Difficult

By: Provocative Envy

OOO

CHAPTER TWENTY

Later that night, I tossed and turned in my four-poster for hours before giving up on sleep altogether. My body was buzzing with a strange sort of electricity, and I was restless, agitated, my brain refusing to shut off, shut down, my muscles twitching nervously, impatiently; because the shock of the previous day had worn off and I was no longer astonished by my own stupidity and his vicious, biting cruelty. I was no longer sweltering from the heat of my memories—trembling gasping aching—but they were explosive memories, the type that made your head swim and your lips tilt upwards; the type that made you wish you could go back and savor those fleeting, precious moments for just a little bit longer, just a little bit, because if you didn't—they would be gone, lost, and you couldn't ever get them back.

But no—no, I wasn't still surprised; I was angry, fucking furious, his rejection ringing in my ears like the sting of an undeserved slap and the halting, harsh silence that followed. I was angry—at Harry, for sending Parvati to check up on me, as if she could help, as if she even knew me; at Draco, for tossing me aside, as if I didn't matter, had never mattered; and at myself, for believing him, for taking what he said at face value, for ignoring that soft-spoken voice in the back of my head that always seemed to know better.

I threw off my duvet, reaching clumsily for a cardigan before slipping out to the Common Room. I stood in front of the portrait hole for several minutes, wondering where I should go. It was the middle of the night, and even though it was unlikely I would even see anyone—I couldn't see him, that simply wasn't an option, because if I did, if it was, I wasn't sure what I would do; would I scream? Would I hit him? Or would I fall apart—disintegrate—like a piece of parchment dipped in water?

Because I'd put myself back together too many times to count—after fighting with Ron, saying goodbye to my parents, overhearing Parvati and Lavender snicker about how hopelessly awkward I was. Seam by seam, stitch by stitch—I had used up all my thread, dulled the needle, run out of spaces to patch up—and what happened, then? What happened when there was nothing left of you worth fixing? When everything was irretrievably, irrevocably broken—like a shredded love letter, ripped apart again and again and again, as if the act of so decisively, divisively, tearing through the deftly written words would make it so they had never existed, had never even meant anything.

No. No.

I shook my head, realizing that I knew exactly where to go—exactly where he wouldn't be. I walked quickly, my footsteps echoing eerily in the rigid, preternatural quiet that had settled over the castle. There was something comforting about the stillness, the hush, the lack of pretense—it was as if I was alone, finally, unencumbered by judgmental stares and preconceived notions. As if I could make this predawn calm last forever—what would it be like, I wondered, if time was suspended, stopped, pulled and pulled until it was thin enough to be transparent, a crisp sheet of glass all see-through and breakable?

I stood at the bottom of the Astronomy Tower stairs and let my eyes adjust to the darkness. Now that I was there, I wasn't certain I could climb the steps—I wasn't certain that I wanted to see that window ledge and know that I'd chosen incorrectly, waited for nothing, given a part of myself to someone who hadn't ever deserved it.

I groaned, resolutely moving forward, up the stairs, pushing the door open with my hip and fully expecting to find no one, nothing there—but, no, there he was, leaning against the far wall, ankles crossed, looking unruffled, unfazed, almost absurdly perfect—thick blond hair swiped back, the long, lean lines of his body folded casually, nonchalantly, his slender, graceful fingers tapping irritably against the top of his thigh.

I wanted to run away. I wanted to say something scathing, something that would make him sorry—but I wasn't sure what that might be, and I was terrified that if I stood there long enough, he would know, he would know that as much as wanted to leave—I couldn't, I couldn't, my feet were stuck to the worn flagstone floor, my gaze trained on his face—oh, I could barely even register the short, stunted shadows lurking in the corners, disfigured, malicious products of the sputtering candlelight, and the rumpled, crumpled mess of his shirt, the top three buttons undone—and my heartbeat was pumping blood into my veins too fast, too much, a tidal wave crescendo of anxiety and sadness and paralyzing, unfathomable fear; and my breath was stuck, my lungs weren't working, I was drowning—in plain sight, the edges of my vision curling inward, smoky and black, even as he stood there, watching me, rather like a tiger stalking its prey.

