There are things I thought I could rise above

And all the things I thought I was better than

And a coward might call it a conscience

And a liar might call it the truth

Nothing could ever make me more frightened

Than the thought of hurting you

Fortress, Bears Den

There's something strangely satisfying about the the quiet little pop when I open the beer bottle, an old friend greeting me again.

I set the beer next to his hand and offer a small smile in way of acceptance. Acceptance of what? Maybe of how fucking low I've gotten in my life that I can't enjoy a damn pint with my mate for fear of it spiraling me into a bender that causes me to lose my fucking mind again.

"I wasn't aware you kept beers around," George says with a twitch of his brow, pulling the bottle to his lips.

Perching on the tiled countertop next to my sink, I cross my arms and stare at him. "I don't. Special occasions and all that."

A wicked grin pulls at George's face, and in an automatic response, I scowl. He sets the beer down with an air of superiority, as if me saying that this is a "special occasion" has somehow transformed him into the Minister of fucking Magic.

Alcohol would definitely make this easier.

Apologizing to Molly was difficult, but… there was something about it that felt inherently comfortable. I'd been baring my broken soul to her for so long that surely one more little jagged piece falling away was nothing. But saying it to George?

Fuck.

My vocal cords tangle in a knot low in my throat, and I cough, trying to clear them. From my perched position on the edge of my counter, I eye him with a wary expression. "Have you heard about the bullshit Brenner is making me do?"

Georges brows tug together as he takes another long pull of beer. "What, like the cooking shit?"

My face pinches up, and I rub my palm against the stubble on my cheek. "Kinda. I'm— well, it's kind of ridiculous is what it is." I chuckle darkly and suck on my tongue a moment. "I have to make amends with people I've wronged."

The air shifts suddenly before settling uncomfortably around us. From the corner of my eye, I see George twitch in the awkwardness I've thrown into the room.

"So, yeah." I tilt my head to the popcorn ceiling and feel the pressure of the moment prickle at my sinuses. "I'm sorry. Sorry you had to pick my ass up—more than once. I—" I clear my throat for something to do, "I'm not sure where I would have woken up if you hadn't come after me. After everything, you still took me back. You gave me a job, gave me a place to stand and a home of my own." Another cough. "Thank you."

George's face twists up in the same uncomfortable grimace that often sits on Weasel's face, and for a moment, I'm struck by how similar they look.

Draining his beer, he lets out a low sigh and wipes his mouth. "Well, it was nothing really. I needed help in the shop; you needed a job. Made sense."

I almost quip something about how I've never really needed a job, nor will I ever for the rest of my days, but I don't. He gave me a lot when he offered that tiny little closet office and the ledgers that were months out of balance.

It's George's turn to clear his throat, and I notice the ticks I would have missed before, the way he taps his finger on the tile and the way he grits his jaw before he speaks. It seems everyone has a tell. "Is this your way of quitting, then?"

Thickness once again settles in my throat, and I try to swallow it away. "Yes."

I've been thinking about this for just a few days, but as soon as I the thought settled in my mind—I knew. This isn't the place for me, not anymore. The same way Granger wasn't meant to stock shelves; I'm not meant for this.

I might despise the legacy left to me, but there are roots there that are just as much a part of me as the blond on my head. I owe nothing to the generations before me that polluted my mind and corrupted our family—but I owe something to myself.

Malfoy Enterprises waits for me, just as it always has, and for the first time I feel it call to me. I can rebuild what was broken. I can make it new—better—just like I'm trying to do with myself.

"It's nothing personal—" I begin, only to be silenced by a raise of George's palm.

"I never expected you to stay long term, Malfoy. I'm grateful for your help, and you're welcome to stay in the flat as long as you like." His lips quirks up. "You're not as bad as everyone says you are."

I snort, pushing off from my spot on the counter and turning to stand in front of him. "Yeah, you aren't either, mate."

