Lost Sheep

Lost Sheep

Hermione Granger watches Draco Malfoy across the Great Hall during breakfast.

It is a day more or less like any other: November, the ceiling of the hall grey and still half dark at this hour of the morning. Beside her, Ron and Harry eat. Ron enthusiastically, but Harry mechanically, as if eating were a particularly dull homework exercise, which he carries out simply because not to do so would have unpleasant consequences.

Neither of them are very good meal companions any more. Harry doesn't speak much, and what Ron says is either rendered unintelligible by the food in his mouth, or is the opening gambit in yet another quarrel. Hermione doesn't want to fight with him because she thinks it will upset Harry, so she keeps quiet and continues watching Malfoy as she sips her coffee.

Of course, she isn't staring. Instead, she steals a brief look at him each time she turns over the pages of today's Daily Prophet. She isn't actually reading it. Nobody actually reads it any more, not really. The news doesn't change much from day to day, just death and suffering, more and more of it, and on both sides, neither making any clear progress, or gaining a real advantage. When she used to read it she found that the pictures of smiling victims, waving happily from the photographs made the stories of their brutal deaths even worse.

And then there's the fear that one day, you will be flicking through the pages and you will see somebody you know smiling up at you from the page. This is the real reason that Hermione refuses to read the paper any more. If death is inevitable for some, there are other ways she would rather hear about it.

She still gets the newspaper though, out of habit, and because it's expected of her to know what's going on in the outside world, perhaps to get indignant about it. And it's important to keep some kind of sense of normality even when the wizarding world seems to be disintegrating around them.

Forcing herself not to look at the image of the Dark Mark rising above yet another home, even though she feels the image is permanently imprinted on her eyeballs, she looks again at Malfoy. He is sitting next to Pansy Parkinson, who is laughing at something he's just said in what seems to Hermione to be a somewhat over exaggerated way.

She wonders what Pansy actually sees in the boy. He certainly isn't what one would call conventionally attractive. Although his blonde hair is certainly striking, the style in which he wears it does not flatter him. Although he is tall and slender, his face is just a little too thin, his chin a little too pointed for true good looks. It is difficult to believe that Pansy is attracted to his personality either. True, Hermione isn't in the best position to judge, but all of her dealings with him, both direct and indirect, have been marked by arrogance and a seeming desire to cause trouble for her and her friends.

Although Hermione is initially inclined to put Pansy's feelings down to mere stupidity or gold digging (after all, she has never liked the girl), from the glimpses she has stolen from behind her newspaper over the past few days, she is gradually realising that he does have something.

Confidence.

From every pore, he oozes the confidence of somewhere who has been born comfortably, never wanted for anything, and who knows that he belongs, and what is more, is an important person. It still clings to him, even though everyone knows now what his father is. Some people would have withdrawn once that news became public, but Malfoy seems almost to be proud of his notoriety.

Certainly, the fear that he might follow in his father's footsteps keeps most people showing him at least a frightened respect, with some going as far as open admiration. It's a mark of the times that people can dare to be so open about their allegiances. And there is no doubt that in this school, he marks the rallying point for one of the sides, in the same way that Harry should mark it for the other side.

But Harry doesn't, only sits almost in silence, watching the battle lines drawing themselves out.

Taking one last look, Hermione folds up her newspaper.

'Anything new?' Ron asks from opposite her. Harry chews silently on.

She shrugs, passing the paper across the table to him, feeling like screaming at her inability to change the situation in the outside world, to do anything useful.

'See for yourself, it looks like more of the same though.'

He grimaces and she feels a stab of guilt; he has far more emotions invested in this war than she does. Friends, after all, are not the same as family.

Across the room, Malfoy gets up to leave, and she takes advantage of Ron's immersion in the newspaper to watch him walking out of the hall.

She isn't attracted to him, of course not, how could she be, after all the insults he has given out, all of the trouble he has given her and Harry and Ron. But he is an impressive figure to lead Voldemort's supporters within Hogwarts, while for the other side there is nobody to raise morale amongst the students, not while Harry sits alone most of the time, withdrawn into himself.

Hermione frowns at Malfoy's back and starts to think.

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

Hermione watches Malfoy during their shared Potions class. It isn't difficult to do; in a class with so much movement as people fetch and prepare ingredients, nobody will notice that her eyes wander in his direction more than they should do.