But I continued to stare at him, the air between us thick, acrid, full of mistrust and condemnation and a hundred different places to lay the blame—but then there was a breeze, chilly and strong, coming in from the window, and I shivered involuntarily, my cheeks reddening when I noticed him smirk.

"Why would you even fucking come here?" he demanded, his elegant features contorted with something I couldn't identify.

"I thought—I thought this would be the one place in the entire castle where I wouldn't have to see you," I replied, shrugging indifferently—but, oh, he couldn't know, wouldn't know, how very, very much the sound of his voice was destroying me.

"I don't believe you."

"Of course you don't," I snapped. "Why would you? I mean, my God, I've probably been following you around all day—nothing like one last glimpse of the boy who stole my fucking virginity, right?"

A profoundly unsettling silence followed my outburst—he had shifted slightly, his expression vacillating between scorn and discomfort, and I wondered, suddenly, if I should be regretting what I'd said. Was there any point, after all, in reminding him of what we'd done together?

"You sound bitter, Granger—what, didn't you realize you can't get it back?" he sneered, his lip curled. "Besides—I didn't fucking steal it. You—well, you basically just handed it over. I didn't even have to ask."

Something hard and red flared to life inside of me, and I felt my fingernails dig deeply into the soft, sensitive flesh of my hands as I gazed at him—steadily, crisply.

"No," I disagreed. "You did steal it. Because you took it under false pretenses, didn't you? And that, to me—and anyone with a conscience—counts as stealing."

"How fortunate, then, that I don't happen to have one of those."

"Considering the circumstances, I'm probably the last person you have to remind of that fact."

He clenched his jaw.

"Fuck off, Granger."

"No," I said defiantly. "I don't think I will."

He narrowed his eyes—eyes that were large, gray, and incandescent, with a microscopic black freckle staining the outer edge of each iris.

"Fine. Then I'll go."

He made a move to leave.

"Good! Go!" I exclaimed, my nostrils flaring. "Because, you know, I might contaminate you, right?"

He paused, porcelain perfect skin fractured by the moonlight.

"You don't have, like, the plague or something, do you?" he asked seriously.

I blanched.

"The what? Of course not. What are you—what?"

"Exactly. Don't make baseless fucking accusations just because they sound—appropriate. I mean, what—do you think that I got Marked and turned into a paranoid imbecile overnight?"

I dropped my eyes.

"Well—yeah, actually."

He snorted.

"Then I'll say it again—fuck off, Granger."

I didn't bother replying, choosing instead to let the silence seep into the smooth, tapestry-covered walls—we were surrounded by centuries of history, centuries of people trailing in and out of this barren, isolated little room. Had it meant anything to them, though? Had anyone before us looked around this precariously-perched tower and bothered to fall in love? We were as close to the sky as we would ever be with our feet on the ground—had anyone else realized that?

"And I'll say it again," I retorted. "No."

He pressed his lips together—pale pink, beautifully shaped, deliberately bowed across the top, and so, so soft, achingly soft, like warm buttermilk and raw silk and sun-drenched grass.

"Why haven't you told anyone?" he asked suddenly.

"Excuse me?"

"About the Mark. Why haven't you told anyone? You could have made me a fucking pariah by now. You could have gotten back at me for the rumors I started. Why haven't you?"

I picked urgently at a stray, frayed cuticle on my index finger. Why hadn't I? Why hadn't I told Parvati, or Lavender, or even Harry for that matter? He'd asked, of course—when I'd emerged from that pristine white hallway, stunned, lost, wrecked, he'd fired question after question at me, like bullets from a machine gun; but I couldn't quite bring myself to tell him. Because he would have felt sorry for me? Because he would have known that after all I'd put him through—put us both through—that I'd failed? Been wrong?

