Hermione Granger dreamt again that she was learning to fly in the sky. This was often a heart-pounding, thrilling dream.
She clung tightly to the person in front of her. Subconsciously, she always believed that with him there, she would not fall. The pleasant, faint, refreshing scent filled her nostrils, making her feel safe. She was less afraid.
The sleeping girl peeked her head forward, feeling a tickle on the tip of her nose. She frowned in annoyance, then finally opened her eyes.
The first thing that caught her eye was a head of platinum-blond hair. A few strands of hair mischievously stuck up—brushing against her face—and that was the culprit.
Half-asleep, she ruffled his hair; it was soft, fluffy, and felt wonderful to the touch. She sighed contentedly, moved her head, found her most comfortable position again, closed her eyes, and took a deep breath of that delightful scent.
Wait a moment!
When the second hand struck about thirty, or three hundred, she suddenly snapped back to reality. She could feel that what she was holding was not a blanket or a pillow, but a living being breathing!
She opened her eyes and found herself resting her head on the boy's shoulder, her hand on his chest, her face close to his head. His eyes were closed, and the dappled sunlight cast shadows on his trembling eyelashes.
Hermione gasped softly, then sat up abruptly and saw the messy pile of pillows that had somehow been kicked to the foot of the bed.
She hurriedly grabbed two large pillows and placed them where they were supposed to be. She breathed softly, feeling a little thirsty, so she wrapped a blanket around herself and tiptoed to the kitchen to get some water.
Before leaving the room, she glanced at the bed with unease. Draco, his face flushed, was still lying properly in his spot, covered by the blanket, as docile as the pillow in the centre of the bed.
It seems the scene I just witnessed was entirely my imagination. She secretly rejoiced that he had not woken up, and then, like a guilty cat, slipped away from her crime scene.
Draco, who remained completely still, would never admit that he had woken up much earlier than her.
What he saw was perhaps even more bewildering than what Hermione had seen: she was like a delicate kitten, facing him, curled up in his arms. Her thick hair covered his pillow, her little head rested trustingly on his arm, and her slender hands gripped his clothes tightly.
As for him? His self-control was completely lost in his sleep: his face was buried in her hair—which seemed to exude a sweet and delicious fragrance; his arm, though pressed down by her head, had its own thoughts—it was happily holding a handful of her hair; his other arm was also damnably busy, loosely wrapped around her, with its hand on her waist.
The worst part was that he could feel her breath. Her face was pressed against his neck. Her lips were slightly parted, exhaling faint, warm breaths onto his collarbone, as if tickling him.
These unprecedented complexities intertwined, giving him an indescribable feeling—an empty stomach, a thirsty mouth, and an inexplicable anger.
Merlin! I am not made of wood! I am a perfectly normal boy!
At one point, he wanted to give up struggling. He wanted to simply hold her tightly, even tighter, to the point of embedding her in his arms and never letting go.
But I cannot. My reason rushed back, telling me: I cannot do this to her.
You hurt her like that.
She never liked you.
At this moment, she trusts you, smiles at you, and treats you as a friend.
Is that not enough? Draco Malfoy, how much more greedy do you want to be?
After a moment of stiffness, he tried to calm his nerves. Finally, he mustered his courage and carefully pulled his arm away from under her head, attempting to focus intently on the ceiling.
Before he could even figure out where the pillow in the middle had gone, she took the initiative, finding him again, embracing him, pressing him down, murmuring something, burying her face in his hair, and rubbing against his burning ear. She even took a deep breath, seemingly quite satisfied with everything.
It is as if she likes the smell of me.
It is as if she likes touching me.
It is like she likes to embrace me.
Then, amidst the pounding of his heart, she gradually regained consciousness. He quickly closed his eyes, knowing he did not know how to face her.
The next second, she suddenly sprang away from him.
See? She was startled. Her reaction does not lie. She does not like me at all. It was all an illusion.
Draco felt a bitter taste in his mouth. He dared not move, much less open his eyes. He endured it all.
He endured Hermione's gasp, the thud of her pillow hitting the bed, and the clatter of her slippers as she walked away before he dared to slowly open his eyes and exhale softly, slowly, and dejectedly towards the ceiling.