novelraw Chapter 123: Draco's Past Life (11–14) — Fear, Spinning, Mystery, Crying
Chapter 123: Draco's Past Life (11–14) — Fear, Spinning, Mystery, Crying
Past Life Story Eleven: The Fearful Granger Time: Fourth Year, First Task of the Triwizard Tournament Location: Near the Stadium Fence
"We've prepared a great pile of tissues for you to cry on, Potter!" Draco said harshly to the pale-faced, dark-haired boy, then swaggered past Potter with Crabbe and Goyle.
It was a cold November afternoon, and Draco was heading to the match venue as a spectator.
Although he didn't know what the first task involved, he suspected it would be anything but simple.
"Under everyone's watchful eyes, Dumbledore can no longer protect his beloved boy, can he?" He smiled amiably at Crabbe and Goyle—the latter two, busy devouring their chocolate cake, nodded blankly in agreement.
Then Draco saw them—dragons.
Swedish Short-Snout... Welsh Green... Chinese Fireball... and even a Hungarian Horntail!
"Oh, Merlin," he said loudly, trying to hide his shock. "Potter's face will go white with fright."
Granger—that's when she walked past him and glared at him.
She actually dared to glare at him! She was as arrogant as ever.
Draco wanted to say something sarcastic and gloating, but she ignored him.
She was somewhat agitated and walked quickly, heading straight to the back of the tent where the champions were waiting.
Cedric Diggory had come on stage. All eyes were on him.
Amid Crabbe and Goyle's exclamations, Draco had no time to study Diggory's brilliant Transfiguration. Instead, he squinted at the little shadow slipping through the gap behind the tent.
What was she planning by going in to find Potter now? Was she going to give him some last-minute coaching? He leaned on the railing at the upper entrance of the stands, thinking gleefully, "It's no use, Granger—it's too late."
Amidst the gasps of the audience, Diggory succeeded.
Next up was Fleur Delacour of Beauxbatons.
Just then, a small Gryffindor boy was squeezing around him, trying to take pictures with his camera. He glared at him impatiently and said, "Get away from me! Don't stand next to me!"
The little boy turned around, saw him, pouted, and ran to another part of the railing. Crabbe and Goyle, on either side, heard this and instinctively moved apart, making room for him.
Yes, that's it. Draco was quite pleased with the emptiness on both sides.
He hated crowds—no one could squeeze next to him. He stared at the tent, thinking smugly.
When Durmstrang's Viktor Krum stepped out of the tent, that little shadow finally scurried out in a panic.
Draco watched her run wildly back toward the stands.
He could hear her running up the stairs.
He turned his head casually and met her bright eyes.
She had never looked at him quite like that before. Those brown eyes held a flicker of worry, dancing with a certain anxiety.
Those eyes met his—unguarded and unsuspecting—looking at him with deep concern.
Draco was puzzled, and then he suddenly understood.
She wasn't looking at him at all—she was probably still frantically worried about Potter!
Draco was very annoyed.
Before he could work out why he was upset, he heard Ludo Bagman's voice resound throughout the arena: "Mr. Harry Potter, please take the stage!"
The girl stopped in her tracks. Like a lost soul, she rushed to the small gap beside him, gripped the railing, and peered forward.
This was outrageous! How dare she squeeze in beside him! Didn't she know who he was? Draco thought in astonishment—instinctively shifting to make room—and turning his head to study that focused profile.
Her profile was delicate, with a slight pink tinge to her cheeks. Observing Granger this closely was not a common opportunity for him.
So he seized the chance to study her—perhaps to see if he could find anything he could use to mock her.
Then he noticed that her cheeks were very smooth, as tender as milk pudding.
Granger is like panna cotta? Draco suddenly shook his head, which felt dazed from the cold wind.
He must have had a poor breakfast—that was why he'd made such a connection.
A cold wind was blowing, and she stood beside him, her long, fluffy hair whipping against his black robes.
Those swaying brown curls. He wondered what it would feel like to pull a handful. Would it make her notice he was standing next to her? He thought maliciously.
Perhaps he should say something harsh, the way he'd driven away that Gryffindor brat before.
That's right—they shouldn't have any contact. She should stay far away from him, shouldn't she?
But he suddenly noticed that her eyelashes were very long, fluttering slightly like butterfly wings.
This strange association made him feel even more uneasy.
Draco didn't move or speak. He forced himself to watch Potter instead of continuing to study the girl beside him who gave him such peculiar associations.
That's right—he had to focus on watching how Potter would humiliate himself; that way, after the task, he could easily pick out every detail and mock Potter in every possible way.
Every minute, every second could become fodder for his future jokes about Potter, and he couldn't waste time trying to drive her away. He reassured himself and comfortably abandoned the option of "getting her to move."
Amid the whistles from the audience, Draco saw Potter raise his wand and shout something. Immediately afterwards, the foolish Potter began clumsily running around in the rubble, trying to dodge the Hungarian Horntail.
What was Potter doing—was he competing in strength with that creature? Draco didn't understand his strategy.
All he knew was that the girl beside him began to scream piercingly as Potter ran around trying to escape.
