Disclaimer: This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. The plot is from Disney's version of Beauty and the Beast and any other things specified, and I'm not making any profits from this fic. Similarly, none of the song lyrics posted here are my own, and have received proper credit at the beginning of each respective chapter.

Author's Note: 4/23/12. At least the updates are coming quicker and quicker with each chapter, yes?

ALSO, PLEASE NOTE: I've been debating for at least six months now whether or not it was too late in the story for me to change the characters' ages... I had not planned all that far in ahead when this project first took hold and now that I have a much clearer vision of where I want the characters to end up, I know for certain that I wish I had originally made them a little older. (Hindsight is 20/20 and all.) To make up for my lack of foresight and to prevent any further hitches in my sanity, I am going to say "to hell with it," and change the ages.

Thus, from this point forward, please (disregard the awkwardness of my request and) try your best to envision Draco as twenty-one, Hermione as twenty, and all of the other characters as appropriately matching in their respective ages. Please do not be confused or alarmed by any future references to these characters of being marked as older, and please note that I am already going to go back through and edit the layouts of each chapter within the next few days anyway, so I will make all of the necessary changes to their ages as well in the previous installments as well. Thank you for your flexibility and understanding!

Namesakes & Monikers

Just sit tight, don't you even think about going anywhere.
Stay where you are, open up your eyes to what's all already there.

What I'm about to tell you, what I'm about to say,
Don't even let it throw ya,
It just might change your day.

We're living in a charmed life,
You and I, a charmed life.

"Charmed Life" - Joy Williams

Until a twosome once again becomes my face...

"How odd," Hermione whispered.

She took one more cursory glance around her room to ensure that she was alone and then scanned the lines of Lupin's letter with even sharper eyes, trying to keep her mind open and her stream of consciousness flowing.

.

.

.

I am full, but not yet satisfied.
For me, just once is not enough.

'Tis a pity then, that a twosome I must wait,
until a twosome once again becomes my face.

.

.

.

Perhaps it refers to a transformation similar to the Master's? In that there are two faces or forms? But it talks about dissatisfaction in having only experienced something once. Maybe it has to do with greed... but how would that relate to Lupin's research?

With a frustrated huff, Hermione left her seat by the window to thumb through the stack of library books she had deposited on the writing desk that morning. She folded the letter and slipped it inside the pocket of the sweater she wore—one that the Wardrobe Twins never failed to voice their vehement disapproval of—and absently flipped through a volume of fables and folktales. When the collection did nothing but stain her fingers with ink, she set it aside and started pulling other books at random. The lines kept fruitlessly replaying in her mind, and by the time she realized that she was no longer actively reading what she put in front of her face, a knock sounded at the door.

With a quick start, Hermione hurriedly righted everything about the writing desk and called out, "Who is it?"

"But a humble servant, miss!"

Hermione faltered, for the visitor on the other side of the door sounded so very young... and as if she were carrying something heavy. Rushing to open the door and relieve the little servant of her burden, Hermione greeted the new face with a smile and immediately knelt to the floor.

"For you, Miss Hermione!" the little feather duster cried, swaying precariously under the weight of an old book.

"You poor thing!" Hermione lamented as she gently took the item from the servant. "Did you carry this all the way up from the library?"

"It was nothing, I assure you! It is always a pleasure to help Miss Hermione!"

Hermione, however, did not agree, and so her returning smile was completed with a measure of force. She thanked the servant sincerely and watched in concern as the small thing frisked away happily down the hall from where she came. She was so caught up in her thoughts about fairness and gratitude and what does it mean to be happy? that she almost didn't recognize the book in her lap when she glanced down at the title.

"Ah!" she cried in delight, clutching the tattered bindings in her grasp. "The almanac!"

"Oh, miss!" Hermione looked up at the sudden call and was surprised to see that the tiny feather duster had paused at the corner at the very end of the corridor. "I have also been instructed to inform you that your presence is requested at the Grand Staircase in ten minutes' time. Have a lovely day, Miss Hermione!"

Her fingers stilled, but the sudden fluttering in her stomach began reaching new levels of turbulence. She remained in her spot on the floor for the first few calming breaths, and it was only the startling sound of the wind against the nearby windowpanes that called her back to action.

Just like any other day, Hermione reminded herself. You must act as if nothing has changed. Follow Pansy's instructions. This will be just like any other walk through the castle. Surprise or no surprise, there is no reason for you to think of this outing as any different.

But as Hermione returned to her bedchambers to prepare herself, and as the tumultuous butterflies only intensified the flight patterns throughout her insides, she had no choice but to admit a very real truth.

There was already much about this day that made it wholly, unavoidably different.

"Hello, you," Harry whispered.

He folded the crumpled portrait, hiding the fading lines of charcoal—the closest I will ever come to having real memories of them—from no one in particular, and slowly set it aside. His movements were slow and fluid, allowing plenty of time for the creature perched on his sill to assess his actions; there wasn't any guarantee that it wouldn't choose to fly off anyway, but Harry wasn't the type to sit back and wait for others to make the decisions. It was because of this that he found himself but an arm's length away from the window, a small snack biscuit secured between the first digits of his middle and forefinger, when he cautiously extended his reach... Harry had spent enough time with Hagrid to be wary of pecking, after all.

"Back again?" he smiled slightly, gently pressing the peace offering through the air. So soon?

