Hermione didn't know what it was, what made things this way.

She assumed it had to do with Fate, with how it was a downright bitch and it did whatever it pleased. Personally, she disliked Fate very much. She couldn't understand how it had all the answers; how it knew everything simply because that's the way things were destined to be. It was unfair, to be perfectly honest. One should gain such knowledge through experience, through lessons learned and much understanding, not just because. Of course, Fate's a force of the Universe and it does whatever it bloody wants to do.

Leaving aside the feeling of not being in control she very much hated, Hermione assumed Fate had its uses once in a while. It sometimes had the decency, the brilliance to put people together that would've never have sat next to one another given the chance. It weaves people in and out of each others' lives, placing them next to you when all you want to do is sit on your own and forces a conversation out of you.

She never liked anyone telling her what to do or who to befriend, but she allowed Fate to slide away with this one because it brought to her some insight on someone she would've never approached by her own accord.

"I never did ask you, how was your holiday?" Looking up from her stack of books and open notes, a witch blinked her dark eyes at the person sitting across from her.

"Uneventful, actually," clearing the throat of the boy she was supposed to be, Hermione smiled dimly at the girl before her. "And yours, Greengrass?"

Daphne puffed out a bit of air, leaning against the back of her chair lazily. "It's as good as a holiday can get stuck inside school," her tone was a bit bitter. "Astoria hated it. We couldn't see our father, not that he wanted us to leave the castle anyway. McGonagall took to following us around, actually."

Hermione raised a white brow that wasn't hers. "McGonagall, really?"

"She was in her Animagus form most of the time but I noticed her," Daphne said offhandedly, staring at the boy across from her intently. There was something in her dark orbs, something like suspicion and curiosity. As soon as she'd allowed it to flash and reveal itself, it was gone. "Other than that, I still suppose your holiday was more eventful than mine."

"Why's that?" Hermione countered, thinking to herself that she needed to owl Remus. She hadn't received any written response that he was going to be protecting Blaise Zabini, let alone Daphne and her family. That could only be the reason why the Headmistress was watching the Greengrass sisters, and if Remus had obliged, Hermione wanted to know if she could be of some assistance in the process.

Once again, Daphne allowed a certain amount of curiosity to stretch across her expression. "I share a dormitory with Pansy," she said casually. "She's been having nightmares since she returned to Hogwarts. She speaks incoherently, none of the girls notice or care, but I do. She's begun her training to be one of you, hasn't she?"

Her natural instinct—well, Malfoy's natural instinct that still lingered in his skin and cells as she possessed it—was to snap back; attack her for her 'one of you' comment. But leaving aside what she's seen, what she knew from her stay at Malfoy Manor, Hermione couldn't deny the truth in the girl's comment. Malfoy was a Death Eater. Just because he was threatened into it, because his family had fallen from Voldemort's grace, didn't erase the Dark Mark on his arm.

"I don't see why you care about her," was Hermione's choice of response instead; still very Malfoy-ish. "She chose her path, Greengrass, and you chose yours."

Daphne erased all emotions from her face. "She did," and it was a harsh whisper, "but it still doesn't make it right, Draco. She's just a girl...She was my friend. She chose wrong. And I'm not afraid to say that all of you have chosen wrong. You're children and you're torturing and killing like vindictive old men."

She wanted to smile, wanted to reach over and squeeze Daphne's hand. It was enlightening, beautiful to know Dumbledore had been completely right: in every dark soul there was a form of light. There was redemption and hope in even the darkest night.

Forced to say something she would've never dared to say, Daphne sighed warily as she couldn't help herself. Malfoy had remained silent, giving an indirect go-ahead to the thoughts in her brain that needed to control themselves. "Sometimes I'm cruel enough to think my mother's death served a purpose. Like her murder helped spare Astoria and I from the same fate all of you are destined with."

Hermione stopped all optimistic emotions trying to spread on Malfoy's face when sad sympathy wanted to come out.

"I miss her every day," Daphne continued, her eyes fighting to hold the mask as a glaze threatened to invade, "but sometimes...especially now that I get to hear Pansy's nightmares at night, I'm glad she opened my eyes. That could've been me...I could've been the one to take someone else's life and live with watching that person's face in my dreams, guilt eating me inside." She looked deeply at the boy across from her, something passing from her to him in the tiniest wave—trust. "But I live with a clean conscience and only my mother to mourn."

