On the eve of the Christmas holidays, a sudden heavy snowfall blanketed Hogwarts, causing nearly every student in the castle to lose all interest in their studies.
Even Hermione Granger — that fixture of the Hogwarts library, an anomaly among students — had to admit that Hogwarts under snow was so breathtaking it sparked the imagination.
She found herself wondering: if someone were to ride a broomstick and look down at Hogwarts from above, they might see it as an enormous, intricate gingerbread house dusted with icing sugar — or perhaps a miniature castle inside one of those snow globe ornaments from the Muggle world, the kind that played music when you shook them.
Why was she imagining it from above? From that particular aerial vantage? Hermione wondered, catching herself.
It seemed that a five-minute flight on a whim — initiated by a certain Slytherin boy — had left a more lasting impression on her way of thinking than she'd realised.
Draco. The boy who was as gentle as snow, yet as cold as snow.
During class breaks and in the corridors, Hermione would sometimes overhear other Slytherins murmuring things like, "What did you expect from Malfoy? You can't count on him being friendly — his family's been proud for generations."
Proud? He was perfectly approachable with her in private. She couldn't quite reconcile that.
"I think there's something wrong with the part of his brain that controls smiling," Lavender said to Parvati during a late-night chat in their dormitory. "I'd suggest you look elsewhere. Malfoy is far too cold, and he's a Slytherin, no less."
"Oh, I know — I've never liked Slytherins either, they always act like they're above everyone else," Parvati said dismissively. "But objectively speaking, Malfoy is rather good-looking, isn't he? Hard not to notice."
"He's only passable when he's being stern. Who knows — he might look absolutely ghastly if he ever smiled," Lavender giggled. "Maybe that's why he never does."
That's not true at all! Hermione thought hotly from behind her bed curtains. He was extremely handsome when he smiled.
She had seen him smile. When he'd taken her flying and they'd dismounted from the broom, he had smiled so brilliantly — so openly — like sunlight cutting through cloud, with something like starlight in his eyes.
He never smiled like that anymore. He always maintained that cool, aloof composure.
Come to think of it, even during Transfiguration when they'd been partners, he never smiled — always that serious, unreadable expression.
But that didn't make him unfriendly toward her.
When they were face to face — studying together in the library, working side by side in class — he was always perfectly pleasant. Polite. And, she couldn't help but notice, there was a subtle quality to the way he treated her that she couldn't quite name.
A kind of quiet attentiveness, present only in details that only the person on the receiving end would notice.
In whatever class they shared, if she walked over to the empty seat beside him and moved to sit down, he would glance at her — expressionlessly — and pull out the chair for her. She'd never had a study partner who thought to do something like that. Nor did he seem to do it for anyone else.
When all the seats in the library were taken and she resigned herself to standing with a book pressed against the shelf, he would most likely appear from behind a row of bookcases — seemingly by chance — and lead her to that private nook she could never find on her own. He would settle her into one of the incredibly comfortable armchairs without being asked, and somehow produce a cup of hot tea.
He was always willing to acknowledge her in passing, regardless of how many Slytherins were nearby. He rarely greeted her first, however — unless she happened to be negotiating a teetering pile of books through the corridor. Only then would he become more proactive: not only bothering to say hello, but offering to carry the books for her all the way to her destination.
Was that "special treatment"? Hermione wondered.
Or perhaps she was simply imagining things.
Sometimes she would feel his gaze on her back — only to turn and find him looking elsewhere entirely.
A boy who was neither too close nor too distant.
She wasn't even sure what to call what they were to each other.
He never sought her out unless there was a real reason. He seemed to appear only when she needed something. The moment she was alright again, he would step back without hesitation — putting distance between them, avoiding her eyes.
As though he didn't want to be any trouble.
And yet, whenever she approached him first — no matter when, or where, or about what — he never looked annoyed. If anything, his expression would be more open than usual.
She could sense his thoughtfulness. Even a warmth, carefully hidden. When she was close enough to him, the coldness fell away, replaced by something guarded but undeniably gentle.
Their conversations were always pleasant. When he was genuinely engaged, he would give her a brief, almost imperceptible smile — very rarely — and then he would catch himself, and the smile would vanish, leaving behind an expression that looked almost pained.
The boy was an enigma. He gave off an air of mystery — something obscure and guarded — but it didn't make him unappealing. On the contrary, it made her want to figure him out.
