal flutes he had also procured up the stairs to Hermione's bedroom.

When he knocked on the door his girlfriend opened it, took the La Tour and two of the glasses off of him, then closed the door promptly in his face. Draco hadn't had the time or presence of mind to be offended, though. The mammoth fleabag that Hermione owned had become aware of his being in the house, and had come out of whatever hole it had been hiding in to chase him back down the staircase and out into the backyard. Before he had run like mad though, Draco had distinctly heard his girlfriend's dreamy voice ask to hear exactly what Ginny Potter had said.

Two hours later Hermione's fairy godmother Luna had capably produced the woman; dressed and ready for the Ball. However, all the cosmetics and toiletries in the world, could not disguise the fact that she was a wreck. At the time Draco had blamed the Weasel-bitch for his friend's condition, just like he had the night, some years ago, when Hermione had turned up at his flat in a similar condition. Now he knew that the cause of Hermione's troubled mind frame went much deeper than whatever enmity existed between those two. She was cracking up! And until the Discordium was flushed out of her system, she would continue her slow march to insanity.

That left Draco with only two workable options now; to sit back and watch as possibly the best friend he had ever had, saving his Loony of course, went battier than a belfry or to somehow convince Hermione that she had no other choice than to tell Potter that she was in love with him.

Oh how cruel the twists and turns of fate could be!

Because not only would he be forced to play witness to Potter getting some prize…some reward, yet again, without even trying, Draco would be assisting in it this time. And the bitch of it all was, that myopic son of a bitch wouldn't even want it once all was said and done!

Not that Draco wanted it either, mind you. Certainly not now! His reasons for helping Hermione were purely platonically motivated, despite his partner's opinion that he was always up to something. True, there was a time the Slytherin might have killed for the opportunity to be in Potter's place. Ok, perhaps kill was a bit extreme. He certainly wouldn't have been above committing any other vaguely unethical act or undertaking that stretched the bounds of propriety. But those days were long gone. Draco knew what love truly felt like. He would never again be able to confuse it with some immature, youthful fancy as he previously had.

Ironically enough the once bushy headed Know-it-all had tried to explain to him, ages ago, that that was all it had been. But unsurprisingly he hadn't wanted to listen to sound and straightforward reasoning back then. How different things might have been, if only he had.

"Infatuation? You think I've only been infatuated with you all this time?"

"Yes; just a meaningless little crush. You'll get over it eventually."

"I think my dick might disagree with you."

Hermione straightened at the waist, the baking pan in her oven gloved hand empty of the blackened biscuits she had just binned.

"Exactly my point! Exactly!" she exclaimed, pointing the other mitted appendage, covered with grinning, leapfrogging brownies, at him in recrimination.

Draco growled irritably. This was not at all how he had planned on this little tête-à-tête of theirs going.

After getting back in town from a nearly month long sabbatical the Department had granted him, he had come home to discover that Hermione and Wood had finally broken up. Draco could only view the news as fortuitous. He decided right away that the time had come to make his big move at last, though he would have to wait until she returned from holiday to do so. Sure he had made advances towards Hermione a time or two in the past, but those had been only halfhearted attempts, in his opinion. This time he had felt assured that the outcome would go much differently than the others had. And if it didn't, he'd force it to. What harm would a good nudge do?

As far as he could see, the stars had been aligned in his favor; they both were finally single at the same time and Hermione had even recently suffered a recent loss possibly leaving her emotional and hopefully defenseless to his amorous assault. Not that he was celebrating the death of her Muggle grandmother or anything like that. He wasn't that unscrupulous! Still, Draco wasn't above exploiting a situation when it presented itself and using it to his advantage. It wouldn't hurt to have her at least a little softened up when he went in for the kill. Despite the fact that Hermione had steadily maintained that their relationship would only ever be one of friendship and camaraderie, that hadn't stopped Draco from assuming that eventually he would wear down her reticence. What others called self-absorbed, he called confident.

So he had waited eagerly for her to get back to England, knowing that she was sure to be in town in time for Puddlemere's contest against the Thestrals. Since he knew for a fact that she never missed a single one of Potter's matches, he figured that this day would be as good as any to ask her out on a real, formal, honest-to-goodness date; no more of those buddy outings she dragged him out on. Those were nice and all, but he wanted more. Draco knew he definitely had to get the jump on Weasleby before the ginger git tried for another one of those lame reconciliation attempts of his, though.

