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No one seems to recognise her for a second - neither her classmates nor herself. The periwinkle dress drapes her body like a gentle ocean in the sunset, its fabric as light and airy as silk.
Hermione never felt as beautiful.
As she descends the stairs, her eyes meet Parvati’s for a second, who looks at her in admiration before a genuine grin erupts on her face. With a new-found confidence, Hermione takes each step and can’t believe her eyes when Viktor, the Viktor Krum, materialises at the bottom of the stairs, his head bowed in respect and arm extended, offering to guide her to the hall.
“You look beautiful,” he whispers, making Hermione blush as she takes his hand. She timidly acknowledges Harry with a shy wave, who can barely believe what he’s seeing, and mutely gives her a nod in return.
The giant doors swing open to reveal a stunning view beyond. The room overflowed with decorations glistening like stardust, the white and silver colours brightening the walls, engulfing the area in a brilliant glow. Huge ice sculptures, standing taller than the guests who admire them, reach up to the enchanted ceiling and a massive Christmas tree twinkles at the end of the hall.
Viktor's arm intertwined with hers, she walks down the corridor, keenly aware of the surprised gazes directed her way. However, one particular set of eyes remains fixed on her.
The stormy grey-blue depths of them have entranced her before, a feeling comparable to an ocean tempest, threatening to consume her. Whenever their eyes lock for a moment longer than necessary, she’d be intrigued by their conflicted curiosity, filling the silence with unspoken words.
Quite frankly, she has no idea when this secret game started and even less why. All she knows is when their looks collide, it's like a magnetism has been created between them, a bridge of electricity that she can feel powerful and fragile at once. Yet again, her glance is drawn to his like a boomerang, lingering for a few seconds before the moment is broken.
Letting out a shaky breath, she accepts Viktor's hand in hers and steps out onto the dance floor. She does her best to push away the feeling of breaking waves in her stomach as they sway to the music together.
Gradually, more and more students start to join the dancing, and the anxiety begins to slip away until finally, it’s gone, and the evening slowly takes its course. Laughter and music fill the room as couples gracefully twirl around in time to the beat while Harry and Ron remain seated with their arms crossed, frowning as they watch the scene.
Eventually, Viktor offers to go get some drinks, and Hermione walks up to her friends, glancing between them curiously.
“Hot, isn’t it?” She beams with excitement, but they stay silent in response. Hermione sits down next to Harry, practically sensing his discomfort. “What’s wrong?” she whispers. He stares at someone behind her, disappointment glazing his eyes.
"It’s just..." His sentence stays unfinished, only a shake of his head continuing where his words left off. Hermione follows his gaze and catches sight of Cho with Cedric, giggling and enjoying the music. She looks at him again, somewhat pityingly, and understanding spreads through her. In fact, she originally assumed that she would spend the evening just like him, off to the side, watching and sulking about the fact that the boy she thought wanted to ask her hadn't done so. Biting her cheek, she tries to come up with something to cheer him up.
“Viktor’s gone to go and get drinks. Would you care to join us?"
Harry seems deeply unhappy about the prospect of entering the crowd but still manages to put on a half-hearted smile.
“No,” Ron spits next to them, “we’d not care to join you and Viktor.”
Hermione frowns. “What’s got your wand in a knot?”
Ron's hand fumbles with the tacky fabric of his sleeve as he sneers at the floor.
"Isn’t the whole point of the tournament to make friends?" Hermione asks.
He snorts. “Yeah, right,” looking up, he adds, “I think he’s got a bit more than friendship on his mind.”
Hermione huffs in disbelief. She spent all that time waiting for him to take the initiative. Waiting for him to see her as a desirable person, as a girl worth inviting to a ball. Because, in the end, wasn't that what she wanted? Isn't that the way it should be? Looking at him, she is no longer so sure.
“And what’s your problem?” she confronts him. Ron raises his head in surprise, mouth opening and closing without a sound coming out. Hermione stands up and looks at him expectantly, placing a hand on her hip.
“Well…” Ron waves a hand through the air, “It’s mental, the whole thing.” An angry frown covers his forehead.
