Magnetic Attraction - Chapter Sixteen

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Chapter 16: When You Mess with Gryffindors

“You don’t want to do this, Draco,” Hermione said from across the boat. He scowled, wishing he could return to shore but having no means of doing so. Instead he settled for pulling at his collar, trying to ignore the eleven-year-old, bushy haired, buck-toothed girl staring up at him. But she was making it very hard. “If you love her, you should believe there’s more to the story.” Draco tried to think of something else, of Quidditch, but it wasn’t working well. “The Hermione you know wouldn’t ever cheat, would she? Especially if she loved you.”

‘Bludgers, catching the snitch, shoving Potter off his broom,’ he thought to himself, watching the water ripple as raindrops spluttered the surface.

“You should apologize; I hope you know you acted like a right arse.” The preteen seemed to be enjoying herself, and twirled a springy strand of hair around her finger, a habit she still had today. Draco ignored the quirk. “She was crying for at least an hour, and probably ran straight to Harry and Ron.”

‘Tossing the quaffle, flying, waving silver and green banners, yelling fan girls.’

“You probably deserved that ass-kicking; you really hurt her! Screw Malfoy honor and dignity, you love her and that’s all that matters!” Unable to restrain himself any longer, Draco looked away from the shifting water toward the girl, glaring at her first year uniform. She crossed her stockinged legs, folding her skirt neatly beneath her knees.

“That’s not all that matters, you immature little twerp, I need to represent my family! And dating that whore will not be doing so!” She blinked at him as she shrunk away, her doe eyes growing wide.

“She’s not a whore, she had her reasons,” she protested feebly, but he didn’t listen.

“And furthermore, she’s not even that special! She’s not beautiful, she doesn’t like Quidditch, she’s a best friend of Potter and Weasley, and on top of that, she’s a fucking mudblood! She goes against everything I believe in!” Hermione cringed, scooting dangerously backwards on the stern of the boat.

“You don’t really think that,” she whispered, rain dripping down her nose as he snarled at her. “Don’t lie to yourself and don’t lie to Hermione.” He stood up, jostling the boat from side to side. She screamed in shock as she fell backwards, falling into the water with a small splash. Suddenly scared, he leaned over to try and see her, extending a hand to grab her, but she sank, feet first. She stared up at him, not even attempting to swim, and the disappointed look in those brown eyes chilled him to the bone.

He woke up feeling guilty, but the guilt was soon pushed out of his mind to be replaced by shock to find the seventeen-year-old Hermione Granger asleep on his chest. His head ached as he took in the dark infirmary around him. Her pressing down on his chest put weight on his smarting shoulder and struck with the memory of her kissing Weasley on her bed; he sneered and shoved her off the bed and onto the floor. She awoke with a thud and groaned as she sat up, rubbing at her eyes. He only regretted it for a second, but then she smiled and said as if nothing was wrong, “How are you feeling?”

Draco sneered before responding sarcastically, “Absolutely spiffing, Mudblood, how are you?”

She winced, reminding him of his dream Hermione, before standing up and saying, “Confused, actually, thanks for asking. Were you planning on telling me why you have turned into such a jerk anytime soon?” She crossed her arms and glared at him, looking unnaturally sexy. Who was she kidding, playing innocent? Honestly, what a liar. No one lied to a Malfoy.

“Don’t play games with me, Granger, we both know what’s going on.” He rolled his eyes as he slid out of bed, only to have his leg ache and look down to discover he was sporting an ugly white Muggle cast. He sat back down as she looked doubtfully at him.

“No, actually, I don’t. All I know is that you bolted out of charms, only to come back the next morning and scream at me! Why don’t you tell me why you’re abandoning our relationship?” He scoffed, offended by her insinuation. Talk about the bloody cauldron and kettle! Abandoning the relationship? Ha! Stupid wench didn’t know that he was much better informed.

“I think you did enough abandoning for the both of us, Granger. Or what, did Weasley just trip on your mangy cat and fall onto your lips?” She gasped, taking a step backwards. He smirked, victorious. “Were you going to accuse me of backing out now?” Hermione bit her lip, shocked, as he added, “Not even going to deny it, Granger?”

She took a deep breath, straightening her slacked posture, before slowly responding, “I can’t deny what you saw, Draco, but I assure that it’s not what you think!”

