The day after the Quidditch match, Hermione makes her way to the back of the library at 10 o'clock exactly. She drops her bag onto the table and makes her way through the shelves, taking multiple heavy leather-bound volumes to her little corner. For the next ten minutes, she busies herself getting ready for a long day of homework and studying, pulling rolls of parchment from her bag along with her favourite quill (and back-up quill) and her inkwell. At half past, a slow trickle of first and second years begin to enter the library and start their scrawled, panicked homework, leaving it to the last minute. At quarter to 11, the upperclassmen start doing the same thing. Hermione is calm and methodical in her work, making page after page of notes on Charms and Potions. She completes her 3 foot long essay on nonverbal spells just before the clock strikes 12, so Hermione treats herself to a 15 minute break. She takes a drink of water out of her (Muggle) water bottle – a 12th birthday present from her parents, with her name printed across the side in red – and enjoys some 'light reading' on archaic magic and it's downfall ('light' meaning 400-500 pages. At 12:30 she realises she's let herself become too engrossed, and begins her at-least-three-feet long Herbology essay. She smiles to herself.

There is nothing better than a day in the library.

Draco Malfoy enters the library at 12:37 exactly. His bag is slung loosely over his shoulder as he wanders aimlessly through the aisles. Almost every seat is taken, with groups of children giggling amongst themselves, or upperclassmen who despise him and whisper under their breath as he walks past them, head held high with a glare that could kill directed at anyone who so much as glanced at him. He passes multiple couples between the stacks, kissing (and sometimes worse) but he makes no scene of it. With a grumble to himself, he hits the end of the library, and turns to look at all of the tables, debating each one in turn. In the corner, he spots the perfect place – a table with only on other person; the alcove was nearly completely hidden from view, making it the ideal place for someone who wanted to escape from the world for a bit. He makes his way through the shelves towards it, remarking on the number of thick tomes spread across the table in front of the person, a ponytail keeping the majority of their brown curls out of their face as they are bent over their work. As he steps up to the table, his mood darkens as he realises that it is the one and only Hermione Granger.

He drops his chin to his chest with an audible groan – was she really the only option? Was there nowhere else he'd possibly be able to sit? He considers his options; he could sit with the fourth year Ravenclaws near the Magical Creatures section, as he knew they wouldn't disturb their own study for him. Or he could sit with the first year Slytherins and teach them his ways of wickedness (not that he was actually wicked, or at least he liked to think he wasn't).

Her head snaps up and she stares at him – or through him – for a moment before speaking, almost as if her eyes needed to auto-focus before she was able to actually see him. "Malfoy?" Her voice comes out as shocked, or even pleasantly surprised, not disgusted as he thought she was going to react. He doesn't move, he only looks at her. Hundreds of freckles trail across her pale skin, her brown eyes wide and framed with long, thick lashes. Her lips are a bright shade of red, which he guesses is from her chewing on them so often, and for some strange reason, he longs to lean down and kiss her – like those other couples were doing; a longing to lift her with her legs around his waist, for them to stay like that, with her, forever. "Malfoy? Are you okay?"

He shakes his head slightly, the (crazy) thought evaporating. "Of course I am, Granger." He throws his bag onto the table, and Hermione snatches an open book out of the way, stroking the pages as though he'd hurt it in some way. "Just here to do a bit of light studying. I can see you've already started." A tinge of red creeps its way up Hermione's neck and to her cheeks as he pulls out the chair across from her, slumping into it.

"And… and you're going to do that here?" Her eyes flicker around the library as she looks for Blaise Zabini or Theodore Nott, another Slytherin about to pop out from behind the shelves to laugh at her, or worse – for Ron and Harry to walk in and see her fraternising with the enemy.

"Is that a problem, Granger?" He leans forward and pulls one of her books on Transfiguration towards him, flipping it open before pulling out a roll of parchment and a quill. He rifles in his bag for a moment, cursing, and standing from his chair to scan the library. "Do you know if they give out ink here?" She silently pushes her own inkwell into the middle of the table, clearing her throat to make him look at her.

Grey eyes meet brown and her cheeks only heat up more.

"You can share mine, if you'd like," she swallows as he regards her for a moment, before slowly sitting back down and pulling his chair under the table.

"Thanks," his hair has fallen in front of his eyes and she wishes she could reach out to brush it out of the way, to feel the downy softness between her fingers. He starts writing, his left arm laying across the table, fingers flexing every so often. She finds herself paused, unable to continue her work as she watches him "Go back to your work, Granger." His voice doesn't come out as harsh as he wanted it to; it comes out as a calming suggestion, but she takes the hint regardless and bends her head back down to continue with her essay. She completes it rather quickly (4 feet, just to be on the safe side) and places it carefully back int her bag. When she sits back up, she's amazed by how serene he looks in his concentrated state; his mouth straight, eyes bright and aware. She watches his quill scratch across the paper, his handwriting a flowing cursive, small yet readable.

He clenches the fingers of his left hand into a fist again, and her attention is drawn to it. The sleeve of his robe has rode up to his elbow, once again revealing the bandage, crisp and white, and still badly wrapped. She frowns at how clean it is – surely it would be dirtier if it was for a burn or a scratch?

