Dawn

Chapter 3 : In cauda venenum

Draco started violently , then opened his eyes. He was bathed in a cold sweat, and he was shaking violently. A nightmare. That was only a nightmare. Calm down. Yeah. Better. Slowly steadying his breathing, he sat up in his four-poster bed, whose curtains were open, and looked at the familiar surroundings.
Contrary to popular belief, the Slytherins' dungeons were not damp and cold. Well, at least not all the time... The seventh years dormitory was even rather cozy, and always warm thanks to a fire lit every morning by house-elves. Four other boys slept there : Blaise Zabini, Nott, Crabbe and Goyle. All were fast asleep and snoring noisily at present. Not that Draco minded. He was not really looking forward to explaining them his , at least in their opinion, strange behavior of the other day. According to them, I should have let her die, for the sake of Slytherin House...

He suddenly realized that that was exactly what any good Slytherin would have done. Let's check. I'm not a good son, I'm not a good Malfoy, I'm not even a good Slytherin. Well, I'm still a sex-god, aren't I? The young man smiled softly. His peculiar sense of humor was the only thing keeping him sane. While others cried to ease their stress, he always joked about his worries, then ignored them for good, for he had much more to worry about than he should. He could not afford to be overwhelmed by concern, and he knew it. He had mastered the concept of survival at a very young age.

Draco stirred, and silently got off his bed . He was still tired, but he really didn't feel like being there when his 'friends' woke up. The room was dark, for the heavy, deep green curtains were still closed. However, the magical clock told him it was half past six in the morning. No wonder those big marmots are sleeping soundly... thought Draco, bemused.

He headed to the bathroom, realizing that he badly needed a shower. May the inventor of hot water inventor be blessed, he mused as he relaxed under the jet. He washed his hair, removed the bloodstains, then dried himself with a white cotton towel. He looked at his reflection in the mirror, then checked the extent of his injuries.

His ribcage was bruised and swollen, as was his left cheekbone, and probably his right shoulder blade. He couldn't suppress a sigh of relief as he noted there were no cracked ribs. However, the bluish color of his numerous bruises contrasted oddly with his sallow complexion. Always said blue didn't suit me... He winced as he touched a long, bloody cut on his temple. His split lip was now almost healed. All in all, he looked rather ill. Father probably had a good time, I bet, Draco sneered inwardly as he thoughtfully played with a dragon-shaped silver pendant. He wore it constantly, yet the metal always felt cold under his fingertips. It was a very old artifact, handed down to every Malfoy from father to son since the 10th century. Malfoy House's insignia. My inheritance...and my destiny.

He entered the dormitory without making a sound, a useful trait he had learned while living at the Manor. His huge chest of drawers squeaked slightly as he opened it. Draco slipped on an expensive white silk shirt, a pair of plain black jeans and a matching sweater, with the Slytherin crest on it. It was Sunday, so he left off wearing his school robes. He also put on black dragon-hide boots. Satisfied with his appearance, he picked up his school bag and swiftly left the room . He warily walked into the Slytherin common room, and was relieved beyond any degree to see it empty. Three large leather couches sat near a warm fire. A few magical windows were left open to filter the strange but typically bright winter light throughout the room.

Having missed dinner, Draco was extremely hungry. However, he could not go to the Great Hall injured as he was; it would draw too much attention to him. He stopped near a blank wall. "Nil admirari." The wall moved and changed to reveal the dungeons' corridors. The Slytherin passed through it, then resolutely headed towards the ground floor.

He paused as he reached the Great Hall's entrance. It was about seven in the morning, and only a few people would be at breakfast so early. Pensively nibbling his lower lip, he hesitated, then suddenly winced in pain as the wound reopened. Well done. Now I will bleed on everybody, like the Black Knight! He glanced one last time at the wooden doors of the Great Hall, then turned on his heels, heading towards the kitchens.

A few muffins and a cup of hot, steaming coffee later, Draco felt slightly better. The nauseating feeling was gone, as was the metallic taste of blood in his mouth. The house-elves had been more than kind, as usual. As he wandered the silent corridors of Hogwarts, he decided to go to the library. Obviously, he couldn't practice Quidditch in his state.

