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Victim of the Fall	By : PrettyDesdemona Category: Harry Potter > Het - Male/Female > Draco/Hermione Views: 32762 -:- Recommendations : 5 -:- Currently Reading : 7
Disclaimer: I do not own the Harry Potter universe or any of its characters. I do not make any money off this story. Only love!

Chapter List
- 18
- 19
- 20
CHAPTER 19

OVERLAP

“I know there is strength in the differences between us; I know there is comfort where we overlap.”

The following two weeks afterwards passed relatively easily for Hermione. With Christmas approaching, the castle had begun to resemble a snow globe, groaning under tinsel and baubles and mistletoe. It being the first Christmas since the fall of Voldemort, the teachers seemed to be putting in a lot of extra effort to make Hogwarts as jovial and festive as possible. And the feeling was contagious. Hermione had splashed out and decked the inside of her flat out in little lights, making it look like a grotto for fairies.

To her joy and consternation, her flat had become a sort of hub for her tovarasi. Since the holidays had started a week before Christmas, Blaise, Ginny, Luna, Susan, Padma, Eli, Juliet, Malfoy and Isobel spent most of their time slumped on Hermione’s lounge room floor demanding beverages and sweets like children. Hermione was forever buying milk, sugar and tea for her guests. And coke, of course, for Isobel.

She should have been stressed by this occurrence but instead she felt elated and homely. She loved that her flat was filled with boisterous conversation and tinkling laughter. It robbed her of any opportunity to spend too much time thinking and contemplating her own sadness.

It also allowed her to steadfastly avoid any one on one conversation with Malfoy.

Ever since her talk with Isobel, she had wanted nothing more than to be as far from him as possible. Every time her mind stumbled upon the possible feelings he had for her, she shied away like a kicked dog. Whatever he felt, she really did not want to know. She didn’t want Isobel’s words echoing around in her head, morning til night, she didn’t want to wonder if Malfoy was ever going to outright tell her what he was thinking, and she really didn’t want to think about what the pads of his finger pressed into her…

In essence, she didn’t want to think about him at all. And having the rest of the tovarasi around made it very easy for her to distract herself. Whenever the group was assembled together, Hermione’s eyes slid right over him like he was a pot plant. She didn’t look at him and she didn’t speak directly to him. But despite all this, Malfoy treated her in exactly the same way as he always did. He made fun of her and put her down. However, he’d stopped complaining about the tea she made him.

Hermione was happy to see that Isobel had improved over the weeks. For a few days after Hermione had woken, Isobel had seemed tired, weak, like she found day to day life hard. Though this was, of course, understandable. After a few of her sessions with her mind healer, Hermione noticed Isobel had begun to laugh again, to settle into the rhythm of the tovarasi, letting them cocoon her like a precious flower. She seemed to react well to their coddling of her and Hermione was pleased that she was allowing her friends to care for her. Isobel was the sort of woman who needed people to love her, who needed to be able to love other people. She’d clearly never been given this opportunity in her earlier life and hadn’t let herself sink into it before with the tovarasi. It healed her.

This comforted Hermione; she didn’t want to worry about her friend anymore. It was exhausting. She had enough to worry about.

One cold night, with Christmas only a few days away, Hermione had said goodbye to the other members of the tovarasi and her and Isobel had retired to her bed to eat chocolates and talk.

“So you never told me how your appointment with the mind healer went.” said Isobel, after they had settled in under the covers, Crookshanks snuggled warmly between their bodies.

Hermione sighed and popped a chocolate into her mouth. “He didn’t tell me anything I didn’t already know. Apparently I have Post Traumatic Stress Disorder… Like that makes me different from anyone else.” she said through her mouthful.

Isobel laughed, “You seeing him again?”

Hermione shook her head, “No… He suggested it but… I think I’m doing alright for now. If I can’t fix myself right now, I don’t think anyone can.”

“Well I think you’re taking the hard road but… You know, each to their own.” said Isobel, shrugging.

“So what about you? You like your mind healer? What’s his name again?” asked Hermione.

“Tiberius.”

Hermione chuckled, and said disbelievingly, “Tiberius?! Well I’m glad you have someone who will understand your pureblood sensitivities!”

“Me too… Hanging around you has corrupted me. I need to find my roots!” she said dramatically.

The two girls fell back onto the bed, giggling.

Isobel hiccupped herself to silence and Hermione turned to her, “So what are you doing for Christmas?”

“Padma asked me to go back to her house with her and stay with her family.”

