A/N: Hey all, before we continue I just want to give a big shout out and thanks to 'ashley mercer 16' and 'theallwymonster,' who have been with this story since I started and have reviewed every chapter. Thankyou both so much, your eagerness is one of my biggest motivations in writing this story, and I hope you stick with me till the end! This chapter — a little longer than usual — is for you guys! xx :)
Disclaimer: all belongs to the amazing J.K Rowling.
Draco didn't go back into the Theatre, he didn't go back to Pansy. He supposed that made him a bastard, but right now he couldn't really care. He'd been such a fool. He was still a fool. A fucking idiot. He'd let himself get ensnared into the trap that was a warm smile in the face of a girl, her soft skin, which he'd touch a thousand times over just to listen to the delicate moan that would escape from her pink lips. He was royally fucked, caught up in her trap. Yet somehow, he found he didn't even mind. The worst part, the only part he hated, was that he wasn't Theo.
He'd never be the kind of guy who deserved such a shining smile that Hermione would surely give, he wasn't good at school — hell, he couldn't even manage to live peacefully at home with his own flesh and blood. He was the sort of guy who ditched one girl in a cinema full of people, and then walked home in the dark with his thoughts swirling around an entirely different girl — a girl who was on a date with another guy. That should piss him off, that should make him want to kick every light post he passed and curse every star that shone mutely in the sky above him. Instead, all he could think about was how lucky Theo was, to be favoured, to be deserving, and that the bastard better see Hermione home safely, otherwise Draco would smash his skull in. Alright, so that was a little violent, but Draco still laughed.
It was a sad laugh, full of many things that only the moon would witness, and when he finally came to a stop in front of the dead, barren lawn of his house, he turned around and walked back to the park.
There he sat on the swing, his shoes scuffing the tanbark with every half hearted sway of the seat. It could have been hours later, but when his phone beeped and vibrated in his pocket, it only felt like several minutes had passed. As he pulled it out, his fingertips nearly frozen, he expected it to be a message from Pansy, but his eyes widened as he saw Theo's name flash up on the display.
As he slid his finger over the screen to see what his friend had written, a second message from the same sender came in.
Theo, 11.12pm: What the hell are you playing at?
Theo, 11.13pm: I thought you didn't like her…
Draco scowled and tried to reply as quickly as possible with his numb fingers.
Draco, 11.14pm: What are you talking about?
He'd hardly hit the send button before another text came in.
Theo, 11.14pm: You can't lead Pansy on like that. It's cruel.
Theo, 11.15pm: I'm talking about how you left your date back in the cinema…
Bloody Theo, confusing Draco since the day they first met, two boys with scraped knees and sour expressions, alone in the nurse's office.
Draco, 11.15pm: Oh right. (He took a deep breath before typing the rest.) How'd yours go?
Theo, 11.16pm: You shouldn't take a girl on a date if you don't honestly like her.
Draco glared at the screen, his mouth twisting. He waited for nearly a minute, expecting Theo to respond to his question. Nothing. Silence. Bastard.
Draco, 11.18pm: So… you honestly like Granger then?
…
Theo, 11.19pm: My date went well, thankyou.
Draco cursed into the bleakness, resisting the urge to throw his phone onto the ground — damn Theo for being so infuriatingly evasive — and then got up and made his way back to his most likely deserted house.
Lucius Malfoy was there, sitting on the sofa, his hands clenched together and his head bowed low. The lamp was on next to him, and he hadn't seen his son come in. Draco stood there, his feet immobile on the entryway tiles, his chest an uncomfortable thudding, angry mess. He didn't know what to do, should he creep past and pretend to be the coward he knew he was? Or should he do something stupid, like clear his throat and say something scathing?
He didn't need to though, in the end his father looked up, and when his eyes caught on the boy standing at the door, his own pale eyes took on the focus of uncertain shock. The weirdest part though, was that Lucius was dressed in something that could pass off as respectable — a suit. Sure it was an old suit, not the most tasteful in the closet, but then again nothing about the Malfoy life had been tasteful since his mother —
"Draco." Then his father was standing, his first step hesitant as if he didn't know whether to attack, or defend. Draco had already braced himself, his fists balled tightly, and his exhales came in short, uneven bursts. He mad to move, his sneakers squeaking on the floor, but then the words he heard stopped him. "Wait — son —"
And it sounded all wrong, foreign, dirty, and it made Draco's whole face burn and his temper flare, his fury burning beyond tepid at the way his father looked as if he'd made a mistake, as if he'd dared call the boy he'd beaten, his son.
