novelraw Chapter 130: Evidence of Mutual Attention
Chapter 130: Evidence of Mutual Attention
As the song ended, everyone applauded again.
"I heard we missed the tango, which is rather a shame, isn't it?" Hermione said, slumping her weary body into a comfortable, ornate chair, taking a large gulp of Butterbeer, and watching the couples putting on their energetic dance.
They'd just danced many dances—soothing, melancholic, graceful, and intense. She'd probably made up for all the dances she hadn't danced in the first fifteen years of her life, and perhaps even borrowed some for the next few years.
"Oh, I don't feel regretful at all," the boy beside her said, leaning lazily against the chair beside her, his eyes fixed on her. He'd rather miss a few more dances and stay behind the tapestry rather longer.
Hermione sensed something in his words, and she felt her face burning.
She didn't speak again, nor did she dare look at him. Instead, she began surveying the crowd around her.
At this moment, Harry and Ron, who'd been nowhere to be seen, reappeared at a table far from the dance floor, whispering to each other; at the judges' table nearby, Madame Maxime sat alone, looking sullen, her dance partner Hagrid nowhere to be seen; on the dance floor, Ginny was still dancing with Neville, her steps already somewhat erratic; Fred and Angelina beside them were dancing with exceptional abandon.
George was behaving strangely. Instead of staying with his brother as usual, he strode from the crowd, following Ludo Bagman; he passed Harry and Ron's dance partners—the two girls were sitting beside some Beauxbatons boys—and then walked through a group of Durmstrang boys...
"Who are you looking at?" Draco suddenly interrupted her thoughts and gaze, a hint of wariness appearing on his face.
"I wasn't looking at anyone," Hermione said, glancing uncomfortably at the boy who was staring at her intently. "Honestly, Draco, why are you always staring at me?"
"Fine, I'll watch others," Draco said fiercely, glaring at a Beauxbatons boy who was trying to invite Hermione over, successfully frightening the overconfident competitor back two meters.
"You know, that expression of yours reminds me of my childhood friends," Hermione said, observing his displeased look and laughing playfully.
"I'm very happy to know you have a childhood friend," he said reluctantly, clearly not very happy. "How come I've never heard of him before?"
"He was a light golden retriever," Hermione said, downing her Butterbeer in one gulp and reminiscing about her childhood friend. "He was always very possessive of his food, and no one could touch his bowl—I remember it was a light blue one—and he was always fighting with the squirrels in the back garden who tried getting near it."
"Oh, I can't imagine why he'd do that," Draco said, pouting, as he casually swapped the empty Butterbeer in her hand with his own, letting her hold his untouched glass to quench her thirst.
Hermione sipped her second Butterbeer with delight, feeling quite happy.
As for Draco, he set his empty glass aside, observing the girl's smug expression, and felt she was subtly mocking him. He glanced disdainfully at the dance floor, trying to find something else to talk about. "What are they dancing now?"
It was midnight, and people were making the most of every minute for a final celebration. They no longer cared about the rules of dance; their steps became casual, free, and unrestrained.
Under the influence of Butterbeer and mulled mead, and the dynamic music and changing lights of the Weird Sisters, the "dignified and proper" demeanor was completely trampled underfoot. The young dancers acted willfully, swaying according to their mood and releasing their joy.
Even the professors were no longer reserved. Professor McGonagall's hat had somehow ended up askew as she stood in a corner of the dance floor, smiling and clapping; Madam Pomfrey and Madam Pince were twirling hand in hand, each acting as the other's partner; Professor Flitwick even took to the center of the dance floor, one hand on the ground, the other in mid-air, to show off his skills, drawing gasps and cheers from the students.
"I'll wager they're improvising, like jazz dance," Hermione said, looking at the crowded dance floor and suddenly becoming interested. "I'll wager you've never danced like this before."
"Of course I haven't!" Draco said, staring intently at the excited crowd. "They're just jumping around wildly. What sort of behavior is that?"
Hermione suddenly laughed, finding his awkwardness—wanting to jump but holding back because of his status—quite endearing. She took his hand. "Come on, let's dance together!"
