Her broken-hearted Veela

Chapter X: Responsibility

…

"It is cruel, it is gruesome. But you have to take responsibility for your own actions."

…

Once Hermione and Harry had arrived to the Gryffindor Tower, they found Ron waiting for them in the dimly lit common room, sitting by the fireplace. Ron's blue eyes glistened, as they were lost in the mesmerising dance the flames offered. Gently, he patted the spot beside him, silently telling Hermione to come sit beside him.

Harry nodded at Hermione and hugged her, whispering words of comfort into her ear, before he made his leave to his room.

Taking a deep breath, she went to where Ron was sitting.

Only the crisp sound of the low flames filled the silence in the room. There they were, quietly observing the fire slowly extinguish, until only the ashes were left.

Ron was the one to break the ice.

"Listen, about what you saw earlier-"

"It's alright, Ronald." She lied, "I was completely absentminded and I didn't realise that I wasn't going to my room, since the doors all look the same. Just leave a sock on the doorknob next time."

Silence. For minutes on end, there was only heavy, uncomfortable silence, until Ron cleared his throat, taking the initiative in doing the talking once more.

"Lavender… She doesn't feel comfortable when you're around me."

"And I don't feel comfortable around Lavender. Neither does Harry, by the way."

Ron closed his eyes and sighed, rubbing his temple. He was aware of his friends not liking Lavender, and he, too, had noticed that it had taken a toll on their friendship.

"So… What do you suggest we do? You're the brains of the group, 'Mione. You need to come up with something."

Her eyes grew wide in incredulity. Was he kidding her?

"I'm sorry, what? Are you being serious right now?"

"Look, I'm not good at these things." Ron ran a hand through his hair, lightly pulling at its roots in frustration, "I don't know what to do."

"I can't believe this! How about you take responsibility for your actions for once, Ronald?"

"Taking responsibility would mean to do what Lavender wants me to do, and I don't want to do that!"

"That is not at all what that means, Ronald." She let out a frustrated growl, crossing her arms in a defensive pose, "But, you know what? I'll bite. What is it that she wants you to do?"

"She wants me to distance myself from you, otherwise she's going to break up with me." He confessed, feeling defeated, "But you're my best friend, and I don't want to do that. It's not fair."

Hermione huffed and took a long, aggravated look at Ron. She was angry at him for wanting to shove his responsibility on her, but she simultaneously felt sorry for him. He was right, it wasn't fair. Ron carried Lavender's insecurity on his shoulders, and it forced him to make an unjust decision.

"Hermione, please." His usual unpreoccupied voice cracked, and his eyes became teary, "Help me."

"Take responsibility, Ron. That's the best piece of advice I can give you."

"But how? What does it even mean to take bloody responsibility in this case?"

"It means that only you get to decide what to do, and nobody else. She gave you a choice, and it is your responsibility to think about what you're going to do with it. Not mine. Yours. Do you understand that?"

Ron slowly nodded, and she realised that he understood, but still didn't want to comply. Hermione sighed heavily. She would have to open his eyes to the harsh reality, and it was not going to be a pleasant experience for either of them. Taking in a deep breath, Hermione gathered as much mental strength as she could before she spoke.

"Alright, Ron. Do you truly want to know what I think?"

"'Course I do."

"Then, listen to me well, because I am not going to repeat myself." She warned him in a stern tone, "It doesn't matter what you do."

"I'm… not following."

She looked away. She couldn't take the stare of his blue eyes.

"You'll either break her heart or mine." Her voice was not louder than a whisper, "If you choose to break mine, know that I can take it. If you choose to break hers, take into consideration whether or not she can take it."

Ron fell completely silent. A weight of a thousand stones fell upon his shoulders, the knot in his throat was tied very tightly. The air had suddenly become thick, and he found himself having difficulty breathing normally.

"I don't want to be selfish, Ron, but I do have one question."

He looked at her.

"Does your distancing yourself from me mean that she will be happy?"

Does it mean that you will be happy? Will you be happy with your choice?

Not even thinking about what her question truly implied, Ron gave her his answer as he shrugged, "I guess so."

