Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter

Author's Note: I don't remember anything past the fourth book, and even then my memory is dodgy at best. Potter Purists: this is not for you. Otherwise: please enjoy.

Draco could see her out of the corner of his right eye, but just barely. He turned himself in his seat so he looked as if he was staring at the wall out of boredom. He could see her better that way. He told himself that he wasn't really watching her. Just looking at the little mudblood occasionally, that's all, to keep up his hatred. He didn't know why he lied to himself like that all the time. Maybe he was hoping that saying it would make it a truth, instead of a lie. Just like how he lied to himself that last summer hadn't happened.

Her quill kept in time with the professor's words for a good ten minutes. Then, just like it had all the other times, it faltered, hovering above the parchment, and her brown hair (it was really more chestnut than brown) swung forward to cover her face. Draco forced his hands to relax, and turned his face nonchalantly away. But his ears strained and as the professor paused for a breath, he could hear the teardrop when it hit her parchment. He really couldn't help himself and turned his head slightly, just in time to see her blot the tear and shake her hair out of her face.

No one else noticed. No one else ever noticed. She wiped the side of her nose and Draco was the only one who saw that she was wiping away a stray tear. He didn't realize he was staring until she looked at him, and he turned away as if she had burned him. He never blushed- it was one of his best qualities. With his ice blond hair and pale skin it would be a disaster if he did blush. Instead, when embarrassed or upset, his entire body became rigid, and his left shoulder muscle jumped spasmodically. He rotated his shoulder to hide it, and if anyone asked, he was sore from Quidditch practice.

When his shoulder had calmed down, he looked out of the corner of his eye at her. Her quill was moving across the parchment, her face serene as she wrote, all traces of the hatred that had flared in her eyes when she'd looked at him gone. Draco felt himself relax. For a moment he'd been afraid that she knew. But since she didn't stand up and start hurling death spells at him, he figured it'd just been the same old hatred for the same old reasons. That was okay. That he could handle. If she knew he was to blame for what had happened that summer…

The quill stopped. Draco's fingers tightened on the edge of the desk and a cold spasm of anxiety went through him. He turned so he could see her better, unable to stop himself. Her hair swung forward again but before it did Draco saw the buildup of tears in her eyes, shimmering and almost pretty as they pooled near the bottom lashes, and the trembling of her lower lip, held tight so no one could tell.

Draco turned quickly. He could feel Goyle looking at him.

"Keep your stupid face to yourself, you git," he hissed under his breath. Goyle blinked.

"What were you looking at?"

Draco ignored him. He considered most questions people asked him too stupid to answer, and Goyle was the king of such questions. Used to Draco's silence, Goyle turned to look himself, head swiveling awkwardly on his beefy neck. "I don't see anything,"

Draco looked too. He couldn't help it. Her hair was still covering her face in a dark golden curtain and the hand that held the quill was loose, as if she was too exhausted to hold it any longer. As Draco watched, two teardrops fell onto the parchment. Panic bubbled up inside him. If she didn't stop crying, then people would start noticing, and maybe she'd tell them and somehow someone would connect the dots and he'd go to Azkaban-

Draco whispered the words to a spell the family gardener had taught him a long time ago. It wasn't much, really nothing more than a cheap magic trick, but he couldn't think of anything else to make her stop crying. A flower appeared on her parchment, under her nose, its dark red petals almost touching her hand. Another of her tears fell onto one of the petals and glittered there, pretty as a diamond, before sliding down into the flowers depths. Draco watched as she sat straighter, shook her hair back, and stopped, brown eyes narrowing. She glanced at the boys sitting on either side of her- the weasel with his head in the crook of his arm, snoring quietly, Potter doodling with a stupid, dreamy expression on his face- then fingered the petals, frowning as she caught sight of the piece of parchment tied to the stem.

Don't cry.

Not exactly eloquent, but it was the only thing Draco could think of, and it seemed to work. After months of watching and reacting, he had finally gotten a reaction out of her. Draco turned back to the front, feeling a perverse sense of satisfaction. Maybe now she'd stop blubbering all the time and realize she wasn't the only one whose life was fucked up. Goyle (who had long since resumed staring at the professor with an expression like that of a particularly stupid cow) had lost both his parents and his aunt, and he didn't break down crying in class when he thought no one was looking. Even Potter-

He really couldn't lie to himself very well, not even about emotions. He wasn't mad at her. What he was feeling was much more deep and complicated. Guilt, maybe, and frustration and anger at both himself and his father. Out of the corner of his eye, he watched as she carefully put the flower in her robe pocket and picked up the quill. She didn't write though. The corner of her mouth turned up as if smiling at some secret joke, her lips curled, and her eyes softened with pleasure. It was such a different look than she usually had, and Draco found himself curious about it. She must like flowers. I don't. I don't care for pretty things.

He really had to stop lying to himself.