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Disclaimer: Characters belong to J.K. Rowling.

A/N: I just wanted to thank everyone for your reviews thus far. I especially love the comments that say, "This is so strange, and yet I am intrigued." I can almost assure you that this will be one of the weirdest Dramione's you have ever read, so these are great compliments to me. On to the story now. :)

= = =

The Average student class took place in the same classroom for five hours until lunch. Five hours. In the same classroom. Without breaks. Learning about the importance of hygiene.

And might I add, this lesson was being taught once again by Filch, who looks and smells as though he hasn’t bathed in years and has yellow rotted teeth.

“I can not stress enough the importance of this,” he said, fingering a lock of his stringy, greasy, grey hair, “Condition, condition, condition.” And then he smiled a big toothy yellow grin.

I sighed heavily and glanced around the classroom at everyone with quills in their hands. Granger was taking notes. Although I knew I’d never understand most girls, Granger was a completely different story.

And then, as if she couldn’t possibly get any more obnoxious, she raised her hand high up in the air. “Excuse me, Professor,” she began, “But will the ingredients in different conditioners be on the exam?”

I couldn’t help but laugh out loud. Granger shot a death glare at me.

“Problem, Twenty-seven?” Filch asked in his gruff and raspy voice.

“None at all, Professor,” I smirked, “I just wondered when the last time Grang – Fifty-three – conditioned her own hair was,” then looking at her, I said, “It might tame some of that uncontrollable frizz.

“Now, now,” said Filch, “I won’t be having any of that kind of talk here. Now, where was I?” As he continued his lecture about conditioning, Hermione turned to me and mouthed two words:

“Fuck you.”

I chuckled under my breath as I pulled out a piece of parchment and wrote on it:

Don’t need to, I reckon our future selves are already off shagging somewhere in the Forbidden Forest anyway.”

She read the note and her face turned stone cold. Then, without even asking permission, she sprang up from her seat like a jack-in-the-box, let her chair fall over backwards, and stormed out of the classroom.

= = =

That night I found Granger in the common room writing her essay on the consequences of not flossing. I started walking toward her, and then stopped. Why should I? It’s not like I owed her an explanation or anything. She knows I hate her, and she hates me too. Us acting like arses to each other was normal. Wasn’t it?

Maybe in our time it was normal … back during our fifth year in 1995. But this was two years later, where we were supposed to be seventh years … where we were supposed to be dating seventh years.

But we weren’t dating. The couple Draco Malfoy and Hermione Granger got away. And here we were, fifth years trapped in a deranged seventh year world, and as far as I was concerned, we were not dating.

And then I was in front of her. I didn’t even remember walking up to her. But there I was, and there she was, and before I knew it, words were spilling out of my mouth. “I don’t owe you anything, so I hope you’re not expecting some lame explanation or apology or some rubbish like that.”

“Of course not,” she said as her quill continued to scratch away.

“Because you’re not getting one,” I said, “I don’t know what you’re getting all upset over. Just because we’re stuck in the future together doesn’t make us friends or anything.”

“Shut up, Malfoy.”

“Sure, maybe we end up going out in the future, but we sure as hell aren’t right now so you can –”


My mouth dropped. “What did you just call me?”

“That’s your name isn’t it?” she asked, standing up so we were seeing eye to eye, “You’re Draco. I’m Hermione. And we’re both stuck here in this God awful world, and if either of us want to get out, we’re going to have to work together!”

“So what are you saying?”

“God Draco, I’m saying we don’t have to snog each other, but we have to at least act civil … and we’ll start by learning each other’s names.”

“I know you’re name,” I snapped.

“Then say it!” she yelled, stepping closer to me.

“This is ridiculous,” I sighed as I turned to walk away.


I spun around to face her. “That’s Malfoy, to you. Or better yet, Twenty-seven.”

“Why won’t you even try?” she whispered in desperation.

“Because I don’t like you. There. Are you happy? I don’t like you. Never did, and never will. You are an annoying snob. And if it is in my power to change the future, then by God I will. I’m going to bed.”

She turned her head then, and I knew she was crying.

Before I reached the stairs, I called back, “Watch your arms tonight, Fifty-three.”

= = =

I had another dream about the Slytherin dungeon that night. It involved more screaming. More pain. More torture. More blood.