“Mental?” He presses his lips together at her incredulous tone. “Why?” She narrows her eyes. “Because people are actually having fun while you sit on the sidelines, pouting about Godric knows what?”
“Yeah, you’re having fun alright…” he murmurs, shooting a nasty look in Viktor's direction, who’s making his way to them with two drinks in his hands. Hermione, at a loss for words, shakes her head and intercepts Viktor before he arrives at the table where such a miserable atmosphere prevails.
“Everything alright?” he asks and she nods, taking one of the drinks to distract herself from the churning feeling of frustration that threatens to take her over.
She examines Viktor discreetly, analysing his strong and incisive features. His broad shoulders, which would certainly catch her at any moment, the serious expression on his face that it takes effort to loosen up, but Hermione has managed it a couple of times tonight. He is easy enough to look at, obviously attractive, and a respectful gentleman if you will. She’s had a wonderful time so far, a night of dancing and pretending and dreaming about the things that could be if only they went to the same school.
Still, he doesn’t quite spark the feeling of passion she longs for. Viktor is a wonderful person, potentially a very good friend, but Hermione can’t deny that she needs far more to let it become… more.
More magnetism. More raging storms.
At the idea of who could reciprocate such a feeling in her, her stomach drops.
“Excuse me,” she murmurs, “I need to… sorry, need to go to the loo for a minute.”
With a crude movement and no further explanation, she pushes the empty glass into Viktor’s hand and fights her way through the crowd towards the lavatory. She’s in desperate need of ice-cold water on her face and, honestly, everywhere else to wash away her thoughts and agitation.
Crossing the hall, she ends up in the dark corridor only lit by torches that cast gloomy shadows behind them. It’s still way too hot but a slight relief to be away from the crowd nevertheless. She adjusts her hair with unsteady hands, lost in thought.
As her footsteps echo from the walls, a far too familiar figure suddenly emerges from an alcove, slender and tall, accompanied by the shadows he materialised from. Hermione's breath catches in her throat as she looks right into the grey-blue storm that she was actually running away from. His light hair crushes the darkness that wants to settle on them and without her wanting it to, she remains rooted to the spot to take him in.
Draco advances with deliberate, measured steps towards her, akin to a predator cautiously stalking its prey, careful not to startle it before seizing the opportune moment to strike.
“Granger.”
A disconcertingly pleasant shiver runs down her spine at his low voice calling her name. During the many months of their back-and-forth dance, he never engaged her in a direct conversation, except to keep up the tiresome façade of insult. She presses her lips together, nostrils flaring.
“Leave me alone, Malfoy.” She attempts to leave, but he blocks her way without hesitation in one effortless movement.
“Why’d you come with him?” His eyes bore into hers.
“Excuse me?”
“I thought you were coming with Weaslebee or Saint Potter,” he presses, not blinking once.
Her eyebrows furrow closely, creating an expression of irritated bewilderment. “Get lost, will you?”
“Granger,” he shifts slightly from one foot to the other, trying to control his rising impatience. “Why’d you come with Krum?”
Something changes in his expression. Hermione can't quite pinpoint it, but it appears as though he articulates his thoughts through the intense, eloquent glances of his eyes where words fail him. Sincere. Pleading.
She bites her lip, trying to force back the words that are about to escape, then swallows hard.
“Because he,” she lets the word linger between them for a second, “...asked me.”
It’s not an easy thing for her to be vulnerable. So when she finds herself doing it in front of him, of all people, the surprise is evident on Hermione's face since she doesn’t even know why she’s entertaining this conversation.
His expression betrays no emotion except for the faintest flutter of his eyelids, barely a blink. He averts his gaze, allowing it to shift towards the floor as if hoping to uncover the perfect words hidden there, while taking yet another step in her direction, closing the distance between them.
“Surely,” he drawls, towering over her, “this can't be the magic recipe for you being someone's date?”
“Are you drunk?”
“Stone cold sober.”
She stares at him, indecisive, baffled.
