Hermione had calmly explained to Ron and Harry that she wanted to be alone, and while hesitant, they understood and let her solemnly drag her feet to the girls’ dormitory.
Hermione heard their muffled conversation from below, but couldn’t make out the words. Their tones, however, were clearly filled with mingled confusion and concern. Hermione briefly took notice how wonderful it was of Ron to be concerned for her when his brother had just died, before she finally allowed herself to stumble restlessly to sleep, silent tears still welled in her eyes.
Christmas day had completely passed by the time she had awoken at 7:20 that night. Sitting up, she felt the cold rush of a migraine pinching behind her eyes. Some part of her sleeping mind had agreed to try putting the previous night’s events out of her head for the time being. She grazed over the topic, but as if keeping to a strict contract, shoved it quickly aside as best she could.
Stumbling out of the shower twenty minutes later, she thought it best to open her presents so that she could properly thank people. She sat on her four-poster and began tearing away at the first brightly wrapped package, the sparkling silver bow glistening in the room’s soft light. It was from her parents.
They’d bought her a four-volume black leather-bound book set on Transfiguration and Charms spells; Hermione gave a very dim smile, knowing Mrs. Weasley must have helped pick them out. They had also sent along three new jumpers, a gorgeous gold locket necklace with a picture of her family intact, along with some homemade pudding. Mr. and Mrs. Weasley had sent along the usual mince pies and Ginny had bought her a large quantity of candies from Honeydukes.
Ron had given her a miniature Wizard’s Chess set with a note reading, “Thought you could use this for practice- you need it!” She would have smiled at the banter, but her thoughts instantly swept her to a haze of memories once more, where she visualized Malfoy teaching her to play. She didn’t need practice anymore… she was quite good… thanks to… him…
No! she thought determinedly. And with the one solitary word, the memory was sucked from her mind like a vacuum.
Hermione reached for the second to last parcel and knew it was from Harry. Picking away at the tape, she finally undid the wrapping; instant tears formed in her eyes. It was quite probably the most thoughtful, beautiful gift anyone had given her. It was a small replica of the Mirror of Erised, complete with intricate engravings. Except, instead of a mirror in the center, there was a picture of her, Harry, and Ron. The three waved enthusiastically up at her, Harry occasionally thumping Ron on the back and giving Hermione a tight squeeze with his right arm.
Somehow, Harry had managed to make a picture frame resembling the magical mirror… She remembered how Harry saw his family in it…
The message his gift sent was gorgeously stunning and heartfelt; she’d never received such a personal, emotional present before.
Ignoring the last parcel on the bed, Hermione rushed from her room and down the dormitory stairs with a lifted heart.
She found Harry and Ron staring hard at a piece of parchment on the table in front of the fireplace, solemn lines painting their every expression. Not bothering to notice, she raced over to them and pushed her way between the chairs.
“Ron! Thank you for the chess set, it’s lovely! I’ll play you later, right?” She hammered on quickly.
Taken aback by her sudden appearance and uplifted spirits, Ron merely smiled and nodded.
Then, as fast as wind, Hermione changed direction and looked at Harry. Her expression of hurriedness transformed into deepest warmth. He was standing now, facing her with a worried expression plastered across his face. His patented emerald eyes bore softly into Hermione’s, and without another thought, she flung her arms around him and buried her face in his neck.
“Thank you Harry,” she whispered in his ear. “It was- that was- the most beautiful gift I’ve ever gotten… thank you so much,” she continued.
Harry, rightfully surprised, wrapped his arms around her nonetheless and patted her back gently. He gave Ron a slightly nervous glance, but breathed a sigh of relief.
“Err… you’re welcome, Hermione,” he whispered back.
She slowly pulled away but kept her face close.
“I don’t know what I’d do without you. And Ron,” she added as she turned to face him. “I’m sorry for- for sort of exploding earlier… the whole Malfoy thing… it just happened out of the blue, I didn’t see it coming… it was- I don’t know…”
“Errr…” Ron began tentatively.
Hermione looked to him with a question in her eyes.
“Well,” he continued. “We were… we were sort of wondering… I mean- well, what happened between you two?”
Hermione looked puzzled. “I told you earlier,” she replied.
“Yeah, but…” Harry chimed in.
“But?”
“What Harry means,” Harry shot Ron a disgruntled look. “Alright alright, what we mean, is… did you… do anything with him?”
“Ronald!” Hermione sounded utterly aghast. “You- you two of all people should know I’m not that kind-”
“We know, we know!” Ron went on. “Just… nothing serious… just- did you kiss him?”
