Sometimes the Dragon Wins

SOMETIMES THE DRAGON WINS

By Krisis

"A shadow shall spread through the earth, darkening every mountain peak and adjoining valley, and rendering the world flat with its absence of life. In this world of darkness Fear shall reign amongst its brothers War and Death, and this family of foes shall grow fat on terror and suppression and pain. And he who shall be born with the mark, born with the duty that weighs like a mountain, he shall come to the fore and stretch out his arms to embrace and strangle the shadow. And he shall be named the Dragon, and like this proud, fearsome beast, he shall be both terrible, and noble. May all that is good save us from him, and may he save us from ourselves."

- An excerpt from Eravocalese's prophecies of the Dragon (1352)

~PROLOGUE~

[5^th year. All in italics.]

Draco Malfoy chewed the nib of his quill vigorously, which led to some profanity and a mouthful of feathers.

"Gah!" he spluttered.

Professor McNot-at-all-Sexy glared at him over her golden rimmed spectacles, an impassive, ugly face somehow dominated by a mountainous bun of hair. Draco scowled back, hoping that he was implying that she was as lowly as she was implying that he was lowly with her stare. It was a vicious circle, and one well suited to two old enemies.

One too many hair bun-cracks in third year had sent McGonagall reaching for her wand in a fit of fury and promptly transforming him into a toad. As if that hadn't been bad enough she'd then force- fed him flies, and had threatened to give him to Neville Longbottom for looking after. She was evil, she was.

Naturally he'd gone to dad, and had told him about her torturous deeds, emphasising every wart his slimy skin had contained, every germ-infested insect she'd made him consume and daddy had naturally threatened to fire her, so she'd resorted to merely glaring at him mutinously these days. He'd taken to smiling back at her rather smugly, in the manner of a four-year old that was hiding beneath his mother's skirts. This was rather childish, but it was nevertheless effective.

McGonagall's eyes narrowed.

If he thought about it now, there would have been much better ways of revenge than running to dad. Great vats of boiling lava and an entrée of flies sprang to mind.

He broke the glare and stared at the piece of paper in front of him rather glumly.

If only he could be writing about revenge.

Instead he was supposed to be writing his Medical Magic entrance exam, which he wasn't even interested in. Malfoys did not do anything demeaning - anything that entailed wearing a uniform, and that included being MediMagicians. However, Voldemort's return had sent Hogwarts authorities scurrying to teach their students skills that would prove to be useful in battle, and Medical Magic had seemed to be the least exerting one to Draco. The other options had been "War Wizarding" (which definitely sounded impressive, but tended not to extend one's life much; during battles any handy war wizard standing around generally found himself being clobbered to death,) "Helpful Negotiating" (harmless enough, but Draco had never been very tactful, and had correctly assumed that he would be obliterated if he insulted opposing sides for being pigheaded) and "Medicamentus" (the learning of war magic, which involved a lot of duelling and seemed rather painful.)

So, he'd opted for a behind-the-scenes thing, where the only visible signs of war would be scars.

Other people's scars.

Contrary to popular belief, Draco was not a shameful coward.

He was proud coward.

He didn't want to die, and he rather fancied saving his own skin - having preserved it so beautifully for 15 years already. MediMagic had seemed the obvious choice to him. He hadn't bargained on McGonagall teaching it though.

He looked at a question balefully.

"What is the function of the human skin?" it read.

McGonagall's prolific nose seemed to match the ferocity of her stare. She, and most of the Hogwarts staff, except for dear professor Snape, had been enormously irritated to discover that Draco Malfoy was a clever bugger who persistently did well in all of his subjects. For years they had been trying to foil him or cheat him by giving him the wrong test papers with irrelevant questions, (he'd never forget his Herbology exam, where he'd been ordered to make a Snapdragon talk whilst the rest had only been politely inquired to feed it - but he'd made it talk, with some vocal displacements and keen wits) but they'd never succeeded. Until now.

Draco knew nothing about the human body or its many ailments. He knew that there was a lot of blood, and probably some kind of skeleton under his skin, but the rest of it was alien to him. Biology had never been part of his education.

