novelraw Chapter 86: The Library's Gentle Touch
Chapter 86: The Library's Gentle Touch
Draco had always maintained distance from and remained wary of Lupin, the Defence Against the Dark Arts professor.
He had no intention of exposing Lupin.
Since Professor Dumbledore had hired him and Professor Snape was willing to brew him Wolfsbane Potion, why should Draco Malfoy eagerly interfere?
A proper Slytherin always stayed out of the way, observed detachedly, and avoided trouble.
However, a change had occurred: Hermione Granger, using her brilliant mind and meticulous analysis of seemingly minor details, had uncovered the truth that Lupin was a werewolf.
"What do you plan to do? Report him, or continue to remain silent?" he asked her again on the snowy road from Hogsmeade back to Hogwarts Castle.
Draco was curious what choice a Gryffindor girl who considered herself brave would make.
Should she meddle in others' business like him, or should she rise to the challenge and make it known to everyone for the sake of her sense of order?
Hermione hesitated.
She deliberately tugged at his robes, slowing her pace and falling far behind Harry and Ron, before whispering, "What do you think would happen if I told everyone that Professor Lupin is a werewolf?"
"Oh, it's no great matter. Hogwarts won't be affected at all. As for Lupin, he'll lose his teaching position," Draco said casually. "Those parents' owls will flood Professor Dumbledore's office, demanding he replace this Defence Against the Dark Arts professor."
"Why?" Hermione's face was as white as snow. "Just because he's a werewolf?"
"That's right—because he's a werewolf," he said slowly, leading her toward level ground.
"But he didn't do anything wrong," she asked anxiously.
"When you first learned that Lupin was a werewolf, weren't you frightened?" Draco said, turning to look at her with interest. "What? Now you're defending him?"
"I was just too shocked! Not frightened," she said, widening her brown eyes and retorting seriously. "I've calmed down now! When I think about it calmly, he's quite talented, isn't he? And very responsible—he's even teaching Harry the Patronus Charm! He's an excellent professor, isn't he?"
"He's an 'excellent professor' now," Draco said calmly, amidst the crunching snow. "Once he transforms, he'll be a 'dangerous element.' He'll be more dangerous than you can imagine."
"I know werewolves are dangerous. But thinking about Professor Lupin—he's so gentle, I find it hard to believe he could turn into a raging werewolf," Hermione said, raising her head seriously, with a hint of naive innocence in her eyes.
This made him nervous.
"Hermione, you can't take chances with this. When a werewolf transforms, it loses all reason and humanity. Wizards have difficulty dealing with werewolves directly; they're highly resistant to magic. If you encounter a transformed werewolf, you might end up dead," Draco said, stopping and speaking to her solemnly.
"I know—I've read about it in books. Professor Snape also made us write essays when he taught classes," Hermione said, somewhat puzzled why he looked so serious.
"Then you should know the best way to avoid being harmed by werewolves is to avoid encountering them in the first place," Draco said with utmost seriousness. "Hermione, stay far away from werewolves, understand? This is no jest."
"I know," she said impatiently. "Do you think I'd walk right into a werewolf's jaws?"
You didn't even approach the werewolf—you summoned him directly! Draco thought, rolling his eyes as he recalled their foolish actions in their previous life, actually calling out the Dark Lord's name and getting caught by Greyback—utterly stupid!
"So, should we expose him, Gryffindor's heroine?" he asked as he walked, leading the bewildered girl who was tugging at his robes forward in the gradually darkening sky.
This was the third time he'd asked her that question today. He was very curious about her thoughts and choices.
Hermione remained silent for a long time before asking him a question: "Draco, what kind of professors does Hogwarts truly need? In terms of character, talent, teaching ability, and teaching attitude, who's more qualified to be a Hogwarts professor—Professor Lupin, Quirrell, or Lockhart?"
"He is indeed talented," Draco said dismissively, "but it's too dangerous for young witches and wizards at Hogwarts to have a werewolf as professor. No parent wants their child living near a werewolf. The risk is too great."
"But the risk is controlled, isn't it? He's been drinking Wolfsbane Potion every month," Hermione said, puzzled, feeling her hands getting rather cold.
"That's right—he drank Wolfsbane Potion to minimize risks. But that doesn't solve the fundamental problem—being born a werewolf is the original sin," Draco said, his tone firm. "Once the truth is known, the only outcome will be 'dismissal.'"
"That's why I'm hesitant," Hermione said slowly, a hint of vulnerability creeping into her voice. "I don't think a talented person who's never hurt anyone should be treated this way. So far, he's done nothing wrong, teaching responsibly and managing risks to the best of his ability. It's shameful to deprive him of his right and opportunity to be a professor just because people fear his werewolf identity and some mistake he may never make."
