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Author's Note: I am not JK Rowling and do not own anything having to do with Harry Potter (except for the hardcover books that are like a beloved relic in my household). This is all fan-fiction.

Additionally, while this story takes place during 6th year and is based on the basic skeleton of Half-Blood Prince as the story deals with Draco's struggles with his new task, please note that the characters are of consenting age based on wherever you are. This is a Mature-rated romance, and I want to reiterate that they are consenting adults. If you need a backstory, then we can say that the Hogwarts Owl didn't make it to Hermione's or Draco's house until a year or three later. Don't worry, this is the only non-explained artistic license I'm taking.

Please do not upload this fic to another site/server without my explicit consent.

Feel free to reach out if there is interest, I am quite responsive.

Thank you,

Syren

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I: The Wheel of Fortune

What would happen if Draco took an extra step off the tower?

How long before he could take the fate of his life into his own hands?

But no, he was not the type to permanently harm himself. He just needed to brood, and brood he did often, finding solace in the high altitude and crisp, clean air of the Astronomy tower. He would look up at the stars he could not name and lose himself in the quiet of the night. Quiet, despite the nagging voices in his head reminding him of his impending doom. Reminding him that regardless of how calm his environment may be, he had a task he could not fail. His family, his safety, his life, everything was riding on the impossible task to… to… He shook his head. That's enough, he didn't need to think about it anymore.

Vapour. All he could see was the ghost of his breath as he exhaled. The dense white mist lingered before his face and contrasted against the midnight navy Scottish night.

The cold air was crippling, but he relished in it.

He exhaled again until there was no more air to expel from his lungs. His fingers tingled from the cold and he could no longer feel his nose. Perhaps it was time to turn back, after all, he had his sixth-year courses in the morning.

Not that it mattered anymore.

Not that anything mattered anymore.

He hardly felt his legs move beneath him as he made his way back inside, his heels clicking loudly against the tile floor as the weight of his body eased the Astronomy Tower door open. Down a flight of stairs and past the divination classrooms. He could map his route blindfolded. And yet something was different about this evening.

Though the dim halls appeared still as always, the air buzzed with the faint echo of a murmur. Transfixed, Draco followed the sound until it revealed itself, the faint words flowing in a rhythmic chant. His hand pressed against the cold heavy wooden door and his eyes scanned the room. His nostrils burned with the scent of musk, earth, and spices.

"Let it be heard," came a soft, hurried whisper. Draco recognized the voice and moved closer toward it, curiosity besting him. "During this ephemeral Piscean moon, cleanse all evil spirits from within and - and -"

"Professor?" Draco spoke, unsure of what exactly he was encountering. She's off her rocker, he told himself. Professor Trelawney's actions had always baffled Draco, though he never cared enough to try and understand them. Her oddness was difficult to deal with during normal class hours, let alone in the middle of the night as she chanted and held a chestnut-hued glowing crystal ball.

Her face snapped up at him, her normally blazing green eyes misty and out of focus behind her thick spectacles.

"Dark deeds," she said in a voice that sounded too forceful to be her own, "rest on the shoulders of the dragon who will know no rest."

He blinked, wondering if he had heard her right.

"Whose task shall maim all wizardkind, lest he find respite in the one."

"Professor, I don't underst -"

"With the virgin-born beyond the arcane, whose star-crossed paths will intertwine."

"Virgin?" he stumbled back, his head spinning with the attempt to comprehend this mad-woman.

"In time, their love will vanquish, lest their wrath consume us all," she finished, her words lingering in the air as though too heavy to dissipate.

Draco's eyes stung. He realized that he had not blinked in several moments. The hovering line of smoke from burning frankincense swirled around the doe-eyed messy woman before him. In an instant, she shook her head, causing the fog to disperse.

"Oh! Mister Malfoy," he jumped at her words, "what on earth are you doing here?" He stared at her, dumbfounded. He noticed her eyes had returned to their cloudless state and her voice had settled to the ethereal pitch he was used to.

"I was just," he cleared his throat, "I was doing my rounds. You know, prefect duties."

"Ah, yes of course. I didn't see you come in, though to be perfectly frank, I feel a bit funny. Saturn must be in Sagittarius now…"

The more she spoke, the less Draco understood. "What do you mean 'the virgin-born beyond the arcane'? Whose love will vanquish what? What does all that mean?"

"Pardon?" It was Trelawney's turn to stare at him disoriented, and Draco exhaled in exasperation as he struggled to verbalize his own confusion. "My dear boy, you must be tired. You are making no sense at all! The lunar cycle must be altering your aura, dear. Ah, but I must head to bed anyway, I must be experiencing some dizzy spell."

Without another word, she slipped out of her seat and headed for the door, her swirling robes making her appear to float rather than walk.

"Pleasant moon and stars, Mister Malfoy." The door slammed behind her, leaving Draco to stare at the crystal ball with the chestnut glow.

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The fire crackled and roared as Hermione's toes finally warmed up in front of the fireplace. She, Harry Potter, and Ronald Weasley were all seated in front of the red flames. The two boys engaged in wizard's chess while Hermione flipped through her Potions book, attempting to memorize the recipes before she reached the Draught of Living Death. Her lips formed a scowl.

"So you just happened to know to crush the Sopophorous bean rather than cut it, did you?" Harry looked up at her and sighed, clearly tired of the subject they had touched on numerous times that week.

"I improvised, is that so hard to believe?"

"It is. But that's alright, I have a date with the library soon and I don't intend on coming back until I learn how you crafted that draught without any issues, Harry."

"Oh, you've gone and done it," Ron said, moving his knight to take Harry's rook, "we don't stand a chance of ever seeing her again once she's set up camp in her beloved library." Harry shrugged as Hermione's scowl deepened. "I call dibs on her finished homework," he whispered to Harry, who grinned in response.

