Chapter One

Kill Your Light

I remember it. Every word. Every syllable.

"He will rise from the union of bitter enemies whose hearts are bound . ...Sired from the song of one rarest man, carried by one whose birth is of fallow blood... and he will break the will of all who oppose him. He will lay ruin to the Earth he treads... and no man may prevent the evil he will inflict for no man shall know his approach is nigh. The future... may be spared... if the enemies die."

It seeps up through my memory like ink in water. I wonder if it could be true. After so much pain, so much loss, is there yet more? I must stop this from ever coming to pass. I must destroy any possibility of this new, great evil.

And I will.

Hermione Granger stretched out on the seat, her feet resting on Crookshanks' wicker cage, with Hogwarts, a History on her lap. As she turned the page, she couldn't help but feel elated at the prospect of returning to Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. It was really happening. She felt like singing, like jumping up and down as, for the hundredth time, a happy bubble expanded somewhere in the vicinity of her stomach. Automatically, she turned, smiling, to express her jubilation to Ron or Harry. But they weren't there. She was completely alone with her thoughts; the seat across from her in the compartment was utterly empty. Heaving a sigh, she stared out of the window, watching as fields and hillsides dotted with sheep rolled past in the failing evening light.

She told herself that she was excited to be going back to Hogwarts. Finishing her education was the most important thing to her right now. But it would have been nice not to do it alone. Well, that wasn't exactly fair. Luna, Ginny, and Neville would all returning to Hogwarts this year as well — Ginny and Luna to finish their seventh year, Neville to retake his.

Hermione snapped her book shut. It just wasn't the same. Ginny was Ron's sister, Harry's girlfriend. What did she and Hermione have in common, really? And Neville, however nice he was, she hadn't exactly shared a dormitory with him for six years. Luna. Luna was Luna. They'd never seen eye to eye.

So she was taking the train ride alone for the first time since she was 11 years old and helping poor, bumbling Neville search for his escaped toad. She smiled to herself, remembering wandering up and down the train with him, poking their heads into compartments and asking if anyone had seen Trenton. Or was it Trevor? What had ever become of that toad, anyway?

But reminiscing about her first ride aboard the Hogwarts Express only made her think of her boys again, her best friends. Ron's dirty nose and Harry's sellotaped glasses. Their enormous pile of sweets. Harry's snowy owl, Hedwig, asleep with her head under her wing.

Brow furrowed, she recalled with a little pang of sadness other owls as they'd flown in through the open window at the Burrow a month ago carrying their letters from Hogwarts. Mrs. Weasley had been absolutely beside herself when Ron announced he wouldn't be returning. When Harry told the room at large that he would be responding to the letter with an apologetic "no, thank you" as well, the argument that ensued shook the already dicey foundations of the Burrow. Hermione was on Mrs. Weasleys' side. If she was going back to Hogwarts, she wanted her best friends with her.

In the end, Ron and Harry had won out. It was, after all, their decision, and despite Mrs. Weasley's best efforts (and Hermione's as well, if it came to that), they wereof age now.

As Ron had put it, "We defeated Voldemort, mum. Give us a little credit here."

Hermione agreed; they had the ability to make their own choices. They just weren't making the right ones. Even now, after the weeks that had passed between that day and the present, she was still seething. She supposed she understood why they didn't want to come back, but it didn't mean she had to like it. No, Harry was at the Ministry in the midst of Auror training and Ron was doing who-knows-what with the fame they'd all received after the fall of Lord Voldemort.

She just couldn't help herself. She couldn't divert her attention from the empty places where her friends should be sitting. Desperate for some diversion, Hermione retrieved her letter from the bookbag next to her seat, handling it carefully. It had multiple crease lines from being folded and refolded and was threatening to simply fall apart altogether. She had read it so often that she'd practically memorized it, but actually seeing the words inked in emerald green on that heavy parchment gave her a little jolt of triumph every time:

Headmaster: MINERVA MCGONAGALL
(Order of Merlin, Second Class)

Dear Ms. Granger,

We are pleased to invite you back for your seventh year at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Further, after careful consideration, you have been selected as Head Girl.

Please find enclosed a list of all necessary books and equipment, as well as an outline of your responsibilities and new accommodations as Head Girl.

Term begins on September 1. We await your owl by no later than July 31.

Yours sincerely,
Filius Flitwick
(Deputy Headmaster)

Page three of her letter gave a cursory description of her new quarters, which had been a thoughtful addition to the school during its reconstruction over the summer. She would have a room to herself with an accompanying bathroom, but she'd have to share the common room, which the paper made sound more like a parlor, and its adjoining kitchenette.

Her list of duties was predictable; she'd heard Percy talk about his responsibilities as Head Boy so often that she could practically rattle them off by heart anyway.

