As everyone was having a good time, the firelight from the fireplace filled the room with warmth. Draco gently tugged at Hermione's arm, and the two quietly retreated to a corner by the window.
Here, far from the hustle and bustle, only the moonlight from outside the window quietly streams in, illuminating the floor with a soft glow.
After a moment of silence, Draco spoke first, asking gently:
"So, Miss Granger? How does the taste of victory go?"
Hermione gazed at the dark night sky outside the window, a smile still playing on her lips, her blush not yet completely faded, and softly replied:
"I thought I was just going to play and give it my all; I never imagined I could actually go all the way."
"I stumbled and fell along the way, and there were many times I felt like I couldn't go on, but in the end I actually brought the trophy home... It feels like a dream."
Draco looked at her, his gaze softening considerably, and his voice becoming even gentler:
"It wasn't a dream; it was something we fought for, match by match. Others only saw the wins, but only I know how fiercely you battled on the court."
Hermione paused slightly, turned to look at him, and her eyes softened with warmth:
"You too. Surrounded by the entire Slytherin squad, constantly outmaneuvered by Ravenclaw, you never backed down an inch. Without you, we couldn't have won."
The two stood by the window, chatting away, escaping the noise of the room, their voices drifting softly in the silence.
After a moment, Draco suddenly leaned forward slightly and said, with a hint of probing:
"Actually... I think their suggestion earlier wasn't bad. What do you think?"
Hermione was momentarily stunned, blinked, and asked in confusion, "What suggestion?"
The moment she asked the question, she abruptly stopped.
The deafening shouts of "Give me a kiss!" that had just filled the room instantly flooded my mind.
Her face flushed even redder than when she was being teased by the crowd.
She hurriedly lowered her head, her fingers gently clutching the hem of her clothes, her heart pounding as if it would burst out of her chest.
Draco looked at her like this, and the corners of his mouth couldn't help but turn up slightly, but he didn't say anything and just waited quietly.
Hermione was so ashamed she couldn't lift her head. Her voice was so soft it was like a mosquito's buzz, tinged with a mixture of annoyance and embarrassment. She stammered, "You... how could you join in their nonsense!"
We... we're only in first grade, and besides... this is just too inappropriate..."
She spoke in a flustered manner, as if someone had touched a raw nerve.
Draco looked at her flushed cheeks, his smile deepening. He deliberately softened his tone and asked gently:
"So, in your opinion, what grade would be required?"
Hermione was taken aback by his question, lowered her head even further, and after a long while, muttered softly:
"At least... at least we should wait until we're older, more sensible, and no longer such impulsive children."
After she finished speaking, she blushed and pursed her lips, her eyelashes trembling slightly, not daring to look into his eyes.
Draco chuckled at her shy yet earnest expression and stopped pressuring her.
"Good."
He responded with a single word, his voice so soft it could melt into the night.
Draco was just using it to tease her.
But that one word, as light as the wind, landed steadily in Hermione's heart.
Aside from Quidditch, there were no major events in November.
Time flies.
Christmas is approaching, and a light snow has fallen on Hogwarts.
An owl knocked on the window at dawn, delivering a silver-gray envelope with the Malfoy family crest embossed in sealing wax.
When Draco opened the letter, the handwriting was neat and cold; it was written jointly by his father and mother.
My son Draco:
Seeing these words is like seeing the person in person.
We already know all about your deeds at Hogwarts.
You established yourself in Gryffindor, making a name for yourself that everyone in the school knew you as "the snake among the lions."
When you insisted on entering Gryffindor, your family was adamant in their opposition, cutting off your financial support and resources in an attempt to force you to change your mind.
You said you were infiltrating enemy territory, taking control of the situation, and paving the way for your family, which is why we allowed you to stay there.
Now it seems you really put on a good show, so you didn't embarrass Malfoy for nothing.
Just remember this:
The sons of the Malfoy family can be patient, can scheme, and can temporarily reside elsewhere, but they cannot forget their roots, cannot be moved by emotions, and certainly cannot truly regard the lions as their own family.
While onlookers found it entertaining, we saw it clearly.
You've gotten too close to Miss Granger, so close that the whole school knows, so close that you've lost all sense of propriety.
You can use her, you can maneuver around her, you can use her to gain a foothold, but you must not be tempted, you must not take it seriously, and you must not throw away your life and dignity in a childish game.
No matter how clever or useful Muggle-born witch may be, she is not a good match for Malfoy.
Winning Quidditch is a skill.
Establishing a foothold in Gryffindor is a strategy.
But if one harbors thoughts that should not be harbored, that is foolishness, weakness, and a disgrace to one's family.
The Christmas holidays are approaching, and everything at home remains the same.
If you still consider yourself Malfoy, then straighten your heart and regain your sense of propriety.
We allow you to set up a shop in Gryffindor, but that doesn't mean we allow you to settle down there.
We hope you remain clear-headed and self-controlled, and don't disappoint us.
Your father Lucius Malfoy
Your mother Narcissa Malfoy
Christmas Eve at the Malfoy Manor
The Christmas snow fell silently, and the flames in the fireplace crackled softly.
Draco carefully read the letter from the Malfoy Manor from beginning to end.
His face showed no surprise, no anger, and no resentment; it was as if he were reading an old news article unrelated to himself.
He knew it better than anyone else.
All those claims about infiltrating Gryffindor, secretly plotting, and paving the way for the family were just pretexts to appease their parents and to coax them into agreeing.
The path he truly wanted to take was precisely the one they least wanted to see and the one they most desperately tried to obstruct.
What he wanted was not the family's scheming, nor the Malfoy's prestige, but the companions he chose, the house he chose, and the peace of mind he chose.
Lucius's warnings and Narcissa's admonitions were nothing more than a breeze passing by his ear.
He folded the letter, pinched it lightly with his fingertips, and walked to the fireplace.
The flames leaped brightly, casting a warm glow on his light-colored eyelashes, creating a play of light and shadow.
Without the slightest hesitation, he loosened his grip and gently tossed the letter, imbued with the family's authority, into the fire.
When the paper came into contact with fire, it quickly curled at the edges, turned black, then gray, and in the blink of an eye, it turned into a wisp of smoke, dissipating into the heat.
Clean and spotless, without leaving a trace.
Draco lowered his eyes, watching the ashes disappear, and a slight smile played at the corners of his lips.
There was no turning back, no regret, and not a shred of wavering.
Parents' expectations, family rules, the constraints of bloodline...
From the day he chose Gryffindor, it was already burned along with it.
He turned around and looked at Hermione, who was still decorating the Christmas tree in the distance, his gaze calm and resolute.
This is the path he wants to take, and no one can stop him.