Scarred Roses and Blood Filled Chocolates

Chapter Three: Acceptance of the White Flag

Assuming that they were finished he stood up, ready to go, leave this place where his obsession festered, away from the very thing that was sucking him in. "Where are you going?"

He didn't role his eyes, even though he really wanted to, "My dorm."

"Oh no you're not, we still have a speech to write."

He couldn't fucking believe it. Jesus-tap-dancing-Christ. He would never escape her. The entire time they had been sitting there, knees inches apart, he'd been sneaking sidelong glances at her. So few brief moments ago she had been on the brink of silent tears, and now she was sitting poised, eyes bright, cheeks flushed with a lovely pigment.

No matter how terrible the conditions she still wanted the perfect grade. And he wasn't about to be the one to deny her such a thing.

Sinking back into his seat he damned her mentally. Perfect. Everything about her was perfect. Even her imperfections were perfect.

The other groups wouldn't be done with this for days, possibly even weeks. But, they wouldn't have the amazing resource offered by her amazing book. Nor would they have Draco's historical genius.

Dates and names kept pace with him, they remained steady. When his mother had died he had returned to the one thing he could trust to remain paced and calm. History. It didn't change, it retained a repetition and he clung to its pattern. Now that the horror had passed, he couldn't get out of its grasp.

She placed her family tree and her lines for the now finished speech in a neat folder labeled: History of Magic. From another folder she drew a crumpled page of notes and a final creaseless roll of creamy parchment.

Once again he stood up, collected his books, fighting to keep his eyes on his shoes. There would be no farewells, no feelings exchanged between them at his departure. Determined to camouflage his reluctance he turned his back on her. Once again he was an impenetrable wall of ebony looming away from her.

The parchment in front of her still had that fresh look; it reflected her confusion, retaining a blank appearance, ruthlessly containing anything that would be remotely helpful.

Rationally she knew the repercussions wold be silent agony. Inside, she also knew that this information was completely lost on her. The ink from her unusually blotched notes swam before her eyes. Tight lipped she lifted her hand. Gently she glazed it through the air and the great library doors slammed closed to his great displeasure.

Without batting so much as an eyelid she conjured a calm breeze smelling of rose water that tugged at the back of his robes and stirred the hairs on his neck.

Tracing a finger through the air he could feel the power. Like no other power, it was her power. Magic without a wand sat heavier in the air, as if it had a greater density.

Pivoting soundlessly on one foot, he turned his robes billowing out in the still air. Unable and unwanting to resist he let his legs carry him to the table he had only moments ago left.

"You rang?" he attempted to sneer, but his mouth was frozen in an odd little half smile.

"Yes," raising her eyes, Draco could see they were swimming in an unchecked emotion he could not identify. "Um...this, this...oh sit down!" She waved a hand impatiently and his once used chair flew out, his legs bent themselves, and he found himself in the same position he had vacated only an instant previous.

"Are you kidnapping me? Going to dissect my innards, and devour my intestinal track?" he asked.

Her eyes rolled and she let out a sound between a sigh and a snort, "Yes Draco that is exactly what I'm going to do. I'll eat you with hot sauce and a spritz of lime."

The fact that she had called him by his first name went unnoticed by both parties. It felt so natural the way she said it; the name just fell off her tongue, sounded so good. He didn't even notice, and it was his name.

"If you wanted to go Hannibal on me I'd already be a goner. What do you really want?"

Riveting her eyes, Hermione took a deep breath. Inflating her soul with confidence. In the most un-literal of senses she took a leap of faith. "I need your help."

There, once she'd said the words, they hung in the air, and she was free of their burden though she had no idea what he thought of her plea. His face had that deep mask, just as always, the way he had carried himself in battle. Pigment in his face was monochromatic, only his eyes talked. They shifted uncomfortably in their sockets, but yet they kept a sheen and a mysterious gravity.

Her face also kept that same shape, long lashes didn't blink, jaw balanced, and hands folded in her lap. As he allowed his eyes to wander over her figure, he carefully examined the possibilities. This wasn't the field; he didn't have to make any sudden life changing decisions.

Despite the abundance of time he was overtaken by immediate curiosity, an unfortunate byproduct of being a Slytherin.

"Gryffindor, you're a overly smart, proud lion. What could you possibly need from a dashing handsome Slytherin such as myself?"

He argued very good points, no denying she was smart and proud, even arrogant at times. And he was very good looking. But she would never admit that, after all she was proud.

"History of Magic: The Vampire-Werewolf Wars."

As her voice faded Draco felt himself lowering his barriers. He gave himself a cerebral shake, if he were to spend extended time surrounded by her, her smell, hair, eyes, presence, he would surly do something stupid.

Erstwhile trying to keep his thoughts appropriate he found his tongue slip, and the obsession making itself heard. It certainly wasn't his brain saying this.... "Yes, I'll help you."

Sincerity consumed her mind, sugar coating meshing with her voice, "Thank-you! Thank-you!"

Snapping his long thin fingers books, scrolls, and charts piled on to the table, competing for room. Doing a quick check he made sure the best tombs of Vampire warfare, mountains on the painful transformations of both groups of half-breeds, maps detailing attack plans, and strategy notes. Some texts that had been under the protection of various other students doing Binns's nasty research paper. Books previously under the charms and rite of the Restricted Section had made their unique presence known, separating themselves from the less dangerous volumes.

"What do you want to know?" he looked like the same person, but you never could quite tell. He did well in History, and he never kept odd hours in the library, but his essays were all perfect. And he got an 'O' on his O.W.L.s

"I need to know, well, everything. To me the whole war was pointless, there was no just cause, no philosophy."

Setting his chair closer to hers he pulled a book to him, and a scrap of paper toward him. "Woah! Hermione! You just can't take a war, any war, and say it has philosophy. Philosophy is Earamsus, Merlin, and the great old wizards, Plato, not brutal killers like Dracula."

That speech took her aback; she could muster no reply other than to

Open her mouth into a perfectly round circle.

That little half smile returned to his face. She decided it was a nice smile, in an odd terribly perverted sort of way.

Her confusion was genuine. "Sorry," an apology from him, or any Malfoy, was a rare apocalyptic event and usually cynical. Though she recognized his civilized manner she didn't understand the exceptional occurrence she had not only witnessed, but also caused. "I didn't mean to banter, but you just can't compare vicious mass murders to wizards who devout their entire lives to Enlightenment."

Returning to the parchment from earlier he rubbed his palms together in an almost eager fashion. "Here, this shows, in detail, the commanding officers from both sides, throughout the entire war era. Mind there were several changes in supreme command as the lower urchins tended to kill their superiors."

"So, who were the initial leaders of each race?"

"Fang for the Werewolves, but he was killed by Left-Eye, his Colonel. Dracula began leading the Vampires but soon got bored with the strictly non-human murder. He left control to a little known vamp named Faust, but he got dusted for his troubles."

Try, as though she might, she couldn't comprehend these wars. The names crammed her head and dates marinated her memory bank. The information was clogging up her senses, and for the first ever time the facts didn't add up.

For the first time a book ideal didn't transfer to her brain, wouldn't process, it was a strange sensation. She didn't like it and she couldn't control it, yet she couldn't ever remember feeling so free and with such a feeling of pure undaunted contentment.