You ruined everything, she had cried, feeling the words scratch her throat, tearing at her lungs.
He shrugged, turned away, left.
She had collapsed on the stairs, mascara lines betraying her traditional stubbornness as they traced the tear tracks on her face. She pushed the back of her hand under her reddened nose.
People were staring, sympathetic.
She needed to get out of the room. Out out out out out.
As calmly as she could, she pushed herself to her feet, wobbling in the expensive heels which, while elegant, were quite unnecessary. She silently cursed them as her ankle rolled, causing pain to shoot up her leg and pinprick behind her already tearing eyes.
Deep breath, deep breath, head up, stand tall. Slide out the front door.
Crumple.
The cold thundered in her lungs as she tore off the offensive shoes, leaving them empty and sullen, haphazardly discarded on the stairs. Without a thought to the lilac dress which floated around her lithe frame, she trampled out onto the wet grass surrounding the castle.
She rushed to a tree, hidden behind the side of the building. With her back to the rough bark, she slid down the trunk, wincing as the sharp edges ruined the light fabric and tore at her delicate skin. Angry, thin welts rose on her pale skin, and as she cradled her head in her hands, drops of red blood fell into the muck in which she was crouched. Hissing as the hot liquid progressed down her back, she shook her head at the irony of it all.
Mudblood.
I am a mudblood. The words escaped her mouth, her voice cracking, barely above a whisper. For the first time, she accepted the term, believing all of the connotations.
Malfoy was right.
Granger, I never thought you would see the light.
Her head shot up. There he was, smirking at her tearstained face, shredded dress, mud splattered legs. Normally, she would have been embarrassed, angry, self righteous, but tonight she was defeated.
Go away, Malfoy.
He shrugged (like him), but stood his ground. Not like him.
Again, Go away Malfoy. Softer, gentler.
His eyes swept the scene before him, and he begrudgingly offered her his hand.
She ignored it, but began to examine him more closely. His shirt collar was unbuttoned, tie loosened around his neck, almost carelessly. His usually perfect hair was a slightly disheveled, but it still gleamed in the moonlight. He stood comfortably, at ease, with grace.
He was a ghost.
Her focus turned from his stance to his hand, still outstretched in a silent, momentary truce, and then to his face. The moon behind his head made his eyes hard to read, but the smirk was gone. No mask of superiority, no distain, no smirk. Replaced by what? Concern?
Suddenly ashamed, her head dropped to examine her hands, covered in dirt and wet and mud. Wouldn't want to dirty your pristine hands. The statement was emotionless – she couldn't put spite into her words, couldn't will it in, even though a part of her desperately wanted a ruthless flame of hate to offer edge to her voice. Wanted to frustrate him, make him leave her alone. Wanted him to stop pitying her.
His hand didn't waver.
Malfoy, please, leave me alone. She hated the whine in her voice, the desperation, the underlining, unspoken plea – don't leave, don't leave.
He heard it. Heard the silent message hidden behind her words. He heard it, and, in a move which even surprised himself, crouched down beside her broken form, dropping a hand into the mud. Straightening, he once again offered her his hand, which was now covered in dirty grime. Pristine? he asked.
Shocked, she stared at his hand, which was now smeared with the ground, unsure how to act. He laughed, you're supposed to take it, Granger. As the resident know-it-all, I thought you would have figured that out by now. His words lacked their traditional malice, and even though they still teased gently, it was friendly. Bizarre. Hesitantly, she reached her own, child-like hand into the air, slender fingers wrapping around his palm. His fingers closed around hers, the grains of dirt like sandpaper between them, and with a silent tug, he coaxed her off of the ground and to her feet.
She dropped his hand quickly, hugging her arms to her body, self conscious of her ruined dress and all too aware of the frost on the ground. Noticing her shiver and uncomfortable stance, he relinquished his suit jacket, draping it around her thin shoulders. Too cold to refuse, she embraced the warmth that it provided. Thank you. A whisper. And in return, a slight smile.
Letting her lead the way, he followed her to the double doors of the castle. They stood awkwardly in the soft glow of the entrance candles, his hands thrust deeply in his pockets while she rocked slightly on the balls of her feet. He noticed her previously discarded shoes, and picked them up, offering them out to her. She extended her arm from under his coat, accepting the heels silently. Almost reluctantly, she slid out of the dark jacket, ashamed of how dirty she had made it. She did not meet his gaze. He reached into his pants pocket, drew his wand, and scourgified the coat clean, donning it once again.
Well, he said.
Well, she echoed.
He edged closer to her thin frame, so close she was sure he was going to touch her, was going to knock her over or kiss her or push her or embrace her or something equally frightening. He brought his face down to hers, past her lips, over her cheek, to nuzzle the soft skin of her ear.
He is a fool.
And with a swish of his coat, he was gone, leaving her breathless and alone in the crisp air of the winter night,