A strong sense of bitterness and anger filled her, and she scoffed, dryly, humourlessly. 'He guessed so'. 'He guessed' that ending their friendship on Lavender's command, on her immense insecurity, would make them happy. 'He guessed' that shagging Brown silly would make him happier than keeping their friendship. He wasn't certain of it, but 'he guessed so'. It merely took a second of his time to 'guess so'. – Hermione wondered, ever so sourly, if that was all that their friendship had ever been to him: A shoulder shrug, a simple guess.

"Then there is your answer." She stood up, never looking back at him, "Take good care, Ronald. I wish you both the best."

…

Even before he entered the Slytherin Dungeons, the pungent stink of cheap alcohol stung his sensitive Veela nose. Draco instantly knew: Crabbe and Goyle had gone overboard again with their drinking. Pushing the door open, and suppressing a gagging reflex, he entered the common room to find them both snoring like pigs, drool covering their chins, dripping onto their loosened up uniform shirts, spread over the couches. Just like he'd suspected.

On any other occasion, the blonde would have rolled his eyes and found himself feeling utterly disgusted by his comrades. Yet he was rather thankful that Crabbe and Goyle had drunk themselves into nearly a coma. They would not remember a single shred of what had happened that night. He smirked darkly, feeling opportunistic: They were the perfect excuse for him. Once he had done everything he was set out to do, Draco would join their so-called drinking party, and fake sleep on one of the armchairs until either Crabbe or Goyle woke up. When asked, Draco would simply tell them he'd come back from Slughorn's party and decided to have a drink with them to try to improve his lame evening, since it couldn't possibly get any worse. And they would believe him. Of that, he was absolutely certain. It would've been as if he'd been with them the entire time.

Easy.

Quietly, Draco went to Zabini's room, trying not to wake anyone else in the other bedrooms. He slid through the door, and silently put the mini-pensieve back to where it belonged. Once the dark artefact was hidden, Draco's hand instinctively grabbed the tiny flask containing Cormac's memory. He pulled it out of his pocket and looked at it once more, hoping he'd find some good usage out of it.

Suddenly, Draco felt a sharp needle pierce through his heart. Usually, those pierces were devastatingly painful, but this time, he felt tremendous anger. His mate was feeling utterly enraged, and considering the sting he'd felt back when they had been talking, he highly suspected the Weasel had something to do with it. The Veela's face darkened: If he was the cause of her grief, Weasley would make a fine candidate for McLaggen's memory.

The Veela was eager to arrange the Redhead's punishment, however, judging by the loud snores coming from the common room, it seemed time was racing against him.

'Soon.' He thought, darkly.

Not wanting to lose any more time, Malfoy headed towards his bedroom, where he quickly cleaned himself up and went on to change his ripped jumper. He considered casting an Incendio on it, so that no one would ever raise any suspicions, but he quickly decided against it: The jumper was made of wool, and the shirt of cotton. Setting the pieces of clothing on fire would reek of smoke, and could potentially cause an accident. And for that, he didn't have an explanation. But perhaps he could-

-A loud snore coming from the common room pulled him back to reality, interrupting his thoughts. The fat, drunken Slytherins were getting too active in their sleep for his liking, and if one of them was to fall onto the ground, wake up, and not find him there, he'd have to come up with a better excuse. Something, he told himself, he felt too exhausted, and frankly too unbothered to do.

Thus, Draco rapidly hid his ruptured clothes in his wardrobe and went to join Crabbe and Goyle in their misery. He grabbed some of the bottles by Goyle's side, and put them near the armchair where he was going to sit on. The blonde ruffled his hair to make it look unkempt, loosened up his tie, opened up the two upper buttons on his shirt, and messily sat on the armchair.

'Let the waiting game begin.' He thought.

A couple of hours later, Draco finally heard some rumbling coming from the couch.

He quickly sneaked a peek to see who it was.

Gregory Goyle.

The drool on his chin had dried, leaving a rough feeling on his skin. His mouth felt dusty, and his breath reeked of the cheap beers he'd drunk. Grunting, Goyle started slowly stretching into a sitting position, as his back and neck pained him. Those couches looked fancy, but they weren't what he'd call comfortable. Once he was sat up, Goyle rubbed his eyes, scratched his eyebrows and ran his hand through his hair. He felt hungover. His head was pounding and his stomach hurt, as he felt the acidity of the rest of the alcohol still burning his throat.

He grunted once again, more loudly than before. This was Draco's cue to 'wake up'.

