Slow Grenade

Chapter Thirty-Three

October extinguished itself in a rush of howling winds and driving rain as November arrived, cold as frozen iron, with hard frosts every morning and icy draughts. The skies and the ceiling of the Great Hall turned a pale, pearly grey as the temperature in the castle dropped so low that many students wore their thick protective dragonskin gloves in the corridors between lessons.

The morning of the Gryffindor versus Slytherin Quidditch match dawned bright and cold. The Great Hall was filling up fast when Hermione, Harry, and Ron arrived, the students much louder and the mood more exuberant than usual.

As they passed the Slytherin table there was an upsurge of noise, Hermione glanced over and saw that the badges they wore had, yet again, been charmed. This time, they looked like little silver crowns. For some reason many of them waved at Ron, laughing uproariously. She tried to catch Draco's eye but he wasn't looking at her; she wasn't sure if it was intentional or not.

The two boys with met a rousing welcome at the Gryffindor table. However, far from raising Ron's spirits, the cheers seemed to sap the last of his morale. He collapsed onto the nearest bench, looking as though he were facing his final meal.

"I must've been mental to do this," he lamented. "Mental."

"Don't be thick," said Harry firmly. "You're going to be fine, it's normal to be nervous."

Hermione attempted to give Ron an encouraging smile, but she couldn't help glancing towards the Slytherins. They were planning something, she just couldn't tell what.

When it became clear that he wasn't capable of eating anymore more, Harry thought it best to head down to the changing rooms. As they rose, Hermione got up too. "Good luck, Ron," she said, standing on tiptoe and kissing him on the cheek. "And you, Harry."

It wasn't long before Great Hall emptied, Hermione walking with Neville and Luna. The frosty grass crunched under their feet as they hurried down the sloping lawns towards the stadium.

Her heart stopped when she saw Draco and an unfamiliar heat rippled through her core. She'd seen him in his Quidditch uniform before, of course, but this was the first time since their relationship had begun changing.

Madam Hooch placed a whistle in her mouth and blew. The balls were released and fourteen players shot upwards. Hermione watched Harry and Draco fly higher into the air and take a wide lap of the pitch, gazing around for a glint of gold.

After a few moments, she heard singing rise loud and clear from the sea of emerald and silver in the Slytherin section of the stands.

"Weasley cannot save a thing,

He cannot block a single ring,

That's why Slytherins all sing,

Weasley is our King!

Weasley was born in a bin,

He always lets the Quaffle in,

Weasley will make sure we win,

Weasley is our King!"

Watching Ron lose any shred of confidence he might have had was heart-breaking. Hermione was sorely tempted to hex Draco from his broomstick.

She could hardly watch the rest of the match before it seemed to come to a sudden end. Harry had caught the Snitch and Draco landed close behind him, white-faced with fury. Hermione wasn't sure what they were saying, but it didn't look good. And when Draco started openly laughing she leapt up and ran down to the pitch.

" – but you like the Weasleys, don't you, Potter?" said Draco, sneering. "Spend holidays there and everything, don't you? Can't see how you stand the stink, but I suppose when you've been dragged up by Muggles, even the Weasleys' hovel smells okay – "

She didn't get there fast enough to hear what else was said before Harry and George were sprinting towards Draco. Harry drew back his fist clutching the Snitch and sank it as hard as he could into Draco's stomach. George leapt to join him in the beating.

"Harry! HARRY! GEORGE! NO!" Hermione cried as she arrived at the chaotic scene.

"Impedimenta!" the two Gryffindor boys were knocked back as Madam Hooch drew her wand and cried, "What do you think you're doing!"

Draco was curled up on the ground, whimpering and moaning, his nose bloody; George was sporting a swollen lip; Fred was still being forcibly restrained by the Chasers.

Hermione was incandescent with rage at all three of them but didn't know what to do about it. She was trying to work it through logically, decide who deserved her wrath most urgently.

Draco shouldn't have written that song but it was, ultimately, harmless. If the Gryffindors had created something similar about Marcus Flint, they'd have all found it hilarious too. Draco had, however, said some truly awful things after the match.

Equally, there was no excuse for Harry and George to attack him in the way they did. But they had been disciplined; to be completely removed from the Quidditch team was an enormous punishment for them.

There was also the question of why Draco had been so vile. It didn't happen as often now, but she knew he still reverted to taunting others when attempting to mask his own painful emotions.

Hermione sighed and rubbed her eyes tiredly. Her head was saying one thing and her heart another. This was the first time she had felt truly torn between two of the most important people in her life.

She eventually made the decision to go and see Draco.

He was lying at the far end of the hospital wing, propped up on a number of pillows. The stone walls flickered dimly in the light of the floating candles. Hermione walked quietly over and pulled the curtains shut around them. She stood to the side of the bed, arms folded across her chest.

"Enjoy the song?" Draco smirked, not looking at her. "Turns out that anger really fuels my creativity."

"Why were you angry?"

"Take a wild guess, Granger."

She took a step forward, trying to analyse his face and understand what was going on. "This isn't just about the Defence group."

"I don't know what you want me to say, I hate them: Potter and Weasley. I was pissed off that we'd lost the match so I said some things I knew would hurt," he shrugged nonchalantly. "I'm a dick, remember."

It sounded stupid when he tried to say what was really going on inside his head; the words kept getting stuck in his throat. Why am I always on the wrong side of things, why do I always get hurt, why do they get to be with you in public, why do I lose everything I care about, when will I inevitably lose you?

"I'm not going to force you to talk to me, Draco."

He caught her wrist gently with his fingers and pulled her towards him. "Will you lie next to me?"

Hermione hesitated, then nodded slowly. She climbed onto the bed and lay facing him. He wrapped his arms tightly around her and pulled their bodies flush against each other.

Draco found it easier to speak when he wasn't looking into her eyes. He continued to battle feeling as though sharing emotions meant weakness. "I don't want to go back home for Christmas," he whispered.

She wished there was something that would make it okay for him, instead, she did the best she could. "Why don't you stay? We both could..."

Heart suddenly pounding, he stared hopefully at her. "Really? You'd do that for me?"

"I'd do anything for you."