Difficult
By: Provocative Envy
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CHAPTER NINE
The next day I ate breakfast with Ron and Harry. I ignored the stifled, confused whispering that was slowly filling the room and deliberately buttered a muffin, wordlessly accepting a platter of bacon from Lavender as she studied me.
"So…how are things?" Ron asked awkwardly, taking a gulp of orange juice and exchanging a bewildered glance with Harry.
"Fantastic," I lied, shaking my head. "No, that's not true. Honestly? It's been shit without you two."
Harry shot me a lopsided smile, his glasses glinting in the harsh morning light. Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed a tall, blond figure abruptly stand up and leave.
"Well, you have been spending a ton of time with Malfoy," he pointed out. "That couldn't have been very much fun."
"Harry!" Lavender interjected, swatting his hand. "Don't! They've just broken up, don't be so—so insensitive!"
Harry, Ron, and I all looked at her, mouths open, before laughing. She turned red, pressing her lips together and staring at Ron in dismay, but he didn't notice.
"That reminds me," Harry whispered in my ear, "we really should talk about what we've been planning for Malfoy, Ron's had a brilliant idea—"
"Harry!" I cried, exasperated. "Stop it, will you? Just let it go."
"No way," Ron said between mouthfuls of oatmeal. "That prick's had it coming for years."
"Well—yeah," I admitted. "But—"
"Just let us handle it, 'Mione," Ron interrupted reassuringly.
"I don't think—" I began to protest, stopping when I realized they were no longer listening.
But Ron continued to grin at me, chuckling at a quiet joke Harry made—and I suddenly felt sick.
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She came after me before dinner, slender arms wrapped around her torso.
"Why are you doing this, Hermione?" she demanded angrily.
"Doing what?" I asked, taken aback.
"Just—just coming back," she replied, waving a dismissive hand in my direction. "Just like that. You abandoned him—them, I mean—for months, you know, and just when things are going so well, you have to—to rush back in and ruin it."
"Lavender," I said patiently, "that's not really what's happening. Ron is really happy with you—"
"I don't even know what's so special about you," she continued as if I hadn't spoken. "You're not that pretty. Or fun. Or—or anything. First it was Viktor Krum, then Ron, then Malfoy—how you managed that, I've no idea, but he's not exactly a prize, is he, so I guess he doesn't count—and now you're taking Ron back again, on—on a whim, I just don't understand—"
"Lavender!" I interrupted loudly. "I am not taking Ron back."
She blinked, wrinkling her nose.
"You're not?"
"Of course not," I replied, indignant. "Do you not remember how horrible he was to me after we broke up? The things he said? Why would I want him back?"
"Because—well, because you're upset about Malfoy," she said, still eyeing me suspiciously.
I sighed.
"Ron and I aren't getting back together, okay? You don't have anything to worry about. Remember how annoying he thought I was when we dated? Yeah? He couldn't stand me. Was always comparing me to you," I rambled.
"Really?" she asked timidly. "Oh, good, because we made love, you know, just the other night, and, well, I don't think it went very well—it was just so messy—but I don't know, he didn't say anything, not really, and I was hoping you could ask him—"
"You—you want me to find out what he—what he thought about it?" I squeaked.
"Well—yes. He'd tell you, I'm sure of it. He used to tell you everything, didn't he?"
"Why not ask him yourself?" I managed to say.
She blanched.
"That would be humiliating. Can you even imagine?" She shuddered.
I furrowed my brow.
"Um—why, exactly? I've never done it, but I assume that if you're comfortable enough to do—do that, then you can talk about—"
"You've never done it? Not with anyone? But—I thought—you and Malfoy—everyone said—" she stammered.
"No."
"Oh," she said crisply, her voice short. She straightened her shoulders. "Oh."
She gave me a cold, practiced smile, and sniffed.
"Well, never mind, then," she simpered, her eyes chilly. "I'll just have Parvati do it. Have a good night, Hermione."
She flounced off, her posture perfect, as I remained in the foyer, puzzled by what had just transpired.
"Hey, are you coming to dinner?" Ron called to me from the doorway. I started, wondering how long he'd been standing there.
"No," I said, turning towards the stairs. "I'm not hungry."
"Oh," he said, clearly disappointed. "You sure?"
"I'm sure, Ron."
And then I went to the Astronomy Tower.
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He was there—of course he was there—but I'd hoped for that, hadn't I?
"Did you tell someone that we broke up?" I asked, clearing my throat as I moved to stand next to him at the window.
"That's what you wanted, isn't it?" he drawled.
"No," I replied tartly. "No, what I wanted was for no one to think we were together in the first place."
"Well, it's a little too late for that," he said, rolling his eyes. "Really too late."
"Right."
An awkward silence fell and I glanced at his face, at his pristine, pale skin, at his precisely curved lips—and I shivered.
"What do you want?" he asked tiredly.
