Chapter 123: The Story of Deher's Past Life (11-14) Fear, Spinning, Mystery, Crying
Past Life Story Eleven: The Fearful Granger
Time: Fourth Grade, First Event of the Triwizard Tournament
Location: Near the Grandstand Fence
"We've prepared a huge pile of tissues for you to cry on, Potter!" Draco said harshly to the pale-faced, dark-haired boy, then swaggered past Potter with Crabbe and Goyle.
It was a cold November afternoon, and Draco was heading to the match venue as a spectator.
Although he didn't know what the first project was, he suspected it would be anything but simple.
"Under everyone's watchful eyes, Dumbledore can no longer protect his beloved boy, can he?" He smiled amiably at Crabbe and Goyle—the latter two, busy devouring their chocolate cakes, nodded blankly in agreement.
Then Draco saw it—a fire dragon.
Swedish short-nosed dragon... Welsh green dragon... Chinese fireball... and even a Hungarian wood bee!
"Oh, Merlin," he said loudly, trying to hide his shock. "Potter's face will turn white with fright."
Granger—that's when she walked past him and glared at him.
She actually dared to glare at him! She was as arrogant as ever.
Draco wanted to say something sarcastic and gloating to her, but she ignored him.
She was somewhat agitated and walked quickly, heading straight to the back of the tent where the warriors were waiting.
Cedric Diggory has come on stage. All eyes are on him.
Amid Crabbe and Goyle's exclamations, Draco had no time to study Diggory's brilliant Transfiguration. Instead, he squinted at the arrogant little shadow slipping through the gap behind the tent.
What was she planning to do by going in to find Potter now? Was she going to give Potter some last-minute extra training? He leaned on the railing at the second-floor entrance of the stands, thinking gleefully, "It's no use, Granger, it's too late."
Amidst the gasps of the audience, Diggory succeeded.
Next up is Fleur Delacour of Beauxbatons.
Just then, a little Gryffindor boy was squeezing around him, trying to take pictures with his camera. He glared at him impatiently and said, "Get away from me! Don't stand next to me!"
The little boy turned around, saw him, pouted, and ran to another part of the stands railing. Crabbe and Goyle, on the other side, heard this and instinctively moved aside, making room for him.
Yes, that's it. Draco was quite pleased with the emptiness on both sides.
He hated crowds—no one could squeeze next to him. He stared at the tent, thinking smugly.
When Durmstrang's Viktor Krum stepped out of the tent, that little shadow finally scurried out in a panic.
Draco watched her run wildly back to the stands.
He could hear her running up the stairs.
He turned his head casually and met her bright eyes.
She had never looked at him like that before. His brown eyes held a hint of worry, flickering with a certain anxiety.
Those eyes met his—unguarded and unsuspecting—looking at him with deep concern.
Draco was puzzled, and then he suddenly understood.
She wasn't looking at him at all—she was probably still frantically worried about Potter!
Draco was very annoyed.
Before he could figure out why he was upset, he heard Ludo Bagman's voice resound throughout the arena: "Mr. Harry Potter, please come on stage!"
The girl stopped in her tracks. Like a lost soul, she rushed to the small gap next to him, gripped the railing, and peered forward.
This is outrageous! How dare she squeeze him! Doesn't she even know who he is? Draco thought in astonishment—instinctively turning to the side to make room—and turning his head to look at that focused profile.
His profile was like a kitten's, with a slight pink tinge to his face. Observing Granger this closely was not a common opportunity for him.
So he seized the opportunity to study her—perhaps to see if he could find anything he could use to attack her.
Then he noticed that her cheeks were very smooth, as tender as milk pudding.
Granger is like a panna cotta pudding? Draco suddenly shook his head, which felt dazed from the cold wind.
He must have had a poor breakfast – that's why he made that connection.
A cold wind was blowing, and she stood beside him, her long, fluffy hair whipping against his black robe.
Those swaying brown hairs. He wondered what it would feel like to pluck a handful. Would it make her notice he was standing next to her? He thought maliciously.
Perhaps he should say something harsh to her, like he drove away the Gryffindor brat before.
That's right, they shouldn't have any contact. She should stay far away from him, shouldn't she?
But he suddenly noticed that her eyelashes were very long, fluttering slightly like butterfly wings.
This strange association made him feel even more uneasy.
Draco didn't move or speak. He forced himself to look at Potter instead of continuing to look at the girl beside him who gave him such strange associations.
That's right, he had to focus on seeing how Porter humiliated himself; that way, after the game, he could easily pick out every detail and ridicule Porter in every possible way.
Every minute, every second of this moment could become fodder for his future jokes about Potter, and he couldn't waste time on "getting her out." He reassured himself and comfortably gave up on the option of "getting her away."
Amidst the whistles from the audience, Draco saw Potter raise his wand and shout something. Immediately afterwards, the foolish Potter began clumsily running around in the rubble, trying to dodge the fire-breathing dragon.
What was Porter doing—was he competing in strength with that Hungarian wood wasp? Draco didn't understand his actions.
All he knew was that the girl beside him began to scream piercingly as Potter ran around trying to escape.