“Oh! That’s really nice!” said Hermione, pleased that Isobel had somewhere to go.

“Everyone else is going to spend time with family. Apparently Blaise is going to Paris! Can you imagine? I want to go to Paris.” she sighed wistfully, “Anyway, what are you going to do?”

Hermione shrugged nonchalantly. “I’ll just stay here I guess.”

Isobel looked shocked, “What? You’re going to be on your own for Christmas?!”

“Well I can’t very well go back to the Burrow, can I?”

“I’ll stay.” said Isobel fervently, “You and me can do Christmas together.”

“No, really. You go and spend the holidays with Padma. Honestly, I’m fine. Christmas doesn’t really mean all that much to me anyway.” she knew in her heart that this was a lie but she wanted a happy Christmas for Isobel and she really wouldn’t be able to give her that this year. When her friend looked doubtful, Hermione plastered a smile on her face and said, “Look, if I feel that bad, I can always do Christmas at Hogwarts.”

Isobel nodded but still looked sceptical.

Hermione threw a chocolate at her. “Don’t give me that look. Here, eat chocolate.”

Isobel giggled.

They passed the following hours, talking merrily about anything and everything. They did not shy away from hard conversation as they once had, but they also didn’t press it. Hermione trusted that Isobel did all the talking she needed with her mind healer. And after all, she was hardly one to be able to offer advice when it came to emotions. She was just as much of a mess.

After a little while, the two girls fell asleep, side by side in the guttering candle light and Hermione felt happy.

On Christmas day, Hermione did everything she could think of to avoid remembering what day it was. She washed her clothes, cleaned her flat, tried to read more of Bastet’s Line, all to no avail. A group of carol singers were marching stubbornly up and down Diagon Alley, reminding her of exactly how lonely she was. Hermione was tempted to fling open her balcony doors and tell them all to bugger off.

Every Christmas for the past five years had been fraught with stress but there had been good times too. Hermione didn’t want the bad memories or the happy ones. The smell of Mrs Weasley’s minced pies. She, Harry and Ron snuggled up next to the Gryffindor fire eating sweets. Sirius’s voice ringing through Grimauld place as he sung carols.

Christmas in Godric’s Hollow. Harry trying to hide his tears as he stood by his parent’s graves. Saving him from Nagini, severing the burning Horcrux from his chest.

She didn’t want to remember any of it. Every recollection, good or bad, made her feel worse and worse.

More than anything, Hermione didn’t want to think of what Wendell and Monika Wilkins were doing, halfway across the globe in sunny Australia. Were they lounging by the beach or having a barbeque? Had they found themselves a new family?

Why? Why did the memories have to bash around inside her head, leaving bruises and wounds at every place they connected with? Why today?

Perhaps she could brew herself a strong sleeping potion and just pass out until the awful holiday was done with. But no, in order to do that, she’d have to go out in public to buy ingredients; she’d have to smile manically while shopkeepers wished her a merry Christmas. She didn’t need that.

The day felt like it went on forever, her heart clenching and unclenching intermittently, and by late afternoon, her chest was burning.

She decided, against her better judgement, that she would go to Hogwarts, if only to avoid sobbing into her pillow for the rest of her evening. If Hogwarts didn’t cheer her up, she resolved to buy a bottle of firewhisky and get properly, thoroughly inebriated.

The great hall was nearly empty when Hermione arrived, scowling, and shaking snow out of her hair, most of the students having gone home for the holidays. The whole hall was dripping with decorations despite the sparse attendance and Hermione spent a happy five minutes imagining herself playing target practice with the baubles. Every single one of the teachers were beaming festively as if they’d already had a little too much to drink. She waved at Teodora who seemed to be engaged in a rather raucous conversation with Professor Slughorn. Her teacher waved back, smiling warmly.

Hermione cast her eyes about the hall, trying to scout out somewhere to sit. She quickly realised there was only one real choice, unless she was to eat alone. And eating alone sort of nullified the point of coming the first place.

Malfoy was sitting hunched over the Slytherin table at the far end of the hall, pushing his roast lamb around his plate gloomily. She could have kicked herself. Of course he’d be there, his parents were in Azkaban and unless he’d wanted to spend a night alone at that awful Manor he called a home, then Hogwarts was really the only other place for him. She should have known.

Hermione’s fierce desire to continue avoiding him warred with her need for human interaction.

In the end, her crippling loneliness won out.

“Hello.” she said, sliding onto the bench next to him.

For a moment, he looked positively gleeful at her sudden arrival, but hid it quickly behind a typical smirk.