She had started to watch him more carefully.
He was sparing with words. He would give a single word where a sentence would do, if he could help it.
He rarely smiled — not at students, not even at the professors. His manner toward everyone was cool and distant, his expression perpetually weary.
By comparison, he talked to her quite a great deal. Relative to his usual silence, she could only describe his manner toward her as "unprecedentedly forthcoming," Hermione thought.
And yet, despite the quiet aura of keep away that he exuded, the Slytherins seemed to respect him deeply. They didn't find anything strange about it at all.
At the Slytherin table in the Great Hall, he was always surrounded by fellow students — eating and talking and deferring to him, entirely comfortable in his company despite his cool manner.
It made no sense. How could someone so cold command such effortless loyalty?
Was it a Slytherin thing? Did they operate by different rules — the colder a person was, the more magnetic they became? Hermione wondered, puzzled.
In Gryffindor, the more cheerful, warm, and outgoing someone was, the more popular they became. Her roommate Lavender Brown, for example, had somehow made friends with every single Gryffindor by the end of their first day at Hogwarts.
Lavender had a genuine gift for it — she could warm up to anyone and find something to talk about in minutes.
But Draco, with his studied indifference, would never manage anything like that. He probably couldn't even remember every Slytherin student's name, let alone their preferences.
So what was it about him that made them gravitate toward him?
Just as she, inexplicably, kept gravitating toward him. Even when he didn't smile.
Hermione Granger, why do you keep agreeing to be his partner? she asked herself.
Ah. The Slytherin boy — as gentle as snow, yet as cold as snow.
The Gryffindor girl sighed, leaned out from the corridor, and tilted her face up at the swirling snowflakes. On an impulse, she stretched out her arm — a few crystalline flakes drifted down, falling softly like quiet gifts from the smoky grey sky, brushing against her palm.
The cold dissolved the instant it touched her warm skin, leaving only a faint trace of water.
Hermione shivered, shook the chill from her fingers, breathed warm air into her cupped hands, and felt something lighten in her chest.
She smiled slightly, and felt a little better. Shaking off the thoughts that had crept in with the snow, she continued toward the library with her books tucked under her arm.
She had no idea that a pair of pale grey eyes were watching her from the corridor above.
Draco had seen her.
The girl, backlit by the pale winter light, looked like something from a waking dream.
Fine strands of her hair were luminous in the grey-white air. She was like a kitten that had wandered out into a snowfall — curious about everything, completely absorbed. A few snowflakes clung to her fringe as the wind moved it, and she hadn't noticed them, her eyes bright and turned upward at the sky.
The arm she held out into the corridor was pale and slender, unmarked.
The way she reached for the snowflakes — so careful, so hopeful — was both fragile and endearing.
A strange ache bloomed, quiet and unbidden, behind his ribs. Something he'd almost forgotten could happen. Draco watched her, and felt the ache spread.
This was a side of Hermione Granger he rarely got to see.
Innocent. Joyful. Completely unguarded.
Stop. Don't disturb her. As long as she can keep smiling like this, nothing else matters.
Let her have her books and her peace.
Books are what she loves most, aren't they?
The snow thickened, drifting softly onto his upturned face, settling over the stillness inside him.
He pulled himself back, withdrew his gaze, and returned his attention to the noisy courtyard below.
The students were in good spirits. The Weasley twins had bewitched several large snowballs to pursue Professor Quirrell and pelt him squarely at the back of his turban, which sent the watching crowd into hysterics.
Quirrell, red-faced and furious, yanked his turban back into place and announced that the twins had earned themselves a detention and a house point deduction before storming off.
"A moment, if you will — why not make proper use of your talents?" Draco quickened his pace and caught up with the brothers before they could wander off.
The Weasley twins, entirely unconcerned about their impending detention, had been deep in discussion about Lee Jordan's prized giant spider. They stopped at the sound of his voice and looked at him simultaneously.
"Well, well — if it isn't the Malfoy boy," the one on the left said, with a spark of interest.
The one on the right grinned. "We've heard all about you from Ron, you know —"
"— You were a great help during the last match!"
The two brothers, arms comfortably around each other's shoulders, looked at him with identical expressions. "So. What did you mean by 'make proper use of our talents'?"
Draco cast a last, satisfied look at the snowball that had walloped Quirrell in the back of the turban, and allowed himself a short, dry laugh.