His quill had been hovering over the page for at least half an hour as he contemplated the functions of the red blood cells, the importance of iron and zinc and the reason human beings did not in fact have fur.

McGonagall grinned nastily.

'Bugger that,' Draco thought, poising the quill near the paper artfully. "The major function of the human skin is to keep all the bits inside," he wrote. He looked at his answer. Somehow, that didn't seem to be enough.

"One of its other major functions is to keep people who look at you from throwing up."

That didn't seem right either, but it had been done, nevertheless. He tackled the fur question with aplomb. "Humans do not have fur because we have blankets and civilisation," he wrote. "We also do not have fur because we might skin each other for it if we had it."

This was very plausible. The human race was a destructive one. The wizarding race was worse. He decided to add a little more. "However, we do have tiny hairs all over our bodies, in some places more than others. Possibly these hairs exist," Draco grinded the nib of the quill, wondering why the bloody hairs did exist, "For us to keep warm."

It was while he was contemplating on the bloody functions of the bloody hairs that a sharp pain snuck up to his left shoulder and made him double over in agony.

"Aargh," he groaned as loudly as he possibly could. He grimaced and looked over at Professor McGonagall, trying to imply as much pain as he could with a searing gaze. It was a mark of an impossibly devious nature that he could even consider using numbing pain to beneficial purposes by getting excused from class. "Urghh," he clutched his shoulder dramatically. Damn, damn, bollocks, damn. It really hurt.

Minerva McGonagall (Minerva? How the hell had her parents decided to name her after the Grecian muses?) took her time to get to his side.

"Aoaow," Draco moaned, rolling his neck.

"Do you need a massage Mr. Malfoy?" she asked crisply, cruelly.

"Burning, pain, hot needles," he gasped. It really did feel that way. As if a tattoo was being emblazoned onto his skin as painfully and as slowly as possible.

McGonagall studied him for a moment before deciding that he evidently was really suffering.

"Really Mr. Malfoy. It's probably just a bad cramp. Can you stop being dramatic enough to walk?" she demanded.

"No," Draco croaked throatily. He caught her gaze. "Maybe."

"Then get up," she said.

Bitch. Draco sulkily completed the effort of moving his behind from the chair, with as many painful noises as he could manage. She took hold of his shoulder rather roughly and her eyes widened for a moment.

"Your shoulder is burning," she said accusingly. "We'll have to go to the infirmary. Class, I will be back soon. I assume that the anti-cheating quills will deter you from trying to cheat."

Draco grunted. The pain really was becoming too much.

Vaguely he heard her ordering to "come along," and to "step quickly now." He must have obeyed, because he suddenly found himself in the confines of a bed.

He closed his eyes wearily.

The school nurse, Madame Pomfrey's voice was fluttering around. He felt fingers prying off his robes and his undershirt. He attempted to pull in his stomach but it was honestly too much effort. He was unrobed, for the whole world to see. Or perhaps that was a little dramatic, only Madame Pomfrey was there to see the wonders that Draco Malfoy beheld.

She gasped. He felt himself smile tiredly. Ah, the old Malfoy charm never failed.

But then she said something entirely unexpected. "This is a disaster," she gasped. "Get Professor Dumbledore - NOW!"

~ Chapter One ~ Muddled Mudblood and Sexy Bastard

[Sixth year.]

Disconnecting from a dream seemed so disappointing sometimes.

Hermione's head felt heavy. She kept her eyes shut, desperately trying to remember what her dream had been about.

There'd been a sad little girl carrying a book with broken fairy wings attached to her back. And a man with a bald patch on his head who juggled balls. Or had it been balls? It had been something else.

Fruit?

No.

Knives?

Maybe.

She strained to catch the last tendril of dream, but it fluttered away into the recesses of her unconscious mind.

She lay in darkness for a while, breathing slowly and wondering why the pillow under her elbows felt so uncomfortable. It was hard and cold.

Finally, with much effort, she deigned to lift her left eyelid slightly.

She was lying on something blurry and white.

She opened the other eye tentatively. And she was in some kind of room. Not her own, obviously. Lying on white enamel in a white tiled room.

