Hello, Beautiful People. I adore you all.
This chapter picks up right after the last chapter. However, there are timeskips forward and backward throughout the chapter. Pay attention to the dates!
All the thanks to GracefulLioness. Y'all should go read her fic, Dragon In The Dark. It's going to be marked complete next week!
TW: Abusive Lucius
November 2005
Before his failed attempt to get into the Winter Olympics in Torino, Draco could count the number of times his father had hit him on one hand.
The first time had been when he was four years-old. He had only wanted to look at the shiny gold medal in Father's cabinet, honestly. But somehow, when he stood on his tiptoes, the whole thing came crashing down around him. He'd barely managed to dive out of the way before so many of his parents' collectibles smashed.
Father hadn't been happy.
The second time had been when he threatened to quit skating at age six. He just didn't like it that much anymore. The boys at school were all playing football, and he suggested one night at supper that he'd like to give it a try.
That had earned him a slap across the face and a lecture about insolence.
The third and fourth times had been when he had performed poorly in competitions. Once when he was ten, at a regional competition. Once when he and Hermione hadn't even made the podium at nationals.
And that had been it.
None of the incidents had been pleasant, per se, but Draco had always mustered through.
The fifth, sixth, and seventh times, though…
Draco wasn't so sure.
They all happened the night after the failed Olympic trial. Hermione had been so brave to take the lead in their post-competition interviews. She'd answered each question confidently and with grace, because of course she could. Meanwhile, he had just sat there, catatonic, barely able to string two words together without falling apart.
After, they'd hugged for a long time. Her arms around him...
They'd felt like home.
He'd leaned into her fully, taking great gulps of air to just breathe in her scent. It was no longer foreign to him, but comforting instead. Flowers mixed with the earthy scent of her sweat. Different from how she smelled in her sleep. That scent was somehow softer, like the shampoo she used or the laundry soap in her pyjamas and sheets.
He wanted to remember every facet of Hermione so that he would have something to hold onto when the inevitable came to pass.
Mother and Father rode back to London in a town car. Draco chose to ride with the Grangers. They stopped for ice cream on the way.
From the moment he stepped into the Manor, something was off. The air had an extra layer of stiffness beyond its normal capacity. Draco couldn't quite put a finger on it, but he knew exactly what waited for him beyond the sparkling foyer.
"Come, Draco," Mother had said once Dobbs removed his jacket. "Your father wishes to see you in his study."
Though nerves filled every inch of his body, he did not show fear. He did not cry.
Tears would do him no good where he was going.
February 2006
The winter that followed was the longest to date. He and Hermione watched the Torino Olympics at her house. Though there was envy on their tongues and in their hearts, Draco knew from the moment the ice dancers took to the ice that Snape had been right.
They weren't ready for the Olympic stage. Not yet.
The last time the two of them had sat and watched the Olympics, they had only been children. He had shown Hermione the toy gold medal he had fashioned himself, and they had eaten their weight in snacks.
It had been a simpler time, only worrying about having the spotlight to himself.
Sitting beside her this time was a wholly different experience. For one thing, he knew her. Draco probably knew Hermione better than anyone except her own parents. He knew how she took her tea and her curse word of choice when she fell on the ice. He knew about her ongoing nostalgia for The Princes Diaries and that the person in this world she looked up to the most was her dad.
But it wasn't just that.
Draco loved her.
Not like that, of course.
How did he always explain it in his own head?
She was a sister to him. A best friend. There wasn't quite the right word out there for what she was to him, but those two came closest.
But it was love, certainly. It had to be.
She cuddled up next to him on the couch when they watched the Olympics, and the feeling of her body nestled into his was just right. Since they couldn't share a bed during their months apart, this had become a substitution of sorts. Hermione's presence beside him was so relaxing that on more than one occasion, they'd fallen asleep against each other only to be awoken by one of Hermione's parents some time later.
And it was at times like those that Draco was grateful he had started to get his morning problem under control. He no longer had to run to the bathroom first thing after waking up beside Hermione. Usually. There was still the occasional mishap, but those he could discount.
After all, that was a perfectly normal reaction to being pressed up next to a beautiful girl like Hermione.
Not that he thought of her that way.
She was like a sister. Like a best friend.
Something like that.
