He had always disliked the Hospital Wing. Just walking through the doors sent a chill down his spine, and as soon as the overwhelming antiseptic smell hit his nose, his stomach soured. The sheer number of privacy shields in use caused the small, pale, pointy-faced boy to swallow reflexively against the sudden lump in his throat. Pewter-coloured eyes searched for Madam Pomfrey before he heard the muffled humming of the school's healer coming from her office. Draco allowed himself a small sigh of relief, but it did very little to alleviate his anxiety.

A battle was being waged within the second-year - between what he knew in his heart to be right and how what was right was in direct opposition to what was expected of a Malfoy. Tugging roughly at his school tie, the young wizard flexed his fingers against the torn page held carefully in his other hand. It had been dumb-luck that allowed Draco to overhear his father speaking with some of his associates that fateful morning, but as he'd crept closer to his father's cracked office door, it became increasingly apparent that he had orders to carry out. At the mention of the Basilisk, the young wizard's blood ran cold. However, ice formed in his veins at his father's final words.

"With any luck, Potter's pet mudblood will be the one to die this time."

Draco's vision had narrowed and there had been a ringing in his ears as he tried to wrap his mind around what he'd just overheard. The boy was well aware of his father's views on blood purity, he had to be. It was something that had been force-fed to him from age four on when he'd asked his mother if they could visit the Muggle park near their home at breakfast. He would never forget the sound of the crystal carafe shattering against the hard dining room floor, drawing his attention to his father and the way his face was mottled with rage. Lucius Malfoy's cane made several enlightening arguments on his behalf, mostly on his little boy's backside, and from that day on, Draco understood that Muggles were filthy animals and leagues beneath wizards and witches in worth.

The young boy had stumbled away from the office and back toward his own room, repeatedly swallowing back sour, hot bile that was fighting to expel itself from his body. He didn't even like Granger. Not really. She was a buck-toothed, bushy-haired, know-it-all-swot Gryffindor - what was there to like? The thought barely had time to take root before his mind was supplying answers.

Granger was brilliant. Absolutely brilliant. She quickly met and surpassed every other student in their year academically, simultaneously painting a rather large target on her back. Granger was also kind. Disgustingly so. She was genuine, considerate, and insanely loyal to those she cared for, things that often annoyed and angered Draco beyond all reason. There was a small, quiet part of himself that could acknowledge his own miserable jealousy and bitter resignation fueled his arrogant, condescending, and oftentimes despicable behaviour towards the Muggle-born witch. He didn't enjoy it, though he was certain the witch would vehemently disagree. In truth, Draco behaved the way he did to keep them both safe.

After quietly slipping into his room, the platinum blonde boy shuffled towards his overly-large bed and fell face-first into his pillows. For so long, he'd dreamed of going off to Hogwarts and finally finding a true friend, one that matched his intellect and wouldn't tease him for his own bookish tendencies. And when he first laid eyes on Hermione Granger, so tiny (except for her hair) and proper - Draco sensed a kindred spirit in the petite, perfectly-mannered witch. When he learned her heritage, there hadn't been just disappointment weighing heavily against the young wizard, but also a genuine feeling of devastation. There was something special about the little Gryffindor with wild, untamed curls framing her round, cherubic face and bright, sparkling amber eyes - but that didn't matter.

She was Muggle-born first and foremost. If he allowed himself to contemplate what made the witch special, it would leave him vulnerable and more likely to make mistakes. Lucius had eyes everywhere. So, sadly, he pushed those dangerous thoughts from his mind and put on his Malfoy mask. A decision that would haunt him continuously, especially following their first Halloween in the castle. Whatever happened with that troll cemented the friendship between Granger, Potty, and the Weasel - and unknowingly set his jealousy aflame - exacerbating his already prickly disposition.

A loud crack, one that ricocheted off the walls before bouncing around inside his skull and intensifying his already pounding headache, marked the arrival of his personal elf, Posy.

"Young Master must get up!" The house-elf squeaked indignantly, her high-pitched voice reaching an octave Draco believed might cause irreparable damage to his hearing. After a quick check to make sure his ears weren't bleeding, he looked her way and grumbled petulantly, "I'm up. No need to get your knickers in a twist, Posy."

