Disclaimer: All characters belong to J.K. Rowling. Oh, but they are fun to play with.
I decided I couldn't let this idea go without a glimpse of Hermione's point of view. Enjoy!
Hermione wasn't sure when the watching began.
But somewhere between knowing that he took his coffee with two sugars and that he licked his lips when he was anxious, Hermione realized she had a problem.
She began to study him as she never had before. Even during that time in sixth year when Harry had been obsessed with Malfoy's Death Eater status, she had never paid this much attention.
And she observed, little by little, that Draco Malfoy was no longer the cruel, taunting boy she had known for the past seven years. He carried the same heaviness that everyone who had been through the war seemed to shoulder, a weight that showed in the lines of his young face and the reluctance at the edge of his laughter. She remembered wondering if it was alright to laugh, to show anything but reverence and respect for the events that had happened and those they had lost.
She could tell when he had bad days, when the nightmares must have become too much and he sat through class with a zombie stare of dark circles and dull eyes. These were the days when she watched him the most; when she wished that they did not have seven years' worth of resentment and misunderstanding between them. She wanted to force another bite of potatoes into his mouth as he picked at his dinner, to tilt his head towards hers when he hid behind his hair.
Harry and Ron had both noticed her increased awareness of their enemy, but wisely remained silent. No doubt they talked about it when she wasn't around, but they had somehow managed to acquire a modicum of tact over the summer. Hermione was glad. She wasn't sure she was ready to defend her newfound protectiveness.
Malfoy may have been a more reticent version of himself, but oh, sometimes he took her breath away.
He had quit slicking his hair back to his scalp with copious amounts of gel and instead let it fall naturally tousled around his face, ghosting his sharp cheekbones and tickling the nape of his neck. His hands were elegant, with narrow, tapered fingers that could just about drive her crazy twirling his quill over and under and through his digits with a nimbleness that she could never hope to replicate. What would those fingers feel like, tangled through hers?
One time Malfoy was standing in front of her during a particularly arduous Potions lab, face focused and intense in a way that set her heart racing. Sweat was beginning to bead on his forehead, and as one lone drop traced its way down his face, she noticed with interest the stubble that shaded the hard line of his jaw, a light golden-blonde that would have been unnoticeable from farther away. She wondered what it would feel like, grazing her face, down her neck…
She coveted the days when the heat turned the castle into a veritable oven, forcing the professors to open the windows of the classrooms. Soft, clean air would waft in from outdoors, bringing with it the scent of him from across the room, woodsy and musky and cool peppermint, a scent that more often than not forced a sigh from her lips.
Hermione noticed one day that he seemed to be paying particular attention to her as she ghosted the feather of her quill over her lips absent-mindedly. The hungry look on his face made something twinge pleasurably in her stomach.
But for the most part during classes, he was diligent and attentive, his sinful hands roaming the parchment as he took notes, keen eyes taking in all the professor had to say. He was never outspoken, but when called upon was collected and articulate, taking his time to answer the question properly and, most often, correctly.
She found herself feeling proud of him, secretly relieved that he seemed to be outgrowing the influence of his father and attempting to build a life for himself. The world didn't need any more of what Malfoy, Sr. had brought to it.
And so she found herself in the library, reading the same paragraph of the old and rather dusty volume that was in front of her for the fifth time as she tried in vain to rid her mind of thoughts of Malfoy.
The low chuckle from across the room brought her head up, and Hermione felt her breath catch in her throat as her heart stuttered at the warm silver of Draco's gaze.
As she took in his now-frozen expression and the light pink staining his cheeks, something comfortable unfurled in her chest, squeezing her heart and settling with an agreeable twist in her stomach.
She smiled softly back at him, just the slightest quirk of her lips upwards.
His eyes flashed surprise back at her, and both corners of his mouth lifted into one of his rare smiles that seemed to suffuse the air around him with a tangible radiance.
And Hermione thought that maybe, Draco could be the light she needed after all.