Draco didn't straighten up; instead, he slowly squatted down, not far from Hermione.
The distance was just right—neither too far nor too close—so that they could clearly see every subtle change in each other's expressions.
Hermione's heart skipped a beat, and she reflexively wanted to pull back, widening the distance between them that was too close.
However, his body was too stiff to squat down, and he couldn't manage it, only managing a slight tremor.
She frowned slightly, her gaze first falling on the dusty scallion pancake in her hand as she looked at Draco.
Draco's gaze slowly moved upwards, sweeping over her flushed cheeks and tightly pursed lips, finally settling on her panicked and helpless eyes.
His gaze was unusually focused at this moment, no longer displaying the detached and indifferent calm of before.
He just looked at her quietly, without saying a word.
The dim torchlight in the corridor cast dappled shadows on his face.
It made his already pale skin and deep features appear somewhat unreal.
He was like a boy who had stepped out of a mural, possessing an unreal beauty.
Time seemed to be Slowing Charm, stretched out infinitely in this moment.
Hermione could clearly hear her own heart pounding rapidly.
Draco's gaze made her extremely uncomfortable, yet she simply couldn't look away.
She opened her mouth, wanting to say something to break the suffocating silence.
But his throat felt as if it were blocked by an invisible hand, and he couldn't make a sound, only able to let the awkwardness spread between them.
Then, Draco spoke.
His voice was lower and softer than when he was telling the story of the sorting houses.
"It's already dirty," he said, his gaze still fixed on her face.
Draco's voice was like a feather gently landing on the still water.
The ripples on the water spread out in concentric circles, stirring Hermione's heartstrings.
Hermione's fingers unconsciously tightened, gripping the Transfiguration oil paper package.
She meant to say, "I know, you don't need to remind me."
He even considered throwing away what he was holding to vent his inner turmoil.
But all movements froze in place, the fingers merely tightening in vain.
Draco paused, his gaze seemingly lingering for a second on her fingers as she strained.
He then raised his gaze again and looked directly into Hermione's eyes.
If you want more, I'll get it for you next time.
These words were like a pebble thrown into Hermione's already turbulent heart, creating new ripples.
Her cheeks grew increasingly hot, her thoughts a jumbled mess, her mind filled with the meaning behind those words.
"Next time"? There's going to be a next time?
Is he serious?
Or was it just a casual remark to brush me off?
She was still reeling from the sudden chaos when a hand, very naturally, reached out to her.
The hand was open, palm up, within her line of sight.
"Give it to me." Draco's voice carried an air of utter entitlement.
He wanted to... take away the dirty scallion pancake?
Hermione's mind went blank again, and her fingers tightened unconsciously.
But Draco's actions were faster and more decisive.
He didn't wait for Hermione's consent or refusal; he simply and naturally touched the edge of her tightly clenched fingers.
The touch was slightly cool, carrying a strange electric current, causing Hermione's fingers to tremble slightly.
Then Draco used a little force to "take" the deformed oil paper package from her hand.
His movements were hardly gentle; in fact, they carried a certain unyielding force.
"This is no longer acceptable," he said again in a low voice.
It sounded like an explanation to Hermione, but also like talking to himself.
Without even glancing at the oil paper package, he flicked his wrist, and the dirty scallion pancake vanished into the wide sleeves of his robe.
It must have been done using some simple Vanishing Spell, or a similar cleanup technique that leaves no trace.
The movements were so clean and efficient.
Having done all this, he looked up, his gaze returning to Hermione's face, and reminded her, "It's time to go, Hermione."
The address, like a thunderclap, exploded in Hermione's mind.
This form of address sounds more like how close friends address each other.
Hermione was completely bewildered by this sudden address.
Strangely, she didn't find it particularly offensive.
Instead, the clear " Hermione " made her heart skip a beat, and her cheeks burned even hotter.
In the end, she just nodded somewhat stiffly.
Then, as if pulled by an invisible thread, he slowly stood up, took a step, and followed Draco had already turned and walked forward.
This time, she didn't walk behind him, but walked alongside him, a little closer than before.
She stopped looking down at the ground, but her gaze wandered somewhat.
She dared not look at Draco's profile, afraid of meeting his eyes again.
Draco walked half a step to her side. He could feel Hermione beside him and could also sense the chaotic aura and deliberate silence emanating from her.
He didn't say anything more, nor did he slow down.
What needed to be said has been said, and what needed to be done has been done.
A seed that will challenge conventional wisdom has been planted.
An opportunity to reshape impressions has been created.
A promise to meet again has been quietly made.
As for how Hermione will process all of this and how she will react, that's her business.