3rd person

The sun had long since set when Harry and Ginny leave Hermione's home, shouting a final warning to Malfoy as they go. When they had gone, door locked behind them, Malfoy finally left his room and crept up behind his housemate as she sat on her sofa.

"Granger?" Malfoy asks, startling her enough for her to reach for her wand and look around for a threat. He chuckles quietly, holding his hands out with palms facing her. "Lower your guard, it's only me."

"What do you want?" she sighs, sinking back into the sofa. It was impossible not to notice the slump in her shoulders, and the way her words seemed to be dragging out the last of her energy. Something was bothering her, and he was bound determined to discover what it was. After hearing the conversation in the kitchen, his curiosity had only been peaked.

"What's wrong with you now?" he asks. Hermione glances up at him, brow arched and eyes narrowed, but her gaze quickly settles on her lap once more. Shrugging mutely, she stands and heads towards her bedroom but he's there and blocking her path. She wants to scream in aggravation, but instead she merely requests that he move out of her way. "Not until you explain why you're acting so odd. It's not a good look for you."

Expression contorting into a scowl and eyes flashing with fire, she shoots him a dark glare. "Since when do you care about me?" She spits venomously, "the last I recall, you wanted to thank the person who hurt me. And what's more, you can stop meddling in things that you needn't meddle in. You may live here, but it doesn't make you privy to my person life." He falls back a step and she meets him by stepping forward, daring him to argue with her on this. When he doesn't, she says, "I'm going to bed. Your dinner is on the kitchen table."

This time he let's her through and watches as she storms up the stairs, only feeling slightly resentful of her accusations before going to his meal.

In her room, Hermione curls under the covers of her bed with tears burning her eyes. Ronald and his stupidly handsome face had once again invaded her head.

With her mind drifting in the past, Hermione forgets to muffle her sobs. The more she remembers about the worst night of her life, the louder her cries become, until even the man in the kitchen can't ignore them.

Recalling cold nights and empty cries from his own home, Malfoy is on his feet in seconds and jogging up the stairs. He's well aware that he won't be welcome, and come morning, she'll hate both him and herself for what he's planning, but he'd learned well enough that crying like she is was never fun to do alone. So he shoves open her bedroom door and slips onto her bed. Masking his own discomfort, he slides his arms around her waist and holds her loosely, giving her plenty of chance to pull away but remaining a steady presence if she deemed it alright for him to stay.

He holds his breath as she gasps, raising her face from her pillows and peering at him through damp and clumped lashes. "Malfoy?" she says. He nods and waits for her to jump away.

"Don't say anything, and I won't either," he mutters, "just let it go."

It's a minute, a long and awkward sixty seconds, and then she chokes on a muffled sob and clutches his shirt in her fists. Hermione doesn't say a word, but for the first time in a long time, she allows herself to take comfort from another person, even if said person was someone she despised. She cries and cries until she had no tears left to offer, and then she just lies there, head rested on his shoulder while she worked on calming her breathing.

All the while, Malfoy doesn't let her go. He allows her to release everything that she has been holding in and stays unfaltering beside her.

An hour passes, and then a second, and yet neither of them say a word to the other. Halfway through the third hour, Malfoy notices that her breathing has settled and her eyes have fallen closed as she slips into a much deserved rest. He sighs and looks at the slumbering girl. Lashes resting on rosy cheeks and lips bitten red in her crying. Even he could admit that the girl was beautiful, even tear-streaked and flushed. Of course that didn't ease his mind when he found his eyes catching on her lips.

His father's cold voice echoes, "a mudblood is worse than the scum on the bottom of our shoes. Undeserving of the gift they've been given." He'd taught his son at a young age what the difference between a pureblood and mudblood was, and as a result, Draco had grown to despise them.

Yet here he was, laying beside one as she slept so peacefully, and feeling the urge to chase away her sadness with his lips.

Draco slowly leaned forward, muscles jumping with tension. He knew he shouldn't, but he was curious. What would it be like if she wasn't fighting? What if she woke, and kissed back like before, but with no other motive except to reciprocate the kiss? Would he like it? Hate it? Feel indifferent?

He hovers just before pressing his lips to hers, nose brushing against her cheek. Nothing was stopping him, he could do it.

She stirs in her sleep, and the movement is like a cold bucket of water being dumped over him. Slithering out of the bed, he stumbles back and presses against the far wall, staring back at the empty space he had left.

"What am I doing" he hisses to himself. "I can't kiss her, she's the enemy. A mudblood. I hate her and she hates me." And yet, the name tastes foul. Perhaps it always has, and he's only now noticing.

Shaking away the thoughts littering his head, the doubts filling him up, he turns and heads for the door, sneaking silently out. "If I hadn't kissed her before, I wouldn't feel this way at all," he grumbles as he closes the door of his own room. Sleep doesn't come easy that night.