Summary:

Draco could not be less excited to return to Hogwarts for his eighth year in a row, that is, until he finds out who his fellow head girl is. Hermione is ecstatic to return to Hogwarts to finish up her education, that is, until she finds out who McGonagall expects her to work with. Suddenly, both have the feeling that they're travelling too quickly on a train going straight to disaster. EWE, but canon-compliant until the last few chapters of DH.

Disclaimer:

The first two chapters are a retelling of several scenes selected from HBP and DH. It should be noted that I by no means claim ownership of the plot or any dialogue included within these two chapters (or the rest of the work) which resembles or matches that which can be found in the Harry Potter series. I neither own the characters nor profit in any way from writing this.

Prelude

He had known since the day he first caught sight of her bushy hair and her deep brown eyes that she was going to be trouble. From their first potions class onward, she remained the ever-prominent thorn in his side. She was brilliant, well aware of it, and frequently saw to it that everyone else knew it as well. When she set her mind on success, which was always, he was hard-pressed to figure out ways to best her.

He had come home at the end of first year to Malfoy Manor spewing all the ways in which he found he completely and utterly detestable. From her know-it-all mannerisms, to her overrated friend group, to the unnatural combination of her wizarding ability and family background, he thought her the worst thing he'd ever had the misfortune of coming across- with the possible exception of Saint Potter.

From then on he was always just barely not good enough. Second place bore the site of his eternal damnation. The only thing he could possibly hold above her was quidditch; but then, Potter always saw to it that he remained outshined in that area too.

As if his own personal shame complex didn't work hard enough, his father scolded him near-constantly. Obviously if a mudblood was out-performing him, he wasn't trying hard enough. But no matter how hard he worked, she always won.

And he hated her for it.

Then, just when he thought she couldn't get any more insufferable, he fell for her. Merlin have mercy, if his father ever found out. Draco Malfoy, Slytherin Prince, pride of the pureblood elite, harboring a juvenile crush on a muggle-born. If that wasn't reason enough for his father to disown him, he didn't know what was. If anything, her confounding irresistibility made her all the more hate-able. Because he didn't know what exactly to make of her, his immediate reaction was to reject her and her irregularities.

So he released his pent up frustration in the only way a spoiled young Slytherin knew how. He had always considered his ability to conjure a solid insult one of the finer pieces of his non-magical skill set, so conjure insults he did: lots of them, whenever possible. Yet she still held an air of superiority over him, never giving him the satisfaction of a good reaction.

To put it simply, she was the most frustrating, impossibly-perfect imperfection he'd ever had the displeasure of laying eyes on.

Sixth year brought about a severe awakening for Draco. The dark arts had always been somewhat of a hallowed art form to him and one that constantly tempted his curiosity. With the return of Lord Voldemort came the use of magic he had merely read and daydreamed of. But what he hadn't imagined was the pain, death, and terror that followed in its cold wake.

A great honor. That's what his aunt Bella had called it. And for a while, he had agreed.

A few days before the start of his sixth year at Hogwarts, Voldemort had summoned Draco to his father's study, now the place the dark lord would sit and scheme when he wasn't off taking care of other things. No one accompanied Draco as he walked up the dark marble steps of his house to the set of ebony doors etched with morphing golden detailing. He didn't know whether to knock or enter but to his surprise the doors opened as he neared them.

Voldemort stood with his back towards him, looking out of a dark-curtained window overlooking the courtyard. A few sinister books lay on the table with a few equally as sinister-looking artifacts. A huge snake lay curled on one of a pair of black leather armchairs facing the desk. As he entered, Draco also saw in the corner a man suspended upside down with blood dripping slowly into a puddle on the floor, seemingly unconscious. At least, that's what Draco hoped. He approached slowly but stopped abruptly upon realizing that he could see a little too much detail in the diamond pattern the snake carried atop its back.

Voldemort turned to face him. Piercing red eyes betrayed the spite he carried for the Malfoy family. However, his voice pretended that nothing lay amiss, and Draco remained ignorant of the man's malice. Speaking in a cold, rasping voice, he told Draco of a special and secretive duty he would have him carry out by the end of the year. Only a select few would be told, he promised. He was granting Draco free range to plan his attack with an end of the school year time limit as a the only condition of his obligation.

