A/N: Hi guys! It's been a while! I'm really sorry it's been so long D: I'm back at university now, so I don't have as much time as I did to write, so to get back in the swing of things I have a shorter chapter for you :). Thank you again for all the reviews and the follows and favourites! They mean the world for me! Thank you all for waiting, as well! I hope you enjoy :D Love, CrazyAsACupcake x

Draco Malfoy can't fall asleep.

Not for lack of trying, of course. He lays on his back in the dead centre of the double bed, on top of the covers, staring at the ceiling. One hand rests against his abdomen, feeling it rising and falling as he breathes. The lights are off, the room almost in complete darkness save for some light leaking through the gap in the curtains.

He thinks one of the reasons he can't sleep is it's so bloody hot. For some reason, every night in this room he has been too warm to even think – and the radiators aren't even turned on. He's laying there in his brand new green pyjama bottoms, ditching the shirt in the hopes that it will help his body cool down at least a little bit. He shifts his arms, so he's now resting his head on his right arm. He can feel the top of his back, the base of his neck, hot and sticky with the warm air in the room.

He moves his arm, suddenly hyperaware of the feeling of the bedsheets against his clammy skin. He tries to close his eyes again, tries to stop himself thinking of anything (which isn't difficult with the temperature).

He hears the door open quietly, the sort of door opening that happens when someone doesn't want other people to realise they're opening a door.

He sits up, propping himself up on his elbows as he squints into the doorway. His eyes begin to burn; they had adjusted to the darkness of the room, and all of a sudden there was light coming directly at them.

In the doorway, Hermione stands as a shadow, perfectly silhouetted by the light streaming through the window above the stairs. She's clutching a bear in front of her, cradling it in both arms. Her hair is wild about her, and he can't see her face but he can tell it's probably not good.

"Morning," he greets warily, looking at the digital clock on top of the dresser. "It's nice to see you at two in the morning."

"Sorry," she whispers, her head bent as she watches her feet.

He frowns at her. "Don't apologise." He shuffles over on the bed so he's nearly pressed against the wall. "Come in. And shut the door."

So she does. She closes the door behind her, dropping the room into darkness once more, and she goes and perches on the very edge of the bed.

"What's wrong?" He asks, letting himself fall back to laying on his back.

"I had a bad dream."

"Do you want to talk about it?"

She pauses, then nods. He waits for her to start, and before she does, she lays on her back beside him, her bear still held close to her chest. He watches her as she watches the ceiling, and he can see the tear marks on her cheeks.

"There's a lot," she begins. "I'm going to sound completely crazy."

"Take as long as you need. I don't have anywhere to be." He looks back at the ceiling so that she doesn't feel pressured by him looking at her. He is aware that he is laying next to her without his shirt on, and he thinks about going to get it, but then remembers that would involve climbing over her, which would be ten times worse than laying next to her without his shirt.

"I don't know where to start."

"The beginning is normally a good place."

She sighs, rubbing the bears ears between her fingertips. "I was in a house – at least I think it was a house. It had dark wooden floors and high arched ceilings. It wasn't a very welcoming house."

He frowns. The Manor had dark wooden floors and high arched ceilings, and he had always considered the Manor welcoming. It wasn't homey, but it wasn't evil.

"I was on the floor. On my back. There was a fireplace at one end, towards my feet, and a long table at the other. I think there were people stood near it, two or three of them, but I couldn't see them very clearly," she continues, her voice rough from crying.

"How can you see the table if you're on your back?" He asks, but she ignores him.

"She was there, standing over me. The crazy one."

"Who?"

"Bellatrix. The one who tortured Neville's parents. The one who killed Sirius Black."

Malfoy feels his blood run cold.

"She started screaming at me about something. She was asking how I got it and it was meant to be in her vault in Gringotts. I was crying and I was telling her I didn't know, but she didn't believe me."

"What did she do?" He asks, turning to look at her. She is still staring at the ceiling, silent tears flowing and falling into her hair as it lays spread out on the pillow.

"She pulled out her wand, and she Crucio-ed me. And I could feel it," her voice breaks. "I could feel every one of my nerves setting on fire and dying, each of them lighting up until all I could see was white. I could feel my body trying to tear itself apart. I could feel the way it made my body go completely rigid, my back arched so much that I can see the table at the end of the room." She looks at him, then. "That's how I could see it."

He doesn't say anything. He just watches the way she licks her lips, the way she takes a deep, rattling breath, the way she blinks slowly to clear her tears away.

"I could see the people stood by the table, the way one of them turned away from what was happening. I don't know who they were – there was nothing defining about them. They were just blobs." She swallows, counting the swirls on the ceiling as she takes another breath. "She stopped and I thought it was over, but it wasn't. She climbed on top of me – straddled me so she was sitting on my stomach – and she grabbed my arm and she hissed something in my face; I couldn't make out what she said. And then she hunched over my arm and I felt her doing something, felt her tearing at my skin and carving into it and I heard myself screaming. I felt like my throat was ripping apart with that scream."