"Mad, completely mad..." Draco said, shaking his head, his words carrying a tone of disapproval, but his body language betrayed him as he was easily pulled onto the dance floor by the girl.
"On such a rare night, forget about your image, Draco Malfoy! Nobody cares what you do right now! What did you tell me again, to relax when you dance? Now give me your body and get moving!" Hermione said, starting to sway, her eyes sparkling mischievously, urging him on loudly to the music. "I've seen the madness in your heart—no need to hide it anymore!"
So Harry Potter, peeking through the gaps in the crowd at Cho Chang and Cedric, inadvertently witnessed a scene that utterly astonished him:
Draco Malfoy, the most image-conscious and reserved Slytherin boy in the entire year, was laughing like a fool as he and his friend Hermione swayed and danced some unknown dance.
"Oh, he must be very drunk—" Harry murmured, forgetting to even look back at Cho Chang.
"Yeah, I can tell. Should we borrow Colin's camera to take some pictures, keep a record or something? Draco will be so embarrassed when he sees them tomorrow he'll jump into the Black Lake..." Ron said.
"Let him go," Harry said. "Tell me again, where have all the giants of Britain gone?"
"Oh, they slowly went extinct, and loads were killed by the Aurors. However, there should still be giants abroad, most of them hiding in the mountains," Ron said seriously.
At midnight, the Weird Sisters stopped playing, and everyone gave them one last round of applause before heading toward the Entrance Hall.
The memory of the walk from the Great Hall back to the Gryffindor common room was shrouded in mystery for Hermione.
She was busy regretting why the ball had ended so quickly, busy reminiscing about his attraction and support, busy wondering why he'd become restrained and polite again after returning to the Hall—as if the passionate kiss under the mistletoe had been an illusion—and by the time she came to her senses, he'd already led her back to the portrait of the Fat Lady.
By now, the corridors and stairwells were nearly deserted; the Gryffindors had already queued and entered through the door behind the Fat Lady. The Fat Lady, in her portrait, impatiently fanned herself with a fan, gave a mock yawn, and said to Hermione, who stood before her, "Hey, you're the last one. Are you going in or not?"
"Go in. This is all I can do for you," Draco said to her, his smile gentle and kind.
"Oh, thank you. I had a wonderful day," she said, smiling, her cheeks flushed and her eyes sparkling.
The young man lowered his head and placed a kiss on the back of her hand, saying "Good night," as he watched her step into the portrait hole.
Hermione's feet ached terribly, but she didn't care. She cheerfully kicked off her worn high heels and carried them to Ginny, who was lounging on the sofa by the fireplace.
"Ginny! How was your night? I noticed you and Neville were dancing the whole time," she said excitedly.
"Not bad. Neville's dancing isn't as bad as I thought... actually it's rather good—he only stepped on my feet twice," Ginny said, giving her a satisfied smile.
"I expect so. I heard from Harry that Neville practices hard in his dormitory every day. He really values this ball," Hermione said, jumping onto the sofa, as lively as a child. "I dare say he's the fastest improving dancer in all of Gryffindor—I haven't practiced as much as he has."
"Don't belittle yourself. I saw your dance," Ginny said, raising an eyebrow and looking at her meaningfully. "You danced very well and were very relaxed. You seemed to be enjoying yourself! Speaking of which, you and that Slytherin egomaniac danced almost from beginning to end. He's so inconsiderate. Didn't he let you rest?"
"Ginny, please, don't say that about him. Actually, it was my own idea to dance. I never thought I'd enjoy dancing itself," Hermione said, sitting beside Ginny and gazing absently at the flickering fire. "It's a wonderful feeling. You don't need to think too much; the other person controls the rhythm, and you just need to be led by them—"
"It's rare to see Hermione Granger, who always tries controlling everything, actually relinquishing control and letting someone else dictate the pace?" Ginny teased her. "You weren't this relaxed when you were practicing with me."
"When we were practicing, I wasn't very skilled yet! Besides, he's very good at leading dance partners, and I think we should let the good people do what they're good at," Hermione said, her face flushed, trying to justify her argument.
