Draco received a response that made his mouth drop open in shock; never in a million years would he have expected her to say that. He didn’t know her anymore than she knew him, but he prided himself in thinking he knew at least a little bit.

Clearly, he was wrong.

“Right.” Hermione snorted, letting her quill drop from her fingertips. “You’re full of shit, Malfoy.”

Without realizing it, Draco allowed his face to quite obviously display his surprise at her words. Momentarily, only.

“You just want to send the Ministry as far away from the real place they’re planning to hit. I know you. That’s just something you, a Death Eater, would do.” Her words were effective, if not unexpected; he didn’t like being called a Death Eater, even if he was one. The novelty of being one had worn off long ago; though, now that he thought about it, there may not have been a novelty to begin with. The thirst to prove himself to his father was what drove him. It was the only reason he hadn’t extricated himself from the family long ago. That, and the fact that he had thought this was the only path for him until just recently.

“Why would I do that?” Draco stated, not wanting an answer. His voice was still the same as it always had been back in the day. The sneer, Hermione noticed, was not as protruding as she was used to, but that didn’t phase her. Much.

“To make us look foolish,” she replied bitingly, sweeping her notebook and quill back into her bag.

Before she had a chance to stomp out of the pub in anger, he was speaking again. This time, a bit differently than before.

“I’m denouncing them.” Sadness floated around his words and she wanted to tell him to stop it. She didn’t like this Draco; she was ill-prepared to deal with a Draco that had feelings.

Hermione’s eyes narrowed. “I don’t believe you.”

Draco shrugged his slender shoulders, causing his silvery blond hair to fall into his eyes; he whisked it away impatiently. “I don’t care.”

She shook her head, running a tired hand through her tussled locks and sighing. “You bastard.”

He didn’t respond; he didn’t feel as if he had the right to argue this point, as she was so obviously in the right.

“I’ll have to go back there and tell them what you’ve said. It’ll cause such an uproar and they’ll send everyone there and they’ll vacate the school. All for nothing. Because when you hit, you’re not going to be hitting Hogwarts. And who’ll be blamed? Me. And who’ll be the laughing stock of the entire Wizarding World? Hmm. Oh, yeah. Me.”

Draco stared at her stiffly, not even blinking.

If anything annoyed Hermione, it was people not talking when they were being spoken to. “Say something for God’s sake,” she muttered, placing her palms facedown on the table, her brown eyes blazing into his.

He didn‘t look away. “I don’t need to say anything. You’ve already made up your mind on the matter. I’ve done my piece. It’s not my fault if you don’t listen. At least I’ll be able to sleep at night.”

“You sleep at night?” Hermione retorted harshly, her eyes flashing, daring him to start up a fight with her; it was aggravating having him sitting there so benignly when she wanted to berate him and actually feel good about it. As it was, she didn’t, because he wasn’t giving her proper reason to hate him. Of course, she reasoned, just breathing could be enough.

“Yes, very well, thank you. I have a satin pillow.”

She rolled her eyes and relaxed against the back of the booth, which was hard and made her spine straighten.

“I’m not going to try and convince you,” he said after a moment, his voice still the same as she always remembered. “I can’t make you trust me.”

“Trust you? Why on earth would I trust you?”

He looked up from the table, sincerity not in his voice, but in his eyes. “You shouldn’t.”

Hermione, against her better judgment, did not leave the table then. She would have liked to have yelled at him a bit more, and maybe spit on him, but found that she didn‘t feel he deserved it. He hadn‘t done anything to her, at least not recently. She decided to leave the low road for the high road, where she’d rise above the bitterness of her youth and treat him like she’d treat anyone else who sat across from her, giving her insider details. “Why are you doing this?”

Her voice held vaguely pleading tones, which caught Draco off guard. Consequently, he became terribly angry at her for surprising him like she kept doing. It was not fair, and it was definitely not expected.

“I told you why. I’m denouncing them, and I figured before they killed me, I might as well give a hand to the other side. Call it pre-death revenge if you want.”

“I’ve never known anyone to attempt revenge before any wrong was done to them.”

Hermione had meant this in a benevolent way, he knew, but he couldn’t help from laughing angrily in spite. “Yeah, they’ve never done anything to me.”

Surprise crossed behind her eyes, but was gone so quickly that Draco wasn’t positive it had been there in the first place. Not that he cared what she thought of his troubled, angst-ridden past, anyway.

“They’re going to attack Hogwarts?” Hermione questioned, her voice wobbling just slightly; she had decided to ignore his response, mostly because she was worried she’d start caring about what had really caused him to betray his father. She didn’t want any part of his life, past, present or future; she wouldn’t, and couldn’t get involved.

He didn’t deserve her concern, in any case. And he knew this just as much as she did.

“Yeah. Two days from now. I would have given you more notice, but I only just found out. I think they suspect I’m wavering; they don’t tell me anything anymore until the last minute.” Draco ran the tip of his finger around the rim of his glass, his eyes trained on it so he wouldn’t have to look at her.

“They’re going to kill you,” Hermione stated hoarsely; she coughed. “They don’t let people betray them without making them pay. They certainly don’t do the whole ‘denouncing’ thing without the denouncer paying a hefty fee. Usually in body parts. Plural.”

“How do you know?” Draco requested, his voice filled with anger.

“I’ve read about it,” she answered honestly, not picking up on his change in tone.

“The Malfoy Family Crest, I see.”

Hermione was agog with curiosity. “Your family crest has all that printed on it?”

“Sarcasm, Granger. You should try it.”

“Dancing around the subject, Malfoy. Maybe you should try that for a change.”

“I see I won’t need to give you sarcasm lessons, after all,” Draco replied haughtily. As if the conversation hadn’t had a tangent about family crests, Draco continued, “I intend to lose my plural body parts with much grace.”

If Hermione didn’t know better, she’d have thought he was speaking humorously about his pending doom.

Unintentionally, Hermione cringed. “What body parts do they usually take first?”

Draco’s sneer returned, but it was more smiley than Hermione remembered. “The important ones, naturally.”

Hermione’s eyes traveled down to the table, as if she had X-Ray vision.

“Legs,” Draco stated, holding back laughter. “Not sexual organs. We need those to reproduce. Reproducing evil spawn is more important to Death Eaters than taking away a pleasure part.”

Hermione made a face. “Okay. Stop now.”

Draco gave her a smirk that said ‘Well, you asked for it’ and crossed his arms across his chest.

“I should go,” she said, grabbing her bag and standing up.

“Yes, probably it’s past curfew and Weasley and Potter will send out the hounds to see if you’re alright.”

“I doubt it,” Hermione answered, laughing in spite of herself. “They’re not my keepers.”

Draco raised an eyebrow. “I was led to believe they were.” He stood up beside her, and she took a step back, marveling at how tall he’d become; he was at least Harry’s height now, and taller than she was. “And if anyone tried anything, they’d kill them.”

“They’re all talk.” She slapped a hand to her mouth, then pulled it down as casually as she could.

“Yes, well. I’ll see you,” Draco nodded curtly and was about to breeze past her when she reached out tentatively and put a hand on his arm. His eyes widened and his breath caught in his throat. Never before had she touched him this gently, or at all unless it was to slap him or give him a nice right-hook, which she’d gotten rather good at over the years.

“Thanks,” she said quietly, pulling her bag up her shoulder. “I’d hate for Hogwarts to become ruins like everywhere else.”

His cleared his throat before he spoke, though it didn’t do much good; he sounded as if he hadn’t spoken for days, and during those days he‘d smoked sixteen cartons of cigarettes. “Me too.”