novelraw Chapter 55: Draco's Past Life Stories (Parts 1-3) Talking to Her, Ignoring Her, and Being Sharp-Tongued
Chapter 55: Draco's Past Life Stories (Parts 1-3) Talking to Her, Ignoring Her, and Being Sharp-Tongued
Chapter Fifty-Five: Draco's Past Life Stories (Parts 1-3) Talking to Her, Ignoring Her, and Being Sharp-Tongued
Past Life Story Part One: Granger's Conversation
Time: First year, after Easter holidays, during a break in Herbology class. The trio went to see Hagrid secretly raising a dragon but were discovered by Draco, who had been following them.
Location: Herbology greenhouse after class.
This was the first time Hermione Granger had spoken to him—if you didn't count the incident on the Hogwarts Express. Back then, she'd been searching everywhere for that whiny Longbottom's toad. That certainly didn't count as speaking to him, unless asking everyone in the carriage just to say one word to him counted.
He remembered answering her lazily with a "No," and before he could even look up and get a proper look at her, she'd rushed off to the next compartment like a gust of wind.
Although her voice was pleasant, it was too presumptuous and clearly lacked manners.
In that moment, he'd smirked at her retreating figure and continued chatting idly with Crabbe and Goyle. "She's obviously not Slytherin material, is she? What a waste of time." Crabbe and Goyle had smiled at him and continued eating heartily, looking utterly brainless.
Hermione Granger—a unique specimen in Gryffindor.
He'd never met a girl more insufferable than her.
She was a busybody and extraordinarily self-important.
In every Hogwarts class, she bounced around with her hand raised, claiming all the correct answers, trying to attract every professor's admiring attention exclusively to herself.
Her unparalleled bookishness made almost every pure-blood child feel inadequate. For an entire year, the Slytherin common room was filled with derisive remarks about her: that show-off Mudblood—the bookworm—Miss Know-It-All...
All sorts of offensive names, if you listened carefully enough.
How could a Muggle-born child possess such magical knowledge? Draco had no doubt she could recite the textbooks backward.
Was she desperately bored? Didn't she socialize? Why was this bushy-haired girl spending all her time in the library, engrossed in books, studying with annoying diligence while every other child enjoyed the sunshine outdoors?
Compared to her, all the other students in their year seemed as worthless as dragon dung piled in a greenhouse.
Please, for Merlin's sake, was it really such an achievement to levitate a feather first?
In his irritation, Draco even stopped practicing the Levitation Charm. Every time he practiced, he pictured her arrogant, smug expression in class.
How could anyone learn it before him? How could anyone be more boastful than him?
His grandfather said the greatest contempt one could show a person was to ignore them.
Yes, ignore her. Don't even bother with provocation.
Did a Muggle-born girl deserve notice? Did she deserve the attention of the esteemed Malfoy heir?
However, she seemed close with Potter, and they often spent time together.
This made ignoring her presence difficult—every time he went to antagonize Potter, he could feel her eyes suddenly lifting from behind her book, those inquisitive brown eyes.
Draco had to remind himself that even when their gazes occasionally met and he noticed her eyes were the color of his favorite hazelnut chocolate, she was still a show-off, self-important, meddlesome Muggle-born girl.
She was still Potter's friend—the friend of an enemy is an enemy.
He would never speak to her first, Draco often thought arrogantly.
Who would want to talk to someone like her? A Muggle-born girl who spent every day helping dim-witted Longbottom and trying to demonstrate how clever she was!
However, on this particular day, she stood before him with an intense gaze, looking somewhat nervous, and initiated conversation.
This was quite unusual. Hadn't she always been wary of him, cautious, keeping her distance?
"Malfoy." She stood alone in the greenhouse corner after Herbology class, calling him by his surname for the first time.
"Granger." He was puzzled, glanced at her, and continued slowly tidying his Herbology supplies.
All the students had left by now, with only a few people remaining in the greenhouse.
Unusually, Draco hadn't left with Crabbe and Goyle. During the Herbology break, he'd glimpsed the dragon hatching through Hagrid's hut window and was deeply intrigued. He wanted solitude, so he'd sent them away first.
How dare that crude gamekeeper raise dragons without permission? Didn't he know it was illegal?
Oh, Draco certainly knew all the laws concerning dragons! If not for wizarding legal restrictions, he'd keep one at Malfoy Manor himself for entertainment.
When a boy's name was "Draco," it was difficult not to be captivated by the symbolism.
Just imagine that eye-catching little creature! Its wrinkled black body, its spiky wings that must look magnificent when spread, its long snout spouting sparks, its orange-red eyes, sharp teeth, and horn-covered head.
The live dragon was truly extraordinary. Draco savored the sight with great interest, finding it far more lifelike than any dragon models in his collection.
Unexpectedly, this meddlesome girl dared interrupt his private contemplation and continued trying to engage him in conversation.
"You saw it, didn't you?" Her hazelnut-like eyes fixed on him again.
