Disclaimer: Nope, don't own Harry Potter.
Summary: Setting: The Quidditch World Cup, fourth year. Why Draco was there insulting Harry and his 'nugatory' friends when he could have just told the rampaging Death Eaters their whereabouts.
Ought
Honesty. Wasn't a word of much meaning to Draco. He had learned, be taught to separate between what he felt and what he ought to have felt. Thinks he thought, words he wanted to say, feels he sensed; were one thing. Thinks he ought to have thought, words he ought to have wanted to say, feels he ought to have sensed were one other thing.
And because he was a Malfoy, often he would find himself resorting to the latter course. And more often than he would have liked; every one of his act was triggered to action because of his own elusion.
"Granger, they're after Muggles, D'you want to be showing off your knickers in midair? Because if you do, hang around… they're moving this way, and it would give us all a laugh."
He would never tell, would never admit he had ran from his father just to say to her that.
He heard them that night. 'Relishing' from the Quidditch World Cup by rampaging the campsite… something along the line; he hadn't heard the rest of their discussion very well, because his mind had been caught by an image of his own enemy at the gist of their idea.
Transfixed, he ignored how Lucius had bellowed after him, infuriated, and ran to find the Hogwarts golden trios. With only one of them truly on his mind.
He had called her with the offensive word. Again. He had meant to warn her only, because he could not do anything else. But like a failure that he always was; he failed. He called her by her blood. Because he was silently fueled at how protective Potter was over her. At how he couldn't have defended her in turn.
"Hermione's a witch,"
"Have it your own way, Potter. If you think they can't spot a Mudblood, stay where you are."
So he be the hateful boy that he always was.
He had wanted to grasp her wrist and pull her to a safe place with him through the tempestuous night; he knew he could keep her safe. He would never admit, would never tell. Because what he had wanted and ought to have wanted were two different things. Besides, would he get a chance to? Hold her hand and guide her along? To admit and tell? Ever?
She had retorted the way she would, given him a disgusted look.
So he had sneered as though he didn't care, watched her leave.
And they had went their own ought to, separate ways.
Because Draco knew, between them, that was how things ought to have happened.
A/N - Yes, I used figments from the fourth book as the basis of this piece. It is my first work in Harry Potter fandom and hopefully will not be my last :)
Reviews are welcomed and thanks for reading!