At least… that's what he wanted her to be.
Stealing glances at her as they watched the Olympics unfold on the telly, Draco knew that his easy days with her like this were numbered.
November 2005
Draco knocked on the door to Father's study with a shaky hand.
"Enter."
The coldness in Lucius Malfoy's voice reverberated through the small gap in the door, sending a chill straight down Draco's spine.
He gulped and followed orders.
"Good evening, Draco."
Father's back was facing the door, his gaze fixed instead on the fireplace in the corner.
"Good evening, Father." Draco forced himself to form each syllable deliberately.
There was a brief pause before Father's voice sounded again, short and sharp.
"Come."
With feet like lead, Draco crossed the floor. Unlike when he was on the ice, his movements felt clumsy and uncertain. By the time he reached Father's side, he was sure that he had never felt so much dread in his life.
"So I hear there will be no trip to Italy in the coming months."
It was such a backhanded way to bring up his failings.
Draco cleared his throat. "No, sir."
"I see."
That's when the first slap came to his cheek.
Draco sucked in his breath and held it for fear he would cry out. He only allowed himself to bring his own hand to his face, cradling it as it pulsed beneath his palm.
"You've become far too distracted, Draco." Father began to pace. "Victory takes nothing short of perfect focus."
Draco wanted to respond—to retort that he had been focused, more focused than he had ever been in his life this past year. Well, save for the dancing incident, as he and Hermione called it. Surely he was allowed one tiny slip-up?
But he knew better than to interrupt his father with his opinion.
July 2006
Training for the 2006-2007 season began with the greatest rigor Draco had ever experienced to date. Snape began inviting Madam Hooch to more and more of their practices, and she nitpicked everything, stopping them two seconds into every sequence to change the angle of Hermione's arm or adjust the weight distribution of his legs.
Although he wasn't sure how it was possible, Draco left every practice fully exhausted. Half the time, he didn't even have the energy to stay awake through a movie with Hermione, choosing instead to pass out on his own mattress.
When Hermione asked him what was wrong, he always gave the same answer.
"I'm just tired, okay?"
And it was true, he always felt tired. Beyond tired. Exhausted, withered down to the bone, almost.
He also couldn't bring himself to curl into Hermione's body on her bed, taking in her scent until he felt relaxed enough to sleep. Not with his father's words in his head.
So he slept alone.
And Draco wasn't exactly sure when his exhaustion bled into something akin to anger. It was more of a gradual process. It started small, making him growl with frustration whenever Madam Hooch stopped them for the fifth time in three minutes.
Growls turned to laps around the ice when he couldn't quite master the mechanics of the new lift they were trying to learn.
Laps around the ice turned to shouting into the nearly-empty arena when Hermione missed her cue. Again.
"Come on, Hermione. It's not that hard! You've got to reach for my shoulder on the third upbeat." He chastised as she leaned forward, hands on her knees.
"I know," she snapped. "Please, Draco."
Hermione looked up at him, and he recognized the same unrelenting frustration in her eyes that he saw when he looked in the mirror. He wanted to reach out, to apologize, to ask for a short break just so he could hold her.
"Victory takes nothing short of perfect focus."
Father's words filled his mind.
And the threats that had followed…
Those never left.
"Let's just get back to work." He found himself snarling at her in a voice that wasn't quite his own.
Draco imagined as he skated away that if he looked back, he'd see hurt splashed all across Hermione's face.
He didn't look.
All summer long, training passed in this fashion. They were pushed harder than ever before both on and off the ice. Dance practices occurred daily and they bookended each one with time at the rink. Draco continued to spend time in the dormitory gym four evenings a week. Sometimes, on evenings when he was tempted to spend time with Hermione, he made excuses and went there instead.
Running, lifting, stretching… as sweat poured down his face, he tried not to think of Hermione—tried to put his head anywhere else. And it worked for a time. Putting his body through its paces was a decent enough distraction. He worked out until he was covered in sweat, his mind blissfully empty of his father, of the ice…
But try as he might, Hermione's sweet, encouraging face always appeared to him the second he threw a towel over his shoulder and headed to wash up for the night. He saw her as he leaned his forehead against the cool tiles of the shower stall, tried to push her to the outskirts of his mind as he touched himself.