"Because—because those rumors turned out to be true, didn't they? I mean—well, it was almost as if you'd predicted the future. Minus the bit about Snape catching me in my knickers."

He twisted his mouth disbelievingly.

"You're lying. What's the real reason?"

I crossed my arms.

"Do you want me to tell people? So they can—can start a new bunch of rumors about how—how you chose that over me, and oh, I must be so fucking miserable, I must cry myself to sleep every night and—and isn't that the saddest thing you've ever heard? Well, isn't it?"

He shook his head.

"That isn't what would happen."

"Yes," I said emphatically, my voice brittle. "It is. Don't you get it? They'd—they'd fucking revel in it—the smart girl falls for the wrong boy and gets her heart broken. Oh, people would wrap it up nicely, but—but we both know what they'd all be thinking. That I fucking got what I deserved. That I was—was stupid, and it was my own fault, and I should have known better."

He shrugged.

"Maybe they'd be onto something."

I recoiled.

"Or maybe they'd turn on you, instead," I continued stiffly. "Maybe they'd think you took advantage of me and lied to me and—"

He cut me off.

"Maybe."

I swallowed.

"Why are you even still here?"

He didn't answer.

"Malfoy?" I pressed.

His bunched his right hand into a fist.

"Is it because you want to be?"

I watched, dazed, as a vein throbbed violently at the base of his throat.

"Is it because you—"

"No, Granger, it isn't because I fucking want to be," he roared, spitting words out like venom. "It isn't because you fucking mean anything or because I want to fucking apologize or be your fucking therapist. It's because—because I was here first, and I—I don't want you to stay, okay? I want you gone, I want you to take the fucking hint and—just, just, fuck off already!"

I flinched.

"No," I snarled.

"Don't make me say it again," he growled—and I had the impression that he was holding himself unnaturally still, that if I reached out and touched him he would shatter into a million tiny pieces.

"Go ahead," I whispered, refusing to look away. "I dare you."

He studied me, then, intently, intensely—and, abruptly, I thought that the world might cave in, collapse, utterly unable to bear the weight of his gaze as it snuck into my body and drilled a hole through my heart—because that's what it felt like, that's what that seemingly infinite moment felt like, comprised as it was of quicksilver eyes and impossibly pale skin; it felt catastrophic, cataclysmic, like the apocalypse was at my doorstep, disguised as something awful and cloying and innocent—a boy and a girl, falling in love, finding each other, wasting it, ruining it from the inside out and spending the rest of their lives wondering why, wondering if—if maybe they'd broken the silence, swallowed their pride—if things might have ended differently.

Except—no, no, he'd humiliated me, chosen her, chosen to get Marked, not bothered to fight back; he didn't want me, he'd said so, and no amount of wishful, fatalistic optimism was going to change that.

"I don't want you here," he bit out. "I don't—I don't fucking want you."

There was dusty blond stubble all along his jaw and the top of his neck—and what did it mean that he was never cleanly shaven? What it did mean when all I could think about doing was reaching for his face and feeling rough, prickly skin—like grains of sand scraping against my fingertips, soft and abrasive all at once.

"D'you think I don't understand that yet?" I asked, incredulous. "Do you think you need to repeat yourself every fifteen seconds just to make your point? You—you chose a fucking lifetime of what amounts to fucking servitude—you, a bloody servant, can you even imagine—just to make sure I knew you didn't want me. I don't even think—there isn't really a more powerful way to send that message, you know? So—I fucking get it. You don't want me. Anything else you'd like to add?"

"That isn't—that isn't why I got Marked."

"What?"

"That isn't why I got Marked. It had nothing to do with you."

I deflated.

"I believe you," I managed to reply, unable to repress a small, endlessly sad smile.

"You—you do?"

"Yeah." I motioned vaguely at his arm. "You're spiteful, but you aren't stupid—you know that's forever. I—honestly—don't think—well, I don't think you'd have gotten that just to make a point to me. You…meant it. You had to have."

