Draco had woken with the sun, the first beam striking at his imagination. He bolted out of bed (not leaving until after his hasty shower), and found himself in the dust-filled mists of the early morning in Hogwarts' Library. It was his favorite time of day for a reason - when the world was as quiet as a tomb, and everything seemed to shimmer with new beginnings.

Liquid moonlight strums a silvery melody

As I think of you, will you ever dream of me?

It sings of is-not, and might-have-been...

Are you salvation, or are you original sin?

There was a man who stole from the gods

He fell to earth, and landed on faerie sods

A year passed, as if it were a day

And all his cares, they fell away.

Woke he then to only screams

For all he loved, were as dead as dreams.

Draco paused in his writing, looking down at Granger's brown mess of a hairstyle. It wouldn't have worked on Patil, and most especially not on Brown. Millie would have made it too bold - but Granger's style had a reckless devil-may-care - I'm not trying - grace, if never touching elegance.

Click-clack.

Draco looked down, peeking confusedly at the mirror that he had set (it only reflected the sun in the earliest of mornings - and when was Scotland not cloudy then?), and seeing Granger - knitting? Draco Malfoy frowned, wondering at what scheme, what monstrous machination would involve the Brain of Gryffindor (there were no others, of course) knitting, of all things.

Draco's eyes scanned the books in front of her, seeing nothing but her books.

Something was up, dangling just outside his reach. He wanted to know, burned with the desire. To simply stick his head over the side, peer down, and say, "Why in blazes are you knitting? Finally decided that Weasley's got to have a new shirt? Or that Potty's got to have at least one tie? I think you could manage a tie, at least." Not that Draco knew the least bit about knitting.

Draco Malfoy settled in, his book tracing the Goblin wars and the subsequent overreactions drawing his attention. He settled in, only looking up as his stomach growled, relieved to see that Granger had already taken off for breakfast.

[a/n: Draco can't leave while Hermione's there, as he doesn't want her to know that he's been there - let alone that he's been watching her.

That poem took a decidedly grim turn.

Three weeks done! Three Weeks Done! Yay!

Write me a review, if you want to know what happens when Harry and Draco reveal some things that were probably better kept secret...]