Author's Note: The next chapter will be the last of this story. My deepest gratitude to gotsnape, that vixen of the written word, for her encouragement and on the fly betaing.

Cursing the Weaselette, Draco strode into the Great Hall for breakfast the following morning, flanked by Crabbe and Goyle. The trio stood for a moment on the threshold, as a deafening silence blanketed the entire, cavernous room. He knew what they were looking at. The whole bloody school knew what they were looking at, a goddamn fucking freak of a failure.

There he stood, dressed in his finest black school robes and boots, head held high, shoulders back, giving a good show of it. To hell with them. He strode over to the Slytherin table and took a seat beside Pansy. Crabbe and Goyle followed suit, as always. As soon as he sat, the tension in the air broke, and the whispering and the pointing and the outright gawking began.

With his trademark mask of indifference plastered to his face, Draco began piling on assorted items masquerading as food onto his plate. When he looked down, his stomach went cold and sick. He took his fork and began to push the sorry excuse for food around his plate, occasionally looking up to glare at the odd student or two bold enough to look him in the eye.

No, he didn't look over at the Gryffindor table. He had sworn off that trash the day before and would no sooner look at her than put a stake into his own heart. So Draco carried on with his brave facade, until many, many minutes later when the hum of noise slowly rose in the cavernous room, and the previously mocking students returned to their own growling stomachs and tables.

About bloody time, he thought, rising to leave. He had made his goddamn appearance, lost what little appetite he had, and would now just like to get the hell out of the place. Draco pushed his plate away, rose, and strode out of the Great Hall without another word to anyone. Crabbe and Goyle were left behind in the wake of his billowing robes, still eating great quantities of food. Pansy's eyes followed the Slytherin all the way out the door, until he disappeared from her view.

Ginny, who had been watching the scene from across the Great Hall, straining over the many bodies to see what she could of the Slytherin, now watched him leave. As she returned to her breakfast, she saw Ron and Harry rushing out of the room after the Slytherin. Alarmed, she looked over at Hermione, questioning. Hermione stared back and both rose, almost running out of the Great Hall after them.

By the time they arrived on the scene, immediately surrounded by a crush of other curious students, Ron and Harry were attempting to engage the lone Slytherin. Draco was slowly turning to glare over at Ron, pure hatred blistering in his stare. She saw the muscles in his neck tense as he struggled to control his temper.

"Weasel," he spat out.

"Malfoy, we just wanted to thank you for saving Ginny yesterday," Ron said evenly with Harry one step behind, backing him up in a show of support.

"Really?" Draco drawled. Ginny could see his hands curling into tight fists of rage.

"We know it cost you the game."

"You have no idea of what it cost me," Draco hissed. "Keep your fucking pity, Weasel. What's wrong? With all those noble Gryffindors flying around, it took a Slytherin to save the little Weaselette's neck. Is that what's bothering you?"

Ron flushed red at this. Harry placed a steadying hand on Ron's arm. Ginny tried to press forward through the crowd to the three wizards.

"You git," Ron spat back. "Can't even take a little gratitude without acting like an arrogant bastard."

Draco raised an eyebrow at this before glowering down Ron's throat. "I don't need your goddamn gratitude," he seethed. "Get her off the pitch if she can't keep her arse on a broom."

Ron exploded with rage. Forgetting any gratitude he may have once have felt for Malfoy, forgetting the crowd gathered, forgetting Harry's warning hand on his arm, Ron reached back and swung forward with all his might, aiming straight for that Slytherin bastard's arrogant, smirking face. Half a second later, he made contact gloriously, possibly breaking his own fist in the process. He didn't give a damn. It was worth it.

Then he heard the collective shudder and looked down at the crumpled figure on the floor. Ginny was unconscious and bleeding profusely from the nose in Malfoy's arms.

"You idiot," Draco hissed, glaring at Ron before quickly gathering up the fallen witch in his arms and sweeping up the Grand Staircase, the crowd parting silently to let him pass.

He looked down at her familiar fragile figure in his arms, flowing crimson everywhere, eyes closed, body limp. What the hell was she thinking? He didn't need her goddamn protection. Did she think him incapable of defending himself against her fumbling brother? He snorted as he rounded the top of the third staircase and headed toward the Hospital Wing doors. With one swift kick, he had her safely inside and in Madam Pomfrey's capable hands.

He stood, watching as Madam Pomfrey busied herself over the little Weasel's limp form, before the privacy curtains closed around her bed, blocking her from his concerned eyes.

Then he was accosted a second time by a horde of insufferable Gryffindors who came pouring through the Hospital Wing doors, led by the infamous trio. This time both the Mudblood and Scarhead were flanking the Weasel King.

