Magnetic Attraction - Chapter Eighteen

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Chapter 18: At An Impasse

From that day onwards, life continued for Draco and Hermione as it had before the attraction. Hermione resumed her life as the unofficial keeper of the library, skipping meals and spending more times alone in Gryffindor Tower. She wasn’t exactly happy, but she did nothing to try and alter her path, strangely comforted by the pattern she fell into. Planning for the Yule Ball quickly became the purpose of her life, and she spent hours conferencing with the other prefects about dates, clothing requirements, and fake snow. Most meals, when she wasn’t lurking in the library, she sat with the sixth year Gryffindor prefect, Christine McKay, pouring over the large binder she had filled with sketches and brochures. The Yule Ball would be her project. It kept her busy.

Because Hermione had staked her claim on the Yule Ball, Draco immersed himself in Quidditch, fulfilling his role as Quidditch captain. With his obsessive leadership, the Slytherin team shaped up, almost matching the perfectly-coordinated Gryffindor House team. He constantly could be found drawing up stragedy. However, he still avoided the cluttered Slytherin common room, and forced himself never to look up when Hermione passed through his makeshift office in their shared common room. That became the standard for the pair, ignoring each other. They had a silent agreement to just move on.

Not that that was easy for either of them. Although Draco didn’t invite Pansy back to his bedroom, he still had trouble falling asleep unaided, and eventually had to turn to Dreamless Sleep potion. Hermione fell asleep fairly easily, but continued to dream of vague shadows who would whisper gentle nothings into her ear, before pulling away and leaving her alone on top of the Astronomy Tower, standing on the railing, poised to jump. Then she would wake up, her heart pounding, in a dark mood.

The night before the Gryffindor vs. Slytherin Quidditch match, Hermione was hanging out with Christine, who was quickly becoming a good friend, while Harry, Ron, and Ginny were all having a last-minute practice. She was tired, as it was Friday, and was greatly relieved that for two weeks, she hadn’t taken part in any interaction with Draco. She had given Christine a basic rundown of the magnetic attraction, excluding their brief romance and the Cedric fiasco, and found that the girl was like a more serious version of Ginny, only much less obsessed with Harry. Christine also had an interest in reading, something Hermione really appreciated in a friend. The half-blood had just admitted to have read Hogwarts: A History twelve times, when Hermione decided that the sixth year was a true friend.

“Alright, I know it’s obsessive to read a nonfiction book more than once, but I enjoy it each time,” Christine argued unnecessarily, under the impression that the Head Girl would disapprove of her favorite book. Instead, she only smiled, feeling relaxed for the first time since the attraction broke.

“No, I totally agree,” she interrupted. Christine looked stunned that someone understood her. “Every time you read it you learn something you didn’t notice before. I’ve got you beat though, I’ve read it eighteen times.” Christine gasped, sitting up on the sofa she had previously been lying down on. Hermione grinned smugly, before looking back down at the to do list open in her lap.

“I can’t believe I’ve just admitted my deepest, darkest secret, only to find you topped it! Gah!” Put out, she laid back down, closing her yellowish-green eyes. She continued, her voice showing her minor irritation, “Ok then, what’s your secret?”

This question was innocent, and Hermione knew that the sixth year wasn’t in any way prying, but at the same time, her easygoing expression faded. She had two such secrets, one that only Draco, Harry, Ron, and Ginny knew, and one that only Draco himself knew. The first was that she loved Draco, and the second that she had loved Cedric. The teenager placed her planning binder on top of the coffee table, before curling up in her armchair, nervous. It was about time that she told someone else the truth about Cedric. Perhaps that was why she still trusted Draco so much, he was the person one who knew and he hadn’t told anyone. If there were someone else, then he wouldn’t be so special in her eyes.

“Promise you won’t tell anyone?” she started timidly, her face scrunched up and pointed. Surprised by the serious tone suddenly in her friend’s voice, Christine reopened her eyes and shifted to face her, before nodding twice. “Only one other person knows this, so not even a word to Harry, okay?”

“Sure, sure, Hermione. Go ahead.” Hermione looked down into her lap, fidgeting with the hem of her t-shirt. Now or never. Just do it. Just tell her.

“When I was in fourth year,” she said slowly, “I had this friendship with a guy from another house.” It was easier to start from the beginning and go slowly. Her voice got stronger with every sentence. “He really meant a lot to me, and I slowly fell in love with him.”

“What happened?” Christine asked, whispering. It was comforting how she hadn’t just immediately asked who the boy was. It was too soon.

“Well, he trusted me, and confided in me all of his fears and worries. I was really close to him. But he had a girlfriend and was older, so I didn’t act on how I felt about him.” The sixth-year frowned, but didn’t comment. “Until one day, when I kissed him.”

