Upon his reflection Draco Malfoy observed an expression unlike any other. Within the expression were traces of vague characteristics that once defined him; an inner identity that now withered away steadily, until the coldness that lingered in his very stare was not a cunning façade, but testimony to his soul. A great deal of time had passed since last he indulged in narcissism, for he found that its wonders ceased. Instead he took comfort in the bleak oblivion; an unwavering truth on which he could always rely.

What breathed beyond the window ledge- a mild October day, full of sunlight, but absent was the warmth- mattered little. Likewise irrelevant were the machinations of those with him in the library. All that struck him, consumed him, was the truth; for those other things were illusionary, reminiscent of reality but deceitful all the same. It was indeed disquieting, but it told him the very thing he longed to hear.

Life was wretched.

Crude as it was, an expression of distaste towards existence itself, it reminded him of what was lost. What once existed in the heart-shaped void which weighed heavy on his bosom. He sought to strike a chord, to awake what was once consciousness. Its mutilation all but eternal, what faith he had left reserved for its restoration.

"What am I doing here?" Draco sighed his frustration, his voice overwhelmingly weary.

"Hold that thought," Blaise Zabini muttered back.

The furious scratching of Zabini's quill pervaded the stillness about him, stirring his focus from the criss-cross pattern of varnished wood intersecting through the window pane and bringing him down to earth. Draco wasn't one to flatter another, unless that person was outspoken in their own appreciation for him. Still, one thing could be said for Zabini; he was always there when you needed him, and often when you didn't.

In years gone by they had shared an amiable acquaintance. Greeting one another in the corridor, sharing the odd game of Wizard chess in the common room, but never had they been particularly great friends. That changed after the War, when certain events forced him to rethink existing relationships.

Crabbe, Goyle and Nott each served as a reminder of the atrocities committed before his very eyes. Zabini had been there, amongst the Death Eater ranks, but obligation, and not desire, governed him. The other three held an unwavering belief in their cause, and despite their redemption and readmission into Hogwarts, they were anything but rehabilitated men. There were others to whom he was perhaps tied, but no longer did he give them time of day.

What Zabini provided, in his capacity as a friend, was intelligent conversation, crucial to restoring an ailing psyche to its former glory. No longer could he rely solely on the confines of his own mind when manoeuvring life's many obstacles. He needed outside help, dictation, in order to overcome that which he once shrugged off with supercilious ease.

His helplessness stemmed not from a lack of intellect, or even understanding. When he searched his mind for answers to questions that exhausted the forefront of his thought process, he felt a great loss, a numbness, and the silence pained him. There was a time when he received answers to his questions- bloody good ones, too- and the natural progression helped him to avoid relying on others.

Suddenly he had developed into not much more than an emotionally crippled teenager, who without someone to lean upon would literally crumble under a non-existent- but nevertheless prevalent- weight upon his shoulders. It sickened him, literally, to acknowledge something so degrading, but Zabini was a bastion of strength when he needed one most.

Before he knew it, Zabini was stood by his side, and he too feigned an interest in the outside view.

"You alright, mate?" Blaise asked delicately, and Draco had to wonder more so about his own diminishing vigor. "You look a little lost."

"Do I?"

"Like you're somewhere else entirely," Blaise shrugged.

"Blaise-" Draco paused, turning to look his obliging friend in the eye. "Are you of the school of thought that when cornered, stuck in a dire situation, you're justified to initiate resolution, no matter cause or effect?"

Blaise raised an inquisitive eyebrow.

"Or-" Draco continued. "Do you think sometimes fate just has it in for us?"

"You're being vague, Draco. And you needn't be so hypothetical; it's not like I don't know who you're talking about. If you want help, you're going to have to elaborate."

Draco half-smiled, "The little I do know isn't worth elaborating upon."

Draco turned away from Blaise, the boy's blithe expression doing little to dampen his own foul mood. There were children, first or second years, playing out by the lake. Chasing after each other like headless chickens. His own first year seemed like a painful, distant scar; a wound he could touch, perhaps even still feel, and yet he was unable to fully revisit the anguish in effect. Draco truly was numb.

The smile, the smirk, the grin- whatever chirpy expression pulled at the corner of Blaise's lips- was much like a rich man waiving his fine robes and vast wealth before the face of a considerably poorer fellow. And that was a scenario to which Draco was no stranger. But back then just the thought of it had brought him great pleasure. Now not even the act itself, or the crestfallen look upon Ron Weasley's face, was enough to lull him out of despondency.