"For Merlin's sake, Granger, are you made of a Sonorus Charm?" Draco finally couldn't help but speak to her.
How could a girl produce such a scream—it nearly shattered his eardrums!
But she completely ignored him—she probably didn't even hear him—and continued releasing those terrifying screams.
At this moment, the Hungarian Horntail was breathing fire at Potter, who was hiding behind a large boulder. The rock was melting smaller and smaller, and Potter would soon be fully exposed.
What an exciting moment! But her scream seemed louder than everyone else's, drowning out all the other noise, ruining the moment and disrupting his enjoyment of the scene.
Draco angrily turned his head and found the girl clawing at her face in terror, frowning and squinting between her fingers, looking as though she wanted to watch but dared not.
That face!
Just minutes ago it had been perfectly fine; now, she'd scratched the otherwise flawless complexion with red marks.
Striking, terrible red marks—how could a girl be so indifferent to her own face?
The next second, Draco began to hate himself for what he did—his hands were a fraction faster than his brain—he grabbed her restless hands and stopped her from continuing to attack that poor face.
He had to shout at her, "Stop!"
The girl seemed unable to accept any option other than "watching Potter through her fingers."
After her hands were forcibly removed, she immediately squeezed her eyes shut in fear—the boulder was almost burned away by the dragon—Potter was in grave danger.
She clearly didn't recognise him, otherwise she would never have rushed into his arms, trembling, just as Potter was about to be burned to ashes and as her hands were pulled away.
For a moment, Draco froze on the spot—his mind went completely blank.
He didn't know who he was or what he was doing.
A few seconds later, he came to his senses and found himself holding her slender wrist in a daze; she was leaning against his chest, trembling with dependence like some frightened little animal.
She'd buried her face in his shoulder and neck—a perfect fit, so natural—like one piece of a puzzle finding another.
Why is this happening? Why? He was bewildered.
The screams from everyone in the stands seemed to vanish. He could only hear her soft, terrified sobs. The sound traveled through his chest and into his heart, making it tremble strangely.
He suddenly felt like that innocent boulder—being licked by the dragon's breath—and his face burned uncontrollably.
"The Firebolt's coming!" Then he heard Ludo Bagman shouting, "Mr. Potter escaped danger at the last moment! Good gracious, he can fly! Did you see that, Mr. Krum?"
"Er—he's all right." Draco, stiff and motionless, said drily to the trembling girl, "Granger, he flew."
"Oh, brilliant!" She seemed to finally dare to raise her head, and as soon as she opened her eyes, her gaze followed the figure flying back and forth over the arena, her tone full of admiration. "I knew he could do it—I knew it!"
An unnamed anger rose in Draco's head—she didn't even spare him a glance, let alone acknowledge his presence.
"Yes," he said coolly. "What a shame. All right, you needn't be afraid anymore."
"I wasn't scared at all!" she said defiantly, turning around to discover that the person before her was him.
Immediately, as if stung, she wrenched her hand from his, took a step back, and asked in horror, "Malfoy? What—what are you doing?"
"I don't even know what I'm doing!" he said angrily, hiding his uncomfortable hands behind his back. "Some clueless person suddenly rushes into my arms, trembling like a leaf, and then asks me what I'm doing?"
"You grabbed my hand first! I thought—" she stammered, her face flushed. "Why did you grab my hand?"
"Why am I grabbing your hand? What were you doing with your hand—scratching your own face?? Trying to give yourself a botched Healing Spell?" He was stung by her defensive attitude, and the anger burning inside him grew even stronger.
"What's it to you?" she said curtly.
He looked her over, his gaze lingering on her unsightly red marks for a moment, then gave her a wicked grin, as if he'd discovered something earth-shattering. "I think you were simply scared. Tsk, Granger—you're a coward. What, afraid Potter would be roasted?"
"I'm not scared!" She crossed her arms and rolled her eyes at him. "You're being completely unreasonable! If you can't speak properly, just shut up!"
"You might as well shut up, since your screams sound like a broken Sonorus!" he retorted.
"You—" Her bright brown eyes were filled with anger, as if she wanted to rush over and punch him.
"Look!" Bagman shouted. "Look! Our youngest champion has retrieved the golden egg in the fastest time!"
"Oh, good grief! I missed everything!" The girl stopped arguing with him and suddenly rushed to the railing, looking out over the arena. She shouted in an angry and regretful tone, "It's all your fault, Malfoy! I didn't see anything!"
"Granger, how is that my fault? I didn't see anything either!" Draco said, his head blazing with anger. "It was all wasted on you!"
"A waste?" The girl turned her head, her face flushed, and said in a shrill voice, "Yes, I think so too! A complete waste of time!"
Just then, Weasley arrived, looking at Draco warily and asking, "What happened, Hermione?"
"It's all right, Ron—let's go see Harry!" She glared at Draco, raised her chin, and said, "Out of the way! Malfoy, stop blocking the path!"
For the first time in his life, Draco didn't reply. He didn't know what to say.
The fire in his heart was rising and crackling in his mind.
