Omnia Vincit Amor

(omnia vincit amor...)

We've always been enemies, and only an invisible line exists between hatred and passion. Everyone says that line separates hate and love, but that's not true. They're too opposite. Love is light, and joy, and trust, too pure to be cast from something as black as hate. Passion, on the other hand, is closer to the base material. Anger and desire produce very nearly the same effects in the body: a racing pulse, flushed skin, urges that cannot--will not--be controlled. It's a very short trip from hate to heat of a very different kind.

It wasn't always this way. I used to believe in things like honour. Dignity. A cause. I fought for that cause, locked tightly away, the Virgin Goddess of Gryffindor fighting valiant battles with books she could barely understand and curses she had never experienced. One truth I discovered? All battles have casualties. Mine cost me my parents and my love, all taken with a simple flick of the wrist. No white magic could ever bring them back, or even begin to rival the power of this single curse. The other truth I discovered is one I will share with no one. It is an idea orphaned and reviled in a time we call peace; it is a fact we would rather forget.

The light will never be able to win. Call on fate, luck, or Harry Potter, if you'd like, but the reality is that we will never be able to truly defeat the other side. Evil is too seductive. In the end, we all fall to it. The lure is too great; there is something to offer everyone. All of us have a price.

Officially speaking, the war is over. Some have been pardoned, and some have been punished. The survivors have returned to what normalcy they have left. The world has not ended. Life goes on. But there are too many faces missing, too many who fought for a freedom they never experienced, too many who died for reasons they never knew. Holes fill the heart of every witch, wizard, and Muggle left standing. One for every friend, every brother, sister, husband, wife, mother, father, and colleague left behind. These hearts will never be whole again; but the time of mourning has long passed.

I never switched sides, except in heart. There is a difference between loss of loyalty and loss of hope: though I knew we could never win, I would have willingly died at any time so that I could do so knowing I had tried. The things that did change were my goals. In the beginning, I worked towards ending this war, taking things back to the way they could never again be. My ambitions became infinitely darker. I know precisely who killed my parents and my husband; it was obvious from the start, and six months later, the spy networks confirmed it.
Draco Malfoy: Confirmed Death Eater. Suspected murderer of thousands, including A. Granger, J. Granger, and R. Weasley.

I've already said that we cannot win. The Light will never be able to eradicate the Dark. Even now, they're regrouping. Planning. All we're doing now is prolonging the battle. Killing time, so to speak, until we ourselves die. Before I can allow myself to do the same, I have one final mission to complete.
Kill Draco Malfoy.

In earlier, happier times, we might have been lovers. The Shakespearian lure of star-crossed love was appealing enough to a pair of silly teenagers; our personalities were admittedly close matches. On a half-dare, once, I sent the boy (he was a boy them, and not yet a murderer) a Valentine's Day note. It was anonymous, and, in my mind, foolproof. Just serious enough to make him think twice, and just lighthearted enough to make Harry and Ron believe that it was nothing more than a joke. It was a simple prank, and at the same time, far more complicated. Full of young bravado, I presented my heart for dissection in the morning mail. I knew the instant he received it-I had perfected the art of watching him from the corner of my eye-and was surprised by the surprise on his face. As he read, his eyes widened slightly, almost imperceptively. I suppressed a smile of cunning delight. My target read the letter a few more times, then, regathering his wits, took out his wand.

What in Merlin's name is he doing? I wondered. (If only I had known.)

"Ostendo Scriptor!"

Horrorstruck, I watched as my own handwriting peeled itself off the page. Slowly, it floated a few inches above the paper, agonizingly forming the names.

"Hermione Granger! What a lovely valentine you've sent me. Very sorry, but I won't be able to join you in the Astronomy Tower tonight. I've found someone else; if only you have been quicker about it. Shame. Happy Valentine's Day, my not-so-secret admirer!"

The Great Hall broke into a series of catcalls, whistles, and laughs, while my "infallible" love letter burst into flame. I was barely able to keep from sobbing during the next fortnight of Potions lessons; Snape took an especially perverse pleasure in the backfired joke, pairing the "lovers" up for conveniently scheduled Love and Contraceptive Potions.