“Nice day?” he asked, his voice dripping with sarcasm.

“Fucking brilliant.” Hermione said, pulling a basket of bread rolls across the table towards her.

Malfoy tapped his chin in mock thought, “Let me guess… You spent the entire day trying to pretend that it wasn’t Christmas, and ended up screaming from your balcony at carol singers like an old Irish washerwoman.”

“I didn’t scream at the carol singers,” Hermione grunted, “Though it’s not like they didn’t deserve it.”

Malfoy laughed.

“What about you? Must have been a nice change after Christmas with Voldemort.” said Hermione wryly.

He shrugged, “Yeah… He wasn’t the most festive bloke, in case you couldn’t tell.”

Hermione chuckled, “Well, I can’t exactly picture him wearing a paper hat and pulling crackers with Bellatrix.”

Malfoy gave a mock shudder, “That image is almost scarier than the reality.”

Hermione laughed.

For the rest of the meal they ate in relative silence, only speaking to ask for salt or gravy. Hermione was fine with this. She was in no mood to talk, especially to Malfoy. All she wanted was to eat her emotions by stuffing her face with every available treat the Slytherin table offered and go home. She could then, at least, say she had celebrated Christmas in some small way.

By the time Hermione had finished her sticky date pudding, she was already planning to stop in Diagon Alley on her way home to acquire a large bottle of Firewhisky. Hogwarts had done absolutely nothing to lighten her mood. It only served to worsen it as she now felt fat on top of everything else.

She wiped her mouth on her napkin and set it back on the table. “Well, this has been lovely, but I’m going home to get drunk.” she stood, “Merry Christmas, Malfoy.”

But before she could leave the table, he reached out and laid a hand on her arm. “Wait, I’ll meet you in the entrance hall. I have to grab something.”

With that, he stood and left the hall, leaving Hermione thoroughly nervous. She had not invited him back to her flat, nor had she intended to do so. He hadn’t given her a choice. It was such a spectacularly Slytherin move. He clearly wanted to join her at home but somehow had an inkling that she’d say no to any request to do so. So he’d removed her as a variable in that circumstance. She didn’t like to have her freedom taken away from her like that.

Hermione looked up towards the staff table and waved goodbye to Teodora who winked conspiratorially in reply.

Hermione scowled as she walked into the entrance hall. Had the entire world gone mad? Why was Malfoy manipulating her? Why was Teodora winking knowingly?

The whole thing just made her tired.

She stood at the front doors, staring out over the snow covered grounds. The cold bit at her exposed skin and she drew her cloak closer around her body.

She wanted to stamp her feet like a child. Why couldn’t she just be left alone for five seconds? She needed time to just be. Her Christmas hadn’t been great so far, but she didn’t want to spend the rest of it dancing around Malfoy and his confusing, phantom emotions.

“Granger.” Malfoy appeared behind her, bag slung over his shoulder and holding a large, inconspicuous looking box wrapped in laughably jolly wrapping paper.

Hermione eyed the box suspiciously, “What, Malfoy, is that?”

“A present.” he said, “Come on, let’s go. It’s fucking freezing.”

He strode past her and charged out into the snow. Hermione had little choice but to follow him dejectedly.

They apparated back to Diagon Alley and Hermione immediately began to look around for a place to buy alcohol, any type of alcohol. Malfoy or no Malfoy, she was going to be indulging in some serious avoidance that night.

When she made to turn into a sort of general store that lay midway between her flat and the Leaky Cauldron, Malfoy stopped her.

“I already have a bottle.” he patted his bag. Hermione hated how much he seemed to know her already.

“No, I need milk.” she said stubbornly.

Malfoy rolled his eyes as she stuck up her nose and disappeared into the shop. Minutes later she emerged clutching a bottle of milk defiantly.

He chuckled and shook his head.

They walked in silence up to her flat. Hermione shoved the recently acquired bottle of milk into her fridge, next to the full one that was already in there. She pulled two glasses from the cupboard and joined Malfoy in the lounge room.

The moment she sat down on the couch, he presented her with the mysterious box, laying it on the coffee table in front of her.

She looked up at him wearily.

“Merry Christmas, Granger.” when she didn’t move or speak, he rolled his eyes, “This is the part where you open it. You do know how gift giving actually works don’t you?”

Hermione scowled at him and leant forward to rip the paper off the box. With this accomplished, she lifted the lid. Inside lay a series of much smaller boxes, crammed in with an assortment of ominous looking little bottles and, to her alarm, a silver dagger.

