This goes with the song I wrote, called "Never Gonna Be." Go read it, please, before you read this. Reviwe and all that.
Hermione watched Malfoy with a seemingly obvious distaste. Harry and Ron, on either side of her as they walked down the halls, wore identical expressions. The trio watched as Draco Malfoy laughed, and leaned towards a girl as she talked. Hermione's features faltered ever so slightly, but she quickly regained her composure.
"Git," Harry muttered, watching venomously as Malfoy smirked in an almost charming way at Cho. He never had given up Cho, though he realized she was slightly ill in the head. Why, just look at her now, completely caught up in a phony like that.
Meanwhile, Hermione stifled a small smile. Draco Malfoy was perhaps the only person on earth who could make a smirk look charming. He glanced over at the three of them, and Hermione caught his gaze, letting her face harden once again. Neither Ron nor Harry noticed the client war between the two, though a slight girl hovering at his elbow brought him back. He smirked once again, and Hermione let the smile resurface, sighing deeply.
"What?" Harry asked, following her gaze. Hermione scrambled for a legitimate reason, even though she knew Harry would not jump to the most unlikely conclusion; that Draco Malfoy had managed to work his magic on her, even from a far.
"Nothing."
"You sighed," Ron cut in, stopping his glaring in Malfoy's direction. His reason to glare, other than the simple fact that Malfoy was, always had been, and always would be a prat was Ginny Weasley, who hovered near the outskirts of the crowd around the blonde. It would be said by many of the girls in the school that Ginny was the head of a Draco Malfoy fan club, though it was kept very hush-hush, as to prevent the wrath of her older brother.
"Yes. I did sigh, didn't?" Hermione replied wearily, sighing again.
"Why?" Harry asked, though she could tell he didn't really care either way. Often with him, it was hard to express emotions; he was always somewhere else.
"No reason. Just Malfoy."
"You're right," Ron snarled. "He isn't a reason. Or a person, really…" The three smiled simultaneously, looking ahead down the hall rather than behind at the Slytherin and his small club of loyal followers.
It was only later, when they were safely and comfortably seated at dinner, that they spoke of the daily routine of scowling at Malfoy. In fact, the talk itself had become routine, though the three never tired of it.
"I hate him," Ron spoke, shifting his head only slightly to the table opposite them.
"Yes, Ron," Hermione said, "We know."
"And we agree," added Harry, with a small smile. But his face hardened suddenly, and he continued, addressing Hermione. "Don't we?"
"Hmmmm?" Said Hermione, gaze shifting slowly back to her friend's faces.
"WE hate Malfoy," Harry said, watching her intently.
"Yes. WE do," she replied, steadily, so as not to give herself away. Her hate was meant to be unfaltering, yet it had stayed a mixture of hate and curiosity, perhaps even something more, for the past few years. And now she was afraid Harry was noticing, realizing, wondering. And she realized, quite suddenly, that Harry would be a problem. She sighed again, turning back to her broth.
Hermione walked back from one of her more advanced classes, hoping to catch up with Harry and Ron for the last half of lunch. She passed by a large group of girls, not even bothering to find out who it was. You see, any large group of girls, almost all giggling, though some looked unnaturally solemn, gathered together meant Draco Malfoy was somewhere nearby.
Though that was, of course, not the reason Hermione Granger had to stop right at that exact spot in the dark hall to check something in her book bag. And then tie her boot lace, once again. And then re-check her bag.
Draco Malfoy watched from the center of his little circle, peering over the blonde, brown, and black haired girls to the amber coloured hair falling in unruly curls over a hunched form. He smirked. A few girls stared at him in awe, as if they hadn't seen the infamous smirk before, nor felt the same way about it each time.
