novelraw Chapter 87: Two People Staring at Each Other Guiltily
Chapter 87: Two People Staring at Each Other Guiltily
Chapter Eighty-Seven: Two People Staring at Each Other Guiltily
On an ordinary Friday evening at the end of March, Hermione Granger finally finished reading the last page of that massive book, Home Life and Social Habits of British Muggles.
She sighed contentedly, closed the book, leaned back on the sofa by the window in the common room, tilted her head, and looked at the layers of rosy light brought by the setting sun outside the window.
The weather was gradually warming up, and so was the atmosphere in the Gryffindor common room. George and Fred were juggling Butterbeer bottles, drawing cheers from the crowd. They were also handing out flyers to the students watching, selling the latest products from Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes.
She closed her eyes, repeatedly processing the description of Muggle electricity in that massive book, pondering for the one thousand eight hundredth time what room there was for revision in her essay.
Just then, she overheard Angelina Johnson, the Chaser for the Gryffindor Quidditch team, excitedly asking Fred, "Can you order your WonderWitch products anonymously by owl?"
"Of course, all products are available. From Puking Pastilles to love potions, everything can be ordered by owl," Fred said with a grin. "You can also just tell me what you want. Look, I have some samples with me—if you're interested, you can try them out first."
"I want to see too!" Ginny Weasley's excited voice came from nearby, abruptly interrupting her brother's sales pitch.
"This isn't something a girl your age should be watching!" George's voice drifted over. The voice grew closer, seemingly landing on the sofa beside Hermione along with Ginny's struggling voice.
She opened her eyes to find George placing a bag of Honeydukes Peppermint Toads on his sister's lap. "Have some sweets, Ginny. Sit here quietly for a bit. We can't sell those things to our own sister, or Percy will tell Mum, and Mum will come after us. Oh, hi, Hermione, how are you doing? Still afraid of those Dementors?"
"Oh, of course not." Hermione smiled and said easily, "I can already conjure otters!"
"That's right, we saw it that day. It's a pity we didn't bring our wands, otherwise we could have turned into magpies too. Thanks to someone's private instruction, right?" George beamed, winked at her, and walked back into the crowd.
Ginny grumbled resentfully, unhappy about being "specially treated" by her brothers. She frowned, watching George resume his sales pitch in the crowd, then turned to Hermione, her eyes suddenly lighting up, her tone brightening again. "Hermione! You must have been to their shop, right? You even brought me back a Pygmy Puff from there last time..."
"Oh, are they all right?" Hermione asked cheerfully.
"It couldn't be better—it's so energetic!" Ginny beamed. "The Pygmy Puff in the next dorm is always listless—they all say it's because they didn't choose the right one. How did you pick yours? That's amazing. I used to think only kids from wizarding families would know about Puffskeins and Pygmy Puffs—"
"Oh, I asked someone for a little help," Hermione mumbled, her face slightly flushed.
"Who?" Ginny asked curiously. "It can't be Ron. He's not interested in this stuff."
"No," Hermione said casually.
"It's not Harry, is it?" Ginny asked skeptically.
"No. It's not him," Hermione said quickly.
"Fred, or George?" Ginny said. "It must be them. They were the ones who asked you to bring them back."
Hermione shook her head, a faint smile playing on her lips. "Don't guess—you'll never guess."
"All right." Ginny shrugged, abandoning her aimless speculation, and steered the conversation back to what interested her more. "Hermione, tell me quickly, what products do they have in their shop? Especially the 'WonderWitch' series!"
"Oh, there's this patented 'Daydream Charm' that's pretty interesting. You just need one incantation to enter a high-quality, incredibly realistic thirty-minute daydream. But they don't sell it to kids under sixteen," Hermione recalled.
"Oh, what a shame. Anything else? Love potions? I heard Fred yelling about them over there. He never tells me about these kinds of products in private," Ginny said with interest. "Do you remember what Mum said on the first morning of term, about how she made her own love potions when she was young? She said she couldn't forget the smell. I really want to get some and smell it."
"Yes, they do," Hermione said. "They have the highest-grade love potions, and I've seen loads of older girls buying them."
"Have you ever tried smelling love potions? What do they smell like?" Ginny moved closer to her and noticed a ginger cat lying on Hermione's other side, its eyes wide open, looking her over.
"I've smelled it once before—it's enchanting," Hermione whispered, a blush of lingering pink spreading across her face, just like the sky at that moment.
