"Are you all right?" he asked gently as he sat down beside her. He did not know what to say to comfort her, or what stance to take.
He was once one of those who called her a "Mudblood." Back then, they were not friends, but rather what he considered his "enemies."
He used to be very jealous of her. That brown-haired girl, that know-it-all who could answer any question the professors asked perfectly, outshone everyone else. She always scored higher than him. Apart from her lineage, she was so perfect that he had no reason to attack her or vent his anger.
Back then, they always enjoyed attacking each other sharply. She attacked him scathingly, saying he had only paid his way into the Slytherin Quidditch team and had no real ability; he was furious and racked his brains, only able to use the "Mudblood" thing as a pretext to launch a fierce counterattack.
From then on, things spiralled out of control, and the two became bitter rivals.
Throughout the second year, they were busy arguing.
"I looked up the meaning of 'Mudblood' in the library. It is a derogatory term for Muggle-born people—that is, people whose parents do not have magic," His keen concern made Hermione feel extremely wronged, even though she had thought she had hidden it well.
She lowered her head, her long eyelashes obscuring her moist eyes. She said softly, "Is it not a nasty term? It means dirty, inferior blood."
"I am sorry." Draco's pale grey eyes flickered uneasily.
Merlin! In fact, he did not think she was dirty or inferior; he was just too foolish to use such words to attack others.
Every time he thought about it, he felt immense regret. He might have regretted it long ago, but he was just ashamed to admit it.
Draco suddenly remembered what Dumbledore had said in his previous life on the Astronomy Tower. At that time, Dumbledore seemed very weak, as if he would collapse at any moment, but he was still correcting Draco, telling him not to call Hermione a "Mudblood".
"Please do not use that insulting word in front of me," Dumbledore said to Draco.
The wizard who maintained his composure even as death approached was etched into Draco's mind with every word.
For a moment, Dumbledore's blue eyes seemed to see through all his pretence, but he pretended not to know out of some pity for him or out of protection for her.
At that moment, Draco, overwhelmed by inner turmoil and fear, let out a barely audible, masked laugh.
Yes, "Mudblood," that is what he insisted on calling her in his previous life.
If he regrets it and stops calling her "Mudblood," it means that his years of insistence were wrong; he was wrong from the very first moment he uttered the first word "Mudblood."
How foolish and proud Draco Malfoy was!
By then, he could no longer bear the shift and the need to admit his mistakes—he had gone too far, too far to turn back. His whole family had gone far, with a ridiculous sense of self-confidence, tightly bound to the Dark Lord's madly speeding ship, surrounded by floating icebergs, with no room for manoeuvre.
Although it sounds like a lame and despicable excuse, or some kind of absolutely unfunny hellish joke, Draco has to admit that he has only ever called Hermione "Mudblood," and no one else is worthy of being called that by him.
Merlin knew it sounded arrogant, sickly, and utterly unlikeable, but, to be honest, Hermione Granger had always been different in his heart.
She was the only little mud seed in his heart.
The little mud seed that made him grit his teeth, the one he could not help but care about.
No one knew what this meant, not even he himself.
He did not even want to delve deeper, busy hiding this hidden secret and emotion.
What is the point? In that situation, they were adversaries, mortal enemies, and objects of mutual contempt from different camps. What change could understanding those emotions possibly bring?
So he retaliated by calling her a "Mudblood," reinforcing his belief over and over again that they were adversaries. He did not need to care about her, and he did not need to pay attention to anything she said.
He had his own mission to fulfil, just as she had her ideals to uphold. In the chaotic state of their past life, the only thing he was certain of was that she was special to him.
In particular, if given the chance to do it all over again, he would never call her "Mudblood" again.
He will never say it again.
No way.
"I am sorry," he said again, frowning.
"Why are you apologising? You did not insult me." Hermione said to him, her voice choked with emotion. Rain was streaming down her warm eyes, and the pervasive dampness made his heart ache.
So that is why she was so sensitive to that word. In her past life, she had acted stubborn, proud, and indifferent in front of him, as if the title was nothing special.
But now, she cried. She was heartbroken because of that word.
Draco suddenly understood that her nonchalant attitude in her past life might have been a protective shell. After all, she was so proud that she would not even admit to being afraid, so how could she be willing to expose her vulnerability to others?
How could such a proud girl bear such an insult?
Just as the proud Draco could not stand being called a "stinky Death Eater" or being mocked for his father's affiliation with Azkaban and for being "the son of a criminal."
Those words were like a sharp knife, cutting bloody wounds into his heart until they became scarred and criss-crossed, making it impossible to tell where the new wounds had been. Eventually, he learnt to act indifferent, not because the knife had become dull and he could no longer feel the pain, but because the excessive pain had numbed him.
In his past life, he called her that time and time again. How did she endure it? Was she like him? Were her wounds layered upon each other amidst endless pain, her heart bleeding beneath a numb exterior? Regret surged like a tidal wave, instantly overwhelming his heart.
