Two

Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter or any of these characters, but I think their world is an amazing place. No monetary profit is being made from this story.

Chapter 2

Ginny returned as promised the next day with Hermione in tow.

Draco watched with amusement through his peephole as they argued over who would knock. He waited until Hermione rolled her eyes and finally reached her hand up to knock, then opened the door before her hand could make contact. He put a scowl on his face as he swung the door wide. "Would you two please keep it down? I don't want trouble with the neighbors," he barked playfully.

Hermione looked at him as though he'd sprouted an extra nose while Ginny glanced to either side of the house.

"You don't have neighbors, you git," said Ginny, shifting her weight onto one side of her body.

Draco grinned and leaned against the doorframe. He felt slightly nervous; he had never been in a casual social setting with these women without Harry and Ron. "Your powers of observation are astounding, Mrs. Potter. How may I help you ladies this afternoon?"

Hermione gave him a small smile, and Ginny said, "I've got the paint samples I promised. Would now be a good time to look at them?"

Draco cocked his head and looked at Hermione.

She shrugged. "I'm here for support."

He nodded and turned back to Ginny. "What exactly does looking at paint samples entail?" Then he held up his hand. "On second thought, it is nearly time for tea. Would you two care to join me?"

Ginny and Hermione both nodded, and Draco opened the door for them to enter. They went into the kitchen, and Draco Conjured two chairs for his guests. While he set a kettle on the stove, he reiterated his question to Ginny.

"Well, I've recently developed an interest in decorating," she began as she pulled stack after stack of paint samples, thin strips of stiff paper with a colour painted on each, from her bag. She also had a master paint book with all the colours printed in their colour families. "In selecting wall colour, usually you would just ... pick a colour you like."

Draco nodded. "Then you are here to leave those samples for me to look through?"

Ginny gave him a wary look. "Would you really do it?"

He considered the question and the fact that Ginny and Hermione were there. They obviously did not think he could be trusted to accomplish the task. As such, they were there. She was there. He guessed that Ginny planned to stay for a while and had convinced Hermione to come along to keep her company.

The kettle whistle went off, and Draco prepared their tea, taking a few scones he had baked that morning out of the breadbasket and setting them on a plate. He levitated everything to the table and sat down.

"No, I do not reckon I would select paint for my walls, at least not in a timely fashion."

Ginny nodded. "That's what I thought. I also thought we could go through them together and pick colours."

"Okay," he said, putting a lump of sugar in his cup.

"Where do you spend most of your time when you're at home?" Ginny asked.

He frowned and started to ask what on earth that question had to do with paint colour when he was interrupted.

"Oh, these are delicious!" said Hermione, having taken a bite of a raspberry scone on which she had heaped a dollop of lemon curd. "Did you make them?"

Draco nodded, feeling a twinge of pride.

"Amazing ... and the curd tastes fresh too."

"I try to make a batch every week."

Hermione nodded, chewing. "Sorry, Ginny," she said.

"I spend most of my time in the sitting room or in here."

"Then let's start with the kitchen since we're here, shall we?" Ginny asked. She pulled out one set of paint samples, bound in one corner. "These are my favorites ... especially the Original Colours. Would you like to use Restoration Colours, Malfoy?"

He blinked, staring at what looked like thousands of colours. "Er ... what kind of colours?"

"Restoration. They are used in restoring homes ...." She paused. "I had been talking for a while about learning more, so for a gift, Harry enrolled me in a few Muggle decorating classes. They were a lot of fun."

"Whatever you say," he replied. "Restoration Colours are fine."

Ginny beamed. "Excellent. Now ..." She trailed off, looking around his kitchen. "Your cabinets are a very deep wood tone, so I think a light, warm shade would look nice ..." Ginny stood and took the paint book with her into the kitchen.

Draco looked at Hermione, who was looking through another paint book Ginny had brought. "Are you her assistant?" he asked with a smile, knowing full well the answer, but feeling as though he ought to say something.

Hermione looked up and after a moment smiled too. "It was the strangest thing. For some reason, Ginny didn't want to be here all alone with just you," Hermione said, closing the book. "Imagine that."

Draco feigned offense. "I can't imagine why that would be," he said.

Hermione leaned over the table and whispered, "I think she's afraid of you."

"I can hear, you know," called Ginny.

Draco pretended she hadn't spoken. "She should be," he whispered loudly. "One of my largest snakes got loose in the cupboard this morning."

Hermione's eyes shone. "Oh, my, that sounds dangerous!"

"He's poisonous too ... and hungry ...."

Ginny returned to the table and sat down beside him. "Not funny, Malfoy. Now, what do you think of these colours?" She pointed to samples labeled Olive Oil, Light Challinor, Acorn, Lemon Tree, Driftwood, Tuscany, and Burton Pink.

Draco squinted at Burton Pink. "That does not look at all pink to me."

"Never mind that," said Ginny. "Do you like any of them?"

He looked from one sample to the next, hoping that something would come to him, that he would understand why people spent so much time and effort in picking out wall colours, and why there were so many different colours to choose from. He felt boggled simply from seven, and Ginny had started with thousands!

"That one," he said, pointing at Olive Oil.