"It's fine," she said, ignoring their lightheartedness as Harry and Ron exchanged sceptical glances, "I just thought I'd study a bit since we've got our N.E.W.T.-level classes this year. You two should start on the Defense Against the Dark Arts homework, it takes at least three hours."

"Ugh!" Ron said, and Hermione wasn't sure whether that was in response to her statement or the fact that Harry had just taken his bishop.

"And I doubt," she continued, pulling her knee-high socks back on, "Snape will go easy on us now that he's finally teaching Defense." The boys nodded, deeply enmeshed in the final few moves of their chess game. She excused herself and grabbed her book bag, making her way to the library.

The familiar scent of the library was always nostalgic to her, taking her back to First Year when she'd spend nearly every day pouring over every textbook. It's not that she wasn't as studious in her sixth year, but her obsessive demeanour had mellowed as she grew up, her priorities shifting with each year that Voldemort's threat grew. Life seemed more and more fragile. Still, she relished in the solid stillness of the library and the hushed whispers of the students attempting to learn something new.

She picked her favourite spot, deep within the library near the window that overlooked the lake. With a thud, she dropped a pile of four or five books specializing in the potions that sixth years were expected to make for Professor Slughorn's class. She dove in, scribbling notes in her leatherbound journal about the history of each potion, the people who crafted them, and the ingredients based on location and season. She struggled to find some edge, any edge that would prevent her from failing another potion. It's not as though she wasn't proud of Harry. In a way, she felt she should be ashamed by how upset and jealous she was at not completing the potion correctly, but years of success through diligent effort left her feeling she should have done better.

"Granger," a voice said. Hermione looked up to see smoky grey eyes peering down at her.

"Er, yes?" she said, sitting up, "What do you want, Malfoy?"

"I need this book," he pointed at Tips and Tricks to Drafting Draughts. As she looked at him again, she noticed how much he'd changed over the years. His once child-like pointed features were now chiselled and rigid. He had dark circles under his eyes, and his hair - although still his slicked-back trademark - was now a bit messier and covered some of his forehead. He wore black now, at all times, and although he had always been a healthy child he had thinned, and his broad shoulders were prominent against his lithe frame.

"Well," she hardened, "I don't know what to tell you, I need to read it too. You'll have to find another copy."

"There is no other copy," he spoke through his teeth, impatiently, "listen, can I just - just sit here and read it?" He pulled out a chair across from her and slipped into it without waiting for her response.

"Fine!" she huffed, "I suppose, but don't take it with you, I need it."

"Why," he spoke under his breath, "to get O's on your O.W.L.s again? You're already the smartest in our year, why bother anymore?" Hermione didn't know whether to take that as an insult or a compliment, but she scowled regardless, staying silent as she shoved the book toward Malfoy.

There was something different about him entirely. The way Draco Malfoy shifted in his seat, hurriedly skimming through pages as he located the one he was looking for. His eyes scanned as if there was nothing in the world that could distract him anymore as if nothing could penetrate his focus. It was unnerving, and Hermione found herself distracted by his presence.

What is he looking for, anyway? She thought to herself, peering at the pages that Malfoy had landed on and was now intently immersed in. Felix Felicis? Why is he trying to learn about that? It's in our itinerary, we're going to attempt to craft that in a few weeks, Hermione thought.

Her gaze wandered. His long fingers were tracing the lines of the pages and she found herself entranced in his languid, fluid movement. He looked like a man, like he had never looked before. His fingers were long, thin, and adorned in silver and black rings. A leather cuff was wrapped snugly around his wrist. He reminded her of someone, like a muggle rockstar, or Gilderoy Lockhart if he had been sorted into Slytherin. Hermione Granger, you dolt. Are you really comparing your childhood nemesis to Gilderoy Lockhart? Granted, Lockhart did turn out to be a bit of a prat, didn't he? She rolled her eyes at herself and chuckled.

Perhaps she forgot she was in a library with other people, but her chuckle did not go unnoticed. Malfoy looked up slowly, his gaze pinning her down. Hermione felt the hot crawl of a blush sneak up her neck and rest in her cheeks as she avoided his eye contact.

"This," she stammered, "this book is just funny."

"That book is funny? Eighth Century Potionmasters and their Canny Apprentices is a funny book?"

Hermione would have laughed at herself if she didn't feel so embarrassed by this moment. She was grateful that Malfoy was not adept at Legilimency, otherwise, she would not have been able to live another day without shame.

"Yes, actually, these people led very interesting and sometimes, er, amusing lives," she retorted and bowed her head into her book, hoping that her blush would subside.

"You're odd, Granger."

He may be right, she told herself, though once she had recovered from the embarrassment she began to feel an entirely new wave of humiliation for having looked at Malfoy that way. Stupid hormones, she thought. Her mother had always warned her that adolescence was a funny phase.

Nearly half an hour of studying had passed before she realized that something was being prodded in her direction. Malfoy was pushing the book he had borrowed toward her, absently engaged in another book. She reached to take it and mumbled an impulsive, "thanks," before her eyes made out what he was reading.

"Why are you reading that? Are you even taking Divinations this year?" she said curiously. Malfoy's eyebrows furrowed in irritation before he looked up at her.

"I am not," he stated sternly, a strand of pale blond hair was covering one of his eyes but he made no move to fix it. "I didn't think I'd be hounded for my choice of literature. Should I move?"

"I -"

He has a point, a voice said in Hermione's mind, it was a bit nosey of me.

Hermione sighed, frustrated, "I didn't realize I was meddling -"

"It's fine," he brushed off the rest of her apology, "It's all a crock of shit anyway, isn't it?"

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