There was something unbelievably therapeutic about falling asleep in Draco Malfoy's arms; the words, his words, I love you, still resonating in her ears. Maybe it was a sign of weakness to lay down beside him after everything he'd put her through, but for once she couldn't say no to what her heart desired most. And if indeed she wanted to fix him, then actual intimacy could be seen as the first step towards opening him up to the world he hated so.

Only, it was foolishness and not weakness that troubled her as she awoke, and his apparent absence was the cause. The how, the why and the when didn't even occur to her as she frowned down at the empty, slept-in spot beside her on the bed. His bed. If she had been at a loss before, and it certainly felt that way, then now she was nothing if not ignorant. The harder she tried to understand, the more distant he grew.

How could anyone proclaim their love for another and then sneak off before the assertion had a chance to sink in? She knew exactly how. Draco Malfoy was born without a spine; either that, or over time he'd been overcome by cowardice, until finally he hadn't the courage needed to do anything other than belittle, berate and bully. He wasn't a man; he was barely even a snake.

It was entirely his fault and yet he chose not to stick around and face the consequences. Hermione had been happy admiring his beauty from afar for years, safe in the knowledge that nothing even remotely human lurked beneath his handsome facade. She could ignore the slight crush, the school girl infatuation, for every muttered Mudblood helped her realise that beauty was but skin deep. Only when he revealed shattered shards of his broken soul to her, paraded the broken pieces before her admittedly willing eyes, had her feelings grown more so complicated.

Now dismissal wasn't an option. Draco had imprinted himself on her heart and her soul. Yes, she had been ready to give up, on more than one occasion, but every time she got close to doing so he would reveal another piece of the intricate puzzle and her heart would yearn to see him whole again. And he'd said he loved her; honestly, she loved him too.

Only when Draco Malfoy happened to be the object of your affections was more required. She should have realised, right away, that those three beautiful words, glorious as they were, just wouldn't be enough. Not for him; because his love wasn't tangible. It may have been there one moment, flourishing, but it was gone the next. She didn't exactly know why and feared it was something she would never quite comprehend.

Hermione swung her legs over the edge of the bed- his side of the bed- and heaved a sigh. The spot was still warm and his scent lingered. Before she could lose herself in that wondrous moment in time, her bleary eyes spotted something standing upright on the bedside table. A folded note, on the front of which was her name scribbled in his familiar scrawl. She knew even as she reached for it that nothing good would come from what was inside.

Granger

I didn't mean what I said. I just couldn't stand your blubbering. Steer clear if you know what's good for you.

Malfoy

Perhaps the note was intended to upset her. Perhaps not. In Hermione's eyes, it served only to reinforce what his hasty exit helped her realise. Despite his very real feelings for her, and hers for him, he was at heart a coward. She had always been aware of such a thing- to some extent, at least- but the true depths of his cowardice were staggering. Had she not witnessed it first hand, she might have had trouble believing any one person could be so spineless.

And yet, the truly harrowing thing was, she loved him more so for his faults, of which there were many, than his strengths, which of late had been non-existent. He was broken, battered, on the brink of oblivion. But he was hers, and hers alone, to fix. And even if it took her a lifetime, she would put him back together again.

-- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- --

The Great Hall was a veritable hive of activity, but if any man was an island, it was Draco Malfoy. Surrounded by those whose presence he could just about endure, Draco made a point of looking at each of them like they were beneath him, daring them to say or act otherwise. Blaise Zabini was to his left; Pansy Parkinson to his right; Theodore Nott beside her; and Vincent Crabbe and Gregory Goyle across from them. Daphne and Astoria Greengrass sat further up the table, but well within glaring distance.

It amused him. The contrast between his friends and the Mudblood with whom he'd spent the last hour sleeping. He didn't dare imagine their reactions if the truth were to be revealed, and likewise Granger might not be overly cheerful if she were privy to their conversation.

"Is it true, Draco?"

"Is what true, Goyle?"

"That you shagged Lavender Brown as a dare?" Goyle's faced seemed to be affixed with a perpetual grin.

"I shagged her, sure, but it wasn't a dare. I just wanted to show her what a real man is like between the sheets."

Pansy and Blaise shared a look of scepticism, but remained silent. Their disapproval of Draco's recent exploits notwithstanding, they weren't about to give their housemates just cause to ostracize him.

"But," Crabbe interjected. "Was it worth it? I mean, Weasley beat the shit out of you, didn't he?"

