Magnetic Attraction

Chapter 23: The Downfall of Ron Weasley and the key

Draco Malfoy was absolutely freezing. That was the only thought he could really process at the moment, as he didn't want to think of anything else. Remaining willingly in his state of denial, he whined internally about the December chill biting at the tip of his nose. Pink cheeked and shivering, he drew his thin robe closer around his shoulders, scowling halfheartedly at the snowflakes drifting in the wind in front of him. He shifted on his metal bench, shuffling his feet to prevent them from being buried in the falling snow. Cursing his decision to flee to the quidditch pitch, he tried to keep his teeth from chattering.

Normally he would have dashed immediately to the lake when he wanted to be alone, paddling his little boat out as far as he could go as he imagined leaving his worries on the shore. However, it was the middle of winter and the lake was frozen over, covered by several inches of snow. The quidditch pitch was likewise blanketed, but he had hurtled across the ground, fueled by adrenaline and fury. Now his fury had dwindled down to embarrassment and regret, and his adrenaline had been replaced by a strong urge to burrow into the warm sheets of his bed back in his dorm. The only thing preventing him from moving was his own pride, and he wouldn't allow himself to reenter the castle until he could be sure that other students were safely in their beds and wouldn't be awake to see him return. For now he was forced to endure the cold, and to confront his less than pleasant thoughts.

Now that rational thought had returned to him, he understood that Hermione had not been trying to embarrass him, as his rash mind had originally concluded. Upon recalling the lyrics to the song she had sang, he deduced that she had been singing about him, for him. The Head Boy blushed as he remembered yelling at her in a jealous rage about her betrayal, and feared that she would never forgive him. He had been extremely out of bounds calling her a mudblood, and knew that as soon as he approached her tomorrow, she would scream herself hoarse.

Or hex him. That would work too.

"Fuck," he snarled aloud, balling his fists that were slowly turning blue. "Fuck!" It wasn't Diggory she missed, it was him! Him! She loved him! And he'd fucked it up! "Bloody fucking hell!" The one girl, the only girl, whom he had ever felt an ounce of affection for, was the one whom he had just offended, cutting her down in front of the school as if they were once again twelve and in the middle of the quidditch pitch. This pitch, he realized, and he glared down at the snow-covered grass as if it had just ruined his evening. Oh Merlin, he'd ruined the ball, the fabulous ball that Hermione had been working on for months now. It had been going so well until he'd fucked it up like a total wanker.

And he'd left the key with her.

The thought dawned on him like a bolt of lightening. He'd thrown it on the ground and stalked off. Had she picked it up? Had she left it there? No, she must have taken it. She had to have. She was Hermione Granger, for Merlin's sake! She always had to know, so surely she couldn't have ignored the mystery of the key that he'd spurned with such fury.

Unless she'd been distracted by him calling her a mudblood...

He'd made her cry. Oh Merlin, he'd made her cry. What an awful, miserable, inconsiderate, thoughtless, horrible thing to do! How could he have done such a thing?

How could he have not done? After all, he was so much like his father...

"Stop it!" he screamed into the night, springing up from the frigid metal bench. "Just stop it!" But no one was doing this. It wasn't his father who had made her cry, no, Lucius was six feet under, decaying and cold. This had been him entirely, this was his fault. Not Weasley's, not Potter's, not Diggory's, not even Krum's. This was his fault. He was ruining the one good thing that he'd ever had. He'd finally secured his own misery, and his life would never ever change. He was diluted to think otherwise. This was his fate, to stand alone in the cold, frustrated with his life, resenting his situation, hating himself.