CHAPTER 14: Vulnerable
Two months. Two fucking months.
Draco glared at the scrap piece of parchment in his hand, wrinkled from the many times he'd crumpled and un-crumpled it. The first time he'd received the note, he'd chucked it furiously into the wastebasket – but he found himself redeeming it afterwards.
The results have come. She's not yours.
To anyone else, the hollow words would've seemed irrelevant, insignificant. The note wasn't even signed.
But to him, it meant everything.
Rose Weasley was not his daughter, was not a Malfoy. And because of that, there was no reason for him to hurt his little Scorpius anymore. There was no reason for his family to break up. There was no reason for him to shame the untarnished Malfoy name. He should feel relieved, unburdened, but he felt otherwise. He felt – he didn't know what.
But those three words at the end of the note; they meant more to him than what was implied.
She's not yours.
To be honest, he wanted the test results to state positive. He wanted the fucking Weasley spawn to be his. Why? To have some concrete and valid claim on the girl's mother. He didn't care about Weasley himself; he didn't care about Astoria. He didn't care about people he might offend. He didn't care about anything at all, period. He was that selfish.
But he knew Granger would never allow it. To prove her point, she'd stopped seeing him. She kept her end of the bargain. They were not to see each other anymore after the test results arrived, weren't they? She'd never responded to any of his owls, either, and although he wanted to keep on sending them, he knew it would've been pointless and pathetic.
There was another stipulation to the agreement, and that was the Memory Charm.
"We're going to have to Obliviate –"
"I know what you're doing, Granger," he'd cut her off angrily. "I can bloody hell see it in your eyes."
She'd blushed furiously. "I don't – I don't know what you're –"
"You'll Obliviate my memories first and then not Obliviate yours!" he'd argued hotly. "I can see your mind working from here –"
"I wasn't –"
"Bollocks, Granger –"
Her tone had been impassive, matter-of-fact. "It'll be more convenient for the both of us –"
"And you think it's fair that I forgot about you?! You think –"
"Yes!" she'd cut him off, and was then shouting, too. "Yes, it's better! Because you know what, Draco? I don't want to forget things! I don't want to forget that you, at least, are not the same cocky prick I once knew –"
"You want to remember things?!" he'd countered, disbelieving. "You'd want to remember that I raped you?" He was broaching on a sensitive subject, but he couldn't help himself. He needed something, a leverage.
"I – I –"
"Hermione." He'd sighed wearily, his voice thick with some suppressed emotion. "I don't want to forget, too." He'd wanted to add you, but caught himself just in time.
"But – but that was the agreement –"
He'd laughed mirthlessly. "I don't think we've actually held on to what we've agreed on doing in the first place."
In retrospect, he wished he'd let her Obliviate his memories, because she'd been right all along. It was more convenient. He didn't like the feeling of pining for someone, for yearning for someone, to the point of being metaphorically crippled. But he was not taking anything back.
He wanted her. Fact. He wanted her bad.
She's not yours.
The note seemed to mock him.
Angrily, he crumpled the note in his large hand and threw it across the room, ricocheting off his office's wall. It had been the fate of the poor note in Draco's hands: crumpled and thrown, and then redeemed and smoothed over. With his chest heaving up and down with his weary breaths, he leaned his elbows onto the oak table and took his head into his hands, screwing his eyes shut.
What hurt him most about everything is the fact that he never got the chance to fully apologize for what he'd done to her on their last night together. He'd hurt her, hurt her too deeply, and there was nothing he could do to take back his actions. He let his rage and jealousy take control over his doings, and as a result he knew she hated him. Would always do, now that he knew Granger well enough. Despite what she'd told him, her cold demeanor towards him as they'd woken up together the following morning proved that she was, once again, not letting her real emotions take control.
And speaking of real emotions, he was finding it harder and harder to pretend to like Astoria these days.
Probably because now he knew how it felt like to truly want someone.
His wife had changed in the past few weeks, and for what reason these changes might have brought on, he did not know. Although he'd never paid too much attention to her at all, these changes were drastic enough that even he noticed. Astoria was a woman who took great pride in how she looked, that was why he had never been afraid of showing off his trophy wife even though he didn't have feelings for her. It was all a show, anyway. But suddenly, she seemed not to care in the slightest bit on how she looked. She would wear the same garment for days and days, and wouldn't notice if it was stained or wrinkled. She'd stopped brushing her hair, too, that was why it lost its luster and sheen.