"Hmm ..." Ginny said. "It's a green. I rather thought Tuscany would be nice with the cabinets and the bright white trim."

He looked around the room and tried to imagine Tuscany walls, but it was no use. He did not have an eye for colour.

"What do you think, Hermione?" Ginny asked after he'd remained silent for too long.

"I like Tuscany."

Draco looked at her, then back at the sample, then at the walls again. He shrugged. "Okay."

"Lovely!" exclaimed Ginny. She took out her wand and with a swish, duplicated the Tuscany card and wrote "kitchen" on the back. "Which room should we do next?"

The sitting room took significantly longer than the kitchen. Instead of cabinets, there was only the fireplace to work with, and the mantelpiece was made of dark wood with simple carving. Draco had not wanted anything elaborate, just functional. Ginny spent a good deal more time looking through the paint book and seemed to be having a harder time making her choices.

Draco and Hermione sat quietly on the sofa, watching while Ginny walked round and round the room, muttering to herself. Draco thought it was entertaining, but Hermione eventually pulled out a book she had brought with her and started reading.

Finally, after what felt like an hour, Ginny sighed and walked to the sofa.

"Here," she said, handing him a pile of samples. "Why don't you get started on these while I go and look upstairs?"

He nodded and accepted the paint samples while Ginny headed up the stairs. Then he looked down at the disturbingly thick pile in his hands. He frowned as he sifted through the stack. "There are so many...how am I supposed to choose?" he asked himself out loud.

Hermione shifted on the sofa, bringing her legs up onto the cushions, and closed her book. "Need a little help?"

It occurred to Draco that they were alone together. Unease settled into his gut. "Er ... sure."

"Let me see which colours she chose," Hermione said, holding her hand out. Draco gave her the paint samples, and she too flipped through them. "Well, do you like any of these?" she asked, looking up at him.

He shrugged. "They all look fine to me."

"Well, you can't have all of them; you need to pick one."

"Just one?" he asked, counting twenty-two paint colours.

"Eventually, yes. Your room should only have one colour on the walls. Unless, of course, you want to paint different walls in different colours. I think you agreed on white trim, right?"

He nodded mechanically, and Hermione looked back at the samples. "Are there any you don't like? Maybe we can start with those ..." She moved off the sofa to sit on the floor and spread the paint colours out around her. "Just pick five you don't like. It's a start."

Draco sat down on the floor across from her and chose five: Light Wicker, Boxington, Pot Red, Grapevine, and Baked Cherry.

Hermione nodded. "Okay, good. Now remove five more."

Next, he eliminated Garden, Tan Tan, Burton Pink, Dooly, and Whistle.

"You don't seem to like warm colours," she said, more to herself. She bit her lip. "I wonder why there are no greys."

"I like grey," he said, looking up at her hopefully.

"There must be a reason Ginny didn't pick any greys ..." Hermione said. "Well, we're down ten. Only another dozen to go."

After an excruciating twenty minutes, during which Hermione became increasingly opinionated and offered many suggestions which Draco was sure she thought were helpful, he narrowed his choices to Terrace, Linnet, and Light Challinor. Hermione called Ginny down to examine the colours and she frowned at all three.

"Hmm ..." she said, looking from one sample to the next. "I had thought ... maybe ..." She pulled a color from the stack of rejected colors. "Here." She handed Draco card with the colour Twist on it. He made a face at the colour, then at Ginny.

"I don't think so," he said.

"Trust me," she said in a tone that said she had settled the matter. Then she set off for the upstairs again.

"This colour is awful," he said, holding it up. "I would rather have black walls than this."

Hermione cracked a smile. "It's not so bad," she said, taking the sample from him and holding it up. "I quite like it."

He gave her a look that plainly said he didn't believe her.

"Well," she mused, "It's kind of nice. It goes well with black, and the green of your door would make a nice accent colour."

He eyed her skeptically. "You mean it? Green with ... whatever this is." He squinted to look at the tiny print in the bottom right-hand corner. "Twist? What does that even mean? It's not quite blue, but it's not green either."

Hermione gave him a sideways smile. "Of course; I wouldn't lie to you," she said, standing.

Ginny returned after a few minutes and told Draco she had left stacks of samples in each room.

"Have a look at them and pick your three favourites for each room. Let me know if you want help selecting a colour. You'll need to get the paint yourself. We'll help you paint, but you'll need to tell us when you plan to do it. I must be going though; Mum needs my help with dinner tonight. She's cooking for some of Dad's coworkers and wants things to be extra special. I hadn't expected such a lovely tea. Thank you."

Draco nodded. "My pleasure."

Ginny and Hermione made their way out the door.

"Later, Malfoy," said Ginny, waving as she stepped onto the porch. Hermione seemed to hesitate, then followed her out with a half-smile.

Draco frowned at the closed door. He had expected to be relieved to be rid of their presence, but he found the house was suddenly oppressively silent and the walls glaringly white. As he turned around to go back to the kitchen, there was a sharp knock on the door. He opened it. Hermione stood there alone. He arched a single eyebrow in question.

"Uhm, can I have..." she looked at her watch "...fifteen minutes in your book room?"

The question caught him completely off-guard. "Why?"

"Because I have a feeling you reorganized last night." She grinned. "And I'll take your gaping stare to mean I'm right. I'd like to have a go at trying to figure it out."