Draco glanced at her. She was shivering from a gust of cold wind, her body and voice trembling.
But she looked at him with a defiant gaze, trembling in the cold air, and asked, "Does that mean a person's talent, character, and thoughts are unimportant, that a person's efforts, dedication, and erudition are meaningless, and that just because he's a werewolf, he should be rejected and condemned to social death?"
Draco suddenly understood her thoughts, and he gently shook his head.
"Hermione, sometimes I think you're endearing, but also naive," he said coldly. "There are only two options in this matter. One is to expose him and have him dismissed; the other is to keep it secret. The scenario you envision, where everyone knows his identity and can accept him as professor, doesn't exist."
Hermione stopped in her tracks. She released her grip on his robes.
Draco had seen through her thoughts.
Then he'd mercilessly mocked her, calling her "naive." He'd shattered her illusions, like popping a colorful soap bubble she'd woven.
How could he be so cruel? Was his thinking too extreme, or was he revealing objective reality? She suddenly felt sharp pain in her heart.
Draco felt a sudden lightness on his robes' hem.
He turned to look at the girl standing frozen in the snow, refusing to continue. She frowned, seemingly both confused and angry.
This stubborn and headstrong girl possessed a captivating complexity. She was clearly afraid of werewolves yet refused to admit it; she worried about innocent people being harmed yet was filled with sympathy for werewolves.
This was contradictory, yet captivating.
Just like she'd been to him in his previous life.
He sighed and turned back to look at her. He stood directly before her, looking down at her.
He watched her stubborn lips pressed together. He watched her slender, dark brown eyebrows furrowed. He watched the tip of her nose turn slightly red from cold. He watched her face turn deathly pale from cold. He watched fine snowflakes begin falling again onto her hair. He watched her bare neck, without a scarf.
"Where's your scarf, Hermione?" he asked softly, softening his tone.
"I forgot to wear it," she said softly, trembling slightly in the wind. She pouted, suddenly feeling a pang of grievance.
So he removed his scarf and wrapped it around her neck, several times, until her neck was completely covered and not a single cold breeze could penetrate.
Hermione looked at the boy before her.
She felt exhausted and numb, heartbroken and cold, because of the werewolf topic. She'd thought that in this situation, it was impossible for her heart to race. But her heart still beat stubbornly, persistently, and vigorously, beating because of his every move.
For a moment, she was angry with him; she seemed to have been angry with him all along. Whether it was his concealment, his calmness, or the harsh reality he'd just told her, she felt angry.
But he'd removed his scarf, letting the cold wind carrying snowflakes blow into his neck.
He'd wrapped her tightly and snugly in his scarf, which still held his warmth.
He looked at her with those gentle eyes, as if to comfort her, even though he didn't say a single word of comfort.
"Draco, I suddenly realize I'm not brave at all," she said, looking at him with teary eyes, unable to help herself. "I'm not the heroine you described. I can't even solve any problems. I always feel I don't like either path. The path I like is blocked."
Merlin, why was she about to cry? Had he said something too harsh? Draco panicked.
"No, no, that's not it," he said hurriedly, brushing snowflakes from her hair. "You are very brave. You've learned some of this world's cruel truths, discovered the problems, and are still willing to try finding solutions. That in itself is courage."
"Is it?" She bit her lip, her eyes shimmering with misty light.
"Of course! Someone as cowardly as me—the first thing I do upon learning the truth is flee, cover my ears, and not want to hear another word. I never think about solving any problems," Draco said, making a face, trying to tease her. "I'm a coward, aren't I?"
Hermione was indeed amused by him and managed to smile slightly, forcing back her tears.
"Draco, you're always like this! Always belittling yourself," she said, burying her face in his scarf, always feeling it carried a fresh and pleasant scent—enough to bring her inner peace.
She took a deep breath and said to him, "I don't think you're not brave. I think it's also brave to see through cruel reality, to embrace it, and even to seriously explain this cruel reality to me."
Draco raised an eyebrow, a slight smile playing on his lips. He was in good spirits but still decided to contradict her. "No, I'm still that cowardly Slytherin. Don't forget that—I'll never be a Gryffindor. I'll never be associated with courage."
Hermione didn't rush to respond but instead looked at him quietly with a probing gaze that made him uncomfortable.
Draco lowered his head, hastily trying to find another topic. "Oh, your hands are shaking too. Are the gloves too thin? Why don't you put them in your pockets?"
The girl blushed slightly, lowered her eyes, and remained silent.
He suddenly remembered she'd been clutching his robes. So, impulsively, he placed one of her hands into his pocket. "See, is it warm now? This way I can lead you without you feeling cold, right?"
She buried her face in the silver-green scarf and mumbled a soft "mm."
