Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter and/or the characters of the original story created by J.K. Rowling.
AN: Thanks, as usual to my lovely beta, nelpher. Awful sentence structures and wayward grammar errors shudder in your presence. Hehe!
Chapter Four: She's Mental
Thankfully, it is Saturday; therefore, I've no need to go to work. I putter about my tiny flat doing chores I've neglected to complete for the past week. When those are finished, I find extra work to do to occupy my time…and my mind; especially my mind, because if I don't, my thoughts inevitably return to Draco and the moments after our lunch on Friday.
That bloody wanker.
What did he mean by 'not liking to play games?' As far as I see it, he's the one who started this 'Feel-Me-Up' business in the first place! As a matter of fact, I am never the one to initiate those intimate touches. I've never even had my chance to touch him! And yet, that condescending bastard behaves as though I'm at fault.
I don't like to play games, especially when I'm losing.
Especially when he's losing? That line is entirely open to interpretations I'm unable to interpret. What could he be losing? His sanity, no doubt. One moment he's pawing at me or shoving his tongue down my throat, and the next moment he's insulting me or treating me coldly. There's no middle ground with him. Just loads of confusion.
Sorting through my closetful of clothing, I pick out bits that are unlikely to be worn again and stuff them into a large garbage bag. With such wonderful spring weather, I decide that a walk to the local Salvation Army would be an ideal way to take my mind off of gorgeous…no…obnoxious blond-haired prats whose touches had no right making my skin tingle.
I am just about to heft the bag over my shoulder when I hear a knock at my door. Puzzled as to the identity of my visitor—Lavender is at work, and Ginny went with Seamus to Ireland for the weekend—I make my way to the door, open it, and find Ron Weasley standing there with a bouquet of roses.
After the War, Ron and I had dated for one year and had been engaged during the second one. For most of that time, I'd loved Ron, and to a certain extent, I believed he'd loved me too. But somewhere along the line, things had gone terribly, irreparably wrong, and there had been no salvaging our past friendship at the termination of our relationship.
I think the beginning of the end started when I applied for university. After I'd returned and completed my studies at Hogwarts, I'd immediately owled my application to an affordable, respectable Wizarding university. Within days, I received an acceptance letter—no doubt its expedience based on the fact that I was a glorified 'War Heroine'—and feeling jubilant and accomplished, I'd rushed to share the news with Ron, only to receive an uncaring shrug.
"I don't see the need, 'Mione," he'd said. "Wasn't Hogwarts enough?"
"No, Ron, of course it isn't!" I'd argued. "My career depends on a proper—"
"It's always about you, isn't it?" he'd interrupted in tones of slight disgust. "You and your career."
"Ron, don't be ridiculous," I'd snapped, equally surprised and irritated with his tone. "How can you say such a thing when this past year I've been supporting your efforts to get In with the Chudley Cannons? Not that there's been much progress on that front, anyway."
Even before the hurt had usurped his face, I'd regretted my words.
Sneering, he'd replied: "Well, at least I'm trying to do something with my life Instead of hiding away from the real world in school."
From there, a two-day row had begun, where we gave each other the cold shoulder. I was miffed and more than a little hurt that Ron had harboured the idea that I was using school as an excuse to hide from reality, and that I was selfishly thinking only of my career. And maybe the reason why it had stung so much was because he was partially right.
Nevertheless, we had made up on the third day of our silent treatment, and the day after, during dinner at a nice restaurant, Ron had proposed. Astonished by the sudden turn of events and mindful of the smiling onlookers, I'd stuttered out an acceptance. But that night, a tiny spark of doubt had lit inside me as to whether I should truly marry Ron.
The light crumbling of our relationship worsened into landslides when I began my schooling in the fall of 1999. I became swamped with coursework, and when I wasn't, I pretended to be too busy to make time for Ron. I'd begun to get scared of a future with him, especially when he made offhand comments about me not having to work when he was drafted by the Cannons, and me staying home to take care of the six children he was hoping to have...