While waiting for the game to end, he had a few shots of liquid courage at the Cauldron as he planned out exactly what he would say. Then, after growing impatient just sitting around twiddling his thumbs, he Apparated right to her door, unmindful of her Muggle neighbors, and decided to just wait for her to get back. Although he was surprised to find her at home after all, looking very brown and quite fetch, he didn't bother asking her why she wasn't at the game as she invited him in. He didn't care really.

The only thing on Draco's mind was getting what he wanted. He was done with pining. Malfoys didn't just sit back and wait for things to come to pass, they made them happen. Knowing that, as soon as their chatter about her trip, her "Nan", her baking she had left unattended in the oven and that was filling the kitchen with smoke, dried up, he cut right to the chase and made his request.

She hadn't even batted an eyelash as she shot him down once again.

"Draco," began Hermione with a sigh, placing the baking pan in the sink and throwing both of the ridiculous looking oven mitts on the counter, "you and I began to become close during a…a very vulnerable period in your life. You were lonely, scared, and in need of an emotional outlet. I became that outlet for you."

She said it all in the way that one would speak when talking to an imbecile. Slowly and avoiding large words.

"It also helped that I was the only female of a certain age around for miles," she added for good measure. What Draco chose to hear was her purposely avoiding the issue at hand.

"Come now, Pet," he smoothly drawled, sounding playfully chiding as he sat across from her at the small kitchen's breakfast nook, "you know I've never been that discriminating. Following your logic I could have very easily tried to bed Nympho-dora whenever the mood struck. But I didn't," he pointed out, sounding very proud of himself too.

Hermione smirked as she pulled her wand out of her flowing, tunic blouse, then turned back to the sink to charm the dishes to wash themselves. As the basin began to fill with bubbles, she supervised her work.

"Well, she is your first cousin. Then again, I don't see you being the type to be that discerning on that count either." She looked over her shoulder and said pertly, "Who knows, maybe you were just never that intoxicated."

Draco jumped from his seat, a mutinous look on his face, as he stalked right up to her side.

"Oh! Oh, that again! You're never going to let me live that one down, are you?!" he indignantly demanded, staring down into her grinning face. "Well let me just state for the record that those five minutes will forever be the highlight of Midgen's pathetic little life!" Draco sneered unkindly.

The pleased smile on Hermione's face fell.

"That was mean," she scolded, wagging her wand in his scowling face as though he were being a disobedient child. "And of course you missed my point entirely. All I was trying to say is that it's not really all that surprising that you developed an unhealthy attachment to me."

Though Draco's face remained impassive, inside he felt a small, unexpected pang of hurt at her harsh words.

"And here I thought we were friends."

Laying a calming hand on his shoulder, Hermione kindly said, "We are. The hitch is that you have this disturbing habit of viewing any woman who isn't your mother through a sexual filter; those you would sleep with and those you wouldn't. And even then, there's constant bleed over. Naturally I would fall in one of those two categories. Problem is you just think there's more to it," she went on as she removed her hand and used it to pull back the neck of her shirt, slipping her wine wood down it.

Draco had been so distracted by where the wand went that it took him a second to respond.

"Dragon shite!"

"Draco-"

"No, it is!" he cantankerously replied. "That's just some twaddle you've been telling yourself so that you could deny what's been happening between us."

She rolled her eyes as she passed by him to get to the refrigerator. As she opened the appliance's door and bent forward inside it, she dismissively said, "There is no 'us'." Draco, however, took note of how cross she sounded and imagined it was because he was hitting too close to the mark.

"You keep telling yourself that," he arrogantly told her, facing her turned back.

Although he could tell that their conversation was beginning to gradually wind her up, he chose to take her deteriorating mood as a good sign. It meant that he was getting under her skin; one of his finer talents. Plus the firewhiskey in his veins was making him act even more forward than he normally would, as impossible as that sounded.

"I see the way you are around me, though," he continued, approaching her slowly like a starving jungle cat. "You didn't show half that kind of fire when you were with Davies or Wood; you don't even show it when the Red Menace is lurking about."

He had come up right behind Hermione and leaned in, whispering to her enticingly.