Besides, he sits near the front of the classroom and nobody could possible criticise her for focusing her attention towards the teacher. Pretending to pay attention to Snape while really observing Malfoy suits her, although she will not let her attention wander too far from the lesson itself. She is wary of Snape; if only because he has called her a know-it-all in those sarcastic tones she hates one time too many, and now she rarely volunteers an answer. Ron still insists that he can't be trusted, that he will betray them all. Hermione isn't so sure. He has, after all, survived and been loyal so far.

Hermione does not want to think about Snape, although she wishes she knew more about it: today she has other things to worry about. Harry, for one, sitting beside her, tapping his quill softly against the desk and looking as if there is nobody else in the world. She gives him a small sideways smile as Snape turns away, but he doesn't notice, or if he does, he doesn't respond.

Hermione turns her attention back towards Malfoy. He is fascinating in Potions. He probably gets his confidence here from years of being treated as Snape's favourite, but in some ways this is deserved: he works quickly and generally efficiently. Much as she hates to admit it, Hermione knows that he is better at potion making than she is. They might end up with the same concoction at the end of the session, but while in her case it is the product of intense concentration (especially in the years when she had to prevent Neville from blowing things up or poisoning himself), Malfoy seems to work instinctively. He looks up only to confirm the next stage of the process from the instructions on the blackboard, and occasionally to throw a look in Hermione's direction, eyes slightly narrowed.

He knows that she is watching him, Hermione realises, bending over her cauldron, and pretending to be thinking very hard about exactly how much cobweb essence to add.

When she emerges, he is looking in her direction again. She can tell from the expression on his face that he is not watching Harry. When Malfoy looks at Harry, his features contort into a look of considered loathing, as he tries to devise new ways of making Harry's life a misery. When Hermione sees this look, she wants to take Harry in her arms and protect him, because after all, Harry has had enough misery in his life already. She never does hold Harry like this, not now, because he would only hold himself away from her, build up the thin but impassable wall that he does every time someone tries to show they care. Other people might not notice, but Hermione knows it's there. And trying to get through it would only lead to another row with Ron, who thinks she should not upset Harry by prying. He still, she thinks with a flash of irritation, has the emotional range of a teaspoon at times.

Malfoy does not wear this look now. Instead, a frown creases his narrow face, as if he were thinking very hard about something. Although he mouths, 'You're next, Mudblood,' when he notices she has seen him, there is no real malevolence reflected in his eyes. After all, in herself, she is worthless, as far as he is concerned.

Hermione allows herself a small smile, as she goes back to her cauldron again.

At the end of the lesson, she hangs around, rearranging things in her bag, wanting to be the last in the classroom. It's a lot easier than it would have been in earlier years, when Ron and Harry would have insisted on waiting around for her, as if Snape posed some threat greater than a detention. Now Harry, although he spares her a glance, walks out of the classroom without saying anything, his mind obviously elsewhere. Ron gives her an apologetic look and hurries after him. Hermione is sure that he has good intentions, but she can't help feeling that Harry wants to be on his own.

Snape is watching her impatiently as she finally fits the last book into the bulging bag. Heaving it onto her shoulder, she walks to the front of the classroom.

'Professor, I need some help from you,' she says directly, forcing herself to keep her nerves out of her voice, even though if what Harry says about his Occlumency lessons in fifth year is true, Snape is well aware that they are there.

He raises an eyebrow. Obviously he knows she is not here for guidance with Potions, he is well aware that she works as hard as most of the rest of the class combined. He also knows that she has learnt not to provide him with openings to comment on this quality.

Hermione catches the small flicker of curiosity in his eyes as he looks her over and feels glad that since she began to watch Malfoy, she has taken the extra time with Sleekeazy's Hair Potion required each morning to tame her bushy hair into a sleek ponytail.

She takes a deep breath, looking around the dungeon to check nobody else is around. To be overheard could be fatal, for both of them.

'I need your advice on working undercover. How to do it and not get caught.'

She sees that he is slightly taken aback.

'You know as well as I do that you should not be talking about that, Miss Granger.'

He sweeps around and stalks into his office. Hermione pauses for a moment, and then follows him in, standing in front of his desk.

'Are you going to explain yourself, Miss Granger?' he snaps, dark eyes glittering. 'Let me tell you now, if you are entertaining any foolish notions of pretending to join the Dark Lord, you should abandon them now.'

He rubs, seemingly unconsciously, at the patch on his arm where Hermione knows his Dark Mark must be.