"Let's go—it's getting late," he said cheerfully, leading the girl who had her hand in his pocket, slowly making their way down the somewhat slippery, icy road.
They fell silent. They walked silently through the snow, avoiding the slippery ice and muddy potholes. Both pondered the question of "what is courage," wondering if they were truly brave, while simultaneously savoring each other's words of affirmation and finding small comfort in them.
Only after entering Hogwarts' gates and reaching the Entrance Hall did Hermione remove her warm hand from his pocket before speaking solemnly again.
"Draco, I'm not angry anymore—not at all. And I don't mind you hiding the 'werewolf' secret from me anymore. Because I just suddenly realized something," she said, smiling and looking up at him, her eyes sparkling with brilliant starlight—even though there were no stars today—very dazzling starlight.
"What is it?" he asked uneasily, sensing a trap looming in her eyes that was about to lead him astray.
In the beam of the Entrance Hall torches, a gleam of triumph shone on her face, her eyes gleaming with unwavering certainty: "You haven't told anyone about this! You're keeping his secret, aren't you? You secretly want to preserve this opportunity for him, don't you? You speak the most heartless and cold words, seemingly opposing him and hoping he'll leave quickly; but in reality, you're very kind—you don't want to hurt him, do you?"
Draco glanced at her in alarm. There was indeed a trap in her eyes. Beneath the trap lay a gentle blade. With words as her weapon, she'd unearthed something from his soul that had never existed before.
"I—I just don't want to meddle!" he said, cowering like a snake about to be caught at its vital spot.
"Yes, that's right. You're not brave, not kind, not even gentle," she said, smiling and echoing him, her expression somewhat meaningful, not at all like she genuinely agreed with him.
She seemed to be saying something ironic he couldn't understand.
Draco released a short breath, wanting to don his mask of indifference and utter some harsh words to save face; but she beat him to it, removing the silver-green scarf and placing it back in his hands, announcing to him in a cheerful tone:
"I also discovered something today that's been bothering me for three years. It turns out the silver-green scarf and the scarlet-and-gold scarf are exactly the same. They're both equally warm. They're both—very lovely. Thank you, Draco."
Then she smiled shyly at him and quickly walked into the hall.
All that remained was a stunned, bewildered, and agitated Draco Malfoy, clutching the scarf—the silver-green scarf still warm from her touch—feeling that his palms were no longer empty and his heart no longer desolate.
Hermione, Hermione, how could you say that?
It's like you don't hate me at all.
It's like you think I'm likable.
He stood frozen in the corridor, clutching the scarf tightly, his body as stiff as armor that hadn't been moved in a castle for years, unable to speak or move.
He stood there stunned for ages.
So long that when he returned home for Christmas, he sat in an armchair before the fireplace in his own library, still staring blankly at the book titled "A Study of Recent Developments in Wizardry."
He couldn't concentrate on his studies. He was still thinking about his conversation with Hermione before the holidays.
He was completely unaware when his mother appeared or how long she'd been silently observing him.
"Draco—" Narcissa hesitated for ages before finally speaking.
"Oh, Mother?" Draco was taken aback and blurted out instinctively. Because of Narcissa's sudden address, he didn't use the tone of a young boy now, but the tone of his seventeen-year-old self from his previous life.
Narcissa paused, her emotions subtly disturbed for a second by the slightly formal form of address.
"Draco, you've grown up so much without me even realizing it," she said, quickly composing herself, a slight smile playing on her lips. She walked closer to her son and sat down opposite him. "You're no longer that little boy who begged me for bedtime stories and pestered me for sweets. You can read such thick books yourself and brew such complex potions. And you're so accomplished at Quidditch, aren't you? Last time, the wife of one of the school governors at the tea party was praising you to me, saying you always manage to catch the Snitch for your House."
Draco set down his book and smiled at his mother. He switched back to Narcissa's familiar way of addressing her. "Mum, why do you seem rather melancholy today? Are you in poor spirits?"
"It's nothing," Narcissa said. For a moment, a tear welled up in her blue eyes, then quickly disappeared.
It was a complex emotion belonging to a mother. She was both proud and disappointed—proud that her son was becoming more outstanding, but disappointed that she was becoming less needed by him each day.
She choked up slightly. "I—I heard you were attacked by Dementors on the Quidditch pitch. You never mentioned it when you wrote home before."
Her Draco—she didn't know who he'd learned this terrible habit from, always reporting good news and never bad news.
She'd learned of the Dementor attack from the wife of the school governor at the tea party; Lucius had known earlier and kept it from her. But this didn't mean her son was closer to Lucius, because Lucius had also heard the frightening news from other school governors.
"Mum, I'm perfectly fine. Professor Dumbledore and the others stopped the Dementors," Draco said, trying to sound casual and soothe the worry on his mother's face with a smile—that was why he'd chosen not to tell her; he didn't want to cause her worry.