He nodded, more from shock than actual acquiescence. She darted past him and practically ran up the stairs. Draco stood by the door. She was in his house, with him, alone. It was unsettling. He could either be okay with it, with being alone in his house with her, opening the door to all kinds of disturbing and unrealistic ideas, or he could not be okay with it and freak out and handle the situation poorly. He vacillated only a moment before choosing the easy path. He decided to think about it later and went outside with a book.

The front porch was much shallower than the back, only deep enough to comfortably sit on a bench, which Draco had not yet purchased. Draco had also set out a small table on which he placed the potted plant from Neville. A small set of stairs led from the porch into the yard, and a worn dirt path led from the steps around to Draco's garden on the south side of the house. He was rather proud of the vegetables and herbs he had grown so far and was already making meticulous notes on ways to improve and expand it for the next growing season.

Beyond the garden was a grassy meadow bordered on the east by the cliff, on the west by a forest a few hundred yards from the house, while to the north and south it stretched for miles, broken only by the sharp drop to the south where the rift had divided the land. The forest covered many hundreds of acres and eventually ran into the Forbidden Forest, magically separated from the rest of the woods.

Draco was reading when Hermione emerged sometime later. "Oh, there you are. I've been looking for you."

"You found me," he said blankly.

She sat down on the top step; he was on the third down. "Well, I haven't cracked it yet."

"Good."

There was a moment of unawkward silence that he felt sure should have been very awkward. She shifted. "How long have you been doing that? Arranging your books, I mean."

He shrugged. "I spent a lot of time sequestered in my room with nothing to do when I was younger. It kept my mind off..." He swallowed, suddenly aware of how close they were and of the fact that he was about to cross the invisible line they had drawn between them during the war.

The line was thick, solid and dark, and it said quite plainly that he and she were not friends and would not ever be friends. Even after he had overheard Harry trying to convince Hermione to give him a chance, things had stayed the same. Draco remembered listening at the door. Hermione had said it wasn't about chances, it wasn't about his past...she had accepted his past...but that it was something else that she wasn't sure she wanted to think about. They talked too quietly for Draco to hear more after that.

The deepest conversation he had ever shared with Hermione had been about their favorite books; they had not talked about anything of substance. He heard her speak a great deal, and she likewise. He knew that she knew his altered views on the superiority of blood, believing in causes and sacrifice. He knew that she had lightened up considerably, not taking herself as seriously and accepting one or two of her faults.

Still, none of those revelations were the result of direct interaction between them. He now had the opportunity to change the character of their relationship, if only very slightly, and tell her something about himself. Share. Open up.

But should he?

His initial response was a resounding NO. Talking about his life, his past, his feelings, was not something he did voluntarily. Nonetheless, he found that a small part of him wanted to share something about himself. It was not the act of sharing, per se, but the idea that she wanted to know him. She had asked, and he saw no real harm in answering her honestly. He was going to jump off a cliff, after all, nothing could be as scary as that.

He took a deep breath and said, "Rearranging my books kept my mind off what was happening outside my room. My father ... well, suffice it to say, I did not enjoy being around when he was 'experimenting.' But I still heard things, and by rearranging my books, I could keep my mind focused completely on my task and be essentially oblivious to what was happening elsewhere in the house. At first, I would just dump them all on the bed and then alphabetize them. After awhile, though, I started to know without looking where certain books belonged in the sequence by their colour or a particular feature, and decided to organize them differently. I've been doing it ever since."

"It seems like a decent way to pass the time," Hermione said hesitantly. "Did you ever read any of the books you organized?"

"Yes," he answered. "But only when it was quiet in the house. Reading wasn't enough to distract me."

Hermione nodded and remained silent for a while. Draco thought that perhaps she hadn't been expecting such an answer and was trying to think how to respond.

"So ... may I come back?" she asked.

"Why?" he asked pointedly, grateful that she didn't pursue the topic despite the dozens of questions that must be running through her mind.

"I didn't finish; I would like to try and figure it out."

"Why would you want to do that?"

She shrugged. "It's a challenge, a puzzle. I love puzzles."

He wasn't sure about this idea. "When would you return?"

"Umm, I'm free in two nights."

"What if I want to change them before then?" he asked, knowing full well he would do no such thing.

"Oh. I didn't think of that." She considered the options briefly. "Well, if you must, you must. It'll still be a new puzzle."

"So you definitely want to come back in two days?"

"If it's all right, yes. I wouldn't want to intrude ..." She trailed off, doubt evident in her voice.

"It would be all right. Odd, but fine."

"And rearranging your books every other day isn't," she said with a relieved smile.

"I think trying to discern the pattern is odder than that."

"But you use such ... random patterns."

Neither spoke for a minute.

"I think it is safe to say we are both odd," he conceded.

"Agreed," she said with a smile. She sighed and stood, descending the steps and stopping at the bottom. "Two days then." She gave him a tiny smile then Disapparated.

