Disclaimer: You know the score. They're J.K. Rowling's, not mine. I just
own their sentimentality and their sense of romance. Please read and
review, because. it would make me feel pretty. Songs are Dashboard
Confessional. In order of appearance: "The Places You Have Come to Fear the
Most", "This Ruined Puzzle", and "The Brilliant Dance". Fic entirely
inspired by "This Ruined Puzzle".
**********
He stood at the window, silver and shadow enveloping him. He leaned his shoulder against the glass, his cloak wrapped tightly around him-- a passing person never would have noticed him. The clouds cast dark imitations of themselves on the grass as they drifted idly across the moon.
He watched the shadows, and he thought.
He thought about her. Her shamed blushes as someone slid a nasty comment her way. Her dark eyes, guilty and hurt, refusing to meet his own, no matter how he tried to catch them. The way she hurried through the halls now, head bent and hair concealing her expression, books clutched to her chest. The worried, disappointed looks on her friends' faces.
He saw more than they thought he did, felt more than even he had ever expected to... but nobody seemed to blame him, and it was his fault. In part, at least.
It was in the mouth of every student at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.
Draco Malfoy and Hermione Granger caught kissing in the library!
Gasp.
No! Who saw them?
Ron Weasley. Would you believe it?
Stare.
I heard there was a fight.
No, there wasn't.
There was! Weasley and Granger were treated for broken noses, that's what was going round at breakfast.
Bewilderment.
I can't believe it. Why would she do such a thing to Harry and Ron?
Heaven knows I never saw it coming.
Her term at Durmstrang turned her into a very... forward girl.
I suppose I'd learn to be forward, too, if Viktor Krum fancied me!
Laughter.
Draco's eyes narrowed. They knew nothing. The hadn't seen the hurried welcome Hermione had received among Quidditch practices-- Ron's the new Keeper, now, Hermione, we've got to run-- and chess matches and the Dueling Club.
Hermione's three-month stay at Durmstrang Academy had exempted her from the Dueling Club. She was brilliant, but wizard's chess was not her forte, and she preferred to spend the time on her classes. She had only a passing, girlish interest in Quidditch. Harry and Ron were hard at work, preparing for the token game: Slytherin against their own house, Gryffindor.
Hermione kept to herself. Long hours spent in the library. Extra homework. Solitary walks along the edge of the lake. A smile when anyone watched and a plain, sober expression when no one would notice.
But Draco watched, and he noticed.
//buried deep as you can dig inside yourself / and covered with a perfect shell / such a charming beautiful exterior //
He wasn't sure why he did it, but that didn't matter now. He intercepted Hermione on one of her long walks, and struck up a conversation. Her enormous capacity for learning had always fascinated him, though he sneered at her for being a bookworm. She was pretty enough without making a fuss about it, and her thick hair was always unruly, but he found himself wanting to talk to her. Perhaps he knew how it felt to be lonely. Perhaps he had some motive that never struck him until later-- perhaps he approached her to get under Potter's skin, or Weasley's. Definitely Weasley's.
He accompanied her on her walk. She had been suspicious at first-- shove off, Malfoy, and go find a Skrewt to play with-- but he had convinced her that he was in earnest. True, they did not trust each other. They bantered and fought, and Hermione hotly defended her friends against his sparring-- especially that Weasley boy.
Draco gritted his teeth.
A tentative friendship had formed between the Serpent and the Lioness, suspicious but willing, stolen in moments when Hermione was sure nobody was looking. The kiss had been that way, secret and safe, in the stacks in the library. Draco still wasn't sure how it had happened, nor did he care. He knew Hermione was fascinated by him, fascinated by the forbidden quality of his friendship... or of a romance. Her reserve, her intelligence, kept her at bay until that night in the library. There had been something strange in the air, something odd about her, more quiet than usual. He had laid his hand on her hair, and she had turned. The kiss was something he had never experienced, alien and hungry, as if they were trying to draw something from one another and met only resistance. He sensed the tears on Hermione's cheeks, but found himself only wanting more from her, wanting her to give up and come to him, to stop resisting.
When Weasley had walked around the end of the stacks, Draco had almost laughed. Almost-- but the look of horror and shame on Hermione's face had stopped him. Draco had finally got the best of Weasley, the boy he so despised... but he got no satisfaction from it. Instead, he found himself wanting to reach out and protect Hermione from the pain she was about to endure.
But he couldn't.
// this is one time / that you can't fake it hard enough to please / everyone or anyone at all //
Draco didn't remember much about the fight. Hermione's angry yelling as she tried to separate them, Weasley's fists flailing and accidentally cracking against the girl's face. There had been blood, and Hermione herself had come into the fight, fists striking out at anyone. Weasley had come under the thumb of justice-- he suffered a broken nose, just like Hermione. Draco fought well and skillfully, but he was nothing against the blind fury of Ron Weasley. Finally, he had abandoned the fray and left the broken friends to tend to themselves.
Now he was here, curled in the safe haven of the window, thinking. What did Hermione Granger want? What was she looking for? She hadn't found it at Durmstrang, she hadn't found it in Draco's attentions.
For his part, Draco felt strange. Twisted, inside. Hermione wouldn't speak to him, wouldn't look at him, wouldn't acknowlege him... not anything. It made something in him stir, something dark and foreign, a bizarre desire to bring Hermione back to his side and seal her there, no matter what the cost.
He could never. Hermione would never come back. She cared so much what Weasley and that blasted Harry Potter thought. She had slipped into an unhappy world, trying so desperately to please every soul she knew, to live up to what they wanted from her. Draco had tried to tell her that she didn't have to do such a thing, but Hermione persisted in her efforts. Even if she truly wanted to be with him, she wouldn't do it. Afraid of what everyone would think, Hermione Granger would grow hollow and lonely, never opening herself to a world of feeling, no matter how wonderful or deadly or dangerous. Draco wanted to force her there, make her open her eyes and understand, but it was impossible.
// and the grave that you refuse to leave / the refuge that you've built to flee / the places that you've come to fear the most / is the place that you have come to fear the most //
Draco twisted his mouth bitterly. It was his own fault, for wrapping himself so entirely in her, so thoroughly wanting her. He didn't understand it, and would never comprehend the power that the brilliant, loyal girl had over him. Since the day he first knew her, he had been drawn to her, fascinated by her. It had manifested itself in acts of cruelty, spitting bitter words, sabotaging reputations. But the sight of her sad, quiet face had turned his conscience, and he had realized there were many different forms of attraction. No matter what form she took, he could not stay away from her. No matter how much he resented her for leaving without confirming or denying that she cared, that she wanted things to be different. She cared too much about Weasley and Potter.
Slowly, he had come to the realization that she always would. He could never break into her life, bring her to him, because she was just as much a part of Potter and Weasley as they were a part of her, and they could never be severed. Draco had realized that Hermione's unhappiness stemmed from feelings she had smothered, fought, warred with for years now. He had brought something of that to the surface, but he could never have more than what she had allowed him... because it belonged to someone else.
To the boy he despised above all. Ron Weasley.
Draco wanted to murder Ron for being such a coward. If he cared for Hermione, he needed to speak up. He was killing her with his insecurity, his hesitation. And every second that passed ensured that Hermione believed in his caring for her less and less, but she never ceased trying. Weasley influenced every step she made, every word she spoke, and she may not have been aware of it. Perhaps she herself didn't know she felt those things for Weasley.
But Draco knew it.
Hermione could drown in her convictions, in her willingness to please, if Weasley didn't speak up. And Draco would never be able to pull her out.
But he had seen Weasley quietly slip a piece of parchment into a small, thin book. He had seen him hand it over to Hermione with a thanks- for-lending-it-to-me. Seen his eyes dwell on her longingly before he turned away.
