Letter to Hermione

Draco Malfoy was quite unused to feeling this way. In fact, he didn't think he had ever felt this way. He hadn't eaten anything in three days, hadn't slept more than two hours the last three nights... things weren't supposed to be like this, he was sure.

It wasn't that he still loved her, certainly not. He just hadn't expected her to be happy yet. It was too soon. He didn't know what the moratorium was on this kind of thing, how long one was expected to mourn a relationship that nobody else had known about - and they had been very careful to make sure nobody had known about it. But even so... she wasn't supposed to be prancing about everywhere with Potter. Not yet. And not Potter.

Not that he was jealous of him. Of course not. It was true Potter got all the attention because of some stupid scar he'd gotten before he even knew what magic was. Yes, that was a little unfair. And perhaps he'd been a little... annoyed that Potter's Quidditch skill came so bloody naturally, when he himself had spent so many hours practicing before he'd come to Hogwarts. He'd gotten good, really good, and he was sure that he could make the team as a third year (maybe even second!) and make his father proud. Then came bloody Potter, youngest house player in a century.

No, it really wasn't that he was jealous, just tired. It was hard to keep up with him, sometimes, and to be constantly compared with him... it was hard to have a rival who beat you in everything. No matter how hard you worked or, if work didn't do it, how sneaky and ruthless you were, the sodding Gryffindor golden boy would always come out on top. It was like destiny or something. If only he'd been born seven years earlier, or later, he wouldn't have to compete with Harry sodding Potter...

But if he had been born earlier or later, he wouldn't have known her. The only person in the world who could turn Slytherin versus Gryffindor into Slytherin plus Gryffindor. More than that, she had been the one thing he could have that Potter couldn't. It had been almost funny to watch his clumsy passes at her while they had been together. Well, that wasn't exactly true. At first it had been scary, and almost painful, but she always brushed it off. "It's nothing, Draco," she would say, laughing. Her eyes - a sweet, warm, open brown, everything his cool grey ones were not - told him she wasn't lying. "We're just friends. I promise." And after that, Potter (The Boy Who Can't Have Her, he'd thought smugly) wasn't quite so threatening anymore.

But now... she looked so sodding happy with him. He felt his eyes stinging. This was ridiculous. Are you or are you not a Malfoy? he asked himself furiously. Malfoys do not cry over Mud... Mud... oh what's this now, you can't even think the stupid word anymore? No. Muggle born, she's a Muggle born, not a Mud... oh for Merlin's sake. She had reformed him, too? Something had to be done.

He felt a hand on his shoulder. Pansy. "Draco," she said, softly. "I know it's not very Slytherin of me to say so - because it's not for any personal gain - but... she misses you too."

"What are you talking about?" His voice oozed condescension.

She bit her lip. "I'm not stupid. I know you thought you were being so clever and sneaky but... I've known you since we were three. How did you expect to hide it from me? It was obvious you were in love."

"Of course! In love with you," he said. He gave her what he hoped was a sincere, charming smile.

She stared at him, her expression a mixture of contempt and amusement. "No, Draco, never with me. Not that it matters, really. Our relationship's already been arranged from our first Yule Ball to our side-by-side burial plots. And you know your father would never let you marry a... her." Draco stayed silent. Pansy's tone softened. "But I know it still hurts to see her with Potter."

"I couldn't care less what Granger does, actually," he said icily.

"If you insist," Pansy sighed. "But if I were you... I'd write her a letter. Even if you don't send it. It'll be good for you. Cathartic. And do me a favour, would you?"

He glared. "What?"

"Have yourself a nice cry. You look like you've been holding it in for years."

* * * * *

"There's a good spot up ahead," she whispered, leading Harry down a dark-looking aisle lined with dusty-looking books.

To herself she wondered what was making her bring him here, to their place. The secluded little nook, enchanted by some student long-forgotten, which had become a haven for her and him. Their place, where pretenses could be dropped and they could just be themselves, and be together, and be... happy. Well, that's over now, she thought, but somehow...