And as Draco stepped out of the shower, guilt gnawing away at him for what he had just done, he thought that maybe, just maybe, Father had been right.
November 2005
"You know what I think is your problem, Draco?" Father lectured as he prowled around his study.
Draco's stomach ached with an odd sense of foreboding. He had a good guess as to what Father thought his problem was.
"What is it, Father?" he asked, trying to keep any drops of snark from seeping into his words.
"Your problem is that the object of your distraction is the very person with whom you spend the most time." Lucius paused, his gaze turning sharply at Draco. "Miss Granger, while an excellent skater, might prove yet to have been the wrong decision. She doesn't come from the same sort of background that you do, Draco. She hasn't been prepared for the sort of dedication it will take to qualify for the Olympics during the next go round."
Draco felt his blood start to boil at these insinuations. He clenched his fists, trying to channel his anger there instead of saying something he'd regret.
"Wouldn't that be a shame? To put in all this effort and money and never make it to the top because your partner just doesn't understand the meaning of hard work."
Draco blinked. Hermione's face floated past his mind. He thought of all the times she had fallen down and gotten back up—all the times she had happily gone along with Snape's demands that they run their routine 'just one more time'—all the times she had fallen asleep in his arms at eight o'clock, too tired to make it through the first ten minutes of a movie.
"Hermione knows exactly what hard work means," he heard himself say. "She works harder than anyone I've ever met, and she wants to go to the Olympics just as badly as I do." Draco stepped forward, his voice growing more confident with each passing second.
"Your measure of dedication and mine are severely different, Draco. That girl has clearly warped your sensibilities."
"No, she hasn't."
Slap!
For the second time that night, Draco's cheek stung as Father's palm hit it suddenly and sharply.
But he didn't cry. He wouldn't cry.
"Hermione Granger is the source of your distraction. Mark my words, boy. She's the reason you can't seem to focus worth a damn."
August 2006
Fame was something that Draco had been prepared for, in one way or another. He'd watched his parents navigate fame throughout his childhood. They had been called away to attend galas or commentate for winter-related events regularly. A camera crew had once toured the Manor.
People knew the Malfoy name.
But for them to know him, and especially to know him and Hermione as a unit—that was new. That was something they were still learning to navigate.
That navigation was made much harder this year. All summer, Draco hadn't been able to bring himself to lean on Hermione like he had before. Every grain of focus had gone toward perfecting their routines for the year.
This year had to be perfect.
Perhaps, Draco had reasoned, if it was perfect, he could convince Father to—
No, Draco hadn't wanted to think about that. Instead, he threw himself into the details of their upcoming season. The music selection. The lifts they would tackle. The mechanics of every second spent on ice.
Hermione fought him tooth and nail every minute.
"But that piece is so boring!" she argued when he suggested yet another classical composition that would assuredly serve them well. "Why can't we skate to something more lyrical—more moving?"
"What's not moving about this?" He gritted his teeth and waved the Vivaldi CD about. "It's stirring and there are plenty of excellent crescendos that would lend themselves well to lifts and twizzles."
"I still say we should go with something more modern—more relatable. We want people to be moved by our performance, and—"
They'd spent so much of the summer arguing that by the time beginning-of-the-season press interviews began, Draco wasn't sure they could hold an entire conversation without bickering.
But Hermione surprised him when they arrived at the London television studio. In front of a crowd of screaming fans—Screaming fans? When had that happened?—she had been the picture of poise and smiles. She'd even given a few autographs, making small talk with each person as she signed photographs or skating programs from previous competitions.
They loved her—all of them. And how could they not? She was kind and talented and so very lovely. The way her smile lit up when she talked to a little girl about skating and dancing, it made his heart melt.
To think that he was driving her away might very well come close to killing him.
When it was time for them to sit side-by-side to answer questions about the upcoming year, she beamed at him like she had in years past. Her eyes lit up as though they hadn't just been arguing earlier that day, as though they still clicked as easily as they used to.
"Yes, I do believe our success stems from our close relationship." Hermione placed a soft hand on his knee as she gave the same answer she had so many times before. If Draco hadn't known any better, he would imagine that everyone present would see the placement of her hand as the sweet gesture of a caring friend.
