It was still dark out, being the wee hours of the morning. The room felt so cold and uncomfortable in comparison to the dream that felt so warm and uplifting. But was it a dream?

No, it wasn't a dream. He had asked Hermione Granger out, whether it was "as peers" or not.

Draco lay still on his back in his four-poster bed, looking up at the inside of the dark emerald canopy that was above him. He smirked. He knew it'd kill her to call it a date. What did you call it, then, a teenaged boy and girl sneaking out at night to ride the boy's broomstick?

All jokes aside, that was exactly what it was. Friends didn't sneak out like that, did they? . . . And were they friends to begin with, anyway?

He considered referring to it as a date the next time he saw her. It'd be a good laugh. Although, she might call it quits then. It was all a game . . . the game of who could keep their hearts hardened to the other the longest. And to be honest, he'd been losing since First Year.

There was something about her. Something he didn't like. As soon as he met her he knew she'd be competition. She was brilliant. She was popular. She was different. Not just from him, the poster child for purebloods. No, she was different in her own right. She was Hermione Granger, the muggleborn Gryffindor who never seemed to have much trouble with surpassing him in everything. She achieved everything his parents would've wanted him to do.

That's when he realized that he had met his match. At eleven years old, he knew he found her. He'd never met someone who could exceed his parents' expectations for him. His parents had always told him to find a girl that was evenly matched with him. She had already passed that level . . . and that was perfect. He thought that his parents would feel the same way . . . but then he talked to them about her. That day was burned into his memory. He would never forget it, him being so young and naïve to their real expectations . . .

"Any new friends?" asked Narcissa, smiling at Draco from her seat on the couch. He was in the nearest chair in front of the fireplace.

Draco shook his head lightly. "Just some other kids in Slytherin . . . not too many, though . . . I mainly stuck with Crabbe and Goyle."

Narcissa raised her eyebrows, but in a casual way. "Vincent and Gregory, you mean?" When Draco nodded, she continued. "Your father and I were so proud that you were sorted into Slytherin . . . not that we expected anything else," she added, with a light chuckle. "I can't wait until you start playing Quidditch, your father was so good in his day . . . I daresay you might surpass even his talents," she said, winking.

"I hope so," said Draco, grinning at her.

Narcissa took a sip from the teacup beside her on the end table. "So, no new friends. . . . Any, er, girlfriends?

Draco's eyes shifted to the side as his face flushed pink. He knew she'd notice. "I don't ― I don't care about girls ―"

"Draco," said Narcissa slowly, flashing him a knowing smile. "It's just me, silly." She smirked, laying her hand on his knee. "There is a girl, isn't there?

"Maybe," Draco stammered, blushing harder than before. "She ― she's really smart. . . ."

Narcissa nodded and grinned. "Well, that's good. . . ."

"She's also really nice," he said, gaining the confidence to smile and look up at his mother. His face fell a bit as he thought. "But . . . she's in Gryffindor," he said.

Narcissa pulled a thoughtful face, but then smiled. "Well, that's not bad, is it? . . . Oh . . . you just don't get to talk to her as much."

"Right," said Draco, nodding. "But she's in a lot of my classes. . . . She's the best student in our year, hands down. Like I said, she's really smart. . . . "

"You are too," Narcissa reminded him. Draco smiled and she continued. "So . . . what's her name?"

"Hermione," he replied. He quickly turned his head to see his father standing beside the chair he was in. Mortified, he slumped down in his seat.

"Don't be embarrassed," said a smiling Lucius, putting a hand on Draco's shoulder. "Everyone gets these, er . . . crushes." He paused for a moment, allowing Draco to regain his composure. "Now," he said, after Draco seemed like he was over his embarrassment, "what did you say her name was again?"

"Hermione," said Draco, "Hermione Granger. She's the best in our year, and she's really nice. . . . "

Lucius sat in thought for a few moments before speaking again. "I don't think I recognize that name," he said.

