The labyrinth of hallways and corridors that was Hogwarts interior meant the likelihood that Hermione would find Malfoy first- before Ron and his posse, at least- was reliant almost entirely on luck. Starting in the library, she made her way to every possible hangout of his. But he was nowhere to be seen. She assumed that if Draco Malfoy didn't want to be found, then he could quite easily remain hidden. Though perhaps that was wishful thinking.
At Ron's earlier declaration of Malfoy's impending death, Hermione had sneaked off to one side and made herself invisible. She was thankful for the distraction Harry caused whilst trying to restrain him, but she didn't have time to stick around and see whether or not his effort was in vain. She had to go do the right thing.
At least she told herself she was doing the right thing. It was easier to blame her own compassion than to stop and ask herself why she was so concerned. It was expected of her to object, of course; to make sure Ron didn't go over the proverbial edge; to be the voice of reason. But she didn't care about Ron and she certainly didn't care about reason. In that moment she cared only about Draco Malfoy. She had to help him, because it was obvious he didn't want to help himself.
When finally she finished her exhaustive search of the castle, she stepped outside and felt the flush of a cool breeze. It was nearing the middle of winter, after all, and she was grateful that she dressed accordingly. The Transfiguration courtyard seemed an unlikely hiding place for Malfoy, but it was on the way and she was fast running out of options. When she saw him seated on one of the many ornate stone benches littered symmetrically around the courtyard itself, and took note that he was unscathed, she heaved a sigh so intense that her knees started to tremble.
Malfoy was lying on his back, an open book resting on his abdomen and a half-eaten, shiny green apple in the hand that wasn't acting as a makeshift cushion. He looked bored, but then, Malfoy always looked somewhat bored, even whilst playing Quidditch. The realisation that she had in the past watched him during Quidditch games wasn't worth thinking about. Not with everything else going on.
As fast as her short legs would take her, she rushed over to him. She was slightly out of breath, having run from one side of the castle to the other, but she managed a smile. It was more than mere relief overriding her emotions. It was him. It was Draco Malfoy. The boy she, for some inexplicable reason, had grown to love. Then he had to open his mouth and spoil everything.
"Afternoon, Mudblood," came his lethargic drawl. "How's life?"
Words. That was all they were. Words she could have shrugged off not long ago. Now though, they sent a searing jolt through her very soul and made her chest feel like it was about to implode. How could four words bring her to the verge of tears? How could he so easily break her heart in two? What was it he had that every other male she found halfway attractive seemed to lack? If only love were a choice.
But regardless of how she felt, he couldn't be allowed to know just how strong and immediate an effect his whim had on her emotional state. Because he would manipulate that. He would use her emotions as a weapon against her, bend her to his will, and loving the most loathsome human being she knew would be the least of her concerns.
"Malfoy," she greeted, but her resolve faltered right away. She could feel the oncoming tears, and her breath hitched in the back of her throat. At this, he sat up and regarded her indifferently, although at least he had the sense of decency to look her in eye. "Malfoy—I thought I should warn you that Ron found out about you and Lavender and is looking for you. So—there you go."
Hermione felt like she was stabbing herself in the back just by giving him the heads up. Maybe she shouldn't have warned him. Maybe he deserved to get beaten up by Ron. Maybe he deserved worse. His stare was too much for her to endure and she turned to leave, but his long, slender fingers snatched her wrist, and not for the first time she let him prevent her hasty exit.
"Why?" he asked, innocently enough.
"Why what, Malfoy?" she replied, still facing away.
"Why do you go out of your way to help someone you hate? What is your fucking problem? Are you stupid? Do you think I'd come and warn you if Pansy was on her way to smash your face in? Well, do you?"
Hermione bit her trembling lip. "I—I don't know."
"Think."
"I don't bloody well know, okay, Malfoy?!" she cried.
Next thing she knew Malfoy was up off the bench, towering over her from behind, still holding her wrist. Without warning he spun her around and fixed her with his piercing gaze, titling her chin up just to do so.
"The answer is no," he sneered. "Do you know what I would do? I would stay and watch. I would cheer her on as she beat the starch out of your knickers. I might even get a little turned on. By a Mudblood, no less. Unfortunately, then I would have to retreat to the nearest bathroom, force my fingers down my throat and purge the very thought from my mind. Because behind your pretty little nose and your big brown eyes, there exists everything I hate in this world."
Hermione wiped away at her tears, and took a deep a breath. "You're a monster."
"Tell me something I don't know."
"I hate you."
