Stronger Chapter Ten

Stronger

By: Provocative Envy

OOO

Author’s Note: I’m getting really bad at the updating thing, I know. But this story is much more difficult for me to write. I’d explain why, but I can’t. Suffice it to say that it’s not lack of inspiration: I have plenty of that. Nor is it writer’s block. It’s more like I’m reluctant to finish it. Like I’m looking for something in it when I’m writing and I can’t find it. But then again I’m an artist that actually hasn’t been tortured, so who knows. It might just be me.

CHAPTER TEN

Dreamers are an endangered species, I thought listlessly, my eyes focused on the dark gray feather floating through the air. I marveled at how light it was, how the intricate and abrupt flips and turns it made could be so delicate; it had no control over where it went, where it landed, and was ultimately estranged from where it belonged.

It was falling slowly and couldn’t stop: there was something achingly familiar about the concept.

Twilight enveloped me as I skipped a rock across the lake. The ripples that formed on the surface were stunning in their perfection; proud and even, they flitted over the water, disappearing into its depths when there was nothing left for them to do.

The abject purity of nature humbled me. I felt dirty, contaminated, the searing patch of skin sullying the simplistic beauty that surrounded me. I had the crazy thought that if I just jumped in, let the obsolete integrity of the lake wash over me; I could pretend I was whole again.

People trickled past me as quickly as Time: they were a blur, their faces and their personalities blending together to create a mural of condescension. Their laughter and their playful shouts were otherworldly, their footsteps silent on the springy grass beneath their feet.

I wondered if they, too, hated themselves. I wondered if they, too, were drifting into a bottomless pit of regret and self-pity. I wondered if they, too, could feel their fingertips slipping on chaos; I wondered if they, too, wished that they were children again: made up of glorious naivety and blissful irresponsibility.

I was in over my head and I couldn’t sleep my way out of it. I was drowning in sorrows that held no meaning, in memories of things that hadn’t happened yet. I could feel the future, not see it.

And as I threw off my robes, loosened my tie, and took a deep breath, I’d never been more afraid.

OOO

I didn’t know how long I swam aimlessly through the lake. I was waiting for something miraculous, something momentous, to happen; I was waiting for life to change, for the circumstances surrounding my misery to magically alter. I wanted it to be December again; fresh, fresh snow and my own sweet oblivion.

I trudged out of the water, shivering as the light winter breeze struck my bare shoulders. I was reaching for my shirt when I heard her.

She was sitting with her knees pulled up, her face turned towards the moon. She was alone and she was crying: tears fell like so much rubbish from her eyes and her nose was scrunched up as she fought back a sob. Her skin was pale in the dim light, her lips rosy even as her teeth tore at them.

I’d seen her vulnerable, I’d seen her scared, and I’d seen her weak. But I’d never seen her let her guard down, never seen her bare her soul out of her own volition.

I thought about how mortified she would be if I were to call out her name, interrupt her grief and pester her with my usual negligence. I thought about how stricken she would be, how angry and upset and hurt; I thought about our last encounter and that helpless, choking sensation that had overwhelmed my common sense.

I thought about it and plastered a smile on my face.

“Granger! What a coincidence. I was just thinking about you,” I shouted cruelly, walking towards her and twirling my tie.

She didn’t say anything as she stared at me. She didn’t appear entirely surprised by my presence: no, she seemed tired. Her eyes, normally sharp and clever and devastatingly condescending had transformed into dead, lifeless orbs that served no purpose but to shutter the window to her soul. She wasn’t making any attempt to hide her current state of melodrama; she let the tears cascade down her cheeks, let her misery shine through.

“How nice,” she finally said dispassionately, turning her attention towards the stars.

“What’s wrong with you, Granger?” I frowned, her fiery denunciation of the previous day echoing through my head.

My inquiry had been innocent enough, but she leaped to her feet and speared me with a glare.

“How can you, you of all people, ask me that?” she demanded, a thick lock of hair sticking to the moist skin of her chin.

“I wonder exactly which unpleasant trait of mine you’re referring to when you say that,” I mused icily, my heart racing.

“Taking into consideration that they’re infinite I’m sure you’ll be pondering that for a long time,” she spat, moving to grab her bag.