The small bird, beautiful in its austere and serene glory, tilted its head to the side in what Harry irrationally—instinctively—understood as consideration, and then took the treat from his fingers in such a quick movement that Harry couldn't be sure whether or not she'd nipped him this time.

How do you figure it's a she, anyway?

Maybe he had picked up a few tricks from all of his time spent in Hagrid's hut with regards to poultry? Or maybe he was just making it up... but it didn't really matter if the snowy owl was a female or really just a rat in disguise when it was providing a such a convenient, fascinating distraction from his real troubles, now did it?

"Where did you come from?" he asked the bird curiously as it—she—picked away at the crumbs now littering the wooden grain. "I've never seen a species quite like you... at least, definitely not in this area. I'm sure Hagrid would love to see you."

He chanced it, raising his fingertips to the soft fluff of snowy feathers at the base of her swiveling neck, but all too soon the crumbs were gone, and as fate would seem to have it, so was Harry's stash of biscuits. The owl took one look at Harry's empty hands, sent him what could only be described as an accusatory—apologetic?—stare, and then descended from his window in what Harry recognized from years of friendship with Hermione as a huff.

So much for my distraction, he thought tiredly. He didn't need to glance back at his bed to know that his most precious possession was still there, his most tangible recollection of barely-there memories of a long-ago family and love, resting against the worn weavings of thread that made up his tattered blanket.

I wonder... Where does Hermione keep the portraits of her parents?

Harry pushed his glasses back to the bridge of his nose with a sigh and fell back onto the bed. He vowed to have Dobby bake an extra batch the next morning.

"You again," Ron groaned.

The snowy owl tilted her head to the side in speculation, but this only made Ron's face scrunch more tightly. "I still don't trust you," he reminded her with a stern finger. "And where is that little friend of yours?"

"Leave Hedwig alone," Pansy sighed from Hermione's mirror in the parlor. "Midas has been kept on call for the Master in order to lessen any suspicion. You won't have to see him again anytime soon, so you can put your petulant grudges to rest."

"I knew that other one was fishy," Ron crossed his arms, sliding into a seat over the armrest of a chair.

"And you're going to have to stop this resistance to magic if you want to better understand what's happening," she scolded, but it came out closer to a whine.

"I've already accepted your weirdness, haven't I?" he vaguely gestured at the mirror, and Pansy's eyes narrowed. "Anyway, I want to know what Hermione sent back in return."

She bristled at his tone, but forced a calming breath through her lungs and said, "She was not allowed to respond."

"What?"

"It is unsafe for anything but one-way correspondence," Pansy spoke evenly, ignoring the violent churning of fury in her stomach at having been spoken to in such a way. She could still feel her skin crawling at the changes that had recently taken place in the dynamics of their partnership after the professor's letter, and every word from his mouth only seemed to tip the balance further. And it's never in my favor, she frowned. Pansy Parkinson, what have you done to yourself? You swore when you gained these powers that you would never allow yourself to be subjected to such treatment again.

It tasted of bitter long-ago memories of hiding in the kitchens during balls and escaping the critical stares of the young noblewomen who belittled her calloused hands and chapped lips as if it were a sport. Pansy would grin and bear their taunts, doing as a good and loyal servant should, always seething beneath the surface and just waiting for the day that her poisonous words might miraculously be released upon her superiors. As long as she could privately entertain her despicable thoughts—"I wonder what their blood would look like on my hands"—she could go about her work with some shred of peace, waiting for the guests' departure... or until Draco could inevitably come and rescue her. It was not unusual for him to suddenly order her to take leave of ballroom or kitchen duties in order to tidy up his quarters or fulfill some other unnecessary task, which she would gratefully take her time doing until he could retire from the ball and retrieve her.

Pansy smiled at the memories of being secretly allowed to share the tea that she brought to him after a long night of socializing with those sharp-clawed, harpy monsters, as he called them, and then dutifully listening to his complaints that his father's insistence in finding a suitable match was growing ever more fervent. She remembered pretending not to see how, as they grew older, he would take those sharp-clawed, harpy monsters into empty closets or rooms one by one, evening after evening, and she would wait all night, wondering in agony but always refusing to cry. This is his life, and this is mine. I understand my place. This is the way it is.

She remembered being invited to join him at the threshold of the balcony—but never openly outside, lest they be seen—where she could let her imagination run wild while he spoke to her about all the things that he couldn't share with anyone else. That he wouldn't share with anyone else. And she listened to all of it without question, without complaint, even to the stories she couldn't bear to hear or the news she'd already learned for herself, because that was what he needed and that was what she did and—

"What a load of crock."

And just like that, the spell was broken.

Even more irritably than before, she replied, "It is one thing for Hedwig to be spotted on a retrieval mission in which she is acquiring an item for the castle, but it would be another thing entirely for us to be caught sending an item outbound... To whom would the Prince send a message? If we were caught, it wouldn't matter what was being sent or to whom—the end result would be disastrous."

"So you're saying that although I can still send Hermione messages when necessary, I can't receive so much as a scrap of parchment...Bloody hell—can't anybody around here do anything the normal way? I'm tired of this freak show."

Pansy's scowl deepened. "You're in the thick of it with all of us, you know, which makes you no better." Find a way to turn the tables, and do it soon! Make him eat his words. Make him remember who is the one with the real power.

