DISCLAIMER: In its use of intellectual property and characters belonging to J.K. Rowling, Warner Bros., Bloomsbury Publishing, et cetera, this work is intended to be transformative commentary on the original. No profit is being made from this work.

BETA READERS: Bex-chan, silverbluewords

WARNINGS: Mild violence, non-con/rape, psychological trauma, strong profanity, and unresolved sexual tension.

CHAPTER ONE: FIRE & ICE

Some say the world will end in fire,

Some say in ice.

From what I've tasted of desire

I hold with those who favor fire.

But if it had to perish twice,

I think I know enough of hate

To say that for destruction ice

Is also great

And would suffice.

—Robert Frost (New Hampshire, 1923)

So cold… The numbness comforted him in an odd way. He could lie here for all eternity and never wake up again. The nothingness anchored him to the stony foundation with its chilling embrace. And yet, within this nothingness, more existed for him here than there ever did in life.

Beside him laid the absence of fear, and the slackening of its possessive, indelible grip upon his left forearm. The absence of guilt and sorrow for all the lives he planned to take, merely to extend his own miserable existence. The absence of staggering expectations that forced his crippled spirit to its knees every time he tried to rise to them. The absence of the traitorous, sudden movements of the only thing that kept him alive and pulsated with purpose. He filled the hollow shell of his surroundings with nothingness, finding solace in the sheer absence of it all.

Somewhere, on the edge of his drifting consciousness, he registered the faint trills of an eerily familiar voice calling out to him. Not yet ready to awaken and surrender to another day of cruel reality, he paid it no heed. Nothing remained for him out there. In darkness, he forever longed to stay, lost in dreamless slumber and the shadow of the beyond.

The voice faded away as he retreated deeper into his self-constructed refuge. He felt himself relax with the elation of his short-lived triumph; it freed him from the confines of the physical world, and at long last, he floated away, sinking down into the depths of uncharted waters through which no one could follow.

The voice apparently had other plans. It redoubled its efforts to drag him back into the mortal realm, its blatant persistence stirring the first torrents of an aggravated tempest into life. Actual, coherent words thundered across grey skies, halting his voyage towards the ultimate rest in peace.

Malfoy?

...

Malfoy!

...

MALFOY!

...

Great Godric, of all the times for you to finally shut your stupid mouth…

...

GET UP, YOU USELESS GIT!

Lightning struck the side of his face, blinding him with brilliant, searing pain and jolting him back into the very reality that he had longed so fervently to escape.

"BLOODY HELL!" he roared, his hands flying to the inflamed skin, singed with the imprint of a petite and particularly bold hand. The sheer audacity! Bloodlust boiled and rushed through his system, his eyes ripping open with murderous intent.

Immediately, his vision watered and blurred, and the world tilted off the edge, hazy and distorted with agonised shock. A gasping sob to his right alerted him to the perpetrator's presence.

"MALFOY! Oh, Merlin, I'm so sorry! I didn't mean to hit you that hard! I just—I mean—I thought—oh, sod it! One minute, I was asleep in my dormitory, then I woke up, I'm here with you, of all people, I haven't the faintest idea how I got here, and y—you were just lying there! I called for help, but no one answered, so I panicked! I didn't know what else to do! I tried to wake you, but you wouldn't even say a word, o—or budge, for Godric's sake, and I was so afraid that—"

"YOU CRAZY BINT!" he snarled, viciously slicing off her inane rambling. "WHAT IN THE BLAZES WERE YOU THINKING? YOU CALL THIS 'WAKING' ME?"

"I'm sorry!" she wailed, wavering on the verge of tears. "I'm so sorry! I don't know what I was thinking! I was so scared that something had happened to you! Oh, Merlin, I can't believe that's the second time I've done that to you!"

Despite her flustered trembling, she took a deep breath, as if bracing for the worst, and proceeded to soothingly pry his hands away from his face. His vehement denial of her pitiful attempts to appease him finally convinced her to give up, instead inspiring her to forcefully pry his hands away from his face. Ignoring his growling protests, she gently feathered over the sting. He cringed at the softness of her skin smoothing against his, so stunned that he nearly forgot all about his need to kill her. Nearly.

Then she started talking again.

"Well, to be perfectly honest, you deserved that first one. That one felt good. Merlin knows you were being such an insufferable prick… Alright, maybe you didn't do anything to deserve it this time, but I had to do something! How else was I supposed to get you to wake up? Honestly, it wasn't like CPR was an option. That would've gotten us both killed, and really, what would be the sense in that? I suppose I could've doused you with water, but Godric forbid, that would ruin your hair, and like the predictable, arrogant ponce you are, you'd be in an even more piss-poor mood," she muttered to herself, clearly more concerned with consoling her own conscience than his. He bristled at that last statement. He prayed to Salazar that his vision cleared up soon, so that he could hex this blithering, unidentified wench into oblivion.

