Hermione's POV

No one ever said life would be easy. No one ever said it would be simple. And no one ever said it would be straightforward.

But then again, no one ever said she'd decide to fall in love with the most inappropriate person ever.

She shook the hair from her eyes irritably and reached for the sugar bowl. This was ridiculous. When had she suddenly started referring to it as 'love'? This certainly wasn't love!

Was it love to spend every waking moment thinking about him? Was it love to feel her eyes irresistibly seeking him out the moment she entered a room, flickering constantly until they rested on his own steel ones? Was it love to imagine him, in that way, in that context, to wish for that sneering mouth to curve into a kiss upon her own?

Because, if it was, Hermione Granger was in bigger trouble than she had initially thought. Not that Ron or Harry seemed to have noticed; they both continued to shovel hash browns and sausages down their throats as though they hadn't eaten for a week.

'Slow down, you'll give yourselves indigestion!' she said, more out of habit than anything else. The boys rolled their eyes but slowed slightly. Ron even looked like he was chewing the food now.

'Worrav re goffirs?' he mumbled thickly through a mouthful of egg. Seeing Hermione's look he swallowed hurriedly and repeated himself. 'What've we got first?'

Hermione consulted her timetable - not that she needed to, she'd had it memorised from the instant they'd received it, though that had only been a fortnight ago. 'Potions with the Slytherins.'

'Oh, brilliant.' Ron groaned loudly. 'Really great start to a Monday morning, that is. We get to spend an hour in some dingy little dungeon with a giant grease ball and an arrogant git.'

Hermione felt herself smile along with the others as he and Harry launched into an attack on Malfoy, Snape, and the Slytherins in general, hoping they wouldn't notice the sudden spark behind her amber eyes. The butterflies that had sprung unbidden to her stomach.

They kept up the stream of abuse all the way to Potions, Ron wondering loudly whether Malfoy's face was a particularly nasty consequence of inter-breeding. As they reached the dungeons Hermione felt the now-familiar jolt in her stomach as she saw him standing there, leaning casually against the stone wall, looking haughty and bored. She barely had time to register the way his robes clung to his slender frame, the way his pale complexion seemed to glow under the flickering lights, before a familiar drawl rang out across the corridor.

'Potty, Weasel and Mudblood. I wondered what that stink was'

'Ron, no!' Hermione felt the cry tear from her lips from force of habit; she didn't have to be looking at Ron to know that he had just pulled his wand from his robes and was now pointing it at Malfoy with all the venom he possessed. Mouth curling into a snarl, he spat, 'Why don't you crawl back to whatever hole you came from Malfoy, or better yet, to Azkaban with your filth father. It's all you're good for.'

Malfoy blanched, a seemingly impossible feat for one already so white, and pink spots of anger appeared on his cheeks. 'Don't you dare insult my father, when yours associates with muggle scum. He'll be first, right after the muggles. And the Mudbloods' he added, shooting a particularly hate-filled look at Hermione before stalking off into the dungeons.

Hermione felt the familiar sting of tears at this derogatory remark, only slightly mollified by the knowledge that Ron and Harry would take it for upset at being insulted. Neither of them would read anything into it, and for once, Hermione was grateful for the lack of attention either paid to her personal life. With the obvious exception of Ron, whose affections she vehemently denied despite the giggled protestations of Lavender and Parvati.

'Oh come on, Hermione, get real!' Lavender had spluttered only last night. 'When are you going to admit it?'

'I have no idea what you're talking about,' Hermione had turned the pages of Arithmancy in the 21st Century dignifiedly with one hand as she took notes with the other.

'Whatever'. Lavender had rolled her eyes and exchanged a meaningful glance with Parvati, who had dived headfirst under her sheet to muffle her laughter. 'OK, fine, shall I spell it out for you, as you're playing stupid?'

Hermione's eyes narrowed darkly. 'That depends on what you're trying to spell.'

'Oh please. Ron likes you, you like him, when are you going to get together?'

'I most certainly do not!' Hermione had said immediately.

'Well he likes you! He's always mooning over you, it's quite sad really…'

While Lavender and Parvati had gone off on their little Ron-is-in-love-with-Hermione spiel, Hermione had reflected on this comment. It wasn't that she hadn't noticed the things they were pointing out; she'd just chosen to ignore them. They wouldn't do her any good to recognize them - his jealousies, his interest in her romantic life, his prying into her business - all of these would only make things more difficult in the long run. She not only did not reciprocate his feelings, she had another bombshell to reveal to him.

She'd fallen for his biggest enemy. She'd fallen for Draco Malfoy. And she didn't think Ron's wounded pride or sense of morality would allow him to forgive her it. Hell, she could barely forgive it herself, much less understand it.

Malfoy? What was wrong with her? She had someone proffering their love to her on a silver platter (though not consciously, Hermione thought darkly, she highly doubted Ron even realised he was doing it, so dim could he be) and she had to choose the one person he truly hated. The one person she stood no chance with. His was not a dislike borne of mere inter-House rivalry, but a deep-seated hatred of the blood coursing through her veins. At her audacity for daring to breathe the same air, share the same castle, the same magic, as he and his so-called pure-blooded contemporaries. At her friendship with Ron, youngest son of one of the biggest muggle sympathisers and blood traitors going. Even more at her friendship with Harry, the boy Malfoy's father and his ilk wanted dead more than any other. Though, she now admitted to herself, this hatred would have existed had she been friends with anyone else, her parents had seen to that simply by being non-magical.

He'd proven that to her time and again with his hurtful comments - just now had been no different - and yet…and yet, somehow Hermione still held on, remained still hopeful that he'd change his attitude towards her. Her mother had always stood by that old saying - Good things come to those who wait.

Unfortunately for Hermione, Mrs Granger's other favourite saying was A leopard never changes his spots. And it didn't look as though Draco was looking to change them any time soon.