“Mudblood, I practically invented that line. And I’m sure it is what I think.” She opened her mouth, but he continued before she could get a word in. “Look, I don’t have the patience for this. Why don’t you just go sleep with Weasley and leave me out of your pathetic love triangle, mkay?” Her face morphed as she began to cry silently, looking hopeless. A tiny part of him wanted to apologize, to throw himself at her feet and beg for forgiveness, but he forced a smirk.

“No, please, Draco! You have to believe me when I say that it didn’t mean anything!”

“That’s Malfoy to you, Granger. No go cry to Weasley about rejection, bitch.” She struggled to harness her tears but was unsuccessful. Struck with a cruel idea that would hopefully keep her away from him until he stopped caring about her, he fished around in the pocket of his trousers and pulled out his balled-up tie. Grinning maliciously, he flung it at her shoulder, where it hung pitifully. “Here’s something to obsess over, a gift from me to you so you can show your redheaded pauper grandchildren how once you had the honor of sleeping beside Draco Malfoy. Better keep it safe, or they might not believe you.”

She went into hysterics and twisted around, her steps slippery on the floor, and ran out of the infirmary doors, the tie still tucked under her arm.

Hermione cried herself to sleep, all alone in her cold, empty bed, while a very upset Draco struggled to convince himself that this was what he wanted. He wasn’t able to.

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She packed a duffle bag with a night's worth of pajamas, a fresh change of clothes, and her iPod. On Sunday morning, she vanished the red circles from around her eyes and closed the door to her bedroom with a tiny click. With the sun barely peeking out from behind the still-present rain clouds, she tiptoed up to Gryffindor tower, too late to run into patrollers and too early to meet any other students. It was only six o’clock and most normal people were still in bed or having breakfast in the Great Hall. But the common room was not empty, as she had expected. Harry was reading the Sunday Prophet in an armchair by the fire, turning the pages with one hand and holding a coffee mug in the other. She sat down by his feet, dropping the duffle bag.

He sighed and folded up the paper, before dropping it onto the table and placing his hand on top of her fluffy head. She smothered the urge to purr like a cat, but relaxed against his leg, resting her cheek against his knee. For a few minutes they sat in silence, as if they were back in first year, not yet having met Voldemort at all, as if still innocent and not yet cursed by puberty and murder. But Harry ended it, knowing it wouldn’t last.

“So I’m guessing he didn’t come crawling back?” She stiffened, but didn’t move, and only closed her eyes. She reopened them when the events of the previous night began to play across her eyelids. Slowly she shook her head, her skin brushing against the soft fabric of his jeans. “How bad was it?”

Hermione sighed, before lifting her head and twisting to face him. He looked down at her sympathetically. “He called me ‘Granger’ four times, ‘Mudblood’ twice, and ‘bitch’ once, all in about five minutes,” she said, her voice monotone. Harry took a deep breath, which she knew was a way for him to restrain himself. “And he found out that I kissed Ron.” Harry pulled his hand off her head as if she had been a hot stove, and looked at her in shock.

“What? When did you kiss Ron?” he asked quickly, though he kept his voice low. She was grateful, for she didn’t need both of Ron’s jealous girlfriends after her blood too.

“It’s a long story,” she said, waving him off the subject. “The point is that I kissed him. It was purely experimental, neither of us felt anything, and apparently Draco saw it.” He gaped at her, and she looked back at the floor anxiously. “I was only kissing him to see if every guy made me feel the way Draco did.” Her excuse was met by silence. “Oh for Merlin’s sake, Harry, would you close your mouth?” He started and blinked, before shivering.

“Man, Hermione, you fucked up big time.” Se glared at him, half surprised that he even knew how to swear, half that he had the nerve to swear at her.

“Harry!” He held up his hands as if to say ‘whatever’.

“But you did, Hermione, even I know that you can’t cheat on Draco Malfoy!” He kneaded his forehead with his fist, sighing deeply.

Put out, she scowled at her day shoes and mumbled, “I wasn’t cheating.”

He raised his eyebrows, challenging this, before asking, “Then what was it?” Hermione floundered, her mouth flapping open and shut uselessly. He narrowed his eyes. “That’s what I thought. You hurt his pride, Mione; no guy wants to walk in on his girlfriend with another guy, especially if they were already feeling insecure about the relationship.”