An idea slid into place, followed by a memory.

She was in a bathroom. Lying in a bath. She'd fallen asleep in the prefect's bathroom last night before even tapping in the water.

She lifted her head groggily and groaned.

What had disturbed her sleep swam into view next.

Cho Chang and Julie Davis, two seventh year prefects had entered the bathroom as well. They'd been chattering and giggling, but had no doubt stopped to stare in disbelief at the spectacle of Hermione Granger obliviously snoring in the bathtub.

Hermione cringed. She was not wearing any clothes either - she had disrobed before falling asleep.

She wished she could take a photograph of Cho's expression. Mind you, Cho had reason for her open mouth and bewildered eyes.

Hermione was not the kind of person who fell asleep in bathtubs. Not normally, anyway.

The real Hermione, the Hermione everybody thought they knew and loved, would have been the one to tut-tut and remove the offending body out of the bathtub and into a warm bed. However, the real Hermione had been exceedingly absent the past few weeks.

Part of the reason for her muddled state was Cho, because she was Harry's new girlfriend, but Cho wasn't the real problem.

"Hey Julie. Cho," she muttered.

She didn't feel all that embarrassed after all. She might look slightly ridiculous, but at least she hadn't stolen someone else's boyfriend. That was really something worth being embarrassed about.

Intent eyes noticed Cho moisten her mouth uncomfortably. Ah ha! She was embarrassed.

"Hey Hermione. Are you all right?" Julie asked.

"Hey," Cho added hurriedly.

Hermione pulled her thoughts together and let the slightly bossy, always sensible, in control, real Hermione Granger take over. And she lied beautifully.

"Yes I'm fine," she said haughtily. "I suppose I've been studying too much and sleeping too little. I'm so stressed about my Arithmancy exam."

"But that's only in four months," Julie said, looking slightly bewildered for a moment. And then her expression cleared. "Oh."

Hermione was amazed at how transparent the girl was. She could read her exact thoughts at that moment.

'Oh yeah, it's Hermione. Of course she'd already be studying. Top of her class. Always in the library. And she's probably going overboard now that Cho's with Harry.'

"As long as you're okay," Julie said out loud.

'Good. She believes it,' Hermione thought. Thank heavens for the old bookworm reputation.

What she had actually been doing late last night was completely classified. The entire school would have had simultaneous heart attacks if they'd known what she had been doing.

She grinned slightly, the memory of Liam Quirke's ardent kisses still fresh in her mind. The alcohol had made the experience even more intoxicating.

Yes. Who needed bloody Harry bloody Potter? He could marry Cho for all she cared.

In the meantime she had Liam Quirke. And Justin Finch-Fletchley. And who had it been Sunday? Oh yes, Ernie McMillan had been lucky contestant number three. More like lucky contestant number 303. It was liberating, doing something that no one would have ever expected from her.

Cho and Julie were both disrobing. Hermione couldn't help noticing that Cho, under her voluminous robes was remarkably under-developed and thin.

There was no harm in making her feel a little insecure, was there?

She got up slowly, tossing her hair backwards and drawing her shoulders back, happily noting Cho and Julie's furtive glances at her full breasts, thin waist and well-toned legs. She leaned forward and turned on the tap, pivoting a smooth buttock just for them.

Bookworm Hermione Granger had a body that made men salivate.

And hopefully Cho would feel insecure now that she had seen Harry's ex's sexy build.

Hermione sank back into the bathtub, feeling completely justified and quite satisfied.

She suddenly felt quite ready to face the day.

*************

Draco jumped off his broom before it hit the ground and swept an annoying hair out of his eyes.

He clapped his hands importantly.

"Okay team. Good work. I'll see you tomorrow."

He whirled around without waiting for any reply from his six team-mates and strode off to the dressing room.

He felt he cut a rather dashing figure - striding away manfully, shoulders swinging, hair blowing behind him a little. A blonde head atop a black billowing cloudy cloak.

An impending storm.

Draco liked to think of himself in metaphorical terms. It was less realistic and more impressive that way.

He had no problems describing other people in a very graphic, apt manner.