And then all Draco could see was whiteness, a flashing of memories that made him want to choke and keel — the red face of a respectable figure, the first time Lucius had laid hands on his son, Draco's innocent eight year old shock, the look on the mans face, disgust evident — whether caused by his own actions, or his son's, Draco would never know. He'd been a small boy, short thin and bruised, and he'd never been brave enough, not until years had passed and the confusion over his mother's death had turned into a bitter, vile grief — a grief which wanted to cling to his abuser, to suck the light out of the man who'd gone from a father to a tormentor.
Now, Draco only knew the roar that tore itself out of his throat, "DON'T YOU FUCKING DARE CALL ME THAT! NOT NOW. NOT EVER!"
Lucius looked white, stricken. "Draco." His voice was quiet, tight, it made Draco even more mad.
"NO! NO DON'T YOU SAY MY NAME, DON'T YOU DARE — Y—YOU—"
"Draco…" It was a plea. Why wasn't he red with rage? Why wasn't he infuriated? Draco needed him to hate, to want to hit — Draco needed him to punish him — like he always did — like he'd done since his mother left them and Draco had cried, cried so much that he hadn't cried since.
Draco's voice was raw pain. "HIT ME YOU BASTARD, HIT ME LIKE YOU ALWAYS DO!"
"NO! Draco, listen to me — ple—"
"YOU COWARD — YOU SICK FUCK YOU'RE A BLOODY COWARD! WHY DON'T YOU CARE? YOU NEVER CARED — YOU NEVER—"
"I'm sorry — so, so sorry…"
And then Draco realised he'd been crying, hot tracks were smudged down his cheeks, his eyes stung, and he felt calm, like a strange, cold stillness had wrapped itself around him and made him feel only a detached, other worldly sense of distraught. "You're not." Was that his voice? It was too scratchy, as if another word spoken would make his throat bleed. "You're not sorry."
His father wasn't crying, people like Lucius Malfoy didn't feel things enough to cry — but then, why were his eyes wet, why were they shimmering? Draco wanted his anger back, needed it back with a vengeance, because somehow, this quiet, lost looking Lucius was far worse than the spitting drunk he'd always been before.
Draco swayed, and suddenly he found he was exhausted, and all he wanted to do was go to bed.
"Draco—" Draco flinched, "will you listen to me?"
"Fuck off." Draco turned to go, he didn't want to listen, he wanted to go and stew in childish self pity.
"Draco, wait—"
"What?"
Lucius had gotten closer than expected, only a metre away, and it made the hairs on Draco's neck stand on end. His expression was hard, guarded, yet his eyes were intense, as if trying to convey some worthless promise that he expected his son to believe, just like the hesitant words that next came from his mouth.
"I— I won't ever hit you again, Draco."
Draco paused, then, "Do whatever the fuck you want. I don't care." He walked out of the room, and was nearly to the stairs when he heard Lucius' voice trail after him.
"I have a new job…"
Draco didn't reply, he only took the steps two at a time, and once he was locked behind the wood of his door, he blandly realised that the strange appearance of his father's suit had been explained.
Hermione awoke well past the rising of the sun the next morning. She'd most likely overslept due to the late hour she'd returned home last night — Theo had even gotten one of his father's employees to give the two of them a lift.
She was abruptly cut away from any further musings when the ringing of her cellphone reverberated through her skull, and she rummaged around the bed covers before she found it tucked under her pillow.
"Hello?" She said sleepily.
"Hermione — it's terrible, Harry's being completely mental!" Ron's voice was too loud for her sleep addled brain, and Hermione had to move the phone away from her ear before blinking a few times.
"Ron? Hi — what?"
"It's Harry! He's saying he won't come on camp tomorrow because — because Snape's one of the supervising teachers. I said to him that he—"
"Mr. Snape's coming on camp? That's so… un-Snape-like." She murmured to herself.