"I don't understand what you're talking about, Granger." Draco emphasized his tone, sounding rather fierce. However, he lowered his eyes, feeling slightly uneasy. He feared she'd discover his fondness for dragons and that he might forget his vow never to speak with "Mudbloods."
"You saw everything through Hagrid's window, didn't you?" she said slowly, apparently choosing her words carefully. "You—you won't tell Professor Dumbledore, will you?"
"I can't say for certain." Draco finally concealed his dragon fascination.
He reverted to his arrogant demeanor, drawing out his words to tantalize her, staring with cold grey eyes, admiring the slight tension on her delicate face. "Perhaps—one day Potter will irritate me sufficiently, and I'll have a nice chat with the professors."
"I don't think you will." She blinked, tilting her head to scrutinize him, seemingly oblivious to the coldness in his eyes, instead speaking with knowing certainty. "Draco, your name means dragon. You like dragons, don't you? Did you follow us out of curiosity? Because you overheard us mention the word 'dragon'?"
That damned Muggle—which eye saw that? She was as cunning as a Kneazle. Draco was annoyed; his eyes flickered, and he decided to change subjects. "Who gave you permission to use my first name?"
"Malfoy." He heard her take a deep breath and immediately correct her address. Then she pressed on, "You didn't deny you like dragons."
He stared at her, finding the girl increasingly difficult to manage.
Why couldn't she act somewhat foolish like Potter and Weasley, show some panic? Why did she dare approach him acting as if she understood him completely, adopting a negotiating attitude? Was she really that clever?
"Whether I like dragons is none of your concern." Draco raised his chin, trying to avoid her bright eyes.
He stared at the Venomous Tentacula hanging from the greenhouse ceiling, examining the drooping tendrils, and said inscrutably, "Raising dragons is dangerous. You can't entrust a Norwegian Ridgeback to someone incompetent at raising them. With that crude gamekeeper's intelligence, he probably hasn't considered the growth rate of that Ridgeback, nor noticed it's a fire-breather, and that he lives in a wooden hut, correct? I'd like to see how long before he successfully turns that dragon into a dish on the Hogwarts table."
"You're so rude," she said, glaring at him and frowning.
"I'm rude?" Draco's eyes widened. For a moment, he couldn't believe he'd been accused of rudeness by a little Muggle-born girl. He felt deeply offended. "Nobody ever calls me... rude. You associate with someone like Hagrid, and you call me rude?"
"Because you never speak properly—you're always sarcastic and cutting!" she said, glancing at him sidelong.
What did "sarcastic" mean? Slytherins always talked like that—it was called wit, understand? Draco wondered, puzzled.
Clearly, Gryffindor and Slytherin were fundamentally incompatible. They were utterly incapable of appreciating linguistic artistry—absolutely hopeless.
"Whatever. I don't know why I'm wasting time with someone like you." He gave her his most contemptuous look, shook his head, and prepared to leave.
"Wait!" she said hastily, her tone softening. "Give us some time, and we'll resolve this."
"Why should I give you time?" Draco couldn't resist contradicting her. He stopped and turned back, regarding her arrogantly. "Why? Because of Potter, or Weasley, or you? Because you called me rude? Remember the other day when Weasley and I fought in the stands? Why should I be courteous to my enemies?"
After listening to his barrage of sharp retorts, she didn't respond—instead, she laughed. This laugh baffled Draco, who found it incomprehensible.
"Just because you knew it was a Norwegian Ridgeback," she said with a knowing glint in her eyes. "You identified the species with one glance. I don't believe you don't like dragons."
Draco was furious, scowling at her. He thought there was no girl in the world more infuriating than her. This annoying Muggle-born girl did possess some cleverness!
"One week," he said quietly. "I'll give you one week. After that, I'll consider reporting that reckless gamekeeper."
A gleam flashed in the girl's eyes—an irritating gleam. Draco felt his resolve weakening.
"Don't tell Potter and Weasley about this, or the agreement is void." Composing himself, he gave her a fierce, threatening smile, picked up his copy of One Thousand Magical Herbs and Fungi, and strode away.
For an entire week, Draco smiled maliciously, relishing the fear and unease on Potter and Weasley's faces.
Oh, the sweet taste of revenge—this was the reward for his magnanimity in letting them off, he thought smugly, finally finding justification for his inexplicable soft-heartedness.
The Muggle-born girl kept her promise—she said nothing to Potter and Weasley.
However, keeping the secret didn't mean she followed rules.
"Actually, I need two weeks." A week later, she stopped him in the library and whispered.
"This wasn't part of our agreement. You've broken it." Draco set down Curses and Counter-Curses by Vindictus Viridian and frowned.
"Speaking of which, could you please stop hexing Neville?" She glanced at the book and said unhappily. "The Leg-Locker Curse is no joke. Do you know how he got back to Gryffindor Tower?"
"Oh, you saw? Was it amusing?" He shrugged. "I thought you'd laugh."
"This isn't funny at all!" she glared at him. "He had to bunny-hop all the way up—so many stairs!"
Draco pressed his lips together. He seemed to have discovered a new flaw in this know-it-all—a complete absence of humor—which made her bushy hair seem slightly less offensive.