“And then what happened?” Christine sat back up, completely enthralled with her friend’s story.

“He smiled and ran off.” She chuckled, before asking,

“No, silly, what happened to the relationship?”

Hermione scowled down at the floor, holding her breath. When she ran out of air, she decided honesty was the best policy and said in a rush of words, “He died before it could progress any further.”

Christine fixed her with a blank stare, resting her chin on her palm, before comprehension worked across her face. Disbelievingly almost, she drawled hesitantly in monotone, “Please tell me you’re not talking about Cedric Diggory.” Hermione nodded slowly. “Oh, Merlin, Hermione, you didn’t tell anyone?” She shook her head, biting her lip. “I’m so sorry, that must have been so hard to deal with on your own.”

“Thanks.” They sat in silence for a few moments, while Hermione regained her composure and Christine stewed over this new information.

Suddenly, she asked, “Who was the other person you told?”

Hermione started before answering, “Malfoy.”

The other girl answered. “I’m surprised he hasn’t told anyone yet.” Her words had a negative edge to them, and the other girl fought against the need to correct her.

“If he cares about you, then he won’t betray your trust, even now,” she finally said quietly. Hermione’s head snapped up in shock, and she was about to snarl a response to prove the opposite, but froze when she heard a familiar voice say the password on the other side of the portrait. They both watched it open, and the Head Girl gulped as a depressed Draco clambered in. He didn’t notice them until he had walked about five steps into the room. Normally he would have kept walking, but his eyes met Hermione’s and it would have been rude to simply walk away without acknowledge her presence. After an awkward pause, he gave her a gruff nod and continued on his way to his bedroom door.

“Hey, Malfoy!” called out Christine, earning herself a heavy glare from Hermione. He turned around slowly, dreading this moment. He really didn’t want to talk to them right now, or act out a fight he didn’t really mean.

“What, McKay?” he asked, leaning against the doorframe. Hermione was looking at her binder again, but Christine had fixed him with a curious look. It made him nervous. The younger Gryffindor twisted a lock of her dark auburn hair around her finger absentmindedly, still lying down.

“We need you to sign a few contracts for the Yule Ball on Monday at the prefect’s meeting. You know, decoration contracts, random insurance things,” she said calmly. He nodded, before sending a faked sneer at the back of Hermione’s head and escaping finally into his bedroom. The red head sighed. “He’s not very talkative lately, is he?” she added to herself.

“Thanks for that,” Hermione said snidely, shrinking back into the cushions.

Christine winced. Ginny was right, she thought. Getting them back together will be harder then we thought.

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Eventually Draco found himself out on the Quidditch pitch, wearing his flashy but worn emerald robes and leather riding pants. He hovered hundreds of feet up in the air, a tiny green speck in the clouds to anyone filing into the stands below, and those who were lucky enough to have Omnioculars could see he was completely still, looking directly in front of him. In truth, he wasn’t looking at anything at all, and was simply clearing his mind before the big Slytherin/Gryffindor match only minutes away. Normally the young man had little trouble blocking out thoughts of his imprisoned father and insane mother, and seeing as since the last time he had played, they both had died, an ignorant person would believe it easier for him to focus now.

And yet, as glazed as his grayish-blue eyes had become, and as dead as his face appeared, he was far from focused. In fact, his mind was hundreds of feet below him, across the pitch, and up a flight of narrowed stairs, sitting next to a young woman. That was where it would stay for the rest of the game.

Madame Hooch blew her whistle, the sharp trill startling Draco, causing him to drop several feet before regaining control and descending slowly, pulling his broom in between the referee and Goyle.

In front of him, Potter smirked and mouthed smugly, ‘You’re going down.’

The blond rolled his eyes and responded, ‘Doubtful.’ He quickly looked away, his feet pressed against solid ground, as Hooch gave the normal lecture about sportsmanship and having a clean match. He could have recited it verbatim by now, and his eyes sought out Hermione’s—unconsciously, of course. She wasn’t looking at him, and was again sitting with that McKay girl, and a perky-looking Neville Longbottom. He scoffed quietly, and forced himself to look away.

Potter noticed his glance toward the Gryffindor stand, and quickly sent an irritated look at the two youngest Weasleys, causing them to narrow their eyes and tighten their holds on their broom handles.

“Please try not to break any noses this game, and please keep things fair. First match of the season, so set a good example for the other two teams,” she finished finally, speaking for the benefit of the two captains. “Alright then.” Draco flexed his fingers in his gloves.

The whistle blew, and the game began.