“There’s that razor wit everyone’s always talking about,” I snarled. “I’d begun to wonder if you’d forgotten how to use it.”

“How ironic, then, that speaking to you is traumatizing enough to induce such a reaction,” she returned.

“It must be your inferiority complex,” I suggested sarcastically.

“No, I just have this thing about conversing with Death Eaters--” she began.

“You little--” I interrupted, taking a menacing step forward.

“You see,” she said loudly, effectively ending my tirade before it started. “You see, it’s the most remarkable thing. I have…what are they called again? Oh, yes, I have morals. And it’s complicated, I know, but I sort of stick to them. Murder and torture and all that are a bit on the repulsive side for me and oddly enough so are you.”

And then she laughed, and the sound cut into me like a knife.

“So why, Malfoy? Why me?”

“What are you talking about?” I whispered.

“There are a thousand other people in this school. Hundreds of them muggle-borns, hundreds others far easier targets. Why me?”

I swallowed and glanced away.

“Why do you follow me around, pick on me, torment me to the point where we’re both disgusted with ourselves? Why do you have to prove yourself to be evil when you already admitted you’re not cut out for it? Why do you sit there and pretend you have no idea what I’m talking about, that you weren’t there that day, that you have no memory of that man putting that curse on me? Why do you--”

“Because I hate you!” I yelled, unable to contain myself. “I hate you and everything you stand for. You preach about purity, and goodness, and everything else I won’t ever be and I hate it! People fall for it every day, all your let’s-go-fight-the-Dark-Lord-together crap, and I hate it. No, I won’t ever be a model Death Eater; but I can’t be one of you, either, so I’ll just stick with what I know, alright? In the meantime, I’ll just go on making your life hell on earth, because that’s just about the only satisfaction I can get anymore.”

“How odd, then, that I could have sworn you were trying to get me to think otherwise yesterday,” she responded softly, shaking her head.

“You’re delusional,” I said flatly.

“Clearly. After all, I’d thought for the past six years that your fixation was with Harry, not me.”

“You’re all the same.”

“As are you and your…friends,” she said mockingly.

I yanked out my wand as I glared, itching to hex her. She was smirking, her gaze settled on something behind me.

“I would put that away if I were you,” she advised.

“Why, so you can get me with one of those ridiculous little curses you have up your--”

My arm was twisted painfully behind my back as my wand clattered to the ground.

“Malfoy, you weren’t bothering Hermione, were you?” Weasley growled into my ear.

“What else would I do with my time, Weasley? I suppose I could always go meet your sister in that delightful broom closet, but she’s not even that good, and it was the most inconvenient time--”

The punch was thrown before I could close my mouth. Weasley’s knuckle collided with my front teeth, blood splattering his wrist and pouring out of my gums.

“I’ve been waiting to do this for years,” he sneered.

And then everything went black.

OOO

I was stumbling back towards my dormitory, bruises littering my body in places I hadn’t known existed. My robes were crusted with blood and my wand had been cleanly snapped in two. Weasley had beaten me soundly, his fists marking up my skin like ink on paper. My ankle was throbbing and I was fairly certain he’d dislocated something in my knee.

I fell against a wall on the second floor, my head hitting the stone and my lips emitting a groan. I cradled my skull in trembling hands, massaging the tender spots and wishing I was in bed.

I heard footsteps and opened a puffy eyelid. A small figure was walking towards me, their robes billowing ominously around their feet.

“Do you need some help?” the boy asked me, a dull sense of foreboding causing me to look at him more closely. There was something familiar in his words, something oddly personal…

I nodded as I reached out a hand.

To my surprise, he took his leg back and kicked me in the stomach, his shoe making contact with my rib.

“How unfortunate that I’m the one to find you, then,” he hissed.

I remembered, then. I remembered the bruises and the blood and the sorry state of his robes. I remembered my offer of assistance, my harsh laughter as I tossed him aside and reveled in the tawdry power I held over those who were weaker than I. I remembered his grunt of agony and my own twisted pleasure.

I remembered and I was suddenly numb, each and every injury I’d acquired that day reminding me of things I’d said, and done, and thought.

And in a rare moment of lucidity, I realized I deserved it.

OOO