Moaning Myrtle had been the one who notified Hermione Granger of the weeping, blonde haired boy, who had regular visiting hours at around 2:00 am.

"He confides in me all of his secrets."

Here, Myrtle giggled.

"… To no one else, only me."

The dead girl smiled a smug smile – evidence of Malfoy's lingering influence.

"He's not like your friends. That redheaded boy promised to visit me, but never did. He even agreed when Peeves ---"

Myrtle continued on with her rants, including pouts here and there and giggles that brought bubbles up to the surface of the toilet. Hermione's ears only caught the mentioning of Draco Malfoy. It aroused Hermione's flammable curiosity.

Of course, she wasn't jealous of Myrtle's position as confidante, but the idea of visiting Malfoy in his vulnerable, "stripped from pureblood glory" moment enticed her.

After exactly thirteen evening weekly bathroom stall gatherings (yes, Hermione kept count), Draco Malfoy and Hermione Granger migrated to the Astronomy Tower for their get togethers.

The first night Hermione visited Draco at the bathroom was the shortest.

Hermione had offered him a tissue. Despite the roll of toilet paper and napkins next to him, despite the numerous times he had sneered, every time he had stomped over her with his shoe of superiority – Hermione offered him a tissue that would wipe away his pain-enclosed tears.

He had rejected, but that hadn't put an end on her visiting a week later.

The fifth night, their cold relationship melted.

She had sat next to him, her legs drawn up, arms wrapped around legs, chin placed neatly on her knees. She looked at his features, analyzed his facial expressions, how every one of his thoughts and emotions flickered behind his eyes. He struggled to put them down. He only smirked when she said, in passing, that Ron's snogging would soon drown Lavender with all his drool.

He only smiled when she trailed her fingers up and down his back.

They had sat in silence, satisfied with the sound of each other's breathing and the echoes of dripping water from the faucet.

"The pure blood and the mud blood. The beauty and the beast."

He had whispered to her, while her arms were twined around his waist. Both covered by smelly wool blankets; his arm had served as pillow for her head.

He hadn't said those words in a hurtful manner. He just formed vile words into honest statement. Weaving bits of his realization in as he later added: "You're the beauty, I'm the beast."

It's too late for redemption, he had told her.

"Don't come up here next week. Promise."

She knew he wasn't a man of passion filled words, and so she promised.

Somehow, she had known that she just sealed the end of whatever they had. And it hadn't affected her as much as it would have created an impact of Lavender or Parvati or maybe Ginny.

Besides, she had to end all the forgiveness and redemption act at some point. She would not stray away from her loyalty dripped ties with Harry. Because that's what she signed up for when joining Harry and Gryffindors. Loyalty, Bravery, Justice. And she wouldn't drop six years of that facade.

Not for him.

And Draco knew, but he didn't understand. He just couldn't. Because that was the barrier between him from her.

Yet, Hermione's words that once bounced silently off the walls of the bathrooms had followed them to the Astronomy Tower. In the slight past they had been words filled of her passion, her form of coaxing Draco, now they morphed into whispers. In his head, in lullaby repetition.

Then, and now, they still reverberated.
They let Snape have the chance at murder.

But back in the night of wooled blankets, traces of owl droppings, and icy personalities, the lion and the serpent both acknowledged their sides."I want you to stay in your common room next week. Don't listen to Potter or anyone. They tell you to fight, don't."

I won't come up here next week, she had told him.

His eyes had softened, but he still did not understand.
Draco had considered sabotaging his plan.

"You're too weak for love": that's what Narcissa whispered every night into his ear before his years of Hogwarts.

Draco's lips reached for Hermione's. A milimeter apart, she turned her head, a gentle flick of her neck burned Draco. More watts than an electrocution struck him. She whispered Ron's name, mumbling excuses powdered with lies. And though Draco knew these falsifications, the shadow of a decision to put an end to his plots killing Professor Albus Dumbledore disappeared.

When Hermione had promised, she never knew she would be attending a funeral a week and a day later.