"What's so special about him? Is he worth all of you defending him? You, Potter—do you all adore that sniveling crybaby?" Draco said with disgust. "Can't you make some normal friends?"
"Is that your excuse for bullying him?" Hermione demanded. "Are you jealous he has friends who defend him?"
"Nonsense!" Draco said in a panic, then adopted an arrogant air. "I've already shown mercy by not using the Full Body-Bind Curse on him. I should have cast Petrificus Totalus so he couldn't run around tattling."
She glared at him for a long while before asking, "Don't you have any compassion whatsoever?"
"Compassion? Can you eat it? Can you drink it? So you stopped me just to lecture me about this worthless sentiment?" Draco said in a drawn-out tone. "I thought you came to beg for two more days."
"I do need more time," she said, her anger subsiding, expression hardening.
"Is this your method of pleading?" He pursed his lips, scrutinizing her proud face, asking suspiciously, "And are you deliberately stalling? What exactly are you planning? Was it bitten—did it bite Weasley's hand?"
"I can't tell you." A hint of unease and wariness appeared on her face. "We're trying to figure something out. It just needs a bit more time."
"It's dangerous, you idiots!" Draco said through gritted teeth. He wouldn't admit it, but he found the wariness on her face somewhat irritating.
He wasn't even planning anything against her, yet she was already this guarded?
Perhaps she had no other choice. Perhaps she was simply stalling.
He felt a pang of regret. Perhaps he should have informed the school directly. They probably lacked the capacity to handle a dragon properly—they didn't even realize being bitten by a dragon was far more serious than a dog bite.
"If you need more time, perhaps you should transform yourself into a pocket watch instead of begging me for extensions!" Draco said coldly. He feared that waiting longer would allow the dragon to grow as large as the wooden hut.
"You're so mean, you know that? Can't you give us one more week?" She glared at him defiantly and began bargaining. "You definitely won't see it next week."
"Absolutely not. No exceptions. I'll report you anytime. If I were you, I'd stay far away from that dragon." Draco narrowed his eyes at her, trying to determine where she found the nerve to negotiate with him.
He couldn't see her face clearly—her fringe blocked his view. This annoyed him, and his tone instantly turned harsh. "Are you planning to get bitten by that dragon? If so, you'll end up in the hospital wing, unable to raise your hand so eagerly in class."
With her intelligence, she should understand, right? Draco thought lazily—being bitten by a dragon meant hospital wing treatment.
His rare well-intentioned warning earned him an angry glare from Granger. Her face flushed red, looking furious. "Fine, whatever. I thought you could at least be reasonable, but apparently I was delusional."
After saying that, she proudly lifted her chin and walked away first.
Absolutely rude! Why did she leave first? If anyone should leave, it should be him! Who was she trying to impress with her pride? Draco was furious with this girl—she was testing his limits, ignoring his coldness, indifference, and toughness.
Besides, delusional? Making Granger, that infuriating girl, obey was delusional! Draco thought angrily as he climbed the stairs at midnight. According to a note by Ron Weasley's bedside, she'd actually attempted to take the dragon up to the tower at midnight.
After curfew! Leading a dangerous dragon! Alone without any protection! Was she planning to burn down the tower?
This was the brilliant plan Hermione Granger's clever little brain had devised—a plan as terrible as dragon dung!
It was too risky—he had to follow and observe.
Then Draco Malfoy was thoroughly tricked. They were ambushed by Professor McGonagall, each losing fifty points, scorned by classmates, and confined to the Forbidden Forest, humiliated like servants.
All thanks to Miss Know-It-All, that infuriating Granger.
From the very beginning, he should have ignored her overtures. He shouldn't have made any promises to her.
In fact, to avoid complications, he'd better not speak to her at all.
This Mudblood was dangerous. She made him feel his own weakness.
She was like Pandora's box opened, bringing all sorts of misfortune upon him!
Never, ever pay attention to Granger again! She's more dangerous than that Norwegian Ridgeback! Draco Malfoy glared at her stumbling figure and bushy hair as he walked toward the Forbidden Forest, swearing angrily to himself.
Past Life Story Part Two: Ignored Granger
Time: Before the start of second year
Location: Diagon Alley, Flourish and Blotts
Draco Malfoy had never despised a girl like this before.
In the first-year final examinations, he'd actually placed second, with Hermione Granger placing first.
Lucius was profoundly shocked by this.
Draco was equally devastated, but absolutely refused to show it.
How could a proud Malfoy casually reveal his concerns? That's what his father said.
"A girl from a non-magical family consistently outperforms you in examinations. I thought you'd be ashamed," Lucius said angrily to Draco in Borgin and Burkes, showing no mercy toward his son.
Draco felt his face burn.
He certainly felt ashamed, deeply resentful and bitter.
After the dragon incident, he'd cautiously maintained distance from her and never spoke another word to her. He thought this would sufficiently avoid any misfortune she might cause, that nothing could frustrate him further.
