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"I happen to like reading-

"But you feel the need to prove yourself," Draco silenced her with a confident and condescending tone. "Because you know your magic isn't rightfully yours." Uncertainty mingled with honey, and he relished his victorious grin. "Because you know you're inferior."

Her lip twitched. His smirk stretched.

"And that's why it still kills you when I call you Mudblood," he finished with delicious smugness, bobbing his head with a proud nod. He could see that Gryffindor tenacity fighting to control her tongue, so he stepped aside and headed for is bedroom door, satisfied that she was suitably rattled. Well, at least the revolting Muggle-spawn had successfully managed to provide some entertainment for this dull-as-dust day.

His fingers had just grazed the brass of the door-handle when there was hot push against his spine, propelling him forward. He smacked head-first into the adjacent wall and released a grunt of discomfort as he slid down the cold surface. The impact was still buzzing across his skin, but he knew the pain would replace it within a heartbeat or hum of breath.

He raised his head with every intention of charging Granger and smacking her into the wall, but he barely caught her blurred shape ghost into her room, before the shrill bite of a blunt door deafened him for a moment. The pain subsided after a few seconds; just a little bump to his head and an ache in his back. He quickly gathered himself to his feet and his eyes did a slow scan of the room, his dilated pupils focussing on the bookshelves again.

Ah yes, his previous distraction before the Mudblood had returned.

He had always been good with numbers, and had decided that counting would be the thing to keep him sane.

Granger had one-hundred and one books in her sitting room; fifty-six of which were black, forty red, three blue and two green. Across all the spines were a total of four-hundred-and-sixty words, excluding the authors' names. He had double-checked this and stored the information away in his head, and Draco's stare recommenced roaming around the room; searching for his next counting project for tomorrow. His next sanity-preserving task.

But his eyes automatically fell to her door, and he felt the rage bristle along the fine hairs coating his body and sink into his pores. Entertaining or not, the girl made his temper churn. He would find something else to count tomorrow.

.

.

Hermione slumped against the door and hastily murmured the silencing charms before she released a gargled sob. Dear Merlin, she hated him. Hated him! She roughly smudged away her treacherous tears and stumbled on shaky legs as she made her way to her bed.

She was denied a blink of sleep all night, and the witch's anger at the slimy Slytherin niggled at her until the birds came with the navy morning. She despised the birds.

And that was day one.

He woke with a start.

He had dreamt of Astronomy Tower again. The sights, sounds and smells had all plagued him ruthlessly; so vivid and vivacious. Even his subconscious was keen to mock him with the fruitful memories; licking away at his brain while he slept, so that the scene repeated itself endlessly in his head. They came every night, some more fierce than others, but there all the same. Nightmares. Tormenting him. Reminding him.

Failure.

Failure.

Failure.

He groaned into the too-soft pillow and turned over, squinting away a tenacious shaft of sunlight. The Autumn sun was irritating and warm on his face, and he didn't like it. It was too garish and deceptive, fooling hopeless morons into believing it wasn't freezing outside. He could already feel the chill creeping along his skin as he pushed away the blankets to set his feet against the bitter floorboards.

He shrugged on the robes he'd been given to beat a shiver, adjusting them over his boxers and vest. Merlin forbid McGonagall could have supplied him with a set of actual pyjamas that might do something to battle hypothermia. He glanced out of the window, but all he could see were roof-tiles, bricks and the brazen sky that was too harsh with the sun. What was the point in having a window without a view? Stupid Gryffindors.

He realised how quiet it was then, and the silence buzzed in his ears, eased only slightly by far away birds. He arched a confused eyebrow, realising something at the back of his brain was telling him he'd already woken up once today. If it still even was today.

Yes, he'd definitely already woken. He could sense the whispers of recollection blowing across his nerve endings. It had been the Mudblood to rouse him again, with her sodding shower and clumsy footfalls. He remembered mumbling a luscious list of swear words into his mattress as he'd listened to her uncouth movements, and he'd been four more obscenities away from marching in there with dangerous intentions. But then a door had clicked closed and the sounds had stopped.

She'd gone. Thank fuck.

So the warmth and soothed him back to slumber. Back to the nightmares.

Leaving the bed, he slipped out of the room in search for something to do, and something to eat. He helped himself to a glass of milk and some cereal that Granger must have left out, reminding himself that he really needed to learn some wandless cooking skills if he ever wanted a warm meal here. Asking Granger was obviously out of the question.

He poured himself a second bowl of breakfast as his eyes settled on the clock, and he released an agitated breath. It wasn't even morning it all; not breakfast. It was almost three in the afternoon; the official sign that a normal sleeping pattern was lost with his wand. With his pride.

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