Ron sighed and roughly shoved a hand through his mop of hair. "I didn't mean it like that," he said lowly, and he sounded so contrite that Pansy paused in spite of herself. "I'm just... frustrated. I'm upset. And angry." He jerked himself upright, shoved his hands into his pockets, and began to briskly pace about the room. "I'm angry."

"I'd already gathered as much," she commented snidely, lifting her nose into the air.

"Give me a minute to get it out, will you?" he snapped, never once breaking his stride. "I'm not used to talking about things like this."

"Surely you jest," she intoned dryly.

"Seriously, will you shut up? I'm trying to apologize!"

Pansy blinked, wishing she were more annoyed at having been caught off guard instead of just surprised. To hide her moment of weakness, she haughtily bit out, "For being the incompetent buffoon that you are?"

"No, look, I... Well, I'm sorry for... for—"

"Spit it out, Ginger."

"For treating you like dirt, all right?" he snapped in exasperation, throwing his hands up in frustration, and Pansy blinked, suddenly feeling very lost. He quickened his pace, but his eyes remained glued to the floor. "I can't tell anyone about any of this and I'm awful at sorting out things on my own and since you're the only other person on the planet who knows, I just—and it's only naturalfor me to—I just can't stop myself!" he gestured madly again, looking at her with his ruffled state and pleading eyes. "I'm still seriously disturbed by all of this, and I'm practically killing myself with all the worrying I'm doing over Hermione and the fact that I have no idea what the hell is going on, and on top of it all, I still can't believe that Hermione—out of all of the people she could have contacted—decided to send a message to Lupin!"

"As opposed to you?" she asked, hoping unrealistically that she sounded bored and unaffected instead of whatever else it was that she was feeling.

"Yeah," he sighed, defeated, and Pansy looked on in confusion. "And because you're the only one I've got, I've been taking out everything on you... Don't get me wrong, I'm still furious about what you hid from me," he suddenly sent her a glare, but it seemed to wither away. "But I should still know better."

"Is that your idea of an apology?" she remarked with obvious dissatisfaction, if only because in a strange way, she felt that part of her ire had already been appeased.

"Unfortunately, yeah. That's all I've got," he shrugged in dismay, awkwardly rubbing the back of his neck as if the feeling of his own inadequacy had finally taken on a painful edge. Pansy's terse expression slackened as she considered the heavy tension set in the lines of his broad shoulders and the way his fists clenched and unclenched in the fidgety mess that he'd become. "I bet Hermione would wring my neck if she heard what I've said to you," he laughed dejectedly, running his fingers through his hair once more, and Pansy chewed the inside of her cheek in thought.

He obviously doesn't know her very well, if he thinks she is incapable of the same cutting language as he. This speculation affected her more than she would have liked, but before she could dig any deeper into her thoughts, another sigh from across the room brushed past her ears. She took a deep breath, tried to relax, and decided that one moment of mercy might be something she had to give, after all.

"It's because she promised the castle inhabitants that she would look into a cure," she said quietly. When Ron turned to her in surprise, she clarified, "She apparently thought that this professor was someone who might be able to help us break the curse. It's why she contacted him."

Ron took a moment to process this, and Pansy knew the precise moment he had fully digested the reality of her statement; he scoffed in irritation, a cross between acquiescence and his general crudeness of I guess I've got no choice. "Leave it to Hermione to wind up trying to clean a mess that isn't hers."

Pansy watched, but said nothing.

"She took a risk," Ron continued on seriously. "Lupin was in the city, and she knew that he may or may not have known about her disappearance, but she made the gamble anyway… unless she'd been hoping that Lupin had already known about her having gone missing, and that he would reach out to Little Whinging once he received her mysterious letter? But then why wouldn't she have called out for assistance directly?"

"I've already told you her intentions," Pansy observed in confusion. "Why are you having such a difficult time believing them? You've already said that her actions were well within her character."

Ron paused, gnawing on his cheek, and Pansy wondered if he would actually share the thoughts that were troubling him, before coming to the startling realization that she might actually want to know... and not for the typical personal gain that insight usually brought her. She was pulled out of her revelation by his voice, and she listened with renewed concern as he made an even more worrisome observation:

"Because if what you say about Hermione's intentions are true, and that her letter was really only meant to be an acquisition of knowledge... it indicates that, at least in that moment, escape wasn't her first priority."

Pansy swallowed, thinking over his words with newfound alarm. The imbecile is right, she thought distractedly, licking her lips as Ron rambled on about the possibility of Hermione having used some special code to alert Lupin to her imprisonment. The redhead was merely stretching the possibilities now, still clinging to his hope and his trust placed within their childhood bonds, but Pansy knew better, and so she was all the more alarmed by this news.

"This just figures, doesn't it?" Ron shook his head in dismay, and he sunk himself onto the couch. "This is so like her—always putting the well-being of others before her own. Whether it's for my sister, or these castle dwellers, or her stupid horse, who was probably the one who got her into this mess in the first place, she never—"

"What are you talking about?"

"I'm telling you, Hermione doesn't know when—"

"No, no, the part about her horse."

Ron's brows scrunched together, and the look he gave Pansy told her that he thought she was daft, but she couldn't be bothered by it; she could barely be bothered to breathe. "It's my theory as to why she even wound up in the forest in the first place."

"What is?"

