Love Once Never

It's all in the way look through your eyes

And when all is said and done

All of the feelings, all of the lies

Are not hard to overcome

Its all in the way you look at it that makes you strong

--- Westlife

It was a week later and things weren't exactly taking turns for the better. Because of their constant fighting, Hermione and Draco's work advanced at a snail-like pace. They would each take turns reading up on all they could and drawing their own little squiggles on the map of Svelbarhd that had been magically pinned to the lounge's wall. While all that was happening, the other would either explore the small island or spend their time brooding over their unfortunate placement.

It was during one of those days that Hermione found herself listening to Draco's ramblings as she cooked their dinner.

"I don't get it," he was saying. "It's not like they give me time to do research at Hogwarts. No, that'd be too easy. They just tell me two weeks in advance and expect me to be all happy about getting stuck on an island with you, trying to find a counter curse for Avada Kedavra. This is driving me insane! And if I have to listen to you humming while you work I'm gonna kill myself!"

She smiled tolerantly. This was common practice for the times when Draco took his turn at the worktable. It was all bark and no bite of course, but she found it mildly amusing.

"Oh please do," she replied. As amusing as it was, she really was sick of doing most of the work. "Now that you've had your ramble, shut up and get to work."

Draco shot her a glare but went back to his texts nevertheless. Hermione was glad that they had at least come to a mutual agreement. It wasn't that they respected each other, or that they particularly cared what the other was doing. But both had come to the realisation that if they were to go back to Hogwarts in one piece, the continuing feud between them had to be halted for at least eight weeks.

She turned back to the chicken soup that was slowly brewing in the small pot.

Hermione looked over to see Draco, for once engrossed in his work. She couldn't quite accuse him of being the only one to procrastinate; after all, she had found her mind wandering to more interesting subjects when her search for the counterattack appeared to be in vain. More interesting subjects such as the blonde's new civility, though those were sometimes dangerous grounds to ponder on. It wasn't as if he had halted the insults or mockery, it was just that they were now fewer and occurred less frequently. But harsher, much harsher when they came, mixed with hidden messages that she didn't even want to understand.

No, it was much better to think about safe things. Safe things like...Ron. And of course, Harry. But Ron especially, the way he'd always make jokes that weren't remotely funny in the least but would make her laugh anyway with his sarcasm and facial expressions. The way he'd always defend her against the very boy that was sitting just a mere few paces away, with such protectiveness, but take insults thrown his way in his stride. Hermione smiled, it was almost like one of Murphy's Laws. The buddy system is essential to your survival; it gives the enemy somebody else to shoot at.

It was depressing really. How, now, everything lead her back to Draco Malfoy. She was really starting to wish that Norway did have penguins.

"Take a look here, Granger," Draco called out to her from his chair.

Hermione shot him a questioning glance, which was ignored as Draco had already turned back to his book. She carefully placed the pot on a stand before making her way over to him.

The table was littered with various texts and parchment, and Hermione was surprised to find detailed notes written in minute script adding to the clutter. Apparently, Draco Malfoy was one of those people who could complain, nag, insult and work, all at the same time.

"What is it, Malfoy?" she asked.

"Jumbled Arithmancy, your best friend," he said, motioning to the pages of notes in front of him. "I think I'm on to something here. A journal of some sort, coded in Arithmancy."

She moved her hands, as if to ask 'so what?' Of course, the most appropriate question was probably, 'and you are telling me this because...?'

"Well, considering your nonexistent social life has given you the freakish ability to work out Arithmancy quicker than I've ever seen it done, I'd like to introduce you to your friend, Mr O'Toole's war journal."

It amazed her how he seemed to be able to insult and compliment her in one sentence. For a moment, Hermione considered not helping purely out of spite. That was until she concluded that it would be completely juvenile as her own search for the counterattack had been quite fruitless.

Hermione moved closer so she could examine the books. They were large leather bound tomes; the pages gold leafed and filled with numbers. She could practically feel the magic and mystery they held, and their ancient pages seemed to be bursting with knowledge. It was a scholar's dream.

"Where did you get these?" she asked all prejudices and offence forgotten in her excitement. "This is...it's amazing!"

Draco, on the other hand, seemed completely at ease and nonchalantly flicked through its pages.

"Been in the family for ages," he replied. "But I suppose you wouldn't know the value of wizarding family memorabilia"

The comment had only been slightly scathing, cushioned by the treasure he held in his hands.

"You'd be surprised, Malfoy," she retorted. "But the last time I checked, we were here to work, not insult."