Draco had always loved libraries and old books, even if that would surprise more than one teacher. He worked very hard in subjects that interested him. In other classes, however... he usually slept (History of Magic), gazed at the sky (Care of Magical Creatures), or daydreamed (Defense against the Darks Arts. (After all, he was already well-trained in that particular field)). As a result, he wasn't Head Boy, or even prefect, despite his nearly perfect marks in advanced Potions, Charms, Flying, and, above all, Transfiguration. One of his secret goals was to become an Animagus. Not that he would ever admit that to Professor McGonagall, of course. Malfoy's had their pride to reckon with.

Today, he wanted nothing more than peace of mind. And he knew how to get it. Draco headed to the south end of the library, near the Restricted Section. It was a calmer and considerably less frequented area, full of dusty parchments and ancient spellbooks. Madam Pince, the stern librarian witch, had organized it in small, but comfortable individual work places, separated by bookshelves. Draco cherished one of those places in particular, the last on the right side. A huge window offered a truly breathtaking view of the Whomping Willow, the Forbidden Forest and even a tiny part of the lake. Two wooden benches surrounded a worn oak tablewith a patina obtained from thousands of students writing their essays on it, and leaving ink marks of various colours behind.

He slowly sat down, lost in the sight of Hogwarts' familiar, yet always strangely stunning surroundings. Lazily propping his feet on the bench, Draco settled himself comfortably. He took a large blank roll of parchement and a piece of charcoal out of his bag. Then he began to draw,and the world could have disappeared, without him ever knowing.

~*~

When Hermione Granger found him, four hours later, she could not believe her eyes.

It had taken a lot of sly persuasion, and a few pleading looks to convince Madam Pomfrey that she was indeed all right, and thus in a state to leave the Hospital Wing. She had woken up from the Dreamless Sleep potion fully healed and rested, except for a particularly stubborn headache. The nurse, reluctant at first, had eventually agreed to let her go. Hermione had sensed Madam Pomfrey was keeping something from her, but she decided not to ask. She immediately left for the library, faithful to her bookworm's reputation. Little did she know, what - or rather who, she was going to find in her favorite spot.

Draco Malfoy was sleeping soundly, his disheveled head lying on his folded arms. His face was turned towards her, and she noticed with shock his bruised cheek and bloodied lower lip. He was paler than usual, his expression extremely vulnerable. She resisted the sudden urge to push back a silver lock behind his ear. Instead, she stayed frozen on the spot, unsure of what to do. Wake him? Leave?

"I know I'm irresistible, but please, get a grip on yourself. Stop staring, Granger," drawled the Slytherin, without looking up.

"How did you..." she managed to begin, in spite of her astonishment.

"Only a Gryffindor would breath that loudly near an enemy. And who else, pray tell, would be in the library this early on a Sunday?"

"Only a Slytherin would call it early. It's almost lunchtime."

She smiled gleefully as his eyes shot open and he hastily sat straight, muttering to himself.

"Can't believe I slept that long..."

"Well, obviously you did. Now, if you please, would you mind going away? I need to study."

Hermione's eyes locked with his. He was staring at her, a strange yet faint glimmer flickering in his steel gray eyes. She squirmed awkwardly, disturbed by his gaze. Eventually, she remembered that attacking was always the best defense.

"No need to look at me like that. You wouldn't want to hurt your delicate pureblood's eyes by looking at a Mudblood," sneered the Gryffindor stiffly.

Draco winced, and immediately turned his eyes away. As a matter of fact, his thoughts had been mercilessly wandering on her lovely curves. An understatement if I ever heard one. Hermione was not exactly beautiful, by many standards. Generous hips, slender waist, pleasingly round breasts and pretty bottom. Feminine. She was not skinny like girls found it fashionable, but nobody in his right mind would call her fat. She possessed the kind of beauty that turned men's heads. Her cinnamon hair, bushy as ever, soberly rested as a large plait on her chest. Unruly locks framed her fair, soft face, emphasizing the hazel color of her eyes.

His throat very dry all of a sudden, Draco struggled to find an adequately biting answer.

"As far as I know, your name is not written on this table."

"Nor is yours. I have as much right as you do to sit here. And that, my dear, is exactly what I intend to do."

Hermione calmly sat next to him, putting her things on the oak table with exaggerated care. She suddenly noticed the creamy roll of parchment Draco had been using as a pillow when she arrived. Something was written on it... wait, not written, drawn...

"Curiosity killed the cat, Granger," said Draco harshly, quickly snatching and hiding the paper in his black bag.

"No, secretive persons did, Malfoy," she snapped back with equal intensity. To her amazement, he merely smiled. A very small smile. Malfoy smiling at a Mudblood? A very cold day in hell indeed.