"You're so lucky. The girls in my dorm have decided to pool our money for a bottle. You know, it's just because we're curious about what it smells like," Ginny said, rubbing her hands together excitedly as she watched George and Fred handing out flyers in the crowd. "But I'm afraid they won't sell it to me. I'll have to find a way to get a flyer and do an anonymous order by owl or something."
"Yes." Hermione was lost in thought, idly stroking Crookshanks's fur.
"Or, Hermione, could you buy us a bottle next time you go?" Ginny leaned closer, shook her arm, and said in a pleading tone. "Just one bottle, all right?"
"Sure." Hermione was trying to recall the scents, casually brushing off the little witch who was trying to get closer to her. The next second, she snapped from her daze, looking at Ginny's overjoyed expression in surprise. "What?!"
She pointed to her nose, looking astonished and terrified, and asked, "You want me to buy it?!"
"That's right!"
"Can I refuse?" she asked with a pained expression.
"No way!" Ginny said gleefully. "You've already agreed! You can't go back on your word!"
On Saturday afternoon, when Draco looked out of his window in the loft of Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes, Hogsmeade was already packed with people.
He glanced at the lonely Shrieking Shack in the wasteland not far away, and the faint candlelight flickering inside, and a question arose in his mind.
What? Could it be true, as the ghosts of Hogwarts claimed, that a bunch of ghouls lived in there?
A proper Slytherin never meddled in other people's business. Adhering to this basic principle, he decided to turn his attention back and bring his wandering thoughts down to the gravitational reality of life.
This loft—Draco's private office space—had been transformed by Dobby into a sitting room, bedroom, bathroom, and kitchen, thanks to numerous masterful Extension Charms and a functional zoning plan approved by Draco.
The sitting room was quite spacious.
A perpetually burning candle sat atop the white fireplace, and the black leather sofa was so comfortable and spacious that anyone lying on it would marvel at its luxuriousness. The coffee table and side tables were spotless, and several armchairs sat there patiently.
The entire wall was covered with bookshelves, and an antique writing desk stood by the window.
The desk was piled high with letters: several from the Ministry of Magic's Department of Magical Games and Sports Patents Office, a public administration fee payment notice from the Hogsmeade Village Administration, Dobby's account of the renovation costs for the joke shop, property brochures from Muggle estate agents—from London, Liverpool, Manchester, Bristol, and Holyhead—and stock and currency investment advice from Muggle investment managers, among others.
In the corner of the sitting room stood a large black and gold cabinet—the Vanishing Cabinet that Dobby had anonymously purchased from Borgin and Burkes.
It had taken considerable effort, but it was worth it, Draco thought.
The rest of the rooms were unremarkable. The bedroom was smaller than the sitting room, containing only a carved four-poster bed and a rustic wardrobe. The bathroom and kitchen were very clean.
Draco looked around and was fairly satisfied. He felt he had reason to raise Dobby's salary to five Galleons a week. And Dobby, as always, would probably look troubled by his inability to refuse, then burst into tears of joy, and finally awkwardly accept this unchangeable reality.
House-elves! What an enigmatic species!
He couldn't help but chuckle, then pulled out a silver key and locked the loft door. After casting several silent spells on the door with his wand tip, he skillfully descended a hidden staircase.
Fred, dressed in magenta robes, was arranging some bottles and jars on the wall shelf. Hearing Draco come downstairs, he turned and grinned at him.
"You're right—we should have hired a shop assistant ages ago. To be honest, we really need to spend some time preparing for the O.W.L.s. If we don't get a single certificate, Mum might—" At this point, Fred, who was usually fearless, shuddered for once.
"What, you think she'll turn you into specimens and hang you on the wall?" Draco asked casually, glancing at the animal specimens on the wall.
"That's a new idea. I'll have to try it on Percy sometime." Fred's eyes gleamed with mischief. "I was originally going to say that Mum would have Percy sing to us all day—in the kind of voice you hear when he's showering."
"Speaking of which, your brother seems to be constantly confiscating joke shop products at school," Draco said casually, picking up a new defensive item that was being modified and glancing at it. "Can't we try to 'persuade' him a little?"
"Oh, he's never had much of a sense of humor—it's probably something he inherited when he was born—but ever since he became Head Boy, he's become even more prone to making a fuss." Fred shook his head. "But it's all right—we've sent his girlfriend loads of samples, so he probably doesn't have time for us now."