How simple it could be for once. At this moment. Only the two of them, in a dark corridor, crashing tension in the little amount of air left between them. Nobody would have to know. She could blame it on the fire whiskey she didn't drink. Every cell in Hermione yearns to pursue the feeling, crazy as it may be.
But she knows she can’t.
Using all the strength she can muster, she forces herself to take a step past him towards the bathroom. Before she’s able to take another one, his hand snaps to her wrist, holding her in place with a grip that is both firm and gentle. He remains still, only his face slowly turning until he addresses her in a soft voice.
“Don’t leave.”
She glares at him, ready to lunge at him or pull him close. She’s not sure anymore.
“Don’t touch me.”
He releases her wrist as if it were a red-hot coal. She turns to go, trying to ignore the tugging disappointment in her chest at the loss of his touch, but the audible breath he takes makes her hesitate.
“Please.” It's barely audible, but it causes her eyes to fly up and meet his.
“What has gotten into you?” she whispers, wildly alert.
Confusion and frustration twist around her heart, a cold knot that refuses to be untied. She wants to make it stop, but at the same time, something pulls her in deeper, filling her with a warmth she hasn’t felt for years. He’s blurring lines and ruining their thing where they look at each other from afar, creating forbidden fantasies for themselves they both know will never come true. She’s almost angry at him.
Just as Hermione’s about to lose the fight against herself and give in to everything that is wrong, laughter rings out behind them.
In a sharp motion, she backs away from Draco, covering the fact she almost treaded into dangerous, prohibited terrain. Three classmates stagger through the corridor giggling, bawling a song that tells stories of the liquor they smuggled in. Hermione seizes the moment, ignores Malfoy’s burning gaze and flees to the girls' lavatory.
Breathing heavily, she stumbles over to the sink and frantically splashes cold water onto her neck, forehead and arms until she reaches her wrist. The one that’s been embraced in Draco's hand a moment ago. She stares into the mirror, searching her reflection for answers as if it held some magical key to help her out of this weird spot she’s in.
Hermione is so tired. From always being the accountable one, the one with all of the answers for everyone else, the one who has to work twice as hard as the rest of them and never make mistakes. Who is she supposed to lie to? Viktor? Harry, Ron? To herself? Who is she supposed to keep pretending to be the sweet, clever girl next door that she never was? Hermione has never fit in, no matter how much effort she's put forth. So why does she still yearn to belong when it's been a futile attempt all along? Where is the courageous Gryffindor spirit now that she seems to have developed feelings for her nemesis and the worst bloke in school?
She fixes her reflection. When she started the evening, she barely recognized herself because of her beauty. Now, as she unravels her flaws, the person looking at her is a stranger. The thing is - she’s not scared of what she’s seeing.
“Screw it,” she hisses to nobody but herself.
Viktor immediately fetches Hermione as she re-enters the Great Hall.
“There you are, I was worried.”
“Viktor, I -”
“I was about to leave. It’s late,” he says with a soft smile.
Her brows shoot up. “Oh!”
“Would you rather I stay?” he offers politely.
“No!” she replies a bit too eager to which he frowns in amusement. She huffs apologetically. “I mean, no - it’s been quite a long day for you. Please, don’t feel obligated to stay. I’ll be gone in a few minutes as well.”
“I shall lead you to your dormitories then.”
A movement on the other side of the room draws her attention. Platinum blonde hair flashes between a few groups, momentarily distracting Hermione. Then she waves off his words in a charming way. “There’s no need. Honestly, I’ll be with my girlfriends, their dates abandoned them anyways.” She points to the Patil sisters, who stand alone at the refreshment table, each holding a glass in boredom.
Viktor gives her a friendly look, nodding once. “Alright then.” He reaches for her hand to breathe a kiss onto the back of it. “I had a wonderful night, Hermione.” She smiles at him in return.
Even though she can’t see him, she feels Draco's gaze resting on her from a distance.
“Me too,” she assures, gently withdrawing her hand.
Viktor takes off, leaving her on full display for the other wizard. She can’t help but stare back. Malfoy doesn't even make an effort to hide it. They simply stand there, isolated in a sea of dancing couples, as if they were back in the deserted corridor again.