There was no reply from the blond, so she pulled up a wooden chair and began working silently, the soup forgotten. Despite its miniature proportions, his handwriting proved to be neat and even, and before long, she had translated a whole page of text.

Taking a break after a few more pages, Hermione leant back in her chair and casually let her eyes drift towards Draco, who continued to transcribe the diary into more legible writing. A small strand of hair that had fallen in front of his eyes remained forgotten, and his one free hand was instead resting next to one the ancient books, his thin fingers dancing lightly along the table's oak surface. Hermione allowed herself a small smile -- another odd quirk. Reading books upside down and drumming fingers -- there were now two oddities that she was amongst the select few that knew.

O'Toole's script was thin and flourishing, written all over the page, sometimes squished so closely together that it was hard to distinguish when one numeral finished and the next began. He didn't seem to notice her, and after a while, Hermione decided to turn her attention back to the translated text, this time attempting to read it.

But whatever language O'Toole had chosen to write it in, it was most definitely not English. She had double-checked her translations, and Draco could not possibly have made that many mistakes in transcribing the journal. She looked down at the first line, which she could understand to a point. But the rest seemed so strange she didn't even begin to try to work out its meanings. Some sort of poem appeared in the middle of the page, just before the last line, both being as incomprehensible as the first four lines. The strangest thing of all, were the dots and arrows in front of sentences. They didn't seem to make any sense, only adding to the chaos of the rest of the page.

"Malfoy? What is this?"

He looked up from his texts and grabbed the paper from her hand. An eyebrow went up, and he gave her a mocking smirk.

"Niamidh, Granger," he said, as if talking to a four year old. "Wizard Gaelic. The most commonly used language in western wizarding communities in the Middle Ages. A highly advanced military version of it of course, but I'm surprised you haven't learnt that in you many years of wizarding experience."

Hermione glared at him, but he simply raised his eyebrow again, and she decided to spare herself the breath of retorting.

"So I suppose you'll be able to translate it, then?" she asked instead, with a hint of challenge in her voice.

"Gladly."

And as if to emphasise his point and ability, Draco immediately pulled out a piece of paper and began translating.

Hermione stood up and looked over his shoulder, curiosity getting the better of her anger. When she really looked at it, Niamidh, as he had called it, was truly a beautiful language. She studied her notes, trying to sound out the intricate words.

Deirm Jernieul,

irtelibog nohtanhoJ sedryil .hcamhtaeD !dihgirB hO .annèiF ylil ,annèiF .eroma ilos aM. ·

.nnomae nadbui nadail hmignlam ut hedmireg hetirces ac tnrmmoc

···· Ochòin se faob! Bás an caráid. Dum Faimhair o'*

··· Cleibe coinne cogadh croistara pupilis. Fidad mon arys faiban lucahn soimhain jedaj fiana lumin. Tirconnel dirmill duindain osgilliamh fangor edoris.

* · · · · · segairsahdid. Is fearr an t-imreas nà an t-uaigneas.

Connor cormack sorcha simonahm tanridj tirconnel finbar padriac liam .

_ "Eabar, eabar, calbh sgreamh

Ceil aogas chunbha dilleachdanh

Amhas anamh sibh ob anlamh

Eabar calbh, eabar calbh sgreamh"

·· Eadham faithrag faob. Aibies Fiènna dloire et seiy? Sacarmh amòire heirsa reaidum. Bruinein se kava ithilian aoin bree hithoel. Brodihm tsarminas eefa nimbolidh ruskimh mhera. Hittagall alkanedh hoben bodjemh nigh solemh.

The sentences slowly unravelled on the pieces of Draco's par, and she was surprised to see that he had actually been able to translate such an ancient language.

"You'll love this, Granger," Draco said, finally finished with the first page. He seemed to take great delight in the thought of reading it out to her, and dramatically cleared his throat before beginning.

"Dear Journal. My only love. Fiènna, beautiful Fiènna. Oh Brighid! Dead!" Draco paused and chuckled. "Something like this happens and he STILL starts with Dear Journal? Strange, strange wizard. But listen to this," he paused for effect. Hermione could tell this amused him to no limit "The mudblood scum. They murdered Fiènna, and why? Because love conquers all. The sight burns my eyes. The torture, that pain, they deserve no better than death. Mercenaries whose souls are for the highest bidder. Curse the scum!"

"You're making this up," she interrupted.

It wasn't as much an accusation as a statement of denial. She wasn't sure what she had expected to hear, but...this? She had definitely not expected to be translating the war journal of such a prejudiced and outraged wizard. Then again, the journal was an heirloom of a family who considered anything that didn't involve the sacrificing of virgins and cursing of random household pets boring.

