Chapter 23: The Downfall of Ron Weasley, And The Key
Draco Malfoy was absolutely freezing. That was the only thought he could really process at the moment, as he didn’t want to think of anything else. Remaining willingly in his state of denial, he whined internally about the December chill biting at the tip of his nose. Pink cheeked and shivering, he drew his thin robe closer around his shoulders, scowling halfheartedly at the snowflakes drifting in the wind in front of him. He shifted on his metal bench, shuffling his feet to prevent them from being buried in the falling snow. Cursing his decision to flee to the quidditch pitch, he tried to keep his teeth from chattering.
Normally he would have dashed immediately to the lake when he wanted to be alone, paddling his little boat out as far as he could go as he imagined leaving his worries on the shore. However, it was the middle of winter and the lake was frozen over, covered by several inches of snow. The quidditch pitch was likewise blanketed, but he had hurtled across the ground, fueled by adrenaline and fury. Now his fury had dwindled down to embarrassment and regret, and his adrenaline had been replaced by a strong urge to burrow into the warm sheets of his bed back in his dorm. The only thing preventing him from moving was his own pride, and he wouldn’t allow himself to reenter the castle until he could be sure that other students were safely in their beds and wouldn’t be awake to see him return. For now he was forced to endure the cold, and to confront his less than pleasant thoughts.
Now that rational thought had returned to him, he understood that Hermione had not been trying to embarrass him, as his rash mind had originally concluded. Upon recalling the lyrics to the song she had sang, he deduced that she had been singing about him, for him. The Head Boy blushed as he remembered yelling at her in a jealous rage about her betrayal, and feared that she would never forgive him. He had been extremely out of bounds calling her a mudblood, and knew that as soon as he approached her tomorrow, she would scream herself hoarse.
Or hex him. That would work too.
“Fuck,” he snarled aloud, balling his fists that were slowly turning blue. “Fuck!” It wasn’t Diggory she missed, it was him! Him! She loved him! And he’d fucked it up! “Bloody fucking hell!” The one girl, the only girl, whom he had ever felt an ounce of affection for, was the one whom he had just offended, cutting her down in front of the school as if they were once again twelve and in the middle of the quidditch pitch. This pitch, he realized, and he glared down at the snow-covered grass as if it had just ruined his evening. Oh Merlin, he’d ruined the ball, the fabulous ball that Hermione had been working on for months now. It had been going so well until he’d fucked it up like a total wanker.
And he’d left the key with her.
The thought dawned on him like a bolt of lightening. He’d thrown it on the ground and stalked off. Had she picked it up? Had she left it there? No, she must have taken it. She had to have. She was Hermione Granger, for Merlin’s sake! She always had to know, so surely she couldn’t have ignored the mystery of the key that he’d spurned with such fury.
Unless she’d been distracted by him calling her a mudblood…
He’d made her cry. Oh Merlin, he’d made her cry. What an awful, miserable, inconsiderate, thoughtless, horrible thing to do! How could he have done such a thing?
How could he have not done? After all, he was so much like his father…
“Stop it!” he screamed into the night, springing up from the frigid metal bench. “Just stop it!” But no one was doing this. It wasn’t his father who had made her cry, no, Lucius was six feet under, decaying and cold. This had been him entirely, this was his fault. Not Weasley’s, not Potter’s, not Diggory’s, not even Krum’s. This was his fault. He was ruining the one good thing that he’d ever had. He’d finally secured his own misery, and his life would never ever change. He was diluted to think otherwise. This was his fate, to stand alone in the cold, frustrated with his life, resenting his situation, hating himself.
God, he was so tired of this. He hated these regrets, hated looking back on that moment in the Hospital Wing, hated remembering her whisper in her defeated voiced that they couldn’t, that there was no attraction to allow it. He hated knowing she’d been right, that everything was different.
The difference was that he knew now what he didn’t know then. He knew that he really did love her, Hermione Granger, and that nothing was going to stand in his way anymore. Not Weasley, not Lucius, not himself. She was the one he wanted, and no one could stop him from telling her how he felt.
