Hermione didn't take well-enough care of herself. Common knowledge, but no one worried too much. She showed up to most meals (even if there was an open book present, it still counts) and she could be cajoled into 'sleepovers', which were merely the girls in her dorm staying up late, gossiping and painting eachothers' nails.
But everyone knew to remind her of things most people never forget (as she always stayed busy learning what most never bother to remember). Change your clothes before and after sleeping, wash your face, eat some breakfast of you bother to show up at the table. She always remembered to restock her quills and parchment, but because of her constant reading all other trivial, daily tasks were often neglected.
'Like go to bed before you fall asleep.' He raised an eyebrow—finely shaped, a ghostly shade of platinum blonde—and smirked. The Griffindoor's head rested atop a book with yellowed pages, surrounded by others (some piled, some scattered, and others in a state of open-ness; parchment in similar predicaments, charts and lists and paragraphs), the ink-well currently soaking a curl of bushy hair.
There were ink stains on her fingertips, the side of her right hand, and the bridge of her nose. A similar black stain was on her knuckles—perhaps from rubbing eyes with mascara—and her nails had a chipped coppery polish with yet-more beleaguered gold letters that read as what he assumed used to say 'GRIFI NDOOR'.
Hermione's face was uninhibited by her bushy mane, pale with smudges that looked like bruises on first glance. But her expression (even with her mouth lightly agape) was peaceful.
The forgetful girl with the best memory of their year was in her element, among paper, ink, bindings, truth, and words. She wouldn't want to be woken up from her bliss by the boy who was anything but that.
Draco Malfoy stuck his hands in his pockets, looked up at the ceiling and, sighing for no particular reason, left.