I hold my hand out to him, and he inspects it with a quizzical crinkle of his brow. Taking my hand, he crushes me to him in a hug and, surprising even myself, I don't hesitate to return it.

Shoving my head through the Floo, I wince at the sensation of the green flames tickle my skin. "Molly!"

From my skewed view of the sitting room of the Burrow, I watch Molly huff and puff her way into the room with a worried brow. "Draco Malfoy, what are you doing in my Floo? Come through—"

I cut her off before she can keep jabbering. "Molly! It's an emergency. The Floo is open. Hurry!"

Withdrawing my face, I stare at my kitchen in horror. When Molly stumbles through seconds later, shaking soot and Floo powder from her apron, her eyes widen in horror.

"Merlin's beard— what have you done?"

"I tried to make a roast." We stare together at the smoke billowing from the cast iron skillet and the frothy water bubbling over the edges in an angry hiss.

"How long til she's here?" Molly studies the chaos erupting in my kitchen with a disbelieving pout.

I grimace as I examine the clock on my wall. "Forty-five minutes?"

Molly pulls her hair down around her shoulders, which is longer than I would have imagined, and re-ties it more securely at the crown of her head. "Grab your wand; you're going to need it."

Stomping determinedly into the kitchen, Molly gasps when she sees the charred mess of meat in my skillet.

"Why in heaven's name would you do that to a piece of meat?" She blanches, her hand resting on her chest as though I've cursed her youngest child.

"That stupid, bloody book! It told me to get a crust before slow roasting. But it's burnt!"

"Yes." Her lips fold in on themselves as she inspects my stove. "Yes, it is. Congratulations on destroying a fine piece of meat. Now, let's just hope you have something else in this icebox." She flicks her stubby wand at my stove and clears the entire mess instantly.

My roast—the one that was worth over twenty pounds—drops unceremoniously into the rubbish bin.

"At least the carrots haven't been ruined yet—"

I snort. I'd still been cutting them and hadn't yet attempted to cook them.

"The potatoes are probably salvageable. Do you have a chicken?" she asks with wide, hopeful eyes.

My hands gesture in disbelief, motioning around my kitchen engulfed in smoke, and a little scoff escapes me. "Who on earth keeps a bloody chicken lying around?"

"People who can bloody cook!" she shouts, her hands flailing in the air, and she stomps back towards the Floo and disappears in a flash of green smoke accompanied by a shout of "the Burrow!"

Fuck.

She's left… left me with a pot of half boiled potatoes and a stack of raw carrots. But as soon as she's vanished, she reappears, holding a roasted chicken in oven mitt-clad hands. She's mumbling to herself, something about "who-leaves-forty-five-minutes-for-a-roast-anyway."

Foregoing acknowledging me further, she shuffles into my small kitchen and pops the chicken in the oven and sets a timer on her wand. "Keep chopping carrots; they need at least forty minutes, so I don't know what that horrible book told you, but you're fucked."

My jaw drops slightly at her curse, but when she points the tip of her wand at my face, she's all business, and I know better than to question Molly Weasley in a kitchen— even if it's mine.

Thirty-five minutes later, and I'm hopping out of my bedroom, stuffing the tail of my oxford into my charcoal trousers.

Molly pulls the chicken from the oven with a grin, but it quickly transforms into a sharp glare as she notices me. "You listen to me right now, Draco Malfoy. You are not to carve this bird for at least fifteen minutes. Do you hear me?"

My lips quirk up in an almost smile as I finish the buttons on the sky blue buttoned shirt I know Granger likes. "Don't cut the chicken for five minutes." I see her jaw twitch, and I can't help but smile at her. "Yeah, yeah. At least fifteen."

Molly's eyes catch sight of me for the first time, and she huffs her air in for a moment as she approaches me. "You're more handsome with some weight on you," she states factually. Her hands fussing with my collar, and I smile down at her. "You'll do well tonight. You're different than before. Okay?"

"Yeah, okay."

"Plus, that chicken is going to be delicious, and you owe me dinner now because I've given you my chicken."