Like Harry Potter. Big-headed bastard.

And Hermione Granger. Bossy, slutty Mudblood cow.

Pansy Parkinson, his own supposed girlfriend was: irritating possessive slut.

But Draco Malfoy... That name, his name, had infinite possibilities.

Impending storm... Soaring falcon (on the quidditch pitch) ... Prowling wolf...

He was a bit of a poet, really.

He needed to shower, but he also needed to eat.

Morning practices had cut the Slytherin quidditch teams times finely. Those who wanted to impress the girls inevitably skipped breakfast and took a shower.

Draco had long since discovered that most girls didn't really care whether you smelled like an English garden. They cared what you eyes were saying to them. And maybe, to some degree with some girls, your mouth.

And at the moment all Draco's eyes wanted to do was say "Bugger off." He hoped that he stank like a pig and that it might put Pansy off.

Pansy wouldn't have been put off if he had been a pig though.

He was vaguely aware that she had claimed the official title of "Draco Malfoy's girlfriend."

And that he had somehow agreed to this arrangement.

It had been his father's doing, of course.

Dear old dad Lucius had decided that Draco needed a nudge into the right direction. With sufficient threats and some heavy bribery he'd been steered into Pansy Parkinson's quivering arms.

"An old family," Lucius had said. "A respectable family. She'll teach you the right way, Draco."

But all Pansy had taught him so far was that she smelled of mint and kissed surprisingly softly.

He grimaced. He'd kissed her many times now.

Or she'd kissed him and he'd responded.

Something like that.

At first he'd refused to kiss or touch her, but after a while he'd thought about it.

She wanted him. She liked him. She worshipped him. She was his official girlfriend. She wasn't bad looking. He wouldn't be hurting or offending anyone except part of himself by kissing her.

After some heavy philosophical one-man debating lust had won out.

But every time he saw her he still wondered what he was doing with a girl whom he practically hated.

He strode into the hall and caught her gaze. The revulsion in his stomach lining seemed to confirm it. Pansy Parkinson was the girl who annoyed him more than anyone else.

An elbow grazed his rib and he amended what he had just been thinking when he found himself looking at Hermione Granger.

Hermione gave Pansy a run for her money.

"Mal-function," she said, looking irritated.

"Her-moron," he said graciously. "Has Quirke temporarily satisfied your rejection complex?"

He'd sneaked out of bed to post a letter, and as he had passed the lake he'd seen bookworm and Liam Quirke in a furious embrace, silhouetted by moonlight.

"What?" she snapped.

"I saw you Granger. You and head boy. Out by the lake last night. You must miss Potter very much to be sinking so low."

Her eyes flashed. "I would do the honorable thing and slap you now but I'd rather play dirty and insult you mercilessly."

"Dirty is the appropriate word for what you do Granger," Draco said, smiling at the teacher's table.

"I'm not playing your game Malfoy. I'm not you. You deserve insulting but I'll leave it to the gods."

With that she whirled around angrily.
He didn't give her the satisfaction of even wincing, although truthfully it had been a rather harsh insult.

As he watched her stomp away he thought of himself in a less metaphorical term.

Sexy bastard.

**********************************************************************

"I have this intense urge to put an atomic bomb under Malfoy's derriere," Hermione announced as she sat down at the Gryffindor table.
"Arse, Hermione, you can say the word. Arse. Malfoy's arse," Seamus Finnegan interjected.

"Ooh, Malfoy's arse," Parvati Patil swooned.

Harry Potter and Ron Weasley grinned up at Hermione.
"And a very good morning to you," Harry said, smiling broadly.

"'Ay 'o 'o," Ron mumbled with a mouthful of food.

"Way to go," Harry translated. "What did you say to him to make him frown like that?"

"I said nothing," Hermione observed.

"Oh come on, we saw your lips moving," Ron cajoled.

"I might have mentioned that I would leave the judgement of his soul to the gods," she relented.

"Damn," Ron had swallowed enough food to sound coherent.

"Where were you last night?" Harry asked.

"Why? Needed help with your homework?" she asked, only half-teasingly.