There would be nothing Draco could do now. Hermione would forever be burned into his mind's eye as a girl standing on a pedestal, so small and so narrow, and never seeming to notice the flinty rocks and broken glass below... just waiting to impale her.
Then again, Draco thought. Perhaps he himself lay at the bottom.
Or perhaps Weasley would catch her.
He would never ask.
// buried deep inside yourself / and hidden in the public eye / such a stellar monument to loneliness / laced with brilliant smiles and shining eyes / but you're barely scraping by //
**********
He slouched in an overstuffed chair, long legs splayed before him. He didn't bother getting too comfortable. He'd be up and roaming about again soon enough.
He couldn't sleep.
Nothing sated the anxious gnawing in his stomach, or the anger that knocked for entrance at the door in his skull. Nothing eased the nervousness in him, or the overwhelming worry.
She was mad. That much was clear to everyone, even Hermione herself. She'd been so different since her return from Durmstrang. She smiled as much as ever, but there was a brooding quality in her dark eyes, replacing the usual spark of vivacity and intelligence. Her welcome-home had been hurried but sincere among the bustle of the school.
It had been so strange without her around, though they had kept themselves busy. Ron always felt the missing space she had seemed to leave behind, felt as if his leg had suddenly sprouted a mind of its own and had nipped of to Durmstrang for half the term.
// but the hours they creep / the patterns repeat / don't be concerned / you know i'll be fine on my own / i never said "don't go" //
Ron sprang up from his chair, only to fling himself on the sofa. He had possibly just done the most insane, the most ridiculous thing in his remembered history, and there was no possible way he could take it back. There was nothing but time now, nothing to do but wait. Wait until his insides split from the anxiety and nervousness that filled them so tightly.
He hadn't meant to fight with her that night. Harry had convinced him to keep his temper in check, though they were both bewildered and hurt. They had spotted Hermione wandering the grounds with a familiar tow-headed Slytherin at her side... someone they had all always adamantly opposed and disliked. Ron had wanted to rush in, guns blazing, demanding of Hermione just what the bloody hell she thought she was doing, fraternizing with the enemy, he was dangerous, how could she. Harry had calmed him down considerably. Perhaps Hermione had a motive they knew nothing about. So they had quietly confronted her in the Gryffindor common room that evening, after everyone else had gone to bed.
Guilt had leaped into her face, along with a fierce defiance. She was laying on the hearth rug, but she had straightened up when they questioned her, indignant. What she did with her own time was none of their business, really.
The ice in her voice had sliced Ron's heart to the core. He had managed to keep a thread's hold on his temper, waiting for an explanation while Harry asked the questions.
She had befriended Malfoy while Ron and Harry were occupied with other things. Why where they bothering with her affairs now? They had other things to be doing, now didn't they.
There was an acute pain in her eyes that Ron had misinterpreted as he looked at her, lit by the firelight. So the foolish girl had gone and started fancying Malfoy, and couldn't stand the thought of him being taken away.
His temper was gone before he even opened his mouth. He ranted and raved about how she'd never tried to spend time with them, either, and he expected more from her than falling for the first slimy git that gave her the time of day. After all, she'd done the same with Viktor Krum, what was to be expected? It was so easy for her to dash off to Bulgaria and leave her real friends behind. What a betrayal. Malfoy probably only wanted one thing from her, and if it wasn't getting close to Harry, it was something else. It was too bad Hermione couldn't see past her own stuck-up nose to the real problem.
And what was the real problem? she had shrieked back. She was sorry, but she didn't see much evidence that things had been different without her. All she was to them was someone to cheat off of or to do reasearch for them, or to fight with and cut down in Ron's case. Couldn't they see that she missed them? They were both stupid prats. Malfoy had extended his hand in friendship, she had been properly cautious, and she saw nothing to be worried about. Ron was simply jealous. Malfoy was a lot more than they thought he was, and it was none of their business who she took walks with.
Or fancied? Ron had bellowed, furious. She had flushed hotly, staring him down.
At least Malfoy had the bravery to approach a girl.
The bravery to approach a girl with no wits about her whatsoever? That didn't take much. God only knew what Hermione had done at Durmstrang, but he didn't want to know about it. She seemed to have an insatiable urge to fall for the biggest idiots in the universe, that was what.
She had leaped to her feet, fists clenched, tears in her eyes. Ron hadn't realized then what those tears meant.
She certainly did chase after the biggest idiots in the universe, she had said very quietly, and then she had dashed out of the common room.
Harry had been dumbstruck, watching his two companions battle. Ron had immediately regretted most of his words, but his pride kept him from racing after his mussy-haired best friend. Harry had turned to him, sparks in his jade eyes.
If Ron didn't fix this somehow, Harry himself would speak up. He for one wasn't going to stand by and watch Hermione break her own heart over and over again because she chased after complete prats.
Ron had remained in the common room long after Harry had gone to bed, brooding. Why was he so angry that Hermione fancied someone else? True, that someone seemed to be Draco Malfoy, his sworn enemy. But that wasn't it.
He hated things like this. Dredging up how he felt about his dark- eyed companion always confused him, left him wishing and heartbroken. It was easier not to think about it... but he had to, this time.
While Hermione was in Durmstrang, everything had seemed flat. Unprofitable. He had missed the vibrant expression on her face, the way she launched herself into every cause or every idea with her whole being, whether she supported or opposed it. He had missed the way that the fall breezes caught her hair and her scarf, whipping them out behind her as she cheered on the Quidditch team. He missed the way she tapped her quill on his Ancient Runes text to get him to focus and pay attention. He missed her quaint beauty, the awkward, shy way she had of caring about her looks. The way her satchel slumped in the corner after a long hard day of studying, the way her small body stretched in a chair in front of the fire. The way she spoke, clearly and articulately, never wasting a word. The way she bickered with him, always so sure she was right. Her hair. Her hands. Her smile. Even her bloody cat.
He missed her.
He hated it.
He had avoided Hermione Granger because he had realized this in her absence-- how much he truly cared. He was terrified she would see it in his eyes, or in the way he walked next to her, or hear it in his voice. In not wanting to risk her friendship, he had destroyed it anyway. Her eyes had been hurt every time she had looked his way, her expression briefly bewildered. She had spent her time with Neville Longbottom, Seamus Finnigan, Lee Jordan, at first... even Fred and George Weasley. Surrounded by her fellow Gryffindors. But she had gravitated toward that despicable Slytherin, and it made Ron angry.
For more than one reason. Why did everyone else have the courage to speak up? To ask Hermione for her time, for her hand, for a walk or a smile? What was wrong with him, that he couldn't even try?
He was afraid. Afraid that Hermione would stare at him in disbelief and shake her head. Afraid that an awkward moment would stretch into an awkward friendship, and that they would break apart like a fragile clay vase.
// this basement's a coffin / i'm buried alive / i'll die in here just to be safe / i'll die in here just to be safe... //
Well, he didn't have anything more to lose. He had already made her cry. His pride was in shambles. He missed her, and he cared, and it wasn't fair that everyone else got her... and she should know it before she did anything else. If Hermione didn't care for him, it was his own fault for not showing her better.
But... she did. He blinked, sudden realization breaking through the haze of regret in his mind. She did care, because she chased after the biggest gits in the universe. Her tears, her hurt, her animosity suddenly made sense. She had meant what she said, and now he understood it. Harry's cutting comment about her breaking her heart over idiots had infuriated Ron, but it only confirmed what he was thinking.
Hermione cared.
Or he hoped she did. Maybe he was reading too much into it. Maybe she was just being defensive. Maybe... but no. Thinking that way would only crush his courage to a pulp.
When Ron had come to the library an hour later (where else would Hermione have been found in times of trouble?), intending to take Hermione's hands in his and apologize, he felt his heart freeze and drop, shattering against the floor stones. So this is what keeping your temper and humbling yourself brought you to. So this is what mistranslating, hoping, imagining eventually gave you.
