Author's Note: I don't own the characters. Lyrics are by Bullet for My Valentine.

With blood shot eyes I watch you sleeping
The warmth I feel beside me is slowly fading
Would she hear me if I call her name?
Would she hold me if she knew my shame?

Draco tossed over in the bed again, still awake in the late hours of the night in his dorm. Angry at his mind's insolence, he threw his pillow at the door, missed, and cursed loudly when it crashed into the glass table. He heard a shriek from across the hall, and jumped out of his bed. One... two...three he counted slowly, before there came a sharp haughty knock at his door. Go back to bed, Hermione, you don't want to see this, he thought furiously. Only about the fourth night this week. Eventually, he was going to do something about this, if only he could figure out how.

"Malfoy? Is everything alright in there? I heard a crash. It's 4-am. I'm coming in," stated Hermione Granger, and she turned the handle and pushed at the door. Draco moved quickly to block her entrance, holding the door gently closed. Tenacious as she was, her five foot-three frame was not built to hold off his strapping build, crafted and blended by constant fighting and frequent Quidditch practices.

"Sorry, He-Granger...I think you ought to go back to bed. I can handle this myself. I just shattered the table is all. Nothing to worry about."

"Are you sure? I know your spell-work can be a little shoddy when it comes to household spells. Maybe I should do it." She gave a bigger push, and made headway into his room.

"Granger, my spell-work is not shoddy." He reached through the door and found her stomach, pushed her back from the door, and shut and locked it again. "Now, go to bed."

"I...well, fine! Have it your way! But if you wake me up again, I will come in there personally and remove whatever it is that's waking you up, I swear it."

Draco did not bother responding. Besides, he reasoned, she wouldn't have appreciated his retort, nor would she have heard it at the rate she stalked back to her room.

At least on nights like this, she never got through his door. In a way, he secretly wished she was curious enough about him to break down the door, and yet he knew that she would never do such a thing. It was too violent for her taste. He knew that she always wanted to help, animosities aside, and that it was in her nature to find compassion for him, of all people. But that was part of what made him love her so much. If only he could be like her, as kind, as friendly, as wonderful. But he was a Malfoy, and he never was and never would be any of those things. His father had been too harsh, too unloving for him to have had any hope from the get-go. He'd learned to accept that fact with fake and enduring pride.

He fixed the table, slowly, as he wasn't in a hurry, and just marveled at the magic he could produce. He loved magic; it was amazing how after so many years of being surrounded by it, even the simplest spells made him happy. Magic wasn't always simple; it challenged him, he had to work hard to perfect every spell, and he was dedicated to perfectionism; but magic was beautiful, it was power, it was who he was. Despite his best efforts, though, Hermione surpassed him in the school. He knew his father hated him for being second, for not being the best he supposedly could be, for not besting the Mudblood. Draco, however, didn't really care. He didn't care if he was first in class, he didn't care if he made a mistake on a project and had to redo it. He didn't care much for his father's ideas about the world, though no one obviously knew this. When it really came down to it, Draco realized, he'd been saddled with a role his father, and therefore society, had chosen for him, and he'd simply let it run its course.

Lying back down on the bed, Draco took a deep breath and rolled over to watch the sunrise through the window. He'd hopefully get some sleep during the day, as he usually managed. It was rather disconcerting, he decided, how nocturnal he had become. The problem happened to be that little muggle-born witch sleeping somewhere across the way; probably dreaming of the red-headed goof she loved so dearly, or perhaps of scarhead, who she was so close to. But she'd never dream of him the way he figured she did about them. No, he was her enemy, at most every level. Sure, they'd lately formed some kind of truce, they hadn't been fighting as much, and lessons weren't spent coping with each others idiosyncrasies. The lack of fighting, well, that he blamed mostly on his inherent exhaustion. He had no energy to even terrify first years between classes; he was much too preoccupied with both feeding Dumbledore information and finding a way to enable an attack on the school. He was playing both fields, just like Snape, but more for the benefits than the honor. So,instead of harassing her, he watched her with silent pride out of the corner of his eyes, watched as she grew excited over a perfect potion, as she concentrated on an Arithmency problem, or, as she mastered a complicated charm before the rest of the class.