For him, "avoiding someone" was a completely novel concept. Had anyone ever seen Draco Malfoy need to carefully avoid anyone?
Who would have imagined he'd be attacked from such distance?
Hermione Granger—she was determined to torment him, wasn't she? Draco was furious.
He leaned against the second-floor railing of the bookshop, his expression shifting between uncertainty and irritation as he watched the brown-haired girl flit about cheerfully in Flourish and Blotts, amidst floating musty dust. A question lingered in his mind:
How did she do it?
She'd only been in the magical world one year, while he'd lived in it his entire life, yet he couldn't outperform her in examinations?
Look at her attention-seeking face, that bookish, book-obsessed know-it-all. Who wouldn't dislike her?
Look—she stepped over crowded people, opened her mouth in surprise, eyes shining brightly, slender fingertips slowly sliding along books on the stairwell wall, happily searching for something, as familiar and natural as a pure-blood witch.
Couldn't she act like any other Muggle-born wizard, showing more awe and unease toward the magical world? Why did she always act as if strolling through her own backyard, all smug and delighted?
She slowly made her way upstairs, getting closer and closer to him.
"Ah, here it is." She exclaimed happily to herself, so engrossed in reaching on tiptoe for the book that she didn't even notice him.
Didn't notice him?
Infuriating. Who dared not notice Draco Malfoy? Wasn't he conspicuous enough? Insolent girl.
Of course he wouldn't speak to her. Never.
However, her blatantly ignoring him was unacceptable!
He cleared his throat loudly, leaned elegantly against the second-floor railing, lowered his eyes, and pretended to watch the bustling crowd below. He could feel her gaze fix on him.
Excellent. She'd probably shamelessly attempt conversation, and he'd reiterate his stance: utterly ignore her. Let her experience Draco Malfoy's coldness, indifference, and toughness, feel the pain and resentment he'd felt after being ridiculed by Lucius all summer.
Silence reigned. She didn't speak.
Then came footsteps tiptoeing down the stairs. He glanced at the stairway and saw the bushy-haired girl quietly leaving, as if fleeing a sleeping dragon.
How dare she? How dare she ignore him? Draco was absolutely furious.
Was being top of the year such a big deal?
Hermione Granger, that blind Mudblood, didn't even take him seriously!
His anger flared just as he saw Potter, that show-off, taking photographs with Lockhart, strutting about before everyone! This only fueled Draco's rage.
Potter, that scarred boy who'd dared reject his friendship! And this blind Mudblood, who laughed so happily at Potter's soot-covered face, such a stark contrast to her wary demeanor fleeing from him.
It seemed he needed to go through the trouble of walking downstairs and provoking Potter. Draco thought lazily, wanting her to truly appreciate the differences between them.
From family background to clothing to demeanor, Draco Malfoy was dazzling in every respect. Why would Potter reject his friendship, and why would a Mudblood ignore him?
Sure enough, as soon as he provoked Potter, the Mudblood girl appeared. She hurried over with several books in her arms and walked right up to him.
Now could she still ignore him? A triumphant smile touched Draco's lips.
Currently, his father was confronting Potter. She looked worried and didn't even notice he stood right beside her.
She must be blind, ignoring him again!
Granger was even somewhat audacious, daring to directly confront his father. With foolishly fearless air, she said to Lucius, "Fear of a name only increases fear of the thing itself."
Oh, you foolish Mudblood, is this the moment to spout profound truths? Arguing with Lucius was tantamount to suicide.
As expected, his father cast a cold glance at her and said, "That's right—Draco's told me all about you—"
For some inexplicable reason, Draco felt nervous.
Father's words were unclear! What did "all about you" mean? As if he cared about her extensively!
That was definitely grammatically incorrect. He absolutely hadn't complained about her daily at home, gritting his teeth about how annoying she was, nor had he thought she constantly tried to be clever.
"And your parents," Lucius continued, a threatening glint in his eyes. "Muggles, aren't they?"
This time, she finally showed rare unease, glancing back toward a certain direction. Through the bustling crowd, Draco vaguely glimpsed a couple standing there, their brown hair exactly matching hers.
The girl fell silent.
Her arrogant, ignorant attitude was finally temporarily suppressed.
Lucius knew when to stop. As arrogant as ever, he wouldn't waste another word on any Muggle-born girl, instead turning to mock the Weasleys.
Draco had heard this type of ridicule countless times at family dinners—just the same old tune, as the Malfoy and Weasley families had never gotten along.
Draco stopped listening to his father spewing venom. He couldn't help staring at that tangled mass of brown hair.
He suddenly felt irritated.
He'd initially thought his father's threat would improve his mood. If she knew fear, knew to show proper respect for pure-blood wizards, knew her place, he'd probably release his obsession that had lasted all summer and no longer bog himself down in such trivial matters, continuing as the carefree, self-important Malfoy heir.
But no. He didn't feel happy. Instead, he felt somewhat lost, empty inside.
This strange, eerie, unsettling feeling.
At this moment, she tightened her jaw but instead of lowering her gaze, angrily stared at Lucius, seemingly still unconvinced.