Hermione felt rather guilty. She knew Ginny was right. She liked having everything firmly under her control; it felt safer, more secure that way.
But when faced with Draco, a boy whose controlling nature was even stronger than hers, she willingly gave in.
Admittedly, this concession was partly due to emotional factors, but more so because of her recognition of Draco's ability to manage the overall situation. Even a proud girl like Hermione sometimes had to admit trying to control everything herself was exhausting. At times, she broke down and wished someone could take care of everything for her, saving her from racking her brains.
Draco was someone she could trust—he'd never mess up something she cared about—she had this inexplicable confidence in him. Hermione smiled as she thought this, the warm sound of the burning wood filling the air.
"...Your dance partner simply couldn't take his eyes off you, and all the effort I put into you was worth it," Ginny's voice said, pulling Hermione back to reality; the red-haired girl was quite proud of her skills at transforming people.
"Ginny, thank you for everything you've done for me," Hermione said, her face flushing slightly. She leaned back on the sofa, closing her eyes contentedly. "Thanks to you, I've had a wonderful night, like a dream. I don't know how to repay you—"
"You're welcome. You only need to tell me one thing, and that'll be the best reward. Tell me, after you danced with Krum, did he get jealous?" Ginny said, laughing gleefully.
"Without a doubt."
"Really? Are you sure? I glanced at him briefly when you were dancing with Krum, and he seemed perfectly calm," Ginny said. "If he cared about this, shouldn't he have acted more angry? I was actually looking forward to seeing him lose his temper."
"Believe me, he was definitely jealous, even to the point of losing control," Hermione said to Ginny, who looked at her with a questioning expression. "I have conclusive evidence."
Yes, this two-faced boy never revealed his true thoughts to anyone other than her. Whether Draco was leaving the Great Hall or returning, he always put himself in some sort of shell, wearing a mask of gentleness, restraint, and gentlemanliness, with absolutely no trace of the madness shown by that kiss under the mistletoe.
However, Hermione knew the kiss was not an illusion—just as his loss of control over her was real.
"What is the evidence?" Ginny asked.
Hermione reached out and showed Ginny a beautiful white mother-of-pearl button.
"A button?" Ginny said, confused. "What sort of evidence is that?"
Hermione smiled without saying a word.
It had originally been the second button of his white shirt, but now it had become a secret piece of evidence of his loss of control over her. She'd accidentally ripped it off in the darkness behind the tapestry. He hadn't even realized his button had been torn off, given that he'd been kissing her passionately, obsessively, and almost uncontrollably at the time.
Hermione somewhat enjoyed his loss of control over her. At these moments, he ceased being the epitome of Slytherin composure and instead displayed a touch of Gryffindor recklessness.
The thought that his perfect mask had once been cracked for her, or even shattered into pieces, gave her a strange sense of satisfaction.
"Hermione Granger, your idea is too bizarre," she said, smiling at the button and speaking to herself.
"You seem rather odd," Ginny said, glancing at the girl grinning at the button, then adding with a hint of amusement, "You really gave me quite a show today! In the second half of the event, I saw several boys eagerly trying to ask you out—from all sorts of Houses, and even some from other schools. Did you notice?"
"No," Hermione said frankly. "I was quite busy at the time. You know, I didn't have the energy to look around."
"I expected so. It's a pity you're completely monopolized by someone, with no free time at all, not giving anyone else a single chance," Ginny said, asking curiously, "Speaking of which, why are you being so well-behaved today? Don't you usually hate being restricted?"
"Oh, don't mention it, Ginny—it has nothing to do with freedom; I just don't want to make him jealous anymore," Hermione said, yawning to cover up her feelings, burying the mad kiss the boy had given her in his jealousy deep in her heart.
Jealous Draco was tossing and turning on his four-poster bed at the bottom of the Black Lake.
Despite his extreme physical exhaustion, his mind remained racing with excitement, making it difficult for him to fall asleep. Tonight, everything felt like a magnificent, dazzling dream, and his thoughts lingered within it.
