Third Year- The Punch
He was seething. Actually seething. Crabbe and Goyle had (for once) had the common sense to leave him far alone, and he stormed away from them. Draco couldn't believe it. The audacity of her! How dare she put her hands on him! How dare she speak to him like that!
His cheek still stung, painfully, almost agonisingly, and he was forced to admit that Granger had one hell of a punch.
It wasn't his fault the bloody bird had decided to try and kill him! The monster deserved to die- his arm still didn't lie straight!
Draco slammed the dormitory door shut, throwing himself down on his bed. He wanted to scream into his pillow. The Mudblood was infuriating. All she'd ever done since First Year was wheedle her way under his skin, and nibble away until his very last nerve was raw and pulsing.
It was a shame she hadn't died last year. Maybe then, he'd finally have a year of peace and quiet, without her troll-like face and grating voice invading his life every minute of every day. What Draco loathed most was that, despite her plainness and irritating personality, whenever his father asked him about his classes, everything always came back to her. Or Potter.
He always ended up moaning about the prissy little know-it-all Mudblood. His father had eventually raised an eyebrow and drawled that if he hadn't known any better, he would've thought he fancied the girl. Draco had gaped at him, then demanded furiously that he wouldn't touch her with a twenty foot pole. The small smirk on his father's face had made him hate her more.
It didn't help that this year, she seemed to be everywhere he turned. She was like a flea; no matter how hard he tried, he just couldn't shake her off.
Draco couldn't lie still, and he pushed himself back off the bed. He didn't know why (though it could have something to do with the fact his cheek was throbbing) but his heart was beating so hard against his chest, it felt like it would break his ribcage. His anger coiled tight, shooting down his legs and arms, making his head thud.
He left the dormitory, ignoring everyone who tried to engage him in conversation, as he stormed from the Common Room. Draco made his way up from the Dungeons, because the stifling darkness just seemed to enhance his fury.
He rounded the corner and he felt his lips tighten; his eye twitched.
For there she was, bloody Granger. She looked righteous, cloak billowing out behind her, and she didn't even seem to notice him coming towards her, never mind care for the fact that she had punched him in the face earlier on.
"Granger," Draco spat.
Hermione stopped, wrenched from her no doubt irritating inner monologue. Her eyes widened, then narrowed when they fell on him. He noticed her lip was swollen, her cheek cut; her blood was as red as his.
"Malfoy," she replied, just as coolly. "How's your cheek? I think my knuckles have bruised."
He couldn't prevent the sneer from morphing his face, and he was in front of her in a second. Though he didn't touch her, his fingers itched to wrap around her wrists and squeeze tightly, or tangle in her jumper and shake her till she trembled.
Draco's eyes were cold, infinitely cruel, and they bored into her. Hermione raised her chin.
"Don't you dare talk to me like that!" he hissed.
She hardly batted an eyelash. It was hard to take him seriously, as his thirteen years were baggy on his frame, like he had yet to grow into them.
"Or what?" demanded Hermione. "You're vile. You're a cockroach! How am I to blame if I treat you as such?"
She shoved him away from her, but remained long enough to say heatedly, "If you want to be treated like a human being, start acting like one!"
And she began walking away from him.
Draco stared after her and for some reason, it infuriated him more. She was so quick to dismiss him, to brush him off like he was barely worth a throwaway second of her precious time.
He started walking after her, quickening his pace so she couldn't disappear.
"You're a filthy Mudblood," Draco spat viciously. He saw her shoulders tense but she continued moving. He spoke more rapidly, the insults poisoning his tongue, oozing from his lips like he was trying to be rid of them as quickly as possible. "Do you know that, Granger? One day, you're going to bow down to your superiors! You'll see! You are worth nothing more than the dirt on my shoes- less, even. These shoes cost more than your whole dirty Muggle house-!"
It all happened in an instant. Hermione spun around, hair flying loose, eyes flashing. The words dented the air, heavy and penetrating, and the hatred dripped from every syllable.
"I wish Buckbeak had killed you!" she screamed at him.
Draco stopped.
They stared at one another from separate ends of the corridor: his pale skin a stark contrast to her brown; his pure blood the very opposite of her tainted; his morals looser than even the devils, made obvious from the fact that hers were saint-like.
And for some reason, one which he could not fathom, when Hermione Granger stormed off, her words still ringing in the empty space between them, he felt the blow lingering.
It was worse than being punched.
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The Eight Years We Wasted
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