Subconsciously picking a strand of hair, you twirled it around your finger and glanced around the Hall. A pair of blue eyes pierced into your own. You glanced away and back down onto the empty golden plate, Ron already doing the same as you.

You grinned to yourself as Malfoy dropped his coat and very deliberately looked at you across the stadium.
You froze on the spot; his eyes locked on yours for a few moments. Pansy Parkinson certainly noticed Malfoy acting weirdly, not taking notice of her as he normally would have, nor of Goyle as he pulled a pie out of his pocket and began to eat very noisily. He hardly even moved. She nudged him, “Draco?” she asked timidly, “what are you looking at?”

Malfoy wasn’t a killer: a bit of a twat sometimes but you couldn’t see him taking a life.
But Harry was completely sure of the fact that it was Malfoy who had planned this out, and there was nothing you could say to change his mind. And yet, when you thought back on it later, you couldn’t answer your own question as to why it mattered so much to you that Malfoy hadn’t done it.

“And why are you doing this? You hate me.”
“I hate your blood,” he muttered and glanced down at your Gryffindor crest, “and your house. But let’s face it,” he moved even closer and brought his voice down to a whisper, “you need me to be nice to you now more than you can ever admit."

Draco laughed a booming laugh and smiled down at you as you looked up in shock. “What?” He asked.
“I’ve never heard you laugh like that before.”
He laughed again. “And why would you? I hated you.”
“And now?”

“Merry Christmas…Draco.” You said, smiling.

“Merry Christmas, Hermione.” He flashed a brilliant smile back and walked quickly up to you. “Stay safe.” You looked at him in confusion but his eyes were closed and his chin was resting against your forehead, a small smile on his lips.

The silence continued and you looked away from him, but his hand was clamped around your jaw and he wouldn’t let go. “Hermione.” He murmured and you look back up at him. “Hermione, I don’t know what to say.”

“Just tell me that everything’s going to be alright.” You whispered and leant forward into his hands. “Please.”

He leant forward slightly and looked at you evenly. “Everything’s going to be okay, Hermione...”

"...something I hadn’t seen in you before. And no, it wasn’t the brains; I think it was…the wit, if you understand me. Those notes made me see the real you, and I realised I didn’t need those people who called themselves my ‘friends’, so I spent less and less time with them and, eventually, they kind of accepted it.”

Draco internally sighed in relief. What he had said wasn’t a lie, but it wasn’t the full truth either...

“Just who do you think you are?” You could taste the anger on your tongue, “Just who the hell do you think you are?”

“I,” he leant closer, “am Draco Malfoy.”

Potter was a menace, a stirrer, someone who needed to be stopped before he could do or say anything that would jeopardise this relationship he had with you. A relationship built on lies.

Malfoy hated Snape talking to him in this way, like he was a child. He was far more than that! Surely he should remember that it was him whom the Dark Lord had chosen for one of his greatest plans, and not Snape. “And what would you even know about love?” He laughed vindictively, “You’ve never even loved another living soul.”

“No, I haven’t.”

The End.