Hermione stared. The truth about that hurt her. How could she feel so strongly about him and not have kissed him? How could she? She felt her heart sink to her lower stomach region again as she answered,
“No.”
Hermione narrowed her gaze menacingly as she saw a relieved exchange take place between the two boys.
“What, I can’t kiss someone now, is that it?” she spat.
Harry sighed as if he knew this was coming.
“No, we were just wonder-”
“Well why so relieved then? Why would it matter?”
Neither answered her; they merely locked eyes with one another in a knowing stare that clearly indicated not to respond. Hermione suppressed her anger only because she forced herself to imagine her own confusion if she’d suddenly learned that Harry had fallen for Pansy Parkinson.
Then a familiar, scrolling handwriting caught her attention from the table nearest them. Moving a step closer, she looked down to finally notice the parchment Harry and Ron had been eyeing when she entered: it was a message from Dumbledore.
“What’s this?” she questioned.
Ron coughed somewhat uneasily.
“It’s nothing, really… just Dumbledore asking Harry to, uhh… to come to his office…” he mumbled.
Hermione’s heart had jumped to her throat. What could Dumbledore possibly want with Harry this time of night? And on Christmas, no less? Oh, what could happen now? she wondered miserably, not really wanting to know the answer.
Granting voice to thought, Hermione asked, “What could it possibly be at this hour?”
“That’s just what me and Ron were wondering,” Harry spoke, looking Hermione directly in the eyes.
“Come to any conclusions?”
“Not really… we don’t know,” Ron piped. “Could be anything, can’t it? Though I reckon it’s something bad, else he wouldn’t be bothering Harry with these messages going on nine on Christmas,” he finished.
“Thanks, Ron,” Harry said with mocked appreciation.
Ron shrugged anxiously.
“Well, I wouldn’t look at it like that,” Hermione picked up with a professional air about her.
“Course you wouldn’t. Anything to argue my point, right?” Ron seethed.
“No,” she said matter-of-factly. “I just think Dumbledore is too peculiar and unconventional to be pinned down by circumstance. It could very well be something nice… perhaps he just wants a word, even, to make sure you’re alright?”
“Maybe,” Harry answered skeptically.
Hermione stared at him concernedly, and knew that no matter what her fake naivety spoke, she felt it was indeed something bad.
“Well, it’s best to go find out,” she spoke softly as she began tugging him towards the portrait hole. “No wandering off afterwards, ok? If it is something bad, I mean. You shouldn’t be alone. Come straight back and let us know,” she whispered soothingly.
Harry nodded before stepping into the dimly lit corridor beyond.
Hermione was back in her room ten minutes later, having been thoroughly drained of emotion. She felt bad for leaving Ron by himself in the common room, but she knew how valuable it was to have time alone in the normally bustling girls’ dormitory.
What was she to do now? She felt as if her purpose, if she had any, was gone. With the war on the rise, there was only so much she could do for Harry; in the end, it was he who had to face the perils of conquering Voldemort, not she. All she could offer now was her friendship to him and her wits to the Order; the latter running dry under recent circumstances.
But she had found a beckon of light in Malfoy, for he’d offered the opportunity to not only do something worthwhile, but to ease her own mind as well. She’d found their conversations immensely gratifying because she had the answers and the wisdom to help him. She did not posses this power in other areas of her life.
And, to top it off, she had found something hidden beneath her mission… below her ideas of needing to reach out to him, though prat he certainly was, lied something else: her own need for him to reach out to her.
These thoughts jumbled through her psyche in huge leaps and bounds as she sat staring at the ceiling once more, on her four-poster.
Well, no use pitying myself to death… mine as well try to sleep so I’m properly functioning again tomorrow, she thought determinedly.
But these thoughts were broken by her sudden realization that one more parcel was left at the foot of her bed.
Heaving a quizzical look on her face, she reached out her hand and pulled it towards her. It felt light as air, and she was convinced it was only some spare wrapping paper; until she saw writing on one side.
Hermione Granger- Gryffindor Tower
A wave of curiosity broke her depressed mood as she tore it open. The contents revealed why it had been so weightless. It was merely a piece of parchment, perhaps six inches long at the most. Turning it over, she began reading a handwriting she had never seen before.
But there were only three words:
I’m so sorry.
Hermione’s breath caught in her throat. Who sent this?!
But she knew the answer. There’s only one person who would be apologizing to her today.
She looked around the dormitory in a frenzy as she decided how to handle this. Was he apologizing for hurting her feelings? Was he apologizing for leading her on? Or- could it be- he was apologizing for conditions beyond his control?