It had been just a four-hour ball... yet he felt as if he'd experienced a thrilling Quidditch match, and his heart was filled with excitement.
The long wait, the extreme amazement, the boundless pride, the intense joy... then came the heart-wrenching jealousy, the vague sadness, the uncontrollable passion... followed by the cautious panic, the wonderful feeling of losing and regaining... these countless emotions swept through his recollection, like the sudden detonation of a white dwarf star, illuminating his world with boundless light and giving birth to a supernova.
He savored the nooks and crannies of his memory, and with a blissful smile, he suddenly recalled some words she'd acknowledged but which he'd ignored at the time.
"Krum had nothing to do with this from the very beginning! It was you from start to finish!" she'd said, embarrassed and annoyed.
"I was looking at you sitting beside him! I was worried you wouldn't sleep well at the bottom of the Black Lake because you're afraid of water, so I kept studying your dark circles!" she'd roared at him.
"—That's because of you! Have you forgotten something? There's more than one Seeker in Quidditch! I knew the best Seeker in the world long before I knew him—or at least I thought it was—and that's you! Is it surprising I studied Quidditch? Which of your Quidditch matches have I missed?" she'd said anxiously.
As he savored the experience wave after wave, a tide of ecstasy gradually filled Draco's heart.
These forceful words were almost a declaration of love to him... they were evidence she cared about him. Fragments of this evidence surged and churned in his memory, repeatedly verifying itself—ultimately, he became certain they were all true and valid.
It turned out Hermione had cared about him all along—only about him. Draco smiled slightly at the canopy above the four-poster bed.
And that intense, willful, almost out-of-control kiss.
It had been pleasurable, exciting, and even left him craving more. He knew it had been too outrageous, sinful, and he'd almost slipped into some sort of abyss of evil—a fervent desire she shouldn't be able to bear right now.
It's too fast, he told himself. She was only fifteen years old and things shouldn't progress too quickly.
Take it slow. Don't frighten her. There were still so many things to do; he shouldn't drag her into this so soon. She trusted him so much; he should live up to her trust, not take advantage of her naïvety and passionate trust to do something utterly despicable.
He shouldn't have been so brazen as to do those things he'd dreamt about—those things that had made her wail like a kitten—even though he longed for them, longed for them so much his whole body ached.
He tried locking the unruly beast within him into the deepest, most unfathomable cage. The beast wore an innocent expression, as if everything it had done before had had nothing to do with it; it hadn't shouted, roared, or instigated him at all.
Doing the right thing was far more difficult than satisfying one's desires. He absolutely didn't want to mess this up, and for that, he was willing to be more careful. Draco sighed, savoring the lingering kiss and recalling the sweet feeling of her wriggling in his arms, and tried again drifting off to sleep.
The Slytherins adopted an odd silence regarding Draco and Hermione becoming dance partners, even showing more respect for Draco than they'd previously.
This puzzled Draco—he'd expected them to react more strongly.
"Of course they have nothing to say. You invited away the prettiest girl in the entire year that day! They'll only regret not noticing her sooner!" Blaise Zabini said, rolling his eyes. "And look at the Gryffindor boys' reaction. They're furious! Their House's prettiest girl was invited away by their arch-rival House... It's an absolute disgrace. Many in the House feel incredibly proud..."
"I really didn't expect this," Draco said slowly. "I thought I'd become the enemy of the House."
"You're a hero in the eyes of the Slytherins now. They all think you beat Krum and won the dance partner he wanted. This has nothing to do with the House rivalry, or Hermione Granger herself, but that you, as a Hogwarts student, are superior to Durmstrang's champion..." Pansy Parkinson said, leaning listlessly on the sofa, feeling sleepy from yesterday's ball.
"She's not some prize or anything," Draco muttered—but the smile on his face betrayed his good mood.
"In short, if you can manage to lure Miss Gryffindor to Slytherin, I wouldn't mind," Blaise said, patting his shoulder with a grin. "I can't wait to see Potter and the others cough up blood."
