Memento Mori

Draco silently walked back to his dormitory, every step he made echoing off of the empty hallways. Draco usually detested being alone in the dark castle, but he bore the brunt of his loneliness. He snorted aloud, and it made the castle seem smug. He was pleased that he could apply personification such a dreary place.

Hogwarts had always seemed desolate to Draco, but his own isolating thoughts added to the tension of his walk to bed. He hadn't eaten in days, but Draco couldn't tell. His all-consuming emptiness extended to the most inner reaches of his soul.

He was thinking about an ax. Not a lot of wizards knew what axes were, but Draco had seen a picture of one on the muggle news when he last went shopping in London. It looked- to say the least- blunt. Draco had always imagined dying at the end of a light, elven-like sword- something elegant, precise, and razor sharp. He imagined dying at the hands of an instrument that reflected himself. He imagined dying after he had valiantly killed his highest foe- in a Shakespearian twist, he would have been stabbed in the process. Draco smiled at himself. Not many children spent their days dreaming about how they were going to die. Then again, Draco was not like many children.

His thoughts strayed back to the ax. Draco liked thinking that something so small and stumpy could be used to perfectly end a person's life. He was morbidly fascinated with the succinct end, as opposed to his beautiful elaborate death. He wanted to die like a ballerina- with an audience, viewing his last dying breaths spent collapsing in a final twirl. He amused himself with the idea that he could die by a quick cut to the neck, and a thud to the ground. Draco laughed. Such an idea could never have occurred to him before.

It was Draco that had found his father dead. He had been madly dashing through the house. He had stashed his most prized possession behind a floorboard before the looters could reach it. He knew that Lucius had become depressed and weakened in the months before his death, but never enough to concern Draco. The slander of the Malfoy name that was spread was enough to hurt the strongest. Lucius liked to think himself as strong. Strength defined the man, as he liked to say. Draco thought his father's view was bullshit. Strength, to him, was being sturdy and dependable. His father was nothing of the sort.

When Draco found his father, he was out of breath from running. Sliding into his father's room, he took no notice of the cold chill he first felt. His father always gave him the chills. He remembered asking his father to hurry, and to hide all that Draco could not manage. When Lucius failed to reply, Draco sighed. He launched into a long, drawn out speech about how the late-night party he had attended had not lead to misconduct. When there was still no reply from Lucius, Draco became even more agitated. He screamed at how impolite his father was being. He waited for the caning that would surely come, but there was none. It was at this point that Draco realized his father was not moving.

He ran forwards towards the bed, and whipped the covers off of his father. Etched in burning lines inside his head was the image of his father, cold. Draco didn't like to think very much anymore. It always led him back to the same image. His father's dying image was not strong. It seemed sloppy, and unprepared. His father's mouth was lopsided, and the look on his face seemed like fear. Death was supposed to be his father's final piece of art- a collection finished for the public's viewing pleasure. Draco didn't think he liked Lucius Malfoy's style. It was far too haunting for his conservative taste.

He was surprised when he realized that he had reached the Slytherin dormitory. Shaking his head, Draco uttered the password, "aut vincere aut mori," and quietly stepped into the common room. The silver fabrics lining the dungeon walls glimmered like cold steel. The colors eased Draco's mind.

"Whatcha doing?" asked Crabbe. Draco sighed.

"Being inhospitable to your futile attempts to dislodge my impending doom," said Draco. He wanted Crabbe to be unable to follow his train of thought and speech.

His idea was (unfortunately for Crabbe) successful. Crabbe cocked his head to the side in a gorilla-like manner. He wanted desperately to understand Draco's thoughts but failed, for the majority of the time, to understand them. Crabbe thought Draco a faerie- he certainly seemed to move like one. Crabbe snorted, as a final comment on Draco's complex sentence.

"Stop talking in your faggity way," Crabbe spat. Draco twirled his fingers and gently placed them on his chin. His thin figure cast a shadow on Crabbe's already darkened face.

"I ask that you please move out of my way. I need to get to bed." Draco lightly brushed past Crabbe. Crabbe looked after Draco's body, moving faster and faster until he broke into a lope and skidded to the staircase. Crabbe sighed, and envied Draco's obvious grace.

Draco fell unto his bed, and massaged his eyeballs. The room seemed too dank to look around. An image of Hermione popped into his head.

What the hell was she doing there, Draco thought. She doesn't deserve to be in your head.

Hermione seemed angry at Harry, said a second voice. This could be his golden opportunity to hurt Harry in the best possible way.

Draco sat up. He looked around the room to see if anyone could see him.

Go on, he told his thoughts.

You could use her, said the quiet, drawling voice.

He was going to do what he could. Draco would once again be on top of the Hogwarts Heap. He was not going to let deranged Harry Potter get the best of the Malfoys. Draco could dance circles around Harry, any day. Draco smiled, his glimmering teeth being shown to the empty room.

Draco didn't have to say a word. His thoughts were waiting for their cue, but then they receded back into his mind. They had a plan of action.