He frowned as he watched her run down the stairs with Weasley without hesitation, heading quickly toward the tent where Potter was.
She didn't look back even once, as if everything that had just happened was insignificant.
The flames were still burning, bewildered and flickering.
They wanted to lick something brownish to burn brighter, but couldn't find it anywhere.
Why?
Why would he do that?
Why did he care about the scratches on her face, and whether she was scared?
Why was he angry at her sharp tongue, yet lost in her closeness?
Why did she leave so decisively, without even bothering to look back at him? Amid the excited shouts of the audience, he stared at her swaying hair, wondering with anger, disappointment, and confusion.
He gripped the railing she had once held, and suddenly remembered the wrist he'd just grasped—a slightly warm, slender wrist.
"What was she doing here just now?" Pansy Parkinson walked over and asked suspiciously. "That Mudblood?"
Oh, right, he was allergic to Mudbloods. Draco snapped back to reality; he'd almost forgotten that.
It was perfectly normal to experience trembling hands, physical agitation, and emotional fluctuations upon contact with her.
It was just an allergy—that was all—there was no other explanation.
Moreover, her face looked nothing like panna cotta at all. Absolutely not.
Whether she was frightened or not was none of his business. He thought viciously.
"Oh, it's nothing serious," Draco said lazily, glancing at the retreating figure. "I had an argument with her—as usual—that's all."
Past Life Story Twelve: The Spinning Granger Time: Fourth Year, some days before the Yule Ball Location: An abandoned classroom on the seventh floor
A nimble figure slipped quietly into an abandoned classroom on the seventh floor.
The long-unused classroom wasn't very large, with only two or three windows, their curtains hanging limply. Old desks were piled haphazardly in the corner, and a few chairs were placed crookedly in the center.
The girl waved her wand, and the chairs immediately pressed themselves obediently against the wall. The classroom door—with a deft flick of her wrist—clicked shut.
She didn't notice a pair of lazy grey eyes watching her in surprise from behind the swaying curtains. She took a deep breath, began to hum a dance tune softly, pretended she had a partner in front of her, and stiffly twirled and shifted on the dusty floor, beginning to practice dancing.
The person behind the curtains slowly smiled.
Merlin above—she was so clumsy! It was a rare miracle to see Hermione Granger acting so foolishly.
Draco was thoroughly enjoying the moment, watching her slip, twist into bizarre poses, and even trip over her own feet—it was an ultimate visual feast.
That would be a tragedy for whoever she was going to dance with.
Would some clueless boy dare to invite her? Draco thought arrogantly. Absolutely not.
No sensible boy would ever want to invite her.
Look at her! She was focused too much on her feet and had completely lost the rhythm of the song.
She hummed the tune off-key, turning the third verse into the second. The girl grew increasingly panicked, her footsteps and the song she was humming becoming completely unrelated, creating a truly dire spectacle.
In the end, she tripped herself up—what else could one expect?
Everything involving physical coordination ultimately ended with Hermione Granger on the floor.
Draco's lips curled into a smug smile.
Granger had no gift for anything requiring balance—not even dancing.
She really didn't have any of the grace a girl was supposed to have! He thought, almost regretfully.
At this moment, the girl sat on the floor and sighed. Her expression was inexplicably irritable, the corners of her mouth drooping, her eyes beginning to redden.
Oh, please. Don't cry. Draco frowned.
He'd never been good at comforting girls; he was only good at making them cry.
He never liked making friends with those affected girls; they were too weepy and too much trouble. Perhaps Pansy Parkinson was an exception—she had skin as thick as castle walls and would sooner leap up and yell at people than shed a tear.
But Granger—she was a unique individual—unlike any of the girls Draco had known.
She wasn't like Pansy, who was prone to outbursts but never cried; Granger wasn't prone to outbursts—except for the time she'd punched him—and was mostly quite composed.
She did cry. But most girls used crying as a weapon, sobbing openly in front of others to achieve their goals; Granger preferred to put on an invincible act, never crying in front of others, instead hiding away to cry alone, like some silly little creature licking its own wounds.
The sight of her secretly shedding tears was far more difficult to bear than any affected crying. He couldn't even have a proper argument with her now—not with her eyes growing increasingly red.
Draco was frustrated. He didn't know how to break this vexing, unsettling impasse.
"Tsk—I didn't know you were trying to learn to dance. Shall I cast a Tarantallegra on you?" Finally, amid her growing sniffles, he dropped down from behind the curtains, speaking in a lazy tone.
The girl started at the sudden sound.
She slowly raised her head, trying to control her defeated expression, but tears were already streaming down her cheeks.
"Malfoy?" she asked, her eyes blurry with tears and her voice thick, "What are you doing here?"
He looked at the drops on her cheeks and shook his head. "What precious tears! Cry a little longer, and maybe you'll finally learn to dance!"
He actually wanted to tell her to stop crying; unfortunately, mockery seemed to be the only language available to him.
His offhand attempt at comfort clearly drew a strong reaction. The girl rubbed her eyes, buried her face in her knees, and shook her shoulders. "Get away, Malfoy!"
