Like the other Slytherins, Draco was straining to get a peek into the Hospital Wing. However, unlike the other Slytherins, he actually cared about who might be in there. They were there out of curiosity. He was there out of anxiety.

Potter and Weasley were in there. That wasn't a good sign. Draco tried to convince himself of possible alternatives. Maybe this time, the Heir of Slytherin had chosen a blood-traitor, instead of a Mudblood. Maybe the teachers were questioning Potter- after all, they did suspect him. Any explanation except the one he so dreaded was the truth…

"All right, OUT!" Madame Pomfrey shouted, shooing the students away. The Slytherins scattered. Draco grabbed Crabbe and Goyle's sleeves and led them off to a nook near the entrance of the Hospital Wing where they could wait. Eventually, Potter and Weasley appeared in the hall, their faces grim.

"So, Potter," Draco droned, feigning an air of nonchalance, "who's the unlucky Mudblood this time?"

Potter looked up at him with tortured eyes. From just that gaze, Draco could tell what he was going to say without him even having to say it.
His heart dropped. It took all Draco had to plaster a sneer on his face.

"Finally got what she deserved, filthy Mu-" Draco couldn't even finish. Weasley had leapt, barely restrained by Potter. Draco skittered backwards.

"Crabbe, Goyle, let's go!" he shouted, his voice breaking. He wasn't going to be able to keep up the façade much longer. He flew down the corridor, Crabbe and Goyle tailing behind.

Later that night, Draco crept into the Hospital Wing, cautiously peeking around every corner to make sure he wasn't spotted.

No one could know he was there. Not even the person he was there to see. If word got to his father that he was in love with a Muggle-born… well, he couldn't even begin to think what would happen.

Making sure there was no sign of Madame Pomfrey, Draco tiptoed silently to the side of her bed.

He took her hand- it was stiff and cool, and hard as stone- and pressed his lips against it.

"I'm really sorry. About all those things I called you. I don't really think you're a-a Mudblood. I think you're smart. And pretty. And nice."

Draco thought about all those times he watched her laughing from his place with the Slytherins. Fear coursed through him. Would he ever hear her laugh again? Ever see the light in her eyes when she answered a question from a teacher? Ever see her bite her lip and brush her hair back with the top of her quill as she was concentrating in class?

This was all his fault. Draco knew it. If he'd just left her alone, she'd be okay. Somehow, in that twisted logic one only uses when a loved one is in danger, that made perfect sense.

Draco sighed, gasping as the breath hitched up in his throat, and began to cry. He pressed he pressed his face into the stone cold hand and wept, moaning one name over and over again: "Hermione… Hermione… Hermione…"