“Why have you given me what looks like a torture kit, Malfoy?” she asked.

“It’s not a torture kit. It’s all the ingredients for the Virtus Lucis.” he replied.

Hermione gaped at him, her mind blank with surprise. “But… How… Some of those ingredients are really rare!” she stammered.

“Ridiculously rare.” he confirmed, looking smug at her awed reaction.

Hermione began to paw reverentially through the boxes and bottles. It was all there, powdered dragon scales, Nightshade, thorn of the dog rose, phosphorescence, syrup of Hellebore, the membrane from the egg of an Ursini’s Viper and earth from a sacred site.

How he had come by these rare and priceless ingredients, Hermione would never know. That he had actually made the effort made her stomach churn uncomfortably.

When she thought about it, the gift was so true to Malfoy that she should have guessed it earlier. It was something that both played on her passion for experimental magic and potion making, and satisfied his constant need to be the centre of everything. The brewing of the potion benefited her and him.

Malfoy fished a bottle of firewhisky from the inside of his bag and poured a small measure of it into both glasses.

Hermione threw hers back in one go.

“Whoa, easy does it Granger, I’d rather you still had some control of your limbs while you’re slicing my palms open.” he said, chuckling.

Hermione choked and coughed, the liquid burning down her oesophagus, “You want to brew it tonight?!”

“Of course, why not? It’s not like Christmas is going to get any better for either of us…”

Hermione shrugged and nodded her head in agreement. He was right. Without him in her flat, a night of drunken singing and crying was lying ahead of her. Given the choice between that and brewing a difficult and rare potion, she would undoubtedly choose the potion.

Malfoy began to pull boxes and bottles from the larger box and set them on the table between them. “It doesn’t take long, does it?”

Hermione retrieved Bastet’s Line from under the couch where she’d hidden it. She flicked through to the relevant page and her eyes scanned the page. After a moment she said, “Nope, only about forty five minutes, I think. But he says the high afterwards is the part we need to worry about.”

“Why?” asked Malfoy.

Hermione shrugged. “I don’t know. He doesn’t say. But judging by the rest of the book, I’d say the potion probably has some hallucinogenic after effects.”

Malfoy looked concerned at this, but said nothing. He pulled a small brass bowl from the bottom of the larger box, set it in the middle of the coffee table and pointed his wand at it, “Engorgio.”

The bowl grew larger and Hermione gasped, “Is that a cazan?”

Malfoy nodded, “Took me ages to find.”

“Wow.” She ran her hands over the almost lewd bulge of the shallow basin in front of her. She had been keen to try using the cazan ever since she’d seen one in Teodora’s office.

“We’re not getting any younger, Granger.” grunted Malfoy after she had been studying the cazan for a few minutes.

Hermione glared at him and pointed her wand at Bastet’s Line, setting it to hover in front of her so she could read the recipe as she brewed. She conjured a floating fire to light under the cazan and rolled up her sleeves. The silence of her flat was marred by the sounds of sizzling and hissing as she began adding ingredients to the heated cazan. Malfoy watched her unceasingly, wordlessly passing her items when she asked for them.

There was something intense in his gaze that almost made it difficult to concentrate. She was aware of his face flicking between her pinched expression of concentration and her hands as they worked. It made her uncomfortable.

“Put something on, will you?” she said after fifteen minutes of this, gesturing towards the record player.

He complied without question and soon Nirvana was flowing through her flat. She didn’t particularly like the choice, it reminded her of her father, but the beat of the acoustic guitars was good to work to. Her fingers moved rhythmically over the ingredients, slicing and crushing, added a little of this and a little of that. She’d read Bastet’s Line so many times that the recipe was imprinted on her memory and she had little need to look at the book.

Her face grew hot from the sweet fumes drifting out of the cauldron. Strangely, the potion smelt like honey and hazelnuts. Her hands fumbled on her knife as she sliced into an apple to retrieve the seeds of its core when Malfoy started singing softly along with the music.

“My heart is broke, but I have some glue,

Help me inhale and mend it with you,

We’ll float around, and hang out on clouds,

Then we’ll come down and have a hangover.”

Hermione wanted to scream at him. She wanted him to shut up. She wanted to throw him from the balcony, out into the winter. She didn’t know why, but his singing was making her incontinently, chaotically angry.

His voice was soft, sweet, unlike anything she ever knew of him. He didn’t speak with that voice, not to her. Perhaps if he did, she wouldn’t hate him so much. And oh, how she hated him right then. With more passion that she had ever felt. He had struck her dumb.

