By the Way Chapter Seven

By the Way

By: Provocative Envy

OOO

CHAPTER SEVEN

It seemed fitting that it was a cloudy day.

It seemed almost predestined that the weather would be depressingly dismal during this, the most awkward, unwanted, difficult of encounters.

“Hi, Hermione,” he began, almost hesitantly, almost apologetic.

Somehow, I knew he wasn’t approaching me to say sorry; somehow, I knew that he just needed some assurance that he’d made the right choice, that there weren’t going to be any serious grudges, that everything would turn out fine, just fine for him, for me, for all of us.

He’d always been the idealist.

I could have gotten angry, I knew. I could have ranted and raved and screamed and cried and demanded he explain, demanded he give me reasons, list them, even; I could have done all the things I didn’t do when he initially dropped me, could have done everything I’d done in private, done in my head, done when no one was looking, when no one was watching me, waiting for it, wanting me to lose control and just snap, just go crazy and insane and make him feel awful and terrible, or maybe embarrass him into justifying his mistake, shame him into lying to me.

But as I studied him, an ethereal calm enveloped me, and I was grateful to him, all at once, for not bothering to admit he’d wronged me, drastically, for not bothering to remind me that I deserved more than a half-hearted greeting and a pat on the back for being such a jolly good sport; I was grateful to him for letting me go before I could feel guilty about wanting to let him go, before I could do what I did best and take responsibility, take action, come to terms with this special kind of failure and rectify, rectify, rectify.

So I cleared my throat, smiled, and said with some sincerity, “Hey, Ron. How’ve you been?”

OOO

“What do you look so happy about?” Malfoy sneered rudely later that night, his interest minimal, his rancor overwhelming.

“Nothing, really. Just had a good day,” I replied breezily.

“What, did the Weasel take you back?” he snorted, surreptitiously glancing at me from beneath his long, blond lashes.

“Yes, since I’m just pathetic enough to be made happy about that,” I answered testily, suddenly wishing I’d never even deigned to respond to his initial inquiry, suddenly wishing I had anyone, anyone at all besides him to confide to.

“Pathetic is probably an understatement,” he shot back, smirking.

“Kind of like evil bastard is when pertaining to you.”

“While I’d love to give you credit for such a clever little play on words, your…pathetic lack of originality doesn’t permit me to,” he drawled pointedly.

“Well aren’t you quite the conformist,” I said, tight-lipped and angry.

“Almost as much as you’re a cliché,” he returned, eyes flashing.

I halted my retort, momentarily stunned.

“What…what are you talking about?” I finally blurted out.

A bark of laughter greeted my question. And then:

“Come on, Granger. Be serious. You were depressed, then you were all indignant infuriated, then empowered by your ability to overcome your depression, and now you’ve gone into that martyr stage where you’re forgiving everyone and going on with your plans to qualify for a bloody sainthood. You are a stereotypical reject,” he spat, shaking his head.

He said other things after that, things meant to torment, torture, retaliate; but I wasn’t listening, wasn’t absorbing anything except his last words: stereotypical reject. I didn’t want to think of myself as normal, average, clichéd. I had strived for forever to stand out, to be special, different, better than everyone else; and here I was, being called a stereotype.

He wasn’t talking anymore, though, just staring at me, and all at once I was reminded of everything awful, everything mean and spiteful and horrible that I’d said to him over the years, every insult I’d hurled at him, every nasty thing I’d said just to get in the last word, just to let him know he couldn’t step all over me, couldn’t get away with doing and saying the things he did; I was reminded of how immature and stupid those kinds of reactions were, reminded of how very little class and poise I’d exuded when I’d let my temper get the best of me.

Reminded of how very typical the things I’d said had been.

“I…I’m sorry,” I choked out, shocked to feel my body wracked by sobs, to feel that my cheeks were wet, to feel so torn apart and exposed and worthlessly trivial.

Unlike Ron, he didn’t panic. Unlike Ron, he didn’t watch me, bewildered. Unlike Ron, he didn’t let me run away from him.

He just sat back, crossed his arms over his chest, and waited for me to stop. His expression was intent, though, and maybe just a little bit curious.

Finally, after what seemed like hours but was in reality only a few minutes, my tears subsided. And I was left with nothing but the knowledge that I’d just lost complete control in front of Malfoy. Malfoy.

“So what are you sorry for?” he demanded, no trace of sympathy or kindness in his voice.

I looked away.

I swallowed.

But I didn’t answer.

“Well?” he persisted, one eyebrow arched superciliously.

“I’m…I’m sorry I wasn’t better,” I burst out, overloud.

“What the devil are you talking about?” he asked immediately.

“Never mind. It doesn’t matter,” I said, shutting him out, shutting myself out: the thing was, I had no idea what I was talking about. Words were about to pour forth, and I couldn’t with any certainty have predicted what they might be.

“Listen, Granger. I couldn’t care less about your little pity party just now. I just want to know what, exactly, you apologized to me for.”

“Why?” I asked listlessly.

His face registered surprise, but he recovered quickly.

“Because how else will I be able to tell you if I accept it or not?” he replied matter-of-factly.

Once more, I was struck by how black-and-white the world was to him. There was right and wrong, but nothing in between. Everything was simple, everything was contained, and everything made sense. He wasn’t the enigma everyone imagined him to be: he was stilted, logical, easy.

“If I was different, if I was better, I wouldn’t be a cliché, a stereotype, and then I wouldn’t have been the way I am, which, let’s face it, isn’t that great or perfect or anything, and then you wouldn’t have hated me so much, and then I wouldn’t have been so bitter, so harsh, so mean, so…so…such a stereotypical reject,” I finished desperately, realizing that nothing nothing nothing I’d said had made the least bit of sense.

He was looking at me oddly, though, his lips pursed as if he was going to say something but had thought better of it, his eyes locked on my face with the strangest measure of intensity.

But then he snapped back to reality, his gaze falling on the clock that announced, in no uncertain terms, that our detention was over for the evening.

“Right,” was all he said as he got to his feet.

My disappointment was catatonic; I didn’t even try to fathom it.

When he reached the door to the otherwise empty, unused classroom, though, he turned back to me.

“By the way,” he said softly, his lips curved into, had it been anyone else, what I would have called the beginnings of a smile, the beginnings of something.. “I don’t think you’re a stereotypical reject, Granger. You’re just complicated.”

And then he was gone.

OOO