A particular blonde haired girl, no doubt from Hufflepuff, given her demeanor, took this smirk particularly hard, falling into the arms of her friends. Her friends, in turn, giggled. Hermione, from her spot on the stones, grimaced. Giggles were music to his ears, she thought grimly, tying her lace for the third time. As if he could get more arrogant or egocentric. The logical part of her mind willed her to just walk away, an why not, if she felt so bitter to the boy? But the less logical, even perhaps girlish part of her mind willed her to stay. She looked down across the floor, past the rows of dirty laces and dull leather to a shiny pair of boots directly in front of her. They've been polished. Perhaps he has a different girl per night, wearing a skimpy outfit, to polish his shoes. Hermione smiled, standing up.
And nearly walking into Draco Malfoy.
"Yes?" She asked pleasantly, a firm believer in beating your enemies with kindness.
"You've chosen a good spot for yourself, Granger," Malfoy began, and she looked momentarily confused. But again, before she could help herself, her features hardened.
"And why, pretell, would that be? Perhaps so I can be far away from your nasty face, or your fan club," she replied haughtily, glancing out over the shocked girls.
He smirked, but it was a softer, kinder smirk. Or maybe that was how she wanted to see it. He glanced back at the girls, whose faces immediately changed to sparkling smiles at his gaze, and then he glanced back at her. At Hermione was shocked. Draco Malfoy was smiling, and honest, genuine smile. And it made him seem cute, in a boyish way, instead of the usual charming way he smirked at her.
"I think, maybe, it's the latter," He said, voice dropping to an amused whisper. "Because you know, Granger, that you couldn't get away from my face if you tried." He said the last with the accustomed smirk, rising back to his arrogant self.
"But of course," she replied, voice dripping with sarcasm, "Because it's just so handsome." A few girls swooned behind him, and a few tittered nervously, unsure of this was acceptable. Very few caught the ice in her voice, but by the way Draco's face shifted just a little, dropping the smirk for just an instance, she knew he understood the reference. Another girl fell into the arms of her friends as Draco turned back around, and Hermione walked off down the hall.
A few of the more modest girls watched from the halls with bowed heads. Blushing, as he smirked. It was only the more bold, such as Cho Chang, who wandered up to him, stretching out to place long fingers on his arm, if even for the briefest moment. Each and every one of them, trying so hard to be the one who caught the right boy, the one boy. But the most amazing thing; Draco Malfoy did not choose one.
It was not as if they expected him to make an announcement. To stand up in the Great Hall one day, asking Pansy Parkinson to tap a spoon on her water glass to draw attention, and tell them that he had chosen so and so for his fair lady. But still, they seemed to wait for a sign, even a hint of a rumour.
Indeed, when a rumour of a young Ravenclaw named Francine Gleyer circled around, how she had caught his attention long enough to ask him for dinner, there was much speculation. There was more disappointment, however, than anything.
Even Hermione, though she will never admit it, felt a tinge of disappointment at that rumour. Though it was only a false alarm, as Ginny hurriedly reported to her when Ron was held back a class.
"Just a rumour, nothing more, nothing less" Ginny had said breathlessly. Hermione had smiled down at the younger girl, perhaps even in a condescending way. "Trust me, I have my sources. They're good ones too." Ginny had said, rushing off, laughing. Hermione laughed too, in spite of herself, partly at Ginny, and partly out of her relief.
Though she knew there was nothing to worry about. Rumours were rumours, nothing more, nothing less, as Ginny had said. But it was a helpless feeling, when you heard this things, even though you may not believe them. There was just a small feeling that it could happen, and that was the problem.
Hermione had listened too intently to the rumour mill on that one, she later learned, when Harry pulled her aside.
"You don't hate Draco Malfoy," he had said, in a simple fashion, though he checked over his shoulder. Probably for Ron.
"No," she said, just as simply, though increasingly weary of where the conversation was going. "Not as much as you two."
"Maybe…." He faltered. "Maybe you even like him, just a little?"
She kept her features and tone of voice firm. Harry would not get anything out of her. "IS there something to like?" She responded, jokingly, and all was well.
Hermione cast furtive glances to the Slytherin table. Harry watched Hermione, almost as furtively, and so she had stopped to face him.
"Yes?"
"Is there something interesting?" He asked, this time sounding slightly accusatory.