Excited at the aspect of being given such an important task, Draco accepted in earnest. It was far too late by the time he realized what his bidding truly was: a suicide mission.

For a while, he was quite proud to have been gifted such an "honor." Upon his return to Hogwarts, he boasted his importance to his friends, walked with more swagger, and hungrily dreamed about the opportunities he would have to serve the dark lord further if he was to succeed in his mission. He felt certain that this was a sure-fire way to achieve the greatness he so-long had craved and hunted.

But as the days passed, one thought became tangible and he realized he could deceive himself no longer; he would have to kill another person.

Draco worked endlessly to please the dark lord. Hours turned to days which turned to weeks as he devoted his time to puzzling out a way to carry out an assassination. For the first time in his life he let his grades, relationships, and even his most prided past-time, quidditch, go by the wayside. Even the pleasure he took in bantering with stuck-up Gryffindors lost its appeal.

Along with it went his sanity.

Stressed beyond measure at the fear of Voldemort taking what little he loved in the world, he worked tirelessly on his plan. Many nights he lay, paralyzed, with his eyes staring blankly into the dark green curtain draped atop his bed as his fear and sense of duty fought for purchase in his mind.

Every second Dumbledore stood living and breathing was another day cut from the lives of himself and his family- that Voldemort had made quite clear.

Only on the days when the strain became unbearable, and the pain in his chest mounted to such a substantial level- feeling as though it could actually crush him- would he let the tears fall. Cut-off, lonely, and lost, Draco spent those days held up in the most private places he could find as the hot tears cut down his cheeks and the sobs he could not withhold materialized from somewhere deep within, racking his body numb.

He would use the piece of himself that so yearned for grandeur in desperate attempt to calm the hysteria that rose as if to choke the very breath out of him. Each time it betrayed him, giving way to his deep myriad of anguish easily. It was a hopeless attempt, much like trying to quench a forest fire with a teacup of water. Deep down, he knew that he was not meant to have gone so far down the road to destruction.

For the sake of his family he pushed on. His father, the imperfect man that he was, did not deserve the punishment Voldemort surely had waiting for them should Draco fail. Though his father was forceful, though he was often biting, ill-tempered, judgmental, and sometimes even downright cruel, Draco would never wish death upon him. He understood his father's motivations: the Malfoy name was sacred. Draco had been reared to uphold it as such, as had every male heir down the line for hundreds of years. Each was expected to deeply respect and bring honor to the Malfoy name. After all, there was nothing stronger than blood to a Slytherin.

Then there was his mother. A fallen angel cursed to live amongst demons. His mother had always made it quite clear that she expected nothing from him save only that he try his best in whatever he did. She supported him unequivocally it seemed, most especially when his father seemed eager not to and loved him with simple adoration. Though he had come to regret it since, Draco had insisted his very first year that she not send him sappy "mummy letters," as he had put it, so as not to embarrass him in front of his classmates. She had agreed not to, sending goodies instead, and refrained to doting on him and asking him about school on holidays.

He noticed that she was always willing to devote her attention to him should he wish to talk about his thoughts and interests, never criticizing, but simply lending her ear. She would even praise what he wouldn't dare call his "accomplishments" even when his father would scoff. Second best, it seemed, was good enough for her. And though Draco himself could not settle for it, he loved her dearly for her acceptance and support.

He pressed on, mainly for her. In the privacy of his mind, he hoped longingly to rid himself of the task at hand, but when faced with the opportunity to do so, pride won out. Something about the thought of his potions master taking the credit for everything rubbed had him the wrong way and he declined the offer discourteously.

In the end, it did not matter. All of his efforts- his tireless planning, the hours he spent on fixing the vanishing cabinet and executing his plan, and all of the wasted tears- amounted to nothing.

When the time came and he was standing face to face with his headmaster, he couldn't do it.

Draco had been kidding himself to think otherwise. He should have known before he ever set foot in the astronomy tower that night. No matter how much he tried to delude himself, he wasn't ready. Yet there he stood, forcing his eyes to connect with Dumbledore's, franticly attempting to scrape up anything reminiscent of an intention to kill and was left with nothing but fear.

