A/N: Wahoo, new stuff. Enjoy!
The song for this will be "If winter ends" by Bright Eyes. The one part in it makes me laugh.
----------------------------------------------------------
Draco Malfoy is floating somewhere between sleep and wakefulness; the odd state, seconds before conscious thought, where one cannot discern the difference between dreams and reality. Yet, as he rolls forward and comes into contact with a solid mass, there is a realization of another person beside him. He breaths deeply and there is the most pleasant smell and welcoming warmth radiating from the small form. Draco reaches out instinctively, drawing the body firmly against his frame with one arm.
Unaware of his own actions, he buries his face into the source of the wonderful smell and groans lightly as his face brushes against the warmest, softest skin he's ever encountered. Unable to help himself, he slowly begins to skim his lips and jaw, back and forth, along the soft contours of the prize in his arms. As if charting a map, the picture of what he brushes against floats languidly into his consciousness ; a neck, the curve of a shoulder. His hands continue the exploration and more softness is discovered; the curve of a hip, the warm flat expanse of a stomach.....
*~*~*~*
Even in sleep, Hermione Granger realizes that there is something touching her. Or more accurately, someone. And if we are going into details, it would have to be described as a caress, the soft brushing of lips and skin against her back. It is entirely too pleasant, yet ticklish, and a small smile graces her features. She shifts slightly and becomes aware of another sensation. A hand. A large hand, splayed against her stomach.
Suddenly, Hermione is much too awake. She freezes in shock, realizing exactly who's warm, hard body her back is pressed against.
Malfoy.
Malfoy, who must still be asleep. Asleep, because there is no way he'd be touching her this gently, this maddeningly – causing small jolts of electricity to shoot along her nerves from the contact of his touch to the tip of her toes - if he was awake.
As if a cold bucket of water has been thrown over her, Hermione jerks upright in bed. Subsequently, Malfoy also jerks upright in bed.
"What the hell?" He mutters, sleepily, confused.
They turn simultaneously, and their eyes meet. Gray against amber. There is a pause and then an indescribable understanding and horror passes over each of there faces. And it is too much for Hermione, much too much, and she has to say something, anything to break the silence. She utters the first thought that comes to her.
"Are you depressed, Malfoy?"
"What?" he barks, shocked, and moves back a little. He's looking at her like she's grown another head.
She wants to clamp a hand over her stupid mouth but it's too late now, she has to go along with it. "Are you depressed?"
She doesn't know what she expects, but releases an inward sigh of relief when he mutters darkly, "Depression is for suicidal muggles." He scoots back, pushing himself up from the bed.
Her spark of righteous indignation is almost genuine. "No it's not, depression is a medical disorder that effects all kinds of people from-"
"Oh, spare me Granger," he drawls, rolling his eyes.
This time, her anger is true and raw. "No, I will not spare you, my mother suffered from depression when I was younger."
Even though Draco is still feeling off-balance, standing here in the Gryffindor's room, he can't help the sudden surge of self satisfaction that bubbles up from this confession. So Granger's family wasn't perfect after all!
From her place on the bed, Hermione realizes Draco Malfoy is genuinely smiling, if somewhat sadistically. But instead of letting her shock at seeing the first full smile on his face affect her, she concentrates on being angry at the fact that he thinks her being upset is amusing. At least anger is something familiar associated with Malfoy. Something this moment desperately needs.
"Get out!" she rages, pointing a finger at the door, "Get out of my room now! I don't want to see your ferret-y face any longer!" At the same time she firmly ignores the singsong-y voice in the back of her mind telling her that his face isn't in the least bit ferret-y.
"Whoa, whoa, Granger, don't have a Hippogriff," he says, grinning wickedly, finally back in his element. He walks backwards, his arms up, palms facing outward in surrender.
"Get out!!"
He sends her a final flash of an evil smirk before he slides around the edge of her door and is gone.
