A/N: Set in HBP, variations where I deemed necessary.

CHAPTER 1: The Kitchens

Grey eyes.

Grey eyes are all Hermione saw when she shut her eyes at night. Because of one idiotic moment when she shouldn't have even been out of bed.

She had woken up in the middle of the night. The wind was howling outside, clouds covering the moon. There was no sign of dawn approaching. It was unusually chilly in the castle, and Hermione's nose was cold, her feet felt like they were about to drop off, and the woollen socks she was wearing did nothing to warm her. She had hoped that it was still early enough for the fire to be roaring, but when she silently made her way down to the common room, she found nothing but glowing ashes. Still, Hermione plumped herself in front of the fireplace, wrapping her dressing gown around her tighter. Holding her hands out to feel the faint heat of the ashes did nothing to warm her up, but she pretended it did. Hermione was severely tempted to cast a warming spell on herself, but she'd left her wand in the dormitory.

Hermione was far too restless to sit still. She'd been dreaming - a horrible dream, but of what she couldn't recall - though the fear she had felt remained in her bones. Standing and pacing around the common room, she was determined to not remember the details of the dream, but her determination could not rid herself of the jitters she felt. If she was at home, her mother would have made her a hot chocolate, and sat with her in her bedroom until she fell asleep. Whilst she couldn't have her mother with her, she could have a hot chocolate - she simply had to go down to the kitchens and make one. Deciding this was a good idea, she quickly grabbed her wand from her dormitory, eased the Fat Lady's portrait open (ignoring her sleepy grunts) and made her way down the stairs. Her socks slipped on the stone and she held tight to the bannisters.

In the distance she could hear the footsteps of a patrolling teacher and she matched her steps with theirs. After a torturously long time, and after several debates with herself arguing that this was a useless adventure and she may as well go back to bed, she reached the portrait of the fruit bowl which she knew to be the kitchen entry.

Tickling the pear caused it to giggle and reveal a door, which Hermione opened gently. Entering the kitchen she looked around, only slightly surprised to find it devoid of house elves. It must have been later than she thought.

Hermione made her way around the preparation benches to the cupboards, rummaging through them for a mug, milk, and chocolate. She had only successfully found the chocolate when a voice echoed through the kitchen.

"Mugs are on your left," it sneered, and Hermione jumped, dropping the carton of milk she had just found. Hermione turned around slowly in trepidation; she would recognise that voice anywhere, but oh how she had hoped she was wrong. But her eyes told no lies; it was none other than Draco Malfoy sitting at a prep table further down the room, glaring at her. She briefly thought that he must be freezing in his state of underdress; he was wearing nothing but trousers and socks, and she averted her eyes.

"Malfoy," she spat, but it came out more like a greeting, and she hated that.

"Granger," he returned, just as venomously. Hermione pursed her lips and ignored him, bending down to clear up the spilled milk with her wand. She then collected a mug from the cupboard and placed it on the prep table for good measure. She now had everything she needed for her hot chocolate, but she hesitated before beginning to make it, instead taking a moment to look at Draco from her peripheral.

He was hunched over a mug of his own, his pinky outlining the rim methodically. He didn't use the handle, rather clasping one hand around the opposite side, undoubtedly burning his palm. His hair was ruffled as though he'd run his fingers through it several times, and truthfully, Hermione preferred this rugged look to his slicked-back style he had worn when he was younger. She allowed her eyes to graze over Draco's arms, his shoulders, his collarbone, before darting up to admire his face, but she blanched; Draco was now staring at her, a smirk on his lips. She was reminded of the times he had smirked at her after insulting her, but turned pink under his gaze nonetheless.

"What are you doing here?" she had asked, hoping to distract him from her mounting blush. It was one thing to stare at her best friends' enemy, but it was another to be caught staring by said enemy.

"I could ask you the same question," Draco had replied, raising a brow, daring her to push the topic. Hermione didn't rise to the challenge and busied herself with making her hot chocolate.

"What's in the mug?" she'd asked instead, unwrapping the chocolate. She heard Draco shift, and saw him drag the cup closer to his chest.