He curled his lip, ignoring her fierce tone; instead of leaving, he walked up to her with a sly manner and came to a stop.
"You're still a long way off," he said lazily, glancing at her messy brown curls, a strange, gentle calming of the long-burning fire within him. "With dance moves like that, who would dare invite you?"
"Shut up, Malfoy!" her angry voice came from between her knees.
"Granger, your dancing is absolutely terrible. I don't think you'd receive an 'Outstanding' in dance." He repeated his new discovery smugly. "I never thought you'd be bad at something."
"It's not that I'm bad at it—I just haven't had enough practice!" she exclaimed irritably, wiping her face haphazardly and adopting an expression of complete self-abandonment. "Can't you just leave me alone?"
"No. Look at you—you're a dreadful sight! Stand up!" He roughly reached out and pulled her up, nearly causing her to stumble into his arms.
"What are you doing?" She tried to break free but couldn't. All she could do was glare up at him with her large, watery eyes.
"Practice dancing. Dance with me. Now," he said, taking her hand.
Her hands were still damp from her tears, and there was a little bit of dried ink on her fingertips.
Perhaps that was why his hand felt a frustrating yet somewhat familiar electric current when it touched hers—he was probably allergic to ink stains as well.
"What?" Her eyes widened, as if he'd said "murder" rather than "dancing."
"I have no interest in terrorizing anyone in an empty classroom today. Just practicing dancing." He noticed the wariness in her eyes and put on a bored expression. "Practice with me for a bit."
For some reason, he didn't want to say "Mudblood" just then. It wasn't because he was worried she'd suddenly punch him or threaten him with a Transfiguration spell.
"Get lost, Malfoy! You wish! I'm not practicing with you!" Her brown eyes were full of suspicion as she reached for her wand with her free hand.
He quickly caught her other hand and placed it on his waist.
"For Merlin's sake, are you really determined to make a fool of yourself at the Yule Ball?" he pointed out sharply, then gently placed his hand on her waist. "With dancing like yours, what unlucky soul would want to invite you? It's not even embarrassing enough! If you want to practice, you have to dance with a real person, not with thin air!"
She glared at him, her mouth opening and closing, before finally uttering, "What's it to you?"
"It's not my fault, but you've invaded my privacy! Your crying makes it impossible for me to think in peace!" He got into position and held her hand firmly.
She didn't refuse—her entire brain seemed full of surprise.
"Keep humming your song," he commanded her.
"Absolutely not!" Her face flushed red, and she stubbornly refused to utter a sound.
"You—" he glared at her, and she glared back defiantly.
"Go on, then—what am I?" She stared at him, then suddenly grew calm and gave him a mocking smile. She curled her lip and said defiantly, "Go on, just like you always do."
Draco looked into her stubborn eyes—eyes shimmering with tears—and the fire in his heart flickered, then suddenly died down. He felt a pang of guilt.
He wrinkled his nose at her and said, "I don't want to discuss it. I'm in a good mood today and don't want to argue with you."
He started whistling. He whistled the tune of that slow, melancholy song.
He saw her eyes widen in surprise, her mouth slightly agape. This rare expression filled him with smug satisfaction.
That's right—he was that remarkable.
Granger, you finally see me—you finally see me! He was still smarting from what had happened not long ago. In the stands, she'd been so focused on Potter that she hadn't even noticed him standing beside her.
He stared triumphantly into her eyes, which could no longer look anywhere else, and like some kind of captor, he led her in a dance around the classroom—accompanied by his melodious whistling—while she stumbled and spun to keep up with his steps.
It wasn't so much dancing with him as fighting him.
Merlin! There was no girl clumsier than Granger!
"You have to feel the rhythm, not memorise it," he said. "Granger, do you understand?"
"I'm trying!" she said indignantly.
"Are you trying to stomp on my feet?" he muttered.
"Keep whistling!" she said rudely.
He should have been furious—who else but her would dare speak to him like that—yet he obeyed. Perhaps it was her still-wet eyes, the tiny ripples shimmering within them that made it impossible for him to look away.
He whistled with dissatisfaction, still gazing into her eyes, and led her through the steps with ease. In addition to the growing surprise in her eyes, there was a focused determination, and for a moment, he thought that look was beautiful.
That's right—one should never underestimate Granger's ability to learn. After dancing together two or three times, she'd basically found the rhythm and wasn't treading on his feet nearly as much.
Perhaps she wasn't lacking in physical coordination, but simply lacked a teacher patient enough to guide her step by step. Draco thought to himself, whistling on.
Later, she even began to smile, spinning at the guidance of his hand. Her curls floated in mid-air, catching a shimmering gold in the sunlight; for a moment, he noticed that her smile was radiant, and her eyes held a clear, starlit brightness.
He laughed along with her. He heard himself chuckle softly, then startled himself.
No Muggle-born girl should have such a bright smile or such clear eyes.
This was far too dazzling for a pure-blood boy.
Something was wrong—he suddenly realised.
Why had he taught her to dance? How could he have done such a thing?
How could he smile at her as if he enjoyed it?
A Malfoy dancing with Granger! All the Slytherin students would think he'd gone mad!