"Well," Ron trailed on, obviously growing more weary and tired with each word, despite it only being mid-afternoon. He must have been working both farms all day, she realized. "When we arrived here after having first noticed that something was wrong with her absence, we found Auror, her prize horse, out in the open pasture with the gate wide open." He turned his gaze toward Pansy then, lids heavy with oncoming sleep, and said with utmost certainty, "Hermione would never let that dumb horse stay out in the cold. He probably got out, and she must have spent the whole damn night chasing after him."

Pansy's face contorted with the force of a million different dismissals, but as she watched the redhead blink sleepily from his spot on the couch, she couldn't manage to get any of them out. It would be impossible for any animal to willingly enter the Forbidden Forest! There has been an enchantment on the castle for ages that keeps all away, aside from the royal messenger owls who are summoned to the castle, one that was placed by a medieval wizard centuries ago. Unless... unless an animal had help?

"But it would mean that the horse would had to have..." Pansy trailed off curiously, halting her words with a nervous glance at Ron on the couch, before relaxing marginally at seeing him already almost asleep.

Midas must have been in contact with the horse, her frantic mind supplied. Perhaps this was staged from the very beginning? Of course—how else would the girl have found the castle? No one else has even come close... But she could barely grasp the concept, and she didn't even know what to do with that idea—or how, if true, it might be used—so she held on to it for later.

Steadying herself with a deep breath, she called out to him. "Ginger."

"Mm?"

"You should write back to Lupin," she quietly urged. "Send a single letter addressed to him as a response from both Hermione and yourself, so as not to cause any suspicion."

"Right," he mumbled, eyes still closed.

"Ginger, did you even hear what I said?"

"Yes," he groaned and then shifted on the couch. "Letter to Lupin. Tomorrow. Got it. Goodnight, Pansy."

She opened her mouth to say something more but, afraid of what she might reveal, thought better of it and let her lips silently close. She nodded softly to no one in particular and took her leave.

It didn't escape her notice that it had been some time since he had called her by that dreadful moniker.

.

.

.

Princess.

.

.

.

And shortly thereafter, after all of the suspense and hinting and planning, the time for Granger's surprise finally came. On the bright side, all of Draco's preparations had gone smoothly, and when he arrived at the edge of the lake with Granger in tow everything was as it should have been. On the other hand, unfortunately, Draco was very quickly coming to realize that although he admittedly hadn't considered the full extent of what her reaction might be, there were already many unexpected emotions rolling off of her tiny frame.

Like panic, for example.

"What is this?" she asked, breathless.

"Well," Draco responded calmly, forcing his shrug to be casual. "You should know. It was your idea."

"What are you talking about?" Her frightened face whipped toward him and Draco was momentarily taken aback. She isn't afraid of a shouting match with a six-foot beast and yet she reacts so strongly to this? But he recovered quickly.

"Do you not remember our first walk through the courtyard?"

He watched her eyes dart about as she delved deep into the archives of her mind and, totally at her wit's end, asked, "When on earth did I mention a picnic?" But little more than a moment later, memory suddenly struck, and Draco watched as a new set of expressions tore across her features. "I wasn't serious," she protested immediately.

"I'm aware," he stated slowly, though he was still totally unaware of the reason for the strength of her reaction. Was she still afraid of him even after all this time? Brows furrowing, he said, "There could be no mistaking your true feelings on the matter when you first mentioned it."

"I mean really," Granger began to babble, ignoring the way the breeze blew her hair into her face. "Especially when my sarcasm was thicker than Snape's porridge! And that's not even accounting for the fact that I really was not in my best state of mind when I said it, and I also believe it was followed by a mad bark of laughter, was it not?"

"It was."

"It was in no way, shape, or form a suggestion. Really."

"And quite needless to say, I did not take it as such at the time."

"Then why would you...?"

"I have a rather twisted sense of irony," he taunted, trying to lighten the mood.

She did not seem amused.

"An important lesson for you, Granger," he said with a sigh as he lowered himself onto the large expanse of cloth at the bank. The Master swiped an apple from a basket and rubbed it against his cloak out of habit. It wasn't exactly the most appealing treat, especially after the hunt's dissatisfaction—there isn't nearly enough bloody steak to go around—but aiming for a well-balanced meal was always one of his ways of saying a nice sod off to his canine circumstances.

"You should be very careful about what you say around me," he said in a low voice, turning back to her, and he felt rather than saw the air catch in her throat. Draco had ensured that there was no trace of any threat in his tone, but her breath mysteriously abandoned her, anyway. He looked at her curiously, raising an inquisitive brow that spoke of his obvious puzzlement and perhaps her obvious insanity, and waited for her to join him.

"Right," she whispered.

... & ...

With a breath as deep as possible, Hermione carefully dropped her faded satchel—a useful tool that the Wardrobe Twins had tried to hide from her in the deepest recesses of the space beneath her bed—and tried to lower herself to the ground as gracefully as she could. It isn't fair that someone who's nearly seven feet tall should still look so dignified! she thought with much more venom than she actually felt, if only to quell the absurdly rapid beating of her heart. And with something as simple as sitting down! It must have been all of those stupid balls and etiquette classes because it's unnatural, is what it is.

He was still looking at her in earnest, as if he were waiting to see what she would do next, and Hermione purposefully kept her eyes glued to the lake. Even through her self-consciousness and her paranoia, she could feel herself growing ruffled and angry, and she wasn't about to give him the satisfaction of whatever it was that he was looking for.