"It's been enough torture to hear you snore all night, Goyle." The blonde groaned, irritation clear in his voice, "So, do me a favour and shut the fuck up, will you?"

Goyle looked up and saw Malfoy laying on one of the armchairs, and he couldn't help but to feel confused. Instead of asking Draco when he got there, Gregory's first instinct was to wake Vincent up. He shook him awake, startling Crabbe, who, in his drowsiness, wasn't yet fully aware of anything that was going on, but didn't seem too happy to be shaken up like that.

"What?" Crabbe spat, drunkenness still to be heard in his voice.

"Malfoy's here."

Both boys shot a look in his direction. Crabbe fully accepted his presence, waved him hello, and quickly lulled himself back to sleep, snoring following suit. Goyle, in contrast, stared at him, tilting his head to the side, frowning. When had he gotten there?

As if reading his mind, Draco told him, "It's really not that difficult, Goyle. I came here after Slughorn's dinner party."

"Slughorn's dinner party… And you came afterwards? Fuck me, I must've drunk a shit ton of beer, because I genuinely can't remember."

Malfoy rolled his eyes.

"Well, seems to me that the alcohol is finally affecting those last living brain cells of yours. Look around you, and count the empty beer bottles. That's how much you drank last night. Of course you can't remember, you dense fuck. But I'm here, aren't I?"

"I guess so." Goyle mumbled, finally letting go of how Malfoy got there, shrugging it off. If Malfoy said so, then it surely would've been like that, "Anyway, how was it?"

He laughed humourlessly, "Everybody there had connections to either the ministry or to someone with power, with Granger being the only exception. Obviously, she was the only one who was invited due to her actual intelligence."

"Well, what are the odds?" Greg said, rolling his eyes, "So, he invited her to keep up his farce?"

"Probably. Slughorn wanted to get the connections himself, that much was obvious. Such a pretentious old man. 'A dinner party for Hogwarts' best students'. Please, what a waste of time. I nearly bored myself to death."

"Good thing Zabini was with you, then."

'Indeed. Otherwise, I would have killed McLaggen on the spot.'

"That didn't stop the dinner from being lame, but he… kept me company, yes."

"Speaking of which, where is he? Seems like you didn't bring him along with you when you joined us for a drink."

"Zabini blabbered something about going outside for a walk. But, Goyle?"

"Yes?"

"Go ask him yourself if you're so desperate to know. I'm not his house elf following his every step. Anyway," Draco yawned, stretched and slowly got up from the armchair, as he prepared to go to his bedroom, "I'm going to sleep. Fuck, I'm wasted. Don't be so cheap on the alcohol next time, Goyle, have a little class."

"Blame Crabbe on that one, Malfoy."

The blonde snickered dryly and shook his head, "Of course, Goyle. Of course."

After a long night, Draco finally made his way to his bedroom, where he collapsed on his bed. The rage he had to control at Slughorn's dinner party, the attack on McLaggen and his Veela transformation had worn him out extremely, leaving him in a deep state of exhaustion. But the thought of doing it all for his beautiful Hermione pacified him, slowly lulling him to a deep slumber.

His beautiful, beautiful Hermione… She was worthy of every last drop of blood on his hands.

…

Slowly, McLaggen woke up in the Hospital Wing. He grunted when he felt a burning sensation on his arms. Little by little, as he was coming to his senses, Cormac noticed how his arms were full of scratches and bruises. Yet, those weren't the only parts of his body which hurt. His hand carefully went up to touch his face and felt large bumps above his cheekbones. And by the feel of it, it seemed his nose was broken.

What the hell had happened…?

Last night seemed like a blur.

"Ah, Mr. McLaggen. You're awake, I see." Madame Pomfrey brought some potions with her, which she put on the table beside the Gryffindor's bed, "I must say, I would have expected you to remain unconscious for at least some more hours. When Mr. Zabini brought you in, you were in very bad shape."

"Zabini?"

"Indeed. He didn't leave your side. I've already spoken with him. Apparently, you had a flying accident."

"What? A flying accident?"

"Yes." Pomfrey nodded, "Your broom has been completely destroyed."

"My… Broom?"