"What do you think it is?" he'd demanded. "Firewhiskey?" Hermione shrugged, because she didn't know what to expect in that cup, but she supposed that alcohol would have been a likely guess on her behalf. At her silence, Draco continued. "It's just coffee, Granger." Surprise must have shown on her face despite her efforts to hide it, because Draco was scowling deeply at her.

"How very muggle of you," she said simply, cutting up the chocolate pieces with her wand and throwing them into the mug carelessly. She melted it with a heating spell and poured in some milk, stirring it until it was light brown. She chopped up some more chocolate, feeling him glare at her, and tried not to feel so self conscious.

"You say that like coffee can't be shared by two races," he had said in a tone that suggested she was an idiot. "It's just a drink."

Hermione looked up to see his grey eyes look away from her and into his cup once more. Glad to be free of his debilitating stare, she ran a hand through her hair - still frizzy, though she believed it was taming with age - pushing it out of her face. She warmed up the milk in her mug again, making it steam, and drizzled more chocolate pieces in it. There was no froth or marshmallows, but Hermione made do with what she had. She sipped it and revelled in the sweetness.

"Aren't you at least going to sit down?" Draco asked dryly. Hermione did feel a tad foolish standing up, but she didn't think that she'd be welcome sitting anywhere near him. But since he had practically offered, and there was a chair opposite him at the table, she cautiously she made her way over to it and sat. Hermione felt her tension ebb away with every passing second of silence.

"Why did you chop up the chocolate?" he asked suddenly, when Hermione was half way through her drink. She looked up in surprise to find him leaning eagerly over the table top, his eyes glimmering with faint amusement. There was no malice in his gaze and Hermione found herself mirroring his actions, resting her forearms on the table top.

"I prefer to taste my chocolate," Hermione said, her eyes darting between Draco's, unsure whether she should focus on his left or right eye. "Chewing it makes me savour the taste."

Draco raised an eyebrow. He was doing that a lot. "Weird," he commented, his cool breath wafting over Hermione's face, distracting her. He leaned back into his chair.

"You're weird," Hermione retorted childishly.
"Very mature, Hermione. Did you think that up all by yourself?"

Draco stumbled a little over the pronunciation of her name, but Hermione pretended not to notice. The twist of her lips might have given her away, though, because Draco suddenly slammed his cup on the table, scowling.

"Did you make that all by yourself?" Hermione asked, gesturing to his coffee mug, only slightly mocking him. Judging from his expression, Hermione knew it didn't go unnoticed.

"As a matter of fact I did, Granger," he sneered. "Is it that shocking to you that I can actually look after myself?"

Hermione shrugged, marvelling at how quickly Draco's emotions changed; from curious to defensive, from embarrassed to outright rude. She never knew how he was going to react. It was like emotional whiplash.

"Don't get snappy with me, Malfoy," Hermione replied coolly. "I was just making conversation."
"Sounded like judgement to me."
"It would only have sounded like judgement if you were sensitive to that topic of conversation," Hermione said pointedly. Draco glared. "How about we don't talk about this anymore?"
"That's the first good idea you've had all evening."

Hermione sighed into the silence. Draco was so strange. When things were going well between them, it was fine - they were just two people who weren't quite on first name basis yet, having coffee. It seemed so conventional. So normal. But when things went bad, Hermione was reminded of their history, reminded that they were on the brink of war and that Draco was on the wrong side.

After a few more minutes of compatible, if tense, silence, and Hermione was nearly through her drink, Draco cleared his throat. He seemed amused. "Nice dressing-gown."

Hermione blushed profusely and pulled it tighter around her. It was her favourite gown, soft and fluffy and a gorgeous emerald green. She had bought it with her mother, knowing full well the implications of the colour, but she had figured no one would see her in it, let alone any Slytherins. Turns out she was wrong.

"That must be the nicest thing you've ever said to me," she teased in an attempt to cover her embarrassment. Draco gave her a sarcastic look. "I should go."
Draco frowned. "I thought you were making conversation?"
"Is that your way of saying that you want me to stay?"

He didn't answer. Instead, he tilted his chair onto its two back legs and stretched, resting his hands on his head. "I've seen you before," he said conversationally.

"Well I'd hope so, seeing as we go to school together," Hermione mocked him. Draco surprisingly ignored her mocking.

