Magnetic Attraction - Chapter Nineteen

Chapter 19: These Things That Never Change

Draco regretted involving himself in Hermione’s business almost immediately, as after he laid Hermione down on a bed in the infirmary, Madame Pomfrey pushed him down into a chair by the Gryffindor’s side. He sighed and rolled his eyes, but nonetheless sat down, his stare still sweeping over the prostrate girl as Madame Pomfrey tended to her arm. At some point Hermione had passed out against his shoulder on the flight over, and he hadn’t bothered to ennervate her, appreciating this rare chance to hold her so intimately without facing any consequences.

“I should go, Madame, I doubt Miss Granger would want me here when you woke her,” he said calmly, his voice dull. She shook her head, smoothing a cold compress over Hermione’s forehead, before glancing up briefly at the blond. He had one leg slung over the arm of the wooden chair, his elbow resting on the other. Draco was still in his sparkly green Quidditch robes, leather protective pads and all, and yet no longer appeared as relaxed and arrogant in them as he once had. She tutted under her breath, setting the cloth on the bedside table before smoothing down the sheets around Hermione’s legs. The woman looked back up at the Head Boy from under her eyelashes, and said quietly,

“She waited for you, Mr. Malfoy.” Feeling guilty, he shifted and looked back down at Hermione’s tranquil face. She was still so beautiful. The mediwitch continued anyway, slowly sitting down on the edge of the bed across from him. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen that girl so upset as when you were healing, in all the years I’ve cared for her health.” He didn’t want to listen, partly because this was true and partly because of what he had down when he had awoken to find her by his side. “I think she would have taken it hard if you hadn’t recovered.” She shook her head, standing back up. “Let her rest, Mr. Malfoy, but don’t leave until she wakes. You owe her that much.” He stared blandly at her as she walked away, disappearing into her office.

He had to say that leaving did seem a bit rude. After all, she had nearly died, and waking up alone did seem a bit harsh. So Draco stayed and watched her breathe in and out serenely, unaware of his presence. It was difficult for him to do so, to be so close to the girl he tried so hard to hate when he could see no reason to. She wasn’t yelling at him now, scowling at him as if he were the most awful thing in existence. Nor was she cheating on him, perched next to Weasley on the edge of her bed. How often had he gone over that moment in his head these past few weeks, trying not to believe Hermione’s pleading words? ‘It’s not what you think!’ Could he be wrong? But what could he do if he had been wrong? Apologize? When? Now! Could he? Why not?

‘No,’ he protested. ‘She hates you now anyway, what good would it do?’ He recalled her flinging her favorite book at his head, absolutely furious with him. Apologizing would do little.

The object of his affection stirred, waking up before his eyes. He looked across the infirmary to Mme. P’s office door to find it closed. This was his chance to leave, to escape, to let things return to what they once had been. If he didn’t go, he would no longer be able to hate her. It was, amazingly enough, as simple as that. And although he didn’t really want to stay, he didn’t move an inch as she stretched and opened her eyes. Silver and blue met brown, and silence followed. Draco watched as she rolled her neck, before pulling herself up into a sitting position and examining her previously broken arm. Satisfied that all bones were safely in place, she clasped her hands in her lap, staring directly forward. He knew he should speak, but he had nothing to say, and simply looked on as the Head Girl decided what to do. Soon, she couldn’t take the silence, or perhaps her righteous Gryffindor side took over and she had to acknowledge her previous brush with death.

“Thank you for saving me,” Hermione said quietly, her voice soft and vulnerable. “Again.” They were both aware that she was vulnerable, not in a position to hex him or throw anything, and also that his catching her had put the ball back in his court. She had no right to be mad at him whatsoever.

Draco blinked, still unmoving.

“I couldn’t just let you die, Granger, your boyfriend isn’t much of a speed demon,” he said in an equally unruffled voice, with a little dig behind the insult. She sighed, looking down at her fingers.

There was yet another pause before she scolded almost under her breath,

“We both know that Ron Weasley is not my boyfriend. He may have quite a few girlfriends but I am not one of them.” This pulled a reluctant laugh from Draco, and a small smile pulled at the corner of her lips. She looked up at him, unshed tears in her eyes. That silenced him again. To herself she wondered aloud, “Why is it that I can’t stay mad at you?” Her words were so weighted and so unexpected that he could only frown, at a loss of how to respond. Again, she looked away.

Draco shifted, running his hand through his hair in exasperation. They couldn’t stop now, the whole situation had changed. Before he could process what he was saying, he stammered out quickly,

“I didn’t sleep with Pansy.” Hermione nodded, unable to respond. Silence again. He continued, unwilling to let their flimsy conversation snap. “I paid her to just sleep next to me so I didn’t feel so alone.”

