Betrayed
Hermione’s shoulder explodes in blinding pain as she dives onto the hard stone floor, narrowly avoiding a stunning spell that was aimed at where she stood half a millisecond ago.
Still down, she shoots her own offensive spell back at the masked Death Eater, hitting him squarely in the chest. She does not stay to see whether he collapses or not.
She sprints down the hallway, the grey uniform of the other students and the black cloaks of Voldemort’s supporters whizzing past her in a blur.
She makes it onto the seventh floor, and skids to a stop in front of a tapestry of Barnabas the Barmy, her clammy hand painfully gripping her wand. I need to see Malfoy. I need to see Malfoy. I need to see Malfoy… I need to know he didn’t do this. Three thoughts for the Room of Requirement and one for herself, a silent prayer made to whichever god or deity would take pity on her today. Hermione was not one for religion, but today she would have willingly fallen down on two knees and sworn her life-long devotion to the practice, any practice, if it meant her prayers would be answered.
Hands shaking and eyes scrunched closed, she stands listening to the ancient stones grind and rearrange themselves and, further away in the distance, the screams of her classmates.
She enters the Room and starts sprinting again, this time past mountains upon mountains of magical artefacts, furniture, and books—contraband items discarded by generations of Hogwarts students. Hermione expertly navigates the precariously stacked piles, thoughtlessly following a path she has followed many times before.
She finally stumbles to a stop in front of it: a single unsuspecting and innocuous black cabinet…in front which stands Malfoy.
“Did you do it?” Her voice shakes.
He just stands there, facing the Vanishing Cabinet.
“I asked you a question, Malfoy.” Her voice comes out sharper this time, stronger. His refusal to turn around and look her in the face and acknowledge his broken promise transforms her fear into a vicious anger which she directs at him like a weapon, driving its sharp point straight into where she knows it will hurt the most.
“I never should have helped you fix it. I should have let him kill you, and let you rot in hell like like you deserve.”
He shifts, turning his head to the side enough for her to see his profile: an aristocratic, carved nose; long, blonde eyelashes, a mouth set in a grimace.
“I didn’t have a choice, Granger. You know that I didn’t have a choice.” His voice sounds dead and dejected, all the spite, sarcasm, and wit that she is used to gone.
“You always have a choice, Malfoy. And you chose to betray me.” She starts shaking, the anger now transforming into despair. A sensation like falling, the dawning realisation that this will never, ever work out, and that she was stupid to ever think that it would.
“You betrayed me! You fucking betrayed me,” she screams, tears finally streaming down her face. He spins around and gathers her tightly in his arms. She can feel that he’s shaking as well. She sobs into the familiar scent of his cologne, hating herself for once again finding comfort in his arms.
“I’m sorry, I— … I’m so sorry, Hermione.”