My grin widens, a soft laugh escaping. "Thank you, Molly."

She clucks her tongue between her cheek and teeth and moves towards the Floo. "Thank me with a couple grandbabies, would you?" She disappears in the flames with a wink.

There is a knock at the door, and I feel my heart scorch a trail to my throat. Fussing over my clothes one last time, I pull the door open.

There she is.

Am I even sure there was a time I didn't find her earth shatteringly beautiful? How could I ever have thought anything else?

She is autumn in October and a spring in May. She peeks up at me through thick black lashes, and I can't believe she's here. Doesn't she remember a few months ago when I was laying on the floor vomiting until I lost consciousness?

When she clears her throat, I realize that I haven't yet invited her in, and I nearly yelp as I move to the side to allow her entry.

"Smells delicious," she remarks, shrugging her light cloak from her shoulders, and my mouth runs dry.

It's nothing really. Just a little dress. A little dress that kisses her knees and exposes the creamy lines of her throat, and my cock twitches in the memory of a dream.

I swallow the sticky feeling on my tongue. "You look beautiful."

"Oh." She fusses with the full skirt of her little blue dress, the same shade as my shirt. "Thank you. You don't clean up so bad yourself."

My lips threaten to pull into a smirk, but I try my best to keep them neutral—an impossible feat. "Wine?"

Her entire body tenses, and her eyes flicker up to study me, always searching for the crack in the foundation.

"I bought a bottle for you in case you wanted some. If you don't, you can take it with you—or I can give it to George. Bloke will go crazy for that nice of a bottle." I try to keep it light even though the insecurities raging inside me threaten to pull me under.

"That's okay—" She's warring with herself, wondering if she could maybe just enjoy a glass or if it might send me over the edge.

"I'm okay."

Her chocolate eyes lift to mine, and I watch the little pulse point in her throat, counting the flickers to calm me down. She has the same anxious little tendon that I do.

"I promise." I'm trying to show her— fuck, I'm trying to show myself. I can do this.

The delicate hollows of her neck shift as she swallows. She's nervous.

I pour her a glass and return it to the fridge. A bit of envy courses through me as her eyes flutter closed when the cool liquid slips over her tongue.

I try to smell roses. Try to remind myself of that stupid little meadow with the blooming rose bush.

When you are here, you are strong.

I swallow the urges clamoring up my throat and check the clock; it's been thirteen minutes, and I want to carve that fucking chicken for something to do, but I'm sure Molly Weasley would be marching through my Floo seconds later to flay me on my dining table.

"How was your day?" My brows peak together. This relationship—casually getting to know each other even though we know each other intimately—is exhausting. What I really want is to sink to my knees and tell her how fucking wrong I've been all this time—but it's not time. Not yet.

"Good! You?"

"Good," I reply flatly, my lips flattening as I scramble for something to fucking say. "I quit my job."

"You what?" Hermione shrieks, her palms slamming against the table, causing me to jump. She quickly realizes her error and composes herself. "You quit?" she asks politely, and the corners of my lips twitch.

"It was never meant to be long term," I say. "It was always to get me back on my feet."

Her brow arches suspiciously at me. "And you think you are?"

A feeling I can't name, something that makes me feel like an imposter, rises up within me. After all, it was only five months ago that I was heaving vomit on the stone of Diagon Alley in the harsh afternoon sun. "I think so."

Straightening her spine, she sips demurely at her wine glass, and I notice all the things that would drive my mother crazy. She's sitting too far back on her chair, and she's holding her glass by the goblet and not the stem—not to mention that her legs are crossed at the thighs and not the ankle.

But somehow, making the connection between the two makes me feel fractionally better, like they almost exist in the same space for a moment.

"What will you do?" she asks, replacing her glass on the counter.

"Return to Malfoy Enterprises." I can see the worry etched in her features, and I'm quick to continue. "Our name doesn't hold a lot of clout these days; I'm going to change that. I'm going to rebuild and get rid of every old fucker who disagrees with me. It's my company."