She certainly had nerve, didn't she? Draco's lips unconsciously curved into a smile.
Even he couldn't bear his father's cold gaze and harsh words, yet she dared stare at him, seemingly not taking the powerful Malfoy patriarch seriously at all.
This attitude was rare, and he couldn't help glancing at her several more times.
At that moment, Mr. Weasley squeezed past her, bringing her even closer to Draco, nearly touching him. She still seemed oblivious to his presence, preoccupied with glaring angrily at his father.
This was awkward.
Should he speak up to remind her? But he seemed unable to bring himself to say it.
How could he speak to her first? This violated his principle of "not speaking to her."
He stared at her blankly, studying her kitten-like profile for a while. His gaze lingered on her round, large eyes, her upturned little nose, her tightly pressed, tender red lips. Suddenly, he realized his actions were highly inappropriate.
How could he be studying a Mudblood's face with such interest?
How could he find her angry expression lively?
Draco frowned, trying to redirect his attention to his father's argument with Mr. Weasley, wondering what new tactics they'd employ this time.
Unexpectedly, they started brawling after exchanging only a few words, which was rather unseemly and even unusual.
Why would Father brawl with someone in public? This wasn't just unusual—it was downright abnormal.
Besides, what was Father thinking, fighting in a bookshop? Even if Draco wanted to duel Potter at any moment, he wouldn't choose such a confined space—the battlefield was too small, impossible to fully unleash power.
But he had no time to complain.
Caught in the battlefield's chaos and crowd, the girl helplessly stumbled toward him. He instinctively reached out and caught her in his arms, as if casually scooping up a soft, fluffy cat without second thought.
This behavior was completely wrong, completely irrational, utterly improper.
Fortunately, the scene was so chaotic that nobody could notice anyone else.
Nobody noticed Draco Malfoy's mistake.
Dozens of spellbooks tumbled from the bookshelf like hail, each potentially deadly; even worse, the hailstorm mixed with centuries of accumulated dust from the shelf top, its musty smell nauseating.
Everyone tried protecting themselves from the sudden downpour and avoiding disaster. Draco didn't have time to release that wretched yet adorable cat—wait, she wasn't adorable—instead, he angrily grabbed her with his other arm, even instinctively shielding her face.
This was absolutely ridiculous—just ten minutes ago, he'd been grinding his teeth at her, determined to hate her eternally!
For a fleeting moment, he glimpsed her bright brown eyes filled with panic, surprise, and perhaps something else, but he had no time to discern it.
In an instant, he was struck by a thick book falling from above, and his head started buzzing.
It was at this moment that she, who'd ignored him so long, finally saw him and finally spoke the first and only words to him that day.
He clearly remembered feeling dizzy, his nose filled with the pungent musty smell choking his lungs, leaving him rooted in place. She inexplicably reached out and tugged at his collar, letting out a soft gasp in his ear, "Are you all right, Malfoy?"
"Shut up!" He rubbed the back of his head angrily, seeing stars. He hated the weakness he felt in that moment.
He released her fiercely and stood amidst the fine book dust floating in the air. "I knew it! Encountering you never ends well!"
He never dared look at her again. She was misfortune incarnate—what was there to see?
He strode away from that sinful staircase. To cover his panic, he quickly uttered a harsh remark to Potter nearby, afraid others would notice what he'd just done wrong.
Then Draco Malfoy, true to his arrogant nature, calmly followed his father, refusing to look at her again, and hurriedly left that smelly, dusty place of misfortune.
Past Life Story Part Three: The Sharp-Tongued Granger
Time: After the start of second year
Location: Hogwarts Express, Quidditch pitch, Slytherin common room
Keywords: Mudblood, Seeker
Draco Malfoy swaggered and opened the door to the last compartment.
To his surprise, he found nobody else inside except the Muggle-born girl quietly reading.
"Harry isn't here, and Ron isn't either," the girl said without even looking up. She seemed to have been asked the same question so many times that she now answered automatically before anyone could ask, somewhat annoyed.
"Where's Potter?" He'd originally wanted to boast to Potter about the seven brand-new Nimbus Two Thousand and Ones he'd donated to Slytherin, but couldn't find him anywhere in the train, only discovering this unfortunate girl alone.
"I don't know," she sighed, voice tinged with worry, though her gaze remained fixed on her book.
She was ignoring him again, engrossed in that damned Lockhart book.
Draco wanted to turn and leave, but was too irritated by her attitude.
Was she deaf or blind? She couldn't recognize his voice and wouldn't even glance at him.
"So they've finally grown tired of you? Left you here and don't want to play with you anymore?" he said, drawing out his words, trying to discover Potter's whereabouts.
He'd searched the entire train, and Potter and Weasley seemed to have vanished.
As Potter's best friend, she must know something. He convinced himself this was the only reason he continued speaking to her.
"Malfoy?" Her gaze drifted to the top of her page, glanced at him, and finally recognized him. A flicker of surprise crossed her brown eyes. "Is there something you need?"
