Disclaimer: The Harry Potter universe and its subsequent characters belong to J.K. Rowling. I am not her.
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Every Slytherin knew to stay away from Hermione Granger.
Draco Malfoy, their Prince, had warned them away from her and they had obeyed. She's mine, he had said. My mudblood, he had said.
It was highly unusual for him to stake such a claim. They had tried to explain it, of course. Among them, they had decided that he wanted to be the one to cause her pain; that he hated her so much, that he couldn't stand the thought of not being there to see her hurt or distressed.
They were wrong.
Draco had other reasons for keeping his housmates away from her.
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Draco hated the look she gave him when he had hit a sore spot. For a moment, before she retaliated, her eyes would go wide in shock, tears would make a brief appearance at the very corners of her eyes and her bottom lip would tremble ever-so-slightly.
She looked like a puppy whose master had just kicked it in the ribs.
He had always feared that one day he would lose his composure, and he would pull her towards him, wrap his arms around her small frame and attempt to comfort her. Sometimes he thought he would, too, if he hadn't known that she would push him away in disgust.
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If she didn't hang out with Potter and Weasley, he wouldn't have to torment her so much. If she was any other muggleborn, he would only have to sneer every so often, and make the occasional snide comment to one of his friends.
But she wasn't. She was Hermione Granger, smartest witch in the school, best friend of Harry Potter, the boy-who-lived. She was his nemisis in acedemics, from his rival house, close associate of his enemy.
She was a muggleborn. Sometimes he could barely believe it, for she was the smartest witch in the school and beautiful as well. Weren't muggleborns supposed to be inferior? Not this one, not to him.
That fact alone should have had been enough to make him hate her. It didn't, of course.
But she was a muggleborn. And he should despise her for it.
He didn't.
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He had done what he could to protect her.
Warning his fellow Slytherins away from her had been for her benefit; so she wouldn't have to suffer so much. It was all he could do without eventually enraging his father. If he could, he knew he would hide her away somewhere, away from the cruelties of the world and the harsh reality of life.
Since that course of action was impossible, he had taken it upon himself to make sure she could defend herself, if needed. He hoped that there would never be cause for such action, but knowing what she was, and who she was, he doubted it would be so.
He had been unbelievable proud of her when she had hit him in their third year, though he had made certain nobody would ever know.
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Sometimes, late at night when he knew everyone else would be asleep, he allowed himself to dwell on that moment; the only time there had ever been physical contact between the two.
At meal times or during a particularly boring lesson he often found his eyes drawn to her as he imagined what it would be like if she would actually let him brush his hand along her cheek, run his fingers through her vibrant, curly locks or even bend down and press a kiss to her petal-pink lips.
He knew that her skin would be as soft as a baby's and her hair would smell like her perfume that always reminded him of summer; strawberries and sunshine and sandy beaches.
The rest he could only fantasize about.
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Occasionally during classes he caught himself smiling when she'd demonstrate a particularly different spell or answer a question even he didn't know the answer to, but then he'd see Pansy or Blaise or even Crabbe or Goyle giving him an inquiring look and he'd have to cover it up with a smirk and an insult.
Stupid mudlbood, he'd called her once. He knew she was smarter than him; she knew it too, judging by the withering look she had given him when his comment had reached her ears.
He never called her that again.
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During the times when he felt particularly introspective, he often found himself wondering why calling her a mudblood didn't bother him in the slightest.
The rest of the jeers, rude comments and offensive remarks he threw at her during public confrontation often left him with a feeling of guilt weighing down heavily on him.'Mudblood' was worse than the rest, and yet he could allow the word to roll of his tongue without even a bit of remorse.
He thought that maybe, in some strange, twisted way, 'mudblood' had become a term of endearment, an affectionate pet name that nobody else knew about.
It didn't help that she still thought he meant her harm when he spoke it.
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Draco Malfoy was the only person who knew the real reason behind his threat to the members of the Slytherin house.
Nobody else knew the why his facade would slip sometimes, at seemingly random moments in time.
They didn't know why he appeared to be smiling at nothing in the middle of class, or why he'd stare into what they'd assumed must be space at meal times.
He did, of course, and the only person he was going to admit it to was himself.
He was in love with Hermione Jane Granger.
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AN: Alright, all you lovely people who have read this little ficlet, I hope you enjoyed it :) I probably made Draco somewhat OOC here, but hopefully I've stayed close enough to his actual character. Just in case you didn't notice, this ficlet is not DH compliant and probably doesn't work with HBP either. Reviews are much appreciated, no matter what the contents.