Don't Look Back
- 11 -
Breach / Bend
The wolf is silent.
For the rest of the week following the full moon, she hears nothing but her own distracted thoughts.
Thoughts about things she shouldn't be thinking about. Thoughts about him.
Thoughts about the look in his eyes as he held her chin in his hand. Everything she saw hiding in those blackened depths.
A great deal of it looked like hatred. Hatred and disgust and, above all, dissatisfaction.
How awful it must feel, she thinks, to be so dissatisfied with her — the one his instinct chose. The one nature chose. How disappointing.
She wonders if he would've been happier with someone like Parkinson. Or one of the Greengrass sisters.
Anyone would be better than Hermione Mudblood Granger. Right?
Which — that makes sense. It fits together in her mind. She's dissatisfied too, after all.
As if Malfoy would ever be her first choice for a desk partner, let alone a mythical bonded cellmate.
Dissatisfaction is the overarching theme.
And yet — that's not all she saw.
Not all she felt.
In that moment, with his face mere inches from hers and his grip near bruising, there'd been a flicker. Not so unlike the one she felt staring at him from across that corridor, while he watched.
She can't pin it down for certain. But it looked and felt quite a bit like exhilaration. Like the thrill of doing something you shouldn't.
She knows that feeling well.
Even if it doesn't make sense.
Hermione,
I know you're avoiding it, and I understand why. Trust me, I do.
But the book I suggested first — that's the one you should be reading. That's the one that'll help.
Give it a try, yeah? Please.
Tonks
It's Monday afternoon. Christmas decorations float into place all around the halls as she heads for the Library to borrow reference texts for an essay.
Were she at a school far smaller and less crowded than Hogwarts, she might've noticed someone following her.
But he's able to tail her a good amount of the way from her last class without being found out, and it's not until she rounds the corner into a vacant corridor that he speaks.
"You shouldn't have done that."
Startled, she whips around. His voice is unfamiliar, but his face —
"Adrian," she announces flatly. Almost unintentionally. She's realizing just now that she's been waiting for this to happen. Ever since they made eye contact across the Great Hall.
"Granger," he echoes. He's a lanky shadow a few feet away, hair carelessly hanging in his eyes again. He's got one hand in his trouser pocket, the other laced around his bag strap, and he looks calm despite his rather abrupt accusation.
"I'm sorry, I don't believe I know what you're referring to." She forces herself to straighten out of a defensive posture. "Have we ever officially met?"
Adrian lifts an eyebrow, and then a moment later he takes a measured step forward, offering out his hand.
She raises a brow too, even as she takes it.
"Adrian Pucey."
"Hermione Granger."
"Good, we've officially met." He drops his arm and doesn't skip a beat. "Like I said, you shouldn't have done that."
"Done what?"
"Gone to the Shrieking Shack."
She didn't think he'd come right out and say it. Admit straight away that he knows. It surprises her into momentary silence.
Adrian studies her face as though he's looking for something in particular, olive green eyes a little narrowed in concentration.
"Let's take a walk," he says.
"I don't know you."
"Yes you do. We shook hands."
She holds firm, digging her heels in for good measure and lifting an eyebrow.
He sighs loudly. "Fine, then. I'm Adrian. Eighteen years old. Slytherin. Halfblood. I like long walks on the beach and eating gingersnaps, and I got kicked off the Quidditch team for making a positive comment about Oliver Wood. I hate shellfish. There. Now you know me."
Her eyes are a little wide, she can feel it.
Adrian steps aside and gestures casually to the empty corridor behind him. "Let's take a walk."
She probably shouldn't, all things considered. But she's curious why and how much he knows.
And after all, she has her wand — feels for it in the pocket of her robes even as she steps toward him.
She knows enough hexes offhand to turn Adrian Pucey into a blind Pygmy Puff, should the need arise.
This is...
Well — it's certainly not what she expected.
Anyone passing by might think they're taking a leisurely stroll about the Castle.
But in reality, she's getting a lecture.
"— can not just waltz around this situation like it's a classroom experiment, Granger. These sorts of things have consequences."
As it turns out, Adrian Pucey not only knows her as a paramour, but he's got all sorts of opinions about it as well. And his face remains calm — placid, even — as he rips into her.
"It's abundantly clear you haven't grasped the point of any of it yet, but I'm here to remind you that you do actually serve a purpose here, yeah? And from what I've seen and heard, you're taking every opportunity to do exactly what you shouldn't—"
"What you've seen and heard..." she echoes, because it's all she can think to say. She can't wrap her head around why he seems to believe he's involved, and yet—
"Malfoy told me."
She glances sideways and upward to see his face in profile as they walk.
"Why would he tell you?"
