Second year
"You filthy little mudblood." No sooner had the words left his mouth then he regretted them. Granger's determined glare flickered for the first time since he'd met her, and he recognized the hurt there. That thought made him even more furious, but not at her. He enjoyed the few opportunities when he got to spar with her, and liked that he could rile her up. The end goal was a fuming and livid Hermione Granger. Actually hurting her wasn't part of the plan. He couldn't figure out why causing her pain didn't feel as good as it should have. Worse was the fact that she was right. She was always fucking right. Draco was aware enough to know that he was a fair flyer, but not foolish enough to think that was the only reason he was on the team. Looking down to the sleek Nimbus 2001 in his hand, he gripped it with white knuckles and scowled. He stormed off the Quidditch pitch even angrier than before, only slightly placated by Weasley's pathetic form puking up mollusks.
Quidditch practice that afternoon was abysmal for him. He couldn't concentrate, his thoughts straying to that damned mudblood again. Why did he give a damn if she was crying? She was inferior to him in every way.
Except that she wasn't. She continually beat his test scores in every class, and it infuriated him. How had a mudblood always gotten the upper hand? He should inherently at least be better at magic than she as well, but she proved herself to be as skilled with a wand as she was while taking a test. He did respect her for that, but it still didn't soften the blow to his ego of being second best. He shook his head. She was a mudblood. He didn't respect her.
Except that he did. As much as he hated her for being what she was, and so unashamedly, he grudgingly admitted to himself that he did have to respect her. Malfoys valued many things, and hard work and intelligence were among them. No one with half a brain could deny that Granger had those both in spades.