It's now been sixteen minutes, so I carve the damn chicken, serving us both hearty portions of the meal I—or, rather, Molly—created and hover it to the table.

We pick at our dinners, both too nervous to really eat. The way her eyes light up when she talks about Flourish and Blotts destroys me. Hopefully I look that way when I talk about Malfoy Enterprises someday, though I highly doubt it.

"My question is—" she giggles over her second glass of wine "—do I add my name?"

"Flourish and Blotts and Granger?" I test it on my tongue, and her face scrunches up at the sound.

"It's ridiculous," she laughs.

"Well, change it." I shrug, studying the slight sheen to her eyes as she sips her wine. I think I like the way she looks when she's two glasses of wine in.

She scoffs, rolling her eyes dramatically. "I can't change it. It's five-hundred years old!"

"It's zero years old to you, and it's yours. If I've learned anything over the last year, it's that we owe nothing to the generations before us." My mouth pulls into a tight line, and an unexpected heaviness settles between us.

Granger swallows air as she stares at me. "Are you coming next week?"

I wrack my brain for something I must be missing. "Coming?"

"To the Victory Ball. It'll be the anniversary of—"

I cut her off as I stiffen in my seat. "Oh... That's not a good idea, you know. Death Eater and all that." I laugh hollowly and sip on the water that I desperately want to be Firewhisky.

Shifting in her seat, she lets out a nervous breath. "I was thinking you might go with me? As a— well, I guess you could call it a date, but it doesn't have to be that. Just— I thought we might go together."

A blush stains her cheeks, and all I want is to fucking say yes. But the words don't come, and I sense there's a reason for it.

Tugging on her curls, she avoids my gaze. "I'm accepting this stupid award, and I'm so nervous about it because who even accepts awards for something like that," she says, laughing nervously.

Her hands fumble with anything she can get her hands on, and I notice the thrumming of the tendon in her throat again; it's beating furiously, and I want to tell her that she should press two fingers just there, that it might help the pulsing feeling.

"I— I can't, Granger." I shake my head at my plate of half eaten food, and I feel a swell of emotion rise inside me. "I can't go back there."

"It could be fun," she tries. "I mean— we'd be together... and it'd just be nice to have someone there for m—"

"I just can't," I blurt as panic crashes on my shoulders and rages in my skull. It's relentless, like I'm trying to stand under a waterfall that wants to drag me under.

The crumpling of her face feels like a knife between my ribs, and I let out a broken breath when she tosses her napkin on her plate. I'm fucking disappointing her again, just like I swore I'd never do again. But I don't know how I'm supposed to walk into the the Great Hall on the arm of the Golden Girl like I fucking belong, like I didn't almost kill Dumbledore, like I didn't wait until the last minute to defect. Like I didn't kill my mother.

I can't be what she wants me to be.

"I understand," she lies, her features heavy with her discomfort. Her eyes flicker to the clock ticking obnoxiously on the wall, and she clears her throat. "I actually should be going. I have such a big day tomorrow. But I'll see you soon?"

Standing, she makes her way towards my door, summoning her cloak to her side and draping it over her shoulders.

Just like that, everything crashed and burned because I couldn't do something for her.

What in the fuck is wrong with me?

"Thank you for coming." I swallow, staring at our feet.

"Thank you for dinner. This was fun." Another lie.

She reaches up on her tiptoes and brushes her lips against my cheek before turning swiftly for the door, leaving without another look back.

My forehead crashes against the back of the door as realisation crashes over me.

I'm still fucking this up.

A/N: I got this chapter ready for tomorrow's update and figured I should go ahead and posit now! Just a touch o' angst for you tonight.

I adore you all and your reviews today left me speechless.

MCal and Ravenslight are the real MVP's and I am a puddle of love at their feet.

These next 3 chapters are maybe the chapters I am most proud of. Who knows… maybe I can't wait. Maybe I'll have another beer and post another…