"For Merlin's sake, Granger, are you made of a whistle?" Draco finally couldn't help but speak to her.
How could a girl make such a scream—it almost shattered his eardrums!
But she completely ignored him—she probably didn't even hear him—and continued to let out those terrifying screams.
At this moment, the Hungarian wood bees were breathing fire at Porter, who was hiding behind a large rock. The rock was melting smaller and smaller, and Porter would soon be exposed.
What an exciting moment! But her scream seemed louder than anyone else's, even drowning out everyone else's screams, ruining the moment and disrupting his enjoyment of the scene.
Draco angrily turned his head and found the girl scratching her face in terror, frowning and squinting between her fingers, looking like she wanted to look but dared not.
That face!
Just minutes ago it was perfectly fine; now, she has squandered it, scratching the excellent milk pudding with red marks.
A striking and terrifying red mark—how could a girl be so indifferent to her face?
The next second, Draco began to hate himself for his actions—his hands were a fraction faster than his brain—he grabbed her restless hands and stopped her from continuing to attack that poor face.
He had to yell at her, "Stop!"
The girl seemed unable to accept any option other than "seeing Potter through her fingers".
After her hands were forcibly removed, she immediately closed her eyes in fear—the stone was almost burned away by the fire dragon—Potter was in grave danger.
She clearly didn't recognize him, otherwise she would never have rushed into his arms, trembling, just as Potter was about to be burned to ashes by the fire dragon and as her hands were taken away.
For a moment, Draco froze on the spot—his mind went blank.
He didn't know who he was or what he was doing.
A few seconds later, he came to his senses and found himself holding her slender wrist in a daze; she was leaning against his chest, trembling with dependence like some frightened little animal.
She buried her face in his shoulder and neck—a perfect fit, so natural—like one piece of a puzzle finding another.
Why is this happening? Why? He was bewildered.
The screams from everyone in the stands seemed to vanish. He could only hear her soft, terrified sobs. The sound traveled up his chest and into his heart, making his heart tremble strangely.
He suddenly felt like that innocent stone—being licked by the fire dragon's breath—and his face burned uncontrollably.
"The fire bolts are coming!" Then he heard Ludo Bagman shouting, "Mr. Potter escaped danger at the last moment! My goodness, he can fly! Did you see that, Mr. Krum?"
"Uh—he's alright." Draco, stiff and motionless, said dryly to the trembling girl, "Granger, he flew."
"Oh, that's great!" She seemed to finally dare to raise her head, and as soon as she opened her eyes, her gaze followed the figure flying back and forth on the field, her tone full of admiration, "I knew he could do it—I knew it!"
An unnamed anger was rising in Draco's head—she didn't even bother to give him a glance, let alone notice his presence.
"Yes," he said coolly. "What a pity. Alright, don't be afraid."
"I wasn't scared at all!" she said defiantly, turning around to find that the person in front of her was him.
Immediately, as if stung, she pulled her hand away from his, took a step back, and asked in horror, "Malfoy? What—what are you doing?"
"I don't even know what I'm doing!" he said angrily, hiding his uncomfortable hands behind his back. "Some clueless guy suddenly rushed into my arms, trembling like a leaf, and then asked me what I was doing?"
"You grabbed my hand first! I thought—" she stammered, her face flushed, "Why did you grab my hand?"
"Why am I grabbing your hand? What are you doing with your hand—scratching your own face?? Trying to give yourself a failed plastic surgery?" He was stung by her defensive attitude, and the anger burning inside him grew even stronger.
"What's it to you?" she said curtly.
He sized her up, his gaze lingering on her unsightly red marks for a moment, then gave her a wicked grin, as if he'd discovered some earth-shattering news. "I think you're just scared. Tsk, Granger, so you're a coward. What, afraid Potter's been roasted?"
"I'm not scared!" She crossed her arms and rolled her eyes at him. "You're being completely unreasonable! If you can't speak properly, just shut up!"
"You might as well shut up, since your screams sound like a broken whistle!" he retorted.
"You—" Her bright brown eyes were filled with anger, as if she wanted to rush over and punch him.
"Look!" Bagman shouted, "Look! Our youngest warrior has retrieved the golden egg in the fastest time!"
"Oh my god! I missed everything!" The girl stopped arguing with him and suddenly rushed to the railing, looking out over the field. She shouted in an angry and regretful tone, "It's all your fault, Malfoy! I didn't see anything!"
"Granger, how can you blame me? I didn't see anything either!" Draco said, his head blazing with anger. "It was all wasted on you!"
"A waste?" The girl turned her head, her face flushed, and said in a shrill voice, "Yes, I think so too! A complete waste of time!"
Just then, Weasley arrived, looking at Draco warily and asking, "What happened, Hermione?"
"It's alright, Ron, let's go see Harry!" She glared at Draco, raised her chin, and said, "Get out of the way! Malfoy, don't block the way!"
For the first time in his life, Draco didn't reply. He didn't know what to say.
The fire in his heart was rising and crackling in his mind.
He frowned as he watched her run down the stairs with Weasley without hesitation, heading quickly toward the tent where Potter was.