'Quite apart from the fact that a Muggle-born such as yourself would not survive for five minutes, thinking you had deserted him would destroy Potter.' He spits out Harry's name; his feelings towards him have not mellowed, despite the role he has to hope Harry will play.

Hermione is surprised; she had expected to have to justify her plans without reference to Harry, despite his central position within them.

'That wasn't what I had in mind,' she says, slightly coldly, annoyed that he still sees her as a little girl, caught out of bounds.

He watches her carefully.

'Draco Malfoy,' she says.

Snape's face barely changes, although Hermione can't believe he feels nothing at the name, whether Malfoy is a genuine favourite, or just a way of keeping on good terms with Malfoy senior.

'He's a figurehead around here,' she continues, 'but I think I have a way to bring him down a bit.'

She can definitely see a flicker of interest in Snape's face now, although he keeps it well hidden.

'If we can do that, I think things here will improve. Make people feel that there's hope, that it's worth carrying on.'

Snape nods slowly, his face looking suddenly tired. Hermione tells him her plan, the reason why she has been watching Draco Malfoy so closely.

She can tell that Snape does not believe that it will work, that he is only allowing her to go ahead because he believes that Malfoy will not dare to react too violently. He counsels against it, reminding her who she is, what she is. And, of course, who Malfoy is. But he cannot force her to listen, and in the end he gives her the advice she needs.

Reckless Gryffindor bravery. She had thought so, but wanted the confirmation. The tone may have been sarcastic, but Hermione knows that not being banned outright from acting is probably the best compliment she could have got.

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

Hermione watches Draco in the library, as she pretends to be looking for an Arithmancy book. She often watches him in the library, where he seems always to work alone, poring over threatening looking books on the Dark Arts. She tries not to think about why he might be seeking this knowledge.

Choosing a book, she sits down at his table, not bothering to ask permission. She knows that if this is going to work, she has to act with the same confidence that he possesses.

He looks up from his work, irritated at being disturbed; after all, the library is nearly empty. When he sees who it is, he scowls.

'Do you have to sit here?' he asks, in the superior tone he always uses towards her when he meets her alone, lacking the open hostility he displays towards Ron and Harry, but still clearly warning that he could turn nasty.

Hermione smiles at him, self-assured, ready to put her plan into action. She pushes an escaping strand of smooth hair (the result of half an hour's work again this morning) back and opens her bag.

'Yes.'

Draco seems unsure what to say to that, Hermione notes with satisfaction. He picks up his quill again and continues to write. He is left handed, she notices and is unsurprised by the fact, although she knows this is only superstition. She opens her own book and begins to take notes, returning to the trick she uses with her newspaper each morning and giving him little glances each time she turns the pages. This time, though, she makes sure that he notices the glances, even as she pretends to be furtive.

He is confused, she can tell. He is pausing at the end of each line of his parchment, staring into space. At first, Hermione thinks that he is simply thinking of what to write next, but then she catches his eye, as if accidentally, as she looks up herself.

The two look at each other for an instant. Hermione is struck by the similarity of his appearance to his father, but forces herself to control her shudder and to give him an almost smile. She knows that with the extra time spent on her appearance that morning, she looks completely different from the girl he associates with his archenemy. That will make her task that much easier.

She lowers her eyes first, and scribbles a note.

Meet me at the Owlery.

She is tempted to try to carry out her plan there and then, without giving him any more time to think about what she might be up to, but realistically the library is not the place. Getting up, she leaves the note on the desk, making sure that it is obvious that the scrap of parchment does have something written on it.

As she walks out, she hears him lean across the desk to see what it is. She laughs to herself as she turns down the corridor towards the Owlery, wondering why anyone actually bothers with the effort involved with making love potions when this way offers so much more subtlety and flexibility, without any of the potential for inconvenient side effects, such as the potion working on the wrong person.

Outside, it is raining, with all the cold intensity of the northern winter. Hermione hesitates in the doorway and crosses her fingers, hoping that it will not wash the potion out of her hair. That would probably be disastrous. Although she is exasperated by the effort involved in sorting it out each morning, she knows that she would probably not be able to pull off what she is about to do without it.

Even Ron has noticed something. As she passed the newspaper to him this morning, as she always does, he commented that she looked nice. Once she would have been both flattered and frustrated by this comment. But now there is nothing like that between them. She knows that at one time, he would have thought about her looking like that while he lay in bed, waiting for sleep. Now, any of those feelings have been swallowed by the fears they share about Harry and the war.