She took an abrupt turn down a different aisle. "Er... nobody ever comes down here, not even Madam Pince. These are all advanced texts, and they're so out of date nobody reads them anymore... it's always empty."

"How do you know all this?" he asked, bemused but not at all dismayed to find a new secluded spot for them to share.

She grinned and answered coyly, "I do spend some time in the library now and then, you know."

"Glad to see it's finally paying off," he teased, slipping his arms about her waist.

She sighed happily. "Mmm, quite." And as he bent down, his lips finding hers, she lost herself in thought.

Harry. She'd had a crush on him since the troll incident, though she'd always been certain he'd never see her as anything but a friend. She'd been fairly certain that nobody would ever see her as anything but a friend, actually... but Viktor Krum had come along and turned her right around about that. She hadn't loved him or anything, even if he was her first snog, but he'd made her realise that she was attractive. Or at least, that she could be if she wanted to be.

There was also Ron, who, upon discovering that she was indeed of the female persuasion, practically worshipped the ground she walked on. But she didn't want to ruin the friendship (or my chances with Harry, she admitted a bit guiltily in the back of her brain), and so she'd never responded to his advances. Even if every girl in Gryffindor Tower - especially Ginny - seemed to be conspiring to get them together.

And then there was Draco. No. Malfoy. Bit strange, that... she never would have dreamed that she'd have anything to do with Draco... argh, no, Malfoy... romantically or otherwise. But fate isn't bound to follow house rivalries, or leave first impressions uncorrected. Even if things might have been easier that way.

They'd all been serving detention for some badly thought out plan of Ron's and Harry's that had gone awry (they always did) and that Draco had caught wind of (he always did). Snape had thought it would be pure torture to put the two of them together cataloguing his ingredients. And it was. At first.

They'd fought like Runespoor heads for the first two nights, before realising they were only going to make it a miserable three weeks for themselves by sniping at each other. So, quickly, they'd come to a wary truce. And gradually, though she was never sure how, they built a sort of respect for each other.

She thought it was possible that she had started it, telling him she'd always thought that his high marks in potions were because he was Snape's favourite, and then (begrudgingly) admitting that he did know a thing or two about the ingredients they were cataloguing. He returned the compliment, sort of: "Well... your teeth aren't really that big."

She'd burst out laughing, and then - she would never in a million years know why she felt compelled to tell him - admitted to having shrunk them in fourth year. "But it was your fault, you know," she giggled. "If you hadn't done that spell..."

"It was Weasley's fault, too!" he cried, so indignant that it only made her laugh harder. And then he started laughing with her.

She looked at him in amazement. "I can't believe I'm having fun with a Malfoy."

He smiled. "I can't believe I'm having fun with a witch-whose-parents-are-Muggles."

"How very charitable of you," she rolled her eyes.

"Well, you know, I'm not pure evil," he drawled. "Not all the time, anyway."

She sighed, giggles having subsided a bit. "You do an awfully good impression of it sometimes, though."

He shrugged. "Sometimes it's easier to let people think what they want to think about you. You must know that though... bet you get the 'bookworm' label all the time."

It was like a dam bursting. "Yes!" she cried. "It's like I'm a walking Hogwarts, a History. I mean, yes, I get good marks, and I study a lot, but... I always feel like there's more to me than that, but I don't ever let it out because even if I did nobody would see it! I mean, even Harry and Ron seem to..." she stopped. What the hell was she doing, telling Malfoy something she'd never told her best friends, never could tell them?

He seemed to realise it too. They fell silent. After a few uncomfortable, unmoving minutes: "Something on your mind, Granger?"

"No," she said, too quickly. "No, nothing. Er..." she picked up a jar of pickled boomslang skin. "Where does this go?"

"Up here," he took the jar it from her, his hand brushing hers just a little.

"What are you doing?"

"Putting it away." But he wasn't fooling her, and, in retrospect, probably wasn't fooling himself, either.

"No, I meant... with the hand..."

His voice dropped to a whisper, his grey eyes more intense than she had ever seen them... not that she'd really looked before. "What do you think I'm doing?"

