Hello. Sorry it's been so long. I had exams then I went to Italy on holiday! But I'm here now with an update and now that I'm on holiday there will be more. Thank you very much for the reviews! I love getting feedback from you guys, so keep it up, please :) Now, this story is not going to be completely light-hearted. I have decided to take a different tone than I had originally planned and I kind of want to explore the prejudice of the Malfoy family. It will still have the arguments and, hopefully, the humour but I just think that, while weaker than his father, Draco is not such a nice guy as to forget all that he has been taught and just love Hermione. Yet. Anyway, please keep reading and reviewing! Enjoy.

Disclaimer - Not effing mine.

Chapter 4

Following their argument, Draco and Hermione spent the rest of the afternoon in silence, as according to the rules of their agreement. It was not a comfortable atmosphere by any stretch of the imagination. Forced acceptance of someone's presence never was, especially with an undercurrent of something darker, some sense of desiring the demise of the one beside you. Sharing the couch, they sat before the fire, doing their homework as though neither was there. Hermione wrote easily, finishing her essay with a flourish, while Draco struggled along with his right hand, which was, unfortunately for him, attached to Hermione's left.

"Granger, could you please help me a little by lifting that rock you call a hand? I can barely write here!"

Hermione raised a brow and glanced over at his hand, which was roughly pulling hers across his parchment. She had, of course, felt it but did not feel obligated to help him, after all, their agreement was to be civil, not helpful. His sentence was essentially an insult as to the weight of her hand, yet disguised in that polite blanket of the word "please". Merlin, he could manage to put her down while being polite - there was no end to this boy's ability to display that aristocratic courtliness that accompanied a Malfoy upbringing. His father had a similar talent. It was both impressive and irritating.

"Certainly, Draco."

Well, he had said please. And the flash of irritation which passed across his face at her use of his first name was incredibly satisfying. Hermione eased her arm from the table and moved her arm along with Draco's so that he could write. She surreptitiously glanced at his essay, reading as he wrote, impressed by his eloquence.

"Surprised that I'm actually intelligent, Granger?"

With a jump, Hermione tore her eyes away from his parchment and directed her gaze towards the stone ceiling.

"Of course not."

Draco smirked and returned to his writing. He knew she had been reading, the nosy mudblood couldn't help but look down her nose at his work. Well, he wasn't stupid and considering he was particularly talented in potions, it was no surprise that his essay was excellent. Finishing his essay with a flick of his quill, Draco turned to Hermione, who still stared resolutely at the ceiling.

"Mother's love, Granger, I don't care if your were reading my essay. Don't flatter yourself by thinking that I value your opinion of my intelligence so highly," A mudblood's opinion is hardly of any consequence to me.

Although he didn't say it aloud, Hermione could just sense what he was thinking and she frowned slightly, turning to face him properly.

She inspected his face while he did the same to her. It was a curious moment as her dark chocolate eyes ran over his pale, pointed face, across his marble-like skin, straight nose and finally found the gray slates of his eyes.

The eyes are the windows to the soul she had heard many times, and, she supposed, it was true to some extent but she found them hardly as transparent as a window. Draco's in particular. She saw the eyes as more of a book - filled with important information, which was easy to find, if only one knew what they were looking for. And as she looked into Draco's eyes she saw it plain and simple.

Hatred.

He actually hated her. Certainly, being raised by Lucius Malfoy had afforded him certain advantages in that his face and words could reveal nothing of his feelings. He was statuesque in expression and carefully civilised in words but his eyes betrayed all. They were not yet as dead as his father's. And in those icy grey pools she knew she could drown in that inexplicably strong emotion of hate that she evoked in him. Was it her blood status? Was it really that simple? In reality, they had spent their school years together but they hardly knew each other - how, then, could he have any other reason for hating her?

And that word. That word he threw from his poison tongue so casually. Mudblood. It was just a word. Yet it was more than a word. It was how he and his world saw her. Dirty, unworthy, subhuman. Did he see her as human at all?

Yes, Draco Malfoy hated her for being, well, born. The ideals he had been raised with made sure of that and as she sat facing him, Hermione wondered if this pact of civility was a stupid idea, for it would never last more than a night.