I won't be fooled, she thought stubbornly, ignoring a stray lock of hair that was flitting about her eyes. I don't know what he has rolled up his sleeve, but if he thinks that I don't suspect his tricks then he's got another thing coming. I'll follow Pansy's instructions and play along, but I sure as hell won't let myself be ruled by his company any longer. From here on out, it's just strategy.

She still hadn't bothered to look his way again by the time his voice rang out, "A proposal, Granger."

"Another?"

She could practically hear his smirk. "You've left me no choice. I'm willing to grant you access to the musical conservatory, even."

Hermione's attention naturally perked, and it was only after her gaze had connected with his that she realized she'd played right into his hands. She huffed a breath, not quite yet ready to concede, and asked, "In exchange for...?"

"Your cooperation."

"Beg pardon?"

"To put it more plainly? Consider it an incentive to relax a little."

"You're not seriously trying to bargain your way into having me enjoy myself?"

"Your tension is tearing my natural instincts to shreds; I'm merely trying to salvage what's left of them."

"Through bribery."

"I am a nobleman, after all," he baited.

"You know, I've always wondered at the contradiction between the noun and the adjective—which came first? Was the descriptive label of 'noble' created in honor of the nobleman, or did the word 'nobleman' arise from a man's adherence to the virtue of nobility? Though I'm afraid neither seem very well-matched these days."

"Yet another scathingcritique of the noblesse... why, Granger, the variety of conversation topicsat your disposal is shocking."

"Does this mean that I've earned the musical conservatory?" she mocked with a smile.

"It doesn't count if your lightheartedness only comes at the cost of my character."

"Then that specification should have been made clear much earlier on, your highness."

"You know, I never thought it possible."

"What?"

"The existence of pedanthood and peasantry alive within the same being."

"I am going to ignore the never ending jabs at my birthplace, which have grown rather tiresome—"

"Much like yours at mine?"

"—to remind you that while the state of pedanthood is indeed a dispositional trait—"

"I am sorry I said anything," he rolled his eyes.

"You refer to peasantry as if it were also a form of personality."

"In your case, it almost always is."

... & ...

He'd expected another retort so her thoughtful pause caught him off guard. She'd thoughtlessly picked off a small bunch of grapes from a nearby bowl, but was currently content to merely play with the vines instead of eating the fruit. "What is it?" he asked.

Broken from her reverie, Hermione shot him a glance that made him believe she'd actually come close to forgetting that he was there. Interestingly, he felt all the more intrigued despite the nagging feeling that perhaps he should have been offended.

"My thoughts just got a little sidetracked, that's all."

"I'd say that's not entirely unusual, if not for the fact that I just insulted you." She sent him a mild glare, but he could tell that she was itching to say something now that he had her attention. "Just ask."

"What?"

"Just ask whatever it is that you want to ask. I can't promise that I'll give you an answer, but I'm sure it will be amusing to hear anyway."

"Ever the gracious host, indeed," she huffed before popping a grape into her mouth. If Draco didn't know any better, he would say she looked... embarrassed? If I wasn't intrigued before, I certainly am now.

"It can't be any more awful than your usual impudence."

"There really isn't any way of asking it without sounding rude."

"Has this stopped you before?"

"It's about Madam McGonagall."

"Interesting," he peered at her more carefully, allowing his lips to tilt upward. "Do tell."

She shifted an uneasy glance in his direction. "All right, fine. Fine. I'll ask, but I have to know for sure that you'll not breathe a word of it to her later, and that you'll give me an honest answer... Well, as honest and helpful as you can anyway."

Draco considered her more seriously. Was something wrong? Had his stewardess somehow done something to upset her? "A proposal with two conditions?" he remarked with a calculating stare. "And what might I get in return?"

"What would you want?" she asked cautiously.

Draco paused, for it was not a question that she had ever truly asked him before.

What did he want from her?

"I'll accept your first condition as long as you help me finish off the contents of these baskets," he gestured to the food displayed around them. "I have a rather frightening appetite, so I assure you that there won't be much responsibility on your part."

"And the second?" she asked curiously.

He hesitated, wanting to use this opening as a prime opportunity to choose that which would benefit him most... But all the ideas that might have seemed appropriate a few weeks ago had lost their appeal, and he realized in frustration that he now had no idea where to start.

It was at that precise moment that another breeze brushed a mound of curls into her eyes and, losing his patience, Draco sighed irritably. This will have to do for now. "Just make sure you keep that blasted hair out of your face. It's annoying as all hell."

"Another agreement about my hair?" She touched the strands at her cheek, but covered them protectively instead of properly arranging them out of her face.

"It is a rather trying obstacle."

Granger released a small laugh that was no doubt at his expense. "Says the one entirely covered in fur."

"Do you want my help or not?" he snapped impatiently. "Keep your hair out of your face, and we've got a deal." This seemed to sober her up a bit and he enjoyed the way she clamped down on her words. "Well?"

"Fine," she acquiesced."This already seems so stupid, and it's just going to sound worse aloud, but... well, when you were talking about personality and how it's reflected in a person's station or appearance—"

"Was I a part of this conversation? Because I do not recall any such thing. You must have been interpreting all of that on your own because, I assure you, I was mainly aiming for a pure, good old-fashioned insult. Leave it to you to try to turn a perfectly crafted jab into something philosophical."