I awoke in a cold sweat with my blankets twisted awkwardly around my body. Peeking through the scarlet hangings around my four poster, I spotted the clock on the wall. 4:36 a.m. I had about two and a half hours before breakfast, and decided if I was going to check out the scene it would have to be now or never.

I don’t know what I expected to find. The last time I was there I just saw a door. A door bolted with locks and chains. Maybe I expected to hear the screaming I heard in my dreams.

I slid into my slippers and robe and climbed down the stairs and out the portrait hole. There was something strangely eerie about walking the corridors at night. I never liked it much. I fingered the tip of my wand sticking out of my robe’s pocket, relishing in the feeling of security it offered me, even though I knew I couldn’t use it even if I wanted to. The M word does not exist …

I came to a sudden halt outside of the door leading into the hospital wing at the sound of voices. Strange … I didn’t know professors were awake at such early hours of the morning. I wondered if perhaps Madame Pomfrey were in there, and then decided she probably wasn’t. She was most likely lowered to the ranks of being a servant with all the other old professors. Oh well. I never really liked Madame Pomfrey anyway.

“I just don’t understand how this happened,” said the familiar voice of a boy.

“I’ve told you, Two-hundred and four. You had an accident. You were outside and got too close to the Whomping Willow.” It was Amycus Carrow, in his high wheezy voice.

“But I don’t remember –”

“You were sleep walking.”

There was a brief silence before the boy said, “I don’t walk in my sleep. My dorm mates have told me so.” And suddenly I knew who was speaking. I had a brief memory flood back of a night during fourth year – Crabbe had been walking in his sleep, and upon laughing at him, Blaise had asked me if he’d ever walked in his sleep. I told him he hadn’t.

“Well you did last night, Two-hundred and four. Went straight outside to the Whomping Willow. It cut you up pretty bad … you had to get almost thirty stitches,” explained Amycus.

A shiver crept its way throughout my entire body as I imagined what Blaise must have looked like. But something wasn’t right about this story; for Blaise was right. He never sleepwalked. Never. In fact, he was the most sound sleeper among all of us. He would sleep through anything. Once we even put women’s make up on him while he slept. He didn’t even flinch. The next morning when he woke up and looked in the mirror was a completely different story …

“Are you sure that’s what happened?” Blaise asked. “The gash running across my abdomen looks like something done by –”

Amycus’s voice grew unnaturally low as he growled low in his throat, a challenge, “Done by what, boy?”

Blaise did not answer.

“You had an accident,” said Amycus. “Repeat.”

“I … I had an accident.”

“Good boy,” said Amycus, and I heard his waddled footsteps nearing the door. I streaked down the corridor and turned the corner, my heart jack-rabbitting in my chest.

What was going on? Blaise had wanted to say his cut looked like something done by magic. I just knew he did. And it would have been perfectly easy for someone to perform a spell on him without waking him. Too easy.

But what was I saying? The M word does not exist.

= = =

Over the next few days, I avoided Granger as if she were the very epitome of that big oaf Hagrid’s Care of Magical Creatures class. It worked out well. I didn’t talk to her, and she looked right through me as if I were invisible. It was just like the good old days … except we were still stuck in the future.

Lovegood did approach me about it once though.

“Is something wrong between you and Fifty-three?”

“None of your damn business, Loony.”

“I was only wondering,” she said with a nonchalant shrug of her shoulders, “You two are so confusing. Before you ran away you could hardly keep your hands off of each other. And now –”

I took a deep breath before interrupting her and speaking each word slowly. “I said, it’s none of your business.”

“I see. You just look like you need a friend,” and she placed her small hand on my arm. “You must be so lonely, what with all of your friends in the Advanced classes and Fifty-three not speaking to you.”


She jumped and pulled her arm back. “I’m sort of getting the feeling you want to be alone.”

I rolled my eyes. “If you wouldn’t mind …”

A few days later, I spotted Lovegood talking with Ganger. I couldn’t help but wonder if they were talking about me. Granger was most likely telling her what I prick I was. And then I noticed a large white bandage wrapped around her arm. I glanced down at my own arm where the needle had been. The inside of my elbow was partially bruised, but other than that it was fine, and I was sure the bruise would vanish in no time at all. It seemed Granger had put up more of a fight than I did. I guess she wasn’t placed in Gryffindor for nothing …

As the days crept by, ever so slowly with all the boring never-ending classes, easy elementary homework, and disgusting food, I realized Lovegood was right. I was lonely, and desperately felt I needed someone to talk to. Usually I could go to Blaise … but I hadn’t seen Blaise since that day I’d overheard him talking with Amycus in the hospital wing. He was probably still there, recovering from his “accident.”