"I don't mind. Who knew such a beautiful girl was hidden behind that stack of books... Why doesn't she take care of her messy hair..." Pansy said regretfully, fiddling with her carefully styled bob. "What a waste."
Hermione Granger, who'd been wasting her natural beauty, had reverted to her usual casual hairstyle.
"Using Sleekeazy's Hair Potion every day is too much trouble," she said practically to Draco, scratching Crookshanks's ear as the large ginger cat on the armrest of the sofa in their study corner purred comfortably.
It was the last day of the Christmas holidays, and almost all the students chose burying themselves in the library to finish their assignments during this darkest hour. Only these two probably had the leisure to read extracurricular books, since they'd already completed their homework ahead of schedule.
Draco, who was leaning against the sofa beside her and studying a book called *Numerology and Grammatica*, put down the book upon hearing this, revealing his eyes that had been hidden by the book.
"No matter the hairstyle... she's adorable," he said. He tilted his head and studied her hair for a while before finally drawing a conclusion.
Hermione looked pleased, her cheeks beginning to flush. But you could never underestimate a girl's obsession with these sorts of questions, nor could you underestimate how much she cared about a boy's opinion; a bland, predictable answer wouldn't satisfy her.
"Which hairstyle left the deepest impression on you?" she asked, trying different approaches, determined to get to the bottom of it.
"To be honest, I'm most impressed by the way you tie your hair up," he said, sighing and adding meaningfully, "It reminds me of the *Spellman's Syllabary*."
Hermione coughed, realizing he was implying something.
The kiss witnessed by the *Spellman's Syllabary*—their first kiss—had been when she was putting her hair up.
She noticed a smile spreading across his face, his eyes scanning her lips. She blinked nervously, instinctively covering her mouth as if to hide it.
Good heavens! Why had she brought this up?
How was she going to handle this? She let out a series of embarrassed coughs, wishing she could disappear into the ground.
"Anapneo," Draco said, waving his wand and patting her back, asking considerately, "Would you like some tea?"
"All right," she said. She quickly buried her face in the book *A Guide to Advanced Transfiguration* on her knees.
Draco enjoyed this leisurely and peaceful moment. Accompanied by the crackling of the fireplace and the clinking of the porcelain tea set, they continued reading their respective books, occasionally glancing up to exchange a few words, or simply smiling at each other.
Strangely enough, he'd used to find this state of affairs boring, but doing this with her seemed somewhat enjoyable.
"How is Harry? How's his research on the golden egg going?" After quietly sipping his tea for a while, seeing she'd stopped coughing, he cheerfully started talking again.
"I don't think he has time to study the golden egg right now—he and Ron are still working on the essays Professor McGonagall assigned!" Hermione said, abandoning her shyness and adopting an indignant tone as soon as she heard their names.
"This is really difficult," Draco mused.
He'd no idea how to deal with the golden egg; he only knew the content of the task.
How could he hint to Harry?
"However, he told me that after the Yule Ball, Cedric gave him a method, although he thought it was like a joke," Hermione said, gazing at the bright, mellow tea in her cup.
"What method?" Draco said, raising an eyebrow.
"He didn't go into details. I expect if he still makes no progress, he'll probably try something desperate," Hermione said. Her face showed a hint of worry. "Last time he almost completed the first task on sheer courage, and I'm afraid the second one won't be so easy; courage alone might not be enough."
"I believe you're right," Draco said with an expression of agreement.
Spending a full hour at the bottom of the Black Lake was chilling enough; add to that the various unknown creatures lurking beneath the surface...
Harry needed to practice the Bubble-Head Charm as soon as possible, as well as other defensive and offensive spells he might need. However, as things stood, Harry hadn't solved the mystery of the golden egg at all; how could he subtly hint at it to Harry?
"By the way, do you remember Professor Snape and Professor Karkaroff's voices in the corridor that day?" Hermione asked, blushing and staring at the tea.
"Ah, I remember rather well—" Draco said, coughing lightly, adjusting his posture, and his ears quickly turned red.
After the ball, they seemed to have reached a tacit agreement never to mention the passionate kiss in the corridor. If either of them even touched upon it, even the slightest hint, the other's face would turn bright red.
