Chapter Fourteen: Gentle and Cold as Snow
The first heavy snow of winter fell over Hogwarts, blanketing the castle in white. Students abandoned their books and rushed outside, laughter echoing across the courtyards. Even Hermione Granger, usually buried in parchment and ink, had to admit that the sight was enchanting.
She imagined the castle from above: a gingerbread house dusted with sugar, or a toy fortress inside a snow globe, frozen in song. The thought surprised her. Perhaps it lingered from that reckless five‑minute flight Draco Malfoy had once insisted upon — a memory that still reshaped the way she saw the world.
Draco. Gentle as snow, and cold as snow.
---
Hermione's Observations
In the dormitory, Lavender and Parvati whispered about him. "He's too aloof. He never smiles. Typical Slytherin." Hermione, hidden behind her bed curtains, bristled. They were wrong. She had seen him smile — truly smile — once, after their flight. It had been dazzling, like sunlight breaking through clouds.
Since then, he had returned to his mask of indifference. In class, in corridors, he was always composed, distant. Yet Hermione noticed the subtleties others missed: the way he pulled out a chair for her, the way he guided her to his hidden study alcove when the library was full, the way he carried her books without complaint.
He never sought her out. But whenever she needed help, he was there. And when she was safe, he withdrew again, as if afraid to linger.
Was it friendship? Was it something else? She could not decide.
---
Draco's Distance
From the shadows of the courtyard, Draco watched her tilt her face to the sky, catching snowflakes in her palm. She looked fragile, luminous, unaware of his gaze.
He thought: Don't disturb her. Let her smile. That is enough.
Snow fell harder, stinging his cheeks, pressing against the hollowness in his chest. He turned away, forcing himself back into the noise of the crowd. The Weasley twins were charming enchanted snowballs to chase Quirrell, who fled in humiliation. Students roared with laughter.
Draco's lips curved faintly. He approached the twins, speaking in his cool drawl: "Why not make something lasting of your talent? A shop, perhaps. Tricks, inventions, jokes."
They stared at him, startled. A Malfoy suggesting mischief? Yet Draco pressed a parchment into their hands — a sketch of ideas, a hint of investment. He walked away before they could question him further.
---
Beneath the Snow
Later, in the dungeon classroom, Hermione slammed a lionfish spine onto the table, her anger at Quirrell still burning. Draco caught her wrist before she could touch the dangerous bone. His hand was cold, but his grip was gentle. Like snow.
He placed dragon‑hide gloves in her palm. "Wear these. It can spit venom."
She blinked, then smiled. "Thank you."
He added goggles, adjusting the strap himself. His face was close, his eyes steady, unexpectedly tender. Hermione stared, dazed by the clarity of his gaze — pale grey, like shattered glass catching light.
"Done," he murmured. Not a single strand of her hair was caught.
Hermione's heart fluttered. Lavender was wrong. He could smile — and when he did, it was beautiful.
---
Draco's Thoughts
He told himself it was nothing. Just caution. Just care. Yet he kept giving her hints, guiding her research, nudging her toward answers she might otherwise miss. He could not bear to see her frustrated, trapped in blind alleys.
And she kept coming back. Smiling at him, trusting him, looking at him as though he were someone worth believing in.
Her gaze was dangerous. It thawed the ice around his heart.
Hermione Granger, you don't know. My life is shadow. I am danger itself. You should not come so close.
But when she called his name, bright and eager, he could not resist. He sighed, resigned, and stepped to her side.