Hermione's not sure if it's the periwinkle dress, the silver glittery mood affecting her or if there was something in the punch after all. But regardless of the cause, she takes a step towards him, disregarding any possible shocked faces or outcry that would come her way; an urge pushes her to finish what they started.
Just then, someone's hand comes up to the side of Draco's face, drawing Hermione's attention to the small brunette beauty standing beside him.
Pansy looks up at him with a question in her eyes and Hermione’s heart sinks. What has gotten into her? Of course, he has a date - a girlfriend.
Draco snaps his gaze from Pansy back to Hermione, wearing a worried expression that seems almost guilty. Her lips part ever so slightly after she tries to swallow against the big lump in her throat. Desperately searching for an escape route, her heart hammers in her chest as she tries to will herself to move.
With blurred vision, she rushes out of the hall until she runs into Ron.
“Oh, perfect,” she hisses under her breath.
“Oi, somebody’s in a mood.”
“Shut it, Ron.”
“Viktor not as dreamy as expected?”
She tries to ignore him, only wishing for her bed and a good, freeing cry. Hopefully, this whole thing will be gone in the morning.
“That’s what I thought,” he continues.
Hermione feels her desperate sadness convert to blinding rage, hot tears burning her eyes. After all, if he had just asked her out like a normal human being and friend, she wouldn’t even be in this horrible situation.
She hates herself for overstepping a line she knew not to cross, for being hopeful where hope was utterly out of place.
“He’s way too old anyways,” Ron keeps teasing and Hermione’s patience snaps.
“Oh, that’s what you think?” she yells, still hurrying towards the stairs.
“Yeah,” he shrugs, “that’s what I think.”
“You know the solution then, don’t you?”
“Go on,” he offers.
She comes to a halt, swiftly turning around to him. “Next time there’s a ball, pluck up the courage and ask me before somebody else does. And not as a last resort!”
Ron breaks into an incoherent stutter and she steps forward, her fists clenched in anger. Choosing the safe route, he shakes his head, spins on his heels and disappears to the chambers, leaving Hermione alone to sob in frustration. She kicks off her shoes and slumps onto the steps, feeling defeated.
After a minute, the corridor has emptied and she takes a deep breath, deciding to just go to bed - when the massive door of the hallway swings open and a female voice of reason appears.
“Draco, wait!” Hermione’s eyes widen in panic as she tenses up.
“No,” he retorts, “I have to find her, at least try to –”
“Draco, she’s not –”
They both stop in their tracks when they spot Hermione on the steps, like a picture of despair. She jumps up from the floor. Draco’s eyes soften, the slightest frown of concern forming on his face.
Pansy inhales dramatically, throwing him a pleading stare that he does not heed. Hermione has never felt so humiliated. She wished she could undo her decision to sit on the steps and wipe away her obvious tears. With a heavy heart, she summons her shoes and hurries to leave.
“Granger,” his low voice makes her freeze.
With a sigh, Pansy turns away and retreats back into the Great Hall, shutting the door after her.
“Don’t… don’t leave again.”
Her chest tightens as he shuffles closer to her, trying not to spook her like a timid animal and it’s doing the exact opposite. Panicking, she hurls around to run away, unsure of what exactly it is she's fleeing from anymore.
But before she can move any further, he catches up and steps in front of her at the foot of the stairs, looming two steps above her.
“For Merlin’s sake, what do you want?” she shrieks, looking up at him.
“Well, for starters, I don’t want you to cry,” he says matter of factly.
She climbs up the last steps, daggering him with a glance.
“Alright, stop,” Draco lifts his hands apologetically. “At least tell me it’s not because of…” he gestures between them. “Me?”
Hermione huffs. “Who do you think you are?”
He glances at her with boredom, clearly seeing through the lie, before his expression darkens as he works his jaw. “Who was it then?”
“What?”
“Who made you cry?”
She clenches her teeth. “None of your business.”
“Hermione.”
She closes her eyes at the sound of her first name out of his mouth, fighting against the warmth daggering her heart.