That was better. Any Mudblood should show proper respect for a Malfoy. Draco thought with satisfaction, automatically defining the "surprise" in her eyes as "respect."
"Oh, I see. They didn't miss the train, did they?" He considered this, then smiled smugly. "They'll be expelled if they don't reach school on time."
"There's no such rule, is there?" Her face paled, and she finally set down the heavy book she was holding. It made a dull thud on the table.
The sound evoked unforgettable memories for Draco. He could always recall the scene at Flourish and Blotts, where he was struck by a thick book, seeing stars and experiencing lingering side effects.
The night he'd returned to Malfoy Manor from Flourish and Blotts, a large bump had swelled on the back of his head. This distressed his mother, Narcissa, who'd scolded Lucius thoroughly; even worse, his ears rang all night, and he felt incredibly weak inside.
Occasionally, he'd hear her worried words echoing in his ears: "Are you all right, Malfoy?"
Of course it wasn't all right! It was really terrible! Draco thought angrily, unable to help feeling wary of her.
How ridiculous—she worried about him? It was more accurate to say she bothered him.
What right did she have to bother him? This despicable girl who ignored him. Hadn't she made him suffer enough? Deducting his points, stealing his top rank, robbing him of his health... and now she even wanted to disturb his sleep.
By the way, hadn't he sworn never to speak to her again, lest misfortune befall him?
Amid the train's clattering, he remembered his vow.
He glared at her, ready to release the door and leave, but then she said hurriedly, "Oh, Malfoy, I should thank you for what you did at Flourish and Blotts."
What was she attempting, suddenly thanking him? Draco wondered warily—would this arrogant Mudblood really be so gracious?
Was there some conspiracy? For example, letting all of Hogwarts know about the entanglement between them?
"Shut up," Draco said coldly, not understanding why a strange, chocolate-colored mist was rising in his heart. This wasn't right—he had to hate her, so how could she connect to something he liked eating?
"Don't talk to me, you—"
He suddenly remembered the century-old dust and grime of Flourish and Blotts, so foul and lingering around them, and how he'd shamefully protected her—an act that, if revealed, would ruin his reputation in Slytherin. He also remembered how, after leaving Flourish and Blotts, his father had angrily uttered another name for Muggle-borns—Mudbloods—and warned him to stay away from those degenerate scum, lest he bring shame upon the Malfoy family.
"You filthy little Mudblood!" he said viciously. "Listen, nothing happened at Flourish and Blotts! Don't even think about making a fuss about it—nobody will believe you!"
He saw confusion on the girl's face. She was quite thick-skinned—he'd scolded her so fiercely, yet she hadn't even cried.
"Don't talk to me anymore." Draco rudely banished her confused gaze from his mind—she was irrelevant to him, and no expression could move him—and stormed off, irritated.
Draco Malfoy considered the compartment conversation quite successful.
After term started, she never spoke to him again, nor even glanced at him.
Although being ignored remained unpleasant, fortunately, Hogwarts never had strange rumors like "the pure-blood Malfoy saved a Mudblood from falling books."
So he calmed himself and swaggered before Potter, showing off his new broom, feeling nothing in the world could hurt him anymore.
Unexpectedly, she reappeared.
This time, she was quite blunt, mocking him before both the Slytherin and Gryffindor teams as if nobody else existed, saying, "At least no one on the Gryffindor team had to buy their way in. They got in on pure talent."
She—a sharp-tongued girl! So cutting, wasn't she? Draco thought.
Whether he spent money, whether he made the team—what did it have to do with her? He'd never provoked her, so why couldn't she coexist peacefully with him?
Draco was furious. He'd always been treated deferentially and had never heard such harsh, unforgiving words! Naturally, he had to retaliate fiercely—anyone who dared provoke Malfoy would pay the price.
So he retaliated viciously with the most cutting words he could conceive: "No one asked your opinion, you filthy little Mudblood."
Confusion returned to her face. A normal girl, upon hearing such humiliation, would have fled crying. But her? As if those words didn't affect her at all.
However, this remark successfully angered Weasley and made him look foolish.
The result was Weasley vomiting slugs in great quantities. This made Draco laugh until he could hardly breathe—he was on all fours, pounding the ground with his fists, laughing until nearly rolling on the floor.
However, after she and Potter helped the overconfident Weasley away, he looked up at her retreating back and suddenly grabbed the grass on the ground.
He was furious. He felt weak and angry. He didn't know where this sudden surge of anger originated.
Let's call it Malfoy's innate anger toward Mudbloods! He rose from the grass and, amid his teammates' snickers, pretended smugness as he stroked his new broom.
That's it! Hermione Granger, you'd better stay far away from him, don't provoke him, and don't even think about spreading rumors about Flourish and Blotts.
After this incident, probably nobody would believe what he'd done at Flourish and Blotts.
If she dared tell the truth, he'd claim she was smearing him, that it was complete fabrication.
That's it, undoubtedly, flawlessly. Draco stroked the broom handle nervously, thinking—this matter should probably end here.