"Oh, yeah, I forgot!" said Draco, shaking his head. "You wouldn't know her name because she's Muggle-born."

Lucius' grip on his son's shoulder tightened slightly, and then loosened. "Muggle-born, did you say?"

"Yeah," Draco replied. "That's why you don't know her name ―"

"Lucius," said Narcissa, sternly.

"It needs to be said," said Lucius. "It's time." He sat down on the couch beside Narcissa, who looked as if she might've been sick, even though she knew this day was coming. "Son," he began, "when I told you that there were some wizarding families that were better than others before your First Year . . . I wasn't just referring to blood-traitors who don't seem to show any true wizarding pride; I was also referring to any families that weren't Pureblood.

"You see, our family is one of the only remaining pureblood families around. That means that we have absolutely no trace of tainted blood ― that is to say, non-wizarding blood ― in our family. And like most other Pureblood families, we intend to keep it that way.

"So about this girl . . . if she's muggleborn, she isn't as good as you are, son . . . she's what we call a mudblood ― "

"Lucius!" Narcissa snarled. "I don't think that sort of language ―"

"He has the right to know," said Lucius, narrowing his eyes at his wife. He then turned to Draco again. "I don't know how a girl with Muggle parents is making such high marks in a wizarding school, but . . . I want you to do even better. Do you understand?"

"Yes, father," whispered a trembling Draco, who was currently fighting back tears at the seemingly-uncalled for insults.

"Who does this girl spend her time with, anyway?" Lucius asked.

"Potter," Draco croaked. "Harry Potter."

Lucius nodded. "And he refused your friendship, correct?"

"Yes," Draco replied, "even though I remember you asked me to be friends with him. He didn't want to be. . . . "

"I see," said Lucius, now standing up. He stood directly in front of Draco, who looked as if he didn't know whether to turn pale or to flush red. "Then I don't want you associating with this girl anymore on a friendly basis. Her friend refusing your friendship ― which really is surprising, to be quite honest ― and the fact that she's a muggleborn. . . . You're better than this, Draco. You're better than her. I don't care how smart or nice or pretty she may be. In the meantime, if I were you, I'd turn my attention ― and my affections ― elsewhere."

And that was the end of it, right? It didn't matter how much you liked the girl; if your father said no, you had to say no as well.

Draco never regretted doing something more in his entire life.

He had called her names. He had insulted everything about her. He called her ugly. He called her worthless. He called her "mudblood." And yet, it didn't matter . . . to him, anyway. They were all empty words. They were meaningless. He was honestly surprised that someone as smart as her could believe that he was genuine. Well, he thought, some of the smartest people in the world are the most naïve.

He turned on his side, pulling the warm comforter closer to his face. He was more than pleased with himself. He honestly didn't know how he managed to convince her.

Must be that Malfoy charm, he thought. She had to give in sometime, every other girl did. . . .

He noticed the sunlight started to come through the windows and grinned. He couldn't sleep anyway, and now he could go down to breakfast and see the look on Hermione's face; she was probably livid. He liked when she looked angry. In a way, it was almost cute. And he knew she had the potential to be pretty after that Yule Ball. . . . So why not give her another opportunity to look her best, even if it was when she felt her worst?

He slipped out of his four-poster, pushing aside the curtains. He got dressed as quickly as possible, resulting in his shoes being on the wrong feet and his sweater vest backwards. He switched shoes, thinking about how ridiculous he would look to the other Fifth Year guys if they were awake. . . .

After checking his appearance in the mirror, combing and styling his hair to perfection, and putting on his favorite Malfoy scowl, he left his dormitory, believing himself to be the first Slytherin out of the dormitory; until he found Pansy Parkinson seated in the common room, looking up at him as he descended the steps with a look of disappointment on her face.

"You know we never talk anymore, right?" she said.

Draco took a deep breath. A perfect morning had gone so wrong, so quickly. "You know I don't mean to. I sit by you in every class, don't I? I sit with you at every mealtime, don't I? We talk then ―"

Pansy got to her feet and quickly strode towards Draco. "You know what I mean."