Needless to say, my Valentine's Day was hell. No matter where I went, the sniggers, whispers and sneers followed. By dinnertime, I had seriously begun to consider drowning myself in the Prefects' Bathroom. Instead, I skipped the meal and went to my dorm hoping to sleep, and perchance forget the day. There was a surprise waiting for me there, guaranteeing that I would never be able to. To some, it might have seemed unrelated, a Valentine's gift from an undiscouraged admirer, but I knew better. My breath caught in my throat, and I line I had written earlier jumped, unbidden, into my mind:

/Skin flushed in delicate anger, full of all the colour and rancor of a poisoned pink rose/

My ill-fated ballad, seen by none but Malfoy. There was the possibility of another, secret Valentine and a funny sort of coincidence, but in my heart I knew. The rose was from him. The day still stands out in my memory, and the rose still blooms after eight years in my possession.

That's all in the past, of course. After the fiasco had quieted down somewhat, Ginny Weasley told me something. "Love is war." She hadn't been a part of the joke, but privy to my other motives. I think she felt sorrier for me than I did for myself; she knew nothing of the rose. It was a comment made in sympathy, a small and meaningless thing, but even after her death I am unable to forget it. "Love is war." I know quite a bit about war; I used to know more of love. All's fair in both of them. In an innocent remark made a decade ago, the seeds of my plan were found.

Once the war ended, I was hired by the reformed Ministry of Magic, as was proper for an old soldier. Unfortunately, the younger Malfoy survived the war (and the following trials), and was hired as well. The reforms, apparently, didn't penetrate as far as they seemed. My daily schedule kept me far from him, and my work as Head of the Committee of Experimental Magic held most of my attention. I was still angry then; only two years had passed since the murders. Revenge is a dish best served cold, but the recipe is at its most potent when written hot. And write I did. The search for a fitting punishment consumed me. Late hours spent at the office afforded me privacy, resources, and extra pay for the project that quickly became my life.

Not only did I have to kill the man, I had to get close enough to do it. No spell would work-Malfoy was too intimately connected with the Dark Arts for any curse to succeed. I needed something else, but no ideas would come. Even the War hadn't been such a paradox!

Love is war.

Thank you, but no thanks, I growled at the memory. I have work to do. I can deal with ghosts later.

Love is war, she repeated, more forcefully this time. I didn't understand. I was trying to devise a plan for the revenge of my entire family's death. It was like wartime again: I could have no distractions. I had to use every resource I had. Even so, the third time I heard her, I had a snide remark for Ginny.

"You don't even have the line right. Love is a battlefield, and either way it's untrue. I don't think you lived long enough to know. Love is life; war is more like-"

Death! The pieces fell into place.

My plan went into action almost as soon as it was conceived. When I finally emerged from my office, I was pleasantly surprised to find that my path and my target's had become closer. The Department of International Magical Cooperation had stepped in to assist mine; a determined team of witches in Australia was trying to create a countercurse to Cruciatus, and needed the British Ministry's help. As the heads of our respective offices, Malfoy and I were forced to work together. It was very difficult to hide the giddy, dark joy I found in this-my plan was coming together so quickly! His response to our situation was slightly less enthusiastic. While civil, it was obvious that my partner found our work distasteful. Whether it was because of the subject matter of me, I'm not certain. At any rate, he came in, worked silently and diligently from eight to four o'clock every day, and left as soon as he was able. I relished the challenge.

With such a valuable quarry as Draco Malfoy, I had to be very careful in my hunt. Slowly, slowly, Ginny whispered to me. She's just as vengeful as I am (I think it's the red Weasley hair). Even her own death couldn't prevent her from knowing of her brother's. Each day as we pushed through the paperwork and research of those wonderful Aussie witches, I pushed my own goals a little more. An "accidental" touch here, a quiet "thank you" or "bless you" there. At first, he was disturbed; we both backed off. Next, he was intrigued. I circled closer.