The letter had left out who was chosen as the Head Boy, although she could take an educated guess. He had to be smart. Really smart. And a good example for his fellow students. And Hermione felt sure McGonagall would use the appointment to make a statement, just as she had done by choosing Hermione. With less than half of Hogwarts' seventh year population — now technically eighth years — coming back, hewas the only logical choice. But, she didn't want to think about him or about what misery lay ahead of her. And he would make her miserable, of that she was certain. She just wanted to revel in her accomplishment for the moment. She'd deal with the details later.

Hermione suddenly sat up straight, her book sliding off of her lap and onto the floor. Speaking of accomplishments, she needed to do her rounds of the train before they arrived at Hogwarts! It was already late! Another glance out the window told her the train would be beginning its deceleration any time now. She scooped up Hogwarts, A History, tossed it onto the seat beside Crookshanks' cage, straightened her robes and her Head Girl badge, then hurriedly quit the compartment. She didn't want people to think she wasn't taking this whole Head Girl thing seriously. She was Hermione Granger after all, and she wasn't one to shirk responsibilities.

Draco readjusted his school robes outside of his friends' compartment, making sure they were smooth and straight, before sliding open the door. When he entered, they all watched him sidle over to sit between Pansy Parkinson and Theodore Nott.

"So, how's it feel to be Head Boy, mate?" Theo asked, his gaze returning idly to the Daily Prophet in his hands.

Draco just grumbled an empty threat by way of reply. He was in a foul mood as of late, and he had no reasonable explanation as to why. He supposed that it was due, in part, to that fact that he knew his mood was only going to get worse. The knowledge that very soon he'd be sharing his new living space with the self-righteous Gryffindor golden girl tended to have that effect. It was like his own personal version of hell.

As soon as Draco had gotten the letter informing him he'd been named Head Boy — not that there had been much choice — and read that he would have to share his rooms with the female counterpart, his mind immediately leapt to the worst case scenario: Granger.

So, of course, she was the only possible candidate.

Aside from how miserable it would make him, she was just... obvious. No one else suited McGonagall's purposes so perfectly. Granger was rule-obsessed, pushy, a heroine, and a prudy little know-it-all. Inflicting her company on Draco was, he guessed, just a bonus.

Thinking of Granger gave him a headache. In spite of his best efforts, he'd been doing that a lot recently. Thinking about Granger. He assumed it was because he'd watched his aunt torture her in his parlor only months ago. Draco shivered in his seat. Don't think about that. Don't think about it.

"Are you alright, Draco?" Pansy purred in his ear. She clung to his arm, trying her best to look seductive. On Draco's other side, Theo gave a derisive little cough and pinched the bridge of his nose.

"I'm fine," said Draco. "Now will you get off of me?"

"Yes, Pansy. Do you think you could possibly wait to drool all over Draco until I'm not around to witness it?" Theo said, his drawling voice and unconcerned tone in sharp contrast to the malice in his dark brown eyes.

"I'm not drooling!" Pansy glared across Draco at Theo, looking sour. Her mouth did that puckering thing that made her nose shrivel up. After a moment, she returned her attention to Draco. Her hand slid from his arm to his cheek, trying to turn his head toward her with all the long-fingered tenderness of a Grindylow clawing at its prey.

Draco grabbed her wrist and wrenched her hand away, throwing it roughly into her lap. "Enough," he said, resting his head on the cushion behind him to stare up at the luggage cart. He could feel his hands starting to shake in agitation, and he made an effort to steady them. His narrowed eyes darted over to look at Pansy, who was staring at him with her lip out, and thought that maybe he did see a little bead of drool at the corner of her mouth. He fixed his stare at the ornate "M" on his trunk and resisted the urge to get up and pace the tiny compartment, maybe hex something. Or someone. And he just might if Pansy didn't stop mooning over him like that.

Pansy soon gave up, however. She knew him too well to test his patience when he got like this. And they said women were untrainable.

Draco closed his eyes, wishing they would just get to Hogwarts already. There was no use prolonging the inevitable. He didn't have too long to be annoyed, though. Soon enough the train slowed, and he bolted out of his seat, rushing to an exit before Theo had even folded up his Daily Prophet.

Hermione huffed in impatience. She just wanted the opening ceremony to be over with so she could go to her room, shower, and sleep even as she dreaded what was probably waiting for her when she got there. She gazed gloomily up and down the Gryffindor table, listening to the last of the Sorting but not affording it her usual straight-backed attention.

"Hufflepuff," the Hat yelled, and Hermione jumped.

Next to her, Ginny giggled and said, "Hermione, pay attention!" as another first year donned the the Hat and it trilled, "Gryffindor!" Hermione clapped lightly in response, mostly to appease Ginny, who was giving her a shifty look.

After the names were called, McGonagall got to her feet and gave a short speech that Hermione flat-out ignored. In fact, the only thing she really focused on during the entire feast was the food, and even that was to avoid feeling the burn of the spotlight that seemed to be shining on her this year. All the Gryffindors were staring at her and whispering, trying to engage her in conversation. Hermione rebuffed all attempts to be social. She couldn't wait to be alone.

