Difficult
By: Provocative Envy
OOO
CHAPTER ELEVEN
I sat beside the lake—legs crossed, hand clutching that ratty piece of paper—the rest of the night. My mind was blank, wiped clean, as if someone had taken an eraser and viciously scratched away all my thoughts, all my feelings, all my memories, hoping that maybe I'd forget something important, something useful. Was it self-preservation, though? Did I just want to pretend that the last few hours hadn't happened?
Because if they hadn't, then tomorrow would be okay; tomorrow would mean a Malfoy who didn't hate me, one who would say something sharp and wry and sweet and perfect before he kissed me. He would look at me and smile, slowly, delectably, and he would still be different, better, and there would still be hope—that delicate, wispy ghost of a thing—that we could work.
But had I ever even believed that? Wanted that?
The sun was already starting to rise, glinting across the water, golden yellow, bright orange, the mysterious half-light of dawn like something out of fairytale. It occurred to me that I hadn't slept, not at all, and that I should go up to bed.
I stood up, wincing—my muscles ached, my skin was greasy, and I remembered, abruptly, what Lavender had done.
Frowning, I made my way back to the castle, reaching our dormitory just as the other girls were sleepily fastening the buttons of their shirts. They eyed me curiously.
"Aren't you freezing, Hermione?" Parvati asked, yawning.
I glanced down at my clothes—rumpled plaid skirt, grass-stained black tights, and a wrinkled white Oxford—oh. My sweater was still lying crumpled up on the ground, wasn't it? I'd never retrieved it after Malfoy had ripped it off.
"I must have forgotten a jacket," I mumbled, blushing. "Where's Lavender?"
"I'm right here," she said brightly, coming out of the bathroom in a cloud of flower-scented perfume.
"Breakfast, then?" Parvati said, looking at her.
"Oh, can I have a—a quick word? It won't take long," I assured her cheerfully.
She blinked, smiling cautiously, and hung back, letting everyone rush down the stairs without her.
"Of course," she said, shrugging. "If this is about Ron, I'd be more than happy to talk to him for you, I'm sure he'll come around eventually—"
"Will you seriously just—just shut up? For five fucking seconds?"
Her eyes widened.
"You're one to talk, Hermione," she stammered. "Ron says he used to see how long he could stop listening to you before you noticed—his record was eleven minutes."
I scraped my hair back into a loose, messy bun.
"Hey, Lav—remember that time he dumped you so he could go out with me? Remember that? Wasn't it just so much fun? He didn't even tell you, right? He just started avoiding you?"
Her cheeks went pink.
"He was just confused. It happens."
"For two years? I know that Ron can be dim, but come on, give him some credit."
She sniffed, turning away and reaching for the doorknob.
"Why did you do it, Lavender?" I demanded.
She froze.
"Do what?" she replied stiffly.
"Don't play dumb."
She whipped her head around, incredulous.
"Don't—don't play dumb?" she repeated, her voice shrill. "After you've spent seven years talking down to me? Treating me like a—like an imbecile? I still remember, you know, the day we met. I mispronounced some silly Latin word that no one else cared about—we were ten for God's sake—and you just looked at me, like—like I was an insect, and you corrected me, and I didn't know if I should thank you or not, it was just so bloody ridiculous, and then when I turned away to talk to Parvati and you thought I wasn't looking, you—you rolled your eyes, like I'd done something stupid, like—like I was stupid, you'd already decided, and you never changed your mind, did you?"
I opened my mouth to reply—and discovered that I was speechless, that I'd finally run out of things to say.
"I know what people say about me, you know," she continued, her nose scrunched up. "I know that they think I'm rubbish at—well, at everything. I know that no one takes me seriously—especially Ron. Especially you."
She was facing me again, her hands pressed together.
"I never meant—" I started to respond, but she cut me off.
"Yes, you did," she snorted, shaking her head. "You always meant to. And I always wanted to warn you—to not think everyone is stupid, just because they aren't you. To not think you're always right, because no one is always right, and it was bound to—to come back and haunt you."
