Draco Malfoy hated her. He hated her when she walked past him, hated it when she perfected her grades in Potions; merciless in her attempt to be proven right. He loathed her when she talked giddily to Potter and Weasley, like they were her only friends. Draco hated her. But what he hated most of all was the fact that he would never be able to take her in his arms and be all she ever needed, all she ever had wanted.
Draco Malfoy was deeply in love with Hermione Granger. Tied to the ground by his father’s cruel beliefs that he was forced to share, his only lifeline was Hermione; the bushy haired Muggle with a bright smile. The fact that the girl of his dreams was a total contradiction to his pure-blood-only motto made him drive harder to get her out of his heart. Every chance he had, Draco threw insults that could make a lion cry, even if his heart shattered every time he did. But his cruel remarks barely scratched her unyielding Muggle pride; she walked with her head held high, arms crossed over an uncountable number of books. Then, in second year, Draco had found a weakness in his beloved Juliet.
“Mudblood.” He said, looking directly into her eyes; those brown eyes hardened and her smart expression faded into sorrow. He wanted to hug her, comfort her, protect her. Draco didn’t realize how sorry he was until Weasley’s wand backfired during a curse that was aimed for him. Hermione had rushed to the Weasel’s side, throwing Draco a look of loathing. He heard his teammates laughing behind him, laughing at his girl, laughing at his sorrow. He wanted to kill them, just turn around and kill them. But he was laughing too… Draco watched her walk away, and his heart was helplessly broken.
Years passed, and Draco watched his beloved blossom into a lovely and intelligent woman. It’s not like he didn’t notice that every move she made, she did with angelic grace, closely watched by Weasley’s eyes. Competition? No…it’s not like he could win her heart anyway, too many foul words had been said, a deep impression that could not be undone. Draco felt the spot where Hermione had slapped him in third year, she was angry. And who had done this?
'I did.' Draco quizzed himself as he walked into the Slytherin dungeon alone after Defense Against the Dark Arts. He knew he did not deserve her… but how he wished. And Potter, that kind boy, that wonderful student, that hero, that person that Draco had long wanted to be, but couldn’t. He was placed in Slytherin, the ambitious house, with a knack for the Dark Arts. Draco was interested, but not for a dark purpose. He wanted to learn it only to know how to counteract it and know what to expect; it was quite a useful thing. Defense Against the Dark Arts was for minors.
The Malfoys were born with a natural knack for the Dark Arts. With Lucius Malfoy already in prison, Draco had the chance to prove himself worthy of the title of decent. Of course, that’s not what the Sorting Hat saw. It saw the person that Draco had been influenced by, the person that Draco once admired: his father. The hat saw his father’s greed, his father’s hatred, his father’s malice, and his father’s bursting pride in a word the Malfoys loved to use: Pureblood. Draco was sickened by it, by every time he had to say it towards anyone. What the hat didn’t see was Draco’s enslaved cry for help, his hunger for the knowledge of the good.
'How long will this misunderstanding have to be endured? How long will this mask be worn?' Draco thought as he walked to his dormitory. He racked and twisted his brain for an answer. He could not find one. That was the only thing that he was terrified of, the answer to the forbidden question, couldn’t be found, it couldn’t be done. And for the first time in his teenage life, Draco Malfoy, the son of a Death Eater, sat down on his bed, and wept.
When all of his tears had fallen, he was angry beyond imagination, he picked up a book and threw it across the room. The book hit a lantern, which extinguished. Darkness flooded the room, and Draco was quickly drowning in it.