She should be happier.
"Draco, I know you don't want your mother to worry, do you? But I don't want to be the last to find out you're injured," Narcissa said softly, trying to smile at him. "Some mothers at salons and parties sometimes boast. They—discuss everything with their children. They seem to know everything happening at Hogwarts, at least more than I do. I don't want to hear about your injury from other people while being kept in the dark like a heartless mother."
"Mum—" Draco was somewhat stunned. He hadn't expected that Narcissa in this life would still be troubled by this matter.
In his previous life, Draco had shared almost everything that happened at school with his mother. However, his mother had always seemed indifferent to his troubles—most concerning the Potter trio—offering only perfunctory replies without taking them to heart.
(Narcissa's inner monologue in her previous life: If someone keeps repeating the same thing eight hundred times, complaining about the Mudblood girl, Scarhead, and the Weasel daily, anyone would eventually become immune, correct? Narcissa's usual tactic in her previous life: "Draco, after all this talking, aren't you thirsty? Have some hot chocolate. Mummy has her own tea party to attend tomorrow. Darling, finish your drink and go to bed early. Stop complaining.")
He'd always thought Narcissa was impatient to listen to such things. In his previous life, she'd only shown great interest and a hint of pride when she'd heard he'd done well in his studies or received honors.
In this life, he'd only tell her these things. As long as she was proud, happy, and content, that was enough.
However, Narcissa in this life wasn't satisfied with this.
"Draco, if you ever have any worries, you can discuss them with Mum, all right? Anything is fine. Besides your friends at school, your teammates on the Quidditch team, and how many 'Outstanding's you received in your studies, don't you have anything else to say? Have you ever argued with any friends? Have any older students ever given you trouble? Have any professors ever been harsh with you? Is Quidditch training difficult? Are some courses dangerous? Is there a girl you fancy? Haven't you ever thought about telling Mum about these things? Haven't you ever felt troubled or confused?" Narcissa said, her expression expectant. "Anything is fine—just tell Mum a little now and then, all right?"
Draco looked at his mother in surprise, thinking she might have kept a Fwooper—one whose calls could drive a person mad—and had just heard it call.
Did she want her son to suffer? Why did she have to hear about his troubles?
Narcissa glanced at her son and continued, "The other ladies envy me for having such an outstanding child like you. They always ask me how I raise you, how I make you strive for excellence instead of being lazy and idle. I can't answer that. I can only say you're naturally hardworking. They ask me how I handle those problems—the arguments, bullying, harsh treatment, dangers, and troubles your child encounters. I can't answer any of those either, because you've never complained to me, and I haven't even had the chance to help you solve these problems..."
"Oh, Mum—" Draco said with a complicated expression.
He'd asked these questions before, and his mother had helped him before. In his previous life, his mother had given him considerable advice, some correct and some wrong.
He already knew all her answers to these questions, so he didn't need to ask again, but she didn't.
Narcissa looked him over carefully and tentatively said, "You don't have to tell Mum everything. I know your studies are getting more demanding. Occasionally, just tell Mum about one or two important things. You can tell Mum about any worries or difficulties you have, and let Mum give you some advice sometimes, all right?"
Her tone was even somewhat humble. Draco could hear the care his mother had for him. He felt a pang of emotion and couldn't help sighing.
Could he use his mother's love for him to support him and encourage him to oppose the Dark Lord?
No, she probably wouldn't object now. She'd probably follow the Dark Lord—it would be more profitable for the family—just like in her previous life.
She might use her son's knowledge as a bargaining chip to secure a higher position for the family among Death Eaters and in the pure-blood wizarding community. She'd sincerely instill in him worldly advice filled with pure-blood prejudice under the guise of "I'm doing this for your own good," while continuing to treat him as an innocent child, protecting him firmly under her wing, and considering his ideas naive and foolish.
Unless absolutely necessary, his mother would never stand with non-pure-blood wizards. In her previous life, she'd never hidden her contempt for them, nor her fear of Dumbledore.
She was pure-blood through and through, as traditional, stubborn, and obsessive as his father.
She was a Malfoy who prioritized self-interest, making choices solely for the family's benefit, regardless of right or wrong.
She was still a pure-blood Black, with madness coursing through her intelligent veins, and when she went mad, she'd do anything.
Although Narcissa was looking at him with those gentle blue eyes, eyes full of genuine love for her son, Draco Malfoy knew that if he wanted to reliably protect those he cared about, he had to be reserved with his beloved mother.
"Oh, Mum, there's something troubling me," he said, perking up and starting to play the most reassuring, affectionate boy imaginable. "Mum, the Christmas gifts I gave out have used up all my allowance! I want lots and lots of Galleons—I want to buy sweets..."