Your beautiful best friend kissing your most hated opponent.
// 'cause you're gone / i get nothing / and you're off with barely a sigh / i never said "goodbye" //
He remembered the satisfying smack as his fist had connected with Malfoy's jaw. Hermione had tried to pry him off; then she had stumbled back, raising her hands to staunch the flow of crimson from her nose. He had dimly wanted to go to her, but Malfoy's fist planting itself in his solar plexus had changed his mind. Hermione had rushed at them.
And then he was on the floor, blood streaming from his nose, and Malfoy was gone. Hermione was bending over him, crying profusely, pinching the bridge of his nose to stop the bleeding and half-yelling at him. She was sorry for everything, but especially sorry he was such an idiot. It was the stupidest thing she had ever done and she was sorry, sorry for it all and she hated it now, she hadn't been herself, she was only trying to get him to wake up and maybe look around, he was such an idiot, why'd he have to go and do that? She hated all of this because it made her hurt her best friend, her Ron...
Her Ron.
// this ruined puzzle is beige / with the pieces all face-down / so the placing goes slowly / the picture's of anything / other than "it's meant to be" //
They'd avoided one another since that night. Now Ron sat in the Gryffindor common room, putting his feet up on the coffee table and then taking them off, standing up and pacing to the fireplace only to come back round and sit at the place he'd just abandoned.
He never thought she might feel that way. Hermione wasn't a girl to get wrapped up in emotions, to worry about what people thought of her. He should have guessed something was different in the way she looked at him, the pain that flashed through her eyes before she turned back to her book or her conversation.
He loved her. He'd never thought of it so plainly, and the word blazed in his brain as he sat in shock. He tried it in his mouth, quietly.
"I love her."
He had to know. Krum had got her, Malfoy had got her, and it was Ron's turn to have a chance. He'd waited for over five years now, and he wasn't going to wait any more.
// i've written a note / it's pressed between pages / that you've marked to find your way back //
He'd handed the book back to her at breakfast that morning. It was one she had read for Muggle Studies and loaned to him, one she thought he might learn something from. Poems. At first glance, Ron had been disgusted. This Muggle-- whatsisname Frost-- had to have been a pansy. Hermione had encouraged him to at least try, for heaven's sake, and he had. And he had enjoyed it.
Even more now that it carried his entire heart on a tiny sheaf of paper. How long would it be before she found it? What if she never did?
// what if the pages stay pressed / the chapters unfinished / the story's too dull to unfold //
There was nothing to do now but wait. Ron kicked at the table leg and cursed himself again.
What kind of idiot was he, thinking she'd care for him?
**********
She sat in the wide stone sill of the window, wrapped in a fleece blanket, watching the diamond studs of stars glimmer in the sky. It was late, she knew. Her body was tired, but her mind, always active, was wide awake.
// so this is odd / the painful realization / that all has gone wrong / and nobody cares at all //
She observed with a detached air that it was cold, but did nothing to change it. One hand absently stroked the bundle of bones and ginger fur that kept her feet warm. It purred appreciatively. At least she had Crookshanks.
It had all got out of hand. Out of her hands, anyhow. She wasn't sure when, really. Was it the last summer, when she had exited the train and waved goodbye? Was it the letters she'd dashed off hurriedly, to tell Ron and Harry that she'd be going to Durmstrang that fall? When she'd returned? When she'd first allowed Draco Malfoy to walk beside her along the lakeshore? When Ron had come round the end of the bookshelf and found them?
It was none of these, she knew. There was no precise moment, no searing instant wherein she had realized that all of this was not going according to plan.
Really... there had been no plan. Perhaps just a silly opportunity. Ron and Harry had been so horribly busy with all their activities, and she just wished for a moment that they would realize that she was home, that she was there now, that she could be part of that, too.
In that wishing moment Draco Malfoy had stepped in and... befriended her? That wasn't quite right. Fascinated her. Lured her. Something about the tall, blond boy had changed over the summer. He was quieter, less prone to snarl and sneer than to raise an eyebrow and shake his head pityingly. His cruelty was less childish, more cold-- he had learned the art of aloofness, of complete indifference.
Hermione had noticed this, even among her classes and her studying. His black-clad shape always seemed to hover at the edge of her vision. She didn't like it-- it frightened her. At first she had tried to busy herself at every possible moment, with anyone present... she was sure Neville Longbottom was quite terrified by the sudden abundant attention he had received from her.
It hadn't done the trick, hadn't made her feel any more safe. She drew into herself, trying to make herself small and unnoticeable. That had seemed to work... with everyone but him.
She reached down to her feet and drew Crookshanks toward her, snuggling him under her chin. She could hear the satisfied rumble in the cat's belly as she scratched between his ears, and she sighed quietly. At least now Malfoy was gone. At least now she could think clearly, without that odd cloud that seemed to descend on her whenever he was near.
Durmstrang had been so strange, so unfamiliar. Hogwarts was drafty and damp, mysterious, but never frigid. Durmstrang and its surrounding countryside had an aura of watchfulness, of cold irritation that a foreigner had dared to step foot on their soil. Many nights she had curled up near the small fire in her room, close to tears in her loneliness. She had longed for Harry and Ron so very much... and had even found herself missing the rather oily Professor Snape. Viktor tried to soothe her, with an earnestness that only made her feel guilty. She couldn't return the favor, couldn't simply reach out and pat his arm or say a sweet word. It wasn't in her. All her words had been left behind when she'd come to Bulgaria.
During those lonely times, she found her thoughts turning to her friends. One in particular had made several unexpected guest appearances, and those rather irritated her with their sentimentality. Ron was her best friend, but he was a nuisance and a git.
Still, she couldn't help remembering the endearing lankiness of his movements, of the sparkle in his eyes when he'd had a particularly mischievous plan. She remembered the frown of concentration that always creased his forehead as he contemplated the chess board, or tried to understand the abstract concepts in Astronomy. The way his face would flare crimson in embarrassment or scarlet in rage, and how she could tell the difference in the colour. The way he bickered with her, always so sure he was right. The way his distinctive hair managed to look disheveled no matter what the occasion, the way he treated his little sister, the way he sat bent over his cauldron in Potions. The way he cheered at Quidditch games, and bellowed at the referee. His spattering of freckles. His hands. His smile. Even his ridiculous owl, Pidwidgeon.
She missed him.
She hated it.
She had returned to Hogwarts, determined that nothing would be different, that nobody would have any idea of just how much she had missed Ron Weasley. But something must have gleamed through her normal exterior, something must have leaked out. Ron had begun to avoid her, looking startled when she offered her help in class or tried to loan him a book. He spent longer hours out on the Quidditch field, practicing until it was too dark to see, or played wizard's chess in the corner of the common room with Seamus Finnigan.
Hermione, bewildered, began to back away, hurt by his complete inattention. Didn't their friendship mean more to him than that? Even if he had seen something in her eyes, he couldn't have known for sure. Nobody knew, and nobody could have told him. What was wrong?
// so this is strange / our sidestepping has come to be / a brilliant dance / where nobody leads at all //
Hermione had surprised even herself at how quiet and withdrawn she became. Between being wary of Malfoy-- why did he bother her so?-- and confused by Ron, not to mention a heavy class load, left precious little energy for anything else. Harry was concerned, she knew, but rarely had time to do more than smile and toss an "all right, there, Hermione?" her way. She understood and forgave him without speaking, seeing the apology in his eyes.
It made Hermione feel wretched, racked with guilt. Had she ruined their friendship with her three-month absence from school? Broken the glue she had thought was indestructible, the glue that bound her, Ron, and Harry together?
Walking by the lake was the only thing that helped her really relax. She couldn't believe she hadn't found this beautiful haven before... but she had never needed it until then.
