Engaged

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Chapter Ten

“Such drama.”

CORRECTION

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“I'm leaving.”

There was only exhaustion.

“Leaving? Where?”

“Another mission.”

Dry laughter.

“Don't get yourself killed.”

Ginny winced inwardly when Harry grimaced.

“Don't worry. I wouldn't die even if I tried to kill myself.”

“Speaking from experience?”

He grinned lopsidedly, and rubbed his bloodshot eyes.

“Not really.”

She bent over to give him a hug, but he flinched and drew back.

“Are you okay?”

He stared at her through his spectacles, viridian eyes wide in hysteria.

“Yes,” He blinked, and looked down at his hands, firmly clasped on his lap.

But of course he wasn't.

“It's going to be all right, you know.”

She wondered why she even bothered. Such meaningless words.

He nodded slowly, unable to look up.

“Of course,” He mumbled.

“When are you leaving?”

He raised his eyes, as if it was a huge effort.

“Now.”

“Now?” The surprise was barely suppressed.

He seemed exasperated.

Repetitive fool.

“That's what I said.”

“Okay, then, Harry. Good luck.”

His eyes seem to soften as he heard his own name, spoken so gently.

This time, when she hugged him, he did not draw back.

“Thank you.”

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It was always the same. The description of a battleground. The occasion just seemed more likely to occur during the moroseness of the night, so the stealth and the dirt would be concealed. And the weather was never at its peak. Usually rainy, the atmosphere damp and heavy, clouds ominously swallowing the moon. Somewhere in an open field, where the two opposing sides would collide and fail in the middle. But this was no battle. And there was no battlefield. No contradiction. Only shades of gray.

“Malfoy,” Harry acknowledged with a slight nod of his head.

The silence seemed to stretch into eternity.

“When exactly do you plan to hex me into oblivion?”

Those gray eyes were cold and humorless. Harry could barely make out the silhouette of his figure drenched in absolute darkness, buried in the shadows. Only his eyes gleamed in the murky dimness of the light, mocking and as arrogant as ever. Harry almost laughed. Some things never change.

They were inside an uninhibited manor, and there were no doubts as to why it was unreserved. The structure was older than time. Simply ancient. Every cautious step produced a loud squeak, and the ceiling was on the verge of collapse. It wouldn't hold, if they were to have a duel. There was little to be skeptical about. Draco had entrenched himself behind a glass case displaying a stuffed claw of a Griffin, in the otherwise empty lobby of the Hall. The tome that rose up to twenty feet had a top of a glass window, where the pale crescent of the moon was sharply visible. The gentle light cast off from the skies elucidated the circular patterns on the rotted wood in dire need of waxing.

They were intricate designs. It seemed to spiral inwards, almost like an illusionary whirlpool. Harry was momentarily transfixed, just staring at the spinning circle. He felt the unbalanced sensation of falling, while staring at his shoes, firmly rested on the floor. It was wonderful yet intimidating, at the same time.

Harry sighed.

“I wouldn't have to use my wand at all, if you would just surrender.”

Harry imagined Draco smirking in the shadows.

There was another moment of lethal calm.

Then Draco stepped into the light.

He was thinner than Harry remembered. He looked worn, his robes filthy, and the dark rings encircling his mirthless eyes were an obvious indication of sleepless nights. His blonde hair lacked luster, and his face was devoid of color. All this was to be expected. From what he had last heard, Draco had been on the run for months, after his escape from Azkaban. His soiled face was contorted in an expression of plain hatred, the corners of his mouth twisting into an unattractive smirk. He spat on the ground.

“Surrender. How easy you make it sound,” Draco laughed, his coarse voice scratching at the cold air. “But in case you've forgotten, Potter, I no longer have anything left to lose. Except my pride, and maybe my life. And who do I have to thank for this miraculous gift, Potter?” He paused dramatically, as if soaking in the effect. “You. Who else but you? Who else but the golden boy, annihilator of all evil?” He chuckled again. “Surrender? To you? I don't think so. I'd much rather die, then surrender to you,” He drew his wand. “So fuck off.”

“Look, Draco, I did what I had to do.”

Malfoy hissed loudly, stretching his arm so it was straight as an arrow. He pointed the wand directly at Harry's forehead. His frustration only grew at the sight of Potter's undaunted, passive face. He watched as Harry removed his spectacles from the bridge of his nose in a delicate sweeping gesture, and began to cleanse the glass with the hem of his shirt. He found himself mildly speculating over where Potter had hidden his wand, because he was still showing no signs of drawing it out. This had always been the weakness of the Boy-who-Lived. He was too trusting. Still innocent, as part of his ever- present Gryffindor foolishness.

“Don't you ever call me by my first name, Potter,” Draco snarled, and flicked his wand.

“Diffindo!”

Magic was a conceptual thing. But every time when he witnessed the sparkling light shooting from the tip of his polished wand, it gave him purpose. His world seemed to make more sense. He was a servant of the Dark Lord, and he would serve no other. He would meet his requirements at his utmost ability, till he could do no more. Grip tightening on the wand, he focused his anger and energy. The mere action of casting the curse made him tingle in pleasure. He wasn't going to miss his target. Not this time. Not as he had, so many times before, failed his father.

He watched Harry smoothly sidestep the hurtling curse.

