Disclaimer: Totally not mine.

It was the middle of December and still, not one snowflake had fallen. The air itself seemed frozen, though it was a dry sort of cold that numbed and chapped your face and left your eyes aching from the cold wind. Professor Sprout was constantly putting socks and scarves on her precious, frostbitten plants to keep them warm in the cold. Afraid that the students would drop or mishandle one of the plants, Professor Sprout stopped all Herbology lessons and spent all of her time with her plants. The lack of snow was even beginning to affect Professor McGonagall. She was often caught staring dismally out the window with a sour expression on her face, mutter incomprehensible words. But Hermione Granger, Head Girl of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry had no time to worry about the weather; she barely had the time to sleep! It was her 7th year, her N.E.W.T. year, and she was determined to do exceptionally well.

When Hermione had first found out the Draco Malfoy, the King of Slytherin and very bane of her existence, was Head Boy and that she'd be sharing a common room with him, she had panicked, terrified that he would be a distraction from her schoolwork. Surprisingly, he had left her alone and focused on his own studies. That was how she liked him best (if at all): quiet, working, and not troublesome in the least. For years she had supposed that Malfoy was a slacker who used his money and connections to get the things he wanted. He had surprised her again when she saw how focused, studious, and hardworking he really was. It was a requirement to have good grades in order to be either a prefect or Head, and though it pained Hermione, Malfoy did have the second highest grades of their year. But, he was still a slimy git and she hated him for all of the things he had said and done in the past. At least the short conversations they had were civil; cold, crisp, and short, but still civil.

"Hermione?" She snapped her head up and realized how she had nearly fallen asleep in her eggs. Harry was looking worriedly at her. "Are you alright?"

"Yes, yes, I'm fine. I just got lost in my thoughts, that's all." She lied, speaking briskly as she gathered her things together. Hermione knew she looked awful; her usually bushy brown hair hung limply down her back, her sharp brown eyes were dull and tired, her skin was pale, and there were dark, purple bags beneath her eyes. She stood up, grabbed her book-bag, and began to leave when Harry's hand on her arm stopped her.

"Where are you going? You haven't even eaten your eggs or..." Harry looked at her very full plate. "Or anything at all!"

"I'm not hungry, and I have things to do." She said quickly, trying to wrench her bony arm from Harry's grip. "Let go!" She said, annoyed. He shook his head.

"No, Hermione. You're running yourself ragged. You don't sleep, you've had at most half of a meal this week, and your temper has been absolutely horrid lately. Is it Malfoy? Is it Ron and I? I really want to help you, 'Mione, but you can't help someone who doesn't want it." Hermione sighed, giving him a very tired look. Harry couldn't help but notice how dead her eyes looked.

"Harry, I'm find, really I am. Just busy... you know..." The worried look on Harry's face stopped her. "Please don't look at me like that. I'm just busy and... I have to go." She pulled hard from his grasp and walked quickly out of the hall, deaf to his pleading call of "Hermione!" behind her.

A pair of cold gray eyes watched her leave the Great Hall, amused. His lip curled and he almost laughed as Potter attempted to bring Granger back into the Great Hall. It was useless; she'd been acting really strange lately—not that he'd really put any thought into it beyond that. She had just been short-tempered and frail lately, so he made sure to steer clear of her.

"Draco?" Blaise asked. Draco turned to look at his friend, who was so different from him. Physically, they were very little alike. Blaise was Italian with an olive-skinned complexion and black eyes, whereas Draco was English with very fair-skin and silvery-gray eyes. Blaise was tall—6'4—and heavily muscled, but quiet and shy. Draco was at least 6'0 tall and lean; he was well toned and strong, but he was no body-builder. Draco also never held back anything, was outgoing, and confident. With all of their differences, though, Blaise and Draco were best friends, and Blaise was probably the only person in Draco's life who cared for him and he cared for in return.

"What?" Draco replied. Blaise shrugged.

"You just seemed... lost in your thoughts." Blaise replied hesitantly. Draco rolled his eyes.

"I thought you always said that I had no thoughts to be lost in?" Blaise laughed and Draco smirked, giving a short laugh.

"What's with Granger lately?" Blaise asked casually.

"How should I know?" Draco asked, giving Blaise a strange, but empty look. "And why should I care?" He added. Blaise shrugged again.

"Well... I mean, you live with her, so I figured... you know... that you'd know what was wrong with her." Blaise brushed his blue-black hair from his face and waited patiently for Draco's response.

"Why do you even care? This is Granger we're talking about—I mean it's not as if she's a pureblood or anything." Blaise looked at him thoughtfully.

"Does it really matter?" He asked, his eyes wandering lazily towards the Gryffindors. Draco gave him a hard, very pointed look.

"You might want to be a little quiet than that about this subject." Draco said coolly. Blaise blinked at him in surprise. "If anyone hears you saying stuff like that... imagine what your father would do." Blaise gave an involuntary shiver. It was a little-known fact the way most pureblood children were treated by their parents. Their lives were planned out for them before they were ever even conceived; who they'd marry, who their friends were, etc. Every one of their standards and ideals were drilled into them from a very young age, especially the worth of a pureblood to a muggle-born witch or wizard. Purebloods were also very sexist, believing women to be nearly worthless, little more than property; just trophies and co-baby creators. They didn't truly love their children, and did not hesitate to beat them should they displease their parents. Draco, for on, was beaten several times every summer, and this father had on occasion cast the Crutacious Curse on him. Draco suppressed a shudder at the memory, picturing the cruel look on his father's face and the screaming, tortured agony he'd been through. But Draco knew that it was much better to be miserable and a pureblood than a muggle-born, free from pressure, but a target of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named.

