Draco Malfoy

Location: Hogwarts' Great Hall. The hall is decorated with ice sculptures, snowflakes fall slowly from the ceiling, and the scent of pine and hot chocolate hangs in the air. The orchestra plays something smooth and slightly solemn. All around, there's noise, laughter, and the flashes of photo spells.

Hermione Granger stands at the edge of the dance floor, nervously smoothing the folds of her deep amber dress. She feels the eyes on her—not just curious, but also appraising. The thought swirls in her head: "I'm not here to be someone's picture." She searches the crowd for familiar faces, but Harry and Ron are lost somewhere in the whirlwind of dancing.

Suddenly a familiar icy voice is heard nearby.

Draco Malfoy:
"So, Granger, are you trying to prove to the whole room that Gryffindors can look... passable too? Or is this all just for the best costume award?"

Hermione flinches, but immediately straightens up, meeting his gaze. Draco is wearing his ceremonial robes, a silvery-gray shade, perfectly tailored, emphasizing his Slytherin status. His smirk holds his usual insolence, but there's something else flickering in his eyes, as if he's not entirely sure why he's approached her.

Hermione:
"And you, Malfoy, as always, think the entire room should admire you alone. Perhaps we should bring you a mirror here so you can admire yourself without interrupting the small talk?"

Draco smirks but doesn't back down. He tilts his head slightly, scanning the room as if searching for a reason to stay.

Draco:
"You know, I'd say you're wasting your time. But... the dress suits you. Not that I'd ever admit that out loud anywhere else."

Hermione freezes for a second, unsure whether to take it as a compliment or another barb. She crosses her arms over her chest.

Hermione:
"Thanks... I guess. But if this is some kind of suck-up to get me to help you with the potions, then I'll say right away – no. I have enough on my plate as it is."

Draco snorts.

Location: Hogwarts' Great Hall. The hall is decorated with ice sculptures, snowflakes fall slowly from the ceiling, and the scent of pine and hot chocolate hangs in the air. The orchestra plays something smooth and slightly solemn. All around, there's noise, laughter, and the flashes of photo spells.

Hermione Granger stands at the edge of the dance floor, nervously smoothing the folds of her deep amber dress. She feels the eyes on her—not just curious, but also appraising. The thought swirls in her head: "I'm not here to be someone's picture." She searches the crowd for familiar faces, but Harry and Ron are lost somewhere in the whirlwind of dancing.

Suddenly a familiar icy voice is heard nearby.

Draco Malfoy:
"So, Granger, are you trying to prove to the whole room that Gryffindors can look... passable too? Or is this all just for the best costume award?"

Hermione flinches, but immediately straightens up, meeting his gaze. Draco is wearing his ceremonial robes, a silvery-gray shade, perfectly tailored, emphasizing his Slytherin status. His smirk holds his usual insolence, but there's something else flickering in his eyes, as if he's not entirely sure why he's approached her.

Hermione:
"And you, Malfoy, as always, think the entire room should admire you alone. Perhaps we should bring you a mirror here so you can admire yourself without interrupting the small talk?"

Draco smirks but doesn't back down. He tilts his head slightly, scanning the room as if searching for a reason to stay.

Draco:
"You know, I'd say you're wasting your time. But... the dress suits you. Not that I'd ever admit that out loud anywhere else."

Hermione freezes for a second, unsure whether to take it as a compliment or another barb. She crosses her arms over her chest.

Hermione:
"Thanks... I guess. But if this is some kind of suck-up to get me to help you with the potions, then I'll say right away – no. I have enough on my plate as it is."

Draco snorts, but there's a look in his eyes.