That’s all fine and dandy, he thought cruelly, but how exactly am I going to tell her? She isn’t going to want to see me, and Potter and Weasley aren’t going to let me near her after the stunt that I just pulled.
But would she turn to Potter and Weasley for comfort? Had she turned to them after Diggory’s death? This was something she would hide, or would have hid before, well, before the attraction. But there was someone she trusted now, wasn’t there?
Draco turned and dashed down the narrow path in front of his bench towards the stairs, skidding on the icy steps, all the while thinking Christine McKay better help me.
Surprisingly enough, Hermione slept quite well that night. Predictably, Draco did not show in the Head Dorms, and she dozed peacefully in her large bed, finally content now that she had faced her demons on the Astronomy Tower. Understandably, the evening had tuckered her out, and she woke the next morning groggy but nonetheless well rested. She slipped into a red terrycloth bathrobe, tiptoed into the warm Head’s common room, fixed herself a cup of tea, and sat down at the table in the kitchenette. Sipping delicately from her teacup, she settled in to analysis the previous night. It had been, unsurprisingly, a failure.
Well, that was a bit of an untruth. The ball had been fantastic, and she hadn’t seen one frowning face the entire evening, except, perhaps, Parvati Patil. Harry and Ginny had danced the night away happily, and Christine and Neville had been seen flirting together over cups of pumpkin juice. Even Pansy Parkinson had been relatively happy in a corner, surrounded by Slytherin fangirls and boys alike. Luna’s DJing had been a massive hit, as one by one students went up to pour their heart out into the microphone. Smiling thinly, Hermione decided she couldn’t have done a better job.
Except for the miraculous exception of her personal meltdown. Her singing had been well received by everyone except her intended audience, and she cringed as she recalled Draco’s snarling face. Oops?
She shouldn’t have made such a public gesture, that much was now obvious. Perhaps she should have just tugged him aside after a Prefect’s meeting and quietly confessed her feelings. If disgusted, he could have swept off and they would have pretended nothing had ever transpired between them. If delighted, he could have kissed her, and they would have made a mess of the conference table. What a simple, perfect situation.
The purple elephant in the room stomped it’s feet angrily. He called me a mudblood. Ah, but he’d been upset! That was what Malfoy’s did when upset and embarrassed, they rattled off a few slurs and ran away, before sending someone else to do some actual dirty revenge. And so far, at 10:17 in the morning, no Slytherin goons had rushed at her doorway. He’s just been tremendously embarrassed and caught off guard. Surprised was the word she was looking for. He’d simply been surprised.
She was fooling herself. She was going around in circles by doing this, recalling every word and repeating every moment. If she continued like this, she would be crying soon. She didn’t like to cry. She hated it, to be perfectly honest. Cleansing, true, but still a mess. Oh God, why was she thinking like this? This was ridiculous!
Thankfully, her saving came in the form of Ginny Weasley, calling to her from the portrait hole.
“Hermione? Are you in there?” Hermione wiped the heel of her palm automatically across her dry eyes before standing up and walking to the door. She pushed it open from the back of the frame and forced a smile for the nervous sixth year standing out in the otherwise empty corridor.
“Morning Ginny!” she trilled with an unconvincing attempt at a cheery wave. The redhead winced in return and leaned against the portrait hole, knowing better than to believe the Head Girl’s façade.
“Happy Christmas, Mione,” she said, choosing not to comment. “May I come in?” Hermione nodded and pushed the portrait out further to allow her friend entrance. Frowning, she remembered suddenly that it was in fact Christmas morning. In the rush of preparations for the ball, she’d forgotten, though luckily she’d bought Christmas presents weeks in advance for Harry, Ron, Ginny, and Christine. Marveling at how fast time moved, she watched her friend lie down on a sofa in front of the fire, and eased herself onto the sofa across from her.
“What are you doing here, Gin?” The younger girl levered herself up onto her elbows and stared at her friend.
“Rescuing you from your self inflicted moping. Come and join us, we’re going to exchange gifts soon.” Hermione rubbed her eyes with her fists and considered the time.
