Granger thought she knew everything.
It made his blood boil to think about that self-satisfied smugness that she seemed to give off in waves. Oh look, Professor, I know the answer to this question! And the next one, too! In fact, I know every answer! That’s just how smart I am! It was infuriating.
But there were things she didn’t know. Things only he did. She didn’t, for example, know about blood. Blood made all the difference in the world, whether you were pure, or half, or a mud like her. People with shameful blood somehow failed to see that it mattered. It mattered infinitely.
She didn’t know about growing up the only heir to a rich family, a manor your playground, servants and house-elves at your fingertips. She didn’t know the fine secret workings of the wizarding world: the smooth Galleons that changed hands behind closed doors, changing lives in their wake. And she didn’t know anything about him. That was the most important thing. She doesn’t know me at all…
It satisfied him immensely. Little else did.
It satisfied him that when he thought about her, that film of contempt, like oil on water, always rose to the top.
It bothered him how much he thought about her.
She’s interesting, that’s all, he told himself. Something new. I need something new. He was so tired of the people around him: all the same, day in and day out, all inane and intolerable. Pansy had a face like a pug and a temperament to match, and was only useful for keeping up appearances; Crabbe and Goyle were nonentities, good as muscle but nothing else; Zabini was even more spiteful and contemptuous than he was; and the rest faded into a background of silver and green. But it was unthinkable that he might come close to comradery with a member of another House. He thought about Granger, yes; but not in friendship, and he clung to that fact. She was just someone he might have intelligent conversation with. And she would never be smarter or better than him, because she was a Mudblood and he knew things she didn’t.
It should not matter to him that she had a laugh like the pealing of little silver bells, that she was hardworking and a loyal friend, that her cheeks blushed like twin petals, that her eyes were a soft caramel colour, or that she had a luxuriously long neck. None of it mattered, because she was a Mudblood and Mudbloods weren’t pretty, could not be lov”he silenced the word before he could think it.
He shouldn’t care. But somehow he did.
~*~
Double Potions with the Gryffindors first thing in the morning”what could possibly make a Monday worse? For all Snape’s favouritism, Draco despised his class. What was the point in spending hours brewing some disgusting mixture that was going to kill you if you messed up in the slightest, if you could just buy it in the apothecary? His father had always been on good terms with Snape, and Draco enjoyed the benefits that came with those good terms, but really, the man needed a new hobby. Potions? A pointless bore.
Today they were making a Cooling Draught”a potion that would make anything it touched turn ice cold. Draco didn’t see why anyone would bother making things cold with a potion when a freezing charm would do just as well; but then, he had never understood why anyone would make a potion at all. He was looking at two solid hours of ennui.
He had to let his potion simmer for twenty minutes, and in that time what was he to do? There was no one to talk to. There never was. Crabbe and Goyle were still trying to figure out which end of their silver knives to use. Pansy was making goo-goo eyes at him, not knowing how revolting she looked in the fumes from her cauldron, makeup plastered thick, premature wrinkles highlighted, snub nose prominent”ick. Zabini, always sullen and taciturn, was staring into the depths of his cauldron as if he would like nothing more than to drown himself in them. Draco sighed. These, then, were his friends? People he could enjoy the company of? People he could whisper secrets to, could talk with about anything without fear of judgement or ridicule, to whom he could show his real self? No. He had never had a friend. And if these were the pickings, he never would. He needed some distraction…
He allowed his eyes to wander. There. Granger, on the other side of the classroom, partially shielded by Potter and the Weasel, hunched slightly over her pewter cauldron, was adding her newt scales carefully, one by one. Draco glanced at the instructions on the board: newt scales were several lines down from where he was, and he was further along than most. Her brow was furrowed in concentration, normally bushy hair having settled into tame waves in the cold radiating off her potion. Her cheeks were flushed, from excitement or chill he couldn’t be sure, and her eyes were alight with sheer pleasure at the pursuit of knowledge. He glanced back at the Slytherins. They all looked as if they were at various stages of dying, just as he probably did.
