As was his typical Returning-To-Hogwarts Custom, Draco had paused in the door of the Golden Gaggle's compartment on the Hogwart's Express to deliver his annual tidings of harassment to Potter (he'd come to think of himself as an evil Welcome Wagon). And there was Granger, leaning against the wall, her arms blithely folded, eyebrows gracefully arched. Her chocolate hair was shorter and framed her face now and it seemed to Draco that she'd taken to hemming her school skirt a few nearly imperceptible inches higher than the Hogwarts' standard. She looked cooler and more collected than Draco ever remembered seeing her. If he hadn't spent his life reminding her of her impure blood, he could have believed, in that moment, that she was a Slytherin.
He had little time to enjoy the view, however. The sight of her ruby lips curled in ire as she turned the focus of her cool displeasure to him choked in his throat the witty barbs he'd spent the summer perfecting. He was used to being the cause of Granger's irritation, of course. Getting her blood up was one of his great joys in life, besides tormenting Potter. This time was different. Draco was familiar with her anger – the way her face flushed and her eyes flashed at every insult that fell out of her lips. But this vision before him – for she was a vision, elegant and composed as a statue – was all ice, and Merlin, she was scary. Draco was only able to squeeze out a few feeble digs before one sharp look from the impenetrable snow queen before sent him scuttling back to the Slytherin car with his tail between his legs.
He'd immediately put the incident out of his mind, chalking it up to too many Chocolate Cauldrons on a lurchy train and a long summer without the Maxim magazine subscription he had diverted to his Hogwarts dorm room every year (Narcissa Malfoy didn't hold with such smut being delivered to The Manor). But despite the multitude of excuses he fed his ego, Draco was forced to admit that since that day something had shifted in his every contact with Herm – Granger. Unusual events started occurring, little things that all added up to one big glaring truth: like it or not, the Mudblood was lodged under his skin and there she would stay.
The Slytherin and Gryffindor tables were, on principal, as far apart from each other in the Great Hall as was physically possible, but Draco could now easily discern Granger's voice and her low, throaty laugh through the din of a Hogwarts evening meal. Her bossiness had once been Draco's favorite excuse for hating her, but lately he found himself unable to stir up the old feelings of annoyance that used to descend when she started spouting off her endless knowledge. He'd even found himself idly wondering what she would say next. Even that unruly hair of hers, his gold standard when it came to insulting her, didn't seem so bad anymore.
What's more, he was powerless to make himself avoid her. It was though he could hone his mind in on her, wherever she was and whatever she might be doing. He found himself mentally matching his daily schedule with hers and manipulating circumstances – he was a Slytherin, after all – so as to see her as much as possible.
Like now. He'd gotten in the habit of positioning himself to watch her descend the staircase to dinner every day. Out of the corner of his eye, he'd glimpse her full thick curls and then take in the rest of her: what she was wearing (she wore more green than anyone else outside of Slytherin, he'd noted with pleasure), what she was carrying (always at least one book), who she was with (either the rest of the Hellish Trio or the Weaselette), the expression on her face. He'd made a game of guessing her mood and found himself to be quite adept at it.
If her hair was up and a quill jabbed fiercely through the mass, she was more often than not in a tiff with Potter, Weasel or both. Sometimes she came down trailing behind several Gryffindor girls as they chatted about the latest hair potions. Granger never partook in these discussions. Tonight, however, her arm was linked through Ginny Weasley's, their heads inclined towards one another. Draco figured they must be having what Pansy and Goyle called Girl Talk.
The She-Weasel was lucky to be a girl, Draco thought savagely as he observed them through narrowed eyes as they giggled and parted at the foot of the stairs. If any unfortunate young man, including Potter or the Weasel, so much as lay a finger on Hermi-Grange-her, he'd…well, he wasn't sure yet, but he'd think of something. Something painful, creative and deeply Slytherin that would set an example for any others who might have such designs on the girl he was coming to think of as his own.
Resignedly, Draco willed himself to turn slowly and strut casually to the Slytherin table as though nothing in the world were amiss. and scan the room for the girl again, this time in order to avoid her. A more difficult task than usual as there were plenty of things amiss in the world, his infatuation with Granger being right up there with the stress of being a double agent. Much as Potter and Weasley grated on his nerves and much as he was still convinced Dumbledore was an old lunatic, Draco's decision to switch sides had been one of the easiest of his life. These feelings for Granger were complicating the matter, however. She didn't fully trust him and she had no reason to do so, although this disturbed him to no end. Avoiding her was the easiest thing to do, for the sake of all concerned. He forced himself to remain tethered to the Slytherin common room most evenings to preserve his sanity and her safety. It was much easier to forget about her down in the gloom of the dungeons.