Fate was a tricky force when it pushed Daphne Greengrass into her life, Hermione knew. If it hadn't been for the curse of the body-swap she would've never known her story. She would've never known she was in danger, that she suffered, and most importantly, that Hermione understood her. Looking into her dark eyes, Hermione could see the longing for her deceased mother, for a father that she couldn't see due to safety arrangements, and she understood it to the fullest.

She hadn't lost her mother, but both her parents were sent faraway. She understood that, could bond with Daphne with the pain and a hole left in the chest for being alone. And in a way, in that very moment, Hermione knew Malfoy could, too, and that maybe Daphne knew that all along.

Like summoning the devil with just a thought, Hermione saw her own body march right into the library with a sway to her every step as Ginny and Luna tried to keep up with the brunette.

She felt Malfoy's body stiffen, a sense of alert going off in every cell of his skin as her body stopped right beside them; his heart gave a loud thump that hurt in the process.

"Greengrass," the brunette turned her narrowed brown eyes at the blonde girl, "mind leaving, I need to talk to Malfoy for a bit."

Noticing the hostility on the Brightest Witch of the Age, the way how her usually gentle and all-knowing eyes were masked in indifference, or how her house-mate had tensed up, looking nervous, all Daphne could do for a few silent seconds was stare and calculate. There was something odd about this, she could feel it. It was like someone was trying to lie right under her nose—and Daphne could always tell when someone was trying to bullshit her.

"Sure, Granger," Daphne finally spoke up, narrowing her dark eyes back at the girl as she gathered her belongings. As she did so, as she gracefully placed her books into her schoolbag, she shot a curious look at her still rigid house-mate. "Draco, see you in class, all right?"

Not replying to Daphne, just giving her a withering smile as she tried to adjust herself, Hermione glanced up at the Gryffindor and Ravenclaw standing behind her body.

"Go find a table," the brunette turned, eyeing her company blankly. "I'll go find you later."

"Are you sure?" Ginny asked, eyeing the wrong Draco Malfoy with complete distrust. "Ron and Harry would throw a fit if they knew I left you alone with the Slytherin Prat."

Witnessing the redhead's flare, her soul aching for the mentioned names of her best friends, Hermione couldn't help but let a little smile come on to Malfoy's face.

Catching that little gesture, Luna's blue eyes lit up with something as she reached over and took her best friend's hand. "Come on, Gin. I'm sure Draco will behave himself. Let's go find a table."

"I'm watching you, Malfoy," Ginny threatened, pointing a dangerous finger at the blonde boy sitting on the library table as the Ravenclaw started tugging her away. "Don't try anything or I will hex your manly-bits off."

Turning away from the Weaslette and Loony Lovegood, Draco pulled out a seat across from his own perfection. "Bloody charming and eloquent people you're friends with, Granger. True definition of refinement they are, honestly."

Despite knowing it was an insult, Hermione made Malfoy's mouth tug on a brighter smile. "Oh, shut up, Malfoy. You know they're just being protective. It's what they do."

"It's annoying," Draco responded in a matter-of-fact way. "The Weasley girl practically follows me into the loo. Not to mention her and the Weasel practically fight to assist me in the shower. I was tortured; I'm not going down the pipes."

Hermione let a small laugh escape from her borrowed-lips. "I'm surprised Mrs. Weasley allowed you to leave her house, actually."

"Don't think she didn't try to persuade Lupin and McGonagall to keep me in bed-rest for another week," the Slytherin trapped inside the Gryffindor said. "I had to sink down to my levels of blackmail to get Potter to convince them it was all right for me to return."

"And what methods of blackmail were those?"

If he hadn't been sitting across from himself, if he hadn't been viewing his perfect face and brilliant eyes, Malfoy would've never believed the glow his entire facial expression was giving. He could see it, some emotion he most certainly had never felt before growing in his gaze as Granger kept that ridiculous smile on his mouth.

It was soft, gentle, true—it was all her. Her Granger-ness was seeping into him, molding him and driving away the Slytherin essence within him.

"I saw the Weaslette sneak into his room when the rest of the Weasleys were eating," Draco finally spoke, sounding distant as he pondered over things that should've never been thought of. "They were there for an hour, so, clearly, Potter's been releasing stress."

Hermione snorted, shaking Malfoy's blonde hair. "You would be crude, Malfoy," it was supposed to be her regular insult but she found it was not laced with disgust, only a mild disapproval.

Malfoy said nothing more; all he did was place his borrowed-hands onto the surface of the table. He observed them once more. He inspected every line, the golden-tone of her skin, the pink undertone of it, the freckles, and the thin fingers.