"Master and Mistress are waiting for you in the travel room. Did young Master forget his trip to Diagon Alley? Oh!" Posy's thin, long-fingered hands covered her gasp. Draco grimaced, correctly assuming he still looked shaken, and likely more pale than usual. He had eavesdropped on his cold, calculating father and overheard his deplorable hopes for a young girl's death. An entirely valid reason - if only it wouldn't mean a beating if he were found out.

"I have a bit of a headache, Posy," Draco mumbled and moved to sit up on the edge of his bed. "Could you tell Mother and Father that I'll be down, as soon as I take a pain potion?" Wide, worried blue eyes blinked up at him while Posy offered a quick, jerky nod. With a snap, the elf disappeared and Draco stood, ready to make his way to the apothecary cabinet when his caring elf returned with a vial of the bright blue potion and a glass of ice-cold water to wash it down.

"Thank you, Posy," he said in a quiet, gentle tone of voice reserved only for his Mother and elf before he uncorked the potion and swallowed the bitter, vile liquid. He eagerly accepted the proffered drink and took long, greedy pulls until the glass was empty. With another quick snap, the elf held out his school robes. Feeling a touch sentimental, the young wizard dropped a quick kiss to Posy's head in thanks. Her answering smile was as brilliant as her large eyes were reproachful. He understood, of course. His father would not approve of such open affection being displayed towards creatures so far beneath wizards. So, in true Slytherin fashion, he flashed the elf a disarmingly sweet, boyish grin as he fastened his robes and strolled from the room.

Smoothing non-existent wrinkles from his cloak kept his hands busy and allowed the wizard a chance to rid himself of some of his nervous energy, though his carefully crafted blank mask would hide his turbulent thoughts from parental detection - or at least he hoped it would. Of course, as soon as he entered the travel room, his mother, the effortlessly graceful Narcissa Malfoy pounced. Her soft hands cupped his cheeks before she pressed a firm kiss to the centre of his forehead.

"No fever," his mother murmured in the soft, adoring voice solely reserved for her only son and heir. "Are you feeling up to our shopping trip, my dragon? We still have time if you need to rest."

"You coddle the boy too much, Cissa," his father scoffed, rapping his cane against the marble floor. "He's fine," Lucius assured his wife, cutting an irritated yet appraising look toward his son. "Aren't you, boy?"

"Yes, Father," Draco responded immediately. "I apologize for making both of you wait, time slipped away from me it seems."

"My sweet, darling boy," his mother crooned at him, brushing her thumbs over his cheeks. "Alright then, let's get a move on - you both know how awful the crowds are this time of year. Lucius, my dearest?" Narcissa's voice was honeyed and low, a sure sign she was about to ask for something his father wouldn't be thrilled with.

Taking a hand of floo powder before passing the heavy bag to his wife and son, Lucius rolled his eyes. "What do you want, my sweet flower?" The exhausted tenor in his voice spoke to how often this particular trick was used against him.

"Persephone Parkison invited me to lunch last minute, would you mind terribly if I skipped the bookstore? We can meet at Madam Malkins after?" Narcissa's smile was bright as the late-morning sun and she rewarded her husband with a lingering kiss after he consented to the change of plans, prompting a scowl of disgust from their son before the witch threw the powder on the fire. She called out the restaurant's name and location then disappeared into the crackling, emerald flames in the grate.

"We'll go through Borgin and Burkes, son. I have no desire to deal with all the riff-raff and plot an escape of an overcrowded Leaky Cauldron," Lucius' cold, steel-grey eyes, nearly identical to his son's, made it clear there would be no arguing. Draco didn't mind, really. He knew Borgin and Burkes didn't have the best reputation, but his father conducted a rather large amount of business at the Knockturn establishment so a quick cut-through wasn't anything out of the ordinary. The pre-teen travelled through the emerald-hued twists and turns first, stepping away from the fireplace for his father while brushing ash off his robes. The cool tingle of a spell hitting him between the shoulders made the pale boy flinch before he recognized his father's magical signature.

"Thank you," Draco murmured, admiring his now spotless robes briefly before falling into step behind his father, following him to the counter.

"You're welcome, my son. I have something to pick up, but it should only take a moment." Lucius offered the clerk a nod, then turned back to his son and issued a command. "Do not touch anything."

