Author's Note:
I have not written in a long while, so I decided to finally get back on the horse. I'm locked out of my old account anyway, so I thought it was time for a fresh start.
A muse came to me and I still can't explain exactly what this is. I just had a Dramione itch, and when I scratched this came of it.
I did my best to imitate the British culture, for as an honest to god American who has only ever been outside the country to Canada, that is all I can do. What you get comes from the research I could dig up and from what I know (which isn't much). So I am sorry for my Americanisms if there are any and if there are and someone would like to correct me I'd love the chance to learn.
Warning: This is unbeta'd. I did my best to run over it to catch my mistakes.
This was wrong, utterly and undeniably wrong for so many different reasons. She was a commoner, a vindictive and pushy swot, with frizzy gangly hair that seemed to imitate the bristles of a broom. Where he trained for Quidditch, she studied for classes. He was groomed for his inheritance (that included his social status reserved for him among the elite, a seat that guaranteed success). Conversely, she had no polishing or guide to launch her into life.
They were oil and water, merging when agitated to do so, but otherwise staying contentedly separate with ease.
Yet he occasionally shadowed her, on an off day when he was bored and had the queer whim. Not that it was an overly difficult thing to do. They both had returned to Hogwarts to finish their seventh year out properly (after a year or so of reconstruction from the leveling it got at the final battle between Voldemort and Harry fecking Potter). As students residing within the same building, it wasn't too hard to locate someone. And due to all the nooks and corners, it wasn't hard to hide either. So tailing Granger whenever the fancy took him was simple enough. Particularly when the girl was so relaxed and off her guard in the castle.
She acted like the place was safe. Had she been here through what should have been their final year she'd realized just how dangerous it could be. Infiltration wasn't impossible. Though it was now improbable, there being no real threat to wizard-kind. Perhaps the year to adjust back into civilian life helped a bit. In spite of what he perceived to be her sheer stupidity, it also fascinated him. That she could walk with her head high, shoulders straight, and feel confident within the walls of Hogwarts was commendable. No, it was courageous.
Bloody Gryffindor, he thought bitterly. It rankled that what came so naturally to her – the possession of a backbone of all things – he had to create and implant within himself. He had to force his bravery and work twice as hard not to give ground in a fight. And acknowledging that stung. So too did his other admittance.
There was no excuse for this . . . this feeling that tickled inside his chest. It had festered within him years ago if he was honest. Ever since fourth year, sine the Yule Ball, an idea had infected his mind. Spreading thoughts of the possibilities they might have together, littering his mind and polluting his core.
His own intentions were so arcane to him that he often wondered what exactly he was doing and for what purpose.
Draco Lucius Malfoy was infatuated. While there was probably more if he bothered to delve, he knew that was a can of worms he'd rather not open. It was bad enough he was admitting, even if only to himself, that that damn mudblood caught his attention. And had managed to hold onto it for six years now. He did not want to analyze just how deep his consideration for her ran.
Usually when he prodded at his own curiosity, he backed away. Common sense would return to him and he'd leave the muggle-born alone for a few weeks. Recently Draco found that he couldn't help but begin to question all his values. Sure, it took him a year-and-a-half longer than it should have, but there were so many other things he had to cope with; his father and mother's separation, both parents' disgrace, rebuilding their ancestral home after a fire suspiciously burnt it to the ground nine months ago.
Now that he was able to unwind from everything did anomalies start to appear before his eyes. Such as the superiority fallacy, as he referred to it now. How could purebloods claim to be better when there were so many living examples that their magic and intellect was neither greater nor broader? Though it most certainly was more arrogant and abused. Voldemort wasn't even a pureblood, he was a half-blood.
The hypocrisy of the whole end-of-the-world thing was so trite it was laughable. After learning about the Dark Lord's real heritage Draco had laughed himself into hysterics. He blamed his frayed nerves at the time; near-death experiences did that to people.
Movement out of the corner of his eye sobered his pondering and broke his internal debate. A slender figure with righteous curls frizzing about her shoulders passed him by in the adjacent corridor. Her sharp golden irises that often reminded Draco of a hawk's were scanning over a scroll she was carrying. In her arms, cocooned like a jealous oyster to its pearl, were several books.
She was a vision. Despite her hair still being on the dry side, it had lightened over the years to a beautiful red-brown with golden highlights. She had filled out in all the right ways and Draco was hard press to admit it, but Hermione Granger had undoubtedly become a woman sometime between fourth year and now.
He hesitated, not sure what good it would do to engage her. For all he knew she'd spit back all his hatred he once showed her. And rightly so if she did. There was no point in denying he'd been a foul, snarky, spiteful little boy. The past couldn't be taken back. All the hurt he caused was done and there was nothing more he could do about it than he could about his retched family he'd been born into.
"Oi, Granger!" he called out, deciding to go with his impulse before he lost his nerve. "Hold on a tick."
The lovely figure that had been gliding down the hall stiffened then came to an abrupt halt. She turned around slowly, revealing a cautious expression that was creeping over her face.
She sound confused when she said, "Malfoy?"
"I . . ." what could he say? What should he say? 'Sorry I was a prejudiced bastard that made your childhood a living hell.' That didn't seem right. Nor did simply asking for forgiveness he did not deserve. In the end, he went with the truth.
"I'm s-sorry – I just wanted to say – it." His voice sounded strange to him, and he choked several times trying to get it out. Apologies weren't his style, and he knew it showed.
Granger looked like a fish gapping at him. Right, probably not the most brilliant idea that he ever had. Before he could get into it with her like they use to as children he bolted. When in doubt, defer to a tactic that is tried and true – run away.
He never saw it, as his back was firmly turned toward Granger, but for a brief moment he received her reply. A curl of the lip and a flash of perfectly aligned teeth.