She swallowed, smiling grimly.
"That's why I knew I could trick you last night. You don't notice anything I do or say—you never have—and you could never even imagine there was more to me than—than—"
"Than a hairbrush and rather pathetic obsession with Ron," I finished cruelly, letting my jaw jut forward.
"Exactly," she said, nodding. "It's as if it never occurred to you that someone else was capable of being clever."
Pansy Parkinson had said the same thing to me, hadn't she?
I watched Lavender, trying to understand how I'd missed this—this vindictive, manipulative side of her that wasn't as deeply buried as it maybe should have been.
"I'd hardly call you clever," I said, crossing my arms over my chest. "Jealous comes to mind, though—and so does desperate—and—and really, this is a funny one, I'm sure you'll appreciate it—fucking stupid. Sound about right? Jealous, desperate, and stupid. Good for you. Really."
She sneered.
"You really don't get it, do you? You think you can have everything—that you can shag Malfoy on the side and lie to Ron and Harry about it and it will all just turn out perfect because—well, you're perfect, aren't you? It always works out for you. And you can do whatever you please, whenever you please—I mean, God, you spent three months ignoring them, and all you practically do is—is snap your hideous, un-manicured fingers and they come running.
"And the Malfoy thing—! When I realized what you'd done, I could barely even believe it—anyone with eyes and half a brain could see what was going on between you—there's a reason that rumor spread like wildfire—the way he fucking looks at you—"
She shuddered.
"But Ron and Harry are so—so blind to what you're really like, all they see when they look at you is—is someone who can't do anything wrong, someone who does their homework for them and makes sure they eat their vegetables and it drives me crazy, it really, really does, and the thought of you getting away with your—your dirty little secret was just too much for me, I couldn't handle it, I just—I had to show him, and really, it was wonderful, how it happened, he was so much angrier than I thought he would be, and when Malfoy tried to defend you—I didn't see that coming at all, and it made everything so much more real, didn't it? Didn't it?"
I watched her talk, watched her smirk, and felt anger bubble and froth inside of me, like a potion gone horribly wrong—I wanted to hit her, I wanted to hurt her, I wanted her to regret what she'd done—deeply, sincerely—because it was her fault, what had happened last night, she'd caused it, instigated, plotted and planned and organized and stolen something from me, something she had no right to even know existed, without even meaning to—because this wasn't about Ron, not anymore—I'd been upset, certainly, when he'd caught us, but the helpless, chaotic, bottomless sense of rage that was building up just then had nothing to do with him.
"You don't really believe that I can't get him back, do you?" I drawled disdainfully. "If I really wanted to?"
She paled.
"Wh—what do you mean?"
I laughed.
"Ron, you stupid cow. It wouldn't be very hard, you know—no matter what he says, he's never stopped loving me. And he never will. You're admittedly—well, easier—but I'm the one who's always been too good for him. I'm the one he's going to still think about, years from now, after he's dumped you and moved on to someone better. I'm the one he'll always wonder about—the one who got away."
I paused, letting my words sink in—and even though I wasn't sure of them, had no real idea how he felt about her, I schooled my expression into a smooth, cool mask of derision.
"I could have him back by the end of the day, if I wanted—not that I do, really, but you see what I mean, don't you?" I asked sweetly.
"You—you wouldn't," she hissed, taking a step towards me.
"Oh, I would," I retorted. "And in case there's any confusion—after all, I know how easily you can get confused—let me spell it out for you: you're not my equal. You're not my replacement. You're nothing more than a vapid, shallow bitch so devoid of any redeeming, likable qualities you're practically a caricature of a human being. You're an insipid, annoying waste of time—and do you want to know why no one takes you seriously? Because you aren't worth the effort."
Her lips trembled as she scrambled to find a suitably scathing reply, and I felt a dull spurt of satisfaction.
"He would never take you back," she said shakily, unconvincingly. "He hates you right now."
"Well," I shot back sarcastically, "if you're sure."