"Whatever, just let me finish!" she snapped. "I just remembered a question that had been confounding me for the last few weeks, all right? I observed early on that many of the creatures affected by the curse were transformed into objects that most closely resembled either their occupation or their personality... and I've been wondering why McGonagall is...well." She squinted at him sheepishly, a shrug lifting her shoulders as if she were bracing for impact.

"Why she is...?"

"A witch's hat?"

It took a full four seconds for him to realize that he had heard her correctly, and another two seconds for him to start to recognize the long-forgotten feeling bubbling at the back of his throat, and finally, another three for the laughter to burst forth, his head rolling backward at the force of the amusement rolling within him.

Granger, for her part, looked as if she were ready to make a run for it. Trying to maintain a sense of indignation through her rapidly growing alarm, she watched on with morbid fascination. "You're laughing," she tried to accuse, but it more closely came out as utter bafflement.

"That was your question?" he asked her, once the rumbling had mostly subsided. His smirk lifted higher, which only pulled Granger's frown lower.

"It is a valid point of inquiry!" she contested, and he took mischievous delightin the flush that covered her cheeks. "And if I weren't so startled to see this side of you, I would have plenty of reasons at my fingertips for why it is so."

"And I'm sure you'll compose a list when they finally return to you," he predicted good-naturedly, thought Granger was in no mood to humor him. Honestly, he thought she'd actually had a real question to ask! He realized with a budding sense of victory that it'd only been a mere ten minutes into his afternoon plans, and he already had two additional agreements, however trivial, lined up in his favor. Which reminds me. "All right, eat up," he ordered, pushing a basket closer to her thigh. "You fulfill your end, and I'll fulfill mine."

"Fine," she huffed, taking out a small stack of crackers. "But I still want the conservatory."

He sent her a knowing glance and once her mouth was wonderfully preoccupied by her snacks, he obliged. "I'm afraid you'll be disappointed to learn that there is no real rhyme or reason for her transformation, other than the fact that she wore that hat quite often while tending to her duties about the grounds, especially during the rainy season. I assure you that it is not in any way related to the beings who perform magic, though I know many who would find your conclusion hysterical."

"I know it's not magical," Hermione insisted, her irritation and embarrassmentgrowing all the more clear as she absentmindedly crushed the remaining cracker in her palm. "It's just—it wasn't exactly a polite question to ask, you know! It's not as if the connections between your servants and their previous lives are always clearly drawn."

He glanced at her curiously, wondering who she might be thinking of. "The connections might be much clearer than you think."

She considered his words for a moment then, and they sat in comfortable silence as he caught a number of blueberries in his mouth and she munched on tufts of bread from a small slice that she—is defiling—held in her hand.

"I wonder what I would have turned into?" she asked suddenly. "You know, if I were to have been placed under the curse as well."

"A little morbid, don't you think?" he asked, trying to push away the dark cloud of what ifs that threatened to overshadow his victor's high.

"No more so than the consideration of any other part of my personality... Maybe I would have become something that has to do with horses or a quill like Terry or Anthony. Or a book like Luna!" Draco snorted. This girl is hopeless.

"Or the more obvious answer."

"Which is?"

"A stick in the mud."

"Ha, ha," she droned, before realization lit up her eyes. She held up a hand to still him despite his obviously going nowhere, cried "Wait! You just reminded me of something," and before he knew it, she was pulling out the stack of papers from the library known as the Sorting Hat.

"Granger, that thing can't have been created any later than the medieval period—it's so old that something must be alive and growing inside. Why on earth do you have that?"

"I found the Hufflepuff window while walking around the corridors near the library one day, and have been looking for more information on Hogwarts ever since," she explained. "I asked Luna and the others to help me, and this is what we found!"

She passed the stack of nonsense to him, and he regarded it carefully, as if he were seeing it for the first time. "You realize that this is by no means an accurate representation of what you seek; the Sorting was an age-old tradition and a great honor bestowed only upon the most privileged of the times."

"So you know more about what it was actually like?" she asked earnestly, scooting closer to look on.

Draco eyed the meager space between them with suspicion, certain that she had no idea what she was doing, and not entirely certain that he was okay with such little distance himself. She's close enough to touch, he noted distractedly as she thumbed through the pages in his grasp. "Only that it existed," he said immediately, watching as her expression gave way to disappointment; he was fascinated by the way her entire countenance had changed in a single moment. We've gotten too close before, when fighting one another off, he reflected, feeling a little disoriented. But not like this.

If she had yet to notice, however, then he certainly wasn't going to enlighten her. "But this will be of no use to you," he assured her.

"A primary source is a primary source," she defended, and she meant to snatch the stack back out of his hands, but he wouldn't let go.

"Have you already started to believe in this nonsense?" he asked with heavy amusement, which only made her annoyance flare higher. "You've taken this prankster's exam then? Let me guess: Gryffindor?"

She paused, eyes wide and fingers still. "How did you know?"

He scoffed, releasing the stack into her grip. "You reek of it."

"I beg your pardon?"

"Believe me, you don't need a worthless pile of questions to see that you're a bit of a lioness. To be certain one only need look at your mane."

"Laugh all you want, but I am not changing my mind—stupid pet project of some old forgotten gang, this may be, but I appreciate the insight," she challenged with a huff and turned away to examine the documents more closely. "The other servants and I spent all yesterday afternoon completing it, and I brought it out here for you to take as well."