When he was indeed drafted by the Chudley Cannons, I got downright terrified. He began to insinuate that I needn't continue my studies due to his growing wealth, and when I persisted in attending university, he became petulant and mean. Then, in the spring of 2000, after the frenzied talk of the ending of the world had died down amongst the Muggles, the final nail was hammered into the coffin that held our deteriorated relationship.
I'd just completed my final exams and had gone to Ron's—he was still living with his mum and dad—to celebrate my temporary freedom. Entering, as usual, through the kitchen door, I had headed directly towards the living room, knowing he'd be upstairs in his room. In hindsight, the loud moaning and grunting should have tipped me off that something was amiss, but for some reason those sounds had not reached my ears until later.
However, the sight of Ron's naked freckled arse moving up and down between a pair of slim, toned thighs had been fairly hard to miss. Their moans and groans of their lewd act on poor Mrs. Weasley's floral sofa had then decided to make themselves heard. Loudly.
My immediate surprise had vanished in the dawning of my fury, and so, without thinking before acting, I had picked up the closest thing to hand—a conveniently hefty ceramic ornament of a cherubic angel uplifting its arms in a silent plea—and had flung it in the direction of the moving bodies. It had connected with a satisfying thump at the back of Ron's spotty neck.
"Ow! Fuck!" he'd cried, spinning his head around to find me foaming at the mouth. The look on his face at the sight of me was one to remember: caught, astounded, scared...
From there, the memories dissolve into enforced blurriness. The pain of Ron's cheating had felt like a sucker-punch to the gut, and to endure it, I had forced myself to forget. To have erased my memories or cap them magically would have worsened the situation. Indeed, I wanted to forget, but I also wanted to remember the lesson he'd taught me so painfully: how giving away your heart freely had destructive and irremediable consequences.
And although that hurtful episode occurred years ago, I can't quite help the ache in my heart at the sight of Ron Weasley now.
"What do you want?" I ask coldly.
He attempts a half-smile. "'Mione, can't I come inside?"
I fold my arms beneath my breasts and look at him coolly. "My name is Hermione, and no you can't come inside. I'm going out."
"Why do you always…" He huffs out a breath. "Look, I've been trying to owl you since...well...since you left, but all my messages kept being blocked. And since you moved away, I didn't know where you were living, and neither Harry nor Ginny would tell me either."
I scowl. "So how did you find me?"
He blushes. "Err...never you mind that. Here." He shoves the flowers into my face.
Reluctantly, I take the flowers, feeling like if I've betrayed some part of myself for accepting his absurdly late gift of apology.
"So, won't you let me come in?"
"I said no, Ron. I'm going out. I was just about to leave when you knocked."
He eyes my tattered shorts and my holey blue shirt with the burnt mark just below the navel.
"Where are you going?"
Anger swells and explodes within me. How dare he question me? That cheating arsehole! He has no right asking such personal questions. I have a good mind to tell him to sod off and take his bloody roses and shove them where the sun doesn't shine and where grass doesn't grow. I'm already gearing up to tell him just that when a better idea strikes me.
"I'm going on a date. With someone I work with. A man."
And, because his look of disbelief is so provoking, I can't help myself by adding:
"With Draco Malfoy."
And, because Fate is a twisted little witch—give or take a letter; preferably the letter 'b'—whom should I see stepping out of the flat right across from mine but that blond-haired devil himself. If I've never believed in divine intervention or miracles before, I believe in them now. Or maybe that git has charmed his name so that when spoken, he'll suddenly appear.
"Hello, Weasel. Still as ugly as ever I see."
"Malfoy?" Ron spits in disgust. "You're with Malfoy?*
It is a glorious, heady feeling to watch hate, jealousy, disgust and shock roil within the depths of Ron's eyes. To watch his mouth agape as he stares between Malfoy and I, looking as though he's been horribly betrayed. And I relish it; so much in fact that I regret not thinking to employ this retaliation a lot sooner.