Maybe it was pathetic to watch her, but he loved to do it. No one knew, and if he was caught, no one ever confronted him about it. If anyone important found out his feelings, he was sure that he'd never hear the end of it from his father, and many beatings later, maybe her memory would disappear and his love would cease to exist. He hoped to keep it a secret, because when he did get to sleep, she was what he dreamed about: soothing touches of her hands, soft whispers of love and encouragement, loving embraces given without question, without hesitation; but reality reminded him that dreams could never happen.

But what if it could happen? What if she could love him back the way he so desperately loved her? What if she forgave him his sins and looked into his shameful eyes and promised him forever? Would that ever happen? What would she do if held her, randomly, just grabbed her without a word and held her tight, told her his feelings and everything on his mind? Would she understand, respect him for it?

The obvious answer was no. But he would never give up hoping.

Deciding his attempts at sleep were pointless, Draco got out of bed and changed. Looking into the mirror as he brushed his blond hair out of his eyes, he saw with a grimace how bloodshot and unappealing they had become. It seemed as though they had grown dull, the silver glint he was used to seeing was gone, leaving nothing but cold gray peering back at him. He rubbed at them a bit, and shook his head irritably. Unable to remember the spell to fix them, he blinked a bit and decided to let them be. Pulling on a sweater over his shirt, he wondered absently if Hermione was asleep.

He quietly descended the steps to the landing and crept across to her room. He knocked softly. No response came, so he slowly opened the door a few inches wide. She was, indeed deeply asleep. He took a hesitant step into the room, and watched the moonlight lighten her sleeping form. Her hair tangled all around her, framing her head on the pillow, and a book lay open to the side. She mumbled in her sleep and turned over. He tiptoed closer. This, this girl right here, is what I'm fighting for, he told himself, frowning as a smile smoothed across her face, why I'm betraying my family and helping my enemy. Then, Hermione mumbled loud enough for Draco to understand her.

"Ron...love..."

He bit his lip to fight the angry tears that were immediately pricking his eyes. With a heavy heart, Draco carefully exited the room, not able to be near her in his pain. He went back to his room and began working on a potions essay for Slughorn, but only after he had cast a silencing charm upon his room and cried and screamed himself calm and hoarse.

The essay took thoughts of Hermione off his mind, but brought back what had been keeping him up most nights. Voldemort. He had threatened everything Draco held dear, so he was unhappily fulfilling his father's dreams, and had sworn allegiance. Not only was he dooming himself, but he was given many assignments to do. Difficult, nearly impossible assignments, that, to him seemed pointless. He couldn't understand the motives behind his Master's decisions, nor could he usually accomplish his tasks on time. Most of them were dangerous, to say the last, and it seemed his allegiance would be unending. His last and most important one was to find a way to get Death Eaters inside the castle for an attack. He didn't think he could do it, and with the consequences of failing being death, he was terrified.

And yet he was trying to do the right thing at the same time. He fed information to the Order in hopes of protecting the only escape plan there was: his school enemy, Harry Potter. This too was dangerous, as it seemed Dumbledore could tell that some of his information was fake and that he was hiding quite a lot of his own he was a successful Legilimens thanks to Snape, the old man seemed to know everything. So he was trying to avoid giving him fake information when it was possible. Dangerous though it was, he felt that simply forgetting to mention that the Order was expected to take the bait and await an ambush, and instead giving away the true location he had been forbidden to divulge was worth any punishment he might receive. So far, he had been lucky and hadn't been found out. So far, so good, he told himself bitterly.

Once he had made good progress on his essay, he threw himself back into bed, lying awake and dreading the sunshine that was breaking its way over the mountains, signaling another day about to begin.

A/N: I know, it's a short chapter. Anyway, reviews are awesome to get. :)