Sometimes she regrets this, today, her head full of thoughts about Draco, she realises that it is a blessing, anything between her and Ron would have been sweet, but an unnecessary complication, and, ultimately a catastrophe. In all aspects except hair colour, they are siblings now.

As she walks briskly to the Owlery, she catches up with Colin Creevey, carrying his camera, despite the rain. After it saved him from a basilisk in the first year, she supposes he sees it as a kind of talisman. At least now, he no longer trails Harry with it, although on most days she doubts Harry would notice anyway. As they pass, they exchange a brief greeting. She asks him where he is going; he replies that he is visiting the greenhouses, and then heading up to the Owlery. Hermione nods in approval. They part, Colin veering round towards the greenhouses, Hermione continuing up the path.

Arriving in the shelter of the Owlery, she raises her hand to her head, and is relieved to find that her hair still seems to be behaving itself. Trying to relax as she rehearses what she is about to do in her head, she glances around. Most of the owls seem to be resting, but Hedwig flies down, hooting softly.

'Sorry Hedwig,' Hermione whispers, stroking her 'I don't have anything for you to deliver today. I've got something important to do.'

The bird blinks at her before taking off back to her perch. For a few moments, there is no noise except the rustling of feathers, but then Hermione hears the door click softly behind her.

'Well, well, you're looking quite presentable today, all things considered,' comes a mocking voice.

She turns, although she would recognise that tone anywhere.

'Malfoy.'

'What do you want, Mudblood?' He's smirking at her, hand hovering over the pocket where his wand must be, ready for her to try anything. He looks every inch as if he is only there to ridicule, but they both know that he would not trade insults without an audience to admire him and is too much of a coward to do anything without some backup, in case his target maintains enough self-respect to answer back.

Despite knowing this, and even though she has planned this moment, Hermione feels a little uneasy; her stomach creeps, as if she has swallowed a number of Flobberworms alive. She struggles to clear her mind as Snape had advised.

She takes a step towards Malfoy, making sure she stands up straight.

'Speak to me civilly and I'll tell you.'

He scowls at her, not moving his hand from his pocket. 'I haven't got time for this, Granger. Tell me what you want.'

She briefly considers asking him why he is here, if he has so little time, but thinks better of it. Instead, she settles for taking another step towards him. 'I wanted to ask you about...about things,' she says, lowering her voice. They are now standing only about two feet apart; she is close enough to see a few freckles across his pale nose.

He motions imperiously for her to go on. In the short silence that follows, Hermione has the crazy idea of abandoning the plan she has carefully formed for this meeting and instead trying to win him over to their side. What a perfect weapon he would be, a living proof that Voldemort had nothing to offer, not even to the families of his closest supporters. His conversion could be the occasion of such a celebration, because if one more supporter is a good thing, one more who has rejected the other side is better than a dozen of the first type.

Draco shifts impatiently and rubs his arm, the same spot that Snape's hands wander to, whenever the subject of the war comes up, and Hermione's dream collapses into ashes. Firmly returning her mind to the task in hand, she fixes a smile upon her face.

'Get on with it then,' he says shortly, although his eyes show that he's only playing a role and really is curious to see why he is here.

'I've seen you looking at me,' she says, again moving towards him and looking up at him through lowered lashes. Up this close, he is not as tall as she would have expected.

'Why do you care what I do?' he spits out, 'After all, when the time comes, you're going to be one of the first against the wall!'

'I know,' she says quietly. She doesn't have to act to put the right kind of feeling into this statement. Although she would never admit it, she is terrified of what could happen to her should she ever be in the wrong place at the wrong time.

He gives her a smile, but there is nothing pleasant about it. 'How do you know that I'm not just thinking of the best way to get rid of you?'

'I don't,' she says, a little shakily, chilled that this is probably true and terrified that this is not going to work. 'But I can't stop thinking about you, Draco.' Again, this is true, although not in the sense she seems to be suggesting. This plan has been on her mind all the time recently.

He meets her eyes for the first time, about to comment on her use of his first name. Quickly, before she can feel the distaste of what she is about to do, she takes advantage of the moment to close the remaining few inches between them. Holding his eyes, she flings her arms around his neck and, before he can react to the contact, pulls his mouth down to hers.

Hermione's mind is racing. She knows that she only has this chance to make this work; Malfoy is not stupid enough to fall for a similar ploy again and so she needs to keep him in here for long enough for her plan to be completely successful. Twining her arms around him more tightly, she tries to hold him closer.