"I can't help wondering though," Blaise began again. "Is it really their fault that they were born to muggles? Is it really the fault of the muggles for being what they are? They didn't ask to be muggles; they were just unfortunate enough to be born that way." He shrugged again and took a small bite of his toast. "It's the same as if you hated me for being Italian; it's not as if I can help it. I certainly can't change it. It's the same sort of prejudice, you know?"

"You've been thinking about this for a while now, haven't you?" Draco asked quietly. Blaise nodded and looked over at the Gryffindor table.

"If I ask you something, do you promise not to laugh?" He asked sheepishly. Draco smirked a little, but nodded. Blaise gave a small smile and his eyes glazed over a little as he stared at the Gryffindors. "Ginny Weasley—do you—do you think she's—er—pretty?" Draco's smirk faded and he stopped breathing for a moment. He began to cough violently as a piece of the food he'd been chewing got lodged in his throat.

"Weasel-ette?" Draco coughed, looking over at her in surprise. She was a very petite girl with wild, flaming red hair and blue eyes. Her sweet freckles made her seem a bit like a nymph, and Draco couldn't deny that she was quite pretty. "She's pretty enough for a blood-traitor." Draco said carefully, pointing out the single flaw in this girl. Well, the only flaw besides the fact that she was a friend of Harry Potter and the only sister of Ronald Weasley, best friend of Harry Potter. Blaise sighed and picked at his food.

"This is so stupid." He said quietly. Blaise stood up quickly and walked away from Draco before he could even say another word.

"Damn." Draco said, very annoyed, before standing up and walking out of the Great Hall towards the Head Girl and Boy dormitories. Draco needed some time to think about everything Blaise had said—his thoughts were going against everything Draco had ever known... and they were so true; it was making him sick.

Hermione felt guilty about lying to Harry about how she was feeling, but knew she couldn't worry him. Harry had so many more important things to worry about than her well-being. The library, however, didn't satisfy Hermione; it was unusually loud and quite cold in there, so Hermione gathered her book-bag and left for the Heads Dormitories.

"Hey Granger," Hermione cringed as she turned to face Adrian Pucey of Slytherin House.

"What?" She asked him tiredly.

"Where's the nearest washroom?" He asked sweetly.

"Why?"

"Because I suggest you get there as fast as you can before Filch comes; you know how much he hates cleaning up filth... Besides, all mudbloods could use a bath!" Several other Slytherins who had been listening nearly fell down from laughing, gripping whatever object (or person) was nearest. Hermione scowled, ignoring the tears that were welling up in her eyes.

"20 points from Slytherin!" She barked and walked away, ignoring the laughter behind her. As soon as she was out of earshot, she began running, blinded by her tears. Her heart was painfully contracting in her chest, and her lungs were burning for more air. She could barely breathe, but still she ran, choking on saliva and tears. Suddenly, she ran into something very solid and hard. Hermione hit the floor hard and winced as pain shot through her spine. Wiping away tears, she looked up to see none other than Draco Malfoy. She hastily stood up, muttered an apology, and said the password.

"No admittance." The old woman in the portrait said, shaking her head. "Wrong password." Hermione gave a cry of despair and turned to Malfoy.

"Please say the password!" She begged him, tears spilling down her cheeks. He gave her a strange but unreadable look before saying, "Unity." The old woman nodded and the portrait opened. Hermione nodded her thanks before running through the portrait, through the common room, up the left-hand curved staircase, and into her room. She slammed the door behind her, never feeling so humiliated in her entire life.

Draco was confused. Granger had never cried in front of him before, nor had she ever looked so pathetic. She was steadily growing weaker and frailer, both emotionally and physically. When she had run into him, he hadn't so much as moved. She was so light and fragile that it had felt like a small ball had been thrown at him. Then, she had apologized and begged him to help her. Apparently, she had cracked.

Draco shook his head. The whole bloody world was insane!

Draco had spent a mere 5 minutes in his room before he left for the library to study. He would have preferred to do it in his room, or even in the common room, but Hermione's sniffles and the furious scratching of her quill combined were driving him utterly mad. Hours later, Draco walked back to the common room and was surprised by the sight that met him there.

Granger, asleep on the couch.

Her once glossy, full locks were limp and spread out over the pillow her head was on, dulled from lack of care. Her body was thin, dangerously thin, and he noticed how sunken in her cheeks were. She was wearing a thin white tank-top and black pajama-bottoms, and Draco could see her ribs through her shirt. Her skin was pale, but nothing like his; she was pasty, wasted, and sickly looking.

A heavy, open book was lying across her stomach, making it harder for her to breathe. The fire had died out and she was shivering in her sleep; she seemed to be having a nightmare, for her face was screwed up in pain. Granger whimpered in her sleep and began to shake harder; Draco couldn't blame her, it was as cold as the dungeons in there. Not knowing exactly why, Draco strode over to her and picked her up in one smooth motion. She was even lighter than he had expected: she couldn't have weighed more than 85 lbs.! He was feeling sick at the thought of someone weighing so little and gagged a little before coughing slightly. Her eyes opened somewhat lazily, her expression dreamy and her eyes unfocused.

"Malfoy?" She said softly. She looked utterly exhausted, and an almost alien feeling overwhelmed him; pity. He nodded and she fell back asleep. He slowly carried her up the left staircase and into her room. Her room was painfully neat, as was his, and decorated in the traditional Gryffindor red and gold. Draco carried her to the large, four-poster bed, and slipped her under the covers. He pulled them up to her chin and sighed, walking away.

He had no idea why he did it.