Reflections in a Broken Mirror

Reflections a Broken Mirror

Chapter Two - Things That Go Wrong in the Night

Lock yourself inside maybe you'll find peace tonight

Don't run away from what you don't know

The things you don't show the secrets that you know

Keep them hid in a good hiding place

While you're sleeping I know you're dreaming

Of a good hiding place

Draco was in the library when the letter arrived, a thin, leather-bound text open on his knee. Early as it was--seven o'clock of all unholy hours--Draco had been awake for hours, finally abandoning his bed and the possibility of sleep and making his way through the silent house to the library. After taking a book at random from the shelf, he had settled himself into a chair. The book had proved to be rather interesting, and Draco was genuinely absorbed by a particular passage when he was interrupted by a click and then the sound of sharp talons being dragged down glass that never failed to set his teeth on edge.

Turning toward the window, Draco saw a large owl sitting placidly upon the window ledge, a neatly folded square of parchment clipped in its beak. He recognized the bird; a great horned of daunting proportions. He gave an inward sigh as he crossed the room and opened the window. The creature calmly stepped over the sill, depositing her message upon it before gracefully taking flight again. Clearly, she had not expected a reply.

The letter was short, written in looping script:

Knockturn Alley today, just in case you forgot. Six o'clock, outside Borgin and Burkes. See you!

Pansy

PS--expect a late night.

Draco felt an irked smile tug at his lips. She would decide to be annoyingly ambiguous when he wasn't in the mood for it, leaving out her customary painfully detailed itinerary. Of course, that was just how Pansy was. This was the same girl who had taught her owl to drag its exceedingly sharp talons down any surface that would make a cringe-worthy noise. Small vexations were her hobby.

Draco was not looking forward to an evening in Knockturn Alley. There would likely be a good number of Hogwarts students skulking around that part of London tonight, looking for a final thrill before school began. Not so very long ago, Draco would have found a night of hedonistic self-indulgence quite attractive. On some level he still might have, had it not been for the strong aversion to other living beings that he had developed recently.

Draco stood and walked over to the shelf from which he had taken the book he had been reading, replacing it, before he thought better of it and pulled it back out. He glanced at Pansy's brief letter before tossing it into the waste bin.

He'd be going.

* * * *

"Draco!"

The young man looked up from the Hand of Glory he'd examining at the sound of his name. He glanced down at his watch; 6:35. He straightened, brushing imaginary dust from one of his shirt's rolled cuffs and turned.

There was something in the way that Pansy said his name that made him feel like retching. She drew him into an impulsive embrace, which he halfheartedly returned, feeling the tension that she was trying to hide. She stepped back, revealing a smile that was slightly strained. He could hear every unspoken question she wanted to ask him better than if she were saying them into his ear.

They left the shop, walking slowly up the dingy street, both of then uncharacteristically quiet, Pansy making the infrequent remark at times. The awkwardness between them was thick like cigar smoke in the air. Neither of them said anything about the emptiness of the London Underground. In other years, there had been a good number of their housemates roaming Knockturn Alley in search of pre-term disorder of any sort, as well as adult denizens of the murky lane. The desertion of the gloomy alley was disquieting; while it was by no means ever a crowded place, it served as a reminder of just how many of the Alley's former denizens had decided that it was hazardous to show their faces.

"How was your summer?" Pansy asked in a valiant attempt at normality. Her underlying query was suspended in the air

Are you all right?

"Eh," Draco replied noncommittally, though his fist clenched.

What do you think?

They were silent for a while. Then--

"Sorry about being so late. You know me."

I hope my abominable sense of time hasn't damaged your fragile emotional state.

"I'm used to it, remember?"

Don't flatter yourself.

"We missed you over the summer. Vince and Greg visited for a while. It was so quiet, without--," She stopped herself here, biting her lip. "Well, we had a good time really." She lapsed into silence.

Her bright, nervous tone was doing little for Draco's temperament. As long as he could ignore all thoughts of his father and the trial, he was fine. This had been very hard to do while at home in Wiltshire. But difficult was not the same as impossible, which was what Pansy's vague comments and too cheery affectations were making it at the moment. This was not the snarky, laughing girl he knew. She was too careful, sidestepping all of the questions she normally would have thrust at him without an ounce of tact, which would have been easier to deal with than this excessive caution. Draco was divided between wanting her to question him relentlessly and his strong aversion to speaking--even thinking--of his father. It would be a relief to concede to his sorry state of being, but that required Draco's acknowledging that he wasn't all right, and he was doing nothing of the sort, especially to Pansy. He had no desire to be subjected to her brand of sympathy.

They were passing the grimy window of a junk shop when Pansy let out an excited shout and ran toward a figure that stood in the shadowed doorway, effectively cutting thought the tension suspended between them. Draco followed her, feeling a genuine spark of happiness.