“Well then what do I do?” He just stared at her. “Harry, please help me! I love him and I don’t want to lose him!” He looked out the window, then back to her. She gave him puppy eyes, something Draco had taught her to do when they had been bored during patrol. Harry looked away again, biting his lip.

“Mione, you know I’m not the relationship expert, but if you want my advice, tell him. Tell him that you love him tonight, and if he’s still an asshole, forget about him and I’ll go finish what Ron started.” She smiled thankfully, sitting up onto her knees. Harry smiled helplessly back.

“Do you really think I should?” she asked cheerfully, as if she were asking, ‘Can I really go buy an ice cream?’ He looked hesitant momentarily, but nodded. He was tremendously surprised when she hugged him around his knees, in the same manner as Dobby the house-elf. “Thank you so much for the advice, Harry, really! Can I lie low here today?” He nodded, watching as she stood up and grabbed her duffle bag. “Do you mind if I go crash on your bed? I didn’t sleep very well last night.”

“Sure.” She ran off, though not before kissing him on the cheek. Once she was safely up the stairs, he whispered what was really on his mind. “Bloody effing hell.”

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This is a bad idea.

“It’s necessary.”

No it’s not.

“This is better.”

Doubtful.

“It is!” His inner Potter voice didn’t dignify his insistent whine with an answer. Sighing deeply, Draco gathered his wits, straightened his posture, and finally said, “Welcome Back, Draco,” to the portrait of the clichéd green serpent that guarded the entrance of the Slytherin common room. It swung open and he fearlessly climbed through the portrait hole and into the dark dungeon. Seeing as it was Sunday afternoon, almost everyone from the house was sitting at the tables scattered through the room, working on the homework they had put off all weekend. Pansy was sitting with a gaggle of girls cramming for Divination, which would make his job harder.

They all looked up like they had Malfoy radar, and instantly started giggling and winking flirtatiously at him. He hid his gag with a smirk and sauntered over to their table, falling easily into his old role, making sure he looked only at Pansy. She knew him better than everyone else, excluding Hermione, and would be most likely to do what he asked as a personal favor. Pansy smirked back at him, her expression smug and arrogant. It wasn’t a good change from Hermione’s innocent smiles, but he forced the thought from his mind.

“Hey, Pansy,” he drawled, leaning his palms against the table across from her. The other girls all cooed as they squirmed to sit closer to her, as if being in her presence would make them more attractive. He could practically imagine Hermione rolling her eyes.

“Draco,” she drawled in return.

This is a very bad idea.

“Can I talk to you for a moment?” he asked confidently, and all the girls bit their glossed lips to keep from squealing. Pansy sent a look to her friends, clearly saying, ‘I told you so,’ before nodding and standing up, her long skirt swishing menacingly. Pansy followed him to a corner in the dungeon, where his confidence faded slightly. She folded her arms across her chest, where likewise her sultry attitude was replaced by a warped concern.

“Earth to Drake?”

“Sorry. I wanted to ask you a favor.” She raised her eyebrows, waving for him to go on. He looked down at the floor, pushing back his hair with his hand. “Can you spend the night with me?” She laughed a humorless dark laugh that anyone who was not well-informed would not have known Pansy was capable of. He looked up, and she just couldn’t help but cackle at the confused expression on his face.

“What, no suave pickup lines or sensual kissing? I may be all over you in public, but it doesn’t mean I’m stupid. If you want sex, fine. But why the change in approach?” He gulped nervously as she twirled a lock of hair around her finger.

“I don’t want sex; I just don’t want to fall asleep alone again, alright?” He scowled and leant against the wall as she smiled and ‘awed’. It was a sign of how well Pansy knew him that she didn’t laugh in his face.

“Did widdy Dwakie get used to sweeping with the Mudbwood?” she asked in a babyish voice, leaning over so that she was right in his face. He glared at her, already having known it would come to this.

“Five galleons,” he whispered murderously, completely mortified. She shook her head. “Six galleons.”

“Twenty,” she haggled, smiling slightly. He rolled his eyes.

“Eight,” he snapped.

“That’s chump change. Seventeen.”

“Ten.”

“Fifteen.”