But Draco knew. Draco knew they hadn't touched each other in weeks outside of practice. He knew that despite her many attempts to figure out why he was being "so goddamn cold" toward her, she had stopped reaching for his hand when it wasn't absolutely necessary.
It damn near broke his heart.
But it was a sacrifice he had to make in order to keep them together. More than anything, he wanted to keep skating with Hermione—to make it all the way to the top with her.
And that wasn't going to happen if their relationship stayed the same as it had been.
So he could fake smiles in front of the cameras. He'd been doing it for longer than he could remember. The world would be satisfied as long as their partnership still seemed strong. As long as it was enough to keep him skating with her.
November 2005
"What would you have me do, Father?" Draco asked, his fists clenched and his face still stinging. "Find another partner?"
"That's exactly what I'm suggesting."
Draco blanched. "B-but I—we can't. Hermione and I—we already have an established relationship as skaters."
"And you are also still fifteen years-old. You are young enough that another relationship could easily be forged. This time we'd be more selective. I know Miss Parkinson's technique has greatly improved over the last few years."
A wave of panic was slowly building in him moment by moment. Skate with Pansy? That had been a disaster. And it would continue to be a disaster.
But that wasn't even the point.
The thought of abandoning Hermione when they were on the cusp of such success… it nearly made him sick.
"I-I don't want a new skating partner, Father." Draco's voice began to shake once more, this time with emotion rather than fear. "I want to skate with Hermione. She's the right partner for me."
Lucius tutted. "We shall see, Draco. Don't think I won't be watching you this year. If you so much as slip up or overstep your professional relationship with that girl, not only will you find yourself with a new partner, I will ensure that Miss Granger's career on the ice is over."
It was no empty threat. He'd seen the calculating way Father operated—the callous way he'd fired maids, driven away Draco's coaches, ruined the lives of his competition back when he was a speed skater.
If Lucius Malfoy wanted to go after Hermione, she didn't stand a chance.
Draco couldn't help it. He lunged at Father, nearly feral.
"Don't you dare come near Hermione!" he cried, nostrils flared, eyes wide. He must have looked completely crazed. "Do what you want with me. I don't bloody well care, but you leave Hermione out of this!"
That was the third time he was slapped that night.
The sound reverberated across the study as Father struck him harder than ever. It was sure to leave a bruise. Tears pricked at the corners of Draco's eyes, but he told himself it was from the injustice of it all.
"Listen to me well, Draco. The hundreds of thousands of pounds that have been invested in your success may be a frivolous joke to you, but they are not to me." Lucius tipped Draco's chin up with the tip of his cane. "I expect you to win. I expect you to stay focused. And if that means making sure you forget that nobody—because that's what she is—then so be it."
"Please." Draco heard himself beg. "Anything—I'll do anything to keep her as a skating partner. Don't ruin her career, Father."
This seemed to be the answer Father was waiting for. The man smirked and let go of Draco's chin.
"The answer is simple, Draco. Treat Miss Granger as your professional partner. Nothing more. Don't let yourself get distracted." Father returned to his armchair and swirled his tumbler of amber liquid in his hand. "Don't disappoint me."
Shaking even more violently than he had been when he entered, Draco abandoned his father's study in haste.
December 2006
Second place.
They had made it all the way to the Junior Grand Prix qualifying round, competing in France just before the Christmas season. Months and months of the hardest training Draco had ever done, and it all culminated in second place.
Draco's heart sunk to his toes as the final scores were announced.
They had made the podium, yes.
But they had not made the finals.
Only the gold medalists had the opportunity to travel to Japan and compete for the world's top spot.
From the moment Draco calculated their standing, his stomach lurched with the possibility that this result wasn't good enough for Father. That he had already skated his last with Hermione.
Would he come home tomorrow to another confrontation in the study? Would he be left begging to stay by her side again?
There were so many unknowns.
He nearly sicked up as the silver medal was placed around his neck.
Beside him, Hermione squeezed his hand.
She really was a treasure, Hermione. No matter how hard he pushed, how cold he turned, she never seemed to give up on him. She was always there, just a few feet behind him, as though she was waiting for him.
Just in case he needed her.
And God, did he need her.
But he couldn't risk it.
He didn't squeeze back.