Draco stared at the space that seconds ago had been occupied by her body, unsure if he should actually believe that their conversation had occurred. Gradually, his eyes dropped to the patch of dirt, part of the path to his garden, below where her feet had been. It was disturbed. Draco sighed and went to the edge of his cliff. He dropped a few rocks, timed them, and went inside feeling slightly out of sorts.

ooo

Hermione returned two days later and successfully identified the system by which the books were organized. She very casually asked him if she should return in three days or the next week. He frowned and said he usually rearranged every two to three days or whenever the mood struck. She came back, and then again and again, until it became a regular occurrence. One, two, sometimes three times a week. She would knock, he would answer. They would engage in small talk, and then she would run off to his book room. He would take something...a book, work, parchment and quill...onto his front stoop and wait for her to finish. Sometimes it was an hour, sometimes it was three. There were a few times when she had to return the next day before she got the pattern.

When she was finished, she would go outside and sit with Draco for a while. They would talk some more, and she would leave. Then he would go inside and bang his head against the wall. Because he had said, yet again, that yes, she could come back. She had even started getting cocky, saying that he couldn't stump her. He wasn't trying to, and anyway, with enough time anyone could figure the patterns out.

This went on for about a month and a half. During that time, their small talk went from brief, passing comments to respectable discussions to full blown conversation. Sometimes, they would actually sit down to talk when she arrived, which might have meant that she was coming for more than just the books. They started asking about each other's days and bringing up things they had talked about the last time. It was approaching normal. Other people's definition of normal, anyway, which for Draco was weird.

Then, one time, she didn't even go up to the book room at all. They just talked. She had gone through a particularly busy few days and wanted to 'toss a few ideas around' with him, as she put it. As though they were friends who did things like that. Not that he minded. He didn't generally get a whole lot of stimulating conversation during his day.

As CEO, COO and CFO of Malfoy Enterprises, he spent his time with people with whom he only talked business. There was no one with whom he held conversations, except perhaps his secretary, and those were limited to brief synopses of their respective weekends, an occasional piece of office gossip, or an exchange of a particularly good recipe one of them had tried and tips for preparing it and possibly improving it as well.

When he first took over Malfoy Enterprises, he had spent an entire month just learning exactly what the business was. Then it took another four months to clean it up. He got rid of shady business partners and employees, ended relationships with other corrupt corporations and developed an entirely new business policy that didn't have 'bribe them, blackmail them, beat them' as the top three procedures for getting things done. Now things ran more smoothly, and Malfoy Enterprises was actually doing better than it had under his father. Take that, Lucius, he thought smugly.

So it felt strange, being so familiar with Hermione, and by the time she left that night, he thought she thought so too. Their goodbye was drawn out and awkward from the moment she stood up to leave. He had walked her to the door, still talking. When they reached it, they paused and said goodbye again. But the conversation was resumed, and even after he opened the door and she stepped through, he stood in the doorframe and she on the porch for another few minutes, still talking, until she finally said goodnight again.

It was as though they both wanted to end the conversation, yet at the same time neither wanted it to be over. She said she would be back on Friday, but the more he thought of those awkward last moments, the more he wondered if she would have second thoughts.

ooo

Friday morning, Draco took his broom to the edge of the cliff. He had done so many times, but when the light of the morning sun hit his eyes through his window that morning, he knew something would happen that day. Something different.

He could feel the warmth of the sun on his back as he stared down at the dark waters below, the jagged black rocks jutting up from between the waves. Something was different today, though he wasn't quite sure exactly what.

Gulls flew through his field of vision, calling out to him. His heart started pounding, as though it could sense, before his brain had formed the thought, what was about to happen. He gripped the broom tightly to keep it from jumping out of his hands.

He stared out at the sparkling blue water, and time seemed to slow. The waves seemed to move with his breathing. In, out ... in, out. The pulse of the world, in tune with his own.

Without warning, without thinking, he took a running jump off the cliff and quickly pulled the broom beneath him, directing it to fly him out over the water, far below. It was a small step in the ultimate course, but it was a start. He had started. The blood was pounding in his ears, and his heart was beating wildly against his ribcage.

He had made the first jump and he was okay. He sat on his broom, letting his heart slow down and his body relax, which took longer than he imagined it would. Then he lazily flew a few hundred yards over the water, admiring its power and beauty. One day, when he really jumped, he might miscalculate and end up shredded or broken. A very unpleasant thought. The sea was extremely powerful and commanded respect.

With a small nod of satisfaction directed at the cliff, Draco flew to the top and dismounted. Soon. Soon he would jump without his broom in his hand.

ooo

She arrived promptly at seven-thirty, announcing her presence with a sharp rap on the door. He opened it to admit her, and she smiled as she passed him. But they did not go into the sitting room for small talk, or to the kitchen for snacks, as they had been doing for the last couple of weeks.

"Hey," she said, almost shyly.

"Hi. How are you?" It felt weird now, awkward. He had no idea why, no idea what had happened to insert this ... new, strange thing between them. If he allowed himself to admit it, the last time with her had been ... good.

"I'm good. You?"

He nodded. "The same."

She smiled. So normal, and yet, not. "Good. Well, I'll just be going then."

He shrugged. "Sure."

She practically ran out of the room.

Draco was left standing by the door. Unease crept into his veins, much like it had that first time she had come over alone. It was being alone with her again after the awkward twist. After their last time together, something had made them both run back to their respective sides of the invisible line faster than Crabbe and Goyle ran after sweets.