Granger, who so often made him feel suffocated—the same Granger who had looked down on him outside the Potions classroom just last month, causing him to have the mental and physical reaction to Granger that still lingered now!
"Draco, stay away from those degenerate scum—those Muggle-borns, those blood traitors—don't bring shame to the Malfoy family, do you understand?" At that moment, his father Lucius's words suddenly echoed in his mind.
"Let's stop here." He jolted, suddenly flung her hand away, and released her.
Draco's smile vanished; he was frightened.
His hands, feet, and mouth felt as if they had been burned by her, and he moved away.
She seemed to be enjoying herself when his sudden withdrawal startled her; he flinched, his gaze sweeping over her astonished eyes, no longer daring to look at her closely.
He stopped whistling, but he couldn't stop the turmoil in his heart.
It was beating so hard he could barely breathe.
Draco was somewhat alarmed—he didn't know what was wrong with him.
Why was this happening? He was extremely panicked and distressed. He stared at his dusty shoes and realised something was wrong.
He felt as if dust had filled his heart, just as he had felt panicked and helpless in Flourish and Blotts.
All because of the girl in front of him.
His father was always right. Getting close to a Muggle-born never ended well.
He shouldn't have gone near her—even though her eyes were beautiful—even though her tears made his heart ache—he shouldn't have gone near her.
He shouldn't have danced with her. He shouldn't have taken her hand. He shouldn't have placed his hand on her waist. He shouldn't have thought her spinning was endearing, nor should he have thought her smile was radiant.
He shouldn't have smiled at her.
So he narrowed his eyes, composed his expression, and habitually threatened her. "That's enough. Don't tell anyone I did this, you little Mudblood."
Yes—she was a Mudblood. He tried to convince himself he had to keep his distance.
"That's exactly what I was going to say!" She immediately snapped back to herself—probably remembering their irreconcilable differences—and hardened her face, delivering a stern and merciless threat in return. "Don't tell anyone I did this, you twitching little weasel! Otherwise I'll suggest Professor Moody give you another transformation treatment!"
"Granger, you ungrateful wretch—" He trembled with rage as he watched the girl frown at him, pull a face, wave her wand, open the classroom door, and dash out as if escaping from a giant slug.
Past Life Story Thirteen: The Mysterious Granger Time: Fourth Year, Before the Yule Ball Location: Corridor outside the Great Hall; Library; Slytherin Common Room
After practicing dancing with a girl in an abandoned classroom, Draco felt even more confused.
He regretted his momentary weakness countless times—why had he jumped out from behind the curtains to practice dancing with her?
In the end, he'd been humiliated and threatened with Professor Moody turning him into a "twitching little weasel."
She really knew how to insult someone! Adding "twitching all over" before "weasel"?
He hadn't even added any insulting prefix to "Mudblood"! Next time, he definitely had to add one, for revenge.
He was furious thinking about that girl, so angry he was itching to bite something.
This dreadful girl—why did she keep finding his weaknesses? Was being transformed into a ferret something to be laughed at? It was incredibly humiliating! Draco Malfoy had never suffered such an insult in his life—yet she treated it as some kind of joke!
Impolite Granger. Sharp-tongued Granger. Heartless Granger.
He must be going mad. Why was he always thinking about Granger?
Draco took a deep breath, mentally preparing himself for the thousand-and-first time: She's a Muggle-born girl, you cannot think about her anymore—it's completely illogical!
How could dancing with her possibly end well? He'd only be laughed at by the Slytherins!
Let this sharp-tongued girl experience what it was like to be left without an invitation, and then she'd know just how difficult she was!
However, he soon overheard something in the corridor.
"Hermione—who are you going to the Yule Ball with?" It was Weasley's voice coming from directly in front of him.
"If I don't tell you, you'll laugh at me." That was Granger's voice beside Weasley.
What? Someone had actually invited her? How could anyone invite her? What clueless person had asked her?
And she'd agreed! The anger Draco had finally managed to quell flared up again instantly.
"You're joking, Weasley!" he said through gritted teeth at the boy in front of him. "What? Someone actually invited that buck-toothed Mudblood to the dance?"
Yes, he'd added a prefix this time—he suspected she wouldn't appreciate it—even though her teeth no longer had anything to do with "buck-toothed."
To his surprise, the girl turned around—without looking at him—and casually waved to someone behind him, saying loudly, "Hello, Professor Moody!"
Draco froze—was Granger serious?
His face went pale instantly, and he jumped back a step, looking around frantically for Moody, only to spot him still seated at the staff table in the Great Hall, eating his stew.
"You're a twitching little weasel, aren't you, Malfoy?" she said sharply, before heading up the marble staircase with Harry and Ron.
Draco could hear them laughing loudly as they went. He then realised she'd only been trying to frighten him.
Fortunately, there were no other students nearby, otherwise he would have been mortified.
Cunning Granger! What a little liar!
He coughed awkwardly, recovered his arrogant composure, and muttered to Crabbe and Goyle, "Let's go."
"Draco, who are you going to invite?" Crabbe asked him, his small eyes blinking nervously. "Who are you going to ask as your partner?"