"Malfoy?"

It was strange, he mused to himself as he continued observing the girl's hands, that they were in fact hers, but when he touched something, when he made her fingertips trace over sentences of his essays or books, or even when he used them to shove the Weasel and Potter from his borrowed-body, everything felt like if he was using his own hands.

"Malfoy, you okay?"

Everything was rough. His borrowed-hands didn't absorb the gentleness of the things Granger loved, they just felt everything he hated.

"Malfoy," Hermione called again in a hushed whisper, raising an eyebrow at the boy in her body. When she called him a fourth time, she reached over with his hand and grabbed her own that rested on the table, squeezing her right one.

Blinking back into the now, Draco zeroed in on their hands. There it was again, the opposite sensation of what he should be feeling. He didn't feel the tense skin of his hands, the rough fingertips, or the cold temperature of it—he felt her. He felt her caring, her warmth, and her soft skin.

As Malfoy contemplated how mental that was, as Hermione stared warily at him, neither noticed a figure watching them from the entrance of the library.

The two students were staring at one another, oblivious to anything else, and Aphrodite Venus could see their souls fighting to get out of the bodies that weren't theirs. She could see the boy's soul shoving, clawing, trying to get out like if it was in pain; she could see the girl's soul trying to reach out, trying to escape only to ease the boy's restrained agony.

She pulled out her notepad and golden-pen. And with a blink away from the two souls, she flipped open her notepad and wrote, it's starting.

Just as she closed her notepad, placing it and her pen inside the pockets of her white robes, Aphrodite slithered away from the entrance as a raging boy marched in, his emerald eyes finding the Slytherin and Gryffindor sharing a table.

"Are you all right?" Hermione whispered softly. "Is it the side-effects of the curse? I know it's been a few days, but usually the effects don't wear off until a few months."

Malfoy stared at her, at the way she was making his face twist with deep concern, like it mattered that he was in pain. And he was, but it wasn't due to the torture curse his Aunt Bellatrix sent his way as he posed as the Gryffindor Princess.

Before he could figure out what exactly was hurting, someone approached them with thundering footsteps, halting beside the table and spreading an aura of complete hostility.

Looking down at the two students, Blaise Zabini stared at the brunette  for a moment before flashing his green eyes at his friend. "Malfoy," his tone was too deep and rough, "we need to talk." He clenched his fist, his arms shaking a little.

Clearing her borrowed-throat, Hermione nodded. "Sure, Blaise," she said, concern lacing the tone that was uncharacteristic for the boy she was impersonating that the real Malfoy frowned disapprovingly at her.

Blaise looked away from his house-mate as he started gathering his belongings and resumed his observing on the Gryffindor. She was sitting there, back tensed, hands balled, and a glower on her face as she looked directly at him, too. Her brown eyes were narrowed, showing disapproval, but they were masked with something Blaise couldn't quite put his finger on.

Something was off, he concluded, and his instincts almost confirmed it by the way Hermione Granger sneered and Draco Malfoy looked apprehensive.

X

Opening the door of the dormitory Malfoy shared with Crabbe, Goyle, and Zabini, Hermione carefully stepped into the cold room and headed toward the four-poster that belonged to him. His bed was the only one kept tidy, the emerald sheets tucked and the pillows perfectly fluffed; all courtesy of Hermione's need for organization.

As she settled his schoolbag on the marbled floor, she leaned against the frame of Malfoy's four-poster as Blaise eyed her suspiciously. She didn't say anything, just watched the dark-skinned boy she hadn't seen or talked to since he showed her his dark mark days ago. He'd been avoiding 'Malfoy', hiding in the shadows and leaving before she could approach him.

Hermione inhaled and exhaled soothingly, Zabini's glare making her uncomfortable. As she was doing so, as she was trying to summon her inner-Malfoy, she caught a whiff of his natural aroma. It was minty, with a mix of cologne that smelled as expensive as it smelled masculine. She looked down at the floor, she was instantly comforted. She remembered that smell, the way it was the scent radiating off the pillows at Malfoy Manor, on the sheets of his four-poster, of his clothing.

Shaking Malfoy's head, refusing to smile at the thought, Hermione glanced back up at Blaise. "What was the rush, Zabini?" she questioned, sounding thoroughly impatient. "Tell me what's got your knickers in a twist, I haven't all day."

Blaise stood taller, his hands still clutched into fists and his eyes narrowed into dangerous slits.

Hermione rose a brow, trying to swallow her concern and the alarm inside Malfoy's chest warning there was about to be trouble. "Zabini," she called again, Malfoy's voice tense now, "what is it?"