She didn't look back even once, as if everything that had just happened was insignificant.
The flames were still burning, bewildered and fluctuating.
It wanted to lick something brownish to make itself burn brighter, but it couldn't find it anywhere.
Why?
Why would he do that?
Why did he care about the scratches on her face, and whether she was scared?
Why was he angry at her sharp tongue, yet lost in her closeness?
Why did she leave so decisively, without even bothering to look back at him? Amidst the excited shouts of the audience, he stared at her swaying hair, wondering with anger, disappointment, and confusion.
He gripped the railing she had once held, and suddenly remembered the wrist he had just grasped—a slightly warm, slender wrist.
"What was she doing here just now?" Pansy Parkinson walked over and asked suspiciously, "That Mudblood?"
Oh, right, he's allergic to Mudbloods. Draco snapped back to reality; he'd almost forgotten that.
It is perfectly normal to experience trembling hands, physical agitation, and emotional fluctuations upon contact with her.
It's just an allergy—that's all—there's no other explanation.
Moreover, her face doesn't look like a panna cotta at all. Absolutely not!
Whether she was afraid or not was none of his business. He thought viciously.
"Oh, it's nothing serious," Draco said lazily, glancing at the shrinking figure over there. "I had a fight with her—as usual—that's all."
Past Life Story Twelve: The Spinning Granger
Time: Fourth grade, a
day Location: An abandoned classroom on the eighth floor
A nimble figure slipped quietly into an abandoned classroom on the eighth floor.
The long-abandoned classroom wasn't very big, with only two or three windows, and the curtains hung limply by the windows. Old desks were piled up haphazardly in the corner, and a few chairs were placed crookedly in the center of the classroom.
The girl waved her wand, and the chairs immediately and obediently pressed themselves against the wall. The classroom door—with a deft flick of her wrist—clicked shut.
She didn't notice a pair of lazy gray eyes watching her with surprise from behind the swaying curtains. She took a deep breath, began to hum a dance tune softly, pretending she had a dance partner in front of her, and stiffly twirled and shifted on the dusty floor, starting to practice dancing.
The person behind the curtains slowly smiled.
Merlin above, she—is so clumsy! It's a miracle to see Hermione Granger act so foolishly.
Merlin was thoroughly enjoying the moment, watching her slip, twist into bizarre poses, and even trip over her own feet – it was Draco Malfoy's ultimate visual feast.
That would be a tragedy—no matter who she was going to dance with.
Would some clueless boy dare to invite her? Draco thought arrogantly, "Absolutely not."
No guy would ever want to invite her.
Look at her! She's focused too much on her feet and has forgotten the rhythm of the song.
She hummed the song off-key, turning the third verse into the second. The girl grew increasingly panicked, as her footsteps and the song she was singing became completely unrelated, creating a terrifying situation.
In the end, she tripped herself up—what could be an exception?
Everything related to sports ultimately ends with Hermione Granger falling down.
Draco's lips curled into a smug smile.
Granger was not good at anything involving balance—not even dancing.
She really doesn't have any of the gentleness a girl should have! He thought regretfully.
At this moment, the girl sat on the ground and sighed. Her expression was inexplicably irritable, and she even drooped the corners of her mouth, her eyes beginning to redden.
Come on! Don't cry. Draco frowned.
He's never been good at coaxing girls; he's only good at making them cry.
He never liked making friends with those pretentious girls; they were too much of a crybaby and too much trouble. Maybe Pansy Parkinson was an exception; she had skin as thick as a city wall and would rather jump up and yell at people than cry.
But Granger—she was a unique individual—she was unlike any of the girls Draco knew.
She wasn't like Pansy, who was prone to tantrums but never cried; she wasn't prone to tantrums—except for the time she punched him—and was mostly quite rational.
She does cry. But most girls use crying as a weapon, crying their hearts out in front of others to achieve their goals; but she prefers to put on an invincible act, never crying in front of others, instead hiding away to cry by herself, like some silly little animal licking its own wounds.
The sight of her secretly shedding tears was far more detestable than any affected crying! He couldn't even have a proper argument with her anymore—given that her eyes were getting increasingly red.
Draco was frustrated. He didn't know what to do to break this vexing, unsettling impasse.
"Tsk, I didn't know you were trying to learn to dance. Or do you need me to cast a Tarantella spell on you?" Finally, amidst her growing sobs, he jumped down from behind the curtains, speaking in a lazy tone.
The girl seemed startled by the sudden sound.
She slowly raised her head, trying to control her defeated expression, but tears were already streaming down her cheeks.
"Malfoy?" she asked, her eyes blurry with tears and her voice thick with a nasal tone, "What are you doing here?"
He looked at the water droplets on her cheeks and shook his head. "What precious tears! Cry a little longer, and maybe you'll learn to dance!"
He actually wanted to tell her to stop crying; unfortunately, mockery seemed to be the only way he was good at expressing himself.
His offhand words of comfort clearly drew a strong reaction from her. The girl rubbed her eyes, buried herself in her knees, and swayed her back. "Get away, Malfoy!"