"I don't know. It doesn't matter," Draco said irritably. "Who would refuse a Malfoy's outstretched hand?"
That's right—Draco Malfoy had an entire Slytherin House full of girls he could invite. There was no reason to bother himself over a Gryffindor swot.
But—who exactly had invited Granger?
Over the next few days, he listened intently to Granger's conversations with Weasley.
"Who are you going to the Ball with?" Weasley would ask tirelessly every day. The silly boy would always ask her out of nowhere, hoping for an unguarded answer.
Granger seemed very wary, refusing to answer each time, her expression frustratingly mysterious.
One day, Draco finally couldn't resist staring at her from the other side of the library bookshelf until she pulled out a book, spotted his eyes through the gap on the other side, and was so startled that she scattered the books all over the floor.
"Good heavens, Malfoy, why are you lurking around like a ghost?" she muttered angrily as she crouched down to collect the books.
"Are you going with Potter?" he asked, walking around the bookshelf and looking down at her.
"What?" She stopped picking up books, looked up, and asked in confusion.
"To the Yule Ball," he said curtly, striking a pose with his hands in his pockets.
"Of course not." She lowered her head and continued stacking the books.
"Who is it, then?" he asked, thinking of that round-faced boy she often pitied. "Who'd invite you? Neville Longbottom?"
She didn't say anything, her face flushed, and she continued placing books one by one back on the shelf.
"Looks like it's him." He observed her flustered state and wrinkled his nose. "You're going with him?"
"It wasn't him," she said firmly, glancing at him warily.
"You're not making things up—you don't actually have a partner?" Draco suddenly chuckled, looking her over. "Planning to spend the night in the library instead of going to the Ball?"
"Of course not!" she said angrily, tidying up the books. "Someone has already invited me! And I've accepted!"
"Who is it?" he asked, staring intently at her. "Why is it such a closely-guarded secret?"
"Why should I tell you?" She placed the last book back on the shelf, scurried away from him as though he were a plague, and threw over her shoulder a parting remark: "What's it to you—Little Weasel?"
"Yes—what does it have to do with him?" Draco sat quietly in the armchair by the Slytherin fireplace, his chin in his hand, staring at the flames, still turning the words over in his mind.
"Draco, invite me to the Yule Ball," Pansy said casually, dropping into the seat in front of him.
"I thought it was the boy who invited the girl—why are you doing the opposite?" Draco rolled his eyes at her.
"Some girls do the inviting!" Pansy said. "Can't a girl take the initiative to pursue her own happiness? Why should she have to wait for someone to ask her?"
"Didn't you keep saying you wanted to go with Blaise? Why not go and invite him?" Draco waved his hand at her.
"Pah! That rat Blaise!" Pansy spat disdainfully. "He went and invited Fleur Delacour this morning! Do you know what he said? He said she was the most beautiful girl he'd ever seen! How shallow!"
"Most of the boys in school will be trying their luck with Fleur—there's no reason Blaise can't. He's not your boyfriend; why must he ask you? Didn't you just the other day ask Krum and Diggory for autographs, going on about how handsome they were?" Draco said casually. "Besides, you're fortunate—I just passed by Fleur in the corridor and heard her say yes to Roger Davies from Ravenclaw. So you still have a chance. Perhaps in the next moment—"
Just then, Draco saw Blaise walk in through the common room door, looking around. "Look," he said, "he'll probably be over here soon enough."
"No! I'm furious with him right now! I need to let him know I don't need him!" Pansy said quickly. "You don't have a partner yet either—just help me out! Consider it a favour I owe you, all right?"
"What's gotten into you? Why should I do something so thankless and exhausting?" Draco said, annoyed.
"It would be embarrassing if you didn't have a partner, wouldn't it? I heard that Potter and Weasley both have partners, but you don't! Even Granger has a partner, and you don't! Aren't you ashamed? Aren't you losing face?" Pansy said matter-of-factly.
One of her remarks provoked Draco in particular—"Even Granger has a partner, and you don't."
Indeed, the "mysterious Granger's partner" still haunted him.
He was extremely curious. The more she concealed it and acted mysterious, the more it occupied his thoughts.
She couldn't keep this secret forever—whoever that unfortunate partner was—he would eventually have to appear at the Yule Ball.
At that point, Draco would get a proper look at that unlucky fellow who'd dared to invite Granger, and mock him mercilessly.
He would indeed need a partner to enhance his image. This would prevent Hermione Granger from being too smug in his presence and from having the opportunity to mock him for "not having a partner."
"I do need a partner," Draco said, "but why you? I don't want to get caught up in your war with Blaise. I could ask any girl I want rather than you."
"Of course you'd say that. But look at them—" Pansy shook her head smugly, gesturing to the group of girls gathered in the corner, chattering and giggling. "If you invited any other girl, she'd be very difficult to manage. She'd think you fancied her—she'd cling to you and never let go. She might even slip you a Love Potion, and that would be quite a scene. I wouldn't do that."
To be honest, Pansy had a point. Draco shrugged.
He really didn't want to get into trouble—as for those infatuated girls, he was better off leaving them well alone.