When supper was through, Hermione had the undesirable task of herding the first year Gryffindors to their tower. She tried not to feel too depressed, walking up the familiar path with Ginny and Neville and knowing she wasn't going inside. They arrived at the portrait of the Fat Lady, and she turned around and to give the students the password.

"All you need to do," she explained, gesturing to the Fat Lady, "is tell her the password. Mind you don't come too late, because she might not stick around for the stragglers after curfew."

"I should think not!" piped up the Fat Lady.

"See? So, make sure you get back here at a decent time. Also," she continued with a glance at Neville, "Don't write down our password. Anyone could get ahold of it, and we don't want just anyone strolling into the Gryffindor common room, alright?" The first years nodded their understanding while Neville blushed scarlet. "Alright. The password for September is 'Novum Initium'. Everyone got that?" More nodding. They were all so small, so brimming with excitement. Hermione turned away from the group and to the Fat Lady. "Novum Initium," she said, and the Fat Lady's portrait swung open to reveal the hole behind it. Hermione stepped out of the way and tried to smile as the avalanche of first years streamed into Gryffindor common room.

"We've got it from here, Hermione," said Ginny.

"We'll take good care of them," Neville added, pulling Hermione into a tight hug that she didn't really return. When they broke apart, Hermione backed up several paces and sort of waved awkwardly before heading off back the way she'd come toward her new dormitory.

"See you tomorrow!" Ginny called, but Hermione just waved over her shoulder in reply and kept going. The Heads' dorm was on the third floor, four floors away. Hermione couldn't decide if that was too close or too far, considering how conflicted she felt about actually arriving there. Anticipation and reluctance battled in her stomach, and by the time she came to a stop in front of the portrait concealing her new home, she was winded.

The beautiful girl smiling down at her reminded Hermione of Ariana Dumbledore, though her hair was long and dark brown, not blonde, and her cool hazel eyes lacked that vacant sweetness of Ariana's.

"Password?" the girl asked.

"Draco dormiens nunquam titillandus," Hermione responded. She thought the password was ridiculously easy, but they were allowed to change it later.

Hermione stepped through the newly-revealed threshold, and was completely overwhelmed by the beauty of the room. She stood just inside the doorway, taking in the Gryffindor red of the walls, the elaborate tapestries, fine wrought iron light fixtures. The couches, Hermione noticed with some disappointment, appeared to be for looks rather than comfort. Crafted from hard, gleaming leather in rich brown tones, they didn't exactly inspire images of long, cozy hours spent cuddled up with a good book. Very Slytherin, she thought ruefully.

Upon closer inspection, Hermione found Slytherin accents everywhere. It was subtle, but she recognized the green of the throw pillows, the huge carpet, and even the long, heavy curtains as the same deep jade every Slytherin wore. Based on her guess of Head Boy, she had expected the combination of red and green to scream Christmas, but they were just the right hue and vibrancy, the right balance. Each object, from the floor-to-ceiling bookcases to the sweeping candelabras, only added to the magnificence of the whole room.

Hermione let out a breath she hadn't realized she was holding and sat down on a couch. They weren't as uncomfortable as they looked. She stretched out, relaxing for the first time that day. It felt wonderful to finally be alone.

"Enjoying yourself there, Granger?" said a voice from behind her.

She just closed her eyes slowly. She knew she was right. She was always right. Hadn't the Slytherin touches in their common room confirmed it?

"I was, when you weren't here to spoil it." Hermione stood up and turned around to face him. Malfoy looked about the same as the last time she'd seen him. Memories of him huddled with his family in the ruined Great Hall flickered across her mind's eye. He'd looked defeated, ragged from the war, but he was still thinner and paler now than he had been young man in front of her now was not the slump-shouldered wreck he had been at the end of the war, and something was disconcertingly strange about his eyes, rimmed in sleepless red and a sharp, slightly manic grey. His eyes gave him away. He was still fighting a war, though maybe an internal one.

Draco had thought he was ready to face her, really ready to look her in the eyes and not hear her screams of agony or remember her retching, convulsing body writhing under his aunt's crooked wand. He was wrong.

All he could see was the broken girl on the floor, limbs straining in pain. All he could hear was her blood-curtailing, soul-splitting screams. He couldn't deny it anymore. The shock of it, the scene playing out before his waking eyes, rooted him to the spot. He was frozen, wrapped up in the unbidden nightmare of Hermione's torture, as again and again waves of guilt and nausea crashed against his chest, knocking the breath from his lungs, flooding his veins until it was in every beat of his heart.

They stared each other down for what felt like forever before he couldn't take her silent accusations anymore. He had to get out of there. Now.

His body sprung into action of its own accord. Draco felt, rather than forced, his legs carry him up a flight of stairs, felt his hand twist a doorknob, felt himself collapse fully-clothed onto a bed with Slytherin green sheets. Hating her, that look in her eyes, Hating himself, hating the coward he was, he slipped into nightmares of the girl with the tortured brown eyes.