Ron laughed, but then died off as if realising his predicament. "Yeah… and you know, the thing with Snape and — er — Harry's mum, well… yeah… Harry's being pretty ridiculous about it, he's even saying he'll go tell Dumbledore!"
Hermione sighed, "I don't think it's the principle's job to get involved with his student's parent's business… especially their affairs. But do you really think Harry won't go? It won't be as fun without him."
"That's what I was telling him! But he won't listen, he said "go on, you and Hermione have fun." It's completely stupid— Ugh, there's mum calling me for breakfast. I better go, 'mione, see you tomorrow anyway."
"Yes, see you then. I'll give Harry a call and try to convince him."
Ron told her good luck, and then hung up. Hermione sighed, somewhat relieved that he hadn't asked about her night. Because if he had, she wouldn't have had a clue as to what to say to him. If Ron even knew that she'd been hanging out with Theo, he'd see red. She still didn't understand what Ron hated about the lanky quiet boy so much.
Hermione sighed again as she got up and made her bed, her hands acting merely on auto-pilot, as her mind was far off, caught in the recesses of a dark bathroom late at night, in the feeling of warm hands gliding up and down her arms.
"You're mine."
She almost shivered as Draco's voice swam through her head. What could he have meant? As far as she knew, and as much as she hated it, he didn't want her that way, but his actions last night, and his statement, now had her thinking very differently. Why was he so damn hard to understand? And there everyone always was saying girls were the ones with such difficult minds! Hermione scoffed.
When she came down for breakfast, her parents were seated together at the table, newspapers and hot mugs in their hands. "Morning," Her mum greeted without even lowering her reading material. "Have you packed yet, darling?"
Hermione groaned. Her mum had been trying to get her to pack for camp three days ago, and she brought the term 'organisation,' to an entirely new level. "Yes mum, and don't worry I didn't forget the kitchen sink."
Her dad's laughter became a gurgle over a mouthful of coffee. His wife gave him a disapproving look, and then stared over the top of her glasses at her daughter. "Sarcasm doesn't suit you Hermione. I bet you haven't even gotten the suitcase out yet."
Hermione huffed. "No, I haven't. Really, I'm only going for two nights you know. You act as if I'm going off to Spain or something."
"Hermione, if you were going to Spain, then I assure you, you wouldn't have left packing until the last minute."
"It's not the last minute! I've got just over twenty hours mum—"
"You don't seem all that excited, dear? Is something the matter? How are your friends Harry and Ron?"
"What? They're fine, why?" Hermione asked as she poured cereal into a bowl and took a seat across from her Dad, who, at the mention of friends, folded his newspaper into a neat rectangle and began to look from his wife to his daughter.
"No reason, dear. Ron does seem like a nice boy though, doesn't he honey?" Her mum looked questioningly to her husband, who only gave a grunt which lacked enthusiasm. Any subject involving Hermione and boys, he didn't approve of. Hermione only rolled her eyes, remembering back to the afternoon when she'd been in the bathroom and her mum had been the only one to answer her phone for her, and who should decide to call but Ron Weasley. "Oh, Hermione. You never told us how your study group went last night? How's Pansy?"
Hermione's spoon froze on her way to her mouth. "Oh, yeah, fine — it was fine. We got a lot of work done." Pansy had been the first person to pop into her head when she'd lied to her parents about her whereabouts last night.
"And how's her mum going? Is Pansy looking forward to the trip?"
"What — oh, she's good yeah. Yeah, Pansy's super excited alright." She crunched the cereal louder than necessary, hoping to give off the message: I'm busy eating, stop talking to me, but it was to no avail.
"You still don't seem keen, dear? What's up? This should be a great opportunity to make more friends?"
"Mum. I know, it's great, it'll be great. I'll pack right after breakfast."
Not taking the hint, her mum continued, "that's good, then. Now, you do remember your father and I won't be home until Thursday? The dentist convention's out of state this year, it's a little inconvenient really —"
"I know, I know — Mrs Weasley will be able to give me a lift back home after camp. Ron's already organised it. Don't worry, just enjoy all the teeth, okay?"
They exchanged smiles, and then Hermione was free to eat in peace.
