Golden Girl Snitch
Hermione Granger.
Golden Girl.
Draco Malfoy knew he had to be better than that scarhead Potter, who ran around thinking he owned the school because of some silly mark on his forehead. But Granger was a different challenge.
And he loved a challenge.
He'd always kept a close eye on her—sometimes two—knowing he needed to at least match her grades in their classes.
He'll only ever risk a sideways glance, or allow his eyes to linger on her for only a fleeting moment while they sweep over a crowded corridor or classroom.
Sometimes it's on that unruly, bird's nest on top of her head, wondering how any magic was strong or precise enough to tame it into those twists meeting at the back of her head.
Sometimes it's on how straight she always seems to be—her shoulders back and her back oddly erect as her quill flutters across her scroll, as she flicks her wand with such precision, or even as she stands over her cauldron struggling to cut her sopophorous bean.
At times, he's lucky enough to catch her mid-smile. Although how anything Potter or Weasel said could be funny enough to smile at was beyond him.
And sometimes, if he catches her at just the right moment, and her gaze is somewhere else, he can spend that fleeting moment looking at those distracted eyes—eyes the colour of coffee with a mere two drops of creamer.
He bets she tastes like that too.
He was never one for coffee, but given the chance, he'd drink all of Hermione Granger up until neither of them could see straight.
But every so often, their clandestine glances meet, and he catches something in her eyes before she darts them away, jumping into a conversation or pretending to check something as she flips through her textbook with a newly tense jaw.
She can pretend that there's nothing in those moments, but he knows that she knows better. He sees it. Feels it.
There's something in the way she looks at him.
Something that ignites something in his chest, causing his heart to beat erratically—even if only for a second.
The only problem, is that he can never exactly decide just what it is that he sees.
She's always had a way of looking at him. He'd always thought it was because of the way he called her 'Mudblood'. It was meant to get under her skin—and it seemed to work. But these days…for the last couple years, it seemed…different. He couldn't put his finger on it.
Her brows were still just as furrowed as they'd ever been when she'd look at him—or perhaps that was just how they were—but her eyes were a little less…narrowed, and a little more probing. And yet, somehow, softer?
But just for a second.
Only ever a flicker.
Only ever from the corner of his eye before he looks and it's gone.
Like a Golden Snitch.
So uh, yeah.
I'm currently nose-deep writing a longfic, where these two were not harbouring feelings for each other for the first seven years of knowing one another, so it was nice to pretend for a moment.
I also learned 'pentadrabble' is a term, as well as 'double-drabble', so that's fun. Or possibly excessive.