"Blaise!" Pansy shrieked, throwing her arms around the young man's neck in an irritatingly girlish manner. She stepped back, and her look rearranged itself rapidly into one of righteous anger. "Why didn't you write me all summer, you priggish git?" She demanded, smacking him hard on the upper arm.

"Because you are a devil woman, as you have just demonstrated," he stated in dignified tones, rubbing the spot where Pansy had hit him. Draco knew this was not solely for the sake of theatrics--although Blaise was a master at them. Pansy hit hard--she'd leave bruises if given the chance.

A rakish grin broke over the young man's face, and cocking an eyebrow at Draco, added in a lascivious voice "Thought I've heard that demon chicks do have some extremely redeeming qualities." Detaching himself from the shadows, he managed to dodge another blow from Pansy. Grinning, he pulled Draco into a rough, quick hug scented with incense, spearmint gum, cigarettes and candle wax.

Blaise Zabini painted an utterly disreputable picture. He wore loose Muggle jeans--torn and faded from long abuse--whose frayed hems fell over the tops of a pair of large dragon hide boots that bore a strong resemblance to certain types of algae, dark green and shining as if wet. A black, outsized jacket hung to the middle of his thighs, with sleeves that fell almost past his fingertips. Suspicious looking scorch marks doted this garment, along with dusty patches on his jeans that looked like chalk or masonry dust. Clearly, he had been up to no good very recently.

"So my esteemed comrades," he intoned in his grandiose manner. "Where shall we be off to? Sun fall is less than a mere hour away, but until darkness descends there is little that I can show you that will be of interest." At these last words, his voice took on air of mystery.

"Shut up, Blaise," Pansy snapped, but she was smiling. Another of Blaise's tricks. He always seemed to put people in the mood he wished them to be in. Draco's own disposition had lightened somewhat.

The three wandered into the junk shop. The inside was jumbled and the thin, tinny sound of an old Weird Sisters' song came from a wireless sitting on the counter turned down too low to be heard properly. Pansy began sifting through the cluttered array of objects, some obviously rubbish, others with their worth hidden deceptively behind layers of dust and tarnish. Draco leaned against the wall, staring into the middle distance. Blaise, who had struck up a conversation with the youngish wizard behind the counter, looked over at his friend, brows drawing together in puzzlement.

"Tha one a friend of yers?" asked wizard, jerking his chin in Draco's direction. He was of middling height, with short brown hair and a scruffy, unshaven look about him.

"Mhmm," Blaise mumbled, his mind not quite back on the conversation.

The other man nodded. " 'E any relation to the Malfoy family?"

"What would it mean to you if he was?" Blaise asked, his tone still conversational. Even so, his guard raised a fraction. The wizard at the counter was an acquaintance of sorts, but Blaise had not forgotten to the type of person he was speaking. Volunteering information about his friends was not something he considered at all judicious in the given situation, no matter how insignificant the facts seemed.

" 'E's a dead ringer for Lucius Malfoy," stated the other wizard easily, ignoring the wary nature of Blaise's response. " 'E done had 'is face plastered all o'er half the papes in Europe for the longest time." The man produced a fairly yellowed copy of the Daily Prophet from a messy stack of parchments atop the counter and handed it to the young wizard before him.

Blaise took the paper, unfolding it to reveal a picture of Lucius Malfoy, his robes tatty and dusty, hair lank and skin wan. His eyes were the color of cement and just as empty of humanity. And even with that, he was still an almost perfect match to the face of the figure leaning against the far wall of the shop

Impossible thought it had seemed back at the end of school, Blaise had all but forgotten about the trial over the summer. This explained Draco's little anti-social act. Blaise knew that there was no way in hell Draco would be caught dead leaning against the wall of a grotty junk shop and looking for all the world like a sullen, lost ten-year-old if he was in his normal state of mind--more likely he'd make caustic comments on how many viruses could be contracted from the environment. It was disturbing and unnatural to see him in his current state.

Blaise handed the paper back. "Thanks, Flynn. I didn't know about it." His words came out more softly than he intended

"You of all people, not knowin' somthin'. Losin' yer touch, boyo."

So it would seem, thought Blaise. He glanced down at his watch. They'd been in the shop quite a while. Pansy had gone to stand over by Draco, making a gutsy effort to draw Draco out of his head and back toward humanity. She was losing the battle, as it seemed she had been for a good while before Blaise had met them today. He turned back to Flynn.

"I'll be off if you don't have anything else for me,'' he said, a smallish question in his voice.

"Nothin' for yeh at the moment. Should be getting' a few things in that might interest yeh round Samhain." He seemed to think for a moment, eyeing Blaise shrewdly. "Yeh should really consider yerself the lucky one; it's a rare privilege to get forewarnin' 'bout what comes into this place. My boss knew I was side dealin' with a school kid, he'd shit pixies."

"Then don't let him find out. I already get charged an extra ten percent on most of the stuff, and I know it goes into your pocket, Flynn." Blaise's sloe eyes danced merrily at the look of vexation on the other man's face. "Send anything you have to the shop in Hogsmeade like usual." He straightened and walked over to Draco and Pansy.