"Trying to push me away will not delay the inevitable; oh no, regardless of how your two little handlers might feel about it. Or is that what's got you so testy?" he asked in a sexy sounding drawl, just above her ear. "Don't tell me that the Brothers Dim have finally cottoned on to us?"

Hermione whirled around and shoved the bottle of water she had been drinking out of violently into his lower stomach, making him wince from pain as he stumbled back. As he held onto the bottle and rubbed at his injury, Draco couldn't help but wonder if she had actually been aiming for the Malfoy crown jewels. A few inches lower and she definitely would have taken out the scepter.

And not in a way he might have liked!

"THERE IS NO US!" she yelled in high dudgeon, as Draco shuffled off, hunched over, to the table and leaned his weight against it. He raised the water bottle to his own lips and thirstily drained it, eyeing her cautiously.

She followed and stood over him; hands on hips.

"Fortunately for you, Ron knows this because if he were ever to become aware of your dubious intentions towards me, you, my friend, would be taking all of your meals through a bendy straw," she high-handedly informed him. "To be fair, though, you did almost kill him."

Peeved, Draco muttered something unintelligible under his breath. Hermione ignored it and continued to prattle on aimlessly.

"Ron simply thinks that you are using our connection as a means to redo your image and make yourself appear to be less of the scum sucking son of a Death Eater that you truly are."

At the sight of Draco's slighted expression, she immediately understood that she had tactlessly misspoken.

"His words, not mine," she said posthaste, falling back to lean against the table at Draco's side. "As for Harry," she went on, her tone softening at the prat's name, "well…Harry just doesn't like you." She said it simply and with no apology. "He doesn't consider you the Prince of Darkness…"

Draco gave her a disbelieving, sidelong glance making Hermione turn pink.

"…any longer…"

He snickered at the save.

"…but he's always going to be suspicious where you are concerned."

"As he should be," Draco snootily replied. "I guess wee willy Potty isn't as dumb as he looks."

"Draco!"

He muttered darkly again before forcing his lips into a phony, disingenuous smile.

"Sorry. I guess wee willy Potty isn't as dumb as he looks. There; better?" He looked unashamedly into her livid face. "I said it nicely this time."

Hermione shook her head at him in wonderment.

"I don't even know why I bother. You're impossible!"

"You bother because you like it," he snotted, making her throw up her hands in frustration, snatch the now emptied water bottle from his hand, and stomp to the little dustbin in the corner.

Realizing that bashing Potter, no matter how enjoyable that always was, was winning him no points, Draco decided to change his approach.

"Pet," he began in a silky, wheedling tone, "just think what our future children will be like. Your tenacity, my good looks and charm, both of our brains; they would be matchless."

With an earthy sounding chortle, Hermione dropped the bottle and turned to face him.

"Honestly! I didn't know you actually wanted to breed with me. I thought you were only after a date to the next V-Ball," she said mockingly in that prim little proper tone of hers that usually turned him on. Now was no exception.

"Merlin, that's sexy," he said with a devilish grin. "You're even starting to sound a little like me. We could make Slytherins that would turn the world on its ear."

"SLYTHERINS?!" she deafeningly blurted, sounding affronted at the very idea. Her hand pressed against her chest. "Perish the thought!"

Draco tried not to take offense.

"Oh, we don't all turn out corrupt, despite the bad press. Then again," he said as he propped himself against the refrigerator, "I'm not that fussed. Our children could be Ravenclaws if you'd like." He shrugged his shoulders. "Hell, I guess I wouldn't protest at least one Gryffindor in the batch. But no bloody 'puffs!" he clearly stated, eyes narrowing with disdain. "I have standards!" Draco sniffed pretentiously.

"I'm not having Ravenclaws…"

She jabbed a finger into his chest.

"…Gryffindors…"

She did it again.

"…lions, tigers, or bears with you." Three more times she bossily poked at him. "And certainly not Slytherins." She practically gagged. "I could never have a Slytherin," she snootily said, nose tipped upward.

Draco chuckled wryly, leaning into her. "Well I hate to break it to you, Pet, but there's hardly been a Malfoy not sorted into Slytherin house."

"Well there you go! Find some other field to plow; this one isn't interested!" proclaimed Hermione crankily, shoving him away from her and exiting the kitchen.