Draco eyed Crabbe for a moment, his thin lips eventually curling into a smirk. "Well, he punches like a girl, so it was a small price to pay."

Astoria Greengrass, who'd had something of a crush on Draco ever since they first met, cleared her throat before speaking. "A friend of mine in Ravenclaw who was there when it happened said you refused to fight back. And that you egged him on."

Draco sighed. "Yes, well, your friend sounds like the sort of bint who lies just to get attention. I expected better of you, Astoria."

Astoria harrumphed, and then went back to her scrambled eggs, sufficiently reprimanded.

"There must be some truth to it though, Draco. Seldom are rumours entirely untrue," said Nott, leaning across Pansy to meet Draco's gaze.

"Shut up, Nott," said Pansy, pushing him back down into his seat. "What is with this obsession of yours for gossip? How old are you?"

"Older than you," Nott huffed.

"Shame you don't act it," Blaise sneered.

Draco tuned the tedious argument out and glanced curiously over at the Gryffindor table. Weaselbee and Potter were busy shovelling food into their gobs, but she was nowhere to be seen. Perhaps she was still in the Hospital Wing, sobbing her big, brown, beautiful eyes out. He dearly hoped so. He only bemoaned the fact that he wouldn't be around to witness firsthand the crestfallen look on her pretty little Mudblood face.

The letter was perhaps a touch harsh, but it was vital he help her understand that which was right in front of her. It could never be. No matter how much they wanted it, no matter how hard they tried, the truth was it would only ever end in heartache. What was the point in such a futile endeavour? Draco would much rather ignore the feeling than pursue it knowing full well it could only ever end in tears.

It had been an easy decision, if he was being honest. Writing the letter and cutting her loose wasn't half as difficult as he first thought. What was difficult, however, was deciding whether or not he should try and shag her first. She was undoubtedly a prude and obviously not in it for the sex, but he had an inkling that were he to reciprocate the feelings then she could be his; physically speaking, at least.

He worried that many a cold shower would be spent lamenting not having deflowered the prissy little Mudblood.

Sex always complicated things though. His bedpost didn't have half as many notches as the Hogwarts populace seemed to believe, and yet still he was burdened with the clingy behaviour of those he had bedded, long after he discarded them. And Granger, likely being a Virgin, would be more so enamoured afterwards. She was the sort of girl that didn't want sex; she didn't want a shag or a fuck. She wanted you to make love to her.

To get her in the mood you would likely need hundreds of scented candles littered around the room, and sheets of colourful, flowing transparent fabric hung strategically in every possible line of sight; you would be expected to quote poetry as you entered her for the first time. Then, afterwards, you would be required to stay awake and talk about classical music until the sun came up, at which point the two of you would settle on the veranda and bask in nature's glow.

He felt sick just thinking about Granger's pitiful idealism.

The irony was, though, that someone so idealistic could be so infatuated with him of all people. Potter, he could understand. The Boy Who Lived and all that crap. Cedric Diggory (before he snuffed it) he could also understand. And at a stretch he could even see an idealistic infatuation with Zabini: the mysterious, quiet Slytherin that silly little girls longed to rescue from the creeping dark.

But him? Draco Malfoy? What the fuck was wrong with Hermione Granger? Sure, he was handsome, intelligent enough, and incredibly witty, but girls like her didn't fall for guys like him. He was cruel, especially to her; he was a bigot, unashamedly so; and he had fought for Lord Voldemort until the very last minute, when, sensing the outcome, he chose to defect, like a complete and utter coward.

Maybe he was missing something, but what was there to love? What did she see in him?

The only possible explanation he could come to was that desire of hers to rescue all manner of things, regardless of whether or not they wanted to be rescued. House Elves being the prime example. He supposed he did need rescuing, but he certainly didn't want such a thing. And his feelings for her, unwelcome as they were, made the prospect of her help and her pity more so unappealing. She would never quite see that, though; he supposed it was part of her charm.

"Oi, oi," Nott's grating voice rang harshly in his ears. "Mudblood at twelve o'clock. Looks like she's heading this way."

Draco's wide-eyes found Hermione Granger, and she was indeed heading towards the Slytherin table. A few people close by, from various different houses, noticed this and began to pay close attention. Why was the most famous Muggleborn at Hogwarts heading there of all places. Did she have a death wish?

Even though the War was over and attitudes on Blood Purity had cooled somewhat, a significant amount of Witches and Wizards were only begrudgingly tolerant of anyone and anything they considered impure. The Slytherins, especially the older students, helped define the residual prejudice.

