Summary: Draco tries to understand what happened the night before.
Author note: This did indeed take me forever to write. Sorry about that.
Disclaimer: All characters are created by J. K. Rowling, a wonderful writer whose works I greatly enjoy. I have borrowed them for a completely profit-free flight of fancy. Kindly do not sue me, please, as I am terrified of you. Thank you.
Part 19: Cold Heart
Draco didn't really know when or if he even woke up the next morning. It felt like he hadn't slept at all, but he guessed he must have dozed off eventually. The drapes around his bed were closed tightly, making it night inside and keeping him from the indignity of being seen in the state he was in. He knew he must look a fright, and he didn't want to deal with questions or curious observers. Right now, all he wanted was to lie there in the dark and pretend that last night had been a horrible dream. But he knew it wasn't. He felt too awful for it to have been just a nightmare.
Eventually, he heard movement in the room. One by one his roommates left until only he and one other person were left. He wondered who the other occupant was and hoped it wasn't anyone nosy enough to snoop into his business. Unfortunately, luck wasn't quite on his side.
"Draco?" asked Theodore. "Are you in there?"
"Yes," he replied quickly, hoping to keep him from pulling back the curtains. "I've come down with the most dreadful cold. I think I'll be staying in today."
"Oh," Nott said, and Draco thought from his tone he suspected a bit more than he'd said. "Are you hungry at all?"
"No," he said, realizing for the first time it was true.
"You really must be sick," Nott replied. "Well, feel better."
Retreating footsteps and a door shutting let Draco know he was finally alone. He really did feel sick. The dim light in the dormitory felt cold and clammy, and he loathed the awful thought of having to see Hermione that day, or ever again for that matter. A flutter of motion drew his eye toward the window, and Persephone swooped in, nothing attached to her leg. He assumed she must just be looking for treats, but to his surprise, she landed on his night table and peered at him with what looked like concern.
"Hello," he said, hating the rasp in his voice.
Persephone hooted back quietly, then, surprisingly, huddled down near his pillow and shut her eyes, apparently asleep. He found he was glad of the company, and she tolerated him stroking her head.
Draco considered his options. He couldn't stay in this room forever, of course, but he also couldn't risk falling apart if he happened upon his so-called former friend at any moment. The betrayal he felt, the cutting certainty that she had played him for a fool for weeks and her friendship, the first he'd ever made for himself, had been the most social disastrous thing he could possibly have done, all of it was overwhelming.
"I want to go home," Draco said softly to Persephone. "I just want to go home."
Persephone responded by opening her eyes and nipping his fingers more sharply than affection might warrant, but the minor pain did bring him around to his senses a bit more.
"I know I can't," he said. "It doesn't change that I'd like to, but it's not an answer. Father would be humiliated, and Mother would never be able to bear the shame of a Hogwarts dropout. Also, I'd probably just wind up in Durmstrang. I can't stand the thought of that much snow."
Persephone, apparently pleased with his reasoning, blinked at him rather than chewing on his fingers any further.
Then a horrible thought occurred to Draco. What if his mother and father found out he'd accidentally befriended a Mudblood? There wouldn't be any question of deciding to go home; they would pull him out of the school faster than a Niffler looking for Galleons. He ran a quick list through his mind of everyone who might possibly know about his error: Crabbe, Goyle, Peeves, the House-elf who had made the cake… That seemed to be all. He hadn't mentioned Hermione to Nott or Zabini or any of the other Slytherins, nor any of the teachers. They hadn't been particularly demonstrative of their friendship publicly, so there was that. A good House-elf wouldn't blabber, and he had enough power over Peeves to keep his gob well stopped. Crabbe and Goyle, though, were another matter. Thankfully, neither of them seemed too quick. All he needed to do was come up with an adequate cover story.
Well, if she'd been trying to humiliate him, two could play that game. Draco would simply lie to them, saying he'd known all along she was a Mudblood (as any sane pure-blood should have realized) and that he had been the one fooling her into thinking they were friends so that he could have the fun of hurting her. Perfect, he thought. He could carry that off.
That left only Hermione herself. She might tell tales to everyone if the mood struck her, he supposed, so all he had to do was make sure everyone knew exactly how much he loathed her. That would make anything she might say seem like complete idiocy and cover his blunder completely, meaning no one would know the truth.
Well, except for himself. He couldn't undo his own memories. All he could do was make sure he never made another mistake like this one again.
But something was bothering him. Just how much had Hermione lied to him? Even this early in their first year she was already seen as one of the cleverest students, but from everything he knew that simply couldn't be possible. Mudbloods were all dunderheaded fools with no true talent and no real intelligence. Was she cheating in all her courses? He thought back to his conversation with Snape who had informed him of the realities of Hogwarts and that things weren't quite as his parents had always told him, or rather than things had been exaggerated.
Draco wasn't sure who was telling the truth anymore, and it made him angry. The change shifted the sickly, sad feeling out of his gut and switched it for a low burning around his heart. He didn't like being confused. His parents and all their peers couldn't possibly all be lying to him. They wouldn't. It had to be Hermione who was the one who had tricked him.
Still, he'd always been told Mudbloods had no higher feelings, no ability to love or be hurt in the same true, deep way that real witches and wizards could, but the look on her face when he'd left had certainly seemed like real pain. In fact, it had been agonizing.
Well, good, he thought. If he was hurting, why shouldn't she hurt at least as much? An idea struck him, and he felt a sneer curl his lips. Persephone drew back a little as though shocked by the malice of his expression.
"Don't worry. I've got a new goal," he said, fishing an owl treat from the drawer of his nightstand and feeding one to the rather wary bird. "All I need to do is focus on making her as miserable as possible and I won't remember the rest of it. Maybe she'll even be so upset that she'll leave Hogwarts so I won't have to deal with her again. That would be best for everyone concerned, a sort of public service. I'm sure Father and Mother would approve."
Persephone chewed the treat, but it certainly looked as though she were rolling her eyes at him as well.
"You know what? I'm hungry too," he said, snapping the drawer shut. "I think I'll see if there's anything left for breakfast, and if there isn't, I'll bully the House-elves into getting me something."
He quickly put on a fresh robe, combed his hair into its usual sleek perfection, brushed his teeth to rid his mouth of the last traces of the taste of buttercream frosting, and strode out the dormitory door, certain of his path and completely ignorant that if he really didn't care the least bit about Hermione, he wouldn't have made her his newest objective. As he walked past the common room fireplace, he glanced again at the words carved deeply into the mantle.
"'Trust no one,'" he read aloud, then sniffed with what he hoped was an air of world-weary savoir-faire. "Excellent advice."
He left for the Great Hall with a feeling of ice around his heart, and he welcomed its numbing effect. On the other side of the castle, high in Gryffindor Tower, Hermione, unable to comfort herself with even her most favorite books, shuddered as though a chill winter wind had blown through the window on the calm autumn day.