Did she ever stop talking? With that constant, never-ending stream of logorrhoea spewing forth from her bottomless maw, she could go from screaming at him to apologising to him, slapping him to coddling him, and comforting him to insulting him—all in one breath!

And CPR? Never heard of it! The nameless madwoman had probably abbreviated the spell for some sort of dangerous, necromantic reanimation ritual that not only involved the gruesome violation of both the corpse and the spell-caster, but also the unspeakable debasement of several vital bodily functions. What a load of shite! Perhaps it stood for Carcass-Palliating Resurrection, or something equally as disconcerting and distastefully verbose. Honestly, the raving loon just prattled on and on... Merlin's bleeding beard! Did the transgressions never cease? The nerve of this neurotic, mental—wait… Did she say that she'd already slapped him twice?

In that gut-wrenching moment of clarity and dramatic irony, the mud-coloured blob quivering beside him sharpened into focus and he found himself face-to-face with the wide, mud-coloured eyes and bushy, mud-coloured mane of the only mortal that had ever inflicted bodily harm upon his person and lived to tell the tale.

"DON'T TOUCH ME, YOU FILTHY MUDBLOOD!" he bellowed, the cruel slur wrenched from him in a bestial, livid gnashing of his teeth. He savagely shoved her away and leapt to his feet, drawing his wand.

She barely squeaked in surprise as she toppled over, her muddy eyes roiled with indignation at his brutal reaction to her ministrations. It didn't last long. Calmly, she picked herself up, not even bothering to take out her wand, dusted off her prim-and-proper, regulation-length uniform, and crossed her arms as if she really couldn't give a rat's arse.

"Well, then," she mused, the words dripping with sarcasm. "I suppose I owe you another apology, o lord of all prats. I pray that you will find it somewhere in that mouldering, black pit you call a heart to forgive me for being so concerned."

Breathe, Draco. Breathe! He had to remind himself to breathe before he exploded with his own pent-up rage. Only Hermione Granger could remain such a prissy, infuriating know-it-all in the face of imminent death. He tried to think of the most creative way he could torture her and draw out her suffering without causing any excessive bleeding or shedding of any other revolting essence of her abominable existence upon the natural world, finally settling for the trademark Malfoy sneer to buy him some time.

"Save your breath, Mudblood. You're polluting the air that real witches and wizards need to breathe, and your apology's worth about as much as to me as the dirt that clogs your veins."

She hummed with contemptuous mockery. "And here I was, assuming that you didn't even know the meaning of the word. Godric almighty, there might be hope for you yet!"

"Nearly gave myself a right nasty shock there too, I'll admit," he agreed. "It really is more of a Gryffindor's cup of tea, what with bloody heroes from the bloody House of eating rainbows and shitting butterflies, jumping and spying on unsuspecting blokes all the bloody time, but it's alright, at least they apologise after! The House of chivalry indeed! It's no bloody wonder Pothead sleeps so well at night!"

She answered with a simpering, artificially sweetened smirk. "I've always been curious as to why you seem to hate Harry so much, but clearly it's the exact opposite! I mean, going so far as to fantasise about him sleeping at night? Honestly, it explains a lot! You poor, ferret-faced Pygmy Puff, you always were too obsessed for your own good."

Instead of incensing him further, a chill leaked down his spine, freezing his heart in terror, hitting a bit too close to home for his comfort. Not about Potter, of course, but someone else entirely… Someone almost as disturbing. His expression darkened, and the turbulence churning in his stone-cold eyes appeared to quell—the artfully concealed violence reminiscent of the calm before the storm.

"You don't know what you're talking about," he hissed dangerously. "Don't think, even for a second, that you know anything about what I want. You're such a prude; no bloke in his right mind would ever want to shag you. Those wretched sods that you call 'friends' don't even realise that you're a girl!"

She raised an eyebrow. If his spiteful words had somehow managed to wound her, she did not show it. With a fierce glint in her eye, she rose to the challenge.

"Did I hit a nerve there, Malfoy? Excuse me while I try to contemplate the idea of you actually having feelings."

Taken aback and morbidly fascinated by her impressive resilience, he spat back, "Splendid! Seeing as how you don't even have your wand out, I presume that you plan to resort to more uncivilised Muggle tactics in order to vent your frustrations! So, what'll it be, Mudblood? Going to beat the truth out of me using sheer, primal instinct?"

