Hi guys! :D This is my collection of Dramione drabbles, in no particular order, created mainly because I lack any love life and therefore chose to obsess over the nonexistent romance of two fictional characters (I swear I'm not as much of a loser as that makes me sound...) Each story will be set in a completely different time. Each will be experimenting with characterization of my two dearest Harry Potter characters. ALL will contain a generous amount of fluff. ;D Please enjoy the first installment. :)

Setting: Half-Blood Prince, pre-Dumbledore death
Song suggestion: Ever After by Marianas Trench

Bittersweet

There were days when Draco preferred to believe that stereotypes were created simply to be lived up to. There were also days when Draco believed that stereotypes were created to be broken, just as rules were. Then, there were days when Draco believed that stereotypes were absurd and pointless, because really, is there any person who is so completely undimensional that they can be defined by one word? These days worried Draco the most, because it was such a dangerously Granger way to think. Besides, it was a flawed theory- his father seemed to fit snugly into his own stereotype (yet if it was by nature or merely acting, Draco was unsure. He liked to think it was the first, simply because the thought of his father having any sort of emotion made Draco laugh).

Either way, Draco hated stereotypes.

Because if Draco were to fit into his stereotype, he wouldn't have been found in the astronomy tower at two in the morning, drawing lazy lines with a blue-tipped porcelain finger to connect the stars that freckled the sky. It was a particularly cloudless night, clearer than it had been in awhile- not that he came up here often, or anything. And if Draco were to fit into his stereotype, he wouldn't look so distraught and thoughtful as he severed the imaginary lines he drew with a quick slash of his finger- not that he was stressed, or anything. If Draco were to fit into his stereotype, there would not be a quiet tear betraying him tonight- not that he was crying, or anything.

If he fit his stereotype, he wouldn't have doubts about killing his headmaster.

Slytherins were supposed to be strong, emotionless. Malfoys were supposed to be without weakness and ever so powerful and confident- this, at least, was the stereotype. Draco did not fit into either.

The chill was rather unforgiving that night, and although the wind raked its claws deepily into Draco's bare arms, he did not make any move to warm himself. He had no idea why, in his absurdity, he forced himself to endure the cold. Perhaps it was a form of self-punishment, as little as it was. Perhaps, also, it was for another more cliche, childish, and downright stupid reason- because he craved not any artificial of warmth, but for human warmth.

He wanted to deny it, of course- what a petty thing to want! He grew up without any real human affection, so why now, would he need it so damn much? Why, now, did he want to feel the arms of another around his thinning frame (he was not eating quite nearly as much as he should- with his future victim in the dining hall, how was he supposed to)? Why did he want to feel the traces of someone else's fingertips along the cracks of his stone mask? Why did he want -need- someone to scream to, to cry to, to wrap their hands around his wrist and guide him because he had no fucking idea what he was doing anymore!

Yet despite his un-Slytherin want, he refused to call himself weak because of it. He simply called it human nature.

What a Granger thing to say.

"Malfoy...?"

Draco fought to ignore the little jolts of surprise that coursed through his body. Fought to hide the tears that lined his cheeks.

Speaking of the devil...

"Granger," he said in a half-heartedly annoyed voice, weaving in his hatred to mask his disdraught. "It's two in the morning, what in bloody hell are you doing up here?"

"I could ask you the same thing," she replied warily. Draco noticed the shadows beneath her nearly-lifeless, defeated eyes, and the way the freckles on her color-drained face stood out a little more than usually. Her hair was in a disarray and her shoulders were slumped in the slightest. She looked as if she was about to kick him out of the astronomy tower (him, the Slytherin prince! He would have hexed her before she had gotten the chance!), but it was then that she seemed to noticed the shiny path of his ghost-tears in the moonlight (Merlin, fuck it, why did it have to be so clear out tonight?) "Malfoy..." she whispered in surprise. He gave her an icy glare, and she quickly rephrased whatever ungodly thing she was about to say. "You...you look cold."

She raised her wand hesitantly, but he automatically pushed it down. "Don't..." he growled.

Such a physical reaction seemed to take Granger by surprise, calling to his attention the proximity of his hands to hers. He could feel the heat pulsing from his fingertips, close enough to trigger the pull in his chest, but too far away to melt the frostbite that was surely going to wither his fingers. "Don't touch my wand, Ferret," Granger answered defiantly, though her attempts at malice were just as pathetic as his, if not worse. He let go of her wand, albeit regretfully, and placed his hands on the railing of the astronomy tower, averting his gaze once more.

Granger lingered where she was for a few heartbeats longer, obviously surprised my his compliance. After a small sigh, she assumed the same position as Draco.

46 heartbeats passed then- their pulses were too loud not to count.

"You didn't answer my question, Mudblood," Draco drawled finally, irked by the almost comfortable silence with his enemy's best friend.

"What question?"

"The question I asked you, you basketcase: what are you doing up here? It's against the rules to break curfew. Seems a little odd for a try-hard Gryffindor like yourself to risk your perfect record for this. Are you stalking me?"

"Don't be so conceited," Granger chastised. "I'm up here to clear my mind, just as you are."

"Since when did you know me so well, Granger?" Draco shot back, even though that was exactly what he was doing.

"Cut the act, Malfoy. You know just as well as I am that the war is dangerously close. We're all stressed out."

Just the mention of the war made the vulnerable Slytherin ache again- the war he was going to begin. In the school he was going to breech. Oh Salazar, it was going to be his fault. All his fault. Nothing of tonight would ever be the same- the mudblood beside him would surely be killed first, the astronomy tower would no longer act like his safe house, the air would never feel quite as content as it did then, even with the lingering tension. And his place in the war would officially be determined- no Dumbledore to offer him pathetic positions in the Order. Draco will have killed him by then.