"Until Samhain then," Flynn said after him, turning up the wireless as the door shut behind the three.

* * * *

As she sat at a table in the Leaky Cauldron, swirling the last of her pumpkin juice slowly in the bottom of her goblet, a small, lazy smile touched Hermione's lips. After a day spent running from store to store to pick up books, quills, parchment and robes, she was content and exhausted. Taking a small sip from her near empty goblet, she turned her attention back to Ginny, who was animatedly telling a story that had Ron laughing hard enough to fall out of his seat and even managed to put a grin on Harry's face.

"--was positively green! Everyone in the shop was trying not to laugh and Madam Malkin looked fit to explode, shrieking about how she'd never had a more incompetent apprentice. It was terrible!" She looked at Hermione. "You saw how her hair was flying everywhere, looking like some crazed hag."

"The poor sod was going to burst into tears," Hermione replied, feeling a pang of sympathy for the hopeless young man. "Honestly, you shouldn't tease him. It's not his fault he was born uncoordinated." She paused. "And entirely inept, " she added after a moments thought. She was thankful the conversation had finally turned away from talk of broomsticks and bludgers.

The whole day had been like this; marvelously relaxed. Hermione had found herself feeling normal--or at least her interpretation of the term--for the first time in months.

Things she usually found the slightest bit irritating, like Ginny's incessant talk of nothing but Hogwarts' male population and Ron's over reactions, were dear to her. She was startled by how much she had missed them, had missed the feeling of being surrounded by the aura of magic. It was almost a scent, or warmth in the air that signified the presence of unconscious bits of hearthcraft and small charms that went unnoticed by wizards who were immersed in them every day.

The close heat that is unique to large groups of people in small places was lulling Hermione's senses, slowly dulling them. Her friends' conversation was melting into the clatter of utensils and other snatches of dialogue from here and there. Hermione allowed her head to tip so that it rested on her hand, her elbow atop the table. She studied the faces around her, diverse and unfamiliar to her, yet common to the part of her mind that saw them not as strangers, but as fellow magic users, members of same world she was a part of.

Hermione turned her attention to the faces around the table, all of them comfortable and familiar, faces she had memorized long ago. Harry, his usually serious eyes for the moment relaxed, a deep emerald behind round glasses. In the dim gold light, caught in a rare moment of tranquility, his pale skin and thin face lessened in severity, and the red lights in his messy dark hair were visible. She thought that maybe she could just see how he might be called good-looking. When Harry finally did lose that pinched, overly sharp look, he would be striking.

The once doe-like eyes of Ginny Weasley were glittering with good-humor, no longer overwhelming her pretty face. The bridge of her pert nose was dusted lightly with freckles, and her formerly nervous smile was now open and bright. Deep red hair hung round her face and over her shoulders, lending her a look of wholesome prettiness that was belied by the sharp wit and wicked humor that ran beneath the deceptive exterior.

Across the table from Hermione, Ron's short hair blazed in fiery profusion. His face was somewhat attractive after a fashion, now that he had finally grown into his features. His long nose and straight jaw were well shaped, and his face, naturally thin, was freckled liberally. His eyes, a shade that resembled the faded blue of the oldest pair of jeans she owned, plainly showed every emotion he felt.

Belatedly, behind drooping eyelids, Hermione realized that those eyes were staring back into hers. She blinked and then smiled self-consciously, attempting to stifle a yawn and failing. Ron's ears reddened fractionally, and he quickly turned his gaze elsewhere.

Hermione didn't pretend not to notice Ron's minor infatuation. It had reached its zenith in their fourth year. She attributed this to his surprise at her involvement with Viktor.

Hermione remembered standing in the kitchen one summer day, half listening to the discussion her mother and a family friend were having. The subject of their conversation wasn't anyone Hermione knew, but as she had been leaving the kitchen, she caught a snatch of their words.

"Well, anything that's utterly unattainable becomes utterly desirable, doesn't it?"

Hermione had been thirteen at the time. She hadn't understood every nuance of the words then, but they had stuck in her mind nonetheless. She thought she understood a little better now.

Ron's crush hadn't died away altogether, but Hermione had noted its ebb. It was unsurprising; the only time he seemed to show any real spark of interest were at times when she was writing to Viktor. If she admitted it to herself, there had been one small voice in the back of her mind that had said 'Awww' disappointedly at the fact. But the other thousand voices that inhabited her head had been chattering perfectly logically about the idiocy of feelings based on hormonal impulses, evils to be thwarted and most importantly about assignments that were due and that she was perfectly happy and did not need a boyfriend to verify who she was, thank you very much.

Still . . .

"--rmione . . . Hermione!" said a voice, drawing her from her drowsy musings. Harry was smiling at her from his side of the table as she yawned and blinked repeatedly, willing herself awake.