Not a semblance of what once was remained. Whereas before apathy had been his intention, it was now a force of nature governing his every move. It was a great deal more disturbing when thrust upon you than it was as a means to an end. The time he'd spent massacring his innate empathy now seemed in vain. By fate's hand, he had become the very man he strived to be; only now that he had looked long and hard into the very depths of his soul the prospect didn't seem quite enthralling.

Killing his conscious had wide-ranging ramifications. Gone was his ruthlessness, his snide, his contempt, for now he had no vicinity into which he could cordon off his inhibitions. Reflection upon adversity left him staring into the proverbial abyss, forced to watch as it consumed his best and his worst, until all that was left was the handsome shell of a man still wandering the halls late at night, searching down dark, forgotten corridors for answers to questions that had long since passed his memory by.

The loss explained his habitually absent mind, for it instigated deliberation that without just cause would likely never end. It was the reason behind Blaise's pointed stare, his slanting eyes drawing out of Draco's expression any tangible manifestation of sentiment.

"Did you say something?" Draco stifled a yawn.

"You ought to get some sleep, Draco. Honestly, you look like shit."

"Pansy keeps trying to have sex with me," said Draco, as if the otherwise pleasant conversation had somehow been leading towards his impulsive remark.

Not often did they talk about their respective love lives, for they were both far too refined; on the rare occasions in which they did, it was Blaise who broached the subject. It was out of character, meaning Draco sought anything but a reaffirming pat on the back.

"And she gets terribly upset when I refuse," Draco continued, taking Blaise's silence as his cue. "I don't like to see her cry, nor can I bear being solely responsible; but I just can't do it. Merlin knows my libido is screaming for me to relent, but I just can't look at her like that anymore. I don't see anything worth saving."

"You'll be alright, mate," Blaise reassured, striving to compensate for his own ignorance with broad statements that might somehow suffice. "She'll be alright, too. Just give her time. She needs to adjust, and I'm sure that would be a lot easier to live with if it didn't mean losing you-"

"She's not losing me," Draco interrupted. "She really isn't. I'm still her friend, and I'm not going anywhere."

"Pansy misses you, mate. And you can't blame her."

"I think she sees that I'm miserable, and wants to help," Draco sighed. "And you know what women are like. Just because you enjoy sex it's suddenly the only thing on your mind. That's not to say I didn't once exploit her nymphomania; not at all. It got me through sixth year. But too much has changed to go back to the way things were."

For the next few moments they shared only silence, and the insipid view out onto the castle grounds below. Nothing was right, and nothing was wrong. Existence ebbed and flowed all around them and yet they- or Draco, at least- felt static amongst it all. Time ticked on, though, and the moment inevitably had to end.

"It's getting on a bit, Draco," Blaise turned his slanting eyes on his friend. "Maybe we should head down to dinner."

The corner of Draco's mouth twitched ever so slightly, a rare indication as to what lay beneath his apathetic façade. "To be honest, I was expecting you to press the matter regarding my resolution. Was your interest not sufficiently piqued?"

Blaise saw and acknowledged the blatant prompt. He knew Draco far too well to ignore the hint of buoyancy behind his otherwise cold grey eyes.

"So then, enlighten me," Blaise smirked. "What resolution do you have in mind?"

"As we speak I'm still thinking it through, so don't do what you always do and jump to any rush and unfounded conclusions."

"I wouldn't dream of it."

Draco rolled his eyes, "First let me say that yes, this plan is nonsensical, but I think that's why it'll work. It all starts with me propositioning the girl sitting by Madame Pince's desk; front and center."

Blaise cocked an eyebrow, before scanning the library for the young lady fitting Draco's description. It took a moment, and when he turned back his eyes were wide like saucers; an expression of surprise that didn't particularly suit his elegant features. "The Mudblood?! Merlin, Draco, you don't still have a thing for her, do you? That's revolting."

"Fuck off, Blaise," said Draco seriously, a harshness to his typically silky tone. His lidded eyes moved to face forward, away from his friends reproachful gaze. "For starters, it was one comment, one time. I said she was mildly attractive. And I said it in confidence. I also said that no matter my physical attraction, I wouldn't touch her if she was the last woman alive. I do not have a thing for her. I was just having an off day."