With a gentle hand gesture, the kind nurse showed him the wreckage of what once had been a radiant Nimbus 2000, lying in Zabini's arms, while the Italian was sitting on a chair near his bed. It was there, right before his eyes, his broomstick split in half. The splinters on the broken ends metaphorically pierced through his soul. A punch in the stomach, a burning slap across his face, as if a bucket of ice had been dumped on him. That's what it felt like.

His pride was crushed.

Madame Pomfrey left so that they could have a private conversation, and thus Zabini was subjected to Cormac's immensely shocked and broken stare. The Slytherin let the Gryffindor have a few moments to himself in order to let the situation sink in, as he was staring back at him in heavy silence. It wasn't difficult to read his expression, it was as though McLaggen had big question marks written all over his face: 'What happened? Why is my broom destroyed? Why am I in the Hospital Wing? What is Zabini doing here?'

For minutes on end, McLaggen was completely still. However, Zabini was losing his patience, so he cleared his throat and glared at him, urging McLaggen to finally spill some words. That seemed to get a response out of him.

"You brought me here."

"As well as the wreckage of your broom, yes." Zabini told him dryly, "Thought you'd fancy a souvenir. You're welcome."

Cormac closed his eyes and chose to ignore Blaise's comment, even though his words had stung his pride. Instead, he wanted answers.

"What happened?"

"Well, what's the last thing you remember?"

McLaggen frowned, trying to recall the past events. Anything that came to his mind was extremely blurry. He remembered bits and pieces from Slughorn's dinner party, but anything past that point he couldn't grasp. Loose, cloudy images came to his mind: Fire whiskey, the wind… Being, oh, so cold while lying in the dirt, as he felt the sting of some deeper cuts. The most lucid of them, however, was a pair of terrifying eyes, dangerously staring at him. No face, no silhouette, no nothing – only those gleaming, enraged orbs.

"Never come near Granger again." The gnarled voice had warned him.

A shiver ran through his entire body, leaving him trembling ever so subtly, yet being noticeable enough for Zabini. He remembered the Veela's furious eyes. Good. Draco would be thrilled.

"I vaguely remember being at Professor Slughorn's dinner party." He informed him, deciding not to tell him about the terrifying pair of eyes he saw, "I don't remember what happened next."

"Do you remember me inviting you to a fire whiskey?"

The Gryffindor frowned, thoroughly searching through his mind once more, "…Yes."

"And do you remember how much you drank?"

"No."

Blaise inwardly smirked with arrogance, as he congratulated himself on casting the false memory charm. He was elated. Those were advanced magic skills, and apparently, he had delivered an excellent performance: McLaggen remembered only the bits and pieces Zabini had allowed him to remember.

His next aim was to feed him convincing lies about what had happened, and ensure that, if somebody asked McLaggen about his injuries, he would respond accordingly.

Zabini felt ever so ready to play the witty game of manipulation.

"You drank a whole fucking lot, McLaggen, you couldn't even stand straight on your own two feet. I thought you were a man of class, but it appears you've got no self-control when it comes to alcohol."

His headache grew. As much as he hated to admit, Zabini seemed to be right, even though he couldn't remember. "I'm sorry."

"I'll think about accepting your apology once I get a new bottle of expensive fire whiskey, directly delivered from the Ministry, thank you very much." Zabini snapped at him, "It's the very least you can do, at least to make up for my fire whiskey."

His eyes opened widely, "You mean it gets worse?"

"Are you really asking me this question? You're at the Hospital Wing, black and blue, and I'm sitting here with your broken broom. What do you think? Yes, it gets fucking worse."

McLaggen gulped.

"After you downed my fire whiskey, you started incessantly drivelling about how you wanted to 'go and get some fresh fucking air'. You were absolutely wasted, and I was slightly intoxicated. Not the best combination to make any decision, but bottom line is, I followed you outside. Then, you told me to go down to the lake, saying that you had an idea and it was going to be 'absolutely fucking sick'."

"I'm not sure I want to know anything else…"

"Oh, fuck, no, McLaggen, don't give me that. You've ruined my night, you don't understand to what extent you've actually fucked it up." He almost yelled, pointing his index finger at him, "I don't care if your little feelings get hurt, you've put me through an extreme amount of shit, so you are going to listen."

McLaggen nodded and fell silent, allowing Zabini to continue.

"As I was saying, you had this brilliant idea, and fuck me, but I did as you told me and went to the lake. Next thing I fucking know, I'm seeing you flying without any control over your broom, crashing over near the Forbidden fucking Forest."

