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He hurried right past me, his wide-eyed, wintry gaze capturing mine for less than three seconds before briskly rushing onward as if the hounds of Hell themselves were nipping at his expensive, Italian leather-soled heels, and I didn't try to stop him.
I just…let him go.
Merlin's grace, I'd trusted the wrong boy.
It didn't even occur in those fleeting moments for me to believe that Malfoy could be responsible for everything that had happened here tonight, and so there was no harassment, no questions. I simply watched his platinum-blonde head disappear around a corner, Snape's pale, elegant hand pressing on his black-cloaked back the whole way, urging him onward silently, and thought merely that I was relieved that he was being escorted to safety. Then, I'd taken off in the opposite direction, heading out to find my friends, having left an unconscious, but otherwise unharmed, Professor Flitwick in Luna's capable hands.
I remember thinking at the time that the lingering scent of dark, ashy smoke following Draco down the corridor was curious, but that was the only niggling doubt. Peruvian Instant Darkness Powder gave off such a scent. I should have remembered that from Fred and George's shop. That fragrance should have tipped me off… but I didn't give it a second's consideration.
I am the world's biggest fool.
Madam Pomfrey tutts and shakes her head as she assesses Bill Weasley's wounds, running her wand over cuts that don't stop seeping. Ron's hand squeezes in fear. I hold on tight to the sweaty palm cupping mine, offering what little comfort I can to my trembling, ginger-haired friend.
Am I simply being too hard on myself?
Really, why should such a terrible truth about Malfoy have suggested itself to me to begin with? After all, I hadn't agreed with Harry's character assessment of Slytherin's Prince all year. I'd refused to admit he'd taken the Dark Mark and joined the legions of Voldemort's soulless and damned. I'd refused to believe that he was a malevolent snake in the depths of his heart, despite all of the venom he'd thrown about for the last six years - despite living as royalty within the central den of vipers for the same length of time. I'd refused to believe that the boy who had kissed me with such tenderness, who had admitted to having fallen for me, and who I'd given up my virginity to just a few, short weeks ago in the very same hospital ward I now stood – in that cot, right over there - could be responsible for the aiding and abetting of evil.
Besides, he'd been walking with Snape, his Head of Household and a man Dumbledore trusted. A Professor.
I'd let him go because I'd refused to believe.
How could I have been duped by such an obvious ploy? Malfoy had obviously planned to direct me off his scent, most likely believing I'd come to the medi-ward the night he'd almost been hexed to death to confront him regarding his connections to Voldemort…
…Which wasn't why I'd snuck out of my dormitory, breaking school rules, and gone to his side at all. No, I'd gone out of misplaced guilt, wanting to apologize for Harry's irresponsible, uncontrolled behavior. And I'd gone to try to convince Malfoy not to run off to his mother to petition her to call in the Hit Wizards and have my best friend arrested for attempted murder.
Instead, I'd ended up in Draco's arms, a willing participant to the seduction of my senses and reason. My lover had craftily fashioned me with long, well-manicured, skillful hands, and with a low, honeyed, whispering voice, and with a reckless set of lips, a sinful tongue, and deliciously surging hips. Through such lies, I'd been made into his ideal Pinocchio, as useful a puppet as Crabbe or Goyle or Parkinson. He'd played my heart strings adroitly, so that I wouldn't consider suspicion upon him.
How exceptionally Slytherin.
So, my elaborately fashioned shame has a straightforward explanation, after all: I've been disgraced by the lure of romantic sex. Such an unoriginal plot device… but then, sometimes the best laid schemes are the oldest tricks in the book.
Oh, vanity, how easily you are coupled with physical temptation! Rename me Eve!
I have been a fool for atonement, Tristan!
I have destroyed Camelot.
"'Mione? Are you okay?"
Ron… My brave, wonderful, loyal friend. In his brilliant cerulean gaze, I see he's worried by my pale, sweaty guilt, misunderstanding entirely its purpose.
"Yes, I'm fine. Do you need anything?"
That earnest, affectionate smile that never fails to tug at my heart appears again, and he shakes his fiery, shaggy leonine mane in the negative. His gaze involuntarily travels back to Bill's wounds instead, and his dry, chapped lips droop in consternation. "Where's Harry?"
As if summoned by will alone, our best friend arrives. He is haggard, solemn, resolved as he tells his story of Dumbledore's last stand. It's what I have suspected since I arrived to the ward earlier, having had time to consider what I'd observed and puzzled through, but I cannot help the gasp of shock that escapes my lips – nor the suffocating pain that garrotes my heart - as I hear the truth relayed aloud.
Malfoy, my Deceiver.
This is my fault. I had denied what was right before my very eyes from the beginning. I'd let quixotic notions of forbidden love influence common sense.
I am glass, shattering inside, cut to ribbons by remorse and poignant betrayal.
Ron moves closer to me, putting his arm around me in support, unknowing how I have hoodwinked him as capably as Malfoy, himself. I want to push him away, confess my transgressions…
…But he is so warm, so stable, so true.
Merlin's grace, I'd trusted the wrong boy.
I am the world's biggest fool.