"Not at school, Granger," he had said, and shook his head. "No, down here. In the kitchens. After hours." His chair fell back onto four legs and his gaze pierced into Hermione, and it was so enrapturing she couldn't look away. Hermione wondered when his face became so close to hers. She didn't feel any need to move away but her breathing did hitch. She didn't know if Draco noticed.

"What's your point?" Hermione breathed out. "That you watch me?"

Draco scoffed. "That anyone could be, actually," he said. But he didn't deny her accusation, and for some reason, that didn't bother Hermione as much as it should have. "You're very interesting, Hermione Granger."

Her name rolled across his tongue strangely. Whilst he didn't stumble over it again, it sounded odd without the usual malice, but Hermione liked the difference. Her eyes bore into his curiously, looking for something, but she wasn't sure what. Draco pulled away from her, standing up and stretching his arms high above his head, cracking his fingers. Hermione did avert her eyes, but allowed herself a small peek at his torso, and she was a bit bothered after doing so.

"For a mudblood, I mean."

Hermione was shocked at the sudden insult but she tried not to show any hurt on her face. Draco was smirking though, so he must have seen some sort of reaction from her.

Whatever moment they were having, Draco had gone ahead and ruined it. Whatever softening up of tension between them was gone, and Hermione imagined them retreating backwards from the centre of battle-lines to their respective troops after peace negotiations had failed. She wondered if she imagined that the degrading term didn't have Draco's usual ring of disgust.

"G'night, Granger."

Without another word, Draco left the kitchens. Gathering herself together, Hermione glanced at his cup. She was curious as to what he was drinking, and although there was nothing but dregs left in the mug, she took a small sip. Hermione guessed he had made himself a chai latte.

But for some reason, as she cleared away the dishes, the thought of him drinking it made her smile.

Hermione was tossing and turning all night after meeting Draco in the kitchens, and the next night, and the next, and every other night that week. She couldn't understand why. Nothing had changed between them. In the corridors of the castle, they still threw insults and hexes at each other. They still mocked each other. They still hated each other.

But Hermione realised that Draco hadn't called her a mudblood all week, and that definitely had to be some sort of record for him.

After rolling over for the hundredth time that night, ignoring the sleepy grumbles of her dorm mates, Hermione attempted to close her eyes yet again, to no avail. She couldn't get those stupid grey eyes out of her mind. Why was he affecting her so? She tried to recall the hexes, the insults, the hatred, but each memory was countered with their meeting in the kitchen... As though it equalled out somehow, which Hermione logically knew it didn't.

She let out a frustrated sigh. Why couldn't she just fall asleep?

Her mother used to give Hermione warm milk on nights she couldn't rest. Sometimes there'd be honey in it. Hermione missed her mother terribly, the homesickness she was experiencing was overwhelming, and suddenly Hermione couldn't lay down any longer. She threw off her covers, wrapped herself in her dressing gown (it still faintly smelled like laundry powder from home, regardless of how many times the house elves washed it) and slippers, grabbed her wand and headed downstairs. The common room fire was still glowing, but Hermione kept walking. The idea was in her head now and she couldn't be rid of it. She was going to get that damned cup of milk if it killed her.

Hermione made her way down the castle through the secret passageways, avoiding the majority of the patrolling professors. Mrs Norris caught her in the Entrance Hall, meowing loudly, so Hermione picked up her pace and practically ran to the kitchens, unable to open the door fast enough. Filch surely wouldn't find her here.

But she wasn't safe from everything. Hermione felt his scowl before she saw it.

"Midnight snack, Granger?"

Draco bloody Malfoy was staring at her - with those stupid eyes that she couldn't stop thinking about - hunched over a bowl, his spoon holding what appeared to be ice-cream. Hermione couldn't believe her luck. Why was he here? Couldn't she get a cup of milk in peace? Did he have to follow her everywhere? Seeing him in classes was bad enough, and the fact that her thoughts had been infected definitely wasn't good enough for Malfoy, he just had to ruin her late-night escapade too.

Forgetting entirely about her milk, forgetting about Mrs Norris, forgetting about Filch, Hermione shot Draco a glare and exited the kitchen, fuming. Faintly she heard the scraping of chair legs on the floor, and she briefly entertained the thought that he was coming after her but then shooed it away, because that was just idiotic.