He missed. Again. Failed his father. Again.

His arm fell at his side, useless.

He should have known. It didn't matter if he won or lost. Missed or hit the mark. This was the outcome, whenever something had to do with Potter: nothing. Draco stared at the exposed half of the Dark Mark on his upper arm, where the sleeve of his robe tore, his flesh like a manifestation of maggots in the black dirt.

“I'm sorry.”

The whisper was so low; Draco could barely make out the words.

“What?”

“I'm sorry,” Harry repeated, voice stronger this time.

“For what?” Draco spat angrily, deeply annoyed. He had no wish of seeing the Boy-who-Lived in emotional turmoil, much less giving an apology. It made it hard for him to focus his anger.

“For what I did to your father.”

Draco snorted.

“A little late for an apology, don't you think? You killed him before my eyes. You let me watch my own father as he suffered and died. You could have let him go, you could have walked away, but you still murdered him. So don't even think about tossing me some bollocks apology right now, you piece of shit. Fucking bastard.”

Harry looked at him, stepping closer. His jade eyes flashed eerily in the light.

“What would you like to do to me?”

Another step.

“I can let you kill me, if that's what you want.”

Draco was momentarily confused. Was this some kind of sick game? What the hell was Potter up to? He couldn't answer. His throat felt parched dry. His heart began hammering loudly in his chest as Harry took a few more steps closer, closing the distance between them quickly, in measured strides. He didn't stop until they were almost touching. Draco felt as if he was frozen to the spot on the floor. His legs had turned into stone. Potter gently touched his hand, in which Draco was still clutching the wand tightly around his fingers, as if letting go would mean releasing his life. Draco stared at his wrist, where Harry had placed his warm, slightly calloused palm, unable to look anywhere else. He felt a surge of something course through him, but the feeling was not unpleasant. Potter lifted his wrist slowly, until Draco's wand was jabbing right into the ugly scar on Harry's forehead. When Draco finally tore his eyes away from Harry's slender hand, he found himself staring into the emerald depth of his eyes.

Endless regret, mixed with the pain of loss.

He knew these emotions only too well.

Harry smiled.

“Avada Kedavra.”

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She was convinced there was something embedded in her chest. It would explain why it was so hard to breathe, so hard to walk, so hard to think. Hermione inhaled another deep breath, wrinkling her brows when the heavy dust and thick scent of leather-bound books filled her nostrils and entered her lungs.

Even the library was of little comfort.

Hermione sighed, and flopped down on her favorite black and green armchair. She wasn't certain if all of her anger had gone. She was probably never going to forgive Darren for cheating on her. And she was never going to set foot into his Slytherin house, unless it was to retrieve her belongings and to ensure she was never going to have to see his sorry ass ever again. It amazed her that she didn't even feel that miserable. It was almost a relief, to be single again. No standards to meet. No need to be cooperative. Free, at last.

The door burst open, and Ron stalked into the room.

Judging from the look on his face, she still had some apologies to make.

“I can't believe Ginny let you in here.”

Hermione shrugged lightly.

“Well, believe what you want, but I'm here.”

Ron wasn't particularly in the mood for sarcasm.

“I heard that wanker kicked you out.”

She couldn't remember the last time Ron had said anything as rude.

“You could put it that way. But that `wanker' does have a name, and he didn't actually kick me out. I left him because he played me,” Hermione retorted, then shrugged again. “All's fair.”

Ron looked placidly surprised at her mild attitude, but didn't comment.

“So what are you going to do about Harry?”

Hermione almost groaned. Great. This was the moment she had been dreading for the entire day. Every time someone mentioned his name, she felt her shoulders tense. And the memories flooded her again, his hands around her waist, the soft strands of his inky hair, his warm, wet…stop. She hoped she hadn't blushed, because her cheeks were stinging with heat. This was so humiliating. How could she admit this to anyone? Kissing Harry Potter? Her supposed best friend? And having actually…enjoyed it?

She had to confess he did pull on some heartstrings, but how could she be sure if he was serious or not? If he had really felt anything for her, then why didn't he ever say anything before? And most importantly, he had kicked her out of his own house, by the end of it. The rational half of her mind told her it was because she had literally shoved him away, but he didn't have to do anything as dramatic as throwing her out. Okay, so he didn't really kick her out, but he made it clear he didn't want her to stay, either. This was just altogether too confusing for her factual mind to bear.

Why are you even here, Hermione?

She felt herself grow angry, all over again.

Damn him.

Damn him.

How could she even think about Harry, after she had just canceled her own bloody wedding?

“I'm not sure,” Hermione finally declared.

Ron snorted.

“Leave it to you to be the know-it-all. Guess you don't have the solution to everything, huh?”

“What's that supposed to mean?” Hermione demanded haughtily, standing from her armchair.

But Ron just snickered and left the room, banging it shut behind him.

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A/N: I'm so very sorry for not updating in so long. It seems pointless to express my apologies because the time has already passed, but I just thought I had to be clear. School sucks. Anyway, I should make it clear that most of you should just ignore my AN, because they're mostly directed to the flamers. I naturally assumed you people would have enough common sense to know that I'm truly grateful to the nice reviews; after all, I am a human being. Thanks again.

I think I'm going to cry. What is up with the punctuation?

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