"Do I?" said Draco, raising his eyebrows. "Maybe we're talking less than I thought ―"

"What's gotten into you, Draco?" she asked, shaking her head. "You always look sick, and you never want to hang out anymore, and I just want my Draco back. . . ."

"What's gotten into you, then?" Draco asked, but in a much softer tone in comparison to Pansy's accusatory one.

Pansy put her hands on his shoulders, her body against his, as she leaned into his ear and dropped her voice to a barely-audible whisper. "You have, and I miss that, Draco."

As she pulled her head back to face him, he looked her in the eyes, their noses touching. "I think we could debate for a while over exactly who initiated that."

"It's all the same," said Pansy. "Doesn't really matter, does it? We both wanted it. . . . I still do."

She pulled him into a kiss that seemed like it lasted for ages. He was used to it by now. She had been a fun little plaything, but . . . he never really loved her. He wondered if this was how every kiss would feel, or if he just hadn't found the right person to experience it with. Not to mention intimacy; that was an entirely different matter. He didn't even understand why people would wait for something that seemed so worthless; then again, he thought, maybe it's just that Pansy's got less good moves than a tranquilized mattress. . . .

"I love you," she whispered in his ear, after pulling away. "And you love me too, right?"

"R-right," Draco replied. "Of course. . . ."

"Then please don't ignore me, Draco. . . . Would tonight be all right with you?" she asked, raising her eyebrows at him curiously.

"Oh, y-yeah," he stammered, nodding frantically.

"See you then, sweetheart," said Pansy, giving him a last, quick kiss before leaving the common room. Draco could've sworn that she wasn't talking quite to his face when she uttered her departing words.

It had been like this ever since that night of the Yule Ball. That was how parties went. Draco had heard stories about Muggle dances, many that involved what happened after the dance as opposed to the dance itself. Muggle boys ended up the next morning with hangovers. Muggle girls ended up the next morning pregnant. Of course, Pansy wasn't pregnant, that much was obvious. Contraception charms worked wonders. But it didn't matter; he regretted his actions all the same, even if it didn't have a manifested consequence. . . .

So many regrets.

He slipped his hands in his pockets and left the common room, where he thought that he might regain some of the day's beginning happiness.

When he walked into the Great Hall for breakfast, he was shocked to find that the source of the happiness had made its way downstairs so quickly. Hermione Granger was already seated at the Gryffindor table, poring over some book she had probably read countless times, and absentmindedly swirling around the spoon that was in her cereal bowl.

Seeing as there were no other students in the Great Hall yet ― Pansy was nowhere to be found, she evidently didn't go straight down to breakfast ― he seized the opportunity.

He walked as silently up to her as he could, smirking the entire way. She was so engrossed in the stupid book that she wouldn't even look up at the sound of approaching footsteps.

He bent down right behind her, put his head on her shoulder, and whispered "Morning, Granger" in a jokingly seductive voice.

She jumped, knocking her cereal bowl all over the book. She quickly picked it up, scowling at a laughing Malfoy.

"You're lucky that wasn't a library book!" she snarled.

"Oh, yeah?" said Malfoy, grinning and sitting down beside her. "And what would you do then, hm?"

"I ― the book ― it'd be ruined!"

"Right," he said. "It's just a book." To his surprise, he was able to maintain eye contact with her for a few moments before he said, "Let me help you with that," snapping him out of his trance.

Trance. The word made him feel uncomfortable, like she was hypnotic. She wasn't that attractive, was she? He was just caught up in the moment, that was all.

He leaned over the table and grabbed a napkin. He began to dab the book gently; thankfully the book wasn't completely ruined.

"Could I ask you what this book is?" he asked, looking up at her again.

Hermione surveyed him for a moment, and then nodded. "Yes, of course you could. It's my copy of Hogwarts, a History. I've had it since I was eleven. . . . Oh no, the book's going to smell for ages. . . ."