"What I mean is — you clearly have a real gift for mischief. Why not turn it into something? Invent some clever little joke products. You could even open a shop someday."
He still remembered placing a large anonymous order of Peruvian Instant Darkness Powder from Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes in his previous life.
Surprisingly effective products. Used for purposes that were, admittedly, less than wholesome.
"Something like — biscuits that transfigure the eater into a canary? Trick wands? Sweets that make your nose bleed on command?" Draco dredged up every product he could recall from the brothers' future shop, illustrating his points with gestures that felt deeply undignified.
This was absolutely not the behaviour expected of a Malfoy.
But the effect was striking. At these words, the Weasley twins' casual expressions evaporated, and they exchanged a quick, loaded glance.
They were clearly very interested.
"We haven't the faintest idea what you're talking about," said one, with studied nonchalance.
"And the advice of a Slytherin is rarely without an ulterior motive," added the other, studying Draco with sharp eyes, as though trying to read the thoughts beneath his cold exterior.
"Besides," the twins said in unison, "the Malfoys and the Weasleys have never been on the same side — whatever connection you might have with our brother."
"I understand," Draco said. "But I personally admire your talent for this. So consider this a personal investment. It has nothing to do with my father."
He produced a folded square of parchment with some preliminary proposals and terms of cooperation written on it, and handed it over.
"Have a look. Find me if you're interested." He gave them a carefully indifferent smile and walked away.
"Has he gone mad?" The brothers' voices floated back to him, hushed and marvelling.
"Absolutely gone mad..." A pause — the sound of parchment unfolding. "...Merlin's beard."
Draco had always planned to invest his Galleons rather than leave them sitting idle in Gringotts. The Malfoy family had substantial wealth, but squandering inherited gold was not something he intended to do.
A true Malfoy knows how to put money to work — that was how family fortunes endured.
In the wizarding world, he had to be careful. Any significant move risked catching his parents' attention, particularly in areas the Malfoy family had already touched. One careless step and Lucius would know exactly what his son was up to.
Draco didn't want that. Not everything needed to be shared, even with one's parents.
Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes would make an enormously profitable — and discreet — investment in the wizarding world. He had seen the brothers succeed before. And crucially, no one in their right mind would ever believe a Malfoy had put money into a Weasley venture.
He also planned to invest a portion of his Galleons in several properties across Britain in the Muggle world, and in time, to move gradually into Muggle currency trading and the stock markets.
The Dark Lord had always scorned Muggles — which meant investments in the Muggle world were considerably safer than those in the wizarding one, and far less likely to be entangled in the chaos the Dark Lord would inevitably cause.
There was nothing surprising in it. A contempt for Muggles didn't mean blindness to the advantages of their economy. For the Malfoy family, investment in the Muggle world was nothing new.
The Malfoy lands in Wiltshire; their centuries-long commerce with Muggle aristocracy; the portraits, gold, antique furnishings, and jewels filling the manor — these were only the surface of it. The deeper streams of wealth would take days to trace.
As for the rumour in wizarding circles — that the Malfoy family had quietly dealt in Muggle currency and assets for centuries — Draco knew perfectly well it was true, despite the vehement denials offered after the International Statute of Wizarding Secrecy had come into force. Seven centuries of accumulated wealth, built from the eleventh century to 1692 when the Statute was formally enacted, did not simply vanish overnight. It went underground.
To this day, the Malfoy family held considerable Muggle currency. When enough principal accumulated, one could simply let it sit and collect interest — a perfectly secure and self-sustaining income. It was only natural, too, that a portion of the family's wealth was pegged to Muggle currency, rising quietly in step with Muggle inflation.
Anchoring, Draco thought. What a useful concept. If those impoverished pure-blood families had had the foresight, during those three centuries of isolation from the Muggle world, to observe the relentless rise of Muggle prices — they wouldn't have declined so sharply.
Draco had only learned of these details after his father's imprisonment, when he'd taken over managing some of the family's affairs himself.
That the vast wealth underpinning a proud pure-blood wizarding family should derive, in large part, from the Muggle world — perhaps that was the most ironic thing of all.
But for any Malfoy, the clink of gold in the pocket was the only melody that truly mattered. It was a family tradition. There was no shame in making money.
So when Draco considered investing in Muggle markets in this life, he felt no particular moral conflict — no sense of lowering himself.