Narcissa chuckled; the gloomy atmosphere she'd painstakingly cultivated was dispelled by his cheeky request.
How could she think Draco had grown up?
This child was clearly still a child! A child who was especially good at being affectionate and loved sweets!
"Silly boy, what's there to worry about? This is the easiest problem to solve. If you need money, just tell your mother! Here's twenty thousand Galleons—is that enough? Look at me, I didn't even realize you didn't have enough allowance," Narcissa said kindly, relieved she'd successfully solved a problem for her son. "From now on, I'll transfer fifty thousand Galleons into your Gringotts account every month for allowance. Buy whatever you want..."
"Thank you, Mother," Draco said, pleased with his mother's generosity. For a wealthy witch like Narcissa, whose spending was enormous—money was just numbers to be added or subtracted at will—these Galleons were nothing more than a grain of salt slipping through her fingers.
"By the way, Draco, when you gave gifts, did you follow the gift-giving etiquette I taught you?" Narcissa asked with interest.
"Of course—the students and professors all followed it," Draco said.
"That's right! You must be careful about gifts to professors, since they can directly affect your grades. No matter what kind of teacher they are, they won't refuse a Christmas gift that touches their heart. Regardless, we must respect our teachers," Narcissa said, leisurely giving her son a long lecture on gift-giving, then leaving the library satisfied.
Draco's mother, Narcissa, always doted on her only son. As long as it didn't involve matters of principle, she'd grant Draco's childish and unreasonable demands, sometimes even doubly so.
In this life, she was even more approachable and generous than in her previous one, especially when her son's honors—top of his year, a recipient of the Order of Merlin, and the Seeker who'd never lost a Snitch—fulfilled all her dreams and vanities as a mother.
Draco had taken his mother's generosity for granted. He'd thought all children lived like that, at least having endless allowances. But when he'd gradually learned about the allowances his peers received, when he'd discovered that five thousand Galleons could buy a small house and two thousand Galleons could be used to invest in a rather good joke shop, he'd had to admit that Narcissa had spoiled him excessively.
It had been the same in his previous life.
His extreme material wealth had made him unable to empathize with certain things. He'd ridiculed Hagrid's smoky, cramped wooden hut, Professor Lupin's tattered robes, and the Weasleys' choice to live in the Burrow, a place lacking taste. He'd even wondered why their children always wore secondhand robes and bought secondhand books. Couldn't they live somewhat more decently?
When he'd raised this question, his father Lucius had told him, "Because they are poor."
"Why are they poor?" he'd asked his father. Lucius had narrowed his gray eyes and said haughtily, "Because such people are inherently lowly, because they are blood traitors."
Poor = shabby = tasteless = lowly = blood traitor.
This was the cognitive equation that young Draco had naively understood and been instilled with maliciously by his father.
Young Draco hadn't yet grasped a crucial truth: a person's nobility or baseness had nothing to do with wealth or poverty.
At that time, all he'd cared about was that he didn't want to live a poor life, didn't want to be tasteless, didn't want to be inferior to others, and even less did he want to be the blood traitor his father despised.
Therefore, in his previous life, Draco Malfoy, a spoiled and arrogant boy, had treated everyone with arrogance and conceit. He'd used the values of his idolized father, mixed with his own dubious understanding, to haughtily hurt everyone he knew without realizing it.
He'd mocked Ron's family mercilessly, thinking them hopeless. It wasn't until he'd come into close contact with the Weasley children that he'd realized they were poor but never inferior.
George and Fred had a knack for making people laugh, and being around them always brought joy. Ron, though a loudmouth and stubborn, was very loyal and willing to take out his meager allowance to place bets for Draco.
Draco had realized too late. In his previous life, he'd had no way of understanding all of this, of understanding the world's other side; by the time he'd discovered the world had another side and wanted to understand it, he was already an unpopular, evil Slytherin.
He'd had no choice. In his ignorance, he'd been forced onto a path he'd never wanted to take. At that time, he'd had no idea what it meant to have the Dark Mark branded on his arm.
That wasn't glory—that was a scar.
It was laughable that he'd thought it was a hero's badge, not knowing it was a dragon's brand.
Never again in this life. He'd never be so ignorant and naive, never aid and abet evil, never watch the Malfoy family's behemoth sail into the storm.
Narcissa Malfoy remained immersed in the peaceful atmosphere Draco had painstakingly created.
She knew nothing of the unpredictable future and didn't believe any storms could affect her beloved son.
For her, the only thing she cared about was the change in her son's height.
"Draco, I'm quite certain you've grown taller again," Narcissa said on Christmas morning, looking at her son with affection.