It suddenly becomes a far easier task when she realises that he is kissing her back, wrapping his arms around her in return, his lips moving under hers.

Hermione suddenly isn't sure what she is supposed to do. She has been kissed before, of course, but never by someone who is a sworn enemy, who to all intents and purposes despises her. A feeling of power, almost like that which she felt when she first picked up her wand all those years ago, is running through her. In all of her planning, she imagined that she would have at most a few seconds before Malfoy got over his initial shock and pushed her away in disgust. But this isn't showing any signs of happening. Somehow, she has had some kind of effect on him, which has meant that he is prepared to hold her like this in complete disregard of their normal feelings towards each other.

The mad idea that maybe she could be the one to redeem him, bring him over to their side, turn him into the one lost sheep that was brought back into the fold resurfaces in one corner of her mind, the part which isn't instructing her to pull him closer to her and run her fingers through his hair.

There is a sudden flash of light, which would have been blinding had Hermione not had her eyes closed.

Draco pulls away from her, his eyes bright with something that to Hermione looks almost like triumph. Over his shoulder, she can see the small figure of Colin Creevey vanishing out of the door. Hermione keeps her hands locked around Draco's neck; she does not want him to catch up with Colin.

'Is there anything you aren't good at?' Draco asks, wiping his hand across his mouth, bitter sarcasm in his voice. His normally pale face is flushed as he shrugs himself out of her arms. He rolls up his sleeves; there is the grinning tattoo on his arm, as she had expected. She feels slightly sick.

He glares into her eyes for a moment, grey on brown. A thousand things to say to him flash through Hermione's mind, but he is gone, storming out of the Owlery. She can only stare after him in shock.

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

The photograph is all over school the following morning. Hermione, sitting at the Gryffindor table in the Great Hall, watches Malfoy and is pleased to see the way that the conversation at his table is not directed towards him. All around him, small groups point and whisper, some laughing, some looking disappointed or even disgusted. When you are the son of a notorious Death Eater, and are constantly demonstrating just how much you share his sympathies, it does not do to be caught with your arms around a Muggle-born girl.

He catches her looking and sends her a look of pure loathing, although there she thinks she also sees a kind of grudging admiration. It was, Hermione admits to herself, a rather underhand, Slytherin plan. Still, he has no one to blame but himself; after all, he returned the kiss.

She is thinking about this when Ron arrives, looking bad tempered. 'Who made those pictures of you kissing Malfoy?' he demanded.

Hermione glances up from the newspaper which she is pretending to read again, pushing her hair, which she has smoothed for one final time today, back out of her eyes.

'I did kiss Malfoy,' she says, lightly. She can't face explaining any further, even though she is getting her fair share of funny looks from the rest of the table. It had not even occurred to her before that she could have made fake pictures.

Ron's face goes through a series of interesting expressions, beginning with shock and going through anger and disgust, before he settles for saying, 'I hope you washed out your mouth with soap afterwards.'

He looks as if he might ask further questions, but to Hermione's relief, he decides that breakfast is a more pressing issue than understanding the vagaries of female behaviour. Nonetheless, she feels a twist of sadness that the Ron she used to know, the one who would have promised furious revenge on Malfoy, is long gone.

Beside her, Harry touches her arm lightly. She turns to look at him, expecting him to speak, but he asks the question only with his eyes, and she shakes her head, aware already that she might be lying.

'Of course I don't!' she replies, slightly stung that the thought had even crossed his mind. 'I did it to help you.'

She gestures at the silent space surrounding Draco Malfoy. A look of understanding comes across Harry's face.

'Thanks,' he says, a small smile on his face. 'It must have been a hard thing to do.'

She pauses, wondering what it must be like to be Harry, to have to carry the burden he does and decides that mentioning that kissing Malfoy was in some ways an enjoyable experience would only add to it. She wants to say something more, to give him her support, but she knows that he won't let her. She settles for leaning over and giving him a kiss on the cheek. He blushes, and his smile grows a little.

Hermione is suddenly filled with hope that, one day, things will get better.

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

It takes Malfoy most of the day, but he eventually catches up with her in the library. He is holding one of Colin's photographs. He stalks up to the table where Hermione is studying a translation for Ancient Runes. Hissing an insult, he throws it onto the table and glares at her.

Hermione looks up from her parchment.

'Thanks Malfoy, but I already have a copy,' she says calmly, pretending that she is not interested.