Draco smirked. "I knew that."
Hermione was about to make another attempt to escape, but before her brain could send the appropriate signal to her body his lips were on hers—forceful, passionate and intoxicating. His hand dug into her hip and he yanked her towards him; he wanted her to feel what she did to him. No matter how much of prude she was, she must have known that it wasn't his wand pressed against her. In that moment he was desperate to see inside her head and find out exactly what was on her mind. Disgust? Fear? Arousal, perhaps? Either one would have spurred him on.
Hermione despised herself for it, but she was responding vigorously. And not unconsciously, either, as before. Her experience was limited, so she had to make-do with moving her lips against his, following his lead. When he pressed against her she trembled, but a tight knot coiled and uncoiled in the pit of her stomach, telling her exactly what she wanted: Draco Malfoy. And either he wanted her too, or he was playing a very cruel game. For the moment at least, she didn't care which. She needed him.
Then, just as his tongue found it's way into her mouth, it was gone. He was gone. Her lips were still moving in a vain attempt to find his when she opened her eyes to see Draco lying on the floor, Ron Weasley stood over him, and an entire crowd gathered around.
"So this is your game, is it, Malfoy?" asked Ron as he took hold of Malfoy's hair. "Forcing yourself upon helpless girls. You're fucking sick. First my girlfriend, then my best friend. I'm starting to think this is personal."
Hermione held up her hand and was about to protest when Ron, still holding Malfoy, drove his fist into the boy's jaw. The sickening thud of bone against bone caused the crowd to gasp collectively, and Draco fell back limp against the grass below.
"You know, I've always hated you. But this is just too much, even for you."
Draco was forcing himself onto all fours, using his elbows and knees to support his weight, when suddenly Ron drove his foot into his midsection and he fell groaning to the ground once more. Hermione jumped in front of Ron, pressed her hands against his chest and pleaded with him.
"Ron, please, it's not like that. He didn't force himself upon me."
"Don't lie, Hermione," Ron said severely. "There's no way you would willingly snog this scumbag."
Draco again tried to get up, and again Ron knocked him back down with a kick to the midsection. This time Hermione grabbed hold of the front of Ron's jumper and pushed him away.
"I am not lying, Ronald! I kissed him. I came onto him. I wanted it. You cannot beat him up when he is not the one responsible. If you are going to punish someone, punish me."
Draco was spluttering behind them; taking deep, ragged breaths. "She is lying, Weasley. But you know what she's like. Always has to have a cause to fight for. I forced myself upon her, and if you hadn't got here sooner I would have deflowered the little bitch. I would have—"
Weasley's fist driven square into his nose stopped Draco short. And he was pretty sure, almost immediately, that it was broken.
"Shut up, Draco!" Hermione cried.
"Draco?!" Ron repeated. "Since when has he been Draco?"
"Ron, he didn't force himself upon me or Lavender. I'm your best friend. Believe me. Lavender cheated on you. She willingly slept with him. And I willingly kissed him. That is the truth. Why would I lie?"
Hermione was positioned between Ron and Draco, and the crowd had formed a tight circle around them. They were all absolutely silent, still, moving only to glance at one another before returning their attention back to the scene unfolding. It was morbidly fascinating.
With some effort, Draco forced himself to his feet and everyone got a good look at him. The crimson of a bloody nose and split lip formed a striking contrast against his pale skin and fair hair. He was clutching his ribs with one hand, and his breathing sounded rather odd. He was clearly struggling just to stand.
"Alright," said Ron. "Shows over you lot. I think he's learned his lesson."
The crowd stayed planted even as Ron turned to leave. Hermione stepped towards Draco to see if he was alright, and he immediately shrugged her off.
"Where are you going, you bloody coward?" Draco called out after him. "I'm still standing! I haven't learnt a thing! Come back here and finish the job."
Hermione whimpered. "Shut up, Draco! Just shut up!"
Ron sighed and turned back around. He looked from Hermione, then to Malfoy. The two of them were standing awfully close, and as much as such a simple thing pissed him off, he knew when enough was enough. "No. You're finished, Malfoy. I don't need to waste my time with you."
Draco wouldn't be denied though. Not by a Weasley. "That's how it is, is it? I'm not worthy of your time? Well, maybe you're not seeing the situation with absolute clarity."
Draco grabbed hold of Hermione's shoulders and pulled her against him. His hands moved up to her neck, clutched gently at her throat, and he even had the audacity to grin.
"Get your filthy hands off her, Malfoy!"