Draco smiled at his mother and tried on the new winter robes Narcissa had made for him before the huge, gilded full-length mirror in the drawing room.
"They fit perfectly," he said with satisfaction. "Thank you, Mum."
"Lucius, what do you think?" Narcissa said cheerfully.
Lucius, who was reading a newspaper in an armchair nearby, glanced at his son over the top of his newspaper upon hearing this. "Passable."
"He's clearly very handsome," Narcissa said, disagreeing with her awkward husband. "What do you mean by 'passable'?"
Lucius didn't want to offend Narcissa, but he also couldn't bring himself to praise his son directly.
He always held a certain belief: boys shouldn't be praised casually, lest they become arrogant.
So he changed the subject: "I heard you beat Harry Potter in the last Quidditch match?"
"It wasn't exactly a victory. The Dementors attacked him—I was just fortunate," Draco said.
"Don't belittle yourself. Well done," Lucius said hastily, then felt extremely embarrassed for showing approval of his son and buried his face behind the newspaper again.
"Also, you need to practice the Patronus Charm more—try to make it corporeal," the father's calm words continued floating from behind the newspaper, but Draco had to listen very carefully to catch the trace of worry hidden in his words. "Those Dementors are too audacious... I've already lodged a strong protest with the Ministry."
Draco nodded.
"Don't rush, Draco. You can already cast it, which means your spellcasting ability is fine. Perhaps you still need to find some happiness, or perhaps you haven't decided what form you want yet..." Narcissa said, comforting her son, her blue eyes looking at him gently. "I hesitated for ages before finally deciding to become a swan."
Draco smiled and nodded at her, but he knew in his heart it wasn't that simple.
How much happiness could fill the darkness in his soul?
The two-week Christmas holiday had come to an end.
Not long after Draco returned to school, he heard about Harry receiving a Firebolt as a Christmas present.
"I wish I could have such a generous godfather..." Seamus Finnigan said.
"Who wouldn't want that?" Ron replied with a look of longing.
It was a damp, chilly January morning, and they were at a site near the Forbidden Forest where the Care of Magical Creatures class was being held.
Dreadful weather and dreadful lessons! Draco lamented inwardly.
Unexpectedly, to amuse the students, Hagrid had built a bonfire filled with salamanders. The students had to constantly collect firewood and leaves to keep the fire burning.
When Draco and Hermione went to search for dead branches in the nearby bushes, he noticed she was wearing a delicate little silver ring on her slender finger.
If someone looked closely at the ring, they might discern it was a snake with its head and tail joined, or perhaps, in the sunlight, see the snake's eyes made of rubies. This ring was a Christmas gift from Draco to Hermione.
Hermione noticed his gaze and confidently held out her hand for him to see: "Is it beautiful?"
"Very beautiful," Draco said, a slight smile appearing on his lips.
"I really like it," Hermione said, her eyes shining with warm, pleasant light. "It even has a defensive charm on it? Isn't that rare? Where did you get it?"
"It's made through special channels. However, you only have one chance. It can deflect one attack or reflect one minor curse," Draco reminded her. "Of course, it probably can't withstand powerful Dark magic like the Unforgivable Curses."
This was inspired by the Shield Hats from Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes.
To make the ring, he'd humbly sought Fred's advice for ages, only to be ridiculed quite a bit; he'd also promised to lend them the Marauder's Map for research, as they seemed to want to study some comical gadget involving joke magic... In short, it was a deal resulting in complete loss.
The ring also carried a hint of his secret, unspeakable selfishness.
He'd placed a Tracking Charm on the ring.
Draco knew it was despicable, but he just couldn't help himself.
He was always inexplicably worried about her, especially with Peter Pettigrew on the run, Dementors everywhere, and a werewolf in the castle.
He told himself he'd never check her location unless absolutely necessary.
If the Marauder's Map that was lent out knew what he was thinking right now, it would probably scoff disdainfully, thinking he was merely deceiving himself—who was he trying to fool? Every night before he slept, he'd spend ages checking her location on the Marauder's Map.
Unaware of this, Hermione followed the guilty-minded Draco back, throwing firewood into the fire and watching the fire-loving lizards leap around in the crackling wood.
Draco stole a glance at the silver glint between her fingers, then changed the subject: "The orrery you gave me is beautiful. I feel like I don't need to attend Astronomy class anymore."
Hermione smiled smugly at him. "I knew you'd like it. With it, you can finish drawing those star charts faster and focus on Quidditch training, right?"
He nodded and smiled.
Quidditch training did make "completing assignments" somewhat stressful. Marcus had started acting neurotic again, demanding they be on the pitch daily for training.
A week after term started, Slytherin played a Quidditch match against Ravenclaw.
Slytherin won, and won narrowly—at the last moment, Draco perfectly dodged a Plumpton Pass and successfully caught the Golden Snitch, making Marcus so excited he nearly wept.
