Smile
Draco doesn't smile. If he were to smile, his already pointy chin would elongate, making up half of his face. His too-thin lips would widen to a frightening degree. His forehead would crease and a wild expression would come over his face. No, Draco doesn't smile.
Instead, his eyes sparkle and lips twist on his face. This is easily mistaken for a scowl. And he seemed to be doing his "scowling" a lot lately, directed toward an unwary victim… Hermione Granger.
Her friends are an odd bunch. Luna Lovegood, the loon. Neville Longbottom, the Loser. Harry Potter, the Boy Who Had His Mother Die For Him. And Ron Weasley, the Red-Haired Wonder.
She doesn't fit in somehow. She's intelligent, with a rare type of beauty that is almost always unrecognizable, except for those few moments. How could she stand to hang out with those babbling idiots?
Draco wrestles with this in his mind. Finally he sighs.
Hermione brushes past him, head down – bent over her books. He can't help his quivering lips or the way his eyes start to dance.
She trips over thin air and her books launch out of her hands. Her bottle of ink smashes somewhere a few feet away.
She crouches on the stone floor, hastily snatching up books. No one tries to help. Everyone else is already in class.
As she snatches up her Ancient Runes book, a foot appears in her peripheral vision. She stops scrabbling along the floor, trying to hastily gather her books. Someone mutters, "Reparo" and pieces of glass join, sliding together perfectly. They bend down to shove the pile of books into her arms. When she looks up she can see shining blue eyes.
"Thank you," she quickly mumbles, and hurries off.
He's left there, the faintest curve to his lips still fading. Because there's nothing they can ever be.