"Yes, Father," the boy responded in a monotone voice, daring to roll his eyes only after his father's attention turned back to the clerk. Draco wandered toward the exit, eager to get to Flourish & Blotts. The more he considered his earlier eavesdropping, the Slytherin thought it might be in his best interest to see if he could get his hands on any information on Basilisks...just in case. Absorbed in his scheming, he didn't realize he was reaching out to touch a cursed object until a familiar and excruciating pain bloomed across the traitorous extremity.

"What part of 'do not touch anything' did you not understand?" Draco swallowed reflexively against the cold fury in his father's voice and dropped his eyes to the floor.

"Sorry, Father. I wasn't paying attention," the young wizard mournfully sighed.

"You could have been killed. Next time, try paying closer attention." Pinching the bridge of his nose in apparent frustration, Lucius grumbled under his breath for several seconds before shaking his head giving his heir a look that was clearly meant as an insult to his intelligence. "Let us get this ordeal over with." Knowing he was already on thin ice, the boy followed the elder wizard silently out of the shop, keeping as close to his father as he dared, while they navigated Knockturn Alley. It was far from his first merry stroll down the seedy street but the way he could always feel more than one pair of eyes on him every time they visited unnerved the pre-teen.

His relief was palpable as they left the dark and dreary Knockturn and rounded the corner to the much brighter, livelier, and more hospitable Diagon Alley.

"Will you be able to keep yourself from trouble while I pay for your supplies and arrange their delivery?" His father quipped sarcastically with a smirk twisting his lips, and pushed open the door to Flourish & Blotts, where the soft chime of a bell announced their arrival. It was packed, as it always is during the 'Back to Hogwarts' rush. Lucius' upper lip curled in disgust before he levelled a serious look on his boy. "Do not wander too far or out of the store without me. Your mother would gleefully murder me in my sleep if I lost you, whether in a crowded store or to potential kidnappers wanting a ransom."

"Not a problem, Father. There are few books I wanted to look into, so I'll probably stay close to the stacks." Now that he had the information he desperately wanted close at hand, Draco had to restrain himself until his father was completely out of sight. Once he'd been absorbed into the crowd of parent's eager to pay and get a move on, the young Slytherin spun on his heels and made a beeline for the Magical Creatures section, having to search the shelves twice because he somehow missed the bloody thing the first time.

Quickly scanning the table of contents to find the page of the creature that interested him the most presently, Draco also made sure that no one was paying close attention to him personally. He couldn't help but grimace at the loud noise ripping the page made but kept reminding himself that it was a matter of life and death. Surely anyone would understand the special position he was placed in, right? As it happened, there were simply too many customers and not enough employees, so the young wizard was able to fulfil his mission quite easily, he'd expected more obstacles and found himself rather bored.

Searching the shop for familiar faces, the Slytherin froze and found he couldn't look away when an unruly mane of coffee-coloured curls bounced around the corner. He watched as the witch lovingly brushed her fingertips over the spines, investigating some more closely than others, all while a content smile curved her full lips skyward. There was something about that action, the tenderness in which the young which greeted those books like long lost friends that left him feeling breathless and shaken.

Vulnerable and disturbed by his reaction to Granger, Draco hardened his features and made his way over, until he was standing just off to her side. Many irreverent insults came to mind, were poised on the tip of his tongue when an errant thought silenced him. As he was busy staring at the witch's chaotic curls and wondering what exactly would happen if he tugged on one - would it immediately spring back to its rightful place - the realization that if Granger was here, her parents would be as well.

And they were likely caught in the gaggle of parents vying to purchase their children's necessities, along with his father. Dread, and possibly a small bit of concern washed over the boy, but as fate would have it, his attention was pulled from the suddenly frightening tenor of his thoughts by Gilderoy Lockhart making a spectacle of Potty. He had a hard time not laughing when Granger jumped in fright at the sound of his voice, looking over her shoulder with wide, warm eyes.

Draco was in his element, ready to really tear into Potter when his father reappeared and ultimately silenced him.

One thing was certain, the young wizard would never forget the malicious intent that lit up his father's eyes as he spoke with the Muggle-born witch.

