Whenever Draco had a therapy session lined up, he always found his mother became obsessed with inviting him round for dinner. At first, he had suspected she knew, and more importantly, knew his rule. Because Draco, as a rule, preferred to avoid his father for at least 48 hours post-therapy session, not that his parents knew he was attending such appointments.

Because of that, he often found himself struggling with where to go, desperately needing peace and silence to process what he had talked through. He would usually go home, but since his home had, apparently, turned into Potter's sex show, he realised his own home wouldn't be able to provide such a refuge.

No matter how often Draco skirted around Potter's antics, Potter never understood what he was hinting at. He could try being more direct, something Blaise had informed him he should do, but somehow, Draco didn't feel equipped to tell Potter that he could hear the ungodly screams coming from, on occasion, several rooms of their shared flat. It had taken gloves and a lot of bleach for Draco to even comfortably shower in his own shower—and even then he had still felt unclean—which was another thing he hadn't told Potter, but all of his other friends instead.

Thankfully, there was always one place that welcomed him with open arms. It was constantly warm, scented to perfection and offered him as much coffee as he could handle. But tonight as he wandered past, Draco questioned whether he should go in, quickly weighing up the options. Eventually—and unsurprisingly—coffee beat out the possibility of Longbottom nervousness chewing at him or Moody's stern pep talks.

For a Thursday night, the place was surprisingly empty for saying it frequently was littered with students writing dissertations. It was the very reason Draco had even first found the place. He had been stressed out of his mind, walking the streets of Diagon, not at all sure how he was going to finish his first paper, and then the scent of coffee beans had woken something inside of him. Draco still couldn't remember even walking through the door, adamant each time he told the story he had floated inside like a man possessed.

The usual zombies were also missing. The ones that had been on-the-go since 6 am and needed a fix and the party-goers who had been putting off their university work for weeks. But all of them were absent, as though they all had an invitation to something much more exciting than the coffee shop. He would have felt jealous if not for the fact his feet, legs and brain all hurt—Draco wouldn't even have the energy for a party if he chugged down four expressos.

Draco, however, did find Granger—someone he hadn't expected. Granger whose eyes widened at the sight of him and looked torn between hiding in the toilet or sitting herself down and surrendering the rest of her shift. Instead, she stood, perfectly straight as though her back wasn't able to bend, with an expression he couldn't adequately describe.

"Hi," Granger said as though even speaking the word tasted horrendous.

Draco nodded in greeting, pulling out a stool at the counter. "Coffee, please?"

Granger eyed him, and he could hear the cogs turning in her brain. She didn't trust him, not that he blamed her, somedays Draco didn't even trust himself.

"You don't usually come in," Granger said sharply, moving closer to the counter.

He snorted because of course, she would reply with a revelation he already knew. "Five points to Granger, now, coffee? Or do you bother other coffee customers, past 8 p.m, with random information they don't care about?"

Reluctantly, Draco placed his bag on the counter, not taking his eyes off her as he seated himself on the chair he had pulled out. Whether he liked it or not, the way the lights shone at night did something to Granger's appearence—something he couldn't ignore even if he wanted to. The thing that bothered him more than how soft her skin appeared; how brown her eyes were, and how he didn't hate them staring at him.

"Black, please," Draco said.

She seemed to growl under her breath, but all the same, she turned on the spot, whirring the machine up for what appeared to be the first time in hours.

"Didn't even know you knew the word please," she shot over her shoulder.

He smirked, purposefully allowing silence to reply before he added, "Oh, and Granger, no sugar."

The beans ground in the machine, and he leaned his elbows down on the counter. At first, he tried to busy himself with opening his textbook and actually reading what he was supposed to be, but instead, he found his eyes drifting to her. Granger who had her head in her hands, her elbows digging into the worktop as she moved her eyes towards something next to the till. Regardless of what he wanted to do—which was drink coffee and be silent—Draco knew he wouldn't be able to concentrate until he worked out what she was so fixated on, especially when her attention wasn't on his drink.