When Draco Malfoy had fallen into step beside her on that first day, she had been so startled she'd nearly slapped him. She'd tried to get him to leave her alone, affecting a haughty, offended attitude. He didn't let her insults penetrate his smooth exterior. In fact, he skillfully turned them back on her, smirking in a way that infuriated her... and made her laugh. And when she laughed, she wondered why she'd never realized that he was really very good-looking.
However, when he was away, she could hardly remember him. It was as if he were a construct, made of dust, that blew apart and vanished into thin air the instant she turned her back . Her thoughts perpetually turned to her bright-haired best friend, though she became practiced at pushing them back into a corner of her mind. Still he avoided her. Still she took walks with Malfoy.
At least someone was trying to be a friend... no matter what he wanted. Was she really that lonely? Pathetic, really... and untrue. Was she trying to get Ron to notice her? This world of emotion was strange to her, completely foreign. She had never played the catty games other girls played, never tried to catch a boy's eye. Was that what she was doing now? It troubled her, but she couldn't seem to stay away from her walks along the lakeshore.
When Ron and Harry confronted her, Hermione had instantly become defensive. So they chose now to try to claim ownership... she's our girl, Malfoy, not yours, and we're taking her back. That was simply ridiculous, she had renounced them, claiming she could spend her time with anyone she chose.
Ron had been furious, his face scarlet as he finally burst out, raging about the way she'd been acting since her return from Durmstrang. He couldn't believe she chased after every slimy git under the sun, really, it was awful.
Hermione had lifted her chin defiantly. Ron was trying to hurt her, to wound her in this argument. Why? She had shot back that at least Malfoy had the courage to talk to a girl, and Ron had blushed hotly in embarrassment. His face was a rather terrible shade of red, almost purple, as he screamed at her that she seemed to have a talent for falling head over heels for complete idiots.
Hermione felt herself snap. Ron was right. She had only been fooling herself, thinking she could make him care for her. All her efforts had been completely futile, and it was all his fault. If only he'd open his eyes for one moment, to look at her as a girl and not as bushy-haired Hermione Granger, faithful chum and decent chess player, maybe then he'd see what was really there. He was a complete idiot.
She certainly did fall for them, she'd said very quietly, and left the room.
// ...and the ringing from this empty sound / is deafening and keeping you from sleep / and breathing is a foreign task / and thinking's just too much to ask... //
It was too dark to walk along the lakeshore, and she needed some kind of sanctuary. Hot tears were tumbling down her flushed cheeks, and she had run along the stairs and corridors until she reached the library. It was nearly empty, a few straggling students checking out books to study for their Charms or Potions midterms. Hermione had slipped between the stacks and come to stand near her favorite window, pressing her forehead against the cold glass. She had cried there for who knew how long, before she felt him standing behind her.
Malfoy's face was devoid of expression, but his eyes were concerned. He reached out his hand and gently put it on her long hair, stroking it. Hermione turned round to tell him to go away, all she really wanted was to be alone... but she couldn't. The words queued up in her throat, crowding themselves, until she couldn't unjumble them to speak. Malfoy stepped forward and took her chin in his hand.
It was only meant to be a friendly kiss, she knew instinctively. To ease her hurt... but suddenly it became something else. Malfoy's arms had tightened around her, and Hermione found herself reciprocating, drawing a terrible comfort from the intensity of his mouth on hers. It had almost been painful, almost too much to bear, but she couldn't step away. Something held her there, something that wasn't entirely under her control. A starving, dark thing that seemed to empty her from the inside out, wanting more than she could give to it, wanting her completely. It sucked her dry of everything she felt for anyone but the boy who pressed his mouth so fiercely to hers. Tears had streamed from her eyes.
She remembered Ron saying her name. She remembered feeling sick and dizzy as Malfoy had released her, trying for a moment to place Ron's voice, his face. She had stood with her hands planted flat on the library table for the space of a breath, until Ron and Malfoy had begun to throw punches. Startled, she had begun to bellow at them, rushing in to pry them apart. Who had hit her? It was Ron, she knew, because he paused ever so briefly in the fray. The wetness streaming over her mouth and down her chin only angered her further, waking her from the bizarre haze she had succumbed to only moments earlier. She flew into the fight, striking out any which way, until Ron was on the floor and Malfoy was gone.
She was shaking as she knelt beside Ron. They were both a gory mess, but Ron had been the worst, bruised and bloodied. She had scolded him scathingly as she pressed his nose to stop the bleeding she herself had caused. She'd never meant for any of this to happen, she was sorry, she repeated over and over. She couldn't express the relief, the safety that his voice had brought her, breaking that black void Malfoy had nearly sucked her into. She just cried, a deep and cleansing cry, and swore she'd never meant to hurt him. He was hers. Her Ron.
// this is incredible / starving, insatiable / yes, this is love / for the first time / you'd like to think you were invincible / weren't we all before we felt loss / for the first time... //
"I think I love him," Hermione whispered to the drowsy cat under her chin. "Ron, I mean. I think I love him."
Crookshanks stretched and yowled in protest. Hermione soothed him swiftly.
"I mean, I care very much about you, but... I think I love Ron. And if he... if he said there was... if he wanted me, I would go. To him. I... I think he belongs to me, and I to him. Somehow. I don't know. I don't know anything except that I care for Ron more than I ever thought I could and I can't tell him. I'm really not good at this. It's just... it's silly, that's what it is."
Hermione got up from the windowsill, dumping Crookshanks unceremoniously on her bed. She was careful not to wake any of the other girls in the dormitory as she pried her satchel out from under her bed. She had translating to do for her Ancient Runes class, and there was a new book on Transfiguration that Professor McGonagall had loaned her. Nothing would drive this nonsense out of her head like a good bout of studying. Ron didn't care for her. Ron avoided her as if she carried some kind of deadly disease. She, Hermione, had ruined any chance at anything when she had allowed Malfoy to kiss her that way.
She dumped her satchel out on her bed, books and papers rustling together. Crookshanks opened one jade eye and rather glared at her, one paw stretching lazily. A slim blue book was knocked to the floor with a light thump, skidding underneath the bed. Hermione looked her cat straight in the eye.
"If you wake up Parvati Patil, you'll answer for it," she threatened him. Crookshanks responded with a yawn.
Hermione knelt on the floor, groping underneath the bed, and drew out the small book. The compilation of Robert Frost's poems that she had loaned to Ron. He had returned it, with a hasty thanks that morning in the Great Hall, acting as if he needed to get away very quickly. They hadn't spoken much since that night in the library, and every encounter was filled with awkwardness. Hermione had tucked the book away in her bag.
Now she sat on the floor, her back propped against her bedframe, the floor cold on her bare feet. She had genuinely liked the works of Rober Frost, and knew Ron would have. Had he even read them, given them a try? Hermione doubted it. She traced the gilded lettering on the cover, then cracked the volume open, searching for her favorite page.
A scrap of parchment fluttered from the book, sweeping past her elbow and skidding lightly across the floorstones in a draft. Hermione reached out and plucked it up, her sense instantly heightened for any sign of stirring from the other girls. She propped her hands against her knees, turning the scrap over. It was a single line in Ron's swift, messy handwriting, familiar and comforting. However, the note itself made Hermione's heart stop in its tracks for several seconds before it started once more, and she had to read it again. And again. Its simplicity stirred her completely:
"Does he ever get the girl?"
**********
He slouched in an overstuffed chair, long legs splayed before him. He didn't bother getting too comfortable. He'd be up and roaming about again soon enough.
He couldn't sleep.
The rustle of someone coming down the stairs made his heart leap into his throat, but he didn't turn his head. He kept his eyes on the fire.
He saw her out of the corner of his eye, wrapped in her dressing gown, hair untidy. He heard her speak quietly.
