Again thanks to everyone who read, reviewed, favourited, put this on an update list. You all seriously rock my world.

Secondly, sorry for the wait. My fourth year project was due, and unfortunately Thesis trumps Fanfiction.

Finally, I own nothing but my mistakes. So don't try and sue me for my spelling errors!

Draco stared at the ceiling. It had hours since he had left Hermione, and now the first rays of the morning sun were creeping around the curtains. He hadn't slept. A million thoughts raced through his head on an endless loop. He had weighed the options and concluded that there were only three possible options:

Tell his Father and proceed to hide in his room until the entire ghastly affair was over.

Ignore the problem and proceed to hide in his room until the entire ghastly affair was over.

Or get her the hell out of here.

He figured option number two wasn't really a viable choice. Tempting as it may be, he didn't think he could ignore Hermione Granger long enough for her to simply vanish.

So, that left two remaining options; turn her over or let her go.

Option number one would be easier. He could go down stairs now. Tell his Father and it would be done. He'd never need to see or hear from her again. It would be over, he could move on.

But, then if it were that easy, what was that awful feeling in his gut? That little voice telling him to get her out of here. He tried to smother that voice, all night he tried to silence it. He squeezed his eyes shut trying to block it out, but all he could see was her face. That voice was all he heard. Her voice. "Why?" One word, so soft, so sad. So, not like her. Not like the her he had remembered.

There he went again; remembering her. What did he think he was remembering? It wasn't like he had known her. He had never known her. But she had been a part of that time. And now, in that room he had a living, breathing memory. A story from days gone by...

For a fleeting moment he wondered if Potter was still alive. Or Weasley? No one knew any more. Sure, people told stories, claimed sightings, but no one was sure. Propaganda was a powerful tool and in this war both sides used it to its full advantage. Even if he was dead the Order would never let it get out. The day Harry Potter dies is the day hope dies. They stop fighting. This ends.

Draco sighed. Still two options left.

He pushed himself up off the bed, catching a glimpse of himself in the mirror opposite. He looked like crap. His skin was ashen and there were dark marks beneath his eyes, he shook his head, hair falling into his eyes, trying to wake up.

He pulled on his robes, and reconsidered his appearance. To the rest of the world, this was the image of Draco Malfoy, born into wealth and privilege, pure-blood and Death Eater... He sighed. He still looked like crap.

He flung the door open and turned down the hall towards the room where he had left her. For a moment he just stood there, staring down the corridor, thinking. In the end, he decided against and turned towards the stairs instead. It was too early anyways. He needed more time. He needed to make a decision.

"Draco?" His mother's voice came behind him as a hand landed on his arm. The sudden contact caused him to jump. Narcissa stared at him, her elegant features marred by a frown, "Are you alright?"

"Yeah" He lied, running his fingers through his hair. He swallowed; maybe he should just tell the truth. Get it over with. "Where's Father?"

"In the library with your Aunt" She replied, the frown still in place, unconvinced by his disregard for her concern.

Draco's head shot up, "Bella?" he asked, shocked. It was far too early for her to be here. Something must be happening. The fearful realisation dawned. Perhaps they already knew. Telling them was one thing, being caught was something else.

"Why?" He just managed to choke out.

His mother shrugged "Business, I suppose".

Draco nodded. Business. That was what she called it. Anything to do with Voldemort or the Death Eaters was Business. She made it sound so ordinary, so mundane. He turned to leave.

"Draco" his mother's voice was softer now, "Your Father spoke to Yaxley."

He froze.

"There is a girl in that room, isn't there?" He didn't answer. Just stood there perfectly still. Waiting.

"Draco" The voice was sharper now. "Answer me."

He turned; his eyes meeting hers. He nodded. "You don't approve, do you?"

"It's not about my approval. Morals are hard to hold on to these days, Draco, I more than anyone understand that." She sounded tired; her voice was soft, sad and lost. She had always been untouchable, a marble statue, beautiful, but cold. She reached out. Her hand on his cheek. Her eyes searching him. She sighed. He thought he saw the regret in her eyes. It made his heart clench. "Consider what you do, Draco. That is all I ask."

"Mother?" Draco heard the whisper leave his lips, "The girl she's..." He felt his mother's hand leave his cheek and heard the footsteps behind them. He saw her stiffen, as if returning to her marble form. Her hands clasped in front, lips pursed, her eyes glazed, as if she had retreated internally.

"She's what?" His father's voice echoed from behind him. Draco turned, confronted by the imposing figure of Lucius Malfoy. Steel eyes studied him, waiting for the answer. Lucius Malfoy never asked a question twice.

Draco swallowed She's Hermione Granger. She's Hermione Granger. She's Hermione Granger. The thought repeated itself over and over in his head. He just had to say it. Just once. Just speak the words, and then he could go hide in his room. This would all be over. He would never have to have anything to do with her again.

"she's just...just another mudblood!" He had tried. He had tried to say it; but the name simply wouldn't manifest on his tongue. Something inside stopped the words from being spoken. He shrugged, trying to remain nonchalant, distant, like he didn't care. "Mother shouldn't concern herself"

Narcissa dropped her head, eyes to the floor, as her husband's gaze shifted to her.

"Your Mother is too kind sometimes, Draco" Lucius drawled, moving towards his wife, eyes focused. "Too soft. She can't see that those people, are little more than vermin."

He lifted her chin, making her meet his gaze. "Practically pampered you! I worried sometimes you were at risk of developing the same... sympathies" He turned on the spot, to face Draco again, smirking at the boy. "Glad to see you've come to understand their true role."

Draco felt his jaw clench, but he forced himself to nod. "Yes Father." He replied dutifully.

Draco turned away again, to climb back up the stairs. He heard his father's voice behind him again "Yaxley mentioned she was quite young, said that he thought you might have attended that so called school together. Did you?"

He froze. Hand on the railing. Breath caught in his throat. He could hear his voice shake as he answered. "No Father."

"Shame." Lucius sounded disappointed. "Could have added her name to the list, shown that pitiful Order, who is truly winning this war. You don't know her name, do you son?"

Draco's knuckles were white around the railing as his grip tightened. "No." It was all he could manage. One word. But, it Draco knew meant so much more. He had made his choice, He couldn't do this. He couldn't tell. Couldn't see her name on that damn list in the Prophet.

Behind him Lucius laughed, "No, didn't expect you to."

A girl taken from a slave camp, locked in a room, and he didn't even expect him to know her name. Draco had never liked his father. He was cruel and sadistic, and treated Draco like dirt on his shoe. But he should have expected a name. That was the least anyone could ever know. Lucius Malfoy cared for no one but himself; the girl in the room didn't matter to him. In that moment Draco hated his Father.

Draco tried not to run up the stairs. Tried to control himself. Walk slowly. Calmly.

He went as far as the door of the room where Hermione was before he stopped. He tried to calm down, breath normally. He pulled a key from his pocket, inserted it in the lock and turned. He heard the click as the mechanism released. He paused listening. He thought he could hear her, footsteps, a creaking bed, crying. He shook his head. His head was too loud. He knew the room was soundproof. He couldn't hear her. All the noise was inside his head.

He sighed. He turned the key again, heard the mechanism click back in place and removed the key from the lock.

It was still too early.

R&R

XOXO