Author's Note: Just a little drabble that popped into my head, and I couldn't get it out. Almost certainly a one-shot. I hope you enjoy! Read & Review!

Hermione walked through the halls, barely seeing three feet in front of her. She knew that it was late, but that didn't matter at this point; she needed to get out of her dorm, away from all of her helpful, concerned friends. They would be able to do nothing except make her feel foolish for her reaction, and she already knew that her reaction was foolish. But, reputation be damned, she was entitled to a little bit of foolishness every now and again; after all, she was only fourteen years old.

Only seeing three feet in front of her face turned out to be a bad idea when she closed her eyes for a moment – just a moment, to blink the tears that were forming away – and walked quite firmly into a rather solid body. Just what she needed, she thought. First that ridiculous letter from her parents, and now she would have to explain herself to –

She opened her eyes, to see to whom she owed an apology, an explanation, and a lie. At least it was a student, she thought upon seeing the crest on the robes; she immediately felt her relief return to the deep recesses of her mind, however, upon realizing exactly which student it was.

"Malfoy." Perfect. "What do you want?" Exactly what I need right now. Oh Fates, your timing is impeccable as usual.

"An apology, Granger. And probably a bath, now that I have your filthy, mudblooded residue on me. I may even have to have these robes burnt. Luckily, Father will have no problem sending me new ones."

Hermione sighed inwardly; she didn't want to fight, didn't want to waste her time and concentration arguing with him. She knew, though, that if she didn't put up a fight, if she let his comments pass unchecked, they would only continue to get worse; the bastard would think that he had won some victory and held some power over her. Her current peace of mind was not worth the lasting effects of ignoring him, regardless of what she wished was true.

"Out of my way, Malfoy. I know you're just hoping that some of my brilliance will rub off on you, but it won't work and I don't want you touching me again."

If Ron's family hadn't been so perfect, Hermione wouldn't have had to leave when she got that owl. She didn't want to complain to him, though; he had no idea what it was like to really fight with his parents. He had no idea what it was like for his parents to have no idea of what actually happened at school, or in the world in general. Sure, his mother tried to baby him; but at least Molly knew what she was trying to protect him from. Hermione's parents had no idea, and no right to talk down to her like she was a child.

Hermione held back a sniffle and a snarl simultaneously; she hated the duality of emotions she faced when fighting with her father. The battle between guilt and self—righteousness, anger and pity, was not a fun one. She'd never been particularly good at hiding her feelings.

Apparently, she was even worse than she thought, as even the apathetic Slytherin in front of her noticed that something was wrong, and it obviously wasn't whatever snipe he'd just tossed her way.

"Aww, is the Know-it-all fighting with Potty and the Weasel? What'd they do, take one of your precious books?" She was too exhausted and self-centered at the moment to notice that his taunting words had acquired a very slight note of concern.

"It's none of your business, Mal-ferret. Now run along with your little friends, and leave me be, or I'll hex you into an unrecognizable blob right here on the floor."

She didn't see his eyes soften for half a second before flashing back, full-force. She didn't look into his eyes for long enough to realize that they held the smallest tint of embarrassment and dejection. He walked away without a word before she had a chance to detect that he wasn't entirely sure that he wanted to walk away.

Hermione sat down on a step nearby, suddenly exhausted by their encounter. It was taking all of her concentration to not either break into tears or start screaming, and she had no strength left for her previous pacing. She looked at her hands in her lap, focused on them as best as she could, and began counting down from twenty. She found that counting backwards was somehow more relaxing than counting upwards: probably because there could be no surprises, no number that she had not before encountered.

Once her heartbeat had slowed sufficiently, she began reciting the names of all of the kings and queens of England, in reverse order, as far back as she could go. Having reached the limit of her knowledge on that topic, she did the same thing with the Wizarding Prime Ministers.

She was too busied with her relaxation activities to notice someone standing in front of her for quite a few minutes, watching her intently. She didn't even notice that he had sat down next to her until he put his arm around her shoulders, pulling her towards him. She didn't know who it was, but the gentleness of the contact was too much for her fragile state; she began to cry softly into the chest of the kind stranger.

When she had finally gotten all of the tears out of her system many minutes later, she looked up to see who it was that had kept her company; on some level, she was not entirely surprised to see that it was her supposed enemy, so she decided to not question it.

She continued to not question it as he led her into the kitchens, where he convinced a house elf to bring her a cup of hot cocoa. She didn't question it as he led her into a deserted classroom, where she drank her cocoa with him at her side. She didn't even question it when she told him the entire story, ridiculous as she felt about crying over a now small-seeming argument with her father. She didn't question it when he walked her back to the Gryffindor Tower, and she certainly didn't question it when he left her at the Fat Lady's portrait with a kiss on the lips, as gentle and comforting as his arm around her shoulders had been earlier that evening.