“It’s still quite early, I figured Ron and Harry would be sleeping off a tremendous hang over right now.” Ginny’s cheeky grin was answer enough.
“Let’s just say that Lavender and Parvati woke us all up early.”
Twenty minutes later found Hermione and Ginny reclining on a couch in Gryffindor Tower, watching peacefully as Lavender Brown and Parvati Patil took turns yelling at Ron. Apparently Parvati had decided to tell Lavender about her affair with Ron, and rather than getting mad at Parvati, Lavender had done the sensible thing and immediately sought out Ron. This was why the ravenous blond had burst into the boys’ dorm at ten in the morning screaming bloody murder, waking up all of the seventh year boys and, coincidentally, Ginny, whom had been sharing a bed with her boyfriend for reasons Hermione did not want to fathom.
“You fucking greedy, arrogant, asshole!” screeched Lavender, still in her lilac pajamas. Behind her, Parvati nodded feverishly, most likely hoping that by fueling her friend’s anger towards Ron, she would be lessening the resentment Lavender would most likely turn towards her later on. Hermione couldn’t help smirking as she watched Ron blush deep red. He was standing several feet away from his scorned girlfriends, half dressed in his Chudley Cannons boxers and a red quidditch robe he had no doubt thrown on as he was chased out of his dorm. Ginny giggled from her place in Harry’s lap, only darkening the red tint on her brother’s face.
“How could you do this to us, you bloody prick!” added Parvati, twirling her plait self-consciously around her finger, still unsure as to whether she had a right to be angry at Ron. However, why not be? Everyone was always mad at Ron. It was just the way things were in Gryffindor Tower.
“That’s rich, coming from you!” yelled Ron in return. “You asked for everything I did to you! Pleaded for, even!” Now it was Parvati’s turn to darken, and Lavender howled wordlessly.
“He’s doomed,” Harry observed, amused despite his worry for his best friend. Ginny nodded in agreement.
“Should we rescue him?” she asked.
“Nah,” Hermione decided, smilingly a tad violently. Harry and Ginny shrugged, apparently fine with the idea.
“I can’t believe you, Ronald Weasley! You have some nerve cheating on me! I’m beautiful! I can get any guy I want to!” Lavender wailed, her hair beginning to tumble out of its blond pigtails. “You weren’t even that good in bed, but I stayed with you because I thought you loved me!” The crew on the couch giggled shamelessly, earning them an exasperated glare from Ron. Colin Creevy sat down on the carpet in front of Harry, camera in hand.
“Shall we document, for posterity?” he turned around to ask them, grinning devilishly, remembering all of the times Ron had confiscated his quidditch magazines during meals, claiming they were distracting the other students from their food. Harry didn’t protest as Hermione said calmly,
“I don’t see why not,” while winking to the sixth year. The click of his camera indicated that Ron Weasley would never live this moment down.
Next they were joined by a panting Christine, who collapsed on the sofa next to Hermione. The Head Girl spared her friend a glance before returning to her previous activity of staring at Ron’s downfall. Her attention was captured swiftly, however, when Christine panted,
“Hermione! Malfoy! Entrance hall!” Whirling around in her seat as Lavender ranted in the background (‘Could have given me Herpes, you bloody pervert!’), Hermione stared at Christine.
“What?”
“Malfoy’s in the Entrance hall!” she started over, wide eyed and grinning. “He’s got a guitar!”
That was all Hermione needed to know.
It only took Hermione, Ginny, Harry, and Christine four minutes to reach the Entrance hall, and they were quickly followed by most of Gryffindor Tower. The Head Girl lead the pack, and she skidded to a halt at the top of the marble stairway that would lead to the floor of the hall, her path down the stairs blocked by a crowd of baffled Ravenclaws. Apparently most of the school had been alerted to the fact that Draco Malfoy was currently sitting on a stool, alone, in the middle of the Entrance hall with a guitar, and several dozen Hufflepuffs had shamelessly seated themselves on the floor in a circle around him. Dispersed between the Hufflepuffs were Slytherins, waiting for their leader to act. Ravenclaws had raced from their tower to fill up the main stairway, sitting together on the steps. The Gryffindors had begun to clog up the balcony overlooking the hall, and Hermione leaned against the banister, staring down at the anxious figure that was the boy she loved.