However, he was wrong.
That night, Draco, lying in his four-poster bed, had difficulty falling asleep. This was unusual, as he typically slept well.
When he left the noisy crowd and reached the bottom of the quiet Black Lake, the anger that had grown during the day swept over his mind again.
Hermione Granger and her cutting words—"At least no one on the Gryffindor team had to buy their way in. They got in on pure talent"—kept him awake.
She seemed to look down on him, thinking he only had money and no ability.
Granger, how dare she look down on him! Nobody could look down on him.
Draco jumped from bed angrily and paced around the dormitory in agitation.
It was too quiet here! Granger's words were shouting in his mind, sounding particularly loud.
He needed distraction, to go somewhere noisier. He left his dormitory and headed to the common room—Goyle was still eating his Peppermint Toads, making constant crunching sounds by the fireplace.
"Tell me, what exactly did Granger mean by that?" He must have gone mad, desperately treating Goyle as a confidant—he was about to suffocate if he didn't speak—after all, Goyle was the only living person present: "She didn't really think that, did she? It was probably just blatant jealousy, wasn't it?"
"Of course, of course. You're very capable. We all think you're brilliant." Goyle's words were mumbled. He continued opening a new bag of sweets, casually adding, "You don't care what she said, do you?"
"Of course not! She doesn't deserve it!" Draco said angrily. "She—she's a Mudblood, who would care about her?"
Yes, just as Father said, a noble pure-blood wizard shouldn't take Mudbloods to heart. That would be self-degrading.
Listening to your father was never wrong. He could donate seven brooms to the school and was also a Hogwarts governor. Was there anyone in the world who understood social rules better than him?
He wanted to be a proud Malfoy, approved by his father. Nothing else mattered.
She's a Mudblood—don't take her words to heart! Back in bed, Draco muttered those words to himself a hundred times before finally falling asleep.
From then on, Draco Malfoy could only constantly remind himself that Hermione Granger was a Mudblood who wasn't worth his attention, lest that phrase resurface in his mind.
On the day the Chamber of Secrets opened, when Filch's cat was hanging on the wall, he saw her standing there with Potter, stunned. He quickly adopted a savage grin he'd practiced extensively and tried frightening her, calling her a "Mudblood" again. This time, she seemed to finally feel fear, and her face turned deathly pale.
She should stand there cautiously, instead of attempting to speak to him as an equal, thank him as a friend, or say something sarcastic and cutting.
She'd finally learned her place, hadn't she? Now, would she still dare look down on him?
However, even though she was temporarily terrified, that sentence still lingered in his mind. Arrogant Granger! Her words were so harsh they were firmly etched into his head.
At the Christmas feast, she didn't even glance at him, only excitedly talking to Potter and the others, smiling brightly at the table.
Infuriating girl, sharp-tongued girl, so annoying!
Did she feel absolutely no remorse for her disturbing words?
"Saint Potter is friends with Mudbloods. He also lacks pure-blood bearing, otherwise he wouldn't constantly associate with that arrogant Mudblood Granger." After the Christmas feast, he returned to the desolate common room and said arrogantly to Goyle.
He had to say something, because that sentence was tormenting him again, making him feel bitter.
Goyle was asking numerous questions today. He'd been questioning things ever since that night. He forced himself to remain calm, adopting an air of smug satisfaction, and tried again to convince himself, "I bet another Mudblood will die this time... I hope it's Granger."
He'd been too honest with Goyle before, which wasn't good.
Even a fool like Goyle could sense his concern for her, which was unacceptable.
Now he had to completely erase the idea that "he cared about Granger's words."
He'd said such harsh things, even stating he "hoped she was dead"—surely Goyle wouldn't think he cared about a Mudblood anymore, would he?
As for whether Draco Malfoy truly wanted Hermione Granger dead, perhaps only Merlin knew the answer.
Even Draco himself didn't know what he was thinking. Why was he dwelling on these things? He'd said countless harsh words since childhood. Did he have to examine each and every word to determine if they were sincere?
All he knew was he'd never held a grudge to this extent over a girl's words before.
For a long time, during his self-deception, Draco took it for granted that his defiant retorts reflected his true feelings. He never considered the alternative—that his terrible expectations of her, his wish for her death, might be an overreaction to being hurt by her words.
Until one day, he could no longer deceive himself. That day, he found her petrified outside the library.
Yes, very few people at Hogwarts knew that it was Draco Malfoy who first discovered Hermione Granger's petrified form.
When he saw her, his legs went weak and he nearly collapsed.
How could that once vibrant face have become so rigid? Her cheeks had lost their life, her hair had lost its luster. Even the light in her eyes had vanished, leaving only deathly stillness.
This was suffocating.
In that instant, the emotion surging through his heart was by no means joy.
It was panic, shock, bewilderment.
Something gripped his heart tightly, twisting it closed, then his internal organs, twisting them into a tangled mess.
It felt like he was about to crash into a helicopter on his flying broomstick.
He turned and ran, trying to find someone to rescue her.