Hermione, 9.33pm: Hey Harry, you haven't picked up the phone for my last few calls. I hope you're doing okay… Look, Ron told me about camp, and I really think you should just forget about Snape, even just for a couple of days. Then when we get back we can take things into our own hands? I really do hope you and your mum can sort something out… Anyway, Ron and I will miss you if you don't come — and you seriously can't think about leaving me to suffer his eating habits alone at meal times, okay?
Love H.
Harry, 9.56pm: Hi Hermione, thanks for caring. It'll be okay I guess, I just need to not look at the ugly bastard's greasy face… shouldn't be too hard really. I'll see you tomorrow morning.
Harry :)
Hermione ran through the school gates just as the bell tolled, her shoulder straining with the weight of her duffel bag — because no way was she bringing a suitcase for a mere two day trip. She was out of breath, but managed to easily spot Ron's shock of red hair within the large group of twelfth graders, and hurried to reach her two friends.
She was ecstatic to see Harry, and by the look of Ron's grin, so was he, in fact he even slapped an arm around Hermione's shoulders, tugging her close and telling her "great job on convincing him!"
Even as the three of them conversed in friendly tones over the events of their weekends, Hermione found her eyes eagerly scanning over all of the people around her, looking for one particular person, a lean frame with white blonde hair. She couldn't find him, and her heart sank. She could see Theo, though, standing next to Crabbe and Goyle, who both looked thoroughly bored.
She made a vague excuse to Harry and Ron about going to check something over with Hagrid, and wound her way into the crowd before making a beeline for Theo.
"Hey," she said softly, trying not to attract the attention of Pansy who stood a few feet away, her back in their direction.
"Hermione," why did Theo look surprised to see her? He studied her for a few seconds, and then asked, "How are you?"
"I'm okay, but um — have you seen —"
"Draco?" His eyes were nearly the exact same colour as the sky, not even a speck of yellow or gold distinguished them as any different.
"Um… yeah, is he —"
"I thought you would have known." He weighed his words with wonder, and then gazed at her curiously. Hermione couldn't help but pay close attention to the crease in between his thick brows.
"Known what?"
"Draco has some very bad problems, Hermione. I doubt he would have been able to join us, even if he wanted to."
Hermione frowned, her stomach doing funny flip flops. "Problems? What problems?"
Theo's expression turned sad, and she couldn't tell if the emotion was directed at her, or at his friend's supposed issues. "Hm, strange. He's a lot dumber than I thought." He said it to himself, and Hermione began to feel a little irritated.
"Well, is he okay?"
Theo was silent for about half a minute, his eyes turned to the sky that so matched their depths, and hummed, as if trying to put off the inevitable of what he was about to tell her. "No, not really. He's not okay. Tell me, Hermione, does this camp mean very much to you?"
Hermione was puzzled at the question. "What? Um, I don't know — I mean, we don't even know where we're going. Why? Theo, what's going on?"
He gave her a small smile, yet something about it seemed a little forced. "I think you ought to go find him, then. Draco, I mean."
Confusion whipped at her insides. "What —" His eyes caught hers, and they were so… so piercing. Hermione almost felt uncomfortable, but the way they gripped her, as if begging her not to let go, seemed to shatter something into a kindling of understanding inside of her. "O-okay, but —"
"It's alright. I'll just tell the teachers you went home sick… It happens, you know. Real sickness." Theo sounded… hurt. It took her a moment to realise what he was referring to — how she'd acted at the movies the previous night.
"Theo, I'm sorry about —"
"Don't. It's okay, Hermione," he swallowed, his adam's apple bobbing, "Draco lives nearby. Go left from the gates and take the right at the intersection. It's the little white house at the end of the first turnoff."
"Theo—"
"You're a good person, Hermione."
What? Hermione stopped just as she was about to leave. Why was Theo acting so oddly? "T-thanks." Was she supposed to say, 'you too?' The moment didn't call for it, it seemed, because then, as if he'd known what she'd been thinking, Theo gave her one of those half grins, the kind that made her feel really warm, and then turned to talk to Goyle.
Hermione left. She didn't bother telling Harry and Ron where she was going — they wouldn't understand. She was going to find Draco, and they were going to talk, because she was sick of this game of ons and offs, sick of not knowing. She was going to find Draco, because she loved him, and she wouldn't let him hurt her again.