"What did I tell you!" Peregrine said, laughing in the changing room and patting Marcus on the shoulder. "Draco has absolutely no gentlemanly scruples!"
"However, I don't think Cedric was deliberately going easy on Cho," Draco said, lazily toying with the Golden Snitch in his hand. "She is indeed quite troublesome."
"That's right—that's the spirit we need. We can't underestimate any opponent," Marcus said, pointing at the blackboard in the changing room. "We still can't be careless. We only narrowly beat Ravenclaw; the gap wasn't large enough. No, Draco, don't look so dejected. You were right to catch the Snitch. If we'd delayed longer, we might have lost even with the Snitch, and that would have been embarrassing. The problem is, Gryffindor now has the Firebolt. If Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff suffer crushing defeats at Gryffindor's hands, we'll be in danger."
Gryffindor's training was in full swing. So, just like competing against Gryffindor, the Slytherin team also intensified their training. But no one complained anymore; everyone was determined to win.
Marcus had a bit of a headache after the Gryffindor versus Ravenclaw match that afternoon, so he gave his players the afternoon off.
Draco finally had a moment to catch his breath amidst his busy schedule. He planned to catch up on missed assignments at the library and tutor Crabbe and Goyle as well.
The library wasn't too crowded that day. Draco, while drawing a star chart, complained to Goyle and Crabbe, "Why would anyone confuse such different constellations?"
"Actually, I often make mistakes too, you know..." Goyle said with a sheepish expression on his face.
"That's why I always tell you to be more careful!" Draco said, pointing mercilessly at his parchment with the back of his quill. "If you used your brain, you'd have realized you drew this constellation upside down..."
Crabbe chuckled to himself, proudly unfolding his masterpiece. He heard Draco, bending to examine his parchment, lazily say, "Very good, Crabbe—you've drawn Andromeda perfectly. It's just that Professor Sinistra requested Orion instead..."
Crabbe's smile vanished abruptly.
"Redraw it—I'll check when I return!" Draco said, glancing at the bookshelf beside him and frowning.
He tossed down his quill in annoyance, leaving the two unfortunate souls struggling with star charts on the library seats.
Draco hurried past the rows of bookshelves, searching for Hermione. He seemed to have caught a glimpse of her slender figure as he'd entered the library.
He had something for her. Mr. Slughorn's Felix Felicis, after six months of settling, was finally ready. He'd sent two small vials to Draco by owl as thanks for the several boxes of fine crystallized pineapple Draco had given him for Christmas.
"I haven't had crystallized pineapple from the Amazon River basin in Brazil and Paraguay, South America, for years!" Slughorn had written in the letter.
Draco took out the Felix Felicis from his pocket and examined it against the light.
The golden liquid shimmered brilliantly in the sunlight. This was something he'd longed for in his previous life, yet he'd obtained it so easily this time, which astonished him greatly.
"A small vial of Felix Felicis, and you'll be lucky for twelve hours," he remembered Mr. Slughorn writing in his letter. He planned to give Hermione a vial.
He hurried past a row of bookshelves and finally found her. It was her favorite window seat—the white gauze curtains swaying gently before the window. A small ray of sunlight shone on her, making her seem to glow.
He called her softly, but she didn't move. He quietly turned to look at her, wondering if she was pretending to ignore him or genuinely upset; but to his surprise, she'd rested her head on her arm, turned her face to the side, and fallen asleep on a stack of fresh parchment on the table.
Her long, brown hair covered half the desk, and she loosely held a quill in her hand. On the desk stood a large book called "Home Life and Social Habits of British Muggles."
"What's so interesting about this thing?" Draco said, glancing at the animated images in the book, muttering to himself in confusion, and gently taking the quill from her hand, placing it in the inkwell before her.
Perhaps sensing the movement in her hand, Hermione snorted impatiently through her nose, sounding somewhat petulant.
He tiptoed to sit beside her, moved his book aside, and, mimicking her posture, rested his head on the desk, turning his head to look at her without moving.
He brought his face very close. The sunlight was blinding, and he wanted to see her face clearly.
It seemed like ages since he'd looked at her so closely.
He was busy with rigorous Quidditch training, while she was busy with changing seasons and heavy coursework. She hadn't even had time to watch Harry train lately, let alone see him after training.
Disappointing.
Even as study partners, they had very little time to chat. The professors were like madmen, filling their class time with meticulous planning so every minute was spent immersing students in an ocean of academic knowledge.
For example, in Arithmancy, she always sat to his right and was often too busy with calculations to chat.
Now he could finally relax and watch her breathe softly, her thick, long lashes covering her usually radiant, chocolate-colored eyes.