“I kissed Ron to prove that I didn’t have feelings for him and to be sure that I loved you,” she admitted, turning to sit on her knees to face him. He leant forward, searching her face for honesty. There was no trace of a single lie, and she stared back.

“It didn’t work, I still couldn’t sleep,” he continued.

“And I still ended up with the same answer,” she added.

“I couldn’t replace you.”

“I loved you.”

It was the first time either one of them had said it, actually been able to voice their love aloud. They had known it on some level, with the attraction breaking, but it had gotten lost in all of the drama that had followed. Draco could tell that she wasn’t lying either, her eyes round and glistening, her lips still parted from her final word. Love, what he had always wanted, especially from her. The past tense stung.

‘She’s lying.’

‘No she’s not.’

“Granger,” he said, scared.

She shook her head.

“We can’t, Malfoy.” He blinked as she looked away again, towards the door. “Not now, everything’s different. It’s back to real life now, there’s no attraction to allow it anymore.” He didn’t argue, it was true. He was a Malfoy after all, while she was a Muggleborn. She was Potter’s best friend, out of bounds. It would be too hard.

He rubbed his eyes with the heel of his hand. “I’m sorry.”

“I should go,” he said, standing up. He allowed himself one final look at Hermione, mournful but realistic. Then he turned to leave.

He was almost out the door before she called back to him.

“Wait!” He slowly turned. Hermione forced a smile and asked hesitantly, “Friends?”

Draco bit his lip uncharacteristically, but agreed,

“Friends.”

The door closed behind him with a click of finality. She wondered what she had done now. Leaning her back against the headboard, she noticed her omnioculars resting on her bedside table, and picked them up. Looking through the eyepieces, she pushed replay. Draco flying high above the pitch, his hair blowing behind him as he licked his lips, met her sight. She watched the loop before rewinding and watching him again.

The girl began to cry as she realized that once again, she had lied to Draco. She hadn’t ever stopped loving him.

She still did.

By the time November ended, their promise of friendship could be best defined as redundant. While it was true that no words of ill feeling had passed between the two heads, instead of spending time together and getting over the awkward stage of breaking up, they began to obsessively avoid each other, causing the tension to only grow. They both tried not to spend much time in the Head dorms, with Draco going to sleep late and Hermione retiring to her bedroom early or remaining in Gryffindor Tower. During the prefect meetings she had scheduled to plan the Yule Ball, they sat side by side, their chairs as far apart as they could manage. Draco turned around in the hallway if he saw Hermione passing between classes with Harry and Ron, and when they stumbled across each other alone, he had taken to nodding stiffly in her direction, avoiding eye contact, before bolting away.

Slowly people began to notice their odd behavior, and soon prefect meetings were a source of interest of not only Ginny and Christine McKay, but also several girls from the older year. Included were two Ravenclaws, Christine’s friend Bee, a fellow half-blood, and a pureblood named Rose. Rose was actually a childhood friend of Blaise Zabini’s, and had known Draco for years, but could offer no explanation for his actions, other than jumping to conclusions. She and Bee both had their own theories about what had passed between him and Hermione during the weeks of the attraction. Needless to say, they weren’t all that far from the truth.

Hermione was going over the decorations again in the first week of December, appearing driven and focused to the untrained eye, while inside she was on absolute edge. She was very aware of every move the teenager next to her made, resisting the urge to flinch every time his elbow grew closer to hers on the tabletop. Juvenile, possibly, but she could no longer deny that the blond completely unnerved her, and new as she was to adult crushes and especially love, she didn’t quite know how to handle it. She had found that talking to Christine had helped greatly in removing some of her stress, but something was still noticeably missing.

“So I believe that is all for this week’s meeting, unless you have anything to add, Malfoy,” she finished, turning slightly to look at him. She always dreaded this, forced to meet his gaze by business protocol, and predictably lost her breath when he looked back. Blushing, she swiftly faced the confused prefects. On the other end of the large conference table, the unofficial Reunite Dramione Association exchanged significant looks.

“No, I don’t believe so. Just make sure that you ask Flitwick for his help duplicating those snowflakes, Barnett,” Draco said blankly, betraying no emotion. Rose nodded at the sound of her last name, before he added, “Meeting adjourned.” Immediately most of the prefects began to collect their things, though the four observers lingered to watch the two Heads. Much to their disappointment, Hermione had clasped her bag by the time he had finished speaking and was already walking towards the door. Draco made no move to stop her, and soon she had left. The association pouted collectively. Draco took his time to give her a head start and avoid walking together back to their dorms.