He curled his lip, ignoring her fierce tone; instead of getting away, he walked up to her in a sly manner and stopped in his tracks.
"You're still a long way off," he said lazily, glancing at her messy brown hair, a strange, gentle calming of the long-burning fire within him. "With dance moves like that? Who would dare invite you?"
"Shut up, Malfoy!" her angry voice came from between his knees.
"Granger, your dance moves are absolutely terrible. I don't think you'll get an 'O' in dance class." He repeated his new discovery, saying smugly, "I never thought someone like you would be bad at something."
"It's not that I'm bad at it, I just lack practice!" she exclaimed irritably, wiping her face haphazardly and adopting a look of self-abandonment. "Can't you just leave me alone?"
"No. What do you look like? You're horribly ugly! Stand up!" He roughly reached out and pulled her up, almost causing her to stumble and fall into his arms.
"What are you doing?" She tried to break free from him, but couldn't. All she could do was glare at him angrily with her big, watery eyes.
"Practice dancing. Dance with me. Now," he said, taking her hand.
Her hands were stained with her tears, and there was a little bit of dirty ink on her fingertips.
Perhaps that's why his hand felt a frustrating, yet somewhat habitual, electric current when it touched the ink—he was probably allergic to dirty ink stains as well.
"What?" Her eyes widened. It seemed he hadn't said "dancing" but "murder."
"I have no interest in murdering a dirty Muggle in an empty classroom today. Just practicing dancing." He noticed the wariness in her eyes and put on a bored expression. "Practice with me for a while."
For some reason, he didn't want to say "mudblood" for the time being. It wasn't because he was worried that she would suddenly punch him or turn him into a weasel.
"Get lost, Malfoy! You wish! I'm not practicing with you!" Her brown eyes were full of doubt as she reached for her wand with her other free hand.
He quickly grabbed her other hand and placed it on his waist.
"For Merlin's sake, are you really determined to embarrass yourself at the ball?" he pointed out sharply, then gently placed his hand on her waist. "With dance moves like yours, what unlucky soul would invite you? It's not even embarrassing enough! If you want to practice, you have to dance with real people, not with thin air!"
She glared at him, her mouth opening and closing, before finally uttering, "What's it to you?"
"It's not my fault, but you've disturbed my privacy! Your crying is making it impossible for me to think in peace!" He got into position and held her hand tightly.
She didn't refuse—it seemed her entire brain was filled with surprise.
"Keep humming your song," he commanded her.
"Absolutely not!" Her face flushed red, and she stubbornly refused to utter a sound.
"You—" he glared at her, and she glared back defiantly.
"Say it, what am I?" She stared at him, then suddenly calmed down and gave him a mocking smile. She curled her lip and said defiantly, "Say it, just like you've always said."
Draco looked into her stubborn eyes—eyes shimmering with tears—and the fire in his heart flickered, then suddenly died down. He felt a pang of guilt.
He wrinkled his nose at her and said, "I don't want to talk about it. I'm in a good mood today and don't want to argue with you."
He started whistling. He whistled the tune of that sad, slow song.
He saw her eyes widen in surprise, her mouth slightly agape. This rare expression filled him with smug satisfaction.
That's right, he's that amazing.
Granger, you finally see me—you finally see me! He was still haunted by what had happened not long ago. In the stands, she was so focused on Potter that she didn't even see him standing next to her.
He stared triumphantly into her eyes, which could no longer look at anyone else, and like a kidnapper, he led her in a dance around the classroom—to the accompaniment of his melodious whistling—while she stumbled and spun to keep up with his steps.
It wasn't like she was dancing with him; it was more like she was fighting him.
Merlin! There is no girl more clumsy than Granger!
"You have to feel the rhythm, not memorize it," he said. "Granger, do you understand?"
"I'm trying!" she said indignantly.
"Are you trying to stomp me to death?" he muttered.
"Blow your whistle!" she said rudely.
He should have been angry—who else but her would dare speak to him like that—yet he obeyed. Perhaps it was her wet eyes, the tiny ripples shimmering within them that made it impossible for him to look away.
He whistled with dissatisfaction, still staring into her eyes, and led her in a dance with ease. In addition to the rising surprise in her eyes, there was a kind of focused look, and for a moment, he thought that look was beautiful.
That's right, you should never underestimate Granger's learning ability. After dancing with her two or three times, she had basically gotten used to the rhythm and didn't step on it as much anymore.
Perhaps she wasn't lacking in athletic ability, but simply lacked a dance teacher who could patiently guide her step by step. Draco thought to himself, whistling.
Later, she even began to smile, spinning at his hand's guidance. Her hair floated in mid-air, reflecting a shimmering gold in the sunlight; for a moment, he noticed that her smile was radiant, and her eyes held a clear starlight.
He laughed along with her. He heard himself chuckle softly, then startled himself.
No Mudblood girl should have such a bright smile or such clear eyes.
This is far too dazzling for a pureblood boy.
Something was wrong—he suddenly realized.
Why did he teach her to dance? How could he do such a thing?
How could he smile at her as if he enjoyed it?
A Malfoy dancing with Granger! All the Slytherin students would think he'd gone mad!
