(Draco)

A heavy weight pressed down on Draco's chest as the Mudblood uttered his name, and that weight consisted of guilt, shame, confusion, sadness and contempt. Mostly contempt. The mass of the weight twinned with his shock at Granger's presence knocked the breath out of him, and he was left feeling oddly empty. For a moment or two he forgot about everything but her and stood transfixed, with toilet roll in hand, bolt upright and as still as death. All emotions but utter disbelief were swept from his mind.

It was at this time his abandoned tantrum reared its ugly head again – before he could make any sense of the situation, and he let out another slow moan, which was full of desperation. His voice cut out before he could finish it, and because of this it must have seemed somewhat choked. His mouth hung open. He became aware of the toilet roll in his hand again and pelted it at Hermione. It seemed like the correct thing to do. She promptly squealed and raised her small hands to her face in order to protect herself from any oncoming projectiles and luckily for her, there were no more toilet rolls to project; Draco would have happily continued his target practice for the rest of the day if not for the small inconvenience.

Draco despaired as the misery of the impossible scene finally sunk in and dropped like a fly to the floor below him. He quivered and shook momentarily, closed his eyelids – which were now a kind of violent lavender colour, and re-commenced his uncontrollable weeping. It did not matter much to him any more that the muggle-born whore was still present. He expected her to cautiously back out of the room, shake her head in disbelief and never speak of the subject again; the little incident would, he reassured himself as he cried in the sticky pool of aftershave and soap he had created earlier, be far too embarrassing for her to recall to anyone – even Potter or Weasley.

Unfortunately for Draco Hermione had developed a caring, maternal side. She padded apprehensively over to where he lay, and squatted down. Her knees cracked as she did so. Draco forced open his eyes, which were slick with tears, and scowled up at her. Still she did not retreat. He truly wished to reach up and scratch her eyes out, but did not want to waste what little strength he had left on her. At least, that was what he told himself – although he had significantly hardened recently, it was at his most vulnerable that Draco reverted to a small boy, whose dearest wish it was to be comforted and held by his Mummy.

But Mummy was not here now, and Mummy would not be around for some time. It was likely that Mummy was cooped up at home, pining for Daddy, who was, at present, locked up in Azkaban. Granger would have to do. He could clear his memory of what had, so far, been an utterly revolting Saturday later.

Draco clenched shut his eyes once again as the weight on his chest became too much to bear, and slowly dragged his bitten, ragged fingernails up the inner side of his left arm. Self harm was not a good habit to get into, but it enabled him to focus on the pain of the moment, rather than the many pains of the past – which he relived often enough in his nightmares. Oh, he was perfectly aware of the fact that whatever he did to himself on his left arm the Dark Lord would feel too, due to the mark he so loathed, but that spurred him on even more. The cold bastard deserved to know of the great deal of suffering he had put Draco through. In fact, he would probably savour it, the sadomasochist that he was. That revelation made him consider halting, but he continued anyway. To hell with it, he uttered with despondence.

Then at once he felt a soft, warm hand on his forehead. He felt the frantic pulse coming from within it as it smoothed over his hair and wiping the tears away from his blue, frigid cheeks. He stiffened at first but after allowing himself to forget the hand belonged to a woman he had hated with such a fierce passion for six long years Draco calmed down a great deal. Another equally soft hand clutched gently at one of his own, the fingers if which were still – if not feebly – digging into his wrist. More insistently now, the feminine hand tugged at his, a desperate gesture which he knew was a wordless attempt to get him to stop hurting himself. Not thinking, he did.

Torn between indulging in serenity and doing the right thing, Draco's heart sped up again, and he sighed in vexation. He had been taught to put loyalty before personal pleasure from an early age, and so he reached up and pushed Granger away with disgust, all the while keeping his eyes closed – if he opened them he would surely lose control of his stomach again. Neither of the players in this odd performance would want the embarrassment that would bring.

The hands withdrew, shaking like a leaf in the wind as they left his skin, and when they had retreated from his personal space he got up and ran away from his problems, just like a frightened child would. Draco opened his eyes when he was positive the wench would not be within eyesight, spotted his wand and ran over to it. He scooped it up with his wand hand, sat down and rested his head against the stone wall behind him, brought his knees up to his chest and broke into a fresh set of dry, hiccoughy sobs.

Through the noise of his keening Draco's ears picked out the light pitter-patter of feet, which grew a little louder until he could feel the presence of the doxy they belonged to right by him. Hesitantly Draco opened one eye and closed it again when his fears were confirmed. Damn her.

She was, for definite, a persistent little thing, he brooded, as her arms enveloped him and brought him to her chest. He winced at the tender feel of her body, which he yearned for yet retched at the same time. Draco tried to push her away many times, but after each feeble shove the mudblood drew him back into her warm embrace. It was no use. He groaned, and concentrated on the obliviate! which would come soon enough. Sod tradition.

As clichéd as it was, the minutes Draco spent in Hermione's care really did feel like hours. He had scoffed at it before, but there was some truth to Dumbledore's ramblings about 'love' and its powers of healing. Of course, being a Malfoy, Draco did not believe in love, but whatever he felt at present was better than any feeling any amount of self harm ever could bring.

When he was positive he would not projectile vomit at Weasley's harlot if he looked into her eyes, he opened his own. She appeared to be very uncomfortable with the situation, which was absolutely fine with him. He was unsure to get out of her embrace, which, to be frank, disgusted him now he was aware it was Hermione Granger he had shared the moment with. So, in a moment of madness, he freed his arms from between his and Granger's chest, reached up and grabbed the back of her soft head of hair with one hand, yanked her close to him with more force than was entirely necessary, and kissed her feverishly with lips of stone.

She did not respond to the kiss and in fact jumped at his cold touch, looked at him with disgust and promptly ran away from him. He watched as she ran out of his sight and grinned like a Cheshire cat as the toilet door slammed shut. Draco stretched, and sprung to his feet.

It felt good to be back to his old self again.

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God, I'm glad that's over. It was very awkward to write Draco/Hermione tenderness! Don't worry, it's not going to stay as sweet as this for long, if all works out. ;)

-yawn- It's 3:26am. I bloody spoil you all. Night night everyone! Thanks for the wave of reviews that rolled in for that last chapter, they all made me smile. c:

Keep reviewing, your kind words really do give me the motivation to keep working at this!

Laura