A Little Piece of Sincerity
By: Provocative Envy
Draco spent the next week in a state of phenomenal depression. Everything around him seemed dull and even the most charismatic of his acquaintances did little to alter his decidedly unpleasant mood. Jokes he would have laughed heartily at two weeks earlier held no element of amusement for him; pretty girls he might have attempted to pursue were suddenly attractive in the untouchable way supermodels and celebrities were: nice to look at but virtually unattainable.
He had thoroughly given up on dominating the tenuous, brittle emotions of Hermione Granger. He was appalled by his own cowardice; because, when it came down to it, wasn’t that what it was? He was terrified she might prove herself better than him; stronger than him. He’d already underestimated her once. Did he really need a repeat of his performance in the library?
He had no intention of ever approaching her again: the girl who was so much sturdier than he’d believed possible, the girl who only cried when no one was watching. He was therefore startled when he heard her calling his name on his way to breakfast.
“Malfoy!” she shouted once more, the volume of her voice doing little to conceal the rage that had compelled it.
“What do you want from me, Granger? Going to insist I remind you of your distinctive lack of pedigree?” he sneered, loathe to so much as glance at her, the one who had intimidated him into submission.
“Why do you keep doing it?” she demanded, without any further explanation.
“Bloody hell, Granger. What are you going on about now?” he said in exasperation, having absolutely no idea what she could be referring to.
“You know what I’m talking about,” she insisted in a low voice, her eyes sparking at him as she brandished, with trembling fingers, a rolled-up piece of paper. “These. These wonderful little novellas of the human spirit that just keep appearing in the hallways, fatefully waiting for me to find them. Why are you doing this to me?”
He gaped at her in astonishment, his gaze resting on the parchment in her hand. His mind was working feverishly as he thought about this unexpected turn of events. Because of his dishonesty, and her trusting nature, she assumed that he was the writer of this second work of art.
She was staring at him, waiting for his response, and he had nothing to say.
“Never mind,” she snorted in disgust. “Here. If you want it back, take it. I’ve had enough of your crap.”
With a flick of her wrist, she tossed the ball of paper at him. Without thinking, he caught it and watched her retreating form. Shrugging his shoulders, he unfolded what she believed him to have authored:
A rusty needle was all that was left. The corruption that enfolded its beautifully uneven surface was like a flower field of decay; it was a representation of a love that had blossomed in the midst of distortion. It floundered in a pool of sorrows too deep to be seen, slowly fading into insignificance. With each passionate embrace, it was a countdown to the last; my bruised and battered heart could do nothing but crave more. Desire was our downfall and lust was our savior: the sweet purity of our amorous encounters was the only way to forget. Our desperate attempts at reconciliation were tantamount to betrayal: it wasn’t until we cried our crimson tears that we realized we’d been delectably selfless. And yet we continued to pierce our souls with the ruddy perfection of a rusty needle.
Hermione had left Malfoy and returned to her breakfast, seething at his arrogance. He knew the effect his writing had on her, and he continued to carelessly drop them in her path. And yet he wouldn’t even admit to his actions.
Sighing, she watched with subdued expectance as the regular barn owl flew towards her, bearing the Daily Prophet she’d re-subscribed to earlier that year. Handing over her sickles to the bird, she grabbed the newspaper and gawked at the front page:
Lucius Malfoy: Rescue or Escape?
One of Azkaban’s most influential and affluent prisoners mysteriously disappeared from his cell last night. Lucius Malfoy was incarcerated for the attempted murder of Harry Potter on the behalf of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named. Officials insist that escape would have been impossible, but declined to comment when pressed with the infamous case Sirius Black.
Some suggest that his disappearance was due to a rescue mission put forth by He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named and his followers. Experts say this is unlikely since he was the only one to go missing.
Yesterday, his wife, Narcissa Malfoy, had visited him some time during the day; one of the guards of this visit is adamant that nothing other than wifely affection was displayed. When asked if Mrs. Malfoy had perhaps slipped him a potion, or a wand, or any object for that matter, he responded, “Cor, d’ye think I’m an idiot, mate?”
Malfoy’s son, Draco, attends Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry and was unable to be reached.
Malfoy’s whereabouts are unknown at the present and Ministry officials are currently engaged in a widespread search.
Cornelius Fudge, Minister of Magic, declined to comment.