She pauses, hiccupping as she tries to think of what to say next. "Then she got off me and she left me alone – I heard her shouting at someone else – and I turned to look at my arm, which was wet. It was wet and slick and it was all so real I thought it would be there when I woke up?" She doesn't know why it comes out as a question.

"Thought what would be there?"

"The word. The word on my arm," she closes her eyes, seeing the word again in the darkness behind her closed lids. "On my arm, she'd taken a knife and carved – in these massive capital letters – MUDBLOOD. The cuts were so deep and so ragged that in my mind I knew it would scar and I'd be left with this deformed brand."

"But it wasn't real. She didn't carve anything into your arm."

"It felt real," she whispers, opening her eyes and glancing at him.

"It wasn't." He grabs her hand on the bed, squeezing it tightly. "This is real. You're safe."

"I think it might've been an omen," she turns towards him, rolling onto her right shoulder. "Things are going to change soon, one way or another."

"I won't let anything happen to you."

"I don't need you to protect me."

He smiles slightly, averting his eyes from hers. "I know. But sometimes it's nice to know you have someone looking out for you, as well as yourself." He rolls onto his left shoulder, so now they're face to face, nose to nose, inches from each other. He looks into her eyes, thinking of honey and autumn and chocolate and anything and everything else you can associate that mixture of brown and orange with. Most of all he thinks of comfort, and how comfortable he is to be with her.

How he thinks he'll never find that comfort anywhere else.

She licks her lips, opening her mouth to speak. She closes it, thinks for a moment, then speaks. "Sometimes I don't know what to think about you."

He frowns, tucking his left hand beneath his cheek. "What do you mean?"

"Just over a month ago we hated each other and now you're in my house."

"You invited me here."

"I know," she sighs, looking away for a second. "Sometimes I think I'm too trusting. Sometimes I think you might be using me."

"For what?"

"I don't know; something."

"Trust me, Granger. There are better people to use for my bidding – people who aren't smart enough to figure out I'm using them."

She smiles, wiping her face with her hand, turning slightly in towards her arm. She's stopped crying, the nightmare still alive in her mind, but for some reason seeing him – having him here – has taking most of the fear away. She can see the writhing black tattoo on his arm, and instead of looking away, she places her left hand over the top of it, feeling his muscles tense beneath her fingers.

He swallows, and she looks back up to his face, which – surprisingly – is not twisted in self-hatred. She is once again hit with that image of him on the Quidditch field the day of the match: his face tilted towards the rain, his hair a dark blond, his skin smooth without a frown or a smirk or a sneer. He lays beside her (shirtless, but she pretends not to notice) with the same calmness upon his face.

Even his dimples are showing. She wants to poke them with her fingertip, the little dents in his cheeks. Her mother calls them kisses, though she never really knew why. Her mother used to say that it's because it's a part you only let people you truly love see. Hermione used to wonder whether that was why she didn't have dimples, because she didn't love anyone enough to show them.

Without looking down, she traces her finger absently in circles around his arm, watching the corners of his lips twitch as she tickles him lightly with her nail.

When she thinks about it, she is watching his lips a lot, in this moment. The way they slightly part as he smirks, the way he opens his mouth to say something, but instead choses to lightly bite on his lower lip. Why does he do that? And why does it make her face feel so bloody hot?

She watches his lips as he says her name.

"Granger…"

She likes the way her name looks on his lips, the softness with which he says it. She wishes he would say her real name, so that she could see what Hermione would look like.

She imagines it would be just as good, if not better.

"Granger."

She looks up at him, at his eyes, which shimmer and sparkle even in the darkness. She looks up further, at his downy soft hair, and she takes her hand from his arm and moves it to his hair. She runs her fingers through it, brushing it out of his eyes – his eyes; eyes that hold the universe. She takes her hand from his hair (which immediately falls back in front of his eyes) and places it on his cheek, and she watches as his eyes drift closed, as he ever so slightly leans into her palm.

"Granger…"

He says her name like he's afraid he'll break it. Maybe he will.

Maybe she'll let him.

"Malfoy," she responds, prompting him to say anything other than her name, trying to make him stop her from doing what she knows she's going to do. She takes her other hand and cups his other cheek, watching his eyes flutter open.

He places a hand on her cheek, stroking gently with his thumb, and her skin prickles, electrified.

He smirks, and she watches his lips again as one corner quirks upwards. "I don't know what to say, now."

"Me neither."

"Do you want me to say something?"

"I don't know."

They stare at each other for a moment, in silence, just caressing each other's faces in the dark.

"Malfoy…"

"Granger."

She doesn't realise that they've been leaning towards each other. Her nose is now touching his. They're close enough to place their foreheads together, if they wanted to.

She can feel his breath on her skin.

"I think I might be going mad," she whispers, looking into his eyes again. This close to him, she can pinpoint every different galaxy, every star, every sun and sky and cloud that is captured inside his universe of greys and blues.

This close to her he can see every tree shedding it's leaves, every cup of hot chocolate in front of a fire, every jumper and mug of tea and walk through the woods that is captured inside her comforting world of browns and ambers.

"You know what, Granger?" He murmurs, nudging her nose out of the way with his own.

"What?"

"I think I might be, too."