"We could make a Slytherin of you, one day. Almost."

"Should I take that as a complement?"

He stared at her blankly. For a second, his face darkened. Then, as if it had never happened, his eyes were back to their usual cold expression

"I don't know," he answered truthfully. Hermione held her breath, caught off guard. She certainly did not expect that, especially coming from him.

Hermione broke the eye contact. Her gaze slowly roamed his pale features, then abruptly lingered on his bruised cheek.

"What happened to you-" She stretched out a hand to touch his face, but he swiftly intercepted her, closing his long ivory fingers on her wrist.

"...is none of your business. Do I make myself clear?" Draco cut in severely.

"Perfectly. I should not have expected a Death Eater to behave civilly." Draco released her forthwith. He paled even more, if that was possible. For a few seconds, he was utterly speechless. And, being a Malfoy, it was rather miraculous sight. He gathered his belongings, got up, and finally turned to her.

"In cauda venenum. I always said so," he stated softly. Then he turned on his heels, and stormed out of the library.

The Gryffindor had won a battle, but no triumph could be seen in her brown eyes.

~*~

"Password, if you please?" asked the Fat Lady quietly.

"Quia nominor leo," answered Hermione, idly wondering who had chosen the passwords this year. The portrait swung open, and she entered.

The Gryffindor common room was a cozy, warm, and lively place. Heavy red and gold tapestries hung everywhere, proudly flashing their house's colors. Some first years were busy chatting near the fire, but apart from them, the place was almost empty. It was a Hogsmead week-end, she remembered. Yet she was sure Ron and Harry did not leave, and were waiting for her. And indeed, they were, quietly playing chess on the other side of the room.

Ron looked very pleased with himself, and Harry looked desperate.

"Winning again Ron? Why am I not surprised?" she said teasingly, as she neared the two boys. Engrossed in their game, they had not heard her come in.

"Hermione! Don't sneak on us like that!" they both exclaimed.

She sat by their side, and grinned.

"Are you feeling better?"

"How did you escape Madam Pomfrey? Will you teach me?"

"Did she tell you ?"

"Shhh. One question at the time, mates. Yes, I'm fine, thanks you Ron. Harry, if you want to know, I knocked out Madam Pomfrey, bound her to a bed, then ran away," Hermione calmly answered . The black haired boy looked like he could be blown about by a gentle breeze.

"Just kidding, Harry. Now, kindly tell me who should have told me what?"

Ron looked strangely at her, his blue eyes twinkling.

"You mean...nobody told you?" he asked tentatively.

"Tell me about what, Ronald Weasley!" she cried, beginning to loose her temper.

"What do you remember about your accident, at the Quidditch match, 'Mione?" sighed Ron.

" I was looking for Harry - How is your arm, anyway? Does it hurt? - and then... a lot of pain. That's all, I'm afraid."

"After the Bludger -nasty thing- hit you... well, you fell."

Hermione stared at him, horrified. Then she noticed the sulky look on Harry's face, and she began to worry.

"And?"

Ron took a deep breath.

"Malfoy caught you."

Hermione swore profusely. Shocked, the two Gryffindors looked at each other. The look on their faces was priceless.

"I'm so sorry, 'Mione! I didn't see you fall, I promise! The Snitch..." Harry blurted awkwardly.

"It's all right. It's just... Nevermind. Did we win?" she said hopefully.

"Of course we did !" exclaimed Harry too quickly.

"Harry..."the other Gryffindor protested softly .

"All right..." Harry sighed, then looked straightforwardly at Hermione. "That stu... I mean, Malfoy. He would have won if he had not caught you."

"I never thought I would see the day when I would say this, 'Mione, but what he did... it took a lot of guts. And now, we owe him."

"Yes, we do," agreed Harry somewhat reluctantly. "What is it, Hermione?" He added immediately, his emerald eyes filling with genuine concern. She was on the verge of tears, nervously twisting her hands on her lap. Ron patted her back, and she leaned on his shoulder. She told their friends what had transpired between she and Malfoy in the library, her surprise at seeing him asleep and hurt, his relatively kind behavior, the pain in his eyes as he looked at her before he left... The two Gryffindors wizards listened to her with complete attention until she was done, understanding her need for relief.

"Calm down, 'Mione. How many times did he do the same to you? And he was never guilt-stricken the way you are now. You hurt him, so what? That's no big deal. Why do you care?"

"I don't know, Harry," Hermione whispered sadly. "I really don't."