Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter or anything pertaining to it except my own writing. All rights go to the rightful owners.
A/N: Set during Prisoner of Azkaban.
It wasn't fair. Why, of all the bloody girls at Hogwarts, was Draco stuck feeling this way for her? He had no reason, no reason at all. And that was the worst of it. She was a mongrel, dirty blood, hybrid. His father had said as much, and he had listened. He had voiced it to her on more than one occasion, a leer sent her way without a second thought if hardly a first. But she never backed down. She glared right back, snapped right back. It was what made her stand out to him among the rest, he supposed.
And why should he? Thinking about her made it worse. Made him remember all the horrible things he'd said to her over the years, the look of hurt that crept its way behind her eyes before being replaced with daggers of hate… pointed at him. Sometimes he believed they hurt worse than the ones his father sent his way, and that maybe, just maybe, he would screw everything and decide to be his own person. But then he met his father face to face, and those cold eyes melted into his own once more… and he took his thoughts of change back, stuffed them into the tight-locked chest in the farthest corner of his mind.
She hated him. He knew that. It was, perhaps, another reason why he was so bitter to her. The bright light was her concern, if he had heard correctly, when he'd been hit by the blasted Hippogriff. But Hermione was kind–he had let it go because she surely was only being herself, not realizing in the moment where he worry was being directed. Probably not even for him–more like for Hagrid, who she believed would be fired, as he was the instructor of the course that had injured the son of the vengeful Lucius Malfoy. She wasn't really concerned for his well being, no way.
Proven further by her punching him directly on the face. It hurt like hell, it did, and he'd been so embarrassed. You foul, loathsome, evil little cockroach! She really would have got him, too. Spared only by daft Ron Weasley and the ever awe-inspiring Harry Potter. His name alone made Draco sick. Damn his pride. He wished he hadn't inherited that from his father. It was his fault he had to prove himself all the time, get himself hurt in the process. And make himself look a right fool, more often than not. And always in front of her.
If there was a potion to get rid of what he was feeling, he would gladly take it. There was no way he could ever do anything about them without being whipped a good one by Lucius, and he wouldn't want to anyway. Ron and Harry would get him just as worse, and Granger would probably kill herself in disgust at attracting a Malfoy.
Maybe it was better not to feel anything at all.
Hermione had always been considerate. Her nurturing side surfaced at the worst of moments, and though she liked to think she would make a good mother, much like her own, it was quite inconvenient. Like times such as these, where she held the strangest of feelings for a certain vile cockroach and didn't want said feelings to be found out by her peers, especially him.
But could she help it? Could you, if you saw the boy you fancied knocked to the ground by a Hippogriff? She had been nervous but excited for Harry, having been the first to 'approach' Buckbeak, but when he so blatantly insulted the creature and stalked towards it, her former smile had slipped to nothing. He was a bloody git, he was, to do such a thing and she knew it. Even then, she couldn't help herself from jumping forward to shout at Hagrid, sounding far too inappropriately distraught for her position with him, that he needed to bring the boy to the infirmary.
No one had questioned Hermione, as she was the smartest witch in her class at Hogwarts and her knowledge of medics wouldn't seem strange, but how had nobody realized her tone was so strangely scared? Anxious for Draco Malfoy of all people! The stupid blond had gone and gotten himself hurt, and for what? His pride? His hair, apparently, wasn't the only thing he had inherited from his father. Along with, of course, his prejudice towards Hermione. He was a right fool, and yet her eyes still strayed to him at the oddest moments, she still thought of him in a world that didn't include the term 'mudblood' and what it could be like. Maybe he would see her for more than… well, what he saw and what he heard from his awful father.
And she may have felt bad for him, but that didn't stop her from throwing that punch. The boys had thought her upset at his attitude, but that hadn't been all. She hated that he called her names, didn't take notice of her except when he wanted to put her down, sneered and leered at her as though she were the fat boy sitting on his wand. It near broke her heart. And she could do nothing about it.