"Ron?"
He turned his head to look at her, and she held out the slip of parchment that they both had come to know very well.
"Hullo, Hermione."
They smiled at each other.
**********
He stood at the window, silver and shadow enveloping him. He leaned his shoulder against the glass, his cloak wrapped tightly around him-- a passing person never would have noticed him. The clouds cast dark imitations of themselves on the grass as they drifted idly across the moon.
He watched the shadows, and he thought.
He thought about her. Her shamed blushes as someone slid a nasty comment her way. Her dark eyes, guilty and hurt, refusing to meet his own, no matter how he tried to catch them. The way she hurried through the halls now, head bent and hair concealing her expression, books clutched to her chest. The worried, disappointed looks on her friends' faces.
He saw more than they thought he did, felt more than even he had ever expected to... but nobody seemed to blame him, and it was his fault. In part, at least.
It was in the mouth of every student at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.
Draco Malfoy and Hermione Granger caught kissing in the library!
Gasp.
No! Who saw them?
Ron Weasley. Would you believe it?
Stare.
I heard there was a fight.
No, there wasn't.
There was! Weasley and Granger were treated for broken noses, that's what was going round at breakfast.
Bewilderment.
I can't believe it. Why would she do such a thing to Harry and Ron?
Heaven knows I never saw it coming.
Her term at Durmstrang turned her into a very... forward girl.
I suppose I'd learn to be forward, too, if Viktor Krum fancied me!
Laughter.
Draco's eyes narrowed. They knew nothing. The hadn't seen the hurried welcome Hermione had received among Quidditch practices-- Ron's the new Keeper, now, Hermione, we've got to run-- and chess matches and the Dueling Club.
Hermione's three-month stay at Durmstrang Academy had exempted her from the Dueling Club. She was brilliant, but wizard's chess was not her forte, and she preferred to spend the time on her classes. She had only a passing, girlish interest in Quidditch. Harry and Ron were hard at work, preparing for the token game: Slytherin against their own house, Gryffindor.
Hermione kept to herself. Long hours spent in the library. Extra homework. Solitary walks along the edge of the lake. A smile when anyone watched and a plain, sober expression when no one would notice.
But Draco watched, and he noticed.
//buried deep as you can dig inside yourself / and covered with a perfect shell / such a charming beautiful exterior //
He wasn't sure why he did it, but that didn't matter now. He intercepted Hermione on one of her long walks, and struck up a conversation. Her enormous capacity for learning had always fascinated him, though he sneered at her for being a bookworm. She was pretty enough without making a fuss about it, and her thick hair was always unruly, but he found himself wanting to talk to her. Perhaps he knew how it felt to be lonely. Perhaps he had some motive that never struck him until later-- perhaps he approached her to get under Potter's skin, or Weasley's. Definitely Weasley's.
He accompanied her on her walk. She had been suspicious at first-- shove off, Malfoy, and go find a Skrewt to play with-- but he had convinced her that he was in earnest. True, they did not trust each other. They bantered and fought, and Hermione hotly defended her friends against his sparring-- especially that Weasley boy.
Draco gritted his teeth.
A tentative friendship had formed between the Serpent and the Lioness, suspicious but willing, stolen in moments when Hermione was sure nobody was looking. The kiss had been that way, secret and safe, in the stacks in the library. Draco still wasn't sure how it had happened, nor did he care. He knew Hermione was fascinated by him, fascinated by the forbidden quality of his friendship... or of a romance. Her reserve, her intelligence, kept her at bay until that night in the library. There had been something strange in the air, something odd about her, more quiet than usual. He had laid his hand on her hair, and she had turned. The kiss was something he had never experienced, alien and hungry, as if they were trying to draw something from one another and met only resistance. He sensed the tears on Hermione's cheeks, but found himself only wanting more from her, wanting her to give up and come to him, to stop resisting.
When Weasley had walked around the end of the stacks, Draco had almost laughed. Almost-- but the look of horror and shame on Hermione's face had stopped him. Draco had finally got the best of Weasley, the boy he so despised... but he got no satisfaction from it. Instead, he found himself wanting to reach out and protect Hermione from the pain she was about to endure.
But he couldn't.
// this is one time / that you can't fake it hard enough to please / everyone or anyone at all //
Draco didn't remember much about the fight. Hermione's angry yelling as she tried to separate them, Weasley's fists flailing and accidentally cracking against the girl's face. There had been blood, and Hermione herself had come into the fight, fists striking out at anyone. Weasley had come under the thumb of justice-- he suffered a broken nose, just like Hermione. Draco fought well and skillfully, but he was nothing against the blind fury of Ron Weasley. Finally, he had abandoned the fray and left the broken friends to tend to themselves.
Now he was here, curled in the safe haven of the window, thinking. What did Hermione Granger want? What was she looking for? She hadn't found it at Durmstrang, she hadn't found it in Draco's attentions.
For his part, Draco felt strange. Twisted, inside. Hermione wouldn't speak to him, wouldn't look at him, wouldn't acknowlege him... not anything. It made something in him stir, something dark and foreign, a bizarre desire to bring Hermione back to his side and seal her there, no matter what the cost.
He could never. Hermione would never come back. She cared so much what Weasley and that blasted Harry Potter thought. She had slipped into an unhappy world, trying so desperately to please every soul she knew, to live up to what they wanted from her. Draco had tried to tell her that she didn't have to do such a thing, but Hermione persisted in her efforts. Even if she truly wanted to be with him, she wouldn't do it. Afraid of what everyone would think, Hermione Granger would grow hollow and lonely, never opening herself to a world of feeling, no matter how wonderful or deadly or dangerous. Draco wanted to force her there, make her open her eyes and understand, but it was impossible.
// and the grave that you refuse to leave / the refuge that you've built to flee / the places that you've come to fear the most / is the place that you have come to fear the most //
Draco twisted his mouth bitterly. It was his own fault, for wrapping himself so entirely in her, so thoroughly wanting her. He didn't understand it, and would never comprehend the power that the brilliant, loyal girl had over him. Since the day he first knew her, he had been drawn to her, fascinated by her. It had manifested itself in acts of cruelty, spitting bitter words, sabotaging reputations. But the sight of her sad, quiet face had turned his conscience, and he had realized there were many different forms of attraction. No matter what form she took, he could not stay away from her. No matter how much he resented her for leaving without confirming or denying that she cared, that she wanted things to be different. She cared too much about Weasley and Potter.
Slowly, he had come to the realization that she always would. He could never break into her life, bring her to him, because she was just as much a part of Potter and Weasley as they were a part of her, and they could never be severed. Draco had realized that Hermione's unhappiness stemmed from feelings she had smothered, fought, warred with for years now. He had brought something of that to the surface, but he could never have more than what she had allowed him... because it belonged to someone else.
To the boy he despised above all. Ron Weasley.
Draco wanted to murder Ron for being such a coward. If he cared for Hermione, he needed to speak up. He was killing her with his insecurity, his hesitation. And every second that passed ensured that Hermione believed in his caring for her less and less, but she never ceased trying. Weasley influenced every step she made, every word she spoke, and she may not have been aware of it. Perhaps she herself didn't know she felt those things for Weasley.
But Draco knew it.
Hermione could drown in her convictions, in her willingness to please, if Weasley didn't speak up. And Draco would never be able to pull her out.
But he had seen Weasley quietly slip a piece of parchment into a small, thin book. He had seen him hand it over to Hermione with a thanks- for-lending-it-to-me. Seen his eyes dwell on her longingly before he turned away.
There would be nothing Draco could do now. Hermione would forever be burned into his mind's eye as a girl standing on a pedestal, so small and so narrow, and never seeming to notice the flinty rocks and broken glass below... just waiting to impale her.