“AND THEY’RE OFF!” Luna Lovegood bellowed from her seat in the staff box, an annoyed Professor McGonagall sitting beside her. Hermione snapped to attention, her eyes following the ascending blur that was her ex-boyfriend, while she spun dials on her Omnioculars, setting the record function. She tuned out the innocent banter between Neville and Christine, doing the same to Luna’s inept commentary as she focused in on his face, determined and somehow already sweaty. He leveled out about a hundred feet from the ground, directly in the middle of the game, moving only to avoid the spare bludger sent in his direction. Straight off the bat Slytherin scored, causing Ron to snarl and narrow his eyes.

“Their team’s gotten a lot better,” Neville told Christine.

The girl merely shrugged and responded, “Malfoy’s a good captain, I suppose.”

Hermione remained silent as the others booed the opposing team. Her voice would probably sound forced anyway. She paid no attention to the rest of the game at all, watching him while she had the chance, while she couldn’t be caught staring. The wind did wonders for his hair, causing it to flutter about lightly in the most attractive way. She moaned softly as he turned around to watch the Quaffle streak down the field, his leather trousers tightening around his muscular thighs. In fact, even the thin line of sweat on his forehead seemed suddenly drop-dead sexy in his eyes. Unwanted, she found the urge to lick it off. Slytherin scored again and she didn’t even notice, fascinated by his victorious grin.

“Slytherin’s up twenty points, thanks to that strange maneuver by one of those bulky fifth years. Not sure what his name is, they all seem alike,” Luna announced, before humming softly to herself. Ron swore and made a random hand gesture to Harry, who apparently understood what he meant and flew over to hover next to one of his Beaters. He quickly muttered something before resuming his scanning of the field. The younger Gryff sped off, away from the tussle near the Gryffindor goal posts that had already formed.

“Oh, Merlin, what is Kirke doing?” asked Lavender behind the distracted girl. Hermione looked down to follow the mousy boy as he swung his bat at the passing Bludger, sending it whizzing off in Draco’s direction. The Seeker quickly dropped lower, sending the small ball over his head, the faint wind from its speed making his hair fly back. Her jaw dropped as it fell back into place slowly, hair by hair, and he licked his lips with that adorable pink tongue, before biting down on them in concentration.

“And Malfoy seems to have spotted the Snitch, look at him go!” Luna exclaimed, confusing the lusting girl. It took her a few seconds to realize that she had made the same mistake as Harry had three years ago at the Quidditch cup. She had been ogling Draco Malfoy on the slow motion setting. Blushing furiously, she quickly switched back one of the switches, to see no one was there anymore. All around her people were pointing and yelling, and Hermione followed their screams and gestures to the green bullet zooming towards the ground, his face pulled taught in concentration. Harry was already on his tail, equally as focused, but she hardly noticed him. There seemed to be something wrong with Draco, he looked almost afraid and self-conscious. She could see why, he was quickly approaching the ground. Thirty feet, twenty feet, fifteen feet. She stood up, horrified that he would crash. Ten feet, five feet, and he pulled his broom upwards, slowing down as he regained height.

She smirked in unison as she realized what he’d done. A very cleverly practiced Wronskei Feight.

“Oh, Harry doesn’t appear to be doing so well, look at that bump on his forehead, ouch,” Luna consoled, and Hermione swiveled to see Harry dismounting his broom and wobbling unsteadily over to the sideline, completely furious that he had been tricked. Having missed the action, she turned to Christine and asked what had happened.

“Harry only barely pulled up and lost his balance. He fell off and landed at a funny angle,” she whispered, while everyone held their breath. In the pause, she looked back up to Draco to find him once again circling the pitch like a hawk. Part of her knew that she should have been absolutely furious with him for hurting her friend, but she couldn’t lie. She was proud of him, as much as she hated him.

And she did hate him. Stupid, bloody ferret.

Amid tumultuous applause, Harry strutted back out across the field, smiling disparagingly with his broom by his side. With another harsh blow of the whistle, he took off, seemingly fine. Hermione smiled too, relieved, though still happy for Draco.

The rest of the game seemed kind of blurred, and all she could remember afterwards was him, only him. It was ironic in a way, how she couldn’t even support her best friend as he flew because the boy who she hated was so bloody distracting! Merlin, she hated him, hated him for this! It was so infuriating, so… so… him! How could he have the nerve to just storm in and change everything, and just leave her?

And yet she couldn’t manage to look away.

Then it was suddenly over, and all around her people were stomping their feet and screaming, waving red and gold banners. Hermione was stunned, taken completely by surprise when Luna bellowed the final score, 200 to 110, Gryffindor had won. Harry was laughing, racing after Ginny in victory laps. Ron was blowing kisses to the stands. But Draco was up high again. He was almost brushing the clouds, it appeared, so far away. Hermione blinked, before standing up and yelling congratulations to Ron as he sped by. Frustrated, she hung her Omnioculars around her neck to keep them from falling, her face stinging in the wind.