It took him a moment—one far too long for his liking—as his eyes scanned over the partially hidden textbook, stitching what he could see together to create the whole picture. Suddenly, the knitted brows, the growl and the fuck-off expression on her face made sense.

Luckily for her, Draco was not the kind of man to open a can of worms unless he needed to. He would undoubtedly say something wrong, likely offending her, and then neither of them would be able to do whatever they had planned to. That much was obvious, anyway, but Draco had always found himself more aware of everything, thinking even more than usual, and often able to be more vulnerable after a session with Severus. He over-thought things that usually came quickly to him; he second-guessed anything he would have decided on in a heartbeat. He would also leave well alone usually, but apparently not tonight.

"You alright, Granger?"

Therapy was both a blessing and a curse it seemed. The 'usual' Draco would not have asked her such a question; he would have smirked to himself as he read through his book, likely distracting her as much as he could without it affecting himself. Tonight though, Draco cared—even if he would dispute the fact until the cows came home—and he had felt the need to ask.

"Before you begin to think I'm silently judging you, I'm not. I usually am, but on this occasion, Malfoy, I'm not," she said minus any malice—something he had rarely heard—as her hand placing his coffee down. "I'm honestly too tired to focus any energy on hating you, I really need to study, and unfortunately I hadn't thought you would be here."

"Or fortunate?" Draco smirked, retrieving the cup as it warmed his fingers. "Do you need a hand?"

He hated even asking; it tasted bitter. Draco wished he could pull the words back, hold them close and tell her it was a joke. But the words had landed, her eyes had widened a little in shock, and all he could do was pray she didn't need him.

Granger groaned, making a point to make it as loud as she could, just enough for him to hear, as she rang the till. "Unless you're a psychology whizz, I don't need to hear from you tonight."

Draco instinctively rolled his eyes. It was a natural reaction he had whenever someone was being pissy for no reason. He blamed Pansy because if she weren't a sarcastic wench most of the time, Draco wouldn't have picked up such a bad habit. He also rolled his eyes because Granger had made it so apparent she needed help—whether it be his or someone else's. The problem was, Draco partly wanted to help—he didn't even know why. All he knew with confidence was that he felt trapped; if he didn't ask her, he'd have to hear about it for the remainder of his night here—especially when she seemed to be the only one behind the counter. If he did ask if she wanted his help, Granger would likely berate him for being nosy, and while Draco knew he couldn't win, he also didn't want to lose.

Not with her.

"On the house," Granger said without any emotion, not even casting her eyes in his direction.

Draco slowly tilted his head, observing her as she turned away from him and lifted the pen from the spread out book beside the till.

"You know, Granger, I can pay—I have money."

"Employee discount," she shrugged, resting the pen against her lips.

Draco couldn't stop himself from noticing how pink they were tonight, how full they were around the end of her pen. He swallowed when he realised what he was doing, casting his eyes around the place to ensure no one had caught him.

"I don't work here, Granger."

She snorted, but it wasn't bitter—it wasn't really anything, except a noise. "You could have fooled me with your bossiness."

Applying a sneer, Draco straightened his spine. "Touché."

She laughed, and he hated how he liked the sound of it. He should hate it; she was a stuck-up know-it-all. She had ruined his jumper, after all. But Draco didn't, not even a little bit.

"I've never had a discount before?"

Granger smirked, circling something on the notepad page she seemed to pull from nowhere. "Tonight you seemed like you needed it."

There wasn't anything he could say. Not without complimenting her or showing gratitude, and he couldn't do that with Granger. He couldn't, surely? Just as he hesitated, unsure whether a thank you would be enough, Draco heard her sigh. It was heavy, ladened with frustration and stress; he knew that sigh. Draco had let out that same sigh almost every day since he had been at Diagon.

Holding the cup between both hands, lifting his head, Draco cleared his throat. "I'm not the devil, even if I would look good in red, so thank you… for the coffee," he said, wanting to dispel the emotion in the air, hating how it felt bubbling around his skin. "Anyway, I have work to be doing myself, Granger, not all of us can study as tremendously as you, so, I will ask for a final time, are you okay?"