But when the door opened behind her, Hermione's heart leapt in joy, and she felt guilty for it. Guilt was not an emotion she liked to feel.

"What do you want, Malfoy?" Hermione snapped, far more harshly than she had intended. If Draco was shocked at her tone, he didn't show it.
"Don't leave the kitchen on my account," he drawled. Hermione rolled her eyes. "Seriously. You can stay if you want."
"I've suddenly realised that I'm not hungry," Hermione said, turning away from Draco. She'd made it to the end of the corridor before Draco called out to her.
"Wait," he said, jogging up to her. It only took him a few seconds to catch up. "I want to talk to you," he admitted.
Hermione scoffed, but at his slightly offended expression she softened. "Well?" she prompted.

Draco took a moment to gather his thoughts whilst Hermione's stomach twisted into knots. She was impatient to know what he was going to say. Was he playing with her, making her wait like this? Draco finally opened his mouth to speak, but then closed it abruptly, tilting his head curiously. "Filch," he muttered, then pulled Hermione roughly to the right, through what Hermione had thought to be a wall of brick. She squealed but her voice was shut off, Draco's hand clamped over her face.

"Shush," he hissed. They were in darkness, unable to see anything. Draco's hand was still on Hermione's mouth as they waited with baited breath to be caught. Hermione could hear Filch shuffling past, muttering to what was surely Mrs Norris, and she had the strangest urge to giggle at the absurdity of the situation. She was suddenly thankful for Draco's hand.

Minutes passed until Draco deemed it safe enough to remove his hand from Hermione's face.

"Shall we check if the coast is clear?" she whispered, reaching out in the darkness for Draco, needing to hold onto something for a sense of direction in the pitch black room. She couldn't find him and with an impatient sigh, whipped out her wand and lit the room. It was much smaller than she had expected, only about a metre wide in any direction, and she was shocked at how close Draco was. He looked amused.

"Scared of the dark, are we?" he smirked.
"More scared of what's in it," Hermione retorted grumpily, striding forward. Draco clasped her hand to stop her from moving further.
"I still want to talk to you," he reminded her, making her sigh.
"What do you want?"
"I want you to take this bloody curse off of me."
Hermione couldn't help it. She snorted. "Excuse me?" she asked.

"Don't play daft, Granger. I know you've done something. A hex, or a love potion, or a curse, or... I don't know, but you've done something, and I highly suggest you fix it whilst I'm asking nicely." Draco glared at Hermione and her urge to giggle reappeared.
"I swear to you that I haven't done anything," Hermione said, trying her best to remain solemn. From Draco's expression, it seemed he wasn't fooled. "Have you been to see the nurse?" she offered.
"Yes," Draco snapped. By the light of her wand, Hermione could have sworn that Draco's cheeks were tinged pink.
"Well, perhaps if you describe the symptoms, I can help fix the problem?" Hermione suggested. She waited in silence for him to respond, but his scowl only deepened. "Alright. I'm going to bed, then."

Hermione left Draco in the alcove and walked in the direction of Gryffindor tower. She heard Draco fall into step beside her and almost hesitated, tempted to force him to talk in the hallway, but it was far too cold to simply stand around and Draco could walk and talk.

"I can't sleep," Draco said suddenly. "Not easily, anyway. For about a week now. I can't stop thinking about... stuff. Colours. Smells. I can't concentrate in class. I keep remembering... Well, never you mind."
"If you don't tell me, how can I fix it?" Hermione demanded. They'd reached the Entrance Hall now, and they lingered awkwardly at the staircase, Hermione on the first stair, Draco leaning against the barrier. His fingers tapped the rail harshly.

"You know perfectly well what I remember," he grumbled.

Hermione did indeed. Although she was relieved that she wasn't the only one affected by their impromptu meet-up, she couldn't help but wonder why on earth Draco thought she'd slipped him a love potion. Like she had anything to gain from that.

"Don't worry, Malfoy," she said bitterly. "I'm optimistic that your problems will disappear soon enough."

She faintly heard him reply as she flounced up the stairs.

"Doubt it."