"No need to sound so put out, Granger — it's not like he wanted to. But it doesn't take an expert to notice one of you dancing a jig every time the other stubs their toe. Just takes someone with eyes...and a little experience." He shrugs one shoulder. "I asked how long you've been his paramour and the next day he was coming to me for advice."
Experience. Advice.
"Are you saying that you're—"
Adrian scoffs a laugh, cutting her off. "Not me, no." And he meets her curious gaze as they meander around the corner leading to the Grand Staircase. "My mother."
Her brows jolt up of their own accord.
"She was a Healer at St. Mungo's. Got bit by a patient maybe a year or two after I was born." Another laugh as they start to descend. "Story's infamous amongst the Wizarding elite. Pureblood families like to gossip about it at tea — a perfectly satisfactory Halfblood family wasted."
The slight twinge she feels in her chest makes very little sense. This morning she woke up knowing next to nothing about Adrian Pucey, and now here she is well on her way to sympathizing.
It's as if he senses it.
"This isn't a sob story, Granger," he says, jumping abruptly across the small gap onto a flight of stairs that's already moving.
She almost loses her footing trying to keep up, grasping for the stone banister.
"I could give a fuck what Purebloods think. And I'm only telling you all this so you'll recognize me as the voice of reason here." He stops abruptly and pivots to face her on the landing. "I know more than you do, and I can tell you now that you're doing it all wrong."
She can't help a scoff, affronted. "I'm doing it all wrong?" And she gestures down over the railing, in the vague direction of the Dungeons. "Malfoy's the one—"
"Wasn't it your idea to attempt that ritual?"
Her throat closes on her words.
Adrian shakes his head and huffs another laugh, "I thought you were the type to do research. At least enough to know that attempting a breach should always be a last resort."
Her cheeks flush with blood. "A what?"
"A breach. Ripping the bond apart. That's what it's called."
"Malfoy wanted to do it too."
Adrian turns to lean back against the railing, letting a pair of Ravenclaws pass them by. "Malfoy puts up fronts. It's all he knows how to do." He folds his arms across his chest and sizes her up almost clinically. "If he thinks he's supposed to hate you, then he'll cling to that until it drags him over a cliff somewhere."
"You're saying he doesn't want to break the bond?"
"Mentally, maybe he does. Biologically? Not a chance."
She struggles for words. "I don't—"
"Point is, Granger — this whole paramour thing's not meant to be fucked around with."
"I'm not trying to fuck around with it."
He arches a brow. "Following him to the Shrieking Shack? Yeah, great idea. Doesn't like you, even as a human. Why not see how the wolf behaves?"
She bites back on the defense that tries to leap from her throat. Takes care to remember that she doesn't need to defend herself to Adrian Pucey, of all people.
The wolf asked her to come. All that matters is she knows it.
And so does Malfoy.
"Why do you care?" she demands instead. "About any of this?"
Adrian leans back a little. Seems to consider his answer.
"My mother would want me to. You and Malfoy are well on your way to making this ugly, and I've seen ugly."
A flicker of curiosity sparks to life in her.
"If you want my advice—"
"I don't know if I do, actually," she says.
"You're getting it none the less." He leans down a bit to match her eye line, expression a challenge. "This might seem like an exciting little learning opportunity for you, the way things are now, but you won't feel the same when it starts to get gruesome. And it will, Granger — if you keep on like this."
"That's hardly advice—"
"Stop trying to wish it away. Stop toeing the boundaries. If you want to get through this even moderately unscathed, you'd best start making him like you."
An incredulous scoff bursts from her mouth. "Excuse me?"
"Paramours are meant to ease the pain. To relieve stress, not cause it. If I were you — and thank fuck I'm not — I'd start thinking of ways to make myself valuable. I thought you had the right idea for a moment there, dolling yourself up the way you did. But now that I know that was for Weasley—"
She straightens up like a rod's been driven through her spine. "That was for me. No one else."
Adrian huffs. "Alright. Sure, Granger."
"You know, I really don't think I like you."
"Good. Don't. I don't need to be liked. But you've got a reputation for being smart, and it'd be very smart to listen to me."
"And what if I—"
"Hermione, I've been looking for you. Look!"
It's Neville's voice, just behind her, and a moment later he appears at her side. He's got a wilted stem of Wolfsbane laid out gently across his gloved palm.
"Look at these clippings! Aren't they…"
He trails off the moment he realizes they're not alone, his excited gaze morphing into something more akin to a deer in headlights as it finds Adrian.
"Oh," he mumbles, going red in the face and quickly hiding the Wolfsbane behind his back. "Sorry."
Adrian blinks sleepily at him, an eyebrow raised. "Right. He told me Longbottom was involved." He pushes off the railing, adjusting the strap of his bag as he takes a step towards them. And Neville, by no means short, looks somehow small juxtaposed with Adrian's lanky frame.
