Disclaimer: Nope, nothing belongs to me but to J.K. Rowling.

Pairing(s): Draco/Hermione, Harry/Pansy

Rating: R

Part: 1?

Dedication:To Priya, my partner in crime.

Demons

Greater than the death of flesh is the death of hope, the death of dreams.

Babylon 5

Hermione Granger is tired and aching, her sprained ankle is acting up again and her entire body feels as if it were one big throbbing bruise. But it is war, she reminds herself constantly, and in war there is no cause for complaints. None whatsoever. She has learned that the hard way, on one too many occasions.

With the tip of her wand lightened by Lumos, she limps down the squeaky corridor of the second floor at 12 Grimmauld Place, to check on the casualties. That is the role she has been reduced to ever since her 'incident' during a raid a couple of weeks ago: the nurse. An errant Cruciatus curse and a shove in the wrong direction and she is Florence fucking Nightingale.

"See to it that you improve your bedside manner, Miss Granger," Snape had silkily informed her before dashing off to save the world.

It isn't as if she is whining. She has a very important job: the most important one of all: she is, after all, tending to an injured Boy Who Lived. An injured, angry, thought-he-was-entitled-to-everything-because-he-was-who-he-was, ungrateful sonofabitch. As the wave of rage washes over her and recedes, she feels a twinge of guilt and remorse at her thought process. Guilt for obvious reasons: Harry Potter is the hero of The Second War of the Light.

Remorse, because at one time Harry Potter had been her best friend.

She hates that circumstance and death and the foul smelling everything of a tragic battle that could - and would, as Dumbledore had sadly informed her - get a lot worse before it got better has erected an unyielding wall between Harry and her. One that neither one is willing to take the first crack at. Or perhaps, because there is simply no time. Of course, there are more important things to worry about than the crumbling relationship of a couple of eighteen year olds.

And maybe, the wayward thought enters her mind hopelessly, maybe there isn't anything worth saving anymore.

As she nears Harry's – once Sirius's – room, a noise alerts her and she grasps her wand tighter, ready for whatever has caused the cackling sound from within the room. She wonders, fleetingly, if the worry she feels is for a boy she has loved since they were eleven or for the fate of the world if something were ever to happen to the great Harry Potter. The war for the cause of Light would be over.

The thought has her fighting back tears.

When she pushes open the door, she sees Harry lying pallid on his bed and hears a low murmuring from somewhere next to him. She can't see anyone else in the room but the voice sounds female and slightly familiar. The intruder is using some kind of invisibility charm, she thinks quickly. Taking a deep breath, she calls out, "Who's there?"

The murmuring stops abruptly and Hermione hears a rustle before Pansy Parkinson's head appears to float over the wooden chair next to Harry's bed. "It's me, Granger."

Harry's Invisibility Cloak; Pansy has his cloak. Swallowing past the lump in her throat, she manages to speak evenly. "Parkinson. Did you Apparate?"

Even in the dim light of her wand, Hermione can see Pansy wince. Sighing, the raven-haired girl casts the sleeping boy a thoughtful, sad glance. "I risked it, I know. I just wanted to..."

"It's okay," Hermione replies shortly even as she really wishes to yell at this girl, this Slytherin, to leave, to stop coming here to see him, to be so close to him, know him, love him like he has always wanted to be loved when she hasn't been there, not from the beginning, not since their first train ride to Hogwarts eight years ago.

Hermione resents Pansy, because this girl who has captured the heart of her best friend can't even be here now, completely, with his demons chasing him, in the middle of the ugliness surrounding them. Whatever it is they are. Hermione doesn't know – or care to know – the details of their relationship.

"Is he any better?"

"No," she replies, quietly, staring at her Harry and ignoring the underlying fear in the other girl's voice, the sheer anguish. "He sleeps, mostly."

Pansy nods, her expression that of someone trying to be brave in the face of adversity. Hermione wants to laugh at this. But instead, she casts eyes toward the floor as Pansy brushes Harry's hair, that ridiculously unkempt hair, and The Boy Who Lived stirs, as if woken by a magical kiss in a Muggle fairytale.

"Hello Potter," she hears Pansy greet him as she turns to leave the room and despite the neutral use of his last name, Hermione is sure that Harry's smiling at her as if they weren't in the middle of total and utter chaos.

& -

The house is quiet, a few candles are burning and the fire is cackling as Draco creeps through Grimmauld Place, stopping briefly to count the casualties. There have been ten more beds added since the last time he was here, twelve hours ago. He thinks he recognizes a Ravenclaw from his class in the corner, snoring blissfully, pale and bruised.

He feels her come into the room before he sees her and turns quietly, hoping she hasn't noticed him yet. She hasn't so he takes this time to take in her appearance. Her hair, as always, is a mess, her robe disheveled and old. He can see she's wearing Muggle jeans and a thin white t-shirt under it. Her ankle is still slightly sprained as she hops around on it and he wonders why no one in this damn place will stop a minute and heal it for her.