"You seem to be having an awful lot of those lately," Blaise grinned, though his mirth failed to rub off on Draco, who turned to look at him, teeth grinding together in an ugly fashion.

"You want to be funny, do you, Blaise? Now really isn't the time; but since you seem so adamant, I'm going to do you a favour. I'm going to have a joke at your expense."

"Do your worst," Blaise chuckled, entirely nonchalant. "You've got nothing."

"Had any interesting thoughts about Ginny Weasley, lately?"

The joke wasn't intended to elicit laughter, and nor did it. Blaise now matched Draco's sour look with one of his own and uncomfortable silence followed soon after. Blaise, unwilling to be bested without putting up a fight, forced a smirk onto his handsome face and narrowed his eyes. "Blood traitor trumps Mudblood, Malfoy, and even you can't argue that."

Draco allowed ample time to pass between Blaise's response and his own, so as to project an air of indifference, "Perhaps not, Zabini. But remember, two wrongs don't make a right; and so while I may be ashamed of myself, you still have no excuse."

Blaise pondered the remark, and then decided against a retort; realizing, as Draco knew he would, who it was that always came out on top when they chose to verbally joust. And Blaise's ego really didn't need bruising. Not after last time.

"So, are you going to continue?" Blaise murmured. "Or have I hurt your feelings?"

Suddenly, something rather disturbing occurred to him, and as he surveyed his friend's placid expression he had to wonder. "You're not going to ask her to go to bed with you?!" Blaise exclaimed incredulously. "Surely not, Draco!"

Draco gave a dismissive nod of this head, "Nothing like that."

Though much had changed recently, Draco still relied on flippancy to circumvent subject-matter with which he wasn't entirely comfortable. Blaise's unasked question therefore went unanswered, and he knew better than to press the issue. Soon things would become clear, and patience was a virtue.

"Hungry?"

--- --- --- --- --- --- --- --- --- --- --- --- --- ---

It was the last day of what was turning out to be one of the most superlative weeks of Hermione Granger's eighteen year lifespan. Meer words fell short of describing the sheer euphoria that for the last seven days had been coursing through her. Every little thing brought a smile to her lips, and in the eyes of others she saw unimaginable potential.

The second Great Wizarding War was at long last over and her friends and family had emerged from the conflict relatively unscathed, ready for progress, social evolution and the proverbial 'fresh start'. The really wonderful thing though, the icing on the cake, was that they were back at Hogwarts for what was regrettably their Seventh, and therefore final, year. Any disillusionment that brought about was whitewashed over by the honour of being made Head Girl, because with that wonderful distinction came a realization a long time in the making.

Life was glorious.

Even Harry and Ron had decided to come back to finish their schooling. Their aversion to academia notwithstanding, Hermione had fully expected them to take the year off and enjoy a deserved respite after having helped save the world. Perhaps they just wanted to get their final year out of the way. As far as Hermione was concerned the reasoning was irrelevant. She was back. Her two best friends were back. And for once they had the opportunity to have a normal year at Hogwarts.

Both Harry and Ron had already scoffed at the prospect of normality, though Hermione had a feeling that Harry was perhaps rather relieved, and might just have been putting on a show for Ron by expressing his disappointment. The Boy Who Lived had endured more in seventeen years than most would in an entire lifetime. He deserved a break. He deserved to live a normal life. But most importantly of all, as far as Hermione was concerned, he deserved his happiness.

Watching Harry and Ginny Weasel make eyes at each other- while engaging in a clandestine game of footsie beneath the table- was not only indicative of his burgeoning happiness, but also apparently the reason as to why he returned for his Seventh year. Hermione was perhaps slightly envious of what they had, but not so envious that it didn't bring about a goofy grin. It was incredibly sweet.

"How can you be smiling?" Ron muttered irritably, averting his gaze from the nauseating sight playing out before his eyes. "Those two are disgusting."

Hermione sighed, "Trust you to say something like that, Ronald. I mean, it's not like you and Lavender aren't shoving your tongues down each others throats at every opportunity."

And on that note, Hermione was rather relieved her dorm mate couldn't make it with them to the Great Hall. If she had to hear all about 'Won-Won' once more- just once more- she was going to snap. What made it worse was that not so long ago she only had to put up with that simpering girl sporadically, and that she could just about stomach. Having her follow them round on a daily basis- like an inbred runt at its master's heel- really tried her patience.