Draco's eyes hungrily followed her as she sauntered over to the large bookcase in the lounge. It was an oak paneled monster that Hermione kept organized with anal precision. Hardcover editions did not mix and mingle with lowly paperbacks, the magical tomes were kept far from the Muggle ones lest they be scorched or eaten, and she alphabetized not just by title, but by subject matter as well.

"Father would be turning pirouettes in the grave," he teased, hanging over the low bar that looked into the living room.

Scanning one of the shelves and making a selection, she opened the book and said unaffectedly, "As lovely as that sounds, and as much as I enjoy the thought of Lucius Malfoy enduring a perfectly hellish afterlife, I'm afraid that's just not enough to convince me to let you take me out…"

She dubiously glanced over at him as she turned a page.

"Much less take me to bed."

"You want me!" insisted Draco stubbornly. Although his ego was tweaked, he wasn't ready for defeat. "I know you want me."

"To leave? Yes. Anything else? Sorry." She snickered dryly; shaking her head as she glibly turned her attention back to the book in her hand. "I just don't go for the bad boys," said Hermione breezily.

Her dismissive tone rubbed him raw. "And I'm supposed to believe that you prefer that Elf Fucker to me?!"

Draco easily caught the object she flung at him. It was the book she had been looking through; a cookbook. If she didn't have a wand in her hand, her aim was positively appalling.

"HEY!" she shouted, marching back to the kitchen doorway. She held out a threatening finger towards him. "WHAT DID I TELL YOU ABOUT CALLING RON THAT?!" They had been through this a time or two before.

"You told me to stop calling the Elf Fucker that," he deadpanned; eyes never leaving her face.

Although Hermione looked like she was just a whisker away from blowing her stack, she took a second, took a breath, then proceeded to take him to task as she slowly crossed the floor.

"I know this may come as some huge surprise to you, but not every woman is dying for want of having the chance to toss you their knickers." Stopping before him, she regally held out her hand for her property.

"That's only because they have yet to come to their senses," he ill-manneredly sniped, holding out the copy of Enchant Them in the Kitchen to her, then maneuvering it just out of her reach.

He had a few good suggestions of what they could do in the kitchen if she'd just ask for it, thought Draco wickedly with a lustful smirk.

"Besides, Weasley isn't half good enough for you," he told her unflinchingly, making her huff with exasperation. "You know you deserve better; you desire better," affirmed Draco sagely. "He can't possibly challenge you." With a lordly sneer on his face he declared, "I think we all know who the bottom is in that relationship."

Hermione stopped her aimless pursuit of wresting the book back from him for a moment, to give Draco a lethal look.

"I am warning you…"

Draco's face screwed up with bemusement. "When has that ever stopped me?"

He was still toying with her, continuing to play keep away with the book. It was making her waspish in temperament. Draco didn't mind; he kind of liked her hot-blooded and slightly mean.

"I know you, Hermione Granger," he pronounced, lowering his face to hers so he could look directly into her glittering, amber-brown eyes. "I know what you really want. You want a man that's your equal. Who you admire, and who inspires you; as you do him. You want a mate you can be proud to call yours, and no matter how many times you go slinking back to the Weasel, we both know he isn't the man for you."

"AND NEITHER ARE YOU, DRACO!" she screeched, finally snatching the cookbook away from him and holding it before her as though it were a shield to protect her from his perceptive attack. "Neither are you! Don't you get that yet?! Sweet Circe!" Hermione fumed, clawing a hand through her wild, brown curls. "How many times do I have to say it?! Do you want me to hurt you?!" she questioned him fiercely, trying to understand why he would push the subject once again after she thought it had been settled. "Why do you want me to hurt you?!"

"I like it rough."

Draco's straight-faced answer made her snap. She began pummeling him relentlessly with the book.

"KNOCK THAT OFF, WOMAN!" squawked the blond, trying to hold her off.

"ARGH!" she screamed with one final, spiritless swipe to his arm.

Just as quickly as her anger had appeared, it fizzled.

"What do I have to say to get it through that thick skull of yours?!" she wondered bewilderedly. "What do I have to do?!" she dazedly asked.

As if sensing just the opening he had been hoping for, Draco said the first thing that entered his single-minded head.

"Kiss me."

Hermione let out a caustic, unladylike snort. "You just don't know when to quit!"