Whether it was the surprise of seeing Granger looking at him softly or the weird feeling he got in his stomach as she did, Draco felt himself shift into foreign waters. He knew, deep down, he didn't deserve the warmth in her eyes—it was all misplaced, it was all wrong, but most of all it wasn't justified.

"I think I'm going to fail my first year," she said, her bottom lip trembling and all Draco hoped was that she wasn't about to cry.

Thankfully, she didn't, but what Granger did instead was far more worrying. She let her head flop onto the book as her curls danced across the page, her hat falling to the floor, discarded and forgotten, and she let out a low, half-scream into the pages.

Draco's attention, however, was stolen, quickly captured by her wild curls. Not frizzy like usual and rather bouncy—as though they were full of life. He admired how they had haloed around her as the lights caught the many shades that made each one up; Draco noticed her hands planted either side of her hidden face, and as she turned her head her complexion became more obvious against the backdrop of the crisp pages.

Draco hesitated, words lodging in his throat as his hand reached out, freezing in the moment, stuck between not wanting to overstep and wanting to comfort her. He decided words might be better received, retracting his hand and clearing his throat.

"From the Granger, I've seen, that's impossible."

"It-really-isn't," she mumbled as her head turned face down into the book once more, her words buried under her hair.

Letting out an exasperated sigh, ensuring it was loud enough for her to hear, Draco stood up as he moved closer towards her. At first, he slid his cup from between them, then he tapped her head, and finally, Draco slid her books away from her. He placed them neatly beside his own, balancing on a high rope knowing if he didn't choose his next step carefully, he'd fall to his demise.

His first instinct was to comfort her, but after several failed attempts with Pansy over the years, Draco supposed he needed a better strategy. He could give her advice, although there was nothing Draco despised more than giving advice—except when women cried. And it was likely she would cry. Even more likely as he stood awkwardly before her, not saying anything.

And Draco did not want a crying Granger; not on his watch, not as his responsibility.

The problem Draco faced was that he only had a handful of experiences with crying women, and most of them were Pansy—and most of them had ended with a knee to his crotch. He didn't do well, always saying the wrong thing. Apparently, he missed the sensitivity gene, which wasn't surprising; he was his father's son.

"Stand up, Granger," he said plainly, finding himself surprised when she did. "You need to pass; that is it. You pass, you're onto the next level. You fail, you redo. Simple as. For once, you don't need to excel; you can just pass."

While not explicitly crying, there were tears in her eyes. Huge, eye-shimmering tears and he already felt the threat of a hug or a punch coming his way.

"Plus, it's December. You've been here barely a minute, haven't you?" Granger shrugged, and he smirked knowingly. "As someone who hasn't attended a class in a week, I assure you, you're going to be fine."

She frowned deeply, and he braced for an array of questions. "Why haven't you attended?"

Because I'm only attending this university to appease my father. Draco didn't say that, though. Instead he sighed, shaking the truth from his lips. "Better things to do, Granger. Better things to do."

It turned out, after his pep-talk, that Draco had actually done the right thing. Thankfully though, not long after Moody had turned up to take over from Granger—the fact her eyes could barely stay open, Draco thought it was a good decision on Moody's part. It had also eliminated the awkwardness, the part where she'd look at him questioning, wondering why he had been so nice and him not being able to give her an adequate answer. Moody, it seemed, was rather convenient in a crisis, something Draco wouldn't tell him for love or money.

Granger, it became apparent, had been so sleep-deprived—and possibly so stressed—she didn't leave with her books. The ones Draco had taken from her when she had begun her little meltdown. He hadn't thought of taking her things, not at first, but Moody had stamped his walking stick into the coffee shop floor and gave him a knowing look. One Draco would rather never see again.