"What sample?" Draco asked, slightly surprised, his eyes filled with curiosity. "It's that effective?"
"Oh, you know, amazing—" Fred's eyes gleamed with ill intent.
"Mr. Weasley!" Just as they were talking, the young blonde shop assistant named Verity peeked in from behind the curtain. Draco saw that she was wearing the same magenta shop robes as the Weasley twins. She said in a serious tone, "Mr. Weasley asked me to tell you that a customer wants a Laugh-at-the-Cauldron."
"All right, Verity, I'm coming." He winked at Draco, grinned mischievously, and picked up a thick cardboard box to go downstairs.
Draco shook his head, convinced that the samples must be something special. He quietly followed Fred down the stairs and overheard Harry grumbling to Ron.
"I suspect Snape cast a Tracking Charm on me! I'm going mad! No matter where I go, he can find me and follow me around like a shadow!" Harry said in despair.
He glanced sullenly across the street through the shop window. Draco followed his gaze and vaguely spotted a corner of Professor Snape's iconic black robes.
"Harry, there's no such charm—" Ron said impatiently, fiddling with a fake wand on the shelf and checking the label.
"Yes, there is," Draco said slowly as he walked over, "but not like this—"
He paused, his wandering eyes fixed on Hermione not far away.
She was standing by the pink shelf that witches loved most, holding something in her hand, with an almost obsessive expression on her face.
On that slender finger was a silver ring that he'd placed a Tracking Charm on.
She seemed to sense his gaze. At that moment, she suddenly turned to look at him, met his eyes, and wore a satisfied smile.
Draco felt rather guilty. He gave her a slight smile and swallowed hard.
He never used that Tracking Charm. Never.
But whenever he thought about it, he felt incredibly guilty.
It was strange that a Slytherin who would stop at nothing would feel guilty about such a trivial spell.
He even felt like that ginger cat named Crookshanks—unable to control himself, he'd sneaked into the Forbidden Forest, constantly worried about being discovered by her, and afraid of her overwhelming rage after she found out the truth.
She wouldn't like this Tracking Charm.
She never liked being controlled.
Draco was somewhat annoyed. He'd considered getting that damned ring back and canceling the Tracking Charm.
But he'd never found the right opportunity.
She seemed to really like the ring, so much so that she always wore it.
This affection should have made him feel gratified, but now it was causing him some trouble.
He stared intently at her smile—she looked so happy.
He didn't want to shatter this happiness. He didn't want to imagine her anger.
Forget it, let's not discuss it anymore—we'll just not use it. Draco sighed inwardly, banishing the matter from his mind for the time being.
So he stood beside Ron, pretending to listen attentively as he recounted Neville Longbottom's misfortunes.
"He's so absent-minded! He said he dropped his wand in the Great Hall and spent most of the night looking for it!" Ron picked up another fake wand and examined it with interest. "And guess what? He found it by the kitchens entrance under the Great Hall... We all suspected he'd dropped it while he was sneaking some food... but he insisted he hadn't been there..."
Draco smiled and nodded perfunctorily.
Ron was very surprised by the smile and nod.
What a rare sight! Draco, a Slytherin who was usually quite impatient, was actually interested in listening to his idle chatter today.
This unusually cooperative listener fueled Ron's desire to share. He excitedly recounted, "And then guess what? He got lost again! This time he swore he hadn't been to the Potions classroom, but the wand was right behind the door! Who would go to a place like that, except for being given detention by Snape? He was still delirious and wouldn't admit it, and who knows what he's been thinking about all this time... He's such a headache—he can't remember anything, he even has to write down the password to the common room on parchment, like he's under a Memory Charm..."
Draco smiled and patted Ron on the shoulder, but his eyes continued to peek at Hermione through the gaps in the crowd. She seemed particularly flustered at the moment, twisting a small vial.
Was she all right? What was she panicking about?
He listened absentmindedly to Ron's rambling in the background, his thoughts drifting away from the crowd.
Hermione Granger stood once again before the shelf labeled "Advanced Love Potion," ready to secretly buy a bottle for her whimsical Ginny. Standing before the pile of glittering little vials, she couldn't resist her curiosity, unscrewed one, and decided to smell it again.
Although she'd smelled it once at Mr. Slughorn's place, the memory was somewhat hazy.