Granger, who often makes him feel suffocated, was the same Granger who looked down on him at the entrance of the Potions classroom just last month, causing him to have a mental and physical allergy to Granger that he still feels now!
"Draco, stay away from those degenerate scum—those Mudbloods, those pureblood traitors—don't bring shame to the Malfoy family, understand?" At that moment, his father Lucius's words suddenly echoed in his mind.
"Let's stop here." He jolted, suddenly flung his hand away, and released her.
Draco's smile vanished; he was afraid.
His hands, feet, and mouth felt as if they had been burned by her, and he moved away from her.
She seemed to be enjoying herself when his sudden departure surprised her; he flinched, his gaze sweeping over her astonished eyes, no longer daring to look at her closely.
He stopped whistling, but he couldn't stop the turmoil in his heart.
It was jumping so hard that he couldn't breathe.
Draco was somewhat surprised—he didn't know what was wrong with him.
Why is this happening? He was extremely panicked and distressed. He stared at his dusty shoes and realized something was wrong with him.
He felt as if dust had filled his heart, just like he had felt panicked and helpless in Flourish and Blotts.
It was all because of the girl in front of him.
The father is always right. Getting close to a mud-headed person never ends well.
He shouldn't have gone near her—even though her eyes were beautiful—even though her crying made his heart flutter—he shouldn't have gone near her.
He shouldn't have taken her dancing. He shouldn't have held her hand. He shouldn't have put his hand on her waist. He shouldn't have thought her twirling was cute, nor should he have thought her smile was radiant.
He shouldn't have smiled at her.
So he narrowed his eyes, straightened his face, and habitually threatened her, "That's enough. Don't tell anyone I did this, you little mudblood."
Yes, she's a Mudblood. He tried to convince himself that he had to keep his distance from her.
"That's exactly what I wanted to say!" She immediately snapped back to reality—probably remembering their irreconcilable differences—and hardened her face, delivering a stern and merciless threat to him, "Don't tell anyone I did this, you twitching little weasel! Otherwise, I'll suggest Professor Moody give you another shapeshifting treatment!"
"Granger, you ungrateful wretch—" He trembled with rage as he watched the girl frown at him, make a face, wave her wand, open the classroom door, and dash out as if avoiding a giant slug.
Past Life Story Thirteen: The Mysterious Granger
Time: Fourth Year, Before the Christmas Ball
Location: Hallway outside the Great Hall; Library; Slytherin Common Room
After practicing dancing with a girl in an abandoned classroom, Draco felt even more confused.
He regretted his momentary weakness countless times—why did he jump out from behind the curtains to practice dancing with her?
In the end, he would be humiliated by her and threatened to find Professor Moody to turn him into a "twitching little weasel"?
She really knows how to insult people! Adding the prefix "twitching all over" before "weasel"?
He didn't even add any insulting prefix to "Mudblood"! Next time, we definitely have to add it, to get revenge!
He was furious thinking about that girl, so angry he was itching to bite her.
This mean girl, why does she keep bringing up his weaknesses? Is turning into a weasel something to be laughed at? It's incredibly humiliating! Draco Malfoy has never suffered such an insult in his life—yet she treats it as some kind of absolutely unfunny joke!
Impolite Granger, sharp-tongued Granger, heartless Granger.
He's probably sick! Why is he always thinking about Granger?
Draco took a deep breath, mentally preparing himself for the thousandth and first time: She's a Mudblood girl, you can't think about her anymore, it's completely illogical!
How could dancing with her possibly end well? You'll only be laughed at by the Slytherins!
Let this sharp-tongued girl experience what it's like to be left uninvited, and then she'll know just how unpopular she is!
However, he soon heard those words in the corridor.
"Hermione—who are you going to the ball with?" It was Weasley's voice coming from directly in front of him.
"If I don't tell you, you'll laugh at me." That was Granger's voice next to Weasley.
What? Someone actually invited her? How could anyone invite her? What clueless person invited her?
She actually agreed! The anger that Draco had finally managed to quell suddenly flared up again.
"You're kidding, Weasley!" he yelled through gritted teeth at the boy in front of him. "What? Someone actually invited that guy to the dance? That big-toothed Mudblood?"
Yes, he added a prefix this time too—he guessed she wouldn't like it—even though her teeth no longer had anything to do with "big teeth".
To his surprise, the girl turned around—without looking at him—and casually waved to someone behind him, saying loudly, "Hello, Professor Moody!"
Draco was startled—was Granger serious?
His face turned pale instantly, and he jumped back a step, looking around frantically for Moody, only to find Moody still sitting at the faculty table in the auditorium, eating his stew.
"You're a twitching little weasel, aren't you, Malfoy?" she said sharply, before heading up the marble stairs with Harry and Ron.
Draco could hear them laughing loudly. Then he realized she was just trying to scare him.
Luckily there were no other students here, otherwise he would have been embarrassed.
Cunning Granger! That little liar!
He coughed awkwardly, regained his arrogant demeanor, and whispered to Crabbe and Goyle, "Let's go."
"Draco, who are you going to invite?" Crabbe asked him mysteriously, his small eyes blinking nervously. "Who are you going to invite as your dance partner?"