Draco couldn't contain his surprise. "You did what?"

"Well, aren't you the least bit curious?" she demanded, scanning through the questions with near-hunger. As she rubbed a corner of the scratchy parchment between her fingertips, she admitted, "At least I wonder what you would be."

"Slytherin," he said immediately, not bothering to glance at her outstretched hands; he was still trying to process this new development.

"You say that so assuredly for someone not even willing to take a look."

"I promise you," he turned to her slowly, smirk alive but eyes serious. "There is no question."

"Just try it," she sighed in exasperation, her disappointment growing tangible. "Humor me. Please."

Draco glanced to her at his side. He considered telling her just how often he humored her, and then possibly tossing the old pile of bollocks into the lake just to shut her up, but there was such honest, open eagerness in her eyes that he faltered. Stubborn woman. Against his better judgment, he snatched the pile back out of her hands, and tried to ignore the twinge of whatever it was that he felt as she smiled at him in soft triumph. "Don't say I didn't warn you," he said sternly, working to keep his dignity intact since the girl was obviously convinced that she'd won more than she actually had.

Not that her victory lasted long, of course.

A mere ten minutes later, Hermione was furiously reading over his scores. "It's all Slytherin," she breathed, astounded. "Every single one. There isn't a single deviation."

"I warned you."

"You must have known what characteristics would lead you to Slytherin beforehand," she accused, still glancing at the stack suspiciously. "You had to have cheated."

"Although I did not," he clearly declared. "I will argue that achieving an end through such means would only further confirm my placement."

"What an awful requisite for a House."

He scowled. "There is more to it than that," he tried to begin, but she wasn't listening.

"I can't believe it," she whispered, still lost. "Each of the others at least had some traces of the other Houses."

"Granger, what did I tell you before?"

"That if I want answers, I should stop rolling my curls between my fingers while I think?" Her hand fell away from her hair immediately.

"That my entire family has prided itself on its Slytherin heritage," he reminded her dully. "Surely you've come across the House familiars. The badger, eagle, lion and—"

"Oh," she nodded blankly. "Yes. The snakes."

"It's not just about the snakes," he snapped with a glare. "To be Slytherin is just as much a part of my birthright as it is to be a Malfoy, or to be of noble blood. And it's a serpent, for the record."

"Well, I'll leave you to them then. With all of your animalistic personas, it hard to keep track. Serpent, ferret, werewolf—"

"I'm not a werewolf. I'm a human with werewolf-like qualities."

"Regardless."

"There is a difference."

"I'll have to take your word for it," she rolled her eyes, and then turned to him with a mocking smile. "Does that mean your foul shifts in temper have something to do with the lunar cycle?"

"That is hardly funny."

... & ...

The real problem was that Granger didn't think it was very funny either; she was actually hoping that he might let something slip and end up betraying the darker secrets of his curse, including any other obstacles she might need to know about—namely any nasty side effects of a full moon, such as enhanced strength or a lack of higher cognitive thinking. She could simply ask Pansy, she supposed... But Hermione wasn't about to put all of her eggs in one basket. Keep it flowing, Hermione, she willed herself. Keep up the banter, play friendly... Do what you have to do—come on, it's been rather easy, hasn't it?

Perhaps... even too easy?

Hermione laughed in response, trying to cover her nervous line of thoughts while she directed the conversation down a different path. "But there are distinct differences with how you function, are there not? For example, if your ability to heal has been so affected by your new form, as well as your dietary preferences and your senses, your organs must have been drastically altered as well," she mused aloud.

"Madam Pomfrey suspects that they have all nearly tripled in size," he admitted evenly after a long pause. He tossed small stones into the lake but cared little for where they fell.

"All?"

"Seriously, Granger? Of course all... You think—what in the hell is so funny?" he glared at her, snarling through his words as she smothered her breaths of laughter.

"Some of the unexpected consequences of your transformation just occurred to me, but I doubt you will find them as amusing as I do."

"If you make a single juvenile remark about the size of my brain, I swear on my kingdom, Granger, I'll—"

"No, no, I was actually thinking of a much different portion of your anatomy."

He paused, his eyes widening marginally. Hermione was surprised at having caught him off guard already, but she was grateful for it because it allowed her to finish uninterrupted.

"Your highness, have you ever considered that your heart is now much larger, too?"

"My... heart?"

"Of course, it is only a theory. I have not personally seen any such evidence, but you did say that I could vouch for your character in any quests for a princess. You must admit that it would be quite a selling point."

"Right," he said slowly, still a little distracted, but she was not deterred.

"You know," Hermione began thoughtfully. "I'm not quite sure you marrying a princess would be such a good idea after all."

"Oh? And why is that?"

"Just think of it: you both would be so high-maintenance that nothing would ever get done," she said, and then laughed at the very idea.

"High-maintenance? I don't see you turning down offers to the gardens or conservatories, Granger. Are you sure you are not becoming more accustomed to the royal lifestyle that you so detest?"

"You're laughing at me again," she accused, and more directly this time. I've been here for nearly a month and have never seen him so much as crack a genuine smile—and here he is! Laughing! Or something like it... but for the second time in an hour! "What on earth could amuse you so thoroughly, aside from my obvious unease with this sudden development of yours?"

"You think I laugh merely to torture you?"

"I am certain that you laugh because you have already found another means of torture for me," she scowled, but the easy aura flowing around him did not dissipate, and that only irked her further. "Although I can't be sure of what exactly."