He was shivering now, the cold and lifeless atmosphere of the dormitory licked up his exposed skin and stabbed its teeth into him.

"Blaise," Hermione spoke again, this time stepping away from Malfoy's four-poster and making her way carefully to him. "You're scaring me. What's wrong?"

His instincts set off again, telling him something was completely wrong, put Zabini thrust it all away when his left hand released its clutch and sunk into the pocket of his trousers. He was still shaking, his chest heaving now, and he practically punched what he took out into the blonde's hands.

Startled back a step, Hermione unfolded the photograph he'd handed to her. As Malfoy's long fingers steadily opened it, she almost dropped all pretenses and acts as her borrowed-eyes bulged with complete horror.

It was a magicked photo, but nothing moved. All she could see was the shadow of someone on the marbled floor—a floor that was overflowing with red liquid. It was blood. It was blood that pooled and swam, touching everything in its path. In the center of an expensive rug, the source of blood gushing out was a woman. She was completely bare, sliced and mutilated from the arms and thighs. Her skin used to be dark, a soft mocha color, Hermione could see it, but she glowed with the pale hue of her life pulled from her body.

The woman's face—one that was surely beautiful and glamorous pre-death and torture—was stoic and stiff. Her eyes were left open, the shining emerald green of them not sufficing the extreme shadow of fear and pain in them.

This was what was left of Zabini's mother.

"Blaise," Hermione squeaked past Malfoy's lips, making his hands drop the photograph.

"The Dark Lord ordered it," Blaise muttered roughly, body still shivering. "It was my punishment for not assisting in the attack on Diagon Alley. Yaxley requested it."

Malfoy's silver eyes lit up with tears, Hermione was hurting for the boy in front of her.

"I ran," Blaise said, his whisper broken rather than enraged. "They wanted me to kill Ginny Weasley. I couldn't, Draco...I couldn't and they murdered my mother." His eyes flashed to the faced-down photograph on the floor of the dormitory. "They didn't use the Killing Curse...They just let her bleed out."

Zabini dropped on his knees, shoulders shaking violently, and Hermione cared not to play Malfoy in that moment. She rushed forward, sweeping the dark-skinned boy into Malfoy's toned arms and she hugged him with all the strength her borrowed-body had.

He was crying—a sob escaping his mouth that roared with everything he'd been holding in. It rippled from his chest, scratching everything on its way up. It hurt, hurt more than receiving the dark mark, more than anything he'd been hiding and keeping a secret from the world.

It had just been her and him, just mother and son for so long. He was her only family, his only parent, his only connection to the damned pureblood world she brought him into. Now she was gone and he was alone.

"She was my mum," Blaise cried harder, gripping and digging his nails into the covered arms of his friend. "She was my mum."

Hermione held him tighter, pressing him against a chest that wasn't hers. Her heart broke for Blaise, and so she cried tears along with him. He was another name added to the list. He was another person who lived the war without the comfort of parents, another who was alone.

X

The night breeze was refreshing as it blew through the grounds of Hogwarts. It weaved through the leaves of the trees, knocking them down and sending them across hills and far over the Black Lake. The moon was glowing in a crescent at the corner of the darkening sky. The light of it was faint; the bubble of protection surrounding the castle and its ground dimmed it through its sheen of spells.

He was staring at the furthest ends of the grounds, watching those leaves flow, fall, rise, flow, fall, rise, flow, and then disappearing into the nature of Hogwarts. He'd once was told by the looniest of Ravenclaws that this particular type of weather—cold and windy, maybe a little rain—was the best to help clear a crowded mind. He'd written off as one of her insane ramblings, of course, but as he sat there, cold air touching him, he thought maybe the Ravenclaw wasn't so off her rocker.

The cold was his home after all, how could he not find some clarity there? He wasn't a touchy-feeling person like the bloody Hufflepuffs, so of course the sun and the sharing of secrets wasn't his thing. He was used to solitary, just like the cold-blooded snakes that found dark caves and hid there. He was bound to find the answers to his dodgy thoughts and assumptions in what he knew, right?

"Look at her over there," thud. "Merlin, I hate her."

Sighing as all that internal peace was swept away from him, Draco scrunched his face in complete distaste as a dirty-blonde girl with a frown of her own stood beside his lonely bench. "Hello to you too, Lavender," he spit out through clenched teeth, cursing Granger for being so damn polite and on first-name bases with all her ruddy house-mates.