They attended their usual press junket afterward with the gold and bronze medalists, couples from Germany and France, respectively. They held hands through the interviews as always. Hermione gazed lovingly at him and Draco's stomach swooped horribly.
He wasn't sure if it was nerves or something else.
And when it was finally over, both Hermione's parents and his parents met them. The Grangers enveloped them both in great big hugs, wishing them endless congratulations. Draco kept his eyes on Father the whole time, though. He was waiting for some sort of sign that would tell him what to expect—whether he had met the mark or not.
He was met with nothing but stoicism.
Dread filled his stomach. It seeped into his fingers and his throat.
His whole body began to tremble, and didn't stop even when they went back to the changing room together to get back into street clothes.
They turned their backs to each other like usual. Draco pulled his duffel bag to his feet facing the tall, black curtains that made up their makeshift room. On the opposite side of the space, he heard the rustling of Hermione undressing. His imagination carried him across the room, to where she was surely exposing her creamy skin to the cool air. Did she have goose pimples? Or was her skin still the same smooth texture it always was against his palms?
No.
Draco forced that train of thought to stop. He needed to stay focused. She was not a distraction he could indulge in. He couldn't break. Not now.
Especially when he might be hours away from never seeing her again.
Would she hate him when their partnership inevitably came to an end at the hands of his father?
Would Hermione even know it was Father who did it? Or would he make her believe that Draco had suggested the change?
His stomach turned at the very real possibility.
Because it was inevitable, wasn't it? Hermione had never been good enough in Father's eyes. Draco was always doomed to split from the girl who had become his best friend.
As he shed his tight skating clothes, exchanging them for athletic trousers, a t-shirt, and a zip-up jacket, his mind raced. The light sounds of Hermione changing behind him were a constant reminder of her presence. Hers was a presence that usually soothed him. But hearing how she hummed to herself now, he was closer than ever to vomiting.
"Hey Draco?"
Shit.
"Yeah?"
He would not cry. He wouldn't.
"Are you okay? You seem quiet."
Her voice was soft and filled with concern, and Draco's heart clenched. He cleared his throat.
"Do I?"
"Mm. Normally you can't stop talking about strategy and what went wrong. But today you're just… you're quiet."
Draco sighed and bent over to retrieve a pair of socks from his bag. He shrugged, though he knew Hermione couldn't see him.
"I don't know… I'm just—" he paused, the lie ready on his tongue. "—disappointed."
"Oh, Draco." He could see her sweet smile in his mind's eye. "We did really well today. I know we won't be moving on, but I feel really proud of what we accomplished. And we scored our season's best! That's got to count for something."
He wanted to feel encouraged by Hermione's words… wanted to turn and hug her and not let go, but he couldn't… he couldn't…
He couldn't give her false hope. Couldn't let her see how much he needed her. Not when he knew exactly what was coming.
He needed to push her away now—push her away so that when their partnership dissolved, it would hurt less for her. Maybe she'd even be glad to be rid of him.
Draco looked up at the ceiling, forcing the moisture in his eyes not to fall.
This was it.
"Yeah, well I think it's utter shit." He turned, keeping his eyes downcast and hoisted his duffel onto his shoulder. When he heard Hermione turn as well, he looked up.
"Draco—"
"Don't patronize me, Hermione. You know as well as I do how hard we worked to get here, and we couldn't even earn two more measley points to get to the final?"
He forced himself to sneer.
"Pathetic."
Hermione drew back slightly, her brows furrowed. "We aren't pathetic, Draco. We worked hard, yes, but sometimes things don't work out the way we want."
Draco drew in great breaths to amp up his heart rate. "You think I don't know that? You think I don't know about things not working out the way I want? Do you even have any idea what I want?"
Hermione scoffed. "Of course I do, Draco. I know you."
"Then tell me, Granger! What do I want?"
They were shouting now. Good. Let everyone hear. Let everyone know so Hermione would be glad when they never had to speak again. Draco folded his arms and looked down at the girl who had made him happier than he had ever been—and so help him, he thought he saw tears in her eyes.
"You want what we both want, Draco. You want to get to the Olympics."
An idea clicked into place at that moment in Draco's head. A terrible idea. An idea that could drive Hermione away from him—could send her running.
"Yeah. That's right. The Olympics. My one and only goal. And guess what?"