Love potions, with their special connotations, weren't just of interest to Ginny and her friends. Her roommates Lavender and Parvati also frequently mentioned them during the girls' late-night dormitory talks, accompanied by earth-shattering laughter.
Any naive young witch would be filled with curiosity about this thing, smelling it again and again.
She was no exception.
The moment the vial was opened, amidst the rising, spiraling steam, an irresistible aroma wafted toward her once more:
Freshly mown grass, new parchment, and the very familiar, faint scent of watermelon...
Yes, that was it.
It smelled exactly the same as what she'd smelled in Mr. Slughorn's cauldron.
An overwhelming sense of satisfaction washed over her. She breathed slowly, her soul soaring into the air, enveloped in pleasure.
The scent was both wonderful and familiar—so familiar that it felt like she'd smelled it somewhere not long ago. She smiled lazily, her mind pinpointing that happy memory.
It was in the library after an afternoon nap. The scent of freshly mown grass had wafted in from outside the window, along with the smell of new parchment on the table, and the faint scent of watermelon from the robes she was wearing—a refreshing and intoxicating aroma.
What had happened to those robes later?
Oh, yes. She'd rubbed her sleepy eyes, looked the robes over and over, and finally noticed the DM embroidered on the inside—Draco Malfoy.
She'd later returned the robes to the boy.
Draco.
Oh, there he was. She turned her head and spotted him immediately.
His platinum-blond hair hung loosely between his eyebrows, beneath which were a pair of bright grey eyes—staring intently at her through the crowd.
His black shirt made his cheeks and neck appear even paler. She was certain that if she got close enough to smell him, she'd smell a refreshing and intoxicating watermelon scent.
She reveled in the delightful scent, lost in her own thoughts.
The scent of watermelon...
What did watermelon smell like?
Hermione's eyes widened. Her heart pounded, and the description of the love potion flashed through her mind: everyone smells it differently, which is related to what attracts us... you can even smell the scent of someone you like.
The satisfied and peaceful smile on her face had not completely faded, but her mind had already exploded.
Lightning.
Thunderclap.
Earthquake.
A dazzling, almost painful light flashed across her cerebral cortex.
For ages, those strange, bewildering emotions that plagued her, those immense joys and painful heart palpitations...
They were like surging waves, sharp and howling, crashing against the shallows of her heart, leaving astonishing marks—like.
She liked him.
Liked someone so much that even just looking at them felt like being struck by lightning.
She liked him so much that she dared not look him in the eye for too long. Such a dazzling person. He smiled at her. Those eyes, cold as ice to others, flowed with lake-like tenderness toward her, yet possessed the power to burn her heart.
She loved him so much that she used studying to numb herself. Only by immersing herself in the sea of books she loved could she temporarily forget him. Forget his eyes, forget his scent, forget that he would only smile at her.
She needed to forget so many things—because he kept giving her so much:
He helped her. He taught her how to ride a terrifying broomstick. He took her on a gliding ride on a Muggle skateboard that wouldn't obey. He carried a stack of thick books that even he found tedious to hold. He answered her questions, shared learning resources she couldn't access, and explained the rules of the unfamiliar magical world to her.
He comforted her. Under the oak tree by the Black Lake, on the garden bench, beside her seat in the library, in his embrace. He would always take out a handkerchief and gently wipe away her tears, racking his brains to tell her clumsy Slytherin jokes, trying to make her laugh.
He protected her. From Filch's pursuit, the vanishing steps, the hideous trolls. Facing Dementors, he'd shielded her. Even in their quarrels, he'd rescue her from the clutches of the savage girls in his House. He'd knocked away Red Caps and Grindylows beside her during Defense Against the Dark Arts practice. He'd shattered a snowball attack with his wand, as if it were grave danger.
He praised her. He always said she was clever. He acknowledged her talent. His eyes always revealed undisguised admiration for her. Merlin knew how important that look was to a strong-willed witch. And he'd never called her a Mudblood.
He found her. He'd soothed her nervousness at Hogwarts, telling her how to face the Sorting Hat. He'd offered her his private seat and thoughtfully provided her with a cup of hot tea. He'd rescued her from petrification, fed her the only antidote, and fed her chocolate. He'd coldly stopped the rude boy, letting her enter the Great Hall first.
