Editorial Notes: This is a 'one shot' fiction, based on my favorite pairing for HP. It is also my first fiction that I've written, in regards to any series, so please be constructive with your reviews. Thanks, and enjoy!

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He wasn't quite sure why it all had started. He was in the library, the shelves just before the restricted section, reading the damn catalog card, old and musty – smelling of things he'd rather not know, and she came floating through to stand next to him. Clearly, she was mad, in her own world, gone off the deep end. Her eyes were a fierce color red, and she plucked a thick, worn book cleanly out from in front where he was standing.

Then, she turned and started to head back from where she came.

"Hey!" he called out, surprising himself rather nastily. "Hey, I said! Mudblood!" That seemed to stop her right in her tracks. He paused at the end of the case he was in, following her out. She had stopped, back still to him.

"What the hell do you think you're doing, you filthy mudblood. That's mine; give it to me."

"I--," she paused. "Fine. Here." She spun and thrust the book into his torso. "Take it; I don't need it."

She turned to walk back, but paused. "And screw you too!" But her voice lacked confidence and meaning.

'Odd how things turn out,' he mused, breathing in the scent of her hair deeply, but discreetly so she'd not notice.

"What is your problem? Finally realize it's your looks and personality scaring people off?" He sneered at her, hoping for a more realistic response.

Of course, her useless friends had cut her off with shouts and appearances of wands. Well, he hadn't been banking on them accompanying her, but that was just fine. He'd insulted them too, and then stormed off (but not without giving a rather frazzled librarian back her catalog card).

He was still thinking about the incident weeks later, repeating in his head all the while, 'if she was crying, why didn't one of those idiots do anything to stop it?', which was quickly replaced with the typical, 'what the hell am I thinking; that mental note is obviously something to be disregarded.'

She smiled and moved a bit harder into his embrace, struggling to get closer than she already was. God, it was odd how things worked out.

Then, one evening, Pansy had been nagging at him again, and he was at his wits end. A quick, unnoticed trip to visit the kitchen elves for something to munch on would surely clear his head, when he spied her approaching the hidden kitchen entrance from the opposite direction, no doubt from the Gryffindor dormitories. Her eyes were that same painful shade of red as he remembered.

"What are you doing here?" she looked up at him so surprised. "What is the matter with you?" he glared at her instead, his voice sounding harsh to his own ears.

"What do you care?" she challenged him back. Her tone was so unconvincing. She just seemed so… tired; so defeated. She sighed. "I suppose telling you won't make a difference; everything feels shot to hell as it is." He was certain his first assumptions were correct – she was mad; goodbye sanity, hello St. Mungo's asylum.

"—turned up dead, and when he tried to kiss me, I thought that it was right, but it wasn't. Now I just don't know what to do." She looked up to his eyes, though he was unaware her gaze had ever dropped down to her hands, which were still pulling at her school robes. What was he suppose to do now? What a time to drift off.

"Turned up dead?" he queried, uncertain. Why was he even in this conversation? He hated this girl, and he was certain that the fury was returned ten-fold, including painful executions thought up during delightfully pleasant daydreams.

"Crookshanks!" she moaned, "how could he have thought it was the right time to kiss me?"

"Your cat kissed you – dead?"

"Ugh, forget it!" Tears had started to drip down her chin, and she turned to run back down the hall.

It was good timing too, for Filch had just begun to approach where they were previously conversing. He hastily made his escape toward her, glancing back to see Filch turn onto their trail. Stumbling, he felt himself being pulled behind a painting. He watched Filch scurry past, and he exhaled a breath of relief.

"Don't presume to touch me!" he snapped at her, shrugging her hand off of his shoulder.

"Would you rather be caught – you ungrateful--!" but she stopped speaking again almost instantly. Again, the spark was gone.

"What the hell is your problem? Showing up, throwing books at me, and sneaking off, crying all the damn time! Leave me out of your misery!" he crossed his arms, dimly aware that he had no idea how to exit whatever small space they were now stuck in.

A few seconds of silence passed, his curiosity catching the better of him. "Who kissed you?"

She mumbled in response. He hated having to ask her again; he felt like a big enough ass for giving a damn in the first place. Perhaps she reminded him too much of other crying females he'd seen, namely his mother, silently mourning his father's incompetence as a husband. But, that was such a stupid thing to blame his curiosity on; cliché, really. In honestly, watching a rather strong (though he hated to admit it) witch, miserable for no apparent reason, would make anyone curious – sworn enemy or no.

She took his unyielding silence and exasperation in quietly looking for an exit door as a need to repeat herself.

"Ron."

He turned and eyed her. "You two haven't screwed already? Are you bloody joking? He just finally kissed you? Oh, please!" He finally turned fully at her, knees knocking into hers annoyingly.

"Except it wasn't anything like I thought I wanted, and now everything is ruined between us all – Harry was right." She spit out in a rushed voice, looking out of his gaze again.

He froze at that name, but let it slide a second or two later, as he noticed the glimmer of a tear slide past her nose, and stop momentarily at her chin's curve.

Without warning, and without any reason behind his impulse, he leaned forward and kissed her. His lips touched hers awkwardly, dry and small, crushing into her face. She gasped, and he licked his lips, trying again, not stopping to think about anything but getting it right. She clung to him finally, returning his bold move, bushy brown hair softly touching his skin, her hand sliding onto his waist, as he fiercely pushed her against the wall.

Almost immediately again, they broke apart, and after a moment of staring into each others eyes, shocked, she threw herself through the doorway and away from his crushing embrace, as fast as she could open in, her shoes clicking loudly as she ran up the hall.

'So that's how it opens,' he cursed himself, and slipped out.

He didn't see her again until the next afternoon, at the end of lunch. She was sitting alone, her fork sliding a slice of turkey into her mashed potatoes and steamed carrots. He stood at the doorway for a moment until she finally looked in his direction, her eyes meeting his before any of his fellow Slytherians had noticed him. Gathering her books, she swept past him and out to the school's front entrance.

He followed her, like the idiot he was.

Finally, he found her sitting an isolated bench, far from the path to the building, her foot absently kicking stray pebbles. Without a word, he sat next to her. To hell with Potions; he'd just accept his docked points and leave an excuse later. They sat together for a moment, until he hesitantly turned to her. Gently, he coaxed her chin up so that she was facing him, and he kissed her again.

And that was how it had begun, though when either of them had become so damn impulsive still eluded him.

Everyday they met, sometimes three or four times, hungrily ravishing one another for a solid half an hour or so.

He sat with her now, after such an occasion. It was dusk, on a pleasant Sunday afternoon. It was also high past time they moved back to the building; soon, their absences would be noticed and too many questions would be asked. However, they simply sat together, enjoying the sun setting, way to the left of the building's entrance, leaning on a wall in a cranny of the school's foundation.

For now, Draco was content with nobody knowing -- and without asking, he knew that Hermoine felt the same way. They could leave the complications for later. This was the only easy thing either of them really had.

And why mess with it when it felt so good?