Whether or not the Weasley twins had the foresight to agree to his proposal remained to be seen.
What was certain was that the brothers had targeted Quirrell because they felt Potter had been wronged.
After all, Potter's runaway broomstick had never been officially addressed by the school.
"Ron and I went to Professor McGonagall and told her exactly what happened — that Quirrell had jinxed Harry's broom — and she promised to bring it to Professor Dumbledore." Hermione was visibly furious during their next Transfiguration lesson. She whispered to him over the top of her textbook, "But the school has done absolutely nothing to Quirrell. Nothing!"
Draco listened calmly, though even he was rather startled by how this had all been handled — and the Weasley twins certainly were too.
It seemed Dumbledore had not fully grasped the gravity of the situation. He appeared intent on using Quirrell as a whetstone on Potter's path.
But perhaps even a wizard of Dumbledore's calibre could misjudge this one.
Quirrell was no ordinary remnant of the Dark Lord's followers. If the Dark Lord behind him was left unchecked, the consequences would be immeasurable.
In his previous life, Quirrell had been stopped — but the Dark Lord's soul had escaped. Later, with the help of Peter Pettigrew, he had regained a physical form, and the entire wizarding world had been plunged back into darkness.
Draco thought of Malfoy Manor in his previous life — once magnificent, turned into a filthy den by the Dark Lord's presence. And from the very beginning, someone had seen the warning signs and done nothing. Hadn't that been the most catastrophic failure of all?
Full of a frustration he couldn't entirely suppress, he kicked through a snowdrift beside the path. His shiny black leather shoes came away covered in dirty, grey slush.
In this long, grinding game between wizards and darkness, everyone was calculating their own position. No one was entirely selfless.
No one.
Perhaps that was simply how it was.
What was the point of being angry about it?
He forced himself to calm down, then gave a lazy flick of his wand. "Scourgify," he muttered, and the grey slush vanished from his shoes without a trace.
Exposing the Dark Lord wasn't actually as difficult as it seemed. As he walked, he turned the problem over in his mind: if someone were to pull off Quirrell's turban in public, the truth would be plain to see.
The real difficulty was what came after. A cornered soul was not to be underestimated. Once exposed, it might take advantage of the chaos — possessing someone else within the castle walls, or simply slipping out of Hogwarts entirely.
How did you stop something intangible? A soul with no fixed body, no definite location?
He was still turning the question over as he descended to the Potions dungeon.
"Ron and I have been practising the Leg-Locker Curse," Hermione announced, in the last row of seats, over the hiss and steam rising from the cauldrons around them. She slammed a dried lionfish spine onto the workbench with considerable force. "Next time Quirrell tries to jinx Harry, we'll make sure he can't move."
That snapped his attention back from the Dark Lord entirely.
"Wait —" He reached out and caught her wrist before she could grab the spine again.
"What is it?" She turned and looked at him, startled.
The boy in front of her was holding her wrist.
His hand was cool as the inside of a stone wall, yet his grip was careful. Gentle.
She couldn't think about Quirrell anymore. Hermione was suddenly very aware of the steam from the cauldron warming her face.
Draco reached into his pocket, produced a pair of dragonhide gloves, pressed them into her free hand, and released her wrist. A faint trace of something — he couldn't name it — lingered as he let go. "Put these on before you start grinding," he said, in his usual measured tone. "Lionfish spines aren't trivial — they can still secrete venom even when dried."
"Oh — thank you." The anger in her brown eyes softened, replaced by something warmer.
"Goggles, as well." He was already frowning at her, clearly having decided that her eyes also needed protecting.
"Isn't that slightly excessive?" She looked troubled. "The gloves are already quite thick, and with goggles on top — maybe we can skip those—"
"Let me help you with them." He picked up a pair of protective goggles and moved to fit them over her head.
"Isn't this a bit dramatic?" she murmured, casting a self-conscious glance at their classmates, then back at the serious-faced boy in front of her. "Look — no one else is wearing them."
"Their technique is unsafe," he said simply.
"Draco, I have to be honest — it's not just that goggles are inconvenient to work with alongside thick gloves," Hermione said quietly, with a pained expression. "It's that every single time I put them on, the strap catches a few strands of hair. It absolutely kills."
"I understand. I'll be careful." He met her gaze briefly. "All right?"
Hermione looked straight into his eyes. She found herself nodding before she'd consciously decided to.