Even as Draco climbed in the Owler—the Diagon run taxi service—he wondered what on earth he was doing. He thought the same when the driver stopped outside her building, cursing himself as he stepped outside after paying. He then began to blame Moody for being outside her flat door. The apparent flat that Granger would likely be sleeping inside of, with her long curls and brown eyes. The other problem was, Moody—the dick he was—hadn't given Draco the flat number. He had been forced to ask some people on the ground floor who directed him to this door.

To his unsurprise, Granger didn't answer the door; a flame-haired woman did instead. A woman who looked as though she would rather spit on him than speak to him.

"Hi, does Granger live here?"

The red-haired female smirked, folding her arms across her chest as she looked him up and down. "Ah, Malfoy is it?"

Draco licked his lips before grinning. "Famous am I?"

The female shrugged, tilting her head to the other side as she narrowed her eyes. "Something to that effect. Are you also a stalker?"

He pursed his lips because he could tell this woman this entire story, but Draco suspected it wouldn't do him any favours. He had, technically, been visiting the coffee shop when Granger was working, and he had arrived at the library after her that time, and now he was, possibly, stood outside her door. So even if he disputed being a stalker, there was a lot of evidence stacked against him.

"Wouldn't be the worst thing I've been called, Red, but on this occasion, more a knight in shining armour." He handed over the book, tapping his finger to the sticker that said: Belongs to H. Granger. "It seems Granger likes the idea of random men returning books to her door."

"I'm Ginny," Red said, sticking her hand out as she smirked. "Best friend, knight slayer, you name it."

Figuring he had little to lose, Draco shook her hand, finding it a welcomed surprise that her grip was strong. "Draco, Latin for dragon, but obviously without fire."

She looked him up and down once again, this time without the stink-eye she had first given him. "Oh, you seem like you have plenty of fire—where it counts." Draco didn't hide the sneer that spread over his face. "Especially since you have a lack of patience." His face dropped. "I'm her best friend, fool. Stop torturing my friend."

Draco stood defiantly. "Or what… you'll slay me?"

Red—or Ginny—put down the book on something hidden inside the door, before returning her eyes to him. They were a lot sharper—he half-wished she went back to flirting—as though she had hardened them somehow. He could feel her eyes piercing into his skin, and if Draco weren't so scared, he'd likely be turned on.

"No, because I'll make your life a living hell. I know you, and I've met people like you. I've also grown up with six brothers, so in a way, I really dare you to try me." Red straightened her shoulders. "Also, because of the brothers, I have a mean right hook, so if you're going to hover around her, at least make it worth her while. Don't be an arsehole, just to be an arsehole, Malfoy. Be better than your low-life, back-stabbing, bribery taking dad."

He didn't show how much the last comment hurt. Although he had to agree with everything she said, it just wasn't something he had expected. Instead of giving her the satisfaction, Draco painted a smile over his lips, watching her as she eyed him suspiciously.

"I like you, Red."

Red arched her brow. "Because I'm direct and you've taken in what I've said?"

He shrugged again, and he could sense it displeased her when he did.

"Because you don't tolerate bullshit, actually. Anyway, just tell Granger not to leave her valuables at the shop; anyone could have taken it." He had been set to storm off, but at the last second, he turned back around, finding Red watching him as though she knew he would. "Also, make sure she gets some sleep, don't let her worry, and for fuck sake take her books off of her sometime. She needs to relax."

He tugged down on his jumper, nodding his head before turning away from the door, eyes focused on the stairwell. There was a rush of something he couldn't place, happiness, satisfaction—Draco didn't know—but just as he neared the corner. Just as Draco thought he was out of the woods, he heard Red speak again.

"Anyone could have taken her things, Malfoy, but that anyone was you."

Draco turned quickly, looking at the door as he watched it close. He was in half a mind to bolt back up to the door and bang his fist against it, but if Draco was honest, he didn't know what to even make of what she had said. It was true, he was the only one who had taken her things—and the only one to return them.

He had done something so out of character, so impossibly Draco, he had no idea what it meant.

All he did know was that he didn't like Granger, not like that. He didn't. He was sure of it. But as he rushed down the stairs, desperate for fresh air, Draco wasn't sure he even believed himself.

Not sure at all.