Shaking his head and clearing his mind from the onslaught of memories, Draco looked at the ripped page in his hand once more. Why hadn't he given it to her sooner? He'd known, ever since the first bloody message appeared, what he would have to do. And even though it went against everything he'd been taught, he wanted to. Squaring his shoulders, the pale wizard crept further into the hospital wing, passing Colin Creevey and Penelope Clearwater before he found the witch he came for.

The first glimpse of her petite, petrified form stole the breath from his lungs. Without thinking, his feet shuffled forward bringing him to her bedside. One of her hands was frozen in the air and Draco couldn't tear his eyes from it. His heart seemed to be racing within the confines of his chest and the vilest sense of responsibility crashed down around him. After all, he'd known and done nothing.

He was still doing nothing.

"I'm sorry, Granger," the blond wizard whispered morosely. Crushing self-disgust overwhelmed him, and when he began shaking ever so slightly, he took the visitor's chair next to her bed. "I never wanted any of this to happen. Not really. I swear it."

He felt sick. His stomach kept rolling and twisting, his skin was clammy, and he felt cold. So very, very cold. Guilt weighed heavily on his conscience and staring into Granger's vacant, fixed eyes was enough to crack the hardened veneer of his Malfoy upbringing. With a trembling chin, and eyes filling with tears, Draco reached out and took hold of the hand at her side. She was cold to the touch, almost as cold as he felt inside, and her skin - usually warm, rosy, and if his imagination was correct, extremely soft - felt like stone.

"You know, Granger, I have to remind myself on a daily basis that I'm not the monster I pretend to be. But seeing you like this?" He wasn't proud of the way his voice would crack and break over every other word and kept using the sleeve of his robe to wipe away all evidence of his tears, but he couldn't seem to make it stop either. "I should've stopped it. At the very least, I should have given you this stupid scrap of paper when you could still do something about it. And I didn't. Oh no, I was waiting for the perfect moment - and then…"

Swallowing thickly, the young Slytherin squeezed his schoolmate's petrified hand and hung his head. "And then it was too late."

Granting himself a few moments to wallow, Draco held onto her hand as if it were his only lifeline while his free hand viciously tugged and yanked at his hair. Quiet sobs escaped his lips, and he was sure he'd revisit this memory often in the future, trying to figure out why seeing her this way affected him so much. He wanted to brush it off, call it a moment of weakness, or argue that he'd be just as affected seeing any of their classmates in such dire straits. Lying to himself was second nature, after all. But this was different, she was different. And he wanted nothing more than to help her, save her, but all he had to offer was a torn book page, with one word scribbled on the page and underlined.

"I don't know what to do, Granger. I really don't. I wish I had to come to you sooner, I wish I could have this conversation with you alert and responsive and apologize for my many mistakes and blunders. I wish I could be the kind of person you are. But wishing won't help you and it certainly won't help me - and it's likely that nothing will ever change." Draco slowly lifted his head and met those brilliant amber eyes of hers, frozen and unblinking, and decided he might never have another opportunity - so why not unburden himself?

"I'm awful to you because I'm jealous. Isn't that a laugh? Don't get me wrong, Granger, I have had my moments where I'm envious of your intelligence, or how undeniably good you are - but mostly, I've just been a green-eyed monster the past two years because…" Meeting her eyes, even in her current state, proved to be too much for the Slytherin and so, he went back to staring at her hand clutched by his own. "I wanted to be your friend. I wanted to get to know you and allow you to get to know me, I wanted you to share all the things you share with those two dunderheads that follow you around like lost puppies - with me. But because of who I am, who my father is, and what I'm expected to believe…" A weary sigh was forcefully expelled from his lungs and Draco's shoulders slumped in defeat.

"You're always going to hate me. I think I'm slowly coming to terms with that. I hate it, believe me, or not. I wish there was a way to show you there's more to who I am than mean-spirited taunts and pointless hate, because then maybe someday - but optimism is much more your style, don't you think?" Peeking through his long, almost-white lashes at her face, he offered the poor girl a rather devastated smirk. After a pregnant pause, he released the witch's hand and carefully reached for one of her insane curls. Even petrified and confined to an awful hospital bed, her hair felt like silk between his fingers.