Hermione is left sitting in her bed, breathing heavily, not understanding why her hearts beating like a frightened bird in her chest. Another thought comes to her, just as quickly as the first. Maybe even an answer - as odd and unthinkable as it is. The whole time, Malfoy hadn't been wearing a shirt.
*~*~*~*
It is at least another week before Draco Malfoy realizes he has a problem. Or rather, two. The first being that, as much as he is unwilling to admit it out loud, he has become slightly addicted to - he winces at the thought - cutting himself.
The entire idea sounds vulgar and disdainfully savage, but to him what he is doing is anything but. After all, as far as polite society is concerned, Malfoys do not partake in vulgar and disdainful acts.
On the contrary, his self-mutilation has become a valuable and much needed escape. Not only from the world around him, but from himself also. When he's hurting himself there is no muddled confusion of meandering thoughts or the tiresome berating of inner monologues. There is only the shinning silver edge, the pounding of his heart in his ears and the sharp clarity of pain.
It's always the same, always beautifully simple, and most notably it makes him feel ironically safe. Safe because at times, though he tries his hardest to stop it, his thoughts can sometimes take control - things he wouldn't even dare mention out loud; they envelope him and he is somehow trapped, frozen, breathing hard, a red tinge at the edge of his vision closing in and things are much too fast, much too hot, almost burning. And he reaches for a blade, his hands shaking, fumbling with the edge, but within moments, with one slice, everything is clear, and calm and cool again.
The second of his problems stems from that fact that when he had looked up at Granger, the mublood, from his position sprawled on her bed and had watched her work diligently over him with such tenderness – tenderness saved for him no less - he had been alarmed to note the absence of loathing. Moreover, he had been hard pressed to feel anything remotely negative – hate, disgust, even annoyance.
The only thing Draco remembers feeling is curious. Why was Granger helping him? Did she not realize that if their roles were reversed, he would not be caught dead helping her. Would he? Never in his short seventeen years has he come across someone that exudes such kindness. Caring seems to ooze out of her every pore - a fact that had once sickened him, now only draws him in closer.
She is an anomaly, Draco decides, a puzzle, a challenge to figure out. And if there is anything Draco loves in the world, it is a good challenge. And for the first time in weeks, thinking of the brown-haired witch, he feels alive. It is becoming almost perverse, he muses, the amount of time he spends thinking of Granger. It seems she has crawled her way into his head and put up a permanent residence.
However, it is not only himself that appears to be distracted, he notes with some satisfaction, because Granger has been sending him odd, coy looks all week. He's caught her staring at him on more then one occasion and for some reason this makes him insanely pleased. He knows the whole situation is wrong, so wrong, but he can't seem to help himself. For some reason he wants Granger to be looking at him—him and no one else. He feels a sense of newfound jealousy every time Potter or Weasley sit next to her, are allowed to give her a hug or share in a joke and make her smile. He wonders if he could make her smile. He wonders what would happen if he touched her.
This thought is on his mind almost all the time, even at some of the most inopportune moments, like when he's in the middle of class and can't stop staring at the back of her bushy head and Snape has seemed to notice. He must be insane, he concludes, broken - like the mirror which so cruelly showed him what he was. Yet he can't bring himself to care.
All of these thoughts are spinning circles in Draco's head as he makes his way through the halls of Hogwarts – alone, thank Merlin - towards the Great Hall. It's minutes to dinner, and he's rather hungry.
As he rounds the bend of the last corridor, he stops dead in his tracks. Hermione Granger is standing less then thirty feet down the hall, taking to one of the prefects from Ravenclaw. With one glance, the thought of dinner is wiped clean from his mind, his hunger replaced by a much deeper need.
Almost against his own will, Draco finds himself walking towards them. He's not sure what he wants from her, or what exactly he's doing, but these thoughts are not enough to stop his legs from moving him forward. Within moments, he is standing in front of the two girls.
---------------------------------------------------
End of Third chapter.
A/N: So there ya go, something new. W00t w00t. The fourth chapter is a written out and everything too. You'll luuuuuv it. Guess what happens :):):)
Anyway, REVIEW REVIEW REVIEW!!!