He barely heard these words; he just saw his father's lips move. Draco stood in a crowd of people, unnoticed until now. Everything seemed to blur around him, a lot of heads turned to look at him - but he saw just one.
The brown curls he always only saw from behind moved. Hermione looked totally different than he remembered her – the war changed all of them. But nothing could change the fact that she was the most beautiful person to him, even a year of living in a tent and the exhausting work of trying to save the entire Wizarding world could not.
The memory of her coming down the stairs at Yule Ball in fourth year flashed before his eyes. At this time everything was well. No war. Everything came to his mind again, every single moment he shared with her. Once he tried to tell her that she was indeed not less valuable than him, that her blood status didn't matter to him anymore. Draco anticipated every class they had together, just to look at her lovely, lovely face.
He remembered the moment when her hand once accidently touched his in potion class. He could not sleep this night, he was hot and could not think of anything else than her hands replacing his own, her lips tracing a line on his chest. He couldn't look at her the next day, thinking of the white drops on his abdomen the night before.
He didn't know when this attraction began – suddenly it was just there as if it has always been.
He looked at the man next to her, and noticed their hands. It seemed like Weasley pressed them together even more at the sight of him. Draco's heart ached.
He despised everything his family and friends believed in. He despised Weasley for being able to do what he wanted; holding her in his arms, kissing her, sleeping with her. They probably even would have married if Voldemort didn't win the war.
His eyes wandered to hers.
"Draco?" The voice of his father brought him back to reality.
He didn't move. It didn't matter to him if he would die – at least he would be with Hermione. Even if she will never love him back.