Draco grabbed a book...the first book he could find...and went to sit outside on the front stoop. Just like always. But this time, he was unable to concentrate. Inexplicably, his thoughts drifted to his mother. He thought about the day she had told him about his father.

Draco had always known his father was cold, calculating and a bit touched in the head. It was common knowledge that Lucius was intolerant, evil, and thought himself superior to most. Draco had even known that his father was deeply involved in the Dark Arts, and a little hidden-away part of him had long suspected that his father was a Death Eater. The only thing was, he had never seen the actual proof. It was not a topic brought up at mealtimes or discussed over tea. So it had not been real, and the suspicions did not make it so. The idea that his father could be a Death Eater had remained nebulous. Of course, Draco hated Muggles, and Mudbloods, and television and Coca-Cola like every upstanding, respectable pureblood.

To Draco, however, being a Death Eater meant something entirely different than just hating Mudbloods. He had heard plenty of stories about Death Eaters, even if his parents never talked about them. To him, becoming a Death Eater meant giving your life over to someone who would use and even torture his followers if sufficiently angered. He had decided after his fourth year, after rumors flew of the Dark Lord's return, never to do it, never to become one of them, and lose himself to another living being. That summer had been the worst of his life. When he looked back, the signs about his father were so glaring that the only explanation of why Draco hadn't read them was that he simply chose not to. But that wouldn't work forever.

At the end of his fifth year at Hogwarts, Narcissa had met him at the train station alone. Lucius was in Azkaban, thanks to bloody Harry Potter. She held her head high, despite the sideways glances and straight-up glares from other parents and a few older students. She gave him a curt nod and motioned for him to follow her. Once out of the station, she Apparated them both to their house. Still she did not speak, her cold eyes uncharacteristically bright and frantic.

It was a convincing show, and Draco caught himself shivering once or twice as he followed her through the massive house and out onto the large balcony attached to the back of the house. Narcissa walked straight through the double French doors across the patio to the stone railing that edged the balcony. Draco almost thought she would not stop, but she did when she reached the railing and clutched it tightly.

Draco stopped a short distance behind her and waited.

After a few minutes, Narcissa slowly turned around and met her son's patient gaze. She straightened to her full height and said regally, "Draco. There is ... something we must discuss."

Draco nodded, a horrible, sinking weight settling in the pit of his stomach. He had read the Prophet, had discussed it with his friends, and even taunted Potter. But it had all been to save face for himself and his father. Now, as he looked at his mother's red, puffy eyes, he knew before she said a word exactly what she would tell him.

Then she proceeded to bring his world crashing around him. He sat staring blankly at the grounds as she told him Lucius was, indeed, a Death Eater, and had, as reported, been at the Department of Mysteries in an attempt to retrieve something. He and a handful of his cronies, Draco's aunt and uncle included, fought with mere children his own age...Harry, Ron, Hermione and others...and had been unsuccessful in their mission.

She stopped then, and Draco looked at her listlessly. She looked as though she were on the verge of wringing the handkerchief she held into pieces.

He shifted his weight and crossed his arms, trying to get more comfortable but to no avail. No amount of physical movement could ease the tumult inside. "I ... I had heard that much, actually ..." He trailed off. When she didn't continue, Draco looked at her again and saw a strange, fierce look in her eyes. The weight in his stomach increased, and he returned to staring at the freshly bloomed roses in the back garden. "There's more, isn't there?"

She nodded and continued. The Dark Lord was angry. Very angry. His trust in Lucius had been shaky at best, and his failure only weakened him in the Dark Lord's eyes. Now, the Dark Lord wanted Draco to step up and take his father's place. Her voice faltered then, and she stopped.

He snapped his head around to look at her then, eyes narrowed. He had a thousand questions, but the big one...WHY?...refused to leave his suddenly dry lips.

Narcissa crossed the patio to him and, after searching his eyes, hesitantly reached a hand up to wipe Draco's long fringe off his forehead. "I do not know what he wants from you," she began. "Bella has given me the little information I have. I do know you will be called before him soon."

Draco peered at her unwaveringly, unsure exactly how much he should reveal of his decision of the previous summer. "And if I refuse?" he asked quietly.

Narcissa turned her back to her son and faced the garden, hiding her expression from him. "You cannot refuse, Draco! It is an honor to be hand-picked by the Dark Lord!"

Despite the confident words she spoke, Draco heard her voice waver and sensed the questioning spirit behind her statement. It was as though she had said the same thing before many times, but only now had difficulty really meaning it.

"I do not want this, Mother."

The tears in Narcissa's eyes swelled. "You have no choice," she declared. "You will go before him, or you will be killed." Then she walked away, never once letting him get so much as a glimpse of her face.

The full weight of his mother's words hit Draco like a stray Bludger. His father was in prison, and Draco and his mother were alone. Lucius had angered his master, and Draco was to take his place as a Death Eater.

Draco avoided his mother after their initial conversation and tried to go about as though it were any other summer. He could not, however, shake the feeling of dread that sucked at his life force like a parasite. Every morning when he awoke, his first thought was, Will today be the day?