"Just bear with me," he started, closely following after her as she walked back to her bookcase. "All this time all I've done is run after you and you've allowed me to because somewhere, deep down inside there, you've enjoyed the chase," he told Hermione, stopping right behind her.

She gave him a haughty look over her shoulder. "I don't want to be caught by you."

Draco smirked at her denial, not deterred at all by the prissy rejection.

"I didn't say you wanted to be caught; you just like the chase," drawled Draco seductively. "But see, here's the problem," he said, pinching the book right from her grasp, not even bothering to look where he put it. "That scenario took all of the blame out of those pretty, little hands of yours."

He watched her angrily yank the wizarding cooking manual from a shelf lined with books written by a bunch of dead, poof Muggle poets, and place it in its assigned slot.

"It made it easier for you to play innocent in this little affair we've been having," he went on.

Hermione whirled around, her eyes goggling with incredulity at the brash remark.

"It's partially my fault," he admitted, quickly speaking over her raised objections despite the warning signals going off in his head that told him that perhaps he was treading too far. However once Draco's mouth got going, it usually took a strike to the face, a hex, or his whole body being transfigured into that of a furry, woodland creature to get him to just shut up. Now was one of those times.

He placed both hands on the bookcase, one right next to each of Hermione's shoulders, and trapped her between his body and the wooden fixture.

"I've permitted you to get away with it," he pompously went on. "I've played along with your little game, but only up to a certain point." He smiled broadly. "Why do you think I've never tried to kiss you again?"

Hermione's eyes turned into two enraged, murky slits. "Because you prefer not having your bollocks banished into the next room!"

The mental image her threat conjured immobilized his reckless tongue for only a tic.

"True," he conceded with surprising prudence. He then threw the momentary display of sensibility out the window."But also because when we finally do kiss, I want you to be an equal participant. I don't want it to be about me kissing you. I want it to be about us kissing each other," he finished with a confident flourish of the hand, chucking her roguishly under the chin.

"Dream on," Hermione muttered, arms folded defensively against her chest. "I'm not snogging you. That's never going to happen," she stated, shaking her head.

"It will; one day," Draco avowed forthrightly. The harder she fought it, the harder she would eventually fall, he believed. She had to get over Weasley eventually. "Hell might be experiencing a record chill on the occasion, but it will happen."

"And what makes you so sure?" she acerbically questioned.

He gave her an unruffled look, though he was surprised she would ask a question she should already know the answer to.

"Malfoys always get what they want," he immodestly told her.

He then followed that statement with a cocky, self-assured smirk.

Hermione flushed all the way from her hairline down to the skin her loose-fitting top didn't cover. She tried to break free of him, first one way, then the other, but he had her successfully boxed in again; trapped right where he wanted her. When her breathing became erratic and labored, that didn't even give him the first clue that maybe he should back off; he did tend to have that effect on women. All the more so, when she suggestively crooked her finger at him, beckoning him closer, he gamely decided to play along and lowered his face to hers; closing his eyes as he leaned in. That's why he didn't see the whites of her pearly teeth as she bared them at him in a wicked grin.

"SHITE!" Draco caterwauled in distress, stumbling back from her as his hands quickly flew to the fleshy, bottom flap of his mouth. He checked to make sure it was still there, or if she had reduced it to a ragged, bloody pulp.

Finding it whole, if sore, he gawped at her unsmiling face.

"YOU 'IT 'E!" he incoherently hollered as he held his lower lip between his fingers.

"Damned right I bit you!" she growled; hands authoritatively on her hips as she planted her feet widely apart.

Draco inched away from her just in case the she-devil intended on taking another nibble; backing right into the back of her couch. She had hurt a hell of a lot more than just his pride. Thankfully she hadn't drawn blood. Draco could only wonder what had gotten into her.

"I just figured I'd explain it to you in a language that you'd best understand since you seem to only comprehend cruelty, Draco Malfoy!" she spitefully spat out. "We are friends. Only friends! ACCEPT THAT! You can't always get what you want! I've learned to live with it; so should you."

