A Little Piece of Sincerity Chapter Fifteen

A Little Piece of Sincerity

By: Provocative Envy

OOO

Despite her almost helpless clinging, he was conscious of the indecision radiating from her body, cutting into his heart so much more effectively than a knife; she was desperate to not have to bear the burden of a broken heart alone, and he was convenient.

She didn’t trust him, and he ruefully had to admit she had no reason to. She was sensible, and he was dangerous: he’d done nothing but resent her for her talents and torture her mercilessly for six years. The fact that he had so ruthlessly exploited her trust in him, that he had so callously wanted to delight in her suffering only made it worse.

He was ashamed of his past actions, but he could not entirely regret them. She’d played her part in aggravating him and she couldn’t deny a small portion of the blame.

In a different world, a different time, they might have been perfect for one another; in different circumstances, they might have grown to love each other.

But it wasn’t a different world, and it wasn’t a different time: they’d grown up hating each other with a passion that exceeded the boundaries of a childhood rivalry. There was no real chance of reconciliation. Too many factors stood against them, too many people and too many words.

Neither of them could take back what they’d thought, and felt, and said, as much as they wanted to.

He wasn’t even sure he did want to. Now that he held her in his arms, now that he could savor the heady sensation of having her body pressed against his, her cheek against his chest, he doubted himself.

What did it matter if one person could change him? He still had his ideals, and she still had hers: it wasn’t reassuring to know that their respective principles were complete opposites. They were too dissimilar to be compatible, too suspicious of each others intentions to be complementary.

He despised her friends, and she was disdainful of his House; he already knew what his future entailed, and it wasn’t her; she had the patriotic fervor that implied she would gladly die for her cause.

But besides the practical reasons, he couldn’t shake the creeping sense of inferiority that was so unnerving in its precision. She was the one crying, the one holding on to him as if for dear life; but he was the weaker one.

She didn’t try to run away from her opinions, didn’t try and escape what she knew was inevitable. He looked back and was disgusted with his cowardice. But she, she had so magnificently held her ground, so strongly maintained her derision, her scorn. She had given in to his offer of a comforting embrace, but was still fighting him.

He didn’t think she’d ever stop.

They both knew he couldn’t make her happy, could never fulfill her blurry dreams of romanticism. His only choice was to let her go, to pry those warm fingers from his shoulders and let her walk away.

He didn’t know when she’d come to mean so much to him, when he’d decided that her feelings were paramount to his own.

It was his deference to her character that made him pull away, holding her at arm’s length to keep her from scrambling back to him. He gazed down at her tearstained face, her puffy red eyes and her forehead creased in confusion.

“I can’t be what you need,” he stated bluntly, avoiding her searching glance.

Rather than slowly bursting into hysterics, as he’d half-expected, she snorted and crossed hugged herself.

“I expected this, you know,” she replied with practiced indifference. “I was sort of waiting for it.”

“What,” he asked slowly, “are you talking about?”

“Never mind,” she snapped back, turning away to descend the stairs. “It doesn’t matter.” He grabbed her elbow and spun her around.

“Tell me,” he demanded dangerously, glaring at her.

“No,” she answered loftily, quickly.

“Fine. Don’t. I don’t even know what I was thinking, coming up here, trying to explain something I probably made up to pass the time,” he shot at her, sneering.

“Undoubtedly,” she said, spinning on her heel. When she reached the archway that led to the steps, she twisted her head back towards him. “Oh, and Malfoy? Thanks for shoving me away. It felt a lot more normal than anything else that’s been happening lately.”

He gaped at her back, too stunned to respond. She had just called his bluff, and he was too surprised to be embarrassed.

She’d seen through his selfish façade, seen through what he’d deluded himself into thinking was for her benefit. He’d been spineless once more, hadn’t been able to face what she did with such ease.

He’d lost once more in their battle of wits, had let her defeat him so soundly he expected that her inner turmoil was thriving on his trepidation. He hadn’t done what he’d done to protect her, to make her happier. He’d done it because he was afraid of doing something else.

He had known all his life what he would become, who he would become. He’d thought that he’d tricked fate into forgetting about him. He had been so unwilling to allow anything unplanned or unknown effect him; he didn’t want to be unaware of what was happening to him.

But then he’d snatched up that paper in a crucial move of impetuosity and he was paying for it. Fate had intervened and forced him to see a side of Granger that was vulnerable and brave all at once. She’d awakened in him an emotion that was as much fantastical as it was painfully real.

Around her, he was sentient of more than just her: he could see himself through her eyes, and he didn’t like what he saw.

He was a boy who had more aspirations than accomplishments, more power than he was capable of wielding; he had more problems than solutions, more questions than answers. He was weak and indecisive, jealous and bitter.

And he’d just thrown away his last chance to change that.

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