"Do shut up, Granger," Lavender scoffed. "I'm not here to chat, all right. Just sit there and let me witness this unholy situation before us."

Biting back an insult to the idiotic girl, Draco chose to see what was making her face scowl with complete disgust. Sure enough, he saw Lovegood, Thomas and Longbottom sitting underneath the leaves of a tree a few feet away.

Longbottom was reading something, glancing back and forth between the open pages and a plant root clutched in his right fingers. Thomas had his book open, too, but it was disregarded as he watched intently as Lovegood spoke to him. She seemed to be explaining something, lifting one of the roots and showing them to the dark-skinned Gryffindor. A few more seconds of this, and then Thomas laughed loudly, startling Longbottom from his reading and making a dreamy smile appear on the Ravenclaw's face.

"What are the chances he's laughing at her?" Lavender murmured, crossing her arms angrily over her chest. "I mean, what's not to laugh at? Just look at her for Godric's sake. She's completely off, and yet he hangs about her like she's something amazing."

"Maybe he hangs about her because she's not filled with petty jealousy," Malfoy retorted, annoyed beyond repair. He glanced up from the book he'd taken from Granger's personal collection to help him pass as her more easily, cocking an eyebrow mockingly at the Brown girl. "You leave him with absolutely no desire to hang about you because of that irritating voice and nonstop chatter you do, Brown. Yes, Lovegood talks about complete rubbish but she at least has the decency to shut up most of the time."

Lavender glared at her house-mate, trying her hardest not to let her see the surprise and twinge of hurt she felt. "Well, Granger, you and I are in the same cauldron then, I reckon. You and your know-it-all attitude leaves you alone because, come off it, who wants to hear you go on and on?"

I want to hear her, Malfoy thought bitterly, unwillingly, that he didn't even register it as he snorted at the girl. He crossed his borrowed-arms and stared blankly as he tried to recall something he could wound the Gryffindor with.

As he found it, a leer so Slytherin-like pulled on Granger's lips. "Well, Lavender, I beg to differ on that. You see, while I am a know-it-all, I'm also the one who took Ron Weasley from you," oh, Salazar, that was nauseating to say but he continued, "and Lovegood's still the one who has Thomas."

Inhaling deep through her nostrils, the cold air burning her lungs as it traveled in, Lavender had to control herself before she stupidly attempted to hex the Brightest Witch of the Age. "I knew you were jealous of my relationship with Ron," she spoke stiffly, "and I knew you fancied him, Hermione, but now you're just lying."

"Meaning?" Draco asked casually, still making Granger's mouth smirk.

"You're not with Ron," Lavender replied instantly, "and you don't fancy him anymore. I might be everything that annoys you, but I'm not stupid. I see things, and I know you stopped looking at him like he was the only person in the room since Seventh Year began. Something happened during the summer, I've seen him stare at Harry and you like you hurt him."

Malfoy dropped the smirk, his borrowed-eyes now confused.

What the hell was that supposed to mean? He knew from his impersonation of Granger that the Golden Trio had fled during the summer, camping across Britain to hunt for Horcruxes that would put an end to the Dark Lord, but nothing intimate had been mentioned. The Weasel had apologized for something, he remembers, and he also recalled the distrust in his eyes when Potter stuck around 'Granger' too long.

"I must admit he'd been yours from the beginning," Lavender interrupted Malfoy's musings, "and that I walked straight into the heartbreak, but I claimed Dean before Lovegood did. I'm not letting that bloody Ravenclaw get away with him just because she was tossed around the Malfoys cellar and he witnessed it."

Draco cringed. Granger's head filled with his memories of watching two different Death Eaters hex the eccentric Ravenclaw the previous summer and it made the skin he was wearing rigid.

Knowing that maybe she took that too far, Lavender huffed and picked up her schoolbag from the bench, subduing her remorse with the pain of being constantly replaced. "Pleasure as always," she said fleetingly, already stalking away as Dean left his classmates and headed away from them.

Not being so quick to subdue his share of remorse, Draco used Granger's brown eyes to glance back at that tree a few feet away. He eyed the Ravenclaw carefully, feeling his soul wither slightly at the fact that he'd allowed her—another defenseless girl—to be tortured by a sadistic person.

Lovegood was a pureblood, a Blood Traitor, but she'd always been so small and thin. She was younger than he was, almost a child with her innocence and made-up rubbish, and he'd watched her take the pain of curses and blows of fists. Through all that, as he watched from a corner of the cellar, she never begged for mercy once.