He watched as she delicately added two drops of chimera saliva into the mixture and then drew back to avoid the yellow fumes her potion began to emit. Draco glanced at the board once more to see what stage she was at. Now she had to wait for twenty seconds to allow the ingredients to ‘fold in on themselves’”whatever that meant. He stared, entranced, as she offhandedly brushed a russet lock of hair out of her eyes and murmured something to the Weasel beside her, who looked like his potion had taken a turn for the worse: he was cursing profusely under his breath.
‘Draco, your potion stinks.’ Pansy’s slavish, simpering voice drew him back to his own reality. She pouted in what she clearly intended to be a cute way, though it only disgusted the boy it was meant to woo.
Draco checked his cauldron. Sure enough, it was bubbling like tar and smelt like burning rubber. He glanced at his watch: he had allowed his mind to wander for ten minutes too long. He swore and wondered how he was going to get out of this one. Would it be better just to Vanish the contents now and say Goyle did it? But no, Snape would know Goyle couldn’t Vanish a teacup, let alone a highly-magical liquid. He thought fast.
‘What were you doing, Draco?’ asked Pansy in a sugary-sweet sympathetic voice. ‘Daydreaming?’
‘About Mudbloods, that is.’ Zabini, right on cue, cut in silkily, a wry smile playing about his dark lips.
‘What?’ Draco had ignored Pansy, still unsure about what to do with his potion, but Zabini was another matter. Such an accusation could not go unchecked.
The other Slytherins around them stiffened at the word, tension thickening in the air like the fumes of Draco’s botched potion as they paused over their cauldrons, watching the two.
Draco stood up from his stool. Though Zabini towered over him, he kept his head high and his gaze stony. ‘Are you implying I’m a blood traitor, Zabini? Or a Muggle-lover?’
Zabini continued to wear that infuriating half-smile as he watched the smaller boy. ‘I’m saying that you’ve been staring at that Gryffindor Mudblood for the last half hour. And you looked hungry.’
‘That’s a lie,’ hissed Draco dangerously, for all the world as if he had a forked tongue. ‘I wouldn’t touch that scum. I had a proper upbringing. Unlike some…’ He laid a delicate nasal emphasis on the last word (as only a Malfoy could), and raised his thin eyebrows, as if daring the other to try his luck.
Across from them, Pansy had stood up as well, mouth hanging open rather stupidly. Her eyes darted quickly from Draco to Zabini to the Mudblood and back to Draco again, the question full in her face.
Slowly, deliberately, watching Zabini and conscious of the many Slytherin onlookers, Draco sidled up next to Pansy and laid a hand on her waist, drawing her into him. She sighed softly with pleasure at the minute contact, lips puckered slightly. Draco’s eyes never left his adversary’s.
‘I know where my loyalties lie. Not that I have to prove anything.’ He paused, sneer etched masterfully in his face. ‘And I’d watch my mouth if I were you, Zabini. It’d be a pity for something to happen to it.’ It was Draco’s turn to smile as he watched the other boy pale at the thinly-veiled threat. It was common knowledge that accidents”never traced, never proved”seemed to happen to those who got in the way of the Malfoys.
Zabini turned away in an act of bitter submission and the room seemed to exhale. Only Pansy and Draco remained standing.
‘Oh, Draco, did you really mean it?’ she whispered in his ear, blue eyes full of him and him alone.
‘’Course,’ he said offhandedly, wondering what he was going to do with her now that he’d led her on. He wrote it off to experience and made a mental note to give it a week”just long enough that the incident would be forgotten”before he pushed her away again.
She kissed him as lightly as a spring rain on his pale neck and then sat down at her table once more. He closed his eyes, barely aware he was doing so, to remember those lips, imagining them as someone else’s, someone who had watched the incident from the other side of the classroom with an unreadable expression on her face.
He glanced over at Zabini to make sure he had returned to his potion and saw to his satisfaction that he had. He had his dark eyes lowered, a faint blush still visible in his cheeks, obviously burning in shame that Draco had managed to get the best of him. Draco laughed softly to himself and smiled secretly with the knowledge that now he was free to watch Hermione the entire period”as long as he liked.