Draco's smile had said what he himself could not.

Shortly after Crabbe sat back down to stare at the wall, Goyle entered the Slytherin common room carrying an arm's load of sweets.

"Where'd you nick those from?" asked Crabbe. Goyle looked pensive.

"Umm...er..." he stuttered.

"The kitchen?" Crabbe ventured. Goyle nodded reverently.

"That's where I got it!" he smiled. Crabbe rolled his eyes.

"I'm going to bed," he sighed. Goyle pouted like a lost puppy.

"Okay," he said, burying his toe. Crabbe strode past him, chest puffed out. Goyle sighed, and envied Crabbe's obvious bulk.

Hermione sat alone in the dark room. She didn't utter "lumos" to her wand. She didn't say "alhomora" to the lock. She didn't cry out for Harry or for Ron. Instead she muttered-

"Draco." Hermione let his name roll off her tongue. She had never said Draco Malfoy's name without convulsing with condescension or hatred. "Draco." Hermione waited for anger to slap against her face. "Draco." Hermione said it louder. "Draco." She waited for a reprimand she knew would never come. "Draco." She stood up, her full height sending no shadow in the darkness. "Draco!" Hermione screamed. The padded walls were going to muffle her screams. Thank god for that.

Hermione shook, and she was thankful to realize that the hatred Draco Malfoy had sparked was shaking off, like a wet dog drying. Hermione watched the door, daring it to let Harry or Ron enter. She let her intensity center on the door.

But nothing happened.

Of course nothing happened, Hermione thought to herself. It's not like Ron or Harry care. Hermione sighed audibly, glad that no one could hear her. She closed her eyes, centered, and opened the door.

She walked for what seemed like hours, but it was only several flights of stairs. Hermione needed to relax. She knew that when it came to mundane nitpicks, Ron and Harry couldn't help but zone her out. When it came to Draco Malfoy, any sympathy was cause for treason.

Had it only been Hermione to notice the shift in Harry's attitude? It wasn't just the desire to save every single person in the world. His lack of confidence was something more- something deeper, and Hermione got an idea as to what was causing it.

She used her observing side to put herself in Harry's shoes, as she so often did these days. She thought about not knowing what your parent's were like, what they said to each other, how they conveyed love. Were they touchy-feely kind of people? Or were they shy? Hermione doubted Harry would ever share these questions with her, but she thought it inevitable that he would think about them.

Then, you have the one person close to a parent- who you only had for about two years- taken away. Hermione would be enraged. She knew she would. Knowing that Draco Malfoy's father had something to do with Sirius' death would torture her. A look at Draco would probably pierce her soul. There was no telling if underneath the ice Draco was warm. Hermione didn't know if she ever wanted to get close enough to find out.

She realized that Harry had to be hurting every moment of every day. She realized that he was doing the best damn job he could of being her friend. But Hermione decided that it wasn't enough. The pain he felt was jarring, no question, but the pain Hermione had felt her whole entire life as an outcast was enough to match Harry's. If she couldn't heal Harry, and she couldn't reach Ron, and the two situations combined were never going to heal her, then she had to do something. She had to heal someone. She had to help Draco. The revelation made Hermione shutter. She had no clue as to how she could even manage to get on Draco's good side, let alone become close enough to help him deal with whatever issues his father's death prompted. Even more confusing to Hermione was why she cared.

Draco had specifically gone out of his way to talk to Hermione when he wanted to insult every fiber of her being. That probably meant something, that desperate seeking for her attention. Did Draco harbor some unknown crush? Hermione shook her head as she walked silently along the corridors. If Draco was holding a crush on Hermione, he was concealing his feelings very well. Hermione doubted that was why he sought her out. Her muggle parentage was his excuse. Hermione thought that his loathing went deeper than that. Hermione thought that Draco was a lot more complicated than a two-dimensional evil instrument of Lord Voldemort with a devilish smile and a halo of golden hair.

Hermione stopped dead in the hallway. Devilish good smile? Halo of golden hair? What wish-wash had got into the previously prudent pupil?

Hermione commended herself on the mental use of alliteration.

She continued walking down the hallway, still deep in thought over Draco. How could she, Harry's (possibly former) best friend, care for the son of Sirius' murderer? Hermione, she thought to herself, Lucius didn't kill Sirius. He did come as close to killing him as he could, though.

Was her sudden upheaval of interest in Draco a rebound to Harry's complete cold-shoulder? Hermione didn't quite know the answer. All she knew was that she wanted, desperately wanted, to connect with Draco.

"Hullo," said a sullen voice in the hallway. Hermione spun around.

"R-Ron?" she said, rather breathlessly.

"What are you doing out so late at night? I thought you were with Harry in the infirmary." Hermione internally laughed. How little Ron knew of her betrayal of Harry.

"Oh, I was just..." Hermione searched for the most inconspicuous words. "Hanging around." Ron raised his eyebrows.

"Hanging around? Doing what?" he asked. Hermione turned a little pink.