The silence between them was more deafening than the shriek of a thousand banshees but they ignored its oppressive presence and Draco smirked as his eyes travelled across Hermione's features.

God how he hated her.

That bushy hair, those big teeth, and those stupidly big, expressive eyes. They were her only redeeming feature he supposed, on an otherwise plain face. She was a mudblood anyway, he wouldn't have expected her to be pretty with blood so polluted. Every time he saw her his father's words would rush through his mind from the many years of home education. They are thieves of magic, Draco…We are better than them…Undeserving, dirty, mudbloods. His father was never wrong - he too had been raised with this understanding, he based his every action upon it. And so would Draco.

"I think we should go down to dinner." Said Hermione suddenly, stiffly. Her face had paled considerably in the last few moments and he smirked as her voice held a slight tremor.

The pair approached the looming Great Hall doors, behind which the loud voices of students emanated. Happy, unburdened and certainly not stuck to their enemies. With a jerk, Draco pulled Hermione forward and she glowered, stepping on his toe with deliberately heavy feet as she pushed the door open, feeling the pact of civility ruffle her hair as it flew past them, incinerated invisibly in their minds.

"Watch your duck feet, mudblood."

That word again.

Hermione gritted her teeth and settled on not retaliating. She would be the bigger person. That stupid bloody git. As long as she didn't have to be the bigger person in her mind, she had a chance of retaining her sanity in the whole ordeal.

They travelled over the threshold of the hall together and stopped suddenly, resisting each other's movements. Hermione had hoped to avoid the whisperings and move quickly to a seat with her friends but there was no such hope now.

As she and Malfoy stood at the entrance of the hall, each trying to pull the other in opposite directions, towards their tables of choice, every head in the room snapped towards them, and a wall of whispers was built brick by brick. The rumour had of course spread around the school like wildfire but to see fire and ice joined together was quite the spectacle, and people began to speculate who would kill the other first. Fred and George, quite quickly, Hermione noticed, had begun to quietly collect bets.

"We're eating at my table, Granger." whispered Draco, harshly.

"No. I think you'll find we're eating at mine." Hermione emphasised the last word with a jerk of their hands.

Draco sighed in exasperation at the stubborn mudblood. She was certainly strong willed. It brought a certain fire to those expressive eyes… Shaking his head, the Slytherin snapped himself back to the present situation and turned to Hermione, desperate to be away from the stares of his fellow students. As much as he enjoyed attention, it was not preferable under the circumstances.

"A compromise then. We eat at my table tonight, yours tomorrow night and so on, so forth."

Hermione raised her chin, the defiance still on her features, and nodded reluctantly.

"Very well."

Hermione saw Harry and Ron's faces fall at the Gryffindor table where they had moved to make room and she smiled, mouthing tomorrow at them. They seemed to accept this, but continued to glance at her throughout dinner, and glaring at Malfoy with unadulterated hatred.

"Potty and Weasel really can't stand this, can they?" said Malfoy with a smirk as they ate, "I think Weasel's head is about to explode. His skin and hair are beginning to blend."

True enough , Ron was going slightly red as he watched Draco whisper in her ear. She shook her head at him with a small smile in his direction.

"Yes, it's funny how people can actually care about others enough to show emotion. I'm sure you're unaware of that feeling."

Malfoy grunted, his eyes narrowed at Hermione with a glint of that painfully obvious hatred.

Hermione felt unbelievably awkward at the Slytherin table. It was reminiscent of that morning in potions. They all glared at her with those cold eyes, wishing her the worst. Were all of their parents Death Eaters? She wondered. Did they all feel the same about the purity of her blood? Probably - she did not see one friendly face.

As Draco and his friends sat sniggering at some joke or other, Hermione picked at her dinner, her mind propelled her forward in time to the rest of the night. They had to sleep.

Hermione dropped her fork with a clatter, ignoring the sniggers and mutters of "stupid mudblood." from those around her. She was not going to share a bed with Draco bloody Malfoy. She would not share a bed with someone who hated her, someone who would most likely smother her in her sleep.

Suddenly Hermione was not so hungry.

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