Hermione went to bed as usual, knowing well she'd promised to see Draco. She waited until all was completely silent before so much as moving the curtains on her four-poster. She looked at her reflection as she neared the door, noting that her pajamas gave her a certain innocent attractiveness, which was in turn utterly diffused by her wildly curly hair. She paused to charm away some of its frizz, then headed to the third floor.

Draco, on the other hand, had made it plain that he was the going to be the last to leave the Slytherin common room, waiting until after one in the morning for Fiona to put her guitar and her song notes back into their case and head upstairs.

Draco found a strange comfort in the way she practiced every night after most of their housemates had gone to bed. She rarely paid him any attention, preferring to sit close to the fire while he sat under a lamp in the far corner, usually engrossed in a book. Tonight her song was low and lilting, a soft melody that sent a rare chill up his spine. She was uncommonly interesting when he thought of her in the sole terms of her music. Her personality offended him, she was rude and distant, but her music pressed close against him, coaxing him into a state of relaxation that he simply was not used to. Perhaps he would learn to play someday.

Although he almost regretted seeing Fiona leave, he was pleased thinking about his meeting with Hermione. To him, Fiona's songs were about how he felt, his torn emotions for Hermione. She sang to herself about distance and loss, about bitter love and about endings that weren't so happy. He couldn't imagine letting Hermione know exactly how important she was to him, how much hold she had over his happiness. He couldn't even let himself care about her, really. He wondered if Fiona had written any of those songs about him, or if they were all about herself. They seemed so eerily accurate.

His thoughts thoroughly occupied him on his walk to the third floor prefects' bathroom that they always met in, and he was mildly surprised when he reached it. He paused at the door, almost reluctant to go in. He fingered the silver ring on his third finger, marked with his insignia, to pass the time. When he finally pushed the door aside, Hermione was no where to be seen. He wandered in, assuming he'd finally gotten there first.

"Draco..."

"Oh! I didn't see you," said Draco quickly, turning. Hermione was seated directly next to the opened door. "I'm tired. I didn't mean to overlook you."

Hermione stood and walked to him, coming very close indeed. He resisted the urge to move back, and instead wrapped his arms loosely around her waist. She raised her hand to his face, and noted the worried look in his eyes.

"I can't leave them alone," he said eventually, looking everywhere but at Hermione.

"Who?" she asked gently, both hands now on his shoulders.

"My mother and Blaise. I can't leave them at home. Blaise's father is arranging for her to be married..." he said slowly. "And my father's gone on a business trip, so I'm not worried about that, but mum's ill... there's no one to care for her. I mean, we have the house elves, but they can't care for her the way I can..." His eyes were glassy with moisture, but he would have never admitted to tears, he would have never let them fall.

"Blaise's father is what?"

"It's something old pure-blood wizarding families do... it's as normal to them as house elves. In order to keep the blood pure, fathers would arrange to marry their children to the wealthiest witch or wizard, with the purest blood. Loads of families still do it. My parents were married that way," he paused, "Her father would only marry her to a wealthy Slytherin, that's just the way he is. He's wiled away his fortune, and now wants Blaise to make him some quick gold. Marry her off, and then collect from her."

"How awful," Hermione said, almost too appalled for words. How can civilized people do this?

"Then you don't blame me for what I'm going to do," said Draco quietly.

"What is that?"

"When my father brings up her situation, I'm going to ask that she marry me." Draco felt Hermione stiffen, her hands quickly moved from his shoulders. She was hugging her arms close to herself, her face a mask of disbelief.

"Don't be silly. You're sixteen, you're still at school. You can't be married..."

"I won't be, not until I've graduated. But it'll save her, and I owe her that much. I told you that she saved me once... Well, sometime, you should ask her about it. Then see if you think I shouldn't do this."

Hermione's eyes were filled to the edge with tears, but she was angrier than upset. Passionate, as Draco would say. Angry at herself for letting him in, for trusting him, and angry that she didn't understand the situation at all.

"Sometimes I hate you!" she shouted. "I hate your pure-blood, I hate Slytherin house, I hate your father. But mostly, I hate how you're something so completely opposite of what I thought you were. I hate that you're strong and compassionate, and I hate more that you love Blaise." She paused for a long time, taking in breath. Draco stood, still and quiet a few feet from her.

"Sometimes I wish you were dead," she finished, throwing a cushion at him. It fell at her feet, all of her strength gone from shouting.

Draco's lilting smile seemed pasted to his face, his eyes were dull and tired.

"Careful what you wish for..." he said, his voice thin and quiet. His hair, which she noticed had grown rather long, (Where has all the time gone?) was dangling in his face, and he pushed it back with a quick flick of his hand. Without another word, he strode away.

The next morning Hermione came down to breakfast to find Ron and Harry already eating their toast. There was a sheet of parchment on her plate when she sat down, but she disregarded it as a bit of rubbish. She scanned the room with scowl.

"Where's Draco?" she asked stiffly, "And Ron, what are you still doing here?"

"Fred and George were coming to get me, but they can't make it today," said Ron, avoiding the subject of Draco.

"Ron, where is he?" Hermione pressed.

"He... er... well," Ron murmured, "Harry, why don't you..."

"He's gone, Hermione. He's gone back home," Harry said lightly, going back to his toast. He really did feel horrible for her, the look on her face was wrenching.

"He, what?" she asked, disbelieving.

"That's his, that letter," Ron added, pointing to the parchment in front of her. Hermione picked it up immediately and tore it open.

Hermione,

My mother's ill, and I've gone home to care for her. My father's gone abroad on business, and I don't expect to see him at all while I'm there. At least, that's what I hope. He'll think that I've come home behind his back, and that would certainly upset him to no end. I'll only be gone a week or so, I hope my mother will be better by then. I'm sorry I left like this. I only wrote because I didn't want you to worry. I'd hate to grant your wish.

My love,

Draco

"What did he say?" asked Harry. He knew it was off-base to ask, but Hermione looked awfully upset.

"His mum's ill," she said, "and he's gone home." Harry nodded his head, knowing there must be more to the letter than that. He stood, arbitrarily putting his hand on Hermione's shoulder. He gave it the tiniest of squeezes before he walked away, hoping she knew that all he wanted in the world was to comfort her.