The sixth year hadn't shaped up to be the three friends' best so far.

Ron was going out with Padma Patil in Ravenclaw and led an intimate romantic life that was completely beyond Hermione and Harry.

Harry's relationship with Cho, in stark contrast, was strictly commitment- free. He and Cho only saw each other when they craved a good old snogging session. Talking didn't figure largely in the relationship.

Hermione understood Harry's commitment-phobia up to a point.

He really had liked her, perhaps (she was careful to use the word) loved her. Love was a rather strong word to use for a sixteen-year old. And then he had cultivated paranoid delusions that his many enemies, least of which was the awe-inspiring dark lord Voldemort, would hurt her. With unbelievable unoriginality he had broken up with her.

Idiot.

But he was still her friend. And so was Ron. They had been through too much to let failing relationships or broken hearts stand between them.

"Where were you?" Harry pressed.

"Hermione fell asleep in a bathtub in the prefect's bathroom," Ron supplied helpfully. "Pass me a piece of toast, will you?

Harry raised an eyebrow.

"How do you know?" Hermione demanded, glaring at Ron.

He shrugged. "Padma."

"And how does Padma know?"

"I don't know. Gossip vine link-detection has never been my specialty," he said reasonably. "Pass me a piece of toast, please."

She shoved a piece of toast onto Ron's plate.

Harry, who had gone out with her for a year, read the signs and put on his sensitive and caring expression.

"You okay Herm?" he asked, adjusting his glasses subtly as he glided into psychiatric mode.

The nerve! Indirectly it was his fault that she had ended up sleeping in the infamous bathtub.

"I'm fine," she said sulkily. "I was just tired."

"You sure?"
"I'm fine," she repeated, noticing Liam Quirke sitting at the Ravenclaw table. He was staring at her suggestively.

She ignored him.

"What did Malfoy say to you?" Harry asked intently.

"Nothing," Hermione grumbled. She had no intention of telling Harry and Ron about her nights with Liam Quirke and his 302 other cohorts. It wasn't that they would reject her if she did it. They would just worry, and she didn't particularly need that right now. The wizard world was in shambles, her mother had screwed up her entire parental role and life just somehow seemed better in the arms of an unknown boy. Life also, shamefully, felt better if you broke said unknown boy's heart. And of course, it was terribly liberating dispelling all those "Hermione is such a prude" rumours.

"Let's stop talking about me," Hermione suggested. "How are you?"

This was directed at Ron.

He looked at her as if she were retarded. "Fine," he said, as if it were blindingly obvious.

"And what did you do yesterday?" she asked Harry sweetly.

He shifted uncomfortably. "Nothing."

Sometimes she wished she had girl buddies who could eloquently converse on daily activities and admit to the existence of emotions.

She bit her lip.

"Aren't you going to eat?" Ron asked. "Can I have your bacon then?"

"No," Hermione grumbled, attacking her bacon with her knife and fork.

"What class do we have next?" she asked, after making a show of delectably consuming the bacon.

Ron was staring at her fork hungrily.

"History of magic," Harry said.

"What are we doing in history of magic?"

"It's actually kind of interesting. You should come to class. We're doing prophecy and great prophets."

"Harry has been mentioned in the prophecies," Ron said, rolling his eyes. "Go on, ask him about it. He wants you to."

Hermione looked at Harry. "Okay, tell me."

Her ex-boyfriend looked as if he were going to burst with importance.

"Well, I don't know if its true," he said, quickly establishing an exit point, "but professor Binns thinks I am Gryffindor's heir. The prophecies call me the Dragon. And I'm maybe going to save the world."

A first year girl who had been eavesdropping dropped her spoon into her oatmeal.

Harry looked at Hermione in breathless anticipation.

"Good for you," she said warmly, noticing that her eggs were congealing.

Ron snorted.

Harry always seemed terribly surprised that people thought he was a hero.

Hermione and Ron spent hours wondering whether it was genuine modesty or a well-concealed act.

She felt as if he should have known that he was Godric Gryffindor's heir and that he was going to save the world.

It was blindingly obvious to the rest of them.