"I'm sorry," he said, quickly. "But if you've had it since you were eleven, then why are you taking the time to read it now ― ?"

"I've read it dozens of times," she said, a small smile forming on her lips. "I read it often, just to keep track of things. . . ."

Malfoy grinned. "Ah, so that's how you know how to cause so much trouble around here!" he said. "I might have to dock some more points from you, Granger."

"Don't be stupid," she snapped, before picking up on his sarcasm and laughing.

"Well, I certainly hope you'll get that naivety out of your system before our little date, Granger," Malfoy muttered, standing up from his seat and smirking at her.

He chuckled lightly to himself, amused with the various cries of opposition from Hermione. He was right; she would hate it if he called it a date. So why wouldn't he?

Hermione left that evening's DA meeting excited for the future of their group. The progress they were making was astounding. . . . They had begun work on Patronus Charms, and she had managed a true Patronus . . . a silvery-blue otter, that bounded around the room without a care in the world, a little creature that played around much like a mouse or even a ferret ―

Ferret. Malfoy. Date.

She closed her eyes in the attempt to regain some sanity, and leaned up against the wall to let the rest of the DA members pass her.

Date.

It wasn't a date, though! People who hated each other didn't go on dates; that was for those stupid, unrealistic romance novels, some of the only books she wouldn't ever read. Enemies didn't become friends overnight, unless they suddenly decided to fight for the same cause ―

"You're still hanging out with that group of goody-two-shoes, Granger?"

Hermione turned her head aside to see the familiar face that belonged to that cold, drawling voice, which she could've sworn had just a hint of warmth in it now; he was grinning, not maliciously, but in a friendly, normal way. To Malfoy's side was Charlotte, who smiled at Hermione.

"Hi, Hermione!" she said.

"You two doing your rounds?" Hermione asked, returning the smile to the both of them.

"Oh, no," said Malfoy, "we were just walking around, we don't have to do rounds, necessarily. . . ." He turned to Charlotte and tapped her shoulder. "You can go on ahead, if you want."

"Oh, right, thanks. Bye, Hermione!" she called as she walked off.

"She has a meeting with one of the teachers soon," Malfoy explained. "I wasn't just getting rid of her."

They laughed and sat in silence for a few moments, before Malfoy decided to speak. He dropped his voice to a low mutter.

"You know," he said, "I really do think you're fighting a losing battle here. You need to sort out your priorities. . . . You know, with all of your knowledge about Potter? The Inquisitorial Squad could really use someone on the inside ―"

"Thanks, but no thanks," said Hermione, still smiling. "But just so you know, the DA is open to anyone who wishes to join, we could also use someone on the inside ―"

Malfoy shook his head. "Thanks, but no thanks. Besides, how would you make sure I wouldn't tell someone about everything you're doing in there?"

"You haven't spilled anything this far," said Hermione, after surveying him briefly. She dropped her voice to a whisper. "I'm pretty skilled with jinxes, if I do say so myself."

"What aren't you good at, Granger?" Malfoy asked, with a soft smile. "Well, then we'll agree to disagree?"

"I guess so," said Hermione.

Malfoy smirked. "Hopefully, though, we can sort out those differences before that date, right?"

He walked off laughing, regardless of Hermione's protests. He kept referring to it as a date . . . it wasn't a date! . . . And yet, against her own will, the concern began to slowly dissolve.

He, on the other hand, was glad that his day had quickly picked up, even if it meant that all he had left to look forward to was another night being smothered by Pansy. There was always the thought of what made him happy, what made him forget worries like that . . . and that was the unlikeliest of people, Hermione Granger, who seemed to dissolve every care in the world of his and replace it with something else he could care about. It wasn't that he cared for her in that way . . . he just was slowly beginning to care for her as a person, maybe as a friend. . . . He couldn't risk falling in love with her again, that'd be dangerous. Fire and ice. They didn't mix. . . . But he had done too many things he regretted. Many were things he did to her that he regretted. . . . And he was willing to take a risk, if only just this once.