"I don't know. Whatever," Draco said indignantly. "Who would refuse a Malfoy's outstretched hand?"
That's right, Draco Malfoy has an entire Slytherin school of girls he could invite, so there's no need for him to bother with a Gryffindor nerd!
But—who exactly invited Granger?
Over the next few days, he listened intently to Granger's conversations with Weasley.
"Who are you going to the ball with?" Weasley would ask tirelessly every day. The silly boy would always ask her out of the blue, trying to get an unintentional answer from her.
Granger seemed very wary, refusing to answer each time, and his expression was mysterious.
One day, Draco finally couldn't resist staring at her from the other side of the library bookshelf until she pulled out a book, saw his eyes from the other side of the bookshelf, and was so startled that she scattered the books on the shelf all over the floor.
"Good heavens, Malfoy, why are you haunting me like a ghost?" she muttered angrily as she squatted down, picking up the books.
"Are you going with Potter?" he asked, walking around the bookshelf and looking down at him.
"What?" She stopped picking up the book, looked up, and asked in confusion.
"A dance," he said curtly, striking a pose as he put his hands in his pockets.
"Of course not." She lowered her head and continued stacking the books.
"Who is that?" he asked, remembering that round-faced fool she often used to sympathize with. "Who would invite you? Neville Longbottom?"
She didn't say anything, her face flushed, and she picked up the books, placing them one by one on the bookshelf.
"Looks like it's him." He looked at her flustered appearance and wrinkled his nose. "You're going with him?"
"It wasn't him," she said firmly, glancing at him warily.
"You're not just making things up—you don't actually have a dance partner?" Draco suddenly chuckled, looking her up and down. "Planning to spend the night in the library instead of going to the ball?"
"Of course not!" she said angrily, tidying up the books. "Someone has already invited me! And I've already accepted!"
"Who is it?" he asked, staring intently at her. "Is it something you're hiding from me, something so secretive about?"
"Why should I tell you?" She put the last book on the shelf, scurried away from him like he was a plague, and threw down a vicious remark, "What's it to you—Little Weasel?"
"Yeah, what does it have to do with him?" Draco sat quietly in the armchair by the Slytherin fireplace, his hand on his chin, staring at the fire, still pondering the words.
"Draco, invite me to the ball," Pansy said casually, plopping down in front of him.
"I thought it was the guy inviting the girl, why are you doing the opposite?" Draco rolled his eyes at her.
"Some girls do invite guys out!" Pan Xi said. "Can't girls take the initiative to pursue their own happiness? Why do they have to wait for others to invite them?"
"Didn't you keep saying you wanted to go with Blaise? Why don't you go and invite him?" Draco waved his hand at her.
"Pah! That bastard Blaise!" Pansy spat disdainfully. "He went to invite Fleur Delacour this morning! Do you know what he said? He said she's the prettiest! How shallow!"
"Most of the boys in the school will be trying out for Yodracul, there's no reason Blaise can't. He's not your boyfriend, why does he have to ask you out? Didn't you just say the other day you were asking Krum and Diggory for autographs, saying they were handsome?" Draco said casually. "However, you're lucky. I just passed by Yodracul in the hallway and heard her say yes to Roger Davis from Ravenclaw. You still have a chance. Maybe in the next second—"
Just then, Draco saw Blaise walking in from the common room door, looking around. "Look," he said, "he'll probably be here to see you soon."
"No! I'm angry with him right now! I need to let him know that I don't need him!" Pansy said quickly. "Don't you not have a dance partner? Just help me out! Consider it a favor I owe you, okay?"
"What's wrong with you now? Why should I do something so thankless and exhausting?" Draco said, annoyed.
"It would be embarrassing if you didn't have a dance partner, wouldn't it? I heard that Potter and Weasley both have dance partners, but you don't! Even Granger has a dance partner, but you don't! Aren't you ashamed? Aren't you losing face?" Pansy said matter-of-factly.
Draco was provoked by one of her remarks—"Even Granger has a dance partner, but you don't"—.
Indeed, the "mysterious Granger's dance partner" still haunts him to this day.
He was extremely curious. The more she concealed and became mysterious, the more he cared about it.
She couldn't keep this a secret forever—whoever that unfortunate dance partner was—he would eventually have to show up at the ball.
At that time, Draco will definitely take a good look at that unlucky fellow who dared to invite Granger, and ridicule him mercilessly.
By then, he would indeed need a dance partner to enhance his image. This would prevent Hermione Granger from being too arrogant in his presence and from having the opportunity to mock him for "not having a dance partner."
"I do need a dance partner," Draco said, "but why you? I don't want to get involved in your war with Blaise. I could ask any girl I want rather than you."
"Of course not. Look at them—" Pansy shook her head smugly, pointing to the group of girls gathered in the corner, chattering and laughing. "If it were any other girl you invited, she might be very difficult to deal with. They would think you like them—they would cling to you and never let go. They might even give you some love potion, and that would be quite a scene. I wouldn't do that."
To be honest, Pansy has a point. Draco shrugged.