Draco looked around just in time to see the apprehensive faces of Blaise and Pansy, equally perplexed. Draco, to his credit, acted as if nothing untoward was about to occur. He reached across the table, grabbed a nearby jug of milk by the handle, and poured himself a glass.

As he took a long, fulfilling gulp he noticed all eyes were on him, meaning only one thing. Hermione Granger was stood behind him, her little hands likely on her hips, her naturally tapered eyebrows drawn together in a furious, and yet altogether adorable, furrow. Draco flashed his trademark smirk, took another gulp of milk, and turned to face her.

"If it isn't my favourite Mudblood," he said smoothly, eyeing her. "Care for a glass of milk? It's ever so refreshing."

It was funny just how spot on he had been whilst calculating her stance. He felt almost like giving himself a proud pat on the back. But then she had always been so easy to read.

Granger began to nod her head from side to side, and perhaps she was in a state of disbelief. Though it could have been irritation. Either way, his Mudblood was usually in a much better mood.

"Draco, maybe we should go," said Blaise anxiously.

"Whatever for?" Draco smirked. "Granger just got here."

"Piss off, Mudblood," Nott sneered. "You're not welcome here."

At this Draco burst out laughing and soon he was holding his sides, his breath rather short. "Oh, Nott, you do crack me up. Do you have anything to say in response, Granger? I daresay usually you can't keep your trap shut."

Everyone at the Slytherin table, as well as the gathered crowd, starred at Draco Malfoy incredulously. Polyjuice Potion? It had to be. Either that or he'd lost his mind.

Even more surprising than Draco's behaviour, and what ultimately distracted everyone from that, was the fact that Pansy rose out of her seat and approached Granger. The Gryffindor girl was tight lipped, narrow eyed, but she turned to Pansy, and there wasn't quite the same fire in her eyes.

"Granger, go," said Pansy. "You don't want to do this."

"Do what?!" an impatient Hufflepuff fifth year called out from amongst the gathered crowd.

Granger opened her mouth to speak, but Pansy nodded her head fervently before she had a chance and her mouth soon closed. "I know what its like," Pansy continued. "Trust me when I say that. You need to go."

"But—"

"Go."

And though only a very select few could follow the cryptic words, it seemed to make sense to them both. Granger nodded her appreciation, looked once more at Draco and then turned to leave. His friends edged in close, questions on all their lips, but Draco didn't give them the chance. He got up off his seat, climbed onto the table and stood tall amongst the crowd. Glass of milk still in hand, he called out after Granger's retreating form.

"I must say, Granger, that despite looking like a beaver from the front, you've actually got a pretty decent arse on you. Well, for a Mudblood, at least."

"Draco, sh—" Pansy started to say, but Draco interrupted.

"Quiet, Pansy. This doesn't concern you. You'd do well to keep your pug-like nose out of it."

The gathered crowd sucked in a collective breath, together desperate to see what would happen next. Granger turned back towards Draco, frowning deeply, and met his gaze once more. He looked ready to say something, perhaps continue his verbal assault, when all of a sudden something hard struck him square in the groin and he fell gracelessly to his knees, the glass of milk he was holding shattering on the table beside him, the contents drenching him from head to toe.

As shocking as the exchange between Granger and Malfoy had been, no one watching would ever have imagined that Pansy Parkinson would punch the one man she adored in the most private of places. After a few silent moments they all scurried back to their respective places, discussing at length the bizarre occurrences.

Draco rolled off the table, away from the shards of glass, and onto the floor. He found his feet, staggering into position, and wiped the milk from his eyes. He was ready to garrotte the first person who approached him and said there's no point crying over spilt milk.

He turned and found himself starring into those big, brown, beautiful eyes which seemed to glimmer with unshed tears. Granger gave a crooked smile, grabbed hold of his wrist and placed a note in the palm of his hand. Then she was gone.

Before he could fold open the note he felt a hand on his shoulder and glanced at Blaise out the corner of his eye. "One day, mate," Blaise began. "I'm going to get you the best head doctor money can buy. God knows, you need it."

Blaise walked away chuckling to himself, but Draco was far too consumed with the contents of the note to give his friend's quip more than a moment's consideration. His long, slender fingers pulled the parchment apart at the seam and his eyes devoured Granger's neat, distinctive handwriting.

Draco

I dare do all that may become a man; who dares do more is none.

I love you.

Hermione