His voice was beautiful and she loathed him for it.

When she looked up, ready to snarl at him, to tell him in no uncertain terms, to shut the fuck up, she found she couldn’t. He looked so relaxed, at ease. He looked comfortable and Malfoy’s never looked comfortable. She would just have to suffer in silence.

And suffer she did. He didn’t stop singing and he certainly did not stop watching her.

After a little while, Hermione put it out of her mind, becoming far more engrossed in brewing the difficult potion. The instructions were precise to the point of being pedantic. She did not want to discover what would happen if she botched it. After all, she had to drink from it as well as Malfoy.

With the forty five minutes almost up and the potion bubbling merrily in front of her, Hermione finally set down her stirring rod and picked up the sharp, evil looking silver dagger. Malfoy caught her eye, looked between her and the dagger, and grimaced.

“It won’t hurt that much.” she said, trying to reassure him.

He shrugged in faux carelessness and placed his hands on the table top, palms facing the ceiling. He closed his eyes, scowling.

Hermione poised the dagger over his skin, ready to slice. She, herself, felt uncomfortable with what she was about to do. When Teodora had taken her blood it had hurt, it had felt wrong. She wasn’t ever shy about pain but to willingly give someone else to opportunity to mar her skin…

The tip of the dagger hung over Malfoy’s hands. Hermione was staring off into space over his left shoulder, something clicking into place in her mind.

“Oh my god.” she breathed.

Malfoy opened his eyes, panicked, and stared down at his palms, “What?! What did you do?”

“Nothing… I… Blood magic. Teodora.”

“Granger, what are you talking about?” he asked in frustration.

“She… I… She took my blood! She took my blood Draco!!” The knife fell out of her hands with a clatter as she stood up. “Oh my fucking god! How did I not see it?! She took my blood for the Rusine!”

Malfoy was looking up at her with dawning understanding. “She did?”

Hermione nodded madly, “Yes!”

Malfoy laughed gleefully, “Oh shit! We can ask her about the Zeitei Otrava! And she wouldn’t be weird about it either, not if she uses blood magic herself!”

“Yes!! And, she’s Romanian! Oh, how did we not think of this before?!”

Malfoy was grinning from ear to ear as Hermione paced backwards and forwards behind the table. All the dots were beginning to connect in her head. She was mentally kicking herself that she hadn’t seen something so obvious right in front of her face.

“We should both ask her.” she said firmly.

“Agreed.”

Hermione quite literally jumped up and down for joy, letting out a small squeal. The Zeitei Otrava. The one thing that had her most intrigued, had most piqued her interest. The one thing from Bastet’s Line that she had thought she would never in her life be able to experience. And they had a lead. The recipe may just be within reach.

“I hate to rain on this parade, but I think this potion will be useless if we let it brew any longer.” said Malfoy after a minute.

“Yes, you’re right. Perspective.” she said seriously. She seated herself back at the table, an irrepressible smile lighting up her face. Malfoy laid out his hands for her again, but this time he did not shut his eyes.

She took a deep breath to calm her nerves, then, cupping his large hand in her small one, pressed the tip of the dagger into Malfoy’s left palm, feeling it almost click as it popped into his skin. She heard his sharp intake of breath and looked up at his face to find him staring back at her intensely. Hermione looked back at the dagger in her hand and slowly drew the blade across the centre of his palm. Blood welled in the wound and began to drip down onto the table top. She moved immediately onto his right hand, repeating the process, then, as the blood rained down on the wood beneath his hands, she used her own to close the fingers of both hands into his palms and bring them together over the potion.

“Clench your fists.” said Hermione quietly. He did, she felt it under hands. Without conscious thought, her thumbs began to rub soothing circles across his bloody skin as a small groan of pain left his mouth, the blood pouring from his palms and into the potion.

The cazan began to let out smoky tendrils that reached up and curled, snake like and affectionate, around their hands, caressing their skin.

Tears were springing into his eyes and his fists began to shake with the effort of clenching them closed over the painful gashes in his palms. Hermione let go, her hands now covered in his blood and leant forward over the cazan.

“Hold them over the potion,” she said in the same sombre, reverent tone, “Come closer.”

Malfoy sat up onto his knees so that they were both now, leaning over the potion, their faces almost touching. Hermione lowered her hands into the blood red liquid, the sensation of it on her skin cool and subtly burning, almost like menthol. She cupped her hands and scooped up the liquid towards her mouth.

She drank.

