Chapter Two
Why
It was Hermione's sixth year at Hogwarts, one she happily shared with her two best friends Harry, and Ron. They had their fair share of adventures in the past years with sorcerer's stones, basilisks, escaped "convicts," dragon eggs, and the Order of the Phoenix. It only drew them closer. She couldn't imagine having better friends than them, and on top of it all she had the best marks of her year. Yes, life was good.
The summers still remained a sad parting. She had been lucky enough to spend some of it with Ron's large family. She had kept to her vow faithfully, and aside from driving past it, she never stepped foot into that playground, though it didn't stop her thinking of him when she did see it. It was an old ache that never left her. She missed him terribly, but she kept reminding herself of what he had become, and the ache dulled.
Draco did become horrible. Hermione no longer recognized him as the same boy that she shared a sandbox with. He was a mini-clone of his father. It made her sick to her stomach to think about it. Everytime he called her a mudblood the knife struck her with poison that induced a hatred for him.
Hermione sat at the same library table she had in her first year. Book, and parchments surrounded her, blocking her view of the door. Her hand moved its way across a two foot long parchment. Professor Flitwick asked for only one, but there was so much to put down, and she wanted everything exactly right. Every once in a while her eyes would flicker back to one of the four books in front of her searching for facts, or statistics. This was her element, she was at peace. For the moment...
A shadow fell over her, and she sighed. "Ron, I told you I'm not going to do the introduction this time!" She glanced up, and gasped as she saw eyes that were not blue, but steel gray, and hair that was as far from red as you could get. "What do you want," she spat at Malfoy.
He smiled arrogantly. He hadn't changed much throughout the years, he still had a pointed, pale face, and the sneer he constantly wore. "Can't I speak to an old friend?"
"An ex-friend."
"Whatever," he shrugged taking a seat across from her. He parted the mountain of books so they were face to face. "How're you?"
"What do you care?"
"I think the right question is why I care."
"No, Malfoy, that isn't a question, because you don't."
"And you're supposed to be the smartest witch of our age? Tsk, tsk..."
Hermione was growing impatient. She slammed her book close. "What do you want," she repeated
Malfoy dug his elbows in the table leaning forward slightly. "I need to ask a favor."
If she could have simply injured someone with her glare, Malfoy would be screeching, and writhing in pain, but he simply stared back at her with determination. "You need to ask a mudblood for a favor? You're stooping pretty low."
There it was, that sneer, as if she was the ugliest creature he laid eyes on. "Granger, if you won't do it for me, do it for that boy in the sandbox."
"That boy is you -"
"No, you don't understand -."
"I don't think I'd care to."
He shook his head. "I get that you hate me. I'd hate me too, but I really need your help here."
Hermione stood shoving her books, and parchments in her book bag unceremoniously. "You know what, Malfoy, at one point I needed your help too. I needed help getting adjusted to a new school, I needed a friend."
"You had Ron, and Harry," he said bitterly.
"I guess that means that I didn't need you. Well, guess what, I did. I missed you so much, but I don't anymore. If you need help, I suggest you go to one of your Slytherin mates." She stomped off, leaving him behind as he did her.
Tears burned in her eyes as she walked through the corridors, and up four flights of the stairs that would move without warning. She wiped them hastily on the sleeve of her robe before entering the portrait to their common room. She didn't want Ron, and Harry to know that she had been crying, much less about Malfoy.
"What has you crying," the Fat Lady of the portrait asked.
Hermione shook her head, "true bravery," she mumbled the portrait flinging open. She stepped through seeing the familiar red couches, and chairs, the roaring fire in the hearth. It was like coming home after a long day.
Harry, and Ron sat near the fireplace moving violent chess pieces around the board. Fred, George (Ron's older, mischievous brothers), and Lee were huddled in the corner no doubt coming up with another antic. Neville was watering a strange plant, and Dean was engrossed in his scrapbook of drawings. Ginny was probably out on the Quidditch field practicing.
She plopped down at a table in the corner of the room, and set up her materials from her book bag like they were in the library. She kept her head bent low, and tried to concentrate. Harry, and Ron knew better than to disturb her when she was in this position, like she was ready to strike at any moment. Hermione wouldn't be bothered by anyone that night.
She wrote until she fell asleep, her head on her arm. Much to her annoyance (even in her dream state), she had a what she could only call a nightmare about Malfoy. It wasn't truly a nightmare, but a string of memories she would like nothing more than to forget. Playing the sandbox in the summer, flying kites in fall, making snow angels in winter. All of these memories were bitter-sweet.
Hermione didn't wake when there were soft sounding steps on the stairs, or on the common room floor, or even right beside her. A hand touched her shoulder, and she jumped swinging around. Ron jumped back, his hands in the air defensively.
"Oh, it's you," she grumbled.
"You were working when we went to bed. Just came to see if you've gone up yet."
"Obviously I haven't," she snapped, and immediately regretted it. "I'm sorry, Ron, I'm just... Tired, I'm going to bed."
He nodded dumbly as she gathered her belongings putting them back into her pack. He watched her go up the stairs to her dormitory, she could feel his eyes on her back. "Thank you," she said before shutting the door.
After all these years it still remained a great mystery, and sweet surprise how he could be so caring. He was her proof that she didn't need Malfoy.
Malfoy... She bit her lip as she fell into her bed. Suddenly she wondered why she acted that way towards him that day. It's been six years, and she shouldn't be bitter about what happened to them, she should be relieved. He was an arse, she's lucky to have him out of her life. What he did did her a great favor if that was what she had been unknowingly looking forward to in the coming years.
If all that was true, why did the ache turn into a full fledge pain in her chest when she saw him? Why couldn't she get rid of the feeling that she needed to be there for him, even if he was never there for her? Why did everything have to be so complicated?
Hermione punched her pillow in frustration, falling into a restless sleep.