He really didn't want to get into trouble—as for those infatuated girls, he'd better just leave them be.
"Hurry, he's almost here!" Pansy said urgently. "Make a decision quickly! I have to teach him a lesson!"
He rolled his eyes, raised his hand, and extended it to the most insane girl in all of Slytherin, saying lazily and in a drawn-out tone, "Please, be my dance partner, Pansy Parkinson, so that Blaise Zabini can be furious."
"That's right! That's it!" Pansy happily high-fived him, looking triumphantly at Blaise's astonished face as he drew closer, and shouted, "Draco Malfoy, I agree to be your dance partner!"
Gasps and sighs came from the corner. Then came Blaise's surprised question and Pansy's smug mockery.
Draco rolled his eyes all the way to the ceiling.
Amidst the bickering between Pansy and Blaise, he stared at the giant squid that was faintly visible outside the domed glass, continuing to ponder an age-old question—who exactly was Granger's damn mysterious dance partner?
Past Life Story Fourteen: Granger's Tears
Time: Fourth Year, the night of the Christmas Ball, after Hermione and Ron's argument
Location: Stairs in the Great Hall's outer foyer
"You danced the opening dance with the warriors of Durmstrang, and all the girls in the school are jealous of you. What more could you want?" he said coldly under the moonlight—a raging fire burning in his heart—looking at the girl with a bright red nose on the steps.
She let out a sob. Her tears, like transparent pearls, rolled down her cheeks without mercy.
He bet those tears were scalding hot—just looking at them made his eyes sting.
"You little crybaby…are your tears so worthless? They're so ugly." He drawled, slowly scrutinizing her. "What's wrong? Did Krum bully you? Or Potter or Weasley?"
"Get out of my way, Malfoy! Don't even think about making a fool of yourself." She lowered her lips and eyebrows, her flower-bud-like skirt flowing down the steps.
Granger, she was like a flower that had bloomed too vigorously and withered, scattered on the steps.
However, Flower doesn't drink alcohol, and there are several empty butterbeer bottles lying next to her.
Draco looked around and found that there was no one around.
There were no Hogwarts students, only a few unfamiliar Beauxbatons and Durmstrang.
So he sat down with peace of mind and began to stare at her without restraint, noticing that her cheeks were flushed red.
"Granger—are you drunk?" He suddenly realized this.
"What's it to you? Stay away from me! You little hopping weasel..." She looked up at him, her head slightly slurred with drunkenness, glared at him, and then suddenly smiled threateningly, "If you bother me again, I'll turn you into a little weasel that's convulsing all over—I've already learned that transformation spell."
This address made Draco blush instantly.
"You ungrateful wretch—" He glared at her angrily, trying to find the right words to retort with the harshest one. For example, calling her a "little mudblood."
But he suddenly stopped—her eyes were so bright, like the finest hazelnut chocolates sold at Honeydukes.
Besides, she's dressed so beautifully today.
He spent the entire night scrutinizing her with a critical eye, but couldn't find even the slightest fault with her.
She was flawless. She was the focus of everyone's admiring gaze, and the final destination of his lingering gaze.
She had him so distraught all night that he didn't want to dance at all—he just stared at her and Krum dancing the whole time—and all he could think about was how to provoke her.
But when he finally had the chance to face her, he dared not look her in the eye.
He then lowered his gaze to the ground and finally noticed her shoes that she had thrown down and her bare feet.
"Granger, don't you find the ground dirty?" He didn't call her "Little Mudblood" because he was afraid she would lose her mind in her drunken state, pull out her wand, and turn him into a weasel.
"My feet hurt," she said softly, frowning, and let out a burp.
"The size doesn't fit?" He picked up one shoe and glanced at it—tsk—the color was surprisingly suitable for her.
"No. I twisted my ankle while dancing," she said wearily, pouting her rosy lips.
He rolled his eyes, lifted the hem of her skirt, and used his hand to lift her foot to examine it.
"Malfoy! What are you doing? Let go of me!" She was both shocked and angry, and tried to pull her foot back, but he held it down firmly.
"Don't move," he said calmly, slowly massaging her ankle. Suddenly, with a "click," her foot returned to its original position.
"You—you know this?" She feigned surprise, exaggerating as she looked at her perfectly intact foot from left to right.
Hmm, it seems Granger is a bit drunk; she's not usually this flamboyant.
"Thank you," she said softly, glancing at him with teary eyes.
"Looks like Krum isn't all that great after all. A Quidditch pro isn't necessarily a great dancer, much less a considerate dance partner, right?" he said sourly.
"What's the meaning?"
"When he's dancing, he doesn't even manage to keep you in check; he doesn't even notice you twisted your ankle." Draco smirked, a hint of smugness in his eyes.
When he took her to dance practice, he made sure she didn't sprain her ankle.
"Control? I won't be controlled! I'd rather sprain my ankle!" she said fiercely, then picked up the bottle next to her and took a sip of wine.
"That's because you chose the wrong dance partner, you didn't choose someone who can control you!" Draco said, a look of self-loathing on his face.
Why did he say that? It must be because it was so late at night and he wasn't thinking clearly.