So this was what petrification meant—it was far more terrifying than Mrs. Norris's petrification.
That's how it was. A child making harsh remarks often doesn't understand their meaning. Only when he truly realized what petrification and death meant could he understand that some of his harsh words weren't his real expectations, but just methods of venting dissatisfaction.
Summer arrived, and he finally understood petrification's meaning, while she lay blankly on the hospital wing bed, lifeless.
Sometimes he'd sneak up on his flying broomstick and peek at her through the hospital wing window—Madam Pomfrey forbade people from looking through the door, fearing someone might harm the petrified students.
This infuriating girl! Now she was eerily quiet, unsettlingly quiet, so quiet he was starting to despise himself for spying on her.
He visited the greenhouses several times weekly to check the Mandrakes.
One day, he heard they were finally nearly mature and felt inexplicably relieved.
He didn't even know what purpose these useless actions served.
The thought of her fueled his urge to provoke Potter relentlessly, to vent his inexplicable emotions. He attacked Potter with the most vicious words, hurling insults like "Mudblood," which enraged Weasley. Then he secretly pictured her once bright eyes in his mind.
For a fleeting moment, he'd scooped her up and held her protectively in his arms, like a petite, delicate cat. At that time, there had still been light in her eyes.
Sometimes he thought that if she weren't so sharp-tongued, if she weren't a Mudblood, he might have accepted her thanks.
Perhaps he would have been willing to try being friends with her.
Be friends? Draco was startled by his own thought. Absolutely not!
Merlin, just think about it—Hermione Granger was such a nuisance! So sharp-tongued!
A single cutting word from her could easily negate everything about him. It could negate his childhood experience practicing flying, negate every drop of sweat he'd shed on his home pitch during holidays, and negate his heartfelt love for Quidditch.
Yes, the Malfoy family was generous with donations to the House team, but that didn't mean he lacked ability. Without considerable skill, who would have the confidence to be Seeker? Weren't they afraid of embarrassing themselves in matches?
Draco Malfoy was very proud. He absolutely didn't want to embarrass himself in the sport he loved.
He knew he shouldn't be angry at such prejudiced, ignorant accusations. She knew nothing—she couldn't even fly steadily. How could she possibly understand his passion for Quidditch?
However, her words were like a cruel carving knife, slicing open the beautiful velvet curtain and revealing the unsightly holes behind it.
Some details he hadn't noticed before gradually surfaced in his mind.
Although his House team teammates were polite to his face, their attitude was inevitably somewhat disdainful when he couldn't see them. Captain Marcus Flint, while praising the brooms' performance, looked at him with suspicion and asked him to "work harder" after each training session. Although he'd participated legitimately in the House team selection, Hogwarts students always felt he'd joined the team entirely because of those brooms.
He could have ignored it. He could have continued smiling smugly, numbly accepting the gossip and dismissing it as mere jealousy.
But ever since she'd said those words, he couldn't ignore those details anymore. That wretched Hermione Granger, with her sharp little mouth, mercilessly scratched a mark on his proud heart.
So much so that every time Draco rode his flying broomstick, he couldn't help recalling her damned taunt. He had to train even harder, almost too seriously. He wanted to prove himself—he wasn't just someone who'd bought his way onto the team. He wanted to prove he wasn't unworthy of his position.
This was completely unnecessary self-torture. He could have simply relaxed and practiced casually. But he couldn't control his foolish behavior. He began feeling and hating those gazes, those gazes filled with suspicion.
"I like your attitude lately. You know, I put considerable pressure on myself to get you on the team. I'm very pleased with how hard you've worked to improve." Finally, one day, at practice's end, Flint placed his hand on Draco's shoulder, smiled and said, "You can call me Marcus, not Flint. I think I'd like to be your friend."
Flint had never been so open with him before, nor shown such friendship-like intimacy. Draco looked at his captain in surprise and smiled at him happily.
It seemed that in arguing against Hermione Granger's sarcastic remark, and amid his unintentional self-torture, he'd truly earned Marcus Flint's respect.
It felt novel. It seemed to be the first time he'd earned others' respect through his own efforts, not his parents'.
That feeling was extraordinary.
It was warm and sunny, like the sun shining on the Black Lake after its gloomy winter, melting ice and snow.
He seemed to understand what she'd meant, though he understood it rather late.
At term's end, the Mandrake finally matured, and the Chamber of Secrets victims were finally freed from petrification.
Draco glanced at the gold-and-scarlet crowd nearby and saw the girl rush in, happily talking to Potter.
Oh, she smiled warmly, like a smug cat.
She didn't look at him even once. And if she had, her gaze would likely have been filled with disgust and wariness.
After all, he'd called her a "Mudblood" so many times.
They were irreconcilable mortal enemies.
Ironically, after he'd cursed her as a "Mudblood" extensively because of that one sentence, he suddenly realized that her hurtful, sharp words had actually helped him.
Ironic, wasn't it? What truly motivated Draco Malfoy to improve was a sarcastic remark from that Mudblood that she'd probably long forgotten, and he would never admit it.
Absolutely not.