"So, are you going to come to class for a change?" Ron asked.

Hermione considered it. She didn't really have anything exciting to do.

"I might put in an appearance," she decided grandly.

Ron and Harry applauded.

*******************************************

"Miss Granger!" Draco had never really seen the ghost of professor Binns display more emotion than he was doing now.

He looked happy.

His star student had decided to come to class at last.

He scowled at Hermione Granger out of habit.

He supposed he'd deserved the insult. It hadn't been the best he'd ever received from a girl, Granger was too nice to really hurt anyone, but coming from someone nice it was a pretty nasty thing to say. 'Would the gods want to judge his soul?' he wondered. He doubted it. In his experience gods were too busy to bother about things like that. But he sent up a quick apology to the heavens in case any bored deities were looking for a soul to judge.
His motto was - be prepared.

He stared at Granger for a moment. He hadn't really noticed, which was odd, because she was an attention-seeking know-it-all, that she hadn't been attending a lot of classes lately.

It also looked as if she was suddenly putting some thought into her appearance. Perhaps she used her class times to primp. The hair was blow- dried so that it hung in straight, smooth layers. The lips were frosted with red lip-gloss. And she was revealing her knees.

He'd always snorted at Granger's too-long skirt. She'd obviously decided that it was unflattering as well.

He looked around lazily, watching his male counterparts. Dean Thomas was staring at the knees, sure enough. And that idiot Neville Longbottom was also trying to look at her inconspicuously.

Malfoy cocked his head and tried to appraise her objectively.

He'd never thought that she was hideous, although he said it a lot. She was attractive - he'd noticed that long ago - but the make-up or the short skirt didn't really make her prettier.

It made her different, which made the other moronic males suddenly pay more attention, which made them think that she was suddenly prettier.

But she had a high forehead, high cheekbones and a straight nose. She didn't need make up. She had naturally well-formed features.

Perhaps he was just projecting because of Pansy. She tended to wear a lot of make up. Draco felt as if he was kissing layers of rouge or eye shadow instead of a girl when he kissed Pansy.

He liked the natural thing - if you could carry it off.

Hermione blew a bubble of gum and chewed lazily.

Professor Binns seemed more, well, alive than he had in weeks. "We're talking about prophecy, Miss Granger," he said helpfully, beaming at her.

She snapped her gum.

Malfoy rolled his eyes. She was really going through some kind of intense psychological thing. Trying to be someone else, snogging every male in her radar range, not coming to class and being semi-disrespectful to teachers?

'Oldest one in the book, Granger,' he thought. Reaction formation. She was doing the exact opposite of what her old self would have done because her old self hadn't managed to hang onto scarface Potter.

"Now, I noticed that some of you were very interested in the prophecies of the Dragon."

Potter, the only person who had been interested in the prophecies of the Dragon, leaned forward with bright eyes.

"I've decided to tell you a little more about it." The ghostly professor turned to the blackboard and imprinted a few ridiculous core statements on the board.

********************************************

"1. The Dragon shall be of the blood of Godric Gryffindor AND shall have the second sight.

2. The Dragon must come from the blood of a marked one.

3. The Dragon shall be one who will learn to embrace both good and bad sides.

4. He shall be bathed in blood.

5. He shall be marked from birth by the dark one. "

*********************************************

Potter frowned. "Embrace the dark side?" he whispered to the Weasel. "Bathed in blood?"

"I would like you to analyze this excerpt from Eravocalese's Greatest Prophecies and tell me what the Dragon shall be like," Professor Binns said, rubbing his transparent hands together. "You can consider it an assignment that you can do now. You have twenty minutes."

Granger was staring hard at the board as the others scribbled it down.

She was looking at Harry and shaking her head every now and again, and then looked back at the board.

Draco thought it was the dumbest assignment he had ever heard of. Obviously it was Potter. If Binns asked all he had to say was that the Dragon was thin, bespectacled and moronic.

He didn't even look at the words. Binns had announced, yesterday in class, that he thought that Potter was the Dragon. Obviously he wanted to hear the same thing now.