~*~
Draco had not anticipated Tuesday morning.
Like every morning, Draco opened his eyes at precisely six o’clock. He threw on a pair of shorts for a semblance of decency, glanced at his sleepy self in the mirror, grabbed his towel, and then walked half-naked down the hall to the showers, nothing more than rows of spigots in a long stone room”like every morning. But this morning instead of a grunt of acknowledgement from one of the boys already there (Draco was a late sleeper by House standards), he was received with screams of horror. Within a matter of seconds the entire male Slytherin population had vacated the showers, pausing only to throw some pants on in their efforts to be as far away from him as possible. Draco was left utterly alone.
A private shower was one of those luxuries he missed sorely when he left Malfoy Manor at the end of vacations, so the newfound solitude was not entirely displeasing. Still, the reason behind it perturbed him. Zabini. Zabini must be the cause of this.
Five minutes of steamy pleasure later, Draco emerged from the showers scrubbed clean and smelling pleasantly of rosemary. He styled his wet hair, discoloured by the water, into a flippant wave with his fingers, enjoying the sense of empowerment a good shower endowed him with. He pulled on a pair of robes, cleaned by house-elves overnight, and went down to the Slytherin common room feeling very much himself and ready for a confrontation.
‘Zabini.’ The dark, hook-nosed boy stood near the fireplace talking to some sixth years (whom, Draco noted, drew away from him quickly). Zabini gave no indication he knew the other boy existed, except by the malice that flashed in his eyes upon hearing his name. One look was enough to tell Draco he had found his culprit.
‘What’s the story now, Zabini? Am I werewolf? Can I perform talented Legilimency to reveal people’s darkest secrets? Do I eat small children?’ Draco spoke lightly, conversationally, as if to a friend, but the underlying menace there did not go unrecognised.
‘Dragon pox. Highly contagious,’ the other muttered under his breath unwillingly, as if some unseen power was drawing the words out of his reluctant mouth. Still he did not meet those grey eyes.
‘Ah,’ Draco breathed softly. ‘I gave you credit for more imagination than I ought to have. You couldn’t even have said I was Slytherin’s Heir, come to weed out the Muggleborns from Slytherin House? That, at least, would’ve been a good laugh; see who was the first to “take ill” or “go on vacation”.’
Zabini’s eyes lit momentarily with what was perhaps an unwitting smile, and then his features quickly composed themselves once more.
‘But why, Zabini? When you knew I’d find you out, and that within fifteen minutes the rumour would be entirely extinguished, leaving you only with my vengeance?’
Zabini looked like he very much wanted to punch Draco. ‘You’re a scum-loving fraud,’ he hissed, eyes narrowed in dislike.
Draco’s wand was drawn before the last word was out. Like a mirror Zabini instinctively reflected the smooth motion, so that by the moment Zabini’s mouth had closed around the final letter in the final word two wands, hawthorn and ebony, pointed sharply at one another.
Draco cocked one eyebrow expertly. ‘Did you expect a surrender, Zabini? Or an impasse? How about a real wizard duel? Did you expect that?’
The other boy said nothing, dark eyes guarded and cool, face inscrutable, expression unchanged: Zabini asleep and Zabini in class and Zabini with a wand in his face were all the same.
When he spoke his voice was as thin and dry as the spitting embers behind him. ‘As the challenged the conditions are mine to choose.’ Tradition mandated his words. ‘Midnight. The astronomy tower. Macnair”’ he nodded towards the thuggish boy on the other side of one of the armchairs who returned the gesture in agreement, ‘”will be my second.’
Draco nodded once in assent and bespoke the binding words. ‘I am aware and agree to the conditions of the duel.’ His grey eyes scanned the room quickly until they lighted upon a sallow, clever face. ‘Nott will be my second.’ A thin cord of white fire, or maybe smoke, ran quickly between the two wands in bonding. Draco felt a thrill of excitement. Or fear.