Draco forgot about his own paltry woe for a moment, his hand slowly falling from his mouth, and worriedly stared after his friend; no matter what she would always be his friend. He couldn't comprehend a thing she was saying. She was in the midst of a full grade meltdown; raving like a loon. And the worse part was he knew the onus of it all fell on him. He had worked her up, purposely taking liberties with their friendship; intentionally trying to get a reaction from her. Although it hadn't been the one he had hoped for, it was now up to him to set things to right.

Merlin, how he hated how his conscience reminded him of its presence from time to time!

Draco slowly approached the woman, hoping not to spook her, but she jumped back into the bookcase.

"I TOLD YOU NO AND I MEANT IT! I DON'T WANT TO KISS YOU, DRACO!" she screeched; her eyes enlarging. "I don't want you! I don't want Roger! I don't want Ollie! I don't want…"

She paused as if losing the thread of her rant…or sanity. Grabbing both sides of her head, her eyes squeezed shut.

"YOU'RE NOT HIM!" she shrilled, pulling at her long brown tresses. "NONE OF YOU ARE! NONE OF YOU WILL EVER BE HIM! YOU'LL NEVER BE HIM! NEVER!"

Draco finally was able to get near her. As he grabbed her wrists and somehow managed to detach her hands from her head, she opened her eyes and seemed to goggle at the sight of him standing in front of her. His swollen lip especially seemed to hold her fascination. She loosened a hand from his hold and it floated up to her mouth at once.

"Oh! Oh my," she breathed, chagrined at her bad behavior. She lowered her hand. "I don't know what just came over me," Hermione said. "Did I…"

She tentatively reached out to inspect the damage she had done.

"…did I just do that?" she asked, sounding awestruck at the possibility.

Draco took a hasty step away as if to ward her off. He wasn't scared of her or anything, but he was still a little rankled. He was human, after all.

"Yes! Stand back!" he grouched, reaching into the pocket of his training uniform and grabbing onto the article he had stashed in one of his pockets. As an Auror trainee, his instructors had taught him to always be prepared. "I may not carry a cross on me, but I usually keep an ampoule of Holy water and the Host readily available."

Unsure of if he was joking or not, Hermione eyed him cynically.

"I'm not the undead, you prat."

"No," said Draco sullenly, eyes narrowing at her as he pulled out the small mirror he always carried on him for emergencies such as these, "but you are a bitch; I hear those work just fine on your kind as well," came his nasty riposte.

He examined her handiwork in the looking glass, turning his head from side to side to get a good look at his precious lip. It was red and still swollen, giving him the unfavorable likeness of a duck-billed platypus. But all things considered, he'd live. Once he glanced back at Hermione, her miserable expression quelled most of his pique. He couldn't stay mad at her. Besides, he's the one that set her off in the first place.

"Luckily for you I happen to like complex women," he jestingly bantered, sliding the mirror back in place. In a way it was his way of saying all was forgiven. At the flirty remark, a faint smile formed on Hermione's face. His teasing tone let her know that there were no hard feelings.

She then took his hand and led him back into the kitchen, sitting him down so she could try and heal the reddened wound on his bottom lip. He didn't even peek down her shirt as she bent over him, tending his injury. Then again, she did have her wand in her hand.

"I'm so sorry, Draco," she apologized after she was done with her spell.

Although she had gotten his lip back to its normal size again, it still stung a bit. Draco didn't mention it though; she was already beating herself up enough as it was.

"The things that I said…what I did…"

She hung her head shamefully.

"It was uncalled for," she sighed. "It's just that lately I've been so twitchy that I don't know what I'm doing or saying half the time. I just…just want to kick and rip things apart these days."

"And taste test them apparently."

Hermione sheepishly grimaced as she watched Draco gingerly finger his lip once again.

"I shouldn't be taking this all out on you, though," she said, voice steeped in deep regret, as she gloomily supported herself against the table. "Please forgive me."

Draco shook his head.

"No," he said, standing up. He took her in his arms and gave her a friendly squeeze; staring down into her face. "Because there is nothing to forgive. It was my transgression. It was my fault. I can be a bit hardheaded," he confessed. "Sometimes it just takes me a while to get the message. What can I say; I like having my own way. Say," he added, a cheeky glimmer in his eyes, "here's a thought; to prove that all's forgiven, we should kiss and make up." He gave her a frisky grin to top his silly statement off.

She laughingly smacked him on the arm. "You are incorrigible."

He chuckled at his own brazen humor.