Many times I considered just telling Granger what she wanted to hear: that she was right – as usual, so now could we get on with it and I could tell her what I heard and she could tell me if she’s found out anything else, because Merlin knows with that brain of hers she’d had to of figured something out. But every time my feet would subconsciously move toward her, my brain would put up a red flag and boom, “DANGER! DANGER!” and I would step away.

Maybe it was better that we stayed away from each other. Who knows – maybe by pretending the other doesn’t exist, we could change time so that we don’t end up dating in the future.

The day Blaise showed up in Filch's class was probably the happiest I'd been in a week. Blaise, although a great scar ran from his chin to his collarbone, looked quite healthy, and I couldn't wait to talk to him. I counted down the minutes until Filch's lesson was over (today's class was about how to tell when your mayonnaise based foods have spoiled).

"Blaise!" I called as I ran up to him later that night in the boy's dormitories after a disgusting dinner of dog shit. I grabbed my throat, surprised by the sting speaking one word had left me. Had it really been so long since I last spoke a word to anyone that it hurt to talk? Oh my God. I've become a mute.

I cleared my throat. "Blaise," I said again, but he just sat on his bed, staring out the window as if something extraordinary were out there that he couldn't peel his eyes away from. "Hey," I said, standing in front of him, blocking his view of the oh-so-interesting trees of the Forbidden Forest, "What happened to you?" And being this close to him, I noticed for the first time the scars scattered around his face. "My God, Blaise ... what the hell happened to you?"

After a long moment of heated silence, he spoke in such a soft voice I had to strain to hear him, "I had an accident."

"Don't give me that bull shit," I said as I knelt down in front of him so that our gazes met, "I know that's what they told you to say, but I'm serious. What happened to you?"

"I had an acci --"

"No you didn't!" I bellowed so loudly that Longbottom, who was sitting on his bed reading, dropped his book like the clumsy fool he is.

"Now look what you've done," Longbottom whined, "You made me lose my page."

"Stuff it, Longbottom," I said, then turned back to Blaise and lowered my voice, speaking with urgency. "I know you didn't go near the Whomping Willow, and you know it too. Something bad happened to you, Blaise, and it was no accident."

Blaise stood up from his bed, "I have to go."

"No!" I shoved him hard on the chest and he collapsed over backwards on to his bed. I was surprised by my own actions. In my own time two years ago, I never would have dreamed of hitting Blaise. He would have beaten the living crap out of me.

But instead, this Blaise just stared at me from where he landed.

"What the hell is wrong with you?" I screamed, and didn't care that Longbottom was glaring at me again. "Push me back, you fool! Go on! Push me!"

"I ..."

"Hit me, Blaise, damn it! Hit me before I hit you, and I sure as hell am not going to be the one to tell you your cuts are all from a bloody accident!"

"Twenty-seven!" Amycus whinnied from the doorway. "You are out of control."

"You!" I spun around on him what the instincts of a tiger, ready to attack. "You fucked him up! Blaise was my friend; what have you done to him?" And I suddenly felt as though everything I'd kept inside over the past week was going to flood out of me, as if a great barrier had been torn down, allowing a flash flood of water and emotions to pour out of me in a supernatural and uncontrollable force. "You’ve brainwashed him," I said matter-of-factly, "There was no fucking accident, you insane, brainwashing --"

And then a scream ripped through my throat, and my whole body felt as though it were a living flame, dancing with the ghost of death.

I fell to my knees on the hardwood floor, and struggled to lift my neck up through the pain to see Alecto Carrow above me, gripping my arm in a vice like grip with that silver glove that felt like five digits of burning metal slithering around the flesh of my arm and sending a searing white hot heat throughout my entire body.

"You ... fucker!" I sobbed through my screams.

"You are out of control," Alecto said, imitating her brother's words.

"You're crazy!" I said as I writhed on the floor in agony.

"Brother," Alecto said, "Twenty-seven refuses to calm down."

Through the screams tearing through my searing throat, I could hear footsteps slowly clicking across the floor. Amycus held a long, thin, silver needle in his right hand. "Then we'll just have to make him calm down."

And that is the last thing I remember before my whole world turned into an endless black pit of nothingness.

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