Before, Astoria would've been up in the early hours of the morning, instructing the house-elves on what to do to make the manor more perfect than it already was. She would have the plush velvet curtains of the large, wide windows drawn, and would scold the elves if she saw dust particles floating in the sunlight. The Malfoy manor benefited from her perfectionist ways.
The manor was cold and dreary, and very, very dark now.
But of course, it still didn't matter to Draco. He figured she might've gotten bored with the monotony of her life. He couldn't imagine any other job that could make hers a lot more interesting.
And then there were the cuts and scratches on her pallid arm.
The first time Draco saw one of them, he assumed she possibly could have gotten it while she was helping Meriam with the cooking. She might've accidentally cut herself with a knife or something, and so he didn't feel the slightest bit alarmed.
But the cuts seemed to multiply with his rejection every time she sauntered up to him in bed… and that was every night. Come to think of it, he allowed her only once, twice into his bed. Thrice at most.
A strange, ominous smile was also upon his wife's lips –
He shook his head. Astoria wasn't his problem. Astoria was mainly a person forced upon him.
His problem was Hermione.
At least, he made her his problem. Though she made it very clear she didn't want to be his…
Fuck.
"Is something wrong, Hermione?"
Hermione looked up abruptly from the mug of coffee in her cupped hands. She wasn't really drinking it, just merely pondering it. She'd been pondering it for too long that the steam that emanated from it previously had gone; the coffee had gone cold now.
She cleared her throat and forced to smile at the redhead. "Nothing, Ginny. I'm fine." She took a sip of the beverage and immediately regretted it. The coffee was cold and very bitter.
Cold and bitter… just like him.
Ginny looked skeptical. "Are you sure? You've been acting… strange."
"It's nothing." She grinned widely at her friend.
But Ginny didn't say anything, and continued on scrutinizing her odd behavior.
Truth be told, despite what she'd done over the past few days – weeks – months, even – she found a rather significant part of herself missing Draco. Missed him terribly to the point that the dreary winter morning sky resembled his gray eyes, missed him terribly that she'd imagined him in Ron's place as he made love to her, missed him terribly to the point of wishing that she would wake up right next to him. The time apart had not helped her in any way, as she hoped it would.
But being back in the humdrum of life and reality, it seemed to her that what had happened between the two of them had been a distant dream, something someone else had experienced and lived through.
But that didn't curb the cravings, the feeling of passionate longing in her veins. And despite what he'd done to her...
On the contrary, and so ironically, the passion strengthened even more…
Hermione gulped nervously, but tried her best not to make the discomfort evident upon her features. "So, how is Lily?" she asked, in an attempt to change the subject. "Last I heard she was sick."
"Yeah, she was down with the flu a few days ago, but Harry and I took her to St. Mungo's and she's better now," said Ginny. "Wasn't anything serious, but you know how Harry gets."
"I'm glad she's better." Hermione tried to make her tone livelier.
"But I know you're not," said Ginny simply.
Hermione gave a short laugh, one that sounded unnatural, even to her. "What do you mean?"
"Hermione." Ginny sighed wearily. "I've known you for too long for you to have to lie to me."
Hermione twisted the mug in her hands. "I'm not lying to anybody –"
"Hermione," the redhead repeated, but this time her tone was firmer, as though she was not dropping the subject unless she told her the truth. "What is wrong?"
Hermione didn't look at her friend's face, but instead looked out of the solitary kitchen window of the Potters' home. She couldn't tell anyone her deepest feelings, but she wished she could. She wished she could have another opinion on things, one that wasn't biased. But Ginny was her husband's sister. And anyway, what did she need another opinion for? She'd already done what she thought was right, wasn't she? She'd kept Draco away from her life, and her family.
Even though it broke her heart to do it.
"Nothing is wrong," she insisted. "I am fine –"
Again, Ginny sighed wearily. "Ron talks to Harry," she suddenly said. "All the time."
"Yeah. So?"
"And Harry talks to me."
Hermione cocked her head impatiently towards her friend. "And what exactly are you getting at?" she asked, although she knew the exact answer already.
"All I'm saying is that –"
"No!" snapped Hermione, and for some reason her temper flared. "Just why exactly is Ron talking to Harry instead of me?! If he has any problems concerning me then it would be much better if we'd discussed them together, isn't it, not run around town conferring our marital problems with every Tom, Dick, and Harry he meets!"