Then again, Draco thought. Perhaps he himself lay at the bottom.
Or perhaps Weasley would catch her.
He would never ask.
// buried deep inside yourself / and hidden in the public eye / such a stellar monument to loneliness / laced with brilliant smiles and shining eyes / but you're barely scraping by //
**********
He slouched in an overstuffed chair, long legs splayed before him. He didn't bother getting too comfortable. He'd be up and roaming about again soon enough.
He couldn't sleep.
Nothing sated the anxious gnawing in his stomach, or the anger that knocked for entrance at the door in his skull. Nothing eased the nervousness in him, or the overwhelming worry.
She was mad. That much was clear to everyone, even Hermione herself. She'd been so different since her return from Durmstrang. She smiled as much as ever, but there was a brooding quality in her dark eyes, replacing the usual spark of vivacity and intelligence. Her welcome-home had been hurried but sincere among the bustle of the school.
It had been so strange without her around, though they had kept themselves busy. Ron always felt the missing space she had seemed to leave behind, felt as if his leg had suddenly sprouted a mind of its own and had nipped of to Durmstrang for half the term.
// but the hours they creep / the patterns repeat / don't be concerned / you know i'll be fine on my own / i never said "don't go" //
Ron sprang up from his chair, only to fling himself on the sofa. He had possibly just done the most insane, the most ridiculous thing in his remembered history, and there was no possible way he could take it back. There was nothing but time now, nothing to do but wait. Wait until his insides split from the anxiety and nervousness that filled them so tightly.
He hadn't meant to fight with her that night. Harry had convinced him to keep his temper in check, though they were both bewildered and hurt. They had spotted Hermione wandering the grounds with a familiar tow-headed Slytherin at her side... someone they had all always adamantly opposed and disliked. Ron had wanted to rush in, guns blazing, demanding of Hermione just what the bloody hell she thought she was doing, fraternizing with the enemy, he was dangerous, how could she. Harry had calmed him down considerably. Perhaps Hermione had a motive they knew nothing about. So they had quietly confronted her in the Gryffindor common room that evening, after everyone else had gone to bed.
Guilt had leaped into her face, along with a fierce defiance. She was laying on the hearth rug, but she had straightened up when they questioned her, indignant. What she did with her own time was none of their business, really.
The ice in her voice had sliced Ron's heart to the core. He had managed to keep a thread's hold on his temper, waiting for an explanation while Harry asked the questions.
She had befriended Malfoy while Ron and Harry were occupied with other things. Why where they bothering with her affairs now? They had other things to be doing, now didn't they.
There was an acute pain in her eyes that Ron had misinterpreted as he looked at her, lit by the firelight. So the foolish girl had gone and started fancying Malfoy, and couldn't stand the thought of him being taken away.
His temper was gone before he even opened his mouth. He ranted and raved about how she'd never tried to spend time with them, either, and he expected more from her than falling for the first slimy git that gave her the time of day. After all, she'd done the same with Viktor Krum, what was to be expected? It was so easy for her to dash off to Bulgaria and leave her real friends behind. What a betrayal. Malfoy probably only wanted one thing from her, and if it wasn't getting close to Harry, it was something else. It was too bad Hermione couldn't see past her own stuck-up nose to the real problem.
And what was the real problem? she had shrieked back. She was sorry, but she didn't see much evidence that things had been different without her. All she was to them was someone to cheat off of or to do reasearch for them, or to fight with and cut down in Ron's case. Couldn't they see that she missed them? They were both stupid prats. Malfoy had extended his hand in friendship, she had been properly cautious, and she saw nothing to be worried about. Ron was simply jealous. Malfoy was a lot more than they thought he was, and it was none of their business who she took walks with.
Or fancied? Ron had bellowed, furious. She had flushed hotly, staring him down.
At least Malfoy had the bravery to approach a girl.
The bravery to approach a girl with no wits about her whatsoever? That didn't take much. God only knew what Hermione had done at Durmstrang, but he didn't want to know about it. She seemed to have an insatiable urge to fall for the biggest idiots in the universe, that was what.
She had leaped to her feet, fists clenched, tears in her eyes. Ron hadn't realized then what those tears meant.
She certainly did chase after the biggest idiots in the universe, she had said very quietly, and then she had dashed out of the common room.
Harry had been dumbstruck, watching his two companions battle. Ron had immediately regretted most of his words, but his pride kept him from racing after his mussy-haired best friend. Harry had turned to him, sparks in his jade eyes.
If Ron didn't fix this somehow, Harry himself would speak up. He for one wasn't going to stand by and watch Hermione break her own heart over and over again because she chased after complete prats.
Ron had remained in the common room long after Harry had gone to bed, brooding. Why was he so angry that Hermione fancied someone else? True, that someone seemed to be Draco Malfoy, his sworn enemy. But that wasn't it.
He hated things like this. Dredging up how he felt about his dark- eyed companion always confused him, left him wishing and heartbroken. It was easier not to think about it... but he had to, this time.
While Hermione was in Durmstrang, everything had seemed flat. Unprofitable. He had missed the vibrant expression on her face, the way she launched herself into every cause or every idea with her whole being, whether she supported or opposed it. He had missed the way that the fall breezes caught her hair and her scarf, whipping them out behind her as she cheered on the Quidditch team. He missed the way she tapped her quill on his Ancient Runes text to get him to focus and pay attention. He missed her quaint beauty, the awkward, shy way she had of caring about her looks. The way her satchel slumped in the corner after a long hard day of studying, the way her small body stretched in a chair in front of the fire. The way she spoke, clearly and articulately, never wasting a word. The way she bickered with him, always so sure she was right. Her hair. Her hands. Her smile. Even her bloody cat.
He missed her.
He hated it.
He had avoided Hermione Granger because he had realized this in her absence-- how much he truly cared. He was terrified she would see it in his eyes, or in the way he walked next to her, or hear it in his voice. In not wanting to risk her friendship, he had destroyed it anyway. Her eyes had been hurt every time she had looked his way, her expression briefly bewildered. She had spent her time with Neville Longbottom, Seamus Finnigan, Lee Jordan, at first... even Fred and George Weasley. Surrounded by her fellow Gryffindors. But she had gravitated toward that despicable Slytherin, and it made Ron angry.
For more than one reason. Why did everyone else have the courage to speak up? To ask Hermione for her time, for her hand, for a walk or a smile? What was wrong with him, that he couldn't even try?
He was afraid. Afraid that Hermione would stare at him in disbelief and shake her head. Afraid that an awkward moment would stretch into an awkward friendship, and that they would break apart like a fragile clay vase.
// this basement's a coffin / i'm buried alive / i'll die in here just to be safe / i'll die in here just to be safe... //
Well, he didn't have anything more to lose. He had already made her cry. His pride was in shambles. He missed her, and he cared, and it wasn't fair that everyone else got her... and she should know it before she did anything else. If Hermione didn't care for him, it was his own fault for not showing her better.
But... she did. He blinked, sudden realization breaking through the haze of regret in his mind. She did care, because she chased after the biggest gits in the universe. Her tears, her hurt, her animosity suddenly made sense. She had meant what she said, and now he understood it. Harry's cutting comment about her breaking her heart over idiots had infuriated Ron, but it only confirmed what he was thinking.
Hermione cared.
Or he hoped she did. Maybe he was reading too much into it. Maybe she was just being defensive. Maybe... but no. Thinking that way would only crush his courage to a pulp.
When Ron had come to the library an hour later (where else would Hermione have been found in times of trouble?), intending to take Hermione's hands in his and apologize, he felt his heart freeze and drop, shattering against the floor stones. So this is what keeping your temper and humbling yourself brought you to. So this is what mistranslating, hoping, imagining eventually gave you.
Your beautiful best friend kissing your most hated opponent.