“Twelve.”

“Thirteen.”

“Done.” They shook on it like businessmen. Pansy coughed awkwardly. Draco rocked back and forth on the balls of his feet. “So swing by around eleven, the password is Finite Incantantum.” She nodded. “And I can give you the money tomorrow.” With a peck on the cheek, Pansy swept off in a cloud of perfume, back to her group of laughing friends. Draco rolled his eyes again. Who understood girls anyway?

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How on earth was one supposed to prepare for Pansy? Draco combed his hair, made his bed, and brutally shoved under the bed anything embarrassing that she could possibly take the wrong way. Fate seemed to be on his side tonight, and Hermione hadn’t appeared since he’d seen her in the hospital wing. He didn’t let himself worry about her, and focused on just getting a good night’s sleep. He wouldn’t waste his time.

What he couldn’t decide on was what to wear. Seriously, though, boxers or pajamas? It wasn’t like she hadn’t seen his underwear before, or seen him without it for that matter, but it seemed inappropriate. It made him feel guilty, though he wasn’t sure why.

Wait a minute, was he feeling guilty about sleeping with someone else other than Hermione? That wouldn’t do, especially if he didn’t care about her! Fine, he’d wear the boxers just for that. There, that was one thing settled. Draco stripped down to his boxers and put on one of the silver and green head boy bathrobes that hung from a hook in his bathroom, which he took his time in putting on. It felt so nice to have the fabric roll over his shoulders, instead of just magicking the garment on. Finally finished preparing, he sat down on a couch in the common room, and looked over at the round clock. It was only eight.

Sighing dramatically, Draco looked longingly at the pile of clothing he had dumped in front of Hermione’s door. It was made up of random scraps of clothing she had left in his room, as well as her toothbrush and a few cosmetics. What he wanted was the little pink book resting on top of her spare uniform. He hadn’t gotten a chance to finish that damn book, The Princess Diaries, and though he would deny it if you asked him, he wanted to. Quickly glancing from side to side like a criminal in a Muggle crime comic, he stood up and tiptoed over, before snatching it up and stalking back to the sofa. Draco was secure enough in his masculinity, in his opinion, that he could get away with reading a romance novel.

He tried to block out the sound of his inner Potter sniggering.

About twenty minutes later he finished, a content smile on his face. Still stirring over the happy ending, he flipped aimlessly through the remaining pages, only to find an excerpt of some sort. Excited now, he moved to the beginning of the passage, to find a promise for a sequel. Automatically, he leapt to his feet and ran over to the door to Hermione’s bedroom, but stopped with his hand on the doorknob. One single thought streaked across his mind like her annoying cat, insuring that he froze in his tracks.

You’re not welcome in there.

You see, Draco Malfoy had never been in an exclusive, mature relationship before in his life, meaning that he had never had a real breakup either. It was because of this that he did not respect Hermione’s privacy and entered her room, glancing around the red and gold with a scowl. His mind had turned against her, which made it easier for him to override his puny Potter conscience and strut in without a problem. He noted with irritation that he still felt at home here, too.

Pushing aside thoughts of Hermione and her new boyfriend, Draco found her overflowing bookshelf, and to his surprise, located a whole set of books in the series. He pulled Princess in the Spotlight off the shelf and returned to the common room, reading the inside cover as he walked.

Three hours later, Draco was a few chapters from the end, and was stretched out on the couch, completely enthralled by Hermione’s book. So amused by the book was he that he forgot about his guest’s impending arrival. When the portrait swung open at eleven, he let out a very undignified shriek and threw the book across the room, where it landed on the stack of Hermione’s things. Pansy smirked as she crawled through the wall, her eyebrows tilted in amusement, while he struggled to twist his lips into a sneer and stood up.

“Problem, Drake?” she asked with a light smile replacing her smirk. He relaxed a bit, and stuck out his tongue, feeling something click for the first time in over a week. He couldn’t deny his home was with Hermione, but he’d grown up with Pansy and the other Slytherins. That was a large part of him, and it was what he was used to. And while it was also true that Pansy was a bit of a social-climbing slut, Draco had known her when she was five and had fallen off her toy broomstick. He’d let her cry on his shoulder at the end of fifth year when they hadn’t known if their fathers had been captured at the Ministry of Magic. He’d grown up with her, and they knew each other better than most.