"Hurry up, he's almost here!" Pansy said urgently. "Make a decision quickly! I need to teach him a lesson!"
He rolled his eyes, raised his hand, and extended it to the most outrageous girl in all of Slytherin, saying lazily and in a drawn-out tone, "Please, be my partner at the Yule Ball, Pansy Parkinson, so that Blaise Zabini can be thoroughly vexed."
"That's exactly right!" Pansy happily slapped his hand, looking triumphantly at Blaise's astonished face as he drew closer, and called out, "Draco Malfoy, I accept!"
Gasps and sighs came from the corner. Then came Blaise's incredulous question and Pansy's smug mockery.
Draco rolled his eyes all the way to the ceiling.
Amid the bickering between Pansy and Blaise, he stared at the giant squid faintly visible beyond the domed glass, continuing to ponder an age-old question—who exactly was Granger's wretched mysterious partner?
Past Life Story Fourteen: Granger's Tears Time: Fourth Year, the night of the Yule Ball, after Hermione and Ron's argument Location: Marble staircase outside the Great Hall
"You danced the opening dance with the Durmstrang champion, and all the girls in the school are jealous of you. What more could you want?" he said coldly under the moonlight—a raging fire burning in his heart—looking at the girl with a bright red nose on the steps.
She let out a sob. Her tears, like transparent pearls, rolled down her cheeks without mercy.
He'd wager those tears were scalding hot—just looking at them made his eyes sting.
"You little crybaby... are your tears so worthless? They look dreadful." He drawled, slowly scrutinising her. "What's wrong? Did Krum upset you? Or Potter or Weasley?"
"Get out of my way, Malfoy! Don't even think about making fun of me." She pressed her lips together, her flower-bud-like robes cascading down the steps.
Granger—she was like a flower that had bloomed too vigorously and wilted, scattered across the steps.
However, flowers didn't drink, and there were several empty Butterbeer bottles lying beside her.
Draco looked around and found no one nearby.
No Hogwarts students, only a few unfamiliar faces from Beauxbatons and Durmstrang in the distance.
So he sat down at his ease and began to study her without restraint, noticing that her cheeks were flushed.
"Granger—are you drunk?" He suddenly realised this.
"What's it to you? Stay away from me! You little hopping weasel..." She looked up at him, her words slightly slurred, glared at him, and then suddenly smiled with a vaguely threatening look. "If you bother me again, I'll Transfigure you into a little weasel twitching all over—I've already mastered that spell."
That nickname made Draco's face flush instantly.
"You ungrateful wretch—" He glared at her furiously, casting about for the sharpest retort—something like "little Mudblood," perhaps.
But he suddenly stopped—her eyes were so bright, like the finest hazelnut chocolates sold at Honeydukes.
Besides, she was dressed so beautifully tonight.
He'd spent the entire evening scrutinising her with a critical eye and couldn't find even the slightest fault.
She was flawless. She was the focus of everyone's admiring gaze, and the final destination of his lingering glances.
She had him so thoroughly distracted all night that he hadn't wanted to dance at all—he'd just stared at her and Krum the entire time—thinking of nothing but how to provoke her.
But when he finally had the chance to be face to face with her, he dared not look her in the eye.
He then lowered his gaze and noticed the shoes she'd abandoned on the steps, and her bare feet.
"Granger, don't you find the ground cold?" He didn't call her "Little Mudblood" because he was worried she'd lose her head in her drunken state, pull out her wand, and make good on her threat.
"My feet hurt," she said softly, frowning, and let out a small hiccup.
"Didn't they fit properly?" He picked up one shoe and glanced at it—tsk—the color was surprisingly well-suited to her.
"No. I twisted my ankle while dancing," she said wearily, pouting her rosy lips.
He rolled his eyes, lifted the hem of her robes, and used his hand to lift her foot to examine it.
"Malfoy! What are you doing? Let go of me!" She was both shocked and furious, and tried to pull her foot back, but he held it firmly.
"Hold still," he said calmly, slowly massaging her ankle. Then, with a small click, her ankle was restored.
"You—you know how to do that?" She feigned surprise, examining her perfectly intact foot from every angle.
Hmm—Granger was a bit drunk; she wasn't usually this theatrical.
"Thank you," she said softly, glancing at him with still-watery eyes.
"Looks like Krum isn't all that impressive after all. A Quidditch professional isn't necessarily a good dancer, much less a considerate partner, is he?" he said sourly.
"What do you mean by that?"
"When he's dancing, he can't even take care of you properly—he doesn't even notice you've twisted your ankle." Draco smirked, a hint of smugness in his eyes.
When he'd taken her to practice dancing, he'd made sure she hadn't sprained her ankle.
"Take care of me? I don't need to be taken care of! I'd sooner sprain my ankle!" she said fiercely, then reached for the bottle beside her and took a sip.
"That's because you chose the wrong partner—someone who actually looks out for you!" Draco said, a look of self-loathing crossing his face immediately after the words left his mouth.
Why had he said that? It must be the lateness of the hour clouding his judgment.