"That's exactly the problem, Hermione!" Ginny argued hotly. "Ron doesn't know what the problem is!"
Her words stopped Hermione.
"How can he ask you about it when he doesn't even know what to ask of you?"
"Then that makes everything between us fine, doesn't it?" snapped Hermione irritably. "If he can't pinpoint any problem then there is no problem! He's just making a big deal out of nothing! Sheesh!" She threw her hands up in defeat.
Despondent, Ginny shook her head. "Do you still love my brother or not?"
Hermione barked out a hollow laugh. "What kind of stupid question is that?"
"Just answer it, for Merlin's sake!"
Hermione pushed herself off of the wooden table and got to her feet irately. "You know what, Ginny? I think I've had enough coffee. It was nice seeing you."
Ginny got to her feet, too. "Hermione –"
But Hermione was already getting her purse from the kitchen counter and preparing to leave the kitchen door.
She didn't need this argument. She was already feeling guilty as hell. She didn't need anyone else pinpointing it out for her…
As she was about to leave her best friend's home, something in her peripheral vision caught her attention. Bending low, she picked up today's edition of the Daily Prophet from the sitting room table. The paper had been folded in such a way that the Obituaries section was face-up.
The featured person had a condescending look upon her face –
"Yeah. She's dead," said Ginny, whom Hermione hadn't noticed had followed her to the sitting room.
Hermione couldn't keep her eyes off of the paper. There was an aching feeling in her gut, one she knew wouldn't have been present if only –
"Not much loss to our world, isn't she?" said Ginny disdainfully. "Merlin knows we don't need someone like her."
Hermione didn't dignify her friend's statement with a reply.
Maybe not to our world, she thought with pity, but to his…
That evening, Hermione was found drumming her fingers on her Volvo's steering wheel and trying to make out the faces of the people passing by her car. They almost looked like one another; there was no sufficient light that could makes their faces distinguishable. They had their hands in their pockets and their collars up their chins to shield themselves from the unrelenting cold climate.
Hermione glanced at the digital clock on the dashboard for probably the hundredth time that night, both anxious and apprehensive at the same time. Maybe this isn't such a good idea, she thought to herself again, but the difference was that this time, she found herself acting upon that thought.
The revved the car's engine and was just about to move from the parking spot when a halo of silver blond hair caught the moonlight and eventually, her attention.
Her heart automatically thundered in her ribcage as the tall figure of Draco Malfoy staggered towards her car. Despite her mind screaming at her to make a run from her rapist, her entire body was frozen and unmoving in the driver's seat, wanting to see him. After all, they'd made an arrangement to talk that night and she wanted to keep her promise.
Draco pulled the passenger door open and climbed into the seat in shaky movements. Hermione caught a whiff of his familiar scent, his scent which she'd grown accustomed to.
For a long moment, neither one of them said anything. Hermione refrained to look at the Slytherin, but found herself aware of his every movement. She was aware when he shifted slightly in his seat, and even when his broad chest heaved as he took unsteady breaths. It was pitiable that she still found herself caring for the man even after what he'd done, but she could not help herself.
At long last, Draco broke the palpable silence. "Hermione," he whispered, his voice unsteady. "I'm glad you agreed to meet me."
"Yes." Her reply was barely more than a whisper.
"Have you seen the… paper?"
"Yes."
"Mother's dead," he murmured after a slight pause.
"Yes." She felt stupid for having nothing else to say but yes, but what else was there to say?
She heard Draco's choked sob, and it was all she could do not to look at him. A single tear slid from the corner of his shut eyes. For a moment, he resembled a forlorn, little boy who'd lost his mother.
"Death is inevitable, Draco –"
Draco laughed mirthlessly, his eyes still tearing, and turned his head around to look at her. "I knew you'd say something like that. Something practical." He took a deep breath. "Yeah." He made a sound between a laugh and a sob. "Same old Granger."
"It's how life is –"
But Draco leaned across the distance between them and pressed his lips to hers, cutting off her words and stifling her soft gasp with his mouth. She certainly hadn't expected this. His lips were wet and salty, due to his tears which flowed freely down his cheeks now. For a fleeting moment, Hermione considered returning his kiss, but caught herself just in time.