“I can’t do this. Please, I… I just want to go to bed.”
Keeping her eyes closed, she desperately waits for the sound of his vanishing footsteps, until eventually, a gentle, tentative touch meets her fingers holding her dangling shoes. He takes them, signalling to her that he won’t go anywhere without her unless she makes him.
“Who made you cry?” he tries again.
Sniffing, she opens her eyes, mentioned tears long dried on her face. “I’m not even sure anymore,” she concludes. “You. Probably.”
He searches her eyes, making Hermione’s heart pick up its pace. Then he nods.
“I’m sorry.”
She bites her cheek. An aching silence spreads between them and she wishes he would just hold her in his arms, muting every screaming thought inside her.
“Pansy’s…”
“My friend,” Draco states.
She nods, no more understanding than before. “I’m just… extraordinarily confused.”
“I figured.”
“Aren’t you?”
“No.”
She tilts her head, scrutinising him, daring him to take it back, look away or run. He does no such thing. As a matter of fact, his eyes seem to light up at the challenge of scaring him off. He would like to see her try. It feels like Draco Malfoy changes the rules of every game Hermione invents. His gaze penetrates hers, proving his point over and over again.
She raises her chin. “Aren’t I just a filthy mudblood?”
His eyes flicker, just long enough to catch it.
“You’re not.”
She takes a sharp breath. For some reason, his sincere answer doesn’t even surprise her.
“Then what am I?” The words linger in the air, suspended between them, and she is acutely aware that whatever he answers now will shape the entire course of their indefinable connection.
Then, slowly, he draws closer, engulfing Hermione in a haze of spicy cologne mixed with parchment and freshly mown grass. Without realising it, she takes a deep breath, engraving his scent into her mind to save it for vivid daydreams and late-night fantasies.
“You,” he murmurs, “are the epitome of everything that drives me mad. Your voice,“ his gaze wanders to her lips, “your voice is unbearable and candied as honey. Whenever you speak up in class and contribute your swotty, annoyingly clever comments, I want to shut you up in so many ways, most of which involve my mouth on yours - just as in all the dreams you always force your way into, like an uninvited guest who robs me of sleep.”
She can’t breathe.
Shivers cover her spine as the cool air rushes out of his mouth with every word he speaks, yet they seem to burn as they tortuously caress her cheek. Her gaze shifts back and forth between his mesmerising eyes and the delicacy of his lips, eager to find the answers she hopes for. But she's so scared of what they could be.
“You are everything I ever wanted and the one thing I must never have.”
Her eyes flutter at his words. Thus, she wasn't the only one who felt this way all along. She wants to believe it is true more than anything else.
“But…” she trails off, leaving the question hanging, unable to string together coherent sentences.
“Please spare us both the spectacle of you not being part of this charade between us for the last few months,“ he snarls.
Swallowing, she tries again, “But how?” He stays silent. “Why now? All of a sudden,” she whispers.
His fingers faintly stroke her wrist, half a question, half an answer.
“I’m much better at demonstrating than verbalising.”
His gaze sweeps over her lips, a silent but clear suggestion. Hermione's heart threatens to jump out of her ribcage. He inhales.
“May I –”
“Please,” she practically begs before he can finish his question and the noise of shoes clattering against the floor fills the air.
He kisses her with such force that it knocks the wind out of her lungs, a strong hand tangled in her hair to hold her in place. Hermione wraps her arms around Draco's neck and presses her body into his while a low moan resonates from his lips, causing her insides to melt. He tastes like mint and winter and something forbidden she wasn't sure she'd ever venture into. He cradles her face before allowing his hand to travel from her hair down to her waist. Nothing - no fantasy, no daydream, no intensity of glare - could have prepared Hermione for the possessive heat that surges through her at Draco’s touch. She pushes her lips onto his as if he's the last breath of air left for her to take in. They stumble into the darkness behind them, where he lifts Hermione up and pins her between him and the hard stone without breaking their kiss.
Everything’s blurry.
Far, far away and hazy.
Silver-grey.