"What nonsense are you on about?" she said blankly, raising the bottle to her lips again.
"Stop drinking—you're already drunk." He snatched the bottle from her hand and found it empty.
"I'm not drunk," she insisted.
"Of course you're not! You're calmly discussing ankle pain and life choices with a Malfoy in the middle of the night—perfectly sober," he mocked.
"Why are you always so unkind?" she complained, her voice tired.
The girl seemed rather agitated. She impatiently grabbed his tie and pulled it close to her face, staring at him in a daze, murmuring, "To be honest—if you'd just be quiet—you're actually quite likeable. Those eyes are rather nice..."
"This is utterly absurd! When have I ever been unlikeable?" he interrupted her, delivering his most self-important words with practiced ease—then, suddenly, he realised what he'd just implied and felt deeply awkward.
Wait—was that a compliment or an insult? He tried to work out her meaning and see through her misty gaze.
But he couldn't understand her—she was entirely unlike herself tonight.
Tonight, her appearance would put anyone to shame; she looked nothing like the insufferable swot he knew.
Draco Malfoy could not deny that she was elegant, beautiful, and enchanting.
She was like a dream. A beautiful dream that could drive anyone to madness.
"Those eyes really are quite nice." This enchanting dream stubbornly finished the sentence he'd interrupted—gazing into his eyes—as if searching for something within them.
Merlin—she was actually complimenting him. His lips trembled several times, struggling to produce something sharp in response, but he couldn't.
Nose-to-nose and eye-to-eye, the part of his brain that controlled language had entirely malfunctioned.
He was horrified to discover he couldn't bring himself to say anything hurtful to her at that moment.
He could only obediently let her stare at him, desperately swallowing.
Even more frightening, he realised he was blushing.
Then, with a slightly tipsy face and a dreamy smile, she smiled at him.
It was a smile that was both enigmatic and warm.
Her eyes blinked slowly, her eyelashes fluttering like butterfly wings.
"What—what are you doing?" he asked with difficulty, feeling that she wasn't gripping his tie, but his very bones—bones connected to his heart.
He felt a tremor in his body or soul—perhaps just because of a timely gust of wind, or perhaps not entirely because of the wind.
"I think," she said softly, gazing into his eyes with a hint of uncertainty, "I don't know—"
She was like someone attempting to solve the most difficult Arithmancy problem of the century, not knowing where to begin. She stared into his eyes, puzzled—without any attempt to look away—as if she didn't know what to do with him.
She moved closer. Closer and closer. He could smell the Butterbeer on her breath. It was a sinful smell—it sent a violent tremor through his heart.
He was like a creature pinned to its vital spot—motionless, yearning for something, yet simultaneously loathing himself for something else.
She looked calm yet bewildered, and as if in a daze, she leaned in and gently kissed his lips.
His first kiss.
Draco had never imagined what his first kiss would be like; he'd always felt it was something far distant from him.
And yet—fireworks were rising into the sky outside the castle, the explosions drawing closer and closer, striking his mind.
Then fireworks ignited spontaneously within him, louder than those outside the window.
Damn Granger! She smelled wonderful and was so impossibly soft.
Her lips were so fragrant and warm! She had absolutely nothing to do with "Mud."
Her lips weren't sharp at all—she seemed never to have uttered a harsh word—they were so warm and gentle. In that instant, these entirely inappropriate thoughts swirled through his mind.
Outside the windows, fireworks bloomed against the night sky, colorful and dazzling.
Inside, the two looked at each other, their gazes meeting then drifting away.
They slowly separated, sat facing each other, and were both stunned.
"Granger, what was that?" He finally found his voice and swallowed hard, still shaken.
The girl was speechless. She abruptly released his tie. Without a word, she picked up her shoes from the floor, stood up, and barefoot, hurried up the stairs.
A bewildered Draco Malfoy—like a wizard abandoned by some unpredictable enchantment—was left sitting alone on the steps.
He stiffly turned his head, watching the lingering traces of fireworks fading in the sky, wondering whether this was all some bizarre dream.
The next day, the girl who had sprained her ankle the night before walked up to the bookshelf in the library where he was looking for books. Her gaze wandered to the row of books beside his face, but she wouldn't look at him directly.
She paused, then asked him with careful nonchalance, "Malfoy, did you see me at all last night?"
He finally understood it hadn't been a dream.
"Of course not! Did you have some strange dream, Granger?" He crossed his arms and gave her the wicked grin he'd practiced countless times in front of the dormitory mirror, looking her over.
He would never admit that Granger had kissed him—a scandal of that magnitude was best kept buried deep.
"Get lost, Malfoy! You're insufferable!" She went red and turned away furiously.
He didn't miss it—the moment she turned her head—the small, quiet sigh of relief she let out.
Wait. How dare she. She actually dared to breathe a sigh of relief?!
Granger—utterly irresponsible! She'd kissed him and run away, then denied everything the next day?
What was most infuriating was that no one could possibly think—how could she possibly think—that having not kissed him was something to feel relieved about?
"She's absolutely infuriating!" Draco thought bitterly, slamming the dictionary in his hand to the floor in frustration.