She pushed firmly at his chest. "Draco, stop! We can't do this," she told him.
"Why not?" he inquired, but he looked too fragile to keep up with the argument.
"Your mother just died."
"Yes, she did, but how does that change anything about you and I?"
Draco was about to kiss her again, but she kept her arms firmly planted on his chest. "That's the point! It doesn't!"
"So help me, Hermione," pleaded Draco desperately. "This – seeing you – makes me forget about the whole ordeal, the fact that there is no one left whom I love… and who loves me back –"
"That's only because vulnerable moments like these often result in bad decisions."
Draco laughed, mirthless. "Bad or not, it's still my decision."
And then Draco was kissing her again, his kiss more full of sorrow than anything else. Hermione had never seen him so sad – didn't think he was capable of sadness at all – but her opinions on him were washed away with every light brush of his lips.
But a voice in the back of her mind begged itself to be taken notice of.
"No, please stop, Draco," pleaded Hermione as she pushed him away once more. "This might feel good, but it doesn't feel right. Didn't we swear we'd forget everything that happened between us two months ago? Think about your son, Scorpius! What would he say about seeing his father in the hands of another woman? And your wife, Astoria – we're hurting her, Draco, and if you think –"
"Astoria." Draco spit out his wife's name as though it were a curse. "Do you know how the fuck Astoria came to be in my life?" For some reason, the sorrow was gone from the tone of his voice, replaced by a strong feeling of ill-will.
Hermione bit her bottom lip nervously. "It – it's none of my business –"
"I was engaged to a Greengrass before I could walk," he spit out. "Before I could even talk! Fixed marriage, Granger! Fucking fixed!"
Despite the information being new, Hermione showed no sign that the revelation surprised her. After all, it was predictable, if one thought of it logically. Greengrasses and Malfoys were amongst the oldest lines of pureblood wizarding families.
Draco went on. "That was fine with me; I knew it had to happen. You know what happens when pureblood families decide they want to keep the bloodlines untainted. But you know what the worst part is?" He paused. "The worst part is the feeling of having no control over things, the feeling that you can't do anything about the situation hanging over your head – it's like I'm being forced to kill Dumbledore all over again! Forced to do the Dark Lord's bidding! All against my will!"
And there she saw Draco's wall slowly crumbling to down to the ground: that despite what he'd made himself appear to be, the trauma of his past still weighed heavily upon his shoulders, even after years of healing.
Suddenly, with a burst of understanding, Hermione remembered the Incarcerous incident, the one that resulted in their biggest fight in the whole covert arrangement. The worst part is having no control over things…
"It's over, Draco," appeased Hermione in a soothing voice. "Voldemort's dead."
"I wanted to make my own choices, for once. I didn't want to marry someone I didn't love, just like I didn't want to kill Dumbledore."
Hermione reached a hand out tentatively to soothe his heaving chest. "Shh…"
"And now, Mother's dead." His voice cracked. "Did you know that she was the only one who was ever opposed to my becoming a Death Eater? She implored my father, begged him not to do it – but of course, Father ignored her pleas."
"I didn't think you would allow yourself to become one, too," Hermione revealed in a small voice. "I didn't think you had it in you."
Draco fumbled at the small button on his wrist and, after successfully managing to unbutton it, pulled his shirt sleeve up to his elbow to reveal the scar upon his left forearm.
"The scar. It's still here. Proof that it was branded to me against my own will. My father – his Mark disappeared as soon as the Dark Lord departed." His finger hovered over the scar in the shape of a serpent-tongued ghastly skull before tentatively brushing the pad of his forefinger upon it. "It's the worst, and ironically the best thing I like about myself. It proves that I am so much more than my father's son. I am able to say no, I am able to make my own decisions, I am able to distinguish what is right from wrong. I am able to look past fortune, fame, power – even though I had been too late in realizing it."
Hermione allowed herself a small smile. "Harry and I used to argue about this a lot, about my having faith in you. Because I didn't think you had it in you to kill anybody. You might've been an incorrigible prick, but that was all you were: nasty. You're not a killer. I always knew that."
"And I hated you," said Draco frankly.
"That's nothing new."