He rubs his nose with his writing hand and she notices how the ink has stained his fingers. His eyes flicker up to her. "You okay?" He sounds vaguely concerned, which is surprising even to himself. She nods, not taking her eyes off his arm. He glances towards it, then yanks the sleeve of his robe down over the bandage. "Remember what I said, Granger: keep your nose out of things that don't involve you." It isn't a threat, more like a warning, and Hermione can see an urgency behind his eyes as he watches her.

She reaches across the table and takes hold of his wrist gently, making him jump at the touch. Her hands are cold against his skin, and she takes a moment to see how small her hand is next to his. She wants to place her hand on his, palm to palm, fingers entwined. She almost does it until she hears him swallow across from her, bringing her back to the library. With Draco Malfoy. Holding almost intimately onto his arm. She blinks. "Um, well, the bandage looks like it's about to fall off, so maybe I could retie it for you," she begins to roll his robe back up as she flips his arm, forearm facing upwards. "I took a first aid course last summer," she begins to undo the bandage, beginning at his wrist and Malfoy's pulse quickens. "It's really simple, I could teach you if you want…" A faint black line comes into view as she unwraps lower and he sees her expression change. She's frowning at his arm, tracing her thumb over the line and making him shiver. She goes to unwrap more, now completely silent and compelled to find the truth as to what lies beneath the bandage.

He rips his arm backwards, knocking two books to the floor as he recoils from her grasp. He messes with the loose end of the bandage, hurriedly wrapping it back up and tucking it in. Hermione is staring at him with wide eyes. "It's nothing," he mutters, bending to pick up the books he dropped; when he sits upright she is still staring at him.

"What is it?" Hermione's voice is barely a whisper. He doesn't answer, messing with the cuff of his sleeve, and she reaches across the table to place her hand on top of his. He flinches, and she sees there are tears in his grey eyes. "I know we aren't close but -" His head suddenly snaps up as he blinks the tears away and he sees red.

"Yes, Granger, we aren't close. We aren't even acquaintances, let alone friends, so I don't know what world you think we live in where you think I'd ever tell all of my life problems to a snotty little Mudblood." As soon as the words leave Malfoy's mouth he regrets it. She leans back in her seat, snatching her hand from on top of his as though he was made of nuclear waste. The kindness and light in her eyes is extinguished almost instantly as she stares across the table at him, completely checked out. "Granger, I didn't mean -" She stands abruptly, her chair hitting the wall behind her with a crack. She begins unceremoniously tossing her parchment back into her bag, followed by the quills and her inkwell. He stands to try and apologise to her before she can go and tell Potty and the Weasel, and they came and kicked his head in. He spots her bottle on the floor and kneels to get it for her, until she all but kicks him out of the way.

"No, Malfoy. You're right. Why would you ever lower yourself to interact with someone such as myself? No, you've got the perfect listeners in your minions – sorry, friends, Crabbe and Goyle, don't you? You don't need my help and that's just fine." She gets right in his face (or as in-your-face as a 5 foot tall person can with a 6 foot tall one), jabbing her finger towards him as she hisses her words. "But don't you ever – ever! – call me that word again, or so help me, Malfoy, I will rip your eyes out and feed them to you. You don't have the right to call me that word, you slimy brat."

His eyes widen as she pushes past him and out of their secluded section of the library. With a groan, he piles his things into his bag and gives chase. "Granger!" Heads turn in the library to see him on her tail. She doesn't even look his way as she exits into the corridor. "Granger! Come on!" Madam Pince shoots him an evil look as he shouts through the closing door to Hermione, and he glares back. As he follows Hermione out of the doors, he can hear Madam Pince tutting behind him and he rolls his eyes. He looks to his right and spots her, the only student walking the corridors at two o'clock on a Sunday. "Stop!" To his surprise, she actually does, glaring over her shoulder at him.

"Or what, Malfoy? You'll hex me?" Her voice is thick, eyes sharp and narrowed as she looks straight into his. "You haven't got the guts." He pauses, opening his mouth to fire back that he does so have the guts, but she turns her head and carries on walking.

He curses to himself under his breath, before jogging past her and stopping in her path. She tries to step past him, but he blocks her, hands up to try and show he means no harm, and she looks up at him with a look to rival his signature sneer. A low noise of annoyance escapes her when she tries to sidestep him again, only to be stopped once more. "Don't make it harder for yourself, Granger." He smirks at her and she fires back.

"What do you want?"

"To apologise, obviously."

"Oh, right," she scoffs sarcastically, smacking herself comedically in the forehead. "How obvious! That little Draco Malfoy, blood-purist, would want to apologise for calling Muggle-born Granger a… a…" Tears begin to well up in her eyes as she tries to bring herself to say the disgusting slur, and Malfoys chest begins to ache.

"A Mudblood," she flinches as he whispers the word and he has never felt worse. Not even knowing what needs to be done has hurt him as much as this moment, and he can't understand why. "I'm sorry, Granger. Really, I am."