Draco spent the twenty minutes staring out the window, becoming increasingly annoyed as he felt Granger's gaze shift from Potter to himself.

He looked at her irritably. There were two minutes left and she was now looking at the board, and then at him. And back. And forth.

He bared his upper lip intentionally as she whipped her head towards him the next time. Instead of shrinking back she looked at him calmly and blew out a bubble of gum.

And then she too leaned back, crossed her arms and stared at Professor Binns in a challenging way.

"All right, time's up," the ghost announced. "We'll start with Seamus. Mr. Finnigan, what do you think the Dragon will be like?"

Seamus swallowed nervously and glanced back at Harry. "Well," he said, watching Harry intently, "He will have black hair. And glasses. And a scar like a lightning bolt. And he'll be ruddy good with quidditch. And he'll..."

Hermione's convulsive giggle made Seamus stop the horrible recital.

"Yeah, that's it really."

"Mr. Finnigan, what does Eravocalese mean when he refers to the Dragon's second sight?"

Seamus brightened. "His glasses, obviously."

Draco had to admire the brilliance in that. Only an idiot would have picked that up.

Down the row they went. It was much the same, although Parvati admitted that the Dragon would be cute and Lavender said that he would have "a tight butt."

Potter blushed gratefully.

Potter's turn was the best. He screwed up his face as he tried to describe himself. "Err, he'll be modest and kind and generous," he said, sweating under the attention. Draco could see him physically turn himself inside out as he sought characteristics. "And he will have a fear of commitment. And he'll be very loyal, but not as brave as he seems..."

Potter's absolute truthfulness was beautiful. Draco found himself shaking with laughter when he'd finished.

Granger was next. She eyed the class coolly, and said, in a clear voice. "If we have to start with physical characteristics, here goes. The Dragon will be about 6 foot 2," (Where was she falling out with that? Potter was only about five foot nine.) "He will have a pale skin. And he will be good with quidditch. But he will not have black hair, green eyes or a scar on his forehead."

The class gaped. Hermione had the floor.

"He will have grey eyes and white blonde hair," she said calmly.

Twenty pairs of eyes flickered to Draco.

"What makes you think this, Miss Granger?" Professor Binns was obviously quite disappointed in his star student.

Draco wondered if all the mindless smooching had addled her brain.

"I read a book in the library the other day professor Binns," she said smoothly. "About the prophetic expression 'being bathed in blood.' It refers to incest, or being born out of incest."

Draco felt his face become even less well circulated than it usually was.

"Those of us who come out of the highest born pureblood wizarding families usually have incest in their lineage. Like Draco," she said pointedly. "His mother is his father's cousin."

"Fuck you Granger!" he spat.

"Second sight is something people with a bit of albino blood in them have. They can see through things, find gold, things like that. It's an old superstition but it is actually true."

"You fucking Mudblood!"

"And, blood of a marked one," she continued, as if he had not just sworn at her. "That indicates to being the child of a Death eater. It's not Harry, anyway," she said, holding her head up high.

The class was like a tomb.

The Mudblood looked at Draco and swallowed. He saw genuine regret in her eyes for a moment.

No, he wouldn't even refer to her as a 'her' anymore. She was a thing. A creature. A hideously deformed monster. As he looked at her she sprouted fangs.

He felt numb.

She shook her head and stood up. "I have to go now," she said smoothly. "Dentist's appointment."

Draco was too angry and humiliated to even consider that there was no such thing as having a dentist's appointment at Hogwarts. What was a dentist anyway? He watched her walk out and suddenly grabbed his books and followed her.

"Mr. Malfoy, where are you going?" he heard professor Binns ask, sounding upset.

Draco ignored him and ran. That bitch. He was going to curse her. Or cut off her tongue. Or kill her. Or something.

She was not going to live to see tomorrow.

888888888888888888888888888888888888888888888888888888888888888888888888888888888888

Yes, yes, I know Hermione's terribly out of character. But people change, and her circumstances shall soon become apparent. She'll probably change back, don't worry. The Dragon-thing might be a bit confusing but that will also become clear later on. The concept of the Dragon was shoplifted from Robert Jordan's "the Eye of the World" books.