Up on the ramparts of Hogwarts, two people lay sprawled, each thinking of the other, and their minds both miles away. Hermione remembered that soft, gentle touch, and Draco remembered her warmth - and that she had actually listened. He wasn't sure he knew of anyone in his life who'd ever done that except out of duty, or to get something out of it. Hermione lay on her belly, thinking of that troubled face, of memories that seemed too close to the surface - of decisions unmade, or made in vain.
How many people were dead because of what he'd done? Hermione thought, though her mind wouldn't let her think that he'd truly been... evil. There were times when death was a kindness, and not just for the ailing. But from that troubled look on his face,s he knew that he wouldn't, couldn't push the pain behind him, leave behind the questionable decisions that plagued him. It was that, just as much as his patent inteligence, that drew her to him. Her friends were flash-in-a-pan people - angry and gleeful in turn, but always quick to change. At some point it would be Ron especially, and at some point it would be Harry. But they got along so well because they'd push aside pain that they'd caused.
He wasn't like that.
Draco thought of talking until the moon was full in the sky, tracking over decisions, possibilities, gedankenexperiments. Speaking, and responding, for the sheer joy of seeing the answer in her face, seconds before she said a word. Pansy would listen to him, of course, but she wasn't deep in quite that way. She'd lay out intricate plans, but if something wasn't spitting in her face, she generally preferred to avoid it. She'd have gone on avoiding the Dark Lord if she could. Draco wasn't like that.
She wasn't like that.
[a/n: As the moon rises, two people dream of the impossible.
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