Noticing he was still not alone, he looked up from behind his notes to find the four girls all staring at him. Sneering, he snarled at them,

“What are you loitering here for? Curfew’s in twenty minutes! Go before I take away points!” They blinked at him. His upper lip curled. “Do you need a written invitation?”

Bee grumbled under her breath about ferrets as Ginny shot him a patented Weasley glare of disgust, but they reluctantly slung their bags over their shoulders and followed Hermione out the door.

“Hermione’s caved apparently,” Christine concluded once the door was safely shut and had dissolved back into the wall behind them. “She had trouble breathing when he dropped his quill, remember that?” Rose laughed, tossing her long brown hair over her shoulder.

“Poor girl, I wouldn’t fancy being in her drab little shoes, sharing a dorm with him and everything.” Bee smiled to herself before adding to the conversation,

“That means they’ll be forced to see each other though, add to the sexual tension.” The four girls laughed before breaking off into two parts, Ginny and Christine yelling good night as they continued down the seventh floor corridor, while Rose and Bee descended a set of stairs towards the Ravenclaw entrance.

Lingering a few meters behind them, the Head Boy frowned, watching Ginny’s red hair swing back and forth. This complicated things.

As if they weren’t already complicated enough, he whinged silently, fingering the leather strap of his bag. His steps required no thought as he ducked behind a tapestry to cut time, allowing his mind to trek into much more troubled waters. He was still wondering if his decision to break away from Hermione was a good one and every day recalled the truth in her words, ‘We can’t!’ He wanted to, that should be enough! The war was over! Soon school would end and things like houses and parents wouldn’t matter! Screw Potter, he had nothing to do with the fact that he-

No. He was doing it again, regretting and sugarcoating the facts. Potter did matter, Weasley did matter, and genetics did matter. Some things had changed, but others never would.

On December 7th, Ginny noticed something odd, something that she could have cursed herself for not noticing before. Harry was talking to Ron about Professor Snape’s replacement, Neville was flirting timidly with Christine, and Lavender was reading a French fashion magazine that Dean had magically translated for her. The redhead’s brow furrowed as she wondered how she was the only one to have noticed it. Now it stood out stark against the normality of her days, and she knew it would bother her endlessly if she did nothing about it. Genuinely worried, she watched as across from her Hermione fiddled with her spoon between her thumb and index finger, but did nothing to eat her soup.

Ginny’s eyes did not leave the elder girl’s hands for about ten minutes as the Head Girl reviewed her notes for Charms. No change. The soup remained untouched. Finally Hermione looked up and glanced around, forcing Ginny to turn away and watch out of the corner of her eye as the brunette vanished her soup, her wand hidden under the table. She then put her notes back into her bag and stood up, saying she had to dash to the library. Dumbfounded, Ginny could only gape at her retreating back.

“Harry,” she said weakly, immediately drawing his attention away from her brother. Ron scowled and turned to join Dean and Seamus’ conversation about Ravenclaw’s impending game with Hufflepuff, the final game before winter break. “When was the last time you saw Hermione eating anything?” He gave her a strange look before answering,

“We just ate lunch with her.” She shook her head.

“No. When have you actually seen her swallow something?” He blinked, but slowly the meaning of her words dawned on him, his eyes widening. Harry spluttered for a minute, picking up his coffee mug to have something to do with his hands.

“You can’t mean that- no! Hermione eats, she does!” Again she shook her head sadly, leaning her chin on his shoulder. He looked back at her guiltily.

“I don’t remember her eating since before her attraction with Malfoy ended,” she answered for him, trying to work out what had happened. “She has to have eaten something, but she never does in public. Don’t they have that minikitchen in the Head dorms?” He shrugged, wrapping his arm around her shoulder.

“We can’t just ask her, she’d get defensive,” he said, wheels slowly turning. “And the only other person who knows what goes on in her dorms would be Malfoy.” Predictably, he sneered, pausing to glare at the Slytherin on the other side of the Great Hall. Draco wasn’t looking. “But we can’t exactly ask him, now can we?”

“Why not?” Ginny snapped, narrowing her eyes at Harry as she pulled away. Harry started, surprised. Pink growing in her freckled cheeks, she protested, “Honestly, if he cares about Hermione, then he will want to help us. Don’t forget that he loved her, Harry.” She groaned in frustration after receiving a blank look in response.

Defensive as he always was, the Boy-Who-Killed shook his head, before arguing,

“If he loved her why did he break her heart? You saw how upset she was that morning.” It was true that she had no rebuttal against this, so the sixth year rolled her eyes and looked over to the Slytherin table, spotting Draco instantly. As usual, he was perched between Crabbe and Goyle, jotting down notes in a slim green notebook that she knew held his Quidditch game plans. Though Quidditch was over until March for both Gryffindor and Slytherin, he had continued plotting the darker house’s comeback for the second half of the season.