~*~
The periods seem to drag by in anticipation of the coming match. In the hours beforehand it seemed the entire House (or those that could be bothered to care about a fifth year affair, anyway) had split itself into those loyal to Draco and those loyal to Zabini. Bets were taken eagerly, for as the racketeers running the business pointed out, it was a pretty evenly-matched fight: Draco was better at Charms, Zabini at Transfiguration; Zabini was bigger but Draco was more advanced in the Dark Arts. One thing was for sure: it would be memorable.
‘Slytherins have the best duels, and that’s just a fact,’ remarked one sixth year on the subject. ‘None of that Gryffindor “chivalry,” no limits on the magic used”we know that when it comes down to it, you don’t care about that sort of thing, just about winning. It doesn’t matter how you win, because history is written by the winners.’
Draco watched the clock obsessively, antsy and impatient. Curses and countercurses roiled in his brain; lists upon lists of everything he had learned at school and at home (his favourites) stewed there like a bad hangover, until he began to feel fried. He considered getting out his quill and jotting them down so he wouldn’t keep repeating the same ones in his mind, but a quick glance around the room told him McGonagall was watching him closely. And it wouldn’t do to let his Housemates see what he was up to, anyway”they would be disgusted that he would think to prepare, despite the fact that they would behave no differently in his place. Draco felt a flash of annoyance at the hypocrisy.
Idly he sketched out a letter to his father in his head:
Dear Father,
Tonight is my very first real duel, against Blaise Zabini. I challenged him, just so you know. And with good cause, too. I shall write you again tomorrow morning, after which the affair will be over with, and we shall see who has written history.
Your son,
Draco
He could imagine his father’s response: pleasure, excitement; ‘you’re shaping into a proper Malfoy’; ‘I remember when your grandfather duelled Orion Black over Walburga’s hand in marriage. Incidentally, be sure you don’t make his same mistakes’…there would be pages upon pages of hexes and incantations, helpful hints and notes; the stern reminder to do anything to win, and then the prompt to fight with dignity and honour…Draco would laugh to himself at the contradiction…
A sudden idea occurred to him, unrelated to his daydreaming: he had to arrive before Zabini and scout out the chosen location. How often had he read about foolish wizards who had been set up by their adversaries, walked straight into traps? Yes, the challenged had the right to pick where, but the challenger didn’t have to be a dummy.
Draco eyed his watch yet again. Seven hours ‘til destiny. Of course he had done the right thing in challenging Zabini. His accusations were inexcusable and his prank could not go unpunished. Still, it felt like he was the one being punished, forced by prestige into a proper duel, to what end he had no idea… You fool! He cut off his weak, self-pitying thoughts before they could fester. This is what you’ve always wanted. A chance to prove yourself. Teach those like Zabini who would think to accuse you of” even his thoughts fell flat at the idea of what Zabini had insinuated. Time to think about something else…
Seven hours and this will all be over, for better or worse…
No, that wasn’t right. It would not be over for the loser, who would face ridicule, gossip, and certain shunning. It would not be over for the winner, either, who would move up in the social ranks forever with the other’s fate on his conscience. It would not be over for the families, who could never forget their old arguments, sure to have bad blood between them.
But it will be over for our friendship. No matter how cool it had been, it was still… estrangement.
~*~
‘I’ll see you at midnight,’ Draco told Crabbe and Goyle after dinner, wanting to conduct his inspection on his own.
The two grunted in what Draco had to assume was assent, but he clarified, sure that they had already forgotten. ‘The Astronomy Tower. Midnight. Don’t be late.’ They nodded their heads stupidly and then turned around towards the dungeons and started off towards the common room, bumping into each other as they went. Draco couldn’t prevent an eye roll. Buffoons.