After two months of this game, the rules changed. Eyes met and caught; an easy flirtation. He became caught in the play, no longer a pawn, but a piece ready to meet the opponent. In the race to speech, he was first. A small comment on the news; I saw the opportunity for what it was, and, as a side effect, had a polite conversation with Draco Malfoy for the first time in my life. The irony wasn't lost on me, nor was the realization that I enjoyed it. That first time opened the floodgates, and every day since, we have talked. There's truth to the line "Know thy enemy as thyself"...but I didn't expect to share as much of myself as I did.

He never married. That surprised me, and made my plan slightly less vindictive. The effect isn't quite the same from a murderous, monogamous relationship as it is from a killer taken as a lover behind one's wife's back. His father was oppressive, but not abusive--a fact taken from one of our more serious discussions on family. My father, strangely, was the same; yet we've turned out very differently. He likes opera and rock (I enjoy jazz best) and Asian food (while Italian remains my favourite). Even though he's a wizard and outwardly disdainful of all things Muggle, he is fascinated by their politics. (In his opinion, the Prime Minister "acts and moves with all the charm of a stuffed owl.")

Soon, the talking spilled over work hours. Too many times, we would hit a lull in the conversation and discover that it was midnight. In our separate wing of the Ministry (designated for special projects only), we were left alone and undistracted, so that we could continue our important work. Late hours were to be expected...even if we finished the day's work at four and chatted until eleven. I kept up the physical pressure as we became more closely acquainted. Occasional taps became more frequent and longer; my clothes became slightly more daring; every inch of my body called out for him to touch. I took every opportunity to tantalize. His self-restraint frustrated me--for a few scary days I wondered if he might be gay--but every time I felt his eyes on me or heard him suck in a breath as I knelt to pick something up, I became more secure in my position. My favorite ploy was wearing Muggle clothes to work. That's not to say that all witches wear billowing robes to work--they don't, not in my department, anyway--but the Muggle trend of stretch and skin was infinitely preferable for my scheme.

During those months, I made the art of watching Malfoy out of the corner of my eye into a science. The way his hair fell across his face was nothing less than Botticelli, and (I don't think he realized this) his school-day habit of chewing on his quill while deep in thought was no less adorable years later. If he suddenly found inspiration while chewing, his eyebrows lifted just a quarter of an inch, thought-gathering, before ink touched paper. When he finally, unexpectedly slammed down his quill, caught my shoulders, and brought me forward for a searing kiss, I had been anticipating it for five minutes. My plan had succeeded. It was almost time to finish it.

We lay there, together, on the Ministry's floor for some time. I pretended to sleep, tangled in what was left of our clothing, but to no use. The man refused to fall asleep. He simply lay there, one arm around me, eyes cast towards the ceiling, and occasionally pressing a kiss to my forehead. Malfoy, it would seem, is a snuggler. I never would have guessed. I gave into the irresistible pull--I had just been very thoroughly shagged, after all--and when I woke up, he was gone. It didn't matter; I would get my chance.

This is my chance. After work today, he brought me back to his flat. We were together again, and now he's fallen asleep. Strange. He was more frenzied yesterday, and slow gentleness today, yet he's sleeping now. He really does look peaceful; a little bit of the boy is left yet in the murderer. A heart's still in there, somewhere. At least, I hope so--otherwise I'll have precious little to run through. Draco Malfoy has a truly miraculous set of knives for a bachelor wizard. One dagger stood out from the rest: finely crafted blade, onyx and ruby hilt. I found it in his desk drawer; obviously, it was never meant to be more than a letter opener. Well. Destiny doesn't seem to matter much these days.

He has beautiful eyes, my spectre points out. It's true. Grey with the slightest hint of ice blue; even while they're closed, I can picture them perfectly. I saw something reflected in those eyes today, something I think I can remember seeing in Ron's-

No. Ron loved me. Draco...killed him three and a half years ago.

Time to let go of the past, Hermione.

No! And what does it matter anyway that he loves me? I hate him!

Thin line...

It can't be true. So why am I putting the knife back? Why haven't I finished what I started so many years ago? Why in the seven hells am I crying?

Love is war.

You're right, Ginny. Love is war.

And I surrender.

(...et nos cedamus amori)