Hermione opens her eyes.
“And?” Trelawney’s big, round orbs question her comically with greedy curiosity.
Hermione blinks, shaking her head ever so slightly. The air feels tight.
“Nothing?” her divination professor inquires, anticipating a sense of disappointment.
Hermione’s eyes dart around, searching the surroundings for answers. A cluster of third-year Gryffindors fix their gaze upon her, eager for her response.
“Uhm…” Her brow furrows, looking back at the crystal ball before her, observing the swirling silver haze within. “I'm fairly certain the crystal ball is ineffective,” she declares.
“Whatever do you mean?” the teacher rushes the words out.
Hermione hesitates slightly. “I saw something. However…” She shakes her head. “It cannot possibly be accurate.”
Trelawney tilts her head. “What did you see, dear?”
Hermione cautiously surveys the classroom, with Harry giving her an inquisitive look. Her pulse quickens as she recollects the vision and glances down at her wrist, still tingling from the grip that seemed to plead with her. A minty sensation runs across her lips as she tries to hold back the flutter of her eyelids, remembering his touch.
Gulping, Hermione raises her head again, noticing the professor still standing in front of her, waiting for a response.
“The grim,” she says.
“Oh,” Trelawney huffs. "My dear, from the first moment you stepped foot in my class, I sensed that you did not possess the proper spirit for the noble art of divination. No, you see there?” She takes Hermione’s hand into hers, stroking over the lines on her palm before erupting in a hasty monologue, “You are young in years but the heart that beats beneath your bosom is as shrivelled as an old maid's, your soul as dry as the pages of the books to which you so desperately cleave.” She pats her hand dismissively and Hermione stares at her in disbelief.
Knitting her brows, her gaze drifts from the seer’s face to the crystal ball. She wished Trelawney was right. Hermione would much prefer for the artefact to remain silver and empty, allowing her to feign seeing anything other than what she witnessed. Because now, what is she supposed to do with such a vision? Draco Malfoy despises her. She hates him. She firmly believes that there is simply no conceivable path that could lead to... this.
Oh, she could punch Draco Malfoy for it.
The weight of the time turner bears down on her chest, serving as a fierce reminder of her sleep deprivation. On the verge of tears, her mind swirls with confusion. She hurls the crystal ball from its stand in frustration and hastily grabs her bag, determined to escape the gaze of her astonished classmates, Ron's widened eyes, and Harry's concerned demeanour.
Once outside, she roughly wipes away her tears, prompted by the intensity of the vision and the haunting realism of the experience. It feels as though she has endured months of heartbreak in a mere minute, leaving her to question whether it was all a dream fueled by her lack of sleep.
Hermione briskly strides down the corridor, oblivious to the opening of another classroom door. Lost in thought, she bumps into the person, caught off guard by the unexpected encounter.
“Watch it,” he hisses, swiftly closing the door behind him.
Hermione looks up at him, a mixture of surprise and trepidation on her face, skin tingling at his familiar voice.
He locks his eyes on hers, his intention to deliver a cutting remark palpable, yet he appears to reconsider at the last moment. A charged silence hangs between them as they continue to hold each other's gaze. Hermione can hardly believe that this marks the third time today she’s ended up alone in a hallway with Malfoy - in some form.
She takes a quivering breath, ready to leave, when he addresses her again.
“Granger -” She hesitates, unsure if she should brace herself for his customary snide remark.
“Alright there?” He shifts his weight, the question carrying a tinge of confusion, as if he, too, is taken aback by the absence of animosity in his tone.
Hermione blinks, her throat tightening as the brightness of his gaze catches her attention for the first time. Before she can respond, a voice abruptly echoes from the classroom.
“Oi! Draco!” His attention momentarily diverted, he glances towards the door and then back at her, his eyes silently appraising her.
Her lips part, and sensing the imminent intrusion that could shatter their fragile moment, she turns around to leave, her own heartbeat drumming in her ears.
Wearing a faint smile, Hermione heads towards the Common Room, oblivious to the fact that this will be only the beginning of numerous wordless encounters with Draco Malfoy.