She looked up from the paper only to find that the Great Hall had gone quiet. Nearly two hundred pairs of eyes were trained on the blond Slytherin, who was holding a copy of the Daily Prophet in a quivering hand. His normally pale face had grown positively ashen after reading the article; from what she could see, he wasn’t so much as blinking.
Without warning, he had ripped the offending newspaper in two and stormed from the room. No one got up to follow him.
Draco leaned against the back wall of the library, letting his body slide down to the floor as he hugged his knees, willing himself to stop shaking. He’d been distraught when his father had been arrested; this was ten times worse.
When he’d been in Azkaban, it had been a comfort rather than a humiliation. He hadn’t bothered to be embarrassed by the unveiling of his family’s political leanings, simply because his pride was superseded by the love he had for his father. He knew that any manner of affection felt for the man would surprise anyone other than his mother: so he’d kept the reason for his indifference to himself, instead acting the part of superior aristocrat who wouldn’t let a scandal interfere with his supremacy.
Draco wasn’t worried about the impression this would leave on his schoolmates. He wasn’t even worried about the consequences his father’s “escape” would have on his own future. No, his main source of anxiety was in the second-to-last sentence: Malfoy’s whereabouts are unknown at the present and Ministry officials are currently engaged in a widespread search.
Draco loved his father to distraction; true, there was more than a hint of reverence in his feelings, but he still would have gladly died for the man. Lucius was a heartless murderer bent on being a sadist, he knew. But he didn’t know that side of his father as well as he did the other. The side that had taught him how to ride a broom, the side that had pointed out the constellations and explained to him exactly what magic was; the side that had spoiled him rotten and taken great delight in his stunning egotism. That was the Lucius Malfoy he knew, and that was the Lucius Malfoy that was missing.
Draco had never been so afraid in his life.
She didn’t see him until she had reached her favorite table and caught him in a selfish embrace.
“Malfoy?” she said disbelievingly, tossing her books onto the smooth, wooden surface and crouching down next to him.
“If you’re here to laugh at me, Granger, please get it over with and leave me be,” he said tiredly, looking up into her eyes and awaiting her scorn.
She was silent as she regarded him with no small measure of surprise. He wasn’t mortified, as she’d originally thought he would be. No, he was…scared. Scared of what, she couldn’t begin to fathom, but it was all there, right in his eyes. His soul lay bare in those fascinating gray spheres that enchanted her with their openness.
“I’m not going to make fun of you,” she told him quietly. “I’m simply here to wonder if you’re alright. I’m sure that article must have been a terrible shock to you.”
He said nothing, just shook his head and leaned back against the wall.
“I’m trying to be sympathetic, Malfoy, but you’re not making it very easy,” she informed him testily, her patience wearing thin. At her pronouncement, his eyelids fluttered open and he stared at her.
“Easy? Tell me why,” he said slowly, furiously, “I should make it easy for you, you of all people, to be sympathetic?”
“What, you’re immune to sympathy?” she fired back at him. He let out a bark of laughter.
“Oh, forgive me for doubting your compassionate nature,” he apologized sarcastically, getting to his feet and shrugging off her hand.
“You know, I was trying to forget all the awful things you’ve done, said, and probably thought about doing and saying over the years, but that’s turning out to be far more difficult than I could have imagined,” she said dangerously.
“Honestly, I’m not sure why you’d even bother trying,” he replied shortly, attempting to move around her. She blocked his path.
“Because I knew I’d be the only one, you narcissistic jackass,” she snarled, turned her back to collect her things.
“You don’t get it, do you?” he burst out. “I don’t want anyone to care, I don’t want anyone to forget how horrible I was, and I don’t want your sympathy!”
Her lips thinned visibly as she regarded him. Nodding almost imperceptibly, she pushed past him and was gone before he could utter another word.
She didn’t know it, but she’d just made his day considerably better. Until she’d read what he’s supposedly written, she would have never, ever, offered him any comfort whatsoever. She wouldn’t have gone so far as to mock him, or taunt him in any way: she wasn’t cruel. But she certainly would never have bothered to try and make him feel better.
The only conclusion he could draw from her behavior was the one that made him most happy: even though she’d deduced that he’d broken her heart and caused her immeasurable pain…she now had an unwavering faith in his ability to turn into the boy of her dreams. Her soul mate, per say.
He whistled on the long trek back to the dungeons.
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