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I think I’ve fallen in love with my self-professed mortal enemy.
Or at least I’m attracted to her.
Both of which are a problem.
Not that I’m alone. Every male in here is entranced by Hermione Granger in her Yule Ball attire. She doesn’t even look like herself, her hair up and contained in a way I didn’t know was possible.
When she first came down the stairs, her periwinkle robes floating behind her like some sort of magical mist, I racked my brain trying to remember which Beauxbatons girl she could be, but couldn’t place it. I even managed to creep close enough to have a conversation with her. Well, my version of “have a conversation”. Which means accidentally-on-purpose stepping on her dress robes and sneering, “Watch yourself.”
I definitely placed who it was then. There was no mistaking the scowl she shot at me, nor the hatred filling her tone when she spat out, “Get lost, Malfoy.” I didn’t have to rack my brain anymore after that. The gorgeous girl I’d been staring at was none other than Harry Potter’s sniveling, know-it-all best friend.
I’ve spent the rest of the night trying to convince myself I should find her repulsive. But knowing she is off limits logically – that she should be repulsive to me – is different from actually managing to feel that way.
I’ve now danced with Pansy enough times to keep her satisfied for the night. At this point, she’d rather be with her girlfriends anyway, thank Salazar. So I leave her at a side table near the dance floor, her shoes off and her cheeks pink with the alcohol we snuck in.
“Need to use the loo,” I say once she’s settled. She doesn’t even really hear me, already caught up in some gossip with a gaggle of girls. And Theo.
I roll my eyes at them as I leave the Great Hall. I saw Hermione leave not too long ago, without Krum in tow. To be certain, I shoot a glance at the dance floor and see the dumb jock with his friends, then exit the hall entirely. I spend an inordinate amount of time wandering around, checking anyplace she might be. The bathroom (likely, but no luck). Snogging in a hidden corridor with another guy (unlikely, and thankfully not – though I try not to think about why I’d care if she was).
I’m just about to give up when I finally spot her coming from the direction of the Gryffindor common rooms. She looks perturbed, not that this is an unusual expression for her. It is unusual tonight, though, given that she’s seemed happier with Krum than I’ve ever seen her. It’s annoying. Partly because I don’t like how much I like seeing her happy, and partly because I don’t like that it’s Krum who’s made her that way.
“Granger,” I say as she approaches.
She must not have noticed me, because she startles at her name. If anything, her expression becomes even more annoyed. “I’m not in the mood, Malfoy. So if we could just skip over the part where you taunt me and both go back to our dates for the night, that would be great.”
“I wasn’t going to taunt you.” The words are out before I’ve even thought about them.
She rolls her eyes. “Sure you weren’t.”
Her disbelief should have been my opportunity to recover. Instead I say, “I wasn’t.”
Hermione must realize I’m being sincere. But, ironically, my telling her that I wasn’t planning on being mean only makes her warier. She narrows her eyes. “Okaaaay.” She draws out the word. “Is there something you wanted, then?”
I’m at a loss. I’m not sure what looking for her, and then catching her attention once I’d found her, was meant to accomplish. I didn’t really have a plan. Tonight has me all out of sorts.
Realizing Hermione is still staring at me, waiting, I start, “I – I just wanted to tell you how nice you looked tonight.”
Bloody hell. Did someone spike my drink with Veritaserum?
Hermione looks just as shocked as I feel. “T-thank you.” I feel a little bit better that she’s as thrown as I am. She looks me up and down, then, blushing furiously, says, “You don’t look so bad yourself.”
I breathe in sharply. I did not expect a compliment from her to land quite so hard. Maybe because I didn’t expect a compliment from her at all. Perhaps we should do this sort of thing more often.
It’s that thought that finally snaps me out of whatever spell has had a hold of me all night, since I first laid eyes on Hermione Granger. Because no, we can’t do this sort of thing more often. She’s her, and I’m me. Potter’s best friend – Potter’s Muggle-born best friend – and a Malfoy cannot be having conversations like this regularly.
I stiffen, and I notice she does the same, as if we’re mirroring each other. I like that. Is that usually the case? Perhaps I’ve never noticed because we’ve only ever antagonized each other, and if we’re mirroring each other, that just means we’re antagonizing each other even more efficiently. There’s a thought. I should test that theory. See where the pressure points are.
That Malfoy mask of disdain finally slips back on. “Your opinion of how I look doesn’t matter, Mudblood.” It does, actually. And using that word leaves a bad taste in my mouth. But I need to cut this moment short before I can’t undo it. Maybe tainting it with that word will help.
Hermione scoffs. She mutters something under her breath, though loud enough for me to catch it. “Why am I surrounded by pricks?” Then directly to me, “Piss off, Malfoy.”
Then she brushes past me without another glance.
Unfortunately for me, I don't have the same restraint. I watch her go the whole way down the corridor, and hate myself a little for it.