He led her along. The muddy path to Hogwarts. The bumpy path to Hogsmeade. The treacherous, invisible path leading from the Slytherin common room. The bewildering corridors in the scent of roses on a rosy night. The biting, wind-swept path through the snow at dusk.
He stroked her hair. First it was to save a strand from slipping into onion soup, then it became regular. He'd touched the top of her head in the train corridor. He'd tied her hair during Potions. He'd gently helped her untangle decorations from her birthday hat. In the Great Hall at night, he'd stroked her hair to lull her to sleep. He'd lain weakly in his hospital bed, still holding her hair tightly.
He held her hand tightly. He'd grabbed her hand and fled the dangerous girls' bathroom. He'd held her hand, his arm encircling her as he stirred potions. He'd walked hand in hand with her in the rose-scented night. He'd accepted her sleepy hand under the Great Hall's night sky. He'd returned her hand in the Forbidden Forest classroom, their fingers intertwined.
His touch was mesmerizing. He'd lifted her chin, gazing into her eyes. His forehead had pressed against hers, testing her temperature. He'd brushed snow from her hair, wiped foam from her lips. He'd suddenly pulled her into his arms in the snow. They'd embraced tightly amidst the surging crowd. He'd held her tightly in his hospital bed, muttering in his half-awake state, unwilling to let her go.
He smiled at her—a gentle smile, a wide, open smile. He only smiled at her. Those captivating grey eyes seemed to smile only at her, if all of this wasn't just her imagination.
At first, it was just a faint flutter in her heart.
However, those delicate, gossamer-thin wings somehow managed to unleash a hurricane that filled her heart.
In the hurricane, a jumble of memories surged forth, and the crisscrossing affections were as dense as a spider's web.
Those memories were just the tip of the iceberg among countless moments that touched her heart.
They flashed through her mind like frames from a film reel, appearing one after another, endlessly.
She turned her head and glanced at those calm, grey eyes, then absentmindedly picked out a frame from the stack of film.
That was the first time he'd taken her flying high into the sky on his broomstick—that was the first time she'd smelled that wonderful watermelon scent on him.
Had she smelled it so long ago?
What did that mean?
A sudden panic shattered her soul, leaving her utterly bewildered.
This wouldn't work—it really wouldn't work.
She should be rational. She shouldn't be swept away by this overwhelming tide of emotions.
Reason told her that she didn't know what kind of feelings he had for her.
Yes, he showed her a certain tenderness. He was willing to wrap his scarf around her neck in the cold wind, wasn't he? He was willing to put her icy hands into his warm pockets to warm them, wasn't he? He was willing to pull out her chair for every lesson, welcoming her to be his study partner, wasn't he?
He at least didn't dislike her.
But at times, he appeared too calm.
The most important evidence was that he'd clearly given her a meaningful kiss on the forehead in the morning sun.
Then he'd acted as if the kiss had never happened and continued to treat her calmly.
Like a study partner as always.
Why wasn't he flustered and blushing like her? Why was he always calm and composed?
Was it because these things were just casual actions for him, rather than expressions of special care directed at her alone?
Suspicion began to fester. She was afraid to seek the truth, and even more terrified of the heartbreaking ending she might encounter.
The brave lion of Gryffindor, after meeting the person she liked, could only become a cowardly person who was insecure and anxious.
He'd called her a coward, but how much better was she?
She couldn't think about it anymore. Hermione twisted the cap of the vial tightly, her hand stiff, and placed it back on the shelf as if she'd just discovered a Boggart inside.
She felt extremely guilty and looked back at him again, hoping he hadn't noticed her panic and unease, fearing he'd discover her most secret thoughts.
But he still looked at her. He looked at her through the crowd, a nonchalant smile playing on his lips, stubbornly staring at her.
She couldn't breathe.
She wanted to run away.
But she was firmly rooted to the spot by his gaze.
She had nowhere to escape.
Then that feeling of palpitation returned.
Like Salvador Dalí's The Persistence of Memory, her heart ached and tingled, turning into a melting clock, the hour, minute, and second hands frozen in place, solidified in the very second she saw him.
Then her heart slowly, gradually sank lower and lower, irreversibly. She knew that her heart might eventually slide into an unfathomable abyss. But there was no way to stop this descent.
She liked him.
Liked him passionately, intensely, and irrationally.
On an ordinary Saturday afternoon at the end of March, Hermione Granger met Draco Malfoy's eyes through the bustling crowd and finally understood her own feelings completely.