"Hunh?" she answered rather dumbly.

"You were about ready to drop out of your chair," Harry supplied, trying to suppress a yawn himself. Ginny's eyes were beginning to glaze just the least bit. Ron seemed to be reasonably awake, though Hermione wondered how. She looked at her watch. They'd been in the Leaky Cauldron's parlor for over two hours, talking. At first it had felt a little strange, everyone a little desperate to be kind and friendly. But the discussion had steered itself toward subjects that dispelled the tension they felt. Hermione had begun to zone out when the direction of the conversation had turned toward Quidditch.

It was getting late, and Hermione was beginning to feel the tug of sleep very strongly, but something was nagging at her. She felt quite strongly that she had forgotten something. She went through her mental list checking off items, but there was nothing she could pinpoint as missing. They'd gone to nearly every store on Diagon Alley that day, including Fred and George's new shop, which had been full of Hogwarts students looking for as many ways to get into trouble as were humanly--and in some cases inhumanly--possible. For all the trouble the two had caused, they were shrewd businessmen and creative inventors besides. Hermione had been tempted to buy an item or two, but had scolded herself at the thought, reminding herself she'd most likely have to deal with enough of them as a prefect this year to stave off any wants she may have harbored. Still, their line of fireworks continued to draw her eyes.

The four made their way up the stairs to their rooms, Ron and Harry to the room they were sharing and herself and Ginny to their own. The persistent sense of having forgotten something weighed on her mind as she flopped down on large bed. Ginny was changing into her pajamas, which consisted of a pair of Charlie's old boxers and a bright purple Weird Sisters t-shirt with a moving picture of Kirly Duke playing his guitar with the intensity of one possessed, hair flying. Hermione got up off the bed, the sensation of having forgotten something still nagging at her as she dug through her trunk to find her pajamas. It was probably nothing, just nerves and--

"Ginny! Did we ever go back to Flourish and Blotts?" Hermione asked, searching through her things as if to make the object of her search appear out of sheer force of will.

Ginny's brows knitted, with a look that clearly said she knew they hadn't but was pretending to try and remember the event so as to suspend the inevitable outburst from Hermione. "I knew I forgot something! And I need that book for Arithmancy this year. If I don't have it I might as well just tell Professor Vector that I'm dropping the class because there'll be no point in taking it if I'm ill prepared and--,"

"Hermione!" Ginny snapped, effectively ending her small bout of hysterics. "You can just get it in the morning. This isn't all that serious." Ginny's voice was even and reassuring, but it did not dispel Hermione's fears of impending academic doom.

"I told the clerk I'd be back in an hour or so! It's been at least four hours and they might put it back in stock, and then it would take forever for them to find it tomorrow and we'd be late. I have to go pick it up now."

"No, Hermione, you don't. It's past ten, and there are all sorts of freaks and nutters out on Diagon Alley after dark. There actually quite a few of them out during the day," she added as an after thought, pulling a brush through he thick hair.

"I know. Which is why you have to come with me," Hermione stated matter-of-factly, picking up her purse and casting a meaningful look at Ginny.

"Okay, sure, because I'm going out in a pair of hand-me-down shorts that barely qualify as decent. Yes, I think that'll keep the nutters away quite nicely."

She had a good point. "I'll go ask the boys," Hermione said, crossing the hall and pounding on the door. Harry opened it, running a hand through his hair and looking decidedly weary. Hermione bit her lip.

"I-know-it's-late-and-you-must-be-tired-but-I-left-an-extremely-important-book-at-Flourish-and-Blotts-and-if-I-don't-have-it-for-Arithmancy-I'm-sunk-so-if-you're-not-too-beat it-would-mean-so-very-much-to-me-if-you-went-with-me-to-go-pick-it-up." All of this came out in one breath and decidedly confused, leaving Harry staring at her in a rather bewildered way. "Please go with me," she added for good measure, a chagrinned smile on her face.

"Just let me put on some shoes," Harry replied, trying not to yawn in her face as he turned back to the room. Ron was leaning over his open trunk. His shirt had slid up a bit, revealing a small patch of pale skin. It's one thing to have freckles, but that's just a bit much, thought Hermione, trying not to stare. Ron turned.

"Oh, hey Hermione," he said, straightening. "What're you doing here? You looked exhausted downstairs."

"I forgot a really important book. Harry said he'd go with me to pick it up as soon as he put on his shoes."

Ron reached up and scratched the back of his neck. "I've still got mine on. I can go," he said. Was it her imagination, or did Ron sound a little nervous? "If you want me to," he added quickly.

"Sure, let's go. I just need to get there quickly."

"Hey, Harry. I'll go mate, don't bother," Ron said to Harry, who was in the middle of tying one of his trainers. He nodded tiredly and gave a half wave before loosening his shoelaces.