The waiting ended one night toward the end of July. He came home from seeing his friends to find his mother, his aunt, and a few other Death Eaters milling about in the drawing room. As soon as he entered, his aunt Bellatrix grinned hungrily and went to him, roughly gripping his arm. His mother appeared tense, but she said nothing as Bellatrix informed him that he had been summoned by the Dark Lord. After a few hushed words exchanged between his mother and her sister, the group left the Manor.

He had sworn to himself that he would never give in, never take the Mark, but once he stood before the Dark Lord, he knew his mother had spoken the truth. He had no choice. He made sure to act as though the task he had been given pleased him greatly, even managing to convince himself, for the moment, anyway, that he was beyond thrilled at the opportunity. Temporarily removing himself from his own preferences, his own reality, he seemed to have been successful at convincing not only his mother and aunt, the only other people in the room, but the Dark Lord as well. He was, at the very least, allowed to leave.

When he and his mother returned home that night, his arm was still burning and the Dark Lord's words were etched into his brain. When he closed his eyes, he thought he could see them written in fire on the backs of his eyelids.

Narcissa had not spoken a word since before they had left, and her complexion was as pale as ice. They stood in the foyer, neither quite sure what to do next, but both feeling as though there was something that needed to be said.

Finally, Narcissa looked at him. "Do not be frightened, Draco." Her voice belied her own fears, sounding hollow and nearly cracked.

He chuckled bitterly and looked away. He felt as though he might vomit. It seemed as though his entire life had been forfeited, that instead of a future wide open, he saw only a single goal on which he would be focused until he either accomplished it or died trying.

When he said nothing, she began to cry. She did not sob or moan or weep, only cried small, elegant tears that tugged at Draco's heart unlike anything he had ever felt before.

"I ... I'm so scared, Draco!" she whispered between tears. "I've lost Lucius; I cannot lose you too!"

"You won't lose me, Mother," he said, surprised at the strength in his voice. It really hit him at that moment that he was probably lying to her. Something twisted inside Draco and he tasted bile.

She must have sensed it because she looked at him, tears shining in her eyes. Draco reached out to her, something he had never had cause to do before, and pulled her into an awkward hug. Narcissa clung to him as though afraid he might fade away right then.

Anger welled in Draco like a volcano threatening to erupt. She had no idea, really, all that had happened at the Riddle House that night. The Dark Lord had spoken to him alone at first, in order to provide him with the proper incentive he needed to accept his task willingly in front of Narcissa.

Distantly, he heard that she had begun to speak. She told him everything would be all right, that he needed to put up a brave, unaffected front for everyone and that she loved him.

He started at that final admission and scowled down at her. It did not matter that he had not heard those words from her lips, or anyone's, for that matter, since he was very small. She had no idea what she was talking about. He loved her, which was why he was in the mess he was in. If what she had said was true, how could she have put him in danger? Would she have consented to a life where she was not her own master?

"You cannot tell me you did not expect this," he said bitingly, pulling out of her arms. "I never wanted any of this, but thanks to you and Father, we are all probably going to be killed."

Narcissa paled and her eyes went wide. "What do you mean?"

Draco hastily recovered his arm. "I mean, Mother, that I have now been pulled into his service and given an impossible assignment. Impossible!" he yelled and then laughed almost hysterically. "You and Father have ruined my life! I have no life from this moment on, only a death sentence over which I have little control. I will never forgive you!"

He stormed from the room, slamming his door as hard as he possibly could before rushing to be sick in the bathroom. Draco avoided his mother as much as possible for the remainder of the summer, but he did not forget what she said about showing a brave face to those around him. When a friend casually mentioned a broken cabinet, Draco felt relief for the first time since receiving the Mark that would permanently alter the course of his life.

A few drops of water splattered on the dirt path, drawing Draco's attention from his thoughts. He looked up to see dark clouds in the sky, ominous and threatening, and as if on cue, he heard a distant peal of thunder. He expected a shower would begin any moment, but the drops seemed to stop after only a few minutes, though the thunder continued to roll.

He wondered if Hermione had noticed, tucked away in his book room, or if she had been too preoccupied. Draco knew all too well how absorbing the task of rearranging his books could be, and imagined that sorting through them, attempting to discover the link to the order in which they were arranged, would be equally, if not more so, enthralling. In all of her visits, Hermione had not once left the room unless she was either finished or absolutely had to leave in order to get some semblance of a good night's sleep.

Draco stood and stretched. He had been sitting for a long time on a hard wooden step and felt the need to stretch his legs. The impending rain brought his thoughts round to his garden, and setting down the book he had not even opened, he started along the familiar, well-worn path to his garden. The staked tomatoes were at their peaks, and he absently ran his fingers over a particularly ripe specimen, inhaling the fresh scent of the tomato plant. Walking in the dirt kicked up the rich, loamy smell of the earth. Draco nodded in satisfaction as he considered what he would prepare for dinner that night. He did not know if he would be cooking for one or two, but he thought it better to be safe. He picked a few tomatoes and carried them back to the front porch and resumed his place on the steps.

He loved the feel of the air just before a rain, the crackling tension and the hint of ozone. It had been like this on his mother's birthday the year before, the last time he had seen her. Clouds had threatened all morning, but they held off pouring their offering on the earth until after Draco and his mother had spoken. She had told him many things that afternoon, but most ardently that she was proud of his choice to defect. He told her how hard it was, about the days he spent alone, talking to no one except occasionally the house-elf who for some reason had taken a liking to him. Narcissa had encouraged him to continue, to push through despite his loneliness, and reminded him that he hadn't defected to make friends.