But Hermione persisted in telling him—she felt it was necessary for him to know.
"Harry and Ron overheard some conversation while they were walking in the rose garden, between Professor Snape and Professor Karkaroff. They seemed to know each other before, saying something about 'it's starting to become clearer.' Sirius said Karkaroff was a Death Eater, didn't he? Do you think this has anything to do with Vol— the You-Know-Who?" She saw his expression turn stern in an instant and wisely refrained from uttering the name "Voldemort."
"Good girl," he said. He noticed the change in her address, and his expression softened considerably. "You know, this name can't be said casually. During the Dark Lord's heyday, he'd place a Taboo on his name, and anyone who called him by his name would be quickly identified."
"But he's no longer a threat," Hermione said. She wasn't too concerned; she felt Draco was being overly cautious.
"As long as he's not completely dead, he could come back at any time. I hope you can develop a habit of caution—not waiting until you suffer losses before you change. This isn't because we're afraid of him, but because we don't want to increase unnecessary danger and harm," he said, looking at her earnestly. "I'm very worried about this, more worried than you can imagine."
Even though Voldemort was now barely clinging to life and his power was far less than in his previous life, Draco still hated the possibility she might be captured by Fenrir Greyback.
Hermione looked at him with a puzzled expression, her delicate lips pursed. His expression was very serious, as if he'd experienced something dreadful.
That was impossible. When Voldemort had been at the height of his power and then declined, he'd been only just over a year old and had had a smooth life. He hadn't had the same tragic experiences as Harry. What made him have such a deep fear?
Draco let those brown eyes scrutinize him, secretly clenching his fists, until her voice, tinged with confusion, came through. "All right. I'll try my best."
"Very good. As for what they said, 'it's starting to become clearer,' I expect it's the Dark Mark. You should know what that is, shouldn't you? It's on the arms of Death Eaters."
"Oh, I've read about it in a book, but it was rather vague, and I've never really understood it," Hermione said. "Does it change color too?"
"The Dark Mark on the Death Eaters' arms is normally red but turns black when touched and activated. At this point, the Death Eaters must immediately Apparate to the Dark Lord's side and obey his commands," he said somberly, his mood plummeting.
"Could he be summoning—" Her voice suddenly became shrill.
"No, not at that point. A burning pain and the mark turning black is what signifies a summoning," Draco said, gasping, lost in a painful memory, briefly releasing his fear of the Dark Mark. "They just said 'it's starting to become clearer,' which is a different story. Whenever Voldemort is powerful or present, the mark on the Death Eaters' arms becomes more distinct. This means the Dark Lord's power is returning—again, not a good sign."
Hermione looked at him, a strange suspicion suddenly rising in her heart.
No book had ever described this event in such detail.
Why would he know so much about this? Would his father, Lucius Malfoy, a former Death Eater, tell his son such inside information in such detail?
Why did the pain and fear on his face look so real—as real as if he'd been there?
However, the boy quickly regained his composure, composed himself, and looked at her again with gentle, calm, and soft eyes, as if everything he'd talked about was meaningless and only she was the most important person.
He always looked at her like that, becoming increasingly brazen. It was as if he didn't realize how lethal his gaze was. Whenever he looked at her like that, her mind would become hazy and sluggish.
She struggled to gather her thoughts and posed her final question. "So—why did he talk to Professor Snape about this?"
"Because Professor Snape was a Death Eater too," Draco said calmly, unsurprisingly seeing the utterly shocked look on his girl's face.
"Does Dumbledore know?" Hermione asked after a long pause.
"He knows," Draco said. "Back then, he went against the grain and recommended Professor Snape to Hogwarts, offering him a teaching position, just as he'd done for Lupin and Hagrid."
"Oh, I trust Dumbledore's judgment," Hermione said. Her tone suddenly became more positive. "He's such a great wizard—he wouldn't be wrong, would he?"
"I hope not," Draco said softly. "Believe me, in this matter, no one hopes he won't misjudge the situation more than I do."