"And you shoving me to the floor like some squeamish ninny is so much more refined," she retorted, not even missing a beat.

His normally handsome, aristocratic features twisted nastily. "Refinement is reserved for real people, not inferior creatures of near-human intelligence. I was merely putting you in your rightful place, which, incidentally, lies at my feet."

"Clearly, you have me confused with some other purebred harlot that will have the misfortune to be chained to you someday. Since you don't have a sister, I assume that this would have to be the next closest relative. Perhaps a cousin?" she shot back, her leer of defiance as condescending as his own.

"Why don't your ask your good friends, the Weasleys? It certainly explains why they always breed more rodents than they can afford," he drawled.

"That all depends. Are you watching? Merlin knows that's the closest you'll ever get to any real action… or a family that actually cares. So, tell me, Malfoy, who are you desperately seeking attention from this time? Poor Ron? Or sweet, innocent Ginny?" she unabashedly jeered back.

His temper finally hit the roof. "I WOULD RATHER DIE, OR WORSE, HAVE HALFBREED SPAWN WITH A MUDBLOOD THAN TOUCH A WEASLEY!"

She sniffed in disdain. "And they say I need to sort out my priorities."

Hovering upon the brink of madness, he abandoned all pretence of composure. "I RECKON I'D DIE ANYWAY, FROM THE GOD-AWFUL INFECTION!"

"Why don't I spare you the agony and reassure you that even if we were the last two people on Earth—" she abruptly broke off, her eyes widening and her complexion visibly blanching. "Oh, Merlin," she gasped, whipping around to survey their surroundings. "Where is everyone?"

With both of them so absorbed in their little spat, neither one of them had given a second thought as to the world around them. They both stood in the Great Hall, at a rare and temporary loss of words, completely and utterly alone.

Taking charge of the situation, Granger bolted out the doors into the entrance hall and dashed off to investigate in the usual Gryffindor fashion, her footsteps leaving him behind and echoing ominously throughout the empty castle.

Draco, still blinking in confusion at the abrupt turn of events, pondered the situation. The enchanted ceiling reflected a snowy, winter sky, blotched with the ink of midnight. Snow? In September? Term hadn't even started, and he couldn't say that he recalled seeing anything peculiar when he'd stepped off the train that night, although truthfully, he did have more pressing matters to mull over at the time than dodgy weather anomalies.

Although the Hall itself appeared deserted, it remained illuminated as if still in use for the daily feasts. How odd. How had the entire castle not overheard the two of them bickering amongst the ricochets of snide remarks, slanderous innuendo, and childish—yet necessary—name-calling that ensued when thusly engaged in a verbal duel to defend one's honour? Not even that Squib and his blighted cat lurked anywhere in sight.

How did he even end up here in the first place? Come to think of it, he vividly recalled retiring to his own quarters in the Slytherin dormitory and reeling at the horrific sight that had greeted him. Pansy had lain sprawled wantonly upon his bed as if she owned it, clad only in a ghastly slapper ensemble at least two sizes too small, her pug face appraising him with a lecherous grin that would deflate a raging hard-on in seconds.

The cooing, the petting, and the occasional grooming he could handle. In fact, on good days, he even relished the attention. But this… This breached a whole new level of overly familiar displays of affection—no, invasion—that he absolutely, and unequivocally, would not tolerate from anyone.

Seething with sickened mortification, he'd booted the minging trollop out of his room, with half a mind to banish her permanently, and cursed the Four Founders for not having the foresight to extend the gender wards to the stairs leading up to the boys' dormitories. Sometimes, even blokes could use some protection from undesirable sexual trauma. Bleeding chauvinists. He had then proceeded to sit on the edge of his newly vindicated bed for more than an hour, struggling to empty his mind of all thought—not to mention the usual bountiful assortment of disturbing images—to ensure the effectiveness of his mental barriers.

Even then, he had still managed to steal away a moment or two to gloat disgustingly over wiping the floor with Potter's ugly, scarred mug earlier that evening, finally drifting off into a fitful sleep, determined not to dream about—

"—ME!" Granger shrieked, bursting back into the Great Hall and nearly causing him to jolt a good five or six centimetres into the air. "This is all part of some dozy, ill-conceived plan to do ME in, isn't it, Malfoy? Me, Harry, and everyone else who's cottoned on to you and your lily-livered attempts at Dark Magic! OUT WITH IT! Where are we? What have you done with my friends? And don't you dare lie to me, you spineless snake—"

He snorted in derision. "If I really wanted you to snuff it, Mudblood, I wouldn't waste my time planning it. I would just…" Here, he trailed off, turning his nose up and slightly off to the side, feigning haughty indifference. "…DO IT!" he finished, snapping his head back and striking without warning.