"I...um..." Hermione thought for a moment. "I just needed some time alone."

"Oh," said Ron. He joined Hermione by her side.

"Do you mind if I walk with you, for a bit? If you've got enough 'alone-time' for one day?" Hermione shrugged. Ron took it as a yes. "Are you worried about him?" Ron asked. Hermione was taken aback for a second, wondering how Ron could know she was worried about Draco. She realized he was talking about Harry. Her face sunk.

"Yes, I am," she replied. "His... his... his complete lack of self-confidence, or over-abundance of it, really, has made me really worried for his safety. Now that the Ministry is talking about You-Know-Who, I..." Hermione trailed off. "I worry that Harry will want to live up to the Prophecy. Sooner or later. Knowing his mental obsession with being the best hero. Stupid boy."

Ron stared ahead. Hermione waited patiently for him to speak. Ron opened his mouth, then closed it. He then opened it. "Hermione... I know that Harry... he's not exactly been, um, there for you lately," said Ron. Hermione cocked her head to the side. "But that doesn't mean that he doesn't care about you. He really does. And so do I, for that matter." Ron took Hermione's hand.

Hermione stared at Ron. "What does that have to do with being worried about Harry?" she said softly. Ron looked at Hermione.

"I just don't think you really see what's going on inside his head," Ron quietly said. Hermione snorted.

"When have I ever seen what's going on inside his head?" Ron looked taken aback.

"H-Hermione... he's going through a really hard time right now, is all... and, and I think that if you and him and I sat down and talked..."

"Like that will ever happen..." Hermione snorted again. Ron turned red.

"I've about lost it!" Ron bellowed down the hallway. It was Hermione's turn to be taken aback. "You never look at us, you never talk to us, Harry's bonkers, and I-I'm left doing nothing about it! When will you ever have faith in either of us?"

"Have faith? I've always, ALWAYS, been there for you when you go off on your stupid little excursions to save the world, okay? I've ALWAYS tried to be fair..."

"Yeah, right!" Ron interrupted. "You practically wouldn't let us copy your notes last year for the O.W.L.S.!"

"But I did at the last minute, didn't I?" Hermione retorted.

"It's always been this way. Ye who has so little faith." Hermione raised both of her eyebrows at Ron.

"I'm sick and tired of playing second fiddle. I hate being this fifth wheel in the convertible that is Harry and Ron. When you're ready to look at me as an equivalent, I will let this whole thing go. But until then, I think it's best if you leave me alone," Hermione yelled. Ron narrowed his eyes.

"Fine." Ron whispered. "Fine." Hermione turned on her heel.

Hermione fought back some tears. Ron, her best (and perhaps only) friend was now, officially, pissed. It wasn't the first time, of course, but Hermione hoped that this argument would be the last. She wanted Ron to see the error of his ways. She was sure that he would come running after her, screaming that he was sorry. She wanted him to run and say that he and Harry were going to make it up to her. When she had counted to a hundred and still had heard no yell of surrender, Hermione walked swiftly away. She bit her lip hard to keep from screaming "damn!" through the castle. Everything had backfired.

Hermione thought that she could perhaps go to Draco and say that she was done with Harry Potter, and was willing to show herself to the Dark Side. Hermione silently cursed herself at the idea. Even though her feelings for Harry were less than luke-warm at the moment, she wanted to remain true to herself. And offering her soul to Draco on an evil jewel encrusted platter was not her idea of an appetizing beginning to a bad relationship with Draco.

She thought of Ron. Had she not been right in saying what she felt? Had the whole world gone crashing down upon her? A year ago, would Hermione have thought that she could possibly hate Harry, and want to be friends with Draco Malfoy?

The sad part of her last question was that deep down inside, though Hermione tried her best at feinting denial, she knew the answer was yes. She knew that the answer was as true today as it was a year ago, two years ago, three years ago, and onwards. Hermione sighed, and a salty tear reached her tongue. It felt good. Hermione suddenly knew that she had to drink something- anything- because her soul was parched. Her body was parched.

Hermione ran as quickly as possible to the Gryffindor common room. Her legs pounded the stone hallways. She wanted to get as far away from Ron as possible, and as close to water as her legs could take her. She hadn't drunk in more than a day, Hermione realized, and she was becoming slightly hysterical. Her dehydration was an excuse to run, Hermione thought. She didn't look further than that. She just ran.

She flew past Sir Cadigan, calling her names that a lady probably shouldn't hear. She flew past the witch's hump that had led Harry to Hogsmeade three years earlier. She wanted to slide down the chute, just to let go of her body, but she couldn't. Hermione just kept on running.

She skidded to a halt when she rounded the corner, and came into plain view of the fat lady. She didn't want to know if Ron had taken another route and was already inside. She ruffled her robes, and marched forward.

Hermione reached the fat lady, wearing her pink dress. She was completely out of breath.

"Password?" asked the portrait. Hermione smiled.

"I don't know. You tell me."