Hermione hurried down the stairs and out the back door of the Leaky Cauldron, counting the bricks over the dustbins--three up, two across--and jabbed one with her wand. She walked briskly, praying that Flourish and Blott's was still open this late. She jogged up to the door as it came into view. Relief flooded her as she saw that there was still a light in the window. She hastened through the door. The young clerk behind the counter looked up from the book he was reading and smiled at her warmly, tapping the cover of a thick tome that sat beside him.

"I was beginning to think you'd forgotten. The thing was as bit of a pain to find, but we had a few left in stock. Eleven galleons, four sickles," he said, taking the coins from Hermione and putting the heavy book in a back before he passed it over the counter to her. With a mild half smile, he nodded toward Ron, who was standing a little to her left. "So what're you two doin' out so late? Other that retrieving forgotten textbooks," he added seriously and flashed a meaningful look at Ron, who blushed a furious shade of red.

"No, she's not--er, I mean-- we aren't--,"Ron stammered awkwardly.

"We're just friends," Hermione finished for him. The clerk's smile became arch, and Hermione stared at the countertop, knowing her cheeks were a dull scarlet. She and Ginny had been discussing the young man earlier, both of them agreeing that he was particularly good-looking. He'd graduated Hogwarts two years prior, according to Ginny. Hermione wondered how she had managed to notice him, when she had been so busy being head over heels for Harry during her third year.

"Not as lucky as I thought you were mate," he said to Ron, whose face was still the color of a strawberry. Hermione was becoming increasingly self-conscious.

"Thank you for holding the book for me,' she said politely, before tuning and walking toward the door, which Ron was holding open for her.

The clerk let out a low whistle as he watched the girl exit the shop, noting that her long hair swayed with the same grace that the hem of her pleated skirt did when it brushed the backs of her thighs. They don't make 'em like that often, he thought, turning back to his book.

Ron and Hermione walked back to the Leaky Cauldron slowly. It was nice outside, and despite her recent embarrassment, she was feeling so relieved that she quickly forgot and walked up the cobbled street with a smallish smile on her face. She'd be starting school again in a day; in less than twenty-four hours, she'd be able to use magic again. After a summer of tense restless waiting, she was even more eager than usual to return to school. It was more than her anxieties about Voldemort and her friends; part of her was reawakening, and she was feeling almost giddy with it. It had never been like this before. Academics were Hermione's passion, but this was near desperation. It was the safety and familiarity of Hogwarts that she wanted back so very badly, and now that it was on the horizon, she could feel things lifting on her shoulders she hadn't even realized were there; it left her feeling unbalanced.

She turned to Ron, who had noticed the change in Hermione's demeanor. He smiled at her nervously, the light of the streetlamps making his hair look like flame. The air was warm and close in that late summer way that slows time to a lazy drag. Without really thinking, Hermione blurted out what she had been on her mind for so long.

"I didn't realized how strange it would feel to spend an entire summer with my parents again and not spend it with all of you," Hermione said, her words coming out in an unfamiliar voice. "That worthless Ministry pamphlet, it-- it made me realize . . . what it must be like for people who had to live through it when it happened the first time."

"Mum tossed the thing the same day it arrived. Said that it was senseless to have it around when even me and Gin knew that it was full of sugar-coated rubbish." Ron attempted a half smile, but it didn't look right, almost like he had forgotten how a little. The mention of Mrs. Weasley brought a visible change to his expression, and it was not for the better.

"Now that everyone knows that Voldemort's back, it feels as if we're in more danger. Since the battle at the department of Mysteries, nothing's in the dark anymore. I always thought that when the world believed Harry, that that was the last step, and then the proper authorities could take over. But the proper authorities . . . they aren't doing much of a job of getting things right, are they?"

"There is the Order," Ron said, though he didn't sound as reassuring as he was trying to. "And well, Dad says that one of the big difference is that people know what's going on, so it isn't like we're fighting without any advantages. At least we know what to look for. " He shrugged. "Things are bad, but the world isn't going to end."

Hermione nodded, not wanting to admit that all of this was true in theory, but in actuality not as much of a comfort to her as it should be. She'd once felt so confident in the assurance of 'good over evil'; never doubting that Voldemort would be defeated and the war would end. But blind faith was no longer an option to her now that she'd had her eyes opened to the reality that the efforts the magical community were making might not be enough.

Despite her sensibilities about city streets at night and the recent direction of her thoughts, Hermione found the late summer heat calming her senses. It was hard to be tense all the time; the human mind wasn't built for it. Eventually one adapts. After saying some of the things she had been thinking for nearly two months, the pressure of their constant whirling in her mind had lessened considerably.

They were nearing the Leaky Cauldron. Hermione realized that they had stopped walking. They were standing beneath a streetlamp, the circle of light gilding the cobblestones and shining on them like a spotlight. They had been walking companionably close--their shoulders just touching every few steps--and remained so as they stood halted in the patch of illumination on the ground. The two stood facing each other.