"Seriously, Pet, don't worry about the lip; we're squared," he told her, lifting a wayward curl from off of her face and tucking it behind an ear. "We'll just pretend that this never happened. How does that sound?"

He had hoped his offer to wipe away the day's events would please her, but it seemed to have the exact opposite effect. Draco actually saw tears well in Hermione's eyes as she unhappily heaved a heavy sigh. He had to lower his head just to hear her whispered mumbling.

"All I ever do is pretend."

Before he could puzzle out the peculiar remark, Draco felt the surge of powerful magic being expelled somewhere nearby. It happened so fast that he hadn't the time to even extract his fingers from out of Hermione's hair. Someone had breached the flat's protective wards and had come straight through. Knowing Hermione, her Anti-App was as formidable as the stalwart witch herself, so it could only be her FailSafe making his presence known.

But when Draco turned his all seeing, lynx-like eyes behind him to glower at the git who had intruded upon his visit, it was Potter he found standing there, hair still dripping from his post-game shower, and not the Weasel King as he had presumed. And he was enraged! As Potter prowled menacingly towards the entranceway of the kitchenette, the look on his face was nothing short of murderous, as his burning green eyes traveled from Hermione's face to land on Draco's. The Gryffindor had obviously taken one look at the innocent scene he had popped in on and jumped to the wrong conclusion. But that wasn't all that surprising, thought Draco snidely. Sometimes people only see what they want to see.

That's when he decided to leave and allow the two friends to start up whatever quarrel the four-eyed ponce was obviously spoiling to have. The git was so possessive of his sister that he practically bristled when any man got near her, especially Draco. He knew all to well of Potter's disapproval of his persistent presence in Hermione's life. So Draco could only guess at just how hacked off the other man really was if his expression was any indicant.

As he swept out of the flat, he imagined he could even hear the pansy arse's whinging. Malfoy's dangerous…Malfoy's evil…Malfoy's knob is bigger than mine (blah, blah, blah, blah, blah). It put a smile on the Slytherin's face just to think of it. Anything that made his dark haired foil unhappy, made him giddy as hell. The fact that Potter would probably be thinking the worse was just icing. In truth, he couldn't remember what, if anything, he had said to Hermione before taking his leave of her because he had been too busy savoring the moment to do much of anything else. It had been inconsequential really. No; Draco couldn't recall much at all as he departed, because he had been too damned busy enjoying the look on Potter's face.

THE LOOK ON POTTER'S FACE?!

The fleeting image had been so potent, so overwhelming that it literally made Draco's feet skid against the polished, hardwood floor, making him block the shiny gilded fireplace he had just emerged from. The evocative memory was so powerful in fact that the blond didn't even hear the cry of the fellow Ministry employee who clumsily collided into him as she floo'ed into the building's peacock-blue ceilinged Atrium right behind him; nearly falling back on her bum in the process. Quite frankly Draco had been too distracted to notice much at all.

"Do you mind?!" the middle-aged witch nastily queried, righting her crooked, pointed hat, as she gave the preoccupied Auror a dirty look. The woman had already marched off before he even thought to give her an offensive gesture or crudely tell the old bat just what part of his anatomy she could kiss.

What exactly had been that look on Potter's face, Draco now urgently asked himself, brow furrowed, as he tried to regain the intangible reflection that had slipped from him only too easily. He had been thinking back on that memorable afternoon at Hermione's flat when Potter had looked like he had been ready to annihilate him. That had been nothing new; back then the prat had always seemed just a stone's throw away from slaughtering Draco on the spot, especially if the blond happened to be standing a little too close to Hermione at the time. But there had been a fundamental difference that day.

Reflecting on it all again, there was something in that encounter that the usually observant Slytherin had missed. Something unnamed that Draco had never bothered to examine fully; probably because he had been too engrossed in pursuing his own desires back then to pay any consideration to what anyone else wanted, even Hermione. That's how he had missed the now obvious signs that she had been in love with the Boy Who Lived to chap his arse. At the time Draco had always known that there was something standing in his way, (Weasley, timing…the maddening witch herself) but he had never once bothered to consider that it had been Potter.

It had been Potter all along.

Or maybe he hadn't wanted to consider it, knowing that he would have never stood a chance to begin with.

Sometimes people only see what they want to see.

