From the Ferret to The Otter

  Draco Malfoy glared at the calendar on his desk. It seemed to be mocking him: 13th February. Valentine's Day was the next day.
  That irritated him, as usual. He'd spent the second half of his time at Hogwarts trying to convince himself to write her a Valentine, and he'd never been able to do it. The part of his brain that spoke in his father's voice always managed to convince him that she was a filthy Mudblood who didn't deserve his time of day. Then the moment would pass and he would kick himself. But this year would be different.
  He pulled a fresh piece of parchment towards him, dipped his quill in ink and then stared at it in frustration. He wanted to write something rea, something from his heart. But words, which had never really been his strong point, failed him again. He sucked his quill, then winced at the taste. He was too used to sugar quills; he'd have to remedy that.

          Dear Hermione,

  Should he call her that? He'd never had a proper conversation with her; and whenever he'd heard her, Potter and Weasley talking about him, they called him "Malfoy". But he couldn't write a Valentine addressed to "Granger" or "Mudblood". So Hermione it was.
  What did you put in a Valentine? He'd never written one before, and it seemed to Draco that all Valentines had to be cheesy poems written on pink paper.
  He didn't want to write one like that. He wanted to impress her, even if she never found out who it was from.
  But what would impress her? He put down the quill and buried his face in his hands. Oh, Merlin save him.
  Suddenly his head jerked back up. He'd remembered what Astoria had said about Hermione's name; it was the same as a character in a play by a famous Muggle they apparently called "The Bard". She'd even given him a copy of one of the plays; he'd subsequently dumped it on the bookshelf without opening it. He found the book, brought it back to the desk and began to read.
  
          ***

   A few hours later, he finished the letter. Hermione was a smart girl, she'd probably realise it was a quote from a play, but he didn't care. At least he'd put some effort into it.

          Dear Hermione,
          Forty thousand brothers
          Could not, with all their quality of love,
          Make up my sum.

  He considered adding "from your secret admirer" to the end, but it sounded too childish. He was about to roll the letter up when he glanced at it again and swore. He'd written it in green ink.
  After finding some blue ink and carefully re-writing it, Draco rolled up the Valentine, sealed it with wax and tied it to the leg of his owl.
  'Make sure it reaches her,' he whispered as he let the owl out the window. He glanced back at his desk and swore again, this time with more feeling. Astoria would be expecting a card from him.
  He dreaded writing it.