He opens his mouth as if to speak, his grey eyes flashing menace, two spots of red on his pale cheeks. She stares at him. She still doesn't think him attractive, but in this moment, he is strangely impressive. On a nearby table, two girls are whispering and giggling at something; Hermione doesn't have to wonder for a moment what it could be. She lowers her eyes again to her parchment, waiting for the inevitable onslaught.

Which never comes.

After a few seconds, she looks up again. There is no sign of Draco, except for the photograph that he had thrown onto her desk. Hermione picks it up. The two figures in it have remained with their arms around each other. The photograph Draco looks fierce; although he is not trying to pull away, he is tense, and looks uncomfortable. Photograph Hermione is far more relaxed, but her arms are around him, vice like and determined, as if restraining a recalcitrant child.

She turns the picture over and reads what is written on the back, slightly smudged, as if he had been struggling with a quill designed for a right-handed person.

Meet me at the Owlery.

She knows it's a stupid thing to do, that Draco Malfoy is not to be trusted. And anyway, why would she want to meet him? He isn't handsome, she doesn't have any positive feelings towards him and he is, she now knows for certain, a Death Eater. And anyway, she has achieved what she set out to do. He has been humiliated, brought down from his pedestal.

She knows that Snape would advise against continuing. It is an unnecessary risk. But Hermione has faith in her ability to handle the situation. And she is curious to know why exactly Draco Malfoy wants to see her again.

As she packs her things away, and begins to walk towards the Owlery, that crazy, magical idea is coming back into her head; the one in which she manages to bring the houses of Hogwarts together, persuades them to stand in unity rather than fight divided; the one where she persuades Draco, the lost sheep, to come over to the side of goodness. Even though she knows that he hates her and everything she stands for and believes in, and the feeling is mutual. No matter what she felt when he kissed her yesterday, this hasn't changed.

But as she watches Draco Malfoy move towards her in the Owlery, confused anger and passion and a splinter of hatred in his eyes, she can't help thinking despite herself that there must be worse ways to fight a war.

'I wouldn't have thought you had a dirty trick like that in you, Granger,' he says, slowly, nastily, still with that confidence that he is better than her.

She stares him down.

'I'm not scared of you,' she retorts, and she isn't, not now. 'You've got nothing any more, not now they've seen you consorting with someone like me.'

Gathering her courage, she rolls back his sleeve and puts her finger on the mark on his arm, the image that has burned into eyes every morning for so long now, that every day she worries will bring her life crashing down.

'You're a traitor, as far as Voldemort's people are concerned', she says, applying a little pressure on it. She hopes that this is true, that the Death Eaters are as harsh and uncaring as she believes.

He flinches slightly, then his eyes darken. 'You don't know as much as you think you do. I'm no traitor. I hate everything about you,' he says coldly. She can tell that what he really hates is the fact that there is nothing about her which he can criticise now. What she has done to him, how she looks, the fact she is here now; all these things must make it hard to justify his belief that Muggle borns and half bloods are the lowest of the low, parasites on Wizard society.

She does not note his slur on her intelligence, it is only a poor attempt at an insult. She does not remember the light which looked like triumph the day before.

Instead, she lets his statement hang in the air for a little while, biting her lip. Draco shivers slightly and tries to hide it. He looks nervous, unable to see what is coming next.

'And you still wanted me,' she challenges, eventually, her voice level. She does not know what game is playing, doesn't even know what her own game is now; this was not in the plan, and she feels torn between destruction and redemption.

Draco does not deny it.

In the moment before the gap between them closes, she thinks suddenly of Snape and his criticism of reckless bravery. There is no doubt that she is being every inch a Gryffindor at this moment. The question of what happened to turn him against Voldemort rises again in her mind amongst the jumble of other conflicting thoughts and feelings. That was the one question he had refused to answer when she had first spoken to him about this, so many weeks ago, and speculation has not solved the mystery.

But if he could change, others could. And every person is worth having. In that moment, Hermione Granger makes her decision, for better or worse, and resurrects her dream from the ashes, golden and glorious. She is not a little girl any more, she is grown up, and she is going to do all she can to win this war, to resurrect Harry's sense of wonder at the world around him. She feels no tenderness for Draco Malfoy: he stands for everything she hates and fears about the world, but with the same conviction she once felt about house elf rights, she knows that she can help him, make him understand what is right.

As she responds to Draco's lips pushing roughly against hers, and feels his hair soft underneath her fingers, just before she loses herself in his arms in an embrace driven by mutual anger and hatred and deception, she finds that she can't help believing that she can bring this lost sheep home.