"What nonsense are you talking about?" she said blankly, as she was about to put the wine in her mouth again.
"Stop drinking—you're drunk." He snatched the bottle from her hand and found it was empty.
"I'm not drunk," she insisted.
"Yeah, you're not drunk! You're calmly discussing foot pain and control with a Malfoy, trying to make a new friend," he mocked her.
"Why are you always so mean?" she complained, her voice tinged with weariness.
The girl seemed a bit irritable. Impatiently, she grabbed his tie and pulled it close to her face, staring at him dazedly, muttering, "To be honest, if you shut up, you're actually quite likable! Those eyes are pretty—"
"This is utterly absurd! When have I ever been unlikable?" he interrupted her, uttering his most self-important words with practiced ease; then, he suddenly realized something and felt awkward because of the implication in her words.
Wait—was that a compliment or an insult? He tried to understand her words and see through her misty eyes.
But he couldn't understand her—she was completely different tonight than usual.
Tonight, her noble appearance would put anyone to shame; she was not at all like a lowly Muggle.
Draco Malfoy cannot deny that she is elegant, beautiful, and charming.
She was like a dream. A beautiful dream that could drive anyone mad.
"These eyes are quite beautiful." This enchanting dream stubbornly finished speaking the words he had just been interrupted—gazing into his eyes—as if trying to see something different in them.
Merlin, she was actually praising him. His lips trembled a few times, trying to struggle to utter some more harsh words, but he couldn't.
When they were nose to nose and eye to eye, the part of his brain that controls language malfunctioned.
He was horrified to discover that he couldn't bring himself to say anything hurtful to her at that moment.
He could only obediently let her stare at him, desperately swallowing his saliva.
Even more frightening, he realized he was blushing when he looked into the light in her pupils.
Then, with a slightly tipsy face and a drunken smile, she smiled at him.
That was a smile that was both enigmatic and enigmatic.
Her eyes blinked slowly, her eyelashes fluttering like butterfly wings.
"What—what do you want to do?" he asked with difficulty, feeling that she wasn't gripping his tie, but his very bones—the bones connected to his heart.
He felt a tremor in his body or soul, perhaps just because of a timely gust of wind, or perhaps not just because of the wind.
"I think," she said softly, gazing into his eyes with a hint of doubt, "I don't know—"
She was like someone trying to solve the most difficult arithmetic and divination problem of the century, not knowing where to begin. She stared into his eyes, puzzled—without any attempt to look away—as if she didn't know what to do with him.
She moved closer to him. Closer and closer. He could smell the butterbeer emanating from her lips. It was a sinful smell—it triggered a violent tremor in his heart.
He was like a snake pinned to its vital spot, motionless, yearning for something while simultaneously loathing himself for something else.
She looked calm yet bewildered, and as if in a daze, she sniffed him before gently kissing his lips.
His first kiss.
Draco never imagined what his first kiss would be like; he always felt it was something far away from him.
Even now, fireworks are rising into the sky outside the castle, the explosions coming closer and closer, striking his mind.
Then, fireworks spontaneously ignited in his mind, the explosions louder than those outside the window.
Damn Granger! She smells so good and is so soft.
Her lips were so fragrant and soft! She had absolutely nothing to do with "mud".
Her lips weren't sharp at all—she seemed never to have uttered a harsh word—they were so warm and gentle. In that instant, these inappropriate thoughts began to swirl in his mind.
Outside the window, fireworks were in full bloom against the night sky, colorful and dazzling.
Inside the window, the two people looked at each other, their eyes meeting but then drifting away.
They slowly separated, sat facing each other, and were both stunned.
"Granger, what were you doing just now?" He finally found his voice and swallowed hard, still shaken.
The girl was speechless, then abruptly loosened his tie. Speechless, she picked up her shoes from the floor, stood up, and barefoot, hurriedly ran upstairs.
A bewildered Draco Malfoy—like a prince abandoned by a witch—was left sitting alone on the steps.
He stiffly turned his head, looking at the lingering traces of fireworks in the sky, wondering if this was a bizarre dream.
The next day, the girl who had sprained her ankle the night before walked up to the bookshelf in the library where he was looking for books. Her gaze wandered to the row of books next to his face, but she wouldn't look at his face.
She paused, then asked him arrogantly, "Malfoy, did you see me last night?"
He finally realized it wasn't a dream.
"Of course not! Did you have some wet dream, Granger?" He crossed his arms and gave her a wicked grin—he'd practiced it countless times in front of the dorm mirror—looking her up and down.
He would never admit that Granger had sexually assaulted him—a scandal of that magnitude was best kept buried deep inside.
"Get lost, Malfoy! You're so boring!" She blushed and turned away angrily.
He didn't miss—the moment she turned her head—the sound of her letting out a light sigh of relief.
Wait! How dare she? She actually dared to breathe a sigh of relief?!
Granger—utterly irresponsible! He kissed her and ran away, and then denied everything the next day?
What's most infuriating is that no one could possibly think—how could she possibly think—that not having kissed him was a relief?
"She's so infuriating!" Draco thought bitterly, slamming the dictionary in his hand to the ground in frustration