"I… I can't remember-"

"-I'm not done. I had to go to the Forbidden Forest and pick you up in your miserable, pathetic state. I had to carry you and your broom up here, and I had to be quick, otherwise you would've bled to death."

"I-"

"Still not done. Once here, Pomfrey asked me the uncomfortable questions, not you."

"But I was unconscious-"

"Are you deaf, or just blatantly stupid? I know you were unconscious, you pathetic excuse of a wizard, I dragged you up here." Zabini growled out in frustration, "The point is, she automatically placed the blame on me, asking me what I supposedly had done to you. And do you know why?"

No louder than a whisper, McLaggen asked him why. Zabini sneered at him, giving him a dirty look.

"Because I'm a Slytherin. People love blaming such shit on Slytherins. 'They're such bad, slimy snakes!' But Gryffindor? Oh, Gryffindors are the ever-innocent lions who get away with anything they do." Zabini said in an overly dramatic voice, rolling his eyes, "So, after your little 'flying accident', how do you think people will react, hm?"

Silence and tension filled the room.

Cormac McLaggen lacked charisma, self-awareness and good mannerisms, but there was a reason as to why he had been sorted into Gryffindor: His sense of justice was more developed, if ever so slightly, than any other of his personality traits. That meant he had understood what Blaise's question entailed, and he felt too abashed to answer, or to even look at him in the eyes.

Students would blame Slytherin.

Judging by his response, Zabini saw he'd hit a nerve. Perfect. This conversation was going exactly to where he wanted it to go.

"I see you get the picture, McLaggen." He told him, redirecting Cormac's attention back to himself, "Let me ask you this: Ever the self-righteous Gryffindor, do you think that's fair? Do you really think it's fair for me to be blamed for something that I didn't do?"

"…No. But, what am I supposed to do?" Cormac sighed, exasperated and on the verge of tears, "What do you expect me to do about it, Zabini?"

Bingo.

"Simple. I expect you to take responsibility. Tell everybody that it was your fuck-up. That you got shitfaced, you decided to go flying around and crashed, and it was your fault, not mine. Will you do that? After all, it's only fair."

…

The weekend had passed, and once again, Hermione found herself waiting in front of the potions' laboratory, waiting for Professor Slughorn to open the door. A piece of parchment in her hand, she tried to read through her notes, feeling distracted.

Felix Felicis, also called 'Liquid Luck', is a potion that makes the drinker lucky for a period of time. It turns an ordinary day into…

She let out a sigh, admitting to herself that she couldn't concentrate. Truthfully, Sunday had done well to the Golden Girl, and even though her thirst for knowledge was insatiable, she wouldn't have minded to have an extra day off. She had been able to be by herself in her bedroom, surrounded by nothing but peace and quiet, as she indulged herself with a good book. Cuddled under a fluffy blanket, she had been able to wind down and put the week behind her, trying to not think too hard about the roughness of it.

Trying not to think about McLaggen's sexual innuendo.

Trying not to think about Ron and Lavender having sex.

Trying not to think about their broken friendship.

Trying not to think about Malfoy running around in the castle in the middle of the night, and the way he'd looked at her.

Had that been concern on his face? For her?

…A mudblood?

Yet again, Malfoy had been impressively polite with her that week. Sometimes he had come close to her, closer than what she would have thought she'd been comfortable with, and yet, she had allowed it. And it had been intense. Somewhat pleasant, too. And although she was suspicious that he'd play her the moment she was least expecting it, there was a small voice, far in the back of her mind, telling her that he was trying to be kind, to make amends with their bruised past.

His voice resonated in her mind:

'You distract me.'

'Trust me. Please.'

'After tonight, I felt like I owed you a proper apology. I thought that the best way to do that would be to listen to you.'

And then that look. Those eyes.

Hermione had to admit, she had felt stirred by those actions to some degree, and not necessarily in a bad way. But ever the Brightest Witch of Her Age, she couldn't help but wonder: What was up with Malfoy lately?

She heard steps coming in her direction, and she looked up to see who it was.

Speak of the devil and he shall appear.

"You know, it's still ten minutes until class begins, Granger." Malfoy told her, putting an apple in his bag, "How come you show up so early?"