In public, they were cold to each other, but behind closed doors, they were friends. It was all about the image, but that was the curse of Slytherin. And that was exactly why Hermione could never be with him, even if she wasn’t a Weasley-loving tramp.

“Of course not, Pans,” he said in reply, not drawling. He looked her over, relieved to find that she was wearing a bathrobe like his own, green with the black initials ‘P.P.’ across the lapel. Underneath she wore a faded pair of comfortable pajamas, one’s that she’d had for years but never got too small. He recognized most of the little tears across the knees and back. It was less frightening to know that she hadn’t dressed up for him. She turned to pull the portrait shut behind her as Draco scratched the back of his neck.

“So what exactly am I here for, Drake?” she asked softly, the seductive purr she usually used absent. He shrugged, not quite sure how to explain. Seeing his blank expression, she waved her hands dismissively and took off her robe. “Forget I asked, what you may miss about the Mudblood doesn’t matter.” He flinched at the bad language so casually thrown around, but didn’t comment.

“I just got used to sleeping next to someone, and I don’t want to feel dependent on her,” he ad-libbed simply, hoping she wouldn’t question further. Pansy shrugged, knowing not to push him into revealing his secrets, and laid her robe over the back of the sofa, before smiling peacefully and gesturing to his bedroom door.

“Feeling tired?”

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With the stealth of men behind enemy lines, Hermione and Ginny crept through the halls of Hogwarts, Harry’s invisibility cloak draped across their shoulders. Hermione had discovered, to her dismay, that she had left her comfort book, Hogwarts, a History, behind, and already knew from experience that she couldn’t sleep without having it on her bedside table. Ginny found this quite pathetic, but had said nothing, and agreed to tag along behind her friend to the Head Dorms.

Hermione loitered in front of the portrait, nervous, annoying the woman in it, while Ginny tapped her foot impatiently behind her. The head girl took deep breaths, her mind hovering over who could be waiting on the other side. The last time she had seen Draco, he had been cackling at her expense, and if she were to cross the threshold into what she now considered his territory, chances were that he would be the same. And he might not be alone. The thought sent waves of nausea into her stomach.

“Mione, just go so we can get your bloody book and go to sleep,” Ginny whined, forcing her out of her thoughts. Reassured that at least Ginny was with her, unwillingly or not, Hermione pulled open the portrait, facing a dark and empty common room. Glancing around fearfully, she tiptoed across the carpet to her door, stepping over the pile of her belongings placed there by Draco, while Ginny laid the invisibility cloak on the coffee table. Everything was silent.

Hogwarts, a History was placed neatly on her nightstand where she had left it, so she snatched it up and hugged it tightly against her chest, taking comfort in the crinkle of its worn pages. She did not spare a glance to her empty bed and left the room quickly, wanting to be back in Gryffindor Tower as soon as possible. The door closed and locked, and she sighed in relief. But looking up, she found Ginny glaring heatedly at something stretched out across the back of the couch, with the cloak balled up in her fist. Hermione followed the redhead’s stare to a green bathrobe, with the initials ‘P.P.’ clearly stitched into the fabric.

All hopes of salvaging her relationship with Draco instantly disappeared and suddenly she didn’t want to. She wanted to wring his skinny little neck for bringing some slut back to their rooms only a night after he had told her it was over. The idea that she was jumping to conclusions as he had didn’t even register, because the proof was overwhelming.

“Hermione?” Ginny ventured timidly, but Hermione didn’t even notice her. He wanted to make her angry or jealous or whatever sick little emotion he craved for power, but Merlin knew no one screwed with Hermione Jane Granger’s heart. Not the war hero, the genius, the best friend of the Boy-Who-Killed! He wanted a power struggle? He’d GET a power struggle!

“I’m fine,” she said calmly, though Ginny detected ripples of fury running through her words. “Act with me, Ginny.”

“What?” she asked, a little confused and stunned. Hermione looked up, wearing a very Slytherin smirk. She dug her prized iPod out of her pocket, and started to enchant the speakers.

“Just go along with me.” Hermione ran her finger around the click wheel, before stopping on the perfect song. The song. “Let’s show that bastard what happens when you mess with Gryffindors, eh?”

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