Draco had laughed at that and then they both fell silent.

When she continued, Narcissa told him she did not think she would ever see him marry. He had laughed again, thinking that it was an odd thing to be worrying about during a war when there was no guarantee that any of them would live past the next day or week or month. Marriage was the last thing on his mind ... in fact, not even on his mind at all, and he told her as much.

She had looked at him then and smiled so brightly that it lit her entire face. She told him that he would find someone so amazing, so incredible, that she would change his life forever, change his world.

Who knows? Maybe she'll be a Muggle-born ....

Draco had scoffed at that, through force of habit more than anything else. He had found that old habits were hard to break.

At that, Narcissa had quirked an eyebrow, cocked her head, and peered straight into the most hidden crevices of his heart and soul, saying, "Son, never say 'never.'"

Her statement was not profound, or deep, or new.

For some reason, his thoughts had immediately jumped to Hermione, probably because she was the only Muggle-born he really spent any time with. From birth, he had known that he was expected to marry a suitable pureblooded witch to continue the Malfoy line. Despite all the changes in his life, it hadn't occurred to him that there might be other options.

And so, months later, Draco's thoughts turned to Hermione, and he thought about the word "never," and the oddest things happened when he did. The entire world went still around him, and then a breeze came up over the field and the forest that surrounded the house. It was one of those slow-building breezes where you hear it and see it before you feel it. He saw the treetops blowing with its force and heard the rustle of leaves and branches brushing against each other in the cool autumn wind. He kept watching the trees sway until he finally felt the breeze reach him. What was odd was that what hit him wasn't nearly as strong as what moved the trees. Maybe nature was trying to tell him something

His mother's words about a witch someday changing his world seemed to be on the breeze, whispering in his ears and running through his hair.

He knew that if Narcissa had been there and had access to his thoughts, she would have laughed at the fact that he was sitting outside his house just because Hermione was inside it. He was hiding from what his mother had said, trying very hard to keep her words from coming true. Because it was Hermione. The one witch he knew who really could change his whole world. And Draco wasn't sure if he was ready for such a change, or if he even wanted things to change at all. His world had already been uprooted and tossed on its side twice, and he didn't know if he could handle it happening a third time.

He often wondered what his mother had meant by her simple yet telling statement. Was she telling him that she would accept someone of impure blood? Perhaps cautioning him against closing doors before he even came to them? Or was there more to it? Did she want him to be with a Muggle-born? Or, more specifically, Hermione?

The simplest and most obvious answer was that she hadn't meant anything by it at all. Snape had once told him about a Muggle churchman called Occam, whose razor said that the simplest explanation was always the most likely. It was a good theory, except there had been a glint in her eyes when she'd said it. Had there been no glint, he would have accepted the razor's theory.

At first glance, it seemed like just a harmless piece of advice from a mother to her son, but Draco knew his mother and believed that something more lay behind the comment. He had tried to recall all the occasions on which he had ever mentioned Hermione around his mother, and could only name a few. Then again, he had mentioned her that day, telling his mother that Hermione alone had remembered or thought to find out about his birthday the month before.

Nonetheless, his mother's comment bothered him, and he often wondered whether she had been consciously trying to push him towards Hermione or simply musing over the possibilities.

In the two months between Narcissa's birthday and her death, Draco had paid attention to Hermione for completely new reasons. He considered the possibility that his mother had known something he didn't know and tried to perhaps see what she might have seen. He noticed that Hermione was pretty when she smiled, that it was cute when she chewed her bottom lip when she was thinking hard, and that her laugh was the most amazing sound he had ever heard.

There was one thought that sent his head spinning till he felt dizzy. If his mother had never mentioned marriage or Muggle-borns, would he have ever started thinking about Hermione in that way? Would he be staring at the ceiling, night after night, wishing she was there with him and tormented by his imagination of a life with her, a life he knew he couldn't have? Would those feelings have ever surfaced, and if they had, would he have been more or less accepting of them?

It always gave him a headache to think about it, and he could never arrive at a reasonable conclusion. He was left trying to push it all aside and resolving to think about it some other time. Tomorrow.

But today, she was here, in his house, looking through his meticulously arranged stacks of books, as though she liked it there, as though she was comfortable in his house. With just him. It was simply too much.

The book lay open in his lap, and he was still staring out at the swaying trees when Hermione emerged from the house.

She sat down on the step beside him this time, and he thought about the line they had recently crossed. He still was not sure what it meant, or if it meant anything at all. He only knew he was moving into uncharted territory, but he seemed to be doing okay. He was even able to admit, finally, that he was comfortable with her company, that he could pass an hour with her without feeling as though he might drown.

When she came out to the porch, she didn't say anything right away. He looked up to see her watching the trees.

"Odd weather," she said. "I think it's going to rain."

"Marvelous observation," he quipped.

"I have always enjoyed the weather just before the rain. Colours seem so much brighter." She looked at him. "Speaking of colour, have you even looked at the samples Ginny left?"