"Hermione, I--er--missed you a lot this summer." Ron's ears reddened considerably as he said this, and Hermione noticed a look of . . .determination . . . apprehension, perhaps? enter his eyes. Hermione smiled almost distractedly. She couldn't put her finger on the change that taken place at some point between here and the bookshop, but it was becoming apparent that something had shifted. She liked Ron like this, candid and sweetly uncertain.

"I missed you too, Ron," she replied. Had he meant that in the way she thought? That's impossible, she scolded herself. This is Ron. He yells and complains, but he never acts in situations like this.

She still half believed this as he leaned toward her, a hand on her shoulder. Their eyes met, and stayed locked in that moment of hesitation even as Hermione tilted her face to him. Then tentatively, as if they weren't entirely sure of what they should do, their lips touched gently.

It was a soft kiss, chaste and awkward. Their lips were dry and hesitant, and it was over very quickly. Still, when their mouths parted from this light touch, their faces remained close together. Hermione's face felt fiery, though if it were due to a blush, heat from Ron's skin, or the warmth of late summer air, she didn't know. Their eyes were still locked; tension was almost a tangible force between them. Impulsively, almost as thanks, Hermione leaned close to Ron, placing a light kiss on his cheek even as he began to turn his head to kiss her again. Her lips ended up bumping lightly against his jaw.

She stepped back, and somehow they were holding hands as they walked, which was rather nice, since his hand was larger than hers and it didn't really matter all that much that it was just a little too warm and slightly damp.

They walked back to the Leaky Cauldron in silence. As they made their way up the stairs and to their rooms, Ron smiling at her nervously, Hermione could feel butterflies fluttering in her stomach. This would have been a natural reaction, she supposed, had they been the pretty, well-behaved butterflies that simpering romance authors talked about, and the not steel-winged demon butterflies that were making her feel as if she were close to panic. She slipped into her and Ginny's room as quietly as possible, and was relieved to see that Ginny was already asleep.

This is absurd. I am not close to panic, I'm merely . . . over stimulated. The stress of a-- a less-than-typical summer and school starting soon are just getting to me, she reasoned with herself as she changed into her pajamas. Ron is a dear friend, and a wonderful boy and the idea of him finally showing interest in me openly is a little--unexpected.

But you've had a bit of a fancy for Ron for a long time, a sly voice in her head whispered sweetly. Shouldn't you be jumping for joy right now? Or at least a little happy?

I am happy, she mentally protested, easing carefully onto the comfortable mattress so as not to wake Ginny, who was mumbling something in her sleep that sounded suspiciously like "closer Dean" and smiling faintly.

It's just strange because we're friends and we've known each other since we were eleven. It'll take some getting used to, but things will work out in the end. This last thought was firm, as if she were trying to convince a skeptical audience

Oh? said the wicked little voice in its deviously dulcet tones. Well, if you think so. Arguing with yourself won't make anything more or less true.

Hermione turned onto her side, letting the fatigue that had gripped her earlier flood her once more. Through the open window, the sounds of night slipped in and lulled the girl to sleep. But even on the edge of sleep, her mind wandered again to the strange kiss under the streetlamp. There had been something missing from it, but her tired mind was too drained to recognize what it was.

* * * *

The pulse of dance music was overpowering, a heartbeat as heard from inside one's own chest. Enchanted lights flashed: strobes in acid greens and brilliant violets, electric blues and cherry scarlets that left crazy after images dancing before the eyes.

Young wizards and witches were crowded onto the club's dance floor, most with their hair in wild styles and shades, some in robes tighter than sin, others torn near to shreds. Others wore muggle outfits whose main characteristics were 'black', 'tight', and 'shimmering'. To Draco, the entire thing was garish and decadent, like a masquerade thrown by pixies and vagrants. He felt decidedly out of place in the oxford shirt and black trousers, though with his shirtsleeves rolled up and un-tucked over plain black trousers, he had felt almost too casual. Unlike many Pureblood families, the Malfoys had known very well how to dress like muggles. Although it seemed hypocritical it was actually a very simple, very old part of the Malfoy tradition: no matter what the situation, a Malfoy was never anything other than well dressed and never, ever looked out of place. Appearances were infinitely important. Still Draco felt ill at ease.

Blaise and Pansy did not have the same difficulty adjusting to this atmosphere. Pansy had taken care to show off all of her best assets, her blouse a good bit tighter than it had been earlier--no doubt thanks to a shrinking charm--and her cobalt eyes, easily her best feature in a face that wasn't quite lovely, were rimmed with kohl. Blaise seemed to have taken a similar approach, and though one could never be sure that it was more than just his thick lashes, Draco wouldn't put it past Blaise to wear eye makeup. He had taken off his jacket, revealing a t-shirt bearing the blazon "I Trip Cripples". Both of Draco's companions looked to eager to join the dancers on the floor.