But Potter…there had been something about Potter that day.

The look on his face…

What had been that look on Potter's face…

"AUROR MALFOY!"

Draco's head quickly swiveled around to find Donavan Jacoby racing towards him pass the newly restored fountain of Magical Brethren that sat in the middle of the hall.

A few years prior a wealthy, anonymous backer had provided the funds to replace the golden statues that had been destroyed during the battle fought right inside the Ministry's walls, and to return the fountain, whose revenue brought in thousands of galleons to Mungo's coffers each year, back to its former splendor. Once the successful renovation project had been completed the brand new fountain, even grander and more dazzling than the one before it, became a big draw that attracted a countless number of spectators each year. There had even been a rumor that the redesign for the noble looking wizard and the adoring witch that stood at his side was actually modeled after the Potters; the picture perfect epitome of everything that their society revered and admired. Whether that was true or not, Draco didn't know; he did know he got a kick out of chucking coins off the golden wizard's fat head from time to time. Besides, it was all for charity.

That thought actually made Draco chuckle as the younger Auror came to a gasping stop before him.

"Thank Merlin I finally found you," said Jacoby, breathing in deeply. "I was beginning to think you weren't still in the building. Auror Malfoy, I've been searching for you all over the Ministry." He took a minute to stoop over and catch his breath.

Draco sneered down at the panting little pissant coldly. If these were the useless muppets they were churning out of training class these days, it was a wonder the Ministry didn't have dark wizards falling out of its crack, thought Draco snidely.

"Well, rookie, you found me. Bully for you!" he delivered in a scornful, mocking tone; uninterestedly brushing past the officer to head towards the lifts. "Now go away!" He didn't have time to bother with whatever shite Jacoby wanted to pester him with.

What Draco actually wanted to do was get a hold of one of those large Penseives the Department kept on hand at the staff's disposal. The memory receptacles were employed for training purposes on Level 2. Instructors would often use the Penseives to show their students what to expect once they actually went out into the field tracking dark wizards or to closely revise old battles firsthand with them.

Potter tended to use them to work on strategy with his adjunct officers. After a botched raid or any successfully completed assignment, he would walk the team back through their joint recollections of the mission to point out where they had failed or what they had done right. It actually helped to make them stronger as a unit and made their squad (Draco wouldn't lower himself to calling them a "Posse") a force to be reckoned with.

Right now, however, Draco had in mind a much different purpose for reserving one of the Department Penseives. There was an old memory the Slytherin wanted to take a good, hard, long look at, and to do so, he needed one of those damned stone contraptions. There was just something about the look on Potter's face, years ago, that kept teasing at the very periphery of Draco's thoughts in the present. When Potter first Apparated into Hermione's flat and saw her in Draco's arms, right before he had turned to the blond, ready to kick his arse; there had been something else there. Draco wanted to see it again. Needed to see it again. Unfortunately he found his path blocked. Jacoby seemed unwilling to let him get by.

Draco groaned inwardly; of all days for Jacoby to grow a pair.

The blonde wizard was near boiling as he roared at the younger officer, drawing stares from the scattering of Ministry workers nearest them who were either going or just returning from lunch.

"I SAID, BUGGER OFF, YA' MONG!"

He then shoved passed the uppity whelp to continue on his way. However he didn't get very far, before Jacoby's voice froze him in his place.

"But Auror Malfoy…it's Cadmus."

To Be Continued…

A/N: Next up is the conclusion to chapter 21. I'm not sure, but I think that Draco fellow might be putting two and two together. ;^)

A few more points of interest...

1) All characters other than Silence Hatchett and Trainee Costigan are canon.

2) The Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore Memorial Wing, the titles of Head Healer's Assistant and Healer's Assistant, the Never-Ending Bowel Expelling Curse, and the books Potterdise Lost: The Mostly True Tale of The Boy Who Lived, Magical Knitting & Other Sew-Sew Spells, Who's Afraid of the Dark Lord, Turn Your Coal to Gold: Alchemy Made Easy, What Witches Want, and Enchant Them in the Kitchen are all original to this story.

Tell me if you like it. Tell me if you hate it. Just tell me something. Please review. Check out my yahoo group, http://groups.yahoo.com/group/insidepandiesbox/, to see timelines and other ARLB goodies.