He looked quite small, surrounded by his peers. No one else could have known, but she could tell that he was very scared, his blue eyes wide and fearful. His fingers were picking nervously at the strings of his acoustic guitar, and he tapped his foot on a wooden rung on his stool. He was looking for someone, and it wasn’t until his eyes landed on her that she realized this was for her. Like a diver about to jump into water, he took a deep breath of air, before beginning to strum his guitar.
She hadn’t heard the song before, but could tell from the low, simple chords that it was mournful and sad. Ginny and Christine had flanked her sides without her noticing, and each of them drew closer to her as if sensing she needed their support. Behind the three girls, Harry and Ron provided a backbone, each placing a hand on Hermione’s shoulder. This was her moment, and they would not interfere.
Draco licked his lips, watching Hermione’s face fill with emotion. He readied himself for the singing he would have to do.
“Now I never meant to do you wrong, that’s what I came here to say,” he sang uneasily, fully aware that he was not an excellent singer. It didn’t matter, however, as above him Hermione bit her lip and listened, aware of the risk he was taking. “But if I was wrong, then I’m sorry, but don’t let it stand in our way. Cause my head just aches when I think of the things I shouldn’t have done.”
Here he paused his singing, continuing to stroke his fingers carefully across the guitar he hadn’t played for several months. He had promised her he would do this, and damn it, it was the only way to apologize.
“But life is for living, we all know, and I don’t want to live it alone.” Draco had yet to stop staring into her eyes, and she knew what his message was. He chose her over what his life was now. He finished up the song on guitar, the last few notes lingering in the silent hall, and she waited, unsure of what to do now.
“Mya, I’m so sorry,” he pleaded finally, standing up from his stool. Whispers filled the room as everyone twisted around to see who he was speaking to. The whispers rose to jabbering as they recognized the Head Girl staring anxiously down at him. “I can’t pretend anymore.”
Not fully aware of where she was stepping, Hermione walked quickly down the balcony before ducking around the Ravenclaws crowding the stairs. Her pace quickened until she felt like she was flying towards Draco, her eyes growing wet and glazed. Finally she stopped and threw her arms around him, overcome with such a sense of right as he hugged her fiercely back.
“Oh Draco, I love you, I love you,” she repeated over and over again, burying her face in his neck as he shifted comfortingly back and forth, closing his eyes. It was just the two of them and this was the moment that made it worth it and he knew he was at home. He knew he had made the right decision.
“I was so scared, Mya,” he whispered as she drew backwards away from him. He pushed some of her loose curly hair out of her face and behind her ear, finding her amazingly beautiful even though tears were already wetting her face. “I thought the key would do it but I didn’t even get a chance to really give it to you.”
“What key?” she asked, genuinely confused. She remembered him throwing something small down onto the floor the previous night, but had never spared it a second thought. Draco frowned, having been positive she would have the key.
“What do you mean ‘what key,’ I thought you’d take it,” he said, grasping her shoulders. “The key to the Shrieking Shack, I gave it to you last night!”
“Hermione!” yelled a female voice from upstairs. The couple looked up to see Ginny grinning as she leaned against the banister, a shiny something dangling from her fingers. “Catch!” The sixth year tossed the key gently towards them, and it turned in the air, catching the light and casting glimmers across the hall. Draco caught it easily.
“You bought the shack?” Hermione asked in awe, completely stunned. Draco nodded, smiling at the shock spreading across her face.
“I couldn’t think of what to do to get you back,” he said, pressing the key into her palm. “It’s yours.” The Head Girl had been stunned into silence, and she gaped up at him silently, unable to answer. Draco grinned widened even more.
“Well go on then,” Christine shouted playfully, “Kiss her!”
So he did.
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