The three ordered drinks and found a table off to one side. Blaise quickly caught the eye of a black-haired witch in low-cut robes and brash amounts of cosmetics. The two were having an animated conversation, leaving Pansy to sit next to Draco, her foot bouncing as she took a sip of her drink and stared out at the dance floor with a wistful look on her face. After a few minutes of this, during which she glanced at him repeatedly with growing impatience, she cracked. Standing up she turned Draco, who had been doing a superb job of ignoring her presence.

"Enough of this. I tried to get you to talk, you wouldn't. But you sit here and act like I'm not worth the dust on your boots, and I've bloody had it." She planted a hand on her hip, glaring at him, a skill she had perfected over five years of being Slytherin. "You have two choices." Her expression was an artful blend of menace and desperation. "You can tell me what's turned you into such a bloody bastard, or you can get up off your arse and dance with me."

In a quick, graceful movement, Draco downed the last of his fire whiskey and stood, flicking a few strands of hair from his eyes in an arrogant, eloquent manner. He took her hand and led her on to the center of the floor, a dangerous smile on his face in reaction to Pansy's look of surprise.

The music had changed from the throb of dance, morphing into a different beast altogether. Twin guitars wailed in banshee fashion before the dark fluid melody began, pulling even the most apathetic of souls under its influence. The dance floor was suddenly crowded, couples dancing so near to one another that not even light could come between them as a low tormented baritone softly described an awful passion.

The scene was a jaded rendition of the Yule Ball in their fourth year; the same tension between them. Then it had been a nervous excitement caused by the growing intensity of their feelings for one another. Now it stemmed from the things they kept from one another.

The provocation, however, hadn't changed. They egged each other on, pushing each other, audacious and brazen. Draco's movements were languid and sinuous. He swayed with Pansy, letting her tease him with every subtly evocative or unabashedly reckless whirl and dip she took. Pansy wasn't a pretty girl, but she had curves and a subtle mind. She knew what she had and how to use it to her advantage. Draco admired that about her and enjoyed the complicated pattern they wove together. His mind was effectively empty of every thing save how it felt to be half blinded by flashing fey strobes and heady music as he lost himself in this daring display. With her arms around his shoulders, their bodies were pressed together and their heads bent teasingly in imitations of sultry kisses, which they pulled away from at the last possible instant, iniquitous smirks twisting their mouths.

The song ended, and another began. They continued to dance through that song and the next before returning to their table and ordering more drinks, which they lingered over before taking their place back under the lights of the floor. This arrangement continued as the night wore on: dancing till they were on the point of collapse, a fire whiskey (the stuff stopped burning quite as fiercely after a while), then back under the strobes, till it became hard to remember just what time it was and how many songs had played. Finally, they made their way back to their table, Draco finding himself a touch unsteady. The lights were a bit too bright he thought, and he noted with surprise that he was in fact, inebriated. Part of his mind was aghast at this discovery.

Malfoy's do not become intoxicated in public. It's slovenly. Father would never--No. Don't think of father. Don't think of anything. It's too late now, there's nothing to think of, not now. Don't think. He doesn't matter anymore.

The tide of emotion he had managed to quell quite thoroughly was suddenly on top of him, drowning him, pulling him under. He was almost shaking with rage and anguish. He felt something akin to ice ripple through his blood. The lights of the club flashed wildly like vividly colored suns, the enchantments that powered them gaining in strength for one hot second and guttering sharply before normalizing.

"What was that?" Pansy's question startled him back to reality. "I knew when Blaise brought us here this place was on the shady side, but spelled light doesn't--Draco?" She reached out and put an unconscious hand on his arm. He flinched, and Pansy drew back in surprise. "You're white as salt. What's--,"

"I'll be back," he said distractedly, rising from the table.

The bathroom was lit by a single witchlight suspended near the ceiling. The green-white orb gave of a harsh glow that made Draco's look spectral and inhuman. White as salt was putting it nicely.

He stared at the mirror and willed his heart to stop beating so violently and his breath to slow. He couldn't afford to lose control. It was irresponsible and childish to become so uninhibited. Reserve that has been crafted over years had slid aside without any resistance. Though the alcohol had played a part there, it was more than just intoxication--a crack was forming in the walls of the fortress he'd erected. He met his own eyes in the mirror, frustration building up in him. He reigned in his emotions as best he could, pulling in a slow breath and releasing it.

"Hey," a voice addressed him. He looked up to see a powerfully built young man in a tight black t-shirt with dark brown hair that stood in thick spikes standing behind him. "I know you, don't I?" His brows were knit as if he could almost place the blond youth, a pleasant look of near familiarity on his open face.

"No," Draco replied curtly, though he recognized the young man as a Hufflepuff who had gotten into a spectacular brawl with Marcus Flint and broken his nose in Draco's second year. Draco had been among those watching as the two savagely wrestled each other till a professor had hauled them off to their respective heads of house.