Draco chuckled and leaned over to pick at a tuft of grass. "No."

"She's been asking if you had, as it has been over a month. Eventually, she's going to come back and encourage you to pick the last few colours, and you know what Ginny's like when she's 'encouraging.'"

"Reckon I had better get on it then," he said, feeling disinclined to follow through.

"I think I've got it figured out," Hermione said after a moment of silence.

"And?" he asked, putting the book away and looking at her.

She cast him an apprehensive look, the same way she did every time she was about to reveal her solution to the pattern. "The books are in order by year of publication first; that part was easy. Then they're ordered alphabetically by the author's middle name."

"And if there isn't a middle name?"

"Then by the city of publication."

"You are right."

She let out a deep breath and nodded to herself. "Good."

They spent the next five minutes in further silence. Draco tried to remain completely calm despite the fact that Hermione could not seem to stay still. Either she was uncomfortable on the steps, or she had too much caffeine before coming over. As there was not a lot of room on the steps, whenever she moved she invariably bumped into or brushed against him. The contact made him shiver in a not exactly terrible way.

She fidgeted a lot.

"So. Draco. Uhm, how are you?"

He frowned. "I don't understand the question."

"What's not to understand?" she returned, her arm brushing overlong against his.

"How am I? I am fine. Are you under the impression I am not fine? Have I said something to make you think that?"

She gave him a small smile. "No, I...it's just ... it's been almost a year since, you know, your mum died, and I thought ... maybe you might want to talk about it. And, well, I was there, so I thought maybe you would be comfortable talking to me."

Annoyance bubbled up inside him. Though he was not ashamed to have cried when his mother died, at the same time he did not like to be reminded of it. Nor did he especially want to talk about his mother, considering that he was quite sore with her at the moment for addling his brain.

"I do not wish to talk," he said shortly.

Hermione bit her lip, and Draco prepared himself for her to insist that he really should talk about it, that it would be good for him, healthy even. He had a few retorts prepared as he waited for her next words.

"I figured you would say that."

He looked at her suspiciously. "You did?"

"Naturally. Harry and Ron ... whenever I think they should talk about what might be bothering them, or think about something that they had seen, or something that had happened to them, they just play Quidditch."

Draco laughed. "That sounds just about right."

Hermione looked at him. "I know we're different, and that you are not the kind of man to talk about his feelings. But I also know that sometimes it helps to talk. I ... I just wanted you to know that, if you need someone to talk to ..." She trailed off, looking down at her hands.

He felt a rush of gratitude toward her at her understanding and offer of a friendly ear and very nearly poured out every single thought he'd had about his mother over the year since her death. However, he was still himself, and he was not used to such offers, or to sharing personal details about his life. He thought that, of everyone he knew, she would be the one he really could confide in and trust, even though he wasn't sure of the status of their relationship.

"I miss her," he said in almost a whisper.

Hermione looked at him but said nothing, only moved an inch closer to him so that their arms were in solid contact. It was a simple gesture, but it said a lot. She was there for him if he needed her, if only to hold his hand again while he mourned his mother all over again.

But somehow, he did not think he would. She had wanted him to move on, and he would.

A few glowworms started twinkling by the edge of the woods, and Hermione looked at him and smiled. It was a dangerous moment, and they both seemed to realize it at the same time.

Hermione looked down at her hands where they rested on her knees and deliberately twisted a ring around a finger on her right hand. It was made of some sort of silver metal with a small red stone in a simple setting.

"I should go," she said but didn't stand up. "I guess I'll see you soon, then. Right?"

This was how every night ended. She asked if she could come back, and he always said yes.

But it was so easy. All he had to do to avoid sitting outside on his front stoop while a complete freak tried to decipher one of his freak habits...AGAIN...was to say no. No, she couldn't come back. She couldn't come back because he didn't want to get used to seeing her scowl at the peephole in his front door, or skip steps as she rushed up to the book room, or twirl her curls in her fingers when she was nervous. Just say no, for once, and he would never have to sit alone on his porch again. A traitorous voice told him that the same thing might be true if he said yes enough times. Never alone again.

Of course, this all came to him immediately after he shrugged, despite his pounding heart, and said, "Sure, I guess." He would wait until she was gone to bang his head against the wall. Again.

Now she stood. "How about Monday?"

His brain told him how easy a "no" would make things. "Sure."

She smiled. "Honestly, Malfoy. Do try and stump me this time," she teased.

His brain was screaming at his mouth for its horrid betrayal. The inner battle made it nearly impossible to form an intelligent response, so he merely grunted.

She said something else that he really wished he could have heard because she had a sparkle in the corner of her eye, but his brain was screaming too loudly. He nodded, and she Disapparated.

Draco groaned and went inside to commence the head-banging.

ooo

A/N: Thank you for reading this chapter! I know it was a long wait, but I think it was worth it, and I hope you just take my word for it! I'm having more fun with this story than I can possibly say.

Many thanks to my three wonderful betas: Z, Eilonwy, and finally Buzzy. Thanks for all the help, encouragement, friendship and have I mentioned help? :D There are not enough words to thank you properly, though I will continue to try.

The beautiful banner was made by the ever-amazing moonjameskitten! Isn't it incredible?