A very tiny, diffused light of hope coursed through her. She suddenly felt ashamed of herself for throwing her little pity-parties. She should have been taking action, learning why he had randomly reacted the way he did. She should have known not even Malfoy could conceivably go from the person he was this morning to the person he’d portrayed earlier tonight.
She made up her mind. She couldn’t just let it go.
Swiftly grabbing her school cloak from the nightstand, she tumbled frantically down the staircase, past Ron’s baffled stares, and hastily pushed her way out the portrait hole.
Once again, and in a similar state of panic and fear (though for a different reason this time), Hermione found herself outside the Slytherin common room, panting from her hurried journey.
Not bothering with formalities, she muttered the password and stepped briskly inside. Her mind struggled to catch up with how quickly her eyes were darting about the room, which was darker than she had ever seen it. After three or four full scans and no sign of him, she raced purposefully towards the boys’ dormitory.
“Malfoy?” she called up the stairs.
There was no answer, but she was sure she’d heard a soft thump issue from just above, almost as if he’d tripped or fallen in shock.
“I know you’re there! Come down here!” she hollered. Her voice echoed the pain and confusion that had recently morphed to frustration and anger.
But no response echoed back.
Without further ado, Hermione heaved an indignant breath and thumped up the stone stairs dramatically so as to give Malfoy plenty of time to panic himself. She reached the dark polished door, swung it wide, and marched to the center of the room as the door slammed shut once more.
There he was, standing firm as ice on the opposite side of the dorm next to his dark green and black four-poster. His eyes were red and drained, reflecting the soul within. Hair slightly disheveled, posture slack and dead, he gazed into her eyes for the briefest of moments before turning away.
The sight of him looking so worn nearly succeeded in causing Hermione to back down off her intended tirade. But as soon as she stopped in the middle of the dorm, Malfoy stiffened in an almost professional manner, as if about to debate an official enemy.
This only infuriated the girl.
“Malfoy, I-” she began. Her voice, as it had so often done that night, caught in her throat on a large lump that seemed to be steadily on the rise. The corners of her eyes began to sting, but she held them back like her life- or pride, rather- depended on it.
“W- what do you think- I mean, how…” she stumbled forward. “why?” she asked exasperatedly.
Malfoy kept his heavy stare fixated just to the right of her body, refusing to look her in the face. Truth be known, he couldn’t look her in the face without his lungs feeling restricted and his chest growing cold.
Hermione read the sad expression in his eyes, though they were unfocused, and cowered under the weight of them.
“Malfoy,” she whispered with a partial, sorrow-filled sigh as she took a tentative step closer. They were still ages apart, but she could feel his heart beating rapidly, just as she had that one night when she fell asleep on his chest.
Malfoy closed his eyes in anguish. Don’t say my name like that, he thought miserably. It’ll break my will…
Hermione let a small whimper escape her lips, and covered her hand over her mouth immediately afterwards as though she’d just said a terrible curse.
It made Malfoy look up at her longingly, like he wanted nothing more than to reach out his arms and pull her towards him in a comforting embrace.
But he held back.
“D- Draco?” she sighed again in tones of questioning despair.
Malfoy look into her with wide eyes and a pulsing heart.
Why did you do that? Why did you say my name?!
“Did… are you the one who sent me that note?” she finally asked.
Malfoy’s reverie was caught off guard as he forced his mind back onto the situation at hand. But, he only nodded slowly in response.
Hermione let out a breath she hadn’t known she’d been holding. It was from him; she’d confirmed it. And with that security, the small light of hope grew enough to cast its glow on the darkest corners of her mind.
Letting out a tiny, stifled laugh of relief, she plummeted forward.
“Well… umm… what- what are you sorry about?”
Malfoy looked hurt, as if to say, you couldn’t guess? But a part of him felt grateful that his message wasn’t obvious. Now he could pretend he was sorry for leading her on, making her think they could be friends.
“Well?” she pried impatiently.
“I- I’m sorry for… I’m sorry for hurting you,” he mumbled quickly.
Hermione looked puzzled. “Hurting me? Is that all?”
“Well what else have I to be sorry for?” he asked more forcefully than he’d intended.
Hermione’s light of hope drastically dimmed. Her balloon of optimism was burst so thoroughly, she could almost hear it popping.
“I- I don’t know…” her voice trailed.
“Me either.” He stated firmly.
Hermione flushed scarlet. What was I thinking? Optimism be damned, she thought wretchedly.
She was just on her way to leaving, broke-hearted and suffocating of her own loss, when the old Hermione kicked in full gear.
She wasn’t going to leave without giving him a piece of her mind. She wasn’t going to leave without some answers.