Draco shivered deliciously as he scaled the spiral staircase to the top of the tower. Icy arctic wind barraged him through windows, no more than cuts in the stone”it was winter, but they never bothered with heating up there. He enjoyed the chill on his skin: at least it was resolute. Through the same holes he could see velvety darkness outside, inky black though it was only half past eight, and far off pinpoints of refracted light: stars. Once as a child Draco had tried on his grandfather’s spectacles, only to be amazed as he gazed at the night sky to realise that stars were just white dots, not the pointed and smeared explosions of light he had always taken them to be. It was so strange to think that he had never seen stars before. It had been wonderful. Not that Draco would ever think to get spectacles; ugly, cumbersome, and the favourite fashion accessory to one Harry Potter. Not on his life.
Draco arrived at the door sweating and breathing hard. Seven hundred seventy-seven steps were not so easy, after all, especially if your only form of daily exercise was walking to classes and riding a broomstick.
He slipped inside to find the place, as he had hoped and expected, deserted. He twirled his wand idly and, spying an old piece of parchment on the floor, transfigured it into a goblet. He did a poor job with it and was left with a paper goblet, but it would do, and he filled it with an Aguamenti charm (performed silently, he noted with self-satisfaction). He drank quickly, before the parchment soaked through, enjoying the freedom that came with magic. So long as he had his wand he would never want for anything.
He was just deliberating whether to refill his cup when the door creaked open slowly behind him. He spun fast on his heel, wand raised at the ready, makeshift goblet forgotten. He expected to see the insolent smirk of Zabini there. He cursed himself for being so stupid as to leave the door unlocked, turn his back to it, and not cast any protective spells. He was a Slytherin, through and through, and should have known better. He expected with every ounce of his being to see Zabini there”but the person standing in the doorway was Hermione Granger.
‘So it’s true.’ Her large, almost doelike eyes were wide with disbelief, anger, and a less easily-defined disappointment.
‘What?’ Draco was entirely caught off guard to see her standing there, and no less so in this condition.
Wordlessly she held up a scrap of parchment. ‘I’m not a fan of Zabini. When he has your own interests at heart more than you do, it is a sad day indeed.’
Draco looked quickly from Hermione, to her expression, to the note in her hand, piecing it all together. His conclusion was immediate.
‘Coward!’ Zabini was a step ahead of him”no, two steps, at least. Knowing he would want to check for booby-traps, Zabini had sent Hermione, the perfect Prefect, off”with an anonymous note, undoubtedly”to get Draco into trouble. He swore bitterly.
Hermione raised one eyebrow, her glare still intact. ‘This is a new low, even for you,’ she spat. ‘You’re a Prefect, Malfoy! A Prefect! You know, I didn’t expect you to take the job seriously, but deep down I still hoped this badge might mean something to you!’ She fingered the shiny Gryffindor coat of arms on her own robe, as if to remind herself of all that it symbolised, all the power that came with it. ‘And for what? You challenge people to duels in the dead of night”I can’t tell you how many rules that breaks!”just for your pride? You disgust me.’
Recovering quickly from his initial shock, Draco bristled, hackles up. ‘You have no proof”I’m just out for a stroll, after all”and I will do whatever the hell I feel like, is that clear?’ He had meant to hiss, cool, intimidating as ever; but it had ended up as more of a childish whinge or tantrum.
Hermione shot him a disdainful look Lucius could have been proud of. ‘You are not above the rules, Malfoy, and I’ll have you remember it!’
Draco laughed in what he hoped was a scornful way to make up for his earlier lapse. ‘So is that why you’ve come tramping across the school after me? To teach me a lesson? Put Malfoy in his place?’ He smirked in that maddeningly smug way he knew could grate on anyone’s nerves.
‘Urgh!’ Hermione shrieked in frustration. ‘You are infuriating!’ She crossed her arms tightly. ‘Well I don’t care who you are, Malfoy, you’ve got Prefect duty with me tonight!’ She muttered darkly under her breath about ‘inter-House unity.’