His Aunt Bella had instructed him on how to perform the killing curse numerous times. Like the other unforgivable curses, they required the user to truly mean them. And that was precisely what tripped him up every time. He could get past purely on spite for the cruciatus curse, but he had never hated someone enough to want to kill them.

Before him stood a man for whom he truly had no malice.

Suddenly from amongst the jeering of his fellow death-eaters and the noise of his own internal battle came the call of the death curse gravelly and unfeeling from behind him with a blinding flash of green light. He looked back to see the dark eyes of Severus Snape staring ahead at the now falling body of Albus Dumbledore. A blank expression had replaced the headmaster's ever-illuminated face and Draco watched with horror as he toppled backwards off the edge of the astronomy tower.

With green light still searing in his eyes and an emptiness in his heart, panic urged him to follow behind his whooping and cheering comrades. He was distantly aware of Potter screaming somewhere close behind them as they tore down the hill away from Hogwarts. Like a coward, he disappeared, hoping that he could will himself to outrun his problems.

But he was wrong. In the weeks to come, they only worsened, resolving to weigh on his mind like soaked clothes.

Some days after the event, he sat in a secluded corner of Malfoy Manor's courtyard with his eyes closed and his head pressed back into the tree he was leaning against. For the past few days he had sought the spot for a place to think quietly and to escape the claustrophobia the suppressive walls of the manor sparked within him. With a sigh, he looked out from under the tree and around at the macabre décor of the gardens which were casting ghastly shadows on the cold ground. The clouded grey sky made everything seem more unfeeling than usual and seemed to reflect the emotions he had twisting around inside him.

Whether a blessing or a curse, he could not tell which, the tears that had so often flooded his eyes in the past year seemed strangely evasive. An empty pit sat within him, balling all emotions into the indistinguishable torpid mass. In spite of Draco's own actions, Snape had done the deed for him, sparing him from what he now knew would have torn him apart completely.

The dark lord, though noticeably colder to Draco now more than ever, had congratulated the two of them upon their return, which was accompanied by the news of Albus Dumbledore's death. He noted that he was pleased with Draco's success in mending the vanishing cabinet but had quickly moved on to praise Snape for his great loyalty. It made no difference to Draco. All he wanted to do was disappear.

His mother would rarely meet his eyes anymore. Dinners without his father were silent and empty as the two of them sat quietly, several seats apart, at their large dining table. Draco remained as evasive as he was comfortable with for the remainder of the summer months.

Several weeks after Dumbledore's death, his father was returned home from Azkaban, for what Draco could only assume was due to his half-success with the vanishing cabinet. Lucius Malfoy returned a more quietly reserved man than Draco could remember him ever being. Sunken eyes and expressionless faces were a sign of the times, and few were left unaffected. Draco could barely recognize his own reflection in the mirror. His cheekbones and jawline were more prominent than ever upon his already sharp face and dark lines had etched themselves in deeply below his eyes.

He was surprised when he was sent back to Hogwarts for his seventh year. With all the chaos surrounding them, he had not given any thought to the place since his most recent and abrupt departure from it. Surely his mother had had everything to do with it. She had always stressed to him the importance of education.

In some ways he was relieved- anything was better than sitting in the inescapable despair that now seemed to spill out of Malfoy Manor. But upon his arrival, he found that Hogwarts' usual appeal had gone, now replaced with the same hollow sadness that enveloped everything in its path like a disease.

He laid low all year. Though many of his Slytherin classmates were ecstatic in the change of aesthetic, Draco couldn't bring himself to agree with them. The Carrows easily became a hit amongst his dormitory and were a favorite second only to Snape because of what Draco could only assume was senior familiarity. Those of his long-standing friend group spoke of Dumbledore's assassination with fascination and of Snape with reverence that disturbed and sickened him.

It was during this time that Draco woke so frequently in the middle of the night in a panic of cold sweat, the green light of the killing curse still searing in his vision.

But the nightmares didn't stop when he woke in the morning.

Defense Against the Dark Arts had never been his favorite class. In his younger years he'd scorned the lessons and their respective teachers. He had no desire to protect against the Dark Arts. Oh, how he had longed to practice them! In seventh year his childish dream came true but, by then, his naïve infatuation with the dark arts had long since left him.