Draco made a show of burying his nose into her thick mass of curls and inhaling deeply. He looked over her shoulder at Weasley before turning his head to one side and running his tongue up and along her tear strewn cheek. "Mhmm," he murmured. "She tastes so fucking good, Weasley. So good. Better even than your girlfriend."
As Ron charged towards him, fists clenched, Draco pushed Hermione out of harms way and braced himself for the blow that sent him flying backwards. This time it looked like he wasn't getting up and the crowd gathered around his prone form, poking and prodding him.
"What have you done, Ron?" Hermione sobbed.
"What?! I saved you."
"I don't need saving." She pushed him hard in the chest and was about to force her way through the crowd when it parted of its own accord and Draco stepped through unsteadily, brushing by her. His features were swollen black and blue, blood was running from several abrasions spotted around his pale face and his perfect white-blond hair was streaked with dirt. It occurred to her as Draco approached Ron once more that Draco didn't merely want to loathe himself; he wanted other people to loathe him too.
"I'm still standing, Weasley."
"Oh, I'm fucking sick of you, Malfoy," said Ron grabbing him once more by the hair and shoving him forward in front of the gathered crowd. "Does anyone here even like this sorry excuse for a human being? Can anyone stand being in the same room as him?"
No one nodded, No one answered. No one even looked like they might in their wildest dreams have said yes.
"What about you, Hermione?" asked Ron, pushing Malfoy towards her.
"Yeah, Mudblood," Draco lisped, blood running over his swollen lip. "What 'bout you?"
Hermione gazed at Draco, desperate for an answer; something to help her help him. But his gaze was cold; his eyes shiftless, cloudy. He was enjoying this. Perhaps the whole thing with Lavender had just been a means to bring about his own destruction, because above all that's what he craved. He didn't care about other people, or who he hurt along the way. He cared only about himself and his own satisfaction. Seeing the broken-down man before her made Hermione realize that he would never be able to love her back, because beneath that apathetic façade a heart did beat, but not in the conventional sense.
Draco Malfoy felt nothing. He was all but dead to the world. Pain could momentarily ignite what was dying within, but it just made the slow death that much more difficult to endure. She couldn't be what he wanted her to be, and it was more simply than her blood and his prejudice. He was incapable of loving her because he didn't even like himself. They could never look longingly at one another across the way, because for him merely looking his own reflection in the mirror was like slow-motion suicide. He was, for all intents and purposes, ruined, and no matter her desire, the power to fix him was beyond her.
"If no one else is going to stop this then I will!" Hermione blurted out, her resolve returning. "You should all be ashamed of yourselves."
-- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- --
"Lead the way then, Miss Granger," said Professor McGonagall in her characteristically stern tone. "There isn't a moment to spare."
Hermione thought it was important to acknowledge, even if only to herself, that she didn't seek out the nearest authority figure so as to get people into trouble. Or to see that they received the punishment they deserved. She did it because she was concerned. Concerned for Ron, that he might let Draco goad him into doing something he would later regret. And concerned for Draco, because he was slowly sinking into oblivion.
"So who did you say was fighting?" asked McGonagall.
"I didn't, Professor," said Hermione as she strived to keep up with McGonagall's brisk pace.
"Well it might help if you shared the identities of those responsible."
"I couldn't get a good look at their faces," Hermione lied. "There was a crowd gathered around and I couldn't see over it. So I thought it would be best if I found you."
McGonagall's lips drew into a tight line and she nodded her head. They turned the corner into the Transfiguration courtyard and both were expecting to see a crowd. What they saw instead- all they saw, in fact, for the courtyard was deserted- was Draco Malfoy lying unconscious on the floor in a heap. Big bruises shining beneath both his eyes and dried blood spotted at various points around his pale face.
"Oh, dear," said McGonagall.
Hermione wanted to blame Ron for the harrowing sight before her eyes, but she couldn't. It wasn't fair to. Draco had willingly brought it upon himself. He wanted it. He knew how easy Ron was to wind up, how hot under the collar he got, and he played that to his advantage. What did he have planned though? Did he just want to get beaten up? Did he want to get Ron into trouble? Or was Draco trying to send a message to her? The answers to her vague questions didn't come for she was so disturbed by the images lingering in her mind. What had gone so wrong that he felt forced to encourage another to inflict upon him such physical harm? Even allowing for the fact that it was Draco Malfoy, it still defied any rational sense of reason.
"Come, Miss Granger. Help me carry Mister Malfoy to the Hospital Wing."