Draco laughed again, sure by Hermione’s expression he was winning this argument. ‘So is that why you came after me? Are you sure you’re not just doing favours for Zabini for other reasons?’ She opened her mouth in outrage but he kept going. ‘Or maybe McGonagall wouldn’t let you do extra credit to raise your two hundred percent, so you thought the next best thing was to pursue the best-looking boy in the year, the boy you’ve always fancied”lusted after, even”under a ridiculous pretence? You would have loved to have gotten me all alone to yourself”’
‘That’s ENOUGH!’ Hermione said loudly, angry tears in the corners of her eyes, Draco noted, though she blinked them away furiously. ‘I can’t believe what an arrogant, puffed-up little twit you are! I don’t want to do this patrolling any more than you, I’ve got loads of work I need to do, and more than enough things on my mind, things I’m worried about”can you give it a rest and not make things worse?’
Draco rallied himself for a witty retort, but stopped short suddenly, surprised even with himself. Hermione looked so defeated, so close to a breakdown, he found he didn’t even have it in him to say more...he even felt a bit repulsed at himself for bringing her to this point…
He closed his mouth with a finality, and saw his shock mirrored in her eyes. ‘Well then,’ she said rather appreciatively, sniffling away the last of her almost-tears, shuffling her feet awkwardly. ‘We’re scheduled for the third corridor.’
She half-gestured towards the stairwell. ‘Oh”right”’ Draco followed her down, maintaining a cautious distance between them, confusion running through his mind. Why didn’t you say anything? You’ve hated her for years. Insufferable know-it-all. And you had her alone at a vulnerable time”you could have destroyed her forever! Why didn’t you? Why not?
She had looked so beautiful at that moment, and so heartbroken…something had warmed in his own heart.
~*~
One hour later Draco was just as muddled. For the first time the strange thoughts he had been having recently had come out as actions. What’s next? he goaded himself. You’ll say ‘sorry for everything’. Want to be her best friend like Potty or the Weasel, meet her in the library for study sessions. Snog her, even. This thought was far too close to the truth for comfort. Just someone I could talk to…in another world…she’s a Mudblood”and you’re…Draco Malfoy.
He sneaked a covert glance sideways at her. She walked, almost marched, briskly, facing straight forwards, clearly on duty, even though the corridor was deserted. He was tense himself, maintaining a careful space between them.
It had long since grown dark, and only a few brackets of candles every so often shed light. The portraits were quiet, their inhabitants’ snores soft. The castle seemed to hold its breath, unsure what to make of this uneasy truce. Or maybe that was just Draco’s projection.
It’s all right, I’ll protect your secrets, the old stone seemed to say. I’ve seen centuries pass by, and never told a soul what befell here. You’re not the first, nor certainly the last.
Darkness changes everyone, the flickering flames told him. Morning is different. Seize your chance, while night still protects.
No one will hear, the tapestry whispered. All alone. Closer.
Now I’ve really gone mad, Draco thought. I’m hallucinating.
He glanced over at Hermione once again. She turned at the same time and their eyes met. She gave a vacant little half-smile, eyes far away, clearly deep in her own thoughts.
Just do it. Never again. You never have to do anything ever again. Just this once. Do it! Do it! Do it! Do it!
‘So, how’s school going?’ It burst out of him, sudden relief from the screaming in his head as the words freed themselves. It was a stupid question, and he felt ridiculous immediately after blurting it out, but now at least it was said. Draco was nothing if not decisive. He wouldn’t have to stay up and wonder later what might have happened. And he was rather bored, after all.
‘Oh!’ Hermione blushed, clearly surprised, whether it was at his civility, or the fact that he was speaking to her at all. ‘Fine, I suppose.’ She paused, biting her lip. ‘Well, I’m stressing with O.W.L.s and all; I’m really worried about the practical. It’s not something you can memorise from a”’ She stopped quickly, probably sure her audience had already lost interest, sure she was divulging too much. Draco nodded once curtly to show she still had his attention. ‘You?’ she asked politely.
‘Oh, it’s okay…I think I’ll do okay…Crabbe and Goyle won’t make it, though,’ he added as an afterthought.
‘Erm…so will you miss them in class…?’ She was clearly struggling for something to say, perhaps trying to be empathetic. Perhaps the night was doing strange things to her head as well.
Draco shrugged in nonchalance. ‘I don’t care.’