Deciding to up the ante in this game, I drop Ron's flowers to the floor, reach out and tug Malfoy's hand, an adoring smile aimed up at him. He complies, coming forwards and into my flat's entrance. Grateful that he is playing along, I smile even wider, going even further by lifting my hand to lightly caress his jaw. Beneath the pads of my fingers, I can feel the short hairs of his beard's shadow, and it sends tiny delicious jolts through my fingertips.
"Hi darling," I say sweetly.
Brazenly, he encloses his arms around my waist and hugs me to him, and my heartbeat begins to pick up speed. With my breasts squashed up against his chest, I'm sure he can feel the heavy thud-thud of my heart. And when he smiles, a disarmingly genuine lifting of the comers of his lips, baring straight white teeth, I'm just about ready to turn into goo.
"Hey babe. Miss me?" he says in husky tones.
I'm hopelessly, hopelessly attracted to Draco Malfoy.
"Get your bloody paws off her, ferret!" demands Ron, spittle flying as he lifts his hands and shoves Malfoy away.
And, in a blink of an eye, Draco's charming smile dissolves into the nastiest scowl I've yet to see. He whips out his wand and so does Ron, and because I can feel the potency of the magical energy brewing, I step between the two of them, arms extended to keep them at a safe distance from each other.
"Draco, stop. Ron, leave," I command.
"What?" Ron snarls. "Ferret can stay but I can't?"
"Yes, that's right," I say.
He sneers. "I can't believe you're fucking Malfoy. Merlin, 'Mione, you're a lot worse off than I was that time. You're actually spreading your legs for that—"
I turn fully to face Ron, fold my fingers into a tight fist, lift my arm and rear it back as far as it can go, and then release it with every single bit of my strength. My fist connects with his face in a loud, sickening thump-crunch, and his entire body spins away to the side like a spinning-top that's been knocked off-course, landing roughly on the hallway carpet.
Pain rockets from my knuckles and fans out across the flat of my hand. I am fairly sure a bone or two is broken but my apoplexy is so all-consuming, I ignore the thought. Instead, my heart swells with the intense need to hurt Ron. To hurt him so badly he'll never, ever recover from the pain. Wounding him physically alone will not suffice. I want permanent, soul-wrecking damage.
I am breathing heavily, holding my aching right hand with the left. An odd sort of ringing is sounding in my ears, and my chest, neck and face feels hot.
"Get out." The frosty tone is so foreign to my ears that I'm inwardly amazed that it's my own voice.
He whines from where he his lying on the floor. "You bitch! You broke my nose, you stupid—"
The scream that rips from my throat is so sudden, it even surprises me. All of my anger, hurt and frustration is invested in that scream. The rage and the disbelief that I once loved this boy—this man—and that in the end, it had all been for naught. That he is so callous, so selfish, that after breaking my heart into pieces so miniscule they could be categorised as glitter, he's only just come to apologise for his misdeeds three years late, then has the audacity to judge me.
"Get out!" I scream incessantly, uncaring that three of my four neighbours have their doors open and are peeking out at me, uncaring that Draco Malfoy is right behind me and is bearing witness to this humiliating incident, uncaring that Ron has already scampered off after calling me 'bloody insane,' and that I'm screaming at the dirty grey carpet.
And when I become too hoarse to scream anymore, I feel my body sag, my energy thoroughly depleted. However, I'm held up by strong arms wrapped around my midsection.
Draco.
He kicks the door shut, blocking inquisitive eyes from this crazy-woman show. Still encasing me in his arms, he turns me around to face him but I can't. I just can't.
"Hermione."
And because he's spoken it so softly, so kindly, so pityingly, I press my face into his shirt and begin to cry.
AN: Here you go my lovelies! And even though I'm aware that the Hermione-catches-Ron-cheating bit is thoroughly overdone in fanfic, it was the perfect explanation for Hermione's negative perception of love. Anywhat, hope you liked the update. Tell me what you think! :)