Draco’s Silent Confession (II)
Then there was the Yule Ball. It was there, amidst the glittering chaos, that a realization struck Draco Malfoy with the force of a bludger: Hermione Granger was breathtaking. Not just attractive, but *breathtaking*. He found himself, against his will, drawn to her across the crowded hall, his gaze lingering far longer than polite society dictated.
That brute Krum was dancing with her, treating her as his date. Technically, she *was* his date, but in Draco’s mind, she belonged to him. He’d wanted to stride across the floor, to pull her onto his lap, and ask her to dance until his feet blistered. The thought had slammed into him with such force that he’d felt nauseous. Was he truly fantasizing about Granger? *The* Granger? The Mudblood? His father would skin him alive if he heard this.
He’d abandoned Pansy mid-sentence, pushing through the throng and escaping to the relative sanctuary of the Slytherin common room. Only once secured within the fortress of his sheets and pillows had he allowed himself to truly consider it.
Did he actually *like* Granger? Was that why he couldn’t banish her image from his thoughts?
And then the truth hit him, cold and brutal. It wasn’t simply liking. He was falling. He was, gods help him, *falling*. He had to extinguish this flame before it consumed him.
But it was already too late. Three years had passed, and Draco Malfoy couldn’t dislodge her from his mind.
Her smile, a fleeting curve of lips that could ignite a war. Her laughter, a melody he’d begun to anticipate in his dreams. Her bushy hair, a riot of curls that framed a face that could stop a dragon's heart. Her beaming eyes, pools of intelligence and defiance. The way she bit her lip in concentration, a silent testament to her relentless intellect.
His reverie was shattered by someone uttering Granger’s name. He turned to see Pansy, seated with a Red-haired girl, discussing something with intensity. He frowned, catching Pansy’s eye and motioning her to join him.
Pansy sighed, settling beside him on the bench. "Care to explain your sudden interest in Purple?" he asked, keeping his voice level.
"First, it’s Brown, not Purple, Draco," she chuckled. "She just dumped Weasley."
Draco’s ears perked up. It was common knowledge that the Gryffindor princess worshipped the Weasel. Not openly, of course, but Draco had seen the way her eyes lit up whenever he was near.
"Are you listening?" Pansy asked, her voice laced with concern.
"Yes, of course. Continue," he replied, forcing a casual tone.
"Right. So, Ron Weasley was poisoned. When Brown visited him in the infirmary, Granger was holding his hand. They were having a row—a quiet one, but still—when Weasley started babbling Granger’s name. He was still unconscious, but Brown was mortified. She broke up with him on the spot. End of story," she giggled, studying his expression.
He quickly scanned the Gryffindor table, finding Granger staring at the Weasel as if he were her most treasured possession.
And in that moment, all the feelings he'd suppressed for three years surged back to the surface. It took every ounce of self-control to not leap across the hall and poison the Weasel again. He loathed losing control, but even more, he hated the possibility of anyone witnessing his descent into madness. He excused himself abruptly, fleeing back to his room.
He tore off his boots, loosened his tie, and collapsed onto the bed, burying his face in his hands. He cast a Muffliato, then screamed. He screamed until his vocal cords threatened to rupture, his body shaking violently. Only then did he notice the wetness on his cheeks. He was crying.
He was crying for *her*.
He was crying for Hermione Granger.
He was crying because he knew they were irrevocably, tragically, incompatible.
He was crying because he knew she would never reciprocate his feelings.
He was crying because today, all hope had been extinguished.
Draco Malfoy had surrendered to love, and lost himself in the process.