Chapter Three
To Death
The air was becoming colder, snow falling from the gray sky, and Christmas was approaching. Hermione had her gifts for everyone months ago, being prepared as she always was. She had to be, she had to do a lot of packing to do before her ski trip with her parents in France. She found it rather humorous to explain this to Ron. He didn't understand why muggles found it so much fun to race down hill on thin boards with "spears," as he called them.
Hermione hauled her two heavy suitcase down stairs, the muscles in her arms stretching. Once at the bottom Harry, and Ron like the gentlemen they could be carried them to the portrait.
"What do you have in here, Hermione, bricks?" Ron gritted through his teeth.
"No, clothes, books -"
"Should've
known," Harry gasped setting it down. "You're going on a
ski trip, why are you going to read?"
Hermione shrugged,
"what if there's a blizzard, and the slopes are closed. I need
to do something to occupy my mind."
Harry, and Ron rolled their eyes massaging the sore tendons in their hands as she checked the hands on her watch. Almost time to go. She hugged Ron, and Harry in turn.
"Have a happy Christmas. Don't forget to write."
"You'll be back in a week," Ron notified as if she didn't know.
Hermione sighed, "I know, Ron, but I'd like to know what is going on here."
She gave them last hugs, and exited out of the portrait to let them talk about how she was a control freak. She smiled to herself at the thought of her walking back in to hear them talking seeing the looks on their face. No, that would be too mean.
"Hermione, you didn't leave! Good!"
A
red head girl hurried through the corridor to her. Ginny Weasley,
Ron's little sister, Harry's girlfriend, and her friend. She hugged
her.
"Happy Christmas, Hermione. Be sure to send me those
things you were telling me about."
"Postcards," Hermione laughed. "Of course, I'll send you one by owl," she said goodbye watching her climb into the portrait, no doubt to have some time with Harry.
Hermione started to walk out to the stairs when someone grabbed her shoulder. She spun around not hearing the portrait opening, and wondering who it could be. She came face to face with Malfoy.
"Are you stalking me now," it was more of a statement than a question.
Malfoy ignored this. "Herm -" He cut himself off at the look she gave. "Granger... I need your help. I'm asking - begging you to help me."
"What is it exactly that you need so badly?" Hermione regretted the curious question before it flew out of her mouth.
He smiled as if there was still hope, but it faltered when he looked at the pictures leaning forward in their frames to listen. "Lets talk someplace else."
"I
have to leave -"
"It's now, or never for me, Granger."
He took the crook of her arm leading her out into numerous corridors.
Hermione felt repulsed that he was touching her. She wanted to yank
her arm away, but she was too busy trying to keep up with him, and
not fall.
He stopped abruptly at a door, and she ran into his back. He didn't notice this wrenching the door open, and literally shoving her inside. He closed the door after him shrouding them in darkness. They were in a broom cupboard, but that was not what had her worry. She was in there with Malfoy, her nemesis.
She backed away attempting to put more distance between them, but she tripped over what sounded by the clang like a bucket. She felt herself falling back, and Malfoy reached forward holding her waist keeping her upright.
They stood there. For how long she didn't know. His hands clasped her waist protectively, and all she wanted to do was throw him off, and make a comment about him being a pig. She couldn't, she was entranced by his cologne, dark, musky, and intoxicating. She was sorry that she didn't throw him off when he snatched his hands away from her, and coughed signifying that he was uncomfortable.
"Hurry up or I'll miss my train," she said.
She could hear him suck in a breath, and began talking hurriedly. "I've tried talking with you everyday, you keep ignoring me. I'm going home today, and I need to find a way out."
"You're not making any sense."
"My father's a deatheater, you know that. You know that he wants me to follow in his footsteps."
"Your point?"
"This week I'm supposed to get the dark mark."
Hermione felt her heart jump in her throat. She wanted something to hold on to in case her knees gave out, but she was afraid she'd reach for him. "Congratulations," she choked out.
"I don't want congratulations. I want out."
"Why would you want something like that. You've enjoyed torturing me so much these past six years, I'd think you'd have a wonderful time killing others like me."
It was in his tone, he was getting desperate. "No, no, no! I don't want this. I won't be branded like property!"
"Good luck with that," she said in the coldest voice she could muster. In truth she wanted to hold him, make him promises of her aid, but there was no way she could do that. There had been too many awful years between them to repair the damage. He was on his own.
"Hermione -"
"Don't call -"
"I will! You're the best friend I've ever had, and damn it I will call you by your bloody name! Help me! I know you can."
"I
can, it doesn't mean I will."
"Why?" His voice was
tense. He was crying, she didn't have to see him to know that he was.
She folded her arms across her chest keeping herself from going out
to him.
"You treat me horribly because of my blood, and you expect me to help you? You weren't sorry for what you called me, if you were you wouldn't have done it so many times over." Now she was crying. She felt his finger brush her shoulder, but she pulled back.
"I was mad..."
"That's no excuse, you can't call me that no matter what you feel."
"I know! I know that! All I heard growing up was that word, and I said it out of context. I know it doesn't take it away. I understood why you didn't forgive me, but it made me angry anyhow, and everything my father said about mud - muggles seemed to be right. I lost my best friend, I didn't know what to do, so I started living up to his expectations, and now I'm in too deep."
"You're blaming me for this?!"
"No! Damn it, will you please understand?"
She shook her head, then remembered he couldn't see her. "I'm going to be late for the train. Good luck, Malfoy." She pushed by him, but he seized her elbow, his fingers digging into her flesh.
"You're sending me to my death."
"Let me go," she said under her breath.
"Tell me why. Didn't you care about me at all?"
"Of course I did, don't you dare accuse me of not, because you're the one that screwed things up between us."
"You think I deserve to die for what I did?"
Hermione
took in a deep breath. His death... In a flash of green light
Voldemort, or any of the deatheaters could end it. They would take
him away from her for good. Why should she care? "I would never
think that..."
"Then why are you doing this?"
"Let me go."
Reluctantly he did as he was told. And she rushed out of the broom cupboard. Halfway down the steps did she realize that she wanted to help him. She didn't want this for him, and Hermione would do anything for him if it weren't for her pride. On some level she loved that friend, but he was no longer him.
She expected him to come into her compartment on the train to continue their argument, but he never did. She sat there with Nevielle, and Luna, mostly in quiet. Nevielle petted his plant, whatever it was, and Luna read the Quibbler upside down per usual. Hermione took out one of the books she brought along.
Hours later when they reached their destination, and they stood out onto the platform to greet their parents she saw Malfoy. He gave her a rather hopeless look, and she felt her stomach drop. As she hugged her parents she made herself a promise. This ski trip was not going to be ruined by thoughts of Malfoy, she was going to have a good time, and when she got back she would continue her school year with Harry, and Ron.
Like a few nights ago she asked herself why. Why did she look back to him if she didn't care? Hermione, however, was not the smartest witch of the age without reason. She knew it was because she did care. Deeply. To death.