Hermione’s brow furrowed in confusion. ‘Aren’t they your friends?’
Draco couldn’t resist rolling his eyes. ‘No.’
Hermione looked generally interested. She was staring at him with the same concentrated expression she wore when solving a particularly difficult Potions problem. ‘But you always hang around them, don’t you?’
Draco frowned, unsure if he wanted the conversation to continue, disliking to be a problem for her to solve. Isn’t this what you wanted? A real conversation with someone”anyone”different? Someone who might understand?
‘“Hanging out doesn’t mean friendship,”’ he responded tartly. Perhaps a bit too tartly, for Hermione drew back slightly.
Draco thought he had put her off, but then she mused, ‘No. I suppose you’re right.’
Draco decided to let the conversation lull there. He might pick it up later, or reverse its direction entirely, or let it fall, but in any case the control was his.
But then, instead of waiting for Draco’s response, Hermione violated the rules of conversation by speaking again. ‘That must be lonely.’
‘What?’ He detected a note of pity in her voice and it disgusted him.
‘I just think it must be lonely not to have friends. I can’t imagine what my life would be like without Harry and Ron.’ Her voice was softer, kinder. The pity was stronger there.
‘I don’t need friends,’ Draco bit back acridly. ‘I’m fine just the way I am.’ She was still wearing that soft expression, so he added, ‘And don’t you dare think I’m a charity case. I know things you don’t.’
‘What?’ Draco was pleased. He’d manage to surprise her again. That she had managed to come so deep so quickly had shaken him. But now this proved it. She didn’t know him.
‘You think you know everything. But you’re just a”’ He caught himself just in time. But she supplied the answer anyway.
‘Mudblood?’ She wasn’t offended, just sad. And not even for herself, either. It made no sense. ‘You still don’t get it, do you, Draco?’ She said it softly, tenderly, as if deep in her soul it pained her to know”no, she felt sorry for him”that he would never understand. ‘Blood doesn’t matter.’
He bristled at her tone. He hated pity, and hated the way she pulled away from him. ‘Hermione, you are intelligent. I wouldn’t be talking with you if you weren’t.’ She drew away even more at his words. Bewilderment flashed in his mind, along with anger. It was a compliment, for God’s sake, and yet she acted like every word he spoke was a blow. ‘You’ve lived in our world for five years. How can you say that blood doesn’t matter? It’s the most important thing there is.’
She would always be lower than him in the eyes of others, and she needed to realise that. He was not sure about his own eyes.
She said nothing then, her face turned in shadow. He reached out slowly, and caught her chin in his hand. He turned it to catch the light. She freed her head and turned away once more, but not before he had seen the single tear glow in the candlelight.
‘Draco, it’s not about how people treat me because I’m Muggle-born. It’s about the truth. Blood doesn’t make me less than anyone else.’ It was that same sad voice that had grated on him moments earlier. He hated that voice more than anything else. It broke them apart.
He watched the scene almost remotely, as if he were on the ceiling looking down at a play: a white-blonde boy, eyebrows furrowed in concentration, studied the other character, a girl partially hidden in shadow, unresponsive. The girl crossed her arms over her chest protectively, as if she could shelter herself from the prejudice of the world that way, and the boy twitched, as if he wanted to pull her arms out of that tight knot and wrap them around himself.
‘The fact is, you and I live in different realities. We will never see eye to eye.’ She glanced at her Muggle wristwatch. ‘It’s quarter past eleven. Patrol’s over.’ She turned and walked away down the hallway. Draco watched her go, saying nothing, feeling nothing, besides anger, and beneath that, a strange grief he did not understand. She looks lovely, he thought distantly.
Suddenly, he opened his mouth, unsure as to why. ‘Hey!’ he called at the retreating figure. She stiffened, but did not turn.
What She Didn't Know by Rhi for HP
Story Notes:
Written for JaeJae for the Slytherin Secret Story Swap. ;)
Thanks to Ashley/Whomovedmyquil for being a dream beta!
Chapter Endnotes: So, how was my first (and probably last) foray into Dramione? Please R&R! :)