"You wish to know what brought on this sudden bout of laughter, is that it?" And as he leaned closer, Hermione couldn't ignorethe grin that had settled over his gleaming fangs. She crossed her arms, feeling the strange turbulence within her once more, and merely raised an exasperated brow. I will not dignify that remark with a response.

"You know, you area bit like a game of mine, aren't you?"

"Oh, sod off, your highness."

He smirked.

"Call me Malfoy."

She blinked.

"What?"

"Malfoy," he said impatiently, cocking an eyebrow. "It's my name, as you're aware?"

"I am," she said, still very confused.

"Then use it."

Hermione took a moment to ponder this. Is he being serious? Then with renewed fire in her eyes and a smile in her voice, she playfully spat out, "All right… sod off, Malfoy."

His smirk widened. "That's the spirit."

A comfortable calm settled over the lake then, and the Master—Malfoy—lowered himself farther down to the ground to rest on his back and forearms, content with the bout of silence. Hermione, meanwhile, was finally starting to piece together the severity of the last few moments. Oh my god... what have I done? A once-forgotten line from long ago summers of reading with her father on the cliff suddenly filtered through her mind—What's in a name?—and it was not long until she was completely absorbed in her thoughts.

What a superb question, Shakespeare, Hermione thought with heavy disdain. Positively superb.

Juliet of the Capulet family had argued that such societal functions should not matter, but Hermione Jane Granger had given up that way of thinking long ago. The age into which Hermione had been thrown was full of hierarchies and the futile games people play in the hopes of achieving social mobility, where names could earn favor and equal power. Young Juliet, so naive yet so strong in her passion, had questioned the power of a name and, through Shakespeare's guidance, had ultimately rejected the darker nature of a name's power, all for the sake of love.

But for the sake of the drama, Shakespeare did not allow her to consider it fully, Hermione noted as she nervously took a bite from her apple. Juliet had not been unaware of the consequences she would face after marrying a Montague, but had she truly realized how inextricably intertwined a name and a family could be? How closely one could connect a name to certain values? To pieces of history? To hopes for the future? To say that a name is merely a name... that it is not what one calls oneself, or calls others, that truly matters, but what simply is? It is a foolish dream, and there are not many who would make that same mistake. A name is so often layered with emotion; it is a way of expressing a connection... or a lack thereof.

She surreptitiously glanced to the Prince beside her as she took another bite. He understands the significance of the connection between one's name and one's responsibility, she thought restlessly. And therein lies my concern! This name... however he may feel about the life he was set to live or those who dictated it for him... this name is precious to him. But what has compelledhim to allow me to speak to him so familiarly? To disregard his title? To use the name that, on whatever level, means so much to him? What could it mean for my place within this castle?

What is a name to him?

To Juliet, her lover may not have been a Montague, but he was still her Romeo, was he not? The names that people choose to recognize, or not to recognize, often tell much more about a friendship or a relationship than most would often like to admit. That he uses my family name is no surprise—since our arrangement requires that his favored peasant monikers be kept to a minimum, this is his way of reminding me of my station, always. But then she thought of her first night in the castle and the only incident in which she'd ever heard anyone speak of Tom Riddle. What had Madam McGonagall called him? You-Know-Who and He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named... What other names has he altered and selected to meet his needs? She thought of her newfound ally in the mirror. Pansy calls him by his given name... what liberties has she been afforded? Is there any other being in the castle that refers to him by his surname? Have I just been granted certain liberties as well?

But that would be ridiculous.

Do I even feel comfortable speaking to him so familiarly? Pansy called him by a much more personal name, and Hermione wondered in agitation what the Master—Malfoy—might call the woman in return. Hermione thought of the people she was close to herself. Does he realize that such an extension implies acceptance? Or tolerance? It presumes a level of camaraderie! she thought, thoroughly discomfited. Why, it could even denote...

Trust.

But she wouldn't allow herself to believe it. This must be another one of his games, she decided, and then felt all the more glad for her having protected herself against such torment with her newly cemented plans for escape. She would not fall victim to his tricks nor would she stand unguarded against his schemes any longer. She would use his name, but it would not define the terms between them—it changed nothing. Unless it allows me privileges that might prove useful, of course.

And yet, try as she might, she still couldn't deny the irony.

She had finally betrayed his trust... without him ever having actually given it to her.

So it doesn't really count, does it?

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Somehow, as she looked at him lazing contently beside her, under the sun at the edge of the lake, she thought that it did.

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End Note: The Dramione interaction in this chapter reached just under 5,200 words (the total word count was 8,759) and was nearly ten pages! The plot is ever thickening and there is still plenty more mystery, secret plotting, and betrayal to come! Also, has anyone seen the Beauty & the Beast in 3D yet? D: I am dying to go. (Plus, there is a rumor that they are making another rendition of the tale with Emma Watson starring as Belle... what?)

Next Chapter Preview:

"You realize that your words and your actions are totally at odds with one another. Your language is rather cutting, as per usual, but the carelessness with which you have draped yourself over that sofa might lead others to believe that you are not quite as perturbed by my company as you'd like to appear."

"I have always been blessed with such talents."

"Draping yourself over parlor room furniture?"

"Granger," he smirked. "I thought we'd agreed that all conversation regarding the deviousness of my wild youth was at an end."

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