Ron's friendship though meant the world to her, and the last thing she wanted to do was fall out with him over his relationship. Just like Harry, Ron deserved his happiness. And if Lavender Brown was the one to bring that about then so be it. So what if Lavender was a nitwit? It was Ron's mistake to make.

Hermione thought she heard Ron mumble the word jealous under his breath, but was in such a delightful mood that she decided she must have misheard him. Such preposterous notions were better left ignored, anyway, because the last thing she wanted was to either dignify or validate his narcissistic delusions.

If she was jealous of anything it was what the union they shared; though perhaps her envy was more appropriately directed towards Harry and Ginny. While it wasn't in her nature to crave such things, she was still rather idealistic, and she desired some sort of companion; a person into whose eyes she could look for eternal affirmation.

As spiteful as it sounded, Hermione was yet to observe the existence of such a quality between Ron and Lavender. Their relationship seemed more physical than anything else. Far be it from her to appoint herself moral arbitrator, but wasn't there more to it than that? How could affection, adoration, be whittled down to such rudimentary means and motives? If that was all there was to it then truly what was the point?

Hermione sighed dramatically, in what was a half-hearted attempt to jar herself free of her daydream. At that moment in time she needed neither answers nor the headache that would come about through contemplation. What she did need was to get away from Ron before she said- or did- something she might later regret.

She shot a faint smile towards Harry and Ginny, and that was they all they needed to understand the where and why of her rather abrupt exit. Ron, on the other hand, was caught between indignation and smug self-satisfaction; such was the obligatory distraction Hermione seemed to bring about in the redheaded boy. She was happy leaving him to it.

Hermione rushed out of the Great Hall, only to find that the silence and shadows of the hallway did little to quell her impending tears. What was a wonderful life and a wonderful day had quickly been ruined by inquiry into the unknown. Her overt awareness of life's inadequacies sent her once more over the proverbial edge.

Hermione was some way off breaking down and becoming a sobbing mess. Her eyes were barely damp, and it would've taken a keen eye to even discern her distress, yet it was there all the same. What mattered, at that moment in time, was her own perception. She might be able to conceal from the rest of the world what resided within, but that didn't make it go away. Burying it deep down in her subconscious meant only one thing; in her darkest moment the sorrow would consume her, and she would drown in a deep sea of self-loathing.

The library was always a good place to be in such times; quiet, dim, and all but empty. Those that did still dwell- for most people had long since given up on academia for the day- tended to keep to themselves. If someone saw fit to waste away their evening in a place of study then it was quite unlikely they would seek to prolong the unfortunate misuse of their personal time.

Hermione ignored Madam Pince upon entry, choosing instead to head straight towards her favourite corner of the library, pluck from her bag the first book that came to hand and then pretend like she was even remotely interested in its contents. Bleary eyes made reading somewhat problematic, and she was in no mood to add curriculum to her already ample woes.

For the next half an hour or so she was aware only of the table top before her; such was her desire for calm that she had allowed her focus to be consumed by a flat sheet of varnished wood. She desperately needed to snap out of her slump, but for the life of her couldn't. Any desire she had to walk away from her misery was overwhelmed by what it was that had brought her into her predicament in the first place.

"Granger?"

Her name, and the questioning tone with which it was pronounced, drew her focus from her thoughts and towards her surroundings. Her eyes- tired from staring out into space- scanned the immediate area. Fright threatened her already fragile subconscious.

"Show yourself," Hermione murmured breathlessly, her face pulled into a tense frown as she anxiously fingered the handle of her wand.

Draco Malfoy stepped out from behind a nearby bookshelf, slinking through the shadows and into the dim illumination afforded by a nearby window. Somehow Hermione had failed to notice it before but the window had been left ajar, and the cool evening breeze sent shivers down her spine.

"Oh," Hermione sighed irritably. "It's only you."

"Wonderful to see you too, Granger," Draco sneered.

Their eyes met across the distance, and mutual loathing burned brightest. Hermione had thought the prospect of her day getting any worse impossible. Draco Malfoy proved her wrong.

"What do you want?" said Hermione, returning to her seat and pocketing her wand. "Don't tell me this is how you get off; sneaking up on people at the backend of the library. That's low, Malfoy. Even for you."