// 'cause you're gone / i get nothing / and you're off with barely a sigh / i never said "goodbye" //
He remembered the satisfying smack as his fist had connected with Malfoy's jaw. Hermione had tried to pry him off; then she had stumbled back, raising her hands to staunch the flow of crimson from her nose. He had dimly wanted to go to her, but Malfoy's fist planting itself in his solar plexus had changed his mind. Hermione had rushed at them.
And then he was on the floor, blood streaming from his nose, and Malfoy was gone. Hermione was bending over him, crying profusely, pinching the bridge of his nose to stop the bleeding and half-yelling at him. She was sorry for everything, but especially sorry he was such an idiot. It was the stupidest thing she had ever done and she was sorry, sorry for it all and she hated it now, she hadn't been herself, she was only trying to get him to wake up and maybe look around, he was such an idiot, why'd he have to go and do that? She hated all of this because it made her hurt her best friend, her Ron...
Her Ron.
// this ruined puzzle is beige / with the pieces all face-down / so the placing goes slowly / the picture's of anything / other than "it's meant to be" //
They'd avoided one another since that night. Now Ron sat in the Gryffindor common room, putting his feet up on the coffee table and then taking them off, standing up and pacing to the fireplace only to come back round and sit at the place he'd just abandoned.
He never thought she might feel that way. Hermione wasn't a girl to get wrapped up in emotions, to worry about what people thought of her. He should have guessed something was different in the way she looked at him, the pain that flashed through her eyes before she turned back to her book or her conversation.
He loved her. He'd never thought of it so plainly, and the word blazed in his brain as he sat in shock. He tried it in his mouth, quietly.
"I love her."
He had to know. Krum had got her, Malfoy had got her, and it was Ron's turn to have a chance. He'd waited for over five years now, and he wasn't going to wait any more.
// i've written a note / it's pressed between pages / that you've marked to find your way back //
He'd handed the book back to her at breakfast that morning. It was one she had read for Muggle Studies and loaned to him, one she thought he might learn something from. Poems. At first glance, Ron had been disgusted. This Muggle-- whatsisname Frost-- had to have been a pansy. Hermione had encouraged him to at least try, for heaven's sake, and he had. And he had enjoyed it.
Even more now that it carried his entire heart on a tiny sheaf of paper. How long would it be before she found it? What if she never did?
// what if the pages stay pressed / the chapters unfinished / the story's too dull to unfold //
There was nothing to do now but wait. Ron kicked at the table leg and cursed himself again.
What kind of idiot was he, thinking she'd care for him?
**********
She sat in the wide stone sill of the window, wrapped in a fleece blanket, watching the diamond studs of stars glimmer in the sky. It was late, she knew. Her body was tired, but her mind, always active, was wide awake.
// so this is odd / the painful realization / that all has gone wrong / and nobody cares at all //
She observed with a detached air that it was cold, but did nothing to change it. One hand absently stroked the bundle of bones and ginger fur that kept her feet warm. It purred appreciatively. At least she had Crookshanks.
It had all got out of hand. Out of her hands, anyhow. She wasn't sure when, really. Was it the last summer, when she had exited the train and waved goodbye? Was it the letters she'd dashed off hurriedly, to tell Ron and Harry that she'd be going to Durmstrang that fall? When she'd returned? When she'd first allowed Draco Malfoy to walk beside her along the lakeshore? When Ron had come round the end of the bookshelf and found them?
It was none of these, she knew. There was no precise moment, no searing instant wherein she had realized that all of this was not going according to plan.
Really... there had been no plan. Perhaps just a silly opportunity. Ron and Harry had been so horribly busy with all their activities, and she just wished for a moment that they would realize that she was home, that she was there now, that she could be part of that, too.
In that wishing moment Draco Malfoy had stepped in and... befriended her? That wasn't quite right. Fascinated her. Lured her. Something about the tall, blond boy had changed over the summer. He was quieter, less prone to snarl and sneer than to raise an eyebrow and shake his head pityingly. His cruelty was less childish, more cold-- he had learned the art of aloofness, of complete indifference.
Hermione had noticed this, even among her classes and her studying. His black-clad shape always seemed to hover at the edge of her vision. She didn't like it-- it frightened her. At first she had tried to busy herself at every possible moment, with anyone present... she was sure Neville Longbottom was quite terrified by the sudden abundant attention he had received from her.
It hadn't done the trick, hadn't made her feel any more safe. She drew into herself, trying to make herself small and unnoticeable. That had seemed to work... with everyone but him.
She reached down to her feet and drew Crookshanks toward her, snuggling him under her chin. She could hear the satisfied rumble in the cat's belly as she scratched between his ears, and she sighed quietly. At least now Malfoy was gone. At least now she could think clearly, without that odd cloud that seemed to descend on her whenever he was near.
Durmstrang had been so strange, so unfamiliar. Hogwarts was drafty and damp, mysterious, but never frigid. Durmstrang and its surrounding countryside had an aura of watchfulness, of cold irritation that a foreigner had dared to step foot on their soil. Many nights she had curled up near the small fire in her room, close to tears in her loneliness. She had longed for Harry and Ron so very much... and had even found herself missing the rather oily Professor Snape. Viktor tried to soothe her, with an earnestness that only made her feel guilty. She couldn't return the favor, couldn't simply reach out and pat his arm or say a sweet word. It wasn't in her. All her words had been left behind when she'd come to Bulgaria.
During those lonely times, she found her thoughts turning to her friends. One in particular had made several unexpected guest appearances, and those rather irritated her with their sentimentality. Ron was her best friend, but he was a nuisance and a git.
Still, she couldn't help remembering the endearing lankiness of his movements, of the sparkle in his eyes when he'd had a particularly mischievous plan. She remembered the frown of concentration that always creased his forehead as he contemplated the chess board, or tried to understand the abstract concepts in Astronomy. The way his face would flare crimson in embarrassment or scarlet in rage, and how she could tell the difference in the colour. The way he bickered with her, always so sure he was right. The way his distinctive hair managed to look disheveled no matter what the occasion, the way he treated his little sister, the way he sat bent over his cauldron in Potions. The way he cheered at Quidditch games, and bellowed at the referee. His spattering of freckles. His hands. His smile. Even his ridiculous owl, Pidwidgeon.
She missed him.
She hated it.
She had returned to Hogwarts, determined that nothing would be different, that nobody would have any idea of just how much she had missed Ron Weasley. But something must have gleamed through her normal exterior, something must have leaked out. Ron had begun to avoid her, looking startled when she offered her help in class or tried to loan him a book. He spent longer hours out on the Quidditch field, practicing until it was too dark to see, or played wizard's chess in the corner of the common room with Seamus Finnigan.
Hermione, bewildered, began to back away, hurt by his complete inattention. Didn't their friendship mean more to him than that? Even if he had seen something in her eyes, he couldn't have known for sure. Nobody knew, and nobody could have told him. What was wrong?
// so this is strange / our sidestepping has come to be / a brilliant dance / where nobody leads at all //
Hermione had surprised even herself at how quiet and withdrawn she became. Between being wary of Malfoy-- why did he bother her so?-- and confused by Ron, not to mention a heavy class load, left precious little energy for anything else. Harry was concerned, she knew, but rarely had time to do more than smile and toss an "all right, there, Hermione?" her way. She understood and forgave him without speaking, seeing the apology in his eyes.
It made Hermione feel wretched, racked with guilt. Had she ruined their friendship with her three-month absence from school? Broken the glue she had thought was indestructible, the glue that bound her, Ron, and Harry together?
Walking by the lake was the only thing that helped her really relax. She couldn't believe she hadn't found this beautiful haven before... but she had never needed it until then.
