It was as if all light had been banished. Everything melted into the shadows, all adopting the darkest hue as their color. Black curtains matched a black rug next to a bed covered in black blankets. In fact, the only thing that wasn't black was the girl standing by the window. Her white nightgown stood out against her dark surroundings, almost glowing against the black curtains she clutched in her hands.
It was nearly three o'clock in the morning when Hermione Granger stood in front of the window of this black room, her forehead pressed against the cool glass. She couldn't sleep anymore. She had too much to think about.
Rustling disturbed her thoughts, but she refused to acknowledge it. The sound of a match being struck alerted her he had woken up. She still didn't turn around.
To the boy in bed, his room had regained its color. The candle's flame beckoned light back into the world. The curtains returned to their emerald green color, the rug shifted into brown, and his blankets turned into a forest green. But the girl didn't change- her dress remained white. Ironic, he thought, propping himself up on one arm.
"Hermione, what are you doing?"
She didn't move. "Thinking."
"Can't it wait until morning?"
"Go back to sleep, Draco."
But instead of obeying her command, he slid out of bed and joined her at her vigil by the window. "What's wrong?" he whispered.
"Nothing, nothing's wrong..." she whispered back, a little too quickly. Draco studied her for a minute.
"Do we need to talk?"
"No." She smiled, and for a minute, he thought everything was fine, that he was only imagining her forced joviality. Then, "But I think I need to get back to Gryffindor Tower. It's late." Something was wrong with her.
"Hermione," he growled, "it's three in the morning. Of course it's late."
Hermione shook her head. He could see her tensing, working up the courage to speak. In all the time Draco had known her, she had never seemed so... lost.
Draco wrapped his arms around her from behind, and she allowed him. He pressed his face into her neck and breathed in. Merlin, she smelled good. The scent of old books and courage and joy all mixed into one delectable scent that was purely Hermione.
"I can't do this any more, Draco."
He pulled away sharply, as if stung. "What?"
"I can't." Her voice was smaller, less sure.
Draco gently turned her around to face him. "Hermione, talk to me. What's going on?"
Broken words spilled out of her mouth. "Draco, Harry and Ron know something is going on, and it's killing me to keep secrets from them. They keep asking me... it's not fair to anyone of us that I... Harry tried to ask me what...we have to stop."
"But what about..." he trailed off.
"Me? I'm better now," she said simply, lifting her eyes to his to assure him of the validity of the statement. "You were just what I needed."
"So why can't you stay?" he asked, trying not to sound like he was pleading.
"I can't keep pretending," she said softly. "I can't take another lecture from Ron that whatever I'm doing, I need to confess. I can't keep pretending I've got it all together."
"Is that all?" Draco asked, still not understanding.
"Let's sit down," she said, avoiding both the question and his eyes. Silently, they sat in two armchairs by the cold, empty fireplace. Draco melted into the silk chair, but as soon as she sat down, Hermione jumped back up and began to pace. "I didn't expect this to go on so long, Draco. I figured you'd allow me to stay for one night, maybe two, out of pity, and then it'd be over. But..." Hermione's almost angry words stopped as she caught her breath. "You didn't. Why? Why, Draco? I don't belong here." She gave a little laugh. "And it's time I go home.
"Draco, with everything you did for me, you threw my world upside down. You screwed with my head and my heart. If it had been anyone but you, I could've accepted it, but it wasn't. My enemy from Slytherin had to be there the night I fell apart. Do you know what that did to my mind? It shattered every bit of logic I had ever believed. And I can't continue." She bowed her head, as if defeated. Draco sensed there was more.
"But what about us?" he asked, reaching out to brush her arm.
His touch made her smile. Made her laugh again- almost cynically. "I was lonely, Draco. And I think, you were too, maybe a little bit. But it's not enough just to be lonely."
Draco believed in her laughter until he saw the tears in her eyes.
"I didn't want to be the one to end it," she said in a low voice. "But I have to."
The room returned to silence, but the candle continued to flicker. "Fine," he said hoarsely, realizing what she wanted- what she needed- him to do. To be. "Go back to bloody Gryffindor. Let them comfort you."
They both knew what he meant.
He stood and turned away from her.
"No, Draco, please," Hermione pleaded. Now she was the one pleading. "I- you- you never needed me."
Her words slapped him. By God, what does she mean I never needed her? What did she think that incident in the bloody Sixth Year meant?
But she continued. "I was the one that asked. I was always the one that came to you." Her voice was quieter, more broken. "And I can't keep taking your pity. I have to be strong for others, Draco. And you helped me when I needed it," she paused, and Draco could hear her attempts at holding onto dignity, "But it was always me, Draco. I was always the one that needed you."
"Apparently not that much," he sneered.
"Don't do this," she begged. Look at you now, Draco thought without malice. What have you done? "Draco, I love you."
He sucked in his breath and stared at her. Why had she said that? What good did it do?
This was his last chance.
"I only loved you during the nights," he said coldly.
They stood still, staring at each other.
"Goodnight, then," she said, looking at the floor.
She had reached the door before he spoke. "Goodbye."
Her hand trembled on the doorknob. Then she steadied herself, pushed the door open, and left.
As he lay in bed, Draco imagined her running back to Gryffindor Tower, rushing into the arms of Potter and Weasley, their soothing words comforting her, a job he had fulfilled only days ago... a job that would always be his. Every time they held her, Draco knew she would be thinking of him.
But he could also see her paused outside of his room, leaning on the door, wondering if she had done the right thing. He could see her uncertainty, the tears falling that she refused to let go while in his presence. He could see her hand on the doorknob, just waiting to twist it and return to him. He could see the door opening.
And so, he waited.
But the door didn't open.

Well, here's my first experience with non-humorous Harry Potter writing. Ten O'Clock was kinda in the middle of serious and funny, though it definitely leaned towards the amusing side. This story, however, is pure (I hope) angst. Thank you to Fushia Nicole for beta-ing, and to Matchbox Twenty for writing the song. For further notes on it, see my profile.