So he bent his head and leaned in, adjusting the goggle strap with focused attention.
That Slytherin boy, she thought absently in the flickering candlelight of the dungeon. He does this every time.
He seemed indifferent — his words were always so economical — and yet, at the very same time, he was clearly looking after her. Being careful with her. Making rather a lot of fuss, she thought, over whether she was safe.
He was working intently at the stubborn strap clasp, lips pressed together in concentration, his pointed chin very close to her profile. In his pale grey eyes — usually somewhat aloof — there flickered something quieter. Something she couldn't quite name.
Hermione studied the colour of his eyes, vaguely dazed.
They were rather beautiful, actually. Like clear glass — both sharp and somehow soft.
"It's fine if it catches a little," she said, suddenly flustered, coming back to herself. She braced herself for the usual tug at her scalp. "You really don't have to—"
"It's on," Draco said.
And there was the ghost of a smile on the side of his face she couldn't quite see.
Hermione blinked.
He'd done it.
Gently, precisely, completely.
Not a single strand caught.
She couldn't manage that herself on the best of days. How on earth had he done it? "Thank you," she managed, slightly incoherent.
He gave her a small nod of satisfaction, turned back to their shared cauldron, and began to stir.
How was anyone supposed to refuse help from someone like that? And why would you want any other partner?
Everyone else would seem clumsy by comparison.
And did it really matter that he was a Slytherin?
Did it matter that he rarely smiled — that he kept the world at arm's length?
In any case, Lavender was absolutely wrong. She had already seen him smile — and she might be the only person in the whole school who had — and it was, without question, the finest smile in the entire school. No contest whatsoever. Hermione ground her lionfish spine with considerably more force than was strictly necessary, feeling oddly warm in the face.
Draco had no idea what she was quietly in turmoil over — he assumed her vigour was residual fury about Quirrell.
"Actually, I think you ought to practise Petrificus Totalus alongside the Leg-Locker Curse," he said, watching her overly forceful grinding from the corner of his eye as he stirred their potion. "When you're facing an adult wizard who's considerably more powerful than you, your best chance is to incapacitate them before they can swing their wand. Immobilise first."
"What about Langlock?" she said, forgetting her distraction immediately, her eyes lighting up. "I've never heard of that one — it must be a fairly advanced spell!"
"I can't quite recall where I read it," Draco said, touching his nose in a gesture that was slightly more guilty than he intended. "But the effect is to seal the target's tongue to the roof of their mouth, rendering them completely unable to speak."
Langlock had been a spell he'd encountered in his previous life — specifically, during one of his and Potter's less pleasant confrontations.
"That said," he added quickly, "since some wizards are capable of casting non-verbally, relying on Langlock alone is still a risk. I'd recommend Petrificus Totalus as your first line of attack."
She looked at him as though he'd just handed her something extraordinary. Her eyes shone. "Draco — you know so much. It really does seem like there isn't a problem you can't solve. I've always been curious — how does a first-year student know so many spells?"
"Perhaps I'm like you," Draco said lightly, glancing at her as he weighed lionfish spine powder, "and simply enjoy reading ahead for pleasure."
Hermione Granger's undisguised admiration.
That was rare. He'd better commit that expression to memory.
"And what's all this?" He nodded toward the impressive stack of heavy volumes on her side of the workbench.
"I'm researching Nicolas Flamel. I've been through The Rise of Modern Wizardry and I still can't find a single thing. We think he's connected to what the three-headed dog is guarding — Hagrid accidentally let that slip. It's apparently something between Nicolas Flamel and Dumbledore." Hermione frowned. "But I can't find any record of him anywhere."
"If I were you, I'd look into older sources — wizarding history from before the last century." Draco finished weighing his measure and, when Professor Snape's back was turned, leaned in to murmur: "Think about it — how old is Dumbledore? His peers and contemporaries would be even older. Some wizards live for several hundred years. The records you want won't be found in recent books."
The effect was immediate. Hermione's face lit up.
"You're right — of course! I hadn't thought of it that way at all. I'll have to make several more trips to the library — there are probably whole sections I've barely touched—" She was already reorganising her research strategy in her head, a delighted smile spreading across her face. "Thank you, Draco!"
Draco lifted one shoulder in a small shrug, and before her smile could do whatever it always seemed to do to him, he quickly looked away.
In truth, Draco had grown increasingly accustomed to quietly nudging the Potter trio in the right direction.