The very thing he had wished so desperately to flee from this past summer was being forced upon him. Jinxes and curses alike with frequent use of both the imperius and cruciatus curse were the daily class materials. Lesson after lesson he would grit his teeth and pray to do the least amount of damage possible. He watched with horror one afternoon as Crabbe and Goyle readily volunteered to torture a pair of Gryffindor second years as punishment for skipping class.

Trapped. The word echoed about his brain constantly. He longed to flee somewhere safe and secluded far away.

In spite of himself, his thoughts often wandered to the missing Gryffindor trio, with an emphasis on the muggle-born he, despicably, still couldn't shake his feelings for. He found their absence unsettling and it seemed that no one knew where they were. Obviously Hogwarts wasn't safe for them anymore, but what they were doing, he couldn't imagine.

In some respect, no news was good news. If anything happened to any one of them, everyone would know.

Truthfully, he remained on the fence about his nemeses. Though they were still absolutely despicable in every way to him, he had noticed more and more areas of his mind turning to grey since the rise of the dark lord and their sector had turned with it. It seemed like every passing day something happened which caused him to confront his outdated ideals.

The school year passed quickly, without major incident, and soon Easter rolled around, bringing with it an unexpected test for Draco's loyalties. He was shocked, one dark evening, when he was called down from the privacy of his room, to find the trio restrained in his family's drawing room. Immediately he recognized Weasley and Granger and not long after became quite certain that the other boy standing in front of him was none other than Potter himself. Blemished or not, there was no way Draco could forget such spectacularly despicable face.

Yet he remained uneasy. His father's whispers had not persuaded him. As he gazed into the green eyes of his rival he was transported back to the bleak night on the astronomy tower. Dumbledore stood in front of him, defenseless and at his complete mercy. And in front of him knelt a boy in the same state. And just as he had realized on the night nearly a year ago, he recognized now: he held no true malice for Harry Potter.

He held on, stalling, answering as vaguely as he could, hoping he would not be forced to decide the boy's fate. Panic crept up on him as the others in the room positively identified the other two and as his Aunt came in and prepared to summon the dark lord.

To his immense relief, the situation never presented itself for his Aunt Bella had become distracted by what, astoundingly, seemed more important than the capture of Harry Potter. Light shown around the room as his Aunt shrieked. The snatchers that had delivered the trio escorted both boys away and Draco was shuffled back by his mother. He glanced past the threatening silhouette of his Aunt, briefly catching sight of a set of terror-filled brown eyes before shadow covered them.

The desire to run wound its way sharply around his heart but fear bound his legs together as if someone had cast an impedimenta jinx upon him. He was forced to endure the screams of the owner of the brown eyes as they ricocheted around him. He grit his teeth and tightened his fists in an attempt to create enough tension to block out the sound as she was tortured not ten feet away from him.

Suddenly Harry and Ron burst into the room bringing about the merciful end to the tortured screams. Partially because he had been startled and partially because he was aware of his father right behind him, Draco sent a few expelliarmus charms in the boys' direction. They expertly dodged his halfhearted attempts and Draco released his held breath. Privately, he was hoping that the boys would come out on top.

The feeling of relief was short-lived, for the next second his heart was dropping to his stomach, his eyes having turned to see Hermione trapped in his aunt's arms with a wand pressed firmly against her neck. Reluctantly, he tore his eyes away from her to follow his aunt's orders and retrieved the wands the boys had been forced to surrender. Panic swelled in him again when his Aunt Bella prepared to hand her captive over to Fenrir Greyback.

Just before she had relinquished her hold, a squeaking noise sounded from high above. He glanced up just in time to see the drawing room's great crystal chandelier freed from its chain and watched as it crashed down upon Hermione and the goblin his Aunt had summoned for questioning. He cowered as the shards of the chandelier flew past him, cutting into his face and hands.

Soon Harry was on him, wrenching the wands he held out of his grip. Draco caught a glimpse of his own wand amongst the mix and went to spring after him but was pulled back firmly by his mother to a corner far away from the scene. Out of harm's way, he watched as Dobby, his old house elf, disapparated along with the Goblin and the Gryffindor trio.

Nothing he had ever experienced prepared him for the rage that the dark lord brought with him when he appeared at the house not moments later and was met with stutters and desperate excuses.