Hermione's Hair
Draco hated Transfiguration.
He hated its teacher, McGargoyle, he hated that he had to share it with the holier-than-thou Gryffindors and, most of all, he hated its classroom.
Room 1B was on the ground floor, but its high ceiling and windows meant unless it was very sunny outside the room was rather gloomy, and frankly he got enough of that from the Slytherin quarters. Not that he would ever admit it under pain of torture, but he sometimes envied the Gryffindors and Ravenclaws their airy, astral towers. (Besides, he was a Malfoy – if anyone was meant to be elevated above the plebeian masses, it was him.)
Still, at least the classroom wasn't quite as dark as the dungeons: weak daylight slanted through the high arched windows partially breaking up the gloom.
Mind you, a little more gloom might be welcome right about now what with his current unimpeded view of the sodding Golden Trio, as the Prophet had once nauseatingly dubbed them. (Well, Draco might have added the 'sodding' part.)
Granted he could only see the backs of their heads, but even these read like a cautionary tale in genetics.
Weasley's garish thatch of hair suggested one of his ancestors must have dallied with a carrot somewhere along the way – a diseased carrot, if you factored in his ludicrously ubiquitous freckles – and Potter's chaotic black mop appeared to have been permanently backcombed, most likely from his substandard flight control.
Of course, both of these hair-don'ts paled into insignificance next to Granger's fright-wig. Her mass of frothy curls must account for a good third of her body weight, especially in light of her otherwise slenderness.
Bloody Granger. He couldn't even see the board past that great, bushy head. Not that he was particularly desperate to see what the Highland harridan wrote, but still… It was ridiculous.
How could she even see? No wonder she was so terrible at flying – her peripheral vision must be horrendously compromised.
Outside the cloud cover dissipated a little; a shaft of pure sunlight broke through and, as luck or poetic justice would have it, pooled around Granger, kissing the crown of her head.
Suddenly, everything changed.
Motes of sunlight caught in the tendrils, refracting what had seemed a solid swathe of brown, revealing rich coffee and chestnut, and dark toffee threaded with honey.
It looked velvety soft and sinfully rich – like a deep pool of molten chocolate he suddenly longed to be enveloped in.
What did it smell like?
The thought erupted into life in his head. It looked so edible, what if it smelled as good as it looked? A terrible compulsion gripped Draco. He fought against it ferociously, but the temptation proved too great.
He leaned forward, craning his neck as far as he could, inhaling deeply.
And loudly.
Granger's head whipped round. Her expression was alarmed, but also confused; large brown eyes regarded him quizzically. (Good grief, even they were like chocolate and caramel. No wonder Potty and Weasley always ate so much – they must be in a constant state of hunger, hanging around her.)
Draco found himself frozen in a tableau: perilously balanced on his chair's two front legs, eyes meeting Granger's as the seconds stretched on and light pink colour began to suffuse both their cheeks.
Hers wasn't the only head that turned, however.
"Malfoy", Weasel's voice contained deep disgust, but also mild puzzlement, "were you sniffing Hermione's hair?!"
Now Potter's head whipped round too, his expression pure horror.
Draco's sneer snapped on like a shield. "Yes, I was. I thought I could smell something rotting, and then it occurred to me: Granger's hair is so frightful, it's possible something got caught in there and died."
Weasley and Potty howled in fury, hands diving for their wands.
"Mr Potter! Mr Weasley!" Professor McGonagall's clipped brogue rang out. "Whatever you are about to do, I strongly advise you think twice about it!"
Slowly, reluctantly, Potter and Weasley turned back round, shooting death glares as they went. Weasley was muttering something regarding promised retribution when class was over.
Granger's reaction was different.
The gentle blush deepened to an angry, chagrined stain, but she raised her chin and tossed her magnificent mane defiantly as she turned back to the front of the class.
The displaced air wafted over to Draco's waiting nostrils.
Mmmm – cinnamon, vanilla and… something else.
Something he couldn't quite define – had never smelled before – but something equally delicious.
Mmmm – Hermione.
A/N This story now has a multi-chaptered sequel. Check it out on my profile.