Hermione's eyebrows shot up. "What?"
"And we're never going to get there at this rate."
"What do you mean? Of course we're going to get there. This was just another set back."
Draco raked his hands through his hair.
"Just another setback? Hermione, how many setbacks have we had?" He stepped closer to Hermione until they were so close the tips of their toes nearly touched in their street shoes. "It's just not acceptable. We were supposed to go to the finals this year, and my father—"
He had said too much. Fuck.
Hermione was on him immediately, the perceptive girl that she was. "Your father what? Draco, is this about your father?" She took a step closer and placed a hand on his forearm. "I understand you're under pressure, but—"
"You don't know anything about pressure, Hermione."
It was, by Draco's estimation, a partially-true statement. She had no idea of Father's intentions or how cruel he could be. And with any luck, she never would know.
He ripped his arm away from her grasp, hatred filling his face. His whole body flushed with artificial anger. "You could never understand what it's like, Hermione. What it's like to face a failure like this. It's like—like a slap in the face to everything we've worked for."
Hermione licked her lips and tilted her head. "But Draco," she began softly. "What happened today—it wasn't failure."
"It was!" he shouted. Disdain dripped from his words, and he could see in her eyes that Hermione heard it. "We keep failing, Hermione, and you just don't see it. You can't see it!"
Draco clutched the handle of his duffel bag so tightly in his fist that he could feel the rough texture of the strap dig into his skin.
"Then tell me!" she cried out. "Talk to me, Draco. Every time we've tried to talk this year, it's like I meet a brick wall. I don't know what happened this year, but you've gone so cold on me."
A single tear ran down her cheek.
"I miss you, Draco. I want the old you back. I want us to skate and dance like we used to when we were kids. Like we did even last year." She was hugging herself now, her arms wrapped around her middle. It took every inch of his willpower not to go to her, envelop her in his own arms, and apologize over and over.
He couldn't do that. Not now. He had to push forward. It was the only way.
"The old me is gone. It's the senior level soon, and there's got to be some changes."
Hermione blinked, another fat tear dripping down her chin.
"Ch-changes?"
Draco braced, willing himself to have the strength to speak.
"We need to be more professional. I come from professional athletes. I've been preparing my whole life to train like this. But you? The way you keep insisting we hang out all the time. I-I don't have any interest in that sort of thing. All of my energy needs to go toward training. Because that's the way forward. That's the way we're going to win."
Draco watched as Hermione's face morphed from sad to angry, frustrated to despairing.
"Draco, I'm all for training as hard as possible, but surely—"
"Enough is enough, Hermione. You can make excuses all you want. But I can't. I'm Draco Malfoy, son of two Olympic medalists, and I'll be damned if I don't see my name join that list." He drew himself up to his full height. Hermione was dwarfed under his puffed-out chest. "I come from a family of somebodies, Hermione. There's an expectation there. Anything less than perfection is failure. But for you? Hermione, you're a nobody. You come from a family of nobodies. What's second place to you?"
Hermione's face had gone red, her bloodshot eyes wide and staring in horror. He pushed on.
"You know, Hermione, you should be damn grateful to be skating with me. Without me, where would you be? Still stuck in that little ballet studio, teaching six year-olds how to get into third position, I'll bet. But no. Thanks to me, you've made it onto the international stage with kids asking for your damn autograph instead."
Draco took a breath and uttered his last.
"If you thought I ever saw you as anything but the key to my gold medal, then you really are a fool."
That did it.
Hermione burst into tears and ran through the dark curtains of the changing room, duffel bag swinging behind her.
Good. Let her run. Let her seek out her parents and vent to them and never have anything to do with him again.
Better that then have her entire life ruined by his father.
He had done the right thing.
She'd only get more hurt, otherwise.
He'd done the right thing.
Hadn't he?
Draco's breath hitched and his knees buckled under him. Crashing to the floor, Draco couldn't find the strength to stand any longer. He crumpled into a heap and sobbed.
What had he done?
Is that drama I smell?
Poor Draco. Poor Hermione. Poor everyone! (except Lucius)
Draco was really caught between a rock and a hard place... what do you think of his decision? This truly is an Idiots To Lovers story.
So much love to all of you.
Be well.
Until next week! xoxo Biscuits