Dropping the plant root he'd been studying, Longbottom inched closer to Lovegood, smiling at her gently as she also sat closer to him. Their backs rested upon the thick bark of the tree, and their eyes connected for a second. The air of the night pushed by them, the dim moonlight managing to highlight their faces, and then they went back to reading their books.

It was quick and very secretive, but Lovegood smiled bigger and Longbottom blushed as their hands clasped together, fingers intertwined, and they were hidden between them as they carried on with their studying.

"I wonder how long it'll take Lavender to figure this one out." Turning away from the sickening scene ahead, Malfoy blinked and was met with a pale face and silver eyes. "I saw her stalking Dean when I was headed over here. Poor girl, honestly."

Malfoy cleared his borrowed-throat, scooting to the edge of the bench to leave some open space. "Yeah, well, she seems to be under the impression all her friends are stealing her boyfriends."

"I did not steal her boyfriend," Hermione grumbled, making the Slytherin's face frown. "And neither did Luna. She just needs to stop being so clingy and maybe the boys will stop thinking she's mental."

Malfoy snorted. "Yeah, because being clingy is her only problem."

Hermione smiled lopsidedly, but didn't say anything against the girl she'd been sharing a dormitory with for the past seven years. She instead focused Malfoy's silver eyes ahead, watching Neville and Luna carefully. At first she had felt warmth, longing, nostalgia, but then everything she knew about them came back to her and almost knocked her down.

Luna, motherless and with her father missing; Neville, practically on orphan.

Watching his own eyes glisten with tears, bottom lip quiver slightly, Malfoy didn't know what possessed him to take Granger's little hand and take his own into it. "You miss them," he spoke awkwardly, giving his fingers a squeeze with hers, "your friends."

Hermione blinked, a tear slid down Malfoy's pale cheek as she turned to face him. She could see her face, her button-like nose, her freckles here and there, but she could see him in her brown eyes. The way he made them glow, the way he angled her vision, the tension in them—he was there. Her enemy, a Death Eater, a boy with his own tormenting story she'd experienced firsthand.

"Yes," she whispered, squeezing back. "But that's not all, Malfoy."

"It never really is, Granger."

She took in a deep inhale, making the oxygen reach his lungs so she could buy herself a moment to collect the words she was going to use. "Blaise got his mark," she told him, deciding it was best to be direct. "He was inducted into You-Know-Who's circle during the holidays. As such, he was one of the Death Eaters that participated in the attack where you got hurt." She took in another deep breath. "Spotting Ginny, Yaxley ordered Blaise to...kill her. He couldn't, so he disobeyed and fled and—"

"He was punished," Malfoy finished, nodding once to himself. He knew how this worked, how their sick rituals and Death Eater workshops operated. You did as you were told, simple as that. If you failed to do so, well, it wasn't Hogwarts and you weren't excused with a deduction of points or detention—you were tortured and made an example of.

Hermione nodded, too, squeezing their fingers tighter to give her courage. "They murdered his mother, Malfoy," she breathed shakily, tears prickling her borrowed-eyes. "They didn't bother with the killing spell, they just...they actually murdered her with their bare hands."

They disposed of her body after capturing evidence, most certainly decomposed it until there was nothing of Mrs. Zabini left for her son to mourn over—yes, Draco knew what happened next. It's what they did when someone was punished, when they killed a Death Eater's relatives. It's what they'd done to Daphne Greengrass' mother; Bellatrix had been in command for that one and he'd been forced to hear the tale from her mouth like it was the most amusing thing.

"Don't worry," Hermione murmured, standing from the bench as the invisible-bell of Hogwarts signaled that curfew had been called, "I'm going to get him out of this, Malfoy. I'm going to make sure nothing happens to Blaise."

Malfoy looked up at the girl possessing his body, silence taking over for a second. He had nothing to say to her because he already knew she was protecting his friend, but he was stunned into deeper silence as Granger dared to lean down and press a kiss to his borrowed-cheek.

"Things are going to be okay," was the last thing she made his lips say before she turned and left him.

He wasn't in his own body, but he felt tingles sprout and tickle Granger's skin. He felt something tug inside her chest, reaching his soul and trying to shake it awake. But in that moment he fought to push it away—it didn't matter. Things had changed completely now. If they'd gotten to Zabini's mother, they most definitely could get to his.

He needed to get out of Granger's body soon. His time was being wasted and he needed to come up with a plan to save himself, his mother, and no one else.

He was going to take the coward's way out, fucking all redemption and throwing it out the window.