"God damn you, Ron Weasley!" Hermione hissed, hot tears streaming down her cool cheeks as she ran out of the Yule Ball, digging her nails into her new pink dress and tearing bits from it, leaving a trail of tattered scraps behind her. She hated him, hated Harry Potter, hated this whole dance too. Hermione had just danced with the most handsome boy in Durmstrang, Viktor Krumm, and they had to ruin her night.

Ripping the shoulder off her dress in disgust and throwing it on the ground behind her, Hermione stepped into the courtyard, relishing the bite of cold air washing over her smooth skin. No one would follow her out here where the snow fell, icy and sharp, and all the better. She didn't like people to see her cry – it was weak, making her Mudblood moniker ever more useable.

As she leaned on the edge of the stone wall, where the other side was a drop so seep it would kill anyone who fell into it, Hermione felt the word "Mudblood" burn her, sear her bones like a brand. Her parents appeared in her mind's eye, her Muggle parents, who could go about life happily, with no idea of the storm about to engulf Hogwarts, the awful Lord Voldemort, the wizard wars. Hermione wanted so badly to just be a pureblood, to have magic flow easily, naturally from her veins, requiring so little effort. Instead, she had the worst of both worlds – a Muggle struggling with being adept at magic along with the burden of wizard conflict.

But her becoming a pureblood, becoming normal…

That was sure to never happen.

The abyss whirled deep below her, and she swore she saw eyes staring back at her from it.

Sick of it all, dread pooling in her lungs like thick black tar, Hermione stepped out of her shoes and hoisted herself onto the edge of that courtyard wall, her determination cutting off her need for warmth and the protection of inside Hogwarts. Here, where just she stood, felt like the edge of the world, and the icy winds whipping around her, tossing her auburn hair about, made her feel so naked, so exposed, so…truly pure. She felt how fragile she really was.

Here, she was pure. Above the world, tatters of dress billowing about her, winglike.

The image stuck to her mind, a childhood memory of a little baby bird her father had found on the ground outside his dentist's office. Trancelike, Hermione recalled its bulbous head, its helpless, bare wings. It was so fragile, that little chick, never getting an opportunity to fly.

It was the reject of the bird world. The failure.

But Hermione would be different.

She would fly.

Suddenly, a strong blast of icy wind shoved Hermione's knees forward, and she tumbled forward, down into the abyss. Freezing air shocked her at first, filling her lungs with cold, and she felt herself falling ever quicker, plummeting faster than the snowflakes, hurtling through the blackness. She knew there was no time for remorse now, no time for regret, but as the rocks below came ever clearer, Hermione's heart wanted her to be somewhere else, someplace warm and still where she could die peacefully, not here, crushed upon the rocks like a broken china doll. Hermione wished, with the last fleeting moments of her life, that she was home, then steeled herself to forever embrace the earth –

"Wingardium leviosa!"

Everything stopped, and the air stuck hard in Hermione's throat. She opened her eyes to see she was floating merely inches above the stone, arms spread wide, shivering. Then, slowly, she began to rise up through the air, higher and higher until she was level again with the courtyard wall. Two arms grabbed her from behind and held her limp form to them. Hermione quaked and curled into her savior's chest, which she discovered was bonier than Ron's chest yet leaner than Harry's. She was drained and frightened.

"C-cold," she murmured to the young man, feeling so small against him. "P-please take me…inside…don't t-tell anyone I j-jumped…"

"Why would I tell anyone that, Granger?" he replied, pulling his ceremonial robes tighter around her to keep her cozy and comforted. "A Slytherin saving a Gryffindor? That's just unheard of."

Hermione's eyes snapped open. She saw the emerald-green waistcoat right before her nose, and his black coat was sprinkled with delicate crystalline snowflakes. Finally she looked up and saw the flutter of his white-blonde hair. It was Malfoy.