“Explain this to me, Malfoy,” she began heatedly. “Tell me: Why have you been so- so ambiguous? I can never read you!”
No, you can read me too well, that’s the problem, he thought sadly.
“When we first started talking, you were nasty like usual. But then something in there-” she motioned to his head, “…Or something in there, rather-” she motioned to his heart, “-changed. I couldn’t place it, exactly, so I pawned it off on our new-found bond, so to speak,” she declared. But Malfoy gave her an incredulous look.
“Oh, don’t give me that rubbish! You know well enough that we were getting rather close, considering the fact I- I severely disliked you prior! And the feeling was mutual, I know. But we were sort of forced together through my injuries, and next thing I know I’ve fallen asleep next to you in the bloody Slytherin common room!” she screamed, clearly indicating that the situation described was something she’d never expected to happen.
“From then on things were a bit different, weren’t they?” she stated, rather than asked. “Then there was Hogsmeade- and were you or weren’t you going to kiss me there?”
It was Malfoy’s turn to blush. But he still remained silent, so afraid that if he spoke his voice would betray him and tell her what he could not.
“You’ve been so difficult, Malfoy! But I cared about you!” she yelled pleadingly. “Couldn’t- couldn’t you see that?” She asked, eyes stinging madly with oncoming tears.
Malfoy didn’t answer, but sighed and closed his eyes once more. He was barely holding onto his emotions; he felt like he was grasping his heart with both hands, struggling with it- begging it- willing it to remain calm and collected.
I can’t give in… I can’t let on… she must believe I never cared. She must believe that I’m the same person she thought I was before all this, his mind reeled painfully.
“I guess not,” Hermione answered herself after an extended moment. “I’m sorry, Malfoy. I really am. I- I thought it was obvious. I mean, I didn’t realize I cared until just tonight… but… I guess… I had hoped you’d be smarter. I’d hoped you’d be able to tell.”
Malfoy felt his body sway ominously on the spot. His head was feeling dizzy and his eyes dazed. He really needed a lie down… the past week had incorporated far too much dread, far too much loss, in more ways than one. Far too much emotion.
And Hermione’s words had stung him vindictively. They were like weapons to him, far worse than daggers or even the unforgivables… her words were like hot, surging pain coursing through his blood stream that stopped his very heart from pumping oxygen to his brain.
He felt so close to death.
Heart seemingly stopped, his chest felt as if it were caving in around it. His eyes were just begging to release their own manifestations of pain, but his stubborn pride clung to his consciousness for dear life and refused their pleads.
Hermione shook her head slightly as a minuscule, single, glistening tear made its sad way down the path to her chin.
“You never really cared at all…” she said in a daze, now looking past Malfoy. “You- were using me… maybe that’s a bit harsh,” she rationalized with herself. “But… you certainly didn’t want me… like I… like I wanted you," she continued, the incredible hurt vibrating her voice.
"It kills me to say it, Malfoy,” she said softly, in a tone that showed it really was killing her. “…but maybe I was wrong about you. Maybe- perhaps you’re not the person I thought you were… the person I was so sure you could be.”
He had succeeded. He had won the battle against her wits, and moreover against himself. He’d triumphed in making her believe exactly what he’d wanted her to.
But he could never recall a moment before when winning had felt so much more like dying.
And ironically, he found himself painstakingly disappointed, in everything: the world, his life, himself, Love...
Hermione’s eyes flashed across his face. She looked completely, utterly helpless and alone.
“It- none of it… meant anything to you, did it?” she barely whispered.
Malfoy’s breathing began to hurt. It took everything in him to keep inhaling and exhaling, much less keep a straight, dignified face.
“Just… just so you know,” she continued in a quiet voice, “It meant something to me… you meant something to me.”
And she turned slowly, achingly away as one trembling hand reached out for the door.
But the sight of Hermione walking out- for a second time, leaving him forever, it seemed- stirred his senses into fully awakening. His mouth was dry and his stormy gray eyes swam in tears that carried their own silent voice of anguish.
He tried to say something- utter just one word! But his plummeting heart and state of mixed fright and torment were making it so complicated.
His breathing quickened as her outstretched hand touched the doorknob. It was now or never.
Let her go! his practical, logical mind screamed. You must let her go! Your father will kill her if you don’t! You’ll be putting her in danger! What sort of love deceives the loved? What sort of love would have you risk her life?
But what sort of love would lie, and let her walk out believing no love ever even existed?
“Wait,” he said firmly.
Hermione stopped, wonderment and uncertainty beyond compare visible in every soft line of her tired face.
And she turned around to face him.