Author's Note: This storey is turning out to be considerably darker, more violent, and more disturbing than I had originally intended. I would probably rate this chapter (and some future chapters) R for disturbing content (although nothing too graphic).

Disclaimer: As with the previous chapters (and my other fics), I make no claim to ownership of the characters or settings, nor association with JK Rowling, Warner, Bloomsbury, Scholastic, etc.

Luke 11:11

Chapter 3

Once Draco had sufficiently recovered, he and Hermione settled into a routine of clandestine meetings: storage room, dungeons, disused classroom, back again to the storage room. . . . During the interminable hours waiting for potions to boil, set, or steep, they began to dissolve the awkward silences by entertaining each other. Draco had recognized Hermione's insatiable desire to learn about the wizarding world, so he regaled her with stories of ancient wizarding traditions and myths. She soon realized that he was far more articulate than his puerile insults seemed to indicate. His versions of the fables coruscated with imaginative detail and what Hermione came to recognize as his own peculiar dry wit. She cautiously mentioned this observation to Draco.

"I've had a lot of time to embellish them," he noted in a rueful allusion to his frequent periods of forced confinement.

She, in turn, told tales of "curious Muggle habits," as he termed them. At first, he had scoffed at their crudeness and inferiority, but he became more and more intrigued by their ingenuity and enterprise. He was particularly interested in the fairy tales, and Hermione wracked her brain for all that she could remember from her first awe-filled visits to the dusty stacks of the little library that hunched behind the greengrocer, not quite a mile from her house.

*****

On the day before the Christmas holiday, Hermione and Draco were ensconced in the storage room, preparing for what was sure to follow the break. Hermione noticed that Draco's humour was strained, and that his usually calm fingers pranced nervously through the pages of the book he was perfunctorily studying.

"Last night a raven delivered this to me." Draco abruptly withdrew from his cloak a scrap of creamy parchment, marred only by a single black slash, the word Nevermore.'

"My father," Draco laughed bitterly, "has a sense of humour much akin to my own. He is also well versed in the delicate art of psychological torture.

Hermione frowned as the import of this information remained unclear to her. "Edgar Allan Poe was indeed a master of psychological terror, but I don't see what your father is trying to tell you."

"I think he knows." Hermione quirked an eyebrow. "About this." Draco gesticulated impatiently at the books they had been poring over. "You."

Hermione dug her fingernails painfully into the fabric of the arms of her chair as the implications roiled her stomach and her mind. Draco's grim visage assured her that this was no idle supposition.

They returned to their work with renewed determination. However, an irrational question had insinuated itself into Hermione's mind and, taking advantage of the turbulence it found there, distracted her to such an extent that she finally could not ignore it any longer.

"I'm curious. Not that it's my business or anything . . . and you can just tell me to shut my mouth and I won't ever bring it up again . . ." Hermione was curling and uncurling the upper corner of the title page of Vicious Vipers and Amazing Antidotes.

Draco paused in his study of Cleopatra's Curses, Charms, and Creatures. "Stop it. Madam Pince does not appreciate students mutilating her precious charges. Now, what are you curious about that has you so uptight? Just say it; I'll try to refrain from biting you." He bared his incisors at Hermione, who laughed nervously, appreciating his attempt at levity.

"Well," she faltered, then rushed on, "I was wondering what you would have done if I hadn't agreed to help you." She flushed and dared not raise her eyes during the ensuing chasm of silence.

Draco's teasing expression disintegrated, and he uttered two harsh words, "Mors Perhonorificus."

Hermione instinctively seized Draco's wand at the deceptively urbane words of ritual suicide. She sheepishly relinquished it as she remembered that the words of a spell had no effect without proper gestures and intent. When she had regained her composure, she said softly, "I feared that."

Draco erupted passionately, "Why? Because you think I'm weak and would take the coward's way out?" He immediately cloaked his emotions and sneered haughtily. "I suppose a Muggleborn such as yourself couldn't be expected to understand such things.