His wide eyes drop to the floor, ears going pink to match his face.
"Well," says Adrian, cocking his head to the side. She can't tell if it's a smirk on his face or something else as he sizes Neville up. "At least someone here knows what they're doing."
And with that, he brushes past Neville's shoulder and disappears down the stairs.
Neville clears his throat awkwardly, rubbing at the back of his neck with his ungloved hand and glancing her way. "What was that about?"
She shakes her head. "Just another thing I don't understand."
It takes half an hour staring at it on her nightstand to work up the nerve.
Part of it feels like surrendering to something — and above all she hates to surrender. But with Tonks pushing at one end and now Adrian Pucey at the other, she's beginning to think it's no longer a choice.
With a sharp exhale, she tugs the pale blue volume onto her lap and draws her bed curtains.
A Treatise on the Paramour
It's written on the cover in sleek gold, looking a great deal more welcoming than it should. She bites down on the inside of her cheek as she flips to the index, running the pad of her finger along the page in search of a good place to start.
It's an instinct to gravitate towards the familiar.
Symbiotic Sensation
Strange, the faint sense of comfort she feels finding it in first-person.
When I first encountered symbiotic sensation, research was minimal. The small portion of the Wizarding community paying it any attention at all seemed content with their simple, surface-level conclusion. A fail-safe to prevent paramour death.
In my own experience, I've found nothing could be further from the truth. Most forget the most important aspect of the bond — that it is shared. I am not just paramour to the wolf. The wolf is paramour to me. Why, if symbiotic sensation is a safety precaution, would the paramour experience the wolf's pain as well? Surely the wolf is in no danger of being killed by its paramour.
That in mind, myself and other paramours I've encountered support a different conclusion. We believe symbiotic sensation is intended for therapeutic purposes. The bond between lycanthropic paramours needs to maintain its strength. It must be constantly nurtured, with both halves relying on the ability to feel one another in order to keep close — in heart and in mind.
When one considers the instability and pain inherent to the werewolf condition, the paramour's ability to share sensation makes perfect sense. When one half experiences exhaustion, the other half might then encourage them to rest. When one half experiences pain, the other will feel an intense urge to treat them.
It is nature's gift to the wolf. A constant link to the human form they can no longer confine themselves to. A bonded mate whose sole desires revolve around their well-being.
"Oh," she whispers aloud without realizing, Adrian's words rushing back to her.
"Paramours are meant to ease the pain."
Slowly, she closes the book and sets it aside, staring ahead at her bed curtains.
It's disturbing that it's not something she ever thought to try. All this time, she's used the sensations to inflict petty wounds, receiving nothing but the same from Malfoy in return. Because that's what she thought it revolved around. Pain.
"Nox," she murmurs, because she needs the darkness to focus.
What's the harm in trying it? Just once? Bending her one little rule when it comes to Malfoy?
Tantalizing as it is to make him squirm, she's curious how their bond might react to something different. And if Adrian wants her to make herself useful, then to hell with him. She'll try it.
All the better for it if it turns out he's wrong.
She loves telling people they're wrong.
Lying back in the dark, she shuts her eyes and breathes out slowly. She's noticed she can feel more of him when she focuses intently on it. Like meditation.
It takes a few minutes. She lays in silence, trying to ignore small outward sounds and distractions.
But it's not long before she feels his pulse. A slow, even thud in the chest — a phantom offbeat to her own. She can feel his lungs expand when hers deflate — can feel the faint, throbbing beginnings of a headache.
She chases that sensation, narrowing her focus to what feels out of place. The aches and pains that normally fade to background noise when she goes about her day.
Malfoy is sore.
She hadn't noticed before. Possible remnants of the full moon. She's read that even weeks without a transformation still wear on the body.
His joints feel stiff, the expanse of his shoulders tight and strained. She grimaces as it all comes to the forefront.
He's sleeping or resting, at least, she thinks. She doesn't feel him moving.
But the aches persist.
Just try.
She sits up carefully, twisting to part the curtains. At such a late hour, there's very little risk of surprising him in the middle of something. And also very little risk of being disturbed.
Silently, she pads across the dormitory to the washroom and shuts the door behind her.
"Lumos."
Light from her wand reflects off the porcelain sinks and mirrors. She makes her way to the showers, thinking of what Malfoy wouldn't think to do for himself.
It's quick work — transfiguring the shower into a small, private bath. The magic forms a tiled wall around the claw-foot tub, hiding it from view.
She locks the door to the washroom anyhow. She'll try not to be long.
"Aguamenti," she casts, and the tub begins to fill with hot water, steam wafting up.
There's very little that can't be cured with a hot bath. Her mother always says that.
Gathering a deep breath, she sheds her clothes and steps in, hoping to death she's right.