Just How It Was

'...That's just how it is, you know?'

He didn't want to be the bearer of bad news. But there it was, spilling like liquid mercury from his high class mouth. There was a strangely acidic aftertaste following the words, leaving his throat dry.

'Yeah, I know.'

She nodded, staring at the floor. Clearly, she was fighting to hold in her emotional response. He couldn't see because she was resolutely looking at anything but him, but he imagined that her eyes were wet and shiny with unshed tears.

Oh, no.

Now he felt like utter shit. He'd gone and made her almost cry.

Did you know that the floors of Hogwarts are made from many different materials? And that while some are carpeted over, others are lain bare, for all the magical world to see? Worn smooth to touch by the cumulative feet of students over the many hundreds of years. Did you know that the patterns in the stone tiles in the walkways always form tessellations? Always cut to fit in with the larger pattern. No? Well, it's true.

She must have decided something in the moments where his thoughts were rambling; she took a deep breath, lifted her head, squared her shoulders, and stared him in the face.

And a pair of brown eyes met his and locked.

Daring him to look away.

In the end, he lost. He closed his eyes, sighed and opened them again to hear her next words. He listened carefully for the rest of the tirade that he'd been expecting. Knowing her, an angry, yet well argued, knee-jerk-lecture of a response was due to arrive.

'That doesn't mean I have to like it.'

She spoke clearly and carefully, as if implying that he might not be intelligent enough to understand the implications of the sentence.

Not intelligent enough to realise exactly what it was that she meant.

She was staring at him now, reading his face for some sort of sign that he'd gotten the message.

Well. That was it apparently, as she didn't look about to speak again until he'd replied.

He considered. Just aired in its own succinct, emotive and accepting entirety was a statement of her intentions, conclusions and subsequent decision. Her reaction to the situation, it appeared, was not as predictable as he'd assumed. Ah, but then, he'd been a fool to make such assumptions in the first place. After all, she'd been the one to set off this interesting and complex chain of events. The first in many a year to take the controversial step of publicly soliciting friendships with those of another house.

Slytherin house, to be exact.

And did you realise that without the variety of colours, the tapestries on the walls would be ugly and dull indeed? A scene played out all in either red, green, yellow or blue would absorb the detail of the landscape -- you'd loose the perspective of it all.

This was, of course, what had brought him into play. As if he was a newly rediscovered chesspiece hiding at the back of the board. Or a dusty eight-sided dice that had previously been found hiding under a chair, then added back into the mix of the game. As the semi-undisputed figure behind the green velvet curtain, he'd been called in by the others to find out what the hell was going on.

And he'd become involved.

He'd become one of those on the receiving end of "Hermione's Little Project" -- as her annoying sidekick friends called it. Witness to her attempts to enter into the circle; the awkward silences that she would try to fill up when working with those of his house, her semi-casual offers to help with research projects of the younger of his fellows, impromptu smiles and greetings in the halls...all of which had eventually become second nature to respond to. He even grudgingly had come to admit, to himself only, that it was perhaps a not unwelcome reaching out.

But things had changed rapidly in the last few months. The war was stepping up and it was no longer a tolerable circumstance. No longer allowable that children of the Dark Lord's followers be seen fraternising with Potter's back up plan. So for her sake as well as theirs, he'd been sent to break the news. Distances would have to be re-established.

'No. I guess you don't.'

His voice was soft in the silence and contained just enough endearing sympathy that he hoped she could turn and walk away now. He knew his reply was inadequate, but he didn't feel that anything beyond an apology wouldn't be. And he knew that was the one sentiment he couldn't express. Tradition was not to be apologised for.

So now he had come to this.

He was strangely miserable on the inside, stoic on the outside. In his own mind trying not to offend, though a year ago he would have deliberately done so -- and been relishing in the fact he was successful. Well, it seemed as though she'd caught his meaning. For after he replied, she searched his face for a moment, sighed and walked away.

Tradition was not to be apologised for.

At least, not out loud.