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Ugly	By : From56to62 Category: Harry Potter > Het - Male/Female > Draco/Hermione Views: 15643 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 1
Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter or make any money writting this.

Chapter List
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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 grins 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.

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!!!
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