Gently, unsure if she could feel pain in her current state, the wizard tugged playfully on the strand. A broken-sounding chuckle fell from his lips when the curl bounced back, finally answering one of at least a million questions he had in regards to Hermione Granger.

"I think things are going to get really bad, Granger," Draco whispered, winding the curl around a finger. "And I'm frightened. I'm sure that wouldn't surprise you any. But I don't want to be like my father and I don't want to do horrible things and I know I'm not going to have a choice. But I promise you, Granger - if and when I can - I'll always try to help you." A loud noise came from Madam Pomfrey's office, reminding him that he could be caught at her bedside with tear-stained cheeks, baring his soul, and playing with her hair.

With much regret, he let the curl fall back against her pillow. Still, he couldn't seem to tear himself away and allowed himself one more small concession. Draco cupped her face in his hand, brushing a thumb across her cheek. He was surprised how much that one, small gesture hurt. Right in the center of his chest was an exquisite ache that left him feeling hollow and confused. But it also emboldened him, or perhaps Gryffindor bravery was contagious, he didn't know. What he did know was that he might never get another chance, so for once in his life, he didn't overthink it.

"I think you're incredible, Hermione Granger," the words were barely a whisper and yet he felt a weight lift from his chest as soon as they fell from his lips. With a wobbly smile, he pulled away from the witch and carefully folded the ripped page. When that was done, he slipped it into the hand he had been holding, tucked carefully behind her dainty, slightly curled fingers. Hopefully, the dunderhead duo would visit and find the blasted thing and fix her.

They just had to fix her.

Draco could hear Pomfrey moving around in her office and knew his time had run out. As he stood, the young wizard brushed his fingertips over the back of her hand. He couldn't seem to stop touching the poor girl. Accosting a witch in her sleep? What would his mother think?

"I must be off. Can't be caught mourning at your side, now can I?" He turned to leave, before looking over his shoulder at the baffling witch once more. "You have to get better, Granger. Do you hear me? This can't be the end. I refuse to accept that. So, please...please fight. You're strong, if anyone can do it, it's you. I'm so sorry, Granger. You'll never know how sorry I am." And with that said, he turned and all but ran from the room.

A moment later, the office door swung open and Madam Pomfrey emerged, staring at the doors the young Malfoy had just disappeared through. It often blew her mind that students just assumed she didn't have ways of monitoring her patients even if she wasn't in the room. She'd been concerned when the young man entered, tales of the animosity between Draco Malfoy and Hermione Granger were legendary within the walls of the school and the healer could see no good coming from a visit. But it became readily apparent the young man was struggling and upset, so she gave him the benefit of the doubt and sat back, listening as he poured his heart out.

The healer stopped to check on the Creevey boy and Clearwater girl, no change of course, before moving to the foot of Miss Granger's bed. Staring at the petrified girl, unable to fix her, or any of the other children was almost too much to stand. Their whole lives were out there, waiting for them, and the best answer the adults charged with their care could come up with was to wait and hope.

"I think that boy might fancy you, Miss Granger," Madam Pomfrey warned in her best motherly voice, but couldn't hold back her slightly-crooked grin. "It's a shame you'll have no memory of this. He was very sweet. Not something I'm used to saying in regards to Mister Malfoy, as I'm sure you're aware," her laughter felt too loud and out of place and quickly died in her throat. Patting Miss Granger's blanketed feet, the matronly healer paused to consider the unlikely pair. Pressing her lips firmly together, she gave the young witch's feet one more loving pat before she stalked back into her office with purpose. The healer grabbed an empty vial from her shelves and pulled her wand from the deep pocket in her skirt. Carefully, Madam Pomfrey extracted the memory and stoppered the glass. In her neat script, she wrote the date and both children's initials before another wave of her wand opened her locked cabinet. She didn't know if she'd ever share the memories with girl currently occupying one of the healer's beds, but wasn't it always best to be prepared for any eventuality?

The mediwitch closed and relocked the cabinet, left her office, and continued her rounds.

Her thoughts, however, often returned to the sad blonde, and she found herself rooting for the lonely, broken boy she'd seen at Miss Granger's side. Perhaps she would share those memories with the witch in question, after all. The healer groaned and shook her head.

Plenty of time to think about that later.