This fanfiction is simply a small, nonsensical moment which transpires between Hermione and Draco. Second Draco-centric fiction (the other is called Something in the Way, which can be found on my profile, though I must warn it is a wildly more sinister portrayal of his character).

Summary: Draco is flummoxed by Hermione's indifference to his charms, and in an attempt to combat this ends up making a spectacle of himself (which to his even greater annoyance still goes unnoticed by her). Short humor piece.

Don't You Like Me?

She scoffed, exclaiming a decisive and so genuine a hardly that he even found himself momentarily offended, as only one can be when they are unintentionally slighted by another. If she had intended to wound, it would have been instantly rendered ineffective, for in what regard could you hold the opinion of a person who wishes to demean you? In very slight regard, truly. This was both an asset and folly of his; lectures and advice, or insults, given to him by others, if he disagreed or was not in the mood to be receptive, tended to simply rebound off of him with no impact to his psyche. Basically he was your average hot headed teenage boy. Re: the disaster of sixth year.

However, this was no such instance, for Hermione was not a person to relish in belittling others, even when deserved. She was steadfastly reasonable and just, or at least indifferent in his case, which admittedly did no favours to his pride and had the opposite of its intended effect – instead of her placid apathy deterring him from engaging with her, it actually provoked him into greater climaxes of cruelty. Basically he was your average tantruming infant. Re: his entire existence.

So, when rebuffed by an offhand and clearly sincere comment by Hermione, he was apt to feel a little put out. Didn't she notice how smart and popular and significant and slytherin he was? Honestly, he had a posse, he had hordes of followers. His grandfather was Abraxes Malfoy. He was blonde. Those things had to count for something. He peered over at her to determine whether these realities had managed to pierce her awareness. She remained bent over her novel as they strolled along the grounds, managing not to trip over her own feet in an amazing display of spatial intelligence, her hair almost obscuring the side of her face from his view but for its precarious placement behind her ear.

He waited.

No ding, no light bulb appearing, no sudden exclamation of enlightenment. She remained peacefully unconcerned about him, the realization of which procured a scowl from yours truly.

His self preserving subconscious determined that such was too ingrevious and terrible an occasion for his fragile ego to withstand without irreparable damage, and henceforth-without-much-ado, rationalizations began speedily to scroll through his mind.

Mudblood. Gryffindor. Member of (inevitable interruption of sentiments: stupid scarface!) Golden Trio. Bossy know-it-all.

"I have half a mind to think that you are only covetous of my affections, and those to whom they are received," he spoke gallantly, attempting to appear charming by this performance of whimsy, for he had noted the novel she held was Pride and Prejudice (which he may have rifled through once or twice, purely by happenstance both times).

He grinned out of the side of his mouth like Gilderoy Lockhart, exposing all his teeth (as well as his silly character, it may be said). Had Hermione been at all watching this, she would have been surprised he did not also attempt a suggestive growl and bawdy eyebrow waggle. She would then have been painfully reminded of Austin Powers, Yeah, baby, yeah!, which would have had no actual barring on their conversation, but would have produced in her an amusement for the stupidity of men, a nostalgia for muggle culture, and a regret that she could not be there now, if only to live in a world were pureblood wizard's like the Malfoy's did not exist.

None of these things occurred, however.

His powers of deduction were not so astute as to pick up the irony of the novel – for it was he, the vainglorious and pompous pureblood, and she, the razor-sharp and compassionate muggle-born.

He had not yet frankly acknowledged to himself her eminence and excellence, nor that it stirred in him a feeling much more tender and yet still more violent than that of customary regard.

She humored the pretense of Victorian society, and responded airily, "I pray you feel no need to assail me with contents of the other half, if that be your assessment." Despite her good humor, she did not bequeath on him any other sign of recognition, or of appreciating his association.

He was rather stumped for a moment as to her meaning, before distinguishing the implication – that his comment was so mad she was fearful of what other thoughts he could possibly be having, in such a mind as his.

His scowl deepened. First a snorted hardly, and now a barb so quick witted he had whiplash from the experience of it!

He pronounced it impossible to win with her, or make any sort of dent in her composure, for certainly any other girl would have been delighted to inform him of his great crush potential. Hermione, it seems, was quite uncaring, and Draco could not take this mind-boggling, turning-on-its-head of the world.

He promptly turned on his heel and marched back towards the castle, with so entirely aggravated an air that some of his hair puffed out in back from the wind, and stayed up all throughout his theatrical stomp over the grounds.

In the process he had the humiliating misfortune to stumble in his frenzy, over his own agitation as well for there was naught but grass in his path (his discomposure so manifold that it seemed to have become corporeal and placed itself obtusely before his feet). He hurriedly straightened and looked towards Hermione.

She was still reading, wondering absently along, quite unawares of this fiasco.

Having this little scene amount to only his own fretting, a personal show of folly to the audience of himself, resulted, if conceivable, in the increase of his mortification. A hot flush climbed up his neck, and with a last comically put-on imperial twitch of his cloak as he spun around (too eagerly I am afraid, for he almost again lost his footing), Malfoy was eventually swallowed up by distance, all the while resolving never to speak to that nightmare of a Granger again.

* * *

"Oh, no!" Hermione murmured inattentively despite herself, having just read the passage where Darcy blunders his declaration of affection to Elizabeth, who is entirely caught unprepared and rejects him. Her words were caught by the wind, which left her solitude in return.

If you have thoughts, I assume you to put them in a review. If there is no review, I will assume you go around generally empty headed, without the ability to contribute much of anything to anyone.

This the polite version of my persuasive argument.

Hope I offended a few of you into action.

In all seriousness, I just hope reading this was not a waste of your time. Have a good day.