When Draco Malfoy had fallen into step beside her on that first day, she had been so startled she'd nearly slapped him. She'd tried to get him to leave her alone, affecting a haughty, offended attitude. He didn't let her insults penetrate his smooth exterior. In fact, he skillfully turned them back on her, smirking in a way that infuriated her... and made her laugh. And when she laughed, she wondered why she'd never realized that he was really very good-looking.
However, when he was away, she could hardly remember him. It was as if he were a construct, made of dust, that blew apart and vanished into thin air the instant she turned her back . Her thoughts perpetually turned to her bright-haired best friend, though she became practiced at pushing them back into a corner of her mind. Still he avoided her. Still she took walks with Malfoy.
At least someone was trying to be a friend... no matter what he wanted. Was she really that lonely? Pathetic, really... and untrue. Was she trying to get Ron to notice her? This world of emotion was strange to her, completely foreign. She had never played the catty games other girls played, never tried to catch a boy's eye. Was that what she was doing now? It troubled her, but she couldn't seem to stay away from her walks along the lakeshore.
When Ron and Harry confronted her, Hermione had instantly become defensive. So they chose now to try to claim ownership... she's our girl, Malfoy, not yours, and we're taking her back. That was simply ridiculous, she had renounced them, claiming she could spend her time with anyone she chose.
Ron had been furious, his face scarlet as he finally burst out, raging about the way she'd been acting since her return from Durmstrang. He couldn't believe she chased after every slimy git under the sun, really, it was awful.
Hermione had lifted her chin defiantly. Ron was trying to hurt her, to wound her in this argument. Why? She had shot back that at least Malfoy had the courage to talk to a girl, and Ron had blushed hotly in embarrassment. His face was a rather terrible shade of red, almost purple, as he screamed at her that she seemed to have a talent for falling head over heels for complete idiots.
Hermione felt herself snap. Ron was right. She had only been fooling herself, thinking she could make him care for her. All her efforts had been completely futile, and it was all his fault. If only he'd open his eyes for one moment, to look at her as a girl and not as bushy-haired Hermione Granger, faithful chum and decent chess player, maybe then he'd see what was really there. He was a complete idiot.
She certainly did fall for them, she'd said very quietly, and left the room.
// ...and the ringing from this empty sound / is deafening and keeping you from sleep / and breathing is a foreign task / and thinking's just too much to ask... //
It was too dark to walk along the lakeshore, and she needed some kind of sanctuary. Hot tears were tumbling down her flushed cheeks, and she had run along the stairs and corridors until she reached the library. It was nearly empty, a few straggling students checking out books to study for their Charms or Potions midterms. Hermione had slipped between the stacks and come to stand near her favorite window, pressing her forehead against the cold glass. She had cried there for who knew how long, before she felt him standing behind her.
Malfoy's face was devoid of expression, but his eyes were concerned. He reached out his hand and gently put it on her long hair, stroking it. Hermione turned round to tell him to go away, all she really wanted was to be alone... but she couldn't. The words queued up in her throat, crowding themselves, until she couldn't unjumble them to speak. Malfoy stepped forward and took her chin in his hand.
It was only meant to be a friendly kiss, she knew instinctively. To ease her hurt... but suddenly it became something else. Malfoy's arms had tightened around her, and Hermione found herself reciprocating, drawing a terrible comfort from the intensity of his mouth on hers. It had almost been painful, almost too much to bear, but she couldn't step away. Something held her there, something that wasn't entirely under her control. A starving, dark thing that seemed to empty her from the inside out, wanting more than she could give to it, wanting her completely. It sucked her dry of everything she felt for anyone but the boy who pressed his mouth so fiercely to hers. Tears had streamed from her eyes.
She remembered Ron saying her name. She remembered feeling sick and dizzy as Malfoy had released her, trying for a moment to place Ron's voice, his face. She had stood with her hands planted flat on the library table for the space of a breath, until Ron and Malfoy had begun to throw punches. Startled, she had begun to bellow at them, rushing in to pry them apart. Who had hit her? It was Ron, she knew, because he paused ever so briefly in the fray. The wetness streaming over her mouth and down her chin only angered her further, waking her from the bizarre haze she had succumbed to only moments earlier. She flew into the fight, striking out any which way, until Ron was on the floor and Malfoy was gone.
She was shaking as she knelt beside Ron. They were both a gory mess, but Ron had been the worst, bruised and bloodied. She had scolded him scathingly as she pressed his nose to stop the bleeding she herself had caused. She'd never meant for any of this to happen, she was sorry, she repeated over and over. She couldn't express the relief, the safety that his voice had brought her, breaking that black void Malfoy had nearly sucked her into. She just cried, a deep and cleansing cry, and swore she'd never meant to hurt him. He was hers. Her Ron.
// this is incredible / starving, insatiable / yes, this is love / for the first time / you'd like to think you were invincible / weren't we all before we felt loss / for the first time... //
"I think I love him," Hermione whispered to the drowsy cat under her chin. "Ron, I mean. I think I love him."
Crookshanks stretched and yowled in protest. Hermione soothed him swiftly.
"I mean, I care very much about you, but... I think I love Ron. And if he... if he said there was... if he wanted me, I would go. To him. I... I think he belongs to me, and I to him. Somehow. I don't know. I don't know anything except that I care for Ron more than I ever thought I could and I can't tell him. I'm really not good at this. It's just... it's silly, that's what it is."
Hermione got up from the windowsill, dumping Crookshanks unceremoniously on her bed. She was careful not to wake any of the other girls in the dormitory as she pried her satchel out from under her bed. She had translating to do for her Ancient Runes class, and there was a new book on Transfiguration that Professor McGonagall had loaned her. Nothing would drive this nonsense out of her head like a good bout of studying. Ron didn't care for her. Ron avoided her as if she carried some kind of deadly disease. She, Hermione, had ruined any chance at anything when she had allowed Malfoy to kiss her that way.
She dumped her satchel out on her bed, books and papers rustling together. Crookshanks opened one jade eye and rather glared at her, one paw stretching lazily. A slim blue book was knocked to the floor with a light thump, skidding underneath the bed. Hermione looked her cat straight in the eye.
"If you wake up Parvati Patil, you'll answer for it," she threatened him. Crookshanks responded with a yawn.
Hermione knelt on the floor, groping underneath the bed, and drew out the small book. The compilation of Robert Frost's poems that she had loaned to Ron. He had returned it, with a hasty thanks that morning in the Great Hall, acting as if he needed to get away very quickly. They hadn't spoken much since that night in the library, and every encounter was filled with awkwardness. Hermione had tucked the book away in her bag.
Now she sat on the floor, her back propped against her bedframe, the floor cold on her bare feet. She had genuinely liked the works of Rober Frost, and knew Ron would have. Had he even read them, given them a try? Hermione doubted it. She traced the gilded lettering on the cover, then cracked the volume open, searching for her favorite page.
A scrap of parchment fluttered from the book, sweeping past her elbow and skidding lightly across the floorstones in a draft. Hermione reached out and plucked it up, her sense instantly heightened for any sign of stirring from the other girls. She propped her hands against her knees, turning the scrap over. It was a single line in Ron's swift, messy handwriting, familiar and comforting. However, the note itself made Hermione's heart stop in its tracks for several seconds before it started once more, and she had to read it again. And again. Its simplicity stirred her completely:
"Does he ever get the girl?"
**********
He slouched in an overstuffed chair, long legs splayed before him. He didn't bother getting too comfortable. He'd be up and roaming about again soon enough.
He couldn't sleep.
The rustle of someone coming down the stairs made his heart leap into his throat, but he didn't turn his head. He kept his eyes on the fire.
He saw her out of the corner of his eye, wrapped in her dressing gown, hair untidy. He heard her speak quietly.
"Ron?"
He turned his head to look at her, and she held out the slip of parchment that they both had come to know very well.
"Hullo, Hermione."
They smiled at each other.