"Oh, you caught me," Draco replied, his voice threatening to turn him into goo, it was oozing so much sarcasm. "I'll read it properly this time. Dear Journal. I just had a lovely time this eve, making friends with charming muggles and picking pretty daffodils. Fienna's promised to show me a new shade of pink lipstick tomorrow, and I'm considering turning into a transvest-"

"Can it, Malfoy."

Hermione glared at him. He'd known exactly what she'd meant, and he'd had to delight in humiliating her so much. She looked angrily around the room; there was no one there to even hear his smart comments and insulting words. It was pointless; after all, annoying someone could not possibly be that interesting. Either that or the irritating prick had made it his secret ambition to impress the strawberry wallpaper.

"Do you want me to continue?" he asked, his expression taunting in an annoyingly nonchalant sort of way. "Or is it too harsh for your delicate ears?"

Anger and determination grew under the shock, and she found herself replying in an equally calm and confident tone.

"First you're going to read the rest of that page. Then, you're gonna tell me how you worked out the text."

The taunting expression faded from Draco's face. "Impressive, Granger. Feisty today, aren't we?"

But he continued nevertheless, quoting the rest of the strange entry.

"They will die. By the giants of Dum Faimhair. If it's the last thing I do. I will hunt them down and I will not rest until I see their blood flow red along the rivers of my land and their souls trapped within their accursed bodies... Famous last words, don't you think? Then it concludes with a favourite childhood rhyme of mine. I'm sure you'll like it.

Muggle, muggle, Mudblood scum

Hide your face until we're gone

Go back home; you don't belong

Muggle, muggle, Mudblood scum."

The words cut scathingly into her. How could such a malicious poem be considered a children's rhyme? And if it was, had Ron ever sang it, oblivious to its ability to hurt? But of course he hadn't. The Weasleys were wonderful and accepting. They surely wouldn't tolerate such nonsense in their household.

She could not understand how the boy in front of her could delight so much in hurting others. But then her eyes drifted down to the Rolex hugging the wrist of his writing hand. What it concealed, she concluded, was an explanation enough. A Death Eater could never be expected to be humane.

What was by far the worst of it all, however, were the promises of vengeance for the horrific events that had been described by O'Toole. Her curiosity burned so brightly she felt she had an obligation to her sanity to quench it.

Determined to not let him see how the words had affected her, she held her head high and instead asked him what the arrows meant.

That proved to be mild torment just in itself. Not only was she talking to the boy that had insulted her so, she was admitting that he knew something she didn't. Something she wanted to know. As for Draco, he seemed to bask in it, taking his time to reveal the little piece of information to her.

"It's simple, Granger. All the proper pureblood families teach their children how to read it. The arrows are logical enough. See the dots?" he began to explain, acting as if he was talking to a child. "You count how many there are next to the arrow. You start at one, and then you go to two, then three. This time it goes to five, that's a whole hand, Granger..."

He started to continue, but Hermione had truly had enough with his unnecessary ridicule. She'd tried to be tolerant - after all, wasn't it meant to be one of those highly acclaimed virtues she supposedly possessed? But it simply didn't work. Right now she had to wish to be tolerant, or level-headed, or defiant. She just wanted to grab Draco Malfoy's little neck and twist it 'till she heard a satisfying snap.

"That's it, Malfoy!" she erupted, standing up and banging her hands on the table. "You...you...you're completely repugnant and obnoxious! You just don't care, do you? Have you got nothing better to do with your life than tease me about my parentage? You might be surprised to learn that you're not the only one in the world who matters, Draco Malfoy! And that quite a lot of people dream of telling you and your wonderful pureblood family where to shove their prejudiced crap!"

Hermione stood up and stomped towards the door. Her little 'project' was going to have to be postponed. After all, the saying "when eating an elephant, take one bite at a time" did exist for a reason, and right then, Hermione felt like she had just attempted to eat the elephant, its offspring, and its mate all at once. Draco Malfoy wasn't likely to change for anyone anytime soon.

"You know what?" she yelled at him. "Take forever and a day to translate the Arithmancy for all I care. I'm sure you'll love the wonderful insight of a Muggleborn's apparent inferiorities."

And with that, she walked out the door and slammed it so hard the walls of the house practically shook.

"Dreamy and mysterious my arse, Lavender," Hermione muttered to herself. "Your Prince Charming is better off being the Prince of the Cold Blooded Household Pets."