"No. I really did hate you, you and those five nutters you called friends. If it weren't for you, if it weren't for your interference in the Ministry of Magic in our fifth year, Father would never have failed in retrieving the Prophecy. And he wouldn't feel the sick need to make amends for himself." Draco took a deep breath through his clenched teeth. "He wouldn't feel the sick need to be a – a pushover and to – TO SELL OUT HIS OWN SON TO REDEEM HIMSELF!"
The words crashed into Hermione's ears like the loud roar of a nearby waterfall. She'd always thought of Draco as someone who idolized his father, who wanted to become just like him; she didn't realize the scar his father had embedded into his being as he molded him was grave.
"But I don't hate Father." Draco quickly defended him, his voice lowering. "I just – I don't want to be like him. I don't want Scorpius thinking of me that way, thinking that I loved myself more than I loved him…"
"That makes you two different." Hermione smiled at him. "You love Scorpius." She paused to lower her head. "If only you could find it in your heart to try and love his mother as much as you love him."
Draco barked out a bitter laugh. "What makes you think I don't try?" he retorted. "Mother always told me that I'd eventually learn to love Astoria as we spent more time together – why haven't I reached the point of doing so, even after having been married to her for eighteen years?"
"Maybe," shrugged Hermione, "you're just not trying hard enough. Maybe you're just too full of spite as to how she came in your life that you fail to see Astoria herself. Maybe."
"Or maybe I'm just not destined to be with her at all."
Hermione's mouth threatened to turn up into an amused smirk. "That's so cliché. Draco Malfoy, believe in destiny?"
Draco scowled at her delight. "I like to think I'm destined to be happy."
"But there's no such thing as destiny, Draco! Only different choices," Hermione pointed out. "You said it yourself. You wanted to make your own choices. Dumbledore might've helped you at some point, but you chose not to be a cold-blooded killer. You could've killed him then, not thought about the consequences it might've entailed, but you chose not to do it."
"Still as practical as ever," smirked Draco. "Since we're on the subject of choosing, care to answer a few questions for me?"
Hermione blinked, puzzled. "Of course," she told him.
"Choices," mused Draco. "These all point down to my decisions, doesn't it?"
"Yes," replied Hermione, still as puzzled as ever.
"You said that I should try to love Astoria," said Draco slowly. "What if I choose not to do so?"
"I'd say you were making a terrible choice."
"And if I choose to love another? I choose to love someone else?"
"You're not selfish," said Hermione stubbornly. "You wouldn't hurt Scorpius that way."
"And what if I choose to be selfish, Granger? What then?"
For anyone that does not remember the Incarcerous incident, it's on Ch. 12. :)
[A/N:Sorry for the semi-cliffy! There are two final main chapters coming up (as well as a 4-part epilogue for our four main characters). I'm so excited to finish this fic! :)
How do you like the reveal on Draco's relationship with Astoria? :) I hope you guys enjoyed reading this as much as I enjoyed making it for you! Please don't forget to lend me your thoughts on the… other side of Draco. :P
To those who have favorited, followed, and to those who have reviewed (you know who you are!), thank you guys so much! You have no idea how much I appreciate them. I'm flattered to think that people read the bunch of bollocks I write! Hahaha :P
Don't forget to lend me your thoughts on this one! And thanks for reading. :) –Nina]
(The next one is, personally, one of my favorite chapters! :D)
PREVIEW OF NEXT CHAPTER:
Draco grinned drunkenly at the fellow wizard. "Fancy suit you got there." He had the gall to reach out and stroke the collar of his dark tux in a miserable attempt of concealing his disgust. "Hand-me-down, I presume?" he mocked.
Ron slapped Draco's hand off of him and brushed the collar of his coat with exaggerated movements, as though the latter's contact with him could taint his surface. "No, because apparently, Malfoy, I'm not the same destitute person you once knew back at school."
Draco wolf-whistled. "Ooh, big words," he jeered. "Apparently, destitute… seems like someone's been sticking his head in a dictionary, Weasley. Realized you can't keep up with Hermione's internal thesaurus?"
Clearing her throat, she made herself known between the two hotheads once more. "Draco, you're drunk. I'll call Astoria over to take you home –"
But no sooner had she turned around to leave when Draco's hand reached out and suddenly clamped onto her wrist, stopping her advances.
Ron almost growled at the contact. "Keep your hands OFF my wife."
Draco dropped Hermione's wrist immediately as though it were on fire and laughed in Ron's face. "Oh, you'd be surprised, Weasley, to know where my hands have already gone."