She swallows and swipes her hand under her eyes as the tears run down onto her cheeks; how could she be so weak, in front of him of all people? "I don't need your pity," she shoves past him, and he lets her, before he falls into step beside her. "And I don't believe you anyway. Since when have you ever felt anything other than enjoyment from using that word?"

"Fourth year." He doesn't even hesitate in his answer and she stops, turning to him with a quizzical expression. "Well, the Yule Ball, if you want me to be specific." She's staring at him now, brown eyes wide as she waits for him to continue. He sighs and looks down the corridor, afraid in case they're being watched, so he grabs her lightly by the wrist and pulls her into an empty classroom. He silently closes the door behind them, pulling his wand out of his pocket and mumbling "Colloportus" to lock it. When he turns back to her, she's seated on top of one of the desks, legs crossed at the ankles, feet drumming rhythmically against the table leg. She's picking the skin around her nails when he leans against the table in front of her.

For a minute, neither of them says anything.

"You've used that word since then," she is the first to break the silence. "I'm sure of it."

He nods, thinking. "Yes. Just then, in the library." He watches her, as she continues to pull at her skin. "I've said it in the privacy of my home, to keep up appearances. I've said it in front of my friends for the same reason." he pauses, waiting to see if she has anything to say. She doesn't. "I haven't said it to you since fourth year. I only said it today because I was -" Scared at her seeing it? Worried at what she would think? Disgusted at himself for letting it happen? "Annoyed, with you unwrapping my bandage when I hadn't told you that you could."

"So… you still say it, then?" She mutters, and it takes him a moment to process the question.

"It wasn't about whether or not I said it, it was about whether or not I enjoyed it." He pinches the bridge of his nose, eyes closing as he tries to string together his next sentence. "I say it so my family doesn't disown me as a blood traitor – obviously I'm not one of those," he grimaces. "That's… that's not what I meant. I meant to call someone a blood traitor is stupid and it takes away from the feats of Muggle-born and half-blood wizards and-"

"It's okay." Hermione cuts him off to stop him from rambling, but then she remembers the other part of his statement. "Why the ball? Why was that the turning point?"

He takes a moment to think, rubbing the back of his neck. "Well, I was there with Pansy, who looked great, as she always does," Hermione's nose scrunches as she thinks of the pug-faced girl, who was known to be practically attached to Malfoy – in more ways than one. Hermione's mind flickers to the rumours of Parkinson and Malfoy, and her cheeks grow warm as she feels a tinge of jealousy gnawing at her. "I felt amazing; I had a gorgeous girl on my arm, my mother had sent me the best dress robes she could find – so obviously they were the best – and yet… when you came down those stairs in your periwinkle dress… suddenly the pure-blooded Pansy didn't look as good. And it made me realise that maybe your blood doesn't make you any lower, or her any higher. Because – Merlin, Granger – you looked incredible. You looked better than any girl at the ball," Hermione notes the blush creeping up his throat as he remembers back to that Christmas, how his eyes aren't looking at her, and how the corners of his mouth keep tugging upwards as he thinks about it. It makes her smile, for some strange reason.

He inhales deeply. "And it made me feel, well, horrible, for lack of a better word. I felt like a jerk. It was as if, all of a sudden I could see past the end of my nose. Once I noticed you, I couldn't stop. Despite your blood, you are the best witch in the year – maybe the school – and you never let anyone tell you what you can or can't do. It made me feel gross, to even have thought about using that word towards you – towards anyone. I am trying, really I am; it's difficult, when you've been raised thinking something is okay to suddenly realise it's not. Especially when you could stop completely but you know as soon as you do you'll get punished for it." He is staring at his shoes, now. His voice is small as he lays himself out in front of her.

"Blood purity is a stupid concept. Magic doesn't see that you are the son or daughter of another wizard and somehow grant you greater powers than the rest of them. If it did, how come you're second in the class," she smirks at him, and he lets out a slight laugh. "Malfoy, you realised that you were wrong, that's the best part. Now you need to work on not saying it when you get annoyed – but I understand you saying it around your family; I know what your father is like, especially after… I understand your fear of being considered a 'blood traitor'. But you can't just throw it around whenever you get angry."

"I know," he murmurs, rubbing his eyes harshly. He pushes his fringe out of the way to look at her, his fingers still tangled in his own hair. "Granger, I really am sorry. For saying it." She can see the sadness in his grey eyes, and she reaches across to him to touch his knee reassuringly.

"Malfoy," she smiles at him. "I forgive you. This time." He chuckles slightly, standing from the table and going over to the door. He unlocks it, moving his wand in a backwards 'S' motion, opening it to let her leave first.

"Thank you for listening to me, Granger. And thank you for forgiving me. I swear I will never say it again," they both start back in the direction to the library.

"What do you swear on?"

"My mother." He doesn't hesitate. She notices how his eyes have turned stormier.

"Why your mother?" She gently bumps him with her shoulder and he lets out a breath he didn't know he'd been holding, his head dropping slightly. She looks at his hair and imagines running her fingers through it as he lays his head in her lap.

"She's the only thing I'm afraid to lose."