Granger drew her wand out faster than his eyes could trace the movement and expertly deflected his hastily aimed curse. Of course, he hadn't really aimed to kill, but Merlin knows he just wanted to knock that priggish cow right on her frumpy arse for daring to accuse him of something so ridiculously absurd.

Pegging it faster than his own Head of House when confronted with shampoo, both of them dove off in opposite directions, taking cover behind the nearest inanimate objects and proceeding to hurl jinxes, hexes, and all manner of atrocities at one another—either magical, verbal, or any other feckin' way that worked.

"You unbelievable CRETIN! I defended you against Harry! DEFENDED you! I told my best friend that his buggering 'Malfoy-is-a-Death-Eater' theory was a complete load of rubbish, giving the son of a scum-sucking pig the benefit of the doubt!"

"What in Salazar's name are you going on about? You're the one trying to do me in! You want to see pigs, Mudblood? You should've gone back to that Muggle sty of yours to wallow in the mud with Mummy the Muggle sow when you had the chance!"

As they taunted and snarked at one another, a spectacular spectrum of polychromatic jets flashed and whistled through the air, showering the pristine Hall with sparks and splinters alike. They ducked below tables, laid flat upon the quaking earth, and shot spells from underneath until the weeping wood that housed the fugitives creaked, groaned, and finally shattered under the heavy fire of mutual loathing.

In a noxious bang that reeked worse than a steaming pile of horse shite, one end of the Hufflepuff table completely melted off, dribbling down into an iridescent puddle of goo. A vast improvement, in Draco's opinion. Directly overhead, the chandeliers clinging to the ceiling for dear life lost their will to live and dived off, splashing shards into the drowning chaos below.

The whole place could go to pieces, for all he cared. He had a Mudblood to kill.

"What's the matter, Malfoy? Can't even handle one nasty little Mudblood? Daddy must be so proud! Hell's bells, if the rest of Voldemort's followers are as yellow and incompetent as you, I reckon all I'll have to do is smack the lot of them on their ferrety faces and they'll all go scuttering off with their tails between their legs! You think you're some big, bad Death Eater? Why don't you eat that, you slimy sack of—"

"Is that the best you can do? How fitting, the Muggle-born proposing Muggle methods to vanquish the Dark Lord! Don't make me laugh! Why don't I show you how real wizards get the job done? Dodge that, you barking bitch! What the—HONESTLY! HOW DID THAT MISS? JUST DIE, YOU FECKING MUDBLOOD!"

Granger merely flicked her wrist in response, and Draco barely had time to throw himself to the ground as the spell whizzed overhead, neatly shearing off a few of his hairs, and torched the entire Slytherin table behind him, reducing it into a charred, ashen skeleton of its former glory. In retaliation, he leapt to his feet and furiously summoned a drizzling rainstorm that stamped out the flames and indiscriminately pelted everything in its wake. With a disgruntled huff, Granger immediately switched tactics. She wasted no time in bolstering her defences, and by Salazar, he refused, absolutely REFUSED, to have his fine, pure-blooded arse handed to him by a Muggle-born.

As both combatants lunged in for the finishing blow, only at the last possible second did he finally realise his mistake.

Due to his slightly inordinate modifications to the Aguamenti Charm, he had just unwittingly slicked the way for both of them to slip and fall to the stone floor with a resounding thwack. Together, they winked out, like the last two lights in an empty world of darkness.

For what felt like the second time that blasted evening, Draco bolted upright, jerking into consciousness and shivering in a cold sweat. He shuddered with the intensity of the residual images branded into his lids, hastily rubbing them all away. On the verge of hysteria, his every muscle tensed, lying in wait for the slightest disturbance in the deceptive stillness. Only after verifying the green and silver adornments of his own dormitory did his heretic heart finally relinquish its battering of his insides.

"You alright there, mate?" Blaise Zabini, the quietest, yet most perceptive of his Housemates, had also sat up in bed, peering at him curiously from across the room.

"Yeah, just another bloody nightmare," Draco grumbled, and left it at that. In this House of snakes, he had few friends that he truly considered his equals, but he could hardly divulge the details to Blaise, of all people. Blaise rarely deigned to converse with anyone, but Draco knew that his mate's elitist views rivalled, if not exceeded, his own.

Thus, no one knew, and no would ever know… about the Mudblood that haunted his dreams.

TO BE CONTINUED