A Little Piece of Sincerity
By: Provocative Envy
Innate insularity? Draco Malfoy fumed inwardly, his lips compressed into a thin, white line as he watched Granger strut to the doors of the Great Hall. Nothing rankled him like allowing someone else to get in that crucial last word. Letting an opponent walk away from their battle of wits was tantamount to being bested; and no Malfoy had ever been bested by a muggle-born.
Yet there he was, standing with his hands clenched into pathetically useless fists as he let the self-recrimination sink in. To most people, he knew, that moment wouldn’t be particularly significant. But most people weren’t Malfoys.
True, the basis of his familial pride lay in the fearful adulation that encompassed the majority of his feelings for his father. Fortunately, or unfortunately, depending on your pedigree, this fact held little import for him. All that really mattered was that he uphold the Malfoy honor
Draco decided, at the last second, that following her would prove fruitful: he knew she had detention with Snape, and as petty a revenge as it would be, detaining her for even a few minutes more would be immensely rewarding. He could envision the Potions professor’s wrath with the utmost pleasure while being intensely aware that the man’s venom was not directed at him.
Grinning to himself, he hurried after the bushy-haired brunette, catching the heavy wooden doors just as they were about to close behind her. Shoving the door back open, he took a breath to call out her name, only to have his attention drawn to a ruddy scrap of parchment that was lying, so expectantly, on the worn stone floor. He was tempted to simply trample over it in his haste to reach Granger, but something about its forlorn innocence, its inability to harm him, compelled him to bend down and pick it up.
Frowning slightly at the unfamiliar handwriting, he scanned the lines of script with a bemused expression, the words on the page blurring together as his thoughts transcended the sights and sounds of the Great Hall and merged into a surprisingly intimate bevy of contemplation.
It was fascinating, he admitted to himself, that another person could encapsulate his own emotions, his own view of the world, so perfectly. They described a place where lying was a regularity that could be afforded as well as revered. The likeness of this imaginary race to his father’s friends, to Voldemort’s Death Eaters, was remarkable. Perhaps it was a conscious portrayal?
Shaking his head at this completely uncharacteristic reflection of life and its counterparts, he folded the paper neatly into his pocket and glanced up, hoping for a glimpse of Granger rounding the corner. Instead, he was met with the sight of his quarry at a standstill, her unwavering gaze resting on him.
And then it clicked.
“Drop something, Granger?” he called out in a tone that, on the surface, sounded friendly enough; she was the only one who would catch the icy contempt he was so clever about conveying with his eyes rather than his lips. For it was his eyes, so unfeeling and unreceptively gray most of the time, that sprung to life when she was around: the derision and scorn that was emanated from within was her constant companion with Draco Malfoy.
The slight stiffening of her jaw after his inquiry had sunken in excited him. He knew she hadn’t written the extraordinary reflection that he’d imprisoned in his pocket; a bungled prank last term involving a forged love letter to the Weasel proved that much. The elegant, sloping print that lent an air of sophistication to the grimy slip of paper was extremely different from the embarrassingly neat handwriting of McGonnagal’s protégé. Nonetheless, he was confident that he was about to be the audience of one of her uncontrollable outbursts of indignation. Something about his seemingly harmless question had struck a nerve in her.
“No. Why do you ask? Did you happen to…pick something up that might have been mine?” she returned pleasantly, the only outward evidence of her fury the tense set of her shoulders.
“Oh, well that depends,” he replied with feigned consideration.
Hermione fought not to roll her eyes.
“Depends on what, exactly? It’s a simple question. You either picked something up or not,” she ground out, inexorably irritated by his mild demeanor.
“Depends on whether or not I’m in the mood to help lowborn Gryffindors like yourself,” he said with some surprise, as if the answer were quite obvious.
“Let me save you the trouble of making such a decision, then. I’d hate to force you to understand the difference between a desperate plea for assistance and common courtesy,” she spat, incensed by his patently false implication of aid. It was only her frantic desire to locate that dirty bit of parchment that had forced her to engage in Malfoy’s game to begin with. If she hadn’t felt for it in her book bag and noticed its absence, she’d already be halfway to the dungeons.
“Granger, believe me when I say that my grasp of that distinction is more than adequate. It’s more of an ethical problem that plagues me; you know, handing over what’s rightfully mine and therefore facilitating your own self-imposed misdemeanor,” he explained neutrally, allowing his lips to twist into a cruel sneer as she stared at him, unable to speak.
“What,” she managed, “do you mean, ‘rightfully yours’?”
He paused before responding. She was anxious, which intrigued him. He was certain that his impulsive retrieval of her precious little piece of paper was the cause of her unease. He realized, in that instant, that he had power over her. She was distressed by his claim to that parchment; the only thing he was unsure of was whether it was because he possessed it or…she thought he’d meant that he’d written the blasted thing. But she wasn’t stupid enough to really believe that, was she?
Only one way to find out, he reasoned to himself.
“I mean,” he murmured, deliberately allowing silence to fall again before he continued, “that it’s mine. That I wrote it and, consequently, that I have the right to pick it up off the ground should I happen to see it there. Really, Granger, is that so difficult to believe?”
He relished in the tremor of shock that slowly rendered her motionless. The spectrum of emotion on display was priceless. From restlessness stemmed disbelief, which quickly transformed into self-doubt; after that shrewd speculation took hold, which was almost immediately superseded by an almost childlike petulance. All of these were expected, yet they still held an element of entertainment that would have been sadistic had it not been so juvenile.
But Draco wasn’t prepared for the stunning mask of disappointment that took over her features. He’d never seen someone so bereft, so abjectly open about their disillusioned regret. She had closed her eyes after he’d spoken, so fresh and tumultuous was her frustration. He’d never dreamed his pronouncement would elicit such a reaction. He felt almost giddy with triumph.
And then, when he was sure he’d gotten his fill of her distress, he walked away. He’d just gotten in the last word, and he had every intention of savoring his glory. He didn’t even stop to think why his declaration had induced such a powerful result. All that mattered was that it had.
Hermione didn’t register that he’d left. She didn’t even pry open her eyelids as she stumbled to the nearest wall and collapsed. All she could think of was that those fantasies that she’d built up in her mind all day with that nameless, faceless stranger would come to nothing. Draco Malfoy was the elusive mystery writer of the few words she’d ever read that had truly, passionately meant something to her.
It suddenly didn’t mean very much that she’d so fervently fallen in love with that slip of paper; what possible connection could exist between her and a deceitful coward more enamored of his father than he was of the very cause he claimed to support? He was the portrait of duplicity, and the antichrist of every moral she had. How was it feasible that he understood her so magnificently?
Good job lying to yourself, Hermione, she thought sadly, letting her head hit the stones behind her as she succumbed to the tears that had been threatening to spill ever since he’d finished destroying her senseless romanticisms.
“‘And they adore it’,” she whispered to herself, smiling slightly as it struck her she hadn’t fully understood the truth in that statement until then.
Fate was indeed unpitying to allow Draco Malfoy to wield such a pen.
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