Her skin had a sickly pallor. Draco often saw this color when he looked in the mirror, but now he frowned. He still preferred seeing her with a rosy, vibrant complexion.
Was she tired? He wondered worriedly, his brows furrowing even more as he sighed.
Seemingly because she heard his breathing, she suddenly opened her eyes drowsily, smiled at him while not fully awake, and lazily raised her hand to smooth out his brow.
"This looks better," she said in a soft, sweet voice he'd never heard before, like a lazy kitten that had just woken.
Draco froze, not daring to move. He looked at her quietly, his gray eyes shimmering.
She smiled, her eyes half-closed, and leaned forward, affectionately rubbing her nose against his. She lazily stroked his platinum hair, saying in a sweet, almost cloying tone, as if talking to Crookshanks, "Oh, my poor little darling... you are here... so adorable... I like you so~much~"
She was saying "I like you."
Was she speaking to him? The cracks in the ice of his heart seemed to be widening. His heart trembled with unease at those words.
Did she know what she was doing? Obviously not—she closed her eyes again.
The touch on his nose was so intimate that his face gradually flushed. The tingling, ticklish sensation filled his heart with strings of satisfied and smug bubbles of joy, wonderfully permeating his soul.
And so he, who disliked being touched, once again succumbed to her caresses. He didn't dislike her touch; in fact, he was rather pleased. Moreover, suddenly, she'd poured out those overly intimate words to him, using "like"—a luxury too extravagant for him—which made him completely forget to breathe.
Hermione yawned, patting his head gently with her hand adorned with the silver ring, muttering softly, "Don't go to the Forbidden Forest—sleep with me for a while..."
Merlin! Draco didn't know whether to laugh or cry.
She'd mistaken him for that ginger-colored ugly cat—what similarities were there? For the first time in his life, he felt somewhat insecure about his appearance.
He wanted to wake her and show her who she was addressing.
But he didn't want to ruin the moment.
He finally understood how the ugly cat felt—why it always wanted to lie before her and let her pet it.
The feeling was unexpectedly wonderful, like a white feather gently tickling his heart and liver... The subtle tremor at the roots of his hair generated an electric current, and his brain vibrated...
A tender tone, gentle treatment, and affectionate caresses. They coalesced into a shimmering golden ribbon, silently enveloping him—it was simply beautiful.
However, all this delightful feeling, the gentle touch he'd just discovered belonging to Hermione Granger, had already been wasted countless times on an ugly cat! Draco thought indignantly, his mind reeling like a honeyed dream.
Hermione, when you're conscious, is your generosity only directed at this ugly cat?
He suddenly felt like arguing with her again, discussing the issue of who deserved the nickname "poor little darling."
She'd called him that at first, not the cat.
Had she misused her compassion?
He wanted to understand everything, rather than be treated like a cat without any boundaries. Unexpectedly, she continued murmuring softly, coaxing him gently, and dutifully stroking his hair with her hand, leaving him defenseless.
Draco's will crumbled. What had he just been thinking? Oh well, it didn't matter.
All attention was on her hands. He even moved closer to them, trying to find an optimal spot to be touched.
And his hands—he didn't know where to put the hand closest to her, so he could only grip the back of his chair tightly, enduring all her caresses.
Caressing.
This brief but wonderful caress.
A caress that was both exhilarating and frustrating.
The caresses he wanted to keep hidden forever, so no one would ever discover them.
She'd also said "I like you." Although it seemed she was talking to the cat, he'd still heard her.
He closed his eyes in the bright afternoon sun, smiled self-deceptively, and lazily indulged in this moment of pleasure.
Goyle and Crabbe finished drawing the star charts and then voluntarily completed their assignments on Defence Against the Dark Arts and History of Magic before Draco finally returned.
Under the library lights, his eyes sparkled, and he wore an undisguised smile, walking with an almost floating gait—as if he'd drunk some strong Firewhisky.
"Very good, Goyle, Crabbe," he said with a smile, glancing at the parchment spread on the table and patting them on the shoulder. "The astronomical drawings are quite good. Keep up the good work. I'll be going now."
Goyle and Crabbe stared wide-eyed at Draco's retreating figure.
"Where are his robes?" Goyle asked after a long pause.
"I don't know," Crabbe said blankly.
Goyle scratched his head. "Should we tell him he was just looking at our Defence Against the Dark Arts homework, not star charts..."
Crabbe's eyes darted around, and he surprisingly used a bit of thinking ability. "No, forget it—I don't want to draw them all over again."
Behind the bookshelves not far away, the white gauze curtains swayed in the wind, waking Hermione.
Half-asleep, she looked at the small golden vial that had appeared in her hand with a puzzled expression, touched the Slytherin robes she was wearing, and suddenly smelled a faint scent of green apple.