He knows she won't do it herself. Not this Granger. Not the one after the start of the Second War.

There are dark smudges under her eyes and an ugly bruise on her cheek and he knows the demons that haunt her are slowly chipping away at her battered soul.

"Granger," he calls out softly, knowing he can't keep staring at her.

She looks up and he waits for something, anything, to come into her eyes when she sees him but instead, her expression is bland, her eyes unreadable. "Why do you Slytherins keep dropping in here?"

He arches an eyebrow. Pansy must be here, he realizes a little disgusted. Come to see her fallen lover, the unbelievably silly bint. He makes a mental note to deal with her later, remind her why she cannot just Apparate into the 'enemy' camp when she could so easily be tailed, when Voldemort is just waiting and expecting for disloyal servants to sacrifice. It was only a matter of time, that unpredictable ticking of the clock, before your demons caught up with you and Pansy had yet to learn that.

Looking at Granger, he replies, snottily, "Maybe if you Gryffindors would stop getting yourselves killed, we wouldn't have to do the dirty work for you, Princess."

These words are weapons (blunt, dull, meaningless weapons): they address each other using old house rivalries, which at this point mean nothing. It's easier this way, he tells himself. We can reduce the war; simplify the separation of our world into familiar terms: the serpent versus the lion. Neither of them will have to deal with the reality, the unexplainable.

And there it is, the anger, brimming under her skin, turning those eyes dark, almost amber. He thrives on that anger; relishes in the power of the violent reaction he causes within her when nothing (it seems like nothing) can make her feel much of anything anymore.

Not even when she's under him, scratching at his back, bucking her hips against his and moaning out his name (Malfoy, oh Merlin, faster…), not even then, does the same beautiful fury unfurl across her face as it does right now.

"Is there something you wanted, Malfoy?" she asks, rather primly and folds her arms under her bust, pushing her breasts against the bodice of her tank top.

Oh yes, he wants to say as his fingers itch to grab her, to pull her towards him but he resists, for reasons he knows will upset her. "Snape. Is he here?"

Granger scowls. "He hasn't returned."

"Dumbledore, then."

"Whatever it is, you can tell me," she replies, a little shrilly, the Hogwarts know-it-all shining through for a moment. "I'll pass along any information."

"I am under strict…orders," he tells her, firmly and doesn't wince at the choice of his words. Malfoys don't take orders, he can hear his father saying, the fucking hypocrite.

Her hands fly to her hips and she glares at him, the rage blazing in her eyes. "Orders from whom, Malfoy? I'm still a little hazy as to whom you take orders from. How long do you think you'll last out there Malfoy, walking both sides of the line?"

"I'm doing a perfectly fine job so far," he sneers, rising to the bait.

"Bastard," she bites out, coming closer so there's only a step between them. "You fucking hypocrite. You're either with us or against us, Draco. You can't fling curses at us one day and then come here trying to help the next. Pick a fucking side, you coward."

He grabs her then, digging his fingers into her upper arms and bringing her body flush against his so her mouth (that vile, pretty little mouth) is inches from his own. His voice is low, dangerously calm, and he is satisfied to see the fear in his eyes. "Fight me and fuck me, Granger, but don't ever call me a coward, again."

His mouth crashes on hers, punishing and brutal, their teeth clash together as his tongue slips into her mouth, demanding. She's resisting, her body is stiff and arms are still captive in his grasp but he knows her eyes are closed and she's letting him kiss her, letting him invade whatever part of her he chooses. He releases the death grip on her arms and now his hands tangle in her hair, fisting them around the curls and he plunges deeper, demands more.

Draco wants nothing more than to throw her against a wall, unzip her jeans and punish her for her words, for her audacity.

After an eternity, he pulls away to see her face flushed, her eyes closed and lips parted and swollen. Now, he wants (more than anything - the sheer urge shocks him), to gently run his thumb across that lower lip, to softly stroke her cheek.

So he lets her go.

"Something's coming up, Granger," he tells her quietly. "Something bigger than any one person in this War."

"Why are you telling me this?" Her voice is childlike, brittle, the fight drained from her by his kiss.

"I don't know." It is the most honest he's ever been with her. "I must speak to Dumbledore."

She nods. "You know where to find him."

He turns away, heading for the back of the house, where Dumbledore has set up his office and then turns back to Granger, who is staring in the same spot, hugging herself from some invisible cold breeze. She looks at him, waiting for his parting words and he wants to tell her he might not make it out of this war alive; that he's not a coward and he doesn't want to be a hero.

He knows he might never see her again.

"Tell Potter it's not over. Not by a long shot."

To be continued…