"I—" I started to answer before stopping. What did I want? What was I doing there? "I don't know, actually."
He watched me for a second, eyes narrowed, and smirked.
"Missed me, did you?"
I didn't immediately respond, choosing instead to stare resolutely out the window; it was that time of the year when the days were just starting to get longer, the sunsets more pronounced, the colors more vibrant, and I thought dispassionately about how pretty the lake looked, reflecting back the deep pink and the dusty orange of the sky.
"You're the only person in this entire castle who knows the truth and—and isn't trying to tell me what I should do about it," I burst out, clenching my fists. "Or—you did, but that hardly counts, because…"
I trailed off, wondering why, exactly, it didn't count.
"They should know better," I continued. "I was so relieved when they believed me, you know? That they didn't think the worst of me, despite all the rumors. But now I wonder if that had less to do with me and more to do with—with finding another excuse to hate you. It suited them to believe me, and that's somehow worse than if they'd thought we actually were…"
"Fucking," he finished casually, tapping his fingers against the stone ledge and leaning forward.
I winced.
"Yeah. That."
"Maybe they just care about you," he offered, arching a brow.
I snorted, twisting my lips.
"That's it," I said bitterly.
And that was when he snapped.
"Oh, for the love of—just—just wake up, Granger! You have friends who fucking love you, friends who would do almost anything to protect you, and do you have any fucking concept of how infuriating it is to sit here and listen to you whine about that? Do you? You—you're beautiful, and you're smart, and you have the Boy Who Fucking Lived wanting to fight all your battles for you—"
He broke off, voice hoarse.
"I spent my whole life being told that I was better than everyone else—that I was incapable of fucking anything up, ever. Nothing was my fault. Nothing I did was wrong. And I believed it, too, because my parents were perfect, and always right, and they wouldn't lie to me, would they? But then I got here, and wondered why everyone was worshipping some skinny little twit in glasses and not me. It used to keep me up at night, you know, because I just didn't get it.
"And so I've spent almost seven whole years being blindly, irrationally fucking jealous of him; of you; even of that incompetent fucking redhead you all seem to find so hilarious. "
"I don't—"
"No," he snarled. "It's my turn to talk. The three of you just—just bothered me, you know? I hated Potter more than you, though, for whatever that's worth. Until we grew up. Until it became obvious to me that the reason everyone was following him around and not me was because I—well, I wasn't so wonderful, was I?"
He swallowed, and I watched, dazed, as he turned his head slowly, so slowly, towards me.
"And then Snape found us that night, and I had this incredible opportunity to fuck with you just sitting in my lap, really, and of course I took it—and…absolutely fucking nothing has gone right since. Nothing."
I inhaled sharply.
I wanted to kiss him more than I wanted to breathe—which should have surprised me, but it didn't, not even a tiny bit, and I thought, weakly, of how cruel he'd been just the night before, how little time had really passed; it felt like an eternity, though, it felt like years ago, because the boy standing in front of me wasn't the same, he was different now, he was insightful and honest and—and so much more than just a bully, and—
"And then at breakfast this morning I saw you sitting together again, for the first time in ages, and—and I lost my shit completely," he confessed, staring down at me. "I had the most awful epiphany, too, because I hated Potter more than ever—which I honestly didn't think was possible—and I realized that it had nothing to do with him and everything to do with you."
He reached for me, then, placing his hands delicately on my shoulders, his eyes boring into mine—
"I hated him—both of them—no, I fucking hated everyone at that goddamn table," he said, his grip growing tighter. "Because you'd walked into that room and chosen to sit there. They got to look at you, and talk to you—and I didn't. And then, bizarrely, I remembered when I kissed you the other night, and how all I wanted to do—"
"Please stop talking now," I pleaded.
And he did.
He kissed me cautiously at first, his lips soft and hesitant; but then I made a sound—nothing more than a small sigh of satisfaction—and he opened his mouth, his breath warm and moist and delicious, and I pulled him closer—and everything changed.
His fingers were buried in my hair, his tongue was tangling rather ferociously with my own, and I felt a quick stab of heat pulse through my chest, spreading, no, invading, and then he was backing me up, propelling me towards a wall—had he picked me up, I couldn't tell, I felt too weightless—and pushed his body against mine, his hips nestled firmly against my lower abdomen—
And then his hands were roaming quickly, furiously, squeezing, rubbing, trailing like liquid fire over my skin, and his lips were on my throat, my ears, my collar bone, his fingers grappling with the buttons on my shirt, and my skirt had hiked itself up, my thighs were exposed, they were creamy white against the black of his pants, and I could see his thumb curve under the edge of my underwear, hear him groan, and then—and then—
"Oh," I whispered, stunned, shaking, my face pressed into his neck.
He stepped back, letting my skirt fall back down, smoothing out the pleats for me.
"That was what I wanted to do."
And all I could do was smile.
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