She stared at me in blatant despair, and I raised a nonchalant brow.
"I don't—I don't understand. Are you threatening me? What do you want?"
Our eyes met, then—hers glassy, mine fierce.
"I want you to suffer," I said simply.
"I'm sorry, okay?" she blubbered. "I just—you have to see, even a little bit, that it just wasn't fair, it isn't fair, and I'm not a bad person, I'm not, I just—"
She didn't understand. She didn't know what she'd done wrong, not really, and I was suddenly tired—no, exhausted, the previous evening nothing more than a moonstruck blur, my lack of sleep was catching up to me, it was winning the race—and I realized that what had happened after she'd left—what I'd said, what I'd done—wasn't her fault.
It was mine; all mine.
"Stop," I sighed. "Just—stop. I'm not going to steal Ron from you."
"You're not?" she blurted out, confused.
"No," I said wearily. "I'm not."
"Then…then what are you going to do?"
"Nothing," I said, shrugging. "But you owe me a favor, as far as I'm concerned."
"That sounds ominous," she giggled uncomfortably, glancing away.
"Could be," I responded dismissively, turning to my armoire to remove my pajamas.
She observed me awkwardly.
"Are you—are you going to bed?"
"Yes. With any luck, by the time I wake up it will already be tomorrow."
OOO
I slept through breakfast, lunch, and dinner, waking up around nine to an empty room—my tongue had that dense, fuzzy feeling that seems to only appear after an inappropriately long nap, and I badly needed a shower.
Stretching my neck, I caught sight of an envelope resting against the window. It was unmarked, and with a tepid sort of interest I cracked the seal, removing a crisp sheet of parchment.
We need to talk.
My pulse jumped—this is what his handwriting looked like, then, strong, sloping letters, a smudged fingerprint in the corner; messy and masculine and uncomplicated.
I blinked, tearing off my clothes and heading for the bathroom. Ten minutes later, I was rushing towards the Astronomy Tower.
He was waiting for me, his posture impatient, and I skidded to a halt, wishing I'd taken the time to dry my hair.
"Granger," he said indifferently. "I wanted to say this in person."
"I—"
"No," he interrupted, annoyed. "This won't take long."
He paused, taking a deep breath.
"Watch your back," he said, jaw clenched. "My father sent me a—well, a rather colorful letter this morning. He's heard…unsavory things about me. And you. It's made him unhappy."
"So you're—you're warning me? Isn't this what you wanted? You said—" I broke off, a bad taste in my mouth.
His gaze flickered.
"My father has strong opinions about the kind of people I should spend my time with. And while I may have initially—oh, I don't know—toyed with the idea of using you to make him angry—I didn't expect him to react this…aggressively. So—well, just fucking be careful. He's visiting this weekend."
And then he brushed past me, heading for the stairs, and I felt something dark and menacing and vile enter my thoughts.
"He's—he's visiting this weekend?" I asked casually.
He glanced back, irritated.
"Yes."
"Do you…have any plans?"
"What the fuck?"
I swallowed.
"Do you?" I persisted.
He walked back to me, his eyes cold.
"Yeah, actually," he answered. "I'm taking the Mark. Silly family tradition—you know how it is."
I gaped at him.
"No, you're not!" I replied automatically, too panicked, too stunned to breathe.
"I think I'd know better than you," he pointed out angrily. "And, yes, I am."
"No, you aren't," I said stubbornly. "Because Pansy wouldn't have told me if you were—which, I should add, she did, last night—because that would have been stupid of her, I could have—could have fucking told someone, Snape, a teacher, someone important—"
"So you think she was lying? You think she made it up to—to fuck with you? Are you that bloody naïve, Granger?" He shook his head, violently, tersely. "I'm getting Marked this weekend. I'm meeting my father and—and what do you all call him? He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named? Fucking idiots—and I'm joining the fight against your visually-impaired little friend because it's my duty. It's what I'm supposed to do."
