However, it seemed that even the fire loved toying with her emotions, as it spread further toward her, engulfing the chair directly at her front, thus sending the book an even greater distance from her.

Hermione jumped back, finally yanking her hand from the burning embers, but only for a second; she instantaneously moved to the side and forced it into the source of heat again, not even flinching at the unbearable pain it was sure to have caused.

Knowing full well that there was an exact spell for such a growth, he peered around at each of his housemates; his eyes narrowed when he saw Pansy glowering triumphantly at Hermione, her face one of sick pleasure as her wand was balanced between the index fingers of both hands.

He hand no idea why he was glaring; he hadn't even noticed he was until Pansy had caught his gaze and looked at him questioningly.

He shook his head and smiled approvingly, though he could feel that it was faux; Pansy bought it, however, and slipped her wand back into the pocket of the blue spring dress she'd put on because of the lack of classes.

What was coming over him so abruptly? He couldn't comprehend why he was suddenly disapproving of something he had started, or why he was feeling sympathy for the Mudblood, rather than excitement that she was most likely going to lose her arm?!

He honestly wasn't accustomed to the first emotion in the least, not in any form whatsoever; he had felt pain, disappointment, anguish, had cried a few secret tears, happiness, victory, and a range of other various emotions, though the good majority were from the negative side… But he had never in his life experienced sympathy, and for another person…it was absurd! What would his Father say?

It was unknown to him why he was unexpectedly feeling doubt, but for some reason, while one side of him said to resist the temptation of defying his Fatherjust once, another reminded that he'd never really felt what it was to live, and that part of living was to be his own person.

As the second realization came to mind and penetrated his heart, he, for the first time, felt hot water droplets forming in his eyes, his mouth open slightly in shock, as he thought back on his fifteen years.

His Father…his Father treated him like a son, yes, but merely enough so that 'common people', as his Father called them, would not become concerned for the boy's health.

Their reason for possibly being disconcerted was how he was treated at home, and elsewhere; he knew about his Father's past, though he had only been told the truth just before school started, but already it was beginning to affect him. Unbeknownst to him until recently, he had been trained since near birth to someday join Voldemort's legion of Death Eaters, and when he did, his top priority would be to kill one boy, and one boy only: Harry Potter.

When…that is what had unnerved Malfoy the most about anything his parents had told him; when and if he became a Death Eater would have been a more comforting phrase. But, according to his Father, and the sharp slap he had received when questioning it, there was no way out of joining his line; even in death itself, the Dark Lord was faithfully rumored to find you.

If he were to be completely and undeniably honest with himself, he would have never spoken to his Mother or Father again from that point on, moved out, and started over by first becoming friends with Harry, Hermione, the Weasels, Longbottom, and even that Loony girl. He definitely would have, had he not been born to the most traitorous, manipulative parents on earth.

In truth, it was such a desolate time for the Wizarding world, what with the debate over Potter's stores being worthless lies or the glory-held truth going on, along with other misfortunes springing up everywhere, that Draco sometimes forgot what school held for him: a chance to get away from the oppression and unwanted future that awaited him each time he returned home.

Each holiday, the Hogwarts Express would transport him home, only to have himself faced with grueling lessons from his Father, different sorts from his Mother, and sometimes, Bellatrix Lestrange would introduce and train the boy to use her most horrible techniques.

He swore on his life that he'd never use any of the Unforgivables on another human, or creature, for that matter, if the only reason being he saw them as limitlessly barbaric, and they had, on a few rare occasions, made him relive his meals.

There was no way he'd have told anyone even a smidgen of this information, though; if anyone had found out, He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named himself would steal into their residence and kill his parents one by one, slowly and painfully, right in front of him.

No matter how much he hated his parents, they had given him a home and allowed him to go to Hogwarts, which, even if they didn't know it, was his secret retreat from all that he had been born into; thus, he wouldn't allow them to be sacrificed simply for his lack of love for them.

Through all that he had been cursed to witness and live with, he hadn't realized what it was to wear a kind smile, a compassionate, warm smile to anyone, or feel what it brought along.

But now, as he became aware that the girl was once again meters from the book, her lower arm just beginning to suffer the same damage as her barely recognizable hand, he arrived at the conclusion that it was high time he had.

A warm feeling crept its way into the pit of his stomach that soon branched out to the rest of his body, and there was not a single moment of hesitation from his lips as he finally smiled.

A/N: It's a bit shorter than I had planned, but I thought this would be a good place for a pause. Please review! Thank you!