She'd replied, barely audibly, "I'm not sure I know you well enough to say."

"Would you like to?"

She didn't make that decision consciously (or so she told herself), but somehow found her lips and tongue and god only knows what else meshed with his all the same.

The next night had been awkward. An hour had gone by silently before she had to break the tension. She cleared her throat. "That didn't mean anything, last night, I mean."

"Clearly," he shrugged. "Must have been something in the pumpkin juice."

"I mean... you're evil incarnate, and I'm a Gryffindor... it would never work out."

He laughed, his eyes meeting hers for the first time all night. "Exactly." Five seconds later, they were back on the floor. And after that she told him all sorts of things she would never dream of telling Harry and Ron.

She moaned softly. "Mmm... Draco..."

The kiss broke abruptly. "What did you just say?"

Her eyes opened and were confronted with - not grey - but green. "Hmm?"

"You just called me Draco,'" Harry's tone was accusing.

She looked at him as though he was crazy. "Um... no I didn't."

"Um, yes you did," he mimicked.

She gave a little laugh. "Why would I say 'Draco'?"

"Well, I certainly don't know, I thought you always called him Malfoy. Besides, we really look nothing alike," he cracked a smile. "You know, I'm charming and handsome, he's slimy and... well... blonde." She laughed again, relieved that he seemed to be ready to ignore her slip. He stopped, smile falling away from his face. "But seriously... you're not fantasizing about Malfoy, are you?"

* * * * *

She bumped into him in the hallway later that week, quite by accident. She'd been running late for Arithmancy, apparently he had been too.

"Oh, I'm sorry," she apologised, bending to pick up a quill that had fallen out of his bag.

He sneered. "Yeah, why don't you just watch where you're going, Mu... Granger." Their eyes met for an uncomfortable second.

The corridor was empty. "How... how have you been?" she asked softly.

"Fine, I guess. And you?"

"Fine, fine."

More awkward silence.

"And how's Harry?" he was trying his best not to sound hurt, but she could hear it, see it in his eyes, though she doubted anyone else would. Then again, anyone else would have been too distracted by the sight of the two of them talking with any semblance of politeness.

"He's good. Pansy?"

"Good."

She took in a huge breath. "Draco, I..." she stopped. "I can't. I'm sorry." I can't be with someone who won't acknowlege me in public.

"I know, I told you I know but how could you expect me to..." ignore my family, my position, my history, my destiny...

"I didn't, I didn't expect you to, I just thought that you were..." different. Different from your father, different from what everyone else thinks you are...

"I'm sorry."

"I know." She bit her lip. They stood there in the corridor, staring at each other. I will not cry, I will not cry, I will not cry...

I will not cry, I will not cry, I will not... "See you around, then?"

She nodded, then said wryly, "Probably."

They took two steps in the same direction. "Oh. We're both going to Arithmancy, right?" He had never felt so uncomfortable in his entire life.

"I think so, yes," she replied, a bit resignedly.

"Ten paces ahead of you?"

"Twenty might be better."

"Okay then, see you in class," he said, turning to go up the staircase.

* * * * *

He held up the piece of parchment and read over the lines one more time.

"Letter to Hermione:
The hand that wrote this letter
Sweeps the pillow clean
So rest your head and read a treasured dream
I care for no one else but you
I tear my soul to cease the pain
I think maybe you feel the same
What can we do?
I'm not quite sure what we're supposed to do
So I've been writing just for you
They say your life is going very well
They say you sparkle like a different girl
But something tells me that you hide
When all the world is warm and tired
You cry a little in the dark
Well so do I
I'm not quite sure what you're supposed to say
But I can see it's not okay
He makes you laugh
He brings you out in style
He treats you well
And makes you up real fine
And when he's strong
He's strong for you
And when you kiss
It's something new
But did you ever call my name
Just by mistake?
I'm not quite sure what I'm supposed to do
So I'll just write some love to you..."

Then he closed his eyes and whispered, so nobody else could hear, "I loved you, really..." I just wish I could have told you. He crumpled the parchment and threw it in the garbage pail next to his desk.

"Incendio."