I stared at him, then, thinking, dimly, that I could hear my heart break, hear it fall apart, turn to dust—but that couldn't be right, could it, hearts didn't break, they didn't just stop beating, not like this.
"No, no, no, no," I whispered, as if by repeating the word over and over and over again I could make it true, make him a liar. "No."
"Yes," he said stiffly. "Yes. So on Saturday, while I'm off fulfilling my destiny—because that's what I'll be doing, you know, it's what I was born to be doing—you can—can make up with Weasley, or memorize a book, or fucking—fuck, I don't know. Whatever you did before…all of this."
He grimaced.
"I know it wasn't you," I finally said softly. "Last night. I know you didn't—I know you didn't plan for that."
He snorted.
"It doesn't matter."
"Yes," I said firmly. "It does. I—I'm sorry."
He flexed his hands.
"No, it fucking doesn't," he grunted. "Because—because this—this isn't—wasn't—fucking going anywhere. Shagging you on the grass wouldn't have changed that."
I studied him for a minute before speaking.
"I'm a virgin."
He jerked back in surprise.
"What?"
"I'm a virgin," I said again, biting back my embarrassment.
"You're not serious."
"I am."
He started laughing, the sound rich and full and achingly unfamiliar—I blushed.
"So that's what Weasley meant," he grinned. "He was a bit put out, wasn't he?"
"He shouldn't have been—it isn't like I didn't want to…want to," I explained, fidgeting. "It just—it always felt wrong. Off. Or—I don't know. I sound silly."
"No," he said, his expression softening. "No, you don't."
As the silence stretched on and on, the air between us changed—it was waiting for something, the way it is before a storm, swollen and heavy and charged with electricity.
And then a tiny fragment of my brain switched on, clicked, and I began to unbutton my shirt, my hands shaking as I shrugged it off.
"Granger—what—what the fuck are you doing?" he asked hoarsely.
I ignored him, unzipping my skirt, letting it float to the ground; I was naked, and he didn't—couldn't—look away.
He reached for me slowly, his skin warm, rubbing his thumbs over my arms; and then he pushed me down, so that I was sitting on the window ledge, and he stepped between my legs, lifting his shirt over his head as he groaned.
"I shouldn't do this," he said, kissing me quickly, furiously, gripping my lower lip tightly with his teeth. "You don't—it shouldn't be with me—it should be with, with fuckface, what's-his-name, with someone you have a—have a fucking future with—"
Instead of responding, I fumbled with his belt buckle, frantic, as his fingers wandered down the planes of stomach, stroking, fluttering, teasing—and then he was there, a fraction of an inch away, and all I wanted—no, no, needed—was to get closer, find out for myself what he felt like.
"I'm going to—I'm going to be ordered to kill you, Hermione. Your friends—your family—I'm going to hurt them," he implored, his voice ragged. "I'm going to have to hurt you."
"No," I said, so sure, so certain, pushing my hips forward and gasping at the intrusion. "You would never hurt me."
He looked down at me, and his grip tightened at my waist, and oh—I would have sworn that the entire rest of the world had ceased to exist, that it was just him and me, and when he pressed his lips against my temple, and his body moved against mine, out and in, in and out, I realized that I'd been right to wait for this, right to believe that this could happen; because if it had been anyone else, anywhere else, I would have always wondered if it could have been better.
If it could have been like this.
And then there was that pressure in my abdomen, that spidery tingle blossoming across my lower back, up my spine, through every last one of my muscles, and even as I started to scream, and his hand clamped over my mouth, I felt his shoulders tense, just for a second, and his hips go still, and then I heard him growl in my ear—
"I could never hurt you, I'd fucking kill anyone who tried, you're mine—"
A bead of sweat slid down my neck.
"I know," I murmured, burrowing into his arms.
And I forgot about what was wrong with him, wrong with me, wrong with us; right then, it all seemed so impossibly far away—right then, it didn't matter.
Because that moment was easy, and it was natural, and if I was being honest with myself, I would have admitted that I never wanted it to end.
OOO