"No…no…l-let me go..I'm fine…just leave me at my dorm r-room…"

"I am not going to leave you alone in this state, Granger, don't be an idiot. Your teeth are clacking like castanets, your skin is white as paper, and you really do need some rest. Ow, stop shoving me, girl!"

Heeding his firm but caring tone, Hermione reluctantly rested her heavy head against his warm chest. Watching with weary eyes as he carried her down the halls emptied by the Yule Ball, she noticed he was taking her to the Slytherin common room. Draco draped his black coat over her like a blanket as they went up the flight of spiral stairs to his room. There, outside his private dorm with the carved mahogany door with two snakes curling around the edges, Hermione struggled against him.

"I thought you were taking me to the sick wing."

"No, Granger. That would start gossip about you being suicidal and angst-ridden and me being a hero and…we don't want that to happen, hm?"

"Being a hero's not so bad, Malfoy."

"It is to me. Now hush. Don't worry yourself on these things."

After unlocking his door with a flick of his wand, Draco carried Hermione inside.

His room was less small and homey than her and rather sumptuous, with a king-sized canopy bed hung with sheer dark green curtains, covered in emerald-silk sheets and a black and silver comforter. An ebony writing desk sat in the corner of the room, everything on it meticulously organized, all neatly stacked textbooks and organized potion bottles – Hermione could say that organization was a trait they both shared, if in different ways. Along with that, his Quidditch broom leaned against the wall. His window was fit with stained glass of light green and clear, and part of it was a stained-glass serpent, tongue out, teeth bared.

"Don't keep me here, Malfoy…" Hermione groaned in half-hearted desperation as he laid her down gently on the bed, pulling the gorgeous green silk around her form and tucking her in. "What will your dorm mates think?"

Draco laughed, flashing his peppermint-white teeth. "You really think I have dorm mates, Granger? With my one king-sized bed? My father bought me my own private dorm here in Hogwarts. Did you really believe Crabbe and Goyle sleep with me?"

Hermione gave a hiccup of a giggle. "It would certainly – er – deepen your companionship if you did sleep with them."

"Oi, I didn't mean it in that way!" Draco laughed, offended at first, then smiling. "You have a dirty mind, Granger." He crossed the room to light a candle on his desk.

"Is that a bad thing?" she asked. But it was too late when she realized what she'd said to take it back.

"'Course not," Draco replied, blowing out the smoldering match, He stood by the window, and Hermione's eyes traced his illuminated self. She admired his slightly curved torso the arch of his back under his undone white dress shirt and unbuttoned green waistcoat. His blonde hair remained combed nicely still after the Yule Ball, but a rebel strand of hair fell over his carved cheekbone. Hermione felt a twinge of affection once she noticed the little frown of concentration he made as he undid the clasp of the heavy black curtains, covering the window so the only light in the room was that of the candle on the desk, its golden tongue dancing playfully. Hermione found herself most fixated on Draco's lips, those light pink, thin lips that some strange part inside of her wanted to kiss.

Draco removed his waistcoat and draped it over his desk chair, picking up his wand. Murmuring a spell, he conjured up two hot dry towels that he tucked in beneath Hermione's cold bare feet. She watched his slender arms wind around her legs, observed his lithe figure move beneath white shirt.

"Thank you," she whispered, cuddling the mass of blankets to her body. Wiggling herself deeper into the sheets, she found herself completely exhausted.

"Don't mention it, Granger," Malfoy answered, returning to the door; Hermione had no idea why he was being so kind to her all of a sudden, but now she was too tired to care. "You 're welcome. Now close your eyes, get some rest. I'll see you in the morning."

"Goodnight, Malfoy."

"Call me Draco – Goodnight."

Hermione felt a smile on her lips. "Goodnight, Draco."

After the door closed, Hermione was rocked to sleep by the sound of soft snow outside. She put her face into the pillow that had the scent of Draco – cologne and aftershave smells in the sheets, a musk of pine and earthy scents.

It lulled Hermione to sleep, and she had a restful sleep, dreaming of nothing but flying lessons and two grey eyes watching over her.