"Oh," said the young man, the pleasant look gone from his face. "Really, though, I swear I--,"

"You don't know me," Draco interrupted him forcefully, locking eyes with the young man in the mirror. "You can save yourself the trouble of trying to recall who I am, I know all that thinking must be terribly taxing." His words were delivered in a measured drawl.

The young man's face flushed. "No need for you to get nasty, I was just asking," he snarled defensively. Even as the words left his mouth, his face was twisting with rage and realization. He was behind Draco in less than an instant, grabbing him roughly by the shoulder and turning him around so that they were face to face. They were within an inch or two of each other's height, but the dark-headed young man was composed solidly of muscle and had at least four stone on Draco, who was built a good bit more slightly.

"You don't deserve to live, you know that?" he snarled as he grabbed Draco's collar. "Lucius Malfoy's brat. I knew I'd seen your face somewhere." He grabbed Draco by the wrist and jerked him violently around, forcing his arm high up his back and shoving him hard against the sinks so that the cheap porcelain dug painfully into his abdomen. "Killing muggleborns and half bloods just because you think you're fucking superior! You're bloody revolting!" he punctuated each of his of these last words with a hard slam against the sink with bruising force. Draco barely managed to breath as he struggled against the wall of flesh behind him. With one arm twisted painfully behind him and the other trapped useless against his chest by the edge of the sink, he was all but defenseless.

"Who's--the one--assaulting a minor--in a bloody--bathroom?" he hissed rashly through clenched teeth. He was rewarded with a sharp crack to the back of his head that caused his vision to pinwheel outrageously.

Rage that had been building behind the faltering wall of his reserve spiked violently.

His vision was shaking, presumably from the blow he'd received. He was no longer paying attention to his attacker, whose words had become an unintelligible stream of swearing and threats. He dealt another blow, this one between Draco's shoulders, causing his chin to slam hard against the porcelain surface of the sink and Draco to bite down hard on his tongue.

And then the weight was gone from his back. It took all his strength to stay upright. The young man had pulled out his wand, presumably to curse him, his reflection unsteady, for Draco's vision continued to shake violently as he looked into the mirror. There was the sound of sqealing hinges, and an exclamation, but he didn't notice them, realizing that it was not his vision but the mirror that was quivering, cracks spreading in a spider's web from the center quick as lightening. For an eye's blink the glass remained, laced with cracks, strangely beautiful it's damaged state.

The mirror exploded outward form the wall. Draco saw it as if from above and his current position, watching in slowed time as shards of silver sprayed in a thousand directions. His former attacker barely managed to guard his eyes as the deadly glittering splinters rocketed everywhere. Another figure standing near the door had thrown up his arms, effectively shielding himself. Draco alone remained motionless, transfixed. The shards were pretty, cutting paths through the air. Tiny daggers of ice or fatal glass snowflakes.

Time jerked to its proper alignment, and Draco stood unsteady on his feet before a blank wall.

"Draco?" He turned to the voice coming from his right. Blaise stepped toward his friend, the soles of his boots crunching on the shining glass slivers that sparked on the floor tiles. He shook him by the shoulder, eliciting a wince from Draco, who faltered and went to his knees. Blaise helped him to his feet again, casting a glace behind him, his expression of one worry and the beginnings of alarm.

"We gotta go," he said, putting an arm around Draco's waist and propelling him out the door of the bathroom. His voice had an anxious edge to it, and he looked over his shoulder repeatedly.

Draco felt as if he were being pulled along in a dream. It couldn't be real, could it? He knew that the arm around his waist was hurting him, but the pain was distant, an understood fact as opposed to a sensation. His teeth were slick and coppery, and that almost made sense, though he could not grasp why it should. The lights were bright, so bright . . .

. . They were out on the cobbled street. The outside of the club gave the semblance of a small, dirty shop that sold items of questionable magical repute with darkened windows. Save for the light of a few dim streetlamps, the darkness was complete. Draco allowed himself to be steered into the small gap between the club and the neighboring building.

Belatedly, Draco became aware that some one--Blaise--was speaking to him, but was being interrupted by intermittent static. "--that out later, but I gotta find Pansy and tell her we're leaving--pfffffffftt--don't know how you--pfffffffftt--just don't go anywhere."

He disappeared around the corner, leaving Draco to lean against the wall behind him. His head was aching spectacularly now, pain no longer an abstract feeling. Breathing was becoming a little difficult. He spat out the blood in his mouth, cursing under his breath. This was beyond degrading; and to add insult to injury, he was beginning to fell dizzy. He thought he heard footsteps, but the static in his head was getting quite distracting. He was vaguely aware that Blaise and Pansy were speaking in hushed, urgent voices and that he was no longer leaning against the wall, but on a something decidedly human. He started to protest, that he could bloody walk just fine himself and that the arm around his waist was fucking hurting him so stop bloody touching him, but sick dizziness was descending on him like a goshawk on a rat.

The ground spins beneath Draco, taking him off his feet very neatly, but he doesn't feel the impact of his bruised body against the cobblestones--his world has gone black before then.