Hermione liked him so much that she dared not look him in the eye for too long. Such a dazzling person.
He smiled at her. Those eyes, cold as ice to others, flowed with a lake-like tenderness towards her, yet possessed the power to burn her heart.
She liked him so much that she used her studies to numb herself. Only by immersing herself in the sea of books she loved could she temporarily forget him. Forget his eyes, forget his scent, forget that he only smiled at her.
She needed to forget so many things... because he kept giving her so much to feel:
He helped her.
He taught her how to ride a terrifying flying broomstick. He took her gliding on a Muggle skateboard that would not obey him.
He carried a stack of thick books that even he found tedious to hold. He answered her questions, shared learning resources she could not access, and explained the rules of the unfamiliar magical world to her.
He comforted her.
Under the oak tree by the Black Lake, on the garden bench, beside her seat in the library, in his arms. He would always take out a handkerchief and gently wipe away her tears, racking his brains to tell her clumsy Slytherin jokes, trying to make her laugh.
He protected her.
Filch's pursuit, the vanishing staircases, the hideous troll. Facing Dementors, he shielded her. Even in their quarrels, he would rescue her from the clutches of the unkind girls in his House.
He knocked two of his own Housemates out of her way during a Defence Against the Dark Arts lesson. He shattered a snowball attack with his wand, as if it were a grave danger.
He praised her. He always said she was clever. He acknowledged her talent. His eyes always revealed undisguised admiration for her. Goodness knows how important that look was to a strong-willed girl. And he never called her a Mudblood.
He found her. He soothed her nervousness at Hogwarts, telling her how to face the Sorting Hat. He offered her his private seat and thoughtfully provided her with a cup of hot tea.
He rescued her from petrification, fed her the antidote, and gave her chocolate. He coldly stopped a rude boy, letting her enter the Great Hall first.
He led her along.
The muddy path to Hogwarts. The bumpy road to Hogsmeade. The hidden path leading out of the Slytherin common room. The bewildering corridors on that rose-scented night. The biting, windswept path through the snow at dusk.
He stroked her hair.
First it was to save a strand from slipping into onion soup, then it became a regular occurrence. He touched the top of her head in the train corridor. He tied her hair up during Potions class.
He gently helped her untangle the decorations from her birthday hat. In the Great Hall at night, he stroked her hair to lull her to sleep. He lay weakly in his hospital bed, still holding her hair tightly in his hand.
He held her hand tightly.
He grabbed her hand and fled the dangerous girls' lavatory. He held her hand, his arm around her, as he stirred potions.
He walked hand in hand with her on that rose-scented night. He accepted her sleepy hand beneath the night sky of the Great Hall. He took her hand again in the Forbidden Forest classroom, their fingers intertwined.
His touch was mesmerising.
He lifted her chin, gazing into her eyes. His forehead pressed against hers, testing her temperature. He brushed the snow from her hair, wiped the foam from her lips. He suddenly pulled her into his arms in the snow. They embraced tightly amidst the surging crowd.
He held her tightly in his arms on the hospital bed, muttering in his half-awake state, unwilling to let her go.
He smiled at her, a gentle smile, a wide, open smile. He only smiled at her. Those captivating grey eyes seemed to smile only for her, if all of this was not just her imagination.
At first, it was just a faint flutter in her heart.
However, however, those delicate, gossamer-thin wings somehow managed to unleash a hurricane that filled her whole heart.
In the hurricane, a jumble of memories surged forth, and the crisscrossing affections were as dense as a spider's web.
Those memories were just the tip of the iceberg among countless moments that had touched her heart.
They flashed through her mind like frames from a reel of film, appearing one after another, endlessly.
She turned her head and glanced at those calm, grey eyes, then absentmindedly picked out a frame from the stack.
That was the first time he took her flying high into the sky on his flying broomstick... that was the first time she smelled that wonderful watermelon scent on him.
Had she smelled it so long ago?
What did that mean?
A sudden panic shattered her composure, leaving her utterly bewildered.
This will not do, it really will not do.
She should be rational. She should not be swept away by this overwhelming tide of emotions.
Reason told her that she did not know what kind of feelings he had for her.
Yes, he showed her a certain tenderness. He was willing to wrap his scarf around her neck in the cold wind, was he not?
He was willing to put her icy hands into his warm pockets to warm them, was he not? He was willing to pull out her chair for every class, welcoming her as his study partner, was he not?
He at least does not dislike her.
But at times, he appeared too composed.
The most telling evidence was that he had clearly given her a meaningful kiss on the forehead in the morning sun.
Then, he had acted as if the kiss had never happened and continued to treat her calmly.
Like a study partner, as always.
Why was he not flustered and blushing like her? Why was he always calm and composed?
Was it because these things were merely casual gestures to him, rather than expressions of special care for her alone?
Suspicion began to fester. She was afraid to seek the truth, and even more afraid of the heartbreaking ending she might encounter.
The brave lion of Gryffindor, after meeting the person she likes, could only become an insecure and anxious creature.
She had called him a coward, but how much better was she?
She could not think about it any more. Hermione twisted the cap of the vial tightly, her hand stiff, and placed it back on the shelf as if she had just discovered a siren inside it.
She felt extremely guilty and looked back at him again, hoping he had not noticed her panic and unease, fearing he would discover her most secret thoughts.
But he was still looking at her. He looked at her through the crowd, a nonchalant smile playing on his lips, stubbornly holding her gaze.
She could not breathe.
She wanted to run away.
But she was firmly rooted to the spot by his gaze.
She had nowhere to escape.
Then, that feeling of palpitation returned.
Her heart ached and tingled, turning into a melting clock, the hour, minute, and second hands frozen in place, solidified in the very second she saw him.
Then, her heart slowly, gradually sank lower and lower, irreversibly. She knew that her heart might eventually slide into an unfathomable abyss. But there was no way to stop this descent.
She likes him.
I like him passionately, intensely, and irrationally.
On an ordinary Saturday afternoon at the end of March, Hermione Granger met Draco Malfoy's eyes through the bustling crowd and finally understood her own feelings completely.