It still hurt. How he looked at her. He never looked at Hermione like that.
It still hurt. How he danced with her. He told Hermione he wasn’t much of a dancer.
Everything still hurt. Two years later, and nothing had changed. Her eyes still lingered on him when he entered a room, while his eyes lingered on her.
Her. Astoria Malfoy, nee Greengrass. She was the epitome of pureblood grace. She laughed quietly and spoke thoughtfully. She knew which fork to use at dinner and every obscure societal rule. She was everything Hermione wasn’t.
Hermione knew it would happen eventually. Draco would leave her for someone of his status. Someone worthy of him. From the minute Draco Malfoy was born, his future, and his wife, was pre-planned. Hermione wasn’t at the planning meeting.
Thus, Hermione continued to watch him as he watched her.
He touched her arm-
-he had once called Hermione ‘his lioness’-
-he pulled her onto the floor for dance-
-he had promised Hermione he would make them all understand, that blood never mattered-
-he swung her around, oblivious of anyone else-
-he had told Hermione she was the center of his world.
Lies. All of it. Perhaps he had felt something for Hermione. Perhaps those nights were something more for him than meaningless sex. They surely were for Hermione. Still, she was the one in his arms. She was the one carrying the ‘Lady Malfoy’ title. She was the one he looked at.
He pulled her in for a kiss.
Hermione stood from the table. She was tired of it, all of it. The questioning if anything was real, the holding onto something obviously gone. Their relationship had been exciting and whirlwind, but all winds eventually die out. Theirs had evaporated despite her objections.
She started for the exit, resolving not to look back. Though at the sound of his laugh, she relented. She looked back once more.
He was looking at her.