And maybe it was because that was easier for me to accept—that he believed in his Mark, loved his family, had done it for a reason that wasn't me—or maybe it was because I'd given up on him—really, absolutely, truly; but I was no longer angry.

I was tired.

I was tired, and all I wanted to do was crawl into bed and sleep—dreamless, flawless sleep, the kind that lets your body melt into the mattress and your posture finally relax and your mind give way to exhaustion.

"I think—I think I'm going to get to bed," I said quietly, unable to meet his eyes.

He was staring at me, his expression flickering with something I didn't want to identify, didn't want to label—because if I did, if I let myself think it, I would have to ask him what he'd meant, why he was doing this—because if I did, I would have to stay awake.

"You know what this means, don't you?" he demanded. "You know—you know that this is all going to fucking—fucking lead to something, right? A fight. A—a battle, even, as fucking stupid as that sounds. And—and you know that we won't be on the same side? That I can't—I won't—I'm not going to be able to fucking protect you. You know—"

And then he crumpled—there wasn't another word for it—and spun around, away from me, and strode angrily to the window, tightly gripping the ledge as he exhaled long and loud.

"Of course you know. Smartest girl in the school, right? You fucking know everything," he spat.

"Do I know?" I repeated tensely. "Do—do I? Are you fucking serious?"

"Of course I'm fucking serious," he retorted, glaring back at me over his shoulder. "I don't think you fucking know what—"

"Do you want to know what I know, Malfoy?" I shouted. "I know that I chased you, I fucking scaled a fucking cliff for you, and I—I stupidly, willingly, stupidly talked back to Bellatrix fucking Lestrange for you. And do you know what else I know?"

The back of his neck turned a lurid, vivid red.

"No."

"Oh, you don't? Let me fucking tell you, then," I continued, seething. "I know what it meant when you pulled back your fucking sleeve to show off your Mark. I know what it meant when you told me to fucking leave, and what it meant when you let Pansy fucking Parkinson laugh at me, and what it meant when you said—when you said—"

I stumbled to a halt, closing my eyes—but, oh, he couldn't begin to guess how much this hurt, how much I didn't want to admit that it did, how much I wished that we'd turned out to be anything but what we were—fleeting, tenuous, a taunting, haunting glimpse of happy, just out of reach even as it drifted away.

"When I said what?" he asked sharply.

"When you—never mind. I'm—I'm going to bed."

I felt his hand on my elbow, forcing me to stand still.

"No," he said fiercely, his voice deep and hollow and husky in my ear. "When I said what?"

I yanked myself free, turning to face him.

"When you said that I didn't matter," I cried, spreading my arms out. "Remember that part? No? I'm surprised, I would've thought you'd have had a house elf record the whole conversation, that's how much you seemed to enjoy yourself—"

"Stop it," he hissed, gritting his teeth. "Just—fucking stop it. Out of all the things I've said to you—that's what you remember? That's what you choose to fucking think about? I can't even—just stop. Stop."

My mouth tasted sour.

"Why?"

"Because—because—because I know what I fucking said, alright? I don't need—you—to reenact it for me."

"Oh—I apologize, then" I simpered sarcastically. "I had no idea. I was just making sure that you knew exactly what that—" I pointed at his forearm. "—means to me."

A muscle ticked in his cheek.

"And what is that?" he asked distantly. "What—exactly—does it mean to you?"

I bit my lip, dismissing an appallingly ridiculous urge to laugh—nothing about this was the least bit funny, nothing at all, but my emotions were wild, chaotic, out of control, and I was trembling with something, something indescribable, and it was the only response my brain was offering to the nervous, shaky fluttering in my abdomen.

I shrugged, walking slowly to the door before answering.

"Nothing," I replied simply. "It means fucking nothing to me."

And then I left—before he could react, before he could stop me.

But I didn't sleep.

Of course I didn't sleep.

OOO