"To take a look at my notes in peace and quiet. It's called getting ready for class, Malfoy."

"As if you of all people need to get ready for class."

"Actually, today I do. I didn't have the time or the nerve to do so this weekend, to be honest."

"Holy shit, Granger, are you ill? You didn't have the nerve to do your homework? Shall I take you to Saint Mungo's?"

"I'm impressed, Malfoy, was that actual concern in your voice?" She responded with the same sarcastic energy, rolling her eyes, "Didn't think you were capable of that."

"Ouch! Perhaps you should take me to Saint Mungo's after such painful remark."

"Has anyone ever told you that you have the annoying tendency to overdramatize things?"

"My mother is quite fond of doing that, actually. She is also fond of telling me that I ask too many questions." He grinned, "For instance, how come you didn't want to prepare for class this weekend?"

Hermione sighed in defeat, memories of the weekend flooding through her mind.

"Well, I spent this Sunday reading some other books, so that I could distract myself a little. Saturday night was… awful."

The protectiveness of the Veela peeked through, "Did something happen?"

"Way too many things happened." She admitted, scoffing, the sourness about her broken friendship with Ron still very present, "Do you remember when you told me Ron was too busy snogging Lavender?"

"I said something along those lines, yes."

"Well, congrats on being right, Malfoy." Bitter, bitter, bitter. "Apparently, his snogging business has taken over our friendship."

'That explains her rage.' He thought, frowning.

Whilst there was nothing more that the Veela wanted to do than to avenge his mate for the pain the redheaded fuckwit inflicted upon her, he had to rethink the situation. The ending of their friendship implied that Weasley would stay away from her. Consequently, he was a nuisance less that he would need to take care of, and thus it would be easier for him to woo Hermione. He wasn't particularly fond of getting closer to her when she mourned over a friendship, yet again, it was an excellent chance for him to cherish her all the more.

An idea rushed to his mind: He would tempt his mate into actively pushing the Weasel away. It was rather satisfying: She would be the one to hurt Weasley's feelings, whilst the Veela would be there to offer her comfort, leading to her inevitably falling for him. – And if it didn't work, he could put McLaggen's memory into good use, as he had initially planned.

Draco took a couple of steps closer to Hermione, his eyes mysteriously gleaming, as he looked at her intently, "Do you plan on doing anything about it?"

"What do you mean, 'do I plan on doing anything about it'?" She arched an eyebrow at him, confused, "What are you on about?"

"Revenge." He stated, his distorted Veela voice peeking through ever so subtly. He cleared his voice, "Getting back at him."

"What? Of course not!"

"I wouldn't be so quick to make such a decision, especially when you seem so bitter about it. You just said 'his snogging business' took over your friendship. Which leads me to believe he had a choice between you and Brown."

Hermione's honeyed gaze never left Draco's silvery one, "He wanted to relieve himself from that responsibility, but I didn't let him. I told him to take it."

"And he chose Brown, did he not?"

Hermione said nothing. Her silence was obvious.

"Weasley chose a shag over years of friendship. How disgraceful. If you ask me, I think he deliberately chose to hurt you, Hermione." He said, darkly, "So, let me ask you again: Do you plan on doing anything about it? Do you plan on seeking revenge?"

She couldn't help it. Hermione did indeed feel quite betrayed by Ronald's cruel decision; however, ever the loyal, righteous Gryffindor, revenge hadn't once crossed her mind. It wasn't in her usual nature to have ill will towards someone who had done her wrong, even though it hurt her deeply.

It wasn't in her usual nature — But this betrayal was so very unusual. It was so mercilessly wounding.

The Golden Girl frowned, as she caught herself thinking about Malfoy's idea for much longer than she would have ever intended, hadn't her mind been blinded by grief and rage. The more she contemplated the idea, the less appalling she found it. Ron deserved to experience at least a fraction of her heartache, and she wanted to give him a little taste of what he had put her through these last months.

And Malfoy seemed to be willing to help her in her quest.

Revenge…

Hermione bit her lip: Was she truly considering that option?

Before she could answer, Professor Slughorn's merry voice interrupted their conversation, as he passed by them, searching for his keys, clumsy as ever.

"Ah, Miss Granger, Mr. Malfoy, ever the eager students, I see! Please, do come in. We'll brew a very special little potion today."