A Little Piece of Sincerity Chapter Six

A Little Piece of Sincerity

By: Provocative Envy

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Author’s Note: This isn’t exactly a chapter in the story. It’s more of a contemplative dissection of Malfoy’s character, through Hermione’s point of view, and certain allegations against him that she is slowly coming to realize may be true. This is the first time she considers the possibility that he might be lying to her and the chapter ends with her intention to pursue that particular avenue with all due haste. There is no dialogue and absolutely no interaction of any kind with Malfoy. However, I believe that Hermione’s understanding of the truth should be extremely gradual, despite her intelligence: when one’s heart is being shredded by one’s enemy, it would be difficult to think clearly, if at all accurately. In the next chapter, Malfoy’s going to have to step up his acting to maintain his hold over Hermione.

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Hermione did not consider herself a confrontational person. Admittedly, she had been the instigator of several of her fights with Malfoy; but when one really thought about it, that was the only person she allowed to make her angry. She had long ago taught herself to view bullies with the kind of detached amusement only the truly superior could manage. Her problem with Malfoy lay therein: he wasn’t simply a bully to her.

He had been her first, uncommonly harsh, introduction to the darker side of the wizarding world. She’d learned far too quickly that some people would oppress her, degrade her, and otherwise shun her. And all this because of her birth.

At first she’d been unduly embarrassed by this singling out based on heritage. Shame had gradually turned itself into fury; fury into calculated apathy. She was far too much of a realist to believe that she could have, had she been slightly more mature, forced her initial reaction to be the one she’d had to learn to employ. In retrospect she could recognize what she’d been unable to do as an insecure eleven year-old: behind the books, behind the haughty brilliance, was a frightened little girl who was terrified of rejection. Of change. Of embarking on a journey into a startlingly new place with unfamiliar biases and ideology.

A journey which she could never reverse, never go back on. Oddly, it hadn’t been the thrill of magic that had been so attractive. She’d found most enticing the concept of finality. This wasn’t like a novel she could throw aside without a second thought if she found it to be boring or bothersome; no, this was forever. This was her life. She’d given in to the temptation and made her choice: a foray into an excitingly different society would be dramatically interesting, she’d been sure.

One hour into her adventure, she’d regretted her decision to be bold, to be courageous.

She’d digested enough material on the history of the wizarding world to know the specifics of most of the derogatory terms used by its inhabitants. She’d been horrified by the bigotry and narrow-mindedness that some of the greatest and most powerful people in history had exhibited. She’d been even more aghast when she’d read about the Dark Lord and his grievous reign. What she’d never imagined was that her schoolmates would actually have adopted these beliefs.

Upon her arrival at the Hogwarts Express, she’d been accosted by numerous other anxious, elated soon-to-be first years. Draco Malfoy had been one of them. Almost immediately, he’d demanded, in that superfluous drawl that she’d soon identify with torture, she give her name and lineage. Baffled by his seriousness, she’d obliged, explaining to the small circle surrounding her that her parents were both muggles and that up until a few weeks ago she’d never dreamed that magic could possibly exist.

She’d been met with cold stares by the group of children—because, really, that’s all they were—and was alarmed to find that any trace of affability had evaporated. And that’s when she’d heard that hateful, hateful word spoken for the first time:

“Come on Crabbe, Goyle. We don’t want to be seen with the likes of her,” the blond boy had sniggered. “After all, who’d want to associate with a filthy little Mudblood?”

She recalled how she’d stood, shocked by those boys’ flagrant disregard for progression and, most importantly, her own feelings. She was used to being ridiculed by her peers; a few years in the public school system had done plenty to douse her faith in the goodness of humanity. But even the naïve cruelty of her previous schoolmates hadn’t prepared her for this kind of subjugation.

Quirking her lips at the memory, Hermione decided the six years had done little to alter Malfoy’s seemingly natural inclination to be an inconsiderate egomaniac. He had maintained his unpleasantness, his callousness, and every ounce of his derision for anyone who wasn’t a Slytherin pureblood. Which was why, the more she pondered the matter, it was starting to make less and less sense that he’d have written either of those letters.

She called them such because she’d long since determined that they had been written with someone in mind to read them. They might not have been the average love-note, but they were certainly just as meaningful. Perhaps even more so: Hermione had always been under the impression that constant declarations of undying love made those very same protestations seem a bit hollow and insincere. Surely the less it was said, the more special and momentous the protestation would be?

This reasoning was the majority of the basis for her doubt. A small part of her was still clinging to the faint hope that Malfoy wasn’t the writer and she could therefore continue her daydreaming. But that was her fanciful, feminine side that she couldn’t allow to interfere with her logical, pragmatic self.

Malfoy had always struck her as the type of person who would thrive on attention. His past actions dictated that he enjoyed being marveled at, worshipped, and generally admired for the pureblooded prince he was; the fact that most of his fellow students feared him for the vicious disdain he invoked was testament to her theory that he would take prevalent notoriety over a clear conscience and only mild popularity. So it only made sense that whomever he fell in love with would find out extremely quickly, since he’d do something utterly outrageous to let everyone within a hundred mile radius know.

These understated love letters were at odds with every aspect of both his character and his intellect. Not once had he ever shown her that he’d be quietly contemplative in regards to any situation; not once had she ever witnessed him show the kind of modest benevolence that was evident in the graceful curve of the author’s penmanship.

In short, she’d reached the conclusion that Malfoy was lying. She prayed fervently that this wasn’t uninhibited optimism, that she was being sensible and not letting her emotional susceptibility get the best of her.

While she could think of no reason Malfoy would wreak havoc with her heart in such a manner, mainly because he couldn’t possibly be aware of the effect he was having on her, she could believe him capable of it. It was just the sort of the thing he would do, to deceive her just so he could get one over on her and snatch up something he had thought was rightfully hers. It was probable that the entire circumstance was nothing more than that: his momentary desire to be triumphant over her for just a few minutes.

Yet only she knew that if he was telling the truth, he’d be triumphant for far longer than a few minutes.

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