All at once, every colour around her was heightened, intensified, bright. She wanted to drink more of the sweet, burning liquid. It was like cool honey liqueur. She felt drunk and wondered if these were the after effects Grindelwald spoke of.

Hermione dipped her hands back into the cazan, conscious of the dark liquid flowing freely down her chin.

“You have to drink.” she said.

“From your hands?” he asked quietly, deeply.

“Yes, Draco, I have to give you the gift, remember?”

He nodded and as she raised her cupped hands to his mouth, his bloodied ones moved under to support them.

His lips touched her finger tips.

She moaned.

He looked at her sharply for a moment, as shocked by the sound as she was, before his eyes glazed and he closed them. His breathing became shallow, laboured. Hermione immediately felt alarmed, what if she’d gotten the recipe wrong? What if she’d added too many scoops of phosphorescence? Was Malfoy about to keel over dead because of her appalling potion making skills?

Suddenly, much to her relief, he laughed, low and rumbling, right from his stomach. When he opened his eyes again, the irises were blood red.

Hermione recoiled a little as his grin intensified, it became rampant, animalistic. She couldn’t decide of this twisted expression made Draco more attractive, or frightening beyond belief. If she was experiencing a high from drinking it, it was nothing compared to what he must be experiencing judging by his expression.

“How do you feel?” she asked slowly, carefully.

“I feel… I feel… Luminous.” he growled. There was mania in his voice. “This is… I love… I’ve never felt anything like it. It’s as if all my magic is pooled in my hands, it burns… But the pain… This pain is fucking brilliant.”

He stood slowly, staring around at her flat, at her, his eyes raking over her body. He held out his bloodied hands, cupping them in front of himself, and suddenly, a brilliant light burst to life inside them. It made the shadows of her flat dance and the light of the candles on the walls gutter and fail.

Hermione stood too, her fear forgotten. She was transfixed by the light he had conjured with his own hands, without use of a wand. She walked around the table to stand before him. The light was eerily green, like sunlight filtering through the treetops of a forest. It felt fresh and new. Fire had nothing on this light; this was built from the very centre of power, of inspiration, of sexuality. It was beyond beautiful. It was godlike, omnipresent and supreme to all other lights.

Hermione didn’t know why but she had the desire to feel the light on her skin. She reached out a hand to touch it, looking up at Malfoy, wordlessly asking for permission. He nodded, his eyes on her face as her fingers pushed forward and penetrated the globe of luminosity. A soft warmth spread up her hand, curled through her chest, catlike, and settled into a knot at the very pit of her abdomen. The knot throbbed.

So many words presented themselves to the forefront of her mind, words to describe the feeling of this light, the beauty of it. But no earthly language could describe the sight. She wanted to laugh and moan and weep. She could not hold onto any feeling, any thought, they all just dripped away into the light.

Malfoy suddenly closed his palms over her hand, causing the green light to slice through the room as it seeped through the gaps in his fingers. The heat intensified, the knot in her abdomen pulsed and peaked. Pain and pleasure. Malfoy was right, the pain was fucking brilliant.

“What… What are you doing?!” she stuttered, half trying to pull her hand away from him but his grip held firm. The feeling was reaching an apex and she felt as if she was about a hairs breadth away from tumbling right over the edge. What she would find there, whether ecstasy or madness, she didn’t know.

“I’m thanking you.” said Malfoy reverentially. “Thank you.”

His fists clenched over her hand and Hermione fell. Her knees buckled and her back arched. The knot in her abdomen burst and buried her in paradise.

A/N So this is it lovelies!

Review this chapter before I post chapter 20 and I will read and review one of your Potter stories!

xx

TheCrystalQuill - Happy holidays to you too! Thanks so much for the love :D

B - Hehe I'll be your best friend if you'll be mine? Merry Christmas, here is your new chapter!

lisha - Aw, sorry it's taking so long! Maybe this chapter has tied you over a little bit?

Kain - AH! I'm so glad you liked it, really. I was completely freaking out haha.I'm liking the pyramid of evil. I am also making one, after this chapter >:D

Cat - Thanks as always for the love, your reviews are always so beatiful. I hope this chapter answered SOME of your questions hehe.

aranel - I am also glad I didn't have to kill anyone... But... Well. Yeah. ANYWAY. You are also awesome! xx

Song lyrics in this chapter come from the song Dumb by Nirvana off the Nirvana: Unplugged in New York album. You should really listen to it!

The quote at the beginning of this chapter is from Ani Difranco's song Overlap. Her music has served as a huge inspiration for this piece. I own nothing. Thanks Ani!
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Victim of the Fall