He couldn't help it. He could never forget the hand Potter had extended to him — however grudgingly he'd accepted it at the time — and he couldn't forget that Potter might yet be his greatest hope against the Dark Lord.
And once you'd shared a moment of genuine goodwill with a Gryffindor, it became rather difficult to hate them.
The Gryffindors could be as perceptive as Blast-Ended Skrewts on a bad day, and twice as reckless — but their sincerity, their warmth, their unstinting trust still managed to exceed a Slytherin's expectations, every single time.
In his previous life, his entire world had been Slytherin. The only codes of friendship he knew were Slytherin codes — hierarchy, command, and the eternal subordination of everything to self-interest. Those rules had never applied to other houses. Least of all Gryffindor.
When he'd come back and set out to be civil to Potter, it hadn't been some sudden change of heart. He remained, in this life as in the last, largely indifferent to people who were nothing to him. He'd been civil to Potter because it was useful.
But Potter and his friends had not treated it as a transaction. They'd treated it as something real.
What was he supposed to do with that? How was he supposed to respond? Slytherins didn't operate this way. No one had ever taught him how to handle it.
Draco often felt uncertain, slightly wrong-footed, and at a complete loss when it came to them.
The Gryffindor way of making friends was simply baffling.
No feinting, no careful observation from a distance, no strategic manoeuvring.
Just directness. Warmth. An open-handed trust that expected nothing in return.
Especially Hermione Granger.
He had meant to keep things simple. Neutral. He would have been satisfied if they simply didn't hate each other.
Instead, she had come toward him. Had hugged him. Had smiled at him as though it cost her nothing.
She was becoming someone he found impossible to ignore.
Draco could admit it — when she came to him with a problem, he couldn't help wanting to help. He couldn't bear to watch her spinning in circles when he could see the way out. He couldn't refuse her when she wanted to talk through an idea, or debate some point of theory. No one her age was sharper, and no one suited his taste for genuine intellectual exchange better.
And if she had no partner, or couldn't find a comfortable place to sit — he couldn't simply stand there and do nothing. She was just a girl. And something in him — something he had no interest in examining too closely — wouldn't allow it.
His body always moved before his mind caught up. His mouth responded before he'd consciously chosen to. The faint, involuntary smile broke the surface before he could stop it. And the feeling underneath, the one he absolutely refused to name—
Draco sighed, very quietly.
Whenever he reassured himself that she was fine and didn't need him, he would step back and put distance between them.
And then she would come and find him anyway.
Paying no heed to his cold expression, she would appear in front of him again. And again. Smiling slightly. Asking him to be her partner.
Sometimes she would look up at him with those bright eyes that said she trusted him — entirely, without condition.
How precious was that? Who in their right mind could resist it?
She was prying his frozen heart open with all the innocence of someone who had no idea she was doing it. With no thought for whether it would cost him anything. Whether it might break him.
Hermione Granger. Do you know that there is no light in my life?
I am mud and night dew and hollow wood. I am heaviness and grime and the kind of fragility that shatters without warning.
You are fire and brightness and blazing certainty. You deserve far better than my cold attention.
My life is made of nothing but snow's chill and the hollow quiet of what has already been lost.
I am doing something very dangerous. I am a very dangerous person. I don't want you anywhere near the danger that follows me.
I was given a second chance at life — and I am keenly aware of every sin I carry. I dare not hope for anything more.
All I ask is to watch you from a safe distance.
All I ask is that you remain happy. That nothing can touch you.
His head dropped slightly. He busied himself with the bottles and jars on his side of the workbench, not daring to look at her.
"Draco—" she called him, in that easy, unguarded way she had.
Hermione Granger. Don't get any closer. I'll ruin things. I'll hurt you. His eyes darted to her despite himself.
She was on her tiptoes, peering into the cauldron, her eyes bright with interest, already thinking about something else entirely.
Hermione. What am I going to do with you? He exhaled — a small sound of quiet, resigned worry.
"Draco — come look at this! The colour of this potion — something's not right—"
She was beckoning him over, her voice edged with mild concern.
She needed him.
So he could no longer pretend otherwise.
He could, finally, go to her with a clear conscience.
"I'm here," he said, and walked toward her without thinking.
He only wanted to help. To make things a little easier for her. Nothing more, he told himself.
He had almost convinced himself of that, too.