"Just the girls. They're so silly, don't you think? Watching that prat," she put as much effort into the last word as she could, trying to sound as if she hated him. With venom perhaps. Snake venom. She nearly laughed.
But she knew she was only convincing Ron, just barely convincing Harry. Perhaps if she'd been closer to Ginny, or even Luna, one of the two might have noticed her sudden fascination as Malfoy licked his fingers, savouring the last taste of his dinner and the multiple gazes transfixed on his tongue.
She made sure not to glance over any more for the next few days, though she knew she really wanted to. Malfoy still drew the gazes of the others, but Hermione felt Harry watching her more than ever, while Ron seemed oblivious.
She sat alone one night, a few days after the near miss at dinner, and reflected on her current situation. Her slight curiosity in Malfoy had grown, and it was becoming more like an obsession. Granted, it was a quiet obsession; she wasn't about to join Ginny's fan club, and the spot on her cloak reserved for a pin was meant only for a S.P.E.W. badge.
Yet having spent the last few days trying to avoid him at all costs, Hermione was beginning to feel a need to watch him, though never staring. She felt that if she didn't do something about her fascination soon, she was going to end up talking to Ginny about a membership or some other ridiculous thing like that.
Hermione had most definitely lost it. Not only was Harry sure of it, Hermione herself was beginning to doubt her sanity. To everyone who she considered a mere acquaintance, she appeared to be the same old Hermione. She still completed her assignments early, still acted motherly to those not on task, and still fulfilled all her duties as a prefect with careful precision.
Yet, there was an odd air about her, as if she were never truly focused on the task at hand. Harry, of course, had noticed long ago, even found the source of her daydreaming, to put it in simplest terms. Many others picked up on the strange feel about her, but few could place it. Harry, however, did not notice on a Wednesday night when Hermione crept into his room, took, pardon, borrowed the invisibility cloak, and stole off for the dungeons.
If you haven't yet figured out where she was going, then you haven't been following my writings at all.
The steps underneath her feet felt surreal, as did the pale light illuminating the cold stones. In fact, the pale light was the only thing that showed her the stoned underneath her feet were very real, not simply a strange figment of her imagination. Because she'd been having a lot of those lately.
Figments, I mean, almost visiting her. She was beginning to think she was sick, had even gone to the infirmary. And had promptly been informed there was absolutely nothing wrong with her. So, she was left to her own devices, her own cure, as she knew exactly what the symptoms meant.
She nearly tripped, once, twice, three times walking down familiar steps. It was the first time in years Hermione could remember being unsure as she walked Hogwart's halls. And she finally reached an old portrait, though the man in it was dead asleep, and if Hermione had not known better, she would have thought him dead altogether. She checked her palm, quickly, to see the password she had written there earlier.
Now, I feel the need to explain something about my above phrase. Look up, two paragraphs I think, to the term 'was left to her own devices.' Since we know Hermione is a smart young woman, being left to her own devices meant solving her "inexplicable" sickness at any cost, and as quickly as possible. She had trailed at the edges of Malfoy's fan club earlier that day, careful to keep out of his sight, and out of the girl's sight. As he'd dismissed them at the portrait, speaking harshly to wake up the man in the portrait, she listened, barely daring to breath.
"Xerox," she said, feeling too solemn even to laugh at that entirely inappropriate password for Slytherins. But yet, it seemed fitting somehow, as if the sarcasm and irony that seemed to revolve around the Slytherins fit perfectly into that one muggle word.
As she crept inside, quiet as she could be, which was awfully quiet, due to years of sneaking around after dark, she peered through the darkness. It seemed even duller and blanker than her own common room, no doubt something she should haave expected.
And as she looked through the darkness, in the barely visible glow from the fires, Draco Malfoy peered back at her, smirking a very charming smirk. Hermione froze, and though about how cliché the entire thing seemed. And then Draco Malfoy added to the complete clichéd absurdness of the situation by saying "I've been waiting for you."
Hermione just had to laugh.
A/N: Review, this took forever, people want me off the computer, so off I go….Review. (Did I say that already?)