"I should apologise. For me, for some of my classmates, even for my parents, elders, and ancestors. Ultimately, this is a stubborn prejudice that has been passed down since Salazar Slytherin's time," Draco said hastily, handing her a pale grey handkerchief. She buried her face in the handkerchief, her shoulders rising and falling with her sobs, her back looking so thin and pitiful.
He wanted to try patting her back or shoulder to comfort her, but his hand remained frozen in mid-air.
He dared not.
The look of disgust in her eyes from his past life had lingered in his mind. He had been a filthy Death Eater; he should not have touched her.
Having been reborn, he was careful not to touch her. He was afraid that she would look at him like that again.
In moments of urgency, he sometimes forgets about it. But as soon as he remembers, as soon as he recalls the look of disgust in her eyes from his past life, he quickly retreats.
Even though she did not know about the past, even though she trusted him completely, Draco remembered everything. He remembered every single thing—how he hurt her, how she loathed him. These memories etched in his heart an indelible mark.
She was still crying. He still did not dare touch her. To him, she was some kind of transparent, fragile, exquisite, and delicate glass artefact, and he was truly afraid that he might accidentally shatter her.
Hermione lifted her teary eyes and looked at Draco's solemn face with a bewildered expression. In that instant, his contradictions, vulnerability, and helplessness were laid bare before her.
Yes, his unspeakable timidity and long-hidden sorrow were captured in her casual glance. Even when he tried to comfort her, he had to be cautious, afraid of incurring her displeasure.
Her sorrowful and desolate gaze made him completely lose the courage to touch her.
His hand slowly clenched into a fist, then quietly lowered. He felt a pang of bitterness in his heart, trying to justify himself: "Some wizards always feel superior to others because they are so-called pure-bloods. Especially Slytherin students, because that is the philosophy their families uphold. Pure-blood wizards despise Muggle-born wizards and do not want to associate with them, for certain historical reasons, and also because of the education they received from childhood."
An incredulous look flashed in the girl's eyes, followed by a sorrowful and probing expression. "And you, Draco, do you... think so too?" she finally asked, her voice anxious and her expression sombre, her voice trembling with sobs.
"I must say, my parents also held the belief of 'pure-blood supremacy,' and that is how they raised me." Draco frowned, feeling guilty and remorseful. "I have to admit, I once believed in this belief when I was very young. Now I know it is not like that. The belief they held was wrong. You are excellent, excellent in every subject. You were able to brew Polyjuice Potion in second year; I have never seen anyone so talented in Potions at that age. Charms, Transfiguration... you do everything very well..."
"Oh, Draco, stop flattering me." The gloom that had been swirling in her heart was completely dispelled by his straightforward praise and compliments. She laughed through her tears, her voice still thick with emotion, "You probably forgot that I am not very good at flying."
"Well... I think you are pretty safe on your flying broom as long as you do not play Quidditch." Draco breathed a sigh of relief when he saw her mood improve. He locked away his hopeless, regretful, and gloomy emotions with Occlumency and tried to make her laugh with witty remarks.
"I do not think I have congratulated you on catching the Golden Snitch in the last match. Your flying has always been amazing. Harry told me that even without that pesky Bludger, you had a very good chance of catching the Snitch." Hermione wiped away the remaining tears with the handkerchief, not dwelling on that lake of sorrow for too long, but instead turning to take care of Draco's feelings.
Draco, he is so kind. Hermione never expected him to comfort her like that.
He clearly had that kind of father, yet he was practically saying his father was wrong. Not every child has the courage to point that out and deny the correctness of their parents.
If she had bumped into Mr Malfoy in Diagon Alley that day, would he have called her a "Mudblood"? According to Ginny's description, he was a sharp-tongued, arrogant man. He certainly could have called her that.
She was not surprised at all. She might be unhappy about it.
But it was just unpleasantness.
But if Draco called her that, she probably would not be able to handle it. She might be heartbroken. She did not even want to consider that possibility; it was too painful to contemplate.
Fortunately, Draco was not like his father. He gently comforted her, praised her, and even apologised to her on behalf of those who had hurt her. He was always very kind to her, unusually so.
At that moment, the boy who had been so kind to her was slightly upturned at the corners of his mouth, feeling a secret joy from her words. "Next Quidditch match, the Slytherin versus Ravenclaw match, will you cheer me on? I really need some encouragement," Draco said, a little uncertainly.
Slytherin was now universally reviled. The Chamber of Secrets incident was escalating, and the other three houses were increasingly suspicious of Slytherin students. Coupled with the insulting terms some Slytherin students used against her, he wondered if she would still be willing to cheer for a Slytherin.
But he could not help but ask.
He inexplicably hoped that at the moment of his victory, she would look at him with those joyful eyes, cheering, jumping for joy, and being happy for him, just as she had been ecstatic for Harry's victory.
"Of course," Hermione said cheerfully.
Her nose was still a little red from crying. Her big brown eyes looked bright—perhaps because they were so moist—like Rudolph the red-nosed reindeer in Muggle stories, innocent and endearing.
The girl, as delicate as a deer, looked at him with open and cheerful eyes and smiled at him with her lips pursed.