Draco's jaw hardened in an ugly fashion that didn't much suit his pale, pointed features, "And I'm supposed to be the bully? You're going on the defensive before I've even started attacking you."

"Old habits die hard. I thought I'd get a few shots in before you started your usual Mudblood-inferiority diatribe."

"Did you now…" Malfoy drawled, staring down at her from his vantage point.

"So what's this about?" Hermione snapped. "I know that if you wanted a fight you would have started one by now; and arguments are the only thing we ever share."

"I need…" Draco paused, sensing a stutter, and quickly composed himself. "I need a favour."

Hermione's expression turned placid. A moment was required to process those words- out of his mouth- directed at her. Suddenly it seemed like a bad dream. So she did what came naturally. She laughed. Not in a jovial manner, though. Not the kind of laugh she shared with Harry and Ron. It was a somewhat spiteful gesture, entirely mirthless; intended not to convey amusement, but to belittle Malfoy.

To his credit, he didn't look as pissed off as the heat rising behind his ears suggested he was. Long since a master of his emotions, Draco managed to suppress his burgeoning fury and play the situation out as if it were all going according to plan.

When Draco didn't reply with a sarcastic remark, a sneer or a smirk- three things which she always expected of him- Hermione's jaw seemed to drop. Surely he wasn't serious?

"Malfoy, I haven't got time for your silly little games. Leave me alone."

"Don't tell me you need to return your attention to that book of yours…" at this Draco did smirk, though the expression stemmed no further than his lips, his glare still unnervingly cold and muted.

Hermione smiled condescendingly, nodded and then lifted the book she still clutched in her hands up before her face, desperate to sever eye-contact. He may have been more smoke and mirrors than anything else, but he was intimidating all the same. The way his shoulders were set in an even line, his stance a perfect illustration of etiquette, revealed a great deal more than she desired to witness.

"Actually, Malfoy, that's exactly what I need to do."

Hermione's smug grin lasted but a few seconds, and soon realization forced her eyes to shut tight, the fury of being bettered overshadowed only by the knowledge that her defeat came via Draco Malfoy's hand.

"Knowing your track record, a Potions textbook might be considered a good read. But an upside down Potions textbook? Well, that's stretching it a little."

Hermione slammed the book down so hard on the table top that the entire desk rattled, "Okay, you got me. I wasn't really reading. Big deal. Now bugger off."

Draco had to suppress his amusement, "Well then that forms the basis for my next question, Granger. Why is it that someone pretends to read? Furthermore, how is it that someone is so distracted that they fail to notice that what it is they are pretending to read is upside down? Myself, I have a keen eye for details."

Hermione wondered, given the company, why on earth she decided to pocket her wand.

"You're such a git, Malfoy."

"And you're an insufferable know-it-all, Granger. We all have our flaws."

Hermione frowned, "Yes, but most of us have qualities that compensate. Your flaws, on the other hand, are beyond compensation."

Draco conceded defeat with a slight smile, and took the seat across from Granger. She looked dumbfounded.

"About that favour…"

"There is nothing I would ever do to help you, Malfoy. Nothing."

"Ah, but you don't know what it is I'm going to ask you yet," said Draco assuredly.

Hermione scrutinized him from across the table, mulling over in her head all manner of insane propositions. Only one thing came readily to mind, and that didn't bear thinking about.

"I'm not going to have sex with you!" Hermione huffed indignantly. "Nor would I if you gave me all the galleons in the world."

Draco chuckled dryly, "That wasn't what I had in mind. I assure you."

What started out as exasperation quickly turned into curiosity. It was now apparent that if Malfoy was playing a game then it was rather well thought out, and perhaps she could forgive herself for indulging his whim. When Malfoy hesitated, Hermione allowed her inquisitive nature to get the better of her, and she edged in closer.

"Okay then, Malfoy. I'll play a long. What favour did you have in mind?"

If Hermione didn't know better then she could have sworn that for a moment Malfoy's eyes lit up, alight with an emotion not befitting the cold, gray of his eyes. Upon second glance, it was gone, and the boy before her looked much like he always did; supercilious and indifferent. Still, he shifted, and sat a little straighter in his seat as he scanned the immediate area. When their privacy was assured, he turned to face her once more.

"I want you to hit me, Granger. I want you to hit me as hard as you can."