“Jump on, Mione!” Ron yelled, pulling his broom up beside her. He was grinning, his hair windswept and messy, his hand extended to her. He’d done this before, and she’d never said yes, reminded of Cedric. And yet she was different now, no longer afraid of the shadows, so much more alive, and though she knew this was a very bad idea, she took it.

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He’d lost. After all of that effort… Potter’d gotten the snitch. It was just over, the Gryffindor’s were cheering, the Slytherin’s hissing, with Potter waving the bloody snitch around. He pulled his broom handle upwards, fuming. How could he have bloody lost!?!

A snide voice in his mind blamed Hermione. He wasn’t sure why it was her fault, but god damn it, it was. She’d been distracting him, nibbling on her lower lip as she stared at him, her eyes making the hair on the back of his neck stand on end as if he’d been shocked. How could you not be distracted by that? Anybody would be. That was why he’d lost.

He was an awesome Quidditch player. He’d tricked scarhead into thinking he’d seen the snitch, hadn’t he? He’d led his team into scoring constantly. He hadn’t let himself look at Hermione once during the game play. He was the best, he really was. It was all her bloody fault. Not his. Of course not, how could he even think that?

Unable to stop himself, he leveled out, about three hundred feet from the pitch. It was chilly, damp at that altitude, and he knew he would catch a cold if he went any higher. He sought out Hermione’s brown head automatically -so he could glare at her, he reasoned- only to find himself unable to locate it in the quivering mass that was the Gryffindor stand. Instead, it was next to an unmistakable red Weasley mop, doing victory laps around the field. Draco frowned, drifting lower. She hated to fly. What was she playing at? He continued to descend unintentionally, slowly as people began to leave the stand, and march back to the castle, though the Gryffindor team remained. Soon, he was only a hundred feet above Weasley and the Head Girl watching, confused, as Hermione laughed at every quick dip the flyer took.

This brought a raw feeling to the back of Draco’s throat. For once she seemed happy, hot tired or lonely or scared. Of course she’s happy, his inner jerk sneered, She’s got Weasel all to herself. Just like she always wanted. But at the same time, that didn’t ring true. Even from his distance, he could see the wide, innocent grin breaking out across her face, and he couldn’t help but wonder,

Was she ever that happy with me? Draco sighed and turned his back on the couple, beginning to pick up speed as he grew closer to the ground. However, he had hardly made it ten feet before the girlish squeals of his ex turned into a petrified shriek.

It seemed like time turned to slow motion as he quickly redirected his broom to face them; he saw Weasley, just as shocked as him, puling his broom to a halt, the space behind him completely empty. Hermione was below him already, some ten feet above Draco and about halfway across the field. She seemed stunned, her arms spread out at her sides, her legs slightly bent at the knee, with her stupid Gryffindor scarf flapping behind her, an ironic picture. Potter and his girlfriend were already on the ground, looking up, and the few people left watching were all wide-eyed and terrified. Weasel wouldn’t be able to make it, he would have to gain speed and was too slow. No one else could save her.

He knew what he had to do.

Draco had never believed his broomstick to be so slow. After all, it was the fastest money could by, the Firebolt Mark II, with friction-proof bristles and rubber grips on the top, and yet somehow it seemed to move at a snail’s place, surely slower than a moth. Draco urged it forward, snarling coarse words in English, French, and Latin as Hermione continued to spiral elegantly downwards, screaming still. Weasley was just starting to descend, Potter foolishly running underneath them as if he thought he could catch her, and the Weaselette was bending over to pull her wand out from under her shin guard, but Draco would get there first. Finally, he was under her, slightly to the left, and he grabbed her wrist about thirty feet before she could have a discussion with the ground about its texture.

Several things seemed to happen at once. First, she let out a painful cry of shock, with a sharp CRACK heard over her scream. Second, his broom dropped alarmingly as it struggled to adjust to the sudden addition of carrying weight, and third, a sense of relief overpowered the blond as he realized what he had just managed to do. He had saved her. Again.

Slowly, with a small amount of difficulty, he managed to pull her upwards and into his lap, arranging her legs to sit sidesaddle as he leant her against his chest, with one arm around her waist, supporting her. She was crying, as expected, and as he regained his balance, he looked her over as best as he could in their position. She had moved her head to rest on his shoulder, her eyes closed, and was clutching her arm awkwardly to her breast. He quickly noted the backwards angle at which her arm seemed bent, and diagnosed her with a broken arm, before scowling and tugging her tighter.

Without a glance to the concerned friends below, he sighed and headed off in the direction of the hospital wing.

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