"Why do you think that the Malfoys have gained the prominence and authority they possess? The life of an individual is nothing. Only the family honour matters.'"

Hermione, detecting a slight vacillation in his defiant declaration, gently prodded, "But could you still do it, now?"

Draco abruptly stood and strode to the corner farthest from the door. He appeared to be contemplating a small portrait hung there. Hermione followed him apprehensively, afraid that she might provoke him further.

Without turning, Draco spoke in a detached, brittle tone. "I killed a woman." Hermione froze. "This past summer. A Muggle. A–" He swallowed convulsively. "Avada Kedavra. No blood, no cries of pain. Just, one moment she was alive and then . . . and then she wasn't." He held his trembling hands in front of himself, looking at them with apprehension and horrified wonder, much the way Hermione had gaped at her own hands when she had first exhibited signs of magic (by coaxing a book on the highest shelf to tumble down to her) at the age of four.

"And no one cared. We left her by a stile, and, when I summoned enough courage to return a few weeks later, only the crows had cared to search her out. No cry was raised in the village, no family members frantic with concern, no . . . anything.

"I realised that the same would be true of me. If I died, no one would care. The life of an individual is nothing.' I can no longer live like that.

"I've . . . changed." He turned, his over-luminescent gaze probing Hermione's countenance; then a grating laugh sobbed from his throat as his face crumpled in despair. "Never mind. As if anyone could believe that."

Hermione was reeling from Draco's stark revelation. She could not speak, but her eyes pleaded desperately for an explanation.

Draco obliged. "When I returned to the manor for the summer holiday, my father summoned me to his study. He was quite succinct in the delivery of his displeasure.

Draco's features melted into haughty disgust and his voice slid into the smooth distaste he reserved for Hagrid and Ron. He was a chilling mimic of Lucius Malfoy. "You are immature; your pranks are childish and your insults laughable. You are not fit to bear the family names."

Draco resumed his previous muted tone. "He then hinted that if I didn't amend my ways, I might not survive to sully our illustrious reputation further.

"Then he precipitously decided that we should go on a walk. When we spied the Muggle, she was wandering on one of our private lanes, scuffing up little plumes of dust and picking at the hedgerow. She was old, probably homeless, and undoubtedly lost. Father reminded me that Malfoys do not tolerate Muggle filth trespassing on our precious property.

"He told me that it was time for me to disown my childishness and prove that I could execute a man's duty. Then. . . ." Draco whirled back to the portrait, plucked it from the wall (ignoring its occupant's strident protests) and thrust his thumbs savagely through the canvas. "I let my father goad me into killing the woman." He punctuated each word with a vicious twist of his hands, shredding the painting and splintering the thick, gilded frame.

Hermione blenched at his sudden violence. Then her entire body drooped. She realised that she had been grasping at cobwebs, hoping that she had been able to make a positive imprint on Draco by her selfless example and wanting to disprove the entire concept of tainted blood.

However, she could no longer endure his presence. Anyone who could kill so wantonly, particularly a defenseless Muggle. . . .

"I have to go." Avoiding his gaze, Hermione stuffed the book into her bag, which she hoisted onto her shoulders, and fled to the door. She yanked at the knob, but it would not yield. Flustered, she dropped her bag to search for her wand.

Draco stepped in front of her. As if in a daze, his right hand drifted up to her cheek in silent supplication. She recoiled, feeling the imagined blood on his hands soil her face. He grasped her shoulders firmly, refusing to be dismissed, and looked at her with earnest eyes.

He spoke with bleak intensity. "I am not a tragic hero. There is no excuse for my actions. Although now I can apologize for them, feel the revulsion corrode my stomach, endure that canker gnawing at the tenuous threads of my soul–they cannot be undone."

Finding her set face unrelenting, he released her regretfully and delved into his cloak, saying, "I can't stay for the holidays, so I thought I'd give this to you now." He pressed the package into Hermione's limp hands. "It's my favourite book." Without further explanation, Draco muttered, "Alohomora," and vanished out the door like a wisp of smoke blown into the bitter winter wind.