He had to resist -actually resist- to reach out and grab the witch's hand beside him. He was so lost, so helplessly confused.

"Well, Granger...," he marveled at his ability to keep his voice even. "I'm not able to 'clear my mind' with your mudblood stench clogging up my brain."

"Alright," she said just as evenly. "I'll leave, then."

He don't know what made him do it- if it was the fact that he knew she would surely die soon, or the fact that he was so confused. Maybe it was even the fact that he was changing so much, he was even willing to find comfort in such a filthy witch. Perhaps it was because he was just that desperate.

In the end, he didn't quite know what made him reach out for her hand, snagging the tips of her deliciously soft, warm fingers, just barely. Just enough. He could feel the tiny pulses embedded in her skin, speeding just the slightest at his own marble-cold hand. "No," his strangled cry was reckless and desperate and hopeless, slicing the air with its intensity and volume. He was purely raw emotion now, too scared to go back to his uncertainty and loneliness that he had immersed himself in all these months. "Please, Granger. Don't go."

She turned to look at him in his pure desperation, taking in what she hadn't noticed, or what she had chosen not to- his eyes were haunted and distraught, emphasised by the bags which hung beneath them. If it were possible for him to be any more pale, she was seeing it. His hair was tousled about and looked suspiciously as if he had tried to rip a handful out. He had lost a noticable amount of weight.

And if he was a flighty as she had always suspected him to be, he was going to be even more difficult to talk to now. So instead of asking why he wanted her -her, of all people- to stay, or why he was so upset, or why he had been crying earlier, she simply said: "Merlin, Malfoy. Are you even aware of how cold your hands are? Are you sure you don't want that warming charm?"

He relaxed slightly, relieved that she chose to ignore his previous outburst. He looked out to the sky again. "I'm sure, Granger."

"You didn't even wear a jacket." She sighed and shook her head. "You boys, thinking you're immune to the cold or something..."

She noted that he had not chosen to let go of her hand, and instead had gripped it harder. His long, thin fingers practically glowed in contrast to her own sunkissed hand, rough against her soft palms. No doubt because he's so damn cold! Yet she couldn't help but marvel at the fact that he, a Malfoy, was holding hands with a mudblood of the Golden Trio. The Malfoy she knew would rather his fingers fall off from frostbite than to come in contact with her. The war is already changing people, and it hasn't even started yet.

82 more heartbeats passed in the silence- almost double the previous bout.

She couldn't help it. Seeing him so vulnerable, so open- the Gryffindor in her begged to give him another chance.

"It isn't true, is it, Malfoy?" her voice was small even in the quiet. "About the Dark Mark?"

Silence.

"I mean, I didn't see it when I came up here, but I assumed you would use a concealment charm. Common sense. I know your family hasn't been a supporter of the Light Side, and you despise Harry, but you wouldn't... Would you, Malfoy?"

She took a deep breath, ashamed of her ramble, and suddenly very aware of his silence. She glanced upward and saw the tears lining his cheeks and falling steadily, glistening with such wet emotion she didn't know Malfoy was capable of. And it was obvious, then- obvious that he had, in fact, accepted the Dark Mark. But she didn't believe it, she couldn't, no matter how logical the Gryffindor girl was- because here was a crying Draco Malfoy, broken and battered and obviously lost, and he could not be evil. He was just...lonely.

"Malf-"

The damned naive Gryffindor-esque concern in her voice finally broke the supposed-to-be-heartless Slytherin prince. All sense of logic collapsed, all barriers fell. Draco Malfoy finally broke into his cravings.

His hands instantly found their way to her waist and the back of her head, drawing her into him. The heat of her body felt deliciously warm, sending shudders of pleasure through his wind-chilled body. He swooped down with all the grace of a feline, pausing when his mouth was only centimeters from her own. He could feel her breath -soft and hitched- upon his chapped lips, heightening his senses and chilling him in all the right ways. 3 deafening heart-beats passed and she did not pull back, did not even react, and that was all the invitation he needed.

His lips collided with her own, rough and needy and raw with emotion and heated desire. The taste of his salty tears mixed with the bitter tang of uncertainty, terror, anger- every emotion which he dared not express out loud, he put into those stimulated kisses. And she reacted tenderly, patiently, lovingly- in every way he needed her to react, taming the beast he became. Giving him back a little bit of his sanity, reminding him of who he was again.

Her hands found his spine and she ran her hands down it, kissing each path with warmth and a certain kind of gentleness he found foreign. Her clothes scratched against his, her knee bumping into his own. He had never been so close to another human in months- and Merlin, did it feel good. For the first time in years, he was warm. He was content.

Too soon did he tear himself away from her. For a few lingering heartbeats, he rested his forehead against hers and relaxed into her arms, stroking her check with calloused palms. But then he reminded himself, again, that the world was particularly cruel to a Malfoy, so he forced himself off of her. He was not allowed to be weak, he remembered, he was not allowed to have weaknesses.

He let his lips hover on hers once more, for no more than a second, before he turned and walked out with every bit of Malfoy-ness that he could muster. Too soon did he crave her lips again. She tasted so sweet.

Hermione watched him leave, two fingers lingering on her swollen lips. Weeks later, she wondered- if fate hadn't worked its ways to the astronomy tower that night, would he have gone through with killing Dumbledore?

And, if she had went after him, would he have resisted the Dark Lord's plans altogether?

But that was later, and this was now, where a bewildered and hopeful Hermione watched the broken Slytherin boy walk away in all his tears.

His kisses tasted bittersweet.