Draco stood, arms casually crossed, looking over at the ugly Weasel. Would it be fair to say that the Weasel King was becoming positively unglued right before his very eyes?

"Malfoy," the Weasel growled, eyes flashing with fury.

"Weasel," he returned coolly, "pushed her off her broom on the pitch as well, did you?" With a last frigid glare and a smirk, he spun around and left the Mudblood and Potty to struggle with the furious Gryffindor as he strode out of the Hospital Wing and down the staircase.

That evening in the Slytherin Common Room, Pansy slid over to a certain Team Captain and Head Boy, absorbed in his own world in front of the fireplace, slumped in that chair of his, his posture screaming his psychological state of mind. He had been sitting there for hours, staring at those ridiculous flames, not talking, not studying, not looking anyplace else. She really didn't think he noticed her sitting next to him, observing him for the past twenty minutes.

"Why don't you go to the Hospital Wing?" she suggested in a low whisper, for his ears alone. He startled at the sound of her voice and swung around, looking at her.

"What the hell are you rambling on about, Pansy?" he shot back at her, clearly irritated at the interruption.

She sighed. "Go to the Hospital Wing and see how Ginny Weasley is doing, that's what."

He snorted at this suggestion before turning back to stare at the fire. "That bloody witch is a danger to herself," he said simply, dismissing her.

"She wouldn't be up there right now if she wasn't trying to protect you."

"I didn't need her goddamn protection."

"That's not the point, and you know it."

He could feel her infernal eyes boring a hole into the side of his head. What the hell did everyone want from him? He was bloody well ready to tell Pansy to sod off.

"I could care less if she dies up there," he announced triumphantly.

"Suit yourself," Pansy said shortly, got up, and walked into the Slytherin girls' dormitory, not looking back. Draco's eyes followed her form until it disappeared into the shadows. Interfering bint. Then he looked at his watch, stretched his long legs out a moment or two, before getting up and strolling casually out of the Slytherin Common Room and into the castle corridors.

Draco was roaming the castle halls in a very particular fashion, beginning his late night Head Boy's rounds. He strolled by, checking empty classrooms, forbidden corridors, even the occasional broom closet for late night stragglers, finding the occasional shag fest or other interesting illicit activity. Normally one to enjoy the rare and unexpected discovery, he was merely going through the motions tonight, not even docking points for the out of line student or two. Hell, he didn't even have it in him to do much more than glare and frighten the shit out of them with his mere presence.

How had his life gotten so fucked up? One moment he was going to a simple Quidditch practice, the next thing he knew he had her dying body in his arms, and it just went downhill from there. Not only had he given up the biggest game of his career for her, but she had gone and put herself in the Hospital Wing over him. He'd never spoken more than a handful of sentences to her in his entire life. Besides one spectacular Bat-Bogey Hex years ago, she had never spoken much to him either. How was it that they were now so tangled up in each other's lives? He had absolutely no fucking idea. He had sworn off that Gryffindor trash the day of the game, and here he was, the next night, making his way down to the Hospital Wing. No, it wasn't on his bloody patrol route, so sod off.

He peered into the dimly lit ward, slipped inside and looked around. The bed where he had placed her earlier in the day was empty. At the far end of the ward was another bed with its curtains drawn. He could hear faint moaning emanating from its interior. His heart sank.

"Can I help you with something, Mr. Malfoy?" Madam Pomfrey queried in a hushed whisper as she rounded the corner and looked at him.

"I was wondering how Weasley was doing," he mumbled, hesitating a bit.

"Trying to rest a bit now, I suspect. There was more damage than we initially expected. We really couldn't repair all those broken bones. We had to start all over with Skele-Gro. It'll be a rough night, but all will be as good as new in the morning."

Draco's eyes widened. "Start all over?" What the hell had been that broken? Merlin, not her face, he thought, panic rising.

"Well, the impact of that punch was quite severe, a bit more damage than even I expected."

"Do you think I could see... the Weasel?" he asked. She shook her head.

"No, not tonight. This type of treatment really necessitates some privacy. Come back in the morning." He nodded and looked over at the bed in the corner once more before leaving to shut out the sound of her moaning from his mind.

Then the tall, blond Slytherin, who really could care less if a certain redheaded witch died in that damn Hospital Wing, walked out with an unexpectedly heavy heart. As he finished the next hour of his nighttime patrol, he heard her moaning in his ears and couldn't help but speculate on the damage that was done when that idiot of a brother of hers slammed his fist into her face. Not that he even noticed her face before, for all those infernal freckles, but he would rather it not be changed when he saw her again. Yes, he decided he would like to see her as she always looked, as he remembered her looking when he held her last.