“I know, Harry, I do,” she said gently. “But if he can’t give me a few straight answers then I’ll just have to make him.” There was a loose threat in her voice, and from the glint in his girlfriend’s eye, Harry knew she was determined. Thus, he didn’t protest as she stood up and walked away. With a sigh, he resigned himself to watching her from afar. Hell, maybe she could actually get a real answer out of Draco.

Ginny wasn’t exactly confident as she approached the Slytherin table, but she did the best she could to look the part. Throwing her shoulders back, her every step was planned and deliberate. As she rounder the corner and strode between the Ravenclaw and Slytherin tables, heads slowly turned to spread the awareness of the Gryffindor until on the other end, Malfoy looked up from his quill, already donning a grimace at the name Weasley.

Zabini drawled to his crew when she was within earshot,

“Guard your wallets, boys, the Girl-Who-Shagged-Her-Way-To-Galleons is coming.”

She glared at the back of his curly head as they snickered before she fired back,

“I do believe you’ve confused me with your mother, Zabini.”

Everyone ‘oooed’ conspiratorially, aside from Zabini, who growled at her with a defeatist attitude. Having won that battle, she stopped to stand behind him and across from Draco, who faced her bravely, boredom etched into his features. “Malfoy, I need a word,” she said crisply.

Everyone was silent, waiting for his answer. He set his book down and meticulously closed it, before knitting his hands together and resting them on the lip of the table. Taking his time, he glanced up at her briefly before taking a sip of water. A flicker of irritation shimmied through Ginny’s mind. Like a boss addressing a failing employee, he examined her carefully.

“We can’t always get what we want, Weaselette. Why should I care?” he asked snidely, drawing forth further sniggers from the elder Slytherins.

She shifted her weight onto her other foot, biting her tongue. Think of Mione, she could handle him and so can you. He should care, simply because of the attraction. He should want to know what was wrong, right? She just needed to stay calm, that was all. Patience.

“You should care because the Head Girl is ill and the Headmaster needs an update on the decorations for the Yule Ball.” All right, there was nothing wrong with a few white lies. Thank goodness Professor Dumbledore hadn’t arrived for the meal.

The change in Draco’s attitude was subtle, but she was able to see the flicker of worry and doubt in his expression. He did care, he just didn’t want to. He stood slowly, his movements exaggeratedly reluctant for the benefit of his entourage, and joked casually,

“The Mudblood probably caught some disease from your mutant of a brother, Weaselette.”

She swallowed her retourt, thinking of how many weeks Hermione had been running on energy charms instead of real food. The idea drove her not to comment when he took his time swaggering in front of her, leading her out of the hall as if their meeting had been his idea. Ginny felt Harry’s eyes on the back of her neck as she had always been able to, and knew that although she had no reason to be afraid of the Slytherin before her. If anything went wrong, Harry would protect her. Draco opened the doors leading to the Entrance Hall and let them fall shut behind him, not holding them for her. She grumbled under her breath as she wrenched them open again to find him waiting for her, leaning against the banister of the grand staircase. He watched her calculatingly, obviously wondering what she wanted. Ginny approached him carefully, stopping several feet away to keep a considerable distance between them.

“I’ll get straight to the point, as I know that you probably want to spend as little time with me as possible, and let me tell you that I feel the same way.” She was ranting, she knew it, and tried to use a little more tact. He was apparently amused by her nerves, and resumed his smirk. She paused to regain her breath.

“And what exactly would the point of this be? It seems the Headmaster has no need to talk to me?” he drawled pointedly, jutting his chin forward. She glared at him, clasping her hands behind her back.

“Hermione’s not eating, or so we believe.” She could spot no difference in his glacial expression, but knew that just as before, he cared more than he wanted to admit. “We can’t recall her having a substantial meal since before the attraction between you two broke. We’re worried and we were wondering if she might just be taking her meals in the Head’s dorm. Do you know if she is?”

“I don’t watch the Mudblood’s every move, Weaselette, I’m sorry to disappoint you.”

Again, she could spot no change in his exterior, and she did her best not to snap at his insult.

“Could you talk to her, possibly, and maybe just get her to-,”

“She has not been my problem for several weeks now,” he snapped, straightening up. She took a step back out of reflex. “She is now your problem, as she has always been.” On that final note he fixed her with a strong glare and stalked off towards the Slytherin common room. Ginny winced and lingered in the Entrance Hall, getting over the shock of his harsh refusal to help. What had she been expecting? But she knew that he would be watching Hermione much closer now anyway, and walked back to the Great Hall, pleased with the idea of one more person looking out for her friend.