Disclaimer: I am not J.K.
AN: Sorry if the onsidedness is annoying, I don't like the idea of him liking her back.
Almost As If You Said You Loved Me
Something would happen just about every day, come the second term. No matter what, the same thing would happen, never changing at least once. It was something she looked forwards to for reasons even she couldn't understand – the only reason she could find not to show up early for potions.
Draco Malfoy, followed as always by his dimwitted sidekicks, would push past Hermione Granger – almost throwing her into a nearby statue. For a second, he would turn around, give her the most cold and hateful stare possible (one that possessed more venom than a basilisk fang), and hiss: "Why don't you get out of the way next time, Mudblood?"
Turning pink from a strange mix of anger and embarrassment, Hermione would push herself up off of the ground, and reply haughtily "If anyone here is dirty, it's you!"
And then as he kept going, not even bothering to respond to her lessthanclever retort, Hermione would change various shades of red. Embarrassment: cherry red. Anger: infrared. Last, but definitely not least, something strange: rose red. Ducking her head beneath her mess of bushy brown hair, she would hurry into Snape's classroom, trying her best to look calm. And yet, even though his words cut deep into her like a wound, it felt nice to hear him say them.
One day in February, the twelfth to be exact, Hermione had practically abused the Hogwart's passages – just to make sure she would be slammed into an extremely sharp marble statue again. Blushing fervently, Hermione positioned herself in her regular path, practically awaiting the moment when she would end up in Madam Pomfrey's care, rubbing fresh bruises.
She stood there until the class bell rang. Nothing happened.
Cursing her lateness, she trudged into class. Guilt washed over her – had she honestly lost her house points because she wanted to be verbally abused and physically injured? What was she, emo now?
"Fifty points from Gryffindor. Ten minutes is a skip, Miss Granger, let's make that a hundred points!" As Snape took obvious delight in subtracting points from the ruby hourglass, Hermione just trudged to her seat, her eyes on the Slytherin side of the classroom.
His seat was empty.
--
Something in Hermione made her decide to wait again the next day. What force possessed her on that day? She wasn't sure, but the air reeked of Romilda Vane's amortia and for some reason, she was feelinglucky.So, she trudged as if she were walking through molasses, keeping her eyes straight ahead. Ron and Harry went ahead of her, and she continued, until she was positioned right by the statue. And just like always, he appeared.
"Why don't you get out of the way, Mudblood?" He still looked at her like she was something he'd stepped on and found unpleasant.
Only that time, Hermione didn't trust herself to speak. Instead, she turned cherry red. Muttering something about her being 'filthy', 'hideous', and 'bucktoothed', he shoved her once again, before heading into theclassroom. By the time Hermione entered the classroom, she hadn't turned her custom shade of rose red. Instead, she turned faintly green, the same color as a
TicTac. Nervousity: pale green.
--
By the time Valentine's Day had rolled around, Hermione's greenish tint faded away. She was carnation pink with anxiousness – having already remembered to pad her shoulder blades.
Already, his voice played like one of the many broken records her parents owned, repeating over and over. Sort of like the one day in second year, where he'd first called her the name, which had nearly given the others a heart attack.
Only it wasn't so offending the ten trillionth time around. It was more like a nickname, actually.
Having gotten lost in thought, Hermione suddenly snapped back to reality when her shoulder collided with the oddly shaped nose of the squat statue. She whirled around to face him, her ears yearning for that same line.
"Move, Mudblood." When the usual statement wasn't said, Hermione had to wonder why.
Of course, with her immense knowledge of the castle, she didn't have to wonder long. It took her all of a millisecond to remember that she was standing in front of one of the secret passageways, which was more like an empty corridor. As Fred and George Weasley had smugly informed a hormonal Ron, a deserted corridor.
And then, another thing occurred to her. He wasn't alone. Hanging on to his hand, reeking of some sort of expensive perfume, was his rumored 'friend with benefits'. Pansy Parkinson stood before Hermione, in all of her my-uniform's-too-short-to-be-regulation-because-I-roll-like-that glory.
Growing impatient, he knocked her into the statue again, and stood boastfully before the passageway, pushing a large tapestry aside.
Hermione didn't stick around to see the rest.
--
Needless to say, February fourteenth of the fifth year was the last time Hermione ever waited for him again.